Swift as a Coursing River (LGBT+) | ✓

28. Quicksand

The doorbell rings and Edwin looks up at the wall, as if he can see through it who is outside. It's a Sunday afternoon, and Caroline called in the morning, so he isn't expecting anyone. Some Scouts children selling waffles, maybe? He mutes the TV and folds the newspaper he wasn't reading. He unlocks the door and —

"Vincent? What are you doing here?" They had another date on Friday — they played a few different racing games, elbowing and sabotaging each other to win, and it had devolved into laughter and cuddling and furiously making out on the couch in 'revenge' — but nothing today. He glances down at himself, at his definitely not fashionable pants and jumper. Shit. He must smell sweaty, too, from cooking lunch and vacuuming. He should have taken his shower then, instead of lying down for a nap first. He wipes a hand over his head to try and flatten any hair that might stick up. He looks like a slob, while Vincent is perfectly poised.

Vincent grins and holds up a large printed plastic bag with what looks like two cardboard boxes in it. "I've got a surprise for you." He steps inside and Edwin closes the door on autopilot. A surprise? Anxiety pools in his stomach.

"And it couldn't wait?"

"The surprise could wait, darling. I couldn't." Vincent drops the bag and the closed umbrella he's carrying, and takes off his coat. "I want to see how you react." He smirks and Edwin's jaw tenses. If he's on display ... Does Vincent want to watch him fail? To mock him? He thought they were over that, with how much fun they had on Friday, or the week before, when they first had sex. He thought he'd feel equal now, that they'd behave like equals.

"So this is really a surprise for you. Not for me."

"It can't be a surprise if I know I'm getting it, sugar. But it's definitely a present for me." Vincent walks through to the living room and Edwin trails after him. This is only the third time Vincent is here, but already he's filling up the space, taking ownership.

They sit down on the couch and Vincent pulls out a shoe box and sets it down on the coffee table. "Okay, close your eyes." He holds Edwin's gaze until Edwin complies. The anxiety in his stomach coagulates. This is why he doesn't like surprises. They're unpredictable. He's unprepared, just drifting along on the stream. And that's all fine, until he hits a rock. He's going to hit a rock sooner or later.

"Hands open, darling" Vincent instructs, and Edwin obeys. A second later, a memory flashes through his mind of Vincent using that tone when they had sex. He clenches his eyes shut tighter and breathes through the images. He can hear rustling of tissue paper. Vincent drops two items in his hands, one in each. He can feel a sort of hard block against the heel of his palm, and then a gap, and then something softer than the block on his fingers, but still a shape without give. "You can look now."

Edwin opens his eyes.

They're heels. Neon pink heeled boots, calf-high.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" He tilts one up and shifts his grip. The boot is smooth, without bells and whistles, only a zipper on the inside. Is he supposed to give these to Sandra or Tamara? But Vincent has never met them. Tamara would never wear these. Vincent said it was a present for himself.

"What do you do with shoes, darling? You should wear them, of course."

"Wear them? But they're women's shoes."

"And they're men's shoes if a man wears them. I brought some for me, too." Vincent pulls the bag off the second shoe box and takes off the lid. Lying on Edwin's coffee table are two bright golden, sparkly heeled boots. There are decorative straps at the ankles and up the legs, and they are taller than the boots in Edwin's hand. His gaze shifts to the heels and his breath catches in his throat. The height of the heel is terrifying. The boots in Edwin's hands have a heel that's maybe five centimetres tall. These heels are at least ten centimetres. They're begging you to fall and break your ankle. He's never even seen Ellen or Caroline wear anything like that.