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Sion doesn’t remember when his obsession and reverence for Irene started but what he does know is that he is willing to do anything—including doing things that’d make him consider changing his identity and move across the planet—under the sun. And so it comes to pass that Sion is in front of the full length mirror in his living room, looking at his reflection that is currently adorned in clothes that were sold for a ridiculously high amount—because of cosplayers, says Yushi—which almost drained his pockets dry for the next two months. These were also clothes he imagined that he'd be wearing at his grown age for someone else who didn’t even ask him to do. Yes, he’s wearing a corset under a frilly pink frock; yes, he had to pair it up with thongs for men (apparently, that’s a thing?) under his ripped up stockings; yes, he waxed every part of his body for someone who doesn’t look at him twice other than to acknowledge his presence in the room; yes, he’s trying to pull the frock even lower than where it is at right now because he found out he can see his thong from the back if he bent over ever so slightly. Yes, he’s utterly and fuckerly embarrassed right now because he was forced to have comfortable conversations with his older sister who was overly enthusiastic and happy that her younger brother finally decided to trust her with his sexuality (yes, he likes both men and women, no he’s not going to be a virgin forever) and his crush (he had no heart to answer her question about the age of his crush because he wasn’t sure if she’d take it well knowing the woman he’s crushing on is 11 years older than him). He really was having a splendid time, if you ask him.
He was really in awe at the same time because he had no idea he’d enjoy the process of getting dressed up by his friends, Yushi and Riku, all while feeling pretty. Sion looked like he had stepped straight out of a bakery owned by Pinkie Pie—just pink, pink, and more pink.
The frock was a delicate blush pink, layered in airy tulle that shifted smoothly with every movement, glitter on it catching light from the setting sun. Each ruffle was hemmed with fine lace, intricate and unique, giving the dress a beautiful look. Beneath the dress, the corset hugged his frame tightly—ivory satin threaded with pale pink ribbons that crisscrossed through silver eyelets, pulled just enough to sculpt his waist without stealing his breath. He could still feel the slight ache from when Yushi pulled on the ribbons a bit too hard like he was tying up his shoe laces and Sion remembers almost blacking out when that happened. The boning gave him a poised silhouette, the kind that would make it impossible for Irene to take her eyes off of him, if Sion could dream.
The neckline dipped just enough to be teasing, framed by puff sleeves that sat lightly on his shoulders, embroidered with tiny floral details but it was kind of itchy, he didn’t know how cosplayers did this. A satin bow rested at the center of his chest, perfectly placed, like the finishing touch on a carefully wrapped gift.
His accessories were just as gorgeous. A pearl choker circled his throat, courtesy of his sister’s, paired with a longer chain that dipped down toward the corset, catching at the light whenever he moved. He didn’t like how it kept brushing against his nipples whenever he moved too much. His ears were adorned with small drop earrings—crystal and rose quartz—that swayed with every head movement.
On his hands, fingerless lace gloves hugged his wrists, and his nails were painted a glossy baby pink, each one with a tiny rhinestone that glittered under the light. He thinks Riku overdid it with the nails and the heavy blush on his face.
And the final detail being a thin satin belt tied loosely around his waist, hanging behind him. It shouldn’t have worked, but on Sion, it did. He definitely looked pretty but he didn’t feel it. Maybe words from Irene that he’d been waiting to hear would make him feel better.
The reason for this Get Up Of Humiliation was because of a comment Irene had made during a drunken friend group party about her newfound interest in an English show about two women (in dresses) from the Victorian era falling in love with each other all while looking at Sion, who in his lovestruck delirium, had interpreted this as a suggestion on how to thoroughly impress Irene. Yushi didn’t know how Sion hadn’t interpreted that as a very mild form of rejection to Sion who had asked Irene about her favourite fictional tropes in real life just before that. And yet, Yushi and his boyfriend, Riku, managed to pull some strings and fulfilled Sion’s dream of embodying a pink dress he had seen on Pinterest. He couldn’t stop thinking about what the conversation would be like but he was hoping it would be positive seeing that he had been invited by Irene who “had something important to tell” and Sion had never been happier.
He looked at the time and realised he was going to be late if he didn’t leave in the next ten minutes and he rushed and wore the new pastel pink heeled boots with hearts embossed on it but it was a bit too high heeled for his liking. He couldn’t give a flying fuck, he had a woman to impress and he was on a time crunch.
Sion's journey to Irene's apartment after driving for forty minutes was a spectacle. Each click of his boots on the pavement sounded more and more like a warning bell–warning the public about something disastrous coming up ahead of him. Maybe he’d trip and fall? Who knows. By the time he reached the fifth floor, the overstimulating dress and accessories along with the tight corset had reduced him to a panting mess with natural blush on his face. The lift was out of service. He had to scream into his fist three times before he straightened his pearl choker and smoothed his gloves before knocking on the door nervously.
Irene opened the door, a wine glass loosely held in one hand and a surprised grin lighting up her face. She was wearing comfortable jeans and a soft red jumper, a stark contrast to his… glamour. She looked him up and down, from the glossy lips and crystal earrings to the pink boots, and couldn’t help but chuckle.
"Sion! You absolute madness," she greeted, stepping aside to let him in. "Come in, come in. I hope you won’t mind me asking but did I miss the memo for a themed party at my own place, by any chance? Why are you dressed up so differently? Don’t get me wrong, it suits you really well."
Sion stepped into Irene’s hall and gingerly sat on the couch, trying his best not to show his thongs, and tried to maintain his poise despite him feeling almost faint. He took a shaky breath, his heart hammering against his constricting corset.
"Noona," he began, his voice dropping an octave in an attempt at sincerity that felt slightly at odds with his outfit. He took in too big of a breath because he immediately started having a coughing fit.
“Wait, let me get you some water. Don’t talk.” Irene rushed into the kitchen and came back quickly with a glass of water which Sion gulped away like he hadn’t had water in years.
“Okay, Sion, I assume you have something to tell me?”
Sion watched Irene sit across him with her legs crossed and wine glass in hand. "Noona—I heard what you said at the party. About the dresses and the Victorian era... the romance.” Irene nodded, prompting him to continue.
“I wanted you to know that I understood your heart. I wanted to show you that I'm worth it, that I can be exactly what you're looking for."
There was a beat of stunned silence. Irene stared at him, her wine glass tilting dangerously as her brain processed the words that sounded like a joke to her which was being delivered by her junior who was dunked in pink. She had to keep her wine glass down before a small wheeze escaped her, which was followed by a peal of laughter that echoed through the apartment. She laughed so hard she had to clutch her stomach. "Oh my god, Sion," she managed to gasp out between fits of giggles, wiping a tear from her eye as she looked at his bewildered face. "Holy shit. Did you smoke up before you came over here? You’re surely not being serious right now."
The silence answered her questions and she had to collect herself before she threw him a question.
“Do you smoke weed, Sion?”
“Huh? No, I have never tried it or smoked it.”
“Would you be opposed to smoking a joint with me now? No pressure.”
“I—I don’t mind… but where is this going?”
“Come to my room, I’ll answer your questions while you roll our joint.”
Irene started for her room and Sion realised Irene was being serious. He was going to smoke weed for the first time in his life with his crush who is older than him. The odds are always in his favour.
He tried kicking out his boots while trying to rush and follow Irene before she turned around and said, “Leave them on. You look cute in them.” Best believe, he’s super glueing those boots on his feet after this.
He rushed after Irene and saw Irene hopping onto her bed, crossing her legs and leaning comfortably against the wall. She pointed to the wooden chair positioned next to the bed, gesturing for Sion to take a seat. "Sit here," she commanded, her eyes dancing with an amused glint as she watched him navigate the room in his dress. "Sit and face me. I loved your makeup and I want to see it much closer, if you’re okay with it."
Sion was speechless because he was in his crush’s room which was filled with her personal things and all of it screamed Irene. Wordlessly nodding, he sat down, his knees brushing against the edge of her mattress while feeling the weight of her gaze quite like a physical touch. To Sion, Irene was the sun in his universe that he had spent years orbiting and worshipping. Every detail of her room—the stack of books on her nightstand, the scent of her perfume, the way she leaned back with such effortless grace–felt sacred. He watched her with a reverence that bordered on the religious, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the rolling papers she offered. In his eyes, even the casual way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear gave him a heartache. He was a devout follower in the temple of her existence, and being this close to her felt like a pilgrimage finally reached.
Sion’s hands trembled as he accepted the small tray Irene passed him, which held a neatly organized kit for rolling a joint. The reverence he felt for her was battling the sheer terror of performing a delicate task for the first time under the watchful eye of his idol-like god.
“First things first, get rid of those little stems,” Irene instructed, pointing at a small pile of buds on the tray.
“Stems, seeds, anything that feels too hard to be a dried leaf. We don’t want any headaches because today is a huge occasion for the both of us.” She chuckled, tilting her head as she watched him pick on the buds on the tray.
Sion, concentrating, started picking out the mini woody pieces and seeds, and saw that this was his chance to tell Irene what he felt.
“Noona, about what I said earlier—I was serious. I wore this whole thing to tell you that I admire you. I want to be someone worth your time. Someone who understands you—”
“Okay, honey, I need you to crush that up, not just prodding at it all night,” Irene interrupted, her tone amused but firm.
She tapped the tray, indicating the next step. “You can use the grinder, or just use your fingers to crush them up to fine dust. You’re doing great, but maybe focus on the task at hand? The faster we get this going, the faster we can talk about my girlfriend’s questionable taste on TV.”
Sion froze, a stem suspended between his pink-polished fingers.
Girlfriend.
The word hit him hard in the gut.
He swallowed hard, quickly crushing the herb, ignoring the sweat beads that started rolling down his temple.
He tried again while making a crease in the filter paper tip, trying his best to follow Irene’s instructions that now sounded like cotton in his ears but he could understand that he was supposed to fold it back and forth, make it like a W, and then roll it into itself.
Origami seemed to be easier than this.
“Oh. I—I didn’t know you’re seeing someone, but still. I can’t stop thinking about you,” Sion whispered, trying to make his voice sound as soft as possible as if he didn’t want anybody to hear it, Irene included, though the corset made it wheezy.
“I feel like we have a connection. I mean, look at me! I did this for you. I know I could make you happier than anyone else. I’d treat you like a queen.”
Irene let out a loud and an amused sigh, reaching over to gently adjust the filter tip before grabbing the rolling paper and the filter tip and bringing it towards her while angling it just enough so that Sion could see what Irene was doing. He watched as she unravelled the filter just a bit and stuck the bottom right corner of the paper inside and pulled it tight followed by rolling it up. Just as she got to the top, he watched her stick her tongue out and watched her lick the gum line and rolled it up all the way while watching her run her dainty fingers along the gum line.
He felt guilty that he was turned on after watching Irene help him out.
“Does that mean we’d be smoking a part of your spit too?”
Jesus, what the fuck was wrong with Sion?
Irene laughed and said, “You’d be right. I hope you’re not weirded out by it.”
“What? No–”
“Okay now, pack the weed into it.”
“What?”
“The weed? That you crushed?
“Oh. Right.”
Sion held onto the filter tip part of the joint and started putting the crushed weed into the rolled paper, accidentally packing a bit too much of it in the joint.
“Good god, it’s like you’re trying to roll a cigar, not a joint. Less is more, and you need to keep it even, or my girlfriend will call this a tragedy when she gets home, she knows you’re here,” she said, her eyes twinkling.
Sion’s heart twinged in hurt and it was visible in the way he flinched at the mention of her girlfriend.
She toyed with the lighter in her hand. “Sion… My wife—my only one love—is the one who is making me extremely happy and has been for many years now. I don’t think I can ever love anyone else as much as I love her but I’m deeply flattered that you like me enough to bring yourself to this position.”
A teardrop that found its way down Sion’s face unbeknownst to Irene fell on the tray.
“Sion, why don’t you show me how those delicate little fingers work and if they can actually roll something smooth?”
Sion let out a shaky sigh and adhered to whatever she said. After all, you cannot deny what your heart wants the most. To him, every instruction given out to him felt like an opportunity to show that he was worth something but every mention of her "girlfriend" was her gentle way of letting him down till she realised he wasn’t going to budge unless she spelled it out for him.
When Sion was done, Irene took the joint from his fingers, inspecting his creation with approval in her eyes.
"See? I knew you could do it," she said, her smile wide and warm. "Your first perfectly rolled joint, Sion. I'm proud of you."
She didn't hesitate, bringing the joint to her lips and flicking the lighter she held with a practiced grace. The joint was lit and it glowed instantly, and she took a long, deep drag, holding the smoke in for a moment before exhaling a big smoke cloud that drifted up toward the ceiling fan.
The sight of her, relaxed and beautiful, made Sion forget his humiliation for a fleeting moment. This was the closeness he had fantasized about.
He leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper against the faint crackle of the burning joint. "Noona," he asked, the plea dripping like honey from his tone. "Can I... could I take one puff? Just once? With you."
Irene held the joint out, examining the glowing tip, before bringing it back to her lips for another pull, shorter this time. She shook her head gently, her expression softening with something similar to pity on her face. "Oh no, absolutely not," she said, smoke curling lightly around her face. "The first time is always intense, and given how much adrenaline and emotion you're running on right now—in that incredible outfit, no less—you would have a terrible and a horrible trip. I'm not setting you up for a full-on emotional panic attack. Not today. Maybe some other day, when you’re ready for it."
Sion didn’t know if she was talking about the weed or the rejection.
The words felt like it was final. Yes, it was a rejection. A rejection of shared intimacy that Sion so desperately wanted but couldn’t get and it being undeniable proof that he was merely a friend you’d meet out of courtesy, and when in touch, just a source of amusement. Nothing more. He could smell the pungent and earthy smoke on her breath, he could see the intricate details of the small tattoo on her wrist, but he was outside the circle of her life.
Sensing the downward spiral Sion had entered, Irene sat up straighter, the joint tucked neatly between her fingers. She swung her legs off the bed and snapped her fingers to get Sion’s attention.
“Okay, enough drama for one night, you look drained and tired,” she said, her tone affectionately bossy. “You haven’t eaten since you put that on, have you? You genuinely look like you’re gonna faint any moment now. Come on, I’m getting you some proper food before you leave.”
Before Sion could protest—or confess his despair one more time and get rejected for the last time—Irene was pulling him gently by the hand toward the kitchen. She deposited him at the island and pulled out leftovers from the fridge: a container of pasta salad and a slice of perfectly golden homemade focaccia. She microwaved the pasta, sliced the bread, and pushed a plate of food and a fresh glass of water in front of him. “Eat. All of it. I’m not sending you home to crash in that corset on an empty stomach,” she commanded.
Sion reached out of the fork and shoved it into his mouth mechanically, the creamy pasta tasting like ash in his mouth. The tears he had been desperately holding back since the word 'girlfriend' first dropped now began to slide freely. They mixed with the heavy makeup Riku had applied, creating pink and black streaks that ran down his chin and landed silently on the counter. He couldn’t be bothered to hide them; he simply kept chewing the focaccia, hunched over his plate. Irene watched him for a moment, her expression softening with pity. She didn't comment on the tears, instead choosing to talk about her work or her family, acting like she was completely oblivious to the dam of tears unfolding in front of her smearing all the makeup on his face. The act of being fed by her—the small gesture of kindness—was another confusing twist of the knife. She cared for him, but only as a distant friend would.
Once the plate was mostly clear, Irene checked her watch, her expression shifting slightly. “Alright, Sion, time for you to make your exit,” she said, retrieving the joint from the ashtray for one last hit. “My girl will be home soon, and while I’m sure she’d find your commitment to different styles and costumes inspiring, I don’t want her to think I’ve forced you to smoke into sadness in our apartment.” She walked him back to the door, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Go home, get some rest, and for God’s sake, take that thing off. You were incredibly brave tonight, Sion. Thank you. Text me when you’re home safely, okay?”
Stepping back out into the cool night air, the heavy pink boots clacking against the pavement, Sion felt like a failure. He stumbled down the street and finally reached his car, managing to peel off the itchy lace gloves and the pearl choker. He tossed them onto the passenger seat like they burned him. He started the engine, taking off to his place.
He pulled up his phone and scrolled through his playlists, landing on a devastating collection of ballads. As the first mournful guitar riff of a song about unrequited love filled the car, Sion finally allowed the performance to end. The first sob was painful, a wheeze, choked up in his throat. It was followed by a flood of hot and salty tears that ruined the already ruined makeup even more. He avoided looking at the rear view mirror knowing he’d scare himself. He drove slowly, looking like a ridiculous person in a pink frock, his corset digging into his sides, weeping hysterically over the steering wheel as he navigated the dark streets, listening to songs that perfectly narrated the grand finale of his devotion for a human who he thought would be his saving grace.
May Sion find someone who would want him for his heart, soul, and body.