Basalt

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays spilling through the windows of the shared living quarters. You had been waiting patiently in the common area, tapping your foot rhythmically against the floor as you glanced at the clock on the wall for what felt like the hundredth time. Basalt was late—again. You had invited him for a walk earlier that day, envisioning an easy stroll through the park, maybe some casual conversation, and a few good laughs.

But the minutes dragged on, stretching into nearly an hour. He hadn’t even sent a message to let you know what was keeping him. Knowing Basalt, you figured he was probably distracted by some random whim or caught up in whatever mischief he had concocted for the day. Still, his absence began to gnaw at your patience.

Finally, you decided you weren’t going to sit there any longer. With a resigned sigh, you pushed yourself up from the couch and made your way toward his room, your footsteps echoing softly in the otherwise quiet hallway. The door to his room was closed, but faint noises could be heard from the other side—a shuffle of movement, the soft rustle of fabric, and a muffled curse.

You paused at the door for a moment, debating whether to knock or just barge in. This was Basalt, after all. Privacy wasn’t exactly something he prioritized, and you were close enough friends that walking in unannounced wouldn’t be completely out of line. Still, curiosity prickled at the edge of your thoughts. What was he doing in there?

Deciding that waiting any longer would only drive you more impatient, you pushed the door open.

Basalt stood in the middle of the room, illuminated by the warm glow of a desk lamp. His usual hoodie was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was pulling at the hem of a loose, flowy skirt—a pale lavender number with pleats that swayed as he moved. A form-fitting blouse, white with short puffed sleeves, hugged his upper body, complementing his lean, muscular frame in a way that was both striking and oddly graceful.

On the bed behind him lay a chaotic assortment of clothes: button-up shirts, leather jackets, patterned dresses, denim shorts, sleek suits, and even a wide-brimmed hat. It was as though he had ransacked an entire wardrobe, and his room had become ground zero for a full-blown fashion experiment.

He turned toward the sound of the door opening, his neon green eyes catching the light as they landed on you. For a split second, you expected him to freeze, maybe scramble to explain himself or hastily change back into his usual casual hoodie. But this was Basalt—always unpredictable.

Instead of looking embarrassed or defensive, his expression broke into a wide grin, sharp teeth glinting in the light. He planted a hand on his hip, as he tilted his head.

“Oh, hey!” he greeted casually, as though you’d just caught him brushing his teeth or something equally mundane. “Took you long enough to come find me.”

He stepped toward you, smoothing the skirt down with both hands before gesturing at himself with a dramatic flourish. “What do you think? Does this work for me, or is it too much? Be honest.”

Before you could even respond, Basalt turned back toward the mirror propped up against the wall, studying his reflection with an exaggeratedly critical eye. “I mean, I kinda like the skirt,” he mused, giving it an experimental twirl. The fabric flared out slightly, catching the motion with a satisfying swish. “But I dunno if it really pairs well with the blouse. Maybe I should try that leather jacket instead? Or... hang on.”

He moved back to the bed, rummaging through the pile of clothes with a kind of frenetic energy. “Oh! What about this?” he exclaimed, holding up a sleek black dress with a halter neck. “Too formal? Maybe I should save this one for a fancy dinner.”

Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder at you, his smirk softening into something more sincere. “You’re not weirded out or anything, are you? This is just... y’know, a thing I like to do sometimes. Figured I’d try out some different looks today, see what works.”

He straightened up, holding the dress against himself as if imagining how it would look. “Honestly, I’ve been thinking. Clothes shouldn’t have rules, right? Who says I can’t rock a skirt one day and a three-piece suit the next? It’s kinda fun breaking expectations.”

He stepped closer to you, holding up two items for comparison: the black halter dress in one hand and a sharp gray blazer in the other. “Alright, you’re here now, so you might as well help. Which one says, ‘I’m effortlessly cool and stylish,’ but also, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks’?”

His tone was light and teasing, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity in his glowing green eyes. For all his confidence, it was clear he valued your input. This wasn’t just about trying on clothes; it was about sharing a part of himself with someone he trusted.

“C’mon,” he prompted, when you didn’t immediately answer. “Don’t just stand there staring. I know I look good, but I need specifics! Help a guy out here.”

He struck another pose, this time draping the blazer over his shoulders and kicking one leg out for emphasis and his smirk widened. “Fashion critic or not, you’re stuck with me until we figure this out. So? What’s the verdict?”