Bandom Fic: Cinderella, she seems so easy 1/2

[kat_lair]

Lalalalalaaa I am going to he-e-e-e-ell, I am going to he-e-e-e-e-ell, lalalalalaa *whistles merrily*

(oikku  and sadiane , consider this your present, okay? I’m sorry I fail at birthdays.)



Title: Cinderella, she seems so easy 1/2
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Pairing/Category: Gerard/Mikey, some others implied, “ordinary people” AU
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 9600
Warnings/enticements: ohgodohgodohgod. Uh, so the pairing should tell you this but… here be real person incest. Also cross-dressing. And D/s themes.*listens to the angels weep*
Disclaimer: Not true. In so many ways is this not true.
Summary: The first time is a complete accident. Then again, a lot of good things in Mikey’s life have begun that way – accidentally – so who’s he to knock it.

Author notes: So there’s this manip. There is, however, no salvation for me. *resigned sigh*This is largelypushkin666’s fault. She encourages all my depraved ideas without conscience, remorse or any compassion for the audience I’m about to inflict this fic on. My kind of girl, really. The story was finished, albeit very, very late, as a part of the awesomesosodirty challenge. Stellar betas bytrialia  (Tequila! Making lesbians enjoy waycest since 2008!) andbloodrebel333, thank you so much ladies. Title comes from Desolation Row by Bob Dylan/MCR (why yes, I am quite this lame).


Cinderella, she seems so easy 1/2



The first time is a complete accident. Then again, a lot of good things in Mikey’s life have begun that way – accidentally – so who’s he to knock it.

Mikey is shopping in a hurry, which he doesn’t like. Oh, he likes shopping and doesn’t have any particular hatred toward being in a hurry (because sometimes you just need to get to places quickly and it’s a fact of life), but the two together are not a good combination.

Well, not usually.

The thing is, Mikey is late for a date (not a serious one, but you know, he doesn’t like being late) and then he spills coffee all over his shirt exactly half-way between their house and the bar where he’s supposed to meet the girl and it’s just easier to swing by the mall and buy a new shirt than it is to turn the car around and go back home.

So he walks into the first likely looking store, grabs a short-sleeved button down with funky stripes and throws money at the cashier.

It’s not until he goes to the men’s room to change that he realises that despite being his size (he checked the label) the shirt is unaccountably tight. And a little on the short side. And there appear to be tiny rainbow coloured love hearts scattered around the black and grey stripes (although, okay, the hearts are sort of awesome) and the sleeves are turned up with neat button flaps, leaving a lot more arm exposed than he’s used to showing.

Mikey regards himself in the mirror, ineffectually trying to tug the hem down to cover his hipbones. There’s about an inch of bare flesh between the shirt and low-riding waist of his jeans.

It’s pretty obvious that he’s wearing a girl’s shirt.

Mikey blinks a couple of times before shrugging and walking out of the restroom. He’s never been particularly concerned about the traditional gender roles (though he’s never felt the urge to deliberately defy them either, unlike some other people he could name) and doesn’t see the need to start now.

His date likes the shirt. She likes it even better when they get maybe a little tipsy and she pushes him down on to the chair and straddles him, painting his mouth a delicate candy pink with her lipstick.

Hours later, when Mikey gets home, it’s still there, smeared and tasting faintly of spun sugar.

He unlocks the door carefully in case Gerard is asleep (unlikely but Mikey lives in hope that one of these days his brother manages to get a full night’s sleep) and drops his keys onto the small table.

There’s a flicker of TV coming from the living room. Mikey sighs, heading over to say hello and good night and you should go to bed and have you eaten?

Gerard is stretched on the sofa, hair falling over his face in messy clumps. The fairy lights draped over the bookcase make everything glow faintly, Gerard’s eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheekbones. He looks tired. Mikey stands in the doorway for a long time, cataloguing the slope of shoulders, the careless abandon of limbs at rest, the familiar shape of Gerard’s mouth and the soft curve of jawline, and god god, he wants.

There and gone. The feeling is an old enemy that Mikey suppresses with practiced ease, shoving its raw sharp edges to the back of his mind where all of his what-ifs live like bats in a cave.

He raps his knuckles against the wall, stepping into the room. Gerard will see the smile Mikey is thinking about even if it never reaches his face.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re up late. Again.”

Gerard tips his head back over the armrest, regarding Mikey upside down. “Yeah well. I could say the same about—” His eyes widen comically, lips moving around words that don’t quite make it out. “Uh.”

Mikey watches with alarm as Gerard tries to roll off and sit up at the same time, flailing impressively until he manages to stand up.

“Is that?” Gerard asks. “Are you?” His eyes are travelling up and down Mikey’s torso, coming to rest somewhere between the hollow of his throat and the sticky pink of his lips.

“Oh,” Mikey rubs at his mouth a little self-consciously, but doesn’t really see what the big deal is. Gerard thinks gender dichotomy is a dirty word and wears a red feather boa to the corner shop when he feels like it.  “Needed a new shirt,” he shrugs. “Guess I picked the wrong pile.”

Gerard takes a step closer, though he doesn’t seem aware of doing so. His gaze is now burning a hole into the line of exposed skin under Mikey’s belly button. Mikey has a strange urge to cover himself up, the peaks of hipbone visible above his belt suddenly feeling naked and fragile. His hands travel downwards without his permission, hovering around his middle, nervously playing with the buttons of his shirt. “Gee?” he asks. “What’s—?”

“Fuck,” Gerard breathes, and stalks out without another word.

“—the matter?” Mikey finishes, staring after his brother. There’s no answer and he’s left alone, standing in the middle of an empty room, wearing a girl’s shirt and too much lipstick.


***


Mikey can’t stop thinking about it.

He lies in his messy double bed at night, spread-eagled on top of the covers, turning things over in his head. The August heat is almost unbearable, hammering the brick houses and litter-strewn alleys mercilessly. It’s a disquietingly physical sensation, like hundreds of hands all over his sweat-slick skin, pushing him down onto the sheets until moving and breathing become something he has to struggle for.

Everyone thinks it’s Gerard who’s the more eccentric one of the two of them; with his ink-stained fingers and elaborate stories about vampires and open suspicion of strangers. But inside where it counts, it’s Mikey who’s the real freak. He knows, has always known, that what he feels for his brother is not normal, that it’s sick and wrong and capable of breaking them both beyond repair.

So Mikey has let it go, done the right thing and buried all of it; all that want which had seemed almost bigger than Mikey himself but which he learned to hide anyway.

And now this.

With a groan Mikey turns over, resting his forehead against the damp pillow. In his mind the scene from three nights ago plays again and again; the look on Gerard’s face, a mix of surprise and something else, something more complicated; his eyes, dark in the dim lights and raking over him like splintered nails; the sudden tension in the room.

Mike shudders, pressing his hips deeper into the mattress. He remembers too the way he’d reacted; swaying to the touch that hadn’t even been made, fingers already sliding over his own flesh, undecided between covering it up or revealing it further and all it would’ve needed was one word from Gerard and he’d—

Fuck.

He’s half hard and aching and stupid, god so stupid, because it’s not what it looks like, it can’t be. It can’t, and Mikey’s made his peace with that a long time ago.

But what if it is, a traitorous voice at the back of his head asks. What if, what if, what if?

Shut up! Mikey tells it, breaths coming shallow and ragged, his hips rocking against the bed. He can’t lie to himself. If Gerard… If he…

Mikey will take it; everything Gerard is willing to give. He’ll take it and he won’t even try to say no.

There’s something like a plan, except less formalised, floating under the surface of his consciousness; vague notions of pushing things a little just to see, hazy thoughts of tight girl blouses and make-up and having Gerard’s eyes on him again, hot and wanting.

Mikey moves his hips faster, his shoulder blades drawn tight, cock dragging over the dirty sheets. He comes like that, without even touching himself; an image of fishnets and high heels and Gerard’s hand on the inside of his thigh throbbing in time to his release.


***


So, the second time is the second time only by default. Anything else would mean Mikey is counting.

Mikey is not counting. Mikey is simply… experimenting.

Or he would be if there was any conceivable opportunity to do so.

Gerard has done an admirable job of avoiding Mikey over the last few days, especially considering that that neither of them have left the house except for work (Mikey) and band practice (Gerard). Besides, it’s not like Mikey can just pull on something tight and revealing for breakfast or slobbing in front of the TV. He needs an excuse.

Ironically, it’s Gerard who finally provides it.

On Friday, Mikey ambles into the kitchen to find Gerard sitting at the table, sloppily spooning cereal into his mouth. He looks like he’s just woken up. It’s half past four in the afternoon so he probably has.

“Hey,” Mikey says, getting a bowl from the cupboard and pulling up a chair. He helps himself to dinner, pouring milk over the cereal and watching it turn chocolaty.

Gerard smiles in response, mouth still full. He’s meeting Mikey’s eyes for the first time in a while and Mikey feels himself relax, slumping slightly in relief.

They talk idly over their food, exchanging meaningless gossip. Gerard tells about Ray’s new guitar and how he almost ripped apart some asshole kid who had dared to touch it. Mikey recounts the latest episode of Pete’s epic, but seemingly doomed, attempt to woo Patrick over at the neighbouring record store. This time included a dubious use of helium balloons and ended up with the entire office gathering outside to point and laugh. Everyone at the local indie label Mikey worked for was hinged one way or the other, Pete just happened to be the most open about it.

Finally Gerard gathers his dishes, dumping them in the sink. “So, um,” he says, turning to face Mikey. “We got a gig tonight. At the Unmarked Place. You wanna come?”

Gerard has this band. They’re… not bad, and at least it gives him an excuse to get out of the house a couple nights a week. Gerard had of course asked Mikey to join them, but Mikey liked his job. He was comfortable behind the scenes and had no desire to be on stage being stared at.

He’d also told Gerard that it would do them some good to at least try to lead separate lives; living together already meant they were in each other’s pockets more than most brothers. Gerard had looked a little crestfallen about that, murmuring that he didn’t mind and it hadn’t been a problem before. Mikey had pretended not to hear and remained firm even though it was almost impossible for him to refuse Gerard anything he asked for.

There was another reason Mikey had thought joining Gerard’s band was a bad idea but seeming as it revolved around how seeing his brother scream and strut and seduce the goddamn stage at regular intervals might be too much for Mikey’s self-control, he hadn’t exactly shared that with Gerard.

“…just a small time thing, dunno how many people there’ll be and you don’t have to, just thought I’d…” Gerard is still talking when Mikey refocuses to the conversation at hand. He seems to have progressed to full-scale flailing, standing awkwardly at the doorframe and looking vaguely embarrassed.

“No, I…” Mikey clears his throat and tells himself that there is nothing unusual going on here. “Sure,” he says with forced casualness. “I’ll be there.” His insides feel like they’re full of burning stones. It’s difficult to breathe normally.

“Great!” Gerard beams at him. “See you later then.”

He bangs out of the house with a tiny backward wave. Mikey waits a full minute until he’s sure Gerard is gone.

Then he goes to his room and upends his entire wardrobe onto the bed.


***


Apart for his recent purchase, Mikey does not own women’s clothes, because Mikey is not, in fact, a woman.

Then again, the point is not to look like a woman (Mikey very much doubts Gerard would do anything except laugh himself sick if he showed up in a wig and fake boobs). The point is…

Well.

Mikey drops onto his bed, scattering clothes everywhere. He’s not quite sure what it had been about his outfit the other night that had made Gerard’s eyes darken, had unexpectedly broken through the walls Mikey hadn’t even known were there.

He grabs the shirt from the floor, runs the material through his hands. It feels like an ordinary shirt; looks like one too. In the end he shrugs out of his tee and puts the button-down back on, standing in front of the mirror and regarding himself critically.

Everything is a little too long and narrow to be considered attractive: his face, his legs, even his tangled hair, flopping gracelessly over his forehead. The shirt does him no huge favours, accentuating his skinny torso and arms. His collarbones peek sharply through the thin material, a stripe of white stomach framed by bone and belt.

The shirt makes him seem… vulnerable. Unsure. Like he doesn’t quite fit in his own skin.

Mikey cocks his head contemplatively. He fits his thumb in the soft indentation of bellybutton, letting the rest of his hand dangle down, fingertips brushing the worn denim. He closes his eyes, trying to recapture the feeling of that night; the sleepy tiredness in his limbs, the sudden heat of Gerard’s gaze on his skin, how shaky it had left him.

When Mikey opens his eyes again, he can barely recognise the person in the mirror. He looks desperate and frayed around the edges, all his good intentions unravelling like careless knots. His pupils are blown wide and black, there’s blood on his mouth where he’s bitten through his lip without realising it.

Mikey stares at his reflection for a long time, the taste of copper sitting bright and heavy on his tongue.

In the end he just grabs his keys and wallet from the dresser and walks out of the house.

After all, it’s less about what he’s wearing than how he’s wearing it.


***


The Unmarked Place is a club that lives up to its name; the entrance is hidden behind a Chinese takeaway, the only indication that anything of interest at all is going on is the small but elaborately decorated poster announcing tonight’s line-up. 

Mikey pushes through the scattered group of kids hanging outside the door, exchanging a greeting here and there. His job makes sure that despite not being particularly active on the scene for a couple of years, he still gets waved in for free at most venues in Jersey.

Inside the air is thick with sweat and alcohol. Mikey’s outfit is relatively tame compared to the others in the club; a girl’s shirt with a subtle heart pattern actually helps him blend in with the crowd, which is good enough for now.

Mikey doesn’t care whether anyone else looks at him twice tonight. Gerard will recognise the shirt, he’s sure, and then… Well, then they’ll see.

The first two bands are unremarkable, punk rock by numbers, and Mikey hangs back, leaning on the bar. There’s a short break before Chemical Emergency take the stage and Mikey sips his water, watching Bob and Ray set up their instruments while Frank does something indecent with his bass. There’s no sign of Gerard yet, but that’s not unusual. Mikey’s been to enough of their shows to know that his brother prefers to spend the minutes leading up to it biting his nails and furiously chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Tell the truth, Mikey could use one himself right about now.

Finally Gerard walks to the stage; a scruffy awkward dude in front of the lonely microphone stand who seems for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. He doesn’t raise his head or look at the audience.

Then Bob hits his sticks together in a fast one-two-three and the band crashes into the first song like an avalanche. Gerard thrusts his fist into the air, eyes black and burning, voice ripping everyone apart.

Mikey lets himself stare for three whole songs. He can see Gerard searching the crowd, clearly looking for him, but Mikey is too far back to be seen, hidden by the glare of lights. There is still time to leave unnoticed, to forget about his stupid dangerous non-plan, but even as Mikey tells himself this, he knows he won’t be going anywhere.

As the band launches into their fourth number, Mikey pushes off the bar, making his way to the front of the stage. Step by step, he can feel his body fall further into the familiar rhythm of want and seduction and c’mon, I dare you. His stride becomes loose and relaxed, centre of balance shifting down to his hips and now he’s almost dancing, letting the crowd carry him onward.

The press of people is intoxicating, everyone screaming and swaying to the music. Mikey goes with it, grinding against the nearest warm body, head thrown back and mouth shamelessly open.

It doesn’t take long until he’s spotted. Frank gives him a cheerful middle finger in greeting, Ray and Bob too focussed on their playing for anything except a brief nod and raised eyebrows, respectively.

Mikey knows the exact moment Gerard sees him, his gaze following the line of Frank’s extended arm and landing on Mikey with an almost physical weight. His eyes grow wide and then narrow in recognition as he takes in what Mikey is wearing. There’s a half a second when Mikey actually thinks Gerard is going to miss a line but he spits out the end of the verse like it’s something foul and soul-stealing.

Mikey feels hot and feverish all over but he has to know, has to know so he keeps his eyes on Gerard even though everything in him wants to look down in apology. But he’s done nothing wrong, nothing that couldn’t be explained away, not yet, and if Gerard doesn’t—

There. A deliberate once-over, Gerard’s eyes travelling up and down his body, lingering on hips and neck just like that night and fuck fuck, the look he’s giving Mikey is neither brotherly nor particularly friendly. 

Their eyes meet for a split second when they both stop moving and breathing, but then Gerard wrenches his gaze away with a visible effort, stalking to the other end of the stage.

The rest of the concert is a confused mix of oh god, he wants me too and what the fuck did I just do.

Gerard takes out his — Mikey doesn’t even know; anger, frustration? — on everything and everyone else, while Mikey stands to the side and watches his brother do his very best to bring a crowd of scene kids to the brink of an orgasm.

Gerard plasters himself all over Ray’s back for the chorus, goes to his knees in front of Bob’s drum kit, crowds Frank until he pushes Gerard to the floor with a feral grin on his face. It’s clear that while his band has no idea what is going on, they’re happy to just roll with it.

Gerard prowls across the stage like he plans on having sex with it, leaning into the sea of reaching hands while he screams about love in a voice on the edge of breaking. He sings like he’ll die if he doesn’t, every other word stretching into a filthy moan; runs his hands over his own body, slow and obscene.

Not once does he look at Mikey.


***


Mikey gets home with no recollection how. The car keys are cutting a serrated line into his palm, so he must have driven, but he can’t remember it. His mind is full of Gerard’s voice, Gerard’s mouth stretched over the microphone, Gerard’s hands travelling down his body, white against the black material of his clothes.

Mikey makes it inside the front door before he pushes his jeans down, wrapping a sweaty hand around his cock. He stuffs his other wrist between his teeth, bites down hard to stop himself from screaming. Inside his eyelids Gerard is walking towards him, his fingers curling into Mikey’s shirt, pulling him closer as he wipes a thumb over Mikey’s mouth, smearing waxy red lipstick everywhere and—

Inside Mikey’s mind Gerard is smiling, wild and dangerous like he did barely an hour ago on the stage. “Pretty,” he says. “Aren’t you a pretty little girl?” And Mikey curls over himself, his fist a blur between his legs, his bare ass pressed against the door, and yes, yes, he is, for Gerard, god.

Afterwards, Mikey kneels in the shower, letting the hot water pound his back raw.

He leans on his forearms, absently soothing his tongue over the bite marks on his wrist. His skin tastes salty, like relief and fear and anticipation all rolled up in one.

He doesn’t get out of the shower until he hears the front door slam, announcing Gerard’s return.


***


The next day Mikey digs out his makeup and old clothes, everything he used to wear back when the clubs meant more than the music, when everything he was could be summed up in black eyeliner and tight jeans.

He’s more than that now, knows it with bone-deep certainty, which is probably why donning the costume of his former self would be easy.

He doesn’t though. Instead Mikey stuffs everything inside large bin bags, dumping them at the curb on his way out.

It’s time the outfit is defined by him wearing it and not the other way around.

So Mikey goes shopping. He buys makeup: heavy kohl and mascara and lipsticks in different colours; pale pink and faded red of old roses and dirty rust of blood. He buys clothes: tees and delicate button-downs, girl-jeans and girl-belts and a velvet choker. Finally, breathless and turned on, he buys a dress, short-sleeved and almost severe with its faint pin-stripes. He doesn’t quite believe he’ll ever wear it, but just knowing that he could makes his hands shake as he hands over his credit card at the till.

It’s raining when he walks out of the shop. Mikey stands in the middle of the street and tilts his head up, letting the water sluice down his face, autumn trickling inside his collar in cold droplets.

Third time’s the charm, he thinks. Third time’s the charm.


***


The third time is not the charm.

The third time is awkward and disappointing and leaves Mikey feeling like shit.

Mikey waits until Wednesday night. Then he puts on his new clothes (soft grey pants, white belt, powder blue t-shirt with ask me, I might written on the front) and goes downstairs, his hair sleeked back, makeup subtle but there.

He stays in the kitchen until he hears the car, Gerard coming back from band practice, times it so that they collide at the door.

Gerard startles, steadying Mikey on instinct, hands around his arms as they stumble and shift. Mikey leans in, clumsy on purpose, his own hands grabbing at the worn denim of Gerard’s jacket. For a precious instant they’re pressed together from chest to knee and Mikey lets himself be supported, lingers in a way that should be obvious.

Then Gerard seems to remember himself and backs away, dropping his hands like he’s been burnt. Mikey loses his balance for real this time and trips over the threshold into the hall, catching himself on the edge of the mirror before actually smashing right through it.

For five seconds the silence is absolute, broken only by their laboured breathing. Then they both straighten up at the same time, apologising over each other.

“Shit, Mikey. Didn’t see you—”

“I’m sorry, wasn’t watching where—”

“—so I just, you know.” Gerard makes a vague hand gesture toward the fridge, not meeting Mikey’s eyes or any part of him really.

Mikey takes a hesitant step toward his brother but Gerard actually flinches, shoulders hunching inward like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Catch you later then,” he says, turning the corner and disappearing from view.

Mikey is left standing in the hallway with little choice except to follow his cover story that he didn’t even need in the end. He grabs his keys from the table, heading out into the night.

Gerard’s face, etched with shame and misery, haunts him all the way to the club, the knowledge that he put it there eating his insides.


***


A week later Mikey has pushed through the guilt into frustrated anger. Doesn’t Gerard get it? How can he still think he’s alone in this? Mikey had thought that what happened at the gig was acknowledgement enough and if not, then surely what he’s wearing should be.

The outfits aren’t exactly subtle. Mikey’s putting himself on display in a way that goes beyond the clothes; practically throwing himself at Gerard. Every evening he comes downstairs, wrapped in soft clinging shirts and tight jeans. He exchanges meaningless small talk with his brother, lingering as long as he can, lounging on the doorway and waiting and waiting and waiting for something to happen, for Gerard to make a move.

He never does. And so Mikey is forced to either disappear into the night or slink back upstairs and, despite everything, his pride still prefers sitting in overnight cafe to sitting alone in his room.

So he leaves, Gerard waving him off with a smile that’s so obviously forced it makes something crack and break inside Mikey’s chest. It’s almost like Gerard has already had what he wanted and then had it taken away.

Mikey doesn’t get it. It’s not as if Gerard doesn’t like the clothes. Mikey knows he does, can feel Gerard’s eyes on him like a physical weight, night after night.

Yet nothing happens and Mikey doesn’t know what else he can do to change that, what he did that made Gerard back off from the cliff side they were both teetering on.

The situation is wearing him down. Mikey is tired and more than that he misses his brother. Work and other things keep them separated during the days and the evenings are spent in an awkward dance that never moves forward.

Tonight he stares into the bathroom mirror, his fingers frozen in mid-air still holding on to a mascara brush. He doesn’t want to go out tonight, doesn’t want to see the mute disappointment on his brother’s face. What he wants is to sit in front of the TV and eat something sweet and unhealthy while Gerard keeps up a running commentary about whatever crappy B-horror they are watching.

Fuck it, he thinks and tosses the mascara into the sink where it clatters and rolls around. He’s not going anywhere tonight.

Mikey wanders downstairs, grabs a packet of cookies from the kitchen before heading to the living room.

“Move over,” he says, kicking Gerard’s feet off the coffee table and slumping onto the sofa next to him.

Gerard blinks at him in confusion. “You’re not going out?”

“No, don’t feel like it,” Mikey says. “Thought we could watch a movie?”

Gerard reaches automatically for the DVD remote. He presses play without looking and the TV-screen flickers blue and red like an accident scene.

“But you’re all...” Gerard waves a hand at him, presumably to indicate Mikey’s outfit.

Mikey glances down at himself instinctively even though he knows full well how he looks, dressed in a tunic long enough to classify as a dress if not for the tight jeans Mikey is wearing under it.

“This?” Mikey asks. “I’m not... It’s not for other people, Gerard. Is that what you thought? That I’m wearing these because I want to impress some strangers?”

Gerard looks down. “Maybe,” he mutters.

“Huh.” Everything makes sense now; the dejected, slightly disapproving look on Gerard’s face, the careful distance he’s built between them.

“That’s now why,” Mikey says. “I’m wearing this...” For you he wants to say, but despite everything the words don’t quite make it out of his mouth. “...for myself. Because I want to,” he finishes instead and as soon as he hears himself say it he knows it’s the truth, even if not the whole one.

Gerard doesn’t say anything, but his smile spreads slowly and lingers for a long time.

A few hours later they’re both stretched comfortably on the sofa, surrounded by cookie crumbs, the muted credits rolling across the screen.

“Oh hey, meant to tell you.” Gerard says sleepily.

“What?” Mikey’s eyes are drooping but he doesn’t want to move. Gerard is a warm weight against his side, effectively trapping him against the cushions.

“Frank’s having a birthday party on Friday. Fancy dress since it’s Halloween.”

“Who’s going?” Mikey asks, though he knows the answer as soon as the question leaves his mouth.

Gerard laughs, obviously thinking the same thing. “It’s Frank,” he says, tilting his head back to grin at Mikey. “Everyone’s going.”


***


Logically, Mikey knows that the person in the mirror is himself. That doesn’t stop him reaching out, fingers pressed against the smooth glass, tracing the outline of his bare arm, the deep burgundy red of his mouth.

He’s wearing the dress. The black, pinstriped one he bought in a moment of daring and then buried at the back of the closet. It’s short, clinging to his hips in a way that makes him shiver at every step. The cut gives a suggestion of breasts where there are none, the demurely high neckline somehow calling only more attention to how slutty the dress actually is.

It doesn’t stop there. A velvet choker circles his neck; tight enough to restrict breathing if only slightly, wide enough to look like a collar. His legs are encased in thigh-high boots, slick black vinyl over fishnet stockings that disappear under the hemline. Out of sight, but brushing against his skin every time he moves, the garter belt hangs low, attached to a pair of silk panties.

Mikey wants to touch himself through them but daren’t. Just putting the underwear on had had him biting back a moan and if he starts now Mikey doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop.

He wrenches his gaze up. Meeting his own eyes is an effort, but behind the make-up, behind the haze of need and trepidation, it’s still him looking back, no one else. Knowing that somehow makes everything a little bit easier to handle.

Mikey takes a deep breath and walks downstairs, heels loud against the hall floor. He finds Gerard in the kitchen, back turned, rummaging through the drawers.

He really doesn’t look any different from his usual self; old tee under a denim jacket, jeans that seem made entirely of holes and paint splatter.

Mikey clears his throat. “What are you supposed to be?” he asks.

Gerard startles, turning around. “A zombie victim.” He shrugs. “Didn’t exactly have time to—”

The rest of the sentence gets bitten to shreds as Gerard’s mouth snaps shut with an almost audible sound when he sees what Mikey is wearing. The air between them is suddenly heavy and thick with tension.

Mikey swallows. He’s blushing and there’s nothing he can do about it. “Do you... Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Gerard says, taking a step closer until he’s right in Mikey’s personal space. “I like it.” His voice is tight, eyes burning holes into Mikey’s skin and for the first time ever he can’t tell what Gerard is feeling, whether he’s angry or something else entirely.

For a heartbeat or two Mikey thinks this is it, this is it, but then Gerard simply reaches around him and snatches the car keys from the table.

Guess they’re going to Frank’s party after all.


***


Continue to Part 2.




 

Comments

Slight Brit-pick...

[serenitysfloor.livejournal.com]

This is a lovely story so far, and is hitting all the right notes, but are you British? Because in the US, "fancy dress" means formalwear. We would say that they're going to a costume party.

(Also? Aww, *boys!* They're so oblivious and cute!)

Re: Slight Brit-pick...

[kat-lair.livejournal.com]

Ah! Good catch! I'm not British but I live there so I tend to write in British English... And as it happened neither of my betas were American this time around so that one slipped through the net... Cheers for pointing it out.