Remember piratesunk's Mike Pedicone meme? Yesterday I went there and committed fic. A very short, tame Mike/Mikey cross-dressing ficlet, because apparently that's how I roll. With thanks to greedy_dancer for checking it over ♥
In yet another effort to be organised.
Mike’s standing close to the doors, his bag at his feet and a scarf wrapped loose around his neck. Rolling his shoulders, he listens to the fans that are gathered outside, grinning as they launch into Na Na Na yet again.
Close by, Mikey’s fastening the buttons of his coat and then pulls on his hat. He tugs at the ear flaps, fake fur brushing against the side of his face as he tucks in a lock of blond hair. Then looks over at Mike and says, “I saw what you wrote.”
“Which was?” Mike asks, unsure what Mikey’s actually seen.
“The model thing,” Mikey says, and his hand is against his coat pocket, and Mike assumes, over his phone. “In your tweet.”
“Well you do,” Mike says easily, and he pictures Mikey on stage -- bright hair and long limbs, the way he tilts his head and gets lost in the music, the moments when he turns and plays only to Mike. “I’d go to your show.”
“Yeah?” Mikey looks over his shoulder, where security guards are gathering, taking up their positions. “If I ever model I’ll get you front row.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Mike says, and steps to the side, hanging back with James as the door is opened and the fans sing louder, their words changing to screams as Gerard steps into view, Mikey, Frank and Ray close behind.
Mike follows, noise and cold hitting together as he wanders outside, stands with his hands pushed into his pockets and watches the group of fans crowd close, masks and skeleton gloves, home-made signs against elaborate costumes.
Mike takes it all in and loves every moment, steps forward himself when he’s spotted and the fans start to yell out his name.
Truthfully, Mike’s forgotten about the model thing when Gerard sits next to him, shoves a small sketchbook into his hands and says, “Don’t fuck this up.”
“Okay,” Mike says slowly, and he looks from Gerard to the sketchbook, unsure what he’s actually supposed to do, because Gerard’s staring, and it feels like Mike’s been thrust into some test where the rules are unstated. “You want me to look?”
“I don’t know,” Gerard says, and he runs his hand through his hair. “I mean, yeah, I do, you’re fucking awesome and he said you’ll be good with it, and I know you will, but if it goes wrong....”
Mike cuts Gerard off by opening the book. He’s expecting some kind of new concept, space suits maybe, or being shown he’ll have to play dressed as a robot. Which would be fine, Mike fucking loves this band and robots are cool. What he doesn’t expect is seeing a sketch of Mikey.
Which no, that’s not true. Mike’s seen plenty of sketches of Mikey, that’s what Gerard does, except those sketches have been of super heroes or warriors, Mikey as a zombie or just Mikey himself, laughing or frowning or sleeping, curled up on a small couch.
But not this.
This is undoubtedly Mikey, except he’s wearing a dress, the skirt short and bodice scooped, the tops of his stockings exposed as he crosses his legs. He’s also smiling, and obviously at ease as he looks forward, his gaze direct, as if he’s perfectly aware of being sketched.
Mike looks for a long time, torn between taking in every detail and needing to see if there’s more. He turns the page, and in this next sketch Mikey’s looking into a mirror, the zip of his dress unfastened and exposing his back. It makes Mike want to touch, and he moves his thumb against the base of Mikey’s drawn spine, imagining dark lines and shaded shadows swapped for bone and warm skin.
“He looks beautiful,” Mike says, and Gerard lets out an audible breath.
“He looks even better in reality.” Gerard leans in closer, pressed against Mike’s side as they look at the drawing together. “If you laughed, I was going to to tell you I made that shit up.”
Mike looks away from the drawing, says, “Because me thinking you were some kind of creepy incestuous pervert is better than thinking Mikey cross dresses?”
“If you thought that was a bad thing, yeah,” Gerard says simply, and then adds, “Keep going, the next one’s my favourite.”
Mike does, turning the page carefully, and then has to say on an out breath, “Fuck.”
Because this sketch is pure Mikey, his neck exposed and head tilted, his back arched and eyes closed. He’s lost in the music, hands on his bass and mouth slightly open, except this is a Mikey Mike hasn’t seen. This Mikey is wearing a mini skirt that’s frayed at the hem, dark strands against one thigh and the material pulled taut. He’s also wearing a white shirt, damp patches under his arms and the top buttons unfastened, his chest hidden by shadow.
This is Mikey comfortable in his own skin, hot and sweaty, his hair tangled and pushed back, exposing his face. It’s Mikey needing no embellishments and Mike wants to see more. But he doesn’t know if he can. Taking a risk, that there’s a reason Gerard’s showing these now, Mike says, “Does he dress like that often?”
“Depends who’s around,” Gerard says, and he looks at Mike with a smile. “Probably more often now.”
Mike hopes that it’s true.
Mike’s been left alone when it happens.
Sprawled on the bed, he’s watching the end of a movie, some gore fest which has blood splattering the screen when Mikey steps out of the bathroom and says, “Can you fasten this?”
Mike looks from the TV, and it feels like his heart stutters when he sees that Mikey’s changed out of his usual clothes and into a dress, one that’s still open, exposing the line of his back. Chip packets crumpling under his body, Mike sits, his legs off the side of the bed as he says, “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” Mikey asks, and he’s remained close to the door, tension apparent in the way that he’s standing, shoulders pushed back and gripping his arm, his fingers wrapped tight.
“Why Ray needed three other people to get a bucket of ice, and why Frank threatened to kill me before he left,” Mike says, and he wants to laugh as he remembers how they left as a mass group. “They’re kind of obvious.”
“Frank threatened to kill you?” Mikey says, sounding confused.
“Not verbally,” Mike says, but even if the words weren’t there the message was all too apparent. Not that it’s needed, because yeah, seeing Mikey like this is different, but it’s not wrong, and Mike’s standing, needing to get close. “You wanted help?”
Mikey nods, and turns, says, “I can never fasten this fucking thing.”
“I can do that,” Mike says, and he swallows as he moves close, his heart racing as he reaches out, fumbling the tiny zipper.
Mikey stands frozen, looking toward the main door. When Mike misses the zipper again, he says blankly, “It’s okay, one of the others will do it.”
“No,” Mike says, because Mikey doesn’t understand. “I’ll get it. Just. Fuck, Mikey. You look....”
“Like me?” Mikey suggests.
“Exactly like you,” Mike says. Giving up on the zipper, he rests his hand against Mikey’s lower back, running his thumb over the bumps of his spine. “You look fucking hot.”
And Mikey does, his shoulders exposed where the straps of his dress have slipped down, his feet bare and turned in, an orange band-aid stuck to his right knee. He’s the man Mike knows and yet not, confidence returning as Mikey’s mouth curls into a smile.
“Still think I’d make a good model?”
“Yeah,” Mike says, and he’s taking a chance as he slides his hand to Mikey’s side, the zip of the dress dragging over Mike’s arm as he pulls Mikey close. “The best.”
“Good,” Mikey says, and he finishes the move, their bodies pressed together, offering this first kiss.
Now go read other fantastic Pedicone fic over at the meme
ETA: Now with added Mikey/Gerard/Mike in comments if you like such a thing.
Also posted at Dreamwidth. Reply where you wish.
Tags: my stories:bandom