Title: Friday Night
Characters & Pairing: Matt x Mello
Genre: Friendship, humour, romance
Spoilers: Few and minor
Warnings: Cross dressing and swearing
Status: Complete
Summary: "Mello finds it quite hilarious really. Matt understands that. After all, looking at the two of them, if either was going to regularly dress in drag you'd assume it was the adorable blonde."
For the record, I really don't know why this happened. I really, really don't. But since it has I'm dedicating it to tierfal (because she deserves a bit of joy and I'm hoping this will bring it closer, which is why it's been finished in less than my usual month, haha) and ElenAtalantie (because she's such a darling, and I'm hoping she enjoys the fact that there's more James in this one).
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FRIDAY NIGHT
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"He likes to cross-dress every Friday night in clothes from Prada." – FEEDER, 7 Days in the Sun
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Mello finds it quite hilarious really. Matt understands that. After all, looking at the two of them, if either was going to regularly dress in drag you'd assume it was the adorable blonde.
Matt studies his toenails for any glittering smears and smirks. Mello's loud and often violent reactions to any insinuation of femininity on his part really should have got the point across by now. Matt has always been the one to flush bright scarlet when someone calls him pretty; has always been the one curious about make-up and perfume and designers, ever since they were ten years old and Ella danced into the library in a sixties dress with a mouth the same pillar-box red as Near's second-favourite robot.
She was beautiful.
Roger looked like he wanted to make go and get changed into her usual flat and colourless blouse and jeans.
Matt has always enjoyed making authority figures uncomfortable, and Roger should've known, by then, not to show weakness.
He was subtle, of course. No sense in going asking for trouble. Wammy's may be full of quirky, "unique" children, but they were children none-the-less and children are experts in cruelty. Matt stuck to the basics, unless he was certain of being undisturbed for an hour. Just a quick slice of eyeliner and some lip-gloss and/or tinted balm. Mello liked the Body Shop Mango Lip Butter best, always commenting on the smell, and Matt bought the stuff in bulk. He added one or two different accessories for every season (once was a glittering blue scarf that still lives wrapped in tissue amongst his socks). Smuggled ELLE and Vogue in with his gaming magazines.
Only Mello knows that the reason he started wearing those damned goggles in the first place was the advice of ELLE's Style Editor – to "pick up a unique signature piece, something quirky that you can make work with anything." He used to wear them against his collarbones or as a headband, and a little something inside him breaks every time he remembers the very first time he tugged them down over his eyes.
If nothing else, that effing inescapable habit has rendered his exceptional skill with eye shadows pointless. It's why he doesn't wear them on Friday nights.
Well. In part.
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The first time he had a Friday night was two months after he moved to Camden and met James. Apparently the usually lovely (if as camp as Louie Spence) gent was sick-and-fucking-tired of Matt refusing invitations for a few friendly drinks, and barged in one evening in May in a Vivienne Westwood dress and – lo and behold – a Velma Kelly wig and hauled Matt out of the door.
That night Matt had to be smuggled into the club, wearing a pair of old jeans, a t-shirt bearing the legend of Batman and a fake ID, and was so envious of those dresses and heels and made-up jaw lines that he could barely contain the furious sobs ripping at the back of his throat. It didn't, therefore, surprise anyone that after two days of indecision and four of struggling to grow a spine his response to the next invitation was, "Tomorrow, if you'll lend me a dress."
The next afternoon James showed up on his doorstep at less than a minute past midday and presented the redhead with three beautiful dresses. Plus two handbags, a rather horrifyingly bright feather boa and a week's worth of French knickers and lacy camisoles that made Matt fear for his safety.
He then went back downstairs to haul up a distressingly large and pink vanity case.
It took two hours (an hour less than expected, incredibly) for James to wax and moisturise Matt to what he deemed a satisfactory level. Matt has never again been so insanely glad to have light, fine body hair. The thought of the alternative still makes him flinch, three and a half years later. James wouldn't even allow him to take his usual five-minute shower and stood blocking the exit until a full half-hour had passed and he smelt quite literally of roses. Apparently it was an important ritual for his "first time". Pinning and fluffing his usual mop into a stylish feminine bob took yet another twenty minutes, swiftly followed by an hour of Matt attempting to recreate it alone. When he finally managed it his chest throbbed with recognition. He hadn't realised just how androgynous his mother had been.
The delicious plum nail polish Matt pointed to was vetoed and they chatted on the sofa whilst James painted the younger boy's toes and fingers a deep coral. Games and the BBC and poetry and dickwad blondes skipping out on the boys who adored them. While James made his eyes "pop" and his lips glimmer just so Matt wondered if this was what having a big sister would be like.
James kissed his forehead and told him sure, but if he ever dared call him his sister again he may well "cast his accounts" as Georgette Heyer would gracefully put it – he actually has a sister, thanks.
Upon further inquiry Matt discovered that she plays women's rugby.
(James didn't tell him for another year that it was more the fact that incest is fucking creepy, and he rather enjoyed those fantasies with Matt and the fluffy handcuffs, fuck you very much.)
It took Matt yet another half an hour to master the heels James chose for him. Which would have been less horrific if he had been allowed to wear something other than just a pair of lace-trimmed, black French knickers.
Either James would be his (second) best friend for life after this, or his corpse was going to be discovered in the Thames sometime in the next eight weeks.
He decided on the former when he finally managed to make it around the room without a single stumble and James reacted so genuinely joyfully that his cheeks matched his hair. Which, of course, set the man off on a rant about what a pretty picture he made. It was lucky that such a state was the goal of the afternoon, or Matt would have been forced to reconsider, thanks to the way James shouted about the black panties. The windows were open, for fuck's sake. He really didn't want everyone on the street to know he was cross-dressing. He just knew they'd assume he had GID and he's never wanted to be female – he just wants to wear those beautiful clothes and be as pretty as his mother always wished he was (and tempting enough that Mello would never want to leave).
The high-necked black dress was next. It was almost an exact replica of one he had seen in VOGUE once when they did a ten-page spread on Twiggy's career, and Matt hadn't been able to contain the delighted sound rising in his throat or the delicate shaking of his fingers as they trembled over the monochrome cotton panels. He very nearly cried when James said that of course he could keep it – that it had been bought for him. He very nearly battered the man when he saw the label and realised just how goddamn expensive it had to have been. Prada. Goddamn.
At which point James enlightened him to the fact that sex paraphernalia sold effing well in London, Camden especially, and it was nice to have a new reason to splurge – he had been buying similar items for himself since he was fourteen and owned over forty dresses (plus another twenty "Friday Night" two- or three-piece combos) already; he'd finally run out of room for more three weeks ago. Matt silently vowed to buy his excessively awesome landlord a pair of heels for each of the next ten Friday nights, just as soon as the money from his last jobs cleared. It wasn't like he was strapped for cash either, and they'd offered several grand more than he usually made if he got the info in under a week. All he'd had to do was overcome his usual laziness.
A couple of delicate bangles, on string of beads and a cute ring Matt had kept from an A/W collection three years ago, and then he reached for the orange lenses waiting on the coffee table.
James let out a screech of pure horror and slapped his hand so hard it flushed a bright scarlet. "The fuck? You'll look a right twassock!"
"They're impor-!"
"Don't give a shit. You don't wear goggles with a designer dress, honey."
Cold rage hit him as hard and fast as a freight train, and he wanted to strangle the man on his left. "Piss off. They're important to me, fuckwit."
"Like a divorcee's wedding ring."
"Fuck you!"
"A lady doesn't talk like that, sweetie."
"Fuck. You."
Matt made to storm towards the bathroom, but halfway there James spoke again and he couldn't – could not – so much as twitch. His tone was like the sound of a body being dragged over broken glass, just as cold and fragile and physically painful to hear even before his brain deciphered the words.
"You think you're the first? You think your pain is more valid? You're the one who needs to get fucked, Mattie-baby. I've been engaged and the twat left a week before the effing wedding but you don't see me toting my pain around like you do." Footsteps and a warm hand on his shoulder. "I know it's hard. But this is something you never did with him. It's something new and fun and colourful, and bringing pain that doesn't belong there is as much against the Rules as wearing boxers under chiffon." The hand retreated, "Now put the hideous fucking things down immediately, honey. And cease and desist with the waterworks. You're ruining our hard work, you cunt."
Matt's laugh had been shocked and wet. "Ladies don't use that language, wanker."
"Not in my dress yet. Come on, you need to check your gorgeous self out so you can start worshipping the ground I walk on."
He did. He really really did. James hadn't made him into a girl, thank Christ. He looked seriously damn androgynous, but the dress hung from him just so and his hair fluttered just so and he generally looked like he'd stepped straight off a MiuMiu catwalk.
His lipstick tasted faintly of mango. The colour spectrum didn't centre on tangerine. James' wig was shocking pink.
He left his cigarettes on the coffee table with the goggles, and when he staggered out of the club at three in the morning, completely trashed or gazebo-d or whatever the hell Michael McIntyre was calling it then, he didn't miss either.
ooo
It wasn't all fun and cocktails and beauty. Naturally. Some of the "girls" were severely catty about the group's new addition. The hangovers were hellish. The blisters were worse. There were come-ons and confusions that never ever ended well. And he definitely didn't feel beautiful the night a gang of the local bastards chased him and James to Matt's flat, howling abuse all the way. Matt had tended to skip the more strenuous self-defence sessions at Wammy's and didn't have a hope of fighting the buggers when he was drunk and had James to protect too. They had to take their shoes off and run barefoot – both cut their feet open on the usual stones and glass – and even then they would've been neighbours in hospital beds if not for Vladimir.
The Russian-Israeli lived next-door-but-one to Matt and had previously scared the crap out of him. Even when he saw him, he was 98% certain he wouldn't help them. He just didn't seem the type to step in for a couple of lads who'd willingly gone out in designer dresses and lipstick.
The next thing he knew, the guy who'd tackled him to the ground was ten meters away with a broken nose and his massive (no, really, he was 6'2" anyway and seemed to gain an extra half a mile when he was pissed) neighbour was hauling him up and shoving him ahead, right into James, and then on up the second fire escape to Vladimir's flat, where he glared at them until they accepted a first-aid kit, a couple of shots of vodka and his bed. (Even James looked nervous at that one, until Vlad shoved them both into it and padded astonishingly quietly over to the sofa in the next room.)
After ten minutes of hearing them shuffle and sniffle, their (very) unlikely saviour barked from the living room, "Shut up. Bastards won't get in, or past me. You both look great. Now go the fuck to sleep."
Together, with a giggle. "Yessir."
The next day they woke and headed to their own homes after Vladimir checked that none of the twats had been patient.
Matt smiled and expressed gratitude and relief and enthusiasm for the next week, before closing his door and curling on the sofa with his goggles firmly over his eyes and a cigarette between smudged lips.
He had too many stories. Last night's tipped it over. More stories of trouble and hilarity without Mello than with. It wasn't right. Nothing was right.
Out of everything, Saturday mornings would always be the bane of Friday nights.
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These days, he misses James. He adores Mello even more than at Wammy's, and the blonde's so excellent about going out every Friday night with his boyfriend on his arm in a dress and heels and (just sometimes) a feather boa no matter what the circumstances or dangers, but he misses his big-sister-slash-stalker.
He misses doing each other's nails and rescuing each other from dodgy pickups and wigs and floral perfumes Matt could never make work for himself. He misses being able to leave make-up on the table and dresses wherever they fall. (Mello insists that he loves the dresses when Matt's in them – especially when they're hiked up around his hips – but he draws the line at tripping over Chanel lace every time he goes to grab another bar of chocolate.) He misses laughing about the bitch of a saleswoman they brought down a few pegs as they fawn over one another's new "Friday best" and arguing about who gets to borrow what first. He misses "the girls" and trying to fool barmen and two of the most well-celebrated birthdays of his life. He misses Vladimir and his terrifying demeanour and awkward compliments and kind pats on the head.
He still adores Friday nights. He still has fun and throws everything aside from the moment he steps into his afternoon shower. But it's never quite the same.
On Saturdays he wakes up sometime after midday with a pounding headache and aching feet, and hears Mello still snuffling sleepily next to him and feels his hand twitch against his own pale stomach.
He remembers the pride in Mello's eyes when he leaned against him in the club and the contentment when he stumbled his way over with their seventh round. He remembers soft touches turning rough and needy and he remembers sharing the bathroom stall and laughter and dancing towards the exit five minutes before closing. He remembers the taxi and firing off an affectionate if drunken email to James from his phone and Mello's hands shaking the way they still do every time he slides Matt's dress carefully off his shoulders. He remembers "I love you"s and strong arms and too much pleasure. He remembers slurring complaints about his ruffled hair and smudged make-up and being silenced with Mello's tongue, and he remembers being told he's been beautiful to Mello since he was "six years old and new and weird and sporting a fucking black eye, so quit mumbling, you girly fucking twit, I'm tired." He remembers going to sleep feeling safer here, openly opposing the new world's "god" and knowing he won't get out of it alive (and, by far more significantly, in the arms of an ex-Mafioso with a half-melted face and a fucked-up streak a mile wide and a history of leaving him behind), than he did when he was four and with his too-pretty-for-her-own-damn-good mother or seventeen and curled up in lace and his "big sister's" arms with proper Russian vodka warming his belly.
And he knows he wouldn't change a thing.
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Thak you so much for reading - I hope you enjoyed it! If you have the time, please review! No flames please, but constructive criticism is appreciated as much as praise.