Why does he have to look so good in a skirt?
"You look fine," Reilly forced himself to say. Dammit, why? That's just unfair.
It really was, he thought, checking his own makeup. It really, really was.
"At least I'm not the only one in a dress." Roland recrossed his arms.
Reilly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and fought down the urge to give Roland the only piece of advice anyone had ever given him about crossdressing: Stop being so uptight.
(Well, that had been the only piece of useful advice. The rest he'd had to figure out mostly on his own, whether it was by stealing from the theater kids, skulking around conventions, or lying to his mother about a nonexistent school project.)
"Couldn't have you being alone, could we?" said Reilly, aware he wasn't making much sense.
"Mmm."
Actually that wasn't the whole truth. It was partly that he genuinely wanted to wear that cute schoolgirlish outfit again. (It wasn't quite a schoolgirl outfit, given that it was a bit hard to find Mary Janes in his shoe size, but it worked well enough.)
Reilly, being a gentleman, didn't actually say that -- just nodded absently and smoothed the front of his skirt with his hands, checking his appearance one more time in the mirror. White collared shirt, loosely-knotted tie, red hair ribbon, solid navy blazer, pleated skirt, white knee socks, and... the finishing touch... his favorite shoes.
The kind of shoes he'd always wanted to have, whether it was because his mother forbade him to borrow them or because they just fit so well for his costume... or because they were just plain fabulous.
They weren't anything really special, as shoes went. They weren't super high, or neon-colored. There were better-looking shoes in the world.
The important thing about these shoes was... well, there were two things.
One, they were the first pair of shoes he'd bought because they looked awesome. (They'd also been the last pair.)
Two, they fit. And that was really important.
Reilly smiled down at his perfect pair of shoes. The other thing was that they went with everything, being plain black. Everything else in his outfit had to be carefully matched. Not these shoes.
And they had that perfect punk-rock, grungey touch, too. Modest heels, dark black, a little scuffed. Just his style.
Stop thinking about your shoes, idiot.
A knock came on the door, followed by Kyle's voice. "Are you two done yet?"
"Yeah," Reilly said, cracking open the door to confront him face to face. "Want me to do your makeup, too?"
"No thanks, man. I'm cool." Kyle wasn't quite as dressed-up as Reilly considered himself to be, in the same jeans and sneakers as always. He'd classed it up a bit with a nice collared shirt and carefully brushed hair, though. Good.
"Sure?" Reilly opened the door the rest of the way and grinned at Kyle. "You make a better date than usual tonight. Classy."
"Special occasion."
"Bite me," Reilly said, and laughed. "You've seen me in a skirt before." He didn't mention that Kyle had also been wearing a skirt at the time. And cat ears. God bless anime conventions.
Kyle dragged Reilly out of the doorway and hissed in his ear, "I meant it's New Year's Eve, fuckhead."
"Really? Cool." Reilly broke away from him and leaned back into the room to check on Roland. "You doin' OK, man?"
"I'm fine." He got up, and from the slow, painful way he moved, Reilly guessed that the only reason he was putting up with this was that it would take too much effort to give up and say 'No, I'd really rather stay home, thanks'.
That, or his foot had gone numb.
"Let's go, then," Reilly said, and they set off.
Ter Borcht didn't look so bad as he seemed to think -- well, there was no way for a man who was seven months pregnant to look good, but he looked... all right. A little ragged, and pale as a ghost under Reilly's makeup job, but -- the light sweater brought out the color of his eyes, and the skirt made him more feminine.
Reilly, you are so gay.
Jeb was waiting by the car, and a sunny smile broke across his face when he saw ter Borcht. He sprang forward to meet them.
"Don't say a word," ter Borcht growled, and some of Jeb's bubbly enthusiasm vanished.
"You look great, Roland," he said quietly.
Kyle squeezed Reilly's arm and whispered in his ear.
"Aren't they so cute?"
Reilly elbowed him in the ribs. "Get in the car."
They let ter Borcht have shotgun, and Kyle opened the door for his "date" -- which forced Reilly to scoot awkwardly across the seat with his knees clamped together.
"Fuck you very much, buttmunch," he hissed, and was gratified when Kyle had to bite the side of his hand to keep from laughing.
"No fighting," ter Borcht said as Jeb started the car, and Kyle burst out giggling anyway.
"I feel like I'm going to prom," he said.
"That sucked enough the first time," Reilly muttered.
"At least this time I can actually go with a guy." Kyle slumped back in his seat.
"Amen." Reilly leaned on him for a moment. "Samantha was a good girl, but man, fuck dates. I wanted to go stag."
"With me?"
"With you?" Reilly sat up straight and toyed with his hair ribbon, fighting an urge to affirm that absolutely no hanky-panky was going on in the back seat, no sir.
The drive seemed to stretch on without end, and Reilly was grateful when ter Borcht, after exchanging murmured words with Jeb, snapped the radio on.
There was a crackle, and then a distant melody, obscured by the soft rustle of static -- out in the desert you'd be damned for a clear signal on the radio. You could still make out the music, but the sound seemed to come from another world. Accompaniment for an apocalypse.
Like now. It was quiet in the car, clear and cold outside, the stars shining brightly against a sky so dark it seemed brilliant.
I get no kick from champagne
"Oldies? Really?" Reilly said softly.
"It's the only station we get," Kyle said. "And besides. You like it, admit it."
Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all
"Whatever."
Reilly stared out the window. Next to him he heard Kyle humming along to the distant music, but he didn't really process it.
I get a kick out of you
Kyle half-sang, and kissed Reilly on the cheek.
Aww. Now isn't that romantic?
"Well, aren't you two dolled up? Right this way."
Ter Borcht blushed, and Reilly shook his head, smiling, as he followed the waitress (hostess? whatever you were supposed to call them) back. He was so worried about this, it was almost cute. Like anyone was actually going to take a second look at him.
Why question the pregnant woman, when she was accompanied by a tall, suspiciously androgynous girl with short hair and a husky voice?
Especially when the girl was wearing a skirt that short.
Reilly took a seat next to Kyle, absently straightening his tie with one hand as he sat. It was a nice, quiet place, as restaurants went -- nice, but not too nice.
He glanced around once, quickly, to reassure himself that he and ter Borcht didn't look too out of place.
From what he saw, they fit in perfectly with the other women there -- dressed well for a New Year's Eve out, but still somewhat casual. (It was California, after all.)
Ter Borcht was looking at him nervously from across the table.
Reilly rolled his eyes and hissed, "You look fine," before opening his menu and feigning absorption in the wine list.
Damn. Someday he'd really have to stop just opening menus at random.
"Hi, I'm Simone."
He put the menu down and met the waitress's eyes with a brief smile.
"Can I get you guys anything to drink tonight?"
Time to face the music.
He didn't even hear what Kyle ordered (probably beer, knowing him).
"Just a Coke," Reilly said, mindful to keep his pitch just higher than normal, but still natural-sounding. "Regular."
Ter Borcht raised his eyebrows questioningly -- me next?
Reilly nodded -- yes, you.
"Just a glass of water, please," he said, in the most sweet-toned, natural, feminine voice Reilly had ever heard (well, from a man's throat).
The waitress nodded and turned towards Jeb -- and ter Borcht blushed a brief, vivid red. Why, Reilly didn't know.
Holy shit, he's a quick study, Reilly thought, dumbfounded. He'd only given ter Borcht a quick run of the basics -- he already had a naturally higher, softer voice than most guys, so it hadn't been difficult -- but Jesus.
He just seemed so believable -- so confident.
And yet he was still so nervous.
Reilly wanted to give him a hug, just for doing so damn well.
Rock on. You're doing better than I am.
The night rolled on, and ter Borcht seemed to relax a little -- or so it seemed when occasionally Reilly looked his way. For the most part, though, he was occupied -- with Kyle sitting next to him, deliberately too close, and with Jeb talking aimlessly about some project of his -- he had no time to make sure ter Borcht was all right.
And ter Borcht could damn well take care of himself, anyway.
"I propose a toast," Kyle said, at a point close to midnight.
Well, it's midnight somewhere, Reilly decided, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Hell, it was already 2007 on the East Coast.
"To what?" said Jeb.
"Don't you ever make New Year's toasts?" ter Borcht inquired, and glanced at each of them in turn.
"Not often," Reilly said.
"Well, I only know one," he admitted.
"Let's hear it."
"Marian and I wrote it," he said, stalling. "Mostly Marian, though."
"Yeah? Can't be any worse than 'To us'."
Ter Borcht locked eyes with Kyle and said something long and complex in German -- then obligingly translated.
"To good luck in the New Year -- successful endeavours, both scientific and personal. To safety and happiness." He dropped his gaze and muttered, "And try not to die."
There was an awkward silence.
"It's a poor translation," ter Borcht said, voice returning to its normal level again. "But you get the gist."
"I like it." Kyle grinned. "What he said, then."
They made the toast, and fell into another momentary silence.
"Thank you," ter Borcht said softly. "It's been... good to get back out in the real world, even if it's only for one night."
Kyle shrugged. "Yeah? We don't get out much either. I kind of talked Jeb into this, anyway."
Jeb shot him a look that made Reilly force himself not to smile: The hell you do!
Some things never change.
"Did you?" ter Borcht asked.
"Totally."
This time Reilly did smile. "Let's do this again next year," he said.
Ter Borcht nodded and, after a moment, spoke, with a faint smile on his face.
"Yes. Let's."
The crackle of radio static... the quiet hum of tires on the asphalt... the glow of headlights reflecting off mica in the surface of the road... the Milky Way in the sky overhead, each star lovely and distinct...
It was a perfect night, ter Borcht thought, or near enough. So still and so quiet -- a moment of peace in the chaos of life as usual.
He looked out at the stars. Time, it seemed, was rushing ever more quickly past him the harder he tried to keep it from leaving him behind.
Ter Borcht felt a flutter of motion inside him -- a sleepy kick, he imagined -- and his hand flew instinctively to his stomach. God. Was it possible that he could have only a few months left to live? That he might never get to hold his daughter?
No.
Maybe it was selfish of him, but he did want to spend another New Year's Eve this way, or something like it -- just a quiet night with his friends and his family.
He sighed and let his eyelids close. To the best of his ability, he'd try to make that happen -- but there were some things that were still in the hands of fate.
Well, let fate come, then.
This is a lovely way to spend an evening
Because oh but the stars were bright, and there was just something in the way it all came together: something beautiful beyond expression.
"Jeb?" he said.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
Jeb laughed quietly. "No. Thank you."
I want to save all my nights and spend them with you
They went home.
Song lyrics from, respectively, "I Get A Kick Out Of You" and "A Lovely Way To Spend An Evening" by Frank Sinatra, because I'm a whore for fluff.
The fic itself is a hopelessly late birthday present to Kayte of MX. Happy late birthday, darling.