...Behold, the infamous Yami-in-drag RP?
Characters: Yami (idonthaveityet) and Varon (aussie_biker)
Rating: PG-13 for language?
Summary: Yami decides that the best way to help Noa cross-dress is to get some...hands-on experience. Varon decides he's never been more traumatized in his life.
The first time Yami set out to help Noa, it was in the middle of the woods with rapidly fading light and the gut-wretching reminder at every footstep that he had no idea where he was going and every movement he made might be taking him further from someone who desperately needed his help. There was no choice here, no question: he had to keep going until he found Noa, and he would bring him back safe.
The second time Yami set out to help Noa, it was less clear cut. It was long hallways and tightly controlled seething and trying to find Kaiba so that he could demand to know why it was that nothing was done to the people who'd hurt Noa. Righteous indignation was easy, but that ended in shivering on the floor in Kaiba's bathroom, and that hand.
The last time Yami set out to help Noa, it just got Marik's attention, and
This time, setting out to help Noa, Yami had a distinct feeling the pattern would hold, and things would go even worse. Dread had settled in the pit of his stomach and was making best of friends with withdrawal-induced nausea, and this feeling of rising and imminent doom already clawing at his shoulders.
Something horrible was about to happen. He was sure of it. He'd never seen dark clouds looking so ominous, or the rain come down in quite such a film noir fashion. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it was going to be bad, very bad, and already he was bracing for impact. Fate itself was out to get him, oh yes, and it was going to be a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions.
...Then again, that might've been the feeling every man got approaching a women's lingerie shop.
Four hours centuries and thousands, maybe millions of stores later, with teeth grit so hard he wasn't sure his jaw would ever unclench and fingernails threatening to cut right through his palms, he'd run up the most interesting bill Sugoroku Mutou's card would ever see, and the words "It's for Noa" were permanently scarred into his brain. With a white hot, serrated utility knife, such as was going to be thrust into the face of the next person who even thought about commenting. Repeatedly. Enthusiastically.
Getting the entire ensemble together wasn't that difficult. He couldn't tell you afterwards how he'd acquired it, obviously, having repressed the entire morning hard enough his frontal lobe was beginning to sting and ice pick lobotomies were looking like the greatest medical advance since opiates, but once he was feeling less like having an aneurysm, he rather pleased. Attractive enough clothing, futuristic and vinyl without quite crossing the line into video game dominatrix territory.
The bra was fairly traumatizing to work with, but he'd managed it. More or less. The tights had been too light, so he'd...improvized. That ate another half hour, attempting to weight the...things down. And get over the "Oh, hello! I'm groping myself!" feeling. He'd considered asking Yuugi to help, but the it occurred to him that this was one favor he didn't want to have to explain, and he really wasn't quite that keen on knowing whether Yuugi --
He managed it. Got through approximately 495793457345 repetitions of It's for Noa! in the process, and only vaguely considered stabbing himself in the chest -- an interesting suicide that would've been, bleeding to death after jabbing an eyeliner pencil through a fake breast -- decided he'd be better off bashing his brains out on the bathroom counter instead. Put him out of the misery that was attempting to negotiate with mascara.
But it was for Noa. So he was going to do it. And help Noa. And that might in some small way make up for the fact of those posters, and everything else. Besides. He cared about Noa. Had to help him. Damn Noa to hell.
By mid-afternoon, the last of the fighting with the miniskirt -- it didn't have a tag that he could find, and Yami couldn't figure out quite which way it went round -- was accomplished, he'd learned to walk in four-inch heels at least well enough not to fall flat on his face yet again, and he'd discovered that he...really didn't look very different at all. Like himself, only slightly more feminine, severely traumatized pissed off, in makeup, and a bit...top heavy.
Fuck.
But. That could be fixed. Had to be fixed, because Noa wasn't supposed to look like Noa; he was supposed to look like a girl. And that simply required help. From something heterosexual. Or at least attracted to girls. Yami figured his past attraction didn't count, as he was about as interested in a human being as a brick wall since the at the moment, and brick walls had that brilliant property of being harder than a human skull, so that if the memories of this morning's shopping trip ever resurfaced, he could just bash the grey matter containing said images into an inoffensive ooze that would never trouble him again.
Which left...Yuugi and Varon? It shouldn't be this difficult to come up with friends he had who were straight. Jounouchi and Honda, he assumed. But they were Yuugi's friends, and he could think of a few scenarios more creepy than being asked by a friend's older brother what he thought of them in drag, but he had a feeling even his insomnia wouldn't keep him from the nightmares then.
What about Anzu? Was she a lesbian? He had no idea. He'd written her off when he realized she was enough taller than him there was no way he could borrow from her wardrobe. ...Ringing up a girl he barely knew to ask which way she swung and if she'd do him a favor seemed a bit....
Varon, then. He located his mobile -- wiped some spilled eyeshadow off it (Who the hell decided to make it come in little impossible-to-open disky things that exploded when you finally wrenched the cover off?) then scowled at his freshly metallic purple-stained finger tips. Hopefully, eyeshadow didn't take after lipstick, and it would come off eventually? The only thing lipstick seemed to come off of was his mouth, and --
He forcibly stopped the wailing and gnashing of teeth that was coming on, and breathed. Sat on the counter, resisting the urge to kick something. Or gouge eyes out with those stupid heels. ...Yeah, eyeshadow wasn't as picky. It came off of fingertips when you dialed. Maybe his mobile would like having sparkly new keys?
There was really nothing quite like lounging around on a desk, enjoying the few moments of peace the lab had to offer. Sharing a confined area with four other guys only served to remind Varon why he loved being an only child, and having the space to himself for a while gave him time to just do nothing. It also meant that he didn’t have to use headphones, could lie up on a desk - which he preferred from the floor - with sleeping bags on either side to catch his fall and he was sure the rats appreciated this sacred time. He could hear them scratching away in their cupboard between tracks, and knowing they were there was oddly relaxing.
However, you could always count on fate to ruin an opportune moment. Enter the most worrying call he’d ever received, and he found himself at the garage, firing up his Harley and heading for the Game shop.
Whatever the hell Yami needed help with was bound to be something horrific, at best, judging by the murderous tone Yami had used. Helping the kid? Could have been ripping down those posters - Varon had already taken down the ones he found in the Chemistry lab’s building - but why he needed someone specifically of the "heterosexual persuasion" was beyond him. He had the most horrible feeling he was going to be used as a judge the kid’s new feminine look; in which case he was going to claim work and flee.
Thinking of that kid brought thought trail screeching back round to Marik and how dearly Varon wished for the chance to beat the shit out of him - wipe that smirk off his face and then Yami could get on with his fucking life instead of playing the fucking hero.
…thinking about it more, Varon was just about sure he was going to be the kid’s judge. A guinea pig, so to speak, of a sixteen year old, newly-turned-transvestite Kaiba brother’s new look. Thiswasgoingtobehorrible. He considered turning back, phoning Yami to say he’d been asked to work early, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. He hated his conscience sometimes.
But it didn’t stop him from taking five minutes to slam his head down on his motorcycle once he’d stopped outside the Game shop. Take a big breath, and try not to freak out, Varon, because it’s only a guy in girl’s clothing. Wolf in sheep’s clothing? You’ll know it’s a guy, and you seen his webcam picture. Not your idea of hot, is he she? No, Varon, so get a fucking grip before you break your motorcycle.
He swung himself off, swallowing. This was going to be one of the most traumatising experiences of his life. He walked into the Game shop, greeting Yuugi and Mr. Mutou, heading up the stairs to the apartment on instruction. By the time he’d reached the door, he had managed to reassure himself that he was fully prepared for whatever lay in wait inside the apartment. Just a kid in girl’s clothing, out to accomplish something and in need of help. For whatever reason.
He lifted his hand, rapping his knuckles against the door, "Oi, Yami. I’m here." Mental count back from ten, image of the kid from his webcam fixed in his head - there would be no surprises here, no leaping backwards in shock - and he folded his arms to wait.
Waiting for Varon had been an absolutely fascinating experience, naturally. First, Yami stared at the ceiling and scowled. Then, he beat three consecutive games of Tetris on the newly-ensparkled mobile. After that, he clicked the stupidly high, how did anyone walk in them, is "excuse me while I fall flat on my face" the new "fuck me"? heels of his boots against the cabinet 49,539,345 -- make that 49,539,346 -- times, and then he had an exhausting session of sulking, and after that, he went back to his favorite pasttime of late: hating the world and wishing everyone would die.
...Unbridled hatred didn't smudge makeup, did it? And he grit his teeth and checked again.
This project was turning out to be the most ludicrous thing he'd ever attempted. And Noa had better appreciate it. Granted, he didn't look that bad, and Noa was close enough to his size that everything should fit nicely, barring the boots. At least he'd managed to negotiate the makeup and Noa could benefit from that. In fact, that might just be Yami's true calling: leading a public awareness campaign to save other innocents from the suffering he'd endured at the hands of cosmetics.
To say nothing of the perfume department. He hadn't even wanted perfume, and yet they'd descended upon him in waves, billows of mustard gas trailing behind. It was horrifying. His eyes were probably still bleeding.
The jacket...vest...what was it? Top-thing. It'd had a name in the store. Whatever. That was a good find; he was rather impressed with it. Black vinyl and shiny (which was always a plus) with the faintest metallic lines on it that reminded Yami of the guts of a computer, some bit of circuitry he had no idea what was called, which meant it was a Noa-positive thing, yes? A high collar too, reminded him of the jacket Marik stained, and it looked nice with a black velvet choker Yami sincerely hoped had accidentally found its way into Yuugi's wardrobe.
Helped with the illusion, too. The shoulders had sharp enough lines and the waist was cut neatly enough to disguise the fact that as 'girls' came, Yami's figure was a bit less of an hourglass and more of a...vaguely triangular line of not-having-hips? Trying to figure out what to put with the top had enlightened Yami to the fact that, as a girl, he had no hips whatsoever, and made him wonder what exactly had held his pants up all these years.
Couldn't tell, though, from the skirt, and Yami was the tiniest bit smug over that. Ever so slightly. If he had to be tortured and stared at and mutilate innocent stockings to create fake breasts, at least he did it convincingly. It was almost unnerving to see how his newly acquired chest filled out the top, and the fact that from the leather miniskirt on down, he figured he passed completely, that was. First time for everything, he supposed, but seeing yourself in a miniskirt and fishnet stockings and noting that you had really nice legs for this sort of thing was something Yami hadn't expected to deal with any time soon.
Nor high heels. And there was Varon, but if he thought Yami was going to attempt to walk across the room to open the door in these boots, he was out of his mind. They didn't look terribly different from the boots Yami usually wore -- black and leather and covered with buckles -- but the fact that they came up to just below the knee and had the most lethal heels Yami had ever seen...he wasn't even going to attempt. No. Crossed his legs at the knee and stayed firmly set on the counter. Absolutely not.
Besides. Girls were supposed to be graceful and delicate and so on, from what Yami could figure from the manual on ladylike behavior he'd read two lines on and pitched as absolutely useless for Noa -- he didn't think stumbling painfully a few feet and landing in a heap of vinyl and eyeshadow was particularly what Noa was going for.
...And at that thought, Yami was back to entertaining himself via sulking. "Just come in here."
Another deep breath, it’s only a kid in drag, nothing special. Varon pushed the door open, and the "Oh, Christ," was out - in English - before he had a chance to stop it. And enter self-preservation, stepping backwards and staring at … at … OhdearGod. Blinking, rapidly, but it wasn’t helping, because there was still a chick sitting on the counter that wasn’t the kid, but she did look a lot like Yami and -
Opened his mouth, closed it again sharply. He was never going to survive this. If Yami didn’t kill him first, he’d have to do it himself. Fishnets. Miniskirt. Breasts. Nowhere to look. Briefly considered running, checking the boots - fl;gf;we - on Yami to see how much of a head start he could get if he bolted now. But that was just putting off death, and this wasn’t a Final Destination movie. It was facing your friend across a bathroom while he was done up like a chick.
And he He kinda Sorta Outfit was Boots Yami alm He was He made for It wasn’t Wasn’t as Maybe he He looked Almost like Very much like Cute?
Deep breathing and stepping forward, trying hard not to grimace and keeping a safe distance away from Yami and those monstrosities on his feet and legs. Legs crossed, too. He was just like a fucking chick.
This shouldn’t be a problem. Friends, and all that, right? Just a friend done up in drag. If Yami wanted to go down the transvestite route too, then that was his decision, and there was nothing wrong with that. He could do the supportive friend bit, naturally. Did it for Jude when he came out of the closet - and that was a literal coming-out-of-the-closet situation, which ended in Varon and Derry picking through a crowd of jocks to knock out any who’d be the slightest bit inclined to go after Jude and his newly acquired boyfriend - so he could do the supportive bit for Yami, too. Once he’d recovered, and once the word cute stopped resounding in his head.
"Uh." Think of a response, something to say, something to live a few days longer, "I take it you liked Noa’s idea?" Flinched, maybe that wasn’t quite right? Didn’t sound quite right when he said it out loud. The guy vs. girl instinct screamed at him to give a compliment, but somehow, ‘I like your new top’ or ‘New boots?’ or ‘Gee, cute outfit’ didn’t fit.
Swallowed, "Where’s the kid?" Because surely he was here, too, and maybe it would be easier if he was here, too, because that would be a distraction from his imminent death.
...Well. That wasn't exactly the reaction Yami had expected. On account of the fact that Yami hadn't expected any reaction. He didn't think he looked much off from the usual, beyond the clothes, and he thought he'd been clear enough on the phone what he needed help with. He didn't think he looked bad enough to warrant an "Oh, Christ!" either, but that was neither here nor there.
Liked Noa's idea? Yami frowned. What was that supposed to mean? And Varon was still gawking. What, had he never seen a -- well, probably not, no, but that was beside the point. Right. So Yami screwed up somewhere along the line. No problem. He could just figure it out, fix it, and that was that. Better to find out before he had to help Noa do this, anyway.
Ki-what? ...Maybe he hadn't been so clear on the phone. It was hard to talk while gritting your teeth and trying not to smudge your lipstick or glare daggers so hard your mascara ran or fell off or irradiated or whatever it was the idiotic stuff intended to do.
He shook his head, resisting the urge to smack his forehead, because he wasn't entirely sure what would happen if he offended the makeup gods in such a fashion. "Noa's not here. I told you, I offered to help him. He doesn't know how to do any of this stuff, so I'm trying to figure out how it works for him."
Varon blinked - so, Yami wasn’t becoming a transvestite? He glanced up and down Yami again, trying to think of an appropriate response. He wanted a heterosexual opinion on how he looked, didn’t he? Cute, yes. Hot, maybe. Maybe yes. Like a chick, yes. Varon needed a wall, needed to see how many hits it took to remember Yami is really a guy, Varon is heterosexual and Varon doesn’t like guys.
The female version of Yami, on the other hand - was irrelevant, and stupid, and to be judged and gotten rid of as quickly as possible. "Right. Got it." He apparently didn’t, however, have the ability to take a step closer, and so settled against the door frame - this was getting to be a common thing - and tried his best to look enthusiastically helpful, failing miserably and falling down somewhere along the look of a trapped animal crossed with a man caught with a, "Does my butt look big in this?" scenario, when the obvious answer was ‘Yes‘.
…he doubted Yami would ask such a stupid question, though. And Varon would already be able to answer without having to look … there. Skinny. Like the rest of Yami. His legs were quite - … nothing. Quite skinny, really. … and shaved. He shaved his legs. Oh, Christ. On a fucking bike.
Yami...had to stare a bit blankly at that. Varon had progressed from undiluted horror to an expression vaguely reminiscent of a someone about to be crushed by one of those moving wall traps. One with spikes, most definitely. Closing in. Fast. And the heels were still threatening enough, but Yami didn't think that was really all that great an excuse.
And wasn't the question implied? This was a very simple thing to navigate. Behold, the wild Yami in captivity! See what domestication has done to its once natural hide, now contaminated with the ills of modern society, in the form of smokey eyeshadow and neatly painted lips! Behold the fearsome fangs, still absolutely as sharp as they used to be, and note that no polish has yet rendered its wicked claws unusable! Now, given the Yami is painfully painstakingly dressed in women's clothing and is attempting to help a similar creature of a different species use women's clothing to gain attention, and the wild Yami has lured a useful heterosexual into its cage, what question could it possibly want to ask?
He arched an eyebrow at the reaction, but didn't comment. More important things. "This is fairly simple. Does it work, or not?"
…yes. Painfully well. Horribly well, if Varon was to lean slightly towards exaggerating. Granted, Varon had the gift of knowledge on his side, and Yami’s hair didn’t look all that girly, but … yeah. It worked. He nodded, "Mhm." Almost pointed out he couldn’t tell all that well while Yami was up on the counter, but he didn’t want to know how short that skirt really was, and so appearances would have to be judged as they were.
But "Mhm." wouldn’t work, would it? He’d had enough experience and bruises to know that was not sufficient when supplying an opinion on a woman’s attire, and no matter what gender Yami was, he seemed to have the female-wearing-an-outfit-she-doesn’t-believe-to-be-exactly-the-way-she-wants-it.
So, what else could he offer in the way of an opinion that wasn’t a) callous, b) stupid, c) death-inviting or d) something that would make Varon smack his head off the door frame? "Well." Pause, thought break, flail a little - try and scrape together something even remotely akin to a positive comment - "It." It was what? "Really does make you look -" be careful of word choice, here, "-a chick." That would be the desired effect, right? That would be the reason Yami’s done up as a chick.
...Riiight. Yami only managed to blink in response at first. And that felt odd, with mascara on. Distracting. Got a neat effect, he supposed, lashes longer and darker and so on, but applying it had been a bitch, simply put, and it felt like some sort of slime had congealed along the insides of his -- What did the packaging call that bit? Lashline? -- and was going to crack off and make his eyes bleed any minute. Maybe when girls fluttered their eyelashes, it was secretly a gesture of utter and inescapable anguish. Oh, the oppression! The cruel fascist regime of the cosmetics industry, grinding its totalitarian heel down so coldly on the throats of the
Yami clamped down on that tangent, decided pretending the makeup wasn't there was a much better plan.
And Varon. Varon was clearly a fascist sympathizer. Gawking at the victims, but feeling no empathy whatsoever. How selfish. People like him were the reason that the lipstick party advanced so far with its sinister agenda virtually unopposed!
And more importantly, he was about the most useless "useful heterosexual" Yami had ever met. "Point isn't whether I can pass as a girl. Noa needs to be attractive. Aside from big black boots and long brown hair, any helpful input here?"
Varon watched Yami blink a bit, vaguely distracted by the fact that Yami’s eyelashes now seemed to be taking on a life form of their own. Like spiders. Black widows, sliced, diced and stuck to your lash line. Unpleasant, he imagined, even more so when Yami blinked and his lashes touched his skin. That would be creepy. Your own set of moving spiders, attached to your face with the option of nurturing and growing their legs. Ew.
…and yes. Of course. He needed to be attractive. Why? In fact, a better question would be why the kid was all of a sudden turning up dressed as a girl in webcam images. But yeah, he supposed if someone was going to go for the cross-dressing route they’d want to do a convincing and attractive job of the whole thing. So yes, made sense. But that did nothing for the fact that Varon was supposed to tell Yami if he looked attractive as a chick or not.
Wonderful. Simply marvellous. Wasn’t there some sort of complication with the fact that Yami was really a guy and Varon knew that, which could skew his opinion somewhat? A bisexual would have been a better choice than a heterosexual, really, but Varon was supposed to answer the question, and he had to find a way to do it without damning himself and getting hurt by Yami.
"Uh. You." Flailed, because this was going to be one difficult sentence to choke out, "Look." Do not say like a chick again, because you’ve said that. Word choice time. Cute, hot, sexy, female? "…cute." And now pray that that was the right answer, or at least an acceptable one, lest you be forced into finding other adjectives for your male best friend in drag.
...Maybe Yuugi would've been a better choice. Yami wasn't scowling, really.
Sure, Yuugi's bright, innocent young mind might have crumbled under the weight of what he was being asked to do, but. Yami didn't think he'd have an aneurysm or react in complete, incoherent horror. Yuugi was better about things like that; little as he was, he could take almost anything. Varon, on the other hand, looked just a breath away from a spasmodic fit.
And tempting as it was to push him a little and see if he exploded into a gibbering, terrified mess, Yami did have an agenda here.
"Is that cute in a paedophilic sense? Noa has enough of the child-whore reputation without it being added to. Alternatively, cute in the fuzzy bunnies sense isn't helpful either." Bit his tongue, attempted to take the edge (more lethal than the heels by far, though less likely to land Yami flat on his ass) out of his voice. "This isn't difficult. I don't know what I need to do to help Noa, and I'm attempting to learn. If you're going to choke or have a fit, do it in the next thrity seconds, and let's move on?" Please?
Bite tongue, bite tongue, do not take him up on the fit. Varon had more self control than that, really, and it wouldn’t be helpful. Which was what he was supposed to be, wasn’t it? A helpful heterosexual, right? One comfortable enough with his sexuality and with his friend to be able to give an honest opinion on another guy in drag.
"No. Not paedophilic cute. Or bunny cute." Paused, wondered if that was enough? How many distinctions of cute were there anyway? He shifted, folding his arms, because the door frame was painful to the back after a while, and he could give his honest opinion without freaking out. Just calm down, figure out a decent response, and give it before … before something.
"Hot cute." There. Not so difficult, was it? Now, just try and get that knot out of his guts and everything would be peachy. They’d move on from this, and Yami would get the outfit to the kid, and the kid would do whatever it was he was setting out to do, so there’d be no more situations like this.
"So you generally react with unbridled horror to things you find attractive?"
Yami would've bitten his tongue on that one, honest, but he didn't want to change smudging the lipstick, of course. Whereas smirking didn't run a risk of that at all, naturally! Nor did being terribly amused by others' misfortune, or the way Varon's eyes about doubled in size. Mouth opened like he'd try to choke something out, but whatever it was, it never came.
...Yeah, that was enough to get him out of his sulk, and he slid off the counter, turning to face the mirror. Quick up-down look, a few steps back to take in the full effect. It was good enough. Tch, it was Yami; of course it was. Better than good enough. Hot cute was an understatement so far as he was concerned.
Why had he bothered asking Varon's advice anyway? Pfft. He had infinitely better taste than Varon anyway, he was sure, and his came with considerably less twitching. Not that he particularly had a specific taste, given this...recent...asexual shift to the entire sexual orientation bit? Which was probably contagious, and he'd probably caught it from Kaiba. Which meant it wasn't an STD, so that was good, and -- Yami was on a tangent, but he was pleased with himself and didn't particularly mind.
Besides, for a victim of torture and abuse at the hands of storeclerks and explosive sparkly powers and that vindictive horror that called itself lipstick, he didn't look bad. And being a few inches taller made up for the threatening click the heels made on the tile. Over all, success. He'd bravely faced certain doom, and returned quite traumatized, but thoroughly victorious.
"Mhm." Yami nodded to himself. "I'd fuck myself, if I were that way inclined. Close enough." Glanced over his shoulder at Varon. "We're done then, yes?"
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His arms dropped and he raised off the door frame, mouth open to try and splutter out, ‘But I don’t‘, but it never came, and why not? Conscience, maybe? A horribly evil Nazi version of Jiminy Cricket? He needed to retaliate. ‘No, I hit on things I find attractive’ was both slightly perverse and quite insulting, and he’d just called Yami ‘hot cute’ and ‘Normally, but I know what’s under that skirt.’ put bad mental images in his head. He couldn’t even risk smacking his head off a wall until they went away, or Yami would be inclined to ask questions and he was smirking.
And he was off the counter. The tiles on the bathroom floor were quite interesting, really. A nice shade. Nice handiwork. Not that he was much for the tiling business, but that was irrelevant. Clicky heels on the tiles - God, they sounded so out of place - triggered some stupid muscle in Varon that made him look up and - oh, shit, shouldn’t have - Yami had such girly legs. But not nice legs, no, really, boy legs.
This had to be one of the most traumatising experiences of his life.
And, oh, Christ. Fuck himself, yes? Now that would be a daring feat. If he was a chick then - But, yes, done. And dusted. Over, outfit away, never to be seen again, ever.
"Yeah, done. Very." Tried straightening himself up again, tried to win back his normal demeanour, "And for the record, I chat up attractive things if they’re chicks." That was a losing statement, most likely, and Varon wished for a magical, floating backspace button.
...Yami frowned at that. Instinct said ow, but he wasn't sure what in response to. And what Varon said didn't make a terrible amount of sense, either. Things he found attractive that weren't chicks, he wasn't interested in...and yet he still found them attractive? And he said like it was a retaliation, a retort, but what for?
Seemed entirely unlike Varon, but Yami didn't particularly care at the moment. He was finished, pleased with the results he'd gotten, and after six hours of working on the thing, Noa had damn well better be knocked off his feet at how helpful Yami had managed to be. Frown gone, replaced by the same neutral expression as always.
He shrugged; what did Varon's opinion there matter? This entire thing was for Noa, and it wasn't as if Noa wanted him. "We'll just hope the person Noa's trying to please can be more openminded with it, then." Shouldn't be an issue with Seto, anyway.
And. What time was it? Yami reached down -- almost dropped on one knee because of the heels, but he wasn't sure the fishnets would like that -- and picked up the sparkle-encrusted mobile from where it'd been pitched in annoyance. "Almost two. Do you have work to get to?"
Varon almost flinched. He wasn’t close minded. Was he? Just. Slightly put off by having to judge his guy friend’s appearance in drag. Particularly when - … ok. Surrender. When Yami looked hot. But he looked like a chick, which evened things out, and made it less … whatever it was that it was that didn’t seem quite right.
But something was gnawing at something else in his gut, and - was that guilt? Yeah, probably. Stupidity, too, that stupid feeling of ‘Oh, I really shouldn’t have done that.’ He glanced at the floor again; artfully decorated with some shopping bags and bits and pieces of Yami’s usual attire. What a nice reminder of Yami’s gender.
Carefully avoided looking anywhere near Yami when he saw him move to bend down. Wrist cuffs. Men’s shirt.
But, yeah, work. Of course he did. "Yeah. Are you going in, or do you want a lift to the campus to see the kid?"
Shit. Yami had work, too. Had to get used to the idea of that, that he was technically now employed, and whenever Varon had work, that meant he did as well. And he had -- less than fifteen minutes to get there, if the mobile was telling the truth. Fuck.
"Almost two as in just past quarter of."
Solution? Oh, there didn't seem to be. Ten minutes roughly between the apartment and the garage, which left a bit shy of five to get scrubbed up, redressed, polished for proper window ornamentation, and on that bike. Clkfg;sldfklsdf;lsnoaowedhim.
"As in five minutes to get rid of this" -- gesture to indicate the chest on down to the spike heels -- "and get out of here, or you're late." Yami grit his teeth, but managed to force the words out anyway after a moment's worth of bloody visions of retribution to be carried out later, "How apt am I to be fired if I show up looking like this?"
Do not laugh, Varon, because you will end up with your eyeballs impaled on those heels. At the very least. "If I’m late, then you’re late too." Paused, tried not to snicker at the image of Yoshida when his new window decoration wandered in done up as a chick. Now that? That would cause a hell of a reaction in the place.
The idea of Yami travelling on the back of his motorcycle, directly behind him, was disturbing enough, however, that the prospect of being late wasn’t too bad.
"Take five and a few extra. We’ll grab junk food on the way to pacify Yoshida. I’m not sure the old guy’s heart could take the shock." And he turned, snapped the door shut behind him, pausing to call through, "We can drop that off for the kid after work, by the way." So that Noa had it, and Yami didn’t, and Varon didn’t have to see that ever again.
Rating: PG-13 for language?
Summary: Yami decides that the best way to help Noa cross-dress is to get some...hands-on experience. Varon decides he's never been more traumatized in his life.
The first time Yami set out to help Noa, it was in the middle of the woods with rapidly fading light and the gut-wretching reminder at every footstep that he had no idea where he was going and every movement he made might be taking him further from someone who desperately needed his help. There was no choice here, no question: he had to keep going until he found Noa, and he would bring him back safe.
The second time Yami set out to help Noa, it was less clear cut. It was long hallways and tightly controlled seething and trying to find Kaiba so that he could demand to know why it was that nothing was done to the people who'd hurt Noa. Righteous indignation was easy, but that ended in shivering on the floor in Kaiba's bathroom, and that hand.
The last time Yami set out to help Noa, it just got Marik's attention, and
This time, setting out to help Noa, Yami had a distinct feeling the pattern would hold, and things would go even worse. Dread had settled in the pit of his stomach and was making best of friends with withdrawal-induced nausea, and this feeling of rising and imminent doom already clawing at his shoulders.
Something horrible was about to happen. He was sure of it. He'd never seen dark clouds looking so ominous, or the rain come down in quite such a film noir fashion. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it was going to be bad, very bad, and already he was bracing for impact. Fate itself was out to get him, oh yes, and it was going to be a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions.
...Then again, that might've been the feeling every man got approaching a women's lingerie shop.
Four hours centuries and thousands, maybe millions of stores later, with teeth grit so hard he wasn't sure his jaw would ever unclench and fingernails threatening to cut right through his palms, he'd run up the most interesting bill Sugoroku Mutou's card would ever see, and the words "It's for Noa" were permanently scarred into his brain. With a white hot, serrated utility knife, such as was going to be thrust into the face of the next person who even thought about commenting. Repeatedly. Enthusiastically.
Getting the entire ensemble together wasn't that difficult. He couldn't tell you afterwards how he'd acquired it, obviously, having repressed the entire morning hard enough his frontal lobe was beginning to sting and ice pick lobotomies were looking like the greatest medical advance since opiates, but once he was feeling less like having an aneurysm, he rather pleased. Attractive enough clothing, futuristic and vinyl without quite crossing the line into video game dominatrix territory.
The bra was fairly traumatizing to work with, but he'd managed it. More or less. The tights had been too light, so he'd...improvized. That ate another half hour, attempting to weight the...things down. And get over the "Oh, hello! I'm groping myself!" feeling. He'd considered asking Yuugi to help, but the it occurred to him that this was one favor he didn't want to have to explain, and he really wasn't quite that keen on knowing whether Yuugi --
He managed it. Got through approximately 495793457345 repetitions of It's for Noa! in the process, and only vaguely considered stabbing himself in the chest -- an interesting suicide that would've been, bleeding to death after jabbing an eyeliner pencil through a fake breast -- decided he'd be better off bashing his brains out on the bathroom counter instead. Put him out of the misery that was attempting to negotiate with mascara.
But it was for Noa. So he was going to do it. And help Noa. And that might in some small way make up for the fact of those posters, and everything else. Besides. He cared about Noa. Had to help him. Damn Noa to hell.
By mid-afternoon, the last of the fighting with the miniskirt -- it didn't have a tag that he could find, and Yami couldn't figure out quite which way it went round -- was accomplished, he'd learned to walk in four-inch heels at least well enough not to fall flat on his face yet again, and he'd discovered that he...really didn't look very different at all. Like himself, only slightly more feminine, severely traumatized pissed off, in makeup, and a bit...top heavy.
Fuck.
But. That could be fixed. Had to be fixed, because Noa wasn't supposed to look like Noa; he was supposed to look like a girl. And that simply required help. From something heterosexual. Or at least attracted to girls. Yami figured his past attraction didn't count, as he was about as interested in a human being as a brick wall since the at the moment, and brick walls had that brilliant property of being harder than a human skull, so that if the memories of this morning's shopping trip ever resurfaced, he could just bash the grey matter containing said images into an inoffensive ooze that would never trouble him again.
Which left...Yuugi and Varon? It shouldn't be this difficult to come up with friends he had who were straight. Jounouchi and Honda, he assumed. But they were Yuugi's friends, and he could think of a few scenarios more creepy than being asked by a friend's older brother what he thought of them in drag, but he had a feeling even his insomnia wouldn't keep him from the nightmares then.
What about Anzu? Was she a lesbian? He had no idea. He'd written her off when he realized she was enough taller than him there was no way he could borrow from her wardrobe. ...Ringing up a girl he barely knew to ask which way she swung and if she'd do him a favor seemed a bit....
Varon, then. He located his mobile -- wiped some spilled eyeshadow off it (Who the hell decided to make it come in little impossible-to-open disky things that exploded when you finally wrenched the cover off?) then scowled at his freshly metallic purple-stained finger tips. Hopefully, eyeshadow didn't take after lipstick, and it would come off eventually? The only thing lipstick seemed to come off of was his mouth, and --
He forcibly stopped the wailing and gnashing of teeth that was coming on, and breathed. Sat on the counter, resisting the urge to kick something. Or gouge eyes out with those stupid heels. ...Yeah, eyeshadow wasn't as picky. It came off of fingertips when you dialed. Maybe his mobile would like having sparkly new keys?
There was really nothing quite like lounging around on a desk, enjoying the few moments of peace the lab had to offer. Sharing a confined area with four other guys only served to remind Varon why he loved being an only child, and having the space to himself for a while gave him time to just do nothing. It also meant that he didn’t have to use headphones, could lie up on a desk - which he preferred from the floor - with sleeping bags on either side to catch his fall and he was sure the rats appreciated this sacred time. He could hear them scratching away in their cupboard between tracks, and knowing they were there was oddly relaxing.
However, you could always count on fate to ruin an opportune moment. Enter the most worrying call he’d ever received, and he found himself at the garage, firing up his Harley and heading for the Game shop.
Whatever the hell Yami needed help with was bound to be something horrific, at best, judging by the murderous tone Yami had used. Helping the kid? Could have been ripping down those posters - Varon had already taken down the ones he found in the Chemistry lab’s building - but why he needed someone specifically of the "heterosexual persuasion" was beyond him. He had the most horrible feeling he was going to be used as a judge the kid’s new feminine look; in which case he was going to claim work and flee.
Thinking of that kid brought thought trail screeching back round to Marik and how dearly Varon wished for the chance to beat the shit out of him - wipe that smirk off his face and then Yami could get on with his fucking life instead of playing the fucking hero.
…thinking about it more, Varon was just about sure he was going to be the kid’s judge. A guinea pig, so to speak, of a sixteen year old, newly-turned-transvestite Kaiba brother’s new look. Thiswasgoingtobehorrible. He considered turning back, phoning Yami to say he’d been asked to work early, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. He hated his conscience sometimes.
But it didn’t stop him from taking five minutes to slam his head down on his motorcycle once he’d stopped outside the Game shop. Take a big breath, and try not to freak out, Varon, because it’s only a guy in girl’s clothing. Wolf in sheep’s clothing? You’ll know it’s a guy, and you seen his webcam picture. Not your idea of hot, is he she? No, Varon, so get a fucking grip before you break your motorcycle.
He swung himself off, swallowing. This was going to be one of the most traumatising experiences of his life. He walked into the Game shop, greeting Yuugi and Mr. Mutou, heading up the stairs to the apartment on instruction. By the time he’d reached the door, he had managed to reassure himself that he was fully prepared for whatever lay in wait inside the apartment. Just a kid in girl’s clothing, out to accomplish something and in need of help. For whatever reason.
He lifted his hand, rapping his knuckles against the door, "Oi, Yami. I’m here." Mental count back from ten, image of the kid from his webcam fixed in his head - there would be no surprises here, no leaping backwards in shock - and he folded his arms to wait.
Waiting for Varon had been an absolutely fascinating experience, naturally. First, Yami stared at the ceiling and scowled. Then, he beat three consecutive games of Tetris on the newly-ensparkled mobile. After that, he clicked the stupidly high, how did anyone walk in them, is "excuse me while I fall flat on my face" the new "fuck me"? heels of his boots against the cabinet 49,539,345 -- make that 49,539,346 -- times, and then he had an exhausting session of sulking, and after that, he went back to his favorite pasttime of late: hating the world and wishing everyone would die.
...Unbridled hatred didn't smudge makeup, did it? And he grit his teeth and checked again.
This project was turning out to be the most ludicrous thing he'd ever attempted. And Noa had better appreciate it. Granted, he didn't look that bad, and Noa was close enough to his size that everything should fit nicely, barring the boots. At least he'd managed to negotiate the makeup and Noa could benefit from that. In fact, that might just be Yami's true calling: leading a public awareness campaign to save other innocents from the suffering he'd endured at the hands of cosmetics.
To say nothing of the perfume department. He hadn't even wanted perfume, and yet they'd descended upon him in waves, billows of mustard gas trailing behind. It was horrifying. His eyes were probably still bleeding.
The jacket...vest...what was it? Top-thing. It'd had a name in the store. Whatever. That was a good find; he was rather impressed with it. Black vinyl and shiny (which was always a plus) with the faintest metallic lines on it that reminded Yami of the guts of a computer, some bit of circuitry he had no idea what was called, which meant it was a Noa-positive thing, yes? A high collar too, reminded him of the jacket Marik stained, and it looked nice with a black velvet choker Yami sincerely hoped had accidentally found its way into Yuugi's wardrobe.
Helped with the illusion, too. The shoulders had sharp enough lines and the waist was cut neatly enough to disguise the fact that as 'girls' came, Yami's figure was a bit less of an hourglass and more of a...vaguely triangular line of not-having-hips? Trying to figure out what to put with the top had enlightened Yami to the fact that, as a girl, he had no hips whatsoever, and made him wonder what exactly had held his pants up all these years.
Couldn't tell, though, from the skirt, and Yami was the tiniest bit smug over that. Ever so slightly. If he had to be tortured and stared at and mutilate innocent stockings to create fake breasts, at least he did it convincingly. It was almost unnerving to see how his newly acquired chest filled out the top, and the fact that from the leather miniskirt on down, he figured he passed completely, that was. First time for everything, he supposed, but seeing yourself in a miniskirt and fishnet stockings and noting that you had really nice legs for this sort of thing was something Yami hadn't expected to deal with any time soon.
Nor high heels. And there was Varon, but if he thought Yami was going to attempt to walk across the room to open the door in these boots, he was out of his mind. They didn't look terribly different from the boots Yami usually wore -- black and leather and covered with buckles -- but the fact that they came up to just below the knee and had the most lethal heels Yami had ever seen...he wasn't even going to attempt. No. Crossed his legs at the knee and stayed firmly set on the counter. Absolutely not.
Besides. Girls were supposed to be graceful and delicate and so on, from what Yami could figure from the manual on ladylike behavior he'd read two lines on and pitched as absolutely useless for Noa -- he didn't think stumbling painfully a few feet and landing in a heap of vinyl and eyeshadow was particularly what Noa was going for.
...And at that thought, Yami was back to entertaining himself via sulking. "Just come in here."
Another deep breath, it’s only a kid in drag, nothing special. Varon pushed the door open, and the "Oh, Christ," was out - in English - before he had a chance to stop it. And enter self-preservation, stepping backwards and staring at … at … OhdearGod. Blinking, rapidly, but it wasn’t helping, because there was still a chick sitting on the counter that wasn’t the kid, but she did look a lot like Yami and -
Opened his mouth, closed it again sharply. He was never going to survive this. If Yami didn’t kill him first, he’d have to do it himself. Fishnets. Miniskirt. Breasts. Nowhere to look. Briefly considered running, checking the boots - fl;gf;we - on Yami to see how much of a head start he could get if he bolted now. But that was just putting off death, and this wasn’t a Final Destination movie. It was facing your friend across a bathroom while he was done up like a chick.
And he He kinda Sorta Outfit was Boots Yami alm He was He made for It wasn’t Wasn’t as Maybe he He looked Almost like Very much like Cute?
Deep breathing and stepping forward, trying hard not to grimace and keeping a safe distance away from Yami and those monstrosities on his feet and legs. Legs crossed, too. He was just like a fucking chick.
This shouldn’t be a problem. Friends, and all that, right? Just a friend done up in drag. If Yami wanted to go down the transvestite route too, then that was his decision, and there was nothing wrong with that. He could do the supportive friend bit, naturally. Did it for Jude when he came out of the closet - and that was a literal coming-out-of-the-closet situation, which ended in Varon and Derry picking through a crowd of jocks to knock out any who’d be the slightest bit inclined to go after Jude and his newly acquired boyfriend - so he could do the supportive bit for Yami, too. Once he’d recovered, and once the word cute stopped resounding in his head.
"Uh." Think of a response, something to say, something to live a few days longer, "I take it you liked Noa’s idea?" Flinched, maybe that wasn’t quite right? Didn’t sound quite right when he said it out loud. The guy vs. girl instinct screamed at him to give a compliment, but somehow, ‘I like your new top’ or ‘New boots?’ or ‘Gee, cute outfit’ didn’t fit.
Swallowed, "Where’s the kid?" Because surely he was here, too, and maybe it would be easier if he was here, too, because that would be a distraction from his imminent death.
...Well. That wasn't exactly the reaction Yami had expected. On account of the fact that Yami hadn't expected any reaction. He didn't think he looked much off from the usual, beyond the clothes, and he thought he'd been clear enough on the phone what he needed help with. He didn't think he looked bad enough to warrant an "Oh, Christ!" either, but that was neither here nor there.
Liked Noa's idea? Yami frowned. What was that supposed to mean? And Varon was still gawking. What, had he never seen a -- well, probably not, no, but that was beside the point. Right. So Yami screwed up somewhere along the line. No problem. He could just figure it out, fix it, and that was that. Better to find out before he had to help Noa do this, anyway.
Ki-what? ...Maybe he hadn't been so clear on the phone. It was hard to talk while gritting your teeth and trying not to smudge your lipstick or glare daggers so hard your mascara ran or fell off or irradiated or whatever it was the idiotic stuff intended to do.
He shook his head, resisting the urge to smack his forehead, because he wasn't entirely sure what would happen if he offended the makeup gods in such a fashion. "Noa's not here. I told you, I offered to help him. He doesn't know how to do any of this stuff, so I'm trying to figure out how it works for him."
Varon blinked - so, Yami wasn’t becoming a transvestite? He glanced up and down Yami again, trying to think of an appropriate response. He wanted a heterosexual opinion on how he looked, didn’t he? Cute, yes. Hot, maybe. Maybe yes. Like a chick, yes. Varon needed a wall, needed to see how many hits it took to remember Yami is really a guy, Varon is heterosexual and Varon doesn’t like guys.
The female version of Yami, on the other hand - was irrelevant, and stupid, and to be judged and gotten rid of as quickly as possible. "Right. Got it." He apparently didn’t, however, have the ability to take a step closer, and so settled against the door frame - this was getting to be a common thing - and tried his best to look enthusiastically helpful, failing miserably and falling down somewhere along the look of a trapped animal crossed with a man caught with a, "Does my butt look big in this?" scenario, when the obvious answer was ‘Yes‘.
…he doubted Yami would ask such a stupid question, though. And Varon would already be able to answer without having to look … there. Skinny. Like the rest of Yami. His legs were quite - … nothing. Quite skinny, really. … and shaved. He shaved his legs. Oh, Christ. On a fucking bike.
Yami...had to stare a bit blankly at that. Varon had progressed from undiluted horror to an expression vaguely reminiscent of a someone about to be crushed by one of those moving wall traps. One with spikes, most definitely. Closing in. Fast. And the heels were still threatening enough, but Yami didn't think that was really all that great an excuse.
And wasn't the question implied? This was a very simple thing to navigate. Behold, the wild Yami in captivity! See what domestication has done to its once natural hide, now contaminated with the ills of modern society, in the form of smokey eyeshadow and neatly painted lips! Behold the fearsome fangs, still absolutely as sharp as they used to be, and note that no polish has yet rendered its wicked claws unusable! Now, given the Yami is painfully painstakingly dressed in women's clothing and is attempting to help a similar creature of a different species use women's clothing to gain attention, and the wild Yami has lured a useful heterosexual into its cage, what question could it possibly want to ask?
He arched an eyebrow at the reaction, but didn't comment. More important things. "This is fairly simple. Does it work, or not?"
…yes. Painfully well. Horribly well, if Varon was to lean slightly towards exaggerating. Granted, Varon had the gift of knowledge on his side, and Yami’s hair didn’t look all that girly, but … yeah. It worked. He nodded, "Mhm." Almost pointed out he couldn’t tell all that well while Yami was up on the counter, but he didn’t want to know how short that skirt really was, and so appearances would have to be judged as they were.
But "Mhm." wouldn’t work, would it? He’d had enough experience and bruises to know that was not sufficient when supplying an opinion on a woman’s attire, and no matter what gender Yami was, he seemed to have the female-wearing-an-outfit-she-doesn’t-believe-to-be-exactly-the-way-she-wants-it.
So, what else could he offer in the way of an opinion that wasn’t a) callous, b) stupid, c) death-inviting or d) something that would make Varon smack his head off the door frame? "Well." Pause, thought break, flail a little - try and scrape together something even remotely akin to a positive comment - "It." It was what? "Really does make you look -" be careful of word choice, here, "-a chick." That would be the desired effect, right? That would be the reason Yami’s done up as a chick.
...Riiight. Yami only managed to blink in response at first. And that felt odd, with mascara on. Distracting. Got a neat effect, he supposed, lashes longer and darker and so on, but applying it had been a bitch, simply put, and it felt like some sort of slime had congealed along the insides of his -- What did the packaging call that bit? Lashline? -- and was going to crack off and make his eyes bleed any minute. Maybe when girls fluttered their eyelashes, it was secretly a gesture of utter and inescapable anguish. Oh, the oppression! The cruel fascist regime of the cosmetics industry, grinding its totalitarian heel down so coldly on the throats of the
Yami clamped down on that tangent, decided pretending the makeup wasn't there was a much better plan.
And Varon. Varon was clearly a fascist sympathizer. Gawking at the victims, but feeling no empathy whatsoever. How selfish. People like him were the reason that the lipstick party advanced so far with its sinister agenda virtually unopposed!
And more importantly, he was about the most useless "useful heterosexual" Yami had ever met. "Point isn't whether I can pass as a girl. Noa needs to be attractive. Aside from big black boots and long brown hair, any helpful input here?"
Varon watched Yami blink a bit, vaguely distracted by the fact that Yami’s eyelashes now seemed to be taking on a life form of their own. Like spiders. Black widows, sliced, diced and stuck to your lash line. Unpleasant, he imagined, even more so when Yami blinked and his lashes touched his skin. That would be creepy. Your own set of moving spiders, attached to your face with the option of nurturing and growing their legs. Ew.
…and yes. Of course. He needed to be attractive. Why? In fact, a better question would be why the kid was all of a sudden turning up dressed as a girl in webcam images. But yeah, he supposed if someone was going to go for the cross-dressing route they’d want to do a convincing and attractive job of the whole thing. So yes, made sense. But that did nothing for the fact that Varon was supposed to tell Yami if he looked attractive as a chick or not.
Wonderful. Simply marvellous. Wasn’t there some sort of complication with the fact that Yami was really a guy and Varon knew that, which could skew his opinion somewhat? A bisexual would have been a better choice than a heterosexual, really, but Varon was supposed to answer the question, and he had to find a way to do it without damning himself and getting hurt by Yami.
"Uh. You." Flailed, because this was going to be one difficult sentence to choke out, "Look." Do not say like a chick again, because you’ve said that. Word choice time. Cute, hot, sexy, female? "…cute." And now pray that that was the right answer, or at least an acceptable one, lest you be forced into finding other adjectives for your male best friend in drag.
...Maybe Yuugi would've been a better choice. Yami wasn't scowling, really.
Sure, Yuugi's bright, innocent young mind might have crumbled under the weight of what he was being asked to do, but. Yami didn't think he'd have an aneurysm or react in complete, incoherent horror. Yuugi was better about things like that; little as he was, he could take almost anything. Varon, on the other hand, looked just a breath away from a spasmodic fit.
And tempting as it was to push him a little and see if he exploded into a gibbering, terrified mess, Yami did have an agenda here.
"Is that cute in a paedophilic sense? Noa has enough of the child-whore reputation without it being added to. Alternatively, cute in the fuzzy bunnies sense isn't helpful either." Bit his tongue, attempted to take the edge (more lethal than the heels by far, though less likely to land Yami flat on his ass) out of his voice. "This isn't difficult. I don't know what I need to do to help Noa, and I'm attempting to learn. If you're going to choke or have a fit, do it in the next thrity seconds, and let's move on?" Please?
Bite tongue, bite tongue, do not take him up on the fit. Varon had more self control than that, really, and it wouldn’t be helpful. Which was what he was supposed to be, wasn’t it? A helpful heterosexual, right? One comfortable enough with his sexuality and with his friend to be able to give an honest opinion on another guy in drag.
"No. Not paedophilic cute. Or bunny cute." Paused, wondered if that was enough? How many distinctions of cute were there anyway? He shifted, folding his arms, because the door frame was painful to the back after a while, and he could give his honest opinion without freaking out. Just calm down, figure out a decent response, and give it before … before something.
"Hot cute." There. Not so difficult, was it? Now, just try and get that knot out of his guts and everything would be peachy. They’d move on from this, and Yami would get the outfit to the kid, and the kid would do whatever it was he was setting out to do, so there’d be no more situations like this.
"So you generally react with unbridled horror to things you find attractive?"
Yami would've bitten his tongue on that one, honest, but he didn't want to change smudging the lipstick, of course. Whereas smirking didn't run a risk of that at all, naturally! Nor did being terribly amused by others' misfortune, or the way Varon's eyes about doubled in size. Mouth opened like he'd try to choke something out, but whatever it was, it never came.
...Yeah, that was enough to get him out of his sulk, and he slid off the counter, turning to face the mirror. Quick up-down look, a few steps back to take in the full effect. It was good enough. Tch, it was Yami; of course it was. Better than good enough. Hot cute was an understatement so far as he was concerned.
Why had he bothered asking Varon's advice anyway? Pfft. He had infinitely better taste than Varon anyway, he was sure, and his came with considerably less twitching. Not that he particularly had a specific taste, given this...recent...asexual shift to the entire sexual orientation bit? Which was probably contagious, and he'd probably caught it from Kaiba. Which meant it wasn't an STD, so that was good, and -- Yami was on a tangent, but he was pleased with himself and didn't particularly mind.
Besides, for a victim of torture and abuse at the hands of storeclerks and explosive sparkly powers and that vindictive horror that called itself lipstick, he didn't look bad. And being a few inches taller made up for the threatening click the heels made on the tile. Over all, success. He'd bravely faced certain doom, and returned quite traumatized, but thoroughly victorious.
"Mhm." Yami nodded to himself. "I'd fuck myself, if I were that way inclined. Close enough." Glanced over his shoulder at Varon. "We're done then, yes?"
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His arms dropped and he raised off the door frame, mouth open to try and splutter out, ‘But I don’t‘, but it never came, and why not? Conscience, maybe? A horribly evil Nazi version of Jiminy Cricket? He needed to retaliate. ‘No, I hit on things I find attractive’ was both slightly perverse and quite insulting, and he’d just called Yami ‘hot cute’ and ‘Normally, but I know what’s under that skirt.’ put bad mental images in his head. He couldn’t even risk smacking his head off a wall until they went away, or Yami would be inclined to ask questions and he was smirking.
And he was off the counter. The tiles on the bathroom floor were quite interesting, really. A nice shade. Nice handiwork. Not that he was much for the tiling business, but that was irrelevant. Clicky heels on the tiles - God, they sounded so out of place - triggered some stupid muscle in Varon that made him look up and - oh, shit, shouldn’t have - Yami had such girly legs. But not nice legs, no, really, boy legs.
This had to be one of the most traumatising experiences of his life.
And, oh, Christ. Fuck himself, yes? Now that would be a daring feat. If he was a chick then - But, yes, done. And dusted. Over, outfit away, never to be seen again, ever.
"Yeah, done. Very." Tried straightening himself up again, tried to win back his normal demeanour, "And for the record, I chat up attractive things if they’re chicks." That was a losing statement, most likely, and Varon wished for a magical, floating backspace button.
...Yami frowned at that. Instinct said ow, but he wasn't sure what in response to. And what Varon said didn't make a terrible amount of sense, either. Things he found attractive that weren't chicks, he wasn't interested in...and yet he still found them attractive? And he said like it was a retaliation, a retort, but what for?
Seemed entirely unlike Varon, but Yami didn't particularly care at the moment. He was finished, pleased with the results he'd gotten, and after six hours of working on the thing, Noa had damn well better be knocked off his feet at how helpful Yami had managed to be. Frown gone, replaced by the same neutral expression as always.
He shrugged; what did Varon's opinion there matter? This entire thing was for Noa, and it wasn't as if Noa wanted him. "We'll just hope the person Noa's trying to please can be more openminded with it, then." Shouldn't be an issue with Seto, anyway.
And. What time was it? Yami reached down -- almost dropped on one knee because of the heels, but he wasn't sure the fishnets would like that -- and picked up the sparkle-encrusted mobile from where it'd been pitched in annoyance. "Almost two. Do you have work to get to?"
Varon almost flinched. He wasn’t close minded. Was he? Just. Slightly put off by having to judge his guy friend’s appearance in drag. Particularly when - … ok. Surrender. When Yami looked hot. But he looked like a chick, which evened things out, and made it less … whatever it was that it was that didn’t seem quite right.
But something was gnawing at something else in his gut, and - was that guilt? Yeah, probably. Stupidity, too, that stupid feeling of ‘Oh, I really shouldn’t have done that.’ He glanced at the floor again; artfully decorated with some shopping bags and bits and pieces of Yami’s usual attire. What a nice reminder of Yami’s gender.
Carefully avoided looking anywhere near Yami when he saw him move to bend down. Wrist cuffs. Men’s shirt.
But, yeah, work. Of course he did. "Yeah. Are you going in, or do you want a lift to the campus to see the kid?"
Shit. Yami had work, too. Had to get used to the idea of that, that he was technically now employed, and whenever Varon had work, that meant he did as well. And he had -- less than fifteen minutes to get there, if the mobile was telling the truth. Fuck.
"Almost two as in just past quarter of."
Solution? Oh, there didn't seem to be. Ten minutes roughly between the apartment and the garage, which left a bit shy of five to get scrubbed up, redressed, polished for proper window ornamentation, and on that bike. Clkfg;sldfklsdf;lsnoaowedhim.
"As in five minutes to get rid of this" -- gesture to indicate the chest on down to the spike heels -- "and get out of here, or you're late." Yami grit his teeth, but managed to force the words out anyway after a moment's worth of bloody visions of retribution to be carried out later, "How apt am I to be fired if I show up looking like this?"
Do not laugh, Varon, because you will end up with your eyeballs impaled on those heels. At the very least. "If I’m late, then you’re late too." Paused, tried not to snicker at the image of Yoshida when his new window decoration wandered in done up as a chick. Now that? That would cause a hell of a reaction in the place.
The idea of Yami travelling on the back of his motorcycle, directly behind him, was disturbing enough, however, that the prospect of being late wasn’t too bad.
"Take five and a few extra. We’ll grab junk food on the way to pacify Yoshida. I’m not sure the old guy’s heart could take the shock." And he turned, snapped the door shut behind him, pausing to call through, "We can drop that off for the kid after work, by the way." So that Noa had it, and Yami didn’t, and Varon didn’t have to see that ever again.