FIC: Peacock Blue, PG-13, Tom/Georg, 1/1

Sep 03, 2013 10:31

Title: Peacock Blue
Author: ????
Pairing(s): Girl!Tom/Georg
Rating: T. Potty Mouths abound.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money, I have sad.
Warnings: Welp. Uh… Great Boyfriend Georg ahead?
Summary: Georg is a damn fine boyfriend. And Tomi turns out like a fucking pro for the red carpet.
FQF Prompt: 152. Girl!Tom/Georg on the red carpet.
Author's notes: I don’t even fucking know anymore.



Peacock Blue
When Tomi comes steaming through the front door to the studio, Georg knows that the little shopping trip didn’t go well. It was supposed to be just a nice run into town for the twins and their mother, but Georg would bet his last porn mag on the fact that something isn’t right.

When he hears Bill’s pleas for Tomi to wait for him, and nothing but verbal silence, and the slamming of the shoe cupboard and the coat closet doors, Georg is reasonably certain that not well is underestimating how badly it went, and he’s going to need to run extensive damage control.

Joys of joy. Sometimes, Georg would like peace and quiet but he’s dating Tomi. Noise, drama, and acts of Kaulitz are part of the bargain.

“Fuck off, Bill!” is the only thing he hears Tomi say before she stomps upstairs, before she slams her bedroom door shut so hard it feels like the house should be shaking. .

Well, fuck.

“Georg?”

“In the living room, Bill.”

Georg sighs, throws his magazine - goddamnit, he was just getting into the new bit about the latest Suzuki motorbike, and it was fucking sexy as fuck, all in black and silver and midnight blue - onto the coffee table, and waits for Bill to emerge from the hall.

When he does come through the door, after dumping just a single shopping bag (not good. Bill likes to come back with at least three in each hand and plenty more in the trunk of the car of the poor fool he made go shopping with him), he looks as miserable as fuck. Oh, dear. Time to pull out the ‘Make the Bill feel better’ Georg - the one who Bill calls Big Brother Georg.

“Bad?” Georg props his chin on his hand, half dreading the words that will come out of Bill’s mouth.

“Horrific.” Throwing himself on the other couch, Bill sighs, “It was like watching a boxing match, only nobody could win.”

“Damnit.”

Four hours ago, Tomi left with Bill in her Escalade to go shopping with Simone, looking for something to wear to some fucking fancy do they have to go to, and they’d all been told jeans and t-shirts were strictly not okay, and they had roughly six months to find things. The edict basically put everybody’s wardrobe out of action except Bill’s, and nobody had any desire to share that hot mess.

Georg and Gustav went shopping together, came back three hours later with suits measured and waiting to be tailored after visiting precisely one store. So sue them, they know what they like, and Georg knows that one suit is pretty much the same as the next, and he is not being hauled around eight hundred stores to just get something that looks pretty much the same in every goddamn store. A pair of shoes ordered over the internet, and boom. Two smart rhythm section people, done in less than a day.

Tomi, on the other hand, has been panicking and trying to do shit about it since the day they found out they were invited to the German Red Carpet event of the year. Some swankass award ceremony for services to youth music or some shit that sounded way more impressive than the teen band trying to break into the industry label they’ve been trying to dump for years.

Bill must have schmoozed someone amazing to get them that, but yeah.

Georg had known Tomi was nervous - she hated shopping at the best of times with anybody, but Simone was the fucking worst and when she had to shop for a big red carpet event, it was a recipe for disaster. Tomi was always stressed, Bill was always flighty and attracted to shiny, and Simone was always on high alert for things to make Tomi fit into her ‘perfect daughter’ mould.

It’s the bane of Georg’s existence when it comes to his girlfriend - as much as he loves Tomi, Georg does not appreciate Simone’s attempts to change Tomi’s baggy clothes, caps, and black and silver Caddy for feminine dresses, and an Audi in silver.

Looks like this time was no different.

Bill’s story is pretty typical - three stores in, no dress, Bill being attracted to everything with chains and dog collars, Simone pointing out everything that was not Tomi flavoured, and Tomi edging further and further into homicidal shopping rage.

“Mom doesn’t mean to be like that -” Bill tries to appease Georg when he drops one of Simone’s favourite phrases but nobody will find it attractive - you look a mess! but it’s an old refrain.

“But she just cares too much.” Georg sighs. “I don’t give two shits. Every fucking time, Bill, every fucking time Tomi goes shopping with her, she comes back in tears, or wants to punch shit and I’m really kind of done with it.”

He is. So fucking done with picking up the pieces of Tomi when she’s been hurt by Simone’s well meaning attitude.

He’s been going out with Tomi for four years - teenage romance still going strong - and it’s really fucking galling to see his girlfriend come back from shopping in tears or angry and frustrated when all she fucking wanted was some new clothes.

Georg is well aware of the old cliche of hating your girlfriend’s mother - and he usually gets on well with Simone (her amazeballs coconut cake doesn’t hurt, either) but Simone has been riding his last nerve lately when the topic of the black tie event comes up. This was the third attempt at shopping for a red carpet outfit, and it’s ended, as predicted, in disaster.

It’s been six fucking months, and Georg is ready to eat his own motorbike jacket with frustration.

“What are you going to do?” Bill asks, twiddling one of his rings around and around, biting his lower lip. Tomi does the exact same thing with her promise bracelet, and her own lip, and it’s fucking weird to see it repeated on Bill.

It’s a twin thing, the voice in the back of Georg’s head that sounds a lot like Tomi says. Very tartly, too.

“I,” Georg sighs, dusts off his jeans from the crumbs of his late morning breakfast because Tomi’ll be pissed if he brings those near her, “am going to go and be an amazing boyfriend. And try not to kill your mother.”

“Blergh.” Bill flicks on the tv and Georg can tell half of his brain is already immersed in the world of TV soaps, and craptastic plotlines by the way his eyes are glazed over. But the way he keeps fiddling with a fold in his black jeans with one hand and keeps relentlessly stabbing the channel buttons with the other, Georg knows that he too is worried about his sister.

Alright, first things first. Boyfriend duties.
---

“Go. Away.”

“Please let me in?” Georg leans his head on Tomi’s door, listening carefully for any sound of movement. Nothing. “Tomi, please.” He’s been asking for the last three minutes, and the answer hasn’t changed.

“Fuck off, Geo.”

It’s a fine art dealing with Tomi when she’s pissed off. On the one hand, leaving her in peace, to froth and fizzle on her own works, and letting come and find Georg when she’s ready is pretty reliable as a method of dealing. On the other, sometimes, she won’t do that because she can’t.

So Georg has to come to her. The knack is knowing when to run, and when to come hunting for the Tomi.

“Please let me in, Tomi.” He won’t force his way inside. It’s her space and she has to invite him in. But he doesn’t want to leave her alone - something bad happened today and she’s not okay. Catch fucking Twenty Two. “I want to help you.”

“Urgh.” The sound of Tomi’s ancient double bed creaking as she turns over but it’s a different response. He saw the linen bin in the bathroom on the way to Tomi’s bedroom on the top floor, and it was full of her clothes from that day - a blue football jersey, jeans, a pair of underwear and the hated fucking bra flung on the top.

A really bad day then, if she’s retreated to nightwear and probably hiding under her covers then. Ah, fuck fuck fuck.

At least the response is better than being sent away with a string of swears, “I have coke?” Georg tries. The twins are Coke addicts, and not the white powder kind.

“Liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.” Yes, he is but how the fuck did she know?!

“We’re out.” Ah. “I wanted to get some but Mom’s shitfit took up all the time in the city, and I didn’t want to shop on the way home.”

“Bill bitched at you?” Bill without coke is an addict without a fix.

“Of course.” Hey, it’s communication. Through a door, and Georg is still stuck on the outside, but it’s words going back and forth between them. Georg can hear in her voice that she’s not angry anymore.

Frustrated, maybe.

“Do you want to talk?” Georg does. He’s been raised on the notion that a problem shared is a problem halved but Tomi doesn’t always share that. He leans on the door again, listening carefully for any more sounds of movement inside.

“Please can I come in, Tomi?” Georg rests his hands on the door handle, waits for her response. Come on, he begs in his mind. Please let this work.

“Door’s unlocked.”

--

“Do you want me to wear a dress?”

“I think it’s your choice.”

“Helpful.” Georg can feel Tomi’s shoulder tense, and he sighs. Twenty minutes into the room, ten minutes since she pulled him onto the bed, and the amount of progress Georg has made is minimal. She’s pissed and trying to take it out on him, but he won’t let her.

Angst is sucktastic and he wants to change it.

“Please look at me.” She’s facing the wall, letting him hold her underneath the XXXL sized t-shirt she uses as a nightshirt, just softly stroking at her belly which always…. calms her down? Makes her more pilant? Helps her to chill out? Georg can’t put his finger on it but it definitely lends credence to Gustav’s claim that the twins are half cat if being petted makes them more relaxed and open to conversation. “Please look at me. Look - look at me.” It’s a long moment before Tomi turns over, pushes Georg’s hands away.

Breathe deep, he tells himself. Her face is tight, and there’s a ridge between her brows. She doesn’t look angry anymore - Georg has experience with angry Tomi - but she looks… frustrated. Sad. Like she usually does after coming back from seeing her mom.

Simone loves her daughter, but she really doesn’t fucking understand her and it’s not helping when Simone goes off on one of her ‘fix the daughter who does not comform’ benders.

“I don’t mind if you want to wear a dress or not. Because I love you,” Georg chooses his words carefully, “I didn’t fall in love with the clothes, or the hats. It was you. And I will continue loving you, however you choose to dress.”

“You’re thinking really fast aren’t you?” A little less venom this time, but Georg understands where she’s coming from. He’s not usually known for amazing speeches of honest love - honest sex, maybe, but you know, he has more than one side.

“Yes. But I mean it.” Georg shrugs. “I mean, you are you. I’ve seen you in underwear, and my clothes, and Bill’s clothes, and Gustav’s clothes, and even when your mother made you wear those dresses and they were fucking -

“Floral.” And how. Eye searing floral.

“-and naked, which I really like, by the way, and it didn’t change how I felt about you.”

“I suppose if Mama’s fucked up dresses can’t change how you feel about me...”

God, they were horrible - floral, or festooned with ribbon or lace, or just plain weird looking - Simone’s choice of outfit for Tomi before Georg knew her was deeply traumatising. Thank God he’s only ever seen them in pictures. God knows how Tomi coped with wearing the damn things.

“Nothing will.” Georg finishes Tomi’s sentence, pokes her in the middle of the forehead gently. Just to put his point across. “If you want to wear a dress, I will support you, and hold your arm down that red carpet, and I will do it with pride. But you want to wear your jeans, and a t-shirt, and a cap, then I’ll do the same. damn. thing.” He’s been doing it for the last six years - since Tomi was fourteen and a half and they were so fucking teenie band it was unbelievable - , it ain’t going to change jack fucking shit. Not now, not ever.

Tomi blinks, quirks an eyebrow, smiles a little at Georg’s slightly uh… forceful declaration. Just there - right in the corner of her mouth, near her silver lipring. There it is - “....Why are you so sweet this evening?”

“Too much day time tv. Bill’s getting to me.” Georg knows he shouldn’t be lazy, slobbing around on the couch while Bill watches his soaps and shit, but he can’t help it. The couch is fucking amazing but ever since they started recording this album, Georg has seen way more than his fair share of shitty dramas that have Bill hook, line, and sinker.

“But....” Tomi looks torn, and her fingers twist their way through Georg’s to hold his hand tight. Pfft, that’s Tomi. Never asking if it’s okay to hold hands - she wants it, she gets it. And Georg gives it. “I can’t… What about Mom?”

“What about her?”

“She’s going to throw another bitchfit about going shopping again. I don’t think I can take one more semi concerned but what about what the boys will think! or it’s not attractive to dress like that.” She bites her lip, her face back to tense and frustrated.

“Urgh.” Georg bites his tongue - he might think that Simone loses her shit when it comes to her daughter, but Tomi won’t appreciate him going off on one about it. “Why not take Natalie?” He suggests instead, pointing the way towards peace and resolution in this whole fucking mess. Natalie’s good - she’ll make sure that Tomi comes out with something good for the party but not too ...uh…. froo-froo.

Tomi shifts, shakes her head. “Mom’ll be disappointed.” And there’s the Kaulitz swing; when it comes to their mother, both twins are almost incapable of standing up to her. Anyone else? Fine. The twins’ll walk all over you wearing football studs and barbed wire. Their mother? Nothing. Lie down and let Simone walk all over them.

Georg sighs. “Right now, if you take your mom, all she’s gonna do is try to make you wear shit you don’t like, and you’ll just fight. Like this time. You hated it, and all she did was make you feel like shit, right?” Georg is not a pacifist at heart, but he is a pragmatist. Why create a fight when there’s other ways around it? “But you trust Nat, don’t you?”

“Yeah...”

“So, go bounce ideas off of her. She’ll keep it secret so the dicks at the top don’t try to shove a dress onto you before you’re okay with it, and she’ll help you find something that you like.”

“And if it’s pink?”

“Then I will have to go and buy a pink shirt so we match.”

“Seriously?”

Georg closes his eyes and nods. “Yes. Please don’t pick pink.” Georg would wear it if Tomi came back with a dress in pink but he prays she doesn’t.

Not that he has anything against pink. But Gustav’ll laugh himself sick.

--

Tomi breathes deeply, and grips the steering wheel with shaking fingers. It’s just a shop - just a dress shop, and there’s nothing scary about that. The storefront is classy and black, and the name of the store is written in blue and bold block letters. There’s nothing scary about the dresses in the window on the right or the handbags on the shelves on the left.

Logically.

Illogically, Tomi Kaulitz is one gear shift away from reversing the hell of the carpark of “XAmaX” taking Natalie back to Bill and leaving her there while Tomi and Georg escape into the horizon in a black Caddy and nothing else.

It’s not that she doesn’t love Natalie because Tomi does. Seriously. You cannot buy the kind of awesome Natalie brings to the table - Tomi knows she’s amazing, and there’s a lot of love for her in Tomi’s life for a woman who keeps up with Bill and takes him and their twinness without objection, but everything inside that shop belongs in her and Bill’s arena of expertise. The make up, the tailoring, maybe even the dresses, and the handbags, and the women who want to fucking touch everything to make the clothes fit when Tomi loves extra room, and material, and clothes to drown in. None of that is Tomi’s domain, and everybody knows it.

Bill likes dressing up - Tomi dresses down. Big time.

“Are you okay, Tomi?” Natalie’s sat in the passenger seat, the door half open. She cocks her head. “Is something wrong?”

This was such a bad idea.

But she shakes her head, swallows once, twice, to try to get her voice back. “N-nope. Let’s go.”

Treat it like a mission - get in, do what needs to be done, and get the fuck out as soon as possible. That’s the plan.

She and Georg have discussed this over and over - what does she want, what’s okay on the red carpet, what isn’t, what colours she wants, how it has to look (basically not too short, and nothing with froo-froo bits). It has to be that way because as soon as she goes into a shop like this, Tomi’s brain goes blank, and she wants to get the hell out of the place before she gets anywhere near a dress or a pair of shoes. It’s everything Mom would love, but she hates it.

Or well. Not hate. Just is deeply, irrationally attached to the belief that they’re not for people like Tomi who wears baggy clothes and caps that wouldn’t look out of place on a rapper.

But she breathes deeply, reaches for her promise bracelet from Georg, and feels the cool wood under her fingers and the textured shell as well.

It’s just a dress. No big deal.

“Let’s go.”

--

“Oh my God.”

This is not going to plan. At all.

Natalie’s called ahead, and the staff have pulled together some amazing shit that would send Bill staggering to swoon on the sofa dramatically. And no fucking joke, he would. This whole place would send him into spasms of joy.

The women in the shop have pulled out some amazing shit, a pad of paper, consulted a list that Natalie sent over of Tomi’s preferences and requests, and they’ve found everything they think fits or could be tailored (anything can be tailored, one red haired woman assures Tomi with an air of fucking wisdom, it just needs a good eye and a steady hand) and everything is just…

Yeah.

On the mannequin now is a grey slinky thing that looks like only a twig could wear it. Tomi is Tomi shaped. Not twig shaped.

“Oh.”

Natalie’s hand on her shoulder isn’t all that comforting and Tomi would sell her soul for Georg right now. Or even Gustav - a solid, real reminder that Tomi can do this would be the best thing ever but all she has is Natalie.

“Pass.” She tries to smile and the lady sniffs a little but doesn’t remark on it. “I love it but I don’t think it’ll look at that good on me.” She doesn’t and it won’t. Tomi doesn’t know jack shit about dresses, but she does know that grey is not a good colour on her, and frilly shit just makes her look like her mother.

Not a good thing.

Sniffy woman taps her chin, consults her list of potential items, and grabs the last four rejections from the rack behind her. “Okay, let’s look at something else…” Another dress, and another test of Tomi’s patience looms as she and several of her minions disappear into the back.

Tom sighs, rolls her shoulders, slumps against the back of the plush fancy sofa, and puts her face in her hands. “This is dumb.” And useless and difficult and boring.

“You need a dress.” Natalie’s firm tone is completely at odds with the hand gently carding through Tomi’s dreads at the nape of her neck - goddamnit, she’ll never forgive Bill for teaching Natalie that - but the tension unwillingly seeps out of her. “You need a dress, and I’m here to help you.”

“I just won-”

“You have to go.” Okay, Natalie’s been around them way too long if she’s able to anticipate Tomi’s words. She was going to say I just won’t go but apparently, that’s not allowed.

“Ah, fuck it.”

“Yep.” Natalie smiles at her, “After this, shoes, jewellery, and underwear shopping.”

“I have underwear.” Tomi does. A whole drawer full of panties, and even bras, and horrible hateful underwired things they are too. Sports bras are so much more comfortable but they’re not healthy or something to wear all the fucking time. So yeah. Horrible bra time.

“Not the kind you need under a dress like you’ll be wearing. No sports bra.”

Yep. Definitely too much time around Bill and Tomi - Oh my God.

The sales lady re-emerges from the stock room, holding another dress in her arms and looking triumphant. Tomi has no fucking idea why she looks so pleased - it’s like the devil come to bear.

“How about this!?” It’s pink. Like, acid fucking pink. Oh, fucking shit.

Today is never going to end, Tomi thinks. And it’s totally not hysteria that’s making her say that.

---

Three and thirty minutes later, two maybe’s, and sixteen hell no’s later, Tomi’s in her fourth dress shop of the day, and it’s not going well.

They left the first store a while ago, drove to two others on the outskirts of the city before coming to this one further into the city, and it’s a little better on Tomi’s nerves.

A little.

A nicer couch, someone offering her coffee, the staff who leave her in Natalie and one other lady’s careful hands but… they’re listening to her. It’s not like she’s a doll to be dressed and the only contributions that matter are from Natalie and the sales woman.

So far, they’ve looked at two dresses, and while Tomi wouldn’t wear either of them, she does think they’re both okay - much more her than eye searing pink and froo froo lace.

Her iPhone buzzes, and chimes and she knows exactly who it is without even looking at it. Georg. Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s a mind reader (more like she’s that easy to read even from across the city) but it’s actually kind of reassuring to know that he will still respond to her.

“I love you.” Georg is a terrible, terrible monumental sap; but then again, so is Tomi. She’s already typing back, “Love you too, but pls come + save me” before she can think.

Anything to get out of this. Anything.

“Nat taking care of u?”

“fuck off.” Natalie is indeed taking care of her but it’s not what she wanted. Tomi wants to be back at home, slobbing around on the sofa, and watching crappy films with Georg. So what if it’s not fancy? It’s fucking good fun, that’s what it is. So Georg’s question just kind of.. irritates. Which would explain the response. Damn.

Georg doesn’t respond for a while and Tomi half wonders if she overstepped the mark with that last text. It was about her feelings but Georg’s feelings matter too.

Ugh, this is fucking bullshit. First a dozen dresses when she wants nothing more than to go and veg in jeans and no bra, and then she pisses Georg off.

Bad things always come in threes, Tomi’s learnt that through years of extremely painful experience - from right at the beginning when they were being dropped from Sony, being told that the production of Durch Den Monsun ran over budget by five thousand euro, and then the fucking asshats at school mocking them for being dropped even though they hadn’t told anyone to last year when her first - and most fondly treated - guitar broke mid concert, the bus broke down in the parking lot of the arena, and then a fan tried sneak on the bus, and almost made it last year.

How the times have changed. But the threes thing is a rule of the universe and Tomi’s fairly certain that’s she’s hitting two out of the three here. Dress, and Georg.

What’s next?

Her phone rings.

Mom.

Nargh, fuck.

Everything sucks, and she doesn’t want to answer the phone.

“Let it go to voicemail,” Natalie nods to her, and Tomi nods gratefully. It’s horrible that she needs permission to ignore her mother but she just can’t deal with her today. Far too much pressure to deal with her and dresses.

--

This is it.

That’s the dress.

Tomi turns in the mirrored changing room, trying to see it from all angles.

But there’s no doubt about it - this is the dress she wants. The one she fucking needs.

It’s a maxi dress, Natalie told her as she passed it through the curtain, and it’s long. Too long - covering her feet, but she assured Tomi it could be tailored to the right length - it’s supposed to be worn with high shoes or something which will make it fall to the right length. But the material is so soft, and slides through her fingers like water.

On the hanger, it looked just nice, but on… it’s exactly what she was looking for.

It’s a rich peacock blue, with a single strap over her shoulder, and it’s really simple compared to fancy dresses with trains and lace collars that the other shops have tried to show her but Tomi loves it. It just… fits together.

“It looks good,” Natalie smiles at her, through the opened curtains and the look on her face tells Tomi she isn’t lying.

It’s Tomi’s first dress in over ten years - ever since she was nine and rejected everything to do with dresses and pink and shit like that.

“Some jewellery, some shoes… It’ll be amazing. I like it.” The sales lady - young, maybe five years on Tomi’s nineteen, nods her head, adjusts the pencil behind her ear. Everything Tomi’s asked for, she’s tried to accommodate, helping another lady pin the last dress into place, and in general actually listening instead of telling her what she wants.

That woman is a fucking genius.

“If I may?” She comes closer, and when Tomi nods, she starts lifting up Tomi’s dreads, pulling them into a incredibly thick pony tail at the back of her head, lifting them off her shoulders. “Here - this shows the line of your neck, and shoulders, and makes it flow - you see?”

Tomi does see. She nods.

“Right, here we go…” The other assistant comes through into their private little area, holding several boxes of shoes, and Tomi sighs.

More trying on crap. Joys of joy.

--

Georg shifts restlessly next to Gustav, irrationally nervous all of a sudden. He’s been fucking zen all day - all through the lectures on how to act on the red carpet, the advice on how to hold his cutlery through the dinner, the rehearsal of his part of their acceptance speech (he was amazed he didn’t get just a barked order to ‘smile and nod’) and even to the point when they went back to the hotel to dress and chill for the last hour.

But the second he got into his car to go to the damn red carpet, he’s been freaking out. Like, proper freaking out with worry and panic and wondering if this is really a good idea. It probably isn’t. They’ll be the youngest people there for a mile, and they’re still a teen band, right? Half the fucking band is under twenty, anyway. He wants to go back home now - fuck…

And it’s mostly because of Tomi that he’s wigging out like this.

“Breathe, Georg,” Gustav reminds him again, as Georg starts fiddling with his tie. David will shoot him if he has to get someone to tie the damn thing again. Four times should be enough.

Fuck, he wants to be in her town car even if he has to boot Bill out, not in this one. Gustav’s cool but he’s got nothing on Tomi for keeping him calm when Georg’s this close to throwing the towel in and deciding not to go.

She came home after her shopping trip with Natalie, sneaking several bags and boxes up to her room and batting Georg away until she’d hidden them in her wardrobes. Man, and he’d been hoping for a private showing too. When Bill tried to have a nosy, even he got a out, Bill! Which like, never happens. Ever. Twins being twins and not having any fucking secrets, and all that - but apparently the only people who were allowed to see Tomi’s dress were Natalie and Tomi herself.

“Thirty seconds out, boys,” David says from the front seat, and Georg sighs.

“You’ll be fine,” Gustav puts his hand on Georg’s shoulder, a firm grip that grounds him.

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

It’s Tomi that Georg is freaking out about - completely irrationally to boot as well. It’s just a fucking dress, that’s what he told Tomi, but it isn’t.

She’s upgrading her look, and changing, and management are pushing her further into the public eye. For years, Bill’s carried the band as a spokesman on his own, but tonight, that will change. Tomi has a significant part of their speech, and she’s got to deliver it in front of a hundred and seventy guests and the numerous video cameras that will be broadcasting it live across Germany.

And to their fans.

The car glides to a halt and Georg sees the rows of fans and the carefully staggered bunches of photographers, and journalists further up on the red carpet - everything is just… Yeah.

Too much.

He sighs, adjusts his pony tail again, and prays that this is going to go well.

He misses the days when they weren’t famous sometimes.

---

Tomi sighs, holds her breath for a few seconds, waits for Natalie’s last finishing touch.

They’re almost at the red carpet entrance, and she’s not quite freaking out. Yet.

“You’re good,” Natalie smiles at her, and Tomi nods. No smile tonight - until she finds Georg, that is.

But she is good. Expensive jewellery, silver Dior sandals, dress, underwear that’s hitching up, and strapping down, and pulling her every which way into the dress that’s been finally tailored to fit… She’s going to blow everybody away who expected Tomi Kaulitz in her usual baggy jeans and sweatshirt.

Tomi brushes her dread scarf out of the way, makes sure it’s still bobby-pinned into place.

“Shall we?” She says to Bill, who is resplendent in his own black and silver outfit with plenty of bling. He jingles when he moves to open the door, grinning widely.

“Let’s go.”

--

Okay.

No, really.

Georg is okay now.

Like, really okay.

Like, really really, super mega awesome okay.

Why?

Because oh his fucking God, Tomi.

Tomi Kaulitz.

And she’s all his.

“I love you,” He says, and that’s all his brain can say. Bill cackles to himself next to Gustav and Georg would hit him but Natalie beats him to it. The smack to the back of Bill’s head probably doesn’t penetrate through the mountain of hairspray peaks but hey, it was the thought that counted.

“You can shut your mouth, Georg,” Tomi’s expression tells Georg that he’s looking like an idiot but holy fucking shit, he does not care.

He expected lace. He expected something fancy. He expected something that Tomi found last minute, barely tolerated and looked just about passable. Tomi spent months trying to convince David she could do exactly that, and nobody would care, and Georg fell for it.

But uh….Nope.

He’s got a fucking perfect Tomi right next to him to walk down the red carpet, and she looks absolutely amazeballs.

Okay, he was wrong.

He holds out his arm, waits for Tomi to take it.

This is going to fucking rock.

pairing: tom/georg, rating: pg13/12, fest: fqf_2013

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