Title: Dress You Up
Author:
moscaFandom: figure skating RPS
Pairing: Charlie White/Ben Agosto
Rating: R for sexiness and subject matter.
Continuity: Takes place right after 2008 Worlds.
Summary: Charlie takes one for the team and represents the United States in the annual post-Worlds drag competition.
Word Count: About 2,500.
Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction. The characters herein are based on real people, but the words and events are completely made up. They are not intended to be mistaken for fact, and no libel is intended. This original work of fan fiction is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License; attribution should include a link to this Livejournal post. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. Seriously, with his hair slicked back, come on, people.
Notes: Written for
svmadelyn's
Kink/Cliche Multi-Fandom Challenge. My prompt was "depilation (shaving/waxing)." Title is from the Madonna song. Thanks to
callmesandy for the beta!
*
The girls have abandoned Charlie in Tanith's hotel room with a hot pink Venus razor, half a can of cucumber-melon shaving gel, and what little is left of his dignity. They are touring the thrift stores of Göteborg in search of a dress and shoes that will fit him, and he is not allowed to come with them. "You'll just veto everything," Meryl said. "This needs to go quick."
He made the mistake of asking what he was supposed to do in the meantime. Tanith dragged him into the bathroom and said, "Shave."
There is a lot of hair on his legs, he is learning. He has never been held accountable for that. He's finished half of one shin. Even as flexible as he is, he's not sure how he's going to reach his under-knee without cutting himself. Girls have it rough.
He would never humiliate himself like this if not in service of his country. Tonight, he will be representing the United States at the annual post-Worlds drag competition. Usually, Weir takes care of that, but this year Weir was funny about it all week and then announced after the men's free skate that he'd done enough for America and was going to represent Russia this year. Abbott is way too shy, and when they asked Carriere about it he got all anxious and started making empty excuses. "I guess I could do it," Charlie said with a shrug. His friends all laughed him off, so he added, "No, seriously, I'm okay with it. I mean, somebody has to."
He thought he'd just do a crappy job and everyone would laugh and it would be over with, but no, apparently this is serious. He shouldn't be surprised that people are competitive about it. They're athletes -- they're competitive about everything. But the way Tanith is wrangling everyone around, practically barking orders, he's getting the impression that she has something to prove, and he has volunteered to prove it for her.
The door clicks open. When Meryl said they'd be quick, he'd assumed it would be a girl definition of quick. But it's not a female voice saying, "Wait, is there someone in here?"
"Yeah," Charlie says, "I'm just -- you know. Getting ready. For the thing tonight."
"Oh," Ben says, because it's obviously Ben. "I didn't mean to scare you. We give each other our keys in case we, like, fall down and die or something. I'm, um, I'm missing a glove and I want to see if Tan ended up with it."
"Okay," Charlie says. He goes back to shaving, but he's lost his concentration. The razor catches on some minor geographical feature of his shin. He yelps with surprise. Blood beads up from the nick, and he dabs it with toilet paper.
"Are you okay in there?" Ben says. "Do you need help or something?"
"Shut up," Charlie says. "This is harder than it looks."
When he looks up, Ben is spanning the doorframe with his arms. "What do you have to do?"
Charlie holds up the razor. "Both legs, under my arms, and this stuff." He draws a finger line from his belly button to the waistband of his underpants.
"All the way down?" Ben says.
"God, I hope not," Charlie says. "That would be..."
"Overly kinky?" Ben says.
"Also that," Charlie says. "I was going more for places I am not willing to put a sharp metal blade."
Ben stands, tilting his head to the side, supporting his weight on the doorframe. "Can I... do anything?" He's not making fun of Charlie or suddenly uncomfortable, as Charlie would have assumed. He's being a friend. Charlie knows he should put more faith in that.
"No, I'm good." Charlie looks down at the wad of toilet paper blood-glued to his shin. "You know what? Actually. Here." He props his leg up on the bathroom counter, turns it out and flexes his heel to extend the calf muscle. "I can't get the back."
Ben takes the razor from him and clears a short strip of leg. He holds up the hair-filled blade and says, "Do you think maybe you should be using clippers for this?"
"Yes," Charlie says.
"I have my beard trimmer," Ben says. "But I think you'd jam it."
"Just go slow and don't cut me," Charlie says.
Teamwork is a big improvement on trying to do this by himself. There are some places that Ben can reach better, and there are other times when he is a more stable object to lean against than the slippery counter. There are also times when they set something up and it doesn't work, and they both fall over and laugh. They finish a whole leg. Charlie leans over it and blows a thin, cool stream of air across his newly smooth skin. The ripple of pleasure goes right to his dick.
He is trying to figure out if it's all those freshly exposed nerve endings, or if it also has something to do with Ben having his hands all over him. It's not like he hasn't messed around with guys. That's pretty much what the Junior Grand Prix is for. He isn't one of the ones who had their first kiss in a hotel room somewhere in Eastern Europe and instantly knew they were gay, but he had a good time. And he'd be lying if he said every fantasy he's ever had has been about a girl. He's mostly straight. Straight-ish.
That's Ben's philosophy, too, not that they've talked about it at length, but it's been established. They exchange victory hugs and slaps on the back, secure in their boundaries. Ben's arms around his waist, Ben's fingers running up his legs, that's outside the boundaries. The more he tries to convince himself not to be turned on, the more he feels Ben's solid, warm hands on his just-shaved skin. He tells himself he's just getting into character. But it's not ladylike to get all red-zoned over nothing, none of a drag queen's grace in it.
The only sign that Ben has noticed Charlie's condition is that he becomes businesslike to the point where it's just mean. Charlie gives Ben a fair shot at kissing his neck, which Ben ignores. There's not even an accidental grope. It's Ben's job to always know where his hands are -- it's both their jobs. Ben is a credit to the sport of ice dance.
Charlie isn't a credit to anything. Maybe to the art of trying to be straight and failing. Failing tragically. Mandatory deduction.
They are finished; Charlie is smooth. Well, his skin is smooth. He says, "I... should take a shower. Without -- without you."
Ben's smile is almost a wink. "You sure?" But while Charlie turns the water on, Ben leaves.
*
The girls spend an hour on Charlie's hair. They've come back from the thrift shops with a few different ideas, but the basic concept is '80s. When they've worked out what fits, it's kind of a Material Girl thing: off-the-shoulder pale green minidress with a belt, artfully torn leggings over fishnets, black ankle boots with stiletto heels, armfuls of jelly bracelets. Tons of makeup and literally an hour messing with his hair and arguing over it.
When the girls finally leave, Charlie checks himself out in the mirror. He looks like a guy in a dress. But he doesn't look like himself.
Charlie shows up to Jeff Buttle's room with his drag queen shoes in his hands, unwilling to make the transformation complete until he absolutely has to. Also unwilling to psychoanalyze himself while he's in a dress. He's directed backstage, which is the bathroom. "What if someone has to, you know, go?" he asks his competitors.
"It doesn't go on very long," Stéphane Lambiel says. He is leaning into the mirror, fixing his mascara. He has a chin-length wig with bangs, like the girl in Pulp Fiction.
"Is that your real hair?" Daisuke Takahashi says. He looks like a Harajuku girl: a million layers of black and white pinafore, striped stockings, a long pink wig. Unbeatable, Charlie thinks, but that's what they said about Takahashi in the men's competition, too.
"You, ice dancer, I don't know your name, he's talking to you." It's that Swedish skater. The name amnesia is mutual. He's rocking a waist-length '70s wig, frosted pink lipstick, and thigh-high silver boots.
"Yeah," Charlie says. "All mine."
"It looks good like that," Weir says. "You should blow it out more often." Weir is the only other guy in the room not wearing a wig. He's waxed his hair down, ringed his eyes with makeup, and draped himself in a dress that probably makes sense if you have an advanced degree in Fashion Studies. He explains, "I was going to do Audrey Hepburn, but she got away from me." He comes up closer to Charlie, ostensibly to fix one of Charlie's earrings. "How'd you end up doing this?" Weir says gently, genuinely.
"I volunteered," Charlie says.
Weir appraises Charlie like he's being auctioned off. "You're not who I thought you were," Weir says. "But I guess that's my fault for not making an effort to find out."
The most appropriate response to that seems to be, "Thank you," but the door opens and Charlie has to leap out of the way to avoid it. Two late entries tumble in: guys Charlie doesn't know, wearing outfits clearly assembled at the last minute. Charlie hopes he looks better than that. He tries again to say something to Weir, but Jeff, sheathed in a blue sequined gown, comes in to line them up for their moment on the catwalk.
It all goes fast. Charlie hums "Like a Virgin" in his head, and that gives him a rhythm. Swinging his hips is the only way to stay upright in his shoes. At the end of the hallway/runway, he blows a kiss.
Charlie was worried that the winner would be decided by applause, but there are judges and a 6.0 scale. He sits in the bathtub and waits. He is being eyed -- no, he is being cruised. The other guys can probably see up his skirt.
Takahashi wins, and the Swede takes a hometown silver. Charlie does not react to his own third-place finish until the guy next to him nudges him. The prize is a sash made out of toilet paper, a tube of red lipstick, and a can of herring in dill sauce. Another bronze for the U. S. of A.
Charlie bows, waves, and cuts out of Jeff's room as fast as he can.
In his own room, Charlie throws off his secret identity and finds that even naked, he is not himself. He can't tell if he's gotten the makeup off, so he scrubs his face raw. He turns the shower temperature up too high, wanting to sweat more than he wants to be clean.
He dries off and puts on the most normal clothes he has: jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and tennis shoes. His hair still isn't right. He's washed it twice but the girls put some resilient crap in it. He slicks it back like he did for the compulsory dance.
Free of plans for the evening, Charlie does his Macroeconomics homework. Every time he shifts his weight, his jeans slide across his shaved skin. It's a numb, ghostly sensation. He can't concentrate. Someone knocks, and as he gets the door, he can only feel his legs.
It's Ben again, his shadow today. "Is everything okay?" Ben says. "You ran off kind of fast."
"You went?" Charlie says. "I didn't see you."
"Come on," Ben says. "You think I'd miss the chance to see you in a dress?" Ben is good with clichés. He makes punch lines out of them, dries them out and makes them conscious of themselves.
"I hoped you'd leave me that much dignity," Charlie says.
Ben says, "I'm sorry, I -- I thought you'd want me to go." He is stroking his beard with Freudian contemplation. He'll probably shave it off for the summer. Shaving Ben would be like a shearing. You could donate the results to Locks of Love.
"Yeah, well, there's -- there's stuff you don't know," Charlie says.
"Stuff you're going to tell me now?" Ben says. "Or stuff where I should leave you alone?"
"I, um," Charlie says. "Stuff where I... have to do this." It doesn't happen as romantically as Charlie would have planned, but what does? He pretty much shoves his tongue in Ben's mouth. He's giving Ben every excuse to push him away. But Ben is kissing back. His beard is rough, but his mouth is so soft. His tongue a caress, a kindness.
Ben has one hand on Charlie's butt and he's running the other up Charlie's too-smooth abs, too exposed even though there wasn't much there to shave away. Charlie's skin prickles and he's getting hard again. He's never gotten past second base with a guy. Never touched someone else's dick. He isn't sure he wants his first to be Ben's, but he can't think of who else's he would want it to be. This would work out, will work out. It's not just that they could love each other -- they already do. Isn't that what this is, after all?
No, love is what Charlie is telling himself this is, because he can run away and in fact did, but his mind is still locked in a hotel bathroom with a bunch of gay guys, and he knows he is no straighter than they are. He has kissed more boys than girls. He has not been ruling things out; he has been finding more of himself.
He runs his hands up under Ben's shirt, catching his fingers in the hair, creating a wedge to pry their lips apart. "So," Charlie says. "There's that."
Ben is rubbing his mouth and neck as if the kiss has spread all over his face. "I -- I think we need to sit together on the plane. And... and hash this out."
"Okay," Charlie says. "Sounds good." He waits for Ben to say something but finds himself filling silence. "So are we getting dinner or something? I mean, like, everybody."
"I don't know," Ben says. "I think they were all so caught up, like, doing your hair that nobody gave it any thought. I'll, um, I'll ask and get back to you." He doesn't move, like his music is refusing to start. He rubs his beard again, and then he steps forward to kiss Charlie on the forehead, right at his slicked-back hairline. And he's gone, fast and frightened.
Alone, Charlie leans back against the closet door and tries to catch his breath. It keeps getting away from him. He wants to be a man about this, and he doesn't know how. He isn't sure there's a way. Not because Ben's a guy, but because his heart's involved.
The closet door is mirrored, and Charlie turns to face it. Open your heart to me, he croons, running his hands over his hips and vamping. Losing the character, he shimmies and laughs. He thinks he can see himself in there.