so Kinky Boots was ridiculously fun and I wrote this at midnight on the car ride home. it’s a WIP, part of a bigger thing that I will find time to write who knows when. for the rare person who has not seen the boots Stark Sands wears briefly towards the end of the show, this is from his instagram
“Can I get a jack on the rocks?”
“You got it,” the bartender said, slapping a coaster in front of him. There was a crowd of people at the other end of the bar and she drifted off towards them, and Mike leaned against the bar and waited.
His gaze wandered around the room, looking properly for the first time. When he entered the club, he’d been dazzled by the amount of feathers and glitter everywhere; it had seemed like a rather over the top strip show, to be sure, but nothing fundamentally different. With a more critical gaze, now, he noticed a few unfamiliar elements. Some of the performers were undoubtedly drag queens; their makeup was uniformly excellent, but not all of them bothered to cover bulging biceps or stubble, or even to disguise their voices. And now that he looked again, he doubted all the women were straight, either. A few of them were wearing pinstriped suits and seemed to be devoting most of their attention to the women in the audience. There was an unusual number of those, too. It was the closest Mike had ever seen to an equal-gender audience at a strip show.
Something was wriggling in his stomach, but he laced his fingers together and forced himself to be calm. He was here for Rudy’s bachelor party. It had been Rudy’s idea. There was no need for him to feel any way about it at all.
His scan of the room ended at the corner of the bar, and there he lingered. There was a man leaning against the bar, like him, except he was very obviously a performer. There was a light sheen of makeup on his face, accentuated with eyeliner and coral pink lipstick, and he was wearing some kind of mesh thing that barely qualified as a shirt. The most striking thing about his appearance, though, were The Boots. Scarlet leather, laced halfway up his thighs, with at least a four inch heel. They had to be a devil to get into, let alone walk in.
“What do you think?”
Mike realized he was staring, and he jerked his eyes up. The man was watching him expectantly, and he almost had to reassess; the boots were striking, but so were the man’s eye’s, clear green and sharp. Not defensive—offensive. When Mike didn’t respond immediately he popped his foot.
“Nice, right?”
“Be honest—can you really walk in those?” Mike asked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile, and the edge to the man’s face softened. He was young, really, not more than twenty-four and probably younger.
“Well, I’m wearing them for a burlesque dance, and that tends to involve walking, yes.”
“Leaning pretty heavily on that bar,” Mike said. Some part of his mind informed him he was teasing him, but he set that aside for now.
The man raised his eyebrows, sighed, and pushed himself off the bar. He took three steady steps backwards and held out his hands. Then he twirled for good measure, and Mike chuckled.
“Okay, you’ve convinced me.”
“Vodka martini,” the bartender said as she hustled back over to their end of the bar. “Sorry about the wait, Nate.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the man said, waving her away. “I’ve got a tab open. Thanks.” He picked up the glass and turned to go, but his gaze fell on Mike again and he paused for a moment. “Nate Fick,” he said suddenly. “I’m on the schedule for eleven. If you need anymore proof.”
“I’m already sold. But yeah, I think I’ll be sticking around. Mike Wynn.”
He held out his hand to shake, but Nate breezed right by it. He touched a hand to Mike’s shoulder lightly and bumped their cheeks together in a vaguely European kiss kind of way. Despite his attire, he was wearing men’s cologne, and Mike found himself inhaling with the faintest shiver.
“Pleasure.”
He walked away, and almost despite himself Mike looked over his shoulder. There was a swagger to his step; he showed no discomfort with his ridiculous boots, which incidentally were doing pretty great things to an ass already displayed to advantage in white leather shorts.
“That’s Nate,” the bartender said mischievously. Mike turned back to the bar.
“This is not good,” Nate mumbled again, chewing the end of his pen, and Mike paused the DVR.
“What’s going on?”
“Hm?” Nate glanced up and blinked at Mike and the screen as if he was startled to find them in the room. “Oh, nothing. Go ahead, you can keep watching.”
“It’s nothing interesting anyway. What’s not good? Also, why the hell are you so far away?”
Despite his apparent distress, Nate managed a grin, and unfolded himself from his position in Mike’s favorite big comfy armchair. He stretched as he stood, cracking something in his back, and his dark blue Berkeley t-shirt rode up on his stomach. He was wearing pajama pants that hung low on his hips, and two days ago that probably would have been enough to interrupt their conversation entirely. But they had had plenty of time to reacquaint themselves since then, and Mike was able to not ravish Nate when he sat down again, this time on the couch, and curled up against Mike’s shoulder. He was clutching a sheaf of paper, and he smacked the front sheet for emphasis.
“I’ve got fifty-two quizzes and fifty-two essays to grade, I’m only two-thirds of the way through the quizzes and I’ve had to give ten grades under 70. And some of these are such stupid mistakes! Like mixing up countries–I don’t expect you to be mixing up any countries by Thanksgiving break, honestly, but I’ll grudgingly allow it for something like Yemen and Oman, or Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. But Turkey and Saudi Arabia? No!”
“The nerve,” Mike drawled. Nate craned his head to glare at him.
“This is actually serious. We’re well into the early modern period now, and students are still confusing two of the major influential players.”
“I know it’s serious, baby,” Mike said soothingly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m just sayin’, you can mark ’em down and move on. No use getting yourself all worked up about it.”
“Fine,” Nate huffed. “If you’re okay with the fact that the US is currently at war with two Muslim-majority countries, that complex theology and history is regularly being reduced to two-second soundbites on the news, and that I have eight students attending the highest-ranked public university in the country who think the Arabic word for a protected monotheistic group is hummus, then sure, I’m okay with it, too.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s probably not good.” Mike paused. “Dhimma?”
“Full marks,” Nate smiled. He gave Mike a peck on the cheek and wiggled, adjusting so he was leaning against Mike’s chest and thus freeing up both arms for grading. He set aside the top quiz and scanned the next one in the pile. “If this is what the quizzes are like, I’m dreading the essays. They’re only four to five pages, but…”
“Do you really have to do all of this on your vacation?”
“I’m sorry,” he frowned. “I know it’s getting in the way, but–”
“Nah, I didn’t mean it like that. Being in the same room is enough for me, and if you’ve got work I’m a grown man who can entertain himself without whining. I was thinking more about how traveling from Berkeley to here to Baltimore and back sounds like enough to keep you busy. You didn’t want to take a real vacation?”
“I promised I’d get these back before they turned in their papers, so I really need to finish the quizzes at least.” He snorted. “Brad suggested I need to drink more whiskey when I’m grading. Ray says I should give everyone a B minus and watch them implode. Sad thing is, for some of these people that would be a significantly higher grade.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” Mike said. He wrapped an arm around Nate’s shoulders and kissed him again, this time just at the nape of his neck. Their libidos may have been temporarily sated, but damn, he was really enjoying this cuddling shit. “In four and a half years you’ll be done with your program, and most of these kids will be just graduating. That gives you–what, three years to fix the Middle East before they really start fucking shit up? Plenty of time.”
“Stop trying to cheer me up. But--yeah, keep doing that.”
“This is not going to get your grading done,” Mike murmured as he trailed his mouth down Nate’s neck, then up again on the side, beneath the hollow of his ear. Nate leaned into his touch and tossed the papers onto the couch beside him.
This fic needs some introduction. 1) cw for homophobic language. 2) this is a stand-alone follow-up to this WIP I posted after going to see Kinky Boots. 3) these are the boots Stark Sands wears for one scene in Kinky Boots. 4) shoutout to @antiquecompass for coming up with SEVERAL potential songs for Nate in this fic, including what I ended up going with. (@onlythenuns and @lovenolo also had suggestions, which I might use in any later installments of this verse, which is very fun and which I would like to write more of.)
“Why are there faggots here?” Trombley asked, just a little too loud, and the marines fell over themselves trying to reprimand him. Ray hissed “shut the fuck up,” Lilley said “brah, that’s not cool” in a disappointed voice, Brad slapped him in the back of the head, and Poke asked the group at large who had invited this motherfucker in the first place.
Mike’s first instinct was to look around and see if any of the crowd had heard. There was a performance happening on the main stage, and the room was pretty loud overall. Trombley’s inelegant question might have gone unnoticed—but of course they weren’t that lucky. He had bumped into a dancer at the bar earlier, and of course the man (Nate) was standing not fifteen feet away, with his eyes narrowed at the knot of marines. He glanced at Mike’s face, and Mike opened his mouth to apologize on Trombley’s behalf.
But before he could get a word out, the dancer winked. Mike had no idea what to make of that, and then suddenly the dancer was sauntering over to their curved booth, as casually as a man in red leather thigh-high boots with a 4-inch platform heel could be.
“Evening, boys,” he said cheerfully. “Let me guess—first time?”
Despite the innuendo in his words, his voice was casual and matter-of-fact, and that threw Trombley off guard. He frowned at Nate for a moment and then turned to Brad and said “I thought we were going to a strip show.”
“Good thing, ’cause that’s where you ended up. Welcome to the Rocky Roxie bimonthly egalitarian GLBT-friendly burlesque. Best in LA. Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing to the space at the end of the booth next to Mike.
“Go right ahead,” he said. He gestured with the hand holding his drink, and then took a sip to hide his expression in case the other guys looked at him funny. Mike had pretty good control over his own features—you didn’t get far as an enlisted man if the officers could read every thought on your face—but his mouth had moved faster than his brain, in this instance, and he didn’t want them to see if he was embarrassed.
“Thanks,” Nate said with a charming smile. Then, graceful as a cat, he sat down in the booth and swung his red-leather-clad-legs over Mike’s lap.
So much for being stoic. He was pretty sure his cheeks were the same color as the boots.
“So. Alamitos or Seal Beach? Or did you boys drive all the way up from Oceanside?”
“How the fuck—” Ray began.
“High and tights all around,” he said, waving vaguely at their heads. “Lucky guess.”
“I’m fucking leaving,” Trombley announced. He stood up with a pointed look at Nate, and Brad rolled his eyes.
“Sit the fuck down, Trombley. That’s a fucking order, lance corporal,” he added, and the other man grudgingly sat. “The guest of honor isn’t even here yet. You sit, you wait, you say congratu-fucking-lations, you give him your five dollars, and then you leave.”
“Yeah, sarge,” Trombley muttered. Then he stood up again. “I’m going to get a drink,” he said defiantly.
“Oh, honey, could you get me a vodka martini?” Nate called. Ray cackled, and the back of Trombley’s neck turned red. “I have a tab open, you wouldn’t even have to pay—God, sometimes it’s too easy,” he snorted, falling back against the booth as Trombley stomped away without acknowledging him at all. “So—must be Oceanside. That’s a long way to come for our cozy little show.”
“One of our sergeants is getting married,” Lilley explained. “He can’t have the whole unit at his bachelor party, ’cause we’d break the town, but we told him we’d take him out to a strip club, and this is what he chose.”
“Well, it is the best in the business.” He draped an arm around Mike’s neck casually, eyeing the bar, and Mike rolled his eyes and smiled. “I should have guessed Oceanside straight off—we get a lot of marines here.”
He winked at Brad, who eyed him dubiously.
“You do not.”
“We get enough. More sailors, though, it’s true. Whether that’s proximity or something else, I’ll leave it up to you to decide.” He paused, and some of the humor faded from his voice. “I almost joined the Marines.”
“You know, that’s funny,” Poke laughed. “I almost became a stripper.”
“Look, all due respect, marines don’t give a shit about almosts,” Brad said, tossing back his drink. “It’s some kind of compulsion for you people—everyone who’s ever seen that fucking commercial just has to tell a marine about how he thought about joining the Corps for five whole minutes.”
“Whoo-hoo, dress blues with a sword!” Lilley chorused on cue.
“I did three and a half years of ROTC.”
“Hold the fuck up,” Ray said loudly. “You were going to be an officer? That’s it, homes, you’re gonna have to go. I don’t think we can hang out with someone whose lifestyle and morals are so profoundly counter to our own.”
“You did ROTC?” Brad repeated. “Marine Corps ROTC?”
A ghost of a smile flitted across Nate’s face.
“Navy ROTC, Marine option, UC Berkeley.”
“What happened with the last half year?” Poke asked.
“Did you flunk out?” Ray asked solemnly. He was drinking something fruity and ridiculous, with an umbrella, and Mike wondered how many he had already had—his tongue seemed to be turning blue. “Makes sense, Berkeley is famous for enrolling dumbasses.”
“I wasn’t actually a student at Berkeley—I was at Stanford. They have an affiliation. As for what happened…” He paused for a moment. Then, suddenly, he swung his legs off of Mike’s lap. He clacked his heels together like Dorothy and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Gentlemen, I don’t want to shock you,” he said in a very serious voice. “But it can’t be helped. I am—a homosexual.”
Ray gave an obliging gasp.
“I know, I hide it very well. I did when I was in college, anyway. Then, for my birthday senior year, some friends took me to a club in San Francisco. As it happens, I stayed out too late. The trains had stopped running, and a new friend very kindly offered to let me stay the night.”
Lilley and Ray whistled. Nate held up a hand in sheepish acknowledgement.
“Yeah, well. The next morning, he escorted me to the station. Some of the other ROTC guys were going the other way, and they saw him bidding me a fond farewell, and that was that. The CO was a bit of a DADT hardliner.”
“Wait, DADT applies to ROTC, too?” Ray asked. Brad cuffed him in the shoulder.
“Obviously, dumbass.”
“’Course it does, dog. You can’t un-tell something once it’s out.”
Ray tried to defend his ignorance, and the other marines insulted him. Mike looked at Nate. He had told the story with humor, and it was a few years removed at this point, but there was a kind of wistfulness on his face as he watched the marines shoving at each other. Was he picturing how his life would have been different, if he hadn’t been caught? Was he still bitter about it, or had it turned out to be a blessing in disguise? He had to be a lot freer now than before. He clearly enjoyed doing this burlesque thing, and flaunting in front of guys like Trombley. And flirting with guys like Mike.
On the other hand… three and a half years of commuting between Stanford and Berkeley, taking on extra classes and drill, planning for a career as an officer… that wasn’t nothing. And to have that ripped away because you went out and got laid on your fucking birthday—shit.
“That’s some bullshit,” Mike said in a firm voice. Nate was startled out of his reverie, and he flashed Mike a charming smile and rested a hand on his chest.
“You’re sweet.”
“Yeah, seriously, homes,” Ray chimed in. “Those guys sound like some fucking POG douchebags.”
“It all worked out,” Nate said with a shrug. “Olive drab was never my color anyway.” The red leather of his boots glittered in the lights as he crossed one leg over the other.
Before the conversation could pick up again, Trombley dropped back into his seat with a half-empty beer.
“Rudy’s here,” he grumbled.
Mike looked up at the entrance and saw Rudy, followed by Pappy and Walt, beaming at the group and lifting his arm to get their attention. Then his gaze settled on Nate, and his jaw dropped.
“Nate?!”
“Rudy!”
Nate leapt up from the couch, and quicker than should have been possible in those boots he was across the booth, hugging Rudy Reyes tight and getting body glitter all over his tight black t-shirt.
“It’s so good to see you! Shit, brother, I thought you were going to quit drag?”
Nate held Rudy at arm’s length and laughed, shaking his head.
“God, Rudy, every time I almost forget that you’re straight, you go and say something stupid like that and I remember. This is not drag.”
“That is not drag?” Ray repeated dubiously. “Also, what the fuck, you know Fruity Rudy?”
“This is not drag, as per the rules established by vice squads throughout history. Two pieces of men’s clothing means I’m off the hook.”
“You’re wearing two pieces of clothing?” Brad said with his eyebrows raised, and Nate batted his lashes. Aside from the boots, he was wearing a very short pair of shorts and a top that looked more like a fishing net than a t-shirt.
“Wouldn’t you like to find out? This is barely cross-dressing and certainly not drag. And of course I know Rudy; his girlfriend—sorry, fiancee—and I are both at UCLA. Different programs, but her office is right across the hall from mine. I should have known they belonged to you,” he said to Rudy, shoving playfully at his chest. Mike felt a surge of jealousy run through his veins and knew it was ridiculous. “They’re very good sports. Especially Mike,” he said with a smile.
The jealousy dissipated and was replaced by an emotion he didn’t recognize—it felt like sunshine warming bare skin. Mike smiled back, and only belatedly realized the marines on the couch were all staring at him with confusion on their faces. Shit—they had never actually introduced themselves, had they?
“We met at the bar, earlier,” he explained.
“That’s right, we’re practically old friends. It’s Nate, by the way, Nate Fick.”
The other guys introduced themselves—although Trombley only mumbled his last name—and then Nate turned back to Rudy.
“Listen, I have to go—I’m going to be on the main stage soon. But I’ll drop in again later, okay?”
“You better, my man,” Rudy grinned. “What are you dancing to? Is Lola still your song?”
“Here? Nah. Wrong energy. Tonight we’re going with Pour Some Sugar on Me.”
“Good song,” Mike said without thinking, and Nate grinned at him.
“Thanks, sugar. Gentlemen, enjoy the show.”
He waved and disappeared through the crowd. Mike watched him go.
A sigh escaped him as he sat back against the booth and turned his head towards the other marines. They were talking to each other, gesturing, leaning close, laughing, but it was all a jumble of noise to him. He sat there for a few minutes, listening mostly to the buzzing in his ear, and then brought his glass to his lips. It was empty except for a small, melting ice cube that tasted only weakly of whiskey. A drink. He could use another drink.
He clapped Rudy on the back before he got up and made his way back to the bar.
“Another Jack and Coke, please,” he said to the bartender.
“You got it.” She poured his drink and pushed it towards him. “Don’t worry about it,” she said when he reached for the wad of cash in his pocket. “It’s on Nate’s tab. One for you and one for Rudy, he said, so don’t let your friends get ideas. Here.”
She handed him a folded cocktail napkin and walked over to the end of the bar to serve another patron. Mike flipped over the napkin.
I could tell Trombley was pissing you off, too, but you didn’t have to play along, so thanks. Plus this makes up for any of the glitter I got on your clothes. Nate.
The note made Mike smile. He stared down at it for a long moment; the other man at the bar was ordering for a group, so the bartender was busy pouring drinks and didn’t bother him. He should get back to his table. Most of the guys had arrived, and Rudy was here, and they were probably going to get some of the female performers to come over to their table, and he should be there for that. He was at the club with a group of other marines—this was not the time to be doing this.
Someone had left a pen on the bar when they signed their receipt. Mike picked it up and scrawled his cell phone number across the bottom of the napkin before he could talk himself out of it.
He should add a note, he thought nervously, to remind Nate not to leave a message or anything like that—but there was no room left on the napkin. Besides, it would be fine. Nate was a smart guy and he would figure it out. He was a frigging PhD student, for God’s sake… Stanford grad….
This is a fucking bad idea.
“Step inside—walk this way—you and me babe—hey hey!”
A grin tugged at his lips. Mike took a healthy gulp of his drink and folded the napkin in half. He waved at the bartender to get her attention and held up the note.
“Could you give this back when he closes out?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Thanks.”
He straightened up and started to walk back towards the marines’ booth, but before he could get there his steps slowed. He turned towards the main stage to watch, for just a second. Nate was strutting down the short runway, hips swinging in time with the melody. There was black and glittery gold eyeshadow framing his eyes now, and he had acquired a top hat, a black leather vest, and a red feather boa. He looked ridiculous. He looked like he was having the time of his life. God, he was stupidly attractive.
Somehow, Nate picked him out of the crowd. He winked and shimmied his shoulders, and Mike couldn’t help but grin back.
“Rock on,” he mouthed, holding up his hand in the classic rock and roll salute, and for a second Nate laughed and went off-beat. He recovered quickly, though, and Mike returned to his marines. He felt like he was walking on air.
“Templar’s fuck em I don't need a fancy Iron shirt dogging my steps”
“Wynn Dear the Inquisitor really needs you to do this” Viviane glanced at her carefully sculpted nails “And I would personally see it as a great favour”
“Fine but we find these gods cursed blood dragons and that Templar ends up cooked meat in a can don’t blame me”
“Darling I have it on good authority that Templar Nathanial is more than capable of handling himself, besides isn't it time you put this petty squabble behind you”
“Commander Cullen requested you accompany the mage”
Nate sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair”The Commander is aware of the last time Enhancer Wynn and I meet” Nate winced at the memory of the well-aimed fireball
“Yes Sir but he says Templars and Mages got to learn to work together”
