Work Text:
Mike had always said he hated London in the rain.
It wasn’t the soft, romantic drizzle people wrote poems about. It was the kind that soaked through coats, clung to your skin, and made the city feel colder than it already was. Still, he remained. For university, he told his parents back when he was still in Berlin. For better opportunities, he told himself.
For Tommy, yet he never admitted.
Tommy was everything that Mike wasn’t. Loud where Mike was quiet, and effortlessly charming whereas Mike had rehearsed every sentence in his head before speaking or else he'd be left stuttering for English words that would even make German insult him because of how shitty he is in speaking English. They first met in a cramped student flat in Toby’s university, sharing cheap beer and cheaper Chinese takeout, and somehow, Tommy had decided that Mike was worth keeping around, even praising his English and Mike praising his German.
“Mate, you think too much,” Tommy would laugh, throwing an arm over Mike’s shoulders. “Just exist for a bit, yeah?”
Mike tried. God, he tried.
But existing was quite difficult when you were hopelessly, quietly in love with your straight best friend.
It first started as a joke.
Tommy had burst into their flat one night, breathless and grinning, holding a glittery, glossy pink bodysuit that looked like it had survived a disco explosion in the 50’s. “Got a gig at this bar, told me they’d pay me generously if I want the job,” he announced. Mikey raised an eyebrow and the blonde rolled his eyes.
“Drag night. They needed someone bold, sexy, unforgettable. So obviously, I thought of me.”
Mike rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Obviously.”
Tommy grinned wider. “Name’s Dirty Twink.”
Mike nearly choked on his drink while Tommy laughed at his
And yet, he went. Of course he did.
⋆⋆⋆
The bar was dim, alive with neon lights and continuous laughter, bodies packed together in a kind of chaotic warmth. Mike stood awkwardly near the back, clutching his drink like it was an anchor, as if it would protect him.
Then the music started.
And Tommy—
No.
Not Thomas Simons.
Dirty Twink stepped onto the stage.
And Mike had long forgotten how to breathe. He kept inspecting Dirty Twink. He was different. So different. He's not Tommy, he's not Thomas, He's Dirty Twink. And he really was.
Gone was the messy-haired boy who left socks on the floor and stole Mike’s hoodies. In his place stood someone sharp, electric, untouchable. Tommy has voluminous, curly blonde hair that frames his face dramatically. His makeup is striking. Defined brows, winged eyeliner, and bright pink eyeshadows that matched his clothing.
He's wearing a vivid pink bodysuit with a high-cut leg and structured detailing across the chest and shoulders, almost like a harness or accent straps, highlighting the waist and legs. The long sleeves and high neckline contrast with the more revealing cut. On Tommy's feet are knee-high pink boots with a slight heel.
Glitter cut across his cheekbones, his lips painted into a smirk that knew exactly what it was doing. Every movement was deliberate, confident. Dangerous.
Mike felt it like a punch to the chest.
Because it wasn’t just admiration.
It was an attraction. Immediate. Overwhelming. Terrifying.
Dirty Twink’s eyes swept the crowd, and for a second, they landed on Mike. Blue eyes against blue eyes. And it held. A smirk then a wink, subtle but intentional.
Mike’s stomach dropped but he slowly smiled back as Dirty Twink went on the performance, as if nothing had happened. But God did it make Mike stop breathing entirely. Germans are known to be tough with their cold exterior but Mike was nothing compared to them. And he now wishes he was.
⋆⋆⋆
“You saw me, yeah?” Tommy asked later, breathless from the performance, makeup slightly smudged but still glowing. There was a grin in his mouth that reached his ears. In the end, Tommy got €500. The manager was generous enough to give the college student the money he really deserves. The manager was this middle-aged man with a beard who always wears a suit. His boyfriend in a dark blue beanie with a duck hair clip, or so they both thought, even praised Tommy for the performance. Mike couldn't believe that he's not dreaming either.
Mike nodded, unable to form anything more coherent. Tommy laughed, flopping onto the couch beside him. “Was I fit or what?”
He swallowed and nodded again. He couldn't trust himself to say anything that he would regret later. Tommy didn’t seem to notice and grinned bigger. “Oh hell yeah, mate!”
⋆⋆⋆
After that, it became a regular thing.
Drag nights, performances, glitter that never quite washed out of Tommy’s skin. And almost everyone they met at uni seemed to recognize him as well. Tommy kept humbling himself even when Mike was constantly hyping him up before going to the bar.
And Mike was always present in the audience, always watching, always feeling something he refused to name but was always aware.
Because it wasn’t Tommy, he told himself.
It was the persona. The performance.
It was Dirty Twink.
And that made it safer. Didn’t it?
⋆⋆⋆
One night, after a particularly wild set, Tommy had dragged Mike backstage.
“Sit,” he said, already rummaging through his bag.
“What are you—”
“Trust me.”
Mike did. He always did.
Fifteen minutes later, Mike was staring at himself in a cracked mirror, eyeliner slightly uneven, lips tinted, something unfamiliar staring back at him.
Tommy stood behind him, hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
“See?” he said softly with a smile that only he could know what it meant. It meant everything and every emotion that could make him go, ‘You’re worth every love on this planet called Earth gives you’. And Mike had smiled back at him in the mirror. Something they only shared together. Something not even Historians could only assume as friends just being friends, when not really. “You can be bold too.”
Mike met his eyes in the reflection. For a moment, neither of them moved. The air shifted.
“Tommy,” Mike started, voice tight.
But Tommy shook his head, quieter now. “Not Tommy.”
Mike’s heart stuttered.
“Then who?” he whispered.
Tommy smiled. Not the easy, careless grin. Something softer. Something that felt like stepping onto thin ice. And he falls for it every single time. “Who do you want me to be?” And there it was. The question Mike had been avoiding. The line he didn't dare to cross. The line he promised he wouldn't trespass because he cares Tommy more than anyone else could.
Because if it was Tommy—his best friend, straight, uncomplicated—then Mike knew his place. He knew the ending. He had thought of it since the first time he had first fallen in love with him
But if it was Dirty Twink—
If it was this version, this blurred line between performance and truth…
…Then maybe, just maybe.
Mike turned in his seat, close enough now to see the flecks of glitter still clinging to Tommy’s skin like they're the only ones who knew his secrets, enough to make Mike wonder the thousands of secrets Tommy had been carrying even before he had met him. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
Tommy exhaled, something like relief in it. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I don’t think I do either.”
Their foreheads nearly touched. Close.
Too close. Mike’s chest ached with it.
“I thought I was straight,” Tommy murmured, almost to himself. “I still think I am. Mostly. But then there’s you, standing there every night, looking at me like that—”
“Like what?”
Tommy huffed a quiet laugh, gaze moving towards the linoleum floor. “Like I’m something worth falling for.” Ocean eyes met sky eyes again. But Tommy's eyes sparkled. Like bioluminescent waves in the night. And Mike forgot how to breathe again. He doesn't know but he always does. Tommy has that effect on other people. Then again… he's not surprised.
Mike’s throat tightened. “You are,” he said, before he could stop himself. “You’re worth every single love everybody including me gives you.”
Silence. Heavy. Fragile. Mike breathes heavily again, “You’re worth it, Tom.”
Then Tommy—Dirty Twink, something in between—closed the distance. It wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping music, no perfect timing. Just a kiss that already tells every single confession that there is. Just a confession in an action in a bar where he dresses up in drag. At first, it was because of the money but now… he dresses up in drag because of the love.
Just a soft, uncertain kiss. Real.
And that was enough to undo Mike completely.
⋆⋆⋆
Later, walking home through the London rain, Mike didn’t hate it as much. He doesn't anymore. The wet concrete at 12AM had never felt more comfortable than anything else in the world. Tom was right. Tommy walked beside him, quieter than usual, their shoulders brushing every so often like they were still figuring out what was allowed.
“What does this make me?” Tommy asked suddenly.
Mike glanced at him. “Confused?”
Tommy laughed and nodded. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
A pause. “And you?” Tommy asked.
Mike thought about it.
About Berlin. About London. About the stage lights and the glitter and the boy who was both himself and someone else entirely. The contrast of him hating London the first time he stepped here, and slowly starting to grow on him as he stepped here and probably not the last time, “Hopeful,” he said, head turning towards Tommy.
Tommy nudged him lightly. “That’s a dangerous thing to be.”
Mike smiled, just a little. “I know.”