Commentfic: Oh Make Me Over
Originally written for the 3 Weeks 4 Dreamwidth "Other Ways Of Saying 'I Love You'" commentfic meme; a little bit of PG fluff.
Kevin looks more tired every time Mike sees him, which is ridiculous, 'cause no way could working for Disney be as stressful as he's acting. He gets, like, private planes, and shit.
"There's this," he starts, screws up his face a little and doesn't say anything else. Mike frowns, and Kevin ducks his head into Mike's shoulder. "Never mind."
"Dude."
"Before I met you, I kind of thought 'dude' was over."
"Shut up. 'There's this' what?"
"Just a premiere. Red carpet thing I have to do. I was gonna. But it's stupid."
"The premiere is stupid, or what you were 'gonna' is stupid? Complete sentences, Jesus."
"I thought you might come with me? Like. But it's dumb."
"It's a good thing I apparently find insecurity a turn-on," Mike says, tilts Kevin's head up to nip lightly at his lower lip.
"No, just, you'd have to be, like, vetted, by my Dad, and it's just."
"What would your dad say about me?"
Kevin smiles then, a little, runs his hands through Mike's hair and makes a little face. "That you look like a hobo, and you'll need, like, sixty different appointments with our stylist. So, dumb."
Mike frowns a little, but Kevin kisses him, tightens his fingers in Mike's hair, so he lets the conversation end there.
*
"Do I need to give you a lecture about respecting your bodily integrity and not changing because your boyfriend asks you to?"
Mike glares; Bill doesn't react. He needs a new "I hate you, get out of my life" face, Bill's had too much time to get used to this one. "He didn't ask."
"Oh, well, shave your head, then, for all I care."
"Remind me why I invited you?"
"You didn't. But you need a photographer, and I had nothing on my plate all day."
Bill hops up on the counter when the hairdresser (who looks about twelve) finishes washing Mike's hair and gets him settled in the seat. He can't see the mirror, and he's not sure whether Bill did that on purpose or not, but he doesn't complain. Bill's phone flashes and clicks periodically, Bill spends a few seconds after each time furiously typing, and Jesus, this is all gonna be on Twitter when he gets back to his apartment, fucker.
When Mike's head feels about fifty pounds lighter, as if he had that much hair, the tiny hairdresser hands him a mirror (she's known Bill all of half an hour, apparently already figured out that'd be easier than getting him to move, smart girl). Mike doesn't look like Mike, at all, but it's. Hm. It's probably a good not looking like himself. He needs a little time. Or something.
Bill hands Mike his phone with a text message on the screen, not to Twitter but to Kevin. It only takes a few seconds for the phone to buzz with a response, a picture of Kevin grinning so widely it looks like his cheeks are gonna split.
Okay. Mike likes the new haircut.
Kevin looks more tired every time Mike sees him, which is ridiculous, 'cause no way could working for Disney be as stressful as he's acting. He gets, like, private planes, and shit.
"There's this," he starts, screws up his face a little and doesn't say anything else. Mike frowns, and Kevin ducks his head into Mike's shoulder. "Never mind."
"Dude."
"Before I met you, I kind of thought 'dude' was over."
"Shut up. 'There's this' what?"
"Just a premiere. Red carpet thing I have to do. I was gonna. But it's stupid."
"The premiere is stupid, or what you were 'gonna' is stupid? Complete sentences, Jesus."
"I thought you might come with me? Like. But it's dumb."
"It's a good thing I apparently find insecurity a turn-on," Mike says, tilts Kevin's head up to nip lightly at his lower lip.
"No, just, you'd have to be, like, vetted, by my Dad, and it's just."
"What would your dad say about me?"
Kevin smiles then, a little, runs his hands through Mike's hair and makes a little face. "That you look like a hobo, and you'll need, like, sixty different appointments with our stylist. So, dumb."
Mike frowns a little, but Kevin kisses him, tightens his fingers in Mike's hair, so he lets the conversation end there.
*
"Do I need to give you a lecture about respecting your bodily integrity and not changing because your boyfriend asks you to?"
Mike glares; Bill doesn't react. He needs a new "I hate you, get out of my life" face, Bill's had too much time to get used to this one. "He didn't ask."
"Oh, well, shave your head, then, for all I care."
"Remind me why I invited you?"
"You didn't. But you need a photographer, and I had nothing on my plate all day."
Bill hops up on the counter when the hairdresser (who looks about twelve) finishes washing Mike's hair and gets him settled in the seat. He can't see the mirror, and he's not sure whether Bill did that on purpose or not, but he doesn't complain. Bill's phone flashes and clicks periodically, Bill spends a few seconds after each time furiously typing, and Jesus, this is all gonna be on Twitter when he gets back to his apartment, fucker.
When Mike's head feels about fifty pounds lighter, as if he had that much hair, the tiny hairdresser hands him a mirror (she's known Bill all of half an hour, apparently already figured out that'd be easier than getting him to move, smart girl). Mike doesn't look like Mike, at all, but it's. Hm. It's probably a good not looking like himself. He needs a little time. Or something.
Bill hands Mike his phone with a text message on the screen, not to Twitter but to Kevin. It only takes a few seconds for the phone to buzz with a response, a picture of Kevin grinning so widely it looks like his cheeks are gonna split.
Okay. Mike likes the new haircut.