Work Text:
“I know what we should do! Let’s go to the bar where Auntie Milva works!”
Regis removes the teabag from his mug and tosses it into the kitchen’s tiny compost bin. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
Angoulême looks at him and pouts. “Uncle Regis, answer me this: what do you do for fun?” she asks with a sigh.
“Well,” he clears his throat. “I have my fermentation projects, my plants, I do enjoy reading and —“
“I mean outside, with other people.”
He sighs and stares into his mug. “I do, occasionally —”
“Nope,” Angoulême interrupts. “I live with you, and I know for a fact, you barely leave the house except for going to work.”
“Angoulême,” Regis’ gentle voice warns as he sits down at the table. “You know what sort of bar Milva works at.”
She looks at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance. “Are you not gay? Like, wasn’t that the whole point of your divorce?”
He gives her an annoyed look. “You know the answer to that, it’s just,” he takes a pause and purses his lips. “You know that I would stick out like a sore thumb there.”
She waves him off dismissively. “There will be worse dressed people there,” she says, sitting down next to him. “Look, I no longer need a fake to sneak into bars, we both love Auntie Milva, and I think you could go out of your comfort zone! There’s more to do at bars then drink, there’s dancing, and meeting other people, shagging in the bathrooms --”
“Angoulême!” Regis scolds after nearly choking on his tea.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding, come on Uncle Regis, calm down,” she smirks. “And live a little!” Her expression softens and she leans a little forward in her chair. “Uncle Regis, you barely go out, and when’s the last time you met a guy?”
Regis sighs heavily out of his nose and looks guiltily at his mug. “Fine,” he says, looking back over at Angoulême.
Angoulême squeals and practically jumps out of her seat. “You won’t regret this night!” she says as she throws her arms around him.
Regis opts that they take the train, much to Angoulême’s chagrin. Downtown isn’t too far from his house in the more residential section of the city. Looking around the car, he already feels out of place on the Friday evening inbound train. Young people in flashy clothes giggle and gawk at each other, already buzzed from pre-gaming in apartments and dorm rooms.
They arrive at the stop closest to the Pheasantry. Before they enter, Regis wonders to himself if this would have been the kind of place he would have frequented as a young man had he been more comfortable with his identity back then. He shakes the notion out of his head; he was a wild child during his medical school years, so perhaps it’s not best to dwell on what could have been regardless.
They enter the establishment after the hour of springtime dusk. The bar is dark and clearly aged, but it’s not dingy. In a way, its warm orange lighting makes it homey. They spot Milva pouring glasses and handling cash as a dark-haired young man busies himself with keeping the liquor stocked.
“Auntie!” Angoulême cries out, and Milva only cringes slightly at the title.
“Angoulême! And…Regis?” Milva says as they both approach the bar.
Regis offers her a weak smile. “Surprised to see me out and about?”
“No, it’s just,” Milva blinks while she searches for her words. “I just never expected you to come to a drag show, Regis.”
“A drag show?!” Regis and Angoulême say in unison but in utterly different tones.
“Yeah,” Milva replies. “It’s a Friday night at a gay bar. You should expect just as much drag tonight as during Sunday brunch.”
Regis gives her a puzzled look as Angoulême laughs. “I don’t think he’s acquainted with the concept of drag brunch just yet, Auntie,” she says. “Come on, Uncle Regis, let’s make sure we find good seats!”
Angoulême drags him to an area of the bar with booths and tables organized around a rather shabby-looking wooden stage that’s been gussied up with light fixtures and glittery drapes. She finds them a hightop table to the left of the stage. When a waiter comes by soon after, Regis asks for just a glass of sparkling water and Angoulême selects the cheapest can of beer available.
“You still okay with this?” Angoulême asks after a gulp of her beverage.
Regis nods, an awkward smile appearing on his face. “You did say I should get out of my comfort zone.”
“That’s the spirit!” Angoulême grins mischievously.
Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of a tenor voice over the speaker system. Their attention turns to the stage. They watch the voice's source push away the glittering curtains and reveal himself to the audience with a flourish of his hand. He wears a long, burgundy leather coat with an opened front. His torso is bare, except for two lines of glitter glued beneath his well-defined pectoral muscles. He also wears glitter in his goatee and pencil mustache. He tips his ostrich feather cap to the audience and smiles a cheeky grin. “Hello, my gorgeous gays, girlies, and disinterested boyfriends who have been dragged along, yes, pun intended! I am your host tonight, the fabulous Dan D. Lyon! While I am not one of the gorgeous queens that you came here to see, I can promise you that I will keep it just as stunning and enter-taint-ing as the dolls do. Now, are you ready to not only feel the fantasy, but be gagged by it?”
The crowd cheers, with hoots and hollers from a particularly drunk gaggle of young women in tiaras and sashes.
“Please welcome to the stage, not only the sexiest horse girl in the metropolitan area but more importantly, my very best friend: Miss Desti Neigh!”
A pop song that Regis has never heard before begins to play. One of the drunk young ladies, a blonde in a plunging neckline, shouts out “yes, bitch, work!” as soon as the curtains billow.
The performer steps out onto the stage in what looks like a fitted, swimsuit cover-up that ends just below her shapely thighs. The material is a slightly translucent fabric with a metallic coloration that reflects shades of silver and purple.
She begins dancing and lip-syncing along to not-so-subtle lyrics referencing a round pair of tropical fruits. Her hair, voluminous and a shade of lavender so light it’s almost white, is styled in perfect waves that bounce with her every movement on sparkling high heels. Regis can’t be sure if it’s just the illusion of a short skirt or high heels, but her legs seem to be impossibly long. She tears off the cover-up to reveal a polka-dot patterned swimsuit with rhinestone accents, much to the delight of her adoring audience. Her light pink, halter-cut bikini top shows off her voluptuous chest’s cleavage. The matching high-waisted bottoms sit snuggly on her narrow waist, and they hug her round bottom and completely smooth groin.
Regis is already intrigued. He’s not attracted to her. Despite knowing that the person underneath all the makeup and hair is a man, she looks far too much like a woman for him to desire her. Yet, there’s something about her that draws in Regis. He wants to touch her, not sexually, but to run his fingers over her skin like one wants to touch a famous painting despite all the signs forbidding it.
She’s beautiful, Regis thinks.
She twists her waist and sways her hips in time to the music. Although she’s not actually singing, she’s performing every lyric to the crowd. She squeezes her chest and shimmies her torso when the song calls for it. In the rare moments in which she lip-syncs to more subtle phrases, she flirtatiously smiles and winks at the audience.
When she moves into the song’s second verse, she steps off the stage. The gaggle of bachelorettes holds out single dollar bills that she grabs and stuffs into her top with the rhythm of her dance moves. She pivots for the left and shakes her curvy body as her heels click in Regis’ direction.
Regis can’t believe it when she twirls on her heels and gracefully slides into his lap. She wraps her arms around his neck. With the queen this close to him, Regis can read her features. Her long, elegant nose and strong jaw are softened with the contours of cosmetics. As she continues her lip sync, Regis sees that her lipstick is painted beyond the borders of her mouth. Her perky bust is actually a pair of pectoral muscles padded up and painted with make-up to give the illusion of cleavage. And yet, the thing that intrigues Regis the most is her eyes. He could pick up poetry just to write about irises colored a shade of hazel so bright, that they glow amber.
Desti Neigh places a kiss on Regis’ cheek, leaving a smudge of hot pink lipstick beside a fuzzy sideburn. She stands up and swishes her hips as she dances away.
Regis is too stunned to notice that Angoulême is scolding him for not having tipped the queen.
With her bikini top stuffed with dollar bills, she finishes her performance to the cheers of the audience. Once again, the emcee joins her on the stage. He wraps an arm around her waist and holds her close. He’s a tall man, but he only reaches her chin. His gaze is locked on her cleavage. “So Desti Neigh,” he says. “It seems like you were getting rather close with an audience member there.”
She nods and grabs the mic from Dan D. Lyon. “It takes a lot of money to look this cheap,” she says in a surprisingly metallic-sounding voice. “So I’m looking for a sugar granddaddy tonight.”
Angoulême lets out a laugh that rivals a witch’s cackle and Regis chuckles as well, only partially out of embarrassment.
“He’s a doctor, ya know!” Angoulême shouts out in the direction of the stage.
Dan’s face lights up. “You sure have a good eye for ’em, Desti!”
She blows a kiss in Regis’ direction before swishing her hips and sauntering off the stage.
The emcee turns his attention back to the audience as soon as she leaves. “She’s pricklier than a cactus but sweeter than honey, everyone, please welcome to the stage, Veronica ‘Lambchop’ Parker!”
The queen that follows sports a full beard with gemstones sewn in and a dark brown wig with a side part and teased-out bangs. Her outfit is reminiscent of the 1980s with dark, sheer nylons and a turquoise power dress that’s bedazzled beyond belief and shoulder-padded to the high heavens. Regis barely registers her presence as his mind still ponders the memory of Desti Neigh sliding into his lap.
…
There’s almost always construction happening outside the hospital; it’s something to be expected with city living. Normally, it doesn’t faze Regis, except today it does. It’s not the project that catches his eye, but rather the crew working it.
As he waits to cross the street, an afternoon cup of coffee in hand, he lets his eyes admire the crew of workers. Their truck bears a logo that reads “Kaer Morhen Construction” with a minimalist design of blue mountains behind the text. The crew seems to be taking a break. Regis sees four of them congregating on a city bench. They must each be at least six feet tall, with body types that vary from lean-yet-muscular to big and burly. One of the leaner ones has a dark beard and chipped nail polish that glitters in the sunlight as they eat their sandwich. Another is olive-skinned with a scarred face and a slight paunch. A third has dark brown skin and — if that’s not a trick of the light — two different colored eyes, however, it’s the fourth construction worker that really catches Regis’ attention.
He wears a black t-shirt underneath his orange high-vis vest. Underneath his hard hat is a cascade of white-gray hair held back in a ponytail. His sunglasses cover his eyes, but Regis can tell that the man is devastatingly handsome with his long nose and salt-and-pepper stubble. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a narrow waist and hips. He’s positively gorgeous.
There’s also something about him that’s so utterly familiar, Regis muses to himself. Perhaps this crew was the same one that worked on his neighbor’s house? No, that was Cat’s Cradle Carpentry. Was he a former patient? No, he couldn’t be. Regis prides himself on remembering his patients, and he certainly would have remembered a patient with such striking looks. Could he have been — no…no he couldn’t have been, Regis tells himself. That would be nonsense to think that he of all people could be…
>
The man seems to catch Regis staring at him, as he begins to stare back. Regis feels his face grow hot. “I’m terribly sorry,” he mutters. “My apologies, I thought I knew you from somewhere.”
The man’s mouth falls open, but no words come out. He looks confused and even a little nervous from where Regis is standing. He takes off his sunglasses and Regis gets the confirmation he needs: eyes a shade of hazel so bright that they look amber-yellow.
“Wait, yes, I do!” Regis stammers. “You’re the drag queen who sat in my lap last Friday night!”
…
“Sorry I’m late, I had to take a call from my daughter,” he says as he approaches the outdoor table that Regis had snagged for them. He has a brown and white dog that appears to be some type of Australian shepherd mix in tow.
“Oh,” Regis says. He tries to see if he can spot a wedding band on his hand.
They had agreed to meet up at a coffee shop with a spacious patio near the hospital. Regis arrived early and ordered their drinks ahead of time: a herbal tea for him and a black coffee for his new acquaintance. Geralt — as Regis has since learned is the man’s name — sits down across from him. He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt, just like the one he was wearing while working, and dark, straight-leg jeans. Regis watches as he attaches his dog’s leash to the arm of the iron chair. He positions himself with his knees spread wide and his bottom closer to the edge of his seat rather than the back of the chair. As he sits, he leans over with a slightly hunched back with a forearm resting on the table. He grabs his cup of coffee in one hand and taps his other on his knee. “Oh?” he replies.
“It’s just surprising, is all,” Regis responds.
He scrunches up his nose. “What, do you think that drag queens can’t have children?”
“No, it’s just, that I —” Regis struggles to save himself. “I imagine it would be hard to balance a career in construction, drag, a marriage, and a child.”
“Well,” Geralt says, smiling awkwardly. “Ciri’s mother and I are divorced, have been for nearly 10 years now, and our daughter’s away at her senior year of college.”
Ciri’s mother. Regis’ face lights up. “Oh, so you must have also come out later in life?”
Geralt lets out a nervous laugh and shifts in his seat. “Well, not exactly,” he says in a voice that’s rather soft for a man of his size. “My wife knew I was bisexual when we got married. So is she, by the way. The drag thing came after the divorce, though.”
“My apologies for assuming,” Regis smiles embarrassedly. “I didn’t realize I was gay until my forties…and married to a woman. Hmm, well, maybe realize isn’t the right word. More like admit it to myself.”
Geralt gives him an awkward grin. “No need to be ashamed of it,” he offers. “I’ve met plenty of guys like you.”
Regis silently wonders to himself what “met” means in this man’s book. He says nothing and continues to sip his hot herbal tea.
“Who was the young woman with you at the show?” Geralt asks after a beat. “She looks the same age as my daughter.”
“My niece,” Regis says. “She’s 21-years-old. She came to live with me when she was a teenager. She had been trying to get me out of the house, and she suggested we go to the bar where our friend Milva works.”
Geralt’s face lights up. “You know Milva?”
Regis nods and feels a smile grow on his face. “Oh, she’s an old friend. Quite a delightful woman.”
“She is,” Geralt says, beaming in what almost seems to be a fatherly manner. “My daughter used to babysit her son. Still does when she’s home from school.”
“Well,” Regis says. “It truly is a small world.” They retreat back into a slightly uncomfortable silence. Geralt sips on his coffee and Regis his tea. He watches as Geralt taps his coffee cup and bounces his legs. His black eyes follow amber ones that wander around with slight, sudden movements of a white-maned head. Regis finds himself fascinated with this man who seems uneasy while his alter-ego Desti Neigh emanated poise and allure the weekend previous. Clearing his throat, Regis ends his silent observation. “Your drag performances…I must admit I’m new to the art form, but I find your personal involvement in it to be rather interesting.”
Geralt shifts in his seat again. “What do you mean by that?”
Regis tilts his head and grimaces slightly as he tries to find the right words. “You just don’t seem the type to do it.”
Geralt furrows an eyebrow and scrunches his nose in a way that Regis finds all too endearing. “Too masculine?”
“No…not exactly,” Regis muses. “Although, you do indeed have a very masculine demeanor, it seems,” he says smiling to himself. “But you also appear to be a rather…reserved person.”
Geralt gives him a half-smile. “One of my foster siblings has this friend who’s a drag king,” Geralt says. “Back when my sibling was newly 21, they brought me to his show. There was this drag queen, and I…” Geralt seems to be lost in his thoughts. “I just thought she was so beautiful, and so confident too,” he fiddles with the coffee cup in his hands. “It wasn’t until years later after my sibling started doing drag and after my divorce that I finally drummed up the courage to try it myself.”
“I hope I didn’t out your hobby to your colleagues yesterday,” Regis says, rather sheepishly.
Geralt smiles to himself. “You didn't,” he says. “Those are my foster siblings. It’s a family company. Lambert, the one with the beard, is actually my drag sister and Eskel, the big one with brown hair, he tailors a lot of mine and Lambert’s outfits. He had a girlfriend in high school who was into comic cons so he ended up picking up sewing for her.”
Regis brings his tea up to his lips. “And the other gentleman? The one with heterochromia?”
“Oh, that’s Coën,” Geralt’s smile grows bigger. “He’s not involved in any of that stuff, but he’s also the nicest out of us four, so he’s our cheerleader. Doesn’t get a lot of the terminology but he comes to our shows when he can and is just happy to be there.”
“Well,” Regis says with a heart that’s grown warm with the sight of Geralt’s smile. “That’s lovely. Truly a family affair for you four.”
“It is,” Geralt replies. “My foster father doesn’t always get why I like putting on heels and a wig, but he’s never been against it. It’s still nice to have my siblings there.”
“I don’t want to keep you,” Regis starts. “Just one last —”
“You’re not keeping me,” Geralt says a little too quickly with a straightened back. He slowly recoils back into his hunched position. “This is…nice.”
“Really?” Regis says. He feels himself grow pleasantly warm from the inside. “I think this is rather nice as well,” he says, falling silent as he looks at Geralt with beaming eyes before remembering what he originally had meant to ask him. “In regards to your stage name, if I’m understanding correctly, it’s a play on the words ‘Destiny,’ and ‘neigh?’ How did you land on that name?”
“Oh,” Geralt says with laughter in his voice. “I just like horses. It’s nothing too deep. I spent a lot of time in a stable as a teenager. A social worker told my foster parents it would do me good, and she was right,” he tilts his head down and nods to the dog sleeping under the table. “I named her after my favorite horse there, Roach.”
“A pun with a sweet story behind it, I like it,” Regis says. Now it’s his turn to nervously tap on his knee. “Geralt, before we part,” he begins. “ I’d like to see you again. I find you rather charming on and off stage.”
“Alright,” Geralt smiles with a slightly tucked chin. “Let’s set a date.”
…
“I thought this only happened on medical dramas,” Geralt says, removing his pants.
“It’s definitely not common,” Regis says, in between kisses to Geralt’s lips. “But I’ll make an exception for you.”
Geralt pushes down his gray boxer briefs, revealing his half-hard, impressive cock. He sits his bare ass on Regis’ desk and spreads his legs.
“You certainly aren’t shy right now,” Regis says as he shortens the gap between their bodies.
“That’s because I know I’m getting what I want,” Geralt says, grabbing onto the sides of Regis’ face.
“Which is what, exactly?” Regis smiles a toothy grin that exposes his canines.
“Living out my trophy husband fantasy of getting dick from a handsome, rich doctor,” Geralt says before capturing Regis’ lips in his mouth.
Regis laughs into the kiss. His hands travel south and one of them grasps onto Geralt’s wide girth. He begins stroking his length. “You have quite an obstacle to getting your tight little costumes so flat in the front.”
Geralt begins to moan as he starts rubbing his nipples. “It’s quite a pain to tuck, but hmm worth it to look good on stage,” he says. “The size comes in handy out of drag as well. Now get out of those clothes and fuck my thighs, doctor.”
…
As more and more makeup is wiped off, Regis sees more of Geralt and less of Desti Neigh.
He’s gone to a few of Desti Neigh’s shows at this point. He’s gotten acquainted with some of the local queens and kings, from the lithe Ginger Vitis and the campy Priscilla Calonetta to the ever-present emcee Dan D. Lyon to a risque comedy king named Tom Wanks. Regis has become knowledgeable of each performer’s talent and style, however, he still isn’t entirely sure he “gets” drag, so to speak.
One night, after a performance, he saw Priscilla Calonetta out of drag. He could still tell it was her, as her facial features out of drag still were very traditionally feminine. He was surprised to realize just how tiny she was out of heels, and he was especially surprised to see how present her cleavage was in a standard women’s tank top.
There is also the curious case of Mr. Dan. D. Lyon. Regis recognizes the scars that he adorns with glitter underneath his chest as surgical. His goatee is also not glued on with spirit gum; it’s real human hair growing out of his face. He’s quite clearly a man. Regis doesn’t understand — nearly every sensitivity training that the hospital mandates for its employees includes a mention of how transgender individuals aren’t the same as drag performers, and yet…
“What are you thinking about?”
Regis snaps out of his thought process at the sound of Geralt’s voice.
Geralt’s face is free of false eyelashes and contouring cosmetics. His lips are back to their normal size and faint pink color instead of the candy apple red shade he overlined his mouth with for the stage. Regis smiles at the sight of him.
“Geralt,” he begins. “May I ask you a question about some of your peers on stage?”
Geralt cocks his head slightly to the side and gives him a raised eyebrow alongside a tight-lipped smile. “Not sure where this is going, but alright.”
“Some of the queens you perform with look…rather feminine out of drag,” he says at a hesitant pace. “Like Miss Priscilla, and, oh, who is that one with the curly auburn hair? Ginger Vitis, I believe her name is?”
Geralt gives him a knowing smile. “Well,” he says. “That’s because they’re both women.”
Regis gives him a surprised look. “Really? I thought that the term ‘drag,’ implied that they would be men performing as women.”
Geralt shakes his head and continues taking off his eyeliner. “Common misconception. Priscilla’s been doing drag since before she transitioned and didn’t want to give it up, which, thank God, because she’s one of the few camp queens I can stand to be around for more than 10 minutes,” he says. “Triss — sorry, Ginger — was a theater kid who cosplayed, so she made the foray into drag a few years ago,” Geralt turns and looks at Regis. “She’s also my brother Eskel’s ex-girlfriend. They stayed on good terms in spite of how scary her current girlfriend is.”
“And this Dan D. Lyon?” Regis asks. “I assume he’s a drag king, but he’s rather…glittery, if I may.”
Geralt rolls his eyes with the biggest smile on his face. “That’s Julian. His other other stage name is Jaskier,” he says. “He’s also a local folk musician. He said he was going to try female drag once he got top surgery, but, instead, he just stayed a king and added way more flamboyance,” Geralt raises his eyebrows at him. “Between you and me, I think it’s just because that was around the same time that he and Priscilla became exclusive, and that would have been too much diva energy for one apartment.”
Regis chuckles to himself. “Well, he seems to be quite the diva already.”
“It would have been disastrous for us all,” Geralt says.
“What about your drag sister, the one with the beard? Is it common for drag queens to have facial hair?”
“Oh, Lambchop? There’s a few other bearded queens in the area, but she’s definitely the most popular,” Geralt says as he applies cleanser to his face. “And I’m not saying that just because she’s my sister. She is a sickening performer. But, yeah, Lambert used to shave their face for performing, but they like having a beard, so they stopped.”
As Geralt finishes washing the suds off his face, Geralt steps forward and wraps his arms around his waist. When Geralt pats his face dry, Regis rests his chin on his shoulder. “And then there’s you,” he says.
“Then there’s me,” Geralt repeats. He places his hands on top of Regis’ and strokes a thumb over his knuckles. “I am probably the closest to what you think of when you think of a drag queen. Man outside of drag who dates men,” he turns and looks at Regis. “The whole ‘liking women too’ thing probably complicates that image a little, though.”
Regis presses a kiss on his cheek. “Alright, darling, let’s go to bed.”
…
“You know, Regis, you’ve got a spring in your step, lately.”
Regis smiles shyly at Shani. “Oh, just been trying to keep busy. My niece has been wanting to get me out of the house more often.”
Shani gives him a warm smile. “Well, that’s nice to hear,” she says in a cheery tone. “What sort of things have you been up to?”
“Oh, well, we went to a show in town recently,” Regis says as his smile grows from shy to sly.
“Oh, that’s great! My girlfriend and I went to a show this weekend as well,” she says. “It was her friend’s folk-rock gig, maybe you’ve heard of him? He goes by the name of Jaskier onstage?”
Regis chuckles to himself. “I believe I am familiar with him, actually.”
…
Geralt kicks dirt off his boots as Regis fiddles with his keys. Roach wags her tail excitedly when the door finally opens. Regis unhooks her leash, and she runs inside to the bed that Regis recently bought for her.
Geralt follows behind Regis and places his boots on the shoe rack with a sigh.
“Is something on your mind, darling?” Regis asks as he hangs up his keys.
“It’s just…” he looks away and sighs. “Do I have to go to the fundraiser for the hospital tonight? I’m just going to make you look bad.”
Regis crosses the distance over to his partner with a concerned look on his face. He cups Geralt’s cheeks in his hands. “Darling, how could you say that?”
Geralt sighs once again and tries his best to avoid looking him in the eyes. “Regis, I’m a former foster kid who works in construction. You’re a heart surgeon.”
Regis furrows his brow and frowns with sympathy. “Geralt, you could never make me look bad and there is no shame in what you do. We wouldn’t have hospitals in the first place without the skills that you possess. I adore you, and I am so proud to call you mine every day,” he pauses as a thought comes to his mind. “Though, maybe Geralt doesn’t have to go with me, if you so desire,” he says with a slight sing-song intonation in his voice.
Geralt cocks his head at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” Regis starts. He grabs onto one of Geralt’s hands and laces their fingers together. “You would still accompany me but as…Desti Neigh. Well of course, not as everything Desti Neigh wears though, just enough to make you feel like you’re not Geralt for the evening.”
Geralt gives him a confused look. “Are you sure you won’t mind having a drag queen on your arm? What will your coworkers think?”
“Darling, I don’t care,” Regis says. “I just want you to feel comfortable.”
A wild smile cracks on Geralt’s face. “Alright,” he says. “Let me shave and I’ll see what I have that is fundraiser-appropriate.”
Geralt returns a couple of hours later in a fitted, yet still tasteful, little black dress with a high necked, ruffled collar of gray chiffon. His muscular arms are bare and his legs look curvy underneath minimal padding and nude pantyhose. His wig is a darker gray than his natural hair, but it’s shoulder length and not as voluminous as the wigs he normally wears on stage. A matte lipstick in a subdued wine shade colors his lips. He wears light blush and a silver highlighter on the apples of his cheeks, with a cool-toned bronzer defining his features.
“You look lovely, Geralt,” Regis says when he greets him at the door.
Geralt kisses his cheek. “Just call me Destiny tonight.”
…
“You know, Regis, I can still feel your hand on my ass through this padding.”
“Hmm. Is that a problem, darling?”
“Not at all. Just know that I will give your ass a squeeze back.”
“Regis? Is that you?”
“Oh, hello, Shani! Shani, This is my date, Destiny. Destiny, this is Shani, one of our interns on staff, and that must be her lovely girlfriend, Essi, whom I’ve heard so much about!”
…
“They definitely thought that I was an escort last night,” Geralt says as he presses his pelvis against the side of Regis’ hip. “Not that I mind. No shame in it, and if I were a working girl, I’d definitely want to be on the arm of someone like you.”
Regis takes a sip of his morning coffee. “And why is that exactly?”
“Look at you, fishing for compliments,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes and threading his fingers through the fluffy, gray locks on the back of Regis’ head. “You know, smart, kind, and incredibly handsome.”
Regis puts a hand on the small of Geralt’s back. “Usually, ‘rich’ figures high on your list of desirable traits,” he remarks with a smirk.
“I would only escort the rich in the first place,” Geralt says as he tugs on his earlobe. “I’d definitely be a pricey girl.”
“Well,” Regis says, setting his mug on the counter and tucking a lock of hair behind Geralt’s ear. “At least Destiny knows her worth.”
Geralt pauses as he brings his mug up to his lips. “Huh?”
“Geralt,” Regis says as he moves his palm to rest on Geralt’s cheek. He pauses for a moment and just holds his face with the soft gaze of his eyes. “I wish that you would be more confident, my dear.”
Geralt tsks and looks away. “Jesus, I knew that this was going to happen.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Geralt steps out of his embrace. “This always happens whenever things start to get serious with a guy. He has some problem with the fact that I do drag.”
Regis steps forward in hopes to close their gap once again, but Geralt steps backwards as well. “Geralt, your drag is as far away from being a problem as possible. I love how confident it makes you feel. I just wish that you were more confident as Geralt too.”
Geralt looks up at him for a moment but quickly looks away again.
“Darling, how can I make you see how wonderfully amazing you are?” Regis says in a soft voice.
Geralt looks out the window and watches the birds at the feeder in the garden. “You can’t,” he sighs. “I just never…really liked myself,” he turns his head and finally looks back at Regis. “I never felt like I fit in growing up. I was either too quiet or too antsy, I was told I was either too emotional or not emotional enough. I had teeth that were too crooked to smile properly, so everyone just thought I was unfriendly. My best friends in high school were a horse and my foster brother. My parents, the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally, abandoned me as a baby. I know it’s an irrational thing to think, but I’ve spent so long thinking that there was just something fundamentally wrong with me that I can’t stop thinking that it’s true.”
Regis steps forward again, and this time Geralt doesn’t move away. He wraps his arms around him. Despite the fact that Regis is an inch or so shorter than Geralt, he places a hand on the back of his head and coaxes it to rest on his shoulder. “You’re not being irrational, darling,” he says in that soft, comforting voice. “But you are being unfair to yourself. You’ve not always received the love that you needed, but you do deserve it,” Regis leans his head back to look down at Geralt’s face pressed into his shoulder. “And you have the most beautiful smile that I’ve had the honor of seeing.”
Geralt smiles at him, weakly and closed-lipped.
“I love you, Geralt, I really do,” he says. “I love that you’re a construction-working drag queen who’s quiet but dances to pop music, who wears pastel pinks onstage and black and gray every day. I love that you’re a man with big, strong arms, but is soft when it comes to his daughter, who's been hurt by so many but still respects and cares for his ex-wife, who has a dog named after a horse and a horse pun for a stage name.”
Geralt wraps his arms around Regis’ slim waist and pulls himself closer to him. “I love that you’re my wine-brewing, sober doctor who wears second-hand sweater vests,” he pauses to breathe in Regis’ aftershave. “You know, you’re the longest relationship I’ve had since Yennefer.”
“Really?” Regis asks. “What about those boyfriends who’ve dismissed your drag career?”
Geralt frowns. “None of them lasted longer than a couple of months, obviously. Mostly, it’s just a few casual partners here and there, nothing serious,” he says. “And, the women I’ve slept with don’t tend to like that I do drag or have sex with men, so they’ve all ended up as one-night stands.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I’m still in shock that I’ve landed a catch such as you,” Regis says in a soft voice as he strokes Geralt’s back. “I haven’t seen anyone seriously since my divorce, or anyone at all, actually.”
Geralt picks up his head from Regis’ shoulder and looks up at him. “What about before your divorce? You surely must have had an affair…”
“No,” Regis says as he tucks a lock of hair behind Geralt’s ear and gives him a self-conscious smile. “You’re actually the first man I’ve ever been with, Geralt.”
Geralt places his head back down on his shoulder. “That’s a surprise to me,” he hums. “Because you fuck me like you’ve been doing it your whole life.”
“Oh, Geralt,” Regis says with laughter in his voice. “That means more than a thousand ‘I love you’s’ coming from you.”
“Hmm, well,” Geralt says. “I do really love you too, just so you know.”
Regis feels himself starting to sway automatically with Geralt held tightly in his arms. With just the sounds of morning birds chirping outside, he enjoys the quiet and concentrates on the feeling of Geralt’s heart beating against his chest.
“God,” Angoulême’s tired voice calls as she enters the kitchen. “It’s too early to see all this love bird shit.”
Regis turns his head and sees her smirking as she grabs the pot of leftover coffee for herself.
“You’re definitely glad I brought you to that drag show now, aren’t you?” she asks.
“He is,” Geralt replies.
…
Regis enters the bar and waves to Milva behind the counter. She turns briefly and yells out a “hello!” before turning her attention back to Angoulême and showing her how to make her next cocktail.
Regis walks further into the establishment and spots Desti Neigh standing in a corner off stage. She’s dressed in a black satin dress with a high slit on her right leg, exposing her fishnet tights. She has a black feather boa draped around her shoulders, and in her hair is a silk flower decorated with dangling, black ribbons Held tightly in her opera-glove-clad arms is a young person with white-blond hair dressed in a green velvet sport coat and a pair of sequined tuxedo pants.
“Dad,” the young person whines jokingly. “Don’t kiss me, you’re gonna get lipstick on my wig!”
“It’s so hard not too,” Desti Neigh says, giving him another tight squeeze. “You know I’m so proud of you, right?”
“Yes, yes I know— hey, is that the hair clip that mom gave you?”
“Yes, it is,” she says with a smile.
Regis clears his throat and steps closer to the pair.
“Regis!” Desti Neigh says before turning back to the young adult in her presence. She tucks a lock of hair behind his ear that’s covered in piercings. “This is my daughter — well, normally, she’s my daughter, Ciri, but tonight he’s someone else for the open mic night.”
“Sir Swallow, in the flesh,” he says, taking a bow in front of Regis.
Regis looks back at his father who merely winces. “I hate the name, personally,” she says.
“It’s not my fault that my first mom gave me a name that means ‘swallow!’” the young sir turns to Regis. “As in the bird, not the verb.”
Regis laughs. “That much I assumed.”
Desti Neigh turns to her child and reaches out for Regis’s hand. “As you probably heard, this is Regis, the man I’ve been seeing.”
Sir Swallow looks back and forth between his father and Regis, a smile growing underneath his drawn-on pencil mustache. “Well, I’ll have to grill you at another time, Regis, and make sure you’re doing right by my dad.”
Desti Neigh laughs. “I swear, Princess, that he’s harmless.”
“Don’t say that! Mom always has me do a vibe check on her dates! I’ve yet to let a creep slip through!”
Desti Neigh wraps an arm around his shoulder and squeezes him tightly. “That’s because you reject nearly every person that your mom tries dating.”
“And that’s how you know that my system is working!” he laughs. “Well, Dad, I have to go, Cahir wants me to help him with his make-up for tonight.”
Desti Neigh leans back and looks down at him with wide eyes. “Cahir, the quiet little bar back, is performing tonight?!”
The Sir nods excitedly. “He hasn’t come up with a stage name yet, but I think Lambchop is looking to take him under her wing.”
“Well,” Regis interjects. “Even in my limited experience, I can say that quiet and shy men make for excellent queens.”
“We’ll have to see that theory in action tonight,” Sir Swallow says before giving his father a kiss on the cheek. He’s rather tall for a young woman but he still needs to stand on his toes to reach his high heeled-father’s contoured face.
The pair watches as Sir Swallow walks towards another group of 20-somethings. Desti Neigh turns to Regis. “Come with me,” she says. “I’m not performing on the main stage tonight, but I do still have a performance for you.”
Regis reaches out a hand and soon feels the fine silk of Desti Neigh’s gloves against his palm. “Lead the way, my darling.”
With poise, Desti Neigh takes charge and walks with confidence towards a more secluded area of the bar. She stops at a door and pulls out a pair of keys from her bra.
“Should I really be concerned about Ciri’s standards?” Regis asks.
Desti Neigh looks back and smirks. “My ex-wife is getting re-married this summer. She finally found someone that Ciri approves of.”
Almost as soon as they enter the room, Desti Neigh leads Regis to the center in order to gently push him into a black folding chair. She wraps her black boa around his shoulders and turns around.
It's definitely an old storage closet, but they’ve dressed it up with velvet fabric draped over shelves and LED candles placed around the space. Music starts from a speaker hidden somewhere in the room. It’s a jazzy, big band tune with a seductive brass melody.
Desti Neigh’s satin dress begins to fall off her shoulders as she twirls around to look at Regis. Coyly, she raises a shoulder up to her cheek as she unzips the side of her dress. The dress falls down completely and she steps out of it in her black heels. She’s left wearing a black bra with an underbust corset paired with matching panties, all of which are adorned with silver rhinestones. A satin garter belt holds up her fishnet stocking thigh-highs.
Her heels click pleasantly in time with the music as she saunters towards Regis. Her hips sway as she begins to unhook the eyes of her corset. She pulls it off her body and throws it aside. Her toned stomach remains covered up by the high waist of her panties.
As the music picks up, so does the swaying of her hips. She bends her knees and continues to move seductively as she dips her body low and sways back up again. Slowly, she pulls off her gloves, finger by finger, and tosses them to the side with her corset.
She stands up straight and moves with one long leg stepping directly and tightly in front of the other. Her shins are nearly flush with Regis’ when she reaches out to tug on both ends of the feather boa. She holds onto them like reigns and pulls him closer. Desti Neigh sits on his lap and wraps the boa around herself.
Regis reaches out his hands and places them onto her waist. He studies her face — the one he wakes up to on a good morning — and gazes at her with utter adoration for the man that he loves. Underneath all the make-up, Regis still sees his Geralt.
Geralt unhooks his bra and lets the straps fall down his muscular arms. He’s wearing a pair of tasseled pasties over his nipples that Regis and barely see given how close they are. He hooks his arms around Regis’s neck and pulls himself closer to his partner. He presses made-up lips to his cheek, leaving a mark of matte scarlet on pale skin.
Regis curls a lock of Geralt’s hair around his finger. “Is this your real hair?”
“It’s my real hair,” he says with a shy smile. “Teased and curled with an entire can of hairspray in it, but it’s my hair.”
“I love it,” he says, beaming at him. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Geralt says, leaning in to kiss his lips.