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“Hey, are you taking this one with you?” asks Carl, popping out of the drag closet like a jack-in-the-box and sporting a comically overproportioned flip wig styled after Tracy Turnblad on his head. “If not, can I borrow it?” 

“Are you here to help us out or are you here to play fucking dress-up in another man’s drag?” hisses Mickey. “I need to figure out what prompts we already got covered so we can figure out what to outsource.” 

He is not looking forward to the price tag the two costumers he’s tapped are going to have for him when this is all said and done. Ian has made just about everything he’s ever worn as Cha-Cha. And Ian, like Mickey, grew up poor. Ian knows how to make fabulous-looking clothes well-under the budget. Going to the Miss USofA pageant is nothing compared to the money pit going on Drag Race is shaping up to be.  

“Outsource? You mean Ian isn’t doing it all?” 

At that, the whirring of the Singer sewing machine screeches to a halt. “Are you serious, Carl? Fourteen specifically themed runways, most of which are going to need some sort of reveal if not multiple reveals, challenge prompts, an entry look, a finale look, and whatever else Ru and Michelle want to throw at Mickey just for the giggles?” His voice crescendos. “No. No, I cannot get all that done in two and a half weeks and teach Swanny Knuckles here how to be a half-way decent seamstress.” 

“I’m decent.” 

Ian stares Mickey down. It makes the already stressed out drag queen squirm in his seat. “Okay, fine. I’ll learn. Teach me, sensei.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

Carl, sans wig but with his hair mussed up, pulls at a garment bag and reads the note pinned to it. “This one just says ‘Cruella on steroids.’”    

“Pull it,” Mickey instructs. “We can use it for the ‘Furs on Furs on Furs’ prompt.” 

“I’ll need to tweak it,” thinks Ian aloud. “Bring it here, Carl.” 

“Why? It’s exactly—” 

“It’s furs on furs, Mick. This needs to be furs on furs on furs.” Ian has that assertive twinkle in his eyes that tells Mickey he means business. “I’m not sending you out there half-cocked.” 

Mickey puts his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I give. That thing’s already heavy, though.” 

Ian accepts the garment bag from Carl. “Aren’t you the one who always tells me “beauty is pain?” 

“I’ll say,” confers Carl. "I did not realize tucking would fucking suck like that.” Carl has only been doing drag for a couple months now, but Ruby Jubilee already acts like an old pro. She is not. Emphatically not. But Carl’s talent for unearned confidence deserves to be studied.  

“Ain’t it a bitch, huh?” smirks Mickey at his drag daughter. “And didn’t I tell you to use tissues or some sort of lining before the duct tape? You basically gave your self a Brazilian wax.”  

“Do your cop buddies know you’re in show business yet?” Ian inquires in a neutral tone. 

“Aside from you two, and Thom, obviously, I’ve only told Tipping.” 

“Pfft. Art Tipping doesn’t count,” snarks Mickey. “He never leaves the squad car, he’s barely a cop. He’s like… a normal person.” 

“He counts! And it’s still more people I’ve told in two months than you told in your first two years.” 

“What about your friends in that queer police organization you belong to?” asks Ian.  

Carl shrugs. “Haven’t really been to a meeting since I moved in with Thom.” 

“I wonder why that is?” chimes Ian, knowing full well why that is. 

“Wait,” gay gasps Mickey. “Were you cruising at those meetings?” 

“Plead the fifth.” 

“Shit, I think I’ve watched that porn,” cackles Mickey. 

“My baby brother—a gay cliché.” Ian muses as he pulls a voluminous fur coat with a twelve-foot train out of a bag that seems far too small for it now. It reminds Mickey of Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. 

“Fuck off both of you. And I’m a bi cliché, get it right.” 

“Calm your ass, bro. Can you look for a tote full of white and black furs?” asks Ian. “It might be on the rack over on the other side of the basement.” 

 *** 

By the end of the night, the three of them are crashed around the living room sofa, the brothers on either end, Mickey on the floor, nestled between his husband’s calves. They already feel wiped from the planning they accomplished. And there is still another eighteen days before Mickey boards his flight for LA. So much to do, but they need to put a pin in it for tonight. 

Even after they’d sorted through and categorized all the gowns Mickey wants to pack (and some Ian insisted on), they still needed to have a Zoom meeting with the two seamstresses Mickey commissioned to help to decide who between them and Ian was going to achieve which garment.

An added annoyance is the fact that they have to speak in code. They all know where Mickey is going for a month with what will eventually be a grand total of forty ensembles, thirty-seven wigs, and thirty-three pairs of shoes. But the five of them are stuck speaking in code about Mickey’s “big out of town gig.” Officially, not even his family is supposed to know where he’s going to be while he’s gone. But good luck getting Mickey to keep a secret from his husband and brother-in-law who is up Mickey’s ass about all things drag these days.  

The costumers are nice enough, friends that Mickey has made both through dance and drag over the years.  

Ginny Saito was the first person ever to put Mickey in a dress when he was cast in his first professional ballet role. She curses like a sailor and treats her dancers like her kids. She’s good people. He has come to think of her as much as an Auntie as some of his older colleagues back at Kim Rose Dance Studio. 

He still has trouble believing his other designer’s name is really François de Renard, but he won’t find out the truth for certain until after Mickey transfers the funds. He won’t be able to until after François tallies the cost for labor and materials. He’s been bugging Mickey to let him design a look for him ever since Mickey won Miss Chi-Town a couple years ago. 

The two designers are engaged in the task at hand, and both want to make sure what they put Mickey in reflects their abilities. After all, their designs are going to be granted an international platform. They want to bring their A-Game as much as Mickey does. They spend close to an hour picking Mickey’s brain for possible elements they might want for each look. By the time the Domino’s arrives, it felt like he had spent the evening in an interrogation room.  

The Gallagher men settle in with some off-beat horror, a standard for whenever Carl spends the night. Right now, it’s easier to focus on the stupid film because if they think about drag for one more second tonight, their heads might implode. 

“Is this supposed to be scary or just weird?” Carl asks as they listen to the Grave Robber sing another verse about Zydrate. 

“It’s horror and it’s a musical. It ticks two of Mickey’s boxes.” 

Carl’s lip curls into a sneer. “It’s not that good at being either.” 

“Have patience, daughter.” Mickey insists. “Sarah Brightman makes it worth the price of admission.” 

“Who?” 

“Christ, Ruby.” Bemoans Mickey as he playfully jabs Carl in the leg. “Mother has so much to teach you when I get back from LA.”  

 “She’s from Phantom , Carl. Even I know that.” Ian explains.  

“Well, how the fuck am I supposed to know this shit?” 

Mickey can only laugh. “I’m gonna miss this while I'm gone.” 

“We can always FaceTime on family night or whatever.” 

“Doesn’t work that way,” says Ian gently. “Mick’s basically gonna be sequestered for the next four to six weeks.” 

“Unless I get eliminated early.” 

“Fuck that. I want to see you snatch the crown.” 

“Whatever, man. I just want to increase my booking fee.” 

Mickey doesn’t know why he still does that. It’s been years since his father had him convinced he is worthless, and yet he still downplays how much he wants something when it’s important to him. When he was punch drunk in love with Ian? Nah, just two guys getting off together. When he wanted to pursue dance? He treated it like he was just getting back into an old hobby. When he wanted to explore drag? Just a lockdown hobby, right? His first couple pageants were just a lark until his first national.  

And now Drag Race . His Olympics. There is no denying this is a huge deal. It’s nerves. He knows it’s nerves. But at least if there’s any single person who gets what he’s feeling right now, it’s Ian, even if he doesn’t come right out and say it. 

“As long as you make it to Snatch Game, I think you’re good.” 

“As long as I don’t fall flat on my face during a choreo or Rusical challenge, I think I’ll be able to go home with my head held high.” 

“Aren’t the musicals--” 

“Rusicals.” Mickey corrects.  

“--one of the last challenges?” Carl asks.  

“Sometimes,” he nods. "But they’ve come super early, too.” 

“What are you gonna do if you don’t get to do a dance or musical challenge?” 

“Probably ruin my chances at Miss Congeniality.” 

*** 

Two days before Mickey is due to leave, Ian sees Dr. Whipple to see about a possible medication tweak just to plan for impending stressors while his husband is away. And Mickey checks in with his own therapist, Dr. Rangasamy. He has his own set of stressors and while he doesn’t think his PTSD will pose an issue (in fact, Mickey tends to feel safer the more surrounded by other queer people he is anymore), he knows what competition does to him and they probably won’t give him a chance to meet with an anger management specialist once he lands in LAX.  

On the day of the flight, they once again conscript Carl into helping. They needed to with how big and how full the suitcases are. In fact, they probably should have tapped someone bigger like Thom to help. But it’s already a stretch that Ian and Mickey trust Carl with Mickey’s secret, let alone Carl’s fangirl of a boyfriend. 

Once they are done with baggage claim, Carl is canny enough to give his brother and brother-in-law a moment’s privacy. That is if you can call anything private in a bustling international airport.  

“You’re gonna do amazing.” encourages Ian as he leans in so that their foreheads touch.  

“You sure you’re going to manage without me? We haven’t been incommunicado for this long since before...” 

“Yeah, I know. It’s different now. We’re adults. We’re not running away from each other. This is you running towards something.” 

 “You read that on a fortune cookie, or did you come up with something that cheesy on your own, Gallagher?” 

“Flight 709 direct from Chicago to LAX now boarding at Gate J,” comes the sonorous and clear voice over the PA system. 

“Guess you have about five hours to google and figure it out before production takes your phone.” Ian shrugs as they walk to the boarding gate. 

“If you think I’m not going to spend the whole flight texting you the whole time, you’re losing it, Gallagher.” 

“Look at you being all clingy and romantic.” 

“Hell yeah.” Mickey agrees as his hands slide around Ian’s jawline, and he pulls his husband in for a kiss that they both pray tides them over for the next four-to-six weeks.  

Mickey leaves Ian at the gate, his arm squeezing his carry-on bag like a security blanket. Every couple steps he turns his head to make sure Ian is still there waving him goodbye. Orpheus has restraint compared to Mickey Gallagher. He steps onto the plane and looks one more time to see his husband. Ian blows him a kiss as gingerly as if he were making a wish on a dandelion head. And Mickey returns the favor. 

And then Ian is gone. Mickey finds his seat, too nervous to enjoy the extra amenities of business class. All he can think about is the future stretching out before him, and the man he’s leaving to keep the home fires burning.  

Chapter Text

Mickey is whisked away blindfolded from the airport. He prays the production team managed to collect the right suitcases. On the one hand, those are Cha-Cha’s dresses. She will literally be going on-stage naked if something happens to them. But on the other hand they are majority Ian’s creations. All made for him out of love. He doesn’t know which of these facts would upset him more if they get lost because of production shenanigans.   

Half an hour after he is sequestered in his hotel room, he almost cries in relief when he is reunited with his luggage. But then it is two nights with no window to the outside world other than the free access to Paramount+ (because of course, they want the contestants to have access to previous seasons on streaming) and the two or three production assistants that take shifts outside his door.  

He feels like he’s back in juvie from the confinement. But without the opportunity to work out in the yard, to go to the library, or to learn a trade.  

Then finally comes the day. Cha-Cha is dressed for a night out dancing in a ridiculous salsa dress in a vivid mauve with black ruffles on the trim. Her neckline is asymmetrical and has a high shoulder ruff that threatens to compete with the height of her rusty red bouffant. The slit of the dress all the way up to the hip so she has her desired range of motion. She feels gorgeous. She feels powerful. She’s ready.  

The stagehand Beth stands near her on headset. Cha-Cha is raring to go even if Mickey is on the verge of a panic attack. “Cue Cha-Cha,” she instructs.  

And Cha-Cha doesn’t need any more prompting. She twirls onto the set, hitting her light at the center of the upstage entry and declares, “Hello world! Are you ready to be healed?”  

There are six other queens in the room. And it looks like some queens have already unpacked. Split premier, Mickey figures. And that must mean Cha-Cha the last to the party. Mickey feels a little put out to discover that he was relegated to one of the night two girls.   

***  

In the final edit, this is where Mickey appears out of drag in his first Confessional. His confessional outfit is classic Mickey. He’s wearing an old sleeveless denim jacket over a faded black Kinky Boots souvenir tee shirt. His hair is short on the sides, long on the top and slicked back.  

“Hi, my name is Ch-Cha Heals. I hail from the windy, gritty, crime ridden streets of Chicago’s South Side. Who is Cha-Cha? She’s a professional office girl in the day, a party girl at some of Chicago’s hottest clubs after sun goes down, and she’s very... theatrical.” That last word is delivered with a flourish. “I’m a true triple threat. I’m a comedienne, and I can attempt to sing after a few drinks, and I’ve been known to cut a rug.” Mickey makes a “shh” gesture, hoping to keep his professional dance background from the other queens as long as possible.  

"What’s my advantage in this competition? Let’s just say I’m resilient.”  

***  

The other queens seem as diverse as any other cast. Some are legendary. Some are complete mysteries.   

Winona Jugs. Is very much a known quantity. She’s older by Drag Race standards. The casts have been skewing younger for years now. Mickey actually thought he would be among the eldest at thirty. But at forty-one, Winona is a twenty year drag and comedy veteran. She could be tough competition.  

Kitten Kaboodle is an excessively friendly queen with an old Hollywood aesthetic from Portland, Oregon. She is very much committed to her persona, even more than Cha-Cha is. Cha-Cha finds out she made a good half of the clothes she brought. Mickey files that information away for later.  

Jeez Louise is an Instagram queen who has never performed before a live audience before. She’s young. Very young. Her aesthetic is very much the pop stars of the moment, but her clothes look like they’re off the rack. Cha-Cha has her doubts— Filler queen .  

Honeysuckle Colby is Sasha Colby’s drag granddaughter. Cha-Cha doesn’t know much about her, but there is a certain rumor of a curse on the drag children of previous winners.  

Floozie Q is a plus size girl who specializes in hair care. Her wigs are in high demand up and down the East Coast from Boston to Baltimore. She is keen to make sure the other queens are made aware of what a big deal she is.   

Elizabeth Batty might just be Cha-Cha’s favorite. She’s a vampiric goth queen but there is something noble about how she carries herself. She has a dry wit that easily gives her a comedy edge, but Cha-Cha feels more entertained than threatened. Most importantly, she feels genuinely friendly.   

That’s something Mickey has noticed over the years. It’s not a hard and fast rule, but horror queens are a lot like theater queens; so dedicated to their special interest that the other girls are apt to write them off as weird or pigeon hole them. And when you meet someone that shares their interest, it makes for an easy connection, with a shared vocabulary and similar experiences.   

Cha-Cha hopes that she’s cool out of drag, too.   

***  

Back in the Confessional Booth.... “F### off, it’s not a crush. I’ve been married for six years and  ghetto married a lot longer than that. Unless Elizabeth Batty is a six foot freckle-faced redhead packing nine inches, she’s not my type.”   

***  

They barely have time to trade much hot goss before tones sound accompanied by “ Oooh, gurrl. ” That’s confirmation that Mickey was in fact the last to arrive and it was time for their first RuMail of the season. Mickey is disappointed when it isn’t RuPaul appearing on the monitor. The monitor is in fact just a green screen where the actual RuPaul’s message will be edited in later. A production assistant reads off the text of the message from off-screen.   

“My, my, my. Fashionably late to the party, aren’t we ladies? I don’t know how you plan to compete if you’re not going to bother showing up on time. I’ll give you a shot. But maybe we should keep things up in the air.”  

The other queens are either very good actresses or very thick. They dither for a minute wondering what they mean. Clearly, this is a photo-shoot challenge and they are not going to be earth-bound for it. This isn’t rocket science. Did Mickey not read the instructions properly? Are they supposed to play dumb so that it’s an “ah-ha” moment when Ru shows up in boy drag?  

As if on cue, that’s when Ru appears in an impeccable suit that Mickey assumes is from one of the show’s more frequent sponsors, Klein, Esptein, & Parker. "Hello, hello, hello!”  

Okay, Mickey thought he was going to be able to play it cool. But he just got “hello, hello, hello’d” by the host of his favorite television show. Which he is now on. It’s surreal when the reality of his current situation hits him. Focus, Mickey. You’re supposed to be Cha-Cha right now. This shit doesn’t faze her.  

Heights, it turns out a short while later, are not Cha-Cha's cup of tea. Okay, this is a case of Mickey performing a little. Is he overdoing Cha-Cha getting a “wee bit” of the vapors as she is strapped into the harness? Yes, she’s a goddamn drag queen. Overdoing it is all part of the charm.   

But the truth is Mickey has known a lot of things worth being afraid of in his life. Flying is nothing. This is him getting his Mary Martin as Peter Pan moment and he plans to milk it for all it’s worth. For once Mickey is thankful Ian makes him sit through all those damn superhero movies. He has a catalog of good flying poses in his memory bank.   

Cha-Cha reenters to find four of her competitors are either de-dragging or back in their boy clothes and he remarks how different they appear. This is something Mickey always catches Ian doing. Ian is always fascinated with the transformation process even now, five years after Cha-Cha entered their lives.  

Winona looks like she should be teaching ninth grade world history as a pretense for coaching high school football. Ever so slightly more salt than pepper at the temples. It makes her look distinguished.  

Floozy and Louise are... shit, they’re young. Cha-Cha knew Louise was practically jailbait, but Floozy catches her by surprise. She carries herself so confidently both as a drag queen and wigmaker, that she was expecting someone older, more established.  

Elizabeth is visibly either trans or nonbinary. The realization makes Mickey feel guilty—it's been ages since he’s checked in with his half-sister Molly. He hasn’t heard since his and Ian’s wedding. But Ian always makes sure she gets a Christmas card.  

“Damn,” comes a voice from behind her as Cha-Cha disrobes to reveal the Mickey underneath. She turns around and sees Floozy leering at her. “Think we found this season’s trade, ladies.”  

“Get bent, Flooz.”  

“No harm in looking,” she flares back at her.  

“There is when you're ogling a girl whose husband is built like a tank, has military training, and is crazy jealous.”  

“Alright,” desists Floozy, putting her hands up in surrender. “Point taken... Jeez...”  

“You called?” asks Jeez Louise.  

“That’s gonna get old fast, isn’t it?” chuckles Winona.   

“Isn’t it just?” grins the little twink.   

“Hey,” asks Elizabeth as she’s pulling her jeans on. “That true about the hubby? Military and all that?“  

“Kinda,” Mickey shrugs as he works cold cream into the tattoo concealer on the back of his hands. “He never got to serve, though.”   

Mickey and Ian had discussed how much of their personal lives they are comfortable with Cha-Cha divulging on camera. Ian insisted that everything is fair game. RuPaul is a sucker for backstory. Especially if tears are involved. Mickey isn’t quite so cavalier. The two topics of discussion he’s iffy about being the time he was raped at gunpoint and Ian’s mental health struggles.   

At least the Terry/Svetlana affair is Mickey’s story to tell.   

Discussing Ian’s mental health struggles when it could be broadcast across the world feels... it makes him feel dirty. And not in a hot “Choke me, dom top daddy” kind of way.  

“That your hubby’s name?” Elizabeth asks, pointing to his chest. “Ian Gallagher Yevgeny sounds like a mouthful.”  

Mickey shrugs. “He is.” This makes Elizabeth smirk. “But Yevgeny’s my son.”  

“Sounds pretty ethnic.”  

“The mother’s Russian. But I can’t judge. Legally, my mom was Ukrainian, named me Mikhailo. But I prefer Mickey.”  

“Mickey, huh? It suits you. “Legally, I'm still my deadname, but I prefer Lizzie.”  

“Nice to meet you, Lizzie.”  

“Same, Mickey. Bet this conversation’s not making it to air. I don’t think they want the audience knowing boy names until Ru does the baby picture schtick.”  

"Probably not," he agrees with a shrug. 

***  

The next day is their first runway. The theme is simple; RuPaul isn’t going to waste a more ostentatious prompt with only half the cast in attendance. “Represent your home town.” It’s a theme the show favors more lately. It gives the chance an opportunity to show something personal. And fortunately, there is only one New York queen in their group, so hopefully they’ll only see one Lady Liberty.   

***   

I’m so proud of this look,” Cha-Cha says later in voiceover. “Quintessential Chicago? What's more Chicago the musical named after it? A story about literally getting away with murder during the Roaring Twenties. I’m serving Roxy Hart, the seventh merry murderess of Cook County Prison. My slinky silver silk and chiffon dress is dripping in stones. I’m wearing Billy Flynn’s pinstripe suit jacket like a f###ing mink stole, and wearing his fedora. The only way I could make this more Chi-Town is if I showed up with a box of deep dish.”  

***   

A short time later, Cha-Cha is standing in her light at Critiques, her body language reads like she is Donna McKechnie on the A Chorus Line original Broadway album. It evokes Cha-Cha's easy self-confidence, even if Mickey is two seconds away from pissing in his panty hose.   

Cha-Cha sorely underestimates how long Critiques take even with half as many queens on the mainstage. But like hell if she is going to shift her weight and fidget just because she chose just the most uncomfortable shoes. She has no intention of looking like a rank amateur if the camera pans to a wide shot and she’s got ants in her panties.   

Screw Cha-Cha pissing in her tights. Mickey just realized who the guest judge is and he may just have an aneurism. He would have thought the premiere episode would be a pop diva. Or a particularly glamourous movie starlet. But bless his soul, they got a funny lady with a theater background at a Chicago comedic institution. Star of the big and small screen, goddamn Second City alumna Tina Fey. SNL star and former head writer. The creator and producer of Mean Girls the Musical . Mickey’s recessed and taped up balls shrivel a little at the thought that Cha-Cha was about to get dressed down by Liz Lemon herself.    

Finally, it is Cha-Cha's turn.  

“Cha-Cha?”  

“Yes, Ru darling?” Cha-Cha's head pops as she speaks. Her voice sounding slightly more Mae West than Harley Quinn.  

“Darling? Aren’t we aggressive.”     

“I may have been called that from time to time,” answers Cha-Cha. Aggressive. Violent. Short-tempered. A lot of terms fit the bill.  

“Let’s take a look at your photo.”   

They had photoshoot had been against a green screen, so this is the first time Cha-Cha gets to see the final product. Cha-Cha had been going for superhero poses but the final product is more of a swan dive. At least I’m consistent in my theming, Mickey thinks.   

“That’s some beautiful body language in your photo, Cha-Cha. Get strung up like that a lot back home?”  

“I’ve been trussed up before.”  

“I can tell, girl,” Ru twinkles.   

“Not in midair, though. I just know how to use my body.” And it’s Cha-Cha's turn to twinkle.   

“Now, Cha-Cha,” Michelle cuts in. “Can I take it you’re a dancer?”  

“I dabble,” she grins noncommittally.   

“What about modeling? You really have a good sense of how to cheat your proportions for the camera.”  

That’s also a dancing skill.   

“It’s a gift, Michelle.”  

Cha-Cha can feel Michelle’s eyes boring into her, no doubt looking for something to critique. “Be careful of the hemline. If you’re going for ‘flapper,’ the hem is a little too high. You risk showing off the goodie bag.”  

I don’t risk fuck all. I keep my legs together like a goddamn lady .   

“I’ll be more careful about that, Michelle,” smiles Cha-Cha.  

“And what exactly is the reference supposed to be here, Cha-Cha? Mob Wife? You know the mob is New York and Jersey, right?”  

“And Philly. And Detroit. New Orleans. And Chicago . As in Al Capone.” Pipes in Tina Fey.   

Holy fuck. Tina Fey is defending me to Michelle Visage. Whose life am I actually living? Also— thank you, Tina Fey. Last thing I want to do on week one is cross Michelle.  

Michelle is quiet for a moment. “It’s just a little muddled is all I’m saying,” sputters Michelle. Mickey is starting to realize that the judges might not be the authorities the seem on TV.  

“Well, I couldn’t disagree more,” starts Carson as he launches into some playful banter with his fellow host.  

“Chicago, huh?” starts Tina Fey once it’s her turn to officially lay into him. "What part of town?"

"South Side, Back of the Yards all my life." 

"Rough and tumble, huh?"

"I may have some wild days behind me," Cha-Cha nods.

"It takes a lot of courage to be openly gay in that sort of environment. And to walk out of the house in full drag...?"

"It did take some getting used to. It helped knowing I could whoop anyone who tried to start something."

“I'm sure it did. And I am living for the Roxy Hart of this whole look, like she stole Billy Flynn’s suit on the way out of the courthouse.”  

Cha-Cha grins face-crackingly wide. “Thank you, Tina Fey.”  

“Oh!” exclaims Michelle. “ Chicago Chicago. And that was the intent?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You can quit it with the 'yes, ma'am, no ma'am.' This is not RuPaul's Finishing School for Wayward Queens. And why didn’t you say something when I asked?”  

“I didn’t think you get the crown by picking fights with you. And I can be… confrontational when I get worked up.”  

“You get to the crown by advocating for your talent and your choices, Cha-Cha,” explains Ru. “If you don’t stand up for yourself do you think these other queens will? They see you’re fabulous, child. They’re all just waiting for you to fall flat on your ass. It’s your job to get back up and tell us why falling on your ass was all part of the routine.”  

“Yes, ma’am.   

“Thank you, Cha-Cha.” And Ru moves on to the next queen.  

That is going to be a lesson of trial and error, Cha-Cha realizes as she stands stock still through the rest of the critiques. He needs to figure out how to harness Mickey’s brazen, willful defensiveness through Cha-Cha’s charm and grace.  

Mickey places high, but this is one week that he doesn't want to win. He knows the formula the show has developed over the last several seasons. Instead of a Lip Sync For Your Life, it will be a Lip Sync For The Win. The two best of the week are always the ones who lip sync on the split premiers. But he’s thankful he’s not the top two. The last thing he wants this early in the competition is a target on his back. Let the other girls train their focus on Honeysuckle and Kitten as they perform a very athletic rendition of River Deep, Mountain High .   

Afterwards, once the seven queens are finished on stage and have danced to RuPaul’s latest single, the queens head back into the Werk Room— where they are confronted by the queens from episode 1.  

And that’s when Mickey can already hear the Shade Rattle in the edit.  

***   

Ian comes come from work, pulling up in front of the house in their hunter green Chevy Equinox. One of the silver linings of Mickey being gone is having free reign of the family vehicle, but he misses the simple pleasures of picking each other up after work.   

He misses waiting outside his last appointment and that rush he feels, the way his heart skips when he sees Mickey pull up to rescue him from whatever corner of town his appointment takes him.   Contrariwise, when he has the car, he misses the soft smile, the warm post-rehearsal glow on Mickey’s face when he pulls up outside of the dance studios or performance spaces Mickey has been rehearsing at.  

It’s only been four or five days, but he thinks he’s climbing up the walls without his husband. It’s already gotten him feeling very lonely even with Svetlana bringing Yevgeny over (which she didn’t have to do, considering the child’s biological father is away) and visiting Homan Avenue for family night at the Gallagher house.  

He is pulling his folded-up massage table from the back seat when his phone buzzes. He sets down his table once he gets up the stairs and answers the phone without even checking the caller ID as he juggles with his keys.   

“Hi, you’ve reached Freckled Fingers Massage Therapy. Are you a new or returning client?” He asks perfunctorily as he pushes the front door open.  

“Hello, is this Mr. Ian Gallagher of 1955 South Trumbull Avenue?”  

“Yes, this is he. How can I help you?”  

“My name is Wendell Androsky, calling on behalf of World of Wonder Productions.”  

“Oh, Christ. What did he do already?”  

Chapter Text

Mickey spends the night stewing. He was having a great time so far. He showed off Cha-Cha's effervescent and winning personality, charmed at least two of the judges. He even managed to make friends. Okay, friend. But one friend in under forty-eight hours is still impressive for Mickey.

And then she showed up.

Putana LaRitz. If there is one queen from Chicago Cha-Cha doesn’t want to be within fifty feet of, let alone sharing a stage with, it’s her. The twisted irony of being so happy to be judged by Tina Fey only to run into her own Regina George is not lost on her. Cha-Cha’s knuckles still itch sometimes just thinking about the way she let this bitch get in her head. And she hasn’t had a good experience with her since.

Cha-Cha holds it together throughout the blending of the two halves of the cast into one, meeting her new sisters. She isn’t going to let Putana’s negative energy poison this experience for her.

There is Madame Xixi Fong, who is a makeup artist out of drag and loves bold prints and designs. She’s friendly and awkward in a charming, self-effacing way. She falls into a playful way of throwing shade without even realizing it. Her talent for bad puns reminds Mickey of his husband.

Just Trish is a comedy girl maybe a little older than Cha-Cha, but her drag is styled much older. Her persona is modeled on quirky characters from the 1960’s and 70s. There is more than a little Paul Lynde in her delivery, too.

Bad Penny calls herself such because she always just manages to turn up. There is something devious about her manner of speech that makes Mickey suspect she’s gunning for season villain. But what she has to say is more constructive than cruel.

Gosamyr Luxx. Fashion girl. Cha-Cha is sure she probably has many admirable qualities, but she isn’t getting the personality.

Bijou... Cha-Cha doesn’t know what to make of Bijou, but she’s glad she’s here. Bijou is very French. Or at least how Americans picture Parisians in the collective imagination. She’s dressed like a mime. Maybe she is a mime. She doesn’t say a word the whole time. Mickey can already imagine the French accordion music playing in the background when Bijou’s scenes are edited in post.

Mickey wants to give Gaia Pandemonium the benefit of the doubt. She’s the kind of queen who probably wrote anarchy symbols on her notebooks in high school and thought that made her an edgelord. She seems perfectly nice, almost nebbish. But the punk rock exterior is doing most of the heavy lifting.

“So, they managed to pull in two girls from Chicago this time around, huh?” asks Putana as though she wasn’t aware Cha-Cha would like nothing better than scratch her eyes out.

Cha-Cha shrugs. “Northside, Southside. Collect ‘em all, I guess.”

She laughs. So fake, this bitch. “Just need a Westside hipster to complete the trifecta.”

“Too many girls here already.”

“Chicago’s gonna take the crown this season, yeah?”

If by Chicago, you mean “Cha-Cha.”

“Of course,” purrs Cha-Cha. She feels very fortunate that Mickey’s expressive eyebrows are glued down and painted over. She wouldn’t be able to fake it with this bitch if her face was doing more of the talking.

“I got your back, sis.” She croons as she leans in for a two-cheeked air kiss. Cha-Cha plays along.

***

“An alliance?” Mickey scoffs in the confessional. “Bitch, please. It’s only a matter of time before Nomi Malone shoves me down a flight of stairs if I let my guard down.”

***

Mickey seethes in his hotel room all night. There was a time when this sort of introspective fuming would involve Kentucky bourbon. He settled for a can of watered-down cranberry vodkas that one of his handlers sneak him from Untucked. He knows this is probably something production is going to eat up once the figure out Cha-Cha and Putana have a beef.

He doesn’t know what bothers him more. One, there is the fact that that the show just happened to cast the one queen in the whole of Chicago who ever made Cha-Cha feel like he flat out didn’t belong in drag. And two, there is the fact that she just shamelessly played nice with her for the cameras. And Cha-Cha just went along with it. Mickey feels dirty. And no amount of soaking in the tub while listening to the Lip Sync selections makes him feel better about it.

He wishes he could talk to Ian about it. If he can close his eyes, he can almost see his husband.  He can almost imagine what Ian would say. “You’re seriously going to let yourself get worked up over some queen that snubbed you four years ago? You’re Mickey fucking Gallagher. You’ve been knocked down by some of the darkest shit life can throw at us and you rose up from it stronger than ever.” He falls asleep hoping he can conjure up the imaginary Ian for something other than the occasional “come to Jesus” speech.

It’s weird the following morning. How normal all this already has become. Getting room service feels extravagant, but the fact is production wants all the queens’ interactions to be on camera. They can’t exactly allow the girls to go downstairs for the continental breakfast and risk their private interactions being anywhere besides on-screen. Still, it makes him feel spoiled. He doesn’t want to get used to it.

They aren’t even allowed to interact on their daily ride to the soundstage. Each morning, they are escorted individually to the transport vehicles parked out behind the hotel. They are driven in two different shuttles and seated several seats apart from each other. A monitor is stationed in the shuttle like this is an actual school bus and they’re a bunch of rambunctious children. To be fair, some of these girls are so young that they’re practically infants.

Kitten and Penny are made the team leaders of their first Maxi Challenge, because they both won their respective split premiere lip syncs. It’s a girl group challenge. That means dance. It could be Cha-Cha’s time to shine, but she keeps mum. They might clock her as a strong dancer after today, but Cha-Cha is not ready to show her hand. She isn’t ready to reveal what she’s capable of this early in the competition.

Kitten selects Cha-Cha. Along with Gosamyr, Winona, Louise, Gaia, and Honeysuckle. Ms. Kaboodle’s logic is that personality wills out. Cha-Cha isn’t exactly sold. The queens are still getting to know each other. Hell—half the girls didn’t meet one another officially until last night. And she can’t speak for the other queens, but she’s playing things close to the chest. How the hell does Kitten know from strong personalities? Also, rookie mistake, Kitty, Mickey reflects. This type of challenge with this many team members? You need fewer chiefs and more braves. Yet another reason for Cha-Cha to keep her choreography background to herself. One fewer person trying to hog the glory this early on.

As predicted, her team is a mess. Fine. If she needs to carry the weight in the actual performance, fine. But she isn’t getting between Gosamyr and Honey’s “I was assistant choreographer of my senior musical” squabbles.

Mickey is trying so very hard not to be a hypocritical cunt, but these girls are just too young and too green for their unearned confidence. Granted, he was getting paid to teach and choreograph at nineteen. But that was after he spent an entire childhood at the barre. Honeysuckle and Gosamyr are young. And they’re green as entertainers. Barely five years’ performance experience, in or out of drag, between the two of them. He wonders if he also had their healthy level of self assuredness when he was jailbait.

Craft Services is Mickey’s respite. The camera’s hardly follow them over here. Something really dramatic has to be brewing for the filming to follow the queens to the area designated for them to stuff their faces during the long 12–15-hour filming days.

“How’s your team doing?” asks Lizzie over a plate of jambalaya rice.

Cha-Cha hesitates. “I’m not worried about me, but my team is majorly fucked if a few girls don’t back the fuck down.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t take the lead,” Putana remarks in a hushed tone as she joins them at their table.

Mickey is still getting used to seeing Putana out of drag. He’s known her, albeit begrudgingly, for years, but only ever in drag. He never took the time to picture what she looked like under the makeup. But in passing, he probably visualized some preppy Evanston suburbanite, not someone who looks like they speak fluent Garage Band.

It has still only been a day since they informally called a truce and/or formed an alliance, so Mickey is still a bit nervous about feigning a friendly relationship with her. The fable of the tortoise and the scorpion hovers on the surface of his thoughts whenever she cozies up to Cha-Cha. But the bitch is making an effort to be nice, so Cha-Cha can play along.

“Trying to keep that under my hat, Ritz.”

“What under your hat? Got some dance priors?”

Cha-Cha looks left and right. She might be going out on a limb, making sure the three of them aren’t being listened to by prying ears. Trusting new people is hardly Mickey’s strong suit, but if there is any one queen Cha-Cha has formed a fast and easy friendship. She thinks Lizzie can be someone she can confide in. “I’ve been teaching for a while now.” Just over a decade, but Mickey still doesn’t want to let slip just how professional his background is.

“Did you catch the highlights reel from last year’s Gay USofA pageant?” asks Putana. “Swan Lake girl?”

Thanks, Putana. Why don’t you tell them my whole CV while you’re at it?

“That was you?”

“Keep that to yourselves, would ya?” Mickey asks in a hoarse whisper.

“And you didn’t want to put yourself out there?” Asks Lizzie, also whispering.

“Too many cooks in the kitchen already. I can carry the choreo just fine. I don’t need to be a glory hog this early in.”

“They really could use your help, though,” insists Putana.

“I’m not going to strong-arm the choreographers. If these girls want to be drama mamas…”

“What about helping the other girls with the choreo?” Lizzie suggests. “You said you teach, right?”

“I do, but that doesn’t mean this group of bitches want instructions.”

“Maybe they don’t,” agrees Putana. “But the way I see it, these girls are trying to figure out the weight of a star and they have no idea that Neil deGrasse Tyson is in their midst. If you don’t want to lead, at least nudge them in the right direction, girl.”

They’re right. It’s weird that Cha-Cha finds herself trusting Putana as much as Lizzie, but they both at least sound like their advice are both coming from a good place. Putana’s a better actress that I gave her credit for. The cameras aren’t even on us.

Cha-Cha takes Putana’s and Lizzie’s input to heart. She pulls aside Kitten first. After all, if their team leader is struggling, it is going to look bad for the rest of them.

“Need some help?” Cha-Cha asks.

“Wouldn’t if Honey and Gos could go five minutes without changing the steps and nail shit down,” gripes Kitten.

“Any particular part section tripping you up?”

Kitten huffs and nods. “Those two eight-counts leading into the bridge.”

“I’m good with that section,” Cha-Cha suggests. “If you want, I could break it down into smaller sections; make it easier to learn.”

And so it goes. Cha-Cha is pretty sure she’s not undermining the two bitches who can’t seem to agree on any of their choreo. She’s being a good dance captain—making sure her sisters are confident in their moves. Confidence matters. Even if the squabbling zygotes choreographing their performance keep changing things down to the last minute before they’re performing on the mainstage, Cha-Cha knows that confidence can go a long way towards making up for their leaders’ lack of cohesion.

One by one, the girls start asking her for help. Cha-Cha isn’t used to feeling quite so much like the den mother in his drag circles. At the dance studio, sure. Mickey may be a little gruff, but his students seem to love him. Sometimes, he thinks his students give him grief on purpose so they can get a laugh out of his bitchy reactions. Cha-Cha, on the other hand, has always been a little more aloof when it comes to taking on a mentorship role among her sisters. Cha-Cha has never needed to be self-serious the way Mickey is. Being appreciated by her sister the way Mickey is by his students... it’s weird, but she thinks she could get used to it.

***

The following day, the dance routines are performed on the mainstage. Cha-Cha takes comfort in the fact that his team could have performed much worse than they could have. But they still were the clear and evident second place of the two. She prays that they aren’t being judged as a team because... fuck. She is not ready to go home this early.

She feels confident in her performance, but you never know. Not on Drag Race. She prays her runway gives her the edge.

A short while later, after the stage is reset following the girl group performances, RuPaul calls out: “Category is Valley of the Dolls!”

“You want pins? You want needles?” Cha-Cha asks in voice over-when it is her turn to stomp the runway. “Served. I am delivering you Raggedy Ann meets Paris Fashion Week. I have beautiful yarn-like curls draping all the way past my ass. My voluminous gingham dress is straight out of the 1987 Christian Dior Autumn collection and topped by a chic fitted plaid jacket. My sun hat has a brim as wide as a hula hoop. My eyes and nose are bright red triangles. My winning smile is stitched into place. Raggedy Ann is not just a doll. She is is the doll.

Once all the queens are lined up after the runway, she doesn’t even bother calling out the girls individually. Yes, Mickey is pissed off to be in the bottom after all the work he put into helping his team. But he’s also annoyed because that means less of a spotlight for some of the girls on the opposing team whose runway looks deserve  more attention.

Bijou may not be a huge talker, but her looks are phenomenal. Her concept for “Valley of the Dolls” was a Barbie matryoshka doll. Five—fucking five – different Barbie styles, one reveal after another. It is pearl-clutchingly amazing to watch her strut down in a big poofy ballgown and hair almost down to her knees, then with one deft tear, she reveals Astronaut Barbie, complete with a helmet that had been hidden under the skirt of the ball gown. Then she unzips the suit and let it falls around her ankles to reveal the 1996 Gymnast Barbie. A bold tear away reveals the iconic Malibu Barbie underneath. And finally original Barbie in her black and white striped bathing suit. The last transformation even includes a wig reveal to show off the short tresses and curly bangs of the original. She’s like five Margot Robbies in one.

And then there is Elizabeth Batty who took the prompt back to the source material in a sixties mod dress bedizened in cartoonish large pills from the neckline all the way down to the mid-thigh hem. Completing the Jackie O fantasy is a pillbox hat literally spilling over with medication bottles. This deserved more recognition than just “safe.” the camera really should have panned up and down on this design so the audience could appreciate the full effect.

The judging wasn’t pretty. Cha-Cha gets high praise. In fact, several of the girls cite her for the reason their performance as good as it ended up being. She makes a mental note to thank Winona and Louise for the kind words later.

Winona gets high marks too. Of course she does. She’s been performing for almost twenty years. She knows how to buckle down and get the work done.

The other girls aren’t so lucky. Jeez Louise is far and away the weakest performer. Instragram Queen, go figure. But the true drama is between the team captain and the two self-appointed choreographers. It goes back and forth for what feels like an hour. Micky is so thankful this shit tends to be boiled down to six or seven minutes in the final edit that makes it to air.

Ultimately, it comes down to Kitten’s lack of firm leadership versus Jeez Louise’s lack of the goods. As the safe queens walk to the back of the stage, he hears murmurs from the other Group Two girls, crocadile tears over Louise and Kitten having to go head to head on the first elimination. Cha-Cha bites her tongues despite Mickey’s strong inclination to tell them that this is a competition and just because the Group Two girls have known each other two days longer doesn’t exactly make them the Sisterhood of the Traveling Tucking Panties.

***

Drag Race’s production schedule is four days on, two days off. Meaning Mickey finally gets the day off. Two of them. Unfortunately, Mickey is once again confronted with the fact that World of Wonder’s production team could manage a private prison if they wanted to. Sure, the hotel room is pretty nice compared to the rooms he typically stays in while touring. But he’s confined to the hotel room any time he’s not filming.

An economy size packet of Post-It notes that he periodically slips to a PA on the other side of the door is his ticket for anything he may want while he’s here, but that thing needs to be able to fit through the door.

He knew he wasn’t going to be allowed off the hotel on his off-days, but underestimated just how confined he would actually be. He had this skinny vanilla latte dream of laying out by the pool sunbathing on his day off in just something cute and skimpy on his days off. Maybe enjoying a piña colada or reading the one paperback he squeezed into his carry-on.

He settles for day drinking and painting his toenails while watching old episodes of Star Trek on Paramount+. He hasn’t watched it since he was maybe eight or nine. But as an adult, he suddenly realizes that maybe Counsellor Troi was his favorite because she had all those pretty dresses and hair styles.

***

Mickey so bored from the isolation that he is excited to be back to a long ass day in the Werk Room on Monday (is it Monday? Mickey hasn’t seen the calendar on his phone in so long that time is meaningless). The other queens banter back and forth about how much they’re going to miss Jeez Louise. As if she’s been exiled to a desert island and not still confined to a back at the Double Tree. He feels bad for the early out girls. Eliminated queens only have to stick around long enough to film their confessionals. But the first few queens out have to stick around until the promos are filmed.

The RuMail sound-byte plays. Cha-Cha and her fellow queens once again look at the blank green rectangle on the wall while Beth the PA reads from off-screen in a flat voice. “My heavenly queens. Ready to put down your cosmos and get to work? Because I need you on the ball if don’t want to overshoot the moon. So do a stellar job this week and remember— in the end we only have space for one winner.”

The girls’ talent for guessing the challenges has not improved in two weeks. But at least the dumb guesses are getting funnier. Mickey doesn’t understand how so many of them missed the word “ball.” And clearly space is involved. That’s what everyone else latches onto.

“What if this is a Mel Brooks challenge?” posits Just Trish. Well, at least someone caught both parts of the same equation, Mickey laughs to himself.

“Hello, hello, hello!” Comes the voice of their primary tormentor from the steps at the far end of the sound stage.

Ru is followed into the room by a bright shock of red hair. A tall figure with a pale, alien complexion… Ian?

What the fuck is going on?

***

“How have you liked the competition so far, Mick?” Asks the redhead. He hasn’t seen Ian in nine days and he looks so beautiful. He faintly wonders how those old gold booty shorts even manage to fit his now-more muscular frame.

“Could be better. Barely got my team over the hump last challenge.” Mickey shrugs, hands in pockets. He wonders what is preventing him from pouncing on his husband. “It’s fucking lonely on the off days. They lock you in. It’s less freedom than I had in juvie, but the PA’s have to bring us whatever we ask for.”

“Have you missed me?”

“Any time I stop thinking about the show, I start thinking about you. What are you doing here?”

“I work here.” He answers stepping closer to Mickey.

“Since when?”

“Is your breathing steady?”

“What?”

“How’s his heart rate?”

“Ian, what’s—?”

“Can you hear me, Mr. Gallagher?”

“I can hear you just—“

“Open your eyes, Cha-Cha. Come on. Just… she’s coming around.”

***

Mickey’s eyes flutter open and the blurring light around him comes into focus. He is looking up at the stage lights hanging from the ceiling. The on-set medic is kneeling over him. “He’s awake, Ru,” the medic announces as he sits up.

“What happened?” He asks as he attempts to stand and the medic steadies him.

“Someone get this girl a chair,” orders Ru. A stagehand named Rizzo brings one from one of the work tables.

Ten minutes pass in which the medics and production fawn over Mickey like a little lost lamb and he feels so stupid. The only person he’s okay coddling him like this is half a continent away.

“Black coffee and toast isn’t enough for breakfast, Mickey,” Ru insists. The cameras must be off or she wouldn’t be using his real name. “Especially with the long hours you pull around here.”

Mickey doesn’t admit that he hallucinated. He doesn’t admit that the sight of Bryce, the tall handsome redhead who has been a member of the Pit Crew for ages made him into a delusional mess who apparently can’t be away from his husband for a week whole days without going loopy at the sight of a man with a passing resemblance. It’s a rare occasion that he allows people to think that he’s physically weak instead of a lovesick puppy.

Without further ado, Cha-Cha is made to stand where he had been before, so that they can maintain continuity with the footage before the called cut. Putana elbows her and gives him a wink before the DP, Sarge, more affectionately known as Wintergreen, resumes rolling film. It’s the second or third time she’s done one of these friendly little gestures towards Cha-Cha while the cameras weren’t on. Either the girl is Method, or she actually thinks they’re friends.

Putana doesn’t see it, but the camera catches the dirty look once filming resumes.

***

“What’s my beef with Putana?” responds Mickey to a question from behind the camera. “First time she met me, it was before I got some tattoos I wasn’t proud of covered up. My pop was a shit. Nazi. Homophobe. Career criminal. The minute my mama ran out on us, and I didn’t have her to protect me any more, my pop did everything he could to beat me down. Literally and figuratively. He wanted me under his thumb, make me feel like I deserve how he treated us. One thing he did was mark me so no-body would look at me and think I was a good person. Right at the kitchen table, he etched “FUCK” into my right hand and “U-UP” into the left.”

“Years after I got out from my father’s control, after I fucking made something of myself as a professional ballerino and choreographer in Chicago, I started doing drag. And yeah, Cha-Cha can be a little too bold and brassy. And I can be a little abrasive out of drag. But nobody ever made me feel like I didn’t belong in drag. Until her.”

“I always wear some sort of cover-up when I perform both for dance and drag. The night I met Putana, I wore opera gloves so I didn’t have to deal with concealer. She caught me with my gloves off before a gig and caught sight of my knuckle tats. She made up her mind about me then and there and ran into the green room to tell the other girls just what she thought of me. Bitch didn’t think I could hear her. She said I had no business being there. That sharing the stage a gang-banger Southside piece of garbage like me is actually a detriment to the drag scene at large. Like it was bad enough that folks think we’re child groomers and bathroom molesters. And yes, she literally compared me having a couple tattoos I regretted to being a f###ing pedo. All before I ever even f###ing opened my mouth. So pardon me if I’m still a little uneasy with her trying to make all nicey nice with me for the cameras.”

Mickey sighs. I got the tattoos covered up after that. I kept them for so long just as a reminder that what my pop did to me didn’t break me. But I let Putana get in my head. And I didn’t want people looking at me and get the wrong impression anymore. I didn’t want people looking at me and think I’m just a thug piece of gutter trash. These babies?” He shows the respective hands, now covered up with two beautiful, detailed swans. “They mean a lot to me. Yeah, ballet boy with swan tattoos. So basic. But the bird in flight on the left represents my freedom, the second chance I forged for myself when I got back into dance. And the one nesting on my left represents my husband Ian and the home we built together.”

Mickey looks down at his knuckles pensively, then lifts his gaze back to the camera. “I’m glad I got it done. I just wish it wasn’t because I let some bitch who thinks she’s better than me get in my head.”

***

Ru lays out the assignment for their next task: The Space Ball.

• Category 1: Space Age Executive Realness. Assemble an ensemble that would slay at the office after we establish colonies on Mars.
• Category 2: Space Opera. Embody a fierce vision of science fiction or science fantasy.
• Category 3: Planet Shmanet: Construct an original garment embodying the spirit of one the heavenly bodies.

And it is that third category that Mickey knew was coming but still dreading more than a little bit. Mickey spent two weeks receiving sewing lessons from Ian, both by hand and with a machine. He feels moderately capable of making a dress. Ian had him commit his measurements in drag to memory just to save him time in the Werk Room.

Bryce walks around with a big pink furry sac. Mickey swears this gag stopped being funny years ago. Then it shot the moon and became funny again once Yevgeny was old enough to get the joke. Each queen reaches into the sac and pulls out the little mini version of their heavenly bodies. The nine planets. Earth’s moon. The sun. The stars. Haley’s Comet.

It comes time for Cha-Cha to reach in and select her heavenly body. She reaches in, her hand rummaging through the bag for the item that feels just right. They’re all painted onto spheres, so the queens can’t tell if they have a star or the moon or a comet just by touch. Sneaky, sneaky, World of Wonder. Cha-Cha pulls out the sphere that she feels luckiest about and looks at a light blue orb with a thin ring around it.

Somewhere out there, a certain tall redhead with a penchant for bad puns is laughing at him. Mickey just knows it.

“And Cha-Cha’s going to embody Uranus.”

“With cakes like that, she already is,” jokes Floozy, who makes Mickey physically ill whenever he catches her staring at Cha-Cha for too long.

“Don’t even give Floozy the time of day,” Lizzie consoles as they lay their materials on their work table and start measuring their fabrics.

“I’d be fine if I didn’t get… stalkery vibes off her.”

“That sure is a lot of material you grabbed. A lot of heavy material. Are you making Scarlet O’Hara’s curtain dress or something?”

Cha-Cha nods. “Or something. Know anything about Uranus’ moons?”

Lizzie shakes her head.

Cha-Cha smiles. “That’s gonna be my edge. If I can pull this off.”

***

What Mickey has in mind is ambitious and time consuming.

 “You’re making a what?” Kitten asks as she watches Mickey pinning the constituent parts of the dress onto the dress form.

“An Elizabethan gown with a Titania reveal.”

“What’s a Titania?”

“Queen of the Fairies, Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh right. Theater girl.”

“F### yeah,” grins Cha-Cha. “Granted, Shakespeare is theater theater, not music theater, but there are songs. A friend asked me to whip up some choreo for a college group a couple years back.”

“What does that have to do with Uranus?”

“Yeah,” adds Lizzie, who still doesn’t get the connection Cha-Cha made to the moons earlier.

“Its moon are all named after Shakespeare characters. It’s the only planet that doesn’t use mythology for its moons.”

“You just happened to know that?” Asks Putana, either perplexed or amused. Seriously, does this bitch hate me or not? She’s not making it easy to read her.

“You realize you you need to have this mostly done by ten right?”

“That’s fine. I’ll just pare down my idea if I run out of time.”

“Do you need any help? I see most of my clothes. I can always—“

“I got it,” insists Cha-Cha. It’s more Mickey than Cha-Cha at the moment. He wants to prove himself capable. He doesn’t want to ask for help unless he truly needs it.

“If you’re sure…”

In the end, Mickey runs much shorter on time than he ever anticipated. He wishes he could remember the time Ian made him a similar gown. How long did it take him? How does he always make this look so easy? With ninety minutes before the end of the day and only a couple hours to do final touches in the morning, he doesn’t know how Cha-Cha’s going to walk the runway fully clothed tomorrow.

I’m not going to cry. I’m not, Mickey tells himself. Though he might end up crying just from how tired he is. But he can’t he’s already passed the fuck out in front of all his competitors and the show’s host. He’s not adding insult to injury by bawling for the entire nation to see. I’m not going to fucking cry on camera.

***

“It’s just a lot,” explains Mickey in the Confessional as he accepts a box of tissues from a PA off-screen. “And I usually don’t just turn on the water works like this. It’s just… I guess it’s been a while since I’ve hit a wall. Give me enough time and enough motivation to learn how to do something, and I’ll learn it. I thought I had it figured out; thought I had a handle on it. But I guess I got cocky, flew too close to the sun.

***

“I’m done if you need some help. I still owe you one from last week.”

“Thanks, I’m good.” Cha-Cha insists as she presses the heavy material through the Brother sewing machine.

“You’re sure? Okay, fine. Good luck, sis,” huffs  Kitten as she turns back to her work station

Putana looks at Cha-Cha. “What gives, Chach?”

“I don’t need help.”

“Yeah, you do.” she insists wide-eyed. “Like you helped Kitty out last week.”

“This is a competition. And I just passed out in front of everyone this morning like a fucking pussy. Last thing I want is people thinking I can’t hack it when you all can smell blood in the water.”

“’This isn’t RuPaul’s Best Friends Race,’ huh?”

“I don’t make friends that easily, anyway.”

“I’ll say. We’ve been working the same clubs for the last three years. And I don’t even think we ever spoke to each other out of drag until last week.”

“Yeah, well…”

“How did that hubby of yours work his way into your good graces?” she asks.

Cha-Cha stops what she’s doing and Mickey sighs. “He believed I was worth caring about when everyone else thought I was a lost cause. Myself included.”

“Do you think Kitten would be volunteering if she didn’t think you were worth the assist?” Mickey grumbles, but Putana pushes onward, “Look, don’t let this go to your head, but you’re a fierce queen. Do you really want to be an early out because you didn’t accept help when it was on offer?”

And with that, Putana turns back to stoning her sun-themed cocktail dress.

Mickey weighs Putana’s words in his head. He still doesn’t like her, but she’s been straightforward with Cha-Cha the whole time; hasn’t steered her wrong yet. And she seems to genuinely care. He thinks he can trust her instincts.

“Kitten!” Cha-Cha calls from across the work room. “Do you still have a few minutes?”

The final product isn’t quite what Cha-Cha had sketched out in her notebook. But she gets it done, thanks to Putana’s nagging and Kitten’s quick hand with a needle and thread. She had to give up the reveal she had planned, but with some quick thinking, she finds a cheeky new bit of visual interest for the final product.

It may not be Mickey’s original plan, but he is satisfied with the final product. If he has to defend this look, he feels like it’s something he can stand by.

The following morning, Cha-Cha feels galvanized as she puts her look together for the runway. Sure, she is going to miss that Titania reveal she had planned but thanks to a little help from her new sisters, Cha-Cha feels like she has a clean, well-made design to present.

Today promises to be an especially long filming day. Audiences are blissfully oblivious, but the average runway takes over an hour to film early in the season when there are a baker’s dozen queens that need to walk. Each queen walks each look twice—first with the music, then another without it so that the mics can pick up the judges jokes and puns. And the Ball Challenge means they need to repeat this process two more times.  

The art of female illusionism takes a toll on the body. Corsets can be laced so tight that they can cause internal issues. The extensive use of makeup can be murder on the skin of you don’t take it off properly and regularly. And tucking? Okay, for the uninitiated, the act of tucking sounds painful. But the truth is, it’s fine once you get used to it. The extent of time you stay tucked is another matter. It reminds Mickey of the original version of The Little Mermaid. Every step the mermaid took on her human legs felt like walking on knives. He imagines, the first few hours were tolerable, though.

The human male body was not meant to be tucked nearly half as long as Mickey expects he will be today. It’s going to be an endurance run to get to Untucked.

***

The first two categories go by not in a flash but in a long, drawn out frenzy. For Space Age Executive Realness, Cha-Cha serves up Peggy Olson by way of Jane Jetson. Sixties mod. A stylized and moussed up wig simulates a zero gravity environment. And she sports a stylish jetpack. For Space Opera, she flaunts her body-ody-ody as Dejathoris from the John Carter pulp sci fi novels. It is certainly more unique than the three Slave Girl Leias that also walk the runway. And still gives her the chance to flaunt her beautiful posterior, proudly informing the world in voice over that no, this is all natural. Cha-Cha’s never had a BBL.

Then comes the moment of truth the third category is Planet Shmanet.

“Desdemona. Ophelia. Juliet. Sycorax. Titania. The moons of Uranus all tell a story,” Cha-Cha explains in voiceover as she arrives upstage in a floor-length Tudor-era gown. She has a large feather quill in one hand and her other holds a handheld Venetian mask to her face, so all the judges can see are her long brown tresses. “And who told all these tales? The Bard of Avon.” At the end of the runway, Cha-Cha lowers the mask to reveal a William Shakespeare illusion. She smiles and makes a meal out of swaying the heavy outer layer of her frock as she crosses stage right, then left. “And of course, Uranus as another, association. “Cha-Cha turns to walk back upstage revealing an exaggerated bustle, giving her a nice shapely posterior in the gown.  

Cha-Cha is among the six queens chosen as tops and bottoms of the week. She wondered if the stage lights got suddenly hotter or if it’s just the fact that she’s under several layers of a heavy dress. She is the last one to be critiqued and her heart sinks when she realizes at least three of the queens that precede her are getting showered in praise. That means she should steel herself for some harsh words. Water off a duck’s back, she repeats to herself, figuring it worked for Jinkx all those seasons ago.

Once again the negative critique from Michelle comes down to Michelle Visage knowing exactly Jack about shit. Even after Mickey, perhaps a little feistily, explains the connection between Uranus and Shakespeare, she thinks the connection was weak.

At least Ru is better at pretending she’s ever opened a book in her life. “You’re smart, Cha-Cha. But maybe this design is a little too smart. Be more like Shakespeare and play to the cheap seats.”

Carson just wishes that if Cha-Cha is going to do a bustle butt, the execution needs to be better, cleaner. Especially if it’s going to be the cheeky reveal at the end. That is something Mickey appreciates about Carson’s critiques. They’re just as constructive as Michelle’s without being as harsh. He has a compliment sandwich approach to his feedback. There’s a simplicity to it, the way he laser focuses in on exactly what little change could have made the difference in judging.

The first thing Cha-Cha usually does when she arrives backstage for Untucked is make her pelvic region a bit more comfortable for the hour or so that judging takes. Today however, she goes directly for that cocktail. The safe girls ask who’s high and who’s low. Ultimately the low queens come down to Mickey’s being over-ambitious and a bit too cerebral, Floozy’s design being messy and throwing way too much at the wall without thinking about the silhouette, and Honeysuckle, whose design is just a basic A-line dress with silver starts embroidered on it.

Mickey isn’t in the mood for the banter today. He usually loves it, but he’s in fight  He pulls his ipod out of his makeup station and starts mouthing along to tonight’s Lip Sync song. Thank Christ, he thinks. A song he’s actually choreographed for his kids back home. It’s a cover of “Dancing in the Moonlight.” Cute, World of Wonder. Way to stick to the space theme.

Out on the mainstage, Cha-Cha prays that if she is forced to lip sync, she has to go up against. Floozy. She knows she can beat her ass and she wants one less creeper in the Werk Room. Unfortunately, she goes up against Honeysuckle.

She feels bad for the girl. She’s young and she’s green. She has under two years’ experience, but if she’d auditioned another couple years down the line, Cha-Cha imagines she could be a much fiercer competitor. She’s a pretty little thing. And unlike Louise last week, she does have a performance background. So much potential. It feels so cruel to be the one to knock her out of the running.

But needs must.

Afterwards, when Mickey is laying in his hotel room, he resolves himself never to end up in the bottom two again. He has every belief in his own abilities. That may sound overconfident, considering he was a heartbeat away from elimination today, but it’s true. He feels bad for girls like Honeysuckle and Louise, though. Maybe it’s that loyalty to the other Group Two queens. Or perhaps it’s a remnant of the old imposter syndrome he used to fight against so hard when he first started dancing again. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t have it in him to be the person who crushes someone else’s dreams.

Chapter Text

Mickey enters the Werk Room for the eighth “week” of the competition with a healthy glow around him. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that after three weeks of not being allowed anywhere other than on set, he threw courage to the wind over the weekend and started sunbathing on his hotel room balcony in a tiny swimsuit he had intended for the hotel’s pool. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that last “week” was Cha-Cha's first win in the competition.  

*** 

Not to be that girl, but Cha-Cha knew she was a shoo-in to win the Rusical when the only other girl with theatrical chops was XiXi Fong. And she completely shat the bed on the plastic surgery Informercial Challenge. Of course, it did help that her best friend in the competition assigned the roles. Floozy was ready to buck heads over the role of the villainous killer plant Oddley Too in their production of The Best Little Shop of Whores in Tuckahoo . But Lizzie reined the girls in. As winner of the mini challenge, Lizzie was in charge of casting, but initially went with a laissez-faire approach. She only stepped in when Floozy and started stomping her feet while Cha-Cha suggested a vote. Floozy settled for the role of the duplicitous brothel madame Mrs. Boychik, and mentioned she should have been the damned plant at any opportunity.   

Mickey’s confident his strategy will make for good TV when the season makes it to air. He downplayed Cha-Cha's dance abilities in rehearsal, really hammed it up as Cha-Cha “struggled” with the choreography. He really is a better actress than he expected. He was so worried Cha-Cha was serving a porn actress level delivery in rehearsal, but the look on the choreographer Jamal Sims’ face told Mickey that she’d sold the performance.   

Everyone thought Cha-Cha was going to bomb tomorrow. Perfect. Now, it’s up to Mickey to make sure she doesn’t. As soon as they’re out of rehearsal, he pulls out his notebook and meticulously charts out Cha-Cha's choreography while he suffers through a plate of bland quinoa and some truly sludge like black coffee from craft services.   

That night, he pushed all the furniture in his hotel room onto the bed so he can have enough space so that he can get in ninety minutes of actually rehearsing before bed. Even though he’s truthfully confident he can pull off what Jamal mapped out for Cha-Cha to perform, Mickey knows better than to get cocky. A lifetime ago, Mickey was drug dealer; he knew better than to count his earnings until he had the cash in hand.   

And it paid off. Mickey thought he’d be smugly satisfied the day he finally ended up on-stage for critiques. He thought he’d rub in her face after every time the New Jersey princess opened her mouth only to talk nonsense out of her ass.   

Instead, Mickey felt grateful. Maybe it’s the result of his upbringing; alternately neglected and abused at home but always nurtured at the dance studio. Perhaps that’s the reason why being recognized and praised for the craft makes him feel ten feet tall and replenishes his electrolytes. Mickey thought he was going to be one cocky smartass on stage tonight, but all Cha-Cha can say is “You don’t know how much it means to mean to hear you say that, Michelle.”  

***   

Mickey’s initial good vibes as he enters for week eight dims when he sees the empty workstation where Bijou had regularly situated herself for the past seven challenges. Bijou went home last week, the first member of their little clique to sashay away. The room feels a little dimmer without her.  

Though, in Bijou’s defense, she lasted an impressive amount of time for someone who never says a word in drag. And Mickey has to tip his lace-front to her. Bijou was committed to her mime performance all the way to the bitter end. They found out last week in Untucked that Bijou is a CODA, Child of a Deaf Adult. The mime routine is an homage her parents. And Cha-Cha can’t fault her for that.  

Of course, Bijou never told any of the girls about her background herself. When she does speak, and it’s never in drag, she is always keen to avoid her personal life. She prefers to be a cipher of a Marcel Marceau in a dress. But production had her number because mid-way through a tense Untucked, production stops the proceedings dead in their tracks so that the girls can watch a message from one of the girls. He watches a subtitled video of Bijou’s parents wishing their daughter every ounce of luck in the world while Bijou signs back I love you, even though they all know this is pre-recorded and not a live feed.  

It got Mickey thinking about his mother Ludmilla. It made him wonder how his drag could be very different now if the woman who secreted him away to lessons and paid for his first pair of ballet slippers were still alive. Would Cha-Cha be dedicated to representing women like his mother? Would Cha-Cha homage first generation immigrants who crossed an ocean and struggled against a language barrier in order to give her children a better life? Would Cha-Cha champion domestic abuse survivors like Ludmilla?  

She probably should, Mickey reasons. If all goes well and they don’t try to give me a fucking villain edit, I’ll come out of this dog and pony show with a major platform. Cha-Cha can do some good. That’s why Cha-Cha’s last name is “Heals.” Dance and drag are my tools to make this a better place than the shitshow I was born into.  

It’s hard to watch the scene play out because Mickey can see the artifice for what it is. It’s a kiss of death, realizes Mickey. Production doesn’t show the girls their family messages in Untucked when they’re in the bottom unless they are almost certain it is a queen’s last hurrah. Of course, Mickey could see the writing on the wall, even if Cha-Cha let herself get swept up in the emotionality. If there is one thing he’s an expert on other than dance, it’s an encyclopedic knowledge of Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals. But if there is still yet another thing he feels like he should have a degree in, it would have to be Drag Race riggory. And unless Bijou pulls out every last stop in her guaranteed lip sync, then she is definitely scheduled to take her final bows for the season. 

Mickey hardly notices the conversation swirling around Cha-Cha as he watches Gosamyr wipe away Bijou’s lip stick message. As predicted, Bijou’s dedication to her homage is ultimately what did her in. It’s not impossible to perform non-verbal improv, but it did prove a struggle for her scene partners Putana and Kitten to play off her. Mickey reasons TV is as much an auditory medium as it is visual. In improv, you need to be able to say “Yes, and...” in the same language. Girl , he thinks to himself as though Bijou were still here to take his advice, these girls barely have English down and you thought they could volley off ASL?  

“Earth to Ms. Heals?” 

Mickey feels a hand on his should shaking him and he almost takes a swing. Almost. It looks more like a pronounced flinching. Thank the fucking Christ for the Paroxatine. Last thing I need is get is to get DQ’d right after my big win because of fucking PTSD bullshit.   

“Girl, where are you?” asks Kitten playfully. “We’re trying to give you your flowers here and you’re off daydreaming somewhere else.” 

“Sorry, a lot on my mind.” 

“You okay, Chach?” Putana asks. There is genuine concern in her voice. It’s getting harder and harder from week to week for Mickey to believe this is just playing nice for the show. But he also suspects that in and of itself is a strategy.  

Mickey has gotten comfortable being honest to the camera about his sordid history. He knows brutal honestly about his backstory is the key to getting a sympathetic edit the longer he lasts in the competition. But he’s only told his darker chapters so far to Gonzo, the improbably-named PA who runs the the confessionals. Mickey contemplates inviting him to Chicago after the show wraps and introduces the PA to Kermit at the Alibi. Didn't they have a Rizzo on for the crew makeover challenge back on Season 9? He knows a year from now when the show airs, the secrets he admits to Gonzo will become the subject of Internet discourse. But for now, he can compartmentalize it down to the one person. He can handle one person knowing the uglier parts of his personal history. 

He feels close enough to Lizzie and Putana that he probably would explain his damage if it was just the three of them gabbing at their makeup vanities. But the five other girls vary from benign indifference to mild irritation to “if I found you sinking in quicksand I’d say I’m going to find help, but then just keep walking.” So if he does tell them, it will be with fewer prying ears. 

But fortunately, Cha-Cha is saved from having to explain Mickey’s damage by the chime of the RuMail. Wonderful, Mickey hums to himself. Time to watch the IQ’s drop as these girls do a stellar job of not figuring out very obvious clues.  

“It’s Snatch Game,” announces Lizzie flatly. Not a guess, a declaration.  

“How are you so sure?” asks Gaia, who thought this would be some sort of cake-themed challenge (Mickey has learned the hard way not to riddle out the other queens’ thought processes during this weekly exercise).  

“Because there are eight seats on the Snatch Game set and there are eight of us.” Explains Mickey. Lo and behold, minutes later Ru shows up to explain exactly that. And from there, the girls scatter to their costume racks and wigs mounted on mannequin heads.  

Having been a member of the Drag Race fandom even longer than he’s even been out of the closet, Mickey has come up with a set of guidelines about Snatch Game: 

• Make Ru laugh. But everyone knows that one. Or they should, anyway. 

• Choose a character you can inhabit for hours. It’s only ten to twenty minutes in the final edit, but it can take ages to film.  

• It’s easier to make Ru laugh if she knows who the fuck you’re playing. And if you do go for some influencer, TikToker, Twitch streamer or whatever, you better make damn sure that your comedy is on pointe. 

• Choose someone who actually gives you enough material to work with. It astounds him how many queens pick a character without a lot of comedic potential because they get caught up a pop diva they stan or don’t think past the visual illusion. 

• Know someone you actually know something about and get prepared to volley. If Ru drops lobs a softball reference your way and you whiff it, just start packing. 
• Do right by your character. Imitation should be a form flattery. Do not embarrass the star you choose to impersonate with a crap performance.

And with that in mind, even though he has Harley Quinn and Olivia Coleman impersonations in his back pocket, they are distant backup choices. Harley Quinn is fun but her voice is too similar to Cha-Cha’s. That also rules out Fran Drescher, Janine from Ghostbusters, and a handful of very New York sounding women Ian has compared Cha-Cha to over the years. And Olivia is fun because she is so sweetly genuine, but he’s not sure he can really ping-pong back and forth with her character. 

 The person he’s impersonating is bold, sassy, brassy, is brutally authentic and pulls no punches. He could play her all day if he wanted to.  

***  

Cha-Cha waits patiently for the camera to pan on her as one by one Ru introduces and banters with each queen. Mickey wasn’t nervous when he sat down, but he sure is now. He isn’t going to let it get it him, though. He’s just got to take those nerves and let Cha-Cha harness them to a more productive end.  

Going down the rows, she introduces Gaia as Lizzo, Kitten as Christine Beranski, Floozy as Divine, Putana does Lindsey Lohan at her most coked up celebutante era. And it slays. And Lizzie plays an Aubrey Plaza who leans heavily on the witchy, spooky, intentionally unsettling side of the actress’s comedy. Also a serve. Mickey might be biased about his new drag sisters, but as far as he’s concerned Lizzie and Putana came to slay.  

Gosamyr is an Internet influencer that Mickey has never heard of. Sorry, but he honed his makeup skills through theatrical training and additional pointers from a sister who does makeup professionally on film and television sets, he didn’t have to learn from some TikToker who has to plug Native deodorant and HelloFresh. So whoever they’re playing are complete mysteries to him. As far as Mickey’s concerned, Gosamyr is background noise in an otherwise fun lineup. 

Then finally comes Cha-Cha’s introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen,” grins Ru through a plastered Hollywood grin. “We have a real treat for you tonight. Veteran of the stage on Broadway and the West End for five decades, it’s three time Tony award winner— Patti Lupone is here!” 

“Fuck’s sake, Ru. Thanks for leading with five decades. Why not tell Gen Z over here,” Patti gestures toward Gosamyr, “to slice me open and cut the goddamn rings.”  

Ru chuckles. Good for a start. “We’re very happy to have you with us, Patti.” 

“Well, that makes one of us. I just finished a two-show day and this horse and pony act is the only thing standing between me and a box of Franzia.” 

And so it goes as the rounds cycle through Cha-Cha plays Patti Lupone as a cantankerous Broadway insider who treats all her anecdotes as war stories and does not suffer fools lightly. 

“Patti?” 

“Shoot, Ru.” 

“We’re looking for you’re answer. Fatty Patty is so fat—“ 

“I beg your f###ing pardon.” 

Ru giggles. “Just let me get through it once, Ms. Lupone. Fatty Patty is so fat, when she hosts a party, she blanks. What did you have written down.” 

She flips her answer card over. “Yeah, Ru she doesn’t invite people that call her f###ing fatty. The hell is wrong with people?” 

In the fourth round, a member of the crew played right into Cha-Cha’s plan. Ru is cycling through the queens asking them their answer for Dumb Dumb Debbie when suddenly someone’s phone starts to ring. None of the crew want to own up to it, so it just keeps ringing.  

Patti stands. “Okay, that’s it. I don’t know what amateur hour you’re used to but this is the legitimate stage. Have some damn respect for the f###ing craft. Stop the show. I am  not putting up with this for another second.” She eyes a guilty-looking boom mic operator. “You, with the hair lip. Come here. Don’t make me tell you twice.” 

Ru is cackling. “Better do as she says, Lou.” 

Another member of the crew takes the boom mic and the crew member comes onstage. “Phone,” demands Cha-Cha. 

The crew member hands over the offending phone and the drag queen answers it. “Hello? … What the hell do you mean who’s this? Who are you? Oh, well hello Shannon, Lou’s wife. I’m Patti Lupone and we’re all on the set of Snatch Game... Yes, I’d be excited too, but your husband needs a talking to. When you get home, I need you to have a very serious talk with him about theater etiquette and silencing his f###ing phone during a performance…. I know, right? So rude… Yes, he can have it back when you pick him up from work. Lovely to talk with you, Shannon. Kisses!” Cha-Cha hangs up the phone and tucks it under her blouse. “The wifey says you can have it back at the end of the school-day, Lou.” 

Ru is having a fit of hysterics as Cha-Cha takes her seat again. “Okay, so where were we? Dopey Dolly? Silly Sylvia? Ratched Rachel?” 

The other queens’ eyes shift around the room as they wonder who is going to top that sort of power move in front of Ru like that. There is no second guessing that Cha-Cha just clinched her second consecutive win. But the question is whether this queen who was flying under the radar a couple weeks ago is suddenly proving herself to be one to beat. 

Mickey isn’t ignorant of the target he placed on his back when Cha-Cha won her second consecutive win. He just couldn’t help showboating and throwing around personality. It’s what Patti Lupone would have done, right? Still, he errs on the side of caution and doesn’t whip out his Grade A material for the roast of Ross Matthews in the following challenge. He delivers a good set, of course, but he’s not making waves for a while, hoping the girls will zero in on someone else to feel threatened by. 

When Week Ten arrives, Mickey feels like they really have to be near the end now that only six queens remain. The Roast challenge saw Winona go home, and Floozy sashayed the hell away after her embarrassing attempt at Divine during Snatch Game. 

The production schedule only has three more “weeks” after this one. The math would whittle the cast down to two after that final episode, so Mickey can’t help but imagine there is some sort of stunt on the horizon like a Lip Sync smackdown to fill the gap. And Ru settles on a final four these days much more regularly than a final three. So those last couple weeks just might be a waste of everyone’s time. 

As the PA off screen reads the RuMail, he for the first time doesn’t quite get the riddle. The key phrase he settles on is “the pit crew puts in long hours and it’s time to give back.” Mickey swears if he has to team up with a member of the Pit Crew he may as well pack it in now. It is too late in the process to saddle them with a team challenge with people who don’t even have any skin in the game. Wait. Is this the makeover challenge? He hasn’t been on the Pit Crew in years, but he would love to drag up Shawn. 

But it isn’t the Pit Crew that Ru leads into the Week Room. And for the second time in the run of this competition, Mickey thinks he just might be hallucinating at the sight of one of the six new faces on the set. Beautiful. Legs for days. Hair the color of a shiny new penny. A boyish, crooked smile meant only for him. 

“Ian!” 

Chapter Text

Three weeks earlier.

Ian comes from work, pulling up in front of the house in their hunter green Chevy Equinox. One of the silver linings of Mickey being gone is having free reign of the family vehicle, but he misses the simple pleasures of picking each other up after work.  

He misses waiting outside his last appointment and that rush he feels, the way his heart skips when he sees Mickey pull up to rescue him from whatever corner of town his appointment takes him.   Contrariwise, when he has the car, he misses the soft smile, the warm post-rehearsal glow on Mickey’s face when he pulls up outside of the dance studios or performance spaces Mickey has been rehearsing at. 

It’s only been four or five days, but he thinks he’s climbing up the walls without his husband. It’s already gotten him feeling very lonely even with Svetlana bringing Yevgeny over (which she didn’t have to do, considering the child’s biological father is away) and visiting Homan Avenue for family night at the Gallagher house. 

He is pulling his folded-up massage table from the back seat when his phone buzzes. He sets down his table once he gets up the stairs and answers the phone without even checking the caller ID as he juggles with his keys.  

“Hi, you’ve reached Freckled Fingers Massage Therapy. Are you a new or returning client?” He asks perfunctorily as he pushes the front door open. 

“Hello, is this Mr. Ian Gallagher of 1955 South Trumbull Avenue?” 

“Yes, this is he. How can I help you?” 

“My name is Wendell Androsky, calling on behalf of World of Wonder Productions.” 

“Oh, Christ. What did he do already?” 

Ian’s throat seizes up in a panic. Technically, Mickey was under an NDA the entire time he was prepping for Drag Race. But it was on open secret between Mickey, Ian, and Carl the whole time. It has been years since Mickey has been involved in shady dealings; that could have been a good cover. How else other than the truth would Mickey have explained to them that he has to leave town for over a month without any communication. Ian feels his heart palpitate at the thought that  he might have just disqualified his husband when Mickey has been gone just barely over a week.

“Everything’s fine. Miss Heals has been a model participant. Testy with the staff at the hotel though.”

“Well, you guys do lock them in their rooms. Not shocked there.” The initial fear that Mickey is in trouble abates and is immediately replaced with fears for his husband’s well-being. “He’s okay, right? Getting his meds? He’s eating right?”

“Yes. And per the doctor’s note, one of the production assistants will coordinate a phone call to his therapist on dark days if he needs it.”

“Dark days?”

“Their days out of the studio.”

“Oh. Okay. So, if he isn’t in trouble, and he’s physically okay, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We have a few favors and an invitation for you, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Favors?”

“More like homework.”

***

The first task that Wendell asks of Ian is the easiest: baby pictures. For the longest time, Mickey didn’t have any physical evidence of his existence before the age of four or five. And it was easy for Ian to accept Mickey’s suggestion that Terry probably trashed any baby pictures Ludmilla might have taken.

He accepted this as gospel until a few years back when his efforts to renovate the formerly near-condemned Milkovich house into their forever home. A few years back, they turned their attention to the very foreboding basement that was once home to a lot of Terry Milkovich’s more sinister criminal activities. Mickey joked when Ian took the initiative that he’d probably find the skeletons of rival gang leaders or undocumented sex workers.

But the actual surprise was a cache of childhood documentation. Report cards. Medical information. School assignments. He learned about Colin’s strawberry allergy, sifted through Mandy’s early refrigerator-worthy masterpieces, he found out that his husband was a solid A and B student throughout early elementary school. Fucked for life, indeed.

And he found Ludmilla’s photo albums. A treasure trove of images of his family by marriage. No wonder so many people confuse Mickey and Mandy for twins. At ages four and five, Mandy’s shoulder-length hair was the only way to tell them apart. He found himself laughing fondly at the sight of Iggy, Collin, and even the much older and distant Milkovich half-brother Joey cleaned up for school picture days and brandishing toothy (and depending on the grade, not-so-toothy) grins for the camera.

And he nearly lost his shit when he found baby pictures of his husband. His face was expressive from birth; his eyebrow game was on pointe at the tot in the photos was alternately incredulous and inquisitive of the camera in front of him.

He has since hung many of his siblings-in-law and husband’s childhood photos throughout the house. And walking up and down the main hallway connecting the living room to the bedrooms, he zeroes in on a photo.  It’s one of the few photographic evidence Ian has of Ludmilla. She’s in a green sun dress and looks genuinely happy, a far cry from the miserable, trapped woman Mickey and Mandy often paint her as. Terry must have been locked up at the time, Ian rationalizes. Mickey looks maybe eighteen months old, Ludmilla quite clearly put a lot of thought and care into his appearance for the portrait. His mop of wispy black hair is combed neatly to the side. He’s in brown corduroy overalls and a bright blue shirt. He’s sitting with his legs crisscrossed and cradled in his lap is a newborn and swaddled Mandy. Ludmilla’s arm is wrapped around baby Mickey’s side, helping to support his sister’s head. This image is precious to him.

But there are other photos that have been mounted on walls and on mantels nearly as long as Ian has been a permanent resident of the house. Maybe not baby photos but still very young and earnest. For the longest time, Mickey was convinced that his photos from his childhood recitals and showcases at Kim Rose Dance Studio were the earliest photos he possessed of himself. He spent years keeping them hidden under the floorboards of his childhood bedroom. Mickey revealed these to him not long after he resumed his dance studies. But it wasn’t until he’d been at it for almost a year and outed himself to the family at large that Mickey relented and allowed Ian to adorn their walls with them.

The contender he picks from Mickeys baby ballet era may not be the flashiest of the bunch. Kim Rose’s dance instructors have some pretty hideous taste in children’s dancewear. Ian could have picked out better ensembles long before his husband recruited him for his drag ensembles.

He looks between his two finalists and decide which of Mickey’s baby pictures will shantay and which one will sashay way.

***

The next day, he receives a manilla envelope that was sent via overnight mail full of all the Non-Disclosure Agreements he is expected to get signed in the next forty-eight hours. Ian cannot help but chuckle inwardly knowing that this would absolutely not get done in a timely fashion if their positioned were reversed. Mickey has many positive aspects. Family wrangling isn’t one of them.

Mandy is both the easiest to get a hold of and the hardest to pin down. He didn’t even wait for the Non-Disclosure Agreements to arrive this morning. He had barely changed out of his work scrubs last night when he called her. As a cinematic makeup artist, she travels for work. She’s a moving target. He knows if Mickey’s favorite sibling wants to part of the “Message from Home” they’re going to record for Untucked.

“Lucky you, I was already gonna be in town for on-location filming, Ian Gallagher.”

“You were headed into town and you didn’t tell me?”

“Mickey’s gonna be on Drag Race and you didn’t tell me? You’re not the only one working around NDAs. I just keep to myself so I don’t have to dance around what I’m working on.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I don’t know. This company tends to go with Econo-Lodges and shit like that.”

“Uh-uh. You’re coming home. Understood?”

“That lonely without my brother?”

“Christ, twist my arm, Mands. Yeah, I want my best friend to stay with me in her own house.”

“One of these days, I need to figure out how to get our names swapped out on the deed. Me and Mick may have inherited that place, but it was you and Mick who made it a home.”

“Add me, but keep your name on. Wherever else you go, you have a home with us. Case in point, when should I expect you?”

“This is a working trip for me, okay?”

“Of course,” replies Ian already planning an evening of dubious microwavable dinner items and Smash Bros. Maybe a movie.

“We can’t have one of our old movie marathons. My call time is five in the morning.”

“Fine. We’re both adults,” Ian grins implishly into the phone, “We both have early starts. One movie, then bed. The both us. Heathers? Kate & Leopold? Pride & Prejudice? The Craft?” He rattles off a list of movies he knows the two of them love, but Mickey would veto if he were around.

He hears her sigh into the phone. “Practical Magic. I’ll be flying in the day after tomorrow.”

“Time and gate?”

The rest of the short list is more cut and dry. Svetlana signs for Yevgeny and herself. Ian knew she would insist on her wanting to be involved. Sure, Mickey and Svet will talk merciless shit to each other’s faces to this day, but there is a reluctant bond that formed over years of the three of them co-parents in spite of what Terry Milkovich once did to them. Iggy is a lock, but Colin is a little shaky about being on camera, so he declines.

He also asks among the younger Gallaghers. Carl is an obvious lock. Even if he weren’t Mickey’s only drag daughter, to date, but he generally thinks he’s Mickey’s favorite in-law. Liam is unfortunately too busy, away at his first year of pre-law at Howard University, but Debbie signs for herself and Mickey’s actual favorite in-law, their niece Franny.

Done and done. Ian pounds the pavement and tracks down everyone he’s earmarked for Mickey’s Untucked message in about a day and a half.

Ian and Mickey don’t have a printer in the house. So after Ian gets signatures on all the Non-Disclosure Agreements, he goes to the library in one of the better-funded neighborhoods and uses the computers to scan each document into a PDF file. Once he has finished e-mailing them out, he goes home to prep for tomorrow’s appointments. He off-handedly contemplates making the calls to find ringers to cover his appointments the week after next. If all goes according to plan, he’ll wake up to a confirmation number for a free round trip to LaLa Land in twelve days.

On his way back to the Chevy from the library, he feels for his phone in his pocket. He isn’t exactly convinced, which is to say he’s not at all convinced, that Wendell Androsky’s invitation is what the man said on the outset. Would it make sense for the significant others of the season’s contestants to be invited to a meet and greet? Sure, he guesses begrudgingly. The queens Mickey is competing with will have their lives intertwined contractually for the next several years. And their names will be associated together far longer than that. It makes sense that their close families form more informal ties to bolster their relationships.

But does Ian buy it? Ian is a Gallagher. He may not have the scam artist gene his siblings inherited from Frank, but he sure as hell can sniff out a grift. Whatever it is he had to sign a second NDA for, it’s not a meet and greet. And he’s been in the room while Mickey has marathoned season after season to have a pretty good hunch.

His index finger hovers over the Contacts screen. He can’t call Mickey. Even after three weeks without communication, the inclination remains strong. Whenever he opens the phone app, that’s his first instinct. Instead, he scrolls through his secondary favorites and clicks on one of the accounts.

The call connects after three rings. “Yeah?”

“Hey, I know I was just over last night, but do you mind if I come over? I wanna pick your brain about something”

***

Now.

It takes Mickey all his willpower not to bum rush his husband as Ru explains the challenge at hand. Mickey knows the basics, even though there is always some additional dance routine or something attached to the makeover challenges anymore. It takes every ounce of energy to focus on anything coming out of Ru’s mouth, though. Ian is what matters right now. This is the longest he’s gone without seeing or hearing from Ian in ten years. And now that Ian is in a room with him again finally, his lizard brain is having a hard time processing anything else.

“Back in your own shtetls and towns, you all have your own personal teams that make the magic of your drag come to life,” explains Ru. “And now it’s time for you to return the favor. We’ve invited a member of your personal pit crews to join us in the Werk Room and you are going to turn your friends and family into your drag sisters.” Ru then proceeds to take each guest and pair them with their respective queen. With each introduction, the makeover participant comes to stand next to their respective queen.

First is Gosamyr’s mom Shriya, who manages all the admittedly disorganized queen’s bookings. She has a leg up on the competition when it comes to the physical family resemblance. He sees a bit of Production manipulation at play. Gosamyr is the youngest queen and despite not knowing her ass from her elbows, she is consistently praised in judging. It’s baffling. The producers clearly want her to have a place in the finale. 

 But Gosamyr is young, lazy, and self-involved. He’s expecting her to botch this gift-wrapped assignment.

Second is Gaia's best friend since high school, Cassie, who taught Gaia how to do her makeup. Just based on Gaia's makeup skills, Cha-Cha wouldn't exactly say Cassie must be all that good.  

Next is Kitten’s best friend and makeup guru since college, Felix. The guy is short and stocky, it almost reminds Mickey of his own body type in the years he wasn’t dancing. He has a nice thick coat of body hair and a meticulously maintained beard and Mickey expects the final edit to make a whole big stink about the before and after of that beard. Mickey feels for the guy. If he could grow a beard that looked anywhere near as full and robust as Felix’s, he might have second guessed two different careers that required a regularly clean-shaven money maker.

Next is Putana’s college roommate, Hank, who is working towards a Master’s degree in fashion design from the Segal Institute at Northwestern and hooks her up with her accessories.

But Mickey is more interested in the wild darting of his husband's eyes between Putana and Mickey. There is an entire story on Ian’s face, but Mickey has to stay engrossed in the story the show is trying to tell. He has to stay in the moment. Later, he can  ask his husband what the deal was. No doubt, he remembers Mickey’s old recurring whine fest about Putana when he was still sure he hated her and he’s just surprised the two of them haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out after three weeks. But there is a look of recognition from Putana as well. Maybe not as blatant as his intractably unsubtle husband, but still Mickey catches it.

Next is Lizzie. It’s weird that Ru always calls her by her full drag name at all times. She puts a lot of mustard on it whenever she addresses Elizabeth Batty. But to Mickey, she’s always just Lizzie, his first friend in the Werk Room and still the closest. Ru introduces Garett, Lizzie’s step-father who was the first person to make sure she would always be loved after she came out as trans to her family. He held his daughter’s hand through every step of her transition. It’s not technically part of her drag process, but Mickey thinks he would clock someone if they said her step-father didn’t qualify a seat at this particular table.

Lastly, it is Ian’s turn to introduce himself. “My name is Ian, but if you just call me ‘Mr. Heals,’ I’m used to it. I’m a massage therapist—”

“With those big hands…” muses Kitten hungrily.

“I put together Cha-Cha’s costumes and I’ve co-designed a good half of them.”

“Something tells me the girls already have heard a lot about you,” leads Ru.

“Yeah, ‘cause Cha-Cha never shuts the fuck up about him,” interjects Gaia, earning a flipped bird from Mickey without even turning to face her.

“You don’t shut up about me, huh?” asks Ian as he crosses to stand by Mickey.

“Not for a goddamn minute.”

Mickey thinks he’s reaching in for a chaste, family television-friendly embrace. The touch feels like Mickey has been deprived of oxygen for the past three weeks and now he can breathe again. “Holy f###! You’re really here.” Before Mickey even realizes what he’s doing, Ian has him off the ground and Mickey is peppering the ginger’s long freckled neck and grinding his hips against his husband’s like this was the first time he’s had intimacy in months instead of just a few short weeks. The other queens “whoooOOOooo,” like a goddamn studio audience.

“Stop rolling. Will someone get the goddamn hose?” Ru jokes.

“Baby...” Ian mutters. “Baby, the cameras.”

“Yeah, they’re always on, you get used to it.” even as Ian tries to push Mickey off before they get Mickey disqualified for lewd conduct or unauthorized conjugal visitation.

Once Mickey wills himself off his husband, the cast resets, Winter Green starts filming again as Ru explains the challenge requirements. “For this week’s Maxi Challenge, you need to transform the support staff of your drag careers your scene stealing co-stars,” explains Ru, putting a lot of extra sauce on that line delivery. It looks like Ru is about to leave the queens to their work when she stops. “Oh. One more little thing. Each pair will need to choreograph and perform a duet that expresses your bond to the tune of my new hit single available in iTunes, “Rhythm of my Schisms.”

After Ru takes her leave of the contestants, the show is kind enough to give the queens about thirty minutes where they just get to exist with their loved ones. Mickey’s hand doesn’t leave Ian’s the whole time. His thumb and forefinger glide along Ian’s large digits as he asks the ginger of news from home. And Ian takes both Mickey’s hands in his own and listens with rapt attention as his drag queen husband regales him with tales of some of his favorite runways, like “Night of A Thousand Bea Arthurs.”

"So, you finally get your way, huh?" asks Ian, "You finally get to drag me up."

"I told you it was only a matter of time."

"You're gonna be gentle with me?"

"You're gonna have to tuck," Mickey warns.

"So, that's a no to being gentle?"

"Don't worry, Red. I'm gonna take good care of my newest drag daughter."

"Can I be drag wife instead? Being your drag daughter feels weird."

Eventually, production has to crack the whip and get the queens on task. But can’t it wait? Mickey wonders? I really need a few more hours of just listening to this man talk while I trace constellations into his freckles.

Of course, Mickey knows he needs to buckle down. He needs to remember his priorities. He didn’t come here to slay; he came here to win. Sure, he may have claimed he only wanted to go on the show to boost his booking fee. That feels so long ago now. But as they wind closer to the end of the line, Mickey dares to think he might actually have a shot of winning. He won’t say that aloud of course. Classic Milkovich—don’t admit when things matter to you. Growing up, he almost lost Ian on multiple occasions because he didn’t have the stones to admit how much he mattered to him. Look at how much better their lives became once he came out and spoke his truth. Maybe it’s time he admits he wants this, too.

Once they do commence Operation: Drag Wife, Mickey feels like he would be panicking and maybe already pulling out his iPod and practicing this week's Lip Sync if Ian weren’t the complete package he is. When they were planning what Mickey would bring, Ian specifically insisted on the gowns for the Makeover because of how easy they can be taken in and out. Not to mention they both capture the Cha-Cha Heals aesthetic.

That foresight of Ian’s to pick gowns that can easily adapt is make or break in a challenge like this because you never know when your Makeover partner isn’t sample. Case in point: Mickey is 5’5” with a dancer’s frame, Ian is 6’1” and built like a lumberjack. The pair of gowns he set aside for the inevitable Makeup Challenge will need some adjustments and lucky him, he pulled a partner he knows his way around a sewing machine.

 “I should really be the one doing the adjustments,” admits Mickey without too much force behind it.

“Fuck off. We’re a team, right?” insists Ian as he pins the new measurements into place. “I’ll do this while you pull out whatever else we need.”

“Don’t I need to teach you to walk in heels?”

“Carl showed me.”

“What?” asks Mickey, thinking he might be suddenly becoming delirious.

“I had a hunch, so I asked for some pointers before I left.”

“You went to my idiot drag daughter—”

“No. I asked my idiot brother.”

“That’s gotta be cheating.”

Ian looks up from his work and grins. “Maybe if I knew I was helping you compete instead of making up a family meet and greet.”

“That’s the line they sold you?” Mickey laughs. “Yeah, I woulda thought something was up, too.”

A few seconds pass as Ian passes the remeasured gown through the Brother sewing machine. “So, what’s Cory doing here?”

“Who?”

“I didn’t catch her drag name. Panama or something.” He nods in Putana’s direction.

“Putana LaRitz? I know you’ve heard me bitch about her. She’s from back home.”

“Yeah, I figured, considering… wait, LaRitz? Yeah. That name sounds familiar.”

Mickey makes a show of holding up his swan-tatted hands.

“She’s that queen?”

“Don’t make a big deal of it. Either we’re chill or we have an alliance. Either way… So how do you know her?” Then a lump forms in Mickey’s throat. “Shit, please don’t tell me she was a manic hookup?”

“Seriously? That’s your first guess? Would you be jealous if we did?”

Mickey grins, “Oh. Insanely. Now what do you know that I don’t?”

“Cor- er, Putana is one of Mandy’s friends from her aesthetician program. She’s been to, like, four of Mandy’s house party.”

“Get the fuck out of here? Really?”

“You seriously didn’t…? Okay, I know you don’t like parties, but you gotta stop guarding the punch bowl when we go to parties.”

“So, she knows who I am?”

“I know Mandy and I have pointed you out to her a couple times in passing.”

“Shit. That explains a couple things. Jesus, she probably thought I was just being a dick those first few days.”

“I mean…” starts Ian, “You did permanently ink yourself on account of her.”

“Don’t give her too much credit, Firecrotch.”

A short while later, after Ru stopped by and prodded the queens for story fodder checked in with all the queens, Mickey finally does get Ian into a pair of heels. Mickey is more impressed than he expected. He owes Carl a compliment. That said, Ian still needs some fine tuning.

“So you’re saying my walk sucks?” asks a flirty Ian.

“Put the bedroom eyes away, Red. No, I’m not saying your walk sucks. What I’m saying you’re walking more like Ruby Jubilee than Cha-Cha Heals.”

“Didn’t you teach Carl how to walk?”

“Under duress,” eye rolls Mickey. “Look, they want us to be similar, if not matchy-matchy. I let Carl do his own thing because… well, Carl’s Carl. Look-- Ruby is a rocker chick. Cha-Cha’s an dancing queen. Different vibes, different body language. We gotta figure out who your girl is and how we can move similarly.”

“Aren’t you overthinking this?”

“This is drag, Red. I put a lot of thought into playing a ditzy dancing queen.”

“I swear, if you start talking about storytelling…”

But Ian just stumbled on the right phrase to spark Mickey’s process. Storytelling is how Mickey works his way through his craft. He doesn’t just dance, he tells a story through his body. The same holds true for his drag. They talk through the story they plan to tell on the runway and how their characters will interrelate and interact.

Mickey hasn’t felt more like himself in the past three weeks than he has in the past two hours since Ian arrived. He feels galvanized even as his husband gives him a hard time. This is what he’s been missing, it’s what has always come naturally to him. Ian has a way of getting under his skin in the best and worst ways. Nobody can diffuse one of his sour moods as easily as Ian can just by being him. And nobody is better at derailing him when he’s supposed to be focusing on a goddamn reality show competition just by the way he quirks his mouth quite like his big red husband. But somehow Mickey manages to keep the train running on time.

“Come on Stilleto Heals, swish those hips. We talked about this.” He insists.

“I thought I was swishing.” Ian rolls his eyes, clearly still warming up to his new drag sobriquet. Other names that were floated about include Cha-Cha Slide, Kitten Heals, and Ballet Flats.

“No, what you’re doing is swaying. Come on, I’ll show you the difference. Watch my hips.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice.”

Choreography goes more easily. Ian knows Mickey’s dancer shorthand from years of both instruction and observation. When he was training as a massage therapist, he would give massages to the dance personnel at his husband’s dance studio. Ian would often watch Mickey teaching his dance lessons from the doorway. Later Mickey spent several years leading up to their marriage teaching Ian how to dance so that they could really impress their family and friends on their wedding night. As they work together, it just feels easy. They work together as naturally as the left hand works with the right.

It is so easy for Ian and Mickey to fall into step with each other, to forget that there are ten other pairs working around them and an entire production crew filming them. The world moves about around them, but all Mickey can focus on in Ian. It helps that his task centers on his husband, otherwise this entire first day would be a wash. But suddenly and without any warning, it’s ten o’clock. The end of filming.

The production assistant Beth comes in to corral the participants away while the queens’ line up with Lenny to be driven back to the hotel for the night. Mickey knows the rules. He knows there is no way production is going to let Ian spend the night with him. It would probably be considered giving them unfair time together to practice. I just want to get railed for the first time in over a month—is that so hard?

Mickey does try to fight for them to carpool back to the hotel together. Just thirty more minutes before he has to turn in for the night. Is that too much to ask for? But it turns out that the Makeover participants aren’t even housed in the same hotel as the queens. Even with a long, reassuring embrace from his husband, Mickey can’t help but feel miserable watching Ian led away.

That night, Mickey lays alone in bed, staring at the ceiling, he waits for a sleep that won’t come. He knows he’ll see Ian again in the morning. And this is a three-day challenge, so he’ll have time with Ian the day after. But if all goes well and he makes it all the way to the final three or four, they’ll still have another ten days of filming after this Maxi Challenge is over. Ten more days that he’ll be cut off from his husband. He doesn't know if he can take it after getting Ian back, even if it's only for three days. The past three weeks, he thought he’d remained strong, that he could hold in all that longing until he got home. But seeing Ian today, has completely disabused him of that notion.

He doesn’t think he’ll make it ten more days without his husband. He wants to go home with Ian. 

Chapter Text

Even with today’s call time being a full hour ahead of the usual 9am, Mickey was practically buzzing to get back into the soundstage today. One day with Ian wasn’t enough. He’s ready for more. As he works his way through today’s offerings from the continental breakfast downstairs, consisting of an omelet, home fries, orange slices, and black coffee, all he can think about is getting his hands on Ian, even if it’s just for the tasks he needs to do as part of this week’s Maxi Challenge. He’ll take what he can get at this point.  

He practically busts out the door of his room when the PA’s arrive to escort him to the shuttle. The production assistant has to hide a smile. The nearly the whole production team watched him pounce on his husband like he was the last lace front at a going out of business sale. He doesn’t care if they think he’s horny for his own goddamn husband. They probably tapped Ian knowing that this was a likelihood. At least him being desperate for some touch will make  

“Chach, calm your fucking tits,” scolds Lizzie as she grabs Mickey’s thigh, which has been bouncing up and down like a piston the entire drive from the hotel. “Don’t you have a stress ball or something? I have an extra crochet needle if you—”  

“Thanks, but my idea of stress relief involves pointe shoes and an empty rehearsal room at the studio.”  

“You aren’t blowing smoke up our asses when you tell us you’re a dancer, are you?”  

He nods. “I didn’t want to give away my advantage when we got here, but now that the cat’s out of the bag, yeah. I teach and choreograph ballet back home.”  

“Your husband has some moves, too. Seduce your student or something?”  

Mickey laughs. “Nah, I was on a pretty long dance hiatus when we got together. But I did end up teaching him.”  

“How did you land that guy anyway?” She asks as they climb out of the shuttle and enter the sound stage. “No offense, but he looks like he has “No femmes” on his Grindr.”  

“Bitch...”  

“You know what I mean.”  

Putana pops up, behind them, apparently having heard the entire conversation. “I've been wondering too. How’d you guys get together?”  

Even if the cameras were not trained on them, Mickey suddenly feel very much under the microscope. He’s so much more comfortable making this sort of admission in the confessionals this time. But he trusts these girls. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. "He liked me when I used to butch it up, and he likes me being myself. It's always been like that with him."

"How did you guys get together?"

“I was shoplifting where he worked to get his attention. He snuck into my house to steal something back. We ended up roughhousing, and...”  

Putana laughs. “This sounds very Southside.”  

“Not gonna tell them about you chasing me all over town?” Mickey looks away from his friends to see his husband standing, hands in pockets. He’s wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and sandals, looking every inch like a tourist. It takes every bit of self-restraint for him to only get on his tip toes and kiss his husband instead of jumping him.  

“I don’t think I come across especially well in that story, do I?”  

“It's chivalric by Southside standards,” reassures Ian, bracing an arm around Mickey’s waist, making it hard for Mickey to think straight. “His sister might have told a little white lie.”  

“Yeah, that could have gotten your skull beaten in,” chuckles Mickey dryly, embarrassed.  

“It all worked out, didn’t it.”  

“You can s—” But Mickey’s reply never hits the open air as Ian leans in for another kiss that makes his limbs turn to jello, his arms flailing, trying to remain composed until Ian physically grabs them and guides them to his waist. “Mm. Missed this.”  

“You aren’t the only one,” replies Ian, grabbing Mickey’s ass so that he makes a distinctly pre-coital squeal.  

When Ian holds him like this, he can’t help but remember back when he was a kid. There were three other prolonged periods of time Mickey had to endure without Ian. Twice he landed himself in juvenile detention. And the third time, Ian ran away from home to for six months for his ill-fated attempt to join the armed forces. Each time, Mickey had to harden his heart, pretend it didn’t hurt to be separated from Ian, even pretend Ian didn’t matter to him.  

This time was different. This was a decision they made together for the sake of Mickey’s career. In theory, this is all part of the plan. To hear the other queens tell it, Mickey hasn’t gone a full hour this entire time without name dropping Ian at one point or another. But it doesn’t change that overwhelming sigh of relief every time he gets near his husband again.  

What am I doing here instead of coming home to this man every night?  

Seconds or maybe fifteen minutes later, they pull themselves apart from one another and look around. Apparently, the rest of the queens and guests had given them some space, leaving them alone while they all evacuated to the green room. They laugh and follow after.  

***  

“But I already am a redhead. Can’t I be something else in drag?” asks Ian as he sifts through the wigs Mickey has displayed on Mannequin heads in his little corner of the Werk Room. “Can’t I be a soulful brunette with a tragic backstory?”   

“‘Ey, I’m all for it if you want to be my fucking drag sister back home. We could be a Chicago drag power couple. But the challenge prompt requires us to have a resemblance,” Mickey insists as he applies Ian’s makeup.   

The narrative they settled upon for Cha-Cha and Stiletto is a 1980’s pop star sister act—an old favorite of Cha-Cha’s . Both queens are styled evoking Cyndi Lauper. Their costumes are complementary while not too identical. In their narrative, Cha-Cha is the older sister and more sophisticated with hair to match. While Stiletto is younger and a wild child. Cha-Cha is crowned with a nest of soft lyrical curls while Stiletto gets more quintessentially teased and feathered 1980’s rocker hair.  

Ian stares almost glowing as Mickey contours his face. “And you’re sure I’m good on the choreo? Will they give us another chance to work on it?”  

“I doubt they’ll give us time. But we can always go over things in the Werk Room. Don’t worry too much. We’re gonna do fine.” He hesitates. It was only a passing thought last night, and maybe it’s just nerves as the competition winds down, but why not float it past his husband. “Of course, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if I did go home this week.”  

Ian’s face doesn’t move under the mask of pancake and paint, but Mickey can recognize the attempt at a shift in his expression. “What are you talking about? Baby, you are right at the finish line. Of course you’re going all the way.”  

“Yeah, sure. I’m trying to stay positive. But are you saying you wouldn’t mind if you didn’t have to fly home alone?”  

“Do I miss you? Do I miss waking up next the man I’ve chosen to share my life with every morning? But you’ve got the goods, Mick. Did they play your family video in Untucked?”  

“No, not yet. I was starting to wonder if they got to you or not,” he admits. Then a smile crests his face. “Until you fucking showed up yesterday.”  

“Surprise you didn’t make more of a scene, if I’m being honest.”  

“Yeah, well…” even with a layer of foundation baking on Mickey’s face, he knows he’s blushing. Whatever. Ian’s seen it before. “After I conked out right in the middle of the Werk Room and hallucinated you the first time I saw Bryce in person, I figured I should try to less of a goddamn drama queen.”  

“But that’s your whole brand,” snarks Ian.  

“Fuck all the way off,” Mickey fires back playfully as he grabs for his powder puff. “Pout.” Mickey orders before beating the line of his husband’s cheek bone.   

***  

Ian smiles as he listens to his husband talk through the process of tucking. “You do remember that I helped you through it the first time you ever tucked. Right? I made it all sexy and shit for you.”  

Mickey crosses his arms across his breastplate. Weightily, he retorts, “You tried. But tucking isn’t sexy, it’s work.”  

“You certainly don’t seem all that gruff about shaving your legs.”    

“Well, that’s different and you ever wore tights with a couple of shorn stems.”  

“I will after today, right?” Ian smiles all-knowingly.   

“I can’t believe you were a club dancer for almost a year and they never asked you to don a set of nylons. Seems like an oversight.” Mickey thinks for a second, then wonders, “You didn’t already shave, did you?”  

“Just my happy zone. I need to be manic and getting at least $600 to let any cameras near me when I do that. Legs? All yours. I figured that’s all part of the transformation. I didn’t want you getting lost in the edit ‘cause half the work was already done.”  

Mickey smiles. “I could kiss you.”  

“You should.”  

“We’re both in makeup, genius.”  

“Oh, right.”   

***   

The queens and the makeover participants are all given twenty-five minutes on the mainstage to rehearse their dance routines prior to the judging panel’s arrival. It is a relief to Mickey because although he is confident in Ian’s dancing ability after years of giving him lessons, Ian has never danced in drag before. He wants his husband-turned-drag-sister to have every opportunity to acclimate.    

All the pairs watch each other take their turns rehearsing, leaving ample time for the queens to mill about. Mickey is splayed on the floor nearest the upstage right exit, doing his stretches and watching Kitten Kaboodle and Kitty Karry-All work their routine. Which is when Putana takes the opportunity to sit next to him.  

“Your girl’s looking pretty good out there.  It's a total gag, considering…”  

“He looks like he should be a total bull in China shop? Yeah,” he grins nostalgically. “Other than some bump and grind at The Fairy Tale, it was definitely a shock to our family when we busted out the choreo from the end of Dirty Dancing at our wedding.”  

A wry smirk ghosts Putana’s face. “You’re full of surprises, Chach. For such a tough straight acting guy on the streets, you are such a…”  

“Nelly queen? It’s okay, I’ve heard worse.”  

“Haven’t we all, sis? But no, I was going to say you keep surprising people around here.”  

“I guess I owe you some thanks for that. Mandy probably told you my whole deal.”  

“Oh, so you do know who I am. You kept looking right through me for a while there.”  

“Actually, no I don’t.” he shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t do well with parties. Or… organized fun. I just hover around the chips until whoever drags me along says it’s time to go.”   

“I used to think that’s weird for an entertainer. But I’ve gotten to know you better now. You’re like one of those recluses that want to create art then retreat to their studio.”  

“Guess that’s why I tend to G-T-F-O after I do my set at the club every week.”  

“Yeah, truth be told, you got this mystique around you back home. You show up in drag, you’re only close with a few other girls, and you ghost as soon as you’re done. But I think I get you better now.” Putana puts a hand to Mickey’s should and uses it to push herself back to her feet. “If it’s any consolation, with the picture your sister painted for me, I always figured you to be an angrier guy than you are.”  

“Oh, I can still be a terror if I want to be,” winks Mickey as he resumes his stretches.  

***   

The temptation to throw the dance and land himself in the bottom two is strong. He wants to go home with his husband. He wants to see his son, his siblings, even his friends. It would take just a well-placed stumble and fall, play it up. Mickey knows he could make it look real.  

But then they step out onto the stage, hand-in-hand and all thoughts of self-sabotage wipe away from Cha-Cha’s mind as she sees Stiletto Heals smiling back at her. Despite the 2000’s club feel of the music, Cha-Cha and Stiletto perform an updated take on the tango that takes a lot of influence from The Habenera . The queens perform a sapphically charged dance that leaves the judging panel stunned. Of course, Cha-Cha cannot rightly determine whether they planned their performance to be so sultry or if this is simply the result of Mickey having his husband back after three weeks of gnawing on his headboard, but they still haven’t been given a moment to bang it out in a supply closet somewhere.   

After the dances are concluded, the queens and the participants line up for the runway. There is already anxiety in the air. Because the dance presentations were expected to eat up so much time this evening, it means that this is going to be a three-day challenge. And with the four days on, two days off nature of their filming schedule, it means that no matter how well they do on the runway tonight, the queens are going to be relegated to their hotel rooms for another two days before judging. Meanwhile, their guests are presumably getting an opportunity to sight-see.  

“Take my hand,” Stiletto insists as they await their turn on the stage.   

“What?”  

“You think I don’t recognize that look on your face just because you’re covered in clown makeup? Take my hand.” Stiletto is already lacing her digits through Cha-Cha’s, their acrylics clacking softly against each other. Cha-Cha squeezes Stiletto’s hand and she feels the relief as Stiletto squeezes back. It’s Ian lending Mickey some of his own strength and he understands. Even if it’s just for the moment, the simple fortifying gesture makes Mickey feel like Cha-Cha could make it the rest of the way through the competition.   

The stagehand Beth gives them the cue for Cha-Cha and Stiletto to hit the runway.  

The stage lights hit them and instantly, Stiletto is game for the shtick they cooked up. She is the younger sister in their pop act, a wild and unpredictable lead singer. Cha-Cha works hard to rein in her younger sister as they make it down the runway, swishing their way down to the lip of the stage and strike a pose—Mickey brandishing a bass guitar and Ian holding a mic to his mouth dramatically as though he is belting out the glory notes.  

As Mickey watches his dolled up husband make an entire meal of the way he flounces around the stage, it strikes him that no matter how much they spent the last two days flirting relentlessly and giving each other a hard time, Ian has his eye on the prize. Ian wants Mickey to get to the finals of the competition every bit as much as Mickey should. He can’t believe he was willing to throw the challenge and miss this opportunity away all for the sake of getting back home a week and change early.  

Hell, he wouldn’t have even been allowed to leave and took the nuclear option and quit outright. Mickey would have simply been stuck in his hotel room for the entire time anyway.  

***  

Ian is beside himself as he and the other makeover participants wait backstage, watching the proceedings like it's the ninth inning of the world series. What strikes Ian about watching the judging from this perspective is simply how long the process is. Five minutes of back and forth on the TV at home amounts to upwards of twenty minutes per queen during filming. Mickey has gotten a lot of good feedback, even if Michelle keeps giving Cha-Cha stink eye. But that doesn’t mean anything.  

Ian is practically chewing off his acrylics when Ru tells Gosamyr she’s safe, leaving it between Cha-Cha and Elizabeth for the win this week. It feels unreal when Ru finally announces “Cha-Cha Heals—condragulations, you are the winner of this week’s challenge.” It feels like an out of body experience to hear Mickey receive praise from a show his husband has obsessed over long before the first time he ever donned a pair of heels. Mickey had told Ian he’d been doing well, even won two previous challenges. But those episodes won’t air for another ten months. Those wins feel so abstract. Watching it play out on the CCTV, knowing it’s literally just down the hall the next soundstage over makes it feel concrete.  

His own cheering rings so loudly in his ear, he doesn’t even hear what Mickey’s prize is. He IS so over the moon that he doesn’t even register that someone still has to Lip Sync For Her Life until the PA’s lead them onto the mainstage afterwards to find that Gaia is missing and Putana is slicked in a sheen of sweat, makeup practically evaporated from the exertion. Her elegant coat dress is slung across her arms revealing a body suit for dancing underneath.  

Mickey runs into his arms. “A cruise!”  

“What?”  

“We won a fucking cruise. A goddamn fourteen-day gay cruise to the Mediterranean.” Mickey’s make liner is starting to run. Something tells Ian Cha-Cha held it together until they let the makeover participants back on-stage. “We finally get a honeymoon.”   

“No shit!” Between Mickey’s dance career and putting all their money into remodeling their home, they missed the opportunity to take a honeymoon after their wedding. Then after the pandemic was over, they let Cha-Cha’s drag career dominate a lot of their time. Over the six years since their wedding, they kept telling themselves “someday.” But someday kept getting further away as life and all that comes with it send them careening down another path. Now, here they are with the honeymoon they never had practically giftwrapped and planted in their laps. No. This wasn’t a gift. They earned it. Together.  

They’re lost in each other as the queens and their guests dance around them. Elated that they pulled out this victory together, and trying not to dwell on the teary farewell that will come when production leads the makeover participants away for the final time. Both Ian and Mickey have been struggling under the weight of all the time this competition has meant they’ve been apart and will continue to be apart after Ian flies back to Chicago the next morning.  

But there is something galvanizing, spiritually rejuvenating about knowing that in exchange for all the time they’ve been kept apart, they have two weeks to look forward to where they may as well be the only two people in the world.

Chapter Text

Mickey’s phone rings.

He doesn’t answer and lets it go to voicemail. Granted, it is late in the afternoon. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if something pulled him from his work so he can will himself out of the studio and home to his husband. But instead, he continues to dance. He has his priorities. And they include avoiding drama. They involve fine-tuning the next section of the Coppelia choreography he intends to teach the Ballet Chicago corps in the morning. They don’t entail dealing with the fallout he expects will come with this week’s episode.

The phone rings two more times before his smart watch buzzes. He relents long enough to check. Only six people are set up to forward to his watch. His siblings, his ex-wife and son (the fact that Yevgeny is old enough to have a phone is a little upsetting), and his husband. And of course, it’s Ian.

Firecrotch (20:14:03 CDT): Call Cody back.

And lo and behold, all three missed calls are from his Drag Race sister Putana LaRitz. Though Mickey really should break that habit and call Cody by his boy name now that they haven’t been on the soundstage in ten months. He hesitates. He really ran his mouth that first week or so of filming, resentful of what? An offhand comment Putana made about Cha-Cha four years ago?

He feels like a shit-heel. Putana has been nothing but a sister in the truest sense of the word since their first day in the Werk Room together. And in those first couple challenges Mickey really ran his mouth in the confessional. He imagines this is how Elizabeth Bennett felt at the end of Pride and Prejudice when she realized she had Mr. Darcy figured all wrong... except Mickey has no intentions of spreading his legs for Putana unlike a certain Collin Firth in his prime, for whom Mickey absolutely would.

He gives in, calling Cody back and putting his phone on speaker so he can towel off.

“Biiitch,” intones Cody when the call connects, “Why are you the only one not here at the viewing party you guys are supposed to be hosting.”

“I got a little wrapped up in my work,” he half lies. He very intentionally let himself get wrapped up in his choreo.

“Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with that spicy confessional monologue.”

“Shit.”

“Honey, get your ass over here. It’s fine. You told me you were feeling a certain way about me that week.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks as he throws his duffle over his shoulder and makes his way to the elevator.

“I mean, I might need to do some soul searching about judging by appearances, but we’re good, sis.”

The warm bloom of relief bubbles up from his stomach. Mickey thought he acquitted himself well at Drag Race, but those first few salty confessionals still haunt him. He thought he’d matured from the angry teenager he used to be. He used to fly off the handle so easily because he had to give up or hide so much of himself simply to feel safe in his own home. But those days are long past him. Why in all the weeks they were operating in close quarters did he never man up, well, it’s drag, so woman up and hash out his beef with Putana like a goddamn adult?

“If it makes you feel any better, I said some choice things about you when you literally acted like you didn’t recognize me.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know, asshole,” laughs Cody on the other end of the call. “Would you get your ass over here so your hubby can un-pause the damn video?”

“Fine. Tell Ian to put another batch of pizza rolls in the oven for me, will ya?”

***

The viewing parties continue week to week. After clearing that first big hurdle during episode three of the season, Mickey is pretty sure it’s smooth sailing for him and his drag sister. And it is. Cody regularly admits that his ADHD causes him to run his mouth without thinking, that he is quick to answer, but also quick to forget. Mickey doesn’t quite get Cody’s drive to let bygones as easily as he does. They really didn’t even talk about their beef as much as they mutually agreed it is water under the bridge. He feels like he should be experiencing something more cathartic.

But as the weeks roll on, they start to notice a certain editing trend.

“That fucking shade rattle!” Snaps Mickey on week six.

“All I said was I was out of glossy black nail polish!”

“Yeah,” confirms Mickey. “It wasn’t even for the challenge!”

“Look!” screams Cody, sending half the popcorn in the bowl air-bound. The camera does a close up shot of a bottle of black nail polish on a work station. “That isn’t even my hand in the closeup shot!”

“Wasn’t there any actual drama on set?” asks Carl’s drag alter ego Ruby Jubilee, who has shown up at least partially in drag for each viewing party. She leans against the wall, lackadaisically buffing her nails.

“Plenty of drama!” Cody insists. “Gosamyr was seconds away from being kayoed by one of Kitten’s platforms that week.”

“And Gaia and Xixi totally have an ex in common that they kept hissing at each other about. And Floozy Q? I’m not making any accusations, but you shouldn’t be surprised when she does a guest spot on To Catch A Predator.”

“Gee whiz, Mick,” snarks Mandy particularly facetiously. “Why won’t you tell us how you really feel?”

Accordingly, he flips his baby sister off.

“So you weren’t really fighting?” Asks Yevgeny, who sits on the sofa squeezed in between his daddy and papa. “‘Cause it looks like you guys hate each other.”

“It’s LA, kid. Nothing’s real out there,” insists Mickey, wrapping an arm around the tween’s neck affectionately.

“So, if they keep doing this rivals story in the edit,” thinks Lip, “Does this mean you guys both make it to the finale?”

“Spoilers,” sing-songs Cody.

“Yeah, we’re under NDA.”

“NDA?” asks the towheaded boy.

“That’s non-disclosure agreement, Yev,” Ian explains. “It means they’re lips are sealed.”

“But you know, right Ian?”

“You don’t even like the show, Lip. Ease off the clutch,” snarks Carl.

“I would if our whole family didn’t up and decide that stanning Mickey’s drag is their new personality, Ruby.”

“How did you come up with Ruby Jubilee, anyway,” questions Debbie. “It’s pretty clever, but clever isn’t your whole deal.”

“Thanks?”

“I named her,” explains Ian.

The room collectively turns to Ian, surprised that he had a hand in his baby brother’s dragception.

“It’s true,” confirms Mickey.

"I went with ‘Ruby’ because a drag daughter of Cha-Cha's needs some red. And ‘Jubilee’ because he’s annoying.”

Cody pulls out a fan from his pocket and clacks it open. “SHADE” is printed across the pink fan in large stylized lettering. He bats the fan and says, “Getting pretty shady, Stiletto Heals.”

Mickey hisses inwardly, afraid Cody has just spilled the beans on a future challenge. But at least Stiletto Heals doesn’t exactly sound like a person name. Then again, neither is Cha-Cha Heals. He says a silent prayer of thanks for his family’s current obtuseness. The comment goes unremarked and Mickey inwardly sighs in relief. The makeover episode is still weeks away. He doesn’t think his family and friends would rush to social media and spill the tea. But there is a lot at stake for both Putana and Cha-Cha if they have a breach of contract now.

***

Mickey has to figure out the passwords to socials he hasn’t used since before he went on the show so that he can use his platform, which is insanely large since the last time he logged into Insta. He was content with just above 9,500 followers before. And since he went on the show. Now Cha-Cha is creeping up on 200,000. That’s an insane number of people, especially when you factor in the misanthrope streak.

Of course, he’s not logging in for vanity. He’s on a mission. The weeks continue on and they keep giving Putana and Cha-Cha a rivalry storyline. And Putana’s edit is shady, creeping close to a villain cut. They didn’t even put in Putana’s confessional about Mickey clearly not recognizing her out of drag, which would have served wonders to explain why Putana is a little annoyed with Cha-Cha at times. And why Cha-Cha seems so distant in the first few weeks. Someone in an executive chair decided that Cha-Cha is the face and Putana is the heel. And Cha-Cha is putting her foot down.

“Do I need to come up with some cutesy name for my followers like ‘Heals Fam’ or ‘Cha-Cha Nation?’ Fuck, that makes me sound like a tool.”

“Just do it,” insists Ian as he stands at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for dinner tonight.

Mickey sits at the laptop, trying to figure out how to phase his post. The cursor of the blank text box mocks him for the longest time. And then finally, the words come to him.

Hey Drag Racers,

I cannot begin to express how grateful I am that you all have welcomed me and the rest of the cast of season seventeen into your lives. From the bottom of my heart, I cannot begin to tell you how blessed we are. But I need you all to ease up on my sister Putana LaRitz. She was nothing but a friend and ally to me all through production and we’re even tighter now. Sure, we both had beefs, pretty stupid complaints actually, with each other coming into the competition, but she is every inch my friend as much as she is my competitor. Along with Elizabeth Batty, we had the greatest time working together and I couldn’t imagine getting through production with any other queens the way those two girls helped lift myself and each other up.

But RuPaul’s Drag Race is and always has been a form of entertainment first and foremost. The show producers saw that both of us made it into the final four and decided that three of the four finalists being good Judys to each other doesn’t make good television. And unfortunately, it was Putana who suffered in the edit. If you all really support me, do me a huge favor and get off Putana’s case. She embodies drag excellence and deserves your support just as much as any of the other finalists.

Be Kind,

XOXO

Your Girl Cha-Cha

***

“The sash looks good on you,” remarks Ian as he finds his husband de-dragging backstage of the massive arena theater that played host to the season’s grand finale.

Mickey looks at the redhead through the mirror. Mickey came a lot further in the competition than he expected. If asked, he’ll still maintain that when he got cast, all he wanted out of this venture was an increase in his booking fee. Well, mission accomplished on that front. Now, here he is either third or fourth place for the season.

Lizzie knocked him out in the first lip sync. Then she knocked out Putana in the final. Mickey wonders if there was production meddling involved. The production up through now had given Cha-Cha a hero’s edit. He was expecting either to be against Putana in a rivals narrative or against Gosamyr to cap off a hero versus villain story. But when Cha-Cha and Putana took to social media, they probably sealed their own fate as runners up. They spoke against the production. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Well, they may as well taken a giant neon arrow to the man behind the curtain.

But Miss Congeniality is out of Ru’s hands. Ever since the Valentina debacle, the Miss Congeniality title has been voted on by the contestants. And by sticking out his neck for Putana on social media and actively defying Ru and World of Wonder, he may have gotten himself blackballed in the competition, but he must have really impressed more than a few of their competitors.

He may not have won the title of Next Drag Superstar, but he’s going home with a nice sash, the support of his drag sisters, and a check for $15,000.

“At least I’m not leaving here emptyhanded,” he sighs as he places his hand the large freckled one touching his bare shoulder.

“Fifteen thousand is nothing to sniff at, huh?”

“No, it certainly isn’t. But I wasn’t even thinking about that.”

“Is it the title itself? Miss Congeniality.”

“Ha!” laughs Mickey. “Imagine anyone calling me congenial ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago, you were a pimp with anger management issues. But I wasn’t even thinking about that. You know how long I’ve been doing drag?”

“Four years? Five if you count all the private drag shows you gave me during quarantine.”

“And in that time, how many other queens would you say I’ve been close with?”

“Oh, um…” It’s a tricky question. Mickey can make friends. He is actually incredibly popular in dance circles. But he tends to butt heads with other drag queens. It’s a whole cottage industry filled with people who think they’re center stage at all times. Mickey included. And Mickey makes friends best through camaraderie. That’s why his dance career has always been fulfilling. It makes him feel connected, gives him a community. “Anabelle? Chopin Margaret? Ruby.”

“We’re not counting Carl. I’ve known him since he was a prepubescent weirdo. So, that’s what? Two drag friends? Ian, I have thirteen drag sisters.”

Ian grins softly. “Have I ever told you you’re turning into a real softy in your old age?”

Micky stands up, still bare chested and spotted with makeup he missed during the first wave of clean-up. He wraps his arms around his husband’s neck. “Watch who you’re calling old, Mr. Heals.”

“Sorry to offend, Mr. Gallagher,” the redhead grins as he accepts Miss Congeniality’s kiss.