Chapter Text
“Yes, I’m very sorry, but Cha-Cha is overdue for a break in her schedule,” Carl explains blearily into the phone as he leans over the kitchen counter. “We are more than willing to reschedule at five percent off her normal booking fee.” Actually, Mickey told him fifteen percent, but then what happens to his own cut of the profits? He’s doing all the legwork. How do Ian and Mickey expect Carl to cover the cost for his own drag necessities come from? Not like Ruby’s booking is anywhere near the five digits range that Cha-Cha is pulling these days.
In the wake of Cha-Cha Heals’ meteoric post-Drag Race career, the newfound demand of managing his husband’s career became far too much for Ian’s stress levels and after a couple of medication adjustments, it was agreed that they would outsource the manager role to someone else in their inner circle so that Ian could focus on what he’s good at— design and dress construction.
When they put forth the idea to their nearest and dearest Ian had hoped it would be Mandy who would step up. She has been invested in Mickey’s drag career since the moment she was let in on the secret and she already had industry insider cache on her side. Meanwhile, Mickey thought Lip’s more analytical mind would be better at keeping track of their schedules and budgets. But neither of them volunteered. So now, here they are in what is surely the darkest timeline and Carl Hashish Gallagher is managing Cha-Cha Heals, LLC.
Clearly, though, five percent seems utterly insufficient and not for the first time today. And fucking Christ, does this bitchy old queen sound pissed. “Okay, okay. I hear you and Cha-Cha Heals is willing to compromise. We can go as low as eight percent off.”
A short, staccato “Boop-boop-boop” plays in Carl’s ear and the line goes dead.
“Well, some people just don’t want to take a deal when it lands in their laps.”
“That’s three for three, baby. Your brother-in-law is going to kill you,” Thom laughs from the living room of their apartment, which also doubles as their dining room. There is an actual dining room, but it has effectively turned into Carl’s drag closet. “And Ian just might let him if you keep fucking with their revenue stream.”
Carl’s boyfriend is stripped down to a white ribbed tank top and thin cotton boxer shorts. They're the kind without a button closure on the fly. Carl loves it when he wears them because the chance of a dick slip just makes him want to get on his knees and wait. Just like clockwork every day within minutes of getting in from a shift. He is working over an ironing board, pressing his uniform before he puts int back on the hanger until morning.
When they first moved in together, Carl thought Thom was being a tremendous tease or trying to show off how well he fills out his underclothes. As though Carl didn’t know that intimately. But after just over a year cohabitating, he recognizes it for what it is. Thom is persnickety about making sure his uniform looks perfect. Neither of them are the greatest of housekeepers, but nobody needs to know that. But when they are suited up as a police officer and paramedic, respectively, Thom is the kind of guy who wants the world to see two well-put together servicemen.
Carl tosses his phone on the kitchen table and picks at a hangnail. The glue from the press-on acrylics is murder on his nailbeds and he’d rather focus on that than the impending conversation he is probably due with Mickey and Ian.
“I gotta be losing my touch. I made a killing back when I was in the life.”
“You sold guns to middle school teachers. Maybe you want to try a different tack.”
“I don’t see why they need to reschedule a month of gigs, anyway. The wedding is only one day.”
“And there’s the rehearsal dinner the day before. The luncheon the day after. That’s three,” Thom counts off on his fingers, his tone playful. “Oh, and Ian is the best man, so he’s probably going to want to arrange a bachelor party, so tack on another week. And knowing your brother, he probably wants another week to plan—”
“Y’know, when I came out as bi, I had no idea I would end up so into guys that take my brother’s side over mine.” Carl simpers, getting onto his tiptoes to reach his boyfriend.
“You should have thought about that before you shacked up with a Cha-Cha fanboy.” Thom chides jokingly as he leans down to peck Carl on the lips. “Offer the rest of ‘em the full fifteen percent like Mickey told you.”
“You know that’s basically asking them to slash my percentage right? Cha-Cha's not the only one trying to make it around here.”
“You’re a cop, you make good money even without your cut.” Thom lowers his voice. “So maybe don’t screw with his client base? Keep him happy—booked and busy. Or he’ll be home a lot more. And you won't be able to ‘borrow’ Mickey’s supplies.”
Carl crosses his arms. “You think I should call them back and offer the fifteen like they said?”
“And if they don’t bite, offer them twenty,” Thom demurs.
“Twenty percent? Why not just perform for free?” Carl is a man who still thinks of himself as quite the entrepreneur even if his days fencing drugs and firearms are long past in his rearview mirror. He has a keen sense of how to play opportunities for what they’re worth. He knows how to hustle. And he knows when someone is trying to hustle him. And right now, he feels like his boyfriend is trying to take him for all he's worth.
“And it should come out of your cut.”
“Whose side are you on? Shit, Thommy.”
“Do you want to risk they don’t take the fifteen and suddenly you have Mickey asking why he isn’t getting the gigs he used to?” Asks Thom, flopping on the sofa now that his ironing is done. One long leg is bent and pressed against the back cushion of the furniture while shapely limb is dangles off the side, showing off the curvature of the gentle giant’s calf with the Caduceus tattoo. Betwixt Thom’s thighs, the unsecured fly of his boxers puckers open and gives Carl a view, just a peek of the wide brim of his lover’s mushroom head.
Carl knows exactly what his boyfriend is doing.
It seems wild to Carl now that he managed to keep his same sex impulses tamped down tight until he was twenty, then managed to play it cool during his discrete years fooling around on the apps. But now that he has been with the same guy for so long that he has given up contradicting when people call him gay instead of bi. Because functionally, he is leading a gay lifestyle. Even if he still does find himself checking out women, or other men for that matter, it makes little difference considering the man he pulled is a total keeper. And said man knows exactly what to do to get him utterly dickstracted.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Asks Carl even as his fingers fumble with the drawstring of his joggers.
Thom’s arms are folded behind his head, he is showing off pearly whites with a confident grin. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“You think you got me twisted around your finger, huh? Figure if I start rolling around with you, I’ll do what you say.” Carl gets down to his tube black socks and boxer briefs before he is climbing on top of his boyfriend.
“Are you asking me to deny it?”
“Oh, hell no. I just want to make sure we’re both on the same page,” Carl crushes his lips to the corner of Thom’s mouth and sinks into his lover’s embrace, his right hand venturing towards the prize under those thin shorts.
As they fool around, going from zero to sixty in under a minute, Carl’s phone rings and goes ignored. About forty seconds later, there is one missed call on the screen and a voicemail from “Dancing Queen.”