It had taken him a while to pull himself up from his position in the bathroom, face feeling oddly warm and constricted against the refreshing coolness of the tiles. He had sat there for a good twenty minutes afterwards, eyes clenched shut, his skull pounding as a vicious onslaught of thoughts drilled through his brain. Uncertainty rolled in his gut, making him feel off balance and queasy.
Something had changed.
His relationship with Tord had always been filled with unrestrained snark and moderate violence. But recently, it had taken a more personal, flirtatious tone that always seemed to put him on edge.
They had deviated from their natural flow of scathing insults and were pushing the boundaries of what their relationship could have the potential to turn into. It was difficult, unmarked territory; a new game that he didn't know the rules to.
Puzzlingly enough, nothing had happened in order to cause this. Trauma could break bonds and forge new connections; quality time spent with other people strengthens their views of one another.
But no.
Deep, into the core of things; they were still the same people, but now they had this ache between; something that was too big to name.
A weak sigh escaped him, it sounded watery and exhausted. Kind of disgusting, actually.
Perhaps there had always been an underlining sexual side to their arguments that he had not seen before? Hidden underneath snarling lips and bitter words; the promises lurking, waiting to be discovered.
He shivered, either at the cold, or the very real threat of the unknown, he wasn't sure.
It could be a product of what he was about to do. Cross-dressing in frilly little outfits and smiling at perverted weeaboos for money- maybe the sudden avalanche of femininity in his life had caused him to push his feelings and emotions onto other people? To make him start questioning his sexuality?
That had to be it.
It was the only truth that made sense.
He had always thought that he was relatively comfortable with his sexuality- who cares if he kissed boys for jokes, and thought that the occasional thigh-highs were adorable? At least he knew that it didn't matter, that despite everything, he still liked women.
Apparently not.
—
Two days later, with a moderately unhealthy amount of denial under his belt, Tom snuck around the back entrance of the cafe.
It wasn't raining, like last time, instead, the air was thick with humidity, the concrete scorching beneath his converse clad feet. Sweat circled his face and neck, face flushed with colour. He was deciding between whether this was due to the heat, his nervous, or the mad dash that he had stumbled into as he struggled to get there on time.
If he was ready, to be honest with himself, he would say all three. However, since he obviously was not prepared to delve deep into the touchy, feely soul searching mess that he had stubbornly buried days ago; he vehemently persuaded himself that it was, in fact, just the heat.
Hovering near the back entrance was getting old, and besides, he felt fairly creepy just loitering around an odd building in the middle of the day. Absentmindedly kicking a rogue can by his feet, he fidgeted for a few solid seconds before mentally steeling himself. Feeling as though he was doing something very, very wrong, Tom jiggled open the old, rusted door, and silently slipped inside.
The back of the building was a near stark contrast to what he experienced at the front, a couple of days ago. Whilst the front had a cutesy, retro homey vibe to it, the place he had just staggered into was a lot more grey and industrial. Peeling paint and scuff marked floors greeted him dimly, and he absentmindedly fought the shiver that crawled down his spine.
At least it was cooler than the outside.
Mentally shrugging, he continued into the building. Pausing to nosily peak into rooms that piqued his interest- it was mostly storage closets and utility rooms, chock full of washing machines and delicate, drying clothes.
"You must be Thomas!" Called a voice from the end of the corridor.
Tom looked up, surprised, and took in the women waving at him over.
She was tall- definitely taller than the waitress that had to lead him to Ms Sinclair's office, and was absolutely, without question, taller than Ms Sinclair herself. Wearing a ripped, red plaid and black maids dress, it seemed to suit her tastes nicely as it complimented her short blue hair and multiple ear piercings.
He trudged closer cautiously.
"I'm guessing you're Cherri?" He questioned.
"You can bet your ass I am." She smirked down at him before she turned and started to walk down the rest of the hallway, "Since you're late, we're gonna have to do a speed run. I hope you can keep up!"
Tom jogged to match her pace and startled as he was suddenly pushed into another room. It was quite large, containing three changing room stalls near the back, whilst the front was dedicated to a huge vanity mirror, surrounded by intense bright white lights. A messy makeup counter had been pushed in front of it, the surface had once been a classic marble but now had been covered in thick layers of dried makeup that had been neglected to clean up. Near the wall furthest away from him held several lockers, cupboards and prop boxes; practically overflowing with different outfits and accessories. The walls themselves were covered in a rainbow of splattered paint, as though a class of toddlers had gone wild during their arts and crafts time.
It was definitely unique.
"This is the changing room- at the start of your shift you put your shit in one of these bad boys." Cherri gestured in the general direction of the lockers from her place near the door frame, "And you get changed into whatever you feel like wearing- honestly it depends on how slutty you feel that day."
Tom looked at her with a blank expression.
"The general consensus is that if you can wear it at a convention, then its fine on the shop floor." She shrugged, seemingly unbothered by his stare, "You might want to pick something out and get ready now actually. I'll show you everything else after."
He nodded, and made his way to the shabby looking cupboards, scrutinising his options. It didn't seem like they had a size organisation procedure in place- it looked more like a free for all.
Picking his way through the different styles of dresses, he didn't quite know where to start. What would look good on him? What if he found one he adored but it didn't fit?
He chewed at his bottom lip as he considered all of his choices- Cherri's preferred options were obvious; they usually had some form of plaid and a few chains placed into the mix. There were other ones though, basic poofy ones that didn't show too much skin, a hint of bow or lace, usually in pastel primary colours. They seemed to be what the other waitress liked to wear; being more cute and childish than her punk colleague.
Maybe there was one that suited his Ska aesthetic?
Kneeling down on the plush carpet, he looked at the last remaining few. Most of them were nice, sure, and he wouldn't have a problem with wearing any one of them (whilst he was getting paid for it, of course), but none of them seemed to jump out at him. Just as he neared the bottom of the heap, he paused.
The one he had found reminded him of an old-fashioned sailor outfit, dark navy blue in colour with white ruffled sleeves, a pinched waist, suspenders and a flared skirt. It was- gorgeous, it was so, him?
Rubbing his thumb over the soft fabric, he narrowed his brow in thought. As much as he liked it, as much as he knew that yes, this was the dress, he couldn't help but be reminded of Tord. The day of the fishing trip, the gangster pirates, the way he had demanded to be let back into their lives again without so much of a warning. It was still very raw.
He still had the sailors cap.
It disconcerted him how well they would fit together; the old feelings of hurt and anger, compared with the tentative new.
"I agree."
Tom jumped, turning around with the dress held close to his chest as he saw Cherri nod approvingly at him. Had she been there the entire time?
"You would look good in the semen aesthetic," she smirked, "Kinda matches your hoodie."
He nodded in response, he supposed it did.
"Now- pick a stall, slap on some eyeliner and we'll hit the town, yeah?" She turned to leave, but stopped at the last second, "You have a name picked out, right? You can't obviously go by Thomas- both for privacy reasons and y'know...Dick reasons."
The answer came quicker than he thought it would, "Tamara."
She nodded, "Thank, God- you would be surprised by how many girls pick out stripper names- like, 'Glitter' or 'Precious'."
Tom smirked back at her, "I may be dressed in drag and showing my ass for money, but I do have standards."
Half an hour later, he was fully dressed in his outfit (paired with solid white thigh highs and a pair of rogue flats that he had managed to find. He didn't want to test his horrible luck by taking on heels for the first time) and had somehow successfully applied his makeup without fucking it up. Somewhere along the line, Cherri had taught him how to style his short hair so it would curl delicately to one side, by his face.
He looked... Better than he expected.
Cherri mouth popped approvingly, "Now to the kitchen!"
As she gave a rundown of the procedures; of how to work the milkshake machine and how to put away dirty dishes, she sprinkled in different tidbits of information, various life hacks that she thought that was useful.
"Tits equals tips!" was by far his favourite one. That doesn't mean he wasn't starting to feel slightly overwhelmed though.
How did she remember all of this?
"You get your paycheck every two weeks- but the important thing to remember is that any tip that you get from a customer is yours to keep. That's where you're gonna make the most money here."
Tom nodded in understanding, he had expected as much.
"Some customers may even pay you to do something extra for them-"
He gave her a sharp sideways glance, was she really suggesting..?
"Nothing sexual! Most of the time they get it, that we only do softcore teasing here but..." She trailed off, and stared at him, suddenly serious, "If someone does something, or touches you without permission, then you tell Devon, who works as security."
Quirking an eyebrow, he asked, "Who's Devon?"
"Ahhh." She clicked her tongue, and lead him towards the double metal doors that cut off the main area to the kitchen. Rolling her wrist, she motioned towards a guy who was sitting cross-legged at one of the corner booths, face down, thoroughly engrossed with his Gameboy.
"Devon, meet Tamara- Tamara, this is Devon, he's married to Ms Sinclair." Cherri introduced them.
Devon didn't even look up from his game as he sent a two finger salute in greeting, "S'up."
Tom, being every inch of awkward as he is, just nodded his head back at the other man, knowing full well that he wouldn't see it anyway.
"Cherri!" A cheerful, and a decidely familar voice called.
The pair turned around, and Tom recognised the waitress from before. She seemed to remember him too, as her smile slowly disappeared and was replaced with an expression of shyness.
"She thinks she offended you, from when you first met her? She thinks you're a transgirl that doesn't get the chance to 'pass' very well." Cherri helpfully whispered.
Oh.
Wait, what?
"What?" He echoed his mind stupidly.
The other waitress crept closer, "Hello! I'm Connie- I'm so so sorry for calling you a 'mister' earlier!"
Feeling bad for her, he smiled as warmly as he could, "I'm Tamara, and don't worry about it."
Connie seemed calmed by his words and nodded, not looking as sheepish but still retaining the embarrassed blush from before. He felt bad enough as it was, he didn't want to even try explaining to her what he really was (since he is currently questioning that himself).
"Alright!" Came the loud, authoritative boom as Ms Sinclair made an appearance from her office. She looked as tired and stressed as before, the turtleneck sweater that she wore was baggy, ill-fitting, and hovered just before the knee.
She stared at him.
"You-"
"Tamara-" Cherri cheekily interrupted from beside him.
"Tamara." Ms Sinclair looked him up and down for a few seconds, taking in his new feminine appearance. It was that drastically different from the drowned rat look that he had sported when he got washed up on her doorstep. He looked like he fitted the part, except from...
"You're not wearing a bra."
It wasn't a question, and it definitely didn't sound like a statement; it was more like an accusation.
Tom shuffled nervously, mouth suddenly dry, "No... I thought you were joking!"
She narrowed her eyes at him, pinning him in place, "I don't joke."
A beat of silence followed before, "You own a maid cafe called 'Topped Off', how is that not a joke?"
"It's better than what Devon suggested." She shrugged indifferently.
"Oh?" Tom arched an eyebrow in amusement. He leaned himself against the soft pastel counter, and crossed his arms over his enlarged chest, "What was his idea?"
Ms Sinclair looked at him with a deadpan expression, "Grind House."
Despite himself, Tom snorted out a quick, surprised laugh.
"Now! If we've all finished chatting- Devon, get off your game- we are open for business!" She called, flipping the switch to illuminate the sign outside.
From the other side of the room, he faintly heard Devon quip, "I'm open for your business."
Tom laughed again, a light feeling in his chest.
He was going to like it here, he was certain.
---
A/N: That right there is 2,000+ words. Fuck me.
It's surprising actually since I spent most of today drafting what will eventually be chapter 9/10. Oops? :/
Anyway yeah, this is longer than usual, I could have cut it off somewhere but nah, fuck it.
I hope that you've enjoyed the fic so far