The Toast of Mayfair


summary: Emmett gets Justin to star in his rendition of 'Cabaret'! - much to Brian's displeasure. [“Hot pants,” Justin chides softly, wrapping his arms round Brian and pulling his head down to rest in the crook of his shoulder. “They’re called hot pants, Brian.”]
rating: I dunno. Mature, maybe. There's like, groping.
disclaimer: har har har


Justin is fucking tired, that’s what it really comes down to. So when Emmett looks at him with that glimmering light in his eyes, he can do absolutely nothing but agree to whatever it is.

Sure, Emmett. Whatever you want - without even asking.

And Emmett claps his hands together excitedly and says: Honey, this is going to be fabulous!

Which Justin knows really means: This is going to suck to no end.

And not in a good way.


He asks Ted to come. Mostly because Michael has inventory at the comic book store, and Brian – well, Brian isn’t really an option. Besides, Ted usually goes wherever Emmett goes anyway (and Justin always thinks: why, exactly, aren’t they together anymore?) But it doesn’t matter.

He’s at Miss Steve’s All Occasions Boutique and Justin wants to just die. Please, if there’s a God, just make me dead; because Emmett is draping pink and lavender boas around Justin’s neck and calling him the prettiest thing in the whole wide universe.

And: Maybe we should go with darker colors. No offense intended, baby, but your skin is that kind of pasty-sick-looking pale. Bright colors might just make it worse.

Justin wants to say that he thinks he looks a bit more porcelain than sickly-looking. But, maybe that might sound a little pretentious or something – calling yourself porcelain, and all that.

Ted says: As much as I’m loving this, I have to go. If I’m not back by the end of lunch Brian’ll have a fit.

Emmett looks put-out for a moment, then says: Just one more thing. Do you think Justin would look better in a regular old platform, or a stiletto, Teddy?

And Justin can’t decide if he wants to kill Ted for abandoning him or just impale himself on a clothes rack.


By three o’clock Justin manages to convince Emmett that a sensible mid-calf black boot (with a tiny heel) would be just as sexy as a stiletto, and anyway, you don’t want me falling on my ass right in the middle, breaking my head open, do you, Em?.

Justin says: “Don’t you think my head as been through enough trauma?”

He continues: “Don’t you care, Emmett, that I was viciously attacked at my prom – that I almost died - right in Brian’s arms? And now you want me to risk additional pain and long-lasting mental repercussions, for this?”

Emmett, his eyes full of tears, says, “Oh God. I wasn’t even thinking!”

And its evil, Justin knows, to pull the bashing card. But sometimes – oh, sometimes the impending doom of possible public mockery makes people do evil, evil things.


Justin comes home with five huge paper bags and immediately shoves them in the oven. He thinks briefly of turning the oven on (as he’s sure some of those materials just have to be highly flammable) – but he’s scared that when they do go up in flames, Brian might inquire as to why his stove is on fire. And, Justin would like very much to avoid any questions regarding it.

Brian comes home at six and they order take-out Italian (despite Brian’s protest of: Do you have any fucking idea how many carbs are in one piece of rigatoni?). Justin says: So fuck the rigatoni, get that low-carb spaghetti.

Brian glares at him; but Justin is thinking of spaghetti. Straps. Spaghetti straps and fishnet stockings and mid-calf boots. Justin is thinking about the color explosions of polyester and lycra in the oven.

So he orders Brian a salad and a chicken parmesan hero for himself, then says: How about we just fuck, yeah?

So they fuck right up until the delivery man gets there - they eat - then they fuck some more.

And Justin is totally not thinking about how much he loathes Emmett, when Brian says (still breathing heavy and throwing the condom away): You’re right. I probably could’ve ordered that low-carb spaghetti.

Justin hates everyone.


What happened was this:

Justin and Emmett were at Woody’s, simply just enjoying each other’s company. That’s all. Brian and Michael and Ted were on their way to meet them, and together, they were all going to walk over to Babylon. It was a normal any day of the week type thing, right until the speaker above their heads started playing David Bowie’s Life on Mars.

That’s pretty much when everything went downhill.

Because Justin was sipping on his Whiskey Sour, checking out the trick situation for the night, and singing; harmlessly singing under his breath.

And then Emmett had that look. That Oh My God I Just Had The Best Idea Ever look, and he was aiming it right in Justin’s confused (yet still pretty looking) face.

So Justin said: Whatever it is you're thinking – sure, why not. I’m not doing anything better with my time lately.

And Emmett said: Promise? Say yes, say yes.

So Justin shrugged and said: Yeah, sure. I promise.

And Emmett clapped and screeched and said: So I’m directing this little play for the Barker Street Theater. Have you ever seen Cabaret?

Justin didn’t answer; he just drank the rest of his Whiskey and ordered another.


Apparently Justin would make the absolute best Sally Bowles ever, please please, you have to do it. Think of all the people you’ll be helping!

Because the whole production is for charity: The Organization for Providing Quality and Tasty Meals to Gay, Lesbian, Transgendered, Transvestite, and Bisexual Senior Citizens of The Immediate Pittsburgh Area (A Non-Profit Organization).

And Justin has always been a sucker for a good cause.


Emmett must’ve been waiting in the stairwell, because as soon as Justin hears the lift creakily begin its decent, he’s rushing through the door with his arms packed with celery and carrot sticks.

He dumps the vegetables on the kitchen counter and says: In my backpack. Here, put it on quick. The movie first; then we’ll study the sheet music and Broadway soundtrack.

“What the fuck is the celery for?” Justin asks.

“Weight control. You’re going to have to show a lot of that twink physique, sweetie,” Emmett smiles.

Justin looks down at himself, then back up to Emmett. “I’m not fat.”

“That’s beside the point. Trust me, I’m a pro at this. Eat.” And Emmett stuffs a whole stalk of celery in Justin’s mouth.

Justin coughs, and the stalk of celery falls to the floor. “You almost choked me.”

Emmett rolls his eyes and pounces onto Brian’s Worth More Than You Are couch, and says: I’m sure you’ve had experience with things begin shoved down your throat. You live with Brian, after all. Get over here and sit.


Halfway through struggling with the fishnets, Justin yells from the bathroom: Don’t you think it’s a little weird? I mean, Sally Bowles is a woman.

And Emmett says: I’ve done some tweaking. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fabulous.

Justin surveys himself in the mirror, and vaguely thinks: Man, I have nice legs.

Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome - Im Cabaret, au Cabaret, to Cabaret


Justin is all dressed up. A dress rehearsal, of sorts (except without the rest of the cast and in Brian’s loft); because Emmett has decided he just has to know if Justin could at least pull off some of the dance moves with the actual costume on. You know, before the real rehearsal. Or something.

So Justin pulls the computer desk chair to the middle of the loft and Emmett puts track 5 of the soundtrack on the player, and Justin starts singing Mein Herr; tipping the cute little fedora hat over his eyeliner-lined eyes and smiling.

The stereo is on so loud, Justin is singing and Emmett clapping and hollering – and maybe if they’d just been a bit more attentive, well, then maybe they would’ve heard the grinding sound of the door sliding open.

Or the gasp of utter horror.

Or the slam of a briefcase against beautifully polished hardwood floors.

But as it happens, Brian goes unnoticed (for once) until he abruptly stops the music, and says: What the fuck is going on?

Justin stands frozen in mid-choreographed step, on the chair, in his gorgeous red boa and hotpants and pretty fedora hat, and says: Uhm.

So Emmett stands up and gently guides a traumatized Brian to the couch and begins explaining.


“It’s for charity. Justin is a saint; no one else wanted the part. I was completely desperate. And anyway, he has the perfect body type and voice and he’s brilliant.”

“Fuck off. He’s not dressing like that in some fucking play. You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“Don’t you think it should be up to him?”

“I think if he wants to get laid anytime soon-”

As if he can’t get laid by a hundred other guys on Liberty Avenue, instead. They all want him Brian, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Listen Honeycutt – “

“No, you listen- “

“Em, do you think we should have gotten the stilettos? The boots look kind of, you know, tacky.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“No, no, baby. The boots look simply divine - they complement the shape of your legs so well!”


Opening night goes off without a hitch. Brian even tells Justin to ‘break a leg’ (even though he was almost positive he meant I really hope you break your fucking leg out there, asshole). But whatever.

Debbie brings him roses and Emmett wipes his tearing eyes and exclaims: Fabulous, baby! Just like Liza!

Which Justin imagines is suppose to be some type of complement. Or something.

He’s about to walk back on stage, do the whole thank you, thank you - you’re too kind end of the show bow-thing; but instead a strong hand grabs him by the back of his sequined blouse and pulls him through the theater’s back door. Debbie’s roses falling and crushing sadly beneath his feet.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

“You have fucking destroyed my manhood,” Brian practically growls, shoving Justin hard against the alley wall.

“Do I even want to ask what the fuck you’re talking about?” Justin asks aloofly, patting out the wrinkles in his rhinestone-accentuated hotpants.

“I’m talking about fishnet stockings. I’m talking about you with eye shadow on and, what the fuck, is that lip gloss? You’re wearing heels, Justin - heels. And a fucking glittering woman’s shirt-thing.”

“It’s called a blouse, Brian. And it’s sequined. And I think it’s rather handsome looking. Emmett picked it out.”

Brian covers his face with both his hands and makes a sound suspiciously like a sob. “Of course Emmett picked it out. Emmett is plotting to ruin my life.”

“Why’s that?” Justin asks, smacking his lips together (you know, to evenly distribute the lip gloss).

“Because,” Brian sighs. “I was hard almost the entire night. You in those stupid little shorts. And how the heels made your legs look.”

Hotpants,” Justin chides softly, wrapping his arms round Brian and pulling his head down to rest in the crook of his shoulder. “They’re called hotpants, Brian.”


Brian says, “Don’t - Christ, I hate myself – just fucking leave them on”.

“Really?” Justin laughs, shaking his hips a little. “You like it, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“You do. You so, like, love it. And it’s okay, because they do make my ass look amazing.”

“Shut the fuck up, Justin.”

“You know,” Justin says, biting on his bottom lip briefly to hide a smirk, “I could keep them around, even after the show’s over; I mean, if you want me too. The lip gloss, too. If you want.”

Justin licks his lip glossed-lips and hops up on the kitchen counter, spreading his legs just enough for Brian to notice. “So, you know, once in a while you can pretend to have this huge flamboyant slut waiting for you at home.”

Brian smirks and pushes apart Justin’s knees with his hips, sliding a hand over his spandex and rhinestone covered cock. He says: “You’ve always been my waiting-at-home-slut. Now you’re just more sparkly.”

He wraps his arms around Justin; grabbing his ass and pulling Justin flush against his torso and hips. Justin groans and grinds down against Brian’s hardening cock, and says: "Yeah, so we’re definitely keeping the hotpants".

Brian smiles against Justin’s neck and says: “Yep.”

Bye-Bye, Mein Lieber Herr!