playboy bunny mathieu + 800 words of fiction

i knew this suggestion wasn't going to win in the poll, but i couldn't stop thinking about the circumstances of mathieu wearing a bunny suit, and how jean would feel about it. and then i ended up writing 800 words.

this little story isn't spoilers for laurels per se, but does reference moments from it, and you have no reason to care about these characters or their relationship if you haven't read the book, so i highly recommend picking it up! to encourage you, i've put it on sale on itchio for $3 rather than the usual $5, but only if you buy it through this link! and only for the next week, since itchio is Like That. you'll also want to read the free extra, sweet bay. listen i love these boys a lot and have a lot to say with them.

anyway: Mathieu Wears A Playboy Bunny Costume

"Jean, be honest—does this do anything for you?"

"Hm—?"

Jean's fingers slipped on a sour piano note. His expression didn't change, at least not to the untrained eye. His lips parted, and his brows rose a fraction of an inch as his gaze traveled over the velvet rabbit ears to the dark pantyhose, and everything in between. Mathieu was too far to see his pupils dilate, but expected they were like two black pearls.

He didn't answer. Only stared. Mathieu smirked, and stroked his hands down the sides of the violet satin bunny suit.

"I asked you a question, Jean."

He strolled forward into the room, purple pumps clacking on the hardwood floor. He hadn't worn heels so high since the sixties, but a body never forgets. Jean's eyes tracked his every step, until Mathieu stood over him at the piano bench, hands at his hips. He tilted his head to one side and raised a single brow.

"Do you like it?"

Jean hesitated. His mouth opened, shut, and then he turned back to the piano, almost like an ashamed dog avoiding the master's glare.

"Why are you wearing it?" he asked quietly.

"I found it in a trunk of my old things.” Mathieu sat across Jean's lap, one arm wrapped around his shoulders. "I sewed it myself to sneak into the Playboy Club of New York in '62. I had to take it in in a few places given I can't fill it the way I used to, but I'm still quite pleased with the fit."

Jean remained silent a while, as he traced up the sewn seams through the corner of his eye. The bodice had clearly been adjusted for a body without breasts, but the craftsmanship was impeccable. Mathieu had chosen his career as a couturier for good reason.

"But it's a woman's costume, isn't it?"  Jean asked at last. A crease formed on his forehead, and he fingered the keys without playing. "You're not a woman.”

“Men wear women’s clothing all the time,” said Mathieu. “What do you think Lawrent is doing with the dresses he borrows?”

“Yes, but... it's different, isn't it? For you?” Jean asked. “Why would you want to?”

“Because I look good in it. Don't I?”

Mathieu took Jean’s face in his hands to turn it back to himself. He found a look of confused guilt in his lover’s eyes, not unlike what he'd worn in the car the night of their first kiss. Jean had been afraid he'd broken a rule, that he'd taken something not meant for him—something Mathieu had thrust into his hands and forced him to hold.

Mathieu realized—Jean thought he'd done something wrong.

“Oh, Jean,” Mathieu cooed, and stroked his fingers through the wisps of golden hair at Jean’s temple. “You really are too considerate. Or else I’m too cruel for trapping you.”

“Mathieu?” Jean prompted. He’d broken the habit of sir, but the deferral rang clear all the same.

“You don't want to say I look good in women’s clothing, because you don't want to say I look good as a woman. Is that it?” Mathieu gently asked. Jean hesitated, but a soothing swipe of Mathieu's thumb rubbed away some of the fear.

He nodded. “Yes. You'd said once you would prefer I not imagine it—what you were like before. I’ve endeavored not to. I don't ask. I don't need to know. I love you, just the way you are.”

Mathieu sighed, and smiled at his unbearably thoughtful partner. “You really are too sweet.”

Jean bowed his head, peering up at Mathieu through his eyelashes. It was a schoolboyish expression, and it made Mathieu’s heart ache with affection. He bent down to kiss him, cheeks cupped in his hands. Jean met him without resistance, melting beneath him. Mathieu slid his legs around Jean’s waist to straddle him on the bench, and kissed his forehead for good measure.

“I happen to think I look very good in drag,” he murmured.

Jean let out a sigh, his eyes closed. “You do,” he admitted at last. His hand wandered up Mathieu’s thigh, to tuck his fingers beneath the fabric at his hip. “Your legs are... quite amazing in pantyhose.”

“Mm. And they're cheap pantyhose, too. I don't care what happens to them at all,” Mathieu purred.

Jean’s fingers paused in their exploration. “And... what of the costume itself?”

Mathieu leaned in close, to whisper in Jean’s ear. “I don't mind indulging in a metaphor. If it would make you feel better about it.” He leaned back, and traced the seams at the costume’s front. “It’s only a few panels of fabric.”

The first real spark of excitement lit up in Jean’s eyes at such a rare permission. His hands came away from Mathieu’s hips, and followed the trail his fingers had left. Up, up to his collarbones, to the hem at the bunny’s bodice. His thumbs tucked against the seam, his fingers took tight hold of the satin.

He tore it all away, to reach the man beneath.