Sweet Transvestite

Hugo could never decide whether he loved or hated the bow taken at the end of a play. He knew that he liked listening to the waves of applause breaking over him, knew that he liked locking eyes with figures in the front row whom he recognised, in this case his father, mother, sister and brother-in-law. He loved seeing their smiles beaming up at him, the genuineness of their response substantiated by everyone else clapping with equal enthusiasm.

However there was still a voice in the back of his head that said, They’re not applauding you. Well, they are, but it’s the character you have created. Not even created, they are applauding your ability to pretend to be someone else. i.e to not be you for a bit.

But then how else would he ever be able to stand in front of his father in fishnets, six inch heels, a short black dress and make up?

Also, having spent twenty minutes slowly breaking down, his skin was covered in sweat, and chest heaving. After the first bow, he really just wanted to to collapse into the armchair in his dressing room and have a nap. This, however, was the first night of Angel Clarke’s new play, and the tenth anniversary of the Kestrel Theatre, and therefore Hugo guessed there would be three encores at least.

At the third his smile was starting to ache, and his sweat beginning to evaporate, leaving his skin cool. Of course, he was used to his exposed flesh being rapidly cooled, but that was on nights out, with alcohol in his blood and Angel, his boyfriend, wrapping his arms around him. Angel was there, but at the other end of the line, holding the hand of Lucy Weasley, the director of the production and also part owner of the theatre.

Glancing across at him, he caught Angel’s eye, and felt somewhat reassured by the strength of the smile Angel gave him. Hugo had not been sure what to make of Angel at first. Lucy had invited Angel, who despite his youth had had two successful plays put on in Seattle (the centre of American theatre as far as the wizarding world was concerned), to run a workshop the year before.

Hugo had found him cold. Angel had a confidence in himself and his opinions, which Hugo, used to arguing with himself on the validity of his thought before then arguing about it with other people, found breathtaking. It was the same confidence Lucy had. She would sit quietly and listen to everyone, and then say something so breathtakingly simple and intelligent, that all of them felt as though they had contributed in some way to her thought, and that she had somehow trumped them.

Lucy and Angel got on well. Most of the time when Angel smiled, it was as if at a joke he refused to share with anyone else, but with Lucy there was something more open about his smiles. Once, Hugo thought he’d caught Angel smiling at him in this same open and inviting manner, but then blinked and it was gone.

His first kiss with Angel had been in his dressing room, the dressing room he would soon be ensconced in, once the audience stopped applauding. He could feel his fellow cast members agreeing that it was time to go, their grips becoming limp, and their smiles faded.

â€�“Come on,” Lucy said, as the curtains fell for the fourth time. â€�“That’s enough. Well done everyone.”

There was a half-hearted cheer, but they all knew the lack of enthusiasm was from exhaustion. They had invested a lot in this, and it had gone well. And they were all actors, after all, and Hugo knew that this meant within an hour they would be in the theatre bar, getting pissed with their family, friends and erstwhile audience.

Hugo turned to follow the other actors towards the dressing rooms, but Lucy grabbed his wrist.

â€�“Hugo, a quick word,” she said, not giving him time to answer, and pulling him in the opposite direction.

They were surrounded by the stage hands, and spells to prepare the stage for tomorrow evening’s performance were whizzing around them.

â€�“Lucy, I’m exhausted--”

â€�“Yes, I know. But we need to talk--”

â€�“Can’t it wait?” Hugo snapped, trying to yank his arm from her grip, and then stumbling on his heels, half falling on Lucy. â€�“Sorry,” he said, sheepishly.

â€�“Don’t apologise to me,” she remarked drily, raising an eyebrow. â€�“It’s Angel’s fault for making absurdly high heels a motif in his play, and then casting you in the lead role.”

â€�“You cast me just as much as he did.”

â€�“Yes, but that’s because I think you’re a talented actor, not because I wanted to see you in front of Uncle Ron in a dress.”

Hugo frowned at her, his exhaustion disappearing as he thought about this. Yes, he had joked with Angel about how specific his costume had been, and the lengths they’d gone to, to ensure that he looked as good as it was possible for him to look (which, Hugo had to admit, was pretty bloody good), but he hadn’t thought about his father watching him. Not until the bow at the end, at any rate. Had Angel?

It was, after all, one of the few things they had ever argued about, though admittedly not for several months now. In fact the last time it had been brought up, was just before Angel told him he was writing a new play.

For Hugo, coming out to his parents as bisexual had been easy. He had mentioned it casually over dinner as something he thought they should know, in the same way he related his OWL and NEWT results to them, rather than something of immense import. Hugo always knew how lucky he was to have that confidence in their love, and he had been right to do so. They had accepted it unquestioningly.

However the first time he brought a boyfriend home, he noticed his father’s discomfort. Edmund Wolf, a Muggle-born from an aristocratic family, liked to wear flamboyant clothes, lots of make-up, and had a high-pitched and reedy voice. He screamed gay. It wasn’t that his father wasn’t polite, it was that he was uncomfortable around someone for whom conventional gender roles seemed next to non-existent. While Ron could accept Hugo finding men attractive, he obviously found it difficult to accept that Hugo would find feminine men attractive.

So a few years later, when Hugo was at Lucy’s flat and on a whim decided to put on her make-up, he realised two things. Firstly, that he liked it. And secondly, that this would confuse and upset his father.

And so he decided to keep it a secret from him. This was fairly simple. After all, most wizard and witch clothing was pretty neutral, and when he did dress up, he didn’t intend to bump into his dad. Most of his friends and cousins knew that he liked wearing dresses and make-up, although he’d sworn them all to secrecy in regard to the people he still, well into his twenties, referred to as ‘the adults’.

Angel thought he should ‘come out’ as a transvestite. He thought he shouldn’t. It was a secret which his father did not need to know, and he stuck by that. Though, he had to admit, on several occasions he’d felt like applying a dash of lipstick and mascara before visiting home, and repressed this desire. And, just now on the stage, he had got a thrill seeing his father applaud him.

He wasn’t applauding you. He was applauding John Smith, not Hugo Weasley.

Could Angel have planned it that way?

No. Angel liked seeing him in a dress, that was all.

â€�“It was Angel being Angel,” Hugo said, shrugging. â€�“Nothing to do with Dad.”

Lucy bit her lip, a familiar tick of hers which meant she disagreed, but was not going to argue.

â€�“What did you want, anyway?” Hugo knew he was being impatient, but having been briefly diverted, his tiredness was overwhelming him. He wanted to sit down.

â€�“Oh,” Lucy said, waving her hand. â€�“I wanted to talk about Molly’s wedding.”

â€�“Do we have to talk about this now?” Hugo stared at her, unable to quite believe that she was keeping him from his warm, cosy dressing room for something that wouldn’t be happening for a good few months.

â€�“No,” she said, vaguely, staring not at him but at something over his shoulder. Hugo glanced around, but could see no-one looking at Lucy, other than one of the stage hands, who was smiling dopily at her. Hugo sighed. He would never understand why Lucy always dated men stupider than herself.

â€�“Am I excused then, Direc--tor?” he said, mock bowing, and getting a laugh out of Lucy.

â€�“Yes, sorry. Go and rest. See you at the bar in a bit?”

â€�“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Hugo reassured her, before turning and walking across the stage, into the wings, down a corridor, round the back, past the other dressing rooms and eventually into his. He opened the door to find Angel sitting beside the dressing table, spinning around on the chair.

â€�“Hello, you,” Angel said, smiling up at him.

â€�“I am dying,” Hugo said, collapsing onto the red armchair at the dressing table. It was an old piece of furniture, worth rather a lot of money as a period piece he’d been told, but he wouldn’t sell it for the world. It was the perfect size for him to curl up in, after a long two hours on the stage, and one of the first items of furniture he’d bought for himself.

â€�“You look beautiful,” Angel murmured, rolling his chair next to Hugo’s, and kissing his cheek. â€�“How you feel?”

Hugo closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Angel’s breath on his skin. He loved closing his eyes, and hearing Angel’s American accent wash over him.

â€�“Good. Exhausted.”

â€�“So you keep on saying,” Angel said languidly, and Hugo knew that he was rolling his eyes. Suddenly, he felt a hand run up his thigh and shivered. He loved the feel of someone’s hand on his tight-clad thigh, thinking about that hand soon tearing those tights off, but for now enjoying the friction created.

But they didn’t have time for that now. Hugo yawned, stretching his arm out and at the same time shoving Angel off.

â€�“I need to take this,” Hugo said, gesturing vaguely to his face, â€�“off.”

â€�“Why? You look divine.”

â€�“You know why,” Hugo snapped, picking up the small vial and pouring it on a pad and dabbing his face, before gazing at his reflection in the mirror on the dresser.

â€�“Did you enjoy that?”

There was something strangely hard in Angel’s tone, and when Hugo glanced over at him, he had that same hardness set on his usually gentle features, as if he were about to attempt a terrible task.

â€�“Of course I enjoyed it--”

â€�“I want--I think you should tell Ron.”

Hugo hated being interrupted, particularly with something he was in no mood to talk about. No, that wasn’t right, they had talked about it, and he’d said no, and Angel should respect that. So that’s why he said, childishly, â€�“Tell him what?”

â€�“About you liking to wear dresses and make-up and those glorious tights.” Even though he knew they were about to have an argument, Hugo could not stop the shiver running up his spine as Angel rolled the word ‘glorious’ around his tongue. Perhaps his silence gave Angel the confidence to continue, â€�“Because you are worried about it. He’s your father. He may not understand, but he loves you--”

â€�“I don’t want tension,” Hugo interrupted, wiping the make-up off his face very firmly, and staring at himself in the mirror. He did look strange, half made up, half not, his hair still blonde, thick and long. Those charms wouldn’t last much longer, and he’d be back to a short and ginger crop of hair soon enough.

â€�“What tension? He might find it odd at first, but he’d get used to it.”

â€�“Dad’s--set in his ideas.”

â€�“Like the idea that he loves you? He’ll love all of you, regardless of--”

â€�“Oh, don’t be so fucking trite,” Hugo snapped, violently removing his lipstick, leaving his lips looking rather bare.

â€�“What’s the worst that can happen?” Angel said, standing up and walking just behind Hugo, wrapping his arms around his neck, before looking at their reflections in the mirror. â€�“It’s not like you’ve lied to him.”

Hugo bit his lip. Yes, Angel was right. He’d never said to his father, â€�“I’m not a transvestite,” but then what son had?

â€�“He loves you,” Angel said. â€�“You should tell him. You want him to die, not knowing part of you? Wouldn’t you like to wake up and feel like flinging a dress on, and not think Oh, I’m going to Dad’s, so I can’t?”

Hugo knew that Angel was right. But then this was his dad, not Angel’s. Angel hadn’t spoken to his father in years, and so couldn’t imagine how strange it was to think that your father would be uncomfortable with part of who you were.

â€�“Why do you care, anyway?” Hugo said, turning to look at Angel. Then an idea struck him, and he smirked, â€�“Is this just because you want to show me off at the next family party?”

â€�“You’re gorgeous, I’m always showing you off,” Angel said, shrugging. He spoke so casually, as if the compliment took him no effort to say, but instead was as natural as breathing. Hugo thought his heart stopped for a moment, but then dismissed this as a cliche, something invented to symbolise an emotion. That’s not true, though, a voice in the back of his head said. Your heart did stop. That actually happens.

â€�“It bothers me, because I love you,” Angel said, not looking at Hugo, but at his reflection in the mirror. And in that same reflection, Hugo saw his own eyes widen. â€�“And I know,” Angel continued, as if he had not just said something of great importance, â€�“that it matters to you, and would be a weight off your chest if you told him. Sometimes I think you’d prefer he found out by accident.”

â€�“By accident?” Hugo repeated, barely able to think straight. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

â€�“Accidents can be useful,” Angel murmured, one hand looped around Hugo’s neck slowly brushing his cheek.

This touch brought Hugo back to reality. He smirked. â€�“Indeed. You thought I was straight as a die, until you caught me in that cupboard kissing Richard Finch-Fletchley. And the second we split up--”

â€�“Oh, not quite the second.”

â€�“You didn’t wait long before you jumped,” Hugo said, rolling his eyes.

â€�“I couldn’t resist,” Angel breathed into his ear, and at that neither could Hugo, jumping to his feet and pressing Angel against the cupboard they’d mentioned moments before. It had been intended as another dressing room, but for some reason had decided to resist all attempts at increasing its size magically, and therefore was little more than a closest, with just enough room for two people to stand, to kiss, to--

â€�“Hugo!” Angel admonished as Hugo reached round and squeezed his arse.

â€�“What?” Hugo murmured, kissing his boyfriend’s neck. â€�“You are unbelievably handsome and just said you loved me, how can you expect me to resist--”

And Angel wasn’t resisting his kisses, far from it, but there was something about him that was very unusually awkward for Angel, and when Hugo opened his eyes, it was to see a red flush blazing across his cheeks.

â€�“I don’t think I’ve ever made you blush. It’s very attractive...”

He leaned in for another kiss, but Angel ducked out of the way, rushing to the other side of the room.

â€�“What’s the matter?” Hugo said, staring at him in confusion.

â€�“Hugo, I--I--fuck it, I was going to wait until I’d gone to--”

â€�“To what? Wait for what?”

Angel reached into his pocket, and flicked his wand. The cupboard door, which Angel had been pinned against moments before, swung open and from it emerged a somewhat dusty, ruffled and bright red Ronald Weasley.

â€�“Dad,” Hugo said, not knowing what else to say. He glanced from his father, to Angel, back to his father again and then to Angel, who said, â€�“I’ll leave you to it,” before making a quick exit, shutting the dressing room door behind him.

There was a long silence, filled only by Hugo’s deep breathing. He opened his mouth to speak, to find his dad had down the same, and for a minute they argued over who should go first, before Hugo maintained a stubborn silence for long enough for his father to do so.

However, all he said was, â€�“I---I think I’d better go in the cupboard again. I always say the wrong bloody thing...” and half turn around.

â€�“No, Dad, look,” Hugo said, reaching out and grabbing his father’s arm. In doing so, he remembered that he was still wearing his soft black gloves. Why hadn’t he taken them off? Because he’d forgotten about them, and they were one of his favourite items to wear. They made him feel delicate and feminine, and he enjoyed feeling like that some of the time.

Looking down below his hand on his father’s robed arm, he noticed their legs, his father’s concealed by dress robes, and his own firm, long, clad by tights and ending in absurdly tall heels. But when he looked up, his father wasn’t looking at his hand on his arm, but at his face.

â€�“I know this shouldn’t bother me,” Ron said, sighing. â€�“This would be easier to discuss if you weren’t--dressed like that.”

â€�“It was for the play, Dad,” Hugo said, mollifyingly rather than defensively. He felt as if he should keep calling Ron Dad, to remind him of what they were to each other, and how little this, in the grand scheme of things, mattered.

â€�“But---But you like doing it in your own time?”

â€�“Yes,” Hugo said, biting his lip.

â€�“How--How long?”

Hugo hadn’t expected that question, but answered, his tone wary. â€�“Only a few years. I was at Lucy’s and bored one day.”

â€�“Oh, thank Merlin for that,” Ron said.

â€�“What?” Hugo asked, amused and confused by his father’s relief.

â€�“Because--I--I hate the idea of you having had this secret for ages. At least it’s--when I heard you and Angel talking, I was imagining you trying on Hermione’s make up and--”

â€�“Merlin, no!” Hugo said, and even as he laughed with his father, he began to feel more at ease, as if a great weight, which needn’t have been there at all, had been lifted from him.

â€�“You're still my son,” Ron said, throwing one arm around him, before suddenly asking, â€�“You're... it's still son, right? I don't call you something different?"

â€�“I like dressing up in women’s clothing, I’m not transexual. Yeah, it’s still son.”

â€�“Okay,” Ron said, taking a deep breath. â€�“It’s a bit to take in, that’s all. But--your boyfriend, Angel, was right. I’ll--I’ll love you whatever. He told me he was going to play a prank on you, and needed me in the cupboard or something like that. I didn’t expect--” Ron shook his head. â€�“I don’t know what I expected.”

â€�“It doesn’t matter,” Hugo said, and they embraced, somewhat awkwardly at first, but then Hugo squeezed his father tightly, reassured by the strength of those arms around him. When they released each other, they smiled, and Ron walked to the door, opening it before turning back and saying, â€�“You coming to the party then? Come like that, if you want--does your mother know?”

â€�“I think so,” Hugo answered, but only because he’d always assumed his mother knew everything. â€�“I’ve never told her though. I thought--I thought it would bother you more, and didn’t want a secret between you.”

Ron laughed. â€�“Very thoughtful of you. You’re a good boy, you know that? And you were bloody brilliant tonight. I mean, I don’t know much about this world, and don’t understand half what comes out of Lucy’s mouth, but you were good. I forgot you were you, and I think there’s some power in that.”

â€�“Yeah,” Hugo said, smiling broadly. â€�“Yeah, there is.”

â€�“I’ll tell everyone you’ll be up in a minute,” Ron added, and then left, closing the door.

Hugo sighed. This, he realised, was the first moment he’d had to himself since before the play began. And yet, although he relished his privacy, all he actually wanted to do, was be with Angel.

There was a tentative knock on the door.

â€�“Come in,” he said, and was not surprised to see a sheepish Angel slip through. Angel looked different like this. Smaller somehow, as if he needed to be treated with kid gloves. Hugo had never seen his boyfriend feeling guilty about something, and was quite touched by this new, uncertain side of the man he loved.

Because he did love him. Of that, he was sure.

Looking sideways across the room at him, Hugo said, â€�“Promise me you’ll never pull a trick on me like that again.”

â€�“I swear I won’t,” Angel replied immediately, his voice surprisingly quick, as if terrified that Hugo would, for even a second, suspect Angel would refuse the request. And there, again, Hugo felt that strange heart-stopping feeling.

â€�“But thank you,” Hugo said, walking across the room and twisting his hand in Angel’s hair before kissing him. â€�“And I love you too,” he breathed, resting his forehead on Angel’s as he spoke. â€�“So much.”

Then Angel kissed him, and all that mattered was them, alone and together in that dressing room.




Fifteen minutes later, Lucy came looking for her cousin. She opened the door to find the two men half naked and entangled in each others limbs, blind to anything else around them. Quickly, she closed the door.

Putting Ron in that cupboard had been a very good idea of hers, and she was sure Angel claiming it, had done wonders for his relationship with Hugo.

For herself, however, she intended to get very drunk and shag the handsome stage hand who hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her all evening.