shutyourface

In The Movement

Kevin isn’t surprised by the PR involvement, but the angle they’re taking is kind of strange. They’re not trying to convince him to keep a low profile or deny anything, and they’re not insisting on a big coming out interview or a People magazine spread. Which Kevin wouldn’t be totally against, he’s all for singing Mike’s awesome praises, but he doesn’t really want to make everything a big deal either. It’s just them, they’re in love, and Kevin’s happy enough that he doesn’t have to worry about hiding it.

PR rep number five – the first four, over the past two weeks, just gave him thumbs-ups and told him to keep on keeping on – comes armed with a briefcase and a frighteningly wide grin, but Kevin’s worked with her before, so he’s totally relaxed, thinking about lunch and hoping Joe doesn’t eat all the tuna and ham and BBQ chips.

Sarah leans a casual hip against the conference table and slips a photo of Mike in front of Kevin. Mike’s hot in anything, but Kevin’s particularly fond of his sleeveless tees. He smiles a little and traces the curve of Mike’s bicep with a finger, then gives Sarah a questioning look.

She taps the center of Mike’s forehead. “So you’re dating a sociopath.”

Kevin is not one-hundred percent sure what a sociopath is, but he thinks it has something to do with skinning baby bunnies and lacking a working moral compass. “What?”

Sarah scrutinizes the photo with a knuckle curled up along her chin. “This says baby-killer to me. He’s got the cold, dead eyes of a guy who’s gnawed on his fair share of meaty human bones.”

“What?”

“For survival purposes, perhaps,” Sarah goes on, nodding solemnly, “but with little to no regrets. He doesn’t have a basement, does he?”

Kevin stares at her.

Sarah’s eyes are twinkling a little.

“You suck,” Kevin says.

“You see my point, though,” Sarah says.

Kevin has no idea what Sarah’s point is. “Uh, no.”

“You’re dating this,” Sarah says, gesturing to Mike’s photo, then she pulls out a manila folder and opens it up over top of it, “but we want you to date this.”

Kevin says, “That’s Zac Efron.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think Zac Efron dates guys,” Kevin says, even though that is not actually what he wants to say, which is something more along the lines of, “!!!!” and cannot actually be verbally expressed without multiple swear words that Kevin does not use.

Sarah sighs, then shuffles another photo out from behind the Zac Efron one. “Here.”

“That’s. That’s Mike’s head superimposed on top of Zac Efron’s body,” Kevin says. He bites his lip, because this is starting to get a little funny.

“Exactly,” Sarah says. “Notice how the skinny tie makes him look less like he’s carrying shrunken baby heads around in his pockets.”

Kevin lets out a low breath. “So we’re having a conversation about image,” he says.

“I thought that was obvious.”

“And you want Mike to ditch the dirty jeans and, uh,” he flips through the rest of the photos in Sarah’s file, “naked girl iron-ons and FC hoodies and face shirts and—bottles of JD and tequila.”

She holds up another photo manip. “You can wear matching white pants.”

“That’s me,” Kevin sputters, wide-eyed, because there is something so wrong with Mike’s head on his own body, Sarah is not right in the brain.

“Look.” Sarah drops the photo and spreads her palms out on the table, leaning towards Kevin. “We want you two at the Teen Choice Awards next month, red carpet, the whole shebang.”

“Okay,” Kevin says. He thinks that’s probably doable, so long as he doesn’t use the word shebang when he asks Mike.

“You can hold hands, smooch, whatever, we just need to make sure Mike doesn’t look like he’s a hollowed out shell of evil. How do you think he’d feel about a cowboy hat?”

“Exactly how I feel about cowboy hats,” Kevin says, and Kevin thinks cowboy hats are fine if they’re headed for a rodeo or dude ranch or trying to remain inconspicuous at the Alamo.

Sarah squeezes his shoulder. “I’m kidding, we’re gonna deck him out in a fedora, something pink maybe, we’ll leave the details up to the stylist,” she says.

Kevin blinks. He thinks maybe Sarah doesn’t get that Mike’s an awesome rock star; Kevin’s not going to ask him to wear a pink hat or a shiny suit or a man-purse or whatever like Zac Efron.

“I’d give him a poodle or something, but I’m afraid people would assume it’s his lunch,” Sarah says.

“Uh.” Kevin seriously has no idea what to say here, because what?

Sarah ruffles his hair. “Good chat, Kev. Say hi to the guys for me, okay?” Humming under her breath, she gathers up the photos in a neat little stack and tucks them back into the folder. She snaps her briefcase shut and says, “This’ll all work out fine, don’t worry,” and her heels click rhythmically on the tile floor as she strolls out of the room.

Kevin stares after her a moment, lips pressed together, totally bemused. Then he pulls out his phone, flicks through his pictures until he hits the photo of Mike he has programmed to come up when Mike calls. It’s actually a picture of both of them, one Bill snapped, Mike’s hand buried in Kevin’s hair, Kevin’s fingers curled in Mike’s shirt collar, right at the hollow of his throat, and Mike totally doesn’t have dead eyes - Kevin just can’t see it.

Maybe, though, Kevin concedes, it’s because Mike’s looking at him.