Chapter Text
The door was fucking red. The shittiest fucking red. A bright ass fucking neon eyesore that drilled through his eyes and made his head pound. God, Mickey couldn't help but want to rip the damn thing off its hinges.
He didn't even know why he was here to be honest. Everyone knew crossing over to the prim and perfect Northside was like walking up to death and not just asking him for a god-damned kiss but for a full on fucking make-out session. Total suicide. And Mickey'd kiss the first guy he saw on the street if anyone in this pretentious ass neighborhood actually believed some grubby kid from the Southside seriously belonged here.
Yet here he was. Standing in front of some nondescript magic shop at the end of a surprisingly clean alleyway in the dead of Chicago winter, a flurry of snow at his feet and a raggedy scarf wrapped around his pale neck.
Mickey clenched his fists and clutched at the rumpled piece of parchment in his hand. He was probably a dumb ass for keeping it, let alone actually following its instructions but hey Mickey never claimed to be a genius. He was just a dumb kid who did stupid shit from the Southside and anyone who told you otherwise was a liar and probably trying to get you killed.
The paper had randomly appeared on his nightstand late one night while he was using the bathroom, and well that was probably the creepiest shit he'd ever seen, but here he was. It crinkled in the icy wind, blowing up a faint woody scent, and the dark neat penmanship that inked it's surface stood out a startling black with only a name. Well. More accurately two names. Bravatos and Gaudy.
Above his head swung a sign, the words Bravatos and Gaudy's Wonder Emporium of Mythic Wonders etched into its facade, the wood almost black with age. Its rusty chains squeaked in the wind and glinted a dull russet bronze in the muted glow of the moon. He looked back down at the paper in his hand. This must be the place.
Mickey scratched his chin and scoffed at the name. Fuckin' gay as fuck. He exhaled--air billowing out in a frosty white wave in front of him like wisps of cigarette smoke--and reached into his pocket, feeling around for the lock-pick that he knew he'd stashed in there before leaving his home. Grabbing them he squatted in front of the door. That damn red door. And set them on the snowy ground beside him.
"Gonna be fucking in n' out," he grunted, rubbing a dirty thumb against his lip and eyeing the lock with a look that bordered on trepidation. Not that it was. Because Mickey wasn't--didn't get scared of shit. Not even that creepy ass movie with the killer girl in the T.V. What was it called again? The Ring? His life was a horror movie enough.
His bony shoulders peeked out through the thin wispy fabric of his shirt like small jagged spikes. He shivered against the cold, cursing himself for forgetting his jacket. Every Southsider knew how bad Chicago winters could get and being a Milkovich only made that fact even more well known. It was branded in his skin like another tattoo. Etched into his mind with a marker he just couldn't erase...
Mickey shook his head and coughed, his dark bushy brows drawing together into a frown as he rubbed his hands together. Don't be a god-damned pussy. His hands shook, the black ink of his F-U-C-K-U-U-P tattoo standing out even more against the stark white of his skin. Icy-blue eyes glared back at them. "Yeah, n' fuck you too."
He shouldn't have been this nervous. He'd done his research--been casing the joint like a good little Milkovich since sundown. No one was going to be going in or out but him. He knew that. He knew when the light upstairs went out and he knew when the last guy had left for the night. Ten-o'clock. Nearly two hours had passed since then. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing.
Just in and out. Simple right? Yeah. Standard Southside procedure. He could do this.
Taking one last quick look around, Mickey jammed the pick into the door.
Jimmy--jimmy--jimmy--twist--turn--turn--jimmy a little more and--
"You know darling, as cute as you are, most people would find it terribly rude to have a stranger rob them."
Mickey jumped and the pick snapped in half-- How the fuck--? A mumbled shit escaped his lips as it cut a thin line across his thumb. He turned, hands still guiltily hanging onto the door-knob, his eyebrows reaching his hairline in surprise. How'd this old queen get up behind him?
"I mean, that was what you were planning to do wasn't it?" The person continued in a soothing, airy sort of light voice, accented just faintly with some sort of twang Mickey couldn't quite place. "Rob me that is?"
Mickey stared blankly and his lips twisted into a bitten grimace, but didn't respond. Like fuck was he going to incriminate himself further. He'd been arrested enough times to have the fucking Miranda Rights drilled into his head for life. You've got the right to remain silent. You've got the right to an attorney. Blah, Blah, fuckin' blah.
The old queen sighed and tried again, resting a hand on her hip. She noted the thin shirt Mickey was wearing. "You must be cold," she murmured in an airy sort of calming voice. She tapped a finger against her chin, and hummed to herself before clapping her hands together and brushing Mickey aside, "come inside."
Mickey blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Well I certainly have no intention on having this conversation out in the frigid cold darling," she stated dramatically, twirling her flamboyant pink scarf around her neck, "and it'd impolite to go against a ladies wishes."
Mickey frowned but made no move to follow.
"If that's not enough motivation for you well... you know what they say about the Northside. Those without the Blood can find it full of terrors," she gave him a steady look, and Mickey felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, "even for someone of your... unique standing."
"How'd ya--?"
"I know many things Mickey and I really do think it's best we continue this inside. I may just have the answer you seek."
Mickey was tense. Tense in that way he got whenever something bad was about to happen. He didn't like that kind of tense. "Who are you?"
She smiled and gestured grandly. "I am Madam G. Curator of the Arts of Light here. And welcome to my little shop of wonders."