Getting Ready

author's note: this is a short piece between two characters of mine and not a particularly grand piece of fiction or my magnum opus

Crimson lines just outside the outermost line of Med’s lips with a steady hand. The hair of his wolf-like hand tickles his philtrum and cheek. Pencil hits the corner of his mouth and he leans back to check his work. With his middle finger, he slightly smudges the line inwards just enough to become a bit foggy. Then he glances around the makeup laid across the bathroom counter and carefully plucks an appropriate red lipstick. He applies it in a quick, practiced motion.

Gosh, Med is the prettiest man in the world.

Tim looks down at the tie around his neck. The blue, purple, and pink stands out garishly against his usual green dress shirt, but he has worn it out before. It is hard to be scared when one has done it before. Still he notices it. Med pulls color off so well. Tim cannot. He does not have the skill or the confidence.

A quick knock on the counter reminds him where he is. Med stares at him and gives a thumbs up. “I am almost ready, yes,” Tim responds. He tugs at his tie again before sighing and wiping his hands off on the sides of his shirt. Med quirks a brow and Tim smiles awkwardly. “You are gorgeous. I just do not know how you do make up that well,” he says.

“Practice,” Med responds smoothly and meticulously.

“Ah, well, yes of course it would be such. I suppose I should have merely said that I find it fascinating to watch,” Tim stammers.

Raising a brow, Med states, “Y’like t’watch, don'cha.” His voice comes out in a sort of deep sing-songy way, mimicking a slightly southern voice for his ease.

“Oh, I mean, do I? If it is a bother I can stop, but find it quite nice watching you get dolled up. You do it so well,” Tim says. His fingers, folded against his arms, tap the rhythm to a symphony he will remember later. Chuckling dismissively, Tim nervously adds, “I do not think I could ever do it as well as you. You are far more talented at that sort of thing.”

The corner of Med’s lip quirks up and his cheeks flit into his eyes. Tim swallows. Picking up a makeup product and gesturing towards Tim, Med asks with a hint of amusement, “I can d’ya.”

Tim stares at it for a moment. He reads the packaging. It is eyeliner, which does not have to draw much attention and has, in the past few decades, been used more and more by men. Tim has no problem with men doing make up, of course, but he certainly cannot use it himself. His reputation would take an immense hit. A lifetime of choices could be undone in one streak of lipstick and his life will go downhill.

A grimace overtakes him. He chides himself immensely. By thinking such things could ruin a reputation he is judging Med for wearing makeup. What a horrible partner he is! He must remedy it.

“Of course you can, though I have never done it before. I am afraid that I do not know how any of it works and will be immensely out of my depth,” Tim says.

Med pauses with his hand still up.

Quickly, Tim adds, “If you do not wish to then we do not have to, but if you do wish to then you certainly can. I am not opposed and my therapist has been telling me I need to get out of my comfort zone.” He smiles with too many teeth.

For a moment Med tilts his head as if asking a question before his face suddenly sets in determination. He sets a few cosmetics aside for use and mumbles, “Can’to much, don’ got'cher shades.” Still, he lifts the product and uncaps it. “Eyeliner,” he states as he unscrews the cap. He’s enthusiastic today, as if he was waiting for this day. His eyes sparkle as he holds the makeup out. Tim stares cross-eyed at the eyeliner held in front of him, trying not to back out.

“What do I need to… do,” Tim trails off.

“Eyes. Shut,” Med commands softly. Tim does so. Then Med leans in close enough that their breaths mix and says, “Eye,” before a small, wet brush hits the bottom of Tim’s eyelid just above where the lashes sit. His eye involuntarily twitches and he apologizes, but Med just rests a hand on Tim’s cheek to stabilize him before continuing. Each eye takes two fluid motions, one across the top and out a little and a small one on the bottom. Then Med says, “Open,” and asks Tim how he feels with a thumbs up and thumbs down movement.

Tim hums awkwardly for a moment as he cranes to glance in a mirror. It looks wrong on him, but he doesn’t want to stop Med. This is getting out of his comfort zone. He’s supposed to do this. “It feels fine,” he responds.

Med nods quietly. He sets the eyeliner down and picks up a different product. “Mascara. Lashes,” he murmurs as he unscrews the cap. He rests his wolf-like hand at Tim’s jaw. He carefully holds up the applicator to Tim’s left eye and commands, “Blink,” three times. Then he does the same to Tim’s right eye. Once it is on, it is an odd feeling. The mascara rests just heavy enough on his lashes to notice but not enough to add weight.

Tim checks how he looks in the mirror again only for the same feeling to crop up. He fights the urge to rub his eyes. It’s quite itchy, but he is not going to ruin Med’s hard work.

Tim looks at his husband, really looks at him. He looks at the wrinkles lining Med’s face and the sagging skin of the scar around his irisless eye and the beautiful overdone red painted over his thin lips. His hair curls around his jawline and forehead, untamed and frizzy from the humidity. Over his glasses, Med raises a brow and Tim’s chest flutters like a schoolboy.

Then Tim looks at himself. He doesn’t have much to say. Gosh, Med is just so much, well… prettier.

Grabbing a neutral colored lipstick, just pinker than Tim’s natural color, Med holds Tim’s face still. He applies the color quickly. Then he makes a motion with his lips for Tim to repeat, letting him spread the color around. It's stickier than everything else. Bits of it get in his mouth and it tastes, oddly, chemically sweet. Despite his intentions, Tim scrunches his face. He apologizes.

Med’s brows soften. For a moment, he stares, scraping his gaze across Tim’s face as he holds his jaw. He slowly sounds out, “Pretty,” feeling the words on his tongue.

“Not as pretty as you,” Tim says.

Med shakes his head determinately, leaving no room for Tim’s self deprecation. He tilts Tim’s head side to side, admiring his work. Warm mint fans over Tim’s face. Then Med presses a soft kiss to Tim’s lips. “Pretty,” he repeats, more forcefully this time.

Looking at himself in the mirror, Tim can’t bring himself to agree. His lips are too thin for lipstick, his eyes are too wide for eyeliner and mascara. He rather looks like a clown. Still, he can’t deny he could be pretty. If Med thinks he is pretty, then there must be some part of him that is.

Tim looks at the time. “We should get going,” he says.

“Thanks f’,” Med says, gesturing to Tim’s makeup to finish the sentence.

Tim smiles, laughing nervously. “I thought I should do it eventually. You love it so much, and I quite love watching you put it on yourself,” he rambles, trailing off.

Med stares at him with a softened brow and as much affection as possible. His hand trails down Tim’s face until it rests at his side. “Love y’,” he says.

“I love you too,” Tim responds, smiling.