Chapter Text
He tried to fool himself into thinking that he was nonchalant about it by not moving it. Not returning it, not putting it away. Occasionally picking it up to test the weight of it in his hands before carefully placing it back onto the counter and adjusting it several times until it felt like it looked undisturbed.
But if he was being honest, he knew exactly the moment it had turned up in his life, and it had taken up a good portion of his thoughts since then. A week prior, Nick and Aimee had gotten ready for his house warming party here, and she must have left it behind.
The situation was simple enough, so he was surprised by the knots that had formed in his stomach when he’d walked into his bathroom the next morning and saw the lipstick tube lying there. The packaging was matte black and smooth, flat at one end and arching into a curve at the other. And if he craned his neck forward over the counter – not wanting to touch the foreign object – he could just see the bright fuchsia sticker on the bottom, peeling at the edges, and the faded white lettering reading Party Parrot.
He spent a long time standing over the counter, tentatively reaching out his fingers but always pulling them back. He didn’t understand the strange hold that the lipstick had over him or why it suddenly felt so forbidden. He was certain that he’d held lipstick before, digging through his sister’s purse to find gum or bringing things to Caroline while she was getting ready. He’d kissed the lipstick off of countless mouths, received colorful smudges on his mouth and on his collar – but this felt different.
Regardless of whether he understood it or not, that morning, he ended up back in his bed, sweaty skin stuck to sheets, his hand stuffed into his pants, tugging at himself in earnest.
*
That was Sunday.
On Monday, he refused to set foot inside the en suite, instead using the bathroom next to his kitchen.
On Tuesday, he picked it up for the first time. It was heavier than he expected, and he put it back on the counter almost immediately. But he returned to the bathroom several times over the course of the night to run the smooth plastic between his fingers again.
On Wednesday, after a night out, bold with liquor, he popped the lid up and peered inside at the startling shade of pink. He unconsciously brought a hand to his mouth and brushed his fingers across his lips.
On Thursday, he woke up wrapped in sweat sticky sheets. And finally, when he stepped out of the shower and saw the lipstick still sitting there, he said Fuck it. Because this thing that had been growing inside him for a week suddenly felt too big and too real. And he’d known what it was the whole time, but he had been skirting around the issue.
He could walk around naked in a house full of people without blushing. He could tell Nick that he wanted to be tied to the bed and fucked without batting an eyelash. But this – this felt forbidden even to Harry.
He wasn’t sure if he was overcoming his fear or just giving into it, but there he was, stood in front of the mirror in nothing but a towel, holding a tube of lipstick in trembling hands.
He pulled off the cap and twisted the lipstick up, feeling himself getting hard already. He looked into the mirror, making eye contact with his reflection for a fleeting moment, pupils blown wide.
He jutted his chin out and placed the tip of the lipstick in the center of his bottom lip, a shiver running up his spine.
He had planned to do this slowly, carefully. But his breath immediately hitched in his chest, and he hastily dragged the lipstick across his bottom lip, a smudge of pink ending up well outside the lines of his lips.
He was more careful with his top lip, leaning in close to the mirror and gingerly pressing the lipstick to the curve of his cupid’s bow. He pulled back from the mirror, keeping his eyes fixed on the counter as he closed the lipstick. He wasn’t ready to look at himself yet. Instead he pressed his lips together, reveling at how smooth the cosmetic felt on his mouth.
When he finally glanced up at his reflection, he was overwhelmed. The bright pink was shocking on his lips, and the careless smudges made it strangely erotic. Like someone had ruined his handy work - and Oh, God – he wanted nothing more than for Nick to kiss the lipstick off of his mouth.
He tugged at the towel, letting it fall to the floor. He leaned forward, one hand supporting him on the counter, the other working deftly between his legs.
His eyes were shut tight, and he was imagining Nick’s hands, Nick’s mouth – but mostly Nick leaning in close and dragging his thumb across Harry’s bottom lip and whispering, “So pretty for me.”
Harry was already close, and he bit his bottom lip, and tasting the waxy lipstick on his tongue was enough. He came, arms and legs trembling, onto the edge of his bathroom counter.
He caught his breath, slumped over the counter. He grabbed the towel from the counter to wipe off the counter, and saw his reflection in the mirror once again.
He felt the remnants of arousal turn in his belly when he caught sight of his obscenely pink lips and flushed cheeks, but those feelings were quickly replaced by uncomfortable knots of shame.
He grabbed a hand towel from the counter and scrubbed furiously at his lips, suddenly thinking of how utterly ridiculous this all was. His lips were red from being rubbed against the rough towel, but a little pain was good, he thought, to bring him back to reality.
He tossed both towels into the washer machine immediately and was returning to the bathroom to throw out the lipstick, but he found himself with his hand poised over the bin but without the heart to toss it.
Instead, he tucked it into his medicine cabinet, but somehow, putting it out of sight, just made it seem bigger.
Ugh.