Makeup

[tamcranver]

Smike did his best not to stare at Nicholas while they were putting on their stage makeup. It was difficult sometimes. Nicholas was always beautiful—the handsomest man in the world, as far as Smike was concerned—but the pale gleam of face paint made him look almost otherworldly. The low stage lights made his skin glow and the edges of his features stand out, dark and sharp. And his lips were so terribly, wonderfully red.

“Smike?”

He was shaken from his reveries, and he looked up to find Nicholas staring at him with a concerned expression, the face paint sitting abandoned on the dressing table.

“Smike, you’re bleeding!”

And he was. He had bitten his lip hard enough to break the skin; there were three small red spots on the front of his shirt.

Nicholas sighed and wiped the blood off his face, leaving the handkerchief smeared with blood and grease-paint. “Sorry, Smike. I’ll have to put on the makeup again.”

“That’s all right, sir,” Smike said, his eyes never leaving the movement of Nicholas’s lips.