Cherries in the Snow
"Watch this, it's my favorite part," Methos said happily around a mouthful of popcorn. "See? She's running as fast as she can and he's creeping along and --"
"Gaining on her." Duncan said, throwing popcorn at the screen. "Right."
They grinned at each other, and Duncan settled back comfortably, feeling ridiculously content to be wasting a Saturday night with Methos, watching bad horror flicks and sharing a bowl of popcorn. So he didn't have a hot date-- this would do.
This would do. Oh yes.
Methos sank deeper into the couch, his eyes following the actors on the screen as they defied the laws of motion and physics, not to mention plausibility. After a moment, though, his boneless sprawl seemed a bit less comfortable. He shifted and twisted like a princess with a pea under her mattress, digging irritably at the folds of the couch.
"What are you doing?" Duncan reached over to keep the popcorn bowl steady.
"There's something-- ah." Methos stopped groping underneath him and pulled out a small shiny metallic tube. "Lipstick."
"Must be one of Amanda's," Duncan said, looking back at the screen where two characters were descending warily into a dark tunnel with dim flashlights. "Split up," he said to the screen. "That always works." He turned to smile at Methos and his heart made a quick little jump. Methos had opened the lipstick, and was almost absently applying it to his lips.
For a moment, Duncan couldn't take his eyes away. Methos's face had an abstracted, dreamy look as he slowly painted his mouth crimson, opening his lips slightly and pulling them taut as he ran the lipstick over his lower lip. Then he seemed to sense Duncan's gaze and looked sideways at him. Smiling, he held up the lipstick so Duncan could see the bottom of the tube, with tiny letters printed in a circle.
"Cherries in the Snow," he said, as if Duncan had asked.
"That's a color?" Duncan snorted. But, he thought, his heart still jittering in his chest, Methos's red, red lips stood out against his pale face exactly like cherries in snow. He swallowed and looked away, wondering why Methos putting on women's makeup made him suddenly attractive as a man.
Suddenly, right. Resolutely, he turned his attention back to the movie. He'd completely lost the thread of the story, such as it was, so now it made even less sense. People were running, screaming. He tried to concentrate.
Methos leaned over and picked up his beer. He took a long drink, started to put the glass down, and paused. Duncan found himself watching Methos out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to be absorbed in a print of his lips on the side of the glass. Duncan pretended not to watch as Methos set the glass down, and picked up the lipstick, uncapped it, and twisted it to bring up the red creamy stick. He picked up one of the pub coasters scattered on the table and regarded it thoughtfully as he re-applied lipstick to his mouth. Then he brought the coaster to his lips, very carefully, and made a print of his lips across the beer logo. He turned it this way and that, as if he'd never seen such a fascinating thing before in his life.
Duncan breathed, his own lips unconsciously parted.
Methos set the coaster down, smacked his lips a little -- Duncan's breath caught -- and then stood, still holding the lipstick. Duncan watched as Methos started to prowl around the loft, applying more color to his lips as he stopped before a delicate Art Nouveau figurine. With a swift, graceful bow, he pressed his lips to it briefly, leaving a fine red impression of his lips on her bottom.
Duncan rolled his eyes, and ignored the way his jeans seemed to be a little more snug across his crotch.
Methos continued to amble around the loft, the lipstick at his mouth. He stopped in front of a large painting.
"Methos!" Duncan said sharply. "Don't--"
But it was too late. Methos had planted a lipstick print on the lower corner of the painting.
"You've just lowered the value of that by about six hundred dollars," Duncan said dryly.
"Were you planning to sell it?" Methos continued towards the bookcase.
"No," Duncan said. Not now, he thought, with a small thrill that he put down to annoyance.
"There you are, then." Methos stopped in front of the bookcase, and for a moment, Duncan was afraid he was going to leave lipmarks on some valuable edition, but he merely touched his lips to the top of a small bust of Shakespeare that served as a bookend. Duncan relaxed slightly. He knew he should get up and try to take the lipstick away from Methos, but he was mesmerized by those crimson lips, by the way Methos moved so gracefully among his belongings, putting his mark on them -- and him? I'm just curious to see what he'll do, he told himself stubbornly.
Now Methos was putting on lipstick in the classic way -- in front of a mirror. He leaned closer and closer to it, and as he touched his own reflection with his lips, Duncan tried to think unkindly of Narcissus. Except Methos wasn't looking at his own reflection in the mirror. He was looking at Duncan's. Their eyes met in the glass.
With an ironic smile, Methos turned away from the mirror, continuing through the loft, leaving his -- kisses -- everywhere. The word burned itself into the inside of Duncan's eyelids as he closed his eyes and tried to get himself under control.
"Methos--" he said, in a voice meant to be reproving.
And suddenly Methos was near him, much too near, gliding onto the couch and sitting much closer to Duncan than he had been. Methos was putting on lipstick. He looked away, as if his attention was arrested by the hapless victims on the television. Duncan couldn't help it, his head turned in the same direction, which gave Methos the opening to strike quickly, leaving a red imprint of his lips on Duncan's white t-shirt. Over his heart.
Over his pounding heart. "Methos--" He gritted his teeth. Can you say nothing but the man's name?
But Methos now held Duncan's chin in one hand and the lipstick in the other. Before Duncan could speak, Methos had touched the lipstick to Duncan's mouth, and he felt it run feather-light across his lips. Methos pressed his lips together in the familiar blotting motion Duncan had seen women do hundreds of times. Almost against his will -- what is he doing to me? -- Duncan mirrored the motion. The mischievous glint in Methos's eyes made him feel like a fool.
But then Methos's eyes softened. "It doesn't look like cherries in snow on you, Duncan." The sound of his name on Methos's red lips sent joy flashing through Duncan. "It looks like--" Duncan could feel Methos's breath. He was holding his own breath -- as if all this joy would disappear if he let it out. "Something much warmer."
Duncan realized the only place in the loft -- in the whole world -- he wanted to smear with lipstick was Methos's mouth. He was kissing him even before he realized it was what he wanted. Methos was kissing him back before he realized what he'd done, and Methos was pushing him back on the couch and pulling at the snap in his jeans before Duncan realized what he meant to do.
Methos had one hand around Duncan's cock. And in the other hand he held the lipstick. His face was streaked with red, but Duncan watched, breathing now, breathing hard, as Methos carefully applied another coat of lipstick. Smiling, he slid down between Duncan's legs and put his lips to Duncan's cock. Duncan looked at the red imprint of Methos's lips on him, at Methos's grinning lipstick-smeared face, cherries crushed all over the snow, a messy cherry white lover.
"My God, Methos, you -- my god," his voice changed as Methos took Duncan's cock in his mouth. "Oh--" I'll have to remember to -- "Oh" -- thank Amanda for this.
The television clicked and whirred as the tape rewound, but neither of them heard it.
The end -- or is it?