❝ close your eyes ! ❞ she had been a bit frantic about it; kept the box out of sight, despite his towering around, trying to get a peek. she knew she wanted to make something herself; she knew she didn't want to make the same thing. hobie had enough portraits and paintings hanging around.
❝ don't cheat— okay, keep them closed ... um, maybe— bend over a bit ... ❞
something presses against his lips, the gesture awkward and weird, causing felicity to stiffle a laugh. it's not a gesture that's unknown to hobie, but it lacks the expertise of someone used to that kind of stuff.
❝ at least it didn't smear. ❞ she keeps laughing once he opens his eyes, holding an opened tube of black lipstick, the box in her hand holding a few identical ones. no brand on the side.
❝ i figured you'd— you'd run out of those after a while, so, i wanted to learn how to make some. ❞ another laugh as she hands over the package. ❝ merry christmas, hobie. ❞
First thing's first, Hobie knows what he likes. He likes creativity. He likes when the maker isn't afraid to dig into places that most flinch away from. Too many artists get too comfortable. Too many artists dislike the idea of straying away from what's familiar. How many Henry Raeburns and George Stubbs does one world need? How many museums need to hold the pieces only meant for the aristocrats to look at while drinking wine more expensive than a block's worth of homes?
Hobie likes when Felicity gets her hands dirty, smeared with paint and oils and charcoals. She's in her prime when she doesn't resemble something human, hunched over her creations, seeing the world in colors that Hobie couldn't ever try to comprehend.
He's taken to being a muse, goes with the flow, let's her use him as a canvas. His lips knew the taste and texture of countless paints by now, gouache, acrylic, watercolor. Caked and layered with so many mediums, he might forget that he's a man, and think that he's a figure in her sketchbook.
She asks for him to close his eyes, Hobie obliges, smirking somewhat and tilting his head back.
" Gonna throw a mouse at me are ya? " He teases, knowing that she wouldn't do such a thing. He'd let her though. If she wanted to put shock on paper, he'd be the willing model.
Lips on lips. He knew this gesture well, liked it even more than the hairs of the paint brush that traced the curves of his mouth. Hobie cracks a grin, slouching forward the moment Felicity starts to laugh. A familiar feeling is left against his skin.
" You get me a bloody kiss for Christmas? " Hobie jokes, opening one eye and touching his bottom lip-- black makeup smudged on his fingertip.
" No kidding, you made this? " He sounds impressed, taking the lipstick tube. As he expected, it lacks any sign of packaging, no logos, no connections to corporate beauty. Clearly it was poured somewhere over a sink, carefully-- he can tell that at some point there was a shaking hand, a bubble in the liquid at the bottom of the stick.
Little imperfections made things feel human, and Hobie knew that big businesses wanted the human touch removed from their products.
This one's a winner. He takes the box, tucks it under his arm and hums thoughtfully.
" Gonna have to open all these, test 'em, you'll need to stand still real good so I can make sure they don't smudge when I use it. "
The assumption is easy to make. The only way to try out lipstick is to kiss. That's what it was for. Speaking with lips and translating thoughts without speaking; men like him with lips like his, speaking words of his own, weren't meant to sip wine from Marseille. Staining glasses bought with Sunday coupons and stored in simple cupboards suited him, leaving a part of himself on her whenever he felt the urge.
" Get you to make eyeshadow next time. "
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