Or: where Ominis discovers he likes the taste of cherries on his lips and wants to be called pretty
~~~~~~
Ominis had told himself it was just going to be a one-time thing. He had told himself it was just to explore and see how it felt. He never thought it would feel so nice to have something on his lips like this.
He had gone into his younger sister's room on a whim. Her birthday was a few weeks ago, and he knew she had gotten one of those make-up cases from her friend and a ton of different products to fill it. She wouldn't stop going on and on about all the compliments she got when she would put makeup on.
Everyone would call her pretty.
Ominis wanted to be called pretty. He just wasn't sure why. Boys weren't pretty. Girls were pretty. He wasn’t supposed to want that. Not as a boy. Not as a Gaunt.
If his parents ever found out he felt that way, he didn’t even want to imagine their reactions. He’d heard their comments before, the sharp, cruel remarks they’d make about people they didn’t think fit the mold of “proper” men and women.
They’d called it shameful. A stain on the family name.
But still, as he stood in his sister’s room with his fingers brushing over the edge of her makeup case, he couldn’t help but wonder what it might feel like to be called pretty.
Just once.
He had found the plastic case tucked neatly under her desk while she was at a friend's house, and had opened it slowly. He felt each different compartment thoroughly for the items he was searching for. He felt soft-bristled brushes and pots of various products. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom compartment that he felt them: little tubes with a twist base. He picked one up, turning it over in his palm. Popping off the cap, he brought it to his nose to smell.
Cherries. He liked cherries.
His sister had mentioned putting on a strawberry one to hang out with the boy she had a crush on. Of course, she hadn't said that directly to Ominis, but he had just happened to overhear it.
As he brought the tube to his lips, he heard the front door below him slam shut and his mother yelling at his sister to stop slamming doors in the house.
His stomach lurched. He had to get out of her room. Quickly, Ominis shut the case and pocketed the tube. He ran back to his own room just as he heard her footsteps rushing up the stairs.
His heart raced as he leaned against the door, heaving a sigh of relief. Ominis sank down to the floor, pulling out the lip balm. Rolling it between his fingers, he popped the cap off again.
Inhaling the sweet scent, he twisted the base, raising the product higher until it brushed against his thumb. When he felt the waxy cream coat his fingers, he stiffened. His parents surely would suddenly jump out from the shadows and scream at him for doing this. He listened outside his door but heard nothing.
He knew it was wrong to feel this way, but he couldn’t help himself. Slowly, almost cautiously, he swiped the balm across his lips, just once. Rubbing his lips together, he savored the sweet cherry flavor.
His lips felt softer, smoother as they glided against the other. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable, but it made him feel... better. Lighter, somehow. He ran his fingers over his lips, marveling at the change.
But then his mind twisted back to the things his parents had said, the slurs, the disgust, the threats of what they’d do if one of their children ever stepped out of line. His stomach churned. He shoved the balm back into his pocket, ignoring the lingering sweetness on his lips.
Over the next few days, Ominis couldn’t stop thinking about it. The cherry lip balm stayed hidden in his pocket, a secret he both feared and clung to. Every time he thought about tossing it, the thought of how it made him feel stopped him. Pretty. That word still echoed in his mind, forbidden yet oh so enticing.
When he finally worked up the courage to apply the balm again, it felt like something clicked into place. It became a ritual of his, to apply the cherry flavored product to his lips. He did it when no one else was around. It wasn’t just about the flavor on his tongue or the feel of it coating his lips. Both were nice, of course. But it was more about the way it made him feel.
It made him feel better. More him. As though, a piece of who he was had been lost and now found.
He didn’t think anyone would notice. He didn’t want anyone to notice. So when Sebastian leaned against the railing beside him in the courtyard, Ominis nearly froze, clutching the tube of plastic behind his back.
“What’s with the pout?” Sebastian teased, his tone dripping with mischief. “Practicing for your next magazine cover?”
Ominis’s cheeks burned, his free hand flying to cover his lips. “What? No. I’m not…”
“Hold on,” Sebastian leaned in closer, sniffing the air dramatically. Ominis could feel his breath fan over his heated face. “Are you wearing... lipstick?”
“It’s not lipstick!” Ominis snapped, his voice sharp, heat rising in his cheeks as he turned his face away. His hand instinctively clutched the small tube tighter as if his life depended on it.
Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up, his curiosity clearly piqued. “Not lipstick, huh? Then why do you look like I just caught you sneaking into the girls’ locker room?” His voice dripped with amusement, and Ominis could practically hear the smirk in his tone.
“It’s nothing,” Ominis muttered, taking a small step back. “Just leave it alone.”
“Nothing?” Sebastian repeated, his grin widening. “You’re hiding it behind your back like it’s some dark family secret. Now I have to see it.”
“No, you don’t!” Ominis insisted, twisting away as Sebastian stepped closer. “Just drop it, Sebastian.”
But Sebastian was relentless. “Oh, come on, I’m not going to steal your secrets, Ominis. I just want to know what’s got you so flustered.”
He lunged playfully, but Ominis turned sharply, keeping his back to him. “Sebastian, I swear, if you don’t-”
Before he could finish the sentence, Sebastian’s arm snaked around him with surprising speed, and his fingers closed over Ominis’s wrist. “Gotcha,” he said, his grin audible in his voice as he spun the other boy around, pinning him against the railing.
“Sebastian, stop!” Ominis hissed, his cheeks blazing, but Sebastian was already prying his hand open with the persistence of someone who had nothing better to do.
After a brief struggle, Sebastian managed to pull the object free. He held it up triumphantly, stepping away as he turned it over in his hand. “Now, what do we have here?” he asked, his tone laced with exaggerated curiosity. “Cherry cola? Fancy.”
Ominis stiffened, mortification flooding his chest as Sebastian twisted the cap off and gave the balm an experimental sniff. “Mmm. Sweet and fruity,” Sebastian teased, his grin widening. “I didn’t take you for a cherry cola kind of guy.”
“Give it back,” Ominis muttered, his voice low and tight with shame. He held out his hand, head dipped low, but the other boy stepped just out of reach, clearly enjoying himself.
“Hold on, hold on,” Sebastian said, holding the tube aloft like it was some great prize. “What’s the story here? Did you pick this up for the flavor, or are you trying to start a new trend?”
“Sebastian, stop!” Ominis snapped, reaching for the balm, but Sebastian dodged him easily, his grin only growing wider.
“Alright, alright,” Sebastian said, finally relenting. He handed the tube back with a little bow, his teasing smile softening. “Relax, I’m just messing with you.”
Ominis snatched it out of his hand, shoving it back into his pocket as quickly as possible. His lips pressed into a tight line, his heart pounding with equal parts embarrassment and relief.
But before he could turn to leave, Sebastian’s voice stopped him.
“For what it’s worth,” Sebastian said, his tone quieter now, more sincere, “I think it’s nice.”
Ominis’s breath hitched. He could feel his blood roaring in his ears. “You do?”
“Yeah,” Sebastian replied, his voice quieter now. “Actually... it suits you.”
Ominis turned toward him, stunned. “What does?”
“The color,” Sebastian said, his tone so genuine it almost hurt. “It makes your lips look darker than usual. It makes you look... I don’t know. Different. Good.” He hesitated, then added softly, “Pretty.”
That word again.
Pretty.
Ominis’s breath hitched. The word felt heavier coming from Sebastian, as though it carried more meaning than he could comprehend. He turned his face away, his lips tingling where the cherry flavor still clung.
“You think so?” he asked, so quietly he wasn’t sure Sebastian would even hear him.
Sebastian did. “Yeah. I do.”
For the first time, Ominis didn’t feel the shame that always seemed to follow him. Instead, he felt warmth. Acceptance. And for once, he thought that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to want to be called pretty.
Cherry chapstick, subtle flirting, and Onceler's just a bit of an asshole who gets put in his place.
As you approach the building the next morning, you can't help but feel an enormous sense of trepidation. You have no idea what kind of mood he'll be in, or if he'll even want to see you after the craziness of yesterday. But you suppose there's no point in not facing the music. You need the job and for some unfathomable reason you still can't figure out, you made a promise to yourself; you want to help him as much as you're able to.
You quickly make your way to Mr. Onceler's office, and your only saving grace is that you're not hearing any screaming yet. You hesitate, then give a gentle knock. Better to be polite than to barge in, even though you're well aware he wouldn't extend you the same courtesy.
An impatient "Come in," answers you. It's hardly a promising opening, but you'll take what you can get. You pull the door open and slip inside the room.
He's frowning and tapping his fingers on his desk, but when he sees you his face noticeably brightens. "Oh, it's you!" he trills.
His reaction is nothing like you were expecting, though it lifts your spirits exponentially. You can't say why, but seeing him genuinely smile makes you feel fuzzy and warm inside. But instead of focusing on feelings that were entirely too confusing and out of place, you simply laugh. "Who else did you think I'd be?"
"My lawyers," he pouts, and you can't help but notice that he's kind of cute when he does so, before you force yourself to squash the thought down and refuse to acknowledge it further. "I sent them the NDA yesterday, and every time I send them a legal document they bombard me with things they want to change, even if it's already exactly how I want it."
"Well then, let's not talk about them if they're going to put you in a bad mood," you suggest. "Do you have anything for me before I head into my office for the morning?"
"I actually do. I meant to bring it up last night, but we got distracted." Really? That's what he was going to call his outburst? You nearly comment but just manage to bite back the snarky remark you had ready on the tip of your tongue and instead focus on what he's saying. "You need a thneed for your job. It's policy."
"It's actually not in the company policy, sir." This time you can't stop the comment from flying out of your mouth. "I triple-checked before I applied, because I knew I wouldn't be able to afford one for a while."
He sighed. "If there was one person I'd believe when they say they actually read the company policy, it would be you." You can't decide if he sounds amused or exasperated. Maybe somewhere in the middle? "But no, it's not required for every employee to have a thneed. However, your position will. You'll be accompanying me to company events, and need to represent us while there."
"I can get one, but it might have to wait a paycheck or two," you state bluntly. "I have to make paying rent my priority."
"Work isn't a priority?" he asks innocently enough, but you do see a flash of a challenge behind his eyes. Praying to whatever God might be listening that the challenge is a playful one, you press on.
"It is, but I need a place to live and food to eat in order to do my job. Wouldn't you agree sir?"
Let's see how he responds to that. Giving the challenge back to him was sure to shake things up a bit.
Unfortunately, he figures out exactly what you were doing. "You know I can't say it's not good to have food or shelter," he says with a wry smile before folding his hands together and resting his chin on them, elbows on the table. His deep blue eyes scan you for a moment. "You know, if I asked something of any of my other employees, they would bend over backwards to make it happen."
"I don't think I'm like most of your other employees, sir," you say with a shrug.
"Believe me, I've noticed," he says with a short, bark-like laugh. "And I haven't figured out whether or not I like that about you."
"Maybe you can learn to like it," you suggest. That's not flirting, right? Definitely not. At least, you convince yourself it's not because you're enjoying the back-and-forth banter.
He pauses for a moment before responding and-wait, did his eyes just flicker up and down your body? There was absolutely no chance that had just happened, was there? Your own eyes had to have been playing a trick on you. He wouldn't do that. Nothing was ever going to go beyond friendly professionalism between the two of you.
So why in the ever-loving hell are you feeling disappointed? Something was clearly wrong with you today and you had to get it under control, pronto.
"We'll see," he says softly, finally responding to the comment you'd nearly forgotten about. There's something tense in the air now, something that hadn't existed before. You could kick yourself. You had just been trying to develop a friendship with the man, not pretend like you were interested in him, because you most certainly weren't.
There's a pounding on the door, causing you to jump and Mr. Onceler to swear under his breath. "That'll be the lawyers," he mutters. He straightens in his chair before calling out "Yes?"
Sure enough, two men dressed immaculately in crisp business suits (which clashed dramatically with Mr. Onceler's flamboyant green suit) enter the room. They make a beeline for the desk but stop short when they notice you. "Oh, Mr. Onceler. We didn't realize you were busy," one of them says in an oily voice. "We can come back at a more convenient time…"
"It's fine," Mr. Onceler snaps. "I was just finishing up my morning meeting with my PA." He then spares you a glance. "I'm sure you have plenty to do. I'll let you know if I need you later."
That was as clear a dismissal as you've ever heard. You give him a quick nod before slipping into your office to, you know, actually do your job instead of inventing awkward scenarios in your head. Very soon, you'd have to find a happy medium of keeping things friendly with your boss and making sure you weren't crossing any lines.
But for now, work.
You didn't see Mr. Onceler again until early afternoon when he burst into your office, once again without knocking. Immediately, you see a difference in his attitude from this morning; his face is marred by a fierce scowl and he's practically stomping over to your desk instead of walking. You'd just pulled out your favorite chapstick and his eyes instantly zero in on it.
"I'm not paying you to put on makeup," he snarls, so hyper-aggressive that you're genuinely caught off guard. It takes you a moment to formulate a reply.
"It's not makeup. It's chapstick," you try and explain. "I'm just trying to put a little on while I finish up this email…" you trail off as you realize that his anger hasn't abated in the slightest.
"Whatever," he scoffs. "Why don't I have my sales reports for the week on my desk yet?"
That question throws you even more off guard. When the hell had he mentioned needing sales reports? You quickly and surreptitiously scan the emails you'd gotten that day to see if you'd somehow missed one from him, but no. You're so bewildered, the only thing you can think to do is look up at him and say, "Excuse me?"
"My. Sales. Reports," he growls, beginning to lean over you just as he had the night before. But if this was an intimidation tactic, it wasn't going to work; you were starting to find both your voice and your bravery.
"Hold on," you say, putting your hands in the classic "time-out" position. "First, the week isn't over. Do you want the report from last week or what we have from this week so far? Second, you never asked me for them. I can't do something for you if I don't know you want it done."
Thus far, you've been able to calm him when he's been in his fouler moods. Not so today. His scowl deepens as he pushes his face right into yours. "I do not give a single, solitary fuck if I asked before or not," he hisses. "I'm telling you right now that you don't get to leave until I see those reports on my desk." Without waiting for a response (or clarifying which reports he was talking about), he pushes himself back and marches out of your office, slamming the door as per usual.
You pause for a second to collect yourself. The hell was that? He was being completely irrational and, quite frankly, nasty.
You'll comply, but you decide you'll be a little mouthy when giving him his oh-so-precious sales reports. If he expected you to put up with his attitude quietly, he was about to be corrected real damn quick.
You get the reports back from the finance department right before your shift is scheduled to end, so at least you don't have to spend any extra time on his ridiculous requests. He never actually said which week he wanted, so you'd gotten both, and he could sort out what he needed his own damn self.
You print out the reports, staple the two different weeks together, then gather your things. You exit your office into his, finding him at his desk and still looking slightly bad-tempered. Before you can lose your nerve, you slam the papers down.
"There's your reports," you bite out. "Now, if you don't have any other demands of me, I'm going home. Good night, sir."
You can tell you've stunned him, judging by his wide eyes and slightly agape mouth. But just like he'd done with you earlier, you don't give him a chance to respond before you toss your head back and saunter out of the room.
That day, as it turned out, was a perfect indicator of the several weeks to come. When Mr. Onceler was in a good mood, the days went well and you were able to enjoy pleasant conversations with each other. When he wasn't, he was irrational, impossible to please, and the two of you fought like cats and dogs because you refused to give in to his bad temper.
At least the bad days usually weren't several in a row. He seemed to recognize when he had majorly pissed you off, and while he never outright apologized, the mornings after his most volatile moods usually found him a bit meek and more cooperative than usual. You found that as long as you had those calm mornings afterwards, you could tolerate most of the nasty evenings.
At least until one day, almost three months into your employment. He had been riding out a horrible mood for four days now, and it didn't show signs of stopping any time soon. And you were getting completely fed up with him.
It was almost time for you to go home for an overdue weekend when he storms in. You're glad you had just put your chapstick away since he tends to make a big fuss over it for reasons unknown. But even though he can't even see it, the chapstick is still his first target.
"It smells like cherries in here," he accuses, and it takes all of your self-control not to roll your eyes. Yes, your chapstick smells like cherries, and he was like a damn bloodhound when it came to the scent of your chapstick. He could smell the stuff even if it had been over an hour since you last applied it. And you were in no mood to try and placate him at the moment.
"What is your obsession with my chapstick?" you demand. "Like, do you want some? Because I can run down to the drugstore and pick some up for you come Monday. It's not a problem, I swear."
"Will you stop talking about the chapstick?" he finally interrupts. "I didn't come in here to talk to you about your chapstick, dammit."
"Then why do you bring it up every time you come into my office?" you fire back, not missing a beat. He had walked right into that one, and a spark of vindictive joy shoots through you when his eyes narrow as he realizes his mistake.
"Because it's distracting," he mutters, clearly conceding defeat for this round. "But again, not the point. Why haven't you gotten the thneed yet?"
Good Lord, not this again. Was he so desperate for a fight that he was willing to dredge up arguments from months ago? Apparently. You don't even try to stop yourself from rolling your eyes now. "As I've told you, I have to pay rent and feed myself first. I'd also like to have a bit of a savings fund. And I can see your schedule, remember? I'm in CHARGE of your schedule. If you have an event coming up that I'll need to be at and need one, I'll know about it in advance and make it happen."
"That's not–"
"That is what you're saying!" you explode, standing up from your desk to march towards him and get in his face like he so often loved to do to you. "Either you're saying I need something before I actually need it, or more likely, you want to pick a fight for some godforsaken reason. But I promise you, you want a fight, I'm more than happy to give you one."
"Do you forget who you're talking to?" he thunders back. "I don't like your attitude with me, got it? Do you know what your job is? If I ask you to jump, you say 'how high?' If I ask you for a flower on top of a mountain, you strap on your hiking boots. And if I ask you to buy a thneed, you buy a fucking thneed without giving me shit about it for once!"
"And would it kill you to ask nicely, for once?" At this point, the whole building can probably hear your raised voices, but you don't have the capacity to care. "You might find you'll get things you want done quicker if you sprinkle in a couple 'pleases' and maybe even a 'thank you' from time to time. I know the rest of your staff will cater to your every whim, but I am not someone you get to walk all over, no matter what my job description is. I WILL fight back and you WILL respect me, or I will walk out." Without giving him a chance to respond, you grab your bag and start to head out the door. "Good night sir," you add out of habit before you leave, thankful for the weekend that awaits you.
It's not until you're on the bus and halfway back home that you begin to think you may have gone just a little too far. You don't have any desire to take back any of your words, but you are beginning to regret sinking to his level and reducing to shouting.
But it can't be helped now. If he decides to fire you for acting just like him, then fine. He would be a hypocrite if he did, but you wouldn't be surprised. At least you won't have to worry about anything until Monday.
The next day, when you finally make your way downstairs after blissfully sleeping in for most of the morning, you find yourself mostly at peace with the situation. You're in a good mood and you don't want to let it spoil your day. You're mulling over a few different options, stuck between going to the gym or library first when your roommate calls you from the kitchen.
"There's a package that came for you," he says lightly, most of his attention on the lunch he's making himself. "It's over on the table."
A package? You have no idea who that could be from. Your sister, possibly, but you can't imagine why she wouldn't have mentioned she was sending something in your frequent phone calls with her.
The box is medium sized, and there's no return address on it. However, there's something familiar about the handwriting used for your own name and address.
You pick up the surprisingly light package and carry it up to your room. You pull out your keys to help you cut the tape when the address catches your eye again. The handwriting is much too familiar to be coincidental…
You let out an involuntary gasp as the realization finally hits you, and you wonder how it took you this long. "There's no way," you whisper to yourself.
You rip into the package as fast as you're able, and seconds later when it opens, your suspicions are confirmed. Sitting inside are several neatly folded thneeds. And not just the regular pink thneeds. Most of them were dyed different colors: orange, periwinkle, purple. You knew for a fact these colored ones were infinitely more expensive than the regular thneeds.
But why on earth would Mr. Onceler be sending you thneeds? You were positive it was him; no one else had the money to do this for you, and of course his handwriting had gotten your attention–you see it nearly every day.
Your first thought is that he believes you're just too poor to ever afford a thneed for yourself, and that sending you these is both some great act of charity in his mind and him being passive aggressive. But just as you begin to swell with anger, you spot a piece of paper in the box. You recognize this too, it's from his personalized memo pad. Curiously, you unfold the paper, only to see one word.
Sorry.
Oh. Shit.
Here he was, apologizing to you and giving you something you never would have been able to obtain otherwise, and you went and assumed the worst of him. Instead of firing you, which he was well within his rights to do, he extended an olive branch, and hadn't even waited until the work week started to do so. Meanwhile, you'd stewed in your anger and had managed to convince yourself it had been a good thing. This was a slap in the face in the worst of ways.
