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And I’m still hurting from what I couldn’t see
She was wearing lip gloss today.
Ever since entering the kitchen for breakfast, Lockwood had found it exceptionally difficult to think of anything else. The fact that a strange tightness kept rising in his throat didn’t help alleviate the situation.
Suddenly, Lucy bit her lower lip, eyes fixed on him with disappointment.
“It looks bad, doesn’t it?”
It took Lockwood a long second to register that Lucy was talking to him, too focused on the glistening pink of her lower lip to formulate a coherent answer in time. He tried to swallow down the uneasy feelings to no avail. “What? No, it’s just…”
Before he could explain, she swiped her right sleeve across her mouth to scrub the colour away. Half of it smeared onto the sleeve in a beautiful shade of strawberry, while the other half, luckily, remained vibrant on her lips.
“Luce, stop!” Lockwood caught her hand before she could smear it again. “It looks lovely, really.”
“Then why were you staring as if I were the biggest clown in town?”
“I would never. Trust me. It’s just that…” He tried to find the right words, or any words at all, but his mind went blank as Lucy stuck out her tongue to lick the gloss away…
“It’s odd, you mean?” George chimed in from across the table, snapping Lockwood out of his trance.
“Yes, maybe,” Lockwood sighed, letting go of her hand, “It’s just that you rarely ever wear makeup at all, Luce. I was only wondering why.”
It was mostly true, because aside from the Fittes Ball, Lucy Carlyle had never worn any makeup. That night was the only time - outside of a few stray dreams - that Lockwood had seen that specific shade of pink on her. He waited anxiously as she eyed him, weighing an answer he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.
“The lip gloss was Holly’s,” she said at last, and something in him was at ease again, knowing the lip gloss wasn’t from a stranger, “She gifted me this to ‘doll myself up’… for a special reason.”
Fascinating.
“To impress someone?” Lockwood blurted out before he could stop himself.
“As if.” Lucy snorted. She tried to sound dismissive, but Lockwood could tell she was flustered by the way she kept fidgeting with her fingers. Then she glared at them both to hide her embarrassment, “Stop with the grin, George! You’re encouraging his delusions!”
“Am I?” George’s shit-eating grin didn’t budge; it only worsened the uncomfortable feelings swelling inside Lockwood.
“Luce…” He was about to press down the tightened knot in his chest to push the matter further, trying to clear his head for the sake of his own sanity, when Lucy stuck out her tongue. Again.
“Brats,” Lucy huffed while wetting her lips. There were flecks of shimmer on her teeth now, and Lockwood couldn't tear his gaze away long enough to ask another thing.
.
.
She continued putting on lip gloss the next day, and the day after that, and another, and another, until suddenly it had been a whole week.
Whenever she brewed them tea, whenever she made lunch, whenever she greeted him in the morning with her bright smile, there would always be that familiar glimmer on her plump lips, stealing his attention. It radiated every time she talked to him or laughed with him, constantly reminding him that she was putting on lip gloss every single day - and he still couldn’t figure out why.
“Can you at least be more discreet with the staring and the ‘Hey, I’m stalking Lucy’ act? It’s creeping me out.”
George’s face was as stoic as ever when he stated it, while Lockwood’s face nearly burst into flames.
“I did not.” He could feel his features contort into a defensive frown, “I’m merely concerned by her uncharacteristic display.”
“Yeah, right.” George tossed the books in his hand onto yet another big, unorganised pile in the Portland Row library. He didn't elaborate, acting as if he hadn't just dropped a verbal grenade. The thought that George knew something he didn’t only made Lockwood even more uneasy.
“Do you know him?”
“Who?”
“Well, him, or her - I have no idea - whoever Lucy finds it necessary to put on lip gloss for.” Lockwood growled, “I need to know.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He couldn’t believe someone as clever George could be so dense, “What if they hurt her? What if they let her down, and I-we don’t even know who that person is to handle it?”
George only raised an eyebrow.
“This is no laughing matter, George.”
“I’m well aware,” George spat, shoving the book rather harshly into Lockwood’s chest, “She can look after herself, Lockwood. Stop looking for another stupid excuse to be an idiot about it.”
He tried to motion somewhat of a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
George paused at the door, adjusted his glasses, and muttered, “You’re a bloody idiot."
“What are you guys talking about?”
Lucy suddenly appeared right beside them without warning, and George made up his mind to abandon Lockwood in less than a second before disappearing into the hall.
“Hello? Earth to Lockwood?” Lucy wavedat him, and it was then he suddenly grew painfully aware of the fact that the glitter on her lips had somehow also reached her cheek. There was a sweet, almost drowning scent wrapping around her warm smile, and the book in his hand nearly fell to the floor before Lucy caught it.
“Here, I got you.” She handed him the book, her fingers brushing his ever so slightly, her smile shimmering pink.
What would Lucy think if she knew all the thoughts running through his head? What would she think, knowing all he could see was the glitter on her cheeks, between her teeth, on the tip of her tongue? What would she think? What would it feel like? What would it taste like?
What would it taste like?
He wondered if the glitter tasted as sweet as its scent.
.
.
It shouldn’t have bothered Lockwood, truly. Even he found it absurd to care so much about something so personal to Lucy, but he did, and it made his stomach churn like crazy every time he faced her. He could tell himself over and over again that he was just worrying about a friend, but it didn’t change the fact that the feeling was much uglier and less justified than his reasoning.
Like today.
Like right now.
Standing on the street outside his house were Lucy and an unknown man he had never seen before, talking and laughing over things he did not know - and did not need to know, besides the fact that they were clearly enjoying themselves. The sight did not surprise him in the slightest; Lucy was a great girl, and this could be seen coming from a mile away. What bothered him was the fear that said guy was the exact reason Lucy was wearing lip gloss, and Lockwood didn’t know how to react to that.
He wished he were endowed with a mind above this weird pettiness towards a colleague and friend, but he knew that was never really the case. He knew full well he had not viewed Lucy in that light for years. The idea stuck in his head the same way the glitter stuck to Lucy’s front teeth: stubbornly yet mesmerisingly. Like bathing in the sun until you are burned, like drowning in gentle body of water until one feels numb with joy.
“I need tea,” he mumbled to himself, determined to clear his head. He didn’t reach the kitchen, unfortunately, because the moment he reached the hall, Lucy stepped in from outside, dusting snow off her jacket.
“Cold day?”
“Yeah,” her little nose scrunched up with annoyance because the snow wouldn’t come off, “Any tea for me?”
“No, I’m afraid you’re home too soon for that,” he tried to offer a nonchalant smile while kicking the image of Lucy and the stranger out of his head, “You look swell. Did something good happen?”
“I’ve just met Edward,” she said, “Nice guy. Might be one of the nicest among the rare decent ones from my freelancing days.”
“Is that so?” He curled up a smile despite the nauseating feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Yeah.” Lucy was still fighting off the snow on her clothing, not realising his mouth was already twitching, “Ugh, stupid snow. I wonder why that guy loves this kind of weather so much. He was beaming with joy just because it was snowing today. Anyway, enough about him. Want me to make tea for you, t- umh- Lockwood?”
There was blood deafeningly rushing to his ears and a storm raging in his head, and he felt as though he might be done with living if he heard the name ‘Edward’ uttered again. Before he could think it through, he was hovering over Lucy with both hands on her shoulders, like a lost, helpless sailor trying to anchor himself in desperation.
“Lockwood? What’s wrong?” she whispered cautiously, her head barely reaching his chin.
She looked so small that maybe, if he tried, he could put her in a bag and carry her away from all unwanted attention. They were standing close enough that he only needed to move his fingers a few inches to reach the glitter on her lips - touching them, wiping them, instead of resenting them like they were the bane of his existence. He only realised he was nearly hugging her when her hair tickled his neck and her petite hands pressed against his shirt to put some distance between them.
Unbelievable! Outrageous! What was going on with him?
“I’ll make the tea.” He quickly let go of her, trying not to let his voice crack. Lucy only nodded and followed him quietly.
Needless to say, they didn’t talk about it. They never talked about it, just like the numerous other times similar things had happened at Portland Row.
.
.
It was an eerily cold night. George had headed to bed early after cleaning up the library, and Holly was away visiting her parents, so there was only Lockwood practising in the basement with his rapier, the silver blade whistling through the chilly air as he moved in a series of sharp, restless lunges, trying in vain to outrun the image of Lucy circling his head.
Until he couldn’t, that was.
A soft scuff of a boot on the stairs made him pivot.
“Hi,” Lucy said. She was standing at the base of the staircase, lip gloss had nearly faded after the long day, yet a stubborn, shimmering residue still glistened on her lips. She smoothed her jumper with a nervous gesture, eyes catching the lamplight like moonlight reflecting on dark water.
“Hi, Luce,” he answered, dropping his rapier on the mattress and walked across the room to meet her, “What are you doing down here? It’s freezing.”
“Then what are you doing down here?”
“Can’t a man just feel like doing something stupid and do it?” He managed a small, lopsided grin, feeling a strange surge of giddiness when she shook her head in defeat, “But seriously, Luce, you’re shaking like a leaf. You ought to go upstairs and warm up before you catch a chill-”
His voice trailed off. His gaze had snagged on the small, silver necklace resting against the hollow of her throat. It sparkled with every breath she took, dangling there like a taunt - a symbol of everything he had spent months trying to ignore.
“What is it?” She seemed puzzled at his reaction.
“You’re wearing it,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the hammering in his chest, “You’re wearing the necklace.”
“I always wear it, Lockwood. You just didn't see.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.” She stepped back, a flicker of defiance in her eyes, and then she did it again - that slow, maddening swipe of her tongue across her lower lip to catch the last of the gloss.
He couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Can I be honest with you?”
“Yeah, shoot.”
“Okay, this will be a real daft question, and you might think that I’ve gone crazy, but it has been eating me alive for days from the inside and I...” He had to physically stop a shaky, idiotic smile from spreading across his face. “I really need to know.”
“Okay,” she said, her brow furrowing, “Know what?”
“What does your lip gloss taste like?”
Lucy blinked, her expression blank with shock. It was a question so absurd, so profoundly un-Lockwood, that for a moment the only sound was the distant drip of water somewhere in the tunnels, “That’s it? That’s what’s been making you act like a maniac?”
“I’m serious, it’s driving me mad.” He felt a breathless, hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat, “Please, Luce. Enlighten me so I can free myself from this misery.”
Despite his lighthearted way of putting it, Lockwood can feel the heavy air between them, charged with all the things they hadn't said over breakfast, tea, across unorganised library tables, or right at the hall this very morning.
“You want to know?” she asked. Her voice had changed; it was lower now, tentative as though afraid she would break him.
“I need to know.”
They stood inches apart, the height difference forcing her to tilt her head back. There were no more jokes, no more distractions. They were looking at each other as though they were peering into their very souls - and in the dim light of Portland Row, they were.
“Would you like to try?” she whispered, holding out her hand. There were sparkles in her eyes and strawberry glitter on her lips, radiant and warm like a sunburst in the middle of a winter night.
He needed to know, he needed to see… What would it feel like? What would it taste like?
So he leaned down. And then he finally knew.
It tasted every bit as sweet as its scent.