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Summary
"It suits you, y'know."
"Shut the fuck up, Neil."
"No, I mean it," Hickey puts the cheap eye shadow palette down and leans in close to check his handiwork. "You look pretty."
"Pretty?" Sol snorts, mustering up all his casual derision and swallowing down the way that word makes his stomach feel warm and uncomfortably squirmy. "I'm drunk, I'm not bloody stupid."
