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There was a subtle shift the moment that John finished zipping him up. He straightened up to his full (Jesus, seven foot in the heels) height and turned to John with a smile that felt dangerous. Something had changed in his face too—the makeup had looked silly moments ago, but now…
“How do I look?” Twig asked, confident in a way he never was. As though he had no doubt as to what the answer was.
“You look…” John started and couldn’t finish.
Pretty wasn’t it. Pretty was Betsy, with her clean cotton smell and sweet smiles. Even beautiful didn’t come close to touching it. Any word he tried to conjure flinched away as if burned from the bright flame of whatever the hell it was Twig looked like.
He wasn’t aware that his jaw was hanging open until Twig leaned forward and put a finger under his chin to close it.
He patted John on the cheek before walking out on stage to whistles and whoops from the assembled soldiers.
It was a gag. He’d done it as a gag, getting up to dance and mouth along to the best of Garland. Not that he looked anything like her, dark hair aside—he hadn’t bothered with a wig, just worn his half grown out hair slicked back. Four foot eleven he was not and he moved like a panther.
He looked…
John blinked and Twig was coming back offstage.
He laughed at the expression on John’s face and gave him a big lipstick kiss on the cheek.
It should be funny. They were just messing around. His breath shouldn’t catch in his throat as his (shaking) hands found Terry’s waist and he looked up (and up) into his bright eyes and felt his breath on his face.
“You look good,” he said finally.
“I know,” Twig replied and leaned down to kiss him on his lips this time.
“I’m going to miss this girl when you put her away again,” John murmured helplessly against his lips.
“I don’t think she’s going away,” Terry said.