Work Text:
Barry has long imagined what it would be like to witness a death.
The violence. The crashing of compact onto concrete tiles. A hit from a hammer, cracking his cherished concealer. Glass glitters around his feet.
What he sees is far from it.
There lies a vintage lipstick on the velvet bed. Its intricate carvings are worn down from decades of touch.
How it was utterly loved. Soul of once vibrant red, spread against the lips of its owner. Its color left on every glass they drank from, every tissue dabbed, every person kissed.
Every swipe eventually marked—claimed—something or someone. Each trace whispers, "I see you. I touch you. I'm forever yours."
And 'forever' is a promise that breaks.
For glasses are washed.
Tissues are thrown.
People bathe.
The product born years before Barry fades, too.
When he pulls the cap and twists the screw to its limit, there is nothing left but an empty barrel. What little remained has been scraped dry.
No longer can Barry write with it on his arms. No more admiring of its rose-petal tip.
All that remains is the husk of what once was.
With it dies a piece of him.
Maggots emerge, feeding on the what-ifs festering in his mind. They feast on him until he's too void to stand. Until he can only lie beside the dead.
They secrete tears, welling on the brim of his eyes. It pours, and pours. It pools on the bathroom floor.
Why must sorrow, so silent, hurt more than anger ever could?
Perhaps, it's because he merely watched. With every use, its life grew shorter. And so, all he could do was witness, helpless, as it met its end.
Barry forces himself to cradle it in his hands. For the final time, it receives a gentle kiss. Its case is now cold. Even his own warmth fails to soothe it.
Instead, it freezes him. Empties him. He becomes a hollow husk, too. Yet, he continues to live.