Chapter Text
Thomas Jefferson wears lipstick. He owns just about every color imaginable, and he knows that he looks good in it.
Alexander Hamilton is definitely not jealous.
When Alexander and Thomas debate in their government class, Alexander has to work especially hard to not just stare at Thomas's lips the entire time. They're beautiful: bright colors, dark colors, matte, glossy. Alexander is always entranced by them.
He really wants lipstick. He really wants that deep red wine color that Thomas is wearing today, spread across his lips, smirking. It's a velvety matte, deep and rich.
Alexander can't buy lipstick. Not only does he not have the money, but he doesn't know what his foster parents, the Washingtons, will think. He's terrified that if they see him, they'll think he's disgusting, or call him names, or make fun of him.
So that's why Alexander follows Thomas into the bathroom between classes, being careful to not be seen. Thomas deposits his backpack by the wall and never even sees Alexander digging around in it to find the lipstick.
He grins to himself when he finds it. He'll return it, of course, after he tries it on. It's a desperate move, and Alexander doesn't like stealing, but it's from Jefferson, so, really, what's the harm?
The warning bell rings and he scurries off to his next class, catching a glimpse of Thomas searching his bag for the lipstick to reapply it.
Classes drone on, and by the end of the day, Alexander is nearly bouncing on his feet. The bell rings and students swarm the halls. Alexander rushes to the bathroom downstairs that nobody ever uses and pulls the lipstick out of his backpack.
He suddenly realizes he doesn't really have a clue how to properly put it on. He shrugs. It can't be that hard.
He drops his bag beside him and pops off the cap, twisting the stick up. He stares at it nervously for a minute, letting his worries flood to the surface. What if he can't get it off? What if someone walks in and sees him and tells someone who tells his foster parents? What if Thomas finds out that he took it?
He takes a deep breath anyway, shaking the thoughts from his mind, and steps up to the mirror, giving himself one last look before pressing the lipstick to his bottom lip.
He drags it along at an achingly slow pace. He wants it to look as good as Thomas's, wants it to be perfect and precise. So far, he's just shaky, the line of lipstick wobbly and the color balance all wrong.
Suddenly the door to the bathroom opens, and Alexander feels his heart drop. He rushes to grab his bag and slide into a stall, putting the cap back on the lipstick, but before he can, he's spotted.
He stands there like a deer in the headlights, staring at the face of Thomas Jefferson, who is raising an eyebrow, mouth open, ready to fire an insult.
Alexander wants to literally die. This is all wrong, it's all wrong. He never should have taken the lipstick, he doesn't know how it use it anyway, it wouldn't even look good on him, what was he thinking?
He's ready to be yelled at, or punched, or worse, but instead, Thomas just sighs.
"Let me see it," he says, dropping his bag and holding a hand out. Alexander shamefully drops the lipstick into his hand, not meeting his eyes. "Here," Thomas continues, stepping toward him, "look up."
His voice is far too kind, it's unnerving, but Alexander looks up anyway, into Thomas's face, and it, too, is far too kind, if a twinge annoyed.
Thomas pops the lid off the lipstick, taking Alexander's chin in one hand, lifting the lipstick up with the other, and says, "Open."
Alexander's heart is beating out of his chest, but he obeys anyway. Thomas begins dragging the lipstick across his lips with confidence and precision. When he's done, he steps back and snaps the lid back on, nodding at Alexander.
"Take a look."
Alexander face is burning red, terrified of what's happening, but he does as Thomas says and turns around to face the mirror, and wow. He looks . . . he looks amazing. His lips pop out, bold and velvety. He smiles to himself.
Thomas comes up behind him, looking at him in the mirror with a nod. "This is a good color on you."
Alexander meets his eyes in the mirror, wanting to say something, but he doesn't know what. He's sorry? Thank you? Why? Thomas beats him to it.
"You're annoying as hell, Hamilton," he says, pursing his lips, "but I know how this feels."
Alexander feels as if he's seeing a new side to Thomas, a side that was dexterously hidden from view. He smiles a little, cautiously nodding.
Finally, he mumbles, "I was going to give it back."
Thomas shrugs. "I've got plenty of 'em. Keep it."
Alexander spins around to face him, too close, almost touching. He backs up against the sink and stares at Thomas, confusion written along his face. "Really?"
"It's your color, Hamilton," Thomas responds with a smirk, backing away form him to pick up his backpack and sing it across his shoulders. Without another word, he exits the bathroom, and Alexander is alone.
He turns back to the mirror, looking at his lips. His color, huh?
Yeah. He could see it.