//It's not fair//

His heart hurt. Physically hurt. He couldn't concentrate anymore. He couldn't sleep anymore. Was it so wrong, the way he felt?

Yes. Evidently it was. No one else he knew was like this. Or if they were, they never said anything. Therefore, he figured he must be the only one. How could that be? The only one in the world who thought like this?

<He reached for the eye shadow. He popped the container open and looked at the pretty colors inside. He picked up a tiny brush that was next to the shimmering powders. He pressed the brush against the dark pink color and looked back in the mirror. He wiped the color against his eyelid.>

This had been going on for years now. He was so unhappy. What was the point of anything if he couldn't just be himself? School was downright boring. The only thing that made it worthwhile was seeing *him*.

<He continued to look in the mirror and pressed the other brush into a lighter shade of pink. He swept it upward, keeping just below his brow.>

In the mornings, he fluctuated between wanting to lie in bed and be depressed, to wanting the ecstasy he felt when he saw *him* first thing. His heart fluttered. And then it hurt. He was becoming a bigger nervous wreck than he already was. He didn't know when or how it was going to stop, but he knew it just had to someday. He really couldn't go on like this forever, could he?

He thought about *him* constantly, especially when he was by himself. He was usually by himself only in the loo. The things he thought about in the loo, the things he did in the loo, while thinking of *him* always made him ashamed afterward. At the time, though, he didn’t think. He just did it.

<He patted the fine ivory powder over his face. It didn't quite cover his freckles, but it toned them down.>

He had made such a big deal out of his second-hand dress robes the year before. He knew everyone thought he hated the robes, because of the lace, but it was just that they were ugly. Lace and all. He was sick to death of getting second-hand stuff. Then this last summer, his brothers bought him beautiful dress robes, which he would never admit to liking. He didn't know what had possessed his brothers, but accepted the pretty robes, anyway.

<He glanced up at himself in the mirror, before pulling the brush out of the mascara tube. He still liked the sound the brush made when it popped out. He would push the brush in and out, a few times, hearing the pop. Finally he raised the brush to his eyelashes, first one set, then the other. He brushed upwards, continuing until he was satisfied that his eyelashes were dark, covering the normally reddish color.>

He wasn't stealing as many panties these days. They didn't fit him as well. Ginny was small and he was constantly growing. They still felt nice and silky, but not as comfortable. Makeup, though, always fit him. He loved colors that everyone else thought were girly. He didn’t think they were. He just thought they were pretty.

He refused to have his hair cut, except when he was home in the summer and his mother forced him. He wanted it long and pretty. He hoped *he* thought it was pretty.

<He continued to look in the mirror and brushed pink blush over his cheeks. He moved the brush upward and swirled it in circles on his already pink cheek.>

He loved putting on makeup and brushing his hair. He loved looking at himself in the mirror. He knew it was vain of him, but he didn’t have anyone else to tell him he was pretty. So he stared in the mirror, putting on his makeup, telling himself.

It used to be that it wasn’t a big deal. The times in the loo used to be enough. Being pretty just for himself used to be enough. Not anymore.

<He stared at himself in the mirror. He twisted the lipstick holder until the plum color moved up. He put it on his bottom lip and began moving it across.>

Sometimes he hoped *he* would catch him. Catch him putting on his makeup. On the occasion when he would sleep, he would dream that *he* would look at him and tell him he was beautiful. Then *he* would go to him and kiss him lightly on the lips.

His dreams never went any farther than that. He didn't know why. He wanted to dream about the things he thought about when he was awake. But he never did.

<He looked at himself once more in the mirror, before washing his face and hiding the makeup.>

He was so exhausted from lack of sleep. He crawled under the covers and laid his head down on the pillow. He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately.

//He's beautiful//

The voyeur crept out of bed. There were too few nights when he could get up and look at *him* when he was asleep. He looked around to make sure he wasn't going to get caught. He knew he was always taking chances just to watch *him*, but he would decide he didn't care. He had to do it.

The voyeur pushed the bed curtain out of the way. He stood there and stared at *him*.

The voyeur's eyes were mesmerized by the beautifully peaceful face awash in sleep. He knew in the waking hours, this face wasn't happy. He could feel it, but he didn't understand why. Something that beautiful should always be happy.

The voyeur reached down and brushed his lips against the beautiful face, then moved to *his* lips. He softly kissed them. The beautiful face murmured sleepily. He lifted his lips from *his* soft pretty pouting mouth. He stared at *him*.

//He's beautiful//