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The first purchase George makes is a small tube of concealer.
His skin had been acting up recently, his forehead sporting big angry spots. It’s likely due to his inconsistent sleep schedule, and the fact he hasn’t been eating particularly well doesn't help either. He’s not vain, per se, he’s just worried about the blemishes showing up on stream.
He resolves to stop picking at his spots. Irritating them will only make it worse. Self-consciousness washing over him, he feels stumped–how can he solve this problem? He doesn’t want to look like this in front of tens of thousands of people. Then, it hits him. As a young child, he remembers watching his mother put on makeup. He’d sit on a little stool while watching her get ready for a night out. Most of the products slightly terrified him, but she had blemishes as well, and there was something that made them disappear.
Concealer.
There’s a drugstore around the corner, so a few moments after this epiphany, he’s walking through the automatic doors, making a beeline towards the cosmetics section. His fingers fidget at the hem of his shirt. He hadn’t realized how many options there would be. Different products, different brands, different applicators, different colours–the sheer variety makes his head spin.
Lipstick and lip stain, eye pencils and gel liners, metallic eyeshadows and shimmer eyeshadows, translucent powder and fair powder–What’s the difference anyway?
As George contemplates his many options, a woman bumps into him from behind. He immediately turns to apologize, but before he can even open his mouth, the woman just glares at him. The apology dies on his tongue as anxiety seizes him. Maybe she’s just having a bad day, but maybe it’s because he isn’t supposed to be here.
Makeup is just for women.
Right?
George hastily shrugs off the conflicting thoughts swirling around his mind. All that’s left is an impulsive need to leave now. Without testing the shade, he grabs a tube from the lighter end of the selection, scrambling to the self-checkout station. It feels like thousands of pairs of eyes are on him, watching and judging his every move. The tips of his ears burn all the while, but he manages to successfully pay for the concealer, immediately shoving it deep in his pocket. He tears the receipt up into illegible pieces before throwing it away. The lingering shame is harder to get rid of.
It isn’t until he gets home that he realizes the shade is a tinge too light.
-
George makes it work.
The first time he tries the concealer, he clutches the tube in a tight fist, spending too long staring at the red spots on his face in the mirror. He can’t bring himself to test it. He leaves the tube in the bathroom, choosing to go to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. That's easier than evaluating the complicated feelings swirling inside his stomach.
Eventually, he breaks. He can’t put off streaming forever.
The top unscrews easily into a wand applicator and he dots some concealer on his forehead. He uses his ring finger to drag the product around. The spots don’t disappear. Eyebrows creasing with frustration, George dots more on,deciding to pat the concealer instead. The bumpy texture is still visible, but the angry red colour diminishes. It’s not perfect, but when he goes to sit down at his desk to see how everything looks on his facecam, the mismatched shade of concealer to skin and his spots are all negligible.
The tube quickly makes George’s monitor set up home. It sits next to his keyboard, always ready for quick application, the process soon becoming second nature. All he has to do is use his facecam as a mirror, tap the concealer on his spots, and wipe off the excess product on his knee. The pale liquid feels like a shield, protecting his little blemishes and flaws. He doesn’t hate himself for the marks, they’re only natural after all, but it does feel marginally better to have them obscured from his nameless, intangible audience.
He doesn’t record or stream every day, nor does he have to use a facecam, but there’s something about the ritual of getting ready and presenting himself that keeps him repeating this process. It wakes him up and gets him out of the repetitive mindset of being at home all the time. At this point, he’s done it enough times to no longer seize up at the thought of wearing concealer.
But soon enough, the spots heal and the tube is relegated to behind the bathroom mirror.
Out of sight, out of mind.
-
The concealer remains forgotten for a few weeks. Life goes about, as usual, the world keeps turning, and George does not think about makeup. At all.
Then, the red spots return, angry and blotchy as ever.
He’s been busy with editing and streaming, much too busy to cook a meal for himself. He enjoys cooking, finding calmness in the repetitive actions and satisfaction in achieving a final product, but takeout is just far easier when he’s short on time and exhausted.
It hasn’t been a very healthy week. Which is why he’s stuck with bad skin, again.
George grudgingly goes to fetch the concealer from its hiding place. It’s time for it to return to its rightful place on his desk.
Halfway to the bathroom, he stops in his tracks. If this concealer thing is going to become a regular occurrence, he should probably get one that matches his skin tone. It doesn’t have to just be an on-camera thing either. He might decide to cover up his various blemishes the few times he actually meets people, who knows?
The flexibility. That’s why he wants a more accurate concealer.
No other reasons.
The old one worked well enough in terms of quality and consistency so he returns to the same display at the drugstore, methodically testing out the different shades. He takes his time to pick one that suits him instead of running off like last time. Concealer isn’t really makeup, it’s just helping him even out his skin tone on camera. There is no reason to be ashamed.
It takes him a few minutes, but he finally selects one, rolling it in his palm.
As he turns to leave, his eyes linger, raking over the multicoloured tubes of varying sizes. One tube, in particular, catches his eye. Without thinking, he picks it off the display, barely looking at the label or the price before rushing to the same self-checkout counter as before.
Both tubes are shoved deep in his pockets as he briskly walks home. If he isn’t quick enough, they might burn a hole through his pocket.
Somewhere along the way, he crumples up the receipt and throws it away.
-
One of the tubes sits by his monitor set-up, right next to his keyboard.
George cracked open the seal on the new concealer as soon as he got home. It wasn’t a filming day, nor was it a streaming day, but he decided to try the new shade on anyway. Leaning forward to inspect it closer, he exhaled in satisfaction–it’s perfect.
The other tube sits in his bathroom, untouched.
Every time he passes it, he regrets the purchase. That was almost £10 he could’ve spent on anything else. But something, something makes his fingers itch to open it and try it on.
One day, he does it.
He peels the plastic wrapping off, leaving the pieces on the counter. It takes him a few tries to open the tube, revealing a spiky wand with black clumps clinging to it. Is this really supposed to go near his eye? He swallows down his fear and doubts, leaning closer to the mirror. Without realizing, he spends a few moments looking at how his eyelashes frame his dark eyes, at the uneven colouring of his eye whites before shaking himself out of his daze. Blinking one eye half-shut, he brings the wand up with a trembling hand. The comb fits neatly between his eyelashes. He brushes the wand upwards, coating them with the thick mascara. His eyelashes already look darker, longer too. He swallows and dips the brush back in the tube, moving to his other eye.
Once George is done, he steps back and caps the mascara tube. A hesitant look in the mirror takes his breath away. The mascara lifted his lashes, making his eyes appear wider and rounder. The black makes his pupils appear more dynamic, emphasizing the depth of the molten warmness swirling about his irises.
He’s beautiful. Not because of the mascara, but because the mascara helps him see himself in a different light, revealing a new perspective. He likes the curve of his brow bone, the tilted bridge of his nose, the strength of his jawline. As odd as it may seem, he feels an overwhelming affection for his facial features. They aren’t perfect, but they’re his.
George spends too long looking at himself in the mirror before he finally washes his face. He rinses and rinses until black drops stop rolling down his cheeks. Touching his eyelashes, he realizes there's still mascara, stubbornly clinging to the delicate hairs.
He sighs.
Hopefully, those big bottles of makeup remover he’d spotted at the drugstore a few days ago are still on sale.
-
Slowly, George’s cosmetics collection builds. It’s unintentional, he swears. He really doesn’t mean for it to grow, but every time he goes to the drugstore, he leaves with more than he intended. Painkillers and lip gloss. Bags of crisps and eyeliners. Bottled water and highlighter. He even picks up a small nude eyeshadow palette. Perhaps it’s because the makeup section is by the front of the store, but the multitude of brightly coloured, shiny things catch his eye. He can’t help but pluck the little items off the shelf and add it to his purchase.
He eventually clears out one of the drawers in his bathroom to store all of the new items. The only things in that drawer were extra toothpaste and soap anyway. Those can go in the bottom drawer. The unopened compacts sit at the back of the drawer, whereas his go-to items like concealer and mascara sit towards the front. The only way the makeup remover would fit if he put it sideways, so he puts it behind the mirror along with a stack of cotton pads.
The drawer quickly fills up and he stares at the products, unsure of where to even begin. He knows they go on his face and he knows vaguely what the products do, the names are quite self-explanatory after all, but he doesn’t know exactly what to do. He had tentatively tried some of the newer products on but he quickly wiped everything off, a gut-wrenching fear of looking foolish stopping him from looking in the mirror. He sure feels it when he’s sat on the floor, products open and messy around him. So he turns to his second-best friend, Google. The articles and videos help him sift through the different things, showing him where and how to put them on. The tips are mostly for women, but there can’t be that big of a difference in technique.
There isn’t. The tips work fine–he learns that dark shadow goes in the crease of his eyelids, that blush can go up near his cheekbones instead of the apples of his cheeks, that highlight can go on his cupid’s bow.
With practice, his lines become straighter, his wings sharper, the motions more familiar. He no longer feels as foolish.
-
Every so often, George puts a little eyeliner here, a little lip gloss there. He uses an automatic gel liner for his top lid. He keeps accidentally breaking the tip off, but it’s easier than using a pencil. The pencil he saves for darkening his waterline, just from the outer corner to the halfway point. He doesn’t like how he looks with the whole thing darkened. With the gloss, he doesn’t have to be as precise, he just needs to mind his lips when he drinks water.
Sometimes, he switches up the combination. Instead of eyeliner and lip gloss, he swaps the gloss out for lipstick. The lines of his lips aren’t familiar to him yet and the product sets into the chapped lines of his lips, but the colour alone makes him feel good. Other times, it’s mascara and blush. He likes the satin one labeled ‘coral’ that supposedly adds a pink-tinted shimmer to the top of his cheeks. He’s taken to dusting it on the tip of his nose too. Occasionally, he’ll add eyeshadow to the mix, patting the darker shade at the corner of his eye, the mid-tone shimmer on the bulk of his lid, and the lightest highlight near his tear duct. The powder always falls on his eyelashes so he makes sure to put another layer of mascara on.
He stops telling himself that it’s just practice for the camera. What does it matter that he likes to doll himself up?
-
“George, is that mascara. ”
He freezes.
Today was a mascara and lip balm day. Simple and straightforward. He had put the mascara on earlier with careful, practiced motions, dragging the wand in a zig-zag motion across his lashes to coat them with the sticky black liquid–one of the tips he picked up from those articles, it’s been far more effective than using a simple upwards motion.
It’s become a habit to put some product on, even if he planned on spending the day alone. Sticky lashes and tacky lips have become familiar. So familiar that George had logged on to a private call with Dream, facecam on, without taking any of his makeup off.
Now, he’s stuck in this predicament. He thinks he looks good, he just doesn't know how Dream will respond to all this.
“George?”
“Yeah.” He bats his eyelashes, exaggerating the motion to feign confidence he most definitely does not feel. “Do you like it?”
A tense beat.
“I do.” Dream sounds shy. “You look good.”
A surprised oh leaves George’s mouth, the genuine compliment from Dream leaving him flushing pink. He smiles sincerely in response, “Thank you.”
“Just being honest.” Even though Dream doesn’t have his camera on, George can imagine the cheeky grin on his face, 7,000 kilometers away. An unnamed warmth flutters at the pit of his stomach.
They don’t talk about it more, but the topic lingers in the air, casting a pleasant glow on the rest of the conversation.
Even hours later, the compliment Dream gave him warms him to the core. He knows he looks nice, but it’s something else when another person compliments you. Especially if that person is Dream.
He doesn’t clean his mascara-tinted lashes until right before he turns in for the night.
-
“Hey Dream?” George hopes the nervous waver in his voice can’t be heard over the line. He gets a hum from Dream and a meow from Patches in response. Taking that as permission to go on, he asks, “Is it alright if I do my makeup?” Dream has seen him in makeup before, dark-eyed and glossy-lipped, but doing it in front of Dream–
It’s oddly intimate, isn’t it?
He watches as Dream’s fingers pause their gentle petting, “Of course it’s okay. I don’t mind at all.”
“Okay.” A small smile makes his way across his lips as he picks up his phone, making his way to the bathroom. He’s been wanting to try that new blue eyeshadow palette anyway.
The palette is already on the counter, next to the sink. George sets the phone right next to it, leaning the phone against the cup that holds his toothbrush. Pushing the sleeves of his sweater up, he opens the palette up, starting with a light blue shimmer at his inner lid. He uses his pinky finger so while filling in his lid shape, he won’t smudge the powder out of line. First his left eye, then his right eye. He uses the same finger to pick up a deeper sapphire pigment, patting the edge of the light blue, then using his ring finger to dip back in and colour the rest of his lids. He rinses off his hands before dipping his pinky into a darker purple-tinged blue, tapping it at the corners of his eyes, blending it inwards.
While George busies about, the two silently trade breaths, inhaling the other’s exhales, exhaling the other’s inhale. It’s silent other than the occasional mewl from Patches and the hum of white noise in the background. As he cleans off his hands and puts away the palette, he sneaks a glance at the screen only to find Dream looking at him.
They both avert their eyes, the mortification of being caught redder than any rouge George could put on his cheeks.
A few days later, he receives a package. In it, a handful of single pressed eyeshadows in varying shades of blues and purples, as well as a note– you look pretty in blue.
-
“Do you have a date later?” Dream’s eyebrows pull into a mild frown. They’ve been calling for a while now, maybe Dream is tired? George can’t place the specific expression. There’s something ugly lurking under the surface of the frown–he hopes none of it is directed at him.
“No,” he pauses, setting the lipstick down on the table, “I haven’t been on one in months, why?”
Dream’s face smoothes out with relief, “Just wondering.”
George scoffs good-naturedly, “That’s all? Just wondering? ”
“So why are you putting makeup on?”
There’s a strange neediness underlying Dream’s question, so he lets the abrupt subject change slide. “I’m going to work on some stuff later, it just gets me in the right mindset.”
“And what kind of mindset is that?”
He shrugs, “I don’t know, it’s helped me slack off less.”
“Do you do this in front of anyone else?”
George flushes the shade of the lipstick, “No!” He’s got no reason to be this defensive, but who else does Dream think he’s putting on makeup in front of? Leveling his voice, he continues, “No. No, I don’t.”
“Oh.” It’s a soft exhale, a stark contrast to Dream’s tone during his interrogating earlier.
“Why does that matter? Why are you being so insistent today?” Goerge isn’t angry, he just doesn’t understand why Dream keeps pressing and pressing with that peculiar fervour staining his voice.
“Sorry,” Dream takes a deep inhale, dropping his shoulders on the exhale. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I promise.”
“Alright.”
-
The doorbell rings.
George isn’t expecting anyone.
The sight takes his breath away–it’s Dream, standing tall and gorgeous in his doorway.
“George.”
Dream says his name like a prayer, with the reverence of a repentant believer. He feels a burning sensation prickling at the back of his eyes–He’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life, “Hey.” The words lodge themselves at the back of his throat, “I can’t believe you finally flew all this way to come see me.”
“I wasn’t sure if it’d be weird if I showed up without any notice but I really wanted to see you. You make me feel so much and fuck, the makeup. You just looked so good all the time. Not that you don’t always look good, it's just,” Dream exhales, letting his gesturing hands fall at his side, “The thought of you getting ready specifically for me. It was exhilarating. I feel like I can’t control myself when it comes to you–”
George laughs, “You’re rambling.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just–”
“I know.” And he does know. Every unspoken thing hangs in the space between them, but there’s time for that later. Perhaps over a warm cup of coffee. Perhaps under warm covers, pinky fingers linked together as they divulge things they’ve never dared to share before. They have time. They have all the time in the world.
George leans in, tugging on Dream’s shirt, “Shut up and kiss me already.” Dream just laughs, bending down to oblige.
-
The kiss tastes like tenderness and euphoria.