Work Text:
There’s a package on the doorstep when Mark gets home from the supermarket. It’s a pink plastic mailing bag, the logo half obscured by the address sticker, but it’s obvious where the package came from.
Mark stops about a foot away from the front door and stares down at the package. He knows what it is. There’s nothing else out for delivery right now, not when Fernando is away preparing for Jeddah and Mark is home so sporadically at the moment their home may as well just be a hotel.
He crouches down and picks the package up. It’s not too heavy, just enough that the corners slump downward as Mark holds it, squeezing carefully to confirm it really is what he thinks it is.
Mark drops his keys 3 times in his haste to unlock the door, cursing to himself quietly and throwing a paranoid look over his shoulder, despite the several miles of empty woods either side of the drive, and steps inside.
He throws the package on the counter and starts to unpack the shopping bags, doing his absolute best to ignore it, going as far as hiding it behind the airfryer while he works. The sliver of pink visible from the corner of Mark’s eye feels like a guilty secret.
Mark promptly does his best to forget about it. He cleans the kitchen, unloads and hangs the laundry in the garden, vacuums the house, takes the dogs for a run down the trail off to the left of the house and takes an unreasonably long shower.
By the time dinner is eaten and the washing up is done, Mark has run out of ways to avoid it.
He takes the package out from its hiding place and stares at it again. The dashed cut here line is tempting, Mark clutches the kitchen scissors in one hand, the package in the other and chews his lip anxiously.
For a moment, Mark stares at his face in the reflection of the scissors, distorted by the scratches in the metal and the streaks of light that catch from the overhead lamp. He finds himself unrecognisable.
The plastic rips open messily, scissors abandoned on the counter in favour of tearing at the seal at the bottom of the bag, the logo stretching and becoming illegible as Mark wrestles the item inside out and throws the bag to the floor.
It’s a skirt. Simple, black, pleated, just an inch shy of being ankle length. There’s a pair of buttons on the right side, sleek, silver and holding the waistband together securely. It’s made of cotton, soft and smooth under Mark’s fingers where he tentatively caresses the fabric. The inside tag says it's a women's large.
Mark stares down at the skirt, his mind simultaneously empty and racing a million miles an hour. He had felt so sure when he had been looking at it on the screen of his laptop just a few weeks ago, had added it to his cart without much of a second thought, curiosity getting the better of him in the moment. Holding it feels different.
There’s a feeling simmering in Mark’s stomach. He thinks it might be fear.
–
It looks wrong. It feels right. Mark wants to dance, claw his skin off, sing and never stand in front of a mirror again. He’s frozen on the spot, staring back at his own reflection in the full body mirror, heart beating out of his chest, hands clenching and unclenching around nothing down by his sides.
It’s right. Mark knows so.
He tears the skirt off and kicks it into the corner, leaving it crumpled in a pile next to the dresser.
He takes another shower and cranks the water up as high as it can go. It's numbing. His skin is bright red where he scrubs furiously at it with the exfoliator glove. He still doesn’t feel clean enough.
–
The skirt makes it into Mark’s luggage for Miami. He isn’t sure why, but he folds it as small as it will go and tucks it into the corner of the suitcase, piles a week's worth of underwear on top, surrounds it with sleeping shirts and zips the case up.
He leaves the case by the front door and doesn’t touch it until the day of his flight comes.
Mark’s anxiety reaches an all time high during the trip through customs. There’s no reason for it, all he has inside is clothes, a spare pair of shoes and some toiletries. Mark feels like he’s about to be found out. For what, he isn’t exactly sure.
The flight is better. The suitcase is in the compartment beneath Mark’s seat, where no one else can reach it. Thank god for business class.
US customs is worse. The customs officer rifles through Mark’s suitcase for a moment, prods at his shoes, attempts to rip the plastic from his paddock pass for a moment until a colleague jumps in and stops them.
“Sorry,” the officer says, handing Mark’s pass back. “Lot of people don’t recognise F1 around here.”
Mark smiles, tucks the pass into his pocket and zips his suitcase up as fast as his hands will allow him to. He speed walks out of the airport, takes an uber and gets lost during the 2 minute walk from the drop off point to the hotel.
The receptionist hands him the key and points him toward the elevators, tucked away at the far end of the lobby. Mark leans against the wall, rubs a hand over his face, checks his watch. It's late, almost midnight, the fluorescent bulbs of street lamps and hotel lobbies became painful long ago. The broken light inside the lift offers some reprieve.
The door to the suite opens with a click and Mark steps in, kicking the door shut behind himself and pushing the suitcase to the side.
Fernando appears from inside the bedroom and launches himself into Mark’s arms, burying his face into Mark’s chest and clutching handfuls of his shirt.
“I missed you,” Fernando mumbles into Mark’s chest, breathing in Mark’s familiar scent. Mark smiles softly as he embraces Fernando, presses a kiss to the top of his head. He glances at the suitcase for a moment, thinking about what's hidden inside. A wave of guilt washes over him. He squashes it down somewhere deep within.
“I missed you too,” Mark whispers into Fernando’s hair. “You should be asleep.”
“I wanted to wait for you,” Fernando says. He looks up at Mark, exhaustion evident in his face. Mark sighs and reaches up to hold Fernando’s face, rubs a thumb along his cheekbone.
“Let me shower, then we’ll go to bed, yeah?”
Fernando’s eyes slip closed as he leans into Mark’s touch, humming happily in response. Mark leans down to press a chaste kiss to Fernando’s lips and his heart swells at the way Fernando rises onto his toes in an attempt to chase the kiss when they part.
“You, bed, now,” Mark says, prodding Fernando in the stomach. “I’ll be 10 minutes. Go on.”
Fernando grumbles but complies, though he grabs Mark’s face and steals another kiss before shuffling off into the bedroom again, flicking the main light off as he passes by.
Mark drags his suitcase further into the suite, rifles through it for his toiletries, pointedly ignores the folded up skirt in the corner as he grabs a pair of boxers and a t-shirt to change into. He pushes the case under the coffee table.
The shower is lukewarm at best. Mark washes his hair and scrubs himself down in record time, then simultaneously dries his hair with one hand and brushes his teeth with the other.
The tv casts a dull glow over the room when Mark steps out of the bathroom, dumping the towels into a laundry basket and pulling the door shut as quietly as possible.
He slides into bed and is immediately tackled flat onto his back by Fernando, who wriggles himself into position until his head rests on Mark’s chest, their legs easily tangling together as they get settled.
“You smell good,” Fernando mumbles, half asleep already. Mark reaches up to card a hand through Fernando’s hair, the other drawing patterns across the expanse of his shoulders.
“I smell the same as always,” Mark says with a chuckle, settling his head down into the pillows. “Did you forget what I smell like so soon?”
“No. You just always smell good.” Fernando hums, nuzzles his nose into the dip between Mark’s pecs. “What did you do, while I was gone?”
Mark’s mind drifts to the suitcase in the main room, shoved under the coffee table, the mirror in their bedroom back at home. For a moment, he wants to tell Fernando, let him in on the secret, whatever that might mean for their marriage.
“Nothing much,” Mark mumbles, trailing his fingers down Fernando’s spine. “Took the dogs down a new trail, fixed that cupboard door in the kitchen.” Fernando hums again, Mark feels it more than hears it.
“Good, that was very annoying.”
“I know,” Mark says, scratching lightly at Fernando’s nape. “Sorted out the wardrobe, too, so you don’t have to climb it like a koala to get your trousers anymore.”
“Thank you,” Fernando says, pressing a kiss to Mark’s sternum. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Mark says, smiling as Fernando drifts off with a final, heavy sigh. Mark lets his eyes slip shut and feels around for the remote, blindly hitting buttons on it until the television turns off.
Mark drifts off to sleep seconds later. He does not dream.
–
Fernando leaves before Mark the next morning, shaking Mark awake for a kiss before dashing out the front door, hopping down the corridor for a few feet before finally sliding his shoe on properly and breaking into a jog.
Mark squints as he wakes up properly, one arm thrown over his face to block out the morning sunlight that filters in through the windows, washing over the room and reflecting off the television directly into Mark’s eyes.
Mark groans, throws the sheets over his head, then groans a second time as his own alarm immediately starts to ring from the side table. He throws the sheets off and reaches over to silence the alarm, rubbing a hand over his face.
He lays still for a moment, blinks a few times, then sits up, sighing tiredly. It’s 8.30, commentator meetings start at 9.15, there’s no real time to laze around in bed daydreaming.
The shower is lukewarm, again, though Mark finds himself grinning at the love heart Fernando drew on the fogged up mirror after his own shower. Mark draws his own, smaller, below it.
Mark digs through his suitcase for his work clothes, pausing for a moment when the shifting of everything inside uncovers the skirt, still tucked securely away in its corner. Mark finds himself reaching out to touch it, running his fingers over the soft fabric for a moment, a cocktail of want, shame, guilt and curiosity coursing through his veins.
He shakes it off, covers the skirt again, closes up the suitcase and pushes it back under the table. The black dress trousers and navy shirt feel disappointing as Mark buttons them up. He ignores the feeling.
–
Nico is already brewing two coffees when Mark makes it to the commentators lounge. He looks over his shoulder as Mark enters, smiling far too brightly for someone standing in their workplace at 9am.
“You have sugar, right?” Nico asks, pouring an obscene amount of creamer into his own mug. Mark pulls a disgusted expression, steps forward and grabs a croissant from the table beside Nico.
“Yeah, just one, I actually like my stomach and don’t want to torture it.”
Nico rolls his eyes and drops a sugar cube into Mark’s mug, stirring it around for a moment before he pushes it toward Mark. “There is nothing torturous about how I drink my coffee.”
“Aren’t you lactose intolerant?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Nico says, waving dismissively and taking a gulp from his mug. Mark makes another face of disgust and blows on his coffee, watching the steam rise and dance in the air. “How was your flight?” Nico asks, settling into the corner of one of the couches.
Mark sits down next to him, takes a quick sip of his coffee, places his mug down on a coaster. “Shit, I barely slept. Didn’t get any real kip until I got here.”
Nico laughs, takes a bite of his own croissant. “Is that why you look so terrible?”
Mark scowls and kicks Nico in the shin, ignoring the pained whine he receives in return. “You don’t look much better, mate.”
“Oh, come on,” Nico says with a laugh, “I look gorgeous and you know it.”
“You look alright,” Mark rolls his eyes at Nico this time, tearing the end of his croissant off as he looks Nico up and down a few times. “You don’t need your ego stroked anymore. Have you had a manicure?”
Nico grins and holds his hand out toward Mark proudly, tilting it so that the glitter in the polish sparkles in the light. “Vivian did it last night, isn’t it cute?”
Mark stares at Nico’s hand for a moment, transfixed by the flecks of silver glitter in the peach pink polish that coats Nico’s nails, perfectly applied and finished with a protective coat over the top. He glances down at his own nails and for a moment, feels envious.
“You should get one, looks like you need it,” Nico says, gesturing to Mark’s hand as he settles back into his seat. Mark snaps out of his trance and frowns at Nico again, shoving his hand into his pocket.
“Who shoved a stick up your arse today? You’re being a bigger bitch than usual,” Mark says, then takes a big gulp of coffee.
“Vivian,” Nico replies without hesitation, hiding a smirk behind his mug.
Mark chokes on his coffee, spluttering for a moment before Nico hands him a tissue. Mark scowls as he accepts it, wiping the coffee from his mouth and dabbing at the drops on his shirt. Thank god it's not the white one.
–
Mark spends the morning thinking about Nico’s nails. He tries his best to shake it off, ignore the thoughts, focus on the interviews at hand, to no avail. At every quiet moment, Mark’s mind drifts back to the glitter, the light pink polish, the pride in Nico’s eyes as he showed it off.
Jealousy starts to simmer in Mark’s stomach. He tries desperately to push it down, lock it away somewhere and throw away the key, drown it out with anything else. Nothing works.
It’s worse when Nico chases Mark down to talk during the lunch break, gesticulating wildly as he speaks, his nails confidently displayed to the whole paddock without a hint of shame. Mark does his best to listen, to nod at the right times, and respond to the right things. If Nico notices the distraction in Mark’s eyes, he’s either oblivious enough or merciful enough to not mention it.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of interviews, meetings, shitty break room coffee and moderately reliable at best analysis from various sources. Mark doesn’t see Fernando again until they’re safely locked away in their suite, tangled together in bed with room service plates scattered around them.
There’s a comfortable silence between them, both content to just enjoy each other's presence while they have the time, Fernando curled up comfortably against Mark’s side, his leg thrown over Mark’s thigh. There’s a movie playing on the television that they’re not really paying much attention to, more than content to let the plot fly over both of their heads.
It’s past 9pm before Fernando finds the energy to say anything.
“Nico told me that I should get a manicure today,” Fernando says with a quiet chuckle. Mark tenses for a moment before he relaxes again, glancing down at Fernando curiously.
“Oh yeah? He told me the same thing. Seems real proud of his own.”
Fernando hums and shifts to look up at Mark properly. “He said it is good for bonding,” he chews his lip for a moment, “It looked nice.”
Mark looks back down at Fernando, studying his face carefully. Finding no suggestion that he’s joking, Mark takes a deep breath. “I’ll paint yours, if you want.”
Fernando’s eyes sparkle as he shifts, sitting up straighter to meet Mark’s eyes. “Really?”
“Sure,” Mark says, sliding his hand down to rest against the small of Fernando’s back. “If you want me to.”
Fernando’s face lights up with a grin as he snuggles back down against Mark’s chest, his hair tickling the skin of Mark’s neck. “Can I paint yours too?”
Mark hesitates for a moment, “yeah,” he breathes out, staring up at the television. “If you want to.”
Fernando hums in satisfaction. “I do,” he says confidently, shifting to pull himself further into Mark’s lap. After a moment, he mumbles a quiet thank you against Mark’s chest, pressing a kiss to Mark’s collarbone as he does.
Mark leans down to press a kiss into Fernando’s hair, lingering there for a second before looking back over at the television. The jealousy in his stomach morphs into excitement. He does his best to ignore it.
–
Mark thinks about it for the rest of the weekend. A few times, he opens his suitcase, stares longingly at the pile of black fabric in the corner, then zips it back up and does his best to forget about it.
Once or twice Fernando asks what colour they should pick. In his mind Mark screams peach pink, outwardly, he shrugs, tells Fernando it’s up to him. Both times Fernando looks a little sad, which kills a tiny piece of Mark, but he still can’t bring himself to admit what he wants.
The flight home is better. Nobody rifles through Mark’s bags at either airport, Fernando is able to come home with him, the dogs greet them with unfettered glee when they step through the front door and the house is perfectly in order as Mark had left it. He makes a mental note to text the dog sitter his thanks later.
Neither of them make any effort to unpack, collapsing straight into bed and barely managing to pull the sheets over their tired bodies before drifting off to sleep. This time, Mark dreams of glitter that sparkles under the light as it moves, swirling through his mind aimlessly. He sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks.
–
“Nico gave me this before I left, on Sunday,” Fernando says as he sits down opposite Mark. He places the bottle of peach pink nail polish on the table between them, studying Mark’s face carefully. “If you still want to do it.”
Mark stares down at the bottle, then at his own reflection in his spoon. It’s distorted, but he recognises himself. “Sure,” he says, stirring his cereal around for a moment. “I might not be good at it, though.”
“I don’t mind,” Fernando says, picking up the bottle and shaking it, “It’s for bonding, no? It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Mark hums, eats a spoonful of cereal. Fernando unscrews the cap and takes the brush out, studying it intently. “It’s nice, this colour.”
Mark hums again, looking up to properly study the bottle. He feels a flutter of anxiety in his stomach, watching the polish drip off the brush and back down into the bottle. He quickly gets up to drop his bowl into the sink without washing it, ignoring Fernando’s disapproving tut.
“Right, give me your hand then,” Mark says as he sits back down. Fernando grins and slides the bottle toward Mark, laying his other hand flat out on the table between them.
Mark picks up the bottle after a moment's hesitation, silently cursing himself for being so shaky, and carefully pulls the brush out. The polish glistens where it clings to the bristles, slowly dripping back down into the bottle.
He wipes off some of the excess and touches the brush to Fernando’s thumbnail. It fans out beautifully, the glitter spreading over the nail as Mark drags it toward the edge. By some miracle, nothing spills over onto Fernando’s skin.
Mark glances up at Fernando, silently searching for some kind of encouragement, dipping the brush back into the bottle when Fernando offers a reassuring nod.
They don’t speak as Mark paints the rest of Fernando’s nails, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration. He doesn’t spill a drop.
When the last nail is painted, Fernando lifts his hands up to inspect Mark’s work. If his ecstatic grin is anything to go by, Mark thinks his work is satisfactory. “Good?” Mark asks, twisting the cap back onto the bottle.
Fernando leans across the table, careful not to touch the drying polish, and plants a kiss on Mark’s cheek. “Perfect,” he says, pausing to blow on his nails for a moment. “Can I paint yours, when they are dry?”
Mark’s breath hitches as he stares down at Fernando’s hands, a strange sense of pride swelling in his chest as he observes his work. A moment of silence passes between them before Mark breathes out a quiet yeah, his eyes still fixed on Fernando’s hands.
Fernando hums happily and returns to blowing carefully over the polish, occasionally twisting his hands to watch the glitter sparkle under the kitchen lights. Mark chews on his lip as they wait, pride giving way to anxiety when Fernando gingerly taps his nails in turn to confirm that they’re dry.
Fernando shoots Mark a questioning look as he picks up the bottle, shaking it carefully once again. Mark carefully places his hands on the table, fingers splayed evenly apart, offering Fernando a confirmatory nod.
They don’t speak as Fernando paints Mark’s nails. Fernando’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he works, carefully swiping the brush over each nail, grumbling to himself on the rare occasion some spills over.
Mark watches, entranced, from beginning to end. When Fernando paints the last nail, Mark lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing in an instant.
“It’s a bit messy,” Fernando says, carefully dabbing at a spot of pink on the skin of Mark’s thumb. Mark shakes his head and gently nudges Fernando’s foot under the table with his own.
“No, it’s good,” Mark says, hardly above a whisper. From the corner of his eye, he watches Fernando’s lips curl into a smile, and some of the anxiety fades away. “We should take the dogs out,” Mark says, a little strained.
Fernando gets up from the table and heads toward the living room, stopping to press a kiss to Mark’s cheek as he passes. “I will get them ready, while they dry.”
Mark nods, wordlessly, his gaze still fixed on his nails. Fernando disappears somewhere into the house, the click of excited paws chasing after him as he goes.
The excited barking and click of leashes against harnesses fades into the background as Mark watches the polish dry. A few minutes pass before Mark dares to touch his nails, not wanting to smudge the polish. His finger comes back clean.
“Ready?” Fernando asks, leaning around the kitchen door, two leashes clutched in his left hand, a tennis ball in his right. Mark nods and stands up, reaching out to take one of the leashes from Fernando.
“Yeah, let's go.”
–
Fernando leaves for Imola the Monday of race week. Goodbyes take 15 minutes, Fernando repeatedly reminding Mark of everything he left behind in the kitchen, stalling for time, wanting just one more kiss. It goes on until the airport taxi rolls to a stop on the drive outside and Mark reluctantly lets go of Fernando, watching sadly as he hops into the taxi and disappears past the end of the driveway.
When the front door is closed, Mark’s mind drifts to the back of the towel cupboard, where he had stashed the skirt after Miami like some kind of dirty secret that followed him home from a vacation.
He stands by the front door for another 15 minutes, thinking, before heading back into the house.
The skirt is still at the back of the towel cupboard, hidden below a pair of old towels mostly used to catch drops of paint during home renovations, folded up small as Mark had left it.
Mark stands in the bathroom for a few minutes, the skirt clutched in his hands, then heads back out toward the bedroom.
His hands shake as he fumbles with the buttons, missing the holes a few times before fixing them securely, the waistband sitting snugly around his waist.
Mark takes a few deep, shuddering breaths before he looks up at the mirror. The image reflected back at him looks familiar, this time; Mark recognises himself, the light blue flannel, the white t-shirt, but most of all, the black ankle length skirt.
Something in Mark’s mind screams at him to take it off, crumple it up and throw it away like last time, but he doesn’t. He stands, hands balled up by his sides, staring furiously at himself in the mirror.
This is right. Mark thinks to himself. This is what I want to do.
He keeps it on for a few hours, feeling slightly like a schoolboy doing something against the rules as he moves through the house, doing random chores and listening to a podcast.
When evening comes, Mark takes the skirt off and carefully lays it over the stool in front of the dressing table in the bedroom, smoothing out the creases and correcting a few unfolded pleats. Something inside his mind still berates him, tells him he’s doing something wrong, but Mark ignores it.
He showers, collapses into bed, sends Fernando a goodnight text despite the time zone difference and drifts off, content with the day.
–
It quickly becomes a habit. Mark waves Fernando off the Monday of a race week, waits 15 minutes, dashes to the towel cupboard and slips the skirt on– his skirt– and goes about the rest of his day.
Eventually, he goes out into the garden wearing it. The first time is nerve wracking, filled with nervous glances over each shoulder and tentative peeking over the fence. When he’s sure nobody is around, Mark relaxes and settles onto a sun lounger to read, the light of the midday sun bathing the garden in a warm glow.
The second time comes more naturally, as does the third, the fourth, until eventually Mark walks through the garden without hesitation, takes naps out in the sun, hangs laundry up, pulls weeds from the flowerbeds and anything else he can possibly find to do.
Every Saturday, Mark washes the skirt, hangs it out to dry, irons out the pleating into perfect form and stashes it away behind the towels again.
As far as he knows, Fernando never finds it. If he does, it’s never brought up and their life continues as normal.
Over the summer break, Mark becomes restless. He does his best to hide it, taking the dogs out for as many runs through the woods as he can without it being suspicious, helping Fernando replant some rose bushes in the garden, anything to keep his mind occupied enough that he doesn’t have time to think about the skirt at the back of the towel cupboard.
Toward the end of August, Fernando asks if they can paint each other's nails again. Mark does his best to act neutral, suppressing his glee somewhere deep within as he takes Fernando’s hand in his, swipes the brush over each nail, not a drop gone awry.
His leg bounces excitedly under the table as Fernando returns the favour, his own work much cleaner this time, as if he had practised in the time between then and now.
Mark beams when Fernando finishes, blowing carefully over his nails to dry them, forgetting about his feigned neutrality for a brief moment. Fernando, apparently distracted by a tiktok on his phone, doesn’t seem to notice.
The summer break comes to a close and Mark can't help but feel excited, despite the guilt that washes over him every time he mentally counts the days left until he has the house to himself.
Goodbyes take much longer, when the first race after the summer break finally catches them. Mark holds Fernando close, peppers his face with kisses, reassures him a thousand times they’ll see each other again at Monza and watches as the same taxi as always disappears down the driveway.
Mark lasts 5 minutes before he runs through the house, headed straight for the bathroom, straight for the towel cupboard. Slipping the skirt over his waist feels like a breath of fresh air. The voice is still somewhere in the back of Mark’s mind berating him for it, but Mark drowns it out with another podcast as he goes through the usual chores, the most relaxed he’s been in weeks.
By the time the laundry is done, Mark starts to feel guilty again. Fernando has no idea what Mark does while he’s gone, how comfortable he feels going about his life with painted nails and wearing a skirt, about the 2 other skirts sitting patiently in Mark’s ASOS basket waiting to be purchased.
Fernando might not want a husband that spends his time prancing about in skirts and pink nail polish.
Suddenly, cotton feels a lot more like thorns. Mark wrestles the offending item off and lets it fall to the floor, crumpled into a pile and creased up, the perfect ironing ruined in a second. He aches to pick it up, smooth out the creases, button it back up and go out into the garden for a nap.
He leaves it on the ground in the kitchen and pulls on a pair of grey joggers, pointedly ignoring the discarded item every time he passes it by. It stays on the floor for 2 days before Mark breaks.
The guilt is stifling the next time Mark wears it, the angry voice in his head a lot more prominent than usual, reminding him how horrible he is as a husband, how weak he is as a man, all manner of things.
Mark ignores it, determinedly going about his day as usual, even attending a zoom meeting from the kitchen table, the laptop angled just a little too high, thanks to his paranoia. He can get away with it, he's 46, everyone will just assume he’s technologically inept.
Mark irons and stashes the skirt away 2 days before he leaves for Monza. Another wave of guilt washes over him as he takes the elevator up Fernando’s suite, his mind stuck on every thought from the past few weeks, every one of them louder than the last.
Mark forgets about it all when Fernando melts into his arms like warm honey, jumping up to wrap his legs around Mark’s waist, his face snuggled against Mark’s neck.
“I missed you,” Fernando says, muffled against Mark’s skin. Mark hooks one arm under Fernando’s knee, the other around his waist, and carries them through to the bedroom.
“I missed you too,” Mark says into Fernando’s hair, grinning as Fernando places a kiss against his throat. Sleep comes easy, this time.
–
The first time Mark talks about it, he’s sitting in a commentary lounge with Jenson after Suzuka, both of them a little tipsy from crashing someone's after party.
“Jense,” Mark says, slumped down into the corner of the couch. Jenson looks over at him from the other end of the couch, slumped into his own corner. “What does it mean, being a bloke?” Mark says carefully, picking at his nails and avoiding Jenson’s eyes.
“What?” Jenson says, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.
“What does being a bloke mean, like really,” Mark repeats, still picking at his nails. “What makes you a man?”
“Whatever you want, I guess?” Jenson thinks for a second, his fingers tapping against the couch cushions, “It’s different for everyone, isn’t it?”
Mark hums, looking up at Jenson, finally. “What about you?”
Jenson looks surprised for a moment before his face morphs into a thoughtful expression. Neither of them speak for a few minutes while Jenson thinks, his expression changing every few seconds, his fingers still tapping incessantly.
“I couldn’t imagine myself as a woman, or neither, or both,” Jenson starts, slow and careful, “I know I’m a man because I've thought about it and it’s what feels right for me.”
Mark nods, measuring his next words carefully. “What if you started wearing women's clothes, though?”
“Wouldn’t change anything,” Jenson says. “You remember when Giancarlo used to rock up to after parties in a miniskirt and heels, face done up all glam?”
Mark nods again. He does remember.
“Didn’t change anything for him, did it? Last time I checked he's still pretty happy being a bloke.”
Mark lets the silence sit for a moment, chewing on his lip contemplatively. “How would you tell Brit, hypothetically, if you thought you might want to start wearing women's clothes in your daily life?”
Jenson raises an eyebrow, but plays along all the same. “I’d sit down with her and have a proper conversation about it, tell her it doesn’t change anything about me, it’s just a preference.”
Mark hums and glances down at his nails, picking at the pink polish covering them, “Wouldn’t you worry she might get upset?”
Jenson stretches his foot out to nudge Mark until he looks up, nervously meeting Jenson’s eyes. “I don’t think Brit would get upset,” Jenson starts. His tone tells Mark that he has finally caught on. “I think Brit loves me too much to get upset over something like that. It wouldn’t affect our relationship.”
Mark sighs, looking back down at his nails. “You’re sure?”
“Sure as can be.”
“Right,” Mark says, only just loud enough for Jenson to hear, “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Jenson says with a lopsided grin, leaning down to rest his head on Mark’s thigh. “I’m fucking shattered.”
“Yeah,” Mark mumbles, settling deeper into the couch. “Me too.”
–
Mark decides to bring it up after the last race of the season. The last few races crawl by agonisingly slowly, each one somehow feeling longer than the last.
Abu Dhabi feels like a monolith. Mark thought he would have talked himself out of it by COTA, buried it deep again, locked the door shut and thrown away the key. But he hasn’t. He spends the flight home thinking of the best way to bring it up, the best time, all while Fernando sleeps soundly beside him.
They make it home just before dinner, throw the suitcases into a corner, take a shower and order a kebab. Fernando groans in delight as he works through the first few bites, pointedly ignoring Mark’s laughter and pouring sauce over his next bite.
“I have missed things like this so much,” he says through a mouthful of chicken and pita. “I am sick of eating broccoli and sweet potatoes.”
Mark laughs again and takes a bite of his own kebab, dropping a few strips of donner meat into the container. “We can get a Chinese tomorrow, if you want.”
Fernando makes a noise of agreement and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Please. I do not even want to look at a vegetable for the next week.”
They fall asleep in front of the television, glued to each other's sides and hidden under the biggest blanket Mark could find in the house, the takeaway containers left on the coffee table to be cleaned up in the morning.
They both snore, although Fernando constantly insists he doesn’t. Mark never argues too much over it.
–
It’s 10am on a Tuesday when Mark finally bites the bullet. He leans around the door into the living room, feigning relaxation as his entire mind screams at him all at once.
“Can I show you something?”
Fernando looks up from his phone, a curious expression settling across his face. “Of course,” he says, setting his phone down on the coffee table. “Whatever you like.”
Mark nods and disappears behind the door frame for a few moments, leaning into the bathroom to take the skirt off the counter. Fernando is sitting patiently when Mark returns, the item hidden behind his back as he approaches. “It’s nothing serious, just…” he trails off for a moment, suddenly a lot less confident. “I wanted to tell you.”
Fernando nods encouragingly and pats the couch beside himself. Mark sits down, slowly, leaving a few inches of space between them.
“I just… I have this,” Mark says, moving his arm back out from behind his back. He places the skirt on the couch between them. “I felt bad– hiding it from you, I mean, not wearing it– so I thought it was time I told you about it.”
Mark’s heart leaps into his throat as Fernando picks up the skirt, unfolds it and begins to carefully inspect it, his hands running almost reverently over the fabric. A few silent moments pass, Mark’s mind racing, Fernando’s expression giving nothing away. Mark feels himself beginning to panic, until:
“You like wearing this?” Fernando says, and it's half a question, half a statement. Mark just nods, not quite trusting his voice. “It’s nice,” Fernando continues, looking up at Mark. “You wear it when I’m away?”
Mark nods again, choking on his words for a second before his voice finally cooperates. “Not because I wanted to hide it from you, I’m just… scared, I think.”
Fernando frowns for a moment and carefully places the skirt back onto the couch. “Scared? Of what?”
Mark hesitates, thinking over his next words carefully. “I was scared that you might not understand.”
Fernando reaches across the couch to take Mark’s hands in his own, holding them tightly and looking deeply into Mark’s eyes. “It makes you happy?”
Mark nods, a small movement, so much that he isn’t sure Fernando caught it at all.
“Then I understand,” Fernando says, lifting Mark’s hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “If you are happy, I am happy.”
Mark blinks, taking a moment to process Fernando’s words. “Really?” He whispers, unable to look away from Fernando’s eyes.
“Really,” Fernando repeats. Mark can see the authenticity in his eyes. “Do you have any more?”
Mark shakes his head, glancing down at the skirt where it sits between them. He thinks about the clothes in his ASOS basket, waiting patiently for Mark to give in and just buy them. “Not yet. There are some more that I want, though.”
“Can I see them?” Fernando asks gently, running his thumb comfortingly over Mark’s knuckles. Mark takes a deep breath and squeezes Fernando’s hands.
“Yeah, let me get my laptop.”