Work Text:
It’s only three days into winter break, and Lando already has that weird itch under his skin that he gets when he knows it’s going to be a long time before he’s back on track. He feels restless, useless. Maybe that’s why he finally says it.
“You ever worn makeup?” he asks, unprompted, then regrets it almost as soon as it comes out of his mouth. Oscar’s lying with his feet near the pillows and his head hanging off the end of the bed, scrolling on his phone. Says it engages his core, or something. He doesn’t seem to register what Lando has said for a moment, because his response is slightly delayed.
“I - what?” he says, sitting up slowly and blinking at Lando. His cheeks are pink from the blood rushing to his head when he was upside down, and his hair is still mussed up from where Lando was tugging on it earlier while Oscar sucked him off. Lando’s lying back against the pillows, throwing a tennis ball up into the air and catching it, over and over again. He stops, though, when Oscar sits up, and he realises that he actually said it.
“Makeup?” Oscar repeats, tone even. He’s used to Lando saying weird, out of pocket shit, and there’s nothing judgmental in his voice, and yet Lando feels embarrassment hot around his neck. He squeezes the ball in his fist and looks back up at the ceiling.
Oh well. No use backing out now.
“Yeah, like,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “as a dare, or something? Or like, with your sisters?”
Oscar puts his phone down and considers the question for a second before he answers. “Hattie painted my nails, once, when we were kids. Pretty sure it was revenge because I stole her last easter egg, and I just sort of let it happen.”
Lando feels a smile tug at his lips as he pictures it, then goes back to throwing the ball. He’s not sure what to say next, or where to go from here. Oscar clearly senses his hesitation, because he crawls up towards Lando’s end of the bed, swooping in and catching the ball before Lando can and then settling into the pillows beside him.
“Hey,” Lando chastises, with no real venom in his voice. “I was using that.”
“What about you?” is all Oscar says in response, throwing the ball off the bed and punching his pillow into a more comfortable position, before turning over to face Lando. Lando feels the flush from his neck creep up to his cheeks. “Nah,” is all he says, and it’s the truth.
“You want to do it, sometime?” Oscar says, voice so casual he might as well be asking Lando what he wants for dinner. Lando splutters, sitting up abruptly.
“Why would you ask me that?” he says quickly. “That’s…” he lets out a nervous laugh, “that’s a bit fuckin’ weird, mate, don’t you think?”
Oscar sits up too, and shrugs. “It’s not weird if it’s something you wanna do.” He says it so earnestly, too. Like it’s true. Like it’s actually not weird for Lando to want it.
Like he knows Lando wants it.
Lando looks at him, triple checking for the ghost of a laugh on Oscar’s face, but he looks honest as ever. He feels something in his chest, hot and tight, and he swallows before he swings his legs over the side of the bed so that his back is to Oscar.
“‘Course I don’t want it,” he says, but his voice doesn’t sound like his own when it comes out of his mouth. “Wanna go for a run?” He doesn't wait for Oscar’s response, just stands up to start hunting down his trainers in the bedroom they’ve managed to make a complete mess of after only a few days home.
“Sure,” Oscar says after a moment, because he’s Oscar, and he knows when to stop pushing his luck.
The thing is, Lando is into some weird shit. He gets bored easily, is the problem, and sometimes he’ll show Oscar porn of stuff that Oscar didn’t even know was a thing. Then Oscar will say something like, “you wanna give it a shot?” And later when Lando is sticky and sweaty and lying in his post orgasm haze, he’ll send a thanks to the lords and whoever’s above that he has a boyfriend who doesn’t question him, just does stuff purely because Lando asked .
Lando asks, and Oscar gives. It’s always been like that. Sure, it goes both ways, but they both like the roles they fall naturally into. So Lando really shouldn’t be surprised, a few days later, when Oscar comes back from the supermarket, drops the bags unceremoniously on the counter top, then says, “I got you something.”
Lando mutes the football match on the TV he’s half watching and grins at Oscar. “What?” he asks eagerly. “Did they finally restock the mint chocolate chip ice cream?”
“Sadly, no,” Oscar says. “There appears to be a nationwide shortage.” He produces a small parcel from one of the bags and makes his way over to the couch, kicking off his shoes as he does.
“That’s fucked up,” Lando says. “So what, you got me a pity present because you felt bad about the ice cream?”
Oscar laughs. “Don’t think of it as a pity present. It’s just something I thought you might like.”
Lando takes the parcel from Oscar and gives it a gentle shake. “Where’d you get it?”
“Online,” Oscar says vaguely, and Lando grins.
“Is it something freaky?” he waggles his eyebrows, and Oscar rolls his eyes.
“Just open it, mate.”
Lando tears the paper off, then freezes. The rising panic he managed to quell the other day seems to have reappeared in his chest, roaring to life. He can’t bring himself to do anything other than stare at the items nestled in the paper.
“You don’t have to use them,” Oscar says quietly from beside him. “I didn’t want to - I mean, I don’t really know much about this stuff. But it just seemed like something you might want.”
“I said I didn’t,” Lando says, and his voice is horribly quiet, barely more than a whisper. It’s all he can manage.
“I know,” Oscar says. He places a gentle hand on Lando’s jumping thigh. “But like, I know you better than that.”
Lando continues to stare at the package. There’s so much going on in so many parts of his body, he would never be able to begin to explain it, even if he wanted to.
“You don’t have to use it,” Oscar repeats softly. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. But it’s there, if you ever want it.”
“Thanks,” Lando says after a moment, but he’s not sure he means it. “I’m going to… shower,” he says, not looking at Oscar. He takes the package with him.
In the bathroom, he turns on the shower and strips down to his boxers, but doesn’t get in. With a slight tremor in his hand, he picks up the first tube from the package and turns it over in his hands. He shuts his eyes and imagines it on his lips, shimmering and glossy under the bright bathroom lights. He puts it down after a moment, carefully, so he doesn’t accidentally break it or something.
The next one is another tube, rounder this time. He’s watched his sisters put it on enough to know what it does. He goes through the same process: shuts his eyes and imagines his eyelashes darker, bolder. His stomach does several odd flips; he shivers. Puts it down. Picks up the last items, which he knows are supposed to come together.
There’s a brush, soft against his fingertips, that he knows goes on the pallet to make his cheeks a little pink. He doesn’t open the pallet, but he does lift the brush up to his face. Slowly, hardly daring to draw a breath, he swipes the brush slowly across his cheek. He takes a stuttering breath. It feels so nice.
He bites down on his lower lip to stop it from trembling. He needs to stop. This is ridiculous. He picks all the items up and shoves them in the top drawer of the bathroom cabinet, then yanks off his boxers and steps into the scalding spray. He scrubs at his skin until he’s satisfied nobody can see the shame that feels burnt into him.
This is stupid, he thinks. So stupid. He’s a guy. He’s got a dick and balls and he’s gonna be a world fucking champion next year.
But , the little voice in his head that he hates so much says. But you want it.
That’s the worst part of all of it. He’s not lying to himself. He is well and truly a man, and he likes it that way. These feelings he gets - the jealousy that pinches at his brain when he sees girls dressed up in clubs - he’s looked it up, once or twice, when he was drunk. i am a boy but i want to look pretty i think like a girl please help. It’s normal, apparently. It’s fine, apparently. It doesn’t mean he’s like, secretly a girl, or whatever.
But the people all over the internet saying that it’s perfectly fine for guys to wear makeup and dress up and explore their feminine side aren’t exactly world champion material. Schumacher didn’t walk around the paddock in a skirt, Häkkinen didn’t wear lip gloss, Senna didn’t want to be pretty. He shivers again.
So yeah. Fucking… whatever. What Oscar did was nice, and he probably thought it would make Lando feel better. But it’s just left him with a headache, and all he really wants to do is crawl into bed.
Oscar doesn’t bring it up again until about a week later. They’ve been out with a few friends at Jimmy’z and they’re both in the pleasant hazy space just past tipsy, but a little before drunk. They’ve been home for a few minutes, making out lazily on the bed, when Lando presses a kiss the corner of Oscar’s mouth with an air of finality.
“Gotta piss,” he mumbles, and Oscar nods, stretching out on the bed and yawning.
“Don’t throw up,” he jokes, and Lando prods him with a finger as he moves to stand up.
“How much of a lightweight do you reckon I am?” Lando rolls his eyes, making his way to the ensuite. He uses the bathroom quickly. He knows Oscar gets sleepy when he’s tipsy, and Lando really wants to get off before they go to bed. He’s just finished washing his hands when he spots it. The makeup.
With all the alcohol in his system, he’d forgotten about how he’d been squeezing the tubes in his hands before they went out earlier this evening. He’d forgotten about how hard it had been to leave it behind, to not get himself all prettied up to go out. But the full force of it hits him now, the weird monster in his chest clawing at him, desperate to get out.
He must stand there frozen for a while, gaze flicking from the makeup on the counter to his own reflection, because Oscar appears in the mirror behind him suddenly, a small frown creasing on his forehead.
“You good?” he asks Lando. Lando makes eye contact with him in the mirror, and his chest stutters. He looks away. Wipes his nearly dry hands on his pants before he manages to turn and face Oscar.
Oscar approaches him slowly, cautiously, like Lando’s a wounded puppy. He hesitates for just a second before he reaches out and tugs Lando towards him by the waist. Lando’s hips burn at the touch. Oscar reaches up to brush a stray curl from Lando’s forehead, then his hand comes to rest on Lando’s cheek.
“You really want it, don’t you?” he says quietly, and Lando’s heart skips a beat. He blames the short, sharp nod he gives Oscar on the alcohol.
“Will you let me help you?” Oscar says, and again, before he can think too hard about it, Lando nods.
Oscar helps him shift backwards towards the vanity gently, then pats the countertop. Lando puts his palms down and pushes himself up so that he’s sitting on top of it. Oscar maneuvers until he’s standing between Lando’s thighs. The position feels ridiculously intimate, like he’s bearing his soul to Oscar. His heart is racing in his chest, and he can feel sweat forming on the back of his neck. Oscar can tell he’s panicking, because, well. It’s Oscar. He squeezes Lando’s shoulder tightly as he leans over to pick up the mascara.
“Okay,” Oscar says slowly. “I’m not… I’ve not done this before.”
“Me either,” Lando says around the lump in his throat. Oscar smiles at him.
“I’ve looked it up on tiktok for you,” he says, and despite everything, Lando laughs.
“‘Course you did.”
“Don’t knock tiktok tutorials, mate,” Oscar says seriously, smiling as he unscrews the tube of mascara.
Lando watches Oscar remove the wand from the tube carefully, hand steady as ever. In stark contrast, Lando feels his breathing getting shallower by the second, high and fast.
“Hey,” Oscar says, pausing with the brush by Lando’s face. “You tell me to stop, and I’ll stop, okay?”
“Yeah,” Lando manages.
Oscar leans forward using one hand to cup the side of Lando’s face, the other holding the wand. Lando stays as still as he can.
“Blink slowly,” Oscar tells him, and he does. He tries to ignore the hand on his face and the feeling of the brush on his lashes, instead choosing to watch Oscar’s bunny teeth bite his lip in concentration as he applies the mascara. Lando loves him so much.
“Think I’m done,” Oscar says, shifting back slowly to admire his handiwork. “It’s a bit lumpy, sorry. First time and everything,” he grins at Lando, who tries to smile back, but finds his whole body feels constricted.
“You wanna look?” Oscar asks, and Lando shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he whispers, and Oscar nods.
“Okay,” Oscar replies, screwing the lid back onto the mascara and picking up the blush. “Next?”
Lando watches Oscar open the pallet and peel a layer of plastic off the top. He picks up the brush and swirls it on the pallet a little, before tapping it with his finger to get any excess powder off. Lando doesn’t know if that’s how it works, but Oscar looks so calm and steady that it comes off like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Lando realises, suddenly, that he’s not breathing so fast anymore. In fact, as he shuts his eyes and feels the soft brush sweep along his cheeks, his breaths slow back down to almost normal. He hears the pallet snap closed after a moment, and he opens his eyes back up to watch Oscar choose the last tube up off the counter.
“Do this,” Oscar pulls a face, lips turned down slightly, and Lando can’t help but smile a little before he does what he’s told. Oscar’s left hand is back on his cheek, the other holding the sparkly wand, hovering in front of Lando’s mouth. He brushes the gloss over Lando’s lips slowly, and Lando feels himself shiver.
“Okay, now I think - yeah, I’m pretty sure you need to rub them together a little,” Oscar informs him as he puts the wand back in the tube. Lando obliges, feeling the soft sensation between his lips. Oscar’s still between his legs, and he tightens them almost instinctively around Oscar’s waist when he feels Oscar begin to draw away.
“Don’t leave,” he says quickly. Oscar smiles - a soft, sweet thing - rubbing his hands up and down Lando’s thighs.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m done, though.”
Lando doesn’t move.
“It’s not… I don’t think it’s very good. But it’s… I mean. I think you look hot,” Oscar flushes at the base of his neck. “I mean, I always think you look hot. But it’s cool. It suits you.”
It’s nice of Oscar to say. There isn’t anyone who doesn’t want to hear that they’re hot. But - and he knows he’d sound like an asshole if he said it aloud, so he keeps his mouth shut - Lando knows he’s hot. And he knows Oscar thinks he’s hot. He tells him all the time, when he’s blissed out after coming all over the sheets. But this isn’t sex. And it’s not not what Lando wants to hear, but it’s also not what he needs to hear.
Oscar seems to register this, because he chews on the inside of cheek, the way he always does when he’s thinking hard. Lando stays still, watching him. He wishes he could laugh it all off, pretend it was all just some huge joke, say he’s drunker than he thought, but he suddenly feels more sober than he has in hours.
It must click for Oscar all of a sudden, because his eyes light up and he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Lando’s neck before he breathes quietly into Lando’s ear the words he needs to hear most: “you’re so pretty.”
Lando can’t help it. He feels himself gasp, and his thighs tighten around Oscar’s waist so hard they might bruise him. His eyes sting suddenly, and he feels hot tears threaten at the corners.
“Oh, Lando,” Oscar whispers, reaching up and taking Lando’s face into his palms. “Don’t cry. You’ll ruin my masterpiece.”
Lando chokes out a laugh around the lump in his throat. Fuelled by Oscar’s words, he pushes gently against Oscar’s chest to make him move back, before he hops down off the counter. Taking a deep breath, he turns to face himself in the mirror.
Oh.
Oscar’s right, his unpracticed hand isn’t perfect, but for a first time, he’s not far off. It’s like he gets tunnel vision or whatever the hell they call it, because it’s difficult to pick up on any mistakes Oscar might have made when he’s staring at himself and himself is staring back and he’s pretty oh my god he’s pretty -
“Lando,” Oscar murmurs, taking him by the waist and wrapping his arms around Lando’s middle, kissing his neck again gently. “Breathe.”
He tries to, he does, but his chest is filling up again - and yet. It’s different, this time. It doesn’t feel like the tendrils of panic are wrapping themselves around him, it feels more like a balloon of overwhelmed happiness blowing up inside of him. It’s incredible. He forces himself to breathe, unable to tear his eyes away from his reflection. The dark eyelashes, the slightly pink cheeks, the glossy lips. It’s so pretty. He’s so pretty.
“So pretty,” Oscar says quietly again into his ear, like he’s read Lando’s mind, and Lando grips the hands around his waist with his own.
“Thank you,” he whispers, letting his head tip back against Oscar’s chest, feeling full for the first time in so, so long.
Pretty. He’s pretty.