beep beep

But one day, Bernard did go to Tim’s house. It was rather nice. His dad was… well, not as scary as dads normally were in Bernard’s experience, and his stepmom was pretty nice and made such a mean pie it made you forget how young she was.

Then again, Bernard couldn’t judge their relationship. Older people kind of did it for him, too, for reasons he never wanted to think about too deeply.

So after the obligatory dinner and conversation, Bernard followed Tim up to his bedroom. It was fairly normal at first. They talked and they played on Tim’s impressive collection of consoles, losing time. And then Tim spilled his Zesti on himself while drinking, somehow. Which was hilarious, so of course, Bernard laughed accordingly and followed his friend as he trudged to the bathroom to clean his hands and chest before the stickiness settled in.

Once Tim had finally cleaned himself off, now sporting a damp shirt, he gave himself a once-over in the mirror. Bernard had no idea what his friend saw, but Tim’s eyes widened just a fraction before he was rifling through a drawer and whipping out a bottle so fast that Bernard didn’t register what it was until Tim was dabbing it on his cheek.

Makeup. Drake owned makeup. More than owned it— he wore it.

Bernard’s thoughts screeched to a halt as he struggled to comprehend what, exactly, he was looking at. Tim didn’t seem even slightly put off by the fact Bernard was here, watching him put on makeup. Which, okay, men wearing makeup isn’t, like, world boggling new information. Rockstars do it! And, um… probably some other guys. And gay guys. Did he mention rockstars? Yeah, so, it’s totally… normal to wear makeup. For those people.

But Tim isn’t a rockstar, or gay. Tim is— Tim. Was he doing this to be funny? Was this supposed to be funny?

With a strange clamminess, Bernard barked a laugh, because he’s supposed to. Because guys don’t wear makeup. They just don’t do that.

Tim shot him a look, brow raised in a bit of judgment and a bit of amusement. “What’s so funny?” He asked, definitely sarcastically. Bernard wondered if he does his eyebrows, too, like those chicks in movies. Or maybe they were naturally perfect like that.

Bernard swallowed around a dry mouth. “You, dude. Why do you have that?” He nodded to the open bottle of… of… something the same shade as Tim’s skin. It’s ever so slightly too pale, he couldn’t help but notice. Tim’s face is a little warmer these days. A result of evenings spent roaming around town with Darla, the three of them trying desperately to soak up the meager sun that peaks through the always-grey clouds.

Bernard internally bashed himself for even noticing that. He shouldn’t have noticed that.

Tim frowned. “To cover my acne. Why?”

Bernard fumbled. Why? What does he mean, why? Doesn’t Tim know what would happen if he was caught with that shit? He opened and closed his mouth a few times as he struggled to put his jumbled thoughts into words. “Well,” he said. “It’s… it’s makeup.”

Tim turned to squint at Bernard, then. His strikingly blue eyes narrowed slightly. Dangerously. “Yeah,” Tim said. “It is.”

An uncomfortable feeling squirmed in Bernard’s stomach. It reached up and squeezed the life out of his chest, constricting until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried for something more casual and normal and not freaking out over a tube of whatever that is. “Just— I mean, it’s— normally… We’re dudes, Drake.”

Somehow, that was the wrong answer. Tim carefully set the tube of unidentified makeup down on the counter. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he told Bernard evenly. Then he left the bathroom.

Bernard didn’t immediately chase after him to soothe whatever damage he caused by being weird. Instead, he stared at the inconspicuous cream-colored tube on the counter. He picked it up with shaking hands.

dissimulateur/corrector, it said. High-definition concealer. 02, Porcelain.

Bernard shot a desperate glance to the doorway. But there was no Tim to stop him, to call him a creep for touching his stuff, to call him weird for being so hung up on the stupid plastic tube of concealer. The hallway was empty. So he shut the door, even as an uncomfortable guilt swam in his lungs.

He faced the mirror like it was his execution. Then he… tried it. He twisted the little cap off and put just a little bit of the substance on his trembling fingertip. He slowly and cautiously swiped his finger across his cheek, as if it might bite him.

It… felt strange. Cold against the bathroom air. Wet, but not liquid. It was the wrong color. Too pale for him, too. It stood out starkly against his freckles, hiding them from sight. He looked a little naked without them. He definitely felt naked. Which was weird, because he was now wearing more than he was before. He was wearing makeup.

Oh. Oh god. He’s wearing makeup.

Bernard’s heart jumpstarts and goes straight into heart-attack territory. He drops the tube of concealer and flicks on the faucet, frantically rubbing the makeup off his finger. Then he swipes at his cheek with his wet hand, grabbing a towel to make sure he really got it all off.

Mom was going to kill him. Fuck. Would she be able to tell? Could Dad tell? He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.

“Bernard?” Tim called from the other side of the bathroom door. “Are you coming back, or are you sleeping in the bathtub tonight?”

Bernard startled hard, dropping the towel in his hands. Shit. He hurried to fix it back on its little hoop-thing, and twisted the cap back on the concealer, and turned off the faucet and tried not to look like someone being chased down with a hatchet. He opened the door. “Drake!” He greeted with a smile. “Hey, man! Let’s boot your PlayStation back up.”