Work Text:
You found the eyeshadow palette when walking past a quaint Debhora’s in a mall corner. Something about the ocean-blue and radioactive-green swatches being right next to each other had compelled you to walk inside the store despite the way your hairs raised. This is wrong, your nerves had screamed. You swear you could’ve dropped the thing from how cold your limbs were. You went up to the cashier who called you “ma’am”, you entered your PIN wrong, and you thought that was a sign from the universe to back out. Well, it’s now sitting at the corner of the bathroom counter, along with a blush palette with many darker shades to supposedly contour with and more that’s too bright to be useful.
If not for Barry, you would’ve thrown them away. Before the whole dateviators thing, you were starting to accept that it just wasn’t for you. Hundreds of contour tutorials, years on T, and nothing can seem to erase the softness of your face. You’ve only gotten more aware of it the more you try to cover it. You’ve resigned to the fact that you’re going to need one-two more surgeries. Or just forget about being pretty.
Now, well… you figured you could just ask the makeup for advice. You’ll learn something useful. He’ll be happy to be able to muse. Win-win.
You approach the bathroom counter with the dateviators ready. You brace at the counter just to feel more prepared, only to wince at the sensation of your chest rebelling against the binder. Fucking hell. When did that start happening? You always bind the same way, but it’s as if your chest had decided to just… change. Welp. You’re not getting it back the way they were before. Anytime this body wants anything, you live with it.
Anyway.
You start mapping the kind of face you want to go for. Sharper cheeks. Squarer jaw. You paint the base of the features in a blocky way. Just like painting on the tablet. Nothing too difficult. You add the highlights. Too low. Smudge it a little… a little higher… better.
Most men don’t even need to work for this.
You can’t help but notice that the darker shades on the palette are half-empty. Deep craters have formed on the solid pigments revealing the metal beneath. You’re glad, then, that you’ve somehow still got the hand-eye coordination from last year.
It’s still just pigments, though.
Growing up, you didn’t think you’d ever get into makeup. You never understood how you were apparently supposed to just… do this, every day, forever, and more than that, you have to do it a different way. The way that makes you want to rip out your face, er, figuratively speaking. You did remember thinking about how odd it is that half of all humans alive live their entire lives with a face they cover up with even worse faces, while the other half just… live normally, and when they do wear makeup, people see it as them having fun. You hated the split, but you resigned to it because, what’re you gonna do, become the other gender?
… Well.
You try the dreaded eyeshadow next. You still remember the days where your palette was only beiges, pinks, and browns. You had to look “all-natural”, after all. Makeup wasn’t really considered play. It was all about becoming a woman.
You aren’t sure why you stilled. You’re putting the brush and palette back down, folding them neatly by the sink. Straightening them, as if you could stretch time if you did something slow enough. You catch yourself in the mirror, something on your body moving where it shouldn’t.
Not today after all. Not today.
You decide to go back to the rest of the house, apologizing to Barry. It must’ve been, what, the fifth time you picked him up and dropped him, like an asshole? You tell yourself that he’s likely still busying himself with his products, probably going down some niche rabbit hole again. The next time you go for the makeup set, it’ll only be to speak to him. Nothing more. Not again.
By evening, you’ve spent all but one of the dateviators’ charge. You could try someone from the gym, maybe. Erm. No. Not when the awareness is still so sharp. You’d just spent the whole day trying to distract yourself. But you can’t exactly crawl out of your own body now, can you?
You wonder if you should at least say hello to Barry. Or “sorry”, for letting him down yet again. You stare at the dateviators as if Skylar would pop up and give you advice on something you never even let her in on and you’re… suddenly thinking about whether or not the objects find you strange. Even worse, “interesting”. You’ve had your fair share of non-object people trying to figure out your identity for you. You would hate to know that they’re literally under your roof, so you just… don’t ask. Don’t think about it. Pretend everyone here is the understanding kind. Or that they don’t know and won’t ask.
After a short breathing exercise, you put on the dateviators and focus on the cosmetics.
Barry manifests right beside you, leaning over the counter with one hand on his phone and the other on a practice face. Your brain does a double-check on the silicone face on the counter instead of saying anything to Barry, your mouth agape but the words on pause. For a second, you thought he’d been trying to put makeup on a masculine face, then you realize that the shadows and sharpness of it are painted on. The silicone itself has rounder features, a dainty nose, and a soft chin like the one that grew on you.
“Oh, hello, beautiful, um, if you’ll give me ooone second”—he dabs more contour for one cheek—“oohoho, it’s so coming together, look at it!!”
You look. You genuinely can’t tell where physical depth ends and contour begins. “That is really impressive,” you say, still looking, still trying to figure out if you want it on you or if you’re hating the thought of needing to replicate this perfectly for the slightest chance of being able to use cosmetics.
“Well, I’m glad you like it, darling!” Barry finishes the cheek and stops working to look at you. He stands straight, towering over your in a way that nearly made you think that way again, until you remember that most of the height is his hair. “Can I tell you something that I’ve been dying to talk to you about? I think I’ve finally, finally arranged the words correctly— but only if you want to hear it, of course! And it might be coming a little out of nowhere if-if you don’t mind…”
Barry laughs nervously and puts his dainty fingers together like he’s about to confess to some wrongdoing. You’ve known him long enough to know that when he gets nervous like this, it’s when you’re about to hear something most passionate. “Go on.”
“Okay! So, I’ve been taking a lot of notes lately, and I’ve been writing a lot about our conversations— I-I know that sounds a little creepy, I am so sorry, but I swear I didn’t— I—”
“It’s alright, baby.” You raise a hand gently. “You care, that’s not creepy.”
To your relief, Barry’s shoulders lower, tension loosening from your little gesture. Needing more, he holds your hand. There’s roughness there that no amount of moisturizing can soften, the kind that rises from the sheer amount of work Barry does.
Barry clears his throat. “Where were we?”
“You taking notes of our conversations?”
“Right, yeah, okay, so, you told me once that you’re a trans man.”
You… did?
“And it stuck with me because it suddenly makes sense why you’ve been picking me up and putting me down again and again and, oh, I should probably clarify that I am not upset about it, not at all! So I thought, okay, maybe I could pick this up again.” He gestures to the practice face and then makes a rainbow with both hands. “Masculinizing makeup.”
Oh.
“I haven’t really done this much because, well, most of my clients are girls and a lot of the guys prefer doing it on their own, I mean, it is a little different from most Makeup 101 classes on the ‘net so most guys just end up winging it their own style. Well, it’s a little more difficult, I’d even say, but that hasn’t stopped me from doing… this!”
He seemingly manifests his phone into existence and shows it to you. He’s taking notes. Scribbling. Screenshotting everything from men in makeup to bone structure maps. Scribbling on said screenshots. Contouring guides. Rows and rows of purple links. Graphs. Color palettes. The tiny page slider on the right side says “1 / 112”.
“I have decided,” Barry begins, “that I am going to master this. And if it’s okay for you, I… want to try it on you sometime.”
You blink. The page only seems to get longer the more you look at it. You can hardly let yourself look Barry in the eye.
You might just crumple if you do.
“But, oh, damn it, I forgot to say, dear, I don’t mean this as if you 'need' the transformation, you are beautiful already, it’s just— I just notice how distraught you look sometimes when you notice the eyeshadow palette, I know when someone’s looking at something like they want to have it but don’t feel like they can. It’s… I just really want to make you feel better. If this would make you better.”
Several words try to exit you at once. You want to thank him. You want to tell him to please stop apologizing. That this is just about the kindest thing anyone’s ever offered for you. That he won’t be able to handle your dysphoria. That he’ll grow tired of it and maybe, this time, he should think twice about going down the rabbit hole.
Unsure which words should go first, you go for a hug. You hold him like he’ll be able to read your mind if you fuse enough with him. Barry squeaks as your arms lock him close. You can hardly control yourself, as embarrassing as it is. As soon as you feel his warmth, it’s as if you’ve forgotten how to stand properly anymore.
You’ve grown up learning that being a trans man is a matter for you to handle alone. That, if you can’t, you’ll end up a nuisance. It’s been a never-ending practice. “Being” a man never comes naturally for you, not really. So you’ve spent fuck amounts of hours each day just assessing and correcting your behavior and appearance like it’s your sacred duty to appear acceptable. Even when it’s just the reflection looking back at you.
And here Barry stands, in all his dorky glory, diving into the deepest ends of masculinizing makeup because he wants to help you.
Help you.
You.
“You deserve to look your best, darling,” Barry says, returning your embrace with an equal amount of squeeze. “Even when it’s not the easiest. I have your back. Just say the word.”
You pull away slightly just to meet those gentle eyes on that precious face of his. “I do want it. Fuck, I’ve been wanting this for a while.” … Too much has been said, but you know you’re safe with him. Fuck it. You decided to tell him, “I kinda want to start earlier, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh?”
“You can start experimenting on my face. Directly.”
“Oh, darling, I’m honored!”
“No, I am. Thank you, Barry.”
You kiss him, your hands moving from his back to his jaw, guiding your lips to fit. Your body flares with a rare sort of pleasant heat, especially when Barry holds you tighter, enveloping you in lean arms and a figure you wish you had—nothing extreme, not overtly manly, just confident enough to stand tall with shoulders opened. When you separate from the kiss, you feel yourself on a cold surface. You’ve migrated halfway up the counter, with Barry standing between your legs. Beside you is the practice face, finished, a preview of what’s to come.
You look at the eyeshadow palette.
You pick it up, and hand it over to him along with your trust.