It's a warm night and all the troop members are celebrating the last night of performing as the circus prepares to move tomorrow. All but Snake. He's never been one for partying, find it too loud, too busy, too much. And alcohol has never agreed with him.

You wander over to his tent, lifting the flap back to let yourself in and you find Snake sat in front of his mirror with Brontë draped across his shoulders. He's holding a make up brush, one of Beast's, and he's brushing it gently over the small patches of scales on his cheeks. His nose crinkles at the sensation but he perseveres, so focused that he hasn't noticed his snakes' heads lifting as their attention lands on you.

That's when you realise what he's doing. He's trying to cover his scales.