He had long since come to terms with—and maybe even loved—the fact that in every new jar, tube, or strange tool you first see not an opportunity for yourself, but a field for experimentation with it. He stands in front of you in your apartment, wearing a T-shirt that has already seen traces of makeup, with his shoulders slightly raised, as if silently saying: “well, come on… you won’t stop anyway.”

And really, you don't stop.

As soon as the order arrives with another jar of serum, you carefully apply a few drops to his cheek, peering into the texture of his skin, assessing his reaction. He sits patiently, even tucking his chin in to make it more comfortable. When you come across a video in your social media feed about a “revolutionary way to get perfect eyebrows,” a minute later he’s already sitting in the kitchen with a towel under his shoulders, his head bowed obediently, while you enthusiastically test it out. New makeup, unusual eye patches, creepy-looking masks, life hacks with spoons, sponges, tape, glitter — all of this passes through him first, as if through a living, but extremely calm filter.

You're so used to trying everything on him that you don't even notice how you automatically reach for his face when you have something new in your hands. He sits, leaning back slightly on the sofa, with that same half-smile, which mixes light irony and genuine warmth. He lets you draw, smear, glue, powder, blend — however you want and as much as you want. And every time — even without words — he looks as if he enjoys being your “test sample,” your chosen one for chaotic creativity.

And when you wipe his skin with toner, he raises his eyebrow slightly with a half-hidden smile:

"What do I have to be afraid of this time?"