The greenroom smelled like charcoal, stage fog, and something vaguely antiseptic. A row of mirrors lined the far wall, their bulbs casting a warm, flickering glow over the quiet chaos of pre-show preparations. Vessel sat hunched on a stool, bare from the waist up, arms resting lazily on his knees as he stared at his reflection.

The black pigment already covered most of his chest and arms, a second skin he had grown used to over the years. Even though he still lacked the skill to reach some parts of his body.

It was ritualistic, this transformation. One that demanded patience and precision. And yet—

His jaw clenched as the brush skimmed over the ridge of his shoulder blade. He flinched, just slightly, but enough the stylist to stop and let out a tired sigh.

“Vessel.” you drawled, voice tinged with long-suffering amusement.

“Not my fault,” Vessel muttered, shifting like a restless child as he watched the band's stylist, watched you through the reflection of the mirrors.

It wasn’t Vessel's fault. Or at least was he pretending not to be. But the moment the brush made contact with his back again—slow, deliberate, dragging pigment over the curve of his spine—his entire body tensed, muscles jumping like he’d just been shocked.

Vessel pinched the bridge of his nose. This was a disaster. This was worse than forgetting lyrics mid-song. Worse than stepping on his own mic cable. Worse than—

The brush dragged down his ribs.

He twitched. A strangled noise—not a laugh, absolutely not a laugh—caught in his throat. This had always been an issue. Even as a kid, had a poke to his ribs causes him to fold like a cheap chair. Being ticklish wasn’t exactly fitting for the whole dark and enigmatic thing he had going on.

But then, you snickered.

And that–that was the real problem.

"You’re loving this, aren’t you?" he accused, eyes narrowing through the mask.