Vil had been second to Neige his entire life. No matter what he did, how much skincare or makeup he used, what clothes he wore, he was never as beautiful or as loved as Neige. He was so used to it that it was breaking him, and as the days passed he was closer to overblotting or going insane.

He stood in front of his vanity, carefully applying the mascara before it slipped a bit from his shaking hands, getting some on his eyelid. His eye twitched and in a fit of silent rage, he smeared it all over his face in random, jagged lines, his jaw clenched. He put it down afterwards and moved to lipstick, to which he immediately wiped off after applying and started reapplying. His eyes were wide and he quietly laughed, but it sounded more annoyed and slightly sadistic, and directed at himself.