Elijah tends to hum while he works.

Not properly, in any sense of the word – there’s no set tempo, no identifiable rhythm. Just soft little noises under his breath, half-spoken words and melodic nonsense that make it abundantly clear he’s enjoying himself.

Or, rather, that he’s enjoying this: standing under the warm glow of dressing room lights, brush in one hand and your face in the other.

It’s just the two of you tonight, for better or for worse. Your groupmates are likely off doing God knows what, be it extra practice or dinner – whatever it is idols do when they’re not stuck in a folding chair with Elijah hovering three inches from their face.

But luckily for Elijah, the company graced him with the permission to run a test trial on your face. A new look for your upcoming show, lingering touches disguised under the premise of “trying something new”.

The usual look isn’t enough, Elijah thinks – it doesn’t do your features enough justice, and isn’t lengthy enough of a routine to let him hold you as long as he’d like. Especially not when your group just released a new album, and he’s got ideas.

You’ve learned to be suspicious whenever Elijah has “ideas”.

He hasn’t told you what it is, only that it’s “experimental” and “going to be so good, honey, just trust me.” And frankly, that isn’t very comforting. But you’re already seated, a thin cape draped over your shoulders to protect your clothes, and Elijah’s hands pressing against your skin every three seconds. He’s all but bouncing on his heels, and you know it’s too late to escape.

His hands are warm, at least – gentle, familiar. Smoothing primer over your skin before he moves onto something cool and sticky he won’t tell you the name of, following it up with a thin layer of foundation. Every once in a while, he’ll lean in too close. Breath brushing against your cheek, pinky finger just barely grazing your jaw like he isn’t completely aware of it.

Which is a total lie, because he’s always aware of what he’s doing.

There’s a mirror, but he’s purposefully turned you away from it. Smiling as he says “no peeking”, like it’ll be some sort of dramatic reveal. It will be, probably. It always is. Every session with him ends like it’s some sort of gameshow finale – drumrolls and twirls, a honey-sweet ”ta-da!” in your ear.

But for one reason or another, this time feels a little different. Not because of the makeup, necessarily (you still have no clue what he’s done to you, just that there's a lot of shimmer), but because it’s quiet.

Quiet, except for his little hums and the quiet clicks of closing compacts. The way his thumb keeps brushing the edge of your lip like he doesn’t want to stop.

And the way he looks at you, like he’s painting a masterpiece he’ll never be able to take home.

You sneak a glance, and catch him staring – not at the makeup, but at you.

He freezes for half a second, then grins. Not the usual cocky one, though; it’s something softer, maybe a little nervous. Like you might actually catch on to him this time.

(You don’t. Or maybe you do, and pretend not to.)

Finally, he pulls back just enough to let you breathe. Setting his brush against the vanity like it’s the curtain call for a performance, and wiping his fingers clean with a tissue.

Elijah ends up tilting your chin up with two of his fingers, looking you over like he’s proud – or scared. Maybe both.

And then, light and full of something he doesn’t name, he breaks the quiet.

“You’ll have to be careful with this look, sweetheart.”