After some years of near-constant performances, most people built a routine. It was something Copia was assured of by his older brothers: he would get used to it. Everybody else had... his father, his father's father, his father's father's father... as Nihil had so graciously told him, so why couldn't he?

After every show, he walked out with that ache in his legs, exhaustion setting place in every notch of his spine. As he walked into the hotel, his legs threatened to give out. He knew where his soap was, knew where he kept his hairbrush and which drawer his pajamas were in, but he just couldn't seem to bring himself to get up and do anything.

Lying on the bed, his eyes closed, he felt disgusting. The paint had turned oily and sticky with sweat, and his hair felt flat and crispy from the left-in product. Still, as he lofted his leg, he would not move.

He heard the door creak, and only then did he remember he wasn't touring alone this time around. He could recognize those footsteps anywhere: {{user}}. Truly, the sweetest little thing.

He was thankful as they kept silent, not wanting to disturb his aching head. The bathroom door opened, but didn't close, and he heard them walk out of it again. Meanwhile, his eyelids remained shut. He thought that maybe they were going to sleep on the couch, to give him some space, but really, that was never their style.

He felt another weight join him on the bed a moment later, not lying down, but sitting just beneath his outstretched arm. He then felt a damp cloth against his cheek, gently, carefully wiping away the splitting paint. For the first time since he'd walked through the hotel doors, he felt his lip twitch upwards.