No collar this time.
She rises on her toes and presses her lips to the destroyed side of my face. Right where the cheek should be and isn't, where the graft didn't take, where exposed muscle meets the hard ridge of bone and there's teeth.
The old reflex screams at me to jerk away, to angle the bad side into shadow, to put the mask and as much distance as possible between her mouth and the thing underneath. The reflex is loud and insistent and it has been running my life for over a decade.
But somehow, I don't move.
Her lips are warm against the dead nerve endings. It feels muted and wrong, like touching something through thick gloves. But I feel thewarmth. Through whatever scrambled pathways still connect that ruined skin to my brain, I feelher.
I turn my face against hers.
My nose brushes her temple. The dyed-dark hair at my forehead falls across her cheekbone and she doesn't push it away. I nuzzle into her, an instinct I didn't know I had until she woke it up, and my mouth finds the curve of her jaw.
Soft.
The kiss is soft in a way I didn't think I was capable of. The left side of my lips presses against her skin and holds there, and the right side—the destroyed side—grazes her throat.
She hums, happily.
I pull back and pick up the mask. I settle it over the right side of my face, the leather cool against freshly kissed scars.
I'm not performing without it. I probably never will. The mask is mine in a way that goes beyond hiding. Nash gave it to me. It's a part of who I am. Taking it off when it's safe doesn't mean I have to stop wearing it when it would be like going out there naked.
But it's a choice now.
Not a prison.
My phone buzzes on the counter. It's a photo from Jamie, who's been bothering me more than usual to show support in the worst possible way for a hardcore introvert like me.
It's Cheeto sprawled across both their laps on a velvet couch, Orion's long legs visible beneath the tiger's massive head, Jamie's hand buried in orange fur.
MASK GREMLIN
GOOD LUCK TONIGHT!
Cheeto says break a leg. Orion says don't actually break a leg.
I say BREAK ALL THE LEGS!!!
MASK PRINCE
He's had three espressos and a glass of wine. I apologize in advance for anything else he sends.
Bells peeks at my phone and snorts. "Is that really how you have them listed in your phone?"
"Yes," I grumble. "Keeps me sane when Jamie spams me with memes."
"Tell them we're coming for game night next week. For real this time."
"Platonic game night," I say flatly.
"Obviously." She grins. "Unless Orion makes that mulled wine Jamie keeps talking about. Then all bets are off."
I roll my eyes half-heartedly and sit down on the bench, grab my guitar from its stand, and settle the strap over my shoulder. My fingers find the neck automatically and I run a silent chord. G minor without a pick or an amp.
Nash's warm-up.
He played G minor before every show. Said it grounded him. Said it was the saddest chord in music and if you started there, the only direction was up.