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Bon is practicing his makeup for the play again, using brushes and paints borrowed from Miyokichi-san. Shin watches, stretched out on the futon, a half-empty bottle of sake beside him.
"Come on, Bon," he wheedles. "Stop being so stingy."
"You'll ruin the paint," Bon says, his harsh tone dissonant against his fine, detailed brush work. His hands are deft as he fills in the reddish-green paint on his lower lip, as iridescent as a beetle shell. Even in the weak candle light it glistens and changes shades. That's why, Shin thinks, he can't take his eyes off of Bon's mouth. That's why.
The cicadas are singing outside, endless. Bon washes the brush with flicks of his wrist and sets it down. He picks up another brush and dips it in a jar of pure black.
"Please," Shin says, and his voice is rough. Bon's eyes flick to him in the mirror. His hand pauses in mid-air.
"Fine," Bon sighs. "One stroke."
"You really are stingy."
"If you don't like it, I won't give you any."
Shin doesn't get to his feet, scooting over to Bon on his knees. "Fine, one, one. I'm so grateful for this boon, I will lay offerings at your feet for the next—"
"I mean it," Bon says, voice soft as Shin draws close.
"All right, all right." He takes the brush from Bon's thin fingers. His tongue sticks out of his mouth as he scrutinizes Bon's face. It's not the first time he's been this close, but the dusting of powder on his fine cheekbones is new. The makeup already on his eyes makes them look heavy-lidded. One stroke. That's all he gets?
"Cold feet?" Bon asks. His voice is dry, but still soft, like the well-worn paper that's all they can afford to send messages with.
"No," Shin says, his voice dropped low too. "I just want it to be perfect."
There's another silence. Shin watches the demure sweep of Bon's lashes as his eyes close. His chin tips up, half an invitation and half a dare.
Shin breathes in, steadies his trembling hand, and paints.