a work of art

chapter 3: softly

After soundcheck, I met Finneas. He was exactly as kind, gracious, silly, and attached to Billie as I assumed he would be. The air around him felt calm. It settled my nerves and made me feel like I could get through the next couple of hours without losing my shit.

We sat in the green room and Billie guzzled water. Finneas fiddled with a guitar and I wondered if he ever rested his fingers. Other people filtered in and out, managers and wardrobe people, who gave Billie outfits to choose from. She picked a pair of black bike shorts with drops of blood painstakingly hand painted on them, a baggy black tee with a giant bloody heart on it to match.

She looked over her shoulder at me and called, "Depressing shit." And winked.

Somehow, I managed a *chef's kiss* gesture, and continued my conversation with Finneas about my small business. We talked about what it was like being on tour all the time, and a lot about his girlfriend. Like his sister, he was easy to talk to. They were so alike in some ways, it was eerie. If I said something that made him laugh, her laugh echoed behind him from across the room. A lifetime of being best friends had them more like twins.

After a while, he got to what he really wanted to talk about. He was especially interested to know why I was there. I wasn't sure what to tell him.

"Billie knew I didn't get tickets," I said slowly, glancing over to where Billie was chatting with her wardrobe team. "And then she suggested we, uh... hang before the show."

His eyebrows raised slightly, but his face stayed nice. "Oh," was all he replied. He watched as Billie held up a pair of shoes, considering them with her crew. He examined her, still strumming his guitar. All I could think was how grateful I was that she had him. I was already in so deep.

After a few minutes, he said he was going to find their dad, and disappeared out the door.

A few minutes after that, everyone else left, and Billie sighed. She'd settled onto the couch beside me, a throw pillow on her lap. She played with the fringe along the edge, and looked over at me. She looked tired already, and I wondered if she'd gone back to sleep like I had.

Had she dreamt of me, like I'd dreamt of her?

"Makeup," she grumbled, pulling me out of my obsessive thoughts.

I tilted my head to the side. "Makeup?"

"I thought it was a great idea to do my own makeup every night," she said with her arms folded across her chest, almost like a petulant child. "It felt like overkill to hire someone, and I don't always like how they do it. So last tour I just did it myself. And it was cool. But this tour..."

"You're lazy?" I smirked at her, slouched down deep in the couch beside me, pouting.

"Apparently," she said, stretching her hand out to swat my shoulder.

I could've moved, but I let her hand hit, breathing deep as her perfume wafted over me.

"Think you could do it?"

I stared at her. "Beg pardon?"

She grinned at me. "Your makeup is great. Very minimal, nice light liner, great glow. You could do mine."

Internally trying not to overreact to her compliments, I choked, "I'm not like... a makeup artist though. I appreciate the compliment, but my own is one thing..."

"Come on," her eyes twinkled at me. "I know you're cockier than that. You know you can do it. And if it's bad, no harm done. We just can't be friends."

I swallowed. She was joking. I knew that. But all I could think was that I couldn't be friends with her anyway. Not when I'd already pictured her naked. Not when I'd dreamt of her naked. Not when I'd touched myself thinking of her na--