Every morning he carefully puts on the makeup he needs to go through the day.
First, he applies the foundation. He does this first step slowly: if the foundation isn't put right, his skin will look spotty. The pallid makeup covers his entire face, leaving not a bit of grey to be seen. The two fingers on her right hand, the forefinger and the middle finger always get smudged with the cosmetic and he finds a certain amusement with that, the stark white contrasting strangely with soft grey, and he chuckles before continuing on.
Then it's time to work on the lips.
He draws an outline around his mouth with a steel grey, much darker than his skin color, and fills it in with more of the monotone paint. It creates a strange look, a jokerish smile with sharp corners that extends from the corners of his own tiredly smiling mouth. He finishes this quickly and keeps the focus on his eyes.
His eyes really stand out against the dark paint he puts on. He follows the same step, drawing the shape around golden-hued eyes, then filling it in with the steel grey paint. The substance feels cool and soft on the tender skin of the eyelids, coated in white paint as they already are. He deftly applies the paint, heavily lidded eyes do not even flicker as he paints. He is used to all this.
The last touches are minor; a small grey dot, right above his eyes, one for each side, and the grey triangles, one for each side. They are the last technical details on his mask; all that's left is the woozy smile which he'll welcome the day and his fellow trolls with.
The moment comes.
His reflection moves its mouth upwards, curving into something like a smile.
He looks like a clown. The bright hues replaced with neutral tones, matching his chill persona.
…
Every evening, just as carefully, she cleans his makeup off.
First, she starts with his eyes. The grey paint is gently wiped off; he closes his eyes and lets hher do her work. There's trust enough between them. He doesn't even move his eyes. He's used to that.
Then she moves on to the paint around his lips.
His mouth trembles a bit during that minute; she notices, of course. Each session ends with long and concilatory words spilling from those jade green lips, soft grey hands fluttering like caged birds as she desperately searches for words to apologize for her actions.
He merely smiles that wonderfully calm smile that stops the fluttering hands in their tracks and wipes away at her lipstick; with a chuckle, he remarks that jade green belongs as her blood color, not her lip color.
The only thing she says is that they should have done something else, not clean his makeup.
She never truly manages to clean all of the foundation. Her delicate fingers, dexterous before (used to wielding a chainsaw), suddenly become clumsy and she can't do anything with them, so he laughs and takes the cloth from her and swipes away the rest of the makeup.
When she is finished, he regards her with those indigo eyes, his expression just a bit vulnerable; she is the only one who has seen him without his makeup. She immediately begins to mutter apologies, remorse bubbling up from some unknown place in her bivalve system, berating herself for doing this. He merely places a chaste kiss on her bare lips, which he remarks are much better without the lipstick.
At this she smiles and opens her arms, and he gratefully accepts, head finding a perfect pillow with her elegantly rounded shoulder, long-sleeved arms more soothing than the slime from any recuperacoon. Delicate fingers, clumsy before, nest themselves in tangled hair, deftly sifting through the sea of black, gently tugging at knots and twirling around pale fingers. The highblood troll smiles tiredly, the voices that plague him so incessantly during the day replaced by only one, the soothing shooshes of his matesprit.
He isn't wearing a mask anymore.