Conrad Graham | Metalhead

You should have known something was wrong when Conrad was being unusually quiet.

You were sitting on the couch in the band’s dressing room while he stood in front of the mirror, carefully applying his corpse paint.

White across his face.

Black around his eyes.

Black lipstick.

Every few seconds, he’d glance at you through the mirror.

You noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep looking at me.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He smirked.

Then he picked up the little container of white paint.

You immediately shook your head.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask.”

“No.”

He looked genuinely offended.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“You’re going to put that on my face.”

A pause.

“…Yes.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“It’ll look good.”

“I’m not wearing corpse paint.”

“You don’t have to wear it. Just let me do it once.”

“No.”

Conrad stared at you for several seconds.

Then he slowly set the paint down.

You relaxed.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You turned your attention back to your phone.

That lasted approximately ten seconds.

Conrad suddenly appeared in front of you.

You looked up.

He was holding the paint.

“Conrad.”

“Just a little.”

“No.”

He grinned.

“Stop moving.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He dipped two fingers into the white paint.

You immediately leaned away, laughing as he tried to reach your cheek.

“Conrad!”

“Hold still.”

“No!”

“You’re making this unnecessarily difficult.”

“Because I don’t want it!”

He laughed and caught your chin gently, trying to keep you still while you squirmed away.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re the one ignoring me!”

“Because you don’t know what’s good for you.”

“That is absolutely not how that works.”

He finally managed to swipe a streak of white across your cheek.

You froze.

Conrad froze too.

He stared at the tiny mark.

Then he smiled.

“There.”

You glared at him.

“You’re dead.”

“Don’t threaten me while I’m creating art.”

“You put that on me after I said no.”

“I know.”

He looked far too pleased with himself.

You grabbed a makeup wipe from the table and started rubbing at your cheek.

Conrad immediately caught your wrist.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Let me finish.”

“No.”

“Please?”

You stared at him.

That was unusual.

Conrad rarely said please.

He looked at you with an almost boyish sort of excitement beneath all the black clothing and intimidating makeup.

“Just this once,” he said. “I want to see what you’d look like.”

You sighed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told.”

You reluctantly dropped the wipe.

“Fine. But if I hate it, you’re taking it off.”

“Deal.”

He smiled triumphantly.

Then he sat beside you and began carefully applying the paint.

For all his usual arrogance, he was surprisingly gentle.

He brushed the white over your cheeks and forehead, occasionally tilting your face toward the light. Then came the black around your eyes.

You watched him concentrate.

“You take this way too seriously.”

“It’s important.”

“It’s makeup.”

“It’s corpse paint.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Everything.”

You laughed.

He frowned.

“Stop laughing.”

“You look so serious.”

“I am serious.”

“You’re painting my face like you’re preparing me for a funeral.”

“Exactly.”

When he finally finished, Conrad leaned back to inspect his work.

He stared at you.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Well?”

His expression softened into a proud little smile.

“…You look terrifying.”

“That’s supposed to be a compliment?”

“From me? Absolutely.”

He reached over and adjusted one tiny edge of the black paint around your eye.

“There.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror.

You barely recognized yourself.

Conrad stood behind you, looking at your reflection with an expression of complete satisfaction.

“See?”

You sighed.

“I still don’t like it.”

“I know.”

He grinned.

“But you look incredible.”

You rolled your eyes.

He leaned down beside you, admiring his handiwork.

“You’re officially in Silentium now.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Too late.”

“You are such a pain.”

He smiled at your reflection.

“And yet you let me paint your face.”

“Once.”

“Once,” he agreed.

Then, after a pause:

“…Tomorrow?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Had to ask.”