“Should I do the facepaint?” Mitch asked Louis, who was in the process of applying his own makeup in the congested locker room. “Like they’re just hearing my voice, right?”

“Hmm…” Louis stared into the mirror, focused on a spot he’d missed. Dipping the cheap sponge into a compact of grey creme, he gingerly blotted it onto his cheek. “Camera sometimes focuses on commentary, doesn’t it? Like in between matches?”

“Shit, you’re right.” Mitch frowned.

“Might help you get into character, too,” suggested Louis. “Since like, y’know. Your nerves.”

“Yeah, I…” Mitch sighed. “I don’t even like to watch my own matches. Or listen to my own voice. I recorded an album with my old band, and I never listened to it.”

“That’s not unusual. Lots of people are like that.” The sponge was set down, and Louis closely examined his face for any further mistakes. After a minute or two, he hummed satisfactorily, then turned to Mitch. “You want me to do yours?”

“Yeah, please!” Grinning, Mitch put his hand up his forehead and lifted his bangs out of the way.

“Sandy’s gonna be upset that you didn’t go to her first,” warned Louis while he grabbed a fresh sponge and swiped the white paint, then brought it to Mitch’s nose and gently traced down the bridge with it.

“I know, but…she’s busy preparing for her match. And you’re better at it.” It was the honest truth; Louis’ hands were the steadiest Mitch had ever seen, which made sense given that he did vinyl graphics and screen printing, and maybe the occasional bout of graffiti. But it may have also been a shameless attempt at flattery, not that he’d ever admit it. “She’ll be fine. I’ll take her out to a cafe later or something.”

“She doesn’t need caffeine,” Louis chuckled. One hand rested at Mitch’s chin, manipulating his head and tilting it here and there, while the other painted.

“C’mon, frappuccinos barely have any coffee in them. It’s all sugar,” he joked.

“Oh, even better!” Smirking, Louis ran the applicator along Mitch’s cheeks. “Hey, gonna need you to close your mouth for a little bit.”

“Alright.” Mitch did as he was told, letting Louis work in peace, trying not to fixate too much on the thick fingers at his jaw. Despite the chaos that was around them in the locker room as everyone rushed to get ready, being in the position where he didn’t have any control whatsoever had a calming effect.

“By the way, did you bring your ears or collar or anything like that?” The sponge made contact with his lips, and he parted them slightly. Louis paused, then pointed out, “Y’know, most people dislike eating paint.”

“I’ll deal with the taste. I prefer having even coverage,” Mitch lied, because there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was going to be honest with his tag team partner about Pavlovian responses. “And no, I don’t have any of my gear. And I’m sorry that I’m still talking.”

Louis snorted. “It’s your face, not mine,” he remarked. “I have extra ears on me that you can borrow.” Mitch’s mouth opened again, but he was interrupted before he could say anything. “Just nod if you want them.”

He enthusiastically nodded. Louis rummaged through his bag, then pulled the spare pair out and handed them over.

While the prosthetic ears were being applied, Mitch half paid attention to the usual locker room speech that Nathan, aka Yours Truly, gave to the others as they also put on their finishing touches. Being an alum, and one of the first students to graduate from Monument Wrestling Academy, he’d more or less been forced into the role of locker room leader, but he’d embraced it. He had a natural charisma that promoters adored him for, and a presence so massive that it commanded attention. It was impossible to not be in awe of him, at 6′ tall with a slick black pompadour that added at least another solid two inches. Much like Louis, it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d gotten signed somewhere bigger in the near future, despite Nathan’s vehement denial that he had no interest going somewhere that he’d have to sign his life away.

(In private, he’d disclosed that there was, at one point, some interest in him by bigger companies; but there had also been comments made about his ‘shape’, which had left him discouraged to pursue it any further. Jodie was ready to drive down to Stamford that day and rip a millionaire’s head off with her bare hands.)

But Mitch had heard this speech time and time again for the past two-ish years, and it was meant mostly for the newer students and roster members. The bones of it were mostly “don’t be shitty and let’s have a great show”. At the very least, it felt good to be part of something where “don’t be an asshole” was the code lived by. He’d been to other promotions where that wasn’t the case, taking off as soon as he’d gotten his envelope with $25 in it -not even enough to cover the cost of gas- because he wasn’t sure if some of the other guys that’d casually tossed slurs around were going to come after him if he stuck around any longer.

“And Mitch,” Nathan’s voice cut through Mitch’s thoughts. His head whipped up and he looked over to where Nathan was standing at the center of the room. “Good luck tonight, man! You got this!” There was a big cheesy thumbs up and everything.

“Oh, uh. Thanks. Thanks, man,” Mitch returned a much more tepid thumb, fighting the urge to curl in on himself as everyone else repeated the sentiment. And, oh great, there was a round of applause and everything. He looked into the mirror instead of around him, painted up and ready. The bomber jacket wasn’t necessary, nor was the collar, since he wasn’t actively feuding with anyone so there he didn’t have an ID tag with an opponent’s name imprinted on it; the employees at the local pet store must be relieved that he hadn’t been around for some time to buy one.

He certainly wouldn’t have any need for the mouthguard with the sharp teeth printed on it, on account of needing to talk. He could do this, he knew he could. All he had to do was portray the character he’d been regularly playing for the past year. The accessories didn’t make Zevon. Mitch made Zevon.

He nodded, ready as ever, then sought out a trash bin to dry heave into.