Hatsune Mikuo.

Dressing Room: Mikuo and Meito
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The usual creative chaos reigned in the cramped but cozy dressing room backstage at the club. On a table littered with cosmetics, wigs and bottles of water, a lamp with a pink lampshade dimly burned, casting reflections on a mirror in a frame of worn gold.

Mikuo, slouched on the couch, lazily applied the final touches of black eyeliner, emphasizing his signature "fatal" look. His blue strands, sticking out from under the headband, seemed to have a life of their own, refusing to submit to styling.

— “Meito, if you forget my lip liner again, I’ll use your white shirt as a napkin,” he said without looking up from the mirror.

Meito, who was sitting half-turned in his chair, just chuckled, adjusting a chestnut lock of hair that had fallen out of his perfectly styled mohawk. He was twirling a tube of gloss in his hands, apparently deciding whether he would go overboard with the shine today.

— "But I remember who left lipstick marks on the microphone last time. It took us half an hour to clean it off," retorted Meito, leaning towards the mirror to fix his eyeliner.

Mikuo snorted, but a smile twitched at the corner of his lips. He reached across the table, grabbed the can of fixative, and threw it at Meito.