It’s Yixing's job to fix people’s flaws. Bury them under layers of iridescent powder and translucent perfectibility until human hangers seem just a little more than mortal. Backstage is a chorus of stop ing moving and where the hell is the next model he was here just a second ago, fabric spider webs trapping everybody along the way and last minute candy coated soulkillers being downed with water.

                There’s no break once it starts, just one ungrateful canvas after another. A swipe of eyeliner here, a streak of blush there until all the colors blend together into monochrome and Yixing has to hollow his cheeks on a cigarette to get the world back on its axis. The afterimages of people with names like Cindy and Blake wait to go down the runway, blending in like props for a set, limpid, but trying oh so hard to stand out.

                He's seen all the ways the models try to deal with their job. Hunched backs over toilet bowls retching lipstick stained celery sticks, a concealed bottle of pills in their palms. It’s an open secret, the purging, but it’s different seeing it first-hand. Bags of bones coughing up bloodied glitter and guts with jagged elbows and sharp wrists closing in on themselves, forefingers tracing circles in the water. Eventually you realize it’s not just about getting rid of their food, but about turning themselves inside out on the fancy tiles under their noses. Sometimes they heave and nothing comes out except broken dreams and faded memories, leaving behind the romance of white knuckles gripping a plastic seat. You start to wonder how many times you’ve pretended to wash your hands while someone leaves their soul in a stall. Then, after the decay takes over, Yixing fixes them up. Wipes off the stomach acid kisses and conceals paper veins, trying not to break the flesh because skin is the only thing they have left.

                Sometimes he wonders why he wanted to work with machined mannequins, wonder what the compulsion of florescent lights and the mess society calls fashion is. The dull thud of a body dropping into the chair at his station answers back. His wrists are barely larger than Yixing's pinkies and his body looks about ready to break under the weight of his clothes. And he's seen this all before. His ribs are probably jutting out of his skin like porcelain knives underneath the all the decorations. Yixing looks up, catching his gaze in the mirror. He’s one of the lucky ones, still naive and not totally broken yet. His eyes are still blue and alive, not yet having drowned in disillusionment and eyeliner. He smiles at Yixing's reflection before lowering his head in muted excitement. There’s something about his hope and genuine emotions and bright eyes, and maybe, Yixing muses, he has a future. The image of a frail wrist hanging off a toilet seat comes to mind. He lets it go.

                Later when Yixing sees him float down the runway, head held high and blue eyes reflecting something brighter than the sun; he understands the compulsion of florescent lights and the mess society calls fashion, kind of. It’s somewhere between lust and heartbreak, very close to immortality but far, far away.

                 Post-show always leaves Yixing hung up. What society labels as the beautiful all clear out, mixing in with the delusional and the damned. All that’s left are shadows stuck to eyelids and a never ending buzzing in the ears.  Hours after midnight find him still stuck on the couch backstage, counting the minutes passing until he passes out with them.