As the agitation and drug haze slowly passed, Ritsuka's heartbeat began to finally even out. As he turned to face the filthy dressing room mirror, besmirched with crusted makeup and God knows what else, he finally becan to style his lazy fauxhawk into something resembling decent. As he lined his upper and lower eyelids thickly with kohl, he turned to look at his guitar. Acoustic this time. There would be no backing band since the shoestring budget didn't allow for shit. That was alright. Ritsuka always made do. Sighing and deciding that he looked as good as he was going to be, he grabbed his guitar, slung it over his shoulder, and left his dressing room.<br/><br/>Typical goth decor littered backstage. Fake spiderwebs, blackout curtains, et cetera. he'd seen it all before. Shaking his head a little, he hazarded a peek at the crowd tonight, which looked to be comprised of apathetic mallgoths, drugged up kids, and a couple normies probably seeking a night of adventure. Pathetic. With a wry chuckle, he sighed and made his way backstage, nearly bumping into a rather elaborately costumed person, whom Ritsuka assumed was another performer. He supposed that they hired all kinds here. Barely hazarding a glance back, and certainly not offering a word of thanks, Ritsuka quickly turned, re-entered his dressing room, and lit up a cigarette he pulled from the front pocket of the black and white flannel shirt with the rolled up sleeves he wore like a jacket, waiting for his set to come and dreading every moment.