He takes them quickly and turns away to shed his own clothes methodically.

The gloves go last, and reluctantly.

He looks away for several reasons. 

The clothes are silvery white; under blue lights they'll look like snow at night. He didn't wind up going with the feathers but there's embroidery down Gabriel's chest and up his arms and around his waist and across his legs, beading that'll catch the light. 

When he’s dressed again, he stops in front of the mirror, looks himself over.

He looks a little in awe.

“...I can’t believe this is really me.”

…that's a tone of voice he hasn't heard before. 

Sasha turns and looks at the way he's standing, the way he's looking at his reflection. "In a good way, I hope," he says, keeps his voice soft.

“Yeah. I think so.”

He reaches out and touches the mirror. He’s leaned in, a little, relaxed like there’s no one watching him.

“Do you ever look at your own life and wonder how you got here?”

"All the time," he says carefully. 

“Sometimes I feel like this is all a dream.”

His smile is a little empty, a little sad.

“...thank you. It’s really beautiful. I think it’s the best thing we’ve ever worn.”

A dozen things click into place. 

"Thank you. I love my job, and you're the reason I can do it and do it well." He means every word. "Is there… a way I could help? A way anyone could?" 

He could ask ‘help with what”? It would be pretending not to know.

“...it’s hard to make friends like this.”

He pushes a little hair behind his ear, almost self-consciously.

“I don’t expect you to be my friend—but—”

"I'd like to be." 

— He wasn't intending to say that but he's completely sincere. 

"Are you going to be alright onstage?" 

He nods.

”It caught me off guard this time. But it’ll be fine, I think.”

He glances back at the mirror.

Gabriel looks lovely; Sasha had known he would, but it's still warm to see. He can't tell whether the warmth is affection or pride in his work. It doesn't really matter.

He raises an arm, slowly, the opening movement of the latest routine–

and then he stops in his tracks, frozen.

Fuck. 

"…are you alright?" he says, in a different tone this time. 

“I think—”

“I think I’m going to need just a minute alone.”

His voice is unsteady.

"Okay. I can step outside." 

He does, and tries not to worry too much, and fails. 

When he opens the door again his formerly immaculate eye makeup is running down his cheeks. He's changed out of the costume and he has it folded in his arms.

"...is there anything that needs to be touched up? Can this stay here?"

"It can stay here. 

…but seriously, are you alright?" 

He almost reaches up to wipe his eyes, but jerks his hand away. He'll smear it more.

"–it's not your job to worry about me."

It could be a brushoff.

It's not.

"I know it isn't. That's not what I asked." 

"Something – happened just now that hasn't happened in...a long time."