onthewillowsthere: (in prayer)
Galahad son of Lancelot ([personal profile] onthewillowsthere) wrote in [personal profile] summerdude 2024-02-29 02:38 pm (UTC)

The soft fabric of the skirt brushes against his thighs, smooth and light, and he focuses on that, on the softness of the sweater against the skin of his stomach and chest, and when he looks at his pale narrow self in the mirror it feels less like he's looking at a stranger. He exhales. It's not so hard to feel close to beauty when Claudius is looking at him, or when he only considers the tactile aspects of beauty, the swish of the skirt or the braid of his watch against his wrist -- harder, when he can see himself in this object of a body. He assesses it and tends to find it lacking: too thin, too cold, the body of a person who has never treated it as anything other than a workday horse-cart. Not a palace, or a tabernacle, cunningly worked with hooks of gold and sockets of silver.

Now he focuses on the blues and greys and how they make the blue of his eyes seem brighter, the ash-light color of his hair matched in the pearl buttons. Beautiful, he tells himself. Thou art beautiful.

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