![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Aug. 25th, 2009 07:25 pmIt was something Ambrose had been putting off doing.
In the privacy of his rooms, he took off his coat and hung it up, slipping off his shoes and tucking them under the bed. His socks went next, into the laundry chute, then his shirt (off over the head), and his striped undershirt, which was tossed down as well. He dumped his pants down there as well, mildly disgruntled at Glitch's refusal to bother with underwear.
He cracked the curtains to let a streak of setting sunlight through. He walked forwards, tugging the cloth from the mirror.
It was not as bad as he feared.
It was not as good as he had hoped.
Some of the scars were vaguely familiar. One on his arm from a sword fight, maybe. On his hand from a design that went wrong. Others though...
He turned, looking at himself. He was even paler than he had been, arms and legs thinner, but there was wiry muscle. It seemed to be the fat had gone first, then the muscles. Little relief, but it was something.
It was still a sight he didn't like. The wild curls softened his face and just seemed messy. The zipper was an ugly scar he couldn't remember; his fingers touched it softly, barely able to look in the mirror and completely unable to look away as he saw his fingers touch metal as he feels the coolness, the rough texture catching his skin even as he felt soft tugs on his scalp as it happened.
He drew his hands away sharply, looking down to his body again. Small shifts changed the light casting over him, brought other marks into sharp relief. A star burst in his shoulder and in his lower back, bones jutting against pale skin, ghost like and alien body not his own very much his.
He closed his eyes and reached for the cloth on the ground, ending up standing there with his head bowed, cloth clutched to his chest as he was torn between throwing it over the glass and wrapping it about himself.
At least the sunlight on his skin felt the same.
In the privacy of his rooms, he took off his coat and hung it up, slipping off his shoes and tucking them under the bed. His socks went next, into the laundry chute, then his shirt (off over the head), and his striped undershirt, which was tossed down as well. He dumped his pants down there as well, mildly disgruntled at Glitch's refusal to bother with underwear.
He cracked the curtains to let a streak of setting sunlight through. He walked forwards, tugging the cloth from the mirror.
It was not as bad as he feared.
It was not as good as he had hoped.
Some of the scars were vaguely familiar. One on his arm from a sword fight, maybe. On his hand from a design that went wrong. Others though...
He turned, looking at himself. He was even paler than he had been, arms and legs thinner, but there was wiry muscle. It seemed to be the fat had gone first, then the muscles. Little relief, but it was something.
It was still a sight he didn't like. The wild curls softened his face and just seemed messy. The zipper was an ugly scar he couldn't remember; his fingers touched it softly, barely able to look in the mirror and completely unable to look away as he saw his fingers touch metal as he feels the coolness, the rough texture catching his skin even as he felt soft tugs on his scalp as it happened.
He drew his hands away sharply, looking down to his body again. Small shifts changed the light casting over him, brought other marks into sharp relief. A star burst in his shoulder and in his lower back, bones jutting against pale skin, ghost like and alien body not his own very much his.
He closed his eyes and reached for the cloth on the ground, ending up standing there with his head bowed, cloth clutched to his chest as he was torn between throwing it over the glass and wrapping it about himself.
At least the sunlight on his skin felt the same.
