Work Text:
he is beautiful.
you would not dare to ever admit that out loud. none of your companions would- no one who had stood in his presence would, but you know they all know it to be true.
he is tall, too tall, and his hands are tucked into his pockets, sleeves slightly short, and you appreciate how the pallid nature of his skin contrasts the dark fabric, stained with the marres of battle and sights far too seen.
weight on one leg, and eyes delightfully bored, shined over with a truly unreadable emotion, and a strange smile of sorts in the dim glow that radiates from him is all too clear, despite his face being shone with apathy and longing, yearning for something that you can’t quite place-
and it is beautiful.
he is beautiful.
and he’s not a good person. it’s not like you don’t know that.
but he lives. he’s alive, he breathes, cries, chokes on his words, is so disgustingly humane that it rips you apart.
and while you understand how to most, he's a horror story, a cautionary tale, something that seems to be unscripted into our bones to stray away from,
he could never be that to you.
you have seen him before, alive. you have seen the emulations of joy and an almost innocence sneak onto his face, have seen the downpours of sorrow and breakable mortality rise as bile in his throat and stain his teeth with an unnatural color.
it feels heavenly, in a way. religious. he baptizes you, over and over again, in his smile, in his uncertainty, in his humanity.
and it’s beautiful. god, is it beautiful.
there’s a sort of sadness in his glow, a misery in the sleek black gloss of his eyes, a morbid beauty in himself, the way he steps, speaks, stands.
and he steps… clumsily. like a tired old drunk, shivering like a child on the streets, like a king, like one who’d lost all his power- and yet, you could see the royalty and elegance left in his conscience, could recall him sitting on a throne.
and he speaks softly, slowly, and his voice is low like gravel, harsh like sandpaper, yet gentle like a seraph’s lullaby, and if you listen close enough, you can make out the scratching of ink against parchment paper, can hear the nights spent locked in cellars, can ascertain the tapping of fingers against fragile wood, a form of vocal poetry.
and ever the poet, the poetry he spilled from his lips would one day be your downfall.
and he stands heavy, lopsided, so excruciatingly tired, that your eyes could get heavy just from gazing upon him. legs slanted, long and once powerful, shoulders eased back, and head tilted to the side, as if he were trying not to lull off to sleep.
and maybe that’s your problem, you think.
because you don’t see him as bad. you can't look at him and see detestability, abhorrent and incorrigible illness like everyone else seems to.
you see a soldier. scarred from battle, clothes sticky with blood, eyes heavy from lack of sleep, skin bruised and beaten, with splotches of dark blue blooming over faded purple.
you see humanity.
you see beauty.