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It is odd to see something so fine against his skin. The shirt is not even particularly nice: it is well-made, and it will last awhile, and these are qualities Soren values more than mere aesthetics. But, well. Maybe it is nice. Maybe it looks nice on him. Maybe he looks at the miniature of himself in the scratched hand mirror he took from the top of the dresser and marvels at his reflection. He is alone in the room, so no one will know this but him.
His eyes are naturally drawn to the center of the shirt, to the thin sliver of smooth skin visible between the sharp edges of the plunging neckline. The tassels dangling from his collar are not tied, leaving the red thread to criss-cross over his clavicle, further emphasizing the shallow divet between his pectorals. The straight lines match the geometric embroidery that decorates the shirt front, done in flat diamonds of black and red and green, reminding Soren of pressed poppy flowers. The shirt itself is the thick color of undyed wool and skim cream, the fabric breathable enough for a hot summer day and sturdy enough to be worn alone. It is perfect for an early August evening’s supper and dance.
Compelled, Soren jumps, once, landing on one foot and pointing the other. Almost immediately, he needs to sink to both feet to steady himself. When he jumped, his shirt had fluttered, briefly, then returned to his chest most mundanely. Forcing himself to look in the mirror again, he regards his chest, then has to set the mirror down to press his hands to his face. Takes a deep breath, picks up the mirror again. Puts it down, pushes his fingertips beneath his eyes, exhales like he is blowing out a candle. His hands steeple over his nose. He sobs, once, then quickly composes himself. He mustn’t cry, or his face will be all splotchy, and he will have to redo the kohl on his waterline.
After more deep, shaky breaths that do nothing to quell the electric feeling sizzling along his skin, Soren looks down. With his fingers hooked on the neckline of his shirt, he can pull it apart to see the flat expanse of his sternum in the candlelight. Peeking out from the shadows beneath are the tips of twin marks, the textured tissue reminiscent of embroidery itself.
They are too young to really be scars, only two months old and still a vibrant pink. Soren has never worn anything that leaves them so exposed. He has never worn anything that leaves his chest exposed like this: there are no layers or fastenings to obscure the shape of it now. Now, he doesn’t need there to be. Now, he can wear a shirt with a neckline that would have emphasized the protrusions that he used to have on either side. He can wear a shirt with nothing over it, because now he can look at his chest and like it.
The realization nearly brings him to his knees; his hands use the dresser to keep himself upright. His face splits in a wide smile as he half-laughs, half-sobs, the way he folds over baring his chest to the air of the room all the while. He rights himself, his shoulders rolling back, his eyes falling shut and his lips parting. He takes a deep, full breath and shivers on the exhale, feeling anything but chilled as it passes through him. Spreading his hand across the skin of his chest, he takes another breath, soothed by the rise and fall of his own ribs. As he tips his fingers downward, that is what he focuses on, the pattern of his ribs beneath his skin, unobstructed. He is careful not to touch where it will hurt, the skin growing delicate around his healing lines.
His eyes flutter open, not quite looking at the blank inn room wall in front of him. The emptiness gives him space to remain calm. He should be leaving soon, to meet Ike at a restaurant in town where a specially reserved spot on the rooftop patio awaits them. The two of them have been looking forward to this since the first day of August. The special occasion is why Soren bought the shirt in the first place. Perhaps it is strange to buy a shirt for himself for someone else’s birthday, but Soren knows Ike won’t mind. Hopefully, he’ll like the shirt. Soren wonders how he might take it off him. Will he be gentle, or ravenous? Oh, but he is always both with Soren’s body. Especially now that it is remade, restitched, tailored to finally fit him.
Soren pulls his collar shut, though he doesn’t tie it closed. The weight of the tassels should hold it in place enough to be proper. He is feeling handsome tonight, and he would rather not hide it.
Collecting Ike’s birthday present from the top of the dresser, Soren tucks it safely under his arm. It is a handy gift—as gentle as Ike is, he is not a delicate man. He will appreciate the tightly braided cord bracelet, one that can be lengthened into rope in a pinch. Most of all, he will appreciate the birthday dinner. They will be having steaks tonight, and Soren’s mouth waters just thinking about it. Slipping into his boots, he spins out of the room, once again enjoying the feel of his shirt against his chest. He feels light and glorious. Locking the door to the room, he marches briskly down the hall, eager to meet his boyfriend and embrace him with that light.