Work Text:
Peter avoids mirrors when he can.
At first it was the split-second terror of seeing a reflection that couldn’t be his, hadn’t been his for decades: smooth skin instead of crow’s feet, no soft pad of fat below the chin. The marks of a well-lived life painted over by those of a life stolen.
But now he’s finding those wrinkles and sun-spots again, and he hates them, too. They bring creeping dread—that in months or years, a man will awaken in a hospital bed to his lover’s face, bent strange and unfamiliar with time, and ask: who are you?