Work Text:
POV: Reese
“Hey Reese, I have a bit of a weird request, and you’re free to say no. Would it be okay if I drew you?”
You blink. At first, the words bounce off your brain without as much as a scratch. Once you grasp their meaning, a mix of conflicting emotions causes you to stutter as you scramble to deflect the question. “I… uhhh… I didn’t know you could draw.”
“I used to draw a lot before I hit a major art block a few years back. But then I met you, and… I don’t know, I’ve been feeling inspired to pick up my pencil again, just to capture your likeness on paper.”
For a moment, you wonder if this is a joke, the kind meant to catch you off guard, but Their steady gaze tells you otherwise. “Are you… sure about that?”
“Of course… Okay, I know this might sound a tad creepy, but the first time I saw you, I couldn’t help but think how awesome it would be to sketch your portrait.”
Now you’re sure this is a joke. A slight chuckle escapes your lips as your shoulders relax after a sudden buildup of tension. To be fair, these were the exact same thoughts that crossed your mind the day you met Them, but They are They, and you… Your gaze drifts down to your hand — pale, spindly fingers tugging at the seam of your jeans — connected to the veiny, serpentine appendage that is your arm. “C’mon. You know I’m hardly a model.”
“Don’t say that, Reese. You’re beautiful.”
You hear the unwavering certainty in Their voice and your mind goes blank. You open your mouth, ready to object, but all that comes out is a weak stutter.
“Oh God, was that too much? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
They look worried about you, and Their worry makes your anxiety even worse. It takes a while for you to manage to say a few words, “No, it’s okay. It’s just… nobody ever told me that.”
Sure, Doc used to call you a handsome boy when you were ten, but aren’t all mothers supposed to do that? And that was before you hit puberty, before you suffered years of malnutrition and lack of sunlight, before you transformed into what you are now. That hardly counts, right?
“Reese… I get it if you’re feeling weird about this, but I really think you’re one of a kind, both inside and out. I’d love to capture that uniqueness on paper, if you’re cool with it.”
You feel your face getting warmer. An intense, pulsating heat that makes your eyes water. You try to hide it by pretending to shove hair off your forehead. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say yes or no. I won’t pressure you.”
After a moment of reflection, you nod your head timidly.
“Pick a pose you’re comfortable with.”
The unease finally creeps in. There you are, sitting before someone aiming to capture your likeness. In that moment, you’re aware of every twitch and fidget you make and how much space your body is taking up. This self-awareness never surfaced when you took photos of yourself as reference for your art. Back then, you wanted to accentuate the ugliness brooding inside you. The more grotesque it looked, the better — to the point where you barely registered the person in the photo as yourself. It was an embodiment of suffering, not a human being — and definitely not something ’beautiful.’
“You’re still okay with this, Reese?” You hear Them ask.
“Y-yeah.” You may not seem confident in your response, but it’s not like you’re going to get up and leave… even if your instincts are screaming otherwise. “Is this pose fine?”
“It’s great. One more thing though… I don’t want to force you into any specific form, so you’re free to pick whatever shape you’re most comfortable with.”
“Oh, I thought you wanted me as… y’know… human.”
“It’s okay if you want to stay human, but it’s okay if you prefer your other forms. All of them are perfect to draw.”
You were so focused on keeping yourself together, you completely forgot about the possibility of shapeshifting. The anxiety building within you anchored you to your human form, but now you feel the constriction of your skin like a shirt that’s one size too small. It’s no surprise you’re so uncomfortable.
You unfetter yourself. Like a marionette freed from its strings, your body begins to rearrange itself, contorting and reshaping until it finds the perfect balance. It takes a moment for the adjustments to settle in, but once the metamorphosis is complete, a wave of sweet release surges through you. At this point, you don’t really know how you look, so you glance at Them to check if everything’s okay, and…
Their eyes are wide open, unblinking. For a moment, you freeze, gripped by the thought of how monstrous you must appear to scare Them senseless, but then you pause to recognize that look. It’s an expression of silent awe, the same you feel when you find a perfect model: a pretty flower, an amazing scenery… or a beautiful person.
Rather than basking in the thrill of leaving someone speechless, you feel an even stronger urge to bolt out of there. You can’t quite explain it, but it’s clawing at you.
“Is this okay?” you mumble instead.
It takes Them a moment to respond, but when They do, you can sense the sincerity.
“Yes. This is perfect. I love your teeth.”
Once again, your brain shuts off. When clarity returns, you notice They’ve already begun sketching, fully absorbed in Their own monologue.
“I have to say, Reese, your teeth are absolutely incredible! I could just study them for hours! They’re so big and beautiful, and the way they grow out is just mesmerizing! The transformation of your mouth to fit them is like a work of art! I could sketch your face over and over just to capture the magic of your jaw in action! And that constant smile of yours? It’s just the cherry on top!”
The gentle scratch of a pencil gliding over paper is a familiar sound, bringing you a bit of comfort. Just as you start to feel your shoulders relax, a sudden realization hits you: they’re not just shoulders; they’re two pointy weapons, ready to jab someone’s eye out at a moment’s notice. You try to suppress the thought, but your attempts prove futile. It just moves to another part of you, gnawing at the flaws you’re struggling to ignore like a hungry mosquito. Really big ears, a mouth so wide it resembles an ape’s, a torso too long for any shirt to feel comfortable in, a sunken face that looks both fifteen and fifty at the same time…
Even with the fervor of Their delivery, Their comments have become little more than white noise at this point, “I’m so happy you decided to let your hair grow! It looks amazing! I mean, I didn’t mind the sleek style you had before, but those loose strands? They just bring out your features in the most stunning way!”
You recall the years following ’graduation’ — if you had actually graduated, that is. While the consequences of malnutrition from nausea and stomach pains were beginning to manifest, the ’sickness’ wasn’t severe enough to confine you to your room all day. This meant you could still go out and meet people from time to time. You remember seeing all the guys from high school, now miners and farmhands — big, bulky dudes with muscles sculpted by countless hours of hefting hay bales or shoveling debris. You looked at them and you felt small, which was quite the irony considering you had towered over them since the sixth grade. At times, you even had to bend down to look them in the eye! Yet, you couldn’t shake the image of them as bigger than you, better looking than you. You, forever the scarecrow among the Greek gods. You know this doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t matter.
The scribbling of the pencil brings you back to reality. They’re still talking.
“Your form is absolutely stunning, Reese! The way your lower body elongates is unlike anything I’ve seen, and it’s absolutely mesmerizing to watch it move and shift! And I have to say, I’m jealous of how incredibly snatched your waist is!”
“Please stop!”
Something inside you screams. Without even thinking, you shield your ( old-looking ) face with your ( big and ugly ) hands. You clamp your ( twig-like ) arms together in a desperate attempt to fold into yourself like an origami. The pencil scratching stops and you hear Them stop talking. Silence hangs between you two for what seems like hours.
Finally, They call your name, “Reese…?”
“I can’t do this today, I’m sorry.” This is the first time you’re in control of your voice.
“It’s okay, I understand.” Their tone is soft, a bit tense, but soothing. “Do you still want to see your portrait?”
You sit there for a moment. You feel silly, hiding behind your hands like you’re a toddler playing peekaboo. The tension snaps, unleashing a wave of tremors that courses through your body. With your shaking hand, you rub your eyes in a soothing gesture, only to realize you’ve been crying. What is wrong with me today? you think to yourself as you sob.
At last, you summon the strength to overcome the stagnation. Lowering your arms, you glance up to see Them, only to turn your head away in shame. Another minute of still awkwardness. Then, you lift both your eyes and your hand to signal your intention to see the picture. “Can I…?”
“Sure,” They respond, then flip the piece of paper to reveal Their creation.
A silent gasp catches in your throat, an involuntary response that takes you by surprise. You try to say something, but words fail you. All you can do is fixate on the incomplete sketch, feeling like you’re about to cry once again.
This is the most beautiful masterpiece you’ve ever seen in your life.