Work Text:
Ugly.
Ugly scars. Everywhere.
Ugly hands. Chafed and horny.
Ugly eyes. Narrow, marked and staring back from the blurry surface of a wash pan. Crazed, irate, scowling at their own reflection. Ugly.
He was vain once, before he knew rejection, at a time when his name was spoken with admiration and devotion instead of fear and dismissal. He used to look in mirrors and admire his tall stature, his thick hair, the royal slant of his features.
Now he scrapes a blade across the skin on top of his head, slowly, just short of drawing blood. He becomes the grimace they see in him. Ugly cracked lips, ugly split eyebrows, ugly burnt skin. He can be ugly. He can draw confidence from this.
He dips a cloth into the water, and the shape of his naked head wavers. He wipes it across the front, and it glistens in the orange lowlight, free of any stubble, free of any distraction.
He gathers his ponytail and ties it tight enough to drag at his scalp. Even tighter. It burns. He enjoys it. That’s what he’s good at, after all. If he pulled it any tighter, he thinks, the back of his head might go up in flames. Add to his collection of ugly marks.
Ugly glare, ugly tense jaw. He looks repulsive. He considers himself repulsive.
Repulsive men are taken seriously.
He doesn’t mind ugly. It gives him confidence. He lets it in, hopes it seeps through his appearance and penetrates the inside, gets to his core and burns all shame and self-deprecation.
Ugly inside-out.
No one can hurt him then.