The Eye Of The Beholder
He used to think he was beautiful.
It wasn't something that he ever said to anyone else. It wasn't even something that he would acknowledge when other people said it about him. He would just shake his head and smile slightly, not so much from any desire to be modest as from a desire not to be defined by how he looked.
But there were times when he was alone that he would look in the mirror and think "I'm beautiful". The first few times it happened he was ashamed. It seemed wrong somehow, prideful and vain. But eventually the shame fell away. After all, he knew that he was not responsible for the color of his eyes or the line of his nose. He knew it was a genetic crapshoot and he happened to beat the house.
But there were things he was responsible for and he worked very very hard at them. The strong chest and perfect abs and sometimes when he was ready to drop and could not face even the concept of doing one more set of reps, another ten minutes on the treadmill, another fifty crunches he would close his eyes and think "I'm beautiful". And that would give him the motivation to go on.
He used to think he was beautiful.
He doesn't any more.
But he still has the eyes. And the perfect straight line to his nose. And he stills works out, more then ever now in fact. Because now he can work himself to exhaustion and maybe, maybe then he will fall asleep before he has to look in a mirror. He doesn't like to look in the mirror anymore. Because it still tries to tell him he's beautiful. And he knows it lies.
He misses it sometimes. Misses thinking it, misses the secret thrill of it, the brief flare of heat in his veins. He misses it dearly. But not as much as he misses the sound of that voice in his ear. Not as much as he misses hearing "Kevin, god, the way you look at me." Not as much as he misses the feeling of delicate fingers tracing his spine. Not nearly as much as the feeling of warm lips pressed to his and fingers tangled together and the whispered "You're beautiful. And you're mine." He doesn't think he could ever miss anything the way he misses that.
He used to think he was beautiful.
But then again, he used to be loved.