ℰ For my muse to walk in on yours getting dressed
Wen ran his fingers across the scarred skin of his shoulder and chest, the skin dappled in lilacs and glossed over white -- pale looking, a sickly thing compared to the healthy pink of his fingers. The skin betrayed little feeling even as he touched it. A dozen doctors had prescribed two dozen ointments, but they never helped. His right shoulder was soothed by the touch of silk as he drew his silk undershirt across it, but the left shoulder felt nothing. A whisper, perhaps. It was his habit to avoid looking, and he tried to point his eyes away now, too. He would be fortunate indeed if he found a wife that was not repelled by his scars, never mind the inevitable talk of more intimate marital relations. With a fluttering sigh, Wen looked at the painting that hung on the wall opposite him. The French, regrettably had a love for painting in the nude, and looking upon an oil portrait of a perfectly muscled, perfectly smooth man made matters worse. He looked down again, a small frown upon his face, when he heard the door open. Instinct had him whirling around, the thin scrap of silk that he wore billowing out, and Wen took in a sharp breath. “My lord!” He did not need Lorenzo to see him in this condition. Drawing the undershirt around himself with one frantic arm, he reached out with the other for the sturdier protection offered by the hanfu that was laid upon the bed. “You should have been announced. It is not proper for you to see me so,” His tone was snappish, made brittle by the vulnerability. It felt like an insult, for this man with his bronzed Venetian skin and his quick, easy smile to intrude upon this moment. Lorenzo was something Wen may never be: desirable.