Thread:ThisIsXenon/@comment-34147452-20190802011425/@comment-32273133-20191008004845

“Oh my fucking god,” Micah mutters. lets the cloth drop and sinks into Damian’s desk chair.

“Some say I have a talent for painting.” Some??? Micah can’t resist peeking again to get a better look at it. Who doesn’t?? It’s officially the second ever likeness of Micah in existence, the first being the photograph he has stashed in his jacket. Which, once he remembers it, he has an urgent need to put his hands on it, to reassure himself that it’s still there. He hops out of the chair and retrieved his jacket, pulling the picture out of an inside pocket and unfolding it. He compares it to the painting.

The biggest difference is age—photograph Micah is much younger, much less world-weary. Plus, photograph Micah still had his shapeshifter feathers. Micah’s hand twitches up to brush behind his ears. He remembered the feeling of intense loss when they fell out, the rawness of his skin without them. Photograph Micah, he decides, didn’t understand how good he had it. But he’s also smudged with soot and singed and scared. Painting Micah is not.

Is this how he sees me? Micah sets the photograph down next to the painting and stares at the two, laying his chin on his arms.