{ out of all the things Ambrose has planned for all of this — the core of his style, the variety in outfits, the makeup looks, the performances — he has yet to really quantify whatever it is that he wants to be, and tries to be. when Will asks what he does, he really asks, 'is that your goal?' Ambrose is mesmerized by being caught off guard, in the realization of his scope of awareness. like holding a flashlight in the woods, the range is immediate, but what lies beyond what is known in the moment is immeasurable possibility.
he narrows the gap between them, because while he has certainly put himself on display for Will here, Ambrose would readily avail himself for closer inspection. his reply facilitates just that, and he, like a half-painted bird, perches his arms up on Will's shoulders. close, stable, safe while nearer to this heartbeat. }
Intrigue lead to experiment, which lead to discovery... I'm learning as I go, and I've learned much, but there is much more for me to find about what I want.
{ he tilts his head to ponder the details, considering the timeline of events, deciding how to narrate for Will what follows: } It began just a few months ago, everyone at the theatre wanted to put on a particular show. They have all at least seen a drag performance, some have equal aspirations. I was... { and for a moment, Ambrose wells with a rising glow that overtakes his gaze, aimed at Will, but looking through him, into his memory. }
Astounded. It was like seeing...it was seeing the manifestation of someone else's perception, and the art they wanted to make of that, with that facet of their identity. I didn't know that others thought that way.
{ Ambrose gives something of himself away in those words, a piece of that hopeful goal, one bloomed now with subconscious truth: Ambrose didn't know others had the same draws and desires and reflections of themselves that he does.
hazel eyes refocus onto Will, seeing him, almost desperately hinged on his very vital features. Ambrose very nearly says more, lips twitching with how close the words are to touching them; he nearly asks Will if he can understand any of the nonsense he's just woven together, alas — he thinks that he can, even if just intellectually. like being caught in a pair of arms, Will's extent of understanding is startlingly reliable that way. Ambrose reconciles that he will get an answer to his unspoken question, depending on what Will says now. there will be many directions to go, especially now that Ambrose has opened a doorway for inquisition, having referenced what sort of performance might be on his mind for all of this. not every man dressed up like a woman and plans to get up on a stage in front of dozens of people, of course.
but if you were wondering if your boyfriend was considering a gender change, Will, then you can take ease. Ambrose is apparently just here to play dress-up. }
[ There's something charming in how readily Ambrose shows off. Showing off isn't even the word for it — it's a celebratory indulgence that he writes invitations for easily. Ambrose would likely do the same if he were home alone — in fact he has, and that's exactly what Will walked in on. This is a display, certainly, but it's one Will can know has its roots entirely in Ambrose himself.
So there's a meaning, here, a deeply personal one. And Will's curious to know if he's earned the right to see it. Ambrose comes closer again, drapes himself against Will the way his robe is draped across himself. Will considers placing his hands on top of Ambrose's own, holding him as he wreathes his neck, but then...he reconsiders. Reaches forward and down, rests his hands on cool hips shrouded lightly in the silky material of the robe.
This close, with hands on his flanks, Will registers what he'd assumed without processing the thought — Ambrose is fully nude under the robe. Of course he is.
The replies are given thoughtfully but easily. There's no pain in them, no ache in the wondering. This isn't a desperate reach for a solution, then — it isn't one of the possibilities that had entered Will's mind at seeing this. No, this is — like so many of Ambrose's indulgences... ] It's a...facet of yourself. Not a replacement. [ He's understanding it, Ambrose, as much as he can.
And he's enraptured by it. Will is clearly back to examining Ambrose's face. Looking over the care placed there, the colors. Ambrose's very nature means that, well... ] The last time I saw your cheeks this color, it was because you'd just fed from me. [ Saying it loud, cementing the connection, causes Will's own cheeks to begin to flush. ] Now you can choose what you look like. When you look like it.
[ Will reaches one hand up, touches with his fingertips — he knows instinctively not to smear it, but there's still a pink and pearlescent glimmer to his finger pads when he pulls away again. ] I hadn't realized you'd like painting.
it's one thing for abstract, unlabeled concepts to bounce around Ambrose's thoughts, but it's another to have words put to them. his focus sharpens on Will's face at his commentary, because there is an assurance there: he knew Will would see, understand its shape, even lacking the finer details.
his expression is soon to soften next, under the suggestion his lover lays gently, the last time his cheeks were this color, and it's more than the words that amuse Ambrose — it's Will's change in complexion. he can feel the heat of it, the shift of blood pooling somewhere meant for him to see, despite the man in possession of it. the smile it earns out of Ambrose is fond.
as is the tilt of his head into Will's brief touch, before correcting his posture. } I always wanted to be...never possessed the skill, though. { Ambrose purrs with a soft laugh. } I had to make my art with myself as the instrument... Which sounds so very conceited if I voice it aloud.
{ the warmth of Will's palms bleeds through the sheer lace fabric, glows on Ambrose's otherwise bare hips, draws his stance in closer to the living man; their fronts brush together, just so.
Ambrose hadn't been sure what Will would think, once he'd brought this little creative endeavor before him. he trusted that it would be received, accepted, if not wholly agreed upon in the worst possible case...he knew Will would, if nothing else, be supportive if he could not be understanding.
but Will can see glimpses through the veil between them, one that Ambrose does not drape over himself intentionally. it's a cocoon that obscures him from himself, as much as it confounds others; finding more of himself is a two-fold task, one any human finds is a lifelong pursuit, but to become a thing of the underworld along the way? Ambrose is nearly a stranger to himself.
he, however, finds something familiar in this, in Will's embrace, in the hands on his half-bare flesh, and Ambrose sinks into it like succumbing to a tide. what makes his curiosity keen, though... }
What do you think? { Ambrose slides back a step, not out of reach; he hooks his own hands around the back of Will's neck, fingers and palms flat and light, thumbs brushing at the tapering hairline below the post-occipital valley. which means, Ambrose does not stray far from the man's own reach. } I know you wouldn't say something only to appease me.
And it is mine, for myself, but— { another one of those things Ambrose could describe in lyric, but could never outright title with ease, a concept of their connection they share while still being so separate; it means the world to Ambrose to give every version of himself over to Will. the effort to narrow its heft and shape is a brief display on Ambrose's made-up face, but he's quick to finally express: } You're so much a part of me now, that I simply cannot...share everything with you.
Truths only sound conceited because we're told to hide what we're good at. [ There's a ripple of bitter scoffing in Will's tone. ] Especially if it makes us happy. [ In case his opinions on your honest self-confidence were in any doubt at all, Ambrose, take comfort in this reassurance.
Ambrose then drapes himself against Will's shoulders more decisively, and there's no hanging off his wrists against the bump of Will's shoulders - he rests his full hands there. Cool thumbpads touch the bare skin at the top of Will's neck, right under his hair. It's only been about a week since his last cut - it's short and prickly still, and Will feels it raise like gooseflesh at the stimulus.
And then Ambrose backs away, still holding on with the lightest of touches. This, the careful holding, is more reliable of a grip than it Ambrose were demanding with the full extent of his supernatural strength. The showing off is clear, if subtle. And here, in Ambrose's bedroom, in this island of routine they've kept safe for themselves, it's a personal showing. A vie for his attention.
Will's cheeks flushed at the mentioning of Ambrose feeding, but now, Will's throat feels warm. The tips of his ears burn with some newly-adolescent sense of self-consciousness, like he's afraid to be found out for liking something flaunted nearby.
What had Ambrose said just a moment ago, expression coy, a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth? 'I have a dress in the closet, though...'
Will listens to the rest, and it's tender, but the tenderness just makes a softer field for this guilty intrigue to bloom in. ] I think I'm— both not sure on all my feelings about this yet, and I'm not sure which ones I can share. But I know this is...
[ Will lets go first, in the end, although it's just his right hand, and it's to gesture at Ambrose. At the softness of him, which always existed, but that's been put in a new light. His form is the same as it's always been while nude and draped in clothing too large for him - Will's flannels and nothing else, a bathrobe built for a man but so uni-sized as to be humorous on Ambrose's body - but the carry of himself, the context of it, is so different. Will swallows and his mouth feels excitingly dry.
His expression pinches with sudden doubt. ] Can I— Can I say that you look...beautiful? Like this? Or is that not...what this is for? [ He finds it in himself to stare back up at Ambrose, earnest while uncertain. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
started from the coffin, and now we're here
he narrows the gap between them, because while he has certainly put himself on display for Will here, Ambrose would readily avail himself for closer inspection. his reply facilitates just that, and he, like a half-painted bird, perches his arms up on Will's shoulders. close, stable, safe while nearer to this heartbeat. }
Intrigue lead to experiment, which lead to discovery... I'm learning as I go, and I've learned much, but there is much more for me to find about what I want.
{ he tilts his head to ponder the details, considering the timeline of events, deciding how to narrate for Will what follows: } It began just a few months ago, everyone at the theatre wanted to put on a particular show. They have all at least seen a drag performance, some have equal aspirations. I was... { and for a moment, Ambrose wells with a rising glow that overtakes his gaze, aimed at Will, but looking through him, into his memory. }
Astounded. It was like seeing...it was seeing the manifestation of someone else's perception, and the art they wanted to make of that, with that facet of their identity. I didn't know that others thought that way.
{ Ambrose gives something of himself away in those words, a piece of that hopeful goal, one bloomed now with subconscious truth: Ambrose didn't know others had the same draws and desires and reflections of themselves that he does.
hazel eyes refocus onto Will, seeing him, almost desperately hinged on his very vital features. Ambrose very nearly says more, lips twitching with how close the words are to touching them; he nearly asks Will if he can understand any of the nonsense he's just woven together, alas — he thinks that he can, even if just intellectually. like being caught in a pair of arms, Will's extent of understanding is startlingly reliable that way. Ambrose reconciles that he will get an answer to his unspoken question, depending on what Will says now. there will be many directions to go, especially now that Ambrose has opened a doorway for inquisition, having referenced what sort of performance might be on his mind for all of this. not every man dressed up like a woman and plans to get up on a stage in front of dozens of people, of course.
but if you were wondering if your boyfriend was considering a gender change, Will, then you can take ease. Ambrose is apparently just here to play dress-up. }
no subject
So there's a meaning, here, a deeply personal one. And Will's curious to know if he's earned the right to see it. Ambrose comes closer again, drapes himself against Will the way his robe is draped across himself. Will considers placing his hands on top of Ambrose's own, holding him as he wreathes his neck, but then...he reconsiders. Reaches forward and down, rests his hands on cool hips shrouded lightly in the silky material of the robe.
This close, with hands on his flanks, Will registers what he'd assumed without processing the thought — Ambrose is fully nude under the robe. Of course he is.
The replies are given thoughtfully but easily. There's no pain in them, no ache in the wondering. This isn't a desperate reach for a solution, then — it isn't one of the possibilities that had entered Will's mind at seeing this. No, this is — like so many of Ambrose's indulgences... ] It's a...facet of yourself. Not a replacement. [ He's understanding it, Ambrose, as much as he can.
And he's enraptured by it. Will is clearly back to examining Ambrose's face. Looking over the care placed there, the colors. Ambrose's very nature means that, well... ] The last time I saw your cheeks this color, it was because you'd just fed from me. [ Saying it loud, cementing the connection, causes Will's own cheeks to begin to flush. ] Now you can choose what you look like. When you look like it.
[ Will reaches one hand up, touches with his fingertips — he knows instinctively not to smear it, but there's still a pink and pearlescent glimmer to his finger pads when he pulls away again. ] I hadn't realized you'd like painting.
no subject
it's one thing for abstract, unlabeled concepts to bounce around Ambrose's thoughts, but it's another to have words put to them. his focus sharpens on Will's face at his commentary, because there is an assurance there: he knew Will would see, understand its shape, even lacking the finer details.
his expression is soon to soften next, under the suggestion his lover lays gently, the last time his cheeks were this color, and it's more than the words that amuse Ambrose — it's Will's change in complexion. he can feel the heat of it, the shift of blood pooling somewhere meant for him to see, despite the man in possession of it. the smile it earns out of Ambrose is fond.
as is the tilt of his head into Will's brief touch, before correcting his posture. } I always wanted to be...never possessed the skill, though. { Ambrose purrs with a soft laugh. } I had to make my art with myself as the instrument... Which sounds so very conceited if I voice it aloud.
{ the warmth of Will's palms bleeds through the sheer lace fabric, glows on Ambrose's otherwise bare hips, draws his stance in closer to the living man; their fronts brush together, just so.
Ambrose hadn't been sure what Will would think, once he'd brought this little creative endeavor before him. he trusted that it would be received, accepted, if not wholly agreed upon in the worst possible case...he knew Will would, if nothing else, be supportive if he could not be understanding.
but Will can see glimpses through the veil between them, one that Ambrose does not drape over himself intentionally. it's a cocoon that obscures him from himself, as much as it confounds others; finding more of himself is a two-fold task, one any human finds is a lifelong pursuit, but to become a thing of the underworld along the way? Ambrose is nearly a stranger to himself.
he, however, finds something familiar in this, in Will's embrace, in the hands on his half-bare flesh, and Ambrose sinks into it like succumbing to a tide. what makes his curiosity keen, though... }
What do you think? { Ambrose slides back a step, not out of reach; he hooks his own hands around the back of Will's neck, fingers and palms flat and light, thumbs brushing at the tapering hairline below the post-occipital valley. which means, Ambrose does not stray far from the man's own reach. } I know you wouldn't say something only to appease me.
And it is mine, for myself, but— { another one of those things Ambrose could describe in lyric, but could never outright title with ease, a concept of their connection they share while still being so separate; it means the world to Ambrose to give every version of himself over to Will. the effort to narrow its heft and shape is a brief display on Ambrose's made-up face, but he's quick to finally express: } You're so much a part of me now, that I simply cannot...share everything with you.
no subject
Ambrose then drapes himself against Will's shoulders more decisively, and there's no hanging off his wrists against the bump of Will's shoulders - he rests his full hands there. Cool thumbpads touch the bare skin at the top of Will's neck, right under his hair. It's only been about a week since his last cut - it's short and prickly still, and Will feels it raise like gooseflesh at the stimulus.
And then Ambrose backs away, still holding on with the lightest of touches. This, the careful holding, is more reliable of a grip than it Ambrose were demanding with the full extent of his supernatural strength. The showing off is clear, if subtle. And here, in Ambrose's bedroom, in this island of routine they've kept safe for themselves, it's a personal showing. A vie for his attention.
Will's cheeks flushed at the mentioning of Ambrose feeding, but now, Will's throat feels warm. The tips of his ears burn with some newly-adolescent sense of self-consciousness, like he's afraid to be found out for liking something flaunted nearby.
What had Ambrose said just a moment ago, expression coy, a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth? 'I have a dress in the closet, though...'
Will listens to the rest, and it's tender, but the tenderness just makes a softer field for this guilty intrigue to bloom in. ] I think I'm— both not sure on all my feelings about this yet, and I'm not sure which ones I can share. But I know this is...
[ Will lets go first, in the end, although it's just his right hand, and it's to gesture at Ambrose. At the softness of him, which always existed, but that's been put in a new light. His form is the same as it's always been while nude and draped in clothing too large for him - Will's flannels and nothing else, a bathrobe built for a man but so uni-sized as to be humorous on Ambrose's body - but the carry of himself, the context of it, is so different. Will swallows and his mouth feels excitingly dry.
His expression pinches with sudden doubt. ] Can I— Can I say that you look...beautiful? Like this? Or is that not...what this is for? [ He finds it in himself to stare back up at Ambrose, earnest while uncertain. ]