A/N: Another one-shot. HMC is not mine apparently. All feedback appreciated.
Beautiful Monster
He is truly beautiful. Brutally so. Not that his beauty itself is brutal or that his beauty brings out his brutality – he has none of that. The effect however, is brutal, cruel to someone who deserves so much better.
I've always felt that, somewhere stowed away, there is a part of Howl that loathes the attention, who resents the fame. Perhaps if he weren't so saliently beautiful, he would receive less attention, though I'm certain having a massive, mobile, and selectively clandestine castle adds to it. He certainly appreciates his privacy, even now, and I respect what that means to him. Despite what he displays to some, Howl is a classical introvert. When required of him, he is forward and coruscating; he can be so charming and gregarious and perfectly handsome. Really, he could have a harem; it's a wonder he chose me.
But that is beside the point.
Howl puts on the most striking facade when he must, but there is always a part that slinks back, recoils from the front lines. As wonderful as Howl is when he is being charismatic, I think it is part of him that he lets hide that I love the most.
He is beautiful in his insecurity, in his uncertainty. In those dark corners, he allows himself to rely on me, and that is by far the most magnificent of feelings.
He is stunning in his anger and indignation; in those times, he can push away any fear. He asserts. I feel safe when he stands, and it is terribly exciting when he stands against me. Howl has a propensity for forensics I've found, and there is nothing I love more than a good debate.
He is lovely in his compassion. How could someone as battle-hardened as he has proven himself be so gentle? When he sighs, when he speaks of my hair, I see a delicate side to him, so soft and giving and so very inviting.
He is endearing in his humor, how he laughs at serendipities and spontaneous comedy. More endearing is the way he laughs at himself. He chuckles, deep and resonant, kisses the top of my head, and apologizes for whatever quirk – I would never call them faults – I have stumbled upon.
Above all else, or perhaps beneath all else, Howl is exquisite in his humanity, in his eccentricities, in the man behind the tragedy. I can feel his sorrows and sufferings moving the world around us. But he has the most incredible feathers, black and glossy and soft to the touch. His pain is downy and terrible. And, even then, when all he sees is a monster, he is still beautiful.
I suppose that is the true brutality of his beauty. I fear there is so much aestheticism that few ever glimpse him, the true splendor of a man simply living or surviving, depending on his mood. He is the art of the atrocity that goes unseen; I ache for him because of it. He is locked away in his fortress of beauty, and the world may never know.