Jorj wondered if Thrawn knew he was beautiful. There were moments when he was sure that the alien must have known, moments when Thrawn was all fluid grace and barely there smirks. When he was on the bridge of his ship and caught Jorj staring in an attempt to commit Thrawn's regal formality to memory, and he would almost- almost- seem to preen under his gaze.
Then there were the other moments, when they were alone together and free to act without the pretense of being unfamiliar. Jorj remembers when he had first voiced his thoughts, had told Thrawn with as much honesty as he could have mustered that he was absolutely beautiful. He can recall how Thrawn's eyes had widened for a split second before he regained his control, and while his voice was calm as he thanked Jorj he could not control the soft tint of lavender as it crawled up his neck to stain his cheeks. Jorj hadn't immediately realized what he was seeing, that he was seeing the cool and collected Commander blush, and for a few panicked minutes he thought he had embarrassed the poor man. Time had ticked on though, and while Thrawn seemed incapable of meeting his gaze fully, he never acted as if he wanted Jorj to leave and finally he realized that Thrawn wasn't embarrassed but was shy.
The realization had made his chest hurt in the best of ways. It had never occurred to him that Thrawn may have never experienced something as simple as a compliment on his physical appearance before. I am the first, his mind had whispered with such reverence that it overruns every other thought.
He tells him often, whispers it into his dark hair when they're curled up together on a couch and Thrawn is clinging to him with the desperation of someone who has never been held. Murmurs it like a mantra when they're alone and their language studies had stopped an hour ago; simply whispers you're beautiful over and over as Thrawn holds his hands and buries his face in his shoulder with the subdued enthusiasm Jorj has come to anticipate. (He's always meant to ask about how Chiss culture views touch, ever since he saw Thrawn clutching his brother's arm during their reunion, but he never has to- his answers are in how Thrawn grasps at him, starving for an intimacy he's never known he's missed.)
Jorj still isn't sure Thrawn is truly aware of his appearance. He may never be; viewing what is reflected in a mirror will never beget the same results from what is seen with another's vision. Occasionally he wonders if he should try to explain it in a way Thrawn will be able to fully understand, that if he could only find an artist to hire he could show Thrawn what he sees. It wouldn't be difficult to convince Thrawn to sit for a portrait after they got past the inevitable argument over "wasting funds over frivolous things". He would be eager to study the finished piece, to take it apart and learn something from it. Jorj would be more than happy to let him, let him learn exactly what Jorj wanted him to learn- he would see what Jorj sees every day. He would wait until Thrawn was fully positioned and the artist was prepared to create and then he would just mouth those two magic words to him. Watch as Thrawn's face changed color and his walls slipped just that little bit and whisper that's it, that's what I want you to capture to the artist.
There was the question of medium to this hypothetical situation though. He had spent enough time with Thrawn to know that every aspect to a work was important. He supposes that all in all it doesn't matter all that much. There are not too many artists to be hired on a military ship. The idea doesn't escape Jorj's attention- he simply builds upon it, slowly crafts the piece in his head as he watches Thrawn, learns more and more about who he is.
He's adding a few more touches to his internal masterpiece when his lips meet the warm skin of Thrawn's cheek. He wants to linger but also understands that all of this is so new. Jorj pulls back, refusing to overstep any boundaries, pulls back just in time to see Thrawn's surprise melt into the smallest of smiles. Purple blooms prettier that any flower on his cheeks, spreading as Jorj smiles back.
Chalk, Jorj realizes as he watches pastel purple bleed across skin as light and as blue as he remembers the skies of home being. It would have to be made with chalk.