Work Text:
Jehan used to model. It wasn't anything serious, he was far too shy for that. But it wasn't clothed, either. The local university (which he attended, actually, as a literature major) was always looking for people to model for the life drawing classes. It didn't really pay much, but he felt beautiful doing it. He wore simple clothes to work, a soft, flimsy, floral robe in his shoulder bag for use after he changed out of his clothes and before changing back in.
Sometimes he put a flower in his hair, sometimes he braided it, other times he left it down. He liked to keep a variety for the drawing students.
None of them ever spoke to him, it was never awkward. If he was too feminine, none of them ever said anything. They didn't tell him he was beautiful, but he felt beautiful with studious eyes trained on him as he stretched his long, lithe limbs out for a pose, which he held with ease for a few moments, before reclining with a book of poetry. Speed gesture drawings, long pose drawings, he sat through all kinds.
It was a good job.
After the cancer, he quietly resigned his position. He couldn't possibly take off his clothing in front of all of those students looking so emaciated, his beautiful hair shorn, his skin trying to crawl off of his bones. It didn't make him feel beautiful anymore - his nudity in front of anyone made him feel ugly and ashamed. Clothes didn't help much, but Bahorel, perfect, wonderful Bahorel held him and whispered to him how beautiful he was, and for a moment, Jehan almost believed it was still true.