He knows this feeling. The feeling of being known and seen and understood. He wonders if he really needed to remove his clothes at all, or if Joshua Archer has already seen through him enough these past few weeks to be able to intuit his form and all of its detail by sheer imagination.

He wonders also if the painter has already imagined his body in a different way, alone and under the safe, dark cover of evening.

“For the final portrait, would you want it like this as well?” He’s grinning, amused, curious how the other man would respond. As he speaks, he shifts, letting one long leg fall to dangle off the edge of the chaise. It’s not an inherently refined position at all and yet Alecto somehow still appears graceful instead of sloppy.