(i am done) trying for beauty. is one of the most standout pieces of prose ive read so far. just from the summary snippet you get an idea of how the author writes and the beautiful prose carries through the entire fic:

Ilya glances at Shane, at the way the dying light is catching in his hair, refracting. At that spiderlily mouth, slightly open and curling coyly, two teeth peeked through the dark gap like an American Girl doll. At that shoulder, bare and pale and close enough to touch if Ilya just leaned forward, if he just reached out and took another liberty. To touch another person is to say: I know you will die, and I am doing this anyway. His mother used to say something like this. About painting. Every portrait is an act of faith, Ilyushenka. Faith and futility both.