[He follows obediently, and takes particular care with his wings even despite the apparent replaceability of everything in the back. So he finds a position and checks around before rolling his shoulders and stretching his wings out in stages until they're at full extension. He's much better at it these days than he was once; they move under his intent instead of clunking around like he doesn't know what to do with them, and better suit the rest of his changes instead of seeming like a hasty add-on.

The sight of himself in the mirror seems to strike him, as it always does. He's himself but he's not; his gargoyle is echoes of his Star Platinum. And his scales are — striking, was that the word? There's beauty to this...this. Someone finds this beautiful. Striking.

Is that something he can be?

If there's something beautiful about this, then maybe the other things he sometimes considers ugly about himself don't have to be, either.]

It feels good.

[That's not helpful, but it's a start.]

It's in my shoulders. And a little lower, near the blades. It's hard to describe...like pointing my toes, sort of, except it's not arms or legs, it's wings. A different set of limbs. Down here, in the small of my back —

[He moves to reach for it, but it's gawky with his wings extended that way, so his hand recedes again.]

...Is this helping? I don't know if that's what you want...