Work Text:
One moment they’re talking, standing in the Rubinsteins’ quiet snow-covered garden; the last sunrays of the day light up Steinberg’s copper-red eyelashes, and the kid huffs a little at something Rhoden’s just said. Later, he won’t remember what it is Steinberg finds amusing. It will feel important, somehow; a key to the mystery of what happens next.
Next moment, Steinberg’s lips are on his and his fingers are holding Rhoden by the temples, feather-light against the little veins beating on either side of Rhoden’s skull.
It’s a gentle hold – it would take no effort at all to shake it off. But Rhoden might as well be trapped in stone for how impossible he finds the thought.
He can feel the heat of Steinberg’s skin; smell the tar soap on it and see the freckles scattered across Steinberg’s cheek like so many grains of gold. He wonders if Steinberg’s lips are freckled, too. There must be one or two little spots of pigmentation there, nearly invisible against the muted pink.
Steinberg’s kiss tastes like the fresh mint leaves from the herbal tea the kid drunk this morning. It chills Rhoden’s mouth a little, and at the same time leaves it impossibly hot. He finds he’s shaking.
This is not what it seems, he tells himself. I will make this better. I can fix it.
But it is, and he won’t, and he can’t.
“Steinberg,” he stammers, once the kid pauses for air. His voice breaks horribly, and a distant part of him notes that he sounds borderline hysterical. In fact, there may be tears in his eyes. He’s so overwhelmed by sensation he can hardly tell anymore.
“Arno,” says Steinberg, a little huskily. It’s such a tender little thing, this use of his first name, that something in Rhoden’s chest shatters in response. No one’s ever–
He touches Steinberg’s face with his prosthetic fingers. His hand shouldn’t know how to do this, and yet it’s as gentle and precise in its motions as if this has happened a thousand times.
It’s not me doing this, he tries to convince himself. It’s something unconscious. A misfire in the wiring. This is not what I want.
I want this, his mind echoes. This longing reverberates in his bones and sings mournfully in his marrow, an explosion of colours no one can ever see. I want–