Work Text:
“Say, have you ever wondered what my face could look like?”
Anton put down the quill on the table, right next to the inkwell, before gazing upwards. His colleague (and friend, if he dared), seated on the other side of the table corner, didn’t look back at him. How could he? He had been blind since childhood. The pale blue of his inert irises hadn’t stopped, even for a moment, staring blankly at the opposite wall.
That was part of the reason why Anton Ferner, a penpusher of the most nebulous kind, had become somewhat of a secretary. It had occurred naturally, not long after they had met. The man dictated to him the words his mind birthed, and he was in charge of obediently laying them down on paper.
This evening was no different from hundreds of others. Anton had accompanied the stern Paul von Oberstein back to his home, arms linked to guide him safely along the sidewalk, and then they had sat down in the man’s office, each in their usual place. As always, they had talked for a while about the day’s events and occurrences, then they had assessed them. After that, one had seized the quill, the other had grasped his thoughts, and the game was on again. He could count, ah, on one hand only all the infringements of this well-oiled routine, which was a pity, Anton thought. Not that he hadn’t tried, a few times, to suggest having a drink… but alas, it appeared that Oberstein was fundamentally uncompromising, even for something as trifling as that.
Tonight though, Anton was feeling particularly daring. Rightfully so! He had outdone himself today in front of the opposition, against whom he had proudly stood his ground. His colleague, and that was his most valuable achievement, had then told him as he was sitting back down to his side: “Those were enlightening words, Ferner. You gave them matter to ponder on.”
And that was all the confirmation he was hoping to get.
“What a peculiar question, Ferner.” Oberstein ended up replying, in his eternally monotonous tone. “Is there a reason why I should wonder about your appearance?”
Anton rested his elbow on the surface of the table and turned his torso plainly towards his interlocutor. Of course, the latter wasn’t aware of the sudden attention that was brought unto his figure. Or maybe he was – Ferner wouldn’t be surprised to learn that his colleague had some sort of sixth sense allowing him to perceive what he couldn’t see. And yet, no matter how many times he had stopped and stared at him intently, Oberstein had never said a word. With time, Anton had grown into knowing the other man’s face by heart. He could conjure a picture-perfect image of him in his mind anytime – he’d start by tracing down his straight, pinched nose, and then his almond shaped eyes with their slightly drooping eyelids, which gave him his distinctive weary look. His narrow mouth, its thin upper-lip and thicker bottom-lip, both equally as pale and indifferent to any and all temptations of vice. His steep forehead, his pallid cheeks, the hollowing lines under his eyes deepening the opalescence of his gaze, his tight yet strangely delicate jaw, his eyebrows as thin as two tensed pieces of string. The white strands of hair, those that had the impertinence of sometimes hanging loose on his forehead, and that Anton dreamed of being able to push back himself- and the rich brown of the rest of his hair.
If, by a stroke of bad luck, he was to lose his sight – if some frenzied folk stabbed both his eyes in a narrow alleyway or in the middle of the boulevard, at least Ferner would have this face carved deep in his mind. Even better! in his soul. But Oberstein had never seen him. Sometimes, questions like these kept him awake at night – when Anton spoke with him, did any picture come up to his brain? Had he been able to see long enough in his life to remember faces? Had he bothered creating one for him, if so?
“Do you think I’m ugly, sir?” Ferner bluntly resumed, without even trying to answer properly to the previous question. He laid one of his hands flat on the table, deliberately close to Oberstein’s. He was playing with fire. “Or, quite on the contrary, extraordinarily handsome?”
“It matters little.” Was the answer, oh so predictable answer, of the other man. “Not only is beauty one of the less objective notions there are, but you are moreover speaking to someone who, even hypothetically speaking, wouldn’t be much inclined to venture such judgment.”
Of course. Anton wasn’t expecting anything else; it didn’t keep him from feeling disappointed though. Unless… no, it wasn’t disappointment. It was nosiness. Yes, he was feeling utterly taken a hold of by the throes of raging nosiness. Under the yoke of an all-consuming, unquenched curiosity, he slowly slid his impudent hand closer to his colleague’s, stretching out a single finger to brush over a knuckle…
“And you don’t even want to know. You walk arm-in-arm with me almost every single day, without even asking yourself if your walking companion shares face with a lord or with a scoundrel…”
Upon contact, no matter how harmless and light it had been, his colleague tensed up. His hands twitched slightly – a nervous jolt, uncontrolled, due to the unexpected touch. Quite surprisingly, no attempt was made at a removal nor at even trying to distance his hands from the inquisitive finger. Anton decided to think that a good omen, so he ventured further. He delicately laid his palm on the joined hands. Oberstein kept silent. Anton carried on:
“I will confess shamelessly, and I am sufficiently emboldened tonight to declare it so: to me, you are handsome. You will retort that it doesn’t mean anything, but frankly sir, I don’t care.”
His palm was burning hot against the cool skin of his colleague. Anton hardly breathed. On one hand, his own bravery was electrifying as it found its strength in the lack of rejection he faced. On the other hand… it didn’t mean Oberstein was interested either. Honestly, the other man had simply no reaction at all. Nothing. Nada. One could believe he had turned to stone. Ah, good lord, there was nothing Ferner wouldn’t give to peek into his brain to see how it worked -because it was working hard, right now, that was for certain. But what conclusion was it getting to…?
Who knows? His dear Paul might simply be observing him in his own way, as some kind of silly little being acting recklessly, an eccentric and depraved oddball. Huh. Observing … in his own way?
“You will never see me, that’s for sure. Unless …” Anton added, and his voice almost turned shrill when he felt one of his colleague’s hands moving under his, only to fall back on top his own. “… eyes are not necessary for that.”
With his free hand, Anton pulled his chair across the wooden floor. He pulled it beyond the corner of the table, stopped it there. He sat back down, way closer to the other man, along the same edge, his knees ever so slightly grazing his left thigh. Ferner felt ecstatic – thoroughly overexcited. Having heard him moving so noisily, Oberstein agreed to turn around on his seat, now facing him, even though he wasn’t seeing him. Somehow in this succession of motions, Anton had found himself properly holding one of his colleague’s hands in his own. He grabbed the other without giving it much thought.
And then, without uttering another word, he slowly brought them up to his face.
Paul’s long fingers found their place on his cheekbones. His own hands let go of his colleague’s, and he instead joined them together on his lap; he was letting him the complete leisure of unhindered exploration.
Anton barely dared to breathe. At first, Oberstein confined himself to gauging the shape of his face. Thumbs resting on each side of the bridge of his nose, the rest of the fingers seemingly seeking to define a radius all around, estimating the distance between the ears, the shape of his jawline, the width of his forehead. Ferner cracked a smile. This examination was so meticulous, so absurdly methodical despite the incongruity of the situation, that it perfectly matched the personality of the man in charge of it.
This smile didn’t go unnoticed. A single finger slid down to the corner of his mouth and began thoughtfully tracing the crease it dug in his cheek. Anton let out a huffed laugh – it was a subtle way to hide the sudden hitch in his breath. The very same finger that had pinpointed the smile slithered swiftly along the curve of the laugh. Ferner must be extrapolating, but he could swear he saw the shadow of a grin nip at the other man’s lips.
His heart was racing furiously. Hell, it was beating like it had never beaten before. Oberstein’s fingers kept on mapping out his features with the finnicky precision of a geographer on site, and Anton was boiling. The situation was extraordinary and yet his colleague, true to himself, acted as if it wasn’t. Even when one hand moved to his hair, it simply assessed, evaluated, judged the locks, the roots, the growth pattern. But Anton was greedy. He couldn’t help but yearn for more, always a little more, at the risk of pushing his luck as far as it would go…
“You are oddly quiet, Anton.” Paul spoke out flatly, his words putting a halt to the reckless scheming. Hearing his first name proved very effective to catch his undivided attention. “I was expecting you to be far more talkative speaking about yourself.”
“What is there to say? I find satisfaction in letting your hands uncover my secrets. They seem to be doing a great job at it.”
This time -someone pinch him, quick! – he was almost certain he did perceive an amused undertone to the other man’s huff. Anton gulped down and clasped his own hands tighter.
“What I meant is that my hands cannot make out colours.” Oberstein then calmly explained, and Ferner could swear it looked very much like he too was getting caught up in this little experiment. “I have sufficient memories of colours to conjure them in my mind. However, as I know not those belonging to you, you are the only one able to enlighten me.”
He was starting to think his colleague really did want to know, after all. Had he somehow managed to take a nab at his curiosity? No need to tell him twice.
“My hair has already turned grey, up to the roots…” Anton began, and Paul’s hands slowly made their way to his hair. “… like an old man’s.”
And he was only thirty-one years old. Even his colleague who was a few years older than him didn’t have as much greyish-white hair. That being said, Ferner couldn’t care less. He would even go as far as assuring his light hair made him look dashing. He hoped that Oberstein, upon considering the picture he was making of him in his mind, would share that opinion.
“I have green eyes, as green as the first leaves of spring, and a milk-white complexion, without looking pasty.”
Oberstein’s hands followed with seemingly great diligence the features mentioned. In order. Brushing cautiously over his lashes, his eyebrow arch, then wandering along his cheeks as if he could verify the information given, as if he could feel the colours at the tip of his fingers. It was absurd. Colours didn’t have a texture. Yet his colleague made pretending a point of honour. And so, Anton was wondering… he was wondering if…
Boldness was coming back to him. It never had truly left.
“My lips…” he thus whispered, determined to see how far he could take the exercise. “…are pinkish…”
The greatest part of all this was the complete lack of hesitation on Oberstein’s side. Knowing him, he was simply being precise and methodical, without ulterior motives other than the straightforward. A mouth was an essential component of a face after all, everybody knew that. That was it. And because that was it, Anton quickly felt a wandering forefinger tracing his lips, quickly followed by a middle finger now part of the exploration team, since apparently the observations of a single one weren’t satisfactory enough.
He didn’t give himself time for more thoughts- it was already set in his mind.
Without warning, Ferner pinched his lips, chastely kissing his colleague’s fingertips. The gesture was ridiculous, but my god, how pleasing it was to have surrendered to it. What seemed to be surprise stopped still the other man’s hand. Anton was staring plainly at his face, wishfully seeking out any precursory sign of a look in the making. He saw, let’s see… a wrinkle, at the corner of his mouth. Slight stupefaction. A discreet fine line at the corner of his eye. Impatience. And to top it all off, a fold on his usually smooth forehead. Interest?
“Is that what you were aiming for from the start?” he went as far as asking, in his toneless voice.
The question sounded freezing cold, with an underlying touch of annoyance. But … it was hard to believe Oberstein was genuinely upset at the situation, for both his hands didn’t depart from Anton’s face. Despite everything. They were still there. One perched on his lips, the other stuck to his cheek. Call him crazy all you want; Ferner gave the former another little peck of his lips, before replying openly:
“No.”
It wasn’t a lie! Anton was hoping for way more than this. He however still possessed a sufficient amount of discernment to split up wishful thinking from reality. The kind of common sense he owned prior to meeting Oberstein which had sharpened greatly at his contact. It nonetheless didn’t always keep him from occasionally transposing one into the other with the help of a little audacity. Nothing ventured, nothing gained – he should definitely make that his official motto, eh.
He lifted one hand, gently taking a hold of Paul’s wrist. Anton then ducked his head, planting a third restrained kiss in the palm of the hand he was oh so carefully keeping close.
“My ruses don’t work on you.”
He wasn’t so sure at this point was he was doing anymore. All he was aware of was the staggering leniency Oberstein was displaying tonight. He could have stopped him in his tracks at least twenty times already. With a word, with a withdrawal… and yet, not a word, not a withdrawal. Nothing had fallen upon Ferner to put an abrupt end to his frenzy. For it could only be a frenzy, right? To show such conspicuous signs of his attraction, shamelessly, a frenzy...! To sell his soul for crumbs of attention from the incorruptible Paul von Oberstein, yes, that was one hell of a frenzy, you could say that.
Anton found himself unsettled by the swift removal of the hand he was so mindlessly kissing. It must be reality catching up to him at long last! He who had trailed too far off from its natural course. What was he going to get? The tedious lecturing, or the door slammed to his face?
The very same hand that had slipped from his grip flew authoritatively to his empty cheek. His colleague, now properly holding his face between his ever-so-cold palms, made him raise it back up. Anton was once again brought face to face with the steel severe visage devoid of an animated gaze. He must be dreaming as he began noticing irregularities in its crevasses, shadowy influx of inner disturbance. Or no, no, disturbance was too big of a word for an expression so still. Vague concern would describe it better.
“You must be pleasant to look at.” Oberstein abruptly stated, as if making a simple comment, as if what he had just said wasn’t absolutely and wonderfully crazy coming from him. “Objectively speaking.”
Pardon? Were his ears failing him? There was no way the man who qualified beauty as inherently subjective a mere ten minutes or so ago was now making an attempt at such… comment. Where did his reserving judgment on the matter go?
Well- well, Anton was not complaining. He was… simply not expecting it, at all, ever, yeah. He would have all the time needed to ponder on this oddity later, with a clear head.
“I am terribly flattered. Terribly, really. You are feeding my autolatry, I might grow unsufferable.” He replied amusingly, marvelling at the hint of a smile that haunted his colleague’s lips for a moment.
“More than you already are?” was the observation he automatically received, and Anton heard himself laugh frankly.
Far from losing countenance -he was loving this exchange way too much-, Paul’s words served as the last impulse he needed to dare express his request, by far his most perilous undertaking of this eventful evening. Alea jacta est, as they say. He articulated it fiercely.
“Now that you know my face, would you see any harm in letting it meet yours? All above board…”
Days and nights spent racking his brain searching for the best way to broach the subject, and there he was, on the edge of the abyss, throwing himself in with blithe and not a single glance back. At least he would have tried. Tonight was as good as any other night to give in to oblivion…
He felt himself being drawn forward, here’s why: the hands of his colleague to which his face was at the mercy of were visibly aiming to pull him in. Anton instinctively followed the move, leaned in. Steadying himself by grabbing both the edge of the table and the back of Paul’s chair, he let himself being led toward that once believed unattainable face, stunned and distraught and afire.
“Do not regard this as anything definitive, Anton.” the latter thought wise to warn, in a semi murmur.
A slick smile grew on Ferner’s face while he agreed in a fervent whisper, his breath brushing ardently over Oberstein’s lips.
“You know me, Paul. I would never.”
On that note, he kissed him.
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Bonus : Oberstein and Ferner wearing late 18th century inspired clothes.
Drawing made by yours truly (mimmixerenard on tumblr)
