Work Text:
Johannes can’t look away.
Not from the snow-white porcelain mask, cracked in places like old ice.
Not from the white robe, its hem and sleeves darkened with blood — smeared like careless strokes of watercolor.
Not from the yellow eyes, bright as fresh buttercups, sharp and unyielding as they scan the papers in his lap. Pale lashes, nearly invisible behind the narrow slits of the mask, tremble with every flick of his gaze, line by line.
Johannes simply can’t look away.
— What?
He flinches at the voice — sharp as a blade. Then again, at the cold, piercing stare that cuts straight through him.
— What what?
— You’re staring. It’s irritating.
Johannes subtly bites his lip. His eyes dart once more — over the layered white fabric, the hands: one swallowed by a thick, dark glove, the other wrapped in a bandage stained and scribbled with dried blood. Then back to the mask, smooth and lifeless as carved marble.
He doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. The words slip out, careless, raw:
— You’re beautiful.
Silence.
Varre says nothing.
A full minute passes. His eyes slowly narrow, boring into Johannes as if peeling back layer after layer, searching for the last flicker of warmth in a half-dead soul. And Johannes can’t stop the stupid, nervous smile tugging at his lips — the one that betrays him every time.
— Beautiful? — Varre tastes the word like something bitter. Tests it. Rejects it. — Beautiful? What are you, fucking fifteen?!?!
He jerks his hand away — a motion sharp, almost elegant, yet drenched in contempt.
— Oh for the love of Lord, just- Get out of here, go somewhere else! Go fall into a ditch, pick a fight with a beggar! Anything — just leave me alone! I have work to do!
Johannes doesn’t move. He can’t tear his eyes away. Not even as Varre rises, turns, and walks away.
He watches until the white figure vanishes into the mist — still smiling.
Still burning.
Still hopelessly, helplessly looking.