Work Text:
Pygmalion first realized quite just how inconvenient the sockets' existence was when his hair wouldn't stop meddling with them.
Of course, actually, he'd been aware of it for very long. It's just that the measure was about to boil over. No matter how much he'd try to sew, the material would not listen to him given he had no second hand to press it down into place with.
It was not particularly bothersome at first; Pygmalion would keep fixing his hair, trying to tie it up different ways... or rather asking Goldmarie to, but that was humiliating, if it happened too often, especially.
As he sat hunched over the table, he moved his arm ever so slightly and felt another thin thread, sadly, or maybe fortunately, not the sewing kind, tickle a cavity. The artist simply sighed in resignation, put down the needle and carefully rearranged the stray strand back where it belonged; NOT in the hollow of his face! Augh!
Of course though, it'd happen again, and again!
Watching him from afar with some bit of amusement, Hans, Goldmarie once much ago, would recall the first time he saw this issue when cleaning blood off Pygmalion once. It was nothing unusual, Pygmalion simply happened to be very good at accumulating blood everywhere blood was not meant to be; a silly skill of his, if you may, as he said before attempting to do a bow while laying in Hans' lap. Hans' thumb would hover over the other's face, over the sockets, and then he'd frown.
There was no particular reason for them to still be open. They'd been there for as long as Hans had known Pygmalion visually and they had gotten used to them, just as everyone else. The cavities were simply part of his face now, just as the splotches of red around Hans' own. No one anymore thought of the holes in Pygmalion's face as wounds.
But now that Hans has been stitching things for a living for a while, he would think of them differently. They're two holes, two corners for dust to settle, two unclosed wounds for wind to blow into, two nozzles for fabric to catch on, given Pygmalion's constant refusal of any aid in orientation. Just two sockets that have been allowed to become inconvenience for the artist bearing them had far too much pride to call them otherwise.
Pygmalion complained about them, a few times maybe, but whenever Hans met his complaints with an offer of help, the other would quickly shut this down and cease complaints.
Then Hans watched as another misbehaving strand of hair fell into Pygmalion's face again and tried not to laugh as that idiot tried to blow it away. The brave sir strand, of course, stood unshaken by even the great dragon's breath. Pygmalion tried just cocking his head to the side, too, not wanting to disturb the stitching, but the moment he moved it back the hair would fall back into the burrow.
The poor, thoroughly tormented artist let out a defeated sigh of exasperation, almost molding into anger, but Hans' laugh on the other side of the room killed that seed before it could sprout.
"Do not even-" Pygmalion started and then trailed off, hunching further over the table. "I didn't say anything", Hans followed quickly, to which the other huffed in annoyance, "you were laughing at me,"
"Not at you," Hans smiled, "do you still not need help?"
He watched Pygmalion try to melt into the table. "Why, I am most capable of fixing my own hair", he'd retort with as much kindness in his voice as his irritation-strained throat would allow. "Of course, I am not doubting that," Hans walked up closer, placing a hand on the other's chair, "buuut..."
When Hans rocked the chair forward a bit to betray his position, Pygmalion lifted himself ever so slightly to simulate a glare at them despite his blindness. "But?"
"You know I could fix those sockets of yours," Hans declared, and Pygmalion just laid there flatly, unresponsive. After a while, Hans sighed, ans Pygmalion cocked his tongue, "If I could roll my eyes I'd be doing that right now, for your information," he snickered.
The other crossed around the chair to lightly pet Pygmalion's hair, then touch his face; beautiful as Pygmalion's noble, though flawed, soul, despite its hollows. "I could stitch them shut," he offered, unintentionally quieter than before. The petting made another strand fall into Pygmalion's dear abbysses, at which he groaned and batted off Hans' hand to get it out.
"The sockets-" Hans tried again, "I gathered," huffed Pygmalion. "I really could-" tried Hans and Pygmalion just turned his head to them sadly. "There's nothing wrong with them, I don't need you fussing over me," despite the unapproachable tone he opted for, he just sounded pathetic.
After some more "you've been fighting-" "i've been winning!" "clearly", Hans eventually gave up, but finished off by smacking the old fuck's shoulder, earning an indignant noise, and then winking out of sheer taught habit before the sudden realization hit that, oh, fuck, right, he's blind. Fuck. Idiot. Solve this, solve this fast.
"A, uh," began the world's greatest rhetor. "Brilliant." No, what? "Anyway! The offer stands!" He declared before scurrying off, leaving Pygmalion chuckling in confusion.
As much as he hated to admit it, the offer did intrigue him, but it felt humiliating because of the person extending it. Of course, Pygmalion wouldn't accept it so easily had it been anyone else either, but it being Hans made it worse anyway.
For a while Pygmalion entertained the idea of a blindfold, though that simply itched and got dirty quickly. At least he scared little kids less, though.
Tying hair didn't work, as previously mentioned, and neither would cutting it short. He thought about it for a moment but quickly discarded the thought as it offended Pygmalion too deeply. He'd spent now a century or two with his hair exactly as he liked it and he wouldn't let two sockets bully him into cutting it!
And, and... maybe there was not anything wrong with those two dumb bullies! Maybe there was no need to think about any solution at all, they weren't so bad, Pygmalion thought, and then far more than a strand fell into his face.
"Hans!"
And that is precisely how he ended up this way, with his head in Hans' lap as said person carefully pressed thread through the smallest needle's ear. From the sounds, Pygmalion could tell he was struggling, and normally he'd make fun of it were it not for his less than honourable position in the world's most beautiful person' lap.
"I believe that needle is too small," is what he opted for, half-teasing. Hans simply snickered, "no, I do need the smallest one I have. You don't want to have holes all over your face!" Hans smiled, even in his voice, and Pygmalion wished he could see that. He'd never seen him smile when he could still see, and now it was too late to. He desperately wanted to learn each curve of his face, but decided it'd be too humiliating to ask, so he laid there yearning.
"Perhaps you should use a larger one," Pygmalion proposed, to tease. "Perhaps you should stop moving," Hans retorted swiftly and patted Pygmalion's shoulder, killing whatever resistance he was about to verbalize. "Unless you'd like to do this yourself?" Hans continued, and finally gave a quiet hum of satisfaction as the thread finally made it through the needle's ear, despite the fact Hans only had one good hand to do so with, curse the wing!
There was something quite humiliating about being at Hans' mercy, Pygmalion thought, and swallowed blood that wasn't even there, out of habit, memory. Not actually at his mercy, though, of course, Pygmalion was not helpless. This is just Hans aiding him in ridding of a minor inconvenience. A practical matter, nothing more.
Nothing more. Pygmalion suddenly felt goosebumps, he felt cold. Cold, pathetic. And maybe a little bit unwell, even
Hans' feathers rested in Pygmalion's hair before he pressed onto an eyelid with them ever so slightly, ever so lightly; light as a dancer balancing on a rope. Pygmalion's breath nearly hitched as the needle touched his skin.
Then Hans chuckled, loud and warm, "you're so pale, jeez. Don't be so scared," and Pygmalion tried to laugh along, but it was the awkwardest sound he'd ever let out of himself.
He wanted to see Hans's face, lit up with laughter, so much that it hurt.
It was an absurd thought, of course, he had spent so long without sight by now that he ought to have stopped thinking such. The only face he's ever seen was but a bygone memory now, faces in general were now mere visages constructed of voices, touch, or whatever scraps people fed him. Art, they were, in some way.
His heart ached, regardless of how much Pygmalion tried to shove it down.
He could ask Hans to describe themself, but what good would that do? The shape of his hair, his eyes, his mouth when he smiled, whatever ridiculous expression he was making, but Pygmalion was sure he'd use different wording, and besides asking would be a monument to humiliation once again. So instead he laid perfectly still, letting Hans work.
The feeling of warm fingerpads on his cheek, on his forehead, on his jaw or his eyelids made a shiver run down his spine each time. Each time Hans' hand paused somewhere and he mumbled a "hold still" while guiding the needle through gently, Pygmalion would swallow, with difficulty, "I am," and he would again feel a prick, then pull, as the thinnest threads went through his skin. Hans' fingers moved with growing confidence, as he used the wing occasionally to strain the skin taut.
The careful pressure of a thumb besides his brow, the warmth of a palm against his cheek; it all made Pygmalion want to evaporate right there and then. Each precise touch made him want to burrow his head in Hans and feel his warmth, each bit of skin contact burned him, nearly. Hans must look so concentrated above him, the disadvantaged artist thoight, or maybe he is smiling. Pygmalion quietly hoped it's the latter.
"Hans.."
The so-named lifted themself ever so slightly, "hm?"
What do you look like, Pygmalion had nearly asked. He didn't need to know the things like the colour of his hair, he wanted to know what he looked like right now. Jesus, no, that's... the question reached his tongue and simply died there, and he gulped nervously, "your hand is cold."
A tiny pause, then Hans held his palm to one of the other's cheeks and the feathered wing to the other, rubbing slowly. His voice was even warmer than Pygmalion's flushed skin, "better?"
Pygmalion went quite still, "yes," and, after thought:
"...thank you"