~cas~

Donny’s loosened his tie, unbuttoned a few buttons off the top of his shirt, and his hair has fallen loose of the gel’s feeble attempts to hold it in a slicked-back style. All things considered, even in his mussed state, Donny looks lovely in formal wear. 

“I should ask you to dress like this more often.” I coo at him, pulling his tie completely undone with a gentle swoosh of the fabric and tossing it over his shoulder. He grins down at me, lopsided, blushing, and full of roguishness. 

“Yeah? It’s not my favorite but if you like it I guess it wouldn’t kill me.” 

“Oh, ‘like it’ is an understatement- I could stare at you all night. I think I just did, actually.” 

He laughs, pulling an arm around me and unlocking the door to our room. “You love to stare when you’re drunk.”

“Because you’re intoxicating- the most handsome man in the world.” 

He opens the door and I gesture widely for him to enter. 

“Dork- you’re going to give me a big head.”

“Never. You can’t call it an ego if it's a simple fact.”

“Flatterer.” He states as he loosens my tie, pulling it off and placing it aside. A moment later, his joins it, pulled off his shoulder and tossed with far less care than mine. “How do I get more of that to happen?”

I pull his jacket off his shoulders, placing a kiss on his cheek as I do. “Just keep being how you are, I can’t help it.” 

“Can’t help it, now?”

“I mean- look at you-” I gesture at him, he flushes slightly- but his grin does not fade in the least. I turn and hang his coat in the closet, taking mine off and hanging it next to his. The size difference is almost laughable. 

“I say it a lot but I love you- you don’t understand.”

I laugh now, turning back to fix him with a look. “Whatever do you mean? Like I don’t feel the same? I’m also quite enraptured, remember?” 

“Mm, but I think it’s impossible for you to understand how I feel, anyway.” He walks over and grabs me by the waist, pulling me close and giving me a kiss. I’m unsure, entirely, if my head spins because of the dopamine or because of the alcohol. I hear myself giggle, pulling him back in by the collar of his shirt. I’m not particularly concerned with the details of the cause of my joy at the moment.

He picks me up, the same as when we’d had our first kiss, my stomach does a flip of excitement and for a moment I forget all else as I wrap my legs around his waist-

Until there’s a loud thud and I realize a few moments after that it was the sound of my head hitting the wall- I only process it by the way Donny is apologizing and asking if I’m okay. 

“This seems to be a rough ride.” I comment, intertwining my finger through one of his loose waves, curling the strand around it. “I’m not sure if I trust the driver anymore.”

He laughs gently, burying his head into my neck, bracing himself against the wall. The whiskers of his beard tickle, sending goosebumps across my flesh. I do my best to hold back the giddy laughter from it. 

“Sorry. Are you okay? Really.”

“Yes, I’m fine. But perhaps we aren’t sober enough for that- as much as I like being tossed around.”

“I’m very invested in you enjoying being thrown around, Harv.” He teases with an arched eyebrow.

This causes the blood to rush to my face, the tone of his voice catches me off guard. “Yeah, well, what if I want to do what you like?”

“Me.” He draws back and meets my gaze. “Easy answer, do me.”

I laugh, full bodied and joyful, appreciating the gleam in his eyes when I react this way to him. “Yeah? What do you want me to do with you?”

He thinks for a moment, studying my face, then pulls me away from the wall and tosses me onto the bed- I can’t lie and say I’m not impressed by the sheer strength it takes to do such a thing, that I’m not attracted to it. He sits down and starts taking off his shoes, chucking one and then the other before laying down with me. “I like being able to be close to you, to hold you, to kiss you- I like it when you do those things first.” “What else?” I kick my shoes off, Donny’s eyes track the motion before wandering back up to my face.

“Well-.” He takes a slow and deep breath in, looking over me again with a spark of heat. The rest of his response is murmured in a low and bassy tone. “I want you to touch me, make me lose my damn mind.”

He pulls me close and I find myself running my hands along his arms. I’m captivated by the subtle shifting of muscles under my fingertips, frustrated by the fabric which folds and catches as I try to etch the lines of them. “Do you need this?” I tug at the sleeve and his eyebrows shoot up. “I hope not.” He sits up, starts undoing the next button on his shirt. I sit up with him, pull his hand away and take over the task for him- kneeling as I work on the buttons. “You know… I find the human body fascinating. It’s amazing how we function, move, breathe-” I glance up to meet his eyes, the redness on his face betraying nerves in equal measure. I pull the shirt off his shoulders, tossing it aside and pressing my palm against his chest- feeling his too-fast heartbeat in rhythm with mine. “And- I like knowing that I’m the reason your heart is beating like this.”  

I trail my hands up, gently pulling him toward me for a kiss, reveling in the way his breath hitches as I brush fingertips along his jugular vein to the back of his jaw. 

His lips meet mine and I can’t help the smile that forms on my face as they do, delight being such a simple concept in the moment- but how it ever existed without him, I do not know.

He brings his hand up to my neck and pulls me closer, starving for more as if the kiss will never be enough. In this particular instance, I agree. 

Somewhere within this exchange, I find myself wandering. My hands glide over beautiful skin and I enjoy the way Donny seems to melt into my touch, breathing a soft hum of approval as I move. 

He pulls away suddenly and starts to kiss my neck, a gesture that sends my head reeling, the feeling of wet, open kisses on my skin is nearly too much to bear. 

He works on the buttons of my shirt at the same time- fumbling, slightly, until I impatiently tell him to just rip the damn thing open. He glances at me questioningly, but then simply chuckles and obliges. The buttons fly off in a cacophony and he slides the shirt off my shoulders freely, kissing along my clavicles as he does.

Then he falls onto his back, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me with him so my hands rest on either side of his head and I’m straddling his hips. I smile down at him for a moment, then grind my hips into his. He moans loudly, throwing his head back and flushing deeper, a sight and sound that I enjoy to its fullest before I move on.

I start kissing a trail down his neck, over his collarbone, between his pecs, arching my back as I move lower, pulling myself further back on my knees. I glance up at Donny as I do this, loving the way his eyes are following me in reverent hunger. 

I giggle, feeling the rush of joy from the look of anticipation on his face, and sink my teeth into his chest. Once again, Donny moans for me, spitting out a swear and gripping at the blankets- being more worked up the longer I take.

So I take my time, breathing over his skin and whispering soft proclamations about his beauty, the way I adore him, the way I love how he sounds- I mean every word of it and he damn well knows it. Each word hits him in full, a new rush of sensation, another hitched breath, another exclamation of how much I’m driving him insane.

But we both know he won’t do anything about it until he’s on the edge of desire- this is the game we play. 

So I begin describing in detail the nerves that run along his arms, tracing them softly with kisses before graduating to discussing the science behind endorphins. 

I demonstrate this by gifting him several bite marks along his sides and hips, explaining his pain threshold to him as he writhes under me begging me to stop teasing him.

I answer this by sliding my fingers along his waistband, slowly unbuttoning his pants and sliding them down and off of him. The underwear follows suit without much ceremony. I can tell by Donny’s breathing that he’s sure that I’m done now, he feels relief in the finality of the movement- so I trace a trail back up his body with my tongue, gently kissing along the way and muttering how he’s been so good for waiting so long. 

But he’s growing frustrated with the waiting, the way I’ve pulled every trick I possibly can to make him want this more than he’s ever wanted anything, and when I look back into his eyes all I see is an all consuming, lust-sodden, darkened gaze. 

So mercy, it is -as if I’m not on the edge of teetering over into animalistic carnality anyway- I hurry to dispose of my own clothing, tossing them off to the side and relishing the feeling of flesh against flesh. 

Donny’s hands glide down my back, warm and heavy and beautifully large in the way they nearly encapsulate my hips entirely when he grabs them. 

Now it’s my turn to plead with him, leaning down and savoring a kiss that’s as much lust as it is appreciation, when I pull away I breathe out a simple ‘please.’ 

I stop short- my stomach churning in a sudden anxiety, anger, irrationality. He’s in my home, why is he here? Why did he show up while I was gone? Why did he take it upon himself to search through my things? Logic cuts through all delusions, excitement, any part of me that would’ve been happy to see him.

“What- what are you doing?” My eyes will not leave the book in his hands, as if I’m being pulled into the way his calloused fingers wrap around the edges of the page. Rough with something far too delicate, like the book may tear apart just by being held by him. “Why do you- that’s my-“ I swallow, stepping forward and reaching for the sketchbook.

He pulls away. My eyes snap up to meet his and he looks almost as shocked as I feel. 

“Donald- give that back!” I reach again and he dodges again. I become aware of the fact that I’m shaking now, anger feeling as if it’s gnawing at my bones. “Don-“

He furrows his brow suddenly, demeanor shifting from a dazed shock to frustration. “Why?”

“Because it’s mi-“

“No! You know what I’m asking! Why!?”

“You’re being childish! Just-“ I reach once again and he lifts the sketchbook into the air, far out of my reach. 

As if it’s not enough of a absurd gesture to be in my home in the first place, as if it wasn’t enough to look through the one thing I know for a fact he knew I didn’t want him to see- now he’s leveraging his physical attributes against me, keeping one of my most beloved possessions out of my grasp. 

I start to grab at his arm, trying to bring it within reach. The damn man is so muscular he barely moves at all,  a wall of strength and defiance staring down at me with a growing agitation.

“You said you were afraid I’d abandon the project-” “I’m not talking about this-” “You are and I’m not giving this back-” He shifts, his weight uneven enough for just the right amount of time for me to cause him to stumble slightly. He lets out a sharp swear as his reach dips for a moment and I reach with my other hand. He grabs my wrist with his one free hand, shuffling slightly so I have to adjust my footing or fall, letting out a small sound of effort. I shuffle back slightly, wrenching against his grasp on my wrist- to no avail, not that either one of us would be surprised at that result. “Let me go!” I pull back with my full body weight, feeling his grip tighten on my wrist slightly. “Stop trying to fight me! I just want answers!” At this point, I must admit, rationality has abandoned me. The sheer frustration at the situation has created a strong resistance to reason, I don’t want to concede and admit defeat. I don’t want to give him the damned satisfaction. I glare up at him, satisfied at my flustering him being evidenced in the flush on his face and how his eyes widen slightly. “What a shame, I won’t give them.” He sets his jaw, taking pause to give me a withering look of frustration. “Why are you being so stubborn about this?” I reach for the notebook with my free hand again, trying to push myself into him and knock him off balance enough to gain some sort of advantage- he stumbles back a step before sighing and grabbing that wrist in his free hand as well. He spins slightly, stepping forward with my hands held above my head. I try to keep the space between us, attempting to hold my pride despite the obvious loss I’m suffering. 

I step back several paces in time with his advance before I feel my back land flush against the wall. He pins my wrists up against it, leaning into my space. I stare up at him, suddenly feeling entirely out of my depth. My eyes linger on the sketchbook for a moment before meeting his again and I have to swallow back my nerves. “Are you ready to give up?” He asks, something in his tone far less hostile and perhaps more tired. “No. I didn’t do anything wrong.” “That’s what you think?” He scoffs, shaking his head and looking to the ceiling for a moment before returning his gaze to me. “Your hypocrisy is insufferable.” “Then why come back!? Let it be!” He leans closer, mere inches away from my face. “Because-” There’s a moment of hesitation, he struggles with a few words before forcing out a low “you’re driving me insane.” It's at this instant that my body seems to catch up to the situation, suddenly I’m aware of his grip on my wrists, the warmth of his rough hands, the fact that he’s not holding me tightly enough to actually cause any discomfort. My heartbeat starts to race, a thrumming in my ears as I stare at him, as the words catch up to me. “Don’t be ridiculous I-“

“`Ridiculous? I don’t even know your name. Who are you?” 

“That’s- you don’t need to-“ my heartbeat is resting in my throat now, he’s close enough that I can feel his body heat radiating off of him.

His eyes flicker down to my lips as I talk, I hate that I notice it, I hate that I flush at it.

“Tell me your name.” He demands once again.

Tension lingers suspended in the few seconds it takes me to answer, something within me suddenly wanting to rise up to the challenge- a sudden rush of giddy glee in the frustration I cause him.

“Make me.”

He stares at me blankly, seeming to process what I’ve said. I expect more anger, to get a rise out of him, instead he lowers the hand with the sketchbook down to his side. Then he drops the book with an unmistakable sound, one that sends a slight shock through me. His eyes lock onto mine, he takes a breath in before whispering so softly I have to wonder if I’d imagined the word leaving his lips. “Tell me.” My heart skitters in my chest, for a brief second of time I wonder if I might be drunk for the way my head spins. He raises his free hand up to my chin and gently grabs my face, making it impossible for me to look away. I can’t avoid noticing the smaller details, the way his chest is heaving with too-fast breaths in sync with mine, the high flush upon his cheeks, his dilated pupils as his staring bores holes into my soul.

“Harvey.” It’s like a confession, something I feel deep shame for, something I wish I could leave behind. The security of being unknown crumbles around me as he smirks down at me. “See? Not so hard-” “We're done. Get out.” I come across far more defeated than I intend, weaker than I’d want to.

“Unfortunately for both of us, I need answers”

“You’ve got your damn answer, let me go!” I strain against him and he grits his teeth, squinting at me. “No- I got one answer and you’re still avoiding the issue-” “There’s no issue! Nothing but your delusions-” “My delusions?! Mine?” An accusation, one that makes perfect sense to me. I’ve been far less than a doctor should be, acting without thinking, letting my desire overtake my sense. “Yes!” “You started this!” “So-so let me end it!” “No!” “Why? Just- let it be!” He shakes his head, letting out a laugh that very nearly chills me to the bone, wry and exasperated. “I tried that. You’re the one who won’t leave me alone.” “What? I’ve-” “Every day- every day my mind wanders back to you. I can’t stop wondering what I did wrong- I can't stop thinking about… How am I supposed to just- how am I supposed to just walk away?”

“It’s- it’s just research…” A pathetic lie, one I’ve told myself plenty of times. Then, with hardly a warning, our lips collide. Heat floods through my body in an undeniable spark of need, the flush on my face deepening as he pulls his hand off my wrists and slides his arm around my waist. He pulls me close, flush against his body, and instinctively my arms wrap around his neck. I find myself pulling him into me, a carnal desire to be held, needed, wanted, consumes me to the core- I forget myself, all else seeming to melt away. The only thing that matters is the firm pressure of his hand against the small of my back, is the heat of his body against mine, the strength of his hand wrapped around the back of my neck. Then he withdraws, sudden and just as shockingly as when he’d started the kiss- I find myself wishing he hadn’t torn himself out of my grasp, left my hands feeling strangely empty, my chest feeling cold. “Is it still just research?” He asks, almost with a sense of triumph in his tone, still breathing with a quick rise and fall of his chest, still flushed and looking as if he’s a starving animal and I’m his next meal. Still being far, far, too easily swayed. Still proving that I could never make a new life for myself if I were to remain in his presence. Still hauntingly beautiful, painfully wonderful. Still far too much of a liability for me to be comfortable around. “... Yes.” Any joy he might’ve felt falls from his face, replaced by disgust and colored with hurt. He says nothing, just steps backward away from me as if I’d transformed into some hideous beast, something utterly repugnant, sickening. Perhaps I am, I feel as if I may be someone worthy of such a response.

Then he turns, walking out of the house without even glancing back at me. I’d expected the door to slam shut, some sort of last word, but instead he closes the door gently and I am left standing in the cold room alone. I can’t bring myself to move just yet, instead I look down at my sketchbook where it lay on the floor. I hate it, everything within it, the proof of words thrown at me with such malice that they take permanent residence in my mind.

There’s no intelligence in a man who cannot separate his love for his science from his subject.

It seems I’ll never be an intelligent man, simply a hurtful one. I crouch down and pick up the sketchbook, thumbing through the pages- so many are filled with drawings of him. So many failed attempts at catching the spirit of the man who sat before me, so many times I’ve cursed my hands…

I sigh, trying to swallow back the tears in my eyes as I look over the sketches.

I cannot live like this.

I light a fire, kindling it to a blaze, and cast the sketchbook into the fireplace.

I watch as the flames lick at the pages, charring and devouring them, curling the edges in on themselves until they’ve been turned into ash. I tell myself, so it burns away the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, the way I’d memorized him, every laugh line and callous.

I wish I felt warmth in this, but I simply watch it all burn and feel further from myself with each passing moment. In the end, though, it’s what’s best.

I hear the sound of metal, then the gentle sound of what I assume to be the mask being placed upon the table. Fabric rustles gently, then with a shock I feel his touch on my shoulder. I flinch, slightly, embarrassingly- being unable to tell where he is sets me at unease.

Even so, after that moment all I can feel is the way he traces routes along my arms, gentle fingertips eliciting a trail of goosebumps, drawing from my shoulder to my wrist, following some unknown path. Then his hand leaves me and I’m lost to him again, suspended in a void of darkness and vague sounds of movement.

Then I gasp slightly at his next touch, running a hand along my clavicle, tracing across my chest with a muttered exaltation in breathless french- loosely translated into a prayer of thanks or a proclamation of disbelief. I set my jaw, trying not to think too hard on the words he’d uttered, the fact that he probably believes them to be private. I’ll let him have his reverence, the astonishment he seemed to feel so strongly that he turned to a god he does not believe in.

I try not to think about the way I’m already shaking, how I want to pull my blindfold off and finally see him, how the way he’s examining me makes me feel like it’s less science and more worship.

I try not to flinch away from the way he tilts my chin up to observe me, resting his thumb on my bottom lip- I cease breathing for a moment, swallowing and trying to focus back on the task at hand. Wasn’t there a reason for this? I can hardly even remember anymore, I’ve grown so lost in the sea of sensation-

My heartbeat rages in my ears still, I realize with a start that I’m in this situation so he could listen to it- I’m not even sure at this point if I want him to.

Though, he’s aware, surely, of his effect on me currently. There’s no way he hasn’t taken note of the way my breath faltered when he’d grabbed me, the redness in my face, the shaking in my hands.

“Are-” I start a question, cringing the moment the first word leaves my mouth- too loud, shattering the reverent atmosphere. “Are you okay? Its-its quiet. I’m… nervous.”

“Sorry-” My breath hitches again, my head spins slightly- this is the first time I’ve heard his voice clearly, with no mask, actually speaking to me. “Yes- I’m… making notes.”

“Oh- okay.” I’m struggling to formulate a sentence, feeling him trace a line down the side of my neck before he places a flat palm against my chest.

“I’m going to give your heart a listen now.” He finally says, slightly quiet, like he’s just as lost in this situation as I am.

I nod, clenching my hands into a fist and trying to focus solely on breathing evenly.

He rests his head against my chest, his breath hot against my skin, stray strands of hair brushing against me gently. There’s a moment where, with his body pressed against mine, I feel the urge to wrap my arms around him in reciprocal- an urge I curse myself for when I catch the thought dancing through my mind.

I place my hands flat on the table instead, counting seconds while the doctor does what he needs to do.

“Your heart’s racing.” He finally says, quietly, a hint of disbelief within his voice.

“I know.”

There’s a longstanding silence before he responds. “Mine as well.”

Then he steps away from me, I hear the tell-tale scratching of a pencil on paper, and then I hear fabric rustling, the sounds of him putting the mask back on.

I almost don’t want this to end, don’t want to walk back into reality, to see and know the moment we held together and pretend it never happened.

But he reaches back around me and unties the blindfold with swift movements, gently pulling it away from my face. I blink my eyes back into focus and find myself unable to look directly at him, still fighting away the flush that feels as if I’ve been set ablaze.

“You should go home.” He says, a finality to his tone. “You should- I’m- I won’t walk you tonight, I’m sorry. You should go.”

“What!?” Confusion blurs through me at a speed I can hardly process- all I know is I don't want to leave.

“This is- this is a bad idea- We shouldn’t have ever started this- just- please go. I-” He sounds nervous, panic rising in his voice more the longer he speaks. “I don’t- I can’t- please-”

“Okay, okay- I’m- I’m going. I’m sorry.” Suddenly it feels as if everything is shattering around me. I pull my shirt on, making my way to the door. I glance back at the doctor, who doesn’t even look at me, and steal away into the darkness.

I move at a pace I hadn’t taken for well over a month, quickly making my way down the road, fighting back stinging tears- I wouldn’t have felt this kind of pain if I hadn’t let my imagination run away with me, if I hadn’t entertained ideas.

I shouldn’t have let myself hope the way I did, it was a mistake allowing any sort of affection to grow for someone I know nothing about. He saw me clearly for the first time and- and I still know nothing, have seen nothing, am being played like a fool.

When I get home I head straight to my room, slumping down into my bed and trying to hold back the tears that make their way down my face anyway. I lay down, staring up at the ceiling and letting them fall, feeling rather stupid for the entire situation, trying not to play back and criticize every moment of interaction.

But I do anyway, I can’t help but try and picture what he saw, try and imagine his thoughts- what was the final thing that made him decide to turn me out of his home?

Maybe he realized I was not simply nervous about the procedure, realized it was a reaction to him. Maybe the thought of it disgusted him, even though he’s had a male companion before. Perhaps all his flattery was no more than kindness.

I sigh, turning over and bringing my blanket up over my head as if it’ll protect me from the onslaught of harsh thoughts. Instead, my mind wanders to the way he’d muttered a breathless prayer of thanks- in a language he’d assume I do not know.

No, I do not think I am something so wretched as to drive him away. I just cannot fathom what would make him suddenly so harsh- cancel the entire project we had started.

Or, at least, I can speculate but I’d find it rather hard to believe. For now, though, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it. I shut my eyes and try to welcome sleep.

It’s hardly restful, a night spent remembering the ghosts of his touch and pretending I don’t- trying to chase away the thoughts of it, bring my mind elsewhere.

When morning finally arrives and I make my way to work, I notice a distressing lack of the doctor. I try to ask another keeper, ‘have you seen the plague doctor today?’ and her response was ‘which one?’

I have no answer for her, though I bit back from responding ‘my plague doctor’- as he’d begun to be known by his association with me.

So I work through the day keeping an eye out, heart skipping a beat every time I see someone who might be around his height covered in a cloak, then chastising myself for the dog-like loyalty.

By the end of the day it had become clear he wouldn't be here.

I stare into the distance, toward the path we take to his house, and contemplate walking over.

I decide against it. As much as I want to, as much as I would love to find some answers, it seems clear to me that he wants space.

So then the next day at work goes the same way.

Followed by the next.

On the tenth working day without the doctor there, I grow concerned. There’s been a pit in my stomach rapidly consuming me, a sickness and weariness that haunts me- I’m not even done with my work day yet before I excuse myself and set off walking.

I reach the stoop of his home and realize a little too late that I’d not come up with any sort of plan. I don’t know what I’d say to him, what questions I have or how to ask them- all I know is I’m worried he won’t be here, that he’s moved on to somewhere new. I’m worried that I’ll find nothing but bitter disappointment.

I raise my hand and knock loudly, waiting and listening for movement. I hear nothing from the other side, not even the crackling of the fire. I step back and see no smoke from the chimney- my heart sinks.

I knock again, waiting a few moments longer, and still nothing. With my heart held in my throat, I try the handle.

The door opens with ease and I step inside, peering around the room.

It doesn’t look as if he’d left, after all. I sigh in relief, closing the door behind me. He’s simply out.

I glance over at his desk- the sketchbook sits open atop it, and I hesitate.

I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even be in here without him, really, this is already a little too imposing…

But it’s left open. If I were to walk by and see what is there, how much harm could come of it, really? He’s not here to catch me. Besides, what if this is the only clue I get as to what is happening?

I walk over slowly, keeping an ear out for any sounds that may indicate his return, and look down at the sketch book.

There are several drawings of me on the page. Half of them are scribbled over, clearly done so in a fit of frustration, the other half are incomplete.

I wonder when these were done? I don’t remember some of these poses, so they must be older-

I glance around the room quickly and then make a split-second decision to grab the book and start thumbing through it.

This is the last page of its kind. I flip to the beginning of the book and find drawings with notes written in french alongside measurements- par for the course, exactly what I had expected.

As I thumb through the pages, however, the drawings become more detailed and the notes…

They start sounding like journal entries.

“Today he laughed and it set my heart alight- I wish I could capture his smile and take it out on the difficult days, a light to strengthen my spirits.”

“When he smiles he gains laugh lines, his eyes crinkle up in a delightful manner.”

“I could never draw him well enough- I believe myself incredibly lucky to perceive him at all.”

I flip through to the final drawings- the final notes.

“Canceling the research, my personal feelings are becoming too intertwined. I believe it’s influencing both him and I.”

I look through the drawings several times, recognizing some of the poses and reading his observations- it seems no detail escaped him, every scar, every freckle, all written down in depth.

For how hard he’d been on himself over the drawings, they’re actually incredible- I can’t bring myself to stop staring at them, wondering if this is how he views me.

The man on the page is- beautiful in a way I could never consider myself to be, depicted in such a way that I marvel at it.

“Donald?” A surprised voice calls out and I turn with a shock, apology already halfway off my lips-

Much like before, I struggle to pull my attention away from how close we stand to one another, his arm wrapped around me slightly, landing his other hand pressed against my back near my shoulder blade.

Every small movement is registering, the slight twitch of a finger as he shifts to glance up at me- once again I’m fighting to keep my breathing tame. I am certain he notices my tension, he eases his hand off my back and steps away, creating a distance between us.

“You’re tense.” He simply comments, I nod at him, feeling the embarrassment on my face.

“Sorry.”

“No-” He draws away from me completely with a short sigh. “It’s okay- it just makes taking measurements slightly more challenging. It throws off my information.”

If I could control it, I would. “What- what should we do, then?”

“Well- I could spend some time sketching you, let you relax a little bit, then try again. It may take… it may take a few tries.”

“Okay. I have time.”

He nods toward the bed. “Sit, then, we’ll get started.”

I oblige, slightly relieved to be back to some form of normalcy. This part, being sketched by him, is such a common occurrence that I’ve managed to learn to sit well enough as to not annoy the doctor. However he maneuvers me, I’m as good as frozen in place.

It’s with vested interest, however, that I notice he doesn’t put the gloves back on. He kneels next to me, running his hands along my arm gently as he positions me- a move so decidedly cruel, a ripple of contained nervous energy skitters through my body as he does it. He hums a note, thinking, settling back into a crouch to look at me.

Then he reaches up, catching my jaw in his grip and turning my gaze to face slightly off to the left.

There’s a moment of stillness where he doesn't remove his hand, just stares- it would be less intimidating if it weren’t for that damn mask. I find myself glancing over at him from the corner of my eye, swallowing nervously.

He chuckles, pulling his hand back and sitting back in his chair again. “Wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” I mimic softly, trying to catch a glimpse of him, even though he’s slightly out of range of sight where he currently sits.

“Mhm. I like the way the firelight plays with your features at this angle-” He brings his chair closer, now well within arm's length. “If I could just- can I let your hair down?”

My mind stalls to a halt, processing the question for a moment too long. It feels like such an odd question, feels unimportant to the idea of research, feels less like science and more like intimacy.

“Sorry, maybe that’s-”

“Yes- go ahead.” I croak out, finding myself somewhat baffled at my own voice, how quiet I come across.

He hesitates for only a moment before untying the thin strip of fabric, gently placing it in my hand for me to hold. He shifts a few rogue waves of hair into place, gently pulling his fingers through it in what I estimate to be an attempt at taming it.

He settles back into his seat again and lets out a contented hum. “Perfection.”

That is worth every moment of effort- the way the word rolls off his tongue, laden with his thick french accent, plays like music.

“I thought you said there’s no such thing.” I attempt to joke, trying to cover my nerves with humor.

“I was wrong.” He says with clarity, as if he’s ready to defend his stance, like I’d ever be stupid enough to challenge him- mostly, I want to hear it again.

“You flatter me.”

He lets out a singular huff of laughter. “I cannot convince the blind of what they cannot see, no?” This is followed by the gentle sound of charcoal on paper, a sound that I’ve grown accustomed to, the sound of him sketching down delicate lines in precise motions. I can’t see the action, but I can hear the way he shifts to look closer, how he sometimes pauses and simply studies me.

Eventually, my heart stops racing, I relax slightly, letting the tension loosen out of my shoulders and taking a large breath.

“Better?” He asks me, silence speaking to the way his full attention is now on me and not focused on the page.

“Am I truly that obvious?”

“Yes. Though, in fairness to you, most people probably aren’t studying you the way I am. Take a break, stretch a little.”

I nod at him, rolling my shoulders back and reveling in the gentle relief. “Do you ever intend to show me what you’re drawing in there?” I ask casually, knowing the answer and going through the motions regardless.

“Not now- I’ll- I’d have to finish up some stuff- it’s really not anywhere near ready to be seen.”

“I’d like to, one day. I’m-”

“Curious, I know- one day.”

The answer I get every time. It’ll never be the right time, it’ll never be polished enough, he seems far too critical of it to reach a point in which I’ll get to see more than the botany sketches I’d glanced at when I first visited.

He clears his throat, shutting the book and setting it aside. “Since we’re taking a break, I’d like to try to gauge your heartbeat again.”

I stand, positioning myself how he’d had me standing earlier. He stands and slots himself into place with ease, one hand over my heart- and once again the other lands on my shoulder.

“Is- is there a reason-” I finally begin asking the question I’ve been thinking, though my voice waivers slightly as I do. “Uh- you need both hands for this?”

There’s a long silence, I know with certainty that he’s feeling my heartbeat kick up under his palm, a combination of worry from my boldness and fretting over the extra touch.

“Yes.” He finally responds, though something in his tone sounds- odd.

“What- what is it?”

“Uh- well… with- since your heart is on this side of your body,” he nods to where his hand rests on my chest, “I need to- it needs to be balanced… on the other side.”

I stare at him, calculating- “but doesn’t that- if my heart usually beats unevenly then, wouldn’t that throw it off?”

“I didn't realize you were a doctor.” Defensive.

“Sorry, you’re right.”

“Anyway it’s- it’s new science so it may not be sound… I don’t want to take risks, though, just in case.”

“Right- best not to, I suppose.” I turn my gaze over to the fire, avoiding looking at him and taking a deep breath. He’s not being entirely honest, something about the way he’s dealing with my question confirms it to me.

With that simple truth, however, I’m able to relax slightly. The doctor finally pulls away, writing numbers down in his book. “Well- seeing as your nerves have eased some, I suppose we can get you home.”

“This might surprise you, but this is my first time being an experiment, sorry that the experience involves being a little nervous.”

He takes the strip of cloth out of my hand, stepping behind me and drawing my hair back into his hands- this sends shivers down my spine as his fingertips brush against my neck. I hadn’t asked him to, but I don’t begrudge the action- it speaks to a level of consideration, a thread of kindness that runs through him.

“Would you like a braid?” He asks, ignoring my previous comment. “I know how to do a rather neat one.”

I chuckle, shrugging my shoulders. “If you would like to try, be my guest- I always thought it was too short for one.”

He sets to work, gently pulling my hair into a braid and then tying the end into a neat bow. When he’s finished he steps away, moving the braid to the side slightly. “It’s a little too short to see, maybe, but-” He reaches down and grabs my hand, placing it upon his handiwork. “There you go.”

His touch lingers for a moment, once again making me question the intentions behind it- wonder how much of this is my perception, if I’m imagining the extra milliseconds of time, if he’s always been this way and I’ve never noticed.

“It- feels nice. Where’d you learn to braid like that? Usually it’s a mess whenever I try.”

“It’s my job to be good with my hands.”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking- but learning to braid hair is far less the responsibility of the physician.”

“Well- I had a reason to, some time ago.”

“Oh? Family?” I step away, grabbing my shirt and slipping it on. Maybe I can finally learn a little more about him.

“No, nothing like that. I had a close friend who was very particular about his hair.”

“You did his hair for him?” Close friends, indeed.

“Are you ready?” He stands by the doorway, sliding his gloves back on. “I know I said we were taking a break but- I didn’t expect you to- since you’ve- since I’ve gotten what I need, we are free to go.”

Avoiding the issue. Alright, fine. “Yeah- let’s go.”

~~~

“I don’t think there’s really any way to avoid it, if I want to stay up-to-date with the most recent studies.”

I stare at the doctor, who’s got a knife in one hand and a woolen blanket in the other. “Isn’t this- isn’t it a little extreme?”

“No.” He spears the knife through the blanket, tearing a long strip off the end of it, several centimeters thick and much, much longer. “I don’t trust you.”

“Yeah but- I mean-” I swallow nervously, watching him set the knife aside and gesture for me to sit at the table.

“You don’t trust me?”

How am I to know if I do? He’s faceless, nameless, made up of patches of a vague and scandalous past. “Would it surprise you if I said I don’t? How would I trust a man who cannot trust me in turn?”

“You’ve given me very good reason not to.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “Okay- that’s fair. Just- don’t let me fall off the table or anything.”

“You’re in very capable hands, I assure you.”

I’m almost more worried about that- the way he sends my heart racing at a simple touch, even the slightest brush against me can send my head reeling if it’s the right moment.

“Donny?”

“Sorry, right, table.” I make my way over, awkwardly sitting on the tabletop, swinging my legs as I wait for him.

“Alright- you’re clear on what the plan is, yes?”

I nod, watching him as he doubles the fabric over itself and tugs on it, testing the strength of it. He steps into my space, slotting in between my knees and peering up at me. “Alright then, here we go-”

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and relishing in the feeling of his arms resting against my shoulders as he ties the blindfold behind my head. My heart feels as if it’s going to pound out of my chest, not helped by the way he trails his hands back over my shoulders after he’s finished tying the blindfold. I swallow back the compulsory want for more.

A simple need, not a desire, to be the object of his attention.

“Alright- remember, don’t peek.”

I open my eyes beneath the blindfold, barely registering a flicker of light from a slight space between it and myself. Even if I were able to see more through it, the angle would have me gazing at the floor.

“I won’t.” I would.