Several months ago, Faustus would think very little about his name.
Every legal document declares it as his: it's on his driver’s license, on his social security card, on every damn bill he shoves in the monstrous stack in a corner of his bookcase with the thought "I'll look through it later" that gets discarded as soon as soon as it comes - now it's even on his damn birth certificate after a long, frustrating legal song and dance.
(Though reading it there still makes delight curl in his stomach.)
Without a trace of flirtation or wry amusement, without mockery, hearing Mason say his name alone feels—
(intimate? exciting? terrifying?)
It soothes something tender and trembling in him with the gentleness of a caress. Like a hand on his cheek or a hand on his back, solid and warm enough to brush away all the hurt for one moment of focused peace.
Probably why it hurts that much more when Mason exchanges his name for Detective. Exposure wasn't that flutter of nervousness when Mason peeled away the veneer of nonchalance to cover his fear or when the weight of Mason's rapturous eyes on his naked body, scars and discolored skin and all, yanked the breath from his lungs.
Exposure was losing all that warmth, losing all that familiarity in one fell swoop. Each syllable (De-tec-tive.) leaving three ugly gashes on him.
Faustus has never needed to hear someone say his name the way he needs to hear Mason say it again.
