Sick Stache

1 1 0

"Sorry you have to take care of me (Y/N)," Ferdinand said, basically half-asleep.
My attention was focused on his husky mustache though. Those delicate black lines, placed down perfectly like God's masterpiece. Though stuck on his face, the wisps seem to fly above his face, soaring directly to my thumping heart. Even now, especially now, it was so beautiful. Slicked down by sweat induced by his fever, they seemed to shine in the dimmed room. Sweet droplets laid atop them, magnifying the tiny follicles.
"O-oh, don't even worry about it! In fact I'm happy you trusted me enough to let me care for you, heh," I reply nervously. Painfully aware that my response was weirdly late.
I place the bowl of steaming soup that I had made him on my lap. I firmly grasp the spoon and scoop some of the liquid into the spoon. I lightly blow on it. As I gently set the spoon upon his lips, my eyes drift upward yet again. That mustache.
As he sips the soup, some splashes on his stache. I lightly gasp. He moves his tongue to slurp the liquid back into its rightful place. His movements were oddly slow, as if he was trying to be seductive. Seemingly coming up with an idea, he quickly brings his tongue back to his mouth.
"Can you get that for me, (Y/N)?" Ferdinand asks, staring into my eyes.
Too flustered to say no, I obediently nodded. I look around the room for tissue, but my quick search comes up empty.
'I guess I'll have to use my...hands," I thought.
As I slowly drag my hands upwards, Ferdinand, even in his weakened state, still manages a light smirk. As this point I'm redder than his feverish face.
I gently brush my fingertip on his mustache. Starting at one end, I caress the soft baby hairs that made up the decor of his face. Feeling his silent chuckle under the pad of my finger, I quicken up the process. But I still can't help but feel giddy at the fact that I could feel the wisps of my dreams. As I finally reach the actual drop, I pull my hand back.
While retracting my hand, the last thing I expected was for Ferdinand to grasp my wrist. His hand stretching up to grip my finger instead, I'm still frozen in shock. He pulls my finger closer, the one with the drop of soup still on it. He gently licks my finger, effectively reclaiming the warm liquid he had previously spilt.
"By the way," he says as he drops your hand. "You could have just used a tissue."
He looks down, his eyes trained onto the box of tissues a few inches in front of you.


Mustache MondaysWhere stories live. Discover now