blind in love

Untitled Part 1

"I want to know what you look like."

Gilbert sat slumped all the way down in his chair, lips pursed into a pout, hands folded on his stomach; his neck was bent at such an angle, he’d surely develop a crick in it after a few moments. His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose, his eyes narrowed and unblinking just over the frames. The bronze red and crisp blue of his eyes was glazed over; he seemed to sense that someone, maybe one who wasn’t even near him, had noticed them, because he wriggled in his side of the booth until he was finally sitting up straight, back pressed to the back cushion. He pushed the shades back over his eyes with his knuckles and tilted his head as footsteps approached his table. “Damn, I was talking to myself?”

"Why don’t you ever describe yourself?" he whined, not bothering to pause for possible interjection. He’d thought that his companion for today was quietly standing nearby; even though swallowing the flustered awkwardness was kinda hard, he managed. "You do know I can’t see how you look for myself, right?"

Roderich’s voice sounded flat; sarcastic. “Really?” he asked monotonously. “Christ, I never realized that that was what hereditary blindess was: the inability to what things look like.” The eye roll was heavily implied in his tone. Gilbert glared straight ahead as the sounds of the booth cushions crinkling beneath the new weight and something that might have been porcelain clinking against the formica tabletop, reached his ears. Roderich had sat down across from him; per usual their normal arrangement, except on Fridays, when sat at the bar with the swiveling stools because some ladies occupied the back of the restaurant for some book club meeting.

"Shut the fuck up, nerd," he said, moving his foot around underneath the table. Once the toe of his shoe bumped something, making an almost inaudible squeak against the cheap leather of Mr. Roderich Pennypincher Edelstein’s knockoff thrift shop shoes, he smirked and aimed a hard kick at the area above there.

Roderich rolled his eyes for the billionth time since picking Gilbert up from his brother’s house at one that afternoon. “You are such a child,” he commented, pulling his legs away so his shins wouldn’t be kicked again. He watched the other’s hands - calloused and laced with faded scars, and three good bandaids were plastered across his knuckles due to aggravating poor Aster into a more vicious method of driving him away - slowly search across the table. With a twinge of momentary understanding, Roderich placed his hand on top of Gilbert’s, to ensure it didn’t stray and knock anything over like last time, and pressed the cool glass of water into his hand.

"If I’m a child then what does that make you?" Gilbert retorted, pulling his glass of water toward him and shrugging his eyebrows suggestive. From the many times he’d felt them, Roderich had very soft hands that always smelled like cocoa-butter. He moisturized them; what a priss. After taking a sip of crisp iced water, tinged faintly with the taste of the lemon speared on the rim, he smacked his lips and leered. "A pedophile?"

"More like a babysitter." There was a scoff to Roderich’s voice. "I’m here to keep you from making messes, getting into trouble and getting lost." He chose to ignore the disdainful remark of, ‘Hey, YOU’RE the one that gets lost all the time, not ME!’, and stired some sugar into his tea. "That strikes me more as a nanny than an - ugh - pedophile." Roderich took his own sip of tea. "I feel a bit like one, too. You wear me out, Beilschmidt, having to keep an eye on you constantly is exhausting. For a blind man, you certainly stride around like you know where you’re going."

"That’s because I do, of course!"

"Which is why you were heading into the Victoria’s Secret department of a strip mall when we were running that errand for Ludwig?"

"…of course! Victoria’s Secret is where all the foxy ladies are, loser! I knew where I was going!"

"Don’t try to fool me. I know ‘foxy ladies’ aren’t what arouses your interests, Gilbert." That prissy fucker had the nerve to sound amused; like he’d won the upper hand of this battle of wit.

And perhaps he had, Gilbert mused as he grumbled around the rim of his glass of water. Hearing Roderich’s smug chuckle, he was almost tempted to pull his hand away when the other’s warm palm covered the back of his..

..almost.