He's still never seen Amon's face.

It's been months since he made his way to the top of the pack as Lieutenant; he considers himself closer to their mysterious leader than anybody. He's trusted with top-level secret hoo-hah, he's proven himself dedicated and reliable, he's never shirked a mission, and he's never failed. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before tension got the better of them. At any rate, it feels like forever since their closeted meetings became dark trysts in darker shadows. The Lieutenant can't honestly say he hates it.

But he's still never seen Amon's face, and that irks him.

“Here's the report you ordered, sir.”

He sets the papers on the desk and stands attentively, at ease but ready for any order. Even in the muted light of Amon's office the Lieutenant wears his goggles: if he stands in the right spot, the reflection of the lamps ought to cover the tracks his eyes make. It'd be mortifying if Amon realized how intently he stares at that mask, wondering what the person is beneath it, wondering who he calls master really is. Truly, the mysteries of this man are more captivating than what little he's revealed to even his closest subordinate.

The lieutenant's gaze drops to the neat organization of the desk and he's reminded of the disrepair he's left it in before. He looks back at the Amon's mask, feeling something dreadful stir in his stomach, and he tells himself that this time he'll say no.

“Do you need anything else before I commence my next assignment?”

The mask was cut ever so that the slits of the eyes ran perfectly under the brow and over the bend of the bone under the eye. It fit perfectly in such a way that his vision was never hindered by it; he could see the lights at his flicker in his peripheral sight as sharply as he could see his Lieutenant hem and haw around his desk. Saw how he hummed with an undercurrent of energy and anxiety the same way the flickering lamp did.

Intention and the frustration of his curiosity was perhaps more obvious than perhaps the Lieutenant realized, poor man. Amon never grudged his subordinates their natural curiosity so long as it never affected their duties and undermined his authority. That his Lieutenant should experience such doubts was only expected the closer Amon pulled him into his inner circle of exactly one. That he bowed yet remained unbroken under Amon's crushing weight of expectations and demands was testament to the man's resilience and dedication.

It was these valued traits that made their...understanding a razor's edge that would cut both ways if one of them slipped or Amon made the grave mistake of bringing trust into whatever this was. A tragedy. In another life, the Lieutenant would have been someone that would understand. However, Amon was never one to indulge fantasy. He has dug this hole himself and there was no reason in unraveling the lies you yourself weave.

Unconsciously, perhaps even out of forethought, Amon moved the contents of his desk out of the way or deposited them back into the drawer in front of him. He had said nothing yet, choosing to let Lieutenant hang on every passing second of silence. After a time of oppressive nothingness, Amon looked his Lieutenant in the eye.

“Lock the door.”
Of course he obeys, not hesitating even a beat. Above all else - no matter what sordid and rotting twists their path together takes - he truly believes in Amon. To that effect he's cast away even his own identity. This is who he is now: second-in-command to one of the most brilliant revolutionaries this world has ever seen. To disobey Amon would be betraying his own heart. It would be admitting that the man he reveres as a god is imperfect, and he's given far too much to backtrack now.

The lieutenant flips the lock and turns, face as impassive as he knows how to keep it. He knows where this is going. But part of its success lies in the illusion that it's a one-time sojourn, something that can never be, something they should never do. He thinks that every time. It's the never-ending one-night-stand.

“Sir?”

The lieutenant tries to console himself with the idea that at least he's the only person trustworthy enough to be manipulated quite this way. The part of himself sickened by this willful weakness doesn't bother trying to tell him that he's delusional; he's part the point of caring. His life, his mind, his body-- Amon doesn't even have to try to take them from him. He's long since surrendered it of his own accord.
The harsh reality of it was that the Lieutenant's fear were well placed in both regards; he trusted him enough to be like this, knowing full well the closer they were the easier the lies came. The only thing Amon had to lose in all this was a good subordinate.

In time with the doors lock sliding close, Amon rose from the desk and silently closed the distance between the two of them. Catching the Lieutenant in a position that cornered him between himself and the door, Amon laid a hand on his shoulder and wordlessly urged him to face the other way with a light shove. One hand gripped the Lieutenant's shoulder while the other started to tug at the string that tethered his mask.

“Don't turn around.”

There was a nagging sensation at the back of his mind that shouted at him not to indulge that guilty feeling of sympathy. But in his own twisted way Amon did sympathize with his Lieutenant. The man worshiped a half-truth and a whole lie until he was blinded by his own fanaticism. This once, just this once, did Amon feel the weight of guilt for it pressing down on him.

“Can I trust you not to look, even for a moment?” He already knew the answer to that as he tugged on the string behind his mask.
This was the point where he ought to say no, to speak up and try to stop this sick farce before he had a chance to take root again. It wasn't good for either of them. Instead, the lieutenant felt his pulse quicken and the nape of his neck prickle with anticipation. His traitor lips forwent the denial he'd practiced and gave a simple affirmative instead.

“You know you can.”

He bunched a fist futilely against the door, staring at it fixedly as he tried to keep his calm, waiting for Amon's next move with equal parts apprehension and twisted desire. As much as he hated allowing himself to be used like this, there was almost a feeling of power that came with it, somehow. It made him feel...superior, somehow, to know Amon as intimately as this.

Though he had to wonder how the man had gotten so damned good at it.

'Understanding,' perhaps, was the only word that really encompassed the nuance of what this was between them. Though the Lieutenant would never fully appreciate at it, all they knew about each other was built on speculation and outright fabrication. Lies were taken at face value and questioned were always left unsaid. It was cruel on Amon's part and doomed to backfire on him sooner now than later, but, it worked.

The mask fell to the ground with a dull clatter. Amon felt the sweat that had accumulated on his brow chill his skin with the sudden breeze from a cracked window and shuddered. The Lieutenant was a hair taller than Amon; the perfect height to simply melt against. He leaned in and pressed against his Lieutenant while his lips ghosted against the exposed skin just above the collar. Nothing to hint at scars, or the damming lack thereof.

This might give the Lieutenant some sort of power trip; some kind of boost to his pride. Amon would risk it.

“It was pointless of me to even ask.”

“So why did you?”

There was something incredibly soothing - almost humbling - about such simple human contact. The lieutenant had left behind his family to further his dream and ambition; they were a liability for him, and he was a danger to them. His willpower was strong enough that he'd even resisted the urge to remotely check in on them. To all intents and purposes, he was dead to them. Even amongst the higher echelons of their cabal everyone had their own secrets and walls; by necessity they all kept their interactions brief and impersonal. It was a lonely life. He didn't regret it, but it was lonely.

At Amon's almost-tender touch the lieutenant felt all his resistances give way, just as it always had, just as it always would. He tried to justify it - surely the other man was just as isolated as he, if not more so - but in his heart of hearts he knew the truth and didn't flinch from it. This was exactly as it seemed. And this was exactly what he needed. The lieutenant sighed his defeat and let himself relax, head tilting back against Amon's lips.

“It was getting too quiet for me.”

Amon notices his voice sounded clearer, more conversational and relaxed when it was unfettered with the absence of his mask. The sound of his own voice is almost nostalgic and his own voice was a stranger to him.

That mask was more than lacquered wood; it was a thin, almost cerebral barrier standing between the idea of Amon and the man hiding behind it. He had literally and metaphorical laid himself bare before his lieutenant, and the sad irony was his second was blind to it as Amon meant it to be so.

Perhaps he was isolated even in the number he hid amongst, but there was no sense in being stupid about it. There was nothing to be gained in the way he precariously toed the line between manipulation and sentiment. If he slipped it would cut them both and tear them to pieces. No risk, no reward.

“Nothing is demanding our attention at the present; we can afford to be candid in this affair.”

While he tended to speak nebulously at times, he was being genuine. Something not so physical as how they typically occupied each other's time could stand to fill those lonely, empty spaces they created for themselves. Besides, his lieutenant had a powerful voice he held some fondness for.

Minding the fact he had not even worn his prosthetic scars, Amon was cagey in the way he ran tongue behind his ear or how he nudged his shoulder with his forehead almost coyly. He reveled in what would be a short moment without his mask as he coiled his arms around the other man's waist, and buried his face in messy black hair.