A slow, warm night in Paris with Göring and Goebbels

Half-past ten in Paris, still warm on this cloudless night with the moon hanging high and luminous above the balcony; Goebbels sits outside and smokes and the breeze is enough to lift strands of his hair, unstuck with the muggy heat of the day.

He still feels a little sun-struck from strolling with Göring down the boulevards, from the reflected spectacle of their presence and Hermann himself, his periwinkle bulk awash with medals that flashed like spots of light upon the sea.

And down one narrow alley, shaded by tall brick buildings rising up on either side, he’d seen a man pushing a girl against a wall, his hand covering her mouth, her skirts up around her waist. Now he remembers it as if she had been smiling and touches his own neck, a brush of knuckles like a breath.

He stubs out his cigarette upon the railing. Inside, Göring is reclining comfortably on the bed, his silk robe half open to the waist.

“Ah, Joseph,” he says, smoothing down the sheets beside him and then. “Patience now.”

As Goebbels clambers onto the bed and pulls at the cord holding his robe together. There’s a slow, warm smile spreading across Göring’s face and he wants to kiss the haughty, devilish curl of it but Göring just repeats the word, patience, though he pushes his fingers into Goebbels hair, tugging him forward so they touch, brow to brow and when their lips meet Goebbels cannot help but thrust his tongue in, fast and greedy.

Göring growls, a slow, subdued rumble, and pulls him back.

“What did I say?”

His pupils are huge and black and unmindful of the expression Goebbels tries to affect, innocent of any wrongdoing as his hand still works insistently at the knot of the robe; the serpentine rustle of silk and his panting breath full of urgency. Göring bats his hand away and pulls him over to straddle one of his large thighs and the skin on the inside of his leg, as Goebbels steadies himself there, feels like silk too.

“Here.” Göring hands him the pills, a glass of red wine to wash them down with.

Goebbels obeys and swallows and like a reward Göring brings his mouth down onto his neck and licks along the twitch of his pulse, which seems to slow and ebb away from him as a numb and sublime softening of his senses falls upon him.

Then Göring kisses him tenderly. A brush of his mouth, the merest hint of his tongue. Goebbels melts against him, too busy sighing to beg for more – each breath he takes is a glorious effort and pulled from Göring’s warm exhalations as they lie pressed against each other, lips just touching and when he cannot hold his head up any longer he turns his face into Göring’s neck and smiles drowsily at the scent of him while Göring takes his pleasure in idly stroking him like a pet.