Archive of Our Own ^beta

Heinrich Hoffmann's apartment smelled of paint, developer, and expensive tobacco. It was the scent of freedom, art, and lighthearted irresponsibility — everything that was so drastically lacking in Joseph Goebbels's strict life, which reeked of Phenyl hydroxide and the dry paper of political manifestos. 

Joseph was sinking intoin a deep armchair, his fingers clenched around his temples. An untouched glass of schnapps stood on a low table in front of him. His entire thin, nervous body was twisted into a tight knot by one name. Adolf. He had just left, leaving behind a whirlwind of ideas, plans, energetic gestures, and... absolute emotional void.

— He doesn't even look at me, Heinrich, — Joseph said, wringing his thin, pale hands. — Don't mean anything to him. Transparent, intangible, politically insignificant air!

Hoffmann, sitting in an armchair with a glass of schnapps, smiled gently. He was wearing an embroidered shirt with flowers and looked as if he had just arrived from some Tibetan plateau. Tall, strong, emotionally stable, he was the complete opposite of the nervous twig named Joseph Goebbels.

— My dear friend, — he began in a voice that could calm an enraged bull (or a hysterical Gauleiter), —you are tense. You're concentrating all your... Essence, all your powerful sexual and intellectual energy on a subject, that, let's be honest, is fixated on other things at the moment. Adolf is a creature of focus. He's just not interested in you, understand? You are... the background. A little blurred, but present. But don't lose hope! You need to slowly, methodically and persistently fight your way into his field of vision, into the foreground, so to speak.

— Background! — Joseph howled, jumping up. — I should be in the foreground! I must be his muse, his support, his... — He faltered, his cheeks flushing with shame and desire. — His friend!

Hoffman took a sip of schnapps, squinting. He understood everything. He saw how Joseph looked at Adolf: that hungry, longing gaze, that willingness to jump into a fire if he commanded it. It was pitiful, amusing, and... useful. Hoffman was, above all, Adolf's friend. And as his friend, he had to make sure that his talented, eccentric protégé did not stray to the other side, without disturbing the artist's delicate soul too much.

— Joseph, — said Heinrich, setting down his cup with a soft thud. His smile widened slightly, and a warm, understanding gleam appeared in his eyes. — You suffer from an excess of feelings. You need... release. A redirection of energy. Stagnation is death — for a man of your temperament.

— What are you proposing? — Josef asked suspiciously, but his voice already held a hint of hope. Any attention was a salve to his mental wounds. 

— I suggest you don't think about him for an hour. Just an hour. Free your mind from this... cult.

— Impossible! — Josef groaned, collapsing back onto the sofa.

— Possible, — Hoffman insisted softly, rising. He approached Josef, and his shadow covered him completely. He smelled of sandalwood and some kind of herb. Josef looked up at him, confused.

Hoffman sat on the edge of the sofa and placed his warm hand on the politician’s forehead. 

— Close your eyes, Josef. Breathe. You're not alone in your torment. You're just... human.

And then Heinrich began his therapy. He was surprisingly gentle. His hands, accustomed to holding a heavy camera, kneaded Josef's shoulders and the sides beneath his suit, while his lips, never ceasing to smile, found the sore spots on his neck. Josef resisted at first, muttering, but his resistance was pathetic and insincere.

— See? — Hoffman whispered, already helping Joseph take off his jacket, then his vest. — You're stiff… — The photographer’s fingers slid over his ribs. — Hitler won't appreciate that. He values strength.

— I... I'm strong,— Josef managed to choke out, allowing Hoffman to unbutton his shirt. 

— Of course you are— Heinrich agreed, as one might agree with a capricious child.

When it came to the essence of the "consolation," Hoffman was methodical and almost merciful. Josef, pressed against the soft fabric of the sofa, biting into his bony hand to keep from screaming another name— the name of his Chef. Fleeting thought fragments occupied his mind:  Adolf... if only he could see... if only he knew... But Adolf was far away, in a world of his own grandiose plans and grievances. And here, in Heinrich's warm, smoky apartment, it was mercilessly clear.

When it was all over, Josef lay drained, exhausted. A wave of shame washed over him, but it was muted, as if coming from another room. Hoffman, already dressed, poured him another glass of schnapps. Josef took a sip. It had been no enlightenment. Instead he felt used, understood, and a little more alone than before. But also… just a little bit more real.