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Scout had no problem shaving.
In truth, he had no problems with personal hygiene at all—he would take a shower every four days, dipping under a barely warm stream, when the hot water was finally running for two hours in the evening—and that was it; the end crowns the work.
But sometimes something clicked in his bright head, and it suddenly was getting to him, when he was spilling a can of Bonk! on himself for the tenth time, smearing himself in oil from chips and honey ribs, accidentally cooked by Engie.
He got it and he acted. It was time to bring beauty.
He brought it. He bathed and steamed, washed everything clean, dried it dry, brushed his teeth, cut his hair a little. He came out all perfumed, overdressed, shining—so handsome, he could even go down the aisle, or straight into the coffin.
“Goin’ on a date, son?” Engie teased him good-naturally.
“Madame doesn’t prefer stale meat,” replied Spy, nodding at the mechanic and raising an eyebrow meaningfully.
Scout puffed up, getting angry. “What, can’t a dude take a shower? Why are you so mean, huh?”
Spy smiled and shook his head. Engie apologized, telling him, we are just teasin’ ya, son.
“Go to hell, all of you,” he waved them off and went to his room to lie on his bed, sulk and read comics. And then go to sleep.
Sniper had been smiling stupidly all this time, never taking his sparkling eyes off him.
Now this time has come again. Click time. Scout was in the shower room, in the dressing room, where there was a row of sinks, six of them, but only two of them were working, still, only cold water flowed in the second sink. He was only in a towel on his hips, wet and steamed, and looked at himself in a stained mirror.
He was so… not masculine enough. He raised his arm, tensing his muscles as he watched the flesh knot under the pale skin, then with a frustrated exhalation he threw his arm down, slapping his thigh.
His chest was sticking out through the skin. There was no hair at all. Well, his armpits were a little hairy. There was a bit of hair under the navel. He hunched over, peering into the mirror. The stubble has grown back and needs to be shaved off.
He didn’t shave as often as the others. The guys had no problems with this—every three days, like clockwork, and they grew an even, thick stubble. There were times when Demo and Sniper shaved every day, they were growing a beard so fast. Scout looked at himself. Oh no luck for him. Not to say that he had peach fuzz, he was a man, after all, yet his stubble wasn’t so thick. Near his jaw, below, there was a completely bald patch. His hair color didn’t help—he was neither dark nor chestnut brown nor black—he was light brownish-auburn; when he was a child, he was completely fair, as his mother told him once. All in all, his stubble didn’t stand out. At all.
Scout clicked in disappointment and looked into his own face. He had… delicate features, and he himself was thin and freckled. His eyes were huge, and his eyelashes were long and fluffy.
When will he… grow up.
He was twenty-four, and he still looked like fifteen, like a kid.
Having a woman would fix everything. Then everyone would see he wasn’t a girl, as Solly always said, he was a real man, and he was a gift to all women on earth.
He blinked, peering into himself. Well, maybe he was really a gift. Maybe he was a gift to everyone. How dare they think otherwise?! So it was.
Only now he needed to shave, and he would go to the nearest bar. He’ll perfume himself with that Spy’s cologne with the unpronounceable name, and that’s it; ladies will be crazy about him.
Scout reached up to his face and touched the stubble. He flinched, chuckled, squinting coyly, and desperately scratched his cheek. He bent the hairs in the wrong place, that’s ticklish. No, he had to shave. He likes himself smooth better.
He scooped up a bar of soap from the sink, soaked it under running water, lathered up as much lather as possible, rubbing it methodically in his palms, and applied it to his cheeks. Thankfully, it got even more lathered. It rustled pleasantly, and his cheeks seemed to be in a down pillow.
Slamming the shower door, Sniper appeared in the dressing room, his bare feet slapping on the tiles. He wiped his head, all wet.
Crap. You just had to show up right now.
“You’re still here, kid?” There was no irritation in Sniper’s voice, just genuine surprise and warmth. “Waiting for me?”
Intimate moment ruined. Scout turned to glare at him, but immediately turned away, making sounds of indignation.
“What…? Ah,” Sniper said meaningfully, removing the towel from his tousled head. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he smiled, showing his canines and tied the towel around his hips.
“Yeah, pal,” Scout drawled irritably, returning to his beloved self in the mirror.
“Oh, is the blue moon really going to show up today?” Sniper squinted, grinning like an idiot.
“What?!” Scout exclaimed indignantly, turning around. “Hey, go somewhere… else.”
“Didn’t want to hurt your feelings, roo, it’s just… it doesn’t happen often.”
Scout let out a martyred sigh as he turned back to the mirror. He brought the razor to his cheek, froze in place, and hesitantly scratched the skin a couple of times. He scraped off only the foam; the hair, on the contrary, was still there. Oh crap.
Sniper was standing there and watching.
Standing. And watching.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?!” Scout exploded, turning to Sniper, his voice cracking.
Sniper, a bastard, smiled warmly and kindly, squinting, putting his hands on his hips. He shook his head, closing his eyes.
“Let me help.”
Before Scout could let out any sounds of resentment and displeasure, Sniper was already there, towering over him, familiar and large.
Not to say that Sniper was athletic. He wasn’t fit like Scout—sedentary work took its toll on him, as did mild alcoholism, even more so smoking; but still, there was something nice about him. No, Scout didn’t like men, it’s just you don’t have to be one of them to understand whether a person is nice to you or not. But it didn’t matter in what ways.
He was lanky, broad-shouldered, and there was also a little fat on him. Just a little. This gave him some charm, charisma, softness. Sometimes, in his wild thoughts, Scout, when they played and tickled each other, wanted to cuddle him. Why not? He himself never managed to gain weight. He’s always been bony and skinny, and so was Sniper before, he just got better recently. Either Doc worked, or he himself wanted to live.
Also, he was hairy. No, he wasn’t a carpet or a bear, but enough, even a little around his neck. When he sunbathed near his camper van in a lounger, his hair flared in the sunlight and he glowed.
God’s dandelion.
Long story short, Sniper was the man Scout wanted to be.
Scout was staring at him. Sniper pushed him back, resting his backside against the sink. Scout accidentally stepped on something and stumbled.
“Stop jumping, lil’ bunny, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said so thoughtfully, fixing his blue-gray eyes on him, and began.
The razor slid freely with a slight rasp, Scout felt almost no pressure. He didn’t even know if it was possible to shave it off, he couldn’t look at himself, standing with his back to the mirror, but seeing how calmly and concentratedly the man was working, he decided to trust him.
The large warm hand lay on his neck, coarse and sinewy. Supportive and reassuring. The blade slid down to his chin, then slid down his jaw, right where the bald patch had been. The boy got nervous and swallowed, though he didn’t even process his own reaction.
“Shhh, kiddo, ‘s alright,” Sniper muttered warmly, smiling all the time. Scout shuddered, his big blue eyes fixed on him, Sniper’s thumb rubbing his jaw. Sniper soothed him with a whisper.
Scout had almost no sideburns, but Sniper still tried to shave him cleanly. He rinsed the razor in the sink, then back to the younger man again. He cleaned his right cheek, then moved lower, bypassing the jaw, to the throat.
“I have nothin’ th—“
“It’s alright,” the older man whispered, letting the blade slide freely. “No need to be so scared.”
Scout was a man, it was his duty to court and embarrass. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, it wasn’t masculine, but he was embarrassed. Shame licked his cheeks and insides, spreading in his stomach. His face was on fire, he could have sworn he was red, as if he had been scalded.
No, no, no, it’s all because of the shaving.
A sticky cold shrouded his legs and crept up to his thighs.
Sniper tilted his head to the side, peering at the result of his creation. “You’re such a handsome bloke,” he muttered warmly, furtively stroking his smooth cheek.
Scout flushed, his breath hitched, and he felt hot everywhere. Sniper didn’t seem to notice.
“Let’s not use your aftershave, it hurts bloody awful. Wait a little…” He went to the lockers. The younger man watched his figure unblinkingly, staring expansively at the scars on his neck and right shoulder blade. He returned with a vial of light green clear liquid. He twisted the lid, pressed his hand to the neck, and turned it over, sloshing the lotion. “Close your eyes.”
Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Scout’s adam’s apple twitched as the kind hand gently applied the lotion to his cheeks, jaw, throat. He felt the man pull away, and opened his misty eyes. Sniper towered over him, looking at him, gentleness and affection in his eyes. Scout looked back, completely charmed and…
and…
in love.
“Now you’re trying to embarrass me?” Sniper muttered slyly, looking down somewhere. Scout dropped his gaze sharply and blushed heavily. “Or did ya decide to come out with trump cards?” the older man laughed merrily as he walked back to the lockers. The younger man frantically grabbed the towel from the floor, and wrapped himself in it, trying to hide his slight excitation about this. The slightest. God, he wished he was dead right now. “At least invite me on a date first,” Sniper continued to have fun, pulling off his towel and drying himself completely now. Scout was seething with anger.
They finished together and dressed together. They left in complete silence; later, at the crossroads, one part of the corridor leading to the residential wing and the second one leading to the stairs, then to the exit, they stopped.
“So, uh, you don’t mind?” Scout asked as if idly, scratching his cleanly washed back of the head.
“Hmm?” Sniper replied calmly.
“A date.” The word felt foreign on Scout’s tongue; his mouth gone dry, a familiar heat enveloped his neck.
“Oh,” Sniper said emphatically, looking down somewhere. Then he looked up at him with his blue-gray eyes, and said, “It’d be nice.”