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"Oh for fuck's sake." Carl is seriously tempted to take the sling off. Why do they make these things so restrictive? There's nothing wrong with his hand, his hand is fine. His hand didn't get shot. It's not even his dominant hand, but now the soap is in the sink, the razor is… fuck knows, in the bath probably, he heard it clatter off somewhere when he lost his grip on it.
The doorbell is not helping.
Not helping.
"Martin!"
The razor didn't go in the bin, thankfully. Carl shakes fluff off it and considers the dangers of tetanus… or worse, teenage boys use this bathroom. Teenage girls apparently use this bathroom too when he's not looking. He's genuinely not sure which might be worse. It's amazing he comes in here at all.
The door bell goes again.
"MARTIN!"
Fucks' sake, he's probably doing ballsack yoga or something equally bloody stupid. He drops the razor in the sink with the soap and goes to open the damn thing himself, neck half-soaped, dripping and annoyed.
Akram's on the other side, and he's wearing that expression, the one that's always giving placid interest mixed with vague curiosity. Carl could be in here doing literally anything and he'd wager he'd get that same look. Just once maybe Akram could be surprised, so Carl's not always the one tilting at bloody windmills.
"I was waiting," Akram says, politely. Which makes it sound as if they'd actually agreed to do anything together this morning. Because god forbid the man not teleport into existence whenever it's mildly inconvenient.
"Clearly." Carl wanders off, leaves the door open. "Don't let the draft in."
Akram apparently has the sense to take that as an invitation, or as much of one as he's going to get. He follows Carl into the bathroom, because of course he fucking does. Maybe he's trailing an air of 'idiot in need of assistance.' Which is just fantastic.
Everything takes twice as long with one hand, and it doesn't help that Akram is now watching him from behind like some sort of confused, sad-eyed bird.
"Did you want something?" He manages to gesture at the man's reflection without throwing the razor at the mirror.
"I'm trying to determine if you require assistance."
It's not a question, because of course it isn't, it's a statement, it's an observation, he suspects so that anything Carl says ends up his fault. Akram's too clever by half.
"In a fucking number of ways I imagine," he says, tart as he can manage and far too honest. He then proceeds to not ask for any and just re-soaps his neck and the space under his jaw, where the hair doesn't grow properly now anyway. He could probably skip this, live with a full beard, take up hanging around lighthouses in chunky sweaters and yelling doomy portents at strangers. Fuck him for wanting people to think he has ten percent of his life together.
Akram doesn't leave, he just continues to watch like he's going to be quizzed on it later. He's good at watching, good at knowing exactly how much eye contact is too much and then going right over it. Carl kind of likes that about him. It's an offensive intensity that almost passes as being awkward. Almost but really doesn't, not if you're actually looking.
He holds the razor away from his face.
"What?!" He's not exactly in need of an audience here.
Akram doesn't say anything, instead, he calmly takes his jacket off and starts rolling up his sleeves, and for a second all Carl can do is watch because that's what you do when you can see what's happening but can't quite convince yourself it isn't going to end differently.
"This isn't a team sport," Carl manages, but Akram is already taking the razor and turning him around like he's navigating a particularly ornery swing door. His arse is jammed against the sink, and there isn't much of that so it's all bones to ceramic, loath as he is to admit it. "Hey."
He stops talking because the man has put a blade to his face without even a by-your-leave or a pardon-me. It turns his protest into a muffled grunt, whole body tensing, there's a press of fingers to the wet edge of his jaw.
He's expecting a brief fight for control, because that's what happens, Carl pushes, someone else pushes back and then there's yelling and insults and—if it's a bad day—bleeding. The razor isn't even necessarily a deterrent, it wouldn't be the first time he'd had a knife to his throat.
But Akram's mouth shifts outwards a fraction, one brief flex where the faintest 'shush' might live but not hard enough for any sound to come out.
"Did you just shush me?" Carl mutters, mouth barely moving.
Akram hums an agreement that doesn't mean anything, and then his other hand is cupping the sharp line of his jaw, fingers warmer than he's expecting, softer than they have any right to be, turning him so he's at exactly the right angle for the first slow drag down the curve of his neck.
Carl doesn't know why he allows it, why he lets this man he barely knows but already risked his life for twice hold him still and sink in close enough that he can smell the heavy salt-sweet scent of him. He could count on one hand the number of men he'd let touch his face. He'd gotten a drunken handjob from one in his youth and that guy didn't manage to clear the bar.
"I'm keeping the beard," he grumbles through the taste of soap. He's a little angry with himself for not shoving him off, but he thinks he'll be angrier later if he doesn't see where this goes
Akram's eyes move from a place on his jaw to his own, catching them for long enough that he can feel the slow roll of his own swallow. "Of course." He says that like it's easy, like it's obvious.
"Just sick of the rest." It itches, and it makes the space around the scar obvious in a way that invites attention, comments, sympathy. He'd rather drown himself in the sink.
"Hmm."
Carl can feel the movement that tips his chin up, the slow stretch, he swallows around it.
"And no sharp lines, I'm not in an aftershave advert."
"You are all sharp lines," Akram says. The words are gentle, flaring warm where jaw meets neck, where the skin is naked and wet. Carl honestly can't tell if the comment is a compliment or a complaint. He's not going to pretend the word doesn't fit, some days it feels as if he stabs everything he touches, even when he doesn't want to—which is rarely.
God, he really shouldn't have thought about handjobs, because now his brain is stuck somewhere it probably shouldn't be. The few inches Carl has over him means he's half leaning back against the sink, looking down at inky eyelashes and the long slope of a nose. Which isn't helping. You can't put eyes like that on someone and not expect at least a little bit of idle thinking about them looking up at you. Which, granted, is a bit further down the slippery slope than handjobs. The man has pretty eyes, you don't even have to fancy a few men to realise that. He's all pretty eyes and intensity and the raw, unsettling patience that usually comes right before someone gets their head caved in. Carl knows it well enough to feel it.
Most of the people that look like that don't feel bad about it though.
Akram grips him a little harder, draws the razor down smooth, eyes fixed on its progress, except for when they're not. Carl can feel the drifting edge of a thumb where the space under his jaw pulls in, no longer an ache, more the memory of one, a touch against the scar that cuts the line of his facial hair open, makes itself obvious. He doesn't pull away, he should, of course he should, but the way Akram settles there, pulls the blade down in one slow, steady line, feels like an exhale rather than anything sharp.
"I can shave myself," Carl says. "In case you were wondering."
"I assumed as much." Akram leans into him a little, a brief press of weight to weight, warm and sudden, and it takes a second for Carl to realise he'd leant past him to run the razor under the tap. "But I think you prefer to start the morning without bleeding into your shirt collar."
His pulse has kicked up a gear, the low thrum-thrum-thrum that he can feel. He finds himself instinctively trying to lean back further, to put himself out of reach in more ways than one, but that's all but impossible when someone has put a blade to your face, carving a fine line around the beard he'd been haphazardly maintaining for… three years, four? He's tempted to point out how badly he'd always conformed to straight lines.
Which feels pretty fucking apt considering the position they're in.
Akram, as strangely indispensable as he'd managed to make himself in a few months, probably wouldn't appreciate the direction his thoughts are taking.
"Akram."
"You are surprisingly trusting." Which isn't exactly the most trustworthy thing to say, but there's a gentle sort of surprise under the thought, considering. Which makes it feel less like an insult.
Carl reaches up to catch his wrist, it doesn't pull the razor away from his face, just settles it against the skin, ignores that way that feels more like a promise.
He's tempted to point out that Akram is good at making himself look trustworthy, but he's getting tired of the back and forth where the man says little of actual substance.
"Maybe I didn't want to have a fistfight in my bathroom over it."
Akram actually manages something that might pass for a smile.
"I think some days you would prefer that."
"Prefer it to what?" He doesn't say the rest, prefer it to being crammed against a sink by a man who carries weight and strength and precision like he does affronted fury? The hands on his face are warm and careful in a way that still manages to hover just at the edge, where clarity is fuzzy either way. Not exactly harmless either though, something that could hurt later in so many ways if he really wanted to fuck this up.
Though the self-destructive part of him almost wants the relief of it being done. Of having the man away from him for good and removing the whole problem.
He could call him pretty. Could call him something worse.
Can almost feel the phantom pain in his face that he wagers he'd get for it.
Almost… almost.
Akram's hand slides down his jaw, circles his throat and closes, holds him.
It's such a slow, subtle movement, like slipping a fucking noose around a rabbit, until it's caught and struggling before it even knows what's happening. Carl is torn so sharply and abruptly between lashing out and stilling that for a moment it feels like a seizure, or a betrayal.
Akram is close, so close, that neat little moustache against the skin of his cheek as he leans in to briefly press their faces together.
He's warm, he's so warm. It's been so long since someone touched him that for a second Carl's genuinely not sure what's happening.
"Stop thinking."
"You're the pushy bastard that came into my bathroom, I'm not taking the blame for this." He knows his teeth are out but his heart is pounding and he's not entirely sure how this is going to end.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise."
"Didn't realise what—"
The razor leaves his face and there's a dress shoe between his boots, a thumb on his pulse point and then Akram's head dips, for a second he's all eyes in the dim space he'd made, and then he's closer, hand gone loose, giving Carl a lifetime to pull away if he wants to. There's more than enough space for insults, or refusals, or explanations.
Instead he hooks his fingers in shirt fabric, holds rather than pulls when they meet in the middle. He's too eager when they finally hit, still angry, maybe always angry. Akram's mouth is a flare of heat. He expects it to be calmer than his, to slow him down, drag him back to something close to sense. Instead it catches his, half-open, a little wet, shocking in all the ways it should be. Akram's facial hair is so much softer than Carl's, he's going to scrape his perfect chin raw and something about that, something about that hits him low in the gut. He could get off to that so easily, which is just a reminder of how long it's been.
Stupid decision probably, but better because of it.
How the fuck did they get here? Tangled up in Carl's shitty bathroom, shoulder throbbing, face half shaved and covered in soap, feeling the wet slide of another man's mouth.
This is going to be a problem.
This is definitely going to be a problem.
But Carl will deal with it later.