Cut Throat Crush - 1. Cut Throat Crush

Matt turns up in the middle of their study session. Keith has his particle physics homework spread out on the floor, and is chewing the end of his pencil in a manner which Shiro is fairly certain he should not find so adorable. He knows this because he has been watching his protégé over the top of his data pad for the past five minutes. The simulator scores for one of the lower classes he is supposed to be reviewing have been completely ignored. Only the ping of the door code allows him to switch his attention back to his work just seconds before Matt would have caught him staring.

“Oh, hey you two.”

“Hey Matt.” Shiro frowns, because Matt has a teetering stack of what experience tells him are code printouts in one hand; a burrito pinned somehow between two fingers, and a wedge of envelopes and thin parcels under his arm. “You’re part timing as a pack horse?”

“Ha. Very funny.” Matt attempts to divest himself of some of his load, knocking over a water bottle from Shiro’s little table in the process. Somehow, Keith catches it just before it would have struck him on the head without actually having looked up. Sometimes the boy doesn’t seem human. “Actually, I went by the admin office and collected our mail. You had a lot. I actually had to sign for it.”

“Oh, thanks.” Shiro frowns, laying his data pad to one side as Matt hands him over a number of items. There are a couple of non-sealed internal letters, one late-admission paper for the class he is TA-ing, along with a hastily scrawled explanatory note Shiro is certain the gist of which will be ‘I left it to the last minute and actually it turns out trajectory mathematics is harder than it looks’. The last are a pair of small, bubble enveloped packages with international post marks.

“What did you get?”

Keith has switched positions and is now kneeling, a fraction of an inch too-close, head tilted to see the unusual stamps in Shiro’s hands. For a second his closeness does something to Shiro, before he reminds himself that this is Keith, brilliant, fiery, beautiful, but just Keith. He has no expectations of Shiro other than simply to be there, and the knowledge allows him to breathe normally once more.

“Late night self-indulgent shopping decisions.” He answers, and then sees the shocked expression on Matt’s rapidly reddening face. “MATT! Not like that!”

“I mean- dude...” Matt flicks his gaze rapidly from Shiro to Keith and back, and then appears to decide better of whatever he was going to say and hides behind his glasses once more.

“Totally innocent, I swear.” Shiro discards his other mail in favour of opening the pair of packages with a thick finger. “Get your mind out of the gutter Matt.”

“Not my mind I was worried about.” Matt takes a seat and stuffs the first bite of his burrito in his mouth. “I have code to check.”

Now Keith is the one no longer pretending to be studying, leaning with both elbows on the sofa cushion next to Shiro, watching intently as Shiro withdraws four boxes of varying styles and colours from his international shipment. Shiro smiles at him as he opens the narrowest of the boxes and removes a layer of crinkly tissue paper to reveal an item which cost far more in postage and customs taxes than the actual cost of the item. Keith frowns.

“You decided to become the anti-hero in a Victorian melodramatic novel?” He asks, looking both thoroughly confused and a tiny bit in love. Shiro knows the expression well, because it was the same one he wore, when he finally confirmed the transaction at some godforsaken hour of the very early morning when he’d been surfing the web instead of sleeping.

Shiro plucks the restored Wald-Soligen straight razor from its box carefully, running his fingers over the embossed black scales and the decoratively engraved spine of the currently shielded blade. He’d spent over an hour scrolling back and forth from the tab where its sales listing had rested, each time both more convinced that it was quite possibly the most beautiful object he’d ever seen, and also that it was an entirely unnecessary expense.

“Watched a couple of videos bout how to use them… everyone says you get a much better shave. Thought I’d give it a go.”

A couple of very beautiful, shirtless men staring into the camera whilst baring their throats and jaws and bulging biceps in instructional videos hadn’t hurt either, and Shiro had added the peripheral accompaniments to his shopping basket before checking out. He passes the closed razor to Keith before opening the boxes containing a soft bristled shaving brush, a shallow dome of solid soap, and a mahogany bowl perfectly sized for said soap.

“I found this guy who restores vintage razors as a hobby, cleans the scales, fits new rivets, re-grinds and sharpens the blades. And it was just so-”

“Pretty.” Keith finishes for him. “It’s beautiful.”

The sight of Keith holding Shiro’s new straight razor in one hand like his fingers were made for no other purpose than to curl around the hilt whilst his pinkie rests on the curved tang, should not make Shiro’s throat go as dry as it does. But Keith turns the razor, letting the hollow ground surface catch the light whilst he clicks a fingernail down the raised diamonds which decorate the spine of the blade and Shiro feels his pulse climb with each tiny noise. Keith holding something sharp looks natural, dangerous, enticing: like watching a panther decide whether or not it wants to eat you.

Matt coughs in a very deliberate manner into his fist, and after a long, oblivious moment, Keith folds the razor closed like he’s done it hundreds of times before and hands it back to Shiro.

“It’s cool,” he says, with genuine, unpractised nonchalance – because of course Keith think it’s cool, he’s a teenager whose best friend has just bought a sophisticated vintage grooming tool because he is an adult, dammit – and sprawls himself back across the floor to focus on his homework.

Shiro spends the rest of the evening opening and closing the blade of his razor in between sneaking glances at Keith and gets absolutely nothing else done.

*

They have a midmorning simulator test about a week later, and though usually, he, Matt, and Keith all meet for breakfast first, today Shiro finds himself staring at his reflection in the mirror, the lower half of his face white with newly frothed shaving soap. The texture of it is entirely unlike the Garrison issued all-in-one soap-shampoo-body wash he usually uses with his safety razor in the shower. Shiro is not proud to admit that he has already lost a full five minutes of his life to the experience of rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, just experiencing the silky soft consistency.

He has watched and re-watched half a dozen tutorials on straight razor shaving, and knows exactly where he should start and what he should do, but even with the razor unfolded in his hand, he cannot bring himself to press the thin edge of cold steel to his face. It’s not even like he thinks he’s going to cut himself – he’s the best pilot of his generation, or the second best, depending on where the dividing line is placed between him and Keith – but every time he looks in the mirror at his fingers around the razor’s intricately embossed black scales, all he can see are other fingers echoing the same motion, and his hand trembles.

To cut himself shaving would be one thing, to cut himself shaving because he cannot control himself as a result of thinking about Keith would be quite another. After another long staring match with himself, he stows the unused razor back in the box, washes his face, and fastens his uniform jacket as he exits his quarters.

His appearance goes unnoticed for all of ten minutes.

“Overslept?” Matt queries the moment the simulator door is fully closed, heading to his seat at the comm readout. “Not like you.”

Shiro settles himself in the co-pilot chair, but staring ahead at his own heads-up display is not enough to stop him from noticing the way Keith’s body flexes, impossibly long legs bunching, arm tense as he vaults – completely unnecessarily – over his own chair before landing in the bucket of the seat with a thump. Ostensibly, they are testing Keith on the updated simulation patterns today, which is why he gets to be lead pilot, but already Shiro knows the boy’s scores will exceed his own. He cannot find a single part of him which is unhappy about it, because if he could pick anyone to beat him, it would always be Keith.

“I got… distracted.”

Matt makes a noise like a dying whale. He tries to cover it by booting up and verbally confirming the readouts on his systems.

“Shiro… you didn’t even shave. What, are you scared of your new razor?”

“No.” Shiro denies, too fast and too hotly.

There is a single, heavy beat of silence, and Shiro can’t stop the way his eyes slide over to Keith just before the young man speaks.

“I’ll help you, if you like.”

“Do you even have to shave?” Matt scoffs, though it’s more out of shock than unkindness.

Keith’s easy soft smile becomes a fierce glare quicker than blinking. He looks a hair away from breaking the joystick in his fist and using it to beat Matt to a bloody pulp. Instead Shiro presses the last button for engine start up, and the simulator roars and vibrates into life around them.

“I would like that.” Shiro murmurs, very quietly.

Keith releases the brake and shoots their simulated craft forward in the same instant, and gives no indication that he’s heard. But the determined expression in his eyes is all Shiro can think about for the entire day.

*

Keith doesn’t bother knocking until the door swishes closed behind him. He’s known the code for Shiro’s door for months, and been brave enough to use it for himself rather than asking for permission every time for several weeks. Shiro sticks his head out from his cot where he is grading papers in the pyjamas, and smiles at his friend.

“Hey.” Keith lack of instant reaction has him frowning. “Hey, Keith. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“No.” Keith is standing in the little living room – a poky thing but one of advantages of being Junior Officer – holding a stacked pair of cafeteria coffee cups in one hand and a well dog-eared notebook in the other. He looks nervous, an expression Shiro hasn’t seen on him in half a year.

“It is Saturday, right? Were we supposed to meet for breakfast?” Shiro begins to shuffle his papers into a heap neat enough to allow him to extract himself from underneath them. The action makes him lose sight of Keith – still standing in the living room – but he can hear the boy shuffling his feet and muttering to himself.

“This is stupid. He probably didn’t even mean it.”

“Keith?”

Keith stares at him and Shiro is certain he is not imagining the way all the colour drains from his friend’s face as their eyes meet. Belatedly he wonders if he should have put something more decent on than sweatpants and an old tank top before emerging, and that causes him a blood-rushing-southward reaction of his own. He clears his throat and folds his arms over his chest with a small smile.

“Everything OK?”

“Y-yeah. Sure. I was just gonna… um... YousaidIcouldhelpyouwithoyournewrazor and Ibroughtyoucoffee.” He blurts out. “But I mean… coffee?”

“Thanks.” Shiro takes the cup, knowing Keith will have already added cream and sugar the way he likes. He sucks at his bottom lip for a moment before ploughing onward regardless. “You really wanna help me shave?”

Keith nods, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak. The unwelcome memory of Matt’s scathing ‘Keith’s crush is sort of adorable; yours is much less so’ after they’d left the simulator rings loudly in his ears, and Shiro knows that absolutely everyone in the Garrison would disapprove of the Golden Boy if they could see him now. “That’d be nice.”

The en-suite bathrooms given to Junior Officers are barely more than cupboards, but far superior to the shared facilities enjoyed by the Cadets. There’s nowhere for Shiro to sit but on the closed lid of the toilet, leaving Keith standing much too close to him. Keith seems not to notice but turns to the sink, already fiddling with the taps to fill the basin with warm water, wetting the brush before taking up the little dish of soap. Suddenly he stops, as if aware of Shiro’s eyes on him.

“Is this OK? I mean, you should do it if-”

“No. It’s fine.” Shiro offers him a small smile to mask the far deeper, brighter one he’d rather give, then reminds himself to keep breathing normally, as Keith steps into the space between his spread thighs, brush in hand.

“Umm… tilt your chin up for me?” Keith’s instructions are small and unsure, but he applies the soft lather with smooth motions, twisting his wrist as he goes. Shiro tries to still the motion of his throat as the bristles pass over his two-day stubble. “Sorry. I should have checked with you first or something, not just turned up stupidly early on your day off...”

“Keith.” Shiro reaches up and snags the boy’s wrist in one of his far larger hands. “It’s fine. You’re always welcome here. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah.” Keith turns back to the sink, ducking behind the permanently messy fall of his dark hair, and Shiro isn’t sure but he thinks Keith might be blushing. He tries very hard not to think of it as cute. “Thanks, Shiro.”

Upon turning back, Keith has the straight razor in one hand, flicking it open and into position with a smooth, well-practised motion. Shiro’s eyes go wide: Keith doesn’t look at all unsure now. Keith holding something sharp has gone from being attractive to being downright sexy, and that’s a reaction he needs to keep a firm lid on. Keith cradles the blade in his fingers like it’s something precious, and Shiro is momentarily jealous until Keith shifts forward ever so slightly. There really isn’t any spare space in the bathroom, and the idea that there would be an appropriate distance between the two of them is entirely Shiro’s wishful thinking. He places firm finger tips against Shiro’s temple and the short shorn hair by his ear in order to position him correctly and Shiro finds himself staring far too hard at Keith’s incredibly smooth skin.

“So… you’ve done this before?” He asks gently, knowing there’s no way Keith has. True to form, Keith flushes hotly, his galaxy eyes going hard and dark for a long second before he shakes his head.

“No. I mean, I watched a video.” He smiles ruefully. “My biology will get the memo about body hair eventually, I’m sure.”

The thought of Keith and body hair forces Shiro to swallow a strangled noise before he can completely embarrass himself.

“But I’m good with knives.”

Shiro should probably ask for an explanation for the soft boast, but he doesn’t.

“I trust you.”

“Good. Now stop talking. I don’t want to kill you, and your body would be too damn big to hide anyway...”

Keith braces his thumb against the hand which holds Shiro’s face, bracketing his arms for stability as he places the fine ground edge of the straight razor against Shiro’s skin and drags it down the side of his jaw. It’s a single, short stroke, totally painless, and Keith looks pleased with himself as he wipes the foamed lather off on a damp wash cloth, returning the warmed steel of the blade to Shiro’s skin once more.

Shiro figures Keith must have watched some of the same videos he did, because he goes about the shave in exactly the same motions Shiro spent too many hours watching, moving across the left side of his jaw and down his throat with precise and methodical movements. Keith is focuses on this task like he does on every other task Shiro has ever seen him attempt, apparently as keen to do as good a job of shaving Shiro’s face, as he is to prove himself the best pilot in his or any other class at the Garrison. Keith’s intense concentration leaves Shiro free to watch him, memorizing the sharp jut of his jaw and his high cheekbones along with the unfairly long, dark lashes framing his eyes as Keith grips his jaw and angles him to gain better access to the other side of his face. When he sets his hands up to brace the blade again, the pad of one finger falls perfectly over the pulse point in Shiro’s neck, and Shiro swears his heart actually stops.

Either Keith doesn’t notice the way Shiro’s pulse jumps and begins hammering out a new rhythm in double-time, or he’s even more supremely self-controlled than Shiro is. Keith swipes the blade of the straight razor carefully across the little hollow below his mouth and his thumb follows the motion, lingering on the pillow of Shiro’s lower lip. The pressure opens his mouth a sliver and Shiro forces himself to think that it isn’t deliberate. It can’t be.

“You’ve really nice skin.” Keith says, and Shiro stops breathing.

‘It’s a harmless school boy crush,’ Matt has said, ‘he’s just a kid.’ But Keith doesn’t look like a kid as he stares down at Shiro with his fingers on Shiro’s mouth and a blade in his hand. He doesn’t sound like a kid, or fight, fly, or spar like a kid. And he’s much more competent handling edged weapons than any teenager has the right to be. Shiro knows these are dangerous thoughts, but a big part of him doesn’t care, and an even bigger part of his hyper aware lizard brain really wants to know if all of Keith can be as gentle and soft as his fingers are being.

“Thanks,” he manages to exhale eventually. He nearly adds ‘you too’ just too try and ease the tension but stops himself from being an idiot. Shiro is very smart by any measure one could choose to use, but apparently being in such private proximity to Keith has fried most of his brain cells, and he feels like he’s forgotten how to form words.

Keith hums an acknowledgement and turns his hips and Shiro’s face at the same time, bringing the straight razor up to trim underneath his sideburns, apparently unaware of the now scant distance between Shiro’s face and Keith’s crotch. Keith turned up with coffee and his offer of help actually dressed, so there’s nothing in particular revealed by the stiff denim of his black jeans, but Shiro’s mouth goes suddenly parched regardless. The next time Keith turns away to wipe the razor clean, he takes the opportunity to fold his hands across his lap, bumping the interested bulge of his cock as he does , pushing down all thoughts of Keith and the way he looks. It’s all in vain though, because Keith shifts one foot and pins Shiro’s fingers over his crotch with his thigh.

Again, Shiro tells himself it’s not deliberate.

Keith switches his grip on the razor with fluid dexterity which would be slightly scary, if it wasn’t so fucking sexy and Keith’s thumb traces the straight profile of Shiro’s nose before stopping there. Keith’s watching his mouth, and Shiro realises he’s still sitting there with his lips parted and breathing too heavily, but he cannot bring himself to move. He wants to stay where Keith put him, and that alone is both reassuring and terrifying. He trusts Keith, so much, more than perhaps anyone has trusted Keith before; but the knowledge that he would happily leave his free will in the hands of his teenage protégé scares him right down to his tail bone. He would not be able to give a convincing argument to anyone – not Iverson, not Matt – why it is he trusts Keith so much, when he doesn’t even consider the other Cadets capable of making their own beds to the correct standards.

“Hold still.”

It’s a redundant request, because Shiro hasn’t even blinked, but he quiets his breathing too as Keith places the blade up under his nose and shaves down to his upper lip with a single firm drag of the blade. Keith lays the straight razor down on the edge of the basin, his fingers still on Shiro’s face, and Shiro realises that they’re finished. He can’t bear the idea of Keith stepping away.

“Close your eyes.”

“Huh?”

“Close.”

Shiro obeys, because of course he’ll do whatever Keith asks, and lets out a startled mufph as a towel is dropped over his upturned face. The feeling of Keith’s fingers rubbing over his skin through the material of the towel is nice, and it’s not like Shiro can assist because his hand is still trapped by Keith’s leg.

“Hey Shiro?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.” Keith’s voice is all soft and quiet, and Shiro knows he never sounds like that anywhere else, other than somewhere no one can overhear him but Shiro. “For letting me do this for you.”

“Of course.” Shiro knows he should definitely be the one thanking Keith, because even just against the towel, he can feel how soft his face is after such a smooth close shave. “Like I said; I trust you.”

Keith pulls the towel away and beams at him, his entire face lit up with the expression, and Shiro feels a little light-headed with the sudden beauty of him. He smiles, another casual, easy gesture, designed to hold all his other feelings at bay, and it works; right up until the moment Keith sweeps his fingertips once more across his face, trailing over his freshly shaven jaw and over parted lips.

“Feels good?” Keith’s voice is a whisper, it’s barely a question.

“Feels good.” Shiro repeats dumbly, wondering what happened to all his higher brain functions.

“Shiro...”

Keith is still standing between his thighs, his whole body only inches away, his face soft and smiling above him. It would take no effort at all to wrap a hand around the back of his thigh, or his hip, or his wrist, and simply tug him closer. No effort at all. Shiro forces himself to still, to relax, to not close that distance. Keith trusts him, he will be worthy.

The effort of his self-restraint is Herculean: Keith’s fingers are still brushing the corner of his mouth.

It’s a little movement, tiny, and Shiro could kid himself that it was an unconscious thing, except that he is watching Keith’s eyes and Keith is watching his own finger as he pulls ever so softly at Shiro’s lip. Shiro doesn’t think anyone has ever stared at him with such intensity, like Keith is trying to memorize him, and he feels the blush start to spread across his cheeks under Keith’s soft scrutiny. When the very tip of Keith’s finger slides just enough to touch the shiny skin at the inside of his lip, Shiro let’s out the very smallest of groans. Keith swallows, and the sound is loud in the small and silent bathroom.

“If… if I kissed you, would it ruin everything?”

The words are firm but quiet, and Shiro is momentarily worried that he imagined them, but Keith’s eyes are asking the same question, and his fingers are still touching Shiro’s mouth, just shy of probing.

“I’ll always be here for you Keith.”

“Yeah?” He’s hopeful now, smiling faintly.

“Yeah.” Shiro agrees, fighting the urge to suck Keith’s finger into his mouth, for no other reason than he can. “You won’t ruin anything.”

Shiro stays where he is, and let’s Keith come to him, to take whatever he wants. Because Shiro knows that for Keith, he is already ruined.