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“Knees, please,” Elias says, and Peter has no trouble thinking up things to say to that: salacious and lewd, every one of them, and it really does sound something like a dare, doesn't it. Knees, please, crisp and clean like the lines of the suit jacket Elias slipped off at the door. Knees, please, and Peter could say– Oh, well there’s loads of things he could say. Yes sir, or why don’t you show me how it’s done, or the long-time favorite: by your leave, darling, and Elias would sigh in that way of his — brisk and pointed like he doesn’t appreciate his time being wasted.
But Peter’s said it — said it all, time and time again — and as it is he is very tired, so down he goes. He aches as he does, all those forgotten parts deep inside where the ocean’s got its grip on him. The wind and the cold. Old breaks and newer ones, that dull, familiar pain settled deep in his bones. Unique, Peter thinks, to crab fishermen and seafarers. Elias knows nothing of that pain — nothing besides that which he takes from Peter — but he keeps his flat warm, bathroom even warmer from the steam, and the rug beneath Peter’s knees is thickly padded, sinking with his weight.
Fresh from the shower, water drips from Peter’s hair to his shoulders, rolls down his back. His skin is pink, though probably not as pink as it should be. Maybe? Peter’s never been much of a judge for those little mundane things. He’s warm, in any case. Not his normal state of being, that, but tolerable. Comfortable. Nice.
He adjusts the towel around his waist, lays his hands in his lap, watches Elias sift through a drawer under the sink.
He’s handsomer at home than he is at work. Elias disagrees, Peter knows — rather be seen on his throne than in his den. He’s a lot like a wild thing, in that regard. And in most regards, despite what he might say — despite the way he ties his tie and the impeccable shine of his cufflinks. All of which are gone now, Peter notes: cufflinks in a dish by the door, tie rolled up tight and tucked into its proper place in the dresser — or tossed carelessly onto the bed, depending on the day, depending on the mood. Still knotted, sometimes, loosened and slipped off over his head if he’s feeling particularly ornery. His waistcoat, too, hung up at one end of the closet or the other. Elias is a man who undresses on the move.
Peter ponders this at the same time he ponders the stretch of Elias’ shirt over the width of his shoulders, the taper of it around his waist, the line of his spine beneath the fabric. Cotton, today, and dark blue. Peter thinks it looks quite nice on him, the color, but he’d probably think the same of a green or a grey, and he’ll always think Elias looks best in nothing, anyways. Yes, he muses, far handsomer at home.
When Elias turns back to him, it’s with a towel in one hand and an electric trimmer in the other. He doesn’t say anything as he drapes the towel around Peter’s shoulders, tucks it under his chin and the bulk of his beard. His silence suits Peter fine — and so does the beard, really, but a ritual is a ritual, even one such as this. Two strange men pretending at normalcy, he thinks, and then huffs a laugh. Normalcy is relative. That’s something Elias would say. They’ve all got a bit of normal in them, haven’t they? Must have. Makes the abnormal all the stronger.
Two strange men playing at domesticity, then. But that’s not right, either. Peter watches Elias roll the sleeves of his shirt up over his forearms. Two and a half folds, perfect enough. He has a freckle on his wrist, right next to the tendon that bridges between his thumb and his radius. And another near his elbow, towards the back; the secret kind you might not know you have until someone lays a kiss to it. Or bites it, as the case may’ve been. Hard to remember all the marks he’s left. Harder still to play at something they’ve already got.
Elias fits a length guard onto the head of the trimmer. Not the longest one, Peter doesn’t think, but not too short, either. He’s never bothered with measurements, sizes, numbers. Elias is the one who counts. Money, mostly — blows and strikes and knots, sometimes. Little bit of work, whole lot of play. And all his. All Peter’s.
“Peter,” Elias says, and Peter glances up at him. He’s got a comb, now, and a look on his face like he wants to scoff and say oh, hardly . The comb is black and wide-toothed, and Peter is only barely kept from saying something antagonistic by the threat of the long metal pick coming off the end of it. Elias taps him on the chin with its flat side. Eyes up, soldier, front-and-center. Peter does as directed, tilting his head back to present his beard. It is actually quite long, though less unruly than it had been before his shower, wiry and fraying with salt. Maybe it only suits him when it’s as dirty as the rest of him, then: thin film of grime and grease like on the wide, flat hull of his ship. Rust bleeding around her welded edges. Maybe.
Elias combs through his beard, first. He’s nice about it, kind, and Peter knows this because he knows even better what it is like when Elias isn’t. He hits a snag — corner of his mouth, trouble on the port side, Captain — and cards through it gently, smooths over the hair there with the back of his finger. Peter wants to bite him, regular old work hazard, but doesn’t.
The trimmer is quiet when Elias flicks it on — or maybe Peter is just very far away. The droning buzz of it fades like static, wanes off into the backdrop. Peter can hear his breathing over it. And Elias’, too, when he leans in close. He guides Peter’s head back even further with a hand over his brow, presses the trimmer against his skin, sets to work. The first swipe tickles, up his neck and over his jaw, and Peter has an odd awareness of his hair falling away, clumping together on the towel around his shoulders.
Elias nudges him this way and that. Practiced, efficient. The trimmer hums against Peter’s skin, warms him through. He is reminded of bees, in a way, of their buzzing and fluttering heat. Fuzzy little bodies glancing their wings off his cheek. And then his chin as Elias makes his way around Peter’s face. His hand hovers over Peter’s throat, there. Touches just barely, down low where Peter would like it to stay, and Peter wonders, not for the first time, if Elias would ever like to give him a proper shave.
Next time, Peter thinks. Next time. Wouldn’t be the first that he’s bared his throat to a blade in Elias’ hand — though a nice, close shave is likely to be a lot more fun. Might also turn out a bit like trying to catch a bear with a dab of honey, but, well, that’s just the bees again.
By the time Elias clicks off the trimmer, Peter feels like he might need to sneeze. He rubs absently at his face, scratches his nails deep into his beard. Not too short, no, but Elias won't be tugging him around by it anytime soon. Shame.
Elias bats his hands away, wielding scissors. He gets himself down on Peter’s level with a knee on the floor, pressed up close. Just the one, but he drops with that quiet grace of his — smooth and slow and old, refined from a time before Technicolor, anchored in the upward sweep of his eyes and the bones of his wrists. Like a Hollywood starlet, Peter thinks. Like Gene Tierney.
“That must make you the ghost,” Elias says.
“That’s lazy,” he replies, “Why can’t I be the detective?”
Elias shrugs without shrugging. “You know Keats.”
“Hm. ‘Life’s slow at sea.’”
Elias peers at Peter’s mustache. “That it is, Captain,” he says, and tilts his head as he trims the hairs over Peter’s upper lip.
It’s quick going; Elias knows what he likes — and knows what Peter likes, too, but doesn’t waste his time with it. He levels Peter’s facial hair with exact precision. Peter assumes it’s exact. Precise. The scissors are cold where they come close to his skin, never really touching, separated by atoms. All those little things.
Finally, Elias draws away, scissors hanging limp from his fingers like something shiny and dead. He hums, satisfied little noise. Pleased with Peter’s face. But, ah, no. Pleased with himself, more like. He usually is.
He stands easily. And what an awfully strange thing it is, Peter thinks, to be envious of the state of a man’s knees.
The scissors clink where Elias puts them back on the counter, propped over the lip of the sink. He moves around to Peter’s back, threads a hand through Peter’s wet hair. He tilts Peter’s head back with a tug. Tugs again for the sake of it, and Peter sighs. It feels good. Feels better when the comb comes back, meets his hairline and drags backwards, pulling gently through his hair until it lays flat and straight. Elias follows the path of the comb with his hand, fingertips massaging into Peter’s scalp — smoothing, petting. Peter lets his eyelids droop, does his very best to keep his head held up where Elias put it, because Elias is likely to flick his ear if he doesn’t.
Peter falls easily into the lull of the comb and Elias’ fingers in his hair, feels more and more absent with every pass. He feels like he’s warming, like his skin is humming. Breathing. Good.
Elias steps to the side to retrieve the scissors again. Peter watches him in his periphery, watches the muscles in his forearms roll beneath his skin, roping together. Watches the jump and strain of the bones in the backs of his hands. Catches the white and blue flash of a wrist, aches to press a kiss to it something fierce, before it’s gone back and Elias is standing back behind him.
He starts at the nape of Peter’s neck, works his way out towards his ears. The grinding, chewing snip of the scissors rings in Peter’s ears when they get close. Not unpleasant, but not the opposite, either. Just routine. Easy. Elias cards his fingers through Peter’s hair, up the back of his head now, the sides, keeps cutting. He brushes loose hair away from Peter’s ears when it tickles, away from his neck when it itches, and Peter closes his eyes.
“Peter,” Elias says, voice low, “Tell me a story.”
Peter breathes deeply. This, too, is routine. And just as easy, sometimes. Most of the time. Elias asks for a story — demands, if he’s feeling tetchy — and Peter gives him one. Gives him a few. More than a few.
He tells him of things he saw at sea, out in the depths, among his men. The things he witnessed on land, bedding down in strange ports, drinking alone in seamen’s pubs. The conversations he muddled through, the interactions he had. Forced upon him, some of them, held in silence, others. Contact. He tells it all to Elias. Every bit of it, lays it out at his feet as his hair falls to the floor. Dumps it like they dump cargo, sometimes. Shipping containers neatly stacked, columns and rows. Primary colors and green and white.
Peter gives it and Elias takes it. Peter doesn’t think he feeds on it — not like he feeds on his watching, his voyeuristic spying. Beholding might take an interest in Peter’s brushing up against humanity but Elias doesn’t — not like this. He just takes it. Snips at Peter’s hair and takes it. Leaves Peter feeling light, feeling heavy, feeling very, very tired.
Peter talks until he has nothing left to say, well gone dry.
“Thank you,” Elias says, like he always does. Ever the gentleman.
His hair goes quickly, then, Elias’ fingers at his temples speeding it along, moving around Peter like it’s a dance he knows all the steps to. Peter feels loose and limp, and, by the time Elias lets the scissors slide into the basin of the sink, he is convinced he has empty spaces in between each of his joins.
Elias combs through his hair one more time, wiping it on the towel around his shoulders when the teeth fill with stray hairs. The comb joins the scissors with a plastic, scraping sound. Elias keeps barbicide beneath the sink.
Peter opens his eyes as Elias removes the towel, watches him fold it carefully to keep the loose hairs from falling. He wipes at Peter’s face and neck with a clean corner before dropping it near the sink.
When he looks back at Peter it’s like he’s expecting something, though Peter doesn’t know what. Peter blinks at him — and Elias blinks back, slow and deliberate. Bedroom eyes. Like a cat. It’s a rare enough thing, blinking, that Peter reaches up and grabs him by his belt, reeling him in. Elias lets him. Lets him pull him in until he’s forced to stand with one foot by Peter’s thigh and the other between his knees. His hands go back to Peter’s hair, and Peter wraps an arm around his waist, presses his face into his shirt.
He seems impossibly small like this, Peter’s arm looped around him, nose pushing into the flat plane of his stomach. One of his buttons presses to Peter’s chin, and Peter can feel it when he sucks in a breath, sighs it back out. Can feel it like he can feel his own pulse building in his ears, right there where it lives in the core of him. Peter wants to crawl in with it, make a space in Elias’ tiny body for himself, where he couldn’t possibly fit. Beneath his ribs like a roof over his head, here where he’s softest.
Elias’ fingernails scratch into Peter’s scalp in slow, circular movements. They stop for a moment, start up against when Elias huffs a laugh, private, just for the two of them. Dipping his fingers into Peter’s head again, most like. Peter’s so used to it he can’t even feel it anymore. And that’s just fine. Peter’s never been much for self-preservation, anyways.
They stay like that for a long while — Peter holding Elias against him, hiding his face in the folds of his shirt, burying into the lovely give of his stomach.
Peter’s knees start to ache again. His hips, too, his lower back. Elias is too polite to peel away from him, but he does tap at the back of Peter’s neck, pulling his attention. Peter peeks up the line of his body, finds Elias looking down at him, head tilted like a bird.
“Come to bed,” Elias tells him. Asking without asking. Peter doesn’t know how he does that. Doesn’t want to.
Peter nods, groomed cheek rubbing against the fabric of Elias’ shirt.
"Come,” Elias says, tugging at his hair, “Up.”
Peter goes. He feels light, airy.
His joints still creak.