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Walter insisted on doing this at his own place, whatever 'this' entitled to. In the beginning of their relationship Alexander might have assumed this was a subpar attempt at innuendo; a euphemism for the deeds two fully grown adult men do together in the comfort and privacy of a bed (or a bathtub. Or a couch. Or, and Alexander hates that this is even a possibility, let alone occurred in the first place, on the kitchen counter near the sink). Now, Alexander knows that Walter is the kind of person to make plans last second, but his plans are often considerate for both their wants and needs. So whatever this 'this' is, Alexander is mostly assured that it will be something that will be of benefit for the both of them.
So he waits. In Walter's bathroom, sitting on the edge of the closed toilet seat because Walter told him to and because apparently he has lost the vocabulary required to say no to Walter and his vague requests.
"Got the clippers," Walter announces, striding in with a two-sizes-too-large t-shirt and, as he claims, a generic model hair clipper.
Alexander eyes the cheap clipper. Then he eyes Walter's ridiculously oversized shirt. A leftover from a previous relationship? A rare one-of-a-kind find, just like all the little treasures scattered across his cupboards and tables? Whatever it is, he wishes it was anywhere except on Walter's body. If he were to say this out loud, however, Walter might do so a little too happily.
"Clippers?" Alexander asks.
"Didn't ya say your hair was getting too long? Thought I'd do ya a favour."
Alexander eyes Walter's even more ridiculous mullet. He does recall saying he is in need of a haircut in Walter's presence, but it was a comment voiced aloud for himself alone. Not something directed at Walter, and certainly not something important enough for Walter to bother remembering.
"You? And hairdressing? I am no authority on fashion, but even I know the mullet hasn't been in fashion since humans still lived on Earth."
"Aw c'mon, it's a classic look, alright? I thought I did a bang up job on it too." Walter unconsciously runs his hand through the front of his skunk pattern hair. "Look, ya want the haircut or not?"
"What kind of haircut do you even have planned for me?"
"Well, that's what ya gotta tell me, darl. Not tryna brag or anything, but I've been doing this since I was a lil' ankle biter. 'Course, had to do it with hunting daggers and barber razors if I got lucky, but I've had plenty of experience with the ol' clippers too." Walter's smile simmers to something softer. "You in or not?"
Alexander lifts himself up from the toilet seat, his expression unreadable with the mask on his face. Try as he might, he can't seem to find an ulterior motive for Walter doing this for him. Does he like hairdressing that much? Does he really desire to be this closer to Alexander's presence? Try as he might, no other alternatives exist anymore. Walter is not complex enough to have many alternatives.
"Give me just a few moments, I will retrieve a photograph from my device. But you must promise me not to speak of it to anyone."
"A glimpse into the mysterious Doc Nox, ay?" Walter chuckles. "Your secret's safe with me. You know that."
"I do know that," Alexander cannot help but smile. It's very fortunate the mask hides any obvious show of emotion, though by the way Walter brightens, he's sure he did not do a good job at hiding his smile.
He'll let Walter have it. Call it a present. Or a prezzie, as Walter likes to call it. Perhaps he's getting a better hang on the Salvonian slang after all.
He takes out his phone—old and neglected and with nary an incriminating thing on it—and pulls up the browser, searching up his own name. News articles of his death, and his mother and her orphanage, and Humbert labs pops up, but he ignores it all, scrolling down until he finds one article in particular. A bit of the way down is his picture, taken a year before the official death of Alexander Maxwell Nox. It's from his identity card, which got burned in the fire, though the picture still exists in the recovered databases, and was for a period of time the picture used by authorities to ask the public to identify him with. He forces down that familiar wave of dread at being discovered that runs up his throat like bitter poison. He hands Walter his phone.
Walter gives only a passing glance before turning to Alexander. "That what you want? Your old haircut?"
"If it is too difficult, a simple trim will suffice."
"Didn't say I couldn't do it. Not a job out there that's too small for ol' Fusey. I'll see what I can do."
Alexander brings over a chair from the living room, adjusting it to his height before sitting in front of the bathroom mirror. Walter brings out a hairdresser's apron and surprisingly enough does not make the most obvious joke as he presses it closed near his neck. Alexander hasn't had a haircut ever since his 'death', it's part of the reason why his hair has grown out over the years. He never enjoyed having his haircut no matter the age, but he finds it oddly relaxing when Walter sifts his metallic hand into his scalp, combing through the fine brown strands and pulling it gently to one side. When the metallic tongue of the clippers buzzes near his ear, he doesn't feel any fear or worry. Like everything Walter does, his every movement is relaxed but focused, even when his face is pulled into that incorrigible grin.
"So why the change-up? Going old school, I mean."
"It's complicated," Alexander replies.
"Being as smart as you are, I'm sure you can make it sound simple."
Alexander sighs softly. Curse Walter knowing just how to stroke his ego. "My hair is in need of a cut, and in the hands of someone other than myself, I might as well get it cut it in the way I prefer. That's the simple answer."
"And the complicated one?" Walter takes the clipper close to one side of Alexander's hair and begins to cut it.
He takes in his reflection, softer and mellow, wearing a comfy sweater and a less obstructive mask. The crinkle in his eyes almost looks friendly, and not like the homicidal sociopath many know he is. A sociopath he refuses to acknowledge.
"The more complicated story is that my mother chose this hairstyle for me before I died." Complicated not for the story itself, but for the emotions tied to it. His mother is a vagrant, clueless hippie, and also the most nurturing and understanding woman on all the Syndicate planets. To say he hates or loves his parents is too simplistic, and does not even cover all the different permutations of emotions that occur when you love and hate and feel indifferent to someone simultaneously.
"Huh…" Walter says, brushing the excess hair off Alexander's ear. "Bit like me and my do. Or rather, my dad's do. Always said mullets never go out of fashion."
"You were close to your father?"
"Nah, yeah, my dad was a real legend. Helped save up some money to chuck me into school, not that I did great there. Wanted to give me the good life he never had, without the warlords breathing down your neck, and when I went full merc instead, he were still all sorts supportive. But ya know how it goes. You go on Leavers to another planet, get a taste of the worlds outside your own, and you wanna explore and see it all. So you pack up your things, pitch in with a couple of your mates to get a spaceship, and travel the stars. Next thing you know, he's gotten shot by Kelly's gang because he went on smoko at the wrong place at the wrong time, and suddenly you realise you didn't even say goodbye all those years ago."
Even Alexander is not so heartless not to feel touched by that story. The buzz of the clippers is the only thing he hears for several seconds.
"I never had the compulsion to leave my home city, let alone my planet."
"Ain't surprised. Given where you came from, you'd probably never wanna leave home."
"Home was home. A place to live and to study and to experiment. It's no different now. The only difference is that before I had to deal with two idiots. Now I have to deal with one."
"Well, I'm flattered you think I'm part of your home," Walter smirks.
Alexander grunts. "Don't get too comfortable. I can still throw your scraps out to Mad Maggie when I'm finished with you."
"Oy, don't let her hear that. She might actually come and get me."
"I give no promises," Alexander smirks back.
Their chatter falls into comfortable silence, the buzz of the clippers filling the room once more. Walter's light smile still lingers on his face though there is no doubt he is concentrating as he glides the clippers close to the root of Alexander's follicles, the strands falling down onto his shoulders and lap like leaves after a bitter blizzard. One side appears to be shaved cleanly, but it's still uncertain if this is a lucky fluke or yet another skill Walter has picked up over the years. Metal fingers linger over his skull, reminding Alexander that this is Walter doing this haircut, and if he knows even half as much as he does about the Salvonian, it's that he will not stop finding excuses to touch Alexander, intimately or otherwise.
His skull is manhandled into different directions as Walter gets the trickier segments of hair. The mask is as unobtrusive as it can be, but there is a limit to what Walter can do.
"Alexander," Walter says, "you mind I ask you to remove the mask for a bit? Shouldn't take too long."
Alexander grunts in the affirmative. Walter puts down his clippers to gently pull the mask out and away from Alexander's face. The air of Walter's apartment stinks of discarded booze which always makes Alexander cough at first, though with his insistence he has begun to decorate it with different plants that have caught his eye. Fake ones, of course, which removes the point of owning one, Alexander thinks, but at least it's something.
When the coughing dies down, Walter begins the final process of the haircut. His skull is pushed and pulled, rotated and spun, all with the gentleness expected of a man holding another's skull with a prosthetic arm primarily built for combat. The fingers slip through his scalp, as if memorising textures it cannot feel, storing it all on a computer so that Walter may be able to know what it feels like long after Alexander leaves this cozy apartment block for his own. Stray hair is brushed off his head, and then he hears the squirt of a bottle. Sticky hair gel is combed through, cheap and smelling suspiciously similar to Walter's hair, fingers massaging into his neglected scalp. He closes his eyes for just a moment, trying and failing to remember a time someone has ran their fingers into his hair like this.
Alexander feels the chair spin beneath him, and soon he is face to face with Walter once more. "Well, ain't you a real beaut, darl." He brings the clippers up between their lips. "Need a trim of your beard as well, while I'm at it?"
It's hard to hold his gaze with Walter's. His eyes today inevitably end up drifting lower to Walter's thin lips. "Just a trim. Nothing drastic."
Walter chuckles as he replaces the blade of his clipper with a smaller one and runs it through the edge of Alexander's beard. It's short and quick, only interspersed with the occasional lingering caress. The metal thumb creeps up his face to rest on his cheekbone, cool against his warm skin and the hot flames flickering within Walter's eyes, waiting for the moment they will explode into a million pieces and be swallowed up into the earth and the soil.
But the touch doesn't last. Walter gives one last brush through with his fingers and then he drifts away, putting the clippers back near the sink. Alexander stands up and takes the hairdresser's apron off. When he turns back to Walter, he's suddenly in front of him with a hand mirror, grinning from ear to ear.
"And bob's your uncle. How's that for a haircut?"
Alexander stares into the small hand mirror in Walter's grasp. The outcome could not have been better. An almost perfect replica of his haircut from almost 10 years ago. Almost, because the passage of time has made his face look different. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced, the wrinkles near his cheeks and forehead cut deeper into his skin, and his eyebrows are still unruly and shaggy. His skin is a bit more tan from being in the sun—a natural byproduct of his participation in the Apex games—and there are still red marks from when his goggles sit tight against his flesh. But most importantly, the expression on his face doesn't look as harsh as it did ten years ago. His eyebrows are not drawn to the center of his face but instead rise higher towards his widow's peak. His lips, normally drawn tight into a scowl, form a small 'o' shape.
Walter smiles upon him, affectionate yet proud. "Guess that means you like it, ay?"
"It's exceptional work," Alexander admits. "I must confess, it is better than I expected."
"Maybe too exceptional," Walter says. "If all the other fellas out in the world saw you like this, I might have a bone to pick with them."
Alexander tilts his head. "I did not take you for the jealous type."
"I'm not, but I feel like right now, I wanna hog you a lil' bit. Have ya all for myself." His hands loop around Alexander's waist. "Wanna enjoy it before the other blighters get a chance."
"I've no plans on letting others judge me for my physical appearance." Alexander smirks, "I already know I am the best." He makes no move to remove the limbs wrapped around his waist. The pressure and the slight heat is nice. Pleasant.
"Hmph. Don't rightly believe all that, but I ain't gonna contest that title." He leans up and pecks Alexander on the cheek.
Alexander smiles knowingly. "This was your plan, was it not? Do me a favour by giving me a haircut, and in return I help take care of your needs."
"Not everything needs an ulterior motive. But I ain't gonna say no if you're offering."
Perhaps he's in a better mood than he expected, because his first instinct is not to go home and return to his experiments. No, his first instinct is to stay here, in this disgusting, smoke-polluted, booze-contaminated apartment and bask in the company of the one-eyed Salvonian on his ratty second-hand couch. Shoulder to shoulder, and maybe later chest to chest and lips to lips, poisoning the other with gentle touches and gentler gestures until they won't survive the night without the other as the antidote. It's an instinct that's become increasingly common in recent days. An instinct that sends a thrill to his chest, killing him tenderly.
Alexander's hand curls into the material of Walter's baggy shirt. The latter licks his lips seductively, his moustache turning askew as he gives a one-sided smirk, following along with an excited giggle as Alexander pulls him out of the bathroom and into the living room. Soon as they are on the couch, Walter curls his fingers into Alexander's scalp once again, holding back the moan in his throat. Alexander doesn't wait to tell Walter he has permission. By now, it seems obvious that they are both getting their own enjoyment from this.
"Gonna let me admire my handiwork?" Walter breathes.
"Just this once, Walter," Alexander says. "The circumstances are exceptional today."
Suffice it to say, it's not a one time thing. But Alexander will delude himself with one more go, one more caress, and one more experiment. It's all for his ultimate goal, he tells himself as he succumbs once more, breathing in Walter's fumes.