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"Matt!" Foggy calls, setting the office phone back onto the cradle with a clunk.
"Wha’?" Matt calls back through the bagel stuffed in his mouth. He'd been going over case details and hadn't bothered to listen to Foggy's call.
"Bad news, buddy, Mr. Menendez's case has been moved up. The honorable Judge Martin presiding."
Matt drops his fingers from his refreshable braille display and slumps in his chair, tipping his head back as his arms flop down by his sides. Foggy comes into Matt's office and pats him consolingly on the head before plucking the bagel out of his mouth. "You'll live," Foggy tells him heartlessly, and then tears a chunk off of Matt's bagel and pops it into his mouth. "It's just a shave," he says once he's swallowed.
"Why does she hate beards?" Matt asks, forlorn.
"Judge Martin doesn't mind beards," Foggy says. "She minds your halfway-there stubble. Very unprofessional. Slovenly." Matt frowns at him.
"I hate shaving," Matt says, aware of the whininess in his voice but not caring.
"So commit and grow the beard, dude," Foggy tells him, and stuffs the bagel back in Matt's mouth.
Matt pulls it out again. "Beards are too loud and itchy."
"How are beards loud?"
Matt tears off a bagel piece, chewing it sullenly and swallowing with a gulp. "The hairs brush against each other. They're crinkly."
"Well we're due in court in 90 minutes my friend, you better get to shaving. I'm not losing a case because your stubble pissed off the Judge."
"Ugh."
Foggy pats his shoulder and wanders off, and Matt straightens up in his chair, scratching irritatedly at his throat. Judge Martin, Matt thinks uncharitably. What a joke.
He sighs and leans over, opening the bottom drawer of his desk and feeling around until his fingers flick at the emergency disposable razor he grudgingly keeps in the office.
This is going to suck.
Matt takes his cane with him, purely so he can swing it around and bang it into things, really hammer home to Foggy how dumb shaving is as he trudges into the office restroom. The noise of his cane slapping the doorjamb sends little pangs of hurt through his head, behind his eyes.
He turns on the taps and lets his cane clatter against the counter, sliding over in a slow fall until it bumps against the wall, the echoing noises outlining the objects and dimensions of the small, cold room.
He takes off his jacket and loosens his tie, slipping it out of his collar before undoing the top few buttons. His clothes get piled on the counter over by where his cane rests, and then he can't really justify delaying any longer.
Matt sighs as he splashes the still-cold water onto his face and scratches it into his stubble. He's always hated shaving. The way the metal blades scrape his skin and catch on the thick, bristly hairs of his neck and chin. The lingering burn of his skin afterwards. It's one of the more unpleasant everyday sensations he has to endure.
Matt reaches out and pumps some of the hand soap into his palm, and then smears it over his chin with a grimace, trying to ignore the fake citrus scent. He rubs it in and lathers it up half-heartedly, and then picks up the dinky plastic razor, flicking the plastic cap off, wetting it, and tapping it dejectedly against the rim of the sink.
He juts his chin out, absently listening to Foggy wander over to the doorway. He's frowning and dragging the razor down over his cheek when a click and the hum of fluorescent lights tell him Foggy turned the light on.
"What are you- is that hand soap?" Foggy asks, incredulous.
Matt drops his hand and tips his head back. "That's the soap that's in here," he says tiredly, his cheek already stinging where he'd run the razor over it. He lets go of the razor, and it clatters into the bowl of the sink.
"Okay. Okay," Foggy says with a deep breath, stepping into the restroom and then turning around and walking out immediately, a small gust of air signaling his exit. "Wait there. Don't do anything else to your face!" Foggy says, and begins to rummage around in his desk, mumbling to himself about how no wonder Matt hates shaving if that's how he shaves, dear God.
Matt wrinkles his nose and scratches at his cheek, slimy soap gunk getting caught under his fingernails. He flicks at it and sniffs, wincing at the overwhelming lemony scent.
No one had ever taught Matt how to shave, exactly. His father died well before Matt had had to worry about facial hair, and the nuns at the orphanage hadn't really gone into much detail about the whole thing. His eye twitches.
Foggy comes back to the restroom and drops an armload of things of various sizes, shapes, and textures onto the counter. Matt reaches out and pokes. The first thing he touches is… a towel?
"Okay," Foggy says, after a deep breath. "So, first, let's start with rinsing the, god, the hand soap out of your dumb beard first."
"'S not a beard," Matt mumbles, and turns the water back on, leaning over the sink and splashing his face.
"Okay, wait, get your shirt off, just in case."
Matt sighs and straightens up, patting his hands dry on the towel Foggy had brought and then working on his buttons. He feels Foggy reach over and do something to the tap, and then a gradual increase in warmth and moisture as the air steams up. His shirt gets piled on top of his tie and suit jacket, and he turns to Foggy with his eyebrows up.
"Alright," Foggy says, "Lean over the sink."
Matt sighs and does as Foggy says, flinching a little when Foggy touches the back of his neck, but letting him guide Matt down closer to the water. He blinks and holds still as Foggy cups water in his palm and lets it spill, warm and gentle, over Matt's cheeks and chin. Foggy's fingers rub at Matt's stubble, blunt nails scratching into it and loosening the cheap hand soap, the water rinsing him clean.
This goes on for some time, long enough for Matt to zone out focusing on the warmth of the steam, the gentle, wet sounds, and the rhythmic pressure of Foggy's thorough touches.
"Okay," Foggy says eventually, voice low. "Straighten up," he tells Matt, and his hand pats at the back of Matt’s neck. Matt stands up straight, his back popping as he arches it. His breathing is slow, and the little pricks of pain stabbing behind his eyes at sharp noises have faded.
He listens to Foggy slide his little towel over to the bowl of the sink, the squishing sounds as he wrings it out and soaks it and wrings it out again.
“Head back,” Foggy says.
Matt swallows and tips his head back, settling a steadying hand against the edge of the counter. He feels the heat from the wet towel before Foggy places it on his face, wrapping it over his chin and cheeks and mouth. He lets out a questioning noise, and Foggy pats his shoulder.
“This is going to soften the hair, which makes shaving suck less,” Foggy tells him. “You just chill out for a minute, kay? I’m gonna get the shave foam ready. The good shit. Papa Nelson’s special.”
Foggy continues to chatter as Matt breathes through his nose, the whole bottom half of his face wrapped up and hot and oddly calming.
"-Lucky I had my overnight bag here, otherwise we would have been stuck with your god awful razor. Didn't know people still made those things, yeesh. You're not allowed to buy those anymore."
Matt listens to the quiet sounds Foggy's hands make, the brush of something soft against wood, the little huffs of his breath as he hums and talks to himself.
"Alright bud," Foggy says, setting something down with a hollow click onto the counter. "De-mummify yourself."
Matt is oddly reluctant to take the towel off, but he does as Foggy says, pulling it off and taking a deep breath as he lowers his chin. The shock of cool air on his lower face wakes him up a little, and he hands over the towel when Foggy makes a gimme noise.
"Okay, so we're gonna use real shave soap, it's sandalwood, is that an okay scent?"
"Smells like you," Matt says with a shrug. "It'll be fine."
"Better than that hand soap shit, anyway. So, shave soap and a badger brush."
Matt blinks. "Badger?"
"Don't worry, it's ethically sourced," Foggy tells him, the smile evident in his voice. "They just shave 'em and the hair grows back, I checked."
Matt nods and holds up a hand, fingers curled slightly.
"You wanna feel? Let me rinse it," Foggy says, and Matt hears him turn the faucet on, hears Foggy rinse and tap, and then there are wet bristles touching him, thick and luxurious, swirling around the pads of his fingers.
"Soft," Matt says, dropping his hand when Foggy pulls the brush back.
"Very soft," Foggy agrees. "Okay, you ready?"
Matt shrugs.
"Super," Foggy says with a sigh, and Matt scrunches up his nose in apology. "Nah, it's alright, but we gotta get started, bud."
Matt steels himself. "Where do you want me?"
"Hmm, maybe, uh, here," Foggy lets out a little grunt and Matt hears a whuff and a thump, and then Foggy is a little higher and a little farther away. "C'mere."
Matt shuffles closer, fingertips out and brushing against the counter. Foggy's slacks make a soft noise, and Matt feels a heel tapping against the back of his knee, nudging him even closer, until his hip brushes the counter between the heat of Foggy's splayed thighs. "Alright, chin up," Foggy tells him, and Matt complies. He hears the water, the brush. Something in Foggy’s wrist cracks quietly as he flicks it, over and over again, and then Foggy says, “Chin up,” and Matt complies. “Goin’ in,” he’s told, and he doesn’t flinch when Foggy swirls the brush over his cheek.
“Tickles,” he huffs out, trying not to twitch. The foam left behind by the brush is light and pleasantly scented.
“Good tickle, bad tickle?” Foggy asks, and the brush is drawn away from his skin. More water, more flicks, and it’s back again, a firmer stroke along the line of his jaw, swipes up and down along the underside of his chin, his neck.
“Not bad,” Matt decides. Foggy tilts Matt’s face, a thumb against the corner of his chin, and Matt goes where he’s nudged, swallows as his throat is exposed even further.
“Okay,” Foggy says, “Down a little?”
Matt lowers his chin, faces straight ahead, feeling foggy’s breaths puffing softly against his cheek.
“Hmm, upper lip,” Foggy says, voice sounding muffled. Matt blinks. “Um,” Foggy smacks his lips. “Make it, uh. Make it tall. Stretch it over your teeth for me.”
Matt does as he’s told, feeling silly, as Foggy dabs the brush across his lip.
“Okay. Easy part’s over.”
“Right,” Matt says, heart thumping.
“So I’m gonna use a safety razor. They take a little getting used to, but they’re way cheaper than the billion blade disposable things, uh, one of which we are getting you today, by the way. No more shitty plastic two-blades, my dude.”
Matt, unwilling to think too hard about any of it, shrugs.
“Alright, I’m gonna start, um, upper right. Your upper right.”
Matt swallows and nods shallowly. “Okay.”
“You ready?”
“I’m fine.”
“‘Kay, face left a little, hold still.”
Matt holds his breath, eyelids fluttering closed, and waits for the blade to hit his skin.
Foggy hums, when he does it, when he sets the blade against Matt’s skin and drags it down, just a little tuneless, pleasant noise, as the blade shaves off an inch or two of the hairs on Matt’s right cheek.
It doesn’t hurt.
Matt blinks his eyes open as Foggy pulls the blade away and splashes it around in the sink water.
“Okay?” Foggy asks.
“It didn’t hurt,” Matt tells him.
“Yeah no shit. It’s not supposed to.”
“Keep going,” Matt says.
Foggy snorts, and keeps going.
Matt is fascinated by the sensations. He can feel the metal of the blade gliding along his skin, feel it cut through the thick bristles of his facial hair without tugging, Foggy angling it with a steady patience. He tilts his head where Foggy guides him, leans into the short, smooth passes of the blade. The sounds of the hairs being shorn off, the tiny, pin-point bursts of the bubbles of the shave foam, Foggy’s deep, even breaths, all coalesce in Matt’s mind, swirl into the scent of sandalwood, the warmth of Foggy’s body inches away. He feels the warm metal drag up his throat, swallowing at the sensation. Foggy’s knuckles brush against his jaw, scrub gently across his throat, following the path of the blade. Foggy’s voice, when it comes, startles him. He opens his eyes, swaying a little. Foggy’s hand comes up to his shoulder and steadies him.
“What?” he asks.
“Upper lip,” Foggy says, hand falling away. “Over your teeth again.”
Matt bites his lips, nostrils flaring, and tips his chin up.
“Okay,” Foggy tells him softly. “Almost done.”
Matt hums.
Foggy drags the blade down in soft, even strokes, shaves off Matt’s mustache. He swipes across the dip of Matt’s upper lip with his thumb, smearing away some left-over foam. “Open,” Foggy says, and Matt’s jaw falls open, lips parting without thought. “Don’t freak out,” Foggy tells him, and draws the blade up at the corners of Matt’s mouth, skates it over the edge of his lips. “Gotta get the little pokey ones. They’re the worst.”
“Uhng,” Matt says after a beat. An attempt at a sound of agreement. His brain feels oddly slow, thoughts delayed and swimming slow through his brain.
“You can close now,” Foggy says.
Matt closes his mouth, licking his dry lips and swallowing thickly.
“You made it!” Foggy says brightly, and tilts Matt’s head one way, and then another. “I’m inspecting,” he informs Matt. A thumb swipes over Matt’s cheek, up and against the grain of his hair growth. It feels… “Smooth,” Foggy says approvingly. “Here, let me, uh- Close your mouth again, I’m gonna clean ya up.”
Matt clamps his lips together, and the towel from before, still damp, refreshingly cool now, gets wiped across the strangely tender skin of his cheeks, his neck, up by his ears.
“Awesome,” Foggy pronounces, and the towel gets dropped to the counter with a fwump.
“Thanks, Fog,” Matt says, his voice gruff for some reason.
“Any time. Here,” Foggy takes Matt’s hand and presses it against his own cheek. “Feel.”
Matt feels. He flattens his hand out and drags it down, back up. “Weird,” Matt decides. Foggy laughs.
“How do you feel about lotion on your face? Same scent,” Foggy says. “It’s a balm so you don’t get too tender or prickly feeling.”
“Sure,” Matt says, hand falling back down to his side.
“‘Kay, hang on.”
Foggy takes something off the counter, taps his hand, sets it back down. Matt follows the noise, tilts his head and lets his eyes wander.
“Heads up.”
Matt looks up, smiling at Foggy’s huff of laughter, and lets Foggy pat the whatever-it-is into his cheeks, rub it into his throat and his jaw. More sandalwood. Oily, creamy. Matt breathes it in. It just smells like Foggy.
“Alright, buddy.”
Matt cocks his head.
“Clothes on. Court in, shit, in an hour.”
Exhaling, deflating, Matt nods. He takes a step to the side, towards the pile of his clothes on the counter. Foggy’s knee brushes his hip, and Matt grabs it, steadies himself, scoots around it and lets go to pick up his shirt from the pile. He feels for the collar, drags his fingertips along the seams, finds the tag.
“You alright?”
“I’m okay,” Matt says. “Thanks for the shave.”
“Your first good shave. Of many.”
Matt raises his shirt up, spins it, lets it drop down over his shoulders as he pushes his arms into the sleeves. “You’ll help me get a better razor?”
Foggy’s shoes hit the tile with a clap as he hops off the counter. “Hell yeah. Just wait until I get you with my straight razor. Your life will never be the same.”
Matt does up his buttons with clumsy feeling fingers, smiling crookedly. “I believe you.”
***