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The glide of the razor was cold, along with the mousse that he diligently applied on his beard, and it was enough to wake Logan's barely mute consciousness.
He hasn't been able to get a wink of sleep, tossing and turning on his side of the bed when the idea of trimming his beard - something he's been delaying for quite some time - came into mind. It was enough to convince him to leave the comfort of both the bed and Peter's presence.
An airy sigh passes his nose, the razor a large burden on his hand as he tries to wash away the mousse and tag-along strands underneath the heavy gush of the faucet.
With the task at hand, the older mutant was rather immersed - eyes zeroed in on his own reflection, not failing to note the bags underneath his eyes. It was enough to distract him from the fleeting feeling in his chest.
That tight, aching feeling in there that makes it difficult to breath. And during nights like these: his mind a battlefield of his fractured pasts, and a heart a flowerbed of fears, he can't help but feel the urge to move.
So, he moves. Mechanically, and monotonously.
Just as when he's almost finished with the right side of his face, the slightly ajar door cracks open slowly.
"Hey," Peter squints at the glare of the fluorescent lights inside of the spacious bathroom, hands reaching inside of his - Logan's - washed-up band Tee. "You disappeared on me…at 3AM."
His tiny, sleepy voice was enough for Logan to stop his ministrations. Razor down and his head craned towards him, he offers him a soft smile.
"Can't survive a night without me in your bed, Maximoff?" He asked, a tinge of slyness in his voice as he reveled in the sight of him: absolutely drowning in something that is his, Peter's hair pinpointing in directions he cannot comprehend, that crease in his kissable forehead because of the glare of the lights - he wishes that he'd stayed just a little longer in bed, and relish himself in the presence of his forever.
Peter snorts, but it sounds like a sigh.
"Mhm, you know I can't sleepy without you in bed." He retorted. Eyes finally well-adjusted.
Logan turns to him, fully. His attention poured all over Peter as he watches him cross the short distance between them - warmth threading across his chest as Peter's arms engulfed him in an embrace.
They stayed like that for a short while, cold linoleum floor numbing both their toes as Peter clung to Logan like a damsel in distress: hearts thrumming to one note, and their bodies washed in each other's warmth.
It was enough to distract - no, it was a better distraction from what Logan was feeling.
So much better that he couldn't feel the abysmal void situated in his chest anymore. The ache a distant memory of the earlier hours.
"Sorry for waking you up, sweetheart." He added in the comfortable, mutual silence. Peter's arms tightening a fraction, before loosening to peer at his lover's face with that twinkle of slyness in his eyes. "I thought I'd be able to finish this before you woke up. Turns out I was wrong."
"Pssshh," A poke on his back, then on his cheek. "Hush now, old man, and let this dude help you out."
Logan raised a incredulous eyebrow at that proffer.
"Can you even shave?" There's a hint of tease in Logan's voice, half-expecting for Peter to joke about being able to shave. Only to be met with the serious gaze of his lover.
He sighs, admitting defeat to whatever this is now.
As long as Peter is happy, he's a happy man, too.
"Alright," Logan loosens himself from the tangle of limbs and warmth, unfortunately, and grabs the razor that sat on the edge of the sink and offers it to Peter, almost like he's offering his life to him. "You're in charge of it, baby. Do your worst."
"Have some faith in me, old me. You know this guy's got this down to the basics!" Peter chirps, eyes glinting with pure radiance at the mere offer of shaving Logan's beard for him.
The younger man straightens up, a hand hooked onto the edge of the sink as the other works on trimming Logan's beard to perfection.
Each glide, swipe, and rinse felt like an intimate ritual with ancient history. It tells a story, a story of familiarity and belonging. Something that the both of have found in the other.
This love is rare, irreplaceable.
Peter tilts Logan's chin slightly to the left, carefully and duly, and swipes at the extra patches of fine threads there before he runs the blade under the mizzle of water.
"Do you feel better now?" Logan could feel the press of a warm palm on his chest. Solid. And just.
He nods, knowing that he didn't need to use his words when it came to him. Peter knew him like the back of his hand, like a dirty habit, and a tracklist of records.
And that thought is enough to pull a smile from him that's hiding behind the remainder of mousse.
Peter glides the blade one more time, cold and risky, before he rinsed once more. The final product a decent looking well-kept stubble.
"See?" Peter sets his chin down on Logan's shoulder, that bright smile of his a stark contrast underneath the pale moonlight. "I make a decent barber, don't I?"
"I'm surprised to say the least, never expected for you to wake up and offer me your services." Logan offers him a pointed look against his own reflection.
"Oh please, I'd offer you my everything. This is like, the tip of the iceberg of what I can offer you." He says with a wiggle of his eyebrows, and Logan can't help but chuckle light-heartedly at that.
Logan turns to him, his hands extending to plant itself onto his hips. Feeling the way his body is molded quite perfectly underneath his very fingertips.
"Well," Peter tilts his head, a knowing expression on his face as he watches that primal glow in Logan's eyes. "What can you offer me, angel?"
Peter hums, crossing his arms together, a finger tapping on his forearms. Sly, sly boy.
"You can find out." With the flutter of his heart, and the guttural growl in the back of Logan's throat, the fastest man alive doesn't notice a pair of big, strong arms hauling him by his thighs on time.
Logan's fingernails digging deep that it was enough to send tiny sparks of arousal up Peter's spine.
"Only one way to find out, baby."