Work Text:
“Closed? What do you mean, closed?” The confusion was clear in his voice.
“Listen, Duncan, you’re a good lad, but you are thick as two short planks sometimes! My wife has been nagging me to finally retire, and she’s right. I’m an old man now. Just ask around where your mates get it cut!”
“But--” he was cut off by the dull noise of the other line hanging up. He sighed, pushing a loose strand of shaggy hair from over his eyes. He really needed a trim. Duncan piled the rest of his work things into the same dusty black duffel he carried every day, took off his reflective vest, and chucked it into the laundry bin with the rest of the dirtied vests and work pants. As he stood, a cloud of sawdust flew into the air, and he used his hands to brush the rest off his pants and shirt. Construction was no clean job, but he never minded the mess. This was the first job he had been able to keep, and he was pretty damn good at it, as well. For a former street kid like him, chopping wood and welding steel was something much more attainable than most other jobs, and most importantly it didn’t require a formal education.
He punched out for the day, making his way to the neighborhood watering hole, where he would meet up with his friends. It was a daily ritual for them, meeting at the same pub, sitting at the same booth, and ordering the same drinks. Sometimes other friends would join them, sometimes it was just Duncan and Raymun, but there was always a drink there. At least that hadn’t gone changing on him. Sometimes he took the Metro there, but the sun was still shining down, so he opted to walk.
Raymun had already arrived when he got there, and his wife, Rowan, too. They had already ordered him his usual--a pint of brown ale and half a chicken. He waved hello to the bartender working and took a seat in the high-top chair, which worked more like a regular chair to a man of such large stature.
“The lad finally made it!” Raymun greeted him with his usual vigor. He had been riding a steady high ever since he met his then-girlfriend, now wife. “What’s with the long face?”
“And hair,” Rowan added, noticing the length.
Duncan grumbled, gulping down a hefty few sips before beginning his rant. “First, the boss asks me to cover for my no-good coworker who never shows up, then I’m made to mix the cement by hand, and to finish it off, my barber has just quit on me! I mean, what’s a fool like me to do? That man cut my hair for years, and old man Arlan’s before that! Raymun, where do you get yours cut?”
Raymun’s face twisted into one of unease, or maybe slight embarrassment. “I, uh,”
“Why, he gets it done at the salon!” Rowan finished his statement with a hint of tease in her voice.
Had Duncan still had beer in his throat, he would have spit it out. “The salon?” The tone he had was incredulous. His mind was spinning with jokes he could make, but he couldn’t decide which one to go for. “Raymun Fossoway, the manliest of men, who won’t even put lotion on his face, goes to a salon for his haircuts?”
Rowan smacked Duncan on the arm, which prompted a whine in response. “You quit it! It took me a lot of convincing for him to come in the first place! But God, don’t his curls just look fantastic?” She took a lock of her husband’s hair and began twirling it around her finger.
“Er,” he looked over at Raymun, whose eyes were widened in an expression Duncan could not make out, “I mean, yes Rowan, it does look quite nice.”
“Good! It’s settled then. I’ll book you an appointment.” She immediately picked up her phone and started texting. Duncan looked over at his friend, who just shook his head silently. They both knew better than to argue with Rowan, especially not once her mind was set on something. Besides, he thought to himself, his hair does look quite nice.
The group had a couple more drinks, chatting until the sun went down, before parting their separate ways back to their respective homes. Dunk made it to his apartment in only a few minutes’ time-- one of the perks of having such a large stride-- and turned on the oven to make one of the frozen meals packed in his freezer. He took out another beer from the fridge, cracked it open, and sat down on the couch to see what sort of good videos he could find on YouTube for the night, and settled on some random video on train stations in Dublin. As he was waiting for his frozen cottage pie to finish cooking, a ding! on his phone roused him from the robotic motions he was going through. It was Rowan:
yo dunkie dunk! i’ve booked you an appointment with my hairstylist. his name is lyonel, and he is the best of the best. go to this address after work tomorrow.
and be nice! i can’t lose his trust! or his skills with the scissors!!! ok byeeeez! <3
Dunk sent a quick response:
When have I ever not been nice? I’ll be there, on time. Thx.
He was still skeptical of the whole idea, but touching his head again, he knew he really was in desperate need of a trim. Duncan spent the rest of the evening as he usually did, watching random TV and snacking, before falling asleep on the sofa, still in his work clothes, with the tv buzzing in the background.
The next day went as it always did. His body woke him up instinctively at five in the morning, where he brushed his teeth and made the same breakfast he made every morning: an ungodly amount of eggs and spinach, and a large coffee with milk and sugar. It took a lot of fuel to keep him satiated, and he learned after not much time that egg white cartons were the easiest way to feed all 211 centimeters of hard-worked muscle. It’s also why he could stand to drink so much beer--Duncan didn’t even like it so much, necessarily, but he could always use the calories.
He arrived at work around 6:30, and spent the day in a fog of hammering, drilling, paperwork, and dust. It was no more special than usual. The only thought lingering on the back of his mind all day was his excitement to get that stupid hair out of his face. So, when the end of the day came and went, instead of heading to the pub as usual, he followed his GPS to the salon Rowan had texted him about. He didn’t know what to expect when he arrived, but it wasn’t something so... fancy.
The Stag? Odd name for a hair shop, he noted when he saw the name, elegantly written out in gold lettering along the window panes. Duncan stepped inside, ducking under the doorframe, and was immediately hit with a thousand different scents, all equally fragrant and intoxicating. He looked around, orienting himself under the bright lighting, and made his way to the front desk, where an unamused receptionist sat, smacking on a piece of gum while she played on her phone.
“Uh, excuse me,” Duncan asked, suddenly acutely aware of his size. He felt like a bull in a china shop.
The girl looked up, first bothered, then into an expression Duncan could only guess was shock--he never was talented at recognizing faces.
“Wow, you’re huge!” She just looked him up and down. “I mean, welcome to The Stag! Do you have an appointment with us?”
Duncan nodded. “I think so, my friend Rowan said she made one for me last night?”
The receptionist typed a few things into the computer, clocked a few things, then looked back up. “She sure did. Looks like Lyonel will be available soon, he’s just finishing up running an errand out of the salon. You can take a seat right over there,” she gestured to a set of tiny plastic chairs near her desk, “and wait just a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” he replied. He walked over to the chairs, gauging whether he could feasibly fit in one of them, and deciding to just stand instead. He grabbed one of the magazines laying on the table, and flipped through it, pretending to read the words but really just looking at the photos of models with eccentric hair. He was about ten pages through when the jingle of the door opening and a boisterous laugh caught his attention.
He was the most striking man Duncan had ever seen. He had a waterfall of salt-and-pepper locks, perfectly coiffed around his ears, and wore a striped cardigan that resembled that of a bumblebee. He must have been around 20 years his senior, but he wore the years extremely well. Duncan was fixated on the man as he said a polite hello to the receptionist, who pointed Lyonel in his direction, and walked up to greet him.
“You must be Duncan!” His voice was as gleeful as the rest of his demeanor, and he flashed a smile of perfectly-straight, perfectly-white teeth. Lyonel looked him up and down once, then twice. Is he checking me out?
Duncan didn’t have time to answer that for himself as he was ushered over to Lyonel’s chair.
“My, my...” He was deep in thought, nimble fingers twirling around shaggy blond locks, “You really do need a cut. Rowan was not joking around. So, what were you thinking?”
“Uh, short?” Duncan responded. He had never been asked that question before. His previous barber just cut it the same every time, and that worked for him. He had never been the most fashion-forward guy, and his social calendar consisted mostly of drinks at the pub and the occasional game of pickup football. When he did go out, he usually just let Rowan or another one of his more colorful friends do him up.
“Oh, my dear,” Lyonel cooed, voice raising in excitement at his new project, “I am going to do you right.”
In the blink of an eye, Duncan was sitting down with his head in a sink, splayed out awkwardly from the entirely too-short chair for a man his size. Lyonel had told him to relax, though it was a little hard to do so when he had another man’s hands on his scalp. He had never had someone else wash his hair before, and his own washing consisted of no more than a five-minute scrub with the shampoo. This new experience was teaching him something embarrassing--he liked it. Like, really liked it. The feeling of practiced hands massaging his scalp, smoothing out years of roughness, was almost too much to handle. Duncan was on the brink of falling asleep, in fact, with the combination of Lyonel’s deft fingers, the warm soapy water, and the scents of rose and shea butter flowing over him, and before he knew it, he had let out a moan.
It wasn’t a sexual moan, by any means, but one of deep comfort and satisfaction. He was completely bent to Lyonel’s will, and would have walked through fire if it meant just a few more minutes of this decadent treatment. He wasn’t even embarrassed, in fact he had barely noticed it. Lyonel finished the treatment by placing a hot, steamy towel over his face, opening his pores and clearing his nasal passages, and his body relaxed even more in the small chair. Lyonel was enjoying the show just as much as he, but was blissfully unaware of the unabashed ogling the hairdresser (and all of the women in the salon, for that matter) was doing to him. It was a sharp return to reality when he had to stand up to walk back to Lyonel’s station.
“Do you trust me?” Lyonel asked, flashing another full smile as he ruffled Duncan’s hair with a towel. “I’ve got a vision.”
“You can do whatever you want to me,” Duncan said, still entranced, but added a bit at the end after realizing how that sounded, “I mean-- to my hair!”
Lyonel only laughed, but it was one of joy, and not of pity. “I understand! A lot of the guys who come in here aren’t used to such luxury. I don’t hold it against them. Now, sit still and let the Stag work his magic.”
It was a flurry of snips and flicks of the wrist. Duncan couldn’t help it; he was staring hard at Lyonel. It was always a pleasure to see someone so talented really digging into their craft, and he was working at Duncan’s hair like it was a marble block, chiseling it out until the beautiful statue underneath revealed itself. It only took about 20 minutes, and in the end, he could not believe the product in the mirror. It wasn’t too dissimilar to his normal haircut, but there was so much more depth. He looked handsome, a word he did not always ascribe to himself. Lyonel handed him a mirror and spun him around, allowing him to flick his hands through the front and back.
Lyonel looked at the receptionist and gave her a wink, and she giggled in response.
“So, what do you think? Would you like me to put some product in it for you, style it up?”
“I look amazing, Lyonel! I don’t even know what to think. How much do I owe you?” Duncan was just staring at himself in the mirror, running his hands through his hair, which had become incredibly soft from whatever magic Lyonel did.
Lyonel put some pomade in his hair, completing his already fantastic look, and running his hands through his scalp again, this time without the barrier of the soap and towels, it felt even better. Duncan’s face flushed, unable to hide the pleasure he got from such intimate touch.
“It’s on the house,” he smiled, finally taking his hands out and unclipping Duncan from the hair cape he had been wearing.
“Really?” Duncan felt strange, as such fantastic work certainly deserved something.
“Really. I don’t often get to have so much fun doing hair, especially not with tall, handsome strangers as yourself. Duncan, do you like dancing?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” He shrugged, standing up to put his jacket back on.
“Would you like to go out tonight? There’s a new club that just opened up downtown, and Rowan and I are checking it out.”
Did he just ask me out? Duncan looked down at the man, trying to hide his joy at the question. “I think that’d be fine. When do you get off? I’ll pick you up.”
They exchanged phone numbers, and Duncan excitedly left back home to get dressed. It was only later, when ruffling through his collection of stained work shirts and plain jeans, did he realize he had just about nothing to wear. Why was he even doing this? Usually he would just wear his regular clothes out and not care. But he thought of Lyonel in his sharp outfit, and at his hair, which was so nicely done, and felt he needed to level things up. The shops near his flat were still open, so he stepped into the only one he knew would sell things in his large size, and FaceTimed his best friend for fashion advice.
Raymun was much more fashionable than he, and also the only one who would not question his last-minute fashion emergency. With his help (and some unsolicited comments from Rowan on ‘what Lyonel likes’), they had decided on a nice ensemble of creams with a crocheted button-up; after pairing it with his only pair of sunglasses and his cleanest trainers, he was ready to go. He got into his car and made his way back to the salon, where Lyonel was waiting in a mesh top that did not leave much to the imagination.
The club was packed, and the sweaty bodies kept adding up as the night went on. It wasn’t a gay club, strictly speaking, but it did seem to be the majority of the patrons, which Duncan enjoyed. He was used to the vibes of the classic pub, with rugby blaring in the background and smoky pool halls, which he was comfortable with, but did not give him much in terms of dateable options. It wasn’t like he was in the closet-- Duncan had come out years ago to everyone important, and had a great support system-- he just never found himself interested in many people.
But watching Lyonel under the rainbow lights of the disco ball, swaying loosely along to the unidentifiable DJ music, all smiles and laughs, he felt something twinge in his stomach. He excused himself to go get a drink, and found a sweaty Raymun gulping down something pink and fragrant.
“Dunk!” He shouted, finishing off what could not have been his first drink, “There you are! Tell me,” he slung a drunken arm over his friend’s shoulder, “when are you going to seal the deal with your new man over there?”
Duncan groaned. “I want to, Ray, but just look at him! Do you really think he’d want anything to do with me? I mean...” he looked back into the crowd, where Lyonel was having the time of his life, passing through the crowd as he made his way from one patron to the next. “I’m nothing like him! I didn’t even know how to dress for a club!”
Raymun looked at his friend with a look of what Duncan could only make out as anger. “Duncan. You’re as tall as a statue, and built like one, too! Have you not seen the way all the boys here are staring at you? If I weren’t in a happy, straight, marriage, I would be all over you!”
“Seriously?” Duncan was perking up a bit now.
“Of course, lad! Now, let’s get another drink in you, and get you back out there!”
By ‘another drink’, of course, Raymun meant several shots of some sickly sweet liquor, which Duncan hastily threw back, before stumbling back onto the packed dance floor in a hastened search for his new prospect. Lyonel was, of course, not hard to spot, and Duncan made his way to him, wrapping large arms around Lyonel’s slender waist, and dancing closer than he usually dared. Lyonel reciprocated, turning to face him with an amused look, and a bird-dance ensued, with the flinging of limbs, and grasping of cloth, and sweat beads forming. They became the only two people in the world, nimbleness and strength colliding, coexisting, melding together.
After they were sufficiently exhausted, the two broke off from the crowd and stepped outside for a smoke. They finally got a good look at one another under the fluorescent street light, and a fire in Duncan’s belly lit as he watched Lyonel, abs glistening underneath his small mesh t-shirt, smoking, arm perched lazily against the brick wall. He stepped towards the man, using one hand to grab his cigarette, and leaned in to plant a kiss on Lyonel, who happily reciprocated. He put his other hand against the wall, closing the two in as they explored each other’s mouths, letting the lit cigarette drop to the ground. Lyonel wrapped his arms around Duncan’s thick waist, exploring the new terrain, looking for an entrance underneath the layers of fabric. Duncan, whose left hand was now free, quickly found the small of Lyonel’s back. He didn’t want to stop there, though, and began sliding it lower--
“Duncan! Lyonel! You naughty boys!” Rowan giggled, stumbling out of the club with Raymun on her arm, who hooted at the sight.
The two released from their embrace, and, overwhelmed by the emotion and the vast amounts of alcohol coursing through their veins, burst into laughter. Duncan looked over to Lyonel and held out his hand.
“Would you like to come home with me tonight?”
Duncan was usually never so bold--he rarely went out like this to begin with, and certainly never went home with guys, but there was something different with Lyonel. He definitely wanted to sleep with him, yes, but he also wanted to wake up to him. He wanted to have a hungover morning with Lyonel, and a sober afternoon, and a quiet evening.
Lyonel just nodded and took his hand, which was soft and smooth against his own rough callouses, and the two stumbled home.