Shallow Cuts
by Sandrine Shaw
It's still dark outside, London only just waking up under the cloak of the parting night, when Adam burst into Tony's room with the arrogance of someone who thinks no doors are ever closed to him. Like he owns the hotel, or maybe owns Tony. The idea makes Tony grind his teeth, and he vigorously silences the small voice at the back of his mind telling him that there's a part of him that revels in the familiarity. Not like that, though.
It's too early to deal with Adam. Before Tony's had his first cup of coffee. Before his defenses are up. When he's just stepped out of the the shower, hair still tousled and wet and a towel wrapped around his hips.
From the suite's bedroom area, Adam calls out to him, "Tony, we need to talk about the menu for the charity thing tonight." It throws Adam a full-blown rant. Of course it does. Why would he think this isn't the time and the place to lecture Tony about culinary matters; just because it's barely 5am and there's a closed door between them?
"I don't give a fuck how famous this soccer guy is or how much press he'll get us, there's no way steak pie is ever going to be served in a restaurant where I cook."
Adam keeps going, but Tony drowns out the noise, getting his hair in order. Punishing him with disregard is the only effective way to deal with Adam acting out. It's something only years of trial and error have taught Tony. Yelling back at Adam won't get you anywhere; he'll only roll his eyes and brush it off. Not having the attention he craves so badly, though? That's something his ego can't take.
Unfortunately, even ignoring him only works for so long. The bathroom door is pulled open and Adam steps inside and leans against the doorframe.
"Are you even listening to me?"
At least he sounds calmer now that he's got the initial rant off his chest, with or without a captive audience.
Tony hums under his breath. "Not really. I'll listen to you when I'm shaved, dressed and had some coffee, and when you've learned that just because you charmed Kaitlin into giving you a master key, it doesn't mean you have the right to walk into every room."
Despite the bold statement, he feels naked under Adam's gaze. It takes all his willpower not to check if the towel is secure; not to reach for the robe hanging behind the door.
Brushing the self-conscious urges aside, he turns his back on Adam and focuses on his own reflection in the mirror as he reaches for the razor. There's a flush on his cheeks, a faint crimson tint that runs down to his chest. He likes to pretend that it's from the heat of the shower rather than Adam's presence, just as he likes to pretend that he doesn't notice when Adam steps closer. Truth is, he feels it – the soft sound of footfalls on the tiles, the way the air in the room seems to bend around Adam's presence, the rise of tension – even before Adam's figure comes into view behind him in the mirror.
Without asking, Adam takes the razor out of his hand.
Tony turns and frowns at him. "What are you—"
Adam's callused fingers are surprisingly soft against his skin as he straightens Tony's head. The touch is unexpected and startling. Their eyes meet in the mirror.
"Shhh. Let me," Adam mutters.
His hand is still resting on Tony's cheek and neck, just above the pulse point, but close enough that Tony imagines he must be able to feel the frantic beat of his heart.
He swallows hard.
He doesn't understand why Adam would want to shave him. It seems like a terrible idea. It will end with shallow cuts and blood in the sink, and that's just the best case scenario. But Adam's eyes are an electric blue, sharper than the razor blade, and Tony can't say no.
"Alright," he agrees, so quietly that he hopes it'll mask the tremor in his voice.
The capitulation wins him a soft smile, almost tender. The kind of smile that's had women and men willing to fall on their proverbial knives for Adam at least since Paris, and probably a long time before. It's so rarely been directed at Tony that he tells himself that, whatever bloodshed this little exercise will produce, it'll be worth it.
Letting go of his face, Adam takes the shaving foam from the tray, dispersing a generous amount in his palms before reaching for Tony. The first touch, spreading the soft, minty foam across his cheek, is light and uncharacteristically hesitant, but it doesn't take long for Adam to regain his confidence. He tips Tony's head back when he lathers up his throat, fingers moving in tiny circles over the sensitive skin. It doesn't feel perfunctory; it's too drawn out, too much like a caress, and Tony is almost glad that the angle makes it impossible to watch Adam in the mirror.
Then the hands are gone, and Tony already misses them.
"Stay like that," Adam orders him, and he obeys.
He expects the cool, sharp blade of the razor, but it still makes him jump when it first touches the side of his throat. The blade slips. The brief, sharp sting makes him wince. His hand comes up to feel the cut, but Adam intercepts it before it reaches its destination.
Adam's finger gently traces the spot, wiping away whatever blood there was. Tony can almost hear the frown in his voice when he speaks. "You need to stop moving. I don't want to cut you again."
"Sorry. You surprised me." He's well aware of the irony that he's the one who ends up apologizing when it was Adam who cut him.
Holding himself perfectly still, Tony waits for the blade. It slides a clean, straight line from the hollow of his throat to the underside of his chin without drawing blood, and Tony lets out the shaky breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.
It gets easier after that, and harder too. Adam guides the blade across his skin with sure, steady hands while directing Tony's face with soft touches to get better access. Even though there are no further incidents, nothing about this feels safe. Tony's been shaved by other people before – barbers and stylists, his dad a couple of times when he was a boy, and once by Reece, during their early days in Paris before it all fell apart, Tony having injured his right hand and unable to hold a razor steady enough not to cut up his own face.
None of those times felt like this, though. Sensual, like seduction, like foreplay, and Tony doesn't know if he wants Adam to finish it up quickly and stop or to draw it out as long as he can.
Neither of them is talking. The only sound filling the room is the rasp of the razor against stubble, interspersed by wet noises as Adam dips into the water-filled sink to clean the lather off the blade. Adam's finger's keep brushing against his throat, his cheeks, his neck, and Tony knows that at least half of them are accidental touches. Some are not, though: Adam testing the skin to feel if it's smooth enough or pulling his head to one side with gentle fingers. And then there are those touches that are without purpose, completely, utterly gratuitous, and those are the ones that push Tony's endurance to the limit.
Underneath the towel, he's uncomfortably hard, cock straining against the fluffy white cotton, and he silently thanks whoever had the brilliant foresight to invest in towels thick and firm enough to conceal plenty.
"Careful," Adam says, and draws the razor down the strip of skin above Tony's mouth. It tickles, and Tony wrinkles his nose.
"There." Adam sets the razor aside and takes a small towel from the shelf, carefully wiping it across the lower half of Tony's face and down his throat. He stands behind Tony and puts his hand on his shoulders, admiring his handiwork in the mirror. "All done."
Tony looks at his reflection. He makes a sound of approval. "Not bad." He cranes his neck and touches the tiny cut where Adam's blade had slipped. It's almost closed already, barely visible if you don't know where to look, but it still stings when he brushes his fingers across. "I wouldn't necessarily recommend a change in profession, however."
The quip prompts an amused snort from Adam. "Don't worry, I wasn't planning on offering my services to a wider public."
There's a heated sparkle in the blue of his eyes. He gives Tony's shoulders a brief, firm squeeze before letting his hands trail up to his neck, raising goosebumps on flushed skin. He reaches down and pulls at the towel around Tony's waist, ignoring the noise of protest. Tony's fingers clamp down on Adam's wrist, stilling the motion and holding him in place.
"Don't— " he says, and his voice almost breaks.
For a moment Adam doesn't move and Tony genuinely thinks that's it, that they can ignore this and return to the old status quo, forget this ever happened.
But then Adam's other hand sneaks across and squeezes his wrist, his voice right at Tony's ear: "Tony. Just let me." Their eyes lock in the mirror, and Tony silently pleads with him, but Adam only shakes his head. "I can leave and you'll jerk off thinking about me. What's the fucking point? I'm here and I'm offering. Would you really rather have a pale imitation instead of the real thing?"
Of course he wouldn't. Of course he wants Adam's hand rather than his own. But the fucking point is that Adam will leave either way, now or after, and Tony will be lonely and aching for that real thing. But at least if Adam goes now it'll be the familiar loneliness, the one he's already used to. Not a fresh hell where he knows exactly what he's missing.
Doesn't mean Tony has the power of will not say no.
He loosens his grip and lets his hand fall away, trying not to think about how the smile Adam directs at him in the mirror feels like defeat.
The calluses of Adam's fingers are rough on his cock, but his touch is gentle and just firm enough. A few experimental strokes, then he pulls back and spits in his palm, and the next time his hand wraps around Tony's erection, it's slick and slippery and warm.
His eyes never waver from Tony's, like a vampire feeding on the sight of him drowning in desire and embarrassment and need. Tony hates it. He loves it. It's every fantasy he's ever had, except the ones that count the most, and it makes him want all those impossible things he knows he can't have.
Adam's hand moves faster, adding a little twist to the upstroke that tears unbidden little moans from Tony's throat. He wants to enjoy this as long as he can, wants to draw it out, but he knows he can't last. Not when it's Adam.
"Come on, let go," Adam says, and Tony does just that, coming all over Adam's fingers, moaning Adam's name, breathing in the scent of Adam and soap and fresh towels. It's like Adam is all around him, taking over every part of his existence, and it's smoldering and liberating all at once.
It's over too soon.
He's still breathing heavily, riding that perfect high, when Adam steps away. Not before giving his cock a final parting squeeze. It's a gesture that feels so much like regret and pity that it turns Tony's stomach like a bad case of food poisoning.
Adam leans over the sink to wash his hands, standing as close as he can without touching him, and Tony fights the urge to cover himself. No. Adam started this. Tony refuses to act like he's the one who should be ashamed.
Adam dries his hands off and throws the towel at Tony. It's a playful gesture, but it still sets him on edge.
"You're a bastard," Tony says, with feeling, and he means it. He's never quite hated Adam as much as he does right in this moment. It'll pass, of course, it always passes, in the way he wishes his other feelings for Adam would pass too.
Adam smiles. It's wry and almost apologetic, if Adam was the kind of man who believed in apologies.
"But you love me anyway," he says. It's not a question.
End.