Twenty years, two people. A journey told through facial hair, burnt skin, shaving cream and open wounds.
June 13th, 1914
.
The ball room resonates with cheerful chattering and bashful laughs. It is hot, and Matthew feels his skin burning under his clothes, the shirt collar cutting into his neck so much he finds it hard to breath. Mary is light in his arms, her skin sweetly cold under his hands, swiftly taking him to a farther corner of the hall and leaving him to wonder who is leading whom.
"Thank you for saving me back there. If I had to listen to the General one minute longer…"
"I'm sure Edith can handle him; and I needed to prove my dancing skills before the night was over, didn't I?"
She rolls her eyes, and steps closer in his embrace. The heat, the music, the champagne and now her silent, scrutinizing stare - all contribute to his growing discomfort. He needs to say something, anything-
"So, should I grow a mustache?"
Mary's lips form a thin line, barely concealing her smile even as she tries to look annoyed.
"Oh Matthew, don't be ridiculous. What would you grow one for?"
"You've heard General Tinley: 'Thick facial hair convey the idea of virility, spirit and manliness. It's a distinctive trait in every firm man'."
She laughs at his poor imitation of the older man; it's a full, crystalline laugh, and Matthew decides there isn't sound he'd ever cherished more in his whole life.
"Quite right." He raises an eyebrow at her mischievous grin, and she adds " But I'm not marrying a man with a mustache"
"Is that a yes?"
He spins them, eliciting another little giggle. Oh, did he love champagne.
"…maybe"
"Pity, though. I hate to shave, my skin is too sensitive."
"You are so virile!"
They keep dancing, unaware of the surrounding crowd, until dawn, when they part with twinkling eyes and flushed cheeks. Matthew collapsed on his bed with a certainty that he hadn't dared to own before. There'll come a day when they wouldn't have to say goodbye after dawn.
November 10th, 1916
.
Matthew Crawley stares at his reflection on the steamed mirror, taking in his features. His cheekbones are more prominent than they used to be, his face is leaner, his eyes tired, and little, white scars adorn his collarbone. A little worse to wear, but not very different. So why does he feel so?
He grabs his shaving cream and applies it on his face, avoiding his upper lip as he had been doing for the past years. Suddenly he chuckles, remembering an old conversation in a far away ball room; he looks closer, and picks up his shaving brush once again. Thank you, sir Nevil Macready he thinks, as the razor meets his skin.
He'd be seeing Mary Crawley for the first time in two years. He tries to convince himself that this has nothing to do with it.
Lavinia greets him beaming, and kisses him on his freshly shaved cheek.
"What happened to your mustache?"
He shrugs and returns her smile.
"It's not mandatory anymore, darling."
"I think you looked very dashing with it."
"I don't think it suited me."
He replies, offering her his arm as they headtoward the car that would lead them to Downton.
November 12th, 1916
.
"You sent me off to war a happy man"
She can't look at him, her eyes stubbornly staring at his neck as he says "If I don't come back". She notices a razor burn, his carotid beating furiously under it. She wonders if his skin is more sensitive after the war, if his hands were more unsteady as he readied himself to go back to the front, if his shirts are rougher and his razor sharper. For a moment the need to kiss that red spot is so physical it hurts.
She kisses his cheek instead, and "such good luck."
Every time he comes back, her eyes are trained on him. A new scar, hidden behind an ear. Burn marks on his fingers. A chunk of hair missing from the nape of his neck. She stores every detail in her mind. He's home, and every imperfection on his body is a blessing.
They don't let her shave him. The wounds on his face are still open, scratches and burns still too fresh on his face. She touches his rough cheek with a finger, then his closed eyelids. No razor burns on his neck, she notices, as Sybil hands her a basin telling her she could wash his hair instead.
November 11th, 1920
.
"Goddamnit!"
She hears him swear under his breath, rummaging through the bathroom cabinets and making more noise than necessary.
She appears like a vision on the doorway, and his eyes are apologetic as he holds a tissue on his neck. There's blood on his fingers, and she shudders for a moment.
"It's the stupid razor, it must've been too sharp."
"Where's Molesley?"
His eyes are darker when they set on her, and for the first time she notices his hands are trembling.
"I didn't want him here. Not today."
Oh.
She steps closer and reaches for the shaving brush. Her movements are slow and careful, as if approaching a stray cat, and she hates herself for it.
I'm the cat who walks by himself.
"Let me."
"I'm perfectly able to shave myself."
"This blood proves otherwise, doesn't it?"
Her tone is challenging, and her eyes are determined; she pushes him down on a stool with a "Now hush" as she collects the required tools and places them neatly on a nearby surface.
"I've always wanted to try this" she adds with a sinister sparkle in her eyes, and Matthew grins at her as she sits on his lap, straddling him. Mary tilts his head, and his eyes close as she starts applying the shaving cream on his neck, with circular, tender motions.
He swallows and she can see his neck rising, his pulse beating fast under her fingers, a more primal thudding coursing through her. His hands find her thighs, but Mary ignores him as she grabs the razor and feels him stilling under her.
The first rub is gentle and unsure, but the cream comes off along with his golden hair. His cheeks are full and soft, his chin relaxed, his lips in a thin line as she refines the skin around them. Her cold fingertips follow the razor, soothing the sensitive skin, looking for scratches that won't appear. Whole.
When she sets down the razor to retrieve a warm, damp cloth, his hands move again up the sides of her thighs, they graze her bottom and slide down again.
Reverently, she cleans away the remnants of his shaving cream, indulging on his Adam's apple longer than necessary and then pressing the cloth down on his chest. She starts to whisper "All done" when his lips inevitably capture hers and it's slow, deliberate, unmistakable. She presses herself against him, the cloth between them soaking shaving cream through her nightdress. His arms shot up to hold her into place. His cheeks are now soft against her hands but they're definitely the only soft thing in the room.
April 22nd, 1934
.
Lady Mary Crawley, Countess of Grantham, lays sprawled on the crumpled sheets of her bed. She shifts uncomfortably, taking a closer look to the red rash that is spreading on her inner thighs. The words beard-burn float in her mind, and she finds herself cursing whoever had put in her husband's head the idiotic notion that a mustache would make him look more distinguished. She has humored him for a couple of weeks but, as she sooths the irritated skin with her hands, she decides it's about time to put an end to it.
Matthew is bustling about in the adjoining bathroom, the door slightly ajar, enough to let her hear him happily humming as he takes care of his morning routine. She calls out to him:
"If you don't shave that thing off, I'm divorcing you."
She hears something falling in the sink, before his slightly amused voice reaches her ears.
"Barrow thinks it makes me look illustrious."
"Then again Barrows doesn't find himself dealing with reddened skin on his inner thighs and chest."
"…I should hope not."
Mary rolls her eyes, frustrated at the chuckle that has escaped her lips despite her best efforts.
"It's ridiculous."
"Many great men had one, Mary. Like…Theodore Roosevelt."
"Joseph Stalin!"
"The Right Honorable Lloyd George."
"Chaplin's Tramp!"
"Our Majesty George V!"
"…Groucho Marx!"
"You made your point."
"Thank you darling, my eloquence never ceases to amaze me."
Matthew leaves the bathroom, a big smile adorning his features, his eyes bright and traces of his shaving cream on his face. He puts out his clean upper lip as further evidence; she laughs at his childishness and he grins goofily. It's still the most wonderful sound he's ever heard.
He hops on the bed, his lips kissing their way up from her calves to the sore spots on her thighs, his tender and now smooth lips soothing her skin and leaving a trail of water and shaving cream behind. She doesn't mind in the slightest.
FIN.
A/N: This one-shot comes from the union of two different drabbles I wrote on tumblr, both inspired by a newborn obsession for Matthew's facial hair or lack of thereof. I want to dedicate it to OrangeShipper, who fueled both and reminded me how much I love to write (despite my really poor attempts).
A little historical background: From the late 19th century until 1916, British soldiers were forbidden to shave their upper lips. This regulation was finally abolished by an Army Order dated 6 October 1916 issued by Lieutenant-General Sir Nevil Macready, Adjutant-General to the Forces, who loathed his own moustache and immediately shaved it off.
Hope you've enjoyed, however disjoined this story looked. It was a silly piece, and I had fun writing it. And as usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts!