[aw, okay, first thing first, I have not the slightest idea about shaving with straight razor and every guys I contacted told me they don't know jack-shit about it either and my brother actually told me to go to the barber. It didn't happen. So,uhh, the research I did for classic straight razor shaving in here might not be accurate, and I'm sorry in advance for that. I hope you'd enjoy this nonetheless. :)]
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Tachibana-san is, according to Makoto, a huge fan of the old-school wet-shaving routine.
“He doesn’t do it often,” Makoto says, his gaze meeting Rin’s curious ones on the mirror even as he lays the classic shaving kit he’d gotten from his father. “Usually weekends, or when he woke up too early, since it takes time. He taught me the basics—though still, it’s better if you leave the whole thing to professionals.”
Rin eyes the scattered knick-knacks on the counter: shaving brushes, pre-shaves and colognes, two tubes of shaving cream, a safety razor with a butterfly head, a replaceable blade straight razor, several straight razors with different length and width of the blades, styptics and aftershave balms. Makoto is touching them one by one, now, like slowly familiarizing himself with them and the only thing Rin could think of is fascinating.
“How long?” he begins, when Makoto drapes a hot towel over his face. They’ve both just showered—both still completely naked when Makoto pushes Rin onto the chair he set in front of the sink facing the mirror—and a hot towel isn’t really necessary considering Rin’s face is still damp, but Makoto, always the fretter, had insisted. “Since the last time you did this yourself, I mean.”
Makoto hums. “Months, maybe, I don’t know. It’s been busy.” Club activities and part-time jobs and Haruka go unsaid, but Rin hears them hanging in the air anyway. “Are you sure you want me to do this, Rin? I’m probably a bit out of touch with these—“
Rin shrugs. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before,” he swallows the no Dad to teach me these stuff part, throat constricting for a second, but he breathes through it. “It’s not like the seniors teach you wet shaving in Australia, Makoto.”
A hand rests on his shoulder, reassuring and steady. “Okay, yeah. I’ll be very careful then.”
The hot towel is lifted from Rin’s face, and when Makoto’s hands come back, it’s with pre-shave oil that he slathers liberally on the lower half of Rin’s face. It feels good—the steady pressure of Makoto’s hand on his skin, the easy slides of Makoto’s fingers down the sides of his face thanks to the pre-shave oil. Rin takes a moment to close his eyes and enjoys it fully, to the sound of Makoto’s amused chuckle.
“What,” Rin deadpans.
“Nothing. Just—that was my exact reaction the first time Dad taught me.” The pressure on Rin’s face leaves, and Rin opens his eyes just in time to watch Makoto’s hand comes back, this time slathering shaving cream properly. He follows Makoto’s movements in the mirror, watches intently at how hiss fingers flit under his jaw and down to his neck, pressing softly in all the right places. Then it leaves, and Rin has to make himself blink, and turns to where Makoto is now holding the shaving brush and lather. The brunette wiggles the brush on his hand, smiling. “It’s a badger brush. Eurasian—one of Dad’s most prized ones.”
Rin snorts. “You sure you’re going to use that?”
“This is my favorite, actually,” Makoto reaches out, palms framing Rin’s jaw. “It feels cool and the lather would be thicker.”
It does. It actually feels even better than when Makoto applies the oil and cream—the sensation of the brush making its path down his jaw, chin, and then neck, the thick lathers that runs slowly down the side of his face—it’s something he could indulge in, Rin thinks. Especially when it’s Makoto, who knows exactly how and where to touch, fingers firm but gentle, keeping Rin’s head in place as he works.
And then, finally, Makoto takes up the straight razor, eyes finding Rin’s stare in the mirror, and asks, “Ready?”
Rin just closes his eyes as an answer.
It’s a slow going—Makoto wasn’t being humble when he said he was probably out of touch with these things. He moves too carefully; fingers pulling and stretching Rin’s skin tight as the blade scratches, taking away stubbles and lathers. Makoto is tense; fingers not as steady as they were when he did the preparation, sometimes pressing too hard. At one point, Rin isn’t sure he could hear Makoto breathing, and wonders if Makoto holds his breath with every stroke of the blade.
It’s probably why the blade nicks his cheek at one point.
(MakoRin) The Art of Shaving (1/2)
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Tachibana-san is, according to Makoto, a huge fan of the old-school wet-shaving routine.
“He doesn’t do it often,” Makoto says, his gaze meeting Rin’s curious ones on the mirror even as he lays the classic shaving kit he’d gotten from his father. “Usually weekends, or when he woke up too early, since it takes time. He taught me the basics—though still, it’s better if you leave the whole thing to professionals.”
Rin eyes the scattered knick-knacks on the counter: shaving brushes, pre-shaves and colognes, two tubes of shaving cream, a safety razor with a butterfly head, a replaceable blade straight razor, several straight razors with different length and width of the blades, styptics and aftershave balms. Makoto is touching them one by one, now, like slowly familiarizing himself with them and the only thing Rin could think of is fascinating.
“How long?” he begins, when Makoto drapes a hot towel over his face. They’ve both just showered—both still completely naked when Makoto pushes Rin onto the chair he set in front of the sink facing the mirror—and a hot towel isn’t really necessary considering Rin’s face is still damp, but Makoto, always the fretter, had insisted. “Since the last time you did this yourself, I mean.”
Makoto hums. “Months, maybe, I don’t know. It’s been busy.” Club activities and part-time jobs and Haruka go unsaid, but Rin hears them hanging in the air anyway. “Are you sure you want me to do this, Rin? I’m probably a bit out of touch with these—“
Rin shrugs. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before,” he swallows the no Dad to teach me these stuff part, throat constricting for a second, but he breathes through it. “It’s not like the seniors teach you wet shaving in Australia, Makoto.”
A hand rests on his shoulder, reassuring and steady. “Okay, yeah. I’ll be very careful then.”
The hot towel is lifted from Rin’s face, and when Makoto’s hands come back, it’s with pre-shave oil that he slathers liberally on the lower half of Rin’s face. It feels good—the steady pressure of Makoto’s hand on his skin, the easy slides of Makoto’s fingers down the sides of his face thanks to the pre-shave oil. Rin takes a moment to close his eyes and enjoys it fully, to the sound of Makoto’s amused chuckle.
“What,” Rin deadpans.
“Nothing. Just—that was my exact reaction the first time Dad taught me.” The pressure on Rin’s face leaves, and Rin opens his eyes just in time to watch Makoto’s hand comes back, this time slathering shaving cream properly. He follows Makoto’s movements in the mirror, watches intently at how hiss fingers flit under his jaw and down to his neck, pressing softly in all the right places. Then it leaves, and Rin has to make himself blink, and turns to where Makoto is now holding the shaving brush and lather. The brunette wiggles the brush on his hand, smiling. “It’s a badger brush. Eurasian—one of Dad’s most prized ones.”
Rin snorts. “You sure you’re going to use that?”
“This is my favorite, actually,” Makoto reaches out, palms framing Rin’s jaw. “It feels cool and the lather would be thicker.”
It does. It actually feels even better than when Makoto applies the oil and cream—the sensation of the brush making its path down his jaw, chin, and then neck, the thick lathers that runs slowly down the side of his face—it’s something he could indulge in, Rin thinks. Especially when it’s Makoto, who knows exactly how and where to touch, fingers firm but gentle, keeping Rin’s head in place as he works.
And then, finally, Makoto takes up the straight razor, eyes finding Rin’s stare in the mirror, and asks, “Ready?”
Rin just closes his eyes as an answer.
It’s a slow going—Makoto wasn’t being humble when he said he was probably out of touch with these things. He moves too carefully; fingers pulling and stretching Rin’s skin tight as the blade scratches, taking away stubbles and lathers. Makoto is tense; fingers not as steady as they were when he did the preparation, sometimes pressing too hard. At one point, Rin isn’t sure he could hear Makoto breathing, and wonders if Makoto holds his breath with every stroke of the blade.
It’s probably why the blade nicks his cheek at one point.