[ SHAVE ]: sender sits in the receiver's lap so they can carefully shave the last of the receiver's stubble from their face.
The smooth finish of the razor's handle is cool beneath Legault's touch as he traces a finger along its edge. It's a straightforward design with little embellishment, but well-sharpened for proper use—a tool that befits its owner, he thinks.
A well-sharpened blade in a well-sharpened knight's hand does little good if his arm can't stay steady, though. An assassin knows well enough how easy it is for a well-placed injury to hinder a one's motor skills. Heath's current state following a scuffle up in the mountains is evidence enough of that.
Thankfully, an assassin's hand is pretty steady too.
"I think the stubble's quite becoming, honestly. But if you hate it this much..."
He curls a finger beneath Heath's chin, urging him to tilt his face upward. His eyes follow the shape of the knight's larynx dipping down toward his shirt collar, knowing all too well the arteries that frame it beneath the skin.
With the way his own pulse makes itself known in his throat, the low instruction is directed toward himself just as much as it is Heath.
Heath's never been one to enjoy facial hair. He doesn't grow it well, but it grows relatively quickly, which is a poor combination. Shaving has become an effortless part of his daily routine, his razor sharpened alongside his lance.
Unfortunately, his chin's starting to look a bit like a meadow today. Turns out an injury to his dominant hand makes it impossible to safely shave, and of course he's out on a multi-day assignment.
Naturally, it's with Legault. Because the universe has it out for Heath.
It starts with an offhanded comment. Legault says something about him doing something new with his looks, says it looks handsome or some hogwash. Heath, used to his antics, retorts that of course he'd say that, but he hates it. It'd be gone if not for that stupid lucky shot...
Legault gets all worried about the severity of the wound, which Heath's admittedly been downplaying, but it's just because he knows how these things heal. He can swing a lance just fine as long as he's careful. Fine motor skills are another thing, though.
And then Legault, audacious as ever, half-jokingly offers to do the shave for him.
And Heath, who's seemingly lost all sense, agrees.
Neither man seems to be expecting that response. But neither man backs down. Which is how Heath's ended up with a blade at his throat and his heart half-caught in it, Legault's presence on his lap impossible to ignore.
"I promise you, it'll get less flattering by the day." Heath's voice is low, keenly aware of the coldness of the razor flirting with his skin in contrast to the warmth of Legault's touch. He suppresses a shudder. "You'd sing a different tune in a week."
Legault could do whatever he wanted to him, like this. There is an element of trust here, control bequeathed of his own will to a man he once avoided on principal.
As Legault skillfully works away at the offending stubble, Heath's mind can't help but wander to the last time someone he trusted held a blade so close to him. It's admittedly not a great distraction from certain physical reactions he's trying to tamp down, but it's hard to resist.
Lachius had straddled him, too. In a different position, in very different circumstances, but the sharpness against his rabbit-quick pulse is unchanging, the tension laying thick as ever in the air.
(He cannot think about what followed, that fateful day. That'd betray his internal struggles to Legault in perhaps the worst and most undeniable way possible. He'd rather just die at that point.)
Still, Heath's mind continues its trek. Desire and grief intermingle, a longing that he's done a decent job of suppressing. Legault and Lachius are distinct, but he cannot deny the similarities as they come up.
How would they get along? They'd have a good time teasing Heath together, that's for sure. The combination of dry wit and playfulness would be a nightmare. It'd take Legault longer to earn Lachius' trust than even Heath's, though. Especially if he'd survived...
Well. Heath is out of the danger zone. One of them, at least. His chest aches, and it's hard to keep his breath entirely steady, but if he just sits and quiets his mind, it'll be over soon enough.
"You're good at this," he manages during a lull. He can't see it just yet, but he can feel it, and there's plenty of evidence on Legault's own face. It's hard not to see, from here. "Transferable skills, eh?"
He isn't looking forward to the void Legault will leave (that Lachius has left). But tempting fate like this is more reckless than he has any right to do.
