Work Text:
Albania glanced over at the door as it creaked open and admitted a tricolored giant into his barbershop. His expression brightened at the sight of his guest. He swung off his stool, holding his arms open as he approached the other man.
"Kroacia! Welcome, friend," he crowed, greeting his visitor with a hug. He flapped his newspaper at the barber's chair. "Please, take a seat. The usual, I presume?" Albania could see the red fuzz covering the scalp and poking out around Croatia's mask.
"Yes," Croatia rumbled like the sea. His narrow eyes gazed upon the shop empty of other customers before he sat down.
Albania flipped the sign on the door and let the filmy curtain fall over the glass. He tossed his newspaper carelessly on the office desk. While Croatia situated himself in the reclining chair, Albania washed his hands in the nearby sink. He pulled the chair cloth out and carefully draped it across Croatia's front. Nimbly, he tucked a heated towel around Croatia's neck, concealing the garrote scars, before securing the chair cloth around him. He felt muscle tremble at his touch.
"Is that comfortable?" Albania always asked.
Croatia exhaled through his nose and let out another rumbly "Yes."
Albania tucked another towel into the front of the cloth like a bib. "Shall I shave your head or the beard first?" he asked softly.
Croatia's throat rippled as he swallowed audibly, as if he regretted stepping into this chair at all, regretted letting his guard down in front of the barber. Albania waited patiently until Croatia reached both hands to the top of his head and removed his crown of five spikes. He stared down at the coats of arms upon the crown before wordlessly handing it to Albania for safekeeping.
"The head first then," Albania prompted, and Croatia's chin jerked slightly in assent.
He wrung out hot water from a steaming towel that he then draped across Croatia's red head. He placed a second one at the back, where his striped skull met the headrest of the chair.
"While that's preparing your skin, you're going to hear me prepare the straight-edge."--Croatia sucked in sharply--"I can use the buzzer if you prefer it this time?" Albania added quickly. Sometimes Croatia liked the massaging effect the mechanical razor had and other times the vibrating was too much stimulation, too unnerving, too loud in his ears. The straight razor was quiet, but sometimes too quiet; it was the reason why Croatia never let anyone else but Albania give him a shave. His neighbors would sooner slice his throat with it.
'I will allow the blade,' Croatia murmured behind the towel. "Tell me before you start."
"Of course."
The razor dragged across the leather strip. He prepared it until it shone. With a slow reverent lift, he took away the heated towel. Croatia's red eyes blinked twice to readjust. Albania glanced at him before touching his damp head, rubbing the follicles to prime them for the shave. He had shaved Croatia enough times to know the grain, but still he persisted with the ritual, delighting inwardly as he saw tension leave the corners of the giant's eyes. Albania massaged Croatia's skull, starting from his temples and moving backward to the base of his skull. His thumbs ground circles into Croatia's neck. The corded muscles were tight beneath his fingertips, and he was careful around the plentiful scars. Physically they'd healed long ago, but touching them crossed a tripwire of emotions and memories.
He replaced the heated towel over Croatia's head and began to prepare the lather. He whipped it to a foam and removed the towel for the last time, dressing his scalp with the lather. Albania turned to the table for the razor. He rotated the chair so that Croatia faced the mirror. He looked down at the foamy scalp while he spoke.
"I am going to start with your temples. May I have your permission to touch your face during this?" he asked.
Croatia closed his eyes. "Go ahead."
The razor's edge glinted before it swiped a clean trail through the lather. Rhythmically, Albania slid the blade toward him, dousing it, then returning to Croatia's skull for another pass. When he reached Croatia's left side, he placed his thumb over the top of the facial scar that cut from temple to cheek through his eyebrow. He felt Croatia tense under his fingers so he daintily scraped around it before continuing with the rows.
"Lean forward for me," Albania ordered.
Taking a deep breath, Croatia tilted his head so Albania could continue. He started from his original point and swept all the way to the base of his neck, where the hot towel covering the awful ligature marks lay. Goosebumps pebbled Croatia's skin, and he bunched up his shoulders, tensing all the more as Albania's razor neared his neck again and again.
He paused what he was doing and placed his free hand firmly on Croatia's left shoulder. "Kroacia, come back to me. You're here in my shop, remember?" Croatia didn't reply. Albania rubbed slow circles through the chair cloth. "You're with me. Lift your head up a little. Look at the mirror. You see me?"
Croatia's half-lidded eyes fluttered up to look at the mirror. "Srbija?" he growled, voice muffled from the way his chin was tucked into his chest. His expression squinted at the double eagle on Albania's red face. "Crna Gora?"
"Shqipëri," he answered gently, then in the Croat's own language. "Albanija."
"Who am I?" Croatia mumbled in a daze.
"You are my friend who has entrusted me with the finest shave in all of Zagreb." Albania's lips quirked into a little smile. "Sometimes, you are my lover. You are Kroacia. Hrvatska." He rolled the R in imitation of Croatia's rumbly voice.
"Hrvatska." Croatia breathed heavily in and out. "Yes..." Sluggishly, he reached out from the chair cloth to rub the bridge of his nose. "Continue please, Albanija. I... I have returned to myself."
Albania squeezed the giant's shoulder and returned the razor to his skull until none of the red and white fuzz remained. He tilted his head to skillfully cut around both ears. "It's time for your face," he murmured, giving Croatia time to steel himself. Albania whipped his razor through the water and gave it a few licks against the leather again, setting it on the table afterward.
He glanced at Croatia in the mirror then turned to face him fully. "Kroacia?"
"I heard you. You may take it off." Croatia lifted his head.
Feathery eyelashes fluttered repeatedly in surprise. He took a step forward and cupped Croatia's face, black talons trailing gingerly over the bands that looped around his ears. His thumbs lifted them up and away. He stroked bristly facial hair as he pulled the chequered mask away. Croatia, as always, failed to meet his eyes when Albania looked upon the old damning wound. The gruesome scar cut twice through Croatia's lips in the shape of a U.
Albania swooped down and kissed him fully, feeling the jagged lips grate against his. Croatia sucked in breath, but Albania didn't give him a reprieve, tilting into him to deepen the kiss and suck on those blue lips until they purpled. Croatia growled a warning then, so Albania let him go, lingering on that tongue swiping across his lower lip.
Croatia never sported even growth of facial hair, so Albania was happy to make this quick for him so that the mask could return. He leaned back for the lather bowl again to foam up that strong jaw and chin. Croatia closed his eyes tightly. With six well-practiced strokes, Albania had his jaw shining free of hair. However, the mask could not return so quickly. Albania swapped his razor for the bottle of aftershave lotion, daubing a little of the pungent liquid onto Croatia's head and rubbing it all over. He dolloped a little more into his fingers, slowly massaging his chin and cheeks until he resembled an oiled Olympic wrestler ready for his match.
"There you are." Albania stepped aside and swiveled the chair toward the mirror.
"No," Croatia snarled, yanking his head away. "I do not wish to see that in the mirror. I trust your judgment." He lifted his jaw and glared at Albania. "Are you proud of your work?"
"Yes." Albania longed to touch him, to trail his fingers down his arm. Instead, he reached for the clasp behind Croatia's neck to undo the chair cloth and pull away the towels. Croatia immediately reached for his mask before Albania could give it back to him.
"Then I am pleased," Croatia grunted, his voice rumbly once more behind the mask.
Albania lifted up the five-pointed crown from beside his razor. Feeling like a prelate crowning a king, he held it aloft and placed it upon Croatia's head. It slipped easily into place as if it were a shoe, a perfect fit.
"How much?"
"You know you never pay," Albania demurred.
"How much?" Croatia growled.
"Nothing."
"Dinner then?"
Albania chuckled as Croatia rose to his feet, towering over him. "Fine. Dinner then. I'll be over once I'm done for the day." He followed Croatia to the door, turning his sign back to OPEN and pulling the curtain back. Croatia lingered at the doorway, watching him, saying nothing yet saying everything with the way those blade-sharp eyes softened. His rough blue hands squeezed Albania's forearm and then he was gone, the door jingling after him. Albania tucked his black wings around himself, his pounding heart the only sound in the room.