Trust — Hadrian (Patreon)

Soft fingers on the side of his neck.

The fingertips lay like snowflakes across his skin, barely touching, but unlike snow, they radiate warmth instead. Hadrian has his eyes closed, but they shift beneath the lids when the hand, the gentle fingers, slowly move up his neck to curl underneath his jaw.

A pause. And then a series of shivers make their way down his spine when beside his ear, a shallow breath tickles his hair.

"Hold still," you ask of him. Hadrian seats like a statue already, but he hardens his muscles all the same. He holds his breath too, holds his very thoughts because he'll do whatever you want as long as you keep going.

He almost nods but stops himself in time. "Alright," he murmurs, his voice sounding wrong in the quiet air, intrusive, but he didn't have any other choice.

He can't see you, but he can hear the smile on your lips. "Good," you whisper, closer than before, and Hadrian's eyes are already closed, his body is already still, and his chest is already burning from the lack of air. But he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, and he turns his joints into stone and forgets how to breathe altogether.

Merciful Lord.

His cheeks burn, and his ears feel ready to fall off. You have to see it, he knows, the blush spreading on his skin, but Hadrian hopes, he begs, that you simply ignore it. His hands twitch on his lap, seeking the comforting shape of his cross, but Hadrian curls his fingers into fists and holds absolutely still. Just like you asked.

You move away from him. Your bare feet make no noise, but he soon hears the trickle of water on a wooden bowl, a light shuffling of clothes, and then he almost jerks when a hand, your hand, holds his jaw again and gently guides his head back. His neck extends as his nape comes to rest on the chair, and Hadrian's fists clench when his cheek brushes yours.

You'll be the death of him. He can't think of a better way to see the gates of Heaven.

"Tell me if it's too cold." Your voice, beautiful, lapping like a mild current onto golden shores, echoes in his ears. Hadrian can't nod, not while you hold his jaw, the touch light, but keeping him hostage with the strength of the sturdiest of bounds. He can't nod, and he finds he can't speak either, so he remains silent, trapped under your will. And he supposes you never did expect an answer, for soon after, a brush touches his skin.

The brush has long strands, hard and inflexible, almost painful if they weren't coated with a creamy, shaving soap. You drag it with care, however, from the very bottom of his jaw, past his chin, to the side of his cheek. You stop under his eye, your nails slightly dragging as your other hand adjusts its grip on his jaw.

The cream is warmed, and although the smell is odd, like a sharp mixture of plants and fat, it's not terrible. Below it, he can smell your hair, so close, so Hadrian doesn't find it bad. Not at all. "It's perfect," he says, speaking to himself, but he drinks in the sound of your pleased hum all the same.

Your hand moves his head the slightest bit to the left, the sound of water rings, and again, a brush coated in dense soap travels up the side of his face. It fights against the long hairs of his stubble. Much too long. It's almost a beard now, as itchy as it is rough, and he wants to scratch at it, but you let go of his jaw, and Hadrian can't help but gasp when he feels you gently smoothing the unruly hairs.

Father, please. Hadrian doesn't know if he asks for rescue or oblivion, but he holds still as with all the patience in the world, you brush the hairs to one side. "There we go," you say, your voice spreading like honey across his chest.

Hadrian squeezes his eyes once more, but slowly, his body begins to unravel. You never stop your work, diligently covering every inch of his face in a thick layer of soap. The room is quiet, and Hadrian can feel the golden sunlight pouring in from the window, coming to rest on the bare skin of his arms, on his lashes, on the sensitive flesh of his lips.

Your breathing is slow and constant, a rise and fall that he subconsciously matches. His chest rises too, and falls as yours do, and Hadrian imagines you, bent over him with your lips parted, and he almost opens his eyes, the pull to see you nearly too much, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to break this, whatever it is. Whatever gift he has been granted.

So he sinks into the moment instead, his muscles loosened, his thoughts slow and dragging like a breeze in the summer. He doesn't know how long you keep like this, the two of you, alone but together. It seems like a dream. He feels himself soaring, floating in a space lightened by the sun, drinking in the feeling of your touch and your smell, and the faint breaths beside his ear. Your hands move his head this way and that, commanding him, and Hadrian follows you. He'd follow you to the gates of Hell.

A faint thud, the sound of a brush being put in a bowl, and then the ruffle of fabric as you rise once again. Hadrian snaps away from dreams and hazes to focus on his hearing. You're returning now to your place at his side.

A pause. "Do you trust me?"

With my life.

The words are almost out. Almost. But Hadrian bites his tongue and swallows them down. Don't make a fool of yourself. He's been keeping his eyes closed, but he opens them now. He has to, with the way you spoke, the way your voice carried... something. He has to look at you.

Sunlight filters through and washes against your skin. Hadrian finds you close, peering with your impossible eyes at him with a razor clutched between your fingers. Its steel shines in the light, but Hadrian can't look away from you.

"I, uh." Hadrian licks his lips. He tastes the soap, sharp and pungent but entirely unimportant. "Of course I do."

Your brows lift, and now he doesn't have to imagine your smile for he witnesses it right before him. "Good," you repeat, holding his chin once more as delicately, you bring the razor closer to his neck. "Now, Hadrian, you need to hold really still."

His name sounds like heaven coming from your lips. He nods, dazed by your smile. "Alright."

"Hadrian!" you cry, the fingers on his chin digging harder. And you're scolding him, but all he hears is your laughter. "I said hold still. Answer me with words, big man, not nods."

He smiles. "Sorry," he mumbles, not feeling it at all.

You shake your head, lips still quirked, but look away to focus on the task. You drag the razor up, the blade gliding on his skin, gathering soap and the long hairs of his stubble. You pause on his chin, your tongue peeking between your teeth as you maneuver it over the curve, and Hadrian can't believe he had his eyes closed before because this is so much better.

Your face, painting in sunlight, focused on him. Your lashes flutter in the still air, and your tongue twirls between your lips and Hadrian finds himself incapable of looking anywhere else. Your lips. He wonders what it'd be like to lift his head, to hold your face as you hold his, to kiss each of your eyelids, and then travel down the curve of your nose until he'd capture those lips. He wonders if you'd mind it, if you'd-

Hadrian.

His brows furrow. You're not speaking, your lips haven't moved, and the voice isn't yours. It's distant and cold and... wrong.

You wipe the razor on a rag, smiling at him again. "First swipe done," you say. He smiles back, but his frown deepens because the other voice will not leave him alone. It sounds closer now, more present. He doesn't like it.

Hadrian, rise.

The razor is back on his skin. "Now for-"

Hadrian!

A hand, sharp, brute, painful, sinks into his shoulder and shakes him without ceremony. Hadrian jolts, his body stiff from the bedroll and the cold of night, his elbow half-buried on hard ground. And he's pretty sure he's laying on top of some sort of rock.

He blinks against the invasive glow of a lantern held in the hands of a stern Alessa. "'Tis time for your watch," she says, blue eyes like knives in the darkness of his tent. She steps away, crawling towards the entrance before she stops to throw him one last glare. "You sleep deeper than a sloth."

Alessa vanishes, leaving him in darkness. Hadrian stares upwards, mind still foggy, ignoring the stone that digs into his hip. And in the faint, cold moonlight that slips into the tent, he sees your eyes, feels your phantom touch, feels his cheeks warming too, but he smiles. A good dream. It'll help him get through the long, boring hours of his shift.

Hadrian rises, groaning slightly, and reaches for his shirt-

But his hand ends up in his jaw, nails scratching his stubble. It's much too long. Much too itchy.

He really needs to shave. And Hadrian knows he will never do it, but for a moment, before you wake and he'll have to face you, he can dream about asking you to help him. He can dream of you saying yes.

He can dream, impossibly, that he may one day know the taste of your kiss.