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“I don’t think I’m doing this right.”
John cautiously snipped across the back of the comb, pieces of hair falling onto his socks. He shook his foot, but the bits seemed to be already working themselves into the weave of the fabric. He grimaced.
“Ah, I’m sure you’re doing just fine, doll,” Noel assured. John felt his ears go hot. “Just don’t take too much off.”
“I don’t know if I’m taking enough off,” he said. Noel straddled the lidded toilet before him, sat facing the wall while John snipped at sections of his hair. He brushed the comb up at an angle like Noel had shown him, catching longer strands and cutting them to length. Each movement of the scissors felt clunky in his hand. They were clearly made for someone right handed, and his grip was uncomfortable against the metal loops. Not so uncomfortable that he was willing to try clumsily cutting with his other hand, however.
He pulled the comb away to check his work. A choppy line carved through the back of Noel’s hair. John chewed his lip. “It’s not even.”
“Move the scissors a little quicker. Like flapping wings, not one big chop.” His tone was patient and warm, but John didn’t miss the edge of hesitance. “Just keep it tight on the sides with most of the length on the top. I’ll throw some wax into it and no one will be able to tell anything, don’t you worry.”
“Tight on the sides?”
“Short,” Noel added. “You’ve seen how Arthur gets his cut, yeah? Just give me that.”
John had seen Arthur get his hair cut all of once, if he didn’t count the times they had hacked at it in tandem while sharing the body. A world of time had passed between their first coming to New York and now. “Like… Clark Gable?”
Noel let out a barking laugh. “Clark Gable, is that who he thinks he looks like? He’s more like John Gilbert with that long face of his.”
“Who?” John asked. He snipped the scissors quicker.
“Another actor. Shit, I think he died earlier this year, actually,” Noel said, blowing out a short whistle. “Shame. Good-looking cad that guy.”
“Sure,” he hummed. He couldn’t quite get the line from before to blend in, maybe he had cut too much off--
Noel turned quickly to glance up at John, who pulled the scissors back just before the point met the shell of Noel’s ear.
“Hey, don’t tell Arthur I said that, though.”
“Jesus—”
“He’ll get a big head, me comparing them.”
“Sit still, Noel, I could’ve cut your ear off,” John huffed. He wrapped a hand around the top of Noel’s head and twisted gently, prompting him back into position.
“And what a way to go, eh?” Noel laughed, propping an elbow on the toilet tank and resting his chin against his hand. “Relax, John. Most you’d do is nip me, would take bigger scissors to cut one of these off.” John rolled his eyes, offering a grumble in response despite the flush spreading to his cheeks.
When Noel had asked him to trim his hair, save me a trip to the barber, he hadn’t expected the task to be so involved. It had seemed simple enough when he and Arthur had gone before, on their original journey into New York. He had watched the man comb up the sides of Arthur’s hair, measuring the proper length with his eyes as he cut. Each snip carved away the overgrown bulk of hair into a smooth taper, cropped close around the neck and ears and trimmed neatly at the top. John watched as he scooped a gob of something sticky from a small tin, some type of wax that he warmed and smoothed between his hands before working it through Arthur’s hair. By the end of their visit, Arthur’s dark hair was combed back neatly into a stylish part, shining from the stuff in the tin. He looked almost ordinary while all made up, if you managed to not notice the mottled scars littering his skin or the gauntness of his face.
He had expected cutting Noel’s hair to be easy, considering he only had to do half that work. Trim off the extra length, leave it to Noel to style how he liked. And his wasn’t nearly as grown out as Arthur’s had been, the general shape of his last cut still present as a guide. The barber outside of New York had made it look so simple, swooping the comb up and snipping fast with confidence like he couldn’t possibly miscut.
Now, with the scissors in his own hand, John was realizing why there were professional shops in the first place.
He shifted the comb through Noel’s hair again, sending more hair to the ground as he cut. The left half looked… okay. A harsh line where he had first cut still extended from his ear to the back, but the rest looked passable. If he could just get the back and sides trimmed, then the top should be easier. When he had watched Arthur’s be cut, the top had seemed much less technical than this process of following the comb along the sides.
He drew a deep breath and brought the comb to the right of Noel’s head, beginning to even it out against the left.
In some thankful ways, the second side was easier. It felt more familiar the longer he worked, this side surprisingly more comfortable to work with lefthanded. By no means did he move as confidently as the barber from New York, but he was growing more confident bringing the scissors down in quick, direct motions rather than one hesitant chop at a time.
He could see, with practice, how this could even be relaxing. The nervous tension loosened from his shoulders, and he liked how willingly Noel complied when he nudged his head in whatever direction. He notched the knuckle of his finger under Noel’s jaw, prompting him to tilt his head to the side. The hair around his ear was just long enough that it had started to curl, swooping inwards in little strands that made John smile to himself. Tucking the comb into his pocket, he gently fit his hand between the shell of Noel’s ear and head as he worked the scissors in a curved path. He snipped the curling edges piece by piece, a clean line left in their wake. Noel had warned him to be careful around the ears. John had seen him draw blood on himself while trying to cut his own hair, part of the reason the scissors were in John’s hand. It wasn’t as hard as he had anticipated it being, though it did call to mind times when he and Arthur had nicked their fingers blindly cutting at his hair. It was, unshockingly, much easier to cut hair on someone else’s head, even if his work was still somewhat uneven.
Easier, though still a… somewhat uncomfortable experience. Or perhaps not uncomfortable but just… new. New for him with someone who isn’t Arthur.
John brought his hand to rest against the nape of Noel’s neck, the bones at the top of his spine pressing against the skin of his palm. The beat of Noel’s pulse moved gently under the edge of his fingertips in a way that made John’s chest tighten. It felt like too much, sometimes. It had been years since they met, back when he had only spoken to Noel through Arthur’s mouth. Talking with him, being recognized for the first time by another person like that, it had meant more than he could put to words. In the time since, with John in his own body, they’d only grown closer. Noel cared about him, trusted him despite what he and Arthur had hidden from him. Despite John’s past and what the King had done to him. He trusted John enough to sit still while he slid the scissors along the hair at the nape of his neck, trimming it into an even, square line. His pulse fluttered against John’s skin without any feeling of fear or doubt, a steady beat. John couldn’t quite bring himself to believe he deserved it.
“I think the sides are done,” he said. Noel gave an appreciative hum and ran his hand over John’s work. They blended more or less together at the back of Noel’s head. If Noel ever dared to ask John again, he would cut the back as its own third section.
“Feels better already, not too short,” Noel said, an encouraging smile in his tone. His fingertips ran over the harsh line across the left side. “Ah. Well, that’s alright.”
John shifted his weight, the scissors feeling heavy in his hand. “Do you still want me to do the top?”
“Hm,” Noel hummed, feeling more closely. “Ah, sure, John. Yeah, it’ll be good practice.”
Noel did not seem convinced. John offered a small sound in response.
He ran the comb through the length of Noel’s hair, deciding where to start. Noel wanted most of the length left for styling, just a trim to take off the shaggier shape. Maybe… a half an inch? John imagined the process was similar to how a sculptor might carve at a new stone, chipping away the excess until they could see the statue emerge. When Arthur had gotten his hair cut after Addison, the barber had taken off so much hair. John had relished in the selfish pleasure of watching through their shared eyes as someone resembling the Arthur he’d first met reappeared in the mirror. The shape of him was familiar, though scarred and changed now, to that first glance in the mirror.
Noel had considerably less hair to work with. This was less so carving from a new piece of rock and more putting finishing touches on someone else’s work. John parted the hair at Noel’s left temple, dragging the teeth of the comb back in a clean line, and bunched the hair in his hand. He trimmed off whatever stuck out and dropped the section, leaning back to examine the results. The ends were incredibly uneven.
“Hm,” John muttered.
“What’s goin’ on up there?” Noel asked. His voice had the same intentionally care-free tone, but John could hear the edge of uncertainty.
“This part is different. I’m just figuring it out,” John assured. He hoped his own uncertainty didn’t betray him.
“Course you are, not a problem,” Noel said, nodding more to himself than to John.
After a few more tries at sectioning the hair in different methods, John found something familiar in holding the strands between two fingers and cutting clean across, the blades skirting right over his knuckles. The top of Noel’s hair was curlier than on the sides, the pieces falling in little waves across his shoulders and lap as John worked. The towel they had draped over his shoulders was doing very little to keep the pieces from landing on him at large, and he felt itchy on Noel’s behalf. After a few minutes, though, everything seemed even enough that, once Noel slicked it back with thick wax, it could pass as a fine haircut. Fine enough. He ran his hand through the hair, watching the strands fall into place, and stepped back.
“Okay,” John hummed. “It’s cut.”
“Yeah?” Noel said, bringing a hand up to his head. John watched as his hand moved through the hair, feeling the difference with a familiarity that was foreign to John. John nodded, pulling the towel off Noel’s shoulders and dropping it by the door to beat out and send to wash later. He stepped carefully over the small piles of hair on the floor around the toilet. Noel craned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the edge of the sink mirror. “Look at that, you’re a natural.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Oh, sure you are,” Noel dismissed. “You did a great job.”
His fingertips moved over the harsh line on the left side of his head. John watched silently as his eyebrow quirked, watched him stand to get a better look in the mirror. Noel’s face gave nothing again apart from a thin smile, fingers running over the line. He met John’s eyes fondly in the mirror.
“Well,” he said. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”
John rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you could go to the barber and have him fix it.”
“Eh, I could,” Noel shrugged. He gave John a wink in the mirror. “Or I might just tell folks I let the missus have a go.”
The missus. John’s chest tightened with a ferocity. He swallowed a response, turning away as heat crept up his neck and cheeks.
Suddenly, the discarded pile of Noel’s clothes was incredibly interesting. He busied himself tidying them while Noel continued to mess with his hair, running his hands over the texture of the undershirt and the stiff fabric of the brassiere. Little pieces of hair had found their way into the fabric despite his best intentions to keep them away. He picked at them with his nails, focusing intently on the way they pulled like little threads. Out of the corner of his eye, Noel stretched with a content sigh, nodding to himself. John folded the shirts together into a neat stack and balanced them on the edge of the sink.
“Lot of good that towel did, huh?” Noel said, dusting hair from his lap and bare chest. He nudged the fallen hair haphazardly with his foot, compiling them against the wall. “I’m gonna have a bath, get some of this off before I start itching. You mind grabbing the broom for me? I’ll sweep up when I’m out.”
“I can sweep,” John said, swallowing around the tightness in his chest.
“You sure, doll?” Noel said. “You don’t gotta, you’ve already done me one favor.”
“It’s no trouble.” John watched as Noel shrugged and turned the knobs of the bath. He studied the lingering lines on Noel’s skin from the brassiere, tracing them out of the corner of his eye as he leaned down to plug the tub. “Can I sit in here while you wash off?”
A small smile crossed Noel’s face, different than the charming grin he usually offered. He shrugged and stepped into the rising water. “Don’t see why not.”
When John returned with the broom, Noel was settling into the tub with a contented sigh. He swept the bulk of the hair from against the wall, resisting the urge to pick at every little piece. It frustrated him that sweeping alone could never get everything up, whether it was hair or dust or little shards of a broken plate. The idea of bits stuck in the grout between smooth tiles or in the woodgrain of their living room tormented him to no end. Once, Arthur had told him how to take a piece of bread and dab at the cracks until whatever was bothering him had been picked up by its spongy insides. The trick had worked surprisingly well, but Noel had fussed about wasting their bread, so he resigned himself to push the lingering pieces from his mind. With another pass of the broom, most of the hair was gathered in the dustpan, and he slid the clump carefully into the wastebasket.
“You’re a regular full-service barber,” Noel mused. He slid down in the tub, dunking his head into the water and scrubbing at his scalp. “I’ll have to leave a tip.”
John snorted. He reached for a fresh towel from the linen shelves, dropping it on the lid of the toilet for when Noel got out. “I don’t know if that haircut is worth a tip.”
Noel peeked at him through one eye as he pressed the water from his hair. “No? Well then at least let me settle my balance. What do I owe you for today, doll?”
John didn’t take the bait. He pressed his teeth together to fend off a smile. “On the house. First one’s free.”
“Lucky me. Guess I’ll have to come back another time,” Noel said, smirking playfully. “Pass me a rag, would you? Gotta get these prickles off my neck. I’ll be out in a second.”
John reached for a cloth and passed it to Noel, earning him another small smile and a thanks. He watched wordlessly as Noel began scrubbing at his shoulders, fighting off the little pieces of hair that seemed to permanently work their way into skin and fabric. That was, overwhelmingly, why John had not taken to getting his own hair cut. Amongst various other benefits, he admittedly felt smarter for never having to spend the day scratching at his collar or beating out a shirt at night after a cut. He didn’t see the purpose in putting himself through the ordeal once, sometimes even twice, a month for the arbitrary custom of short hair. That, and there was something familiar about the way his hair draped over his neck and shoulders, falling over his eyes at times. When it wasn’t pulled back, he let the thick strands swallow his face up in their darkness and felt almost like an older version of himself.
Grabbing the broom and pan, he slipped back out the door to stow them in the pantry. He gave Noel a beat of privacy to finish up, waiting until he heard the tub draining to move back into the bathroom.
Noel stood in the sinking water, scrubbing vigorously at his head and face with the fresh towel. The haircut didn’t look so bad now, refreshed from being washed and tousled over itself. The tub emptied with a resounding glug, and Noel tossed the towel onto the floor for his feet.
“Could’ve used that again, you know,” John remarked, passing over his neatly folded pile of Noel’s clothes.
Noel raised a playful eyebrow and stuffed the pile under his arm. “And risk those leftover hairs sticking to you when you’re fresh out of the bath?” he said, grinning at John while stepping into his boxers. “If you want to use it again, be my guest.”
Admittedly, he didn’t want to. John reached for the towel, tossing it by the door with the first one. “I’m just surprised, is all. You’re usually so thrifty.”
“All these new laundromats opening, deals left and right,” Noel dismissed, shrugging into his undershirt. “The laundry lady’s going for three cents on the pound these days if you book her for Thursday, too.”
John rolled his eyes fondly, sitting down beside Noel on the lidded toilet. “Sure.” So long as he didn’t have to use it.
Noel draped his pants and brassiere over the sink edge and leaned himself against it, fixing John with a crooked grin. “Can I do anything for you? Need a shave?” He reached out for John’s face, squeezing his jaw playfully in one hand. The pad of his thumb caught fresh stubble as he brushed it over John’s cheek.
There was both a small satisfaction and discomfort with how small Noel’s hand felt against his face. Noel was all square and stocky features, solid-bodied in a way that the Dreamlands or Threshold couldn’t fully take away. And John was still so much larger, broader shouldered and tall. He appreciated it with Arthur, something about being able to wrap himself around the man felt good and normal with him. But in moments with Noel, he often found himself wishing to be smaller. Noel had seemed so large when they’d met, when he held all the power to validate John’s being. He had spent all of existence so much larger than anything around him, and then months confined only to Arthur’s head. It was strangely comforting, in the moment, to feel so known by another person at such a human level.
“I’ll shave in the morning,” John hummed.
“Haircut, then?”
John raised an eyebrow and was met with an amused look.
“Alright.” Noel patted his face and leaned back against the sink. “Then I guess we oughta close up shop for the night. Unless you wanted me to brush your hair?”
John cast his gaze sideways to catch Noel’s amused expression. He brought his hand up to run his fingers through John’s hair, raising an eyebrow. John leaned into the touch with a small, indulgent smile.
“Sure.”
“Sure,” Noel repeated, “like you don’t jump at the chance.”
John rolled his eyes. “I would enjoy it, yes.”
“There you go, doll,” Noel said, patting John’s cheek again. He hopes Noel couldn’t feel the warmth beginning to prickle his skin. “Brush is in you and Arthur’s room, yeah? You stay here, gimme two seconds.”
John hummed in agreement and leaned his head back against the wall as Noel slipped through the door. His hair tugged where it was pressed against the tile, long strands bunching above his head as he slouched down. He fiddled absentmindedly with the hair that fell over his shoulders, feeling the coarse pieces roll over each other between his fingers. The ends were split here and there, little splinters jutting out like feathers. Noel had warned him that going out in the cold weather right after showering would lead to splitting, but it took so long for his hair to dry that he couldn’t do much to avoid it. He could probably use a trim.
And with the weather warming now, it could be nice for it to be lighter. His first summer in his own body had been sweltering, there was so much more of him to be hot than when he shared Arthur’s body. And that had been a mild summer, according to Arthur and Noel. While the cover of his hair provided some shield from the sun, it was thick and dark. For everything it guarded from, it seemed to soak up just as much. His first summer, he had pressed his palm to the crown of his head to feel the warmth trapped in his hair, soaking in the sun’s relentless heat.
Maybe he ought to go shorter. Arthur and Noel liked to crop their hair so short in the summer, grateful for the extra time between haircuts that the chill of winter didn’t allow. They’d certainly get less odd looks while out and about, the three of them with their matching proper haircuts. And maybe his hair would stop falling in Arthur’s face when they went to bed, and Arthur would certainly stop leaning his elbow on it when he sat up in the mornings. Noel could still brush through it if it were short, though it wouldn’t take nearly as long and John wouldn’t need the nice brush they’d bought him over the holidays.
As if summoned, Noel poked his head back into the door with the brush in hand. The hard celluloid backing shined, made up to look like mother of pearl and painted with a yellow rose. It was a thoughtful gift, one that had tugged at the same spot in his chest that ached when Noel called him doll or missus. Moments where he felt seen, and small, and human.
“Found it in the drawer,” Noel said, sliding in and closing the door behind him. “You hiding it from Arthur or something? That pansy using your brush to do himself up like Clark Gable?”
“I don’t know if he’d appreciate you saying that,” John said, biting back a smile.
“He’s never complained before,” Noel grinned. He gestured for John to sit back up and moved to stand between his legs. John pulled his hair in front of his shoulders and looked up to meet his gaze.
The hem of Noel’s shorts tickled John’s knees where he stood between them. He ran a hand through the top of John’s hair, brushing it back over his head with a fond expression. John didn’t often get to see him from this angle. Water beaded on the ends of his towel-dried hair, dripping down onto his cheeks in little trails. He watched a drop onto the fabric of Noel’s shirt, turning the white fabric just-translucent. Noel hadn’t put the brassiere back on after rinsing off, his chest hanging against the undershirt in the way he only ever wore to bed.
John didn’t really understand why Noel hid his chest, but he knew it bothered him. It mattered to him in a way that made it special for John alone to see him like this. Arthur’s vision had never really returned, other than vague impressions of light. Even if it had, John wasn’t sure if Noel would’ve let Arthur see him this way. It wasn’t that they didn’t care for each other; they had to, after everything in New York and then Threshold and now sharing this small apartment between the three of them. John would watch them sit on the hard couch together and take turns working the knots from each others’ aching limbs some nights. Other times, they’d shared exchanges almost on the edge of love, albeit usually with John in the middle of them. They were close. But that, what they had, was different than with John alone. With Arthur, their relationship was about their shared time in the Dreamlands and their markings from the King, the time they had spent outside of the human world. Something like pieces from two different puzzles that happened to fit together. This though, whatever Noel and John had formed for themselves alone, this was different. That was what really brought John into this world.
He leaned into Noel’s touch as the brush moved through his hair, tugging gently as little snags. Even if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around why Noel bound his chest down every day, he appreciated that something about their relationship made Noel comfortable enough not needing to when they were alone.
One time, when they were changing before bed, Noel had let John trace the lines the brassiere left in his skin when he took it off. John had asked if they hurt, running his fingertips so carefully along the paths along his sides and back. Noel had just shook his head, shivering, and likened it to the way a blanket leaves lines in your skin after a long nap. And in the summer, when the tight fabric rubbed on his skin in the damp heat, he would ask John to smooth cool, white lotion over his skin to soothe the redness. It felt different than John’s closeness with Arthur, which was almost an inherent sharing of each other’s space and bodies. Whereas he just was part of Arthur, Noel invited John into his space. It was somewhere John could choose to go, and where he knew he’d be welcomed.
It didn’t sit right with him sometimes, this feeling of undeserved tenderness. In some regard it felt too uneven, like Noel gave and gave and gave and all John had done was take in his kindness. It wasn’t like he didn’t think he was worth it, Arthur had drilled it into him enough times that he was greater than the flaws of his past. It was just something about it from Noel, who had been so open to him even when he was a voice in Arthur’s head that Noel couldn’t even hear. Maybe it was still related to his past as the King, knowing all the harm that part of him had caused Noel. More than that, though, was the not knowing why. Why Noel treated him differently than Arthur, why some things Noel said made something squirm within him in a way that was both uncomfortable and addictive. The way he called him doll with the same charm he gave women out in public. The way he, even jokingly, called him his missus. He sat with it late at night, the fluttering feeling keeping him awake staring at the ceiling as he ran back through conversations in his head.
Maybe that was why, as Noel worked out a particular snarl in his hair, that he felt the need to even them out. To invite Noel into his space in some vulnerable way. To give Noel a chance to take from him instead.
“Will you cut my hair?” John asked.
Noel stopped short, the brush just freeing through the end of a strand. He fixed John with a raised eyebrow.
“Like a trim?” he said slowly. John couldn’t read his tone.
“No.” John shook his head. Noel rested the brush on John’s shoulder. “I cut yours. Now I’m asking you to cut mine.”
Noel held his eyes, giving John a look of surprise and uncertainty. “Ah-huh,” he said, his voice level. “I thought you liked it long.”
“Am I not allowed to change my mind?” John huffed. Something like shame, or embarrassment, burned at the edge of his shirt collar. It was worse if Noel said no.
“Course you are, doll,” Noel said, his voice light and trepid. He set the brush on the edge of the sink and fixed him with an uncertain look. “I’m just surprised is all.”
“You offered,” John snipped.
“Well, I…” Noel said. “Yeah, I know I did. I just… shoot, kid. I don’t know much about cutting lady’s hair.”
“Lady’s hair?”
Noel raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? What, did you mean cut it short as this?” he said, gesturing to his own head. “Come on, John.”
“Why would I be asking for a lady’s haircut?”
“You kiddin’ me?” Noel furrowed his brow. “Just with how long you keep it, and, you know, with the curlers…”
John huffed. The curlers.
When they had first settled down together in the city and started living semi-stable lives, he had been so fascinated by women’s hair. So many of the women they had interacted with before were supernatural, otherworldly figures without any care for modern styles. Or, with all respect to Marie, they were elderly without any care for modern styles. Or they were just dead, photos or vague knowledge of a woman’s life. When he had begun going out into town with Arthur and Noel… the way people lived and dressed was suddenly much more relevant.
John snuck greedy glances at the women’s short, curled styles springing up around town. On their walks to work or even just shopping at the grocer, their curls bounced around them in hazy, sculpted shapes. It made him envious. He appreciated the heavy curtain of his hair, the familiarity of it draping over his neck and hanging off his shoulders. There was just something, though, about watching the women fluff and pat their hair into shape that seemed so fun. So human and frivolous.
He had tried to curl his, having set aside a little money in secret to buy curlers while out on a walk alone. It wasn’t like Arthur would be able to tell he was wearing them at night, especially once they were laying down for bed. He just wanted to see what it might look like. But then Noel had come in to wake them up for breakfast in the morning… and his eyes did work. He’d kindly held back a hearty laugh at John’s sad attempt to roll his thick hair up in far too few curlers and with no product to hold the curl. He did offer to help John try again, showed him how he had done his own with his sister growing up, but John’s heavy hair did not cooperate. Noel’s natural curl gloated in the face of John’s attempt to make his own straight hair hold a curl past lunchtime. From then on, he was always extra frustrated by watching Noel slicked his hair down, smoothing it into a clean part by pressing the texture out with wax.
Noel wasn’t wrong. If John was really in the market for a chop, he would have a proper hairdresser trim and set his hair like the women in town. Not quite as short, but bouncing and shaped into a style that fell around his shoulders in fanned out curls.
But this wasn’t for him.
“Just cut it like yours. Or Arthur’s,” John said, his voice flat.
“Uh huh,” Noel hummed, unconvinced. “You want this nice line on the side of your head, too? All the rage right now, so I hear.”
John huffed. “Noel, if you don’t want to cut it—“
“I don’t want to,” he shrugged. “Frankly, I like your long hair. You look pretty.” John looked down to hide the flush rapidly turning from frustration to flattery. “I offered as a joke, doll. I didn’t think you’d take me up, you’re so finicky about all that.”
“You shouldn't say things you don’t mean,” John murmured.
Noel sighed. He nudged John’s chin up, giving him the sort of look that reminded him Noel really was older than Arthur. The lines by his eyes and across his forehead deepened as he met John’s eyes with a raise of his eyebrows. The edge of his mouth quirked in a knowing but patient smile.
“I don’t want to,” Noel said gently, “but I would, if that’s what you wanted. Just…” He rubbed his thumb into John’s shoulder, working out a spot of tension he hadn’t realized formed. “I didn’t mean to… Just don’t feel like you gotta, is all. I like you how you are, doll.”
John couldn’t keep his gaze. He looked away with a huff, but his resolve was already weakening. “Fine, it’s fine,” he said. He leaned back against the tank of the toilet, unintentionally pulling his shoulder out of Noel’s grip and missing the pressure immediately. “I just wanted to… I don’t know. Give you something.”
“Hey, if you wanted to give me something…,” Noel said, his grin pulling crooked across his face. John offered an unamused look in response. Noel laughed and leaned against the sink, waving a hand in dismissal. “Bad taste joke, sure. Look, doll, you don’t owe me anything. What’s this about, the shit with the King?”
“It’s not—”
“Ah ah, water under the bridge, we’ve been over this. That wasn’t you, and even if it was…” he sucked in a breath. For a moment, his dark eyes looked past John, like he was seeing through the tile of the bathroom wall. Then an exhale, short and purposeful, and he was back, eyes fixed on John’s with assurance. “Even if it was… well, no use dragging it around. We’re fine, John. We’re good.”
“It’s not about the King— my time as the King,” John said, shaking his head. “I just wanted to… be vulnerable, I don’t know. It’s stupid. I’m going to go wash the dishes.”
John attempted to stand in the small space between Noel, the tub, and the opposite wall. It would not be difficult to push past Noel, make his way into the kitchen and ignore any additional attempts to rehash the conversation, but Noel already had his hands up ready to push John back down. And, if he were honest with himself, John wanted him to.
“You never wash the dishes, I’m always washing them for you and Mr. Lester,” Noel laughed. “Nice try, sit down and let me finish your hair.”
John fell back down against the lid of the toilet with a huff. “I could wash them.”
“Yeah, but you hate it. Too wet or whatever.”
“And the—”
“And the dishwater smell, I know.”
“But I could,” John insisted. “And you’re the one who said you didn’t want Arthur washing them.”
Noel sectioned out part of John’s hair and began to run the brush through it again. “Yeah, after he knocked over my potted plant. Got it off one of the secretaries at work, clearing her desk when she left to get married. Real pretty thing, shame about the husband.”
“What happened to him?” John asked, curiosity piqued.
“Nothing, he’s just not me,” he said, fixing John with an antagonistic grin.
John offered a pointed eyeroll in response, crossing his arms.
“What, bad taste again? I’m just getting a rise out of you, you know I’m not the marrying type,” Noel said, winking. “Can I braid your hair, or do you wanna leave it loose?”
“You can braid it,” John said. “Thank you.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Noel dismissed, running the brush over John’s scalp. He leaned into the scratch of the bristles over his skin, closing his eyes. “My pleasure, doll.”