Vdeksha un për ty

May I Die For You

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.