For Heart of Slash
For those of you who may have missed it, Heart of Slash's fucking brilliant Pirate Way site was zapped. Illegitimate content? Right. Will rant about that at length if necessary. Looking forward to the relaunch. Anyway she asked for people to write something to cheer her up from a menu of suggestions of which Orlando/Ewan Magregor Hair porn was one. I am not a slash writer of course, and rather than embarass myself entirely, I kept it that way. Though Ewan is more of a visual aid really... Will stop with the caveats now and just post it.
Title: Sticky Saturday
Type: RPF- Orlando and Ewan Macgregor type.
Summary: AU kind of thoughts about Orlando at the barbers. No offence nor implication intended.
He had always liked these sort of mornings, quiet on the streets Saturday mornings, when the last nights rubbish was still blowing or rolling around the gutters and no one quite cared yet, too intent on getting to the bread shop for a warm bag of croissants or the corner shop for a pint of milk. Or, like him, doing one of those Saturday morning things that had to be squashed into the weekend. He let his legs fall into a natural rhythm along the pock marked pavements and smiled as he nodded his head. A proper haircut, that was what he needed, none of those fancy ‘stylists’ with expensive sticky gel fingers. A cut like he used to have, done by an impeccably smart man called Luigi, or Antonio, whose family had come from Sicily or Venice generations ago. A barber who took men’s hair seriously. Fuck the health spas and the pampering. In these old fashioned places you could feel the weight of maleness, no nonsense, no highlights, just a sanctuary from the world, and your follicles in the hands of a man who knew how to make you look ‘turned out proper’. A light flush coloured his cheeks at what Luigi or Tony might make of a bloke who had worn little clips in his hair, Trojan or not, it had been altogether embarrassing frankly. I will go hunting and fishing…yeah right…first though, if you could see your way to a swap Helen, I rather like that shiny one you have at the back there, would suit me just perfect.
Too late now to worry about that, the cold door handle was in his hand, the bell above the door tinkling to signal his arrival. The air held a scent of splashed eau de cologne, not too much you understand, just enough to close the pores and because the ladies like it, strong black coffee and brylcrem, sharp dressed testosterone and fresh newspaper print. He beamed a cheery good morning at the man holding the scissors and sat down on a leather covered bench to wait his turn.
The low hum of the clippers, like a summer bee around its very favourite flower, covered the occasional low conversation between two men engaged in an established familiarity. One was intent on his work, the other, Orlando observed in the mirror, had his eyes closed in what might be described as focussed attentive enjoyment. Trust, that was the thing. One only had to see that Sweeny Todd to understand that things could of course go horribly wrong, but perhaps that was not so likely on a Saturday morning in 21st century
Christ, let that go.
Stop that right now. But that wasn’t so easy as he had hoped. In the increasing heat of the barber shop he found himself wishing that another customer might arrive, opening the door for a gust of cooler air. No such luck, instead he watched as the long silver scissors tidied and trimmed and slid over skin, the sound of steel slicing hair curiously attractive, intimate, engaging, mesmerising.
A pale wood brush appeared now flicking over the bloke’s neck and his face “How is that for you?” soft Italian already anticipated the answer, and the barber warmed the light wax between his palms massaging a little into the stubble of the man’s remaining hair. Strong hands, ones that were used to touching and Orlando wondered for a second if a career change might just work out.
As the barber stepped away the bloke finally opened his eyes. Bleary. As if he had forgotten precisely where he was, he opened them to catch the reflection of the back of his own head in the little mirror being held behind him. Well the back of his own head and of course the brown eyes that were staring right at him from the waiting chairs.
Fuck. Orlandos hands instinctively reached for something to hide behind but The North London Advertiser was not going to save him. And maybe he didn’t want to be saved. The craggy face grinned back from the mirror as heavy fingers reached up to run over the smooth downy skin of exposed scalp. Orlando hoped that he hadn’t made the noise that was in his throat.
Italian promise seeped into his head “Are you ready Sir? What would you like today?”
He shook his head a little to clear it and drew breath before pulling himself up to his full height “I will have what he has got”