Chapter 2: The First Shave
The bathroom air was thick and wet, smelling of cheap lavender soap and the metallic scent of tap water. Misha stood shirtless before the mirror, a towel wrapped low on his hips. His reflection was blurred at the edges by the fog from the shower he’d just taken, skin flushed pink from the heat. He looked like a watercolor painting of himself.On the sink lay the new razor, expensive and heavy, still in its plastic casing. Next to it, the can of shaving cream, promising “ultra-glide smoothness.” He’d spent too much on both.It felt like an offering.His hands weren’t steady. He cracked the plastic case open, the sound too loud in the small room. The razor was colder than he expected. He shook the can, a rhythmic chk-chk-chk, and sprayed a dollop into his palm. The foam was stark white, smelling of aloe and something artificially clean.He worked it into a lather, the silence pressing in on him.
Starting with the jaw.Like Ilia had.He raised his chin, stretched the skin taut with his free hand. The first swipe of the razor was a shock—a crisp, clean sound, like tearing silk. A pale path opened through the foam, revealing skin he hadn’t seen bare since he was sixteen. It was paler, somehow younger-looking.Vulnerable.
He worked slowly, methodically, rinsing the blade under the tap after every stroke.The water ran grey with whiskers. His mind was empty, a blank space filled only with the ritual: swipe, rinse, repeat. The angle over his Adam’s apple made him swallow nervously, but he didn’t nick himself. He was a dancer; he understood precision, the quiet focus of a controlled movement.
When his face was done, he patted it dry with a towel.The face in the mirror was unfamiliar.Softer. The sharp definition of his jaw was still there, but now it was slick, almost polished. He touched it.It felt like the skin of a peach. A weird little thrill buzzed in his stomach.He looked… pretty.The thought should have been a grenade. It just sat there, simple and true.Then he looked down at his chest. The light brown hair across his pectorals, trailing down his stomach. Ilia’s words echoed, not as a demand, but as a simple fact.Everywhere.This was different.This wasn’t about grooming. This was eradication.He lathered his chest, the foam cold on his warmer skin. The first stroke here was awkward, the razor tugging.He adjusted the angle, used more cream. The hair came away in wet, dark clumps.His chest emerged, pale and strangely naked. He felt a pang of loss, sharp and stupid. He’d never loved his body hair, but it had been his.A part of the uniform.Now it was swirling down the drain.He kept going. His stomach.The hollows of his armpits, which stung fiercely. He worked silently, doggedly, a sculptor removing not excess but essence. The towel around his hips grew damp and heavy.He didn’t stop.He shed the towel. He lathered his legs, kneeling in the bathtub, the porcelain cold and hard under his knees. He shaved his thighs, the coarse hair on his calves, the fine blond hairs on his forearms. He became an assembly line of smoothness.The water in the tub grew cloudy with tiny hairs. His world narrowed to the path of the blade, the sound of his own breathing, and the expanding landscape of bare skin.
When he was finally finished, he stood under a fresh spray of water, as hot as he could stand it.It needled his raw skin. He scrubbed with a washcloth, washing away the last traces of foam and stubble.He turned off the water.The silence rushed back.
He stepped onto the bath mat, dripping.He didn’t reach for the towel immediately. He just looked. His body in the steamy full-length mirror on the back of the door was a country he didn’t recognize.All smooth plains and unbroken lines. He was sleek, like a river stone.He ran his hands over his arms, his sides, his hips.The sensation was bizarre. Silk on silk.He felt profoundly exposed, but also… clean.Scoured. Like he’d washed off a layer of dirt he hadn’t known was there.
He wrapped himself in a clean towel.His phone, charging on the toilet tank, lit up with a call. The screen said ILIA. His heart didn’t just beat faster; it seemed to freeze solid for a second, then kick into a frantic gallop.He swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“It’s me.” Ilia’s voice was the same. Calm, deep, taking up space even through the speaker. “Did you do it?”
“Yes.” Misha’s voice was softer than he intended.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
A pause.Misha could hear faint traffic noises in the background on Ilia’s end. “Tell me how it feels.”
Misha blinked, leaning against the cool tile wall. The question was so direct, so intimate.He couldn’t lie.“Raw.A little cold.Smooth. Very smooth.”
“Good.” Ilia sounded pleased.Not happy, but satisfied. Like a correct answer had been given.“The first time is the most important.You’ve set the intention. Now it’s just maintenance.”
“Okay.”
“I want to see,” Ilia said, matter-of-fact.“Send me a picture.Just your collarbone, your shoulder. Enough to see the work.”
Misha’s breath caught.This was it.The first proof. His hand trembled as he pulled the phone away from his ear, switched to the camera. He angled it, not showing his face, just the slope of his shoulder, the clean line of his clavicle.The skin was still pink, almost glowing.He sent it.
He put the phone back to his ear.He could hear the faint click of Ilia receiving the image. Silence for several long seconds.“Better,” Ilia said finally.The word was a reward. It flooded Misha’s system with a warm, liquid pride. “Tomorrow, after you shave again, you’ll come to my place.Seven o’clock.Wear something soft.A thin sweater. No jeans. I’ll send you the address.”
“I’ll be there,” Misha said, the eagerness naked in his voice.“I know you will.” The line went dead.
Misha stood in the cooling bathroom, the phone still pressed to his ear. He looked at his reflection again, at the smooth shoulder in the mirror. He traced the line Ilia had just approved.Better.He smiled, a small, private thing. The giddy excitement was back, mixed with a deep, thrumming nervousness.He had crossed over. There was no going back to the boy on the rain-soaked bench. That boy was gone, washed down the drain with the stubble.He had work to do. He had to find the right sweater.