“I didn’t pack a shaving kit.”
“I did,” Arthur cried, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness to be useful.
He dug through his knapsack, throwing things aside. Freya glared as his heating pad narrowly avoided beaning her in the head.
“I— Oh, I’ve forgotten a mirror.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m used to shaving without one.”
Arthur produced the shaving kit with an air of triumph. “I know it wasn’t strictly necessary, but I’m, er, well, it bothers me. The stubble coming in, I mean. Every time I’ve tried to grow a beard, it’s come in all patchy and horrible anyway. Just another thing I’m bad at.”
Ira sat on the ground, removing his knee brace. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know.” Arthur gestured at nothing in particular. “I’m bad at all the things I’m supposed to be good at, that’s all. The things men are supposed to be good at. I can’t fish, or hunt, or chop wood, or repair the roof in such a way that the shingles don’t go flying off the second there’s another storm... I can’t even grow a beard properly, and for that matter I don’t shave very well, either. I always miss a spot. Or cut myself.”
Arthur handed Ira the shaving kit. “The things Icando are things I’m not supposed to do, or not supposed to want to do, and all the rest I can’t do. I’m really quite useless.”
He said it matter-of-factly because it had so long been a fact of his life, but Ira frowned.
“You don’t think much of yourself, do you?”
“That’s not—I don’t—” Arthur’s skin prickled. “What makes you say that?”
Ira spread a fur on the ground and laid the items in the shaving kit out in a line. “That’s the third time you’ve told me how useless you are.”
“Well—I am.”
Arthur tried to smile, to make light of it, but Ira, gazing at him earnestly, said, “You’ve been good company to me, you know.”
Arthur pinkened. “I’m not sure being good company counts.”
Ira ran a hand over his face, grimacing at the moss growing from below his eye to halfway down his neck. Glancing at Arthur, he added, “I wouldn’t have left the vale if not for you. I wouldn’t call that useless.”
Arthur opened his mouth to respond, had no idea what to say, and closed it. He wasn’t sure that counted, either. Freya lay at his side, close to the fire.
Ira settled into shaving uncertainly. What he was shaving was moss, not hair; it hadn’t grown in the shape of a beard, and the new claws and fur made holding the razor awkward. He grunted as he nicked himself. A clump of moss dropped to the ground.
Arthur opened a book, but he couldn’t help staring. Watching moss fall from Ira’s face, as he held the blade with a hand that had become more like a paw, was oddly fascinating.
Nicking himself again, Ira swore: The cut bled this time. He set the razor aside, opened his hand, and sprouted a small leaf. He plucked it and smoothed it over the cut with a growl.
“This would be easier if my fingers werefingers.”
“Would you like some help?” Arthur asked.
Ira held out the razor. Arthur sat beside him but rethought it immediately. The angle was terrible. And with Arthur sitting on Ira’s left, every stroke of the blade would come as a surprise.
“Can I... ?” He shifted. “I think it will be easier if I’m...”
“Whatever you need.”
Arthur straddled him. Ira swallowed as he settled into place.
Of course,Arthur thought.I have just told him I always cut myself shaving.
“I won’t cut you,” he said gently. “I promise.”
Ira nodded. Arthur lathered him in shaving soap from his neck to his left cheekbone; he’d save the bit below the eye for last. He worked up one side of the cheek and down the other.
