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The first night Eric stays over at Rob's place, he discovers a couple of things.
"Do you have a razor?" he asks, right before he sees the folded straight razor on the corner of Rob's sink, like a holdover from some fucking 19th century aristocratic toiletry set made before people discovered the efficiency of swivel-headed triple-bladed Norelcos with trimmer attachments. Oh, hell no...
To his credit, Chase seems actually embarrassed. "Um. Sorry. I didn't even think about it. Can you use a straight razor?"
"No," Eric says, "and I don't feel like accidentally decapitating myself trying."
Chase pokes his head through the door, looking sheepish. "I can run down to the store and get some disposables, if you like."
It's a sincere offer, and it does a lot to get rid of his irritation. "Thanks, yeah. That'd help."
"Okay. I'll be back in a minute." And Chase vanishes, leaving him staring at the razor on Chase's sink and facing the uncomfortable realization that he's gone back to using Chase's last name in his head, an awkward transition from moaning Rob, fuck yes while getting blown the night before.
Well, it'll make going in to work easier, he hopes.
The next time he stays over Rob's stashed the disposable razors in the bathroom, so he has enough time to sit and watch as Rob goes through the somewhat fiddly process of shaving with a straight razor. Eric watches him sharpen the blade on a hand-held piece of leather, then he actually does the thing where he pulls out a hair from his head and cuts it in half while it's suspended in midair with a tiny, audible 'ting.'
He looks up, and Rob looks the slightest bit manic, and impressed with himself, and for some reason it's making Eric's nervous system sit up and take notice. "I am impressed," he says.
Rob grins a bit wider. "I could show you how," he offers.
"Maybe later."
Rob breathes carefully while he's shaving, inhaling only when the razor isn't touching his skin, breathing out steadily. He looks sometimes like he's not moving at all and still he's done a lot faster than Eric is, even not counting the time Eric's spent just staring at the way Rob's throat comes clean under the razor and wooo, someone has to get ahold of themselves, here.
"So how'd you get into using a straight razor?" Eric asks.
And all of a sudden Rob goes flustered, which is weird. "Oh, y'know," he says, "it's cheaper than buying disposables, and it's sort of... y'know, good practice, steady hands, that sort of thing." He sees Eric staring at him in the mirror and tries, "Um, my dad gave it to me?"
"You're a really bad liar," Eric points out.
Rod turns bright pink. "Um. I just like it."
Eric shrugs, leans forward and rinses his disposable razor under the tap. "Okay, then."
Rob doesn't meet his gaze as he puts the razor away.
The next night he spends over is a Friday, and Saturday morning Rob holds up the straight razor, folded, and asks, "So, y'wanna give it a shot?"
Eric has never had time or patience for high-maintenance girlfriends in the past, and he never figured that liking dick would change that trend. But the pitiful hope on Rob's face is somehow endearing rather than irritating.
It also helps (after he's said yes and Rob's given him an actual hot towel to wrap around his face to soften his stubble a bit) that Rob, it has been established, has no fucking idea about American racist tropes, to the point that he doesn't know there's anything associating black men with straight razors. That lets him pick up the solid piece of steel and give it a serious and clean once-over instead. The handle's mother-of-pearl (of course it is) and the blade moves easily under his fingers.
"Okay," he says when he's got an edge on the blade, and he's standing there covered in lather and uncomfortably aware that he's holding an instrument he could do unintentional cosmetic surgery with. "So..."
"Here," Rob says, reaching up and carefully guiding the edge of the blade to the proper angle. "Like this."
"You're seriously doing the 'stand behind me and coach' thing?" Eric asks, then takes a deep breath and gently pulls the razor down his cheek.
Rob doesn't say anything for a long second. "I don't want to be responsible for you bleeding out in my bathroom," he finally remarks. "House would never let either of us live it down."
"Mmm-hmm," Eric says. It's not actually as tricky as he'd feared. He just has to go slow, and he's making a lot shorter passes than he'd normally make, but after a couple minutes he's managed pretty well and hasn't left any blood on Rob's sink.
And Rob still hasn't backed away from his protective encroachment, but when Eric shifts his weight a little he can definitely count at least one reason Rob owns a straight razor, plus he makes Rob squeak in embarrassment. "You want to give me some room, here?" he says. "You're poking me in the leg."
White people turn really interesting colors when they get embarrassed. It makes going out in public with them hard, but in private it's kinda funny. "Sorry," Rob mumbles.
"I don't mind, just save that for later," Eric says. "Sometime when I'm not one sneeze away from accidentally severing my carotid."
Rob laughs weakly. "You look like you're getting the hang of it."
"Mmm-hmm," he says, and proceeds to nick his chin. "Dammit!"
He gets another nick on his cheek before he's done, but all in all it's not an unpleasant experience. And by the end of it Rob's breathing on his neck so hard it's tempting to hold him down and fuck him just to get him to shut up.
Now there's an idea... "So, what, you got a Sweeney Todd fetish or something?"
"No, not--nothing like that," Rob says, eyes focusing on the pattern of grime on his bathroom floor.
"Like what, then?" Rob doesn't answer, so he tries another tack. "Y'know, there's this weird thing about black guys with straight razors? It's this huge stereotype, dangerous throat-slitting renegades after your women--"
"I didn't--!" Rob squeaks, terrified, then sees him grinning and frowns. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Yeah," Eric says. "So if it's not that, what is it?"
Rob turns bright pink again, then blurts, "Now that you've--I thought--you could shave my pubic hair?"
Eric blinks. Rob can't physically blush any harder, but he claps his hands over his face and says, "Shit. No. Sorry. That--never mind. I didn't--"
"You know, I haven't said no," Eric points out.
Rob peeks through his fingers gingerly.
Eric holds up the razor and slides it open one-handed, just to watch Rob's reaction. "You sure you want me shaving such a delicate area?" he asks, taking his answer from the tent in Rob's boxers. "I mean, I could nick something important."
"Well, y'know," Rob says, dropping his hands a bit. "It's not brain surgery."
He has to smirk at that. "True enough. Okay."
And then it's like, okay, we're going to do this right now. Rob jumps in the shower to get his skin warm, and Eric pulls the razor over the strop, nice and easy.
He puts Rob on a towel on the toilet seat, legs spread, already hard again, and lathers him up--and shaving cream doesn't make half bad lube for a hand job, he notes, and ignores the frustrated whimper Rob makes when he pulls his hand back. But Rob shuts up real quick when he tests the sharpness of the razor on his arm hair, and stares at him with an anxious, hungry expression.
"You've been wanting this a while," he says, because it's not like Rob has been doing this himself--he's got all his natural hair, thin and blond as it is. "What, you didn't ask Cameron to give it a shot?"
"I wouldn't trust her near my balls with a letter opener," Rob says.
Eric snorts. "You were sleeping with her," he points out, and presses his hand against Rob's leg to hold him still.
"Yeah, that was nice," Rob says, eyes fixed on the razor. "And then she dumped me and became a lesbian. Can we not talk about that?"
"Sure," Eric says. "I don't want to ruin this for you."
His hands are steady as he moves the razor next to Rob's dick. All he can hear is the hiss of steel against flesh as he scrapes away the lather to reveal hairless pink skin.
Rob inhales once, very sharply, when he's done with the first stroke, then holds his breath as Eric pulls the blade over his skin again.
"It's amazing what this is doing to you," Eric says as he finishes off the fuzz around Rob's dick. His hand's slippery with foam as he lifts Rob's testicles and pulls the skin taut with his thumb.
"I don't even--" Rob says, and yeah, he's coming apart like this. It's incredibly hot, how much power he has, how gentle he has to be with the razor on the sensitive, soft skin. He finishes the first stroke and Rob whimpers.
"Yeah," he says, moving carefully with the blade, "I may not even make it to the bedroom before I fuck your bare ass. I might just shove you onto your hands and knees right here."
"This floor sucks on your knees," Rob says quickly, like from experience.
"Don't contradict me while I'm holding a straight razor," Eric says. "In fact, you probably shouldn't talk at all while I'm doing something this delicate."
Rob licks his lips and nods. "Okay."
After another few patient strokes he wipes off the last traces of foam with a washcloth. Rob's completely hairless now with only one tiny nick on his leg, which Eric leans over and licks clean in apology; it's highly unsanitary from a blood contamination standpoint but the gesture makes Rob shiver and moan.
"C'mon," he says, slapping Rob on the thigh and then rubbing his hand over the smooth, smooth skin again to cradle Rob's dick. "We've got to make it all the way to the bedroom if we're gonna save your knees."
"Fuck you," Rob says weakly, but he hustles. Eric folds the razor and puts it away, then grabs Rob's aftershave. Ingrown hairs would probably suck even more in that area, and it'll be fun watching Rob squirm.