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It’s not until Yahaba has the blade against his throat that Kyoutani realizes exactly how compromising a position he’s gotten himself into this time.

In his defense, he’s had a lot on his mind. Like Spring High, exams, you know, normal shit. And yeah, Yahaba had been riding his ass especially hard recently but damn, for all Kyoutani knew that was just his reaction to the change in the weather or some shit. He didn’t put a lot of thought into it. Usually Yahaba focused his competitive bullshit around volleyball, and Kyoutani could respect that, in his own way.

This feels like a pretty solid departure from that, though.

Because, okay, Kyoutani is a growing kid. He’d put on a couple centimeters, some more muscle, all that good stuff, but there was the rest of it, too. Having to wear a little more deodorant so Yahaba didn’t give him that wrinkled-nose look of disgust, as if his captainly sweat smelled like daisies and hair product. The amount of laundry he has to do to avoid awkward conversations. Having to shave everyday. 

And so, fine, some of that was easier than the rest. No, he wasn’t going to win any kind of ‘perfect shave’ awards, if such a thing existed, but what the fuck, who cared? His wannabe beard grew fast enough that a good shave wouldn’t last long, anyway, so why sweat the details? And okay, he gave himself a cut here and there on accident every once in a while, but he wasn’t gonna cry about a few spots of blood here or there like some baby with a scuffed knee. He put on a bandaid and got the fuck on with his life. He assumed everyone else did, too.

So he had been pretty fucking taken aback when while he was getting ready to leave practice, idly scratching at his chin and thinking about whether it’d be too itchy to try to get through one more night before shaving again, and Yahaba slammed his locker shut dramatically and announced, “I can’t take this anymore.”

“See you guys later,” Watari had said and then hightailed it out of there because, as Kyoutani had discovered, he was generally a cool guy but serially worthless at standing up to Yahaba’s bullshit. 

“Can’t take what anymore?” Kyoutani had asked because Yahaba was advancing on him with a look on his face that was pretty frickin’ ominous. Not that Kyoutani was intimidated by Yahaba or anything, he wasn’t like Oikawa or Iwaizumi-san or anything, but he also wasn’t looking to get on his bad side, either. And yeah, he wasn’t completely sure he could take Yahaba in a fight, but he was like 50% sure that Yahaba didn’t want to physically fight him anymore. Which was a good thing, all told, because he was pretty sure he didn’t want to fight Yahaba either, and not just because he wasn’t sure he’d win.

“Your face,” Yahaba had said which, what the fuck, rude, and Kyoutani wasn’t gonna pretend that didn’t sting a little.  

“There’s nothing wrong with my face,” Kyoutani had said, doing his best to sound growly and inarguable, with mixed results.

At that, Yahaba had sighed like Kyoutani was the one being an unreasonable dickhead in this equation. “There wouldn’t be if you didn’t insist on constantly maiming yourself.”

It had taken Kyoutani a moment, but he'd figured it out. Yahaba had spent literally all of practice last week staring at the bandaid right next to his mouth, which was kind of a clue.

“That’s a little overdramatic,” Kyoutani had said, making sure to punctuate his statement with a roll of his eyes because if he was  going to go in on this sassing off to Yahaba thing he might as well go the whole way. “Just look elsewhere or something, damn.” 

“We’re going to Spring High,” Yahaba had said, because apparently today was non sequitur day in Yahaba-land. 

“Well, yeah,” Kyoutani said, trying to keep up. “That… is true.” Relevant, maybe not, but full points for factual accuracy.

“Oh for— I mean we’ll be in public,” Yahaba had said. “Representing our school. We could be on TV. Our old upperclassmen might come to watch.”

“Our team, not my face,” Kyoutani had pointed out, feeling very reasonable.

“Your face is a part of this team!” Yahaba had looked about five seconds away from stamping his heels ineffectually, or, like, putting his fist through the wall. You could never tell with that guy.

And somehow it had all snowballed from there and before Kyoutani had sorted out what was happening, Yahaba had practically frogmarched him out of school, in the opposite direction of Kyoutani’s train line, and all the way into Yahaba’s bathroom, where he’d told him in no uncertain terms to get up on the counter or else, smeared some fancy stuff all over Kyoutani’s face with some kind of fucking brush, and pulled the razor out. 

Well, Kyoutani knows to think of it as a razor, because that’s what Yahaba had called it right around the time he’d put hot towels all over Kyoutani’s face and Kyoutani had thought he was being punked, but it looks like a fucking knife to him. It doesn’t have a plastic handle like his one at home, with nice little blades tucked in three rows down, it’s just one big blade with a wooden handle it flipped out of like a switchblade from hell, and frankly it looks more like a murder weapon than a grooming tool, but Yahaba sure seems convinced about it. Yahaba had been running it against a leather belt-like thing while he ordered Kyoutani to sit on the counter, and it definitely had made him seem more persuasive.

Which is how they got into their current position, with Yahaba basically right between Kyoutani’s thighs, blade at his throat, and staring at him with the same intense, half-pissed off, half-calculating expression he gets doing serves, and if Kyoutani was any kind of normal person this wouldn’t be doing it for him, but that train sadly left the station a long time ago, perhaps at the point where Yahaba had knocked him into a wall and Kyoutani had maybe discovered he was just a little bit into that. Or him. Or both.

It wasn’t something he let himself dwell on. Usually.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Kyoutani tries to say, but halfway through the first word Yahaba is shushing him like the most terrifying schoolteacher in the world and oh no, that is not helping. Oh no.

“Don’t move,” Yahaba says, shifting between Kyoutani thighs. “This is sharp.”

Kyoutani wants to make no shit kind of noise but that probably counts as moving, so he carefully does not. 

Somehow, he’s sure Yahaba picks up on it anyway.

“My father’s a barber,” Yahaba says in way of explanation for this whole thing, which maybe answers two out of the roughly fifty thousand questions that are flooding Kyoutani’s head right now. “So I know what I’m doing.”

Kyoutani wants to ask if Yahaba even grows any hair himself, or if he practices on other people, or if his knowledge is purely theoretical and he has horrifying decided Kyoutani makes for a good test subject, but then Yahaba is moving the blade in soft, delicate strokes down Kyoutani’s right cheek, his other hand pulling the skin taut. The razor is cold while Yahaba’s fingers are tiny points of heat, and the contrast sure is doing something to Kyoutani's head. Among other areas.

He’s surprised at how light Yahaba’s touch is with the blade. He doesn’t seem to be pushing down much at all, which Kyoutani isn’t exactly complaining about, but it makes the sensation completely different than what he’d been preparing himself for. 

Most of his interactions with Yahaba are nothing approaching gentle. That isn't something that bothered him, exactly, because he knows where they stand with each other, mostly, and he knows they sort of respect each other, and, well, Kyoutani had never really gone in on that emotional-bonding, hug-it-out kind of team dynamic that some people liked. Not to make a big deal of it, but it actually meant a whole fucking lot to him when Yahaba knocked shoulders with him after a good spike because he knew Kyoutani would probably miss that he wanted a high-five, or when he said something like Not bad, Kyoutani, after a serve hit just right, eyes glinting like he was already planning exactly when they'd use that move in the next tournament to annihilate their opponents.

This, though, this is a whole different world. Yahaba is right there, completely in his personal space, and he’s holding the razor and therefore all the power, and all Kyoutani can do is sit still as a statue while Yahaba moves the blade over his skin just soft enough not to cut him open.

“Relax,” Yahaba says, leaning away to wipe off the razor, and Kyoutani realizes all his muscles are tensed up. “I’m not going to nick you. Think of it as a trust-building exercise.” 

“Yeah, this is definitely one for the team handbook,” Kyoutani says and inwardly panics because was that too rude to say to the guy who could slit your throat? Too weird? “I do, though. Trust you, I mean. You’re alright.” Please let Yahaba put the razor back so he has to shut up, please.

“I’m honored,” Yahaba says, and he says it like a joke but also a little bit like he’s serious, with the side of his mouth curled up, and Kyoutani does trust him, actually, which is probably more of a shock to realize than it was to say aloud. 

Thankfully, Yahaba does lean back forward and gets back to works, all quiet, efficient movement as he shaves down the side of Kyoutani’s cheek to the curve of his chin while Kyoutani focuses on relaxing. 

It should be impossible, really, to relax with someone else holding what’s basically a knife in such near proximity to his face, but now that they’ve talked about it, it’s almost like he can’t help it. He breathes in deeply, smelling the lather and oil that Yahaba had put on him in brisk slides of skin-to-skin contact, and when Yahaba turns his head the other way to start the left side, Kyoutani’s eyes close on their own.

The sensations are even more immediate, like that, Yahaba’s fingers warmer, and he can feel every spot on them where they’re rough from too much volleyball. He has good hands, setter hands, and Kyoutani briefly has flashbacks of talks about long fingers to help manipulate the ball from some coach or another that definitely, definitely seemed more innocent an observation when such fingers weren’t on his pulse point, probably giving away every less than wholesome thought he’s having. 

He wants to open his eyes again, so as not to get lost in his own head, which is a dangerous enough place to be anytime but especially when Yahaba is literally between his legs, but when he peeks out from between his lashes he sees Yahaba is biting his lip in concentration, which is really not helping anything.

This is a special kind of hell,, Kyoutani can’t help but think as Yahaba moves him this way and that, blade kissing feather soft against his skin, and he wonders what he might have done to deserve this. Other than inflaming Yahaba’s filial sense of barber-ly anger at an improper shave, apparently, but now that Kyoutani is thinking of it, doesn’t Kindaichi sometimes come in with nicks, too? He's never received this treatment, that's for sure. 

“Chin up,” Yahaba says in a puff of warm air against Kyoutani’s ear as his fingers firmly tilt Kyoutani’s head back. His voice is quiet, but it’s a small room and he’s practically on top of Kyoutani anyway, so there’s no chance of missing the slight tremor in it. 

Kyoutani opens his eyes as he obeys, looking up at the bathroom ceiling and wondering when this became his life. His throat is sensitive and Yahaba’s touch seems lighter than ever, so gentle that it’s almost overwhelming, giving Kyoutani some mad desire to press forward to get more sensation, and if Yahaba were to cut him now his veins would probably just bleed out pure want.

“There,” Yahaba says after a period of time that is both far too long and far too short. He sets the razor aside with a small clink and picks up one of the warm towels. The slight roughness is overwhelming against Kyoutani’s newly sensitive skin, and he has to choke back a noise that he’s sure he’d never live down. 

“That’s it?” Kyoutani says, and he was worried he’d sound breathless so he’d tried to pitch his voice lower, which was a mistake because now he sounds gravelly and wrecked, really, it’s so embarrassing, but Yahaba doesn’t pull way, only smiles.

“Almost,” he says, and reaches over to where he put all the various bottles and things within grabbing distance because he’s apparently he’s developed an allergy to being anywhere except between Kyoutani’s thighs. Not that he’s complaining, exactly, it's just. A lot to deal with.

“Oh, this is what you always smell like,” Kyoutani says as Yahaba begins to rub aftershave into Kyoutani’s skin, and just wants to slap himself because really, really? Admitting he knows what Yahaba usually smells like?  

Yahaba doesn’t call him out on it, though. “Technically, I should do a couple more passes,” is what he does say, taking a critical look at his work. He tips Kyoutani’s chin around more than he possibly should need to, but like hell is Kyoutani going to call him out on it. “To get it to be a properly close shave, I mean.” 

“Oh?” Kyoutani can’t decide if more of this sounds wonderful or torturous. Both, probably. He’s so fucked.

Yahaba sighs, tapping his fingers against Kyoutani’s leg as if he’s forgotten it isn’t part of his countertop but is attached to a person who may or may not be kind of dying right now. “Well, I’ll do that next time,” he says, and it takes Kyoutani a few moments to clue in.

“Next time?”

Yahaba gives him one of those patented Kyoutani, you are an idiot and a discredit to everything this team stands for looks, which always do a little something for Kyoutani anyway and are super effective at whatever they do when given from, again, between Kyoutani’s fucking thighs. “Spring High isn’t until next week. This won’t last until then, obviously. This was just a test run. We’ll do it for real then. Assuming you have no objections?”

“That’s…” A bad plan, I am definitely going to die from sheer frustration if we do this again, did you realize you have literally not stopped touching me this entire time, you are terrifyingly attractive with a blade in your hand and I am not built to withstand this sort of thing, I had absolutely no warning you were going to pull this out of no where and my fantasies haven’t had so much new material to work with in months, I’m afraid they won’t be able to keep up, so you see it’s really best if we just call it a day and I hide from you for a good ten years while I wear out all the fodder this has provided and learn how to look you in the eye without blushing again, thanks for the offer. “That sounds good.”

Kyoutani is so, so fucked.