put the uncertainty in Martin’s voice. He already knew that Martin hated being helpless, but that usually just made him cranky and impossible. This was something else. His eyes were flickering between Will and the razor with something like longing.
“I offered, didn’t I? Why didn’t you ask earlier?”
At that, Martin’s cheeks darkened even further. Will had never seen him so flustered. “It’s just that it would feel so good to have a shave.”
Will opened his mouth to argue that this was exactly why Martin ought to have asked for help weeks ago, but then he understood what Martin was saying. “You don’t want things to feel good?” Martin’s prompt glare was answer enough. Will sighed. “Come here,” he said, wiping the last of the shaving soap off his face and getting to his feet.
Martin sat in the chair Will had vacated.
“So the first thing you want to do is use this brush to make lather from this wet cake of soap. Like so.” Will twisted the brush on the top of the cake, then handed both to Martin. “Then dab it all over your face.” He watched as Martin silently followed his instructions. “You’re missing a spot on the left side, near your ear.” He held out the hand mirror and also indicated the area on his own face. Still silent, Martin continued to spread the foam.
“Good, really good,” Will said, handing him the razor. “Now start with your neck. Tilt your chin up a bit.” He took Martin’s hand and adjusted the angle of the razor, then did the first stroke with him. “Yes, just like that.” Will pulled the second chair over and sat in it backward, so he could hold the mirror up for Martin. “No, here, you have to sort of pull your mouth to the side. There you go.” It wasn’t the first time he had taught someone to shave, although Martin at twenty-three was rather different from fifteen-year-old cabin boys, who were always comically proud of themselves for needing to shave in the first place. “There,” he said, leaning in, “you’ve missed a spot.” He spoke only as loud as he needed to be heard a scant foot away.
“Where?” Martin asked, equally quiet.
“The corner of your mouth.” He tapped his own lip. “That’s it.” He liked watching Martin’s face become revealed like this, liked watching Martin’s long fingers at work. He also liked the closeness, and the occasional questioning glances Martin shot him, as if seeking approval. It was rare to see Martin so vulnerable; even at his sickest, he had been prickly and sardonic, but as he gingerly slid the blade across his skin, he seemed so uncertain. As Martin scraped off the layer of scruff that had concealed the bottom half of his face, Will saw the familiar contours of his friend’s face materialize—sharp cheekbones, slightly pointy chin that echoed the widow’s peak of his hairline, lips that were the only softness in the uncompromising landscape of his face. Will had known, in an abstract sort of way, that at some point Martin had grown up handsome. But there had always been so many other more pressing matters, and even at his stupidest Will knew better than to start thinking that way about his best friend.
Now, though, Will badly wanted to reach out and wipe the extra shaving soap from Martin’s cheekbone with his thumb. He wanted—well, he wanted. He shoved that realization firmly off to the side, more than a little dismayed with himself for having let it happen in the first place.
“There you go,” Will said, when Martin finished. Martin touched his fingertips to his jaw. He had been nearly silent while shaving and now had an almost frantic, wild look in his eyes. “Doesn’t that feel better?” Will asked, trying to break the tension, but achieving the opposite result—Martin now had one hand wrapped so tightly around the cloth that his fingertips had gone white. “You did really well,” he added softly, trying to be soothing.
“Jesus Christ,” Martin rasped, getting to his feet. The razor clattered to the floor, the cloth dropping after it. “I’m going for a walk.”
Will stood alone in the cottage, not entirely certain what had just happened.
“You look less terrible,” Hartley said, eying Will narrowly. As always, he looked more put together than anyone who had spent four hours on a stagecoach had any right to.
“Thanks ever so,” Will replied, rolling his eyes. He watched as his brother slid onto the stool beside him, greeted