Sips, Snips, & Shenanigans: RxC Story by Unhvnlycreature

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I’ve had the pleasure of connecting with Whittaker on here. If you haven't already, be sure to check out their stories. They have inspired me to write and share my own. Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read. â€" Carter / Unhvnlycreature





Callum is softness personified. Quiet mornings, paint-smudged fingers, and strawberry-blonde hair braided past his waist. He moves at his own rhythm, noticing the small things others overlook. He speaks little but feels deeply, his stillness is shaped by everything he’s endured.

Roman is sharp edges and intention. Broad-shouldered, buzzcut, tattooed, and steady. Built like strength itself, but his softness shows in quiet gestures. Like when he drapes a blanket over Callum when he falls asleep or rests a steadying hand on his back in crowded spaces.

At first glance, they don’t seem to fit. Callum’s dreamy chaos against Roman’s grounded precision. But together, they make perfect sense.

Roman is Callum’s anchor. Callum is Roman’s still point. He steadies Callum when he spirals, and Callum teaches him how to breathe.

They don’t explain themselves. They don't have to. Because even if the world doesn’t understand, they do.

____________________


Their loft was quiet in the way only safe places are. Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, slipping between the folds of the bed sheets and casting soft shadows on the walls.

The space was them. Callum’s plants spilled out of every pot and covered every surface. Bright splashes of painted canvases leaned against the white walls. Roman’s sleek metal bookshelves stood calm amongst the chaos, the spines of his novels lined up with surgical precision, alphabetized of course. Callum’s messy palette of life had bled into every room, and Roman had let it, because it made everything feel alive.

Callum stirred first, blinking blearily against the light. His hair, still loose from the night before, was a chaotic halo of waves and tangles. He reached up to rake his fingers through it and winced, definitely regretting falling asleep without braiding it.

The bed shifted beside him.

"Mornin’," Roman rasped, voice thick with sleep, one arm stretching lazily across his chest before finding its way around Callum’s waist.

"Feel like a haystack," Callum muttered, lifting his head.

Roman blinked at the mess of hair and smirked. "You look like you fought your pillow and lost. Twice."

Callum swatted at him halfheartedly, then sat up, letting the sheets fall around his hips. "Do you have time to help tame it before work?"

Roman grunted, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "For you? Always."

The promise carried weight. Roman was meticulous about time, especially since co-owning Brass & Blade, the small vintage-style barber shop he ran with his good friend Malik. The place had earned a quiet cult following. Dark wood counters, old leather chairs. Roman loved it there, but mornings like this reminded him why he never brought his work home. Except, apparently when it came to Callum.

In the bathroom, Roman stood behind him, combing through the wild waves with steady hands, the comb working its quiet magic. He hummed something under his breath, a low tune Callum couldn’t name but always associated with warmth.

"I could shave your head," Roman teased.

Callum met his eyes in the mirror, deadpan. "You could die trying."

Roman just grinned and kissed the back of his neck.

By the time they were both ready, Roman was in his usual all-black ensemble, shirt tucked, rings on, every detail deliberate. Callum, by contrast, looked like walking poetry, light trousers, oversized cardigan, and his freshly combed braid trailing over one shoulder. He looped a beaded bracelet onto his wrist, kissed Ginger, their orange tabby cat goodbye, and met Roman at the front door.

Roman opened the door, turned, and caught Callum’s jaw gently with one hand. "You gonna eat today?"

"I always do," Callum said, then hesitated. "Mostly."

Roman kissed him, soft, sure, and silent.
"Text me when you get there."

"Of course."

_____________________


The art studio buzzed with quiet life, nestled on the top floor of a red brick building that used to be a paper mill. Callum worked with a small team of artists. Illustrators, painters, sculptors, sharing both the space and an unspoken camaraderie. There were mugs everywhere, mismatched chairs, old couches with paint stains, and drying canvases lining the walls like a gallery in motion.

"Callum!" Bea, the sharp-eyed sculptor with green hair, called from behind a wall of clay busts. "We’re out of oat milk again, and if I have to drink black coffee, I’m suing."

"I’ll pick some up at lunch," Callum called back.

"Angel."

He passed his friend Eli, who was muttering at a screen while editing digital concept work. "You’re early."

"Don’t spread rumors," Callum said, dropping his satchel near his desk.

He set up his workspace, brushes in their usual jar, sketchbook flipped open, headphones within arm’s reach. After responding to a few emails and checking his commissions list, he got to work on a canvas he'd started days ago.

He was layering blues and purples across a wide frame. No clear subject, just movement and light. It looked like wind if wind carried weight.

His braid was looped into a low knot to keep it from brushing wet paint, but several wisps had escaped, curling around his cheeks from the heat of the skylight overhead. The summer light was generous today, pouring across the floors, and catching in the flecks of gold he’d painted into the canvas the day before.

"Okay, Van Gogh," Bea’s voice sliced through the silence. "Take a break before you turn into a cryptid."

Callum blinked, stepping back.

Bea appeared beside him with two mugs. One for herself, the other balanced in her clay covered fingers, clearly meant for him. "You’ve been at that for hours."

"I’ve only been here since—"

"—eight," Eli finished from the corner, voice deadpan. "You’re normally not coherent until ten. Something happen? Did Roman switch your shampoo to espresso concentrate?"

Callum laughed, taking the coffee. "No. I just woke up with a color in my head and didn’t want to lose it."

Bea squinted at the canvas. "That’s the dreamy insomnia energy I love to see."

"I’m not sure it’s done."

"It never is," she said, nudging him. "But speaking of dreams..."

"We should just—hear me out—host a sleepover."

Callum glanced up from rinsing brushes, skeptical. Mara, sprawled on the couch sketching between sips of luke warm coffee, lifted an eyebrow.

"A what now?"

"A sleep-in," Bea said, grinning like she was pitching to a board of investors. "Here. Studio campout. Drinks, games, bad decisions. Think about it—sleeping bags in the gallery of half-finished genius? Magical."

Theo, the newest member of the group, murmured, "I’ll bring the Switch."

That sealed it. By nightfall, the studio was transformed. The canvases along the walls seemed like an audience to their chaos. Fairy lights tangled around the rafters, cushions and blankets dumped in a heap, bottles sweating on the paint-splattered tables. Someone had hung balloons filled with watered-down acrylics, and Mara had rigged darts from toothpicks taped to pencils. The place smelled like clay dust and beer.

Hours blurred into laughter. The balloon game devolved into shrieking as paint burst and splattered across the floor. Theo took a direct hit, his white shirt forever ruined. Eli and Theo later claimed the projector wall for Mario Kart, so absorbed that they barely noticed the party moving on around them.

Callum, flushed from drinks and comfort, let himself ease. He leaned into the mess, laughing with Bea on the couch. At some point, the knot in his braid loosened, and with a quiet sigh, he tugged the tie free. His hair long, heavy, and gleaming in the low light spilled down his shoulders. He ran a hand through it, careless.

The reaction was immediate.

"STOP," Bea barked, nearly spilling her drink as she scrambled up from the floor. "Everybody—stop what you’re doing right now."

Mara gasped theatrically from her blanket nest. "Holy—look at him!"

Callum froze, already feeling heat crawl up his neck. "What—"

"Oh my god," Bea fanned herself with both hands, pointing like she’d uncovered buried treasure. "Why did you never tell us you were secretly a romance novel lead?"

Mara was already grabbing for her phone camera. "This is criminal. Look at that shine. Eli, Theo, stop racing and look!"

But the two were locked in on Mario Kart, their controllers snapping and twisting in their hands. "Final lap," Eli muttered, eyes glued.

Callum, mortified, twisted a lock around his fingers, trying to tuck it back. "It’s just—hair."

Bea narrowed her eyes, a grin spreading dangerously. "I know exactly what we should do."

"Don’t," Callum warned.

"Cut it," she said triumphantly. "Let’s call Roman."

Mara clapped. "YES. Emergency hair intervention."

Callum choked on his drink. "No, absolutely not."

But Bea was already dialing, Mara egging her on like it was a holy mission. In the dim, paint-splattered havoc of the studio, surrounded by their laughter, the phone rang into the night summoning Roman, the one person who could turn this drunken dare into reality.

Roman arrived like a splash of cold water in the blurry haze of the studio. He stepped through the door with his usual precision. Jacket zipped, shoes clean despite the paint-streaked floor, and paused, surveying the wreckage.

Bea and Mara were tangled on either side of Callum, both of them wrist-deep in his loosened hair, combing fingers through like children with a new toy. Too tipsy to properly fend them off, he sat flushed and pliant under their gleeful cooing.

Callum had already downed three more wine coolers while they waited for Roman’s arrival. The fizz still bubbling unpleasantly in his stomach left him caught in a strange blur of half laughter, half dread.

Roman blinked once. Twice. Then he sighed.

"This," he said flatly, "was a mistake."

Bea looked up with the wild grin of someone who knew she’d won. "Roman. Perfect timing. Intervention time."

Mara, still twirling a silky lock around her finger, chimed in: "You’ve been keeping secrets from us. Criminal secrets. Look at him."

Roman’s eyes flicked to Callum. And despite the drunk giggling, the paint streak on Callum’s cheek, the way his braid had unraveled into a mess, something softened in his expression. Admiration, quiet but unmistakable. Callum, oblivious to the weight of it, met his gaze and smirked crookedly.

"It’s too long," Callum said, tugging a handful forward. The strands gleamed, heavy and stubborn. "Gets in the way. Impractical."

Bea gasped like he’d spoken heresy. Mara swatted his arm.

Roman’s mouth quirked at one corner. "You say that every month. And every month I tell you—"

"—all this hair isn’t for nothing,’" Callum slurred, mocking his voice with affectionate exaggeration. "Yeah, yeah. Roman loves it."

And he did. Roman let the moment hang, warmth lingering in his chest. But then Bea held up a pair of scissors she’d liberated from the supply cart, glinting under the fairy lights.

"Which is why," she declared triumphantly, "it’s time to face your fate."

Mara whooped in agreement. Callum blinked at the shears, half-laughing, half-horrified.

Roman closed his eyes. "Oh, god."

The room buzzed with mischief. Callum’s hair, once sacred, was suddenly on the brink of becoming everyone’s favorite bad decision.

Roman took two measured steps forward. Bea and Mara fell back into their nest of cushions, scissors poised, still tugging at strands like overexcited stylists in training.

"Hold on." Roman’s voice cut through the noise, calm and deliberate. "This isn’t just their game, Callum. It’s your head. Do you actually want this?"

Callum blinked up at him, cheeks flushed from the drinks, eyes glassy in the fairy light glow. He toyed with a long lock that spilled over his shoulder, the gesture uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"Don’t think about now," Roman pressed, softer. "Think about later. Tomorrow morning. Next week. You’ve always said you’d rather fight me than give up any length."

That landed. Even through the drunken fog, Callum’s mind flickered with memories: Roman standing behind him in their bathroom, comb in hand, coaxing the braid smooth. Roman’s patience, though patience only went so far. Every time Callum had sworn "just the ends" and then made a theatrical scene if more than a few strands fell away.

"Ro only ever cuts half an inch" Callum mumbled now, wagging a finger like it was law.

Roman crouched then, lowering himself to Callum’s level, his sober steadiness like an anchor. His gaze softened as it landed on his boyfriend, all tangled hair and stubborn pride.

"I love it," he said, quiet enough that the others almost missed it. "You know I do. Wouldn’t touch a strand if it were up to me. But it’s your choice. Do you actually want this, Callum? Or are you just wasted and humoring them?"

Callum’s mouth twisted. His head tipped back against the couch. "S’long," he sighed. "Always in my face. Stupid. Gets paint in it, clay in it. You’re the only one who makes it look good."

For a moment, Roman almost smiled at that. Almost. Because in the same breath, Callum added, slurring, "Maybe—maybe it’s time."

Bea let out a triumphant squeal. Mara smacked the floor like a judge declaring victory.

Roman, however, just closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose. "God help us all."

Bea and Mara moved with the seriousness of surgeons, if surgeons were tipsy, giggling, and armed with a pair of dull studio scissors. They’d already fashioned a makeshift barber’s cape out of a splattered tablecloth, draped around Callum’s shoulders and knotted crookedly at his collarbone.

"Let the haircuttery begin!" Bea declared, smoothing it down like she was prepping royalty.

Mara crouched behind Callum, fingers threading through his hair until the gold waves spilled in a gleaming curtain down his back. She combed it out roughly with her hands, stretching it to its full length. "God, this is obscene. Look at it! It goes all the way down his spine."

"Romance cover," Bea agreed, eyes glinting. She gathered a thick section at the nape of his neck and tugged it taut. The scissors gleamed as she lined the blades up dead center, just above his collar. "Okay. Brand new era—"

"Woah, woah, Bea." Roman’s voice cut through, low and steady. He was suddenly there, one hand catching Bea’s wrist before the blades could close. His brows drew together in that sharp way that always made people pause.

Bea froze mid-snicker, eyes wide with the thrill of being caught. Mara, crouched behind, still clutching the long section of hair like a lifeline.

Roman echoed, shaking his head. "Easy now—lets not butcher it.""

Callum, cheeks pink, blinked up at him. "It’s fine," he murmured, drunk warmth softening his words. "Is just hair."

Roman’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking from Callum’s flushed expression to the scissors hovering too close to that heavy, shining length. He exhaled slowly, Roman didn’t release Bea’s wrist, just guided it down, the metal blades poised in the hair like a guillotine waiting for orders. "Lower," he muttered, voice even, though his chest tightened at the thought of what was about to happen. "We’ll need to leave myself enough room to fix it."

Bea obeyed, breathless with glee. Mara leaned forward, clutching the section tight.

"Okay," Bea whispered, hovering just below Callum's shoulders now. "One… two…"

Snip.

The sound was loud in the room, sharper than laughter, louder than Mario Kart’s background music. A severed length, over two feet of hair, fell into Mara’s grip. She shrieked triumphantly, holding it aloft like a prize.

Snip.

The second cut followed, quick and brutal, Bea already running in circles with the trophy dangling from her hand. The two of them cackled, waving the severed locks around like banners, darting between fairy lights and paint-splattered walls.

Callum’s breath caught, though whether from shock, drink, or disbelief he couldn’t say. He squirmed under the knotted tablecloth, cheeks hot, eyes wide. "Let me—" He tugged against the fabric. "Let me see. Slow down."

Roman only chuckled under his breath, low and warm, as he reached out to brush with the freshly cut ends. The strands fell right at Callum’s shoulders now, uneven but still soft under his fingertips.

"Well," Roman murmured, leaning close enough that Callum heard him over the chaos, "this is definitely more than half an inch. Guess you got your wish."

Callum huffed, indignant and intoxicated, but he didn’t pull away.

Roman’s thumb traced the edge of a shortened lock, and for a brief, selfish moment, he let himself enjoy it. The chance he never thought he’d get, to actually touch and shape what Callum guarded so fiercely.
Tomorrow, sober Callum would probably declare war. But tonight? Tonight it was in Roman’s hands.

"Alright, circus," Roman called out, rising and snapping his fingers at the two still howling with laughter. "Fun’s over."

Bea flopped onto the couch, hair prize still in hand. Mara collapsed in a heap beside her, wheezing.

Roman picked up the scissors himself, fingers steady now, expression focused. He pushed Callum gently forward, combing through the uneven layers with careful precision. The laughter around them blurred into background noise.

The room settled into a new rhythm. The chaos twins had burned themselves out, curled into a tangle of cushions and laughter. The projector hummed in the background where Eli and Theo were still locked in battle, oblivious.

Roman stood behind Callum now, scissors glinting under the lights, his large hands steady against the messy drape of the tablecloth. He drew his fingers through the uneven ends, tugging gently to see how much had been hacked away.

"Absolute mess." he murmured. Where Callum’s hair had once spilled past his waist, brushing below his belt, it now hung just a few inches below his shoulders.

Callum gave a small, lopsided smile, eyes half-lidded. "Feels… lighter."

Roman leaned down, lips brushing the crown of his head. That’s because half of it’s on the floor, idiot."

Still, there was no bite to the words. Only playfulness.

He worked slowly, combing sections through his fingers and evening them out. Each snip was deliberate, neat where Bea’s had been reckless. He didn’t try to make it perfect, but he shaped it into something intentional, a blunt cut that hovered just above Callum’s shoulders.

Callum sat surprisingly still beneath his hands. Now and then his head would tip back slightly, like he was fighting the pull of sleep, but he didn’t protest. Just let Roman work, sloshed and pliant.

When he finally set the scissors down, he brushed away loose strands from Callum’s neck, fingers lingering a beat too long at the newly shorn hair. "There," he said softly.

Callum’s red cheeks lifted with a slow smile, warm and tipsy. "Knew you’d… make it okay."

Roman swallowed, something tight catching in his throat. He bent, pressed his lips briefly to Callum’s temple, quick, and careful, before anyone could turn around and heckle him.

Then he straightened, clearing his throat. "Alright, hooligans," he called out to the room, slipping back into the role of sober supervisor. "Somebody clean up before we trip on this mess."

But even as he gently barked orders, his hand found Callum’s shoulder, brushing the freshly cut locks. He couldn’t stop touching. Couldn’t quite believe he’d been allowed this moment.

Tomorrow, Callum would wake, see the change, and Roman braced himself, likely raise hell.

____________________


Morning arrived too harsh, too bright.

The studio smelled of stale beer, and the faint sour tang of balloons popped hours ago. Sunlight slanted through the grimy windows, falling across a battlefield of empty bottles, scattered cushions, and the chaos twins dead asleep in a fortress of blankets.

Callum stirred beneath the scratchy tablecloth still draped over him. His head felt stuffed with wool. His throat, dry. He shifted, and something soft brushed his jaw.

Too soft. Too short.

Slowly with dread creeping, he reached up and pulled a lock forward. It grazed the top of his shoulder. Blunt at the ends. Not the heavy curtain that used to spill down his back, not the length he’d wrapped around his fingers for comfort, not the braid Roman had tied with such care.

His breath caught. "...oh no."

From across the room, a low voice answered, amused. "Oh yes."

Roman sat perched on a stool, hair tie looped around his wrist, a mug of black coffee in hand. He looked far too awake, far too composed, compared to the wreckage of everyone else. His eyes flicked to Callum, and the faintest smile tugged at his mouth.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Callum’s hands flew to his head, tugging the shortened locks forward, eyes wide with horror. "Roman what—what did you let them—?!" His voice cracked, half outrage, half panic. "It’s gone!"

Bea stirred from her blanket pile, mumbling: "Not gone. Just improved." She rolled over, still clutching a severed length of hair like a teddy bear.

Mara, barely awake, raised hers in the air like a victory flag. "History made."

From the other side of the room, two groggy figures finally stirred on the couch. Theo and Eli, tangled in controller cords, half-buried beneath snack wrappers.

Theo blinked blearily at Callum’s shortened hair. "…We were gone for, what, four races?"

Eli, still clutching his Switch, rubbed his face with a yawn. "Five. Grand Prix final. Worth it."
He squinted at Callum again and winced. "But, uh… damn, man. Tragic."

Callum groaned, face flushing scarlet. "This is butchery. This is a crime."

Roman set down his mug, rising slowly. His steady calm only made Callum flail harder.

"You hated it," Roman reminded him, voice even. "Said it was impractical. Said it was time. I tried to warn you, Callum. You insisted."

"I meant—like—ugh!" Callum broke off, too mortified to finish, tugging at the cropped ends.

Roman stepped closer, tilting Callum’s chin up with careful fingers. His expression softened, fond despite the theatrics. "I had to fix what they started. Believe me. If I hadn’t stepped in, you’d be bald."

That shut him up for a moment. Callum’s lips pressed thin, his pride a fragile thing.

Roman’s hand drifted to the back of his head, brushing over the blunt, shoulder-length cut. "It suits you," he said finally. "Still you. Still beautiful."

Heat bloomed in Callum’s cheeks. He swatted Roman’s hand away, muttering something unintelligible before collapsing back onto the couch with a groan.

From the blanket pile, Bea’s sleepy voice cut in: "Don’t worry, Cal. We kept the clippings. You can, like, glue it back if you miss it that much."

Mara cackled weakly.

Roman just chuckled, leaning down to press the faintest kiss to Callum’s temple. "You’ll live," he murmured.

____________________


The following Monday morning, the barbershop was calm, predictable, a sharp contrast to the paint-dusted disorder of the art studio weekend. Roman had missed it. Malik leaned against the counter between clients, sipping his iced tea and giving Roman a look that was equal parts curiosity and disbelief.

"So let me get this straight," Malik said, dragging the words out. "You show up at some drunken art sleepover, your boyfriend’s friends have him wrapped in a tablecloth like a sacrificial lamb, and instead of stopping them—"

"I did stop them," Roman cut in, cleaning his scissors with practiced precision. "I just… supervised the damage. Then fixed it."

Malik barked a laugh. "Supervised. That’s one word for letting them scalp him."

Roman’s mouth curved faintly, the memory of Callum drowsy under his hands still warm in his chest. "They took the first swing. I made sure it wasn’t a total disaster."

Malik grinned, shaking his head. "Man, I would’ve paid money to see Callum’s face when he sobered up."

Roman smirked, but before he could answer, the bell over the door chimed. Both men turned.

"Speak of the devil," Malik muttered under his breath.

Callum stepped inside, balancing two coffees in his hands. The morning light caught the short ends of his hair, neat under Roman’s hand but still startlingly short compared to the waterfall it had once been. He hadn’t tied it back, clearly refusing to. The strands falling freely around his face.

Roman’s chest tightened, though he hid it with ease.

Callum caught his eye and rolled his own. "Don’t look at me like that."

"You look fine," Roman replied, too quickly, too easily.

"Fine," Callum repeated, unimpressed, as he crossed the shop and pressed one of the coffees into Roman’s hand. "It feels wrong. Heavy here—" he tugged the sides forward, letting them graze his collarbones, "—empty here." He reached back, fingers grasping at the space where his braid used to tug at his nape.

Malik leaned an elbow on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Man, you still got more hair than half the guys that walk through this door."

"Doesn’t matter," Callum muttered, sulking into his cup.

Roman watched him, amusement flickering under his calm. He wanted to reach out, run his hand through the shorter length again, assure him he was still beautiful, but Malik was watching, and Callum’s pride was already bruised enough.

Instead, Roman took a slow sip of coffee, voice low but steady. "You’ll get used to it."

Callum shot him a withering look over the rim of his cup. "You owe me years of braiding service once it grows back."

Roman’s lips quirked. "Gladly."

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