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He’d turned away, suddenly feeling nauseated. He wasn’t the jealous kind. He wasn’t. But something about knowingthis, right after Ambrose had nearly kissed Barrett, was sending him spiraling. And then Barrett’s distant look and little waves but few words…
No, tonight wasn’t off. He was just being an idiot.
Resolved with a deep breath (the ones his therapist constantly reminded him to take) and dinner, Ambrose flipped on the little portable speaker and set his phone to play some lo-fi. Opening the wine, fussing with the silverware, and straightening the tablecloth helped. But that slight undercurrent of nerves was still there. An itch he couldn’t quite scratch between his shoulder blades, slowly driving him mad.
Barrett’s knock, athumpthumpthumpgentle against the worn front door. When Ambrose answered, Barrett was smiling and holding out an unlit blunt, bottle of tequila under his arm, and Dandi fiercely wagging her tag. “Peace offering?”
“For?” His fingers hovered over the blunt.
“I know I haven’t been around as much for talking and such, and I missed last week’s dinner.” Those soft brown eyes matched the sad little twist to lips hidden in his beard. “Felt weird, having a week like that. Didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you or anything.”
Oh. Ambrose blinked, then moved out of the way so they could enter. “You really do just…spell it out, don’t you?” Dandi nudged at his hand and he gave her velvety head several pats.
“Too much? Yeah, been told that.” Barrett tugged off one boot, then the other. “Sorry. I’m a little frayed.” He hooked a thumb at the door. “I can go.”
“No, don’t!” Ambrose didn’t mean to say it that loud but Barrett’s face only showed concern, not shock. “It was weird, not having you around last Friday night.”
That face broke open in a smile. It hit him in the chest, that bright thing, and made him suck in a breath. Ambrose hoped Barrett didn’t notice. “Yeah, yeah. I was getting caught up with Val and Forrest, and then I had company. The company was kind of spur of the moment, but it worked out.”
“How is your family?” Ambrose went over to the oven to check on the food as Barrett settled on the couch, Dandi in her designated area by the fire only after sniffing at Ambrose’s hair as he bent down to greet her properly. It was almost amusing that he and Dandi were so physically affectionate, like they were old friends.
Barrett blew out a hard breath. “Forrest is stable for now, but the kid’s got a long road ahead. Leukemia treatments have come a ways but…” He trailed off, gaze distant.
“Sorry.” He turned his face away from the blast of hot air from the oven. “I shouldn’t have asked.” Ambrose gave the crust of the chicken pot pie a solid once over. It was done, but a couple more minutes wouldn’t hurt. Letting Barrett talk about his family worries and then him blithely announcing dinner was done would be jarring to say the least.
“No, it’s fine. I need to talk about it and I appreciate you listening.”
“Any time. I hope you know that.”
Whatever lay in those dark eyes of his friend seemed grateful now, instead of focused somewhere on a far horizon. “I do. But you got shit going on, too. Anything going on with the zine?”
“Actually, yes.” A flush of pride went through him. “The first story’s with the editor.”
“Already?” Barrett placed two glasses of tequila on the table and now moved to the other side of the kitchen. Warm and comforting, voice rumbling in Ambrose’s ears. Gods, he had it bad. He wanted to touch. More than just curiosity, more than pushing away any remnant of Preston. He simplywanted, that unscratchable itch now burrowed deeper under his skin. “Damn, you work fast! That’s impressive as hell.”
He tried not to flush. “Just got some inspiration late one night, spent the next few days writing when I wasn’t working.”
Barrett laughed. “Man, when you focus, you really dig in. I love that.”
There was no hiding his startle or his sharp intake of breath. Ambrose stared at Barrett, his brain trying to unscramble what he’d just heard. “Compliments“ like that were always backhanded. Always. A nod to Ambrose’s dedication and focus, and a slap of the other cheek meant to wound him shallowly. But years and years of shallow, an entire childhood’s world of shallow, meant there were a thousand and one little cuts across his skin. The back of his hands, the sides of his neck, his throat, his chest. Skating over his scalp, even hooking tiny claws into the grey wrinkles of his brain.
“Ambrose.” Barrett shifted, scratched at his beard. Scratched again. Cursed.
And then his brain sped back up with time and he blinked. “Usually, when I’ve heard things like that from other people, it wasn’t meant so kindly.” Ambrose’s voice was tight-strung; wire on a holiday decoration threatening to give at any minute and send the entire chain of lights crashing down. “But you were kind. It was an actual compliment.”
Barrett looked stunned but Ambrose kept talking. “I don’t make friends easily, as you can imagine. A lifetime’s worth of things have made me skeptical. And the therapy’s only now cracking through. Working, I guess.” He tore his gaze away. “I take patience.”
The worming, squirming thing in his chest made him want to hide. He couldn’t, not really, so he settled for reaching into the oven and pulling the food out. Soft footfalls echoed across the floor and then Barrett was there and he smelled so good and Ambrose couldn’t take it any more.
Chapter fourteen
Barrettwasreachingforhim when Ambrose caved. He knew he was trembling. He knew he was weak. He liked Barrett; every rough edge and worn flannel shirt and the love and care he showed for his neighbors and friends and family. That willingness to help a stranger in need. How he didn’t push, didn’t antagonize.
He liked Barrett. Desired him, even. But right now, this very moment where he felt flayed open but so distressingly, blindinglyalive? Ambrose needed someone to touch him like he mattered. He hoped Barrett was willing to give just a little.
Barrett didn’t startle. Didn’t move back in shock. Somehow he knew. He knew Ambrose would fold into him so Barrett’s arms were open; solid and real and warm and perfect. There was too much of his own beard in the way and Ambrose wanted to rip the thing off, only so he could feel Barrett’s prickle against his face.
Finally, after the silence turned soft and Barrett’s hug tightened, little by little, Ambrose heard him say, “Get me a list.”
