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“Of?” He absolutely didn’t want to move away from the crook of Barrett’s neck and that warmth.
“Anyone who’s made you feel like that. I got a bone to pick with them.”
His laugh was too watery by several degrees, but he was glad he didn’t sound like he was crying as he said, “If it’s the same to you, I’d rather not. As much as I appreciate it.”
The broad hands on his back slowly moved up and down. “Why not?”
Now Ambrose pulled back. He needed to look Barrett in the eyes as he said, “Part of my journey. Learning to leave the past in the past, bit by bit. There was a time when I would have gladly taken you up on that but, one, I don’t need a white knight, and two, it would only set me back.” He squeezed Barrett’s shoulders then let go. “You’re a lovely person, Barrett.”
Ambrose was beginning to learn that Barrett was a man with dozens of little expressions. Thin, tight lips, a tiny squint. Fingers scratching at a thick beard or the back of his neck. His words were careful, calculated after these expressions and Ambrose had been around him long enough to know Barrett wasn’t one to fire off without reason. “Okay. Okay. But uh, promise not to get pissed at me?”
“I promise.” He could do that much.
“You gotta be better to yourself.” Barrett was now gripping Ambrose’s shoulders, each finger an indent in his skin, like a brand. “You gotta, Ambrose. I’m really glad you’ve got help, someone to talk to. You can come to me, too.” His face fell and Ambrose wanted to fix it, wipe it away. Replace it with something better. Someone better. “I know these last couple weeks have been kind of scattered, but I am here.”
His weakness was going to do him in.
Hands hovering around Barrett’s jaw, he said, “Thank you.”
He meant to pull back, but then Barrett was leaning into that ghostly touch, left cheek turned into Ambrose’s palm. “I’d let you.”
Ambrose’s words died on his tongue.
“I would. Thought about it a few times.” Barrett’s confession sounded like it hurt, pulled up from a throat and lungs and heart that weren’t fully sure if they should help him speak it aloud. “Wondered what it felt like.”
His weakness wasn’t only his, apparently. Ambrose fixed his eyes on Barrett’s mouth, expecting to see chapped, red skin, worn from the cold and wind he worked in. Instead, those lips were smooth and pink and slightly damp from where Barrett had licked them moments ago.
“You….wondered,” Ambrose managed to say, feeling frozen, stuck. His hand cradling Barrett’s cheek, the other sliding up a thick neck. His heart thudded in his ears, his mind stuffed full of twisting, combative emotions. He should pull away. But he didn’t want to.
“Yeah, more than a few times.” Oh gods, now there was a hand on the back of his neck, gently suggesting more than pushing. No demands. No expectations. Barrett was letting Ambrose figure himself out. Figure out the moment. “Turns out I have a thing for handsome, talented men who can match me drink for drink and know the scientific names of fish.”
The words fell from him faster than he could stop them. “What about your uh….friend?”
Barrett’s brow dipped in confusion, then he laughed. “Oh, Oz? That’s just fucking. He’s too chatty for me. A little too full of himself.”
Oh gods. Ambrose considered perishing on the spot.Hewasn’t chatty, or full of himself. In fact doubt racked him so badly he was finding all kinds of ways to ruin thisgoddamned moment. When he should be kissing Barrett.
“Kiss me.” He whispered it but he couldn’t pack more bald-faceddesireinto those two words. “Find out.”
He stopped before he could say please, but Barrett would have swallowed the word up in that first brush of lips. Ambrose let his eyes fall shut, could feel his body stiffen as Barrett carefully - reverently - kissed him. Lips against his, just a press of warmth and softness.
And then it was over. He hadn’t even had the chance to shiver, to melt into Barrett’s arms.
“It’s not right.” Barrett’s low voice shook him loose.
Dread pooled in his stomach and he didn’t want to look but he had to. But concern was the only thing written in those broad, blunt features. “Ambrose. I know.” Barrett smoothed his hands over Ambrose’s shoulders. “I think…no, I get it. You’ve got need written all over thatincredibleface of yours. And something in me thinks I ain’t worthy of your attentions.” Ambrose frowned, opened his mouth to protest (maybe even to beg for more, more touching, more kissing, more of Barrett’s hands on him), but Barrett held up a finger. “Hold on. Let me get this out. Cause I have a feeling I’m right here. But I’m thinking this winter, and this new place, and everything going on has you wanting. Right?”
Barrett was right, and Ambrose hated it. There was something else far buried inside, nestled against his heart and trying to mimichope. “Are you psychic?”
Barrett laughed, the sound loud and echoing but just right in its’ full-bellied honesty. “Winter’s rough out here. I’m sorry I haven’t been around more -”
“Stop saying that.”
“No, you’re getting an apology.” Barrett smiled. “I mean it. But this…you and me…I think we gotta work up to it.” And then there was a hand on his face, a calloused thumb stroking his cheek and Ambrose remembered Barrett calling his faceincredible, saying he washandsomeandtalented. “Cause here’s the thing. I like you. A lot. But I haven’t made room in my life for someone in a real fucking long time but I want to. But I also think you and I gotta go slow.”
Barrett was right. He was absolutely right and Ambrose knew it. Some part of him ached for more touching, more kissing. From the darkness at the edges of Barrett’s brown eyes, he was pretty sure his friend felt something similar. “To what end? What are we working up to?”
Barrett’s gaze locked on Ambrose’s mouth and the world stopped. Hope, that thing in his chest, cracked open an eye and shook its head in acknowledgment. “I want to be friends. Good friends, Ambrose.” The hand on his cheek dropped away but it was replaced by fingertips down his neck, tracking the tendons and freckles like Barrett was just now seeing them. “I want to share things with you. Meals and drinks and chasing the mutt around. I want to share stories and moments and long, easy silences. But there’s something here. Something real. And I don’t want to fuck that up.” Barrett dropped his hands away and Ambrose nearly whimpered. “I’ve fucked up enough things in my life. I want to share something special.” He looked away. “So to what end is whatever is right for us.”
