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The anxiety attack didn’t hit him until he was parked in his own driveway. His driveway. His house. She knew where he lived and he’d moved hours away to prevent that. But Angelica had Preston wrapped around her little finger, apparently, and they were both invading his space, his privacy, his fuckingsanity. His gaze dropped to his hands, pale and tight on the steering wheel of his little utility wagon. The anger was still there, churning through him, burning up his lungs and making his breaths uneven and harsh. He could still feel his body and had some part of his mind left unscrambled, but this attackhurton a level he’d never experienced.
Ambrose didn’t hear Dandi’s high-pitched barks or the scrabble of her paws against his window. There was a bright, painful flare of sunlight in his eyes and then he smelled lemon and clean laundry and let himself fall into Barrett’s arms.
“I told her to fuck off,” he said, pressing his forehead into Barrett’s shoulder. “Both of them, actually.”
“Ambrose. Ambrose. Fuck. Look at me.” Barrett slid his palms under Ambrose’s jaw, his eyes darting back and forth. “Are you okay? Jesus.”
“Anxiety attack. Saw my mom, Preston.”
He heard Barrett mutter, “Shit,” before saying, “Okay. Do you have meds for this?” Ambrose could tell he was trying to keep his voice steady. It trembled at the edges, not unlike his own had done upon telling Angelica and Preston to go fuck themselves.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Barrett led him by the hand inside his house, then on Ambrose’s direction, rummaged in the master bathroom cabinets until he found a small bottle of tiny white pills. “Haven’t had to take these in about a year,” he said as Barrett gave him a pill and a glass of water. “Guess I have to set that timer back.”
“Tell me where it is and I’ll flip it to zero.” Barrett’s tone was as flat as a river stone, but his mouth was pursed, as if he were repressing a smile. Ambrose appreciated the gesture; humor in a moment of gravity.
”As if I’d tell you where my super secret timer is.”
“Oh, we playing this game?” Barrett sat down beside him, his hand on Ambrose’s knee, squeezing gently. “You really want to go up against a forest ranger? We’re good interrogators.”
Ambrose laughed, coughed. He pulled air into his lungs, hoping it would beat back the darkness swarming in his chest. “How advanced are your techniques? Because I’m no interrogation virgin.”
Barrett snorted. “This is like out of a bad porno. What’s my next line, something about I’mvery advancedin the sexual arts?”
“That’s so stupid.” But he was laughing. Ambrose leaned into Barrett and got pulled into the bigger man’s side as a reward. He slumped into that warmth and closed his eyes. “So out of curiosity….how advancedarewe talking?”
“You got expectations?”
“Curiosity only.”
“So does that mean I keep up the St. Andrew’s cross in the basement, or take it down?” Ambrose looked up and saw Barrett’s smile, unhindered by what Ambrose would think of his answer. Or him, as a person. He flashed back to his mother; dozens and dozens of those shallow cuts delivered over decades. Judgments rendered based on her opinions and perceptions, and hers alone. No seeing Ambrose as his own person, as a human being with his own desires and fears. He was to be an extension of her, and that’s where her care began and ended. But with Barrett, none of that mattered. Barrett cared about him as a whole, as another human being, and as a lover. Ambrose only wanted to do right by him.
“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not,” he finally said, laughter bubbling up from his chest.
“Good, that means I’m keeping you on your toes.” Barrett kissed the side of his head, pulled him closer, and said, “Was this because of the letter?
“Maybe. Probably. She doesn’t like being ignored, and me not seeking her out would have driven her mad, though she’d never admit it.” Ambrose balled the hand on his thigh into a fist. “But fucking Preston. I should have known.”
“What can I do to help?”
For that, and so many other reasons, Barrett got a swift, but hard, kiss, Ambrose’s free hand wrapped into his collar to haul him down. “Grab the letter and a lighter for me?”
It wasn’t until they were standing over the little rusted fire pit - the one that had been Perry’s - when Barrett said, “This it?”
“It is.” The tremor in his fingers was gone, and he could once again breathe; the cool spring air, smelling of twilight and moss, easing all those old emotional burns and scars. “You and I get the pleasure of watching this burn and I get double the satisfaction of knowing her words never reached me where she wanted them to.” Ambrose held out the lighter. “Do the honors for me?”
“You sure?” Barrett looked unsure. “I can hold it, or we can get something to prop it up over the lip of the fire pit.”
“I insist. Please.” Ambrose held out the letter, his fingers curled around lavender-scented paper. Maybe this year he’d grow lavender and enjoy it. “New beginnings.”
“New beginnings.” With a deft flick of his thumb, flame sprang to life and Ambrose dipped the far corner of the letter into it. The paper caught, flared, then curled as the fire raced across it. Moments before it touched his fingertips, Ambrose dropped the letter into the fire pit, then silently held out his hand to Barrett.
The warmth of the fingers intertwined with his gave Ambrose back that last bit of solid ground he’d needed after today. Home, and all its comforts, had new meaning and a proper place in his life.
After the letter was reduced to ash, Barrett led him next door, to a roaring fireplace and Dandi asleep in the corner and a neatly made bed. “Proud of you,” Barrett said against his mouth as he steered them back. His kiss was gentle and the press of that body against his made flickerings of warmth curl in his gut. But there was no frenzied tearing off of clothes. No spit-slick kisses and wandering hands. He wanted something else, and he could tell Barrett did, too.
Ambrose pulled Barrett down to the bed, turning so they were face to face. “I know,” he said. “I know you are and yet hearing it feels good.”
