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On that overlook they unpacked trail mix and fruit and water and Raf’s leather-wrapped flask. Neither said anything for a long time, content in each other’s company, watching hawks wheel by.
“I’m only gonna ask this once.” Raf was leaning back on his hands, long legs in grey hiking pants stretched out in front of him. “And you better be honest with me.”
“Okay.” Ambrose turned to sit cross-legged at Raf’s left side. “On a scale of one to a gay makeover show, how emotional are we about to get here?”
There was no hiding Raf’s smile. There was delight, of course, but a flare of recognition. “I almost don’t need to ask anymore.”
“What?”
“You have a wicked sense of humor. It’s quick and dry and far too delightful to hide behind all that red hair and frowning. But it’s been muted for a while.”
The smile dropped from Ambrose’s face and he looked down at his boots. Raf wasn’t wrong. It had been buried. Raf said muted because every time Ambrose was around him, his spirits flew higher. That’s what a great friend - a best one - did for one’s composure and sanity. But most of those other times, during the harder, darker years after (hell, even before) Preston, Ambrose was buried. Some part of him tucked into a neat little hole over which an unmarked mound of dirt sat. Even the sunniest days couldn’t help uncover it.
“I feel more like me. Finally.” The admission left him in a rush.
“And we both know why.”
Ambrose’s flicker of a smile was back. Softer now, steady. “Yeah, we do.”
“Do you love him?”
Did he love Barrett? Well, that was insane, right? It’d been six months since he’d moved to Lake Honor, five since he and Barrett started really talking. Four since their weekly dinners. Dates, as they were. And two since they’d first kissed.
It was insane. But maybe love was a little insane, too.
“Slowly, yes. Some piece of me does.”
“Does the quantity of those pieces grow with your affection for him?”
Ambrose threw a grape at his head, which the fucker caught and popped into his mouth. “I love you. You’re stupid.”
Raf shrugged. Ambrose watched the end of his black scarf flutter in the wind. Cashmere, expensive. Raf had excellent taste and the income to support it. “Love is rather stupid, darling. Exposing yourself to all those glass case emotions.” He gave an overexaggerated shudder. “Terrible.”
“Ha.” Ambrose leaned forward, slipping onto his back so he could put his head in Raf’s lap. Long, dexterous fingers combed through his hair. “It’s not the quantity of the pieces. It’s the weight of a single one that grows. My affection for Barrett.”
“Your love.”
“Slowly blooming, like a particularly stubborn flower.”
That got him a laugh. “Trust the writer to get poetic about new love. But you mean like a weed, my friend. Weeds are tougher.”
Ambrose closed his eyes. “Trust the artist to recognize bad poetry.”
“Purple prose, really. A poem would have better flow.”
“Cruel.”
Raf sighed. “The worst. Absolutely.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“But you will.”
Raf sighed and threw Barrett a dramatic eye roll. “He knows me too well.”
Barrett was already a few glasses of wine in, red-cheeked and grinning. “I think this is the part of the night where you tell me all of the embarrassing shit Ambrose won’t.”
Ambrose groaned while Raf laughed loudly. He finally accepted the glass of wine Ambrose had set near his now empty one. “Well, if I’m drinking, I’m talking.” That sharp gaze narrowed, giving Ambrose the once over. “I’m thinking the costume party.”
