by Willa Okati
“Can’t we?”
Barrett scoffed. “Sure. I can see it hurts you. You can barely keep from picking at it like a kid with chicken pox.”
“It hurts now,” Nick said. “It won’t always hurt. If Ivan could do it, so can I.”
Barrett’s forehead wrinkled when he frowned. “You’re not serious.”
“Aren’t I? Watch me.” Nick changed his trajectory and made for the kitchen. The smell of that beef stew would drive him crazy after smelling it all night if he didn’t manage to sneak a taste, and he wanted some. “This is our house,” he said. “Our home. You’re the mate I chose. I’m not going to let a fucking soulmark change that.”
“Nick…” Barrett started. “Do you know how crazy you sound?”
“Yes. And I don’t care.”
“You don’t mean that,” Barrett said, slowly—but hopefully. He bit his lip when Nick glanced up at him. He wanted to listen. Good.
“I do mean it,” Nick said. “Every word. So I have a soulmark now? So be it. That doesn’t mean I’m leaving you to go track down some stranger. I’ve loved you since before I knew what love was. Are you willing to toss all that aside because the rules say we should?”
“You know I’m not.”
“Okay, then.” Nick dropped the work gloves to land where they liked on the floor and stalked into their kitchen. He lifted the lid of the slow cooker and let the rich smell of beef and carrots and red wine saturate his sense of smell. “I’m not stupid, Barrett. I know it isn’t that simple. It isn’t even supposed to be possible, but since when do we let that stop us, right?”
Barrett’s lips twitched in an almost-smile. He moved closer, slowly but surely and steadily. Much better. “True,” he said.
“Good.” Nick tore off a chunk of bread from an unwrapped loaf on the counter, dipped it in the gravy, and lifted it to Barrett’s mouth. He thumbed a drop of savory juice off Barrett’s lip. “Then that’s that, and let’s eat. It’d be a shame to let this go to waste. And you are hungry, aren’t you?”
“Starving.” Barrett exhaled. He looked tired and old as he propped himself against the counter. Hesitant, too, but…still, maybe, a little hopeful. “You really think you can do this?”
“Nope. We can. You and me,” Nick said. “We’ll manage, and nothing has to change, not really. You’ll see.”
It didn’t look as if Barrett believed him. Nick wasn’t sure he believed himself, but none of that mattered. All that counted was Barrett’s nod. He’d try.
Nick took a deep breath. All right, then. Here we go.
Chapter Four
Nick slept late the next morning, as was his preference and habit on Sundays. He dragged the duvet over his head when dawn crept through the bedroom windows and slept on as sunlight turned their home first pink and yellow, then pale gray.
Barrett woke early. Not out of choice. He’d much rather have curled up next to Nick, head tucked against Nick’s shoulder. Brushing away the rogue hairs that always, always fell across his nose and mouth the second he’d gotten comfortable, but he couldn’t sleep. Never had been great at dropping off, and if he happened to open his eyes during the night? Forget it. Might as well crawl out of bed and find something useful to do with his time while Nick snored on.
Sometimes, he’d envied Nick that ability. Sometimes not.
This day, of all days, Barrett wasn’t sure what he thought about it all. Easier not to think. He’d be happier if he could put everything out of his mind.
Might as well wish for the moon while he was at it.
Barrett scoffed at himself as he padded barefooted to the kitchen in search of coffee. I’m being maudlin. Maudlin and ridiculous, and for what? Nick might be right, he told himself, rummaging as quietly as he could through cupboards and cabinets. Not for any particular reason. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped himself, counted to ten—then to thirty—and filled the electric kettle up to the top. It was all too easy to get sidetracked, watching Nick. Advantage, or disadvantage, of the open plan house—no secrets and, no matter where you went, a clear line of sight.
Bathroom excepted. There were a few limits.
Nick lay on his stomach. He’d kicked off the duvet Barrett had tossed over him when sneaking out of bed, and it’d slid off the foot of the mattress to crumple in a pile on the floor. The sheet had followed, and if Nick hadn’t had a death grip on his pillow, it probably would have suffered the same fate. Barrett’s had, and it lolled in a sad little lump off the side of the bed. The edge of the bag he’d hidden Nick’s replacement wrist cuff in peeped from underneath it.
As Barrett watched, Nick mumbled something unintelligible and snuffled into his pillow. He always had been prone to talking in his sleep. Never anything that made sense, but funny as hell to listen to when Barrett was in the mood. One time he’d carried on a monologue about rutabaga kings until Barrett’s stifled laughter woke him. Too bad he hadn’t gotten that one on tape.
No filibusters today, Barrett noted idly, listening with one ear for the kettle. Just scraps of this and that. Not quite bad dreams, but maybe not the most comforting thoughts either. Nick growled, a grumbling sort of noise, and hugged the pillow tighter, pressing his face into its soft squishiness.
Which would have been funny, if it hadn’t bared Nick’s neck. His arched neck, back strung like a bow with the newly formed soulmark at its crown.
Shit.
Barrett hadn’t forgotten about the soulmark as such, but he’d managed to keep himself from actively obsessing for a good fifteen minutes. It was darker still this morning, looked like. He couldn’t make out the details from a distance, but the color had gone from sepia to sable. Almost fully emerged.
Nick made a mumbling, unhappy sound and, still asleep, reached back to rub at the spot.
Barrett blew out a long breath. Fuck me. He clicked off the kettle before it could whistle and set about making coffee he didn’t really want anymore. Didn’t matter. Hot, strong and dark, it’d feel good on his dry throat if nothing else, and it’d resign his body somewhat to being awake far before he had to.
It’d distract him long enough to get him started on his day.
Maybe.
He watched Nick roll onto one side, face turned toward the wall and not in Barrett’s direction. Didn’t seem easy for him to settle. He fidgeted, digging his shoulder into the mattress, and only calmed down when he reached to scratch at the soulmark.
Like an itch that can’t be scratched. Barrett had heard people describe it that way, when they talked about what it’d been like to have a soulmark develop. An awareness that there was someone or something missing, and an urge to find it. Like being hungry—starving—but choosy, with no idea what you wanted to eat until it waltzed across your plate. Or until you went out and hunted it down yourself.
Barrett set his lips together in a firm, hard line and poured his favorite mug brim-full of dark coffee without cream or sugar. From the looks of it, Nick wouldn’t wake up for a good while. Maybe a few hours. Still the weekend, so he didn’t really need to.
Would have been nice to wake him, but…
The coffee was still too hot to drink. Barrett sipped at the bitter black brew all the same and let himself think the question—did Nick really, truly think that playing ostrich could work, or did he only want to make himself believe it?
No idea, but at the rate Nick’s soulmark seemed to darken, they’d know soon enough.
It wasn’t right, Barrett wanted to shout. It wasn’t fair. They’d loved each other since they were kids. They’d waited until they were both past thirty. If a person was going to develop a soulmark, it almost always happened before then. And now this? Fuck.
Mouth tightly shut, silence preserved, Barrett padded out of the kitchen the same way he’d come with mug in hand. En route to the comfortable, battered old couch he and Nick had cherished for years, he snagged the tablet PC they shared from its charging station. Email. When in doubt, check email. Or when in need of a way to kill
some time.
And if he happened to wander sideways into a Google search for soulmarks and avoidance syndrome statistics, that was his business.
* * * *
Nick had gotten halfway through a shower before he remembered his soulmark. Not on purpose, either. Only when he scraped his nails across the skin while rinsing soap from his hair.
He prodded the mark, searching for signs of development. Might be a little more raised, a bit of a pattern discernible to the touch, but nothing like the ones he’d caught glimpses of in others. He hadn’t dreamed the night before, or at least no dreams he could remember. Nothing about wandering or searching for something he couldn’t name and couldn’t find.
That was a good sign, wasn’t it?
Odd, though, that Barrett hadn’t woken him when he’d snuck out of bed. Barrett usually liked to think himself sneakier than he actually was, and Nick usually didn’t mind letting him. Barrett griped endlessly about insomnia, but truth be told, ninety percent of the time Barrett liked puttering around on lazy weekend mornings. Liked it as much as Nick liked watching him at it.
Well, he’d been distracted, Nick decided, scrubbing the last of the shampoo out of his hair and watching it spiral down the drain. No harm in that. It was understandable, even. They’d had a hell of a shock, both of them. As long as they didn’t let it eat them alive, they’d be all right.
Barrett would probably be better at it than him. Nick eye-checked him when he emerged from the bathroom on a cloud of sandalwood steam, and from the looks of the man, he’d slipped easy as you please into life as normal. Good. He’d tucked himself up in a corner of the couch and curled into his usual lazy-home pose with his feet under him and one elbow propped on the back of the couch. The only odd note to the picture was his constant ruffling at his hair, but that wasn’t hard to figure out. He’d liked pulling his hair up in a messy topknot—ridiculous but adorable—before he’d cut more than half the length off this past week. He’d be missing the usual habit.
“How long have you been awake?” Nick asked on his way to the refrigerator. His palate wanted orange juice instead of coffee. Tart, sweet, cold. Mmm. Barrett would prefer the reverse, though. He always did. “Want me to start a carafe going?”
No answer. Nick cocked his head for another look and stifled a chuckle. Whatever Barrett had gotten involved in on the computer had him wrapped up like a centerfold in Big Bad Bondage Weekly. The only things moving on him were his eyes, scanning text in great big gulps, and the idle skim of fingertips through hair.
Nick snorted, amused, as he dumped the old grounds from yesterday’s brewed coffee out in the trash. He nudged their electric kettle to one side to make room and stuck a new filter in the basket, filled it with reasonably fresh-smelling Columbia, and clicked the on switch.
After a moment’s thought, he snagged a mug off the wire tree and slipped it under the stream of coffee in place of the carafe. Barrett wasn’t big on cream or sugar. Saved time, he claimed, and since it was his tastebuds on the line, Nick had learned not to comment.
He balanced the full mug carefully as he wandered away from the kitchen area. “Barrett? Are you with me yet?”
“Hmm?” Barrett answered absently, still reading.
“Dozy. I made you coffee. Here, take it while it’s hot.” Nick stopped at Barrett’s elbow and nudged his shoulder carefully.
“What?” Barrett blinked up at Nick. He sniffed the air, and clarity snapped in to replace the glassy reader’s mask he’d worn. “God. How long have you been awake?”
“That’s what I was asking you. Here, move your feet before they fall asleep. You’ll stand up and fall down if you’re not careful,” Nick said with a playful tug at the cuff of Barrett’s pajama pants.
Barrett wrinkled his nose as he stretched out his legs. “Ow. Didn’t mean to stay there so long. What time is it?”
“Late enough, but still early.” Nick waggled his hand from side to side. “For a weekend. Anything good in the morning news?”
“Hmm? Oh. Not reading the headlines.” Barrett tapped the tablet’s screen a few times, closing tabs. He passed the tablet to Nick in exchange for the mug of coffee, spilling a few drops over the side. “I got distracted. Here, email. You got a note from Ivan.”
The notification status on the email said Barrett hadn’t touched it, neither to open nor read. Nick gestured at the screen with a questioning frown.
“For all I know, it could be private,” Barrett said. He licked the drops of coffee off the side of his hand and made to put the mug aside. “Or about what happened this weekend, and, well…”
Nick ignored the email for the moment. “You don’t want the coffee?” he asked, oddly hurt by Barrett’s dismissal.
Barrett frowned. “I’ve already had two mugs full. Used the kettle and the French press. Didn’t you notice?”
Nick blinked. “I guess I didn’t. Sorry.”
“I’ll still drink it,” Barrett said. He picked the cup back up and nearly spilled the contents over himself. “No need for waste.”
“It’s fine, Barrett. It’s just coffee. Doesn’t matter.” Only…not really. Nick didn’t usually miss a step when it came to his and Barrett’s morning routines. He didn’t like being out of sync now.
Barrett must have noticed his discomfiture. “Nick?”
“It’s fine, I said.” Nick shoved it out of sight and out of mind as he opened his email and scanned the short message. “There’s more typos in here than actual words,” he muttered.
Barrett laughed. Hearing it relieved the tension in a twist of pressure Nick carried between his shoulders. “And that’s different from the usual, how?”
“Come to think of it, it isn’t,” Nick said with a quiet snort. “Huh. Best as I can tell, we’re being invited to barbecue with them tonight.”
Quiet. Then, “Them?” Barrett asked, tone so neutral that Nick’s ears almost went back. Damn.
He cleared his throat. “Them, quote unquote. Guess they must have gone back to Ivan’s for the rest of the weekend.”
Barrett hummed noncommittally. “Therefore, meat and fire.”
“And apologies, maybe?” Nick wanted to fidget but didn’t. “You know Ivan. Too nice for his own good. He’s probably got a guilt complex going on about screwing up the trip to the game.”
“Yeah, that would be like him,” Barrett said with what looked like a tolerant roll of the eyes. He stretched his legs and poked Nick’s thigh with his bare toes. “Might as well. We don’t have anything else going on.”
“No?” Nick jerked his thumb at the stack of flat-pack boxes, now fallen askew. “Thought we were putting the pool table together.”
“Not really in the mood for it anymore,” Barrett said. He took the tablet back and opened a new window in the web browser. “I’d rather go out and blow off some steam, anyway. Better to start in on a project when we’ve got the full two days to work with, not just one.”
Which made sense, but… Ah, hell. Nick let it pass. “Same here. Ivan tagged a P.S. on there special, asking if you’d come, too. Apparently Robbie—aha, so that is his name—is going to have his brothers come around and Ivan’s agitating in favor of keeping the sides equally balanced.”
“That sounds like something Ivan would do, yeah.” Barrett fell briefly quiet after that before saying, “Seems like it’s all moving kind of fast, isn’t it?”
Nick started to agree, but his mouth and his mind clashed where they met in the middle. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Maybe. I think it’s more like picking up where they left off.”
Barrett leaned back against the couch arm. A shifting of light and shade mottled his face with shadow as a loose branch rat-a-tat-tatted a rhythm on the window pane. Didn’t seem to bother him as such. Nick wasn’t a hundred percent sure he noticed. “It really is strange, isn’t it? This soulmark business. No rhyme or reason to it. Barely legal is what, eighteen? Nineteen? And they got handed a mandate to direct the rest of their lives.”
“Smart-ass. It makes me wonder, that’s all. Why it happens, when it happens, to who it happens. When it doesn’t. Why.” He shook his head. “Me, and all the scientists who research the things. If they don’t have the answers, I’m not likely to come up with any. And yet I still wonder.”
Nick shifted his weight, pulling one leg beneath him in an echo of Barrett’s preferred sofa pose. He stretched the other leg out to knead his toes against Barrett’s calf.
Barrett didn’t notice that, either. Too lost in his own head. Frowning, now, at the branch rattling on the windowpane. “Must have broken in that windstorm that took out Daniel’s wall.”
“Likely.” The thin, spidery tapping sound raked wrong-way-up on Nick’s nerves. He withdrew, sitting up then standing. “That’s going to drive me crazy sooner rather than later. Did we end up stashing those handsaws and such in the old shed?”
That got Barrett’s attention. He touched his calf, where Nick had been, as if only now noticing the echo of the caress now it had gone, and frowned. “I think so, but it’s a small enough branch you could probably just snap it off, couldn’t you?”
“Yeah, could do, but…” Now he’d started moving, the thought of sitting still made Nick’s muscles twitch impatiently. Better to burn off the excess whatever-it-was. Maybe then he could settle with Barrett and get back to the kind of Sunday they usually indulged in. “It’ll keep happening. The tree’s dead. Better to take care of it now.”
Barrett sat upright, eyebrows beetling together. “What? No, no, it’s not dead. It had buds last spring.”
“Buds, and then bugs, and then the bark started falling off.”
“Same thing happened to half the other trees out there. Daniel said it cycles around every few years.” Barrett scooted forward to sit on the edge of the couch. “Give it a chance. One more year.”