Work Text:
"Amb, come look at this."
"Hm?" Ambrose hums, curiously trodding to crane over Cook's shoulder from behind.
"That's you," he says, pointing at his phone screen with his free hand. There's a pixelated shrimp playing saxophone, quiet 8-bit jazz playing as it bobs up and down in accompaniment.
"You're right! That's me," he chortles, a grin forming on his face. He keeps watching the short video as it loops, occasionally chuckling when he notices a new detail.
Cook looks back at Ambrose, briefly engrossed in the look on his face. His tired eyes are crinkled happily, reached by his wide, toothy smile. His long, unkempt hair flows in all directions, even more than it usually sits. He looks pretty.
Making an excuse for eye contact, Cook asks:
"By the way, do you wanna do anything today?"
Looking back at him, then away, Ambrose groans, getting up and stretching his arms as far as he can reach. "We should. I don't wanna move, though."
"We can walk Homer," Cook offers, tilting his head.
"Oh, yeah!" Ambrose lights up, glancing back at the excited bulldog panting at the mention of the "W" word.
"Wanna take the bus to the big, cool park?" Cook asks, crouched and scratching Homer's ears, speaking in an excited tone at the dog but still addressing Ambrose.
"Yeah, that'd be nice," Ambrose says, joining the two, laughing and grimacing when Homer jumps up to lick his face.
***
They make their way into an almost-empty bus, save for a couple people at the front. They sit at the back, Ambrose patting his lap and Homer excitedly jumping on. Cook softly smiles at the two.
"Feels like high-school all over again, sitting in the back," Cook notes, gesturing at their row.
"You were cool enough to sit here?" Ambrose faces him, surprised. "Never thought of you as a popular kid."
Cook laughs. "Not that much," he dismisses, "just got lucky in the friend department."
Ambrose chortles. "Now, that sounds more like you."
Looking out the window, he gathers where they're headed.
"Been a while since I went here."
Cook hums in agreement. "Me too, till I got Homer. You used to skate right next to it, right? I remember coming to see."
"Yeah! It's a decent spot. I found better ramps elsewhere, though."
"I'd imagine concrete's better than plywood for those."
"Uhh.." Ambrose soughs. "Maybe, but I think beginners appreciate the smaller stuff. Not too hard if you fall, too."
"Ah, yeah." Cook listens, and waits when Ambrose thinks for a moment, head down.
"Funny to think how far I went in skating," Ambrose says while idly brushing his hand across his face. "Thought I'd make a career."
Cook tilts his head. "Wasn't wasted, though, right? You found something cool to do instead."
"Yeah. Feels like a shame, though," he says, quieter this time.
"Why?"
"I know I met so many people through it, but apart from that, what did it get me? I could've looked for a job. Man, I could've at least practiced harp instead of getting high every night."
Cook frowns. He watches Ambrose's face fall, nautrally, into a scowl.
"Do you really feel that way?"
"Kinda." Ambrose scratches Homer's ears in a self-soothing manner.
"You were in a bad place at the time. You... Had fun. That was important, right?" Cook says. "Not to mention, you met most of the guys. Wouldn't have been the same without you."
Ambrose musters a tired smile.
They sit in silence as the bus comes to a stop.
Ambrose carries Homer out in his arms, supporting his legs and holding his lead out of the way.
He sets him down when they're out, and lets Cook catch him.
Walking to the park, they drift closer to eachother. Ambrose absentmindedly takes Cook's hand in his.
They don't let go until they find a bench and Cook sets Homer free.
"So..." Cook starts, uncertain. "How's life?"
Ambrose can't help but snicker at the question.
"Not amazing."
"Thought so," he says with a wry smile. "This is pretty good, though, right? For a break, I mean."
"Nah, yeah, for sure," Ambrose agrees.
Homer climbs onto Cook's knee expectantly. He laughs and searches the ground for a stick, which he throws.
"I-" Ambrose laughs when Homer barks at him, already back. He picks the stick up, but Homer jumps to retrieve it. He laughs, pulling it out of the way as he gears up to throw.
"He really loves sticks, huh?" he notes, launching it further this time.
"Yeah, he's always been like this; with anything he can catch. Feral about it." Cook says. "Reminds me of you on stage, actually."
Ambrose scoffs and laughs. "Shut up."
"Just joking," he says, smiling widely, his mustache raising and brushing his cheeks. Ambrose finds himself looking, but looks away before he can be noticed.
They settle into a comfortable silence.
Ambrose is lost in thought, drowning out the distant sound of Homer barking at the pigeons.
Cook watches the couple on the bench a few hundred yards opposite them; what looks like a mother and child, wearing matching green raincoats and eating ice cream.
The kid's trying to balance talking excitedly with finishing their melting ice cream. Cook imagines they've just come out of school.
The mother, listening with a careful eye, is looking at the kid and smiling. She wipes ice cream off their chin with her hand when they get a little too expressive with their gestures. She licks off what she caught and reassures the kid, who quickly starts laughing and continues talking about their day.
Coming back to reality, Cook sits up and looks at Ambrose, seeing that he's staring into space. "What's on your mind, mate?"
Ambrose blinks away his thoughts, and hums.
"Just thinking of a new song I'm cooking up."
"Ah, I wish I could say the same," Cook replies. "I'm struggling with inspiration these days."
"Really?" Ambrose turns to him. "I'm surprised. You always come up with good ideas."
"Yeah, I dunno," Cook says, pouting slightly. "Life's been a lot of the same for a while;" he sighs, "not much new."
"Fair enough. Haven't been doing much, have we?" Ambrose chuckles. "I'm still surprised, though. A lot of your songs are about everyday, normal stuff."
Cook chortles. "Yeah, but I wasn't sober. Everything's cooler when you're high," he asserts.
"Shop lights are the brightest shit you've ever seen. Noises and shit; they fill your head and just take you over, you know?" He scratches the side of his jaw, finding the best words he can muster.
"Regular conversations become life-changing."
Cook pauses, but Ambrose lets him ruminate. He spots Homer running around in the corner of his vision.
"You just get... Some kinda awareness. How weird, the shit you're told to do, is sometimes. How natural it feels to do things you're not supposed to."
He looks up at the tree above them, searching for something between the sunlit leaves.
"I guess I think about that a lot," he concludes, looking back at Ambrose.
For a second, they lock eyes.
"That's-" Ambrose starts, looking away, "That's really meaningful, actually. I wish you'd realize how much good stuff you've got in your head," he admits, head low, met with Homer's eager face. He tussles the stick out of his mouth and throws it as far as he can see.
Cook retorts after watching the interaction with smiling eyes. "You're telling me? You always have the most interesting ideas. I can't make stories up like you do."
"You're sweet, man," Ambrose admits, smiling widely at him.
Then, having thoughtlessly rummaged his hand in his pocket, he pulls out a bottle of nail polish.
"Oh!" he exclaims happily. Cook turns to look, and copies his excited smile.
"Do you wanna paint your nails?" Ambrose asks, turning the small bottle in his hands.
It's a leftover from the last drag night; a dusty reddish pink. It's not high quality, by any means -- if the kitschy label doesn't give it away, the past memory of everyone's nails shedding pink flakes the next morning would. Cook smiles at the recollection.
"Oh, yeah, sure. We never had the right time to do it till now, did we?"
"Yeah," Ambrose concurs, giving the bottle a firm shake. "Could you do me?" he asks, holding it out.
"Sure." Cook grabs the polish and continues shaking it as Ambrose turns to him and brings his knees up to his chest, resting his hands on top.
Cook was never known for his nail-painting accuracy, but he tries his best.
From what little he's learned, he knows that slower is better, and it's not the end of the world if it touches your skin.
He does Ambrose's pinky, then his ring finger, before Homer almost headbutts his hand from below.
"What?" he says, frowning but quickly losing any frustration when Homer picks up a truly exceptional stick. He smiles, wrangling it out of his mouth, and throws it far, long after the dog's already bolted off.
"Oooh, nice!" Ambrose says, laughing softly. He's taken the time to shake and blow on his fingers while he can.
Cook spares him an apology about taking his time, and gets back to it. Holding his hand up gently, he takes a second or two to look closely at the ring on his middle finger. The gold band is green in the shade, reflecting the blue-ish purple sky above them, comfortably fitted on Ambrose's worked, yet delicate hands.
Ready to move on if he's caught looking, he looks up to see Ambrose has closed his eyes.
Internally sighing in relief, he continues painting, although much more liberal in his staring.
As he finishes painting Ambrose's first hand, he's already examined the pattern that his hair follows when the gentle breeze blows it into Ambrose's indifferent face. Now, moving to the second hand, Ambrose shifting without opening his eyes, Cook focuses on the latter.
His eyes, somewhat tightly shut and trembling from the pull of muscles, are delicately wrinkled.
He often finds himself on the subject of the lines under his eyes. He never knows if they're the result of nature or a stressful nurture. They're darker recently, which he can't say isn't uniquely beautiful, but worry him more than any other physical sign.
His eyebrows, at rest, are in a state of -- nowadays rare -- ease.
Right now, on an old bench, in a park, on a late Thursday -- or Friday? who even cares -- afternoon, together, they're calm. Cook missed this; both being on the same page.
"Done," he finally says, pretending to look in the distance.
Ambrose happily shakes his hands dry. "Took you long enough," he says teasingly, giving his hands one final blow before he takes the polish bottle.
"Alright, gimme."
Cook, cross-legged, lays his hands on his knees and gladly looks away into the distance.
He spots Homer digging and pawing at some grassy knoll, throwing dirt everywhere, and silently laughs.
His eyes drift over to the bench he saw earlier, long since occupied by two new people. He can't tell what their relation to eachother is.
He sees the taller, darker-haired person pull out her phone, tap it a few times, then hold it out to show something to the shorter one.
She quickly starts smiling at it, containing her laughter. She turns back to say something, and the other nods and makes a joke. She bursts out laughing, her voice projecting clearly through the silent background of the park.
He notices that the tall one of the two is staring at her and smiling. The short one notices and says something. The tall one replies, and they lean in to kiss.
Cook quickly looks away, feeling like he's intruded on a private moment. Still hearing the couple giggle, he opts to close his eyes and meditate.
"You want something?"
He opens his eyes, about to ask, but he sees Ambrose being pestered by Homer. Ambrose picks up the stick he's brandishing and unthinkingly throws it.
"Ah, shit," he mutters, looking at his hand.
"What happened?" Cook frowns.
"Scraped my polish," he says, showing the damage.
Cook prepares to reassure him, but Ambrose smiles and shrugs.
"Whatever. It's not the end of the world," he says, returning to his task.
Cook finds himself shocked by this, and he can't understand why. He looks down at Ambrose, open-mouthed and unsure if he should say something.
He stays, indecisive, until Ambrose is done. They wordlessly pack up the polish and sit more comfortably, still individually deciding to face eachother.
Cook notices that the sky has turned pink. The shade their tree provided is starting to prove useless, as the light is falling on the sides of their faces.
Ambrose looks out at the distant pond. His eyes are starting to glitter as the sun lowers in front of them, almost glowing above his pink-lit cheeks. His mussed-up hair is shining. It reminds Cook of flowing water, and he chides himself for the lazy comparison.
"Y-" he blurts out, almost yelping when Ambrose looks back at him.
He thinks of it, keeps thinking of it, then wants to stop himself, but it's too late.
"I love you."
Slowly, they fall into a staring match. Neither of them seems to want to look away; even in such a short time, striking blue meets with deep brown in a way that feels shameful to Cook.
Ambrose's mouth falls open slowly as he gazes into Cook's eyes. They're now a bright orange in the setting sun that's finally fallen to illuminate their side.
When he blinks, Cook's looked away, face still turned to him. He frowns and gently places his hand on his shoulder. When he's met with an uncertain face, he raises his eyebrows and smiles reassuringly. He gestures with his arms, asking for a hug.
Cooks accepts, wrapping his arms around Ambrose and quickly finding a place to nuzzle into his hair.
Ambrose avoids laughing at how tightly he's held. Instead, he glances next to him at the blond, almost white flyaway hairs at the back of Cook's head. Enraptured in how they glow, he can't help but lift a hand to touch them, eventually stroking the nape of Cook's neck and playing with the strands of hair he can reach.
He feels a squeeze of acknowledgment around his waist, and laughs quietly.
"I'm happy you said that", he mutters.
He feels Cook's breathing slowing down and his arms relaxing around him.
"Love you too," he adds, curling a thread of hair around his finger.
They stay like this. Ambrose watches Cook's back rise and fall with the tempo of his breathing. He retracts his hand and moves it to hold Cook's, eventually rubbing it slowly with his thumb.
"Wanna try doing makeup tomorrow, or something?"
Cook lifts his head to answer.
"That sounds wonderful."