[ It's not as if Will was trying to walk in on anyone.
Back up-- he was, but not with the intent to shock anyone. Back up again, maybe. Will had flown up to New York from Virginia two days ago, because feds who work as professors get more forgiving schedules than those who work in the field. He'd packed up an overnight bag with double rounds of underwear and socks, toothbrush and toothpaste, and then had the particular relief of taking a plane with no work-regulated checked luggage to drag through TSA.
They'd taken a taxi back from the airport together, because Will had timed his flight with the setting sun, even this far into summer, and it had meant that Will got to speak with Ambrose before falling asleep in bed with his still-awake partner.
Unfortunately, Will's job is the sort of thing that likes to follow him, lurking in corners and laughing knowingly to itself when he's let his guard down. His pocket of vacation from teaching is interrupted by a phone call in the early evening - too early for Ambrose to be awake. Instead, Ambrose gets to wake up to a hand-written letter on his pillow, because Will likes leaving physical aspects of his presence for Ambrose when he can. ]
jack called, there's been a case nearby and the nypd isn't thrilled about the fbi joining in, but i'm the closest employee and the most relevant to what's happened. he wants me to drop in on a briefing.
i'll be back soon, he said it shouldn't take longer than 3 hours. i'm writing this at 5:46
see you later will
[ Will had agonized for just a moment over the ending of the letter - they haven't said that word yet, he can't just sign it off with a love, will so he doesn't, but the fact that that urge burns hot in his stomach tells him something he hadn't thought to put to words while he was still laying in bed near Ambrose.
Instead, Will gets to think about it while he takes a cab into and out of a NYPD station to sit in on what turns out, thankfully, to be an incredibly boring briefing. Will's consulting fee isn't cheap - Jack's not going to be thrilled that someone greatly overestimated the difficulty of their own case and asked for him to sit in on the meeting. Will can't find anything in himself except hollow relief that this was something lacking in gore enough that it's not going to press on his shoulders for the rest of his brief vacation.
He's as close to cheerful as he ever really gets, taking that taxi back to Ambrose's apartment. It's in a nice enough section of town; Ambrose doesn't live like some of his long-lived brethren, the sort who've spent decades collecting, embezzling, and reinvesting funds for themselves, but his theater keeps him safe instead of impoverished. Will stands at the front stairs of it and lets himself feel something warm and possessively altruistic for a moment; he feels proud of him.
So imagine his calm surprise when he isn't greeted at the door. With another partner, maybe Will would be more instantly worried - but when he comes into Ambrose's apartment and hears only distant music, he can assume so easily that it's just Ambrose's endless ability to be distracted immediately into the very depths of a task.
Following the music means he's in his bedroom, too. Will opens the door...
...and just stares at this very unique version of a scene he's otherwise been greeted with in the past. Ambrose is at his mirrored vanity, yes, and he's nude except for one piece of clothing, but that piece of clothing is a decidedly-lacy robe and his face, as he turns to look at Will, is--
Well. Will's never seen him with full blush and highlighter on, before, but there's no mistaking that even at this distance. ]
...I'm back, [ Will says, unhelpfully. ]
a tag two months in the making (that will likely take that long to read)
he had known from the instant moment of consciousness, the lack of a heartbeat. Ambrose had been keen for that sound on the night of Will's arrival, could feel it buzzing in his skin once he was close enough, before he could even lay eyes on him.
awaking to the echoing quiet had brought confusion — had Ambrose imagined it all, Will coming to visit, like some desperate, fevered dream? not at all; a few of Will's minor affects laid on his bureau, the scent of his skin clung to the pillow, where the note sat waiting, assuring him otherwise.
Ambrose pondered how he would begin the evening, on his own, while he waited. waiting he can do, and with ease — the incentive is perfect, and the time without isn't long. he may not remember the lost century and a half after landing in a grave, but it was hardly a cat nap.
bathed and idle, Ambrose wandered to his dressing vanity, an old mirror from the theatre taken away and replaced with something more updated set above a quaint writing desk. it held a lamp and his particular choice of essentials, as well as...makeup, and wig caps in the drawer. his newest artistic venture, tucked away so cleanly and secretively, though having to hide from no one.
it just hasn't come up in conversation with Will, yet.
a variety of additives lay within the drawer, one of which a brand new palette of colors for adorning his face, a well of hues completely untapped; it seems like as good a time as any to play them upon his skin.
it will be a couple of hours before Will should return, and Ambrose could make use of every minute in experimentation. an artist by hand he has never really tried to be, until soft brushes with colored powders were pressed eagerly into his face. way back when, Ambrose would have just as much of a hand in applying his stage makeup as the ones with the design instruction. here and now, even the smallest of theatres have people wholly dedicated to the task, taking the work completely out of his hands.
probably explains how he wound up being placed into the role that he was given in the fall, for a rendition of a musical-turned-film-turned-cult-classic he had never heard of, the slow-burning start to this newest venture.
attempting this particular style of performance left him suddenly doing all of the work — which came as unexpectedly exhilarating as much as woefully daunting. Ambrose is awe-struck in this day by just about everything, and drag performers leave him helplessly star-stunned. it's a whole new realm for him to climb through, an endless jungle of discovery built on numerous empires of eras of time, and evolutions of not only style, but art.
Ambrose loses himself easily into the music filling the empty air and the old mirror affixed to his wall; he nearly forgets the face looking back, too enveloped in blending a petal pink into a muted green over his eyes, up until he pulls back and sees his natural completion: moon-pale, blue tendrils just under the flesh, making the colors over his eyes look almost cartoonish. his skin appears as milky marble, small dark shapes and shadows peering through an opaque skin, giving an inhuman texture. perhaps he should add a little face powder, to liven his face up, to complete the colors as he tests them...
until his brows look decidedly undone in comparison to the composition. he adds definition, just a little, shapes them naturally while filling them in with hatching lines. it reminds him of something — the tones feel nostalgic, tendrils sinking deeper through his thoughts and flinching closer to something from long ago.
of course, his face looks a little flat, with the singularly-hued powder, matte and dull on his unlivened flesh. Ambrose thinks knowing which blush and highlighter would compliment these eyes is an important addition, and selects something peachy and gold. voila — they add something sorely needed, highlighter accentuating the inner corners of his eyes, at the curves of his brow bones, even a little under his lower eyelids. it tells him to inject a warm brown somewhere, earthen, perhaps into the crease to blend the petal with the chlorophyll. pink, green, sunlit gold, tea roses picked and handed to him, the thorns pinching in his soft palm. he remembers the scent of the damp, disturbed dirt, the mound of it piled gratuitously over the casket, and he's thrumming with joy in an instant— then, stricken with confusion.
Ambrose just senses a sound out in the front of his apartment.
and realizes what this sudden swelling of ill-placed elation is.
he turns with realization, hand held up still at the height of his face, eyes on the door as it opens.
Ambrose is, ultimately, more than anything else, spread open with a simple and sheer surprise; he hadn't realized the time spent sitting here, lost between tracks of modern music wavering from his phone. Will stands there looking like an intruder, an aura of some breed of guilt blooming wide around him. he has seen, by now, Ambrose done up in stage makeup, but this...is far different. this alone is half as much as Ambrose would have to paint to be stage ready while in some gown, meaning this face he levels back at Will, mirroring his surprise, must look decidedly more natural than the extent of a drag queen's face. }
—Will. { the makeup brush is settled down on the vanity as Ambrose sits back, leaning away from the mirror. } You weren't kept as long as I feared you would be.
{ from anyone else, it might sound like a guilty 'I didn't expect you back this early,' a shameful admission on banking on the other party to be gone longer to give them more time to indulge in a secretive task. this...wasn't necessarily meant to be hidden from Will forever. it's something Ambrose doesn't think to keep hidden from anyone — check his Instagram account for proof. ah, but Will doesn't utilize such silly things as social media platforms.
Ambrose hadn't decided yet on how to reveal this new style of art to him yet; burgeoning still, he's only so much as dabbled, turning more looks than acts (though there have been quite a few) in his spare time...how would he have wanted to show Will this new act of presenting himself?
he rises from his vanity without breaking his gaze away; it's his first time seeing Will all night, and nothing can shade over the glow it lights under Ambrose's sternum. there is a hesitation, though it's small, not fearful, but undecided in his slow steps that draw him closer. } You don't sound— stressed. Did the meeting go well? { Will's heart — it doesn't pulse with tension, with a flinched snapping that it does when he remarks on the killers he's trained to track, or the...man, the psychiatrist, the monster in a suit that haunts his morals.
sorry, if it's any amount of jarring to talk as if Ambrose isn't appearing halfway to Aerosmith's claim to fame; his concern rises above his need to explain himself. }
nonsense it's wonderful and you know i devour your prose
[ It's beautiful. That's the first thought. It's something Will's sensitive to without ever thinking long on it - he likes pretty things, beautiful ones, he likes looking at tender throats and the softening colors around the corners of eyes. Performing is another beast altogether, and one Will's aware of but doesn't often consider - in brief, makeup isn't something he hasn't to think about much.
Neither was the revelation that he's attracted to men, not just women. Will has always thought of it as a personality-based exception, and has always known what attracted him physically - slim wrists, careful throats, wide smiles - and been just a little ashamed about it.
Seeing Ambrose so overtly feminized wakes up that guilt and gives it something new to play with. It causes a delay between Will's brain and his mouth. ]
Never well, but— uneventful. It turned out they didn't need me. What— [ All the words blending together until Will actually gets to the part where he's going to ask, and then he stops short again. Licks his lips and stays put when he watches Ambrose stand.
Ambrose doesn't look defensive or ashamed. ] What does this...mean? [ Which is too broad, leaves too much room to read things from Will that he either doesn't mean or can't bear to share just yet. He shakes his head and takes one step into the room. ] I mean— to you. Not to— me. I mean— [ He shakes his head, brings a hand up to his forehead. He's not making any sense, he isn't sure what to say, so what ends up coming out is the simple truth, as he stares at the floor. ]
{ drawling lyrics and languid music is cut suddenly to a silence, Ambrose's hand tapping the screen with the tip of the stylus he keeps with it religiously — the device wouldn't register his touch without having recently fed.
it makes it easier to hear Will's heart, the vital and steady climb it begins to take as Will's eyes move over him. Ambrose can feel it as much as track it by sight, knows that this will be a significant manner of address. he couldn't have known what Will's awareness of this sort of thing could be, and whether the delivery of it from Ambrose would phase him, or not.
phased Will is, thoroughly, potently, and for a man with such a keen sense of awareness, a drastic change to something familiar should not go missed. Ambrose thinks he would feel anxious, his heart thrumming higher and higher with an directionless fear, were it possible. in spite of the missing involuntary essence, Ambrose feels a buzzing under his flesh, over his bones, tickling in the marrow centered in his ribs. sheer anticipation, teetering in such a fine balance between joy and despair, a feeling that reminds him of his death once before.
Will fumbles unevenly with his attempt at addressing it, casting aside the wholly relevant topic concerning where he's been all evening. Ambrose wants to respond, verbalize his relief, but Will stumbles into the next too quickly.
momentarily, Ambrose wonders if Will won't understand the answer; his question is so broad that it leaves Ambrose with numerous and newly budding ones for himself. he knows that won't be any difficult part to navigate, though — bringing Will to understanding is no daunting task, when he bubbles with eerily invasive understanding on his own.
and then, reassurance comes in three little, kind words.
Ambrose is smiling gently as he draws nearer, close enough to be called close, now. } ...Well, this was a gift. { his pale hands motion to the robe, lacy and built for a draping upon a woman's frame, and he seems as fond of it as he is amused. there is a story behind it somewhere, ghosting across his eyes momentarily, one Will can likely sense already. } I wear it when I...
{ do any sort of makeup, really; it's not only for drag styling anymore, impressive given how absolutely clean the poppy petal-hued lace looks.
Ambrose picks his words like arranging a bouquet, abandoning his last thought, looking at Will with building decision. } I was practicing. A new type of performance I've been playing with, here and there.
{ Ambrose can't help how much it magnetizes him to see Will this unbalanced, to an extent he might dare to call bashful, and the vampire has to lift his hands to his warming cheeks. he doesn't urge him to look up at him, content only to hold his face, feel Will's groomed beard in his palms. he's taken more care in himself since they began this intimate chapter in their relationship, hasn't he? }
I'm glad they didn't need you more than I thought I did tonight. { mirth to ease Will's rabbit-heart, Ambrose smiles with lips that remain unpainted. } Should I wash my face? I'm hardly half done. { with the small purring laugh, it's genuine, no question about Ambrose's intentions when he asks; it's a test, not a challenge, but to sense how Will feels about what he's seeing. is it too jarring? too much? }
[ Will hadn't even ventured so far as to gesture at the robe, but Ambrose does - and Will realizes that he is, as always, pinned by the sheer force of Ambrose's confident wonder in all things. Whatever strikes his fancy is eventually explored and indulged: Will can count on Ambrose to be a blooming source of honesty in his life. A reverence that Will shares but had always recoiled from within himself; Will had only ever felt burned by his own attentiveness, but he watches Ambrose warm himself eagerly at those same experiences and wonders if, just maybe, Will can learn to stand the heat too.
I wear it when I... Costumes aren't a new concept, to Ambrose or to the human experience at large or even to Will himself, but this is a new shade of them. This was at home, alone. Was it always meant to be private? Who gifted Ambrose a laced robe like this, that softens already-smooth skin at the edges with patterns Will's never worn but always enjoyed looking at? Do they know this aspect of Ambrose already?
Is this part of Ambrose's other life, the one Will happily lets him indulge in separately?
Will stiffens in those hands at his cheeks for only a moment. As long as it takes to realize Ambrose isn't going to force him to look, to manhandle him, to alter the timing to suit himself. Will relaxes into the touch instead, degree by degree turning his face down in towards the cupped palms.
He lets his lips touch Ambrose's thumb, but doesn't move his mouth into a proper kiss. It's just the smooth sensation of living stone under his lips. ]
I guess it makes sense I wouldn't have met all your masks yet. Or that— you hadn't even met all your masks yet. [ Because this is new...to Ambrose, too. He's just said as much.
Will lets that support them a little longer, and then he's being presented with an offer. Will pulls away only now, to look back up and at Ambrose's face again. This time it's more than eye contact - it's a reassessment. There's a false life to Ambrose's face that doesn't feel false at all. Shadows deepened, highlights accentuated, the entirety of it shifted slightly in hue. It's the eyes that catch Will's attention first and keep doing so, if he's entirely honest. Like spring blooms added to a tree that he'd only ever seen mid-summer. ]
Only if I...interrupted. [ Will swallows. ] Otherwise, I'd...
I'm curious what this looks like when it's 'done'. [ It's a small moment's bravery to admit it, and a surprise to discover it - and yet this must only be a fraction of what Ambrose is experiencing. The realization makes Will's face split with a smile, his breath hitch with a short laugh. It's embarrassment and a lack of balance and the sort of amusement that you can only find when you trust someone with seeing you caught by surprise. ] Sorry, I'm not-- I don't usually try to respond to my dates wearing makeup by interrogating them.
{ there is that simple understanding, as if Ambrose were a book Will can read from, to quote details out of him with easy realization. he doesn't get caught on his own surprise of discovery, doesn't miss how Ambrose is cocooned in self-discovery of his own.
so many of Will's responses come away unexpectedly; that's the fascinating thing about him. Ambrose doesn't expect him to snap up and take himself back to realign his focus, but his hands fall just below his jaw as if it were somehow expected. a lively carotid thrums under his palms, enticing Ambrose to nip at his own bottom lip without forethought. were this not such a compelling conversation, he might slip like a fool into the craving to press a kiss onto his lips, to feel that pulse echoing though tender flesh.
commend Ambrose for his ability to focus, somebody, anybody. }
Your interruptions have only ever been blessings. { said with absolute belief; isn't interruption how they met, after all? it's a reassurance that might burn a little too warm on Will's skin, but Ambrose has no other words to offer.
but a segue is a useful tool; Ambrose pulls away to give Will a little more breathing room, not fully out of grasp — but he uses the space to gently emphasize himself when he responds: } I want to share this with you — I've been agonizing over just how to do it.
{ Ambrose takes a step backward, layered lace coyly covering over his form, obscuring...enough. the tone doesn't match the selection applied to his face, but doesn't cause any offense, either. } When this is done, it tends to look like something passable for a woman. { is isn't condescending, but a confirmation presented on a small laugh. it's an established parameter that he gives Will: an admission that this is more than some feminine makeup on a man's face, but halfway to a transformative illusion. Ambrose wonders how much it succeeds or fails in Will's eyes, in half makeup and some lace tied around his body. }
I regret to inform that all the wigs are at the theatre. { not that his lengthy hair doesn't lean into something 'feminine' itself, neck-length at its longest, but framing his face down to his jaw, it doesn't hinder the image any. he taps a fingertip at his bottom lip thoughtfully. }
...I have a dress in the closet, though. { Ambrose's voice is nearly a purr when he suggests it, and he makes a conscious effort not to smile too wide...he would like to maintain some semblance of tact, while glee buds up for a myriad of reasons — for himself, as much as his excitement to glean Will's response to his offer. will he let Ambrose dress up for him? it's only a little, if anything. }
ambrose naked in a lace robe is living all our best lives...........
[ Blessings. Will doesn't deserve that level of praise, but he gets no say in it; this is Ambrose's perception, shared with Will in a way that leaves him raw with the fact that Ambrose is genuine. Will doesn't realize he has no idea what to do with his own hands until Ambrose begins pulling away and Will can't lean towards him so easily. He ends up settling his hands on his hips and wishing he could just place them on Ambrose's face in turn.
He nods jerkily at the revelation that Ambrose had been planning to tell him but gotten caught in the planning - it's so mundanely accurate as to be comical, considering the topic - but he looks back up with some surprise at the rest. Passable for a woman.
Wigs.
Dress. Will's mouth is open a moment before he can settle on words. Ambrose's own mouth is curved into a smile - it's that confidence, again, that sense of life that death couldn't strangle from the man. ] Is that what...you want to look like? [ Will swallows, and then finally takes a step forward, hands loosening to rest at his sides, instead. He feels like he's being lured by a distant music, a promise of something beautiful at the end of a journey — in short, everything Will usually manages to find when he visits Ambrose.
Just in a very different package. ] Because I've got— no problem with dresses. Or makeup. Or wigs, I guess, I just didn't know...
[ The suggestion fades away, irrelevant unless Will can pinpoint something outside the obvious. Of course Will didn't know his boyfriend liked dressing up as a woman, as being passable for a woman. He watches Ambrose, gets distracted by the reflective life on his cheeks, in the space between eyelid and brow. Will's never given much thought to the utility of highlighter before, but on Ambrose it makes his pale skin look luminous like the moon. ]
I didn't know that there was something you wanted, in this.
{ out of all the things Ambrose has planned for all of this — the core of his style, the variety in outfits, the makeup looks, the performances — he has yet to really quantify whatever it is that he wants to be, and tries to be. when Will asks what he does, he really asks, 'is that your goal?' Ambrose is mesmerized by being caught off guard, in the realization of his scope of awareness. like holding a flashlight in the woods, the range is immediate, but what lies beyond what is known in the moment is immeasurable possibility.
he narrows the gap between them, because while he has certainly put himself on display for Will here, Ambrose would readily avail himself for closer inspection. his reply facilitates just that, and he, like a half-painted bird, perches his arms up on Will's shoulders. close, stable, safe while nearer to this heartbeat. }
Intrigue lead to experiment, which lead to discovery... I'm learning as I go, and I've learned much, but there is much more for me to find about what I want.
{ he tilts his head to ponder the details, considering the timeline of events, deciding how to narrate for Will what follows: } It began just a few months ago, everyone at the theatre wanted to put on a particular show. They have all at least seen a drag performance, some have equal aspirations. I was... { and for a moment, Ambrose wells with a rising glow that overtakes his gaze, aimed at Will, but looking through him, into his memory. }
Astounded. It was like seeing...it was seeing the manifestation of someone else's perception, and the art they wanted to make of that, with that facet of their identity. I didn't know that others thought that way.
{ Ambrose gives something of himself away in those words, a piece of that hopeful goal, one bloomed now with subconscious truth: Ambrose didn't know others had the same draws and desires and reflections of themselves that he does.
hazel eyes refocus onto Will, seeing him, almost desperately hinged on his very vital features. Ambrose very nearly says more, lips twitching with how close the words are to touching them; he nearly asks Will if he can understand any of the nonsense he's just woven together, alas — he thinks that he can, even if just intellectually. like being caught in a pair of arms, Will's extent of understanding is startlingly reliable that way. Ambrose reconciles that he will get an answer to his unspoken question, depending on what Will says now. there will be many directions to go, especially now that Ambrose has opened a doorway for inquisition, having referenced what sort of performance might be on his mind for all of this. not every man dressed up like a woman and plans to get up on a stage in front of dozens of people, of course.
but if you were wondering if your boyfriend was considering a gender change, Will, then you can take ease. Ambrose is apparently just here to play dress-up. }
[ There's something charming in how readily Ambrose shows off. Showing off isn't even the word for it — it's a celebratory indulgence that he writes invitations for easily. Ambrose would likely do the same if he were home alone — in fact he has, and that's exactly what Will walked in on. This is a display, certainly, but it's one Will can know has its roots entirely in Ambrose himself.
So there's a meaning, here, a deeply personal one. And Will's curious to know if he's earned the right to see it. Ambrose comes closer again, drapes himself against Will the way his robe is draped across himself. Will considers placing his hands on top of Ambrose's own, holding him as he wreathes his neck, but then...he reconsiders. Reaches forward and down, rests his hands on cool hips shrouded lightly in the silky material of the robe.
This close, with hands on his flanks, Will registers what he'd assumed without processing the thought — Ambrose is fully nude under the robe. Of course he is.
The replies are given thoughtfully but easily. There's no pain in them, no ache in the wondering. This isn't a desperate reach for a solution, then — it isn't one of the possibilities that had entered Will's mind at seeing this. No, this is — like so many of Ambrose's indulgences... ] It's a...facet of yourself. Not a replacement. [ He's understanding it, Ambrose, as much as he can.
And he's enraptured by it. Will is clearly back to examining Ambrose's face. Looking over the care placed there, the colors. Ambrose's very nature means that, well... ] The last time I saw your cheeks this color, it was because you'd just fed from me. [ Saying it loud, cementing the connection, causes Will's own cheeks to begin to flush. ] Now you can choose what you look like. When you look like it.
[ Will reaches one hand up, touches with his fingertips — he knows instinctively not to smear it, but there's still a pink and pearlescent glimmer to his finger pads when he pulls away again. ] I hadn't realized you'd like painting.
it's one thing for abstract, unlabeled concepts to bounce around Ambrose's thoughts, but it's another to have words put to them. his focus sharpens on Will's face at his commentary, because there is an assurance there: he knew Will would see, understand its shape, even lacking the finer details.
his expression is soon to soften next, under the suggestion his lover lays gently, the last time his cheeks were this color, and it's more than the words that amuse Ambrose — it's Will's change in complexion. he can feel the heat of it, the shift of blood pooling somewhere meant for him to see, despite the man in possession of it. the smile it earns out of Ambrose is fond.
as is the tilt of his head into Will's brief touch, before correcting his posture. } I always wanted to be...never possessed the skill, though. { Ambrose purrs with a soft laugh. } I had to make my art with myself as the instrument... Which sounds so very conceited if I voice it aloud.
{ the warmth of Will's palms bleeds through the sheer lace fabric, glows on Ambrose's otherwise bare hips, draws his stance in closer to the living man; their fronts brush together, just so.
Ambrose hadn't been sure what Will would think, once he'd brought this little creative endeavor before him. he trusted that it would be received, accepted, if not wholly agreed upon in the worst possible case...he knew Will would, if nothing else, be supportive if he could not be understanding.
but Will can see glimpses through the veil between them, one that Ambrose does not drape over himself intentionally. it's a cocoon that obscures him from himself, as much as it confounds others; finding more of himself is a two-fold task, one any human finds is a lifelong pursuit, but to become a thing of the underworld along the way? Ambrose is nearly a stranger to himself.
he, however, finds something familiar in this, in Will's embrace, in the hands on his half-bare flesh, and Ambrose sinks into it like succumbing to a tide. what makes his curiosity keen, though... }
What do you think? { Ambrose slides back a step, not out of reach; he hooks his own hands around the back of Will's neck, fingers and palms flat and light, thumbs brushing at the tapering hairline below the post-occipital valley. which means, Ambrose does not stray far from the man's own reach. } I know you wouldn't say something only to appease me.
And it is mine, for myself, but— { another one of those things Ambrose could describe in lyric, but could never outright title with ease, a concept of their connection they share while still being so separate; it means the world to Ambrose to give every version of himself over to Will. the effort to narrow its heft and shape is a brief display on Ambrose's made-up face, but he's quick to finally express: } You're so much a part of me now, that I simply cannot...share everything with you.
Truths only sound conceited because we're told to hide what we're good at. [ There's a ripple of bitter scoffing in Will's tone. ] Especially if it makes us happy. [ In case his opinions on your honest self-confidence were in any doubt at all, Ambrose, take comfort in this reassurance.
Ambrose then drapes himself against Will's shoulders more decisively, and there's no hanging off his wrists against the bump of Will's shoulders - he rests his full hands there. Cool thumbpads touch the bare skin at the top of Will's neck, right under his hair. It's only been about a week since his last cut - it's short and prickly still, and Will feels it raise like gooseflesh at the stimulus.
And then Ambrose backs away, still holding on with the lightest of touches. This, the careful holding, is more reliable of a grip than it Ambrose were demanding with the full extent of his supernatural strength. The showing off is clear, if subtle. And here, in Ambrose's bedroom, in this island of routine they've kept safe for themselves, it's a personal showing. A vie for his attention.
Will's cheeks flushed at the mentioning of Ambrose feeding, but now, Will's throat feels warm. The tips of his ears burn with some newly-adolescent sense of self-consciousness, like he's afraid to be found out for liking something flaunted nearby.
What had Ambrose said just a moment ago, expression coy, a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth? 'I have a dress in the closet, though...'
Will listens to the rest, and it's tender, but the tenderness just makes a softer field for this guilty intrigue to bloom in. ] I think I'm— both not sure on all my feelings about this yet, and I'm not sure which ones I can share. But I know this is...
[ Will lets go first, in the end, although it's just his right hand, and it's to gesture at Ambrose. At the softness of him, which always existed, but that's been put in a new light. His form is the same as it's always been while nude and draped in clothing too large for him - Will's flannels and nothing else, a bathrobe built for a man but so uni-sized as to be humorous on Ambrose's body - but the carry of himself, the context of it, is so different. Will swallows and his mouth feels excitingly dry.
His expression pinches with sudden doubt. ] Can I— Can I say that you look...beautiful? Like this? Or is that not...what this is for? [ He finds it in himself to stare back up at Ambrose, earnest while uncertain. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i've been wanting this thread for weeks and i'm finally gonna do it to em
Back up-- he was, but not with the intent to shock anyone. Back up again, maybe. Will had flown up to New York from Virginia two days ago, because feds who work as professors get more forgiving schedules than those who work in the field. He'd packed up an overnight bag with double rounds of underwear and socks, toothbrush and toothpaste, and then had the particular relief of taking a plane with no work-regulated checked luggage to drag through TSA.
They'd taken a taxi back from the airport together, because Will had timed his flight with the setting sun, even this far into summer, and it had meant that Will got to speak with Ambrose before falling asleep in bed with his still-awake partner.
Unfortunately, Will's job is the sort of thing that likes to follow him, lurking in corners and laughing knowingly to itself when he's let his guard down. His pocket of vacation from teaching is interrupted by a phone call in the early evening - too early for Ambrose to be awake. Instead, Ambrose gets to wake up to a hand-written letter on his pillow, because Will likes leaving physical aspects of his presence for Ambrose when he can. ]
jack called, there's been a case nearby and the nypd isn't thrilled about the fbi joining in, but i'm the closest employee and the most relevant to what's happened. he wants me to drop in on a briefing.
i'll be back soon, he said it shouldn't take longer than 3 hours. i'm writing this at 5:46
see you later
will
[ Will had agonized for just a moment over the ending of the letter - they haven't said that word yet, he can't just sign it off with a love, will so he doesn't, but the fact that that urge burns hot in his stomach tells him something he hadn't thought to put to words while he was still laying in bed near Ambrose.
Instead, Will gets to think about it while he takes a cab into and out of a NYPD station to sit in on what turns out, thankfully, to be an incredibly boring briefing. Will's consulting fee isn't cheap - Jack's not going to be thrilled that someone greatly overestimated the difficulty of their own case and asked for him to sit in on the meeting. Will can't find anything in himself except hollow relief that this was something lacking in gore enough that it's not going to press on his shoulders for the rest of his brief vacation.
He's as close to cheerful as he ever really gets, taking that taxi back to Ambrose's apartment. It's in a nice enough section of town; Ambrose doesn't live like some of his long-lived brethren, the sort who've spent decades collecting, embezzling, and reinvesting funds for themselves, but his theater keeps him safe instead of impoverished. Will stands at the front stairs of it and lets himself feel something warm and possessively altruistic for a moment; he feels proud of him.
So imagine his calm surprise when he isn't greeted at the door. With another partner, maybe Will would be more instantly worried - but when he comes into Ambrose's apartment and hears only distant music, he can assume so easily that it's just Ambrose's endless ability to be distracted immediately into the very depths of a task.
Following the music means he's in his bedroom, too. Will opens the door...
...and just stares at this very unique version of a scene he's otherwise been greeted with in the past. Ambrose is at his mirrored vanity, yes, and he's nude except for one piece of clothing, but that piece of clothing is a decidedly-lacy robe and his face, as he turns to look at Will, is--
Well. Will's never seen him with full blush and highlighter on, before, but there's no mistaking that even at this distance. ]
...I'm back, [ Will says, unhelpfully. ]
a tag two months in the making (that will likely take that long to read)
or rather, a lack of one.
he had known from the instant moment of consciousness, the lack of a heartbeat. Ambrose had been keen for that sound on the night of Will's arrival, could feel it buzzing in his skin once he was close enough, before he could even lay eyes on him.
awaking to the echoing quiet had brought confusion — had Ambrose imagined it all, Will coming to visit, like some desperate, fevered dream? not at all; a few of Will's minor affects laid on his bureau, the scent of his skin clung to the pillow, where the note sat waiting, assuring him otherwise.
Ambrose pondered how he would begin the evening, on his own, while he waited. waiting he can do, and with ease — the incentive is perfect, and the time without isn't long. he may not remember the lost century and a half after landing in a grave, but it was hardly a cat nap.
bathed and idle, Ambrose wandered to his dressing vanity, an old mirror from the theatre taken away and replaced with something more updated set above a quaint writing desk. it held a lamp and his particular choice of essentials, as well as...makeup, and wig caps in the drawer. his newest artistic venture, tucked away so cleanly and secretively, though having to hide from no one.
it just hasn't come up in conversation with Will, yet.
a variety of additives lay within the drawer, one of which a brand new palette of colors for adorning his face, a well of hues completely untapped; it seems like as good a time as any to play them upon his skin.
it will be a couple of hours before Will should return, and Ambrose could make use of every minute in experimentation. an artist by hand he has never really tried to be, until soft brushes with colored powders were pressed eagerly into his face. way back when, Ambrose would have just as much of a hand in applying his stage makeup as the ones with the design instruction. here and now, even the smallest of theatres have people wholly dedicated to the task, taking the work completely out of his hands.
probably explains how he wound up being placed into the role that he was given in the fall, for a rendition of a musical-turned-film-turned-cult-classic he had never heard of, the slow-burning start to this newest venture.
attempting this particular style of performance left him suddenly doing all of the work — which came as unexpectedly exhilarating as much as woefully daunting. Ambrose is awe-struck in this day by just about everything, and drag performers leave him helplessly star-stunned. it's a whole new realm for him to climb through, an endless jungle of discovery built on numerous empires of eras of time, and evolutions of not only style, but art.
Ambrose loses himself easily into the music filling the empty air and the old mirror affixed to his wall; he nearly forgets the face looking back, too enveloped in blending a petal pink into a muted green over his eyes, up until he pulls back and sees his natural completion: moon-pale, blue tendrils just under the flesh, making the colors over his eyes look almost cartoonish. his skin appears as milky marble, small dark shapes and shadows peering through an opaque skin, giving an inhuman texture. perhaps he should add a little face powder, to liven his face up, to complete the colors as he tests them...
until his brows look decidedly undone in comparison to the composition. he adds definition, just a little, shapes them naturally while filling them in with hatching lines. it reminds him of something — the tones feel nostalgic, tendrils sinking deeper through his thoughts and flinching closer to something from long ago.
of course, his face looks a little flat, with the singularly-hued powder, matte and dull on his unlivened flesh. Ambrose thinks knowing which blush and highlighter would compliment these eyes is an important addition, and selects something peachy and gold. voila — they add something sorely needed, highlighter accentuating the inner corners of his eyes, at the curves of his brow bones, even a little under his lower eyelids. it tells him to inject a warm brown somewhere, earthen, perhaps into the crease to blend the petal with the chlorophyll. pink, green, sunlit gold, tea roses picked and handed to him, the thorns pinching in his soft palm. he remembers the scent of the damp, disturbed dirt, the mound of it piled gratuitously over the casket, and he's thrumming with joy in an instant— then, stricken with confusion.
Ambrose just senses a sound out in the front of his apartment.
and realizes what this sudden swelling of ill-placed elation is.
he turns with realization, hand held up still at the height of his face, eyes on the door as it opens.
Ambrose is, ultimately, more than anything else, spread open with a simple and sheer surprise; he hadn't realized the time spent sitting here, lost between tracks of modern music wavering from his phone. Will stands there looking like an intruder, an aura of some breed of guilt blooming wide around him. he has seen, by now, Ambrose done up in stage makeup, but this...is far different. this alone is half as much as Ambrose would have to paint to be stage ready while in some gown, meaning this face he levels back at Will, mirroring his surprise, must look decidedly more natural than the extent of a drag queen's face. }
—Will. { the makeup brush is settled down on the vanity as Ambrose sits back, leaning away from the mirror. } You weren't kept as long as I feared you would be.
{ from anyone else, it might sound like a guilty 'I didn't expect you back this early,' a shameful admission on banking on the other party to be gone longer to give them more time to indulge in a secretive task. this...wasn't necessarily meant to be hidden from Will forever. it's something Ambrose doesn't think to keep hidden from anyone — check his Instagram account for proof. ah, but Will doesn't utilize such silly things as social media platforms.
Ambrose hadn't decided yet on how to reveal this new style of art to him yet; burgeoning still, he's only so much as dabbled, turning more looks than acts (though there have been quite a few) in his spare time...how would he have wanted to show Will this new act of presenting himself?
he rises from his vanity without breaking his gaze away; it's his first time seeing Will all night, and nothing can shade over the glow it lights under Ambrose's sternum. there is a hesitation, though it's small, not fearful, but undecided in his slow steps that draw him closer. } You don't sound— stressed. Did the meeting go well? { Will's heart — it doesn't pulse with tension, with a flinched snapping that it does when he remarks on the killers he's trained to track, or the...man, the psychiatrist, the monster in a suit that haunts his morals.
sorry, if it's any amount of jarring to talk as if Ambrose isn't appearing halfway to Aerosmith's claim to fame; his concern rises above his need to explain himself. }
nonsense it's wonderful and you know i devour your prose
Neither was the revelation that he's attracted to men, not just women. Will has always thought of it as a personality-based exception, and has always known what attracted him physically - slim wrists, careful throats, wide smiles - and been just a little ashamed about it.
Seeing Ambrose so overtly feminized wakes up that guilt and gives it something new to play with. It causes a delay between Will's brain and his mouth. ]
Never well, but— uneventful. It turned out they didn't need me. What— [ All the words blending together until Will actually gets to the part where he's going to ask, and then he stops short again. Licks his lips and stays put when he watches Ambrose stand.
Ambrose doesn't look defensive or ashamed. ] What does this...mean? [ Which is too broad, leaves too much room to read things from Will that he either doesn't mean or can't bear to share just yet. He shakes his head and takes one step into the room. ] I mean— to you. Not to— me. I mean— [ He shakes his head, brings a hand up to his forehead. He's not making any sense, he isn't sure what to say, so what ends up coming out is the simple truth, as he stares at the floor. ]
You look nice.
weeps how dare you
it makes it easier to hear Will's heart, the vital and steady climb it begins to take as Will's eyes move over him. Ambrose can feel it as much as track it by sight, knows that this will be a significant manner of address. he couldn't have known what Will's awareness of this sort of thing could be, and whether the delivery of it from Ambrose would phase him, or not.
phased Will is, thoroughly, potently, and for a man with such a keen sense of awareness, a drastic change to something familiar should not go missed. Ambrose thinks he would feel anxious, his heart thrumming higher and higher with an directionless fear, were it possible. in spite of the missing involuntary essence, Ambrose feels a buzzing under his flesh, over his bones, tickling in the marrow centered in his ribs. sheer anticipation, teetering in such a fine balance between joy and despair, a feeling that reminds him of his death once before.
Will fumbles unevenly with his attempt at addressing it, casting aside the wholly relevant topic concerning where he's been all evening. Ambrose wants to respond, verbalize his relief, but Will stumbles into the next too quickly.
momentarily, Ambrose wonders if Will won't understand the answer; his question is so broad that it leaves Ambrose with numerous and newly budding ones for himself. he knows that won't be any difficult part to navigate, though — bringing Will to understanding is no daunting task, when he bubbles with eerily invasive understanding on his own.
and then, reassurance comes in three little, kind words.
Ambrose is smiling gently as he draws nearer, close enough to be called close, now. } ...Well, this was a gift. { his pale hands motion to the robe, lacy and built for a draping upon a woman's frame, and he seems as fond of it as he is amused. there is a story behind it somewhere, ghosting across his eyes momentarily, one Will can likely sense already. } I wear it when I...
{ do any sort of makeup, really; it's not only for drag styling anymore, impressive given how absolutely clean the poppy petal-hued lace looks.
Ambrose picks his words like arranging a bouquet, abandoning his last thought, looking at Will with building decision. } I was practicing. A new type of performance I've been playing with, here and there.
{ Ambrose can't help how much it magnetizes him to see Will this unbalanced, to an extent he might dare to call bashful, and the vampire has to lift his hands to his warming cheeks. he doesn't urge him to look up at him, content only to hold his face, feel Will's groomed beard in his palms. he's taken more care in himself since they began this intimate chapter in their relationship, hasn't he? }
I'm glad they didn't need you more than I thought I did tonight. { mirth to ease Will's rabbit-heart, Ambrose smiles with lips that remain unpainted. } Should I wash my face? I'm hardly half done. { with the small purring laugh, it's genuine, no question about Ambrose's intentions when he asks; it's a test, not a challenge, but to sense how Will feels about what he's seeing. is it too jarring? too much? }
no subject
I wear it when I... Costumes aren't a new concept, to Ambrose or to the human experience at large or even to Will himself, but this is a new shade of them. This was at home, alone. Was it always meant to be private? Who gifted Ambrose a laced robe like this, that softens already-smooth skin at the edges with patterns Will's never worn but always enjoyed looking at? Do they know this aspect of Ambrose already?
Is this part of Ambrose's other life, the one Will happily lets him indulge in separately?
Will stiffens in those hands at his cheeks for only a moment. As long as it takes to realize Ambrose isn't going to force him to look, to manhandle him, to alter the timing to suit himself. Will relaxes into the touch instead, degree by degree turning his face down in towards the cupped palms.
He lets his lips touch Ambrose's thumb, but doesn't move his mouth into a proper kiss. It's just the smooth sensation of living stone under his lips. ]
I guess it makes sense I wouldn't have met all your masks yet. Or that— you hadn't even met all your masks yet. [ Because this is new...to Ambrose, too. He's just said as much.
Will lets that support them a little longer, and then he's being presented with an offer. Will pulls away only now, to look back up and at Ambrose's face again. This time it's more than eye contact - it's a reassessment. There's a false life to Ambrose's face that doesn't feel false at all. Shadows deepened, highlights accentuated, the entirety of it shifted slightly in hue. It's the eyes that catch Will's attention first and keep doing so, if he's entirely honest. Like spring blooms added to a tree that he'd only ever seen mid-summer. ]
Only if I...interrupted. [ Will swallows. ] Otherwise, I'd...
I'm curious what this looks like when it's 'done'. [ It's a small moment's bravery to admit it, and a surprise to discover it - and yet this must only be a fraction of what Ambrose is experiencing. The realization makes Will's face split with a smile, his breath hitch with a short laugh. It's embarrassment and a lack of balance and the sort of amusement that you can only find when you trust someone with seeing you caught by surprise. ] Sorry, I'm not-- I don't usually try to respond to my dates wearing makeup by interrogating them.
no subject
so many of Will's responses come away unexpectedly; that's the fascinating thing about him. Ambrose doesn't expect him to snap up and take himself back to realign his focus, but his hands fall just below his jaw as if it were somehow expected. a lively carotid thrums under his palms, enticing Ambrose to nip at his own bottom lip without forethought. were this not such a compelling conversation, he might slip like a fool into the craving to press a kiss onto his lips, to feel that pulse echoing though tender flesh.
commend Ambrose for his ability to focus, somebody, anybody. }
Your interruptions have only ever been blessings. { said with absolute belief; isn't interruption how they met, after all? it's a reassurance that might burn a little too warm on Will's skin, but Ambrose has no other words to offer.
but a segue is a useful tool; Ambrose pulls away to give Will a little more breathing room, not fully out of grasp — but he uses the space to gently emphasize himself when he responds: } I want to share this with you — I've been agonizing over just how to do it.
{ Ambrose takes a step backward, layered lace coyly covering over his form, obscuring...enough. the tone doesn't match the selection applied to his face, but doesn't cause any offense, either. } When this is done, it tends to look like something passable for a woman. { is isn't condescending, but a confirmation presented on a small laugh. it's an established parameter that he gives Will: an admission that this is more than some feminine makeup on a man's face, but halfway to a transformative illusion. Ambrose wonders how much it succeeds or fails in Will's eyes, in half makeup and some lace tied around his body. }
I regret to inform that all the wigs are at the theatre. { not that his lengthy hair doesn't lean into something 'feminine' itself, neck-length at its longest, but framing his face down to his jaw, it doesn't hinder the image any. he taps a fingertip at his bottom lip thoughtfully. }
...I have a dress in the closet, though. { Ambrose's voice is nearly a purr when he suggests it, and he makes a conscious effort not to smile too wide...he would like to maintain some semblance of tact, while glee buds up for a myriad of reasons — for himself, as much as his excitement to glean Will's response to his offer. will he let Ambrose dress up for him? it's only a little, if anything. }
ambrose naked in a lace robe is living all our best lives...........
He nods jerkily at the revelation that Ambrose had been planning to tell him but gotten caught in the planning - it's so mundanely accurate as to be comical, considering the topic - but he looks back up with some surprise at the rest. Passable for a woman.
Wigs.
Dress. Will's mouth is open a moment before he can settle on words. Ambrose's own mouth is curved into a smile - it's that confidence, again, that sense of life that death couldn't strangle from the man. ] Is that what...you want to look like? [ Will swallows, and then finally takes a step forward, hands loosening to rest at his sides, instead. He feels like he's being lured by a distant music, a promise of something beautiful at the end of a journey — in short, everything Will usually manages to find when he visits Ambrose.
Just in a very different package. ] Because I've got— no problem with dresses. Or makeup. Or wigs, I guess, I just didn't know...
[ The suggestion fades away, irrelevant unless Will can pinpoint something outside the obvious. Of course Will didn't know his boyfriend liked dressing up as a woman, as being passable for a woman. He watches Ambrose, gets distracted by the reflective life on his cheeks, in the space between eyelid and brow. Will's never given much thought to the utility of highlighter before, but on Ambrose it makes his pale skin look luminous like the moon. ]
I didn't know that there was something you wanted, in this.
started from the coffin, and now we're here
he narrows the gap between them, because while he has certainly put himself on display for Will here, Ambrose would readily avail himself for closer inspection. his reply facilitates just that, and he, like a half-painted bird, perches his arms up on Will's shoulders. close, stable, safe while nearer to this heartbeat. }
Intrigue lead to experiment, which lead to discovery... I'm learning as I go, and I've learned much, but there is much more for me to find about what I want.
{ he tilts his head to ponder the details, considering the timeline of events, deciding how to narrate for Will what follows: } It began just a few months ago, everyone at the theatre wanted to put on a particular show. They have all at least seen a drag performance, some have equal aspirations. I was... { and for a moment, Ambrose wells with a rising glow that overtakes his gaze, aimed at Will, but looking through him, into his memory. }
Astounded. It was like seeing...it was seeing the manifestation of someone else's perception, and the art they wanted to make of that, with that facet of their identity. I didn't know that others thought that way.
{ Ambrose gives something of himself away in those words, a piece of that hopeful goal, one bloomed now with subconscious truth: Ambrose didn't know others had the same draws and desires and reflections of themselves that he does.
hazel eyes refocus onto Will, seeing him, almost desperately hinged on his very vital features. Ambrose very nearly says more, lips twitching with how close the words are to touching them; he nearly asks Will if he can understand any of the nonsense he's just woven together, alas — he thinks that he can, even if just intellectually. like being caught in a pair of arms, Will's extent of understanding is startlingly reliable that way. Ambrose reconciles that he will get an answer to his unspoken question, depending on what Will says now. there will be many directions to go, especially now that Ambrose has opened a doorway for inquisition, having referenced what sort of performance might be on his mind for all of this. not every man dressed up like a woman and plans to get up on a stage in front of dozens of people, of course.
but if you were wondering if your boyfriend was considering a gender change, Will, then you can take ease. Ambrose is apparently just here to play dress-up. }
no subject
So there's a meaning, here, a deeply personal one. And Will's curious to know if he's earned the right to see it. Ambrose comes closer again, drapes himself against Will the way his robe is draped across himself. Will considers placing his hands on top of Ambrose's own, holding him as he wreathes his neck, but then...he reconsiders. Reaches forward and down, rests his hands on cool hips shrouded lightly in the silky material of the robe.
This close, with hands on his flanks, Will registers what he'd assumed without processing the thought — Ambrose is fully nude under the robe. Of course he is.
The replies are given thoughtfully but easily. There's no pain in them, no ache in the wondering. This isn't a desperate reach for a solution, then — it isn't one of the possibilities that had entered Will's mind at seeing this. No, this is — like so many of Ambrose's indulgences... ] It's a...facet of yourself. Not a replacement. [ He's understanding it, Ambrose, as much as he can.
And he's enraptured by it. Will is clearly back to examining Ambrose's face. Looking over the care placed there, the colors. Ambrose's very nature means that, well... ] The last time I saw your cheeks this color, it was because you'd just fed from me. [ Saying it loud, cementing the connection, causes Will's own cheeks to begin to flush. ] Now you can choose what you look like. When you look like it.
[ Will reaches one hand up, touches with his fingertips — he knows instinctively not to smear it, but there's still a pink and pearlescent glimmer to his finger pads when he pulls away again. ] I hadn't realized you'd like painting.
no subject
it's one thing for abstract, unlabeled concepts to bounce around Ambrose's thoughts, but it's another to have words put to them. his focus sharpens on Will's face at his commentary, because there is an assurance there: he knew Will would see, understand its shape, even lacking the finer details.
his expression is soon to soften next, under the suggestion his lover lays gently, the last time his cheeks were this color, and it's more than the words that amuse Ambrose — it's Will's change in complexion. he can feel the heat of it, the shift of blood pooling somewhere meant for him to see, despite the man in possession of it. the smile it earns out of Ambrose is fond.
as is the tilt of his head into Will's brief touch, before correcting his posture. } I always wanted to be...never possessed the skill, though. { Ambrose purrs with a soft laugh. } I had to make my art with myself as the instrument... Which sounds so very conceited if I voice it aloud.
{ the warmth of Will's palms bleeds through the sheer lace fabric, glows on Ambrose's otherwise bare hips, draws his stance in closer to the living man; their fronts brush together, just so.
Ambrose hadn't been sure what Will would think, once he'd brought this little creative endeavor before him. he trusted that it would be received, accepted, if not wholly agreed upon in the worst possible case...he knew Will would, if nothing else, be supportive if he could not be understanding.
but Will can see glimpses through the veil between them, one that Ambrose does not drape over himself intentionally. it's a cocoon that obscures him from himself, as much as it confounds others; finding more of himself is a two-fold task, one any human finds is a lifelong pursuit, but to become a thing of the underworld along the way? Ambrose is nearly a stranger to himself.
he, however, finds something familiar in this, in Will's embrace, in the hands on his half-bare flesh, and Ambrose sinks into it like succumbing to a tide. what makes his curiosity keen, though... }
What do you think? { Ambrose slides back a step, not out of reach; he hooks his own hands around the back of Will's neck, fingers and palms flat and light, thumbs brushing at the tapering hairline below the post-occipital valley. which means, Ambrose does not stray far from the man's own reach. } I know you wouldn't say something only to appease me.
And it is mine, for myself, but— { another one of those things Ambrose could describe in lyric, but could never outright title with ease, a concept of their connection they share while still being so separate; it means the world to Ambrose to give every version of himself over to Will. the effort to narrow its heft and shape is a brief display on Ambrose's made-up face, but he's quick to finally express: } You're so much a part of me now, that I simply cannot...share everything with you.
no subject
Ambrose then drapes himself against Will's shoulders more decisively, and there's no hanging off his wrists against the bump of Will's shoulders - he rests his full hands there. Cool thumbpads touch the bare skin at the top of Will's neck, right under his hair. It's only been about a week since his last cut - it's short and prickly still, and Will feels it raise like gooseflesh at the stimulus.
And then Ambrose backs away, still holding on with the lightest of touches. This, the careful holding, is more reliable of a grip than it Ambrose were demanding with the full extent of his supernatural strength. The showing off is clear, if subtle. And here, in Ambrose's bedroom, in this island of routine they've kept safe for themselves, it's a personal showing. A vie for his attention.
Will's cheeks flushed at the mentioning of Ambrose feeding, but now, Will's throat feels warm. The tips of his ears burn with some newly-adolescent sense of self-consciousness, like he's afraid to be found out for liking something flaunted nearby.
What had Ambrose said just a moment ago, expression coy, a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth? 'I have a dress in the closet, though...'
Will listens to the rest, and it's tender, but the tenderness just makes a softer field for this guilty intrigue to bloom in. ] I think I'm— both not sure on all my feelings about this yet, and I'm not sure which ones I can share. But I know this is...
[ Will lets go first, in the end, although it's just his right hand, and it's to gesture at Ambrose. At the softness of him, which always existed, but that's been put in a new light. His form is the same as it's always been while nude and draped in clothing too large for him - Will's flannels and nothing else, a bathrobe built for a man but so uni-sized as to be humorous on Ambrose's body - but the carry of himself, the context of it, is so different. Will swallows and his mouth feels excitingly dry.
His expression pinches with sudden doubt. ] Can I— Can I say that you look...beautiful? Like this? Or is that not...what this is for? [ He finds it in himself to stare back up at Ambrose, earnest while uncertain. ]