Two years ago, the hand would have made Barnaby tense. He would have thrown away that small comfort, from Kotetsu or anyone else, no matter how sorely-needed it had been. Barnaby doesn't throw the attention off now. He lets the hand rest, warm, not surreal, in his hair and around the back of his neck.

He gives himself the chance to breathe, to try to force the ignorant heat off of his face. Lifting a hand, he moves it over his shoulder, trapping Kotetsu's hand where it is, curled around the base of his neck.

"I found myself. My parents would have wanted me to be happy, and to help people. That's what I want to do. But I want to do it with you. I'm not saying I'm sticking you in there as some sort of proxy for normal relationships, so you'd damn well better not be trying to turn this into that. I'm saying, I ... "

He's hit a wall. He's hit the extent to which he can grasp what he's feeling, and admit it. It isn't just the poor practice of unfamiliarity, and Barnaby knows it, and that makes it worse. It's also that he is still terrified he's going to get an insufficient answer.

Never knowing would be better than being dismissed. He would rather stop himself from pursuing it any further.