Kotetsu's one question stalls Barnaby's thoughts immediately, sending the spiral of hypotheses to a tumbling stop. What is it that he's afraid of? He actually doesn't know. He doesn't know Kotetsu's family, but beyond that, there is no concrete thing which Barnaby can point to which would or should make him believe that Kotetsu ought to be worried about the idea of this, whatever this is (he would like to define it, actually,) with Barnaby.

"I'm not rushing," he says, bafflement still written on his expression. He stays there, with arms around him, still for the time being. Although it's tempting to lean forward into the other man again, or to kiss him, or to simply bury his nose in the smooth, curved muscle of Kotetsu's shouldders.

All that Barnaby knows for certain is that, when he casts his eyes to the future, he can't see anything there but the man in front of him. That's the case. He'd once teased Kotetsu, saying that his dream -- to hear his daughter call him cool -- was too small. If that's true, then barnaby is in the same boat.

"I just don't want my dream to slip through my fingers. Don't you dare make fun of me," he says, narrowing green eyes, dark from the taste of someone else in his mouth. Barnaby doesn't often use flowery language like that, utilitarian as he is. He means it when he does, even if it comes out in a voice that sounds more like it's testing the words for feel than anything.