The Ibutatu House, Isla Dzum
Not, Aremu thought, all the sting. Yes, he wanted to say, I remember. In the mind’s eye of his memory, the cave hadn’t been so bad. He would rather have forgotten the slow, grueling swim to shore, and having been sick so many times before Aurelie. He would rather have forgotten the walk up to the house, in which he had leaned so much on her as they dragged him step by step along the sand, the grass, the road.
Chastised, Aremu just inclined his head in answer, not nodding for fear of worsening his ever-present headache. Of course I’m worried about you, Aurelie said, her hand soft on his.
Of course, Aremu could have said. He didn’t know if he should have. Even the struggle up the stairs that morning seemed as if it had happened to someone else; half of yesterday felt like a dream. Bits of it - kissing Aurelie in the cave, waking with her in his arms, kissing her again - were crisp and sharp, or so he wanted to tell himself. He couldn’t - he wouldn’t - forget them, or let them blur with the rest. If that meant he had the clung to the memories of his own pathetic weakness, Aremu thought, his stomach churning, he would.
I’ll be fine, he might have said, if not for the deliberate exactitude of her recitation; it seemed unfair, dismissive, and maybe even cruel to answer her so. He couldn’t bring himself to it.
“Thank you,” Aremu said automatically at the mention of egg wine. Egg and wine? He had never heard of such a thing, and his stomach churned at the thought of it. He looked back at the cup on the tray. Aurelie was curled against his side, just a little, closer than she had been downstairs. He couldn’t help but find it comforting; he couldn’t help but need the comfort.
“I’d better have it now then,” Aremu gave her cheek a last brush, and eased his hand away. He leaned over, conscious of not pressing too much against Aurelie, although some contact was inevitable. He took the warm cup from the tray, and looked down as he brought it back.
It was, he felt, oddly thick looking. It smelled like wine and spices, which might perhaps not have been unpleasant, but was so just now. He took a deep breath, set the cup to his lips, and drank.
He didn’t chug it all down, not sure if he was meant to; he didn’t take just a tiny sip earlier, but a decent slug of it. It was odd; it wasn’t as unpleasant as he had feared, though he wouldn’t quite have said it was good either. He swallowed against the protestations of his stomach, and smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring at Aurelie, sitting back against the headboard once more.
“Thank you,” Aremu said, after a moment, looking down at the warm cup curled beneath his fingers. He didn’t think he felt worse, at least, not once it was down. He drank a bit more, steeling himself to it, and then the last of it.
Aremu set the empty cup aside, and leaned back, breathing evenly in and out. His stomach was churning, and his head ached. If Aurelie settled against his side once more, he would wrap his arm around her, happy to have her close, and turn to brush his lips over her hair.
“How are you feeling?” Aremu asked. Not about me, he wanted to say, petulant, but it didn’t seem helpful. If she didn’t seem to mind, he would stroke his thumb gently over the outside of her arm, tender and careful.
The egg wine had woken him up a bit, at least, Aremu felt. He could sort of taste it in his mouth and on his tongue, and in his unsettled stomach. He didn’t feel on the verge of being sick; he also wasn’t sure he could manage any more food, not just now, though he wasn’t ready to admit it.
He looked down at Aurelie once more, her small round head and her lovely soft hair; he wanted to kiss it again - to kiss her again - but he held off. They needed, Aremu thought unpleasantly, to talk. For now he couldn’t seem to bring himself to it. There was too much warm comfort in the soft pressure of her body, nestled against his side. He was selfish, Aremu knew, but the lingering ache of guilt paled in comparison to how good it felt, to hold her so.