The Waterfront
He knew, if he waited, if he watched long enough, if he would see dawn break over the edges of the water. It would rise, there, somewhere in the distance, wouldn’t it? No matter how long and dark the night, if he sat and waited it out, he’d see the sun. In the Islands, he could pass sleepness nights picking out the prick of constellations against the sky; it was pleasant, sometimes, to crawl out of the window of his room, to climb the roof, and lay on his back, gazing up and naming the stars to himself. They looked the same as they had above Thul’Amat, a decade and a half ago, on those rare nights when they were clear enough to see. He knew they had official names, but he had never learned them – willfully, at this point. It would be easy enough to get a book on astronomy, but he liked the constellations he had named – he always had.
Tom said his name, and Aremu felt himself stiffen again, taut and tense. Grateful wasn’t the word he’d expected from Tom, although he couldn’t have said what he’d thought would be there instead. The way Tom said it – as if Aremu did not want to stay. He caught the breath that threatened to shudder in his throat, and he wondered.
Trust was a heavy burden to lay on him, Aremu thought, even on such a small thing, and yet oddly he felt lighter than he had. He took a deep breath, slowly. Yes, it was heavy, that trust, but strangely it felt as if he could rest upon it, rather than the other way around. Slowly, Aremu turned back, graceful and easy; he did not even hold onto the railing.
It was dark, and from even this distance Tom was all shadows – the heavy fall of his dark hair around his head, deeper around his dark eyes, lighter at the curve of his mouth – the bulk of him, interrupted by his shirt, more like an echo than anything, cast yellow by the distant streetlights. It was hard to tell, but Aremu thought he had his hands in his lap, as if he, too, needed something to hold on to. He wondered what it’d be like to touch that thick dark hair of his, and he thought of how he’d found the other man. Aremu swallowed, a little harder.
“I came because I’d like to know you better too,” Aremu said, softly. He did not apologize again; he didn’t think Tom needed it of him, and he did not wish to cheapen the one he had already offered. "I'll - come."
Slowly, no more quickly than he’d walked away, he stepped back along the narrow edge of the boards, and he stopped, close to Tom. Then, tentatively, he shifted just a little closer, and when he sat again – there was space between them, still, but less than there had been. He didn’t shy away from the gentle brush of his knee against the other man’s thigh when he sat, but he didn’t linger on it either, and even when he finished the motion, there was only a little space between them.
The only problem, Aremu thought, was the waistcoat; it was well enough for sitting at a dinner table, straight-backed and rigid, but not comfortable in the least when perched on a railing. Aremu undid the buttons with quick deft fingers; it came loose easily enough, fluttering softly in the breeze. Aremu sighed, arching his back lightly, and finding a more comfortable way to sit. He tugged at the collar of the shirt, and then gave up and undid the buttons there as well, just the first few, just enough that there was no pressure on him but his own.
“It won’t trouble me if you ask,” Aremu offered, softly, and it was his turn to be just barely audible over the lapping waves below, the creak of the wood, the distant hum of the nightlife of the Rose. No, he thought; perhaps he wasn’t done apologizing, not just yet, and if it was a lie, he thought it was a worthwhile one. “If – if there’s something I can’t… I’ll tell you,” that, he thought, was truth, and he was content to find the balance between them, as narrow as the ledge beyond the railing.