Quarter Fords • Old Rose Harbor
Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2716
A
hammer, he’d said, and Tom could see a shape weaving itself together against his eyelids. The first bright star — Tom’s lips moved, the breath rumbled in his throat, but nothing came out. He could see those stars, humming gold life behind a dark tapestry, and he could see Aremu watching them. He didn’t wonder where, not anymore, or how — he felt like he knew, or if he didn’t, it didn’t matter. Physical space didn’t matter, here. Thul Ka, where the rivers met, dancing hands of the vein; the deck of an airship, a tapestry of rippling silver threads holding artevium — it was all the same, all the same under the eyes of the stars. Tom’s heart swelled with it, and he watched Aremu’s pulse streak gold in the dark.
The gold shuddered and hitched, and Aremu’s frame went stiff in his arms. He felt his fingers curled into the wool of his sweater; he held the imbala close, and they were knitted together in the web for a long time. What did you see? he wanted to ask. Where is it, whatever’s there, whatever hurts — where is it on the star-map? Where is it in relation to the hammer? What’s its shape, its color?
Then his breathing evened out, and he could speak again, and Tom listened. In that moment, he could see Aremu reaching out, holding a hammer made of stars; he believed it. He believed, too, that given the hammer, given the bright star, Aremu could find anything — given the searching and the wanting.
You’ve a map in your head, he wanted to say, aching, wherever you go; you can find yourself, wherever you go. What’re some of the other shapes? What else lives in the sky? Only he tangled himself up thinking about it, tangled himself up in thread, and then Aremu was speaking, asking him a question.
The stars in his head, and the shadow of the candleflame, dispersed to dark. He breathed in, and the rushing of his pulse in his ears was the rumbling snore of the Tincta Basta. The velvet dark was water, all around them. He breathed through Aremu’s touch; he knew, sure as he knew anything, he’d be drowning without it.
What did he see in it?
Tom’s lips pulled down in the faintest of frowns. The couch creaked softly; he could feel Aremu moving beside him. “I don’t see a map,” he said after a moment. “I don’t look out over the Mahogany to find my way; it’s got no shapes or colors to know it by, nothin’ to make sense of. You look out over the bay, you feel more lost than you was when you –”
He broke off; his breath caught, and he shut his eyes again. But then Aremu’s weight was settled on his lap, his knees straddling him. Tom raised his head, because he could feel Aremu’s gold touch tracing his cheek — then his lips, again, lingering, breath and lips and tongue, and Tom raised his hand to bury his fingertips in the imbala’s hair like he’d wanted to do earlier, if only his hands hadn’t been full of chan.
“It’s how I lose myself,” he gasped softly into Aremu’s lips, drawing away a little. Their noses were barely an inch apart, still; this close, Tom couldn’t make much out in the blur of his face. He could make out two dark eyes, though, and the glisten of light in them, and he could trace the lines of that face without seeing them. He thought he saw understanding in those eyes, somehow, or he saw a reflection of himself.
Aremu stroked his face, and he smiled again. “It’s jus’ a skin,” he went on, his hand slipping from the back of the imbala’s head; he ran his thumb along the line of Aremu’s cheekbone, leaving a golden thread behind it. “A man can look into the water an’ see himself, on a calm day, like a mirror… but if he puts his head under, it’s dark an’ deep, an’ it’s livin’ and breathin’ — it breathes wi’ the moon — an’ it goes on forever, an’ ain’t nobody makes sense of it or calls himself its master. Gods know enough men’ve tried, an’ lost themselves tryin’ to name it.”
He shifted against Aremu, feeling the soft press of him; he felt a pleasant tingling building, and that was outlined in gold, too. Their hearts beat in shimmering pulses. Together, seemed to Tom, together, indistinguishable. Who — he couldn’t think — who was the water? Who’d subsumed…
He couldn’t hold onto the thought, because even if he couldn’t see Aremu’s lips, he could feel them, familiar in their every contour. And somehow they were pressed against his again; he thought he’d done it, but he couldn’t be sure. The space between them was warm with breath, and he shifted again, tracing the imbala’s cheek, bringing his lips and his breath up to his ear.
“I want to be lost,” he murmured, “an’ I want to be found again,” and he brought his kisses down to Aremu’s neck, to the place where his blood ran the thickest with the stars in his head. He found his hands wandering to the hem of his sweater. “Can you use the stars to find me?” He found his voice earnest, beseeching and earnest, thick and ragged with feeling he didn’t half understand.
hammer, he’d said, and Tom could see a shape weaving itself together against his eyelids. The first bright star — Tom’s lips moved, the breath rumbled in his throat, but nothing came out. He could see those stars, humming gold life behind a dark tapestry, and he could see Aremu watching them. He didn’t wonder where, not anymore, or how — he felt like he knew, or if he didn’t, it didn’t matter. Physical space didn’t matter, here. Thul Ka, where the rivers met, dancing hands of the vein; the deck of an airship, a tapestry of rippling silver threads holding artevium — it was all the same, all the same under the eyes of the stars. Tom’s heart swelled with it, and he watched Aremu’s pulse streak gold in the dark.
The gold shuddered and hitched, and Aremu’s frame went stiff in his arms. He felt his fingers curled into the wool of his sweater; he held the imbala close, and they were knitted together in the web for a long time. What did you see? he wanted to ask. Where is it, whatever’s there, whatever hurts — where is it on the star-map? Where is it in relation to the hammer? What’s its shape, its color?
Then his breathing evened out, and he could speak again, and Tom listened. In that moment, he could see Aremu reaching out, holding a hammer made of stars; he believed it. He believed, too, that given the hammer, given the bright star, Aremu could find anything — given the searching and the wanting.
You’ve a map in your head, he wanted to say, aching, wherever you go; you can find yourself, wherever you go. What’re some of the other shapes? What else lives in the sky? Only he tangled himself up thinking about it, tangled himself up in thread, and then Aremu was speaking, asking him a question.
The stars in his head, and the shadow of the candleflame, dispersed to dark. He breathed in, and the rushing of his pulse in his ears was the rumbling snore of the Tincta Basta. The velvet dark was water, all around them. He breathed through Aremu’s touch; he knew, sure as he knew anything, he’d be drowning without it.
What did he see in it?
Tom’s lips pulled down in the faintest of frowns. The couch creaked softly; he could feel Aremu moving beside him. “I don’t see a map,” he said after a moment. “I don’t look out over the Mahogany to find my way; it’s got no shapes or colors to know it by, nothin’ to make sense of. You look out over the bay, you feel more lost than you was when you –”
He broke off; his breath caught, and he shut his eyes again. But then Aremu’s weight was settled on his lap, his knees straddling him. Tom raised his head, because he could feel Aremu’s gold touch tracing his cheek — then his lips, again, lingering, breath and lips and tongue, and Tom raised his hand to bury his fingertips in the imbala’s hair like he’d wanted to do earlier, if only his hands hadn’t been full of chan.
“It’s how I lose myself,” he gasped softly into Aremu’s lips, drawing away a little. Their noses were barely an inch apart, still; this close, Tom couldn’t make much out in the blur of his face. He could make out two dark eyes, though, and the glisten of light in them, and he could trace the lines of that face without seeing them. He thought he saw understanding in those eyes, somehow, or he saw a reflection of himself.
Aremu stroked his face, and he smiled again. “It’s jus’ a skin,” he went on, his hand slipping from the back of the imbala’s head; he ran his thumb along the line of Aremu’s cheekbone, leaving a golden thread behind it. “A man can look into the water an’ see himself, on a calm day, like a mirror… but if he puts his head under, it’s dark an’ deep, an’ it’s livin’ and breathin’ — it breathes wi’ the moon — an’ it goes on forever, an’ ain’t nobody makes sense of it or calls himself its master. Gods know enough men’ve tried, an’ lost themselves tryin’ to name it.”
He shifted against Aremu, feeling the soft press of him; he felt a pleasant tingling building, and that was outlined in gold, too. Their hearts beat in shimmering pulses. Together, seemed to Tom, together, indistinguishable. Who — he couldn’t think — who was the water? Who’d subsumed…
He couldn’t hold onto the thought, because even if he couldn’t see Aremu’s lips, he could feel them, familiar in their every contour. And somehow they were pressed against his again; he thought he’d done it, but he couldn’t be sure. The space between them was warm with breath, and he shifted again, tracing the imbala’s cheek, bringing his lips and his breath up to his ear.
“I want to be lost,” he murmured, “an’ I want to be found again,” and he brought his kisses down to Aremu’s neck, to the place where his blood ran the thickest with the stars in his head. He found his hands wandering to the hem of his sweater. “Can you use the stars to find me?” He found his voice earnest, beseeching and earnest, thick and ragged with feeling he didn’t half understand.
