[Memory] Deep Waters

[Tom Cooke]

Quarter Fords • Old Rose Harbor

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2716

“Are you sure?” Aremu asked, softly. He sat up, then, and his arms wrapped around his own legs, holding them tight. He asked as if it were some grotesque sight he offered, some gaping wound. He asked as if it were something that Tom would not be able to unsee, or rather as if it were something Tom would always see, when he looked at him; as if it were the only thing Tom would ever see, again, when he looked at the imbala.

It was still a little while before he could begin. Closing his eyes seemed to help. “It has happened twice,” Aremu said, his voice a low whisper. “The first time, it was like being a thousand places at all once, too fast to process and too slow to ever stop. They swept through me, and I could see nothing else - hear nothing else - smell nothing else - feel nothing else. I was nothing else.”

Aremu sighed. “And then it was over, and I lay on the floor with a terrible headache. It stayed with me - it has stayed with me until today - but I never could make any sense of it.”

The imbala was silent a moment longer. “The second time was different,” he said, slowly. “It started much the same but - some of the images leaked from me - spilled forth from my mouth and nose and eyes and became real in the world. I could look at them and see them in a puddle before me, and I knew them for what they were - the mind of a man.”

There was more he could have said, then, much more - because Aremu had known who the man was, in his heart and in his mind, but those words he could not set free.

“As I understand it,” his voice was hoarse and aching now, slow and careful. “All men have minds, but what is in another’s mind is written in a language we do not speak, beautiful and terrible and unknowable. And yet for a moment, I see it - I can translate a page or two - not in my own mind, but outside of it. I cannot choose the man or the pages. It works through me, and I can but - hold.”

He stopped there, and he pressed his forehead into his legs, and he wondered if he had said too much; he wondered if this would be the end of it, if tenderness could not survive such knowing. And Tom’s hand rested on his back, slowly, and traced shapes that had no name, and Aremu was glad he did not know them.

*

They'd been silent for awhile, ’cause Tom hadn’t seen fit to say anything; there was nothing he could’ve said, he thought, that his hands couldn’t’ve said better. Aremu’d told, and it was time for Tom to show. To show what? Aremu had said it like he’d thought the knowing would twist him out of shape, would bring some nightmare alive to swallow them both; except, after he'd done, there was just Aremu, sitting with his face pressed between his knees, and Tom couldn’t think to do anything but hold him.

So they’d been silent for awhile, and Tom wasn’t sure how long they’d sat in it when he finally saw fit to break it. It wasn’t to say anything about what Aremu’d told him, ’cause he didn’t think he could, not yet. It was just a question, a quiet suggestion, an offer - and he floated it in the space between them like a whiff of incense. An invitation.

And then, he just held him close.

There was still something Yaris about the light, Tom thought, even though the leaves were already turning. It was still the long, lazy sun of Yaris looking through the dusty glass – stretching its languid limbs out over the scratched, scuffed hardwood, making shapes on the worn red rug. It was still the long sun, deep warm amber, with its pink evening skies that made skeleton shadows of the shedding trees; and Tom liked it, while it lasted, and he didn’t want to bid it farewell. Leastways, not without company.

For the last fleeting hours of the day, the house at Quarter Fords was full of that light. It was full of warmth, too; though the boards were still chill underfoot, the stove’d been burning for some hours. Faint smells of sage and patchouli and lavender and sandalwood clung to the rafters and the furniture.

Being honest, Tom hadn’t known what to think.

He wasn’t a man who thought he knew enough about the world to draw its borders thick and bold in his head. He was no stranger to ghosts, to all manner of strangeness, not for as long as he’d known hama; and he knew, having known all manner of tekaa, that voo could do some fair strange things. He knew the rattling in his own head, and he knew most things fell apart if you looked too close at them. Either you didn’t look, or you got comfortable with the dissolution. Tom’d done his fair share of both.

He hadn’t known, not really, why Aremu Ediwo carried it like a curse. He’d heard tell of them that burst into flame, or withered all they touched; he reckoned it made sense, then, for them to steer clear of the living, to carry it inside them like – spilled salt, or a horseshoe upside-down. He’d heard tell of them that really could scrag you on a stroke of bad luck, and he’d heard tell of them that didn’t know, one way or another, what they were capable of.

But it wasn’t just the fear of it; it was something in the way Aremu’d said whole, that day all the way back in Roalis, on the dock. Something about the way he’d said are you sure, like Tom had wanted anything more than to know him better, to know him better so that he might love him better.

The light was dying. Soon, he thought, and busied himself. He lit a match, hsssk, listened to the soft whisper of its burn in the quiet evening air. He watched the flame waver at his fingertips for just a moment, then heated the charcoal in hama’s old clay mabkhara. Shuffling round in the kitchen, he found the bakhoor, and soon enough, the smell of agarwood smoke was thick in the air.

He settled back back against the counter, shutting his eyes and breathing it in. Twilight settled like dust, softening all the harsh shapes of the day. The crickets were thinning out in Dentis, but they still sang; Tom could hear them out in the garden.

The mind of a man, he thought.

A language we do not speak.

Tom took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest. He shivered a little into his wool.

In the weeks since, with the Eqe Aqawe out somewhere over the Tincta Basta, Tom had had time to think about it. Rather, he’d had time to dream about it. The first dream was in late Yaris; he’d woken in a tangle of sheets, hama’s eyes wide with concern, murmuring about a man’s face glimpsed in spilt whisky. Then, he’d dreamt of blood – the imbala’s – he’d dreamt of images plucked from the mind of somebody he loved, somebody he’d never see again. (And he’d dreamt, disturbingly, of whispered Monite in Aremu’s voice, of the air grown heavy and thick and woobly around the imbala – but he tried to bury that one, ’cause it felt wrong.)

For all it’d troubled him, word that the crew was dockside had been fair pleasing. And for all it’d troubled him, it’d settled on him, and it was just another piece of how Aremu Ediwo was taking shape in his head; and the shape wasn’t any less pleasing than it’d ever been.

The candles cast the room into soft, wavering shapes, and Tom had settled back beside the stove with his eyes shut. As far as weeks went, it’d been an easy enough one, and for once, all his muscles didn’t ache; there were no fresh marks, ragged and laoso, to sting underneath the wool of his shirt. Still, all his scars tugged at him with the tilting of the seasons, and every year weighed on him. He’d half fallen asleep standing up when he heard the noise, and it jolted him back.

“Door’s open!” he called hoarsely, clearing his throat. He rolled his shoulders, starting away from the cabinet, only to feel something soft and wiry tangle itself up on his legs. “Godsdamn –”

A tiny voice went, pbbbbrt.

Tom caught himself on the counter and snorted. “Fuckin’ hell, nanabo, watch where you’re goin’,” he muttered, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, laughing. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Ersehat.” The cat slipped away, soft thump-thump-thump in the quiet.
“Come in!”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8th Dentis, 2716
Quarter Fords

Aremu checked the last piece of the engine, and knew he was dawdling. It was all cool, and what repairs were needed he already had planned, sketched out in his mind like a map. Niccolette and Uzoji had left for their home, and Chibugo had left to drink, and Willie was already back from the errand he’d gone to run, settled in his bunk.

Aremu rose, slowly, and he put the last of his tools away. He washed his hands, once and then again. Halfway through the second time, he knew he was a fool; Tom didn’t care if he came with hands a little dirty still from the engine. But Aremu kept washing, scrubbing, until even the little crescents of skin beneath his nails were clean.

He shrugged off his work clothing, and pulled on loose warm pants, and a thick wool sweater, and a heavy coat over them, worn but still warm. And then he took a soft hat too, against the autumn chill. He went up the hall to Willie’s room, and rapped lightly on the open door, leaning to peer inside.

Willie glanced up from his book. He grinned. “See you, Aremu,” he said, and looked back down.

Aremu hadn’t asked, this time, for the first night in port off. Uzoji had arranged it without ever talking to him, and announced it to them all as if it needed no discussion (and indeed, it did not). He should have asked, Aremu thought, uneasily. What would he have done? Sent a note to Tom - sorry, ship duty, can’t make it. Maybe tomorrow.

Fool, Aremu told himself. He went out the door and over the deck, down the first ladder and the second. At the bottom he stopped and leaned his head against the metal rings set against the platform, and he swallowed, hard. You fool, he told himself again, holding the ladder tight with both hands, as if he might turn and climb back up.

No climb got easier when he waited, Aremu told himself. He pushed away, and he strode through the shipyard, and then through the Rose, sunset spilling golden and warm over the sharp streets. The sky was the crisp clarity of fall in Anaxas, the trees of Quarter Fords almost bare, leaves in tangled damp piles on the ground, left behind from summer.

Aremu stooped for one, golden yellow and still perfect, lying alone. He brushed the moisture from the five points, lightly, careful not to tear the delicate skin. It must have just fallen, he thought, because the dampness was had gone no deeper than the surface. He knew it would not last, but he tucked it tenderly into his pocket, and he kept walking.

By now his feet knew the way, and this deep in Quarter Fords Aremu felt himself relax, slowly. Familiar sounds and smells drifted through him, and he stopped at the garden which smelt of fresh dirt and sage, and stroked his fingers through the plants, and lingered just a little longer.

He was a fool, Aremu thought, but he didn’t know if it was because he was afraid, or because he was excited. He leaned in to some unfamiliar plant, and found the scent was one he already knew. His hands were already stiff with the cold, and Aremu turned and went to Tom’s door, and he knocked.

A faint echo of sound, drifting through, and Aremu did not know why he hesitated, why he lingered just a moment, until he heard Tom call for him to come in. And then Aremu set his hand on the door and pushed, and he stepped inside. He pulled his hat off, and shoved it away, and wound his way with soft steps through the familiar, comfortable sights of Tom and Ishma’s house. Welcome, he thought, and he felt another ache of tension lance through him.

“Tom,” Aremu said, softly, and he held in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the dancing light flicker over the other man, a little frown creasing his forehead. He’d put his stiff hands away in his pockets, and he held them there against the temptation to come closer, to find Tom not with words but with grasping hands and a breathless mouth.

And instead - and instead he lingered at this last threshold, just a little longer, as if it might make some difference; as if a little space would lessen the sting of the rejection he feared, and in the hopes it wouldn’t affect the warmth of the greeting he longed for. And he wondered what Tom saw, as the other man looked at him, and a part of Aremu hoped never to know.

And then he smiled, slow and hesitant at first, and then warmer, steadily, warmer and warmer. The smile glowed in his chest and all through him, and he felt its heat spread, no less fierce for the smoldering. And Aremu came a little closer, and then a little closer again, and he reached for Tom with cold hands, and let himself trust that the other man would know what to do with them.

[Tom Cooke]

Quarter Fords • Old Rose Harbor

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2716

It took Tom a few moments to gain his bearings, holding to the counter, the floor at his feet empty of winding, sleek little bodies. When he did, he looked up, tucking a tangle of hair behind one ear, and smiled. He knew the sound of his name in that voice. The shape of Aremu in the kitchen doorway wasn’t unfamiliar, but he half wished — he didn’t know; if there was something troubled or sad in his smile, something about the furrow of his scarred brow, it was still warm. Just a pina worried, or confused, or one of those things as he didn’t know how to express, and reckoned he shouldn’t anyway.

It took the imbala time of his own to begin to close the distance between them. Tom thought he saw something like want in his face, from afar, though it was hard to tell in the flickering dimness; from where Tom stood, a throng of shadows pooled where the planes of his face fell away, and the lines left over looked almost unfamiliar.

Tom studied them, uncertain. Then a smile bloomed across the imbala’s face, and he felt the smallest tug of warmth between them. It grew, and then, like that, he was moving across the old wood floor, through the bowing, jumping candlelight.

He reached out, and Tom took both his hands, at first. Cold! His smile split into a grin; he folded those cold hands in his, and he half-wanted to pull the rest of him into his arms, ‘cause one of them was colder than the other, and that wasn’t fair.

For now, he took just one hand, and brought it up to his lips. They brushed his knuckles, the now-familiar, faint shape of an old scar; Tom shut his eyes and rested his bearded cheek against the hand for a precious second. He smelled like the cold, like fallen leaves, like the wool of his sweater and his coat and the long walk to the Fords, like — sage, faint, and Tom knew he’d been in the garden. No burnt engine-smell today; the lingering bite of strong soap, instead.

He lowered Aremu’s hand from his lips and settled back against the counter, watching him with glittering dark eyes. “Hey, hey,” he said softly.

There was nothing heavy, nothing in particular, in his voice. Playful, oes, wreathed with meaning. He held Aremu’s hand like he knew where he wanted it to be, running his calloused thumb over the back of it; he found scars he knew in the landscape of those long, fine bones, and scuffs and scratches he didn’t, and his light touch skirted those, just enough. He wasn’t grinning anymore, but none of the warmth had gone out of his face. He was watching Aremu evenly, like there was nothing between them but a handful of damn benny nights.

Right now, he almost wanted it to be that simple. The empty in the air around them was a reminder Tom hadn’t expected; it was always strange, seeing the slight, graceful shape of him at a few steps’ distance, and feeling no woobly wash against his skin. Sometimes he could forget, but sometimes, the empty itself made his hairs stand on end.

Today, the empty somehow felt even heavier: all the thoughts that’d been sprouting in the back of Tom’s mind seemed to leak out to fill it. He was scared Aremu might see them, feel them — he didn’t know — he felt a fool. All the dreams he’d had whispered from the back of his mind, but he tried to focus on the man in front of him, instead.

“Far’ye? Seen any lightnin’?” He squeezed the hand gently. A tendril of smoke wound its way through the air behind him, fragrant dark oud. A plaintive meow sounded, muffled from another room, then pat-pat-pat, then a lean black cat was poking its head into the kitchen, watching Aremu with eyes that flashed in the low light.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8th Dentis, 2716
Quarter Fords

Tom’s hands wrapped around his, strong and capable and warm, and Aremu relaxed just a little more. Tom didn’t pull him any closer, though, and Aremu didn’t force his way in. His gaze lingered on the place where they met, those two sets of hands – Tom’s, with his thick, blunt fingers, with scars and scuffs traced like a map over them; and Aremu’s, smaller and more delicate, but nothing anyone might mistake for weak, still dexterous and capable.

Tom brought Aremu’s right hand up to his lips, and brushed a delicate kiss over his knuckles, turned his hand, gently, and settled it against his face. Aremu welcomed the feel of the other man’s heavy beard, tickling the lines of his fingers, catching lightly against his callused palm. For a moment he thought he could have closed the space between them, taken all of himself and offered it without reservation yet again. What would Tom have done, if Aremu’s fingers slid up a little higher and made themselves at home in his hair again? Would he welcome it?

It smelled good, Aremu thought; some wood he didn’t recognize was burning in the incense burner on the counter, and there was smoke drifting out from it, and filling the air.

Tom lowered Aremu’s hand, then, gently, but didn’t let it go. Aremu did not know if he had missed a cue, somewhere; if something that had been instinctual, so many times, had suddenly become unfamiliar again. He didn’t know – he felt doubt, suddenly, where there should have been ease, and uncertainty crept in to fill the space it left behind. There was a longing in him, still, but he could not have said if it was for the future or the past.

Tom was watching him, a warm, playful look, and Aremu lowered his gaze back to their hands, reassured by the way Tom still stroked his. Surely, he thought – surely, if he found the knowledge too burdensome, then Tom wouldn’t still want… but Aremu knew the answer to that question, by now, from years of long experience.

“No,” Aremu smiled again when Tom asked about lightning. “We’re between seasons for it. There’ll be plenty soon,” his lips were dry and chapped with the cold, and he ran his tongue over them, all too aware of the rough spots. He took Tom’s hand, now, in both of his – turned it over, and traced his fingers along the lines of the other man’s palms, as if he could read something into the shape of them. One thumb smoothed its way down onto the other man’s wrist, and lingered, just briefly, at the spot where he could feel the pulsing thump of Tom’s heart against his skin, as if knowing how the other man’s heart beat would make it easier to find.

He had to do something, Aremu thought. He was still conscious of all the space between them, and still afraid of what would happen – or what wouldn’t – if he closed it. He could not know, not really, how Tom would look at him now, what fruit the seeds he had planted in the other man's mind might yield; he knew better even than to let himself believe that ease of touch – that ease of desire – was anything more than just that.

And if there wasn't even desire, any more, reflected between them? He knew he felt it, still, as strong as he ever had, as if all this tempering could not quench it. Aremu found he was not ready to know what Tom would do, not yet. He let go, slowly, and tucked his cold hands back into his pocket, and looked away. He smiled faintly at the little black cat peering at him with green-gold eyes. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself against Tom, whole-heartedly, and not have to think for just a little while; he wanted desperately to bid farewell to the thoughts that swirled unwelcome beneath the surface of his mind, and he wanted not to use Tom for such purposes, because it wasn’t fair to either of them.

Aremu pulled away, then, and crouched, extending cold fingers towards the black cat. He wished he had Uzoji’s way with animals; he could never tell if they were going to take to him, for all that he wished they would. Even Niccolette’s; she had some unwelcome knack with the small creatures, and her pointed ignoring of them only seemed to make them fonder of her.

Aremu glanced up at Tom from the floor, and tried another smile. “How’re you? How’s Ishma?” He asked. He looked back down at the little black cat, and tried wiggling his fingers, a little hopefully.

[Tom Cooke]

Quarter Fords • Old Rose Harbor

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2716

Aremu’s chilly thumb traced up his wrist, brushed the place where his blood pulsed through his veins. It made him conscious of his heart thudding in his chest, and that consciousness made it quicken, hammer harder, and he thought Aremu’d be able to feel it. He thought of how those cool, calloused fingertips followed the lines on his palms, and he thought of the tsat woman in Voedale who said you could read a man by the lines in his hand, read his soul like words in a book.

Read his soul; read his mind —

It would’ve been hard to say what he felt. He couldn’t put a name to it himself. He nearly shut his eyes again, feeling a tingling shiver up his arm, a prickling in his beard where the ghost of Aremu’s hand still lay. A fair pleasant feeling, and building, with every touch of those thoughtful fingertips. He thought of the Eqe Aqawe, and then, wryly, how lucky those machines he worked on were.

When Aremu drew away from him, he was at a loss. He’d expected, hoped, if that hand was tracing its way up his wrist already — he hadn’t wanted to push, ‘course, not after everything. They were cold, the places the imbala’d touched.

Tom felt a stab of guilt. It hadn’t been hard, a few weeks ago. Why was it hard now? Was it the dreams? Was it the way Aremu’d lingered in his doorway, the way it’d taken calling out to him twice — might’ve been the imbala hadn’t heard him, the first time, maybe — and Tom tried to remember if he’d been this way the last time — before. Wasn’t it just Aremu’s way, to stand a little distant? But sometimes it was easier, Tom thought, to coax him closer. Between seasons for lightning, he thought, distracted.

It was something he’d done, maybe. He doubted Aremu’d’ve come at his invitation, if he’d stuck his foot in his mouth that bad. Or maybe it was just that they both knew, now, and they knew they knew, and pretending nothing was different was just making it worse. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending good enough; maybe something about all of it was making Aremu more uncomfortable than he’d ever been.

I ain’t good at this shit, Tom felt the strangest urge to blurt out, like it was a good enough excuse. It was a good six words to hide behind, usually.

The little black cat had sat down in the doorway, and when Aremu knelt and put out his hand, it stood up and took a step into the room. Then two, its head low. Tom raised his brows, watching. “Crabapple,” he said, by way of explanation. “Found him under a tree. Followed me home an’ stayed. Thought Ish was goin’ to kill me. Another fuckin’ cat,” he added fondly.

Crabapple watched the imbala’s proffered, waggling fingers. He took another step, then another, then used a fifth to stretch out his paws, sticking his rear up in the air and sinking his claws into the already-scuffed floorboards. Then, looking a little less stiff, he crossed to Aremu.

Well, almost. Three or four inches from his fingertips, Crabapple plopped down on his erse, rolled back a pina, and started licking his belly. One leg stuck straight up in the air. He didn’t look skittish, and if Aremu reached to pet him, he’d oblige; but he’d put himself just far enough away that the man would have to reach.

Tom scratched in his beard, then folded his arms across his chest. “Ishma’s fair benny; he’s playin’ at the Quince tonight. Sorry to’ve missed you.” Sorry, but not too sorry to give them space; Tom’d told him he had a feeling it’d be important. Outside, the sunset’d mostly faded; you couldn’t see the stars for the indistinct reflections in the glass. “I’m well enough. Better for seein’ you.”

There was an edge to the words. He smiled down at Aremu; much as it’d troubled him, the other man drawing away, it warmed him to see him beckon the cat. Like he had a right to be here, like he had a right to try and pet the cat. Comfortable, almost. He felt a pang.

“Aremu,” he said, very softly, and extended a hand. It wasn’t desire in his face anymore, or not just; it was a sort of want, but he couldn’t disguise the sadness.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8th Dentis, 2716
Quarter Fords

Aremu watched the little black cat, because it was easier than watching Tom; easier than watching the heavy-browed face for whatever lay behind dark eyes and twists of scars, and a grin that – when it came – warmed him through like a sip of whiskey. “Crabapple,” Aremu repeated, obligingly, a hopeful little warming to his voice. Did cats know their names?

He wondered what Ishma thought of bringing strays home; he thought perhaps Tom liked strays. It was a handsome little cat, at least, Aremu thought. That burned, somewhere inside him, twisted in his chest, and he fixed his gaze firmly on the cat. Crabapple came a little closer, a little closer, and then stopped, just out of reach.

Aremu let out a little huff of a laugh, and leaned forward from his crouch, balanced on the balls of his feet, and carefully tried a stroke of the cat’s head. Crabapple didn’t seem to find it too distasteful, and so Aremu’s fingers went to the spot behind his ears, hopeful, and then tried the bit beneath his chin, and down his spine, slowly, all the way to the base of the tail. There, he thought, maybe he felt the cat softening.

Tom’s voice picked up again, with that warmth that always seeped in when he spoke of Ishma. Aremu smiled a little, out of sight, as if some of it might splash over onto him. Strays, he thought, and he had to swallow, a little hard. Better for seeing you, Tom offered, and Aremu stiffened, and had to catch his balance, and then he had to ease back to keep from falling, crouched still on the other man’s floor.

Tom’s voice was always soft, but it whispered through his name, and Aremu shivered. There was something about it, when Tom said it, and not just the broadening of the vowels. Aremu looked up at him, and he tried – he tried, to read what was between the heavy eyebrows and the full thick beard. He took Tom’s hand, even though he didn’t lean any weight on him as he rose, and he tangled his fingers into it.

He was a fool, Aremu thought. A parched man in the desert, wondering if the oasis before him was only a mirage. Something prickled in his chest, and ached, and he licked too dry lips again. There was still so much space between them – Tom’s fingers were still so warm against his –

“I’m better for seeing you too,” Aremu said, softly, as if reflected words could be enough; it was easier to give Tom back his same words rather than to try and find his own. Why had he come, if he meant to stay so far apart? Better to have stayed on the ship, then, where the distance wouldn’t have had the sting of immediacy. Tom hadn’t had to welcome him in – to take his cold hand, and kiss it tenderly – to whisper his name as if it meant something – to reach out to him, again.

I’m sorry, Aremu wanted to say, but an apology of words alone meant less than one not offered. I’m here, he wanted to say, but Tom knew that, and if he didn’t know how much it meant, Aremu wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him. I want you – I missed you – I need you –

Instead, Aremu lifted Tom’s hand to his mouth, slowly, and he kissed the other man’s rough palm, gently. He held Tom’s hand against himself, for just a moment, and then lowered his hand, as if trusting it would stay there, and, carefully, moved to close the distance between them. One hand found Tom’s chest, settled on top the beating heart there; the other slid up and stroked the hair from his face. Every motion was slow, and careful, because he did not want to be caught off guard if Tom changed his mind; he did not want to be hurt, not worse than he had to be, if Tom pulled away.

And then, slow but unhesitatingly, Aremu took whatever it was he was given, and made the best of it. Carefully, he traced a path through the tangle of unspoken words and thoughts that laid so thick between them, and did his best to meet the other man in the midst of it.

[Tom Cooke]

Quarter Fords • Old Rose Harbor

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2716

Aremu didn’t need him for balance. He got to his feet agile as a cat, and the touch of his hand was light, and Tom didn’t pull; but when their fingers entwined, he squeezed it, just a pina. The candlelight flickered over Aremu’s face, and the shadows made it hard to read. It danced in his dark eyes.

He smiled, uncertain. Aremu was better for seeing him, he was saying; Tom smiled, even though the familiarity of the words twisted sour in his stomach, and he couldn’t be sure of the truth of them. Sometimes it’s easier, he thought absently, to see yourself reflected in another man’s eyes.

Then the imbala took his hand and raised it to his lips. The kiss was light and cool, like the touch of a feather against his scuffed, calloused palm. Tom watched his bowed head, his shut eyes with their thick fringe of lashes – he watched Aremu’s face until he couldn’t anymore, until the look on his face and the kiss was too much, and his eyes flickered shut. Something lurched inside him; something warmed. He felt the kiss so deeply it disturbed him.

Tom wasn’t fair drunk; in fact, he’d barely had a drop. He didn’t much like mixing chan with alcohol — he’d done too much of both, once, and it’d made him fair sick, sick enough to worry hama; and he never liked how the drink tilted the lens of the chan, and scattered the thoughts all sideways. That, and since Caina’d left, it’d been too much drink or none, and never in between. But his head was starting to ache, ‘cause he hadn’t had anything at all in a few hours, and he wondered if that was it. His head soured things, when he wasn’t drunk. Maybe it all just felt wrong, and it was just him, tangled up in his thoughts and his dreams.

Aremu reached for him slowly, and he wondered if it was reluctance or something else. The slowness made his heart beat faster, harder under the spread of the imbala’s fingers. The slowness drew him in anyway, pleasantly painful with the wanting, with the dance of his fingertips against his cheek as he brushed away a stray tangle of hair. The cold of those fingertips like white-hot metal. Godsdamn, but he wanted him so bad.

He felt like he’d had too much to drink, like he wasn’t seeing anything clearly. Like he couldn’t be sure what he was doing, or what might come of it.

Slow enough himself, he put an arm around the imbala, drew him in closer til there wasn’t space for much more than breath between them. It might’ve been awkward for a man of his size, if he hadn’t done it plenty of times before; he knew how to angle himself without putting too much strain on either of them. It still felt awkward, for some reason Tom couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was the cabinet behind, biting into his lower back.

Those cold fingers wound themselves through his hair, and a benny chill rippled its way down his spine. His hand found the curve of Aremu’s cheek, the line of his jaw, underneath his chin. He shut his eyes; he was worried to open them, now. (Well, you weren’t meant to have your eyes open; you weren't meant to know.) Gently, he urged the chin to tilt up, his nose brushing the other man’s, his lips the other man’s lips, chapped from the cold.

Then, he drew Aremu into his arms and held him close, close enough to feel his breath, resting his cheek against his shoulder. He let out a shuddering sigh. His heart was hammering.

He held him a moment longer, then drew a little away, just far enough so he could see Aremu’s face. “D’you want me? Right now?” he murmured, his heavy brow furrowed. He raised one hand and cupped the other man’s cheek; he made himself look into his eyes, intent, regardless of what he might find there. “I want you, but I ain’t goin’ nowhere tonight,” he said, and smiled, and stroked his cheek.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8th Dentis, 2716
Quarter Fords

Tom’s hair was soft and thick beneath his fingers – a little tangled, tonight. Aremu wondered if Tom would let him braid it, if he asked; he’d never braided before, but he’d watched Tom do it a few times now, and he thought he could get the knack of it. He liked the idea of it, of sitting, maybe, on the couch, with Tom leaned back against his legs, both hands buried in it - his fingers teasing the strands apart and twining them back together. He thought Tom would like it too. He didn’t know if he would be able to get it right, not quite, if he could do it just how the other man liked it, but he wanted to ask; he wanted to try.

There was a long moment when he felt the thud of Tom’s heart beneath his hand, and the sun-roughened brush of cheek between beard and hair beneath his other, and nothing else – and then Tom’s arms closed around him, slowly. Aremu’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let Tom draw him close, until they fit together. He didn’t know how it looked, when they tangled together; there was no diagram for it, no map in his head, and he thought maybe that was for the best. There was such a thing as too much knowing.

Aremu found the soft skin of Tom’s scalp, his hair almost holding his hand in place; he didn't dare pull away, not now, because he didn't know if he could, without pulling at the strands. Tom’s hand was on his face again, or maybe it had never left, and the other man was tilting his chin up, a slow soft kiss. Aremu’s hand had slipped from Tom’s chest – there was no space for it, between them, and he ran it lightly over the other man’s back, over his sweater, wanting to warm his hand a little more before he tried to touch anything beneath.

Tom held him close, close enough that Aremu felt the other man’s heart pounding against him, the rhythm just slightly slower than his own. He wondered how to match it – he wondered if he could. He wanted to, suddenly – he wanted to very much –

Tom drew him away, just a little, and Aremu’s eyes flickered open with the surprise of it. Do you want me, Tom asked, and Aremu looked up at him, his breath flickering audibly in his chest, lips still parted, tingling with the memory of the other man’s. Tom’s hand found his cheek again, gently, and met his eyes. Aremu didn’t know – he didn’t want to know – what was underneath it.

Aremu shivered, a little. I want you, Tom had promised, and he’d smiled as he said it. It wasn’t possible to be cold, was it? Not in Tom’s warm kitchen – half-wrapped in the other man, with his coat and his sweater, the smoke burning behind them. “Yes,” He said, unhesitating. “Please,” Aremu swallowed, hard, and he couldn’t – he buried his face in Tom’s shoulder, trembling against him, and he didn’t know what he was more afraid of – that Tom had seen the longing in his eyes, or that he hadn’t.

“Please,” Aremu whispered again, and turned his head to find the other man’s neck, the strong column of it rising out of his wool, and pressed his lips to it, tracing a slow, soft path over his skin, up to the edges of his beard and beyond.

Don’t rush, Aremu told himself; don’t rush. Maybe he should have said no; maybe he should have asked to wait. But he did want Tom, right now – right here, even. He wanted to warm himself against the other man, and to let Tom warm him, to let himself believe, for just a little while, that there was nothing complicated between them. If they tried – if they tried, Aremu thought, they could still find a place where being drove out all the rest of the complications – could climb, together, to the peak of some great height.

“This is the only place I want to be,” Aremu said, softly, into Tom’s neck, finding his own words. He knew he was still trembling; he couldn’t pretend it was the cold, not anymore. “I came,” he hadn’t meant to say that, “I missed you,” he hadn’t meant to say that either. His eyes were closed, again, and he didn’t dare open them, even though all he’d have been able to see was Tom’s skin. He could feel Tom’s pulse beating against the side of his neck beneath his lips, and he kissed him again, slow and tender and careful.

I want you as much as I ever have, Aremu didn’t say. He knew it was true, both the wanting and the fact that now was, irredeemably, a different time than before, but he was afraid of the saying of it, afraid to draw that line aloud between them once more. Just forget, he told himself, as if he could – as if either of them could. Just forget; just for a little while.

[Tom Cooke]

Quarter Fords • Old Rose Harbor

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2716

Please, he said, and Tom didn’t want to argue. Please, he repeated, and he felt himself stir with it, with Aremu’s warm breath in the space between them. The imbala buried his head in his shoulder, and he held him again. He was shaking, he realized, and ran a hand over his back.

Tom wanted him; he wanted him, he thought, as much as he had the first time. He didn’t know every piece and moving part of his head – not even drunk, and certainly not nearly sober – and he wasn’t a thinking man, was he; he wasn’t a thinking man, except when he thought too much. He knew, then, how he felt. It was enough that the ache told him how much he wanted it.

It was enough, it was enough – and then Aremu’s lips were on his neck, and he couldn’t help the way his breath caught, or the smile that flickered across his face. He shut his eyes and tilted his head, and he had to catch himself on the countertop behind.

For a few seconds, he emptied out of thoughts, and there was just Aremu’s long fingers winding through his hair, his fingertips on his scalp, his kisses on his neck, his closeness. Two sets of breathing, heavy in the silence. Tom didn’t know when it’d happened, but his other hand was curled in the fabric of Aremu’s coat, fingertips pressed in, and he could feel his muscles moving underneath all the heavy wool.

Aremu whispered into his neck. It took him another few seconds to put the words in order in his head, to interpret the pattern of warm breath against his skin – to put it all in the context of a man’s words to another man, to make it make sense. They felt like words for a different world.

“Oes,” he murmured, “oes, I…” I know? I know – you wouldn’t’ve come, ’less you wanted me? I know what it means? I missed you, too? I don’t understand any of it, and I don’t know why? He’d run out of words. He shifted, ran his hand over the back of his head, felt his other in the hollow of his back; he shifted and tilted his head so he could kiss Aremu, bury his lips and his face in his close-cropped hair and breathe the scent of him in deep.

There was frost crusting the dark window-panes, now, but Tom couldn’t feel it. He was prickling with the heat. Almost fumbling, he disentangled himself from Aremu, just enough he could begin to wrestle off his sweater. He wasn’t too concerned; he had help, and he’d return the favor twice-fold.

Mint, first, he thought.

He could spy Aremu out of the corner of his eye, a candle-limned shape on the sofa. As Tom moved to get the cups, he passed out of sight round the kitchen doorway, but he still felt him there. He felt him in the cold that was moving in, as the warmth drained out of him; he felt his absence, and he promised himself it wouldn’t be for long. It was a content, satisfied sort of promise, aching through all his muscles. It made the thought of sinking down beside him and sharing his warmth again more precious.

The kettle was on the stovetop. He got down the tin of tea, pausing to stretch against the counter. The kettle’d started to sigh. It put a faint metallic tang on the air, one Tom could smell and taste. But he was breathing in mint, soon enough, scooping out a couple of spoonfuls into the old metal teapot. The wavering warm light played in its battered contours and scratches and smudges. Tom could see his own bulky reflection there, briefly – the shape of a face, two dark pits for eyes, the bottom half an indistinct shadow, all warped round in the metal. He paused, regarding it uncertainly, then put the tin away.

The kettle’s sigh picked up into a hiss. The draught from the window sent a little shiver down Tom’s spine; he took his sweater back from over the back of the chair and pulled it back on. He folded his arms, shivering into the rumpled wool. The water started to grumble.

Finally, the familiar whistle sounded, and Tom took the kettle off the stove and poured the tea in the pot. Plumes of mint-smelling steam billowed up; he felt his cheeks warm with them. Putting the lid on, he took the handle, then hooked his fingers through the handles of the cups. He started back out of the kitchen, the weight of the steeping teapot pleasant in his hand.

As he passed, he shot a glance at the poor old kitchen table with its wobbly, creaky legs. Before he turned away, he tossed it an apologetic, but not too apologetic, grin.

He reserved a softer smile for Aremu. He padded noiselessly through the shadows, weaving effortless round the close-set furniture in the cramped room. He set down the kettle and the cups on a nearby low table. Tom hadn’t seen him rightaway, but Crabapple was warming himself up to Aremu; when he neared the couch, he could hear the purring like a pina engine.

After a moment, he began to pour the tea.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8th Dentis, 2716
Quarter Fords

Aremu poured himself into the space Tom had left behind, and let the warmth, real and remembered, wrap around him. He wasn’t breathing hard, anymore, but there was a pleasant hum thrumming through him, almost efficient, all the pieces in the right place. He stretched himself out, and the aches that ran through him were clean and well-deserved, and satisfying rather than painful.

Aremu closed his eyes, and let himself linger in that space where he did not have to think, only be. He couldn’t hear the whisper of Tom’s feet on the ground, not really, but he could fill it in – could imagine, the familiar shape of the other man weaving effortlessly through the small, dimly-lit room, his memory filling in whatever his eyes couldn’t see.

For a little while, that was enough. Aremu drifted between the border of wakefulness and sleep, and thought of everything, but nothing in particular. He was conscious of himself, of the extent of his body; he felt as if he could have traced it all, from his toes to his hair, and fit himself into the shape of it without reservation.

But the drying sweat on his skin prickled in the cold, and Aremu shifted, and opened his eyes; he rolled over from where he’d kept his face against the cushion, blinking through the blurriness of his vision, and found the scratchy, godsblessedly warm wool blanket draped over the back of the couch. He wrapped himself up in it, and sat up, slowly, and tilted his head back against the back of the couch.

There was a faint, distant whistle, and Aremu opened his eyes again. A small black figure was eyeing him from the ground beneath the couch, a long tail with a little crook in it lashing steadily back and forth.

“Crabapple,” Aremu said. He patted the couch next to him, and drew his legs up beneath himself. To his surprise, the cat jumped up. Aremu reached out a hand, and Crabapple bumped his head against it, prickled forward and curled himself up in the wool on the imbala’s lap, and set to purring. Aremu, hardly daring to believe his luck, lowered his hand tentatively to the cat’s back – found the spots he liked, more easily this time, with a scratch between his shoulder blades and another one at the base of his tail. Sharp claws just barely prickled through the wool, pressing delicately but not painfully against bare skin beneath.

Aremu looked up and found Tom, weaving his way back, wool sweater back on against the cold. He smiled, one of those ones that started in his chest and seemed to warm him through, one hand still busy with the cat. He shifted, just a little, to make space enough for Tom to join him on the couch – not much more than just enough, so that when Tom sat it would be close enough to touch, to tangle.

The smell of mint filled the air, and Aremu sighed with pleasure, watching soft steam curl out of the tops of the cups. He took the one Tom offered him, and curled his hands around it, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent. Crabapple went on kneading the blanket on his lap, evidently unconcerned by the lack of petting; a little stray, Aremu thought, who’d made himself at home. It was tender, but not as tender as it had been; he could stand to poke at it, a little, prod the tender edges to see how deep the bruising went beneath.

He opened his eyes, and watched Tom through the steam and the flickering candlelight. It cast strange shapes over his face, dark shadows that wavered at the edges of his beard and lapped across his forehead. But he could see through it, now, a little better than he had, and the reflection of the flames in the other man’s pupils was almost too beautiful for words.

“Can I…” Aremu hesitated. He looked down, a little self-conscious, at the candlelight flickering over his bare skin, the pool of cat-filled blanket in his lap, his scarred hands cradling the cup. “Can I braid your hair?” He asked, looking back up at Tom. He offered Tom a sheepish grin, and he reached to set the cup down on the table, careful not to spill so much as a drop, careful not to dislodge the precious little purring stray. The blanket had spilled down, off his shoulders, but he was warm enough with what he had.

It had been almost an idle thought, but it had gotten inside him; Aremu liked the idea of it. He wanted to do something tender, for Tom and himself; he wanted to prolong what they’d shared between them. He didn’t know how, not with words, but he thought maybe Tom would understand, like this; maybe, somehow, he’d know.