[PM to Join] Among the Better Men

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

Aremu's grin was contagious, something he had learned was always true. It brought another smile to the passive's face, as his eyes shifted from the other man's face to the pan and back. Just bread, then? It wasn't like the bread he was used to making, that was for sure, but it was certainly a relief to be making a few pieces of quickbread just for themselves rather than countless, near-identical loaves to be set out with students' meals. Everything about cooking here, with Aremu, was different from working the kitchens of Brunnhold. He looked back down to the dough he was rolling and shaping out, pushing the university out of mind, as he had found necessary to do.

Brunnhold didn't need to take up space in his mind. There was enough in there already.

Lars went about rolling out the rest of the dough, setting each finished piece to the side for the imbala to take and fry in the pan. It all smelled amazing - the spices, the garlic and ginger and onion in the eggplant mixture, the dough frying in oil - and only served to solidify his hunger in his mind (and his stomach).

Once he had finished, the pale-haired passive stepped a bit more to the side, watching as Aremu finished frying the last of the dough and set it on a plate with the rest. He was opening the oven again, then, taking out the filled eggplant halves and setting them onto the plates he had gotten out, and Lars accepted his plate with a smile and an appreciative dip of his head. He followed the other man to the table, setting his plate down but not sitting just yet, seeing as Aremu left again to go fetch something else. It felt... rude, perhaps, to sit before his host, and so he waited.

Aremu brought out the jar of yogurt and a spoon, afterwards getting what looked like juice from the icebox and pouring them each a glass. Lars offered quiet words of thanks as his juice was set before him, and then again, when he was brought a linen napkin. It was then that the Hessean finally made to sit down, setting his napkin over his lap out of habit and going to grab his fork.

He looked up from his plate and towards the imbala, smiling at the words - Aremu scooped from the eggplant with a torn piece of bread, and Lars set down his fork despite the mention that he could use it (or perhaps, because of it). He reached for the bread, setting a piece on his plate and tearing a bit off, afterwards using it in place of the utensil as Aremu had done. He brought it to his mouth, and chewed, his expression thoughtful and after a moment or two of consideration, pleased.

The bread served to add a chewy, stable base for the filling, which was... flavorful, above all else, and warm, and somehow comforting. Lars had never known food to be comforting, but this - odi'yuw'eqep - was certainly so. Lars smiled, again, tearing another piece from his bread.

"Very good," said the passive, "thank you. I think I've missed out, not having Mugrobi food until now," he took another bite, then, chewing and letting his eyes wander the room. He took notice of the things Aremu had brought in, finally, the paper and pen, the chalk and wood-lined slate, but he did not mention them yet. He didn't wish to make the other man work while he ate.

Lars reached for his glass, next, taking a sip of juice as he considered the situation. He had never... well, he had stayed in Professor Moore's home for a bit, but he had never been a proper guest in anyone's home, had he? Professor Moore had taken him out of pity, to keep him stable and safe until the situation could be properly assessed. Aremu, however, had no obligation to him - he owed him nothing, in fact Lars probably owed the imbala instead, and yet he continued to show him kindness for nothing in return.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu was, generally, very good at eating as if he thought about nothing else. Most of the time, too, he didn’t; he could manage a state of absorption even when eating the blandest of Anaxi eggs or porridge, although it had taken some practice. It was not hard, when eating something fragrant and soft and textured – something which, always, tasted like home – to wish to give it all of his focus.

Odi’yuw’eqep brought back memories; not of Thul Ka, though, not really. It brought back memories of the Eqe Aqawe, of scooping out the flesh of eggplants at the small stove as the ship rocked beneath his feet; of using the fire beneath the stove to cook the dish, the eggplants curled against one another in stoneware pots; of frying bread to the sound of laughter from the table behind him, Uzoji’s warm, Niccolette’s sharp and Chibugo’s booming; of bringing the dish to the table to sudden, raucous cheering; of laughing into a piece of quickbread, and feeling comfortable and at ease.

Aremu watched Lars across the table, a second piece of quickbread in his hand. His other wrist rested in his lap, and all that was left of the Eqe Aqawe was burnt and twisted metal scraps at the bottom of the Tincta Basta; what was left of Uzoji was even less. The other passive smiled, and Aremu smiled too. He went back to his meal; he took another scoop of filling into the flatbread, and ate that as well. “You are welcome,” Aremu said, quietly, into the space between them. He wiped his hand, and took a sip of his juice as well; he set the glass down.

The food was plentiful, and well-spiced, and Aremu ate his fill, down to scooping some of the leftover creamy flesh from the inside of the eggplant. He ate a little yogurt, at the end, with a spoon rather than his fingers, easing back with a contented sigh. He had not made much of an effort to talk during the meal; perhaps, Aremu told himself, he had been too hungry.

The food left him warm, comfortable, and glad, all the same. Aremu did not think he would ever be ungrateful for a full belly. He could eat anything, and be glad of it, but food which was made with love – even if it was his own – still brought him a particular joy. He rose, wiping his hand again, and carried his plate to the sink, setting it down. He understood that it was the job of Niccolette’s human servants to wash the dishes here; he yielded, often enough, in the islands, to Ahura. When she cooked, she cleaned.

All the same, Aremu brought over the dishes from the stove, and he turned on the water in the deep heavy sink. He had cooked, and so he would clean. It seemed to him right, and fair; it seemed to him the proper end to a meal, to treat the vessels used to make it with care and dignity. He took the cake of soap, and set to washing, water soaking the cuff on his left arm almost immediately.

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

Lars did not mind the silence as they ate. It was easier, he found, to appreciate an act of kindness such as this when he did not have to stumble over his words to accept it. Speaking was difficult, no matter who it was with, no matter how much you liked speaking to them. Aremu had not judged him (at least, not outwardly) since they had met, not for anything, but somehow that almost made it harder. It almost made him more nervous, then, to speak and inevitably ruin whatever idea he had of him now, but he kept telling himself not to care. He kept reminding himself that it didn't matter one way or the other, even if it felt like it did.

And the food - the food was amazing. The passive hadn't had many good meals in his life, but this was one of them. He continued to use pieces of quickbread to scoop from the eggplant shell, and he ate it all quite happily, allowing himself to forgo worrying about his expressions and demeanor and speech for just a while. It didn't matter, none of it, not right now.

When he had finished all of the filling, and scraped the shell of the remaining flesh, he took a sip of his juice - and then another, to finish it off. It complemented the food so well, he thought, and he wondered why places like Brunnhold weren't as creative and... passionate, in their menus. He had cooked, sure, but only what they asked of him, and none of it had ever been that adventurous. There were occasions in which they were tasked with more particular things (birthdays, holidays, the like), but never any time where they were allowed to just cook. To just create, without someone standing over your shoulder and making sure your creation was what they wanted.

Aremu had finished his own meal, as well, and went to stand, gathering his plate and all. Lars did the same, wiping his mouth gently with his napkin before he made to stand. He grabbed his plate and his emptied glass, following after the imbala a few moments later. He was not sure of where to stand, or where to set his dishes, and so he remained off to the side, watching as his companion began to pull things into the deep sink and turned on the water. Aremu began to clean, and the pale-haired passive couldn't help but feel guilty, or - or wrong, maybe, or something else, but it was an odd thing to see someone else do what should have been his job.

"Oh, ah - I could get those, if you'd like?" offered Lars, still holding his plate and glass, "I'm fast, and... you fed me," and that had not been expected nor unappreciated.

"It's the least I could do," he added, sounding unsure. He wasn't sure what to do, when someone else was cleaning up - was he supposed to just sit? Relax? Think? The thought of sitting idly while Aremu worked was unappealing to the former servant.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu held the heavy pot in place with his right wrist; his left hand scrubbed, busily, working at the caked on food. Lars has set his plates down, and he hovered, hesitant, standing close, his voice quiet and just barely audible over the running water.

I’m fast, Lars offered.

“I’ll manage,” Aremu said, quietly. He heard his voice over the pounding in his chest, the rushing of the water. He did not look up; he kept his gaze fixed on the soap suds building in the sink, the water creeping up his left sleeve. It clung to his skin, soaked through; he could not make out the shapes of any scars beneath it. It didn’t matter; there was enough missing.

Aremu kept at it. He tasted something bitter on his tongue, shame rising up alongside the brief flash of bitterness. I was fast once, too, he wanted to say. He did not think Lars had meant it that way, but he was not sure; it did not seem to matter. He could not held the baser emotions, though he was sorry for them.

And why shouldn’t he think it? Aremu wondered. He had asked Lars to carry another man’s dead body when they’d first met, to drag it, because he was injured and - incomplete. Crippled, he thought, turning the word over. Not so different from scrap, was it? It was true, too, even if he wouldn’t have liked to hear it on another man’s tongue. What about on his own?

Aremu knew what he was; he knew his limitations. He had made choices, choice after choice; he had done the best he could have, at every turn. He had accepted the consequences of his actions; he had made many messes, he understood, and he knew something of trying to clean them up, or at least living in the aftermath. It was pathetic to reduce the losing of his hand to a kitchen metaphor; he shied away from it, and himself. He eased his mind from the familiar, well-trodden path.

“You can dry,” Aremu said. He lifted the heavy pan from the sink, clean, and set it on the drying rack to the side. He gestured to the closet with its handful of cleaning rags and drying cloths, and went back to cleaning - the plates, the knives, the cups, all the rest of it. It was a delicate operation, with only five fingers; it was all the more important to Aremu for it.

He turned off the water when he was done, and stood at the sink for a long moment. Aremu looked down at the damp sleep on his left arm, and grimaced, faintly. He rubbed his face with his wet left hand, and then dried it, and turned to look at Lars, leaning against the counter.

“Do you still want a lesson?” Aremu asked. He didn’t smile, this time; dark eyes watched Lars steadily from an expressionless face, giving away nothing.

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

He had done something wrong. He could tell. Even if he was not sure of what it was that he'd done wrong, Aremu's quiet denial and reluctance to look in his direction, willing or otherwise, was enough of an indication. What was it? Lars blinked, dipping his head in agreement and stepping away, not wishing to hover. This was why he didn't like to let himself talk - always said the wrong thing, it seemed, and he wasn't sure if it was because he had never had to develop good conversation skills, or if he had simply been made without them. If there was a difference, he figured it didn't matter, because it still didn't stop him from speaking. What was it that he had been thinking, before? That he did not have to fear what came out of his mouth, around Aremu?

You probably offended him.

How? I didn't say anything wrong, did I?

You implied he wasn't fast enough.

What? I didn't mean -

A few moments later and he was told to dry, instead, and the imbala gestured towards a closet. Immediately the passive turned to reach it, grabbing a cloth before returning to the other man's side. Not as close, now, not as comfortable, but that was alright. He had never known how to save a conversation, and he did not try. Lars set about drying the dishes as they were cleaned and set aside, working quietly and efficiently, getting the bigger pots and pans and plates dry and out of the way before he bothered drying the smaller items. Those went much faster, and then they were done too, and the passive set the dampened drying cloth to the side.

Aremu remained at the sink for another moment before he turned, and leaned against the counter. Lars hesitated before stepping away, dragging his attention upwards from the counter to meet the man's gaze. The question made him shift on his feet, his hands finding his pockets in order to hide the way his fingers resumed tapping. Gods, he hated that. Hated the tapping. It was hard to concentrate without it, though, hard to stay afloat when he wanted to speak instead. It kept him grounded and aware of himself, kept the line between them from stretching too thin.

But he did not let the silence drag on too long, and replied, "only if you're still up for it, of course. I wouldn't ask any more of you, if you would prefer for me to leave. You've given me more than enough."

And Lars was grateful for it, even if he wasn't sure how to say it now. He thought again of what he had said, and of the quiet response from Aremu, and a part of him felt sorry.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu took Lars’s answer carefully; he knew he was frowning, thinking it over. If he asked Lars to go, he thought, the other man would go. He had been hesitant to come in the first place; Aremu had not thought much of it then.

It was a crossroads, Aremu thought, even if it was a small one. He should ask Lars to go, if all he meant to do was to wallow in his self-pity. He thought of the other man standing on the street, looking at him, and admitting so hesitantly that he could not read. He looked down at his arms, at the damp white sleeves, and the one which led to a hand, and the other which simply stopped.

Shame, Aremu knew, was no way to set it aside. If anything it made the ache worse; to be frustrated with oneself and ashamed of it was no better than simply being frustrated. Holding Lars’ lessons hostage to his self-esteem, Aremu thought, was not the man he wished to be.

“I’d like you to stay,” Aremu said. He found a faint smile for the other man, and offered it out between them, holding it tenuously in the air. “Let me change my shirt, and we’ll get started?” The smile twisted a little, but if it was wry, if it made fun, it was directed at himself, and it was a gentle prodding, not a sharp one.

“Here,” Aremu wiped his still damp hand on his pants. He went to the corner, and he took the paper and the slate he had brought from his room; he set it down on the table. He took the piece of chalk, and he extended it to Lars.

“It’s a drafting slate,” Aremu explained. “I use it for diagrams, if I don’t want to waste paper. Uh,” he smiled at Lars, and it was a little easier this time. “If you’ve never written on one, it takes some practice. Try it out? Just draw, if you like - straight lines and circles - until you’ve a sense of how much pressure to use.” He set the chalk in the other man’s hand. He hesitated, and he set his hand on Lars’ shoulder, again, for just a moment.

“I’ll be back,” Aremu said.

He went to his room; he stripped off the damp shirt, and lay it over the back of his chair to dry. When he returned, it was with shorter sleeves - a loose, comfortable shirt, open at the throat as well, soft white linen, leaving his forearms bare - both of them.

Aremu sat at the table, then, and he drew the pad of paper over to himself, flipping it open. “I thought we’d go through the alphabet letter by letter,” he suggested, and he was smiling again, just a little. “Or at least start it. I can - uh - give you the sound, and draw the letter. You can practice on the slate, if you want.”

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

L

ars could feel it, the relief, as it bled through the uncertainty in his fine, sharp features and made way for the shyest of smiles. Perhaps a little less strained than the one Aremu offered out between them, a little more soft, but he could appreciate seeing a smile on the other man's face all the same. I'd like for you to stay. He told himself that it was the truth, told himself to believe it. Aremu had been upset with his offer, but he had not ruined the night. He could believe it, if he repeated it enough, as he could believe all manner of things with a hard enough concentration, a strong enough will to do so. Perhaps he could even fool himself into believing they were friends, at the end. It would hardly be the worst of lies.

A nod, and then Aremu was leaving the counter to fetch something from the corner. He watched as the paper and slate were set down on the table, and when a piece of chalk was extended towards him, Lars approached. His gaze shifted from the drafting slate, to Aremu, and then back as the other man explained what to do - practice writing with the chalk. Straight lines and circles. Adjust pressure. All things that he could do, things that did not require much of himself, he thought. He could not recall the last time he had written anything at all, but it would not be so hard that he could not even try. The chalk was pressed into his hand; his cold fingertips brushed the imbala's wrist. He offered another nod, and another tiny smile, too, as the man touched his shoulder.

"Of course, I'll try. Thank you, Aremu."

As Aremu left the room, Lars sat down at the table, pulling the drafting slate closer to himself. For a moment or two, he simply looked over it, turned it over in his hands, careful not to brush the chalk against it just yet. In truth, he was nervous to try - Aremu had only said to practice, to get a feel for the chalk and the movement... but he could not shake the feeling that he was going to somehow ruin it. Was there a wrong way to write? A wrong way to draw? If there was, he would surely find it.

With a soft inhale, he set the slate down again, and pulled the chalk over it in a light, thin line. He frowned down at it; that did not feel right. He tried again, and it felt no better. Again, and again, until there were six little lines on the right side of the drafting slate. A circle, then, that wobbled and shook, and came back together haphazardly. After a quick glimpse at the doorway to ensure that his companion was not yet returning, he drew some more, until the circle was topped with two little, shaky triangles, and another, smaller one in the center, and three curved lines coming out from underneath it. He was adding two tiny circles above it when Aremu made his way back into the kitchen - his fingers jerked, and the circle was struck through with his accidental line.

"Yes," Lars agreed, his shoulders lowering again (gods, he had really spooked him there, it was ridiculous), and he set the slate and the chalk down for the moment. "That sounds good. Um -" quickly, the passive wiped his sleeve over the slate, until the image was nothing but a foggy blur. "I know... a few letters, but not very well. I know what my name looks like, but I don't know what the letters are called."

Grabbing the chalk again, Lars swallowed down his nervousness, and looked up to Aremu with a hopeful gray gaze.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Lars had jumped when Aremu came back into the room, a sudden, startled jerk that had sent the chalk scraping across the slate. Aremu had tried not to react to it, and did not look as Lars wiped his sleeve against the slate. It seemed to him Lars’s business what he had drawn, and if the other man wished to keep it to himself, Aremu would let him do so. He had no desire to intrude, not on the parts of a man’s life which he wished to keep secret, not when given the choice.

Aremu nodded. He thought of asking Lars to write his name, but the other man had said only that he knew what it looked like – not how to write it down. He thought Lars faced, already, enough discouragement from himself; he did not wish to add to the other man’s burden.

Instead, carefully, Aremu set out with the first letter of the Estuan alphabet. He wrote slowly, deliberately, with his left hand; the letters were neat and well-formed, and he frowned a little bit, the faintest trace, as he made them. He traced it large onto the paper, and slid it over to Lars to look at. He named it for the other man, and offered, too, several words which started with the same, letting Lars repeat them back. He gave the other man time to draw the shape – not just once, but several times, until the lines of it were less shaky.

They went slowly; Aremu went letter by letter, careful and patient, slowly shaping the alphabet out for Lars. He did not rush the other man or try to hurry him; if Lars grew frustrated, Aremu would stop, but he would continue as long as the other man wanted to learn. Bit by bit, the page of letters began to take shape, each one named and practiced and offered with an example. He didn't know any other way to teach; he was not sure if it was the right path. But he followed it, carefully and faithfully, and did not rush.

Aremu had set his mind to this, and he would offer Lars as much as the other man wished to take. He did not mind taking a break midway; once, he rose to make kofi, and came back to offer Lars a small steaming cup of it – or tea, instead, if he preferred.

When Lars was too tired to continue, however far the two of them had gone, Aremu would fold the paper up and set it carefully on the slate, along with a few extra pieces of the chalk he'd brought out. “Keep them,” He said, quietly, and sat back, looking at the other passive; his face twitched at a faint smile, although it didn’t quite hold. “I’ve others at home, and it’s easy to practice with.”