[Mature] Knock, Knock

[Meraki]

Afternoon, 36 Dentis, 2719
Kitchen, The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Back, Aremu retreated. So fast that Meraki also leaned backward. The wick braced himself. But Aremu simply continued to retreat in a hurried, almost panicked manner. Meraki’s eyes widened. His gaze followed the other man but otherwise he remained where he was. His hands lowered to rest calmly on his thighs while he sat back on his heels.

“No. No, you –”

Meraki watched while the other man acted as if he’d been frightened or… disgusted? One or the other… or perhaps, both. His initial surprise faded into a slight expression of bemused confusion. He hadn’t thought such a reaction would result from something as simple as a kiss to the stump of a wrist. Not from someone so quiet and seemingly calm. Even during the danger of the thugs, when Aremu could barely walk and Meraki had helped the man to the very house they were now in, the Mugrobi had seemed calm. Yet he panicked about this. About something that to Meraki seemed to just be a part of the man. Why was he so shy about it? Where had his hand gone? How had he lost it? He felt so curious, even more so than when he’d first guided the limb out of the pocket. Was that it? Had Aremu already lost his treasure? Had someone stolen it already?

He noticed that the other man seemed to quiver with… was it rage? No, it didn’t seem like that. Aremu wasn’t exactly glaring at him, just looking… until he wasn’t anymore, and instead had fixed his dark-eyed attention onto the kitchen window.

The Anaxi exhaled in a heavy sigh, out his mouth, that fluttered his bangs from the breath. He tapped his fingers on his knee and leveled his own gaze to look at the mess on the table. Not saying anything either, he got back to his feet. He picked up a washrag and took to sopping up the spilled coffee. Meraki thought over what had just happened, glanced at the other man, then frowned in a pout of his bruised lower lip.

“I- uh… Did y’…” he struggled to figure out what he wanted. He hadn’t thought there’d be as much disconnect as he’d found after going forward with the pursuit. He hadn’t expected that at the edges of his thoughts, along the borders of any concern he might have for the other man he currently remained near, was a powerful desire to seek and find the harlot. To see if Lars was okay. It was an unusual compulsion for Meraki. Why would he care about something like that, in such an immediate feeling? It was poor of him, he recognized, to think of the harlot when he'd brought such disquiet to the man he was currently with. Yet he still did.

Gods, he didn’t want to apologize though. He had simply pursued, and how could he have known Aremu would have reacted that way? It was just a kiss! Just a stupid little kiss. It wasn’t like the severed wound was freshly bleeding! Was it weird? He didn’t know. Maybe it was. Yes, it was. Meraki brought the kofi-soaked rag to the sink and wrung it out. He draped it to dry, then set his hands on the sink edge and stared at the drain while he leaned over. His shoulders slumped in an improper casual posture. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, then forced himself to just say it. “I’m sorry, Aremu.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Afternoon, 36 Dentis, 2719
Kitchen, The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu’s breath was tight in his throat. He had not really taken his eyes off Meraki, not fully; he could see the wick moving around the kitchen, cleaning up the kofi which had spilled onto the table. Light and dark, mingling, Aremu thought, and closed his eyes for the space of a breath.

Meraki offered half an exclamation, little more than Aremu’s words had been. The wick came closer, wringing the rag out against the sink, standing at it. Aremu shifted, looking at him, closer again – only a few feet away, now, close enough that he felt the edge of the wick’s glamour drifting over his skin. Not unpleasant, not exactly.

Aremu ran his tongue over dry lips, and shook his head. “No need,” he said, quietly, looking down at the arm. “I don’t – uh – I don’t like it touched.”

It, Aremu thought, bitterly. My arm, he wanted to say. The place where my hand was. You don’t understand, he could have said; you don’t understand. Until three years ago, I thought – I would have said – no, that isn’t right. I never would have thought to say it. My hands were my life; it was deeper than thought, deeper than words. I earned my living on the strength of my hands, on their care and dexterity; I tended to an engine with them, which I loved as much as a man can love a machine, or perhaps more, when it is the beating heart of his home.

And now?

I know, now, that I was wrong; I know, now, that I am more than the strength of my hands. I had to learn, if I meant to go on. But sometimes – when I am vulnerable – it’s hard to remember.

Aremu said none of it; he felt not even the faintest desire to speak. His thoughts were his own, and he was glad of it; he would not have wished for Meraki to know them. He looked at the wick, still. “I’m sorry,” Aremu said, this time, quietly.

You should go, he wanted to add. This isn’t – I’m not –

You saw me vulnerable, he didn’t want to say. I don’t trust you –

There was a bulge of slender muscles on the wick’s arm, and his scarred, scraped fingers held tight to the counter. His hair was messy, tumbled half over his head. It had felt good, Aremu remembered, held tight in his hand. He took a deep breath, slowly, in and out. I am more, he thought, than the strength of my hands. I mean to go on.

“I’m sorry,” Aremu offered. He came a little closer, along the edge of the counter. His right wrist was still plunged, deep, into the confines of his pocket. It was away, he wanted to say, for a reason; but it wasn’t even the faintest flicker of anger, and it was gone before he arrived.

Tentatively, he reached his hand towards Meraki’s hip once more, finding something close enough to a faint smile. If Meraki let him, slowly, Aremu would curl his hand gently around the other man again. “So much for my manners,” Aremu said with a crooked smile, his gaze flicking over the other man, lingering. “Would you let me make it up to you?”

He knew what he would do, if Meraki agreed; he could imagine the feeling of the floor beneath his knees, and all the rest that would follow. No awkward kisses; no clash of teeth. Something simpler, and more straightforward. Aremu did not know, in the end, where the path he had chosen would lead; he tried it, careful, nonetheless.

[Meraki]

Late Afternoon, 36 Dentis, 2719
Kitchen, The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

What was he to say? When Aremu insisted that he didn’t like his arm touched, it was true that Meraki didn’t understand. It seemed a shame to him, to have a part of the body that wasn’t allowed to be touched. It only made him want to touch it more, too. How might the limb feel, after all? Being treated as it was by Aremu, after losing connection to its hand. Meraki almost felt more sympathy for the limb itself than for the man within.

He could pretend he understood, though. Meraki did understand having reservations about certain intimacies, so he aligned it with that the best he could. But he didn’t know why the other man apologized to him. There was no need for that. He frowned still, and glanced over, and saw the Mugrobi looking at him. Meraki fixed his posture, to stand a little taller when Aremu approached with a repeated apology. Did he… Meraki quietly breathed, not saying anything while he observed. He stayed still when the left hand touched his narrow hip again.

Aremu wanted to try again? Now, the tsat felt bewildered. The other man acted like he accepted the fault for what had occurred. For Meraki, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Bemused, he surveyed the crooked grin and the teasing offer and the close touch.

Would you let me make it up to you?

Meraki exhaled lowly in an audible breath and he nodded... but when he recognized the gradual motion of Aremu, he took hold of the Mugrobi’s shoulder before the man could lower all the way. The Anaxi guided him to stand back up.

“I… ah… fuck,” he grimaced slightly. What was he doing? This wasn’t like him to halt things and take a moment to think about it. He seemed reluctant when he said, “I don’t think I can. I uh… it’s not your fault, Aremu. You’re- It’s- just- maybe if… No, it wouldn’t be right of me. I want to but I also- it’s- my mind is elsewhere.”

Meraki placed his hands behind him, on the sink’s edge, and leaned back. He looked down at his feet and sighed in a defeated sort of sound. How much more awkward could this moment get? He didn’t really want to know. Best to just hold still, and hope that Aremu understood and didn’t take it personally. He worried that the Mugrobi might think it had something to do with… well, anything to do with him. The young wick wasn’t sure how to express it without maybe making things even more awkward and accidentally insulting the other man, too.

“It’s… any other day, and I would have,” he tried anyway. His gaze flitted up at the other man, an apologetic expression on his freckled Anaxi features. “I shouldn't have. I didn't realize… I just can’t get this one kov out of my head and it wouldn’t be right, me thinkin’ like that when I should be payin’ attention to you.”

He hoped that hadn’t sounded too awful. Meraki didn’t know. He never had to explain this sort of stuff before. Not like this. The tsat gnawed on his bruised lower lip, a slight worry and he tried to figure out how to make things better that weren’t… that. “I- uh… Did you want a proper drink? I’m a right hand at mixing and shaking. Let me mix something strong but delicious, for you? Or…” he trailed off, watching Aremu closely and preparing himself to be told to leave.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Afternoon, 36 Dentis, 2719
Kitchen, The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu felt Meraki’s hand on his shoulder, and the wick guided him back to his feet. Not your fault, said the wick, glancing at him and down. Wouldn’t be right. There was a torrent of half formed thoughts shuddering from him, stilted and hesitant.

Aremu stood, silent, shirtless, his right wrist still jammed deep into his pocket. His left hand found the pocket on his other side, knotting into a fist inside the fabric.

He did not say a word as Meraki fumbled through his explanation, not even when the wick went as far as to confess he was busy thinking about another man. Nothing showed beneath the smooth mask of his face, neither anger nor annoyance; he kept it carefully blank.

There was yet more silence in the wake of Meraki’s confession. Aremu didn’t know what to say; it was hard even to muster up disappointment with how awkward things had been.

He did know, then. Just tell me you don’t want me, Aremu wanted to say. Don’t lie; don’t lie about this. There’s no need. It’s worse than any truth would be. He took a slow, deep breath.

Why are you here? He wanted to ask Meraki that. Why are you here, really? Don’t give me any of this shit. Has anything - anything - since you came inside been about me? But Aremu knew the answer already, and it was a stinging blow to whatever ego he had left. His jaw clenched, the only movement of his face, and the softened as he regained control. He did not want to hear Meraki’s lies in answer, even if perhaps they were meant kindly - and he was not so sure they were.

Meraki was watching him, closely, offering to make him a drink.

“I think you had better go,” Aremu said, evenly; it was not really a request. Both hands were still tucked away in his pockets, and he looked at the wick standing against the sink.

He wondered if - now - the taste of his apologies burned bitter in the back of his throat. They weren’t for you, he wanted to say; he wanted to spit the words out onto the kitchen floor. They were for me; they were what I needed to say. They weren’t for you.

He didn’t intend to leave Meraki alone in the house; he didn’t trust the other man to go quietly. If Meraki agreed, Aremu would see him out to the door - not for good byes or explanations. He would rather not have heard any more; he would rather Meraki had said less. Silence, he thought, would have been preferable. He was oddly conscious of the wick’s glamour in the air all around him, the pressure of it unpleasant in a way it hadn’t been moments ago.

Aremu wanted him gone; he wanted this odd, taut humiliation over with. If his sweater had been closer by, he would have worn it; but he didn’t want to humiliate himself further with self-consciousness, and so he held, instead, waiting.

[Meraki]

Late Afternoon, 36 Dentis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

How many times had Meraki heard that? How many times had these sorts of things ended with abrupt dismissal? How many times did he, the moment there was nothing more to be had, get turned around and shown the door? This time was a variation on those other times though. This time, his mouth remained clean. This time, he didn’t have to awkwardly put his clothes on while finding his way out. He’d never even taken his clothes off. Meraki couldn’t tell which was better or worse.

I think you had better go.

It was one of the nicer ways of putting it. Meraki understood what it translated to and he added Aremu's voice to his collection. Get out, now. Leave. Don’t touch me. I’m done with you. Shut the door quiet, okay? Out. Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Off, go. Forget we met. Enough, I’m finished. Don’t come back. You’re still here? Blessed Lady, you look downright pathetic. Did you want a tally? I don’t want to see your face again. You can go. Like I’d let a wick stay! There's coins on the table. I don't have time for this. On with you, get. You tell anyone…

I think you had better go.

Just one more to add to the rest. Yet, still his cheeks felt like they were on fire. A ruddy blush crossed over his face. He didn’t lower his gaze, even though he knew his face burned a brilliant rose-pink. Was that it then? Because he hadn’t kept his mouth shut and let Aremu do whatever he wanted? Because he thought maybe the man might be interested in… sincerity? It resulted in the same thing as lying, didn’t it? Just cut to the chase without all the mess in between.

He pressed away from the sink and flipped his bangs aside. Meraki walked the long way around the table to avoid the other man. He picked up the sweater, threw it over for Aremu to catch, without a word otherwise about it, then left the kitchen. His field had become wild, chaotic, and the monic particles buzzed in a sort of warning around him… until he drew it all inward. He suffocated the mona attached to him, dampened them into unfeeling nothingness, while he made his way to the front door. He walked quick, familiar with the pace and he didn’t look at Aremu in the slightest. Head up, shoulders back, he almost seemed… proud while he was shown the door. If only because he wouldn’t allow himself to look any other way.

At the door, however, he paused and ran his hands over his vest to check that he had everything. He looked at Aremu, and he didn’t need to wonder about why the other man was following like he was. It was hardly his first time escorted to a door, though not usually in a place so nice as the golly's house. His face had lost its blush somewhat, and he angled his head specifically so he could look down at Aremu. The Anaxi half-breed displayed a haughty expression of disdain - stolen from someone else, but well-practiced.

“My name. It isn’t Meraki.” Not for you. Not anymore. “It’s Carver.”

And that was all he said. He headed outside, didn’t look back at the fancy golly house with all its many rooms, and books upon books of knowledge... He tried to not think of them, tried to not think about how nicely they’d burn, and he certainly didn’t think about Aremu. Not anymore. By the time he reached the end of the pretty little tree lines, and passed through the gate, the wick had a cloud of tobacco smoke around him and an eye forward for the rest of his day. He didn’t have the luxury to allow some Mug to bother him any further than the time it took to go through the gate. He had work to do, coin to make, and information to find.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Afternoon, 36 Dentis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Meraki tossed the sweater across the kitchen at him. Aremu caught it in a shaking hand; embarrassment swarmed over his face, the red hot heat invisible on his dark cheeks. He could be grateful for that, at least; his lips twitched, and pressed together all the more firmly.

Was it that, then? The hand? You kissed it, Aremu wanted to say, bitter and angry. You’re the one - I put it away for a reason. I - he pulled the sweater on over his head, ashamed, although he felt a brief pulse of something verging on panic for the moment Meraki was out of sight. It's a part of me, he wanted to say. It's not as if it was a surprise. He shuddered, collecting himself. At least with the sweater on his wrist was hidden beneath the cuff, at least he -

Aremu followed him to the door. He wanted him out; he didn’t want to see Meraki turn and head towards the bookshelves in Uzoji’s study, or anywhere else deeper in the apartment. He didn’t want to know, really, why the wick had come. He’d thought - at least, for a moment, he thought he had understood. The wick’s abrupt dismissal burned, somewhere, all the more because he had been foolish enough to think -

It was like a deep, dark mud, squelching beneath his feet. With every step Aremu felt himself sinking deeper into the mire, pulled under. He opened his mouth and he could taste it foul and dirty on his tongue; he tried to breathe and it crept inside him and filled him up.

Carver, Meraki said, haughtily, staring down at Aremu, contemptuous. Carver said, Aremu supposed. He wondered which was the lie; he supposed it didn’t matter. One of the other man’s masks gone; this, Aremu thought, was how the wick really felt. He supposed it had been all along; he felt sick with embarrassment at the memory of sinking to his knees just moments ago. He didn’t understand it; he didn’t understand why Meraki - Carver - had come, or why he had offered to make a drink - he didn’t understand any of it.

Aremu shut the door behind the other man, and stood there, silent. His face broke; the mask crumpled, and he shuddered a tight breath, pressing the fingers of his left hand against himself, digging them in against his cheek and forehead. A deep breath, and another, and Aremu eased back, slowly; he held still in the mud, and did not try to spit it out, did not struggle further. He knew, all too well, what lay at the bottom of this particular pit.

Aremu took a deep breath, slow, in and out. He straightened up; he lowered his hand.

“What was that?” Niccolette called from the far end of the hall, emerging from her study. “I heard a noise.”

“Nothing,” Aremu cleared his throat, turning back towards her.

The Bastian raised her eyebrows at him, and shrugged. She was damp with sweat, her hair and shift mussed with it. “I shall bathe,” she announced, coming towards him, turning shy of the door to head toward her bedroom. She paused, a few steps away, and glanced back over her shoulder at Aremu, raising her eyebrows.

“It was nothing,” Aremu lied again. He put his hand and wrist back in his pocket, and waited until she had turned once more and gone.