remu kissed him again, and it was like the answer to a question. Tom couldn’t remember how he’d asked it, but he knew he had, and he knew he’d wanted to; there wasn’t much space for thought. Not with Aremu’s fingers winding their way through his hair, tousling it just rough enough. Not with the breath between them — he couldn’t’ve said whose — his and Aremu’s, beautifully out of rhythm, heavy between the press of their lips. Tom’s heart thundered in his ears; he could feel it aching in his chest.
He was so godsdamn tired, but he was smiling against Aremu. If he’d had breath, he would’ve laughed. It’d been so long since somebody’d kissed him like this. His muscles ached; every bruise and scrape and twist smarted, even the old tsuter hip, because he was sitting at an angle, and he didn’t care. It’d been so long since he’d felt this good.
Then Aremu’s forehead was pressed against his, and his breath was taking the shape of words. Tom hadn’t realized how eager he was. He’d known what to do. He’d’ve traced his lips over Aremu’s one last time, and then found his cheek, and the curve of his jaw, and his neck; and with Aremu’s hand still in his hair...
He blinked, coming into focus on the imbala’s words. His voice was rough, and his breath was as uneven as Tom’s, but he was drawing away, now, and cupping his face with that hand. He swallowed dryly, nodding, tilting his head so he could kiss the imbala’s warm palm before he settled his cheek into it. He shut his eyes for a moment. He’d thought it’d feel different — he remembered the feeling of Aremu’s fingers in his beard. It wasn’t unpleasant, now, the scratch of callouses against bare skin and soft, light stubble — it was new, but so was the angle of the kiss — but it made him sad, somehow. Different every time, he thought, and wondered.
He brought himself back to Aremu’s voice. The other man drew away a little more, taking his hand. Tom shivered; the breeze swept over them, plucked at the linen, ruffled a few stray petals from his hair. His breath still ached in his chest.
Tom grinned when Aremu kissed his hand and promised to get him home; he couldn’t help it. For a few moments, there was so much he wanted to say that he couldn’t think of anything at all.
Different every time. Every time? He remembered the Aremu that’d stood in his kitchen three years ago as he’d made chan; he remembered scooping the powder out of the tin, the puff of it drifting on the candlelight, and Aremu telling him sheepishly of what he’d had. He remembered the way he’d spoken of eyo’pili, then, and even the way he’d spoken of the isles.
What do you know of sharpening, now? He wanted to ask. Of unburdening? Of clarity? We’re both so different, now.
He ran his thumb over Aremu’s hand, glancing over the back of the bench, at the long swath of sand and the broad dark sea. The wind picked up, stirring up the smell of flowers, and he heard the call of a gull.
He took a deep breath and looked back at the other man, thoughtful. “I want to — if there’s time,” he started. He’d never heard his voice so hoarse. He paused, gathering himself; the memory of Aremu’s kiss was like a tide, and he let it recede. “I want to share it with you, but there’re other things I want to share, too. I want to know you better. Sit with me,” he traced over the old words, smile softening, “just a little while?”
He thought wistfully of Aremu braiding his hair, but said nothing. He didn’t know if there was enough to braid, now; he didn’t know if Aremu even could, one-handed, or if it would be too frustrating, with his fine, tangling curls.
But it wasn’t hard to shift closer. Aremu had left him chilly, and he was drawn to the other man’s heat like a wandering soul to a lantern in Serkaih. He untangled their fingers slowly, and if Aremu didn’t move away, he’d lean to kiss him on the cheek.
“D’you have eyo’pili often?” His voice was less rough, but a little breathless; he settled his cheek on the imbala’s shoulder, with what was becoming easy familiarity. “Is it — have you found clarity, here?” He felt as if he were fumbling, but he thought of the cliffs, of Aremu standing in the bright sun just beyond the shade of the tsug. Of how at home he’d looked in the fields, among friendly shouts, at the kitchen table with his books.