[Closed, Mature] Sky Full of Song

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

H
e tested the edges of the wound with light, careful fingers. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, except that he wasn’t finding it; he’d’ve been worried if it was hot as a fevered brow, if the glistening red smear of blood on Aremu’s dark skin’d looked different than it did.

Tom’d clocked up more men than he’d patched, but he knew, leastways, what infection looked like. He remembered the worst beating Clark’d ever took, and it’d been because of him, so he’d felt responsible; he was his brother, and he’d’ve felt responsible anyway. He remembered what felt like an age, what felt like the whole of the maw since the War, one long night’s vigil in the small apartment in Sharkswell, a night that lasted to the spring.

What precious little he’d known then, he’d learned from Oisin. He’d learned more from hama, between grit teeth and sighs; he’d learned more, since, from Ava.

He was crouched on another chair beside Aremu, his glasses perched on his nose. The lamp sat on the table now, and it cast hazy light over the imbala’s side; hazy, but light enough to see by. He’d clicked his teeth, a wince twitching across his face, when he’d seen the torn stitches. But he was silent, other than to ask where they kept the gauze; silent as he settled back in his chair, other than the faint click of his spectacles’ frames as he unfolded them, glinting in the lamplight.

“A moment,” he murmured, once, and stood up from his chair with a creak. He padded across the kitchen floor, raising his eyes to the hanging herbs, then to the ones on the counter. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for, and it wasn’t long before he’d set himself to the mortar and pestle, clacking hollowly in the quiet. He came back with a bowl full of sweet-smelling paste. “Junia,” he murmured, with an almost shy flicker of a smile, and then set to work again.

To some men, it might’ve been a strange mix of smells; to Tom, it was achingly familiar. Warm mint, crushed junia, blood, antiseptic, clean linen. If he’d shut his eyes, he might’ve been in a different kitchen, across the sea. Except usually it was him slumped at the table and bleeding.

He was quiet too while he set about cleaning; if he felt Aremu’s muscles tighten underneath his cloth, he said nothing.

He couldn’t look too close at it, but he liked the look of his hands cleaning and dressing Aremu’s wound. He’d never much liked them, but they looked different, somehow, in the lamplight — their pallor different against Aremu’s skin, different handling the clean gauze. They looked strangely suited to work like this. They were meticulously careful, for their slight tremor.

When he finished, Aremu thanked him. Tom smiled up at him and poured himself a cup of tea. He didn’t ask to look at the wound on his arm. Once he’d laid his glasses on the table, on top of Tsadi, he sat back in his seat. He raised his cup to his lips, but he didn’t drink right away. He shut his eyes and breathed. He felt tired again.

It was some time before Aremu broke the silence, but it was a more comfortable silence than it had been. He set his tea down to look at the imbala. Aremu’s hand was glowing-warm from the cup of tea, and the stroke of his thumb was more soothing than junia.

There was something crooked about the set of Aremu’s lips, and Tom smiled back, but he didn’t laugh this time. He tilted his head, listening quietly. At I know what I am, something flickered across Tom’s face, and he couldn’t help it; whether it was sadness or sympathy or something else, not even he could’ve said. His smile had faded.

“You do,” he said after a moment, looking intently at the other man. He laid his other hand on top of Aremu’s and pressed it gently. “It means very much to me, that it meant something to you. I was touched.” Each syllable was carefully-drawn; if there was more of Uptown about it than the Rose, he didn’t think of it or care.

He let his hand rest on the imbala’s for a few more seconds, still looking him in the eye. His thumb traced the curve of a familiar scar, though the years between them had faded it; he found an unfamiliar one near it, and the smile came back to his face, tender.

He took his hand away. “I laughed because it was strange, being carried by you. Not a bad kind of strange. Just a new one. I laugh — I laugh at a lot of things. Maybe things I shouldn’t,” he added, a little wry. The wind ruffled the drapes, then, and he shivered in a gust of mint-smelling steam. He shook his head and looked down at their hands, at Aremu’s on his. He turned his over, slipped his fingers through the other man’s.

“And because I don’t understand,” he said carefully, “not always,” and looked back up at the imbala. “I want to deserve your trust, too. But is trust something that’s deserved?” He squeezed Aremu’s hand. “And if it is — how many times you’ve proven it to me…”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Nighttime, 29 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate, Isla Dzum

Aremu nodded a little when Tom spoke of his laughter, his gaze fixed on the other man’s face. He understood, now; he was not so sure it was wrong to laugh. He had never known how to find the humor in such things; he knew enough of the value in it to be glad Tom could.

“Trust is something given, I think,” Aremu said. There was a little frown on his face still, knotting it. “I have tried, for a long time, to understand the connections between truth and honor and trust.” He has looked down, and he looked up again, searching Tom’s face. He felt ashamed, for just a moment. What Tom must think - an imbala, playing at -

But nothing had changed on the face watching him, not so inscrutably Anaxi as it had been. They were not the flat gray eyes of Tom’s nightmare, reflecting something monstrous in the mirror. They were warm, and a little soft in the yellow light of the kitchen. Tom’s fingers were still tangled in his own, his grip comfortingly firm. The air around them smelled like mint and junia, Tom had named it, even thought Aremu had not needed to know. There was a coolness on his side, and it did much to offset the ache.

Never, Aremu thought - never once had Tom treated even his most half-formed offerings as anything less than a treasure. Never had he mocked him - never had he done less than to take the thoughts seriously, to tease them over and offer them back. If trust could be earned, Aremu thought, then surely -

Aremu swallowed, his throat tight, and went on. “Someone who is not always truthful can be trusted,” Aremu said, carefully, thinking not only of himself, but of many crewmen he had known these last years, “just as someone who is always honest may still not be worthy of trust. But honor...” he was quiet again.

“What does it mean, to be without honor?” Aremu asked, softly. “Truth is a pillar of honor, but they are not one and the same. As best as I can tell it means to have... to have principles, to have something inside you that...” Aremu’s voice trembled, and strained, and he took a careful breath, looking at Tom. There was a dampness on his cheeks, and he tried to pretend it was not there. “That lights your way.”

Aremu was quiet, then, taking a deep breath. He could not pretend any longer, and he could not wipe the tears away; it would have meant letting go of Tom’s hand. He could feel one trickling down his cheek, slowly. He took another breath, carefully. “I am groping in the dark,” Aremu said, quietly, looking at Tom. ”Perhaps a man without honor should not be trusted.” Another tear spilled down his cheek; he had not cried so much as these last few days since - Aremu was not sure he had ever cried so much. He did not know if it was strength or weakness. He held tight to Tom still; he refused to let go. “No matter what he does, or how many times he does it.”

Aremu was quiet. He swallowed, hard, and he sighed. “Sometimes I want it to be otherwise,” he said, softly. “And I can’t know if it is so, or if it is only my selfish desire.”

“Whether I can deserve it or not,” Aremu said, carefully, “I am glad for the gift of your trust.“

He looked back at Tom, and he smiled again, wryly, the tear tracks glittering on his face in the light. “You have my trust too, Tom,” Aremu said, quietly, as if all the words that had come before might not be enough. Perhaps they weren’t; there was still a value to saying it aloud. “Freely given.”

Aremu didn’t know - he couldn’t know - if the distance between them was too great. Once, he understood now, he must have thought so. So much more had passed since then - years and death and distance. Tom should have been more of a stranger than ever, and Aremu understood now that even what they had made familiar and easy between them might never again be so.

Perhaps the wanting was enough, Aremu thought, looking down at their hands tangled together on the table. In the soft yellow lit kitchen, warm, fragrant with mint - with the dark all around them, all outside, and only the two of them lit together - Aremu could let himself believe it so.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

I
’m glad to have your trust, too,” Tom murmured, smiling softly and watching the imbala through the haze of lamplight. It wasn’t a lie; if he knew one thing, it was that if it’d been a lie, he wouldn’t’ve said it. He’d searched in his heart as Aremu had spoken. It’s heavy, he wanted to say, but it’s yours to give, and I’m honored to accept it. It’s heavy, but it’s worth it.

His eyes wandered over Aremu’s face, following the glimmering trail of a tear from one fringe of eyelashes to the edge of his lips. He’d held the imbala’s hand, his grip firm and even, the whole time. He’d wondered, when he’d seen the first dewdrop perched at the edge of one dark eye, if he should’ve let go. Aremu’s hand hadn’t made the suggestion, not a twitch – it had only kept on holding, steadfast – but he wondered if Aremu would’ve wiped that tear away, had he another hand to do it with. He had seldom ever seen Aremu cry.

Had he ever? More in the last few days than he’d’ve thought possible. He felt the weight of it, but it was part of the trust, and he was glad of it, in its way. He was glad he knew Aremu well enough to know the weight of it.

Tom had wanted to wipe them with his own hand. He had one to spare, to stroke the imbala’s cheek. He had lips to spare, too. They always did this, he thought wryly. He didn’t know if it was the first time he’d ever been aware, but it was the first time he’d ever thought it in words.

Even now, he wanted to stand, his fingers still tangled with Aremu’s, and move closer, ‘til the space between them was dark and warm; he wanted to wipe the tear away with his thumb and tilt his chin up. He wanted to press his lips to the lips that had claimed to be without honor, the same lips seemed so seldom to make a promise they didn’t intend to keep, torn stitches or lost life be damned.

But what Aremu had said, Tom knew now, was too important. Even the tear-tracks down his cheeks were too important to be wiped away. And sometimes words deserved words, and Tom hadn’t given him enough of those; he didn’t think a kiss would be enough, this time, to show Aremu how much he wanted to understand. For all he cherished their benny nights together, Aremu was his lover, and they were only half the battle.

He turned the words over in his head, stroking Aremu’s hand. He studied the heavy wood of the table between them, watching the low light flicker over it. The teacups cast strange shadows. He frowned. The problem was, he didn’t know where to start.

Honor. It was strange to hear Aremu speak of honor; it didn’t sound like any honor Tom knew. Principles, oes. A guiding light, even. But then, the way he put the word to motion.

A man without honor should not be trusted. He eyed Aremu curiously, his brow furrowed. The implication was clear enough to him, by now, though it left him flabberghasted. You know I know, he wanted to say, what it does – what you’re capable of. I’ve told you I don’t fault you; I’ve told you I’m not afraid; I’ve told you I don’t think you’re empty, though now I’m afraid I hurt you when I did.

Aremu’s definition of honor, on the surface, didn’t jar against his; he could agree with it. But Aremu was a man with principles, wasn’t he? More principles than Tom’d ever had.

Trust is given, Tom thought. Honor – honor is had, or not had. Trust originates elsewhere; honor comes from inside. Was that it?

And what did Tom know of honor? It’d been awhile since either of them had spoken, and Tom had so much to say, so much he was afraid to say. He didn’t know the first thing about honor, least of all whatever honor meant on Aremu’s tongue. He’d never thought himself an honorable man, and he’d never been ashamed of it – a kov does what he needs to to survive – not until now, not before this had started taking shape between them. He wanted to ask, but he was ashamed.

What kind of man would you think me, if I told you—?

Tom swallowed thickly, and set the thought aside; he set all thoughts aside. He stroked Aremu’s hand with his thumb. “I don’t know — that I know much of honor,” he said. He paused, so still his heart could’ve stopped, watching the imbala’s face carefully. But he didn’t think he saw anything different, familiar as the other man’s face was; he thought he’d’ve known.

His eyes strayed toward the oil lamp, and he watched the flame waver in the glass. He could see his and Aremu’s reflections, nothing more than hazy shadows. He sucked at a tooth, trying to think how to say what he meant, what he felt. “I never told you, before.” His voice was hesitant, at first. “We didn’t know very much of each other, did we? Not really.”

One more time he stroked Aremu’s hand, then let go, so he could take another sip of his tea. It was cooling, but it wasn’t even lukewarm; the mint lingered pleasantly on his tongue. “I was a wild thing, when I was a lad,” he went on, setting the cup back down. “I grew up in a whorehouse; I didn’t have much in the way of learning, less still about things like truth and honor.” He met Aremu’s eye, smiling sadly, and took another sip of tea.

“I always thought honor was just a word you use to describe the way a man acts — an honorable man pays what’s due, doesn’t lay a hand on his rosh or his bochi…” He shook his head. “That was all honor meant, to a lad who grew up on the streets of the Rose. Ada’xa Uzoji tried to explain ohante to me, once. I never thought I was an honorable man; I was just a tallyboy with a mean streak. I don’t know what I am, now.”

Tom didn’t realize his voice was wavering ‘til it broke. The lump in his throat seemed to block him from saying anything else. He didn’t know why, but he felt a need to reach for Aremu’s hand again; he didn’t know why, but he was afraid the other man might not want to take it. Was it better not to know?

He glanced away, then glanced back. “How can honor be something you have, not something you do? I don’t mean offense,” he added, and reached for the imbala’s hand, after all. “I thought I knew what you meant, but I don't."

[Aremu Ediwo]

Nighttime, 29 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate, Isla Dzum

Tom had accepted his words, smiling, watching him over the table. They had sat in comfortable silence, a little while, in the mint-kissed lamplight, and Aremu had found that he could catch his breath and come back to himself. He had not felt afraid, as he spoke; only after, in the lingering moments before Tom spoke, had it crept up on him. Now he felt – drained, perhaps, but like poison from a wound. It had hurt, but it was the sort of hurt worth bearing; he had not even needed to grit his teeth.

Time drifted between them. Aremu couldn’t make out the thoughts behind Tom’s face; he could see him frown, faintly, and see it smooth out once more. When the other man first began, Aremu watched him, even and steady, and hoped he would keep going. He didn’t want to say it; he found he was nearly holding his breath.

Aremu watched, careful and intent, as the other man kept speaking. He turned Tom’s words over in his mind, carefully, and carefully again. He didn’t know how to say that it touched him – how much it touched him – to hear of Tom’s past. There’d been a sad smile on Tom’s face, as he spoke of it, but Aremu hadn’t smiled. He wondered, now, if he should have. His mouth tasted like mint, and he swallowed the mouthful of tea and set the cup down.

Tom took his hand, and Aremu felt a shiver run through him; he felt a little of the tense ache in his chest relax. He lifted Tom’s hand, and kissed it, softly, and let them settle back together on the table. He was sorry for the tea, but he didn’t want to let go, not now. Not again. We didn’t know much of each other, Aremu wanted to say. I was afraid. I didn’t know it then, but I think you were too.

“I think,” Aremu hesitated. He was quiet, then, looking up at Tom. “It’s not…” He hesitated again. “I don’t mind you asking,” he said, carefully. “It’s...” You shouldn’t ask an imbala about honor, he wanted to say. Any galdor would tell you – you shouldn’t – the Anaxi we flew with, the ones who were curious about Mugroba, they would never have asked me – not even Willie, not after three years –

“No offense,” Aremu said, instead, softly. “I am privileged to be asked,” he swallowed, taking a deep breath. Tom knew, he thought; he understood, well enough at least. It wasn’t ignorance, and perhaps it had never been ignorance, these last few days. It was something else. That knowledge ached, somewhere, and it soothed that ache as well.

Aremu was quiet a long moment, again, trying to think it through. He still couldn’t picture it, he found; even now, even with the strangest face he never could have imagined on the other man, he couldn’t think of Tom as a boy. Wild, maybe – yes – he thought he could imagine that. It was hard to picture him, a shrunken down little version of the man he knew, beardless – small – how could Tom have ever been small?

“I think what you call honorable, I would call good,” Aremu said, looking at Tom. “A good man doesn’t beat his children. An honorable one may, if he believes it makes them stronger.” There was the faintest catch in his voice, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to smile. “Maybe – balach, I think, is the term,” Aremu said, very carefully. He thought perhaps the Tek sounded as strange on his tongue as Mugrobi had once on Tom’s, but he offered it regardless, careful, and found he could smile after all, a little hopeful twitch of his lips.

“Truth, men agree, is honorable,” Aremu said, frowning softly as he found his path of thought once more. “Perhaps there are other common pillars. But an honorable man does what that inside of him says is right, I think. It is not his actions which make him honorable, but the harmony between them and his… pillars.” He shrugged. “Ada’xa Yesufu, perhaps, found it honorable to send his son to bait your trap.” Aremu’s lips pressed together faintly, distastefully. His thumb stroked gently over Tom’s hand; his fingers held him a little more tightly.

“And so,” Aremu said, hesitant, “without the light of those guiding principles inside him, an imbala cannot be honorable. It does not…” he swallowed. There were no tears, not this time, and he met Tom’s eyes again, evenly. “It does not matter if he behaves in a way other men find honorable. He cannot…” Aremu shrugged, softly.

“To have is not sufficient, and to do is not sufficient. One needs both,” Aremu said. He knew – he had known from the start – the question that was beneath it all, the question at Tom’s heart. Am I an honorable man? Or perhaps – can I be?

“It doesn’t matter what came before. So long as that light is inside you, it can be found, and acted upon,” Aremu said, instead, and he met Tom’s eyes now. Take it, he wanted to say; I don’t begrudge it to you. “I don’t know how,” he said, as evenly as he could, “but I think – if you want it, it can be yours.”

Aremu let go, then, slowly; he couldn’t have said why at first. It did ache, he realized, slowly. He was glad he hadn’t said he didn’t begrudge it to Tom; he knew he did. It was a shameful feeling; it burned in his chest, now, hot and painful. His lips pressed firm, and he closed his eyes, until the warning heat behind them faded. Aremu looked up at Tom again, and tried to smile; it flickered and died on his lips. He closed his eyes again, turning his head away, his breath catching softly.

“I am ashamed,” Aremu whispered. “I should not –” His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath. “I know what I am.” He wiped his eyes with his hand, carefully, and settled it back down on the table. He sighed, softly, and found he could look at Tom again. He reached out, hesitantly – his fingertips settled on the other man’s hand, but he didn’t quite have the courage to take it.

“I think you have it in you,” Aremu said, his voice a little stronger, looking down at his fingertips against pale, freckled skin, against curling red hairs. He met Tom’s gaze again, serious, and solemn, and tried to offer the other man a smile.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

A
balach.

Tom smiled more at Aremu’s smile than at the Tek on his tongue; it was a wavering little thing, and he tried to fan the coals with his own. It was gone, soon enough, and what it left behind was the word — balach. The catch in Aremu’s throat, the seven words, if he believes it makes them stronger. Tom’s smile couldn’t hold, though he kept looking Aremu in the eye, as if a stray glance might give something away. He still felt a faint prickle of fear, even after so long, but he knew well enough how to set it aside.

Ada’xa Yesufu knit the frown deeper in the lines of his mouth, and he looked away, then, down at his cup of mint tea, at the dark water. He raised his other hand to his jaw, scratching the prickly skin; his fingertips lingered as if there was still a beard to stroke.

I might rather be good than honorable, was his first thought. He didn’t know what to do with it, or if it was true. It was knee-jerk, and he could feel the heat of an old anger somewhere behind it, too strong — and buried too deep — to feel in full. It was almost easy to look at, with all the bulk of memory between him and the old tsat. Not all of the things he did to me made me stronger, he wanted to argue pointlessly. Does it matter what a man believes he was doing? He felt pain, too, for Aremu, for things he couldn’t ask, for things he couldn’t say.

He trusted Aremu enough to let him finish. The imbala was dry-eyed, but he held his hand tightly; Tom was grateful for the firmness of his hand, and he held it back, just as firm.

Slowly, still running his fingers over his narrow jaw, he began nodding. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes flicked back and forth over the tabletop, as if searching the words he was hearing.

Without the light of those guiding principles, an imbala — Tom’s brow furrowed deeper. Can a man who made you believe this have honor?

Aremu left his hand cold again. His next words drew Tom’s eyes up. The glisten was back in Aremu’s eyes; he was wiping them.

I didn’t mean to ask, he wanted to say, I knew not to — I didn’t mean to make you tell me — but it was too late. I should’ve known you’d hear it in my voice. His lips twitched; tears prickled at the edges of his eyes, and he felt them, damp on his lashes. The brush of Aremu’s fingertips was feather-light, this time. It was all he could do to steady his breath, because he knew he’d wanted those words, whether he’d meant to take them or not.

Aremu was smiling at him. He managed a smile back, blinking away more tears. “I don’t know how, either,” he replied, “but I want to have what you see in me. I gave you my trust, and I don’t take it lightly. I want it, and it means — more than I can say, that you see it.”

He looked down at their hands. It was still jarring to see Aremu’s, long-fingered and dark, against these hands. His fingers curled slightly underneath Aremu’s, and the brush of the other man’s skin made him shiver.

“I won’t ask you not to be ashamed,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. He shifted closer in his seat and laid his other hand atop Aremu’s, clasping it again. He didn’t look away from his eyes. “I understand, more, I think. Now. I won’t ask you not to — this is yours, and I respect it.” He stroked the back of Aremu’s hand, following the lines of the bones; he lifted it carefully to his lips and echoed the imbala’s kiss, only he laid his forehead against the other man’s knuckles and took a deep breath in.

He laid Aremu’s hand back down. You don’t have to speak of it, he wanted to say, then, but thought better of it. You gave him your trust, and he told you it was a privilege. This is a man who chooses his words carefully; trust them. “If the truth is a pillar of honor, men have done — such — cruel things, to other men,” and he tried to speak lightly, but he knew Aremu had to hear the weight, “for what they believe. I was raised by a man who had — firm beliefs, about strength. About what it was to be a man.” His voice shook, but he knew the weight of what Aremu had given him, and he knew he had to give back. “I don’t know if he was honorable, but Vita’s built on men like him, and turns on their truths. What if it’s not true?

“I’m afraid I don’t know much of truth, either,” he admitted. “I’m sorry. I thought it was easy to find, once. Now, with what I am… Things change shape, if you look at them too close. Maybe that means I don’t have it.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Nighttime, 29 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate, Isla Dzum

Moisture glistened in Tom’s eyes, glittering in the lamplight. He blinked; Aremu could see the droplets caught in his lashes. He breathed, slowly, steadily, through the ache of it. Like a mirror, he thought. When he saw the tears on Tom’s face, he was not ashamed of them. They did not seem to him like weakness, but strength; Tom’s tears had always seemed to him like strength. Aremu could not go further along that path, but he let himself stay there, and tried to grow familiar with the thought.

Tom smiled back at him, too. Aremu thought he knew, already, what his words had meant, but to hear it from Tom’s lips – the words shuddered through him, and he smiled a little more, and felt another tear slide down his cheeks. Sometimes it's easier to be what's reflected, he thought. He thought of Tom as he’d been, the little crooked grin he’d offered. He couldn’t remember every word that had been spoken between them, so long ago; he could remember the prickle of awareness through him, as they had edged towards understanding. He could remember Tom, thoughtful – grinning, quirking an eyebrow, maybe, the heavy set of his brow expressive.

Tom took his hand now, and spoke to him. Aremu listened, quietly, and he wasn’t sure he understood. You should be ashamed, he heard, at first; but it was at odds with the look in Tom’s eyes, the gentle clasp of his hand. At least, he thought it was. For a moment, Aremu couldn’t bear it – no, he wanted to say, no – not again – please – please, no, Tom – he wanted to snatch back all his words, because he thought Tom hadn’t felt this way before, and if he had done this –

More tears were sliding down his cheeks, then, and Aremu found his next breath sharp and thin. The panic in his chest warred with the brush of Tom’s lips against his knuckles, the way the other man settled Aremu’s hand against his head. Aremu found he could breath, when Tom did, at the way he seemed to be able to feel the warmth of the other man’s inhale against his skin. He shuddered, and let the fear leave on his exhale. I respect it, Tom had said. I respect you, Aremu heard. He didn’t know what more there was to understand; he didn’t know that he could.

There was something in Tom’s voice that called to him when the other man began again. Aremu understood before Tom reached the end of it, with a sinking ache in his stomach; he knew where the words would lead, even if he could not have chosen them. He did not look away from it, or from the man sitting before him. It was heavy; it was so heavy. He had put a weight between them, and Tom had added to it, and Aremu felt it bowing them closer together – close enough to touch, to kiss – his hand held Tom’s, tightly, and he squeezed the other man’s fingers. I don’t know, he wanted to say, but I understand.

“I don’t know,” Aremu said, softly, honestly. He stroked Tom’s hand with his thumb, tenderly. He was learning, he thought, the little spots of rough hair, the occasional faintly raised freckle, the places where the veins came out against the skin. He felt achingly grateful for the chance. “Sometimes I wonder how a man with honor can say anything of substance.”

Uzoji, Aremu wanted to say – he had the knack of it. I know his honor mattered to him, and his truth too. He followed his own path; he had a shining light inside him. And yet he spoke; he knew what to say, and when to hold silent. There were times when I thought he could not believe it, not possibly – but he did more than to believe it. What he said, he made true, as if he could conjure it up from his heart. But as much as he had loved Uzoji, the other man had no place here, between Aremu and his lover.

I would not send you to him, Aremu thought, looking at Tom. Perhaps it is selfish of me. Perhaps, if you could, you would have learned from him. I should not begrudge it; I know you would not begrudge me Tsadha, nor any other, and if I was jealous of you and Ishma, it was only that you had so much love, between you. But this is something more than the love of the body, or even romantic love; it would hurt, to be so excluded.

“I think an honorable man who never doubts is hard and brittle,” Aremu said, instead. He smiled at Tom, his thumb still moving softly, and blinked away the last of the tears from his lashes. “I think perhaps he has to be, because otherwise he would be overwhelmed by fear, and he would not know how to bear it. To be honorable and to doubt… I think there is a balance that can be found, there. I think good men are the ones who find it,” Aremu cleared his throat, softly. He knew how transparent he was; he did not mind. He found it was not so hard to smile, anymore.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

W
ell said,” Tom sighed. He felt strangely relieved at what Aremu’d chosen to speak to, what he hadn’t. He wasn’t surprised the imbala’d understood what he was getting at, but he was warmly grateful, nonetheless.

He sat in the drifting mint steam and the lingering smells of curry, letting the aches of the last long days, and the last night, sink through his bones. He sat watching Aremu’s thumb drift over his hand, rhythmic and soothing. “Doing is easier to sort through than speaking,” he admitted. “Sometimes a man’s got to speak, anyway, or he ought to. I know that, now, though I didn’t once. Doesn’t make it any easier. Harder, maybe.” His lip twitched, just a flicker of a smile.

Those two hands together were just about the strangest thing he’d ever seen, if he thought too hard on it. Only two days ago, if you’d asked him if this was possible, he’d’ve laughed in your face and called you a chroveshitter; and you’d’ve made a liar of him. How many times had he been made a liar? Tom wondered. Little things, everyday things, the price of bread, differences that weighed less than a quart’penny. But when you were used to living without ging, even a quart’penny meant something.

They weighed more to Aremu, he thought. Looking back up at the imbala, he wondered how often in a day he thought about these things. He wanted to ask so many things, and there was so little time. Even looking round at the kitchen, with its dried herbs, its great windows, the rustling kofi outside, he knew an airship would whisk him back to Vienda tomorrow, before it could become as familiar as he wanted it to be.

Before Aremu could. Even now, the cups were half-empty and going cool, like blossoms scattered on the breeze, vines shrunk against the bark. Upstairs, there was an empty room with a mirror covered in a coat. He could delay it, but it’d be there, still.

Aremu’s voice distracted him again, briefly. He found himself fighting back more tears. He didn’t want to think how many he’d shed tonight. There was only the barest glitter on Aremu’s lashes, but he cleared his throat quietly before he fell silent, and Tom knew what it meant. You’ve thought about it, he wanted to say. You weigh all of them in the balance, whether they’re worth a concord or a scrap.

He thought Aremu must’ve been talking about Uzoji. He didn’t know if the imbala would’ve wanted him to think so, but he didn’t think he could be thinking of anyone else. A good man – how few were there? “It’s precarious.” He found his voice thoughtful; his eyes strayed again, toward the window. Toward the garden. Maybe honorable men all kept gardens. “Being good – it sounds almost like intercropping,” he said suddenly. “The doubt nourishes the honor, so it doesn’t get stiff and dry. It must be a hard balance to strike. I haven’t…”

He paused.

You’re a good man, Tom had wanted to say, but Aremu knew he had no honor in some place Tom didn’t think he could ever scratch. Where did that leave him – no honor, all doubt? It seemed reasonable, that a man had to be honorable to be good, but that’s where he caught Tom again.

He thought he was starting to understand. Without honor, you couldn’t be good or truthful. If you were incapable of honor, everything was just performance – your doubt, in the end, was just doubt. Without honor to balance it out.

In his mind, he saw Aremu walking the ledge between the wharf and the water.

He smiled back at Aremu, but he felt the realization lodged inside him like a bullet. He thought it stung worse than any of his wounds, and it made him bold, just a little. “I’ve known a few such men,” he said, squeezing the imbala’s hand one last time. “Men who’re good at balancing. I trust a man who knows how to balance, more than anything.”

Tom had made a decision, by then, though to think it at the front of his mind frightened him more than he could say. There was no room for thought. He slipped his hand from underneath the imbala’s and, flattening it on the table, his wrist trembling slightly for just a moment, he levered himself from his chair. He moved to Aremu’s side carefully.

He ran a hand over Aremu’s back, fingers gentle on his shoulder-blades. He never thought he’d touch him again; now, he didn’t know what to think. His hand came to rest on Aremu’s shoulder. He looked at the other man.

His voice was soft. “Will you come to bed with me?” He smiled.

Will you lie beside me? asked the monster, in one of Caina’s books. The one with the wicked lord, he remembered. The one with the lass who had to marry the tsuter old man to save her friend. The lump welled again in his throat. Will you lie in my bed? he, now, asked the man who couldn’t see the light he had inside.

He had given Aremu his trust, and Aremu had given him his. He couldn’t call him a liar, and nor could he lie. To push him away would be one or the other or both. There was no honor in that.

Balance, he thought, aching. To trust and to doubt.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Nighttime, 29 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate, Isla Dzum

Could your actions be a lie? Aremu wondered. You could kiss someone, not knowing what you felt for them, not knowing if there was desire between you. It could be a lie, if a kiss was always a promise of something more, if a kiss was always more than just a kiss.

You could construct a lie from another’s actions. You could mistake the brush of hands and lips for feeling; it was so easy to let yourself believe. When did it become a lie? If you knew the one you kissed believed? If you suspected? At which kiss, which touch, did the blame bloom? Or was it always there, building slowly, until by the time you realized - if you ever did - it was too late.

And the other way? When a touch wasn’t just a touch, when the caress of your fingertips meant things impossible to convey in words, when you tried to say with the brush of your lips what was in your heart. If you weren’t understood, Aremu thought, aching, was it a lie? If you spoke truth with every kiss, every touch, and it was lost between you - then what?

Knowing you had to speak didn’t make it any easier. Aremu had nodded; he understood. There was a weight between them, and he was too tired to feel the strain. Perhaps there was none, he thought, but he knew it for a lie.

And in your thoughts? Aremu thought of Uzoji. Were they lies, he wondered, when you first dreamed them up? Before you made them real, my friend, were you lying to yourself? Or is all that matters that they became real in the end?

Intercropping, Tom said. Aremu grinned at him, sudden and tender; he couldn’t have said why it touched him so. He had never thought of it that way. He liked the thought of it - the tsug trees one’s honor, and the kofi one’s doubt, twined together, growing in the same rich soil. How much tsug and how much kofi? Could a man experiment like a farmer? How tall did honor grow inside you? What was it like?

Perhaps it should have ached on its own, but the thought of being only kofi wasn’t so bad. Kofi can grow too, Aremu thought, suddenly, fierce, and he understood why he had grinned. Beneath a spreading wing of shade - tenderly kept - kofi can grow on its own. He looked up, at the plants just outside the window; a spray of green and red beans was visible against the glass, caught in a distant streak of moonlight. He could see them, even through the lantern light.

Aremu nodded again when Tom spoke, squeezing his hand back, gently. He knew he had been transparent when he spoke of Uzoji; he did not mind. He was grateful Tom had understood; he was grateful Tom had known enough of Uzoji to know what he meant. He was worthy of it, Aremu wanted to say. No man is perfect. But he took the trust given, and he repaid it back to you, always. He missed Uzoji, then, but there was no sting to it, not as there had been. What would he have said, if he could have seen him? There were no apologies to be made; if Uzoji were still to be able to hear him, the other man knew Aremu loved him, knew Aremu missed him. Tom had been right, earlier; he had known he did not need to ask.

Tom eased his hand out from beneath Aremu’s. Aremu took the mint tea; the cup was almost cool beneath his fingers, and he drank it anyway. He shivered at the touch of Tom’s hand on his back, and smiled up at the other man as it came to rest on his shoulder.

Carefully, Aremu set the cup down. He shifted in the chair, and took Tom’s hand in his, and turned it; he pressed his lips to the inside of the other man’s wrist, and he didn’t know if it was his own heartbeat he felt in his chest, or Tom’s quicker pulse against his lips.

“I’d like that very much,” Aremu said, his voice a little rough. He had not wanted to leave Tom; he had been worried, how the other man would feel, lying down alone - no, Aremu thought, aching, knowing the lie. He did not want to be alone, not yet, not before he had to. His lover’s warm body was here, and his thoughtful heart, and Aremu was not ready to let go of either.

Aremu knew they had not banished doubt; he knew it could not be banished. He wanted to believe they had set it aside, this little while, but he knew it for a lie.

They went up the stairs together, through the moonlit darkness. Aremu felt tired, deep and aching in every bit of him, but he had strength enough for the climb, and strength enough, too, to share with Tom.

There was a coat over the mirror in Tom’s room. Aremu looked at it, and then at the other man, and drew him close. “I see you, Tom,” he promised, with his lips, his tongue, his hand, all there was of him. It was warm, tangled together, and Aremu knew he spoke true. “Let me reflect you,” Aremu whispered into the sliver of space between them.

He could not have said what Tom saw of him, not with thoughts or words. But there were soft gray eyes looking at him, one then the other, and Aremu smiled. There was a warmth in his chest; there was a knowing without knowing, and it shuddered through him. He let himself dissolve into it, and for a little while, before sleep claimed them both, before the next day and the next and all those that stretched beyond could intervene - for a little while, it was true.