[Closed, Mature] Sky Full of Song

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

T
om had spent most of the day in the kitchen.

He wasn’t sure how, or why, it’d happened. They’d got back in the small hours of the morning, when the sun was just paling the sky over the Tincta, when there weren’t but a few scattered stars still taking refuge in the fading dark. He could almost remember it, if he strained; he saw it like a glimpse of someone else’s mind through a scrying bowl, stretched and rippled, dusty and mirror-dark.

The morning and most of the afternoon’d passed in sleep. He felt like one mant bruise; the soles of his feet were scuffed and scraped, the rest of him scattered with scratches, and he lay on one side to ease the twinging ache of where the big natt’s sharp’d gone in his side. The cut was deeper than he’d thought the night before — or maybe it was just that, without the adrenaline, without the cold, copper-tasting fear, his body wanted to remind him what it was, and remind him that it hurt, too.

Many things hurt; many more things than those.

But some hurts were easier to manage than others, and maybe, sometimes, the body had the right idea. It saw fit to remind him he was hungry round noontime — when the ruffling of the drapes woke him, ballooning with the Yaris wind, and the nutmeg and coriander and cardamom it stirred up and scattered through the room helped him find a name for the ache that’d been in his belly for some hours. He’d heaved himself up from the pillows with a groan, cradling his face in his aching hands. He’d dreamt, he realized, of string hoppers.

He’d forgotten to cover up the mirror: how could he have remembered? He didn’t bother shaving, but he saw himself anyway as he moved to get the linen clothes he’d left folded by the washbasin a few days before. He hesitated, fingertips just grazing the soft, thin white cloth.

Below his thin chest, his side was wrapped with bandages. A faint, dark brown bloom bled through the gauze; Tom frowned with the memory of rolling over onto it in the night. A spread of bruising peeped out over the edge of the bandages, and then the sharp lines where his ribcage stood out against pale, freckled skin. He blinked, swallowing tightly. There were bruises and scuffs elsewhere, here and there, like scattered blossoms underneath curly red hair. He blinked again, then shut his eyes, breathing in deep and running his hand over the linen.

The clothes fit him as well as they’d done a few days ago. He dwelt no more on the sight of himself in them, in the mirror, or where they’d come from. He rolled up the hems of the pants more carefully, wincing once as his hand knocked into his swollen ankle.

It was úqikedisiq Tom wandered downstairs to find, along with ada’na Ahura. Framed with the light from the big windows, the rustling leaves of the kofi plants outside, winding plumes of steam, her hair caught up and wrapped in deep green and russet orange. There was no sign of Aremu; Ahura told him he was still resting upstairs, and despite the awful stab of worry he felt, Tom was strangely grateful.

His ankle was only twisted, but he limped on it, and he hadn’t much fancied the trip back up the stairs. Leaning the long mahogany stick they’d found for him up against the table, he’d stayed put when he’d finished eating. She was already browning lamb, and the smell of warm ghee was filling up the kitchen. Tom asked softly if ada’na minded the company; he eased back comfortable as he could against the back of the chair, and stretched out his leg.

He must’ve drifted in and out. He remembered Ahura’s laughter; then he remembered — a sharp, tugging pain; Aremu’s voice, Tom, the creak of branches, does it hurt, when you die? — the startled gasp of the breath gone out of a kov’s lungs, the low chunk of a knife in flesh, torn cloth — the soft click of a cup on the table, and the smell of mint tea.

Aremu and Niccolette were at dinner. Tom was still barely awake, but his stomach was aching again, nagging insistent; the smell of curry seemed to say, life goes on, and you’re alive, whether you like it or not. Sana’hulali, ada’xa, he remembered saying, pushing himself up on his chair, looking through bleary eyes at a face he couldn’t read, too tired to try and put that face to the silhouette and the soft voice of the night before. How are you feeling?

Sir, he heard, more than once. But dinner was quiet, and Tom was too busy at his curry, scooping up lamb on pieces of irukew with a hand that was almost too shaky not to spill. The heat was more than pleasant, tonight, with the cool breeze sweeping in through the dark windows. It was cleansing, almost.

He looked up at Aremu once. He was keeping his arm out of sight, but Tom had seen the bandages. There was nothing to be read in the familiar face; again, he could not match it to the half-lit shapes, the voice, of last night. He wondered if they’d put it behind them, in the end, sir and ada’xa again; he didn’t think Aremu would want to understand, after all. He wasn’t sure he could. Or maybe he’d put last night down to a fever dream, and there was nothing to understand. He couldn’t be sure of anything. He was glad the imbala didn’t catch his eye; he hoped he hadn’t seen him look, as he set himself back about his food.

He lingered in the kitchen after the others left, lingered with the ghost of curry and faint sweet coconut. He sat quiet-like, ‘til he was afraid he’d fall asleep in his chair again, and then, when he couldn’t argue with even himself anymore, went back upstairs.

He shut the door soft, just a click. Then he did what he knew he should’ve done earlier; he took his coat back out of his things and draped it over the mirror. Then, sighing, he began to unpack his books.

Tom had no taste for Tsabiyi and sanguimancy, not tonight. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve been grateful to or frightened of Niccolette; whichever it was, he was glad to have his copy of al Jenwa back, glad it’d been saved by its proximity to Uzoji’s Tsadi pezre Awameh. He thought he owed ada’na Tsadi his attention in thanks, and he settled by the window with the slim dark volume, took his reading glasses from where they were folded and tucked over the collar of his shirt.

Flooding poetry, Tom thought, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. But the breeze through the window was cool, and if there’d been any tears at his eyes, they dried quick. In the quiet, with only the night-birds and the distant tide, it caught up with him. The shame washed over him warm and ugly.

He took a deep breath and ran his fingertips over an inked line, gritting his teeth and forcing it down.

A man has to live with himself, he thought numbly. He let his eyes focus through the lenses. A man has to live with himself, whoever he happens to be. A man loves what he loves. You put this shame away years ago, he told himself.

But he couldn’t focus, and it didn’t matter, anyway. It felt like he’d barely sat down when the knock came at the door. For a few seconds, he froze, his heart in his throat; then he swallowed that down, too. You fool of an ersehat, he thought, grimacing as he climbed to his feet, why the hell would it be him? He reckoned it was Niccolette; he wondered if she’d found anything more on Yesufu.

Still holding his place with a finger, he tucked his book under his arm; distracted, he left his glasses perched on his nose. He paused once, then shook his fear away and opened the door.

“Ada’xa,” he said softly, swallowing a lump.

Coming to my room, he heard echoing through his head, coldly angry. You know what Yesufu must have thought, don’t you? You know, don’t you? His mouth was dry. He couldn’t help a glance up and down the hallway, his brow knit, but then, there was nowhere else to look.

He found himself looking up slightly, to meet Aremu’s eye. In the soft light of the oil lamp, it was easy enough to see his face; too easy — unsettling, the familiar curve of the cheek, the thick, dark lashes, tired eyes — easy to see, but impossible to read. Tom cleared his throat, then remembered himself, snatching the glasses off his face. “What can I do for you?” He tried to sound polite, pleasant, but it came out a little hoarse. He struggled to smile.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

“T
om,” Aremu said, softly.

There was a book tucked beneath Tom’s arm; Tsadi pezre Awameh I, in gilt lettering on the spine. He was wearing glasses, at first; perched on his nose; for a moment his eyes were odd behind them, the reflecting strange and flickering. He had cleared his throat and snatched them off, quickly, with a slightly shaking hand.

It was a strange face, Aremu thought, Anatole Vauquelin’s. There were lines where they didn’t belong; there were lines that he didn’t think Tom should have had. He hadn’t been a sneering man. He’d grinned, wicked and unexpectedly handsome; he’d frowned, heavy, into the thickset of his beard, his arms crossed over his chest; he’d cried, when he’d needed to, and Aremu had never seen any shame for it in him.

It’s me, Tom had said, and I hear you. I still just feel like Tom.

What did you want, Tom? Aremu had thrown the question at him, vicious; he had thrown everything he had, overflowing with it. He had spilled out the last two days of aching confusion into the air between them, made sharp with anger. I missed you, he had said, too. There could be no taking back those words, not any of them; not his, and not Tom’s either. I hear you, Tom had promised. I promise I hear you.

It had been a short day, and yet a long one. Aremu remembered little of it; he had slept through the journey back from Laus Oma. He had woken up, once, to see Niccolette standing in his doorway with her chin lifted and something glittering in her eyes, and a man carrying his chest back into his attic room. Much of the day had gone by the time he’d awoken; there had been hot afternoon sun spilling in through his window, and his little attic room had been boiling.

The next hours had passed in a haze of changing bandages, of water and úqikedisiq, of unsteady feet beneath him, of Ahura’s soft, tutting voice and Niccolette’s sharp, worried one. Aremu had let them sweep over him, and focused only on knitting the shattered pieces of himself back together, on the finding of his balance and his strength.

They had eaten dinner, together, the three of them. 
Sir, Aremu had offered, and he had received Ada’xa in reply. He had been ravenous; there had been lamb, warm and spicy, and he had eaten his fill and then another portion beside, and he had only stopped when he thought the next bite would make him sick. Ahura had left mint tea for him, and it had been cool by the time he drank it, soothing. All the tastes were sharper on his tongue today, and stronger too.

Ahura had gone home, and Niccolette had gone to bed. Aremu had sat up for a time in his room, resting on the edge of his bed, and he had listened, and he had waited. There was no more need for thought; there hadn’t been, all day. Eventually, he had heard the soft creak of light footsteps on the old stairs, headed up from the kitchen. Still, he had waited, conscious that he had best not wait too long.

In time, he had risen and gone down the stairs, silent in the dark, and found his way down the hall. He had knocked, and waited just a little longer.

Aremu wore loose, white linen, a long shirt; his right forearm was a bulky bandage, and there was no prosthetic at the end of it, nothing past the soft cuff. There was another bulge beneath the shirt, wrapped around his torso, with a pad at the side and another at his back, and a last, smaller, on the upper part of his left arm. They hurt, all of them, but it was a manageable pain, a healing pain. He wondered, sometimes, what price he would pay for it, or if it was Niccolette who would pay the price. He did not feel sorry for it; he knew that what she did, she did knowingly and willingly, and so did he.

It wasn’t hard to smile. It was easier than he had thought it would be, even looking into that strange face. Aremu thought he was starting to learn it; he thought he knew what he saw.


“Will you come with me?” Aremu asked. He reached out, slowly; his hand was scuffed and battered, but clean now. Callused fingertips brushed Tom’s hand, slowly; the skin of his hand was soft, and Aremu found freckles beneath his fingers. Aremu held there, a moment, not quite hesitating so much as adjusting, and then took the unfamiliar hand in his. He smiled, again, and it was even easier this time. “I know you must be tired, but there’s something I’d like to show you,” Aremu’s gaze lowered, then lifted back to Tom’s again, slowly. His brow knit, softly, a little worried frown creasing his face.

“Please,” he added, quietly, looking at the other man.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate•Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

A
remu named him, before he did anything else. Despite himself, Tom glanced up and down the hall again, his jaw set, his brows drawing together. The smile flickered and failed.

We should’ve put this behind us, he wanted to say. What did you tell me? How am I supposed to—? What am I meant to do? He felt like Aremu had put an anchor on his back, and with how taut the rest of this had strained him, it’d be no time before he’d split down the middle and fall to rags. He supposed it was only fair; but it was cruel, even for Aremu. He could feel his face heating up again.

What is this about? He studied Aremu, his frown deepening. His eyes moved down — they had to; they followed familiar lines, instinctive, as his hands once had, as his lips once had, and he hated the whole of himself for it. He followed the line of Aremu’s jaw down to his collarbones, standing out sharply in the meager warm light that leaked around Tom. His shirt hung off him haphazardly, beautifully, ruffled by the wind, every fold suggesting what was underneath; something like fear, something almost like anger, twitched across Tom’s face when he saw the bulky dark shape of bandages. You should be resting, he wanted to say. What is this, that it’s so important? No wooden hand, not tonight. The sleeve fell empty, and Aremu was not tucking it close to him. Aremu was not hiding it.

Tom’s eyes flicked sharply up to the imbala’s face. What is this about? What have I done? What more can I do? His lips pressed thin, he folded his glasses with one hand, tucking them into the collar of his shirt again. He still held close to Tsadi pezre Awameh, like a talisman.

He hung in the doorway, still not opening the door the rest of the way, halfway between the soft light of his room and the moonlit, airy dark hall. I’ve done all I can, he wanted to protest, suddenly angry, save pretending I can’t eat with my hands. Did I look at you wrong at dinner? Why aren’t you moving out of range? Three steps is all; you’ve enough room. He started to step back himself —

Tom’s face slackened. The imbala’s fingertips brushed his hand, hesitating, then took it. “Come with you?” repeated Tom. His lips moved, but he barely made a sound. His hand fit into Aremu’s differently; he was afraid to look down and see them tangled together, Aremu’s familiar strong, slim fingers with —

Why are you doing this to me? Every word was a knife; every word was precious. His smile was flooding inscrutable, and Tom couldn’t’ve matched it even if he’d wanted to. Tom saw the shadows of Aremu’s lashes flicker on his cheek, feathery, as he looked down. Please, he said.

Tom’s eyes prickled. He blinked, but they were already damp with tears. Please. Slowly, he moved out into the hall, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He kept his hand in Aremu’s; he felt his shoulder brush the imbala’s.

“Never too tired for you,” he said, almost instinctively, not looking at Aremu. His voice was a soft rumble; if they hadn’t been so close, the night breeze would have snatched it away. He felt a tear crawling down his cheek. Those words made him feel grotesque; he wanted to take them back, but he didn’t know what else to say.

Show me? Show me what? Show whom? Tom? This mockery?

The book was still under his arm, the glasses still over his collar. The air still smelled faintly of tsug; it ruffled its fingers through his hair. He could feel the lines of Aremu’s shoulder and arm, the strong lean muscle, through the linen. He took a breath, shivering, and looked up at Aremu’s face. “I don’t understand,” he said even more softly, thick with pain.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

There were tears glistening in Tom’s eyes; Aremu thought he had looked afraid, almost, glancing up and down the hall. He didn’t know what to expect; for a moment, he had thought Tom would pull back and away, would shun the touch of his hand and shut himself up in the room, alone with his books.

But Tom came forward, slowly, instead, and shut the door behind himself, and promised that there was still something between them. Aremu felt the brush of a thin shoulder against his, warm through layers of linen. There was no pretending; there was no hope of it. There was no sense with which Aremu could make believe; Tom was looking up at him, his deep voice trembling on a question, and all around the both of them the mona shuddered and twitched, strange and agitated. The hand in Aremu’s was soft and slight - but it was holding his, and Tom was against him, and they were his words, his, however they sounded.

Tom was shivering; I don’t understand, he said. There was pain in his unfamiliar voice, and it ached through Aremu like a blow; not sharp like a stab, but hard and deep, as if something had broken inside him.

Aremu nodded, quietly, accepting Tom’s words, and, alongside them, the blame that they lay on him. “No,” he said, his brows knitting together again. “I suppose not.” He knew what he had said; he knew what Tom meant, even if it might have been easier not to. He was quiet, glancing up and down the hallway this time. He supposed Niccolette was asleep by now; he hoped she was. It wasn’t a good place to stand and talk, all the same, and Aremu knew, if they hesitated, it might be too late.

“Will you come with me anyway?” Aremu asked. They were still together, close enough that Aremu’s shoulder was tucked against Tom, close enough that he could feel the trembling all through him. It didn’t move him; he held, solid, and if he could have, he would have wrapped his other arm around Tom. “I’ll try to explain.”

Aremu didn’t quite manage a smile again; he had never been skilled with words, not the important sort, and it felt daunting, to try and make Tom understand. He didn’t understand himself; he was not sure if he could explain it, even in his own head. It was a fragile, tangled mess, and Aremu was afraid that to breathe it into the air would shatter it. Even still, he knew better than to try it here.

“Come,” Aremu urged, softly. They went down the stairs, together, through the quiet house; the cool night breeze ruffled the drapes, shed moonlight on the wooden floors. Aremu led Tom out the door, down the steps, and down the long driveway, and he never let go of his hand. He did not rush; he walked slow and even through the still night air, walked barefoot down the road, and the wind carried the sound of the waves and the scent of the tsug trees, and wafted it over them.

The beach wasn’t nearly as far as the tsug grove had been; rather than cutting through the sugarcane fields, they went the other way off the road, and down a winding path through beach grass. Aremu didn’t let go; he held, steady, his footsteps easy on the soft pale sand.

The beach itself stretched along the coast; it meandered a little ways up, to the base of the cliffs, then faded away into nothing as the rocks rose up towards the house. It was a long, flat thing; the waves lapped at it, over and over, leaving behind patches of shimmering damp. There was a small structure on it, with a roof; long lounge chairs inside, Aremu noticed. Ahura must have put them out; he smiled to think of it, and ached too.

“This way,” Aremu said, softly. He squeezed Tom’s hand, lightly. It wasn’t so strange, anymore.

They went down the beach, leaving two sets of footprints on the soft, dry sand; the road behind them rose up, slightly, but once they turned the bend of it they could see the tangle of mangroves at the southern end of the beach. Red flowers glowed in the moonlight, shifting softly in the breeze; the vines wrapped around the trees were fully flowered, lovely, undisturbed but for the brushing of the wind.

There was a driftwood log, half-carved to make a seat. Aremu brought Tom to it, and eased them down together. Some of the tension had gone out of his shoulders at the sight; he had, Aremu thought ruefully, worried it was already too late. They were sitting, then, side-by-side, and Tom’s hand was still tangled in his.

“I was angry,” Aremu said, frowning slightly. He had not tried to think, to plan; he had only walked, and let the moonlight wash over him, and the waves lap at the shore, and the breeze shudder through the flowers. He turned and looked at Tom, eyes searching his face. It was hard; it was so hard to stay seated. Everything in him told to get up, to turn away, that it would be better if Tom could not see –

Aremu closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them again, evenly, and he didn’t look away. “I felt humiliated,” he offered, honestly, aching. “It was not what you did, but that I was unknowing, that I – that it was done to me, and not with me.” Aremu still held Tom’s hand, and his thumb stroked gently along the back of it.

“In my anger, I hurt you,” Aremu added, softly. “I am sorry.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate•Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

T
here’d never been any question about it. Tom thought, more than a little chagrined, Aremu knew that. Come, he said softly. Tom looked at him and nodded, because what else could he do? No, Aremu Ediwo, with the faint troubled line between your brows, with the worried frown on those lips I’ve known so well; no, I won’t come with you. No, I won’t come with you, with your arm and your side bandaged where you took the point of more than one knife for me. No, I won’t come with you, not after you called my name so soft in the mangroves, not after you told me — in more than one way, even in your anger — I was still a man to you.

Who on Vita would’ve thought Tom could refuse? I’ll try to explain, Aremu said, as if anyone needed to explain disgust for what he was. But Tom remembered his promise: I hear you. No, he couldn’t refuse.

He still didn’t understand, and it was a fair long time before Aremu spoke. The other man took him down the hall, down the stairs, both of them padding barefoot-quiet on the hardwood. Aremu went slow; even favoring his good ankle, Tom clawed back some of his dignity, some of his poise. Through the breezy dark, he found himself moving like the man he used to be. His eyes were dry, and the tightness in his chest had eased.

He barely thought to fetch his sandals or his stick. By the time they were outside, it was too late, and Circle clock his sandals or his stick or his coat. The ache in his feet was good. The sting of his scuffs and bruises, the creaking protest of his hip, was good. The chill on his skin was good; it prickled goosebumps all along his arms. And Aremu was there beside him, leading him down the path, away from the cane.

He could feel the thrum of the other man’s pulse through his skin; his hand was warm. It was hard to imagine what he must’ve felt. Tom thought his hand must’ve been bony and cold; it was hard to think of himself, of any part of him, as warm. There was one callus on his right hand, above the last joint of his middle finger, where a pen had rested for more years than Tom had been alive. It was its own sort of qalqa, he reckoned.

Tom wondered what Aremu made of it. Tom wondered if he thought at all, or if it was too grotesque, if he was gritting his teeth and forcing himself not to look too closely at what he touched. And then Tom decided not to think.

He only realized Aremu was taking him to the beach when he saw the stretch of sand; he’d felt the soft, waving beach grass under his feet, unthinking. He saw the stars over endless dark water, the moonlight capping distant waves. Something he was helpless to explain swelled up in him, tightening his throat. As if he knew, Aremu squeezed his hand once, gently, and some of it loosened, though he still felt fragile, like a cup that’d been dropped one too many times and was hanging now by a thread.

Have you decided? Am I a monster after all? He had no right to ask that, and he thought Aremu was trying to show him, regardless.

He thought the imbala was leading him toward a long, low house; the world was a dark blur with his poor eyes, but he could make out chairs and their shadows underneath. Instead, they arced away, still slow, and the cool sand was gentle on his aching feet. For awhile, the world was nothing but the walk down the beach, empty of thought, hand-in-hand. The salt sea breeze brushed over his skin, through his hair and clothes.

Only when he saw the mangroves wrapped with their red blossoms did he begin to understand. He was shaking; Aremu was solid, but he was shaking. Be a man, godsdamn it, he thought in vain. Aremu led him to a low driftwood seat near the tangle, and as they sat, he tried to wrangle his breath back under his control. He breathed in the earthy, floral air, lifted his chin, looked over the swaying flowers with eyes that didn’t blur. He remembered his dream; he thought Aremu must’ve, too. He didn’t know how to feel.

I was humiliated, Aremu said. It was the only thing that could tear his eyes away from the vines. He watched the other man’s face; he felt the pad of his thumb stroke the back of his hand.

It was not what you did, but that it was done to me, and not with me.

Tom’s lip twitched. He held on, but for a few moments, that was all he could do. The tide was washing over him — the words, the vines, the sea, the stars, the memories, Aremu leading him through it all and stroking the hand he hated so much. The book of poetry was in his lap.

It wouldn’t’ve been the first time. He remembered Drezda slurring drunk about how he must’ve been laughing at her.

It was not what you did, Aremu had said. He felt a thrill of fear. It hadn’t been about — it’d never been —

He shifted in his seat to turn more fully toward Aremu. “You’d every right to be angry,” he said with feeling. “It’s not right, when a man knows just enough to feel he’s being mocked” — he struggled, drawing the other man’s hand into his lap, over the book. “I wasn’t thinking of it that way. I was thinking of myself. I was thinking what I thought you were thinking, and what I thought you were seeing, and what I thought I’d been to you. I thought you couldn’t hear me.”

He felt an incoherent mung; he swallowed more words. Instead, he brought the hand up, slow and cautious. If Aremu didn’t pull away, he’d bend his head to brush his knuckles with his lips, his eyes fluttering shut.

“I’m afraid,” he offered, because no matter how shameful it was, Aremu deserved his honesty, too. “I was afraid of what I’d see in your eyes. I feel — very — close to being unmade.” He broke off. He held the imbala’s hand with both of his, his head bowed. His breath hitched.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Tom spoke, and Aremu listened. He held on to each word, and in the quiet stillness of the beach, with the soft sweet smell of the flowers and the fresh bright scent of the saltwater, Aremu knew it for truth. He listened, and he did not look away.

Aremu let Tom lift his hand; he could not do otherwise. He felt the brush of soft lips against his knuckles, the faint tickle of another man’s breath on his skin. Against the crispness of the night air, Tom was warm; alive, Aremu thought. It did not repulse him; he did not know what he felt, but there was no need in him to recoil.

I’m afraid, Tom offered. His head was bent over Aremu’s hand; both of his were holding it tight. Moonlight swept over curly red hair, caught the silvery graying at the temples. He had been trembling, as they walked along the beach; his breath caught, now.

Aremu found himself at a loss for words. I am sorry I did not see you, he could not say; he could not apologize for it. There was no way he could have known; the way he did know was distasteful to him. He had loathed the knowledge, for the means of its discovery and for the horror of it. He was more uncertain, now. His apologies the night before had lifted a weight from him. He had known - he would have said, thinking he spoke truth - that Tom was at peace, returned to the cycle. And yet Aremu had wished for the chance to explain. He had had it; Tom had heard him, had listened - had understood, Aremu knew.

What do you see now? Aremu knew not to ask such a question. He felt so many things; he could not say what would be in his eyes. Tenderness, he thought, and grief. He could still feel the tickle of Tom’s breath on his skin.

Don’t be afraid. There was no sense in such words; fear never weakened for being denied. One could turn away from it, put it aside for a little longer. This did not vanish it; it only put it off. It needed to be faced, Aremu knew, or it would only return, and often stronger. But Tom was already facing his, and Aremu did not dare to lecture him.

It had been a longer walk than he had remembered; perhaps it had been a longer walk than he should have attempted. He ached, beneath his bandages; the sand had irritated the scuffs on his feet. He did not regret it even in the slightest. He wondered if Tom felt the same things; he knew he must have hurt too. He tried to imagine it, to fit himself in the other man; he wondered what it was like, and though he turned away from the thought, it was to draw himself back to the present, and nothing more.

“I saw you fight,” Aremu said, softly, a faint frown creasing his brow again. He was looking down at Tom’s head. “That first assassin,” he longed for a second hand, to be able to touch the other man’s cheek. It was a painful, visceral ache in him, sharp and bitter. He put it aside; this was no time for such things. “You bit him hard enough to bleed; you threw your whole self into the struggle. You wanted to live.”

Many faces, Tom had said. Aremu did not know what would happen if the assassin had succeeded; he did not think Tom would return peacefully to the cycle. He had offered to know more, though it disturbed him; he hoped, in time, he would. He hoped, in time, he might find the knowledge easier to bear.

“I can feel your breath; I can feel your pulse,” Aremu paused. “I see life,” he said. “I don’t think it’s one you asked for, but I think it’s one you have. I would not go back to not knowing, even if I could.”

Now you know, Aremu wanted to offer. What I’m seeing; what I’m thinking. There was so much more he wanted to say; he wanted to apologize, for what he had seen that he shouldn’t have, for the things he knew that no man should. He wanted to say he understood, in part, the having of a life you did not ask for. But he held silent, because such things were about him, and this moment he wished to be about Tom.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

I
want to live.” Like a release of held breath. It wasn’t so hard to say, in the end. His grip on Aremu’s hand loosened, and he straightened and breathed in again, and found some of the tightness in his chest gone. He nodded, one hand lingering on top of the other man’s. Then he managed to look up — not at the mangroves, with their twisting vines and luminous red flowers; he couldn’t, not yet. He looked up and into Aremu’s face.

He felt the bandages crackling every time he moved, and underneath them, the place where the knife’d gone in. He remembered it; it hadn’t hurt, but he’d felt the warmth, the wetness, and he’d felt his pulse spike and roar in his ears. He remembered tasting the assassin’s blood. He remembered twisting out of the assassin’s grip, the roaring still in his ears, and then the struggle, and then a voice calling his name.

Of course Aremu’d seen it. Tom hadn’t thought how it must’ve looked. He studied Aremu’s eyes; they were on him, and it didn’t hurt as much as he’d thought. He couldn’t’ve said what he saw in them. There was no disgust. There’d been no disgust in the imbala’s voice, thoughtful and even.

When he felt the tears prickle, this time, he didn’t need to bow his head. He let them be. The mona crackled and buzzed around them, wild; boemo, he thought, and let them be, too. There were so many things he wanted to say.

You knew it was me because I fought. Even like this, even when I had to bite the kov like a rat. You knew what that fighting meant. And that’s why —

Finally, taking a deep breath, he turned to look at the tangled treeline. He shut his eyes, then looked down at his hand and Aremu’s, both on the book. He stroked it with the pad of his thumb, finding the line of a familiar scar. A familiar feeling went through him; he took another deep breath and he let it prickle in all his nerves, and he found it didn’t hurt as much as he’d’ve thought.

Just as slow and careful as he’d kissed his hand, he shifted closer to the imbala.

“Thank you, Aremu,” he said. “You said you wanted to understand. There’s more, but it’s not — it can wait. The most important thing to understand is — I feel alive. That’s what scares me.” He looked up at Aremu’s eyes again. He smiled, then. You already understand, he thought, and he had to look away.

He let go of Aremu’s hand and then looped a tentative arm round his back, careful of the bandages. His own side twinged as it brushed him; he winced, then laughed. “I hurt; I’m hurting like hell, right now. It’s good. And I can smell the Tincta, and the flowers, and it’s chilly. I love life.” That admission didn’t hurt, either; none of it hurt as much as he’d have thought. The whole of him sang with it. “I love life so godsdamn much. I’d fight for it.” He sighed and rested his head against the imbala.

He didn’t feel any disgust; he wasn’t sure what he felt. Slowly, he opened the door and invited it in, softened by the moonlight and all the truth between them.

It was almost funny. He wondered if Aremu might find it funny; he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, not now, not yet — but he wondered if they could laugh at it together. Once, he’d’ve towered over the imbala. One big arm would’ve enveloped him. He remembered how it felt, clear as the crisp night air; after all, it’d only been two years. And now — it was almost funny, he thought, smiling faintly, letting himself settle into Aremu’s side in a way that was new, but not completely unpleasant.

You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? You’d tell me if it made you uncomfortable? He wanted to ask, momentarily disturbed. But he wouldn’t insult Aremu, not again; he wouldn’t call him a liar. The Tom he’d known in life wouldn’t’ve known, but this Tom did.

The wind picked up, ruffling at the linens. The flowers bowed their heads, and the branches swayed.

“The vines,” he said softly. “Did you bring me here for it?” Hesitate, and the moment is lost. He shifted to look up at Aremu. I don’t know I’m ready, he wanted to say. He studied the other man’s face. “Remind me what it’s called; teach me to say it, again. Please.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Tom looked up into his face. It felt – Aremu couldn’t have said why, but he thought of that first night on the Eqe Aqawe, when he’d climbed over the railing to find Tom shuddering, nauseous and terrified, on the deck. He’d gone up close to him, and stood beneath, and Tom had looked down at him; had looked at his face, as if the world turned around it. Had looked at him, and not at all the rest, and let Aremu lead him to a place to stand.

Then, Aremu thought, he’d known the way. He wasn’t sure now; he hadn’t known what to say. He hadn’t tried to know, either; he’d said what had come to him, what he’d felt. He hadn’t known if it would do any good; he hadn’t known if it could help. But Tom had lifted his head again, and was gazing into his eyes; he’d stroked his thumb over Aremu’s hand, and he was shifting closer on the seat, slow and careful.

Aremu listened, intently, to each deliberate word, a small frown on his face again. He nodded. He didn’t know what to do with Tom’s thanks, other than to accept it. Tom let go of his hand, and Aremu was surprised by how it felt; he flexed his fingers, carefully, and found he missed having something of Tom to hold. But Tom was wrapping his arm around him, gently.

Aremu eased against him, careful – mindful of his bandages, and Tom’s too. He came a little closer himself, until the two of them were tucked together on the bench. He smiled; he smiled at Tom’s laughter, at his words. His hand settled on the other man’s back, high, above the bandages on his side; he could feel Tom’s heart beating through the linen. Tom rested his head on him, and sighed, and Aremu turned without thinking and brushed his lips softly across Tom’s head.

It was strange, how different it was. He thought of being on the couch in the house in Quarter Fords, tucked against Tom’s side. Now he was a little taller – just a little – and his arms were longer. Tom was tucked against him, and it was easier for Tom to rest his head on Aremu’s shoulder than the other way around. Aremu found it funny, just a little, but he wasn’t sure if he should say anything; he didn’t know if it stung, still, or if Tom could find the humor in it. The strangest part was how comfortable it was, keeping one another warm against the chill night.

“Yes,” Aremu said, softly, when Tom asked about the vines. He smiled at him. “Eyo’pili,” he said, gently, his thumb stroking softly along Tom’s back. He waited, to let the other man say it back to him, and nodded, lightly, feeling the brush of Tom’s soft, curly hair against his cheek. “Eyo’pili,” he said again, gently, slowly. “If you want to. I’d like to share it with you.”

He had wanted to, Aremu thought, for three years. He’d never dreamed – perhaps he had dreamed, he thought, but he’d known it for a dream, for an idle wish. Aremu wasn’t sure what he’d have done, then, if he’d known the cost, if he’d known the how. He knew, though, what he was doing now; in this moment, for this night, it was easy. Tom’s field was around them, and it didn’t feel so monstrous anymore. Perhaps it had changed on the walk over; perhaps he’d become accustomed. Aremu didn’t know quite how it felt, but he thought that if Tom could live with it – perhaps he could too, at least for a little while longer.

“Not only the vines,” Aremu said, after a moment. He glanced up, at the trees, shifting, and he smiled. “I thought you’d like to see this,” he said, softly. He kissed Tom’s head again.

His right arm stayed tucked against his side, as it had ever since they sat, out of sight; from here, with Tom tucked against his shoulder, Aremu thought, he might have been whole. He was sorry for it, suddenly; he shifted, and let his wrist rest on top of his thigh. He loved life too, Aremu thought; he was not sorry for it.

It was the end of dzum’ulusa, then; a gust of wind lifted through the trees, and carried with it a sweep of red petals up, through the air; it brushed them out from the trees and over the water, glittering in the moonlight. And then another, and another; the scent of it filled the night. There was stream after stream of them, wavering luminous in the moonlight, drifting off and up into the sky.

Aremu shuddered, watching it, tucked close to Tom. He couldn’t describe how it made him feel; he didn’t try. He only felt it, and let it sweep over him, like the breeze and the flowers. One gust of wind drifted towards them, and a haze of flowers swept over them both. Aremu laughed, softly, inhaling the scent deep; the flowers scattered against them, like a mist.

“Tom,” Aremu whispered.

He waited until the other man had looked at him. He did it slowly; he did it carefully. He didn’t rush, or press, or push. Once, twice, and a third time, he held, just a little, to see if Tom would pull away, would recoil. If he didn’t – if he let him – Aremu would find Tom’s lips with his, soft and careful. It wasn’t a greedy, hungry, desperate kiss; it was quiet, and tender. Loving, Aremu thought, and he didn’t shy from the word. It was the way a man kissed his lover.

Aremu broke the kiss, careful, almost timid, looking at Tom. He smiled again, tentative, a little breathless; the wind was carrying the last of the petals away. The flowering was over; the vines held against the tree, a little smaller than before. Not, Aremu thought, as if it had never been; not quite.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

E
yo’pili,” he repeated, low and even, finding the shape of it with his mouth. Aremu’s lips were in his hair; he could feel the other man’s cheek resting against his head. Eyo’pili, and he felt Aremu’s breath, and the word rumbling through both of them, like a pulse. Tom shut his eyes and sighed into him. He echoed, again: “Eyo’pili.”

Mugrobi’d once sounded to him like the trill of a bird; now, he could hear all the soft nuance. It wasn’t that there weren’t consonants. Consonants in Mugrobi were places where you just brushed your teeth with your tongue; you shaped them, just barely, and let them shape themselves. He remembered how he’d once said sana’hulali, with an aah sharp enough to cut, broadened by the streets of the Rose. How he’d hissed the S, husked the H. He eased into the P in eyo’pili, this time, and he could hear the difference; he could hear each sound in Aremu’s voice, and then in his own.

Aremu kissed him again and stroked his back, careful of his bandages; there was something about that care that made a chill run through him, and he was grateful for the closeness and warmth of him. He was grateful for how easy it was to lay his head on the other man’s shoulder. He was grateful to let himself be guided by Aremu’s soft voice, to lift his eyes to the Dzum’úlúsa and see what Aremu had brought him for. There was nothing else to think about, nothing to decide. Not for now.

And the wind took the blossoms from the vines, and the petals went dancing on the night air, and everything was the smell of flowers. Tom felt Aremu’s laughter; he laughed, too, shifting on the bench to look about him. He sat and watched, silent but for breathless laughter, until the vines on the mangroves were bare, as if they’d given some burden to the sea. He sat, silent, watching.

Tom, Aremu said.

Tom had seen him move, in the corner of his eye. The last dregs of laughter drained from his face; he went stiff and still, and all the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He glanced down, first at the hand in his lap, on top of the book. Then, at the swath of bandages in Aremu’s.

He hadn’t noticed. He’d got so used to Aremu’s right arm hidden away, tucked up against him — he turned, his eyes widening faintly. His lips parted. He met Aremu’s eyes, and he saw in them what he’d been afraid to see.

But he didn’t move, not as Aremu moved in, not as he felt the stirring of the imbala’s breath against his face. Not as the other man shut his eyes, lashes dark against his moonlit cheek. Not as he let his own eyes shut, instinctive.

And he remembered everything he was afraid to remember, and he knew how to do it. He knew how to tilt his head; he knew how to breathe. And he remembered not just the shape of Aremu’s lips, not just the taste of his breath and the smell of him, but how Aremu kissed: he knew how to meet it. So many things were different, but he knew how to meet this, and he wasn’t afraid. He saw the path, and he took it.

So they kissed. There was no urgency in the air between them; they weren’t the wanting, hungry kisses he remembered from the kitchen at the Fords, and even though he wanted Aremu — and he did; he wanted, and he knew it — he found it easy. They were kisses with soft, lilting consonants. They were kisses that eased him into what he felt; he found himself acclimating, slowly, to the familiar pleasant tingling that went through him at the other man’s touch.

When Aremu drew away, he was smiling tentatively. It was a familiar smile, too, and it was infectious. Tom couldn’t’ve described what he felt. He knew not to try.

He drew himself up in his seat, setting Tsadi pezre Awameh aside on the bench. He kissed Aremu, this time. His thumb found the line of the other man’s cheekbone; his lips found his, familiar. He found himself running his fingers through Aremu’s close-cut, soft hair, tracing familiar patterns over the curve of his scalp. When he drew away, he stayed close enough that their noses brushed. There was a tear on one of his cheeks. He did not try to wipe it away.

“I would be honored,” he murmured into the dark between them. He didn’t play at the Rose with his voice; he’d shown Aremu who he was, he thought, in ways that counted more.

He let his lips brush the other man’s again, briefly. He ran the backs of his fingers over his cheek, and he drew away enough to look Aremu in the eye. “I don’t know what this will mean for me,” he said gently. “I trust you.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Aremu hadn’t been sure what to expect. His head had been full of flowers, for the first kiss; flowers, and the sea breeze, and the thrill of being alive. He hurt, all through, and all those aches whispered to him, sang to him, promised he was still breathing. And so he had felt, and not thought, and it had been easy.

He eased them apart, and held, just a breath away. Tom drew himself up and took that breath again, and Aremu gave it, willingly. His fingers crept up from Tom’s back, and buried themselves in curly red hair. It was Tom, Aremu thought; it was Tom. He couldn’t have said how he knew it; all his senses told him otherwise. The smell of his breath, the taste of his thin lips, the sight of his pinched face, the feel of his red hair - none of his senses lied to him. And yet he knew.

It should have been uncomfortable, that unfamiliar familiarity. He thought he should have found it strange, when he thought at all. He didn’t, and even the knowledge couldn’t intrude too deeply - not when there was the touch of soft fingers tracing patterns against his skull, and a thumb stroking the line of his cheekbone.

It hadn’t quite been desire he felt, not before and at first, but he tasted it on Tom’s lips, and it was enough to waken his own. The strength of it surprised him, and it left him adrift when Tom pulled back, on the edge of something. He listened, meeting the other man’s eyes in the dark, intently, over the soft echo of his breath.

Aremu nodded; he accepted Tom’s trust, because he knew something of what it meant. He bore the weight of it on himself, and he found that he was strong enough to hold.

His fingers curled around the back of Tom’s head once more. Aremu kissed him one last time - just a little firmer than before, just a little deeper - a kiss like a promise, this time, and a beginning, as much as an ending. His breath came unsteadily when he pulled away, and he let his forehead rest against Tom’s, his eyes closed, and breathed deep until he could master himself.

“I don’t know either,” Aremu said. There was a rasp to his voice that hadn’t been there before; he grinned, not embarrassed, and pulled back slowly, with a hint of reluctance. His hand cupped Tom’s cheek, calluses rough against skin just barely prickling with a day of growth.

“It’s different every time I do it,” Aremu said, quietly. “It feels like a sharpening of your mind, an unburdening, maybe, or a clarity,” he smiled a little; he lowered his hand to take Tom’s again, to settle their hands on the log between them. ”It’s not always easy, but it’s never hurt,” Aremu offered, as if knowing the past could allow you to know the future, as if there was ever a way to keep from hurting another. He knew better, perhaps, or maybe he didn’t, not beneath the stars, not with flower petals still in Tom’s hair.

There hadn’t been every time, before; there hadn’t been enough to say anything like it with confidence. Aremu had sat alone on the beach since, more than once, with the remnants of a foul taste in his mouth, and closed his eyes and let the tingling wash through him - let his thoughts wind and wander, unpacking each grain of sand that held them down, and judging - for a moment of clarity - what they really weighed. It was a different sort of clarity than from running or swimming or climbing; it was a surrendering, deliberate, rather than a seeking of control. Aremu had searched for a balance between them, as if it could ever be achieved. You taught me, he wanted to say, the value of surrendering.

“We’ll be tired, after,” Aremu said, quietly. He lifted their hands, unable to resist, and brushed the back of Tom’s with his lips. “I’ll get you home,” He promised.