[Closed, Mature] Sky Full of Song

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

A
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.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

There was a grin on Tom’s face; it stretched all the lines carved into it, lit them up anew. Aremu felt it, somewhere in his chest, and he knew he was grinning too. His breath was evening now, coming back to itself. For a moment, he wondered if he shouldn’t have pulled away, if he should have – he could imagine exploring, with his hand, with his lips – it wasn’t an unpleasant thought, or a distasteful one. He was surprised by how pleasant it was.

Aremu knew it wasn’t the same; he knew it couldn’t be. But he remembered all too well how hard it had been for him, at first, in the months after – he was still aware of his right arm, resting in his lap, even three years later. He was never unaware of it. He couldn’t imagine how Tom felt; he didn’t know, Aremu realized, uneasily, what it had been like for him. He supposed – he thought – he didn’t know. He didn’t regret initiating the kiss; Tom had been warm, in response, even eager.

Tom’s voice was as hoarse as his had been, and it didn’t do much for Aremu’s smile. Neither did the familiar words, offered to him by Tom. Aremu nodded, and settled his arm around Tom as the other man kissed his cheek. His fingers wandered up, and settled not against Tom’s back, but in his hair. The cut on his upper arm ached beneath the bandage, pulled and stretched, and Aremu set the pain aside. It was for another time.

Tom’s cheek rested onto his shoulder. Aremu shifted, and rested his head gently against the other man.

“Sometimes,” Aremu said, quietly. He paused, turning both questions over in his mind, and realized he’d already answered both, without meaning to. “In answer to both, I suppose,” he shifted the pads of his fingers against Tom’s head, slowly, gently, rubbing soft circles against his scalp. It was an idle movement, light and delicate.

He didn’t want to tell Tom that he’d come here after the loss of his hand; he thought Tom already understood that, by now. He remembered in the grove, telling Tom he hadn’t been doing this long; there was no more sting of humiliation in the memory, not now.

I wanted to know you better, Tom had said. You wouldn’t flooding let me. Aremu closed his eyes for a long moment; he could still almost see the distant moonlit mangroves against the back of them. He weighed his thoughts, careful, and deliberate, and tried to think of how he could explain. And then he let go the seeking of perfection, and tried to be content with what he had. He thought perhaps Tom had always seen more than he had wanted to offer; he thought perhaps his silence had only kept him apart, and not concealed.

“I didn’t like being here at first,” Aremu said. “I missed what I’d had,” his fingertips were still tracing soft, circular patterns against Tom’s scalp. “I was afraid that there was too little of me left to be of use,” he swallowed, hard, and he sighed, and he didn't look down at the arm resting in his lap. “To be a man.”

As much of one as I ever can be, Aremu thought, and did not say. He did not wish to argue the point with Tom, although he thought perhaps it was inevitable. Tom knew enough, now, to ask; there could be no more pretending, no more hiding in silence and careful words.

“I took those thoughts to the eyo’pili, one night,” Aremu said, frowning softly. Tom was warm, against him, and he eased just a little closer; he could feel the other man’s breathing against him, the way the space between them changed, just a little, with each inhale and exhale. “Nothing changed, not really, but I sat, and I could find my way through the tangle of thoughts. That clarity, and time, and the finding of my strength again, all of it helped.”

And now, he didn’t say; now, only I will ever know if I do Uzoji’s memory justice. I cannot rely on his kindness or his strength; I cannot ask him to pick me up when I fall, nor can I do the same for him. It should make it harder. It doesn’t; it’s a gift, I think, to be able to do something for him, something he cannot do for himself, not anymore. This place, and Niccolette; they are what he left behind. They are how I can honor his life.

“I want you to know me better too,” Aremu whispered, softly. His fingertips found a new place amidst Tom's hair, gently tracing their way across the back of his head. He knew he had already said it, with his answer, in the way that counted, but he took it and set it between them regardless, out loud, spoken, as clear as the stars overhead. “It’s not easy for me, but I will try.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

T
om listened, quiet.

There were pauses. They were full of the gull-calls and the whisper of the waves on the sand, and Tom tried not to ask too much of them. It was hard, but it’d always been hard, and there was so godsdamn much for him to be grateful for; if Aremu had stopped there, at a single word, he’d’ve accepted it, gladly. But he didn’t think the imbala would, so he listened, silent and still against the other man’s shoulder.

Aremu brushed a gentle hand through his hair. He shivered and tucked himself closer. Fingertips drew familiar circles across his scalp; the line of vine-clad mangroves blurred, and he shut his eyes. He steadied his breath against Aremu’s. In the dark, he could feel both their heartbeats, and Aremu’s was a little slower.

He let himself be carried on his voice. I missed what I’d had. Tom’s throat tightened; he blinked away more tears, and the other man went on tracing patterns through his hair.

Too little of me left to be of use; to be a man.

Tom didn’t need to open his eyes and look to see it, resting in Aremu’s lap, just beyond the swath of bandages. He remembered how he’d flung up that arm to catch the natt’s knife, like a shield.

He thought of the engine room on the Uccello, too, and the strained rope. He wondered what it’d been like down in the belly of the machine; he tried to imagine climbing a ladder one-handed, even strong as he was before, and it turned his insides. He tried to imagine how you’d hold onto it while you worked. With Aremu’s fingertips dancing light and delicate over his scalp, it would’ve been easy to set it aside, to think, this hand can do anything it wants — and maybe, in some places, it could — but he knew he couldn’t, not tonight.

He thought, too, of how Aremu had always stood a little apart, except when he’d been too close for word or thought. He knew what the word “imbala” meant, now. He wondered how tangled the thoughts’d been when he knew Aremu, back in the Rose; he wondered how tangled they must’ve got when he’d first come to the isles. He thought of the law book, too, in that shady corner of the library. He thought of how much Aremu had liked to use his two hands to weave sense out of tangles.

He didn’t say anything, but he laid his hand on Aremu’s knee.

I will try, Aremu said. Tom didn’t think he’d needed to say it, not after everything he’d already given — but he gave that pina manna more, and Tom thought maybe he’d needed to hear it, after all. It was more what the saying of it meant.

He sighed, shifting to kiss Aremu’s shoulder through the soft linen. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. He shivered again a little at the sound of his voice; it must’ve been a while since he’d spoken, and he’d expected something else. As if in the gloaming, to meet Aremu’s voice, he could’ve summoned up — there was no point thinking of it.

He ran his thumb over Aremu’s knee, a gentle, repetitive motion. “It’s not easy for me, either. Now, more than ever.” His thumb stopped. He frowned, shifting against Aremu again; he was sinking down, not quite on the imbala’s shoulder anymore. “I want you to know me, too. As I am,” he offered, and it wasn’t even easy to say, to acknowledge what they could both see plain as the vines against the trunks. “There’s nothing you can’t ask. I don’t know if I can always answer, but I’ll try.”

He pulled his legs up into the seat with him, then, and rearranged himself so he could nestle his head gently in Aremu’s lap. He was careful not to brush the bandages on his right arm.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, after a few moments. He watched the mangroves, tangled shadows against the stars. Some petals still drifted; they caught the light, then fluttered into nothing. “That’s not the right word. Seeing you walk through the fields — there’s nothing like seeing a garden flourish,” he went on, struggling with the words, “under a man who cares for it. He must’ve…”

He trailed off. He didn’t know — Aremu’d never spoken of Uzoji; Tom didn’t think he’d start now. Uzoji’d never spoken to him much of Aremu, though Tom’d got the feeling he knew something of what was between them. There were some things he wouldn’t ask, not now. If Aremu wanted to speak of him, he’d let him come to it on his own. Not even the dead, Tom thought, ought to encroach upon the dead.

He stroked Aremu’s knee again. “D’you like this work?” he asked more softly.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

There was a moment, as Tom shifted to lay his head down, that Aremu’s breath caught. No, he wanted to say, no – it’ll touch you – he held, very still, for just that moment. He didn’t quite dare to move, even to shift his arm away, because he might – it might – Looking down, he could see the curls of Tom’s hair just shy of the white bandages, not quite touching his arm. He closed his eyes, then, aching and relieved in equal measure, and found he could breathe again.

He was always aware of it. More than aware; he was always careful of it, even with his lovers. Tsadha hadn’t been the only one he’d had, since; he’d always – he still didn’t know how to manage it. Sometimes when he should have been thinking of other things, that awareness threatened to pull him free, to take him somewhere else. Aremu fought the urge now to pull it from his lap, and tuck it safely away beside him. It burned somewhere in his chest, and he found his breath had hitched again.

Tsadha had kissed it once, giggling, and Aremu had gotten up and left the bed; he hadn’t been able to explain all the feelings that had swept through him, then, not to her, even when she had cried. But, then, he hadn’t been able to explain them to himself, either. He didn’t know if he had really tried; it had hurt, to think too deeply on it.

He didn’t want Tom to touch it.

But he hadn’t; Tom hadn’t. Even the curls of red hair had stopped shy of the bandage; Aremu opened his eyes again to check, to make sure. The other man’s hand was on his knee, resting gently where he’d stroked before. Aremu forced himself to relax, slowly. His hand had drifted out of Tom’s hair as he had lay down. Gently, carefully, he wound his fingers into the short curls again, and took up the soft movements that had sent little shivers through Tom, and found they soothed him too, somewhere deeper inside than anything with a name.

As I am, Tom had said. They had both of them changed; Aremu knew it in himself as well. He wasn’t the man he’d been three years ago; in the midst of the despair he’d suffered after losing his hand, he would have said he was less. He didn’t know, now; he wasn’t sure. Different, certainly. He had lost; what had he gained? Three years ago, he had hidden in silence; he had been afraid, even when what Tom asked was his to tell. And now?

“He did,” Aremu said, softly. “I think of it as his, still. Perhaps always.”

Tom’s thumb was stroking gently over his knee again. Aremu eased himself back; he ached, all through, some sharp and some dull, some external and some not. He took a deep breath, and tried to ease the lingering tension in his chest, the ache of it. He sighed, softly.

“I like it,” Aremu said, frowning slightly. “It’s not so different from an engine, in some ways. In the ways that most things are alike,” he was still stroking Tom’s scalp, soft and gentle. He didn’t let himself think about braiding Tom’s hair, about weaving the thick, dark strands together one by one with the other man leaning back against his lap. He didn’t let himself think about Ishma’s garden either, or Ishma’s beautiful hands strumming his oud, or the smell of sage against his fingertips.

He thought – he could’ve told Tom about the tsug harvest last year, about the grin on Uzoji’s face, or how he’d worked with the men in the blazing sun to make the processing facility for their sugarcane, and the cheers that had echoed through them all the first time it had worked. He could’ve told him about Ahura’s grandchild, Efere, and the way he liked to sit on Aremu’s lap at the kitchen table. But he thought Tom understood, already, in the ways that mattered, and there was still so much Aremu wanted to know.

“What are your days like?” Aremu asked. He looked down at Tom, at the thin, slight face on his lap, the pale skin and the prickles of hair on his cheeks and the sharp nose, resting against his linen pants as if he were a pillow, his own dark, familiar hand tangled in tousled red curls. He smiled, although he couldn’t have said why. His fingers wandered, tracing patterns down the back of Tom’s neck, learning this new shape of him. As I am, Tom had said. It didn’t help for either of them to miss what they’d had; there was no strength in it.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

H
e wondered if he’d gone too far. In the asking, in the way he’d brushed the subject of Uzoji; even in the way he’d nestled his head in Aremu’s lap like he used to do, instinctive and achingly familiar. He felt something go through the imbala when he laid his head down, and it was a fair time before he felt those long fingers comb through his hair again.

When Aremu spoke again, he glanced up; he couldn’t stop himself. It was only a few words, but he felt the weight of them. He thought there was still some tension in him, even stroking his hair. He squeezed Aremu’s knee gently.

I often thought, he wanted to say, settling his cheek in the soft linen, shutting his eyes — I often thought how, if Ishma went before me, I’d learn to care for his garden, but it’d still be his. He thought again of the books, of Aremu’s looks of concentration. He understood, he thought, something of Aremu’s devotion in this.

Not so different from an engine, he said, and Tom smiled slightly. As pleasurable? He didn’t want to ask that; there was no point comparing.

They fell quiet again, and with his head in Aremu’s lap, the air full of the smell of flowers, he found himself lulled. He felt the way the last few days had worn him thin and ragged. His ankle ached where he’d pulled it up onto the bench, and as he stroked Aremu’s knee, the bandages underneath his arm pulled and itched and the wound underneath throbbed dully. But he felt himself drifting, and the motions of his hand grew slower.

Aremu’s question surprised him, but the way he phrased it didn’t. He glanced up briefly to see Aremu smiling in the corner of his eye; he shut his eyes and thought.

How were his days? He didn’t know what to say, at first. There were so many things he could say. His head whirled.

“Strange,” he sighed, forcing himself to open his eyes, to bring himself back to the chill night air against his cheeks. The even rhythm of Aremu’s breath wasn’t helping; neither were his fingers in his hair.

He didn’t know if Aremu knew how often he’d dreamt of this. He’d’ve been ashamed to say. He thought of the tsug-smelling breeze tangling through his hair, the first time he’d woken up in the night on the second floor of the Ibutatu house, with the window open and the drapes ruffling. He thought of how many things had made him wonder how it’d feel, now, and how hard it’d been to push the thoughts away, like fighting hungry hounds; he thought of the shame that had sat in the middle of him like a pit, ever since the first time he’d wanted to be touched and held again.

He could still feel the shame, but it was quiet and small. He knew how it’d feel, now. It was different. He wondered if it was easier; his fingers never caught on the winding fiddly wisp of a curl, or tugged a thin tangle enough to hurt. His eyes fluttered, and started to shut again.

And then he felt Aremu’s touch tracing down the back of his neck, and he was awake again. He could feel his skin prickling; he shivered, then laughed again. “Slower than they used to be. I spend a lot of time — reading,” he offered, a little sheepish.

He shifted. One arm had been folded underneath him, and he winced as he adjusted it. His other hand paused on Aremu’s knee; it went to the collar of his shirt and found the glasses still folded there, the frames cold and thin underneath his fingertips.

He slid them out, and he held them up. “I could read, when you knew me. Not well; my eyes weren’t so good, then, though I didn’t know it, and the letters would all be — they’d — I don’t know how to describe it.” He turned them over, watching moonlight glance down the thin brass frame. “Now, my days are full of reading and writing. Can you imagine? Flooding hell.”

He tucked them back and turned a little, if Aremu let him; he worked his arm out from under him and shifted to look up at the imbala.

“It’s like nothing I could’ve imagined,” he murmured. His eyes wandered out, up at the stars spilling across the sky, the fluttering petals. “And yours?” he asked, with another soft smile.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Strange was the only answer Tom offered at first, but Aremu supposed it was enough. He couldn’t imagine. The hand he had held descending the stairs, walking along the road, climbing down onto the beach, finding their way to the mangroves – it was a soft hand, uncallused, unscarred, with one little rough patch, where a man might rest a pen.

Tom – Anatole, Aremu thought, jarring – Anatole Vauquelin had the face of a bureaucrat. Aremu couldn’t have said what it was about it that made it so, but it was the sort of face one imagined sitting at an official looking desk, shuffling papers and stamping forms, or peering self-importantly over his lenses, thin lips pursed as he examined a petitioner below. Aremu knew plenty of such men, although precious few had been Anaxi, thankfully, but the look was not so different on a Mugrobi, not really.

And Tom?

Aremu thought of him: big, full of movement, cat-quiet when he walked. He had known the contours of his body, every inch of them; he had never used his strength but deliberately. He thought too of the scars that wove across his body, and the story they told, all those places where other men had tried to take him down and where they had failed. He wondered, in the end, if –

Aremu eased his mind gently away from such thoughts. He did not want to know, he realized, still; even with Tom lying in his lap, breathing soft and even as if he might drift off into sleep at any moment, curled so comfortably one could almost – but not quite – forget the agitation of the mona around them – he did not want to know. He did not want to be able to picture it, to carry the reality of it with him, not unless it mattered to Tom that he share that burden.

A shiver rippled through Tom, and Aremu smiled, his fingertips tracing slow circles against the back of his neck, playing with the last little wisps of hair that stretched down towards his back. He hadn’t quite meant to wake him, but he enjoyed the reaction, a little – enough that he didn’t feel too badly. The laugh too, pleased Aremu; it echoed through them both, and it was Aremu’s turn to shiver, now, and to smile again.

Slower than they used to be. Reading, Tom said, and Aremu blinked down at him. He’d nearly forgotten the question. He nodded, then, and he looked down at the glasses. Aremu smiled; he thought of Tom, how thoughtfully he’d taken every word Aremu had offered. He glanced down at Tsadi pezre Awameh, sharing the bench with them. It wasn’t so hard to imagine, Aremu thought, not really.

Tom shifted; Aremu held, still, though his breath caught for a moment when Tom moved. He lost his fight; he shifted his arm from his lap, and tucked it beside him, half-resting on the bench. He was looking down at Tom now; he hadn’t wanted to see it, next to him. He couldn’t look too closely at that, not now; he didn’t want to.

Tom smiled, and Aremu smiled too. His fingers traced up, along the side of Tom’s neck, trailing over the curve of his ear; they crept back into his hair, Aremu’s palm cradling his head, and he went back to the soft, sweeping motions that seemed to have put Tom so close to sleep.

“Slower,” Aremu agreed, quietly. “Not shorter, usually, but there’s a rhythm to them, for the most part.” He didn’t think of the chaotic weeks spent in the Rose, the reminder of the bloody work he was still called to; he didn’t think of these last days, or the brutal battles in the mangroves the night before, knife-in-hand, or at least he didn’t think of them much, and he did his best to put them away.

“It changes with the seasons,” Aremu said, smiling softly. “The plantation swells with the rains, and needs water when it’s dry. The sugarcane grows and is cut down and grows again; the tsug drops its nuts half the year, and grows steadily the other half. The smaller day-to-day patterns find themselves inside it; they ebb and flow too.”

Aremu was quiet, his fingers stilling against Tom’s scalp for a moment. He began again, careful, bigger, smooth sweeping strokes this time. “It’s been harder since Uzoji died,” Aremu said, quietly, cautiously. His gaze had lifted up to the mangroves; it flickered back down to Tom, although it didn’t quite linger, but swept up and away again. He didn’t pause his hand, now. Sometimes it’s like I lost Niccolette too, he didn’t say; this, he could not share. He knew Tom; he trusted him; but what was Niccolette’s was Niccolette’s, and he would not speak on it.

“I’m glad to have something of his to tend to,” Aremu said, and his voice was carefully steady. “But I miss him, more than a good Mugrobi should.” He looked down at Tom again, and he thought – no. No; he would not have Uzoji back like this. He hoped his friend’s soul was at peace, returned to the cycle; he hoped it with everything he had. His hand stroked Tom, gentle and tender, and Aremu was grateful for the chance to hold him again – but he would not wish this upon Uzoji, not even with the tiniest, most selfish corner of his heart.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

A
rhythm to them. Tom found himself drifting again, soothed by the even comb of Aremu’s fingers through his hair. He’d shivered again, when he’d traced round his ear; a little smile had twitched across his face, too tired to be abashed. But it’d faded, now, and Tom’s breathing had evened out again. He heard the rustle of gauze against linen and felt Aremu’s arm shift off his lap, and he wondered if he’d brushed his wound, wondered if — but he couldn’t hold onto the thought, and it faded to the back of his mind, and Aremu’s right arm was a presence just out of sight, a nebulous worry, uncertain but distant. With his eyes shut and his arms folded across his middle, he listened to Aremu’s low, even voice.

He let the island sun chase itself across his mind, growing up sugarcane and cutting it down; he thought he could smell the burnt sweetness underneath the dzum’ulusa flowers and the sea. He thought of the nuts scattered underneath the boughs of the tsug, and of Aremu’s proud smile when he spoke of the kofi plants. He also thought of the natt that’d called to him from across the field — of the distant shapes waving arms and hats, laughing in the shade of trees. He thought of ada’na Ahura’s cooking.

There was more he could’ve asked. He wanted to, if he could’ve plucked the words from his half-waking mind, offered them up in some order as made sense. There was so much he could’ve asked, he scarce knew where to start. Did it come easy, that camaraderie? Did you get along well, at first, or did it take time? When did Ahura—?

Tom opened one eye at the name Uzoji, and he peered up at Aremu to find Aremu looking down at him. The imbala’s dark eyes flicked away. The fingertips never paused attending his scalp, but he found it easier to be wakeful, now.

It was a little while before Tom spoke again. He shifted his aching shoulders, rolled his head just enough to look out toward the jackstraw silhouettes of the mangroves, picked out against the shadows sharp by the moonlight. “I wish I’d known him better,” he said quietly. “They all say how bright he burned. I wish…” He trailed off.

Maybe it was a selfish thing to say, but it was something he’d wanted to say for a long time. It was the truest thing that came to him, right off. Maybe a good Mugrobi wouldn’t’ve regretted it, wouldn’t’ve regretted anything; Tom wasn’t Mugrobi, and he wasn’t very good, besides.

Taking a deep breath, he shifted to look back up at Aremu. His brow was knit; he was frowning, a worried little furrow of lines round his mouth. “I don’t know much of death in Mugroba, or how a man’s meant to mourn.” He watched the imbala’s face, glanced from one dark eye to the other. “I saw — the library,” he said, just as careful. “When I was looking for poetry. The law books. It can’t’ve been easy.”

He couldn’t imagine how he’d’ve handled it, though Aremu had more book-learning than him, by far. Still, he thought of some of the books he’d seen — one of them, something about dura water rights — the intricacies of what it was to own something, even just between the isles and the capital — and he knew, now, that an imbala wasn’t a galdor in the eyes of the law, not by half. Being honest, he wasn’t sure how Aremu’d done it; he thought of what it must’ve been like in court, and wondered how much Uzoji’d done to prepare.

Had he? Something in Tom’s chest tightened. Did any man? Tom knew something of what a man left behind. He didn’t often think of it. He’d never been the sort of kov who thought he’d live forever; he’d been surprised he’d lived to twenty-eight. But for all that, for all his talk of living and dying fast, he’d never sat down and opened a single godsdamn book, or written one pina word to sort a fraction of the mess he’d leave behind.

Tom hadn’t left much, being honest. His debts had gone nowhere; Ishma had taken his oud and his coat and gone, as was his wont, back to the road, probably back to Mugroba. His ma was dead, he’d no bochi, he’d owned nothing.

Maybe Uzoji’d done better. Still, it wasn’t the sort of thing a man thought about, what he’d put on the ones he loved when he went. A man liked to think everything’d come out all right, when he died. A man just about had to think that.

Tom couldn’t bear it, suddenly. He felt tears prickling in his eyes; he shifted in Aremu’s lap and reached up with one hand, gently stroking the line of the other man’s cheekbone with the backs of his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You don’t have to speak of it, if you don’t want to. This is a fine, beautiful place, and you’ve kept it living and breathing for him.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Aremu didn’t say anything, not at first. He turned his head; he kissed Tom’s hand, softly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His hand stayed buried in the other man’s hair, stroking softly; he saw the sheen of tears in Tom’s eyes, and he felt them somewhere in his chest, somewhere without a name.

No, Aremu couldn’t say. No, it wasn’t easy. I spent months alone, fighting for what he wanted in courts that don’t consider me even a scrap of a man, that count my word as nothing - less than nothing. I knew nothing of law, of inheritance, but I knew that I couldn’t let them take it, and so I fought with every weapon I had.

He wanted to tell Tom, suddenly; he wanted someone to understand. Niccolette did, but it was tinged with guilt for her; she knew, but he could not ask her to look too closely at it. She bore a heavy enough burden; he would not add to it. But he could not, and for almost the same reason; it was too closely tied up in Niccolette’s grief. He could bear it, for her; he could bear worse.

“He liked you,” Aremu said, quietly. He didn’t know how much time he passed, but his voice was steady and even. “He never needed long to get the measure of a man,” his fingers still stroked Tom’s scalp, soft and gentle.

He knew, Aremu didn’t say. He knew about us, although I never told him. He frowned, softly, thinking it over. He knew I cared, Aremu thought he meant, but he couldn’t quite manage it aloud. He knew you meant - something, to me. Not even he could have known what; I still don’t, even now.

He asked, once, Aremu didn’t say. After, when I was still in the Rose; when we knew I’d keep the arm, at least, when the fever had broken and I was left almost empty, when it was all I could manage to sit upright and be fed broth with a spoon. He asked if I wanted anyone. He didn’t name you, but we both knew who he meant.

I could have said yes. I could have - but I couldn’t. I didn’t know the truth for myself, and so I kept silent, because I didn’t want to lie. And the silence was answer enough, and he never asked again, and never mentioned you but offhand, casual, except to tell me -

Except to tell me you were dead.

“He told me,” Aremu said, softly. “That you’d -“ it felt strange to say it, aloud; Aremu found he couldn’t quite bring himself to the word. “And he held me, too.”

What would he have thought, Aremu wondered, of this? He wasn’t sure he’d like to know. The lies were woven into him; he was made of them, by necessity. Could Uzoji have understood? Aremu didn’t know; he couldn’t know. It was too strange to begin to try.

Aremu closed his eyes. His hand stilled against Tom’s head. “I don’t -“ his voice trembled, and caught, and he took a deep breath, careful and even. “I can barely remember a time before I met him,” Aremu said, quietly, well aware of how much he was admitting, how much that sentence revealed. “And now...” he opened his eyes again; they were dry, still, no moisture tangled in the lashes, no sheen of wetness, only two dark eyes beneath long lashes, their gaze fixed on the distant mangroves.

I didn’t know I wanted to talk about it, Aremu wanted to say. I didn’t know. I haven’t - I couldn’t. Niccolette is drowning beneath the waves of her grief; Ahura understands, better than any words could convey, and it makes them useless, or so I would have said. Maybe there is something in the struggling, in the searching, in the wanting - in the effort of trying to find words big enough to hold all I feel.

He had offered Tom so much, and yet he wanted to give more. He felt as if the moonlight could shine straight through him and stream onto the sand below; he felt as if the wind would whisk through his skin unencumbered to scatter the sands beyond. Perhaps he would be ashamed, later; he was not, now. His fingers stroked Tom’s scalp again, and Aremu sat, still and quiet, contemplating the vines wound around the distant mangroves.

“We were boys together,” Aremu said, quietly, when he could no longer find the strength to keep the words silent. “In Thul Ka,” he stroked Tom’s head, softly. “Our fathers did business together. After -“ his voice was careful, and steady, “he saved me. He was a boy, and so was I, and I don’t know -“ Aremu shuddered, and his hand was still; he disentangled himself from Tom’s hair, carefully, and pressed his hand against his face, breathing softly and evenly.

“He never asked for anything but my friendship,” Aremu said, softly. His hand lowered; there were still no tears, and there was nothing choked or tight in his voice. He stilled, although his fingers found Tom’s, and tangled amongst them, and held tight. “I’d have died for him, but he is gone. I think all I can do now is to try to live for him. I don’t know what else to do.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

H
e held you. Tom shut his eyes, but he wasn’t drifting anymore. The shadow of Aremu’s kiss was on his fingers, and each stroke of the hand through his hair was like the ghost of another hand’s, a long time ago. He could feel it anew, almost, because he knew something of what it’d meant, now. Aremu’s fingers tangling in long, thick hair, tugging at his scalp, not so easy as the fine curls he had now. The other man curled into his side. The ghost of another life, hanging round him like a phantom limb, but a whole body.

He held you, after he told you. Tom’s eyes squeezed shut, and he drew a long breath through his nose. ’Til what was in his chest stopped burning. Still, he could see it flashing against the backs of his eyelids, irrepressible. He’d never before dared to picture anybody weeping for him, least of all Aremu Ediwo. He’d never dared to think anybody ought to, and it scared the hell out of him.

He couldn’t dispute it. Not without calling Aremu a liar, and there’d been enough of that, plenty enough of that, judging by the law books, by the pregnant silence that’d met his question. Not without calling Uzoji a liar, because Tom knew well enough how he measured another man’s heart. He thought of Uzoji in his sitting room, his chest all wrapped up with bandages underneath, telling him careful-like what ohante meant.

He waited ’til the cloud passed, and what was left was the breeze and Aremu, and his eyes were dry. Aremu stopped, and Tom looked up at him, just briefly – just long enough to see Aremu looking out at the mangroves, intent. He spoke.

More than seven years, Tom thought wryly. Then again, he’d never thought Aremu’d been some engineer Uzoji’d hired on for the Eqe Aqawe. Not that they’d ever spoken of each other, but he’d known there was more between them; there must’ve been. He thought of their hushed Mugrobi in Sweet Waters, the way Uzoji’d clasped his shoulder. The way Uzoji’d pulsed his field, real subtle-like, in challenge.

But he hadn’t known it’d gone back that far. He followed Aremu’s eyes out toward the treeline, taking another deep breath. He could feel the hair brushed back from his hairline, again, and the cool night breath on his forehead, and he shut his eyes and listened. He didn’t speak. He might’ve been sleeping; he wasn’t. He was listening, listening hard as he’d listened that night, though his breath was even and didn’t once catch. He could feel the weight of Aremu’s words settling on his chest.

There was ohante between two men who owed each other their lives. To say you know nothing of honor, Tom thought.

Aremu left his hair tousled, then. Tom looked up at him and saw him with his hand against his face, silent. He shut his eyes again, and just managed to keep them dry.

When Aremu’s hand found his, Tom didn’t hesitate to take it, as if those two hands’d been holding each other for years. Their fingers tangled together, and Tom squeezed it gently.

He sat up from Aremu’s lap, careful, ’cause his ribs twinged like hell when he moved, and shifting his twisted ankle off the bench without twisting it more was a delicate operation. Somehow, that made each motion worth more to him. He held Aremu’s hand as he straightened up and sat beside him again, shoulder warm against his.

“He knew the measure of a man,” he said slowly. He didn’t look at Aremu, at first. You’re not empty, he didn’t say; he regretted saying it the night before. He didn’t know what the answer was, but that was as soulless a thing to say as Aremu thought himself. He looked over and met the imbala’s dark eyes with his own, calm and even. “He knew he wouldn’t’ve had to ask.”

Just as careful as he’d moved, he disentangled his hand and wrapped his arm around Aremu. He settled his head on the other man’s shoulder, at first, and held him close; he didn’t think of himself, the shape of himself, or anything but holding Aremu. Then he leaned to kiss Aremu again.

He looked down and away. “He never talked down to me,” he said after a moment, shaking his head. “Like a lot of folk did. I never understood why. I don’t know if he saw to the heart of me, somehow; I don’t know that I want to know. There’s a weight that comes with that, and it can be awful to bear. Even if it’s full of love.”

The man he saw when he looked at me, he wanted to say – you can hide behind what you see in other men’s eyes, sometimes. You can be what they see. But if they see your heart, they can hold you to it, and then you’re bound to them.

He shut his eyes.

“What more can a man do, but live?” he asked, looking back up at Aremu, smiling softly.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Tom had taken Aremu’s hand again, and squeezed it, tightly. He sat up, slowly and carefully; Aremu appreciated what it must have cost him. He held very still; he let Tom do this on his own. Tom’s small, bony shoulder tucked warm against him, and Aremu did not hesitate to meet his gaze, when it came. The words shuddered through him, and he nodded. Tom was right; Uzoji had known.

Perhaps it should have felt heavier, the weight of so much trust, without Uzoji to hold up his end of all that lay between them. But it didn’t. It had never felt heavy; it had never lain on him like a burden. Aremu was grateful for it, grateful to have something left of Uzoji to honor. Uzoji had left behind the plantation, and Niccolette, although Aremu cared for her for her own sake, and not only Uzoji’s.

And me, Aremu thought. He faced the thought squarely, head on. He left behind me. He loved me; he saw me; he trusted me. I am here; I, too, am deserving of my own care.

Tom’s arm wrapped around him; Aremu felt the brush of his lips, warm and soft. He listened to what the other man had to say, carefully attentive to each word, thinking them over.

“It can be unbearable,” Aremu agreed, quietly. He knew that weight; he knew the feeling Tom meant. “It wasn’t, with him. Not for me.” He curled into the other man, a little more.

What more can a man do, but live? Tom looked at him through borrowed eyes, and found his own tender smile for that strange, lined face.

Aremu kissed him, then; he hoped Tom would understand. There was a sort of tenderness that he wasn’t sure how to convey with words, and he found himself afraid of the struggle, afraid that what he wanted to convey would be lost amidst his fumbling. But his lips were unhesitating and sure, and his hand rested on Tom’s cheek, cupping it close.

Thank you, Aremu wanted to say. Thank you for listening, for knowing - for not trying to tell me what I feel or what I should feel. Thank you for not making me feel ashamed. Thank you for taking what thread I can offer and weaving it whole.

He had always trusted Uzoji; he had counted on Uzoji to know who to trust. He had counted on Uzoji’s trust in him, too. He made you want to be what he saw, Aremu thought. It was a heavy burden - it should have been - but he had had a way of making it feel light.

Aremu thought, then, that he could have - he wanted to. He didn’t know if Tom could taste it on his lips, on his breath, on his tongue. He eased himself back again, away, stroking Tom’s cheek with his thumb, letting a little space come between them.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Aremu said, softly, hoarse. He was catching his breath again, carefully; he wanted nothing more than to lose it again with Tom. His palm cupped the other man, cradling him. He didn’t want to press; he was altogether too aware of the parallels, the reversals, and it was a strange new place to stand. “You don’t have to say anything at all.”

Slowly, Aremu’s lips brushed Tom’s cheek. He stopped himself there; he didn’t go towards the other man’s ear, or his jaw, or try to trace a line down his neck. He held himself in check; he knew control, and he wanted not to hurt Tom more than he wanted anything else. He met Tom’s gaze again, careful, and tried his best to find the right question.

“Is it different, now?” Aremu asked. If Tom wanted to say nothing, that would be all right; if he wanted to give only a word in response, that would be all right too. But Aremu did his best to nudge the door open, carefully, between them.