[Closed, Mature] Sky Full of Song

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

N
ot unbearable. Tom wondered what it would’ve been like, to be one of Uzoji’s men – what it would’ve been like on the Eqe Aqawe. He’d never seen Uzoji pilot the ship, but he’d seen him ask the mona to lift a tangle of heavy pipes. He remembered watching Aremu hang upside down from another set, limned with lanternlight, streaked with oil and holding a wrench in his mouth. Working quick, quiet-like, while Uzoji held everything up, held everything together long enough for him to work.

It’d always unsettled Tom, being honest. But he’d been the hired muscle; he’d been an outsider, looking in. He wondered what it would’ve been like, aboard the Eqe Aqawe. He wondered what kind of man he’d’ve been, if he’d known a trust like that.

Aremu said nothing more on it. He cupped Tom’s cheek with his hand and kissed him again, and Tom reckoned he knew what he meant. Somewhere in there, the words slipped by the wayside again. The whole world was the taste of Aremu’s lips and breath; the tide was rising again, and Tom leaned in and let it take him. There was no pretending he didn’t want him, not anymore. He could feel it in every limb.

But then Aremu drew back. You don’t have to tell me, he said. Tom couldn’t figure what he was talking about, at first; when his breath evened out, he still found himself thinking – did you ask something? And then the imbala was kissing him again, and Tom thought he might go further, this time, and he didn’t know he was ready, but he wanted him so much.

Aremu stopped, pulled away, and asked him a question.

It was a way in and a way out, both, depending on how you chose to take it. It was achingly graceful. He ran the pad of his thumb over Aremu’s cheekbone, looking from one dark eye to the other.

No, he could’ve said. He felt it, even now, spreading through him. He thought he felt it between them; he’d felt plenty of want in the press of Aremu’s lips, and the restraint – the delicate brush over his cheek, and no further – only made him want more. It’s not different, he could’ve said, simply. Coyly, even. Emptily. He thought he could’ve mustered up that boldness, for just long enough.

And what would it’ve been like, afterward?

Many things are different, he could’ve said. The question was broad enough, he could’ve said anything. It seemed an easier road to follow. He could’ve eased back from Aremu, still holding his hand, and talked until the want passed. With it came something that could’ve been mistaken for relief; it was more of a sinking feeling.

He didn’t have to say anything at all. Aremu had made that clear. As clear as he’d made it, once. It touched him again, deep, in a place that hurt.

Tom’s fingers followed Aremu’s cheekbone down, his fingertips lightly tracing his jaw. He remembered all of these shapes, but they were different, now, oes. His eyes went down, too. “Yes,” he said. “It’s very different.” He shut his eyes. “Some things, I’ve gotten used to. I know them well enough, now. I’m not as strong anymore. Everything takes a little more out of me. I have to think in ways I’d never’ve thought before. I have to be – more patient.”

The backs of his fingers grazed Aremu’s neck. He found the shape of his collarbone, and followed it, too, down. He laid his palm against Aremu’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of it through the linen.

“Some things, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I like, or what I can bear. I don’t know what it’s like until I feel it.” His voice was lower, with a rough edge. “Like being touched by a man.”

His heart was thundering; it felt like there was a sharp lodged in his chest. Opening his eyes was harder than anything he could’ve done with his hands. But he opened them, meeting Aremu’s eyes again – he let himself feel the current tingling through him.

He let it draw him closer to the imbala, haltingly, until their noses brushed and he had to shut his eyes again. One hand found the back of his head, running his fingers over his hair. He kissed the other man again on the lips, and murmured into him, “Is it too different for you?”

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Aremu waited; he waited as if there was nothing in the world but the two of them, close but not close as they could be on a driftwood bench in the moonlit air, with the smell of salt and flowers drifting through the breeze. It wasn’t hard to imagine, just then. He couldn’t read the thoughts on Tom’s face; he didn’t know the little line on his forehead, or the faint creases around his mouth.

If Tom didn’t want to tell him, Aremu thought, that was enough of an answer in itself, wasn’t it? He had asked; he could not do more. He would not do more; the answer meant nothing, if not willingly given. He knew what he felt, between them; and the imbala knew too how many other things this sort of want could mask. He knew how it could make you feel after; he knew how he had felt after. Not with Tom; never with Tom. He didn’t - Aremu couldn’t he had never made a lover feel that way. He couldn’t promise he never might again. But he didn’t want it for Tom.

Tom answered first with his fingertips; they traced down the planes of Aremu’s face. He shivered, and when Tom spoke he listened, quiet, giving the other man the fullness of his attention. Tom’s fingers followed his vein down his neck, grazed his collarbone, settled over his heart. There was a roughness in Tom’s voice that made him shiver, low and deep.

Aremu held, and watched, and when Tom’s eyes opened he was there to meet them. He didn’t know what Tom saw in them; he didn’t know what he felt. There was a low, deep hum of tenderness all through him, of aching want - need, he knew to name it - and he didn’t know how to balance them.

Whatever Tom saw, it drew him in; he came closer, until Aremu had to shut his eyes too, and Tom’s fingers ran through his hair, and the other man kissed him again. Aremu’s breath caught, and he felt the quiet noise that wrenched free from his chest, felt it ripple through him.

No, he wanted to say; no, like a growl, and bury himself in Tom’s lips again, wrap his hand in the other man’s hair, and show him -

“No,” Aremu had lowered his hand, as Tom explored. “I don’t think so.” He lifted his hand again, now, careful - his fingers traced over Tom’s cheek, and, slowly, found a path down, tracing the line of his jaw, carefully. He didn’t go lower, not just yet. His eyes were open again, though Tom’s face was almost all he could see in the night. He didn’t look away.

“I wasn’t sure,” Aremu said, quietly, aching. He didn’t want to hurt Tom with the truth; he didn’t want to hurt him with silence, either. He didn’t know what to do, but that he thought perhaps he had tried silence before, and it had not worked well, in the end. Even with how friendly Tom had been, before, he had not thought of Vauquelin like this. It wasn’t the sort of wanting he had felt even at the first sight of Tom; but he wanted, nonetheless.

“I want-“ Aremu was conscious of the rough note in his voice, the deepening; he wondered if Tom could feel the rising heat in his cheeks. He kissed him again, and it wasn’t quite as soft, although it was every bit as tender. Carefully, slowly, he eased his lips from Tom’s; he followed the path his hand had taken.

“I want you,” Aremu whispered. He swallowed, conscious of all the places they fit together, of all the places they could fit together, of Tom’s hand still on his chest. “Whatever...” Cautiously, careful of the bandages, Aremu’s fingers crept a little lower. He searched, carefully, as if feeling for cracks. “Whatever you want to give me, Tom, whatever you can give me, it’s enough. Just this - I‘m glad of it.” He knew - he knew all of him was straining for more; he knew Tom had to be aware of it. But he lifted his gaze to the other man, and he made the promise as firmly as he could.

“We don’t have to know the answers,” Aremu said, hesitantly, after a few heartbeats. He smiled, then, a sheepish little smile, and he kissed Tom’s lips again. “I’ve always liked the seeking.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

H
e felt Aremu’s fingers skimming the line of his jaw. His eyelids fluttered; a shiver went through him, and on its heels a crawling in his skin, and he didn’t know which would last. Aremu stopped there, and it was enough for him to sit in the middle of it, like setting up a fishing boat in the eye of a storm. He adjusted. He realigned. His cheek prickled where the imbala had touched, every hair standing on end. He could still feel it underneath his cheekbone.

Tom smiled. Uncertain, at first, then warmer.

A spring in him had been released, and he could breathe. “I wasn’t sure, either,” he admitted, his voice as threadbare as the other man’s. Then he laughed a frayed and breathless laugh. Aremu kissed him again, less tentative. He remembered the little noise Aremu'd made, the shivers he’d drawn up out of him with the careful motions of his fingers. He thought of a name, and smiled against his lips.

I want. This time, he leaned in with lips and his breath and his tongue, and he felt his fingers curling in Aremu’s shirt. You want–?

And then Aremu’s lips trailed down his cheek, following the lines of the face he hated so much, and he didn’t think he cared. Whatever he felt, his skin wasn’t crawling anymore; whatever Aremu saw in him, he didn’t think it was what he saw in the mirror. That deft mechanic’s hand was lower, now, skipping lightly over the bandages, and he knew some of what it must’ve been finding.

Once, just once, he found Aremu’s hand with one of his and corrected its course. It was nothing important, not to anybody but him; he didn’t think the imbala would’ve known what he was self-conscious about, even if his hand skimmed right over it, and it didn’t matter what it was, at any rate. It could’ve been anything; he was covered in anythings, from head to toe. But it didn’t matter, because he trusted Aremu to take his word for it, wordlessly, same as he’d’ve done. Same as he’d done.

He left the hand to its wandering, after. He found the back of the imbala’s head again, and he swept his fingertips across his scalp with the same motions Aremu had used for him. All the while his other hand wandered down, cradling his hip. He made himself aware of Aremu's right arm; he had the patience to be careful, remembering how he'd taken it away from his lap. How much it'd meant that he'd put it there in the first place, even so.

It was slow and easy. They kissed again, and some of the pressure lifted; and Tom wanted it again, like a tide. There wasn’t much space between them, anymore. He felt more than saw Aremu’s sheepish little smile. “Not knowing’s well enough.” He was surprised at the strength of his voice, despite its softness, and the warmth he felt in it. “I wasn’t sure,” and his lips brushed over Aremu’s cheek, this time, “I wasn’t sure what I felt, or if I could still feel, or if I wanted to.”

His ribs ached as his lungs filled up with the cool, crisp air; that ache was life. What can a man do, but live?

“I’ll tell you, if I want you to stop,” he said, “same as you’d tell me,” and drew back enough to look Aremu in the eye. “If even the tiniest part of you is uncomfortable with this,” he breathed, “with me, with me like this – I’m –”

He took a shuddering breath.

“I’m afraid you’ll look up, suddenly, and realize who, what it is you’re –” He couldn’t finish. He pressed his forehead to the imbala’s and breathed in deep. “I’d understand,” he murmured.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Once, Aremu felt the soft touch of Tom’s fingers on his hand, changing the course of it. He didn’t ask; he didn’t need to. He let Tom guide him, and he listened, and he remembered; he marked the spot, and he didn’t test the boundaries of it, didn’t try to push or press. He was content to let his fingers wander where Tom wanted them; he was glad the other man knew to tell him where not to go. He felt the gentle press of fingers against his hip; there was something tentative about them, at first, but they settled into place.

They were fitting together, then, closer and closer.

There was a warmth to Tom’s voice, but all the same Aremu felt a pang of – something, an odd, jarring feeling beneath him, like he’d missed a step. I didn’t mean to make light of it, he wanted to say. I wanted to make you comfortable – to offer you something familiar – I know it isn’t the same for us. But Tom’s lips were brushing over his cheek, still, and he hadn’t stopped, and it was too late to go back.

There was no space, then, for anything but what Tom was saying now. Aremu left his explorations behind, his fingers easing back up to brush Tom’s cheek, gently, tenderly. I don’t know all of the tiniest parts of me, Aremu wanted to say. Maybe there’s always something in you that’s uncomfortable. But he knew that wasn’t the right sort of honesty.

Tom’s forehead was resting against his. I’d understand, he offered, as if Aremu would suddenly look up and realize he was a monster. As if he hadn’t – Aremu swallowed back the ache. His hand was cupping Tom’s cheek, his thumb tracing gently back and forth over it, and he wished more than anything he could take the other side as well, cradle Tom’s face in his hands. It felt unbearably selfish, but he couldn’t help the thoughts.

“I’ve seen you, Tom,” Aremu said, softly, into the sliver of dark space between them; he spoke only just loud enough to be heard over the slush of the distant waves, over the shuddering sounds of Tom’s breath, over the pounding of his own heart. He didn’t want to get too close to it; he didn’t want to come at it directly, to make Tom confront it, now. But he knew Tom knew; he knew Tom must know. “I know who you are,” Aremu kissed him, again, softly, and pulled away enough only to speak, so that his breath tickled Tom’s lips, “I want you.”

In the end, they were too tired for eyo’pili; not only physically, Aremu thought, but in every way. It drained you; it asked for a sort of clarity not readily available when tired. Aremu found he did not mind; he could not complain about what they had shared. He only hoped Tom felt the same.

“Next time,” Aremu had promised, softly, Tom already more than half-asleep against him, his fingers combing gently through the other man’s hair. He was glad not to have to know if it was a lie; he was glad to be able to just speak, without having to interrogate anything inside himself.

He had promised to bring Tom home, and Aremu had meant those words. As he’d been, Aremu could never have managed it. As he was, he folded the sleeping man over his arms – both of them, careful, and cradled Tom gently against his chest, Tsadi pezre Awameh’s volume tucked between his hand and his sleeping lover. The other man shifted, a little, and Aremu staggered against the sand, but Tom stilled, and he found his balance.

In time, the sharp ache of his wounds faded to a dull throb, and he found he could bear it. Aremu breathed, carefully and steadily, and focused on putting one foot before the other, barefoot in the sand. He was grateful when the lip up to the road was low enough to climb, when he could walk on ground and road instead, because it didn’t yield beneath his feet. It left him no time to think, that walk, and perhaps there was some of him which was grateful for that.

The house loomed out of the dark. Aremu went onto the porch, up the few scant steps one by one. Between the man in his arms and the book, the doorknob was well more than he could manage. He knelt, and lay Tom against the wall with shaking arms, brushing his head with a soft kiss. Aremu rose, then, and turned away, opening the door.

The thought of the staircase inside exhausted him beyond measure, but he had made a promise; he did not mean to break his word, not to Tom. Aremu was not sure what it was that lay between them, now; he did not know the shape of it, the contours. He did not know how Tom would feel about it, when he awoke, in a day's time, in a week's time; he did not know how he would feel, not to speak truth on. But he knew he did not want to end the night by making himself a liar; that was a sort of pain he could not bear. He turned back, and knelt beside Tom once more, and gathered himself to take the other man in his arms again.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

I
’ve seen you – I know who you are.

In his dreams, Tom was confused. He woke once to a gentle jostling, to a book pressed against his upper arm. He opened his eyes and shut them; his head was against something warm, his cheek brushing soft linen, and he could feel a man’s heavy breath all through him. It lulled him in and out of sleep. He thought he was off the ground, but he couldn’t’ve been sure. Every muscle ached too much to move, and he was content to lay his head against the linen and shut his eyes and drift.

Tom remembered doing eyo’pili. He thought he could feel the dull side of a knife dig into his thumb as he pressed it down. The vine was thick and had thorns; he scratched his fingers against them. His hand was smeared with blood by the time he cut through the skin enough to draw sap, and when Aremu took the knife from it, it was shaking. The small wooden cup was shaking in his other hand; he remembered the sap dripping in, tap tap tap.

The taste was exactly as Aremu had described, so bitter he gagged. But he couldn’t remember what the high was like. He could’ve still been high; he didn’t know. He remembered sitting next to Aremu on the beach, and Aremu’s soft voice – next time – and he didn’t know what it meant. He remembered Aremu laying his head on his chest, playing with one tangle of long, dark hair.

The second time he woke up, he righted himself enough to know what’d really happened. It was a shift of rhythm that’d woken him: there’d been the soft shuffle of sand, and now there was the scuff of feet on dirt, the footsteps too heavy to be Aremu’s. He nestled his cheek against the linen, shutting his eyes again, and heard a grunt. He felt himself shifted. His feet were dangling, he realized. The cold, flat pane of a book’s cover was pressed against his upper arm. He could hear deep, strained breath. The wind ruffled his hair, but he couldn’t hear the tide anymore; he could only hear the distant crash of the waves on the cliffs, the occasional call of a gull.

He could smell sweat drying in the chill. It was mingled with the faint scent of flowers. He drifted, and it seemed like he was elsewhere, then, in some place between places. He shivered, because he could still feel a hand tracing over his bare skin, and the warm press of another man. I've seen you, a voice said. I want you.

When he woke up proper, it was to the brush of lips in his hair. His back jostled against a wall. He could hear the creaking of wood all around him, and more footsteps, these lighter.

The first thing he knew was he ached, a good, deep ache, all through every muscle. He let his head loll back against the cool wood, swallowing a lungful of crisp night air. He heard a nearby rattling and opened his eyes.

It took him a few moments to recognize the front porch. The Ibutatu house, he thought, brow furrowing; he looked up toward the beams, nesting with shadows, and then out toward the winding path to the cane fields. He swallowed again, his throat dry. Movement caught his eye – squinting, he picked out a shape at the door, opening it. The moonlight made Aremu’s shirt and trousers ghostly pale, and played over the panes of his face.

Half-waking, Tom thought he looked sad. Then, he thought he looked tired, hollow-eyed; his brow cast deep shadows under his eyes. But sleep threatened to drag him under the water again, and once he was in the dark again, he was helpless to the undertow.

Not for long. “Shit,” he slurred. The heavy, strained breath was back, and a man’s arm was looping itself round his back. A long-fingered hand fumbled at his arm, shaking; the muscles in the arm were taut against him.

He shook his head once, twice. “Aremu?” He reached out with one hand and found a chest, a collarbone, a shoulder. He opened his eyes. Aremu’s face was close enough to be blurry. He could could feel the warmth of his breath against his face.

“Where’re –” Tom blinked, clearing the frog out of his throat. “Hang on,” he said softly, “I’m – shit – we’re at the house.” He cast another look round the porch, not seeing much, and then his eyes came into proper focus on Aremu’s face. “Did I – I didn’t walk – did you carry me?” he asked, and then laughed softly.

He wasn’t sure what to think of it; with his head still scrambled from the dreams, he could scarcely believe it, believe any of it, much less what they’d just shared. It was all new and strange. The imbala was close enough that it wasn’t much of a stretch to kiss him again on the cheek.

He braced one hand against the hardwood underneath him and pushed, his wrist shaking. “I’m awake,” he grunted, but reached to loop his arm gently through Aremu's, on the left. “Help me up, dove?”

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Aremu took a deep breath, crouched over Tom. It was never easier for the waiting, he told himself. He needed to choose his path and to follow it; hesitating would not make the load any easier to bear. The longer he knelt, the more his muscles seemed to insist to him that he was tired, the more his wounds seemed to pull at his skin.

He settled himself, as best as he could. He was still breathing hard; he was conscious of an unpleasant wetness against his side. He would have to sort out how to explain the torn stitches to Niccolette; he did not mind a small lie between them, not for Tom’s sake.

It was enough.

Aremu leaned forward, and eased his arms carefully beneath Tom, taking the other man’s forearm gently in his hand. He knew he was shaking; he had not even begun to lift but he could feel the strain of it, all through him. He had forgotten the book, but he could not - if he let go now, Aremu knew, he might not have the will to begin again.

But Tom was stirring in his arms; Aremu couldn’t get a hold on him. He heard his name, murmured in a low, sleepy voice, and he felt Tom’s hand, patting gently at his chest, his collarbone, his shoulder.

“I’m here,” Aremu said, softly. He held still, very still. Tom’s eyes blinked open, half-dazed, aimed blearily towards him. His arm was still curled beneath the other man, although he knew it for a lost effort, now.

Tom asked if Aremu had carried him, and Aremu didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to wake you felt unbearably tender in the wake of Tom’s laughter. He eased his arm out from beneath him, careful, still kneeling next to him. You were asleep, and I had promised -

Aremu said nothing, instead; he could not meet Tom’s eyes. The kiss on his cheek drew some of the sting from it, and Aremu found an uneasy smile, aware that he was still trembling. He took a careful breath, deep and even; Tom’s arm was looked through his, and he needed help to stand.

Aremu braced himself against the wall with his right shoulder. He pulled himself to his feet, first, his hand clasped around Tom’s forearm, and offered the other man whatever strength he had remaining. It burned through him, and he shuddered, holding in place for a long moment, breathing carefully.

Aremu looked up, again. It was a little easier to smile, now. He let go of Tom’s arm, stroking his thumb lightly against it. The smile warmed, and the ache in his chest lightened a little more. Then Aremu knelt again, picked up the book and tucked it beneath his right arm, and levered himself to his feet once more. He took another deep breath, and did his best to calm the quick, heavy pace of them.

He knew there was no hiding from Tom, and he felt oddly ashamed. I promised, he wanted to say. But Tom knew, now; he knew what Aremu was, what he lacked. He knew, whatever he might have said about it in the mangroves. It felt shameful to pretend at honor before the other man, and worse to force tenderness on him. He thought silence his best course, though that, too, weighed heavy on him.

“Here,” Aremu said, after a moment. He took the book, and extended it to Tom, waiting for him to take it. “And -“ Aremu reached into his pocket, and eased Tom’s glasses free, and tucked them carefully into the collar of his shirt. He smiled, a little, glancing sheepishly up at the other man; his hand lifted, a little shy, and cupped Tom’s cheek again, his thumb rubbing softly over the little bristling hairs, now familiar.

“Inside?” Aremu asked. He lowered his hand then, and shifted back towards the open door. The world inside was all shadows, curtains and walls and window panels cast long through the dim light, the furniture little more than dark suggestions against the floor. Aremu held, just inside, and breathed deep, the aches in him easing, some faster than others.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

A
remu was tucking his glasses into the collar of his shirt. His fingertips brushed his collarbone, just so. Even half-waking — especially half-waking, maybe — Tom warmed to it. He touched the wireframes where Aremu’d left them, and tucked the book close under his arm.

“Ah, my brigk,” he murmured, lightly but gently, looking up at Aremu. There was the faintest flicker of concern on his face — there and then gone as he reached to brush his knuckles over Aremu’s cheek. He tried to meet Aremu’s eye with a reassuring smile; he put every bit of warmth he felt into it, but he was drowsy, and he must’ve looked tired. Still couldn’t’ve looked any more tired than Aremu.

The imbala had shaken even levering him to his feet. He wasn’t sure he could’ve got up on his own; the ache in his hip was more than tsuter, now, and sleep had stuffed his head full of cotton and made him dizzy. Aremu opened the door and beckoned him inside, and Tom nodded a little gruffly. As he moved past, limping just a pina, he laid a hand on the imbala’s shoulder and squeezed. He appreciated what Aremu’d given him.

Every bit more because of the sheepish smile, because of the way he’d remembered to bring not only Tsadi pezre Awameh but also his glasses. Tom didn’t know he would’ve; he probably wouldn’t’ve, being honest. He didn’t remember losing them, except he knew now he hadn’t had them when he’d fumbled his shirt back on.

When he’d —

The house was a different landscape at night. Tom squinted. It took his eyes a while to adjust, and even then, he didn’t see much more than the shapes of furniture, tall open windows and shifting drapes like forlorn ghosts. Without the other man’s warmth, the thin linen seemed too light for the chill; he could feel the breeze cutting right through it. The wind picked up, and he shivered, but he caught a whiff of curry drifting down the corridor.

Beside him, Aremu was silent. There was nothing to be heard but the crickets and the ruffling. The click of the door shut brought him out of some reverie, and he turned to look at the imbala.

His features were hard to make out in the dark; his expression, impossible. He’d barely said anything, Tom thought. Tom remembered the way he’d laid his hand on his cheek; there’d been something almost hesitant about it.

He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. Even now, looking the imbala up and down — even though he was just a vague shape; Tom knew, now, as he’d known once before, how to fill in the shadows with his mind, by touch if not sight — even now, he ached with love for every inch of him. They’d made love, hadn’t they?

Tom was awake, now, and the breath was cold in his lungs. He was awake enough to think. He’d carried him back. Was he ashamed of it? The moment before he’d cupped his cheek seemed to stretch, in his mind; the expression on his face grew hazy in his memory. Did he begrudge it?

Even in the dark, Aremu looked hollow-eyed. Tom pushed the thought away and smiled a tired smile of his own. He turned, took a step, then stopped. Up ahead, he could make out the bulk of the stairwell, moonlight glinting down the banister.

Aremu’s breath had evened out, but he remembered it. He remembered waking to the sound of hitching breath; he remembered jostling, the scuffling sound of bare feet in the dirt. “Aremu,” he said softly, turning back, and nearly jolted at the sound of his own voice. It wasn’t how he’d expected, somehow. He glanced toward the kitchen, then back at the imbala. “I’ll make you tea, before we head upstairs? It’s awhile before anybody’s up.”

He was glad of the dark; he was smiling, he knew, but his brow was knit with concern. I want you to have a rest, he didn’t say. I want to make sure you’re all right, after that walk. It felt silly in its tenderness, but for once, he didn’t much care.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

It was a word Aremu knew, after long enough in the Rose. Brigk – guard. It was strange to hear the Tek in this deep voice, without the fullness of the accent Tom had had before, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Aremu didn’t know quite how to describe what he felt, except that he knew to turn and brush his lips softly against Tom’s knuckles, except that the tenderness of it touched him in a place with no name.

Inside, it was all he could do to gather himself. The stairs had seemed insurmountable, when he thought of carrying Tom up them. Even now, they were dizzyingly high; they seemed to stretch up through the moonlight like a cliff, and the landing above was dark and distant. His breath had calmed, at least; he didn’t want to think of how he’d sound dragging himself up the stairs. He didn’t know what he’d do if Tom needed help; he wondered if there was a way to send the other man up, ahead, and to sleep down here – just a little while – just until he could gather himself together once more.

His name was soft on Tom’s lips. Aremu turned to look at him; there was a streak of moonlight across Tom’s face, made pale by the glass and the drapes. He looked tired; all the lines on his face seemed carved in deeper than usual, and Aremu wasn’t sure if it was just a trick of the light. Aremu could see a smile on his lips, warm; Tom shifted, and the light caught his forehead instead, and his face was set and stern, then. Aremu shivered, and was grateful for the breeze that drifted over him from outside.

Tom had offered tea, and Aremu nodded, feeling as if he’d come unstuck. He moved, slowly; it wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be, once he had remembered how. He came closer to Tom, closer than he had to. He cupped Tom’s cheek again, carefully, and kissed him, this time, softly, his eyes fluttering shut for a long moment. It was easier than words; a little more of the ache drained out of him with it. His eyes were still closed as they drew apart, at first, and he opened them to the sight of Tom’s face, his own long fingers curled dark against his pale cheek.

Aremu wanted to say something; he didn’t know what, but the need burned in his chest. His gaze flickered over Tom’s face, and a little frown knitted his brow, and he tried to find the words inside himself.

“Tea would be good,” Aremu said, finally, instead. He cleared his throat, and gently lowered his hand from Tom’s cheek. He let the other man lead the way into the kitchen.

It was dark inside, but lingeringly warm from the stove, even now; there was a faint feeling of heat that echoed from it, like a memory of Ahura’s cooking. Aremu knew the contours of the room well enough not to need any light. He drew out a chair, and eased himself down into it; he tucked his right arm beneath the table, out of sight, and propped his left elbow against the top, cradling his face in his hand. He knew – he knew – but he knew, too, that he hadn’t been fooling Tom before, and it was so much easier like this.

Just sitting seemed to ease some of the burden on him. He could take stock of it, the tiredness, the pain; he could weigh it, measure it, know what it did and didn’t forbid. He never bothered to ask if it had been worth it; he knew the answer. He saw the scrape of light against the outer edges of his eyelids, but he couldn’t manage to know more than that. There were quiet, distant sounds; water flowing, the quiet clank of what Aremu knew must be the kettle, the softer sounds of tins. They were a quiet background to the whisper of his own breath in and out of his nose, the echo of his heart in his ears.

“Tom,” Aremu said, quietly. He lowered his hand to the table, arm curled; he sat back against the chair. He looked up at the other man, frowning again. He was out of the range of his field, now, just briefly; it grew easier, in time, inside it. There was never any forgetting, but there was a way of growing accustomed; crossing in and out was always the worst. The other man was limned by light, soft and yellow; it warmed him.

Can you feel it? Aremu wanted to ask. Me? Do you feel anything when – when we – his eyes fluttered shut again. He didn’t think he could bear the asking, the quiet, concerned pity that he could imagine on Tom’s face, now; he could fit it in between the wrinkles, picture it tugging lines between his brow, curving his lips faintly downward. Am I empty? Tell me, Tom – please – tell me I am –

Aremu cleared his throat again, and took another deep breath. He was tired, he thought; he rubbed his face again, and lowered his hand back to the table. “I just…” he was quiet. It shouldn’t have been hard to find some truth, but all the words inside him seemed to be too heavy to speak – as if they would swell in his mouth, fill it, weigh him down.

“I’m sorry,” Aremu said, instead. He smiled, faintly, looking down. “I’m a bit tired.” He said; he knew Tom knew, already. He didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but he knew he meant it. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you up the stairs; I’m sorry to put this tenderness on you; I’m sorry I can’t ask what I really want to – I’m sorry I’m afraid. He swallowed, and sighed, and sat back a little more, groaning involuntarily when the motion pulled at his side.

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum

Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719

H
e was still warm from Aremu’s kiss as he crossed to the kitchen, still warm as he lit the lamp and felt it hiss to life, casting more warmth warped through the glass. Tom smiled to watch the little flame bob and bow its head; even as he turned aside to find the pot, he was smiling. He tried not to think too hard on the way Aremu’d cleared his throat, on the faint crease at his brow, but it gnawed at him anyway.

The kitchen was warm and still smelled strongly of lamb, of coconut and spices he couldn’t name, of onions caramelizing in ghee. He knew it was no coincidence his suggestion of tea would take them to this place. He bobbed and wove among cabinets and counters just becoming familiar, watching his long shadow flicker and creep in the low lamplight. As he found the tin of mint and the metal table-spoon, the wispy dark echoes of his hands danced across the countertop, warping the skinny wrists and tapering fingers to ghoulish spindliness.

Even still, they were kind motions in their familiarity. This place was kind; something of Ahura’s laughter had sunk into the wood. And the smell of mint was kind, too, and the feel of the spoon rustling in the crushed up leaves, and the echo of the lamplight in the metal pot on the stove, and the breathy hiss of the water stirring to boil. The familiarity was kind.

He looked over his shoulder at his old-new lover, once. Aremu was sitting at the table, his face sagged in a hand. Tom’s brow furrowed; Aremu wasn’t looking at him, and he let his eyes linger. They wandered down to his side, where shadows nested in the linen. He thought one shadow, near the bulge of his bandages, looked deeper than the rest. His lips pressed thin.

As he took the pot off the stove, he looked out the window, over Uzoji’s kofi garden. The wind picked up, and the drapes filled with it; Tom breathed in the scents and shut his eyes and leaned on the counter as he waited for the water to cool off a pina. Just then, he could’ve sunk into the wood beneath his feet. He could’ve dissolved and come apart, drifted up among the bundles of dried herbs and garlic.

There weren’t good aches or bad aches, not really. But he liked the strained protest of his muscles as he pulled himself straight, squared his shoulders, began pouring the tea. The steam billowed up and tickled his face, vanishing everything else. Waiting for it to steep, he stretched against the counter.

It’d been a long time since he’d felt like this, being honest. He’d almost forgot what it was like.

Tom, said Aremu, and Tom turned and looked at him. It wasn’t hard to bring a smile up out of himself, though he knew his brow was furrowed, and there was nothing he could do about it; Aremu was his lover, and that meant, he thought, furrowed brows as much as it did everything else. It was a silly thought, and he felt almost embarrassed for thinking it. He must’ve been in a hell of a mood.

Some more of the smile fell off his face. He couldn’t read Aremu’s, but the other man cleared his throat again, and he thought he knew what that usually meant. “No,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t have to apologize,” he added, smiling again, tentatively. “You don’t have to say anything, but if there’s something — troubling you — we can try to figure it out. Together.” He felt like a mung, but he wouldn’t take it back. I want to talk to you, he ached to say, there are things I need to tell you, and I think you want to talk, too; but he didn’t half know how.

He was still chewing over the thought, still trying to read that silence, that cleared throat, that I just, as he brought the pot and the little painted cups to the table. He was conscious of his field in the other man’s space, now, but he didn’t hesitate. As he set them down, clicking, he heard Aremu groan and creak back in his chair.

His eyes went down; he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t a shadow: he could see it, just a little stain, spreading from the bandages. He sucked at a tooth, looking up and meeting Aremu’s eye. “Can I take a look at that?” he asked gently, glancing away and busying himself about the teapot, casual-like. He began pouring the tea, then, more steam whirling up from the table.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Aremu was learning, slowly, to see the familiar in Tom’s face. The other man sucked at a tooth, and even though Aremu would not have said he felt much like smiling, it dragged one out of him, unbidden, tender. Steam whisked up into the air and carried the smell of mint with it, and Aremu breathed it in deep, closing his eyes, and remembering another kitchen, miles and years away, and the two men who’d drank tea there.

We’ve both changed, he wanted to say. I’ve changed too, I’m not – but he thought Tom already knew that. He thought of him asking, quietly, if Aremu had found clarity here. He could feel the unpleasant scrape of other man’s field against his skin, but he could also feel the warmth of Tom – hear his voice, even too quiet and gentle to carry – and Aremu knew what mattered more.

Aremu curled his palm around the cup, carefully, feeling the soft ridges of paint against the clay, trapped beneath smooth lacquer but distinct nonetheless. It’s not bad, he wanted to say. Nothing to worry about. Niccolette’ll deal with it, tomorrow, if anything even needs dealing with. Just a little pain. You don’t need to see –

“If you don’t mind,” Aremu said, quietly. He shifted, and eased his shirt off with a quiet grunt, setting the rumpled linen on the table. Better to have it off than to occupy his hand holding it up. He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling evenly. His hand curled around the cup again, and he lifted it up, breathing the steam in, and sat, and waited, content to do nothing, to think no thoughts, to rest and find a bit of ease.

He grunted again, painful and tight, when Tom eased the bandages away. Niccolette had stitched the wound together, neat, small stitches; she had not used anesthetic. Aremu had been awake for that; he had lain on his stomach, eyes closed, biting down on a strip of leather, while she worked. He had held still, as best as he could.

Two small rows at the top had torn; there was blood smeared against Aremu’s skin, and against the bandage, and a little more leaked out when Tom took it away. But it was bright red blood, and sluggish beside, and the skin around the injury was cool to the touch, should Tom try it. Aremu held still at the table, his hand around the cup.

The stitches had not hurt, not compared to disinfecting the wounds. That, Niccolette had done magically; that, she had told him, it was better not to take any chances with. She had done it twice, Aremu knew; once, at the warehouse. Those memories were hazy, half-gone, and he was grateful for the lack; he remembered firey, blistering pain, but he remembered it distantly, through a fog, as if it was something he had watched and not felt. He could let it go.

Earlier in the day, he had been awake; it felt, Aremu thought, wryly, as if she had set his veins on fire. He had not screamed; there was little point in making it harder for her. He knew that his face had been wet when she finished, and his whole head had ached from clenching his jaw, but he had not screamed. Compared to that, the stitches had been –

Niccolette has a spell to clean out infection, Aremu wanted to offer. It doesn’t always work – he couldn’t look down at his right arm – but it’s very good. Carefully, he reached to his side, and rested his fingers against the cool skin along the edges of the wound, and slowly eased them away, and left Tom to his ministrations.

In time, there was a clean bandage against his side; in time, the mint tea was cool enough to drink. Aremu took a small sip of it, and set the cup down, and looked at Tom. He smiled; it came a little easier now. "Thank you," Aremu said, and was content to sit in silence a little longer.

“I promised I’d get you home,” Aremu said, in time, into nothing at all, into the space between them. He couldn’t think why he’d been so afraid of saying it. It wasn’t hard, after all. He swallowed, looking at Tom; he set the tea down, and took the other man’s hand instead, and he didn’t mind that he had to choose. “It meant something to me," he met Tom’s eyes across the heavy wood of the table, and smiled, a little crooked, as if to say he knew himself for a fool. His thumb stroked gently over the back of Tom’s hand.

“I know what I am,” Aremu said, and he didn’t look away, not from the words, and not from Tom either. “But I want to deserve your trust.”