Re: [Closed, Mature] Sky Full of Song
Posted: Wed Jan 15, 2020 2:15 pm
The Ibutatu Estate • Isla Dzum
Nighttime on the 29th of Yaris, 2719
H
e tested the edges of the wound with light, careful fingers. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, except that he wasn’t finding it; he’d’ve been worried if it was hot as a fevered brow, if the glistening red smear of blood on Aremu’s dark skin’d looked different than it did.
Tom’d clocked up more men than he’d patched, but he knew, leastways, what infection looked like. He remembered the worst beating Clark’d ever took, and it’d been because of him, so he’d felt responsible; he was his brother, and he’d’ve felt responsible anyway. He remembered what felt like an age, what felt like the whole of the maw since the War, one long night’s vigil in the small apartment in Sharkswell, a night that lasted to the spring.
What precious little he’d known then, he’d learned from Oisin. He’d learned more from hama, between grit teeth and sighs; he’d learned more, since, from Ava.
He was crouched on another chair beside Aremu, his glasses perched on his nose. The lamp sat on the table now, and it cast hazy light over the imbala’s side; hazy, but light enough to see by. He’d clicked his teeth, a wince twitching across his face, when he’d seen the torn stitches. But he was silent, other than to ask where they kept the gauze; silent as he settled back in his chair, other than the faint click of his spectacles’ frames as he unfolded them, glinting in the lamplight.
“A moment,” he murmured, once, and stood up from his chair with a creak. He padded across the kitchen floor, raising his eyes to the hanging herbs, then to the ones on the counter. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for, and it wasn’t long before he’d set himself to the mortar and pestle, clacking hollowly in the quiet. He came back with a bowl full of sweet-smelling paste. “Junia,” he murmured, with an almost shy flicker of a smile, and then set to work again.
To some men, it might’ve been a strange mix of smells; to Tom, it was achingly familiar. Warm mint, crushed junia, blood, antiseptic, clean linen. If he’d shut his eyes, he might’ve been in a different kitchen, across the sea. Except usually it was him slumped at the table and bleeding.
He was quiet too while he set about cleaning; if he felt Aremu’s muscles tighten underneath his cloth, he said nothing.
He couldn’t look too close at it, but he liked the look of his hands cleaning and dressing Aremu’s wound. He’d never much liked them, but they looked different, somehow, in the lamplight — their pallor different against Aremu’s skin, different handling the clean gauze. They looked strangely suited to work like this. They were meticulously careful, for their slight tremor.
When he finished, Aremu thanked him. Tom smiled up at him and poured himself a cup of tea. He didn’t ask to look at the wound on his arm. Once he’d laid his glasses on the table, on top of Tsadi, he sat back in his seat. He raised his cup to his lips, but he didn’t drink right away. He shut his eyes and breathed. He felt tired again.
It was some time before Aremu broke the silence, but it was a more comfortable silence than it had been. He set his tea down to look at the imbala. Aremu’s hand was glowing-warm from the cup of tea, and the stroke of his thumb was more soothing than junia.
There was something crooked about the set of Aremu’s lips, and Tom smiled back, but he didn’t laugh this time. He tilted his head, listening quietly. At I know what I am, something flickered across Tom’s face, and he couldn’t help it; whether it was sadness or sympathy or something else, not even he could’ve said. His smile had faded.
“You do,” he said after a moment, looking intently at the other man. He laid his other hand on top of Aremu’s and pressed it gently. “It means very much to me, that it meant something to you. I was touched.” Each syllable was carefully-drawn; if there was more of Uptown about it than the Rose, he didn’t think of it or care.
He let his hand rest on the imbala’s for a few more seconds, still looking him in the eye. His thumb traced the curve of a familiar scar, though the years between them had faded it; he found an unfamiliar one near it, and the smile came back to his face, tender.
He took his hand away. “I laughed because it was strange, being carried by you. Not a bad kind of strange. Just a new one. I laugh — I laugh at a lot of things. Maybe things I shouldn’t,” he added, a little wry. The wind ruffled the drapes, then, and he shivered in a gust of mint-smelling steam. He shook his head and looked down at their hands, at Aremu’s on his. He turned his over, slipped his fingers through the other man’s.
“And because I don’t understand,” he said carefully, “not always,” and looked back up at the imbala. “I want to deserve your trust, too. But is trust something that’s deserved?” He squeezed Aremu’s hand. “And if it is — how many times you’ve proven it to me…”
e tested the edges of the wound with light, careful fingers. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, except that he wasn’t finding it; he’d’ve been worried if it was hot as a fevered brow, if the glistening red smear of blood on Aremu’s dark skin’d looked different than it did.
Tom’d clocked up more men than he’d patched, but he knew, leastways, what infection looked like. He remembered the worst beating Clark’d ever took, and it’d been because of him, so he’d felt responsible; he was his brother, and he’d’ve felt responsible anyway. He remembered what felt like an age, what felt like the whole of the maw since the War, one long night’s vigil in the small apartment in Sharkswell, a night that lasted to the spring.
What precious little he’d known then, he’d learned from Oisin. He’d learned more from hama, between grit teeth and sighs; he’d learned more, since, from Ava.
He was crouched on another chair beside Aremu, his glasses perched on his nose. The lamp sat on the table now, and it cast hazy light over the imbala’s side; hazy, but light enough to see by. He’d clicked his teeth, a wince twitching across his face, when he’d seen the torn stitches. But he was silent, other than to ask where they kept the gauze; silent as he settled back in his chair, other than the faint click of his spectacles’ frames as he unfolded them, glinting in the lamplight.
“A moment,” he murmured, once, and stood up from his chair with a creak. He padded across the kitchen floor, raising his eyes to the hanging herbs, then to the ones on the counter. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for, and it wasn’t long before he’d set himself to the mortar and pestle, clacking hollowly in the quiet. He came back with a bowl full of sweet-smelling paste. “Junia,” he murmured, with an almost shy flicker of a smile, and then set to work again.
To some men, it might’ve been a strange mix of smells; to Tom, it was achingly familiar. Warm mint, crushed junia, blood, antiseptic, clean linen. If he’d shut his eyes, he might’ve been in a different kitchen, across the sea. Except usually it was him slumped at the table and bleeding.
He was quiet too while he set about cleaning; if he felt Aremu’s muscles tighten underneath his cloth, he said nothing.
He couldn’t look too close at it, but he liked the look of his hands cleaning and dressing Aremu’s wound. He’d never much liked them, but they looked different, somehow, in the lamplight — their pallor different against Aremu’s skin, different handling the clean gauze. They looked strangely suited to work like this. They were meticulously careful, for their slight tremor.
When he finished, Aremu thanked him. Tom smiled up at him and poured himself a cup of tea. He didn’t ask to look at the wound on his arm. Once he’d laid his glasses on the table, on top of Tsadi, he sat back in his seat. He raised his cup to his lips, but he didn’t drink right away. He shut his eyes and breathed. He felt tired again.
It was some time before Aremu broke the silence, but it was a more comfortable silence than it had been. He set his tea down to look at the imbala. Aremu’s hand was glowing-warm from the cup of tea, and the stroke of his thumb was more soothing than junia.
There was something crooked about the set of Aremu’s lips, and Tom smiled back, but he didn’t laugh this time. He tilted his head, listening quietly. At I know what I am, something flickered across Tom’s face, and he couldn’t help it; whether it was sadness or sympathy or something else, not even he could’ve said. His smile had faded.
“You do,” he said after a moment, looking intently at the other man. He laid his other hand on top of Aremu’s and pressed it gently. “It means very much to me, that it meant something to you. I was touched.” Each syllable was carefully-drawn; if there was more of Uptown about it than the Rose, he didn’t think of it or care.
He let his hand rest on the imbala’s for a few more seconds, still looking him in the eye. His thumb traced the curve of a familiar scar, though the years between them had faded it; he found an unfamiliar one near it, and the smile came back to his face, tender.
He took his hand away. “I laughed because it was strange, being carried by you. Not a bad kind of strange. Just a new one. I laugh — I laugh at a lot of things. Maybe things I shouldn’t,” he added, a little wry. The wind ruffled the drapes, then, and he shivered in a gust of mint-smelling steam. He shook his head and looked down at their hands, at Aremu’s on his. He turned his over, slipped his fingers through the other man’s.
“And because I don’t understand,” he said carefully, “not always,” and looked back up at the imbala. “I want to deserve your trust, too. But is trust something that’s deserved?” He squeezed Aremu’s hand. “And if it is — how many times you’ve proven it to me…”