Early Evening, 28 Hamis, 2720
The Ibutatu House
The Ibutatu House
Aremu’s eyes closed when Aurelie set to work on his head. Her hands were not especially gentle, and more than once a shock of pain rippled through him. His left hand clenched tight on the wet leg of his pants, and Aremu kept his breath steady and even. He didn’t jerk or cry out or grunt or clench his teeth; he just held, and he breathed, in and out, steadily.
It was only pain, Aremu thought, not injury. He felt her hands brushing over his head, against the soft hair, and against the skin of his back, where the rocks had torn him open. Pain couldn’t harm him unless he let it; pain he could put aside. He knew it well enough, what it was to hurt; this was not so bad, compared to some.
He was tired; he was terribly tired. He didn’t – couldn’t – sleep, sitting upright like this with Aurelie beside him, cleaning the sand from his head and back with a damp cloth. The pain helped, in that way; it pricked him away, like biting the inside of one’s cheek or pinching one’s forearm, sent a shock through him that kept him going.
“Yes,” Aremu rasped, when Aurelie said he should take a bath. He let go of his pants, slowly, his hand damp; he rubbed the back of his wrist against his face, aching with tiredness. A bath, Aremu thought, and then – he’d get upstairs, one way or another. He’d crawl; he wondered if Aurelie would watch, hovering over him, and the rush of shame he felt choked in his throat, and burned in his chest.
It’s not, he wanted to say, how I thought you’d see me – he hadn’t had the presence of mind to put his right wrist away. He knew he was scarred; he knew, too, that there were plenty who found him attractive, without a shirt, the lean muscle of his stomach and arms not, he thought, unpleasant to look at. He felt an odd sort of longing that Aurelie should – but she had been nothing but competent, and he was grateful for that and yet at the same time sorry, too. It’s not how I wanted –
Aremu wondered, dizzily, as Aurelie left him with water pouring into the tub, if he should have insisted on doing it himself. She had been so sure, and he was tired; he was so tired. I didn’t want you to see my like this, he’d wanted to say again, watching her go.
“Fuck,” Aremu sighed, half under his breath. He was tired and aching, all over; he undid his pants, peeling the damp fabric from his skin, and climbed into the hot bath. He brought his knees up, and pressed his face to them, shaking, both arms wrapped around his legs. It wasn’t quite crying, but he didn’t think it was far from it other, an odd mix of guilt, shame, and helplessness nearly more than he could bear.
The water, Aremu realized, was not helping; he felt dizzy and light-headed, and he didn’t much trust himself to stay upright. What a fucking joke, he thought, to have made it into the cave in the storm and swum back, and then drown in the bath. He was rougher with himself than Aurelie had been, scrubbing the sand from his skin, from his arms and legs, until everything ached and the last of the sand was gone from between his toes.
The room spun when he rose, and he was quietly sick again, gasping, losing whatever he’d drank of the water Aurelie had brought up. He clutched the bowl of the toilet with his hand, tears stinging at his eye, his throat rubbed raw, and then flushed the last of it away, grateful for the noise of the bath draining behind him. He rinsed his mouth out, several times, spitting the taste of it into the sink.
Aremu wrapped a towel around his waist, and began to run a bath for Aurelie. He rubbed his face with his hand, and ran his fingers gingerly through his hair.
When he came outside, towel-clad, only wobbling a little, she was waiting with clothing in the hallway. Aremu looked at her, half-trying to smile; he failed, glancing away. “Thanks,” he said, quietly. “I thought you might – um, like a bath as well. I – I think I can manage the bandaging, I don’t…” he breathed in, slowly, and out again, glancing back down the hallway at the stairs.
“I’m sorry for this,” Aremu said, finally. He rubbed his face with his hand, swaying a little on his feet, frowning down at her once more. He felt himself again, and there seemed to be no hiding from the shame of it.
It was only pain, Aremu thought, not injury. He felt her hands brushing over his head, against the soft hair, and against the skin of his back, where the rocks had torn him open. Pain couldn’t harm him unless he let it; pain he could put aside. He knew it well enough, what it was to hurt; this was not so bad, compared to some.
He was tired; he was terribly tired. He didn’t – couldn’t – sleep, sitting upright like this with Aurelie beside him, cleaning the sand from his head and back with a damp cloth. The pain helped, in that way; it pricked him away, like biting the inside of one’s cheek or pinching one’s forearm, sent a shock through him that kept him going.
“Yes,” Aremu rasped, when Aurelie said he should take a bath. He let go of his pants, slowly, his hand damp; he rubbed the back of his wrist against his face, aching with tiredness. A bath, Aremu thought, and then – he’d get upstairs, one way or another. He’d crawl; he wondered if Aurelie would watch, hovering over him, and the rush of shame he felt choked in his throat, and burned in his chest.
It’s not, he wanted to say, how I thought you’d see me – he hadn’t had the presence of mind to put his right wrist away. He knew he was scarred; he knew, too, that there were plenty who found him attractive, without a shirt, the lean muscle of his stomach and arms not, he thought, unpleasant to look at. He felt an odd sort of longing that Aurelie should – but she had been nothing but competent, and he was grateful for that and yet at the same time sorry, too. It’s not how I wanted –
Aremu wondered, dizzily, as Aurelie left him with water pouring into the tub, if he should have insisted on doing it himself. She had been so sure, and he was tired; he was so tired. I didn’t want you to see my like this, he’d wanted to say again, watching her go.
“Fuck,” Aremu sighed, half under his breath. He was tired and aching, all over; he undid his pants, peeling the damp fabric from his skin, and climbed into the hot bath. He brought his knees up, and pressed his face to them, shaking, both arms wrapped around his legs. It wasn’t quite crying, but he didn’t think it was far from it other, an odd mix of guilt, shame, and helplessness nearly more than he could bear.
The water, Aremu realized, was not helping; he felt dizzy and light-headed, and he didn’t much trust himself to stay upright. What a fucking joke, he thought, to have made it into the cave in the storm and swum back, and then drown in the bath. He was rougher with himself than Aurelie had been, scrubbing the sand from his skin, from his arms and legs, until everything ached and the last of the sand was gone from between his toes.
The room spun when he rose, and he was quietly sick again, gasping, losing whatever he’d drank of the water Aurelie had brought up. He clutched the bowl of the toilet with his hand, tears stinging at his eye, his throat rubbed raw, and then flushed the last of it away, grateful for the noise of the bath draining behind him. He rinsed his mouth out, several times, spitting the taste of it into the sink.
Aremu wrapped a towel around his waist, and began to run a bath for Aurelie. He rubbed his face with his hand, and ran his fingers gingerly through his hair.
When he came outside, towel-clad, only wobbling a little, she was waiting with clothing in the hallway. Aremu looked at her, half-trying to smile; he failed, glancing away. “Thanks,” he said, quietly. “I thought you might – um, like a bath as well. I – I think I can manage the bandaging, I don’t…” he breathed in, slowly, and out again, glancing back down the hallway at the stairs.
“I’m sorry for this,” Aremu said, finally. He rubbed his face with his hand, swaying a little on his feet, frowning down at her once more. He felt himself again, and there seemed to be no hiding from the shame of it.
