Early Evening, Hamis 32, 2720
The Ibutatu House, Isla Dzum
The Ibutatu House, Isla Dzum
No, Aurelie had said, somewhat quietly.
It’s too much, Aremu had wanted to say, then; I’m – too much. Not enough, he supposed, was the correct way to think about it, though there seemed something strange in saying it aloud. I’m not enough, he might have said, to make up for what I lack; perhaps I never was, but certainly not – now.
Somewhere inside he knew it for an old fear, an old ache, because if Aurelie had ever thought that – for even a fraction of a second – she had never let anything of it show. Besides, Aremu thought, it wasn’t as if – well. He was capable, at least, and she seemed to like being with him – not just in the bedroom, either – and he didn’t think, really, he could ask for more, however he felt.
She was quiet, holding the distance between them.
Aremu kept at the mechanical work of it, undoing the straps down his arm; he held it up, a bit, when he went for the one on the wrist. It was the tightest of them, so that the pressure of the rest weren’t the only things responsible for keeping the hand in place; it was tight enough, when he pulled it closed, that he could wear only it.
Aurelie closed the distance before he’d quite finished; Aremu glanced up at her, his hand tugging the prosthetic the last little bit off. His arm throbbed beneath it, his wrist particularly, and the lines were deepest there.
Aurelie’s hand settled onto his chest; it went up, slowly, over a little cluster of scars – burn scars, he thought, more faded than they used to be; in time, he supposed, some of them would fade, though there would always be something of the Eqe Aqawe with him, now – and up, over his shoulder and onto his cheek. He wasn’t sure he quite smiled, down at her.
There was a quiet clunk in the space there as Aremu set the prosthetic aside.
His hand came back; it curled over Aurelie’s own, holding it to him for a moment, then letting go. He did smile, when she spoke, looking down at her. “What’s left of me,” Aremu said, quietly. He hadn’t meant to say it; he shouldn’t, he thought, have said it. I’m fond of you too – I care about you, Aurelie, very much, I – His left hand traced a few strands of her mussed hair off her cheek; his right arm shifted, and he tucked his wrist into his pocket, out of sight. But for the flatness of the fabric, Aremu thought, he might’ve been able to pass for whole.
He leaned forward, anyway, and kissed her forehead, just high enough that her hair tickled his upper lip. The whooshing of the tub ran steadily beneath their words; steam was filling the air, clouding the mirrors behind them, warm and pleasant. Some part of him hoped the sound of it had been loud enough to drown out his words, though he didn’t really think so, not with how close she stood.
It’s too much, Aremu had wanted to say, then; I’m – too much. Not enough, he supposed, was the correct way to think about it, though there seemed something strange in saying it aloud. I’m not enough, he might have said, to make up for what I lack; perhaps I never was, but certainly not – now.
Somewhere inside he knew it for an old fear, an old ache, because if Aurelie had ever thought that – for even a fraction of a second – she had never let anything of it show. Besides, Aremu thought, it wasn’t as if – well. He was capable, at least, and she seemed to like being with him – not just in the bedroom, either – and he didn’t think, really, he could ask for more, however he felt.
She was quiet, holding the distance between them.
Aremu kept at the mechanical work of it, undoing the straps down his arm; he held it up, a bit, when he went for the one on the wrist. It was the tightest of them, so that the pressure of the rest weren’t the only things responsible for keeping the hand in place; it was tight enough, when he pulled it closed, that he could wear only it.
Aurelie closed the distance before he’d quite finished; Aremu glanced up at her, his hand tugging the prosthetic the last little bit off. His arm throbbed beneath it, his wrist particularly, and the lines were deepest there.
Aurelie’s hand settled onto his chest; it went up, slowly, over a little cluster of scars – burn scars, he thought, more faded than they used to be; in time, he supposed, some of them would fade, though there would always be something of the Eqe Aqawe with him, now – and up, over his shoulder and onto his cheek. He wasn’t sure he quite smiled, down at her.
There was a quiet clunk in the space there as Aremu set the prosthetic aside.
His hand came back; it curled over Aurelie’s own, holding it to him for a moment, then letting go. He did smile, when she spoke, looking down at her. “What’s left of me,” Aremu said, quietly. He hadn’t meant to say it; he shouldn’t, he thought, have said it. I’m fond of you too – I care about you, Aurelie, very much, I – His left hand traced a few strands of her mussed hair off her cheek; his right arm shifted, and he tucked his wrist into his pocket, out of sight. But for the flatness of the fabric, Aremu thought, he might’ve been able to pass for whole.
He leaned forward, anyway, and kissed her forehead, just high enough that her hair tickled his upper lip. The whooshing of the tub ran steadily beneath their words; steam was filling the air, clouding the mirrors behind them, warm and pleasant. Some part of him hoped the sound of it had been loud enough to drown out his words, though he didn’t really think so, not with how close she stood.
