[Closed, Mature] The Sun Waits to Eclipse

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
Dzoto’otú, Nutmeg Hill

With his gaze on Tom’s delicate sharp-featured face and his fingers tangled in the other man’s, with all the focus which was not on his own searching for words firmly on the other man, Aremu could still not be entirely sure what it was he saw.

He thought he knew; he thought he knew the sort of painful longing in the set of thin soft lips, and the wistful aching lines at the edges of his eyes. He went on anyway, because he didn’t know that this was the sort of hurt made better by not knowing. If it was, it was anyway already too late for total ignorance. That was what Tom had had, Aremu realized somewhere along the way, and if he had learned anything from loving the other man it was that that hadn’t been enough for him.

School houses, Tom had repeated, a little crooked tilt to his lips.

The bell rang again; they eased apart. Aremu made to raise. Let me, hey? Tom said, echoes of the Rose in his soft clipped speech. Aremu smiled, and nodded. He ate the last of his pastry, breathing in deep the scent of the meat and flat bread as Tom brought the silver platter to the table.

It smelled good, Aremu thought, very good. Eyo’xaw i’xupo, Tom said, very soft and even, lilting carefully through the vowels and softening the consonants. Aremu looked up at him, wide-eyed, remembering S-sana’hulali husked against his lips a lifetime ago.

Aremu hadn’t had any of his wine, not yet; Tom brushed behind him; and he looked up at the other man, smiling, the words slowly seeping warm into him. “Eyo’ziq i’xupo,” Aremu answered back, smiling. The wind is warm in mine. He didn’t translate it to start, but he would, if Tom asked him to; he would, and gladly.

Aremu reached for the platter; he put some of the meat on Tom’s plate, and only then his own, and slid the warm, spongy bread to the other man. He was back in his seat by the time Tom spoke; his eyebrows lifted, and he frowned, looking down at the steaming spiced food his plate for a moment.

“I had tutors,” Aremu said after a moment. He looked back at Tom, a crooked little smile on his face. “I grew up on Cinnamon Hill,” he wondered if Tom had learned to hear it in him, by now; he knew it was there, still, after so many years.

I didn’t know, he had told Tom, once, years ago, sitting on the edge of the Mahogany and waiting for lightning to strike. He said it differently, now, and evenly, pushing through it. He didn’t know why; he didn’t know why.

“Once they knew what I was,” Aremu said, evenly, “I was sent to the Turtle; I went to a day school there for some months.” His hand was in his lap, now; his fingers pleated at his pants, scrunching in the fabric and letting go.

You don’t have to say it, he wanted to tell himself. You don’t have to say it. The words came out - not spilling out hot and fast, but slow and steady, even, with nothing of the hurt he should not have felt on his face.

“Afterwards I went to one of the preparatory schools in Dejai,” Aremu went on, his face even. “Uzoji convinced his family to support me. At sixteen - Dzit’ereq.” His gaze searched Tom’s face. He went on; he thought maybe he wanted the other man to know, as if his knowing could lighten the burden of it, though he knew well it could not.

“There were two other imbali who started in my year,” Aremu said, quietly. “I was the only one to graduate. Ediwo,” he said, with a funny little ache that could not quite pass for a smile.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

T
he wind is warm in mine. It took all he had in him, that his smile didn’t crumble at the edges; he inclined his head and repeated it carefully, “Eyo’ziq i’xupo,” and he found the shape of the consonants in Aremu’s accent, the shorter vowels, the soft – but purposeful – consonants.

He watched, though not too close, when Aremu put some of the grilled meat on his plate. He was used to it by now, he thought – strange, to be used to it – he remembered, crisp-clear and hungover-sharp, the rich smell of Hessean food, and Aremu Ediwo going at his rice and lamb with both long-fingered hands. There was an uneven set to Aremu’s shoulders now, when he did things like this, for all it was graceful with practice; his right arm always stayed by his side. His left hand moved deft and – he thought – deceptively easy.

He wondered sometimes, times like this, about all that time he’d missed. How long it took a man to adjust.

The thought went out of his head when Aremu settled back down. You don’t have to – He almost said it; he almost opened his mouth, watching Aremu frown down at his plate. He might’ve reached for Aremu’s hand, but it was above the tablecloth, and it seemed wrong to lay a hand on his knee or his thigh, just now. He wasn’t sorry for asking, and he thought it would’ve been damned patronizing to say so, but he wondered if he should’ve, all the same.

And – all the same – he listened when Aremu spoke, and met that strange, slanted smile on his lips, and the look in his eyes that seemed hard and soft at once.

I know, he thought to say. The first time I set foot in Cinnamon Hill, the first time I heard an arata here talk, I thought of you – I knew. There’d been something bitter about it, then. To think it’d been a Cinnamon Hill man he’d known once, long ago, when he’d still been – him. He’d known, back then; but he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known what it’d meant.

What I was, Aremu said, and that thought was swept away too. Aremu’s face was smooth and even, in spite of it. To the Turtle, he said. You spent time in the Turtle? he wanted to ask, and he felt like a mung. For a few months, Aremu said, before that pause. He didn’t know what he wanted to ask, only there were a few lines drawn on the map now, and that made it almost harder to place the landmarks; it showed him how little he knew.

He wondered for a moment if Aremu’d ever felt that way about him. It was a new thought, and he wasn’t sure where to place it.

Uzoji. His brows drew together. Aremu was watching him closely; he wasn’t sure what the other man was looking for in his face, but he’d the sense of him being on the tip of something.

He blinked; he couldn’t help the slight widening of his eyes. That must’ve been only – seven, eight years ago. He thought of Tsadi pezre Awameh, who’d graduated – Tsu’un, he thought.

Dzit’ereq, Aremu pronounced, careful and precise in his Cinnamon Hill accent. He wasn’t smiling, but the brittle, bittersweet set of his lips gave the word a cast.

The name you chose, he thought. “Ediwo,” Tom repeated after him, holding his gaze for a very long moment.

He reached for his hand under the table. If Aremu let him, he’d settle it on top; he’d press it warmly.

A few things slid into place. He thought there was pride there; he thought there were other things, too. A demonstration, he remembered Aremu saying earlier, amid all the engine talk. His thumb stroked over Aremu’s hand.

“I, uh – in Anaxas –” He paused, looking down at the plates, trying to figure a way to say it. “There are schools,” he said, “for humans. It’s not legal, but they run them. I had a different kind of, uh, education, but I knew of one; in the Rose, he likes to make sure they’re well-kept. I was taught my letters, at least, by a woman named Deirdre, and though I was never much good at them, I had them.”

He eased back, then unrolled a little of the flatbread, smiling over at Aremu. “Do you –” He paused; he didn’t tear off any, yet. “Do you want me to come to the demonstration?” he asked carefully. He looked back up at Aremu, his brow furrowing. I want to see you there, he wanted to say, but I don’t know how much it will hurt.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
Dzoto’otú, Nutmeg Hill

Aremu didn’t expect much of Tom, when he spoke. He couldn’t; he couldn’t find it in himself to think of anything beyond the next word, and the one after that. He knew the route; he knew the handholds. He emptied himself of any thoughts of what lay at the top, and simply climbed, hand and elbows and knees and toes all gripping at the wall.

Ediwo, Tom repeated. His hand came beneath the table; Aremu nodded, and it settled down slowly on to his. His head felt oddly fuzzy, almost aching; he blinked, and some of the strangeness cleared.

Aremu hadn’t asked; he didn’t know why he hadn’t. He’d told Tom of his ignorance, but he hadn’t asked. He’d thought - they were in Thul Ka, this time. He had never asked in the Rose either; he couldn’t quite think why now. He hadn’t thought to, Aremu knew, slowly, and the guilt squirmed aching in his stomach.

Tom offered it to him anyway, and it was a better gift than he could have hoped. Deirdre, Tom said, and his voice softened on the name. Aremu nodded his understanding, and he didn’t quite know what to say, no more than he had known how he wanted Tom to listen. He did listen, though, and intently; he marked every careful, deliberate word.

Aremu knew something of how Tom had grown in the Rose; he had known since Yaris, when they had discussed what it was for a man to know honor, and what it was for him to be empty. Sitting in the middle of his soft clairvoyant field now, Aremu found it hard to remember the strangeness of it then. A reminder, he remembered Tom calling it. And now? He wondered. What are you reminded of now?

Aremu didn’t think he had asked aloud, but he felt almost as if he had. His eyebrows went up when Tom asked; his mouth opened, and then closed again.

“Yes,” Aremu said, softly. “I’d very glad to have you there.” He hadn’t asked, Aremu thought, uneasily. He hadn’t thought Tom would want to come, or if he had, he had thought that Tom would be busy. Maybe it was just that he hadn’t thought at all.

“It’s on the sixth,” Aremu added. “A morning demonstration, at Dzit’ereq itself, I think.” He shifted, and he looked at Tom. “If you want to see more of campus,” Aremu said, and he didn’t think he sounded hurt; he didn’t want to sound hurt, “I could show you ahead of time.”

Aremu shifted; he breathed in and out again. He went on. The pendulum is nearby, he might have said. I could show you the patterns it traces in the sand, the marks of Vita’s turning. I could show you all of it. “It’s not far from the observatory,” Aremu said.

He couldn’t look down at his food just then; he hadn’t taken a flatbread yet, and the meat which still smelled good, at least, he could not contemplate further. He had found it hard to ask Tom to come back to his room, even having planned for it. He hadn’t planned for this, not quite. He had meant it; he had meant his offer to show Tom Thul’Amat. But it was true too that it seemed unbearably optimistic that they should be able to; it was true too that it frightened him.

It was true too, and worst of all, that he wanted it, even more than he was afraid. However strange it was for them in public - however painful the slow walk from the hotel - however the crisp white ached - he wanted it more than all of that.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

T
And he wouldn’t call Aremu a liar in this, either, though he couldn’t’ve been sure. He looked across at the other man, at the faint surprised lift of both brows, and he wondered at the way his mouth had opened and shut, almost as if to say, No, almost as if to say, Please don’t.

I do believe, he wanted to say, that’s the truth of your heart. Maybe that was enough, he thought. He wondered if he shouldn’t’ve asked. It’d seemed so easy to ask here, in the soft lamp lit quiet, where he could’ve reached out and touched Aremu’s hand, even if it was only underneath the table. He almost regretted asking, with what he thought of now, that long strange walk from the hotel.

He couldn’t’ve been on Thul’amat’s campus once, not even Dzit’ereq. With a gnawing unease, he found himself wondering if that was why Aremu hadn’t offered. It’d been before, when Aremu’d offered; it’d been just before the line had been drawn in his study, and he’d told him exactly how he felt about –

No, he thought, looking down at his plate. No, that hadn’t been what he’d meant. He remembered Aremu curled against him in the spell circle, following the rhythm of his breathing, through a haze. The study in Vienda seemed a mant manna more crisp just then, the sharp tang of sick in the air, the other man shaking.

Aremu spoke, and he blinked. He hadn’t realized his fingers had been curling against the tablecloth; they uncurled.

More of campus, he said, and there was something he couldn’t quite read in the expression on his face. There was a pause that seemed to him fair long, and Aremu’s chest swelled with a deep breath. He hadn’t yet taken any of his flatbread; the meat and vegetables still steamed on both of their plates.

You still don’t want me there, do you, Aremu? He looked back up and met the other man’s eyes. A thing like me, walking around Thul’amat in an Anaxi galdor’s skin? It still disgusts you, doesn’t it?

The observatory, Aremu said, and he smiled; mung that he was, he couldn’t seem to help it. “I…” I saw a flier the other day, he thought to say, and I thought of you; I hoped. It washed through him like a tide, and he found himself sitting up straighter. “Would you show me?”

He glanced down at Aremu’s hand on the table. His own twitched by the napkin, and he smoothed out a wrinkle in the linen. He tried to push down everything he felt, all the eagerness and strangeness – the shame, coating everything like a glaze – but he thought it spilled out of him anyway. It wasn’t this kind of wanting Aremu wanted from him; he knew better than to lay it at his feet.

“The pendulum,” he said, and he hated all the warmth that washed out into his voice – that shivered curls of gold into his field, as hard as he tried to keep it indectal. “That was in Dzit’ereq, wasn’t it?” He thought he could smell oranges, bright and fresh, and bedsheets, and a wonder that almost could’ve drowned the shame.

You can say no, he wanted to say. It doesn’t make you a liar, dove, if you’d rather not now; I won’t hold you to that promise. I might as well be a different man every two of the week, and I don’t know to whom you made that promise, and I don’t know who I am now.

Eyo’ziq i’xupo, he’d promised.

“I’ve not been around much on campus,” he admitted instead. “I’d hoped – we’d both be in Thul Ka with time enough to go together. I’d hoped you might show me some of the places you liked to spend time, back then. I’ve – wondered.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
Dzoto’otú, Nutmeg Hill

Would you show me? Tom asked. There was a little frown in Aremu’s forehead as he tried to make sense of it. I offered, he wanted to say, before and again now; what more do you want from me?

The pendulum, Tom added, and it washed through Aremu like the taste of orange on his lips, like the brush of soft sheets and the aching rasp of panting breath, his own mirrored in another throat. He smiled; he couldn’t not smile, with all the strangeness that he felt, however uneasy he didn’t want to be.

“Yes,” Aremu said, softly, instead of all the rest. He didn’t know what he was answering, just then: yes, I’ll show you, and yes, it is. They were both true; wasn’t that enough?

I can’t show you the observatory, he wanted to say; I’ve never been. It seemed petulant and childish to put such a thing at the hems of Tom’s white pants. It wasn’t Tom’s fault; it was, none of it, Tom’s fault, whatever Aremu had felt seeing him like this in Cinnamon Hill, whatever he had felt on the long walk here. He didn’t feel it now; he didn’t. He wondered whether if he told himself such things with enough strength it could make them true. He didn’t think of saying it aloud.

Wondered?

Aremu looked up at Tom; something unbent a little inside him, though he couldn’t manage to think just now what it was. “I’d like to go together,” he said, quietly; he thought he’d said it already, but he didn’t know what to do other than keep saying it. Aremu looked down at his plate once more; he shifted, slightly, on the seat, breathing deeply in and exhaling it out, slowly.

“I’m very grateful,” Aremu said, frowning, “for all I have from Thul’Amat,” he looked at Tom once more, not sure what was on his face; he felt the ache of a frown in his forehead, and a pinching around his eyes. He couldn’t find the liar’s smile, just now; it wasn’t a lie, anyway. He was grateful.

It wasn’t easy, Aremu wanted to say; I didn’t fit. I never have, except maybe on the Eqe Aqawe; with all those few years cost, I think they were worth it. I think that brief taste of belonging – of being free – was worth it. The place where his prosthetic sat ached, and he shifted, adjusting it against the table.

“I don’t know what there is to see,” Aremu said, after a hesitant moment. He looked back up at Tom; he tried a slow, curling sort of smile. “I went to class, I studied, I worked, I slept. I ate,” he tried a little smile, “whatever I could get my hands on, really, I ate. I smoked qinnab, but it was… on rooftops and in strange places, and in a – um. A friend’s room.” The tiniest flicker down of his eyes, as remembered pleasure mingled with something like shame.

“I ran, sometimes,” Aremu said, “or at least I think you’d call it running, with a group of other imbali. We… explored the city by night, mostly, looking for pathways across the rooftops and through old abandoned pipeworks and factories.”

“I had lovers,” Aremu went on; he didn’t know why, now. He didn’t know what was on Tom’s face as he listened; he didn’t want to close his eyes, either, for all that he couldn’t bear to see. “I learned what it was to be hurt, in that way, and was it was to hurt, too.” His lips twitched. “It was only a place. I was – I am - very grateful for it, and I was glad to be done with it.”

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

Y
es, Aremu said. To all of it, he thought. Maybe it put to rest some of the unease; maybe it didn’t. When he said, I’d like to go together, he wondered for a moment if he was trying to convince himself. But it was enough, whatever ached through Aremu’s quiet voice, and he nodded, soft and firm. His hand twitched again on the tablecloth, restless, but the fingers curled, and he was smiling at the other man.

When he went on, he wasn’t sure what to make of it, at first.

Grateful, Aremu said. His brow knit slightly; he studied the set of the other man’s lips, his brow, the firm, meaningful look in his eyes.

Aremu went on, and he found himself matching the smile on his face, if only just; he was still searching the other man’s dark eyes. He wasn’t – wasn’t in the least, this time – sorry he’d asked, and he held onto each word, each hazy, half-glimpsed picture, like a treasure. He remembered what ada’xa Yesufu had said of Aremu’s studiousness. Qinnab on rooftops, Aremu said, and he couldn’t help his own smile creeping a little wider; he eased back from the table, running a hand along his jaw, watching Aremu and listening.

It sparked through him, the thought of the imbala tangling across the rooftops in the light of the stars and phosphor streetlamps – a handful of lean shadows, quick in the dark. Abandoned pipe works and factories.

D’you remember, Tom almost wanted to say – he lost track of himself – d’you remember what I showed you in the Cat’s Paw, all those years ago? I’d’ve thought you that sort of kov even then; I saw the way you looked down at all the walkways, up at all the busted-up windows and fire escapes, even then. Even when I couldn’t bear to look down myself. I always wondered the places you knew in Thul Ka; I always wondered what it’d be like, to see you…

They never, he realized, much talked about those days.

He wanted to ask more; he wanted to ask where they’d gone, and what it’d been like. Those parts of Thul Ka, out of gold-wreathed flooding Cinnamon Hill, places he’d glimpsed only briefly, descending from the aeroship mooring tower. Something in him ached. Aremu’s eyes were on him, and he felt pricklingly conscious of himself. He shifted; his hip ached.

Lovers, Aremu said, and he thought he understood a little more. He nodded slowly as Aremu finished, turning it over in his mind; he frowned down at his plate, sucking at a tooth. Glad to be done with it, he’d said.

“I know it’s…” He paused, thinking again. Grateful, Aremu’d said, twice now. “It fits differently,” he repeated, watching Aremu’s face.

He wondered if Aremu would’ve wanted him to take his hand, just then. He couldn’t know, and he wasn’t sure, either, what he ought to say. It’s a part of you didn’t seem right, not even followed by, and it’s you I love; it’s only a part of you didn’t seem right, either. What right had he to say any of that?

He smoothed the tablecloth again, then looked up, studying him. “I’m grateful you’re sharing it with me, all the same.” He offered him a small smile; he didn’t try to keep the sadness out of it, or the curiosity out of his eyes. “I know a little of – things fitting differently,” he added. “And if you ever need anything of me – to be there, or to not be there – if there are things you can’t share – I know a little of that, too.

“We can take it as it comes,” he offered, inclining his head, almost a question. “But I’m fair happy to be here with you, wherever it takes us.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
Dzoto’otú, Nutmeg Hill

There was no veneer of explaining Mugroba or Thul Ka, not this time. There was no Ever in which Aremu thought himself telling Tom of anything but himself, his life; there was no Cinnamon Hill galdori have tutors, in this, and no imbali day schools in the Turtle, no explanation of the role of preparatory schools or the structure of entrance exams for Thul’Amat. I, Aremu had said, and I again, and some more I, still, and he’d said it all because he did want Tom to know, in the end, even if he didn’t have the least idea what the other man might make of it.

It fits differently, Tom said, and Aremu nodded, silently, looking down at his plate for a moment, and then back at the other man, his brow furrowed, trying to see through it all himself. All these parts of me, he wanted to say; I don’t fit, Tom. I never have.

Aremu’s breath shuddered out, when Tom gave his answer. He shifted; he glanced around, for all the contours of the room hadn’t changed. He couldn’t have asked for those words; he wouldn’t have dared. He couldn’t say, either, how much they meant to him, just then. He knew better – he knew better, and yet he’d done it all the same. He did it, still, on the same.

The dish had come, Aremu thought; the odds of anyone passing by – seeing into the edges of the room – he wanted more than anything to kiss Tom, just then, to kiss him properly. He smiled, instead, and added it to the stock of all the kisses he owed the other man. He knew better than to think there was no space in these walls for someone to peer through; he knew better than to think there were no loopholes in the truth of Dzoto’otú’s promise.

“Thank you,” Aremu said, aloud, instead.“I’d like to take it as it comes. I hope I can do the same for you.” He smiled at Tom, and if it was a little strained, he thought it softened, as he held it, as if the muscles of his face remembered how to relax into it, after all.

Aremu swallowed, finding the smile had faded a little, though not entirely. There have been a lot of lovers, he wanted to say, but few of them have been like you. He looked at Tom; he knew he was frowning again, but he took his time, and he thought it over. “I feel transparent before you,” Aremu said, softly. “I always have, even when we were both drowning in ignorance. Even if perhaps we still are, sometimes.” He took a deep breath, slow and even.

“I’m very glad to share Thul Ka with you,” Aremu said, finally, in the end. With however difficult it was, with the strangeness of the man sitting before him with his thin hands and soft red, with all the rest of it, it was still true.

Aremu cleared his throat, and smiled a crooked smile at Tom. He pulled the spongy bread over to himself, and unwrapped a piece. He scooped up the tangy, spicy beef, along with the vegetables, still steaming-warm.

They ate for a little while, not quite in silence but in a gentler sort of talking. The bell rang again, in time, and Aremu brought two small silver bowls of water with lemon; it rang one last time, and Aremu came again, setting down a platter with two small cups of steaming kofi, and delicate squares of rosewater rich sugar úrok, seeded through with pistachios.

The night air was warm, still, as they made their way back out of Dzoto’otú. “It’s not far,” Aremu said, his face easy, and a warm smile lingering in his eyes. They walked the rest of the way together, and if Aremu still could not reach to touch him, and still did not know what to say, when they were together in this way, at least he could look ahead to the moment to come.

“Dziqi’dzo is a bar, just next door to the hotel,” Aremu said, quietly. “I thought you might enjoy it, sir,” the sir was easier, this time; it grinned over his tongue, the littlest flash of it in his eyes. “There’s a door to the alleyway on the left side,” Aremu added, almost idly, looking as if politely at the other man.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Nighttime on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

T
here was no asking what a man meant, when he said a thing like that.

He had smiled a funny, crooked sort of smile, blinking down at his plate; he couldn’t remember now what he’d said, only that he’d had to shut his eyes, so hot was the burning behind them. He’d reached under the table and held Aremu’s knee with his hand for a moment, and he’d nodded when he’d come away.

The heaviness of the moment hadn’t swirled away, not exactly. It’d lain there still, somewhere in the patterns of light and dark. But whatever spell had been cast, it’d curled; they set about their grilled beef and vegetables and flatbread with a renewed hunger, and there’d been laughter, and he’d ached with gratefulness to see the familiar smiles and frowns and rare grins on Aremu’s face. His field was a little gold in the air, and it seemed to him the lights were tinged gold, and the highlights of Aremu’s skin were edged with it, and the rings of green pepper and the spicy hot glaze on the meat.

He’d asked – less sheepish, in the end – what to call all the food, the tsequt (of which he’d eaten the last, against his better judgment), the ea’pesawowa, and at last the úrok.

The sweetness of it was still lingering on his tongue when they stepped back out into the night. All the lights seemed a little softer, but he’d only had the one glass of wine. The nights were warmer than in Bethas, and the dewy stickiness of the air was pleasant. Aremu was warm at his shoulder, and that was pleasant, too, prickling along his skin; his sleeve never quite brushed the other man’s, but it could’ve, and he found he could bear that gladly.

It’s not far, Aremu said, and held the sir until he spoke again; he was glad of it at first, for all he’d been ready. A bar, Aremu said, and he didn’t glance over, for the sharp downward tug in his gut – maybe he’d misjudged – the alleyway, Aremu said.

He met Aremu’s glance. He didn’t let a whit of his anticipation or his curiosity touch his face, for all he was brimming with it. He smiled thinly and caprised politely round a few laughing arati outside Dzoto’otú, and they set off down the tree-lined way, dappled by lamplight and laughter and passed now and then by coaches.

Transparent, he found himself thinking. He’d never thought he’d seen the other man so well; he’d always thought he was just off the mark, that a man like him could never understand what was inside a man’s heart, for all he couldn’t’ve helped tugging at the edges and scratching to be let in.

I felt opaque in front of you, once. It was safe; the pain was easy to hide. And then you saw me, and I was so afraid. Eyo’xaw i’xupo, I am still so afraid.

If you’re empty, he had wanted to say, then what am I seeing? And he’d wanted to kiss him instead, and he’d said – done – none of those things, in the end.

Light and laughter spilled out from both sides of the street.

He was between Aremu and the shopfronts, on the imbala’s left side. He’d never been here before – didn’t know any of these streets, for all he’d whizzed past them on the cable-cars he could just faintly hear a few streets over – and slowly, he found himself unwinding. He looked from window to window, sign to sign, following the lines of Estuan and the curls of Mugrobi; he breathed in the smell of kofi, glimpsed calypt tables clustered with bright-faced women, trays with what was left of pastries and yoghurt.

He prickled with it; all of it went through him like electricity, like a static spell. Maybe it was the kofi they’d just had; maybe it was the man at his side. He’d let a smile twitch at his lips at the sight of a bookseller, and he’d paused – almost stopped – to look at the rows of discounted, coverless old things on the rack outside, underneath the awning.

He’d looked over at Aremu only once, and it had been a thin, pleasant sort of smile, and he’d known better than to wish he could do more.

Dziqi’dzo was loud, this time of night; he knew it by the sign, and by the way Aremu stopped beside him.

He glanced past once, only once; he couldn’t afford to do more. In the tall, curved blue phosphor streetlamps, he could see the first few floors of what must’ve been the hotel, well-kept stucco and rows of identical windows, some lit and a small handful with balconies. It disappeared up into darkness, a black shape against the cloudy night sky.

He turned away as if he’d found it mildly interesting and then discarded it. He smiled at Aremu. “Thank you, ada’xa,” he said, bowing again. “I was very grateful for your welcome.”

He breathed in deep, turned, and went into Dziqi’dzo.

The smell of it, polished wood and liquor, ached. He wove casually past a few women with bright headwraps and perceptive fields, caprising them politely.

He’d gone through the motions, by the time he found the small dark side exit, whisky and bitters and a chat with the barkeep, a young dura with a heavy accent, he thought, somewhere out of Thul Ka. He’d tipped well, gone off to nurse his drink, and then slipped out into the cool close dark of the alleyway.

The street was a sliver of light; he was well-hid by the shadows. Every bit of him prickled with it, now. There was something like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach, breathing in the night air. He looked around now at the shadows, shivering underneath his amel’iwe. He still tasted kofi and honey; he wondered if the night air here reminded him of the night air off the Mahogany.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
The Koketa's Hive, Nutmeg Hill

Aremu had bowed back on the sidewalk, low and even, and smiled. “Thank you, sir,” he said, rising, his hands coming together behind his back. “Just so am I grateful to have been able to welcome you.”

He turned, then, and went into the hotel, not watching any longer once Tom had turned away, the blue phosphor gleaming in the pale red of his hair and catching on all the gleaming white of his clothing. He strained, all the same, to hear the door easing shut behind the other man.

Aremu did not rush, for all he wanted to; he wanted to sprint through the hallway and up the narrow stairs, eager and almost fumbling with anticipation. For all he knew there was no point – for all he knew Tom had to protect himself, and to play his part well – still he didn’t want the other man to wait a second more than he had to.

Aremu went up the stairs slowly and evenly all the same; in his room, he opened the window into the narrow alley which ran between the Koketa’s Hive and Dziqi’dzo next door, breathing in the scent of the warm, dry night and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. The narrow staircase which ran along the edge of the building passed close enough to touch – close enough that he knew he could have swung himself over the balcony and leapt the distance. He secured the ladder inside the room, against the bed, and then he did, the rope ladder in hand, landing lightly on the thin metal of the stairway.

He held there, grateful that the ladder was out of the light; he lit a cigarette, although he couldn’t quite seem to bring himself to smoke it, and he leaned against the staircase and let curls of smoke drift into the air of the alleyway, the end growing cherry red and the air smelling faintly like stale tobacco. As badly as he had wanted to take off the prosthetic and the straps which held it in place, he did not; he could wait, Aremu told himself, just a little longer.

A door opened below; the faintest glimpse of light gleamed off a head of pale red hair, streaked with gray and, now, with white.

Aremu glanced around, up and down the alleyway. There was no one; he could scarcely believe it. “Up here,” he called down. His voice was soft, but it was loud enough; Tom’s face turned below, and his chin tilted up, and Aremu could see the faint suggestion of light gleaming in his gray eyes.

Tom came up the narrow metal staircase, and Aremu came down, slowly, careful not to shake the thin frame. Halfway up they met, and Aremu tugged him into the shadow where the building hid them both, and kissed him, finally, properly, the cigarette long since dropped over the edge of the railing. He kissed him, his hand on the other man’s side, and kissed him again, and then took his hand and led him the rest of the way up the spiral staircase, even though he knew Tom didn't need to be shown.

He held the ladder secure while Tom climbed, slowly, the short distance into the room; he followed up those last few feet behind the other man, and brought the ladder up behind them. The room was comfortable, if not elaborate; there was a comfortable, clean bed, sheets crisp, Aremu’s trunk next to a wardrobe, and a low table against the far wall, with a small burner, a battered kettle, two equally battered tin cups, and a small tin.

Aremu closed the window behind himself. He smiled at Tom from the edge of the room, his lips still tingling with the immediacy of the kiss he had wanted all evening. He came closer; he drew them together, unhesitatingly, and offered Tom everything he had kept hidden all this while, all his enthusiasm and his gratitude mingled with slow, lingering need.

[Tom Cooke]

Climbing into the Koketa’s Nest

Nighttime on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

H
e held onto the railing and leaned into it. For a few moments, it wiped every thought out of his head – of the rattling step underfoot, of the swath of empty space underneath that, of the faint light and noise that drifted in from the street at the end of the alleyway. He let Aremu kiss him, tender but hard, and he kissed the other man back. He tasted the ash and kofi on his breath.

It was even harder to break away this time, hard enough to be godsdamn infuriating. He grinned. Aremu’s touch was like a burn, and there was no balm in the cool night air. He let it burn, this time; he let it keep burning.

The first touch of the rope ladder sent leiraflesh all across his arms. He didn’t look down or to the side when he took hold of it; he took a deep breath and looked up at the window. It was secure, but he felt the sagging of the rung when he slid his foot into it, and how the line went taut when he put all his weight on it. The humid breeze picked up, rippling across his amel’iwe.

When he was nearly to the window, he felt the ladder shift behind him. He didn’t hesitate. His hip ached, but he’d barely noticed it on the way up; he noticed it more now, hauling himself over the window-sill and easing down to the floor.

He stepped into the low lamplight. His eyes caught on the kettle and the tin laid out. Tea, he thought, with what part of him there was that could think. He couldn’t seem to remember Aremu much making tea, when left to himself. He turned when he heard the window slide shut; Aremu was there, his smooth tan clothes full of shadows.

He met Aremu halfway to the window. Aremu’s hand slid into the small of his back, and he grunted with faint surprise as the other man pulled him closer.

He stopped to look at Aremu, his long, angular face warm-lit. He had to tilt his head up to look him in the eye. They were close enough in height you couldn’t tell, most of the time; the awareness prickled through him now, and he smiled. He slid an arm up and over Aremu’s shoulder, and he craned up to kiss him, lingering.

Aremu’s back was against the edge of the low table. Aremu’s hips were pressed against his, so he knew something of what the other man wanted. He was on, himself; he was almost light-headed with it, and he knew Aremu could feel it.

He ran his fingers over Aremu’s short soft hair, and his other hand found the folds of his amel’iwe. It was as soft as it’d looked when he’d seen it for the first time, outside the hotel. He slid his hand under the scarf and laid it on Aremu’s chest, feeling the taut, heaving muscles and the sharp lines of his collarbones. His skin was warm through the thin fabric of his tunic.

The light was still on, he thought absently, his lips wandering down to Aremu’s neck. Leave it on. The thought was like a kick through his head.

His hands moved down – very slowly – to the waist of his trousers; they worked fair slowly there, too, though one of them wandered lower to tease, feather-light. His mouth caught the edge of Aremu’s amel’iwe, soft and cool against his warm skin. He pulled at it gently with his lips, loosening it over Aremu’s shoulders.

It’s me, he said with his hands, with his lips, it’s me, it’s me. Please, it’s me. “Do you want it?” he murmured, sinking lower.

“Please,” he heard Aremu rasp. He felt familiar long fingers winding through his hair. He lingered there, shivering; he felt his pulse rushing in his ears. He kissed Aremu’s collarbone against a soft groan, then set about the qalqa.