The Koketa's Hive, Nutmeg Hill
Aremu held Tom a little closer; he shifted, kissing the other man’s neck, softly. His head had emptied of thoughts, this last little while; he remembered much of what he had said – begged – demanded – pledged in the midst of it, and he could not find a single lie, combing back through it all.
I want you to stay, Aremu wanted to whisper. I want you to sleep here, in my arms; I want to wake up to the morning light holding you. I don’t want to let go. There were no lies there, either; he could have spoken every word, and known them for true. But he knew, as well as Tom did, that there could be no staying. He did not ask; asking felt as if it would wedge between them the knowledge of what must be, to sour all that they did have with that which they couldn’t.
And what they had shared together between them was everything Aremu could have hoped; if it was strange, still, it was familiar, too, and he no longer had to wonder whether he wanted. He no longer had to wonder whether Tom wanted, to balance carefully on the line between fear and desire. Perhaps he would, again; Aremu couldn’t begrudge the other man that, not with his right arm tucked out of the way beneath him, the marks of his prosthetic’s harness still patterning his skin.
Aremu shifted, not away from Tom but against him, with no purpose except the joy of lingering a little longer. “Would you like tea?” Aremu asked, softly, murmuring the words where only Tom could hear them.
He hadn’t thought much of the Koketa’s Hive offering tea in the room; he’d found it odd, in truth, given that this was the heart of Thul Ka. He understood, he thought, the oddness of the compromise; even roasted beans went stale, and roasted ground kofi was something no Mugobi would bring himself to use. Providing a hearth, or even a mortar and pestle, or freshening grounds daily was something beyond the Koketa’s Hive – and yet, for whatever reason, they had wanted to provide the facility for a hot drink. So: tea.
Just now, Aremu could be glad of it, despite the strangeness and half-measures, despite the place outside which he found himself. Tom murmured his assent, sleepy and thick-voiced; Aremu eased himself away from the other man. He draped the coverlet over Tom, smoothing his fingers through the other man’s hair, and pulled on his pants, low-slung on his hips. He took the kettle with him to the tap down the hall; he came back, and set it to boil, measuring spoonfuls of tea leaves into the battered teapot.
Aremu went, then, and sat beside Tom; his fingers stroked through the other man’s hair, slow and gentle. He smiled down at him, and rose only when the water reached a whistling boil to pour it, slowly. Bitter dark bohea steam washed through the room, mingled with the sweeter smells of cinnamon and cardamom, and the spice of ginger, peppercorn and cloves.
Aremu left it to steep; Tom was stirring in the bed, then, and he went back. The tea was nearly ready, and he knew himself a fool, but he climbed beneath the blanket with the other man, and wrapped his arm around him once more, as if he could wind the clock back and give them all the time they could not have.