[Closed, Mature] The Sun Waits to Eclipse

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Tom’s thumb explored the back of his hand, enough to make him shiver. He was tight and tense with the anticipation, and he didn’t know whether - how - this was enough, Aremu told himself, and if he didn’t focus too hard on the words he could nearly let himself believe it. This was better than nothing, he told himself, and that at least he could hold on to.

Tom had laughed, and that laugh had gone straight through him, for all it was deep and low now rather than high and soft. It was what he had wanted, Aremu thought, the husky laugh which was almost a promise.

They eased apart; Tom took his spoon, and Aremu took his too, digging into the tomatoes and onions and flatbread. He ate a spoonful, and then another; he had missed lunch in the rush of the day, and though he had known he was hungry, he hadn’t realized how much so until the first bite of food. It was good, the tomatoes unexpectedly fresh, all of it well spiced.

Aremu smiled, this time, when Tom spoke of the stars. “Like being swaddled in them,” he said, softly, fondly. For a moment something different came to mind, the feeling of their light bearing down on him, shining through him, with nothing in him to push back. If only he had welcomed it - if only he could have -

Those thoughts went with the next spoonful and Aremu did not try to hold there. He was here for a precious few stolen moments with Tom; he did not know how many there would be. I can arrange something, he wanted to offer; I know a few places where I think - I think - no one would ask questions, and so you should not have to lie.

It isn’t just that, Aremu wanted to say, suddenly, absurdly. I want to go and hold you in my arms; yes, I’m a man - yes, I want - but just to sleep with you beside me - he swallowed through that, the word lover washing through him with remembered softness.

“Strange,” Aremu said, slowly. He thought of the thin-faced Anaxi climbing from the carriage; he thought of the cluster of Giorans he had seen earlier, one of whom had bristled and flexed at a human who had dared to walk too close.

“They’ve invited me to help represent Dzit’ereq,” Aremu said, aware of the familiar frown finding its way onto his face once more, “during the exhibition.” He pushed at the food with his spoon and took another bite.

I was the only to graduate, he wanted to say, suddenly, in my head. There were never many; there still aren’t. I’m told there are more, now. They didn’t want me then, and now they want to show me off to the visiting foreigners.

He swallowed the anger with another mouthful of food. He was fortunate to have been allowed to attend at all; they could have kept him out, and Aremu knew it. He glanced at Tom, and he didn’t have any expectation of him understanding.

“It’s still my home,” Aremu said, after a moment, taking a breath. “But I’ve changed, and it fits differently than it used to. Maybe not worse,” he knew he was frowning still, “but differently.”

After a moment Aremu shook his head. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, quietly. He looked at Tom, frowning, something aching. He wanted - it didn’t matter what he wanted. “It makes it seem easier.” Aremu said, quietly, and he didn’t need to say that it made it seem harder, too.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

L
ike being swaddled in them. He was scooping up a spoonful of tomatoes and spongy flatbread, and the familiarity of it rippled through him; he looked down at his bowl with a smile, and he couldn’t bear to look up at Aremu for a moment. It scares the hell out of me, he wanted to say, all that spread above me. It felt less like being swaddled and more like being castaway.

But he’d’ve felt it, if he closed his eyes; he’d’ve seen a scattering of low candles and Aremu curled into his side, telling him about the stars. It was such a –

It was a very Aremu thing to say, he thought, and some of the tension went out of him. So was the soft, fond sort of smile he had when he talked about shit like this; it wasn’t anything like the smile he’d given Fetique at the Crocus. It made him want to reach over and touch his hand again, only he was using it to eat. It made him want to reach over and touch his thigh, only they were both hungry enough for one thing to be too hungry for another.

He smiled instead, a little sad, when Aremu said strange. He put his spoon down, remembering the wine. As he listened, he stood and took the silver decanter in his hands. Hands, he thought, which shook less than the last time Aremu had seen them; it made him feel oddly proud.

He glanced up and caught the frown on Aremu’s face. A few words died almost to his lips. Dzit’ereq, he knew – the college of engineering. He’d even seen it, once or twice; not in Bethas, but since he’d come back. You could see it over the treetops in Ur’dzúxas, sometimes, where it’d been pointed out to him. It was a ways from Ire’dzosat –

The thought of Ire’dzosat set something off-balance in him; he wasn’t sure why. He poured wine carefully into Aremu’s glass. “I heard something about a Dzit’ereq exhibit,” he said quietly as it gurgled out against the glass, “something about the valve timing – on – Bellini-cycle engines; a Dzit’ereq innovation. It, uh –”

The words sounded funny on his tongue, he thought; mung-funny. He wasn’t sure why he’d remembered them. “It made me think of you,” he said, clearing his throat, pouring his own glass.

Still my home, Aremu said, but – he felt a pang as he sat back down, looking over. Aremu’s chest rose and fell in a deep breath.

Fits differently, he thought he knew. But it felt laoso, to say it – I know how you feel – like he knew a whit of how he felt. Aremu was frowning at him, deep enough to make lines around his lips, something heavy in his dark eyes and his brow.

He didn’t think Aremu a liar; nor had he ever, for all his offer in Dentis – to show him the pendulum – had seemed like a distant dream. But his chest tightened, and he thought Aremu must’ve been aching, too. He looked over at the imbala, frowning deeply. He reached out to lay a hand on the other man’s knee under the table.

“I’m glad, too,” he said quietly, squeezing. “Even just knowing you’re here –” He’d stopped eating for a moment; he’d not taken a drink of his wine, not yet. He looked at Aremu intently through the curling light and shadow.

That walk was like a hell, he couldn’t bear to say.

“I hope we can see each other more often,” he said, very quietly. “You and – me.” There’s nothing easy about that, he thought; don’t put this on him, you mung. He thought to stroke Aremu’s knee with his thumb, but he drew his hand back, uncertain.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Aremu nodded when Tom spoke of Dzit’ereq. “Yes, exactly,” he said, shifting; he lowered the spoon to the plate, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand for a moment. “It’s, um, a change in the crankshaft design, actually, making a power stroke longer than a compression stroke, which requires changes in the valves also. It’s much more fuel efficient. I wasn’t really involved in the project, though, but I’ll…”

Funny to think of me explaining it, Aremu wanted to say. Even if I’d come up with something like it, no one should have believed me. I could have talked through it until I run out of breath, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

“There’s a demonstration of relative efficiency,” Aremu said, after a moment. “I’ll be helping with that.” No lying there, Aremu wanted to add; no need for words. They know what I am; even now that they have a use for me, they know.

He remembered – like a lifetime ago – the dinner at Yesufu per Erfun’s house, and the strange pleasure Yesufu had taken in dragging up Aremu’s accomplishments and putting them in Tom’s – the Incumbent’s – face. For all that that day was the barest scraps of memory, he understood most of them better now, in context, and that one as well. Professor Ore’fan was Bull Elephant, after all.

Aremu thought of it, and he didn’t take the glass of wine Tom had set before him, not yet. He picked up his spoon instead, digging into the dish once more, surprised to find he’d nearly finished it.

Tom’s hand settled on his knee; Aremu looked up at him, and smiled. He hadn’t expected it, quite, for all he’d done the same earlier. He lowered the spoon again. Gently, Tom squeezed his knee, and Aremu smiled a little more, searching the other man’s face in the pale patterned lantern light.

More often, Tom said. You and me. Aremu’s throat moved in a silent, aching swallow. I don’t know if I can bear it, he wanted to say, suddenly. I don’t know if I can bear it, Tom; when you’re not you it’s so hard. I’ll take it; I’ll take whatever scraps you offer, because I think I’m in this too deep to do otherwise. Something like a fist squeezed inside him, and he found his breath a little shaky.

Tom’s hand drew back.

Aremu reached down and caught it, carefully, in his own. “Yes,” he said, knowing there was no other choice, no other way. “I’d be glad of it.”

Aremu glanced at the bell, and back at the closed doorway. The lights were all around them, on all four walls, nothing to light them from behind; even if the screens were only screens, he didn’t think there was any chance of them being seen through it.

He bent down, and lifted their hands to his mouth; he kissed Tom’s, slowly, moving across his knuckles one by one. For a moment, absurdly, he thought of sliding down to his knees; he sat back up instead, well aware of the signs of what he was feeling, shifting a little at the edge of the tablecloth, and offering Tom a crooked, boyish grin.

“I hoped…” Aremu’s eyes searched Tom’s strange, unfamiliar face for a moment. Sometimes when they were together, he beagn to know it; he thought he could find the pieces of it, and put them together in a way that made sense. With the time apart, it was as if he lost them, as if they were a plan and even if he remembered some of the components, he’d lost track of which part of it went upright.

He went on ahead, anyway. “I hoped you’d come to mine for tea,” Aremu said, softly, “after this.” His hand was still tangled in Tom’s, beneath the table cloth. I want you, he wanted to say, in my arms; whatever I have to bear with us together the rest of the time, I think I can do it. I’ll find a way, if that’s all we can have and keep you safe; but maybe - just for tonight -

Aremu drew their hands back to his lap, slowly, looking at Tom still.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

H
e wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Aremu talk of such things. He supposed he hadn’t been the sort of man to tell them to, then – he couldn’t help the sour twist in his gut – though it hadn’t lasted long, seeing Aremu’s thoughtful frown. Or, he had thought, maybe he’d never had the words to ask; maybe he’d never cared to, or thought he could.

And he hadn’t understood much of it, being honest, crankshafts and all, though he’d hid a twitch of his lip at power strokes behind another bite of tomato. He’d settled into the lull of Aremu explaining, holding on to the shape of the words in his voice.

There’d been a pause; he hadn’t been sure what to make of it.

Nor was he sure what to make of it now, nor anything else. Aremu was smiling at him; he thought there was still a weight in his eyes, something – strained. The muscles of his throat flickered in the soft light, and he watched his chest swell once and catch a little on the inhale, a little on the exhale again. Aremu was glancing up and around, and once at the window behind. I’m not calling you a liar, Aremu, he wanted to say, but don’t –

Aremu’s left hand was strong. He blinked, still frowning, his brow still a knot of worry; he went to squeeze the other man’s hand, expected fingers tangled up with his again under the table. When their hands brushed just past the tablecloth, he blinked again, the frown smoothing out into slack surprise. When Aremu bent almost double to kiss his knuckles, one by one, his eyes prickled with tears.

Funny sort of mix, this feeling. It was a lance through him, something like pain and something like sadness, and something else, intense, he couldn’t’ve explained, something he’d felt the moment he saw Aremu outside the Crocus’ Stem. But it was also the brush of familiar lips, and feather-soft – hot – breath on the back of his hand, and his sudden riff-sharp awareness of his own elbow resting on one of his thighs, and the fabric of his trousers, and of looking down at Aremu’s close-cropped, soft hair.

When he rose back up, shifting in his seat a little, Aremu was grinning. He thought it made him look younger, the crooked set of his lips, the glint in his eyes.

He thought he’d seen it once, a long time ago – no, he corrected himself, not so long ago. He thought of sitting on the wrinkled sheets, feeling tousled and pleasantly tired from it, and happy, achingly happy. He thought of an orange peel against the floral linen, and a coverlet wrapped round his shoulders, and Aremu popping a slice of orange in his mouth with a grin softer but no less bright.

Hoped, he said, and he found himself holding onto the silence he trailed into.

“Tea,” he said finally, a little smile quirking his lips, twitching up one eyebrow. “I –” His brow knit a little. Aremu was still holding tight to his hand, and he squeezed, for all he knew he couldn’t hold him. “I want to. So much –”

The bell rang, and he nearly jumped again. It hurt to let go, but he only held on a moment longer; he let go, and he let Aremu go, too, though he sat facing the empty where he’d been, tracing patterns in the light over the back of the bench.

The platter smelled strongly of fried batter, when Aremu carried it over; it was still steaming, and the light flickered on the steam in the air. He glanced down at it, feeling strangely detached, studying the delicately-placed ring of fried pastries round the small silver bowls of chutney.

He looked up at Aremu again as he sat down, his right arm a flash in the corner of his eye before it went under the table again. “Would we –”

Sir, he remembered; he remembered the smile. I know what it’d be like for you, he wanted to say. I’m like a godsdamn target; I’m not a man to take to your hotel. You could barely bear to walk beside me out there. I don’t want that kind of attention on you, not for the sake of…

Aremu was an engineer, and his Brother besides; he wouldn’t insult him so. “I’ll follow your lead, dove,” he said slowly, after a moment, one eyebrow lifting up high on his forehead. It wasn’t quite a smile on his lips, but it was something close, and a little mischievous.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

I want to, Tom said, not I will.

I know, Aremu wanted to say; I know it’s a lot to ask. It’s complicated here; it’s risky for both of us. I can’t make any promises, but I think – I think – if you’re willing –

He’d planned it, though he hadn’t been sure he’d ask, in the end. At first he’d thought maybe the other side of Nutmeg Hill would be easier – some other hotel, maybe – or Three Flowers, where at least seven years ago no one would have looked twice at them, and he couldn’t imagine it had changed so much.

He’d started looking at the Koketa’s Hive with a new eye; it wasn’t in the best part of Nutmeg Hill, but it was well enough, on a quiet, comfortable, safe street. He’d thought the bar next door would be good for cover, and the door inside which spilled out into the back alley had always seemed to him a good idea. Then – without quite realizing he’d meant to – he’d gone and gotten a ladder for the climb from the winding metal stairs to the room, the last few feet of them, and he thought he had it worked out, well enough at least.

I want to, Tom had said.

The bell rang, then, and Tom let go, and Aremu thought perhaps that was answer enough; he knew better than to ask again. You’re right, he thought to say; it’s not safe. It’s not worth it, just to – it’s not just that, he wanted to say, again. It’s not just that – I wouldn’t put you in danger for that, Tom. He didn’t know if he could have said it aloud; he couldn’t sort through the tangle of what he felt and find the truth, in the end. It wasn’t so simply as that.

He balanced the prosthetic beneath the platter, holding it with his left hand. Funny, but despite the tomatoes, the onion, the flatbread, the yogurt and the spices, he felt as hungry as he had a few minutes earlier, even through the ache in the pit of his stomach. He’d apologize, Aremu thought, frowning down at the platter. He owed it to Tom; he’d never meant to pressure him. He’d thought, once, that he had; after Brunnhold, it had seemed easier – not the same uncomplicated sort of desire that had lain between them, once.

No, Aremu thought, it had never really been uncomplicated. He’d let himself believe it was, perhaps; he’d wanted to believe it, with some secret hidden place at the edges of his emptiness which knew only fear. Not empty, he thought; not quite. He looked at Tom.

Would we, Tom asked.

Aremu stiffened, just a little, his gaze searching the other man’s face, hardly daring to hope. He didn’t know how much time had passed – not five minutes – but his thoughts had seemed to swirl at airship speed, racing through him, and he felt as if it had been a house since he’d asked.

I’ll follow your lead, Tom said, then.


Aremu grinned, like an exhaled breath; he felt as if he’d been holding it since the moment he saw Tom outside the Crocus’ Stem, since the moment he’d received the other man’s letter. He wanted more than anything to kiss him, just then, but – he could wait, Aremu told himself, and he smiled to think of it.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, instead. He reached down, and he took Tom’s hand in his, one last time; his thumb traced a slow pattern of his own design over the other man’s palm, and he looked at Tom, and wondered if the other man could read the promises he was making in his eyes; from the slow, crooked grin on the other man’s face, he thought he could. The waiting felt like a gift, just then, and not an ache.

Aremu was still grinning; he felt three quarters a fool, or maybe a fool entirely, but he was still grinning all the same. He gave Tom’s hand a last soft squeeze, or maybe a stroke, and he set it down. He took one of the still warm tsequt, feeling the soft thin pastry stuffed, and dipped it in one of the sauces, taking a bite; steam swirled from the spiced lamb and onions inside. Aremu felt hungry enough that he thought he could have eaten the rest of it in one go. He paced himself, just a little, stretching it out and savoring it, though not for too long.

“What do you think of Thul Ka?” Aremu asked, when he’d finished two of the pastries and the rest of his cold appetizer beside; he wiped his hand clean, toying with a third, or at least the idea of it. He smiled at Tom, and it was much easier, now, with the weight of asking lifted from him. “Do you think I was right when we spoke of it?”

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

A
remu’s thumb traced slow, invisible shapes over his palm, and it might’ve almost been unbearable – almost, with those eyes fixed on him – and that was good, something he hadn’t felt in a damned long time. He grinned helplessly at the other man.

With one last warm press, Aremu’s hand slipped away.

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. He went to reach for one of the pastries, but found himself watching Aremu go to work at them instead, his smile softening.

He wasn’t eating like a starving man; he hadn’t on the isles, hadn’t, he thought, for some time. He couldn’t remember when he’d noticed it first – if it’d been on Isla Dzum, amid all the other unfamiliar things, or at the room in Pendulum, when he’d taken some time to warm up – but he’d tucked it away somewhere, warm with a feeling he couldn’t’ve described.

He set about these like a mechanic. Not mechanically, not like a man who eats like the rhythmic turns of an engine, but like a man relishing figuring how best to go at a problem.

Steam swirled up from the warm pastry, and the smell of lamb mingled with mint. For a while, they both ate in silence; it was a benny, full sort of silence. He burned his tongue on the first bite of pastry, all crumbling lamb and red-hot onions, and he went at it still, the green sauce mixing pleasantly with it. He washed down a bite with the wine, and found he wasn’t much thinking about it, either.

By the time Aremu spoke up again, he’d put away one of the pastries, and the salad from earlier was half-gone. He looked over at Aremu’s dishes, that smile creeping back to his face, but he eased himself back a little; he thought he might’ve kept going, but he knew well enough the ache in his stomach, and it was easier now to listen to it.

And there was plenty else to think about. His grin brightened. “Ah, hells, I don’t know where to start. You were right about that, too. Even with the cable cars, it’d take you a lifetime – you’d never,” he amended, “never see all of it.” He didn’t find it so hard to think of ada’xa Natete, just now. “Streets you stumble across and can never find again.”

What about you? he wanted to ask. Did you grow up here? He’d been trying to picture a bochi Aremu walking these streets for days. Every lilting Cinnamon Hill accent he’d heard had reminded him of him, though he knew these weren’t the only streets Aremu’d known. He wasn’t sure what he could ask.

And Aremu’d asked him, anyway; there was more he could give the other man, much more he’d been aching to say for weeks now.

He sat up a little more, taking another sip of wine. “I, uh – I haven’t had a chance to see much of Thul Ka proper.” His smile tilted a little. “I’ve gone to and fro from here to Aratra – they’re setting up the Anaxi offices – and to Thul’amat, though not much, not since I got back. The booksellers, Aremu…”

He looked down at the platter again, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t think where to go with that; he could feel Aremu’s eyes on him, warm and intent.

“I saw a lad on the cable cars,” he said slowly, picking up a second pastry. He broke this one in half, letting the steam drift up from the lamb. “With – uh – spectacles. A human lad.” He smiled up at Aremu, and some of the pressure in him eased.

He dipped the half in the sauce and took a bite.

“I knew you were right, even then,” he went on, slower, “but I don’t know I could’ve – felt it. It’s different here; it’s – ah, damn. There are schools that aren’t Thul’amat. And no writs.”

He paused, resting his forearm against the table, then smiled again. “I could, uh, go on and on about that, I’m afraid. Already, and I’ve only been here half a week.” It wasn’t quite an apology, but his smile was sheepish.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Aremu grinned when Tom’s face lit up. He studied the tsequt, and then took the third, teasing it apart a little with his fingers, watching and listening intent.

I dreamt of this once, he didn’t think of saying, in an idle way when I never believed it could happen, when I would never have asked. I don’t know still if I was right or wrong, but I saw you then rooted in the waters of the Rose, and myself a dzutaw wrapped around you. I could flower and drift off, and there was no way to move you.

We don’t talk about it much, he wanted to say, our before, except in hurt anger. He didn’t, now, because he didn’t know if it could be done without hurt, and hurt was the last thing he wanted between them here.

Here to Aratra and here to Thul’Amat, Tom said. Aremu smiled at him; his grin widened when Tom mentioned the booksellers. I thought I would take you there, he wanted to say, with an ache he couldn’t place in his chest. I told you I would - didn’t you believe me?

He let it go, or he tried to. There was plenty to see at Thul’Amat; even that alone was more than a day or two’s worth. It shouldn’t have stung; he didn’t think Tom was calling him a liar, in the end. There wasn’t any need to - they both knew what he was. Maybe it was the lack in him which made truth sting so.

There was something in Tom’s voice which swept the last of that pinch away, when he went on to the lad in the cable car. Aremu’s face softened; he nodded, remembering Tom’s words on the beach so long ago, the delicate gold spectacles that had tumbled to the sand, carrying them back to the house along with all the rest of him. He could almost imagine it, Tom as he was sitting on the bench of a cable car, a small boy with his glasses across the way. He couldn’t put more to it then that - day, night, raining or sunny - but he didn’t need to.

“How much do you know about them?” Aremu asked. “The schools?” Do they tell you, he wanted to ask, or have you gone on your own to explore? Do you want to know? I could tell you, he wanted to say, selfish, and then he let it go.

“I didn’t understand,” Aremu said, quietly, instead. “Maybe I still don’t,” he reached over, lingering a moment - but their hands were all above the table, and he didn’t want to get grease stains on Tom’s crisp white clothing. He smiled, instead, resting his hand on the table for just a moment by the other man.

“We are as neighbors, but a visit or a glimpse through the window is not the same. Even knowing as much as I do about Anaxas,” Aremu went on, quietly, thinking of red brick walls, “even loving you,” he hadn’t thought about the words; if he had, he didn’t think he could have said them, so easily. He went on, because he had to; to stop would have been unbearable, “it is hard to see what isn’t there.”

Aremu went back to his plate; he fiddled with the tsequt, looking down at it, and then back at Tom with a little smile. Go on, he wanted to say; go on about it. I didn’t know I needed to listen; I’m ready, now.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

N
ot – much,” he replied, surprised. He glanced down at the pastry on Aremu’s plate, flaky skin split open to still-steaming lamb, and then looked back at the imbala, studying his face. It wasn’t quite a grin; it was soft – still with the same softness he’d had listening to him talk – but there was something else in his eyes, too, something almost like want. “Almost nothing,” he added, hesitant.

Did you–? It wasn’t just the natt schools; he remembered lines of bochi trailing across Tsed’tsa in their uniform shorts, arati with eddles and imbali too, and he remembered trying to picture Aremu so.

D’you know about – Aremu went on, then, and his smile twitched on his face, but he listened.

Aremu’s hand shifted across the tablecloth, its shadow stretching out behind it. He smiled, crooked, when it stopped. He almost could’ve felt it, warm on his forearm through the light cloth of his sleeve, or the ghost of it. He reckoned even that was too much. He looked down at it for a moment, long fingers curled gently against the cloth, and he knew he couldn’t take it. He wanted to ease in just a little closer, so the hem of his sleeve might’ve brushed the tan cloth of Aremu’s.

But he was working at his pastry again, pulling it apart, and he was turning the words over in his head. A visit, a glimpse through the window; loving you, Aremu’d said, and he’d kept watching the other man’s face, remembering the orange and the knife.

There was no shame in him, now. Not when Aremu looked back up at him with a little smile. “I don’t understand much, here, either,” he said after a pause, tentative. He studied Aremu’s face. “Even knowing what I know about Mugroba, even loving you.”

He said it matter-of-fact enough; he smiled, and he took the other half of his pastry.

I can’t see, here. I’m blind, he thought to say. I can’t tell a dura from an arata from a distance, sometimes, except where fashion’s concerned, and even then I’m half lost.

He dipped the pastry in the cool sauce. “I went to the clothiers in Nutmeg Hill; that’s the only other place I’ve been,” he said. “But even there, it’s…” He paused, turning over the flaky skin in his hand. “There’s a lot I haven’t seen – there’s a lot I don’t know how to look for – but the humans own their shops, and have strong voices in the guilds. And balance their books and read, without fear of – without fear. That’s it,” he added quietly after a moment. “It’s the fear, in Anaxas. The fear, and all the things you’re never taught to know better about.”

And the imbali? Were they afraid? It felt like a puzzle piece he couldn’t turn the right way, never quite. He took a bite of the pastry, then another, then finished it slowly but surely, taking another sip of wine. He wiped his hands off on the cloth.

He felt a pulse of embarrassment, looking down at them, pale and thin and freckled against the cloth. He felt like he’d thrown a pall over it all, with this talk of fear and knowing.

“Do you –” He broke off, looking back up at Aremu. The back of his neck prickled. It would’ve been easier if he could’ve reached out and taken his hand, but he didn’t want to keep him from the food. “Could you tell me about them?” he asked finally, smiling again. “The schools.”

I think you wanted to, he didn’t say; I know that look on your face. You must’ve asked for a reason. I don’t know why you didn’t. Maybe we can help each other, he wanted to say, see what’s not there. He felt every inch of him like a mung, and he still wanted to touch the other man’s hand.

[Aremu Ediwo]

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

Not much, Tom said, and then, quietly, almost nothing.

I could tell you, Aremu wanted to say; I could tell you. Maybe it was Thul’Amat; maybe it did still sting. Maybe Tom had never wanted him to show him Thul’Amat, after all; maybe that wasn’t what this was, after all. He thought of sitting on the arm of Tom’s chair, an orange in the other man’s hand, watching him spin it as the dinner knife made a pendulum, scoring thin white lines through the flesh.

A demonstration, Aremu thought; something ached inside him, and squeezed.

He should have known it, then; he shouldn’t have needed or wanted more proof. He shouldn’t have asked; he should have left it alone, moved away to some other, easier topic. He should have talked wrapped in metaphors, eased around what he meant to do, so the truth hid in the midst of it all, and Tom didn’t have to choose whether or not to believe.

He couldn’t, quite, leave it alone, for all he knew it was a scab at the edge of a wound made long ago, which one should have healed by now; for all he knew it, for all he believed, it should have healed. Coming back to Thul Ka is like feeling is anew, Aremu half-wanted to say; living in the islands never made it go away. It just let me do something like forgetting, a little while, but it’s better that I don’t.

Loving you, Tom said, and Aremu smiled back at it, because it was enough. He took another bite of his tsuqet; the lamb had cooled a little, but there was plenty of warmth still, and the rich taste of the spices too.

It was easy to grin when Tom spoke of the clothiers. I like the color you chose, Aremu wanted to say again, and he couldn’t, quite. The grin eased away to something softer and more tender as Tom went on, and Aremu listened, because he did want to understand, in the end, very badly after all.

The question caught him off guard; he’d made his peace with it not being asked. Aremu smiled; he knew better, still, but he smiled all the same, searching Tom’s face for just a moment. Tom was smiling too.

“Of course,” Aremu said, softly, although he knew there was no of course about it. He wiped his hand, sitting back a little on the bench. He reached; he couldn’t help it, he reached for Tom’s hand beneath the tablecloth, because more than food he wanted to feel the other man’s skin against his, this little bit which was allowed them here.

“Everyone goes to school here,” Aremu said, slowly, not sure quite where to start. It seemed an ocean, suddenly, and he wasn’t sure how to map out the shape of it for Tom. He thought it over, again, looking at the other man. “I don’t know that I was ever quite told that,” Aremu said, a little frown on his brow. “It’s just – known. Uh, it’s – um. Those who can afford it, generally, are educated by tutors at home. For others – humans, wicks, imbali, even some galdori in Thul Ka, there are school houses. Uh,” He frowned a little.

“Dzum has three schools,” Aremu said, his thumb stroking over Tom’s hand. “One each for humans in Western Port and Eastern Port, and one for imbali in Western Port. There aren't many wicks, but they'd go with the humans, if they live in town. The humans start at five or six, maybe seven, depending on the family, and uh, would go through twelve or so, maybe four days a week? If the child likes it, if they’ve an aptitude, normally they’d go to Laus Oma, where there’s a more advanced school.”

“There’s much of the same in Thul Ka,” Aremu went on, “more opportunity, more… select schools, apprenticeship programs and the like. Wealthy human families would have tutors of their own, as well, to educate their children to take over the family business.”

Aremu shifted; he didn’t know whether Tom wanted to hear more about imbali. He left it aside, for now, smiling at Tom. “I’m not sure I know what all to say,” he said, softly, his thumb stroking the other man’s hand still; he’d never stopped. It was soothing, not just the little current of electricity that seemed to run through him, but the warmth of it as well, the tenderness. “What else do you want to know?”

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

A
remu smiled, and his smile widened a little more. He’d just finished his second pastry when Aremu eased back, and he watched the other man and listened. The warm curl of long fingers round his hand wasn’t unexpected this time. He knit his fingers up with Aremu’s and held on; he rested there, his other forearm against the table.

It was –

Painful, he knew first. Best look it in its eyes; best not look away. And best not hide it, either, which was folly with the mona and folly – he thought – with a lover, too.

So he smiled, but he didn’t try to force away the bitter edge of it when Aremu said it’s just known, in his halting, thoughtful way. He studied the set of Aremu’s lips, the careful little lines about his brow, and he listened to every word the other man chose, for all he chose them fair well. “School houses,” he repeated when Aremu came to it, with something like wonderment in his crooked smile.

Did you –? He knew he’d best not ask. Imbali, Aremu’d said, and even some galdori. His head was full, too, from trying to picture them in Dzum. He remembered the little port they’d gone to before Laus Oma, and the bochi playing by the docks; that memory pinched and ached, but with Aremu’s thumb stroking over his, he could ask himself if he’d ever even thought those bochi’d a place to get their learning at.

Children, he kept thinking, in school.

The word opportunity hurt, too, but he thought maybe it was a good kind of hurt, and hearing Aremu wind through warmed something in him. Wealthy human families, he said, and tutors; and he held on, listening, his eyes very keen on Aremu’s face. Did you –?

Aremu broke off there, still stroking his hand gently. “I, uh –” He thought a moment, eyes wandering along the smooth, lamplight-dappled tablecloth. I’m not sure, he wanted to say, and he knew it’d be a lie, and a damned one, too.

The bell rang again, and this time he was too deep in thought to leap out of his skin. Aremu let go of his hand. This time, as the imbala started to rise, he raised a hand himself. “Let me, hey?” he said, smiling but firm.

He blinked when he slid the door open by its delicate-carved handle. There was a whoosh of bright, rich, warm smell – a blend of spices with heat he could smell – and steam. The mant bowl in the middle was full of grilled cuts of meat, with glistening onions and peppers and other vegetables blended in. There were rolls of that familiar spongy, clothlike bread flanking it.

He picked it up carefully, silver rattling on silver, and carried it back.

There had been something about turning his back. Somehow, when he’d turned back – it wasn’t that he’d expected Aremu to be gone, as if he’d dispersed on the steam. But the surprise of seeing him there, across the steam and the remnants of the appetizers they’d eaten together, fluttered like moths in his stomach.

“Eyo’xaw i’xupo,” he said softly, in his best Mugrobi, only just barely keeping the hot prickling out of his eyes. It was the warmth of the food, he told himself as he set the tray down, as he moved round to check the level of Aremu’s wine glass and pour more if he wanted it. “I've missed you” he repeated, softer.

When he sat, he finally turned back to the question, and he thought he’d turned it over enough. “What about you? School, I mean,” he asked finally, though his heart was hammering in his throat. Once, he wouldn’t’ve asked because he knew nothing of learning; now – if the other man didn’t want to answer, he didn’t have to. He smiled anyway and watched, and he thought he’d’ve been grateful for anything.