[Closed] [Mature] Dancing After Death

[Tom Cooke]

Hidden Underneath an Acacia Tree

Late Afternoon on the 38th of Loshis, 2720

T
he path was narrow; the greenery spilled over into it, tangling branches that snagged on his tunic and left little leaves in his amel’iwe. But it was a path – he thought wistfully, it usually was, after all – and when they emerged, he found himself blinking up the split trunk of one of those strange trees he saw often enough in Thul Ka. The same one, he thought, that’d stretched it’s knobbly arms and fingers over the path they’d just left. There were long leaves like the tailfeathers of moa scattered about the tiny clearing, some wet-packed to the ground from the rain and some soft underfoot, fresh fallen.

He was half-relieved when he saw the bench, and he felt a sharp twinge at himself for it. He wanted to sit; he didn’t want to sit. Aremu must’ve known about this place – another quiet, secret meeting place – the thought that would’ve excited him three weeks ago curdled in his stomach; he could almost taste the sour of it in his mouth.

It was a sort of magic, what Aremu did: there was no hesitation. The barest smile caught the edge of his lips, watching him find the first footholds and ripple up, amel’iwe a-whisper, the long, strong fingers of one hand finding a path in the knotted wood.

It wasn’t that far up, but it seemed so to him. For a moment, he almost –

But the branch shook a little as Aremu settled himself, one leg dangling in the free air, and another long green leaf fell curling to the dirt.

And he didn’t think, lowering himself wistfully to sit, Aremu wanted company up there, anyway.

What’s it like, dove? he wanted to ask, the press of all his feelings swallowed up for a moment by fascination. He thought of being lithe, of trusting his balance, of finding some ground above the pain – far, far above, where the air was thin and lightning sparked off chainmail. He remembered suddenly the creaking of wood, or metal, underfoot; he remembered his hand on a railing or a leather strap, another hand over his in two places at once, a soft voice…

He was clasping his hands together in his lap, and he loosened his grip. He didn’t look up; he shut his eyes instead. Aremu was silent.

It made him feel like an ass, the hotel room, the little riverside cafe he’d scouted out, the Mugrobi word he’d learned; just now he felt like none of it mattered to what’d just happened. It suddenly felt full of holes, ragged and falling apart.

He hadn’t been able to tell if it was amusement in Tsofo’s eyes, there in the end; that was what he pictured now. “A flower’s petals change,” he remembered, “as it grows; still they are perhaps most vivid at the end of its blossom, before it turns, and many gardeners covet…” Something in him clenched. And what would he think, if he guessed? He played it over and over in his mind, but Tsofo’s eyes were vaguer and vaguer, and doubt whispered in where clarity had been. Cruel amusement, now. Had he been blushing like a lad? Had Aremu noticed? Had he been acting like a lad all day, all week, giddy–?

He thought of Tsofo then, matter-of-fact as if speaking of a – godsdamn. Two hands; clairvoyant diableries. Not currying favor, he thought, biting down on his gum. A shame.

“I, uh, didn’t know –” He wasn’t sure how long it’d been. He shifted on the bench, unclasping his hands again where he’d held them tightly together. “I didn’t know he was such a –” He hadn’t meant to say it; he could barely unclench his jaw. “I should’ve known,” he added, swallowing tightly.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Afternoon, 38 Loshis, 2720
Beneath an acacia tree, Away’qexo College, Thul'Amat

They sat in silence a little while. Aremu felt aching guilt threaded through him, ticking, steadily, one beat after the next, like the chimes of a clock, with each second that slipped through his fingers. Time, he thought, and he glanced up at the sun through the screen of branches – not looking quite at it, not close enough to sting his eyes, but enough to measure its distance to the horizon.

What time this evening? He wanted to ask. How long do I – do we – have?

He couldn’t manage even that, not quite. He didn’t know what Tom thought of him, of all of it; he couldn’t imagine it. The silence wasn’t comfortable but, Aremu thought, it was better than so many of the conversations which might have played out in his head. He sat in the uncertainty and let it drag on, second after second, because it was better than knowing the worst.

Tom didn’t say anything either; Aremu was grateful for that, and at the same time the silence prickled over his skin, caught at all the nerves seeing Tsofo had – exposed, he supposed, if he thought about it, all the old certainties he had never quite let go of, but had at least put away. Tender spots, Aremu thought, his eyes closing for a moment, hidden beneath calluses, and suddenly the skin had been ripped off – the blood wasn’t the worst of it, but rather the knowledge that he’d have to build them up once more, slow and steady.

He looked down at his left hand, and turned it over; there were calluses enough on his palm, Aremu thought, and he clenched it tightly shut, and couldn’t look at it anymore. He leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes once more, as if, he thought, as long as he didn’t see it, then time wasn’t really passing, not yet.

When Tom spoke it pricked him out of the reverie, whatever it was. Aremu shifted; his shoulders tightened.

Didn’t know he was such a – Tom bit the words off, and didn’t finish the sentence. Such a what, Aremu wondered. The words had shocked his eyes open; he supposed he couldn’t close them anymore. He looked down at the screen of branches and leaves – down beneath them at the pale red of Tom’s hair, his straight back and his slim, freckled hands tucked together in his lap.

Did you? He wanted to ask? Did you – with Tsofo –

He’d said the other night that whatever Tom shared with anyone else wouldn’t affect what there was between them, Aremu thought. He’d promised Tom the truth; he’d promised not to lie to him, or at least to try not to. It was always a shock, Aremu thought, how little he knew of honesty, how little he knew of truth. He knew; he knew what he was, and he knew what he lacked, and yet sometimes, still, it swept over him like a wave and the reality of it was so much worse than he could ever have imagined.

“He’s an honorable man,” Aremu said. His voice was even, and he was proud of that, at least.

His gaze lifted back up, and he studied the narrow path between the bushes, not too far off. It’s fine, he wanted to say; he wished he’d had the strength to, back on the path, to walk slowly and find the liar’s smile, and show Tom the smooth face that would have been best, here.

Wouldn’t it?

I don’t know very much about love, Aremu wanted to say, though the words never made it past the aching, swallowing pit in his stomach, the hole which threatened to suck in whatever little of him existed around the edges of his emptiness.

Tsofo, he thought; he should’ve said Tsofo’s an honorable man. The mask still seemed to slip from his grasp; when he reached up with his left hand, there was only his cheek beneath his fingertips, after all. He lowered his hand again, slowly, back to his lap, and ran it over the smooth wood attached to his right wrist, instead.

[Tom Cooke]

Hidden Underneath an Acacia Tree

Late Afternoon on the 38th of Loshis, 2720

H
onorable?” The word tripped out of his mouth.

He grit his teeth tightly, because he was afraid of what might else come out. As opposed to? he wanted to spit. As opposed to me?

He took a breath which shuddered in his chest.

There were footsteps on the path, distant and muffled through the shrubs, soles rustling the leaves and scuffing on the stones. He couldn’t have named any of these birds, but he could pick them out for familiar: there were still day-birds, a whole host of voices chirping and whistling, and the beginnings of evening-birds too – one or two, their long low whoops and chitters out of place in the sun dappled afternoon. A delicate breeze shook the leaves, the noise crisp to his ears. It was cool against his face and smelled of distant rain; it broke up the heat.

He was a knot in the middle of all of it. Aremu shifted above him, the branch creaking. He didn’t – couldn’t – look up. It should’ve been peaceful, this; it should’ve been calming. Aremu’s leg dangled two feet from his head, sandal hanging gracefully off his foot, the wind ruffling the tan hem of his trousers. It might’ve been a rope just out of reach, and he was sinking deeper and deeper.

His nails were digging into the back of his hand. He forced himself to relax. He set them apart on his lap, one on each knee, and then watched his fingers curl into the white fabric of his trousers.

“I don’t kn –” He mastered himself. Aremu’s voice had been calm; it’d been calm, infuriatingly even. He was afraid to look up, afraid he’d see that smooth mask again, even shaded by the leaves. But there hadn’t been a smile in his voice; he didn’t know what he’d heard in it.

“I don’t know anything of honor, then, do I?” His voice wasn’t even. It’d been a damned fool of a thing to hope for, here, like this; he hadn’t mastered himself after all, not even close. “Maybe he is honorable, and an ass too. I – shit. Godsdamn it. Maybe I’m the ass. I don’t understand a thing. I thought – I haven’t understood a word out of that man’s mouth since the second I met him.”

It’s a funny sight, isn’t it, he wanted to say, you up there and me down here? If somebody took a peek through these shrubs, it’d look like I was talking to the empty air.

He’s an honorable man, what? he got the sudden urge to ask. And so you’re ashamed of me around him, ashamed of what he might see, what he might think? You could see the pity in his eyes when he looked at me, couldn’t you? He couldn’t keep his head straight. He didn’t even know, he told himself, how Aremu had known him. Two hands, he thought, feeling a confused lurch. He fumbled round in dark and silence.

I am not an honorable man, he wanted to say to the rustling of the leaves. I can’t speak like that. I can’t grow you a garden; it’s a lucky day if I’m not trampling the roses.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Aremu,” he said quietly. “Talk to me, if you can, please. Or – I’m happy to sit here, because I, uh – I just want to be with you. We have all evening and tomorrow too, and I…”

It was a sour-tasting ramble, too much by far as usual; he swallowed thickly. Somewhere, distant and warped by all the snaking paths and winding branches, someone was laughing, a warm and blooming springtime sound.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Afternoon, 38 Loshis, 2720
Beneath an acacia tree, Away’qexo College, Thul'Amat

I don’t know anything of honor, then, do I? Tom asked.

Aremu frowned, not understanding; he didn’t know what to make of it, not the words and not the painful rasp of them in Tom’s throat. Of course you do, he wanted to say, dully. He closed his eyes again, his back resting against the tree, as if that would make it easier, somehow, not to speak; he couldn’t keep them closed for long.

Tom kept on; Aremu wasn’t sure he made more sense, now, than he had before. Honorable, Tom said, and an ass too; Aremu shrugged, a little, though he knew the other man couldn’t really see it. Perhaps, he thought – perhaps. What does it matter, really?

He thinks of me, he wanted to say, as do Tsofi and Tsila, as do every Mugrobi we meet; if knowing I am less makes a man an ass, Tom, then Mugroba is full of asses. His hand was tight, squeezing into the fabric of his pants, where it had been still before. He consciously relaxed his fingers, and looked down to see Tom’s hands, tight, too, taut in the fabric of his pants.

“Evening?” Aremu asked, almost unable to help it. “You said –” his eyes closed again, and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d held, some knot all through his muscles loosening. “Me,” he said, quietly, “I’m your appointment.” He exhaled out, slowly, shakily; the familiar ache of secrecy warred with the gladness of it, and Aremu found the gladness won out, and easily. He would take it, Aremu thought; he meant to take it, though he still didn’t think he could come down, and he didn’t know whether we could speak.

How do you know him? He wanted to demand. How did you meet – what did you – I just want to be with you, Tom had said, quietly, here in the midst of their time together. Aremu tilted his head back against the branch once more, looking at the traces of the blue sky between the acacia leaves. His vision blurred for a moment, and he closed his eyes and opened them once more.

I met him, he wanted to say, after the first time my diablerie triggered.

He turned Tom’s words back over in his head, trying to make sense of them; he didn’t know what to think, not of any of it. Talk to me, if you can, please, he heard Tom saying, soft, in his low, deep voice, a little raspy at the edges of it. Or sit here. Aremu shifted; he drew his foot up, propping it on the branch, and bent himself forward over his knee, pressing his forehead into his forearm.

He’s an easy man to misunderstand, Aremu wanted to say, bitterly. But he knew better; he knew, now, that he should always have known better, that what he had wanted to believe of Tsofo he had believed through his own foolishness. The other man had never discouraged him, not that Aremu had understood, but that wasn’t the same as encouraging; he’d longed for something he could never had, and Tsofo had been where he’d centered that longing.

“I just didn’t expect to see him,” Aremu said, quietly, in time. He opened slightly bleary eyes, looking down past his knee, past the line of his pants, to Tom sitting below. “I was a fool, when I knew him,” he swallowed a little, and wondered if that said enough; some part of him didn’t want Tom to understand, he thought.

I’m a fool now, Aremu wanted to say, to believe that you and I can love each other – an honorable man and a man without a soul –

He knew, even as the thought came to him, that it was different. Tom had told him that he loved him, and shown him it too; it wasn’t how it had been with Tsofo, in so many ways. He couldn’t shake it, all the same, not fully, that what had bothered him about seeing Tsofo was the fear of making the same mistakes over again. He hadn’t known, Aremu thought grimly, how it really was with Tsofo – not until the end; he hadn’t understood.

He’d opened the door, all the same; he felt as if he’d scraped his fingernails raw with prying at it, as if he’d pushed and pushed and was straining, even now, to hold it there. He held, all the same, lingering and raw, and waited to see what Tom wanted to do with it.

[Tom Cooke]

Hidden Underneath an Acacia Tree

Late Afternoon on the 38th of Loshis, 2720

Y
es, he wanted to cry, exasperated.

You really thought, he wanted to say, and managed to stifle all but a little choked noise. You really thought, Aremu Ediwo, you ridiculous man, that I would – he couldn’t even finish the thought.

He tried to imagine it, the sort of man who’d do something like that. Knowing what Aremu had told him of the observatory, what he’d struggled to squeeze from that closed-tight heart of his just so he’d know, just so he’d understand.

And then? To schedule an appointment the evening of the day he’d planned to go to that place with Aremu – to try and shoulder some of that weight, whatever it might be – and then to tell another man to his face he was squeezing it in around appointments?

What the hell kind of ersehat do you think I am? he wanted to demand, swallowing angry bile.

It was sad, too, horribly sad, because he thought he knew.

He didn’t know how to feel about any of it. He could still feel the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks; every time he shut his eyes, he could see eyes, pitying eyes. He felt mired in it, all of it. He tried to set it aside, sitting here in the quiet, but he didn’t know what to set aside, or where to put it.

It was a time before Aremu spoke, breaking the silence. He’d been staring fixedly at a fallen leaf buried in packed dirt, the curling tip of it just flickering in the breeze. He’d reached out with the toe of his sandal to nudge it; he couldn’t quite reach. He’d almost stretched to reach it, ‘til he realized how much he’d’ve looked like a boch kicking its feet on a bench, and then he shifted and crossed his legs and looked askance at the bushes instead.

They weren’t much of a compass, Aremu’s words, a dry rustle barely louder than the leaves. His brow knit. He heaved a very deep breath, trying to piece it together in his head.

You and him, he thought. It had to be so; there was no other way to take it. But a man doesn’t speak that way about a lover, much less to a lover’s face. He thought of his earlier nightmarish imagining, of the words his mind had put in Aremu’s mouth, and swallowed more bile. He was blinking away a raw wetness himself, and he reached to wipe some matter out of his eyes roughly.

“I, uh,” he said after a moment. His voice was a cracked sort of rasp, like he was speaking through gravel; he sounded awful, he thought.

He didn’t want to put it together; if he did, he was afraid of what else might come out. But he shifted his hands in his lap again, restless as if they had a mind of their own, smoothing his trousers. “He’s meeting me on the ten about his, uh – his book. He’s been,” he swallowed, “we’ve been having kofi, and – talking about his research. And Anaxi publication. I didn’t realize it was about the book, at first; he…”

His fingers were curled into the fabric. They smoothed out again.

“His research, he, uh, listened to what I had to say about it. I thought he liked my ideas, and…” He shut his eyes. “He met me in a steamroom. I was already – I wasn’t – I felt – he was kind, I thought. Even out of pity. He, uh, we went for kofi, and he… encouraged me to be open, to be… confident about...”

He heard the word in Tsofo’s smooth voice, his own choked and grotesque. Why had he said that?

“I wasn’t expecting to see him, either. I feel so –” He broke off abruptly, as if somebody had lodged a stone in his throat. “Unattractive,” he murmured. Then: “Gods, I’m sorry. What the hell?” burying his face in his hands.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Afternoon, 38 Loshis, 2720
Beneath an acacia tree, Away’qexo College, Thul'Amat

I didn’t realize, Aremu wanted to say, that I was his research, not at first.

I knew, he wanted to say, before the end; I still thought, maybe, that he – that we – could be what I longed for. He thought of it, remembering; it had been one of the few times they’d had a bed, at least, though they’d never had a night together. He remembered the flush of Tsofo’s skin, cooling, against his own; he remembered Tsofo talking, idly, as Aremu drifted in and out of sleep.

The main problem, of course, Tsofo had said, is that it would be hard to have the results believed; no matter how diligent the accounts, if one cannot trust the source material, it shall be hard to publish.

Funny that those were the words that lingered, Aremu thought; funny that it was that moment that had stuck with him, and not the one that had come before it, that must have come before it, when Tsofo told him why he’d been there, in that classroom, after the diablerie.

He hadn’t left him, then; he hadn’t done anything, as far as he remembered. He didn’t know if he’d said anything; he wasn’t sure whether he had needed to. In time Tsofo had wound on, and then before much longer they had been dressing, and Tsofo had gone out the door, and Aremu had climbed – not down, he remembered, but up, onto the roof, and over a few buildings, and descended there.

And still, Aremu thought, though he should have understood, then, he’d held out hope, and he’d gone again to meet Tsofo, where ever and whenever the other man had wanted him. Taking, Aremu thought, with a surge of bitterness, whatever he could.

Unattractive, Tom said, shattering the smooth surface of the water of Aremu’s thoughts. It was the last word he expected; he wasn’t sure he could make sense of it. For a moment he thought he’d heard wrong, misunderstood; Tom was apologizing, and down below he could see the shift of his head, tilting forward, his face buried in his hands.

Things turned over, slowly, in Aremu’s head. No, he thought, lifting his chin back up and seeing notihng at all, Tsofo and Tom weren’t lovers. Somehow it seemed worse than that, to think them heading towards it, to think of Tom giddy and excited in the way one was, when thinking about a new lover. He tasted bile in his mouth, a tingling racing along the line of his jaw and down into the pit of his stomach.

Unattractive, Aremu thought, tiredly, because you dressed for me, and not – him?

Aremu rubbed his face with his hand. He sank back against the tree. “It doesn’t bother me,” he lied, quietly, “if you’re – if you and he…” it was hard to get the words out; they stuck somewhere in his throat, lodged there. The only thing worse was picturing it; that, at least, he managed to pry himself away from, because he thought he truly would be sick. “I don’t have a claim on who else you take to your bed,” Aremu said, instead, finally, finding his way through the thicket of thorny words, finding something which, at least to him, sounded like truth. Hardly his fault, he wanted to say, that I was a fool; he knew that too, for truth, but it was a self-pitying sort of truth, and he didn't think it would help, not here.

“If you want him,” Aremu said, carefully, steady and even once more; he titled his head back to look at the sky again, gleaming blue; he imagined a world of it, looking up and all around to it, imagined the ground swaying beneath his feet, far away from all of this, “you should be with him.”

That, he thought, too, was truth, or as close as he could come to it. He felt proud and he hurt, too; it wasn’t the good, clean hurt of a fight or of a difficult repair job, or even the bone deep ache of pushing himself too far swimming or running. It was a hurt like a toothache, somewhere throbbing deep inside his jaw, somewhere he could see or touch but he could feel – could he ever, Aremu thought, feel it.

[Tom Cooke]

Hidden Underneath an Acacia Tree

Late Afternoon on the 38th of Loshis, 2720

T
he silence wasn’t as long, this time. Or maybe it was; he wouldn’t’ve known, if it had been. Every bit of him was a knot, and the shame of what he’d just said was still dropping through him, seeming to sprout thorns and crooked angles the further down it went. Snagging on every bit of tender insides there was to snag on, tearing a bloody hole through the whole of him. He could feel something bubbling up inside him, and he thought the only thing more shameful than that would be to sob.

It doesn’t bother me, Aremu started, like a voice out of a dream.

He almost groaned. Don’t, he wanted to say, don’t elaborate on how positively bearable I am. We already decided not to talk about this, somewhere back when. No, it doesn’t bother you; I know that. It doesn’t bother you, which is why we can do it with the lights on now. You can, he thought, in fact, surprisingly, bear to touch me, and you seem to have gotten used to looking at me –

And then Aremu wound on, and he lifted his face from his hands. What? he wanted to snap. Aremu wound on, and then trailed off, and he still couldn’t make the sense of the words. If he and I –? It was like the answer to a question he hadn’t asked, or a piece of a conversation from another Ever, an Ever where he’d said something very different. He couldn’t seem to think what that was.

Until Aremu redoubled, seemingly. His voice started up again, this time a little stronger, though no less quiet. These words he seemed more sure of. It was a matter-of-fact thing to say, a thing with a period at the end. He could almost imagine it in Aremu’s handwriting, like a contract with a kofi house.

My bed? he mouthed silently. He squinted down at his hands. His palms were a little damp, and the breeze made his eyes sting. Maybe he ought to have felt ashamed for the tears he’d already shed. For the most part, he just felt confused.

My bed? he mouthed again, sniffing and wincing at the sound.

Be with him, Aremu was saying, slow and steady. Casual, almost, if he hadn’t known better. Be with him? he mouthed, feeling a little like a whice now. Be with him, he mouthed, lowering his hands to his lap now. Wiping the tears first on his trousers, then reaching up and palming them out of his eyes. Wherever the sob had been, it’d died in his chest; he was too confused even to cry, for once. Something about that made him want to cry, too – most things these days made him want to cry, being honest.

“What?” he blurted out, a little hoarse, before he could stop himself. “Be with him – be with him, be with him?”

He blinked, and blinked again, and then it settled. “I don’t understand. I just never thought of it like that. I don’t know he’d be a very, uh – well – I can’t imagine if I’d like him much, in…”

He supposed he’d thought about it, to begin with. He’d thought about it with a lot of men, to begin with. But he couldn’t see as he’d ever really imagined it. He was – benny, he thought, remembering his sweat-slick muscles in the soft blue light, and the kind lines around his eyes, and the long-fingered, elegant hand that was a little too close to him on the bench for comfort. Maybe once, he’d thought, it’d be interesting at the very least.

But – he thought of the way Tsofo had gone on, and on, and on about…

“He’s handsome, I suppose, but he’s no you,” he blurted out, no less confused. “What, do you think I give a whit whether he pities me? But in front of,” he murmured, feeling a part of him tighten again, “in front of – you…”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Afternoon, 38 Loshis, 2720
Beneath an acacia tree, Away’qexo College, Thul'Amat

Tom had been silent as Aremu spoke, but for a quiet inhalation of breath Aremu couldn’t quite place. It had sounded almost like a precursor to speech, but Tom hadn’t filled in the second of space Aremu had waited, and so he’d kept going, because he thought he’d lose his nerve otherwise.

Of course you don’t, he imagined Tom saying; I didn’t ask if I had your permission.

The words stung at his eyes, though Aremu had blinked them away, and gone on. It was, he thought, a statement of fact, no more and no less; his feelings had nothing to do with it, the long-buried ache of the first time he’d had his heart broken – the first time, Aremu thought tiredly, he’d broken his heart himself, by wanting things he could never have.

Perhaps it hadn’t been the first, after all – but he couldn’t bear to think about that, not here and now, not amidst all the rest.

There was no delay, when Aremu finished speaking. Be with him? Tom asked, half-shocked, as if he’d never considered it. Aremu frowned, a little.


He’s a little selfish, he wanted to say, suddenly, some small, selfish, petty corner of his heart remembering that, or at least self-interested. He – he knew he’d never say such a thing, and he doubted, too, that whatever had passed between him and Tsofo would be like what would pass between Tom and Tsofo – he found he could picture it, however much he didn’t want to.

Tom was still talking, though, and the words were squarely at odds with the picture Aremu had built up. You, Tom said, and trailed off.

Aremu took a breath, somewhat shaky. A sniffle, he realized, with an odd jolt; the sound he’d only half-heard, as he’d tried to give Tom permission he didn’t need to take Tsofo as his lover, had been a sniffle. Aremu glanced down once more at Tom’s head of soft, fine hair, and he thought, suddenly, that he was missing a lot, by – looking down.

It felt like a choice, just then. He could hide his face in the branches, and keep the facsimile of a mask in his voice, and be a little more sure of holding together. But it put a space between them – not just a physical one, but the sort of space which wasn’t so easy to cross. It was a choice, he realized, and then he made it.

Aremu shifted; he eased off the branch with an easy motion and dropped down through the handful beneath, landing in a light, effortless crouch on the ground. He rose up, unhesitatingly, and went to the bench, and sat next to Tom.

Aremu took a deep breath, and sighed a little. He pressed his left hand into his face for a moment, feeling raw and exposed, feeling maskless and bare, feeling as if everything he had felt or ever would feel was written, somewhere, in the set of his lips and eyes and forehead, in the frown that seemed etched into him more deeply than he could ever shake.

His hand lowered; he held it for a moment over his leg, hesitating, and then shifted, and came to cover Tom’s hand with his own, carefully, his long fingers curling around and between the other man’s thin, freckled hand. It was a casual touch – light and nothing – and it was the sort of thing they’d never, really, been allowed to have. Never, Aremu thought, would be allowed to have, more likely than not. He took it, all the same, in the moment, though he thought they both knew the risks.

“I don’t think I understand,” Aremu said, slowly, looking at the other man. He felt himself frown, a little more, and he tried, consciously, not to hide it but to soften it, though he wasn’t sure he succeeded. “And I want to,” Aremu’s thumb stroked over the back of Tom’s hand, gentle and a little soft, and he found it a little easier to smile – or, at least, not to frown.

[Tom Cooke]

Hidden Underneath an Acacia Tree

Late Afternoon on the 38th of Loshis, 2720

W
hen he landed, it was with the same quick grace as he’d climbed.

It was steady as a cat, though unlike a cat, he’d won it with practice. There was practice in the tilt of his limbs, in the set of his feet, in the way he caught his balance without even losing it. His amel’iwe settled with a soft whisper of cloth, and only a single long leaf curled down from above, landing in the dirt nearby.

It’d happened so fast, he’d almost jolted. He stared at Aremu wide-eyed for a moment. He must’ve looked a mung, sitting there startled while Aremu got to his feet.

There’d been no warning, that he could remember. He couldn’t see as anything he’d said had made that tree any less attractive; more likely, he’d’ve thought Aremu’d climb higher. It was almost a funny thought, and he almost would’ve laughed, if it weren’t so damned sad. His mouth was hanging open, anyway, and he managed to shut it with a click of his teeth. His jaw was horribly tired from the clenching, he realized. He worked it and tried to loosen the muscles, but there was no helping it.

Aremu came closer, smelling of tree-bark and sap and leaves, and of himself. Which was the hardest of all; when he breathed in, it was all he could smell and all he could think of, and it made more tears well up in his eyes.

Aremu settled beside him, a soft weight on the bench. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled, an achingly familiar sound. He couldn’t bring himself to look. Aremu was covering his face with his hand, as if disappointed or ashamed.

The other man lowered his hand from his face, and – instinctively – he turned his head away, because the thought of Aremu looking at his own face just now was too much to bear.

He still couldn’t make much sense of what Aremu’d said. It was permission, he thought, a bizarre sort of permission to take – Tsofo? – as his lover. Why? And why had Aremu thought he’d still want him, even if he had? There’d been none of the sensitivity and eloquence he’d so admired in Tsofo, there; and the curiosity in his kind eyes had been as cold as steel.

Aremu’s hand covered his, warm and welcome, and to his surprise he found their fingers intertwined. It was –

Sweet, he thought, with a strange, giddy lurch. Anybody could’ve wandered through, and what would they have seen? But it was like something he dreamt of; it was like what other men had.

He blinked down at them together, Aremu’s long-fingered hand just a little larger than his, his own – his own, he thought strangely – skin very pale against the other man’s. Aremu’s thumb stroked over his skin, and he swallowed a lump. He thought to put his hand on top, to clasp it and withdraw, to call it a lovely moment and straighten up and leave it behind. But…

He left it there, and he sat still, listening.

Aremu was looking at him; he tried to ignore the prickle of eyes on him. He could see a soft frown, and then, as he went on, something like a smile in the corner of his eye. Pained in a way that made his heart ache, no less confused, but soft.

“What don’t you understand?” he asked, swallowing the lump and trying to enunciate. “He, uh – he doesn’t know what I used to be. If he guessed about us,” he murmured, “what he’d see… The way he looks at me, I mean, it makes me feel... And in front of you –”

I must embarrass you, he almost said, and bit down on it.

Don’t make me say it, he thought; why would you make me say what we both know? “I’m a very ugly man,” he said, a hoarse laugh slipping out. He tried to smile, to make light of it. He looked over, but his eyes couldn’t find Aremu’s; he found himself looking at the folds of his amel’iwe. “You know,” he added cheerfully, “I make up for it in other ways.” Somehow, he didn’t think it landed. “It’s not, uh – we don’t really speak of it – it’s nothing, hey?”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Afternoon, 38 Loshis, 2720
Beneath an acacia tree, Away’qexo College, Thul'Amat

He doesn’t know what I used to be, Tom said, and Aremu frowned a little. I wouldn’t, he wanted to say, have thought he did. Tsofo was an honorable man, he reminded himself. If Tom wanted him as a lover, wanted to tell him, that was his choice, too; he had the right to share whatever he liked of his own secrets with whomever he liked.

Don’t tell him, some small part of Aremu wanted to say, suddenly – don’t tell him. He couldn’t put his finger on why; he’d never had such feelings about Tsofo when he was younger. He tried, largely, not to think about him; his own naivete had been what was shameful about it, his belief in things he should have known he could never have. All the same, he didn’t like to think about it, and he didn’t, generally, think there was much need to.

Tom’s hand was beneath his; Aremu had thought, maybe, he’d pull away. He could have seen it, if he tried, a small, soft smile on Tom’s face – his hand turned over, briefly, maybe, or the other one come down to press Aremu’s, and then its absence. Tom left his hand there, and Aremu did too, and that little touch – even though they were off the path, hidden in the shade of the acacia tree – meant more than he could have said.

I’m a very ugly man, Tom said, suddenly.

Aremu fowned, looking at him; he opened his mouth, and shut it again. Tom made a croak like a laugh; his gaze slipped, down, to Aremu’s torso.

“We don’t – ” Aremu caught himself before he could repeat Tom’s words. He couldn’t have said how far apart that was from anything he’d thought about; he couldn’t, in a thousand years, in any Ever, have guessed what Tom might say.

Aremu looked down at his right arm, for a moment, down at the scarred wrist hidden beneath the sleeve of his shirt, the strap of his prosthetic held fast to it. He looked back at Tom, frowning still, deeper and stranger than he had before. He should leave it, he thought, uneasily; he couldn’t, and he knew he couldn’t.

“I don’t find you ugly,” Aremu said and he didn’t think it had been very long. He shifted a little, turning to look Tom directly in the face. “Tom, look at me, please,” Aremu said, quietly, waiting, his hand on the other man’s, gazing into his eyes in a way they never did in public – in a way, Aremu thought, facing the word, that made it very clear that they were lovers, if anyone were to see them.

“You don’t look like you did before,” Aremu said, still quiet, still steady, his thumb stroking over the back of Tom’s hand once more, “but you’re not ugly, or even unattractive. I like your hair; I’d braid it if I could, still,” his lips twitched, and he kept on, because he felt as if he’d only just realized this wasn’t about him, not really, and he didn’t want to make it so. “I like your freckles,” he said, evenly, with a little twitch of a smile.

“I’ve been afraid that talking about it would make you uncomfortable,” Aremu went on, steadily, still refusing to look away. “I’m,” his gaze flickered down towards his right wrist, but didn’t linger, returning to Tom’s face – Tom’s, he thought, whomever’s it had been before – and holding there, still, “I know a little of finding yourself changed, or I thought I did.”

“But,” Aremu swallowed through it, “I didn’t – I never thought – I didn’t know you took that silence for dislike. It’s not, Tom. It’s not,” he exhaled out, a little, carefully. He didn’t glance around; he should have, for he’d been focused on Tom, for he hadn’t looked – he leaned in, instead, and brushed his lips over the high sharp plane of one freckled cheek.

I don’t think, he wanted to say, that’s what Tsofo would see if he knew about us; he didn’t, quite, want to go that far. He didn’t want to think about what Tsofo would see; he didn’t want to think about Tsofo knowing. There it was again, he thought, uneasily, a strange sort of uncertainty; he put it aside, for now, and didn’t mention the other man, because this was about Tom, and no one else.