nderneath his fingertips – through all his bones – he felt the shudder go through Aremu; it could’ve been his own. It was his own.
He bowed his head, buried it in the shadows between them, but he didn’t have it in him to let go. Still, knowing what Aremu felt at his touch, he couldn’t. He wondered if it was weakness or strength, if it was want or if he was frozen in shame and fear, but his own soul was now like a book in a language he didn’t know. It was as if his soul had been replaced, too, to go with the body, and now there was nothing of him to know.
He couldn’t lift his head, not even when he felt Aremu’s lips in his hair. The other man was still trembling. Don’t, he wanted to protest. I won’t, not even if you kiss me again, no matter how badly I want it – not if you –
Aremu shifted out from underneath him, and Tom felt a momentary pulse of relief. He heard the shudder in his breath. But then he settled himself on the edge of the seat, and Tom felt one warm arm wrap round him. He didn’t think rightaway about which side Aremu was on, which arm it was. His eyes were still squeezed shut. Warm breath tickled his face, and he felt Aremu kiss his forehead gently.
A prickle of anger jolted through him – surprisingly sharp, for its brevity – and he wanted to hold up both his hands between his face and the imbala’s eyes, as if that would’ve helped anything. As if that was a man’s action.
I cannot offer you yourself, he said, as if he’d known how to finish the words Tom had started. Still, he couldn’t open his eyes, even as he felt Aremu’s palm warm against his cheek, even as he felt the press of his lips. Even as he offered them, as a mirror. Don’t you know I cover up mirrors? Don’t you know I can’t stand them?
Even when the other man drew away, Tom hung fair still, like he was perched on the edge of a precipice. Until he realized that Aremu had only one hand to cup his face, and the other arm was holding him. He felt the lines of the prosthetic’s harness against his back.
Tom’s eyes fluttered open, slowly. He was right; Aremu’s eyes were on him, on his face. But there were tears on his lashes, and Tom couldn’t bring himself to cover his face or push him away. It would’ve felt wrong. Just to be held, and to hold, Aremu said softly, and Tom nodded, ’cause he couldn’t speak just yet.
He looked down at the stranger’s hands in his lap, folded one on top of the other. He didn’t know what Aremu meant. If you don’t want them, then why – ?
He felt hot tears well up in his own eyes. His breath hitched once, twice, and he was gone, curled into Aremu and sobbing like a boch.
It took him a while to be done. He had needed to be held.
Somewhere in there, he had laid one of his hands on Aremu’s knee. As he ached out the last of his crying, drew in the last shuddering breaths, he squeezed it gently. “I’d like that, too.” He smiled up at Aremu, even with his puffy eyes; it was a brittle smile, but not a thin or a forced one. He studied the other man’s eyes, trying not to be afraid of what he saw in them.
“I’m not a stranger, am I?” he added, barely a whisper, his smile breaking with more tears. “Not really.”
He had to look away, but he disentangled his arm from Aremu and wrapped it round the other man’s back. To hold, he thought, and to be held; I can do that, with what I’ve got. I don’t know what it is I’ve got, but I know I’ve got an arm, same as you, and I can hold you.
It was some time before he spoke again. He wanted to speak, he was restless, but he couldn’t think what to say. Book vendors pushing armoires drifted in and out of his head; he thought of everything Aremu had told him about Thul Ka, about Thul’Amat, he thought of Aremu teaching him the word imbala before he knew anything of Mugrobi or imbali or even words. He thought to say something about any of it, and then realized, in the warm, comfortable silence, that it wasn’t Aremu’s turn anymore.
It hadn’t been for some time.
“My days,” he said softly, finally. “They’re spent in an office in Stainthorpe Hall, mostly, that grey hulk of a building off Kingsway, near the palace. It stays warm in the winter; it’s hot as hell in the summer. But my assistant, he’s set it up so we can order kofi in. From a Mugrobi place, though he won’t tell me where,” he added, smiling. “Don’t think he wants to run into the Incumbent there." He stroked Aremu's arm, then laughed softly, a deep humming rumble. “When my eyes’re too strained, I watch papers blow round the courtyard. My office is on the second floor, so it’s got a fine view of all the little redheads scurrying about the parliamentary buildings.
“Evenings…” He trailed off, wavering, and gestured toward the dark window, rattled with rain. Even now, there were a few books piled up on one side of the broad seat, and the cushions on the other were worn tellingly.
“What d’you make of all this, then?” He looked up at Aremu, and the smile he offered him this time wasn’t so brittle; it had a wry edge, a twist, and there was humor in the lines around his eyes. He quirked an eyebrow. “Won’t cott a kov,” he said softly, but he couldn’t quite say it this time, for bein’ honest. Instead, he reached to stroke Aremu’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, feather-light.