by A. J. Demas
“Terza’s co—ghh—” He swallowed the oath awkwardly.
“Goose,” Remi finished.
“Yes,” said Damiskos manfully, still standing with one hand braced on the table, while Selene made hissing, flapping lunges at him from the floor.
“Remi—” Varazda began, aware that Yazata was giggling behind his hand.
“Are you scared of gooses?” Remi asked solicitously.
“You know,” said Damiskos, “I think I may be, a little. But it’s—very pretty. What’s its name?”
“Selene. She will be your friend.”
“Can you take her outside now, love?” Varazda suggested. “I don’t think she’s ready to be Dami’s friend yet.”
“Come, Selene.” Remi managed to gather up the enraged goose, who was deeply attached to her and would never have bitten her, and carry her back out into the yard.
“Well,” said Damiskos, sitting down again. “That was exciting.”
The labash was absurdly spicy. Varazda added huge scoops of sour cream to his bowl. Yazata began talking about religion.
Varazda couldn’t sleep. He lay looking up at the moonlit ceiling of his room and listening to the soft sounds of the night and wondering whether this had all been a mistake.
After his initial blunder, Varazda had been so careful to tread lightly as the day of Dami’s arrival had neared. He knew Yazata feared any change in their routine, or even the slightest suggestion that his own security might be at stake, that he might be displaced by someone new. Varazda had deliberately avoided talking too much about his lover, keeping his own excitement on a short rein, lest it alarm Yazata further. He was grateful for how well Yazata seemed to have adapted to the idea of a man in the house, given how Yazata felt about men in general. Yazata’s early years had been spent in a household headed by a violent tyrant, and he’d been left with a deep distrust of men. Varazda had known that.
So he’d made sure that Damiskos could be accommodated with the minimum of disruption; the new room was out of everyone’s way, no one was being displaced even a little bit, and it was quite true that he had always intended to renovate that room one day anyway.
And now here they were, and Dami was so obviously trying. He wasn’t getting anything wrong, either. He didn’t try to speak Zashian when Yazata spoke Pseuchaian to him—at the dinner table, he’d dipped into the language only because Remi and Varazda had already been speaking it—and he’d been incredibly polite about the spicy labash, allowing Yazata to explain its ingredients and history to him even though it was clear he was already familiar with it.
Even the discussion of religion had gone remarkably well. Damiskos had listened politely, hadn’t got offended, hadn’t asked stupid questions or tried to change the subject. It was really the best that could have been hoped for. Still Varazda had felt his anger mounting through the whole thing. He couldn’t vent it on Yazata, but that felt increasingly unfair. It had been so obvious that Yazata was trying, as much as his gentle nature would let him, to make Dami uncomfortable.
I don’t want him to be uncomfortable here. I want my home to be a haven for him, the way it is for the rest of us. I want him to escape his unhappiness here; I want to take care of him.
And that was something of a revelation. When had this become so important to him? It hadn’t started out this way. He wasn’t even sure if he had felt this way when he left Laothalia. Maybe it was a desire that had grown in his heart since then.
Maybe he had fastened on this as a hedge against his doubt that he would ever be an adequate lover.
Dinner had ended in profound awkwardness. Remi had got to the stage of tiredness where she began banging spoons on the kitchen floor, and Yazata had shown no sign of intending to put her to bed, instead getting up and ostentatiously beginning to wash dishes. Varazda, finally out of patience, had stalked out to the yard to retrieve the sheets for Dami’s bed. Remi had “helped” as he remade the bed, and when they were finally done, Damiskos had taken the hint and retired meekly for the night, leaving Varazda free to scoop Remi up and take her upstairs.
Of course, he didn’t want Yazata to be uncomfortable either. This was Yazata’s home, his haven, and Varazda loved him. He couldn’t hurt Yazata on purpose—hadn’t thought that this was going to hurt him. Maybe he was asking too much, of everyone.
He tossed aside the covers and swung his legs out of bed. He was wearing pyjama trousers with no shirt because the night was warm, and also because the room was such a mess that he had not been able to locate a shirt. He raked his hands through his hair and got up.
Lighting a lamp, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen. He got down a wine cup and found an open bottle in the pantry. In the sitting room he hung his lamp on a stand and pushed open the doors to the terrace to stand leaning against the doorpost with his cup of wine, looking up at the night sky visible above the roofs of his neighbours’ houses.
At a soft sound, he looked back over his shoulder toward the door to Dami’s room. Dami stood on the threshold, looking out.
He looked like he had been asleep; his curls were a little tousled, and he squinted in the lamplight. He was wearing the trousers of the pyjamas Varazda had left for him in the room—blue cotton, with a simple woven pattern—also without a shirt.
At any time Damiskos was a good-looking man, with an easy, rough-edged beauty that scars and greying hair complicated but couldn’t mar. Standing in Varazda’s house bare-chested and wearing trousers, low-slung on his trim hips, he was a sight Varazda could happily have looked at all night. Those shoulders and arms, that chest—he wasn’t overbuilt, his muscles compact and functional, but there was still somehow a lot of him. And that dark hair, spreading in a light fuzz over his chest, thickening to a trail over his belly that vanished inside the pyjama trousers. Varazda raised his eyes to Dami’s face again and got one of those wry, adorable smiles.
“I hope the light didn’t wake you.” He looked coyly up through his lashes.
“No,” said Damiskos gravely. “I—er, can’t sleep.” He put his fist to his breastbone. “Indigestion.”
Chapter 3
“Oh, God,” Varazda groaned. “You ate that entire bowl of labash. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m fairly sure you didn’t put him up to it,” said Damiskos.
“God, no.”
“And it was very good—I’d’ve enjoyed it if I hadn’t already eaten all that greasy … You know what, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Varazda waved a hand. “Right, no. What’s good for indigestion?” He recalled Yazata making some sort of tea for Tash once. “Ginger, isn’t it? We have some of that.” He’d found a big, useless lump of it when he was looking for something to feed Remi that afternoon.
“Yes, that would help.”
What did you do with it, though? Boiled it in a pot of water? Surely he could manage that without having to wake Yazata.
They stood there a moment longer, each in his own doorway.
“I don’t think wine helps,” said Damiskos into the silence.
“Hm?” Varazda glanced down at the cup he had forgotten he was holding.
“With indigestion.”
“Oh. No, I’m not—it’s not that. I just couldn’t sleep.”
“Right. Well, it does help with that.”
“It does.”
They stood a moment longer. Several moments, really.
“There’s no chance that ferocious goose is going to come in, is there?” Dami gestured to the open door.
“No, she sleeps outside with the chickens. There’s a gate.” Which he hoped Remi had closed for the night.
Finally Damiskos said, “It’s hard, isn’t it? Picking up where we left off.”
“I don’t know if I remember exactly where we left off,” Varazda admitted.
He moved finally toward the kitchen, taking the lamp from its stand. Damiskos followed him. The kitchen tiles were cool underfoot. Varazda set his wine cup on the workbench and lit another lamp. H
e rooted in the pantry for the ginger he had seen earlier.
He felt hyperaware of every movement—where he put his hands, how he knelt and stood, how his hair slithered over his bare back. He had been used to moving with deliberate grace, for almost as long as he could remember. He had been pretty as a child, and as an adult was striking—to some eyes more than that—and knew how to make the most of it. This was different. This was Dami, who had conceived that Varazda might have desires and thought that mattered, who had told Varazda he was beautiful and then said, “You don’t owe me anything for thinking that.”
Damiskos, he saw to his surprise when he turned around with the ginger in hand, was building a fire on the stove.
“You know how to cook?”
Dami shot him a look. “Sure. Over a campfire—but the basics are the same.”
“Are they.”
So Varazda stood in his own kitchen, one hip propped against the table, and watched Damiskos make ginger tea for himself.
“I think I know what you mean,” Damiskos said. He stood with his arms folded over his chest, watching the slices of ginger bob around in the boiling water. “About not knowing where we left off. It all happened very fast—it’s hard to know … why things went the way they did.”
“I’m sure there is some lyric poet who could fill us in.”
Damiskos laughed—he had a low, gorgeous chuckle that always seemed to hit Varazda right in the pit of his stomach.
“I meant,” Varazda admitted, “not knowing where we were in terms of, well, how these things usually go.”
“Oh. Right.” Dami seemed not to find this disconcerting or ridiculous—rather the opposite. “Well, we had what you might call a fling at Laothalia, in that we went to bed together without knowing each other particularly well.” He stirred the pot of tea unnecessarily. “And without the expectation that we’d have much time to spend together. But I think you know I’d already fallen hard for you before that first night in your room.” He looked up at Varazda, sidelong.
“I’ve had men tell me that before,” Varazda said slowly. His throat felt constricted. “That they were in love with me. ‘Your beauty has pierced my heart, I have caught my death from your eyes,’ and … so on. And I have felt nothing. Just—nothing.” He hurried on because he saw Damiskos beginning to wince apologetically. “But when you say that—and I like the way you put it much better, by the way—I feel as if I finally understand how it works. As if when they said it, it was just noises, but yours—yours has a tune.”
He had to stop speaking then and swallow down the lump in his throat. For him to start crying at this point would be not only wildly out of character but apt to send Dami into a spiral of guilt and apology. He was so sensitive.
He was watching Varazda carefully, but after a moment he said lightly, “I would never say, ‘You stabbed me with your eyes’ or whatever.”
Varazda snorted. “No, you wouldn’t. I know. You made such a point of telling me I’d made you happy.”
It wasn’t really something to be spoken of lightly; it had meant the world to Varazda, had maybe changed something in his heart for the better. But Dami was trying to help him keep from crying by making a joke, and Varazda didn’t want his effort to be in vain.
“Do you want honey?” Varazda pushed himself away from the counter. “I know we have some honey. I was looking desperately for something to feed Remi after Yazata went out unexpectedly … Here it is. Yes, well, anyway, I know exactly what we have in the kitchen as a result—it wasn’t much, at the time, so we had to do some shopping, which I also wasn’t expecting … ”
Now he was babbling, which was foolish and needless. Damiskos was supposed to be the anxious, inarticulate one.
“I’m sorry about Yazata,” Varazda said, as Dami drizzled honey into his cup.
Dami made a noncommittal sound. “He doesn’t seem to have warmed to me,” he said diplomatically. “But I’m not offended.”
“He doesn’t like change,” said Varazda. “And he doesn’t like, well, talking about things directly.”
“That’s … not uncommon,” said Damiskos, and Varazda had the impression it wasn’t what he had been about to say. Dami picked up his cup and blew on the surface of the tea. “I hope he and I can get to know one another better.”
“Let’s go sit down.” Varazda gestured toward the sitting room.
They settled side-by-side on a divan, Varazda with his wine cup, Damiskos cradling his ginger tea. Varazda was pleased to see Dami take the corner seat where he could stretch out his legs; he had rearranged the divans with exactly this in mind.
“For what it’s worth,” Varazda said, “I doubt it’s you personally that Yazata objects to. I think it’s partly that he’s upset with me. He’s been on edge ever since he realized … Well. I wasn’t especially direct myself, when I told Yazata about you. But I have no experience in this area.”
“Mm. What did you say?”
Varazda sighed. “I told them both the whole story—well. I told Yazata the whole story. Tash doesn’t know the truth about my work, and didn’t know quite what I was doing at Nione’s villa. So I told two versions of the story: one for both of them when I first came home, and another for Yazata later, with more accurate details. Of course I talked about you in both versions. I just didn’t, in my first account, mention that we’d slept together.”
“As one doesn’t.”
“Oh.” That brought him up short. “One doesn’t?”
“I mean … ” Damiskos sipped his tea and shrugged. “One can. It depends on your audience. I suppose with your family, you shouldn’t keep secrets. But, you know, it’s not always everyone’s business. If I were giving an account of a campaign, for instance, I wouldn’t stop to mention that my standard-bearer gave me a blow-job on the night before an engagement. It wouldn’t seem relevant. Not to mention that it would be no one’s business but mine and the standard-bearer’s.”
“I see.” He couldn’t help asking, “Was that a hypothetical example, or was there an actual standard-bearer?”
Damiskos looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he had to consider the question. “There was an actual standard-bearer, but there was no actual blow-job. It was … something else.”
“Ah.” Varazda was half-intrigued, half-fearful. He both wanted and didn’t want to know more about what Damiskos liked in bed.
“It wasn’t within the last month,” Damiskos added quickly.
“What? Oh! Goodness. No, of course not. I know that. I mean … ”
What, by all the angels of the Almighty, did he mean? That the thought of Damiskos sleeping with other people had never even occurred to him? Because that was true. But it was, he realized belatedly, probably not flattering to Damiskos.
Also, now that it had occurred to him, it brought with it a whole flood of unanswerable questions. Did he want to? Would he want to, eventually? Did Varazda want him to? Actually, that one wasn’t unanswerable.
“Anyway,” said Damiskos, after taking a rather large swallow of tea, “you were saying?”
“Was I? Oh. Yes. So I’d told them about you, to an extent. And I thought, honestly, that they realized we were lovers. You know how Zashians are—we say a lot of things without really saying them, and I thought I’d ‘said’ that there was something between you and me. But apparently the idea was so far-fetched that it never crossed their minds.”
Dami gave a huff of disbelief that Varazda found absurdly flattering.
“Well, Yazata was upset, and, you know, I understand that. It was a blunder on my part. I should have known I wasn’t preparing him well enough. I tried to make up for it—I tried not to alarm him further, but I can see I didn’t do a good enough job of it.” He shook himself. “Ah, well. My fault.”
“What about Tash?” Dami asked.
“Tash… well, Tash is very young. And not very Zashian. He has no trouble being direct. I didn’t know this, but apparently for two men in their thirties—not that we’re both men, but
that’s a whole other subject—but for two men our age to be lovers is … not fashionable? I don’t know. Tash described it as ‘social suicide.’ What that means, exactly, or why he thinks it’s something I’d care about, is quite beyond me.”
“Indeed.”
“Nevertheless. Somehow it affected me. And I … ” He covered his face in his hands and drew a deep breath and said, “I was already feeling pretty unloveable.” He looked over his fingers. “Don’t say anything. That wasn’t a plea for reassurance, or for compliments. It’s just the truth. It’s not very easy for me to say things like that—I’m about nine-tenths pride, and the rest is nerves. It’s not a very loveable combination.”
Damiskos sipped his tea and shrugged expressively.
“What?”
“You told me not to say anything.”
Varazda made a noise of exasperation. “What would you have said?”
“‘I don’t know about that.’” He sipped his tea again. “It works for me.”
Varazda dissolved into laughter. He felt as if he might slide off the divan onto the floor like a silk coat.
“Look,” said Damiskos, leaning forward to put his empty cup on the table, “obviously I don’t agree—I find you very loveable. But I understand why … no, I mean I’m not surprised … no, that sounds insulting, and it’s not really true either. Terza’s head. What I’m trying to say is, you ought not to feel unloveable, but, if you do, there’s no shame in it. And if you do want to be reassured every so often, you know, that is something that people who love one another do. You’ve done it for me. If we were keeping score, you’d have a substantial lead in that contest.” After a moment, with a mock-serious expression, he added, “We’re not. It doesn’t work like that. Just to be clear.”
“Thank you. Are you feeling better?”
Damiskos rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand. “Much better. The ginger helped. I think I should sit up a while longer, though.”
