remu was smiling; his own smile broadened, though it was no less sheepish.
It still seemed to him uncertain footing. There was no need to say, Love, I’m a whoreson who grew up in the gutters. They’d both known that for some time, and somehow he thought Aremu would object to the phrasing. He supposed he objected to a handful of Aremu’s phrasings, so it was only fair.
The smile still surprised him. He’d expected, wading deeper into the water, to step off one stone and find nothing underfoot. To slip and get whisked away by the current, dashed on the rocks somewhere. It was – at least – no longer that he thought himself unworthy of an educated, worldly man: what Aremu saw in him he didn’t know, but he thought there was worldliness in him Aremu admired, too.
But it still felt strange to speak of. Full of surprises, maybe, and differences. “I stole wallets for a living at nine” had seemed damned coarse, for all he couldn’t’ve thought of any way to talk around it, for all Aremu had smiled tenderly, as if to – encourage him.
Aremu was shifting, it seemed to him, uncomfortably. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then hesitated, and Tom’s heart gave a tiny lurch. The other man was looking down at his bowl.
When he did speak a moment later, meeting his eye, it took him by surprise. I didn’t know you had a brother, he wanted to say.
Tutored at home, Aremu said, thoughtfully but matter-of-factly; he expected to feel a prickle of self-consciousness, but he couldn’t seem to. If it was hard for him to imagine, he tried anyway.
A brother, a little older; he found himself picturing Aremu, but – wrapped in white like an arata, teaching, maybe, at Thul’amat, or working as an official somewhere. And the both of them as boys, richly-dressed, in some –
He found himself picturing the Vauquelin house, even though he tried hard to shake the image off. A somber-looking lad with Aremu’s thoughtful eyes climbing the spiral staircase up to the study, or to his brother’s room, with none of the joy he climbed cliffs or trees. Except he pictured everything white, polished-white calypt, and the river-breeze almost made him shiver.
Aremu had paused, as if something had got stuck. He went on, looking up at him and finding a smile. He knew the shape of that smile, like he knew the shape of the name Aremu didn’t say.
He smiled back, warmly. “Yes,” he said softly, “you did.” The tenderness was almost unbearable; he couldn't think what was in his eyes, couldn't bear to.
He looked down, then wiped his hands off and reached for his tea. “My brother –” He went on, “His name is Clark. We were – when we were boys, we were close. He was sickly, then. I remember him gentle and kind,” and he took a sip of tea, thinking for a moment, “maybe too much so for the Rose. He got work at the docks, last I heard; a good man.”
The moon had been a vague glow on the horizon; now, it poked its pale head up, and the ripples on the river were silvery. The river-bugs were loud.
“I didn’t have much fami by blood.” He smiled. “But you know, Dee –”
He paused, more out of surprise than hesitation. He’d mentioned her once or twice, he thought, telling her stories; he’d never actually… “Deirdre was one of the women I grew up with. All of them raised me, but her – I don’t share a whit of blood with her, especially not now. But I’d wager there’s more of her in me than blood could give, and I’m grateful, too.”