6: Broken Fortress (12 page)

“No, I glutted myself a while back. You go ahead.” Jath’ibaye flipped back the blankets of his bed. Kahlil watched as Jath’ibaye reached under his pillow and fished out a pair of russet long johns. Kahlil nibbled at the first strawberry while trying not to be caught ogling Jath’ibaye’s nakedness as he tossed the towel aside and pulled on the long johns. The fabric clung to the muscles of his thighs.

The berry was intensely sweet and tangy. He closed his eyes, and for the briefest moment, it seemed that he was back on Nayeshi. He remembered the first time he’d eaten a strawberry there. Unprepared for the brilliant taste, he’d been shocked at the way other people could simply toss them into their mouths and chew.
  

“These are so good.” He looked to Jath’ibaye, who had settled on the simple bed. “You could make a fortune selling these to the gaun’im, you know.”
 

“Actually, they seem to be something of an acquired taste, at least in Basawar. A lot of people think they’re too strong.” He stifled a yawn. “The fruit burns their mouths, apparently.”

“Pineapple would probably kill them.” Kahlil sat down in Jath’ibaye’s desk chair. He knew he should leave, but it seemed so natural to remain beside him. Kahlil shifted the yasi’halaun so that he could lean back into the chair more comfortably. He stretched out his legs in front of him.

“If I had just one jalapeño pepper I could bring them all to their knees,” Jath’ibaye muttered.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s all that’s holding you back.” Kahlil closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the chair.

“Are you going to sleep there?” Jath’ibaye asked.

Kahlil’s eyes popped open and he straightened. “No, I was just resting my eyes for a few minutes before I left.”

“There’s room on the bed,” Jath’ibaye said. “You can stay.”

“Things are already so complicated…” Kahlil said. “I should go back to my own room.” But he didn’t move.
 

“Stay,” Jath’ibaye said. His eyes were almost closed, his hands curled up close to his chest. He seemed disarmingly young, vulnerable, and human. He looked the way Kahlil remembered John looking years ago.
 

“It doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want. Just lie beside me, so that I can know you’re safe.”

“I’m the one who’s supposed to keep you safe,” Kahlil told him.

“All right,” Jath’ibaye agreed easily. “Stay and keep me safe. But just stay with me.”

Neither of them was the man the other remembered. They couldn’t be. Kahlil knew that. But gazing at Jath’ibaye now, he felt that they weren’t so different either.
 

Kahlil slung the yasi’halaun down off his back and laid it across Jath’ibaye’s desk. He removed his boots and coat, aware of Jath’ibaye watching his every move. He stripped to his underwear and guttered the lamps. Then he slid under the blankets, careful to keep to his side of the bed.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, every part of his body aware that Jath’ibaye rested just a few inches away.

It was torture. But he couldn’t bring himself to get up and leave.

It was strangely touching to think that Jath’ibaye could know him so well and still trust him so completely. There had been a time when one of Kahlil’s duties would have been to kill him. They both knew that but it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

That knowledge had kept Kahlil from ever becoming too close to John while they had lived together in Nayeshi. The inhibition remained with him even now, as memories of Ravishan and Jahn’s first night together in Nurjima flooded back to him. The smell of Jahn’s sweat, the heat of his hard, naked body and the taste of his skin churned through Kahlil’s thoughts. An aching desire pulsed through him. He yearned to reach across those few inches and touch John the way he had never allowed himself to while they lived together in their rented house on Indian Street.
 

Kahlil slid his hand across the bedding and lightly traced the line of Jath’ibaye’s shoulder. His fingers skimmed the thick mass of Jath’ibaye’s bicep. Hard muscle flexed beneath hot, delicate skin. Kahlil started to pull his hand back, but Jath’ibaye caught him in a firm grip. A moment later his soft mouth covered Kahlil’s.

Kahlil curled his hand around the back of Jath’ibaye’s neck, pulling him into a deeper, more desperate kiss. Desire eclipsed all other thought. They tore aside what little clothing they each wore and took their pleasure in the drive and rhythm that their bodies had never forgotten. And when they were done, exhausted and breathless, they slept in each other’s arms.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Kahlil didn’t want to wake up. He pressed his face deeper into the warm darkness of the blankets. Distantly, someone called to him. The voice broke and cut out like a bad radio signal. It was thin and desperate. Something white skittered through his sleeping mind.
 

Bones wired together with copper.
 

Kahlil awakened suddenly, tense and searching. Next to him, Jath’ibaye shifted.

“Don’t go,” Jath’ibaye whispered without quite waking up, his hand curled protectively over Kahlil’s stomach. Kahlil relaxed back into the bed. The first rays of morning sun streamed through the windows, filling the room with soft gold radiance. A restful quiet still reigned over the household and the courtyards below.
 

Kahlil ran his hand over Jath’ibaye’s.
 

Jath’ibaye’s fingers were callused and strong. The sprinkling of freckles beneath his fine blond body hair evoked summers long since past. Kahlil traced the line of Jath’ibaye’s sinewy muscles up from his tanned forearm and bicep to the curve of his pale shoulder.
 

Lying so close to him, Kahlil could see the faint blue shadows of veins and the kick of Jath’ibaye’s pulse in his throat. Gently, Kahlil ran his hand down over Jath’ibaye’s chest. The fine blond hairs tickled his palm. The raw, pink scars remaining from his fight with the hungry bones looked ugly—and reminded Kahlil of how readily Jath’ibaye threw himself into danger.
 

Kahlil pressed his palm against Jath’ibaye’s chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart.

Jath’ibaye sighed and curled his arm around Kahlil’s back. A brief smile lingered on his lips and then faded into an expression of serenity as he settled back into a doze.

 
As Kahlil watched, the scars marring Jath’ibaye’s chest seemed to fade away.

Kahlil slipped his hand beneath the blankets. His fingers brushed over the ridges of Jath’ibaye’s ribs. He felt the rise and fall of Jath’ibaye’s breath and the smooth hardness of his abdomen. The muscles curved down into a deep cleft. Kahlil followed it to Jath’ibaye’s belly button. His fingertip slid around the small circular indentation.

“Belly button,” Kahlil whispered the Nayeshi words. It sounded so absurd, almost childishly cute. A belly button had to be the absolute antithesis of the world-crushing Rifter. And yet he had one.

“That tickles,” Jath’ibaye murmured.

Kahlil glanced to Jath’ibaye’s face. His eyes were open now. Kahlil could feel the languid torpor of Jath’ibaye’s body giving way to attentive awareness. His skin felt just a little cooler. Kahlil wondered if he should pull away. Then Jath’ibaye smiled at him.

The expression was neither brilliant nor breathtaking. Kahlil doubted that many people would have found it alluring. Jath’ibaye’s smile was simply too pure. He radiated an innocent, unguarded happiness.
 

Kahlil bowed his head to kiss Jath’ibaye’s chest and felt the heat flush instantly through Jath’ibaye’s body. There was an exhilarating flattery in seeing how easily he could affect him.
 

Last night Kahlil had been too desperate to notice little things. He had mindlessly and ravenously taken his pleasure. But now in bright morning light he could see how Jath’ibaye watched him with open desire and devotion. Again the edge of jealously touched him. This adoration rightfully belonged to Ravishan, not to him. But then, Ravishan wasn’t here to claim Jath’ibaye. It was Kahlil’s turn to have a lover. This lover.

He brushed his lips over Jath’ibaye’s abdomen, taking in the tiny shivers of excitement that his attentions aroused. Then he kissed Jath’ibaye long and low—exalting in Jath’ibaye’s surprise and breathless joy. He took a private, almost profane pleasure in witnessing how just the flick of his tongue could move a god. After the taste of ecstasy spilled over his lips, Kahlil drew back expecting nothing. But Jath’ibaye drew him close and returned Kahlil’s attentions with a tenderness that left Kahlil dazed and sticky with spent pleasure.

For the first time he felt truly happy that he’d come back to this broken history—that he had survived to at last reach this moment.

Jath’ibaye settled down beside him.

“You know,” Jath’ibaye said softly, “you have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

Kahlil suddenly realized that he was smiling, grinning, in fact. He attempted to school his features into an expression of a little less arrogance but he doubted that he succeeded.

“It’s my Colgate smile,” he said.

Jath’ibaye’s expression went completely blank. Then he said, “That was from a toothpaste ad, right? God, I’d completely forgotten about the toothpastes of Nayeshi.”

“Not me. I have to admit I miss my minty-fresh gel.”

“Not so fond of our Basawar gum-scouring grit?” Jath’ibaye teased.

“Not so much.”

Beside him Jath’ibaye stretched, his expression thoughtful but for once not concerned.

“It’s been so long since I even thought of those days. It’s strange to have someone here who can remember it all—ramen noodles, BBC nature documentaries, The Cubs, cats.”

“I know,” Kahlil said. “You’re the only one who could possibly understand what I meant if I admitted to missing cheap gas station nachos.”

“I miss salsa,” Jath’ibaye said. “About four years back I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. I even tried to breed a hot pepper from blister-blossom.”

“I can’t imagine that went well,” Kahlil said. Not only did the plant’s flowers cause a rash of blisters, it stank.

“All the pain, none of the flavor. Ji finally forced me to stop. She thought I was trying to kill myself.” Jath’ibaye paused for a long moment, then said, “It must have been lonely for you. In Nayeshi, I mean.”

Kahlil smoothed a hand down Jath’ibaye’s chest, not wanting to answer his implicit question. Of course he had been lonely. But he’d always had John to watch over. He had always felt the connection of their bond.

Aloud he said, “Not really. I used to come out of the Gray Space and sit in your mother’s sewing room to eavesdrop on your family’s dinner conversations. Sometimes I’d sleep under your bed.”

“Really?” Jath’ibaye asked. “That’s a little creepy, isn’t it?”

“Just during the day when you were gone,” Kahlil said quickly. “Your baby brother saw me once though. I told him I was a ghost.”

Jath’ibaye laughed.
 

“I was the mysterious cereal eater as well,” Kahlil confessed.

“I knew we didn’t have rats. There were never any droppings.” Jath’ibaye absently stroked Kahlil’s hair. “I don’t believe you weren’t lonely, though. You love to talk, even to strangers.”

 
“Oh, I talked to plenty of strangers.” Kahlil kept his tone light. He rarely allowed himself to think back on the isolation of those first years watching John. “But I’ll admit that it was hard for me not be able to talk to you. Especially after your family disowned you. I wanted to find a way tell you that I was proud of you but I couldn’t. You didn’t know me. Then, about a week after that, you kicked Bill out and placed that ad for a new roommate. I took it as a sign from Parfir and I answered.”

“I remember…” Jath’ibaye squinted up at the ceiling. “I think you were the only person who did.”

“Well…” Sudden guilt moved through Kahlil, and he said, “That’s not exactly true. A lot of other people wanted the room, so I erased their messages and emails and then showed up with cash in hand on the day rent was due.”

“You erased my messages?” Jath’ibaye raised his brows.

“I knew you wouldn’t choose a knife-wielding freak if you had other options,” Kahlil admitted sheepishly. “Are you angry?”

“What? Now? No, I’m actually impressed with your ingenuity. It’s not like you to leave anything important to chance,” Jath’ibaye said, then added, “I’m sorry I described you as knife-wielding freak.”