by Lyn Gala
“And if it goes poorly?” Robert demanded.
Shan considered the man. These people had a right to the truth, but that didn’t mean that telling them would do any good. Shan only hoped that the councils chose to call town meetings quickly. “We’re desert people, Robert. Do you ask the desert what would happen if things went poorly?”
Shan kept his voice soft even if the words were harsh. These people lived with death, knew it intimately. The children with their cards were old enough to know the planet was dying, the towns were dying. They’d probably seen some animal ripped apart on the desert. Going up to the rocks and searching the sand for the long, threaded trails that meant sandrats were tunneling under the sand was a childhood tradition. And when you had sandrats, you had hawks trying to grab a meal and rats trying to use sheer numbers to pull down hawks. Life wasn’t easy, and if things went poorly, something died. That was understood by every child older than six.
Facia turned and caught Robert’s arm, and the others shifted uncomfortably; however, Shan didn’t want them afraid. This could be the answer to their prayers. It could be the return of water to Livre and the finishing of the terraforming. The desert would always rule most of the planet, but with enough water and enough resources and enough valleys, they could run a sustaining ecosystem.
“The better question is what will happen if it goes well,” Shan said. Reaching out, he rested his hand on Facia’s shoulder. “Truly, this is something only the council can share, but this could be good news.”
“Had Ben hidden more water?” Targ Villanova called from near the back of the crowd.
“I can’t say,” Shan said. “I am truly sorry, but I cannot tell anyone council business. I have to head back to the relay early, so I should head to bed, but as soon as the council shares, I will answer any questions I can. I promise.” Shan didn’t tell them that he doubted he would be on the planet when the news broke. “Good night.” Making sure the bike was settled on its stand, Shan headed for the house. Cyla was still there, leaning on a post as she watched him.
Shan climbed the stairs up to the porch. “Evening,” he offered politely. If he and Temar did marry, Cyla would be his sister, so it did seem wise to keep the peace.
“Temar knows, doesn’t he?” Cyla asked quietly while she watched the others as they broke up into little knots of conversation.
“Yes,” Shan agreed, “he does.”
Cyla looked at him. “And you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
Shan sighed. He didn’t want to add to her pain, but he couldn’t give her answers, either. “No, I’m not.” He walked quickly into the house. His guts were already in knots; he didn’t need to add more conflict to the mess. The bedrooms were upstairs, but Shan realized that he didn’t know which Temar used.
“Temar?” he called at the top of the stairs.
“You can have the slosh stall after me,” Temar yelled back, his voice muffled through the closed door of the bathroom. At the third door, Shan found the room with the unmistakable signs of Temar. The bed covering was a complex swirl of blues and grays with a white thread edging, and a series of vivid green copper-glass bowls sat on a shelf. Going over to the shelf, he ran a finger along an edge. These were nice, but a beginner had made them. The lip thinned and widened randomly. Shan wondered if Temar had made these. School gave everyone a chance to try each of the trades, but Shan’s own week of glassblowing had produced nothing more than a colorful collection of broken shards and bulbous shapes that had no actual purpose. He’d been useless.
Shan ran his hand along the smooth glass and picked the largest bowl up. It felt balanced in his hands, but tiny air bubbles traveled just under the surface. If this was Temar’s work, he’d learned glass faster than anyone Shan had seen. Despite the flaws, the work was balanced and beautiful. Shan had visited the Temar home after Erqu Gazer died, and he couldn’t remember any of this displayed in the home.
“I made it.”
Shan turned around and Temar stood there, his skin still pink from having been scrubbed clean, and a pair of sleep pants hanging low around the waist.
“I figured you had. In school?”
Temar nodded.
“You’re good.”
Temar came over and took the bowl out of Shan’s hands. “It’s flawed. Anyone who sold it would be lucky to get the cost of the materials out of it.”
“That’s not true,” Shan said. Temar looked over in disbelief. “Okay, it is flawed,” Shan amended himself, “however, it’s still a beautiful and well-balanced piece, and it would bring a fair price. I’m impressed you could do something so difficult in a school class. I never made anything good enough to hold water long enough to get it from a faucet to a mouth.”
Temar smiled, but he kept clutching the bowl, and Shan knew there was something there under the surface, something Temar wasn’t sharing. It made his heart hurt to know that Temar wasn’t comfortable sharing.
“The slosh stall is open. I left a pair of sleep pants for you. They’re my largest, but they may come up a little short on the leg.” Temar put the bowl back on the shelf and turned to the window. Shan reached out, wanting to touch Temar’s shoulder, but something stopped him. He remembered the way Temar had pushed him away, the tears and the raw pain that had poured out when he’d offered comfort. Pulling his hand back, he turned and headed into the bathroom.
Pouring a measure of water into the bucket, Shan took the cup and poured it over his shoulders before smoothing the cleaning sands over his skin. The fact was that he didn’t want to go up into space. Now that he’d had more time to think on it, he really had no business taking Temar up. The man had strength that Shan couldn’t even imagine. However, he wasn’t indestructible. And yet he’d rushed right ahead and volunteered.
Most of the time, Shan couldn’t understand the people who had first settled Livre. He didn’t understand their need for metal walls or their disgust at the sight of a hawk feeding or even their obsessive need to always talk to each other. In those first generations, every single one of them had carried communications devices, and Shan had never understood that. Did they every accomplish anything with their constant need to talk about everything? However, right now, he knew one thing… he’d give a lot to be able to pick up one of those personal communicators and call Div and ask him for his advice.
Shan used the cup to pour the lukewarm water over himself, rinsing off the soap before he used his hands to brush off the excess water, so it would go down the drain and get back into the cycle system. With the sun down, the planet cooled quickly, and the chill started to settle into the house. Shan was shivering before he had swept enough of the water clear of his body to open the sealed door of the slosh stall. Grabbing for the sleep pants, he pulled them on, the last traces of moisture making the fabric cling to his legs. Their ancestors used towels. Shan had read about that in one of the journals he’d found. They’d actually used fabric to dry themselves and then let the dry air leech the moisture out of the fabric.
It was such a small difference, but the horror Shan felt at the idea of wasting that much water left him nauseous. How were they supposed to talk to people when their cultures had slipped away from each other in so many ways? And how was he supposed to take Temar into space when a touch could pull all the pain out of him so easily?
There weren’t good answers, and Shan’s brain circled the pipe trap, unable to find any answers.
And he wasn’t going to find any tonight. Shan headed back into Temar’s bedroom. Temar stood at the window, looking out. “They’re all still talking, trying to figure out what’s going on with the council,” he said. The window faced the rock wall, but Temar was standing at the edge of the window, leaning out so he could watch a sliver of the yard.
“They’ll never guess,” Shan said as he moved closer. He stopped a foot away, not sure what to do. He’d gone from waiting, to being Temar’s lover, to making Temar cry. He felt a little awkward.
Temar looked at him and frow
ned. “Shan?” he asked, holding out a hand to invite Shan to step closer. Shan did. He took Temar’s hand in his and moved until he brushed against Temar’s arm, close enough to touch without crowding.
“Temar, I don’t want to hurt you,” Shan said gently. He felt like some awkward teenager trying to hold someone else’s newborn baby, like one wrong touch would do irreparable harm.
Temar tightened his fingers around Shan’s hand. “You don’t hurt me. You’ve never hurt me.”
Given how their last encountered ended, Shan might have debated that. “I can wait,” he promised. “I honestly don’t mind.”
“I do,” Temar said firmly, showing more of that firm resolve that Shan admired. The problem was that he wasn’t sure how deep the resolve went and when he might trigger that raw pain that hid inside Temar. If Ben wasn’t already dead, Shan would have considered going out in the hauler with Naite to watch the son of a bitch die in the desert.
Temar sighed. Maybe he could read the doubt in Shan’s face. “When you touch me, it chases away the ghosts. Promise.”
“But….” Shan stopped. He didn’t want to push Temar to talk about last night, but he didn’t want to ignore the problem. Feeling Temar pushing him away and then crying… it had ripped at Shan’s heart.
Temar angled his body so he faced Shan and raised his hand to rest against Shan’s chest.
“I lost control of the feelings for a second—that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.” Temar’s voice was so soft Shan could barely hear it.
“I know that. I’ve never doubted that,” Shan said. “Sometimes I wonder what you see in me, but I’ve grown used to the idea that you have flawed judgment.”
Temar gave a snort of laughter as the mood in the entire room shifted, and Shan smiled at having offered that small comfort. Shan waited as Temar seemed to gather his thoughts. Sometimes silence was a better counselor than words.
“You trust me at your back,” Temar said, his voice not quite a question, but not quite sure, either.
“Always,” Shan agreed. “You had every right to give up, and you kept fighting. I trust you as much as I trust that idiot brother of mine, and I like you a whole lot more.”
Temar’s smile grew sad. “You trust me more than I trust myself.”
Shan sucked in a breath, shocked at that confession, and this did feel like a confession to him. He just wasn’t sure if Temar wanted his absolution or God’s. As far as Shan was concerned, Temar had no sins to confess in this. “You did more than I would have in the situation. You survived better,” Shan promised, and it was true. He had his own scars, and he hadn’t dealt with nearly as much pain as Temar had.
“Did I?” Temar turned back to the window. “I don’t want to remember his touch, but—”
Shan stood still, afraid that one move could unbalance something that he couldn’t understand. After a second, he could feel Temar’s muscle ripple, like a goat shivering off an unwanted touch, and he pulled back. However, Temar turned again, and caught Shan’s hand and pressed it up against his own bare chest. “I love the feel of you. I love that we can touch.”
“But sometimes the memories push in?” Shan guessed. Temar dropped his gaze to the ground, but he kept holding Shan’s hand to his chest.
When his answer came, it was so soft Shan wasn’t sure he heard right. “I don’t know how to push them away.”
Shan wished he had some wisdom, but he didn’t. He suspected Naite would have an answer, but he doubted it would be a good one, seeing as how his brother never had handled relationships well. “Give yourself some time.”
Temar gave a half sob and moved closer until he leaned into Shan, his arms going around Shan. “I’ve had three months, which is longer than I was with Ben.”
“And if you need three more years, that’s okay,” Shan promised, returning the hug gently. He slowly tightened his arms, ordering himself not to treat Temar like some breakable object. That had caused their problem in the first place.
“I’m tired of being alone.”
“I didn’t say you had to be alone while you waited. I’ll wait with you. And if my touch chases away ghosts, then it sounds like that’s the place to start. We can just touch.”
Temar leaned back a little so he could look Shan in the face. “Either you’re the most patient man in the world or you’re not actually all that interested in sleeping with me, because if someone told me I had to wait three years between the touching and the sex, I’d be unhappy.”
Shan laughed. “Yes, but you weren’t a priest. Priests are highly skilled and well-practiced with waiting. My right hand and I have a long, deeply committed relationship that I’m happy to continue until you’re back on the market.”
Temar’s smile finally reached his eyes, the corners crinkling.
“You’re insane.”
“Yes, but don’t tell anyone. Oh, and don’t tell them about the hand thing, because people are entirely too willing to believe a priest somehow isn’t human and doesn’t have a need for some sort of sexual relationship, even if it’s with a hand.”
Temar tilted his head as though he had to study Shan to come up with an answer for that. “Deal,” Temar finally promised.
“So, bed?” Shan asked.
“Bed.”
Urging Temar toward the bed, Shan turned to get the light. Bedsprings creaked as Temar climbed in, and Shan followed once the lights were off. Without hesitation, Temar moved in, his arm resting across Shan’s chest as he placed a kiss on Shan’s jaw.
“Good night,” Temar whispered, and then he shifted a bit, settling in next to Shan.
“Good night,” Shan answered. His cock gave an experimental little twinge, but a quick thought of Ben settled it down as Shan closed his eyes to sleep.
Chapter 11
SHAN woke to a hand trailing down his chest. He brought his hand up and braced it on Temar’s forearm, blinking to chase the sleep from his eyes.
“Temar, are you—”
“Shhh,” Temar said, his hand running down over Shan’s stomach to tease at the waist of his sleep pants, and every word in Shan’s brain skittered away like sandrats when a hawk appears in the sky. Temar shifted closer, his lips pressing against Shan’s as he kissed him, gently at first and then with more passion. Shan parted his lips, and Temar sucked on Shan’s lower lip, running teeth along it. Forgetting his fears, Shan tilted his head and kissed back, hungrily, fiercely. His cock ached already, and he could feel Temar’s hardness pressing against his thigh.
Shan made a strangled noise as Temar cupped his cock, pressing just hard enough to make Shan’s whole body tremble.
Temar turned to Shan’s neck, tasting the skin before running his teeth over it. “Oh God,” Shan gasped as Temar’s hand moved back up his body, stroking his sweat-damp skin. Shan wasn’t even sure when he’d started sweating, but he radiated heat, and his muscles tightened as his still half-asleep body shifted immediately into the heat of desire.
“Is that a good ‘Oh God’?” Temar asked before sucking at Shan’s earlobe.
“Yes,” Shan said. He tried to clear his brain enough to reciprocate. He ran his hand over Temar’s shoulders. The weight Temar had lost recently emphasized the wiry muscles under the skin, and Shan traced one, soaking up the warmth Temar was shedding.
Temar kissed his way down to Shan’s collarbone, his fingers running over Shan’s shoulders as he squirmed. His thigh pressed into Shan’s cock, and Shan threw his head back and moaned, determined not to come in his sleep pants like a teenager. When Shan tilted his head back down to look at Temar, Temar had a feral smile.
“With age comes control, but not that much control,” Shan warned, his breath coming in hungry gasps. Warm hands returned to Shan’s chest, stroking up his sides before Temar focused on Shan’s nipples, pulling at them gently while watching with dark eyes.
Shan lost control and thrust up into Temar’s body, his need overcoming his pride. He didn’t care if he came prematurely at this point. Temar lower
ed himself so that he was lying on Shan, pressing him down into the bed. “Meaning?” Temar asked in a breathy voice.
“Meaning I’m going to come in my pants,” Shan warned. If this was teasing, if Temar planned to go no further, he needed to stop now so Shan could finish himself off. Otherwise, his balls were going to fall off. However, Temar looked down at him with such hunger that Shan realized that something had changed overnight. He reached behind Temar’s neck and pulled him close for another kiss. For a few seconds, Temar yielded. Then Temar’s hands were on his shoulders, pressing, and Shan let go, allowing Temar to escape even though he desperately wanted more. He wanted more, and his body was quickly getting to a point that he couldn’t remember why he wasn’t supposed to demand more.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Temar said as he sat up, and pulled on Shan’s sleep pants.
“No, I’m really not,” Shan said. His nose was too curved and his features too sharp for beauty. However, he didn’t care about any of that. His hard cock stuck up, the head already pressing forward out of the foreskin. Temar had lost his own pants at some point, and now he grabbed both cocks, one in each hand. Shan’s heart pounded so hard that it echoed in his ears as he waited for Temar to finish this, but Temar moved painfully slow, his hand moving up and down on each cock with the sort of agonizing deliberateness that Shan could never inflict on himself. With a gasp, Shan reached out and caught Temar’s shoulder.
Letting go, Temar dropped down onto Shan; despite his recent weight loss, he still weighed more than he looked. The pressure on Shan’s cock was too much for him to resist, and he thrust up into Temar. He felt a flash of guilt at using Temar, but that passed when Temar thrust down into him just as enthusiastically.
With his body already tight from the approaching orgasm, Shan grabbed both Temar’s shoulders and angled his hips to thrust up. Both their bodies were slicked with sweat now, and his hand slipped off Temar’s shoulder, throwing Shan’s balance off. Then Temar shifted, and their cocks pressed against each other, both trapped between their overheated bodies.