but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Warmth.

A pulse pounding beneath warm skin, strong, ferocious—frightening. He was suddenly so close, his scent drifting up from the fine buckskin hairs covering his dark skin. And Mauja realized—

(He was always realizing things these days, things he had kept himself from thinking of for many years.)

—that this was probably the most honest embrace he had shared with anyone in years. He was pressed close—held close—and the darkness roared in his ears and spun before his mind's eye, but Tembovu held him in place and the world couldn't sweep him away.

So maybe this was what it was all about.

Maybe this was what love was all about, two hearts pressed together even after their words had cut like knives and carved bloodied paths in their sensitive skins.

(He had always cared what others thought, what others said—he had never been able not to. And the longer he lived, the more he realized that the closer you were with someone, the thinner your skin. One sharp word drew blood.)

And that word, why did it mean so much? Why did so much change the moment you coughed it up? It had a thousand different meanings, a thousand different hopes and dreams attached, and he—he had a brief moment of his gut tightening, wondering, did I really say that?, but what else could he have said to make Tembovu's muscles stiffen up so..? They stood close, too close, and protected by the sandy bulwark he wanted nothing more than to melt and fall into him.

Be swept up by that steadfast security, by the passion of his fiery heart, and cease to exist out here in the cold.

“You love me?”

Tense 'brows pushed together harder, as if pressing his eyes shut so tightly it was almost painful could freeze the moment and not let it move on. And still, a little pinprick of anger began to bleed in his heart. Would I have said it if I didn't mean it?

Or am I so muddled you don't trust me to know what I'm saying? (I wouldn't blame you.)

Or do you not believe yourself worthy of being loved?

Mauja held on tighter. Tembovu's spine dug painfully into his lower jaw, but he didn't care, couldn't care, because...

Because now that he had said it, he couldn't take it back; and now that he had said it, something was cracking and shattering behind his eyelids, a pressure building in the back of his throat.

But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Honesty was a raw and painful thing, and his skin? It had been flayed from his flesh—everything Tembovu said was like a lance going straight for his heart. "You had every right to deny it," he managed to get out in a mumble, something of a brief laugh sounding at the end of it.

But the laugh died in his throat. It froze, grew cold, and fragile, as his entire existence did the same: Tembovu's muzzle brushed across his back, then followed by the quiet, deadly whisper of a horn tip brushing through his hair. And everything had gone silent, his eyes snapped open, tear-glazed and afraid. Each pulse throbbed through his body, the skin of his flank pulsing against that lethal, black tip.

No, he wanted to say, head still laying across Tembovu's back (—hot, it was too hot, his skin). Please, don't—

I didn't mean it—

“I can do that for you, Mauja,” he was saying, and a sound like something great and metallic shattering—falling to a stone floor—rang in his head.

And the world kept disintegrating before his eyes, darkness threatening the edges of his vision, heart screaming in his chest (run away, run the fuck AWAY—) and his eyelids fluttered rapidly. It made everything seem less real. The trees were merely distant shapes, distorted by eyelashes and golden sunlight, Tembovu just a shadow on the edges of his vision; his nostrils flared but no breath passed down to his lungs.

I can do that for you, Mauja—

He can do that for you—

For me—

But he couldn't answer as Tembovu pulled away, rocked back, his thick horn aimed for his soft, pristine chest—

What he had wanted, what he had wanted so badly, suddenly frightened him—the pain frightened him. "Will it hurt?" he whispered, tangled up, lost somewhere—no no no, this wasn't—this wasn't what he wanted—

But he can do it for me—

And who was he to refuse Tembovu? Who was he to—to spurn what could only be called a gift, committing such an act.. Surely, Tembovu did not want to—but he would still do it—and I believe you.

His head, robbed of the steady warmth of Tembovu's back, had risen—his eyes frozen open now, pale blue and lost (scared), a thin trickle of tears darkening his cheeks. He had no more words. He had no more time. He didn't want this—and neither do you, don't you?—and yet in some small way, he still did. Like, maybe—maybe he needed this. (Or maybe he didn't.)

His eyes, barely seeing, fell to the black horn. He couldn't say that he wanted it. He couldn't say that he didn't want it. He couldn't say that he was ready. He couldn't say that he wasn't ready. All he could do was stand there with his heart screaming in his chest, wondering why they did this to each other.

[ Like wtf? ]

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same