Sand of Seeds Between His Teeth
Tidebone: Part Two
The sleeping man is a boy in the white light of day. Lips and brows gone slack under Shilo’s gaze. Light lines on browning skin, light sting on one ear. Mouth open to echo the man’s name.
There’s a gasp instead.
The sea is still as Shilo wraps his fingers around a fig. Taut and tender. It yields, dripping down his chin. The sand of seeds between his teeth.
He licks his lip, palm outstretched to feed the water its slick.
Careful, Shilo. Breath on neck. If it’s alive, it’ll trace and stroke and press. I can’t swim. Won’t be able to save you if you fall in.
The man doesn’t touch. Hands by his sides.
Against the forest’s growth, a sheen of skin. The splinter of wood and Terron’s breath ringing in the cove in Shilo’s ears.
His own hands are buried in soil, nose drunk on musk and brine. Even the grass is a blade—a calloused pelt. There’s no yielding in this skin. It pulls close, stretched and sealed in its own heat.
The sea chews on one finger. Sucks on the tip, rippling.
Salt stings his lashes. He blinks.
In candlelight, the man’s eyes hold the dark. The boy watches them watch the flicker at his throat.
Shilo’s hands are still now. Not like before. When one brushed a thigh, a belly, a split in skin made ripe. Found a wetness to drown all sound.
Body pulled taut. Eyes crushed against the light. The pulse of the sea. The throb of it inside. A cresting wave to lose his body under.
No sound followed the spill of heat. The man hurried home, pulled along by the wailing wind.
Terron draws out a strip of silk to offer to the boy. It trails a slow burn across Shilo’s tender form. The man looks away. From the corner of his eye, he watches the fabric fall to the bed.
It’s better than these. He tosses his slacks aside. The boy blinks at his feet, toes twitching. Can’t go on like this, Shilo. Not with nothing between you and the dark.
The boy hears it split, something in that voice. He catches himself warped in the man’s black gaze.
Slowly, he kneels, mind on the swell of Terron’s ribs. He hasn’t wandered off to the sea at night. Hasn’t left Shilo’s side.
With two hands, Shilo lets the silk settle against his skin. Sits back on his heels, eyes a spill of blue.
Thank you.
Something must’ve hurt you deep to leave you this quiet. I’m sorry. If I could carry it for you, I would.
The man’s thumb traces the spine of the shell in his hand. Shilo watches heavy lips fade to black in the night. Eyes still on Terron’s sigh as he places another shell in the man’s palm.
But you see, a voice can lose its shape with no body to break against.
He turns his black gaze on the boy. Cheeks caught between moonlight and shadow. Mouth still unmade.
Shilo inhales.
Hard to say it right, but I’m real glad you’re here.
The strings of the man’s lyre crease under Shilo’s fingertips. They’re the currents of the sea. He guides them to a climax of sound as Terron watches.
In the stillness that follows, the room shivers into place.
The man returns to peeling the spuds he’s dug up from the earth. There’s a pause before the face catches up to the hands. Slow but sure. Steam presses up against his chest, heat pooling in the sea of flesh.
Shilo doesn’t try to wet his palm in the shine. Not again. Not after the last time, when the man pulled away.
The boy sits, body tuned to the pull of his own fingertips. The dent of the strings lingers. The body can’t shake off touch. It’s run through by it.
Shilo tries to sit outside of his breath. But it’s so dense. Relentless. The body can’t shake off the pang of its absence.
He tries to sit outside of the ache. But there’s a sting just beneath his gaze.
He looks up through the reef of his curls, trying to blink it away. Terron’s black eye drifts back down. Too late.