Chapter Thirty-One: The Ways That Count

The streets of Kaliany were still alive after sunset, though with a slightly different profile. Most of the toddling young ones had been swept away to bed already, and in their place were the spent day laborers stumbling home after a drink, or entertaining a round with their fellows at any of the outdoor booths.

The two of them wandered through the city square for a while, until Osmund caught a whiff of something sweet. He hadn’t meant to pause in front of the seller’s stall—Cemil seemed restless still—but as soon as the Meskato prince saw him ogling the skewers of candied fruits, he’d stood there with his arms folded, unwilling to budge until Osmund had made the purchase.

They leaned against a wall as he ate, watching from a distance as an old storyteller enraptured a group of older children. The colorfully-dressed man was using his own fire magic as a prop, and by his exaggerated facial expressions (and the corresponding reactions of his audience), this was meant to be a terrifying tale.

“Good?” Cemil asked.

Osmund colored when he realized how shamelessly he’d been tearing into the sweetmeat. “Very,” he agreed.

He became self-conscious when Cemil continued looking. Could it be that the Meskato prince actually liked watching him eat? “Um,” Osmund began, unsure how to possibly avoid making things more awkward.

Thankfully, even the unspoken question was enough. “You enjoy things so openly,” Cemil said by way of explanation, though he did seem a little embarrassed himself. “Your face isn’t shy about what your heart feels. Your body, your face—they’re honest.”

There was an unspoken something in the space between those words. Something like an accusation. “You’re angry at me,” Osmund guessed quietly. “For keeping things from you.”

More agonizing silence. “I don’t know how I should feel,” Cemil admitted. His honesty was vulnerable, and it broke Osmund’s heart not to be able to match it. “You claim you went to this reckless meeting in secret for my sake. You kept your conversations with Emre from me until now. Should I be angry at you for lying and needlessly placing yourself in danger? Or grateful, because you did it out of loyalty? …Or so you claim. Maybe I’m a fool believing what I want to be true.”

And Cemil didn’t even know how much Osmund was still holding back.

Firstly, he hadn’t mentioned the sword at all. (Osmund had a sickening suspicion it still needed to go, and that was overwhelming to think about.)

Or the enchanted bracelet. (It seemed useful. Neither Cemil nor Sakina knew what it was like to be completely powerless.)

Or, the big, glaring fact that he was a runaway Tolmish prince that had people turning Şebyan inside out hunting for him. That…remained a huge, terrifying problem.

The skewered fruit in his hands, long forgotten, was dripping sugary sweetness over his fingers. “You said it was okay if there were things I wasn’t ready to tell you yet,” Osmund attempted defensively, and immediately regretted it. The last thing he wanted was to throw Cemil’s overwhelming kindness from the other night back in his face. “I’m sorry. Nevermind. I know that isn’t what you meant. I should have told you sooner. About Emre.”

“You should have.”

And there was nothing else to say to that.

Cemil exhaled and looked up, back again at the old storyteller. Osmund watched him instead. “How are you finding Kaliany?” the Meskato prince asked. It was directed more to the empty night air than to Osmund.

“It’s a lovely place,” the Tolmishman said honestly, though he was sure Cemil could already tell how he felt. “What about you? These are your people, aren’t they? …You’re half-Anshan?”

Cemil tensed. “I didn’t grow up here. This isn’t my culture.” He was still watching the old man. “They’re my father’s subjects, and I’m their future emperor. I can’t represent more to them than that.”

There was something resigned in his voice that he could not hide for all his trying. “That boy’s family will remember what you did for him,” Osmund said quietly. “Healing him. Letting him go.”

Cemil made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I doubt it changes their opinion of me.”

Osmund had no idea whether that were true. “Well, I’ll remember it,” he decided, because he could be sure of that much. “And Sakina will.”

A long silence followed. Osmund swallowed. “Um, speaking of Sakina…”

“Yes?”

Was it wrong of him to ask? He couldn’t retread his steps now. “I really hope this isn’t rude,” he began fumblingly, already feeling he maybe should have breached this topic when Cemil was less unhappy with him, “but when I heard about her at the governor’s house, it sounded like she was…a man? Or, that she used to be one.”

How had Cemil reacted to that just now? It was hard to say. He turned back to Osmund, almost cautious as he regarded him. “Are you asking whether it’s true? Or asking how it’s possible?”

“I-I suppose both,” Osmund admitted.

Cemil looked away again, unfocused this time, not regarding anything in particular. “Yes,” he said, apparently in response to both questions. “She…lived, at least, as a man. As to how she looks now, there’s treatments available. Medicines. Among other options. As you can see, they’re effective.”

Osmund’s eyes widened. “That’s incredible!” he marveled. “I had no idea such a thing existed. I know my life would have been a lot simpler if I had been a girl.” He’d caught himself before saying princess. As a princess, he never would have had to pretend to care about swordfighting or hunting or training to be a king, and his sister Evanor wouldn’t have resented him so much.

Cemil’s brow quirked. “…Is that what you want?”

Osmund dropped out of the fantasy of a childhood being left alone in his room to read books and daydream about marriage and whatever else proper princesses (who weren’t Evanor) did. Which was really the primary appeal. “What I want? Well, no! I do like being a man. Even if I’m not a good example of one. And I, um, like my body as it is.” He thought of Sakina again, and how sad her eyes had been in Aylin’s portrait. There wasn’t a trace of that melancholy on her now. “But, being a woman suits her. Sakina. She looks so…confident. And happy.”

Cemil’s face changed. His brows hung low over his eyes. “She does,” he said. “I can’t believe I didn’t see how miserable she was. Before.”

This had been troubling him for a while. Cemil was weighed down with regret; he blamed himself.

“Everyone at the house said she was so perfect and talented,” Osmund recalled with a small smile. “I, well, got envious. I thought if I could be someone that people talked about that way, I’d be perfectly happy and never want anything else in life. But it must have been a lot of pressure. That’s probably why she left. It isn’t your fault.”

“I still should have seen it,” Cemil lamented. “Or I should have been the kind of person she could have confided in. But she didn’t trust me.”

For a moment, Osmund thought again of all the things he was still hiding from Cemil, and the guilt was overpowering. But—he could be honest in all the ways that counted.

“I’m happy,” he said without thinking about it.

Cemil was looking at him now, so he had to try and explain himself. “I-I just wanted you to know that, um,” Osmund continued in a rush, “since I moved into the house, I’ve met so many fun and interesting people, people who are kind and accepting. And the horses—sweet Banu! I’ve gotten to see so much more of the world. Most of all I know that the people in the Empire will be safe in your care. Happy.” He bit his lip shyly. “Just as I am, with you.”

At first, Cemil didn’t move. Only his eyes trailed the motion of Osmund’s lip as it disappeared beneath his teeth. Then, the rest of him moved to follow.

A surprised, helpless noise escaped Osmund as Cemil’s mouth closed over his. His mind melted. His skin heated. The kiss was warm and steady. Osmund must have dropped the wooden skewer and the rest of the candied fruit; both arms came up to grasp desperately at Cemil’s shoulders as if he’d fall too without the support.

He didn’t know how long it was before they separated, except that he was breathless by the end. “You taste sweet,” Cemil mused, that low dark tone back in his voice. “And you fall apart so easily.” Osmund hadn’t heard him sound like that since that night out in the rain, and it made him shiver.

“Well I’ve been waiting a long time to kiss you,” he said in his own defense, although rather than playful tone he was going for, his voice came out more like a breathy squawk. Thankfully Cemil wasn’t put off, and kissed him again.

Oh! They were really doing this—kissing. Right here outside in the middle of town, without shame or inhibition, in full view of others, Cemil was kissing him. One hand was on Osmund’s waist, the other threaded through his hair. Osmund felt the first brush of his tongue and keened.

How embarrassing! He was acting like someone who’d never been kissed before, which wasn’t strictly true. Or was it? He’d experienced another man’s lips on his own and another man’s tongue in his mouth prior to this moment, but this felt so entirely new.

One of Osmund’s hands had assumed a life of its own, invigorated by the heat in his belly, and had started tracing a firm line down Cemil’s back, desperately feeling the contours of him. He was barely cognizant of his own actions until he felt Cemil chuckle against his mouth and realized he was, well…groping the Meskato prince’s very fine ass.

Horrified by his indiscretion, Osmund’s hand lurched back up again. He swayed on his feet, feeling feverish. Are we being observed? He tried to look around but it was no use—he couldn’t focus on anything other than the heat of Cemil’s body against his. Another kiss was pressed against his jaw, and then—Cemil had his hand and was pulling him along.

They ended up in the dark, narrow space between two buildings just off the main street. Osmund knew with a lightheaded thrill where this was going, and had no time to think about anything else—those lips were over his again, kissing him with all-encompassing intent, pushing him up against the wall with such force it bordered on painful, but somehow at the same time it felt so good that he didn’t care.

“I want you to know,” Cemil said in between breaths, looking completely unaffected by any hardship in the world, “that I’m still angry with you.”

“I-if this is you when you’re angry at me,” Osmund gasped out, struck dumb by the unbelievable sight of Cemil’s well-dressed knees dropping to the dirt in front of him, hands busying themselves with his laces, “then I can’t wait to see what your forgiveness looks like!”