There had been a moment, before summer, when Oh-aew had asked him if he wanted this and he had said, with his dumb mouth, with his stupid no-good mouth, he’d said: I’m not sure I’ll keep on wanting this. He’d been a fool and he hadn’t known, he hadn’t known anything. No one knew anything, no one in the world, not a single person who had ever set eyes on Oh and had not wanted him desperately, not Bas who’d had him and somehow let him go, none of them, none of them knew anything because if they knew, if they understood the feel of him, the taste of him, how he undulated and grabbed and unfolded so beautifully then surely, surely the world would’ve long ago bent at his feet and no one would ever—ever—
The windows are open, and the warm ocean breeze is floating in in gentle waves, making the curtains dance in delight as the sunshine cuts through the house’s refreshing shade. It’s a beautiful day with a clear sky, and it’s almost a waste to spend it inside, but all that Oh-Aew can concentrate on is the confident movement of Teh’s hands as they shift the pencil around and turn the pages from time to time.