Dictionary of my Heart

Ketet: a swear

Tejak: sing

Tuyyan: sorry

Kuom: loud

Ja: signifier to make something more

Vettuj: red

Araverej: forever-rain, or rain/storm that seems never to end

Yamnay: flyer, friend, companion 

Kheekjak: sibling

Yamkeek: False sibling

Erttusha: and insult for a mean person, ass-mouth

“Sssh it’s okay, it’s okay.”

August’s lungs rattled with dry air. It kept stuttering, he couldn’t get a full breath in. He clutched at his shirt as a burning feeling prickled through his chest.

“Breathe with me, okay?”

His brother’s voice was muddled, as if underwater. He didn’t understand He didn’t understand, He wished he could but he couldn’t.

A hand took his own, and he was too weak to protest in anything but a desperate whine.

“Like this.”

His hand moved up. Then down. Against something. Soft, fabric. Warm wooden buttons.

Up, then down.

A shirt, a chest. Yellow, Ameokk often wore yellow.

Up, then down.

“There, that’s it. You’re doing great Aenhas.”

Unconsciously, he had started to match the rhythm. But now that he was made aware, his lungs cinched again.

The burning intensified as the sweet oxygen left him like a popped balloon. He tried again but his useless lungs kept stuttering, refusing to hold even the shallowest of breaths for more than a second. He whined, hot tears pricking his eyes.

“It’s okay, It’s okay. Just try again, please.” 

Up, then down.

Now Amek was exaggerating how loud his breathing was. Or maybe he had been from the start and he hadn’t noticed.

Up, then down.

“I’ll tell you another word, hmm?” 

August’s nails were digging into Ameokk’s hand. It was clamy. Distantly, he hoped he wasn’t making them bleed, but he couldn’t bring himself to loosen his grip.

Up, then down. Their other hand was rubbing gentle circles into his back.

“Ummaak, it means art.”

Up, then down. A wheeze of air, more than before, entered his withered lungs. He latched onto it and resolved to keep the rhythm.

“Although it translates more to… collage or combining.”

Ameokk’s voice was different than when they normally gave him words. They sounded less far away.

“Which makes sense. A lot of the storm spirit art I saw was what I would describe now as multimedia. Sculptures, and installations. Ceremonial get ups. And props and things to go with them.”

Though his breathing was still shallow, it was finally enough for August to feel like his brain wasn’t actively melting out of his skull. His chest ached, but didn’t burn.

Ameokk’s cadence was soothing, steady balm of sound. “I think it was… the more things you could incorporate, the cooler it was. Shells and inks, woods, stones, anything. If you could make it all work together as one thing, that was truly impressive.”

A sudden wave of exhaustion heaved onto him and his eyelids were too heavy to keep up, so he shut them. In that calm blackness, he pictured what Ameokk had described.

Ceremonial items. Maybe staffs, or blades? A crown or head dress?

An ache of a different kind clawed at him. He wished he could see them. He wished Ameokk could show him.

They seemed to have realized August had recovered somewhat, and now hushed.

That ache increased, that was the most August had heard about storm spirits from them.

“You’re feeling better now?”

He nodded, too tired to even click. Part of him wanted to ask Amek more about it, maybe they would talk more if he asked.

Then he remembered he couldn’t ask, and knew he wouldn’t be able to anyways. The thought of moving his tongue and opening his mouth to speak made his stomach roll.

Amek sighed, “That’s good.” Their hand trailed up his back to cup the back of his head and give him a pat before they stood up.

His eyes widened, and he made an aborted motion to get up too. Moving felt bad but Amek leaving felt worse.

“I’m only getting a blanket and some pillows. I do think I’d fancy some floor time,” they smiled, “what about you?”

Some floor time. He blinked. Well, he was already sat on the floor, he realized. And again, moving sounded bad.

He nodded.

Ameokk putzed around August’s room, collecting pillows off his bed and reading chair and throwing them towards him. Two blankets, the comforter off his bed and another extra in a basket in the corner, where he kept the heavy blanket.

They stopped by his bookshelf, eyes flickering across the spines before sliding one out. Hearts in Heartache 2: Stolen Bouquets, a corny romance drama that Amek had already read several times.

“Do you want one,” they asked.

August shook his head, and they returned to him with their haul.

Wordlessly, Amek pulled the blankets over their legs, leaning over him to ensure it was tucked into his side, and settled back against the bed beside him. Then, Amek grabbed a pillow to rest their book on.

Already, a soft warmth was spreading through August. The blankets were heavy and soft on his bare legs. He adjusted, curling his toes into the fabric pleasantly.

Both of their sides were touching. Every so often, he felt Amek move as he turned a page in his book.

After a beat, August scooted closer to them. His eyelids were fluttering shut every few seconds.

Their voice was carefully quiet, “Do you want to nap? You can use my lap, if you want.”

He considered it, then shook his head. Instead, he just hugged Amek’s arm, the one closest to him. It was warm too. And hefty. A nice thing to hold. And it was Amek. The fact it was Amek was most important. Though he was unaware to it, a purr started to build in August’s throat.

With his sleepy, post-panic attack brain, he marveled at how much larger Amek’s arm was to his own. Not too much in length, but thick and surprisingly muscled. It shouldn’t be a surprise, with the way September trained them, but Amek’s bodytype didn’t make him look very muscled on the surface.

Slowly, August’s eyes shut. In that soothing darkness there was the intermittent sound of Amek turning a page in his book, a gentle sort of scraping.

His body felt weightless and warm, and his mind drifted.

Ummak.

Amek had given him a nice word again.

He was glad they could think of nice words still.