“Before Cliopher could speak, Fitzroy suddenly leaned forward again, grabbed his hands in his, and drew Cliopher’s up to his heart. “Cliopher, Kip, you are my right hand, my outrigger, my mirror that shows me my better side. My people do not have a word for this, but yours do.”

Now he had too much air in his lungs to speak, as if all the winds of the whole sky were contained inside him. “Yes.”

“Ask me,” Fitzroy whispered. “Ask me so I can say yes.”

They held there, hands clasped, the air thundering around them, roaring like a bonfire.

Then Cliopher spoke, his quiet words falling clear as water drops. “You are my fanoa. My beloved. My own. Will you let me be yours?”

“Not let,” said Fitzroy. “You are. You are.”