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In the autumn of the year that Diarmuid became a novice a small group of travelers arrived, asking for shelter.
At first Diarmuid took them for pilgrims. The monastery received them, sometimes, tired faithful eager to know God in this faraway place, and to see the relic and pray for St. Matthias’ blessing. When the monks and Diarmuid and the Mute, both curious and wary, went to greet the group of them they looked extremely relieved and some of them made the sign of the cross.
The abbot and Brother Ciarán bid them good morning and asked them their business. There were five of them, a family. A miller and his wife and their son, who looked to be about Diarmuid’s age, and the miller's younger sister and her own husband. They were not pilgrims, but were on their way to start their lives anew. Diarmuid had never seen such people before.
They wore bright clothing, blue and orange and yellow, embroidered with patterns and designs just as colorful, and he wondered at what plants must’ve been used to create the dye for their clothing. And the miller’s wife and son had hair like spun flax. All at the monastery had either hair that was gray, like Brother Ciarán's, or brown, like Diarmuid's, or black, like the Mute's.
Neither had he ever seen a woman with child. The younger woman, the miller’s sister, was not greatly pregnant, but her belly was slightly rounded, and her husband would place his hand over it with such tenderness that it immediately made Diarmuid like the both of them.
Less certain was he about the miller's son, who stared at him with an obvious and almost calculating curiosity. He was tall, and appeared healthy and strong, but Diarmuid mused that the Mute was taller and stronger by far, and his hair was blond and tied behind his head in a ponytail, and he had a clean-shaven face that showed the sharp lines of his jaw.
The miller said, "We ask only for a place to rest for the night. We'll continue our travels tomorrow."
"Where is your destination?" asked Brother Ciarán.
"As far away from the Normans as possible," the miller said, darkly. "We've come as far west as we could. Now we'll go north. There's still those who don't kneel to their king."
"And those who fight amongst themselves just as readily as they fight the Normans," muttered his wife.
The miller ignored her, but Brother Ciarán replied, "This land has always known strife. But trust in God to guide you and your family to safety. The shepherd keeps a watchful eye on his flock."
This seemed to cheer her. She said, "Thank you, my lord."
"Brother Ciarán," he gently corrected. "There are no lords here. Only monks. And our novice and laybrother, of course." He gestured to Diarmuid and the Mute, smiling.
The miller's son brightened. To Diarmuid, he said, "I see! You're an apprentice monk."
He'd never quite thought about it that way, but it was true enough. "Yes," said Diarmuid. "I haven't taken my vows yet."
"How long have you been living here?"
"My whole life," Diarmuid replied, puzzled.
"Truly? How old are you?"
Diarmuid said, quietly, "Nearly twenty."
"I've a year on you, then."
"Oh," Diarmuid said. He was unsure what else to say. Within the monastery, he had to hold his tongue. With the Mute, he spoke freely and knew he was understood. He and this man were close in age, the youngest in their respective families, but he was still a stranger. Diarmuid had no idea how to interact with him.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the abbot said, "Why don't the two of you take a walk together? We so rarely receive guests. It will be good for Diarmuid to learn about the world outside the monastery. And I'm sure the inner workings of a monastery would interest you," he said to the miller's son.
The young man smiled. "I would." When he turned to Diarmuid, his gaze sharpened. "Diarmuid, was it? I'm Fintan."
Diarmuid inclined his head. He cast an uncertain glance at Brother Ciarán, who nodded, and then at the Mute, who was staring at Fintan with a frown. Diarmuid caught his eye and shrugged, then gestured for Fintan to follow him.
He did not take Fintan to the beach. Perhaps he should have, because this was the farthest that Fintan and his family had ever traveled, and perhaps they had never seen the sea, and certainly they had never seen the waves from the shores of Kilmannán. But it was not something Diarmuid wanted to share. The beach was not his, but it felt like his. It was the place where he and the Mute spent the most time together, fishing and skipping stones and Diarmuid talking and the Mute listening, and it was something nearly blasphemous to even think of taking a stranger there, no matter how friendly and interested he seemed in Diarmuid.
Instead Diarmuid led him underneath the trees. Most of the leaves had fallen to the ground, bits of red, orange, and yellow crunching underfoot, but there were still some trees that still had their foliage and were still pretty, like the flames of flickering torches.
Ah, but Fintan and his family had traveled a long way. Surely they'd seen such sights before, and more interesting ones. When Diarmuid suggested that to Fintan himself, the young man thought for a moment, then said, "Well, perhaps."
He did not elaborate on the sights he had already seen, so Diarmuid asked, "Would you tell me of your travels?"
That was the correct question to ask. Fintan beamed. "What do you want to know? We've practically trekked across the entirety of the island. Through cities, then towns, then villages, then nothing—then here."
"We're less than nothing?" Diarmuid asked. He was joking, but Fintan suddenly looked panicked.
"No! I only mean that for days we saw nothing, no one, and then suddenly we found your monastery. Do you know in some places you can't walk three steps without bumping into someone. And there's always someone talking or singing or yelling. But you're in the wilderness! You've barely more sheep than monks! It's so much more peaceful here, though." Fintan said, smiling. Then, he added, with no other preamble, "You're very good-looking."
Diarmuid felt his face warm. He let out a surprised burst of laughter. “Thank you?”
"You seem surprised. Hasn't anyone ever told you that? I like your curls." He drew close, brushing a lock of hair behind Diarmuid's ear. "And I like how dark your eyes are."
"You do?" Diarmuid asked, still confused as to the direction their discussion was going.
"Do you like anything about me?"
Frantically, Diarmuid replied, "Your hair—the color." He didn't dislike it, at least. He thought it was fascinating that someone's hair could be so light. But, in truth, if he thought about what he found most comely, he preferred the thick, dark curls of the Mute, which softened the hard lines of his face and were both warm and soft underneath his hand. What else could he say? Fintan had given him many compliments. Again, the Mute's figure flashed in his mind. "That you're—strong. That is, you look strong."
"I can show you how strong I am."
After a moment, Diarmuid nodded.
With a grin, Fintan had him on his back in the grass, pinning his arms above his head with his hands as he straddled him. He leaned in close, so that they were nearly nose-to-nose. "How's that?" Fintan asked. His breath was warm.
It was—heart-pounding. A wave of heat rushed throughout his entire body. The weight of him was just—Diarmuid stared up at him, eyes wide, and said, "Yes."
"Yes, what?" Fintan was teasing him. He had a knowing smirk on his face, but Diarmuid didn't think he was being mean.
"You're strong."
"Do you still like that?"
"Yes." He wished that Fintan's touch was more familiar, though. His hands were not as gentle as Diarmuid would have liked, and yet, not as rough as he wanted them to be. But Diarmuid still enjoyed the desire in Fintan's gaze, and how Fintan's body, looming over him, cast a shadow over his own.
"I want to kiss you. Am I allowed to do that?"
Fintan was asking for something that Diarmuid had never given before. He knew of kissing from scripture, from Judas' betrayal of Christ, and he knew of kissing as familial affection, from when he was a child and Brother Ciarán would lift him into his arms and kiss his cheek. He did not know of the act between two people with no relationship between one another but a shared curiosity and desire.
He wanted that, at least, even if he found Fintan wanting.
"Yes," Diarmuid said, warming to this style of conversation. "I told you, I haven't taken my vows yet."
Fintan laughed. His nose nudged Diarmuid's as he turned his head. His eyes were closed. Diarmuid wondered if he should also close his eyes. This close, Fintan's face blurred, and he could have been anyone, any man that Diarmuid imagined. He ultimately decided to close them, following Fintan’s lead.
Their lips met.
It was underwhelming.
For a moment, he felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. He'd yearned for this, this new experience, this thing he'd never had, and he didn't enjoy it. But was it kissing that Diarmuid disliked? Or was it Fintan? There among the leaves and grass he tried to figure out his reaction, to quantify the bits and pieces of this behavior. Were Fintan's lips too soft or not soft enough? Was it that he did not like how when Fintan breathed out the warm air from his nostrils struck his face?
Diarmuid sighed, and Fintan seemed to take that as encouragement, an invitation to sneak his tongue past Diarmuid's lips, which he found even more unpleasant. The heat of his tongue, the wetness, the taste of him.
He opened his eyes, just slightly, and he saw Fintan's hair like shining spun flax, his clean-shaven face, and a thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. A sudden realization, a clarity akin to not just learning his letters, but to being able to turn those images into words and phrases and to read, to comprehend.
Diarmuid now understood:
This was not the man he wanted to kiss.
"Wait." Diarmuid said. "Wait a moment, please, I don't—" His face was hot with embarrassment and shame. Diarmuid had accepted his offer to do this—to kiss, to touch. How could he tell the man that he no longer wished to? That his hands on Diarmuid felt heavy and awkward, that his lips pressed against Diarmuid's lips and his tongue against Diarmuid's tongue felt not unlike one of the sheep licking at his palm. Diarmuid dug his heels into the ground and tried to roll away, but Fintan still had a hold of his wrists. He wrenched one of his hand's free and shoved him in the chest. "Stop."
Fintan immediately pulled away, staring at Diarmuid with a puzzled frown. "What's wrong?"
"I can't—I'm sorry, I don't want—"
Familiar, heavy footsteps trudged through the leaves to their hiding spot. Diarmuid covered his face with his hand in an attempt to shield himself from the reality of the situation. The Mute was the last person he wanted to see—in the arms of another man, stammering and blushing after his first, and extremely disappointing, kiss.
His steps grew closer, faster. Diarmuid heard Fintan mutter, "Shit," and then, suddenly, he wasn't there anymore, his weight simply lifted off of Diarmuid. He let out a strangled yelp. Diarmuid quickly sat up, horrified at the sight in front of him.
Fury lined the Mute's face. He held Fintan by the throat, the veins in his arms bulging, his entire body shaking with rage. Fintan's expression was etched with terror. He made a gurgling sound, his voice trapped by the Mute's grip.
Oh, God—so this was what came of desire. Diarmuid scrambled to his feet. He tugged at the Mute's arms, shouting, "Stop! Stop! Let him go!"
For the first time in all the years that he had known the Mute, his friend did not listen to him. If anything, Diarmuid's panic only seemed to make him all the more furious. His fingers tightened around Fintan's neck.
This was his fault. He'd caused this. "Stop!" Diarmuid's voice broke as he screamed. "Why are you acting like this? Stop it!"
The Mute dropped Fintan into the dirt. Like a summer storm abating, his expression cleared. Now he gazed at Diarmuid with worry, one hand tentatively outstretched while Fintan coughed and gasped on the ground. Diarmuid turned away from him, wiping his eyes, mortified at what his actions had wrought. He'd not only led Fintan to believe he'd wanted him, but somehow he'd upset the Mute and made him attack Fintan.
All the more humiliating was that he'd only come to the realization that it was the Mute he truly desired moments before. Why had he encouraged Fintan's attention? Why had he acted so rashly, so wantonly?
It was Brother Ciarán who reached them first, the rest of the monastery alerted by his shouting. "What's happened here?" There was something dangerous in his tone. Diarmuid lifted his eyes from his boots, scrubbing at the errant tears on his cheeks, ready to apologize, and found that the monk was looking not at him, not at the Mute, but at Fintan.
The miller and his wife arrived with the rest of the monks. Fintan's father took in the scene in front of him and also unfairly turned on his son. "What'd you do?"
"There was a misunderstanding," Fintan rasped. He rubbed his neck. "We were just playing—fighting, you know. Your laybrother saw us and thought I was actually hurting Diarmuid, I think." He nodded at Diarmuid. "Right?"
All eyes turned to Diarmuid. He stared at his boots once more. Miserably, Diarmuid murmured, "It was just play."
Brother Ciarán's voice was gentle. "Was it, Diarmuid?"
"Yes, Brother Ciarán. I'm sorry for causing all this trouble." Another lie, bitter on his tongue, burning down his throat and into his chest.
The abbot said, "Diarmuid is the youngest member of this monastery by many years. You understand that roughhousing isn't something that monks frequently partake in. I suspect our laybrother saw what was transpiring and misunderstood what was happening."
The Mute's face was uncharacteristically blank. He made no gesture of apology, or even that he'd understood the conversation. Instead, he looked at Fintan, who quailed under his stare, looked at Diarmuid, who tried his best to convey all his regret through his eyes, and turned on his heel and walked to his own hut, outside the monastery proper.
Brother Ciarán thought it best that Diarmuid turn in for the night. He walked Diarmuid to his clochán, saying nothing until they sat side-by-side together on Diarmuid's bed.
He asked, "Did he hurt you?"
It was another near-blasphemous thought, but Diarmuid could no more keep a secret from Brother Ciarán than any person could keep a secret from God. Diarmuid blinked away a fresh wave of tears. "No. He—told me kind things. He asked if he could kiss me and I said that he could. Only—I didn't like it, so I asked him to stop, and he did, but the Mute—he was only protecting me, like he always does. I'm so sorry."
"Oh, Diarmuid." Brother Ciarán sighed. "You've nothing to be sorry for. This really was just a misunderstanding, wasn't it?" He gently bumped Diarmuid's knee with his own, a gentle, encouraging smile on his face, but Diarmuid was in no mood to return it.
He said, "I've ruined it, though—I've ruined everything."
"What do you mean?"
"The Mute—what he saw—what he must think of me now—and after I lied—after everything ."
"Diarmuid, the Mute is your friend. He acted out of his love for you." Diarmuid's heart clenched. "If you only explain to him what happened as you have with me—"
Diarmuid shook his head. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"He'll hate me," Diarmuid murmured. The Mute was his friend, his best friend. They could hold conversations entirely without words, but Diarmuid knew the Mute so well that it was only he that could interpret every minute expression and gesture, so he understood the great gulf between them better than anyone. The Mute had lived an entire lifetime before arriving at the monastery, and Diarmuid had been raised at Kilmannan and was only recently made a novice. Fintan had complimented his hair, his eyes, had wanted to kiss him—but when the Mute looked at him he saw his friend, who was now a man but who had never traveled past the monastery's boundaries, had not even been kissed until a few hours ago.
Brother Ciarán said, "I'm sorry for what happened today. It was a very unfortunate misunderstanding. No one blames you for what happened. But I think you do the Mute a great disservice in not talking to him."
"I can't. Not now."
The monk hugged him. "That's okay, Diarmuid. Get some rest. The morning will be better, I promise."
It was true, if only because in the morning Fintan and the rest of his family left, and with them, some of the awkwardness. They thanked the monks for their hospitality, apologized again for Fintan's behavior—Fintan would not meet Diarmuid's eyes—and Fintan's aunt, one hand on her belly and one hand clasped in her husband's, told them that she had found her clochán very clean and comfortable and that she'd greatly enjoyed the food. Her husband gazed at her as though all the beauty in the world were held in her face. It was a testament to the strength of his affection that Diarmuid, who had just disastrously had his first kiss, now longed again for that kind of intimacy.
The only one not to watch them depart was the Mute, which the abbot said was probably for the best.
As soon as he could, Diarmuid made his way to the Mute's hut. Before he arrived, they had not had a laybrother for decades. The hut had been neglected, and hastily patched with stone and wood to make it a decent shelter for the Mute, and throughout the years the Mute had maintained it, making his own repairs and additions. There was a firepit, as well as a small garden that the Mute took great pride in, and circling the hut itself were a collection of seashells from the beach, many of which Diarmuid had plucked from the sand himself and given to the Mute.
He stared at the ring of seashells now. They seemed almost like a fairy ring. He did not want to cross it and so he stood there, uncertain, ashamed, until the Mute walked out into the day.
The Mute stopped short at the sight of Diarmuid, his brows furrowed, his eyes filled with concern.
Diarmuid took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice shook. "I'm sorry I lied," Diarmuid said.
The Mute made a noise like a wounded animal. He shook his head frantically and held out his arms, an offering of comfort, and Diarmuid selfishly took it, though he did not deserve it. Into the Mute's embrace he went, and as those large, strong hands settled on the small of his back Diarmuid thought at how gentle they felt, how right, as if his body had been molded for the Mute's fingers.
Would his lips fit against his own just as naturally? How would his beard feel against his cheek? Diarmuid took a deep breath, inhaling the musky scent of the Mute's sweat. "He said I was handsome, and that he wanted to kiss me. I wanted to be kissed. But then I realized—not by him. Not by anyone who isn't—" He swallowed. "I want you."
The Mute did not speak, but he was never quiet. His steps were heavy, his clothes rustled, he sometimes clucked his tongue in disapproval, his gestures sliced through the air. But now he stood so quietly and so still that Diarmuid knew that his confession had completely shocked him. The Mute's arms dropped to his side, and, oh, out of all the bitter lessons he’d recently learned, that rejection felt like this —
Diarmuid turned away, hoping to hide the tears of humiliation pooling at the corners of his eyes. But before he could escape, the Mute caught his arm. He pulled him close, his hands on either side of Diarmuid’s face, searching his eyes for something— something —
"I want you ," Diarmuid said again.
The Mute’s smile was overwhelmingly tender and extraordinarily beautiful. He closed his eyes, and this time Diarmuid knew to close them too, and they kissed.
He had another realization. Want and love—they were one in the same to him. He could not want anyone else because he did not love anyone else as he loved the Mute. Fintan had told him he was good-looking, complimented his hair, his eyes, had stirred with interest with Diarmuid beneath him, their lips pressed together. But Fintan was only a man to him, his appearance something that could be described but which Diarmuid ultimately could only compare to the Mute's. The Mute's black curls seemed warmer to him than his golden hair, his beard more appealing than Fintan's smooth, clean shaven face. Fintan was strong, but the Mute was stronger. So tall, and so broad, with thick, muscled legs and arms, and still he held Diarmuid so gently, as if he would break if the Mute wasn't careful.
Even the way his tongue moved against Diarmuid's was different. Whereas Fintan had been clumsy with eagerness, the Mute savored him, running his tongue along Diarmuid's lower lip then kissing him again, and again, and then when Diarmuid moaned he did not shove himself inside his mouth but carefully slipped his tongue past Diarmuid's teeth and touched and sucked and explored the contours of him.
He tasted good —that was the only way Diarmuid could think to describe it at the moment. He smelled good, too, like sweat and seasalt and woodsmoke. Diarmuid liked how their bodies seem to meld together, that it was a natural thing that he should lean against the Mute this way, that the Mute should hold him like this.
Diarmuid moaned again. One of the Mute's hands cupped the back of his head while the other slid down his back, then lower, and Diarmuid loved how large his hands were, how they covered so much of him. He was vaguely aware that they were moving, the Mute half-guiding, half-carrying him closer to the hut. They did not go inside. Instead the Mute pulled him down so that Diarmuid was in his lap and the Mute was leaning against the wall.
They broke away only when they needed breath. Panting, Diarmuid leaned closer, touching their foreheads together. The Mute blurred, but he could still see the brightness of the other man's eyes, could feel the smile on his face, and Diarmuid smiled in return, flushed and happy.
The seashell ring had been disturbed by their—amorousness. Sheepish, Diarmuid picked one up from the ground and turned it over in his hands while the Mute pressed his nose to the crook of his neck and nuzzled there. It was an oyster shell, thick and rounded and rough, the inside of it long since picked clean and dry. He placed it back among its fellows.
The Mute gently tugged at his robes to expose his shoulder. His lip lightly brushed against Diarmuid's bare skin.
Diarmuid shivered in delight. "Your beard tickles," he said. "Just like I imagined it would. When Fintan kissed me he wasn't—I hadn't really thought of it before, but I knew that it was all wrong. I knew beforehand, I think, because all I could think of when I looked at him was that he didn't look anything like you."
Underneath his beard, the Mute turned red. Pleasure and embarrassment warred for victory on his features. He smiled a tentative, shy smile and traced Diarmuid's lower lip with his thumb. Diarmuid licked him, laughing, and the Mute laughed, too—his quiet joy, an exhalation of air from his lungs, his eyes bright, his teeth showing. He grabbed Diarmuid's hips, steadying him, then kissed him again, and again, until the bell rang for prayers and they arrived at the church out of breath and clothes only slightly rumpled, and the only comment made was from Brother Rua, who glanced at them and then turned to face the front with a snort, muttering, "Just play, I bet."
Diarmuid's first kiss had been disappointing. The second and the third and all the ones after—those were much, much better.