Work Text:
When Oluwande sleeps, he dreams of oranges.
He stands in the groves, the world filtered through dappled sunlight. Picks the ripe fruit. Peels the skin and pulls off segments one by one, feeding them to the person before him. Their tongue brushes briefly against his fingers, juice shining on their chin. Their lips.
He dreams of taking his own bite, the sweet juice flooding his tongue. He dreams of orange juice washing away a breakfast of eggs and fried plantains. He dreams of a glazed orange cake, light with just the perfect hint of citrus.
But he dreams of the orange groves the most. Of the wide expanse of green, dotted with white flowers. Of his best friend, who probably hasn’t had an orange in a long time, who is sailing somewhere far away.
Who, for now, is pressed up against his body, leaning into his tight embrace and kissing the tears from his eyes as long as he dreams of them.