Bound To Burn 🔥

The longing

Simba rushed to the clearing, his mother’s voice following him through the trees.

“Simba! Are you not waiting for dinner?”

“No, Mum!” he called back, not slowing. “I set some traps in the forest—I’m going to check them. I won’t be back tonight. I want to enjoy the nature.”

Nze’s voice rose after him, warm and teasing, “My son, you’ve really grown. But remember to take care of yourself. You should at least take guards with you!”

But Simba was already gone.

The forest hummed with life under the moonlit canopy, its dense foliage casting dappled shadows across the familiar clearing where Simba and Salah had met since they were boys. Fireflies flickered like tiny lanterns, and the distant call of a nightjar wove through the rustling leaves. Simba sat on a moss-covered log, his harp—Salah’s gift—cradled in his lap, its strings catching the faint moonlight. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning in his chest.

Salah leaned against a towering baobab tree, his lean frame half-swallowed by the shadows. His hands fidgeted with a small braided cord, a habit when his thoughts were heavy. He hadn’t spoken since Simba had found him at the edge of the village and led him here—to their secret place—far from the eyes of chiefs and kin.

“Salah,” Simba began, his voice barely above the forest’s whisper. “We need to talk.”

Salah’s eyes flicked up, cautious, catching the moonlight. “You’ve got that look, Simba. Like you’re carrying the weight of the ancestors. What’s wrong?”

Simba’s fingers tightened around the harp, his knuckles pale against the polished wood. “I overheard my father last night. With yours. They’re… planning our lives. Marriages. Futures. Like we’re nothing but tools for their alliances.”

Salah stiffened, his hands pausing on the cord. “Marriages? What are you saying?”

Simba’s words tumbled out, sharp and urgent. “My father wants me married by eighteen. To a girl from Swezi village—Chief Imbo’s daughter. And yours… Chief Suku wants you to marry one of my sisters. Maybe Fany or Feny. The twins.”

Salah’s jaw clenched. He looked away, silent, the forest suddenly feeling colder.

“They didn’t even ask us,” Simba went on, his voice cracking like dry wood. “They sat there, laughing, trading our futures like goats at the market. I thought… I thought my father saw me as his son, not just his heir.”

Salah let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp against the forest’s hum. “That’s what it means to be a chief’s son. Our lives were never ours. It’s always been about the village, the lineage, the bonds between clans. But hearing it like this… it’s different.”

Simba stood, pacing with his harp clutched tightly. “I can’t stop thinking—what if we just go along with it? Because that’s what good sons do, right? Bow our heads and obey?” He turned to Salah, voice low and trembling. “I don’t want to be that son. Not anymore.”

Salah approached slowly, his gaze steady. “Then what do we do?”

Simba met his eyes. “We decide our futures. Together.”

Silence fell, deep and charged. The moon poured light over them, silvering their skin, softening the space between words and breath.

Simba didn’t let go of Salah’s hand immediately. His fingers lingered, a little too long, a little too tight—like a man afraid the world might pull them apart the moment he loosened his grip.

The clearing fell into hush, the kind of quiet that only came in sacred moments—when the soul whispered louder than the body. The fireflies pulsed between them, as if echoing the beat in Simba’s chest.

Salah’s hand twitched. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t move. But Simba could feel the heat rising in his palm, the small tremor in his wrist. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, wind in his face, knowing one step forward could either break him or finally set him free.

“Simba…” Salah’s voice cracked. “That day… When you kissed me.”

Simba flinched, as if struck. “You remember?”

“How could I forget?” Salah turned his face away, but not before Simba caught the flicker of something raw—something real—cross his features. “I’ve thought about it every night since. I told myself it was panic, that you just needed comfort. But now…”

Simba took a breath, the air sharp in his lungs. “I meant it.”

Salah’s head jerked toward him.

“That day, I didn’t kiss you to calm you down. I kissed you because I’ve wanted to for a long time. I just never thought I’d get the chance. Not with everything around us. The village. Our names. Our fathers.”

He stepped closer, slowly, as though afraid the clearing itself might reject what they were. His voice trembled like leaves in wind. “You don’t have to feel the same. But I need you to know—it wasn’t a mistake. I don’t regret it.”

Salah was silent. Then: “Neither do I.”

Simba’s heart thudded. “What?”

Salah turned fully now, his face lit silver by the moon. “I’ve never said this to anyone. I didn’t even know what it was, not really. But when I think about my future, I don’t see some girl in a ceremonial necklace. I see you. It scares me, Simba. The way I feel when you look at me like that.”

Simba reached out, brushing his fingers against Salah’s cheekbone, feather-light. “Like what?”

“Like I matter,” Salah whispered.

The trees leaned in, the clearing folding around them as if the forest itself had been waiting for this. For truth. For vulnerability.

They stood like that for a moment—two boys caught in a war of bloodlines and duty—choosing, just for tonight, to be nothing but themselves.

Simba leaned in, his breath warm between them. This time, Salah met him halfway.

Their lips met again—but this time it wasn’t innocent. It was slow, purposeful, full of aching need and quiet desperation. Simba's hands moved to Salah’s waist, drawing him close, feeling the flutter of his heartbeat through thin fabric. Salah’s fingers tangled in Simba’s curls, gentle yet claiming.Salah's hand found the back of Simba’s neck,gentle ,guiding. Simba leaned into him not from fear but from the weight of what it meant.To feel .To choose. To be seen.Not as a chiefs son but as himself..

They fell to their knees in the soft grass, tangled in each other’s arms as though the world might vanish by morning. There were no words—only sighs and quiet gasps, touches that lingered, clothes loosened but not torn. Hands explored familiar skin like discovering something ancient and forbidden. Breath mixed with breath. Warmth chased away fear.Salah's lips traced aline along Simba's stomach, reverent. "You are not alone," he murmured. "Even if the world turns against us,this ...this clearing, this truth is ours.

Every movement was a promise.

A defiance.

A confession.

When they lay back against the earth, foreheads pressed together, their bodies curved around each other like vines, it wasn’t lust that filled the space—it was something deeper. Trust. Hunger. Love whispered in a language neither of them had been taught.

“This will get us killed,” Salah murmured.

Simba brushed his thumb against his lips. “I’d rather die being myself than live as someone else.”Simba closed his eyes as Salah kissed the hollow of his throat, his breath hitching ."Then let it just be enough.Even if just for tonight."

And it was.

They didn’t speak again. They didn’t need to.

For the first time, the clearing didn’t just feel like a hiding place.

It felt like home.

The forest sang their song of longing and rebellion, of two hearts choosing each other in a world that wouldn't. Beneath the ancient trees and the hush of the stars they carved a moment out of time.One that neither chiefs nor duty could take away.