Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ship which had been shadowing them was growing closer. Kyle might have had the foresight to fret over this, but he was far too preoccupied with how he would obtain his next meal.

Kyle had very quickly realised he was not a good stowaway. It was damn near impossible to sneak food from the crew, as their portions were all so meagre that they never let it out of their sight, and often wolfed it down in one. The scent of the captain’s soup was one he might have turned his nose up at back home, but two days had now elapsed with nothing but sea air to fill his stomach. Against his better judgement, he was enticed into the captain’s cabin. Perhaps he could nick a few scraps without being noticed.

Kyle slipped in as silently as he could. This was not an easy feat. The old ship’s floorboards creaked and complained whenever so much as a whisper of pressure was placed upon them. He stationed himself beneath the desk and held his breath as he waited for the captain and his meal to arrive.

The squeak of door hinges was drowned out by Kyle’s heart pounding in his ears, so that when a pair of legs appeared in front of him, he was quite unprepared. The captain – Cartman, as Kyle had overheard him called – set his tray down on the table with a grunt and began to tuck into his meal.

Kyle waited until the smacking of chops had subsided, and there was movement no more. He listened closely as Cartman’s breathing softened to one of a sleeping man. Only then did Kyle dare to snake his left hand upwards. His fingers closed around what felt like an unfinished hunk of bread, and his spirits soared, but before he could begin a tactical retreat, a hand was abruptly clamped over his own.

“Gotcha.”

Kyle found himself wrenched upwards by the wrist until he was face to face with Captain Cartman.

“I knew I smelt a rat on board.” Kyle made a vain attempt to run, but Cartman grasped a fistful of ginger curls and jerked him back into place. “Did you really think you’d get away with this?”

Kyle was close enough to smell the stench of Cartman’s breath. Lip curling, he refrained from struggling further. The least he could do was maintain what little dignity he had left. It wouldn’t do to writhe hopelessly in an iron grip like Cartman’s.

“Clyde!” Cartman hollered, and again, when he received no response. “Christ,” he grumbled, “what that man has ever done to earn the rank I’ve given him is beyond me.”

And so Kyle was dragged unceremoniously by his hair out of the cabin and across the deck. Clyde was in the crow’s nest, gazing out to sea with a telescope. Kyle followed his line of sight and found it had settled on their shadow ship. It had grown closer still. From this distance, he could just barely make out the title, painted in white cursive on the hull:

Nobody

There was no time to dwell on this.

“Clyde!” Cartman roared.

Clyde flinched, fumbling his telescope. It tumbled from his hands and hit the deck with a clatter. He peered sheepishly down. “Sorry, Captain! I was—I was just—” He stopped. “Who’s that?”

“Stowaway,” Cartman spat. “Thought he could hitch a free ride to the Caribbean. Thought he could get a free dinner, too.” Cartman twisted Kyle’s head to look at him. “He thought wrong.”

Kyle glared back, unblinking, determined to maintain his obstinate silence.

“There’s a coil of rope up there,” Cartman addressed his first mate. “Bring it.”

Clyde hooked the rope over his shoulder and scampered down the rigging. “To bind his wrists?” he asked.

“And his neck.” Cartman caught the slip in stoicism on Kyle’s face and grinned, displaying his teeth. They were as rotten as he was. “That’s right, boy. You’re going to be our new dangling man.” He shoved Kyle at Clyde. “I’ll gather the crew. We’ll make a real spectacle of it.”

Kyle used the split second of freedom between the transfer to make a desperate attempt to bolt, but Clyde hooked his fingers in his collar and shoved him to his knees with a grunt. He carried on squirming and snarling until a boot was placed squarely on his back and he was pinned to the ground, face smashed against the filthy wooden floorboards.

“There’s no point in trying to run,” Clyde scoffed from above. “There’s nowhere to go.” He made a grab for Kyle’s arms, but they were flailing about so desperately that it took several attempts before he could keep hold of both.

If I’m to be hanged, Kyle thought, as the rough rope bit into his wrists, I might as well be a nuisance about it. He kicked his leg blindly upwards and it collided with some part of Clyde he couldn’t see – but judging by the cry of pain it elicited, it was a tender spot. Kyle struggled to his feet and flew like a frightened pheasant towards the stern.

He didn’t get far. The rest of the sailors had started to gather, like ants to honey, forming an impenetrable wall. Kyle’s flight was brought to an untimely end, and Clyde took him by ear and spun him around.

“You are a handful,” Clyde panted, as he took a good eyeful of him.

What a sorry sight. Short and scrawny, dressed in tatters. A thin, drawn face smeared with dirt. Even back when he dressed in finery, his physique was far from imposing, but he had always liked to think that what he lacked in brawn he more than made up for in brains. He was not doing such a good job of demonstrating this, however, for when Clyde asked, “What’s your name?” Kyle gave it to him, like a fool.

“Kyle.” He had to stop himself from bowing, as he had been raised to do.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

Kyle’s heart sunk. “That depends,” he said quickly, grasping for a lie. “Do you frequent male brothels?”

The crew snickered and Clyde’s face soured. “I must be mistaken.” He picked up the rope again and began to fashion a noose with far too much enthusiasm for Kyle’s liking.

The crowd was growing thicker and rowdier by the second. They were after a show. They were after blood. One surged forward and deposited a crate beneath where the noose had been slung, attached to a pole jutting from a mast.

“Come,” Cartman barked. “Answer for your crimes!”

Kyle had hoped for at least some sort of trial, but he should have known better. Such a crowd was too impatient for that. He was manhandled onto the crate with the grace and poise one has when their body has gone as stiff as a board. The noose was adjusted so that it fit just-so about his neck. Kyle fixed his gaze on the heavens and reflected on how rapidly his life had gone downhill. Two days, he thought. Two measly, miserable days. That was how long he had lasted away from home. He had always imagined he might die a more noble death than this. Still, at least he wouldn’t cry. Kyle never cried, not ever, and he prided himself on that.

“Ahoy there!”

The voice cut through the air like a whip. At once, the crowd fell silent. All heads swivelled to the source.

A man stood alone on the bow of the oncoming ship. No, not a man—A boy, no older than Kyle. In his hand he clasped a cone-shaped, crudely fashioned megaphone. He wore a blood red topcoat, over a white shirt with ruffles tucked into black culottes. He tipped his tricorn to his audience, revealing charcoal hair, tousled beneath. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but could I possibly spare a moment of your time?”

Cartman took this as a cue to step forward. “What do you want?” he sneered.

“I suppose you are captain of this fine vessel?”

“I am.”

“So am I,” the boy said, “of mine.”

Cartman guffawed. “You? But you’re just a boy!”

This seemed to ruffle his feathers. “I’m not just anything.”

“Look, can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here?” Cartman said. “What do you want?”

“Well, I’d like you to surrender,” the boy said, with unexpected sincerity.

Cartman surveyed the other ship. The smaller, unmanned ship. “Why on earth would I do that?”

A smile split the boy’s face in two. “I’m so glad you asked.”

A cannon ball, seemingly from thin air, was fired. All eyes followed its graceful arc as it pitched into the middle mast. It toppled, sending sails and rigging crashing down around them. Shouts of surprise and of pain arose. Kyle thanked the lord he hadn’t been hit – he hardly had the leeway to dodge.

“How dare you?” Cartman cried. “Just what is the meaning of all this?”

“Oh, did I not make myself clear?” the boy said. “We’re here to rob you.”

And at those words, a hoard of pirates spilled out onto the deck behind him. A great sea of them, shouting and swearing and tumbling all over each other, brandishing cutlasses and pistols and wicked looking smiles. A chorus of grenades rained down upon Cartman’s crew, resulting in a crescendo of explosions and thick plumes of smoke. One such cast iron ball landed at the base of the crate Kyle was balanced on. He watched in horror as the lit fuse burnt to the base. He braced himself, screwing his eyes shut tight. The blast reverberated in his bones.

When he opened his eyes, he found the box had not been knocked from beneath him. The only thing that had changed was the ever-thickening smoke, and the number of silhouettes that danced around him. Why, these grenades do nothing but startle! Kyle realised. But none of Cartman’s crew was level-headed enough to figure that out. They were too busy scrambling for their weapons as more and more pirates spilled onto the deck. The sound of gunshots and metal clashing with metal rose above the din of voices, of cries of alarm as each and every sailor was disarmed by their piratical counterparts, one way or another. By the time the smoke had cleared, the battle was over. The boy in the tricorn had forced Cartman to his knees, the tip of a cutlass at his throat.

“Now, how about that?” the boy mused. “Looks like surrendering might have been the best way forward after all.

Cartman’s broad chest was heaving. “Who are you?” he panted.

“Have you not heard of me?” Disappointment flashed on the boy’s face. But he quickly recovered and gave Cartman a deep bow. “Captain Stan,” he said. “Now, rise. I do so hate to talk down to people.

Cartman didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on the blade poised at his neck. Sweat beaded on his brow.

“Ah, right,” Stan said, and sheathed his cutlass. “Is that better?” He extended a hand for him to shake, but Cartman just started at it as if he were being offered a rotting fish. He looked at Stan like he were a rotting fish, too.

“We have nothing of value to you,” he said. “I have already sold my wares.”

“That’s a lie.” The words slipped from between Kyle’s lips before he had a chance to bite them back.

Stan turned to face him. “Oh, hello. What do we have here?” He laughed. Coming from anyone else, the mirth would have seemed out of place on such a bloodstained deck, or indeed when addressing a boy with a noose around his neck. And yet, it fit Stan just fine.

Cartman answered for Kyle before he had a chance to speak. “Ignore him,” he said, glowering pointedly, “he doesn’t know a thing.”

Kyle raised his chin defiantly. “There are crates upon crates of fine silk below.”

Stan’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful,” he said, slipping his hand inside his coat as he turned back to Cartman. “You oughtn’t to lie, you know.”

“And why’s that?”

“It’s disrespectful.” In one swift flick, Stan drew his dagger and slashed it across Cartman’s neck.

He was dead before he even hit the deck.

“Kenny, Butters,” Stan snapped his fingers at two of his crew, “deal with him.”

Two boys darted forward. The shorter of the two had an eyepatch fastened over his left eye. Together, they began to haul the body away. A long, jagged trail of blood was left in its wake.

“Now,” Stan said, “who here is second in command?” No one volunteered. “Come now, don’t be shy.” But none were eager to meet the same fate their late captain had. And so Stan cocked his head at Kyle instead. “Well?”

“Clyde,” Kyle said, without remorse. He nodded to the man in question, who was quaking in his boots. “Him.”

“Thank you, darling,” Stan said, then beckoned Clyde towards him.

With shaking shoulders, Clyde stepped forward. “Are you going to kill me?” he squeaked.

“That depends.” Stan laced his fingers about the hilt of his dagger. “Are you going to lie to me?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I think we’ll get along just fine.” He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the blood from his knife, before tucking the both back into his coat. “Tell me, Clyde, is there anything else on board that might tickle my fancy?”

“Rum,” he said quickly, “and tobacco. Whiskey, in the captain’s quatres.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“Do you swear?”

“I swear.”

“There,” Stan patted Clyde on the shoulder. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

Clyde looked with wide eyes at the mark of blood transferred onto his clothes by Stan’s hand. “No, sir,” he whispered.

“Listen up, everyone,” Stan said. “Here’s what’s going to—”

He was interrupted by an almighty splash from the portside, where Kenny and Butters were brushing themselves off. “Consider him dealt with,” Kenny declared—Or perhaps that was Butters. Kyle couldn’t be sure which was which.

Stan gave a satisfied nod. “Right. Everyone who used to serve under that man,” he gestured overboard, “get to the bow. I want you all in one place. Easier to manage.” There was groaning and grumbling as folk were herded along. “Silence!” Stan roared, and a hush fell over the crowd once more. He began issuing orders to his crew, so fast that Kyle could barely distinguish one word from the next. But his men had no trouble keeping up, for they went scurrying on their way, this way and that. Some remained in place, guns trained on their captives. For the first time, Kyle realised it wasn’t just Stan who was young – it was all of them. None was older than he. Odder still, some of them appeared to be girls.

Without warning, the rope pulled taught about Kyle’s neck. He choked and spluttered, and a hand was placed on his shoulder.

“Keep still.”

The voice was low, gruff in a way that sent tingles down his back. Goosebumps prickled as he listened to the sawing of a knife through thick twists of twine.

“Almost done,” he heard, and then, “there, all finished,” when at last he felt the rope begin to loosen. The loop was slipped quite easily over his head, as did the rope around his wrists.

Kyle stepped hesitantly down from the crate, rubbing his neck where the rope had burnt, before facing his unlikely saviour.

Stan was studying the rope with a thoughtful expression. “You’re welcome,” he said, absentmindedly.

“I hadn’t thanked you.”

“It went without saying.” Stan tugged on the other half of the rope, still hanging, and it fell to the ground. “What was it you’d done to warrant a hanging?” he asked as he picked it up, and began winding it back into a coil.

Kyle frowned. “Shouldn’t you have asked that before you cut me down?”

“Why would I do that?”

“It might have been something dreadful.”

Stan looked Kyle up and down with a sceptical expression. “I don’t think you have it in you.”

Kyle doubted this was a compliment, coming from a pirate captain. “You don’t know that,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height.

Stan was still the taller of the two and took the opportunity to look down his nose at him. “You’d do well not to talk back to someone who just saved your life.”

“I hardly think you’ll kill me now,” Kyle said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“It would be a waste. You’d have dulled your blade for nothing.”

A smile played on the edges of Stan’s lips. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Kyle,” said Kyle. “And you’re Stan.”

“That’s Captain Stan to you.”

“I thought proper captains went by their last names.”

 “Well, this one doesn’t,” Stan said, a little ticked off.

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not such a fan of mine. It comes with rather the wrong reputation. Anyway, nice job changing the subject.” He jabbed a finger at Kyle’s chest. “Tell me. What did you do to risk your neck?”

“I stowed away,” Kyle said plainly. “And I tried to steal the captain’s dinner.”

“Ah.” It seemed Stan had been looking for something rather more exciting than that. “Well, I suppose that’ll do it.”

Kyle glanced portside, and then to the captain’s cabin. “I might go finish it now, actually,” he said, “seeing as he shan’t be wanting it.” And he began to march determinedly across the deck, weaving his way between pirates, carrying cargo to and fro.

Stan stared at him, rooted to the spot in disbelief. “Now, wait just a second,” he called, “I wasn’t finished with you!”

“What else is there to say?” Kyle said, before ducking inside the cabin. There were a few other pirates inside, rummaging through boxes and desk drawers. They raised their heads when he entered, but Kyle just waved a hand to dismiss them. “Don’t mind me. I’m only after the food.” He plucked the tray from the table and made a swift departure before anyone could contest his claim. He returned to the wooden crate and took a seat. The bread was stale. The soup was cold. To his empty stomach, it was the best meal he’d had in years.

Stan glowered down at him as he ate, arms crossed.

Kyle looked up from his food. “Can I help you?”

“You’re not in the least bit impressed by me, are you?”

Kyle studied Stan. His polished knee high boots. The gold thread of his topcoat. The too few buttons done up on his shirt. “No,” Kyle remarked. “Not particularly.”

Stan narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know why I bothered sparing you.”

“Was that all you did it for?” Kyle returned his attention to his meal. “So that I might grovel at your feet, and tell you what a brave little boy you are?” He heard an indignant huff but did not look up from his food until it was snatched from his grasp. “Oi!” he cried, springing up and making a grab for the tray.

Stan was too quick for him, darting backwards with a mischievous glint in his eye. He handed it to the nearest empty-armed crew member, with nothing more than a, “Deal with this.”

Kyle tried to follow his food, but Stan blocked his path. He stood on his tiptoes, peered over the captain’s shoulder as his food was carted away. “I was enjoying that!” he said in dismay.

“We have better food than a dead man’s meal on my ship,” Stan said.

“Bully for you. But I now have no food at all,” Kyle grumbled. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Funny, that.” Stan tilted his head. “You don’t strike me as the begging type.”

Kyle swallowed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Stan scrutinised him a moment longer, before pivoting on his heels. “Come along then,” he said, as if Kyle were just another one of his crew. “We’ll find you something nice to eat.” He paused and scanned the deck. “Where is she?” he muttered to himself, before cupping his hands to his mouth, and calling, “Craig?”

Kyle couldn’t tell who this ‘she,’ was, for it was a boy that was summoned. One with dark hair and dark skin and very, very dark eyes.

“Yes, Captain?” His voice was melodic, lilted with an accent Kyle couldn’t quite place. Spanish, perhaps?

“I’m taking this one back to our ship,” Stan said, gesturing to Kyle. “Keep an eye over the rest of the crew and make sure none of our captives get any big ideas about liberation, won’t you?”

Craig shot Kyle the kind of look that suggested if Craig had been in charge, he might not have been so generous as to cut him down from the gallows. But he said only, “Yes, Captain,” and returned to his work.

“Who was the ‘she’ you were looking for?” Kyle asked as he followed Stan across the gangplank.

“That was her,” Stan said as he hopped back onto his own deck. “Craig, my first mate.”

Kyle craned his neck back. “That’s a girl?” Craig wore clothing loose enough that Kyle couldn’t pinpoint anything about her tall figure that was decidedly feminine.

“All of us dress like that,” Stan shrugged. “Long hair’s no good in battle – too easy to tug. And don’t get me started on sword fights in a skirt. Absolute nightmare.”

“Do all the girls have boy names too?”

“Just her.”

“Why?”

Stan sighed impatiently. “It’s all very complicated. Ask her yourself.”

Kyle thought of the death stare Craig had given him. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d appreciate his curiosity. He didn’t like the idea of facing her right now. Not on an empty stomach.

Chapter Text

Stan’s office was a jolly mess. A chaotic collage of maps was hung on the dark wood walls, connected by pins and bits of red string, and annotated in smudged black ink. The sturdy oak desk in the centre of the room was littered with trinkets: seashells and sea glass, quarters of coins and pieces of eight, gold chains with broken links. Stacks of books and letters were piled about, accompanied by a few ink bottles, perched precariously close to the edge. A hammock hung in the corner, with clothes crumpled carelessly around it.

Kyle made no attempt to conceal his disapproval as he surveyed the wreckage. So this was what became of boys who lived without mothers. He had half a mind to march right back onto the other ship and demand they take him back home to South Port, just so that he may be sure he didn’t end up the same way.

Stan tossed his coat on the back of his chair and tucked himself into the desk. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the seat opposite his own, and taking off his hat.

Kyle did. The position of the chair made him feel like he was about to undergo intense interrogation, what with Stan staring so intently at him from behind such an authoritative desk. There was not a square inch free on the top of it for Kyle to set his food down, and so the plate settled in his lap instead. He was not at all convinced that the food was much better than Cartman’s, but he wasn’t going to turn his nose up at it now. He only wished he had finished his last meal before making a start on this one, to make a proper dent in his ravenous hunger. Having not been given cutlery with which to eat, he was forced to use his hands, a unhygienic practice which he despised, but which was nevertheless unavoidable at present.

“You eat very curiously.”

Kyle glanced up at Stan only briefly before returning his attention to his food. “I’ve not eaten in a while.”

“Precisely.” Stan leant forward. “Any other man in your shoes would be gorging himself silly, but—Look, there! See how you tear little bite-sized pieces from your loaf.” He scrunched up his nose. “Dainty.”

Kyle shot him a cold look. “I don’t appreciate your commentary.”

“I wouldn’t need to comment if you ate ordinarily.”

“Does it irritate you?” Carefully, and deliberately, Kyle tore off the smallest piece of bread he could, scarcely the size of his thumbnail. “The way I eat?” Without breaking eye contact, he slowly raised it to his lips.

Stan snorted. “You’ve been aboard my ship all of two minutes and I already feel like feeding you to the fish.”

“Won’t work. Trust me,” Kyle said. “A hoard of pirates will miraculously appear and slit your throat before you can.”

“I’d like to see them try.” Stan raised his right arm to flex his muscles in a show offish manner – one which Kyle was not in the least bit amused by – but when he did, he cringed, as if a needle had suddenly shot through him, and dropped his arm with a sharp breath.

“What’s the matter?” Kyle asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

“Nothing,” Stan said quickly.

Kyle didn’t have the patience to pry further, so he gave up on conversation in favour of his food. He could feel Stan scrutinising him as he ate, as if he were a strange new species he’d captured. Tiring of being treated like an exhibition, he broke the silence. “So, have you killed many men, then?”

“Oh, heaps and heaps.”

Kyle hummed ambiguously, and so Stan leant forward, and lowered his voice.

“Does that frighten you, Kyle?”

Kyle observed the eager glint in Stan’s eye, and decided to put it out. “No,” he said. “Not particularly.”

Stan sat back, disappointed. “Neither frightened nor impressed. Just what exactly are you, then?”

Kyle considered this. “Hungry.”

“Then eat at a normal pace.”

“Fine.” Kyle shoved the entirety of the remaining bread roll into his mouth at once. It was really too big for just one bite, but he made it work, just to spite Stan. “Happy?” he asked, muffled by his full mouth.

“The temptation to toss you overboard grows stronger by the minute.”

 “Go on then,” Kyle said, after swallowing with some difficulty. “At least the fish won’t ogle half as much as you do.”

“I’m not ogling!”

“You are. You’re doing it now.”

He polished off the rest of his meal whilst Stan sulked in his chair, fiddling with a ship in a bottle that had been resting amongst the wreckage on his desk. Kyle had always wondered how those things were made. During his childhood he had discovered one on the mantelpiece above the fire in his father’s study, when he had snuck in late at night to explore. On his tiptoes, he had studied it, picturing just how tiny someone’s hands might have to be to construct a boat through a hole no wider than a bottlehead. Inching it forward, he had tried to take a closer look, but his small fingers slipped, and it smashed to pieces on the fireplace tiles.

That was the last time he had dared to go into his father’s office - with the exemption of three days ago, when he had been summoned there against his will. He never had figured out how the ship got inside the bottle, but whatever the case, he certainly wasn’t about to ask Stan now.

With the last morsel of his meal finished off, Kyle rose, and wordlessly held out the empty plate for Stan to take. Stan did so, looking miffed, and even more so when Kyle made for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my things.” Kyle left the cabin, Stan trailing along behind him. “You can help me carry them across.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Stan said haughtily. He had neglected to don his hat or red topcoat again, leaving his white shirt rippling and dark hair tousling in the gentle breeze. He was every bit the perfect image of a dashing young sailor. It irritated Kyle to no end.

“Alright then, don’t.” Kyle took a cautious step up onto the gangplank. The water was a crystalline blue, and looked friendly enough, but he knew that if he slipped and fell, a collision with the surface would turn it as hard as glass. “I can manage by myself,” he declared, just in case Stan caught his apprehension, and crossed with his arms out, so as to keep his balance as best he could.

He reached the other end in one piece and stepped down, heart racing. Turning back, he found Stan looking at him as if he were trying not to laugh. Kyle huffed and turned on his heels and began marching across the deck.

“Hey—Wait for me,” he heard, and then the rapid tapping of footsteps on wood as Stan joined him.

They made their way down to the hold, where Kyle had been holed up behind the crates of silk. To his horror, he discovered that the room had already been stripped bare, and what little belongings he possessed had vanished alongside. “It’s all gone!” He cried and cast an accusatory glare at Stan. “What have you done with it?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“It’s your ship! Your crew!”

“I was with you, you fool.” Stan snapped his fingers at one of the pirates passing down the corridor – the boy with the eyepatch, who’d aided in Cartman’s impromptu sea burial. He was small, round faced and round bellied, with rosy cheeks and one bright blue eye. “You,” said Stan. “Butters.”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Were you one of the men who raided this room?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“What did you take?”

“Just the cargo,” Butters said, “silk, like he said.” He gestured to Kyle.

“Anything else?”

Butters frowned in thought. “Oh! Yes, actually. I found some funny looking books with funny looking diagrams.”

“But those are mine!” Kyle stomped his foot in emphasis. Stan shot him a rather judgemental glance, and so he reeled it in to just pouting.

“Are you missing anything else?” Stan asked him.

“A brown leather satchel.”

Butters scratched his tufty blond head. “Well, gee, it’s hard to say if that got scooped up with the rest of it or not. We’ve shifted so many things already. I’ll ask Kenny.”

He stuck his head out the door and hollered for him in a voice far louder than Kyle had expected a boy of his size to produce. “Kenny!”

Footsteps, and then Kenny appeared, laden with boxes. “You called?”

“Did you pick up a leather satchel when we were raiding this room?”

“About yea big,” Kyle said, motioning with his hands.

“Oh, hello there,” Kenny said, “you’re the boy who was about to be hanged, weren’t you?”

“The very same.” Kyle was not pleased with this reputation.

Kenny grinned, putting a chipped front tooth on display. “Jolly good job we showed up, eh?”

“I’m eternally grateful Stan took pity on me,” Kyle said, with about as much enthusiasm as he felt, which was none at all. “Now, about my satchel.”

“Ah, right. Now that you mention it, I think I might have taken it. I’ll have to check. Here, take these,” Kenny said, depositing his cargo in Kyle’s arms, “and I’ll have a root around. Shan’t be a minute.”

Kyle nearly keeled right over with the sudden weight. “Don’t forget my books, too!” he called after him, voice strained.

Stan was smiling at him smugly with his tongue between his teeth, eyebrows raised. “Need a hand?”

“Fine,” Kyle puffed, face reddening with the exertion of remaining upright.

Stan watched the teetering tower of boxes sway. “You’re absolutely certain?”

“They’re as light as a feather.” By some great feat, Kyle managed to hold it together until Kenny returned with his beloved bag. He thrust the cargo back at Kenny before he even had a chance to open his mouth and snatched the bag. Dropping to his knees, he undid the clasp, and emptied the contents out onto the floor, to ensure everything was as it should be. Thin knives and thick tweezers and funny-shaped scissors came tumbling out, along with neatly tied rolls of gauze and several drawstring bags. He peered inside one after another, counting bottles and vials nestled inside. It took until he had packed everything away again for him to notice the other boys staring at him with eyes as big as saucers.

“What are those things?” Butters asked.

“It’s my medical kit,” Kyle said.

“So the books were—”

“Medical textbooks, correct.”

“But you can’t be a doctor,” Stan said. “Doctors don’t look like…” He trailed off and gestured vaguely to Kyle’s ruffian look. “You.”

“Well, captains don’t usually look like cantankerous little boys, either.”

“I do not!” Stan exclaimed, before looking to Kenny for backup. “I—I don’t, do I?”

“Of course not, Captain,” Kenny reassured him, biting back a smile.

“So you are a doctor then?” Butters asked.

“I was studying to become one. Or—I was. Until, um…” Kyle picked at the embossing on his satchel. “Until I wasn’t.”

“But you do know how to fix people up?” Stan asked.

“More or less.” Kyle narrowed his eyes. “Why are you lot so interested all of a sudden?”

The three pirates exchanged glances. Then, all at once, they took up a cacophonous declaration of ailments.

“I’ve burnt my—”

“—This wound’s not healing properly—”

“—My back hurts all the time—”

“—I heard his shoulder’s gone bad since the last battle—”

“—Can you do something about limps? Because—”

“—The most dreadful toothache—”

On and on they went, until Kyle cried, “That’s enough!” cradling his kit to his chest as the others eyed it hungrily. “Why can’t you just ask your own surgeon?”

“We’ve no sawbones on board,” Kenny said.

Kyle looked at him, aghast. “None? On a pirate ship? Why ever not?”

“Strictly no elders allowed,” Kenny shrugged. “Where are we supposed to find a trained up teenager?”

“But we have found one, haven’t we?” Stan’s eyes were glinting in a way that made Kyle uneasy. “One who’s indebted to me, no less.”

Kyle took a wary step backwards. “Now, wait just a minute. I don’t owe you anything. You’re not entitled to anything from me.”

 “Don’t you doctors have some code of ethics? To always heal the sick and needy, that sort of thing.”

“I’ve not sworn the Hippocratic Oath yet,” Kyle said. “And, shockingly enough, nowhere in it is the phrase ‘It is your duty to care for a ragtag, motley crew of pirates,’ written.”

“Not even in the footnotes?”

“Not even in the footnotes.”

“Oh.” Stan looked genuinely crestfallen.

Kyle felt a strange and sudden surge of guilt. Which was utterly ridiculous and totally uncalled for, to feel bad for a boy like him. He wondered why Stan might react that way in the first place, but then he recalled a moment from earlier. “Something’s wrong with your shoulder, isn’t it?”

Stan was taken aback. “Can all doctors do that?” he asked. “Diagnose someone just by looking at them?”

“Yes,” Kyle said, because he was not about to pass up the opportunity to convince him that was the case. “What exactly is the matter with it?”

“Here, I’ll show you,” Stan said, and before Kyle could stop him, he was pulling his shirt off over his head.

Kyle froze. The muscles in his stomach tensed as waves of nausea crept upwards. He shoved them back down before they could reach his brain and unleash a flurry of sinful thoughts about Stan’s bare chest. And other areas.

Thankfully, Stan turned around, and Kyle’s attention was redirected. His back was imprinted with thin, faded scars that crisscrossed like lace and stretched across his skin like a spider’s web. Kyle gazed at it in equal parts horror and wonder until Butters caught his eye and mouthed “don’t ask,” with such unexpected urgency that Kyle obeyed, and moved on to where a bandage had been inexpertly attached to his right shoulder blade.

Kyle stepped forward, hand hovering over the fabric. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

With nimble fingers, he removed the bandage, to reveal a glistening, red-raw wound. Judging by the shape of it, it had been made by some sort of blade, and judging by Stan’s line of work, that blade had probably been some sort of sword, slashed in the heat of battle.

“Oh, well. Of course that’s not healing,” Kyle murmured. “You move about too much. Tear it right back open before the skin can bind together again.”

“So how do you fix it?” Stan asked, turning to face it. They were very close now, so much so that Kyle could feel the warmth rising from Stan’s bare skin. Kyle felt as if he were burning alive in his own.

Re-establishing distance between them, he formally informed Stan, “I’m going to have to amputate your arm.” The fleeting moment of panic on Stan’s face made up for his agony over their previous proximity.

“Oh, you’re hilarious,” Stan grumbled.

“Alternatively,” Kyle said, “I could give you stitches. Though the first option would be rather more exciting.”

“But you will do it, then?” Stan was beaming at Kyle as if he had already signed away his own soul and sworn his service to the Jolly Roger.

Kyle sighed. “Alright. Seeing as you saved my skin, I’ll save yours.” Stan, Kenny and Butters erupted in cheers. Kyle felt a strange sort of warmth at the bottom of his belly, which he immediately put down to seasickness, to save complication. “I’m not doing it in here, though,” he said.

“My office, then.”

“And for goodness’ sake, put your shirt back on. People will stare.”

“Lucky them.”

*

Kyle had never performed a suture before, but he wasn’t about to tell them that. He had studied it before though and recalled the steps well enough. Or at least he hoped he did.

He cleared a little space on the desk so as to have space to set his array of tools down. “Do you have a match, or a candle?” he asked. “I must sterilise the needle first.”

Stan produced a matchbook from beneath the piles of clutter. It was not ideal, but Kyle made do as best he could.

“That’s an unusually curvy needle,” Butters said as he watched Kyle pass it through the flame.

“It’s so it’s easier to sew the skin together.” Kyle blew out the match and mimed looping the needle through the air. He noticed Stan shudder, and asked, “Not a fan of needles?”

“Are you kidding? I’m their biggest fan,” Stan said. “Love me some needles. Just. Going through me. They’re the best.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve faced much greater foe.”

“Swords and pistols are different,” Stan said. “You can fight back. But a needle…”

Kyle filled in the blanks. “You can’t fight back. It must simply be endured.”

“I’ll be fine, of course,” Stan said dismissively, though Kyle hadn’t missed the shade paler he had turned. But then he took off his shirt again, and Kyle forgot all about that. He undid it one button at a time this time, which somehow made it worse, and Kyle found himself averting his gaze, as if he were witnessing something he shouldn’t. He did not look back until he heard the sound of Stan taking his seat, and then, with Kenny and Butters hovering behind him like vultures, Kyle began.

Taking the tweezers – tissue forceps, as his professor had called them – he delicately lifted the skin on the right side of the gash, and pierced it from the outside with his needle, just half a centimetre from the end. Stan sucked in air sharply through his teeth, and Kyle had to blurt, “Don’t move a muscle!” for fear he might leap out of his seat. With steady hands, he threaded the needle across, and up into the opposite side, before taking the tail of the string and knotting both ends together.

“Are you done?” Stan asked, when he heard the thread being snipped.

“Stan, that was precisely one stitch.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “I knew that.”

Kyle started on the next stitch. This time Stan was prepared, bracing himself for the puncture and the pull of thread through flesh. His breathing remained steady and didn’t even flinch, but from over his shoulder, Kyle could see his knuckles whitening.

“Good,” Kyle murmured as he tied the second knot, low enough that only Stan might hear it. “You’re keeping still. You’re doing well.”

Stan scoffed and muttered something about not needing to be patronised, but the reddening of the tips of his ears betrayed the cool he was trying to keep.

Kyle had got into the rhythm of things by the time he finished the third stitch, and before he knew it, he had closed the wound, and was dabbing away the blood that had seeped out during the process, before applying a fresh bandage. “There.” He was buzzing with the thrill of a successful suture as he stepped back to admire his handiwork. Not bad for a first time. Butters handed Stan his shirt back as Kyle began packing away his things.

“You’re completely finished?” Stan asked. “No secret second layer?”

“None.”

Stan looked properly chuffed, until he rolled his shoulders back and winced. “But it still hurts.”

“I’m not made of magic,” Kyle snorted. “Try not to flap your arms about for a little while and it’ll sort itself out.” He fastened his bag shut. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I hadn’t thanked you.”

“It went without saying,” he said, and he couldn’t help but smile to himself, just a little.

“Enjoyed yourself, did you?”

“It was… less of an inconvenience than it could have been,” Kyle said, which was about as close to admitting Stan was correct as he could bring himself.

Stan launched from his chair and leant across the desk, beaming. “How do you feel about doing that full time?”

Kyle blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Stay,” Stan said. “Be our sawbones. There’s plenty of folk on board with cuts and scrapes and bullet holes that need tending to.”

Kyle said nothing. He just stared at him like he was mad, but Stan took no notice.

“You’ll be paid your share, just like the rest of us.” He stood and began pacing towards Kyle like a shark fin slicing through the water to its prey. “There’s a storeroom in the lower deck we’re not using, you can have that as your sick bay. Of course, you’ll have to pull your weight in other ways too. I’ll teach you to sail, and to pillage, and to fight.” He was very close now – too close, in Kyle’s opinion. “Could you handle that? The heat of battle? The tension? The stakes?”

“Of course I could,” Kyle said automatically, despite the fact that the extent of his brawling experience ended at the tussles he got into with his younger brother as a child and the fencing lessons at boarding school that he had done his very best to avoid.

“Wonderful, darling,” Stan said, sliding open a desk drawer and rummaging around. “Let me just—Ah, here we go.” He slammed a scroll on the desktop. “The contract.”

“Woah there,” Kyle put his hands up. “Slow down just a moment. I’ve not agreed to anything.”

“Oh, come off it,” Stan grinned. “As if you’re going to say no to an opportunity like this. An urchin like you isn’t going to find a better offer coming his way.”

Kyle bristled. “You don’t know that. I’m sure there’s plenty where I was headed who’d appreciate my services.”

“Go ahead,” Stan said, “sneak right back onto another trade ship bound for the islands. Let’s see if you make it any longer before they try to hang you this time.” He wrinkled his nose. “How long was it that you lasted? A whole entire day?”

“Two,” corrected Kyle, as if that somehow made it better.

“Do you even want to go to the Caribbean? Is there actually anyone waiting for you there?”

Kyle opened his mouth to snap back a retort but found he could produce nothing. “I—I don’t know,” he said at last. “It was just a place. A different place than where I was.”

“Well, wouldn’t you say the good ship Nobody fits that criteria too?”

Kyle sighed. He gazed warily at the document Stan had retrieved. “What’s in that thing, anyway?”

A smile split Stan’s face. “Haven’t you heard of The Pirate’s Code?”

“Refresh my memory.”

Stan unfurled the scroll and handed it to him. Kyle had expected a long and wordy thing, but discovered the code was far more concise.

The Articles of Agreement

1. Never lie to the Captain.
2. Every man shall have a vote in the affairs of the moment.
3. Every man to be called fairly and in turn by list to receive his equal share, and shall make no attempt to pocket more.
4. Guns and cutlasses are to be kept clean and ready for service, should the opportunity unexpectedly strike.
5. Lights and candles are to be put out at ten o’clock at night, and no later.
6. Romantic entanglements amongst crew members are strictly forbidden.

“I suppose you’re wondering what that one’s about,” Stan said, jabbing a finger at number six.

Kyle jumped. He hadn’t realised Stan had been reading over his shoulder. “I wasn’t, actually—”

“Break as many hearts as on shore as you want,” Stan said, and then winked at Kenny, “I know many of us do.”

Kenny grinned. “Guilty as charged.” Kyle thought he caught irritation flicker upon Butters’ face, but if indeed it had been there, it was hidden too quickly to quite pin down.

“But those sorts of affairs stay on shore,” Stan continued. “Tension, conflict—I don’t want to see any of that amongst my crew, and that’s bound to arise if flings are permitted.”

Kyle gave Stan a withering look. “Shan’t be a problem.” He glanced at the list again, and noticed an amendment in smaller, scratchier handwriting.

7. Smoking is not permitted within close proximity of gunpowder barrels.

“Why’s that one a rule?” Kyle asked. “Number seven.”

Stan snorted. “I’m sure you can figure that one out for yourself.”

Kyle found he could, and that he rather agreed that rule number seven was well advised. “What would happen if I were to break any of these rules?” he asked.

“Why, we’d maroon you, of course.”

“You’d what?”

“Leave you on a nice little desert island,” Butters said.

“With nothing more than a pistol and a Bible,” Kenny added.

Kyle wondered for a fleeting second whether they might extend the courtesy of allowing him the Torah instead, but then clocked what it was that was implied. “What, forever?”

“Not forever,” Stan said. “You’d die first.”

“Oh, well that’s alright then,” Kyle huffed.

“Don’t break the rules, and you won’t have to worry about it. Simple as that. Now—” Stan was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Enter.”

A pirate stuck her head in. She was Black, with neatly braided cornrows that finished in two puffs upon her head and was wearing the same sort of clothing as all the other crew – though, unlike Craig, she remained distinctly feminine. Kyle supposed most would find her beautiful if they were attracted to that sort of thing. Women.

“Sorry to bother you, Captain,” she said. Her accent was Jamaican, rich, and warm. “Can you spare Kenny and Butters for just a few minutes, to lend a hand with the last of the cargo?”

“Of course, Nichole.” Stan nodded to the boys in way of dismissal, and they filed out of the room. Butters gave Kyle a little wave as he left, which was not returned, for he was engrossed in rereading the list.

No infighting, no staying up past bedtime, and no falling in love. That sounded easy enough, a small price to pay for the chance to put his medical knowledge to good use. And his family certainly wouldn’t come looking for him here – on a pirate ship, of all places. Number one might pose a problem if the wrong questions were asked, vis-à-vis his background. But he was confident in his ability to sidestep them – after all, an absence of truth wasn’t technically a lie, now was it? So no issue there, either.

 There was just one question at the back of his mind, itching to be answered. One which he wanted to be sure of before he made any rash decisions.

“Why did you save me?”

“What?”

“You cut me down from the gallows. What did you care if I lived or died?”

For a moment, he thought he might get a genuine answer, but the smirk Stan gave told him otherwise. “Well, I thought we could do with another pretty face around here. It’s an awful lot of responsibility, you know, me being the only one.”

Kyle did not find this joke as funny as Stan did, who was giggling to himself like a schoolboy. “The only thing worse than a pretty boy,” Kyle said in contempt, “is one who believes himself to be so.”

“So you think I’m pretty, then?”

“That’s not what I said, and you know it.”

“Just checking,” Stan sang. “You know the rules.”

Kyle did. And so he signed on the wiggly, uneven dotted line.

*

Nobody was disappearing over the horizon when something in Clyde's mind clicked. He grabbed his crewmate’s arm in disbelief and whirling him violently around. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “Kevin, I remember! I remember who he is!”

Kevin looked at him like he’d lost his marbles. “Who?”

“That little redhead, the one who left with the pirates. I didn’t recognise him—Dressed in tatters, doesn’t look a bit like his portrait, but—but that’s Kyle Broflovski.” Clyde ran his hands through his hair and laughed, high pitched and hysterical. “Jesus Christ! We almost hung Kyle bloody Broflovski!”

Kevin scrunched up his face in thought. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“His father owns pretty much all of the harbourside cities along the West Coast of America.”

“What, even South Port?”

“Yes!”

“Wow,” Kevin said. “What’s a toff like him doing on board a ship like ours?”

“No—" Clyde shook Kevin vigorously, as if to knock some sense into him. “You don’t understand!”

“Alright, so his dad’s fabulously wealthy, but what—”

“Kevin, three days ago it was announced that he’ll be marrying Princess Phillipa of England.”

Kevin went slack jawed. “Oh. Oh my God.”

Clyde gazed at the blip on the horizon, all that remained over Nobody. “That boy is a future prince,” he breathed. “That boy might one day be king.”

Chapter Text

“Follow me,” said Stan, as he led Kyle down a corridor, dinner in hand. “This way to the mess!”

“The what?”

“The mess,” Stan repeated. “It’s what we call dining halls, on ships.”

“Why not just call it a dining hall, then?” Kyle asked.

“Ah, well. The phrase ‘dining hall’ conjures up an image of grandeur. ‘The mess,’ on the other hand…” He raised his eyebrows. “Far more accurate.”

And so it was. Long tables spanned the room from end to end, with pirates packed on benches, eating like pigs at a trough, and flinging food at each other on catapult spoons. Upon entry, Stan had to shove him out of the way to avoid being hit by a projectile pea, leaving a little green stain on the wall instead. Suddenly, the stiff, formal dinners Kyle had undergone back home didn’t seem so bad.

“Come along,” Stan said, when Kyle lingered by the doorway. “They won’t bite.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.” They took a seat at the back, perched on the edge of parallel uncomfortable benches at the end of a table.

“The upside of the ruckus is that no one will notice a new face,” Stan reassured him. “I’ll introduce you to them all later, but it’s best we wait until after dinner, when we can hold their attention for longer than fifteen seconds.”

Kyle didn’t say much as he ate, preferring to silently observe the rest of the crew and let the sound of Stan’s voice blend into the ambience. He scanned the crowd for familiar faces and landed on Kenny and Butters, who were heading a table on the opposite side of the room. Though he could not distinguish their voices, he figured Butters was in the middle of a story, for all seated at his table were tilted towards him, enraptured. Face animated, he punctured sentences with wide, sweeping gestures. A pause, and then… the punchline. His audience fell about, cackling, slapping each other on the back and wiping tears from their eyes. Kenny ruffled up Butters’ hair and whispered in his ear, who beamed like a dog with a bone.

Kyle’s gaze wandered to Craig, who was hunched over in serious discussion with someone who had her back to him but judging by the puffs of afro-textured hair, he reckoned it was Nichole. Since their previous brief encounter, Craig had acquired a parrot, which was perched on her shoulder. It was a brilliant blue, with a yellow underbelly, and every now and then she would feed it scraps off her plate, without halting conversation. Kyle would have been content to simply watch and wonder vaguely what they were talking about, but in a sudden, jarring motion, Craig’s head snapped up, and she locked eyes with him. His heart dropped and he looked away, back to Stan, who, it appeared, had not ceased nattering since they had sat down.

“—And all crew members are issued one concubine for every man they kill.”

“Interesting,” Kyle hummed, already checking on Craig again.

Stan jabbed his fork at Kyle. “I knew you weren’t listening!”

“I am,” Kyle said. “I’m just also looking somewhere else. And thinking about different things.”

“Nice to know I’ve got such an attentive audience.” Stan stabbed at his remaining peas, skewering one on each prong. “What’s so much more entertaining than me, then?”

“Looks like we’re about to find out.”

Craig was making her way across the mess hall with a bitter look on her face. She came to a halt at the head of their table, arms crossed. “So this is him? The new recruit?”

“Uh, pleasure to meet you,” Kyle said, apprehensive.

She ignored his greeting in favour of glowering at Stan. “You didn’t think to consult me on this?”

“We needed a ship’s doctor, and now we’ve got one.” Stan pulled the peas off his fork with his teeth. “What is there to consult?”

“We don’t even know who he is!”

“I’m Kyle,” said Kyle, helpfully.

Craig narrowed her eyes. “So you say.”

Stan downed the last of his drink, wiping his mouth on the back of his rough hand. “I have made my decision, Craig. There’s nothing to argue about.”

“But what if he’s cowardly?” she said. “What if he’s lazy? What if he’s unreliable? What if he’s a liar?” She looked him up and down like he was a stain that needed rubbing off. “I mean, just look at him, Captain. Frail. Caked in dirt.” She picked up one of his arms and waved at Stan. “Look at how skinny his wrists are! They’ll snap right off the moment he picks up anything heavier than a quill.”

Kyle snatched his arm away. “There’s nothing wrong with my wrists!”

“Does he honestly seem in any fit condition to serve on our ship?”

Stan smirked. “Need I remind you of the state you were in when I found you?”

“Well, I—I—” Craig drew her arms about herself. “That was different.”

“Was it?”

“I had years of experience – if anything, I was overqualified.” Her hands found a place on her hips. “At the very least, I knew how to sail.”

“You don’t know that he doesn’t.”

“Well, do you?” she asked Kyle.

“Um,” he said, voice strained. “Not quite.”

Craig shot Stan an I-told-you-so look.

“But I’m a fast learner!” protested Kyle.

“And I’m an excellent teacher and an expert in the field,” said Stan. “He’ll be ship-shape in no time.”

“You’re going to mentor him?”

“Only the best will do.”

Craig laughed hollowly. “I highly doubt—”

“I’m tiring of this conversation,” Stan announced, getting to his feet. “I’m keeping him, and that’s final.” And at that, he stalked off.

Kyle was about to follow, but Craig put a firm hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat.

“I’m not finished with you.”

“Oh, good,” Kyle said tightly, as she filled Stan’s spot opposite him.

She studied him with that dark gaze of hers, one which was so intense that he felt as if she were trying to fry his skin off, just to get a better look at the muscle and bone underneath. Kyle felt he should say something to assuage her suspicions and put her at ease but having no clue as to what that might be, he instead voiced the first question that came to mind.

“Why do they call you Craig?”

“Because that’s my name,” she snapped. “Why else would they call me that?”

“It’s just that you’re a—And Craig’s a… You know.”

“A what, exactly?”

He’d painted himself into a corner here. “A boy’s name.”

“Is it?” Craig put a hand over her mouth, dripping with sarcasm. “Why, I had no idea!”

“You know what I meant.”

“I can’t believe I never noticed that. If it weren’t for intellectuals such as yourself—”

“Alright, alright.” He put his hands up. “It was rude of me to ask. I’m sorry.”

Craig raised her eyebrows. “I’ve not heard that in a while.”

“Which part?”

“‘Sorry.’ My men have a lot of skills, but courtesies are not among them.”

“I can believe that.”

She chewed her lip in thought, and after a moment said, “They needed a son.”

“What?”

“My parents, back in Peru. They were after a boy, but they got me instead, so they named me Craig and raised me as if I had been born more favourably.”

“Oh,” he said. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Men make more money. They have inheritance rights and they’re not barred from working on ships.”

“Ah,” said Kyle, as the pieces fell into place. “Your aforementioned years of experience.”

“Nothing fancy,” she said. “Just your standard trade ship.”

“They caught you, I suppose. They discovered the truth.”

“What truth?” she scoffed. “Nothing changed. They just decided that it had and dumped me at the next port with nothing but the clothes on my back.”

“And that’s where Stan found you?”

“That’s just what he’ll have you believe. Actually, I found him, after a few months of, um… scraping by.” She ran a finger along her parrot’s back. “I heard rumours of a strange ship having docked. One with no adults. One with girls.”

“And so you became First Mate?”

“Navigator, actually. Reading and chartering maps, pinpointing positions by the stars, those sorts of skills are in short supply, especially at our age. Stan was the only other aboard who could do it properly, so he knew I’d be of use. I didn’t get promoted until First Mate Malkinson kicked the bucket about four months later.” She took note of Kyle’s horror and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, were you under the impression that this isn’t a deadly game we’re playing?”

“I know that,” Kyle said quickly. But it was one thing to be aware, and another to be confronted by the consequences. “How did you survive, in those months before you joined?”

She stiffened. “Never mind her—That!” She winced, and the parrot on her shoulder started with a squawk. “Hush, Stripe.”

“Who’s ‘her?’” asked Kyle, interest piqued.

Craig cleared her throat. “That. I meant that.”

“You didn’t say that. You said her.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m supposed to be interrogating you here. Since when did you get to ask all the questions?”

“I was only—”

“Tell me about yourself,” she added, before adding in air quotes, “Kyle.”

He swallowed, readying his mental list of honest yet vague answers that conveniently skipped over certain aspects of his identity.

“Why were they going to hang you?”

“I was caught.”

“Caught doing what?”

“Stealing the captain’s food.”

“Why?”

“I was hungry.”

“No, why did you steal it?”

“I was stowing away.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t afford a ticket to the Caribbean.”

“Why did you want to go there?”

“Nice…weather?” Kyle said, but his voice pitched up at the end, so that it came out more like a question than an answer.

Craig tilted her head. “Why else?”

“To find work.”

“As a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be a doctor?”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be a first mate?”

“Touché,” she said. “But was there no work in your own city?”

“Um,” Kyle said, thrown. “Well, I suppose there might have been.”

“So why didn’t you stay?”

Kyle groped frantically in the back of his mind for an answer, but everything he produced would only lead to more difficult questions.

Craig leant forward. “Answer me. Why did you leave? What made you oh-so desperate to escape?”

“I… I, um—”

“Craig!” Nichole bounded towards them.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Captain wants you. Says he needs help with the vote.”

“Oh, for—” Craig broke off into a language that Kyle wasn’t familiar with but was willing to bet was a fruity selection of curse words. “We went over that earlier!”

Nichole just shrugged. “You know him.”

“All too well,” she sighed and swung her legs over the bench to stand. “Don’t think you’re off the hook,” she said to Kyle, “and don’t get too comfortable. Just because the Captain has decided to adopt you as his little pet project doesn’t mean things will be smooth sailing for you. They never are around here.”

Nichole watched her go with a knowing smile. “She gave you a proper dressing down, didn’t she?”

“Something like that,” Kyle mumbled, unnerved.

“Take no notice of her. She acts like this place is her purgatory, but everyone knows she secretly loves it here.”

Kyle found it hard to believe that a person like Craig could experience joy in any form at all.

Nichole glanced to the door, where others were beginning to file out. “Best be going, if we want a good spot for when Stan announces the vote.” She put out her hand. “Coming?”

Kyle didn’t have much choice, and so he took it, and was hauled to his feet with unexpected strength. Then he was being dragged through the crowd, Nichole figure heading the way, and Kyle offering fleeting apologies to everyone he helplessly collided with. It was a miracle he made it in one piece, without his arm being yanked out of his socket.

“You have a very strong grip,” he panted.

Nichole beamed at him. “Thank you!”

The last of the sun had dipped below the horizon, and in its absence, the stars had emerged. Lamps, candles and a copper fire pit had been lit, basking the deck in a warm, flickering light. Pirates were dotted about in huddles on the floor, whispering and giggling amongst themselves. Nichole beelined to a spot aft. “You get a good view of the poop deck from here,” she said. “That’s where the Captain will make his announcement.”

“About what?”

“The vote on where we’ll go next.”

“Doesn’t Stan make that call?” he asked, then answered himself before Nichole could. “No, wait—'Every man shall have his say in the affairs of the moment,’ right?”

“I see you read what you signed.”

“Of course,” he said. “Only, I hadn’t expected there to be so many rules on a pirate ship.”

“What, did you think it would just be a chaotic free-for-all?” She shook her head. “We wrote that thing for a reason.”

“‘We?’ You mean, you were there when it was written?”

“Sure! All the original crew chipped in.”

“Which bits were yours?” he asked, and then, cautiously, “Number six? The, um, romance one?”

“That one was Stan’s,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “Don’t ask him why.”

“Oh, alright,” he said. “How long ago was all that?”

“About three years.”

Three years. Kyle tried to imagine what it would be like, living on a ship for so long. “Have things changed much since then?”

“Just the faces, mostly, but we’ve not had a new one since Craig, a year ago. Oh! Speak of the devil.” She nodded up at the elevated poop deck, where Stan and Craig were visible, conversing. “You’ve broken her record now.”

“Perhaps that’s why she doesn’t like me.”

Nichole laughed. “Maybe.”

Kyle watched as Craig straightened the Captain’s tricorn and smooth the lapels of his jacket. She licked her thumb and went to wipe at Stan’s cheek, but he ducked out of her grasp before she could, snickering and shoving her.

“Has Stan changed much since then?” Kyle asked.

Nichole sucked her teeth. “You know, out of everything on board, he’s the one thing that never does.”

Stan approached the railings, and a hush fell over the crowd. “Evening, all,” he greeted them. The firelight cast an ethereal glow upon him, dramatic shadows on his face. “I know you’re all itching to get to voting, but there’s one or two things to address before then. Firstly, I’d like to congratulate you all on your absolutely marvellous capture today.” He was answered by whoops and hollers and cheers. “No one killed, no damages to the ship, only a few minor injuries sustained.” He scanned the crowd and landed on Kyle. “A fine haul indeed.”

A shiver ran down Kyle’s spine, and he looked away.

“Speaking of which,” Stan clasped his hands together, “I’d like to introduce you all to our newest member. Come on up.”

Nichole elbowed him in the ribs. “That’s you, go on.”

Hesitant, Kyle got to his feet and picked his way through the ocean of eyes that tracked his every movement. “When you said introduction, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” he whispered to Stan, hen he reached the top of the stairs.

“Well, what did you expect?”

“I was hoping for a more gradual integration.”

“Yes, but this way is far grander.” Stan put an arm around his shoulder and lead him to the edge. “Everyone, this is Kyle. Kyle, this is everyone.”

Kyle stared down at the crowd of upturned faces gazing up at him with curiosity. He wondered if this was what Princess Phillipa saw when she was addressing her subjects, and he wondered if he would one day be forced to do the same. Not if he could help it. “Hello,” he said, giving an awkward wave. Everyone waved back, with lopsided grins, and then he felt a little better.

“Hey, it’s that hanged boy!” he heard someone whisper.

“Well, he obviously wasn’t hanged, was he?” another hissed back. Kyle’s grip tightened on the railing.

“Oi,” Stan snapped his fingers, “hold your tongues, you lot.” He looked to Kyle, “Tell them who you are.”

For a brief, gut wrenching second, he thought Stan meant who he really was. But of course he couldn’t have because no one here knew that. “I’m Kyle,” said Kyle. “And, um, I’m going to be the new sawbones.”

There was an immediate eruption of sound, as all took this as an invitation to voice their opinions, and their various aches and pains. Kyle flinched but forced himself to remain as he was. It would not do well to show weakness this early on.

Stan slammed his fist on the railing. “Silence!” he roared. They obeyed. “They’re just a bit over excited, you understand,” he said to Kyle. “Now, everyone. We will be converting the empty storeroom into a sick bay. If you have any ailments” —A voice rose up, but he silenced it with a flick of his wrist— “or questions, then there will be parchment provided next to the voting booth, upon which you may write your name and where it hurts. If you can’t write, then Token will do it for you. Got that?” All nodded. “Good.” He turned to Kyle, lowering his voice. “You’ve got your work cut out for you here.”

“I can handle it,” said Kyle.

Stan grinned at him. “I do hope so.”

Kyle took his seat next to Nichole again, feeling rather chuffed. Perhaps life on board a pirate ship would not be so bad after all.

“Onto the main event,” said Stan. “After much deliberation and suggestions from the crew, we have two possibilities, moving forward.” He reached into his pocket and produced two stones: one grey, and one black. “As always, you will each be given two stones. First, the obvious. Vote with your grey stone,” he said as he raised it, “if you believe we should continue to the Caribbean islands in the hopes of encountering more trade ships. However,” he said as he raised the black stone, “it just so happens that we are about two days away from the jolly old city of South Port.”

Kyle’s blood ran cold.

“Craig has a contact there who may be able to provide us with valuable information on certain secret trade routes,” Stan said. “If we could obtain this, then we wouldn’t have to keep wandering about in the hopes of stumbling upon a ship to raid. We could begin to make planned, coordinated ambushes, in places that other pirates don’t even know about.”

Stan’s voice was muffled to Kyle by the ringing in his ears. This can’t be real, he told himself. This cannot be happening. I can’t have got this close to freedom, only to find myself sailing right back into his father’s clutches.

“Token and Bradley will be running the voting booth. Once all have had their say, we will have song and dance.” Stan tucked the stones back into his pocket. “This concludes our announcements.”

All around Kyle, people were getting to their feet, already engaging in hot debate with each other on which was the best decision. But it was all numb to him. He just stayed as he was, with his knees drawn up against his chest, chasing the empty hope that if he didn’t move, then he might wake up, and discover that it had all been some terrible dream.

“Are you alright?”

Kyle’s head jerked up to see Stan standing above him, confirmation that it could not be a nightmare, because he could never imagine a boy like him. He was far too vivid, far too alive.

“I hope the crew didn’t frighten you, back there,” Stan said, offering Kyle a hand up.

Kyle did not take his hand. He stood by himself, brushing himself off. “I’m fine,” he said.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Terribly sorry,” he snapped, “I’ll do a better job at appearing more presentable for you.”

“Wow, okay,” Stan raised his eyebrows, “that’s not what I meant. But if you’re just fine and dandy then I’ll shove off.”

“Stan, wait!” Kyle called after him, but only when he knew he was out of earshot. He might have had the humility for something other than an empty gesture, but the prospect of any further conversation with him right now only made him feel more nauseous. How on Earth could he explain why he dreaded South Port without lying to him? It was a challenge too weighty for him to bare, and so instead he went to cast his vote.

The voting booth was constructed of a portable partition, behind which two boxes with slits in the top were situated. He was handed a stone of each colour by a boy who introduced himself as Bradley and told to place his vote in the left box and discard the other in the right box. Kyle chose his grey stone and prayed that the others would do the same. Upon exiting, he found another boy stationed, who informed him his name was Token, and that he had here the sign up sheet for medical examinations, one which was already teeming with names.

“Let’s hope none of them are terminal, eh?” Token said. “Being responsible for a fatality this early on won’t do well for your image.”

Kyle gave him a weak smile and moved on so that he could go back to taking names. He found a reserved spot on the starboard bow and rested his arms on the edge. The water surrounding them was ink black, but on the tips of the waves, where the moonlight traced it, it seemed pure white. He watched the waves ripple back and forth and felt utterly alone.

Then the music began.

A fiddle, merry and lithe, rose high into the night. Kyle turned and saw that on a stack of crates some ways off stood Kenny, bow in hand, nimble fingers working the strings. People began to gather at the base, and from the throng emerged Stan, clutching a guitar, who scrambled up onto the boxes beside him. Nichole joined them as well, sitting on the corner of a crate and treating it as a makeshift drum with which to keep time. Kyle was not familiar with the shanty, but apparently everyone else was, for they started singing and cawing in such a jumble of joy that he could not separate one word from the next. Transfixed, he drew towards it, mesmerised by the see of swaying heads. Another instrument joined the fray, and after some searching, he saw Craig, leaning against the base of the crates, playing upon a pan flute. She did not look as merry as Kenny or Stan or indeed any of the others, but there was contentment in her look of concentration.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Butters joined Kyle’s side, staring up at the players, his eye bright enough to rival the moon.

"I didn't know he played guitar."

Butters frowned. "I meant Kenny."

"Oh. Um, he's good too."

"Isn't he?" Butters waved up at Kenny, and he grinned back, hands otherwise preoccupied. “Well, come on,” he said, taking Kyle’s hand and dragging him closer.

Kyle did not at all appreciate the amount of dragging by the hand he had undergone recently. “What are you doing?” he asked as he was jostled along.

“We’re going to dance, of course!”

“Oh, no, thank you,” he said. “I don’t dance.”

Butters giggled. “What kind of person doesn’t dance?”

“Me!” protested Kyle. “This kind, right here.” But either Butters didn’t hear him, or he didn’t care. He took Kyle’s other hand, and then they were dancing—or, well, Butters was dancing, and Kyle was just being spun around very quickly, doing his best not to fall over. If he had been determined not to enjoy himself, then he soon lost that fight, for it was hard not to get swept up in the moment when he was surrounded by such merriment. He was allowed only a moment of rest in between the end of the first song and the start of the next, which he spent bent double and panting, before being grabbed by someone else, and the process was repeated all over again. By the third song (and the third pirate), Kyle was starting to get the hang of it. The trick was to always keep on your toes and not stay in place for too long, else you risked collision with the next person who was being flung into your spot. Upon the end of the third tune, he attempted to extract himself from the dancefloor, only to end up backing into someone anyway.

“Sorry, I—” Kyle whipped around. “Oh.”

“Having fun?” Stan was smiling at him.

“How did you—I thought you were playing?” He glanced at the stands, where a blonde had taken his place at the guitar. She started up a new song, on which, to Kyle’s great relief, was a ballad with a considerably slower meter.

“I felt like taking a break,” said Stan. He held out his hand, “May I have this next dance?”

“You know, you’re the first to actually ask,” Kyle said, eyeing the hand. All around them, people were coupling up, with general disregard to gender. He was getting déjà vu, flashbacks to the many balls he had been forced to attend, all of which he had spent huddled in a corner with his nose in a book, avoiding eye contact at all costs. It was hard to believe that what took place both there and here could be considered dancing – the former devoid of life, the latter bursting at the seams with it. And somehow here he was, confronted by a pirate captain, asking him to dance. It was unimaginable, and it was unacceptable, and Kyle was taking his hand and being pulled closer, and it was exhilarating. Stan slipped an arm around his waist, and all the air left Kyle’s lungs at once, and he remembered what a bad idea this was.

“Is this okay?” asked Stan.

“Perfectly alright,” Kyle said, “why wouldn’t it be? This is alright. I’m alright.”

“Well, alright.” Stan’s eyes sparkled. “Just making sure.”

“I’ve just, um, not danced before.”

“You looked like you knew what you were doing up there.”

“Were you watching me?”

“Maybe,” Stan said, with a coquettish smile.

“Why?”

“I wanted to see how you’d fair.”

“And how did I fair?”

“Well enough to be asked to dance again.”

“What an honour,” Kyle snorted.

“Just follow my lead.”

Together, they began to dance. They did not set off on the right foot. Well, Stan did, but Kyle set off on his left, and so they tripped almost immediately.

“Which part of ‘follow my lead’ don’t you understand?” Stan said.

“That’s not a specific enough instruction.”

“It is. Just do what I do.” They tried again, without much success. “You’re too tense,” Stan said. “Relax. It’ll come naturally.”

“It most certainly will not.” He pulled away. “This is stupid, I don’t know why we’re bothering—”

“Don’t give up yet.” Stan grabbed his elbow and twisted him back. “Another shot.”

“Fine.”

“Relax this time.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re not.”

“Can we just get this over with?”

They began again, cautious, and unsteady, like children taking their first steps. Then Kyle began to pick up the pattern – forward, right, backwards, left. After a little while, he didn’t have to think about it anymore – his feet did it for him. And then they were drifting, spinning slowly across the deck, and though he couldn’t bring himself to look Stan in the eye, he could feel his smile upon him. He had almost begun to unwind, just slightly, when a voice called out, “The votes have been counted!” and then his heart dropped like a stone and everything was dreadful again.

The music came to an abrupt halt. Stan left his side without so much as a backwards glance, towards Token and Bradley. Token whispered in Stan’s ear, who addressed the crowd in turn.

“It is decided,” he announced. “Tomorrow we set sail for South Port.”

Chapter Text

Kyle slept fitfully that night. This was in part because the floor was not a pleasant place to rest, but as there were no free hammocks or bunks, that was where he lay, with a threadbare pillow and a threadbare blanket, in a cramped cabin below deck, where pirates were packed in like sardines. He was accustomed to sharing a dorm, having done so during his years at boarding school, so the snoring and snuffling was nothing new. The scrabbling, however, was unexpected.

“What was that?” he whispered into the darkness. Someone groaned and sat up, but he couldn’t tell who it was until he spoke.

“What was what?”

“The scratching, Butters. Don’t you hear it?”

“Oh, that. Don’t worry, it’s only the rats.”

“Rats?” Kyle squealed, louder than he meant to, earning a few hisses from those he’d woken.

“They’re harmless,” Butters said. “Pay them no mind.”

“Don’t you have a ship’s cat to catch them?”

“Craig doesn’t trust cats, on account of her parrot.”

Kyle was about to remark that a rat-free ship was well worth ruffling a few feathers, but then someone snapped, “Will you two be quiet?” and he heard Butters curl back up in his hammock again, and it was clear the conversation was done for the night.

The main cause of his insomnia was, of course, his return to South Port. He tried to think up ways to stop it, but each and every scenario he played out in his head ended the same way: the reveal of his identity. Eventually, he came to the grim conclusion that the best thing he could do was nothing at all. Stay calm, keep his head down, and pray to God that no one recognised him.

Despite his father’s reputation, he himself had remained mostly out of the public eye until recently, when his engagement to the Princess of England was announced. This had been as much news to him as it was to everyone else, with the arrangement conducted by his parents without any care for his own enthusiasm for Phillipa, or lack thereof. It hadn’t even been through them that he’d first found out, but from catching sight of his own portrait on the front page of the paper in a shop window. Royal Engagement! Broflovski Son to Wed Princess Phillipa. Kyle had pressed his face up against the glass and stared in unbridled horror. He couldn’t bring himself to read the article, but he had noticed, with irritation, that the artist had altered his features – made his nose smaller, jaw sharper, left out his freckles and tamed his hair in a way that he could only dream of doing in real life. That permanent scowl of his had also been dropped, in favour of a polite smile. The boy on the front page wasn’t him. It was the son his father wanted.

After an eon of tossing and turning on the hardwood floor, he at last drifted off. Kyle dreamt he was a marionette, with strings embedded in his arms, legs and head that were pulled taught by an unseen hand. It walked him and talked him, until Kyle strained at his bonds with all his might. The string snapped and he was sent flying, landing in a tangled heap, motionless. A puppet is given life by a puppeteer; Without one, he is nothing.

He woke in a cold sweat, and for that one dreadful moment where fiction and reality are blurred, he thought he was still wooden, and lifeless. But then he heard someone sigh in their sleep, and he remembered who and where he was. And then it was dreadful in a different way. For a while, he lay, listening to the gentle creaking and groaning of the ship, like a whale song, out of tune. At one point, he thought he heard the distant sound of someone crying, but it was too faint for him to be certain. When he could stand stewing in his own thoughts no longer, he rose, and tiptoed out of the cabin.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, basking the sea in gold and the clouds in pink. The air held a strange dusty smell, strong enough that if he stuck out his tongue, he could taste it. Kyle had still not grown used to the lack of birdsong offshore. Back home there was a tree next to his bedroom window where, in the Spring, birds would nest, so that every morning he would wake to their singing. The only thing that came close to this at sea there was the occasional seagull, but their screeches were not as well received.

Having spent the night with only his anxiety for company, he was glad to see he wasn’t the first one up. Craig and Nichole were standing at the bow, close enough for their shoulders to be touching. Kyle hesitated to approach, lingering, assessing the situation. Then Nichole lurched forward, retching, one hand on the railing and one hand fisted in Craig’s shirt. The sound of vomit hitting the water made him dash towards them.

“Are you alright?” he asked. The look that Craig gave him was so fierce that he instinctively stepped back, as if dodging the slash of a knife.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Is she okay?” he asked again, more concerned with Nichole’s health than Craig’s animosity.

“She’s fine,” she said.

“She clearly isn’t—”

Nichole coughed and raised her head, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Her whole body was trembling. “I’m alright,” she said, offering Kyle a weak smile. “I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me, that’s all.”

“You should ingest ginger as a remedy for nausea,” he said. “I’ve heard it’s quite effective, so—”

“She said she was fine,” Craig interjected.

Kyle put his hands on his hips. “What’s the point of hiring me as a doctor if you won’t let me do my job?”

“Why should I trust you to do it well?” Craig scowled. “And I wasn’t the one who hired you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

As if on cue, here was a creaking of hinges, and Captain Stan emerged from his office, yawning without bothering to raise a hand over his mouth. “Morning, all.” He was dressed, but his hair still contained a distinct bedhead quality to it—or, hammock-head, in this case. It made Kyle want to reach out and smooth it back into place.

“Good morning,” he said instead.

“I didn’t expect you to be up already, Kyle.”

“I was just—”

“Sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong,” Craig cut him off.

“Good,” said Stan, “that’s an important skill when it comes to piracy.”

“It was absolutely where my nose belongs, actually,” Kyle muttered, but Craig gave him another one of her death stares and he let it go.

“Do you smell that?” Stan tilted his head back and inhaled. “There’s a storm brewing. She’ll be on us by the end of the day.”

“Is that bad?” Kyle asked, and Craig scoffed, which made him feel foolish. “I mean—Obviously, that’s bad. But how bad, exactly?”

“We won’t know until it’s hit us,” said Stan.

“It could be worse,” said Nichole. “It’s far more dangerous when we’re closer to land. The last thing we want is to be run ashore.”

“Why?” asked Kyle.

“Then things go from not-so-good to dead,” said Stan. “On the scale of badness.” Kyle looked apprehensive, but Stan was nonplussed. “Like I said, we’ll be alright. It’s nothing we’ve not weathered before.”

*

After breakfast, Stan showed Kyle to the empty storeroom he had been promised for his sickbay.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Kyle ran his finger along the wall and inspected it. “Dusty,” he said.

“So clean it.”

“Dim,” he said.

“So light a lamp.”

“Small,” he said.

“Nothing you can do about that.”

Kyle perused the perimeter again, imagining how he might transform it. “It could do with some furniture.”

“You’ll be wanting Kenny for that department,” said Stan. “He’s our resident carpenter.”

They had a tough time finding Kenny, but they did come across Butters up on deck, holding onto the ankles of someone dangling overboard. He peered downwards, and said nonchalantly, “You’re missing a peg.”

“I can see that,” the legs snapped. “I’ll get there in a minute.”

“What on Earth are you doing?” Kyle asked.

“Oh, hello!” Butters said, turning to greet him with a little wave.

“Don’t let go!” the legs cried.

“Oh, you’re tied to the railings anyway. What difference does it make?”

“Emotional support.”

Butters rolled his eye and placed his hands back around the ankles. Kyle leant over and saw Kenny hanging upside down, red faced, with his hair standing on end.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” Kenny said, like this was the most ordinary thing to be doing.

“Why are you upside down?”

“I’m replacing a little rotten section of this board.” Kenny did not look up—or down, from his perspective. He stuck out his hand, and said with an air of authority, “Butters, peg me.” Butters deposited a wooden dowl in his palm, and it was hammered in with a look of intense concentration. “Alright, pull me up.” With the assistance of Butters and Stan, Kenny made it back on deck the right way up. He staggered to his feet, dizzy.

“Was there not a more sensible method you could have used?” asked Kyle. “One in which you weren’t rotated one hundred and eighty degrees?”

“Oh, sure,” Kenny said, brushing himself off, “but this was far more interesting.”

Kyle wondered whether an extended amount of time upside down might lead to brain damage. That would explain a lot about Kenny.

“Now, what can I do for you?”

“We’re after some furniture,” said Stan. “For our shiny new sickbay.”

“Ah. I’m running a bit low on supplies at the moment,” said Kenny. “It’s been a while since we’ve docked, but I might be able to scrape a little something together. What are you after?”

Kyle began rattling off a list. “A table, at least two chairs, an examination bed, an operation table, three sets of cabinets, bookshelves, I’d like to get a hammock in there for myself, and—”

“That’s quite a bit more than ‘a little something.’”

“Well, can you do at least one of them?”

“Depends on which one.”

Kyle chose carefully. “Operation table,” he said, “as it can double for examination as well.”

“How big are we talking?”

“Nothing fancy. Just enough for someone to lie down on. Comfortable, ideally.”

Kenny clicked his teeth in thought. “I might be able to find something to dismantle and put back together,” he said as he gathered up his tools in his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.” He set off, and Butters made to follow, but Stan caught his elbow.

“Actually, Butters, you might be useful too.”

Butters beamed. “Always happy to help out.”

“How do you feel about doing some dusting with us?”

“I feel… pleasant things about it,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “But sometimes I miss bits.” He tapped his eyepatch. “Blind spots.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for them,” said Kyle, then cringed. “Sorry, poor choice of words.”

Cleaning was one of the many chores that Kyle had had the luxury of abstaining from before today. He’d never felt remorse about this before, but here and now he was embarrassed by his lack of experience. A subtly as he could, he mimicked the circles the other two made with their dusters, averting his gaze whenever they looked in his direction, not eager to admit his fault. The process seemed less of a removal of filth, and more of a transferral, and once completed, they were all coated in a generous layer of grime.

“I am absolutely dying for a bath,” said Kyle, wrinkling his nose. He pulled at his shirt which clung to his skin in sweat and let it ping back. A cloud of dust billowed forth. “Where’s your tub?”

Stan just laughed, until he saw Kyle’s face. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” Kyle looked at him in horror. “You don’t mean to tell me—”

“We’re in the middle of the ocean, Kyle,” said Butters. “We can hardly spare a bathtub full of fresh water for each and every one of us.”

“But how do you get clean?” asked Kyle, sounding hysterical. “You have to have something. If not a bath, then what?”

Stan and Butters exchanged glances. “Why don’t we just show you?” said Stan. The smile he was trying to hide did nothing to quell Kyle’s nerves. They lead him back up on deck, to the edge of the ship, where Stan instructed Kyle to close his eyes whilst Butters went and fetched something.

“Why?” asked Kyle.

“Uh, pirate tradition,” said Stan. “No reason to be suspicious.”

“No one has ever said that without there being a justifiable reason to be suspicious.”

“My ship, my rules,” he said. “Close your eyes.”

Kyle shot him one last wary frown before obliging. All was calm, and then – splash! Ice cold water hit him like a slap in the face. Kyle shrieked and opened his eyes to find Stan cackling, clutching a dripping bucket that was tied to the railing with a coil of rope.

“You bastard!” exclaimed Kyle. “I cannot believe you just—” He was cut short by another wave of water, this time launched by Butters.

“Sorry!” He giggled as he dropped his bucket back down into the sea, quite clearly not sorry at all.

“God, look at your hair,” Stan said, poking at Kyle’s curls. “It’s properly deflated.” His snickering came to an abrupt halt when Kyle snatched the refill from Butters and hurled it at him. He staggered back, cursing.

“You looked like a drowned rat,” Kyle remarked, satisfied with his revenge.

“How dare you disrespect your captain!” cried Stan, but there was no real menace behind his words, not even when Butters agreed the likeness was impeccable. They spent the rest of the morning throwing water at each other, dragging more and more people into their game, until they had split into factions, and an all-out war broke out in which everyone ultimately declared themselves the victors. Everyone else went off to get changed before lunch, and Kyle was left behind, soaked and shivering, with the terrible realisation that he had no other clothes to speak of. He paced the deck until his discomfort overcame his dignity.

He knocked on the office door, awkward. Stan opened it, shirtless, the tips of his hair still beaded with little droplets. Kyle swallowed and kept his gaze fixed rigidly on the space between Stan’s eyebrows.

“What?” said Stan, leaning on the doorframe.

“I—I, ah, I don’t… I haven’t got any, um,” Kyle shifted from foot to foot, skin crawling under the fabric that was slicked to it. His pride was a mighty large thing to swallow.

Stan looked him up and down. He smirked. “You don’t have any clothes, do you?” Kyle scowled at him, which was answer enough. “Well, hang on.” Stan disappeared back inside his room and emerged a few moments later with a fresh shirt and a balled-up towel, which he tossed at Kyle. “Have this for now. I’ll take you down to see Bebe.”

“This is damp!” said Kyle as he inspected it. “Have you already used this?”

Stan winked. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I’m not a beggar,” Kyle grumbled, though in this moment he felt like one. And so he wrapped it around himself and tried not to think of the bare skin it would have run over just moments ago. Stan did his shirt buttons up as they walked. He possessed the kind of confidence in his body where he seemed to take every opportunity to flaunt it. Kyle found this very inconvenient.

Bebe was in the cabin next door to Kyle’s, sitting next to a mountain of socks. He recognised her as the pirate who had taken over from Stan on the guitar last night, tall and robust looking, with frizzy blonde hair and thick eyebrows that were drawn together in concentration as she stitched up a fraying hole in a heel.

“How’s the never ending darning quest?” asked Stan.

“Never ending,” she said. “I swear, every time I blink this pile grows bigger.” She took in Kyle’s bedraggled appearance with amusement. “What happened to him?”

“A lot of water,” said Kyle. “That’s what happened.”

“We’re after some replacements for these old rags,” said Stan, and Kyle couldn’t help but feel slightly offended, even if this was an accurate description.

Bebe set down her stocking and got to her feet, happy for any chance to put off her work. “Let’s have a look in the storeroom, eh?”

Kyle had assumed he’d end up borrowing someone else’s clothes, and so was surprised when Bebe cracked open a crate of them. “We pick them up from the ships we rob,” she said as she rummaged through. “There’s so much ripping and tearing during our gallivanting that having replacements to hand is a must.” She measured Kyle’s waist and chest and various limbs, taking notes in a little leather book. “Poor thing, you’re shivering,” she said. “You’ll catch a cold if you go on like this. Here, take these, put them on. I’ll see what else I can find in the meantime.”

Kyle took the clothes graciously and got changed back in his own cabin. Stripping off had never felt so literal, peeling away the cloying fabric like it was his own skin. It felt good to put on something that hadn’t soaked up water like a sponge, even if he himself was still slightly damp. The shirt was a bit too big for him, but the brown waistcoat synched it in. He had no mirror, and so his first impression of his appearance was of Stan’s reaction when he came knocking.

“Well, don’t you clean up nicely,” he said. Kyle flushed, but was able to pass it off as out of frustration when Stan added, “Your hair is still all wilted, though.”

“Just you wait until it’s dry,” said Kyle, with a hint of bitterness. “It’ll be as big as a balloon.” Stan looked absolutely delighted at the concept.

*

“I still feel cold,” complained Kyle after lunch. “I might go fetch myself a blanket.”

“What you need is good, rigorous exercise,” said Stan, leading him out of the mess. “Get your blood pumping and you’ll warm up in no time.”

“I like the blanket solution better.”

“Oh, pish-posh.”

“That’s not a legitimate counter argument.”

“You’re not a legitimate counter argument.”

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe you’re the one in charge around here.”

“I know!” Stan said with glee. “Isn’t it marvellous?”

“Disastrous, more like.”

“I can act mature when the situation calls for it.”

“You’d think being a captain would constitute such a situation.”

“And yet, it does not.”

“But—”

“Good God, you do like to talk back.” Stan rounded on him as they reached the top of the stairs. Being in front, he was an extra two steps higher, and spread his arms to either side of the doorframe, blocking his exit. “Must you always have the last word?”

Kyle stuck his nose in the air. “If an authority cannot handle being questioned, then perhaps he shouldn’t be an authority.”

Stan rolled his eyes, but he stepped back and allowed Kyle to pass. The sky had grown darker since they’d last been up on deck, with storm clouds fast approaching. “You’re lucky it’s me who’s your captain,” said Stan as he gazed upwards. “Others might not be so generous when overlooking your insolence.”

“What others might those be?”

Stan’s eyes seemed to hollow. “Men who you pray you are spared the displeasure of crossing paths with.”

Kyle was taken aback by his uncharacteristic sobriety. “Men like Cartman?” he asked.

Stan looked over at him and gave him a tight smile. “Quite,” he said.

“But he’s dead.”

“It’s the ones who are still alive that you’ve got to be on your guard for.” He sprang from his place and then the moment was over. Kyle had begun to notice that Stan hopped from one activity to the next whenever he got bored or was struck with a new idea, without much care for the other parties involved. He was engaged in a constant pursuit of excitement, which Kyle could not comprehend. It was a struggle to keep up and exhausting to do so.

Stan stuck his head inside what appeared to be a broom cupboard, but clearly wasn’t, when he emerged with two cutlasses.

“What are those for?”

“Cutting bread,” said Stan. “What do you think?”

“I know what they’re for,” said Kyle. “But why here and now?”

“Because, dear Kyle, I am going to teach you how to fight.”

Kyle took the sword he was offered. The edge had been blunted, presumably so they could practice without slicing each other to pieces. It was slightly weightier than the ones he was accustomed to using, but still light enough. He twisted it about, dragging it through the air, trying to get a feel for how it handled.

“You’ve held a blade before,” Stan said in surprise.

“Not for a while,” said Kyle. “I’m a little rusty.”

“Well, then, we’ll start back at square one.” They took their place on the bow, for it was the area with the least rigging to get in the way. “Show me your starting stance,” he ordered, and tutted when Kyle did so. “Not like that.” Sheathing his sword, he drew closer, and positioning himself behind Kyle.

The proximity made the muscles in Kyle’s stomach grow taught. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing you, if I may.”

“Go ahead,” Kyle said with reluctance.

Stan put his hands on Kyle’s hips. “Shift this. You’re angled all wrong. You must face your enemies front on. And turn this back foot sideways.” Kyle allowed himself to be guided into place, Stan adjusting his limbs like a doll. “You carry too much tension in your shoulders,” he said. “And your neck. And everything else.”

“Where else am I supposed to carry it?”

“You’re not supposed to carry it at all!” he said. “Think of how we danced last night.”

Kyle had been doing a good job of not thinking about that up until now and was not thrilled to have it pulled to the forefront of his mind, along with the dreaded South Port, which they were fast approaching.

“Try to relax like you did then.”

“You told me I wasn’t relaxed.”

“Not at first, but eventually, you let go. You have to let go, Kyle.” Stan put his hands on his shoulders and they immediately went rigid. “God damn it! What did I just tell you?”

“It’s difficult,” Kyle muttered, colouring. “I can’t do it with you touching me.”

“You did it just fine before.”

“That was different.”

“What was different?”

“The… atmosphere.”

“Christ, Kyle, you can’t expect a band to strike up every time you pick up a sword.”

“I’m not saying that!”

“Do you not trust me? Is that it?”

It was less that Kyle didn’t trust him, and more that he didn’t trust himself. “I’ll ease up as I go.”

“Very well.” Stan returned to his position opposite Kyle and unsheathed his sword. “You said you have experience?”

“Yes, but not with a cutlass.”

“With what, then?”

“A sabre.”

“You fence?”

“Not out of choice.”

“Whose choice was it?”

“The other person coming at me with a sword.” It was a deliberately ambiguous answer, because ‘I learnt at boarding school’ gave away far too much about his previous economic situation.

“Well, let’s see what you can do.” Stan raised his sword, and Kyle brought his own up to parry it, a reflex. Their blades collided in the air, crossed. “Now, how about that,” said Stan. “Your wrists didn’t snap in two after all.”

Kyle glowered at him. “There was never anything wrong with—”

In a single, fluid motion, Stan flicked the other cutlass out of the way and brought his own down against Kyle’s shoulder. “You’re dead,” he said, delighted with his triumph.

Kyle batted the cutlass away with the flat of his hand. “That’s not fair.”

“Ah, but you see, that’s what separates fencing from fighting. Pirates don’t play fair.” He swung his cutlass, colliding with Kyle’s side. “You’re dead again. And again. And—”

Kyle blocked this time. “Very much still alive, thank you.” They continued like this, Stan making simple attacks and Kyle doing his best to deflect.

“You fight with your right arm, Kyle,” Stan said after a while.

“What a thrilling observation.”

Stan ignored his sardonic remark. “I didn’t expect that, with you being left handed.”

Kyle raised his eyebrows. “You noticed, did you?”

“Of course I did. I'm very observant when I want to be."

"And when you don't?"

"Then I'm as blind as a bat," he said. "But you eat, sew and write with your left. Why make an exception here?”

“I wasn’t allowed to fence left handed,” said Kyle.

“Ah,” said Stan. “It is the devil’s hand, after all. Only those who are morally unsound allow it to be the dominant one.”

“And yet, here you are,” said Kyle, “as right handed as ever.”

Stan feigned offence. “I am a dedicated disciple of the lord. That’s why I took up the holy practice of theft, murder, and occasionally buggering my neighbour’s wife.” Kyle laughed, and Stan seemed pleased with himself. “Did they stop you from doing other things with your left hand too?” he asked.

“Writing, at first. But my penmanship was so atrocious and without improvement that they had to let me switch back.”

“Well, next time I see the devil, I shall tell him he has secured a fine servant.”

Kyle jabbed him swiftly in the stomach with his sword. “You’re dead.”

Stan gasped, clutching at his nonexistent wound. “Alas, I am slain!” He swooned and fell to his knees in a melodramatic death which involved a lot of wailing and gurgling.

“Bravo,” Kyle gave him the amount of applause his performance was worth, which was none at all.

Stan scrambled to his feet. “Ready to kick it up a notch?”

Kyle beckoned him forward. “Give me all you’ve got.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can take it.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “If you say so.” He got into position and bowed. “En garde!”

Mother of God. Kyle had known Stan had been holding back before, but the pace at which he struck was one which rivalled lightning. His cutlass seemed to be in ten different places at once, slicing through the air. Kyle defended himself as best he could, but with every parry he was forced further and further backwards, until his back was pressed against a mast. There, like a mouse in a trap, he was pinned, with the tip of a sword at his throat. He stared down at it in shock as it glinted in the grey light.

Stan lowered his blade and stepped forward. He leant and whispered in Kyle’s ear. “You’re dead.”

Kyle’s chest was heaving. “I’m dead,” he said. “You’ve killed me.”

Stan slipped his fingers so that they were resting in the crook between Kyle’s jaw and neck. “But you’re not, are you?” he breathed. “Feel the rush. The thrill. The elevation of your pulse.” Kyle swallowed, and Stan slid his thumb across to feel his Adam’s apple bob beneath his grasp. The pressure of his fingertips ever so slightly increased. “You’ve never felt more alive.”

Kyle cleared his throat. “What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you noticed?” Stan stroked his fingers along Kyle’s jaw to the tip of his chin, tilting it upwards. “All that tension has finally disappeared.”

“Oh,” he whispered. They were so close that he felt as if he could hear Stan’s heart, beating in time with his own.

“Do you know what it means to let go now?”

“Yes.”

“Will you do it again, when I bid you to?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he purred. “Very good.”

Kyle could feel himself growing hot under his new clothes. They did not feel like his own. Neither did his skin, on fire in the spots where Stan touched him, warmth spreading across his chest and up his throat.

“And what do you think of all this?”

Kyle looked him dead in the eye. “I think,” he said, cold and calculated, “that I preferred your knife at my neck to your hand.”

Stan’s gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips, so quickly that Kyle thought he might have imagined it. “You are truly enigmatic, Kyle.”

“I should like to remain that way.”

“As you wish.” Stan put his hands up and stepped away. “But you may change your mind when the stakes are raised. When the real battle begins.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Darling, that’s a promise.”

Kyle wasn’t sure how to feel when Stan called him that. It unsettled him, the way it tripped off Stan’s tongue, so casually that he probably didn’t even notice he was saying it. But Kyle kept his thoughts to himself, because to call attention to it might mean Stan stopped doing it, and he didn’t like that idea either.

A clap of thunder made them both jump. The wind picked up, and Stan sheathed his sword. “Here she comes,” he said. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and cried, “All hands on deck!”

Like worms coming up for air when it rains, the crew surfaced, and gathered before him. He began to dish out orders, and Kyle felt as if he were speaking another language, for he was unable to identify what any of it meant.

“What should I do?” he asked, when it almost seemed as if Stan had forgotten about him, engaged in serious and enthusiastic discussion with Craig, eyes wild and bright.

“What?” Stan frowned. “Oh, I want you below deck.”

Kyle was taken aback. “Seriously?”

“You don’t even know the basics of sailing,” he said, “let alone surviving a storm.”

“I can learn!”

“And you will. But not now, it isn’t the time, you’ll only get in my way.”

“But—”

“Begone.” Stan shooed him away with the flick of his wrist. “Get out of my sight. Go and read your books, or study the pretty pictures, or whatever it is you do with them.”

I shouldn’t be surprised, Kyle thought as he slunk away. Stan was simply moving on, in pursuit of his next source of excitement.

Chapter Text

From his place on the bow, Kyle could see the silhouette of South Port on the horizon, backlit by the sinking sun. He had preoccupied himself for the last two days with routine examinations of the crew, but he could no longer ignore the truth. He was back in town, whether he liked it or not. He would simply have to hide below deck and wait it out.

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

Lost in introspection, Kyle had forgotten that he was not, in fact, sailing alone. Kenny, the one who had spoken, was beside him, elbows propped up on the railing and scruffy blond hair made scruffier by the wind. Butters and Nichole were lined up next to him.

“I can’t wait for this evening!” said Butters, leaning over the side as if he intended to swim the rest of the way.

“We’re gonna paint the town red,” said Kenny.

“Not literally,” said Butters to Kyle, as if he had thought they were planning a mass slaughter.

“I figured,” said Kyle.

Kenny’s face lit up. “Hey, I wonder if Annie’s still around?”

“I—I guess she might be.” Butters fell back on his heels, and though his voice was as sweet as ever, Kyle thought he noticed his shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly.

“Who is Annie?” he asked.

“One of Kenny’s many ladies,” said Nichole. She was looking a little ashen today, dark bags under her eyes. Kyle still had not got the opportunity to examine her, for every time he offered, Craig would materialise out of thin air and chase him off. “He’s got some poor girl waiting for him at every port in the West.”

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing!” said Kenny, with a rakish grin upon his face. “I prefer to think of it as Kenny’s Grand World Tour.” He spread his arms to emphasise the drama. “I put on a show at every port we dock in.”

“And they say romance is dead,” muttered Kyle.

“Hey,” said Kenny. “I’m very romantic.”

“Don’t you worry that sooner or later these girls are gonna get tired of waiting around for you to show up and sweep them off their feet?”

“No,” said Butters, unexpectedly. “They never do.” Kyle looked at him in surprise, but he only shrugged. “I’ve met them all. Each as smitten as the last.”

“Exactly, Butters!” Kenny puffed up his chest. “See, he knows I’m not the kind of guy you can forget about easily.”

Butters smiled, but it seemed unenthusiastic. “I’m going to go pack my bag for tonight,” he said, pushing off from his position and heading for the stairs.

“Will you do mine too?” called Kenny, but Butters didn’t respond, even though he was still well within earshot.

Shortly before they reached the dock, Stan called a general meeting. “Evening all,” he said, as he always did. He looked particularly fetching tonight. The loose white shirt had a neckline in the shape of a low V, with a lace crisscrossed back and forth between each side. The fabric flowed over him like water, smooth and silky. “Before you set off gallivanting about town, I want to make clear exactly what I expect of you. Now, you know I don’t like to place restrictions upon you on your nights off, but you all know that we are here on a delicate business matter, so I want no upsets or run-ins with the law. That means no picking fights and no picking pockets.” Disappointed grumbles arose from the crowd. He sighed. “Alright, alright. Just a tad bit of picking pockets.” This quelled the muttering, until he said, “In addition, the ten o’clock curfew will remain in place.” There was a great uproar, so indignant that Stan had to threaten moving the time to nine o’clock instead if they didn’t all shut their traps. “I know you’re all disappointed. I promise you that at the next port we will more than make up for what we’ve missed. I’m trusting you all to stay out of trouble.” His eyes grew dark. “Don’t disappoint me.” Everyone fell silent. The only sound was the lapping of the waves and the distant calls of the residents of South Port. “Remember our motto.”

“Leave more questions than answers,” everyone chorused, except for Kyle. He, in truth, had not been listening to a word of what Stan had been saying. He was lost inside his head again.

“I spoke to Kyle earlier,” said Stan, jerking him back to reality by the sound of his own name, as if he could tell his attention was someplace else. “He informed me that a few of you have early signs of scurvy. The progression is preventable, and as such I want you all to take the opportunity to gorge yourself on fresh food, alright? Enough of this sea biscuit stuff.” Nodding all round. “This concludes our meeting. You are all dismissed, aside from Craig and Kyle.”

Kyle stood as Stan strode towards him, straightening his shirt. “Yes, Stan?”

“That’s Captain to you,” said Stan, but Kyle ignored the correction, for he had no intention of ever calling him that.

Craig was making her way through the crowd towards them, a dark cloud hanging over her head. She had been particularly irritable all day, ready to bite anyone’s head off the moment they put a toe out of line. If Kyle didn’t know any better, he might have thought she was dreading South Port as much as he was.

“We’re paying Craig’s contact a visit tonight,” said Stan. “I want you to come along too, Kyle.”

“Why me?” said Kyle in alarm, at the same time Craig groaned, “Oh, anyone but him!”

“It’ll be a good learning experience for you,” said Stan. “And besides, I think you’ll do well as a representative of our crew. You have a certain air of… professionalism about you.”

“Now is not the time for a teaching moment, Stan,” said Craig. “You said it yourself – this is a delicate situation.”

“Kyle is very delicate.”

“I am not!” exclaimed Kyle.

“Only a delicate person would be offended over being called delicate.”

“But—But it’s supposed to be my night off,” said Kyle desperately, watching his plans to hide himself away slipping through his fingers, trying to grab a hold again.

“No rest for the wicked,” said Stan, and stalked off before Kyle had a chance to argue. The moment was over.

*

“I bet you missed walking on solid ground, eh, Kyle?”

He had, but not this ground. “I suppose,” he said, adjusting his bandana, which was his last minute attempt at some sort of a disguise. His hair was undoubtedly the most recognisable thing about him, and so he had done his best to hide it, but little tufts still escaped at the bottom. He glanced around suspiciously. The passers by may seem like strangers to him, but there was no telling whether he’d be identifiable to them. Every figure was a threat. He drew instinctively closer to Stan, tucking himself behind him in an effort to shield himself from watchful eyes.

Stan glanced over his shoulder. “Are you quite alright?”

“Just, um, not a fan of crowds,” mumbled Kyle.

“Well, we’re nearly there, I think.” He turned to Craig, who had been stewing in silence for the entirety of the journey, shoulders hunched, and scowl fixed firmly on her brow. “How much further?”

“One street less than when you asked one street ago,” she snapped. “If Kyle can’t stomach crowds then he shouldn’t have come.”

Kyle shot her a dirty look. “You sure seem happy to be back in your old neighbourhood,” he said, perhaps a little cruelly.

Craig clenched her jaw. “I’m… indifferent.”

They came to an abrupt halt outside the large window of a pub. A wooden sign hung above the door, etched with the words Tweek’s Tavern. “Here we are,” said Craig. She pressed her face to the glass and peered inside. “And there she is.”

“Where?” asked Stan, as he and Kyle joined her side. The place was packed with hearty red-faced customers clustered at tables with pints brimming with ale. There was a small, raised stage in the corner, where a piano was being played.

“Right there,” said Craig. “The barmaid behind the counter. That’s Tweek.”

It took Kyle a moment to spot her. A short, plump girl, with wild blonde hair pulled up into a wild blonde bun, dressed in a green skirt and white, low cut bodice. She was idly wiping down the countertop with a washcloth whilst a man three times her age appeared to be trying to chat her up, leaning on the bar and flashing her a grin. She clearly had no interest in upholding any kind of conversation, gazing into the middle distance, and looking bored.

“What are we just standing around for?” asked Stan. “Let’s—”

“No,” said Craig quickly, “we can’t, not yet.” Stan shot her a quizzical look, and she cleared her throat. “That mousy haired man serving drinks is her father. Mr. Tweak was, uh, not my biggest fan. We need to wait until he goes into the storeroom if we don’t want to be immediately thrown out.”

And so they just kept watching. Kyle noticed how, every now and then, Tweek blinked in an overly exaggerated way, or her shoulders flinched upwards, or her head would jerk forward. Ticks, he realised.

“I should warn you,” said Craig, “Tweek can be… volatile.”

“Really?” asked Kyle. “It’s just—she looks quite docile.”

Craig gave a bitter laugh. “Just you wait.” She turned back to the window, just as Mr. Tweak was disappearing through a door behind the counter. With him gone, Tweek turned sharply towards the man who had still not ceased his flirting and grabbed him by his shirt. She yanked him closer and whispered something in his ear, lips pulled back in a snarl. He tensed, and turned as white as a sheet. She released him with a shove, and he began to back towards the door, not taking his eyes off her until he was safely outside. Tweek grinned and ran her tongue over her teeth.

And then she noticed Craig. Tweek’s smile fell into a dropped jaw, and she rubbed her eyes, as if to make sure the girl whose face was pressed up against the glass was no apparition. She was not. Tweek’s expression morphed into one of pure rage. She tossed her washcloth aside and began violently tugging on a loose strand of hair.

Craig muttered something that sounded like a prayer. “Brace yourselves,” she said, and led them inside.

Tweek marched towards them with her hands clenched in fists at her side. “Well, look who’s come crawling back.” Her voice was high and rough, like a swarm of bees. Angry, angry bees.

Craig gave her a weak smile. “Hey, Tweek.”

Tweek slapped her hard across the face. Craig gasped and stumbled backwards. There were chortles from several of the bar patrons, who were watching the scene play out before them like it was the highest form of entertainment. Kyle instinctively positioned himself behind Stan again.

“Okay,” said Craig, rubbing her cheek, where a red raw mark was blossoming, “so you’re upset.”

“Yes, I’m upset!”

“And I can see why you might think that I deserved that.”

“You know that you deserved that,” said Tweek, with her hands on her hips, “and a damn lot more. Where the hell have you been hiding for the past year?”

Craig swallowed. “Oh, you know. Around.”

“Around where?” said Tweek but didn’t give her time to answer. “Jesus Christ, Craig, I thought you were dead!”

“But I sent a letter—”

“Right,” snorted Tweek, “Your heartfelt, lengthy letter.” She reached into her brassiere and pulled out a small slip of paper, creased and torn at the edges. “Let’s have a read, shall we?”

Craig’s eyes grew wide. “I really don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I do.” Craig made a grab for the letter but Tweek snatched it away and began to read. “Dear Tweek. Don’t worry, I’m not dead. From Craig.” She reared her head back up at Craig, and the only way she could look any more furious would be if steam began pouring out of her ears. “That’s it! That’s all you wrote! What do you have to say about this?”

Craig seemed to be shrinking in on herself. “I thought you might worry that I was,” she said meekly.

“Well I certainly did after that! No explanation for your disappearance, not even a return address. What was I supposed to do with this?”

“Feel… reassured?”

 Tweek’s eyes glinted like steel as she rolled up her sleeves. “You bloody bastard!” And then she lunged at Craig.

The first hit was so unexpected that Craig didn’t have time to react before she was punched squarely in the jaw. “Jesus Christ,” she cried, and then Tweek leapt on top of her, and they both careered to the ground. They rolled around like cats in a cat fight, hissing and swearing and crashing into table legs. Tweek was the only one trying to land any more hits, as Craig was too busy trying to manoeuvre herself until she was firmly on top of Tweek, pinning her arms above her head.

“I’m not going to fight you, Tweek,” she said, chest heaving. “I won’t.”

“You don’t have a choice,” snarled Tweek. She whipped her hands away so fast that Craig had to let go to stop herself from falling flat on her face. Tweek swept her legs into Craig’s and then she was freed and took the chance to top Craig instead. She swung another punch but Craig jerked her head away just in time, so that Tweek’s fist slammed into the floorboards instead. She howled. Craig shoved her off and scrambled to her feet, barely making it a few feet away before Tweek was throwing herself at her again.

By now the whole pub was cheering them on, with cries of “Get him, Tweek!” and “Fight back, lad!”

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose, unable to comprehend how things had gone down hill so fast. “Stan?”

“Uh huh?” said Stan, not taking his eyes off the action for a second.

“This is happening, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Stan with delight. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Kick her in the balls!”

Craig flipped in the bird before being sent flying into a nearby table.

“Can’t you put a stop to this?” Kyle asked Stan.

“Of course I can,” said Stan. “But I’m not going to.”

Kyle looked at him incredulously. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”

“I may have had a sneaking suspicion it might,” he said, and glanced at Kyle for a fraction of a second before returning his gaze to the fight. “I told you this would be a good learning experience.”

Kyle cringed as Tweek crashed into a chair. “What exactly is it that I’m supposed to be learning?” He never got the answer, for at that moment Mr. Tweak appeared, standing in the doorway of the storeroom with his arms crossed.

“Hey!” he shouted, and Craig dove to hide her face. “What have I told you about getting into fights, Tweek?”

Finally, thought Kyle, someone with some common sense.

Tweek sat up and rolled her eyes. Her hair had come completely undone by now, a tangled halo around her head. “Always take it outside, Dad, I know.”

“I really don’t think—” Craig began, but the crowd was closing in around her and Tweek, herding them out the door and into the cobbled streets, Stan and Kyle swept up in the migration too. The fight resumed, drawing in more onlookers, thickening the ring around the two combatants.

“Twelve—God—damn—months,” Tweek raged, punctuating each word with a punch, all of which were dodged. “All that time I waited, and you never came back.”

“I’m here now,” said Craig, ducking back from another swing. Tweek’s movements were not as quick as they had been at the start, sluggish from the effort exerted.

“But you’re not really back, are you?” she said. “You’re not here to stay. You just want to take advantage of my generosity and compassion all over again.”

Craig didn’t even have to move to avoid the next hit, just bend backwards at the waist. “I never took advantage of you!”

“Oh, the audacity,” exclaimed Tweek, “that you have to deny it!”

“I didn’t, Tweek,” said Craig. “I could never. I loved you too much.”

Tweek gasped and staggered backwards like she had been struck. She stood for a moment, hands flexing at her side. A moment more of staring at each other, and then her face crumpled. “You never even said goodbye,” she said. “You couldn’t even spare me that.”

Craig shook her head. “I thought it would be easier,” she said. “A gentler way to go.”

Tweek blinked, hard. “Liar,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Liar!” she screamed, with a voice like a knife on a grindstone. “You’re nothing but a coward!” The crack! as her fist smashed into Craig’s nose was so severe that Kyle felt the reverberations in his bones.

Craig screamed too, and even before her hands closed around her face, he saw the flash of scarlet illuminated by the streetlamps. “Ah, hijo de puta!”

Tweek watched blood pour from the gaps between Craig’s fingers with horror. When she spoke, her voice was small, and cracked at the end. “You broke my heart, Craig.”

Craig gave her a look which could freeze over fire. “Yeah, well, you broke my nose. So I guess we’re even.” She broke through the circle that surrounded them and staggered off.

Stan stepped into the centre. “Alright, everybody, show’s over,” he said. “Go home.”

He and Kyle caught up to Craig and fell into step beside her. She had pulled her sleeve down over her hand and was holding it to her nose, but it was ineffective at stopping the blood from dripping down her face and onto her shirt. She was staring at the ground, eyes streaming.

Kyle untied his bandana and offered it to her. “For the bleeding,” he said.

She stared at it for a moment, and then stared at him, like it was the strangest thing she had seen all night. At last, she said, “Thank you,” in a voice that sounded like she had a bad head cold and took it.

*

“What in the holy heck happened to you?” cried Butters when caught sight of Craig.

“You should see the other guy,” said Stan sarcastically. “What are you still doing here, Butters? Shouldn’t you be out enjoying the city life?”

“I was gonna,” said Butters, scuffing his feet on the floor, “but then Kenny bumped into Annie and—and I didn’t want to ruin their evening.” He peered at Craig’s nose. “Gosh, it’s all wonky. Can you fix it, Kyle?”

“I can if she’ll let me.”

Craig eyed him warily. “Have you set a broken nose before?”

“No,” said Kyle, “but there’s a page in one of my textbooks about it.”

“That’s not a real qualification.”

“Look, either you can go out and waste all your time and money and blood trying to find someone who’ll fix it for you tomorrow,” he said, “or I can do it now, for free.”

“Fine. But if you get it wrong then I will slit your throat.”

Down in sickbay, Craig sat on the examination-table-slash-operation-bed as Kyle lay one of his books down beside her. “It’s here somewhere,” he muttered, flicking through the pages. “Ah, here we go.”

Stan, Butters and Craig all craned their necks to inspect the open book, upon which several diagrams were displayed, with annotations and instructions written in tiny print.

“What the hell is that?” Craig grimaced, pointing at a thin metal spatula that was being inserted into a crooked nose.

“A boies nasal fracture elevator,” read Kyle. “Ah.”

“Ah, what?”

“I don’t have one of those. My tools kit is pretty limited as is. I can go to the apothecary tomorrow, but for now I’ll just have to, um…” Kyle scanned the page for any alternatives and found none.

“It sort of looks like a itty-bitty butter knife,” said Butters.

“I suppose it does,” said Kyle, looking at him in surprise. “That might work as a substitute, actually.”

“Oh, no,” said Craig. “No way are you putting a knife up my nose.”

“I’ll find you the teeniest tiniest one we have in the galley,” said Butters, and he scurried off.

“This evening just keeps on getting better and better,” she muttered.

“Stan,” said Kyle.

“That’s Capt—”

“Not now,” he interrupted, and Stan looked a little put out. Kyle handed him a rag. “I need you to soak this in brandy, so that she can bite down on it whilst I work. Bring some rum, too.”

“Drinking on the job, Kyle?” said Stan. “How unprofessional.” He left before Kyle had a chance to look offended.

Craig was still clutching the balled-up bandana to her nose, but Kyle made her remove it, so he could see how much she was still bleeding. “At least it’s slowed,” he said, “that’ll make it easier.”

Butters returned, looking pleased with himself, brandishing the miniature butter knife like he’d found a pearl in an oyster. He held it up to the diagram. “See? Identical!”

Kyle inspected it, running his finger along the edge to test that it wouldn’t cut. “This will do nicely.” He took some pillows that were stored underneath the bed and stacked them up on top, so that she would be elevated by about thirty degrees, as per instruction. “Alright, Craig, lie down. Butters, do you know how to read?”

“I do!” he said proudly.

“Good. I want you to dictate the instructions to me as I am performing the procedure.”

Stan returned with the rag and the rum.

“Before we start,” said Craig, taking the cloth, “there’s something you ought to know.” Everyone looked at her expectantly. “It’s that I hate you all.”

“Aw, Craig,” cooed Stan, ruffling her hair. “We hate you too!” Craig slapped his hand away, but not hard enough to wipe the grin off his face. “You’re a sentimental old thing.”

Kyle thought that they had better get this over with before she snapped and killed them all. He took the rag from Craig and put it in her mouth. “Butters, begin.”

Butters read slowly and carefully, stumbling over the longer and more complicated words. “Prior to the en… endonasal placement of the boise nasal fracture elevator, position it against the outside of the nose to the med—medial canthus. Am I saying that right?”

“Yes,” said Kyle, even though in truth he had absolutely no idea. “Keep reading.”

“The index finger is then placed at the edge of the elevator and is used as a stop when the elevator is placed intran… intranas…” He squinted and ran his finger along the page, spelling it out for himself. “In-tran-as-ally to ensure it cannot be advanced too far superiorly.”

As gently as he could, Kyle traced his finger down the side of Craig’s nose until he found where the bone ended and the cartilage began, about a third of the way down. Even his light touch was enough to make her grimace. He levelled his butter knife with the end of the nasal bone and, as per the instructions, used his finger as a place marker on the knife, so that he would not end up pushing it too far up.

“Place the elevator into the depressed side along the lat—lateral wall of the nose to a point below the nasal front angle.”

Craig’s nose was twisted to her left, and so Kyle inserted the butter knife into her right nostril, suppressing a flinch at her muffled cry. “Don’t move,” he said. “You move and it’ll only hurt worse.” She gave a grunt which he took to be an affirmative.

“Place a finger along the lateral side of the nose, above the depressed area. Push the elevator until it reaches the medial canthus.”

Slowly and steadily, he guided the butter knife upwards, doing his best to block out her yelps and whines.

Butters had to raise his voice to ensure that he was heard. “Carefully position the instrument under the depressed nasal bone. Reduction requires elevation of the nasal bone ant—anteriorly and position of the frontal processes medially, so in this case the elevator is placed in the nostril and lifts the—the—oh, gosh, how do I even begin to pronounce that?”

“Don’t dawdle!” snapped Kyle as Craig let out another desperate whine.

“Sorry!” he winced. “In this case the elevator is place into the nostril and lifts the nasal dorsal pyramid anteriorly, whilst sim—simultaneously the thumb and index finger put medial pressure on the displaced frontal processes of the maxillae.”

Did Kyle know what half of those words meant? No. Was that going to stop him? Also no. He lifted the butter knife upwards slightly and, with a jerk, popped the nasal bones back into place. There was a crack! – the second of the evening.

Craig howled. He felt her body trembling beneath his hold and removed the butter knife as carefully and quickly as he could. She shot upwards and spat out the rag, clutching her face, where blood was coming, thick and fast. “Jesus Christ!” she cried, and then phased into Spanish. Judging by how she was scowling at Kyle, he was willing to bet that bloodlines were being insulted.

“I’m not finished,” he said, once her moans had petered off into ragged breathing. “I need to splint it, or it may not heal properly, and pop right back out again.” He studied the diagrams, careful not to touch the page, to avoid transferring the blood on his hands onto the paper. “I don’t have a nose cast, either.”

“I swear to God, Kyle,” said Craig through gritted teeth, “if you even think about using knives—”

“I’ll just have to hope a stiff bandage will suffice,” he said. She spent the entire application process muttering death threats, which grew increasingly more specific as he went on.

“There,” he said, “now I’m done.”

“But it still hurts.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “I’m not made of magic,” he said, handing her the bottle of rum. “That’s what this is for. And, here,” he held out a fresh handkerchief for her to use to soak up the blood dripping from her nostrils.

Craig took both. She took a swig from the bottle, looking sulky.

“It’ll take a week to heal, so you’ll have to wear the splint until then,” he said. “Don’t blow your nose, and try not to sneeze, either.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s going to hurt like hell.”

Craig shakily dismounted the operation bed. She took another swig of rum, glaring over it at Kyle. “I really hate you,” she said wearily, walking to the door.

“I know.”

“But… thanks, I guess.”

Kyle watched her go, and there was a moment of silence, as if they were all in mourning. “I’m going to go after her,” said Butters after a moment of silence, “to make sure she’s okay.”

“Thank you,” said Kyle, relieved that he would not be the one to have to do it. “And thank you as well for your assistance.”

Butters smiled from ear to ear. He seemed to be the only one of them who had enjoyed himself this evening. “Anytime,” he said, and skipped out of the room, leaving Stan and Kyle alone.

Kyle looked down at his bloodstained shirt, and then at his bloodstained hands. He wiped them off on the cleanest patch he could find, leaning against the operation bed, utterly exhausted.

“You look like you could use a drink yourself,” said Stan.

Kyle sighed. “God, please.”

“I keep the good stuff in my office, if you’d like to join me.”

“Certainly,” said Kyle. “Though first I might get changed into something less… red.”

*

The first mouthful of whiskey made him cough terribly.

“Told you it was good,” gloated Stan. He was sitting with his legs propped up on his desk, swilling his own drink around in a crystal glass which was fancy enough to make Kyle wonder who he had stolen it from.

“Strength is not synonymous with quality,” said Kyle, blinking back the tears that had been brought to his eyes. He was not about to break his abstinence from crying over this.

“Of course it is,” said Stan. “But if it really is too much for you to handle, I’ll gladly have yours as well.”

Kyle took this as a challenge and threw back the rest of his drink, downing it in one. He managed to maintain his composure for all of three seconds before he was grimacing and coughing again.

“Bet you regret not taking me up on my offer.”

“Worth it,” croaked Kyle. Already the whiskey was settling into a warm fire in his stomach. He studied his hand, wrapped around the glass. He had managed to scrub off most of the blood, but it was still etched under his fingernails. “I’ve never done anything like that before,” he said.

“The drink?”

“No, the procedure.”

“Did it live up to your expectations?”

“I think so,” he said. “Intense, but gratifying.”

“Good enough to do it again?”

“I expect I’ll have to,” he said, “and far worse. A broken nose is hardly the height of a pirate’s career.”

“It is if you’re lucky,” said Stan. “A lot of us are.”

There was a contented silence. This was unusual, as Kyle had never felt comfortable in the quiet company of anyone before. His gaze drifted to the ship in a bottle that sailed amongst the sea of clutter on the desk. It was lying upside down, so that it looked like the ship was hanging from the sky. Kyle reached over and righted it. “They were lovers, weren’t they?” he said. “Craig and Tweek.”

Stan looked down at the ship in a bottle, and then back up at Kyle. “Does that frighten you?”

Kyle thought that was an odd question to ask. “No,” he said, selecting his words carefully. “If I was concerned about sinners then a pirate ship would be the wrong place to reside.”

“And thus,” Stan spread his arms, “this is a sinner’s haven.”

Kyle mused over this for a little while. “I understand why you wrote rule number six now,” he said.

“Who says I wrote it?”

“Nichole,” said Kyle, not wanting to be accused of hiding things. “She mentioned it in passing.”

“And what is it that you think you understand now?” asked Stan. “It wasn’t to prevent sodomy, if that’s the conclusion you’ve drawn.”

“It wasn’t,” said Kyle. “And if that were the reason then I think it’s probably ineffective, since there are plenty of sodomites on shore.”

Stan laughed. “You’re not wrong.”

“I meant about the need to prevent conflict amongst the crew. What happened tonight—You can’t afford to have that here. Not when the stakes are high. Not when it’s life or death. A lovers’ tiff amongst the crew could be enough to damn us all.”

Stan nodded. “That’s one reason,” he said.

“There’s another?”

“Yes.”

“And what might that be?”

Stan laced his fingers together. “I’m petty.”

“You’re petty?”

“I’m petty.”

“How does that relate to rule number six?”

“It’s complicated.”

Kyle drew his knees up to his chest and rested his elbow on the arm of his chair. “I’m listening.”

“Well, that’s a rarity,” smirked Stan. He poured himself another drink and downed it, straight faced. “Still listening?”

“Yes.”

He licked his lips, and Kyle might have thought he looked nervous, if it weren’t Stan who was sitting across from him, who did everything with confidence. “I fell in love once,” he said, “on another ship.”

“A ship like this?”

“Oh, no,” he chuckled. “Nothing like this one.”

Kyle paused. “A ship with no women?”

Stan tilted his head forward. “Perhaps I should let you tell this story instead,” he said, “since you seem so dead set on getting ahead of me.”

“I was only wondering.”

Stan let a silence hang, before breaking it himself. “I fell in love with another boy.” His eyes flashed with the same question he had asked before: Does that frighten you, Kyle?

Kyle was not afraid, though his heart was racing. He answered the unspoken question with a slight shake of his head.

“But it was not a nice sort of love. It was a thunder crashing, lightning lashing, ships smashing against a siren’s rock sort of love. Have you known that sort before?”

“Um,” said Kyle, “I don’t believe so.”

“Lucky you,” said Stan. “I was only fourteen when it struck me. Tragically young.”

“Is it not the sort of thing you can avoid?”

“Oh, no,” he said gravely. “You’ve got no say in the matter.”

“Oh.”

“We tried to keep it a secret, Christophe and I, but that sort of love is impossible to remain conspicuous. There was… a battle. He was almost killed. I took a very foolish risk to save him. A risk that could have cost all the crews’ lives, not just mine. And he did not die, and neither did we, but it turned a siege of wrath against us.” He swallowed. “Have you ever heard of the cat o’ nine tails, Kyle?”

“No,” said Kyle slowly. “Is it anything like it sounds?”

“If you’re thinking of a pretty little kitty with as many tails as lives then I am sorry to burst your bubble, but you are sorely mistaken,” said Stan. “It is an instrument made by unbraiding a rope into three strands, and then each of those into three more. And then, the man who was forced to make it is flogged by it.”

Kyle put his hand over his mouth. “You were whipped?”

“Until my vision went black.”

Kyle stared down at his empty glass. “Those scars on your back,” he said quietly. “That’s where they’re from.”

“Mostly,” said Stan. “Though that day cannot claim them all. It was not the first time I had been flogged.”

“Why?”

“The Captain deemed me insolent,” said Stan. “He despised me with a deep and visceral passion.”

“Oh,” said Kyle. “You talked before of men who one prays they are spared the displeasure of crossing paths with. Was he one of them?”

Stan gave Kyle a tight smile. “He is the rottenest of them all.”

“Is, present tense?” asked Kyle. “You mean, you didn’t kill him?”

“What makes you think I would?”

“You killed Cartman. I thought perhaps your experiences might have pushed you to pick up the habit of toppling wicked captains.”

Stan’s eyes hollowed. “I did not kill my captain,” he said, and Kyle did not press further, for fear of hollowing out the rest of him, too. “Christophe and I were banished from the ship. Things had changed between us. Or—Perhaps it was just the first time I realised the truth. That things were not thunder and lightning and ships and sirens for him.” Stan traced his finger around the edge of his glass. “He went back to France. Said he had a bone to pick with God, some rubbish like that. I was left alone.”

“Alone,” echoed Kyle quietly. “I can’t imagine you that way.”

“I have never been since then,” said Stan, “and it was not for long. I soon met other urchins, all of whom life had also dealt a cruel hand. Kenny, Butters and Nichole. The first of my merry men.”

“How did you get from living on the streets to buying your own ship?”

“Two words.” Stan gave him a genuine smile, the first in what felt like a very long time. “Highway robbery.”

Kyle’s jaw dropped. “You lot were highwaymen?”

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s essentially just land piracy. Quite a lucrative business, if you know how to separate the rich carriages from the poor, and how to avoid the eyes of the law.”

Kyle snorted. “You fancied yourself a proper Robin Hood, don’t you?”

“Darling, I am the man incarnate. The only difference between he and I is that I am far prettier.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Kyle. “You had the ‘steal from the rich’ part down, but whatever happened to giving to the poor?”

“I was the poor,” said Stan. “The poor was me!”

“And what about when you got rich enough to afford to buy a whole entire ship?”

“I gave the poor something other than just money,” he said. “I gave them a home. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“I’m not a charity case,” said Kyle. “I more than earn my keep. And I don’t see how any of this relates to rule number six.”

“I’m getting there,” said Stan. “We were in the midst of rounding up a crew when Christophe returned from France.”

“Had he sorted out his gripes with God?”

“Oh, their relationship was rockier than ever,” said Stan. “Which is saying something, considering how it was to begin with. But anyway, he learnt of our plan to start a pirate ship for people like us, and he wanted in. At first, I was thrilled, because—I suppose I had hoped it was me who he had returned for. That it was me who he wished to fight side by side with. But as time passed and we got closer to our goal of setting sail, I began to realise it was not me who he had eyes for.” He leant forward and lowered his voice. “It was Nichole.”

“Ah,” said Kyle. “That’s… unfortunate.”

“Quite,” said Stan coldly. “And suddenly my dreams of happily ever after were slipping through my fingertips. I knew I could not stand to sail with him when he loved another.”

“And so, rule number six,” said Kyle, and it was satisfying, to finally know the truth.

“I argued my case well for its place upon The Accords. Everyone but Christophe was persuaded. He knew my real motivation, I think, but was too prideful to accuse me of anything.” Stan stared at the floor. “He left with only a brief, cold goodbye. I’ve not heard a word from him since then. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kyle.

“Don’t be. It is undoubtedly for the best that we never meet again. More whiskey?” he offered, refilling his own glass, and then Kyle’s when he accepted. This glass was not exactly pleasant but easier to swallow than the last. A familiar kind of burn, comforting. “Like I said before,” said Stan, “you are lucky to have never been in love.”

“I almost was, once,” said Kyle, without really knowing why. Perhaps it was just that he did not want Stan to get one over him. The whiskey spared him from the regret that would have otherwise been imminent.

Stan raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Stan looked at him as if he were waiting for something. When nothing came, he said in a stage whisper, “This is the part where you’re meant to tell me who it was.”

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“Oh, I think you do, otherwise you would not have brought it up.”

“There really isn’t much to tell.”

“Then it shan’t be a bother for you to tell it.”

Kyle tilted his glass, watching the single remaining drop trickle across the bottom. “His name was David.”

Stan smiled. “His name was David?”

“It’s pronounced Da-veed,” said Kyle, instead of addressing the actual question. “We were at school together.” Boarding school, to be more precise, but Kyle omitted this detail. “He was my only friend. My other classmates did not find me very agreeable.” He half expected to receive a snide comment about how that was likely because he was not very agreeable, but Stan only gestured for him to continue. “I’ve never—It was not love, but it was close, I think. A leap of faith away. Like an idiot, I took that leap, and missed, and came crashing down to Earth instead.” He winced. The memory still stung, even after two whole years.

“David did not take your confession well?”

“He took my confession to the Head Teacher.”

“Traitor,” said Stan. “That was a rotten thing to do.”

“I don’t blame him. It was my fault, really. I should have known better.”

That was all his father had said to him, the day he had found his son sitting in the Head Teacher’s office with his head buried in his hands, trying to hide his sobs. You should have known better. That had been the last day Kyle had cried in front of his father, or indeed at all. In order to shift the attention of any potential papers, his father had pulled some strings and, after a number of incriminating documents were released which proved the South Port Boarding School had been partaking in decades of tax fraud, the school was shut down. That had not been a cheap or easy move for his father to pull off. Kyle suspected that was in part why his father had felt entitled enough to arrange a marriage between him and Princess Phillipa without any prior consultation. It was a chance for Kyle to earn back the money and respect he had cost his father.

“After that,” he said, “my number of friends dropped from one to none.”

Stan looked at him sadly. Kyle didn’t like that. He hated to be pitied.

“But it’s gone up again now,” he said.

“You consider me a friend?” Stan smiled.

“I suppose I do,” said Kyle, begrudgingly. He felt slightly panicked about this admission, and so added, “And Butters and Kenny and Nichole,” to make sure that Stan didn’t get the wrong idea and think he was in any way special to Kyle. “And Craig, maybe.”

Stan smiled knowingly. “Craig is not quick to trust,” he said, “but after today, I think she’s accepted you as one of us.”

One of us, thought Kyle. That was who he was now. He was glad of it.

*

Clyde turned his cap around and around in his hands as he shifted his weight in his seat, receiving judgemental glares from the few others in the room. He was staring at the ground, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say for the fourth time, when he was interrupted by a dark hared boy with spectacles that hid eyes which seemed strangely familiar.

“Mr. Broflovski will see you now, sir.”

Clyde jumped to his feet and put his cap back on his head. It was crooked. “Thank you,” he said as he led him to the study.

Mr. Broflovski was sitting behind his desk with his hands clasped together. The wall-to-wall bookshelf of leather bound books provided an intimidating impression overall, despite the fact that he himself was not a large man. He had a neatly trimmed beard and wore a freshly ironed suit and was gazing at Clyde with a controlled expression. “Mr. Donovan, I presume?”

“Call me Clyde,” said Clyde as took a seat.

“I do not normally take meetings without a prior appointment,” said Mr. Broflovski, “but I was told you claimed it was of the utmost urgency.”

“It is!”

“Well?” He gestured for Clyde to spit it out.

Every word he had planned to say had become all jumbled up. He managed to piece together a single sentence. “It’s about Kyle.”

Mr. Broflovski stiffened, which was admittedly not a significant change in posture, considering he was already a very stiff man. “Keep your voice down,” he said quietly.

“Why?”

“My son’s disappearance is a private matter. We are doing our best to keep it that way. The last thing we want is a scandal on our hands. Not with our current arrangements in place.”

“Right,” said Clyde. “Of course.”

Mr. Broflovski rose, and began to pace the room in slow, methodical steps, hands behind his back. “This is not the first time my son has run off,” he said. “He sneaks back to the old empty South Port Boarding School every now and again in a sulk. Have you heard of it?”

“No.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Broflovski, in a way that made Clyde feel ashamed for his ignorance, as if everybody who was somebody knew about that place. “It was shut down a few years ago. You’d be surprised how quickly the thing has turned to rubble. I don’t know what he sees in it.” He came to a stop by the fireplace and studied an ornament that rested in the centre of the mantelpiece, glass glinting in the light of the fire. “He always returns within a day or two. Admittedly, it has been a little longer than usual, but I have no doubt he will come back with his tail between his legs.”

“Um, about that,” said Clyde. He took off his cap and began turning it over in his hands again but put it back on when Mr. Broflovski turned to look at him. “Kyle isn’t at some old school. He’s—He’s, ah.” Clyde gulped. “He’s on a pirate ship.”

Mr. Broflovski’s expression remained perfectly as it was. “I beg your pardon?”

“I work on a trade ship, see,” said Clyde. “One which Kyle just so happened to stow away on. We didn’t discover him until before we were captured by pirates.” He did not include the tiny little detail of the almost hanging, for obvious reasons.

“Pirates?”

“Pirates. But not just any old pirates. Kiddy pirates. A whole boat full of ‘em. Girl ones too.”

“Little girl pirates?”

“Yes! But they were as fierce as the boys. Dressed like ‘em too, trousers and all.”

“Mr. Donovan,” said Mr. Broflovski as he took his seat once more. “I’m sure you can understand the difficulty I am having, believing that my son has been captured by a bunch of trouser wearing little girls playing at piracy.”

“Not captured,” said Clyde, “he went willingly. And it wasn’t no make-believe, either. Their captain bested my captain in battle, and—” Clyde was suddenly struck by the thought that it might be considered improper to say ‘killed’ in front of a gentleman, and so he drew his thumb across his neck instead.

“She killed him?” Mr. Broflovski said, and then Clyde felt stupid for being so crude.

“Not she, sir, he,” he said. “Their captain was a boy. Or at least he appeared to be.” He scratched his head. “It was hard to tell with some.”

Mr. Broflovski was quiet for an unnerving amount of time. “And you mean to tell me that you made no attempt to prevent my son from joining these people?” he said at last, in a dangerously calm voice.

“I didn’t realise who he was, sir!” exclaimed Clyde. “He was dressed in tatters and caked in dirt and well, his face was sort of different to his picture in the paper. I didn’t connect the dots until Nobody was just a speck on the horizon.”

“Nobody?”

“The name of the pirate ship, sir.”

“A ship full of nobodies,” said Mr. Broflovski. His smile was so cold that it sucked the warmth from the room all at once. He held it for a few seconds before it dropped like a stone. “I presume you have come with a proposed course of action.”

“Well, I’m sure you know Kyle best,” said Clyde, “so if you believe he’ll come back of his own accord, then he may well do so. But if I were you, I would hire someone to fetch him instead.”

“And who would that someone be?”

“There’s talk of an ex-privateer turned pirate hunter,” said Clyde. “He’s hired by wealthy traders to rid their paths of vermin. He’s ruthless. Cutthroat. A bit of a legend, actually.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Broflovski. “What is this man’s name?”

Clyde’s chest swelled with excitement as he said it. “Randy Marsh.”

Chapter Text

Kyle awoke to a sensation not unlike someone trying to split his head open from the inside. For a moment he remained motionless, overcome by the pain of his aching body, convinced that he was dead. Then he noticed that he could hear himself breathing and realised that he was thankfully still alive. Bit by bit, he peeled his eyelids open, which felt as if they had been pasted together. The wooden ceiling above him blurred in and out of focus. He tilted his head, and found that his small cabin was empty, which was unusual, given that he was normally woken by the stirring of the crew. Then again, alcohol did have a habit of deepening his sleep.

Kyle got to his feet, and then immediately pitched forward, arms flailing until he caught hold of an overhead hammock to steady himself. His head and his heart were pounding in a quick, offbeat rhythm, deafening, throwing him off balance. Dressing was a slow and cumbersome process, peppered with more incidents of almost-but-not-quite falling over. By the time he finished fumbling with the last of his shirt buttons, he was glad to have the cabin to himself. Putting that sort of show on display would not do wonders for his reputation.

Kyle dragged his leaden body upstairs, where the sun was so bright that it felt like he was under attack. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, feeling for a moment like he was stranded in a desert. His throat was certainly dry enough to fit the occasion.

When he had regained his ability to see, he was reminded of the fact that he was not in a desert, but up on a busy and bustling deck. Stacks on stacks of crates were littered about, being rifled through, and carted off to shore. Those that left the ship were overseen by the watchful gaze of Token, the quartermaster. Kyle watched as Stan walked towards him, and they exchanged a few words. Then Stan saw Kyle slumped against the doorframe and waved him over.

“Morning, bedhead.” He looked impossibly well rested for someone who had drank at least twice as much as Kyle had.

“You.” Kyle gave Stan the dirtiest look he could scrape together. “You poisoned me. With your—your devil juice!”

“Hangover treating you well, I take it.”

“It feels like I’m dying,” groaned Kyle. “I wish it would hurry up and kill me already, so I don’t have to suffer through this headache any longer.”

“You are so melodramatic,” said Stan. “Here.” He held out a leather flask.

Kyle looked at it suspiciously. “I’m not about to take your hair of the dog remedy.”

“It’s only water,” said Stan. “I’m not trying to feed you any more of my ‘devil juice.’”

“Good.” Kyle took it and drank greedily, hating the way it curdled in his stomach but too parched to slow down.

“Better?” asked Stan when Kyle had drained every last drop.

“No,” said Kyle. “I may be violently ill at any moment.”

“You should eat something.”

“I would rather walk barefoot across a bed of hot coals.”

“Just a sea biscuit or two.”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll go get some.” Stan left for the galley, and Kyle waved an arm in his direction in a feeble attempt to stop him, but he was already out of reach, and he was not up to the task of moving just yet. So, he remained where he was, and quietly observed the nearby Token at his work.

Every time a pirate came by with a crate in their arms, Token would halt them to inspect their wares. Kyle was not yet clear headed enough to piece together most of what he was saying, but it appeared that he was instructing them on prices and bartering. After sending a collection of barrels on their way, Token turned to acknowledge his audience.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

Kyle had no mirror to hand, but he had a pretty good idea of how he might look: pale faced, frizzy haired, bags under his eyes so big and dark and heavy that it was a struggle to keep his eyelids open.

“A lot of whiskey,” said Kyle. “That’s what happened.”

“Ah,” chuckled Token. “We’ve all been there. That’s a pirate’s right of passage.” He turned back to peer into a passing crate, before offering a few brief words of advice.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler for you to do the bartering yourself?” asked Kyle.

“It might be,” said Token, “if the traders didn’t lower their offers when I’m the face they’re buying from. That is, if they’ll even buy anything from me at all.”

“But that’s awful!” said Kyle. “There should be laws against that.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” sighed Token, as he held up a piece of silk to study. “It would certainly make my job far easier.”

“You know, I’ve always considered myself an abolitionist—”

“Kyle,” Token waved his hand, “I don’t need your noble reassurance that you’re ‘one of the good ones.’”

Kyle bowed his head. “Of course you don’t.”

The topic of enslavement had always been one that was brushed off in his family, with a ‘that’s just the way of things’ air of dismissal. He wasn’t an idiot; He knew ships docked at his father’s port with human cargo, or else sold the fruits of their unpaid labour. In school he had been taught about the trade triangle, and the despicable conditions that the African men and women were forced to endure in their journey to America. Even just thinking about it made him feel sicker.

Kyle stared down at the water in an effort to calm his nerves, but the churning of the waves far below only served as a further reminder of the churning inside him.

“Here we are,” said Stan, returning with a little dish of food. Kyle took one look at it and wrenched forward over the side, retching, feeling his stomach muscles twist and contort. Last night’s dinner did not taste nearly as nice on the way up. Stan placed a comforting hand on Kyle’s shoulder, and it took until he was finished to bat it away.

He slid to the floor, moaning. “I am never drinking again. Never, ever, ever.”

“A famously reliable oath,” said Stan, “that of course is never forgotten by the time the headache has faded.”

“I can dream,” said Kyle. After some coaxing from Stan, he ate a little of the sea biscuits, which was a tasteless sort of cracker, and drank more water – slower, this time.

“Also, I brought this.” Stan handed him a drawstring pouch.

“This being?”

“Money for your trip to the apothecary today. Token budgeted it out.”

Token turned upon hearing his name. “I hope it’s enough,” he said. “I’m not too familiar with the cost of medicine.”

Kyle had a look inside the bag. “Oh, God, thanks! That’ll be plenty.” He couldn’t help but feel a little excited, for a chance to indulge in a shopping spree for all the right supplies. No more butter knife surgeries for him. With his nausea having for the most part subsided, he rose. “I may as well head off now. It’ll give me something to do other than listening to my head pound.”

“Good luck,” said Stan. “Try not to vomit on anyone’s shoes.”

“No promises.” Kyle fetched his satchel from his cabin before heading to shore.

Kenny and Butters were situated at the end of the pier, along with an unfamiliar blonde girl, who was giggling uncontrollably at whatever Kenny was saying.

“Hello Kyle,” said Kenny as he approached. “You look dreadful.”

“Thank you,” said Kyle coldly, “you look as radiant as ever.”

“Doesn’t he just?” said the girl.

“This is Annie,” said Kenny. “Annie, this is Kyle. He’s our new sawbones. The one I saved from getting hanged,” he added in a manner that was reminiscent of a peacock putting his feathers on show.

“Wow,” she simpered. “You’re lucky he was there, Kyle!”

“I am eternally grateful for his kind and noble deed,” said Kyle, deadpan.

She tittered and twisted a coil of hair around her finger. “He’s just so brave. Isn’t he brave, Butters?”

If Butters had rolled his eye any harder, it might have been flung right out of his head. “Sure he is.” He went back to biting his nails.

Kyle sidled up to Butters. “I was just on my way to the apothecary,” he whispered, “if you would like to join me.”

Butters’ pained expression melted into relief. “Yes, please,” he sighed, and he went with Kyle without bothering to say goodbye. Kenny didn’t seem to notice him leaving, anyway.

Kyle was still nervous about being seen in public, especially now he had no bandana to hide his hair beneath, but the residents seemed too preoccupied by their own affairs to care much about his. At least the store they were on their way to was one he had never been to before, as it was in the grubbier part of town, and his father did not permit him to step foot in such places.

“I’m so glad you came along,” said Butters as they walked down the cobbled streets. “If I had to stand one more minute of Annie’s shameless flirting then I would have been forced to cast myself into the sea.

Kyle had got the impression that the shameless flirting had been a two way ordeal, but he kept this observation to himself. “Is Annie your cousin?”

“No,” Butters frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that she looked quite a bit like you, that’s all.”

Butters stumbled a little on a paving stone. “No she doesn’t,” he said, visibly flustered.

“A bit,” said Kyle. “Round face, big smile, fluffy blonde hair.”

“My hair’s not fluffy!” Butters touched the top of his head, as if looking for reassurance.

“It might be, if you grew it out.”

“Do you think I should? Would it look better that way?”

“Well I don’t know,” said Kyle. “Why are you asking me? It’s your hair.”

“It’s not me who’ll be looking at it the most.”

“Your hair is fine,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious. I was only wondering if it was coincidental or a relation, that’s all.”

Butters was quiet for a little while, gaze fixed on the ground, adjusting his eyepatch absent-mindedly. “She has more eyes than me,” he said eventually.

“That is not your only defining feature.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” said Kyle, “and I wasn’t saying you two are identical. It’s just that you both have this sort of… bounciness about you.”

“Am I bouncy?”

“You do tend to, um, bounce.”

“Oh,” said Butters, and Kyle couldn’t help but worry that he had upset him somehow.

“How long have you known Kenny for?” he asked, in an attempt to steer the conversation away from the detested Annie.

“Oh, gosh,” Butters scratched his head, “a long time. Must be at least eight years now.”

“That is a long time.” Kyle had never had a friend that long, though perhaps his personal experiences were not a good frame of reference. “How did you two meet?”

“He was my stable boy.”

“You owned stables?” Kyle could not conceal his surprise. He had assumed he was the only ex-rich kid on the ship.

“I didn’t, but my grandmother did,” said Butters, “so I suppose he wasn’t technically mine. But I always thought of him that way, back then. My parents died of pneumonia when I was eight, you see, so I was sent up to live with Grandmother. I was still pretty sick with it myself. Couldn’t leave my bed for the first month. Kenny was my only visitor, aside from the doctor. He’d sit by my bedside and keep me company and tell me all sorts of exciting stories that were, in hindsight, complete fantasies. At the time I believed each and every one of them to be true.”

“That’s sweet of him.”

“Oh, he was probably only looking for an excuse to get out of work, and to find someone who would finally listen to his tall tales. But he was kind to me,” said Butters, before adding, quieter, “kinder than Grandmother ever was.”

“Was she particularly unkind?”

“I—I mean, her son had died and all. So I guess she was hardly in the right mind to raise me.”

Kyle was not in the least bit convinced that this was a reasonable excuse to be cruel to a child, but then again, adults never seemed to need excuses. Butters moved on quickly anyway, face already brightening.

“Kenny and I got into such trouble together. Oh, she’d get so mad,” he said, with devilish glee.

“What sort of trouble?”

“Track mud through the house, smash vases, play make-believe with the antique china dolls. The worst of it was when we were playing horseshoes, and Kenny accidentally threw one right in my eye.”

“Is that why you wear an eyepatch?”

“Uh-huh. The doctor had to take the eye clean out of my head!” Butters did not seem phased by the loss. “You can have a look if you want. I know most folks are curious about that sort of thing.”

“Oh, um, okay,” said Kyle, who was in reality very curious indeed. They stepped to the side and Butters flipped up his eyepatch. The socket where his second blue eye would have once sat was empty, so that the pink, veiny skin of the hollow was visible instead. There was a faint scar running from his cheekbone below his eye all the way up to a little past his eyebrow, a slit between his fine blond hairs. “Wow,” breathed Kyle. “That’s amazing.”

Butters giggled. “I don’t get that sort of appreciation often,” he said, readjusting the eyepatch as they took up walking again. “That’s why I cover it up with this thing. It puts people off, I think.”

“That sounds like their problem, not yours,” said Kyle. “I bet Kenny feels guilty, though.”

“He was only ten,” Butters shrugged, “I don’t blame him. But Grandmother sure did. She fired him, and I said that if she did then I would leave too. I don’t think she actually expected me to go through with it.”

Kyle pieced together the timeline in his mind. Two or three years of life on the streets and then they joined forces with Stan. “Does losing an eye have a big impact?” he asked, eager to get back to the medical side of things.

Butters grinned. “Well, I can’t see out of it anymore, for a start.”

“I guessed that, yes,” said Kyle, then realised too late that Butters had been joking.

“I’m used to it by now, but at first I was constantly bumping into things. It took my brain a little while to figure out that my vision wasn’t centred anymore. These days the biggest pain is just depth perception,” said Butters, waving his hands forwards and backwards in demonstration. “It’s hard to tell how close things are in comparison to other things.”

“In what way?”

“Like, if I’m pouring from a bottle, I have to make sure the neck touches the rim of the glass, otherwise I’ll just pour the liquid straight onto the floor.”

“That must be frustrating,” said Kyle, suddenly very grateful for having both eyes intact.

“Yeah,” said Butters, “and the blind spots can be a pain, too. There are patches of my vision that I can’t see, only my brain just sort of makes up what might be there instead and fills in the blanks. The number of times I’ve been looking for a nail, only to have Kenny point out that it’s right in front of me!” He huffed. “Now that is frustrating. Kenny says I have this habit of gently shaking my head from side to side, to try to account for the blind spots, but I never notice when I’m doing it.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never noticed you doing it either,” said Kyle. “Though I suppose Kenny has spent more time looking at you than I have.”

They reached the shop soon after that. Kyle was overcome with apprehension at the prospect of entering, though he was quite sure he did not recognise the elderly woman who was behind the counter, adjusting her half-moon spectacles as she bent over a book. He was not surprised that the apothecary was a woman. It was one of the only medical careers that they were allowed to take up. Female doctors and surgeons were outlawed, for reasons that Kyle’s tutor had lectured him on at great length. None of the arguments Kyle had been presented with as of yet seemed in any way convincing.

Butters did not share in his hesitancy and skipped through the door before Kyle could think of an excuse to linger, and so he followed him inside. The place was small and cosy and smelt like aniseed and fennel. There were a few shelves stocked with bottles and boxes and herbs, and surgical instruments displayed on the wall behind the counter. Kyle’s anxiety was quickly forgotten. He picked up one of the wicker shopping baskets stacked by the door and set to work. Butters trailed behind him as he browsed, mimicking his inspection of the wares, though of course he did not really know what it was exactly that they were inspecting them for.

“What’s that?” he asked, every time Kyle put something in his basket.

“Echinacea.”

“What’s it for?”

“Treating infections.”

“How about that?” He pointed at the long, thick bundle of leaves Kyle had selected.

“Aloe vera.”

“What’s it for?”

“Burns, mostly. Fevers, sometimes.”

“How about that?” he asked, poking at a knobbly brown root. “No, wait, I know that! It’s ginger.” He was properly chuffed at his correct identification. “What’s it for?”

“Nichole,” said Kyle, “and her nausea.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Craig has apparently appointed herself as her personal bodyguard because every time I try to get Nichole down to sickbay for an actual examination, she materialises and chases me off.”

“Maybe she’ll be more trusting, now that you’ve fixed her nose.”

“I hope so,” said Kyle. “I don’t mean any harm to Nichole – I only want to help.”

“I’ll talk to her,” said Butters, “see if I can convince her to come when Craig’s not around.”

“Would you?” said Kyle, selecting a small vial from the shelf. “That would be great.”

“What’s that for?” asked Butters, right on cue.

“Elderberry tincture,” said Kyle, anticipating the next question. “It’s for colds and flus.” They carried on like this, until Kyle flipped the game on its head and made Butters guess the remedial properties of each item instead. Castor oil, quinine, calomel, and more. He did not get many correct, aside from the obvious ones like adhesive plasters and bandages, but that did not curb his enthusiasm.

“How about these?” asked Kyle.

Butters squinted at the little label of the bottle. “Opium tablets! I know what they’re for.”

“The real answer is not nearly as exciting as you might think.”

“Oh. Um, well, I suppose it might distract from a terrible soreness?”

“Yes, actually. Pain relief. Well done.” Kyle could not help but smile as Butters clapped his hands together in delight.

Kyle was glad to set his basket down on the countertop because it was getting rather heavy. The old apothecary smiled at him. “I hear you know your stuff, young man.”

“Thank you,” he said. He leant over the counter and pointed out a few surgical instruments for purchasing, including a meaty looking knife that made Butters’ eye grow wide.

“What on Earth is that?”

“It’s a bone saw,” said Kyle. “It saws bones.”

“Ouch,” Butters grimaced.

“Well, they don’t call ship’s doctors sawbones for nothing.” Kyle took out the pouch of money Stan had bestowed upon him. “Do you take pieces of eight?” he asked the apothecary.

“I do.” She raised her eyebrows but, to his relief, did not question where he got this type of money from. “May I recommend something?”

“Um, sure,” said Kyle nervously.”

She turned to a bookshelf on her left and ran her finger along the spines until she found the one that she was looking for. She placed the small book on the counter. Kyle read the cover. The Ship’s Medicine Chest and Medical Aid at Sea. “I suspect this will come in handy,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, in surprise, “Thank you. I’ll have that as well.” He packed as much as he could into his satchel, and the rest was put into a paper bag which Butters offered to carry. He was already out the door, with Kyle close behind, when the apothecary stopped him.

“Just a minute, young man,” she said to Kyle. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Kyle’s heart dropped. He mustered a tight smile. “I have a very generic looking face,” he said, and ducked out the door before she could probe him with any more questions.

“What did she want?” asked Butters when Kyle rejoined him.

“She, um, just wanted me to tell you that she was impressed by your spirit and dedication.”

“Really?” Butters smiled, and Kyle felt guilty for lying to him, but there was no rule against it, and no real harm done. Kyle was pleased by his attentiveness, and Butters ought to know it.

*

At sunset, the big copper fire pit was brought up on deck, and was lit. By then, most of the crew had left to join the throngs of the city, eager for the promised freedom of the oncoming night. Those who still remained sat in a circle around the blaze to eat their dinner.

Kyle was among them. As far as he was concerned, he would not be stepping foot off this ship again until they had docked at a new port or discovered the truth and marooned him on a desert island. He sipped quietly at his piping hot soup whilst Stan, to his left, and Butters, to his right, chattered over him, only breaking his silence to cough and gripe whenever the wind blew smoke in his direction.

Footsteps sounded behind them. It was Kenny, striding towards them with a cup of soup in hand.

“I didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” said Butters as Kenny plopped down beside him.

“I’m not here for long,” he said. “I’ll be off again after dinner.”

“Of course,” said Butters, and he turned back to stare into the fire. “Tell Annie I say hello.”

“Who says I’m going to meet Annie?”

“Who is she then?”

“Who says I’m going to meet a girl?”

“You don’t gotta say for me to know.”

“Am I really that predictable?”

“Yes,” chorused the rest of the circle.

Kenny looked a little put out. “It’s Emily,” he said. “Emily Marx.”

“Nice name,” said Butters vaguely.

“Nice girl,” said Kenny. “Nice hair.”

“What colour?” asked Kyle.

“Huh?”

“What colour is her hair.”

Kenny frowned. “Um, sort of yellowish, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” said Kyle. He would have liked to inquire further, but it was hard to do so without looking suspicious. There was a theory developing in the back of his mind, but at the back of his mind it would stay, until he had more substantial evidence.

“By the way,” said Kenny, “I put up that hammock you asked for in sickbay.

“Thank you,” said Kyle. He had requested a hammock in anticipation of the potential need to stay overnight in sickbay, to keep close to a patient who might need regular attention. But now he had it, he planned on using it permanently. It was a far nicer alternative to the cramped little cabin he currently shared.

The wind changed direction, and the smoke rising from the fire drifted towards Kyle again. He waved his hand in front of his face, coughing, blinking stinging eyes. “Why couldn’t we have just eaten in the mess like normal?” he complained.

“It’s a nice night!” said Stan. “Quit complaining. Nobody drops dead from a little bit of woodsmoke.”

“People do, actually,” said Kyle. “Death by smoke inhalation is a very real thing.”

“Who’s died from it, then?”

“I don’t know their names!”

“So they’re nobody,” said Stan. “I win.”

“This isn’t a competition,” grumbled Kyle, taking another sip of soup.

“Lucky for you,” said Stan. “Otherwise you would have lost.”

Kyle glowered at Stan over his cup. “Technically, we’re Nobody,” he said. “So therefore ‘Nobody drops dead from a little bit of woodsmoke’ is an incorrect statement, as we have never dropped dead from it.”

“Nobody is the name of the ship, not the crew. That doesn’t count.”

“The ship hasn’t died from smoke either,” said Kyle. “I win.”

“Insufferable.” Stan scoffed. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet you continue to suffer through me. I don’t think that makes me the fool in this situation.”

“You are the fool in all situations.”

“At least I—”

“Will you two stop your petty bickering?” snapped Craig from across the circle. “It’s giving me a headache.” Her voice was still stuffy, nasally, almost muffled.

They fell silent, and for a stretch of time the only thing to be heard was the soft crackling of the fire. Kyle watched as a spark flew from the flames and landed on the floor between him and Stan. He ground it into the floorboards with the toe of his boot. The little light died.

“Why did you decide to call the ship Nobody?” he asked.

“Ah,” said Stan. “Are you familiar with Homer’s Odyssey?”

“I’ve studied the Iliad,” said Kyle. “It was mind numbingly boring.”

“Sure, the war can be a little dry, but things really pick up after that. Have you heard of the story of Odysseus and the Cyclops?”

“Is this in any way related to my question, or are you just looking for an excuse to brag about reading Greek Classics?”

“It is in direct relation!” said Stan. “But you’ve got to know the story to understand the name.”

Kyle sighed. “Enlighten me, then.” He gestured for him to continue.

“Okay, so Odysseus and his crew are sailing back from Troy, home to Ithaca. But storms have blown them off course, and instead they wash up on a mysterious island.” He became aware that he had a larger audience than just Kyle, and so hopped to his feet. “Odysseus takes a dozen of his men with him to go searching for food and water, but they soon realise that this place is like no other. The trees stretch as high as mountains,” he said, and tipped his head back, as if gazing up at them, “and the mountains stretch as high as—as a whole lot of mountains stacked on top of each other! They come across the mouth of a great big ginormous cave, only to find a flock of sheep inside. Even those fluffy little things dwarf them! They venture in a little further and find wheels of cheese as big as their heads. And do you know what Odysseus’s men said?” The firelight danced in his eyes.

“Let’s take it all back to our ship!” cried Butters, already enraptured.

“But Odysseus refuses. He can tell that someone already lives here, and it would be inhospitable for them to rob him whilst he is out. So they sit and they wait for their host to return, and only eat a little of the cheese, and drink a little of the wine that they brought with them from the ship. Low and behold, the resident returns. His name is Polyphemus, son of Poseidon, and he is a gigantic, one-eyed Cyclops!” Stan paused. “Who wants to play Polyphemus? Butters?”

“Hey!” said Kenny. “Don’t call Butters a Cyclops.”

“Jesus, Kenny, I didn’t mean it like that,” said Stan. “I just think he’s got the gusto for it, and he already knows the story.”

“But you’re taller than me,” said Butters. “How can I play a gazillion foot tall monster?”

“Why don’t you sit on my shoulders?” Kenny grinned, showing off his chipped front tooth. “We’ll be monstrous together.” He knelt, and Butters mounted him cautiously. There was some wobbling and swaying as Kenny stood, and a heart wrenching moment in which Kyle was sure they were both going to keel right over into the fire, but Kenny found his balance just in time. Butters sat atop, looking a little shaken but beaming, nonetheless.

Stan took this as a signal to continue. “Polyphemus uses a humongous boulder to close the entrance of the cave, and then he turns around and finds Odysseus and his men now trapped inside.”

Butters jabbed a finger down at Stan. “Who dares to eat my cheese?” he boomed.

“And then he gobbles up two of the men, right then and there!”

Butters gnashed his teeth and made chewing sounds. “I’ll eat two more of you tomorrow,” he said. “And two more the next, until every last one of you is gone!”

“That night, when Polyphemus is sleeping, Odysseus and his now slightly smaller crew try to think up a plan of how to escape their doom.”

“Let’s kill the Cyclops!” said Nichole, jumping in. Craig shot her a judgemental look, but she just shrugged. “There was an empty role.”

“We can’t kill him,” said Stan, who had naturally assumed the place of Odysseus. “If we do, then we’ll be trapped in here forever. None of us are strong enough to shift the boulder blocking the entrance.” He pivoted back to narration. “So they sit, and they think, and they think some more, until it’s morning, and Polyphemus awakes, and gobbles up two more.”

“Nom, nom!” said Butters, for effect.

“And he moves the boulder, and herds his sheep outside to graze, and then closes the entrance behind him, before any of the men can escape.”

Kenny and Butters exited, whispering to each other. “Stop pulling my hair,” Kyle heard Kenny hiss.

“There’s nothing else to hold onto,” said Butters.

“Odysseus has a plan!” announced Stan.

“What’s your plan?” asked Nichole.

“I’ve spotted the Cyclops’s great staff of olive-wood,” said Stan, pointing at the fire poker that lay just a few feet away. “Whittle the end into a nice sharp point.”

“And then what?”

“Then we wait.” Stan beckoned Kenny and Butters, who tottered towards him. “Oh, mighty Polyphemus!” he cried. “We have accepted you as our new overlord. We know we’re of no more worth to you than the sheep—”

“Less!” interrupted Butters. “You can’t even make milk.”

“Perhaps we can offer you something better.” Stan reached behind him and held up an imaginary something. “Please, take all of our wine!”

Butters narrowed his eyes. “Who are you to offer such gifts in your last days on Earth?”

“And Odysseus thinks quick,” said Stan as an aside, “and he thinks fast. And he says, ‘Nobody.’”

“Nobody?” said Butters in confusion.

“My name is Nobody.”

“Funny sort of name,” said Butters, “not quite as pretty as mine.” He snatched the imaginary wine.

“And Polyphemus drinks, and drinks, and drinks,” said Stan, as Kenny began to stagger and stumble, much to the distress of Butters. “And he gets drunker, and drunker, and drunker. Until he passes out cold.”

Kenny came to an abrupt halt. Butters groaned and rubbed his eye dizzily.

“Butters,” muttered Kenny. “You’re meant to be asleep.”

“Right!” said Butters. He clasped his hands together and began snoring.

“Help me lift the olive-wood staff,” said Stan to Nichole, and together they raised it onto their shoulders, puffing and panting like it was ten feet long and made of lead. “Now, we heat the tip in the coals. And then…” they turned and rammed it towards Butters, careful not to really hit him.

Butters woke with a start and cried out in agony. He clutched at his forehead. “My eye! My eye!”

“And the other Cyclopes that live on the island are roused from their sleep by his cries. They rush to see what’s the matter.” Stan looked expectantly at Craig.

She looked up from her food and glared at him. “Now way,” she said. “I am not taking part in this—this buffoonery.”

“Aw, come on Craig,” said Nichole. “Lighten up a little.”

There were more rallying cries from the rest of the audience until she grunted, “Fine,” and trudged over, soup still in hand. “What’s going on in there, Polyphemus?” she said in a monotone voice.

“Nobody is attacking me!” shrieked Butters, with enough dedication to his role for the two of them.

“Nobody?”

“Nobody has stabbed me in the eye!”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody has blinded me!”

“Well, if nobody is bothering you, then I can go back to sleep,” said Craig, and that marked the end of her performance.

“Polyphemus searches for Odysseus and his men until morning,” said Stan, “but he can’t find them anywhere. Little does he know, they’ve strapped themselves beneath the oversized sheep, so that all the blind Cyclops can feel are their woolly backs.”

“I give up!” said Butters. “I’ll just have to leave Nobody here to starve.”

“He rolls away the boulder, to let his sheep out, carefully feeling along the tops of each one to make sure no man escapes. Only they’re all secretly passing through, right beneath his nose! As soon as Odysseus and his crew are safely outside, they leg it back to their ship, as fast as they can. Up with the anchor, start setting sail.”

“We’ve made it!” said Nichole, hands on her hips. “Look, up on that cliff! Polyphemus seems a lot smaller when we’re further away.”

Stan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, no-eyes!”

Kenny whirled wildly towards him, Butters still astride. “Nobody? How did you—”

“When they ask who blinded you, you needn’t tell them it was Nobody! Tell them it was Odysseus, king of Ithaca!”

Nichole looked at him in horror. “Why did you do that? What have you done?”

“I don’t like my genius to go uncredited,” shrugged Stan.

“Don’t you know who his father is?” she said. “Who the father of all Cyclopes is?”

“Oh,” said Stan, and his eyes went wide. “Oh dear.”

“Daddy!” whined Butters. “I want revenge. Revenge! Let his journey home take years and years. Let his crew and companions perish. Let his house be conquered by enemies.”

“What happened next is another story,” said Stan. “Poseidon’s wrath was mighty, and his aim deadly. Odysseus had ten more years of struggles to fight through. But he was proud to have outwitted the Cyclops and escaped the cave! The end.”

Stan led his ragtag acting troupe in a bow to rapturous applause. He settled back down beside Kyle, panting, grinning from ear to ear.

“That was the most over the top way of saying ‘it’s just a reference to the Odyssey,’” said Kyle.

“But it was by far the most entertaining, wasn’t it?”

“That’s one word for it.”

*

Kyle retired to sickbay after dinner, feigning exhaustion. In truth, he was just looking to avoid any chance that he might be dragged back into town. He didn’t mind the solitude, anyway. He had his books for company.

He had planned to sit and read in his new hammock, but upon reaching the room he found this was easier said than done. Kenny had put the hammock at an appropriate height for someone like himself, but Kyle was half a foot shorter than him, and the ordeal of keeping the canvas material spread open and being able to hoist himself into it at the same time seemed complicated and overwhelming. He opted instead to tuck a cushion into the corner and sit on that instead.

The Ship’s Medicine Chest and Medical Aid at Sea was an interesting read. The language was far more simplistic than in his sophisticated textbooks, which he was glad of. The handbook was designed for navy ships and was apparently intended to accompany an issued medicine chest, which of course Kyle did not have. But when he compared the supply list to his own collection, it measured up relatively well. He flicked through, and found pages on dislocations, cholera, and resuscitation, amongst far more. He was just getting to a really good bit when there was a soft knock on the door.

“Enter,” he said, with a newfound feeling of authority. He only wished he had a desk to say it from, like Stan.

Butters poked his head around the door, looking nervous.

“Is something wrong?” asked Kyle.

“No,” said Butters. “It’s not urgent. I can leave you alone if you’re busy.”

“That depends,” said Kyle. “Are you here to drag me back into town?”

“No.”

“In that case no, I’m not particularly busy,” he said. Butters was still hovering by the door, and so he beckoned him forward “You’re allowed to come in, you know.”

Butters took a hesitant step inside. “It’s just that Kenny has gone off to meet Emily, Stan and Craig are busy having some sort of serious conversation, Nichole has gone to bed and everyone else seems to have something going on as well, and so I thought… I thought I might borrow one of your books, if that’s alright.”

“Of course it is,” said Kyle. He raised the book in his hand. “You can join me, if you like.”

Butters smiled. “I’d like that.”

“There’s cushions under the table that you can sit on,” he said. “But you might want to be careful which one you pick, because some of them have bloodstains. My books are just stacked over there.”

“Which one would you recommend?”

“Book or pillow?”

“Book.”

“The human biology book is probably a good place to start.”

Butters picked it up and sat down beside Kyle with a bloodless pillow. “What are you reading?” he asked.

“The book I bought today.”

“Is it any good?”

“It’s got a really excellent bit on amputations. All about fashioning skin flaps and sawing through the tibia and fibula and tying up arteries and—” He stopped. “Sorry, I shan’t burden you with the grim details.”

“I don’t mind it,” said Butters. “But I’ll quit bothering you and let you get back to your work.” He opened his book and began to read.

Kyle watched Butters from the edge of his periphery. The way his eye darted back and forth across the page, and the slight frown that creased his brow as he studied the skeletal diagram that was laid out before him.

“What is your official job title, Butters?” he asked.

“Hm?” Butters looked up. “Oh, I don’t really have one. I’m just an extra pair of hands for whatever needs doing. I guess I help Kenny with his carpentry the most. But I’m not all that useful, because I can’t use most of the tools,” he mimed whacking the air, “what with my depth perception. Or lack thereof.”

Kyle nodded. He wasn’t really reading anymore, just staring at the pages, lost in thought. “How come you’re not bothered by all these blood and guts and bones?” he asked a few minutes later.

“I don’t know,” said Butters. “It doesn’t bother me on the inside, so why should it bother me on the outside? And, um, I saw a lot of doctors when I was little, and they always seemed to know what was what. I like that.” He tilted his head. “People are always falling apart. It’s nice to know how to put them back together.”

Kyle nodded again, and Butters went back to his book. Kyle kept watching him, and he was sure that Butters could feel him doing so, but he didn’t comment or raise his head.

“How would you like to be my apprentice?” Kyle blurted.

Butters blinked at him in surprise.

Kyle wished he had never asked, but it was too late now. “I could use some help around here,” he said, “and you have the interest, so I just—I think it could work. You and I.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not that you have to. Just a thought. Um. Sorry.”

“I’ve never been wanted for anything that important before,” Butters said after a moment.

“It’s more about whether you’d want to do it or not.”

“Well of course I do!”

“You do?” said Kyle. “I mean, of course. Yes. Of course you do. Who would pass up such an opportunity?” Butters laughed, and then Kyle felt relieved. If there was anyone who would make a good apprentice, it would be Butters, who seemed delighted and impressed by pretty much everything. Kyle was also glad that he had recommended his most basic book to Butters, because as they went through it together, he was able to answer any questions that were poised. He did not want to appear ill-educated so soon.

At ten o’clock, Butters retired to his cabin, and Kyle tackled the hammock challenge. God was he glad he was alone to do so. After far more struggling than he cared to admit, and almost crashing onto the floor twice, he landed in a graceless heap in the hammock. Gravity was not on his side today. He still felt rather precarious, and so he went quite rigid, as to minimise the rocking back and forth, gripping each side with knuckle-whitening intensity. To hell with Stan and his letting go! Kyle did not want to end up on the ground.

Just before he dropped off, he heard the strange, distant sobbing that he had heard once before, so quiet that it was almost not there at all. But he was too tired to distinguish whether it was reality or simply the beginning of a dream, and so he let it pass.

*

“Kyle!”

Kyle was jerked into consciousness so fast that he did not have time to get his bearings, and in his panic almost fell out of the hammock. Hands caught him and steadied the rocking. Groaning, he covered his face with his arms and kept his eyes tightly shut, but soft lantern light still glowed through his eyelids.

“I can’t believe you even sleep stiffly,” he heard.

Kyle sighed. “It’s the middle of the night, Stan, leave me alone.”

“How do you know it’s me?”

“Because no one else would have the audacity to sneak into my room and critique my sleeping positions!” Kyle opened his eyes to glower at him. “What do you want from me, Stan?”

“Your captain requires your presence.”

Kyle groaned and screwed his eyes shut again. “Presence where?” He did not look at Stan but could hear the grin in his voice when he spoke.

“We’re going to pay Tweek another visit.”

Chapter Text

Craig was pacing the deck when Kyle and Stan emerged from below. Kyle could tell she was in a bad mood, just by how sharply her head jerked upwards when they approached.

“Took you long enough.” The white bandage across her nose was stark against her brown skin, even when lit by nothing but the moon. Kyle might have felt a pang of empathy for the pain she was suffering through right now if she hadn’t immediately sprung a passive aggressive jab at him.

“I was dressing,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I couldn’t find my stockings.”

Craig just snorted, as if this were hard to believe, falling into step beside him and Stan as they left the ship. “I still don’t see why he has to come,” she grumbled, seemingly to Stan but loud enough for Kyle to hear. But he was too tired to rise to the bait and was doing his best to tune her complaints out. Stan’s voice cut through instead.

“Need I remind you of the help he gave you last time?” he said. “I don’t think it’s Kyle who should be the subject of your wrath.”

Craig shoved her hands in her pockets and stared at the cobbles beneath her feet and said nothing, though it was clear who she was thinking of. Who they were all thinking of.

The streets were deserted at this hour, and any sense of safety had vanished with the people. Kyle had thought he might feel more relaxed when they were out alone, but with the way the shadowed buildings loomed over them, he was no less on edge. He tugged his coat tighter around himself and stared at the cloudy, starless sky, thinking of the night ahead. A broken nose he could fix. But what about a broken arm? Or a broken leg? Or a broken neck? “Will you fight back this time?” he asked. “If she attacks you?”

Craig chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t think I could hit Tweek.”

Kyle was about to respond that Craig had longer arms than Tweek and thus would actually have an advantage, but then realised what she really meant. “In that case, I’m not sure we should be going back there,” he said. “There’s no reason to believe that Tweek is going to receive us any better than last time.” He said ‘us.’ He meant ‘you.’

Craig didn’t answer, so Stan did. “Last night was Tweek getting it out of her system. She’s had a day to cool off and reflect,” he said. “I’m willing to bet that she doesn’t want that fight to be the way things end.”

“Do you really think so?” Kyle asked Craig. He had gotten the impression that Tweek had rage flowing through her veins instead of blood, and that it was a permanent fixture.

“Tweek and I had a… complicated relationship,” said Craig. “Yesterday was not the first time we’ve fought.”

“But was it the first physical fight?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“So then don’t you think it’s different, this time?”

“I don’t know yet, Kyle.” She tipped her head back and sighed. “Maybe I don’t want this to be the way things end either.”

Kyle let it drop, though privately he thought this way was preferable to risking more fractures. He stifled a yawn. “At the very least, could it not have waited till tomorrow? Or at least a little earlier than, uh—”

“Half past two in the morning,” said Stan. “It’s half past two in the morning. That’s when the tavern closes, so it will be more private, which, as we’ve learned, is better than the alternative.”

“The alternative being a crowd of rowdy sailors egging her on,” said Kyle.

Craig groaned and pawed at her stomach with the heel of her hand. “I wish I hadn’t eaten so much soup earlier. It feels like it’s turning to lead inside me.”

“That’s probably just nerves,” said Kyle.

“I’m not nervous,” said Craig, growling when Kyle raised an eyebrow. “I’m not! We’re just going to talk. It’s hardly more stressful than before.”

“It’s a different level of vulnerability.”

“I’m not afraid of being vulnerable.”

“Right,” said Kyle, unconvinced.

“It’s just bad soup.”

“Right.”

“God, will you just shut up!” snapped Craig, and scowled down at the ground. “We need an actual chef instead of this stupid rota system.”

Kyle almost said “Right,” for the third time, but the ‘no broken bones’ goal was applicable to himself as well, and with the menacing look she was giving him, he didn’t trust that she wouldn’t cross that line. So, he held his tongue. This lasted for all of thirty seconds before he thought of something else to say. “How is a barmaid even supposed to get her hands on trade route maps in the first place?”

“She has her ways,” said Stan ambiguously.

“Could you possibly be any more specific?” He directed this question at Craig because he knew that Stan revelled in being mysterious. “This is my last question, I promise.”

“Blackmail,” said Craig after slight hesitation. “Tweek has trust issues. The issue being that she doesn’t trust anyone. So, she makes it her life’s purpose to find dirt on every single person who crosses the threshold of her tavern, so no one ever dares to cross her.”

Kyle thought back to last night, when Tweek had frightened off a man making advances on her with a single whispered sentence. He had assumed it was a threat of violence, but now he realised that blackmail seemed far more likely and far worse. Evidently, she was not the kind of girl you wanted to get on the wrong side of, and now here he was, aligning with her ex-lover.

Tweek’s Tavern was indeed closed when they arrived, but a soft light still shone through the large window embedded into the front. Inside, all the tables and chairs had been stacked against the wall. Tweek had her back to the window, sweeping the now empty floor with a brown bandana tied around her head, pinning her hair back from her face.

“You know what they say,” said Stan, patting Craig on the back. “Second time’s a charm.”

“Third,” she said. “It’s third time’s a charm.”

“Oh.” Stan wrinkled his nose. “Let’s try not to drag this ordeal out that long.”

Craig tried the door, but it was locked, and so she knocked on the window, uncharacteristically timid. The sound made Tweek jump like someone had thrown a brick through the glass. She whirled around and jumped again when she saw it was Craig.

Craig took a deep breath and exhaled, fogging up the windowpane. Backwards, so that it was legible to Tweek, she wrote, Let me in?

Tweek made a shooing gesture with her hands. Her voice was muted by the wall between them but the “Go away!” that she mouthed was clear enough.

Please? wrote Craig.

Tweek sighed, and looked around, though she was very much alone. “Why?”

I just wa—Craig had to stop to refresh the condensation—nt to talk. She paused, then in a small puff of breath, drew a heart.

Tweek gave an exaggerated eye roll but looked like she was biting back a smile. She marched over to the door, and with a clunk of the lock and a creaking of hinges, it swung open. She stood in the doorway with one hand on her ample hip, the other still holding the besom broom. The flare of the bristles matched the flare of her neatly buttoned bottle green dress. “What do you want from me?”

“I just said: to talk.”

Tweek pursed her lips. “No, what do you really want from me?”

“That’s it.” Craig stared at her feet. “That’s all.”

Tweek narrowed her eyes. “Then how come you brought Flotsam and Jetsam with you again?” she said, motioning to Stan and Kyle.

“My name is Stan, not Flotsam,” he said, not without irritation.

“I had assigned you as Jetsam, actually,” said Tweek.

Craig cut in before Stan could get offended. “They’re here to be part of the talking,” she said. “But I think we’d better start with just the two of us.” She looked up at Tweek through lowered lashes. “Don’t you?”

Tweek rolled the broomstick handle back and forth between her palms in thought. “I’m not… fully opposed to the idea,” she said slowly. “Come in.”

Craig smiled. It was just a small tilt of her mouth, and a slight uptilt of her eyebrows, but as Kyle had never seen her smile before, he reckoned this constituted one, by her standards. “I take it your father isn’t here?” she asked as they entered.

“He’s gone to bed,” said Tweek, resting her broom against the counter and brushing her hands off on her skirt. “We can use the storeroom. Your sidekicks can wait here.”

“Just like we used to,” said Craig, almost nostalgically.

“I am not her sidekick!” exclaimed Stan. Craig gave him a shut the hell up glare, and he retreated to a chair on the opposite side of the room to sulk.

Tweek ignored his remark anyway, swinging open the half-height door embedded in the counter and leading Craig to the storeroom door. Right before they slipped inside, Kyle noticed Craig’s hand brush gently over the small of Tweek’s back, unmistakably deliberate. Though he saw Tweek twitch, she did not pull away. The door shut carefully behind them, and there was a muffled scraping sound as the bolt was drawn across it.

“I’m not her sidekick,” Stan muttered again.

“I know.”

“Why would Tweek think I was Craig’s sidekick?” Stan threw up his hands.

“I don’t know, Stan,” said Kyle, not in the mood to play ego-soother. “Probably because she’s prettier.”

Stan looked outraged until he realised that Kyle was only teasing. “Beast,” he said, crossing his arms. “Don’t you know it’s against the rules to lie to your captain?”

“Who said I was lying?” Kyle stepped up onto the raised section in the corner, where an old piano was situated. He sat on the stool and set his bag down beside it.

“As if Craig is prettier than me,” scoffed Stan. There was a pregnant pause. “You don’t—You don’t actually think she is, do you?”

“Hmm,” said Kyle, pretending to take the question seriously. He lifted the lid and studied the worn, yellowing keys. “Well, she is taller than you. That’s got to count for something.”

Stan leapt up. “Only by an inch!”

“And inch makes all the difference.”

“Oh, what do you know?” huffed Stan. “You only like her better because you were allowed to do a grittier surgery on her than me.”

Kyle frowned. “Prettiness doesn’t equal likeability.”

“Of course it does,” said Stan. “See, you really don’t know anything.”

“So then why are you asking my opinion?” asked Kyle. Stan didn’t respond, but he didn’t need him to, because he had already figured out the answer. Stan’s confidence was founded on the basis that he was the best in the room, no matter the room. Any challenges to this perception were not met with humility. “Do you really think Craig will succeed in making peace with Tweek?” asked Kyle, changing the subject.

“They didn’t immediately try to tear each other’s faces off,” said Stan. “That’s something.”

“That’s not a lot.”

“It is compared to yesterday.”

“I suppose,” said Kyle. “But for all we know they could be fighting in there right now.”

“We’d hear.”

“Not if they were doing it quietly.”

Stan raised his eyebrows but did not contest. He rose and began to wander about the place listlessly. Kyle lowered his head and ran his fingers along the grooves between the keys. There was a stretch of silence, which he eventually broke by experimenting with a few notes.

“Can you play?” asked Stan.

Kyle flinched. He hadn’t realised how much closer Stan had drawn. “Not well,” he said, as Stan rested his hands on the dark wooden piano cover that closed in the strings. “Only one song, badly.”

“Which song?”

“I don’t even think it has a name,” said Kyle. “Just ‘Lesson Six.’ It was in the exercise book I learnt from.”

“Play it for me.”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“I do.”

“It’s boring.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t remember most of it.”

“So make it up.”

“I’ll be atrocious.”

“You can’t be worse than me.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do,” said Stan, “because I can’t play the piano at all.”

“But—”

“Kyle.” Stan looked at him firmly. “Play the damn song.”

Kyle pressed down cautiously on the first key. It rang out with an aching familiarity. Lesson Six was a waltz, simple and repetitive. He was playing it too slowly, at an inconsistent rhythm, and he was sure it sounded discordant and awful. He braved a fleeting glance up at Stan, but having his eyes off the keys meant he immediately stumbled, fingers slamming into the wrong note. He winced and took his hands off the piano, as if to avoid any further damage. “I warned you I was bad,” he muttered, closing the lid with embarrassment.

“It was very danceable,” said Stan, smiling at him in an encouraging way.

“Danceable?”

“Well, that’s the point of a waltz, isn’t it?” Stan swept his arms out. “To dance!”

“I can’t imagine anyone would be able to dance to that.”

“Of course they could.” He strode across the floor and picked up the broom. “I’ll prove it to you. Play it again.” He sighed when Kyle hesitated, squirming under Stan’s expectant gaze. “I promise you that you’re not as bad as you think you are.”

“Fine,” said Kyle, “I’ll play it. But only this once.” Kyle opened the lid and, after a brief moment of mental preparation, began. At least it was easier this time now that he’d had a chance to refresh.

“Here we go,” said Stan, and he held out the broom in front of him, curving one arm like he was wrapping it around someone’s waist, and raising his other like he was holding an imaginary hand. He began to move, murmuring in time to the beat. “One, two, three – one, two, three – one, two three.”

Kyle paused to glance up at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing with the loveliest lady in the room,” said Stan. “Don’t interrupt us.”

“Of course you are,” said Kyle, picking up playing again. “How romantic.”

“I must say,” came Stan’s voice from behind him, “She is a far more relaxed dance partner than you are. Her movements are so much more fluid.”

“I refuse to believe that I am stiffer than an actual stick,” said Kyle.

“And yet…” said Stan, and though Kyle couldn’t see him, he could hear the grin in his voice. “You know, she could teach you a thing or two.”

Kyle elected to ignore that comment, else they would be sucked back into another petty argument that went nowhere. Instead, he returned his focus to the music, to ensure that he would not stumble like last time. To his pleasant surprise, he reached the end of the song without incident. Stan bowed to his partner, before setting her back against the counter, a little out of breath.

“Who told you that you were bad at playing?” he asked.

“What?”

“It’s got to be someone. People don’t become that ashamed of playing all by themselves.”

“I’m not ashamed,” mumbled Kyle.

“Who was it?”

It was his father, who, upon hearing the younger Kyle’s recital of Lesson Six, had informed him that he would no longer be wasting money on a piano teacher. “Maybe I’m just self-aware enough to know that I am,” he said instead.

“I suppose music isn’t a very lucrative business,” said Stan. “Medicine, on the other hand…”

“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Kyle, ducking his head to hide his flush, because in truth it had quite a lot to do with it. He rose from the stool and stepped down from the raised section onto the floor. He was about to take a seat somewhere else when he noticed something. “Hey, there’s a cat under here!”

“Really?” Stan joined his side and together they peered under a chair, where a large black moggy was curled up. It appeared to be asleep, but then it opened one yellow eye to stare at them.

“I’ve never had a cat before,” said Kyle.

“There was one on my old ship,” said Stan. “A wicked old thing. But you don’t look like you would hurt a fly, do you?” He reached out a hand to pet it, but then it swiped at him, and he pulled quickly away, grimacing. “Okay, never mind.”

The groan of a bolt being slid back sounded, and then the storeroom door opened, and Tweek and Craig returned.

Tweek had her hands up behind her head, retying her bandana with her tongue between her teeth.

“Nice playing,” said Craig, straightening her shirt.

Kyle swallowed, embarrassed all over again. “You heard that?”

“What, did you think that door is soundproof?”

Kyle hadn’t been thinking of them at all, actually. Just Stan. Only Stan. “And have you sorted out your differences?”

Tweek and Craig exchanged glances. “It was… a start,” said Tweek, and Craig looked relieved, as if she hadn’t been so sure herself.

“Then let’s get down to business,” said Stan. “Pull up a chair. But not that one. That one has an angry cat under it.”

“Don’t bother him and he won’t bother you,” said Tweek.

“Not true,” said Craig, indignantly. “I have at least three scratch marks from when I was minding my own business to prove otherwise. That cat is evil incarnate.”

“Don’t slander Hat like that!”

“Your cat is named Hat?” asked Kyle, as he took a seat in between Stan and Craig around one of the round tables.

“I was a very creative child,” said Tweek. “Hat and cat rhyme, so. You know.”

“Let’s get back to the matter and hand.” Stan clasped his hands together. “How much has Craig told you about our line of work already?”

“You’re pirates,” said Tweek. “Nobodies.”

“I assure you we are not nobodies,” said Stan, not without a little irritation.

“I meant as in, like, pirates of the ship Nobody. I thought—Is that not how crew names work?”

“No!” said Stan. “I would never be so insulting.” Craig must have kicked him under the table because he winced and glowered at her before turning back to Tweek. “What else do you know?”

“You’re after copies of trade route maps,” she said. “You think I can get them for you.”

“And can you?”

Tweek tilted her head. “For the right price.”

“How much?” Stan sat back in his chair.

“Oh, I don’t want your money.” She leant across the table and smiled, a glint in her eye. “I want in.”

“You what?” exclaimed Craig in horror. Clearly this was not something they had discussed.

“I’m sick and tired of this decrepit old tavern,” said Tweek, with a sour look on her face. “Everyone here spends their time leering at me or singing too loud. I can’t stand it. It makes my skin crawl.”

“So work somewhere else,” said Craig.

“All bars are like that.”

“So don’t work in a bar, then. Get a job selling papers, or gutting fish, or making bottles, or—”

“I don’t want any of those jobs!” said Tweek.

“I don’t think you understand how dangerous piracy is,” said Craig. “It’s not fun and games. People die. You might die.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take, if it means I get a chance to live.”

She snorted. “That right there is why you’re not cut out for it. It’s not all romance and excitement and adventure! It’s brutal and it’s cutthroat and it’s cruel. We don’t just let any limp-wristed fool tag along.”

“Oh my God,” snapped Kyle, “will you leave my wrists alone!”

“I think I’ve made it abundantly clear just how adept my wrists are,” said Tweek. Craig raised an eyebrow, and she coloured. “I meant yesterday!”

“Please,” scoffed Craig. “You think you beat me? I wasn’t even fighting back, and it still took you a hundred tries before you broke my nose! And what kind of a thing is that to break? It’s inefficient.”

Tweek slammed her hands on the table. “Are you looking for a rematch?” she spat.

“Hey now,” said Stan calmly. “Let’s all remain civil.”

Tweek growled and slumped back into her seat, shoulders twitching upwards.

“Craig,” said Stan, “I’ll thank you not to speak on behalf of me when it comes to matters of joining my crew.”

“I just—” She was silenced by a warning glare from Stan. She clenched her jaw and resigned herself to picking at a dent in the tabletop.

“Tweek,” said Stan, “what exactly is it that you have to offer our crew?”

“I can fight.”

“With a cutlass?”

“No. But, my hands—”

“You can’t bring fists to a sword fight.”

“I’ll have an advantage when learning to wield a blade, then,” she said. “I’m experienced in combat and I’m not afraid of a little blood.”

“How about a lot of blood?”

Tweek shrugged. “I’ve seen enough drunken brawls in my days to get used to men who get knocked down and don’t ever get up again.”

Stan nodded thoughtfully. “What else can you do?”

Tweek chewed the inside of her cheek. “I can cook.”

Stan’s eyes lit up. “Can you do it well? Craig was just saying how we need a good chef.”

“Did I?” said Craig, voice strained. “I don’t remember saying that.”

“I’m a very good cook,” said Tweek. “Craig, you can attest to that.”

Everyone looked at Craig. “I mean… I guess,” she shrugged.

Tweek scoffed. “I distinctly remember a more ecstatic response when I’ve fed you before.”

“I was half starved. What did you expect?”

“Oh, you are just dead set on rewriting the past, aren’t you?”

“I’m not ‘rewriting’ anything,” said Craig in contempt. “I’m just saying that—”

“Stop it!” said Kyle, and they were both so surprised that they fell silent. “Craig is a valuable member of our crew. It’s not right to risk her health for the sake of nicer food.”

Craig looked pleased. Tweek did not. “I’m not a health risk!” she said.

“I can’t have Craig back in sickbay every other day because you two can’t control yourselves.”

“I can control myself just fine,” sniffed Tweek. “Yesterday was a choice.”

“And how do I know you won’t make that choice again?”

“Kyle has a point, Tweek,” said Stan.

“Alright, alright!” she said. “You have my word that if you let me join the crew, I won’t ever lay a hand on Craig again.”

“Good,” said Stan. “But be aware that if you ever break that promise, you’ll be marooned faster than you can lay another on her. Understand?”

Tweek blinked rapidly, then grinned. “So I’m in?”

“It’s your call, Craig,” said Stan.

Craig looked between the three of them, then sighed. “For the maps,” she said. “I’ll do it for the maps.”

Tweek shook her hands at the wrists in excitement. “I’ll have them with you by the end of the week.”

“That soon?” asked Stan.

She smirked. “You have no idea the kind of strings I can pull.”

They left shortly after that, as none of them were in the mood to stick around. Kyle was glad to be out of that place, crisp night air a welcome alternative to the tension that crackled in the air like lightning.

“Oh, damn,” he said, when they were halfway down the street. “I left my bag by the piano.”

“I’m not going back there,” said Craig. “We’ll wait for you here.”

And so Kyle returned alone.

Tweek was standing by the doorway with the satchel hanging from her hand, swinging it to and fro like a pendulum. “Welcome back,” she said as he approached, “Kyle Broflovski.”

Every inch of his body turned to stone. His breath hitched, and for a moment all words evaded him, blinded by pure panic. “What did you say?” he whispered.

“You heard me.” The look she gave him was all teeth and no smile.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stuttered.

“There’s no use playing the fool,” she said. “I know who you are, little monarch-to-be. Or, perhaps not to be, now, eh?” Her fingers curled around the strap in her hand. “I presume Stan and Craig aren’t aware of your background.”

“Why do you care?” he said, suppressing the urge to run, keep running, and never look back.

“Oh, I don’t,” she said casually, eyes dipping down to the bag, still rocking back and forth. “But I reckon they would. Don’t you?”

Kyle flinched when Tweek looked up at him, eyes so sharp and so green that he felt as if they struck right through him, piercing the depths of his mind.

“Stay out of things between Craig and I, and no one has to know.”

Kyle looked her up and down, then snatched the satchel back. She held fast, so that the strap was stretched out between them. “Fine,” sneered Kyle. “In that case, you’ll have to be the one to remind Craig that she ought to do a better job of doing up your buttons.”

Tweek looked down at herself and gasped, hands flying to her breast, to cover up the mismatch. This left him free to sling his back safely over his shoulder.

“Goodbye,” he said coldly, then stalked back to the others. He felt her gaze scorching the back of his neck the whole way but did not look back once. He would not show weakness.

“Took you long enough,” said Craig when he returned, for the second time this evening. Only this time, Kyle offered no explanation.

Chapter Text

Kyle came up after breakfast on Saturday morning to find that Tweek had fulfilled her end of the bargain. She was standing with Stan, who was unravelling a few scrolls that presumably came from her, and Craig, who was preoccupied by the cage that sat on the floor between them.

“No!” she said, crossing her arms. “No way. Absolutely not. I won’t allow it.” The parrot on her shoulder looked as equally exasperated as she did, staring down at the mass of fur in the cage with bitter beady eyes.

“What else am I supposed to do with him?” said Tweek. “Father and Mother treat him like he’s some feral beast.”

“That he is.”

“He is not! Without me there to stick up for him, they’ll throw him onto the streets.”

“Not my problem.” Craig rubbed her now bandage-free nose indifferently with the back of her hand. “That thing has to go.”

“Ah, Kyle.” Stan had caught him watching from afar. “Come here.”

Kyle approached nervously, hovering closer to him than Craig and Tweek. Did his mere presence violate his agreement with Tweek? She seemed to think so, based on the side-eye she was giving him. But they were going to be living together now, so she’d just have to get used to it. He’d treat her like she told him to treat her cat: Don’t bother her, and she wouldn’t bother him.

“Craig, tell Kyle what you and Tweek are arguing about now,” said Stan, oozing with boredom.

So much for that plan, thought Kyle, suppressing a sigh.

Craig put her hands on her hips. “Tweek has had the terrible idea to bring that awful cat of hers with her.”

“Ships have ships cats!” protested Tweek. “Everyone knows that.”

“Not ones with parrots on.”

Stan groaned. “If these are the kind of mind-numbingly idiotic arguments were going to have to endure, then I shan’t be the one to deal with it. Kyle,” he said, waving a hand, “you decide.”

“Me!” said Kyle, in horror. “Why me?”

“I cannot find it within me to care, and you were standing the closest. So, go on. Fix this.”

“Um,” said Kyle, scrounging around in the back of his brain for a solution that would quell everyone’s wrath without turning himself into a source of contempt. “We do have a rat problem,” he said hesitantly. “Does Hat know how to take care of them?”

“He’s the best rat-catcher around,” Tweek proclaimed with pride. “A natural predator.”

“And thus, a threat to all innocent birds!” said Craig. She groaned. “You can’t seriously be taking her side, Kyle.”

“Well, I—It’s just that cats are more sanitary than rats,” said Kyle, “So, um.” He could feel the hole he was digging himself into growing deeper with every word. “Okay, how about we say Hat is only allowed in certain rooms on certain days. Or—Alternating above and below deck. That way, Stripe can be in the opposite one, or safely behind a closed door, and he’ll always be safe.”

Craig sucked her teeth. “I suppose that’s reasonable,” she conceded. “But Tweek has to be the one to feed him and clean out his sandbox.”

“Fine by me,” said Tweek.

“And whatever Hat does to Stripe, I get to do to him.”

“Less fine,” said Tweek. “But, alright. He won’t get his claws on the parrot anyway.”

“What an ingenious solution to some real nail-biting discourse,” said Stan, rolling his eyes. “In future, you two are to leave the petty arguments to me and Kyle. We make a far better show of it.”

Kyle was about to contest this last remark, but Stan was distracted by someone else.

“Ah, here’s Bebe.” He waved her over, and she approached.

“Morning,” she said, and turned to Tweek. “You’re the new recruit?”

“I am,” said Tweek, eyeing up the scissors handle poking out of the pocket of Bebe’s apron.

“Welcome aboard,” she said. “I’m here to cut your hair.”

Tweek’s eyes went wide. “You’re what?” she said, hands flying to her head, as if bits might start falling off at any second.

“It’s protocol,” said Bebe apologetically. “Long hair gets in the way when fighting.”

“I can tie it up!”

“That won’t solve anything,” said Craig. “A bun is nothing more than a great big ‘tug on me!’ sign for attackers.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

Kyle was getting pretty tired of their bickering himself. He tried to block it out by returning to the enigma of how to get Nichole down to sickbay for an examination. Butters had reported back to him that though she was reluctant, he reckoned they had a shot at convincing her to comply, as long as the distrustful Craig wasn’t there to put a stop to things. That meant they’d have to strike while she was otherwise preoccupied with a task in which Nichole would be out of sight and out of mind. Kyle knew that Craig would be going over the maps at some point today, giving him and Butters the opportunity to talk to Nichole.

Kyle’s thoughts were cut short by a sudden hand placed on his shoulder. He stared blankly at it like he’d never seen it before in his life, the contact somehow creating a block between his mouth and his brain. Following it upwards, he found that the hand was attached to a wrist, which was attached to an arm, which was attached to Stan. Stan was touching his shoulder. Kyle swallowed, mortified, and hastily regained his ability to communicate. “Sorry,” he stuttered out, “did you say something?”

“Ever the attentive listener,” said Stan sarcastically. “I said, can I speak to you in my office?”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Kyle followed Stan to his cabin, trying to put his embarrassment behind him. “You cleaned,” he said as they sat down, admiring the carefully sorted papers and neatly stacked books.  “I could almost call it tidy.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” said Stan. “I do have the ability to straighten things out when I want to.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I’ve got a meeting with Token about finances. His report on the profits we’ve turned from selling our wares,” said Stan. “He never outright comments on the state of things in here, but I always get the sense that he judges me for it.”

“I openly judge you for it,” said Kyle. “You never clean for me.”

“Jealous?” Stan grinned.

“No,” scoffed Kyle. “I only wish it was that easy for me to get you to do things.”

“But you’re far more fun to wind up than he is.”

“Is that all you called me in for?”

“No,” said Stan. “You have other uses.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Kyle, deadpan. “And what might those be?”

“I want you to keep an eye on things between Craig and Tweek.”

Kyle’s stomach twisted into a painful knot. “Keep an eye on things how?”

“They’ll be going over the maps Tweek got us together, but you and I both know they’ll never get any work done unless there’s someone there to put a stop to the spiralling into argument after argument.”

“Why me?” asked Kyle, almost pleadingly.

“You don’t take nonsense from anyone.”

“But I have things to do today!”

“Well, you can add this to the top of your list.” Stan acknowledged Kyle’s imploring look with a sigh. “Just this one time, that’s all I’m asking. I have faith that they’ll soon adjust to living together, but in order to do that they need a healthy dosage of sensibility. You’re the one to give it to them.”

“But—”

“This isn’t up for dispute. It’s a direct order.”

Kyle ground his teeth in place of letting loose the indignant remarks that were burning at the tip of his tongue. “Yes, Captain,” he grumbled, getting to his feet.

Stan frowned. “You never call me Captain.” He stood too. “Are you upset with me?”

“No.”

Stan took a step towards him. “You’re not allowed to be upset with me over this.”

“I’m not!”

“Because I’m just doing my job.” Another step.

“I know.”

“So then why are you acting like you’re upset with me?” Another.

“I’m not!” Kyle averted his eyes. Stan was too close for comfort now, but he didn’t dare step away.

“Look at me,” said Stan. “Look at me and promise you’re not upset.”

Kyle swallowed, and very slowly raised his head. His gaze travelled up Stan’s torso, neck, chin, cheeks, finally meeting his eyes. They were a blue grey, the colour of the sky before a storm. “I promise,” he breathed, but the eye contact was too much, and he couldn’t take it anymore, so looked away again. Stan took his jaw and tilted his face back towards him, studying him like he was a piece of enigmatic artwork. Kyle could feel himself trembling under Stan’s grip.

There was a sharp rapping on the door, and they both jumped apart from each other.

Token’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Captain?”

Stan cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, as if it had somehow been put out of place. “Enter,” he said.

Token came in, notebook, quill, and ink bottle in hand. “Oh, hello Kyle,” he said in surprise. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Nothing at all,” said Kyle, feeling strangely out of breath. “I was just going, so I’ll—I’ll leave you two to it.” He made a hasty exit, slamming the door behind him and pressing his back to it. He pinched his eyes shut.

How the hell was he supposed to both keep an eye on Craig and Tweek and stay out of things between them?

“Kyle!”

Kyle flinched at the sudden sound so close to him. His eyes flew open to find Butters standing before him, bumping his fists together anxiously.

“Give me something to do,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Quick.”

For one, glorious second, Kyle imagined tasking him with the job of keeping Craig and Tweek from ripping each other’s throats out. But he new it would be both cruel and ineffective to drag sweet little Butters into this. “Why don’t you go do a thorough clean of sickbay?” he said instead.

“Thanks!” said Butters, dashing off before Kyle had the chance to ask what the rush was all about. But he had more important things to fret over.

With no other way out of it, he trudged across the deck towards Craig, Tweek and Bebe. Tweek was sitting on a small wooden stool with her hands twitching at her sides, chunks of blonde hair littered at her feet.

“Stop fidgeting so much,” said Bebe as she worked. “You don’t want it to turn out all wonky.”

“I can’t help it,” moaned Tweek. “Haircuts freak me out.”

“Should have thought about that before joining a pirate ship,” muttered Craig.

Tweek saw Kyle approaching and narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“When are you going over the maps?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“After this,” she said warily. “Why?”

“Stan says I’m to mediate.”

 “We don’t need any mediation.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea,” he said tightly, and was relieved when he heard someone say his name, eager for an excuse to escape the violent glare she was giving him.

“Kyle!” It was Kenny, striding towards them with his toolkit in hand. “Have you seen Butters anywhere?”

“You just missed him,” said Kyle. “He’s down in sickbay.”

“Is he busy? I was hoping for a little extra help with some repairs.”

“Sorry, he’s got his hands full at the moment.” Kyle considered the urgency with which Butters had confronted him with just a minute ago. Was Butters… avoiding Kenny? The notion was most peculiar, given Butters’ tendency to follow Kenny around like a puppy. But he had been spending all his time with Kyle in sickbay lately. He paused, then added, “It may take him all day. You’ll have to find someone else.”

Kenny’s face fell. “Oh. That’s alright. I know he’s your apprentice and all now.”

Kyle felt slightly guilty, but then he saw an opportunity to test out a theory. “Kenny, have you met Tweek?”

Kenny caught sight of her, still twitching beneath Bebe’s incessant snipping. A slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, hello.”

Tweek’s head jerked towards him, but Bebe twisted it back in place. “Hi,” she said, staring at him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m Tweek.”

Kenny ran his tongue along his teeth. “So I’ve heard.”

“Okay, no.” Craig took a defensive step between Kenny and Tweek, blocking his line of sight. “Don’t even try, McCormick. She’s a member of the crew now.”

“All I said was hello!” said Kenny, putting up his hands. “There’s no rule against that.”

“There should be, with the way you said it.” Her expression was bordering out threatening. “Move along.”

“Whatever you say,” Kenny chuckled. “I’ll see you around, Tweek,” he said, and winked, before making a strategic disappearance.

Craig scowled after him. “You most certainly will not.” She turned to Tweek. “Stay away from him. He’s nothing but trouble.”

“You don’t get to decide who I do and don’t converse with,” sniffed Tweek. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Craig put her hands on her hips. “Actually, I am now.”

“Not yet. I’ve not signed any contract.”

“It’s not too late to back out now.”

“Oh, you’d just love that, wouldn’t you?”

Kyle supposed Stan would expect him to take preventative action in halting the argument they were gearing up towards. But he was too distracted by the apparent confirmation of his ‘small, round and blonde’ hypothesis, in regard to Kenny’s suspiciously specific type. He was aware that that three points of data was not a very sound sample size, and that Butters could provide him with all the relevant information if he asked, but something told him that would be a bad idea.

Tweek spent the rest of the haircutting process bickering with Craig, until Bebe told both of them to be quiet, because it was making Tweek fidget more.

“There!” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “All finished.”

Tweek raised her hand to the back of her neck. “It’s so… short.”

“That was the goal.” Bebe took a little round mirror out of the pocket of her apron. “Want to take a look.

Tweek did so, hesitantly. Without the length to weigh it down, her hair had taken on much more volume, sticking up in fluffy little tufts. “How bizarre,” she muttered to herself.

Craig was staring at her with her mouth hanging open slightly, and Kyle suspected that bizarre was not the word she was thinking of right now.

“You’ll get used to it,” said Bebe. “Oh, I’ll have to find you some trousers, too.”

Tweek blanched. “Trousers?” she gasped, grabbing at her skirt as if it might be torn from its bodice at any moment.

“You’re not exactly ladylike, Tweek,” said Craig, regaining her composure. “I think you can handle it.”

“Maybe later,” said Tweek, getting to her feet and picking up her belongings. “I want to get this whole map ordeal out of the way first.” She began to follow Craig across the deck, turning to glare at Kyle when he trotted along behind them.

“I’m meant to be keeping an eye on you two, remember?” he said. “Captain’s orders.”

Tweek wrinkled her nose. “Just try not to get in our way.”

Craig opened the door to the room next to Stan’s but blocked the entrance before either of them could enter. “You can’t bring Hat in here,” said Craig, putting a protective hand over Stripe. “You’ll have to leave his cage outside.”

“But he wants to be free!” whined Tweek.

“He should be grateful we’ve not tossed him into the ocean yet.”

“Craig!” she gasped.

“Can’t we find someone to keep an eye on him?” asked Kyle.

Craig snapped her fingers at a passing pirate in a very Stannish way. “You. Bradley. Deal with him.”

“Deal with him how?” asked Bradley.

“I don’t care,” said Craig. “Give him the grand tour if you want to. Just make sure no harm comes to him.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Bradley, visibly perplexed.

Kyle had never been inside this room before. It turned out to be a navigation centre of sorts, though really it felt more like a navigation broom closet, given how cramped it was, the dark wood walls packed tighter together than the ones in the office next door. Most of the space was occupied by a table, where a few maps were already spread out. There were also a number of strange looking instruments that Kyle was unfamiliar with, which he assumed were to do with charting courses.

The subsequent overview of Tweek’s trade route maps went about as well as he had expected, which was not well at all. Tweek’s job was to explain who each scroll belonged to, and what goods they typically traded in, along with their relative financial success. The whole thing took twice as long as it should have, because the pair were constantly discovering new things to bicker over, and Kyle had to regularly interject to try to get them back on track. It was hard enough that he’d never been as adept at business as his father had expected him to be, but it was worsened by the fact that he was forced to side with Tweek every time, her warning glares more than enough to remind him that he was under her power. This bias did not go unnoticed, and by the time Tweek and finished her explanation, Craig was about ready to boil over.

“Kyle,” she said through gritted teeth, as he stood to make a much desired escape, “can I have a word?”

“Of course.” Inwardly groaning, he took his seat once more.

“A word alone.”

Tweek, who was lingering at the doorway, huffed. “Fine,” she snapped, “I’ll entertain myself.”

Kyle shifted nervously in his chair as she left. “What do you want?”

“Just a second.” Craig rose and walked to the now firmly shut door. She balled up her fist and banged loudly on the wood. There was a cry of surprise from the other side. “I know you’re trying to eavesdrop, Tweek! Bugger off.”

There was grumbling, and then the sound of footsteps traipsing away.

“Now, where was I?” Craig sat down. “Ah, yes. What the hell is going on between you two?”

“Nothing!” Kyle shrunk under her accusations. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” scoffed Craig. “You cowered every time she so much as glanced in your direction.”

“I don’t cower,” he said haughtily. “It’s not something I make a habit of doing, and if it was, I certainly wouldn’t do it for her.”

“I know what I saw,” said Craig. “And it wasn’t just that. You took her side even when she was being blatantly unreasonable.”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“When she said that all of cartography and mapmaking was idiotic, you agreed with her.”

“Nothing is above criticism,” mumbled Kyle.

Craig gave an exasperated sigh. “She’s got blackmail on you already, hasn’t she?”

“I—No!”

“God damn it, I knew it was a bad idea to let someone like her on board! Her determination to dig up everyone’s dirty little secrets turn everyone against each other.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” said Kyle firmly. “Dirty or otherwise.”

“Drop the act, Kyle. I already know it.”

Kyle’s breath caught in his throat. “You—You do?”

“You’re in love with Stan.”

His initial relief upon hearing that she was not aware of his real identity was immediately suffocated by a wave of panic. “Sorry, I’m what?”

“Did you really think all that flirting would go unnoticed?”

“It’s—We don’t flirt! He’s just—He’s foolish, and I tell him so. That’s all it is.” Kyle knew that the red in his cheeks was not doing anything to help his case.

“Right,” said Craig, unconvinced. “And the fact that you literally forgot how to speak when he so much as touched your shoulder is inconsequential.”

“I was caught off guard!”

“You say that like everyone becomes mute whenever we make unexpected contact with another human being.” She shook her head. “There’s no point trying to deny this, Kyle.”

He was going to keep insisting that she’d got it all wrong, and that he wasn’t in love with Stan, because he would never be so foolish to take a risk like that. But then he paused to consider the possibility that this misunderstanding might actually be the more favourable outcome. If she went on thinking that this was all he was trying to hide, then she wouldn’t consider that he was hiding a different truth. And there was nothing technically rule breaking about unrequited attraction. So, he swallowed his pride, and accepted his fate.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Maybe I do think he’s a little bit, um…” He faltered, unable to even think about finishing that.

Craig was looking at him with pity, almost empathy, which made it all so much worse. “I think it’s very cruel of her to hold that over you.”

“I’m not particularly enjoying it myself.” He gulped as another thought struck him. “Stan doesn’t think that I’m—” The muscles in his stomach tightened as he forced himself to say it “—in love with him, does he?”

Craig rolled her eyes. “You know Stan. He just assumes everyone is in love with him,” she said, but amended her statement when she saw his look of sheer horror. “But I’m sure he doesn’t suspect you specifically.”

That was little comfort. Kyle added that to the long list of things to worry about and resolved to go out of his way to show Stan that he wasn’t in love with him in the slightest.

“Look, I’ll talk to Tweek,” said Craig, “get her to leave you alone.”

“No!” said Kyle quickly. “Um, it’s just embarrassing. I don’t want her to know that you know.”

Craig raised her eyebrows. “Alright, but I’ll warn her that blackmail isn’t how we do things around here. I’m sure at least half of them have harmless crushes, and if she has her way, there will be chaos.” She stood, gathering the maps together. “Well, I’ve got to go report back to Stan.” Kyle’s eyes went wide, and she snorted. “I meant the maps, Kyle. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks,” he said, feeling neither thankful nor safe. At least now would be a perfect time to examine Nichole. What he really wanted to do was run as fast as he could away from here and scream and shout until his voice went raw. Instead, he went to go find Butters.

*

In the time since they had last seen Tweek, Kyle had given up trying to avoid going into South Port. He’d taken a few early morning trips to the flea market, with Butters and Kenny and those who were free to help in transporting furniture. Sickbay was now kitted out with two cabinets and a bookshelf, meaning Kyle at last had a proper place to store his supplies. The new additions meant there was not much room for anything else, but with some rearranging they were able to squeeze a small, beat-up desk and chair in the corner. As there was only one chair, and the examination bed was not a particularly pleasant seat, Butters had taken to reading in the hammock. Kyle wouldn’t have minded if he didn’t make it look so easy, scrambling up with a book tucked under his arm like it was nothing at all. Butters had also bought a postcard to tack on the wall.

“We’ll get one for every city we go to!” said Butters. “It’ll make the room feel less intimidating.”

“Is it particularly intimidating?” Kyle had never thought so.

“It’s, um, less intimidating, now you’ve got a place to hide your many knives.”

“They’re surgical knives, Butters, not instruments for torture!”

“I know that,” said Butters. “But you have to admit it’s not exactly a reassuring sight. I just think some pictures will brighten up the place.”

Secretly, Kyle did not like the postcard. Butters had hung it above the desk, so that whenever Kyle sat there it was right in his face: an illustration of the dock with the calligraphic words Greetings from South Port! As a result he always kept his head down as he worked but could not escape the feeling of it looming over him.

Nichole seemed a little nervous as Butters ushered her inside. Perhaps the place is intimidating, thought Kyle as he shut the door, watching her eyes dart about like a caged animal. Perhaps more postcards would be the right call.

“Just take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

Nichole perched awkwardly on the end. “I really am fine,” she said, a phrase which she had repeated several times already.

“Recurring periods of nausea does not constitute ‘fine,’” said Kyle. “How long has this been going on for?”

Nichole rubbed the back of her neck. “Two weeks.”

“And have you noticed any other changes since then?”

“Um, I guess I’m kind of tired.”

“Anything else?”

She stared at her feet, dangling a few inches above the floor. “No.”

“Alright,” said Kyle. “I’m just going to perform a few routine tests.” He was used to standard examination procedures by now, having performed the routine on at least half the crew. He began with monitoring her pulse. It was a little faster than normal, but he attributed that to general anxiety. He checked the inside of her mouth, her nose, her ears. Nothing out of the ordinary. Her eyes appeared unaffected too, aside from the purplish bags of exhaustion which encircled the lower half. Her joints functioned without issue, and her reflexes were sound. “Would you say you bruise easily?” asked Kyle, as he inspected her skin.

“I don’t think so.”

He found no other signs of scurvy either, and so struck that from his mental list, along with a dozen other ailments. So far there was nothing to explain her mysterious illness. “I’d like to palpate your abdomen, if that’s alright.”

She looked at him blankly. “What?”

“He means check your belly,” said Butters, who was observing from the hammock.

“Oh,” she said, hesitantly raising the hem of her shirt.

Kyle pressed gently down on the curve of her stomach and she winced. He raised his eyebrows. “Is it sore?”

“No.”

“You winced.”

“I just wasn’t expecting you to push.”

Kyle moved his hand to her left side and pressed again, feeling the muscles tense as she sucked in air sharply through her teeth. “You knew what I was going to do that time,” he said. “That wasn’t a surprise.” She averted her gaze, and he sighed. “I need you not to lie to me, Nichole. I’m here to help you, not to hurt you.”

She tugged on the sleeve of her shirt anxiously. “It’s not sore,” she said. “Just sort of… tender.”

“Would you say the sensitivity is concentrated in any particular area?” he asked. “Say, here?” He motioned to her lower right hand side. She shook her head. “That’s a no for appendicitis,” he said as she tucked her shirt back into her trousers again. “Are you experiencing tenderness in any other areas?”

“My breasts,” she said, after a moment.

“And nowhere else?”

A head shake.

“No other symptoms?”

Another.

“Interesting,” said Kyle. He took a book from his shelf and flicked through, but none of the diseases fit the bill. “I’ll take some time to look into it, see what I can find,” he said. “Let me find you some ginger to treat the nausea in the meantime.”

 Nichole stood, clearly antsy to escape. Her hand hovered over the doorknob with her back to the room as she waited for Kyle to finish routing around in a cupboard.

“Nichole,” said Butters quietly. “When was the last time you bled?”

Kyle knocked his head hard on the inside of the cupboard in his haste to stand. “God, I can’t believe I forgot to ask about menstruation! Yes, when? Is your cycle regular?”

Nichole did not reply, and though her face was not visible, the hands clenched into fists by her side were.

“Nichole,” said Butters slowly. “Answer the question.”

She seemed to shrink in on herself as she mumbled her response.

“Did you say two and a half months?” said Kyle in disbelief, exchanging glances with Butters. “When was the last time you had intercourse?”

“Kyle!” exclaimed Butters. “You can’t ask a lady that.”

“I can, and I will,” said Kyle authoritatively. “Listen to me, Nichole, this is very important. Do you think there’s any possibility that you might be—” He stopped when she turned, tears streaking down her face.

“Please don’t tell the Captain,” she said, in a voice so small and so fragile that it was hard to believe it was coming from her. “He’ll throw me off the ship, I’ll be on the streets again, I—Oh, God!” Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Butters jumped down from the hammock to comfort her. “Oh, Nichole! Here, sit down, you’re trembling.” He put his hand on her shoulder and led her to the desk chair.

Kyle remained rooted to the spot, too consumed by his own mounting panic to deal with hers. “Do you know who the father is? Is he amongst the crew?” he asked. The words felt all wrong. Nichole was so young, scarcely as old as he. “Is it Kenny, or Token, or—or Stan?”

“That’s not important right now,” hissed Butters with a meaningful look, as Nichole cried harder.

“It is absolutely important!” said Kyle. “Butters, if it is, she could be marooned. We could all be marooned if we keep this from the Captain!”

“He’s not here,” choked out Nichole. “The father—That’s not the problem. Pregnant women can’t serve aboard pirate ships, Kyle. Do you think the Captain will just let me hide below deck when we go into battle? He’ll have no choice but to leave me behind.” She screwed her eyes shut. “You can’t tell him,” she whispered, over and over again, like a mantra. “You can’t tell him. You can’t, you can’t!”

“I don’t see what other option we have.”

“Kyle!” said Butters.

“No, Butters, be rational about this. That thing is a ticking clock—”

“Don’t call it a thing!”

“Thing, baby, whatever. It’s only a matter of time before the bump becomes visible. How do you propose to explain it to him then?”

“I don’t know,” said Nichole, scrubbing her broad nose with her sleeve. “I thought maybe I’d just wear loose clothing, or something.”

“And when you go into labour? What then?”

“I don’t know!” she cried. “I don’t have all the answers, Kyle, God. And now you’re gonna go report back to him, and I’ll be kicked out. This is exactly why I didn’t want you to know.”

“We’ll figure something out,” said Butters, rubbing her back. “We’re not going to just throw you to the wolves.” Nichole just let out another sob. Butters looked at Kyle, and mouthed, “Say something!”

“I don’t know what to say,” Kyle mouthed back.

“Something reassuring.”

“Um,” said Kyle out loud, feeling incredibly out of his depth. “Don’t—Don’t cry? It will be alright?”

“No it won’t!” she said, crying harder.

Kyle looked to Butters in dismay, and he motioned for him to continue. “It will be okay, because, um…” Kyle fumbled for a solution that didn’t wind up with any of them dead or destitute. He saw Butters was mouthing something else at him and squinted. “Fa… Father? Oh!” He snapped his fingers. “We can find the father. He’ll take care of you.”

“He’s not in South Port,” said Nichole. “He’s all the way up in Cape Cod.”

“So we can go to Cape Cod,” said Kyle. “How far away is that?”

“Too far to walk to!”

“It’s a peninsula up in Massachusetts,” said Butters. “We can sail you up there, it’s a harbourside city.”

“But how are we going to convince the Captain to take us there?”

“Just tell him the truth,” said Kyle.

Her eyes went wide. “No!” she said. “No, you can’t, you can’t.”

“Come on, Nichole,” said Butters. “We’ve known him for years. Do you really think he’s gonna leave you for dead after all that? You haven’t broken any rules.”

“He might,” she sniffled. “It’s too risky.”

“It’s less risky than lying to him,” said Kyle.

Nichole was quiet for a moment, hiding her face in her hands. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

“I know,” said Butters. “It’s alright, I understand. You don’t have to tell him right this very moment.”

“The sooner the better, I think,” said Kyle, and received another disapproving glare from Butters.

“Maybe do it tomorrow,” he said. “Give yourself some time to calm down first, yeah?”

She stood unsteadily. “All right.”

“And remember that Stan is your friend. He’d do anything to protect you. Just like he’d do for all of us.”

Nichole just nodded mutely.

Kyle and Butters walked Nichole back to her shared cabin.

“You could do with some improvement of your bedside manner,” Butters whispered to him as they walked down the hall.

“That’s what I’ve got you around for,” said Kyle. “Emotional support.”

The room was not empty. Craig was inside, apparently having finished her meeting with Stan. She was sitting on the floor, tending to her parrot, but her head snapped up when they entered. She saw Nichole’s tearstained face and immediately clocked what had happened. “Woah, hey,” she got to her feet. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Come here.” She held out her arms and, to Kyle’s surprise, Nichole ran to her, and buried her face in Craig’s chest. Craig wrapped her arms around her and rocked her gently, in an almost maternalistic way.

“Is it alright if we leave her here with you?” asked Kyle.

The look Craig gave him was unlike any expression of hers that he’d ever seen. He’d expected some combination of contempt and hostility, but instead she just looked… afraid. Scared and betrayed. “I warned you,” she said, voice hoarse. “But you wouldn’t hear it. You just barged right ahead because you think you know everything. You don’t, Kyle.” She shook her head slowly. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Chapter Text

Butters was over the moon when he learnt that they had at last acquired a ship’s cat. Hat spent most of the day hiding under various bits of furniture, so the two did not cross paths until the following evening, up on deck after dinner.

“There he is,” said Kyle. He pointed to Hat, who was sharpening his claws on a nearby piece of rigging.

“He’s adorable!” gasped Butters.

“He’s a menace, that’s what he is,” said Kyle. “There’s already been an incident of Hat swiping at a crewmate. It’s only a matter of time before someone gets sent down to sickbay covered in scratches.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you?” crooned Butters as he drew closer to Hat.

“He’s not exactly cuddly,” warned Kyle. “You might want to give him some space.”

Butters crouched down just a few feet away from Hat. Aware he had an audience, Hat turned, golden eyes fixed on Butters, as if sizing him up. Butters held his hand out to be sniffed. “Hello,” he said gently. “Aren’t you pretty?”

Kyle expected the hand to be clawed clean off, but to his surprise, Hat stretched his neck out and nosed at Butters’ knuckles. He giggled, and Hat jumped backwards at the sudden sound, turning in circles with his tail raised.

“It’s okay,” said Butters, sitting down with his legs crossed. “I’m not going to hurt you. See?” He held out his hand again. Hat approached once more, a little bolder, and after a moment’s hesitation, rubbed his head against Butters’ palm. “Oh!” said Butters. “Would you like me to pet you?”

Kyle watched on in disbelief as Hat proceeded to wind around Butters, leaning into his touch. A deep, rumbling purr began to emanate from his chest. “How did you do that?” asked Kyle.

Butters rubbed his nose on his wrist and grinned. “You’d be skittish too if a great big, gigantic beast came lumbering towards you. Sitting on the floor puts you on equal footing.”

“Huh,” said Kyle. Cautiously, he sat too, but Hat paid him no mind, preoccupied by the head scratch Butters was giving him. “Butters,” said Kyle, as he watched him coo at the cat, “I want to talk to you about yesterday.”

“About Nichole?” Butters asked quietly.

“No, before that.” Kyle tried to think of the most tactful way to phrase his question. “Are you avoiding Kenny?”

“What makes you think that?” Butters did not look up.

“Recently you always seem to have an excuse to disappear whenever he’s around.”

“They’re not excuses,” said Butters. “I just have things to do.”

“That’s not an answer,” Kyle said. “Are you avoiding him, yes, or no?”

“Um,” Butters pulled his sleeve over his hand to scrub at his nose. “Maybe a little bit.”

“Did you have an argument?”

“No! We’ve never fought.”

“Is that because you never tell him when he has upset you?”

Butters tipped his head back. “Kyle,” he said, in an exasperated tone which suggested an oncoming rant, but then he stopped himself, and sighed. He closed his eye, and when he opened it again, Kyle noticed that it was watery, and a little red.

“I’m sorry!” said Kyle quickly. “That was terribly rude of me. I shouldn’t have said anything.” This would be the second person within twenty-four hours that he had made cry. He was not proud of himself.

“No,” sniffed Butters. “It’s not that. It’s, ah… One second—” He twisted away and, with a sharp hitch of his breath, stifled several sneezes into the crook of his elbow.

“Oh, bless you.” Kyle’s forehead creased as Butters’ sneezing continued, increasing in desperation. “Are you feeling alright?”

Butters raised his head, blinking, breathless. “Sorry about that! I’m alright now,” he said. “No, wait—” He sneezed twice more. “Okay, now I’m done.”

“Butters,” Kyle narrowed his eyes. “Are you allergic to cats?”

“What makes you think that?” Butters said innocently.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Just a hunch.”

“Well, okay,” mumbled Butters. “Maybe I am an itsy-bitsy teeny-tiny little bit allergic.”

“Then why is one sitting in your lap?” exclaimed Kyle.

Butters smiled groggily down at Hat, who had curled up on his legs, looking up at Butters with curiosity. “Because he’s just so endearing! How could I resist?”

“Only you would think so,” Kyle tutted. “If I had known about this, I would have never let Tweek bring him aboard.”

“No need for drastic measures,” sniffled Butters. “I only have a reaction if I get up close and personal.”

“And just what do you call this?”

“A… formal introduction.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Get up,” he said. “Now.”

Butters looked mournfully down at Hat. “But he’s only just settled down! I don’t want to waste the opportunity. He might never sit on my lap again.”

“I should hope he doesn’t!”

Butters huffed, and very gently inched Hat off his lap before he stood. Hat glared up at him, and stalked off. “No!” whined Butters, reaching a hand out. “Don’t go, I love you!” Hat did not spare him a second glance. “Aw, now he hates me.”

“Don’t be so silly,” said Kyle, but Butters looked so forlorn that he couldn’t be too harsh. “You can appreciate each other from afar. It’s better that way.”

“I know,” sighed Butters. He sneezed again and grimaced at his cat fur covered clothes. “I’m going to go get changed into something less hairy now.”

Kyle walked with him to the stairwell. He figured he might as well take another shot at his question, seeing as last time they were interrupted. “Why is it that you’re avoiding Kenny?”

Butters wrinkled his brow and his nose – though the latter may have been to combat a tickle, as opposed to out of thought. “You know how sometimes someone can be just so wonderful that being around them is almost unbearable?”

“Um,” said Kyle, “I don’t believe I do.”

“Lucky you.”

Butters plodded down the stairs, still sniffling to himself, and Kyle was about to follow and ask for a further explanation, but then he saw Craig and Nichole heading for the Captain’s cabin and realised a more urgent matter was at hand.

“Do you have an internal compass that points at where you’re not wanted at all times?” huffed Craig as he approached.

“I gave the diagnosis,” he said. “I think I should be here.”

“I know you shouldn’t,” she said. “I guarantee that your presence will only make things worse.”

“I still don’t see what I did wrong.”

“Can we just get this over and done with?” asked Nichole. She ignored his question, as both she and Craig had each time he’d asked.

Craig scowled at Kyle. “I suppose there’s no use in trying to warn you off from this meeting?”

“None at all.”

“I thought as much,” she grumbled, then knocked.

“Enter,” came Stan’s voice, and the three of them filed in. “Three of you?” he said. “And what grave faces you have. Nobody’s died, have they?” He chuckled, but petered off when no one else joined in.

Nichole took a seat in the chair opposite to Stan’s, leaving Kyle and Craig no option but to stand. To Kyle’s surprise, Craig went round and stood on the Captain’s side of the desk. She was giving Stan a look not unlike the one she had given Kyle yesterday, when they had discussed his apparent infatuation.

“What’s the bad news?” asked Stan. “I’m assuming it’s bad.”

Nichole was kneading her hands into her thighs anxiously. “It’s bad,” she said, a little too quietly.

“Well, out with it.”

She looked up at him with big, brown eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Oh, wow.”

“Oh, indeed.” She gave him a tight smile.

“And you’re sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“You’re not just late?”

“There are other symptoms,” interjected Kyle. “Nausea, tenderness.”

“You knew about this?”

“Only since yesterday. Nichole needed time to… calm herself before she told you.” He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable reprimand, but Stan only nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I appreciate you telling me now.”

Kyle thought that Nichole and Craig might be at least in some part relieved, now that their main concern had been quelled, but neither of them looked any more relaxed.

“I presume the father is not amongst the crew,” said Stan.

“He’s not,” said Nichole, and she sounded strangely reluctant to admit this. “He’s up in Cape Cod. I know that I shan’t be able to serve aboard anymore, but I was hoping that you could provide me safe passage back up there.”

Stan scratched his head. “Who do you know in Cape Cod?”

“The father.” Her voice wavered a little at the end.

“But who is the father?”

Nichole said nothing, just stared into her lap.

“Nichole,” said Stan. “Answer me.”

“Nobody,” she said quickly. “He’s nobody.”

“He has to be somebody.”

“He’s not.”

“Well, who is the nobody, then?”

Nichole sucked on her lip, expression bordering on terrified.

“Who is your lover?” Stan stood sharply, slamming both hands on the desk. “You will answer me!”

“Christophe!” she squeaked.

Kyle gawked at Nichole. He looked to Stan, who was staring at Nichole like she was a stranger.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t want you to find out this way. I was going—I wanted to tell you. Only I didn’t know how, and I thought you might—”

“Get out.” Stan’s voice was unnervingly quiet.

“What?”

“Get out.” He spoke louder this time, raw at the edges.

“But—”

“Get out!” He swept his arms violently across the desk, sending papers and quills and bottles of ink flying. “Get the hell out!”

Craig put a hand on his shoulder. “Stan,” she began, but he wrenched out her grasp.

“And you! All of you, out of my sight!” There was something erratic about his movements. He was like a cornered animal, eyes wide and wild. “I never want to see any of you again!”

Craig bit her lip. She took Kyle by one arm and Nichole by the other and led them outside. The door slammed shut behind them. Kyle looked between the two of them, struck mute by shock.

“Well, there’s your answer,” said Craig. “That’s what you’ve done.”

“Oh my God,” whispered Kyle, covering his face. “Oh, Jesus. Did I just lose my job? Did we all just lose our jobs?”

“It’s too early to say.”

“Too early?” shrieked Kyle. “How are we supposed to work here without ever being seen by him? I think the implications were fairly God damn clear!” He dragged his hands through his hair so hard it hurt and began to pace the deck.

“We’ll just have to wait and see how long this mood lasts.”

“And what if it lasts forever?”

Craig shrugged.

“He is unbelievable,” spat Nichole. She put her hands on her hips, upset giving way to anger. “I can’t believe he has the audacity to act like that!”

“Can’t you?” said Craig. “Did that not go exactly as I said it would?”

“How are you so calm?” asked Kyle. “You should be the most afraid out of all of us! What other ship is there for women to work on?”

“Do you really think I haven’t thought about that?” she snapped. “I thought about all of this. Christ almighty, Kyle, you really are—” she gave up words for a frustrated growl. “I had a plan! Get the maps from Tweek, find a trade route that runs nearby to Cape Cod, recommend it to Stan in a way that would make him think it was his idea all along. We’d sail on up there, Nichole would bid her sweet goodbyes, and no one would get hurt. He wouldn’t be like—this!” She gestured back at the office. “But then you showed up. The one person that could get in my way: a doctor. And you did! At every single turn, you were there to foil things for me. Well, congratulations!” She threw her hands up. “You’ve ruined everything.”

“I was just doing my job!” he said desperately.

“A fine job indeed,” she muttered, and left without another word.

*

Kyle could not sleep that night. It was the sort of insomnia that made reality blur at the edges, indistinguishable from delusions. The darkness, twisting into leering faces. The ship, giving a sickening lurch every time his eyes began to slide shut. The sound of a bird chirping.

Kyle sat up. There were no birds at the South Port docks--at least, none that sounded like that. He strained his ears, and realised it was not birdsong, but a mimicry on a flute. It seemed to be coming from somewhere nearby. Eager for an excuse to distract himself from the guilt that plagued him, he slipped out of the hammock.

He was not sure what time it was. Later than their ten o’clock curfew, that was certain. However, he recalled that the code itself never explicitly stated that he had to be in bed at that hour. All it referred to was the blowing out of lamps and candles. It was a feeble excuse, of that he was aware, but one which he would cling to if he were discovered. And besides, Stan hated him already anyway. He did not have much further left to fall.

As softly as he could, he crept out of sickbay. The ship was a naturally noisy thing, and Kyle took care to step only on the edges of each stair, making sure none of them creaked. As he climbed the stairs, he began to realise that the flute was closer than he had at first thought. It was coming from right on deck.

Concealed by shadows, he positioned him just close enough to see what was going on. On the bow of the ship stood the silhouette of Craig, looking out to sea. Music lilted from her pan flute, carried by the soft night air. She raised her head, as if sensing she was being watched. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Kyle cursed himself for being discovered so easily. He was about to say something when another figure stepped out of the shadows.

“Of course I did.” It was Tweek. “I know the dead of night is the only opportunity for privacy around here.”

Kyle knew he shouldn’t be eavesdropping right now. It was wrong, and morally reprehensible, but then he heard Craig say, “It’s about Kyle,” and he knew he would be going absolutely nowhere.

“Is that all?” Tweek sounded disappointed. “I thought it might be… more.”

“Actually, it’s not just about him,” said Craig sharply, “It’s about everyone on board.” Clearly her bad mood had stuck around. “Tweek, you can’t go start collecting blackmail on these people.”

“Why not?” said Tweek defensively.

“Because that’s not how things work around here!”

“It seems to be working so far.” Tweek crossed her arms.

“It’s not. All you’re setting yourself up for is becoming everyone’s enemy.”

Tweek’s head jerked forward, shoulders upwards. “I’m just protecting myself,” she said. “It’s what any sane person would do when rooming with a hoard of pirates.”

“You’re not just rooming with us. You’re one of us.”

“I doubt anyone apart from you feels that way.”

“Of course they do! You’re a crew member now. A part of the family.”

“Family?” Tweek scoffed. “What does that make me, then? A stray that they collectively took pity on?”

“We’re all strays here.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“All I’m trying to say is that they’re already on your side,” huffed Craig. “Or at least they were, before you started meddling.”

“But none of them will dare do anything to me once I’ve got dirt on everyone. They’ll know not to put a toe out of line,” snapped Tweek. “Things aren’t so different on here as you say they are.”

“Aren’t they?”

“Well, they certainly won’t be able to ignore my threats!”

“It’s not about whether they’ll ignore it that you should be worried about,” said Craig. “It’s whether they’ll do something about it.”

Tweek made a small, strangled noise in the back of her throat. “They—They wouldn’t dare!”

“They might,” Craig said. “We’re pretty daring around here.”

“They’d know better.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“But—”

“There’s one gaping flaw in your grand plan, Tweek,” she said.

“And what’s that?”

“Not everyone is as willing to stab their friends in the back as you are.”

“Those who aren’t are fools,” said Tweek. Her nervous ticks appeared to be growing more frequent. “How are they supposed to defend against those who are?”

“We’re all loyal to each other here.”

“Huh,” she said. “Is that why Nichole slept with Stan’s ex-boyfriend?”

“Oh, for—” Craig stopped herself before her voice rose too loud. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You have to stop doing this! If something goes unspoken here, there’s a very good reason why. Threatening to be the one to say it is only putting yourself in danger.”

Tweek’s breathes were rapid, short, and shallow. “What? No. How? I don’t believe you.”

“We’re used to fighting for each other’s lives around here. You keep this up and you’ll make yourself everyone’s enemies,” said Craig. “You know what we do to enemies, don’t you?”

“Of course I know!” said Tweek in between pants. “Flogging, dunking, keelhauling, marooning, ear severing, tongue slicing, worse, worse, worse! But you don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly—”

“No, you don’t!” Her pace picked up as she spoke, until all the words were jumbled into one incoherent mumbling mess. “I need this, I need to do this. If I don’t, then I’m not safe! Don’t you see?” She was tugging violently on her short hair, jolting her head to the side with every pull. “No, you don’t, of course you don’t! You think you do, but you don’t. I have to be safe, I have to, I have to, and if I don’t do this, then I’m not! It’s the only way, the only way, the only way, the only way—” She buckled at the knees, spluttering and gasping, hands clawing at her throat.

“Tweek!” Craig fell down beside her, grabbing her wrists to stop her nails from digging into her flesh. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I can’t breathe!” she gasped. “I’m dying, oh God, I’m dying!”

“You’re not dying,” said Craig gently. “You’re just having one of your hysterical fits.”

“You can die from that!” said Tweek. “I think! I think you can!”

“You’re not going to, I promise. I—” Craig pitched backwards, narrowly avoiding a headbutt from Tweek.

“Sorry!” she squealed. “Jesus, sorry, I didn’t mean to!”

“It’s okay,” said Craig. “You, um, probably need space. If I let go of your hands, will you hurt yourself again?”

“No,” said Tweek, and Craig let go, shuffling back a few feet.

“You’re not dying,” she said again, though she sounded a little unsure herself. “You just need to calm down.”

“How can I be calm?” hiccupped Tweek. “Everyone here wants to kill me!”

“No, they don’t.”

“You said they did!”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Don’t debate semantics with me!”

“Jesus.” Craig covered her face with her hands. “I went about this all wrong. I’m sorry. I should have—I didn’t think I could make this happen!”

“What, did you think I had been semi-cured, but only specifically when it came to you?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor! I thought, because you trust me, I thought—” Craig was beginning to sound a little hysterical herself. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Shut up!” panted Tweek. “Just shut up!” She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, making a low moaning noise. Craig tucked her knees up to her chest, watching from a distance like a frightened child.

Kyle wished he could help, but that would mean revealing his presence, which would undoubtedly make things worse for Tweek. And so he stood, petrified, watching from the shadows as Tweek rode out her hysteria. Gradually, her breathing began to slow.

“Are you okay now?” whispered Craig, after a while.

“Death feels… less imminent,” mumbled Tweek, “if that counts as okay.” She got shakily to her feet again and Craig joined her, still keeping some space between them, as if getting too close might make things worse again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have been more careful. Less harsh.”

“I think you’re right, though,” said Tweek. “Trying to blackmail pirates is a bad idea. I just don’t know how to protect myself otherwise. They can probably fight better than me.”

“But you don’t need to protect yourself from us,” said Craig. “Our loyalty extends to you too, now. Every single one of us would die fighting for you.”

Tweek let out a long sigh. “You understand that I just can’t believe that, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Craig. “I’m not expecting an overnight transformation from you. But I hope you at least know that I would.” Craig rubbed the back of her neck. “I would die a thousand deaths for you.”

Tweek closed the distance between them. She took Craig’s face in her hands, still trembling a little. “Please don’t,” she whispered.

And then they kissed, and though Kyle had known it was coming, he still didn’t look away in time to miss it. I have to go, he thought wildly. I can’t know this. I can’t know that they’re doing this.

 He was at the top of the stairwell when he heard it: the crying. No longer was it a distant, hazy sound. It was raw, and It was real, and it was coming from the Captain’s cabin. Short, stifled sobs.

Kyle gazed down the stairs into the bottomless black, willing himself to descend. All he had to do was make it back to sickbay, and no one would ever know he had seen what he saw. He studied the darkness, and the darkness studied him, but Kyle already knew that he would not be going back just yet.

As softly as he could, he knocked on the door of Stan’s office. The crying ceased, and after a moment it appeared as if Stan was simply pretending that he had not heard the knock, or else that there was no one there at all. And so Kyle twisted the doorknob, and the door gave way to reveal the wreckage.

The room was in devastation. The maps on the walls had been torn off, corners hanging by a thread whilst their other halves lay crumpled on the ground. The old oak desk in the centre of the room had been robbed of its trophies. Seashells and sea glass, quatres of coins and pieces of eight, gold chains with broken links; all were littered across the floor like fallen soldiers. Books and papers had been flung across the room as well, though a lone ink bottle remained. Blue droplets seeped slowly from a crack in the seal, like royal blood from a weeping wound. And underneath the hammock in the corner sat a boy in shambles, his head buried between his knees. His shoulders shook with the sobs he fought to contain.

Kyle had once thought of the room as a jolly mess, but there was no joy left to bring life to the chaos now. Only stifling morbidity remained.

He wordlessly shut the door behind himself. He began to cross the floor, but narrowly avoided crushing the ship in a bottle as he did so. He bent and picked it up, before setting it carefully back on the desk with its neck pointing skywards, so that it would not roll off again. It looked as if the ship were sailing towards the heavens, struggling against gravity.

Kyle gazed down at Stan, who was sitting at his feet. He waited silently until Stan lifted his face upwards. His cheeks were red, and his eyes were puffy, but it was not his appearance that made him seem so different, so much smaller. Kyle extended his hand, with the intent to help him up, but Stan quietly took it and yanked him downwards instead. Caught off guard and off balance, Kyle was easily bought to his knees. He bit back any complaints that he would have normally made and positioned himself with his back pressed against the wall.

 “I didn’t know,” he said. Nothing else seemed right. He didn’t even know what he was referring to. Nichole? Christophe? Stan, here and now?

“I know you didn’t,” said Stan. His voice was husky, hoarse. “You’re not the problem.”

“I don’t necessarily think calling Nichole a problem is—”

“I’m not talking about her.”

“But Christophe—”

“I’m talking about me, Kyle,” he said. “I’m the problem here.”

“You?” Kyle could not conceal his surprise. “Why you?”

“Just look at me. God, I’m so pathetic!”

Kyle gaped at Stan, too undone by shock to put sympathy at the forefront of his mind. “You genuinely think so?”

“I don’t think it, I know it.” Stan put his head in his hands. “Even my own crew don’t respect me. They tiptoe around me like I’m a fragile, volatile little boy. And they’re right. They’re right! That’s all I am.”

“You’re quite a lot more than that.”

“Not in the ways that matter,” he muttered. “Look at what I did today.” He gestured around them, but Kyle got the feeling that he wasn’t just talking about the destruction of his cabin.

“What exactly did you do?”

“I proved them right. I don’t deserve their respect. Not when I throw a tantrum over a boy I haven’t seen for three years. Three years! I should be over it by now. Any sane person would be.”

“That’s not how heartbreaks work,” said Kyle. “You can’t put a deadline on recovery.” His brow furrowed. “Though I’m not completely convinced this is entirely about Christophe.”

Stan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Who is it, then?”

“It’s not a who, exactly. It’s more about what he represents.”

“How do you mean?”

“He comes from a… pretty dark time in your life, Stan. One which you fought long and hard to escape from.”

“But I can’t escape it, can I?” moaned Stan. “No matter how fast I run, it always finds me.” He shook his head, eyes hollow. “I should never have left in the first place. I can’t believe I ever thought this would work out. I’m such a fool.”

“No!” said Kyle, perhaps too sharply. “Don’t ever think that. Every second you spent back there was a second you should not have been forced to endure. You were right to run.” Stan looked a little shaken, and so he softened his voice. “Just think of how many others you’ve helped since you escaped.”

“Helped? I’ve not helped anyone. All I’ve done is find a new group of people to burden.”

“You’re not a burden, you’re a—a saviour.” Never in his life would Kyle have ever thought he would call Stan that. But he just looked so defeated, and it was wrong, all wrong. This was not the Stan he knew. “You offered a safe home for people like us. People who have never felt safe. People who have never had a true home.”

“Some home this has turned out to be,” scoffed Stan.

“It’s the best home any of us have ever known. And you created it, Stan, of course they respect you for that.”

“Then how do you explain how they treated me today?”

“They were worried about hurting you!” said Kyle. “If they didn’t respect you, then they wouldn’t have cared how you felt, but they did. They do. They care for you.” He was not quite at the level where he was able to voice an ‘I’ instead of ‘they.’ He hoped it was implicit.

Stan sighed, like he was tired of fighting to prove his inferiority. He rested his head on Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle stiffened. He had not noticed how close they were sitting until now.

“You’re too kind to me,” said Stan quietly. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Oh, Stan,” said Kyle. “Everyone deserves kindness.”

Stan sniffled. “You looked so afraid when I flew into a rage earlier. So afraid. It was awful, knowing you felt that way because of me.”

Kyle smiled gently. “I could never be afraid of you.”

Stan put his arm around him, and Kyle let himself be pulled into a hug. He tried not to go completely rigid, but he did so anyway.

“If you’re not afraid of me, then why do you freeze when I touch you?” asked Stan.

Kyle swallowed. He hadn’t realised that Stan had noticed the reaction was specific to him. “I don’t know. I just do.”

Stan pulled back to look him in the eye. “I think you do know,” he said, voice dropping lower.

Kyle dropped his eyes down to his hands, which had clenched into fists involuntarily. “I suppose it’s for the same reason that I never cry.”

Stan looked at him blankly, apparently not expecting this answer. “But everyone cries,” he said after a moment.

“Not me,” said Kyle. “I don’t.”

“Now even when you’re all by yourself?”

“Especially not then.”

Stan wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“It’s…” Kyle bit his lip. “It’s safer not to.”

“Safer how?”

“Because I’m afraid that if I start crying, I might never stop.” Saying this out loud felt strange. He let his eyes slide shut. “All your talk of letting go… It just doesn’t work that way for me. If I let the cork pop, then everything will pour out. Every last piece of me. There’ll be nothing left.”

“Oh,” said Stan sadly. Neither said anything for a while. They just sat leant against each other, swayed by the gentle sea, rocking them like a mother soothes her children.

“But if the cork is always stoppered, then how does anything get inside in the first place?” whispered Stan.

“I don’t know, Stan,” sighed Kyle. “How does a ship fit into a bottle? All I know is that it’s in there, and it sure as hell isn’t coming out again.”

Chapter Text

Kyle leant against the wall, waiting for Stan to finish rearranging the broom cupboard, so that there was room to squeeze their play swords back in. That was what he called them – ‘play swords.’ Not practice, not test, not blunted, but play swords. Kyle had thought this was ridiculous at first, but over the past ten days of training, he had come to realise that Stan really did see it as a sort of playtime. One which he was grossly competitive about, and one which he invariably beat Kyle at. It didn’t seem much like a game to Kyle, not since they had moved on from little exercises to real, hardcore fighting styles. He had not felt like such an inadequate performer since he played piano for his father.

“Oh—Damn!” The was a great clattering from inside. Kyle poked his head round and saw empty shelves and a very messy floor, metallic objects that glinted in the afternoon sun.

“Jesus, are those all swords?” said Kyle. “Are you alright?”

“Not a scratch upon me,” said Stan, brushing the dust from his clothes. “But I must say that this room seems to be averse to organisation.”

“I think you’re just inept at tidying,” said Kyle. “Let me do it.” He elbowed Stan out of the way and began sorting through them, arranging them by size and weight. “Can I have one of these?” he asked when he had put them all back on the shelves.

“Depends on what you plan to do with it.”

“Chop your head off whilst you’re not looking.”

“Good luck with that,” said Stan. “I’ve always got an eye on you.” He knelt and scanned the selection. “Here, this one will suit you.” He handed a cutlass to Kyle, who tried it out against an invisible enemy.

“Why did you pick this one?” he asked, slicing at the air.

“You’re used to fighting with sabre. This one’s thinner than rest, but still sturdy enough to hold up in battle,” said Stan. “Plus, it’s slightly less shiny than my cutlass.”

“Are you particularly insecure about your sword?” Kyle grinned and Stan smacked him on the arm.

“You’re dreadful!” He thrust the sheath at Kyle, who attached it to his belt.

Kyle gazed out across the water. “How close are we to Cape Cod now?”

“About two-thirds of the way there.”

“Only that?” he complained. “I thought sailing was supposed to be faster than going by foot.”

“I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you, Kyle, but I don’t control the weather at sea. Would you like me to make a sacrifice to the gods, to persuade them to send the right winds in our direction?”

“Isn’t it normally animals that are sacrificed to the gods?” asked Kyle. “Rams, sheep, that sort of thing? We don’t have any of those.”

“Rams are sheep, dimwit,” said Stan. “And sometimes people were sacrificed instead.” He squinted at Kyle, sizing him up. “You’d make a good sacrifice, I think.”

“I’ve not got a lot of meat on me.”

“You’ve got more since Tweek started cooking,” said Stan.

Kyle had filled out a little, that was true. However, this was less to do with the improvement in food quality, and more to do with the simple fact that life on a pirate ship was draining work. Big bowls of soup was the only thing to hand that could keep up his energy, as sleep so often evaded him.

 “Anyway, it’s not always about the body,” said Stan. “Emotional value comes into play.”

“But that’s subjective,” said Kyle. “Who determines the emotional worth of a person?”

“It’s relative to whoever’s sacrificing them. Do you know the story of Agamemnon’s daughter?”

“If I say no, are you going to make me sit through another one of your grand theatrical performances?”

“I’ll keep it brief.”

“Alright,” said Kyle. “Go ahead, bless me with your knowledge.”

“So, in during the run up to the Trojan War – That’s the one Odysseus was sailing back from, when he met the Cyclops – King Agamemnon kills this super sacred deer of Artemis’s. She throws a hissy fit and stops all the winds, so the ships couldn’t sail to Troy. But—”

“All winds?”

“Yes.”

“How would that even work?”

“I don’t know!” Stan threw his hands up. “Do I look like a Goddess to you?”

Kyle narrowed his eyes. “That feels like a trick question.”

“It’s not,” said Stan, “the correct answer is yes, I do.” He leant against the broom cupboard door. “Anyway, Agamemnon gets told by this seer named Calchas that in order to even things out, he has to sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia. Obviously, he’s not thrilled about it, but he’s forced to agree in the end. And so he lies to his daughter, and says he’s taking her to the port of Aulis, get married to Achilles. Only actually, he’s taking her to, you know.” He drew a sharp line across his neck and made a choking sound.

“Kill her,” said Kyle. “My ears are not so fragile that you can’t say ‘kill her’ in front of me.”

“But it’s much more ominous if you keep it vague,” said Stan. “It leaves more to the imagination.”

“So he kills his daughter, then?” asked Kyle. “Brings back the winds, sails off to war, happy ending for all.”

“Not quite,” said Stan. “See, in the very last moment before the knife is plunged into her heart, Artemis replaces Iphigenia for a deer, which is killed instead.”

“What?”

“It’s Greek mythology, Kyle, don’t bother trying to make sense out of it,” Stan tutted. “You see, the thing is, Calchas is the only witness to the switcheroo, and she keeps her lips buttoned. So everyone thinks Iphigenia really died, when in fact she’s off in Tauris, as a priestess to Artemis. But the winds are still returned, and war is still sailed off to, and happy endings are still distributed.”

Kyle blinked at him. “But I don’t understand—”

“Excellent,” said Stan. “A healthy sense of confusion will do you good. That’s what the myths are all about.”

Kyle was fairly certain that was not what the myths were all about. “So, you’re saying that you’re going to sacrifice me to Artemis so that we can get better sailing weather?”

“No,” said Stan. “I’m just saying that if a god was pissed off at me, they’d probably make me kill you.”

“Oh,” said Kyle. “Is that… supposed to be a compliment?”

“You can take it as one, if you like.” Stan kicked off from the door. “Can you go gather everyone together? I want to hold a meeting before our battle.”

“So we’re striking tonight?” There had been some whispered guesses amongst the crew as to how long they would be stalking their new prey. Sooner rather than later, was the general consensus. They were all itching for a fight.

“I see no need to hold off any longer,” said Stan. “I’m off to get dressed for the occasion.”

*

Stan climbed the stairs to the poop deck wearing his tricorn hat and blood red topcoat, looking as striking as he did the day he and Kyle met. “Afternoon, all.”

There was an immediate and uncharacteristic silence from the crowd.

“Since yesterday’s vote, we’ve studied our lovely new trade maps and pinpointed exactly who our target is. Zephyrus, a slave trade ship.”

Murmurs arose, which Stan allowed.

“It’s on its way up to Boston, after selling its human cargo. That means there’s a lot of money on board.” He leant forward over the railing as his expression darkened. “Money which is not and will never be rightfully theirs. These are nasty folk, so a quick and painless surrender is unlikely.” He righted himself. “However, we have an advantage that we previously lacked,” he said, and gestured to Kyle, sitting in the crowd.

Kyle stared up at him, unsure whether to be flattered or irritated, but then Stan gestured to Butters too, and he settled on the latter.

“They are here to make sure we don’t lose any lives or limbs. Of course, I don’t want anyone to die, but these two are the ones we all want in pristine condition. If you get shot or stabbed or blown to pieces, they’re the ones who’ll be patching you back up again. Now, onto battle tactics. Let’s talk about areas for improvement…”

Kyle listened to very little of the rest of Stan’s speech. He was seething, too busy planning out the fight he was going to pick with Stan to pay attention to much else. He didn’t appreciate being singled out, especially to be treated like some priceless but breakable heirloom, recently inherited. By the time the meeting was over, he had finalised his monologue and had his opening line teetering on the tip of his tongue. He stormed through the crowd towards Stan, who was striding across the deck with his chest out, locked in deep discussion with Craig.

Kyle crossed his arms. “Now look here—”

“Not now, darling,” said Stan with a wave of his hand. “I haven’t the time.”

Kyle wrinkled his nose and was fully prepared to launch into his tirade anyway, but Stan and Craig slipped into his office and the door was slammed behind them. Kyle had half a mind to pound on the door and demand an audience, but the idea of getting dismissed in such a patronising way again gave him the strength to wait on airing his grievances.

“He’s a real pain, right before a battle.”

Kyle turned, and found Nichole by his side.

“Very on edge, all tangled up inside his head. Craig’s the only one he can tolerate talking to, and that’s only because she’s First Mate.”

“Have you spoken to him?” asked Kyle. “Since, you know. Before.”

“Only in quick, curt exchanges,” she said. “He’s not forgiven me, and honestly, I’m not sure he ever will. I’m not even angry about that anymore. It’s just miserable, this whole ordeal.”

“He’ll come around,” said Kyle, squeezing her arm. “He just needs time to recover from the… shock.”

“I don’t exactly have a lot of time, do I?” she said. “We’ll make it to Cape Cod within a week, and I doubt he’ll ever be coming back.” She stared at the ground. “I don’t want things to end this way.”

“I doubt he does either,” said Kyle, regretting his newfound position of emotional go-between. “He’ll pull himself together by then.”

“I hope so.” She gave him a sad smile and shoved her hands in her pockets. “I should get going now. I have an exciting evening of hiding below deck with the cat ahead of me.”

“Have fun with that.”

“I’m sure I won’t.”

*

It was odd, being on the other side of the battle this time, crammed below deck with the rest of the crew, packed in like sardines, up the stairs and down the hallways. By some miracle, Kyle had managed to secure a place right at the front, next to Craig, who currently had her ear pressed against the door.

“That’s the ‘Ahoy there,’” she reported to the rest of them. “We must be close enough to board. Not long now.” She frowned in concentration.

“What’s he saying?” whispered Kyle.

“Hang on,” Craig held up a finger. “It’s too muffled to hear exactly, but—Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Sound of what?” Kyle’s nerves were beginning to climb.

“His tone of voice.”

“What tone is it?”

“Certainly not a friendly one.”

“Does it often go this way?”

“Only when—”

A gunshot.

Time seemed to stop. Nobody moved, nobody blinked, nobody breathed. Nobody except for Kyle, who threw open the door and burst onto the deck. “Stan!” he cried, looking for a lifeless body, a scarlet pool encircling his head like a halo.

Stan was, thankfully, not in such a state. He was standing with his back turned and his head hung. “You bastard,” he spat, and his head snapped upwards. “Bastard! Look what you’ve done!” He gestured at his left leg. “You’ve ruined my bloody culottes!”

Trust Stan to fret over his appearance, even when shot. Kyle dashed to his side. “Are you okay?” he asked, breathless. Closer now, he could see that there was indeed a bullet hole in the cloth, right below Stan’s knee. But, most notably, not a drop of blood to be seen.

“No, I’m not alright!” said Stan. “These were really nice trousers.”

“Oh, you are absolutely unbelievable.” Kyle was certain that, aside from some fraying, there was no real damage done. “I thought something bad had happened.”

“It did!”

“Just what exactly is going on here?”

Kyle swivelled towards the new voice. A leering, sneering man stood on the ship opposite to theirs, wearing a powdery looking wig that made his pasty face look pastier. The other captain, Kyle presumed.

“Ah, yes,” said Stan, giving him a tight smile. “You’re under attack.”

“I am, am I?” the man scoffed. “You and whose army?”

“Good question.” Stan pretended to ponder it. “I think, perhaps, I shall use… mine.”

The crew took this as their cue to charge, bursting out onto the deck in snarling magnificence. The expression of horror on the other captain’s face almost made Stan’s melodramatics seem worthwhile.

Kyle stood mesmerised as the pirates lit and hurled their grenades. Under the cover of the smoke, they lowered the gangplanks, and flooded from one vessel from the other. It was then that Kyle remembered that he was supposed to be doing the same, and crossed with his arms sticking out slightly, to keep balance.

The moment he set foot on the other deck a sword was swung his way. He raised his own just in time to parry. The chime of metal on metal rang out, harmonising with the fifty others that surrounded them. He had a fleeting half-second to assess his opponent, who had the upper hand in both height and weight. Kyle tried to think of a plan, but everything was moving much too fast, and already the man was swinging again. He came dangerously close to slicing Kyle clean in two, but he deflected at the last possible moment. Imagine that you’re only fighting Stan, he thought wildly, trying not to panic as he was slowly forced backwards by the man’s relentless blows. He struck on the offensive this time, and though his sword was swatted away like a fly, there was still some satisfaction to it. He was not so helpless after all.

The fight continued, and though Kyle was not exactly winning, he was starting to get to grips with it. He thought he might even survive a little longer before getting diced to bits, but then a blade emerged through his opponent’s belly. The man howled, and the sword was jerked out again. A swift kick, and he was knocked to the ground, revealing Tweek standing behind him, looking chuffed.

“What the hell?” exclaimed Kyle.

“He was about two seconds away from chopping your head off!”

“I had it under control!”

“It sure didn’t look like it.”

He scowled at her, and her blood covered sword. His own remained tragically unstained, much to his fury. “That blood was rightfully mine!”

“There’s plenty to go around,” she said, gesturing down at the body.

“It’s not the same.” He put a hand on his hip. “That wasn’t a very honourable thing to do.”

“They’re enslavers, Kyle.” She rolled her eyes. “Forgive me if I don’t treat them with the utmost dignity. I don’t believe they’d know honour if it stabbed them in the back.”

“What about my honour, then? That could have been my first victory!”

“Look, I was just trying to help you out,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to take the wind out of your sails, but the Captain’s orders. You heard what he said.”

“I certainly did,” he muttered, and stalked off to find someone else to fight. He was just half a minute into another altercation when his sword was knocked out of the way.

“I’ve got him,” said Token.

“But—I had him!”

“He’s too big for you,” he said, in a way that was likely intended to be kind but came across as condescending. “Pick on someone your own size.”

Kyle stomped off with the intent to do so, but there wasn’t really anyone left. Everyone was either currently engaged or already taken care of. He did manage to find an unarmed man and pointed his sword at him. “On your knees.”

“No, stay standing.” Craig approached with rope slung over her shoulder. “It’s easier to bind his wrists that way.”

“But—”

“It’s over, Kyle,” said Craig. “Go pick someone else’s feet to get under.”

Stan was standing above the dead body of the other captain when Kyle found him.

“Disrespected you, did he?” asked Kyle bitterly.

“Rather,” huffed Stan. He glared down at the hole in his culottes. “Bloody bastard. They’re all the same, you know.”

“Captains?”

Stan looked offended. “Slave traders!”

“Right.”

“The quality of captains can vary tremendously.”

“I’m sure they can,” said Kyle. “Listen, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. You can’t just—”

“Oh,” said Stan, looking grave, “looks like your hour of need is upon us.”

Kyle turned, and saw Tweek staggering towards them, her arms slung over Butters’ shoulder, who was struggling to keep her upright. Blood was blooming from a gash across her chest.

“Jesus!” Kyle rushed to her side and took her from Butters before they both collapsed, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“I found her slumped on the starboard bow,” he said, voice small. “I thought she—I thought she might have been—”

“Dead,” rasped Tweek. “I thought so too, at first, but here I am. Officially declared undead.”

“I’d like to keep it that way,” said Kyle, gingerly lifting her shirt to take a look at the wound. She seemed to be growing heavier in his arms with each passing second.

“Me too.” She gave Kyle a weak smile. “See, I knew it was a good idea to keep you alive.”

“Are you steady enough to cross the gangplank?”

“Does it look like I have the capacity to balance right now?”

Kyle resorted to an exasperated sigh, if only to hide his growing alarm. Neither he nor Butters would be able to carry her back to their ship without risking falling into the icy depths themselves. He needed someone bigger, stronger, and steadier than either of them. Someone like—

“Tweek!” Craig raced towards them as fast as lightning strikes the earth. “God, what happened to you?”

“I thought I’d try fighting in a so-called honourable way,” wheezed Tweek. “Worked out great. I don’t know why I never tried it before.”

Craig looked at Kyle with a desperation that he had never seen from her before, and he did not like to see now. “Is she going to die?”

“Probably,” said Tweek, at the same time that Butters said, “Of course not!”

“We’ll see to her. She’s going to be good as new,” he said with more confidence than he likely had. Tweek and Craig did not look convinced.

“Craig, I need you to get her back down to sickbay,” ordered Kyle. “Carry her carefully. Sort of—bridal style, I think it’s called.”

Without hesitation, Craig scooped Tweek up, one arm under her back, the other in the crook of her knees. Tweek let out a pained moan, eyelids fluttering. She was whisked away before Kyle could offer any more instructions, and so he and Butters took off after Craig.

“Is she actually going to be okay?” hissed Butters.

“I don’t know yet,” said Kyle. “I’ll do my best.”

“Craig will probably kill us both if you don’t,” said Butters, helpfully.

They made it down to sickbay, where Tweek was already splayed down on the table, making a high-pitched whine that almost didn’t sound like it was coming from her. Craig was knelt by her, stroking her hair.

“Butters, take her shirt off,” said Kyle.

“I’ll do that,” said Craig, taking a protective step between the two of them.

“No,” said Kyle. “You’ll back off and let us work, or you’ll leave.”

“But—”

“Begone.” He made a firm shooing gesture, and she retreated to the desk chair, tracking their every move with anguished eyes.

Kyle located two tissue forceps. When he came back to Tweek’s side, he found that Butters was pressing Tweek’s discarded shirt against the gash.

“To slow the bleeding,” he said.

“Good,” Kyle nodded, “but I need a closer look at it.” Butters removed the shirt so that Kyle could study the wound, spanning the space between her breasts down to the bottom of her ribcage, at a slight angle. “It’s surface level.”

“That’s good, right?” said Craig. “Tell me that’s good.”

Kyle ignored her and looked closer. “Traces of the fabric got embedded when she was hit. I’ll have to get rid of them before I can suture. Butters, find her something to bite down on.”

“Will it hurt awfully?” asked Tweek.

“Not as much as it will when it gets infected.”

“When?”

“If,” corrected Kyle. “Don’t pick at my words, I haven’t the headspace to put much thought into them.”

Butters bought a brandy soaked rag over. “Bite down on this and count to a hundred in your head,” he said.

“Better make it a thousand,” said Kyle.

“What if I reach a thousand and it’s not over?” she asked.

“Then keep counting,” he said, anxious to get started. “That’s the convenience of numbers. They do tend to carry on.”

Tweek twitched her head away when Butters tried to put the rag in her mouth, so she had to do it herself. Kyle felt Tweek’s body jerk as he lifted a bit of the skin beneath which one of the tiny pieces of cloth was embedded, soaked from white to crimson.

“I think I’m going to have to tie you down,” he said quietly.

“What?” she shrieked, muffled through the rag.

When constructing the operation table, Kenny had thoughtfully attached an array of hooks underneath on each side, with which leather straps could be attached and adjusted. Tweek shot upright as Butters picked one up.

“No way will you be putting me in that!” she cried.

“This is a very delicate procedure,” said Kyle. “I know you can’t help fidgeting, but I have to keep you steady to some degree. If you twitch at the wrong time, I might just end up pushing the pieces further in. And that would be… bad. Very bad.”

Tweek put her head in her hands. “God,” she whispered, “Oh, Jesus, I’m going to die!”

Kyle felt immensely guilty for even asking. He was supposed to be helping, not making her more distressed. “Um, Craig,” he said, “why don’t you—hold her hand?” He gestured vaguely. “Say something comforting, I don’t know.”

Cautiously, Craig knelt by her side, and took Tweek’s small hand in her own, guiding her back to lying down. She whispered something in her ear. Kyle couldn’t be sure whether it was a declaration of love, or a promise that if Kyle screwed this up, she would have his guts for garters. Perhaps both.

Tweek bit her lip and nodded. “Okay, do it,” she whispered to Kyle. “Do what you have to do.”

Butters did up the straps; One across her shoulders, another binding her arms, and a third across her legs.

Kyle set to work. Distantly, he heard Craig murmuring gentle reassurances, but it all faded into the background buzz as his focus sharpened on the cloth in the wound. With meticulous precision, he closed the tip of the forceps around the first and extracted it. He repeated this thrice more, until all were rid of. “Butter, I need—” He looked up to find Butters already holding out a needle and thread. “Thanks. Prepare the bandage.” Kyle did a simple running suture, unlike the individual stitches Kyle had given Stan before. The blood was still coming thick and fast, and he needed to close the wound before Tweek lost too much of it. This cut was considerably longer than the one he had faced previously, but he was still thankful for his experience, however limited it was. He felt Tweek strain against the straps with each stitch, but he made it to the end without issue. A knot was tied, the tail was snipped, and the worst of it was over.

He raised his head, senses slowly coming back to him. “You made it through alive,” he said as he unhooked the restraints.

She sat up, dizzy but relieved.

“Bandage,” said Kyle. Butters handed him a thick, dressed wad of cotton. “Gauze.” He pressed the bandage to the sewn shut wound and wrapped the gauze around her waist, to keep it in place. “It’ll probably need changing in an hour or two. Come back then.”

With Craig by her side, she got down from the table. “Thank you,” said Tweek softly. “Thanks for not letting me die.”

“Anytime.”

She hobbled out the door, Craig’s arm across her back.

“Wow!” breathed Butters. “That was intense.”

“You were a great help,” said Kyle as he perched on the table. “You’re the best assistant I could ask for.” He went to pat Butters on the back, but remembered his hands were caked in blood, and thought better of it, opting for an appreciative smile instead.

Butters beamed back at him. “I’m just glad that it’s—”

The door flew open. Token stood in the corridor with his eyes wide. “Bebe was shot!”

“What?” Kyle sprang to his feet.

“In the shoulder—Just a graze, but—Hard to tell—She passed out before—”

“Show me where she is.”

*

The hours passed in a blur of bandage after bandage. The cuts and scrapes were unrelenting, an endless line of people dragging themselves into sickbay. Kyle could hear music and laughter coming from up on deck. Heavy-footed dancing thumped through the ceiling. It was terribly distracting. Irritation set further in with each new song and each new patient, all eager to return to the celebration that Kyle could not indulge in.

“Oh, peace at last!” he grumbled, when silence fell after what felt like a lifetime of non-stop noise.

“Aw, I missed the end of it,” sighed Bradley, who was sitting cross legged on the table.

“Be grateful you saw any of it,” muttered Kyle.

Footsteps trudged down the corridor as pirates began to pack it in and head off to bed.

“Gosh, what time is it?” Butters stifled a yawn in his fist, resting an elbow on the desk. “Must have struck ten o’clock by now.”

“We can’t blow the lights out yet.” Kyle didn’t look up from the splinters that had sunk into Bradley’s palm. “I don’t fancy doing this in the dark.” There was a soft knock on the door, and he groaned. “Not another one.”

“Come in,” said Butters sleepily.

“Can you get the door for me?” Kenny’s voice came from the other side. “My hands are full.”

Butters dragged himself to his feet and let him in. “How were the festivities?” he asked as Kenny entered with two plates of food.

“Festive,” he said. “I wish you’d been there.”

“Oh, ouch! That really hurts!” squealed Bradley, as Kyle inched out a splinter.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he snapped. After such a long night, his patience had worn thin.

Kenny grimaced at the sight of it all. “Looks like you’ve been having your own little party down here, too.”

“It’s been a real barrel of laughs,” said Butters.

“You didn’t come up for dinner, so,” Kenny held out the plate, “I brought some down for you.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” sighed Butters, taking it from him.

Kenny used his free hand to ruffle Butters’ hair up. Butters flinched and stepped away, taking a seat at the desk again. Kenny watched him do so with confusion. “Um, Kyle? You want your food?”

“Bit busy at the moment, Kenny,” said Kyle through gritted teeth. He would get rid of these splinters if it was the last God damn thing he ever did.

“He means thanks a lot,” said Butters, “and can you please put it down on the counter?”

“Yes, yes, that,” said Kyle.

Kenny did so. “Well, I’d better be off,” he said, but lingered at the door. “Are you coming to bed, Butters?”

“Not yet,” he said, giving Kenny a guilty smile. “There’s still so much left to do.”

“Right,” said Kenny. His smile took on a false property about it, as if he were only keeping it up there for show. “Of course. Sorry.” He opened the door, but turned, as if to say one last thing. He paused, and muttered, “Goodnight,” before plodding off.

Kyle waited until the footsteps had retreated. “You could have gone with him, you know,” he said quietly. “I can finish this by myself.”

“I know,” said Butters. “I just… Yes, I know.”

Bradley was, to Kyle’s great relief, the last patient of the evening. But it still took them a mighty long time to scrub everything clean, and even then, the stench of blood lingered.

“I’ll ask Tweek tomorrow if she has any nice, scented herbs that we can use to air out the place,” said Butters. “And I can make room on the floor of our cabin if you’d rather sleep in there until then.”

“It’s tolerable,” said Kyle, watching him stretch with a little kittenish yawn. “Go to bed, Butters. I’ve worked you too hard.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Night.”

“Goodnight.”

Kyle leant against the table for a moment, overcome by exhaustion but relieved to finally be alone. He peeled off his bloody clothes and slipped into satin pyjamas, cool and fresh against his skin. The silence was broken by the growling of his stomach, painfully empty. He began to devour his dinner like a man half-starved, then thought back to Stan’s critiquing of his eating habits, and slowed down to his usual, obnoxiously polite pace, just to spite him.

Scaling his hammock was no longer the challenge it had once been, though he was no more graceful. The plus side of working for such a long stretch of time was that he was, for once, relinquished from the grips of insomnia. This sleep was deep and dreamless, to an almost suffocating extent. He awoke to someone rocking his hammock. Pitch black had engulfed the room.

“Kyle! Kyle, wake up.”

Chapter Text

Kyle lay perfectly still, or rather, as still as he could, considering the fact that his bed was being swung back and forth.

“I know you’re not dead, so stop pretending.”

He did not respond.

“I can hear you breathing.”

He held his breath.

“That’s not going to work.”

A finger poked his shoulder. Kyle grunted and slapped it away.

“Ow! Watch it.”

“I will strike again if you don’t stop shaking this thing, Stan,” he warned.

With a sulky sigh, the shaking stopped. “I can’t sleep.”

“How tragic,” said Kyle. “I, on the other hand, have no trouble with it at all. Goodnight.”

Stan ignored him. “I can’t sleep, and I was thinking about how you haven’t had a chance to celebrate yet.”

“This is my celebration.”

“You can’t celebrate lying down.”

“Hip-hip, hooray,” said Kyle. “There. I just did.”

“But you should come celebrate with me.”

“I’m already rejoicing in my own special way.”

“But I can’t fit in the hammock with you, so we can’t do it together.”

“Then sleep on the floor.”

“But I already told you that I can’t sleep.”

“And I already told you that I don’t care.”

“You’re so horrible to me,” pouted Stan. “I take you under my wing, and this is the thanks I get? Pure indifference?”

“I could go a little heavier on the spite, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“I’d prefer it if you went a little heavier on the get-up-and-go-have-a-drink-with-Stan.”

“It’s past curfew,” said Kyle, a last defence. “That’s against the rules.”

“We’ll be fine, so long as nobody tells the Captain.” It was too dark to see Stan’s grin, but Kyle could sure as hell hear it in his voice.

“Are you already drunk?” asked Kyle with suspicion.

“No,” said Stan. “Well, maybe a little bit. Just the right amount.”

“The right amount for what?”

“To have another drink with you!”

Kyle sat up with a groan. “If you promise to keep your trap shut from now until sunrise, I will have one – one – single drink in your office.”

“You shan’t hear a peep out of me,” said Stan. He paused. “Do you want help getting down?”

“A full second and a half without talking,” marvelled Kyle. “That must be a personal best.”

“I’ve gone longer!”

“I’ll believe that when I hear it.”

Stan tutted in indignation. “Look, let me give you a hand. It’s dark, and you’re graceless.”

“I am not graceless!” exclaimed Kyle, though he was well aware that he was.

“Would you rather the term inelegant?” asked Stan. “Or perhaps two left feet?”

“I’d rather you didn’t go out of your way to insult me, actually.”

“I’m merely making an observation,” said Stan airily. “And unless you want to end up face first on the hardwood floor, I suggest you accept my assistance.”

“Could you not just light a candle, and let me do it myself?”

“No,” he said. “Now put your arms around my shoulders.”

“If you drop me, I will drag you down too,” threatened Kyle.

“Well then I shan’t drop you.”

“You’d better not.” Kyle fumbled for Stan in the dark, hooking his elbows around his neck. Stan slid one arm under the small of Kyle’s back, and another in the crook of his knees, and hoisted him up. Kyle let out a little gasp of surprise; Stan was stronger than he looked and lifted him with apparent ease. He did stumble slightly whilst setting Kyle down, so that he landed just a bit too heavy on his toes.

“Abysmal,” said Kyle, rolling his shoulders back. “I would have done a better job myself.”

“That is undeniably false.”

“I’ve done it just fine before.”

“Then why did you let me lift you?”

“I wanted to see if you could do it.” Kyle put his arms out to feel his way blindly to the door. His fingertips brushed some part of Stan, who did not appear to be moving. “Are you coming?”

“Just a second.” Rustling, and then a match was struck, looking for all the world like Stan had taken a star the size of a pinprick out of his pocket. The tiny flame fought valiantly against the imposing darkness, but Stan’s face was brighter, lighting up at the sight of Kyle.

“You had a match all along!” complained Kyle, who was not similarly overcome. “Why did you make me do that in the dark?”

“I wanted to see if you could do it. And keep your voice down.”

“But—”

Stan put a finger to Kyle’s lips. “Not another word until we’re in my office.”

They crept down the hallway and up the stairs in stark silence. It was a bright moon tonight, and Kyle was half afraid that they might run into Craig and Tweek in an incriminating rendezvous, but the deck was barren. With the door to the cabin shut safely behind them, Stan was the first to speak.

“Whiskey?”

“Have you got anything less…” Kyle gestured ambiguously.

“Throat scorching?”

“Hangover inducing.”

Stan had a poke about in his desk drawers. “I’ve got rum.” He held it up.

“Is that much better?”

“No idea,” said Stan. “I’m fresh as a daisy in the mornings, regardless of the night before.”

“Just you wait,” grumbled Kyle, as Stan poured him a glass. “Once you get to my age, even a whiff of alcohol is enough to bring on a migraine."

“How do you know I’m not actually the eldest?” said Stan. “When is your birthday?”

“May twenty-sixth.”

“Ha!” said Stan. “I’m October nineteenth, sixteen eighty-eight. Baby!” He stuck out his tongue, and Kyle experienced an overwhelming urge to pull on it – one which he resisted.

“I was born in the same year as you, idiot.” Kyle counted on his fingers, and smirked. “I’m six months your senior.”

Stan had never looked so betrayed in his life, cradling the rum to his chest like Kyle’s mother clutched her pearls. “But—But you’re shorter than me.”

“I hate to burst your bubble,” snapped Kyle, “but age is by no means equivocal to height.”

Stan shook his head, as if Kyle’s mere existence defied some great, universal truth. “I still get to boss you about,” he said, perhaps to reassure himself.

“Yes, Captain.” Kyle snatched the rum from Stan and drank. It was rich and fiery, but burnt no less than the whiskey did, which did not bode well for the morning.

Stan frowned. “Not this business again.”

“What business?”

“Calling me Captain.”

“I thought you liked that,” said Kyle, swilling the drink in circles inside his glass. “Respecting your authority.”

“Not when you say it like that.”

“I say it wrong?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Too much contempt. You use it like an insult.” Stan poured himself a drink too, from the same bottle. “I believe you have an issue with authority.”

“Oh, don’t start,” huffed Kyle as he slumped in a chair. “I was invited for a celebration, not a psychological diagnosis.”

Stan did not take his seat on the opposite side, but instead came and perched on the edge of the desk next to Kyle, so that he had to tilt his head upwards to meet Stan’s eyes. “You don’t like the idea of me being your superior.”

Kyle looked him up and down. “I suppose I don’t. I’m not convinced you’re equipped for it.”

“Now, we both know that’s not true, don’t we?” Stan ran his tongue along his teeth. “Not unless you were lying to me, the last time you came here.”

Kyle choked on his drink and had to clear his throat before speaking. “I wasn’t lying. I only meant—Relative to me. I don’t believe you’re better than me, just as I don’t believe I’m better than you.”

“You sure don’t act that way,” chuckled Stan. “But was that why you’re upset about what I said at the meeting?”

“Ah, so you did notice.”

“Of course I noticed,” said Stan. “It’s impossible to go unaware when you are upset. You make such a song and dance out of it.”

“Bit rich of you, accusing me of dramatics.”

“I’m dramatic in a fun way, darling. You’re dramatic like a Greek tragedy. Eye catching? Yes. But, God, so moody.”

“What does that make you, then? A satyr play, all slapstick comedy and dirty jokes?”

“I would never stoop so low!” said Stan, who had done so before and would do so again. “Look, you must understand that what I said today was for the best.”

“But the best for whom, exactly?”

“For you!” he exclaimed. Kyle raised his eyebrows, but Stan made no attempt to amend the answer. “You’re lucky I even let you fight at all.”

“Let me?” Kyle was insulted. “You didn’t let me do anything.”

Stan smiled. “There’s that issue with authority, rearing its head.”

Kyle knocked back the rest of his drink. “I did not escape one totalitarian household to join another.”

“And there’s the tragic dramatics, with its tail between its legs.”

Kyle pursed his lips. “Don’t personify my opinions.”

“I’ll personify whatever I please,” said Stan, then his defiance softened with his expression. “I was only trying to protect you today.”

Kyle snorted. “You have a funny way of going about it.”

“I believe that was a fairly straightforward way of going about it.”

“But I’m not some fragile little trinket with which to hide away on a high up shelf and gaze at from time to time.” Kyle sat back and crossed his arms. “I am not weak.”

“I’m not saying you’re weak, I’m saying you’re valuable. You’re very dear to us all, Kyle. The crew, they would be devastated if something were to happen to you.” Stan did not voice an ‘I’ instead of ‘they.’ Kyle wondered if it was implicit.

“I should think they would be devastated if anything happened to any of them.”

“Of course they would,” said Stan. “I’m not claiming otherwise.”

“But by singling me out, you are! Spouting some nonsense about me being the one we want to die the least, honestly.” Kyle shook his head in disgust. “It’s not right. It’s not fair.”

“Stab you, and we all bleed out. Nothing nonsensical about that.”

“Everything about that is nonsensical. Don’t swaddle me in cotton wool just in case I fall.” He reached across the desk for the rum and poured himself another glass. To hell with the one drink rule. “And how about you?” he asked. “Are you not a vital organ? The beating heart of this crew? What happens if you die in battle, hmm? Where does that leave us?”

“That’s a risk that I have to take,” said Stan. “They need me out there.”

“For what, exactly? They seemed to do a fine job by themselves."

“For moral support,” he said. “To set an example. Add a little bit of eye candy.”

“Oh, you just think you’re so pretty, don’t you?” scoffed Kyle. He drank, glaring at Stan over the rim of his glass. “With your hair. And your clothes. And your… other bits.”

“I don’t think I’m pretty,” said Stan, “I know it. It’s an indisputable fact.”

"I dispute it."

“No, you don’t.” Stan smiled like he knew everything there was to know, which made Kyle want to smack the look right off his face.

“I do.” Kyle threw his arms out, not caring when a little of the liquid sloshed over the edge. “Let it be known that, right here, right now, I am disputing it. I don’t believe you’re all that nice to look at!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to. Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Stan stared at him for a moment, brooding. “Alright. What’s so un-pretty about me, then?”

“Your hair goes in too many directions at once,” said Kyle automatically, for he had composed a mental list of reasons before, which he reminded himself of from time to time.

Stan rolled his eyes. “What direction would you rather it went in?”

“Sort of… this way.” Kyle stood, and reached up to smooth it down. Stan’s expression of soft surprise was pleasing to him in an unexpected way.

“Am I pretty now?” asked Stan, with mock sincerity.

“No. Your shirt buttons are wrong. You always have too few done up.”

“How do you know that it’s not too many undone?” He grinned.

“Then that is worse.” With steady hands, Kyle fastened all the pearly white buttons, right up to the top.

“I don’t like the feel of that.” Stan made a face. He stuck two fingers in the collar and tugged it away from his neck. “Not one bit.”

“Beauty is pain,” said Kyle with a wave of his hand. “You’d better tuck your shirt in properly whilst you’re at it.”

“It is tucked in!”

“And just what do you call this?” He tugged on the loose section of Stan’s shirt, hanging lazily over his trousers.

“Fashion.”

“It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is,” said Kyle. “You look like you can’t dress yourself properly.”

“You mean proper,” sniffed Stan, “as in prim and proper.”

“I mean not like a slovenly boy who’s wearing the same clothes he went to bed in.”

Stan huffed and raised his arms. “Do your worst.”

Kyle’s hands were, admittedly, less steady as he worked his way around Stan’s waist, sliding his hands inside Stan’s trousers as he pushed down the fabric. He flinched when his fingers brushed bare skin, but did not falter, determined to prove he was unphased. He took a little step back when he was done, feeling like he needed space to recover but unwilling to say so.

“Am I fixed now?” asked Stan. “Pretty beyond my wildest dreams?”

Kyle looked at him. It was strange, how much a little straightening out made him look so… un-Stan like. “No,” he said slowly. “You look worse.”

“Worse?” Stan was offended.

“Orderly just doesn’t suit you.”

“I told you so,” said Stan. “I always dress my best. If orderly constituted as my best, then I would dress it.” He ducked his head and demanded, “Now, put my hair back where you found it.”

Kyle blinked. “Can’t you do it yourself?”

“You made the mess. You must clean it up.”

“Mess it up, more like,” scoffed Kyle. He hesitated, and set his drink down, next to the ship in the bottle, lying at the edge of the desk. Then, he laced his fingers through Stan’s hair, recreating his artful ruffles. He half expected Stan’s charcoal hair to leave soot embedded under his nails, but they came out clean.

Stan raised his head again and stared him down. “Now undo my buttons.”

Kyle gave an indignant cough. “Excuse me?”

“Everything as it was, including the shirt. I want three buttonholes empty.”

He narrowed his eyes, then caught sight of a pair of scissors tucked away on the other side of the desk. He took them.

“What are you doing?” asked Stan as Kyle advanced.

“As I’m told.” Kyle grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him forward. He reached up to Stan’s neck and chopped the button off. Stan was frozen in shock, and so he gave another one the same treatment. He was about to deal with the third, but Stan wrenched the scissors from his grasp before he could.

“How dare you!” He tossed them back on the desk, clinking against the ship in a bottle. “That was not how you found it!”

“You never use those buttons anyway. What’s the point in keeping them around?” Kyle plucked the scissors again and gave a malevolent grin. “Now, to loosen that shirt of yours.”

“Oh no.” Stan began to back away with his hands up. “Don’t you dare.”

Kyle lunged, and Stan darted away just in time. Kyle followed suit, and then they were running circles around the desk, giggling manically. This game lasted for far longer than it had any right to, each as painfully stubborn as the other. The closest Kyle ever got to catching him was a swipe that brushed the back of his collar, but Stan yelped and sprinted away. They found themselves on opposite ends of the desk, panting.

“Your move,” said Kyle.

“Perhaps I’ll wait for you.”

“Then you’ll be waiting all night.”

“I have patience.”

“You have none to speak of.” Kyle licked his lips, a predator prepared to pounce. Stan faked to the right, but he didn’t fall for it.

“You’re making this boring.”

“No, I’m—”

And then Stan galloped left. Kyle made to follow, but in his haste, hurtled into the desk and its precarious contents.

The ship in a bottle was pushed over the edge. The smash was so visceral that it resonated through Kyle’s bones.

“Oh, well done,” tutted Stan. “You’ve only gone and bloody broken it.”

The scissors slipped from Kyle’s grasp, along with the colour from his face. He stared in wide-eyed horror at the pieces. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you determined to ruin everything I own?”

“I-I-I can fix it,” he stuttered, and fell to his knees. He began snatching up the shards of glass, chest so tight that his heart scarcely had space to beat. The light was flickering, walls closing in, and he was a kid again, cowering on the fireplace in his father’s office.

“What are you doing?” Stan was floating above. Far, far above, too high to reach.

“I can paste it back together,” mumbled Kyle. But nothing was lining up right, edges as ragged as his breathing. “It’s not broken!” he hissed. “I’ve not broken it.”

Stan’s voice was impossible to make out over the ringing in his ears now.

“They’re not too tiny!” snapped Kyle, in answer to nobody’s question. “I can do it! It’s not broken. I just—” his head jerked upwards. “Stop watching me! I can’t do it whilst you’re watching!” He started mashing the pieces together as his vision tunnelled. Why aren’t they slotting neatly into place? They should be slotting neatly into place! There was a distant echo, a shout from Stan, but Kyle was underwater now, drowning. Everything distorted, including the sound. “It’s too wet!” he gasped. “Glass should be dry!” But all this red was getting in the way. Red? It was the red sea, parted from inside the bottle. It must be reunited, it must be, it must. “I’ll fix it! I just have to—”

And then something clamped around his wrists and tore them violently apart. The startle stopped him in his tracks, severing the link between body and mind. He watched as his fingers were plied open bit by bit, and the glass clenched in his fist was extracted. Only the red remained, pooling in his palms. Unite, he thought absently, and pressed his palms together. Pain seared between them like white hot fire.

He cried out but was cut short when something cupped his face: another pair of hands. Their warmth was so familiar that it ached. The hands were attached to wrists, which were attached to arms, which were attached to Stan. Stan was cradling his face, expression toeing the line between concern and fear. His lips were moving, but Kyle could hear no sound but the blood rushing in his ears.

He blinked rapidly, fighting through the haze. “Sorry,” he whispered, “did you say something?”

“Can you—Can you hear me now?”

Kyle nodded hesitantly. “I think so.”

Stan smiled, relief flooding his body and flowing into Kyle’s. “My attentive little listener. Glad to have you back.” He brushed his thumb tenderly across Kyle’s cheek.

“What was that for?” Kyle touched his face. It was wet, too.

“Don’t do that,” said Stan, gently guiding Kyle’s arms down again. “You’ll get blood on it.”

“Blood? You’re bleeding?”

“No, silly, you are.”

Kyle looked down at his upturned palms. Both were covered in a web of slices, but the pain was strange, as if he were only recalling it as a memory. He looked forlornly at the broken glass surrounding them. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“It’s just a bottle,” said Stan. “It doesn’t matter. Not like you do.”

 Kyle tilted his hands, watching the blood trickle into his lap as his sanity trickled back into his brain. There were no shards of glass lodged in the flesh, which was good. “I should bandage them,” he mumbled. “Stop the bleeding.”

“It should be cleaned first, shouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to go back to sickbay to get supplies.”

Stan stood, and took the half-empty bottle of brandy. “Will this work?”

“I don’t know,” said Kyle. He held out his hands. “Do it anyway.” He hissed when it happened, pain flaring once more. His eyes stung, and his vision blurred, but he found he could blink it away. “Bandages,” he said again, by rote.

Stan bit his lip. He pulled his shirt out of his trousers and, taking the scissors from the desk, made a small cut four inches from the hem. Kyle watched as Stan tore a long strip off the bottom of his shirt, then made a second. “Will these work?”

“I suppose so.”

Stan took Kyle’s left hand and carefully wound the strip around it. “Is that too tight?”

“No.”

“Good.” Stan bandaged the other with equal care. “How do you feel?”

“Like coming up for air after you forgot how to breathe,” he said.

Stan nodded seriously, as if that made any sense whatsoever.

Kyle touched his wet face again. “You should bandage this too.”

“You’re not bleeding,” said Stan. “You’re crying.”

Kyle shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t cry.”

Stan studied him for a long moment. “Okay,” he said. “You’re not crying.”

“Of course I’m not.” Kyle was no longer delirious enough to believe him, but it was easier to keep up a senseless pretence right now. He reached out and picked up the ship that had been inside the bottle with his fingers, to avoid flaring the pain in his hands. “That’s one way to free it, I suppose.”

“Let me show you something.” Stan took the ship in one hand and the scissors in the other. He cut the strings that connected the top of each mast to the deck. Then, with a fingertip, he folded them downwards. “See? That’s how it fits inside. The masts are tucked flat, it slips through the neck, and then these long strings are pulled, and the masts pop back up again. The strings are trimmed and secured with a dab of glue on the end of a toothpick, and voila.” He held up the little boat. “A ship in a bottle.”

And suddenly, that was all it was.

“You seem disappointed,” observed Stan.

“It feels less magical, now that I know the answer.”

He smiled. “You thought it was magical?”

“Not really. But it… it still sort of felt like it was.”

“I’m sorry to ruin the illusion.”

“It’s better than going my whole life not knowing.”

“But you had so much longer left to wonder.”

Kyle lowered his lashes. “There are plenty of other things to wonder about.”

“True. If nothing else, you can rely on that.”

He looked around the office, glum. “I suppose I won’t be allowed back here again.”

“Why ever not?” Stan frowned, and somehow his genuine bewilderment was a bigger comfort than anything else he could have possibly said in that moment.

“I don’t know,” said Kyle slowly. “I never really understood it.”

“Understood what?”

“Punishing someone for their mistake. A child.” Kyle looked at the little bits of glass. That’s all they ever had been: just little bits of glass. He understood that now. “I was a child.”

Stan chewed his bottom lip, clearly lost, but did not press further. Perhaps he knew Kyle wouldn’t lie to him if he did, which would only make things worse. “Listen,” he said, and he touched Kyle’s arm. “Why don’t we go outside? Get you some fresh air?”

“But… the mess.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later.” He stood and offered Kyle a hand up. Kyle reached for it but yelped when they made contact. “Sorry!” said Stan. “No hand holding, I forgot.”

Kyle was not sure if Stan was disappointed, or if he just wanted him to be. He got to his feet without assistance, and felt Stan touch the small of his back. But when Kyle turned to him, he had flitted to the door, as if he were worried that he had already pushed things too far.

“Ready?”

Kyle looked around, and once he felt quite sure that this was not the last time he would be let in here, he nodded. “Ready.”

They stepped into the night. The smooth dark air soothed the burning in Kyle’s cheeks and calmed the inferno in his mind. He drifted wordlessly to the starboard bow. The water surrounding them was ink black, but on the tips of the waves, where the moonlight traced it, it seemed pure white. It felt incredible that they could be so far from where they were on his first night aboard, and yet the sea seemed the same. Watching the waves ripple, he realised that he no longer felt alone. He did not need to check if Stan was behind him; he knew that he was. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“What for?”

A long pause. “I don’t know how to put it into words. A simple sort of kindness.” He tilted his head. “Acceptance, I suppose. Thank you for accepting me.” Kyle turned to look at Stan, who was staring at him with his mouth open slightly, as if rendered breathless the moment before words were about to pass his lips. Kyle gave him an inquisitive half-smile.

“I think we should dance,” blurted Stan.

Kyle frowned. “But there’s no music.”

“We can sing.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” he said. “I don’t sing.”

“Humming, then.”

“That falls under the bracket of singing.”

“Hardly!” said Stan. “Come on. It’s a nice way to end an evening.”

“But I don’t want it to end,” said Kyle quickly.

“Alright, well, it’s a nice way for things to continue.”

“I don’t know any songs.”

“Ah, but you do,” said Stan, and threw up his hands when Kyle did not clock it. “Lesson six!”

“You want me to hum the waltz?”

“Oh, don’t sound so put out. It was just a suggestion.” He rubbed the back of his neck and turned back to the ocean. “Forget I ever said anything.”

Kyle thought of that broom that Stan danced around the room with, back in Tweek’s Tavern. “I’m not… wholly opposed to the idea,” he said slowly. “On one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“That it doesn’t become a competition, or a power struggle, or another moment of our strange sort of rivalry. That we just let it be… what it is.”

Stan cocked his head. “I would like that too.”

“You would?”

“I like being on the same side as you,” he said. “Only, I never got the impression that you felt the same way.”

“I wasn’t sure I did,” said Kyle after a moment. “But now, I think I am.”

“Well then,” Stan opened his arms. “Shall we dance?”

Kyle took a step towards him, then halted. “Oh, but I can’t use my hands.”

“That’s okay.” Stan’s hands hovered above Kyle’s waist instead. “May I?” Kyle nodded. His touch was so gentle, so soft, feather-light, and tender.

Kyle did not tense a muscle. There was no need to anymore. Perhaps there never was.

“Put your arms around my neck,” said Stan, and Kyle did so, crossing his hands at the wrists so as to avoid putting pressure on his palms.

“I’ll hum the part that my left hand plays,” said Kyle, “and you hum the right.”

And so they began. His own part was simple and repetitive, which was why he had allocated it to himself. But he still started off quiet enough that Stan had to lean closer a to hear, so that he could join in at the right time. His humming voice was low and steady, a husky comfort, one in which a smile could somehow be found. Kyle felt it flow through him in the places where they touched, and it gave him the strength to raise his own voice. The music mingled, simple but sweet.

For the first time, Kyle began to understand why it was that people enjoyed dancing. If you took away the audience, the lights, the noise, the pressure, it wasn’t half bad. Quite nice, actually. Floating across the deck, as one. There was liberation in their aimlessness. He watched the slow rise and fall of Stan’s chest, and found it was in time with his own. There was an unexpected intimacy to it, the syncing of breath. Kyle wondered how many implicit rules they were breaking right now, and how many explicit ones they were breaking, too.

But it would be alright, if all they did was rest their foreheads against each other. It would be alright, if their noses touched, then tilted. If their lips brushed, just slightly. If they kissed, eyes closed, hips still swaying in time to a tune neither was humming anymore, but both could still hear.

Stan drew back, eyes as big and bright as the moon. “Kyle,” he whispered, like a voice any louder might shatter something.

“I warned you,” exhaled Kyle, in a daze. “Break the bottle, and everything comes pouring out.”

Stan swallowed. “And how do you feel?” he asked. And then, smaller, “Emptied?”

“Like my lungs have room to breathe again.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Stan licked his lips. “Perhaps we’d better try again,” he said. “To be sure.”

“To be sure,” repeated Kyle. He tilted forward on his toes. Stan cupped his face once more and closed the gap. It was different this time, each emboldened by curiosity. A deeper pull. A parting of lips. A cautious little swipe of the tongue. Kyle flinched and pulled back.

“So?” The Stan before him was so vulnerable, so open, like his ribcage had been ripped apart for Kyle to study the scars inside. “Was it a… a good thing, or not?”

“Good,” breathed Kyle. “Definitely.” He sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Did you…?”

Stan shrugged. “I think I’ll need a few more tries before I’m certain.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Your audacity knows no bounds.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

And even with his head spinning and his world reshaping, he did.

(Artwork by Dani (Omerdam on Tumblr and Meshugaim on Twitter)!! Please go hype them up because they deserve to be showered with love!!)

Chapter Text

Kyle angled his book away from Butters and glanced up. “Tourniquet?”

Butters screwed up his face in thought. “Can I have a clue?”

“No. Take a guess first.”

“But I don’t know what that is!” He slumped dramatically down, head lolling upside over the edge of the hammock.

“You do know what it is,” said Kyle. “We studied it a few days ago, remember?”

“Did we?”

“In the section on amputations.”

“I… Oh, yeah!” Butters snapped his fingers. “They’re those medieval torture device thingies.”

“That’s not what they’re for.”

“Well of course it’s not,” he said. “I only meant that’s what it looked like.”

“What is its actual purpose?”

“It stops the flow of blood to a limb.”

“Limits, not stops,” corrected Kyle. “How does it work?”

“By cutting off circulation.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Um,” Butters narrowed his eyes, and gestured with his hands. “So, it’s this leather strap that you wrap around a limb. It’s attached to a stick, and you spin the stick around and around, to twist up all the extra length. And then you keep turning, tighter and tighter, ‘till the blood can’t pass through the limb so easily anymore. And then—Chop!” He sliced at the air. “Goodbye limb.” He looked to Kyle. “Was that good?”

“Spot on.”

Butters gave a little whoop and punched the air. Kyle had not expected to enjoy the end of week reviews as much as he did, but Butters’ enthusiasm was contagious. Having all the answers laid out before him was a nicer way to revise than the long, painful exams he had endured for his tutor back home.

“And when might you need to remove a limb?” he asked.

“If it was infected, maybe,” said Butters. “Otherwise—”

A knock on the door interrupted him.

“Who is it?” called Kyle.

“Me,” said a voice. “Kenny.”

Butters sat up and patted down his hair, which had taken on an extra level of fluffiness from hanging it upside down. His face was neutral, which Kyle suspected was intentional.

“Enter,” he said.

In came Kenny, tool kit in one hand and a bucket in the other. “Captain sent for you, Kyle,” he said. “Says he’s expecting your bi-weekly report on the crew’s health.”

“Really?” Kyle rolled his eyes. “Right now?”

“Well, I think that’s what he expects, yes.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “Tell him I’ll be up soon.”

“Okay.” Kenny paused in the doorway. “Hey, Butters?”

Butters, who had been doing his best not to look at Kenny, looked at Kenny. “Yeah?”

“I was about to go scrape off all the barnacles.”

“Okay.”

“Because—It’s been a while, and they build up so quickly, you know.”

“Okay.”

Kenny shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I was wondering if, um, if you wanted to help out. Hold my ankles or something?” He braved a smile. “Like old times.”

Butters worried the edge of the hammock between his fingers, pulling it taught. “I’m… kind of in the middle of something at the moment.”

“Oh,” said Kenny. “Okay.”

“Sorry,” said Butters.

“No, it’s fine. I guess I should have known.” He shrugged. “I’ll see you around?” It came out more like a question, as if he weren’t certain that he ever would.

“Sure,” said Butters, but his voice was too strained to be believable.

Kenny left, and there was a short, uncomfortable silence.

“Well, you gotta give him credit for trying,” said Kyle. “He’s found some excuse to come by every day for the past week and a half.”

Butters glared at him. “Stop judging me.”

“I’m not judging you!” said Kyle. “Who says I’m judging you? I didn’t even say anything about you.”

“You are definitely judging me. You’re wearing your judgey face.”

“This isn’t my judgey face,” he said. “It’s my no opinion face.”

“I know a judgey face when I see one,” said Butters. “It’s the same expression you get when you’re arguing with Stan.” He crossed his arms. “You think I’m being silly.”

“I don’t. I think it’s quite a feat, being able to avoid someone when you’re trapped on a ship together in the middle of the ocean.”

“He doesn’t make it easy,” griped Butters. “But it’s for the best.”

“Someone ought to tell Kenny that.”

“Aw, he’ll figure it out soon enough,” said Butters. “We’ll be in Cape Cod by tomorrow. Jessica Pinkerton will be waiting for him with open arms and open legs. She’ll be sure to remind him where his true allegiance lies.”

Kyle snorted. “Do you know the name of every member of his global harem?”

“Better than he knows them himself, probably. That’s why I have a hard time remembering what a tourniquet is and such—I’ve got too many names and too many faces taking up valuable space in my brain. Well, I only need to remember one face, actually, because they’re all identical.” He flopped back down in the hammock again. “It’s like Kenny runs frantically through the streets of every new town we visit, until he finds another girl who looks just like the last. That’s why he’s gotta keep them all at different ports, I think. He couldn’t separate one from the next if they all stood side by side.”

Kyle raised his eyebrows. So Butters had picked up on their similarities. He wondered what else Butters had picked up on too, but didn’t dare ask, in case he knew nothing more than that. Letting him live on in ignorance seemed a kinder cruelty.

“Well, you’d best be running to the Captain, I suppose,” said Butters.

“What?” said Kyle. “Oh. No, not just yet. We’ll finish our review first.”

“But you know he doesn’t like waiting.”

“Oh, I know it,” he said lightly, and let the test last a full hour more.

His cool composure faded as he made his way up the stairs, leaving Butters to take a well-earned nap. It’s fine, he told himself. Everything is fine. He was heading off to make a regular old report about regular old things to regular old Stan. Who cares if he’d been doing that daily? No one paid him any mind as he crossed the deck. They were all too consumed by their own business, of cleaning or steering or scraping barnacles off the side of the boat upside down.

Kyle rapped on the door. It swung open immediately, before he could even get a third knock in.

Stan was scowling at him. He was wearing his poet shirt today, a favourite of Kyle’s, dramatic flares around the collars and wrists. The laces that normally charted Xs across the low V neck were untied, hanging loosely. “You took your time,” he snapped.

“I did,” said Kyle. “Can I come in?”

“I’m not sure if I’m available for a meeting anymore.” Stan rested his arm on the doorway, blocking his entrance. “Seeing as I’ve wasted the day away.”

“It’s urgent. Clear your schedule.” Kyle put his hands on Stan’s chest and pushed him back into the office, so that he could fit inside.

“Oh, now it’s urgent, is it?”

“Yes.” Kyle locked the door behind them.

“And just what is it that makes you think it’s acceptable to—”

Kyle grabbed his face and kissed him. It was either that or stand there not kissing him, and he’d grown tired of that already. Stan made a muffled sound of surprise, and his hands flapped about, so Kyle took them by the wrists and placed them firmly on his hips. They did not remain there. As Kyle’s grip loosened, and the kiss became less forceful and more earnest, Stan’s fingers crept around to the small of his back. He traced circles up Kyle’s spine. Kyle shivered, and they broke.

“If it was that urgent,” said Stan, slightly breathless, “why did it take so long for you to show up?”

“I was with Butters.”

“Butters!” he scoffed. “And he takes precedence over me?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Then I dread to think what you two get up to.”

“Envy is a sin, you know."

“All the best things are,” he said. “Why won’t you come when I bid you to?”

“It may surprise you to hear that I don’t spend all day waiting for you to call.” He pursed his lips. “I have other responsibilities to attend to.”

“Oh, I’m just a responsibility, am I?”

“Yes. I have a responsibility to shut you up.”

“Well, you’re being shamefully neglectful of your duties,” sniffed Stan. “Here I am, talking and talking, without any handsome bastard to put a stop to it.”

Kyle twirled one of Stan’s loose laces around his finger. “I don’t recall that being an expectation on the contract I signed.”

“You missed the fine print,” said Stan. “Rule eight—”

Kyle yanked on both the laces and pulled him down into a kiss. Stan stumbled, half-falling into Kyle and inadvertently pushing him backwards. Kyle’s head smacked against the wall with a sharp thump.

“Are you alright?” asked Stan with concern.

Kyle groaned. “You ought to get softer walls.”

Stan put his hands on Kyle’s shoulders and turned him around so that he could kiss the back of Kyle’s head. “There. All better.”

“Thank you, Doctor Stan,” Kyle smirked. “I don’t see why you need me around. You’re clearly the medical expert on board.”

“And don’t you forget it,” said Stan, turning him back around again. “This is what happens when you use my laces like a leash.”

“What else was I supposed to use them for?”

“Not that!”

“I can’t believe you have the nerve to call me graceless.”

“I was caught off guard. You could have at least waited until I finished my sentence.”

“I got bored of hearing your voice.”

Stan let out a growl of frustration and kissed him hard, harder than before. This, of course, had been Kyle’s goal, being pinned back against the wall with enough force that it felt like his body was fusing with Stan’s.

This was largely how it had been for the past week: Winding each other up until the tension climaxed in angry kissing. It was thrilling, exploring physicality as a means of winning an argument, especially when they both came out of it feeling like victors.

Fisting a handful of flaming hair, Stan tilted Kyle’s head back to kiss his cheek, and pepper more along his jaw. Kyle relished the sensation. Stan scraped his nails across his scalp, making Kyle’s eyelashes flutter. Then, he felt teeth.

He opened his eyes. This was new. Stan was biting his way down Kyle’s neck, little nips and sucks that drew forth a moan that Kyle had not intended to let out. Spurred on, Stan’s next bite was harder than the last. Kyle drew in a sharp breath.

Stan pulled back. “Was that too much?” he asked. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes,” panted Kyle. “Do it again.”

Stan did, taking extra care on a spot between Kyle’s throat and clavicle. It was enough to push Kyle over the edge. With a gasp, he buckled at the knees, slid down to the floor. Stan made no attempt to stop him, just watched him crumple with a glint of satisfaction.

“You’ve gone very pink,” he remarked smugly.

Kyle covered his face. “I hate you.”

“My rosy little darling.” Stan dropped to his knees and peeled his hands away. “Cheeks as red as your hair.”

“Not just hate, loathe.” Kyle snatched his hands back. “I loathe you.”

“You’re not doing a very good job convincing me of that.” Stan kissed his forehead, and Kyle allowed him to kiss his nose as well.

“It’s not fair,” he grumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I’ve never seen you blush, not once.”

“I never get embarrassed,” said Stan. “I do everything with purpose and conviction.”

“No, you just make everything up as you go along.”

“That’s not true.” He nibbled the tip of Kyle’s ear. “I meant to do that.” He nibbled the other. “And that.”

Kyle poked Stan’s cheeks with irritation. “Not even a tinge of colour.”

Stan flashed him a grin. “I told you. Purpose and conviction.”

“Shamelessness, more like,” scoffed Kyle. “I don’t buy it.” He ghosted his fingers from Stan’s face to his shoulders, and then down his chest. “Somewhere on your body is a button that makes your composure crumble. All I have to do…” He pushed Stan flat onto the floor and crawled on top of him and leant down to purr in his ear. “Is push it.” When Stan swallowed, he heard it.

“How do you know I have one?”

“A little birdy told me so.”

“What birdy?”

Kyle smiled. “You can sculpt your face like stone, but your eyes will always betray you.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips over Stan’s eyelids with sudden softness. Stan made a happy noise, halfway between a sigh and a groan. Kyle sat up again. “Now, I have some experimenting to do.”

They kissed on the floor with their legs tangled together. Kyle pulled at the bottom of Stan’s shirt so that he could push a hand up underneath it. He glided across Stan’s skin until he reached the centre of his chest. His heartbeat thumped beneath Kyle’s palm, coursing with life, coursing with love. Stan mirrored him, slipping his own hand up Kyle’s shirt and tracing each rib. They lay there, with their foreheads resting against each other, feeling the rhythm of their hearts pulse. There was a magnificent sense of calm to it. Serenity unlike anything Kyle had felt before. It seemed everlasting, and it may very well have been, were the silence not cut short by an almighty splash that sounded outside.

Their eyes flew open. They stared at each other. Held their breaths. Stopped their hearts.

And then there was a cry of “Man overboard!” and it was over. Reality had broken through.

Kyle scrambled off Stan as quickly as he could. Stan was on his feet before Kyle could even blink.

“Wait!” he called. “Your shirt.”

“What?” Stan turned back at him. It was as if he’d forgotten Kyle was even there at all. “Oh. Right.” He shoved his shirt back into his trousers with one hand and twisted the key with the other. Kyle hoped that his own dishevelled appearance wouldn’t be a dead giveaway. But there was no time to do anything about it. Stan wrenched open the door and shot outside.

A small crowd had gathered on the portside bow, those who had already been at work on deck. Stan shoved his way through them to Craig, who was already barking orders. Kyle slipped through behind Stan.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Kenny fell.” Craig’s grip was knuckle-white on the railing.

Stan scanned the water below. “Has he resurfaced?”

“No,” she said sharply. “We’ve dropped anchor, to keep from sailing off without him.” She snapped her fingers at the closest pirate, Bebe. “Life buoy. Now.”

“How did this happen?” asked Stan. His voice had taken on a clipped, hard edge to it.

“He was cleaning off the barnacles,” interjected Kyle. “And—Oh, God, he was doing it upside down!”

“If he sank that way then there’s a chance that he could have hit his head,” said Craig. She caught the round, red buoy that was chucked her way without even turning to look. “These are shallow waters.”

“And he’ll be tangled in his rigging too,” said Stan. He slammed his fists against the rail. “God damn it!”

The three of them stared desperately into the waters. There was no sign of life. The only movement was waves as they rippled.

“Kenny!”

The cry was so anguished that Kyle knew it was Butters before he burst up from below deck. The crowd made way.

“What happened?” His head jerked back and forth frantically. “Is he down there?”

“He—”

“Why isn’t anyone doing anything?” he yelled.

“Give it a moment,” said Stan. “He may be fine by himself. I don’t want to risk—”

Butters let out a blood curdling howl and scaled the railing. Stan and Kyle only just managed to grab him before he jumped. They wrestled him to the ground, kicking and screaming.

“He’s drowning! He’s drowning and you’re not doing anything!”

“You’re too small,” snapped Craig as she kicked off her shoes. “Not strong enough.” She shrugged off her jacket and dug in the pocket for a knife, which she tucked into her waistband. “I’ll do it.”

Stan took the buoy from her. “Good luck.”

“Drop it on my signal.” In one fluid motion, she cleared the railings and dived into the depths below.

Kyle had been left to cope with Butters, who was still writhing. His shouts had descended into loud, raw sobs.

“It’s going to be alright,” said Kyle, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “Craig’s strong. You saw her carry Tweek across the gangplank like she weighed nothing. Kenny—”

Butters shoved Kyle off of him and dashed to the edge. He hooked his feet onto the first rail and bent at the waist over the edge.

Stan snatched him by the back of his collar and yanked him back down again. “Stay put!”

Butters stumbled back a few paces. He whirled on Kyle, eyes wide and wild. “How long does it take for a person to drown, Kyle? Four minutes? Three? Two?”

“It’s barely been one yet,” said Kyle. “He’s not going to die."

But ‘barely a minute’ quickly became ‘far more than a minute.’ A dark head broke the surface, sleek like a seal. She was holding her knife.

 “Craig!” shrieked Butters. Kyle got a firm grasp on his arms, to prevent him from a third attempt to hurl himself into the depths. “Where is he?”

Without a word, she dove back beneath the waves. Butters wailed and buried his face in Kyle’s chest. “He’s lost forever. Dead, he’s already dead! This is all my fault!”

“He’s not dead,” said Kyle. He rubbed circles on Butters’ back with the heel of his palm. “None of this is your fault.”

“I could have held his ankles! If I had been there—If I hadn’t been so foolish—”

“You’re talking nonsense!” said Kyle, maybe a little harshly. “This has got nothing to do with you. He would have fallen regardless.”

Butters went eerily quiet then, and Kyle felt an immense sense of guilt, for ruining what had otherwise been a successful attempt at a consolation.

“Kenny’s a tough nut,” he said, taking care to speak softly again. “And so is Craig. They’ll make it through, I promise.” He could feel Butters trembling against him, wracked with silent sobs.

“You can’t promise that,” he said in between great, shuddering breaths.

“I can, and I will.”

A little less than a minute later, Craig came back for air again. Butters pulled away, leaving Kyle’s shirt smattered with little wet splotches. Tear stains—Or at least he hoped that was all it was. He felt vaguely disgusted, though he had been covered in far worse.

“Got him!”

Kyle’s head jerked upwards. Craig motioned for the life buoy, empty handed, then disappeared again. Stan hurled the buoy into the water. It was attached to a long rope, which he had distributed along a line of pirates. Butters peered into the water, whimpering. His eyepatch had been flipped up in the upheaval. His empty socket was as raw and pink as his other eye. Everyone stood in a vast moment of suspension. Nobody moved except for him, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“It’s been too long,” he said. “Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty—”

Two heads broke the surface. Only one gasped for breath. Butters let out a sob of relief as Craig slung her free arm around the buoy and adjusted her hold on Kenny. With a rhythmic chant of “Heave-ho!” the pirates hauled the pair of them back up onto the ship. They hit the deck with a wet slap.

“Kenny!” Butters ran to them before anyone could stop him. Craig crawled out the way, panting. “Oh, Kenny, I’m so glad you’re…” He petered off. Kenny was motionless, lying face down in a tangled heap of limbs and soaked clothes. “Kenny?” said Butters, in a tiny, trembling voice.

Kyle came to his side and rolled Kenny onto his back. Little droplets of water coated his cheeks, and his eyes were empty, like that of a corpse. Frightened murmurs echoed through the crowd that encircled them.

“Quiet!” cried Kyle. He knelt and put his ear next to Kenny’s mouth and nose, staring down his body. There was no sound of his breath. There was no rising of his chest.

“Kyle,” whispered Butters. “He’s not… Tell me he’s not—”

“Check his pulse.”

Butters tried his wrist, then slid two fingers under the crook of Kenny’s jaw. “Nothing.” He looked up at Kyle in horror. “Not one beat.”

Kyle gulped. “There’s a chance that we can resuscitate him. Do you remember—”

“Of course I remember how!” snapped Butters, slapping Kyle’s hands away. “Let me do it.” He gently titled Kenny’s head upwards, clearing his airway. He put his fist on Kenny’s belly button and rolled it twice upwards to locate the breastbone. One hand locked over the other, and he kicked off. Short, sharp, rapid pumps. Every ounce of force, channelled into one purpose. A single mind. “One. Two. Three,” Butters rattled off each push. Tears dripped from his face and onto Kenny’s waterlogged body, like droplets in the great, grey sea. He made it to thirty and sat up. Pinching Kenny’s nose, Butters leant down and sealed their mouths together.

One breath. Two breaths. Nothing.

“Want me to—”

“No!” he spat at Kyle, and went back to pounding his fists, jaw clenched, muttering numbers under his breath.

When Kyle was younger, he had snuck into his mother’s bedroom and stolen one of her romance novels to read by candlelight. It was a story of an illicit affair, one that wasn't particularly riveting in his opinion, but one scene stood out in particular. The woman had drowned, somehow—Kyle hadn’t really been paying attention—and the man had to resuscitate her. It had been portrayed as the ultimate act of love.

But there was nothing romantic about this. No swelling of music, no soft sunset. There was only this: Butters’ stifled sobs and the wet sound of a lifeless body jerking under his weight. A second pair of rescue breaths.

One breath. Two breaths. Nothing.

Butters went back to pumping, making an angry crying sound with each impact. “You’re not dead, Kenny,” he hissed. “You’re not allowed to die. I won’t let you, I won’t, I won’t!”

There was a sudden and visceral crack.

“What was that?” cried Butters, yanking his hands back. “Oh my God!”

Without a second thought, Kyle swept in and took over. “Just a broken rib,” he puffed between pushes.

“Just?” squealed Butters. “Oh, no!”

“It means you were definitely doing it hard enough,” said Kyle. “Better a broken rib and a beating heart than neither.”

But Kenny only had one of those, and Kyle was beginning to lose count. How many chest compressions had he done now?

Abruptly, Butters said, “That’s thirty,” and waved him away. He bent, touched his lips to Kenny’s.

One breath. Two—

Kenny’s eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright so fast that his forehead slammed into Butters, sending him flying backwards. He convulsed and lurched forward, water flooding from his mouth like a tidal wave. Shallow, chesty coughs broke through, liquid dribbling down his chin. He twisted to the side and vomited, just barely missing Kyle’s shoes.

“Kenny!” Butters scrambled towards him. “Oh, thank goodness!”

Kenny remained bent forward on his hands and knees, coughing, gagging, gasping for breath. “Jesus,” he croaked. He was shaking, almost violently. “I’m alive.”

“You’re alive!” Butters flung his arms around Kenny, who made a strangled sound in pain.  Butters loosened his grip. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Kenny smiled weakly, voice hoarse. “I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m… I’m…” His eyes fell shut and he slumped against Butters.

“No!” howled Butters. He grabbed Kenny’s sheet-white face. “Don’t you dare! Not now, not after all that!”

“He’s alright,” said Kyle, putting a hand on Butters’ arm. “Going unconscious after all that is normal. The important thing is he’s still breathing.” For the first time in a while, he remembered the crowd surrounding them, and looked up. “Can we get some help carrying him down to sickbay? And some clothes, and a blanket.”

Faceless volunteers transferred Kenny below deck and brought what he’d asked for. Faceless because Kyle didn’t bother registering who did what. Like Butters, his mind was sharpened to a single point of focus, and that was his patient, lying there before him.

“He’s shivering,” whispered Butters, as if he were afraid to wake him. “Even out cold, he’s shivering.”

“Help me get his wet things off,” said Kyle. He began to unbutton Kenny’s shirt. There was a reddish mark in the centre of his chest, one that was going to develop into a horrible bruise.

Butters held back. “This feels wrong,” he mumbled, adjusting his eyepatch back into place.

“It is by far the least scandalous thing you’ve done today,” said Kyle. Butters flushed but started working on Kenny’s trousers. Together, they peeled off Kenny’s clothes and slipped him into a fresh set. Kyle went to go find a chapter in his books about broken ribs. Butters remained hovering over him, smoothing down his hair. It had started to dry, curling slightly at the ends. He hummed a lullaby to Kenny under his breath. Kenny began to stir.

He coughed weakly, and grimaced. “Ow.” His eyes drifted open, clouded with pain.

Butters tucked his hands behind his back and beamed at him. “Good afternoon, sleepy-head.”

Kenny took a shuddering inhale. “It hurts to breathe.”

“Don’t stop doing it,” said Butters.

“I won’t.” Kenny coughed some more. “Did I die?” he asked.

“In the technical sense,” said Kyle, from across the room. “Your heart stopped beating. Butters got it going again.”

Kenny smiled up at Butters in a daze. “You saved my life.” He raised a trembling arm and traced Butters’ cheek with his fingers. “You’re my guardian angel.”

Butters stared at him with his mouth hanging open slightly. “Well, um, Kyle did just as much as me,” he mumbled. “And Craig, she fished you out of the water.”

Kenny wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want them to be my guardian angels.”

“I’m not particularly interested in the position myself,” chuckled Kyle. “I’ll gladly vacate the role for someone else.”

“Here, see if you can sit up,” said Butters. He eased Kenny upright, then tenderly wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

“There’s a terrible pain in my chest,” he wheezed, leaning against Butters for support. “Is that my heart? From when it stopped?”

“No, that’s your rib,” said Kyle. “It was a necessary casualty. I—Ah, here’s the page I’m looking for.” He scanned the tiny, packed together text. “Right. You mustn’t partake in any strenuous exercise or heavy lifting. You mustn’t lie down or stay still for extended periods of time. Walk normally, breathe normally. Take ten slow, deep breaths every hour. Cough when you need to. All of this helps clear mucus from your lungs and prevents chest infections.” He looked up. “You really don’t want that on top of everything else.” He took up reading again. “Sleep upright for the first few nights. Whenever you cough, hold a pillow against your chest. Got that?”

“Yes,” said Kenny, and rubbed his forehead, the spot between his brows. “No. I don’t know. Everything is fuzzy.”

“I’ll remember it for him,” said Butters, fussing with the blanket.

“Are you going to swaddle me up in bandages now?” asked Kenny.

“No,” said Kyle. “That will limit lung expansion, which will only further restrict your breathing. Ribs are the sort of bone that you have to let heal by themselves.”

“And how long will that take?”

Kyle ran his finger down the page in search of an answer. “Three to six weeks.”

“Weeks?” said Kenny, distraught. “I can’t laze about for that long! I have things to do.”

“Well, now your list of things to do consists entirely of lazing about,” said Kyle, not prepared to take any nonsense. “Oh, and one more rule.”

“What’s that?”

Kyle snapped the book shut. “No more hanging upside down.”

Chapter Text

“Kenny, move.”

“Alright, I’m moving. I—Hey! I said I’m moving.”

“Not that way. The other way.”

“Where are you even trying to get to?” huffed Kenny. “I feel like you’re just purposely walking me in circles here.”

“I can assure you that I’m not.” Kyle shot him an irritated glance. “Sickbay is cramped as it is without an extra lanky body taking up room.”

“Lanky!” Kenny looked at Butters in outrage, and whined, “Butters, Kyle just called me lanky.”

“Don’t be rude, Kyle,” said Butters firmly, looking up from his book on human anatomy. “His limb proportions are perfectly ordinary.” He reached an arm out from the hammock and, like a Labrador to his master, Kenny bounded to his side, so that Butters could ruffle his golden hair.

Kenny beamed, then stuck his tongue out at Kyle. Kyle rolled his eyes and went back to cleaning his instruments. It was the morning after Kenny had been revived and already Kyle was getting sick of the sight of him. Butters was the perfect assistant: he was intuitive and obedient, and he spent most of the time out of the way. Kenny, on the other hand, seemed to have a talent for predicting precisely where you were about to be, and then planting himself there, all whilst complaining about his various aches and pains.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” said Kyle. “I only meant that a place like this isn’t designed to have another person living in it long term. You’ll have to keep him somewhere else.”

“But I don’t want him out of my sight,” said Butters.

“Because you’ll miss me?” said Kenny hopefully.

“Because I don’t trust you not to do something stupid again.”

“Again? Again!” He put his hands on his hips. “What an accusation! I told you, I’m on the straight and narrow. Sensible behaviour from now on.”

“Kenny, you tried to single-handedly lift a crate full of cannon balls not two hours ago. If that’s how you act when I’m not watching, you’ll never recover.”

Kenny sighed, and slumped down on the examination table.

“Don’t lie down like that,” said Butters.

“What else am I supposed to do around here?” moaned Kenny. “No exercise, no lifting, no hanging upside down. That rules out just about everything available on a pirate ship.”

“Just read a book, or something,” said Kyle. “Anything that keeps you out of the way and in one place.”

Kenny fell quiet, which Kyle would have been thankful for, were it not for Butters’ glare that burnt the back of his neck. He turned to look at the pair. “What?”

“I, um—I can’t read,” said Kenny, and he looked almost embarrassed, which Kyle would never have thought was an emotion possible for Kenny to possess.

“That’s not true!” said Butters, placing a reassuring hand on Kenny’s shoulder. “You can read a little.”

“My own name doesn’t count,” sulked Kenny. “Unless you have a book written entirely about someone else named Kenny.” He looked at Kyle. “You don’t, do you?”

“No.”

“Oh, well.” He shrugged. “Reading’s boring anyway. There’s never enough adventure in books. It’s just a lot of people standing around talking.”

“How would you know, if you’ve never read one?” said Kyle.

“Butters used to read to me.” Kenny grinned at him. “Hey, remember that, Butters? Back at the manor house?”

“I remember,” he said.

“How come you never read to me anymore?”

“I didn’t think you liked it.”

“I like it plenty!”

“But you just said they were boring.”

“Well, not when you read them,” he said, like it was obvious. “You do funny voices for all the characters.”

“You didn’t seem particularly enraptured when I did,” said Butters dubiously. “You never sat still long enough to listen to more than a page.”

“Just because I’m paying attention to something else doesn’t mean I’m not listening,” said Kenny. His eyes lit up. “Hey, maybe you could read to me whilst I worked! I never did finish scraping off those barnacles—”

“No!” Butters and Kyle said in unison.

Kenny sighed again, then winced at the pain of doing so. He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You never let me do anything.”

“I’m sorry, Kenny,” crooned Butters, reaching out for Kenny to come to his side. “You’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Everything hurts and it’s all terrible.”

“I know,” he said, smoothing down Kenny’s hair again. “You’re being very brave.”

“Am I?”

Kyle had to suppress a gag. This was another reason why he couldn’t stand Kenny being around. Butters’ constant doting was sickening, worse than any of the shameless flirting Kenny had indulged in before. At least this time Butters’ smothering was cut short by Tweek poking her tangled head inside.

“Oh, good,” said Kyle. “More people. That’s just what we need.”

“Jesus, alright,” Tweek glared at him. “I was under the impression you were here to help people, not instantly be passive aggressive towards them.”

“I can do both,” said Kyle. “I’m multi-talented.”

“You’re something alright.”

“Is Craig with you?” asked Kenny before Kyle could get a chance to ask her what she actually wanted. “I never got to thank her yesterday. She just sort of vanished.”

“She’s… busy,” said Tweek vaguely, still hovering by the entrance. “I just came by to see if you had any cold medicine.”

“Why? Are you ill?” asked Kyle with interest.

“No, it’s for—ah, someone else,” she said, twitching.

“We’ve got some elderberry tincture in the cupboard,” said Butters, hopping down from the hammock. “I’ll have a poke about.”

Kyle was pleased that Butters had recalled the right remedy. “Do you remember how it’s to be taken?” he asked him.

“Mixed in with water,” he said, voice muffled by the fact that his head was inside a cabinet.

“How much?”

“Um, ten drops? I—Here it is!” Butters withdrew a vial and read the label in the light. “Elderberry tincture. Oh, that says twenty drops in eight ounces, not ten.”

“Don’t worry too much,” said Kyle. “Better to have too little than too much. How should the water be served?”

Butters wrinkled his nose in thought. “Hot,” he said slowly. “Steam helps with decongestion.”

“Very good.”

“Would the taste be particularly noticeable?” asked Tweek, still hovering by the doorway.

“I suppose so,” said Kyle. “It’s sort of a tangy, fruity flavour.”

Tweek looked dissatisfied by this answer. “If I were to try to mask it, what might I use?”

“Why—”

“Tweek!” came a voice from down the hall, along with heavy footsteps.

“Oh, she’s awake.” Tweek put her head in her hands. “Wonderful.”

Craig appeared. She looked pretty rough, skin closer to grey than brown, with dark rings under her tired eyes and messy, sweat-smeared hair. “I knew I’d find you down here.” Her voice had the distinctly blunted sound of a stuffed-up nose.

“I’m just—talking to Kyle,” Tweek said quickly.

“About what?” Craig narrowed her eyes. “I already told you, I feel fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” said Kenny helpfully. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks for your input, McCormick.” Craig gave him a sarcastic smile. “You’re looking pretty downtrodden yourself.”

“I do?” Kenny glanced at Butters, as if to check whether he really did, but Butters just shook his head.

“You look great, Kenny,” said Butters, then raised his eyebrows at Craig. “You, on the other hand, do not.”

“Well, I don’t particularly care what I look like, so there.” She cleared her throat, a chesty, rattling sound.

“Is this why I wasn’t able to find you yesterday?” asked Kenny. “Have you been… hiding?”

“No!” said Craig.

“Yes,” said Tweek. “She’s been skulking in the galley for days because no one else ever goes in there except for me. She was only up on deck yesterday because I tried to send her down here, but she refused and sulked off.”

“Tweek!” she snapped.

“What? I’m sick of pretending that you’re too big and tough to ever get sick.”

“That’s not—I’m not sick.”

“You are. You were coming down with something before you recklessly tossed yourself into the water, and you’re officially down with something now.”

“I don’t think that was reckless,” said Kenny. “I think that was a very reasonable thing to do.”

“See!” said Craig. “McCormick’s on my side.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t have done it,” said Tweek. “But I do think that you should think twice about taking Kenny’s opinion on rational action seriously.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that!” huffed Kenny. “Am I really that predictable?”

“Yes,” chorused everyone else.

“Do you normally have to put up with this from your other patients, Kyle?” asked Tweek. “Wilfully ignorant denial?”

“Occasionally,” he said. “Though more often than not it’s the reverse, and they’re more dramatic than they ought to be.”

“If that’s a subtle dig at me, then I won’t stand for it,” said Kenny.

“It’s not!” said Kyle, even though it was.

“Kyle, don’t make subtle digs at Kenny,” said Butters, placing a hand on Kenny’s back.

“Alright,” said Kyle. “I’ll be sure to be more forthright about it from now on.” He took the vial from Butters and handed it to Tweek. “To be taken three times a day.”

“What’s that?” Craig eyed the little bottle warily as Tweek tucked it into her apron pocket.

“Poison,” said Kyle. “We’re plotting to kill you, Tweek and I.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” grumbled Craig.

“It’s not poison,” said Tweek. “It—It isn’t, is it?”

“Not if you dilute it, no,” said Kyle.

“Well then do have some, Craig,” said Tweek. “Just one mug. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t need to feel better,” she said, “because I don’t feel ill.”

“It’s good for you anyway,” said Kyle. “Take it. Doctor’s orders.”

“Fine,” huffed Craig. “But if it kills me, I’m going to haunt you all for the rest of my life.”

“You won’t have a rest of your life if you’re already dead,” muttered Kyle. Craig glared at him in a way that made him feel like he didn’t say that quite quietly enough. She made to storm off but Kenny stopped her.

“Craig—Wait! I never got a chance to thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome,” Craig shrugged. “It was nothing personal. I would have done the same for anyone else.”

Kenny grinned. “But you tried extra hard for me, didn’t you?”

“I tried the exact same amount as—”

“Sure, sure,” Kenny waved a hand. “You don’t want to make the others jealous, I get it.” She gave him a withering look, but he moved towards her anyway. “I’d hug you, but the thought of any sort of squeezing around the chest area is not particularly appetising right now. So, here. Bend your head down.”

“Why?” she said with suspicion.

“Just do it.”

Cautiously, she tilted her head forward, and he kissed her on the forehead.

“There. A thank you kiss.”

Craig pulled a face and rubbed at her forehead. “I’d rather go un-thanked.”

“Too late now!” he declared. “Now, some thank you advice.” He leant towards her and whispered something in her ear.

She snorted and pulled back. “You’re the worst. Absolutely awful.”

“You’ll change your mind once you try it.”

She did not look too convinced. “I’ll be going now. Come on, Tweek.”

“Take your medicine!” Kyle called after them as they left.

“No!” Craig said from down the hall.

Butters shook his head and smiled to himself. “She’s got her hands full with that one,” he said, and it took Kyle a moment to realise that he was talking about Tweek.

“She never really struck me as the caretaking type,” he said.

“In her own sort of way, I think she is.” Butters glanced at Kenny. “What did you say to Craig?”

“A word of advice, from one invalid to another,” said Kenny. He yawned, then grimaced. “Ow. It even hurts to yawn. Do you know that? What kind of ailment hurts to yawn!”

“A nasty one,” hummed Butters sympathetically, and Kyle inwardly groaned, because he was back to his doting again.

“If you’re tired, why don’t you go have a nap?” said Kyle, mostly in an attempt to get him out of the room. “It’ll be fine, so long as you prop yourself up a bit, and don’t sleep for too long.”

“Maybe,” said Kenny, rubbing his eyes. “Will you come with me, Butters?” Kyle observed that Kenny tended to adopt a slightly lower tone of voice when he was trying to get something out of Butters. That something was usually attention, he supposed.

“Let me help Kyle finish cleaning the instruments first,” said Butters. “Go and make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Okay,” said Kenny. “Don’t forget about me.” He trotted off.

They worked in silence, which was a welcome change from Kenny’s incessant complaining.

“I’m sure you’ll get your own thank you kiss eventually,” said Kyle after a little while.

“I wasn’t thinking about that!” said Butters, even though they both knew he was.

“Kyle?”

He turned and saw Bradley in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Captain wants you.”

*

They did not get long together—or, at least, not as long as they’d have liked.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” muttered Kyle through gritted teeth, at the sound of a knock on the door. He was lying on top of the desk, pinned at the hips by the weight of Stan.

He put a hand over Kyle’s mouth to silence him. “Who is it?” he called.

“Nichole. Can I come in?”

The two of them looked around the office, and then down at themselves. There was no platonic explanation for the state of either of these things.

“Just a minute,” called Stan in a strained voice. He stumbled off of Kyle and begam pulling his clothes back on.

Kyle quickly followed suit. “Where’s my shirt?” he hissed, hopping on one foot as he struggled to put a stocking back on.

“I don’t know!” whispered Stan, tucking his own shirt back into his trousers. “No time for that.”

“How am I supposed to explain my apparent lack of clothing?”

“We’ll just say, um…” Stan looked around wildly. “Okay, new plan.” He swept everything off the desk – or, at least, those that they had not already knocked off – then snatched up a crumpled blanket from beneath his hammock. He draped it over the desk, so that the ends of it touched the floor. “Get under there.”

“Excuse me?” said Kyle. “There is no way I’m—”

“What’s all that crashing about?” asked Nichole from the other side of the door. “Is everything alright in there?”

“Perfectly fine!” Stan ushered Kyle towards the desk, who reluctantly complied, and crawled beneath it. “Do come in.”

The blanket blocked out most of the light and muffled the sound, but Kyle could still make out the creak of the door opening and closing, and footsteps as Nichole crossed the floor. “What happened?” she asked, presumably in regard to the mess they had made. Kyle did his best to quiet his breathing.

“Sorry,” said Stan, as he sat down in his seat. “I was sort of having one of my… fits of rage. You know how I get sometimes.”

“Ah,” said Nichole. “I can go. If you need space.”

Yes, thought Kyle desperately.

“No,” said Stan breezily. “I’m alright now. Just had to get it out of my system.”

Kyle had to bite his tongue to stop him from cursing.

“Okay,” said Nichole, still sounding a little unsure. He heard her sit down. “I just came to tell you that I’m off.”

“Off?”

“To find Christophe.”

“Oh,” said Stan, significantly less nonchalant. “Right.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, one which only added to Kyle’s irritation. He was not supposed to be here. He shouldn’t have to suffer through this awkward conversation without being able to see so much as their shoes.

“I only met him again a few months ago,” said Nichole suddenly. “I’ve not—This isn’t some illicit affair I’ve been hiding since the beginning, if that’s what you thought.”

Another silence.

“If you’re waiting for me to say, ‘That makes me feel so much better,’ you’ll be waiting a long time,” said Stan.

“I’m just being honest with you,” she said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Well, I don’t,” he said. “I’d rather not hear any of the details.”

She sighed. “You’re acting as if this is a fresh wound I’m poking at. It was three years ago, Stan.”

“You can’t put a deadline on recovery!” he snapped, and it was jarring for Kyle to hear his own words coming out of Stan’s mouth. “You don’t have a right to tell me what I can and can’t get upset about!”

“And you don’t have a right to tell me who I can and can’t sleep with!” A thump as she slammed her hands down on the desk. “I’m sick and tired of feeling guilty about this. You don’t have a monopoly over loving Christophe.”

“I never claimed to.”

“Then why are you making such hullabaloo out of this?”

“Because it’s worthy of one! It’s a contemptible thing to do. Breaking our code.”

“Oh, what code? There’s nothing in the rules about this, and you know it.”

“The—The code of comradery!” said Stan. “There’s a general understanding that sleeping with your friend’s ex-lover is a disrespectful thing to do. Just because it’s not written down on a little bit of paper for you to sign doesn’t mean that it’s not worth something.”

“It’s not as if you didn’t try to get it written down on your precious piece of paper,” she said. “You with your bloody rule six.” Stan made a sharp, coughing sort of sound from the back of his throat, and she scoffed. “What, do you think I never realised what that was really for? You’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “It’s not a targeted attack. It’s a well-functioning rule that applies to us all.”

“It is anything but well-functioning,” she said. “There is nothing on this ship that has created more dramatics than that rule.” She clicked her teeth. “Claiming to avoid conflict by outlawing relationships—As if bottling up feelings ever served to ease tension!”

“How dare you?” he barked. “How dare you come into my office, my ship, my crew, and disrespect me like this?”

“Criticism isn’t disrespect! As your friend, I am respectfully telling you to get a hold of yourself.”

“Oh, so you’re a friend now, are you?” he said. “You care about me when it’s convenient, great.”

“I never stopped caring about you!” she cried. “I cared for you, from the very first day I met you. Everything I’ve ever done here, I’ve done with care. Care for you, care for the crew—”

“Care for yourself!”

“Yes,” said Nichole sharply. “Does that upset you? Does it make you feel small and insecure, to know that I value myself equal to you?”

“No, I just think—”

“Self-respect isn’t inherently at the cost of respecting others. Time after time, you conflate respect with idolisation. I love you, Stan, but I don’t believe you’re infallible. You’re not above me in anything other than rank.”

“This isn’t about me, it’s about you, and what you’ve done!”

“You’re the one who made this about you! This wouldn’t be such an ordeal if you were able to take five God damn seconds to consider anything from anyone else’s perspective but your own.”

“So then tell me,” said Stan. “Tell me, Nichole, how astronomically different is it all through your eyes? What is it that I’m missing that renders you a saint and me a devil?”

“Neither of us are any of those things,” she tutted. “We’re just people. People who can’t control who they love, no matter how much of a bad idea it is to do so. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

“I—I do understand that!” he said. “But it’s still a choice to act on it. You have made a conscious choice. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

“But wouldn’t we be doing a disservice to ourselves if we didn’t pursue it?” she said. “I’m not like you. I can’t live under these silly made-up rules of who can love who and where and when. Love is a weird and wonderful thing. To live your whole life avoiding it is nothing less than a tragedy. I have to follow my heart.”

“Follow your heart? Follow your heart!” scoffed Stan. “You saw him for—how long? A few days, and then you left? This isn’t an epic love story, it’s a lust-driven fling that’s turned out to have unfortunate consequences.”

“And so what if it is?” she said. “So what if it turns out that we don’t actually love each other? That it was just mindless, fleeting desire, and nothing more. Does that make the whole thing worthless? Or—What if we love each other, then fall out of love? What if we last for five years, ten years, fifty, before realising we’re not that keen on each other anymore? Does that mean we should never have given it a shot?”

“It means you will have broken both of our hearts for nothing,” he said. “Yours and mine.”

“I’m not breaking your heart—”

“Yes, you are!” he shouted. “That’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re looking at me and my feelings and my past and my everything and saying, ‘this is worth nothing to me.’”

“Oh look,” she said, “we’re back where we started, where I have to remind you that you are not the soul person who is ever able to love Christophe! By your logic, he would have to remain a pure and holy virgin until his dying days, just to avoid accidentally hurting your feelings.”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“That is precisely what you are saying! You’re demanding that everyone live their lives in accordance to your rules, and then act shocked and betrayed when we don’t. I’m not responsible for your inability to heal from the past.”

There was a final silence. Kyle imagined Stan burning with fury, but when he dared to peek under a gap between the bottom of the blanket and the floor, he looked more like a child after a reprimand. Kyle looked away again. He did not like to see Stan like this.

“I’m not saying I’ve made all the right decisions,” said Nichole. “I know I’ve hurt you. I don’t deny that. And I’m sorry for it, deeply, even if you can’t believe that right now. And it makes me sad, because I never wanted things to end like this. But here they are.” Her chair scraped across the floor as she pushed it back. “Ending.”

“Where are you going?” asked Stan.

“To pick up the pieces,” she said. “To see if I can slot them back together into some sort of shape that remotely resembles a life again. A new life if Christophe will have me.” Her shoes tapped on the hard wood as she walked to the door. “I hope that one day you’ll learn to let go. When you do, come find me. Just ask any urchin in the city for Christophe—or the Mole. Ask for the Mole King. They all know who he is.”

The door creaked as it opened and shut, and then she was gone. The air seemed colder without her here. Kyle was going to miss her, even if Stan did not.

It was a minute or two before the blanket lifted and Stan crawled in. “I found your shirt,” he said. “It was hiding amongst the rest of my own clothes.”

“Oh,” said Kyle. “Um, thank you.” He put his arms out and allowed Stan to dress him, sliding the cool fabric back over his bare skin.

“I’m sorry you had to hear all that,” said Stan once he had finished refastening Kyle’s buttons.

“I’m sorry you had to… feel all that.”

 Stan sighed and rested his head on Kyle’s shoulder. “I’m just so tired,” he whispered.

Kyle had a million burning questions, mostly about Christophe, and if he was still able to break Stan’s heart, then what did that say about his feelings for Kyle? But he was not cruel enough to ask any of them. Instead, he simply said, “Tired of what?”

“Everything. Or nothing. I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. “Whatever it is, it’s exhausting.”

“Then go to sleep.”

“But we were in the middle of things—”

“I don’t care about that,” said Kyle. “Rest. I’m not going anywhere. We have all the time in the world together.”

And in that moment, it really felt like they did.

Chapter Text

Someone snapped their fingers in front of Kyle’s face. He flinched, and blinked, surfacing from the thoughts he had been lost in.

“Kyle,” said Stan, frowning. They were eating dinner crossed legged on the deck, away from the remaining stragglers yet to leave for the city. It was a nice enough evening, still light out, warm but with the sense that it was a fragile temperature, and that frigidity could encroach at any moment, without warning.

“Hm?” said Kyle.

“Were you listening to anything I just said?”

“Of course I was!” said Kyle. He poked at his food, willing his appetite to return. It didn’t.

“What was I talking about, then?”

“Um,” he said tightly. “Something about—pirating?”

“Nice guesswork, but no,” said Stan with irritation. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” said Kyle. “Nothing’s going on with me.”

“Then why was that the third time this evening that I’ve had to redirect your attention back to the conversation we’re having?”

“You always have to do that.”

“Yes, but I don’t usually get a sense that you resent me when I do it,” said Stan. “Are you upset with me? Because I don’t think I can handle you being upset with me right now.”

“I’m not upset with you,” said Kyle. “Why would I be upset with you?”

“Well, you tell me!” said Stan. “You’re the one who’s upset around here.”

“I’m not upset!”

“Good!”

“Yes, good!”

Stan went back to eating and Kyle went back to pushing his food around his plate, both stewing in the silence.

“You can talk to me, you know,” said Stan. “I want that for our—It’s important that you know you can.”

“I know.”

“So then why aren’t you talking to me?”

“Because I don’t have anything to say.”

“Well, you’ve obviously got things to think, then.”

“I do.”

“So then tell me what you’re thinking!”

Kyle sighed and put down his fork. “Are you still in love with Christophe?”

Stan reared his head back. “Sorry, what?”

Kyle shook his head. “See, this is why I don’t talk about subjects from my ‘things to think about’ list,” he said. “I wasn’t done thinking about it yet. But you made me ask, so you’re not allowed to be upset by how I said it!”

“You think I’m in love with Christophe?” Stan half laughed, but he looked a little offended.

“Well, you do understand how I might have gotten that impression, don’t you?”

“No, actually,” Stan frowned, and set his empty dish to the side. “I don’t.”

“The way you reacted to Nichole’s news, when you found out,” said Kyle. “And the way you keep reacting. It doesn’t exactly give the impression that you’re over him.”

“Not being over someone and still being in love with them are two entirely separate things!” said Stan. “Anyone would be upset if their close friend slept with their ex-lover. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like my inexperience makes my observations invalid.” He pushed a rogue curl away from his face. “Just because I’ve never had a long and impassioned romance before doesn’t mean I don’t have any common sense.”

“Well, you’re clearly lacking it right now,” said Stan, “because I’m not in love with him. Just—Okay, it’s not the same but imagine how you would feel if you found out that one of your friends had got with David behind your back.”

“It’s pronounced Da-veed,” said Kyle with annoyance. He omitted the fact that, before joining the crew, David had not just been his closest friend, but his only friend. “And I wouldn’t care.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” said Stan. “You’re telling me that if you saw him walking along the street holding hands with someone who very much isn’t you, you wouldn’t feel just a twinge of jealousy?”

Kyle pretended to consider this question. “No,” he said firmly, “no, I don’t think I would.”

“Well,” said Stan, as if this was some outrageous claim, and neither spoke for a few minutes more.

Kyle forced himself to eat a few potatoes. They were tasteless and bland, and swallowing them made his skin crawl. He looked around and realised that they were the only ones left on deck. Everyone else had left for the city, or else retired to their quarters.

“You were right, before,” said Stan, who had clearly been thinking about things himself.

“Of course I was,” said Kyle reflexively. “About what, exactly?”

“What you said to me, after I found out the truth about Nichole. It’s not just about Christophe. It’s more about—not what he represents, but where he comes from. She’s dredging him up from the past, and I just feel like she’s going to dredge up other things along with him, too.”

“Oh,” said Kyle, and then he felt sort of guilty, because Stan was doing that young-and-vulnerable face that made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t like to think of Stan as fragile, he liked him as brash and bold and unbreakable.

“I’m not still in love with him,” said Stan, quieter.

“I do know that,” said Kyle, putting a hand on Stan’s knee.

“I’m in love with you,” said Stan, quieter still.

“I know that as well.”

He rolled his eyes at Kyle, thus making a return to being plain old Stan. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say in response to a declaration of love.”

“Well, what am I supposed to say?” said Kyle. “Thank you?”

“You’re supposed to return the sentiment!”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, sentiment returned.”

“Don’t get too emotional, now,” snorted Stan.

“Was that not right either?” asked Kyle. “If there’s something you want me to say, just tell me and I’ll say it.”

“I can’t do that,” said Stan. “Then it would be ingenuine.”

“This is all very complicated,” huffed Kyle. “How am I supposed to complete a ritual when no one’s allowed to teach it to me?”

“Why, that’s the job of mothers, of course,” said Stan. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you she loved you?”

Kyle wrinkled his brow in thought. “No,” he said slowly. “No, not that I can recall.”

“Oh,” said Stan in surprise. “That’s… quite sad, actually.”

“Don’t pity me!” Kyle shoved him in the shoulder. “I had a—a very fine upbringing.” Fine was one word for it. Traumatic was another. A stifling environment that could only ever foster bleak despondency and self-loathing were words three through twelve.

“Kyle, no one aboard this ship had a fine upbringing,” said Stan. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have found themselves here.”

Kyle just hummed vaguely, in an effort to avoid either confirming or denying that assertion. But Stan waited for a response anyway, and so eventually, he said, “I just don’t really think I could consider my relationship with my mother all that bad, in comparison to her and my brother.”

“You had a brother?” asked Stan. Kyle took note of the past-tense in which he spoke, and matched it.

“Half-brother,” he said. “Illegitimate, of my father’s, not my mother’s. Father never told her who Ike’s birth mother was, and so she emptied her resentment out on him instead. He slept down in the servant’s quatres and worked there too. He wasn’t even allowed to dine with us, not once. I wasn’t even supposed to know that he was my brother, but I figured it out anyway. He looked too much like me, but only when he was melancholic, which was often. Mother treated him with cruelty, when she ought to have raised him as if he were her own.”

Stan was staring at him with a mixture of shock and sympathy.

“Sorry,” said Kyle, and ducked his head. “I don’t know why I said all that. We weren’t even that close.”

“Kyle,” said Stan gently. “Your family. They’re…” He moved his hand on top of Kyle’s. “They’re all dead, aren’t they?”

Kyle swallowed and looked at the ground. Never lie to the Captain. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

“That’s okay,” said Stan, and the fact that he was so understanding about it made the whole thing a thousand times worse. “Anyway, look where we’ve found ourselves!” he let out a sort of chuckle. “Talking about the past. I knew this would happen! It was exactly what I wanted to avoid. Damn Christophe, and damn Nichole. Damn them both to hell.”

Kyle felt uncomfortable echoing that sentiment, and so he stood instead. “Let’s do some play fighting,” he said. “Only, I want to try it with real weapons this time.”

“Now that’s more like it!” Stan smiled and hopped to his feet.

They fetched their weapons and took up their places on the bow. Kyle enjoyed the luxury of sword fighting on an empty deck immensely. He did not like to practice in front of others. It made him feel self-conscious, and being self-conscious meant he made mistakes, and it was not such a good idea to make mistakes whilst handling sharp objects.

However, he couldn’t help but get the distinct impression that Stan was going easy on him.

“Stop that,” he said after several rounds. “You don’t have to hold back on account of me.”

“I’m not holding back!”

“You are, otherwise why would I keep winning?”

“Because you’ve practiced and improved!”

“Yes, but not well enough to beat you! This is just like our last sea battle, when you deliberately sabotaged my chances of getting a good fight under the guise of ‘protecting me.’”

“Oh, not this argument again,” groaned Stan. “I was protecting you, and I don’t regret it. I’d do it all again just the same if I had to.”

“I don’t need you to pet my hair and soothe my ego!”

“But you love it when I pet your hair!” said Stan. “And pull it, too—”

“You’re deliberately misinterpreting my point.” Kyle scowled at him. “If I’m inadequate, I deserve to find out for myself.” He sheathed his weapon and stalked to the railing.

Stan sidled up behind him and put his arm around Kyle’s waist. Kyle knew he should protest him doing so, but he melted into his embrace anyway.

“I don’t like arguing like this,” said Stan. “It’s not fun anymore. It just leaves me with a horrible knot in my stomach.”

“I’m not picking a fight on purpose,” mumbled Kyle.

“It sort of feels like you are, darling.”

“Not consciously.” He sighed and rested his head against Stan’s chest. “I’m just wound up by this whole situation. Sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s alright. I’m sorry to involve you.” Stan kissed the top of Kyle’s head. “It’ll all be over soon. Next thing you know, we’ll be back again, sailing the ocean blue, free from all of them.”

“I hope so.” Kyle straightened and stared out across the water. “You know,” he said, one hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword, “before I started sailing, I never knew the ocean could be so many different colours.”

“Did you think it was only ever blue?” asked Stan. “That it was just the one colour, always?”

“Uh-huh. Just plain old blue,” said Kyle. “But it’s not, is it? Pink in the early mornings. Green in the afternoon. And now, at sunset, a rich sort of red-gold. It’s as if the waves themselves were set alight.”

“Alright, William Shakespeare, calm down,” snickered Stan. “It’s just a bit of water.”

“I’m not trying to be poetic,” huffed Kyle. “I’m just… making an observation.”

“I know. I’m only teasing. I like to hear you talk like that.” Stan elbowed him gently in the side, his face lit by a warm glow. “Romantic.”

“We really shouldn’t be doing this here, Stan,” said Kyle in a hushed voice. “Craig’s under the weather so she won’t have gone out tonight, and neither will Tweek. They might hear us at any moment.”

“I’ve flirted with you before,” said Stan. “I don’t see why I have to stop now that we’ve actually got somewhere.”

“Got where, exactly?” Kyle smiled slightly. “Was this always your plan? To wear me down eventually?”

“That is a gross misrepresentation of our relationship,” scoffed Stan, and though Kyle knew it was foolish, he was secretly pleased to hear it referred to as such. A ‘relationship.’ He wondered if Stan might go so far as to think of him as his lover. The concept seemed entirely alien to Kyle, otherworld in a sense that he had never thought that such a word could relate to him. He had presumed that, whatever relationship he was eventually shoehorned into, love would have little to do with it.

He inhaled deeply to cleanse his mind of the somewhat terrifying thought that this was not the case anymore. The air held a musty, dusty quality to it. “Smells of a storm,” he said. “I hope it won’t delay our departure.”

“We can afford to linger for a few days more if we must,” said Stan. “Plenty of time to enjoy the city as a pair.”

“I don’t enjoy them, though,” said Kyle, and then hastily clarified, “cities, not the being a pair aspect. I can stomach that part.”

“Gosh, thanks,” said Stan. “Good to know you can just about stand me.”

“It was a close call,” Kyle grinned with his tongue between his teeth. “But cities, those are an easy opt-out. Too many people. Too cramped, too loud, too busy, too big. Everyone has somewhere to go, and no one ever makes it on time.”

“As opposed to a pirate ship,” chuckled Stan. “Which is cramped, loud, busy and big.”

“But we’re always on time,” said Kyle. He turned back to gaze out across the water. “Much more room to breathe out there.”

“So that’s a no for a night on the town with me?”

He glanced at Stan out of the corner of his eye. “We can go if you really want to.”

“I want to do what you want to do.”

“Well, I want to stay.”

“So let’s stay.”

“Marvellous. What a thrilling conversation that was.” Kyle ran his tongue along the back of his teeth and nodded in the direction of Stan’s cabin. “Do you want to—”

“Stan!”

His heart dropped. They both jumped apart and turned. Nichole was racing up the gang plank, followed by a boy that Kyle did not recognise. He was a few inches shorter than she was, with tousled brown hair and thick, dark eyebrows that pinched a furrow between them. His mouth was a hard, straight line, and between his lips rested a thin clay pipe. Kyle felt Stan stiffen beside him.

“What the hell is he doing here?” he said.

The boy removed the pipe, allowing smoke to coil from his mouth and up into the red sky. “’Allo, Stanley. It’s been a while.” His voice was coated with a throaty French accent, so strong that Kyle had to strain a little to decipher his words.

“I wouldn’t have brought him,” said Nichole, and there was an alarming sense of desperation in her eyes. “But, Stan, it’s urgent—”

“Nothing is dire enough to let him onto my ship,” sneered Stan.

“Is that—Are you Christophe?” asked Kyle.

“In the flesh and blood,” said Stan with contempt. “What is it that they’re calling you now? The Mole?”

“The Mole King,” corrected Christophe with irritation, though he didn’t look much like a king to Kyle. He was dressed in a dark green shirt, flecked with dirt and dust, and had a moth-eaten brown bag slung over his shoulder. He had dark circles under his eyes and slight stubble tracing his square jaw. His haggard appearance hardly created an air of regality. In fact, were it not for the way he carried himself, with a bold, blunt assertiveness, he would have seemed inseparable from any other street urchin in any other city.

“King!” said Stan scornfully. “As if.”

“Jealous?” said Christophe. He flashed him a cold grin, revealing a gap between his two large front teeth. “After all, King trumps Captain.”

There was a tension-laced beat of silence.

“Um, I’m Kyle,” said Kyle because he felt he ought to say something but didn’t have anything else to contribute.

“Oh, I know who you are,” said Christophe, and Kyle’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. “Listen, Stanley, I would not have stepped foot on this God forsaken vessel if I didn’t deem it necessary.”

“Well, you’re not the one who gets to deem things around here,” said Stan. “Whatever you’re after, I’m not interested.”

Christophe gave a world-weary sigh and took another puff of his pipe. His next words emerged like dragon’s breath. “It’s about your father.”

Stan’s breath hitched. “What about my father?” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’ve heard tell through my network—”

“Your network?” said Stan with suspicion. “What network?”

“I have a wealth of insider information,” said Christophe. “You think they call me the Mole King because I like to dig?”

“I think they call you that because you look like one,” muttered Stan.

“Shut the fuck up!” barked Christophe. “I have neither the time nor the patience for your petty little insults. They tell me that Marsh is after a ship called Nobody.”

And suddenly the air seemed thicker and dirtier, and the water seemed a more violent red.

“You’re lying!” yelled Stan. “You’re a—”

“You think I’d come around here looking to play foolish games?” snarled Christophe. “The only person who has lied to you is you. You name drop wherever you go, boast to anyone who’ll listen, and you expect Marsh not to follow your trail? Pathetic.”

“You know nothing about how I run things—”

“I know everything!” spat Christophe. “That has always been your Achilles’ heel, Stanley. You would rather waste your time believing in an idealistic fantasy where everyone acts the parts you have assigned them than face the shithole of a world that God has given us. Jesus, you really haven’t changed a bit.” He took another angry drag of his pipe.

“What’s going on?” Craig emerged from below deck, Tweek close behind her. “What’s all this shouting ab—Oh.” She looked between the four of them in horror. “Nichole, is that…?”

She nodded, face stricken.

“You did always love an audience, Stanley,” said Christophe with bitterness. “Tonight’s your lucky night.”

Stan just stared at him in horror, slowly shaking his head. “Liar,” he whispered, voice growing steadily louder. “Liar, liar, liar! It’s not true. It can’t be true! You’re lying!” He whirled on Kyle. “Tell me he’s lying!”

Kyle was too busy piecing things together in his mind, tripping over his thoughts in his attempt to figure out what was going on. “Your father,” he said. “He was your captain, wasn’t he? That’s who’s after us.”

“But he’s not after us,” said Stan, the pitch of his voice heightening to the point where he sounded slightly hysterical. “He’s not. He can’t be!”

“Continuing to fool yourself will help no one,” said Christophe matter-of-factly. “All it means is that you will be less prepared for when he strikes. Which will be soon, no doubt.”

Stan leant on the railing for support, his eyes so hollow that he barely seemed present at all, which was a terrifying contrast with the manic smile he had adopted. “Bigger ship,” he said, eyes darting back and forth across the ground. “He’s got a far bigger ship. Bigger crew, better trained, could beat us with their hands tied behind their backs.” His smile began to fade, colour draining from his face. He looked up at Kyle. “There’s no way we can win this fight. No hope in hell. Oh—” His voice cracked as he raked his hands through his hair.

“Don’t do that,” Kyle reached out and brought Stan’s arms back down again. He knew how hard Stan could scratch. “We’ll figure something out!”

“Impossible,” panted Stan, pupils dilating. “He’ll have my head on a platter with a flick of his wrist. No time to run, no time to hide.” He swallowed. “It’s over, it’s all over. I’m as good as dead. I’m going to—”

“It’s not you that he is after,” said Christophe flatly.

Stan’s head snapped round at him. “What?”

Christophe rooted in his bag and pulled out a crumpled newspaper. He held it out to Stan, and from just a foot away, Kyle caught a brief flash of the headline.

Royal Engagement! Broflovski Son to Wed Princess Phillipa.

And there beneath lay his father’s altered approximation of his own face.

Stan stared at the paper, then looked up at Kyle. His expression was of pure confusion, like that of a child. “Kyle?” he said in a small voice.

But Kyle couldn’t answer. Every inch of his body had turned to stone, throat hardened shut so that he could barely draw breath.

“That’s—But—I don’t understand. What?”

Kyle bit his lip hard, willing himself not to cry.

Stan skimmed the article, frown deepening. “The Princess?” He looked back to Kyle. “You're set to marry the Princess?”

Kyle didn’t say anything, vision blurring, knuckles whitening on the hilt of his sword.

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” said Stan. “If you’re marrying the Princess, then why are you here?”

“I didn’t marry her,” croaked out Kyle. “I—I couldn’t marry her.”

“But why not?”

“I couldn’t.”

“But—You were going to marry her, and you just didn’t?” Stan blinked and shook his head, as if he could shake off the horrible, horrible truth. His face began to slowly drain from confusion into betrayal. “A life of safety, a home where you’d be waited on hand and foot—and you left it, all to ruin ours?”

“No, that—That’s not it!” said Kyle. But those words were wrong, and his voice was wrong, and everything was wrong, all wrong.

Stan was looking at him like he was an enigma that had finally been solved. “People become pirates because they have no other choice,” he whispered. “Forced here by poverty, by family who reject them and by friends who’ve betrayed them. We’re here to survive.” His expression hardened. “But you… You tagged along because you thought playing pretend at being impoverished would be more thrilling than a life of luxury. You knew this wouldn’t last, didn’t you?” His lip curled. “You lied to me.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I don’t think I ever will,” he said. “Every step of the way, every twist and turn, you kept up that lie. Taking advantage of—of all of us, lulling us into a false sense of security, into believing that you were just like us!”

“I am like you!” implored Kyle.

“You’re nothing like us!” spat Stan. “You’re a rich kid turned runaway because you were bored. Bored!”

“That’s not true—”

“Do you think I would believe a word that comes out of your mouth anymore?” he yelled.  “Don’t you realise what you’ve done? You lied to me, and now you’ve damned us all!”

“I know that!” said Kyle. “I’m sorry, but I had to!”

“Had to?” Stan flung the newspaper aside. “Don’t try to sell me another make-believe sob story.” He drew his cutlass.

Kyle’s inhale caught in his throat. “What are you doing?”

“Draw your sword.”

“I’m not going to fight you, Stan.” He let out a breath, almost a laugh. “I won’t.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Kyle just stood there, caught between tears and an unsure smile, because this was ridiculous. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.

“I said draw your sword!” roared Stan, and he slashed at him so ferociously that Kyle had to draw just to save himself from being sliced clean in two. Their blades collided in the air, crossed. The clang of metal on metal that rang out through the air was deafening.

“Please don’t make me do this,” whispered Kyle.

“Oh, no,” said Stan, voice so cold that it froze the blood in Kyle’s veins. “You have no one to blame for this but yourself.” In a single, fluid motion, Stan flicked Kyle’s cutlass out of the way and brought his own crashing down. Kyle managed to parry just in time, and stumbled back a few paces, already winded.

“Wait, I’m not ready!”

Stan bared his teeth. “Pirates don’t play fair.”

And then he attacked. And attacked. And attacked. Each time inching his way closer to Kyle’s flesh. There was no time for Kyle to do anything but deflect.

“Just give me a chance to explain!”

“I don’t want to hear any more of your twisted little lies,” snarled Stan.

“I didn’t lie!” shouted Kyle. The force of his anger sent his blade slicing past Stan’s sword and across his cheek.

Stan cried out. His hand flew to his face. “Bastard!” Blood poured from the wound like the reunion of the red sea.

“I’m sorry!” gasped Kyle. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologise!” said Stan with bubbling anger. “It’s one of us or the other.”

“It doesn’t have to be!”

“But it does!” He took up fighting again, cutting at him with rabid ferocity. “Because of you, it does!”

“No, it doesn’t!” Kyle deflected each strike with increasing force. “If we could just talk, for five minutes—”

“I am sick and tired of listening to your whiny, snivelling voice!” spat Stan.

Kyle staggered back, as if he himself had been hit. Stan stood, panting, glaring at him with such malevolence in his eyes that Kyle felt like he was looking at a stranger. Or maybe this was just the real Stan, finally revealed after being hidden under layer after layer of fake, put-on personas. A wild, desperate animal, ready and willing to kill for his honour. Kyle’s heart hardened and his stomach tightened. If it were to be one or the other, he knew which one he would pick.

“I never liked your voice to begin with,” he said irately. “It’s much too loud. Just like your personality.”

Stan gawked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Well, your one of many. What must it be like to be so fickle? To live your life darting after any whiff of excitement that comes your way, but never quite catching up?”

“That’s not—”

“But it doesn’t make a jot of difference, does it?” he said. “No matter how many masks you try on and rainbows you chase after, you’re still the same, deep down.”

“And what am I, Kyle?” said Stan with malice. “Do enlighten me.”

Kyle smiled, cold and cruel. “A sad little nobody.”

Stan’s breathing was heavy enough for Kyle to hear. “I don’t know why you ever tricked me into loving you,” he said.

Kyle licked his lips. “Sentiment returned.”

And then, just as he had hoped, Stan charged.

Mother of God. Kyle had known that Stan had been holding back before, but the pace at which he now struck surpassed lightning. His cutlass was in ten different places at once, piercing through the air. Kyle defended as best he could, but with every parry he was forced further and further backwards, until his back was pressed against a mast. There, like a mouse in a trap, he was pinned, with the tip of the sword at his throat. He stared down at it in grim satisfaction as it glinted in the crimson light.

“Do it,” he whispered between ragged breaths. “Kill me. Please.”

“What?” Stan’s fury faltered. “You—Please?”

“I can’t go back.” Kyle ground his head into the mast as tears began to trickle down his face. “Kill me,” he said. “Death would be a kinder fate.”

Stan stared at him, and for a moment he was that confused little boy again, fear in his eyes. But then he set his jaw and seemed to age a lifetime. “You’re right,” he said, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand, flicking it onto the deck. “But I’ve wasted too much kindness on you already.”

The sound of Stan sheathing his blade was more painful than it ever would have been going through Kyle.

“No!” he gasped. “You promised it would be one of us—”

Stan grabbed him by the jaw and twisted his face upwards. “Do not dare to ask me again,” he snarled.

“Why won’t you do it?” Kyle let out a desperate sob. “It would be better this way. You know it would be better this way!”

Stan studied him in the way that he might study something he had ground beneath the heel of his boot. “You remind me of myself sometimes,” he said in a low, purring voice, so that only Kyle could hear. “I hate you for that, more than anything in the world.” He shoved Kyle back against the mast, and tossed a cursory glance at Craig, who had watched on with the others in horrified silence. “Get him out of my sight.”

Kyle did not struggle as he was led below deck. There was nowhere left for him to run.

-

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Chapter Text

Kyle was held captive inside the navigation room. It had hardly felt spacious before, but now it was positively suffocating. Claustrophobia soaked into his veins, so that every time he looked away, and then looked back again, the walls had inched a little closer together, jostling him into a tighter and tighter ball, curled up in the corner, still sobbing.

He had been shoved in here with nothing more than a chamber pot and a dark look, so he had no other place to sleep but on the cold hard floor. He recalled his first night on board, tucked up like sardines with the other pirates in a cosy little cabin. Nothing about this was cosy. It was just small, and silent, and lonely. When his crying had petered off, he rolled onto his side and stared into the pitch black, trying to summon the memory of his crewmates’ gentle snoring. It was a futile attempt to lull himself into unconsciousness.

Not my crewmates, he thought to himself. He wasn’t one of them anymore. Maybe Stan was right, and he never truly had been.

He wanted to fall asleep before he started crying again but did not succeed. The last thing he tasted before he dropped off was a tear as it tricked into his mouth. It tasted like the sea.

Even sleep did not alleviate him from his anxieties. His dreams were complicated, and made no sense – which were, in his opinion, the worst sort. In the longest of the sequence, he was a little, leatherbound book, lost and forgotten in a dusty dark corner, so old and so worn that even his title had faded. He was abruptly scooped up by a pair of disembodied hands. They tried to open him, and he was overcome by a sudden surge of panic that he stuck fast and clamped his covers together. The hands tugged, and tugged, until finally he was wrenched open, and all his guts and entrails tumbled out onto the floor, with a nasty splat.

And then somehow, through the hazy nonsense of dream logic, Kyle became the hands, and the organs belonged to Stan, who was propped up against the wall with his limbs mutilated and his ribcage torn apart, face shrouded in shadows. If Kyle could just fit everything back into place, then Stan would be alright again. Only, he couldn’t, because bits were missing. No right kidney, no right lung, no right leg. He paced about, looking for the absent pieces, until he felt something squelch beneath his bare feet. He looked down and saw that he’d just flattened some pulsing organ. It gave a few feeble beats, and then deflated. Kyle had just begun the impossible task of reinflating it with short, sharp puffs of breath, when he woke up. It wouldn’t have worked anyway – there was a hole in it.

He blinked. The inside of his mouth tasted metallic, and when he touched his face, he found he had been crying in his sleep, too. Resentment flared. None of that was real, and Dream Stan didn’t deserve a single teardrop of Kyle’s. Neither did Real Stan, too. Kyle longed to go back to sleep, just to stomp on the rest of his insides too. But his heart was racing too much to settle back down again.

Kyle sighed, and sat up. He pressed his back against the wall and rubbed his eyes. The room was still dark, but the light coming through the cracks between the door and the wall meant that the sun had already risen. He wondered glumly if he would ever get a chance to feel the sun on his face again, or if he’d be left in here to rot. But then he realised that if he ever left this room then he’d have to face the crew, and he dreaded that above all else.

It was hard to tell how long he sat there until someone came. Long enough to grow hungry, and desperately thirsty. The clunk of the padlock outside seemed both the quietest and the loudest thing he’d ever heard in his life. He wasn’t sure who he hoped was on the other side, but when Craig entered, he was struck by a vague sense of disappointment. She didn’t seem too pleased, either.

She closed the door behind her, and turned, towering above him. Though Kyle couldn’t quite bring himself to stand, he forced himself to look her in the eye.

“I told you so.”

“Told me what?” he rasped. An ache was building from the back of his head, no doubt from dehydration. Too many tears shed.

“Not just you,” she said sternly. “Everybody. I knew you were trouble, right form the moment I laid eyes on you. But did anybody listen?” She crossed her arms. “No. They never listen to me. Craig the cynic, the pessimist, the resident mood-killer. That’s what they think of me. They all put up with me because they know they have to but as soon as my back is turned, they roll their eyes and puff out their cheeks, because I’m just that dull. Well, I was right, wasn’t I?”

She left a long enough pause for Kyle to suppose that question wasn’t entirely rhetorical. “Um, yes,” he said.

Craig sighed and leant against the wall. “But I can’t tell them that,” she said. “I’m not allowed to say ‘I told you so,’ I know better than that by now. So, instead, I have to say it to you. Which, frankly, is not very satisfying at all.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“I know you are,” she said. “That’s why it’s not satisfying.”

There was another beat of silence. Eventually, Kyle asked, “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’ve been sent to interrogate you,” she said.

It was little wonder to Kyle why she had been selected for this job. Craig had interrogated him frequently, openly, and with distaste, right the way through. “May I have some water first?”

“No.”

“I shan’t talk without water.” She scowled at him, but he only doubled down. “Food and water, the both of them.”

Craig pursed her lips. “I think you may have misunderstood who has the upper hand for bargaining here. It sure as hell isn’t you.”

“I know the truth,” he said. “My truth. That’s worth a lot to you, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” she said, but the question was pointless, because they both knew that it was.

Kyle raised his chin in a fashion intended to make him appear immovable and resolute, but mostly made him look like a sulking brat. “Food and water, then I’ll talk.”

She let out a world-weary groan. “Fine. I’ll get Tweek to bring something up for you.”

“Take my chamber pot, too.”

She wrinkled her nose. “God dammit, Kyle, this is not what I was sent for.” But she took it anyway.

Kyle regretted his request the moment that she left. The empty, Craig-shaped spot made it feel like her absence in the room was worse than having no one there to begin with. He began to convince himself that perhaps she was never coming back. Perhaps she had grown so frustrated with him that she’d resolved to save herself the trouble and simply make up a confession on his behalf. He was halfway through imagining the tales she might spin when she returned with Tweek, and then he felt ridiculous, and ashamed. He wished he had moved to a chair whilst she was gone, instead of having to stand up now, which he did.

Tweek placed the plate on the table in front of him. It was piled high with potatoes, and only potatoes. He looked at them, despondent.

“Did you expect a three course meal?” said Tweek.

“No,” he said quietly.

“You’d have had better luck with that if you had married the Princess,” she said.

He didn’t say anything. There was no point in fighting back anymore. He drank the water and ate the potatoes, which had only declined in quality since the night before. When he looked up again, Craig had seated herself at the opposite end of the table. Even though the room was very tiny, she seemed miles away.

“Can I stay for the interrogation?” asked Tweek.

“No,” said Craig.

“I won’t spill the beans about it,” said Tweek. “I’m very good at keeping secrets. And besides, no one talks to me anyway.”

“Go,” said Craig, with enough force to make Tweek jump. She scuttled off, muttering to herself.

Craig studied Kyle with that dark gaze of hers, one that was so intense that he felt as if she were trying to fry his skin off, just to get a better look at the muscle and bones underneath. Kyle didn’t bother to put up at any defences. He just let it happen. There was nothing worth hiding anymore. He simply waited for her to say something.

“Why did you tell us your name was Kyle?”

“Because that’s my name,” he said. “What else would you call me?”

“If you were trying to conceal your identity, why wouldn’t you lie about it?”

“Oh.” He looked down at his empty plate, allowing himself a few seconds to think. “I didn’t think of that at the time. When Stan asked for it, I just… gave it to him.”

Craig raised her eyebrows. It was clear that she didn’t buy it.

“I don’t really like the idea of anyone calling me by something that isn’t my name,” he said, as if that would be of any help. “My father never used it—My name, I mean. I was ‘boy’ to him and ‘my son’ to others. I didn’t—I don’t like that.” He straightened. “My name is Kyle. People ought to call me by it.”

“But you like it when Stan calls you darling, don’t you?” she said sharply.

He coloured. “Well, I hardly see why that matters anymore,” he mumbled.

She let the tension hang in the air for a moment longer before she spoke again. “Why were they going to hang you?”

“I was caught.”

“Caught doing what?”

“Stealing the captain’s food.”

“Why?”

“I—Hang on. We’ve been through this routine before,” said Kyle, with a sickening sense of de-ja-vu. “On the first night, you asked me—”

“How am I to know you were telling the truth back then?” she said. “How am I to know you have ever told the truth?”

“I think we’ve established that I’m not a natural, on-the-spot liar,” he said. “I stuck as close to the truth as possible without going over the line.”

“But if that line was the truth,” she said, “and you didn’t reach it, then you never told the truth. You see my predicament?”

Kyle huffed. He wanted her to trust him, but knew she had no reason to, and never would now. Craig had never been exactly friendly to him, but the way she was treating him like a prisoner—not just a prisoner, a stranger—made his bones ache.

“So tell me then,” she said, “what is the truth? The full truth.”

“The full truth is that I’m not a very good stowaway.”

“But why did you leave your city in the first place?”

“To escape marriage.”

“Why would you propose to someone who you didn’t want to marry?”

Kyle gave a hollow laugh. “I was not the one who made the proposal.”

“But couldn’t you have said no, then?”

He tilted his head at her. “You really don’t know a thing about upper class marriages, do you?”

She gritted her teeth, offended. “I know plenty enough,” she sniffed, but Kyle could tell he had hit a nerve. “Continue.”

“I didn’t want to marry her, so I ran.”

“Why?”

He frowned. “I just said. Because I didn’t want to marry her.”

“No, but what put you off?” She sat back in her chair. “Do you really expect me to believe that you took one look at the power and riches and life of lavish luxury and thought, ‘No, thank you. Not for me’?”

“I’m… I’m not partial to the fairer sex.”

She scoffed. “Fairer sex indeed.”

Kyle looked her up and down and rethought his phrasing, realising that he would likely be considered the fairer of the two. “Women. I’m not attracted to women.”

“So what?” she shrugged. “I expect half the royal family feel the same way. You think that stops them from marriage?”

“But I don’t want to live like a royal!” he said. “Don’t you get it? All those rules, those dos and do-nots, with an empire’s eyes on you at all times—That’s not power. That’s not liberation. That’s entrapment. It’s a cage, a curse! I’ve spent my entire life counting down the days until I was old enough to stop being a boy and start being a man and finally, finally live life under my own jurisdiction. But to get so close to freedom, only to find myself forced towards a future where one wrong move could result in my head in a basket?” He shook his head. “So, yes, Craig. I did look at all that and think ‘No, thank you. Not for me.’ I don’t care if you don’t believe it, not one jot.”

She peered at him for a long second. “I believe that,” she said. “I believe you.”

“Well, good,” he growled. “Because it’s the truth. You’re not going to hear any better."

“What did you mean about wanting to become a man?”

“I meant exactly what I said.”

“Why did you crave freedom so much?” She leant forward and laced her fingers together. “Freedom from what?”

Kyle shrank in on himself. They were now encroaching territory that he was less eager to engage with. “I had a… restricted home life,” he mumbled.

“Restricted how?”

“Restricted as in the definition of restricted,” he snapped. “Rigid, regimented, restrained.”

She rolled her eyes. “All work and no play made you very upset. Got it.”

“No, I—Is that really what you think of me?” he said, and he couldn’t help but feel a little insulted.

“I don’t know what to think of you anymore, Kyle,” she sighed. “Just answer the bloody question.”

He hesitated, then said slowly, “Every inch of my being was my Father’s to control. Every step I took, every place I looked, was because he had permitted me to do so. When I spoke, it was his words that left my mouth. When I thought, it was his voice I heard. When I breathed, it was his air that I was using, ruing it with my filthy little undeserving lungs. At every possible turn, he ensured that I knew just how much my presence cost him. A price that only a princess’s dowry could cover, to save him from the terrible, terrible burden of my existence.” He swallowed and stared down at the table. “Even when he wasn’t with me, his presence hung over me. A thousand eyes, on me at all times. A thousand ears, listening intently. A thousand mouths, ready to report back to him. If I put one toe out of line, he would hear of it within the hour. The only place that I ever felt safe was tucked away in a little boxy room alone with David. But I ruined that, just like I end up ruining all my chances of escape.” He looked up. “Just like I’ve ruined this place, too."

Craig was quiet for a little while. His speech hung heavy and dark over their heads, like a storm cloud. “Who is David?” she asked eventually.

“No one,” said Kyle. “He’s no one to me anymore. Or—I’m no one to him.”

For a moment, there was a crack in Craig’s exterior. He caught a flash of the same pity she had offered him only once before. Kyle didn’t feel any better about it this time either. “Your father,” she said. “Did he… did he hurt you?”

“He never beat me,” Kyle shook his head. “Never laid a hand on me, not once.” He gave an awkward laugh, “You know, I can’t think of a time he ever touched me at all. But he had other ways of—of getting to me.” He smiled sadly. “When I was little, I thought of him as the finest man to ever walk the earth. Strong, authoritative, perfectly controlled and composed. To me, he was a god amongst mortals, and he knew it, and he used it against me.” His face drained of his smile. “A single solitary glare was like an arrow, right through my chest, or up my arms or down my legs. I was like a pincushion to him. And the foolish thing is, even after the illusion of grandiose faded, I still cared. It was still my father, hating every inch of my being. My father, my idol by default, and even then, I wasn’t good enough for him to love. Sometimes—and I know this is awful—sometimes I secretly wished that he would hit me. He’d take up another one of his searing cold lectures, and I’d think to myself, Please, just strike me down. I’d picture it, in my head, as a sick sort of fantasy to distract myself from his hours of beratement. I thought… I guess I thought that would have been easier to deal with, in a way.” He looked at her, eyes suddenly keen. “Because physical pain has answers, you know. It has solutions. It has do-this-not-that’s and it all goes away. But when he—How I felt at those times, that didn’t go away. It didn’t heal like a cut. It didn’t fade like a scar. It just festered, like an untreatable wound. Rotting away at me. I had to get away—It was killing me. He was killing me.” He let out a shaky breath and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t know why I said all that.”

“Because you knew I’d listen,” said Craig quietly. “And that’s what you needed.” She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “I shan’t press you any further on this. I have all that I need.” She moved to the door but paused, hand hovering over the handle. “Kyle, I ought to tell you, because—because you ought to know. There’s to be a vote tomorrow night on what to do with you.”

“There is?” He swallowed, throat dry. “And what are the options?”

She pulled a grey stone out of her pocket. “Maroon you,” she said. And then she took out the black stone. “Sail back to South Port and return you to your father.”

“Oh,” he said, in a small voice. “And which one will you be voting for?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I’m not sure I can bring myself to vote anymore.”

“Oh,” he said again. “Sorry.”

“Me too.” She twisted the doorknob.

“Wait!” he said. “Before you go, I—Stan! I have to talk to Stan. If I could just talk to him—”

“You and I both know that would only make things worse.”

And then she was gone.

*

Time passed like the sensation of nails dragging down a chalkboard. Kyle was so sick with worry that his eyes could barely focus on the table legs in front of him. His throat was so tight that air could scarcely squeeze down it. He didn’t know how much longer he could take in this place before he lost what little sanity he had left. He had to get out of there.

Craig never returned. Tweek did, though, twice daily, to deliver his meals and swap his chamber pot for a fresh one.

“More potatoes?” he said, distraught. “Again?” This was the fourth time he had been served them.

“I can’t be seen bringing you the same food that the crew eats fresh,” she said.

“I’ll get scurvy.”

“But you’re not—You know. I just can’t.”

“I’m not one of you lot,” he said, filling in the blank just fine. “I’m not of equal worth.”

“Actually, I think your life is worth more than all of ours put together,” she shrugged.

“No, it’s—” He stopped himself from launching into a full on rant. Tweek sometimes hung around for a few minutes before she went again, and those few minutes were precious to him. Having already known his secret, her opinion of him had not shifted, and so now, in a cruel twist of fate, she was the least hostile person towards him on board. The last thing he wanted was to drive her away. “Have they held the vote yet?” he asked meekly.

“They’re counting it now.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling suddenly very ill. “And which side do you think will win?”

She shrugged again, though Kyle thought that might have just been a tick. “How am I supposed to know?” she said. “I hold longer conversations with you than I do with anyone else on board, except for Craig.”

“But you haven’t got—a general vibe?”

“No, Kyle.” She put her hands on her round hips. “I have not gotten a general vibe as to whether they’re going to kill you or not.”

“But surely you can—”

“Look, you’re asking the wrong person here,” she snapped. “Because to me, everyone has that vibe.” Her head twitched forward, and she clarified, “the pro-murder vibe.”

His mouth formed around the words of a scathing comeback, but he swallowed it down. It tasted as awful as the cold potatoes. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just—I feel like I’m going crazy in here. Every second that passes, I can feel my brain deteriorating.” He looked up at her, eyes wide and wild. “You have to get me out of here,” he hissed.

“Kyle,” she sighed, “Kyle, we’re in the middle of the ocean. There’s nowhere for you to run.”

“Just out of this room, then,” he said. “This boxy little room. It’s like a coffin in here, you know. Dank and dark. I feel as if I’ve been buried alive.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re being melodramatic.”

He knew he couldn’t afford to tell her that she had no right to criticise him on that front. So he just thought it very loudly instead. “I only meant—Look, you understand what it’s like to feel trapped. To be backed into a corner without anyone else to fight for your side.” He gazed at her imploringly. “Just a better room to lock me in! That’s all I’m asking for. One of the storerooms or something. Just anything but here.” He swallowed, and added, “Please.”

Tweek’s mouth had formed into a wobbly line. “I’ll see what I can do,” she muttered.

Shouts came from outside, and she began to back towards the door. “That’ll be the announcement of the results,” she said. “I have to go. I’m sorry, I—I have to go.”

*

Kyle’s insomnia had grown steadily worse. Tonight – his third in captivity – he slept only in hazy, five minute intervals. His eyes would drift closed, but would jerk open again a moment later, anticipating a visitor who never came. At the height of his sleep-deprived panic, he considered taking matters into his own hands, and delivering on his preferred fate himself. But there was nothing in the room with which to do it neatly, and so he remained tragically alive.

Kyle felt as if he had been awake for an eon by the time the lock clicked, and the doorknob twisted. His head jerked upwards. Tweek stood before him.

“Well?” he croaked.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” she said, shifting from foot to foot. “The good news is that I’ve got you moved to the galley for now.”

“Until when?” he said. “But—Tweek, until when?”

She sucked on her lower lip. “Until we make it back to South Port.”

Chapter Text

Stepping out of the navigation room was worse than being manhandled into it. Craig strode behind him with a gun to his back – a performative act of strength, for there was no doubt that Kyle would comply. The moment he placed his foot on the boards outside the room, everyone fell silent. There was nothing to be heard but the creaking of the ship as it sliced through the waves. He wondered if the crew had been given precursory orders not to look at him, for that was what most of them did – fix their gaze in all directions except for towards him. Those of whom dared to sneak a glance his way did so to varying degrees of pity or disgust.

Kyle hung his head, but an ocean of eyes still burnt into the back of his neck. His wrists had been wrapped in rope once again, and it was as if he were back where he began, bound up and being led to be hung, on a ship where no one knew his name.

But everyone knew it now.

He was relieved when he began the descent below deck, hoping that would mark the end of the onslaught of nonverbal judgement of his ex-crew, yet more pirates came to the doors of their cabins to gawk, far more openly than those upstairs. Kyle’s skin crawled. He had expected to feel indignant or perhaps even enraged, but all he felt was shame.

Passing sickbay was the worst of it all. The door was open, which was unusual, but everything inside was exactly as it should have been, save the absence of himself. Kyle’s heart ached so much to go back there that he thought it might fall out of his chest and drag itself across the floor in a bloody pulp towards a familiarity which he would never be welcome to again.

Kenny and Butters were inside, tucked into the corner where the Greetings from South Port! postcard had once hung. But that was gone now, the only other thing missing. Butters looked at Kyle for a long heartbeat before he cupped a hand over his mouth and turned away, though not soon enough for Kyle to miss his pink, puffy eye and glistening cheeks, smeared with tears. Kenny snaked an arm around Butters and pulled him tightly into his chest, and from over Butters’ shoulder, Kenny shot Kyle a look so dirty that it drew forth a strangled sound from the back of Kyle’s throat. He swallowed it down again and looked away. His heart wasn’t itching to escape anymore. It was just slowly sliding into the pit of his stomach.

“Here,” said Craig when they had reached the end of the hallway. “The galley.” She swung the door open and shoved him inside before he had a chance to say anything, then slammed the door shut behind him. Tweek was waiting inside to greet him, if standing with her back turned over a recipe book could be considered a form of greeting.

Kyle had never been inside the galley before. It was smaller than he had expected, though still larger than sickbay, which some distant part of him resented. Two opposing walls were lined with cabinets and shelves, upon which was cluttered a variety of utensils and ingredients, with no apparent order to any of it. Across from Kyle was a small iron oven, with saucepans bubbling away on the stovetop. There were no windows save a single small porthole next to a hammock tucked into a corner.

“Is that for me to sleep in?” he asked.

“No, it’s mine,” said Tweek. “I sleep in here. I’ve always slept in here.”

“You have?”

“Of course,” she scoffed. “You think I’d bunker down with the likes of them, out there? Not a risk I’m willing to take.”

Kyle did not ask what exactly that risk might be. If he was going to be sharing this place with Tweek for the next few weeks, then he would like to keep her as calm as he could.

“Where do I sleep, then?” he asked.

She gestured vaguely to a pillow and blanket crumpled up in a heap off to the side. “Sort yourself out.”

Kyle did his best to arrange what he had been given into something remotely comfortable to sit on. He slumped in the corner and watched Tweek as she bustled about the galley, throwing this and that into the largest pot on the stove.

“How was your walk of shame?” she asked after a stretch of silence.

“Verbatim,” he said. “Shameful.”

“At least they didn’t throw stones,” she said, and Kyle thought that, in a strange sort of way, she seemed to be trying to comfort him. He didn’t like that idea one bit. Had he really sunk so low that even Tweek pitied him?

The rest of his first day was spent with few words exchanged between them. Kyle found that his craving for company had not been satiated, because it had not been Tweek’s company he had been craving. He stared at the ground and imagined he was somewhere else and, when that became too painful, tried to imagine he was simply someone else entirely. But being Kyle was the only thing he knew how to do, as it was the only person he had ever been before. In any case, recent events had proved that his attempts at reconstructing a new identity for himself were disastrous.

*

By the second day, Kyle had grown bored of staring at the ground, and so he took up staring at Tweek instead. He found that she was a far more interesting subject to study than the wooden planks beneath him. She darted about the galley like a bird, in short sharp hops. Occasionally, she would make a little noise to herself, a grunt or a moan, seemingly a reaction to or remark on whatever had her skittish attention at that moment. Kyle had thought he was being subtle about watching her work, but was proved violently wrong when she slammed down the beetroot, she was in the middle of chopping up.

Without warning, she whirled on him, still brandishing the kitchen knife. “What are you looking at?” she growled. The glistening red residue glinting along the bottom of the knife was not a comforting image.

“You! I’m just looking at you!” said Kyle, as a panicked gut reaction. “I mean—There’s not much else to look at in here. And I don’t have anything to do but look.” He scooted nervously backwards across the floor.

Tweek followed his gaze to the knife in her hands and set it down carefully. She turned back to him, brushing her hands on her apron, and leaving pink streaks. “Well, mix it up a little instead of permanently gluing your little beady eyes to me. You’re giving me the creeps.”

“My eyes aren’t beady!” he said defensively.

“I don’t care what shape your eyes are,” she huffed. “Point them somewhere else.”

“If you could get me my textbooks, then I’d have much better things to look at.” He dared to brighten a little. “I wouldn’t bother you again, if you could—”

“Don’t push your luck,” snorted Tweek. Kyle deflated, and she looked put out. “Hey, you should be grateful I even got you out of there in the first place. Besides, I don’t like the idea of venturing into sickbay at the moment. Kenny seems to be guarding the territory like a wild dog, and Butters along with it.”

“How’s he doing?” Kyle asked, almost reflexively. “Kenny, I mean. Are his ribs healing alright? Is he still—”

“Do I look like a doctor to you?” she snapped. “Oh, I suppose that doesn’t account for much. You didn’t look like much of one either.”

Kyle did not appreciate the past tense in which she spoke, no matter how accurate it may have been. “Could you not even try to get just one book? As a favour to me?” He crossed his arms. “I did save your life, you know.”

“That was your job,” she said. “It was your job to save lives. You got paid in money, not in favours. And besides, I’ve already done you a massive favour by letting you down here. I don’t owe you any more of them.”

“Fine. But the least you can do is just acknowledge my existence once and a while.”

“I do acknowledge it,” she said. “Just in my head. I think to myself, ‘Kyle’s here. Oh, well.’”

“I meant talking to me,” he huffed. “We could talk, you know. We could have conversations. That’s allowed.”

“Talk about what, exactly?”

“I don’t know, anything!” He threw his hands in the air. “Like—Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing?”

“I’m preparing these vegetables to be pickled.”

“That sounds interesting,” he said, even though he could not think of a blander task to perform. But he was so desperate for something to keep him preoccupied that he asked, “Can I help?”

Tweek laughed in his face. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you poisoning the food in a petty act of revenge. I’ll undoubtedly get the blame.”

“I would never do that!”

“That’s just what someone who was planning to poison everyone would say,” she tutted.

*

On the third day, Tweek taught him how to pickle things. This was not her decision, but he asked, ‘what are you doing now?’ so incessantly that eventually she just defaulted to narrating her every action. The process involved concocting a vinegar brine, preparing jars with garlic, basil and dill, and cramming it all in as tight as you could. At the end of every explanation, Kyle asked if he could help, and by the time he began the sixth request, Tweek screamed, “Jesus Christ, alright!”

He was very quickly reminded why he had chosen medicine instead of cookery to study. Pickling was very dull work indeed.

“I don’t see how you can stand to do this sort of thing, day in and day out.”

“It’s not exactly what I had been hoping to sign up for,” she said, “but its not so bad. Besides, I don’t like eating anything that I haven’t prepared myself.”

“Because of the risk of poisoning?”

“Because of the risk of poisoning, yes.”

“Then I suppose you won’t want me helping you anymore,” said Kyle. “I suppose I had better let you finish this.”

She made a high-pitched sound that Kyle thought might have been a laugh. “I suppose you had.”

*

Kyle spent day four staring through the keyhole of the galley door.

“What are you doing?” asked Tweek.

“Staring through the keyhole of the galley door.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve already stared at everything else in here.” He pretended to himself that he wasn’t watching for anyone in particular, but in his heart – that is, what remnants remained of it – he knew that was not the case.

He stayed there all day, alternating between squinting through the hole and pressing his ear to the wood. It was not a particularly comfortable position to be in, and he was about to give up and go back to staring at Tweek instead when the sound of a recognisable gait came from the other end of the hallway. It was him. He was coming. The footsteps grew louder until, at long last, Kyle caught sight of him.

He was dressed for battle, though there was none on the horizon. Knee high leather boots with beige trousers shoved sharply inside. A thick brown belt and a thick black topcoat, which billowed behind him as he walked. A tricorn hat firmly in place over his bone straight hair. A white shirt, with each and every button done up. It was Stan, but not the one that Kyle had once known.

Kyle felt that Stan might sense him watching and turn to make eye contact through the little keyhole. He was sure that, by some cosmic alignment or divine interference, a single look would be all it would take for Stan to understand him.

But he did not look for him. He just rapped on the storage room door opposite, exchanged a few inaudible words with the pirate inside, and then strutted back from whence he came. All the while, his stone cold expression never faltered. Kyle wondered what had happened to that boy in shambles that he had once loved. Shoved deep inside a bottle somewhere, he suspected.

Kyle’s heart broke just a little bit more.

*

It was on the fifth night – or perhaps early in the sixth morning – that Tweek hissed, “Kyle? Kyle, are you awake?”

Kyle was, but just barely, and not out of choice. He was curled up under his blanket, facing the wall, and the galley was dark enough that when he knew he could make a convincing job of being asleep if he remained still, and evened out his breathing. After a minute, he heard the shifting of fabric and a soft thump as she landed on the floor. He counted her footsteps as she padded away in socked feet but forgot the number as he heard the door creek open and shut. He was alone now.

For a while, Kyle entertained the idea that he might truly fall asleep. But he was too busy thinking of what was happening beyond the shut door. He had no doubt that she had gone to meet Craig. He did not know how frequently the pair of them liaisoned, but this was the first time she had snuck off since he had moved down here. He wondered if she had been holding back on his behalf, for despite Kyle’s threatening implications during their run-in at the tavern, Tweek still probably thought she had got away with continuing her illicit relationship with Craig. In a way, he supposed this meant he had the upper hand, an opportunity to blackmail. But what use was that? Tweek had nothing that Kyle wanted. Besides, the animosity that had once burned hot between them had begun to mellow out, and he was not eager to ignite it once more.

He thought back to the night he had witnessed Craig and Tweek’s midnight rendezvous. That was shortly before he’d seen Stan crying for the first time – and, consequently, the last.

This thought struck Kyle like a backhand across the face. Before the truth about his past came out, he had started to let his guard down, and had been living life on Nobody with a vague sense of infinity. A presumption that every event was simply one in a great line of many. But that had reached an untimely end, and sweet memories had grown bitter with the label of ‘last.’ The last time he’d ever eat dinner with Stan. The last time he’d ever fight side-by-side with Stan. The last time he’d ever kiss Stan.

If the first thought had been a slap, then this last one was a knife, plunged between his ribs. He let out a soft gasp and sat bolt upright, slamming his head against the wall in his disorientation.

I shall never kiss Stan again.

He’d known this, really, right from the moment Stan had laid eyes on that damn newspaper, and yet somehow this revelation was a cold shock. He would never get to kiss Stan again. He would never get to rest his head against Stan’s chest. He would never get to catch his eye across the mess hall and know they were longing for the same thing. He took another gasp, but less out of surprise and more necessity, for it was as if his throat was closing over, tight shut with a great big knot. He pulled his knees up to his chest and screwed his eyes shut but tears still squeezed their way through the cracks and traced down his cheeks like knife-sharp sleet. Never again. Not ever. And all because he had been so foolish, so careless, so reckless as to dare to love. It was his own fault, for letting that bottle break, letting himself take Stan’s hand, for—

“Kyle?”

“Ah—Tweek.” He grimaced and scrubbed at his face with the back of his hands, hoping that the darkness would preserve what little dignity he had left. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“I was worried you’d wake and find me gone,” she said. “I knew I’d be right. I always am. Here, let me find a match—”

“No, wait—”

A quick rough noise, and then a tiny light sputtered into the room. Tweek carefully lit a candle and then looked back to Kyle. “Oh!” She flinched backwards. “You, um… Do you want me to blow the light out again?”

“No, it’s fine.” He waved a hand half-heartedly. “I’ve nothing left to hide.”

Tweek sat down cautiously a few feet away from him, as if she thought that he was a frightened animal who might be spooked. “What’s wrong?” she asked slowly, setting the candle down.

“Everything,” he sniffled.

“Everything?” she said. “Just everything, or a specific part of that everything?”

“Both,” he said. “Or—I don’t know. I miss Stan.”

“Oh, Kyle.” There was that unexpected pity again. But for some reason, it wasn’t as bad as when Craig had offered it to him. Perhaps what was coming from Tweek was less pity, and more… sympathy.  “I’m sure he misses you too,” she said gently.

Kyle scoffed. “Very funny.”

“What? I’m serious! He does.”

“Unlike me, he could come and find me whenever he pleases,” said Kyle. “But he hasn’t. It’s not because he misses me, it’s because he loathes me.”

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” she said.

“Of course they are.”

“They really aren’t,” she said. “Everyone starts out thinking that love and hate are two starkly opposing teams. But as you grow older, you realise the lines between them can get a little blurry. When you get to my age—”

“—Tweek, we’re the same age—”

“—You’ll realise that they’re two sides of the same coin.” Tweek dug in her pocket and pulled out a doubloon. She held it up to the light, and watched it glint. “Love and hate,” she murmured, blinking hard as she turned it over. “United as one.”

“That’s rubbish.”

“They’re both by-products of the same thing, aren’t they?” Tweek looked up at him. Her green eyes looked almost yellow in the candle light. “Two sides of one coin. What do you think that coin is made of, Kyle?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Nothing. I resent this metaphor. I shan’t humour it.”

“Passion!” she said, shaking the coin. “The answer is passion. That is what both are comprised of. You can neither love nor hate without passion.”

Kyle sat with that idea for a while, turning it over in his mind. He wasn’t sure if what Tweek said was true, but whatever the case, he wasn’t pleased about it. He looked to Tweek again, whose gaze was wandering awkwardly about the room.

“So,” she smacked her lips, and said in a high, strained voice, “I guess you’re wondering where I was.”

“Not really.”

Her head jerked forward a little. “Not really because you’re not interested, or because you already know?”

“The latter.”

“Ah. Right. Okay then. That’s—That’s fine.” She sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than him. “How long have you known?”

“A while,” he said ambiguously. “But you don’t have to worry. I never told Stan.”

“Okay, firstly, I always have to worry,” she said. “There is never an absence of reasons to worry. Secondly, it’s not Stan who I’m concerned about finding out. Or—Not exactly.”

“It’s not?” he said in surprise. “He already knows?”

“Oh, of course he does,” she declared. “Stan knew from the moment he let me sign on that Craig and I wouldn’t be keeping our hands off each other. And I knew that he knew, of course. That’s rule number one of staying alive: always know what your enemy knows.”

“He’s not your enemy, Tweek.”

“Enemy, Captain, whatever.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Point is that he knew, and I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew that he knew.”

Kyle rubbed his temples, trying to process all that. “But if that were the case, why would he even let you join?”

“Because he didn’t care about that!” she said. “You think Stan let you break rule six with him because you were too pretty to resist? No! He doesn’t care one jot about that rule, you buffoon. No one on here does.” She tugged at a patch of hair round the back of her head. “That’s why it was so easy for me to uncover everyone’s secrets. They don’t exactly make an effort to hide them. It’s everyone else who picks up the slack and goes out of their way not to notice."

“Oh.” He frowned. He didn’t like where she was going with all this. “So I guess… I guess by now everyone knows that me and Stan were—You know.”

She smirked at him. “Everyone knew it before you knew it, Kyle,” she said. “You were the last to know.”

“But then why didn’t anyone say anything?”

“Same reason why people don’t notice illicit activity back on shore: polite pretence. No one’s ever said outright that Butters is in love with Kenny, have they?”

Kyle winced. “Well, no,” he mumbled. “Not outright.”

“Exactly! But there’s not a soul on this ship who doesn’t know it.” Tweek put her hands on her hips. “Polite pretence, through and through.” She paused. “Well, except for Kenny. You have to know about something in the first place before you start pretending you don’t.”

“But don’t you think that’s for the best?” said Kyle.

“I can see why you might think that,” she said, “because you wanted Butters all to yourself.”

“I did not!” exclaimed Kyle.

“Kyle, Butters is one of those remarkable fools who sees the good in everyone. He could make a beggar feel like a queen just by vigorously nodding his head. He had latched himself onto Kenny and then he latched himself onto you. Of course you don’t want to give him back.”

Kyle huffed and crossed his arms. “I resent that assessment! You know it would be a nightmare if Kenny and Butters got together. The whole crew would know about it in five seconds flat, and then what would happen, hm? Marooning, that’s what.” He shook his head. “Don’t give me this ‘polite pretence’ nonsense. It’s for the best that Kenny’s not thought of it yet.”

“It doesn’t seem like Kenny thinks much about anything anyway,” said Tweek. “Sometimes it seems like he’s got a second heart pumping in his head instead of a skull, just to strengthen his body for running around like a hooligan.”

“Don’t be mean!” said Kyle, though he had thought the same once or twice.

“I’m not being mean,” she said. “I agree that, in a way, Kenny’s lucky not to know. Real, genuine ignorance is hard to come by in this world.”

“Okay, I get that blackmail is your whole prerogative, but I feel like you’re taking this perspective too far.”

“I’m not!” she said. “Society is built upon secrets, and that’s a fact. One I had to learn at an early age to survive.”

He held back a snide comment about how plenty of people survived just fine without resorting to dirty tricks, but his exaggerated eye roll seemed to get the message across instead.

“Don’t make that face at me,” she snapped. “You’re not the only one who’s allowed to have an oh-so terrible childhood, you know.”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, well you thought it pretty loudly,” she muttered. “I just think its unfair that you’re allowed to use your poor upbringing as an excuse, but whenever I do it, it’s all, ‘Oh, Tweek, you can’t blackmail this person! You can’t blackmail that person! For the love of God, stop trying to blackmail people!’ Blah-de-blah.”

Kyle noted with some amusement that she had adopted a familiar Peruvian accent for her impersonation. But then he realised what she said, and quickly became annoyed again. “I don’t use anything as an excuse for anything!” he said. “I am what I am with conviction.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I forgot I was talking to the epitome of self-assuredness, and not a boy who I found crying on my kitchen floor, wallowing in self-pity because he was caught in his own terribly constructed web of lies.”

He scoffed, trying to make out that that remark didn’t hurt as much as it did. “Alright, then. Tell me all about your tragic backstory and how it justifies treating everyone like pawns in your convoluted game against an imaginary enemy.”

Tweek scowled. “Who says I want to tell you?”

“Fine then. Don’t tell me. Doesn’t make a difference to me.” Kyle flopped back down in his makeshift bed and firmly shut his eyes.

There was a short pause in which neither moved nor spoke.

“Kyle,” said Tweek after a moment.

“Sorry, Tweek,” he said, “I’m asleep.”

“You’re not asleep.”

“Yes, I am. Definitely asleep. I’m dreaming as I speak.”

“Oh, yeah? And what are you dreaming about?”

“This really annoying girl,” he said. “She keeps baiting me into thinking that I’m going to get a moment of real, human connection, but then she gets too frightened and backs out of it. And I keep trying to tell her that I’m—I’m ready to listen, because I think that’s what she needs, but she keeps pretending that she doesn’t care, when she does. She cares about everything, all the time, so God damn much she thinks it’ll be the death of her.” He rolled onto his side, facing the wall. “It’s the worst kind of dream, that. The ones that don’t make sense.”

There was another heavy pause. “Does this dream happen to include an awful little boy with no self-awareness in it?”

“No. None of them.”

“Lucky you.” She blew out the candle with an angry puff. “I have to suffer through one in the real world.” She scrambled up into her hammock by the light of the moon, muttering to herself.

“What was that?” snapped Kyle.

“Nothing.”

“No, it was definitely an insult. Something about my wrists—Has Craig been putting ideas in your head?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”

“I was, but your griping woke me up again.”

“Terribly sorry,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I’ll be sure to remain silent in his royal highness’s presence from now on.”

There was a tense stretch of silence in which they both stewed in their own self-righteous outrage. Kyle was reminded of the fights he had got into with his brother when he was younger. Ones which he had always won, because he was the nobleman and Ike was a servant, and his mother always took his side. Those victories had been empty, really, but at the time he had valued an undeserved win over an undeserved loss. But what of a deserved loss?

“Tweek?” said Kyle quietly. And then when there was no reply, he added, “I know you’re not asleep.”

“You don’t know that. I might be.”

“I do know that, because I can still hear you fidgeting.”

“I can’t help that—”

“I’m not asking you to stop,” he said. “I just, um… I’m sorry.”

There was a pause long enough for Kyle to think that maybe Tweek wasn’t going to answer.

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes, okay! I said I’m sorry.” He adjusted the blanket self-consciously. “I already said it, so don’t make me say it again.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Jesus, are you—”

“I’m not trying to be fastidious! I just want to know. You’re sorry for what?”

He hesitated, mustering the humility to answer. “You’ve been hospitable to me, even after everything I’ve done. And I suppose I’ve not been very grateful for that because—it’s quite a step down from where I was, you know. But it’s not been as bad as it could have been, and that’s because of you. So, um—” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Thank you for that.”

“Well,” said Tweek. “Apology accepted.”

“Actually, I take back the apology,” said Kyle. “You can’t have my gratitude and my apologies. I mustn’t spoil you.”

“Too late!” she responded. “They’re mine for the keeping.” She cackled softly to herself. “And, for the record, I don’t actually mind having you about. It’s nice to have someone else to argue with other than Craig.”

“What an odd sort of downfall,” he said, “where now you, of all the crew, hate me the least.”

“The crew doesn’t hate you,” she sighed. “Craig says they’re just all a little bit heartbroken, really.”

“She does? Why would she think that?”

“She says it’s because they thought they knew you. They thought they knew you, and then they found out that they didn’t know one part, and then that got them wondering . And that hurts. That can make people upset, and bitter, but it can’t make them hate you. She says that every single one of them would still die fighting for you, same as before.”

“But I don’t want that,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to die for me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t,” said Tweek.

“Thanks,” he snickered. “And Craig told you all this, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Not long ago. She used to come by all the time. Sometimes for food. Mostly to rant.”

“Tweek,” said Kyle, “why doesn’t Craig visit the galley anymore?”

“Ah.” She sucked in a little air through her teeth. “Because you’re here now.”

“But if she said that she doesn’t hate me—”

“Talking to you makes her sad, Kyle,” said Tweek. “It makes her sad, so she doesn’t talk to you.”

“Oh,” he said. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I get it.” Through the darkness, he offered her a weak smile. “I make myself sad too.” There was a little more silence, but Kyle didn’t want that to mark the end of their conversation. “You know,” he said slowly, “given my new insight into your views on love and hate and passion, your relationship with Craig makes a lot more sense.”

“Good luck trying to make sense of that,” she snorted. “I’ve never been able to.”

“Have you guys always been like—this?” he said. “If you hated each other this much from the beginning then I don’t see how you ever got together.”

“Let me ask you a question, Kyle.”

“Okay.”

“If you found a half-starved boy collapsed in the alleyway behind your tavern, what would you do?”

Kyle thought about this. “Not begin an impassioned yet complex romance with him.”

“Ha! You’re lucky Stan didn’t feel the same way about you.”

“Hey!” said Kyle. “I may have been hungry, but I was very much still upright.”

“For the time being,” she said. “I heard you were about to be hanged.”

“You remain upright whilst hanged,” he said. “Did you really think she was a boy when you first met her?”

“Kyle, everyone assumes Craig is a boy when they first meet her. That’s what she’s going for. It’s her thing.”

“So, what did you do when you found her?”

“I screamed.”

“Naturally.”

“And then I ran away. And then I came back to check if she were dead, and she grabbed my skirt and pulled me down to her level and told me that if I didn’t help her right there and then, she would slit my throat.”

“Charming,” he said. “Start as you mean to go on.”

“I helped her out of compassion, not of fear,” she said. “She couldn’t have killed me if she tried.” Tweek sounded somewhat smug about this. “Too frail, at the time.”

“But you did help her?”

“I hid her in my bedroom whilst I nursed her back to health,” said Tweek. “Sneaking her scraps of food when I could. Anything that I could shove into my pockets when Mother and Father weren’t looking. But after a week I had to kick her out. They were getting suspicious about why I was suddenly taking second helpings of every meal. But Craig still came slinking back to me like a stray dog, day after day.” Tweek paused. “Night after night.”

“Gosh,” said Kyle sarcastically, “isn’t young love a beautiful thing?”

“Oh, shut up! I was all she had, okay? And she hated that. She hated having to rely on me to survive. It’s no wonder she up and left at the first whiff of self-sufficiency.”

“I can’t believe that was the only reason she left,” he said. “She really does seem to care for you, in her own sort of way.”

Tweek gave a hollow laugh. “You have too much faith in her. But—I suppose my parents might have had something to do with it, when they found out about Craig and me. They weren’t too happy about some penniless ruffian robbing them of their daughter’s purity.” She gagged. “As if it was theirs to begin with.”

Kyle made an ambiguous noise of disgust in solidarity.

“It’s not as if it was intact before then,” she said. “There’s only so much threatening and blackmail one can do before drunk customers get fed up and take what they want from you.”

Kyle made no noise this time, but his stomach clenched in on itself.

“Craig doesn’t know what she’s talking about, claiming back there was any safer than on here,” Tweek murmured, seemingly more to herself than anyone else. “As if anywhere is really safe.”

“I’m… sorry,” said Kyle slowly.

She huffed indignantly. “Don’t pity me. I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m—I don’t! I’m not offering you my pity. Just sympathy.”

“Well!” she said, as if that was any sort of rebuttal. “And don’t think that these chats change anything between us. Our mutual loathing is still intact.”

“Right,” he said. “Enemies, not friends, to the bitter end.”

“Correct.”

“Two sides of the same coin, though, aren’t they?”

“Shut up.”

There was silence for a while, one which Kyle might have been so bold as to call contented. He wasn’t sure if he drifted off to sleep, or whether his thoughts just blurred together, but whatever the case, the first shout was enough to lurch him back into consciousness.

“What was that?” he hissed.

Tweek sat bolt upright in her hammock. “Shh!” she snapped. They held their breaths.

The shouts multiplied and grew steadily louder. Footsteps thundered outside the corridor as doors were pounded on one by one. A chorus of confused, bleary voices joined the cacophony. The galley door was thrown open, lamplight gushing in like a blinding lick of flame. Craig was standing in the doorway, face carved in shadows.

“Craig?” said Tweek in a small, frightened voice.

“It’s him!” she cried, raising her voice to be heard over the din. “His ship, on the horizon!”

“What? But I—”

“There’s no time!” she said. “Kyle, come with me. Poseidon’s Wrath is upon us.”

Chapter Text

It was the edge of sunrise. Thick, heavy clouds hung overhead, shedding mist onto the deck below. The sky was a strange grey, with orange seeping from the horizon. The sun stained the sea like a bullet hole that bled liquid gold. In contrast to the throngs of crew on deck, their surroundings were eerily still. There was a sense that the whole world was holding its breath, just for them.

Kyle became increasingly aware that he was still in his pyjamas as Craig marched across the deck. They weren’t even nice ones, either – a dishevelled old nightshirt that stretched below his knees, once white but now weathered yellow with age. It was fraying at the hems, and there was a little hole in the high, tight collar. He could not see his hair but felt sure that it had the exploding-out-of-his-scalp quality which it often took on after sleep. He reached up and tried to pat it down. Then he saw the other ship, and all other problems shrunk to relative size.

It was a gigantic galleon, easily twice the size of Nobody. Black wood with silver embellishments. Three stories high, with rows of cannons jutting out of either side. Great white sails billowed from great grey masts. Even at a distance, it was monstrous. Kyle squinted, trying to make out the inscription of its name, written in thick calligraphy.

Poseidon’s Wrath.

In hindsight, this made more sense than his presumption that Craig had simply been speaking poetically. She had never shown much enthusiasm for the myths.

“Here he is, Captain.” Craig shoved Kyle forward.

Stan turned from his position at the head of the bow. He cast a cold, cursory glance at Kyle before addressing her. “You didn’t bind his wrists.”

“I didn’t think we needed to.”

“Half-true,” snapped Stan. “You didn’t think.”

Craig’s expression darkened, but she held her protests at bay. “I’ll go fetch some rope,” she muttered as she trudged away.

“Make haste.” Stan turned back to gaze out to sea without another look Kyle’s way.

“I shan’t put up a fight,” said Kyle, feeling that if he didn’t address Stan now then he would never in his life be able to bring himself to do so.

“I know,” said Stan quietly. Kyle was relieved to hear his voice, even if it were only two words spoken. His tone was identical to the last time they had spoken, filled with bitterness and spite. And yet it had lost its cutting edge, like a blade, dulled from overuse.

“Then there’s no need to bind me,” said Kyle. Stan kept his back staunchly turned to him. Kyle thought of the web of scars that laced across Stan’s skin, hidden beneath layers of stiff fabric.

“It’s not for your sake.” Stan jerked his head towards the fast approaching ship, moving at an unholy pace. “Everything is a game of theatrics to my father. It’s one I intend to win, so you’d best look the part.”

“But he’s not after you,” said Kyle, coming to rest next to Stan. “Christophe said—”

“You are a fool to believe anything that oozes out of that boy’s mouth,” spat Stan. “My father’s goals are never that single minded. Conquer all or conquer nothing.”

“Blind ambition is a weakness, not a strength.” Kyle positioned himself next to Stan, so that he could observe him better.

“Not when you have a ship of his size.” Stan’s eyes flashed. Perhaps Kyle had implied more than he had meant to.

Poseidon’s Wrath was now close enough for the cutthroat crew to become visible. Stan squinted, skin creasing up around his eyes and between his brows. “Looks like he’s upgraded his armoury since I was last aboard. And he’s gained a few new faces in his hoard.” Stan tilted his head and said, with a hint of spiteful satisfaction, “lost a few faces, too.”

Kyle narrowed his eyes at the comings and goings on the ship. There was a mousey-haired figure scurrying across the deck that struck him with a vague sense of familiarity. Did he know him from somewhere?

“Your father himself might have changed too, since then,” said Kyle, allowing himself a fleeting sense of false hope.

With a grim smile, Stan shook his head. “Out of everything on board, he’s the one thing that never does.”

Kyle studied him. He was dressed much the same as when Kyle had last caught sight of him: too-straight hair, too-crisp shirt, too many buttons done up. The dark colour of his hat and coat brough out the darkness in his eyes. “Orderly doesn’t suit you,” said Kyle. “I thought we had established that.”

Stan scoffed. “I would have thought you, of all people, would be the last to complain.”

“A lot has changed since the night the bottle broke,” said Kyle, a little defensive.

“You’re not wrong,” said Stan, contemptuous.

Kyle sucked on his lip and looked back at the galleon, only to be startled by how much larger in size it had grown. He could feel his final moments with Stan slipping through his fingers, and so with a sense of desperation he voiced one of the thousand questions he was possessed by. “Why didn’t you visit me, all this time?”

Stan’s lips parted, but then he swallowed back whatever it was he was about to say. Kyle watched his throat bob, and waited for an answer, but none came. He thought of Craig’s reasons to avoid him, and imagined her words leaving Stan’s mouth. He didn’t like the way they fit.

As if on cue, Craig returned with the rope. Stan began to fashion bonds for Kyle’s wrists with much too enthusiasm for his liking.

“That’s too tight,” he moaned. “If this is just for show then you ought to do them looser.”

“Quit complaining. You’re lucky I’m not wrapping it around your neck for a leash as well.”

Kyle let out an offended squawk. “You expect me to be grateful for that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I—” he began, but was cut short by a voice that cut through the air like a whip.

“Ahoy there!”

At once, the crowd that had amassed Nobody’s deck fell silent. All heads swivelled to the source.

A man stood on the bow of the oncoming ship, backed by a writhing mass of crew. In his hand he clasped a finely made cone-shaped megaphone. He wore a deep blue topcoat, over a white shirt with large, brass buttons and white culottes, almost like a Naval officer, but with a distinctly haggard air about him which suggested otherwise. He tipped his tricorn to his audience, and in doing so Kyle caught sight of tousled charcoal hair streaked with wiry greys, the same colour as his bushy moustache. “Greetings, Nobodies.” His sharp eyes, etched with smile lines, scanned the deck until they fell upon his prey. “Greetings, Master Broflovski.”

Kyle cringed. Broflovski was his father. He hated to be called by anything other than his own name.

“And hello again, my son,” said the man.

Stan’s knuckles whitened on the railing. He had to crane his neck upwards to address his father, who had the high ground—or the ocean’s equivalent of such. “What do you want, Randy?” he sneered.

“Is that any way to talk to your dear old dad?” Marsh’s thick eyebrows drew together. “And if you must address me so formally, then that’s Captain Marsh to you.”

Stan’s scowl deepened. “You are not my captain.”

Randy shrugged, and with a lazy smile remarked, “But I shall always be your superior.” He rested his elbows on the railing, and leant forward. “I suppose you’ve appointed yourself captain of this little fishing boat?”

Kyle could practically feel the rage boiling within Stan, great rolling waves of heat that sizzled in contact with the cool, early morning air. “This fishing boat ain’t so little,” said Stan through gritted teeth. “And our plentiful weapons are not for killing fish.”

“A threat?” Randy reared his head back. “So soon? But we’re hardly getting started. And we needn’t start at all if you give me what I want.”

“And what might that be?”

“Your most valuable possession on board.” Randy gestured to Kyle. “Our fiery little runaway.”

“Our?” scoffed Stan. “He is not yours. He’s mine.”

Kyle might once have felt flustered at the thought of Stan behaving in such a possessive manner towards him – if not a little patronised – but this was less flattering and more bone chilling, to bear witness to a competition of who would obtain the honours to ruin his life.

Poseidon’s Wrath had drifted across the water so that they were no longer nose to nose, but instead were side by side with a considerable distance maintained between them. “He doesn’t have to burden you for much longer,” said Randy. “You hand him over to us, and we’ll see he makes it back to shore in one piece.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

A smile split Randy’s face in two. “I’m so glad you asked.”

A single cannon ball, seemingly out of thin air, but presumably from one of his many cannons, was fired. All eyes followed its graceful arc as it pitched into Nobody’s middle mast. It toppled, sending sails, and rigging crashing down around them. Shouts of surprise and pain arose. Kyle watched it all in lead-like dread, a sickening sense of de-ja-vu dawning with the rising sun.

“I do hope that answers any burning questions you might have had,” said Randy, scanning the mess he had made with glee.

Kyle surveyed his old crew as they emerged from beneath fallen sails like babies from swaddling cloth, before turning back to help their friends. He whirled in Randy’s direction. “I’ll comply!”

“Excuse me?” snapped Stan. “I think you’re mistaken on who calls the shots around here. It isn’t you.”

Kyle couldn’t look Stan in the eye, for fear that that would be all it took to buckle his will (and potentially his knees). “I’ll go with you,” he said to Randy, raising his chin.

“Keep your damn mouth shut, Broflovski!”

Kyle was so shocked to be called that by Stan that he was rendered momentarily speechless. Randy filled the silence instead.

“Oh, listen to the toff, Stanley! He’s clearly the more sensible one between you two.”

Kyle could sense Stan’s indignance flaring up again and knew he had to quell it, fast. “Stan, it’s the only way,” he said in a hurried whisper. He allowed himself to make eye contact, intending it to be for just a brief imploring second, but found he could no longer tear away. “If I don’t go, we’re all dead.”

Stan gazed at him, cool and calculating. Kyle waited to see a flash of humanity behind his eyes, but there was nothing there. They were hollow. At last, he said, “Draw closer. Raise the gangplank.”

“Looks like you’ve got some sense rattling around in that head of yours after all,” chuckled Randy.

Stan set his jaw. “You’re not to send your men over until I say so.”

“Whatever floats your boat, kid. I’m here all day. Drag out sweet goodbyes as long as you want.”

Kyle took a step closer to Stan and lowered his voice. “May I have your dagger?”

“What?”

“Not to keep!” said Kyle hastily. “I just—I’d like to cut my bindings before I leave. I sort of… need to stick my arms out when I cross a gangplank.” He ducked his head in embarrassment. “For balance.” Even in these final moments he could not be spared an ounce of dignity.

Stan gave an exaggerated eye roll. “You’d have better luck letting yourself plummet into the water.”

“You know I can’t do that,” sighed Kyle. “Just, please? It’s the least I’ve ever asked of you.”

Stan chewed the inside of his cheek. “Turn around. I’ll do it myself,” he said, drawing his dagger from inside his jacket. “You’ll only end up hurting yourself if you try.”

Kyle presented his arms without protest, which were pinned behind his back.

“Keep still.” Stan’s voice was low and gruff in a way that sent tingles down Kyle’s spine. Goosebumps prickled as he listened to the sawing of a knife through thick twists of twine. He longed to hear more whispered words with which he could project a sense of intimacy onto, but alas, none came, until, too soon, the rope loosened, and Kyle was freed.

He turned to look at Stan, who was tucking his dagger away once more. He looked so much older than he had on the day Kyle had first laid eyes on him. No one should have to grow up so quickly, Kyle thought, and he ached to think he was responsible for this.

“Are you ready now?” asked Stan. “No more extra precautions to make sure you remain upright?”

“Not yet,” said Kyle, hearing his voice crack at the end. “Just allow me one last thing.”

“And what might that be?”

Kyle drew closer and raised his hands towards Stan’s head. Stan went tense, and flinched away instinctively, eyes flashing.

“I promise I shan’t hurt you,” said Kyle. “I couldn’t if I tried. But it’s your turn to keep still now, okay?” To his relief, Stan returned to his spot, muttering darkly but otherwise obliging. Cautiously, Kyle reached up and plucked Stan’s tricorn off his head. Stan made a small noise of surprise, and a louder one when Kyle laced his fingers through Stan’s hair, recreating his artful ruffles. He replaced the hat, and said plainly, “It was all going in the wrong direction.”

Stan looked thrown. He cleared his throat and straightened up. “Is that all?”

“No.” Kyle reached towards Stan’s neck, and undid his top button. He felt Stan stiffen beneath his touch, but was allowed to work his way down two more. Finally, Kyle fisted a portion of Stan’s shirt fabric on either side of his hips and tugged it upwards a little, so that it hung looser over his frame. Kyle stepped backwards again, admiring his handiwork.

Stan blinked at him in wide-eyed dismay.

“I just wanted to put you back as I found you,” whispered Kyle.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry for what I’ve done.”

“I—I’m sorry too.” Stan’s voice wavered at the end.

“Goodbye, darling.” Kyle kissed Stan on the cheek, just softly, lips barely brushing skin. And then he left.

He drifted slowly across the deck, as if in a daze. His pace was not in a bid to delay the inevitable, but instead because if this were his own funeral procession he was walking, then he would at least give himself the respect he deserved.

The gangplank hadn’t yet been lowered as the ships were still not close enough to reach. Kyle had almost made it to the spot on the starboard bow with which the plank was normally positioned before he felt a fist grab his collar and yank him sharply backwards. He barely had time to speak before something cold and metal was jammed against the back of his head.

“Leave us the hell alone!” roared Stan. “Or I’ll blow his brains out!” He snaked his free arm across Kyle’s chest and wrapped his hand around his throat. Kyle made a strangled sort of noise, more out of shock than anything else. He could not see Stan’s face, but could feel him trembling against him.

Randy looked over from the gaggle of men he was issuing orders to. “Sorry?” he said breezily.

“If you don’t crawl back from whence you came, I’ll pull the trigger!”

Kyle heard the click of the safety catch, and his heart dropped. “No, please!”

“Yet more threats!” tutted Randy, shaking his head. “I raised you better than this, Stanley."

“I mean it! I’ll do it, I will!”

Randy licked his lips. “Alright then,” he said. “Do it.”

“I—What?”

“Here, I’ll give you a little incentive,” he continued, lacing his fingers together. “If you kill that kid, right here and now, then I’ll let the rest of you off scot free.”

Stan had fallen silent. Kyle could feel the shakes growing stronger.

“Rid yourself of two burdens with one stone!” Randy spread his arms. “It’s an offer you can’t possibly refuse.”

Kyle felt something wet hit the back of his neck, and realised it was tears. They were accompanied by a stifled, throaty wail of a sob from behind him, one which made his skin tingle. He squeezed Stan’s leg. “Do it,” he whispered. “Kill me. Please. For the sake of us all.” But all he got in reply was a loud, gasping breath of desperation.

“But what’s this?” Randy clasped a hand to his chest. “Could it possibly be that you are refusing my offer? Now, who could have seen that coming?”

“You’re a monster!” screamed Stan. “You’re a sick God damn animal!”

Randy raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I am, am I? Do go on.”

“Tempestuous creature! An abomination more despicable than you has never walked the earth nor sailed the seas!”

Randy nodded seriously. “Are you finished? Or will you be dragging this execution out any longer?”

With a screech, Stan shoved Kyle away and staggered backwards. His pistol fell from his hands, and he began clawing at his head, as if desperate to scrape out whatever was rotting away inside.

Randy tilted his head, observing the spectacle he had created.

“Pitiful,” sneered Kyle. “You think this will make you happy? Driving your own son to tears? That this is the one thing that could possibly give your miserable little life a sense of purpose?”

Randy’s face soured. “I’m tiring of this conversation.” He waved a hand at his men. “Fire.”

The sound of the cannons was like the screams of sirens. A volley of cast iron balls rained down upon them. Nobody shook with the impact, giant splinters and plumes of dust billowing upwards. Kyle found the ground suddenly swept from beneath him and was sent careering to the floor. He hit the deck with a crack and, with the ship on a tilt, he tumbled to the side. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Stan shriek “Return fire!” from the other end.

“Are you insane?” Craig stumbled from the smoke. “Stan, he’ll tear us to shreds! We’ve no choice but to surren—”

“I said, return fire!”

Yet more smog was churned up as pirates raced to their battle stations. Kyle dragged himself to the side, to narrowly avoid being trampled in the ensuing chaos. Screeching, shrieking, sobbing. The desperate cries of children who only ever wanted a home. A family. A sense of safety. All gone now.

Some of the crew must have already been stationed at the ready below deck, for several cannon balls were immediately let loose on their enemies. It seemed to barely make a dent in their hull, pitiful in comparison to the damage Nobody had already sustained.

Poseidon’s Wrath returned fire, and the screaming of sirens quickly became the screaming of his friends. Kyle scrambled unsteadily to his feet and began staggering towards Stan. His head was spinning, trying to adjust to how quickly things had gone from bad to deadly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Craig had to shout to be heard over the din.

“What’s right!” Stan yelled back. His head jerked back and forth, like a wild animal. “What I should have done a long time ago!”

More hits rained down around them. Kyle had to grab for the rigging to avoid being bowled over a second time. He made it to Stan’s side but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“You’re going to get us all killed!” screamed Craig.

“Better dead then back under his command!”

“That’s not true!” Craig tore her hands through her hair. “What is wrong with you?”

More firing. More screams. Bebe rushed towards them. “Stan, there’s a fire on the lower deck!”

“There’s what? Is anyone hurt?” asked Kyle.

“I don’t know, but it’s spreading fast. We can’t keep fighting down there!”

“Then we bring the fight to them!” said Stan. “Board their ship!”

“Listen to yourself, Stan!” cried Craig. “We’d only be slaughtered sooner.”

“It’s better than—”

“It’s worse than all other options!”

“And what alternative do you propose?”

“Surrender. It’s our only choice—”

“And let him win?”

“He’ll win, whether we let him or not!”

A particularly heavy volley hit, making them all jerk violently on their feet. 

Craig clenched her hands into fists at her side. From between gritted teeth, she spoke. “Stan, I’m relinquishing you of your command.”

Stan reared back. “You’re what?”

Kyle’s jaw dropped. “Can she do that?”

“I can and I will!” she said. “I will not allow you to lead us all to slaughter!”

“You don’t get a choice! I’m your captain!”

“Not anymore, you’re not.” Craig turned to Bebe. “Raise the white flag. Tell everyone to get above deck.”

“Don’t listen to her!” snapped Stan, but Bebe was already darting away. He shot daggers at Craig. “Betrayal! After all we’ve been through—”

“—You’re not in your right mind—”

“—Mutiny—”

An explosion drowned out their argument and set Kyle’s head ringing again. His hands flew over his ears, but he couldn’t block out the sound of his own self crying.

Over on Poseidon’s Wrath, Randy had returned with his megaphone. “Is that a white flag which I see before me?” he declared. “So soon? But we were just getting started!”

Craig cupped her hands around her mouth. “Yes! We surr—”

Stan lunged at her, knocking her to the ground. They scuffled, spitting, and hissing, cursing each other’s names.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Randy, and he motioned for his men to board. The gangplank they dropped was wide and thick, enough for a hoard to cross at once.

Every molecule of air vanished from Kyle’s lungs. He fell to his knees, screwed his eyes up and ground the heels of his hands into his sockets, letting loose a low moan. The mass slaughter of his friends was not one he could bring himself to witness. He would tear his own eyes out if it came to it.

Footsteps pounded around him like gunshots, but as for actual gunshots, he heard surprisingly few.

“Up you get, Broflovski.”

Slowly, Kyle tilted his head upwards. Randy was towering above him with his hands on his hips. Kyle looked around, and found that instead of bodies littering the deck, the crew were being led in a slow march onto Poseidon’s Wrath with their hands above their heads, tragically alive.

“W-Why?” Kyle stared at Randy, his voice wrecked. “Why are you doing this?”

“I have grand plans for them all,” said Randy airily. “But I have grander plans for you.” He offered a hand to help Kyle up, but Kyle snubbed him and stood by himself.

“Where’s Stan?” he asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

“Doing what he does best,” said Randy, gesturing across the deck. “Running from his problems.”

Kyle looked to where he had pointed and saw a Stan-shaped blur whizzing in between two burly men from Randy’s crew. He darted from their grasps, shrieking. His eyes were wide and wild with animalistic fear.

Kyle rushed towards him. “Stan!”

Stan didn’t even look at him. He just kept on moving as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Stan, it’s over. There’s nowhere to run. I—Stan! Can you hear me?”

Randy joined Kyle’s side with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. “I always said he was more of a beast than a boy. There’s no point trying to communicate.” He pushed back his coat and drew his pistol. “Only one way to take down a rabid thing like him.”

Kyle drew in a sharp breath. “No!”

A gunshot.

Stan went down with a yelp. He landed in a tangled heap on a pile of debris. Kyle raced to his side without any care for his own safety. Blood gushed from a wound on Stan’s right leg, seeping into his clothing and staining the floorboards scarlet.

“Stan!” Kyle cradled Stan’s face in his hands. “Oh, Christ, Stan.”

Stan gazed up at him with unexpected lucidity, before his gaze sunk downwards to where he had been shot. “God damn it.” He wrinkled his nose. “What a—What a waste of a handsome pair of trousers.” His eyelids fluttered and he slumped backwards, limp.

Kyle screamed, first in anguish and then in rage. “What have you done? What have you done?”

“What I wanted to,” said Randy. He slid his pistol back into his holster. “Just as I always do.” He nodded to one of his men. “Take him back to our ship, before we succumb to the same fate as this wretched vessel.”

“Careful!” clamoured Kyle as Stan was taken away. “Hold him gently—Don’t touch the wound—Need to stop the bleeding—”

Flames had crept from below deck to above it now, licking up and across the rigging. Randy put a firm hand on Kyle’s back and pushed him across the gangplank. It was wide enough that Kyle didn’t have to hold out his arms. They remained deadened by his side.

The air was colder on Poseidon’s Wrath, but clearer, unburdened by billowing smoke. Kyle clung to the portside railing and gaped silently at the burning wreckage before them. He thought of how much laughter that ship had held, how much love, how much life. It had been a sanctuary to those who had nowhere else to go. A safe haven for the damned. But that dream was finished now, consumed by icy fire and bloody waters. Kyle bowed his head in mourning.

Nobody was dead. The rest of them would no doubt follow.

Chapter Text

Nobody’s crew appeared far more pitiful now that they were on Poseidon’s Wrath. Kyle wondered if it were the colossal size of this new ship that dwarfed them, or if their numbers had been thinned from battle. Kyle started to search for familiar faces remaining but stopped himself before he could start counting the heads. He didn’t want to know the answer. Huddled on the bow, the crew looked like a bedraggled group of lost kids, bewildered, and held at gunpoint. Far from the fearsome, cutthroat pirates that they had once been.

Nobodies. That’s what they were now.

Kyle moved to join them, but a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and jerked him backwards.

“You stay with me, boy,” Randy said, with the casual air of someone who had not just shot his own son. “You’re not like them. You’re not one of them.”

As if Kyle needed reminding. “Where is Stan?” he demanded, eyes flashing. “Take me to him.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Randy said. “Stay put.”

Kyle did as he was told, but out of desperation, and not respect. Sure enough, Randy returned half a minute later with a burly man lumbering behind him. The henchman was carrying Stan bridal style, a fact which Stan did not appear pleased about. Kyle noted with a little relief that a piece of cloth had been half-heartedly tied around Stan’s leg in a fashion which Kyle deemed far too loose. Blood was already soaking through it. He wondered if they had got the bullet out alright, or even bothered to at all.

“Halt, Barbrady,” Randy said, with a flick of his wrist. He had positioned his inferior just ten feet away from the shivering captives, and though Randy addressed Stan when he spoke, it was apparent to Kyle that this was intended to be a spectacle for all of them to see. Stan was to be made an example of – a demonstration that insolence would not go unpunished.

“I hope you’re happy, Stanley.” Randy turned Stan’s face roughly towards him. “Look at the mess you’ve made.”

“Couldn’t be happier,” Stan snarled, voice painfully hoarse. He struggled against Barbrady’s vice-like grip. “Will you tell him to put me down? I can stand by myself.”

Inwardly, Kyle thought that this was unlikely, but he kept his trap shut, afraid that any small sign of rebellion would only push Randy’s destructive behaviour further.

“No,” Randy said, patting his son’s forehead with a smile, “I want you right there.”

This didn’t stop Stan from making another futile attempt to break free, grunting and panting as he wriggled in vain.

Randy rolled his eyes. “Oh, just drop him,” he said to Barbrady in an exasperated tone. Without hesitation, Barbrady let his arms go slack. Stan tumbled to the floor with a yelp.

“I thought this was what you wanted, hm?” Randy bent over him. “Aren’t you going to stand up?”

Stan just lay there in a crumpled heap, breathing laboured. “If you’re going to kill me,” he wheezed, “can you just do it now? This is all very trite.”

“Kill you!” Randy’s eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens, why would I do that?” He straightened up. “No, I shan’t be killing you today. In fact, I’ve decided to be generous. I’ll let your crew save you instead.”

Murmurs rustled throughout Stan’s crew like the wind.

Randy silenced them with a single sour glance. “Children, if you are going to pretend that you are adults, then you must take the responsibilities of them. A captain must be cared for by his crew, mustn’t he?” Randy grinned. “A crew which is no doubt as adept as you are, Stanley.”

Stan locked eyes with his father. “I’d trust them with my life,” he whispered.

“Good. Because you’re about to.” Randy turned to face the crowd. “Tell me, kids, which one of you likes to play at being sawbones?”

The crowd remained as hushed as a graveyard. Stan’s eyes flicked towards Kyle. He gave a tiny shake of his head, almost imperceptible. Kyle chewed on his lip to keep himself from crying out.

“Oh, come now,” Randy purred. “Didn’t one of you take charge of nursing everyone’s little cuts and scrapes?”

Still no response.

Randy sighed, and drew his pistol. He aimed it at Stan’s head. “Don’t make me put him out of his misery.”

“It’s me!” The words were pulled between Kyle’s lips like a hook had been lodged in his tongue. “I-I’m the doctor.”

“And me!” Kyle turned to see Butters pushing his way through the crowd. He stepped forward, jaw raised and brow furrowed. “I’m his assistant.”

Randy looked between the two of them, face lighting up, as if he had just been given the best news of his life. “You’re pulling my leg.” He shook his head. “Not just the runaway, but this squirt? You don’t look like you could handle a feather, let alone a knife.”

Butters’ hands clenched into fists at his side. “Don’t infantilize me,” he growled.

Randy bent with his hands on his knees, crooning. “That’s a mighty big word for such a little someone.”

“I could manage just fine with a knife!” said Butters between gritted teeth. “It’s me with a sword that you ought to watch out for.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Randy straightened up again. “I’m quaking in my boots.” He turned back to Kyle. “Here’s what’s going to happen, boy. I’m going to take this sorry sod” —he gestured to Stan, still collapsed on the floor with a look of growing alarm— “down to sickbay, and you two will come with me to work your medical magic. Got that?”

“Yes,” said Kyle.

“Yes, what?”

Kyle stared at him for a moment. “If you’re waiting for a ‘captain,’ you shan’t be getting it,” he said.

“A sir might be nice.”

“You’ll have none of them either.”

“Very well, have it your own way.” Randy gestured for Barbrady to grab Stan again. “Follow me.”

Even walking behind Butters, Kyle felt tiny. Everything on this ship seemed to serve as a reminder that he was a child and Randy’s men were not. The size of the windows, the height of the door handles, the intensity of the glares from the enemy crew

 As they were led across the deck, Kyle found himself drawing closer to Butters, until they were side by side, despite the narrowness of the oncoming stairwell. Kyle wished he could be walking next to Stan instead, for he had fallen uncharacteristically quiet. He supposed that whilst this place may seem unpleasant as a newcomer, the pain must be tenfold to someone who had already suffered here for years.

Without saying anything, Butters took Kyle’s hand in his own. Kyle looked at him, taken aback at the gesture of comradery. Butters’ hand was small, warm, and calloused. Kyle’s were ice cold and laced with thin scars across the palms.

“Aren’t you awfully upset with me?” whispered Kyle.

Butters shook his head, face plain.

“Why not?”

“Because I understand why you lied. If I had thought Grandmother would follow me to the ends of the earth after I’d run away, I would have lied to Stan too.” He shivered. “I might have done a lot worse.”

 Kyle swallowed and looked down at his feet. The once shiny leather of his boots had become matte, caked in dust and dirt and dried blood.  “We’re not the same,” he muttered. Butters was kind, and selfless, and loved. Kyle wasn’t any of those things.

“I didn’t say we were the same,” said Butters. “All I said was that I understood. And that I don’t resent you.”

“You should,” said Kyle. “You should be furious. Wrathful. Enraged. People have died because of me, you know. More probably will.”

“I know,” said Butters. “I… I know, Kyle. I know.”

Kyle’s eyes went wide. His head jerked upwards. “Is Kenny—”

“Kenny’s fine,” Butters reassured him. “He’s in rough shape, but he’s alive.”

“I suppose that’s more than some can say.”

The procession came to a halt outside of a study oak door. “Let’s just focus on making sure Stan can say it, too,” whispered Butters. He squeezed Kyle’s hand before letting it drop.

“Ah, good,” said Randy. “I was beginning to wonder if you two planned to perform the procedure whilst holding hands.”

Kyle gave him a cold look but did not rise to the bait. If it was one thing this man thrived for, it was a reaction, and Kyle would be damned before he gave him the satisfaction of one.

“Are we going to dawdle in this hallway all day?” asked Stan. “I’m dripping blood all over the floor, and it’s going to be harder to get out of the wood the longer you leave me here.”

“Ever an impatient brat,” muttered Randy, and kicked open the door.

Were the circumstances altered, Kyle might have been delighted to have the chance to operate in this medical bay. The room was at least twice the size of the sickbay back on Nobody, with a wealth of sharp and shiny instruments lining the walls. Kyle eyed the well-stocked bookshelf hungrily, mourning the loss of his own collection, which had no doubt turned to pulp in the waters by now. Stan was thrown carelessly down on the examination bed and Kyle was flooded with guilt. His belongings were not the most tragic loss so far. If he wasn’t careful, that title might belong to Stan’s life.

“There’s straps on the table,” said Randy, leaning against the doorframe whilst his men lit the wall lamps. “You’d best tie him down. You know how he likes to run.”

“I’d thank you not to tell me how to do my job,” said Kyle curtly. He looked at Stan. “Bound or unbound?”

“I’ll manage without restraints,” scoffed Stan.

Kyle let him be, and turned to Butters, who had been rummaging in cupboards. “I’ll need some tweezers, tissue forceps, scissors, and a needle and thread. And something for him to bite down on.”

“I’m not sure if—Oh, here we go. I’ve found the first three, at least,” said Butters, as he handed Kyle his instruments. Kyle took a lamp off the wall, to sterilise them in the flame. He would not be taking any chances. “Ready?” he looked up at Stan.

“No,” said Stan. “Do it anyway.”

Kyle nodded, thinking of how daunted Stan had been when all Kyle had been doing was sewing up a small gash on his back. He wished he could say more, something to quell the frightened look in Stan’s eyes, to reassure him that everything would be alright. But he could find no words that would be appropriately spoken in front of the likes of Randy, and besides, he didn’t want to lie to Stan anymore. It might not be all right. He gestured to Butters to put the rag in Stan’s mouth.

Kyle didn’t want to waste time looking for pillows or wedges to elevate Stan’s leg with, and so, with great remorse, he was forced to pull a stack of large books off of the shelf and use that instead. The knot of the bandage was sloppily tied around Stan’s calf, so Kyle was able to unwind it with ease. He set the leg down on the books and studied the wound with intent, beginning the process of shifting into cold, detached medical mode.

Butters joined him on the opposite side of the table, peering at it with his eyebrows pinched together. “I can see the bullet, at least, even if it is in deep. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“It’s not just the bullet that we have to worry about,” Kyle murmured. He picked up the scissors and lopped the bottom of the trouser leg off, from just above the knee.

Stan whined in complaint, craning his neck to watch them work.

“It’s too late to rescue the garment, Stan,” Kyle tutted. “Lie back and let it go.”

Stan slumped back down with a sigh.

Kyle put out his hand. “Tissue forceps. Tweezers.” Butters handed him both. With the forceps in his right hand, he teased the skin back. Stan hissed and flinched; his leg spasmed. Kyle looked up at him in annoyance. “You have to keep still, or else I’ll only end up pushing it deeper.”

Stan swallowed. “Right. Sorry.”

“Butters, hold his leg in place. One hand on either side.”

The bullet was about three centimetres in diameter, and while the size was obviously a concern for Stan, it did provide a larger target for Kyle to grab a hold of. He licked his lips and took his tweezers in his left hand, hesitating only for a moment as his eyes refocused on the wound. Slowly and with precision, he closed the tweezers around the bullet. Slowly and with precision, he extracted it upwards. Slowly and with precision, he dropped it into the dish Butters offered him.

“You did it,” breathed Butters. “We did it.”

“It’s not done,” said Kyle. He leant so close to the wound that his nose was almost touching it. The stench of blood was overpowering. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the flesh. “I don’t like the look of this,” he said. “The cloth that got pushed in with the bullet has somewhat disintegrated into the wound.”

“Can you remove it?”

“I can certainly try,” said Kyle, noting, with discomfort, how unsteady his voice was. But better a tremor in his voice than in his hands. He picked up the tweezers and set to work, picking what he could out of the wound. Stan’s whimpers of complaint were growing louder. “Can you do something about that?” Kyle waved his free hand at Butters. “Just—hold his hand, or something.”

Randy, who was still watching the whole thing from the corner, snorted in amusement.

“My hands are already full of his leg,” said Butters.

“Well, I don’t know. Figure something out.” Kyle did not look up to check if Butters really had taken Stan’s hand, not willing to divert his attention away from the wound, even for a second. Whatever the case, Stan’s whines did not cease, and his fidgeting was growing ever more an issue. Kyle clamped his own hand down on Stan’s thigh to still him whilst he dug deeper into the flesh, fishing for traces of material. But all this served was to push the bits of cloth deeper. Stan’s leg gave a sudden jerk, and Kyle had to jump back to avoid being hit in the face. He set his tools down and wiped his bloody hands on his shirt. “Butters, may I confer with you for a moment?”

Butters nodded solemnly but did not move. After a moment, he said, “Ah, Stan, I’m going to need my hand back.”

Stan loosened his grip and yanked the rag out of his mouth. “Have you done it? Is it over?” he panted.

Kyle refrained from offering an answer, instead beckoning Butters over to the far side of the room. “I was unable to remove all of the material,” he said in a low voice, so that no one else could hear them. “And I fear there may be more traces of it that are invisible to the human eye.”

Butters sucked on his bottom lip. “What are we going to do, then? Just sew it up?”

“If I do so in this state, then the limb will likely mortify.”

“But it might not,” said Butters. “It—There’s a chance he could be fine. That everything could be fine.”

“It’s a very slim chance, and not one that I’m willing to take,” murmured Kyle. “Look, I don’t know when—if ever—Randy’s going to let me help Stan again. He may very well allow the wound to fester, just to see how long it takes before Stan’s killed by it. If we’re going to do something, then we have to do it now.”

“And that something is… something drastic?” breathed Butters.

“I’m talking about amputation.”

Butters’ eyebrows shot up. “I rather think that constitutes as a drastic measure.”

“Well, desperate times and all that.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can certainly try,” said Kyle. “I’m familiar with the practice, at least.”

“Have you performed one before?”

“Butters, before I joined the crew, I’d never even done so much as a suture.”

“Oh,” said Butters, looking grave. “Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

Kyle withheld a sigh and crossed to the bookshelf. He scanned the spines until, to his relief, he came across the one that he was searching for: Celsus, On Medicine, Volumes 7 & 8. He extracted it and flicked through until he found the right section.

“What instruments will you need?” asked Butters, crossing back to the cabinets.

“Tourniquet,” read Kyle. “Amputation knife, as long and sharp as you can get. Needle and thread. And—And a bone saw.”

“Amputation knife? Bone saw?” Stan sat up with a start. “What do you need them for?”

Kyle went to his side and took Stan’s face in his hands, tilting it upwards. To hell with Randy and what he might think. “Do you trust me?”

“Are you going to saw off my leg?” Stan’s eyes were so wide that Kyle could see the full whites around his irises. His voice was small and trembling, like that of a child’s. He was young. So young. Too young.

“Listen to me, Stan,” said Kyle. “When that bullet entered your leg, it brought with it traces of cloth from your trousers which are too microscopic to remove. They will likely infect you if I leave it as it is. This will lead to gangrene, where your flesh will slowly blacken due to a loss of blood supply which causes—”

“I’ve worked at sea my whole life, Kyle,” interjected Stan. He was as white as a sheet. “I know what gangrene does to a man.”

“Do you trust me?” Kyle asked again.

“I’m scared,” whispered Stan. He leant forward and buried his face against Kyle, muffling his speech further. “I don’t want to die.”

“I don’t want you to die either.” Kyle smoothed down Stan’s hair. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

Stan pushed a sob out into Kyle’s chest, and then looked up at him, expression raw and open. “I trust you,” he breathed. “I trust you and I love you.”

Kyle leant down to kiss him. He swore to himself that that would not be the last time he would do so. No more lasts.

Randy made a choking sound. “Oh, Jesus,” he said in revulsion. “I should have known.”

Kyle turned to sneer at him, but it was Butters who spoke first.

“Shut your God damn mouth,” he spat, gesturing with the knife in his hand. “If you’re that squeamish, then you sure as hell won’t be able to handle what’s about to come next. Either you keep quiet and let the professionals clean up the mess you’ve made, or you can fuck right off.”

Randy scoffed, but made no rebuttal. Kyle gave Butters an appreciative smile, and Butters smiled back, cheeks flushed from his outburst. It occurred to Kyle that Butters didn’t seem in the least bit surprised about his intimacy with Stan. Perhaps Tweek had been right about polite pretence.

“You’ll have to be restrained, I’m afraid,” Kyle said to Stan. “Self-control in situations like these is not reliable.”

Stan nodded grimly. “I understand.”

Kyle spent a few minutes reviewing the section on amputation whilst Butters tied Stan to the table. “Well, there’s some comfort,” he said to Stan once he was finished reading. “The whole thing shall take no more than a minute.”

Stan moved his head away from the rag that Butters offered him. “You can chop off an entire limb in a minute?”

“It’s only half a limb. And the less time taken the better,” said Kyle. “That minimises blood loss, which is of the utmost importance when—”

“You know what?” Stan was looking increasingly queasier. “I think I’m going to stop asking questions. I’d rather have it all be a nice surprise.”

“Suit yourself.” Kyle shrugged. “Butters, would you like to familiarise yourself with the instructions before we begin?”

Butters finished fastening the last of the leather straps and buried his nose in the book. “Do you want me to read the instructions to you whilst you work?”

“No,” said Kyle, “there won’t be enough time for that. I’ll just have to rely on memory. Did you locate any ink in here whilst you were searching, Butters?” asked Kyle.

“No, but I expect there’s some in the desk over there,” he said, without looking up from the page.

Kyle rummaged in the desk drawer and found that Butters was indeed correct. He took the bottle, along with a quill. “Put your leg back on the books, Stan.” He dipped the quill into the ink and drew Vs on either side of Stan’s calf, like arrows pointing up at Stan’s knee, and then connected them across the bare patches on the top and bottom with a smooth curve.

“What’s that for?” asked Stan.

“A guide for fashioning the skin flaps,” said Kyle. I have to make the top and the underside the longest, so that it can fold over the bone and be sewn together once I’ve removed the limb.” He put the quill back in the pot and looked up at Stan’s horrified expression. “Well, you did ask.”

“I wish you wouldn’t answer,” he muttered.

“Okay, I’m ready,” said Butters, smoothing down the pages of the book. “Are you?”

“I’ve been advised that I shouldn’t answer questions anymore,” said Kyle, because he didn’t want to say no, I’m not, and I never shall be. He put the rag back in Stan’s mouth. “Whatever you do, don’t look down,” he said. “You’re not going to want to see this.”

Stan nodded silently, tears still streaming down his face. He was too upsetting to look at, and so Kyle straightened, and addressed Butters.

“Pass the tourniquet.” Butters obliged, and Kyle wrapped the leather strap above Stan’s knee. He picked up the stick it was attached to, and turned it over and over, twisting up all the extra length. He continued until the skin around it was bleached white, and he was confident that the circulation had been as limited as he could get it.

“Amputation knife.”

The blade was long, thin, and slightly curved, designed for one thing and one thing only. Kyle steadied his breathing, said a quick mental prayer to God or Poseidon or whoever else might be listening, and made the first incision. Stan’s body immediately began to shake, and Kyle was very thankful for how taut Butters had made the restraints, for the leg remained firmly in place. Despite the tourniquet, blood flowed like a waterfall, thick and fast and hot. It smeared the markings he had made in ink, but he did not let that stop him, working his knife through a full circumference of skin tissue in the same shape that he had drawn.

“Bone saw.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over Stan’s wail.

This blade was big and thick, with a serrated edge. The handle was shaped perfectly for Kyle to get a good grip at this angle. He did not linger. He did not hesitate. His mind was devoid of all thought and distraction, save one focus: saw, as quickly and as precisely as he could, with the rest of the world melting into a white, void-like fog. It was just him and the leg and Stan’s screams.

The texture of the muscle was far different to that of skin, but undoubtedly easier to cut through. If Kyle had had the presence of mind to reflect on this, he might have compared it to the experience of slicing through a steak.

But steaks didn’t tend to cry your name and beg for you to show mercy.

Sawing through bone was not so easy. The thickness and density of the tibia was such that for a few seconds, the air was filled with a sound not unlike sawing through wood. At least the fibula was thinner, and through with sooner. Then, it was back to the muscle on the other side, and before he knew it, the worst of it was over.

Wordlessly, Butters removed the detached leg. Or perhaps he had spoken—Kyle would not have noticed if he had, for the ringing in his ears overpowered all else. Even his own voice sounded muffled when he said, “Forceps. Scissors and thread.” They appeared before him.

Kyle had been concerned about locating the arteries, but he found that they were easy to spot, as they were thicker than the other veins. “Peroneal artery,” he muttered to himself as he picked it up with his forceps and tied the end off with the thread. Snip, went the scissors. “Posterior tibial artery.” Tie. Snip. “Anterior tibial artery.” Tie. Snip. That was them accounted for.

“Needle.” Long, sharp, and slightly curved, this appeared miraculously pre-threaded and with a knot at the end. Kyle took the two skin flaps and closed them together, over the muscle and bone. Well versed in sutures by now, this final piece of the process was a welcomed familiarity. Kyle had homed in his technique so that he no longer needed to create every stitch individually, but instead used a quick, efficient running stitch along the edge, sewing the stump up from one end to the other.

The final snip broke the spell. Kyle was back in the room, and before him lay not a disembodied leg, but his lover, the boy who he cared for more than anything in the world, soaked in his own blood and a victim of Kyle’s own knife.

Kyle dropped his tools and stumbled to the waste basket, where he was abruptly and violently sick. He coughed, and curled up in a ball on the floor, shaking, sobbing. It was as if all the tremors he had been suppressing returned all in one go. He felt, at that moment, so young. Too young for this, for any of this.

“Is it over?”

Slowly, Kyle raised his head. It took a moment for his distorted vision to focus. It was Stan who had spoken, looking across at him with glazed eyes. Butters was dressing his stump, looking rather peaky himself. Kyle crawled towards Stan and got unsteadily to his feet. He grabbed Stan’s face, leaving a bright, bloody handprint on each of his cheek, and kissed him, despite how ill he felt and the disgusting state they both were in. “Not the last,” he croaked. “Never the last.”

Chapter Text

Kyle was not at all happy to find himself back in another little room as another little captive, shoved inside without even being allowed the luxury of washing the blood from his hands. He hadn’t been offered a change of clothes either, and so stains and splatters dried from red to brown on his sleeves, chest, everywhere. But as a small consolation, this place did have a bed, and a small porthole, with which he could stare longingly out of.

Kyle had never suffered from seasickness before, but the unsteady rocking of the ship combined with the lingering odour of blood made his already emptied stomach twist painfully in on itself. He hoped he would not be sick again, for there was no basket or bucket to use.

Kyle curled up on the stale sheets and stared out the tiny window, up at the sky. The sun had risen, and the world was blue. Inappropriately blue, Kyle thought. It ought to be grey, or white, or black as a raven’s back. The world should be stained with the colours of mourning, for what was gone, and what might yet be lost.

His body was numb, leaden with exhaustion. But his mind was on fire, the echoes of Stan’s screams bouncing around inside his skull. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the image of a saw slicing through muscle and bone, as if it were engraved onto the back of his eyelids. Perhaps this was why when he slipped into sleep, he dreamt about it too. Over and over again.

The saw. The muscle. The bone.

The saw. The muscle. The bone.

The saw. The muscle. The—

Kyle awoke with a start. Footsteps traipsed down the corridor. In his half-awake state, he rolled off of the bed and slammed his fists on the locked door. “Stan!” he cried. “Let me out! I need to see Stan!” The footsteps grew quieter, but Kyle kept shouting, screaming for freedom.

Eventually, the door was wrenched open by a sour-faced Randy. “Will you cease your incessant whining?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Not until you let me see Stan,” said Kyle, breathless.

“Not an option,” said Randy flatly. “Goodbye.” He made to shut the door, but Kyle shoved his foot in the way.

“Someone else then! Like Butters, or Craig—”

“Who?”

“First mate. Um, tall, dark hair, Peruvian.”

“Oh!” Randy’s eyes lit up with recognition. “The mutinous boy?”

Kyle almost corrected him on impulse but stopped himself. He wanted to give Randy as little information about the crew as possible, because Kyle didn’t know what kind of sick tormentation he had planned. “That’s him.”

“I didn’t get the impression he liked you very much,” said Randy. “He was giving you a dreadful death stare up on deck earlier.”

“That’s just how he looks at everyone,” said Kyle, though he knew Craig had always saved up her extra dirty looks just for him.

Randy paused, eyes darting back and forth as he thought. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. An unsettling smile began to stretch across his face. “I’m sure Craig’s a big fan of you, seeing as you’re responsible for sinking his ship and dismembering his captain.”

Kyle said nothing, deeply regretting ever bringing the name up at all. “If I could see Stan—” he began, but Randy cut him off.

“Sure, I reckon I’ll send Craig up here. You two can have a real heart to heart.” He made to pat Kyle sardonically but thought better of it when he saw how blood soaked his clothes were, pulling his hand back with a sneer. “I’ll send for him at once.” He kicked Kyle’s foot out of the doorway and slammed the door in his face.

Kyle stumbled backwards and collapsed onto the bed. Okay, so, a meeting with an enraged Craig, in a room with no escape routes, he thought to himself. This is fine. She’s not going to kill me. Probably. He looked around the room for anything to arm himself with for protection, but there was nothing. And so he hugged a pillow to his chest and waited until he heard two sets of footsteps approaching.

He scrambled to his feet when the door was flung open once more, dropping the pillow. Craig was manhandled unceremoniously inside, arms rigid, fists clenched. Her mouth was a thin, hard line, chest heaving with breath. Kyle swallowed as the door was shut behind them. The lock clicked.

“Ah, hello,” said Kyle, not without apprehension.

Craig blinked at him for a few seconds. Then, she staggered forward and threw her arms around him. Kyle stood as stiff as a board, scarcely able to comprehend what was happening. Was this… a hug? Cautiously, he patted her on the back. He felt her shoulders shaking and realised that she was crying.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright. Everything’s okay.”

“No it’s not!” With her head right by his ear, her voice was shockingly harsh. She must have felt him flinch, because she let go of him and slumped down on the end of the bed, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Quieter, she said, “Nothing will ever be okay again.”

Kyle couldn’t think of anything that might prove her otherwise, and so he just sat timidly next to her. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, Craig crying quietly, and Kyle watching her, too numb to cry himself.

“We were just kids,” she whispered, breath hitching with the sobs that she struggled to contain. “That’s all we were. A ship full of kids.”

“No,” said Kyle. “We weren’t ‘just’ anything. We were more than that.”

Craig slowly raised her head. “Were,” she said. “What does that make us now?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I… I don’t know what we are.”

She sniffed and looked him up and down. “Is that your own blood you’re covered in, or Stan’s?”

“Stan’s.”

“That’s a lot for just a gunshot wound.”

“It—It wasn’t just that.” His stomach gave a sickening lurch. “There were… complications. We had to amputate.”

Craig grimaced. “How is he now?”

“I don’t know,” said Kyle. “Randy whisked me away right afterwards, and now he won’t let me see Stan. But if he doesn’t get the proper care, then—” He stopped himself, not wanting to think about what came next. Craig didn’t look like she needed the explanation, anyway. “How is the rest of the crew?”

“They’re holding it together better than I am,” she said.

“No one else has cried?”

“No, everyone has, I think,” she said. “But none of them had to hide before they could let it out.”

“Oh,” he said. He felt he ought to offer some gesture of comfort, but words escaped him, and he wasn’t sure if touch would be appreciated. “And… where are you all, exactly?”

“We’re locked up in the underbelly of the ship. It’s just us, mountains of rope and spare supplies, and crates and crates of wine.”

“Well, at least that’s some consolation,” said Kyle, a feeble attempt at a joke.

Craig gave him a weak smile. “Tragically, the drink is not for us. Randy’s men threatened to slit our throats if we took any. I reckon they’re saving some for tonight. I heard them talking about a celebration.”

“For their victory,” Kyle said. He thought of the post-battle parties back on Nobody and yearned for the carefree atmosphere. Perhaps this was a tradition which Stan had inherited from his father. Though he could hardly imagine the celebrations on board Poseidon’s Wrath were as joyous as Stan’s. It didn’t seem possible to experience any form of joy in a place like this.

“I don’t like the way the guards are looking at some of the girls,” said Craig. “And eyeing some of the boys, too. It makes me antsy. I don’t know if they’re going to—try anything.”

“I’m sure the Nobodies would sooner rip their heads off,” said Kyle. “Or other appendages.”

Craig laughed hollowly. “Is that what we’re calling ourselves now? Nobodies?”

“It fits, doesn’t?”

“I suppose so.”

Kyle looked at the floor, then up at her, then back at the floor once more. “Do you think that Randy is going to kill you all?”

Craig shook her head. “Not straight away, at least. He wouldn’t have bothered to bring us on board if they were.”

“So why did they bring you all aboard?”

“My best guess is to take us back to South Port as well, and hand us over to the authorities. He’d get quite a high sum for so many arrests.”

“And then what would happen?”

“We’ll be tried and hanged for piracy,” she said bluntly. “So, indirectly, I suppose they are planning on killing us.”

“Oh,” he said quietly. “And how many are already dead?”

“There’s at least twelve unaccounted for,” she said. “Twelve, including—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. “Twelve, including Tweek.”

“Oh my God.” Kyle put his hands over his mouth. “Craig, I’m so sorry.”

“I haven’t seen her since I came to get you in the galley before the battle,” Craig said. “I was… Did you…”

“Not since then,” he said. He put an arm around Craig, and she let out a broken breath.

“I should have watched out for her,” she sobbed. “I should never have let her join the crew. God, if I hadn’t wasted my time fighting with Stan—”

“Then we would all be dead,” said Kyle. “You did what you had to do, Craig. If Stan had had his say, we’d be drowned. You saved our lives.”

“But I killed her!” cried Craig.

Kyle winced, though he knew from straining his voice that the walls and doors were thick enough to muffle most sound. “You did no such thing,” he whispered. He had been expecting Craig to come in here blaming everything on him but had no idea how to handle her blaming everything on herself.

“I promised myself that I would protect her.” Craig covered her face with her hands, muffling her voice. “I promised that I’d protect her, and I failed.”

“You didn’t—”

“And for what?” she spat. “To make sure the rest of us live on for a few days more? I’d rather be drowned in the depths with her.”

“You’re not going to die!” hissed Kyle. “We’ll find a way out of this. We’ll make sure her sacrifice—everyone’s sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.”

“Oh, really?” she said incredulously. “No weapons, a third of our crew dead and the rest of them under lock and key. You’re right, Kyle, we really have the upper hand here. It’ll be no bother to take control back.”

“Just give me a minute!” he said. “I need time to think.” Craig lay back on the bed with a weak sob. Kyle pinched his eyes shut and tried to focus.

Their sacrifices weren’t for nothing.

Something about that phrase stirred a distant memory in the back of his mind. Sacrifice. A story Stan had told him a while ago, another one of those nonsensical Greek myths.

“Craig,” Kyle said slowly. “I know you know the story of Nobody, but how familiar are you with the tale of Agamemnon’s daughter?”

*

Kyle waited far into the night before he next raised his voice. At the sound of a stampede of unsteady footsteps, he began pounding on the door once more. He channelled every inch of his desperation into each hit, knowing what a din he had to compete with. It took well over two minutes before anyone answered him, and by the time the door was wrenched open, his fists were getting sore.

“What d’you want?” This time it wasn’t Randy, but one of his many men. His words were slurred, and he was clutching the door frame for support.

“I need to talk to Randy.”

The man blinked groggily. “Why?”

“Just call him, will you? I’m his problem, not yours.”

The man tipped his head back. “Captain!” he hollered up the stairs. It felt strange to hear the title when it was not attributed to Stan.

“Yeah?” came a voice from above.

“The prince demands your presence!” he said, voice oozing contempt.

“I’m not a—” Kyle made the strenuous decision to hold his tongue. “Never mind.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Kyle heard. Heavy footsteps thumped down the stairs, and then towards them. Randy appeared and shoved the man out of the way with his shoulder. “Off to bed with the rest of ya’,” he said, whilst waving the man away. Though his movements were sluggish, he was still sober enough to remain upright without support. “What do you want now?” he huffed. “You’re interrupting the tail end of our celebrations.”

“I know,” said Kyle, taking care to remove any potential aggression from his voice. “I want to join you.”

“You want to—” Randy cut himself off, guffawing. “Kid, I’m celebrating your imprisonment and my son’s comeuppance. I don’t see why you’d be eager to join me.”

“I just want a drink, is all,” said Kyle.

“And why would I oblige you in that desire?”

Kyle sighed and crossed his arms. He adopted the air of authority that he had been raised to maintain. “Listen, my father cares for my wellbeing very deeply. I don’t think he’d be too happy to hear that you kept his only son, his pride and joy, locked up in a boxy little room the entire journey, do you?” Kyle was banking on the possibility that Randy did not know his father personally.

Randy sighed. “You’re not just a noisy brat, but a tattletale too?”

Kyle gave him a cold smile. “I see no reason to complain if you treat me well enough.”

Randy looked at him for a moment, eyes half lidded. “Fine,” he grunted, “I’ll bring you down a bottle.”

“No!” Kyle said, his heart dropping. He cleared his throat. “I mean—I want fresh air, too. And your company.”

Randy furrowed his brow. “My company? Why?”

Kyle shrugged. “I think you’re fascinating.”

Randy looked at him incredulously. “I suppose I am,” he said slowly. “Very well. One drink. Come along.” Kyle fought to conceal his relief as he followed Randy along the corridor.

The temperature drop between below and above deck was drastic. There wasn’t a single breath of wind, and yet the air was like ice on the back of Kyle’s neck. With the moon shrouded by the clouds, and not one star in the sky, the only source of light was from a few scattered lanterns and a large firepit in the middle of the deck, dwindling down to embers. It made Kyle feel very alone, to be without the presence of stars, but for this to work, he needed to be lonelier.

He scanned the deck, displeased to find there were still a few stragglers from Randy’s crew remaining. “Must they be here?” he said. “I requested your company, not theirs.” Randy did not look convinced, and so he added, “their minds are so primitive compared to yours.”

Randy cackled. “You hear that?” he said. “The kid thinks you’re all a bunch of apes!”

This earnt Kyle quite a few dirty looks, which he elected to ignore, sticking his nose in the air. “Well?”

“Yeah, yeah. Get lost, you lot,” Randy said to his men. “I’ve had enough of your jabbering myself.”

With fewer people flooding the deck, the place felt more gigantic than before. Kyle shivered and looked to the firepit. “Can we get that going again?”

Randy slumped down on one of the benches surrounding the pit. “Do it yourself,” he said, gesturing vaguely off to the side.

Kyle located a pile of tinder and selected a few pieces to be added. He stoked the embers until they caught the wood alight once more. Jesus, even the fire poker on here felt oversized. Long and weighty, with a thick wooden handle, Kyle rested it with the split iron prongs still buried in the fire.

“Oi,” said Randy.

Kyle flinched and straightened. “What?” he said, too quickly. “I was just—”

“Pass me a bottle.” Randy jabbed a thumb at the crate next to Kyle.

Kyle leant inside to grab two. They were the usual onion shape, on the smaller side, long neck with a bulbous body. He hoped it wasn’t as weak as the wine that was normally served, back on Nobody. He handed Randy a bottle and kept the second for himself, settling on the other bench on the opposite side of the firepit.

Randy uncorked his, then chucked the opener at Kyle, for him to uncork his own. When he had, he raised the bottle to his mouth but was careful not to let more than a drop actually pass his lips. The small taste he did have confirmed that it was strong stuff. Good. He ogled Randy drinking, openly. “Huh,” he said after a moment.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said lightly. “It’s just—you drink like Stan.”

Randy wrinkled his nose, clearly displeased at the comparison. “And how does he drink?”

“Dainty little sips, mostly.”

Randy’s brow lowered. Without breaking eye contact, he began to chug. Kyle set his jaw and held his gaze. The only thing that moved was the flickering flames and the bobbing of Randy’s throat as he swallowed. Abruptly, Randy jerked backwards and tossed the bottle roughly onto the deck in an extravagant gesture of success.

Kyle winced as the sound of smashing glass sliced through the silence. His eyes flick down to the scars on his palms, then back up at Randy. “It seems I was mistaken,” he said.

“You were indeed,” scoffed Randy, wiping away the dribble of wine on his chin with the back of his hand. “I am nothing like my wretch of a son.”

Kyle pinched his tongue between his teeth until he was sure he would not say something he regretted. “I assume, in that case, that you can hold your alcohol far better than he can,” he said, getting to his feet. “Another?”

Randy belched and held his hand out. “Why not?”

Kyle opened the bottle for him before he passed it over, hoping that this might somehow provide further encouragement for Randy to drink. He settled back in his seat, taking another false sip.

Randy tipped his head back with his swig in a manner Kyle could only describe as performative. He leant forward, resting his wine on his knee. “So,” he said. “You and my son.”

Kyle suppressed a grimace. This was not territory he was eager to explore, but he didn’t want to shut Randy down, either, afraid of how volatile his temper might be whilst intoxicated. Kyle was well aware of the size and strength disparity between them, and with them being the last to remain on deck, there would be no one to intervene. Not that Kyle was particularly confident that a member of Randy’s crew would intervene.

“What about us?” said Kyle when he realised that he had gone too long without replying.

Randy shrugged. “Well, it’s hard to believe.”

Kyle gave him a tight smile. “The world is full of unbelievable things.”

“But… why? Why you? Why him?”

Kyle thought carefully about what answer Randy would want to hear. “I suppose I wanted to see if I could,” he said leisurely. “It gets awfully boring at sea, as I’m sure you’re aware. Sometimes you have to make your own fun.”

“So you don’t actually—” Randy sneered, gesturing with his wine bottle. “You know. Love him?”

Kyle’s face was cool and relaxed, a perfect slate of neutrality. He tilted his head. “How could I ever love a boy like him?” He ignored the twist in his gut, his own words like a knife in his stomach. How could I not?

Randy studied him for a second, then shrugged, as if he couldn’t be bothered to maintain his scepticism. “It certainly isn’t an easy feat. I can’t say I’ve ever brought myself to it.”

“Neither have I.”

“I have to say,” Randy said after taking another mouthful of wine. His words were beginning to slur together. “I’m surprised he dared to sodomise, after last time.”

“What happened last time?” asked Kyle, the image of innocence.

“That last boy. Whatever his name was. Frenchman.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Ah, Christophe?”

“That’s the one.” Randy raised his bottle to his lips. “I suppose Stanley told you about him?”

“Did he ever.” Kyle rolled his eyes. “God, he wouldn’t shut up about him.”

“Never one for shutting up, that boy,” said Randy darkly. “Not unless you make him.”

Rage bubbled in the pits of Kyle’s stomach, like boiling oil. He swallowed it back down, fixing his eyes on the firelight that danced across the floor. “Yes, well, that’s the problem with Stan being his own captain. No one’s there to keep him in line.”

“You could have done it,” said Randy. “Just as Christophe did before.”

“Just as—” Kyle looked up. “What?”

“Christophe was the one to punish Stanley,” said Randy brightly, without a trace of remorse. “Did he not tell you?”

“No,” said Kyle, struggling to contain his horror. “Not—Not completely. Not that it was Christophe who lashed him.”

“Well, it took a little convincing,” hummed Randy. “But once I got him going, God.” He grinned and shook his head in disbelief at the memory. “Ruthless. An insatiable force.”

Kyle shoved his hands under his thighs to stop himself from using them unwisely. “He did it… willingly?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it like that.” Randy furrowed his brow in thought. “It was more like he was unable to stop himself. Christophe was… a very bitter child. His veins ran not with blood, but with pure rage. Outrage at me, at himself, at the world. I don’t think he knew what to do with it, and so he kept it as it was, sloshing around inside of him. All it took was a little external pressure, and then he just” —Randy lent forward and clicked his fingers— “snapped.”

“Ah.” Kyle fought to keep his breathing even. “How unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate for some, maybe,” said Randy. “Entertaining for others.”

Kyle sucked in air through his teeth and snatched up his bottle. “To entertainment,” he said, and truly drank this time, to steady his nerves. Randy took a longer draught than he did, perhaps as another show of power, finishing his second bottle.

“Another?” asked Kyle. “Assuming you can handle it.”

“That’s some tough talk for someone who hasn’t even finished their first.”

“You only promised me one drink,” said Kyle smoothly. “I want to savour it.”

“Aw, I’ll give you another, if you can drain the rest in one go.”

Kyle hesitated, and obliged, allowing his spite to fuel him on. He managed to finish every last drop, but couldn’t prevent the coughing fit which followed, tears stinging his eyes.

Randy cackled and slapped his thigh. “Good lad.”

Kyle lurched to his feet and grabbed them both one more. His head swam. That had not been part of the plan. He had hoped to remain fully sober for this mission; alcohol had its ways of loosening his tongue. He picked up the poker and stoked the fire until he felt steady enough to sit down again. Perhaps it was for the best. Alcohol had its ways of relinquishing him from moral reasoning, too.

Randy was looking pretty unsteady himself, wavering back and forth a little on the bench.

Kyle proceeded to guide the conversation onto impersonal matters: Randy, and his astounding feats of gallantry. This was an easy thing to do. He had never met a man more eager to talk about himself. Once Randy’s third bottle had been emptied, he finally changed the subject. “I think we’d best be going off to bed,” he said, and yawned without bothering to cover his mouth. Kyle felt as if he could smell the stench of his breath from all the way on the other side of the fire.

“Already?” Kyle frowned. “But we barely drank anything between us.”

“I had—much more,” slurred Randy. “Before you joined me.”

“Sure, sure.” Kyle waved a hand. “I’ll pretend to believe that. But I still haven’t finished my promised drink.”

“Fine. But hurry up.”

With a surge of adrenaline, Kyle observed Randy’s head begin to droop. “Why don’t you just lie down here?” he said. “Look up at the sky. See if you can spot a star.”

“M’not that tired,” Randy said, much to Kyle’s disappointment. He stood and staggered to the wine crate, gait unsteady, and grabbed onto the edge for support. “Throw me the bottle opener.” Kyle chucked it at him. Randy fumbled the catch and it wound up by his feet instead. “Watch it! That thing’s sharp.”

“My apologies.” Kyle watched Randy’s struggle with the cork for far longer than he ought to have. “Do you want some help with—”

“No!” snapped Randy. “I’ve got it. Just let me…” He fiddled with it for a little while more before he got it open. “Ha! Told you.” He stumbled back to the bench, and sat down heavily, before easing himself into a half reclined position, like those in the paintings of ancient Greeks.

Kyle bit back the encouragement that he wanted to offer – That’s it, just a little further – and instead allowed Randy to slowly dip further down as he drank, and drank, and drank, until at last he set the bottle down and slumped completely horizontal.

“You almost finished?” he muttered.

“Not quite,” said Kyle. “You have time to sleep, if you like.”

“M’not going to,” grumbled Randy, but already his eyelids were beginning to droop.

Kyle sat completely still, scarcely daring to breathe. The only sound was the crackle and pop of the fire and, at long last, Randy’s snores. Kyle swallowed and looked down at his hands, turning them over. They were trembling, with crescent-moons of blood still buried beneath his nails. He looked up at the sky and was glad to see the stars were still hidden. He wanted no witnesses for what was about to happen next. He only hoped he had given Craig enough time to prepare for her end of the plan.

Kyle inched himself off his seat, into an upright position. He stretched his arm out and closed his fingers around the handle of the red-hot poker. It scraped slightly against the metal rim of the firepit, splitting the air with a screech. He froze, eyes wide, but all Randy did was groan in his sleep, and roll from his side onto his back.

Kyle took a deep breath and began to advance towards him. It wasn’t until he was towering right above Randy that the reality of what he was about to do dawned on him. But he shoved his sense of doubt deep inside him, along with any and all other thoughts and emotions. He had spent his whole life being forced to crush his feelings, and finally he could put his training to good use. There was no room for doubt, no time for hesitation. He had to act, right here, right now. For his future. For the Nobodies. For Stan.

Kyle raised the two pronged poker and plunged it into Randy’s eyes.

Randy’s body jerked violently. With a howl, he scrambled upright, but the damage was already done.

Kyle’s grip tightened on the poker as he yanked it back. With ice cold detachment, he watched Randy tumble to the floor, writhing, clawing at his face.

Blood, Kyle thought. There was no blood. Why isn’t there blood? Distantly, Kyle recalled being taught the concept of cauterization, using heated metal to seal a wound. He almost laughed at the thought, that he had inadvertently healed Randy whilst he harmed him. But he had done a lot of that in the past few months: heal through harm. It seemed that was all he knew how to do anymore. Did that mean the Hippocratic Oath had not been broken? Kyle didn’t care; he’d never sworn it, anyway. The only regret he had left was that he wished Stan could have had the satisfaction of taking down his father himself.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Kyle’s breath caught in his throat as he looked towards the doorway. Craig burst out of it and shot across the deck towards him. She was wearing a bandana and clutching a broken bottle by the neck of in one hand, the bulbous bottom jagged, sharp and dripping with blood. Over the other shoulder was slung a coil of rope, and under that arm she carried a lumpy sack.

She stopped short of Randy’s body and met Kyle’s gaze, a wordless question in her eyes. Is it done?

Kyle nodded.

“Who’s there?” cried Randy. “Barbrady? Ned? Get that—That boy! He—He—I can’t see!”

“Sorry, Randy.” Craig didn’t bother contorting her face, but she poured every last ounce of spite into her voice. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for my own revenge.”

“No!” breathed Kyle as she stalked towards him, beginning to back away. “Please, I—I didn’t mean to—”

“You ruined everything, Kyle,” she spat. “My ship. My crew. My life. My chance at a better life.” The floorboards creaked with every step she took.

“You don’t have to do this! I—” He hit the railing of the edge of the ship with a thump, and froze.

“Runaway boy. You destroy everything that you touch. Well, guess what?” She raised her bottle. “There’s nowhere left to run. Nothing left to touch.” In one fluid motion, she whipped the razor-sharp glass edge just inches from his neck.

This was Kyle’s final cue. He gasped and gagged, clutching at his throat. Letting loose a strangled choking sound, he collapsed to the floor. Craig motioned for him to continue, and part of him wondered whether she was familiar with this process in real life. He shoved the dark thought aside and kept on coughing until she chopped her hand through the air, and he petered off into silence.

“What happened?” Randy asked after a moment, sitting up. He had fallen deadly quiet once he had realised he was outnumbered. His hands were still braced around his eyes. “What did you do to him?”

“What I should have done a long time ago.” Craig handed Kyle the heavy sack. Then, she darted to Randy’s side and grabbed at his wrists, wrenching his arms away from his face. He yelped and cowered. Kyle caught a glimpse of his red raw eyelids, puckered and blistering, with two divots in the middle where they had been impaled. “Don’t put up a fight,” said Craig as she uncoiled her rope. “You won’t win.” She made quick work of it, wrists first, then his ankles. She untied the bandana from her head and put it to better use as Randy’s gag.

Craig stood and crossed back over to Kyle. “Now, to dispose of this wretch.” She took the sack and hurled it overboard. It hit the water with an almighty splash. Not unlike a body, Kyle supposed.

Ready? she mouthed. Kyle nodded. She shoved one arm under his back, and another under the crook of his knees, and hoisted him up. This was an unfortunate, yet necessary step, for they could not allow for more than one set of footsteps exiting to be heard. “I’m leaving now, Randy. The rest of your crew needs to be put in their place,” snarled Craig, striding back towards the stairwell, carrying Kyle like he weighed nothing. “You scream for help, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Randy swallowed and nodded.

“Fair well.” She descended the stairs at a cool and casual pace. There was a blockade at the bottom, made out of crates, with two pirates guarding it: Butters and Bebe, both clutching their own broken bottles. Kyle had never felt so relieved to see their faces in his life.

“Did he do it?” hissed Butters.

Craig nodded. “Randy is accounted for. So is Kyle.” She put him down. “And no one was woken by the noise?”

“Not one,” said Bebe. “Sleeping like babies, the lot of them. It’s amazing what wine can do to a man.”

“Good. Take him away, Butters. Bebe and I will go tell the others we’re ready to begin.”

Kyle looked at her desperately. “I still think I could help,” he whispered.

“No,” said Craig firmly. “If you’re seen by any of Randy’s crew, then they’ll know you’re alive.”

“So you are planning on leaving Randy’s crew alive?”

Craig laughed bitterly. “Not a hope in hell.” Her gaze darkened. “But I don’t want to risk one of them cowering in hiding until we get to shore and ruining our plans.”

Kyle growled in frustration. He was spoiling for a fight, running on adrenaline alone. “That’s a microscopic chance.”

“Kyle.” Butters took his hand. “Do you trust us?”

“What if this doesn’t work?” said Kyle. “You’re fighting with bottles, for Christ’s sake. I just think if—”

“I get it,” said Butters. “You’re frightened.”

“I’m not frightened!”

“Trusting people is very frightening.”

“That’s not why I’m frightened!” said Kyle. “I mean—Not that I am. Because I’m not.”

“It’s okay to be frightened,” said Butters. He hugged Kyle, with a surprising amount of strength. “I’m frightened too.”

“I’m not frightened,” interjected Craig, “but I’m very bored of this conversation. Can you wrap this heart-warming moment up?”

Kyle sighed and looked down at Butters, who still had his arms wrapped around his torso. “I… I trust you.”

“Then that’s all you need to do,” said Butters. “That’s your part of the plan now. To trust us.” He pulled back. “Okay, heart-warming moment over. Back to grizzly reality.”

“Good.” With her free hand, Craig reached into one of the crates and pulled out a second bottle. Without hesitation, she smashed it on the edge of the box. Wine drenched the floor and splattered onto the walls, like bloodstains. She cracked her neck. “I’m about to get my real revenge now,” she hissed at Kyle. “Don’t get in my way.”

Kyle clenched his jaw and nodded, not quite brave enough to backtalk her when she had that murderous look in her eye. She stalked off, with Bebe in tow.

“Here,” said Butters.

Kyle looked down and found Butters had placed a fresh bottle in his hands.

“I’ll let you do the honours.”

Kyle swallowed. He inhaled deeply, ingesting the scent of fresh wine and dried blood. Then, in a sudden jerk, he brought the bottle down onto a clean crate’s edge.

The smash was so visceral that it resonated through his bones.

Chapter Text

Butters ushered Kyle into the nearest room. The place appeared to be dedicated to storage, piled high with crates. The lid of the nearest box was ajar. Kyle peeked inside: tobacco, a whole crateful.

“I reckon this is all loot from a previous victim,” whispered Butters as he shut the door firmly behind them. “Help me shift some of these things to barricade the door.”

Kyle was about to assist him, when a scruffy blond head and two tired looking eyes appeared from inside a crate towards the back of the room. “Butters? Is that you?”

“Oh, gosh, Kenny! I told you not to speak unless I said it was safe! And keep your voice down. We don’t want no one hearing nothing.”

“But you were gone so long—I was getting worried.” Kenny hoisted his leg up in a feeble attempt to climb out of the crate, visibly trembling with the effort.

“Stay where you are!” Butters shooed him back into his hiding place, drawing closer. Reluctantly, Kenny slumped out of sight again. Kyle approached and peered at him from above, whilst Butters set down his bottle on the floor. Kenny was hunched up in the corner of the crate, knees pulled up and his arms wrapped around his legs. He looked in poor shape. Pasty face, ragged breathing. Far worse a state than when Kyle had last seen him. Clearly the past few days had taken a great toll on him.

“How are you feeling?” asked Kyle. “You look a little feverish.” He reached out to press his palm to Kenny’s forehead, only to have his hand slapped away.

“Don’t touch me!”

Kyle shrank back like he’d been burnt. “Um, right. Sorry.”

Butters rolled his eye. “We don’t have time for grudges right now, Kenny. Save that for after we get out of this mess.”

“He’s the reason we’re in this mess in the first place, Butters! If it weren’t for him, we’d all still have our ship and our legs and our lives.”

“You wouldn’t be alive,” huffed Butters. “He resuscitated you. You would still be very much drowned if it weren’t for him.”

Kenny just scowled. “You could have done it by yourself.”

“Look, Kenny, I-I’m really sorry,” stammered Kyle, grasping for the right words and coming up short. The old Kyle would have talked his ear off in an effort to justify his actions, but not now. There was no justice in any of this. “I honestly never meant—”

“Intentions mean squat!” spat Kenny. “Try explaining you meant no harm to Bradley, or to Tweek, or to—to the countless others. Except for you can’t, can you? Because they’re all dead.”

Kyle swallowed and looked at the floor. “I know,” he said quietly. “Kenny, I… I know.”

Butters pursed his lips. “Let’s just focus on keeping the rest of us alive for now, okay?” he said. “Kenny, if I tuck Kyle away in there with you, are you going to try to kill him?”

Kenny narrowed his eyes at Kyle. “No,” he muttered. “No, I won’t, because I’ll be guarding the door with you.”

“You most certainly will not, mister!” Butters put his hands on his hips. “You are in no state to do such a thing. You’ll sit nice and quiet, whilst I protect you—protect both of you.”

“But I don’t need protecting,” grumbled Kenny. “I’m perfectly well enough to—to—” He broke himself off with a cough, a low, rattling sound, curling in on himself as he did so. When he straightened again, he looked as if he were blinking back tears.

“You’re scarcely well enough to draw breath.” Butters set his jaw. “Sit still and shut up. End of discussion, Kenny.”

Kyle looked between the two of them apprehensively, caught off guard by their quarrelling. Kenny and Butters didn’t fight. They were Kenny and Butters. 

“Kyle, I’ll be relying on you to make sure Kenny isn’t overcome by any foolish impulses, alright?” said Butters, smiling at him as if nothing were wrong.

“Kyle won’t be stopping me from doing a damn thing!” said Kenny. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“I most certainly would dare, if your actions were about to put Butters in danger,” said Kyle, somewhat relieved that this was a point of contention which he could take a firmly stance on.

“I’m not the one whose actions have put him in danger, though, am I?” sneered Kenny. “That would be you.”

“Enough of the blame game!” snapped Butters, stomping his foot as loudly as he dared to. “Not another word about it out of either of you, do you hear me?”

Kenny dissolved into indecipherable mutterings, which Butters pointedly ignored.

“Uh… I take it our crew escaped confinements in one piece?” asked Kyle, in a desperate bit to change the topic.

Kenny scoffed. “‘Our’ crew indeed.”

“You bet we did,” said Butters, as if he hadn’t heard Kenny’s mutterings. “You know, it was nice to see Kenny put his charisma to good use, for once.”

“It's always in excellent use!” protested Kenny, crossing his arms emphatically. He winced, as if even that force had been too rough for him.

“Sure, Kenny.” Butters raised an eyebrow. “You’re acting like a real charmer right now.”

“Oh, I cannot believe this!” Kenny ground his teeth. “I’m not the one who’s behaving bizarrely! You’ve been so spiteful to me ever since you chose Kyle’s side over mine.”

“We’re all on the same side,” said Butters adamantly, an angry flush rising in his cheeks. “I just think you’re acting mighty unkind to someone who’s suffered the same hardships that we have.”

“I have nothing in common with a brat like him. And neither do you.”

“We have more in common than you care to admit!” said Butters. “Do you think we acted honest and virtuous once we escaped from Grandmother’s clutches? That we lived a life without lies, without sin? Because you’ve got a funny way of remembering things!”

“That was different!” said Kenny. “We were ten, for Christ’s sake. We picked pockets and nicked bread rolls off bakery stalls. We didn’t do—this.”

“But do you think we wouldn’t have done precisely the same, if we had to? If Grandmother had come looking for us—” Butters cut himself off, shaking his head. “No. Okay, no. I am not getting into this argument again.”

Again? thought Kyle. He was suddenly a little glad that he had not been locked up with the rest of the crew, if this was the kind of squabbling, he would have had to put up with. He never thought he would miss the sickeningly soppy doting that he had witnessed between Kenny and Butters before, or even the awkward silences, but this was worse than the two of those combined. Kyle was used to a milder form of Kenny’s aggression directed towards him, but towards Butters was an entirely different matter.

Kyle passed his bottle from one hand to the other. His palms were starting to sweat. “How did you make it past the guards, Kenny?” he asked, in a bid to derail their argument.

Kenny gave him a sideways glare.

“Go on, Kenny,” said Butters. “Tell him.”

“Underlings are very easy to manipulate if they have a cruel captain,” said Kenny, after a moment’s hesitation. “I waited until we could hear the laughter and singing of the celebration from all the way at the bottom of the ship, and then I struck up a conversation with the guards. They didn’t want to talk to me at first, so I just sort of… talked at them. Flattery at first, until I got their attention. Then I was all, ‘Gosh, it just doesn’t seem fair that the rest of your crew get to have all the fun, whilst you two are stuck down here, babysitting a bunch of lousy kids. They must let you swap shifts after an hour or so, so that you get a chance to relax, and enjoy yourself. Oh, what’s that?’” He cupped a hand to his ear. “They don’t? Oh, how dreadful. How inhumane. You don’t deserve such treatment, you really don’t. You know, if I were you, I would put up a fuss. I would make a real stink about it until I got what I deserved. Oh, what’s that?” He switched his hand to the other ear. “Why, yes, I do believe that going up to complain is an excellent idea! Of course we won’t try anything—you’re the ones with the meaty looking cutlasses, after all. What’s that?” He switched ears again. “Will your replacements just complain as well? Will they just keep sending new guards every time, each one drunker than the last? So that the final pair can barely stand up right, and thus are easy to disarm and kill? No, not at all! Wherever would you get an idea like that?” He dropped the act. “I’m sure you can guess what happened next.”

Kyle smiled timidly. “That was clever of you. Craig said she was sure you could do it.”

“Yeah, well, I still think she’s out of her mind,” huffed Kenny. “Fraternising with the enemy.”

It took Kyle a moment to realise that Kenny was talking about him.

“Kenny!” gasped Butters. “Don’t say such a thing! Kyle is our friend.”

“Well, he may be yours,” said Kenny as he got to his feet, “but he sure as hell isn’t mine.”

Kyle took a cautious step back, despite the fact that Kenny was still inside the crate. He wanted to be firmly out of striking distance.

“I don’t like the way you’re acting, Kenny,” said Butters with disgust. “It’s dreadfully unkind.”

“Well, quite frankly, Butters, I’m not such a big fan of your actions either,” began Kenny. “I think you’re—”

“Alright!” Kyle cut him off. “I understand that tensions are running high, and that we might all have said and done things that we regret—”

“No, Kyle!” Butters crossed his arms. “I don’t believe Kenny feels a bit of remorse for his behaviour right now. So go on.” He rounded on Kenny. “Finish your sentence. You think I’m what, exactly?”

“I think you’re painfully naïve.”

“Naïve!” Butters jaw dropped. “Kenny, I am a lot of things, but naïve is not one of them!”

“Alright, insane, then,” said Kenny. “I think you’re insane to trust this ginger twit over me. You’ve known him for, what? A month? Has it even been that long? What’s to say he isn’t waiting to betray us at the next corner! What’s to say he hadn’t had this all planned, right from the beginning!” He threw his hands up. “And yet somehow his empty apologies are oh-so more reliable than my own opinion, when I’ve stuck by your side through thick and thin. It doesn’t make a jot of sense, Butters, it just doesn’t!”

Butters eyebrows had been sinking lower and lower throughout this speech. “Kenny McCormick,” he said slowly, “are you jealous?”

“What?” Kenny’s eyes grew wide, stumbling back into the corner of the crate. “No! I-I-I’m not—Why would I be jealous of a welch like him?”

“You are, aren’t you?” Butters laughed in disbelief and grabbed the edge of the crate, leaning forward to sneer at Kenny. “You’ve been mad with jealousy, right from the start. Because all of a sudden, I wasn’t trailing behind you, idolising your every move. All of a sudden, I wasn’t your little plaything, something to entertain you for a while before something shinier came along. All of a sudden, I had interests outside of serving you. I had a life of my own, and you hated that!”

“That’s absurd!” The pink in Kenny’s cheeks appeared blotchy compared to the rest of his pasty face. “I don’t—You weren’t my servant, Butters, you were my friend! And then you decided that you weren’t. And not because you had a life of your own, but because you had a new obsession! Every conversation with you was Kyle this, Kyle that, Kyle’s so big and so clever and so bloody fantastic at everything. And you have the audacity to accuse me of dropping you?” He shook his head. “You made yourself scarce as soon as someone else gave you the time of day. Of course I missed you!”

“That’s—That’s not even remotely accurate!” spluttered Butters. “You’re telling yourself fairy tales because you can’t handle the real truth!”

“Oh, really?” Kenny rolled his eyes so hard that his head rolled with it. “And what truth would that be, which paints you as a saint, and me as an irredeemable monster?”

“Can we all calm down, please?” said Kyle, wishing he’d just been shoved in an entirely separate room and been told to fend for himself instead. “If we could just—”

“No, I will not be calm!” yelled Kenny. “Nothing about this situation calls for calmness!”

And then the screams began.

Distant at first. A cough. A choke. A cry. Separate, fleeting, then building into one great cacophony.

All three of them fell silent, instinctively inching closer to one another. Butters snatched up his bottle again. Footsteps thundered up and down the corridors, carrying with them shrieks and roars. All of Randy’s men were supposed to remain firmly in their cabins to be killed. They weren’t supposed to attempt to escape. Escape was not part of the plan. What’s more, the shouting did not appear to be limited to the deep-voiced adults. There were shriller pitches in the mix. The cries of children.

Butters looked down at the broken bottle in his grasp. It was a tiny, insignificant thing. Just like them. He looked back up at Kenny. The bottle neck slipped from his grasp and smashed to pieces on the floor. “Oh, what the hell,” he whispered. And then he grabbed Kenny’s face in both his hands and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

Kenny squeaked in surprise, but the noise was muffled by the contact of their lips. His eyes remained wide open for a moment, arms rigid by his side, until he got a hold of himself, and let his eyelids flutter shut. His hands drifted upwards, sliding through Butters’ hair. Neither seemed to notice that this pushed his eye patch off in the process, or if they did, then neither seemed to care.

Kyle gaped at them without sparing a thought for decency, until Butters stepped back with a small gasp.

Kenny blinked several times, as if coming back to earth. “What?” he said quietly. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and said again, “Sorry, what? No, hang on—What?”

Butters was still panting, his entire face beet red. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “but—just in case, you know.” He snatched Kyle’s bottle for himself and turned back to the door, squaring his shoulders. Kyle followed his gaze and realised with a jolt of alarm that they had forgotten to make a barricade.

“No, wait, I don’t—But I thought—” Kenny’s eyes were the size of moons. His face was a wreck with confusion, so much so that Kyle thought he might be about to cry. “I don’t understand—Why would you—”

“Shh!” hissed Butters. He tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear to the wood. “Someone’s coming.”

Kyle leapt into the crate, grabbed Kenny by the back of the shirt, and yanked him into their hiding spot, before pulling the lid shut.

Kenny sat down heavily, without any resistance. Light crept in through the cracks between the slats, so that Kyle could make out the bewilderment on Kenny’s face. “What just—Did he just—”

Kyle put a hand over Kenny’s mouth. Yes, he mouthed. Shh.

Kenny went quiet. He stared at Kyle for a moment, before shuffling forward and pressing his eye to a crack between the slats, so that he could see what was going on out there. Kyle followed suit.

Butters was pacing the floor, passing the bottle from one hand to the other. It was too noisy outside to distinguish whether folk were running towards or away from them. They soon got their answer: the door was abruptly thrown open. Someone the size of a barge towered in the doorway, blocking out the light from the corridor like a solar eclipse. It was Barbrady, the man who had mishandled Stan just that morning. Kyle could feel Kenny bristling beside him, and put a hand on his arm, so that he did not forget himself.

Butters drew himself up to his full height, craning his neck upwards to meet Barbrady’s gaze. “You’d best be moving on,” he said, with all the strength he could muster. “This room’s already occupied.” He pointed the jagged end of his bottle towards Barbrady, but the tremors in his arm ruined any potential for a threatening impression. Admittedly, though, it was unlikely that a boy of Butters’ stature could achieve any degree of intimidation towards a man of Barbrady’s girth. They were men amongst giants.

Barbrady took a lumbering step towards Butters, who scuttled back a few paces. “Drop that,” he grunted, gesturing at the bottle. He seemed to perform every action with a sort of sluggish lurch. This was some comfort, at least, for drunk men were easier to fight than sober ones. Theoretically. “Drop the… thing.”

“No!” said Butters defiantly, gripping the neck with two hands. “Put your hands up! I’m armed, and you aren’t.”

Kenny was apparently not as confident as Butters was, for he began to fidget. Kyle’s hold on him tightened, but Kenny retaliated with an attempt to wrestle him off. After some scuffling, Kyle had to practically sit on top of Kenny to keep him in place, whilst Butters and Barbrady walked in a slow circle, shoulders hunched, eyes locked.

“This isn’t a fair fight, now, is it?” said Barbrady.

“Pirates don’t play fair!” snarled Butters.

Barbrady just snorted. “You’re not pirates. You’re just a bunch of—of little kids.”

Kenny began to whine. Kyle put his hands over Kenny’s mouth again to silence, him, only to have his palm bitten. He swallowed back a shout.

“We’re not kids!”

“Well, you sure as hell ain’t men.” Barbrady swung a meaty hand out and latched onto Butters’ wrist, twisting it until he dropped the bottle with a squeal. Barbrady released him and crushed the glass beneath his boot. He grinned, exhibiting his rotten teeth. “There. Now we’re even.”

Kenny threw Kyle off of him with unanticipated strength. Before Kyle could do anything to stop him, he leapt out of the crate and bounded to Butters’ side. “Leave him alone, you oaf!”

Kyle shoved his own fist into his mouth to stop himself from berating Kenny for being so irrationally gallant. As if things couldn’t get any worse.

Butters looked at Kenny in horror. “I told you to stay put!”

Kenny maneuvered himself between Butters and Barbrady, swaying on his feet. “You needed me!”

“I’m supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around!”

Barbrady was looking at them with the identical expression of someone ambushed by a couple of irritating flies. “Neither of you look strong enough to protect anyone,” he said. “Prey can’t fight off predators.” He cracked his knuckles, flexing his fists. The boys shrank back.

“If you want him, you’ll have to get through me first!” said Butters, moving in front of Kenny with his own two hands raised.

“No, you’ll have to get through me,” said Kenny, pushing Butters behind him.

Kyle put his head in his hands. So this is how it ends, he groaned inwardly. Watching the two of them argue over who gets to die first. He had hoped his eventual demise would be a little less excruciating. He screwed his eyes shut, determined that that would not be the last image he would see. But then Barbrady let out a sudden “Oof!” and Kyle’s head snapped back up again. Something—no, someone—had launched themselves at Barbrady and latched onto his back. Legs were hooked around his waist. Arms were wrapped around his shoulders. He flailed and stumbled backwards, trying in vain to break free, but his opponent held fast. In one vicious swipe, they dragged their shard of glass through the flesh of his throat. He collapsed to the ground, choking, splattering blood.

“Tweek!” gasped Butters. “You’re—Oh!” He helped her up and pulled her into a hug. “Thank you!”

Tweek wrinkled her nose in confusion, stiff as a board in his embrace.

Kenny looked rather put out. “I had the situation under control,” he muttered, scuffing his shoes on the floorboards.

“He was about two seconds away from ripping your head off with his own two hands,” said Tweek matter-of-factly, wriggling out of Butters’ grasp and brushing herself off. Barbrady was still gurgling on the floor. One swift kick from her, and he was plunged into silence. She shut the door, muffling the shouts which were still sounding from the hall.

“Oh, gosh, Tweek!” said Butters. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

Tweek jerked her head back a little. “You’re… glad.”

“Well, of course I am.” Butters frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Aside from the time you stitched me up, I don’t think I’ve ever held a single conversation with you,” said Tweek. “I’m not entirely sure that I even remember your name correctly.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Butters. “You’re part of our crew.”

“Oh.” Tweek blinked, still looking kind of confused. “I… I suppose I am, aren’t I?” She smiled hesitantly, as if she wasn’t quite sure that the situation warranted such a thing, and then echoed quietly to herself, “I suppose I am.”

“Can I come out now?” asked Kyle.

“Ah!” screeched Tweek. “Who else is here?”

“It’s just me!” said Kyle, poking his head up. “Sorry. I was hiding.”

“Unlike some people,” said Butters. He rounded on Kenny, fury returning. “Do you have a death wish? Because you damn near got yourself killed!”

“I couldn’t just leave you to face him by yourself!”

“Well, your presence certainly didn’t help matters!”

“I don’t care!” cried Kenny. “I’d sooner die a thousand deaths by your side than live on alone, even if that means you despise me. Don’t you get that? I—I—Jesus.” He broke off, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Every second I’m not with you—it’s like someone’s ripped the lungs right out of my chest. It’s like, I’m alive, but not—not really living.”

Butters bit his lip. “Kenny—”

“It’s like you’re my breath, Butters. You’re what makes my blood flow and my heart beat. I can’t live without that. Without you.” He peeled his hands away. His eyes were glistening. “Ever since you’ve been avoiding me, I’ve felt like nothing but the walking dead.”

“Oh!” Butters put a hand over his mouth, eye brimming with tears. “Oh, Kenny, I’ve been such a fool! I’m sorry. Gosh, I’m so sorry.” He let out a little sob.

Tweek perched on the corner of a crate as she watched and made a face at Kyle like Gag me. Kyle grinned put a finger to his lips. He felt as if he were watching some miracle of nature, like baby birds figuring out how to fly after they’ve been brutally flung out of their nests.

“Ah, don’t cry!” said Kenny, looking alarmed. “God, I didn’t mean to make you cry!” Clumsily, he tilted Butters’ face upwards, and hastily smeared away the tears with the pad of his thumb. “You’re not a fool. You’re the wisest person I’ve ever known.”

“No, I’m not.” Butters tilted his head, practically nuzzling into Kenny’s touch. “I thought that—that being away from you would make it easier. That it might make it go away. But it only got ten times worse.”

“Make what easier?” asked Kenny, his eyebrows pinching together.

“Easier to pretend that I… that I didn’t love you,” said Butters sadly.

Kenny’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed it back down again. “You—You love me?”

“Well, yeah.” Butters knocked his fists together. “Obviously.”

“How was that obvious?” Kenny looked like someone had just told him that the earth orbits the sun for the very first time, and not the other way around.

“I just kissed you!”

“How am I meant to know that means you love me?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Kenny,” snorted Tweek. “You’re more hopeless than Kyle.”

“I resent that statement!” grumbled Kyle.

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Okay, no, stop,” said Kenny, rubbing his forehead. “I need everyone to shut up right now. Because I don’t understand this. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t—” He looked up again. “I don’t understand why you never told me, Butters!”

“Because that would have ruined everything!” cried Butters. “Because you already had your Annies and your Emilys and your Jessica Pinkertons. You could have anyone in the whole wide world, Kenny McCormick, and you chose them. Them over me, every time.”

“I choose you!” said Kenny desperately. He grabbed both of Butters hands in his own. “I would have chosen you over them a thousand times over if I had known I could. But I never even thought… I mean, you’re you, you know? You’re Butters! You’re the one constant in my life. I never even considered that you could be anything other than what you always had been. I never even thought that—” He screwed his eyes shut and let out a long breath.

“I know,” said Butters softly, pulling away with a sad smile. “Because I’m just Butters.”

“You’re not just anything!” exclaimed Kenny. “You’re my lungs, my blood, my beating heart. You’re—God, I’m doing a really bad job of explaining all this, aren’t I. I just—Can I kiss you again, please? Because, um,” his voice was growing quieter with every word, “that was really nice. And I don’t think that anyone's ever done something so nice for me before. I mean—I’ve never felt that… that, uh…” He petered off into silence, staring intensely at the floor, as if begging for it to swallow him whole. Gone was the suavity that Kenny normally possessed. It was almost sweet, Kyle thought, to see him reduced to a bashful, flustered mess.

“Yes,” whispered Butters. “I mean—Yes, please.”

Kenny’s head jerked upwards. “Really?”

Butters smiled. “Really.”

“Oh. Um, right.” Kenny rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. So, uh, I’ll just—” He ducked forward and kissed him. And it just looked so soft. So gentle. So tender. It was as if Kenny was worried that if he pressed to hard, Butters might dissolve into mist and slip right through his fingers. It was enough to stir a pang of nostalgia within Kyle for when he had first kissed Stan. Nothing since then had ever felt so tranquil.

“Okay, that’s about as much as I can stomach,” said Tweek, pulling a face. “I’m going to go see if there’s any more throats that need slitting.”

“I’m not sure there will be,” said Kyle, tearing his eyes away from the scene that Kenny and Butters were making. “It sounds to me as if the battle’s over.”

Indeed, the screams had dulled down to a low buzz, more conversational than terrified. Tweek looked mildly disappointed. “You mean to say I wasted my valuable throat-slitting time watching this?” She gestured vaguely towards Kenny and Butters, who were retreating to a corner on the floor, whispering and giggling together. Kyle thought that was probably for the best, because Kenny looked like he might just keel over otherwise.

“At least you got a chance to fight at all,” said Kyle.

“Did you cower in the crate that whole time?”

“I wasn’t cowering!” he said. “I was—strategically hiding.”

“Of course you were. My mistake.”

“Actually,” huffed Kyle, “for your information, I gauged someone’s eyes out this evening.” He crossed his arms, somewhat petulantly. “So there.”

“Really?” Tweek raised her eyebrows. “Nice.”

“It, ah, wasn’t particularly nice,” admitted Kyle. “I can’t say I’d recommend the experience.”

“Then why were you so eager to get back to fighting?”

“I… I don’t know,” said Kyle. “I suppose I just felt like I ought to. It doesn’t seem fair for them to fight for me.”

“I’d love to have people fight for me,” said Tweek. “I think that’s the best thing you can do for someone. To fight for them.”

“I think you did have someone fighting for you,” said Kyle, voice softening. “I think you should probably go find her now.”

Tweek gazed at him for a moment, and then her eyes lit up. “Oh! Right.” She scampered across the floor, Kyle close behind her, trying to conceal his smile. Perhaps he and Kenny weren’t the only clueless ones.

Chapter Text

Tweek inched open the door and peered through the crack, squatting down slightly so Kyle could see too.

The state of the hall outside was nothing less than a bloodbath, littered with bodies. A slick scarlet was splattered up the wooden walls, occasionally oozing out little drips, to join the puddles that drenched the floor. It was as if a tidal wave from the red sea had washed through the ship. Kyle glanced down at the scars on his hands, then back up to watch the candlelight dance around the glistening corridor. It was almost beautiful, in a macabre sort of way.

Up the hall stood Craig, with her back to them, whispering to a small crowd of pirates. Kyle hoped they were not the only ones remaining. Shoulders hunched and heaving, fists clenched around both of her bottles. She was as blood soaked as everything else there, the bottom of her trousers seeping up more from the pool in which she stood.

“Craig?” whispered Tweek, stepping into the corridor. “Are you—”

Craig whirled around. Her face was set like stone, lip curled, a murderous gleam in her dark eyes. But then she caught sight of Tweek, and she crumbled. The bottles slipped from her grasp. “Tweek?” she murmured. “You’re…”

They stood for a moment, frozen in place, staring as if it were the first time they had ever laid eyes on each other. Then, almost in unison, they launched from their places and charged towards each other, colliding into each other’s arms.

“Oh, God!” gasped Craig, squeezing her as tight as she could. “You’re—You’re alive! I was so sure that—” She dissolved into a stream of Spanish, words tumbling far too quickly for Kyle to distinguish any meaning from them.

“Craig,” wheezed Tweek, “this is all very sweet, but—I kind of need to breathe.”

“Oh.” Craig pulled back, and clutched Tweek’s face in her hands, studying her for cuts and bruises. “Are you okay? Did anyone hurt you? If anyone laid a hand on you, I’ll—”

“Kill them a second time?” Tweek put her hands on top of Craig’s. “I’m in one piece. That’s good enough for me. But you look… not so well put together.” Her eyes dipped down Craig’s clothes, which were a violent red.

“What?” Craig looked down. “Oh. No, this isn’t my blood,” she said casually, rolling her shoulders back.

“Not one drop of it?”

“Ha!” said Craig. “They couldn’t have drawn it even if they had the chance to.” Her eyes grew dark again. “And none of them got the chance to.”

“Well then,” said Tweek. “Good job.”

“Thanks,” snorted Craig. “I’m sure you did an excellent job yourself.” She leant in and kissed her, hands still cupped around Tweek’s cheeks. Tweek’s shoulders tensed, then relaxed. Sliding her arms around Craig’s waist, she let herself be pushed up against the wall, despite the bloodstains.

It was at this point Kyle realised he was not the only spectator. Pirates were gathering at each doorway along the hall, staring in silence. Neither Craig nor Tweek seemed to notice. It took Kyle clearing his throat, stepping out into the corridor, and clearing his throat again before they looked up.

“What?” said Tweek, irritated.

Kyle nodded to the surrounding crew. “You have an audience.”

Craig glanced up and down the hall, one arm still around Tweek. “What are you lot looking at?” she snapped.

No one said anything. But no one looked away, either.

“Well?” she demanded.

“A net profit,” said Bebe, after a beat of silence. Her face split into a grin. “I’ve just won about five different bets.”

Many indignant cries erupted, all contesting the validity of this claim.

“Shut it!” said Craig, raising her voice to be heard over the din. “No one will be paying out any bets because no one should have been betting on me in the first place! Got that?” She glowered meaningfully at the crew, receiving a scattered collection of Yeses in response. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. Who here needs medical attention now, and who can tough it out until later?” Hands were raised. “Right. If you could all—Kyle, where’s Butters?”

Kyle ducked his head back into the storage room. “Butters?”

Butters emerged, dragging Kenny out by the hand with him. Their hair seemed far messier than when Kyle had seen them just a moment ago. The minimal blood on their clothes was in stark contrast to the maximal amount of blood on pretty much everyone else. “Yes?”

Craig looked between the two of them with narrowed eyes. “McCormick.”

Kenny quickly dropped Butters hand. He beamed at her innocently. “Craig.”

“You’re looking well,” she said coldly.

“You’re not,” he said. “You look a right mess.”

“Oh my God,” whispered Bebe, “that’s another three wagers won. I am going to be so rich.”

“Bebe!” snapped Craig. “You just earned yourself a spot on the clean-up team.”

“Oh, what!” huffed Bebe. “That’s not fair!”

“Too bad.” Craig spared her one more sour glance before turning back to Butters. “I understand you’re familiar with the sickbay aboard here?”

“All too familiar.”

“Good. I want you to see to those who have been injured.”

“Me and Kyle?”

“Kyle’s needed elsewhere,” she said. “Can you handle it by yourself?”

Butters swallowed. “Um, well…”

“Of course he can,” said Kyle. “He’s helped me patch up this lot a hundred times over. He can handle it, no problem at all.”

Butters’ face lit up. “You think so?”

“Of course I do.” Kyle smiled at him. He half expected a jealous leer from Kenny, but he was too busy gazing down at Butters’ hand, perhaps wondering if he dared to hold it again.

“Good,” said Craig, curtly. “Those of you who are feeling up to it can help Bebe carry out the bodies and dump them overboard. The rest of you can help yourself to the food and wine up on deck, or else just find a place to rest. We’ll take inventory in the morning. Token—Where are you? Is he still alive?”

Token separated himself from the crowd. “Here, ma’am.”

“You know how to navigate, don’t you?”

“More or less.”

“Good. Set a course for Cape Cod, fast as you can.”

“Cape Cod?” said Kyle. “Why there?”

Token did not echo his question, perhaps knowing better than to question her right now. “Right away, ma’am.”

“Why Cape Cod?” Kyle asked again, drawing closer. “Craig, I’m—I’m really not sure that’s a good idea.”

“We need somewhere to regroup. Somewhere that isn’t here,” she said. “Nichole will help us. She’ll get Christophe to—”

“No,” he said firmly. “No way. The last thing we need is to sail right back into his clutches.”

“Do you think I want to go to him for help?” she huffed. “I think he’s a nasty piece of work, Kyle, just like you do. But he’s the wealthiest piece of work I know.”

“Christophe’s rich?” Kyle wrinkled his nose, thinking of the shabby clothing he had been dressed in. He certainly didn’t look like any rich people he’d ever met, and Kyle had met many.

“They don’t call him the Mole King for nothing.” She stepped away, offering no further explanation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to deal with Randy.” She paused. “I assume you’ll be wanting to see Stan.”

“Want is too mild a word for it,” muttered Kyle. Every waking moment since they had last been together had been hell.

“Craig, wait.” Tweek caught her sleeve. “Kyle, too. There’s something you both ought to see first.”

“Fine.” Craig pursed her lips and snapped her fingers at a nearby pirate. “Go make sure Randy is under careful watch. Don’t tell him what happened yet. That privilege has been reserved for me. Run along.”

“Are you sure this can’t wait, Tweek?” asked Kyle, shifting from foot to foot. The image of Stan, cold, alone, and in agony, curled up in some far corner of the ship, was almost too much to bear.

“It’ll only take a minute. But—it’s pretty urgent.” She beckoned them down the hall. “Follow me.”

Kyle trailed behind her and Craig as she led them deeper into the ship. Suddenly, the simple act of watching Craig take Tweek’s hand felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He had never felt so far from Stan.

“I thought you were dead, you know,” whispered Craig. “You just… disappeared, without a trace.”

“Can’t imagine what that would feel like,” muttered Tweek. “Your lover disappearing with no explanation.”

“Tweek.”

“Perhaps I ought to have sent you a letter instead,” she said. “Something like, ‘Dear Craig. Don’t worry, I’m not dead. From Tweek.’”

“Oh, come on.” Craig rolled her eyes. “It was one time.”

“You were gone for an entire year!”

“Will you ever let that go?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I—I came back, didn’t I?” Craig squeezed Tweek’s hand. “Isn’t that worth something?”

“Of course it is,” said Tweek. “It’s worth more to me than anything in the world.”

“Where is exactly it that you’re taking us?” interrupted Kyle, unable to stand this much longer.

“Where no one else ever bothers to go,” said Tweek. “The galley.”

Like everything else on Poseidon’s Wrath, the kitchen was twice the size of the one back on Nobody, with twice the stock. This was little wonder, though, as a mighty crew would have no doubt required might large meals. But unlike the rest of the place, the black cat sitting on the countertop looked oddly familiar.

Craig frowned. “Is that Hat?”

“What, you think I’d leave him to drown?” said Tweek. “Of course I bought him with me!”

As if he could tell he were the topic of conversation, Hat raised his head. His big, golden eyes settled on Craig, almost with a look of distaste.

Craig returned it with a wrinkle of her nose. “Tweek, how did you even make it aboard without being shepherded into captivity with the rest of us?”

“I spent my entire life at the Tavern learning how to go unnoticed,” said Tweek. “Those skills are transferable.” She moved towards a lower cupboard on the far wall and gave it a swift kick. To Kyle’s surprise, it let out a little squeal. “You can come out now.”

“Is it safe?” said the cupboard.

Craig raised her eyebrows. “Who else have you got in there?”

“Who else have you got out there?” asked the cupboard. “Is it Stan? I’m not coming out if it’s him!”

“It’s not Stan,” said Tweek.

“But it’s one of his crew, isn’t it?”

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, Clyde,” said Tweek, in an exasperated tone.

“Clyde?” exclaimed Kyle. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Who’s Clyde?” asked Craig.

“He was the first mate of the ship that I stowed away on,” said Kyle, with bitterness in his voice. “You may recall that he tried to hang me.”

“Oh!” said Craig. “That Clyde.”

“I’m not coming out until they promise not to kill me!” declared Clyde from inside the cupboard.

“Well, I’m obviously not going to agree to that, am I?” said Craig flatly.

“Just hear him out,” said Tweek. “I might not be alive if it weren’t for him.”

Craig huffed and crossed her arms. “Alright. Let him out.”

“But I don’t want to come out!” moaned Clyde.

“Too bad,” said Tweek, wrenching the door open.

Reluctantly, Clyde crawled out, looking rumpled but otherwise unscathed. He took one look at the furious figures drenched in blood before him and put his hands in the air. “I’m unarmed!” he squealed. “And you promised not to kill me!”

“I agreed not to immediately kill you,” said Craig. “You’d better make good use of the time you have left.”

“I-I found her sneaking around,” said Clyde quickly, gesturing to Tweek. “This morning, when you all came aboard. She promised that if I helped her, she would spare my life.”

“Spare your life?” Kyle looked between Tweek and Clyde. He was burly and broad shouldered, and at least a foot taller than her.

“He’s terrified of me!” said Tweek with glee. “Terrified of all of us! Apparently, you lot killed his captain and plundered his ship. Now that’s a reputation I’m proud to be associated with.”

“Cartman, was it?” said Craig, leaning against the wall. “Your captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

Craig didn’t bother to correct him. “Nasty little man, him. I’ve just spent the last half hour ridding the world of his kind. I should like to finish what I’ve started.”

“But I’m on your side!” protested Clyde, backing away. “I could have handed her over to Randy, but I didn’t! I betrayed him and hid her. I’m—”

“What are you even doing here, Clyde?” asked Kyle in disgust.

“Your father wanted me here,” said Clyde, “to make sure that I could identify the ship we were after. Randy stuck me down in the galley because I told him I wasn’t going to fight your crew. He laughed at me, but I told him that after what happened to me last time—”

“Hang on.” Kyle blinked at him. “My… My father? You told my father where I was?” Rage bubbled up within him. He took a menacing step towards Clyde, clenching his fists. “You told him where I was!”

“Kyle!” Tweek placed herself between him and Clyde. “Don’t.”

“Don’t you get it?” said Kyle, voice rising. “He’s the cause of all of this! If it weren’t for him, none of this would have happened!”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!” said Clyde desperately. “I don’t even want to be here! I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Telling him what happened was the absolute worst thing you could have done!”

“Well obviously I didn’t know that, did I?” he said. “All I saw was a half-starved naïve little boy, lead off to join a band of bloodthirsty pirates. I figured that might not end so well for you.”

“Oh, and you just cared so much for my wellbeing, didn’t you?” hissed Kyle. “Was that why you tried to hang me? Because you thought it was best for me, too?”

“Well, n-no,” stammered Clyde. “But when I figured out who you were—”

“Then you realised my life had value,” interjected Kyle. “Then you thought you might get a handsome reward for my return! Don’t pretend that you’re some gallant and generous fellow, Clyde. You acted out of cowardice and greed, just like everyone else in Randy’s crew. You’re no better than them.”

Craig kicked off from the wall. “And so he deserves no better a fate.”

“No!” said Clyde. “No, please!”

“He knows you’re alive now, Kyle. We can’t let him live. He’ll just go running straight back to your father with all the latest juicy gossip about who-shot-who.”

“I swear that I won’t!” cried Clyde. “I really don’t have anything invested in this matter, Kyle! You could go on to kill the bloody Queen of England, and you’d never hear a peep out of me!”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” snarled Kyle, drawing closer.

Clyde dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together. “If you spare my life, I swear your name shall never again pass my lips.”

Kyle stared down at the man begging at his feet. And as suddenly as it had seized him, his rage died down, so that only exhaustion remained. He didn’t have the energy to be anything other than tired. Tired of the battle, tired of the bloodshed. Tired of making so many difficult decisions, tired of them turning out to be the wrong ones.

What would Stan do? he wondered. Probably something fancy with a sword, or something fancy with his words. There were no swords in the kitchen, and so Kyle drew the largest knife from the block on the countertop instead.

Clyde’s breath caught in his throat. “No. Oh, God—”

“Silence,” commanded Kyle. He used the flat of the knife to tilt Clyde’s head upwards, forcing him to meet his eye. “Do you want to know how we won this battle, Clyde?”

Clyde swallowed and nodded.

“We slaughtered Randy’s crew in their drunken sleep. Or in their drunken stupor, if they tried to run.”

Visibly shaking, sweat beaded on Clyde’s brow.

“But do you know what I did to Randy himself?”

Clyde shook his head.

“I picked up the fire poker,” said Kyle, “and I shoved it into the flames. And then I gouged his eyes out of his head.” He ran his tongue along his teeth. “Do you have any idea what that felt like, to do such a thing?”

Clyde shook his head again. He was starting to cry.

“Awful,” said Kyle, after a moment. “It felt awful. Because I’m not like Randy. There’s no pleasure in pain. There’s no catharsis from cruelty. It felt like a chore.” He drew his knife away and crouched down to look Clyde in the eyes. “I’m not going to kill you, Clyde. Do you understand why?”

“Because you’re better than him,” whispered Clyde.

“Not just better,” said Kyle. “Stronger. I’m stronger than him, Clyde. Because just as Stan spared your life before, strong people don’t need to kill. They know they’ve already won. Murder is a chore, and mercy comes at no extra cost.” Kyle straightened up.

“So… that’s it, then?” sighed Clyde. “You’ll let me live?”

“Yes,” said Kyle, plainly. “But if you ever breathe a word of what happened here tonight, I’ll make you wish you had begged for death whilst you still could.” He sheathed the knife back in the block. “I’m tiring of this conversation.” And at that, he pivoted on his heels and left.

*

After much searching, Kyle found Stan in a little one-cot room, almost identical to the place where he himself had been kept. A cell for a prisoner.

Stan didn’t stir as Kyle entered, nor when he shut the door softly behind him. Kyle set the supplies he had gathered from sickbay on the floor and sat down next to him on the bed. “Stan, love?” he whispered. The epithet slipped out without meaning too. Kyle winced, half hoping Stan hadn’t heard it, but his eyelids fluttered open.

“Kyle?” His voice was hoarse. His grey eyes were glassy, pupils constricted to the size of pinpricks.

“Did they give you opium tablets?” asked Kyle, taking a closer look at his eyes. “For the pain?”

“Don’t know,” muttered Stan, rubbing his eyes. “I think—Maybe. There was something. I swallowed it. Everything feels fuzzy. Is… Are you real?”

“I’m real.” Kyle kissed his forehead.

Stan gasped as he felt Kyle’s lips brush his skin. “Oh,” he smiled, dazed. “So you are. How lovely.”

“I came to tell you that we’ve won.”

“Won what?”

“The fight.”

“Against…” Stan frowned. “Against my father?”

“Yes.”

“You won against my father?”

“Yes. We rose up. We overthrew them. I blinded Randy and then we… killed the rest.”

“Oh,” said Stan, faintly. “Perhaps Homer was prophetic, after all. Odysseus would be proud.”

“I don’t think anyone would be proud of us,” said Kyle. “I—We slaughtered them in cold blood, Stan. Struck whilst they were at their weakest. Not a fighting chance.” He looked down at the blood splattered on his clothes, most of which was from the amputation. That seemed like years ago now. “I’m not even sure I won, really. Everyone’s had to pay for what I’ve done. I don’t feel like anyone’s hero. I feel like a monster.”

“You’re more hero than you’ll ever know,” said Stan.

Kyle sighed. “If you say so.”

“I do decree it.” Stan giggled. “Decree! I decree it to be so.”

“Jesus, you are as high as a kite.” Kyle rolled his eyes affectionately. “Does it at least help with the pain?”

“Kyle.” Stan gripped his hand and looked him in the eye. “Right now, I can barely feel the tips of my fingers. You could sew my leg right back on again, and I wouldn’t even notice.”

“I don’t plan on doing so,” reassured Kyle. “But I do need to change your dressings. Is that okay?”

“Be my guest.”

Kyle caught Stan up to speed whilst he cut away the old dressings and carefully cleaned the stump. “The plan is to dump Randy on my father’s doorstep,” he said, once he had moved onto replacing a new dressing. “So that he can inform him of my apparent demise. But, Stan, I was thinking—” He looked up, only to find that Stan’s eyes were closed. “Oh. Sorry,” he whispered. “Are you still awake?”

“Yes,” mumbled Stan, “I’m just resting my eyes. Carry on.”

“I was thinking that you might like to kill Randy instead.”

Stan opened one eye. “But that would ruin the plan.”

“Well, yes,” said Kyle. “But if that’s what you need—for closure—”

“Kyle.” Stan opened his other eye. “I have spent years running from that man. The knowledge that I will never again lay eyes on him is far more comfort than having to do so in order to end him.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“When have I ever just said anything?” he said.

“No, but I just wanted to be sure.” Kyle went back to his work.

“Would you kill your father, if you got the chance?” asked Stan lightly, after a moment’s quiet.

“I… I don’t know,” said Kyle. “I’ve never really considered it.”

“Not once?”

“No,” he said. “I never thought that was a possibility before. He just always seemed so untouchable.”

“Fathers to their sons are like gods to the mortals,” remarked Stan. “That’s what my father used to say. But I think that’s a load of old rubbish.”

Kyle hummed in agreement. “If you’ve no interest in killing him, then I suppose we’ll stick to the plan. My father will stop sending men after me, and that I way I can…”

Stan finished the sentence for him. “Keep sailing with us.”

“Oh, Stan,” Kyle sighed. “That’s not really an option, is it?”

“Of course it is.”

“No one wants me around after all that I’ve done.”

“I want you around,” said Stan sharply. “I need you around, Kyle!” He attempted to sit up, but didn’t have the strength to sustain the position, collapsing back down onto his elbows. “If we are ever separated again, I shall die!”

“Well, don’t do that,” said Kyle. “But do keep still. I’m almost done.”

“I shall die,” Stan repeated breathlessly, staring at Kyle with wide, panicked eyes, “if I ever stop seeing you. If I ever stop touching you. If I ever stop feeling your heartbeat in the room with mine. I’ll drop dead! I know I will!”

“Alright, alright!” said Kyle. He secured the dressing in place and crawled up the bed towards Stan. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise me that you won’t leave me,” said Stan shakily, raising a weak arm towards him.

Kyle caught his hand and settled down next to him. “I promise.”

“Promise me that you’ll always stay with me.”

“I promise.”

“Promise me that everything will be alright now.”

Kyle bit his lip. “You know I can’t promise that.”

“You can!” insisted Stan. “If you can make two grand promises, then you can make a third.”

“I promise you,” said Kyle, “that I will spend the rest of my life fighting tooth and claw to ensure that everything will be as alright as it possibly can be.”

Stan smiled. “Seal it with a kiss.”

“Is that how promises work?”

“It’s how this one will.”

“Alright.” Kyle kissed him. Soft, gentle, tender. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

“This is a bad idea,” Kyle grumbled to Craig, as he walked by her through the dark city streets. She and Tweek were carrying an unconscious Stan on a stretcher. It was raining, just barely a mist at present, but the thick grey clouds were threatening far worse. “We don’t even know where we’re going.”

“We’re going to find an urchin who can lead us to ‘ze Mole King,’ just like Nichole said we could,” said Craig.

“But we don’t even know which urchin!” he huffed. “It could be any of the hundreds in Cape Cod. Like, take this one.” He gestured towards a dark-haired girl dressed in rags on the opposite side of the street. “Excuse me?”

She looked up. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Kyle beckoned the girl towards him. “What’s your name?”

“Wendy,” she said slowly, like this was a trick question.

“Well, Wendy, I don’t suppose you happen to know where a boy named Christophe lives?”

She looked at him blankly. “I’m sure there are plenty of Christophes around here.”

Kyle looked at Craig smugly. “I’m sure there are.”

“Christophe, the Mole King,” Craig said to Wendy.

“Oh!” Her face lit up in recognition. “Yes, of course I know him. Everyone here does.”

“Oh, do they, now?” Craig gave Kyle a tight smile. “How interesting.”

Kyle scowled. “That shouldn’t have worked.”

“Could you take us to him?” asked Craig. “We’re friends of his.”

The girl surveyed the sorry looking party and snickered. “Yes, I rather think you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Kyle indignantly.

“Don’t be so offended,” she said. “I work for him too.”

“We don’t serve under that man!”

“Kyle,” said Craig sharply, and he held his tongue, but only because he didn’t like the idea of Craig instructing him to remain civil. He slunk back a pace, and spent the majority of the walk, muttering with Tweek, who had been in an uncharacteristically chipper mood since her reunion with Craig.

“I can’t believe you’re letting her lead us into an obvious trap,” he hissed to her.

“How is it a trap? He doesn’t know that we’re coming.”

“Well, enemy territory, then.”

Tweek sighed. “What do you want out of me, Kyle? If you’re trying to provoke a fit of hysteria, you’ll be sorely disappointed, because I don’t have the energy for one right now.”

“I would never do such a thing!” he protested. “I just thought you would be rational enough to see the dangers in this plan.”

“No, you didn’t,” she chuckled. “No one thinks I’m rational.”

“Alright, maybe so,” he said, “but—”

“Kyle?” Stan’s eyes fluttered open. “Darling?”

“Yes?” Kyle was by his side in an instant.

“Are you still there?” He reached an arm out.

“Of course, I am.” Kyle took his hand and squeezed it gently. “See?”

Stan smiled sleepily, gazing upwards. “The ceiling is very pretty tonight.”

“Jesus,” snickered Tweek, “how many of those opium tablets did you give him?”

“The recommended dosage!” said Kyle defensively. “I’ll wean him off it soon. But if you were in his position, you’d be begging for some too.”

“I wouldn’t mind some as is,” she muttered, and he gave her a suspicious side-eye. “Joking!” She grinned. “I would never steal your prescription drugs.”

“Right.”

“I’d get Butters to give them to me instead, free of charge.”

“He would not!” he said.

“Who says he hasn’t already?”

“Tweek!”

“Jesus, I’m still joking.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re so high-strung tonight.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m just taking a leaf out of your book.”

“Okay, ouch.” She frowned at him. “High strung and cruel.”

“Ah, sorry.” He groaned and massaged his temples. “I’m just not looking forward to where we’re headed. I’m not trying to be horrid on purpose.”

“That’s just a little added bonus.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Yeah, I heard.”

Kyle huffed again and began kicking a pebble down the pavement. “Are you actually upset?”

“Not really.”

“Are we still friends?”

“Were we ever friends?”

“I thought—” He caught the mischievous glint in her eye, and realised she was teasing him. “Oh. Well, good.”

“You know,” she said, “a true friend would swap places with me, and help carry this stretcher.”

“I would, but you know.” Kyle waved the hand that was holding Stan’s. “Got to keep a hold of this. Captain’s orders.”

Tweek snorted. “Bastard,” she said, but it was in an affectionate tone.

The urchin, Wendy, led them to a large manor house on a hill, overlooking the docks, far below. It took them some time to get all the way to the entrance, for a body was a very heavy thing to haul up such an incline.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Kyle asked Wendy. Whilst the place looked rather battered and run down, it certainly seemed far too ornate for the man they were heading to see.

“Unless there happens to be a second Mole King I’ve not heard of, this is where you’re looking for.”

There were two guards stationed outside the main gate, dressed in tattered clothing, a stark contrast to the high-society impression that the architecture gave. Wendy addressed a tall, blond lad. “Evening, Gregory.”

He smiled and bowed his head. “Evening, Wendy.”

“This lot have come to speak to the Mole.”

“Actually, we’d like to speak to Nichole,” said Craig.

The guard looked at her with a deadpan expression. “It’s late. Lady Nichole will be asleep.”

“Lady Nichole?” said Kyle, exchanging glances with Tweek.

Craig gave him a stoic glare. “It’s vital that we speak with her now. Tell her Craig is here. She’ll want to see us.”

Gregory looked to Wendy for confirmation, but she just shrugged. “Might as well.”

“Alright. But you’ll be on the wrong end of her wrath, boy,” he nodded his head at Craig, “if it turns out you’re not worth it.”

Craig shrugged. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

He disappeared inside, and Kyle stepped forward to talk to her. “Craig, what is this place?”

“It’s their centre of operation,” she said plainly. “Nichole told me of it. The Mole King’s palace.”

“What on Earth has he done to acquire a place like this?”

“Has Stan ever told you of his highway robber past?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said slowly.

“Well, Christophe never gave up the game.” She turned back to the house. “A lucrative game indeed, if you know how to play. Nichole told me all about how he sort of—outsourced all his robbers.”

“He created a business for thievery?” he asked. He was in no position to judge, but he did so anyway.

“It’s not like he created more crime,” she said. “He just… organised it.”

A few minutes later, Nichole appeared, dressed in a nightgown. A smile split her face in two when she saw them. She raced towards Craig and pulled her into a tight hug. “Oh, goodness! Craig, I never thought I’d see you again!”

“Well… surprise,” said Craig, still stiffly holding onto the stretcher. “Here we are.”

Nichole noticed her discomfort. “Gregory, Gary, hold this stretcher for them, won’t you?” The two men obediently obliged. Relinquished from her position, Craig looked to Tweek, as if for permission, who tutted.

“I’ll allow it,” she said.

Craig scoffed, and hugged Nichole back.

“This is just—I can’t believe this. What happened since I left?” said Nichole.

“Is that—Whose voice is that?” Stan raised his head, bleary eyed. “What’s going on?”

Nichole gasped and let go of Craig. “Jesus, Stan.”

“It is you!” He stretched his free hand towards her, and she slipped away from Craig and took his hand. “Oh, Nichole!” Stan pulled her towards him, immobilised on the stretcher. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ve been such an ass.”

She looked a little shaken, although it was unclear whether that was from seeing what a state he was in, or from the unexpected words. “I… appreciate your apology.” She frowned at him. “Your pupils are… rather small.” She looked up at Kyle, bemused. “Is he…?”

“Just for the pain,” he said. “But I’m sure that his words are genuine.”

“They are!” Stan protested. “I’m sorry, I really am so sorry.” He rocked his head back and forth on the stretcher. “Not just for our fight, for the whole bleeding lot. I made all these stupid rules just to sabotage you and your relationship with Christophe, and then I had the audacity to pretend as if that was never my intention. God! How beastly of me—”

“Stan,” Nichole said, almost laughing. “I forgive you.”

He fell silent, a look of confusion on his face. After a beat of silence, he said, “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Oh,” he said. “Why?”

“We were fourteen. I can’t hold a grudge that long. It’s not good for me.”

Stan looked at her for a moment, almost in disbelief. “Nichole,” he said, “I think you might be the smartest person that I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” muttered Kyle.

She snorted. “He means emotionally intelligent, Kyle. Which, no offence, you can’t hold a candle to.”

“Well—” he started, then stopped. “Alright, fair point.”

Nichole squeezed Stan’s hand, then let it go. “I guess I missed a lot of the action, huh?”

“Nothing too important,” he said, then glanced down at his leg. “I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.”

“We need a place to stay,” said Craig, taking this as an opportunity to interject. “We had an incident with Randy. We survived, but only just. The crew is in of medical attention and a safe place to rest. We were hoping that you might be able to help us.”

“Of course,” said Nichole. She surveyed the pleading party, and said quietly, “Is this all that’s left of you?”

“No,” reassured Craig. “There’s more, back on the ship, but we didn’t want to drag them all out here, in case we were turned away.”

“But you brought Stan,” said Nichole, staring at him dubiously.

“I couldn’t spend another second on that ship,” he declared. “I’d rather sleep on the streets, if I had to. It’s poison, that place.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she said.

“I want it burnt.”

“We’ve already had this conversation, Stan,” said Craig wearily. “Burning it would be a waste. We’ll sell it and buy another ship.”

“Oh, where’s the symbolism in that?” he grumbled.

“You’d better come in,” said Nichole, and turned to the guards. “Take them to the third guest room,” she said, gesturing to Stan, and then to Kyle. “And anything that he asks for, you get for him, understand?”

They nodded and carried Stan up the path. Kyle moved to join them, but Craig caught his sleeve. “Tweek and I won’t be staying here.”

“What?”

“We’re escorting Randy back to South Port,” said Tweek. “You know, make sure he delivers on his promises.”

“How long will you be?”

“A few weeks, if the winds are in our favour,” said Craig.

“Well, I hope that they are,” said Kyle. “Thank you for doing this.”

She shrugged. “It’s what needs to be done.”

“Kyle?” Stan called from further on, voice strained. “Where are you?”

“I’d better go,” said Kyle. “Have fun escorting a wicked old man to my father’s doorstep.”

“Oh, we will!” said Tweek, and she really did seem to mean it.

“Kyle?” shouted Stan, sounding increasingly more panicked.

“Coming!”

The inside of the manor house was as grand as the outside. “How did a place like this come under Christophe’s possession?” Kyle asked Nichole, as they were led down a corridor. “It’s mighty fine for an urchin hideout.”

“It’s a strange sort of miracle, actually,” she said. “A couple of years ago, when Christophe was back to being a lowly highwayman after he and Stan, ah, went their separate ways, he found this place selling for a suspiciously reasonable price. Apparently, it had been constructed with the intent to become a boarding school, but the owner abandoned the project before it opened. Some sort of scandal, I don’t know.”

Kyle’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you know the name of the owner?”

She scratched her head. “It began with a G, if I call correctly. Something like Garfield, or Grayson, or—”

“Garrison?” he interjected.

She shrugged. “Sounds about right.”

“That was the name of my headmaster, at my boarding school back in South Port,” he said.

“You went to boarding school?” she asked in surprise.

Kyle gave her a weak smile. “I went to a lot of places that I didn’t want to go.”

“I know, it’s just—It’s still hard to adjust to the idea of you being a toff and all. Which is strange,” she said, with a wink, “because you always carry yourself like one.”

“I do not!” he protested. “And anyway, I was just wondering if maybe it was the same man, that’s all. My boarding school got shut down too, in ’03.”

“Probably was, then,” she said. “Do you know why it got shut down in the first place?”

“Tax evasion,” He said curtly, but, after a moment’s consideration, he added, “and because my father wanted to cover up my own scandal there.”

“Well, it’s a jolly good thing that it happened,” said Nichole, turning to glance at the other urchins passing them in the corridor. “It’s the best home they’ve ever had.”

“But not the best home you’ve ever had?” he inquired.

“No,” she said. “That’s gone now. Beneath the waves.”

Kyle bit his lip. “Oh.”

“Don’t be upset.” She squeezed his arm. “You’ve provided a pretty good second-best.”

While it was run down like the rest of the house, the aforementioned third guest bedroom was a pleasant place, especially compared to the bloodstained ship which they had been sailing in recently. It was on the smaller side, but with a nice view of the bay. But best of all was the plush double bed, which Gregory and Gary carefully laid Stan upon, which was a real luxury to someone who’d been sleeping in hammocks for too long.

“I hope this will suffice,” said Nichole.

“It’s perfect,” said Kyle, “This is all just—We’re so indebted to you, Nichole.”

She smiled. “I know. You’re pretty lucky that I wooed a rich man.”

Kyle tactfully withheld his opinions on that rich man, and simply said, “We certainly are.”

“Are there any medical supplies that you’ll be needing?” she asked. “I can get you anything you need.”

“Ah, yes, actually,” said Kyle. “Do you have a quill? It might be easier if I write this down. The list is rather long…”

*

The rain picked up as the night waned on. Through the bay window, Kyle could see the waves churning, tossing themselves against one another with violent desperation. If they had still been aboard Poseidon’s Wrath, or perhaps even Nobody, then this might have been cause for concern. But they were on dry land now, sturdy, and solid between these four paint-peeling walls. They were safe and secure in a way that felt unexpectedly alien to Kyle, considering the fact that he had spent most of his life in places like this. Still, it was a comfort, when settling into bed, especially with his lover by his side.

Stan did not seem so soothed, though, lying next to him. He twisted over and around, forehead creased even as he slept. And with every movement he buried himself further into Kyle’s embrace, pushing his face into his chest, tangling their limbs together. It was not an entirely comfortable position for Kyle, but it was reassuring to feel Stan’s presence nonetheless, even if he was in a sweaty and feverish fervour. He lay awake for some time, counting the rise and fall of Stan’s breaths. Things were at last beginning to feel real to him, the understanding that they had defeated both of their fathers and escaped alive. He fell asleep to the sound of the rain pattering on the glass, and the old house creaking under the weight of the weather.

His awakening was much less peaceful: an almighty crash as the shutters of the windows burst open. Stan sat up in bed with a cry, arms crossed over his head in a delirious attempt to protect himself from an absent intruder. Kyle scooted upright too and pulled Stan back towards him.

“Shh, love, it’s alright. I’m here. It’s just the storm.”

Stan stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, the colour of the brooding sea outside. Kyle was not entirely sure that he was really the one being looked at, or if Stan was even capable of sight in his delirium. The room was growing steadily colder, icy breath blown in through open windows. He was almost afraid to move, unsure whether that would be enough to shatter Stan once and for all. Slowly, he slid his palm across Stan’s forehead, who melted into his touch. He sat there for a while, shivering, with his head bowed, until Kyle began to wonder whether he had fallen asleep again.

But then he whispered, “You’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” echoed Kyle. “Where else would I be?”

“I thought the storm might have—taken you,” mumbled Stan. “I thought I’d wake up, and you’d be gone.”

“I’m immovable,” said Kyle. “I’ve dropped anchor.”

Stan raised his head to look him in the eyes. He leant closer and put his hands on Kyle’s cheeks, as if with the intent to hold him in place. A gust of wind whistled around the room, and Kyle felt the shiver that trickled down Stan’s spine, vibrating through his fingertips.

“May I shut the window?” asked Kyle.

“Can I come with you?”

Kyle frowned. The window was only a few feet from the bed, and it would be unwise to encourage Stan to stand right now. He picked up a corner of the quilt and handed it to him. “Here, you keep hold of one end, and I’ll keep hold of the other. That way, we’re still attached.”

Stan took the corner sullenly, and which Kyle interpreted as permission to get up, gently unwinding himself from Stan. He padded to the window, floorboards groaning under his weight, and wrestled the windows shut again. He went to draw the curtains but felt a tug on the blanket.

“Don’t,” said Stan. “I want to watch the storm with you.”

“It’s late. You should go back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Oh, of course you’re tired.” Kyle rolled his eyes as he got back into bed, adjusting the covers around them both. “No one in the whole wide world could go through what you have and spring up fresh as a daisy.”

“Do you not think I look fresh as a daisy right now?” Kyle caught a flash of the old Stan then, the one who primped and preened and was upset whenever anyone was prettier than him.

“I think you are the most beautiful boy I have ever seen,” said Kyle.

“You do?” Stan smiled.

“Don’t be so smug about it,” tutted Kyle.

“You think I’m beautiful!” Stan let out a little whoop of joy, and Kyle clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Hush! You’ll wake the whole house up.”

“You think I’m beautiful,” Stan said again, muffled.

“Of course I do,” huffed Kyle. “I always have. But I think that beautiful boys need beauty sleep.”

“Soon,” said Stan. “Watch the storm with me first.”

“Fine,” said Kyle, because Stan seemed unexpectedly lucid, and he didn’t know how many opportunities he’d have to talk with him in this state for a while. “Just for a bit.”

Stan sighed contentedly and settled down against Kyle’s chest. They sat in silence, listening to the rain, until a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder broke the stupor.

“Why were you so surprised?” asked Kyle.

“Surprised about what?”

“That I think you’re beautiful.”

“Well, you’ve never said so before.”

“Was it not implied?”

Stan shrugged. “You can kiss ugly people too.”

“You’re not ugly!”

“Oh, I know that,” he said. “I just wasn’t sure that you did.” He looked up at Kyle. “You didn’t exactly give off the most affectionate impression, you know. Everything I ever said to you was met with scorn.”

“Not everything!”

“You know what I mean. A significant portion.”

“Alright, maybe so,” said Kyle. “But that’s—That was because…” He trailed off. Why had he ever felt the need to openly disdain Stan? “Because it was easy. It’s easier to hate someone than to love them.”

“Don’t I know it,” chuckled Stan.

Kyle chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “Tweek told me once that love and hate were two sides of the same coin. Because they’re united by—passion, or something. But I don’t like that.” His eyes took on a determined glint. “I’m sick of pretending that I still resent some part of you. I don’t, and I never have, and I never will. I don’t think I have the capacity to hate you. I’m too consumed with love for you instead.”

Stan looked up at him with round, shining eyes. “I—You love me?”

“Yes.” Kyle frowned. “Was that not obvious?”

“You never said it,” said Stan. “When I told you that I… I loved you. On Nobody, before everything went wrong. And all you said was, ‘I know, but thanks.’”

“That's not what I said.”

“I'm paraphrasing. The sentiment was the same in essence.”

“The sentiment was returned!”

“Not verbally!”

“Well, because I did know that I had to! I didn’t need you to tell me about your feelings for me to know it. People don’t just go around making dramatic declarations of love just to make sure everyone’s aware of exactly what’s going on.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what they do,” said Stan, a little sharply. “All the time. Friends, family, lovers, they all say it. And they say it over and over again, like a mantra, to ensure that you never forget it, not even for a second. I love you, I love you, I love you. And don’t you forget it.”

Kyle was quiet for a moment. “My family never did that.”

“Those people weren’t your family.” Stan squeezed Kyle’s hand. “They were just a couple of monsters who happened to make you. Family has little to do with the making.”

“What does it have to do with, then?”

“It’s sort of—I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words. It’s about the way they keep you, after that.” Stan sighed and rubbed his temples. Kyle knew he was in a lot more pain than he was letting on. “You’re probably asking the wrong man. It’s not as if I had the best parents either.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kyle. “You ought to rest now. I mustn’t keep bothering you with my poor communication skills.”

“Don’t leave me!” said Stan suddenly. His grip tightened on Kyle’s arm with an unexpected sense of desperation.

“You know I won’t,” said Kyle. “I’ve said a thousand times over that I’m not going anywhere. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because—Why would you want to stay, after everything that’s happened?”

“Because I love you, that’s why.” Kyle’s grip around him tightened. “I love you, I love you, I love you. And don’t you forget it.”

Stan swallowed and nodded. He turned back to the storm. “You know, I used to imagine it might end like this,” he said. “Me, wounded in your arms.” He looked sad, almost ashamed. “But I had always imagined that whatever injury I’d sustained, it would be on behalf of you. Not myself.” He took Kyle’s hand. “I thought I’d die for you. Or, if not for you, then by your hand.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Kyle. “I have never liked sacrifice on my behalf.” This didn’t seem any comfort to Stan, who still looked miserable, and so he added, “People die every day, Stan, all over the world. It’s not a hard thing to do.”

“I suppose you’re right.” This succeeded in drawing forth a tiny smile from Stan, a small victory which to Kyle felt like he was king of the world.

“Live for me instead, okay? That would be the ultimate act of love. To live.” He smoothed down Stan’s hair. “Do it for me, if you must.”

“Alright.” Stan put his hand up to Kyle’s cheek again, this time tilting him down into a kiss.

“Do you still think I do everything too tensely?” Kyle asked, teasing. “Even kissing?”

Stan stared up at Kyle, a frown pinching his brow. “I think that I made a grave mistake with you, Kyle. I think I went about everything all wrong.”

“Oh.” Kyle’s heart dropped.

“I spent all that time telling you to let go, when—” He cut himself off, grimacing, as pain flared. Kyle felt foolish, for pressing him on such an unimportant subject when he was clearly suffering.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, it does matter,” said Stan, regaining his breath. “Because, look, I wasted all that time telling you to let go. But that isn’t something you can just do on command, or at the drop of a hat. It’s gradual, it happens over time. I knew that,” he said, and then again, angrier, “I knew that! I just—I just wanted you to be happy. That’s all I ever wanted.” He sighed and turned his head away. “I wanted to show you the kindness that no one ever showed me. But I went about it all wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Kyle whispered. “Hope, kindness, those things aren’t wrong.”

“You deserved better.”

“I don’t care about what I deserve,” he said. “I care about what I got, and I got you. And there’s nothing that I’m more grateful for.”

The storm was still thrashing outside. But along the horizon was a golden streak of sun.

“Oh,” said Kyle. “I thought it was earlier in the night than this. I suppose everyone will be awake soon.”

Stan shifted in bed, dropping onto the pillow. “Lie down with me, Kyle. Sleep.”

“Okay.” He moved until they were lying as equals, foreheads resting against one another.

“You’ve been awake for so long,” said Stan. He reached up and traced Kyle’s eyelids shut. “So, so long.”

*

Christophe came to see them, in the afternoon. Nichole was with him, a hand on his shoulder, as if she’d had to drag him up the stairs. They exchanged a few tense whispers in the doorway, which made it abundantly clear just whose idea it was for Christophe to face Stan in the first place. In the end, Nichole shoved him in the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

Stan was lying in bed, and Kyle was sitting at the end, changing the dressing on his stump. Stan had not spoken for the past few hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, and so Kyle took it upon himself to address Christophe first. “What do you want?” he said curtly.

“Um.” He held his arms behind his back, stiff and formal, but unlike the air of authority that he had maintained when they’d met before, he just seemed sort of awkward. “I… I’ve come to apologise.”

“For what?” said Stan, turning his head. His eyes were half lidded.

“For the way things ended.” He lowered his head. “Nichole and I have talked a lot, and I’m—I understand that I did not behave appropriately. Perhaps I took advantage of your affections. That was unkind.”

“Oh,” said Stan. “Well. Okay.”

“Alright, good. Glad that’s cleared up.” Christophe began inching towards the door.

“And what about the rest of it?” said Kyle, who was not about to let him get away so easily. “Everything else you did?”

“I'm not quite sure I can apologise for how they began. The early days. Things were more complicated.”

“The early days, as in, when you whipped him?” Kyle said sharply, half expecting him to deny it, but to his surprise, Christophe nodded.

“I do not know what to say about that. I am... unhappy that it turned out that way.”

“Unhappy? Unhappy!” Kyle scoffed in disgust. “You act as if it wasn't your hand that dealt the blows!”

“It was not mine in any meaningful way,” Christophe said plainly.

Kyle wrinkled his nose. "What's that supposed to mean?"

“It means, Broflovski, that when you are thirteen years old and your captain shoves the cat o' nine tails into your grasp, you do as you are told.” Christophe's face remained calm, but something flashed in his eyes. “God dealt me a rotten hand, and Randy played my cards for me.”

“You could have put up a fight!”

“I was a child!” Christophe stomped his foot. “And I believed I might be killed at any moment by Randy for my sodomy! You expect a child to be brave, and pure of heart, when he is fighting for his life?”

Kyle opened his mouth, then closed it. There were a thousand more cutting words he longed to hurl at Christophe, but none which he could utter guilt free. He knew well enough what a child would do under the orders of a great, cruel man. As did Stan, who was staring at his hands, laced together in his lap.

Christophe tutted and shook his head, when it became apparent that he would receive no response. “You think you know me, Broflovski. Ah, you think you know me so well. But all that you have is the grotesque second-hand memories of your friends and enemies. The truth is not so simple.” He smiled, but there was a hollowness to his eyes. “The truth is that I am just like you. The truth is that you would have done the same.”

Kyle looked at him for a moment, and then to Stan, and then back to him, as if with fresh eyes. Suddenly, Christophe wasn't some grizzled king of thieves and runaways. Suddenly, he was just a little boy, lost and lonely and afraid. And that was all he ever had been.

“That is how men like Randy are created,” said Christophe, hoarsely. “You spend your whole life inflicting pain on others, because that is what you are taught to do. So, at some point you simply must begin to glean joy from it, in order to survive the guilt. And thus, you create more men of your breed. You know, you were lucky.” It was the first time he had looked at Kyle with anything other than resentment. “You escaped the cycle with very little damage done by your own hand. The least you could do is spare a little pity for the poor souls who weren’t so lucky.”

Kyle bit his lip. “No, I didn’t. I left my father, only to destroy my very next home.”

“Mm,” hummed Christophe. “Do you really believe you did that, all by yourself?”

“Well… no,” admitted Kyle. “But my actions certainly didn’t help the matter.”

“And why, then, did you take those actions?”

“Because I felt I had no choice.”

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Christophe. “The results?”

“No!”

“Well,” he said, “you are one step better than your father. Perhaps next time, you will see that you do have a choice, Broflovski, and you will make the right one.”

“Broflovski was my father,” Kyle said after a moment. “Call me Kyle.”

Christophe gazed at him with furrowed brows. Then, he smiled—Or, at least, Kyle assumed that was what it was, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards, although it may have just been a grimace. His eyes drifted away from Kyle.

"If not sorry for all that, then I am mournful, Stanley.” He paused, to make sure Stan was still listening, who nodded, to show that he was. “I mourn the loss of the lives we should have led, the ones of joy and freedom and hope. There is not a day that goes by where I do not mourn that loss."

“I know,” Stan said quietly. “I feel it too. That grief will never go away, no matter how fast I run from it. Because it's rooted deep inside of me.”

“Perhaps,” Christophe said. “Perhaps it may never leave us. It may never even dwindle. But then perhaps the only thing left to do is keep growing around it. And then it will shrink in comparison.”

Stan tilted his head for a moment. “I will,” he said. “I’ll try.”

Christophe moved towards him, and Kyle bristled, but he only took Stan's hand, and squeezed it once. "Happy growing," he said. "Know that I am rooting for you."

*

The following weeks blurred into one endless day. Stan’s recovery was agonisingly slow to watch, but no doubt worse to endure. He was reluctant to leave their room, whether due to the effort exerted in getting there, or for some broader fear of the outside. On the occasions he could be convinced otherwise, and he and Kyle would sit under the trees and enjoy the fresh air, talking aimlessly of the future, which seemed very far away. Mostly, Stan just slept, intercut with fits of quiet despondency.

The crew members which were not too badly injured took up temporary work for Christophe, in order to earn the keep for the rest of them. In the beginning, Stan had many visitors, everyone eager to see how he was doing and to wish him well, but soon Kyle had to start turning them away, for it was much too exhausting for the Captain to handle. Still, they were visited daily by Nichole, or Kenny and Butters, for the latest gossip and update on the local goings-on. Stan would put on a brave face just for them, but as soon as they left, he sank back into melancholy. It took some time for him to regain his vigour. But eventually, he began to perk up. Kyle would catch flashes of his old self, in his smirk, or dry wit. The most significant sign of recover was the fact that he’d started to seek out Kyle’s attention again, frequently inquiring as to what he was doing or reading or thinking of.

“The birdsong,” mumbled Kyle, one Sunday morning. His eyes had not yet opened, and he wondered how Stan had known he was awake. “I’m thinking about the birdsong.”

“Oh,” said Stan. He held his breath for a moment, and Kyle knew he was listening intently. Silence, and then, the call of a cuckoo. “And what do you think of it?”

“I like it.”

“It’s not very pretty.”

“It doesn’t need to be pretty for me to like it.”

“If that’s a thinly veiled insult at me, I won’t stand for it.”

“Stan!” Kyle tutted. He never thought he’d be so pleased to hear an egotistical comment. “No, of course it’s not.” He yawned. “I’m not awake enough to veil my insults yet. If you’re being scorned, you’ll know it.”

Stan chuckled. Kyle heard the rustle of the bedsheets as he scooted closer and felt the warmth of an arm wrap around him. He hummed contentedly, and snuggled in. It had been some time since Stan had held him. These days it was only ever the other way around, him desperate to be cradled, like a baby. Kyle took this change as another good sign.

“Why do you like it, then?” asked Stan.

“Because you never hear cuckoos at sea,” said Kyle. “You never hear any birdsong out there.”

“What about seagulls?”

“Those are shrieks, not songs.”

“Oh. Well, I thought you liked the sea.”

“I do. I just—I missed it, I suppose. The cuckoos.”

“So, would you not want to go back?”

Kyle cracked an eye open. “What?”

“Would you not want to go back to sea?” Stan’s head was right next to his on the pillow. He was speaking very softly.

“Well, do you want to?”

“I asked first.”

“I want to go wherever you are. I don’t care whether that’s land, sea, or amongst the damn stars.”

“Oh, that would be nice.” Stan smiled, clearly still a little bleary himself. “To visit the stars with you.”

“Alright, then let’s do it.” Kyle rested his head on Stan’s chest. He smelled so good in the mornings. Kyle never knew how he did it, or what it was from. “Next stop: Stan and Kyle, amongst the stars.”

“In a minute,” said Stan. “Let’s sleep a little more first.”

“Yes, please.”

And they might have, if Kenny hadn’t burst in, looking very pleased with himself. “Morning!” he said, much too loudly. He moved to the window, and drew the curtains, allowing blinding light to flood into the room.

“Ah!” moaned Kyle, covering his eyes with the blankets. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’ve brought some surprises for you.” Kenny was in much better shape by now, making full use of his regained energy and mobility as he strutted about the room.

“Is a rude awakening one of them?” grumbled Stan.

“Kenny!” Butters voice came from the corridor. “You were supposed to knock!”

Kenny rolled his eyes, then knocked several times on the wall. “There. I’ve knocked.”

Butters sighed as he trapsed in behind him. “You can’t just go inviting yourself into bedrooms this early,” he said, giving Stan and Kyle an apologetic look. He turned back to Kenny, and said in a stage-whisper, “What if they had been naked?”

Kenny turned to the pair in bed. “Are you naked?”

“No,” said Kyle, through gritted teeth. “You can see very clearly that we’re not.”

“Well, crisis averted.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than to ruin my morning?” said Kyle. “Nothing that urgently requires hanging upside down?”

“Don’t give him any ideas!” said Butters.

“Why is he even here, Butters? Haven’t you made a leash for him yet?”

“Rude!” said Kenny. “Now, look, I told you.” He came to stand at the foot of the bed. “I have not one, not two, but three whole surprises for you! One for you, and one for Stan, and one for the both of you.” He clapped his hands together. “Which one would you like first?”

“I would like you to leave,” said Kyle, but he sat up in bed anyway, because he was well aware that was not going to happen.

“You’ve got to do the one about us first, idiot,” hissed a surprisingly familiar voice from the hallway.

Stan frowned, still lying down. “Craig? Is that you?”

“Oh, well done.” Kenny scowled at the door. “You’ve only gone and ruined the third surprise.”

“It should have been the first,” said Craig. “Otherwise the other one wouldn’t have made sense.”

“Does that mean we can come in now?” asked another voice, scratchiness distinct enough to identify her as Tweek.

“Yes, fine, come on,” said Kenny.

“No!” Kyle moaned, pulling the covers up over his head. “Why is everyone invading my bedroom?”

“Just let it happen, love,” said Stan, propping himself upright too, and threading an arm around Kyle’s shoulders.

“Ta-da!” Tweek wiggled her fingers as she and Craig entered. She clasped a rolled-up newspaper to her chest.

“Oh, what a surprise,” said Stan, generously. “I would have never suspected that you were out there. Did you, Kyle?”

“Yes,” he said flatly, refusing to play along.

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have just come in with you in the first place, Kenny,” said Craig.

“I still don’t see why you’re here at all,” muttered Kyle.

“When did you get back?” Stan asked her, ignoring Kyle’s griping. “Has Kenny been keeping you expertly hidden for long?”

“Only since late last night,” said Tweek. “We’ve spent most of the morning just wandering about. It’s a remarkably nice place.”

“I shall be glad to see the back of it,” said Stan. Kyle raised an eyebrow, and he added, “Not that I’m not grateful for Christophe and Nichole’s hospitality! Just—You know. It’d be nice to get back out there.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever want to leave,” said Kyle. “I thought I’d have to drag you out of here, kicking and screaming.”

“Well, you were wrong,” said Stan. “I just, you know, needed a lot of beauty sleep first.”

Kyle scoffed. “Any news from South Port?” he asked Tweek.

“Ah, yes,” she said, holding out the newspaper. “I brought—”

“Wait!” Kenny interjected, blocking her path. “I want to give my surprise to Stan first.” He darted into the hallway, and returned carrying a large, oddly shaped packaged, wrapped in crumpled brown paper and tied with string. He thrust it at Stan, who stared at it in confusion. “Well! Open it!”

Frowning, Stan obliged. Inside was a gorgeous wooden leg. It was smooth and dark, with a leather top, to be fitted to the thigh. “Oh, Kenny!” He grinned, holding it up to show everyone else. “It’s marvellous!”

“I made it myself!” Kenny beamed. “Butters helped me read all these books on prosthetics, and Kyle took the measurements for me whilst you were asleep.”

Stan squinted at Kyle. “Okay, crossing into creepy territory.”

“Kenny was adamant that I couldn’t ruin the surprise,” said Kyle. “Blame him.”

“Don’t blame me, thank me!” said Kenny. “It took an awfully long time to make. It’s got metal joints at the knee and ankle, see? Those were very fiddly!”

“It was good for you, though,” said Butters. “It meant that you actually sat still, for once. I think your rib would have never healed, otherwise.”

“I could have sat still, if I wanted to!”

“Yes, but would you have wanted to?”

“I—Maybe.” Kenny crossed his arms. “You don’t know.”

“Well, in any case, you did sit still, and I’m very proud.” Butters kissed him on the cheek, and a big, dopey smile spread across Kenny’s face. “It’ll probably take a while for you to get used to it, Stan,” said Butters. “I know Kyle’s already been helping you exercise your stump already.”

“Oh, god, yes.” Stan wrinkled his nose. “I hate doing those.”

“It’s for the best in the long term,” said Kyle.

“Doesn’t make them any less painful.”

“It will, overtime.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Well, now you’ve got something to work towards,” he said, brushing his fingertips over the cool, smooth wood. “You know, I’ve heard stories of pirates who fought just fine with prosthetics.”

“I believe the proper term is peg leg, actually,” said Stan with faux haughtiness.

Kyle snorted. “Fine. I’m just saying… you could be one of them.”

“It would certainly make you pretty memorable!” said Kenny. “It’s easy to forget any old pirate’s face, but one with a fine wooden leg who fights twice as well as those with two of bone? Now that’s not something that slips your mind so easily!”

And then, there it was, a return of the old Stan, flickering in the swell of pride in his chest. “Yes,” he said, chuffed. “Yes, you’re certainly right. No more ‘Who’s Captain Stan?’ from our ungrateful victims. It’ll be the Captain Stan from now on.”

“Aye aye!” Kenny said, saluting, and the rest of them followed suit, even Tweek, after Craig had elbowed her.

“Can we give Kyle his present now?” she asked. She was shifting from foot to foot, looking excited.

“Yes, yes,” said Stan, who had naturally resumed his position of authority.

Tweek thrust the newspaper at Kyle. “Read the headline!” she said.

Kyle scanned it. Royal Marriage Falls Through! Broflovski Son Slaughtered by Pirates. Stan peered over his shoulder and let out a small shout of excitement.

“Oh, jolly good!” He beamed at Craig and Tweek.

“I take it everything with my father went smoothly, then,” said Kyle, thrilled.

“As smoothly as it could,” said Craig. “We dumped Randy on his doorstep with a few reminders about what we’d do to him if he sought revenge. Then he went on to tell your father everything that he thought he knew. And who’s going to question the tale of a man when the proof is on his face?”

“Oh, that’s brilliant.” Kyle couldn’t stop grinning. “Thank you both, so much.”

“It really was no bother,” said Tweek. “It was almost like a holiday, really.”

“A holiday with an extra winy prisoner for half of it,” said Craig.

“Does it say who killed you, specifically?” asked Stan, who was still trying to read the paper over Kyle’s shoulder. He tried to take it, but Kyle held fast, possessive of his prize.

“Let me look. I can read faster.” He skimmed the page. “Um… No, not specifically. Just that I was killed by ‘The Nobodies.’”

“That’s not our name!” said Stan indignantly. “Oh, damn my father. I knew he’d get one last jab in.”

Kyle kept reading. “It does mention you by name, further down.”

“Oh!” Stan’s eyes lit up. “Where?”

“Here: ‘The band of young pirates is said to be led by one Captain Stan, who has lead the crew in capturing several trade ships, and in the recent slaughter of Captain Eric Cartman, among many others.”

“God, my name in the paper!” Stan clapped his hands together. “How thrilling.”

“I’m just glad that it’s the last time I’ll ever have to see mine in one,” said Kyle. He threw his arms around Stan and kissed him, prompting several chuckles and tuts from the others present, of which he did not care one jot about.

Stan grinned. “So, how does it feel to be legally dead, huh?”

Kyle sighed and rested his head on Stan’s shoulder. “I’ve never felt more alive.”

Chapter Text

The manor that they were on course for was growing closer. Kyle might have had the foresight to fret over this, but he was far too preoccupied with putting his clothes back on.

“Honestly, Stan,” he tutted, sitting back on the plush red carriage seat as he finished with his shirt. “We really ought to have waited until we get back to the ship, after this whole business is finished.”

“On the contrary.” Stan reached over and undid Kyle’s top button again, smoothing down his collar. “I think we timed it perfectly.”

Kyle glanced out the window. It was dark, with heavy black clouds obscuring the heavy black sky, but he recognised their surroundings all too well. “Oh, God, you’re right. Tell Craig to stop. We mustn’t park too close.”

Stan thumped on the ceiling. The carriage jerked and rolled to a stop. Footsteps, and then the door opened.

“Shall I stop?” Craig poked her head inside.

“Just out of sight.” Kyle nodded. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“And you’re certain that you should be the one to go?” she asked. “You don’t think it’d be less dangerous if I went in your place?”

“I’m here for closure, Craig,” said Kyle. “How am I supposed to get by sending you in?”

“A by-proxy closure.”

“That won’t work.”

“I still don’t understand what you’re expecting to happen there,” said Stan.

“I just—I left in a hurry,” said Kyle. “I want to say goodbye.”

“I thought you hated living here.”

“I hated the people here,” he said, then hesitated. “Well, most of them. But the place itself—”

“Alright, go have your emotional moment,” said Craig. “But if you need some extra brawn, call for me.”

“Or me!” said Stan, clearly not wanting to be left out in the chain of desirable brawn.

“I’ll summon you both, if need be.” Kyle gave them a wry smile. “But I think I’ll manage.”

Stan kissed him on the cheek. “Be safe.”

“I will.”

“Come back to me.”

“Always.”

As Kyle walked away, he heard Craig say, “Leave the carriage door open. It could do with some airing out in there.” Stan shot something back, probably a defensive and see-through excuse, but his voice was lost on the wind. Kyle quelled the anxious twist in his stomach with the reminder that it would not be lost for long.

He had dressed in all-black for the occasion, attire that he’d not worn since the funeral the crew had held for him about a little over a month ago. It had been more like a party, really, a celebration of the death of his old life and the birth of his new, but Stan had still insisted on a macabre dress code. Kyle suspected this was due, in part, to his vanity, which had returned with a vengeance since they’d started sailing on their new vessel. There was no denying that the captain looked ravishing in black, drawing forth the darker tones of his complexion—hair, lashes, and irises that swelled every time he glanced Kyle, which was often.

After so much time wasted averting their gaze, it had felt like a privilege to finally look, touch, kiss in the open air without fear or shame. With the acquisition of a new ship came the redrafting of the Accords, wherein it was unanimously agreed that rule six would not be revived. Kenny had suggested changing it from “Romantic entanglements amongst crew members are strictly forbidden” to “wholly encouraged,” but this was shot down by a snide remark from Craig which Kyle didn’t quite catch, but which resulted in a five-minute digression into what exactly constituted “professional behaviour” anyway, which mostly consisted of name calling between the two.

Regardless of its previous use, the purpose of his current attire was practicality, with the intent to blend in, to trespass onto his old property without hassle. In truth, Kyle wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing back here, only that ever since his confrontation with Randy, his old home had been weighing heavily on his mind.

The house itself backed onto a couple acres of dense forest. Kyle had spent many summers in their embrace, most often alone, so he had little issue navigating through them now, relying on them to keep his cover. Once, as a child, Kyle had been sent hunting in here. It was just another opportunity to disappoint his father, for he hadn’t had the heart to shoot anything that they came across. He had always been better at saving lives than taking them, although at the time, his father had not seen the merit in such.

Speak of the devil, Kyle thought, as he passed the east wing of the house. His father could be seen through a small window hunched over a great pile of paper, squinting in the dim candlelight. His quill hovered over the frontmost page, poised with the confidence of a man who had followed this ritual every evening for years upon years upon years.

Kyle was overcome with the urge to knock on the window. No, not to knock—to smash. To hurl a stone, thrust his boot, force his bare fist right through the glass. To launch himself inside and set upon his father, to throttle him to death, to watch his skin grow paler with asphyxiation. Or perhaps he would scream, right in his father’s ear, scream and scream until they both went deaf. If you won’t listen to me, then you shall never listen to anyone, ever again!

He kept his mouth shut and crept closer and crouched beneath the windowsill, taking care not to crush any plants in the flowerbed. From this angle, he could see the fireplace, flames dying behind the grate. Grim-faced, he recalled the sensation of sinking the fire poker into Randy’s eyes. The poker in his father’s office only had one prong, a single metal bar with a fine point, but he could still make it work. In fact, maybe he could drag it out, let him writhe, half-blind, before taking out his second eyeball. Perhaps he’d skip the eyes and go straight for the heart.

Then he thought of the firepit they had back on deck. It was nothing more than a large, open-top copper bowl, fed with a hearty serving of kindling, but it seemed grander than any fireplace in the manor. He wished he was there now, eating dinner with the rest of the crew, watching the flames dance as the ship was rocked by the waves. Why had he come here? What was it that he’d hoped for? Anything but this. Anything but what he had found, which was life, exactly as he had left it. He wanted proof that his absence was felt, proof that he’d ever even been there at all. He wanted a vacuous Kyle-shaped hole left in his wake that sucked all of the hope and joy out of this godforsaken house. He wanted to see his father, face down, tearing his hair out in guilt. He wanted to hear his wails as he lamented the demise of his beloved son. But, of course, that would never happen. Kyle was not his beloved son. He was only his son.

That was when Kyle saw it.

The last time he’d been in his father’s office, when he’d been summoned to speak of the arrangements for his engagement, there had been a bare spot on the mantlepiece. It was the precise spot where a ship in a bottle had previously resided, the one which he had broken as a child. The one which was responsible for his banishment from the office. But now, it was no longer empty. Because stationed right there was a framed illustration of his very own face. A neat newspaper clipping, which had once been plastered on the front page when his royal matrimony had been announced. It was the one with the altered features: small nose, sharp jaw, tame hair, freckle-free face. And now, there it sat, pressed behind a picture frame.

Kyle stared and stared at it. The smallest, simplest alteration to the room. So easy to miss. He felt at once like he might cry, but instead, a small, high-pitched laugh escaped his lips. His father’s head jerked upwards and Kyle quickly dropped to the ground, pressing his face into the earth of the flowerbed. He lay stock still, stiff as a board, counting his breaths until they surpassed a hundred, a hundred and one, and two, and three. There was no sound of movement inside. Slowly, he began to crawl away, until he was back in the safety of the forest, rubbing the filth from his face. He did not look back once, determined to keep the image of his framed face as the last impression he ever got of that horrible, horrible room. In a way, it seemed a fitting ending, being reduced to a still, silent, too-perfect picture on the mantlepiece. At last, he was the son that his father had wanted.

Kyle poked around the perimeter of his house, fuelled by morbid curiosity, but he found little of interest. It was late, and most of the residents were nowhere to be found, family in bed and servants in the quatres. Kyle didn’t harbour the same resentment towards the rest of them that he had for his father. They were polite and respectful for the most part, and yet he couldn’t forgive them for their willingness to turn a blind eye to the mistreatment he suffered through at the hands of his father. The closest thing he’d ever had to an ally had been Ike, his half-brother. Kyle had no real friends growing up, and so despite the five-year age gap and his parent’s general disapproval, they would play together when they could. He was a comforting presence at first, but their dynamic shifted when Kyle began boarding school at the age of twelve. What little they’d had in common only shrunk further, and soon Ike became no more than part of the furniture to Kyle, as he sank deeper into his depression.

Kyle ventured further around to the servant’s quatres, halting as he came across a familiar window. It was low to the ground, embedded into the basement level, smaller and filthier than the greater glass panes of the ascending floors, and totally dark. For the first time, Kyle was struck with the concern that the layout of his house might have changed since his impromptu departure. He couldn’t be certain that whatever lurked in those depths aligned with his recollection. Perhaps he would find a stranger on the other side of that wall, one who would scream, and shout, and then all would be lost.

Well, there was only one way to find out. Tentatively, he crouched down, and knocked.

He counted a full fifteen seconds before he knocked again, just in case whoever was inside hadn’t heard him, or wasn’t sure if the sound was intentional communication. After that, he counted to an excruciating twenty-three, and was about to knock for a third time, when a match was struck. He was reminded of that night on Nobody where Stan had roused him for a private celebration after battle, of the shadows that danced on his face and the way his eyes shone brighter than any flame could ever hope to. Only, it was not Stan’s dark head that he saw now, but another’s.

Slowly, the head rotated and tilted upwards. Kyle locked eyes with Ike, who gasped so deeply that his match blew out. Darkness flooded back again, thick, and viscous. It was a few moments more before he got his candle lit, illuminating his face once more, this time adorned with spectacles and a look of abject horror. Kyle smiled and waved and mouthed Sorry.

Ike didn’t say anything, but just stood and stared with his jaw slack, until Kyle tapped the glass and made an ambiguous gesture. Trembling, Ike set the brass candlestick down on his desk and dragged a chair over to the window. None of the Broflovskis were blessed with much length in their legs. Ike clambered onto the chair, lifted the latch and swung the window open.

“Hello,” said Kyle.

Ike extended hand out the window and gave his face an experimental poke. “Are you real?”

Kyle grimaced at the contact. “As far as I’m aware.”

Ike seemed to find this satisfactory evidence, although he still seemed rather shaken. “How?”

“‘How’ what?”

“How are you here, right now?”

“I came back.”

“Back from the dead?”

“I was never dead.”

“Well, I can see that now,” Ike said dryly. “You’d better come in.” He hopped down off the chair, and with some difficulty, Kyle squeezed through the window and dropped feet-first into the room.

This place had been something of a refuge for Kyle as a child, for no one ever came in here except for Ike. It was remarkable how little the layout had changed. A small bed, a small dresser, a small desk. A moth-eaten rug, a fractured mirror, a candle, burnt low.

“Funny how so few items can still make a place feel so cluttered,” said Kyle, taking a seat on the chair.

“That’s low ceilings for you,” said Ike, curtly. “Cell-like proportions.”

In hindsight, it had been absurd of Kyle to fret about major changes in his wake. Nothing ever changed here. That was why he’d left. “You don’t seem very happy see me,” he said.

Ike had retreated back to his bed and was sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest. He seemed somehow infinitely older than when Kyle had last seen him, the bags under his eyes so deep set that they might have been scarred into his face. “Well, there’s no point celebrating the fact that you’re alive if you were never dead in the first place.”

“You could at least act slightly relieved.”

“Hurrah for your survival.” Ike splayed his fingers sarcastically. “I’m truly thrilled.” Like Kyle, he had a wide mouth, the sort that grew wider on the rare occasion that he smiled, (which was not now), instead of twisting upwards. Aside from that, there was not a significant amount of family resemblance. His face was round and tanned, not gaunt and pale, and his nose was flatter and broader in comparison. It was more so their disposition that indicated any relation, their posture and composure and the direct, unsettling eye contact that he now held.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I survived?” said Kyle expectantly.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

He took this as a cue. “Ike, I wasn’t killed by pirates. I joined them! I was—am their sawbones. We got captured by my captain’s father, and so we faked my death in a sort of… um, elaborate way.” He had been looking forward to bragging about it in detail, but Ike seemed firmly unbothered. “And, uh, now I’m still with them. As their sawbones. So…” He petered off.

Ike sighed. “Why are you even here, Kyle?”

“Because—” He faltered. “For closure.”

Nothing on Ike’s face moved, but something seemed to shatter behind his eyes. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I thought you might have come for—” He cut himself off. “Never mind.”

An awkward silence descended, in which it occurred to Kyle that he hadn’t the slightest clue how to go about getting closure over a thing like this. Leaving your whole life behind.

“Did you ever think of me?” Ike said abruptly. “Even once, whilst you were out there, having adventures?”

Kyle opened his mouth to say yes but was struck with the terrible realisation that he hadn’t thought of Ike much at all. He was too ashamed to admit that, but it shone through the features on his face well enough.

“I thought so,” said Ike. He was not generally very expressive, so the emergence of a crease between his brows was enough to make Kyle shift uncomfortably in his seat. “You didn’t leave me a note, when you disappeared, so I figured—Well, you forgot about me, didn’t you?”

“No! How could I forget about you?”

“I don’t know,” Ike said, “why don’t you tell me?” He raised his chin as he held his brother’s gaze, and for a moment there was only silence. Then, quieter, he said, “You could have taken me with you.”

“I had no idea where I was going,” said Kyle. “You were better off here.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Ike blinked, as if in slow motion. “That’s not why you abandoned me.”

“I didn’t abandon you!”

“Well, what exactly did you do?”

“I… I went alone. And you stayed here.” That was the best Kyle could come up with.

Ike scoffed. “And that’s better how, exactly?”

“It’s—I—” He scowled. This was hardly the ‘welcome back’ that Kyle had been expecting. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of your intentions.”

“And what might those be?” he snapped.

“Selfishness.”

“Selfishness?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not it,” he said. “That’s not it at all.”

“Isn’t it? It was hardly self-less-ness.” Ike dragged the word out to its full three syllables, each one stinging more than the last.

“But—”

“Don’t lie to me, Kyle.” He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “If you’re going to pretend to die and leave me all alone, the least you can do is be honest about it.” He said it all very quickly, but not so fast that Kyle didn’t notice his voice breaking.

“Oh.” Kyle swallowed. “Oh, Ike.” There’d never been any presence of physical affection between the two of them before, and yet he felt compelled to join his brother on the bed, lurching from his chair. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” said Ike. He flinched backwards slightly at his approach. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

“But you’re not being totally fair,” said Kyle. He planted himself next to his brother. “I really did think that you’d be alright without me. It’s not like I thought I was leaving you to the wolves.”

“Really? You thought between the nobleman and his servant, I was the one better off?” Ike’s lip twitched, edging into a curl. “Tell me, Kyle, which of us has been waited on hand and foot his whole life, and which of us has done the waiting? Which of us has mountains moved on his behalf to cover for his mistakes, and which one of us’s whole existence is a mistake?”

Kyle was quiet for a moment, staring at the floor. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

“I know you didn’t,” said Ike. “You didn’t think at all.”

Kyle was thinking now, though. Very slowly, he slid an arm around Ike, who neither accepted nor resisted, but sat totally still. “Has it been… terribly hard since I’ve been gone?”

Ike closed his eyes. “It’s been terribly quiet.”

“And lonely?”

He didn’t answer, but instead leant his head on Kyle’s shoulder, such a subtle movement that would have been imperceptible were it not for how strange the gesture was. He was quiet for long enough that Kyle began to wonder whether he ought to say something more.

“I was very angry with you when you disappeared,” Ike murmured at last. “And then I felt so guilty when I heard you were dead. As if I were responsible, as if all my hateful thoughts had caused it. And now here you are, and it turns out that I was right in the first place, and that you really were just an arrogant, senseless prick.”

“Am I?” Kyle asked. “Is that what you think of me? Is that what I am?”

Ike looked at him. “Not really,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “I think you’re just a sad, desperate little boy.”

“I’m five years your senior!” said Kyle, because that was the only part that he had the leeway to contest.

“You should start acting like it, then.”

Kyle huffed. “Am I supposed to be any less offended by all this?”

“Well, it means you’re entitled to a little forgiveness, I suppose,” said Ike, matter-of-factly. “Desperation rarely leaves room for empathy. That’s where your real problem lies.”

Kyle gazed at him for a moment. “I think you’re much too clever for your age.”

Ike’s mouth widened into a smile, and something inside Kyle’s chest lit up. Relief, or maybe pride. “That’s because I had to figure it all out for myself. You got to learn all your cleverness from old books written by old men. And sometimes…” He leaned in, and his grin widened. “Sometimes, old men are wrong.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“So, Kyle, I’ll ask again.” Ike sat up straight. “Why are you here?”

Kyle chewed his lip. “I’m here… I’m here to do what I spent my whole life wishing someone would do for me.”

“Which is?”

“I’m breaking you out of here.” He squeezed Ike’s shoulder. “I’m taking you with me.”

“Well done.” Ike offered him a condescending pat on the head before scrambling to his feet. “You got there in the end.”

He didn’t take much with him when they left, although this was perhaps simply a result of his general lack of belongings in the first place. After all, you couldn’t pack much if there wasn’t much to pack. He had a few books, a few quills, a few odds and ends. He tried to take his ink pot, but Kyle said they had plenty of that on their new ship, and besides, it might leak right through the satchel and stain the plush lining of the carriage, which was of course only a rental, and then they might not get their deposit back.

“You’re still as joyless as ever, then,” Ike said, setting the ink pot back down. “Should I leave a farewell note?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, I will.” Ike found a scrap piece of parchment and scribbled, Gone, sorry, on it. Then he reread it and crossed out the ‘sorry,’ so that it simply read: Gone.

“I’m sure that’ll answer all their burning questions,” said Kyle, shifting from foot to foot. He was itching to make a swift departure. “Are you quite finished?”

“Yes, yes.” Ike waved a hand in the general direction of the window. “Out you go.”

Kyle wriggled out first, took the bag that was passed up to him, then pulled Ike himself up. Or at least he tried to. Ike was far heavier than expected and hauling someone out of a window is much harder than slipping through one into a basement. When he did manage to wrench Ike into the open air, he landed unceremoniously on top of Kyle, grunting and huffing. Kyle clapped a hand over his mouth and mouthed Shut up! Ike ripped Kyle’s hand away and mouthed back, No, you shut up! At least, Kyle assumed it was something of that sort. They lay frozen for a moment, to see if anyone would come in search of the noise—although stillness would hardly have made their tangle of limbs any less conspicuous. When it became apparent that this was not the case, Ike scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt off himself and grinning.

“Lead the way!” he whispered.

Kyle violently mimed shush!, a performance which involved several vaguely threatening gestures. Ike waved a hand in dismissal and set off, only to have Kyle grab him by the scruff of his collar and wrench him back again. “Other way, idiot,” he hissed.

“Right-o.”

They slunk back to the treeline and back where Kyle had come from. He fussed with the fastenings on the end of his sleeve as they tiptoed down the driveway, anxiously anticipating the reception of an unexpected addition to their crew. Would they take to Ike well? Even Tweek had been accepted, and her temperament was far less agreeable. But perhaps they would find his brash naivety off putting. His assertiveness clashed awkwardly with his inexperience, plain to anyone as worldly as Kyle’s crew. However, the same might have been said about Kyle himself, when he first joined. But, on the other hand, Kyle had medical expertise to offer. What skills did Ike have going for him? He was hardly—

“You’ve got a constipated look on your face,” said Ike, carelessly interjecting Kyle’s thoughts.

“Quiet,” said Kyle with irritation. “I’m thinking.”

“You’re very ugly when you think,” said Ike.

“Hey!”

“You should do less of it.”

“I don’t appreciate that remark.”

“Well, I’m just offering some profound advice.”

“Unasked for.”

They were far enough from the manor for Ike to give a loud, dramatic sigh. “Philosopher-kings are never appreciated in their time.”

“If I see any, I’ll tell them.”

Ike giggled. “Oh, I have missed you.”

“Missed the chance to bully me, you mean.”

“Same difference.” Ike shrugged. “And it’s only going to get worse for you, now that you can’t call for father every time your feelings are hurt.”

“I’m sure I never did that!”

“You’ve got a selective memory.”

Kyle tutted. “Well, you certainly won’t have to worry about father now,” he said. “I’ve got someone far worse on my side.” He waved in the direction of the carriage, parked a little way down the road, where Stan was sat on a drystone wall, idly swinging his feet. He raised his head and shouted.

“Hello!”

Craig appeared from the other side of the carriage. “You survived then?”

“No,” said Kyle, as they approached. “I’m coming to you from beyond the grave.”

“I thought ghosts were meant to be all see-through,” said Stan. He squinted at Kyle, then started as he spotted Ike, who had begun to apprehensively trail behind his brother. “Oh, my goodness, Craig, it’s a little dark-haired Kyle!” He clasped his hands together.

“Christ, not another one,” Craig muttered.

“I wouldn’t say there’s much resemblance, really,” said Kyle to Stan, ignoring Craig.

“No, but you both sort of walk the same,” said Stan. “Nose in the air, leading with your chin.”

“Stan!”

“What? I’m merely making an observation.”

“Kyle walks like he’s got a stick shoved up his arse,” volunteered Ike, which made Craig snort and Kyle glower at them both.

“Don’t make me regret bringing you along,” he grumbled.

“Why did you bring him along?” asked Craig. “And—who is he, exactly?”

“This is Ike, my… my brother.” Kyle had never introduced him as such. He’d never been allowed to.

“Right,” said Craig, “and what’s he doing here?”

Ike drew himself up to his full height and addressed her. “Captain, sir,” he said, “I would like to join your crew.”

“I’m the captain!” said Stan in outrage. “Not her!”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Why on Earth would you think it was her?”

“I just—”

“Don’t answer that,” interjected Kyle. “It’s a trick question.”

“It’s because I’m prettier, obviously,” Craig said smugly as she paced towards Ike.

“Outrageous!” Stan put his hands on his hips. “Absolutely outrageous!”

“Well, lets get a look at you.” Craig put her hands on Ike’s shoulders and tilted him back and forth for evaluation. “A little on the weedy side, but I suppose that runs in the family.” Kyle shot her a pointed look, which she ignored. “Show me your hands.”

Ike presented them.

“Ah, calloused already! You’re a good, hardworking boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Ike said, then frowned, perhaps recalling ‘her’ used prior. “Uh, yes ma’am?”

“Sir will do just fine.” She took a hold of his outstretched hands and raised them upwards. “And finally, some good, strong wrists. Too bad that doesn’t run in the family.”

“Craig!” snapped Kyle. “Really!”

She ignored his protests. “Is this arrangement going to cause a problem?” she asked. “I mean, are you parents going to send more murderous bastards after us to fetch him back?”

“Oh, no,” Ike said matter-of-factly. “I’m not worth nearly as much as Kyle. If anything, they’ll be glad to be rid of me.”

That made Kyle sad, which was strange. It wasn’t as if he’d felt flattered that he’d had someone paid to tail him. “It’s their loss,” he said, touching Ike’s arm.

“Who’ll peel all their grapes for them now?” Ike said, and laughed at his own joke, though no one else did.

The ride back to the harbour began in a lively way, as Ike soon figured out that flattery would get him everywhere when conversing with Stan. He immediately used this knowledge for evil, of course, as he attempted to learn about every embarrassing thing Kyle had done since he’d run away.

“What did you think of him when you first met him, sir?” Ike asked. He leant forward; fingers curled on the edge of his seat.

Stan tilted his head as he pondered this question. “I suppose I thought he was a funny sort of creature.”

“Did you?” Kyle said, wondering if he should be hurt.

“Well, you were frail, filthy, and shivering, with a noose around your neck,” said Stan. “What else was I to think?”

“A noose?” exclaimed Ike. “Was he hanged?”

“No!” said Kyle.

“Yes!” said Stan. “Almost. He would have been if I hadn’t swept in and saved the day.”

“My knight in shining armour,” Kyle said coldly, patting Stan’s thigh. “I’m eternally indebted to your heroics.”

“And don’t you forget it!”

Ike’s eyes darted between the two of them with bright, inquisitive eyes. Kyle caught the expression and slid his hand slowly back into his own lap.

Ike opened his mouth and Kyle dreaded what might come out, but he only said, “Why was he going to be hanged?”

“Ha!” Stan cackled. “Shall you tell him, or shall I?”

Kyle groaned and hid his face in his hands. “Neither, please.”

“Go on,” Ike said, then added, “sir.”

“He was stowed away on a trade ship and blundered an attempt to steal the captain’s dinner!”

“What!” said Ike. “No! What!” He grinned at Kyle. “You didn’t!”

“I did,” moaned Kyle. “I hid under his desk and everything. I thought he was asleep.”

“That is quite spectacularly awful.” Ike looked delighted.

“Yes, well, it didn’t seem very funny at the time.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Ike, I almost died!”

“To be fair, I’d have you hung if you did that to me,” Stan said helpfully. “Tweek’s a mighty cook. I value my dinner in very high esteem.”

“Oh, wonderful, thank you very much for your support, Stanley.”

The conversation continued in much the same manner for quite some time. As the ride back to the ship stretched on, their energy waned, and their chattering lulled. Stan began to nod off, but he jerked himself awake again soon after.

“Ah, sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Where have my manners gone?”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that stuff with the likes of him,” said Kyle.

“I would take offence to that, but it’s true,” said Ike, good-naturedly. “I’ve seen worse from the likes of him.” He jabbed a finger at his brother, sitting across from him. Kyle certainly took offence to that, but he was too tired to raise a fuss. “How much longer until we reach your ship?” Ike asked, yawning.

Stan yawned too, as he checked his pocket watch. “Not for several more hours.”

“It shouldn’t take that long to get down to the harbour.”

“We didn’t dock in South Port,” said Kyle. “Too risky. We’re further up the coast.”

Ike huffed and flopped down onto his seat, lying on his back. “Well, that’s sensible, I suppose.”

“So, no one minds if I go to sleep?” asked Stan.

“No, lo—” Kyle cut himself off halfway through the pet-name, brain to sluggish to kick the habit in the presence of his younger brother. “Uh—yes, go on then.”

“M’kay.” Stan was apparently suffering from the same affliction, for when he settled down to sleep, it was with his head on Kyle’s shoulder.

Kyle froze.

Stan was out like a light, too far gone for a side-eyed glare to remind him that not all of his manners should be abandoned. Hesitantly, Kyle raised his eyes to meet Ike’s. He was staring at the pair of them with a blank expression on his face, so painfully unreadable that it was worse to receive than the disgust he was no doubt concealing. If he wants to join the crew, then he’ll just have to get used to a little sodomy and sin, Kyle thought, defiance flaring in his gut. He was not about to see the revival of the old rule six for his brother’s sake. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, he raised an arm and placed it around Stan, pulling him closer as he relaxed back into the prickly velvet seats.

Heat rose in Ike’s cheeks. “Oh,” he said.

Kyle said nothing.

“Are you very close?” asked Ike quietly. “You and the Captain?”

Kyle swallowed. “I suppose we are,” Ike’s modest reaction took the wind out of Kyle’s self-righteous sails. “I… is that alright?” He wasn’t sure why he was asking. It wasn’t as if he needed approval from his kid brother for his relationship with Stan.

But when Ike said “Yes,” he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him.

“Really?”

“Kyle, yes.” Ike rolled his eyes but allowed himself a small smile. “Honestly, I hope you’re not expecting me to act surprised.”

“Pardon!” spluttered Kyle.

“You know, after the whole David debacle.”

“It’s pronounced Da-veed,” he said by rote, an instinct that somehow overrode his shock. “How long have you known?”

“As long as Father has,” said Ike. “I overheard everything, when the scandal broke. The walls in that house are very thin, you know. Especially if you know which ventilation ducts to hover by.”

“But, if you’ve known since then, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why should I have?” Ike shrugged. “It wasn’t any of my business. And if you ask me, I hardly think the whole man-and-wife matrimony ordeal is any more ‘holy’ than your business. I’d hardly call Father and his various women ‘Godly,’ would you?”

Kyle laughed. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Nothing Godly could create me,” Ike said smugly, and Kyle laughed. A small silence followed.

“He always called him Day-vid, the English way.” Kyle broke the silence with bitterness. “I only dared to correct him once. But of course, he didn’t listen.”

“He came to your funeral, you know.”

“Father?”

“David.”

“Really?” Kyle flushed despite himself. “Did he say anything?”

“Not to me,” said Ike. “No one said anything to me, obviously. But he looked quite forlorn. Almost wistful.” He winked. “I think you made quite the impression on him.”

“Oh,” Kyle said. “Gosh, well now I don’t know what to think.”

“Should I be jealous?” Stan said abruptly.

“Stan!” Kyle started. “I thought you were asleep!”

“I was,” Stan sat up, “But I’ve always got one ear open for potential romantic rivals.”

“Honestly, you are awful.”

“Don’t dodge the question.”

Kyle sighed. “I would have thought by now you’d have figured out that no one could rival you.”

“I know, I know,” said Stan. “But I like to hear you say it.” He leant in for a kiss on the cheek, but Kyle tilted his head so that their mouths met instead.

“Alright,” Ike wrinkled his nose. “You’re testing my secular values, Kyle.”

“You’d better strengthen them,” said Kyle. “There’s plenty more of my lot in our crew.”

“What, gingers?”

“No!”

“Perhaps I’ll have to rethink my plans.”

“Honestly!” He threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know why I bother.”

*

It was dawn when they arrived. By this point both Stan and Ike were asleep, and Kyle had been drifting softly in an out of consciousness, lulled by the gentle rocking of the carriage. The movement made him long for the rhythm of the sea. It was remarkable how quickly one could become attached to the constant feeling of the floor rocking beneath you. It was a comforting accompaniment.

Stan stirred when the carriage came to a halt. “Are we being robbed?” he asked, raising his head.

As if on cue, Craig opened the door. “Yes,” she said flatly. “Stand and deliver, your money or your life.”

Stan pushed Kyle in her direction. “There you go. My prised possession.”

“I’m not sure that’s as flattering as you think it is,” said Craig, eyeing Kyle’s irritated expression before disappearing back out again.

“It certainly is not.” Kyle stood and shook his brother awake. “Ike?”

He batted Kyle’s hand away and muttered, “Five more minutes.”

“We’re here.”

“Alright, three more minutes.”

Kyle yanked Ike to his feet, much to his protestations. Together, they departed the carriage. Craig was standing a little way off, swapping the keys to the carriage for their deposit with the man they had rented from, conversing in Spanish. She said something, and he laughed, and said something, and she laughed. Then she jerked a thumb at her three passengers and they both laughed, before shaking hands.

“What’s she saying?” asked Ike.

“Presumably something insulting,” said Kyle.

“I would never be so bold,” she said as she returned to them, smirking.

The harbour was already bustling with life. The sea air was filled with the sound of sailors barking orders and merchants advertising their wares. Ike trailed behind Kyle, watching it all with large, round eyes. As far as Kyle was aware, this was his first time stepping foot outside of South Port.

“Here we are,” said Stan as they approached where their ship was docked. “Home, sweet home.”

Ike blinked at it. “It’s very… big.”

“Well, there’s a lot of us.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” He turned to Kyle. “I mean, they won’t challenge me to a duel or make me walk the plank?”

“That’s just a myth,” said Kyle dismissively.

“It’s the keelhauling you’ve got to watch out for,” said Craig, helpfully.

“What’s that?” Ike asked apprehensively.

“Well, we’d tie you to a rope,” she said, motioning with her hands, “throw you overboard, and drag under the ship, using your body to scrape off the barnacles.”

“Right,” said Ike, growing pale.

“It’s not so bad,” she shrugged. “A solid fifty percent chance you’ll survive.”

“That’s only in terms of death by drowning,” Kyle corrected her. “You must consider the infections that all the cuts and bruises could cause.”

“Right,” Ike said again, growing paler.

“Of course, that’s a lot of hassle,” said Craig. “You’ll likely simply be flogged—”

“Silence, the both of you!” snapped Stan. “You’ll scare the living daylights out of him.” He placed both hands upon Ike’s shoulders. “Listen here, lad. I give you my word that you will come to no harm upon my vessel. Any friend of Kyle’s is a friend of ours. Do you understand?”

Ike swallowed and nodded.

“‘Friend’ is perhaps a bit generous,” said Kyle. “I think a more accurate term would be—”

Stan glared at him.

“Sorry, sorry.” Kyle ruffled Ike’s hair. “Friends ‘till the end.”

A few of the crew were already milling about on deck when they arrived. Kenny and Butters were peering over the edge of the ship, starboard, engaged in serious discussion.

“Well, this is a dismally lacklustre celebration for our return,” said Stan as they approached.

Butters raised his head and waved, but Kenny remained with his back to them. “Captain,” he said, “does this look rotten to you?”

“Where?”

“Down here.” Kenny gestured down the hull.

“It shouldn’t be,” said Stan, moving forward. “I just bought the damn ship!”

“It looks perfectly fine to me,” said Butters.

“I’m not sure,” said Kenny, dubiously.

“I think you’re just looking for an excuse to return to bad habits,” huffed Butters. He mimed holding Kenny’s ankles over the side, and then shook them furiously. “This will be me if you try that again, Kenny.” He scowled. “The next time you fall overboard, it will be on purpose!”

“Relax,” Kenny put an arm around him. “You’d have to pay me to hang upside down again.”

“How much?”

Kenny thought about this. “Well, okay—not a lot.”

Craig spotted Tweek across the deck, playing with Hat, and waved her over.

“I see you all made it back alive,” she said as she joined them

“Miraculously, yes,” said Kyle. “I’ve bought—”

“An extra life!” Tweek’s face stayed bright, but her hand moved to the blade that she kept tucked at her ample hip. “Who’s this, then?”

“I’m Isaac Broflovski,” said Ike, drawing himself up to his full height, which wasn’t particularly remarkable. He bowed, clearly pleased to have at least drawn someone’s attention. “At your service.”

Tweek tittered. “Are you, now?” She extended her hand and he kissed it courteously. Craig made an audible gagging sound until Tweek kissed her, too.

“Oh, come off it.” Kyle rolled his eyes. “Tweek, this is my younger brother, Ike. He’s going to be joining the crew.”

Her face dropped, no longer charmed. “Marvellous, that’s just what I need. Another bloody mouth to feed.”

“Really, Tweek,” said Butters, abandoning his conversation with Kenny and Stan. “You know how scary it is to be a newbie. You ought to be kinder.”

“It’s nothing against him personally,” said Tweek. “I’m sure he’s a lovely boy. But I do wish Stan wouldn’t insist on increasing my workload with all these new recruits.”

“I’m right here, you know,” said Stan as he whirled around in indignation. “If you’ve got a problem with me, you can say it to my face.”

“Alright, Captain,” she said, hands on her hips, “I do wish you wouldn’t insist on increasing my workload with all these new recruits. Better?”

Stan tutted in irritation. “Ike, can you cook?”

“Of course,” said Ike. “I did a lot of kitchen work back home.”

“Great,” said Stan. He made a vague gesture. “Tweek, meet your new assistant.” She looked shocked, but didn’t have time to voice any protestations, for Stan took off across the deck. “Follow me then, folks!” he called. “Ike, we’ll give you a tour.”

Their new ship was bigger than their old, although still as fast as a bullet when sailing. Before its purchase, Stan had noted down each member’s qualms with Nobody, and attempted to address as many as possible when choosing a new vessel. Being the love of Stan’s life had its perks for Kyle (aside from the obvious) as he was able to abuse the bias and was now no longer confined to a shoebox of a room for sickbay.

“Here’s where Butters and I work,” Kyle said, when they arrived at the room in question.

Ike walked around, inspecting at all the intimidating instruments strapped to the walls. “So, do you do a lot of gruesome stuff in here?”

“We will once we’re at sea again,” said Butters. “At the moment it’s untarnished.”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever had to do?” asked Ike. “As a doctor, I mean.”

“Um.” Butters glanced at Kyle, then at Stan, who nodded. “Well, Kyle and I had to remove the captain’s leg a little while ago. That was—pretty bleak.”

“Gosh, really?” Ike looked both horrified and delighted. “Did it hurt?”

“I sawed through his leg with a knife, Ike,” said Kyle, exasperated. “What do you think?”

“’Twas but a scratch,” said Stan nobly. He raised the hem of his trousers to reveal his wooden leg.

“Wow!” Ike bent down to have a closer look. “That’s magnificent.”

“Thank you,” Kenny interjected before Stan had the chance to reply. “Built it myself.”

“And you can walk on it just the same?”

“Yes!” said Kenny, chuffed.

“Mostly,” Stan corrected. “It’s taking some getting used to. Learning to walk with it is a bit of a nightmare, and now learning to fight with it—ugh.”

“You’re getting better at that, too,” said Kyle. They practiced together daily, finally rendered equals at swordplay. “You beat me several times yesterday.”

Stan grinned. “I suppose I did.” He took one final look around. “Right, I think we’ve showed you pretty much everything. Shall we get on with the Accords?”

Up in Stan’s office, everyone clustered eagerly around Ike. Spread before him was their brand-new Accords. Ike read through all of it with a frown on his face.

“What’s rule six for?” he asked.

For a horrible moment, Kyle’s heart skipped a beat, until he reread the list over Ike’s shoulder.

6. Smoking is not permitted within close proximity of gunpowder barrels.

“That was me,” said Kenny.

“It was as a result of you,” said Butters. “Honestly, it’s a miracle that your eyebrows ever grew back.”

“I’m made of ‘em, baby.”

“What, eyebrows?”

“No, miracles!” Kenny kissed him on the cheek. “I’m a miracle man.”

“Well, I suppose this all seems agreeable,” said Ike, giving the Accords another once-over. “Where do I sign?”

After all the paperwork, Tweek took Ike back down to the kitchens again, to give him his first proper lesson as her assistant. Kyle felt a pang of sadness as he watched his brother walk away, fighting the urge to chase after him to make sure no one would be too cruel. But Tweek had apparently decided that she liked him again, pleased to finally have some company down in the kitchen. She was already in the midst of explaining the complex dynamics of meal making at sea, pausing every so often for him to nod. Kyle knew she’d look after him just fine.

“He reminds me an awful lot of you when you first got here,” said Stan, joining Kyle’s side at the bow of the ship.

“In what way?”

“He’s just full of wonder.”

“And I’m not anymore?”

“Not so much,” said Stan. “I fear I drained that right out of you.”

“Are you serious?” said Kyle. “You’re the only source of wonder I have left. Without you, I would have shrivelled up into a dense, bitter mass of cynicism.”

“Is that not what you already are?”

Kyle gasped. “Rude!”

“Sorry,” said Stan. “Maybe this will make up for it.” He held out a gorgeous green bottle and brandished it like it was a trophy that he’d won just for Kyle.

“Champagne!” Kyle said. “That will be nice.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for the ship,” said Stan. “In all the hassle of getting her fit to sail, we never actually gave it a proper Christening.”

“Why does she have to be Christian?” said Kyle. “She could be Jewish. Or, a follower of the Greek mythos might be more appropriate—”

“Don’t be so contrary! You know what I meant.”

Kyle had known exactly what he meant, but he was never one to pass up on an opportunity to tease. He took the bottle from Stan. “Do you have something to uncork this with?”

“No, that’s not what you’re supposed to do.”

“Oh, I thought we might drink to her health.”

“No, no,” Stan waved a hand. “You’re meant to smash it on the side. It’s a sailing tradition, for good luck.”

Kyle chuckled. “Don’t you think that’s a bit too on the nose?”

“I think this is a bit too on the nose,” he said, and he kissed Kyle, predictably, on the nose.

Kyle rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his smile. “God, you’re embarrassing me.”

“There’s no one else watching!”

“I know,” he said. “That’s how embarrassing you are.”

“Oh, give it a rest.” Stan poked him in the arm. “You shall never again be able to convince me that you don’t love me.”

“I shall never again try to,” said Kyle. “It was far too much effort for what it’s worth.”

“I always thought so!” Stan declared. “How is it ‘on the nose,’ anyway? This sort of thing is a respectable sailing tradition.”

“It’s just, you know. After how this all kicked off.”

“What?”

“You and me! That night! With your—ornament.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow. “This is no time for euphemisms, Kyle.”

“Don’t be crass, Stanley!” Kyle shot him a dirty look. “You know perfectly well what I mean. The little ship.”

“Is that what you’ve taken to calling—”

“Don’t.”

Stan chuckled to himself. “It’s only a bit of fun. I wouldn’t dwell on the symbolism.” He took Kyle’s hand and turned it upwards. The scars on his palms were faint but present. “Do you think these will ever fade?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Kyle bluntly. “I’m not a doctor.”

Stan scoffed. “I wish you’d told me that before I’d hired you.”

“Tough luck.” Kyle watched him trace the scars with feather-soft fingertips. “The memory won’t fade, even if they do.”

“A good memory, or a bad one?”

Kyle tilted his head. “Yes. No. Both, and neither.”

“Thank you for that very clear and straight forward answer.”

“Well, I don’t know! They’re just the aftermath of what it took to get here.” He ran his fingers over them. “A bit beautiful. A bit ugly.”

Kyle allowed Stan to fold a hand over his own, uncurling his fingers. As he did so, he felt something deep inside of him unravel too. No, unravel doesn’t fit, he thought to himself, reflecting on the unfamiliar sensation. ‘Liberate’ might be better, or ‘loosen,’ or ‘lax.’ Or…

“Let go,” he whispered.

Stan dropped his hand obediently, looking at him in slight confusion. “Sorry,” he said. “Does it still hurt?”

“I meant—” Kyle stopped himself. “Never mind. Are we doing this?” He gestured to the bottle.

“I thought you said it was too on the nose.”

Kyle kissed him, tasting the sweetness of his words. “I’ll allow it.”

He took the champagne bottle and wrapped his fingers around the neck. Stan laid his hand on top of Kyle’s. On the count of three, they brought it down hard, over the side. The smash was a beautiful sound, bright and cheerful and full of hope. Golden liquid dripped down the wood, glistening on the vessel’s name, painted so carefully in white:

Somebody.

As the credits roll, lets bask in the glory of some fan art by my wonderful readers!! :)

Art by Ham, 9th of October 2021. Find them as 'wolfiecakes' on Tumblr and 'HamiltrashLylerz1' on DeviantArt!

Art by Tobs, December 27th, 2022. Find him as 'Fruitloopzed' on Tumblr and AO3!

Art by Prax, 11th of January 2023. Find them as 'praxieserver' on Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram and TikTok!

Art by MethInMyCoffee, 25th of January 2023. Find her as 'methinmycoffee' on Tumblr!

Art by Ri, 2nd of June 2023. Find her as 'riloops' on Twitter!

Please also check out Colorblindchild's Ship In A Bottle fanfiction 'Prologue'! You can also find them as 'whats-my-fandom' on Tumblr!

Thank you so much to those who have drawn and written fan responses!! If you've made something that you would be happy to have featured in this fic, please do reach out on Tumblr, Twitter or email me at [email protected]. I will love you forever and ever and ever <3