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The smallest of sounds pulled her from slumber—the creak of wood like a footstep on unsettled lumber. It was almost familiar, and her mind seized on the scent of salt water and oiled wood in the air, and for a moment the inky shadow of dark hair spread on the other pillow belonged to a different boy, dirty blonde and panicked, and her breath stalled in her throat on a hitch. Her limbs and lungs stiffened, stilled. Any minute now, any minute the door would crash open and—
“Miss?”
Air flooded her lungs. Shirayuki bolted up to sitting and the sheet fell away. The sleeping boy occupying the other pillow grumbled and rolled to his side, dreamy murmur unintelligible and muffled by the bedding. Ryuu. Ryuu, who had never met a surface he couldn’t drowse on, provided his work was finished and he was sufficiently tired. He’d slipped off to sleep at the little desk bolted to the floor and wall of the cabin, and hadn’t stirred when Obi tugged off his shoes and tucked him into the bed, likewise anchored against the toss and sway of the waves. “Hammock’s fine with me, Miss.” Obi’d murmured, “You and little Ryuu take the bed.”
In the quiet black, it took a moment to find him. She blinked at the hammock, a slice of pale gray against the night dark of wood. But the voice had come from elsewhere.
The hammock was empty.
Her heart sounded too loud in her ears, still rattling against another time. She dragged her gaze through the night toward where he’d spoken. The shape of him was long limbs, folded and fluid at once.
“What are you doing on the floor?” She kept her voice soft, but Ryuu slept on. Obi shrugged, and she caught the gleam of metal at the movement, the flash of a weapon braced over his shoulder, back to the door, and knew the answer. Her heart calmed as the silence stretched.
The ship creaked.
Below the waterline, she’d stepped back in time.
Above deck, gleaming paint, cheerful voices, and a bustle of chattering, fashionable passengers obscured the memory, making an adventure of the moment instead of a recollection. But below, with the unadorned wood and low, quiet creaks of sound, she’d found her throat tightening and steps faltering.
Obi hadn’t closed his eyes, though he’d let them rest on the far wall. She frowned, keeping her voice low, “Aren’t you freezing?”
A huff of laughter, half muffled and deep from his chest, “I’m fine, Miss. Go back to sleep.”
She should. It was a short voyage. They were expected to dock tomorrow, and the work would begin early in the day. But old echoes kept her from laying her head down on the pillow, no matter what logical reason and rational thought had to say about it. She wouldn’t open her eyes to meet a sea snake’s, but her skin crawled as she tried to lean down, ice instead of flesh. “You should have a blanket.” It was easier to converse than to remember. She expected the same huff of laughter that met her last, and the silence told her he knew what haunted her. “Here,” Her voice could be level, and cheerful. He didn’t need to worry. She didn’t either. It was a different boat, and Obi guarded the door. “Take mine.”
His sigh sounded heavier than the foot treads of an armored knight, “Then you’ll freeze, Miss.” Experience suggested Ryuu would not be removed from sleep until consciousness returned, which it would do so precisely six hours on the dot from leaving in the first place, and he'd ensconced himself in a cocoon of the only other blanket on the bed.
And with that, Shirayuki realized she had a solution to what troubled them both, and flipped the remaining blanket off the bed, darting to her feet and carrying it to Obi’s side. He watched, wary, and it surprised her that the meager lanternlight slipping through the cracks didn’t reflect his eyes like a cat. She sat by his side and flicked the cloth over them both, huddling against his shoulder while he remained perfectly still.
Leather and steel and skin took the place of salt of oiled wood, and she breathed in, slow and easy. Weariness tugged at her limbs, and she set her head to his shoulder.
“Ah—” Obi started, then stopped, which struck her as unusual, and cleared his throat. “Mmn. It’s a bit difficult to defend from this position.”
“Am I in your way?” He didn’t respond. “I could sit in your lap,” she mused, “Then you could just shove me off and forward if you needed to.”
He made a choked sound she assumed was a laugh and grimaced. “Nevermind.” The strained humor pulled a smile from her even as her eyes closed, and the last she heard as he arranged the blanket around them both was a low murmur of, “This is fine.”