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Yunho's asked the same question so many times over that it sounds more like noise than words at this point.
"Have you seen someone with red hair, about this tall" — he gestures to the level of about his chin — "silver jewelry, a lot of leather?"
On the beaches, "Has anything washed up lately?
For months on end it's been met with the same blank stares, the same nonchalant shrugs of shoulders and muttered "No, sorry". Each time he lost a little bit more hope, leaking out of him slowly and oppressively, pressing down on his shoulders and lowering his head until it was hard to hold it up anymore. Until it was hard to keep believing that he'd ever receive another answer.
Once or twice he'd gotten a few false leads, wild hope sparking in his chest and setting his body alight. Someone recognized the description, or a fisherman did happen to see somebody wash up on the shores, but it was always futile, and the hope would always fizzle out slowly when he realized this.
It's been difficult, trying to keep their crew together. With their captain gone, Yunho assumes tacit leadership as the first mate, but he's never been as good at commandeering people as Hongjoong has. He lacks the same ability to command attention with a singular word, to demand respect in just his stance, to make his presence in a room immediately known. He has six inches of height on Hongjoong, but he finds himself unable to replicate the same imposing aura that their captain always had. It's frustrating, and he finds himself realizing that he'd never quite given Hongjoong the credit he deserved for his abilities. Just another regret amidst the ocean of them. All the things he wished he could tell Hongjoong before he was swept overboard weigh down in his chest and make it hard to take each unsteady step forward.
I miss you. I need you. I've always needed you. I should've saved you. I'm so, so sorry I couldn't save you.
Keeping the crew going has been even harder. Mingi and Jongho struggle just as much as he has, their grief and despair showing in the haggard lines of their faces. Jongho looks like he's aged ten years, his youthful baby-face now deeply lined. Previously their doted-on youngest, Jongho's been forced to take on the role of mediator when their rage boils over and overflows, when tempers spark and the grief is translated into raw, red rage.
Mingi is not much better. He drifts, often, and there are times when Yunho is not even sure he's present. His expressions are hollow, his eyes distant, and the moments when he does return to earth are usually only when he starts screaming at Yunho. And Yunho is embarrassed to admit that he often screams back, if for no other purpose than the desperate need to feel something that isn't just overwhelming sorrow for months on end. Anger is a good alternative.
Yunho no longer laughs. He no longer makes stupid jokes to lighten the mood, or affectionately teases the others just to see their pleased, flustered attempts at defending themselves. He hasn't felt anything other than heaviness in his chest for months. He doesn't know when he's going to, if he's ever going to again, in the future.
Without Hongjoong, the Aurora has lost their emotional centre.
Still, Yunho keeps them going. He keeps a map of every piece of land in this godforsaken section of the sea, ink splattered over the fading images as he tries to track any place where they might find him. When he'd run out of locations, he'd brought them through it all over again, and again, hanging onto that desperate, fleeting hope. Searching for what, exactly, he doesn't know at this point. Hongjoong or Hongjoong's body or some miserable trace of his existence, some proof that he existed at all.
The same question gets the same answer every time.
Jongho and Mingi are weary, frustrated by the lack of results and Yunho's single-minded obsession with finding Hongjoong. They're too scared to approach him on it, though, but Yunho feels their disapproval in their shared glances and curt words. They obey him anyways. He's captain now, after all, even though it feels all wrong to call himself that. It's a title he doesn't fit. It's a title that he's always associated with Hongjoong, ever since their very first days barely keeping their stolen boat floating above the water.
The only time Mingi had even tried to suggest they give up on Yunho's obsessive, all-consuming search, Yunho had drawn blood from Mingi's hands and throat in his rage.
Mingi's hands are still bandaged. Yunho feels a sharp stab of guilt every time he sees them, but every time he tries to apologize, the words get stuck in his throat.
Their latest destination is another tiny fishing village, off the coast of the mainland. It's small enough that they'd neglected it the first time round, but at this point Yunho's desperation has driven him to all corners of the ocean. They dock, the Aurora looking out of place amidst the crowd of small fishing boats and stray rafts, and head to shore.
They split up: Jongho to search the beaches, Mingi to ask the fishermen, and Yunho in charge of scouring the town and questioning the locals. They've done it so many times that they don't even need to talk as they reach land and head their separate ways, silent confirmation in their eyes. They'll meet again at sundown, almost certainly empty-handed.
Yunho trudges up the dirt paths, towards the small cluster of buildings that make up the centre of the village. He starts with the local tavern, as per usual: bartenders tend to be the ones with the most information, alcohol loosening peoples' mouths and gossip floating freely from drunken conversations. It's mid-afternoon, the sun high in the sky, and there's only a few people clustered in the small corner at the back of the bar. The man behind the counter looks up when the door opens, and his face is slightly confused when he doesn't recognize Yunho.
"What can I do for you, son?" he asks jovially. He sets down the rag he was using to wipe the countertop.
Yunho's question is rehearsed so thoroughly that he could probably say it backwards if the need ever arose. He doesn't expect anything different this time, though.
"Have you seen someone with red hair, about this tall" — he gestures to the level of about his chin — "silver jewelry, a lot of leather?"
The bartender's eyebrows knit slightly, and then, miraculously, he smiles.
"Man with the sharp nose and sharper tongue? He came in here last night," he says. "Said you'd come lookin' for him."
All the blood in Yunho's veins turns to ice, the pit of his stomach dropping to the floor at the bartender's words. It could be just another false lead, but something about the bartender's description — sharp nose, even sharper tongue — rings so true that Yunho allows himself to hope for the first time in months. And looking for him ? His next words are stuttered in surprise, shock tinging his voice.
"Y-Yes, him — do you know him? Where is he?"
The bartender smiles knowingly, then jerks his head just the slightest to the far corner of the bar, nearly hidden in the long shadows. Yunho hadn't even noticed the tables there when he'd walked in, but now his head snaps in that direction, eyes wild and desperate.
The little light that illuminates the bar glints off the silver jewelry of a lone man sitting at the table, nursing a nearly-finished mug.
He's just a silhouette, but he's a silhouette Yunho thinks he'd recognize anywhere. There's no mistaking the sharp line of the nose, the relaxed lounge of that posture.
"Hongjoong," Yunho whispers, his voice hollow and disbelieving. His knees feel weak, the world seems to be narrowing in around him until it's nothing but the man in the corner of the room, everything else falling away. For months he's imagined this encounter, both in his warmest dreams and his darkest nightmares. He'd almost given up hope.
The red head of hair turns, and Hongjoong's face catches the light.
"Yunho."
That voice — pitched slightly higher, still just as gravelly and emotive as Yunho remembers. The weight of the one word — just Yunho’s name, nothing more — hangs between them, heavy and pressing.
Then it shatters. Yunho nearly launches himself at Hongjoong.
His arms itch to hold him, to envelop him in a hug. Months of suffering alongside Mingi especially have made him more receptive to physical touch. But he knows his captain, knows that Hongjoong is rarely one for physical forms of affection, and Yunho’s arms fall to his side when he regains his control. Hongjoong’s gaze, sharp as ever, flicks to his trembling arms before returning to his face.
Hongjoong raises a roughened, calloused hand to cradle Yunho’s cheek, something unreadable in his expression. Genuine, open affection shines through the softened lines of his face, the warm lift to his eyes and the curve of his mouth. Yunho has known this man for over a decade, but he still treasures the sight of him like this: it’s rare, fleeting, precious.
“Captain,” is his first word, breathy and unsteady. Hongjoong looks pleased as a cat to hear it — Yunho knows him too well. He drinks in the sight of Hongjoong: when he last saw him, he was buoyant above the stormy waves for a few moments before being lost to the sea in a ripple of reddened water. The most obvious new development is the black patch over one eye, and Yunho winces when he recalls the way that wound was dealt: Hongjoong shoving Mingi out of the range of their quartermaster’s sword, catching its edge across his face, bleeding out as he stumbled on the slippery deck. But his other wounds seem to have healed: the scars on his face aren’t prominent the way Yunho’s are, etched irrevocably into his skin. And there’s a lightness to the way he carries himself that Yunho, with the grief pressing between his shoulder blades for months, is unfamiliar with.
Yunho has a million questions, all threatening to burst out of him, but he reigns them all in. The glint in Hongjoong’s one remaining eye tells him that he didn’t miss it. He doesn’t miss anything. The months apart have not changed that.
The feeling of Hongjoong’s hand on his face is not enough. The desire to hold him, to ensure that he’s here and corporeal, is so achingly strong it threatens to burst out of him. It’s increasingly difficult to ignore; his fingers are trembling where he holds his hands at his sides.
Hongjoong notices it too. Silently, he opens his arms. An unspoken invitation.
The first mate wraps his long-lost captain in a hug.
Yunho cherishes the feeling of this, of Hongjoong held securely, safely. Of Hongjoong being found . The shock at his reappearance fades only slightly; a tide of emotions is about to break. Anger, confusion, wonder, relief.
How did you survive? What kept you so far away, for so long? How did you make it back?
Yunho’s train of thought halts, just momentarily. A single, traitorous thought surfaces.
How could you abandon us like that?
He tamps it down, same as he’s tamped down countless other things he’s wanted to tell Hongjoong over the years. He’s become an expert in holding his tongue, biting his lip to reign in the unspoken things between them, always careful and delicate.
Instead, he tries to keep his voice as level as possible. It’s, quite honestly, a challenge.
“They will be so happy to see you.”
Who he’s referring to is not a secret. And, as Hongjoong smiles in the affirmative and they exit the bar, Yunho soon realizes that happy was an understatement.
Mingi finds them first, where he’s headed back to the village center to their agreed meet up. He stands shock-still when he first rounds the corner, and Yunho notes the exact moment he recognizes the red hair and the short stature. He barrels over the villagers as he sprints up to meet them in front of the bar, and his mouth is comically gaping, his eyes blown wide. The tears flow shortly after that, months of grief breaking the tide in an uncontrollable river. He babbles his way through his words — questions, swirling and unanswered, but Hongjoong only gives vague responses, promises to tell him more later. For Mingi, it seems, he’s satisfied. He’s content to just see Hongjoong, to know that he’s here, alive. Yunho catches his eye, gives him a smile. For the first time in months it’s a hopeful one.
They track down Jongho where he’s scouring the beach. He’s rarely one for emotion, but none of them miss the glassiness of his eyes, the tremble in his voice as he speaks. Yunho is just relieved to see true happiness again on his face — he’s far too young amidst them to have lived so much sorrow.
Between the three of them, their questions for Hongjoong go unanswered. It doesn’t change the fact that the curiosity is there, and burning, but for now, they’re just happy that Hongjoong is home. They’re content with his presence, with his commanding persona and the aura that fills up an entire room. Yunho thinks that it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what was missing in the hollow, empty months without him, until he has him back.
The Aurora is only dark wood and fabric and rope holding up sails, but with their complete crew, it feels like more. It feels like the lightness in his chest from the lifting if the grief. It feels like the sound of Jongho’s full, unabashed laugh for the first time in months. It feels like Mingi cracking tentative jokes and goofing around, something Yunho hasn’t realized he craved to see so badly until he finally had it back.
It also feels like Hongjoong’s hiding something.
They get a story out of him in bits and pieces, but the details are vague. Yunho knows it’s deliberately so. He’s spent years watching Hongjoong’s face for evidence of feelings that remain unsaid, and he thinks he knows what every expression means. Every shifty-eyed glance to the side whenever Mingi or Jongho ask him about the absence, every careful lip bite to keep words back, every too-loud laugh when he’s joking about it.
“I washed up on an island,” Hongjoong says between bites of his food. Mingi and Jonho nod, content to accept this explanation.
But Yunho’s scoured every island, every shore in this ocean. He’s almost certain he hasn’t missed any — couldn’t possibly have.
“I got lucky — my wounds healed really well.” Hongjoong laughs along with Mingi as he jokes about the scars that he still bears.
But Yunho knows that wounds like that don’t heal without leaving permanent marks. Yet Hongjoong’s face — last seen burnt and deeply injured — looks almost more unblemished than in all the years Yunho’s known him.
“The eyepatch? And, uh, this thing?” He tugs lightly at the white tunic he’s wearing, an unfamiliar, outdated silhouette. “I just sewed it together with what I knew. Pricked my finger dozens of times.”
This is the most blatant lie. When they were still teenagers, Yunho was the only one trusted to sew their sails together whenever rough storms tore holes into them. Hongjoong’s simply never had the patience for small needles, delicate stitching. He’s too swept up in the urgency of a thousand responsibilities to sit down and devote the single-minded focus that sewing takes.
“Fashioned a raft, too. To get back here. These hands know how to command a ship, you know.”
There had been no raft docked on the shores of the island earlier in the day.
They retire to their quarters for the night, but Yunho’s kept his gaze always peripherally trained on Hongjoong, all day. The slight strain to his shoulder that Yunho, a veteran of many sleepless nights, recognizes even when Mingi and Jongho might not. The breathiness of his voice, more soft and gentle than he’s ever heard it, after years of maintaining a cold, commanding undertone at all times. The look in his eye, sometimes when the conversation lulls, as Hongjoong’s distracted gaze drifts off to the horizon and fixates there, almost like he’s looking for something. Searching the empty edge of the sea like if he squints hard enough, something might magically appear.
He seems almost — wistful.
Different.
Yunho has him here . Standing on the deck of the Aurora , barking out orders like he’d never left. Climbing up the masts to check the damage, clever hands always unfailingly familiar with its ropes and pulleys. Accompanying them during mealtimes, laughing and joking, and sleeping in his quarters at night — the captain’s quarters, which had laid gathering dust for months when Yunho lacked the courage to go inside. Hongjoong’s here. He’s here with Yunho.
But at the same time, Hongjoong’s not really here at all.
He drifts, mid-conversation. There’s something weighing down on him. Yunho’s spent so many months with Jongho and Mingi in the exact same condition, it’s hard for him to miss it. It’s the small slump to the normally rigid, proud posture. The way his normally bold, commanding eyes drift away, take on a far-off look. The mournful sighs he lets out when he thinks that no one’s around to hear him.
There’s something occupying his thoughts at every waking moment. Sometimes, Yunho will hear terrified shouts through the wall during his night terrors, and knows that whatever plagues Hongjoong torments him at night, too.
Once, he’s slipping through the halls of their cabins to steal to the deck for another midnight walk, restless and insomniac. It’s a habit he’s developed in these heavy, miserable months. It used to be infrequent moments where he couldn’t sleep — normally the soothing rock of the ship in the waves pulled him under. But the restlessness has been torturous lately, and several times a night he finds himself sitting up in bed, not having slept a wink all night. His solution when this happens is to take to the deck early, carry out menial tasks. Scrub the floors, raise the masts, and cook breakfast. Having something to do with his hands takes away the heavy pressure of his mind.
This time, as he’s heading up, he passes by the door to the captain’s quarters, and hears quiet sobs from within.
His blood turns to ice.
Half of him is screaming at him to go to Hongjoong, to knock at his door, to ask him what’s wrong. But in over a decade of knowing one another, of spending nearly every waking moment together, he’s never done something like this. He doesn’t even know what he would do if Hongjoong let him in. Hold him, maybe? He doubts Hongjoong would allow that; he’s not Mingi. He doesn’t find affection in physical touch. Speak comforting words? But Yunho doesn’t know what bothers him, and if Hongjoong has still refused to tell him by now, he has a creeping dread that he’ll never find out. Sit in silence, in the hope that his presence is comforting? But Yunho’s never been good at this, at speaking soothing words and healing wounds. He’s too afraid that if he does speak, he won’t say the right things.
There are so many wrong things he could say. How do you speak to a man who’s been gone for six months? How do you put back the remains of your shared life together, of these fractured, horrible feelings that Yunho’s ignored for so long? How do you pretend like nothing’s changed, when really, the delicate balance between admiration for his captain and something deeper — something twisted and hot in Yunho’s gut — has blurred and broken? Words fail him. He’s too scared of failing Hongjoong, too.
He doesn’t even know why Hongjoong is crying.
There’s a painful lump stuck in his throat as he passes the door by, continuing up the stairs and to the deck as silently as possible. The muffled sobs are light, floating in the air behind him.
The guilt, however, crushes him beneath its weight.