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Queequeg’s back is an unblemished space. A secret only Ishmael knows of–the Harpooner’s scars reach not every part of her body.
It was a strange sight to behold, at first. Like a trick of the eye, she thought, but no–her partner’s shoulder blades, and the ridges along her spine lacked any sign of meeting with a blade. It was stranger still, as it was one of the most painted-over parts of Queequeg’s body. Spirals met and intertwined with pre-existing ones, like a tree sprouting to connect with another, perhaps a parasite emerging to take over a host. Arms breaking and squelching like tentacles, reaching to copulate with another, writhing hand, fingers interlocking in a delicious, lecherous hold. The shapes Ishmael could make out made her realize (once she broke out of her reverie–Queequeg was ashamed of these tattoos. She shouldn’t find them beautiful, but she can’t help it. The most she can do is never speak it, for Queequeg’s sake) the painful endurance only Queequeg could have, slashing and pricking at the faded tattoos on her visible body.
In a moment of romantic bliss, with naught but the creaking wood of their cabin breaking the silence as they laid in a cramped cot, Ishmael imagined pure, white wings sprouting from her lover’s back. That once the spiraling art Queequeg grew to hate would disappear, she would be granted access to the gates.
She wouldn’t dare share the thought with Queequeg. She sought salvation enough as it was. Ishmael couldn’t risk losing her even more, amidst the hungry waves of the Lake, amidst Queequeg’s gaze, which always seemed to be looking somewhere else, even when she was turned Ishmael’s way…
When she first left the Middle, Queequeg told her, she first gained the urge when she was staying in some run-down motel, staring at the mirror, her tattooed face staring back. How much she suddenly yearned to scratch the tattoos off her skin with nothing but her nails if possible. She was willing to choke on the skin of her lip if it meant she could look in the mirror without hating herself again.
To break, make an example, not erase. The Middle’s style was to mince their foes to a way they would still be recognizable–to make an example of them to anyone who ever thought of crossing them. Queequeg sought complete vanishing–nebulization of the sin. A wish she was never taught to consider, much less grant. And for yourself? Queequeg, you fool, have you already forgotten?
The Middle always remembers.
Then reality came back, and Queequeg realized everything had changed, and it was all her fault.
Ishmael hugged her, less for her partner, and more for herself. To keep her heart from breaking for Queequeg.
(Perhaps it was just selfishness. She was still weak, back then. She needed an anchor when listening to something so painful, even though Queequeg was the one who should be hurting.
Queequeg was always too nice, no matter what she said about herself.
Ishmael wished Queequeg loved herself as much as Ishmael loves her.)
Just telling Ishmael about her past was taboo on the Pequod, and to try to intervene in her choice of escape would get her laughed off the ship. But beyond being a taboo, she just didn’t want to tell Queequeg what to do. As long as her inaction didn’t prove further harm.
(She was just a coward. That’s what it was. She didn’t know what to do, so she did nothing except be there, hoping it would at least be something.
‘This is enough’ murmured Queequeg, with a gaze as warm as the waters before a storm. ‘More than I deserve.’
Queequeg was always too kind.)
Queequeg once invited Ishmael to cut her to see how it would feel, and even through the sights of mangled bodies of her former deckhands, the vomit-inducing smells of rotten Mermaid she's been forced to endure everyday, and the acceptance that she might never make it back home, the thought of enabling Queequeg’s self-harm made Ishmael more sick than anything she’d had to endure.
(“Don’t make me more awful than I already am.” Her heart cried out. How Ishmael lived to be her age without overflowing, a tsunami flooding everything, everyone in her way, she would never know.)
Queequeg took it in stride, shrugging so nonchalantly that it momentarily gave Ishmael whiplash.
“Prefer cutting ones that. I can see.” She said, still staying on topic while seeking to alleviate the heavy atmosphere, allowing Ishmael to tie a bandage around her arm from a Mermaid attack earlier that day. “Arms, legs, chest. reminds me, of progress. If I scratch at any random part, will never get anywhere. Think of it as, duty. Less painful, that way. Easier. To not break.”
“I’m glad you moderate it, if that’s anything.” She's always been the stronger of the two. Ishmael guesses she's always been drawn towards strong people.
“You already cut some, so. Thought it won’t hurt, to ask.”
She blinks rapidly, holding the muscled arm twice the size of her own uselessly in her soft palms. “What? I did? When?” Ishmael wrecks her brain for memory of when she had ever done something to Queequeg’s back–while helping her with wounds? While holding on to her during a storm? Grasping at straws now–scrubbing her in the shower…?
“When you hold on.” Queequeg smirks, lifting her free arm to tap over her shoulder. “You scratch.”
Ishmael darts her gaze to the side, to the lamp, the bed–memories of many a heated rendezvous flashing through her brain as she gasps, smacking Queequeg in the chest as the heat flooding her face only gets worse when her partner starts laughing.
“I don’t do that consciously…!”
“You wouldn’t, if you didn’t like it.”
“Shut uuuuuuuuup oh my gooooood.”
“No. Do it more.”
“You were walking me right into that, weren’t you!?”
“What? No.” Queequeg’s tone is flat, her smile smug, and Ishmael wants to punch it off her face. She wouldn’t, but even if she tried, she knows Queequeg’s smirk wouldn’t even twitch. That’s the annoying part.
“You were!” Ishmael tries to push her down, and loses her breath when Queequeg unexpectedly falls down into the cot, making Ishmael tower over her, as useless as a freshly hooked bass.
“So?” Queequeg continues to tease, ceaselessly yearning as the lamplight illuminates her handsome features–chiseled jaw, shining eyes, the decorations in her dreads clinking against each other as her hair splays against the old, ratty blanket holding her weight as a mere acolyte would tremble under the weight of their God’s gaze.
“Uh.” Ishmael’s hands are shaking almost as bad as her knees, unused to the change of usual position, and Queequeg, the bastard, seems to relish in her awkwardness.
“You’re cute.” She giggles, merciful hands sliding around Ishmael’s waist and bringing her to her chest, saving her from an inevitable fall. “Cuter, when shy.”
“Well, you know how to make the blood rush to my head.” Ishmael pouts, mumbling complaints into Queequeg’s clothed chest. Contrary to the haze in her brain just mere seconds ago, she suddenly wishes to peel the shirt off, like a bratty child about to ask their parents for a toy. She opts to shut up so the emotion is lost on Queequeg for a bit longer before she inevitably notices and teases her lover again.
“Gift. Glad to have.” Queequeg muses, carding her fingers through Ishmael’s locks. Seems she’s finally feeling merciful enough to stop her teasing. For now, at least.
In the meantime, Ishmael sighs and maps her usual way through Queequeg’s arms, ghosting kisses along the scars that have recently healed.
Thunder rages outside. Something hungers in the waves.
Two lovers lay quiet amidst it all. As the old saying goes, the calm before the storm.