Chapter Text
Seawatt doesn't sleep for four days. The quiet makes sleep harder. The lack of noise is unwelcome, constant, reminding Seawatt with every second that he's alone now. Bow Civilization is gone. He'll never see the faces of his friends and family and loved ones ever again.
It's not impossible, though, and when he finally passes out against a cold stone wall, he prays that one last familiar face is waiting for him.
He doesn't know when the dreams started—he feels like he's had them his whole life, but he knows that can't be right because he's roughly the same age in every dream. His partner is never-changing, too; not that that means much, because Seawatt can never see nor remember them clearly. Things blur around the edges. He can see colors: yellow and green and black. He still knows it's them. He sighs—he thinks they smile.
No steps are taken towards each other on either side, but they're in his space. When they're close, they're short enough to press their temple against his chest. Their hands are thin and sharp against his chest, and he feels soft fur tickling his throat. Seawatt files every fact away in a list that will be gone come morning.
"You took your time," they say.
"Yeah," Seawatt says. His hand comes up to pet at what he now sees as ears, in that yellow-green he's always thinking about. "I was afraid you wouldn't be here."
They lift their head. Seawatt realizes he's lying down, and he doesn't know this room. The bed sheets are dual-colored the same way their eyes are, and lime glazed terracotta accents the walls. They hold themselves over him on their arms, hands bracketing his head, and the look they give him is flat and pointed. Something about it makes his chest twist up painfully, like he's seen it a thousand times.
"I never went anywhere," they say. "You're the one that ran away from me."
It's an accusation. Hurt, maybe, but not mean. Seawatt doesn't get the time to consider it. They lean in, sweeping down to bump their noses together, and Seawatt's hands find their waist on instinct. The lips that press against his are welcome—the sunlight that wakes him immediately after, less so.