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Too-bright light streams into the tent, courtesy of the thinning tarp and the ever-present breeze. It catches on the small mirror Nanami has kept on his person and now propped onto their makeshift table, flashing often enough that Suguru cannot quite stop a scowl of irritation.
“Nanami, there's no need for that,” Suguru says irritably, brushing away his stewards's hand.
“You should look your best,” Nanami repeats, just as he had the day before, and the day before that, and every single day since they set foot on that damned ship and Suguru was made captain.
Pointedly, he glances around the tent. The tarp that does nothing but snap and flutter in the wind, the scant handful of belongings they still possess, the blanket that he's lucky to have and the privacy that marks the privilege of command. A cold privilege, at that.
“And for what audience am I to look my best? There’s no ballrooms, and those dreadful dinners are long gone,” Suguru remarks. He realizes just how careless the comment is only a moment after he says it, and then only because of how Nanami’s fingers, deft and slim but now made near skeletal, pause at his collar.
The silence that follows is oppressive. It was not always this way, Suguru knows. On the ship, he could read Nanami’s silences as easily as any book, comprehend at a glance whether they were from consternation or irritation or suppressed amusement – and how he took pride in being the cause of the last. Now, the silence only heralds the rasp of wind against the tent or the rattle of shale and weak lungs.
“I only meant –,”
“I know what you meant,” Nanami murmurs. He smooths the fabric flat with less force than he did yesterday, and less than the day before that. It takes longer now each time, and Suguru likes to pretend that it is because Nanami wishes to linger, and not for another reason. “I confess that I do not at all miss having to wrangle you into your dress uniform for them.”
“Even if I cut a fine figure?” Suguru asks, daring. He does not cut so fine of one now, though he’s haler than many others. His hair, now grown past his shoulders, is intact; his body does not tear itself apart in the memory of old wounds as Satoru's had; his breaths come without rattle or wheeze, and he can still walk, and talk, and fight. Suguru, after all, knows well what it is to starve. “I was never quite the handsomest man in the service, but your assistance might have boosted my chances.”
“The competition is not so fierce now,” Nanami murmurs. “You look the best of all of us.” He is good enough to sound upset about it, although Suguru knows that he had never quite forgiven Satoru in the end. Suguru sometimes wonders if he has himself – but such queries are useless. Forgiveness mattered little in the face of the secrets that Suguru still keeps for his dead second. Those words, entrusted to him over a letter that he now knows will not be found for years, sit in his heart like a stone.
“We may no longer be starving, but the best of you lot is hardly a compliment,” Suguru says lightly. They are not starving – and here his stomach clenches in a facsimile of hunger, which he swears that he has not felt in years – but they are not out of danger yet. They will never be out of danger so long as they remain here, but Suguru minds it less and less now. It is desolate, yes, but it keeps him keen.
He keeps the conversation gentle, and adds, as if he has reconsidered this opinion, “Excluding you, of course. This cold summer suits you well.”
Nanami scoffs. This sound is familiar; this sound is entirely the same.
“Nonsense. When was the last time I saw a bath? When was the last time my clothes were clean?” he asks, the questions clearly rhetorical. Nanami makes no mention of his physical condition – granted, it is better than most, for Suguru has fed him by hand himself, covered his mouth and massaged fresh meat down his throat until his body remembered that it wished to live after all, regardless of the means. Nanami gets precisely half of the rations that Suguru claims for himself. Nanami gets half the water, half the meat, and when it comes marrow time again, he will get half of that too.
They are in a tent, with a scant modicum of privacy, and yet Suguru knows that no survivor will begrudge him this for he holds their lives in his hands too. So he turns and catches Nanami’s face in one hand, rubs a thumb against the always-sharp jut of his cheek.
“Your face is clean,” he says simply. “Your eyes are clear, and a welcome color. I probably smell worse than you, so there’s no need to worry on that account.”.
Suguru, after all, has become the better hunter of the two of them. Nanami does not leave the camp but for tending to graves, and the tent on the very outskirts which houses the sick. Suguru cannot quite understand Nanami’s insistence on going to them, bringing them water and food – when they can spare it, always and only when they can spare it – but nor does he forbid it. They were most of them mutineers, those that threw their lot in with Mahito before he disappeared barefoot across the shale, his smile wide and vacuous. They had kept his boots, of course. That was when they were still clinging to the hope of rescue. That was when they did not know that there were better options than boiled leather, stewed in snowmelt, bitter and chewy enough that it took more energy to eat than it provided. But it filled the belly.
Not well. But it filled it.
“I don’t hold it against you,” Nanami says. He does not flinch away, and though he goes still, he meets Suguru’s eyes. He means more than the smell. “And if tomorrow is warm, we may as well go to the shore and bathe.”
The sea, freezing cold and slate gray, still seems to hold a fascination for Nanami. Suguru does not hold this against him. He wants to be rescued – perhaps quietly hopes for it as some of the men still do – but Nanami is too practical to base decisions on something as paltry and fickle as hope. And he has always loved the ocean; Suguru remembers warmer climes, warmer postings, and most of Nanami’s off-duty hours spent with his feet buried in the sand, water lapping at his ankles. Suguru had rarely been invited on these excursions, it felt like a betrayal, though one brushed aside easily when so much of Nanami's time was spent at his side otherwise.”
“That does not sound so bad,” Suguru admits. “The creature has not been seen in over a month. We can go, just the two of us. Miguel and Larue will ensure things run smoothly in our absence.”
It is why they can afford to have the sick tent so far away, now; it needs no protection.
It is why Suguru is lax with orders, is confident in the ramshackle fortifications they have made with the boats they were hauling. It is why they have not yet moved themselves, though this camp was meant to be temporary. Suguru rather finds he likes it.
“In your absence, you mean. I’m no commander,” Nanami tells him, apparently willing to ignore his field promotion. In fairness to him, Suguru too has been ignoring it, though not out of malice. He barely considers himself a captain; rank feels meaningless with the trappings of society so far gone. Sometimes he finds it so freeing that he can hardly breathe for it, though he says nothing of this to Nanami. Sometimes he thinks that he cast off his shackles that same day they had filed away from the enormous carcass of the ship, stripped down for parts and consumed surely as flesh for meat, only the bare bones left and those no longer fit to serve as shelter. Though of course order and hierarchy had prevailed for the following weeks, Suguru and Satoru both had felt those boundaries begin to erode. They had not disappeared entirely, not until Satoru had died.
Now Suguru io longer a captain in the service; rather, a leader to his men now worthy of the trust they place in him and the love they feel for him. He prefers that. He is sure that they prefer that. He is better, in the way that all who have survived thus far are better than they once were.
“They would listen to you,” Suguru replies, after a moment’s thought. He has not made this an order, but he has not needed to either. Nanami is liked well-enough, though he is uncomfortable with it, his aloof nature worn away into something quieter, into a desire for solitude. Suguru is often the only person he speaks to, would be the only person he saw, were they not so closely packed together.
It is thrilling, to have something entirely to himself in such quarters.
“Perhaps. I’d rather not test that,” Nanami admits. “But you are right. It ought to be safe, and there’s no risk from within the camp.”
He says nothing about the risks without, but Nanami is less used to this desolation than he. To him, the creature is the only tangible threat from outside – and from inside, there proved to be little to be done to guard against the scurvy, the cold, the selfishness within men’s hearts. Suguru supposes that he has come to see it differently; he has respect for this terrain, though he fears it less than he had previously. No longer does he feel as if he has stepped into the strange domain of some alien beast, with danger lurking around every corner. It is difficult indeed to feel so when he has conquered the worst of the dangers and the mutineers who might be the worst threat otherwise, traitors less than human themselves, have been dealt with.
Nanami need not worry about such things, though. This is the burden of command, and for all that Nanami encourages it sometimes, has been in the past a more than steady shoulder to rest his head upon, there are things that Suguru would shield him from if he could. He has asked much of this man already, and they are tied inextricably together in blood and bone. Suguru thought once that the hardest thing he could ask of Nanami, had been asked, there on the wreck of the ship before it truly became uninhabitable. The drink was near gone.
Thirst strikes as sharp as a knife.
“No,” he says, amazed that his voice does not rasp, that his throat does not bleed when he speaks. “We have made for ourselves a safe place. Perhaps the first to do so here, as we’ve seen no sign of true residents.”
Nanami merely looks at him, until Suguru must look away. There is something not unlike accusation in his eyes, and it sits bitter between them. Nanami is loyal, and has been beyond any of the others, for far longer. Nanami would not voice dissent, would instead tuck it away deep in his chest where it might wither, or rather fester away.
Of course, this place has something of clarification. Or distillation, and Suguru nearly manages to think the word without the rush of utter craving that accompanies it. It pares away at the unnecessary parts of a person, until they are either something soft and weak, not fit to be human at all, or something sharper, something more than they once were.
Nanami is not diminished by this, Suguru tells himself daily. Not content like he is, and some of the others, but he is alive, and he would not be otherwise.
“Tomorrow, then,” Suguru agrees easily. “Just the two of us.”
Another benefit to this new style of leadership, this new world Suguru is building for himself and his own: It is easier to do such things, to ignore old rules and create ones that allow such indulgences. Of course, it is still difficult to make the time, but Nanami will not begrudge him that.
“That would be nice.” Appeased, or pleased, or satisfied, Nanami resumes his work brushing through Suguru’s hair. He remains particular about appearances, both his own and Suguru’s, and Suguru for all that he has become, bears it easily. Old habits do not die easily, especially not ones he found pleasure in. The brush is one of the few things that Nanami had kept and had not argued for; when they were hauling – as they likely will haul again – every single item counted, for it was weight that could not be borne. Satoru had argued for carrying everything they could, for not leaving behind the sentimental, the precious, but Satoru is no longer here and the dirty practicalities had always fallen to Suguru anyway.
But a brush is light enough to be carried on Nanami’s person. A brush is light enough that it adds nearly nothing to the bundle of clothing it may be wrapped in, clothing that they could not leave behind for come winter and come the cold, they would find themselves sorely missing it.
They have spares now. Suguru has seen to it, though Miguel had called it a flaying before the butchery and Nanami’s face had gone white, briefly. He had not much liked that turn of phrase himself.
It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself as he leans into the brushstrokes. Nanami keeps both their extra coats neatly folded and free of dust and dirt. Nanami will wear it as the days grow shorter and the morning dew turns to frost.
With his hair smooth and knot-free, Nanami braids it – simple, straight down his back. It is not a style that Suguru thinks fashionable on himself, or even on women, but it is practical and he finds that he does not wish to cut his hair.
“There,” Nanami murmurs when he’s done, stepping back to admire his work. He has not gathered all the strands, but Suguru’s hair has grown out unevenly, the shorter pieces still framing his face. They have no mirror, and so Suguru is about to turn to catch his own reflection in Nanami’s dark eyes when the flap to their tent opens.
“Dinner. Or luncheon, or breakfast,” Larue intones. He is bare-chested once more as he prefers to be, for reasons quite unknown to Suguru, and in one hand he carries a plate – rather, a slab of wood that they’ve not yet had to burn for fires, curved and smooth-grained enough to identify it as the hull of one of the boats they’d hauled. “Your meal, my captain. Freshly cooked.”
“You did not need to bring it to me,” Suguru says. He stands to take the plate anyway; there is no sense wasting food, and he’s pleased to see it still warm. He had not smelled the cookfires going; likely this is the first piece. “You know I like to eat with you all.”
“There aren’t many to eat with today, with Miguel leading the scouting party you asked for,” Larue answers, unapologetic. “He had more volunteers than either of us anticipated.”
“It isn’t that surprising,” Nanami breaks in. Quiet, but more confident in this. Perhaps he’s testing Suguru’s assertion of his respect. “We’ve been here for long enough that we’re well, and long enough past that for people to feel bored once more. I can hardly blame them for wanting an excursion that was not another attempt at fishing, or a watch.”
“When you put it like that it even makes sense, Nanami. Here I just thought they liked Miguel better than me.” Larue’s smile suggests that they do, but he does not mind it. “I had to remain, regardless. I happen to be the only one able to cook.”
Suguru does not watch Nanami’s reaction to this comment, preempts it by saying, “You give yourself too much credit. No cook would leave his work unattended for this long.”
Larue’s smile turns conciliatory; he understands a dismissal when he hears one, sees the shape of his overstep. Suguru doesn’t feel the need to twist the knife in, and so he adds, “I will see you tonight, though? Once Miguel returns?”
“Of course. We’ll have plenty to discuss then, I hope. A newfound promise of no tents, and instead walls, is something I demand for the agenda.” Larue nods once to him, then to Nanami, before slipping back out. This time, Suguru catches the faint scent of smoke in the air – or perhaps that is just their meal, a good portion for lean times, still in his hands.
Nanami is staring at it. Nanami mimics him when Suguru sits on the ground anyway. Nanami does not reach for the food, though he must be hungry. A rule of this place that Suguru cannot yet rewrite: They are all hungry, even if they do not feel it. Always.
Larue’s comment will likely result in a Nanami that needs coaxing, that needs feeding. How fortunate that Suguru gladly shoulders this task.
“They used to offer these to the gods in some places,” Suguru says idly. He begins by tearing a strip of meat off what was once a thigh, the bone jagged where it has been broken rather than cut clean through. Their weapons are not heavy enough to cleanly split the thickest bones.
Nanami stares at the bone. Suguru lets him, for the clean white of it is entrancing, and chews and swallows. The taste leaves something to be desired, but the crisp crackle of skin, the faint hint of grease, it fills him like nothing else before, as if all the meals he’d ever had prior to this were just ash in his mouth.
“This?”
“Thigh bones, from the roast, and choice cuts of meat too. Still dripping with fat, though that remains a dream for us.”
There is little fat to put on here, even for men like Suguru who are thriving.
“And how would they offer it?”
“Burning,” Suguru answers promptly. He tears off another strip, and holds it out to Nanami expectantly. “Eat.”
It is an exercise that works easily, and one that capitalizes upon Nanami’s habit of attendant obedience and, at times, mirroring Suguru.
“I’m –,”
“Don’t say you aren’t hungry, Kento,” Suguru says, sharp.
“Ca –,”
“Suguru.”
“ Suguru , then.” Nanami’s exasperation, too, has remained. Perhaps he was always as he presented himself, but the thought is no less fascinating. It only makes Suguru more eager to see what change will come over him. Who he will be at the end.
“Yes?”
“I am not hungry, truly. You should eat it all.”
“Ah, Nanami. All this selflessness, still? I don’t know that I deserve it.”
“You do,” he says, with all quiet conviction. “You know that I would starve so that you could eat. I have done it.”
He had, and so quietly and cleverly that Suguru had not noticed at first, so caught in his grief. The man who would be so distant as to fail to observe this is gone, dead and buried, in the same grave as the drunk, as the idealistic youth who thought this was the best path to prestige, as the strange child fascinated with the far-flung corners of the world.
The man that he is now will occupy no grave.
“I know, and that is why I insist you eat now. We have enough. Yes, it is a smaller portion, but we’re not at the point of soup ,” Suguru pronounces, with some distaste. It is a strong word for the water, barely flavored and oddly colored with remnants of offal and fish-bones, that they choke down between butcherings.
Comparatively, this is a time of plenty.
“If it is what Larue said, you should ignore him. He makes light of this when he should not. It should be respected.” It is but the way of the world. The strong eat the weak. The weak feed the strong, and make them stronger, rather than being a burden to be protected.
“He only does not wish for this to stick in his mind more than it already does.”
Nanami is wrong, Suguru thinks, but he does not correct him. Larue does not care about such things; he is merely the one who proved to have the sustained strongest stomach for this kind of work. Nanami had done it at first, adroitly removing the recognizable and leaving the palatable with neat, clean cuts that reduced it to nothing but meat that could be eaten. That had to be eaten.
And then he would not eat, as if coming back to himself.
They had rotated it after that, but Nanami’s affliction was shared among several, and they all lacked his talent with the knife. So it had fallen to Larue, who continues because Suguru had only asked him to.
“I would not waste much time worrying about Larue. He has adjusted well – as well as any of us have.”
“As well as one can adjust to these circumstances.”
Circumstances. A strange word to use, as if the situation is truly out of their control. Suguru dislikes it, for he has pried control back day by day, week by week, and despite it all, they have survived.
“We have adjusted well. We live, for one. We have a plan, we are not diseased, we even get fish from the sea, when our makeshift lines do not break.” It is not enough to be reliable, but with men now strong enough to spend an entire day at the shore, and with little sign of danger, it has proved a useful supplement.
Nanami does not protest this, of course, because he cannot. He is one of the living, one of what Suguru has privately begun to think of as his chosen. And indeed, he has chosen Nanami more than most.
“I know. I had not thought we would make it this far.”
“We do what we must. And we do not waste. So, eat.”
He makes it a command this time.
And Nanami does. Alternating pieces with Suguru, lips brushing his fingers, until he produces a heavy knife and cracks the bone open himself and offers it up like benediction.
Suguru does not bother with a knife as he scrapes the marrow up with a nail, gorges himself on this, his favorite part of any meal. When they have enough, from a fresh butchering, Larue will use the smaller bones, ones attached to flesh so paltry it contributes nothing beyond difficulty, to flavor the stew and turn it rich and iron-red.
Suguru watches, satisfaction warm in his belly, as Nanami licks the marrow from his finger with shadowed eyes.
He scrapes away the remnants under his nails with his own teeth, and relishes the taste.