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Smog smothers the air, filling his lungs, stinging his eyes. Every time he breathes out, he breathes it in again, again—like the acridity will sit at the back of his throat forever.
"Go on, little brother. You're a man now." Pommel pushed into his hands. Nails digging in his shoulders.
"Reu- I-"
His voice is high and reedy; his voice is rough and tattered with second-hand smoke; his voice doesn't come out at all. Echoes about the room, laughter.
"Kill him."
There's a man strung up, twitching, crackling groans wheezing away. He's five steps from death anyway. Someone's going to kill him.
"Don't be a pussy, Chip. C'mon. Family doesn't betray family."
His hands raise, almost untethered from his own mind. Almost. Not enough to absolve him from guiding the blade to that man's chest. Not mindless enough to stay numb to the butter-smooth ease of it sinking into his flesh, the gurgling choke, the blood...
"Chip?"
That's not Reuben's voice. It's deeper, filled with– with betrayal, even through welling viscera, maybe the choke of tears. There's blood on his hands, the deep dark shade of a seething sea, pooling about them. Chip looks up.
"Chip, what's wrong?"
Gillion looks down at him, horror and pain and shock torn through his face, his body limp and barely resisting, lips painted blue with coughed blood.
"No– no, I didn't– Gillion, I would never–"
Chip drops his blade, and the riggings tying his co-captain up clank down with it, Gillion falling with a painful thud. His hands press clumsily against the wound, shaking as they try to staunch the flow. Gillion's eyes begin to flutter closed, his breaths shorter and shallower and slower until they– they just stop. Nothing moves beneath Chip's trembling hands, no one stirs awake at the ragged tear of Chip's voice, and it's all his fault.
And all around him, smoke-sodden laughter shakes the walls, the floor, ringing again and again and again–
And then Chip gasps awake, the cry of Gillion's name still on his lips, hands still shaking, shaking, someone shaking him.
"It's alright, I'm here to– to. To vanquish."
It's Gillion. Gillion's dead on the floor, hooked through the chest and stained bloody. Gillion's right here, in front of him, eyes wide and concerned. Water drips down his chin, landing on Chip's cheek.
The sheets are uncomfortably sweaty about him, his hair tangled to knots, but none of that sensation pierces through the feel of Gillion's hand, cool and steady on his shoulder, or the aching concern of his voice. Chip practically throws his whole body weight onto him, lunging away from his cot, hands catching right over his chest. There's no wound there. No stain of blue or ever-growing soak. Still, Chip can't shake the chew of guilt, the overwhelming fear.
"Off. Take it– C'mon, Gill, gotta know you're fine, just–"
He tugs up at the edge of the fabric, trying to convey intent through his still-scratchy throat.
"Wh– you want me to take my shirt off? I do not know how this will help–"
Still, through his protests, his immediate acquiescence shakes Chip off, briefly separated by the movement of fabric from skin.
"–but it is off. It is off, I am not harmed…"
There's nothing there. There's really nothing there, an expanse of greenish-blue skin that glistens in the scant light. A steady weight settles on his shoulder again, a question trying to wedge its way between them. Gillion must be so confused. He should explain.
Instead, he drops his forehead against his chest, squeezing his eyes tight. It was just a dream. He knew, it'd make no sense otherwise, but fuck. Fuck, he can almost feel the stick of blood clotting beneath his fingernails. He tries to drive the stomach-dropping sensation of it away by focusing on Gillion's voice, his hand, his unquestionable life.
"Nothin'. Nothing happened. Go back to your barrel."
Despite saying that, his head doesn't move from its place over the thump-thud of Gillion's heart.
"No." Firm and soft. A mess of contradictions, as always. Chip almost laughs, but his throat is too dry and his eyes too wet. "No more lies."
The gentle sensation of his nails scratching at his scalp. Gillion's kneeling before him, and if Chip was standing, even sitting up a little more, he thinks Gill would look kind of like a knight in service. A knight in service startled awake in the middle of the night, still ready to serve. How heroic.
A sharp snore rings out through the dark, and they both jump, looking off at the source. It's just Jay, thankfully still asleep. Chip watches her shadowy form toss and turn to face away from them, and he laughs now. Little wins, he guesses. She gets grumpy whenever she's woken up too early, which is apparently any time she's woken up.
They turn back to each other, and Gillion looks much softer now, less harried. Poor guy. Probably thought there was a surprise attack, or something.
"Sorry." He sure feels awkward now that all the adrenaline's washed out his body. "I didn't– I don't mean to. It was just a dream, nothing important."
“Well, it was clearly important enough for you to call my name in the middle of the night.” Gillion frowns, letting go of Chip's head. His hair tumbles back down his neck. Chip misses his touch as soon as it leaves, and he thinks to follow it. He doesn't. “But if you don’t… want to talk about it, I understand.”
"Yeah, I, uh– didn't mean to do that. You were just... there. Sort of."
“Was I?” Gillion tilts his head. “I’m sorry for any distress dream-me may have caused.”
"No, Gill, it was– not that," Chip starts haltingly.
He really isn't trying to talk around it, but the memory of the memory gets stuck in his throat, like as long as he's trying to push the words out, he won't be able to breathe.
"It was my fault. It was all my fault."
He shakes his head, trying to leaven out the roughness in his voice.
“Oh– ah…"
And now he's made things even more awkward. Gillion doesn't let things like this go—and sure enough, he settles down beside him, leaning his shoulder against his.
"You know I'd forgive you for… whatever may have happened, right?”
Gillion smiles brightly.
"You shouldn't." Chip can't bear to look at Gillion's face, unassuming. "You shouldn't forgive me for some things. If I–"
He cuts himself off, not sure how to say all that he means to. "I dunno."
He doesn't know exactly what it is he shouldn't be forgiven for, even if it'd be nice to be. Maybe it's not an action, an event, but just... something about him.
“But I will.”
There's a hand at his chin—Chip's eyes flare open—they meet Gillion's, wide too, believing. Always believing.
“I will forgive you. I will be here, no matter how hard you try to get rid of me. I want you to know that.”
Suddenly, the air about this whole conversation shifts—a realization that Chip had asked Gillion to take his shirt off, that Gillion's shirt was still off, that there's a genuine intensity in his gaze that holds Chip in place.
"I–" He's at a loss for words, mouth slightly agape. "C'mon, Gill... why would I ever wanna be rid of you?"
It comes out sappier than he means to, but it's less than everything he means. He doesn't think he could even start to say anything, let alone everything.
“I don’t– think you want to be rid of me… Or us!" It sounds like Gillion's having the same problem he is—only so many words, too much to say. For some reason, it puts Chip more at ease. "But… Sometimes, I think, you run. From your friends. Not to say that you… have to tell me everything, I simply– I want to help. I want to be there.”
The silence between them sits heavy and warm like a woolen blanket, wrapping about Chip's shoulders. Surely there's some joke to make, one that won't fall flat on its face, one that'll have Gillion get back to baring all those sharp, pretty teeth. But the incisiveness of his observation, the unwieldy feeling of being known... All Chip can do is sit there, stare at Gillion, and feel his cheeks slowly redden.
Eventually, despite Gillion's continued (not entirely unappreciated, though that appreciation in and of itself sets off alarm bells clanging about in his head) nakedness, Chip draws in closer and wraps his arms around Gillion's torso, burying his face into the thick of his shoulder.
"Thanks, Gill," Chip chokes out.
His voice is rough with the terror of the night; it rattles unsteadily from his chest in achingly warm emotion, falling right over Gillion's skin. There's a lot of shit Chip can't bring himself to say. But sometimes, it feels like Gillion could flay him out with a single glance alone, carve into all those scared secrets and splatter them across the floor. It's not as if Chip isn't used to being known. He just isn't used to being known so softly.
Gillion's arms slip around him, one step shy of hurting, but still, somehow, he's sure there's nowhere else that could be safer. He has that way about him. Every word he says sounds like there's nothing truer; every swing of his sword screams that it's the only answer; every moment Chip's beside him feels as if only he could hold him so near.
He wants to do the same for him. And on the exhale of a breath, tipping across Gillion's shoulder, he mumbles:
"Love you, man."
No, he really can't say everything he wants to. But that's closer… and for now, it's close enough.
Gillion's breath hitches. Then, he smiles. Chip can't see it, but he can feel it.
"And I you, Chip," Gillion whispers.
That's almost too much. Chip laughs nervously; Gillion follows suit. They don't spring apart, but Chip just about shoves him off of him—Gillion doesn't mind. He's the last person who gets to complain about playing rough.
"Hey," Chip starts, and doesn't think about where next to go before he's already saying, "Wanna do something fun?"
Gillion blinks, once, twice. And then he grins sunnily—ironic.
"Of course!" Gillion cheers, too loud. Chip winces, putting a finger to his lips and peeking over at Jay, who doesn't move.
"Good," Chip whispers, like his quietness will offset Gillion's loudness.
Then, he stands up in one big swoop, nabbing Gillion's shirt off the floor and throwing it at his face.
"And put your shirt on, man. Don't want you catchin' a cold," he coos, feeling a kind of humor he's decided he'll feel. Pinching at Gillion's cheeks like an overbearing grandma, Chip tosses him a sly wink.
"It's rather warm tonight, though…" Gillion complains, still doing as he says.
As Gillion looks about ready to follow, he reaches out a hand for him to take—just to help him off the floor, of course. Nothing else at all.
"Can't take any chances with you, big guy," Chip teases. Even though Gillion is exponentially heartier than Chip. All that brawny muscle probably insulates him from the cold.
Hands held, Chip leads him up the ladder, breathing in as a gust of sea air hits him in the face. He'd gone up here directionless, but as the night sky unfurls before them, a pleased hum from Gillion as he gazes up at the moon, an idea pops up. He plops down on a random spot on the deck, dragging Gillion down with him. It doesn't feel too warm at all, especially with the coolness radiating off Gillion.
"I know it's been a while since you've been up here, but you ever hear any... I guess, old folk stories, you'd call 'em. About the stars?"
They're brighter than usual tonight, winking as a cloud or two passes over.
“Most of the stories I heard of the surface were about the moon. And the trickery of humanity."
Chip raises an eyebrow at him. Gillion winces, ears flicking back.
“But ah. No. None about the stars,” Gillion dithers, looking a little chastised.
"Trickery of humanity, huh?" Chip very quickly flicks the webbing of Gillion's ear, underlining the gesture with an appropriate sound effect, then draws back to cover his own. "Gotcha. Totally gotcha."
Gillion makes a small noise of surprise, tail lashing.
“Well, they were… wrong about some things, it seems.” He rubs at the sides of his head. Chip feels bad for him, looking all sorry like that. “I didn't mean it quite like that… what’s this about the stars?”
"You've got nothing to apologize for, Gill, c'mon," Chip wheedles.
Like Gillion had before, Chip leans into his side, looking up at his big, big eyes. All the stars in the world shining in them. It's enough to give him that sensation of re-learning the sea, all wobbly at first, but getting that balance back.
"First story's going to be about the guy that apologized too much, all the time, and got put up in the stars for it." he pauses, watching Gillion's brow twitch, then clarifies: "That was a joke."
Chip points up towards a particularly bright set of stars, tracing a pattern between them. He'd almost forgotten himself; there was no room for stars in Skullslice amidst the smoke. It's nice to be out here now.
"That's the great serpent—think you'd like that one..."
And until the sunrise puts an end to his tales, he rambles on and on about every old story he can think of, ones he thinks Gillion might like best. Stories about heroes, sure, but what came after their greatness, the kindnesses that waited for them. Their happy endings.