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The oars dip into water with a soft, hollow sound, bamboos pressing under the tidal blues. Twisting and turning along the currents as their vessel shakily trudges through the night’s waters.
Wemmbu rows in a steady rhythm. Push, splash, glide. Familiarity seeping in that resistance that periodically travels through his arms, into his shoulders, and drills its waves deep inside the ridges of his spine.
It’s been an hour, or maybe two, and Wemmbu hasn’t grown tired yet. Rowing is straining, naturally. The movement of tugging his body along the pulling movement of his arms, muscles working and burning in rhythm with it, a harsh but methodical repetition until the destination is in sight.
As draining as it is, it doesn’t ache the same way as sprinting or fighting aches. Doesn’t burn in the same way fire aspect swords and stings of potion effects clash onto skin, doesn’t demand his instincts to flare up when his arms move back and forth. Absentness tingling in the way bamboo replaces metal under his palms.
There’s something grounding about it, not needing his instinct for something other than rowing in a direction and hoping that he and Egg might magically stumble onto some established island. And, if he can push his luck, an island that will have some sort of clue as to where this rare item collector could be.
A little too wishful, maybe, but there’s not much he can do lately except to hold onto whatever hopes the universe allows him to carry.
It’s strange, he thinks, that being on the run and having his autonomy dangling over a cliff edge can make him rely on something other than his own two fists. A notion he never quite considered before, too busy bathing in glamor and glory and the bloodbath he spills every step of the way, only ever let it slip through when all was but stripped away from him.
Another stroke cuts off his thoughts and brings him back into the present, shoulders tensing and easing when the motion hits. They’ve long since left the harbor of Pirate City, oars leading the boat and ropes dragging the rest of their pack in some coordinated form of a makeshift ship.
Farther away from the clamor of voices booming over market stalls and sinking deeper into the night is the vastness of the Great Sea, stretching endlessly in a black-blue color, glossy under the night sky. The horizon is indistinct. No land silhouettes, lights, or landmarks nearby. Just an open ocean beneath their feet and an untouched splatter of starlight above their heads.
Stars are brighter out here, Wemmbu notices. He’s seen them before on the main server. Twinkling faintly on days spent lazing outside of the general public areas, blinking their unfiltered gazes over the susurration of grass and leaves in times he’s run past, cradling biomes upon biomes in a glassy overlay of purples and blues when he flies over. But they were never this bright—and this free.
Something churns in his stomach at the thought; existing with so much freedom was something Wemmbu had never found himself thinking, missing, hoping for. Too many occasions where he had taken it for granted fly through his head, times when he thought this free will was a token made to wiggle around like a toy, moments where he abused that so-called throne until he realizes it’s worth more than he assumes it was when it’s finally gone.
Wemmbu looks away from the sky and focuses back on the waves in front of him. Shimmering their vibrancy on peaks of the tidal rest constellations. He doesn’t know most of their names, never bothered to learn when he could be filling his time up with something more useful, lasting—like a loot or two—rather than a sparkle of light.
They’re just patterns to him; clusters of things that don’t mean much beyond north-ish or probably a clear night. But lately, he finds himself drawn to the sight of them more often than he’d like to admit.
Push, splash, glide.
The air is cold enough to sting a little when he breathes in, but not uncomfortable, scent dampened by the saltwater of the sea and the cutting cold of winter. It sneaks under his collar and presses itself against the back of his neck, reminding him that night exists, that time is still moving even if the ocean looks the same in every direction. Uncaring currents nudging where he’s sat, tilting the vessel in reminiscence of a deadline.
He adjusts his grip on the oars and pulls them back, cape rustling with the motion.
The slight flap of fabric against fabric reminds him of Egg, who’s audibly shifting behind him as soon as the reminder comes up. It’s subtle at first, echoing sounds of fabric brushing against bamboo. A quiet scrape of something being moved from one pocket to another, never quite settling down and only ever dwindling in volume.
Egg’s been like that for as long as Wemmbu can remember. He talks, jokes, and is always shuffling around like it’s second nature. Even when he warns him not to move into clear sight or drags him back by the cuff of his wrists and covers him up behind structures, Egg has never quite stopped doing things, stupid things, usually. He’d just barely gotten better at quieting down his tracks when Wemmbu chastises him.
Suddenly, a scratchy noise slowly registers—until it properly morphs into sounds of scribbling in Wemmbu’s ears, trancing up and down on worn paper behind his back. Egg’s probably writing down stuff again in that little book of his, Wemmbu has figured that much. Notes and rambles and studies about something he doesn’t really care to ask about and would only ever skim through because Egg would sometimes slide the journal into his hands against his own will.
So when the noise grows more consistent, Wemmbu doesn’t turn around to ask or check; he already knows that Egg’s there, knows that he’s writing about something, knows that Egg is still going to be there even if he doesn’t prod him on. He trusts him in that—to just be there, sticking by his side even when he says he’s never up for it.
Push, splash, glide.
Wemmbu’s mind drifts forward, toward islands they haven’t seen yet, rumors they’re chasing, a rare item collector who may or may not even exist. Discs and cannon and deadlines swirling in whirlpools of reminders. To discussions and expeditions, lining up and stacking up in his head like a kelp trying to expand its vessel.
He angles the boat slightly when he catches himself straying, correcting the course based on instinct more than anything else. The Great Sea doesn’t give them much to work with, so the least he could do is keep their degree steady when they’re this far out. Unforgiving magnitude of water doesn’t so much care for mistakes, but he does.
Suddenly, a bright amulet of light circles in front of their boat, glimmering in a cluster more vibrant than the rest. Wemmbu squints at it, pausing internally before rowing a little faster toward its direction to make out the shape—it’s a game he’s been playing for the past hour or so: guessing and counting lights. A little entertainment he finds himself indulging in when everything is covered in the same monotonous shades.
Egg’s hand settles on his shoulder before he could finish making a guess.
Wemmbu pauses his stroke mid-push, the oars dangle half-submerged, almost awkwardly. He doesn’t turn around, just tilts his head slightly, eyes strained ahead. “What?”
Behind him, Egg doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, there’s a small sound chirping in his wake. Something metallic and delicate, jingling in the way it’s being swung side to side.
Wemmbu blinks, then asks again. “What are you doing?”
Egg huffs softly, like he’s already mildly offended. The sound of the object—whatever it is—comes again, clearer this time. It sounds like a watch, or a clock, or something that can jingle. Wemmbu doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want to turn around either. Hands are already moving to row the boat forward.
“It’s New Year’s,” Egg replies, finally.
Wemmbu’s oars dip a little too deep mid-motion, sending a sharper splash across the side of the boat. He steadies it quickly, frowning. “What?”
Egg repeats himself, more clearly this time, like Wemmbu just didn’t hear him right. “It’s New Year’s, dude. A new year.”
Wemmbu exhales through his nose and resumes rowing, a tad slower when he realizes Egg wants to drag him along on this tangent. “Okay,” he says. “And?”
Egg shifts behind him, palm disconnecting from his shoulder. “We left on the eve,” Egg adds unhelpfully. “Technically.”
Wemmbu lets that sit for half a second. The boat drifts forward as he cycles through the routine, bamboo gliding above the parted water beneath them.
“…Okay,” he says again, voice a little firmer. “What do you want me to do about that? We’re literally in the middle of the ocean, bro.”
There’s a brief silence, then he hears Egg’s mouth open agape behind him. A chuckle slips, quiet and breathy. “Oh yeah,” he says. “That’s true.”
Rolling his shoulders and loosening the tension, Wemmbu straightens up and keeps rowing. “We’re on a time limit,” he starts with a pull. “The collector isn’t gonna wait for us to finish celebrating or– or whatever.”
It seems to be the wrong thing to say because another pause passes through them, stretching over the chill of late winter winds and the heart of the sea. Wemmbu swallows, uneven, and tries to ignore it in favor of rotating the oars in an orbit by his sides.
“No, yeah,” Egg pipes up eventually, easier. Wemmbu’s hold grows a bit less tense in the trance of it, unknowingly relaxing as Egg continues the second after. “You’re right. I gotchu.”
Something oddly accepting in Egg’s tone makes Wemmbu glance back, mouth open and words ready to question—but Egg’s already looking down by the time his gaze lands on him, hands busy with something Wemmbu can’t see. The night dampens the rest of his expression.
Too used to being probed on for stating things the way he sees them, he finds Egg’s casual agreement strangely unfamiliar. Months spent without him by his side make Wemmbu forget how light it feels not having something prickling against his tongue for once. Smoothly sailing along the waves they’re riding, Wemmbu bites back a question of “Is that it?” and turns forward again.
Push, splash, glide.
The shuffling resumes—less metallic and more paper. Rustling pages accompany the faint scratch of writing. Wemmbu doesn’t comment on how breezily they fell back into place. Front and back facing each other without the need to be on guard, trusting in one another’s presence enough to exist unhurriedly.
He sets that thought down somewhere inside his chest, buried beneath bones and meat and tissues. Locking it in tandem with the next heartbeat, Wemmbu returns his focus on the horizon, on keeping the boat straight, and settles into one certainty amongst the unanswered.
He doesn’t have the luxury to care about much; they’re always ripped away sooner or later. Currents spiralling into whirlpools, sloshing sentimentality and memories into an unseeing vortex. Yet, Egg remains steady by his side through it all.
As natural as settling back into each other’s orbits is, what Egg said earlier worms its way back to the forefront of his head just as easily.
A new year.
Another year spent on Unstable comes as an odd idea to him. After stumbling across it one day while preparing for the upcoming second Lifesteal election (mostly through bribery), Wemmbu never thought he’d be spending years on a server, much less one full of problems like this.
He’s never one to dwell, flying from server to server, unable to properly settle down for more than a year or less; Egg’s been with him through the strangest of it—and now with him through the worst of it. A constant he wasn’t aware could last through worlds, finding it both amusing and comforting that it’s Egg out of everyone that’s his constant.
(Wemmbu doesn’t think he’d want anyone else other than him to fill that role. Missing pieces slot themselves full the same way they gravitate toward each other across servers and universes. Gentle and nice when they dive back into bickers and routines as if they’ve been here since forever ago—a home that isn’t a place but a person sitting near at the right place and time.)
When he looks back up, muscles aching in a way that yearns for distraction, the sky feels closer somehow. Stars are sharper and brighter, scattered in patterns and lines he doesn’t understand but can’t stop looking at, gaze lifting when it should be fixed in direction. He corrects his rhythm without thinking, muscle memory doing most of the work when he pulls the oars back.
Push, splash, glide.
Another minute passes, maybe a little more, maybe a little less; Wemmbu’s too absorbed to tell. Eyes locking somewhere overhead, tracing little white dots, sometimes blue or purple—the unnambles in his book.
“We can lowkey see Canis Major from here,” Egg says suddenly, breaking him out of his engrossment. His voice comes with movement, something wooden scraping on a metal rim, a hinge opening and turning with a soft click.
An instinctive laugh weaves through Wemmbu’s lips. “What?” he finds himself asking.
Egg hums thoughtfully, adjusting the object he’s holding behind him. His fingers graze the metal cover of whatever it is and twist again. Close enough to the back of Wemmbu's ears that the next words feel louder despite the distance being the same. “Canis Major, bro. The constellation.”
Wemmbu gives an understanding noise and decides that there’s no harm in letting Egg ramble his ears off for a bit. It’s been a while, and they deserve some downtime during a long boat ride anyway. “And how did you know that?”
Egg doesn’t answer right away, but there’s another click followed closely by a muted shuffle. Wemmbu glances back just enough to catch the silhouette of Egg holding up something narrow and cylindrical. A spyglass, Wemmbu has figured that much—he’s more confused as to when and how Egg’s gotten it, but he bites that thought down in favor of letting him talk.
Almost on cue, Egg peers through the eyepiece, craning his neck back toward the sky. “You just look for Sirius,” he explains and turns his spyglass over to where Wemmbu assumes Sirius is before continuing. “Brightest star. Then you kinda just, like, stumble on the rest.”
Wemmbu snorts, tone amused. “Dude, that sounds hella wonky.”
“It’s not,” Egg replies, unfazed, and adjusts the rim again. “I mean, the stumbling part could be, y’know, a little hard. But it’s not that bad.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wemmbu muses, unintentionally making it sound dismissive, forcing him to pause and shoving in a question to save the conversation. “What else is there?”
Egg hums and rotates his body around, fabric rustling alongside his quick shifts, just as eager as its owner at looking for more. Wemmbu holds back a huff and instead takes it as his hint to get back to rowing, arms already circulating through the motions once he returns his sight to the endless sea ahead of them.
The boat glides forward on momentum alone for a few seconds before he dips the oars back in for another row. The sea wobbles around them, tickling their boat with small but persistent waves, nudging the hull like it’s curious for any other reaction other than the tilt Wemmbu had to balance when it sinks a little too far on one side.
A hand moves itself onto Wemmbu’s shoulder, and he tenses habitually, only easing because he realizes it’s just Egg. And, funny enough, also because Egg has tapped his index onto the front of his shoulder twice, their little unspoken exchange of attention-grabbing without danger in view.
“Yo, I see the Pleiades.” Egg’s voice rings up expectedly. A small, accomplished air sways with it, taking the hand away in its wake when the statement’s finished.
Wemmbu lets out a hum in acknowledgment. Not a word. Just something to let Egg know he heard. He doesn’t nod—hasn’t for a minute—because he knows Egg wouldn’t see it anyway, too preoccupied with staring straight up through the spyglass.
A wave rolls under them, lifting the boat just enough to make Wemmbu’s stomach float for half a second, only slightly dizzying to his senses. He steadies himself when the bamboo is more even above the water, arms flexing against the spines of the oars, and continues rowing.
“Oh, wait,” Egg says, like the sudden stir up meant nothing but a cue for him to speak. Water twirls underneath the back of their boat and bounces the bamboo up again, briefly stirring Egg’s voice up a hitch. “There’s Taurus, too. Near the Pleiades.”
Wemmbu huffs through his nose and spares one glance up at the sky. Stars swarm his vision, but he doesn’t know which one Egg’s referring to, so he just nods and hopes it’s appreciative enough for the man behind him.
It seems to be enough, because Egg gives a quiet mumble of something back, drooping in that acknowledged lilt he does whenever he wants Wemmbu to know he’s noticed. Wemmbu takes it, but then decides he wants something more verbal in their exchange.
“Is this boat ride just gonna be me rowing and you pointing out the stuff you see?” ends up coming out of his mouth in response.
Egg audibly shrugs and laughs. A breathy, somewhat sing-song tune sort of laugh, rising and falling with his words. “It might be. But, you kinda asked for it, though.”
“Well—“ Wemmbu glances back, stance positioned, and is already worming up to argue against Egg’s statement. But with Egg still laughing behind him, albeit a little quieter near the end of the pipe, and with the traitorous movement of his cheeks, then throat, curling up to mirror his laughter—Wemmbu snorts and winds down, turning around. “I guess you’re right.”
It takes roughly a few long seconds, filled to the brim with the sound of spyglass adjusting, lens zooming in and out, wooden and metal backing against each other, until Egg’s voice rings up again. “Dude, y’know, like,” he starts, then pauses, and the creak of something rotating fills it momentarily. “Since the Great Sea is so vast, the only thing more interesting than watching the waves caress our boat is the sky.”
Wemmbu’s shoulders rise and fall. Egg and his stupidly eloquent, philosophical speech always make him roll his eyes in exasperation. This time is no different, except the fact that he has considered arguing, but then decides not to.
“Yeah, alright. Fair enough,” he sighs out.
Egg doesn’t stop speaking after that. He names more things: clusters of stars, vague shapes, little facts Wemmbu tries to store somewhere but immediately forgets after the hundredth one is said. Giving up on remembering the rings of something something are younger than sharks, and instead, let the words wash over him like the ocean itself.
For once, that feels fine, and rowing becomes background noise. His arms move automatically, body swaying slightly with each pull. The chill creeps a little more the further they go, threading through his clothes and settling into his bones. He welcomes it the same way stars welcome his presence under their sky.
Push, splash, glide.
Egg’s rambling slows down after a little while, maybe because he’s run out of things to tell, or because he’s just moving from talking to watching. Either way, Wemmbu doesn’t say much about the change, letting the tidal beneath the bamboo sway his unspoken hymns instead.
But because it’s Egg, and because neither of them can stay undisturbed around each other for long, Wemmbu feels the tip of Egg’s finger jotting on his cape as soon as his voice reaches his ears. “Hey.”
Wemmbu wiggles his body with a frown, shrugging the pointed finger off of his back before answering. “Yeah?”
There’s silence, then there’s the noise of the spyglass lowering. Wemmbu hears it being folded, metal brushing against fabric before being tucked elsewhere, leather scraping the top of their boat.
“Lowkey, like, do you think,” Egg starts, and stops. Wemmbu almost makes his arms lax from rowing at the strange cut-off, but he remembers the deadline, so he doesn’t.
Egg begins again, eventually, sounding a bit far away, like he’s leaning on the back of their boat. Way too relaxed for what he’s said next: “Do you think we’ll still be together next eve, dude? Watching this same sky again?”
The oars slip, not enough to fall out of his hands—but enough to throw off the rhythm he’s set. The boat veers slightly before Wemmbu corrects it, sighing slowly as he realizes the direction their conversation is stepping in, and stops rowing altogether for a heartbeat.
Then he turns around.
Egg’s looking at him when his front meets his. The spyglass is already out of view, draped under the leather skin of Egg’s bag, held loosely at his side. His expression is—normal—as normal as he looks when they’re out fishing and Egg’s catching up a storm while Wemmbu pulls out scraps type of normal. It’s weird.
Wemmbu studies him for a second longer than necessary. Eyes narrowing and brows scrunching, voice tinged with confusion and sentence coming out jaded. “Uh, why are you asking that?”
Egg shifts his weight, gaze flicking back up to the stars briefly before returning. “Well,” he says, “Unstable is a hardcore server, full of anarchy. You never really know when it's gonna be the last time you look at something, you feel me?”
Wemmbu gives a scoff at that and turns back around, steadying his arms for another row forward, deliberately ignoring the way the realization seeps through his skin. “Bro, don’t worry too much about that,” he shoots back, feigning dismissal. “Let’s just worry about finding the rare item collector first.”
Silence greets him, then an exhale, airy and resigned. “Alright, I gotchu,” Egg says, deflating, but for some reason, Wemmbu doesn’t think he’s fully off the idea. A hot air balloon’s valve releasing and descending, though still floating momentarily in the sky before its final destination.
Wemmbu’s mouth opens; yet, he doesn’t know why, only aware that there’s something in his chest, screwing and shutting off, gripping his heart apart like he’s about to miss an opportunity he can’t name. But before he can speak, Egg shifts again, careless this time, movement tugging lightly on the back of Wemmbu’s cape.
He throws a half-glare over his shoulder, and Egg’s already there, meeting his eyes with an unapologetic grin. It’s enough to tell him that what Egg did was intentional, as most things are.
What surprises him, however, is the way Egg’s lips part. Slow and undemanding, slipping in a quiet, celebratory thing he knew Egg wasn’t willing to let go of that easily. “Happy New Year, Wemmbu.”
Wemmbu stares at him for a second. Then he huffs out a laugh, mirroring Egg’s stupid smile and following suit. “Yeah, whatever,” he relents with an eyeroll. “Happy New Year, Egg.”
He turns back forward.
The boat continues gliding beneath a sky full of names he doesn’t know, and over waves that cradle them like they matter. And for that brief, tangible moment, past the ticking clock of a deadline and away from the chill of winter winds, Wemmbu lets himself hope they’ll see this same sky again next eve, too.