Archive of Our Own

What’s not his fault, though, is the fight that Fabian is getting into, across the room, with Neddy Wiseman.

“You’ve always been a real piece of work, Neddy,” Fabian groans. “But I’m done putting up with hearing it.”

“Oh, you’re all talk. What are you going to do to me?” Neddy, a young elf who’s been on the crew for just a year longer than Fabian, retorts. “You know the captain would kick you off the ship in an instant if you did a thing. I’d like to see you try.”

“Try? No. I’ll do more than try.”

“Seacaster,” the ship’s doctor, Lucia, warns. “You can’t lash out like this every time he runs his mouth.”

“That’s all he knows how to do!” Fabian protests. “Run his stupid mouth about The Ball. That's all I hear from him.”

Neddy scoffs. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have so much to complain about if The Ball wasn’t around. Say, can we make that happen, Luc?” he asks, turning to her. “It could look like an accident.”

“You watch your fucking mouth,” Fabian hisses. The Ball knows this is his time to interrupt before Fabian’s clenched fists begin to swing. He crosses the room in a few silent steps, reaching out and clasping his hand around Fabian’s tense wrist.

“Fabian,” he insists. “It’s alright.”

“Oh, here he is now. Like always. Eating our food, taking up space. Nothing more than a barnacle on the side of the Bronzed Blade and yet! He goes nowhere, no matter how many complaints are lodged against him. I swear, the captain is under his spell or somethi—”

“Don’t be a godsdamn idiot, Neddy.” Fabian is a man on fire, his eye burning like a hot ember. “The captain knows what he’s worth, unlike some people.”

“The captain is confused, anyone can see it.” Neddy turns to a fellow cannoneer, Ashe. Ashe nods slowly. “See? No one wants him around.” His words are directed straight to The Ball who can’t help but shiver at the hatred in them.

“It’s fine,” he forces himself to say to Fabian. “He can think whatever he wants. It’s not worth the fight.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely worth the fight.” Fabian rips his wrist free of The Ball’s grip, gesticulating angrily at Neddy. “You’ll regret what you’ve said about him, you know. Laugh away,” he dismisses Neddy’s chuckles with a wave. “You’ll see.”

“I think you’re the one who’ll see where the cards fall. And I don’t think you’ll be particularly pleased.”

“Only you would abuse his relation to the captain for something so petty,” Fabian accuses him. “Just because you don’t like The Ball, you’ll make it someone else’s problem? Gods, grow the hell up, Neddy. Show some courtesy to other people.”

“Well, he’s not a person, is he?”

“You watch your fucking mouth—”

The Ball barely intercepts Fabian because he can physically strike Neddy, pushing him back with all his strength.

“Fabian, it’s fine. Drop it.”

“It’s not fucking fine,” he hisses. His jaw is as hard as diamonds and twice as sharp. He gnashes his teeth at Neddy, sheer fury rolling off him in waves. “You absolute cretin—”

With all his strength, The Ball is just barely able to move Fabian bodily towards the door. He pushes, shoves, and drags him outside of the mess hall and onto the freezing dock. It’s a bitter, unforgiving night, but The Ball would rather face the icy wind than the fury that filled that room. “It’s okay.”

“In what world?” Fabian curses, shoving The Ball away weakly and storming to the stern of the ship, a quiet, empty corner of the deck. “Aren’t you tired of it? The people who dismiss what you’re capable of? Who think that you don’t earn your keep here? I’m tired of it. You deserve better, The Ball. It’s unjust.”

“I disagree,” The Ball mumbles. “He’s right, you know. I haven’t earned my place on this ship, not like the rest of you. It’s a fair criticism.”

“Fair,” Fabian scoffs derisively, bitter and angry. “You use that word when it’s anything but.”

The Ball exhales a long sigh. He rubs a tired hand across his dry eyes. “How would you feel? If a crew member brought someone onto the ship who expected the same privileges as any other member of the crew? Who got to eat from the stores? Who was included when the shares of a job were divvied up? They didn’t sign up for that.”

“I don’t care what they signed up for. I care that they treat you like a man.”

“You aren’t,” The Ball surprises himself by saying.

Fabian’s mouth drops open. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s fine,” The Ball quickly dismisses his accusation. “No harm done, s—Fabian.”

Fabian flinches at the slip. “The Ball, don’t say that. What did you mean?”

“I didn’t mean a thing.”

“Liar.”

“Now you accuse me of—” The Ball cuts himself off again. Anger boils in his stomach, an unwelcome, unfamiliar feeling. He has learned so many new things from his time as a man, not a knight, but he’s not fond of each and every one. Anger is one such discomfort. “I’m sorry.” All he can do is cut himself off before his words get dangerously pointed.

“No, tell me. What has you so worked up?”

The Ball shakes his head, biting his tongue so that he cannot speak the truth.

“The Ball.”

He sighs.

“The Ball.”

“What has me so worked up? You, sire.” The Ball shivers as soon as the words are out of his mouth, a stain on his skin, a tattoo of his past. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Wait, sorry, that wasn’t a demand, that was just… it was…”

The Ball shakes his head more firmly. Every part of this conversation is shredding apart like ribbons dragged through his sharp nails. He begs the universe to let him tie it up neatly, to save the day with just a few words. “Fabian, you don’t need to defend me like you always try to do. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. You don’t mean it, I’m sure, but you treat me like I have no agency when you throw fits about how others feel about me.”

The universe does not listen.

“I’m sorry?”

The Ball stammers weakly. “It’s… I—” he sighs. “I can speak for myself if I feel the need to. I don’t need you to stand in defense of me.”

“I am not going to let them speak about you like that, not where you can hear it, not where I can, not anywhere,” Fabian declares. “It’s demeaning.”

“What you’re doing is demeaning,” The Ball snaps back, his anger overwhelming him, a painful overflow of emotions. “I don’t need your pity”

“It’s not pity, The Ball,” Fabian begs. “It’s what you deserve.”

“I deserve to be treated like my own man!” The Ball explodes. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? I don’t deserve to be coddled and protected like I’m useless.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Fabian protests. “I’m merely—”

“Infantilizing me.”

“Not at all.”

“Let me speak for myself.”

“You won’t,” Fabian argues. “If I didn’t defend you, you wouldn’t defend yourself.”

“Well maybe I don’t need to be defended!” The Ball shouts, his hands clenching in the same desperate fists that Fabian’s were. “Gods, Fabian, I don’t need to be saved.”

“Of course you do!” Fabian shouts back.

The Ball freezes, his stomach rising into his tight throat. “What—” he utters intently. “What do you mean by that?”

Fabian shakes his hands dismissively. “Not like that. Not like you’re useless or weak. Just that… you’re… well, you—”

“Finish that thought,” The Ball challenges him. “Please. Tell me what you think of me. I think I deserve to know.”

“It’s not that I think you need to be… coddled. I just— The Ball, I care about you.”

The Ball wishes his anger weren’t muted by that confession. He wants to stew in this new emotion, this hot, bitter rage. “I don’t need to be cared for!” he hisses, a finger pointed directly at Fabian’s chest, or perhaps his heart. “I’m not a child and I’m not… I’m not…” The Ball struggles to put his accusation into words. What is he not? A knight? A conjuration? A barnacle? A naive fool? “I’m not in need of your service.”

Fabian’s mouth slams shut. His lips seal like magic has closed them, abruptly and painfully quick. The Ball is out of words, too. He wishes that he could let things rest peacefully but today’s argument, his very first with Fabian, feels hot like lava in his veins. He gives him one last withering glare before turning on his heel and stomping down the stairs towards the crew bunks. He won’t be sharing a bed with Fabian tonight; there’s no way in hell.

And so, he joins a room of people who either barely tolerate him or perhaps even hate him, more glad for their company than the companionship of Fabian tonight. It’s bitter retribution but it’s all he can manage in these circumstances. Perhaps he will wake up without such bitterness in his system, or perhaps his organs will continue to boil. All he knows is that there is no more use speaking with Fabian tonight.

He swings into a free crew bunk and closes his eyes, praying for peace.

Fabian stews over his breakfast, putting off his deck shift for as long as he can, just waiting for The Ball to enter the mess hall so that he can apologize for the things he said last night. He’s been rehearsing his speech all night in lieu of sleeping. How could he have possibly drifted off when his mind was filled with an onslaught of all the awful things he said to The Ball? He didn’t mean half of them; he was just so consumed with anger at Neddy that he wasn’t thinking straight, saying the first things to come to mind.

It’s not that he thinks The Ball needs to be taken care of. It’s simply that Fabian owes him that much. All the service that The Ball offered him, it ought to be paid back ten-fold. And, it’s like he said, The Ball won’t defend himself when the crew starts running their mouths. Fabian can’t let that stand, not without confronting those who think it’s fair game to tear down someone just because he’s not like the rest of them. They think they’re better than The Ball just because of the admittedly strange way that he came into existence.

Well, fuck that, Fabian thinks. The Ball is just as much of a man as any member of the crew. He can outfight them, outsmart them, outwork them. He’s a hard worker and a good person, by every definition of the word. He deserves the same courtesy and respect that the crew offers each other.

And yet, he receives nothing but derision and disrespect because of circumstances outside of his control. It’s unfair. The least Fabian can do is defend him. Whether or not it changes the crew’s mind, he needs to do it because he needs The Ball to know that someone stands by his side, no matter what.

(The same way that The Ball stands by Fabian’s side, forever and always.)

Fabian waits and waits on an uncomfortable chair for The Ball to emerge from the crew bunks but he realizes, once the crew begins to filter in for an early lunch, that The Ball isn’t coming. “Oh, shit.”

Ashe raises her eyebrows. “Something wrong?”

“Have you seen The Ball today?”

Ashe rolls her eyes. “Lost your little slave?”

“Go fuck yourself, Ashe,” Fabian says, exploding to his feet and storming out of the mess if, for no other reason, to keep himself from punching her in the face. Gods, what he wouldn’t give to have the world understand that The Ball isn’t a conjuration anymore, compelled to follow Fabian’s commands. The spell broke and he’s free to act however he might want to. Fabian is the luckiest man in the world that The Ball has decided that by his side is where he’d like to stay, even without the enchantment obligating him to.

He hasn’t missed it for an instance, their previous dynamic. Except, in this sickening instant with The Ball missing, when some infinitesimally small part of his heart yearns for that constant proximity that they once had.

Fabian strides onto the deck and catches the eye of his captain, fussing with the newest shipment being loaded from the docks of Leviathan. “Sir, have you seen The Ball today?”

“Saw him leave the ship before helping with a single crate,” he says, groaning under the strain of shifting a heavy barrel onto the deck. “Thought you said he would carry his weight, my boy.”

“He always does,” Fabian defends quickly. It’s strange to hear that he didn’t leap into action with the call of an incomplete task. That’s unlike The Ball.

Worryingly unlike him.

“I suppose you’re right. He deserves a day off.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

The captain shrugs, his shoulders straining under the weight of his heavy burden. “Beats me, my boy. Don’t tell me you’re going to shrug off the work to chase him.”

“I… I have to, captain. I’m sorry.”

A sigh escapes the captain’s lips. “Sure enough, that’s what I expected. Go, go, now. Find your—”

“He’s not my anything,” Fabian snaps, pre-empting whatever accusation the captain was going to make.

“Your friend,” the captain finished carefully. “That’s all I was going to say. I know the crew gives the two of you a hard time, Fabian, but you have no reason to lump me in with those who don’t understand.”

“If you understand, why don’t you do anything when they insult him? When they make baseless accusations?”

“That, my boy, is not my job. Go, now, before I change my mind and ask you and your young muscles to take care of the rest of this job. And best of luck.”

“Why would I need luck?”

The captain smiles sadly. “I hate to eavesdrop but sometimes it is unavoidable on such a small ship. Your argument last night was… unquiet.”

Fabian nods tightly as a lump forms in the back of his throat. “Yes, sir. My apologies.”

“None necessary. Now, find The Ball.”

“Yes, sir.”

If he weren’t muttering intently, reminding himself of his goal, The Ball would have lost consciousness many winding streets ago. “Only in death does duty end. This would be a pitiful grave. Only in death does duty end. This would be—” He falls into ragged coughs, blood spattering from his lips and onto the dirty deck of Leviathan’s darkest alley.

He doesn’t dare brave the main streets. In this state, he would be an easy target for any pirate with poor intentions. It’s not that he carries much of value on him but there is a pressed flower between the pages of a small notebook in his pocket that he would be devastated to lose. He plucked it from the tall grass that encroached upon the beach where Fabian once took him on a picnic and has kept it on his person ever since. He’s still not sure why he picked it from its stem that day but he’d hate to lose it.

There’s also the handful of gold pieces in his belt pouch but those are far less valuable to him.

“Only in death does duty end,” The Ball chokes out. “This would be a pitiful grave.” He leans on his sword, limping slowly down uneven planks and praying for a glimpse of the Bronzed Blade on the docks. This morning, he was desperate to create as much distance between himself and the ship but now, on the brink of death, he just wants to see it one last time.

More specifically, there’s someone on board he’d like to see one last time.

The Ball’s vision turns to a hazy gray and his ears begin to ring. He’s only felt this close to death before once, but he was the very person who inflicted that wound on himself. It feels different this time. The hole in his gut is a violation, caused by a fellow crew member with bitter determination and a hateful look in his eyes. Neddy surely thought the job was done when he fled the scene of the crime but The Ball had other plans.

“Only in death does—” The Ball’s voice fades away as he collapses to his knee. This time, he doesn’t feel strong enough to push himself back to his feet. It’s all he can do to keep from falling to the ground in a limp heap. He sucks in a shallow breath, wishing for different circumstances. “This is a pitiful grave.”

Fabian has never been so horrified at the sight before him. “The Ball!”

There is no response but for a flick of his ears. The Ball’s face has fallen, covering his expression from Fabian’s eye. He has one hand on his sword, keeping him half-upright, but his other hand is pressed against his stomach, bloody and shaking.

“The Ball,” Fabian gasps as he slides to a stop at his side. He rips The Ball’s hand away from his stomach to replace it, desperate to staunch the flow of blood, but the harsh movement sends The Ball toppling over until he looks as good as dead, as motionless as a corpse and just as pale.

His lips are moving with a few silent words but Fabian cannot make them out. All he can do is press his hands against The Ball’s stomach while he wracks his mind for what to do next.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna—It’s okay. Can you stay awake?” he begs.

The Ball’s eyes flutter open and they meet Fabian’s gaze. “Fabian—” his voice is no more than a suggestion of a whisper, barely mouthing the word. “I—”

“It’s okay. I—” Fabian’s eyes fly across his surroundings, begging the universe for a solution. Across the street, he sees the sweetest sight he has ever laid his eye upon: an apothecary. “This might hurt,” he warns, before scooping The Ball up and sprinting across the dock which echoes under his heavy footfalls. He shoulders the door to the apothecary open. “I need help!”

The apotheker’s eyebrows fly up her forehead and she motions for an open table behind the counter. Fabian doesn’t hesitate in rushing back and resting The Ball’s body, weak and cold, on the surface.

“Tell me, what was the injury?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I found him like this and he’s not… The Ball? What happened to you?”

The Ball’s eyes shut softly. He looks peaceful, just the same as he does on the rare mornings that Fabian wakes before him, his face slack as he slumbers away contentedly. “Only in death…”

The shopkeeper shoves Fabian aside and presses her hands onto the wound. “It’s been many years since I tried this,” she admits, “but it seems that your friend needs more than poultices and bandages.” She closes her eyes and sucks in a breath, blowing it out slowly along with a cloud of golden dust. The room fills with the smell of sunflowers and warm sand and Fabian watches as the dust rains over The Ball’s body.

Slowly, some color returns to his face. He is still worryingly pale but no longer masquerading as the dead. The apotheker smiles as her eyes open and she admires her work. “Oh, thank Tymora. I worried I might’ve lost her blessing.”

“Will he survive?”

“His wound has closed,” she says, lifting her hands and showing the skin, knitted closed, between the shredded remains of his canvas shirt. “He will recover.”

“Oh, gods,” Fabian says, instantly feeling reality spill over him like a heavy rain. He collapses to a knee, barely kept upright by his tight grip on the side of the table. “He’ll be okay?”

“Now, that’s a question I can never answer, unfortunately,” the apotheker says. “But in terms of this wound, yes, yes. It will not kill him.”

Fabian’s head falls limp and he presses his eyes shut. “Thank you,” he croaks. “Thank you.”

When The Ball opens his eyes, he’s tucked into Fabian’s side of the bed, exhausted, sore, and disbelieving of his circumstances. He fumbles under the blankets, pressing his hands against his aching stomach, only to make contact with soft bandages wrapped around his midsection.

“Huh,” The Ball exhales weakly.

A sudden sound assaults The Ball’s ears, the scraping of a chair across the floor of the cramped cabin. He flinches, pressing his eyes shut even harder, as if he could block out the sound if he hides from it.

“Sorry,” a voice whispers. “I know you’re sensitive to noises when you wake up.”

The Ball frowns, pressing his lips together tightly. It’s true—he is—but how does Fabian know that? He’s never told him how the rowdy noises in the mess hall hurt his head during breakfast, nor has he ever shared how the boisterous good morning wishes from Fabian cause him physical pain. Though, now that he thinks about it, Fabian’s good mornings have been much less theatrical these days. They come in soft words and gentle smiles.

“How do you know that?” he asks, finally opening his eyes. Fabian stands in front of his rickety wooden chair, staring down at The Ball like he’s unwrapping a much anticipated gift.

“Your ears, they fold up. I know I’m not the world’s most observant man but… but I can make connections. When I saw them twitching so much in the mornings, I made it a point to find the pattern.”

“Oh.” The Ball’s stomach churns. “Well… uh, you don’t have to change on my behalf.”

“I do,” Fabian insists. “And not just with the noise in the mornings. The Ball, I thought I’d never get a chance to apologize when I saw you in the streets yesterday.” He swallows suddenly, blowing out a sharp breath. “I…”

“You thought our last conversation was going to be an argument,” The Ball finishes his thought.

“And it almost was.” He drags a hand down his face, sighing and pressing his eye shut. “What happened to you, The Ball? You disappear on me and the next thing I know, you’re bleeding out on the streets of Leviathan. How does that happen?”

The Ball struggles to reposition himself, sitting upright against the bunk’s headboard. Fabian steps forward to help him adjust but he puts a hand out, dismissing the offer of assistance. “It was Neddy.”

All at once, the blood drains from Fabian’s cheeks.

“I—” His teeth gnash behind closed lips, fury evident but tamped down behind a wall of performative calm. “I will be right back.”

Fabian turns and storms towards the door, ire present in every inch of his body. The Ball lurches forward to catch Fabian’s wrist but the wound in his stomach screams and all he can do is cry out in pain as his hand falls short. The gasp is enough to turn Fabian’s head who rushes back to The Ball’s side. He flutters his hands uselessly over The Ball who bats them away. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“You were almost dead,” he hisses.

“It’s fine, Fabian, please don’t go—”

“I’m going to kill Neddy,” Fabian mutters under his breath. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Fabian, please.” The Ball gestures at the chair, asking Fabian to stay. “You said something earlier,” he prods. “That you never had a chance to apologize. Aren’t you forgetting to do something?”

“I’ll apologize every day for the rest of my life if that would mean anything to you but, first things first, I need to kill Neddy. I knew he was trouble, I knew it—”

“Fabian.” The Ball’s voice entertains no argument. “Please. Don’t ignore what I’m saying again. Don’t run off and do whatever you think is best on my behalf.”

Fabian freezes as he seems to replay his words in his head. After a beat, he sighs and nods. “You’re right. I’m doing the same thing that I did the other night, aren’t I?”

The Ball nods, laughing lightly. “You’ve got a one-track mind when something sets you off, you know.”

“I know, I know; I’m sorry. You deserve an apology twice-over now.”

“Well?”

Fabian sits down on the end of the bed, resting his ankle on his knee and pressing one hand down on The Ball’s leg, as if to assure himself that he’s not going anywhere. “I’ve never been very good at apologies.”

“I don’t suppose I am, either,” The Ball admits. “I haven’t had to do much of it.”

“Well, you’ve had less of a year of practice,” Fabian chuckles. “I’ve had twenty and I still can’t seem to get it right.”

The Ball hums noncommittally. “Want me to go first?”

“Oh, you don’t owe me an apology, The Ball.”

“No, I do. I told you that you don’t treat me like a man and that’s just… that’s not true. You treat me more like a person than anyone I’ve ever met. It was just—” he sighs, “—just the standing-up-for-me thing that bothered me. I don’t need it; really, I don’t. No amount of arguing with people like Neddy will get them to change their mind. I’m not a person to him and I never will be. There’s no use in bringing attention to it. It’s…” he trails off weakly.

“What?”

“If I’m being entirely honest, it’s humiliating. I don’t like the attention, you know. I prefer to stay in the shadows and I can’t do that if you’re antagonizing people on my behalf.”

“I don’t like it,” Fabian says, frustration, anger, and irritation clear on his face, all compressed down into such a childish statement. “I can’t stand it.”

The Ball laughs. “I don’t like it either but there’s a lot of things I don’t like. I don’t like raisins in my breakfast. I don’t like when the captain pulls you away and I wake up alone. I don’t like when a hot day borders on too humid. I don’t like the reminder that people think I’m less than they are. And I don’t like the smell of sardines.” He shrugs. “I can handle all of those things, though. Acting like I can’t? That’s not treating me like I’m a fully capable person.”

“Which you are,” Fabian insists.

“I know that,” The Ball chuckles. “But, for a while, it seemed like you forgot.”

“That’s my cue, I think, to apologize.” He jostles The Ball’s legs together. “And with such a beautiful blueprint, I’m sure to get it right.”

“It doesn’t have to be a big thing,” The Ball protests.

“Oh, have you met me? It always has to be a big thing for Fabian Aramais Seacaster,” he retorts with a roguish grin. “This will be the best apology you’ve ever received.”

“Get to it, then,” The Ball says, rolling his eyes fondly. For all of his theatricality, he knows that Fabian has a good heart. But, with an ache in his stomach and a lingering sense of nausea, he doesn’t feel as entertained by the show today.

“I’m sorry.” Fabian rubs his thumb across The Ball’s shin over the blankets. “I never should’ve started fights on your behalf. I never should’ve antagonized people who are too stupid to realize how wonderful you are. And I never should’ve implied that you needed me to do any of that, too. Gods, I mean, you’re the most capable fighter I’ve ever met. If you wanted someone dead, you could make that happen all on your own. I just…” He sighs. “It’s not an excuse, what I’m going to say next, I promise.”

“Always a promising start.”

“It’s not! Not an excuse; an explanation. I did it because… because I care about you, The Ball. So, it’s infuriating to see others who can’t appreciate you for everything that you are! You’re… you matter to me. A lot. I don’t know when it started but it’s true. I just have this urge to protect you because I can’t imagine losing you. Gods, you have no idea how it felt when I saw you bleeding out yesterday. Every fight I started for you, it would’ve all been pointless.”

“Fabian—”

“Let me finish before I lose my nerve. Please.”

The Ball nods his agreement. “Go ahead,” he says weakly, his head spinning. He tries to blame his wound but he knows that simply isn’t the cause.

“I’m so glad I drew that card.” Fabian earns a perplexed look from The Ball.

“What?”

“From the Deck of Many Things. If I had never met you… I don’t even want to think about it. And if I lost you yesterday? Gods, that’d be even worse. No, don’t make that face; I’m serious. If I screwed up what we have, I’d never forgive myself, so I’m sorry. This is my apology but I understand if you can’t accept it. Believe me, I’ll do whatever it takes to redeem myself. Starting with killing Neddy.”

“Fabian, please don’t kill Neddy.”

“No, I will. I have to.”

“Fabian.”

“Someone has to.”

The Ball grits his teeth. “What are you doing right now?”

“Swearing an oath of vengeance.”

“No, no, try again. What are you doing that you just said you were sorry for doing?”

Fabian’s face falls, his jaw slack and hanging open. “Fuck.”

All The Ball can do is laugh. “You’re… you’re really something, you know.”

“Shit, I really… it’s—It’s difficult not to want to protect you.”

“I don’t need—”

“Protection, yeah. I know that, logically. But emotionally, all I want to do—” He cuts himself off, pressing his lips shut. Suddenly, he laughs humorlessly. “What does that say about me?”

“That you’re a good friend?” The Ball watches as Fabian’s eye goes distant, unseeing for a moment as he gets lost in some sort of rumination. “You alright?”

“Uh—”

“Fabian?”

He pats The Ball on the leg twice and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m not going to kill Neddy,” he begins. “But I am going to send Lucia in here to check on your wound. That’s not… That’s not—that’s not too far, right?”

“No, no.” Confusion plagues The Ball at Fabian’s sudden change in disposition. “I don’t think you’re overstepping. I did almost die after all.”

Fabian does not appear amused by The Ball’s laughing remark. “Not funny.”

“I didn’t die, Fabian. I’m right here.”

He swallows. “Don’t do that again, please.”

“I wish I could promise that.”

With a slow nod, Fabian excuses himself from their room and leaves The Ball in the lurch, suddenly alone and aching with his lack. He almost died. He almost died. Despite his very best effort, if it weren’t for Fabian searching for him, he would’ve met his end on the streets of Leviathan, leaving behind a crew in need of a new deckhand and a certain man in need of a friend.

The part that confuses The Ball, though, is that Fabian is not a lonely man. He has plenty of acquaintances from every corner of the Celestine Sea. He’s friendly with near-everyone he meets. But he doesn’t have a lot of friends, he supposes. No one else shares his bed and no one else holds his secrets for him, squirreling them away between their ribs, protecting them from prying eyes. There is only one person who Fabian trusts like that.

The Ball shifts again, attempting to roll on his side before the pulling at his wound makes him feel too sick to think straight. He relents, flopping on his back, and stares at the ceiling listlessly. What now? 

There’s a member of the crew of the Bronzed Blade who tried to kill him. There’s a murderously angry first mate, desperate to serve justice for said crew member’s crime. There’s a captain who doesn’t want to get involved. And there’s a deckhand who wants nothing more than to fade into the background, unnoticed and unassailed.

But things are never quite that simple. This complex, tumultuous mess of a ship only seems to be getting more complicated each day that The Ball spends aboard. Every time he thinks he has a handle on things, a new complication arrives. The latest of which was the look in Fabian’s eye when The Ball called him a good friend. Maybe he was overstepping and Fabian doesn’t consider them friends?

But on the night of Fabian’s birthday, he did call The Ball a friend.

The Ball shakes his head, eyebrows pinching. “Wouldn’t you like to spend your birthday with someone from the crew? A friend of yours, I mean?”

“I thought I was.”

So what was it about this claim, so many months later, that set Fabian’s teeth on edge? Why did it have him closing himself off, hiding his real expression behind some sort of manufactured mask?

A knock sounds at his door and Lucia pushes her way inside. “Up for a quick visit?”

“As long as you don’t try to finish what Neddy started,” The Ball jokes weakly, his forced laugh causing an ache in his gut.

“I may not understand why the captain brought you on without complaint but I would never undermine his choice. Nor would I purposefully injure a patient.”

“Then, go ahead.” The Ball tugs the covers down so that his torso is exposed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt to expose the bandages underneath. “I feel fine, though, which is a surprise. I expected, if I had lived, that it would’ve taken me at least a month to recover.”

“You were lucky. Seacaster happened to bring you to a cleric. Despite our best efforts as medicine makers, magic will always heal a wound faster than stitches and alcohol. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were back in fighting shape by the end of next week.” Lucia smiles as she gently unwraps the bandages from his wound, exposing the pale, puckered skin that was once a near-deadly wound.

“Lucky,” he agrees. “Yeah.”

Lucia hums as she works, pressing a salve onto his skin and layering bandages atop the wound again. The door opens and Fabian stands in the threshold, watching her work silently. The Ball watches him watch her, his eyes flying across Fabian’s face, looking for a clue somewhere on his countenance.

“Don’t let the cold in,” Lucia snaps.

Fabian rushes inside, tripping over himself. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“And yet, you did.”

He smiles guiltily at Lucia’s accusation. “Just making sure you’re taking care of my favorite deckhand.”

She rolls her eyes. “I hear you have reason to worry about what your crewmates are capable of doing to him. I don’t think the captain will be able to turn his eye from something like this.”

“No, I don’t believe he will,” Fabian says enigmatically.

“Fabian… what did you do?” The Ball asks, buttoning his shirt up and nodding his thanks to Lucia.

“Nothing, nothing! I just told him the truth without embellishment. When one crewmate tries to kill another, well, that’s something that a captain simply must involve himself in. And whose side would said captain take? His first mate or the local nimrod?”

“Neddy’s his cousin, Seacaster,” Lucia grimaces. “Blood runs thicker than water.”

“I’m willing to take my chances. Besides, if he does decide that he’d rather keep Neddy over The Ball, I’m sure the two of us could find another ship in search of a couple of hands.”

“You’d give up being a first mate?” The Ball asks, his mouth falling open.

“If it meant staying by your side? Of course.”

Lucia claps her hands on her thighs and stands up. “I’ll leave the two of you to it, then. If the captain really is telling Neddy to get lost, I’d hate to miss the fireworks.”

Fabian smiles sharply. “Enjoy the show.” He sits on the edge of the bed and pats The Ball’s shin again. “You alright?”

“You really think that the captain will kick Neddy off the crew?”

“I do. And if he doesn’t, then I’ll take that as a sign from the universe that it’s time for us to blaze a new trail. You know, I’ve always wanted to captain my own ship. How would you feel about a position as first mate?”

The Ball rolls his eyes fondly. “You are incapable of realistic expectations, you know.”

“Who needs them? My papa taught me to dream big or not to dream at all.” He smiles, crooked and confident. “What about you? Got any big dreams of your own?”

“As long as you’re not trying to shake me off, I don’t care where we go.”

Fabian’s eye flashes with an ephemeral hurt, there and then gone in a single blink. “I would never.”

The Ball tries to stop himself from asking but the words press up against the back of his teeth, eager to escape. “Are we friends?”

Fabian freezes, his face caught in a weak smile. “What?”

“Are we… you know… friends?”

“Didn’t I just admit to caring about you?” Fabian asks, laughing uncomfortably. “Is that not answer enough?”

The Ball scoffs, wondering how he could’ve forgotten so quickly. He had said that, hadn’t he? He cares about The Ball. That must mean they’re friends, of course, so why had The Ball let himself get so worked up with worries?

“Right,” he laughs, too, tight and awkward. “My mistake.”

The awkward silence that hangs in the air between them is quickly filled with the sound of shouting from above deck. “Ah, I believe that the captain may have just given his cousin the news.”

“That he’s off the crew?”

“That his name will be spread across Leviathan as a pirate who is willing to turn on his own crew. That, I’m afraid, will have the nasty effect of discouraging captains from hiring him. No one wants a crew member that might stab another with little to no provocation, not even pirates.” Fabian shrugs. “Serves him right.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“He did it to himself.”

The Ball nods slowly. “I suppose so. I almost feel bad.”

“Don’t.” Fabian’s jaw flexes, some degree of anger still simmering under his surface. “He deserves everything that will come to him.” The shouting eventually fades and a peaceful quiet descends over their room. The Ball’s eyes begin to drift shut, tiredness plaguing him. “Bedtime already?”

“It takes a lot of work to come back from near-death,” The Ball jokes, tilting his head so that his cheek rests on his pillow. “I think I deserve some rest.”

“I think I agree.” Fabian stands, hovering over The Ball whose eyes flutter weakly, barely able to make out Fabian’s shape as he turns and moves for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I just need to have a few more conversations to set the crew straight; that’s all. You’ll be okay. I hear you don’t need protection, after all,” he teases.

“Maybe I don’t want you to leave,” The Ball is surprised to hear himself admit. Halfway to unconsciousness, he supposes his filter has already been turned off. “Maybe you should stay.”

Fabian takes a breath, frozen in place save for the lifting and falling of his chest. Finally, he smiles. “Well, maybe I’d do whatever you ask.” He climbs over The Ball and settles onto his side of the bed.

“Maybe?” The Ball repeats.

He’s asleep before he can hear Fabian’s response.