Chapter Text
Minho stepped carefully up the rickety wooden steps, emerging onto the ship’s deck and into the fog waiting for him there.
The distant screeching of seagulls made him think they couldn’t be too far from land, but that was all it was: a guess. He could barely see a few feet in front of him before the pearlescent, rippling mist swallowed everything.
But not the voices.
Careful of the slippery wood and the coils of ropes lying around, he walked up the deck, slowing to a stop next to the foremast when a circle of figures emerged in front of him. He ran a hand up the mast’s smooth surface, aware that he was stalling but missing the push to close off the distance. Even after all this time, it was always a little intimidating. Especially when all seven were there.
The push he needed came, as it often did, in the form of eyes catching on him, widening in surprise, then wrinkling happily. In the form of a call.
“Oh, hey! You’re here!”
Everyone turned around to see him, more shouts of welcome whirling into the mist, and this time he hurried to come sit among them, eager to dispel the awkwardness of standing out (of standing away, alone).
“Why is no one at the helm?” he chided lightly as he took a seat on the deck, closing the circle. “Do you want to beach us?”
“You do it, then,” a tall figure teased back, lazily slumping against a crate.
“Okay,” Minho accepted instantly, moving to stand back up. He laughed when, predictably, protests immediately erupted, and let himself be guided back into a seating position by the two people next to him. Their careful hands felt like static against his skin. “Some good it would do us, anyway. I can’t even see the figurehead.”
The reminder seemed to sober them somewhat, and the person at Minho’s left – Sunshine, if he had to guess – sighed.
“I wish you could see it. The sunrise is beautiful.”
The person on his other side tapped the back of his hand against Sunshine’s shoulder in admonishment, but Minho only shrugged, unbothered.
“I’m glad to see you,” the figure right in front of him said. “We were starting to think you wouldn’t be joining us tonight.”
Warm, but measured words. Careful not to make him uncomfortable. Probably Wolfie, then.
“Yeah, do you even sleep anymore?!” another exclaimed, gesticulating from where he was still leaned back against the crate.
Yep. That was Dumpling alright.
Minho let out a forced laugh, eyes wandering away. He had actually come back to his apartment at a reasonable time last night for once, a slow evening at the restaurant having seen his shift cut early. Now that he was thinking back, past the fog’s edges, he could remember sitting on the side of his bed, messing on his phone, stalling despite his exhaustion. Then twisting and turning between his sheets, trying and failing to force his mind away from his rent that was coming up too fast, from the chef yelling at him again, from that cough that wouldn’t leave. He didn’t remember it, but clearly, he’d stumbled into sleep at some point.
How else would he be sitting here, in the dream?
“You know how it is,” he brushed off, “so much to do, so little time.”
“Sleep is important, though,” Puppy reminded from his right, no-nonsense.
“And so are we,” Bug whispered, almost too low to catch.
This time, it was Wolfie who shot him a reproachful glance. Minho had gone tense at the almost-blame, and some part of him felt bad that they had to tiptoe around him, like he was some skittish stray cat, scared of being pinned down, always at the risk of darting away. But he couldn’t help it, and he knew their worries weren’t unfounded.
They’d had a fight last year. Spear and Dumpling wanted to try one of those “viral hacks” that were supposed to circumvent the soulbridge dream’s way of hiding all identifying details from soulmates who hadn’t met yet. Just to nudge fate along, they’d said. Voicing varying levels of skepticism, the others agreed.
Minho hadn’t.
It had devolved into an argument, Dumpling accusing him of avoiding them, of not caring. The words Minho had said back would haunt him for the month he’d stayed away after that.
Because the accusations had some truth to them. He did avoid them sometimes; you were never forced to join a soulbridge dream. You had to want it. And as time went on, it became increasingly daunting to reconnect.
When he’d finally come crawling back, achingly lonely, desperate for any kind words, even in voices he’d forget came morning, Wolfie had made him swear that if he ever “wanted space” again, he’d warn them first. “You’re always free to stay as much or as little as you want,” he had said, failing to hide his hurt even while faceless. “But please give us a heads up, just so we don’t worry too much.”
You shouldn’t worry at all, Minho hadn’t said. He’d already done enough damage.
It was this memory that kept him from scoffing at Bug’s soft, earnest words, or of leaving, letting the dream dissolve through his fingers. As hard as it was to bear the guilt that the implications brought him, the thought of making Bug even sadder was worse.
He could tell his eyes were round and shiny, pleading, where they were still set on his, ignoring the others’ warning looks. But as soon as he tried to make out the details, it blurred. A pale, smooth, empty face.
They don’t realize what it’s like, he thought, spiteful. They’ve forgotten how it feels. An endless ocean of fog, and seven empty faces staring back at his own.
It was hard enough, being part of an eight-way soul bond. Why did he also have to be the last missing piece?
“Okay, we are not doing this tonight,” Foxy said categorically.
“Yeah, we should make the most of it before… goes back to the night shift,” the final member of their circle nodded. By elimination, Minho guessed it must be Spear.
Despite himself, Minho perked up at the mention of a night shift. He pointedly didn’t try to think of jobs that had one. It was useless; he wouldn’t remember in the morning, anyway.
“I’ve always wanted to steer a ship,” Sunshine said, jumping to his feet.
He pulled Foxy up and they darted, hand in hand, towards the stern of the ship. The others stood up slower, resuming the conversations interrupted by Minho’s arrival. He didn’t pay them much attention; every other word was swallowed by static. Not meant for his ears.
He had to take a second to figure out who was who again, but then he let out a silent sigh, and offered his hand to Bug.
“You see anything that looks cool?” he asked. An olive branch, or as close to one as he could give. Bug deserved more, and Minho felt his heart crack at how happy the simple gesture made him. In a few minutes, he’d forget the shape of his smile, but the ache would remain.
“Yeah, this way!”
As he let himself be guided through the fog by Bug’s phantom touch, he ignored the familiar warning echoing through his head.
This will only make it hurt more.