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The boat was rocking. He’d gotten so used to its sway to and fro to recognise it anymore. Distant seagulls called from above, circling the cold ocean outside as it batted them away with the power of the wind. How long has it been? He didn’t want to count. Boaty was a fine ship, perfectly handled for long voyages and shocking weather, but even this was becoming unbearable.
The last time OJ was on this ship, he was feeling excitement, calm, perhaps even a little bit of stress. Now, the only emotion that flooded his mind when he gazed around his room was dread. Maybe fear. He should’ve lost himself in the illusions of a dream as soon as the sun sunk into the waves, yet as soon as he tried to close eyes, they shot back wide open despite the mild salty sting in the air.
He made a promise—he’d come back some day. Once it was safe, he’d return, back into the arms of his other half.
Oh, what was he doing? Now his joyful memories were flooding back, now tainted with the heavy miasma of his sorrow.
The cold sheets below him hadn’t been washed since the boat left the harbour. He let one of his hands scrunch up some of the fabric and deflate as he let go. A brief shred of history played in his mind—a broken washing machine, a steady flow of complaints, and a brief journey to the laundry room. The scratchy feel of old winter blankets brushed OJ’s arms and legs as if he were a chicken in an unkempt nest. Yet, he wasn’t annoyed in the slightest. Any semblance of it was dissolved by the gentle pressure squeezing his glass and the light chuckles threatening to boil his juice. It was way too warm that night–he nearly drenched the bed in sweat–but he didn’t care. Not when he had his light stuck firmly at his side through the heat.
He shot up out of the bed, hitching his breath. He couldn’t think like this right now. He backed up to try and put as much space between him and the mattress as possible until he bumped into something with a rattle. A clear, dull glass vase housing a withered flower. How long had it been since the plant was put in there? He tentatively reached into the vase, pulling out the dead flower and twirling it around in his fingers.
“Isn’t it pretty, OJ?”
He nearly crushed its stem in his hands as the memory gently massaged his head. A bright, sunny day, the sky the colour of his lines, seeking refuge in the shade of one of the few clouds left standing. He said he found it in the hotel’s garden, one that was too gorgeous to ignore. Mesmerisation turned to pain. A yelp louder than his own.
“I forgot to prune the thorns! Are you okay?”
The panic soon shifted to laughter, the gorgeous white rose being lifted out of his hands. His words showed no malice, nor were they oozing with honey, but a pang of sweetness that eased softly on his tongue. The saint left for a moment to find something to hold the beauty he had painstakingly grown for the man who didn’t deserve it. Something like… a vase.
This room was too much. He fumbled with the doorknob and stumbled into the hallway. He was the only witness to the vessel’s to and fro tonight. A long, shaky breath escaped his lungs that he didn’t know he was holding. A long line of doors broke up the walls, ending off with a staircase at one end and a hastily made ramp at the other. Soon, he lost track of which door he came out of as he began to wander. Who made this hallway? It’s awful, just look at it. Metal walls, a near-damp carpet and almost no decoration.
“I mean, come on, just look at it.”
The stab of guilt he’d felt that day came back to haunt him as nightmares often do. Now, it was overcast, the overly damp grass tickling his legs and almost no trees in sight.
“It’s even shaped like you! OJ, are you… serious about this?”
He peered at the blueprints again. He wished he could act on his past self to reverse the pain he knew he’d receive once this memory ended. If only it was the smoothness of his margin he was caressing then instead of that laminated, lifeless plastic that nearly cut his fingers.
“Well…”
God, don’t say it.
“…it is my hotel, after all.”
That knife nearly cracked his glass and spread shards all over the floor. A sickening hic escaped his throat.
“I fought tooth and nail for that million! And, I… want to use it for everyone.”
The knife plunged again. Of course, it was never as bad as the bullet of pure helplessness on his face when he met his gaze.
Here was too much as well. All quiet was lost as he clambered up the stairway until he threw himself up onto the deck. He oriented himself by clutching to the railing until his brain allowed itself to work again. The rocking was even worse up here, accelerated by the wrath of rain that couldn’t have started not too long ago.
He took another deep breath, albeit shakier than usual. He lifted a hand up to his cheek, warm tears flowing down his fingers that he had apparently shed.
Up here, he could let his mind fade away into the water's roar. There was no silence or stillness his imagination yearned to fill, as every single one of his senses were being assaulted with stimuli. The sound of fighting waves and rain; the motion of the ship; the darkness fighting the boat’s lights; the wood against his feet; the sharp smell of sea salt; the taste of a dry mouth.
Up here was the perfect place to forget. So why was he still remembering?
He took a step forward. Then another. He wasn’t worried about the water diluting his glass. He didn’t let the slippery deck stop him. He just had to walk. If he was far away from the others as he could, whatever battle he faced with his thoughts shouldn’t reach them. His own blue glow was a twisted spotlight highlighting his misery on the ocean’s stage.
For a moment, it was peaceful. Until it wasn’t.
“OJ, you need to stay with the OSC. MeTag needs me, but the society needs you. I already asked Lightbulb and Paintbrush if we could borrow their pens. You take one, I'll keep the other. Once this all blows over, I can come find you.”
He’d never shut his eyes so violently in his life. Floaters danced in his vision as the salty air forced more tears to escape his eyelid’s pressure. Why was he remembering? Why was he remembering? Why was he remembering?
He should’ve said something else. He should’ve talked him out of it. He should’ve told him all the mistakes he was making and all the bad things that could happen to him. He should’ve dropped to his knees and begged for his holy baptist to not leave him in vain.
And yet, here he was. The only water left to cleanse his sins was salty, murky, and wrathful. He took some more steps, one foot after another, seeing wherever what blind devotion he had left took him. When he reached the railing at the end of his pilgrimage, the steel was cold and uninviting. It nearly froze him to his core. It’s not like he cared—his core was already cold.
He watched as the waves below slammed into the hull with each passing second. He let the droplets riding the wind spray onto his face as he peered over. Some got onto his lips. His grip on the railing tightened.
Just like how his own grip on him tightened before he had to leave. He faked his smile, fronting the small amounts of strength he had left in him. He had to be strong. He had to show his pastor that he taught him well. He couldn’t let himself look back as he boarded.
If it was just him on that boat, and just him on that island, things would’ve gone differently. He would’ve whispered his heart’s worries, and they would’ve been reassured. He would’ve sobbed, and his tears would’ve gently been wiped away. He would’ve made that kiss last for far longer than it needed to—just so he could remember every little intricate crevice and detail of his lips for as long as possible—and his back would’ve been tenderly patted. He would’ve rubbed his cheek until he could convince himself to walk away.
That time, he let go of his grip. This time, he didn’t. The railing stayed firmly under his grasp.
Why did such a perfect man like him have to stay behind and brave whatever storm came his way? The possibility of his death was way too certain for him to simply breathe normally. He couldn’t die. He shouldn’t die. If he died, he might as well die too. He didn’t want to even think about imagining a world without his angel, because that was just as bad as actually living in it. It was like trying to live after being sawn in half and left to pass out from pain. Or seeing his heart being ripped from beyond his glass as it fruitlessly pumped its own blood onto the carpet.
If he could die knowing the god he worshipped lived in his place, he’d gladly become a martyr. He’d rip out his own heart if he had to. Now he was imagining a world without him, and he nearly choked on the jagged salty air. It was far too likely for that horrible thought to happen. Was it already too late? Were his scraps already flying in the wind with the same power he used to descend from the heavens? Had he already lost the anchor that kept him tethered to this world?
What were the chances all of this were true? He didn’t want to endlessly search for the corpse of a shepherd who was leading him to salvation as tears eroded his glass; he was too fragile to succumb to such a fate.
The waters shoved themselves against the hull once again. The spray it left behind were like little angels escaping the devil’s grasp just to be ensnared once again. The darkness was always churning, brimming with secrets and furious energy willing to keep the oceans secrets firmly locked.
It was like they were calling to him.
How curious.
The depths had never been so… inviting.
“OJ?”
He was forced to breathe as the voice’s origin wheeled towards him.
“OJ, it’s… what, two in the morning? A-and you’re getting drenched! You must be—“
Their eyes locked. Her expression fell.
“Oh.”
Eye contact was broken for a minute as she stared out at the horizon in silence. OJ followed her gaze. After a while, she spoke up again.
“I know how difficult it’s been. …Do you want to talk about it?”
He filled his nonexistent lungs to their capacity. His exhale was no less shaky than it was before.
“I… I don’t know…”
The cabinet let out a soft hum. “That’s fine. But no matter what you do… don’t do it here. Come inside.”
When his only response were furrowed brows, she took one of his wrists with a light tug. OJ glanced over his side, and she gestured towards the entrance to the boat’s quarters.
And with a sigh, OJ was walking with Cabby in the pouring rain back into the boat, soon to vent about his feelings with two towels wrapped around his glass and a mug of tea in his hands.