the two of them had been stranded for god knows how long now. they lost track of the days at around 50. neither of them knew much in the ways of survival skills - most A knew was how to play a handful of chords on his shitty guitar, much less how to care for a sick and injured man while stranded in the middle of the fucking ocean with hardly as much as a bandage or a wet cloth. he managed as best he could, but B's condition only seemed to get worse as the days went on, countless and neverending.
they both were going to die there, they knew that.
A had been speaking for several hours now. telling stories of far-off countries, fantastical wars, with ups and downs and twists and turns, like the ones he used to hear from his father growing up. B listened often when A rambled like this, but now he was being unusually quiet. even in his sickness, it was unusual for him to go long without a sarcastic little comment here and there. and A simply continued on, terrified of the deadly silence that might fill the air once his stories were gone. deep down, he knew that he was the only one left now. he knew that everything he'd done for B was useless, that every word that left his tongue was only prolonging the inevitable.
and he knew deep down that he couldn't live in a world where he'd failed B.
so, he spoke until he passed out by the fire. he spoke until his voice gave out. and still he spoke until he heard the horrid noise of an engine, the sound of rescue, a rescue come too late to save the only one that mattered.
he didn't speak after he was rescued. though his father tried to coerce him, and his voice recovered quickly, he just couldn't find the words.
there was nothing to say anymore.
