TREASURE: The Ring of the Sea.
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Goodbye Cell!
pairing: ot8!ateez x f!reader, pirate au
chapter warnings: cursed ring doing cursed ring things, prophetic dreams, supernatural knowledge, sexual tension, forced proximity, wound care, blood/wounds mention, dangerous men with control issues, protective/possessive undertones, emotional tension, morally grey pirates, weapons, knives, Aurora doing wtf she wants, everyone pretending they’re not starting to care, Yeosang being mad and obsessed(love it so bad), Seonghwa being a pain in the ass but we love him anyway, two ph1harmony members (guess who)… crying.
The deck slips away behind you, and only the narrow stairs remain, the wood smelling of sea and pitch, Yeosang's breathing steady beside yours, and the pain in your arm pulsing harder with every step.
«Don't run,» you tell him, your breath trembling.
«I'm not running,» he replies, sharp. «If I were running, you'd have already fainted.»
You reach the sickbay, and he pushes the door open with a light kick, guides you toward the cot, and makes you sit without asking permission. The room is filled with the sharp smell of herbs, alcohol, and warm wax. The lantern sways slightly, casting golden light over his hair.
«Take off the glove,» he orders, already heading for the cabinet.
«I can't move my hand properly,» you protest, exhausted. «It's stuck.»
«Then I'll cut it,» he shoots back, taking the scissors. «Stay still, or I'll end up actually amputating something by accident.»
He sets the cold metal against the fabric and begins cutting along your wrist. You feel the glove opening, your skin exposed to the air, the burning growing sharper when the alcohol touches the scrape.
«Ah!» slips out of you, and you clench your other fist around the blanket.
Yeosang doesn't look at your face while he works, his eyes fixed on the blood thinning under the alcohol, his fingers steady.
«If you ever think again that you can play heroine with people shooting you in the face, Swann,» he murmurs, «I'll make sure to tie you to the bed for the rest of the journey.»
«Wow,» you reply, trying to breathe deeply, «how romantic.»
You barely see his lips part in a half-resigned sigh, a hint of a smile dying there at once.
«I'm giving you a warning.»
Yeosang finishes disinfecting your arm in a dense silence, broken only by the clink of glass and the rustle of gauze. The pain becomes less sharp, duller, and the smell of alcohol burns your nostrils as you watch him bandage you with those precise, orderly movements, as if every strip of cloth were a piece of a map being put back where it belongs.
When he ties the last strip of fabric, he doesn't move away.
He stays there, close enough for you to count his lowered lashes, close enough for you to hear his steady breathing. His hands are still on your arm. He isn't squeezing, but he isn't letting go either.
«Can you...» you whisper, lifting your eyebrows slightly. «Let go of me? I don't think I'm going to escape by jumping out of the window with a scratch on my arm.»
He raises his eyes to you slowly, as if he'd forgotten he was still touching your skin. His golden eyes study you for a moment, then his fingers detach, but he doesn't take a step back.
«It's not the scratch that worries me,» he murmurs.
A cynical curve pulls at your lips. «No? Then what? That I disobeyed, or that I ruined your bandage supply?»
«That you chose the stupidest possible thing,» he answers, with that glacial calm that is his way of raising his voice. «Again.»
You turn your face away, staring at the floorboards marked by salt stains and old blood.
«I didn't have much time for a list of alternatives.»
For a moment you think he'll step away, but instead you hear him move to the side, and the chair creaks softly when he sits in front of you, so close his knees almost touch yours. He crosses his arms and looks at you as if you're a newly discovered clinical case.
«Explain something to me,» he asks quietly. «Why didn't you run?»
The question falls simply, but it carries the weight of something he's already chewed over at least ten times on the way back to the ship.
You press your lips together, your eyes drifting to his hands, those long fingers that, only a moment ago, were arranging flesh and bone as if they were the strings of an instrument.
«Where?» you ask. «Into the sea?»
«Into the city,» he replies. «Through the crowd. In the confusion. It was the perfect moment. No one was holding your arm, no one was watching you, no one was pointing a weapon at you... until you decided to throw yourself in front of a gun.»
A bitter smile escapes you.
«I thought you were tired of keeping me here. I thought I was doing everyone a favor.»
«Don't lie,» he says, and this time his tone changes slightly, cracking with something closer to irritation than detachment. «If you'd wanted to run, you would've truly tried. You already know where the harbor is, where the boats are, how to move through chaos. Instead, you ran toward the shot.»
You bite the inside of your cheek, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
«I wanted to avoid a funeral.»
«His,» he adds, and it isn't a question. «why?»
You stop. You don't have a ready answer, not one that can sound rational.
«Because...» you begin, and you hate the way your voice trembles slightly. «Because it was stupid to die like that. In a dump, over a rigged game, with a gold tooth laughing. He didn't deserve it.»
For the first time, Yeosang looks away, as if those words have struck something he doesn't want to show. He runs his thumb along the edge of the jar on the small table, turns it slowly, then looks back at you.
«He doesn't know you,» he says. «he owes you nothing. He hasn't promised you anything. And you still got in the way.»
«You need him,» you shoot back. «You call him cat, he climbs all over the ship for you, he warns you, he sees things. He doesn't seem like a disposable pawn.»
«We need you too,» he cuts in. «not because we want you here, but because that ring insists on staying on your finger. And you just risked letting a bullet punch through it.»
You look at him, feeling the ring pulse beneath the glove, as if it's staring at you too.
«So you care about the ring,» you murmur, ironic. «not me.»
«The ring,» he confirms, but the half-second pause betrays him, and you realize he knows it too. He straightens in the chair, almost annoyed with himself. «But right now, it's attached to you, and I can't separate one thing from the other.»
«How poetic,» you mutter. «I almost feel important.»
He inhales softly and closes his eyes for a moment, as if they've tired him. When he opens them again, they're clearer, less hidden behind glass.
«Did you have even one second to think,» he asks, «that if the bullet had hit lower, you wouldn't be here wasting my time?»
«Yes,» you answer honestly. «But I thought it afterward.»
His lips bend into something that isn't quite a smile, more a contraction of disbelief. Then he leans forward, elbows on his thighs, fingers interlaced.
«I don't understand,» he admits, and the sentence sounds strangely bare on him. «People who come aboard this ship usually think of only two things: surviving and escaping. You seem incapable of doing either in a simple way.»
«Are you calling me incapable?» you ask, raising an eyebrow, instinctively clinging to sarcasm.
«I'm saying,» he replies, «that you're forcing me to treat wounds you got because you don't know how to stay in your place.»
«And why do you care so much?» you press, softly, almost under your breath. «You don't like me. No one here likes me. You should be happy if I catch a bullet and free you from the problem.»
He stiffens. For a moment he seems ready to answer immediately, but he stops. Words form behind his eyes. You see them passing, being chosen.
«Don't confuse...» he says at last, «what I feel about you with what I have to do with you.»
«Translate that,» you provoke, tilting your head.
«If you die,» he explains, without circling around it, «we lose the ring. We lose the only thing that might break the curse. We lose a chance I've been chasing for seven years. I have no intention of letting one of your impulsive decisions ruin a lifetime of work. That's all.»
«All?» you repeat. «Just that?»
A flash crosses his gaze, quick.
«And,» he adds, much more quietly, «I don't like seeing blood spill when I can prevent it. It's... part of the job.»
It's a half-truth. You feel it slide through the air, too polished to be complete.
«Not even mine, I suppose.»
Yeosang narrows his eyes, measuring you.
«Not even yours,» he concedes, almost through his teeth. «Nor Wooyoung's, while we're at it. Although I would've preferred you decide not to put both your necks in the same line of fire.»
You find yourself looking at him longer than necessary. There's something disorienting in the way he scolds you and, at the same time, bandages you, pinching your skin between his fingers only enough not to hurt you. You think of when he took back the object you'd stolen from him, the certainty with which he'd slipped his hand between your breasts without missing a beat, and the way he'd pulled away right after, as if that contact had burned him more than the ring itself.
«Do you hate it that much,» you ask on impulse, «seeing me run toward your problems?»
«Yes,» he answers without hesitation. Then he lowers his voice. «because I know you'll keep doing it.»
«I know how you looked at Wooyoung while he was playing,» he counters. «not with the eyes of someone waiting to see a disaster. With the eyes of someone who had already seen it and was searching for the exact point where it would break.»
Your breath stops for a moment, because it's true, because for one second, while you saw the flash of metal gleam, you had the precise feeling of recognizing that scene, as if it had already happened. As if it wasn't only your body reacting, but something else, deeper.
«And you?» you ask, gripping the sheets with your free hand. «What do you do, Yeosang? Stay here and watch everyone bleed?»
The question catches him exposed. The line of his shoulders goes slightly rigid, then he rises from the chair, as if sitting in front of you has suddenly become too dangerous.
«I keep them from dying,» he says, turning his back to you as he arranges the jars on the shelf, one at a time, perfectly aligned. «Or at least I try.»
«You can't stop everything from happening.»
«I know.» He stops, one hand still raised to the glass. «But I can reduce the damage. And right now, you're potential damage walking.»
A tired laugh almost slips out of you; your head spins slightly.
He turns sharply, leaning against the edge of the table behind him, his fingers tightening on the wood. He stares at you in silence for a few seconds, his eyes less cold, as if something inside him has stopped resisting and let itself be seen by one inch.
«You're dangerous, Aurora,» he murmurs. «For us, for the crew, for the route... and, apparently, for yourself too.»
Then he adds, almost annoyed by his own words:
«And that doesn't leave me very calm.»
That admission surprises you more than the pistol pointed at you an hour ago.
«Why do you care?» you ask, and this time there's no sarcasm, only a thread of voice.
Yeosang stays still, his gaze crossing through you as if he's deciding how much to let you see. At last, he shakes his head slightly, as if surrendering to a thought he dislikes.
«Because, whether I like it or not,» he says softly, «you've become a part of this ship. And I'm not good at letting parts rot.»
The metaphor is cold, almost mechanical, but underneath it you hear a warmth that doesn't dare name itself.
He leaves the table, reaches the bed again, and adjusts the bandage on your arm with a gesture far too gentle for his words. Then he takes a step back, finally putting between you the distance he seems to need in order to breathe.
«Rest,» he concludes, returning to his controlled voice. «You'll have another long day tomorrow. And, if you can...» he looks at you one last time, serious, «try not to get shot again. My supplies aren't infinite.»
«I'll try,» you murmur. «But I don't promise anything.»
This time, the smile that touches his lips stays for one second longer.
«I thought so,» he sighs.
And as you watch him turn and extinguish the lanterns one by one, leaving you in the half-dark, you understand that, no matter how stubbornly he hides it behind bandages and reprimands, something in him has stopped seeing you only as a problem to contain.
The sickbay door closes behind him with a dry click. Yeosang exhales softly, and for one moment allows himself that half-second of silence in which his mind tries to empty itself of your gaze, the blood, the shot, everything.
He takes barely two steps down the corridor before he sees them.
Wooyoung is coming toward him with an expression that doesn't belong to him, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders less swaggering than usual, his gaze fixed on the door Yeosang has just closed. Behind him, San is tailing him like an irritated shadow, his cloak brushing his legs with every step.
«I told you it's not the time,» San is already muttering, his voice low and hard. «Don't even try it, Wooyoung. Seonghwa will rip your head off if—»
He doesn't finish the sentence.
Because Yeosang doesn't wait for them to come all the way closer. He doesn't wait for the next joke. He doesn't wait for anything.
Something snaps inside him, clean and sharp.
In two strides, he's on Wooyoung, grabs him by the black shirt at the chest, his fingers closing in the fabric with a strength he never uses, and slams him against the wooden wall with a dull thud that makes the planks vibrate.
San stops halfway down the corridor, his eyes widening for an instant.
That isn't like Yeosang. It isn't like him at all.
«What the fuck are you doing?!» Wooyoung snaps, more out of reflex than real anger, his shoulders crushed against the wood, his hair disheveled from the impact. But his eyes don't shine with challenge the way they usually do. They're glossy with something that looks more like guilt than amusement.
Yeosang looks him up and down, golden eyes turned into two thin blades, his breathing only a little quicker. He's close enough for Wooyoung to feel the controlled but tense rhythm of his chest, close enough for San to see the muscle in his jaw contract.
«Where do you think you're going?» Yeosang asks, his voice low, dangerously calm. Every word is pronounced like a verdict. «Tell me you weren't about to knock on that door.»
San takes a step forward, hands half raised, as if he doesn't know whether to intervene or not. «Yeosang,» he murmurs, «let him go, don't—»
«I'm talking to him,» Yeosang cuts him off without even turning, and his tone is so sharp even San falls silent for a moment.
Wooyoung swallows, his knuckles pressing into the wall as he instinctively tries to loosen the grip on his shirt.
«I just want to talk to her,» he says, and for the first time since they've known him, the sentence comes out without irony. «I need to talk to her.»
«You won't go near her,» Yeosang replies, dry. His eyes gleam with something that isn't only irritation, but a strange mix of alarm, protection, and a fear he refuses to call by its name. «not after today. Not like this.»
Wooyoung frowns, jerking slightly, his body searching for space against the wall.
«She saved my life,» he snaps back, his voice vibrating with restrained anger. «You remember that, right? Me with a hole in the middle of my chest, you without a patient, all of you without a cat... and her getting her arm scraped open in my place.»
San looks at him more closely and realizes he isn't performing. This isn't the usual Wooyoung clinging to words for sport. This is the one who has just understood how close the emptiness was beneath his feet.
«I know exactly what she did,» Yeosang spits, and for an instant his grip tightens again, wrinkling the fabric against Wooyoung's throat. «and that's exactly why I won't let you go in.»
«Why?» Wooyoung snaps. «Because you want to be the only one to tear her apart for what she did?»
San inhales sharply, ready to intervene, but there's no need.
Yeosang's answer comes sharp. «Because you almost got her killed.»
The corridor suddenly feels narrower.
Wooyoung presses his mouth shut, his eyes shifting for a moment toward the closed sickbay door. «I didn't pull the trigger,» he whispers, his voice lower.
«No,» Yeosang answers. «But if you hadn't been stupid enough to sit at a table with a man with a gold tooth in a place she told you to avoid, I wouldn't be bandaging the arm of a prisoner who decided to risk her skin for your vice.»
San clicks his tongue against his palate and runs a hand over the back of his neck. He knows Yeosang is right.
He also knows that isn't all.
Wooyoung feels it. Sees it. And for an instant, his usual arrogance cracks.
«I know,» he admits quietly. «I know it's my fault. That's why I want to talk to her. I want...» He stops, searching for words, which is unusual for him. «I want to ask her why she did it. Why she didn't run. Why she didn't leave me there.»
Yeosang's eyes darken even more, as if every syllable of that sentence is pressing against a wound that has nothing to do with the bullet.
«You want to ease your conscience,» he translates coldly. «you don't care how she is. You care about sleeping better tonight.»
«That's not true,» Wooyoung growls, this time with a flare of pride. «I can't stop seeing the moment she shoved me down, do you understand? I can still hear the shot by my ear, her weight on me, the blood...» He bites his lip and cuts himself off, his eyes lighting with raw emotion. «I don't want to be forgiven. I just want to know if she's all right.»
The silence that follows is heavy.
San lowers his gaze, rubs a hand over his face, and sighs.
«Yeosang...» he tries again. «he doesn't want to hurt her.»
«That isn't the point,» Yeosang replies, without letting go. Now, though, there's less ice in his voice, more exhaustion. «She's confused, she's drained, her arm is bandaged, and she still smells of gunpowder. The last thing she needs is you vomiting your guilt all over her.»
Wooyoung clenches his jaw, his knuckles white against his own hands.
«So what am I supposed to do, according to you? Pretend nothing happened? Laugh, drink, and hope my hand stops shaking every time I think about—»
San gives him a sideways look. Yeosang narrows his eyes.
«About her?» the doctor concludes softly.
For the first time, Wooyoung doesn't have a ready answer.
Something passes over his face, a quick flash, a shadow of panic almost ridiculous on someone like him, used to walking along the edge of masts as if they were floorboards.
«You're not helping,» he mutters, trying to shake those words off.
Yeosang moves half an inch closer, enough for Wooyoung to hear his tone become low, almost a polite growl.
«Listen to me carefully,» he says, and San straightens, because he knows that when Yeosang talks like that, he's no longer joking. «if you go in there now, you'll agitate her. You'll remind her of the shot, the blood, the run. You'll bring her head back to Rukhar instead of letting her stay here on the ship, at least for a few hours. Is that really what you want?»
Wooyoung stays silent, breathing quicker, his heart pounding in his throat. He can picture you — he knows — sitting on the cot, still pale, still tired, with your eyes throwing at him the question he himself doesn't know how to answer: why were you such an idiot?
«No,» he murmurs at last, quietly. «I don't want... to make her feel worse.»
Yeosang's grip loosens slowly, as if he's evaluating every inch before giving the shirt back to him. He lets go with a short tug, then takes a step back, his face returning to its usual mask.
«Then wait,» he says. «wait at least until tonight passes. Wait until she can sleep without jumping at every sound. When she's stopped bleeding because of you, maybe you'll be able to say thank you without making her tremble again.»
Wooyoung adjusts his collar, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his eyes fixed on Yeosang.
«And you?» he asks, almost challenging him. «Why are you acting as if you're the one who gets to decide who sees her and who doesn't? You're the doctor, not the jailer.»
San raises an eyebrow, interested in the answer.
Yeosang looks at him for a long moment, then lets out a short, almost exasperated sigh.
«I'm the one who has to put her back together every time you all decide to break her,» he answers. «And forgive me if I don't feel like stitching her mind back together too because you feel like confessing.»
San huffs softly, a shadow of a bitter smile escaping him.
«For someone who doesn't get attached, Yeosang, you're getting a little carried away,» he comments, halfway between serious and amused.
Yeosang's gaze shifts to him for a moment, cold and measured.
«I'm only trying to limit the damage,» he replies.
Then he turns back to Wooyoung.
«Go breathe. Drink something. We'll see tomorrow.»
Wooyoung stays there, his back still against the wall, hands in his pockets so they won't see them trembling slightly. He imagines you again, your figure covering his, the sound of the bullet scraping your arm and not his flesh.
«Tell her,» he murmurs softly, without raising his eyes. «That... that I'm sorry.»
Yeosang hesitates for a moment.
That "I'm sorry" isn't a small thing, coming from him.
«I'll see what I can do,» he grants, his neutral tone giving nothing away about whether he'll keep that promise.
Then he turns, his dark cloak brushing the floor, and walks away down the corridor without adding anything else, leaving San and Wooyoung standing there — one with his arms crossed and his gaze lost, the other with his back against the wall and his heart still too fast to pretend it only matters as a game.
Sleep takes you slowly, like a wave rising over you before you even notice, and the smell of herbs, alcohol, and wood from the sickbay fades until it disappears completely.
When you open your eyes again, you're there.
The Arch of Sable rises before you like a scar in the sky, two columns of dark rock emerging from green, deep water. The wind passing through that gap whistles like an ancient breath, heavy with promises and threats all at once, and the sand beneath your feet is warm, almost alive, as if it remembers every step you've already taken here.
The sea is calm, and yet you feel that it truly isn't. There's a strange tension in the air, as if the waves are listening.
The voice comes from behind you, calm and full, so familiar by now that your chest tightens before you even turn around. And when you do, he's there, a few steps away, standing on the sand as if he has always belonged to this place more than anyone else ever could.
He's wearing black trousers that cling to his strong legs, a jacket open over his bare chest, dark skin barely kissed by the sun, long black hair lifted by the wind in slow strands, eyes so deep that every time you meet them you feel as if you're falling into something you don't know, something that attracts and repels you at once.
He watches you with an expression halfway between tenderness and apprehension.
«Who?» you ask at once, your feet sinking a little into the sand as you move closer, your heart beginning to beat faster for no logical reason. «Who are you talking about?»
He doesn't answer immediately. He tilts his head slightly and studies you, as if assessing how much you can bear, how much he can tell you without destroying the only fragile balance you have left.
«The Black Hawks,» he says then, slowly, as if the name is a weight he'd rather not pronounce. «They've set their eyes on you.»
Your throat goes dry. The name bounces inside you, catching on something you've already heard: rumors in Port Royals, broken stories of corrupted pirates in the Empire's pay, predators of the Emerald Sea who live off kidnappings and ransoms.
«What do you mean... they saw me where?» you ask, confused, feeling the wind push your hair across your face, the waves crashing in the distance against the Arch.
He takes a step toward you, so close you can feel the heat of his body, the salty scent of skin and sea mixed together, and raises one hand to brush a strand of hair from your cheek with a gesture almost distracted, far too natural.
«Flying eyes don't need to be invited,» he murmurs. «Their sails hide where the sea is most crowded... where merchants drink and it's easier not to look up.»
It's a clue, only one, but it's enough for you to imagine ports, crowded taverns, glances sliding over you without being noticed. Something tightens in your stomach.
«So... they'll follow me?» you whisper, searching his eyes. «They'll come looking for me?»
A shadow crosses his gaze, as if he knows more than he's telling you and is deliberately choosing not to give you everything.
«Hawks like what shines,» he answers softly, his gaze dropping for an instant to your hand, where you know that — here — the ring isn't there, and yet feeling the reference nearly hurts. «And you... you're starting to shine more than you realize.»
A mix of anger and fear climbs into your chest.
«Why can't you tell me clearly what's going to happen?» you snap, taking a step toward him, your hands closing into fists at your sides. «You always speak in riddles, you only leave me clues, and then you vanish. What am I supposed to do when I meet them?»
He looks at you in silence for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on you with a sweetness that hurts more than any refusal, as if he sees much more than what you say, much more than what you know yourself to be.
«Just remember this,» he murmurs, moving closer still, until you feel his breath brush your lips. «not everyone who keeps you in a cage wants to sell you. And not everyone who offers you freedom wants to see you live.»
It's another thin blade sliding into your mind, but before you can protest, ask again, demand something concrete, he bends slightly.
His lips brush yours in a closed-mouth kiss so brief you could almost convince yourself you imagined it, but the contact is real, dry and warm, a touch that sends a shiver down your spine, a skipped heartbeat, one instant in which the whole world loses its edges.
There's no tongue, no depth, but the closeness, the way he holds your face between his hands as he does it, is so intimate you lose your breath for a second.
When he pulls away, he stays a breath from you, his thumb barely grazing the corner of your mouth.
«Wake up,» he whispers, dark eyes shining with something you can't name. «days are coming when you won't be able to afford sleep.»
The air in the lower hold where they keep the cells smells of salt, damp, and rust. The lanterns hanging on the walls sway slightly with every strike of the sea, throwing broken shadows over the face of the man tied to the chair at the center of the room.
His hands are bound behind his back with thick rope, his ankles fixed to the chair legs, his open shirt stained with sweat and wine, his face swollen with fresh bruises. The gold tooth glints sinisterly in the yellow light every time he runs his tongue over his cracked lips, as if he takes pleasure in that single, miserable sign of wealth.
Before him, Hongjoong stands with his hands clasped behind his back, coat open, his calm, dark gaze never trembling for even an instant. Seonghwa leans against the wall to his right, arms crossed, sharp profile in shadow, eyes fixed on the prisoner as if observing an insect under glass.
Farther back, but close enough not to miss a single word, are Wooyoung, Yunho, San, Yeosang, Mingi, and Jongho.
Wooyoung has his arms crossed and his back against the bars of an empty cell, his gaze unusually serious, jaw tight. Every now and then, he runs his thumb over the spot on his chest where, not long ago, a hole of lead could've opened if you hadn't thrown yourself over him, and that thought darkens his gaze even more.
San stands off to the side, slow, practiced hands turning a dagger between his fingers with unsettling familiarity, the blade throwing small reflections when it passes in front of the lantern, his black eyes not missing a single grimace from Gold Tooth, fixed, focused, almost predatory.
Yunho has one shoulder resting against the doorframe, arms down, his gaze serious and attentive. He seems the calmest, and yet in his dark irises there's a thin tension, as if he's already trying to place this man inside a much larger picture.
Yeosang, with his dark shirt slightly open at the collar and his sleeves rolled up, stands motionless near the stairs, hands tucked into his waistcoat, steady, lucid gaze pinned on the prisoner. He doesn't speak, but his eyes move, weighing, recording every word and every pause.
Mingi is a little farther back, huge arms crossed over his chest, broad shoulders nearly filling half the wall, his gaze, for once, lacking its usual easy slowness. He keeps his eyes on the man with a mixture of disgust and attention, and every now and then his fingers drum softly against his bicep, as if anger is searching for a way out inside him.
Jongho, beside him, has his hands resting on the edge of a crate and his body bent slightly forward, dark gaze serious, lips pressed tight. He says nothing, but the stiffness of his shoulders reveals how much he detests this kind of man, the kind who sells himself to the first glitter of gold and shoots people in the back.
«I'm asking you one last time.»
Hongjoong's voice breaks the silence with a calm far more dangerous than any shout, slow and precise, like a blade descending. He takes a step toward the man, his boot heels tapping softly on the wood.
The man laughs, a strangled laugh that almost becomes a cough. A trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth and shines over his gold tooth.
«The same ones...» he spits, panting, «who've been looking for you for years, Captain.»
Seonghwa tilts his head slightly, a crease of contempt at the corners of his mouth. San stops turning the knife between his fingers for a moment, his eyes narrowing, while farther back, Mingi's jaw tightens and the air around him seems to grow heavier.
Hongjoong doesn't move. He doesn't let himself be drawn into the game.
«That hardly narrows it down,» he murmurs. «I want a name, not a tavern line.»
The man smiles, if that tired grimace can be called a smile.
«What do names matter to you...?» he slurs. «As long as... they pay.»
Wooyoung huffs, pushing off the bars with half a step forward, his gaze glittering with irritation.
«Then they didn't pay you enough to buy yourself a brain,» he growls softly. «If you really wanted to shoot me, you could've at least done it properly.»
For a moment, Gold Tooth turns toward him, eyes shining with sick satisfaction.
«They didn't want you,» he murmurs, almost amused. «They told me... to kill one of you. Only one.» He runs his tongue over his lips, the tooth glinting. «The Cat came to me first.»
The sentence drops into the room like a stone into a well.
Wooyoung goes still, his eyes suddenly darkening, his breathing deepening. For one second, his usual lightness seems to evaporate completely, leaving only a vicious tension in his shoulders, his fingers closing into fists against the wood.
San lifts his gaze toward him, quick, almost imperceptible, as if checking that he's truly whole, then returns to the prisoner, the knife beginning to dance between his fingers again, slower now, heavier.
Jongho, behind him, tightens his fingers on the edge of the crate until his knuckles nearly go white. He swallows slowly, as if pushing down a stab of rage at the idea that someone out there would randomly choose one of them to bring down.
«Why one of us?» Hongjoong asks, composed, though his voice lowers, thickens. «Your pistol isn't what frees the sea from the Black Fever.»
«Who... said anything about a clean sea?» he coughs, his chest shaking. «I do... what I'm paid for.»
«And what, exactly, are you paid for?» Seonghwa intervenes, stepping away slightly from the wall, his tone flat, his eyes two dark blades. «Don't pretend to be naive. It doesn't suit you.»
Gold Tooth wets his split lips and looks up as if searching the beams for the right words, or the courage to say them.
«There's... someone who lost a little girl,» he finally whispers, voice hoarse. «A small... precious... creature.» The smile that appears on his face is rotten. «He wants to find her... and make the world cry to get her back.»
Wooyoung's shoulders go rigid, his breath stopping for an instant.
Yunho feels a slow chill climbing up his back. His thoughts immediately run to the Natalius, to your blood-streaked face, to your name spoken in the Captain's cabin.
Yeosang doesn't take his eyes off the man, but he lowers them slightly, as if placing this information beside what has already been filed away: Governor, Empire, you, ring.
Mingi leans forward a little, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He doesn't speak, but his body makes it clear that, if it were up to him, he wouldn't wait much longer before ending this, while Jongho gives him a sideways look that seems to tell him to hold back.
«A Governor...» Hongjoong presses, his voice slowly turning ironic. «A Commodore... or someone with more gold than good sense?»
The man coughs and shakes his head, the ropes scraping against the reddened skin of his wrists.
«I don't know... noble names,» he mocks, panting. «I only know that... before dealing with the Cat... someone asked me if I'd seen a girl...»
He pauses, his tongue touching the shining tooth.
«Long brown hair. Eyes... very alive.» He grins. «Daughter of someone who commands. A daughter... valuable enough to make too many ships change course.»
Wooyoung pushes away from the wall, the step short and sharp, eyes snapping to Hongjoong as if waiting for him to explode. But Hongjoong stays still. Only a shadow crosses his gaze, almost imperceptible.
San now holds the dagger still in his hand, fingers tight on the handle, gaze lowered, brows bent in silent anger; the idea that someone aimed a gun at one of his own — at Wooyoung, specifically — burns inside him.
Mingi lets out a slow breath through his nose, eyes still fixed on the man; his silence is that of someone already thinking how many more times they might try before they truly find you.
«So,» Yeosang intervenes, his tone calm and without inflection. «Someone out there is paying both for the head of one of us and for the return of a little girl who didn't drown.» He tilts his head to the side. «And you thought it was a good idea to sit drinking in a tavern and get caught in the most idiotic way possible.»
Gold Tooth sketches a laugh that dies into a cough.
«I wasn't supposed... to bring her back,» he murmurs. «I don't deliver... packages. I make people... disappear.» He raises his glazed eyes toward Hongjoong. «Others... do the rest.»
Hongjoong watches him for a long moment, as if trying to understand how much is truth and how much is a story inflated to buy a few more seconds of life.
Then he sighs softly, as if he's finally grown tired of the game.
«So,» he concludes, almost lazily. «You don't know the name of the one paying you, you don't know where the girl is, and you don't know where the chain of the person who put that pistol in your hand leads.»
His eyes narrow, a tired smile brushing his lips.
«You only know that someone out there has enough gold and enough fear of the Empire to try their luck with a tavern assassin.»
San lifts his chin slightly, catching the tone of the end. Wooyoung takes a long breath, his fingers opening and closing against nothing, the phrase the Cat came to me first pounding through his head. Yunho looks at the Captain and already knows what's about to happen. Yeosang inhales faintly, mentally filing away the last piece of information. Mingi shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as if he can't wait to turn the page on this scene. Jongho tightens his grip once more on the edge of the crate, preparing for the moment when the silence of the sea will cover everything.
«Last offer,» Hongjoong says, with a fake courtesy that almost hurts. «Anything else you know, now's the time to let it out.»
Gold Tooth looks at him, and for a moment there's a light in his eyes that isn't remorse, but useless pride, the kind desperate men have when they don't want to seem small at the very end.
«The only thing I know...» he whispers, voice hoarse, «is that your ship... isn't the only one carrying ghosts aboard.»
Silence pulls tight around those words, thick and heavy.
Hongjoong stares at him for one more breath, then turns slightly to the side, his elegant profile standing out in the trembling lantern light.
San takes a step forward, the dagger no longer turning, its point angled down. There is no cruelty on his face, no euphoria, only hard, cold determination, as if he's simply closing a door that leads nowhere.
For one second, Wooyoung looks away, squeezes his eyes shut, his fingers digging into the wood behind him. Then he opens them again, forcing himself to watch, because this is their world, and he knows it better than anyone.
Yunho remains motionless, gaze fixed but dull, as if he's already placing this moment in the same place where he keeps all the things he can't change.
Yeosang doesn't blink, but his mind races: someone has seen you, someone has seen the ring, someone has understood that the Governor's daughter is alive; the only one connecting them to this man is about to disappear, but that doesn't mean he's the last.
Mingi lowers his head slightly, as if accepting the natural closure of a threat. Jongho inhales softly, gaze hard, and doesn't turn away.
San lifts the man's chin with two fingers, forcing him to look into his eyes.
«You should've aimed better,» he murmurs quietly, without hatred, with lucid contempt.
The blade rises. The lantern catches its edge for an instant.
And, for a few seconds, only the sound of the sea remains on the Black Fever.
The men disperse one after another, disappearing down the stairs, dragging with them exhaustion, the sound of boots, and the smell of rum, until only the wind remains on deck, the sails beating softly, and two figures standing near the helm.
Hongjoong is leaning one hand against the railing, his open coat whipped by the salty air, his gaze fixed on the black horizon that seems never-ending. The blade of moonlight cuts across his profile, igniting cold reflections in eyes that never stop thinking, calculating, connecting what he heard to the invisible map he always carries in his head.
Seonghwa stands a little behind him, arms crossed, dark hair pushed back by the wind, black shirt perfectly closed, shoulders straight as if he's always on parade. He looks first at the sea, then at the Captain, then back at the sea, as if searching both for an answer he doesn't like.
«You heard him,» Hongjoong breaks the silence, without turning, his voice low, roughened by rum and exhaustion. «They wanted one of us. Or her.»
Seonghwa tightens his arms across his chest a little more, fingers digging into the fabric.
«It's nothing new that someone out there wants your head,» he replies quietly. «But now we have one more target, and she shines like a lantern in the middle of the sea.»
His eyes narrow as he thinks of you, locked in the cell below them, with the ring on you and that mouth that can't stay shut even when it should.
«A Governor's daughter, a ring that won't come off, an entire crew of idiots starting to circle around her as if she were some kind of...» He grimaces, irritated, fails to find the right word and gives up, letting contempt do the rest.
Hongjoong smiles faintly, without cheer. «Lucky charm?» he suggests, ironic.
Seonghwa looks at him sideways, cold. «Disaster,» he corrects, glacial.
The Captain lets his gaze slide toward the stars, as if checking that they're still where they should be.
«A disaster who chose to stay,» he murmurs softly. «She could've thrown herself into the sea, used the chaos, vanished into the dark... instead she threw herself over Wooyoung.»
There's a different note in his voice, something between amusement and puzzlement.
«That isn't a sense of duty, Seonghwa. That's instinct,» he adds, finally turning toward him.
Seonghwa stares at him, lips drawn into a thin line.
«Suicidal instinct,» he comments dryly. «She had one lucky moment tonight, and that doesn't change the fact that she keeps complicating our lives. If the man with the gold tooth is only the first of many, the most logical place for her is the cell. Away from everyone. Locked up.»
Hongjoong listens in silence, the wind playing with his curls, then shifts his gaze toward the empty deck, the swollen sails, the slow shadows the moon draws over the wood.
«Do you know what the problem with the cell is?» he asks after a long moment.
«That it isn't strong enough?» Seonghwa replies, biting. «She's already proven it takes her a heartbeat to unscrew her way out.»
«No.» Hongjoong shakes his head softly, almost amused. «The problem with the cell is that it makes her a prisoner in everyone's eyes. And a prisoner, sooner or later, someone will try to take. Especially if she's worth gold.»
Seonghwa looks at him as if he has just grown a second brain.
«Do you want me to believe keeping her in a cabin will make her less tempting?» he asks, incredulous. «She's the Governor's daughter with a living ring on her finger, not some cabin boy whose bunk you can change.»
Hongjoong smiles again, this time more openly, but the smile isn't warm. It's sharp.
«I'm not talking about temptation,» he says softly. «I'm talking about messages.»
He takes a few slow steps toward the helm, letting his fingers glide along the worn wood.
«She had the perfect chance to run,» he continues, his tone turning more serious. «She was out of the cell, in the chaos of a neutral city, with San, Yunho, and Yeosang distracted by the man with the pistol...» He stops and looks at him. «And instead of running, she threw herself at Wooyoung. Not because she owes us anything. Not because we were protecting her. But because she chose to.»
A brief, heavy silence follows, filled only by the creak of the mainmast.
Seonghwa clenches his jaw, because every word makes sense and irritates him at the same time.
«And so? You want to reward her for her recklessness?» he hisses. «Send her a golden invitation to the guest cabin?»
Hongjoong tilts his head slightly, his eyes shining with that dangerous light made of ideas.
«I'm not rewarding her,» he answers slowly. «I'm only stopping the punishment.»
His fingers tap softly against the helm, as if marking a decision already made.
«The cell was useful when we thought the first thing she'd do was run the moment she got the chance,» he continues. «But she didn't. She chose one of us over her own freedom, and that changes everything.»
Seonghwa lets out a sharp sound, almost a breath.
«It changes that she's stupid,» he replies. «And she'll be even stupider when the next man sent to kill the Cat uses her as a target.»
The Captain looks at him, and for one instant there's no irony, only lucid exhaustion.
«They're looking for us, Seonghwa,» he says, serious. «The Empire, mercenaries, tavern rats eager to please someone they've never seen. We don't protect her behind bars. We protect her by knowing where she is, who she's with, and why.»
«In a cell, she's only a prisoner with a ring,» he concludes. «In a cabin, under my responsibility, she's a pawn. A forced ally. A presence I can use and protect at the same time.»
Seonghwa closes his eyes for a moment, as if swallowing all his opposition.
«The fact that you're enjoying this doesn't help,» he mutters, hard. «I can see you, you know? Ever since she set foot on this ship, you've had that look...»
«What look?» Hongjoong pretends not to understand, amused.
«The look of someone who has found a new riddle to solve,» Seonghwa shoots back. «And with you, when there's a riddle involved, we always tend to end up with lead, blood, and a few more scars.»
Hongjoong bursts into a low, short laugh that the wind carries away at once.
«You're right,» he admits, with disarming honesty. «But this time the riddle has legs, a sharp tongue, and a ring capable of raising fire with one gesture. It would be a shame to let her rot below deck.»
He turns serious again, his eyes darker.
«Tonight, we move her to a cabin,» he decrees, leaving no room for discussion. «one that can lock from inside and outside. It isn't freedom. It's... a little more margin for us.»
Seonghwa stares at him, lips pressed tight, visibly displeased.
«And you call that a cabin,» he comments dryly. «I call it hanging a target at the center of the target.»
Hongjoong gives a faint shrug.
«Either way, she's on our ship,» he replies. «If someone wants her, they'll come here. I'd rather, when that happens, she isn't locked in a damp cage, but somewhere we can reach her in two steps.»
The quartermaster sighs, long and resigned, his eyes drifting for a moment over the black waves.
«And who tells her?» he asks at last, almost challenging him. «Who goes to explain that we're stopping treating her like a criminal so we can start treating her like a problem to keep on the bedside table?»
Hongjoong smiles, tilting his head slightly, that ironic spark returning to his gaze.
«You,» he answers smoothly. «obviously.»
Seonghwa looks at him as if he truly wants to throw him overboard.
«Me,» he repeats, incredulous. «why me?»
«Because she can't stand you,» the Captain replies, serene. «And you can't stand her. It's perfect. No risk of attachment.»
He gives him an almost lazy wink, then pushes away from the railing and starts toward the stairs leading below deck.
«Move her to a decent cabin,» he adds, barely turning back. «Third on the left, near Yeosang's. I want her under sober eyes.»
He stops for a moment, his gaze turning serious again.
«She chose to stay, Seonghwa,» he murmurs. «And to save one of ours. Don't forget that when you look at her as if she's only a burden.»
Then he goes down, his footsteps fading into the half-dark.
Seonghwa remains on deck a few seconds longer, the wind whipping his face and driving that sentence under his shirt: she chose to stay.
He shakes his head, irritated, but he has no arguments left that don't sound like pure spite.
«Disaster,» he mutters again, quietly, more to the sea than to himself.
On that beach you'd recognize now even with your eyes closed.
The sand is soft and warm beneath your bare feet, the wind playing through your hair, carrying with it the briny scent of the Arch of Sable, rising before you like a stone arch suspended over the sea, still and immense, the sky veiled in golden light as if it's always the same hour, always the same suspended sunset.
He's there before you even realize you're looking for him.
Sitting on a piece of rock emerging from the sand, one leg bent and the other stretched out, his bare chest barely covered by the open jacket falling loosely over his hips, dark hair tousled by the wind, eyes following you as if they'd never lost sight of you. In his right hand, he's holding something: a pale shell with pinkish shades, turning it absently between his fingers.
When you come closer, he doesn't stand at once. He watches you slowly, his gaze sliding over you as if assessing every small change, every new scratch he hadn't seen before. Then, finally, he extends a hand toward you.
His voice is low, familiar, so close that it causes that usual, irritating tightness in your chest — that absurd sense of missing someone you don't, rationally, know.
You sit beside him on the rock, your side barely brushing his, and without saying anything for a few seconds, he takes your hand and places the shell in your palm, pressing it against your skin as if it's something extremely precious.
«For you,» he murmurs, his thumb brushing your fingers. «To help you listen.»
You're about to ask to what, but you don't have time.
With a slow but firm gesture, he catches your chin between his fingers, warm fingertips forcing you to turn your face toward him, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a seriousness you haven't seen so naked before.
«Are you betraying me, my love?»
Your heart misses a beat.
You remain still, the shell almost slipping from your fingers from how tense your arm becomes.
«What?» you whisper, frowning. «No... we're not... we aren't—»
He laughs softly, but it isn't amused laughter. It's bitter, incredulous, as if what you're saying wounds him and entertains him at the same time. He's still holding your chin, not tightly, but he doesn't let you look away.
«You're so foolish,» he murmurs, with a sweetness both irritating and cruel. «You don't even realize what you're causing... and it hasn't even been ten days since you came aboard that ship.»
For a moment, you feel faint, words tangling in your throat.
«What are you talking about?» you press, your skin burning beneath his touch. «I'm not... I'm not doing anything, I'm not doing it on purpose, I—»
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes softening without stopping their weight on every breath you take.
«No,» he allows, «you're not doing it on purpose. That's the problem.»
He lets go of your chin only for a handful of seconds, just long enough to brush your cheek with the back of his fingers, a touch so real that goosebumps rise all along your arm.
«You arrive, you speak, you react, you throw yourself into the fire,» he continues, his voice lower, almost a whisper against your mouth, «and they... shift. They change course. They change the way they look. You don't notice anything, but you're moving them one by one.»
Your stomach tightens, images flashing through your head: Yunho's gaze on the map, San's fury as he faced you and the way he never stops searching for you with his eyes, Wooyoung throwing himself into situations while smiling a little less, Yeosang staying longer than necessary in your cell.
«I didn't...» You search for the words, but they snag. «I didn't ask for any of this.»
He sighs softly, as if you've already given him that answer a thousand times.
«I've already told you it isn't about what you ask for,» he replies. «It's about what you are.»
You lower your gaze, your fingers instinctively closing around the shell, its smooth surface pressing into your palm. The wind rises slightly, tangling your hair and carrying with it the smell of salt, and underneath it, a hint of something unknown, like a distant storm.
«And the Black Hawks?» you blurt out suddenly, because his warning is still beating stubbornly in your head. «Why do you keep mentioning the Black Hawks? Who are they? What do they want from me?»
For the first time since you've been there, you see him truly stiffen.
His fingers tighten faintly around your chin, a shadow crossing his gaze, something dark and ancient, a weariness you hadn't seen before.
«I warned you,» he says more quietly. «they've seen you.»
«Who?» you insist. «Who are they? What do they want?»
He releases your face, but only to pass a slow hand over the nape of your neck, slipping his fingers into your hair with a gesture so natural that you want to pull away and, at the same time, move closer.
«The Black Hawks aren't ordinary pirates,» he explains, looking at the Arch of Sable in the distance, as if he can see far beyond what you can. «They're not like your Black Fever. They don't have a ship that sings or a captain who laughs when he should be afraid.»
An ironic curve brushes his lips, but it vanishes at once.
«They don't chase gold,» he continues. «They chase names. People. Blood. They're the Empire's dogs without uniforms, paid to hunt everything the Empire can't afford to pursue in broad daylight.»
For a moment, you feel your blood freeze in your veins.
«And you think they're looking for me.»
«I think,» he says, finally looking back at you, «they're looking for the Governor's daughter who didn't drown where everyone thought she did. I think they saw a girl with something that shouldn't belong to her. And I think that when they take you, they won't ask whether you wanted any of this or not.»
You can't breathe. It feels as if the sea around you is drawing closer, as if the waves are rising slightly, just to listen better.
«Then tell me what I'm supposed to do,» you whisper, your voice cracking even though you try to keep it steady. «Tell me how to stop them. Tell me how to save myself, how to save them... because I don't understand anything, I don't know what I'm supposed to—»
He interrupts you again, with a gesture that is rough and gentle at the same time.
He takes your face in both hands this time, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and forces you to look at him, his dark eyes so close to yours that, for an instant, you feel as if you're falling inside them.
«Listen carefully, Aurora.»
The way he says your name vibrates in your bones.
«The Black Hawks will arrive when you think you can breathe.» His voice is low, every word a precise strike, like a sharpened blade carving into stone. «They won't come at you with cannons raised. They won't come from the front. They wait. They watch. They slip in where no one sees them.»
You wet your lips nervously.
«Then how do I stop them?»
His eyes soften for a moment, as if he sees you as too small for that burden and, at the same time, as the only one able to carry it.
«Remember,» he murmurs. «The first offer is never the most sincere... and those who stay silent see more than those who speak.»
«You've already said that.»
«And I'll keep repeating it until I carve it into those stubborn bones of yours.»
You're about to answer, to insult him, to tell him that if he truly cares so much about you, he could speak clearly for once — but you don't get the chance.
He moves closer all at once, closing the last inch of air between you, and brushes his lips against yours in a quick kiss. Just a touch. A closed-mouth kiss that still feels more real than the air you're breathing, warm and soft and straight into the center of your chest, as if it's an ancient promise your body remembers even if your mind doesn't.
«You're betraying me,» he repeats against your mouth, more softly, almost affectionately. «And you don't even realize it.»
You draw your face back slightly, your heart in your throat, the shell slipping from your fingers and falling into the sea without a sound.
«We aren't together,» you whisper again, as if that's enough to deny everything.
He smiles, and he does it in that sad, beautiful way that makes you want to scream.
His hand rises. He lifts his fingers to the level of your face and tosses a light handful of sand at you. The grains hit your eyelids, your lashes, your lips, and in an instant everything goes out: the sea, the sky, him, the Arch.
You sit up in the cabin bed, short breaths tearing at your chest, throat dry, heart hammering as if you've run the entire length of the ship. The darkness is broken only by the dim light of the lantern hanging near the door, swaying slightly with the movement of the Black Fever.
The first thing you feel is the ring pulsing.
A warm beat against your skin, as if it's answering you.
You open the door, convinced you'll find the corridor empty, filled only with the smell of wood and salt you're starting almost to recognize. Instead, you freeze on the threshold, because less than two feet away, facing each other, are two boys you've never seen before, seated on two makeshift stools as if they've always been there.
The first is shorter, with messy dark hair falling over his forehead in soft strands, dark, lively eyes sweeping over you from head to toe as if he's already rating how much of a problem you are from one to ten. His arms are crossed over his chest, his shirt open just enough to show the dark skin of his throat, a thin necklace barely gleaming, his expression alert and ready for a joke.
The other is sitting sideways, leaning against the wall with the air of someone who could remain there for hours without complaining, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands clasped in his lap. He's taller, with delicate features and sharp cheekbones, lighter hair pulled back neatly, his gaze quiet but steady as he observes you like you're stepping onto a stage and he's the kind of person who notices details.
For one second, the three of you stare at one another in silence.
«...And who the hell are you?» you ask at last, in that tone halfway between tired and on the edge of exasperation that has become your favorite on this ship.
The shorter boy straightens at once, almost happy that you've spoken, and gives you an open smile, far too bright for someone who lives with these people.
«Keeho,» he introduces himself, placing a hand on his chest with a theatrical gesture. «Honorary member of the Black Fever, occasional unwanted singer, and, apparently, Miss Swann's new babysitter.»
The other blinks once, slowly.
«Theo,» he adds, his voice low and calm. «I'm here.»
«Fantastic,» you huff, leaning against the doorframe and crossing your arms. «They've put an audience outside my door too. What are you doing, exactly? Bored out here, so you decided to stare at the corridor?»
Keeho shakes his head and sighs dramatically, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
«No, princess,» he corrects you, with a familiarity that makes you want both to laugh and hit him with a pillow. «We're on duty for you. Special surveillance. Translation: if you try to escape, we have to stop you or we'll get skinned alive by someone much higher-ranking and much louder than us.»
Keeho opens his mouth to answer, thinks for exactly half a second, then betrays everyone without remorse.
«Seonghwa,» he admits, raising his eyebrows as if to say “where's the surprise?” «His exact words were: "You two, in front of her door. If she so much as puts her nose out without permission, you bring her back inside or you don't eat for two days." And he never looks like he's joking when he talks about you, you know?»
A long, exasperated sigh leaves you, your head gently bumping back against the wooden door.
«Of course,» you mutter. «Obviously. My personal fan club.» You look at them one by one, an ironic smile rising to your lips. «So, let me understand: if I simply wanted to...» You point your thumb behind you, toward the deck. «...get some air and look at the sea, I'd have to ask permission from the security committee?»
Theo studies you for a moment, as if genuinely evaluating the question. «Technically, yes,» he answers, honest to the bone.
Keeho tilts his head to the side. «But we can also pretend not to notice, if you promise not to throw yourself into the sea, not to steal a longboat, and not to blow anything up.» He pauses dramatically. «Especially the blowing-up part. Mingi is very sensitive about that.»
Despite yourself, half a smile escapes you.
«I promise nothing,» you reply, «especially if I keep finding people outside my door every time I try to breathe.»
«You get used to it,» Theo murmurs, in that calm tone that surprises you. «someone is always watching you here.»
«How comforting,» you huff, passing a hand through your hair to put it back in order. «So? Are you going to sit here like statues until one of your chiefs decides I can move without breaking the world?»
Keeho studies you for a moment, eyes shining with real curiosity, not only duty.
«Depends,» he murmurs, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. «Are you planning to escape today?»
For one second, you almost feel like telling him the truth: that you don't even know anymore, that ever since you put the ring on your finger, everything feels like a constant thin line between staying and running, between trusting someone and letting them drown you.
Instead, you lift your chin and sigh.
«Not today,» you admit, with fake condescension. «Today I only want to know whether it's legal on this ship to walk up to the deck without half the crew escorting me.»
Theo looks at you, then at Keeho.
«If we escort her,» he suggests quietly, «technically she isn't escaping.»
Keeho rolls his eyes, as if he already sees himself being dragged into yet another catastrophe, but in the end he stands and stretches.
«Fine,» he sighs. «Guided tour to the deck. But if something happens, I'm saying it was your idea.» He points at Theo with a nod, then looks back at you. «And if you try to run... I swear I'll scream so loud Seonghwa will come down, pick you up like a sack of potatoes, and carry you back inside.»
«Don't even try it,» Theo adds, calm, and for the first time, between the glove tightening around your finger and the weight of the choice waiting for you, you almost feel like laughing for real.
«Let's go, then,» you murmur, pushing away from the door. «Before your chief comes to check personally whether I'm breathing properly.»
You walk along the corridor side by side, you in the middle and them at your sides like improvised bodyguards, though neither of them has even remotely the threatening presence of San or Jongho. Your steps echo over the wood, the air growing fresher as you near the deck, and every now and then a deep vibration reaches you from the ship's sides, as if the Black Fever is sighing in its sleep.
«So,» you break the silence, tilting your head slightly toward Keeho, «besides guarding my door... what do you do on this ship?»
Keeho taps his chest with one finger at once, as if he was waiting for that question.
«Everything they don't want to do,» he answers, with a smile too big for his face. «Cleaning, carrying crates, polishing brass, hauling lines, running when Seonghwa yells, running faster when San pulls out his sword...» He gives you a conspiratorial look. «And, on rare occasions, surviving his wrath.»
Theo nods, gaze fixed ahead.
«Cabin boys,» he summarizes. «The two of us don't have a cannon with our name on it. Yet.»
«Happy and exploited,» Keeho adds theatrically, spreading his arms as you climb the first ladder. «But they feed us, they haven't thrown us overboard, and every now and then, Hongjoong looks at us as if he doesn't hate us. So I'd say it's fine.»
A brief laugh slips from you. «How long have you been with him?»
Theo thinks for a moment, his brows folding. «Two years,» he answers at last, calm. «He pulled us out of a shitty harbor where they would've sold us to the highest bidder. Since then...» He makes a small gesture with his hand, as if drawing a straight line in the air. «We've been here.»
«A little less for me,» he clarifies, bringing his hands behind his head as he walks, relaxed as if strolling along a beach. «I boarded the year after. I heard the stories about the Black Fever, about this cursed crew, about the mad Captain who laughs in the Empire's face, and I thought: either I die, or finally something interesting happens.» He looks at you sideways, his smile more sincere. «Guess what? I'm not dead yet.»
«Pity,» you mutter, ironic. «you seem like you'd enjoy yourself even as a ghost.»
«Oh, absolutely,» he replies without thinking. «I'd haunt your cabin just to see how many times I could make you shriek.»
Theo doesn't laugh, but the corners of his lips tremble.
«Keeho is good with ropes,» he adds, as if wanting to balance the picture. «He can move up high. Not like Wooyoung, but... almost.»
«Almost a cat,» you confirm, sarcastic.
Keeho lifts his chin, mock offended.
«I'm more elegant. And I sing better.» He makes a vague gesture toward the ceiling. «But yes, if someone needs to climb, they send me. If someone needs to risk their life, also me. And if someone needs to go watch the young lady who escapes and saves pirates instead of saving her own skin...» He shrugs, laughing. «Guess who gets picked.»
«So, to summarize: you're the handymen, the "you deal with it," the "someone has to do it," right?»
«Exactly,» Keeho confirms, proud as if it's a title. «But at least we're not cannon fodder. Yet.»
«And today you aren't in a cell,» he points out simply. «That already makes it a strange day for us.»
The deck welcomes them with an explosion of sound, the salty air hitting your face and the sharp clash of blades colliding with an almost hypnotic regularity, as if someone is marking time with steel and sweat. You only need to take two steps out of the hatch's shadow to spot them a little farther ahead, in the open space near the mainmast, their swords cutting through the air in gleaming arcs.
San is all broad shoulders, tense arms, and focused gaze, precise, powerful movement from someone who doesn't need to waste energy proving what he can do. Wooyoung circles him more lightly, more elastically, torso bending backward to dodge a slash, his blade meeting San's with a full sound.
A few steps away, Mingi sits on a crate with his elbows on his knees, gaze bright and curious, and farther off, Yunho stands near the railing, an open chart in his hands, head bowed but his ear clearly alert to every sound.
You approach almost without realizing it, drawn by the rhythm of the fight like a distant song. Ever since you were a child, you've loved the sensation of a sword in your hand, loved observing posture, mistakes, the line of the hips when someone lunges or parries, and your body arranges itself on its own: arms crossed, weight shifted to one leg, gaze fixed on the blades glittering in the sunlight.
«Not too close,» Keeho murmurs quietly behind you, taking half a step to cover you on instinct, while Theo, more silent, stays beside you with the air of someone who has already accepted the fact that if something happens, you'll throw yourself into the middle anyway.
San is the first to notice you.
He's delivering a diagonal slash, quick and clean, the sword descending in a perfect arc toward Wooyoung's shoulder, when his gaze lifts slightly and meets yours. For an instant, his blade hesitates — not enough to look like an obvious distraction, but enough for Wooyoung to catch the opening and slip under his guard with a smile, forcing him to take a step back.
San blocks the blow, the muscles in his arm tensing, then pulls back and lowers the point of his sword by a breath, his chest rising and falling a little faster. He says nothing, but his eyes settle on you with that usual mixture of annoyance, curiosity, and something far too close to a tacit admission, as if he's thinking: there you are again, problem.
Wooyoung notices only a moment later, and that almost makes you smile, because usually his attention is quicker than anyone else's on this ship.
He follows the direction of San's gaze, twists his wrist slightly to free himself from the contact of the blades, and turns toward you. His smile switches on automatically, the usual one, bold and bright, but there's a micro-moment before it forms on his lips when his eyes slide over you from head to toe with a different attention, slower, almost uncertain, as if checking whether you're whole, truly there, truly standing in front of him.
«Hey,» he says, lowering the sword with a sharp movement toward the floor, its point brushing the deck board. «Our luxury escapee is back to enjoy the show.»
The sentence is teasing, as usual, but the tone has a different shadow, just a little softer, less biting than a few days ago. He looks into your eyes one second longer than necessary, and in the way his pupils pause on the bandage around your arm, there's a quick flash of concern that he immediately tries to cover with a grin.
«Didn't think you liked watching two men try to slice each other up,» he adds, spinning the sword between his fingers with such natural skill that Keeho, behind you, whistles softly, impressed.
«I like watching people fight when they know how,» you reply calmly, letting your gaze bounce from him to San and back to the blades, «and I like doing it better than them when I get the chance.»
For an instant, the sentence hangs in the air, like the memory of the candlestick against San's face and that night on deck, the blood, the short breath. San clenches his jaw — you see it — but the spark passing through his eyes is no longer only fury. It looks far too much like reluctant respect.
«Don't get ahead of yourself,» he mutters, shaking his wrist slightly as if loosening his arm. «The other night, you stayed standing longer than expected. Doesn't mean you could do it again.»
Wooyoung throws him a quick sideways glance, holding back a smile. For a moment, he seems about to say something else, lips parting, but Yunho lifts his gaze from the chart and gives him a look that's half reprimand, half warning.
Wooyoung tilts his head faintly, studies you for a moment as if assessing something inside you rather than the way you hold your hands, then takes half a step forward, the blade lowering in a loose gesture.
«Want to try?» he asks, and the lightness in his voice can't quite hide that deeper note, that mix of curiosity and... attention.
Theo immediately makes a strangled sound. «What? No, wait...»
Keeho follows right behind him, eyes widening as they dart from you to Wooyoung's sword as if witnessing sacrilege. «Seonghwa will take our heads off if he sees you putting a weapon in the prisoner's hand,» he mutters, tugging lightly at your sleeve as if to convince you to stay where you are.
Mingi, without getting up from the crate, sighs and runs a tired hand over his face. «And Yeosang will take the other half off if he sees her straining her wounds,» he adds, nodding toward your bandaged arm. «I have no intention of being involved in this funeral.»
You and Wooyoung ignore them with the exact same natural ease.
«Just a few movements,» he reassures you, with that crooked smile softening his eyes. «No acrobatics, no jumps, no dives overboard. Promise.»
A couple of steps away, San doesn't say a word, but you see him tighten his grip on his sword and stay where he is, still, dark gaze pinned on you. The way he tilts his head slightly, as if unwilling to miss a single gesture, tells you how little he actually objects to this madness.
«Give me the sword,» you say softly, feeling the ring pulse beneath the glove, as if approving.
Wooyoung watches you for another heartbeat, then extends the weapon toward you, holding it by the blade so he can offer you the hilt. As soon as your fingers close around it, you feel the familiar weight of metal, your arm pulling slightly but not giving way, and for an instant the world narrows to the rough feel of leather against your bandaged palm.
«Easy,» he murmurs, coming closer. «It isn't as heavy as it seems. You're the one who forgot how capable you are.»
Theo huffs softly. Keeho rolls his eyes, but neither of them truly intervenes.
Wooyoung positions himself behind you, close enough for you to feel the heat of his body filtering through the fabric of your dress and cloak, but not so close that he smothers you. He brushes your elbow with two fingers, lifting it a couple of inches.
«First, posture,» he says, and this time his tone resembles the rare one he uses when he takes something seriously. «Left foot forward, right slightly behind. Knees soft, not stiff. If you stiffen, you fall.»
You obey almost without thinking, your body arranging itself the way it learned years ago with the Empire's fencing masters, muscle memory returning faster than breath.
Wooyoung lowers his gaze, and you see him nod softly, as if he's... satisfied. «See?» he continues, coming just a breath closer, his breath barely brushing your ear when he speaks. «The rest, you remember on your own.»
His hands reach you from behind, fingers closing gently over the backs of yours, guiding you to rotate the grip so the blade draws a tighter angle in front of you.
«Don't hold it like you're trying to strangle it,» he corrects, his voice low, almost an amused rumble near your temple. «The hands do half the work. The wrist does the other half. Like this.»
He shows you the movement, layering his own over yours, his chest brushing your back for an instant too long to be accidental. You smell the familiar scent of salt, leather warmed by the sun, and that faint sweetness that sets him apart from the others, a note that makes no sense on a pirate covered in gunpowder and reprimands, and yet it's there, insistent.
For a moment, you have the distinct feeling that he's only... breathing you in, memorizing your presence, and your heart jumps, confused, in your chest.
«Wooyoung,» Mingi mutters, in the voice of someone beginning to regret not running away earlier, «if Seonghwa sees you, I don't know you.»
«Seonghwa isn't here,» Wooyoung replies without even turning, his chin moving another fraction closer to your ear, «and even if he were, he knows I wouldn't hurt you.»
His fingers slide from the back of your hand to your wrist, stopping exactly where the bandages begin, brushing them with almost surgical care.
«Does it hurt?» he asks under his breath, and for a moment the joke disappears, leaving only bare, sincere concern.
«No,» you lie, because pride weighs more than the burning beneath the gauze.
He only half believes you; you hear it in the way he inhales quietly and moves back slightly, enough not to press against your shoulders anymore, but not enough to fully break the invisible line that has stretched between your bodies.
«Good,» he concludes, slipping back into his lighter tone. «Then let's see if you still remember how to deliver a decent slash without cutting your own feet off.»
He moves to the side, finally visible again in your field of vision, and takes his own sword from where he left it nearby. San watches him with his arms at his sides, chest rising and falling slowly, jaw clenched in a mix of irritation and interest he doesn't even try to hide.
«Follow my movement,» Wooyoung says, lifting the blade into a high guard while looking straight into your eyes, «and if you get tired, stop me. I don't care how stubborn you are, Yeosang will kill me if you ruin your pretty hands again.»
He smiles, but the gleam in his eyes tells you he isn't joking at all.
At first, you feel almost ridiculous. The sword weighs on your bandaged fingers, your arm pulls, and every slash reminds you that only a few nights ago you were bleeding on the deck of this ship. But your body begins to remember, your feet finding balance on the slightly damp plank, your torso following the movement of the blades.
Wooyoung stands beside you, shows you the strike, and you imitate it. The first time is clumsy. The second is less uncertain. By the third, the tip of the sword draws a much cleaner line through the air, enough that he whistles softly, pleased.
«There,» he smiles, tilting his head. «That's the difference between someone playing soldier and someone who studied properly.»
You don't have time to reply before San moves.
He takes a step forward, simple, almost lazy, but the air around him changes, growing denser, more alert. Without saying a word, he plants himself in front of you, sword already raised in guard, the red of his hair burning under the milky light of the sky.
«Now try it with someone who answers back,» he says, his voice flat, mysteriously calm.
You stiffen for a second, then adjust your grip. His dark eyes study you, from your face to your hands, making a quick stop where the bandages show beneath the edge of the glove, and you clearly see his jaw tighten.
«If you make her bleed again,» Mingi mutters behind him, more to himself than to San, «Yeosang will throw you off the ship.»
San doesn't even spare him a glance, but you know he heard.
You expect him to attack you like he did the first night, with that blind fury that had driven him to crush you against the crates, to grip you until your breath ran out. But he doesn't. The first lunge is slow, almost demonstrative, a point coming toward you at a speed you have plenty of time to read, parry, and push back with a flick of your wrist.
Metal strikes metal, the sound bouncing over you both.
«Higher arm,» he says, and it isn't sarcasm, it isn't an insult, it's... instruction.
You look at him for an instant, surprised, then obey and raise your sword a little more, your bicep burning, the bandages on your hands pulling. He notices. You realize it from the way his gaze instinctively slips toward the bandages, and his next strike is even more controlled, even more restrained.
He isn't playing. He isn't mocking you. But you can feel that he's holding something back — a strength, a violence you know perfectly well he has and, this time, isn't using.
«What's wrong?» you prod, searching for the usual fire. «Afraid of hurting me?»
San twists his lips faintly, a joyless half-grin.
«If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't have time to ask,» he answers, and sends a sideways slash at you that lands on your blade with more force, but still too clean, too measured to truly be his limit.
You turn to release the pressure, your feet gliding over the deck, the skirt of your dress brushing the boards. You hear Keeho hold back a «wow» behind you, followed by a whispered «he's going slow» from Theo, as if he doesn't understand the reason either.
And yet, you see it: in San's eyes, there's something different from the other night. That shadow of rage that pushed him toward your throat or your wrist is now more... compressed, as if kept in line by a decision he doesn't want to explain to you. Every time your block is a beat late, his blade shifts by an inch, gives you time to correct, doesn't take advantage of the opening.
«Faster,» you huff, irritated, after the third exchange where it almost feels like he's holding back so as not to humiliate you. «This is boring.»
His eyes narrow, a flash of something — maybe amusement, maybe pure annoyance.
«Your hands are bandaged,» he growls softly, stepping closer, his broad shoulders towering over you, «and you've barely healed. If I actually go fast, you'll be on the floor in two moves, and Yeosang will use me as an experiment.»
The sentence is rough, but there's more inside it: a piece of information he had never given you, a sliver of consideration he wouldn't admit under torture.
You slash again. He parries with a minimal gesture, almost elegant in how contained it is, and for a moment you end up very close, blades crossed, your point pressing against his, wrists trembling with effort. You feel his breathing, warm and steady, brushing your forehead.
«Then why are you here?» you hiss through your teeth. «To see how long it takes me to trip over myself?»
San tilts his head to the side again, as he did that night in the corridor, when he looked at you like you were some strange animal.
«To see how long it takes you to stop challenging me,» he answers, but his eyes betray him. It isn't true, or at least not only that.
The blows resume, a little quicker, just enough to make you growl softly with effort. But every time your grip slips, he adjusts the angle, moves his blade, draws it away from your bandaged hand instead of driving it against it. When your wrist gives way for an instant, you feel his sword slide along yours and then... stop, instead of disarming you the way it could.
And the moment his gaze flickers quickly to the bandages, you understand.
It isn't only because of Yeosang that he's going slowly.
He's studying you, yes, but at the same time — as much as it irritates him — he has no intention of watching you collapse in front of everyone. The memory of you, bleeding, standing your ground against him on deck and then choosing to run toward the sea instead of surrender, has stayed on him like the bruise on his face, and now you see it in the slight restraint in his arms.
«Am I disappointing you, Sannie?» Wooyoung teases, resting his chin on the pommel of his sword while he watches you. «You didn't seem to move this slowly when she split your face open with a candlestick.»
San gives him a look that could rot the wood, but he doesn't get distracted. His blade returns to yours, controlled, intense, and you, despite the pain in your hands, find yourself thinking this is the first time he's... holding back for you.
And you don't know whether that irritates you more, or whether the fact that part of you appreciates it does.
Yeosang's voice cuts through the air like a thin blade.
He doesn't raise his tone, and yet the sound sends a sudden shiver down your back. You turn sharply and find him there, a few steps behind, standing near the rail, arms at his sides and jaw so tense it seems made of stone.
The wind moves his blond hair softly. His white shirt is slightly open at the chest, his black waistcoat perfectly in order, but it's his eyes that make you freeze: golden, lucid, fixed on you with a calm so cold that, for a second, you feel more exposed than you did in the sickbay.
You understand at once that he's furious.
He isn't the kind who shouts. He isn't Seonghwa. Yeosang gets angry in silence, and you see it in the knuckles whitening as he grips the edge of his waistcoat, in the gaze sliding first to your bandaged hands clenched around the hilt, then to the bandages soaked with a fresh red halo, and finally to Wooyoung, who is still too close to your back, his fingers halfway between your hand and the sword grip.
«You were almost succeeding,» he murmurs, taking two steps forward, his boots striking the wood evenly. «At making me believe you could at least pretend to be prudent.»
Wooyoung raises his hands as if surrendering, but he doesn't truly move away.
«Calm down, doctor,» he tries to joke, though his voice comes out a little lower than usual. «The princess holds a sword better than half the crew.»
Yeosang's gaze slides over him, slow, glacial.
«Half the crew doesn't have bandages on their hands and legs,» he replies, not even bothering to call him by name. «Nor someone spending his time pressing them until they forget they have them.»
At your side, San nods faintly, as if he agrees but has no intention of putting himself between the two of them. He lowers his sword and slides it into its sheath with a sharp gesture, then gives you a sideways look in which you can clearly read an unspoken I told you so.
You tighten your grip on the hilt by instinct. The burn in your fingers stings, and Yeosang notices immediately.
«Put it down,» he says, and this time his voice is so low that you surprise yourself by obeying.
«I'm fine,» you mutter, out of pride, still holding the sword. «I didn't—»
«Put. It. Down,» he repeats, enunciating every word, and it isn't the doctor speaking to you — not only, at least. It's someone who has spent hours closing the same wounds you're now reopening for amusement.
You surrender with an annoyed sigh, hand the sword to Wooyoung without looking at him, and feel the metal slide out of your hands. Wooyoung takes it, but he no longer has the easy smile from before. He swallows faintly and glances at the doctor as if trying to decide whether opening his mouth is a good idea.
«How many times do I have to repeat it?» Yeosang continues, finally stopping in front of you, close enough that you have to raise your chin to look him in the eye. «If you worsen the wounds again, next time creams and bandages won't be enough. And I have no intention of starting from nothing because you were bored.»
Behind you, Theo and Keeho straighten immediately, like two boys caught watching something they shouldn't. Mingi pretends to focus on the gun's edge, but his ears have gone red.
«I wasn't bored,» you reply, stubborn, feeling your cheek warm. «I was just... training.»
Yeosang sighs softly, closing his eyes for an instant as if counting to ten.
«Training,» he repeats quietly. «With the same hands you've let bleed twice in one week. Truly admirable priorities.»
Then he turns toward San, and for a moment you clearly see the doctor speaking to the warrior.
«And you?» he asks, moving his gaze to the red-haired man. «Next time I ask you not to break my patients, could you try for at least one full day?»
San crosses his arms, solid, chin high.
«I didn't break her,» he replies dryly. «I even handled her with kid gloves. Literally, this time.»
Yeosang doesn't let himself be moved.
«And yet,» he answers, nodding toward your stained bandages, «those aren't decorations.»
He turns back to you, and for an instant you see him fighting himself, as if one part of him wants only to scold you and walk away, while the other wants to pick you up bodily and drag you back to the sickbay.
What wins is something in between.
«Come,» he says, extending a hand toward you without touching you. «We're going to fix the damage before I decide to truly leave you to rot in a cell.»
«I'm not in a cell anymore,» you object instinctively.
«Keep going like this,» he replies with almost elegant coldness, «and we'll see how long that lasts.»
Wooyoung watches you, sword in hand, a strange expression on his face: guilt, frustration, and something else you can't define, a shadow of fear from what just happened at the Vespera, mixed with the fact that you've almost hurt yourself again to play with him and San.
When you pass beside him, he barely touches your elbow.
«I'm sorry,» he murmurs softly, close enough that only you can hear.
Yeosang gestures for you to follow him, and the way he looks at you — halfway between irritated and... worried — makes you understand that yes, he's furious about the bandages, the sword, the blood.
And, even if he'll never admit it, about the fact that Wooyoung was close enough to almost take you into his arms instead of him.
Keeho and Theo barely have time to take a step before Yeosang turns sharply, without even looking at you, his gaze fixed on them like a polished blade.
«You two stay here,» he orders, with that calm tone that allows no argument. «If Seonghwa asks where I went with her, tell him I'm working. And that he can't interrupt me.»
Keeho opens his mouth, then closes it. Theo nods quietly, his gaze bouncing between you and the doctor as if he has just seen a fire ignite in the middle of the deck and isn't sure whether to call for help or not.
You swallow, then follow Yeosang down the stairs in silence.
The corridor leading to the sickbay is cooler than the deck. The smell of salt blends with damp wood and a shade of dried herbs you already know how to recognize as him. Yeosang walks ahead of you with the quick pace of someone who wants to reach a conclusion fast, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders tense in a rigid line that tells you how much more he's holding back than he's letting show.
You reach the sickbay door. He opens it with a sharp movement, lets you pass first without even looking at you, then shuts it behind him, leaving the noise of the ship outside.
You sit automatically on the cot, as if your body has already learned what to do whenever it enters this room. The wood beneath you creaks faintly, your bandages pull, and the smell of alcohol and plants wraps around you.
Yeosang doesn't speak right away.
He stops in the middle of the room, his back still turned to you, one hand sliding behind his neck as if he's trying to release the tension there, between muscle and bone.
For a few seconds, you hear only your breathing and his, steady but a little heavier than usual.
He stares at you without coming closer, golden irises cutting through you as if they want to count every scratch on your skin.
«You have an extraordinary talent» he murmurs at last, his voice low, «for choosing exactly what you shouldn't do.»
You huff, trying to lighten the air as it grows too dense.
«It's a family trait,» you reply, shrugging. «Didn't you know the Swanns are famous for always choosing the most inconvenient option?»
He doesn't laugh. He doesn't even make that fake amused grimace that sometimes brushes his lips when he teases you.
Then he moves forward, slowly, until he's standing in front of you, close enough for you to see the small beauty mark beside his eye pulsing almost imperceptibly against his pale skin, proof that he isn't quite as calm as he wants to appear.
«I'm not talking about your family,» he says, while gently taking your right hand, the one where the ring rests in its place as if it has always belonged there.
The contact goes through you like a shock. His fingers are warm and precise. They don't squeeze, but they still immobilize you, as if that hand has suddenly become the only steady point in the whole room.
He begins calmly undoing the cloth around your fingers, and you watch him in silence, following every gesture.
It isn't the usual distracted routine. This time, his movements are slow, controlled with almost stubborn care, as if he's forcing that calm on himself.
When the bandages come away, you see fresh blood mixed with new redness on your skin.
He inhales quietly, his lashes lowering for an instant.
«I won't lecture you about being reckless,» he says, placing the dirty strips of cloth into a bowl. «I imagine you've heard that enough times from everyone.»
«Ah, finally someone realizes it,» you reply, seeking his gaze. «I was almost starting to think you all enjoyed repeating yourselves.»
The corner of his mouth trembles, barely, as if part of him wants to give in to a smile and the other part is holding it back by the collar.
«No,» he murmurs. «I don't enjoy repeating myself. Especially when it doesn't help.»
He takes a clean cloth, dips it into a basin, and wrings it out slowly. Water runs between his fingers, clear, and for a moment you wonder why he's doing it with a care that seems unlike him.
«Then why do you?» you whisper, more to yourself than to him. «Why do you care if I decide to tear myself apart with a sword?»
Yeosang stops for half a second.
He doesn't look at you right away. His gaze stays fixed on your scraped knuckles, as if he's searching for the right word to attach to whatever is turning in his head.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are different: still calm, still lucid... but there's something underneath, a shadow of exhaustion or maybe surrender.
«Because treating the same person ten times for the same reason is a waste of time,» he begins, in the neutral tone of a doctor. «And I hate wasting my time.»
You expect him to stop there.
«And,» he adds, lowering his gaze back to your hand as he passes the cool cloth over your wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle, «because I don't like things breaking while I'm trying to fix them.»
Your heart gives a stupid little jump, and you try to ignore it immediately.
«Are you comparing me to a cracked vase?» you tease, trying to hide the warmth rising to your cheeks.
«No,» he answers quietly, without raising his tone. «A cracked vase at least has the good sense not to throw itself off the shelf on its own.»
You almost laugh, but it dies in your throat because there isn't only sarcasm in the way he says it. There's a thin thread of real exasperation, the kind you'd expect from someone who has seen you lying on that cot too many times.
«I could've run,» you say suddenly, the words slipping out before you can filter them. «At the Vespera. I could've left him there and gone.»
He stiffens faintly, the cloth stilling against your skin.
But he doesn't interrupt you.
«Instead I threw away the only chance I had,» you continue, looking at the ceiling. «For a pirate who spends half his time hanging from ropes and the other half stealing apples and provoking people.»
When you look back at him, Yeosang is staring at you with an intensity you didn't expect.
There's no judgment in his tone. No accusation.
Just a naked question, falling over you like a net.
You press your lips together and swallow.
«Because if they'd shot him instead of me, I wouldn't have forgiven myself,» you admit at last, your voice a little lower. «Because, as much as I don't want to, I already care about how this ends for you. For all of you, on this ship.»
Yeosang lowers his gaze to your fingers and resumes cleaning them slowly, almost more softly than before.
«Do you know what the most irritating thing is?» he sighs after a few seconds. «That you decided to care without asking anyone's permission.»
«I didn't think you needed permission to...» You stop, then huff. «Why, do you?»
His lips bend into something strange. Not a smile, not a smirk, but something halfway and tired.
«On this ship,» he answers, «it's dangerous. For us... and for you.»
Your eyes widen slightly as you try to read through him.
Yeosang sets the cloth down, takes the small jar of ointment from his pocket, opens it, and the scent of herbs and warm resin fills the air.
«Because the closer you get,» he says, spreading the cream over your wounds with slow, incredibly careful movements, «the harder it'll be to let you go when the time comes.»
Your breath stops for an instant.
You can't tell whether he's talking about them or about you.
«I don't think anyone on this ship has ever had trouble letting me go,» you try to joke, but your voice betrays you, a little rougher than before.
«Don't speak for everyone,» he replies, and for a moment his thumb brushes the ring as he wraps your fingers again, the contact so brief you don't know if you imagined it.
The tension stays there, suspended in the air, neither high enough to explode nor low enough to let you breathe.
When he finishes and tightens the last bandage, he sets your hand gently in your lap and steps back, as if suddenly returning to his usual role.
«Try not to make me waste more cloth,» he concludes, closing the jar again. «And if you absolutely have to anger someone, choose someone without access to poisons.»
«Is that a threat, doctor?» you reply, raising an eyebrow.
He looks at you for one last moment, and something very much like a restrained smile passes through his eyes.
«No,» he murmurs, turning toward the desk. «It's advice.»
You thank him softly, almost under your breath, as if the word itself is too fragile to carry the weight of everything that has shifted inside you in that moment. Then you get down from the cot with a small sigh, your legs protesting faintly beneath the dress as the wood creaks softly.
«Then... I'll go,» you murmur, instinctively adjusting the bandages on your fingers and smoothing your skirt just to have something to do with your hands. Then you turn toward the door, your heart finally starting to beat at an almost normal rhythm.
You barely have time to close your fingers around the handle before the door slips away from you.
A sharp, decisive strike shuts it before you can pull it open, and in one single step, he's there, so close that the world narrows to a few inches of wood, fabric, and skin.
You find yourself with your back against the wall before you even understand how you ended up there, the cold wood pressing into your spine while Yeosang's body fills all the space in front of you. He doesn't truly touch you. You haven't even brushed against each other. But the way he stops, one hand pressed to the door beside your head and the other clenched into a fist at his side, makes the air between you tighter than any chain.
You look at him, startled, your breath stuck halfway in your chest.
His eyes are different from before. Not only attentive or irritated anymore. There's a strange golden tension in them that makes them darker, as if he's holding something back with the same strength he's using to keep the door shut.
«Yeosang...?» you whisper, trying to sound more composed than you feel.
He inhales softly, his chest rising beneath the waistcoat, the clean scent of herbs and diluted rum washing over you like a slow wave.
«I haven't given you permission to leave yet,» he murmurs, his voice low.
The sentence throws you off enough to make you angry, just enough to react.
«You're not my jailer,» you reply at once, your eyebrows arching. «I already have those.»
A flash crosses his eyes, something halfway between annoyance and amusement, as if the way you answer exhausts him and keeps him awake at the same time.
«No,» he concedes, tilting his head slightly, his hand still planted beside yours. «But I'm the only one on this ship trying to keep you whole.»
«I'm not breaking,» you whisper, even though you know perfectly well you don't fully believe it. «I'm just...»
You stop, because you don't have a word that doesn't sound either ridiculous or dangerously true.
He watches you in silence, as if waiting for you to manage it.
Silence falls over you both, filled only by the faint creak of the ship and the murmur of the sea filtering in through the small porthole. From this distance, you can count every lash, notice the faint shadow beneath his eyes, proof that maybe he doesn't sleep the way he should either.
«Stubborn,» he finishes for you, with a false calm that tugs faintly at one corner of his mouth. «You're just stubborn.»
«You say that like it's a crime,» you reply, trying not to give in to the temptation of looking down at his mouth.
«Not on other ships,» he answers, and this time his voice grows lower, closer. «On the Black Fever... yes.»
Something vibrates inside you, a mixture of wounded pride and curiosity.
«Why do you care so much for what I do, then?» you provoke him, holding his gaze. «Does it bother you only because I make your work harder... or because I don't listen when you tell me to stop risking my skin?»
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but as if you've touched a place he'd rather avoid. For an instant, you think he'll answer with his usual sarcasm, a cold remark to silence you.
Instead, he says nothing.
His fingers, the ones resting against the door, curl slightly, his knuckles whitening as if he's gripping something you can't see.
«I care,» he says at last, shaping every syllable slowly, «because if you keep this up, one day you won't walk into the sickbay on your own two legs anymore.»
«That's the doctor's part,» you reply with difficulty. «What's Yeosang's?»
He takes a deeper breath, closes his eyes for an instant as if he finds you unbearable and fascinating at the same time, and when he opens them again, they're even closer to yours.
«Yeosang's part,» he whispers, «is that I don't like the idea of seeing you disappear from one day to the next just because someone aimed better than usual. Or because you decided the best way to survive was to put yourself in front of a gun.»
Your heart beats hard. Your head almost spins from how close he is, and yet he still isn't truly touching you. You feel the heat of his body without contact, and it's almost worse.
«But I'm the one you kidnapped, remember?» you answer softly, a note of bitterness slipping out. «It shouldn't affect you so much to imagine me gone.»
His eyes drop for an instant to your lips, then rise again at once, quick, almost annoyed with himself for doing it.
«I know,» he admits, half under his breath. «And that's exactly what irritates me.»
Your throat goes a little dry.
«That it's starting to not be so simple,» he says, without circling around it. «That I should see you as a risk, an accident to manage, and instead every time you walk in here...» He pauses briefly, his tongue barely passing over his lower lip. «I find myself wondering how long you have before you find another absurd way to die.»
«I'm not looking for ways to die,» you reply, but it sounds weak even to your own ears. «I'm looking for ways not to be your pawn forever.»
«And you've succeeded,» he murmurs, moving a breath closer, enough for you to feel his breath brush your cheek. «Now you're a pawn who makes me lose focus while I work.»
The ring beneath the glove pulses, a small cold beat running up your arm.
«You know you can't...» you begin, but you don't even know what you mean.
«I know,» he interrupts, and for the first time he almost looks tired, vulnerable for half a second. «I can't trust you. I can't allow myself to, not here. And you shouldn't trust me.»
«I don't trust you,» you answer instinctively.
He raises an eyebrow slightly.
«You're alone with me in this room, with no chains, no Seonghwa outside the door, and you haven't even tried to hit me with anything,» he points out, with cutting calm. «You trust me enough to turn your back on me if I asked.»
You bite the inside of your cheek, because you know he's right more than you want to admit.
«That's...» You search for an escape. «Pragmatism.»
«Call it whatever you want,» he answers softly, and for a moment his gaze drops to your lips again, then returns to your eyes, harder, more restrained. «But Aurora...»
When he says your name so close, a shiver runs down your spine.
«...don't use your body as a shield again, unless you want to force me to hate you every time I have to put you back together.»
It isn't a confession, it isn't sweet, it isn't even gentle. It's raw, almost brutal, but underneath it you hear something far too close to fear.
You remain like that, pressed against the wall, your heart racing, his hand still beside your head, the distance between you so short that one breath too many would erase it completely.
You're the one who breaks the tension.
«And if I told you I can't promise that?» you ask quietly. «That if it happens again, I'll throw myself in again?»
His eyes glitter for an instant.
«Then,» he murmurs, «I'll get even more pissed off. And I'll treat you anyway.»
And finally, in that moment, the corner of his mouth bends into something almost like a real smile, tired, resigned, and dangerously human.
He slows his breathing, lowers his hand from the door, and steps back, giving you air and space again.
The cold of the wall stops being an anchor. You almost feel the absence of his body, which, though it never truly touched you, had been the only barrier between you and the void.
«Now you can go,» he says at last, putting his calm back on like a cloak. «Before I decide your new cabin was a terrible idea and personally request that you be returned to the cell.»
You swallow, gather your breath and dignity as best you can, lower your hand to the handle, and turn it slowly. The door closes behind you with a sharp click, and the silence left in the room is almost louder than your breath still hanging in the air.
Yeosang remains still for a few seconds, shoulders slightly tense, gaze fixed on the handle you just touched, as if he can still see you there, with your back against the wall and your eyes wide.
Then he inhales softly, deeply, as if trying to empty himself of everything that just rose inside him.
Three measured steps take him to the desk, his hand sliding with far too familiar a gesture toward the lowest drawer, the one he never leaves untidy. He opens it sharply, pulling out the small thing wrapped in cloth — metal making a faint sound against the wood.
The object you stole from him. The one you slipped between your breasts with that irritatingly defiant air. The one you returned to him while looking him straight in the face, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to pull something from your bodice in front of a man you'd known for four days.
He holds it in his hand, his long fingers turning it slowly, thumb following its edge. For an instant, his eyes haze over, as if he's seeing the scene before him again.
You, standing in front of the cot, cheeks flushed with fake nonchalance, fingers slipping into the neckline of your dress, the fabric opening just enough, the metal appearing, bright against your warm skin. Your gaze challenging his, expecting him to be embarrassed, to look away.
But it stayed with him like a burn.
He realizes it now, in the way his fingers grip the object a little too tightly.
Without thinking, he brings it closer to his face.
It's an instinctive gesture, almost automatic, as if he's only checking that it doesn't smell like rotten herbs or spoiled medicine. But it's something else entirely. His nose barely brushes the metal, the cloth, and at once that scent he now recognizes hits him.
It stayed trapped there, in the fabric, because that object spent too long close to your skin.
He closes his eyes for a second, longer than necessary.
And an image lights up on its own in his head: you, once again pressed against the wall, your breath brushing his mouth, your heartbeat he can almost imagine beneath his hands, without having truly touched you. He hates himself for the way that thought doesn't disgust him as much as it should.
When he opens his eyes again, he understands what he's doing.
His fist is closed around the object, still too close to his face, like a madman breathing in memories he shouldn't even have. He sees himself from the outside all at once: the Black Fever's doctor, the one everyone considers cold, composed, detached... standing in the middle of his sickbay, inhaling the scent of a prisoner.
The sound that leaves him is half a frustrated scoff.
He pulls his hand away abruptly, as if he's truly been burned. The object falls onto the table with a small metallic thud, rolls sideways, and stops against a book.
Yeosang stares at it, jaw clenched, breath shortening, fingers trembling faintly before closing into fists.
His fist comes down on the table with a sharp, violent blow that makes a bottle, a couple of bandages, and a pen jump. The pen rolls off the edge and falls to the floor with a tiny clink.
The word leaves him low, tight, full of a rage that isn't truly aimed at you or at the object... but at himself.
He runs a hand through his blond hair, tugging slightly at the roots as if trying to drag himself back to reality. He hates himself for the heat he still feels in his fingers, for the memory of your gaze when you answered him an inch from his face, for the awareness that, somewhere along these days, you stopped being just "a medical problem."
«Stupid,» he mutters, but the tone is more against himself than against you. «Stupid me.»
He shuts the drawer with a rough movement, as if trying to seal inside it not only the object, but also the moment he just had.
Then he steps away from the desk, clasping his hands behind his back to force himself not to touch anything else connected to you, and stops in the middle of the room, his gaze fixed on the porthole.
Outside, the sea continues moving indifferently. The ship creaks. The Black Fever breathes.
You walk down the corridor with a pace too fast to seem calm, your back straight with pride and your head full of a buzzing you can't silence. When you turn the corner, you almost crash into him.
Yunho stops abruptly, as if he was waiting for you without wanting to admit it, and for an instant something like relief passes over his face, quick and human, before he composes himself again.
«What are you doing walking around alone?» he asks, his voice low but firm, more control than reprimand.
You're still carrying the sensation of the shut door, the cold wall against your back, Yeosang's presence too close, and the answer comes out sharp before you can stop it.
«Walking. Is breathing forbidden here too?»
Yunho blinks, thrown off, and for a moment he seems to hold back a reply.
He only looks at you for a long moment, as if trying to understand whether you're angry with him or with the entire world.
And you... you feel immediately stupid.
The tone stays in your throat, hot with shame. You swallow, slow down, and lower your gaze slightly.
«Sorry.» It comes out quieter, rough, as if the word hurts. «I wasn't angry at you.»
He stays there for a second, incredulous at that apology — because you aren't the type to apologize, not like that — then he nods faintly, a tiny movement that still loosens something in the air.
«Come,» he says only, falling into step with you without grabbing you, without pushing you, but close enough to let you know that if you try to vanish down a side corridor, he'll notice.
You walk together, and the sound of the ship changes. Your steps become more muffled, the lantern light sparser, and in an area where the wood swallows the shadows and the sea seems to breathe louder outside the hull, Yunho glances at you from the side.
It's a simple question, almost ordinary, and that's exactly why it breaks you.
Because "all right" doesn't exist. Not here. Not with the ring pulsing like a second heartbeat. Not with questions chasing you even when you're silent. Not with the feeling that you've become an object everyone wants to use and no one knows how to explain to you.
You stop, and your breath slips out.
At first, you try to swallow it down, as always. You clench your teeth, bite the inside of your cheek, take that one extra step that usually helps you put everything back in place.
The tears come without asking permission, and by the time you realize you're crying, it's already too late. Your chest tightens, your throat closes, and a sob breaks from you that you hate with everything you have.
«No...» you try to say, but your voice trembles. You cover your face with one hand, as if that's enough to hide you. «It's not... it's not all right.»
You hear your own breathing grow uneven, and you're ashamed, because this is the second time in front of him, because he's a pirate, because you shouldn't give him anything of yourself, not even this.
«I'm sorry,» you murmur through your fingers, your voice broken. «I... I'm tired. I'm tired of all of this. I didn't want it. I didn't ask for anything, and yet—»
The words come out in fits, as if they scratch you on the way through.
«I want to go home,» you say, and that sentence hurts more than everything, because it's so simple, so true, and so impossible. «I want my father. I want my bed. I want it... I want it to stop. I want all of them to stop looking at me like I'm a thing.»
He doesn't tell you "don't cry." He doesn't tell you "everything will be all right." He doesn't make promises he can't keep. And that, paradoxically, is the first thing that has felt sincere since you stepped onto this ship.
He only takes half a step closer, slow, careful, the way one moves with someone who might run even from a kind gesture.
«Aurora...» he calls softly, and hearing your name makes you give way a little more.
Then, with an almost awkward caution — as if he isn't used to it — he sets a hand on your shoulder, not to hold you, not to possess you, but to give you a fixed point in the dark, a presence asking nothing in return.
«I don't know how to fix it,» he admits quietly, and the way he says it holds a kind of rough honesty that tightens your stomach. «But I know you shouldn't face it alone. And...»
He stops, as if even that is already too much.
His hand on your shoulder tightens faintly, for only one second.
«...if I see you fall, I won't pretend I didn't.»
It isn't a confession. It isn't a romantic promise. It isn't an oath.
It's only Yunho, the way you're beginning to know him: someone who carries weight without talking about it, someone who tries to do the right thing even when no one asked.
He clears his throat and looks away, as if giving you that humanity makes him uncomfortable.
«Come. I'll take you back.» A pause. «And... breathe. Slowly. You don't have to prove anything to me.»
And you, with tears you don't want and a heart that hurts, find yourself following him, because for once someone is staying beside you without asking you to be strong.
