In honor to @leawshum Post Valentine Chaos. Here is a little drama with our Boys from the Pirate AU we've been working on. ~
TW : Vomit, Self Harm and Drugs
Borrowed Love
They had not planned on finding him so soon even though they had been searching for him for a while, but not tonight.
The port had been loud with drunken laughter and wet rope slapping in the air. Tristan was warm at Oliver’s side, thumb brushing absent circles against his hip as if it always belonged there.
Oliver had gotten used to that.
Dangerously used to it.
The old man had watched them with knowing eyes when they passed by his shop.
“You wear a promise that is not yours,” he had said.
They stopped in their tracks, looked at him for a long minute, before realising he was the woodoo man they had been searching for days. The shop smelled of smoke and salt and something metallic. The air was stuffy with incense and tension as if they were being watched.
They didn't even have to speak. The explanation came on its own, like a curse spoken in a long forgotten tongue.
Two rings.
Forged for lovers who refused to part.
Their devotion seeped into the metal.
When reunited, the bond would awaken again.
“Such magic devours,” the man warned. “It is not meant for anyone to wear.”
“How do we remove them?” Oliver had asked, already feeling a cold sweat running down his spine.
The answer had been simple.
“You can't. One must die. Or the ring must part from the flesh.”
After a few more questions. They left in silence.
Tristan had dismissed it at first. Saying they would find an other way. That this old fish was probably just senile.
Oliver had not.
Because he already knew the rings connected them. They had always known.
And now there was an explanation to match the sensation.
Love soaked into iron. Iron forged by love. A love that didn't belong to them.
That thought burrowed into him and would not leave. He loved Tristan. That much he knew now. Oliver had felt it split him open when he had realised it.
He had never loved anyone before. His life had been study, discipline, observation. Emotions catalogued, not experienced.
And now that he was experiencing it, he was starting questioning it, what if it wasn’t his ? What if the ring was whispering into his heart, bending him toward Tristan ? Worse. What if it was bending Tristan toward him ?
That was the thought that broke him.
Because if this was magic, if this was forced affection because of imposed proximity, then Tristan’s feelings were an illusion.
And Oliver could not bear the idea of being loved against someone’s will.
So one night, when Tristan's breathing evened, and his body sinked in the mattress, he left.
No note. No explanation. He just, left.
He traveled far, hoping Tristan would never find him, and settled in a little town he had already forgotten the name of. And once there, once he was sure the Captain would not find him, he tried to end it.
Not the relationship in itself.
The bond.
He locked himself in a rented room and stared at the ring like it was a parasite. And for days, he tried to get rid of it.
First, soap and oil again. Twisting until his knuckle burned raw. Until the skin tore and bled.
The nausea came instantly. Violent. Sweeping.
He vomited into basins and wiped his mouth with shaking hands.
He tried brute force. Wrapped cloth around the band and pulled until something in his finger popped and strained horribly. The ring did not budge.
It felt even tighter.
The cutters came next.
He positioned them carefully, breath shaking. Closed them around the metal. The sickness hit before the pressure did.
His vision blackened. His stomach convulsed. He barely made it to the floor before retching.
He tried again.
And again.
Each attempt leaving him weaker.
Finally, desperation eclipsed logic.
If the ring would not part, perhaps the finger would.
He pressed the blade against the base of it once. Twice. Drew blood in a shallow, shaking line.
He could not go through with it.
The idea of severing his own flesh made his hands tremble.
But he tried more than once.
There were cuts now. Angry, half-healed slices around the base. Torn skin where he had attempted to slide tools beneath the band. Bruising. Swelling.
His finger looked wrong.
So did he.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Trembling from exhaustion and repeated bouts of sickness.
He had barely slept for the last week. When he did, it was during daylight hours, brief and shallow, avoiding the night when Tristan might be dreaming too. Keeping himself awake with pain and shots of pure "Adrenaline" he borrowed from a fellow scientist in the pretense of science. Repeatedly sinking the needle in his arm, every time he was feeling himself falling into Morpheus arms.
He avoided danger. Avoided storms. Avoided confrontation.
He would not let the rings reveal his position.
If this was all a lie, he would force the truth. Better that Tristan feel nothing now.
Better that the bond snap while Oliver could still survive it. Better than falling further.
Better than building a future on iron and ghosts.
_
But despite his best efforts, after continuous retching, he ended up falling asleep, head on his arms over his bucket.
When Tristan finally found him, it was raining outside. Of course it was. The inn room door slammed open, wind rushing in with him. And Oliver barely looked up, his energy completely depleted.
Tristan looked feral.
Wild eyes. Unshaven. Soaked to the bone. For a moment they just stared at one another.
Then Tristan crossed the space between them and grabbed him, hands frantic.
“Are you hurt? What happened ? Wha..."
His voice broke mid-sentence when he saw Oliver’s hand.
He froze and took it carefully, turning it toward the light of the flickering candle.
The finger was swollen. The skin split and red. Thin cuts circled the base. Bruises mixing yellow, green and purple along the knuckle.
For a second, Tristan didn’t breathe.
Then something in his face shifted from terror to fury.
“You tried to cut it off,” he said hoarsely.
Oliver didn’t answer.
“Were you going to cut your goddam own finger off?”
Tristan demanded, voice shaking.
“Is that what you were doing while I was tearing half the coast apart looking for you?”
“I had to..” Oliver said quietly.
“Had to what?”
“Break the bond..”
The words fell heavy.
Tristan’s hands were trembling again, but now from anger.
“I would rather you realize now...” Oliver continued, forcing himself to keep steady, “that you don’t love me. I would rather you wake up tomorrow and feel nothing, while I can still endure it.”
His voice cracked despite him.
“Not months from now. Not after I fall even deeper. Not after we build something on feelings that aren't ours.”
Tristan stared at him like he had spoken another language.
“I tried to remove it yes,” Oliver said, glancing at his hand. “If it’s the ring, if it’s forcing this… then I would rather break it now. I would rather bleed now.”
“Bleed?” Tristan echoed, disbelieving.
“I wouldn’t survive waking up one day and seeing you look at me like a stranger,” Oliver whispered. “So yes I tried... Because if you were going to realize this wasn’t real, I wanted it to happen before I loved you more than I already do.”
Silence filled the room.
Rain battered the windows.
Tristan’s anger collapsed into something soft and raw. He cupped Oliver’s face gently.
“You think I don’t know what loving feels like?” he said, tears spilling freely now. “You think my resolve is not strong enough to willingly choose you every day?”
His grip tightened.
“You disappearing nearly killed me. Seeing this...” He lifted Oliver’s ruined hand again, voice shaking. “You hurting yourself because you think I’m too stupid to know my own heart?”
Oliver’s composure fractured.
“I was trying to protect myself.”
“From me loving you?” Tristan let out a broken laugh. “That’s not protection. That’s selfishness.”
He pressed their foreheads together, breath uneven.
“If the ring disappeared tomorrow,” he said, voice thick, “I would still love you. If they cut my hand off, I would still love you. Don’t you dare try to decide for me when I get to stop loving you.”
Oliver’s eyes burned. He had wanted certainty. Instead, he only caused pain to the one he loved more than he had realised he did.
“I love you,” Tristan said again, softer, almost, reverently.
“Not because of a ring or ghosts. Not because of a stupid legend. But, because you are you.”
Oliver finally let the tears fall, his head dropping on the pirate's shoulder as he embraced him.
And for the first time since he had left, his body relaxed, his head stopped spinning and he felt home again.
