Work Text:
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Revenge.
Seonghwa never quite liked the word. It would always leave something unpleasant lingering in the air whenever anyone spat it out. Although now, revenge is much more than just a word: it’s a sharp blade held against his throat, discomfort tied in tight knots around his wrists and ankles to keep him from moving. It tastes like blood in his mouth and feels like a sharp kick to his ribs, it sounds like a room filled with sobs and empty prayers from his fellow crew mates, like panicked screams and broken bones, it smells like the rotting flesh of those too weak to make it out alive. Soon enough, revenge starts to disguise itself as certain death waiting for him—for them all, right around the corner. But for a long moment, it doesn’t.
Seonghwa doesn’t know how many days they spend hidden in the darkness of that reeking cell before the pirate holding them prisoners makes an appearance again, the man who was once on their side, who was one of them, who obeyed their same captain—just until they put his position to the vote. As they thought their current captain was keeping money from them, they decided to choose one more worthy, more stubborn, more determined, who would guarantee a higher, juicier profit. That's how the sick bastard got to become their new captain, but there were still some against him and his violent tendencies who couldn't ignore the risks that implied having someone so reckless in command—Seonghwa was one of them. Unaware of the consequences, they stubbornly remained faithful to their former captain, and that's what got them locked up in the prison quarters.
The first time they can see the light again and breathe some fresh air makes them wish they hadn't, at all. The only reason they're taken out is to enjoy the repulsive sight of their old captain’s severed, decomposing head hanging from the bowsprit of the ship. It sways side to side right in front of Seonghwa's eyes, like a pendulum in motion marking the seconds going by, setting off a countdown for their own death. It's not the death of their captain itself that steals their hope, but what's implied in the act of it. Only a merciless, twisted man would do something like this, thinks Seonghwa, and they quickly make peace with the fact that they're not going to make it out alive—they're next in line.
From that day forward, the new captain sends out an order to bring all the prisoners up on deck to pick the next prey, the next man who'll join their rotten captain, and forces them all to watch as their old mate's body falls lifeless at their feet, an endless stream of blood gushing out of their slit throat. Sometimes he feels a little more excited, and killing just one man isn’t enough to quench his thirst, so he picks an extra toy to play with. Some yield and beg for mercy, some bend the knee, but their fate remains the same—Seonghwa puts his chest out and stands firm, eyes shut, just like his brother had done. He stops flinching each time the blade falls after the third day, and starts praying that his time would come soon, instead.
To whom he's supposed to be praying, he's not sure. He's never been too fond of those Gods everyone holds so highly, but he finds himself wishing he could find his faith again now. Growing up, Seonghwa never needed much more than himself, his older brother, and their trusted crew—that had always been enough to get by. In the end, Seonghwa lost them all. He lost his mates, his friends, lost his brother—all to the same rusty blade. The only consolation he has left for himself is that he's next in line, the only one left standing. His mind is clear for the most part, but it all becomes a blur from the moment he loses his brother.
He doesn't know how long it has been since the last member of his crew whispered his last words to Seonghwa before falling to his knees, before his useless body was thrown into the ocean to join the rest of his mates. Seonghwa is sitting with his back against the wall in his dark cell, counting the minutes—the hours—when he hears a commotion break out distant from the prison’s quarters. He starts hearing the screams, freaked out and alarmed, and orders are thrown into the air as rushed footsteps resound above him. He manages to catch a few words in the turmoil of it all, and despite the chaos of it all, of one thing he's sure: they’re preparing for an attack.
Then, as abruptly as it all started, it’s calm in an instant. There's a loud, steady whistle tearing through the silence of it all, and everything goes still—even the ocean seems to stop for a moment. Seonghwa stops breathing together with the ocean, head held up high to catch something—anything that could help him understand what's going on, but he gets nothing. The first, sudden gunshot almost jolts him up on his feet. Then comes another, and another—the screaming starts again, but they're more desperate now, distressed, accompanied by loud stomps and thuds over the ceiling. He waits and waits and waits, but surprisingly enough, it doesn't take much for the screams to die out, the laments to stop, and he can only hear the sound of waves crashing against the ship's sides.
Silence on a ship is never, never a good sign, he learned that much after all these years sailing the seven seas. For a split second, Seonghwa thinks they may have won, that their crew somehow managed to resist the raid. He doesn't find himself hoping for it—their victory doesn't imply his own, won't grant him freedom. In the same way, their defeat could mean even worse for him. He doesn't waste any energy assessing the situation, to weigh his gain and loss depending on the outcome—even if he had any interest in it, he has no time to spare for it.
The door of the brig cracks open, kicked down from the outside, and Seonghwa shrinks against the wall behind him. He squints his eyes, trying hard to adapt to the strong light coming from up the stairs and make out the silhouette making its way down. The old, wooden steps creak under bloodstained umber brown boots as the man walks down, slowly, revealing long, strong legs and—a sword, still hidden inside its sheath, one hand wrapped around the hilt with a loose grip. More of the man comes into view, a long, white silk shirt adorned with gold and a black layer resting over his broad shoulders—he’s not from this ship’s crew, he looks too clean to be. He’s tall, taller than Seonghwa, from what he can guess from this distance, with soft features that should clash against his bloodstained skin and clothes—Seonghwa might have lost his mind completely, because he thinks they complement each other.
The man studies his surroundings, heels clicking against the wooden floor at a steady rhythm as he walks past every cell and steals a look inside, giving Seonghwa enough time to sort through his chances of survival—the number is close to zero, he soon realizes. Seonghwa is locked in a cell. Even if the other had any intention of setting him free from it, Seonghwa would still be trapped on the ship, with no way out. Besides, even if he managed to make a run for it—which would be hard, given his most definitely broken leg—and get out on deck, then what? He doesn’t even know how many men are out there. So running is out of the question, and putting up a fight was never even an option, not in the weakened state he’s in. Does it really matter, he wonders, if he has been ready to die since the day the first of them was killed? Then, he concludes, this train of thought is running through his mind out of sheer habit alone. Call it a natural inclination to self-preservation, if you must. He's a dead man, with or without it.
The pirate finally gets to his cell, showing small surprise as he acknowledges Seonghwa’s body hiding in the shadows. Seonghwa finds himself holding his breath again, because the stranger isn't saying a word, and he can't tell whether it's a good thing or not. Then, the man gets to his knees, and produces a device that Seonghwa can’t quite recognize from a pouch on the side of his belt. He’s picking the lock, realizes Seonghwa after a moment, and in no time, with a few sharp and meticulous twists of his wrists, the door is unlocked. Seonghwa jumps to his feet against his better judgment, doing his best to find balance on his wobbly legs, and his hands close in fists to cover up the shake in his limbs.
On any other occasion, he would gather all the energy left in his body and fight—he could take him, despite the noticeable difference in stance and strength. He defeated men much bigger than him, but he wasn't as weak as he feels now. He hasn’t drunk a drop of water in days, hasn't eaten a crumb of food in even more, and his sides are still burning from the several beatings he suffered every time he tried to fight back before he realized he wouldn’t make it out alive from this ship. He has no interest in it, anyway. And yet, he refuses to go down without a fight, he’s determined not to show any sign of weakness until he draws his last breath. He's not going to disappoint his brother any more than this, not even at the end of the line.
“We’re not here to hurt you,” says the man suddenly, putting back the utensils. “You can drop the act.”
That doesn’t get Seonghwa to drop his defenses in any way, but it does hurt his pride somehow. He wonders how bad his condition must be, how much fragility is showing through his eyes that the other doesn’t look anywhere near intimidated. He approaches Seonghwa, looking down on him. When their eyes meet, the hesitates for a moment, halting his steps and squinting at Seonghwa, but he quickly shakes himself out of it.
Seonghwa had his doubts until now, judging by the stranger’s appearance, with his pearly skin clear of any dirt, only bright red smudges of blood staining it and painting the white silk sleeves of his shirt—he looks like he’d belong to a royal fleet, more than anyone else Seonghwa’s has ever met while sailing. And even with that, there’s no hiding it—he has the eyes of a pirate. Pupils drowned in sorrow and atrocity, of a man who has seen and felt the injustices of the world on his skin, whose heart is wounded with grief. One of the most dangerous looks a man could hold in his eyes.
“How did you end up in here?” he asks, examining Seonghwa, his torn clothes and bruised skin, looking at him with pity. Seonghwa loathes it.
“Our captain was deposed—they locked up whoever stood against it.”
There’s no sign of emotion slipping through his rough voice—it’s been a while since he had to use it—and he almost scares himself with how dull it feels. He barely recognizes it as his own.
“And where's the rest of you?” the pirate quirks an eyebrow at him, stealing a glance around the cell as if making sure he hadn't missed any other prisoner.
“Killed,” the more Seonghwa stares into his eyes, the more his breath fails him. “Why are you on this ship?”
“The name's Yunho, second in command of the Aurora,” he says, straightening his back and pushing his chest out—Seonghwa guesses it’s an unconscious gesture, a force of habit, developed after years of subordination. “Our captain—something of value was stolen from him, we're trying to get it back.”
“Who’s your captain?”
A voice comes from outside the brig, interrupting their conversation.
“Yunho! What’s taking so long? We’re ready to light up this baby!”
It's loud and sort of high-pitched, with a smile tugging at the edges of each word. It's unfitting for a fierce, merciless pirate captain, the playfulness that drags along with it. It throws Seonghwa off, makes him uneasy.
“That would be him,” the man, Yunho, offers an innocent smirk—which must be a tasteless joke, because he reeks of blood—before screaming out a response. “Aye, Captain!”
“I feel like I shouldn’t trust a man so eager to burn a ship to ashes,” says Seonghwa, and for some reason, it makes Yunho laugh.
“Yeah, well,” he chuckles, fidgeting with his fingers to untie something like a belt wrapped around his forearm. “You’ll learn to like him—maybe, at some point. Eventually.”
That's reassuring. Seonghwa strongly doubts it.
“What’s that for?” he gestures to the boy’s arm.
“I’ll have to tie you up before going back up—nothing personal, just a precaution, you know?”
Seonghwa glares at him, close to growling at the proposition—no way he’s letting himself be caged up again.
“If you plan to keep me as a prisoner, I’d rather you let me burn down with this ship.”
Yunho’s eyes mask with concern for a split second, flying to Seonghwa’s clenched fists before they turn soft, and he gives a small, genuine smile to the other. It's lighter than the one he offered before, drags more genuine commitment with it.
“You can trust me,” he says, offering his hands, subtly inviting the other to do the same. “No one’s gonna hurt you, you’re not a prisoner anymore—our captain goes by a very strict no-prisoners policy.”
Seonghwa doesn’t want to trust him, he doesn’t feel like he should, despite the sickening sweetness in his tone, despite the sincerity—and yet, isn’t this his only option? Either trust the stranger who wants to tie his hands and has who knows what plans for him, or burn up in flames, and that’s not really how he hoped to leave this world—if he has to go out slow and painful, then he's going to choose the ocean to do it. So he extends his hands, and—with no lack of reluctance—allows him to tie his wrists together. Again.
“This is just to make sure you don’t go rogue out there and hurt any of my boys, just until he decides if we can trust you or not.”
He doesn’t say another word, and Seonghwa is left wondering—what if he decides you can't? He doesn't mention it, Yunho doesn't either. He lets Seonghwa set the pace as they go up the steps after noticing the obvious limp of one of his legs.
Once they’re up, Yunho drags Seonghwa towards the forecastle deck where a group of men is standing in a circle, talking. Seonghwa counts only three of them as he tries his best not to pay any attention to the dead bodies scattered all over the ship or the revolting smell of fresh blood and flesh rotting beneath the sun; he wonders how many of them had a quick and painless death. He hopes their captain didn’t.
“Captain!” calls out Yunho from behind him, and the one with his back turned to them snaps his head in their direction, turning to face them instead, and—oh, this one's small. “He was the only prisoner.”
His captain, deduces Seonghwa—the one with soft and light brown hair covering his forehead and falling over on his shoulders quite messily, with thin braids and white feathers mixing with the strands—walks a few steps towards them and meets them halfway, an odd smile on his lips. It’s verging towards wicked, but Seonghwa tries not to worry about it too much. The long, dark, heavy fur coat that hides most of his body and reaches down to graze on the floor points out his higher status compared to the others’ simpler attire. Seonghwa wonders if he'd be able to radiate this much authority without it.
“What’s your name?”
Seonghwa feels his gaze trap him down more than the restraints around his wrists do: his right eye, ice-cold white painting his entire iris, a possible consequence of the straight, clean cut crossing one half of his face, from the middle of his forehead and down to his cheekbone. It's faded to a pinkish white, completely healed, but it must have been a bad wound, that much is clear.
“Seonghwa.”
“Hm,” he seems to think about it, before gesturing for Yunho to take a step back, and the taller complies easily. “Pretty name, for a pirate—you weren't born one.”
Seonghwa wasn't, he's right. But he's been one long enough to have just anyone believe he was—until now, at least. The man keeps his distance, for which Seonghwa is very grateful, but something still feels extremely off. Maybe it’s the two boys coming to the captain’s side, one more malicious than the other, eyeing him like two starving foxes ready to feast on his flesh; or it could be Yunho’s presence behind him, out of sight, that's causing a red light to go off in his brain. No matter how gentle he's shown himself to be, these men are his enemies until proven otherwise.
“Your captain?”
Seonghwa gulps, then looks behind all of them towards the bowsprit where the head can still be seen dangling left and right as the ship sways with the waves. He lets his eyes trail elsewhere as the captain seems to take a good, long look at the lifeless head, muttering a right between his lips.
“What about your crew?”
His attention is back to Seonghwa in a second, and he can’t wait for this—whatever this is—to be over. His leg is starting to hurt more the more time he spends standing, he wouldn’t want to fall at the captain’s feet in a situation like this one.
“Bad guy slaughtered all the good guys, you slaughtered the bad guys—I’m the only one left.”
His gaze is cold, firm, lips tight. The other doesn’t speak for a moment, eyeing Seonghwa, when one of the two boys behind him takes a step forward, towering over the captain from behind and somehow making him appear even smaller despite the quite unnoticeable height difference, compared to Yunho’s—just how did these giants end up taking orders from a man half their size?
“And why would he let you, of all, live?” he asks, deep red hair framing his features and falling over his eyes. His voice is not as sharp as Seonghwa had imagined it to be, even if he’s clearly trying to sound threatening despite his lips unwillingly coming together in a pout as he spits the words—the boy next to him, shooting daggers through Seonghwa's body with his eyes, seems to do the work just fine, though. “What's so special about you?”
He must have seen how much I wanted to die, he wants to say.
“I got lucky,” is what he tells them instead, with a shrug of his shoulders.
The other boy—ash gray hair reaching down to his chin and shirt messily tucked in his pants—walks past his captain, and before Seonghwa can realize what's happening he's on his knees, a sharp pain rendering his leg useless—the good one, luckily—and hard metal pressing firm against his temple; a gun. Seonghwa has to chuckle.
“You're laughing, pretty boy?”
He feels a rush of adrenaline run through his veins as it presses further against his head. The metal of it still feels slightly hot where it touches his skin—he wonders if he did have time to reload it after his last shot, or if he’s just playing. Seonghwa doesn't move, but he wants to know how far the other is willing to go. It's not like he has anything to lose.
“I've been held prisoner on my own ship for weeks and weeks, and to my rescue comes a freak pirate crew who ties my hands again, beats me up some more, and forces me on my knees." He raises his head as much as the other boy allows him to and locks eyes with him. “Would you not?”
The rusty sound the hammer makes when the boy loads the shot against Seonghwa's skin sends a shiver down his spine—so he did load it.
“Have some respect,” intervenes the red-haired one—Seonghwa doesn't bother looking up at him this time. “We could leave you on this ship to rot, instead we—”
“Boys.”
Seonghwa doesn't know what it is about his tone, but his limbs freeze in place and his eyes fly to the captain’s lips as if ready to receive any order from him. The pressure of the gun is gone, and the tall, pouty boy lets his head hang between his shoulders, not saying another word. Seonghwa keeps his eyes glued on the floor until the captain's boots come into view. There's blood staining them—he really wants to clean it off. The man kneels in front of him, places his delicate, rugged fingers under Seonghwa’s chin, and raises his head so that their eyes can meet. He moves it left and right, carefully checking his injured face, his bruised cheekbone and a busted lip, the heavy and dark bags under his tired eyes—Seonghwa feels consumed down to his core, and he probably looks like it, too.
“Seems like you put up a fight,” he says finally.
Seonghwa has a very hard time reading the intentions carried by his cold gaze and soft touches.
“I attempted to take out a few of them, when the rebellion started, but they were too many.”
“Why didn't you react just now? Don't think you could take him?” he gestures to the fox-like boy next to them, who's still gripping the handle of the gun tightly.
“The other was ready to take me out at my first move,” he tells the other, but then his eyes are drawn to the scar like a magnet, and he wonders if— “Can you still see?”
“Barely, mostly just shadows.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not at all.”
The pirate replies easily, doesn't he seem bothered by the sudden questions—not any more than the man behind him, all gritted teeth and clenched fists. His attention is elsewhere, fixed on Seonghwa’s eyes, studying them as if the might reveal something Seonghwa himself isn't aware of. Finally, the captain seems satisfied with his little questioning and gets up on his feet, dusting his pants from any dirt that had gathered on them.
“I'm gonna give you a chance, dear Seonghwa,” he speaks calmly, eyes looking down on the boy. “You can either work with us and become part of my crew, or you can leave the ship next time we dock, which is not gonna be before the end of the month, at least—it's up to you, but I have the feeling you’re gonna fit in just fine with our crew.”
With this crew of madmen? Yeah, right.
He thinks of an answer to give him, to tell him that no, he has no intention of staying on a ship with a bunch of crazy pirates for any more than he has to, but before he can open his mouth to speak, a loud whistle cuts through the air once again. They all turn their heads in the direction of the other ship—the Aurora, was it?—and oh, she's pretty. All his attention had been on her crew until now, and he hadn't really bothered looking at whatever ship had boarded his own, but she's elegant, a fine ship, and no evident damage can be detected whatsoever. The captain smirks when he recognizes the figure of a man hanging from the top of the foremast, holding onto a rope.
“That's Jongho, the ship's ready to go boom—where the hell is Mingi?”
The man looks around, and Seonghwa might have imagined it, but it almost looked like he was counting up each member of his crew, taking attendance. Like you would with a group of little kids that like to wander off where they shouldn't.
"Still looking for it, Captain."
That must translate to bad news, because it has him let out a frustrated groan—exasperated, and a tinge annoyed, too. He runs a hand through his hair, and by the looks of it, this isn't their first attempt at retrieving whatever it was Yunho mentioned got stolen from them. Seonghwa studies them attentively, because he might not be their prisoner, but he isn’t out of danger's sight yet—not until he's able to find an easy way out of this.
"I told you their lead was way off," fox boy suddenly talks, voice sounding way less menacing compared to when it was directed at Seonghwa. "It's the fourth time this month, sure we can still trust them?"
"I really don't need this from you, right now," he warns. The boy puts his hands up in the air, in a way that comes off more provoking than innocent, but their captain doesn't seem to catch the bait. "They never messed up this badly without a reason, there must be something they're not telling us."
His eyes find Seonghwa’s when he lets the words out, and Seonghwa feels an overwhelming weight holding his body down on the ground. Suddenly, Seonghwa hears footsteps behind him, steadily getting closer, coming up from the ship's quarters. Mingi, he assumes, when all the men around him turn their heads in his direction, expectantly. Either that, or a dead man has risen back to his feet just behind him.
"Sorry Cap'—not even that big of a treasure."
The depth of his voice sends shivers up Seonghwa’s spine, and he freezes up like a wild animal facing imminent danger. It feels like something inhumane, not from this world—from somewhere far, and dangerous. And yet, Seonghwa feels the warmth of it, although distant and out of reach. Their captain must have been holding onto some remnants of hope still, because he looks somewhat defeated by the statement, and for a short moment, his eyes go out of focus and he's on his own. Mingi finally steps into his line of vision, and Seonghwa is left staring, frozen in place.
If the other two had looked intimidating before, now they look like nothing more than angry kittens compared to this, because Mingi—he walks up to Yunho and no, he's not taller than the other, but he might just be the exact same height from where Seonghwa is looking, and his shoulders are broader, and—
"Who’s that?"
Mingi zeroes in on him, and Seonghwa wants to shrink into himself. It's not just his build—his face is covered in blood, dried for the most part, like he barely even tried to get it off, as if it doesn't bother him at all. His clothes, too, drenched down to the tip of his coat, shining in a shade of deep red that might as well be its original color, from what Seonghwa can guess. He doesn't have any weapon on him, not that Seonghwa can see at least, but his knuckles are clad in deep, purple bruises, blood covering them as if he'd washed them with it. And then his eyes, sharp, heated, and still uninterested. Unimpressed—wary. Dangerous.
"Only prisoner left—he's coming with us," explains Yunho easily.
"Only one left?" He eyes Seonghwa up and down—mostly looks down on him, with Seonghwa still on his knees. It's starting to hurt again, he probably won't be able to hold up much longer. "Empty lead, and magically this guy is the only survivor on this wreck of a ship?"
"That's what I also said!"
They're blatantly ignoring him, talking freely like he can't hear them, even when he's at the center of their conversation. He feels like a hunk of meat exposed on a table and up for sale, by the pound. He doesn't try to defend himself, doesn't try to stand up for himself—no one expects him to. No one would take his side on the matter, that much is clear.
"He’s coming with us, end of discussion."
Or so he thought—maybe someone would. They don't look happy about it, but no one bites back. Not even fox boy mutters a single word, it's settled the moment it leaves the captain’s lips. As of now, their captain is the only one who doesn't look like he wants him dead—that must count for something, but he wouldn't put much trust in their hands anyway. In Yunho, he might trust, but his soft eyes and warm smile aren't enough for Seonghwa to ignore the fact that he's the one who tied his hands back in a knot.
"Let's go—you can untie him when we get to our ship, Yeosangie will take care of him.”
Seonghwa doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. The redhead steps in front of the smaller man, but still glaring at Seonghwa from the side as Yunho helps him get up on his feet again.
“You really think we can trust him?” Seonghwa hears him mumble.
He watches as their captain rests a hand on the other's shoulder, in a comforting manner, stealing a glance at the way Yunho is holding the wounded boy tight against his body, one arm secured around his waist to keep him steady.
“San, the man had a gun to his head and barely flinched—I know those eyes, he deserves a chance.”
Seonghwa doesn’t feel like he deserves it that much, but that seems to be enough for him—for San, because his features relax, his eyes turn softer, and his grimace disappears. Seonghwa can't say the same for fox boy, but he does look less threatening when he’s not seconds away from blowing his brains out. As they make their way to the bridge, Seonghwa watches curiously as San's hand reaches out to the other, naturally, as they walk across the plank before stepping with both feet on their ship.
Mingi doesn't follow the rest of the crew right away. Instead, he waits for them, glares at him as Yunho helps him walk to the bridge, and leads the way just a few steps ahead. Keeping them in check, like some vicious guard dog waiting for just the smallest slip-up to attack. He might have his back turned to them, but Seonghwa still feels the pressure of his gaze.
"Found anything good?" asks Yunho, eyeing the bag swung across Mingi's back.
Mingi is halfway across the plank when he turns around to face them, still tearing holes through him, but his voice has a light skip to it now that it's aimed at Yunho.
"I've seen better, but there's this one blade—condition isn't too bad, Jongho’s style."
"That's good, he's been whining about his old knife for weeks, now."
Seonghwa barely registered a word they said, too focused on the way Mingi's feet get dangerously close to the edge of the plank over, and over, and over again, as he makes his way down walking backwards. Seonghwa almost holds his breath as he puts his best effort into walking a straight line without dragging Yunho down with him, while he watches Mingi's feet reach blindly behind him, the point of his boot first, then heel down, point, heel, point—Yunho seems unfazed by his careless behavior, which makes him all the more uneasy. And just equally impressed. Not even Seonghwa would do something so reckless with so much confidence, and he's been sailing for most of his life now.
“You really can't walk on your own, can ya?” asks Mingi then, looking down at Seonghwa’s crooked legs.
“The crazy one busted my only good leg,” he scoffs. Mingi's tone wasn't mocking per se, but Seonghwa can't seem to read him properly—everything about the man is telling him to keep his distance, so he turns to Yunho instead. “And you were worried about me going rogue on them?”
“Sorry about Wooyoung, he can be a bit protective, but he’s a sweet guy—you'll see, once you get to know him.”
Wooyoung, so that's his name—Seonghwa doesn't have words as kind as the one Yunho just used to describe him. They get back onto the Aurora with some difficulty—if Yunho's hold on him wasn't so strong, he would have fallen straight into the ocean, but somehow they manage, and their captain is already throwing orders to the sea to have his crew ready the ship for sailing as Yunho works on loosening Seonghwa's restraints.
“Wooyoung, get a proper meal ready for him, who knows when's the last time he ate anything,” says their captain.
Seonghwa is amazed to see how obedient the boy is, considering how he went full-on killing machine on him just minutes ago, blurting out an Aye, Captain before leaving the main deck, probably heading to the kitchens.
“San, take Yunho's place, get some water ready for him, he stinks—I'll send Sangie there in a minute to check for any serious injuries.”
When Yunho loosens his grip on Seonghwa, he realizes just how much the boy was supporting his weight, and he hisses from the sharp pain that strikes his right leg. San is on his other side in an instant, holding him up with a surprisingly strong and steady grip. It makes Seonghwa’s eyes widen at the realization that he’s gonna be alone with the man who’s been throwing daggers at him since the moment he laid eyes on him—he really wishes he could still feel Yunho’s arms around him instead.
“Relax, you’re in good hands,” says the taller, as if sensing his concern.
“Promise he won’t eat me alive?”
Yunho chuckles, Mingi joins in, with a grin on his lips verging on mocking. Seonghwa doesn't see anything funny in what he said, and the fact that San doesn't speak on the matter isn't so reassuring, either.
“Just call me if you need anything, alright? I’ll be with the Captain.”
San nods, holding Seonghwa more steadily, and guides him—almost drags him—away from the group, and below deck.
“You can stop holding your breath, I don't bite,” says San at some point, pushing a door open with his elbow so they can walk inside the room.
“I wouldn’t have guessed, with the way you were looking at me earlier,” he answers, looking around the room.
It looks a lot like the infirmary they had on his ship, just—worse. So much worse. There are only a few beds scattered around the space, with brownish and beige sheets and covers—Seonghwa has to distract himself from the fact that they're probably supposed to be white. There’s a small window high up on the wall in front of them, from which barely enough light filters to illuminate the whole room. It doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while, and there’s a disturbing, musty, earthy smell in the air. They get to one of the beds, and San helps him settle down, letting him sit at the edge of it, careful not to make him move too much.
“Nothing personal, I need to protect my crew.”
He walks away then, sliding through a door on the other side of the room and coming back carrying a huge metal basin, leaving it on the ground at the feet of the bed. He disappears again, and Seonghwa hears the sound of running water coming from the little room. When he comes out again, he’s carrying a smaller basin filled with water to the brim, he carefully pours all the water into the bigger one and repeats the process a couple more times until half of it is filled, he does all of this without a word under Seonghwa’s attentive gaze. When he finally looks back at him, he has a peaceful expression on his face, far from the frightening one he was wearing before.
“Up,” he orders, holding his hands out.
“Sorry?”
“Arms up, I’m helping you undress.”
Seonghwa is very much against it. San seems completely comfortable with the situation.
“I can do it on my own,” he claims, more to convince himself than to convince the other.
“Like hell you can, you can barely stand on your feet," he says, and Seonghwa looks away. San leans down, searching for his gaze, but Seonghwa’s hands stay resting on his lap, stubborn. He's never been one to throw tantrums—but he's never been one to let his guard down so easily, either. He doesn't trust the gentle concern in San's voice, he doesn't see a reason for it. "Come on, up.”
"You don't need to do this."
“You could do as I say, and we can be done with this in no time, or I could call Wooyoung to help me, but he isn’t usually as gentle.”
Yeah, Seonghwa noticed—he can still feel the stinging pain from the kick to his leg.
“Fine,” he gives in finally, reluctant. “Alright.”
He puts in his best effort to raise his hands above his head despite the pain that strikes him at his ribs at the motion. San grabs the hem of his shirt, sliding it up Seonghwa’s chest and over his head, letting his arms slide through the sleeves slowly, and Seonghwa grits his teeth as the cold air bites at his bruised skin.
“Fucking hell, you’re—”
“I look like shit, I’m aware.”
His eyes are glued to his lap, but he recognizes the sound of his shirt landing somewhere on the floor close to them. A shiver runs through his body when he feels San’s careful finger graze his side. He doesn’t apply any pressure, just lightly traces down his painted torso, studying the dark purple shades staining his skin.
“How are you even still alive?”
Seonghwa chews on the inside of his cheek. His eyes fly to the door when it opens suddenly, Wooyoung barging into the room carrying a tray with a few plates and a glass in his hands, but he stops abruptly when his eyes meet Seonghwa's, and the sight in front of him. He eyes San carefully, with his hands still grazing Seonghwa’s skin, and then his gaze falls on Seonghwa himself, and the boy can’t quite read what's going on in his mind. He doesn’t bother closing the door behind him and walks closer to the two of them instead, leaving the tray on a table on the other side of the bed. Seonghwa feels the mattress dip behind him, and he visibly tenses up when he feels one more hand on him.
“Relax,” says Wooyoung softly, his fingers tracing down the prominence of his spine slowly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
The calmness in his voice startles Seonghwa more than the gun to his head did earlier. It almost gives him whiplash, the sudden shift in their behavior. If someone told him they were completely different people up on deck, Seonghwa would have believed them. And yet he can tell that it wasn't a facade, nor is this one—the carefulness in Wooyoung's touches feels as sincere as the sharp kick to his leg felt earlier.
"They really pulled a number on you,” lets out San, the hint of a scowl on his face.
He’s not just referring to the beating. He’s so undernourished that he could probably count every bone in his body just by feeling the dips between them with his fingertips, his waist is so small that he could circle it with one hand, his hair has gotten to an uncomfortable length, and his arms look like they can barely hold themselves up on their own. Both of Wooyoung’s hands come up to rest on Seonghwa’s shoulders, one on each side of his neck, and he flinches at the contact, not expecting such a confident grip on him.
“Just breathe, it’ll feel good in a second.”
Seonghwa does not trust him one bit, not when his fingers are digging so deeply into his muscles, kneading the skin, and shooting sparks of pain all over his back. At least San does look less mischievous than before, standing still between Seonghwa’s open legs—but then something in his eyes lights up, and his hand shifts lower to rest on his thigh, slightly squeezing the meat of it. Seonghwa feels trapped in any way possible, unable to move. Eventually, Wooyoung does reach one particularly tense spot that sends a shock through his whole body, and he lets his head fall between his shoulders at the sensation, letting out a sigh.
“Fuck—” he curses between gritted teeth.
“See?” he hears Wooyoung whisper—it’s impossible to ignore the smirk in his tone. “I've got magic hands.”
He's too out of it to care, but San is standing so close to him that Seonghwa's head hits his chest as he leans forward—San doesn't seem to mind either, and stays unmoving.
“Told you he had rougher hands than mine,” chuckles San, doing nothing to hide his amusement at Seonghwa's reaction.
“You talking about me behind my back? I’m flattered.”
He feels San’s eyes on the back of his head, looking right through him, and it almost makes him scared to look up again. But he has to, eventually, because one of Wooyoung’s hands is traveling a little higher, coming up to circle around Seonghwa’s neck, slow, bony fingers pressing down on the bruised skin. He forces him to tilt his head back, and Seonghwa’s eyes lock with San’s inevitably. His breath hitches in his lungs when he feels a subtle pressure obstructing his breathing the slightest bit, and San’s lips curl up at the small reaction it draws out of the brunette, delighted.
"I know you liked it, I saw it,” whispers Wooyoung, now closer to his ear. “When I held that gun to your head—does pain turn you on that much?”
Seonghwa feels like crying out for help, like he's at the mercy of two wild, unpredictable animals, and he has nothing but his bare hands to defend himself from their sharp claws and bloody teeth.
“Maybe it’s not just that,” thinks San out loud, tapping his pointer finger on Seonghwa’s leg, head tilted to the side. “Are you that curious to know what it's like? Death, I mean.”
“Am I interrupting something?”
Seonghwa’s head shoots up at the new voice, all three pirates turning to look at the door where another boy is standing. Wooyoung’s hands go back to his shoulders, resuming his innocent massage, while San moves out of the way, standing tall to Seonghwa’s side and looking anywhere but at the latter.
“Seonghwa, right?” asks the new boy as he approaches them—Seonghwa gulps before giving him a nod, suddenly missing the warmth from San’s hands on his thighs. “I’m Yeosang, ship's doctor.”
He grabs a stool to sit, and Seonghwa remains speechless. He's by far the most beautiful human being he’s ever seen in his whole life, golden-white hair falling on his shoulders and tied behind his head not to block his view, with little braided strands falling here and there. His eyes are of a light gray shade, but they feel far from cold when they meet Seonghwa’s. Quite the opposite, actually. If he wasn't sure they were on a ship, with his feet on solid ground, he'd think he was being dragged down underwater by a siren and their song.
“I hope these two didn’t bother you too much—they can be quite the handful.”
“Yeah,” Seonghwa steals a glance at San, who smiles innocently. “I noticed that.”
Wooyoung hits another sore spot then, almost making Seonghwa jump off the bed.
“Wooyoung, hands off,” says Yeosang in a soft voice, placing his own hands against his naked skin, where San’s used to be just a few minutes prior. “I need to check on him, not hurt him more.”
“I bet he wouldn't mind, anyway.”
Yeosang’s eyes never leave his own, checking every little change in his expression as he presses over his ribs lightly, feeling every dip and bump of his skin, carefully measuring the pressure of his fingers. Seonghwa can’t stop the groan that leaves his lips when they press over one particularly aching point. Yeosang stops his movement.
“Hurts here?”
He really wants to say no, but he figures it wouldn’t do him any good to lie to the ship’s doctor. Would it? So he nods, and Yeosang’s hands slide down again, slower, mirroring each other on both sides, only stopping when he notices Seonghwa’s eyes shut close suddenly, eyebrows coming together. Yeosang adds more pressure.
“Shit—” Seonghwa’s fingers tighten around the bedsheets before he feels the weight of a hand resting over it, and another hand is wrapping around the base of his neck from behind, kneading the skin there, with more delicacy than before.
“Right or left?” asks the blonde, stopping the pressure.
“Left side hurts more.”
“Hm, the bruise is worse, too—just what did they do to you?”
Seonghwa opens his eyes again, and he finds to mind the genuine concern he reads in Yeosang’s. Only what I deserved, maybe something less. Yeosang seems to ponder for a few seconds on his silence and on the way his eyes fly to the other side of the room, and finally, his hands are off of him.
“I'll have to keep an eye on your food and water intake, and you have a few broken ribs—it’ll take a bit to heal, but you’ll get through it with some pain reliever. Now, Hongjoong told me you were limping?”
“Who’s Hongjoong?”
“That'd be our captain, but you shouldn't call him by his name yet, it's a whole thing he's got going—my bad—so, your legs.”
He looks at Seonghwa expectantly, eyebrows raised, and fuck no, he's not getting naked in front of these three. He had a hard enough time with only San and Wooyoung putting their hands all over him before Yeosang got here.
“My legs are fine, that limp wasn't anything serious,” he says, trying to sound as convincing as possible, even when being painfully aware of the very obvious fracture in his leg. He feels Wooyoung shift next to him, and then he’s lying on his back, looking up at Seonghwa upside down, a cascade of dark silver locks falling from the edge of the bed.
“You may want to listen to him,” he says. “Our Sangie has more power on this ship than you may think.”
Seonghwa wonders what could be the reason behind it—doctors are of great value on any ship, any crew would be screwed without one, but power isn’t really the term Seonghwa would use for something like this.
“This isn't necessary, there’s no need to—” he’s interrupted by the sound of fabric ripping from beneath him. He hadn’t noticed it before, but San had moved to kneel beside him, and was now working on ripping apart Seonghwa's pants' legs with nothing but his bare hands. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Sorry, doctor’s orders,” he ignores his complaints, busy ripping the fabric up to Seonghwa’s thighs and letting the humid hair hit his naked legs.
“Listen, I don’t have to answer to you or anyone on this wreck of a—”
“I wouldn't talk shit about the Aurora if I were you,” says San as he gets back up to tower Seonghwa’s height. “The captain will have your head for it.”
Seonghwa gulps his words back down to the pit of his stomach, and when he looks down to look at Wooyoung, the boy makes a gesture of his finger slicing his throat open, tongue lolling out of his mouth for dramatics. This crew gives him the chills. He needs to get out of here.
“Dear gods—” whispers Yeosang beneath him. “Is this your definition of fine? This does not look good—I’ll have to pop it back in.”
His fingers come up to study the curve of the muscle where a bone is slightly sticking out from under the skin, black and blue bruises all around it.
“You'll have to what?”
“Seems like your tibia is fractured—how the hell did you manage to walk like this?” he asks, suddenly crouching down on the floor and holding Seonghwa’s ankle carefully, taking a closer look, making sure no major damage has been inflicted on the leg. “I need to realign the bone for it to heal properly—how much time has passed since you broke it?”
“Days? A week?”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s probably too much time anyway—San, give him something to bite through the pain, it’s gonna hurt.”
Seonghwa retains a laugh—couldn’t hurt more than it already does, he thinks. But he doesn’t want Yeosang to touch him anymore, doesn’t want him to do anything further, to realign whatever he said needs to be realigned. He shouldn’t even be here, in this room, with these people, on this ship—he should be dead.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t worry, it’s gonna be quick—”
“It’s not about the pain.” Yeosang’s hands stop moving, and he looks up again, but Seonghwa’s eyes are elsewhere. “I don’t wanna owe you anything else, that’s all.”
The three pirates exchange a look, uneasy, worried—surprised? It's confusing. Seonghwa doesn't want to see it.
“You don’t owe us anything,” says Wooyoung as he rises from his lying position, looking directly into Seonghwa’s eyes. “We're just going to patch you up, and you can be on your way—us taking care of you doesn’t mean you are in debt. ”
“You earned our captain's trust, just let us earn yours, now—let us take care of you.”
Seonghwa thinks he has never heard something so genuinely soft and caring come out of a pirate’s lips, not even from his brother. San must be a treasure, one of those you should never dare let slip away from your grasp so long as you don't want to face the wrath of the Gods. Or at least, that's what Seonghwa is getting by looking into his eyes. Again—siren, ocean floor, he'd be getting his limbs shredded to bits right now.
“Now, can you please let me do my job before I have to amputate this leg?”
Yeosang catches their attention, obviously more concerned about the whole severely injured leg situation than the others. Seonghwa can only nod and allow him to continue, trying hard to let San's words roll off him before they cause him permanent damage.
“Don’t think about what I’m doing, look somewhere else,” suggests Yeosang, placing his hands on either side of his leg, feeling around looking for the right points to apply the right amount of pressure. “Hold him down, I can’t have him moving around.”
Wooyoung doesn’t let him repeat himself twice, he shifts behind Seonghwa again, standing on his knees and taking Seonghwa’s wrists in his hands, taking them behind his back and holding them tightly. He then rests his cheek on Seonghwa’s shoulder, looking at him curiously from the side. When Seonghwa looks back, questioningly raising an eyebrow at the sudden closeness, Wooyoung only whispers a small hi through smiling lips, as if he had just gotten there.
“I won’t lie to you,” speaks Yeosang, hands now fixed in place. “This is gonna hurt.”
“I can handle it.”
“That’s what they always say before they faint on me,” he scoffs.
“Just do it, I can take it.”
The press of his fingers is firmer now, and pain starts to rise up from his ankle, higher and higher, setting his whole leg and body aflame, relighting each bruise it encounters on its way up, slowly morphing into a wretch the more it climbs up the walls of his stomach.
“Alright, just take big breaths.”
It’s then that San places a hand on his jaw, moving his head to the side to shift his attention from Yeosang to himself—he’s close, mere inches apart, drinking in the slight glimmer in Seonghwa’s eyes and breathing his same air.
“I’ll count to three, okay?” he whispers over his lips. “One—”
Seonghwa is lost. He’s highly aware of every burning inch of his skin, of Wooyoung breathing against his neck, San’s thumb caressing his cheek, his other hand resting on his thigh once again—and Yeosang’s steady grip around his leg.
“—two.”
Pain strikes him then, when San’s lips curl in a pout to let out the syllable—pity, he was looking forward to catching the hint of his tongue stuck between his pearly white teeth as he pronounced that three. The loud crack of his bones popping back into place fills the room, followed by Seonghwa’s silent groan and whispered curse as he lets his head fall, eyes shutting close.
“It’s done,” smiles San. “You did great.”
He feels Wooyoung’s hands leave his wrists, but his head lingers a bit longer, and it's somehow grounding enough for Seonghwa to be able to catch his breath.
“Wow, you really are good,” says Yeosang impressed, caressing the sore skin to somehow soothe the pain. “You made it look like it was nothing.”
“How come you took it so well?” asks Wooyoung, finally moving from his shoulder.
Seonghwa purposefully pretends not to hear him, while Yeosang’s hands slide higher, above his knees, and he notices more bruises on his other leg—the not-as-broken one.
“What’s up with this bruise? This is way too recent compared to the others, might just be from five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, that would be my fault,” intervenes Wooyoung, smiling apologetically. “I got carried away, earlier.”
“You should stop going berserk on our friends, Wooyo,” he rolls his eyes at the boy, finally getting up from the floor and dusting off his pants, moving the stool back to its place.
“In my defense, he became our friend only after I had my gun to his head, how was I supposed to know?” he pouts at the blonde, arms crossed to his chest.
“Did you apologize, at least?”
“I did bring an apology gift—we both did.”
He jumps off the bed and heads to the little table where he had left the tray previously, and brings it back to where Seonghwa is seated.
“I made you this—you should eat, if you want to get back up in shape again.”
The food looks delicious, suspiciously so, considering the type of meals he had been served for his whole life while on board a ship—but who is he to deny something like this after what he’s been through? He’s not gonna ask questions about it, for sure. Wooyoung insists on feeding him himself, but he strongly forbids it—that would be far too much of an embarrassment, on his part—and after he has cleaned every crumb of food and downed the last drop of water, Yeosang gets to work on the support for his leg that would ensure faster and better healing, and would also avoid any more damage. Seonghwa argues for a second because I don’t need crutches to walk, I made it like this until now, haven’t I? Before he sees the serious look in the doctor’s eyes. They settle on just one, and Seonghwa is rather satisfied.
After they're done with that as well, San offers to help him wash up from all the dirt and dried blood, and Seonghwa is far too tired to deny this time, eyes falling close against his own volition as San rubs his skin with careful touches, minding the injured leg and several bruises, all under Wooyoung’s attentive gaze from where’s he’s sitting on the bed, legs swinging back and forth.
They help him dress with a clean change of clothes, at last—they were San’s, apparently, and probably the only ones that wouldn’t fall too big on him given his malnourished condition. The quality of the fabric feels nice on his skin, soft, delicate, black and white—matching the rest of the crew. Something like a long coat, reaching down to his knees, long sleeves to keep him warm, and a high, black leather corset to pull it all together. He thought it would have felt uncomfortable, by the looks of it, but now he has to reconsider his guess. It’s definitely better than the black, thin fabric of his now torn clothes.
˖⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Days pass, and Seonghwa slowly gets back on his feet—figuratively speaking, that is. He manages to start walking freely around the ship on his own, at least. He gets to work on what he can, mostly helping Wooyoung in the kitchen—not that he's particularly talented with a knife at hand when it comes to cooking—checking on their supplies or helping with some general maintenance, as much as his body allows him to.
Jongho—the boatswain, the youngest of the crew, and last one to join—had laughed the first time he had seen Seonghwa walk out of the infirmary, all crooked and wobbly, balancing his weight on what Yeosang insisted was the most similar thing to a crutch that they could manage, moving around their deck and trying to get his sea legs back. He had laughed, and Seonghwa had felt whatever small crumb that remained of his dignity sink at the bottom of the ocean. He might not have been ill-intentioned, but he had laughed at him, and the only thing Seonghwa could do was raise his chin high and pretend not to see him.
That wasn’t a nice first encounter. He had asked Wooyoung about it later that evening, and the boy just explained that he's just a kid, give him some time to warm up to you. Seonghwa figured it wouldn't cost him that much effort to do so, so he let him be—it’s not like he’s gonna spend that much time on this ship, anyway.
It’s only days later that he finds himself alone with him, after San—usually on watch duty during the night—tells him he has some other business to attend to with the captain, and asks the little favor of him. He doesn’t have much to do other than look out to the horizon, looking out for any lights in the distance in case the Aurora might cross paths with another ship, so he agrees to it.
He got better at walking, he thinks, as he makes his way on deck while balancing his weight on the single crutch. He also finds it easier now to rely more and more on the broken leg, which seems to be healing faster than he had imagined, and he can now rest his foot on the ground without wanting to cut off his leg from the pain, like before—it’s still progress. Whatever suspiciously green liquid Yeosang had been feeding him, it had obviously been working its magic.
“Oi, limpy.” Seonghwa raises his head only to find San smiling at him cheekily, resting against the main mast with crossed arms, looking him up and down. All Seonghwa can do is glare at him despite the pure and friendly intentions of the boy showing through his dimples. "And grumpy, I see—my bad, sensitive subject. You’re looking better."
Seonghwa never liked to be reminded of his weaknesses—it was something like common knowledge in his old crew, no one dared to speak ill of him, not even for the sake of a good, harmless joke. Seonghwa has tried to remind San—and Wooyoung, mostly—plenty of times, but either they don't take him seriously, or they don't care enough to stop the teasing.
“I’m feeling better, too, thanks to Yeosang's help.”
“Yeah, we got the best doctor of the Seven Seas on our side,” he smiles sweetly, then he looks back again and pats Seonghwa’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then! Jongho usually spends the whole night up on the crow’s nest. Just give him a holler if you need him.”
And with that, he walks past Seonghwa and towards the captain’s cabins. Seonghwa glances up and gets a glimpse of what he guesses is Jongho’s legs hanging from the main crow’s nest, swinging back and forth in the air. He’d gladly get up there with him, but it doesn’t feel like the best idea to climb up a ship’s mast with a kind of still broken leg, so he settles on sitting down against it, turned in the opposite direction. He’s used to being on watch, so he doesn’t mind sitting still and doing nothing.
He hasn’t had the time to get lost in his thoughts for a while, and it feels unreal to be able to do so without staying on high alert, so he allows himself to relax for a moment. The ocean has always managed to calm him down, whether it’d be from the shore, on a ship, or being fully immersed from head to toe—it would always melt his worries and wash them away along with the waves.
Several hours pass, and he only notices when the first lights of the morning start to paint the sky and sea alike, and he can finally get a clear view of the horizon. The salty water sticks to his skin, the sun rays reflect on the ocean's surface, playing with the shadows, and warming up the clear air. The silence of the waves crashing against his ship reminds him of what freedom felt like. Their ship, he corrects himself—Seonghwa's ship burned to a crisp, and everything that was left of her sank into the ocean.
A soft noise from behind him catches his attention, pulling him out of his thoughts. When he turns around to check on the source of it, he’s surprised to find Jongho standing right there, at the mast’s base, brushing away the dirt on his pants—how did he get down without making a single noise? Seonghwa diverts his gaze just when Jongho stands up straight, which certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by the latter, but he figures it’s not his fault for staring. What surprises him even more is how, after a few seconds, he walks up to Seonghwa and sits next to him, cross-legged, without a word.
Seonghwa keeps his eyes on the horizon, not wanting to intrude on his silence despite the confusion caused by his actions, when Jongho’s hands slide into his pockets, producing a small block of wood with some carvings all around it, a sharp blade held tightly in his other hand—he's left-handed, he quickly notices. Jongho starts to whittle carefully, taking out small chunks of wood methodically. Seonghwa is left staring at his work, hypnotized, at his fingers moving elegantly but carefully, drawing precise lines on the surface. Slowly, it starts to take on a more defined shape, and Seonghwa’s eyes sparkle in amazement as he starts to recognize the rough silhouette of a dragon, with detailed wings folded at its sides and a thin tail wrapped around what will probably become its front leg.
They don’t exchange a word for a while, both too preoccupied with the way Jongho’s fingers run so close to the blade—despite that, the care he puts into every single one of his touches is enviable. Seonghwa’s eyes fly up to study the other’s features, to take in the focus of his chocolate round eyes, the small, almost imperceptible pout of his lips as he concentrates, and the way his cheeks slightly fill with air at the action. He sports a few scars here and there on the soft skin, one more evident splitting his lip in two just close to the corner of it, and one going from his cheekbone and reaching the bridge of his nose—they don’t look recent at all, pale white and faded. Then, to Seonghwa’s surprise, his lips part to speak, catching his attention again.
“You look like a nice guy,” he says, slowing his movements to add some details to the dragon’s snout. “But Mingi thinks you’re bad luck for the Aurora.”
Seonghwa still hasn’t had a chance to properly speak with him again, after that first day, and if he has to be completely honest, he doesn’t see a reason to. The guy walks around with an aura that gives Seonghwa the chills, has him walk on eggshells, and every time their eyes meet, he never spares him of his deadly glare.
“Our captain likes to keep a rather small circle of trusted men on his side, so it was a bit of a shock when he let you stay—but maybe now I see why he made this decision,” he looks up, meeting eyes with Seonghwa for the first time. “I’m just hoping that Mingi is wrong about you, or you will start wishing we left you on that ship.”
Seonghwa gulps down the words pending at the tip of his tongue, figuring it would be best to keep his questions to himself. When Jongho moves to get up, Seonghwa resolves to follow his movement, deciding to stay sitting for a while longer, maybe going over Jongho’s words a few more times. Then, the boy stretches his arm out to him, the little dragon clutched in his hand. Seonghwa sends him a questioning look, but the younger doesn’t move, just gestures to the small object with his chin.
Seonghwa takes it in his hand, brushing his fingertips along the wound edges of the animal, studying the sharp look in his eyes, almost flaming with distrust—and something more, something deeper. There's regret hidden in the furrow of its brow, there's pain tensing up its jaw, shame tilting its head downwards. Before he can ask questions about it, about why he would leave it to him, Jongho is gone. Seonghwa looks around for any movement, any noise—nothing. It’s like he vanished into thin air.
˖⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Seonghwa looks into the little dragon's eyes, fidgeting with the small wooden piece between his fingers, holding it up high over his face. The hammock swings side by side, silently, along with the waves. It's much more comfortable than the old, dusty—definitely moldy—mattress they had him sleep in until now. They finally moved him out of the infirmary and with the rest of the crew, gave him a hammock of his own to hang around their berth deck with the others, and he's been allowed to sleep there since.
He insisted on hanging up one of his own despite Wooyoung telling him multiple times he could just use theirs, since there are always at least two or even three empty beds, but he'd rather bother them as little as he could. He didn't mention how most of them are way too high up for him to reach comfortably, with his healing leg, and he wouldn't want to risk having to climb up into Jongho or Mingi's hammock, which are hung embarrassingly high. Besides, he's pretty sure Mingi wants to kill him, and wouldn't miss the chance to get the job done if he'd find him sleeping in his hammock in the middle of the night.
When Seonghwa comes into the room that morning, to get some rest after being on lookout with Jongho for the whole night, he's not surprised to find he's not alone. The Aurora has a resident, honorary pet. He had come to know of it just a few days prior, when he went to lie down on his hammock after yet another long night of lookout covering for San, and a loud, mean hiss had him jump out of his skin—and fall off the hammock, down on the floor. A small ball of shiny black fur jumped out of the hammock and landed on the floor just beside him, looking up at him with big, green eyes, a peculiar glint in them. Clearly angry at him, and offended by Seonghwa's intrusion, he turned away and walked out of the room.
He knew of some crews keeping dogs, or even cats, on board their ships to keep rodents away from their food supplies, but this was the first time he came across someone who actually did. He found it odd that he hadn't come across the small creature until now, but then again, he hasn't been meeting him around often, even after that. He figures the cat spends most of his time napping around in some hidden corner of the Aurora, maybe even somewhere high up on the masts.
Off to a rocky start, Seonghwa then made it his mission to have the little thing warm up to him, saving the best pieces of fish and leaving it out for him after meticulously getting rid of every little bone, or saving the white of the meat out of his plate to feed him secretly into the night. At first, the cat would only let him scratch his head then, snout dug into the plate and purring happily at the small gift, but he quickly started reserving the same treatment for him out in broad light too, with no food involved. Wooyoung whined, loud and betrayed, when he found out about it—apparently, the little thing wasn't usually so friendly with just anyone. Seonghwa could only smile proudly at his accomplishment.
He imagines Wooyoung would throw a tantrum if he saw him now, purring softly on Seonghwa's chest, as he gently strokes the cat's fur, distracted by the dragon carving in his other hand. The more Seonghwa stares into the wooden creature's eyes, the more familiar it feels to him. As he slowly traces the thin ridges with the blunt nail of his thumb, he keeps going over what Jongho had told him the other night, the conversation replaying over and over in his head. He doesn't know what to think of it—of what they all must think of him, of what Mingi sees in him.
There’s something hidden behind Jongho’s words. He thinks you’re bad luck. Seonghwa's never been the most victorious lucky charm, of that he’s aware, but he knows what the younger meant by that: Seonghwa looks weak. He doesn’t look like he could protect himself or anyone else on this ship, he looks more like a weight than someone who could come in handy. I’m hoping Mingi is wrong about you—he just has to prove them otherwise, doesn’t he?
Seonghwa still doesn't know what to do with himself. Staying on this ship didn't sound like a great idea, at first. But the more days he spends here, the more he comes to terms with the fact that there's nothing waiting for him out there, anymore. He doesn't have a family to go back to, doesn't have a place he can really call home, the only person he ever trusted in his whole life—his brother—is gone.
On the other hand, getting along with the members of this crew isn't proving to be as difficult as he had imagined. Even if he still doesn’t know what his decision about staying or leaving will be, he figures, he might as well make his stay more enjoyable in the meantime and try to avoid the giant from killing him with his eyes every time they come across each other.
Later that day, the captain requests the presence of his whole crew up on deck for a meeting regarding their current route. Upon hearing Yunho’s voice calling everyone loud and clear from outside the infirmary, he reluctantly throws his legs to the side of the small, creaking hammock, making a quick job of sliding the uninjured foot inside his leather boot and tying the laces as tight as he can, setting the foot down on the floor. Then he takes a moment to look at the other leg, somewhat lost in thought.
His train of thought comes to a halt when he hears footsteps getting closer, stepping down the stairs, and the cat suddenly raises his head, now on high alert. There's a quick knock on the door before it opens to reveal Yunho’s head peeking into the room, eyes flying around looking for Seonghwa. He sends him a quiet smile when their eyes meet, and Seonghwa is already gathering the ball of black fur in his arms to move him to his side, so that he can pull himself up.
"Meeting’s about to start," informs him Yunho, entering the room and closing the door behind him. "Did you manage to get any sleep?"
"Not really," Seonghwa sulks just slightly. "But I got enough rest."
The cat jumps down on the ground, stretching his limbs one at a time as they both watch him curiously. Yunho bends down to scratch at its chin when he stops at his feet for some extra attention, before walking out of the room satisfied. When Yunho shifts his attention back to him, Seonghwa is already bent down tying the laces on his right boot.
“I’ll help you with that,” he says, making his way toward Seonghwa.
Before Seonghwa can realize what he’s referring to, Yunho is kneeling at his feet, Seonghwa’s left boot in his hands, and expecting eyes staring up at him.
“There’s no need to, I can—”
“It’s okay, just let me.”
Seonghwa would really love to just tell him off—because really, it’s just a broken leg, he’s still capable of putting on shoes—but he can’t find it in himself to. The way Yunho looks up at him makes Seonghwa feel like they’ve known each other for years—maybe it’s something about the softness of his traits, the playfulness hiding behind the apples of his rosy cheeks, the pureness shining through his dark brown, friendly eyes that resembles so much the ones of a little kid. He has a face so sweet that anyone could mistake him for a prince, rather than a dirty, violent pirate.
He nods slightly, allowing the other to reach out and wrap one hand around his ankle, fingers circling it and guiding his foot inside the shoe. Seonghwa’s skin burns where Yunho’s fingertips leave a trace despite the thin fabric of his sock blocking direct contact, enough to make him suck in a breath when his hand rises higher and settles around his calf, barely even tightening his hold around it, and then it’s gone.
"So, you've been getting along with Jongho?" he asks while his fingers work a knot out of the pair of strings, being careful and tying it as loosely as possible, not to add any unnecessary pressure on the injury. Seonghwa nods. “He told me you two talked the other night—I hope he didn’t scare you too much, he can be a bit weird when he wants to.”
Seonghwa steals a glance at the tiny wooden dragon hidden just beside him between the folds of the hammock, the memory of quick and skilled fingers carving the surface of the small object as if that’s what they were born to do, and nothing else.
“Not at all, actually—it was quite pleasant.”
“Really? He must like you, then,” Yunho rests his foot back on the ground, looking up at him, satisfied. “He’s known for scaring people off when he doesn’t want 'em to stick around our ship.”
Seonghwa still feels his lingering touch on his leg when Yunho gets up, extending one hand for him to hold—which he does, with little hesitation, managing a grip strong enough to allow the other to pull Seonghwa up on his feet. He straightens his back and takes a big breath, balancing on both legs and slowly putting a little weight on the bandaged one, carefully testing his own tolerance. It doesn’t look too bad, as of now, he could even endure taking a couple of steps while supporting his whole weight—he’ll save that for later, though, he's smart enough not to risk it.
“Got tired of walking on three legs already?”
Yunho smiles down at him, sweet and genuine, quite amused by the scowl of discomfort on Seonghwa’s face as he looks down at his leg. The only sign of the fracture is the wooden sticks that support the ankle to avoid risky, sudden movements, kept together by a strip of cloth both at the top and at the bottom.
“The crutch was just slowing me down more than necessary.”
And it made me look weak. Yunho follows his pace, not seeming to mind having to take small steps by his side as he limps towards the door, still gripping at his arm tightly for balance—it reminds him of their first encounter, when Yunho waited patiently for him to get up the stairs on his fragile leg. He's glad his hands aren't tied together this time, though. The leg has healed enough to support some weight, and it’s still uncomfortable as hell, and it hurts, so much so that he's close to regretting it all—but he's been through worse. He can take this.
“I’m surprised Yeosang let you give up the crutch so soon,” says Yunho when they reach the last step.
“Well, he didn’t—technically.”
He leaves Yunho’s forearm and steadies on both his feet to find more balance on his own, taking a few tentative steps forward to test his legs. The wounded one can barely touch the ground before he has to wince from the jabbing pain—it’s impressive, after the strain he had to endure to walk up a whole flight of stairs. He just hopes that his good leg will be up to the task and won’t have him fall face down in front of the entire crew. Yunho catches up to him—nothing shocking, Seonghwa might as well be standing still from how slow he’s moving—and looks at him up and down, a bewildered expression on his face.
“You mean Sangie doesn't know about this?”
“Doesn't know about what?”
Yunho freezes, his eyes widen, darting down to Seonghwa’s leg one last time, before he turns around slowly to meet the other boy standing behind him, hands on his hips and brows furrowed in question. Seonghwa would have noticed him approaching if he hadn't been so focused on not tripping in his own steps.
“Ah, Yeosang—Sangie,” speaks Yunho, coating his voice with sweetness. “Listen—”
“Where is your crutch?”
Yeosang ignores Yunho completely, pushing him to the side to face Seonghwa directly, and is now eyeing him up and down with suspicion. Seonghwa’s words seem to fail him at the moment, prey of Yeosang’s uncharacteristic cold and stern gaze—he would have expected it from Hongjoong, certainly not from Yeosang. He has only ever been gentle with his ways—maybe a bit stern at times, but only when Seonghwa put up a fight.
“He says he’s doing better,” steps in Yunho, like the angel he has proven himself to be since day one, in an attempt to get Seonghwa out of the bubble he’s shrinking himself into. “I told him he could leave the crutch behind.”
“He can talk on his own account—and you know better than to lie to me.”
Seonghwa tries to recompose himself, too aware of the slight tremble in his good leg at the weight it’s bearing. This is not the best time to sit down and rest his tired limbs, not when Yeosang’s eyes tell him that he knows, as well, that he can somehow physically see the strain he's putting his healing leg through, that he could make out the exact number of seconds it will take for it to give up on Seonghwa if he stays standing.
“Come on, Sangie, let it slide just this one time?”
“You should go, Yunho, before the captain calls for you again.”
Yunho sighs. He turns to Seonghwa one last time, a clear apology written in his gaze, and Seonghwa understands—he lost every chance of making it out of this unharmed. Yunho walks away, doesn't resist Yeosang any more than he already did—Seonghwa didn't expect him to risk it any more than this, anyway. Now it’s just him and Yeosang—and Seonghwa's wobbly legs.
He feels the uneasiness run in his veins, spreading through his whole body as he has to confront a side of Yeosang that he wouldn’t have imagined him to own. Opposite from the gentle, calming aura Seonghwa felt himself to be attracted to in the past few days the blonde tended to his injuries, drowning him in gentle touches and comforting words every night. It was stupid of him to think he would never run out of patience, even someone like Yeosang, and yet he seems to have idealized the boy's entire image to his liking.
“Decided to proclaim ourselves doctor of this ship?”
“With all due respect, I think I’m able to guess what my body is telling me,” he says with every ounce of credibility he can muster, maybe even to convince his brain, as well, that the pain isn’t so unbearable after all.
“I don’t know what you think it’s telling you, but it’s telling me that your leg is broken, and that you should put as little weight as you can on it.” His stern gaze slowly gets replaced by a worried one as his eyes can’t seem to tear away from Seonghwa’s legs. “That’s why we agreed on the crutch in the first place.”
“It was just slowing me down—it made me feel weaker.”
“You are weaker, Seonghwa! You’re healing, you gotta give yourself time.”
“I’m fine,” he spits out quite harshly.
Bad, horrible timing. He crumbles then, body crashing against the wall beside him, good leg bailing on him at the worst of moments. He manages to regain some stability, but supports a portion of his weight on his hurt leg by doing so, and lets a pained hiss past his lips. Yeosang is next to him in an instant, sliding one arm around his waist and pulling him upright, swinging one of Seonghwa’s arms over his shoulders to have better leverage on him.
“I saw you were a stubborn one from day one, but I didn’t think it was this bad—you’re worse than Hongjoong,” he says sweetly, different from the cold, harsh tone he used until now—so maybe, not so idealized? Seonghwa's head is spinning from something more than just the pain. “Just hold on to me, I’ll give a look at your leg later, and we’ll discuss your crutch situation.”
“I don’t need to—”
“That wasn’t a request.”
He doesn’t give Seonghwa a second more to catch his breath because the moment he says his last word, he’s moving. The older tries his best to keep up with him—and he manages, with his crooked and tilted walk, and they make it up to the upper deck, where everyone is sitting around and waiting for their captain’s orders. He lets out a relieved sigh when no one turns around to look at them as Yeosang picks Seonghwa up to sit him on a barrel, with no effort whatsoever. If something as natural as a crutch would make him look weaker, what would their doctor picking him up like a rag doll say about him? There’s no way he could be able to face the rest of the crew if any of them had seen the scene.
“You don’t have to do this,” he breathes out, avoiding Yeosang’s eyes and opting for scanning the horizon instead—it’s almost sundown, he realizes.
Yeosang sees right through him, though, and he doesn’t seem to like the attitude. A hand rests on his cheek, forcing his eyes away from the burning sun and having him face the doctor instead. It’s gentle and soft despite the roughness of his fingertips.
“Let your guard down, for goodness' sake,” his tone is on the exasperated side, like he had to deal with a similar manner already in the past, like he's tired of these antics, like it's old history. “Let me take care of you—that itself can be considered a sign of strength, you know?”
If Seonghwa hadn’t been so preoccupied with the closeness of their faces—of Yeosang’s warm breath over his lips, the firmness of his touch against his jaw, the sincerity in the blonde’s eyes—he would have certainly noticed their captain’s eyes on them from the bridge of the ship. He’s the one who has Seonghwa fall back down to the real world the following second, drawing Yeosang’s attention to the front of the ship where he stands tall—as a figure of speech, because Yunho’s broad shoulders and long legs behind him make their little captain look oh so short—waiting for everyone’s eyes to fix on him.
“Listen up, boys,” he yells, eyes scanning every single one of his crew members. When they land on Seonghwa, he feels a chill run down his spine as they linger a few seconds more than he would have liked. “A little birdie informed us that there’s gonna be a ship on the chase for us—some rookie captain who believes he can hunt us down like we’re fresh meat.”
Seonghwa sees a few of the members snicker at the information, a scoff of disbelief slips from them, and out in the warm air of the evening. Hongjoong continues unbothered.
“Yunho and I have reasons to believe they’re organizing an ambush, two weeks from now, if our calculations are correct—I want you to be ready.” His tone drips with authority, garnished with a thick veil of confidence and certainty—Seonghwa wonders how many of these talks his crew had to listen to. “There aren’t too many of them, we’re more than capable of handling it without any unnecessary bloodshed.”
Seonghwa listens to his words carefully, taking note of the murmurs rising between the crew members, the way Wooyoung leans up so close to San, whispering something in his ear, to which San smirks. How Mingi closes his hands in fists—probably subconsciously—and Yunho takes a step closer to his captain, chest out and proud, head high. It's that thing he always does whenever protecting his captain—or anyone from his crew—is at stake.
“With that being said, do not take the matter lightly, prepare the ship’s defenses, and keep your eyes open—there’s always a slight margin of error with the information we get. This is all, you may go back to your tasks.”
With a choir of Aye, Captain! the members of the crew disperse and disappear from Seonghwa's sight—aside from the captain himself, who makes his way to the helm of the ship, with Yunho right by his side. And, well, Yeosang.
“You’re with Wooyoung today, he’ll probably need help in the kitchen since San is on watch duty,” he informs, turning his attention to Seonghwa and standing in front of him, resting both hands on his injured leg and feeling around, crouching down and testing them for any sign of damage on the support that could indicate it giving out after Seonghwa’s smart stunt.
“I’ve always been on kitchen duty, can't I help around the ship for once?”
“Not gonna happen, I won’t have a one-legged pirate stumble around on my ship,” he says, leaving no space for any form of complaint whatsoever—he’s back at eye level with him now. “You’re staying in the kitchen, where Wooyoung can keep an eye on you.”
“What, am I getting a personal watchdog, too? I don't need to be kept in check.”
Yeosang ignores the petty remark, stands beside him instead, and holds him up with one arm hooked around his waist. Seonghwa hates how stable Yeosang feels, compared to himself—how safe it makes him feel.
“I can walk on my own,” he grits out, swatting the arm away, almost losing his balance in the process. Almost.
Yeosang is visibly taken aback and takes a moment to focus on Seonghwa’s tall figure next to him, barely holding himself up against the barrel on which he was previously sitting.
“What is wrong with you?”
The boy looks directly at him, but his tone is soft, genuine confusion dragging the question through the air to meet him, like Seonghwa is a mystery that Yeosang is yet to decipher, like the fact that he can't seem to figure him out bothers him more than the act Seonghwa is putting up, itself.
“I don’t need your help, I can get to the kitchen on my own feet.”
He doesn't have anything to defend himself with. Pride has always played quite a big role in his life. He said the words, and now he has to prove he actually can. Except he’s fully aware of the fact that—well, he can’t.
“Listen, you’re free to do whatever you want, but I advise you to figure yourself out and drop this act, if you really want to get off this ship all in one piece.”
In any other situation, he would have talked back. He was ready to do so, but then his eyes traveled far behind Yeosang, pulled by some weird strength, only to find Hongjoong already looking right back at him. He’s obviously been watching them for a while now, and Seonghwa wonders if maybe he happened to catch the matter being discussed. The glare in his eyes would suggest so. It makes him want to give up completely, his shoulders hunch forward, and when Yeosang wraps around his waist again, he doesn’t resist him.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Now, Wooyoung’s been bragging about the freshness of the vegetables Seonghwa is carefully chopping for what seems like an eternity. They got them the last time they docked, and at such a low price! All credit goes to Wooyoung, of course—he’s got such a way with words! Hongjoong praises him all the time for it, he's so terrifyingly good at dealing with sellers! Seonghwa doesn’t know if he wants to scream or bite his lips off, or both.
When Yeosang guided him to the kitchen, the young cook looked more than pleased to know they’d be spending the rest of the day together, while Seonghwa—not so much. Don’t get him wrong, after the whole down-on-your-knees-and-gun-to-the-head incident, Wooyoung has been nice to be around, sweet, friendly—too friendly, at times. Wooyoung revealed himself to be quite the funny type, honest—light, in more than one sense of the word.
And the teasing—somehow, Seonghwa thinks he'd be able to get used to it, if he had more time here. Wooyoung is easy, surprisingly so. Their personalities don't clash with each other as much as he had imagined, and it might just be because of the way Wooyoung so effortlessly molds around the people he likes. Yes, Wooyoung likes him—he told him plenty of times now, and each time it feels like he's trying to tell Seonghwa something more with it, something that holds much more meaning than Seonghwa wishes it did, but he never digs into it any more than he deems necessary.
He learned to be around Wooyoung, he did, and he doesn't usually mind it. And yet, right this moment, Seonghwa would much rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else. Because Wooyoung is talking his ears off, Seonghwa doesn't have enough energy to pay attention to him, and Wooyoung will notice soon enough and give him hell for it. Trying to get him to stop will prove to be useless—if his own captain can barely manage that, what chances does Seonghwa have of succeeding in it? He can only get away with a short interruption, and hope the silence sticks to Wooyoung for enough time.
"You need clean water?" he speaks suddenly, cutting through Wooyoung's words.
Wooyoung turns to look at him, looks at the water pot he's been washing his knives—and hands—with, now slightly murky. He might push it for a couple more uses, and that's probably what's about to come out of his lips when he turns back to Seonghwa, but the older is already getting up on his feet, securing his crutch comfortably beneath his armpit to support his weight.
"I'll go fetch it."
"But can you walk?"
"It's not that far." Seonghwa hears the concern in Wooyoung's voice, and he doesn't want to see it in his eyes, so he turns around before Wooyoung can make a big deal out of it. Taking a few steps won't hurt, and he still needs to walk from time to time if he wants to get his legs back to work eventually. "I can manage, don't worry."
He purposefully takes more time than necessary, spares himself a few extra seconds to take a full, deep breath—two, three times, before he's ready to go back to Wooyoung. And when he gets back, the sweet smile Wooyoung gives him when he reaches out to take the pot from his hand almost makes Seonghwa feel bad for not wanting to be around him, for making up excuses not to be. Seonghwa would love to convince himself that solitude is all he needs right now, but it's getting harder and harder to accept the fact that he's starting to like his life here on this ship, with this crew.
In his old crew, there had never been this sense of unity among them—it proves in the way they shattered in rival groups the way they did. He could lean on his brother, and his brother had his back as well, but that's where it ended. Seonghwa's values were strong, and he wouldn't have hesitated to go against danger to protect his crewmate, but knowing it might not have been the same if their positions were swapped always had an ugly feeling churning in his chest.
With the knowledge of the bond the members of Hongjoong's crew share with one another also comes a fair amount of envy, of need for it, of resentment. Of hurt. Because he's going to have to leave eventually, because he doesn't deserve all the care and attention they're willing to give him—because this crew wouldn't want Seonghwa on their ship, if they only knew. He somehow feels a tad bit worse when he realizes his plan to get some silence out of Wooyoung seems to have worked, and the young cook only whispers a quiet thank you before he turns back to the slab of meat he had been cleaning, having caught Seonghwa's hint.
Wooyoung doesn't deserve to be put aside like this, Seonghwa surely doesn't have the right to demand silence from him. It's Wooyoung's ship, Seonghwa shouldn't even be here, he's not their responsibility, and yet he's so carefully preparing the food that'll feed him too, later today. Wooyoung was only using his loquaciousness to keep the other some company, to lighten the atmosphere, to do something nice for him. Seonghwa doesn't deserve what Wooyoung has been trying to give him.
"Do you—can I do anything else?"
Wooyoung looks at him warily at first, ready to take a step back, as a dog would in front of the hand that once hurt him, but something softens in his eyes when Seonghwa doesn't move. He doesn't question it, moves on easily, and it makes Seonghwa wonder if he deserves even this small of a gesture. Then he looks around the room, eyes trailing along the boxes on the floor, stashed with produce, then back at Seonghwa, down at the table, studying the utensils lined up there. Back at Seonghwa.
"I hope you're good with your hands." Seonghwa doesn't get much time to react, Wooyoung places a potato peeler in his free hand, and points to a sack on the ground. "Those—peel me at least a couple of dozen of them."
He’s then immediately sat on a crate storing who knows what, busy peeling potatoes with unsure, cautious hands. It takes him a few tries to get comfortable with it, but he slowly picks up the pace. The action reminds him of the carefulness in Jongho’s fingers as he carved the dragon out of the little wooden block. He really wants to ask him where he learned that type of skill, and maybe even get him to teach him some basics.
There's been a comfortable silence around them for a while now, only the steady sound of Wooyoung’s knife slicing clean cuts on a piece of raw meat, along with his occasional, quiet humming. Seonghwa is halfway through his stack of potatoes when the apology suddenly balls up at the base of his throat, and almost chokes him.
"I'm sorry, today's just been—"
"Don't worry about it," he reassures, and Seonghwa doesn't have to look up at him to know there's once again one of those sweet, genuine smiles on his lips, but his tone—it's tainted with something else now. "I get it, I can be a lot."
"No, that's not it—I know you were trying to help."
"And I know you can't help those who don't want to be helped, I just struggle at measuring it."
The peeler almost flies from Seonghwa's grasp. Surely that isn't what Wooyoung thinks of him still, is it? It's true that he still puts up resistance despite their efforts, but Wooyoung had been able to see right through him from day one, had him feel like he was being taken apart piece by piece, skinned alive and uncovered for everyone to see—transparent, with no shield. In a similar analogy, Yeosang makes it feel like he's being stitched up again, safe and warm under the protection of his own, worn skin.
Seonghwa hadn't fully grasped it yet, but he had been hoping—keeping it a secret, even from himself—that Wooyoung wouldn't give up on him so soon, that's he'd keep nipping at his shell, that he could make Seonghwa forget that he doesn't think he needs saving—or convince him he'd deserve it, at the very least.
“So—" Wooyoung's voice drags Seonghwa out of it. "Why are you stuck here with me?”
Seonghwa looks up, ceasing all movements of his hands.
“Huh?”
“Why am I on watch duty?”
“You’re not on—Yeosang said you needed help here, since San was busy.”
Once he notices the playful tilt in Wooyoung's eyebrows, and the snicker he’s trying hard not to let out—out of respect, probably, or pity, maybe—Seonghwa realizes he, too, knows. He's always known, probably, and it has never been the secret Seonghwa thought it was. Yeosang needed a place where he'd know Seonghwa would stay put, and Wooyoung was the easy answer.
“You really think I can’t make dinner on my own? I would have finished that stash of potatoes half an hour ago.”
When he looks down, he’s met with the failure of his cooking abilities—in his defense, he was the best shooter of his old crew, and one of the quickest swords after his brother, but cooking—this just isn’t his place. But if he’s not even of help peeling potatoes, then what was he thinking of doing up on deck with the others? Is his hurt leg really the only reason why Yeosang had him come down here? Maybe they just don’t trust him enough to be useful in any other way. Why is he even still on this ship? Oh, if his brother could see him now—
“Here, let me show you.”
He hadn’t noticed Wooyoung moving from his place, and now he’s forced to do so, because suddenly he’s crouching right in front of him to be at eye level with Seonghwa. He grabs the tool from Seonghwa’s hand, picks up a big potato from the pile, and places the blade on its surface.
“Towards your chest, like this,” he explains, stealing a glance up at Seonghwa to make sure he’s paying attention—as if he could even tear his eyes away from the way Wooyoung’s muscles flex under his golden skin, up to his elbow, where he rolled his sleeves not to interfere with his work. “See? It’s easier, less bumpy—and the chances of cutting your fingers off are definitely lower.”
The carelessness with which he carves the peel a few more times acts as a demonstration of it, as Seonghwa watches the bits of waste fall on the pile he has already made, one after the other. He seems satisfied with his work, placing the half-peeled tuber back in Seonghwa’s hand, and the peeler in the other. He’s right, it looks cleaner than the dozen he had clumsily disfigured. He tries hard to follow Wooyoung’s instructions, handling the blade carefully and properly this time, executing a lean, precise cut, then another, and another, gaining more confidence by the second. Wooyoung seems satisfied with that, too.
“That’s right, keep it up.”
He stands up again, and walks back to the uncut chunk of meat still waiting for him—how do they get such good quality supplies, anyway? Where do they hide that kind of money? It surely can’t be all out of Wooyoung’s impressive bargaining abilities. Meat this good was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, back in Seonghwa's old crew—this is the second meat-based meal in a single week.
“So then, why am I playing guard dog today?”
Right, that’s what this was all about.
“I think Yeosang is mad at me,” he explains somberly, dipping the peeled potato in the pan filled with water close to him, watching it fall to the bottom of it as he picks up a new one. He realizes shortly after that Wooyoung stopped cutting again.
“Yeosang? Mad at you?”
“I decided to drop the crutch without consulting him, Yunho took my side—he made a scene about it.”
Wooyoung scoffs at his words, like it's a fun joke that Seonghwa still wasn't in on, like it was stupid for him to even mention. It’s kind of annoying.
“What is it?”
“I thought you’d be smarter than that, is all.”
He is kind of annoying. Out of all seven of them, Wooyoung is the one who gets under his skin the most. It's an endearing thing, Wooyoung does it out of affection, is what Yunho had said after noticing Wooyoung's endless teasing towards the newcomer. But this feels different, it has weight, much more than the usual poking Seonghwa had been trying to get used to.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t disobey doctor’s orders, Seonghwa, not on this ship.”
Seonghwa stopped working as well by now, eyes fixed on Wooyoung’s as he turns around and leans against the counter. The way he wipes the knife on his impromptu apron, which comes out shining clean, is threatening enough for Seonghwa to suck in a breath.
“It’s his job to take care of us, of you—he talks, you listen. And you get a pass, because you're new, but—” he takes a step closer to Seonghwa, and the next moment he feels the sharp tip of the blade against his chin, tilting his face and forcing him to look up at Wooyoung as he leans in, a sweet smile on his lips. “Disrespect him again in any way, and you’ll be the one boiling in this pot—got it?”
The cold metal still stinks of raw meat—crazy bastard. Seonghwa has half the mind to tell him to fuck off, fully aware of the only acceptable answer being a convinced, confident yes, when they get interrupted.
“What’s going on here?”
San—thank Gods, he’s saved.
“Nothing much.” The blade on his chin slides lower, agonizingly slow, stopping at the base of his throat—alright, maybe not so saved. Seonghwa is fixed on not breaking eye contact with Wooyoung, and not being the first one to look away, to prove something—but he quickly realizes by the calmness in Wooyoung's voice that he doesn't have anything to prove. Seonghwa is prey, that's clear to everyone in the room. “Just going over ship’s rules with our dear star here.”
Star?
San seems to study the room for a short moment, quickly jumping from Seonghwa’s hands held firm in his lap, squeezing tightly around a single potato and a potato peeler, then up to his face, tilted upwards to look at Wooyoung through half-lidded eyes, slightly breathless. Down to the spot where the point of the blade dips into Seonghwa’s skin, to Wooyoung’s hand wrapped around the handle of the knife and the other placed on Seonghwa’s shoulder, the smirk on his lips—it’s maddeningly enticing. Seonghwa hates it.
“Ah, I see,” sighs San lightheartedly, walking towards them. “Right.”
As if on cue, the pressure on Seonghwa’s throat disappears completely, and just like he hadn't moved a muscle, Wooyoung resumes his task carefree, holding the last piece of meat down on the cutting board and slicing the pieces diligently as if it’s the only thing he had been doing since he entered the galley and—why does Seonghwa miss that pressure? The ugly stink of metal, the cold sharpness of the blade. Or maybe it’s his attention that he’s missing? Or—
San plops down in his lap without warning, getting somewhat comfortable as he can as he straddles Seonghwa’s thighs, circling his arms around Seonghwa’s neck for stability. At least it feels like he’s attempting to put less weight on his broken leg, the little fucker, but it doesn’t stop Seonghwa from letting out a hiss at the sudden pain spreading through his body. The redhead makes sure Seonghwa’s eyes are fixed on him before he talks—and, of course, they are. San is so close to him that Seonghwa can easily catch the faint string of green painting the brown of his irises—along with a scary glint of craziness swimming in them.
“Rule number one,” he singsongs, smiling sweetly. “You know this one already—don’t talk shit about the Aurora.”
Right, they told him on day one, the threat is still fresh in his brain. He had taken it lightly back then, but the more time Seonghwa spent on the Aurora, the more their attachment to her made sense. This ship feels alive, in a way Seonghwa didn't think possible, like she's actively trying to form a connection with him. Seonghwa has felt her breathe in the quiet of the night, felt her wail at the violence of a storm, felt her relax under the soft, first rays of the sun peeking through the horizon. He doesn't see how she could mean any less than it does, to this crew.
“Number two, not a word about Captain's scar,” goes on San, leaning closer to nose at the juncture between his neck and jawline. Be it for the closeness, the intimate touch, or the mention of Hongjoong's title—Seonghwa holds his breath. “You don’t wanna know where that came from.”
He would love to focus on his words, and if he had a clearer mind, he would even wonder why, or how, since their captain didn’t seem bothered at all to talk about it when he asked, but his mind is fixed on the warm breath hitting his neck, taunting him.
“Rule number three—the most important of them all—” Seonghwa feels a brush of lips close to his Adam's apple, and only now does he realize that Wooyoung’s eyes are on him—on them, studying San's movements carefully and searching for whatever reaction they drive out of Seonghwa. It's proving harder than before, maintaining steady eye contact with him, so he shuts his eyes momentarily and hands San the blame for it, but he can't so sure he'd be able to hold his lunatic gaze even without him. “You get our Yeosangie sad, or mad, and you’re dead meat.”
His eyes are forced open again when Wooyoung’s blade falls upon the wooden board suddenly, a loud noise cutting the overall silence of the room, emphasizing the seriousness of the threat. When Seonghwa looks back up at his face, Wooyoung is smiling innocently at him. Seonghwa has half a mind to be worried about it, but then San shifts his weight backward, and he has to bite his tongue to get himself through the pain that strikes at his leg. The boy leans back, and if Seonghwa’s hands hadn’t moved to his waist to get a hold of him, he would have probably fallen over the pile of potato peel, dragging Seonghwa down with him.
“Can I have a taste now, my love?”
Ah, my love. He feels San’s legs sway back and forth on his sides, carelessly, as he throws his head back to meet Wooyoung’s eyes behind him. Then, something catches Seonghwa's attention—a faint, lighter patch of skin circling all around San’s throat, rough, uneven. He would have never noticed it if he hadn't been so close to him, or if San hadn't had his neck craned back enough for him to get a clear view of it. He can't seem to tear his eyes away from it, and his hands hadn't been busy holding up the boy, he fears he would have already reached up to graze it.
“Behave, Sannie,” is what makes San swing back in Seonghwa’s arms, chests colliding, almost causing the older to lose his balance from the whiplash. "You have to wait for your turn, you know the rules."
“Bummer,” he says through pouting lips.
And just like that, Seonghwa is free again. As a change, it seems like San tried to be careful with his injury now, when he swung his leg off to stand up again.
“By the way, Captain wants to have a word with you,” he says before turning around and—in his hands lay a peeler, and a perfectly peeled potato, both of which he places back in Seonghwa’s hands—How? When, what? “You should go look for him, I'll take it from here.”
With as much reluctance as eagerness twisting in his body, Seonghwa does leave the galley eventually, leaving the devilish couple behind. It’s a short walk up to the captain’s cabin—or it would have been, at least, if he could have used both his legs. Every step he takes feels like it could be the last one. Gods, how he wishes his stubborn pride didn’t have such a tight hold on him to have him fuck up his leg to this point. Since he was very young, everyone painted it like one of his most admirable traits—and now Seonghwa finds himself loathing it, even in himself. It's pride that got his brother murdered, after all.
Seonghwa allows himself a few minutes to catch his breath as he stands at the door, hunched over himself and leaning against the wall so as not carry his whole weight on his own. It was much less painful when the leg was all crooked and broken and half numb—there’s no reason all this pain should mean the fracture is healing.
As he curses himself and his overgrown ego for not having stuck to the crutch from the very beginning, he tries to recompose himself as much as he can and reaches up to knock, but stops abruptly when he hears something from inside the room—a whimper, silent, muffled by the door. Only for a second does it draw concern from him, because another one follows soon after and it's softer, it's breathless, and calm. That’s odd, what could the captain possibly be doing that—oh.
Oh. It's pleasure. Seonghwa's hand twitches in the air when a similar noise reaches him, this time less contained, deeper. And then again another one, and another one, mere seconds occurring from one and the other, the silence between them getting shorter each time. Gods, he shouldn't eavesdrop on the ship's captain pleasuring himself in the intimacy of his own quarters. For all he knows, this could get him in trouble. As it gets louder, it also turns clearer, and if he listens carefully enough, that deep, warm, honey voice doesn't belong to Hongjoong. Instead, it sounds an awful lot like—
"Gods, Hongjoong—"
Seonghwa stumbles back a few steps, face red up to the tip of his ears as realization hits him. Well, at least now Yeosang’s voice moaning out Hongjoong’s name explains rule number three. Seonghwa should have known. Someone like Yeosang doesn't go through his life without someone beside him completely devoting their life to him, but he would have never guessed their captain to be the one to do so, claiming the doctor to such an extent.
From the very first moment Seonghwa's eyes fell on him, it was clear to him that Hongjoong wasn't one to bow down to anyone, for any reason. But then again, he's been taking note of the fond gaze he reserved for his subordinates—so unrealistic that Seonghwa sometimes came close to forgetting that's all they were supposed to be. Subordinate to a man with much more authority and not too much respect for them, with a little fewer rights than him, harboring the slightest hate and envy for their captain. At least, that's how most crews worked. There's nothing on Hongjoong's ship that works like any normal crew out there would.
"Good, Captain—'s good, so good for me."
Seonghwa wants to leave—he wants to run, his legs want to walk away, but they also can’t really move, as of now, feet planted on the wooden planks beneath him. His body feels heavier than it ever did, his legs weaker than they should. And maybe Yeosang’s soft honey voice coming from behind the door isn’t helping that much, but rather pulling him in like a siren song, leaving him short of breath. Where could he go, anyway? He surely can't go back to the galley, partially for the infinite number of steps he has to climb down, but mainly for the two wild animals still there, lying in wait for their next meal.
He can just wait. He can wait at the door, hoping that no one will come to fetch their captain to handle some other business, and neither he nor Yeosang is going to step out of the room, either. He honestly doesn't know what would be the most embarrassing outcome, of the two. What he does know is that it will be a hard task to stop Yeosang's voice from ringing in his ears in the foreseeable future, the way his low voice rises in pitch the more pleasure overcomes him, the longer it strains him, the closer he gets to his high.
Seonghwa shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and briefly regrets listening to San's words—or not going back up when he first realized what was happening behind that closed door. When he opens them again, it's finally silent—which might be as much of a bad sign as it might be a good one, but Seonghwa decides to bet on the odds being on his side on this, and lets out a relieved sigh. All he has to do now is wait a few more minutes to make his presence known, and finally go through with whatever the young captain needs of him.
When he deems it appropriate, his hand is up in the air again, ready to knock against the wooden door, but something rubs against his pant leg. He stills every movement, looks down, and—it’s the cat. Seonghwa sends him a questioning look, hand still stuck midair as he stares down at the feline. The cat seems completely unimpressed—Seonghwa knows he's just playing hard to get. When he stretches his paws up against his calf, sharp claws getting stuck in the fabric of his pant leg, letting out a soft meow, Seonghwa assumes it's his cue to pick him up in his arms.
The cat awkwardly settles against his chest, and Seonghwa finds himself not knowing what to do with it. He had been clinging to him a lot, but he wasn't usually this pushy about it. He looks at Seonghwa, Seonghwa looks back, mimicking his unimpressed expression. To break them out of their little staring contest comes a sweet sound, not one bit contained this time around, so it easily slips from under the door and reaches Seonghwa's ears without obstacles—a laugh.
Light, colorful, heartfelt—coming straight from Yeosang's core without restraint. The sound of it alone almost folds Seonghwa's lips into a smile. He can hear some hushed chatter, but can't make out what they're saying. He catches a quiet chuckle that twists Seonghwa's heartstrings in a little knot, because notes sang in a pitch so peculiar can only belong to Hongjoong's voice. The cat's ear twitches against Seonghwa's cheek as the little thing tries to pick up their words—he almost asks him to report back to him what he's able to gather, before he remembers it's just a cat.
After a long stretch of silence, the little creature decides to call it a day. It lets out another one of his cute meows, louder than before, like he’s getting impatient, and Seonghwa thinks he could be asking for more attention—maybe head scratches? Another loud noise—he might be hungry. Seonghwa only realizes the cat’s real intentions when it's too late, when he hears Hongjoong’s muffled voice from the other side of the door, when any attempt at shushing the cat would prove to be pointless.
“Yeah, you brat, I’m coming!”
Seonghwa freezes upon hearing the sound of Hongjoong’s steps walking closer to the door, and he realizes it’s too late to do anything about it—damn cat. Apparently, it was a small, peculiar black cat who sealed his fate at last. And here Seonghwa thought he'd die in the midst of some heroic gesture.
“Why are you even—” the door opens to reveal the captain, hunched shoulders and eyes cast down at Seonghwa's feet, a tired expression on his face, but a subtle afterglow painting his cheeks with a color more lively than usual. “Oh.”
He opens his eyes a bit wider, definitely not expecting to find Seonghwa standing in wait in front of his quarters, cradling their cat in his arms. It’s the first time Seonghwa sees him not wearing his fur coat and heeled boots, and Gods, do they make him look much bigger than he actually is. What was an insignificant height difference between the two before, now—with the way Hongjoong’s head tilts slightly upward to look Seonghwa in the eyes properly—it’s so painfully obvious, and Seonghwa may be enjoying it a little bit too much.
Hongjoong's shirt is unbuttoned down to the middle of his stomach, leaving Seonghwa enough ground to stare down at the mess of reddish marks painting the man’s naked chest, up to his collarbones—could it get any worse than this?
“How long have you been standing there?” he asks, a bit hesitant, catching Seonghwa’s attention.
"Is something wrong?" comes Yeosang's voice from inside the room.
Right, that's how it gets worse—Yeosang is also an active part in this. Seonghwa should probably say something that would explain why exactly he had been standing outside Hongjoong's room to begin with.
“San sent me," he quickly blurts out, hoping it would clear him of any problem. He's not proud of himself for pushing all the blame on the other, but if there has to be any misunderstanding involving him, he'd rather it be between the two of them. "Said you wanted to talk with me?”
"I did," the shorter squints his eyes in thought, tilting his head to the side. He stretches one hand out towards Seonghwa naturally, petting the cat’s head gently as he leans into the touch, body vibrating with a purr at the attention he’s getting. “But I was gonna come to you once I was done here.”
“That’s—” Seonghwa looks at him, down at the cat in his arms, then up again at the subtle smile on Hongjoong’s lips as he scratches the animal beneath his chin—the serenity of it all wraps around his heart with frightening ease. It's the first time Seonghwa has witnessed such gentleness from Hongjoong up close. “That’s not what he told me.”
When Hongjoong’s eyes find him again, he seems to be hit by a realization.
“Oh, that menace, I bet Wooyoung was behind it,” he says, rolling his eyes at the sky, petting the cat one last time, and stepping aside. “You may as well come in, at this point.”
"Who is it?"
"Seonghwa."
"Seonghwa's here?"
The light inside is dim, coming from a lantern placed in the far corner of the room, but it’s enough to light up the body lying in the captain’s bed, legs twisted in the thin layer of the sheets, pulled up to cover enough of his waist. When Seonghwa limps into the room, Yeosang is hastily sliding his arms through the sleeves of a shirt, fabric thin, loose, white—there are blood stains on the cuffs of it, old, maybe from some wound he tended to in the past. Seonghwa can't get himself to be considerate enough to look away as he does.
He might have covered up, but most of Yeosang’s pale skin is still there for Seonghwa to gape at, littered with purply red bruises matching the ones on his captain's body, from his neck down to his thighs. He's sitting up with his back to the wall now, looking at Seonghwa curiously. Even if Seonghwa hadn't heard it all, it's still obvious what they were doing before he came in, and the fact that Yeosang—gentle, naive, usually reserved Yeosang—isn't showing any sign of shame about it makes Seonghwa's face catch on fire instantly, bearing his dose of embarrassment on top of the one he feels for himself.
Seonghwa feels his breath hitch in his lungs when he hears Hongjoong close the door behind him, his shoulders visibly tensing up—Yeosang raises an eyebrow at him, holding back the amused smile pulling at his lips, urging Seonghwa to do something with himself. The cat suddenly decides to leave his arms, landing on the floor with a faint sound and walking towards the bed with a slight skip to his steps. Yeosang's eyes follow him carefully, and they light up the moment the cat jumps up on the bed and gets in his lap.
He whispers something in the cat's ear that Seonghwa can't quite pick up, but he can hear the soft purrs from where he's standing. Yeosang's attention is zeroed on the cat—Seonghwa's is zeroed on Yeosang, so he doesn't notice Hongjoong getting so close to him, standing beside him, watching the scene in front of them.
"He doesn't act that clingy with me," he says, arms crossing to his chest.
It might be for Seonghwa to hear as much as it might be for Yeosang, or maybe for both of them—or for himself. Whatever it is, he sounds bummed about it, somewhat betrayed. Seonghwa can hear the hint of a pout in his words.
"Maybe you don't spoil him enough," he dares suggest, in a serious tone—that's how Seonghwa got him to get close, after all.
"I saved him from the streets!" replies Hongjoong, indignant, pointing an accusatory finger at the cat, who looks back at him uninterested. "He should love me without me having to spoil him."
"That attitude," intrudes Yeosang without looking up, delicately holding the cat's snout with both hands. "Is exactly why he doesn't cling to you."
"Whatever."
Hongjoong scoffs, feigning offense, and turns around, walking to his desk. When he doesn't say anything, Seonghwa figures that's his cue to follow him there to the center of the room, and get to business—or whatever Hongjoong needs from him. Yeosang isn't leaving the room, and now that he's out of sight, Seonghwa's mind keeps wandering to him—to them.
"So, you two.." Seonghwa starts, hinting at their relationship—whatever it may be—but not wanting to overstep, to ask, stealing one more look at Yeosang’s lean figure spread gracefully over the sheets.
He doesn't know what drives him to ask, why he would care enough to. It was clear from the start that Yeosang's care had always been shared, that it was nothing personal—that the relationship between him and Yeosang wasn't anything different than any other patient-doctor relationship. Seonghwa never tried to read more into it, in how careful and gentle he was with him, even when he wasn't tending to his wounds.
So then, he might just want to know more about Hongjoong. The man is secretive, in a way that doesn't make sense to Seonghwa. He doesn't have many walls up, Seonghwa can see through him more clearly than he'd expected—but he's still guarded, on edge, always waiting for something to happen. Although he's not playing the part, right now—here, with Yeosang, and Seonghwa is itching to know what's so special about what they have that allows him to drop the act.
In addition to that, something quiet inside of him wants to ask—doesn't that make things worse? Having someone to care for you, holding them in your heart—how do you do that so openly? How do you survive something so scary? Is the love you're getting worth risking the pain of losing them?
"Us two," Hongjoong cuts through his thoughts, circling his desk and leaning against it, studying Seonghwa's suffered posture. "You and your crutch? It’s not wise to disobey doctor’s orders.”
Seonghwa follows his gaze and looks down at his leg support, a grimace on his face. When he glances at Yeosang on the other side of the room, the boy still has his full attention on the feline, but it's clear that he's tuned in to their conversation. He seems to have spilled enough information about the matter, so Seonghwa doesn't see the gain in lying, this time around.
“I took note of that, already.”
Seonghwa feels like a kid getting scolded by his parents for playing in the dirt and coming back home with his clothes ruined, way past the point of no return.
“Good—I wanted to make sure you’re not gonna do anything stupid.”
Seonghwa wishes he had kept on looking at his leg, or at Yeosang, because he wasn't ready for the sight in front of him. As Hongjoong leans over the desk, the wide opening of his shirt reveals more and more of his skin, defined, chiseled muscles adorned in stunning dark bruises and light faded scars. Listening in on the two of them pleasuring each other had been enough, but to face the aftermath of it painted directly on Hongjoong's body, having it at arm’s reach—that's a whole different story.
“Can you pay attention, or do I have to button up?”
He hears Yeosang snicker from his corner of the room, and it's unfair. His mouth goes dry. He feels cornered. Had Hongjoong been talking to him for long?
“I—” Seonghwa is so startled by the implication—the right implication—that he almost loses balance on his legs, almost tells him Yes, please do. “Sorry?”
“You’re going to stay below deck, the night of the ambush.”
Seonghwa sends him a questioning look, head cocked to the side.
“Why would I do that?”
“You’re still weak, Yeosang said you need more time to recover properly, you’ll only be putting my men in danger.”
He has a stern look on his face, and his words aren’t leaving any space for complaint—so Seonghwa makes room for it, himself. His pride urges him to straighten his back and close his hands into fists as he tries hard to swallow the indignation making its way up his throat.
“I’m not doing anything of the sort,” he spits back, maybe with a crumb too much authority, and little to no shame—force of habit.
“I’m afraid you will have to, Seonghwa,” he says, slightly startled, but with a firm tone nonetheless—he’s not used to hearing a no for an answer. He must have forgotten, for an instant, that Seonghwa isn't like his subordinates, he isn't part of his crew. “This is an order, not a proposition—I expect you to follow it.”
“With all due respect Sir, you may think it’s normal to hide from a battle, but I’m no coward—I’m not hiding.”
“You can barely walk on your own,” Hongjoong ignores the snarky comment without much effort. "How do you expect to—"
“At the risk of sounding presumptuous," he interrupts. "I can defend myself just fine.”
“What about what Yeosang said?”
He knows the blonde is watching, knows he's listening, but he's not intervening. Which gives Seonghwa enough reasons to think he might be giving him some ground to move, and he's not going to let the chance slip away.
“I’ll be careful, and I will follow his orders. You have no reason not to let me fight.”
Hongjoong looks at him like he doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth. So he turns to Yeosang to check, Seonghwa follows his gaze, and the doctor is already looking back at them, fingers digging in the cat's black, shiny fur.
"I guess if he doesn't pull any stunt until then, and follows my orders, instead," Seonghwa lowers his head, guilty. He might lack credibility, but he's confident he can persuade them. "And if we focus enough on some proper rehabilitation, he might be able to lose the crutch by then."
Yeosang has laid out Seonghwa's cards, now it's up to Hongjoong to trust him on it or not. Frankly, Seonghwa doesn't think he does. He's taken steps towards Seonghwa, but it never felt like the goal was to establish trust. Seonghwa doesn't blame him—he's no better, but Hongjoong has proven himself to be capable of building deep and meaningful bonds with the people close to him, while Seonghwa is sitting around waiting to flee. He thinks that, somehow, Hongjoong can sense it, and it's enough to have him keep Seonghwa at a distance.
"I won't cause any trouble, I swear it."
“I respect your determination," he says, a spark in his voice, impressed. "I’ll admit that much.”
Hongjoong seems to think it through for a moment, looking straight into Seonghwa’s eyes, never averting his gaze. Today is the first time he seems willing to take a step in that direction—trusting Seonghwa—but it might be all because of Yeosang's mediation. Hongjoong seems to have settled on his choice after exchanging one last look with the blonde.
He walks away from the desk, opening a small chest sitting in one corner of the room, and takes out two guns, together with a belt to keep them secured in place. They’re obviously of great value, Seonghwa can guess that from just a glance at the intricate engravings. Hongjoong walks back to him and hands him both weapons, but to Seonghwa's surprise, he doesn’t distance himself again.
“Don’t make me regret this, alright?” He pulls Seonghwa back in slightly, forces an unusual closeness on him, and subtly holds Seonghwa’s hands around the guns. Seonghwa’s heart doesn’t feel at peace with the genuine worry Hongjoong’s eyes and tone are unable to hide this time. It feels quite misplaced, if anything. He certainly wasn't expecting to be the one at the end of it—not tonight, not ever. "I mean it, Seonghwa."
He makes a point of it by tightening his hold around Seonghwa's hands—he is as intrigued by their slight height difference as he is by that of their hands' size—and locking eyes with him again, giving him a silent warning. Seonghwa doesn't think he has the power to make Hongjoong do anything at all, let alone regret—let alone worry.
“As I said, you have no reason to, Sir.”
Hongjoong lets go, taking a step back, looking at the taller boy with a shade of doubt painting his features. He feels so impossibly real, and Seonghwa can’t figure out if it’s the calmness in his voice, his uncharacteristically relaxed expression under the faint light of the lantern, his simple attire—or the sincerity in his words, perhaps.
“Promise me you won’t jump into it—if they charge towards you, shoot away, but I don't want you to engage first,” he says, at last. “Don’t get hurt, and most importantly,” he steals a glance towards his bed, but Seonghwa’s gaze stays fixed on Hongjoong, on the thick, whitish mark slashing across his eye. “Don’t get any of my boys hurt.”
A tick goes by before Seonghwa manages to get any words out. He gets it, he really does—at the same time, somehow, he doesn't. But even unaware of the bond linking this man to his crew, even not knowing what keeps them together, or the relationship he has with each of them—he’s bound to them. They're his responsibility, but he sounds like so much more than just a leader for them, his men are so much more than mere subordinates. Seonghwa loathes it a bit, the fact that he’s not a part of it.
“I won’t, you can rest assured."
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Seonghwa’s leg had been doing better. Somehow, knowing that Hongjoong himself was checking up on him as you would on a hurt pet, made him feel even worse. So he put his pride aside for just a second and decided to listen to the one person who knew more about medicine and human anatomy than probably every single person on that ship. Yeosang doesn't even hide his surprise when he catches Seonghwa diligently using not one, but both crutches, his injured leg barely even supporting any weight as he struggles to balance himself on the swaying ship.
The rehabilitation part—that's on Yunho. He offered himself, apparently, and Seonghwa is sure that the second in command of the Aurora must have his hands full already as it is, and doesn't have much time to spare to play doctor, but it doesn't seem to trouble him at all.
"I'm serious! He didn't threaten me," Yunho barks out in a laugh. He's leaning against the railing, watching Seonghwa closely in case he might collapse, but he's been holding out fine until now. "I came willingly, I swear it."
Most of this consists of Seonghwa trying to take hesitant steps up on deck, out in the open, where the wind huffs harshly against him with the sole purpose of knocking him down. One crutch, taking slow steps that aren't meant to take him from point A to point B on the ship, but instead aim to ease his leg back into it, get used to the right movements without yet having to support the entire weight of his body. The Aurora is in on it, too, rocking side to side abruptly, putting up more resistance than she should against the strong waves, and causing her every move to be sharper than it should.
"You expect me to believe you?" He wobbles a little on his feet—his focus is split, and it takes him some extra effort to feel stable on the wooden crutch while he talks to the other. But that's part of it, too. "That boy has the lot of you wrapped around his little finger—I still don't know how he does it."
Yunho must notice the quiet struggle, because he rids himself of his relaxed posture instantly. He leans away from the railing, walking towards Seonghwa to stand beside him for precaution. Seonghwa wobbles again, and Yunho goes to reach out to him, but stops abruptly when he's met with the warning glare Seonghwa sends his way. He knows Yunho's there for safety, but he had him promise not to step in unless strictly necessary.
Yunho takes one single step back, more distant, but still within reach—it's a good compromise. Seonghwa is stable on his feet again, like nothing happened. He's been doing this for so long that his limbs have started complaining—both his arms and legs aching from the strain, asking for a break. Seonghwa still has something to give, so he doesn't mention it, but Yunho has taken note of it regardless.
"You sure you don't know how?"
Seonghwa isn't sure which of the many reasons he might be referring to. The fact that he sleeps with their captain? That he looks so ethereal, he might just be some mythical creature keeping them hostage, with no way out, for his next meal? Or that he might be the only one on board who can be trusted to mend a wound, which consequently makes their lives depend on him and him alone?
"Nevermind, this crew is—"
The ship rocks to the side abruptly—Seonghwa's arm gives out, the crutch slips. It's like the floor gets yanked from beneath his feet, and he's sent flying. One moment, he's coming face to face with the hard wooden planks, the other, he's held midair, steady, like time froze just as he was falling. He blinks, and it takes him a few seconds to realize he's okay, and he hasn't cracked his skull open on the floor. Now, on to how exactly that's possible—
Yunho's arm is wrapped around his middle, holding him back from falling any further. His grip is strong—surprisingly so. Yunho's build is bigger than his own, of that he's aware, but there's something about him that always looked rather frail to Seonghwa. His long limbs look like they're made for clumsiness, and clumsiness doesn't exactly scream for strength. And yet the grip around his waist is unwavering, firm, effortless.
He feels Yunho's other arm circle around him, and he's slowly pulled up. He picks him up like he weighs nothing, but Seonghwa can't bring himself to be ashamed about it. Embarrassed—yes, but for a completely different reason. Yunho doesn't let go of him, not even once he's sure he's back on his feet, Seonghwa guesses it's because he's still leaning so heavily against Yunho's body that it's obvious he wouldn't last a second on his own without the crutch. But there's something else, something clear in the way Yunho is looking down at him.
"Are you okay?"
Seonghwa rests his hands on Yunho's forearms to hold himself up. Yunho doesn't seem to mind—doesn't seem to want to let go. He's not the timid type, doesn't shy away from contact—on the contrary, he naturally seeks it, leaves space for it. But then, when the other person follows, his ears turn a sweet shade of red, his eyes beam, and he can't bite back a smile. Seonghwa witnessed it many times during his stay on this ship, from up close as well, and he's usually quick to brush it off. Only that this time, Seonghwa can't deny the spark that shows in Yunho's eyes, or the way his breath seems stuck in his lungs.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," he tells him, still holding Yunho's gaze.
"Like what?"
"Like—" Like you want me. Are you insane? This isn't far from Yunho's playful antics, but it's still somehow different to some degree. Yunho's sweet, but he's certainly not above teasing, and after whatever he's trying to pull with the way he keeps Seonghwa's body pressed to his, Seonghwa will have to pretend all the walking is entirely to blame for the tremble in his legs. "Don't play dumb, I know you're not."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I can see just fine, you know? It's my leg that's injured."
Seonghwa’s hands move to Yunho’s chest, and it serves as a way to get some distance between them. Seonghwa doesn't mind shifting his focus on finding his balance again, if it means that Yunho's hands are finally going to be off him. Yunho bends down and reaches for the crutch, handing it back to Seonghwa, who takes it with little to no show of gratitude. Yunho doesn't seem so phased by it.
"Is it, now?" Seonghwa recognizes the glint in his eyes and turns away from him pointedly, wobbling toward the railings where Yunho had been watching him from just a moment ago. He hears the other's footsteps follow behind him, just as clearly as he hears the smirk in his voice. "Do you want me to massage it for you later?"
"Do you want Mingi to kill me in my sleep?"
Seonghwa leans with his back against the railing, using it to slide down and sit to give his legs a break. Yunho lets out a loud laugh at his words, and Seonghwa is drawn to it instantly, just in time to see the boy throw his head back, mouth wide open and full set of shiny white teeth on display, nose scrunching up, a hand coming up to rest on his belly and shoulders shaking slightly with his laugh —Seonghwa thinks he gets away with staring, because even as Yunho walks closer, his eyes are still crinkled in a smile.
"He's not gonna—he's not like that," he tells him, sitting beside him on the ground with much more ease than what Seonghwa just displayed. "Mingi's actually very sweet, it just.. takes him some extra work to trust."
Mingi—the tall, wary guard dog he keeps proving himself to be day after day, and who's been watching them from above this whole time, hanging comfortably from halfway up the rigging. It had made Seonghwa anxious when he first caught a glimpse of him, given how rough the waves had been all morning, but Yunho quickly reassured him about it.
Mingi is focused on something—a small blade held in his hands, and he's too far up for Seonghwa to make out exactly what he's doing, but the rhythmic metallic, slashing noise that reaches his ears from time to time tells him he's been sharpening it to a better shape. And maybe sending a very loud threat his way, as he does.
"I think he's planning to throw me off board—he probably has been, for a while."
Yunho follows his gaze up to where Mingi is, and Mingi must feel their eyes on him because he pauses his movements, and looks down at the two. Yunho sends him a friendly wave, a soft smile on his lips, and it doesn't seem to bother him when Mingi doesn't acknowledge it, keeping his eyes locked on them. Seonghwa feels the daggers stab right through his chest, he gets goosebumps on the back of his neck. He decides to listen to his survival instincts and scoots a few inches away from Yunho, just for good measure.
"Sorry about that, he's always been a bit.. protective of me, I guess—jealous, at times, but he means well."
"I don't see how that could look like well."
Seonghwa goes back to ignoring the weight of Mingi's eyes on him, with some more effort than earlier. Yunho chuckles at his words, which is enough draw Seonghwa's complete attention. The wind ruffles Yunho's hair softly, just enough to mess it up, but not so much that it hinders his sight. It bites at his cheeks, leaving a faint pink color in its wake. His lips are red bitten and somewhat dry, stressed, either from the cold or from the way Seonghwa has caught the younger pick at it when he gets lost in the horizon—quite like he's doing now.
"It was just him and I for a while, you know?" he starts, voice low. Reminiscing, with that nostalgic smile pulling at his lips and that melancholic tone dragging the words out. "And then I had to leave, and well.. life wasn't so gentle with him, after that."
"What happened to him?"
"Fighting rings." He says it through gritted teeth, like only the thought of it hurts him. "They got him young, put him through hell, until he learned how to fight for himself and started getting them good money, but he hasn't been the same, since." He shakes his head, his fists clench around nothing. "Still, he never had any second thoughts about leaving with me, years later. He never questioned it—or me, never blamed me for leaving, for not going back to get him sooner. He was the same with me as that kid I used to know, but with the rest of the world—he turned cold."
Seonghwa feels a sudden pull at his heartstrings, and it startles him. He had decided to ignore how familiar Mingi's distrust had felt this entire time, from the very start, mainly because he didn't get it. But he understands it, now—he relates to him, in a way he didn't think possible. Mingi's glares had never bothered him—kept him on his toes, surely, but he'd always justified Mingi's reluctance to trust him, even unaware of the real reason behind it.
"Is this your way of telling me that whatever issue he has with me, is not personal?"
"It took him time to warm up to the others, as well—he'll come around." Yunho smiles to himself, in a way that tells Seonghwa he truly believes his own words, that he's sure of it. And based on what he just told him, Yunho might be the one person who knows Mingi best. "Besides, Jongho likes you, and he's never wrong when it comes to people—Mingi knows that, he just wants to see for himself."
Seonghwa doesn't know when—or how—he managed to earn Jongho's trust enough for Yunho to say something so bold. Jongho has been acting more open, slightly distant still, but differently than at the start. It looks more like awkwardness than distrust, like he doesn't know how to approach him. He seems grateful enough when Seonghwa takes the first step towards him, but that's something Mingi doesn't allow him to do at all, so things stay stagnant with him. Something tells him Mingi won't cave in as easily as Jongho did.
˖⊹ ࣪﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
After a long week of this, and short but thorough massage sessions Yunho insisted were definitely not his idea but merely doctor's orders—and that Seonghwa tried to avoid at all costs, but couldn't deny anymore after the first time he had Yunho's hands on him—Yeosang gives him the go-ahead to drop the crutch.
It's not the easiest thing, having to limp his way past Wooyoung's snarky little jokes and San's pitiful glances, but Seonghwa grits his teeth through it all—he's tired of feeling like a spare screw rolling around the ship, trying to be helpful until he's not anymore. He's going to be leaving this ship soon, but there's no reason why he should make his life on it harder. He's going to recover with Yeosang's help, he's going to help around as much as he can to repay his debt just enough, and then he's going to part ways with this crew. Or so he thought.
Luck isn't on their side, it seems. Maybe Mingi was right after all—he is bad luck for the Aurora.
It’s pitch dark when they realize something is wrong, and Jongho’s signal cuts through the silence of the night air—a day earlier than they were expecting it. As soon as he hears Jongho’s call, he’s already up on his feet, fishing out the guns Hongjoong trusted him with. Along with them, a light cutlass San so generously brought to him from his vast collection, after he had come to know Seonghwa was the quickest sword in his old crew—right after his brother. He steps out on deck to find everyone on standby, waiting for their cue to charge, keeping their stance as if they’ve been waiting all night—they might as well have, as far as Seonghwa's aware.
Yunho had told him about each of them, a few days prior. He even whined about not being allowed to leave his captain's side for a fraction of a second—doctor's orders. Hongjoong seems to be a magnet for big bad guys coming for his head, bounty and all, and Yeosang is tired of having to treat his wounds, no matter how minor they might be, just because of his carelessness—and so he gets a personal moving shield, double his height.
He reassured Seonghwa Yeosang would keep an eye on them from above, out of sight, a pair of arrows already notched in his bow and ready to fire. He's never missed a shot once in his life, legends say—San says, starstruck. He's graceful with it, treats it more like an art than a means to attack. Yeosangie comes from wealth, whispers Wooyoung to his ear one morning—like it's a secret he's supposed to keep and not one that the entire crew knows of. That explains why he'd grown up learning archery as a hobby, and Yeosang's whole existence—his manners, education, his attention to detail, the way he carries himself, and the subtle royalty showing in his features. What it does not explain is how he'd found himself living the pirate life on the Aurora.
Yunho also advised Seonghwa to stay away from San and Wooyoung, because they can get messy, a bit too into it, and a bit stupid. Blinded by adrenaline, fighting back to back and refusing to hold back—Where's the fun in holding back? Right, San? They're barely able to discriminate between friends or foes. Mingi once earned himself a knife in his leg by accidentally gravitating too close to them, and ever since then, he's made sure to stand on the opposite end of the ship from them during a fight.
He had mentioned how Mingi likes to get his hands dirty, and how they’d always spend a good ten minutes washing the dried blood off of him after every fight—apparently, Hongjoong had given up on telling him how inconvenient and unnecessary it was. Force of habit, would say Mingi—the messier the scene, the more scum would cheer on him, the richer their bet on his following match would be. The studded bands wrapped around his knuckles certainly aren’t doing much to defend his cause, but the so-called gentle giant kept arguing that he couldn’t help it.
Finally, Yunho had told him Jongho would be lying in wait, moving with the darkness rather than within it—silent, messing with his opponents, cornering them, close to how a beast of prey would act. Jongho has eyes everywhere, he's the first to notice when something is off, can sniff out trouble from miles away. Just briefly, Seonghwa wonders if Jongho was appointed to keep him in check from the very start, studying his every move even when he wasn't aware of it. To this day—bragged Yunho—they yet have to lose a fight.
Seonghwa is out on the main deck, it’s silent, at first—too silent. Nothing other than the steady crashing of waves against the body of the Aurora can be heard, until Jongho gives the signal a second time—shorter, less steady, panic seeping through. All hell breaks loose.
The first line of enemies pours aboard the ship, and a choir of screams rises in the night as the crew of the Aurora moves to defend its ship with teeth bared. Seonghwa watches as Wooyoung and San break apart, charging in opposite directions, both with a sick smirk on their lips. It’s raw and quick. He had never seen a crew of enemies fall to their knees in such a short amount of time—no wonder the crew holding him captive had fallen without putting up that much of a fight.
The pirates of the Aurora move like shadows, and Seonghwa can hardly keep an eye on them. It’s absolutely terrifying: men fall to the ground one after the other, slit throats and blood gushing out, heads smashed or pierced by a bullet. Some let out groans and grumbles, and others fall to their knees without a sound, barely aware of what got to them. Some don’t even reach their ship, falling back into the ocean as they get struck by Yeosang’s arrows while they try to climb over the bridge.
For the first minute of it all, Seonghwa is unable to move—but they don’t stop coming, and Seonghwa can read in Hongjoong's faltering posture that their information wasn't accurate, that they weren't ready for a number of opponents this high. And if they knew they were going to be outnumbered before—as they always are, there are only few of them, and that makes for easy prey—the growing number of enemies is likely to put them up for defeat. Whoever gave them the information about the ambush must have left a pretty big number out.
A wave of adrenaline washes over Seonghwa’s body as he watches the battle unfold, and he doesn’t even realize when his body moves on its own accord to jump into the crowd—to pin him back into place is the painful reminder spreading from his leg and up, burning through his muscles while he takes a deep breath to distract himself from it.
His eyes find Hongjoong again, face smeared with blood, his long hair already drenched in it, making his way through a herd of enemies as one would take care of a handful of flies, Yunho standing beside him like a guard dog and getting rid of whoever slips past his blade. He thinks of what Hongjoong had asked of him—do not engage. But is he supposed to stay still until someone notices him, then? Would making himself impossibly blatant to their enemies until they attack count as engaging?
Not too far from Seonghwa, Mingi—almost mocking him—is fighting off three different men at once as they circle him, firing blows relentlessly and clearly prevailing on them despite being outnumbered. Mingi's about to strike his final blow on one of them, and that's when Seonghwa sees it—a gleam, right at the corner of his eye, the light of the moon reflecting on a blade.
A man, hiding crouched just behind a wall of stash boxes and barrels, lying in wait with his eyes set on Mingi, waiting for the right time to strike. Seonghwa waits, waits and waits, counts the seconds it should take Yeosang to notice him and shoot an arrow through his heart, but nothing happens. He waits for Jongho to jump out of the shadows and snap his neck before he can do anything—and still, nothing happens. The man is rising to his feet, Seonghwa holds his breath. Nothing happens.
He moves when the other man does, quick, subtle limp in his leg as he rushes to Mingi’s side before their enemy can get any closer, already reaching for his loaded gun—this has to be considered engaging, right? He really hopes Hongjoong isn’t watching—and as soon as the man is in his line of fire, Seonghwa shoots his bullet. It hits the man right in his throat. Sputtering blood, choking on it, the dying man falls heavy to the floor as life drains out of him.
But Seonghwa's attention is needed elsewhere, where one of Mingi’s opponents charges in his direction, sword drawn, leaving the other two to handle the unwavering giant. Not even a drop of blood is smeared on the blade of the man charging, yet—none of the red covering Mingi’s face and hands belongs to him, apparently. Seonghwa draws his own sword, ducks when the man strikes, and pierces straight through the man's heart with practiced precision.
Seonghwa takes note of the other two dropping to Mingi’s feet, and when he turns to steal a glance at him, Mingi tips his chin up at him, Mingi smiles at him for the first time since Seonghwa set foot on their ship. Here, now, he feels it—Mingi's approval. His gratitude morphs into trust when it reaches Seonghwa, and it ignites a stronger flame in his chest that begs him to prove his worth under the weight of it. Seonghwa cleans the blood off his blade on the leather of his sleeve, breathes in the poignant smell, and from that moment, it’s like his body moves on its own accord, driven by instinct and muscle memory alone.
By the time Seonghwa comes back to his senses, his sword is covered in blood again, as well as most of his clothes, but it doesn't take him much to figure out that only a little part of it is his own. The fabric of his shoulder's sleeve is torn, and there's blood trickling down his cheek, but he only feels a faint sting, which must mean both are minor and superficial wounds. What worries him, now that he's stopped moving, is how the ache in his leg has started to make a bother out of itself once again—with poor, horrible timing.
A man, taller and bigger than him, appears out of nowhere, bloodshot eyes looking down at him, and Seonghwa’s first instinct is to back away, get some distance between them. He stumbles backward, almost tripping on his own feet, and his back hits something—someone. He turns around, now facing a man about his height, with a smug smirk on his lips that makes Seonghwa's blood run cold.
It’s quick, the man behind him doesn’t give him time to swing his cutlass before he pierces his body with a blade, thrusting from his lower back. He glances down to see the metal of it coming out from his middle, thick blood dripping from the sharp tip of it. He should reach for his gun, he could take out the bigger threat and hope that Yeosang or Jongho had witnessed the scene from above and would jump in in time to take out the other guy. And yet, he’s not too eager to defend himself from it, not really. The thought of fighting back now, with only himself to protect, feels pointless enough for his guard to drop.
The man in front of him snickers at the gurgle of blood gushing from his wound, and Seonghwa feels nauseous from it all. A loud scream cuts the air right when the blade retracts with a swift movement, and he can barely recognize the voice as his own—as if to answer, a familiar voice calls out for him from the distance, almost distorted, distress reaching his ears as his vision starts to blur the edges.
Seonghwa's leg gives up on him at last, and he collapses on the ground, unable to hold himself up anymore. He barely registers the sound of metal clinging loudly beside him when his sword hits the ground together with him, slipping from his weak grasp. His clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin, drenched in warm blood, fresh wound throbbing in the tight confines of his corset.
His eyes fall shut, and by the time he manages to crack them open again there’s a crowd of people all around him. Could be friends, could be enemies—he can’t find himself to care at all, right now. Their faces are out of focus, the stink of metal and gunpowder is strong in the air, covering the pleasant smell of seawater he got so used to. There’s a strong pressure against his wound, someone is holding his head upright, talking to him, trying to get him to react to his words—the man's hair is drenched in blood, deep red feathers dangling in front of Seonghwa's eyes, but the light brown of it still seems to be shining bright under the moonlight.
Maybe he’s just imagining it—Seonghwa feels close to falling asleep, exhausted and out of strength, so he lets his eyes drop again, hoping in the back of his mind it will be the last time he does.
˖⊹ ࣪﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
It’s not the last—his heavy eyelids open again reluctantly as a gentle ray of sunlight warms his face. He curses whatever deity is keeping him alive when he should have left this world long ago. This is not what he asked for, he never hoped to make it this far. He should have died with his crew, on that ship, and yet—by some cruel miracle—he slipped right through death’s grasp once more.
It takes him a few moments to focus on his surroundings, but it's more than clear to him where he is. If not for the good condition of the furniture placed against the walls, filled with books and writings of every shape and form, or for small trinkets and tools he can’t quite recognize at first glance, tools on which he laid his eyes already but hadn’t dared to ask about to their owner, then the owner himself—now seated at his desk, busy scribbling on something similar to a diary, hunched shoulders and his distinctive fur coat draped over the backrest of the chair—that alone gives it away.
Hongjoong's desk is messy, with maps and star charts scattered around, a compass, a seemingly precious hourglass, writing tools, a cup resting at the edge of it, and a few piles of books that are missing from their dusty shelves—too messy, thinks Seonghwa. He wouldn't mind reorganizing it, if the other allowed him.
Seonghwa stares mesmerized as Hongjoong brings one hand up through his hair, lost in thought, a few strands falling back to cover his eyes. He sighs in frustration, letting the feather fall on the pages of the book. He looks stressed, and upset, and it makes Seonghwa want to worry about the reason behind it.
“Are the words slipping away?”
It startles him as much as it startles Hongjoong, for probably two distinct reasons. For one, Seonghwa can’t quite recognize his own voice, dry and raspy, hoarse and unused, and so incredibly exhausted—he barely managed not to get stuck mid-sentence. And well, Hongjoong most likely wasn’t expecting the moribund boy lying in his bed to start talking out of the blue, after who knows how many days. Hongjoong looks up, eyes widened, and jumps to his feet.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice down to a whisper, incredulous.
Unfortunately, he wants to answer, but can’t seem to let the words out. They get stuck to the walls of his throat and scratch stubbornly against them. Hongjoong seems to notice the discomfort on his face and reaches for the cup, getting a hold of the handle and disappearing from Seonghwa’s line of vision, with nothing more than a promise of quick return. He hears the familiar click of boots against the wooden floor getting more and more distant, being replaced by silence, getting closer again and filling the stillness of the room. Hongjoong reappears, cup now filled with water almost to the brim.
“Yeosang should be here shortly—try and drink this for now.”
Seonghwa lifts his head from the pillow with much resistance from his sore muscles, and Hongjoong is quick to rest a hand behind it for support, holding it up as he places the cup against Seonghwa’s lips and tilts it, letting the boy to take small, steady sips of fresh water—not the easiest thing, but he welcomes the feeling nonetheless, gulping it down despite the slight protest of his dry throat. His breath still feels shallow, his head throbbing with the worst headache of his life, and the little effort has him fall back on the pillow with a tired huff.
“Why am I in here?”
Seonghwa’s eyes fix on Hongjoong’s scar, on his clear iris. They fit the captain’s features perfectly, pull them together, and create a nice contrast with the warm tone of his skin, only adding to the mad sea captain character that every member of the crew paints him to be. Seonghwa doesn’t believe that to be true—he might be twisted and devious at times, yet he only proves himself to be everything but irrational. Seonghwa respects that the most.
“Yeosang said it would be better to have you sleep on a proper bed, to allow the wound to heal faster.”
He looks more present than usual—more real, even. Maybe it’s because they’re so close he couldn't possibly be anywhere else. Maybe it's the simplicity of his form, without the large coat morphing it, almost as if the single piece of clothing held all his authority within. Seonghwa had gotten a glimpse of that hidden side of him—that night he found Yeosang in his bed—caught off guard, with exhaustion tugging at his features. He had been quick to cover it all up when he realized how exposed he was, but Seonghwa had seen it regardless, that shadow of vulnerability that discreetly wrapped around him.
“So the captain of the Aurora willingly gives up his bed for strays?”
“He was the one who asked me to, since it’s nicer than the ones in the infirmary, and easier than your hammock.”
Seonghwa scoffs—oh, he would know—but he does have a point. The old mattress there was so thin that he could count the bed’s slats under him one by one, and he’s pretty sure that a couple of them were missing just beneath his waist. On top of that, the fabric of the sheets reeked for some reason, a smell that he couldn’t pinpoint—probably for the better—and he could barely turn over without feeling like it would crack beneath his weight with the sounds the whole structure made every time he moved. This is a luxury, in comparison—here, there’s a big glass window on one side of the room that allows enough light to pour into the space.
“He ordered you to.”
“Be grateful, would you? Or I’ll send you back there.”
Seonghwa looks up at him again to check the gravity of the threat, but Hongjoong’s lips are curled in a smile. Seonghwa grew fond of that smile, before even realizing it. It’s something that the captain reserved for his trusted crew only, and Seonghwa found himself yearning for a taste of it as well. He doesn’t know how they got to this point, but Hongjoong had been more laid back around him lately, more natural, addressing Seonghwa as if they'd known each other for years. It almost made him feel like part of his crew—almost. His eyes fall on his scar again, unconsciously, but he doesn’t bother hiding it—he knows the other wouldn’t misunderstand his mind.
“You can ask, I know you've been dying to.”
Hongjoong holds his gaze, unbothered.
“The others said I shouldn’t.”
His sore body is gradually coming back to life, and the more time goes by, the more pain starts to crawl under his skin, slowly setting it aflame.
“That story about the three rules?” he sighs, but the smile still paints his lips. “It’s just something San and Wooyoung made up to scare people away.”
“Even the one about Yeosang?”
“Oh, that, well—yeah, that one is true.”
Seonghwa lets out a weak chuckle, looking at the ceiling, but the sound comes out strained, right before morphing into a coughing fit. He can only see Hongjoong’s eyes drawn in worry as he leans over him before his vision goes black. An agonizing pain stabs him in the abdomen as his muscles contract, on his left side, sending shocks traveling through his whole body. He feels Hongjoong’s arms around him, holding him up to make him sit against the wall, readjusting a few extra pillows behind him.
It seems to help since the coughing dies out a moment later, and Seonghwa is left clutching his throat to catch his breath. He lets out a curse as his eyes start to prickle with tears, and his hand comes up to feel where the pain is more severe, to graze his burning skin, but meets a rougher fabric instead. He lowers his eyes to check on the wound, but it's covered by bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and waist. He had allowed himself to ignore it for the time being, but the pain was now growing closer to unbearable at a frightening speed.
“How bad is it?” he dares to ask Hongjoong, who is now sitting at the edge of the bed. At least now he looks more pained and less worried. Just a tad bit pitiful.
“We weren’t expecting you to wake up, at all,” Seonghwa clenches his jaw as another twinge hits him. “You’ve been out more than a week, coming and going for the past three days.”
Seonghwa’s head hits the headboard.
“Fuck, so you docked already?”
“Five days ago,” Hongjoong looks slightly disappointed by Seonghwa’s question. He looks like he knows something Seonghwa doesn't, something he wants to reveal as much as he wants to keep a secret from him. “Why, were you that eager to leave?”
You have no idea, he’s about to answer, but Hongjoong’s eyes tell him not to. Somehow, it would feel like a personal offense to tell him he had been counting the days. Seonghwa doesn’t want to let him down—he turns around to avoid his expectant gaze.
“It’s not like that.”
“Gods, Seonghwa, you’ll have to learn to face me when you lie, or you won't sound convincing enough for me to believe you.”
“That’s not—”
“I understand, you don’t have to explain yourself—maybe he was wrong about you being the one, after all.”
He? Did one of the members try to convince him to keep Seonghwa around? Seonghwa doesn’t like the certainty with which he speaks the words. He doesn't like how Hongjoong is keeping secrets from him—something that feels important, that Seonghwa should be a part of. Seonghwa knows he shouldn't be entitled to these privileges, Hongjoong has no reason to let him in on his crew's secrets, when he's bound to leave them anyway, but it doesn't stop Seonghwa's intrigue to build up inside him
“I still hadn’t made up my mind, anyway.”
Seonghwa’s lying again, Hongjoong knows it—he was set on leaving from day one. But it's something different that gets him to lie, this time around. Hongjoong knows something—something that concerns him, and it bothers him. Hongjoong had started acting odd at some point, but Seonghwa had simply tried not to make a big deal out of it. The circumstances allowed it—he never expected to be welcomed, never hoped to fit in. But he never expected to be bothered by it, either.
“Now, let’s sort something out while we wait for our dear doctor.” Hongjoong’s voice becomes heavier, his expression more serious, eyes dropping to Seonghwa's bandaged wound. “You gave me your word that you wouldn’t engage.”
Seonghwa’s head spikes up. He knows. Did he see it? Did Mingi rat him out? Or was it someone else? But then, why did no one intervene?
“I—I didn’t, it was self-defense.”
“It’s not self-defense, if it’s not yourself you’re defending—why are you lying?”
“He was about to hit Mingi, was I supposed to stay put and watch?”
“That’s exactly what I told you to do,” he says, firmly. “He would have handled it, Mingi is good with crowds.”
As authority starts to seep through his words, Seonghwa feels the other get more distant. He doesn’t move an inch, and yet it feels like he took a big step back, far from Seonghwa.
“It was four of them, I wasn't gonna risk it.”
In response, Seonghwa tries to keep his feet planted on the ground, even though something in Hongjoong's tone is telling him to step back, or walk away entirely. He’s still avoiding Hongjoong's eyes, looking at the corner of the room, and the other sighs.
“We’re grateful for what you did, I owe you my life for jumping in to protect my boys, but—” two steps. “You gave me your word. I asked one single thing of you, and you disobeyed my orders.”
Disobeyed—orders? Hongjoong isn't his captain, Seonghwa isn't part of his crew. He thought everyone agreed on it, he had been clear about it. This time, it’s Seonghwa who pulls back.
“I’ll make sure not to be as much of a burden again. I'm not gonna stay on this ship for long anyway.”
“This is not about being a burden, Seonghwa, it's about getting yourself—or any other member of my crew—in danger. You gave me your word, I decided to trust you, but you—”
Seonghwa is starting to get annoyed by the man's tone. Just a second ago, he seemed disappointed by the thought of Seonghwa hypothetically leaving his ship, and now this? Whatever he's keeping from him, it's starting to weigh on Seonghwa. It doesn't sit right with him.
“What’s all this fuss about? None of your precious boys got hurt, right?”
It’s supposed to hurt Hongjoong, mock him, even. It’s supposed to tell Hongjoong something more of what Seonghwa is willing to share with him, something deeper that he would never dare to show to any man alive—envy, jealousy, hurt, things he's been trying to keep out of reach. Feelings that have been making a home in Seonghwa's chest from the day Hongjoong welcomed him into his ship—and then,
“You did.”
It catches Seonghwa off guard way more than he’d like to admit. Part of it because of the bad timing, maybe overall frustration, but most of it because Hongjoong saw it—he saw all of it. All the discomfort in his eyes reflects in the ones of the captain, an amount of concern and annoyance too great to ignore. Seonghwa forces himself to avoid it, to take a deep breath, and step even further away.
"Listen, Seonghwa—"
“As I said, I'll make sure it doesn't happen again, Sir.”
Four steps, and counting. Silence falls over the room as Seonghwa doesn't seem to want to talk anymore, but Hongjoong has a different plan. He looks down at Seonghwa’s waist before speaking again.
“I saw it happening, you know? Watched as the sword went right through you, and yet you were still standing on your feet,” he says, tipping his chin towards the wound. “You’re lucky San got to you in time and took care of those guys.”
Hongjoong's hand comes up to rest on top of Seonghwa’s bandages and wraps around his side, thumb brushing lightly against the rough fabric. His eyes are studying the small blood stain right on top of the wound—it’s still far from healing, apparently—and Seonghwa just stares back at him with wary eyes at the sting his touch is provoking.
“The man was an easy shot—why didn’t you hit him?”
Ah, there it is. He knows what the other is hinting at—Seonghwa didn't fight back. He was so eager to be out in the field, he acted so insulted when Hongjoong told him to stay put and not move a finger, and when the time to fight back came, Seonghwa didn't fight back—he did nothing to get himself out of the situation.
“They had me in a corner—I was wounded, and my leg gave out, you saw it.”
Hongjoong scoffs. The pressure on the wound increases almost imperceptibly, but Seonghwa feels it all too well. It's the kind of pain that gets worse and worse the more you're exposed to it, not the kind that subsides the moment you get used to. Even then, it would prove difficult, with Hongjoong putting more pressure on the wound with each passing second.
“I saw you walk on a broken leg for days out of sheer stubbornness, I'm not buying the whole I was too weak to do anything story—not from you.”
A part of Seonghwa still catches the subtle praise, the implicit admiration hidden behind the words. The other part—the one that usually prevails—ignores it, trying to make sense of the hand still resting on top of his bleeding wound. Another, smaller part is going through a whirlwind of emotions he’s not quite ready to unpack yet, and goes completely ignored. Seonghwa stays silent, eyes looking far from the captain's.
“Look at me when I'm talking—why didn’t you use your gun? Did you know those men?” he says with a clear tone, tinted with more authority. He’s miles away from the gentle and friendly Hongjoong Seonghwa woke up to, and his head turns to face him as if under a spell. "Do you know what they were after?"
“What? No, why would I—" His jaw clenches. He's getting cornered for something he can barely make sense of—how could he have known them? “I shot both my bullets, I couldn't react fast enough.”
“Bullshit, you had one shot left—why are you lying to me?”
Seonghwa, on his part, doesn’t have any word left in him, doesn't have a story credible enough to sell Hongjoong, doesn’t have the strength to pull him away, to get some distance between them.
"Answer me.”
When his lips stay sealed once again, Hongjoong leans closer, and Seonghwa can only blink before Hongjoong’s palm is pressing flat on his wound. He lets out a scream as pain strikes his whole body, and his reflexes kick in. He thrashes on the bed, trying to escape his grasp, but Hongjoong's weight pushes him back against the mattress. One hand wraps around Hongjoong's wrist while the other presses against the captain’s chest in an attempt to push him away, but he gives up soon when he realizes he's not strong enough for it, and is only adding more pressure to the wound.
"Stop! Fuck—please, stop!" he screams, eyes shut and burning with fresh tears. “They cornered me, he caught me off guard, nothing else happened!”
“Stop lying."
Hongjoong leans even closer, putting more weight on his hand and digging his thumb right where his skin tears, making Seonghwa flinch at the new flow of blood gushing out from the cut and drenching most of the bandaging, as well as the sheet gathered in his lap. Nausea rises up the walls of his throat at the agonizing pain that overwhelms all his senses at once, rendering him unable to think of something that might get him out of this.
"I’m not! I swear, just—"
Hongjoong must count up to a handful of seconds before settling on it, and he finally gives in, reducing the pressure, but his hand doesn’t budge. Seonghwa’s arms fall back against the bed as if owned by a dead body, and he's left gasping for air under Hongjoong’s cold gaze.
“You’re not getting any sort of pain reliever until you spit it out.” Seonghwa groans low in his throat when he presses down again. “I need to know this ship can count on you—that I can count on you. I can't have you on my ship knowing you could get one of my men killed because you're distracted.”
Seonghwa doesn’t answer, he turns his head to the side. Under his skin crawls the guilt from his past, his eyes burn with tears he doesn’t deserve to cry for people who didn’t deserve to die in his place. Hongjoong's threats only act as a reminder of how he deserves it.
“Let’s have it your way then,” says Hongjoong at last, pulling his hand away when he hears a quick knock on the door, and Seonghwa can finally breathe again.
“Is he—what the hell?” Seonghwa hears Yeosang stumble on his own words as he finds himself in front of the two, Hongjoong’s hand covered in blood. He walks closer to check the wound, and his face turns pale at the state he finds Seonghwa in. “What were you thinking? You fucking sadist, leave! Fucking leave the room!"
Seonghwa is barely conscious at this point, struggling to make out Yeosang’s silhouette hovering over him, fingers traveling around his face, his body, hands putting pressure on the wound to stop the flow of blood. His head hurts, strength gradually leaves his body as raw, excruciating pain takes its place, and the warm light flowing into the room from the big glass window is simply too strong for him to keep his eyes open. What if he just—
“Don’t fall asleep on me, yeah?” suddenly says Yeosang, voice hurried and dripping with concern.
Yeosang's face is out of focus, in the backlight, and Seonghwa can’t think of a reason why he should try harder to focus on it.
“Tired,” he mumbles with the little breath left in his lungs, not knowing how he manages to get the words out.
“I know, but I need you to stay with me while I do this, okay?”
“Can’t.”
It’s the closest thing to a warning Yeosang gets before Seonghwa’s eyes fall shut and his head starts tipping to the side, too heavy for him to hold upright.
“Seonghwa? Hwa! Fuck—”
His skin is turning paler by the second from the substantial blood loss. Yeosang hisses out a silent curse when he realizes that if he doesn’t stitch the wound back up in the next minute, Seonghwa won't make it out alive. If he closes his eyes now, there’s a high chance it’ll be the last time he does. He needs him awake and conscious. Then Seonghwa registers a pair of strong, careful hands holding his face, tilting his head back up, and feels the harsh—soft press of warm lips against his own. It's so short, that Seonghwa might have as well imagined it. Seonghwa's eyes flutter open as the blonde leans away from him, looking straight into his eyes.
“Stay with me,” he breathes against Seonghwa’s lips. “Talk to me.”
Seonghwa's throat feels dry and far too tight for him to even put a couple of syllables together, his mind too fogged to gather up something that could make any sense without using his last crumb of strength, so he holds his hand up instead, settling on Yeosang’s shoulder. He gives it a light squeeze, presses the point of his thumb right into the bone, tracing the outline of his collarbone from over the soft skin.
“That'll do—squeeze whenever it hurts too much, understood? Need you to stay awake.”
He gives another squeeze, just to let him know he got the message, before letting his head fall against the wooden wall with a soft thud, trying to catch his breath again—maybe bring it back to a somewhat stable rhythm.
“I’m not gonna let you die, Seonghwa,” he promises, as Seonghwa clearly feels the needle pierce through his skin for the first time. “Not under my watch—and surely not by his hands.”
Seonghwa tries to somehow distract himself from following every step of Yeosang stitching up his wound, fixing his eyes on his face instead and studying his features, his focused gaze, lips pressed in a thin line. His golden strands are fixed in a neat braid so as not to get in his way as he works, but the low part of it has been slowly coming loose the more Yeosang frets, and the shorter locks slip out of it one by one.
Seonghwa tries to focus on the hot touch of his careful fingertips rather than the sting from the sharp needle, on the burning feeling that spreads through his skin every time he does as much as graze it. He finds himself to be quite lost in the other, barely even minding the pain—the boy in front of him deserves all the attention he can muster, at the moment. By the time he’s done with the stitching, Seonghwa realizes he barely even tightened his hold on Yeosang’s shoulder.
Like this, without the hair to cover it, Seonghwa finally gets a clear view of that birthmark he had only caught a glimpse of, until today. Red, bright, impossible to notice against Yeosang’s fair skin. It paints the corner of his eye and drags to his temple into an uneven shape. It draws Seonghwa in, begs him to move his hand to graze it, trace the outline of it.
“Still with me?”
So he does. His hand comes up to the side of Yeosang’s face, and his finger draws over the mark with a touch so light he hopes it might go unnoticed. The blonde smiles quietly, still focused on his work, but his cheeks fill with a blush that almost blends with the stain, and Seonghwa is left staring in awe. If he had been in his right mind, he would have never dared, but he can't seem to hold back in this moment. Part of it because his mind is too hazy to make out where the line lies, too blurry to even notice when he stepped over it.
Seonghwa's hand then travels back down to play with the loose hair at the base of Yeosang's neck, slow fingers intertwining with the light locks, blinking lazily at him. Yeosang steals a glance at him, rather endeared by the other's state, before he goes back to his task. Now that the worst part is out of the way and Seonghwa’s face is starting to regain its color, he seems more at ease, his movements much slower and relaxed as he presses the fresh and clean fabric of a new bandage over the wound, letting Seonghwa lean on his shoulder for support as he circles it around his waist.
“You truly are impressively good with pain—how?”
He looks down at Yeosang’s hands, busy adjusting the bandages on him, cautious not to tie them tight enough to hinder Seonghwa's breathing.
“You get used to it.”
He feels Yeosang’s eyes on him, can physically feel the concern pour out of him at the statement, at the roughness in his voice caused by exhaustion, and sees his hands freeze where they were working around a knot of the two hems of the bandages. Then they come up to his face again, cupping Seonghwa's cheeks just like he did before, making him look up. He feels a slight sting when Yeosang's thumb touches his right cheek, and he vaguely recalls being grazed by a small blade during the battle, dangerously close to his eye. But Yeosang's touch is so delicate that he refuses to care.
Seonghwa finds himself wishing—craving the taste of Yeosang's lips again. He wants it so much he thinks he could faint from their closeness alone. He leans closer, quite unconsciously, hands coming up to wrap loosely around Yeosang’s wrists because he doesn't know what to ask, how to ask—if he's in any position to ask, even. He lets out a single word, something soft and delicate, something weak and silent—a prayer for more.
“Please,” he begs in a whisper.
Yeosang complies easily, like it’s something simple, closing the gap between their lips with no hesitation whatsoever. It’s tender, Seonghwa can’t seem to get himself to move. He wants to taste it properly, without the veil of unconsciousness that was wrapped tightly around his brain only moments ago. He truly believes he could stay like this till the end of time, not moving an inch, pressed against soft lips, warmth spreading through his whole body at the brief contact. Yeosang pulls away too soon, so Seonghwa lets go of his arms in lieu of bringing his hands to the other’s jaw, just at the juncture of his neck, to draw him in and press their bodies closer.
Yeosang clearly doesn't expect the spike of vigor from Seonghwa, and his lips part slightly to let out a silent gasp that Seonghwa swallows eagerly. Seonghwa wants to feel him, all of him, and Yeosang lets him—lets Seonghwa sneak his tongue in to wrap around his own, lets him travel and press freely against the walls of his mouth while he tries to imprint the feeling of it all to memory. Yeosang doesn't comment on the soft whimper that escapes Seonghwa as he reciprocates with the same eagerness, but Seonghwa wouldn't raise any complaints even if he did.
Seonghwa's lips travel down, following the line of his jaw, kissing the addictive warmth of his skin. Yeosang cranes his head back, and with a gentle hand on the back of his neck, he pulls him closer. Seonghwa could grow an addiction to the fast rise and fall of Yeosang's chest alone, the more his breathing gets rushed, to the steady pulse of his blood thrumming beneath the pressure of his lips, to the strong hand dropping on his leg and squeezing at the muscle of his thigh—a warning.
"Seonghwa—"
They part—they have to, assumes Seonghwa, once he takes note of the steady footsteps coming down the stairs just outside of the room. He doesn't have a lucid enough mind to let go right away, his tired brain doesn't register any risk in getting caught just yet, and the way Yeosang breathes out his name does nothing but tug him in again. The blonde grants him one last kiss, which Seonghwa can't help but drag on, before the quick knock on the door tears them apart again.
Seonghwa feels wrecked, eyes dropping lazily, short of breath and hungry for more still, lips slightly swollen and painted with much more color than before. Yeosang, on his part, looks composed as ever, apart from a pink shade dusting his cheeks. Seonghwa thinks it looks beautiful on him, it reminds him of when he found him lying in this same bed, pale skin painted with light bruises and a shy blush. He wonders if Hongjoong could have learned to control himself in front of him with time, or if he’d still give in shamelessly the same way Seonghwa just did. Yeosang leans back, taking Seonghwa’s hands in his own and whispering close to his lips with a warm smile.
“Let’s make this our little secret for now, yeah? Otherwise, he’ll eat me alive.”
Seonghwa doesn’t know who he should be in this scenario—is it Hongjoong? Did he get himself into a bigger mess than he already was? If he did, he can't find himself regretting it, even now that he's regaining some of his clarity.
“Come in!” says Yeosang finally, getting up from the bed and shifting his attention to Seonghwa’s legs as the boy tries to recompose himself the best he can.
“I brought the vial you asked for,” chimes Wooyoung’s voice as he steps into the room. “Jongho wanted to see him, too.”
“Thank you,” says the doctor as he holds Seonghwa's broken leg carefully, inspecting every inch of it while feigning indifference—Seonghwa hadn’t noticed before, but they had removed the support. “Would you mind giving it to him? I need to have a talk with Hongjoong.”
Wooyoung walks closer to the bed, hands in his pockets, looking the slightest bit distressed. Seonghwa notices a small cut on his face that wasn't there before, right on the side of his chin, still visibly healing. Something he must have gotten during the battle.
“How is he?”
“He just woke up, Captain pulled a number on him, so he’s still weak. Don’t know what he was trying to prove—not even sure it worked.”
Seonghwa watches Yeosang's hands attentively as they bring the hem of the sheet back up to cover Seonghwa’s figure. Wooyoung somehow catches the slight tension in the older’s muscles when Yeosang's hand rests on Seonghwa’s arm for a split second, and he sucks in a breath when it comes in contact with his naked skin.
“Oh Gods, you were making out, weren’t you?”
Seonghwa’s eyes fly to Wooyoung, slightly shocked, then to Yeosang, who smiles to himself, still looking as composed and innocent as he did before.
“Don’t be stupid, our angel just had a near-death experience.”
Our—
“Yeah, that's the best time to make out with your pretty doctor!” Says Wooyoung, sitting ungracefully on the edge of the bed. “Am I wrong, star?”
Seonghwa’s head drops as he fixes his attention on his hands resting on his lap, hoping Wooyoung won’t notice the way his ears are tinted red already.
“Just don’t bother him too much, he needs to rest if we want him to recover.”
“Can you tell Mingi he's awake?” Wooyoung speaks, holding the doctor back by his wrist when he walks past him. “He's been worried.”
Yeosang nods his head yes, and finally makes his way out of the room. Only now does Seonghwa notice the small, black creature sitting at the edge of Hongjoong’s desk, grooming his fur nonchalantly. Wooyoung settles right beside Seonghwa, heedless of how he might be taking up too much of the bed, or invading his personal space.
"Mingi was worried about me?"
"Don't be so happy about it, we don't like our Mingi worried."
Seonghwa isn't exactly happy, he doesn't know what this feeling is. Relief, maybe—he hasn't felt genuine relief in so long that it feels unfamiliar, doesn't feel real. Maybe it's something else. But knowing that he hadn't imagined it almost makes his shoulders drop at the reassurance. The look Mingi gave him back there was indeed one of gratitude, approval—maybe mixed with disbelief, but not in a bad way for what Seonghwa could catch.
"Sorry, it's been a while since I had that happen to me."
"Almost bleeding to death?"
Seonghwa scoffs, body relaxing against the headboard.
"People worrying about me."
"Hm, you'd be surprised."
He’s about to ask Wooyoung about it, but he’s stopped by the other hitting his shoulder with a closed fist—it’s weak, but with the way his whole body is aching, it’s enough to make him flinch in shock.
“Ow, what the fuck!”
"You don't get to just die on us like that!"
Seonghwa tries to get some distance between them, scooting to the side and leaning back on his arms in fear that he could get some strange idea and hit him again—it proves to be useless when Wooyoung reaches out with his hand and flicks his forehead with his middle finger.
“And that’s for kissing Yeosang,” he adds with a pout, sounding personally affronted by Seonghwa’s actions.
He’s all up in Seonghwa’s space now, with his hands on each side of Seonghwa’s thighs, so close that Seonghwa feels the warmth disperse from him onto his own skin. He smells of fresh vegetables—carrots, maybe. Yeosang must have called him in the middle of it. Wooyoung's uneven eyes make him look much more menacing than Seonghwa can handle—or just enough. The closeness makes Seonghwa's breath hitch in his lungs.
“He started it."
“But you went back for more, didn’t you?”
Seonghwa couldn’t feel guilty about it if he tried.
“Fuck,” whispers Wooyoung, letting his head fall against Seonghwa’s shoulder. “I bet I could still taste him on you.”
Seonghwa’s breathing fails him for a second because there's so much to unpack in that single sentence, and his brain can barely catch up, can only wrap around a handful of lucid thoughts that mainly consist of dear Gods and what the hell—a blurred mess of I want. He’s pretty sure Wooyoung can read it all on his own in the erratic rhythm of Seonghwa's heartbeat.
The cat—little devilish creature—meows loudly to catch their attention, and Wooyoung raises his head again like the noise alone threw him back down to Earth, and he’s left gaping at Seonghwa’s lips like a thirsty man would look at a body of water on the hottest day of the year, without an inch of shade in sight. He looks afflicted.
“I know, I promised San I wouldn’t.” Oh, so they really are a thing, but then why— "I brought something for you,” he says, leaning back, finally allowing Seonghwa to breathe again. He digs through the right pocket of his pants and produces a tiny glass vial in which swims a bluish substance, on the viscous side. “This should help with the pain.”
Seonghwa eyes the liquid as Wooyoung removes the cork with a satisfying pop, bringing it to his lips for him to wrap them around the rim, and proceeds to tilt the flask, carefully keeping his free hand under Seonghwa’s chin as he does. Seonghwa swallows the tonic in two big gulps—whatever it is, it tastes disgusting, but he doesn’t budge—and in the haste of it all, one last drop spills from Seonghwa’s lips. Wooyoung doesn’t hesitate to brush his thumb across his bottom lip to collect it.
“Open up, don’t waste it.”
Seonghwa obeys without much reluctance, parting his lips to take the point of Wooyoung's finger in his mouth. The pad of it presses down on his tongue and he circles it, licking it clean from the liquid, tasting the salty texture of Wooyoung’s skin as he stares back at him with careful eyes. It's short and quick, but it’s enough to have Seonghwa lean into Wooyoung’s space when he retracts his hand, hoping he could scrape up some more from him, hoping Wooyoung would be as merciful as Yeosang has proven himself to be and allow Seonghwa whatever he begged for.
Instead, he’s left watching as the younger leans away, like he barely even raised a finger against the older since he came in the room, and relaxes against the headboard. Between Hongjoong, Yeosang, and now Wooyoung, he feels like he's being pulled in seven different directions at once, and his limbs will be ripped off soon. Seonghwa forces himself back to reality and settles on doing the same, lying back and taking the chance to give his strained body a break.
“San was worried sick about you,” says Wooyoung. “I mean, we all were, but—you know.”
It’s unusual, the shyness with which he’s saying the words, it sounds like a confession of sorts. We all care about you, but San and I—just a tad bit more. It's an odd thing—coming to know about their feelings like this, given that the last time the three of them were in a room alone together, he had a knife to his throat, and San tried to get a threat to stick to his brain through simil-torture. They’re quite the interesting pair.
Seonghwa learned Wooyoung doesn’t apply many filters to himself—doesn’t have any reason to. He wears his feelings on his sleeves for the world to see—whether they're bitter or sweet, or a combination of the two, because he’s ready to give himself as he is. Nothing more than that, and nothing less. That day on deck, when they found him, he guessed that much by the way he had looked into San's eyes with such sweetness, but he would have never imagined finding himself at the receiving end of this type of treatment from him.
“Does it hurt a lot?" His eyes aren’t pitiful, as Seonghwa would expect. They’re mostly just concerned, and slightly sad. "That was one of the strongest pain relievers we have in stock.”
Seonghwa doesn’t feel like telling the truth, not after his small confession—he can’t have him go back to San and tell him he's hurting so much that he wants to crawl out of his skin not to feel anything at all, or that at some point the pain was so excruciating he had thought about gathering enough strength to get up from the bed and fetch one of Hongjoong’s guns from that chest in the corner of the room, to finally make it all stop. Or that the same thought crossed his mind so many more times even before he got injured and the only thing that stopped him from going through with it is that he's too much of a coward for it.
“It’s—it’s bearable,” he says instead. “Yeosang’s treatment helped.”
“Hongjoong is right," Wooyoung lets his head fall on Seonghwa’s shoulder and snorts, a playful smirk on his lips. "You're such a bad liar.”
His hands come up to grab Seonghwa’s, not holding it but playing with his fingers instead, like a little kid would—Seonghwa just lets him, looking down and taking note of the countless little scars and burns scattered on his skin—probably the price for his excellent culinary skills. It acts as the perfect distraction from the pain.
“What happened with him?”
Other than the fact that he almost made me bleed to death?
“He thinks I’m hiding something from him,” he simply says.
“Are you?”
The way Wooyoung’s delicate fingers don’t cease tracing the creases of Seonghwa’s palm as if they were trying to draw them into memory, even as the silence grows in the space between them, makes something warm and tight wrap around his heart against his will.
“San and I trust you—you’ll make it right, won’t you?”
Seonghwa wants to, he does—why does he? When did the line between wanting to run away from this ship and not wanting to disappoint its crew get so blurry all of a sudden? Seonghwa doesn’t say much after that—he wouldn’t know how to, but he’s grateful for the way Wooyoung refuses to let the silence grow any louder around them and risk it suffocating Seonghwa, and instead starts telling him little tales and stories to keep his mind away from the pain in his abdomen as the medicine slowly kicks in and does its work. Seonghwa simply hangs on each syllable that leaves his lips.
Even when Wooyoung takes his leave, the spot next to Seonghwa doesn’t stay empty for long, as the cat quietly jumps down from the desk and makes his way towards the bed to curl beside him, purring softly as Seonghwa scratches his head. Hongjoong found him digging through a pile of junk one day and brought him back, said Wooyoung at some point when Seonghwa asked about him, he loves it when you call him sweet things—like kitty cat!
The cat had looked at Wooyoung wrong then, which got an amused chuckle out of him. The pet doesn't seem to like Wooyoung at all, but the latter promised Seonghwa that he loves him just enough, that he's his favorite out of all the members of the crew—after Mingi, probably. And Yeosang, but that's a given.
˖⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Days slowly go by, and Seonghwa barely even meets Hongjoong, which is odd, given that Seonghwa never leaves the room—Hongjoong's room. But he won’t complain, not after their last interaction. Yeosang insists that he cleared things out with the captain, that Seonghwa has nothing to worry about—that Hongjoong will figure it out soon enough. Seonghwa isn't fully reassured and expects Hongjoong to start threatening him again as soon as their eyes meet—or try to kill him, possibly.
There are times the captain tags along when the other members come to see Seonghwa, to check on him, and Seonghwa tries to pay him no mind, but Hongjoong's eyes are glued to him from the moment he comes to the room to the moment he leaves. Seonghwa doesn't dare ask, but it's obvious Hongjoong has him in check, studying his every word, weighing each word Seonghwa shares with the others. Yeosang seems more than fed up with the captain's behavior, but he never gets in the way of it.
The few times Hongjoong does come in alone, whether it’s to quickly fetch something or sit at the desk to work on his logs, Seonghwa pretends to be asleep or turns to the opposite side, not wanting to face him. Call him petty—he knows he is.
Aside from Hongjoong's wariness, everyone else is exceptionally good to him. Jongho comes to check on him one night, looking oddly shy and holding a small wooden cat in his hands—another one of his meticulous creations as a get better soon gift, assumes Seonghwa. The cat—he keeps Seonghwa company the most out of all the members of the crew, sleeping at his feet most nights and curling up beside him occasionally when Seonghwa’s pain becomes a little worse, purring loudly against his chest to bring him some comfort.
San and Wooyoung take turns bringing his meals, sometimes both of them, waiting patiently and sitting around while Seonghwa empties the bowl of food. Yeosang helps him wash up, slowly swiping a wet cloth across his sore skin, and Seonghwa comes very close to falling asleep whenever he does. Yeosang's touch is the one thing that can bring him some type of relief from the pain. Not only is it delicate and comforting, but it's addictive enough for Seonghwa to forget about it completely.
The touches and the closeness they provide sometimes feel like torture, because they're not his to keep. He thinks Yeosang might know, can easily read through him, which is why he doesn't always comply when Seonghwa seeks him out. He hesitates, even when Seonghwa knows he's going to give in eventually, because he knows Seonghwa is forcing himself not to get used to the attention—and they both know he's doomed to fail.
Even Mingi comes to see him one day, Yunho in tow behind him. He delivers something that should sound like an apology, but isn't entirely one—not that Seonghwa expected one. The two of them keep him company for a good while, and it's much more pleasant than Seonghwa could have predicted. They float comfortably around the room, they fill the space without intruding. Mingi even jokes with him, and Seonghwa finds that he regrets not having been able to see his sweet smile earlier. It makes his heart feel lighter, without much effort.
Yeosang is the one who checks on him every day to make sure the wound stays clean and changes his bandages regularly—he’s the one who has to reassure Seonghwa over and over that he’s far from being a burden for any of them, a dead weight for the crew. Seonghwa puts his faith in the boy for a few ticks of the clock, but when Yeosang leaves the room, it all turns futile. After a whole week, the doctor becomes gradually more concerned about the state of Seonghwa’s wound, slowly realizing that the healing process is not going as smoothly as he had hoped.
Pain tugs at his body as he shakes and shivers all over, sore, aching. Sweat drips down his skin, making both his hair and clothes stick to him uncomfortably. He feels hot, and cold, and hot and cold and hot and like he’ll go crazy if the pain doesn’t cease any soon. Arms heavy, lying lifeless at his sides, legs stretched out on the mattress. There’s no light coming through the large window, so he figures the moon must be hiding behind a cloudy sky tonight, and in a distant corner of his mind he feels grateful for it, because merely the thought of any stream of light potentially hitting his eyes makes his head throb.
He shuts his eyes again, sighing wearily, counts to three for the pain to stop—seven, nine, ten, twelve, fifteen—just then, the pain becomes sharper, more insistent, right on his left side. Twenty-three, twenty-six—the air becomes thicker, reeking of fresh and dried blood all the same, and the smell of saline water from the ocean grows stronger. It stings, it burns through his nostrils, down his throat, in his lungs, blocking his airways as if he were drowning from it.
A loud thud echoes around him, making the hard wooden floor beneath his knees shake slightly at the impact, and then—a scream, ringing desperate in his ears, so hopeless and devastated that Seonghwa’s eyes fly in its direction, opening wide. It takes a moment for him to adjust to the strong light shining above him and realize he’s on the deck of a ship—not the Aurora, this is much more grotesque and poorly maintained. The floor seems permanently stained with a dark, deep garnet red. Seonghwa’s blood runs cold as his gaze locks on the lifeless body at his feet, eyes still widened in fright and lips parted in a silent scream, and an endless stream of fresh blood gushes from the slit in his throat.
Beside him, he can get a glimpse of his crewmates—his friends, kneeling in a straight line, hands bound behind their backs just like him. Some of them are crying out in the air, some keep their head low, and a few keep their eyes glued to the sky, whispering something under their breath—as if a simple prayer could spare them from such a cruel fate.
A few meters from Seonghwa stands his brother, the only one of their lot who still has the guts to keep his chin up, eyes cast down to the dead body of his lost companion. A tall man towers over him, a filthy, dirty, long coat draped over his shoulders, chest filled with pride as his sword drips with the blood of Seonghwa’s friend.
“Get the second in command now,” he orders in a husky voice, gesturing with his head towards Seonghwa’s brother at one end of the line. "Maybe this will get that smug expression off his face.”
Seonghwa’s eyes widen in terror as one of the pirates whacks his brother from behind, making him fall forward, face to the ground. Seonghwa had managed not to cry until now—he promised his brother he wouldn't have, he promised himself, but once their eyes meet, he regrets ever raising his head. A sob breaks through him as the older sends him a smile, ever so miserable, hopeless, with all the intention of being of some comfort.
“No! Leave him alone, take me instead!” screams Seonghwa desperately, the dread of losing his brother blinding him.
He tries to break free from the rope restraining his hands, tries to get his feet to move and reach his brother, but one of the pirates kicks him right on his left side, forcing him to fold in on himself as a sharp pain strikes him between his ribs.
“Oh, don’t be greedy,” chuckles the man, amused by the pathetic scene taking place at his feet. “Your time will come soon enough.”
I’m sorry, his brother mouths when their eyes meet one last time before Seonghwa shuts them close, too much of a coward to face him before he hears the sharp sword cut through air, flesh, and bone, getting stuck in the wooden planks of the floor—his brother has always been the bravest of the two. A loud thud, one of Seonghwa's companions gasps. The mad pirate lets out a full-bodied laughter, making a mockery of Seonghwa's wailing as he thrashes around on the ground.
“I’m sorry—” he cries out, tears welling up in his eyes. “It should have been me, I’m sorry, please just kill me, kill me, I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry I was too weak, I'm sorry I couldn't—he’s frantic, trying to set free from the rope around his wrists when it gets tighter, and tighter, and tighter, keeping him in place with a bruising strength.
“Seonghwa?”
“No, please, I'm sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Seonghwa, open your eyes,” someone says, voice firm—his head throbs with more pain when he doesn’t recognize it. “Open your eyes, now.”
He does, he follows orders, because it’s the only thing that keeps him from admitting to the burning pain spreading like wildfire through his body—the grip around his wrists is even stronger now. Mind blurry, he doesn’t recognize the young face hovering over him, with sharp, wide eyes and delicate features.
“Seonghwa, you have to stop moving—you’ll get yourself hurt.”
His brain has gone blank. Nothing coherent is coming in or getting out, all of his senses are zeroed in on trying to break free from the bindings, getting as far away from the man as he can.
“Why are you doing this?”
"Seonghwa—Seonghwa! It’s Hongjoong—look at me, come on.”
Everything comes to a halt, his world stops spinning all of a sudden. His eyes shoot open again, and with the little spark of sanity left in him, he manages to finally bring the man into focus, and recognize the crystal clear iris looking down at him through his fuzzy vision—Hongjoong.
“You’re safe, I promise,” he whispers, and Seonghwa can only look back, lost, confused—in pain, trying to catch his breath as the captain brings one hand up to his forehead. “Fuck, you’re burning up.”
He becomes more aware of his surroundings—of Hongjoong being so close to his face, of the dread in his eyes, of his trembling hands framing Seonghwa’s pale face, of them peeling off the strands of hair sticking to his sweaty skin. Seonghwa mutters a curse under his breath, face scrunching up in pain as he regains some consciousness, slowly coming back to his senses.
His body turns completely limp, head and arms falling lifeless on the bed as the adrenaline from the dream—from his memory—dissipates completely from his veins, and Hongjoong turns to the bright red patch staining the sheets, reaching out to hold them up and expose the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around Seonghwa’s middle to cover his wound.
“Shit, your wound.” Hongjoong's voice is low, as if he wouldn’t want the other to hear him, to know about it. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“Like a bitch, is it the—fuck,” he tilts his head back onto the pillow, body contorting into itself as a shock of pain cuts through it. He grits his teeth to try and get through the sharp wave that punches against him before he can even catch his breath. “Did you guess from the fresh stream of blood?”
“Watch your tone.”
"Why?" Seonghwa opens his eyes just slightly, enough to look—to glare at the man standing in front of him, the look on his face now far from the anxious one he was showing until a second before. "You’re no captain of mine.”
It’s like a switch flips inside Hongjoong, his whole body tenses, and his eyes turn ice cold, not the tiniest bit of concern left in them. He seems to be contemplating something, all the rush from before vanished into thin air. His eyes go from Seonghwa’s face to his wound, back to Seonghwa, and his wound again. The injured boy doesn’t mind him, too preoccupied with the scream trying to rip out of him at the overwhelming burning feeling spreading through his every muscle.
“Thought you’d lose the attitude in a condition like this.” He's now wearing a cold facade that Seonghwa fails to read entirely. “Let's see if you bleed out before your doctor gets here, shall we?”
Seonghwa wants to bite back with a snarky comment, but before he can open his mouth to speak, Hongjoong is closing the door behind him, slow and steady steps getting more distant as he walks up the stairs. Just like that, Seonghwa is alone, as if the other had never been there in the first place.
If Hongjoong had wanted him to bleed out on his bed, he would have let him last time, he reasons—there’s a high chance that Hongjoong may truly have gone to fetch Yeosang. Although, as of now, the only thing keeping his eyes from falling closed is the fear of his brother’s death replaying in front of him again, and again, and again, so he tries to keep them open despite every inch of his brain and body telling him to give up. Again, and again, and again.
˖⊹ ࣪﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
He doesn’t bleed out, but he thinks he gets close to it, because when Yeosang eventually barges into the room—all hurried steps and breathless—it takes a few minutes for Seonghwa to focus on his face, eyelids tired and heavy falling close at last.
When he wakes up, the sun is up and bright, light pouring through the window. Yeosang is sitting on a chair next to the bed, reading a book, old and used and ruined, with a peaceful expression on his face. He is glowing, quite literally, golden skin shining under the light of day, blonde streaks of hair falling over his focused eyes. He looks like a painting, or a statue, a work of art any artist would be jealous of.
There is a single moment in which Seonghwa wonders if maybe he did actually bleed to death this time, because Yeosang doesn't feel real—he must be an angel, or one of those Gods Seonghwa never dared to worship. Yeosang raises his head to check on the supposedly sleeping boy, and catches Seonghwa staring at him before the latter can give himself a headache from it.
“Mornin',” he smiles, discarding the book in his hands and moving closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Do I need to answer that?”
He feels like he just crawled down to the depths of hell and climbed back up with his bare hands. Three times, at least. There’s not a single inch of his body that doesn’t hurt, and his wound—Gods, he feels like he’s burning in flames.
“No, I guess you’re fine,” answers Yeosang with a chuckle.
He rests a soft hand on Seonghwa’s face, cupping his cheek, and Seonghwa can’t help but lean into the touch because he can never get enough of Yeosang’s warmth on his skin—not even when he's being swallowed by hellfire.
“The fever went down, thankfully,” he sighs—he looks genuinely relieved. “The wound was infected, I cleaned it up and changed the bandages,” he informs, hand sliding down to Seonghwa’s forearm and settling there—Seonghwa’s skin prickles under the touch.
He lifts himself on his elbows, groaning at the effort, scooting up on the bed to rest against the headboard—Yeosang is quick to reach out and fix his posture with a soft pillow behind him so that he would be more comfortable. In the back of his mind, he recognizes the familiar pattern of it all, from when Hongjoong had comforted him when he woke up after the ambush—minus the torturing part, that is. Yeosang leans closer to the older man to brush the hair away from his eyes—in the last few weeks, it had gotten so long that it could be tucked behind his ears.
“You should stop giving us heart attacks, I don’t think you’ll be lucky enough to survive a third time,” he says, and it’s obvious in his voice that it’s as much of a joke as it is the truth. “Hongjoong told me you were delirious? That you couldn’t recognize him?”
He’s not surprised to see his worried gaze pointed at him, and yet he can’t stand it. He still hasn’t had the time to digest everything, nor the fact that Hongjoong—it really had to be him, out of the whole crew—had seen him in such a vulnerable state. He can still feel the faint tear tracks tracing his cheeks, eyes still stinging—he must have looked like a mess.
“Yeah, I—I was somewhere else, it was from the fever, probably,” he says lightly, but the smell of fresh blood coming from his wound makes him nauseous all over again.
“Where were you?”
Seonghwa’s eyes focus on his leg, avoiding his gaze entirely. Yeosang rests a hand under his chin, turning his face to the side to redirect his attention back to him.
“Just what did they do to you?”
Be it concern, or simple curiosity, it’s only fair that he’d want to know after touching with his own hands what Seonghwa had to go through, after tending to it with such care. But going back there is the last thing Seonghwa wants to do right now. He spent enough time living in hell already, he doesn’t need to be reminded of it.
“Can I kiss you again?” he asks instead, looking attentively at the fleeting glance the blonde steals from his lips before looking up again.
“Hm, it depends.”
“Depends on what?”
Yeosang's thumb moves to slide across Seonghwa's bottom lip, and his mouth parts easily, the ghost of Wooyoung’s touch walking the same path still pressing insistently on his skin even after all this time. But Yeosang is more delicate, taking his time to study his face as if Seonghwa won't become a shivering mess at the simple contact. He lets Yeosang tilt his head back without any sign of resistance, and he hums, pleased with the way Seonghwa seems to turn pliant under his touch.
Yeosang leans closer, steadily, and Seonghwa holds his breath as if he'd been ordered to. His lips press against a spot right under Seonghwa's jaw, and again slightly lower, against his pulse point. Not knowing what to do with his hands, Seonghwa rests them on Yeosang’s waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt when the other dips lower again, sucking a light bruise close to his collarbone. Seonghwa bites his tongue to keep himself from making any noise. He had never given this much control over his body to anyone before—it’s intoxicating. When the blonde comes up at his lips again, Seonghwa parts them expectantly, but has to swallow a whimper instead when the other pulls away without even grazing them.
“It would be cruel,” he says, smiling fondly at Seonghwa’s slightly betrayed expression. “To make me fall for you, when your intention is to leave us after all, wouldn’t it?”
Oh.
Oh.
“I—I want to stay,” he stutters, tightening his hold around Yeosang's waist even more, to make sure the distance between their bodies doesn’t grow—to tell him that he doesn't want it to grow. “But he—he obviously doesn’t want me around.”
He sees Yeosang’s eyes soften, and his hands come up to lock behind Seonghwa’s neck. He looks as if he would be ready to coo at the older—Seonghwa’s grateful he doesn't.
“He doesn’t hate you, if that’s what you're thinking.”
“He almost let me bleed out—twice.”
“But he didn’t, did he?”
He’s not trying to convince him that Hongjoong doesn't downright despise him, is he? Although Seonghwa thinks he might as well, with those eyes—he would believe everything that comes out of his lips right about this moment.
“I’ve seen hatred cloud that man’s eyes, and you have to believe me when I tell you that he doesn’t hate you, nor does he despise you—not to that extent, at least.” Seonghwa has to look away because, despite the seriousness in Yeosang’s tone, his eyes are soft and understanding, like he would be ready to take Seonghwa’s side in the blink of an eye. Even if he doesn’t—even if he wouldn’t, really. Yeosang's heart is with his crew, above anything and anyone else. Seonghwa means close to nothing, against it. “He might have questionable methods and might not look friendly, at first glance, but he—every choice he makes, he does to protect us.”
“Have you seen me? I can barely walk on my own—I couldn’t be a threat to you if I tried.”
“That’s not what scares him.”
“Then what is it?”
"You know, no one who had the guts to talk back to Hongjoong outside of our crew survived to tell the tale." Yeosang's hands come to rest on the back of his neck, thumbs tracing lines against his skin. It makes Seonghwa want to melt in his hold. "He knows your worth, he wants you to stay, he just—there's something you're not telling us, he doesn't think we can trust you, and that puts him in a tough spot."
“I have some secrets, so what?”
“We’re all flawed in this crew—some more than others—but we don’t hide from each other.”
“He has no reason to doubt me,” says Seonghwa, with as much confidence and firmness as he can muster when Yeosang is looking at him the way he is.
“Then just prove it to him.”
He remembers one thing Wooyoung had told him, some days prior, about Hongjoong taking his sweet time before truly trusting him, because he couldn’t seem to treat the captain with an ounce of respect. The only reason why Wooyoung stayed on that ship was that he refused to leave Yeosang's side, and Yeosang refused to leave Hongjoong—and Hongjoong refused to throw Wooyoung off his ship because, apparently, he meant more than something to Yeosang, and he couldn’t bear to see the young doctor hurt.
Seonghwa can imagine it pretty clearly. Wooyoung and Hongjoong bickering and biting at each other while Yeosang tries to make them get along—or not kill each other, at the very least. He'd wonder why Yeosang himself was so fixated on staying by Hongjoong’s side, but Hongjoong's magnetic pull is so blatant that even he can't deny it.
“How do I do that?”
Yeosang gets close to him, a mere few inches between their lips, and Seonghwa gets lost in the feeling of it all, of the hot breath hitting his lips, of his own heart beating so loudly in his chest that it almost covers Yeosang’s words when he whispers them.
“Whatever demon is haunting you from your past, there’s no reason to hide it from us—from him. Be willing to be vulnerable with him the same way you are with me.”
With that, he finally closes the distance between them, and Seonghwa feels like he could cry from the gentleness held in Yeosang’s touch, in every one of his movements, in the sweetness of his lips. It’s dangerous, the way he would let himself be reshaped into something entirely new by Yeosang’s skilled fingers, something entirely different if it meant he could get more of his touch. Seonghwa holds him closer, impossibly so, breathes the air right out of him when he runs out, and only pulls away when Yeosang lets out a small little noise, torn between pleasure and admonition.
“Are you always this eager right after you cheat death?” He sounds impressed, stunned—teasing, even. Seonghwa is far too intoxicated to mind. "I might start thinking you've been doing it on purpose."
“I’m afraid you’ll turn out to be a fragment of my imagination,” he confesses, trying to catch his breath without ever tearing his eyes from the other.
It drags a chuckle out of the blonde before he presses their foreheads together.
“You’ll talk to him, yeah?”
He will. He promises he will. He has to, it’s worth the struggle, and Yeosang makes it sound easy. Not effortless, but—like he's been down the same road himself. It moves Seonghwa forward, and for a moment he finds he doesn't mind his past. It doesn't last more than a few ticks, and it comes back stirring his thoughts with as much force as it did before. But the fact that Yeosang managed to drag him out of it, even if for just an instant, reminds him of what hope used to feel like.
After that, Seonghwa maybe begs for another kiss—Yeosang maybe grants him just a few before he scolds him. You're supposed to rest, this is not resting, Seonghwa. He wants to argue that he makes him feel the best he's ever felt in his entire life, but the young doctor will never hand him such an easy victory. Eventually, Yeosang settles on the bed with him, sitting beside him and relaxing against the headboard, and it stays silent between them for some time.
When Seonghwa's head rests on his shoulder, Yeosang doesn't raise any complaint. Instead, he shifts to have him settle more comfortably, and his hand comes up to stroke Seonghwa's hair in a steady rhythm. Seonghwa can't seem to recall a moment in his life where he's felt this at peace in the presence of anyone, even his own brother.
“Can I ask you something?”
He speaks, only mildly concerned about disrupting the calm that has settled in the room. Yeosang hums, allowing him to continue.
“What’s your relationship with him?”
The hand suddenly stops—was he not expecting that type of question after everything that happened in the last few weeks? After what they just shared?
“It’s complicated.”
“What about you two sleeping together is complicated?”
Seonghwa raises his head to look straight into Yeosang's eyes, making a show of the sudden confidence in his gaze.
“Well,” Yeosang looks ahead of him, thinking. “We’ve been together for—has it been seven years already? I think so, yeah.”
Oh, so—
“But Wooyoung and I were a thing before then, around ten years ago.” Wait, Wooyoung? But what about San? Do they all know about— “And Yunho was with Hongjoong before I met him, but he only dragged Mingi into our crew later on. A year before that, we found Sannie, and finally our dear Jongho just four years ago—or five.”
Seonghwa was so busy trying to make sense of it all that he hadn’t noticed Yeosang keeping count with his fingers. With both hands. How is that a thing?
“Wait, I'm sorry, you mean that all seven of you—you’re all in a relationship?”
“Makes things easier,” Yeosang gives him a shrug of his shoulders. "Does it make more sense now?”
Seonghwa lets his head fall on the doctor’s shoulder again, staring in front of him and thinking back to all the weird behaviors and dynamics he had witnessed since he set foot on the Aurora—and even before that, somehow.
“So much more sense.”
Yeosang chuckles, patting his head lightly.
“I should warn you, though, I’m pretty sure Wooyoung and San called dibs on you already. It’s bad enough that Wooyoung knows about us, but when the captain gives the go-ahead—and I'm sure he will, once you two talk it out—you’ll be like fresh meat in front of a couple of starved foxes.”
Seonghwa lets his eyes fall closed—should he even feel that intrigued by the thought, anyway?
"And what about Hongjoong?"
"What about him?"
"Does he know? About—"
He can't get the word out, for some reason. It came so natural to Yeosang, to write a us around them, but something inside Seonghwa is still afraid to get lost in the illusion of it, and get out of it with another wound he won't be able to mend on his own.
"He knows, we don't keep things from each other."
"And he's okay with it?"
"He feels the pull towards you just the same as the rest of us do, you know?" His voice is sincere, followed by a careful hand threading through his hair. The confession doesn't feel as heavy as the one Wooyoung handed him days prior, and yet it takes up much more space in his chest than what Seonghwa would deem necessary. "I feel like you'd find it easier to trust him, if only you knew how much he's putting on the line by letting you stay."
Despite the weight Yeosang drops onto each word, Seonghwa finds it hard to believe. He can't see a single reason why Hongjoong would risk anything at all for his sake. His crew comes before all else—he's been doing nothing but reinforcing the point with each and every one of his words and actions, over and over again. Seonghwa never got the feeling he was worth the effort, to Hongjoong.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
It's nearly sunset when Seonghwa stirs awake, the sun drowning the room in delicate golds and soft oranges as rays filter quietly through the glass and cast shadows all around him. There’s movement at the corner of his eye, just across the room from him, where Hongjoong is sitting at his desk, hunched over the same maps and logbooks he’s always studying. The captain of the Aurora is busy drawing hurried lines in fresh black ink on the rough pages of a small journal, fingers wrapped tightly around the white feather as it swings in the air. Seonghwa is hypnotized by it.
“Are you going to keep staring for long?”
It takes him a long moment to acknowledge the words slipping from Hongjoong’s lips. He doesn’t bother looking at Seonghwa, and Seonghwa doesn’t bother looking away, either—he hates how Hongjoong can make himself feel so distant from him without even having to physically move away. He pulls himself up to a sitting position, careful not to move too much, because he's noticed his wound always hurts slightly more during the nighttime for some reason he can't figure out, and he's starting to feel the quiet ache slowly grow.
He studies Hongjoong's side profile as he works, the subtle creases on his forehead as he concentrates, the line of whitish skin where the scar cuts his eye, the long dark eyelashes emphasizing the gentle curve of the bridge of his pointed nose, and the pink petals of his lips. The weak light dances around his golden skin and casts shadows over the apple of his cheeks, exaggerating the dark circles under his eyes. Like this, he looks all the less threatening.
“Where have you been sleeping?”
The question has been crawling up the walls of his throat quite insistently lately, maybe the reason he’s letting it out now hides in the way weariness tugs at Hongjoong’s sharp edges, making him look slightly more human than usual, almost fitting the loving words and warm eyes Yeosang has been reserving for him since the very beginning.
“Does it matter?”
Of course it does, you gave up your room for someone you technically tried to kill. Twice. He had caught the other falling asleep at his desk more than once throughout the past few weeks, when he couldn’t help but doze off for a few minutes over his papers—sometimes even for a couple of hours. By the look of him, that might as well have been the only amount of sleep he got.
“Have you been sleeping at all?”
“Why, worried about me?”
There’s no real bite in his words, not much depth to them, they're empty. He still hasn’t spared Seonghwa a glance, and he’s starting to lose the little confidence he had gathered from his conversation with Yeosang. He's been thinking a lot about it—it hasn't left his thoughts for a second, since it took place. If Seonghwa is to believe what Yeosang had told him to be true, that means he's been refusing to put his trust in the hands of someone who had put double in his own long before he could even consider it.
“I suppose I am,” he says, without much commitment. “Is that bad?”
“Save your strength for something worthwhile.”
With that, Hongjoong lets the quill roll on the desk and hurriedly runs a hand through his hair before getting up from the chair, joints popping under his weight. Seonghwa follows his movements as he slips his arms through the sleeves of his coat, adjusting it to his figure.
“Just give me a chance.”
"I did." His hands stop entirely, and Seonghwa’s blood goes cold at the look he sends his way—Seonghwa can’t stand to look at him anymore, so he looks down to where the coat almost grazes the floor. "You had plenty of occasions to make me change my mind, and now you ran out.”
Seonghwa listens to the click of his boots as Hongjoong heads towards the door, and curses himself for making that damn promise to Yeosang. For ever trusting him, for letting them save him from his ship, for—
“Just, wait! Gods—just wait for a second,” he lets out, exasperation tinting his tone heavily. Hongjoong is still standing at the door, out of his line of vision, but Seonghwa still finds it so incredibly hard to speak. “You have no reason to doubt me.”
“I have no reason to trust you, either.”
“I—” Seonghwa hits his head against the headboard, letting his eyes fall closed while he draws in a deep breath, replaying the conversation he had with Yeosang in the back of his mind—Be vulnerable with him. The same way you are with me. “I deserved it.”
“Deserved what?”
“When those two men cornered me,” he gulps down the knot slowly forming at the base of his throat, only now noticing the obvious tremor of his hands. “I should have died long ago—that’s why I didn’t fight back.”
He listens to the slow creak of Hongjoong’s steps as he makes his way back to the bed, stopping at a few feet distance from it—from Seonghwa, now facing him.
“Look at me,” he says, tone softer, calmer.
It gives Seonghwa the last ounce of courage he needs to finally give in, give it all up, and face him.
“That’s all that there is behind it, you have to believe me.” He takes note of the subtle frown on Hongjoong’s lips. “I’m telling the truth this time.”
Seonghwa’s hands grip the sheets, trying to hide how much the whole situation is affecting him. Hongjoong noticed already, but no matter how sweet and convincing Yeosang's pleas might sound to his ears—and to his weak, weak heart—the walls won't fall within a fortnight. For each word that comes out of his lips, he has to fight off that part of him that's against it, and refuses to let it go.
"But you fought back for Mingi—you jumped in without hesitation."
He says it like it's proving a point, like it's supposed to end the argument once and for all. Seonghwa thought he had been clear enough about his reasoning.
"He could have gotten hurt."
"You did get hurt, it almost killed you—how is that so different?"
Seonghwa looks away. He's not sure he wants Hongjoong to see it all, yet. He doesn't have enough reassurance that he will understand him, that he'll be able to see how Seonghwa's life doesn't hold enough value for him to want to protect it anymore, while Mingi—Mingi has people who care for him, who would mourn him, Mingi has a good heart. Seonghwa, on the other hand, is on his own, with only a dirty conscience.
“If that's really all, why couldn’t you just tell us?”
“I didn’t want you to see that side of me—the weak, scarred, flawed side of me. Once you become weak, you become disposable."
Hongjoong sits on the bed, long coat pooling at his sides, and Seonghwa is grateful that they’re now at eye level with each other—he feels more at ease, like this, despite Hongjoong’s eyes still being fixed on him. He's still wary, but Seonghwa clearly felt the shift when the man reached out to him.
“We would never think like that of you. No one becomes disposable—not around here."
"That's the world I've lived in until now, ever since I was a kid—never to show weakness, never to feel it, even."
"We’re all flawed, it’s one of the basic human traits,” Seonghwa feels the weight of Hongjoong’s hand on his own, just resting there—not holding it properly, but it’s enough for him to feel the tight grip around his heart. “The only way to overcome that is to wear your scars on your sleeves, so you can let them heal.”
“What if I don’t like my scars? What if I don’t want you all to—”
“No one likes their scars, Seonghwa—I didn’t like mine either, until I found someone who refused to shy away from it. You can have that too, if you decide to stay with us.” The fondness in his voice is more than clear, and Seonghwa finds himself looking at the hazy, clear iris, wondering just how much struggle he had to go through in the past to be talking like this.
“So, care to tell me why you were trying so hard to get yourself killed on my ship's deck?”
There it is again, that feeling. Something in Hongjoong's careless behavior makes it seem like they've known each other for a lifetime, and they're only now learning to be with one another. His words always feel calculated, aiming for a precise reaction, trying to draw something specific out of Seonghwa. Seonghwa would expect to get more defensive with it, but Hongjoong makes it easy to lean into it.
“It's not your burden to bear,” tries the part of him who still refuses to let Hongjoong see the rest of him. “I don’t—”
“Seonghwa,” he tightens his hold around Seonghwa’s hand just slightly. His voice is firm, but far from imposing. “It became my burden to bear the moment I welcomed you into my crew—even if you don’t like the idea of having me as your captain.”
The first time, Hongjoong had ordered him to open his heart, and Seonghwa refused him at once. Now, it almost feels like he's begging Seonghwa to let him in, in a gentler approach, more patient. He briefly wonders if Yeosang might have anything to do with it. Seonghwa's eyes fall on their joined hands, and something stirs inside his stomach—not entirely new nor uncomfortable in any way, and he sighs contentedly when he realizes the fear of it doesn't overwhelm him. And it's enough to have him give in.
"I've got blood on my hands,” he says, quiet. He knows what’s going through Hongjoong’s head—We’re pirates, we've all got blood on our hands. “My crewmates, my friends—I was too scared to do anything but watch them get slaughtered in broad daylight.”
His eyes are glazing over, his throat is clenching around his every word as the image of his crewmates falling to the floor one after the other flashes before his eyes.
“I could have helped them, and instead I just.. I have their blood on my hands as much as the mad monster who killed them does, and I couldn’t keep living with that knowledge—I stopped trying to survive long before you found me on that ship.”
Seonghwa's voice cracks when the knot in his throat tightens, blocking the words. He feels a sudden warmth on his cheek when Hongjoong rests his free hand against it, thumbing at the lonely tear that escaped Seonghwa’s control. His skin is rough, but his touch is gentle, and Seonghwa finds himself sinking into it, despite it all.
“You didn't deserve to go through that."
Seonghwa blinks at him, and he has a hard time believing this is the same man who was going to let him die in his own bed, while showing no trace of remorse or hesitation.
“I don’t—didn’t you hear what I said?”
“It wasn't your fault.”
Hongjoong's soft gaze almost frightens him, as if being confronted with the broken man that really is Seonghwa is something he was expecting, that he had planned. And maybe he had, realizes Seonghwa. Maybe he had always known this would be the outcome, from the very first moment their eyes met.
Seonghwa opens his mouth to protest, but he can't find his way around the words, around the strain of his heart, the sting in his eyes, or the tremble of his fingers. I should have helped them, I should have done something. I should have died with them. Shame and guilt fill his lungs and try to strangle him once more, like they did each sleepless night he spent in his old, dark cell. But then Hongjoong, voice firm, unwavering, speaks again.
“It wasn't your fault, Seonghwa,” he repeats again, like he's trying to shove the words down Seonghwa's throat himself, stuffing them down until he's sure they're stuck to his core. “If we hadn't raided your ship that day, you would be sunk to the bottom of the ocean now, and if you think it should have been you in their places—Gods, I get you, but that's where your guilt starts and ends. It wasn't your fault.”
The certainty with which Hongjoong says it almost gets to Seonghwa, he almost believes it—almost. He can't possibly let go of the weight he's been carrying around this easily—this burden is for him to keep. And yet, Hongjoong makes it feel like it could get more manageable, somehow.
“If a little blood on your hands is what you’re worried about,” Hongjoong mirrors Seonghwa’s bewildered expression, letting his hand fall from his face. “That doesn’t scare us.”
“But I—”
“Seonghwa,” he starts again, stroking the back of Seonghwa's hand. “The fact that you trusted me with this is proof enough to me—we won’t turn our backs on you.”
Seonghwa has to avert his eyes, he feels that if he looks at him and his fond gaze for only a moment longer, Hongjoong will find himself with more than one tear to wipe away, and he's afraid Hongjoong might not want to step in a second time.
"The people we're working with, the stuff we're involved in—it got people killed, people I cared about. We all lost something before we could find each other—Jongho insists it's a curse of some sort, he's more superstitious than one would think." He chuckles, a sweet smile on his lips as he thinks of the younger. "That's why I need you to be honest, and why I can't have you hiding things from us. It's too much of a risk—I can't have them lose any more than what they already lost in the past."
Up to a certain point, Seonghwa had thought Hongjoong's behavior and distrust to be driven by arrogance. But here he is, proving once again that any choice he makes, he does so thinking of his team. Seonghwa's heart aches a bit more than it did before.
“Give yourself some more time to heal,” he says, giving one last squeeze to Seonghwa's hand before finally getting back to his feet, leaving him with a load of mixed-up feelings to untangle all by himself. “We’ll still be here when you’re ready."
Seonghwa watches as he moves to walk away, and the room suddenly feels too empty, the bed too cold, his heart too heavy. As Hongjoong takes another step, Seonghwa's hand shoots out, fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist to pull him back.
“Wait,” when Hongjoong turns to look at him again, Seonghwa is already looking up with pleading eyes. “Sleep here, tonight?”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take a nap in Jongho’s hammock, you need the bed more than I do.”
“With me,” he makes sure their eyes are locked together when he says his next words. “Sleep here with me, Captain.”
Seonghwa can almost see the whiplash from it in Hongjoong’s eyes, like Seonghwa’s submission to his command had caused a second head to grow on his shoulder. There is a silent agreement between them, as they both acknowledge the title slipping past Seonghwa’s lips so naturally for the first time, and the implications it carries with it.
“What’s with the sudden change of mind?” he asks in a mixture of endearment and satisfaction.
“Seeing you—all of you, the way you take care of each other like nothing else matters other than what you have,” Seonghwa's eyes are fixed on their hands, where Hongjoong's fingers accommodate to his own so naturally when Seonghwa reaches out to him. “I never had that.”
“So Yeosang did manage to get some sense in that messy brain of yours,” he pokes Seonghwa’s shoulder with a finger, making Seonghwa turn away, embarrassed.
He's not about to lie to him—Yeosang played a big role in it, like the others did, so much so that Seonghwa might as well have given up his heart to them, unaware. But the main thing Yeosang did for him was fill in the empty spots where Hongjoong's diffidence used to lie. Whenever Seonghwa felt like the captain was pushing him away, he'd be ready to drag him back in closer again.
“So, are you staying?”
“Are you?” he asks in return, but he’s already bending down to take off his boots, peeling off his fur coat as well, under Seonghwa’s focused eyes.
“If you’ll still have me.”
The sun has set long ago, and Seonghwa reminds himself to worship the moon a little louder than his usual, from now on, because the way her light shines so softly onto Hongjoong's skin wraps his heart into a sense of peace so tangible that he can't refuse it, this time around. They're facing each other, covered beneath a thin layer of sheets, and they're close, so close that Seonghwa can see his own reflection in the other’s eyes.
Hongjoong looks beautiful like this. Seonghwa thinks it’s because he’s not quite fully aware of himself, looking up at Seonghwa intrigued after putting away his captain's facade and tough expression. Seonghwa can’t hold back the hand that comes up to cup the captain’s cheek, thumb grazing where one edge of the scar reaches his cheekbone with a feather-light touch.
“How did it happen?”
Hongjoong had been expecting Seonghwa's question for a long time, now.
“It was many years ago, my brother and I got involved in some ugly business—stuff far too big for us, and eventually the governor got to us.” If Seonghwa hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed the way his lips turned down in a frown so imperceptibly. “My brother tried to convince them I wasn’t involved, and picked a stupid fight with me to give his story credibility—the wound was worse than he had planned, he probably thought I would have fought back, the asshole,” he scoffs, the hint of an endeared smile on his lips when his hand comes up to rest on top of Seonghwa’s.
“How did you get away?”
“Chaos erupted, and they were too busy holding him down to pay attention to me as I fled. Yunho—he was part of our crew—he dragged me out, we sailed away on a cargo ship. As for my brother, word got to us later on that he had taken his life, shortly after.”
Despite the calmness in his voice, it’s clear he’s still deeply hurting from it all—the way he so easily leans into Seonghwa’s touch for reassurance gives him away.
"You went through that—alone?"
"I wasn't alone, Yunho stayed by my side, from there. He had just lost someone important to him, as well—we sort of held each other up until it got easier."
Seonghwa would have never imagined Hongjoong would so easily make himself look this vulnerable in front of him. He refused to believe he could—something to justify his own reluctance at showing that side of him. He thinks that maybe, deep down, he could feel Hongjoong would understand him at more than just a superficial level, and that is something he hadn't been ready to face yet. Hongjoong turns his head to the side and presses a kiss against the palm of Seonghwa’s hand, and it’s a gesture so pure and intimate that it makes his heart swell.
“Do you ever wish you could turn back time?”
“Desperately—and yet I don’t think I’d be able to, if it meant losing what I have now." Vulnerability looks good on Hongjoong, decides Seonghwa. “Yeosang was on that ship, and he stubbornly stuck to me until he could make sure that my eye had healed properly—I fell for his gentleness, for his words, he’s the one who stitched me up together in one piece when we found out about my brother’s death. In a way, I wouldn’t be here, without this scar.”
Seonghwa understands, he’s been through it—he’s still going through it all. He knows all too well that strong pull that tries to drag you backward at every step you take until you’re out of breath, the poisonous, suffocating air filling your lungs until you give up entirely, demons carving the word undeserving on your skin so that even if you can’t see them with your own eyes you know they’re there—they’ll always be.
Seonghwa wouldn’t have noticed the tears staining his cheeks if not for the way worry morphs Hongjoong’s features instantly, and his hands come up to cup his cheeks, pulling him in slightly.
“Whoa, I didn't mean to—are you alright?”
"I am, I—I'm sorry," he makes out, taking a deep breath to stop himself from crumbling completely. "I know what it means, to lose a brother."
"You had a brother?"
"He was the second in command, back in my old crew, so they got rid of him among the firsts." His voice cracks as his brother's face resurfaces from his memory. "He was the only thing I had left, so when they killed him.. it felt like I had wasted the one shot I had at anything good."
“Oh, star.” Hongjoong is quick to wrap his arms around Seonghwa, holding him close to his chest. “You deserve so much more than that, I know it.”
Seonghwa had eventually come to terms with the desire and yearning crawling under his skin to feel someone else’s warmth, after everything he went through—as if Yeosang’s presence and touch hadn’t made him feel restless enough—so it doesn’t come as a surprise to him, the way he so easily buries his face in the crook of Hongjoong’s neck, how his hands grip his shirt to get him even closer.
This might as well be the most vulnerable he has ever felt in his entire life, and somehow, he's fine with it—for some reason, with Hongjoong holding him like this in the darkness of his room, it feels right to finally let his guard down. And he imagines it doesn’t surprise Hongjoong, either, when Seonghwa suddenly presses their lips together, drawing him impossibly closer.
They kiss slowly, hesitant at first, hungry not for intimacy but for reassurance—it’s quite desperate, a breath of fresh air after months spent drowning, and Seonghwa's fingers curl into the rough fabric of Hongjoong's shirt like it's the only thing keeping him afloat. Seonghwa feels like a madman for thinking he might be able to patch up his shattered heart with the comfort of Hongjoong's touch alone, but Hongjoong's eagerness quickly distracts him from it.
As eager as Hongjoong was proving himself to be, he's the one who puts a stop to it, and finally pulls away despite Seonghwa's protests. It lasts just enough for Seonghwa’s tears to dry completely on his skin, for his mind to fill with more clarity, and for his eyes to get heavier with exhaustion.
"You can use this," whispers Hongjoong, hot breath against his lips. Seonghwa only looks at him with questioning eyes. "I know how much you care about my boys, and if that's reason enough to stick around and fight back again, like you did for our Mingi, then use it—use us."
Seonghwa's heart stutters in his chest. He doesn't have anything left to give him, nothing that would convey the overwhelming impact Hongjoong's words just brought upon him. Even then, Hongjoong gets it, reads it in his eyes. He smiles, and Seonghwa almost breaks at it.
“You should get some rest, now, you still need to recover.”
Not much convincing is needed on his part, after the soft kiss Hongjoong presses at the corner of his lips. It's enough to have Seonghwa scoot closer and wrap his arm around Hongjoong’s middle, head resting comfortably on his chest, focusing on the boy’s steady heartbeat.
“I wouldn't need to, if you hadn't tried to kill me.”
“I'm sorry?”
Hongjoong holds him a little tighter, circling one arm around Seonghwa’s back, and tracing soft lines over his warm skin. Seonghwa only hums a silent answer before he feels the other leave a kiss on his forehead, and finally drifts off.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
“Do you think they—you know?”
The voice is like a distant echo in Seonghwa’s head, like the soft creaking of the ship all around him. His senses are still blurred, but the words are enough to pull him from his slumber. He shifts, instinctively curling deeper into Hongjoong’s warmth, his fingers brushing over the captain’s chest as though searching for something solid that could drag him back to reality. Right, he’s still in the captain’s bed, in his quarters, with the captain. Right.
“Come on, they’re still fully clothed,” another voice says—San. “Besides, Seonghwa’s still recovering.”
“And? Like that ever stopped us before,” replies Wooyoung, the unmistakable teasing edge of his tone giving him away.
The events of the night before slowly come back to him, he feels the subtle ache of his whole body, his wound—Hongjoong’s hand resting over it. Seonghwa’s eyes flutter open, blinking against the brightness of the room to focus on the two figures standing at the foot of the bed. San’s face flushes with embarrassment as he recomposes himself awkwardly, while Wooyoung leans against him, a knowing look in his eyes as they fly from Seonghwa to Hongjoong.
“Captain,” Seonghwa murmurs. Hongjoong shifts slightly beside him, arm circling around his waist and pulling him closer as he moves to face the two boys in the room. Wooyoung follows the movement closely, and Seonghwa can’t bear the attention, so he hides back in the crook of Hongjoong’s neck.
“What is it?” Hongjoong's voice is rough with sleep, but soft at the edges when it reaches Seonghwa’s ears.
“Sorry to intrude, Captain,” says San, ever so polite, but the quiet amusement in his voice betrays him—Seonghwa can hear the smirk on his lips without having to look at him. “You’re needed on deck.”
“Alright,” he grumbles, words muffled against the crown of Seonghwa’s hair. “You can go.”
Seonghwa tightens his hold on Hongjoong’s shirt, his fingers curled into the fabric to keep him there. He relishes the way Hongjoong holds him back even tighter, as if mirroring his reluctance at having to part.
“Come on, Wooyo,” San urges, trying to drag Wooyoung away.
“Wait, just—please?” Wooyoung’s voice is softer now, it carries a faint sense of desperation that Seonghwa can’t quite place.
Seonghwa opens his eyes just enough to see Wooyoung clinging to San’s arm, imploring, looking up at him, and San rolls his eyes at him. It’s obvious enough to Seonghwa that the act is only for dramatic measures, because they glow with warm affection—as they always do whenever Wooyoung is involved.
San doesn’t say a word, simply motions him towards the bed with a tilt of his head. Seonghwa’s fingers release their grip on Hongjoong’s shirt, but the feeling of Hongjoong’s warmth lingers. He watches carefully as Wooyoung walks to the bed with a victorious smile, as his hands rest on either side of Hongjoong, caging him in place.
"Hey, Captain, Captain—" Wooyoung calls, his voice a smooth, teasing whisper.
Wooyoung’s hair falls forward, brushing over Hongjoong’s face as he leans in closer, Seonghwa’s heart beats a little faster. Hongjoong’s eyes snap open, and Seonghwa watches the way his gaze sharpens with an unmistakable edge. Wooyoung doesn’t falter, his lips curl into a playful smirk.
"Can I?"
His voice is barely a whisper now, but it drags a certain confidence with it. Hongjoong hesitates for a fraction of a second, his eyes locking with Seonghwa’s. The proximity of them both weighs on Seonghwa’s chest as tension builds in the pit of his stomach.
“Go ahead,” Hongjoong finally relents, words laced with a subtle warning.
“Star?”
Seonghwa’s heart tightens at the tenderness in Wooyoung's tone, at the careful smile on his lips. Wooyoung’s vulnerability is never far behind the playful antics, and Seonghwa can see the glint of something else in his eyes—a need for attention, for closeness. Seonghwa doesn't get any time to adjust, he feels Wooyoung’s lips press against his own, soft at first, tentative. Wooyoung’s lips move against his, gentle and urgent all the same, and Seonghwa’s breath catches when he feels the drag of his tongue against his top lip, teasing. There’s something disarming about Wooyoung’s eagerness—Seonghwa’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest.
As sudden as it starts, it’s over. Wooyoung pulls away with a smirk, leaving Seonghwa’s lips tingling, his mind a whirlwind of wait and more and please. Before Seonghwa can process anything at all, Hongjoong lifts his hand to the back of Wooyoung’s neck to yank him back down towards him. The kiss that follows between the two is quick, so much more natural than the one Seonghwa had just shared with Wooyoung, more familiar.
Hongjoong’s dominance is transparent, the power shift palpable in the way he pulls Wooyoung in. It’s a rough guess on Seonghwa's part, but Hongjoong might be the only one capable of leaving Wooyoung speechless, breathless, and helpless, if the way the boy stumbles back on his feet after they part says anything.
“Now leave us,” says Hongjoong, voice firm. “And tell Yunho I’ll be out in five.”
“Fine,” mutters Wooyoung, dazed and slightly flushed from the kiss, though the smirk still stains his features. “But we’re definitely doing this again.”
Seonghwa watches him glue himself back to San’s side, watches the curious glint in San’s eyes as they make their way out of the room. As the door closes behind them, the room is still again, silent, save for the soft rustle of sheets.
“You can stop holding your breath,” says Hongjoong softly as he pulls Seonghwa back against him, his face so close that the air between them stirs with his every breath.
“That was—unexpected, is all.”
His heart is still racing against his ribcage. He slowly relaxes in Hongjoong’s hold as the latter presses a tender kiss to his temple, then lower, to his cheek, and down to his jaw.
“You’re lucky San was feeling too left out to do anything about it.”
“Left out?”
Hongjoong hums quietly, rubbing his nose up Seonghwa’s cheek affectionately, and the tenderness of it almost hurts Seonghwa.
“I usually drag them to bed with me when they come wake me up, I’ll have to make it up to him.”
“Oh, I’m—I didn't mean to intrude, I'm sorry.”
Hongjoong’s hand trails up Seonghwa’s spine, his skin burning at the contact despite his own shirt standing in the way. Hongjoong lets the silence stretch between them, lets Seonghwa’s apology float in the air around them until the pressure on his heart weighs a little less on him.
“It’s nothing we can’t handle,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, words carefully measured. “We won’t take long to reshape ourselves around you—you should give yourself time to settle, too.”
Seonghwa stays quiet, his mind is spinning, but Hongjoong feels stable enough to help him navigate through it. Warmth spreads in his chest when Hongjoong’s hand rests just below his jaw, thumb grazing his bottom lip. Seonghwa leans into it, puts his trust in Hongjoong’s hands—he finds it frighteningly easy, now, after what they shared. Then Hongjoong speaks again, voice gentle.
“I have to head out now. You wait here, I’ll get Yeosang to check on you in a minute.”
Hongjoong’s hand finally retreats, and Seonghwa can’t help but grieve the loss of Hongjoong’s touch, soothing and warm against his skin. Seonghwa’s fingers twitch, wanting to pull Hongjoong back in. He holds back, ignoring the quiet ache brought by his absence. He follows Hongjoong’s every movement as he sits up, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the weight of the moment they just shared, but he still lingers by Seonghwa’s side for a few unnecessary extra seconds, stretching time before they have to part.
“There’s no need,” tries to reassure Seonghwa. His hand comes up absentmindedly to fix the collar of Hongjoong's shirt, with natural precision. “I feel fine.”
“Stay put, will you?” Hongjoong pauses, hand frozen where he was pulling at the cuff of his sleeve, and glances back over his shoulder with a raised brow, tone stained with concern. “You still look pale, I want to make sure you won’t faint on me.”
“You make it sound like you care,” Seonghwa huffs softly, fighting the smile tugging at the corner of his lips—he feels the burden of that care, just as he used to feel Yeosang’s, but now it sits more comfortably in his chest than it used to. “And yet you’re the one who got me like this.”
Hongjoong chuckles, the sound still unfamiliar to Seonghwa’s ears, but pleasant nonetheless. Seonghwa sits upright as Hongjoong throws his legs over the bed, reaching down to fetch his boots.
“I apologized already, didn’t I?”
Like this, Seonghwa has a clear view of Hongjoong’s scar splitting the warm pink of his cheek. If they only had a moment longer, he’d want to spend it kissing along the thin line of it. He wonders if that would mean anything, to Hongjoong—something intimate and heavy, or nothing at all.
“You almost killed me, twice—I think I need something more than a single apology.”
Hongjoong laughs, and Seonghwa is glad he doesn’t read it as anything more than what it is. Somehow, being able to keep the interaction on the lighter side makes for a nice balance to the heaviness that tainted Seonghwa’s stay on this ship, and Seonghwa’s immediate past with himself.
“I’ll tell Yeosangie to be extra nice to you, alright?” counters Hongjoong, now standing up next to the bed, patting down his shirt to fix the wrinkles as best as he can. “How’s that for an apology?”
"Hm, I don't know." Seonghwa pretends to think about it, leaning back against his pillow. Hongjoong scoffs, and Seonghwa’s smile grows. “That might work.”
He keeps his eyes on the captain’s back as he walks to grab his coat, swinging it over his shoulders with natural ease. When Hongjoong comes back to him, it catches Seonghwa off guard. He hadn’t properly realized it until now, but he had split Hongjoong into two different men: on one side he placed their captain, the one overflowing with authority, who wears his coat like it carries his whole character with it, the stoic, twisted man who’s been tormenting him. On the other stands the gentle, soft and caring Hongjoong, who had stayed beside him the whole night, who had come to his rescue on multiple occasions.
In the back of his mind, Seonghwa was sure he would have lost sight of Hongjoong’s warmth the moment he’d put his coat back on and got back to his duties as captain of the Aurora. Seonghwa would have had to go about his day as if that side of Hongjoong never even existed in the first place, hoping for him to be back after the sky had gotten dark again. It’s clear as ever, though, that Hongjoong’s eyes look down at him with the same tenderness they did until a moment before.
The captain sits back at the edge of the bed, and Seonghwa finds himself holding his breath when Hongjoong's hand reaches out to tilt his chin. The press of Hongjoong’s lips on his is sweet, short, fleeting. Seonghwa’s hand finds the hem of the captain's coat, and he buries his fingers in the soft fur of it—the simple touch feels much heavier than it should, but he can't get himself to let go of it.
“Don’t get used to this, dear,” whispers Hongjoong against his lips, his breath grazing Seonghwa’s cheek as he pulls away. If it was meant to act as a threat, it only serves to drag Seonghwa further down.
“I just might.”
There’s a certain devotion in Seonghwa’s words—sort of misplaced, one might argue, but he can’t get himself to care when Hongjoong looks so pleased with it. The captain hesitates for just a second before standing up, dragging a delicate finger along Seonghwa’s jaw as he finally does. He hesitates again at the door, his hand resting on the handle. With one last glance, Hongjoong steps out, leaving the door slightly ajar. The soft sound of the wooden planks creaking around him fills the space again, just as it did when he first woke up.
As the ship rocks gently beneath him, Seonghwa lets himself drift back into the comfort of the bed, the warmth lingering on his skin from Hongjoong’s touch, the comfort of it all washing over him once more.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
It’ll take some time, and a few more nights of shared silence and tender touches, but Seonghwa will quickly learn that he doesn’t mind the light pressure of Hongjoong’s hand resting over his healing wound as he stirs from sleep in the morning. He finds it rather comforting—grounding, even. He doesn't mind Yunho's clumsy attempts at making him swoon, Yeosang's endless scolding for his carelessness, whether he's tending to a minor or more serious injury. He'll grow fond of San's constant need for attention and gentle reminders, of Mingi's silent pleas for reassurance, and Wooyoung's shameless, never-ending, ever-loving teasing. Soon enough, Jongho's faux lack of interest in him won't fool him as easily, it will fly right over his head, and he'll look forward to their sweet cat's sudden clinginess at the end of his days, too.
For a fleeting second, from time to time, Seonghwa will find himself thinking that the amount of trust he put in the captain's hands, and in the hands of his crew, should have scared him more than it actually did, that he should have been more careful with it. That he could have put up some more resistance. But then again—it’s his captain, now, and his crew will have his back no matter what the circumstances.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆