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Chip could kick ass. Gillion had no qualms about admitting it—mostly because he took pride in having someone so capable for a Captain. With Chip at his side, his blind spots were never truly blind, and if he so much as got a scratch during a fight, Chip would soon appear from his periphery and strike down whoever had hurt him. He was even getting better at battling his flight response, and his hesitancy to lethally wound when needed.
Gillion knew that nothing too bad would happen to him so long as Chip was there.
Chip, however, wasn’t satisfied with that.
These past few weeks, he’d set his mind to beating Gillion. And, well, Gillion knew as well as anyone that Chip could not be dissuaded once he’d set his mind to something.
He was vigilant at all hours of the day, never taking his eyes off of Chip. The days of friendly, predictable competition were long gone; now, Chip had begun to reach for underhanded methods of trying to overpower him. After armwrestling hadn’t worked, he’d started launching himself at Gillion from behind, trying to tackle him to the ground.
Gillion had gotten a hold of him and wrenched him off of him, bringing him tailbone-first into the hard wood of the deck.
When Chip had kicked the back of his knees, Gillion had reacted quickly enough and kicked the ground from under him with a sweep of his foot, reclaiming initiative to pin Chip’s wrists to the ground.
When Chip had started setting traps, it had been easy enough to figure out the style with which he chose them. That victory had been sweetest of all, for he’d gotten to watch Chip become more and more frustrated the more of his traps Gillion avoided altogether.
It was a pride thing, Gillion knew. Chip wanted the certainty of knowing he could beat even the strongest of fighters, that every member of his crew looked up to him for his skill and ambition. Gillion could empathise with that.
Only… it was taking Chip a long time, and with all due love and respect, Gillion was starting to doubt whether this had any future.
He’d tried letting him win before, putting on quite the believable display of dropping to the ground upon having his tail touched, as if a pressure point had been hit, but Chip hadn’t wanted that either. It wasn’t as fun, he’d said, when Gillion made himself weaker for him.
Gillion didn’t know what he wanted from him. He didn’t want to lose, and he didn’t want Gillion to let him win, and he especially didn’t want to compete against him in ways that Gillion was clearly at a disadvantage in, because that broke the rules, as he’d said. Gillion wasn’t sure what the rules were, exactly. Chip had never explained under which guidelines he wanted to do this.
“Let him tire himself out,” Jay had told him one day, when he’d come to her for advice. “He wants to beat you, so fight back. Either he’ll use it as an opportunity to grow, or he’ll realise that you’re out of his league and leave it.”
But Gillion didn’t want him to be sad. Chip had really gotten into this, and knowing him, Gillion could tell that his self esteem depended on this tiny little victory, this proof to himself that he could take on someone larger than him. Gillion wanted him to win. Chip had come so far in his journey as a fighter, developing his own style and leaning into his strengths while working around his weaknesses, and he’d gotten bolder with his weapons and fists alike, and sometimes he looked so bright during a fight, as if it fulfilled him like nothing ever had, and Gillion loved seeing that on him. He loved seeing Chip confident, getting to rely on himself, being in touch with what he could and could not do with no desire to change anything about that.
This was turning all that on its head, it seemed. And Gillion wanted him to stop looking so frustrated about it.
Having that talk with him, though, would be seen as condescending. Oh, it’s okay that you can’t beat me, look at all these other people you’ve beaten.
This was personal. Chip wanted to beat him.
So, Gillion had no other choice than to indulge him.
One morning, he kept watch for a little longer than usual, waiting for Chip to rise and spot him at the helm. The sails were doing most of the work, so there was no need to keep his hands on the wheel; he’d turned away from it, instead sitting on the railing with his face to the sea. He’d been pushed in before; and, after Jay had made Chip apologise for it, Gillion had assured him that it was actually quite pleasant. He’d have spent even more time in the water if not for his landly responsibilities.
This was as best an opportunity as any, he thought. Chip could sneak up on him and push him, and Gillion could lament this defeat by slowly sinking beneath the surface, fading air bubbles and all. He could climb back on deck dripping wet, which humans apparently thought was deeply humiliating, and Chip would have his victory.
That wasn’t what happened, though.
Gillion sat there for most of the morning, swinging his feet and watching the waves cast by the ship, the white-foam froth whipped up behind them, and he almost couldn’t wait to be tossed in. It had been a while, and the sun baked into his skin to the point where he feared he might actually be drying out, the red sitting a little too close on his cheeks for his own comfort. He’d never understand why wearing clothes was a requirement among humans—or most creatures of the land, for that matter.
So yes, he sat there, waiting for the sweet relief of Chip’s hands in his back, pushing him the rest of the way over the railing and into the cool sea below.
When he finally felt those hands, though, they were around his shoulders instead, and pulled him back instead of pushing him forward. Gillion fell, unable to catch his balance in time, and in a split second he collided harshly with the ship, the air knocking out of him all at once. Before he could orient himself to figure out what had happened, he was looking up at Chip, a knee on either side of Gillion, each hand holding down a wrist.
And Gillion understood. He did, he knew what this was, he understood the miscalculation he’d made, and he knew that Chip wouldn’t hurt him, that the worst he’d do was taunt him before letting him go, that this was just a way for him to prove that he’d well and truly won.
But he couldn’t help the freezing.
He was on his back, and he’d been turned so quickly that his brain couldn’t quite catch up, and he thought he might still be spinning, and he couldn’t help the locking up of his muscles, forcefully relaxing against his will, leaving him unable to writhe or push or get Chip off of him.
Chip was saying something to him, likely some winner’s speech or another, but it didn’t reach Gillion through the rushing of his ears, the too-slow pounding of his heart. He’d felt this before, he knew what it was, but he hadn’t expected it to feel like this on land, with the added factor of gravity pushing him further down, trapping him between the ground and his attacker. Chip felt so heavy. Gillion felt so hot, like his brain was boiling itself inside his skull, like all his nerve endings had singed right through, leaving him paralysed and helpless. His breath was slow, as if he were sleeping. He couldn’t get enough air into him, but there was no water either, nothing to breathe in to calm the frantic pulsing in his chest, the tug in his stomach that twisted to get away, screaming as if Chip was holding a blade to his throat, as if his hands were around his neck instead of his wrists, pressing down, squeezing the life out of him.
The sky was too bright. Chip’s head left his field of vision, and Gillion couldn’t move his eyes to follow him, couldn’t close his eyes to shield them from the relentless beat of the sun. He thought he might go blind with how bright it was. He thought me might already have been blind with the way he couldn’t register anything he saw, the way he heard Chip’s voice talk to him, this isn’t funny, Gill, fucking move, without understanding what he was saying.
Gillion thought of home. He knew he’d laugh about this later, over just how good his mind was at playing tricks on him, convincing him that he was going to die, but he thought of his family. His sister, her face he hadn’t gotten to see in ages. She was probably all grown up by now. A grown woman, with a family, perhaps, little guppies of her own. Gillion thought of her voice as he remembered it, soft and soothing as she’d pet his head right between the coral sprouts, and he thought of Chip and Jay, who were his family now, who he was faintly aware of next to him, talking to him, saying something, something that was entirely useless in calming him in his absolute certainty that he was going to die, that he was going to suffocate and never see any of them again.
He was afraid, he realised. Irrational in his panic, his entire body prepared for the worst, fighting uselessly against its own paralysis, trying to reach out, to cling to something familiar that wasn’t the unnerving void of his mind. He’d thought he didn’t fear death, but at the brink of it, now, he realised he didn’t want to die, even though he kept remembering that he wasn’t going to, that he knew what was happening, but it felt like he was and he was afraid , and—
Gillion was turned over, and sucked in a wheezing breath.
Another.
Another, a whimper cracking in his throat on its way up.
“Breathe, Gill,” Jay told him, and yeah, Gillion was fucking trying. Doubled over on all fours, suddenly in control of his limbs again, he just stared wide-eyed at the floor, breathing, breathing. His vision was swimming, wobbling with the gathering wetness of his eyes, flickering with the imprints of the sun on his retinas.
“What the fuck was that?” Chip asked. Jay clicked her tongue at him. “Alright! Alright, I’m just saying. You scared the shit out of me, Gill.”
“The feeling is mutual, Chip,” Gillion said, perhaps a bit louder than he’d meant to. He wasn’t truly mad at Chip. He’d set himself up, after all. He could’ve expected that pushing Gillion into the sea wouldn’t be enough. “Sorry,” he said, softer this time. His breath was gradually slowing again, and he felt able to push himself back a little, sitting upright on his knees. It felt good to have his feet beneath him, as opposed to his back. It felt good to not have someone on top of him.
“What happened?” Jay asked, in that tone she always used when someone needed to be approached gently, like a spooked animal. Gillion didn’t usually understand the point. It helped now, though.
“I think—” he began, then cut himself off to properly think about how to explain this to humans. He breathed, tried again. “My kind has a defence mechanism that gets triggered when we are moved quickly. We play dead, and we don’t have control over it. I think that is what happened.”
“Fuck,” Chip breathed.
“Is there anything we can do? Do you need anything?”
Gillion considered. It was a complete clash of instincts, being held down only to be asked if there was anything his friends could do to make him feel better. Being asked what he needed, having to open himself up to potential rejection, to having his needs denied.
But Jay and Chip wouldn’t do that. It took an active reminder, just this once, but if he was honest with them, it would not come back to bite him later. Whatever that meant. It was an expression he’d picked up from Chip. Maybe it meant that Jay and Chip would not bite him for it. Though he had to admit that he wouldn’t have minded very much.
“I think I would like to be held,” he told them. No one bit him. Jay just opened her arms for him, shuffling closer on her knees to embrace him, and then Chip followed suit, both of them holding Gillion’s head between their own. Jay gently rubbed his back while Chip was squeezing with tight, even pressure, and no one bit him.
“I’m sorry,” Chip said into his shoulder. “I didn’t wanna scare you.”
Gillion was inclined to apologise as well, but he knew that Jay would have his head for it. It hadn’t been his fault. It was a helpless feeling, admitting to being hurt with no way to flip it, no way to make it so they were even. He was working on that. “Guess you found a weak spot,” he said instead, smiling softly. “You won.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, Chip. I’m defeated.”
There was a moment where Chip seemed to consider his reaction, gauging if this was congruent with his set of rules. But then, he squeezed Gillion a little tighter and hissed a yesssss into his shoulder.
“You’re the worst,” Jay said, though her voice was thick with fondness. Gillion could think of a hundred people who deserved that title more than Chip. It had been an accident, nothing more, and most people would not have been so kind about it afterward. Most people would have locked the knowledge of his weak spots away for potential blackmail, or to threaten him later on.
Gillion gave a content huff into the space between his friends, and the sun didn’t feel so hot amidst the three of them. It was actually rather pleasant.