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It’s after another one of Polaris’ nightmares. The ones where she doesn’t tell Oskar anything about them, but talks about loss after them. He thinks he can piece it together, after the Gala.
The stupid fucking Gala. The Gala where everyone died. Not everyone, just one person and two ghosts. Oskar thinks they were ghosts, at least. He doesn’t fucking know. Everything is wrong .
He’s sitting on the floor by the doorway this time. It’s the closest he’s gotten after any of these. Usually he just stands in the doorway and leaves as soon as he’s sure Polaris is okay-ish. Sometimes he stays out in the hallway until he can hear her snoring again. Habit.
“I lied to you.” He says into the darkness.
“About what?” The stars ask, swirling and shining violently bright in the otherwise pitch black room. He can never see any of the crew clearly, they’re all always a little blurry. Polaris is brightest, Hecate is shortest, and Harvey smells like alcohol and oil, so it isn’t an issue. It’s easier to see Polaris in the dark.
He’s lied to her about a lot. Who he is, where he’s from, where he’s going, about the time she and Harvey had apparently conspired to drop Hecate off at the next port, which he’s still mad about and will never not be mad about, he’s lied by omission and told white lies and malicious lies and harmless lies and he’s lied about everything . She doesn’t even know his last name.
“I think I did lose someone.” He says instead, picking at the end of his sleeve. It is too dark to see anything but stars. He doesn’t feel safe enough to loosen any thread, not even to take off the stupid decorative sash that doesn’t even hide anything.
“Yeah?” Polaris’ voice is a tough and gentle thing. She was crying this time. Oskar doesn’t mention it. He’s already treading dangerously close to emotional territory anyway.
“Yeah.”
It is quiet.
“Who?”
“Everyone, I think.” Oskar hums. It’s fucking stupid. He doesn’t even know who he’s lost. He’s half sure he’s the one that has been lost. Either way, he’s pretty sure he’s never seeing anyone again.
Polaris readjusts her blanket. “Not us.”
“Lost Harvey.” Because whatever is in the captain’s room is not his brother. It can’t be. It probably is, but Oskar can’t force himself to wrap his mind around it no matter how hard he tries.
“Yeah.” Polaris lapses into silence again. It’s uncomfortable. Oskar is sure she’s doing it on purpose to make him talk more. He hates her for it. He doesn’t hate her , but he hates what she does. Maybe she’s just being quiet because she has nothing to say. Oskar still hates her for it.
He pulls his arms around his knees. “I’m mad, I think.”
“You think?” Polaris snorts. “You’re nothing but mad sometimes, I swear.”
“I think that’s all I know how to be.”
“You really like lying, don’t you?” Oskar can feel the expression Polaris has– something between knowing, self-pride, smug, and pitying all wrapped up in one, like some godawful present that every mother gets as soon as their first child is born. A face just for telling their kid that, yes, I love you, but you are wrong about this thing, and it is amusing to me.
Oskar’s familiar with that face. His own face twists up in a familiar sneer.
“You’re sitting here and you haven’t left yet.” Polaris says, “Because I had a nightmare again. You do this every time. I think that means you know more than being mad.”
“I think you’re a liar.”
“And I know you’re one. What are you mad about this time?”
Oskar drops his chin onto his knees. Thinks. “I don’t know how to make my thoughts into words.”
“Like what?” He watches the stars kick her legs over the side of the bed, lean her back on the wall, opposite to him in every way.
“I’m mad and I’m also nothing at the same time. I want to scream and cry about stupid fucking gods and stupid fucking– I don’t remember the name. The guy that said Harv was gonna die in the first place. And I want to pull that oversized fish out of the water and crush it in my hand and see what it feels.” And it just keeps going, tumbling out of his mouth like the waves that washed up the thing that calls itself Harvey now.
“But there’s also nothing there. I want to scream, so I open my mouth, and nothing happens. I want to cry, but I fucking can’t because there’s nothing there. It feels like I’m exploding and like I’m dying again, but I’m just fucking sitting here.”
Polaris is quiet for a very long time. Oskar doesn’t fill the silence this time. He wants the two of them to rot in it together. He’s said way too much. Maybe he’ll just never talk again.
“So, like grief?”
The word is new when Polaris speaks it.
“What?”
“Grief,” Polaris shrugs. “When someone dies or something ends and you don’t know what to do next. Deep sorrow. Getting really mad. Being empty. It’s all grief.”
Oskar sits up straighter. A beat. “Can you say it again?”
“What, grief?”
“Grave.”
“No, grief. Like reef.”
“Oh.” He tries to translate it in his head. It only works a little.
“I wish I didn’t know grief as well as I do,” Polaris says, “But I think it’s just a part of who I am now. It’s always there.”
“I hate it.” Oskar feels like a child complaining.
“Yeah. I’m glad for it sometimes, though. It lets me know I had something at some point.”
“You have us.”
That hangs in the air for a second.
“You sure you’re still mad?” Polaris finally asks.
“Yes.” Oskar doesn’t hesitate. “Always. I think I’m also grief.”
“That’s not how you say that.” Polaris rolls herself back onto her side, legs tucking back onto the bed, blanket covering all of the stars again but her head.
“I don’t care. I’m grief, I can say how I do grief however I want.” Oskar stretches his legs out, stands, and steps into the doorway again. “Also if you tell anyone about this I’ll kill you.”
Polaris snorts again. “Of course. Hey, thank you for showing up.”
“We’re in a closed space and I literally can’t leave.” He has to pull it back in. He fucked up big time by just saying all of that to Polaris. He can’t be doing this. Get rid of it.
“Okay,” Polaris’ voice is a tired and smiley thing, “Tell yourself that all you want.”
“I will. Bye.” Oskar leaves her room and shuts the door. A muffled goodnight comes through the door, and he pretends not to hear it.
He fakes walking down the hallway, which he has done countless times now. He doesn’t really have to, because for some reason none of them manage to hear his steps in the first place, but he did it the first time Polaris had a nightmare, and if he’s going to lie he has to be consistent with it.
He waits to hear the snoring, and then he slinks back off to a supply room further in the ship, and he does not scream, and he does not cry, and he does not think about his sisters, sleeping as safe as they can, or his brother, who is dead and not-dead at the same time, and he doesn’t think about the weird ass tournament guy who’s just here now.
“Grief.” He bites the word out in a whisper, practices saying it like a devout prayer.
It tastes bad.