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[In contrast, Koby's response is immediate, albeit somewhat -- clipped. There's still that first morning, before he'd found the note, before he'd put the pieces together, before the doctors cast further light on things. There's still that howling, agonizing emptiness, the way he'd forced himself past the mental block in his mind until he could taste blood, until he could feel it dripping from his nose, trying to prove to himself that it wasn't true. Until he could find that tiny glimpse of crimson to set the world back in motion, to put air back in his lungs, to remind him how to breathe. Koby's going to remember that for the rest of his life, reaching and reaching and reaching and finding nothing, nothing at all.]

I can throw them off your trail. If you'd prefer. Lie to the doctors and tell them they're mistaken. Is that what you want?

( there's a wall shanks has had to put up around himself for this to have any chance of success, a mask he's had to don, not so unlike the one still attached to his face, only with a different visage: red-haired shanks, emperor of the sea, wanted dead or alive, highly dangerous, apprehend with extreme caution. there are stories they tell about his rise to power, his wild exploits, his true nature — stories that may or may not be true, stories of destruction and fear and the same imposing recklessness as the man who brought him up, the captain most feared of all.

it's difficult to tell which shanks koby is speaking to now. whether he's discussing strategy with an emperor — or simply taking out his grief, his frustration on a friend, a partner, a lover: none but all but more.

shanks' phone rests heavy against the scar on his palm, a reminder of that first night, the desperation for connection. if he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the current of energy that binds them — wishes he could reach out to it, let the soft bloom of a hyacinth take shape in his mind. instead, he presses the warmth of metal into the fading wound, hoping by some small miracle koby might be able to feel it, too. )

Are you asking or scolding?

( despite it all, some things never change. )

[And at its heart, that's the worst part. Koby doesn't know, and right now he can't feel it, can't reach out insistent and eager like a blush-toned sunrise to try and tease answers from Shanks’s maddening, inscrutable smile. But there's nothing there, a block like a clenched fist, and all he has are his own thoughts.

And of course they whisper the worst, the worst, in voices Koby tries not to recognize: stupid, presumptuous, you really think you're that important? You really believe you have a right to hurt, about this, about him? Do you actually think he thought about you at all, even once?

It jabs at his mind like an ice pick to the skull, but Koby thinks of scribbled handwriting, the folded paper in his pocket, home to roaring waves. Yes. Yes.]

Asking. If you want me to, I'll try to help.

( he can tell this is something koby feels like he needs to do: he wants to feel useful, he wants to help, he wants shanks to tell him he needs him, that he's worth something to shanks. it would be easy to say yes, do this for me, go on and be a good marine — but that isn't what shanks wants. and, ultimately, it isn't what koby needs, either. he doesn't need to be a pawn in this game shanks is playing. he only needs shanks. and, right now, that isn't something shanks is sure he can give yet. )

You know I can't ask that of you. This is my mess. I have to fix it on my own.

[It comes too quick, too sharp, too young and hurt and stupid to be kind or smart:] Because you've always been so good at asking me for things in the past. If you prefer to be on your own, you can say it. I'm not going to break into pieces.

[Yes, he is, he's already there, waiting for -- what? To be asked to stay, to help, to be trusted? Or to be left behind (on a dock, on a road, in a tangerine grove, be a good Marine and next time I see you, we'll pretend to hate each other, we'll pretend there's nothing there, we'll pretend I dont know how your name tastes in my mouth, we'll pretend I didnt shatter apart when I thought you were dead) once and for all?]

( there's a sharp stab in his chest, between his ribs, like a knife, quick and then gone — and he shouldn't laugh, it shouldn't make him smile, but there's something so familiar about the sting, something so bittersweet he can't help himself. in spite of himself, perhaps. it brings him back to his body, in a way, back to shanks — back to the scar on his palm, back to the taste of koby on his tongue, back to the haze of the otherworld, back to firelight and the gentle sway of his boat, back to the dirt and the blood and you rest, i can help.

but all he says, as if it's the only thing that matters, is: )

Did you get my note?

Yes. [It's burning a hole in his pocket, the swoops of each letter like a brand in his mind.]

If I hadn't, I'd be begging you to come back. To not be dead. To not leave me. But you gave me enough to figure it out, eventually. Why?

It isn't obvious?

( as if anything is ever obvious, as if he never makes koby work for every piece of information he knows about shanks. as if the love in his chest hadn't started in the dark, in the cold, in the precious warmth between their bodies, in a place that was never home yet they lived, survived, endured. )

I'm still here, Koby. With you, always.

( even if he isn't physically there, even if he's with someone else — there's some part of him that koby will always, always carry. )

[Somewhere on the other side of the estate, Koby actually laughs at that, even though it makes his head ache, makes his vision blur.]

Shanks, you've been a lot of things in the year I've known you, but "obvious" has never, never been one of them. You know better than THAT.

[But the venom is gone, dripping away like a handful of seawater, between his fingers, out of his palms. The hurt will -- stay, linger, the mindless panic something Koby hadn't anticipated, a loss written in blood and fear, the language they both speak.]

And I'm a mess. You know I'm a mess. I'm never going to believe the floor is steady beneath me. I'm always going to look for how it's about to drop away. I can't help that any more than you can help who you are. I just I don't need to hear it over and over. Just tell me once, and I'll believe it for the rest of my life. I'll never doubt it again.
[He doesn't ask for the words he might otherwise -- love or devotion or promises. They both know how impossible those are to give, with the bleeding together of so many worlds, with the potential that they'll wake up tomorrow and it'll all be gone, the manor, the village, everything they'd built. All they have is now, and what they do with it.

So:] Tell me it's on purpose. What we are. Just once.

( shanks reacts, on instinct, pressing the call button before he can think better of it — but the deception has already fallen away, and shanks can't hide from this anymore. he can't ignore the tug of emotion, the ache in his chest, the overwhelming need to draw koby close, to tell him exactly what he wants to hear. what he needs to hear. but he isn't there and it would take too long to close that distance, when there's an urgency shanks can feel prickling against his skin, like the sting of claws, like the hot flash of panic in the face of something more animal than human.

so he calls, and his voice is steady, firm, decisive, yet still, always, effortlessly kind. )

It's on purpose. It always has been.

[Koby answers -- because of course he does, of course, he kept himself warm with the ghost of Shanks's blood in his mouth, he can survive this with only a note, he can keep himself together with the knowledge that Shanks is alive, but he can't ignore when he calls, when he lets himself slip just that little bit more. It's the undertow tugging at his ankles, it's the current and the tides, inexorable, inescapable. Koby wishes he could feel it, could show it in the way he'd become used to, that unspoken link beyond his stumbling words, right to the marrow of him. He misses it. He misses it, and if all he gets is Shanks's voice, it'll be enough.

It's evident from the moment he answers, though -- he's crying. Has been since the first message. He half-hoped Shanks could feel it.]

Don't ever do that to me again. [It comes out hoarse, hitching, hollow.] Please. Please, Shanks.

( he expected to hear the hitching breaths on the other line; the soft, wet sobs; the choked way his name comes out — but it all curls like a fist around his heart nonetheless, squeezing. his own throat clenches tight, his voice escaping raggedly, barely holding back his own emotion: )

I won't. I promise. ( it's an easy promise to make; a harder one to keep, perhaps. does koby mean don't fake your death again or don't leave me again? maybe, ultimately, it's a bit of both. (maybe more of one than the other.) but shanks knows koby isn't naive enough anymore to think that whatever this is — whatever they are — is permanent. and yet, that doesn't make their bond any less real. in a way, the inherent, inevitable impermanence makes it that much more sweet, something precious and fleeting to cherish, to look back on fondly and think it was worth it.

shanks, one day, will leave. they both know this, as well as they know the rise and fall of the tide. but he's still here now — and he intends to stay as long as he can. as long as koby will have him.

he swallows hard, wishes he could reach out and comfort koby with the warmth of his presence, with a flicker of crimson, strong and steady — but they both know a stabbing pain is all he'd get for the effort. for now, it's enough to hear the rhythm of koby's breathing, even as unsteady as it still is. so he takes a deep breath, then: ) Breathe, cadet.

( with me, he doesn't say, but he doesn't need to. )

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