well, that went well

The Fisherman is quiet beside him. Focused. He has his head cocked slightly, eyes narrowed at the sea, and they're floating near the cliffs, the outline of a shipwreck dark in the waves below them. The Fisherman had suggested he stay with the Merchant tonight, but Simon had been- is- curious. The cliffs are tightly packed, and despite the night, the sky is bright with stars. In the corners of the cliffs, with the mourning howl of the wind, it feels like something special.

And, really, he hadn't wanted to stay back.

The Fisherman hadn't asked him if he was sure- had accepted it, simple as that, and then they had left, the sky darkening slowly as they departed, and despite the languid pace of it all, Simon finds himself at ease.

There is something grounding, about this. About the soft swaying of the boat, the Fisherman's quiet presence, the sky, brimming with stars.

"A conger eel," the Fisherman explains. "They only come out at night."

"Why?" he asks, leaning his weight against the railing, watching the waves sway against each other. Despite the sound of the wind, it's a still night. Peaceful.

"They're nocturnal," the Fisherman says, and then, whip quick, rears the fishing rod back- reels it in. A dark shape breaks the waves, twisting and turning and fighting its fate, and Simon watches the Fisherman haul it in, unhook it, and toss it aside with the others in one practised motion.

It's impressive. Still.

The Fisherman recasts his line- leaves it for a moment, to check the fish, humming quietly below his breath, a thoughtful little noise. Simon watches him, and then turns his gaze aside- back to the sea, the dark of it, and despite the close walls, the tight corners, Simon doesn't feel the slow crackling of claustrophobia, of fear.

It helps, he thinks, that if he tilts his head back, the stars are right there.

A sound. Something moving, fast, and Simon furrows his brow- cocks his head, turning slowly, trying to catch the source of the sound. It's not quite loud, but the waves are so still, the sound of something breaking through them echoes, hits his ear.

"Fisher-"

The boat tips.

Simon yelps- hits the railing, hard, the deck disappearing beneath his feet and sending him stumbling, back smarting and head spinning, and the Fisherman curses, loud, suddenly right there, at his side, a hand coming to grip his elbow.

"Hurry," he says, sharp, and tugs Simon forward- the boat is swaying, and the cliffs are shaking, rumbling, exhaling like a great beast, and nearby, so close Simon can almost feel it as his neck, is a great, big, sigh.

His feet slides on the deck. Water sprays. The Fisherman's grip is iron, and he moves with purpose, and Simon stumbles after him- nearly slips more than once, the deck wet and moving beneath him, but somehow, some way, they're at the cabin, and the Fisherman is throwing open the door, is pushing him aside, and Simon twists, catches himself in the doorway as the Fisherman moves to the console, and out the open door, the sky dark and looming, he spots it.

An eye. A body. Teeth.

Something meets his gaze, and sees him.

(come home, the ocean calls and the blood sings and the waves crest above his head and he is drowning, he is always drowning, a box sinking to the bottom of everything, small and enclosed and Simon cannot breathe-)

The boat moves.

The roar of the engine, and everything slips, slides- Simon's shoulder slams into the doorway, and he pushes himself backwards, breath hitching in his chest, feet stumbling. A sound, loud, echoing, angry, and the back of his knees hits the bed, and he goes down.

"Hold on!" the Fisherman yells, voice raised, and Simon scrambles backwards, keeps on going till he hits the walls, and wedges himself into the corner, hand coming down to clutch white-knuckled at the bedding.

Simon- stops. For a while.

The world closes in on him, presses down, and Simon is aware, distantly, of moving. Of the Fisherman's voice, sharp and somehow still steady, and he is aware of the sound of something, something big and angry and hungry, and he curls as small as he can, shoves his legs to his chest and his face into his knees, and fights the way his chest has gone impossibly tight.

Everything swims around him. There's a heat at his neck, crawling up his spine, and there's the smell of blood in his nose. The taste of it, on his lips. The stench of it, all around him, pressing him small and drowning him whole, and Simon squeezes his eyes shut, clutching at the blanket beneath him, and tries to remember that he isn't there. He isn't.

(it had watched him. it had known him, seen him, whispered to him, talked to him, it had cracked his skull apart and found every soft spot, had called his name so kindly)

(Simon, it whispers, still. come home, Simon. come home.)

His arm shakes. His head aches. He gasps for air, and it comes out wet, and he's drowning, he's dying, he's back in the sub and he's never coming out, they welded him in there and left him for death-

"Simon."

He flinches. Smacks the back of his head and the line of his shoulders into the wall, and he whines- chokes on the sound, shaking his head, thinking, no, no, not again.

The bed- the bed?- dips beside him. A quiet exhale. A presence, at his side.

No one was there, in the sub.

It was just him, and the ocean. Endless and so very hungry.

"You're okay."

It's spoken with such certainty. The voice is steady. Grounding.

He wants to deny it. Wants to shake his head, because how can he be? He's drowning. He's dying. He was always meant to die, from the moment he was born, from the moment the stars winked out and everything became so very dark, from the moment his Mother handed him a knife and laid his fate at his feet. How could he ever live, with that around his neck? How could he survive, that small enclosed space? How could he be okay?

The voice doesn't repeat itself. But it sits there, beside him, steady and calm, and Simon sniffs. Feels the haze disappear, slowly, the fear unsticking itself from the roof of his mouth, the caverns of his skull. He isn't dead. He isn't even in pain, outside of a thudding in his head that probably has more to do with the panic attack, than any actual injury.

He's- fine.

A hand to his face. Rubbing at his eyes, the wet of his cheeks, and he exhales, slowly. Blinks.

"What-" his voice croaks. Breaks, easy, and the Fisherman makes a soft, steadying sound, and Simon sighs, knuckles at his eyes. Everything aches. There's a tension in his body he can't unwind, and he feels vaguely disconnected, like his body isn't his own.

"There was a monster," the Fisherman says.

"A what?"

"Don't worry about it."

He twists in place. Stares at the Fisherman, the dark of his face, the way he doesn't look at him- it sets his teeth on edge. "Fuck that," he snaps, and though his voice comes out angry, the emotion winks out immediately. He's tired. "What do you mean a monster?"

The Fisherman doesn't look at him.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," he says, patient. Like Simon is a child. Like he's being unreasonable.

"No," he says, and he tries to sound steady, to sound angry, to find his teeth in his mouth and bare them- but the exhaustion hits him hard, and it just comes out petulant, weak.

"Simon," the Fisherman does look at him, then. "I promise."

Simon thins his lips. Keeps the Fisherman's gaze, and he doesn't like the look in his eyes, doesn't like the way the shadows crawl across his face, but-

"You promise," he echoes, a statement, instead of a question.

The Fisherman nods.

Simon sighs. Slumps, bonks his head gently against the wall, and there's a shake in his body, a tremor he can't keep in check. He blinks, and the shape of it flashes across his vision, and maybe- maybe he can trust that.

"Okay," he says, weak, and the Fisherman squeezes his knee, the touch like a brand, but in a way that has Simon wishes it'd never end, that the Fisherman would lay his hand on his chest and burn him from the inside out, but then it is gone, and the Fisherman has moved back to the console, and Simon flops down into the bed, curls his hand to his chest, and clutches at the fabric of a sweater not his own.

There's a whisper, in the back of his mind.

He doesn't want to listen to it.

"I'm taking us back to the Merchant," the Fisherman says, and Simon closes his eyes, and can't find the energy to acknowledge him.