thespicn:
WHEN — ｡ ‘✧ 1845. a few days after the mutiny. WHERE — ｡ ‘✧ the bow of the ship. OPEN TO — ｡ ‘✧ everyone aboard.
They were used to it, all things told: waking to the world having gone arse-up. Lovers, usurpers, things stealing into the small hours, all rushes in at daybreak. When was night ever patient enough not to stretch, and smirk, and finally to bleed all over the morning? Dawn meant a headlong tumble into a barrel of powder: fine, flammable, ground down disaster.
Sebastien takes his stand at the prow. Their body careens ever so slightly when gripping the rail, and a grimace passes over them, a bob in their throat. It’s unsettling, being out onto the water again: that swell of movement, the turning of the wind. It does odd things to their stomach, their vision. And the laudanum does not help. Merde, but they should be having an awful time of it. Short on sleep, on any water that didn’t pour from a decanter, on human touches. On poppy, too, bon sang; the leads which closed before all others. Yet none of that matters, none of it and the reason why is carved in flesh. The point of faith: the point where it lays its head.
There was a door.
Another turn of the screw, yet this time in the opposite direction. A palm on the knob, a jangling of the keychain. There was a door. It may be there, still. They may be here, still.
Bastien’s gaze falls on the person that ambles near. He moves with great care, eyes polished with holystones, turned sea-shell bright. The eyes of a once church-boy, once doorstep-boy, who is making sure pity is strong enough to draw matters home. Powerful enough to warrant allegiance, warrant answers. Protection, too: after provoking for so long, lashing with mouthfuls of spit, Bastien cannot afford to have that remembered. Cannot afford to have it called into question. A creature whose role must now turn, from stray dog, rabid dog, to something pampered and ready to be picked up. The actor wets their lips, lets colour slip into their cheeks. A blush creeps with the menuet of ballrooms. Pick me up, then, and take me to them.
❝ Say, ❞ he begins, a demure low under the rumble of the ship, ❝ do you know when the services will be held? Will the—Father Laurents, will he make it a joined memorial? ❞ The sound carries, wafted by the tarp battling against the top-mast. The actor runs their hand over their arms to draw out the cold. When they next blink, they make it look like being fogged over; turning fawn-eyed, fawn-limbed against the rail and into the other’s space. ❝ Would you speak to me about what happened? What’s the talk, below decks? Mon Dieu, those days on the island… I don’t recall much. The others do, maybe, but—ah, c’est simple, non? One never wants to bring it back up. Was there really… did they say something opened? ❞
"My oh my." Nour’s words drench themselves in dizzying, shimmering apathy. In the sweet syrup of disdain. "Such a darling, pathetic creature you've drowned into today, Sebastien. What pushed your head under the water and kept it there, your cheeks are glacial." They tut, their body leans them closer. Hands marginally colder than Bastien’s frigid cheeks rub colour back into pale skin. Unkind hands. Mocking hands. A could-have would-be promise of sharp nails, flowering red petals on white. If.
“Who knows what the good father intends, mon petit mignon.” Their breath is ice across Sebastien’s ear. “I for one have been praying for their poor souls since the news returned. Is it not so for you?” Sweeping Bastien’s curly hair from his forehead, they tuck a strand behind his ear only for it to spring out again. Nour sighs. “You must take better care of those pretty lips, you’ll ruin yourself in this summer cold. How would you go about seducing our darling officers when you dress yourself like a drenched thing.”
“But what can I say for our recent happenings — the word of the lord is a mouth opened in the nightless dark. Toothless. Hands for teeth.” Wistful. Half-mad, but a drowsy madness. The kind of madness that has poppies crushed underfoot, seeds crushed in the mouth. “If only I had gone. If only I could have seen, heard the dark for my own. But perhaps we’ll have the chance soon, hm? That would be — idéale, non, mon cher?” A thin slit of white in their smile. “Je veux entendre le silence. Je suis immensément curieux, et tu?”
