#sysullivan

he shifts his arm slightly, and that’s when he realizes it’s not just the hangover that’s bogging him down, it’s also mina, her body draped over him, forehead pressed against his ear, hair spread out across his shoulder. this isn’t the first time he’s woken up with her, both of them clothed of course, friends even though the heartbeats in their chests sync up sometime during the night. they don’t tell you about ptsd when you’re in war, and jaewon hadn’t had much experience with the notion before turning seventeen, so in the years since the independent’s failure, the two of them have really had to rely on each other for comfort against nightmares and waking terrors. he’s used to the warmth of her, the scent of her, their legs tangled slightly in unconsciousness.

but not so tangled enough that he can’t shift and maneuver his way out from under her, and he knows she won’t wake up because he’d smelled the alcohol on her breath as well, remembered her drinking just as deeply as any of them. and he doesn’t want to stay here in her room this morning, doesn’t want to infect her with the scorched disease of him, the one he can feel burning through is veins, thick and unstoppable like lava.

he stands up and shuffles to her door slowly, carefully, as noiseless as he can while still feeling the bloat in his stomach, the ocean swishing in his limbs. he feels stupid, he wants to die, he wants to smash his face against the metal of serenity, or go into his bedroom and never come back out. he’s not wearing his coat and it’s freezing cold out here in the hallway, but instead of going to look for it in the mess hall, he ducks for his own bedroom, praying to high hell no one has tried to usurp it, to be funny.

jaewon would set them on fire if they had.

thankfully, no one managed to get in, so he can dress in peace, every movement a drag with stinging pain, every shift only bringing him more agony. his brow furrows, his eyes darken, his mind works and works and works to try to crack the darkness, the haze he’d draped himself in last night. so little comes back to him; drinks and singing and kafka saying something about mistletoe and?? had he fought with johnny? how had he and mina made it into her room? just how much whiskey had he downed?

he rubs slowly at his forehead, feeling a strange bruise forming there, tenderness in his gums, and the most god-awful taste in his mouth. he goes to brush his teeth, and then does so again, doesn’t bother with his hair, doesn’t bother with more sleep. part of him wants to stay in here, wrap himself up in his blessed blankets, only the dim lighting for company for at least the next two days, but his stomach rolls and he knows he’ll do well to get some food into it. plus, he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s hiding or anything. not that he knows whatever it would be that he might hide from, but knowing him, he did at least one embarrassing thing last night, one thing that everyone else will remember and he cannot.

he shuffles back into the hallway, nothing in his stride speaking of power or purpose, the boots still clomping, but with a messier tread, heading into the kitchen. he keeps his fingers sliding across the wall of serenity, helping him find his way, like how serenity always has, to save his soul. ephy isn’t here, but that’s okay too somehow. again: jaewon doesn’t really want to see anyone, doesn’t want to deal with them right now. he supposes he’ll have to though, so he ought to come up with some kind of battle plan.

but first, food. he makes something quick, something painless and soft, salty enough to encourage the massive glass of water he pours for himself, and then he relocates it all to the head of the table, his usual seat. the room is still a goddamn catastrophe, and he doesn’t know who’s going to clean it up, but it won’t be him. maybe sullivan can round some of this shit up, or get other people who will, if he’s not inebriated as well.

the peace and quiet lasts only a few minutes though, apparently the time being somewhere closer to afternoon, everyone else rising and wandering into the mess hall as well, either to see the damage or get something eat themselves. jaewon doesn’t begrudge them that, won’t bar them from that, but anything else is too much.

true to form, casta walks up, grin on, hair ruffled out, the light of him too bright for jaewon’s mechanically engineered eyesight. “well hello there—”

“shut the fuck up.” jaewon’s voice is loud and clear, despite the wince it urges to pull on him, the look everyone else in the room wears. usually he is all gravity and shine, but right now he is charred, blackened ground, singed and exhausted, gold irises dark and half-lidded, furious. his headache is the size of a planet and his temper is as small as a singularity, neck muscles tensing, teeth bared and clenched in a growl. he doesn’t know what image he portrayed himself as during the night, but here in the normal universe, yang jaewon is still a murderer, still just as quick with a glare as he is with a pistol.

and speaking of pistols, he pulls his out from its holster at his side, tucked familiar in his grip, the weapon held up and aimed at the ceiling for now, his elbow resting on the table. “anyone says one goddamn word to me ever about anything, and i’ll put a bullet in you.”

“oh come on, jaewon—”

he cocks the gun and aims it straight at casta’s left eye, the center of him steady and deadly and threatening in an absolutely serious way. he might not shoot him in the brain, but he could still injure the idiot, somehow someway that all his medicine couldn’t recover him from. they’d have to drag him down to jongsuk, and hope the good doctor is sober enough to operate on him. “try me.” his eyes burn shadowy, already picturing casta’s blood, already coming up with how he’ll explain things to mina later, curt sentences probably, very little sympathy or sorrow. he’s not kidding and he’s not bluffing.

casta, to his credit, lifts his hands up and shuts his mouth, heading away from jaewon again, towards the cabinets. the captain’s eyes watch him only briefly when he walks away but not far enough to turn his head, knowing only pain would be granted to him if he does that. he’s not here for this shit, he’s not interested in making nice with anyone on board this ship today. if they value their kneecaps, they’ll adhere to his silence, doing well to forget everything that had happened, just as much as jaewon has.

he waits for a beat before relaxing his gunhand a bit, sinking down further into his chair, blinking and leveling out. he lets the cold bite of the barrel’s end lean against his temple, letting it ground him, reminding him nothing ever lasts forever.