Their tour begins with the kitchen, Luka trailing a step behind his captain as he shows him where everything is. He's informed that the crew used to rotate cooking-duty until Bart came aboard. He worked in a bakery during his youth and knows how to make nearly anything from scratch. At first, Theo was worried that sticking him in the kitchen full time wouldn't be fair, but the lad loves the work. Plus he has Miles' help, which they can all tell he really doesn't mind.
Just down the hall from the kitchen are the crew's quarters. They are bunked-up two to a room, paired as so: Zizi and Bowie, Harry and Bart, Miles and Jewel, and there's an extra room which is designated for Tide, though he mainly sleeps in Theo's chambers, or wherever he pleases.
Luka hooks a hand around Theo's bicep to pull him to a stop, laughing heartily, "You mean to tell me that the cat has his own room?"
Theo's smile touches his eyes as he glances down at Luka's hand, which he then drops, "It's a running joke actually. Miles is our main complainant on the topic, though they sleep during the day and Jewel crashes there at night, so in essence they already have their own space."
Luka is still giggling as they continue through the maze-like hallways towards the lowest chamber of the hull which contains the cannons and miscellaneous equipment, and Theo could listen to that sound forever.
"That does remind me: I've been trying to work out sleeping arrangements for you. We don't have any available rooms, but I figured you could bunk with Miles and Jewel since there is an available bed at night. But, that is a no-go."
The captain sighs, descending the steps and pushing open the heavy metal door between them and the munitions, "Those two haven't had the easiest time, and they're very protective of their space. So when they say that they'd like to keep things as they are, I have to allow them that."
Luka runs his palm along the barrel of a large cannon as he weaves through the endless rows of weapons, "I understand. I wouldn't want to invade a space that's sacred to them, especially if they've not had something like that before."
"Your understanding would win their favor," Theo comments, "Though I don't think you'll have any trouble with that on your own."
"You view me too highly."
Theo hums, "I disagree rather vehemently. But, back to the matter at hand: I thought of relocating Tide, since the whole ship is his, but seeing as he uses the room as a lavatory, it permanently smells of urine, and it's quite overwhelming.
"The only solution I have for you at the moment is to take my chambers, just until we figure something out."
Luka shakes his head, though the movement is not visible to his companion, "No."
Theo scoffs, "No?"
"I couldn't take your bed, it wouldn't be right. You're the captain, and everyone aboard this vessel relies on you being well-rested."
"You're quite challenging, has anyone told you this or am I the first?" Theo inquires.
A memory of Bellows' hand wrapped around his throat as Luka laughed in his face floods Luka's consciousness. 'You're infuriating,' he'd growled, but Luka knew he loved it.
The younger man pinches his bottom lip to contain his smile though there's no one to see it, "I'm not challenging, I'm just right."
Theo wants to scream.
"You're rejecting a proper solution to a problem for no good reason, so just plain difficult might be more accurate."
Luka sighs, "You losing sleep for me is not a proper solution. Your rest is important," hates the sincerity in his voice.
"You're infuriating," Theo teases.
They walk further into the massive space, only a sliver of light casting down onto their feet from the oil lamp Theo is carrying. It feels that they're in a deep, endless void down here, complete darkness threatening to consume them. Every sound bounces and echoes in all directions but never seems to fully stop, and the ship groans ominously around them. Luka knows that the only thing between his feet and the endless depths of the ocean below are a few inches of wood. And that sends a shiver down his spine.
A bit disoriented, he reaches out for Theo, delicately grasping his wrist.
Theo lifts the lamp, illuminating the freckles splattered across Luka's cheeks, "There you are."
"Been here," he shrugs.
"I like it down here. It makes me feel small and keeps me grounded," Theo says. And Luka feels like he couldn't be further from the safety of solid land.
"Atop the ship, I feel in charge, but down here I'm truly at the mercy of the ocean and her power. It reminds me of the vastness that drew me to this lifestyle." And this level of vulnerability makes Theo nauseous.
Luka listens intently and hums in understanding, "Whatever our plans, the sea's are grander."
The captain doesn't know what to say to that, says instead: "I can sleep on the couch. It's perfectly comfortable."
Luka rolls his eyes as he'd led back toward the stairs, "You're persistent..."
"Just trying to solve a problem."
"I don't mean to be a problem."
Theo looks over his shoulder, his jaw illuminated by the flame in his hand, "My dear, you are an answer."
To what, Luka has no idea. But he's rendered speechless, so he lets the comment stand.
"I offer a compromise," he says when the tension around his throat eases up and he can breathe.
"You have my full attention," is Theo's reply, and he's certain that he's never uttered a truer sentence.
"Alternating nights. We'll switch between the couch and the bed."
Theo imagines waking up every morning like he did this one: the first thing he sees as the sun rises being Luka.
"Deal."
"But," and Theo knew it wouldn't be that easy. "You get two nights in the bed, then I get one. Rinse and repeat."
And there isn't much he wouldn't agree to right now, but there really is no downside to this, "The deal stands."
"Wonderful."
Luka pulls the metal door shut behind him as they emerge from the darkness, and the tour continues.
***
Heat rises in the small space, sweat trickling down the side of Bart's neck as he skins and debones fish for today's lunch. With ease, his hands slice and chop, fold and knead. He loves his hands; they're how he communicates, they're what gives him a voice in this world.
One year ago, life looked very different for the Irishman: he was working in a run-down ale house on one of the X islands as a way to keep a roof over his head and food in his belly. Previously, he'd been a mate on a ship for three years that had been doing quite well for themselves; so well, in fact, that they ended up on the Royal Navy's radar. Within a month, they'd tracked the vessel down, raided it and took everyone captive. Well, almost everyone.
Bart was forced to watch from the small dingy he'd commandeered as the ship went up in flames. When the naval officers found out that he couldn't hear or speak, they left him for dead. He escaped just as the smoke was turning black and the gun ammunition on the hull started to pop and explode. It was, without a doubt, the scariest moment of his life.
One night in the tavern, this scruffy, red-haired person sits down at the bar, a smudge of dirt across their nose, frowning into their ale. Bart flicks the brim of their hat with his knuckle, raising an eyebrow in question. He watches their shoulders rise and fall in what is most likely a very dramatic sigh.
Their lips begin to move and Bart leans in to read them. He makes out 'if one more person fucking croaks from this disease and leaves me with more work to do, I'm going to scream.'
They look up and flash a crooked grin at Bart, 'Why are you staring at my mouth?'
Bart signs that he's deaf, but the stranger must not know sign language, he can't imagine why he'd think they would. It's so rare for someone to know his language, it's even more rare that he gets to speak with his normal cadence and flow, constantly having to slow it way down so people can understand.
He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a piece of parchment and a pencil, and writes: I'm deaf, trying to read lips.
His companion reaches across and takes the pencil, writing the letters M-I-L-E-S before handing back the writing utensil, Bart repeating the process and writing his own name.
He watches as Miles says his name out loud with a little appreciative nod, loves the way his name dances across their mouth.
And he's not normally one to abandon his duties and leave with someone after one drink, but when Miles asks if he'd like to join their crew, he agrees without a second thought. He reckons he'd follow them anywhere.
Bart lifts his arm to wipe the perspiration from his brow with his bicep when he notices movement in his peripheral vision. He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder as Miles walks in, looking disheveled from not enough sleep. They're rubbing their eyes and yawning as they step across the threshold and into Bart's world, and this is how he prefers them: at their softest.
Bart resumes scooping out a fish eyeball and plopping it in a bowl, reaching their hand backward without looking for Miles to grip in their familiar greeting. Miles learned very early on that a small physical touch is the best way to let Bart know of their presence; suddenly appearing next to him apparently startles him so bad that he sends octopus guts flying up to meet the ceiling where it gets stuck for weeks - the smell unbearable. They tried to bang on the counter to create vibration, but this old ship groans and vibrates so much that the gesture was ineffective.
Now, whenever they enter Bart's atmosphere, they touch his arm softly or headbutt his shoulder blade to announce their arrival. Half of the time, Bart senses their presence and does a soft touch of his own in greeting. It's all very gross and lovely.
Without needing instruction, Miles gathers the meaty parts of the fish that Bart was cutting away and throws them in a bowl to season before reaching up and placing them in the iron stove that hangs from the rafter above.
"Thank you," Bart signs. "But you should be sleeping." He takes his eyes off what he's doing and smiles when he notices Miles knotting their hair back in a bun and yawning.
Over the last year, Miles has worked tirelessly to learn Bart's language, to not force him to have to assimilate and read lips all the time, or write down his every thought onto paper. They see the way it exhausts and dehumanizes him. They've gotten very good at understanding Bart and his signs, so much so that he's able to sign at a pace that is almost his normal tempo. Miles feels happy that they can offer a space for Bart to be their authentic self, or as close to that as possible. But their signing definitely still needs work. Their brain understands what to do and sends the signals, but their hands are slow to pick up on the receiving end.
It makes them flush with embarrassment every time Bart has to cradle their hands and show them how to do it. And maybe the flushing is also because he's touching them, and they quite like that. Shame floods their chest cavity and wants to drown them whenever Bart has to read their lips because they need to tell him something urgently and they haven't gotten the signs down yet. A couple months ago, there was a ravenous storm with waves so high, they overtook the vessel numerous times, and in Miles' state of panic, they forgot every sign they've ever learned and had to silently scream at Bart to get below deck before he got himself killed. The fear that consumed their entire body in that moment was definitely a normal reaction that they would have had about any of their fellow crew mates, and it was absolutely not because it was him.
Miles wipes their eyes and glares sideways at Bart, signing, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."
Bart, who was still half-focused on preparing the meal, puts down his knife and turns around, leaning his left hip on the counter, "That bad, huh?"
Miles has been having nightmares since they were seventeen. It's not something they've ever talked about, and only Bart has seemed to notice how little they sleep and how they look more tired every single time they emerge from their bunk. One night, Bart came above deck to star gaze when he couldn't fall asleep and found Miles asleep at the helm; fully passed out in the depths of a fitful nightmare. He was able to wake them, as gently as he was capable of, and coax some information out of them. Miles didn't give any specifics, but it sounded deeply painful and traumatizing.
Bart empathized but brought up how dangerous it was for them to not sleep at all, seeing as they're the sole navigator of the ship at night. They made an agreement that Miles would get at least five hours of sleep during the day, and if not, Bart would stay up with them at night to make sure they stayed awake. The thought of Bart being sleep deprived and miserable over them has been more than sufficient at helping Miles keep up their end of the bargain. No matter how excruciating it is every second they're asleep, and for at least the first couple minutes that they're awake when they can't decipher what reality they're in.
Miles looks everywhere but back at their companion, knowing concern and care will be etched into every pore on their face, and they can't handle it when he looks at them like that. It makes them want to do something bad, something they can't take back. Realistically, somewhere deep, deep down, they know that it's reciprocated, but how do you gamble so carelessly with something that valuable; someone this priceless?
Miles shrugs their shoulder up to meet their cheek as they finally look up, their signing choppy, "Just needed to be here." After a beat, "You help."
Bart raises an eyebrow at them and tells them that they need to reverse the order of the two signs on that last sentence if they're trying to say that they're helping him.
"Help you," he signs, "Not 'you help'."
Miles reaches forward with their left hand and covers Bart's to stop him, eyes intensely trying to convey what their words can't possibly, using their other hand to reiterate their original message:
"You help."
Nothing more needs to be said, and simultaneity, everything does.
***
"You cannot tell a soul about this."
They are standing in the cabin, huddled around the captain's desk, and Luka is once again hanging on every word and movement of the taller man. Theo's finger is pressed to his lips, an eyebrow lifted in question, to which Luka nods furiously. That's all it takes for Theo to continue. He crouches down, one hand rested against the wood as the other slides along the underside of his desk, catching on something. Luka's eyes follow his fingers, and Theo looks up, his own flickering between the sea green of his counterpart's eyes and the blush pink of his mouth. From this angle, he has the perfect view of Luka's slender neck, and his pulse quickens at the thought of his hand around it, his tongue running along the dip in his collar bone.
Theo physically shakes his head to clear the thoughts, focusing harder than he's ever had to in order to complete the simplest of tasks. His thumb slides a lever into place while his index finger turns a small metal knob ninety degrees to the left. These actions combined with his other hand pressing down on a spring-loaded piece of wood causes a secret drawer on his desk to pop open. And Theo can't help but bask in the surprise and excitement on Luka's face, the feeling better than anything he's felt in years. Maybe ever.
"Open it."
Luka looks down and locks eyes with Theo and, my gods, looking at him from this angle, in this light should be outlawed. The sun is shining perfectly through the stained glass windows as to cast a small rainbow across the left side of his captain's face, which would be too much in its own right. But then there's his actual face peering up at him from his knees. Those cheekbones that have haunted his thoughts every second since he first saw them look as though they were sharp enough to slice Luka open. And he knows he shouldn't, but he wants to trace them. With his charcoal and his hands. His fingers twitch with the need to dance through his hair, to braid his beard. They're greedy, and he hates them for it.
"Your eyes are the color of cedar wood," Luka exhales, and that absolutely was not supposed to come out of his mouth. I want to build a ship with it. At least he kept that last bit in.
Theo, who struggles with speaking at any given moment, is rendered completely brain-dead at that. Because what is there to say to that? He breaks the eye contact and reaches into the drawer, lifting out a metal key with an intricate pattern on the handle. Still unable to speak, still reeling, he stands up straight and moves across his cabin to the book case. Once there, his fingers skim across dozens of titles that he knows by heart, finding the right one.
On the far right side of the third shelf from the top is an inconspicuous little black book with a gold oval on the spine. He slides his index fingernail underneath the edge of the gold plate, and to Luka's bewilderment, it flips open to reveal a key hole.
"Fuck me," the younger man whispers, the marvel evident on his face.
Theo takes Luka's hand, still wrapped in cloth, and presses the key into his palm. "Go on," he coaxes.
They stand there in comfortable silence as Luka reaches forward and pushes the key into the slot. It easily turns and there's a pop, the book case slowly opening toward the men, and Theo can't help but admire the ever-changing expressions that flit across Luka's face. The younger man is eager, stepping back and hastily pulling the door open.
What's revealed overwhelms Luka to the core of his being. He steps into the space, and what's hidden within the walls of this ship is his own personal heaven. The wooden-paneled walls are a cherry red, with golden suns and moons painted overtop, littered across the entire space. There's two small circular windows which currently have a view of nothing but open ocean. Hanging on hooks right next to the door are three aprons, covered in various splotches of paint in all shapes and colors. The main focal point is the giant easel in the center of the room, currently displaying a half-finished painting of an octopus.
Luka turns abruptly, bumping into Theo's chest, who was right behind him, and gapes at him, "You're an artist?"
Theo shrugs, "That's subjective."
And Luka laughs, a full, robust laugh that comes from the center of his being, every atom coming together perfectly to create this sound. This beautiful sound.
"Oh, you're definitely an artist," he replies, eyes screwed shut as he continues to chuckle. When he opens them and peers up, Theo is smiling at him like he put the stars in the sky.
"You sound so sure," he teases, dipping his face to within an inch of Luka's, a challenging smirk playing on his lips.
Luka tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and scrunches his nose in playful defiance, "I'd consider myself an expert on the topic, yeah."
And Theo brightens considerably at that, "Do you paint?"
"Never," he says with a shake of his head. "It's a luxury that hasn't yet been afforded to me. I draw though, it's what I'm good at."
Theo pulls Luka into the room and gently guides him onto the stool that's placed in front of the easel, tucking a pencil behind his ear, "Though I think there are likely many things you are wonderful at, I'd love to see the thing you know you're good at."
Luka swivels and gazes up at his captain, "And what do you reckon should be the subject of this work of art?"
Theo plops onto the floor dramatically, legs crossed and smile beaming, "Me."
Butterflies threaten to rip Luka's stomach wide open as he retrieves the pencil from behind his ear and clears his throat, "I can work with that."