The moon is covered, unable to be seen. The air is cold and wet. It’s like breathing in a sauna without the heat. A mist covers everything in sight.
The railing is ice cold and the stone under their feet is rough. They’re standing away from the railing and still, it stands taller than them. They have their dad's hand in theirs. He stands to their side with a lantern that produces light without illuminating anything. His navy blue robe stands still in the wind.
The water in front of them is a dark inky black, it moves like blood and radiates malice. They cannot tear their gaze away from the water no matter how much they want to. It looks into them and judges what it sees.
Everything outside of the sea seems static, the world is frozen in time. The only things allowed to exist are the curling waves and piercing gaze of the ocean.
They try to count their fingers but can’t quite focus on it, they try to count the seconds but they pass too fast to properly count.
It’s an eternity of standing before someone hits pause on the ocean. The crashing waves still as the world around them bursts into motion. Their father is breathing and the wind whispers. Their lungs contract as if they haven’t moved in years.
They see their father move in their peripheral vision. He swings his lantern three times and slowly the schooner appears.
Sea-stained wood and off-white sails, the ship looks as if it is well-used. It’s a familiar sight to anyone who grew up at the docks. But familiar does not mean safe.
It stands before them impossibly large for its medium size. It stretches out to block the sky. It is nowhere near them and yet they still stand frozen. There is something on that ship.
The sea seems tame in comparison to whatever the ship has brought. It feels like fear itself, like death coming to see you personally. It reaches out towards them, the distance almost insultingly short for a creature - god, idea, universe - like it.
It reaches towards them.
And they shoot up in bed before it can reach them. As they take a breath, they taste the sea. Salt settles on their tongue, it burns their throat as air passes through it. The blanket pools around them, heavy and grounding but still constricting. The window is open and they can see the moon clearly.
Every moment of their dream is ingrained in their memory. It had played out the exact same as it has for the last few weeks. It is still tormenting them, even in their waking moments.
They try to count their fingers. They have to start over a few times but they eventually count ten. They count the seconds moving by until it’s been five minutes.
They are confused as they come down to reality enough to notice. They shouldn’t be in bed, they were in the living room with the tv on.
Why are they in their room? Why were they asleep?
They tried their hardest to stay awake and ended up asleep anyway. They woke up choking on the taste of the sea again. It’s all useless. Trying to run is pathetic, the ship follows them, counting down the seconds until they pass out.
Their head spins them right back into the headache they’ve been nursing for the past week. It’s more of a migraine if they way their vision dims as they stand up says anything.
They head out of their room to grab the painkillers they know are in the kitchen. They try to prepare themselves for another day of trying desperately to occupy themselves instead of sleeping.
The lack of sleep makes processing difficult, as evidenced by the way it takes them a moment to register the person in their kitchen. By the time they realize that there is, in fact, a person in their house, the toaster pops.
When the familiar figure stands up to grab the toast, they finally find their voice.
“Tory?” It barely even sounds like his name. It’s so slurred it almost sounds like they’re drunk. “What’re you doing here? Don’t you hate me or something?”
He doesn’t even look up as he starts to put butter on the toast. He doesn’t bother replying either.
“You are in my house. This is my house, you know that, right?” The scene is just incomprehensible. Tory continues buttering the other bread.
“Well, this isn’t my house, so I’d say that yes, I know this is your house.” He also sounds tired but in a different way. “I’m here because I’m not devoid of human empathy.”
They squint at him, they don’t understand a single word out of his mouth. “What the hell does that mean?”
A sigh.
“You went offline a couple of hours ago. You’re always up texting, at least for the past two weeks.” He grabs the eggs they didn’t realize were cooking and puts them on the toast. “I headed over because even if I felt hurt, I’m not going to leave you alone after a nightmare.”
“You don’t hate me?”
“Of course I don’t. You’re just a prick.”
“Hey! I’m….sorry. Yeah, you have every right to say that.”
They fall silent after that. It’s only for a moment as Tory puts together the egg sandwich and slides the plate across the counter.
They are very tired, and that is the only reason they feel like tearing up as they pick up the sandwich. While they eat, the silence is tense.
“I’m sorry Klaus.” It’s said reluctantly as they look up from their sandwich to stare. “I shouldn’t be the first to apologize, but I also screwed up.”
Another sigh.
“You hurt me, yes. But I shouldn’t have dropped you. Especially when I know that you don’t wanna be alone. That was on me.”
They put their sandwich on the plate as they try to think through what to say.
“You shouldn’t have to apologize. I shouldn’t have tried to push you away in the first place, that wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t mean to hurt you but I did. I’m sorry Tory.”
Looking someone in the eyes is always hard but they do it anyway. There’s no anger in his eyes, he doesn’t look even a little bit miffed. At that, they know they’ve been forgiven.
They finish eating. It’s not completely alright, but it’s better.
The transition to the couch is seamless. It’s just them watching tv, no remnants of words that can’t be taken back, things that have to be apologized for. There’s no reluctance to be relaxed, no fear of falling asleep.
When Tory eventually leaves with reassurances that they can call, they aren’t as afraid of being alone. It’s alright for the first time in a while.
When their eyes start to close they don’t fight it. They look out of the window at the moon instead of struggling.
The moon is covered, unable to be seen. The air is cold and wet. It’s like breathing in a sauna without the heat. There is a storm brewing in the distance, drawing closer with each heartbeat. This knowledge does not scare them in the slightest, it raises their heart rate not out of fear but anticipation. They can’t help but grin as they spot it on the horizon.
This is not an inconvenience, rather it is a challenge.
Electricity gathers in the air as if it were the gods themselves manifesting. It crackles down their skin in a way that makes them feel alive. The clouds block out every ray of moonlight there is, and they still aren’t blind.
They tear their eyes away from the sky to look upon the ship. Every grain of wood stands out to their eyes, every screw in the window frames gleam in the nonexistent light. In contrast the figure standing beside them doesn’t seem quite in focus until they look directly at them.
It’s Tory. Stood in all of his glory, he is there. Adorned in navy blue, dripping with gold, he faces the storm with a grin that mirrors theirs. He is everything they have always thought he should be; standing proud with a grin that makes his teeth seem a little too sharp.
They turn to face him as the storm starts to hit. He stares them in the eyes, an inexplicable fondness in them. When the wind picks up he lets out a whoop that they echo.
The ship rocks violently as the waves attempt to drag it down into its depths. It takes effort to remain standing, but the strain in their legs is welcome. It’s like riding a bull; an adrenaline-inducing accomplishment.
The wind tries to help the waves, it whips around them and only succeeds in sending them a step towards Tory. The wind whistling in their ears reminds them of flying, they can almost feel feathers brushing their fingertips when they fling their arms out.
They grab Tory’s hand. The storm is attempting to batter them and it is failing. The storm stands strong and still it’s just them standing on the deck of a ship with arms held aloft in victory.
When they wake up with the taste of the sea in their mouth, they no longer feel sick. And instead of water clinging to them like tendrils, they feel feathers brush their fingertips.
About to fall back asleep, sun not even in the sky, they grab their phone. As their eyes flutter shut, they type in the contacts. They fall asleep with the name Captain Tory in their thoughts.
They don’t dream, or they don’t remember if they do at the very least.