Fabien turns to look at him. “Yeah, fuck no. Guess I’m still her plaything. That’s why I’m even here, right?”
Vinicola shrugs, grinning. “One could argue you like it this way, though.”
“Ah, shut it.” Fabien’s scowl deepens, but he raises the bottle all the same.
Vinicola just laughs, unbothered, and tilts his head back to watch the sky, his gaze roaming over the dark clouds. “Here’s to that, then,” he says with a grin. “For what it’s worth, you’re notthe worst crewmate. You came through when I was ready to let the sands have me.”
Fabien snorts. “I didn’t do it for you,” he mutters, but he can’t fool me anymore. He’s cracking more and more by the moment. First he’s smiling, then he’s talking about his past like it’s nothing. Now, he’s just inches away from letting himself admit he’s close to Vinicola.
Fabien Rancour—layer upon layer of cynicism, yet every so often, one slips, peeling away.
“Of course,” Vini replies. “But you did it all the same.”
I catch Zayan’s eye, and a grin quirks up the corner of his mouth. “Would you look at that,” he murmurs, and a chuckle slips out of me before I can stop it.
There’s something we both get, something Fabien and Vinicola haven’t grasped yet. A crew isn’t just a collection of souls stuffed into a ship—it’s a lifeline. You might hate each other, might argue, but when the moment comes, you know you’ll pull each other out of the water. It’s deeper than loyalty and, in some ways, maybe more shallow. Just instinct. Lives tangled up in each other, survival tied together.
Saving a life isn’t something anyone needs to be thanked for. Not really.
But then Fabien shifts, scowling harder. His jaw clenches, lips pressed tight as he glances our way, his eyes flicking to the hourglass.
Finally, he grunts, “Go ahead, laugh it up.” He looks away, crossing his arms like he’s bracing for an attack. “But… I owe you one. Both of you.”
“Fuck me,” Zayan says, half-laughing. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”
Fabien’s scowl deepens, but before he can sink back into that dark place he calls a mind, Zayan lifts his bottle lazily.
“Crew’s crew, right?” He clinks his bottle against Fabien’s, watching the man twitch, and adds, “Not gonna let you down just because you’re a miserable piece of shit.”
Fabien’s lip twitches. “Don’t push it.”
“Why not, when it gets a rise out of you?”
A rough sound escapes Fabien—a laugh he seems to choke on halfway. His fingers loosen on the bottle, and after a beat, he sets it down, exhaling like he’s trying to bury whatever’s clawing at his insides.
“This is getting out of control,” he mutters, barely audible.
Vinicola, of course, is soaking it all in, eyes keen despite the haze of rum.
“Lighten up,” he says, purring the words. “When was the last time you let loose? If you’re not careful, I might just go get Ridley. He’s bound to spill something worth hearing.”
Fabien grunts. “Leave the old man be. Fool drank himself under the table. Hasn’t touched rum in years, and now he decides tonight’s the night to catch up.”
A crash and a round of laughter spill out from the lounge, followed by the sight of two sailors stumbling out for fresh air, tripping over their own damn feet and sprawling on the deck like beached fish. I can’t help but let out a sharp laugh as they tumble.
“You two all right?” I call, arching a brow as they pull themselves up, wobbly but grinning.
“Aye, Captain!” one shouts, with a look that’s more reckless than steady. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Last two years, we’ve barely had a reason to breathe, let alone celebrate,” the other slurs, wiping sweat from his brow. “Feels like a damn miracle to have you aboard. And a miracle Mr. Zayan survived!”
“True miracle,” his mate echoes, raising an imaginary glass. “Cheers to that! And to think we saw an island rise out of the sea…”
“Shh,” the other hisses, swaying slightly as he glances around with that half-drunken, half-superstitious look. “Old Ridley warned us not to talk about that out loud. Says the goddess might hear.”
I catch Fabien’s unimpressed glare at their display, and I lean back against the deck, arms crossed. “You’d do well to listen to Old Ridley,” I remark, giving them both a lazy once-over as they wobble. “He’s likely the smartest man around.”
“Aye, maybe best to tread careful,” one mumbles, looking a little paler, “don’t want her getting any ideas.”
