Page 122 of Rears & Vices

Everard giggled. It came out as seizes of his chest, with no sound. His heart beat like a trapped bird.

There came an oath: buzzy, chopped-up syllables. Russian? A light source to Everard’s left was abruptly blocked; he felt the impression of great weight upon the earth.

“He is beyond speech?” This voice was softer. “Delirious?”

“Little wonder. Everard, love, look at me.”

Would an angel demand this of him? Surely there was no need.

He tried anyway, but to open his eyelids would be like parting a scar. He shook his head, had no idea if he was successful beyond a dizzy spin of black.

“No, no, it’s all right, shh.”

Wetness touched his parchment for lips, slipped over the rough crags of his tongue, into his seizing throat. It burned like a stab; he choked.

“Enough,” the second voice said. “It will have to come in drips.”

Then he was undoubtedly being lifted; he’d left his stomach behind on the ground and was too tired to pick it up.

Another curse, throaty this time, much closer. “I did not think they’d hurt him. He is skin and bones.”

“He needs the sea, like a selkie.” A hand trailed over the crust of his hair, down.

Everard felt a last rumble go through him, infinitely preferable to the earth’s trembling: Vitaliy’s quiet speech, doubled; vibration and sound against his ear.

“If he dies, Lieutenant, I am turning you in to the Navy.”

“If he dies,” D’Arcy said, “I’ll go myself.”

Thirty-Seven

The first words from Everard’s mouth were inadequate. Far from worthy of the endless hours of dream and hallucination he’d put towards this moment: the one where he would awake to sparkling Gulf reflections upon pale blue panelling, feeling the push of waves beneath him. Home.

“Not again,” he groaned.

But it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t real. It was illusion, like all the others.

“English!” D’Arcy gasped to his right, startling him. Then Everard felt his weight send them gently swaying in the cot. His mind was very good at recreating this feeling, which must have been what it was like to be in-womb, warm and contained, anchored in the back-and-forth rhythm made by his own gravity…

D’Arcy was still speaking: “—else? At least Vee gets a word out of ten from the Catalan. Go on, love, do.”

Everard furrowed his brow. Go on? What more was he supposed to say? “I do apologise.”

The hand at his cheek jerked away, came back.

“Christ, you’re actually awake.” D’Arcy laughed giddily. “Of course you are—only because I’m nearly about to go⁠—”

“No,” Everard corrected. “Not awake. ’S’not real.”

“Oh, no, it’s very real.” Bristly, damp kisses fell over Everard’s forehead, his nose, his cheek, his lips. “Missed you.”

Everard wrinkled his nose. “Beard?” D’Arcy was one to get away with a bit of stubble, now and again, but never something so undignified as a beard.

“That’s real too.” His voice was thick.

Everard shuddered with sudden chill. More proof; the greatcabin was never cold in reality, not in the Gulf.

“—hates it too. But don’t you move; I have to fetch Vee.”