Archive of Our Own

There was a boy with flaxen hair

Who had an appetite for clouds in the air

Soraya comes home with a new book and empty pockets.

No new bruises. Which means the cops are still keeping their distance. Which means Soraya didn’t get jumped again. Which means he really blew all his day’s earnings on the slim book, now in Faye’s hands.

It’s a small thing. About half the size and thickness of the novels Soraya normally buys but looks twice as expensive. The spine—thin and smooth—is still intact with no telltale signs of use. Brown leather dutifully binds the pages together. Faye runs his fingers across the front, gliding over the unmarred surface. A stark difference from the flaking covers of even the best in their collection. Faye can’t imagine how heavy Soraya’s purse would have been.

Eyebrows raised; Faye throws his friend a glance. He knows better than to chastise Soraya about his commitment to this expensive routine. A single look conveys his exacerbation clear enough, even if it’s aimed at Soraya’s back.

Catching sight of his grimy fingerprints on the leather pushes Faye past the novelty of the experience. Can’t take it back now. He cracks open the spine.

“…”

“…”

“It’s blank.”

“It’s a journal, genius.”

And it’s brand new. No pen smudges or charcoal marks. Faye figured it would be in good condition, but he can practically smell the freshness from the pages as he flips though, a true feat given the nature of the slums. The journal is likely the cleanest object in their whole district.

It’s proving extremely difficult to keep dirt off the pristine white pages. Faye tucks his hands under his shirt, holding the journal through fabric. His shirt forms a raggedy pouch leaving him feeling like a clownish kangaroo.

A wry laugh echoes behind him as Soraya comes over his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t want it to get dirty.” Despite his claim, Faye angles towards Soraya. His hair’s still wet from washing his face, but Faye doesn't shield himself from stray droplets as Soraya plops down on the ground next to him.

“No use in that,” Soraya scoffs. “It’s meant to get a little dirty if you’re writing. What good’s a journal with nothing in it?”

“That’s different,” Faye starts, but the rest of his defense runs away from him before he can finish his sentence. It is different. But for Faye, he’s not sure if his chicken scratch would be any less unsightly than patches of grime. Absentmindedly, his thumbs fall from their hold on the cover’s edge, resting the journal in the divot of his shirt.

It’s so empty.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” Faye answers. It’s the summed truth. Something so unsullied. Something so refined. It would be a shame for him to spoil something so pretty. The blank white pages are hypnotizing, drawing Faye into a mental spiral. He reaches for his only lifeline. “Soraya—"

“Look Faye,” he responds, “if you think you can crawl your way outta here with only a mind full of stories, you’re a bigger dreamer than I am.”

Soraya leans back on one hand, the other distractedly flicking at his bangs. His head points towards the ceiling, as if he can see past the crooked wood planks to reality beyond dirty streets and creaking shacks. Faye follows his gaze, maybe he can see it too.

“Ha! Think about the faces they’ll make as you look down from the windows of some hilltop mansion. ‘Faye from dumps, that man taught himself how to read and write!’” Soraya lets out a thin chuckle. “You’ll soar higher than they could ever dream of.”

A drop of water slides down Soraya’s arm, hitting the floorboards with a dull splatter. For some awful, uncontrollable reason, Faye traces its trail traveling across Soraya’s skin. Ever the open book, it’s frighteningly easy for Soraya to express his thoughts. It makes his heart lurch.

“Do you have a pencil?”

“Ah…shit.”

So he collected raindrops and weaved from the sky

Pulling blue thread through the needle’s eye

Imagined accomplishments aren’t quite enough to motivate him, but when Faye nabs a broken pencil off the streets two weeks later, his reasons for stalling come to an end. It takes a few hours of lurking and peeking through windows before Faye comes home with a decent idea of how to hold a pencil. His confidence is quickly shot once putting what he’s seen into practice.

In theory, his middle finger and thumb are supposed to support his grip. Instead, Faye has formed a pincer hold threatening to shorten the pencil further. Unlike the clerks and bookkeepers who glide across the paper, he’s much more likely to drill a hole through the journal.

With reading, all he needed was his eyes and mind. As much as he hates to admit, running with his old gang also helped his learning. Amid all the violence and shake downs, sometimes he would have errands, needing to decipher messily scrawled addresses and names to make his deliveries. Training his reading proficiency was all their company was good for. His hands weren’t needed to hold a pen.

Writing is a completely different beast, not only in skill but also in content. Faye much preferred consuming stories than making them.

Start with the alphabet first. If there’s any lead left, then worry about writing something meaningful.

Their west side wall becomes Faye’s first victim for practice. With nothing better to do, he hunkers down to trace letters on wood.

By the time the sun sets, he’s starting to form short words, random ones he’s picked out from his books. Though bordering on legibility, Faye feels a swell of pride when looking at his squiggles, especially compared to the barely discernible monstrosities littering the corner of the wall where he started.

The shack’s door swings open. Faye hears a familiar shuffle, along with a whiff of something delicious.

“Getting into interior decorating?” Soraya’s tone is full of mirth. He sets down a greasy paper bag before coming closer to observe Faye’s handiwork. “Didn’t know you were such an artist Faye. What is that? Is that a cat?”

“Fuck off,” Faye huffs, batting Soraya’s offending finger away from a particularly curly attempt at the word matter.

Soraya puts his hands up in mock surrender, smirking mouth open to make another quip when he pauses, noticing the few scattered novels in front of Faye.

“Oh. Were you practicing?”

“You really think I was drawing? What else would I be doing?”

Faye catches the wrapped sandwich tossed his way while Soraya settles on the bed with his half, a chunk already missing.

“I dunno,” Soraya says, talking around his bite. “I thought maybe you got bored of reading and decided to pick up a new hobby.”

In lieu of a response, Faye digs in. It’s a hearty meal despite the lack of fillings; bread, cheese, and a thin slice of meat he can’t identify.

“How does it work anyway?”

“Huh?” Faye distractedly manages, busy racking his brain to place the familiar taste of the sandwich.

“Um...” Soraya’s hesitation makes Faye abandon his mental search. The weight of his full attention seems to make Soraya more fidgety. He jerkily nods to the wall behind Faye. “Letters, right? How does it work?”

Despite all his support, Soraya rarely holds personal interest in literacy. Faye tries not to let surprise show on his face. He also desperately tries not to choke on the remaining quarter of the sandwich as he wolfs it down. He needs his hands and mouth free right now, lest he lets this learning opportunity slip away.

Faye wipes the crumbs and grease onto his shirt before pointing to the largest, most legible word etched on the wall.

“Yeah, yeah that’s right,” Faye says excitedly. “Each letter represents a sound we speak. You can tell letters apart when they disconnect. You see how they’ve got a space in between?”

Honesty, Faye himself can barely identify any space between his messy letters. Lines of faint pencil easily blend in with grains of wood. But Soraya’s actually leaning in to try. Faye tries not to let the thumping in his ears interrupt his focus.

“Sooo…is that five of them? What sound is that?”

Soraya’s eyes are better than Faye thought. “The first one’s S, which usually sounds like sss—”

“Wait, wait, wait, they don’t even sound like what they’re called? S is sss and not es?”

Good point.

“…Yeah,” Faye replies, scratching his neck.

Going through the rest of the letters aren’t any less confusing, even with sound examples. It was a bad idea to start with Shore.

“Okay, okay. Sss-h-uh-oo-rr-e, yeah?”

“Close. That’s probably how it would be if all the letters were said individually. The S-H make shhh and O-R-E become orrrr. Shhh-orrr-e. Shore.”

“Probably, huh?” Soraya says, picking at Faye’s uncertainty and parroting it back to him. He flops backwards onto the bed with a sigh, wearily staring into the underside of the bookshelf nailed above his head. “I can’t believe you do this for fun Faye. I feel like my head’s about to explode.”

Faye shrugs and pulls away from the wall. Seems like lesson’s over.

“Who knows, maybe you’ll get used to it.”

“Pass,” Soraya scoffs. “Besides, if I need to read anything, I’ll always have you.”

Right. And Faye feels the simple affirmation settle in his bones.

“Shhh-orrr-e. Shore. Orrr-e. Hey, does that mean my name starts like that too? With the—the what’s it—with the S and O-R-E?” Soraya asks, popping back up to sitting position.

There it goes welling up again. You can be proud. As a friend, you can be proud. Faye pushes his tongue against his teeth, forcing the discomfort in his mouth to become a bigger distraction than the swelling in his chest.

“Careful, I can see steam coming from your brain.” It's a habit to tease, but Faye quickly follows up, not wanting to chase the conversation off, “You’re right. S-O-R. Soraya. I think it would be an A instead of E though.”

Faye grabs the pencil and journal from the ground as Soraya mulls over the letters, faintly repeating the combination even as Faye takes a seat on the bed beside him.

“Here,” Faye flips to the first page and starts to write, “it’ll be easier to see like this.”

To no one’s surprise, it’s much easier to write on paper than on wood at a 90-degree angle. Faye goes slowly anyway, his hand still shakily familiarizing itself with the shape of a pencil. Carefully, he spells out Soraya’s name.

“That’s A,” Faye says, pointing with the pencil tip to the fourth letter and then the last. “The one in the middle is Y. Sor-ai-ya. Soraya.”

Faye drags a faint line under the name as he breaks down the pronunciation. The dark graphite stands in stark contrast to the crisp white of the page. His writing isn’t as neat as he had hoped, but Faye finds he doesn’t mind, especially when Soraya’s eyes are filled with wonder.

“Woah,” Soraya breathes out, followed by a light laugh. “That’s my name? That’s my name…”

Soraya pauses. His fingers ghost over letters, then fall to rest beneath the line Faye’s drawn. “It's kinda long huh?”

Faye laughs at Soraya’s sudden change in direction. He keeps laughing past the point of humour. If he stops, Faye’s scared he’ll give into the urge of doing something remarkably silly. Like complement Soraya’s name. Instead, he holds out the pencil.

“Try it. “

“Huh?”

“Give it a try.”

“Nuh-uh,” and Soraya actually inches away from the offending point. “You know I’m no good at this stuff.”

“It’s not that hard,” Faye says amused, holding on to Soraya’s wrist. He wrangles the pencil into his friend’s hand, hoping in his panic, Soraya will forget the reason behind the current state of their wall.

No dice. Soraya takes a long look at the mess of letters scrawled on wood across from them, then back at Faye with an expression that plainly spells his skepticism.

Which Faye ignores.

“Come on, I’ll teach you.”

“Rightttt, because you’re such an expert.”

Faye flashes a smile. “The best.”

Before Soraya can fire off another quip, he suddenly stiffens as Faye wraps his hand around the pencil as well, gently adjusting Soraya’s grip.

“Pointer on top. Thumb under and over the back. See? Now, the middle finger holds it up.”

They trace over Faye’s writing first, adding a few shaky scrawls to the edge of the letters. After five laps over the name, Faye moves the pencil to a blank space. He continues focusing intently on repositioning their fingers and steadying Soraya’s writing. Faye keeps his head ducked low, only offering encouragement and coaching behind a curtain of curls. Soraya’s nervous, unwavering gaze burns into him. He doesn't need a mirror to know his face is lit up red.

The page ends up covered in aborted attempts and scratched out mistakes. Faye’s example might not have been the best template, but at the very bottom, amid the chaotic mess, is a wonky but legible Soraya.

A deep exhale. Soraya releases the pencil, letting it fall to Faye. It’s warm.

“Well, look at that.”

“Look at that,” Faye echoes.

Feeling his flush fade, Faye finally looks back at Soraya.

Oh.

Stars in his eyes and a smile just as bright, Faye feels an untapped reservoir of emotions deep inside him threaten to spill over.

Then the sun turns to him with a smirk, “Sorry for judging your writing, Faye. Looks like I made a cat too.”

Faye shoves him.  Soraya falls onto the bed in laughter and it’s impossible to not join in.

“What about your name? People are gonna think it’s my journal now.”

“…Will they?”

“...Shut up.”

Since the first page is filled, Faye turns to the inside cover. He quickly scrawls out his name, then holds the cover open, facing Soraya.

“…A…Y…E…and?” From his recline, Soraya stretches out his arm to point to the first letter.

“That’s F. F-A-Y-E. Faye.”

“Faye.”

He crafted a ladder that got him his prize

Climbing with a basket of significant size

Faye finds there isn’t much to write about.

Soraya doesn’t ask to practice again. He seems happy enough to be able to read his name.

Faye’s day to day remains largely the same across the weeks. Get money, get food, and Faye’s not too keen on recording about the dirty jobs he picks up.

Occasionally, he’ll write about something he's reading; a prediction before he finishes or small criticism. Though, more often than not, he’ll find himself on the last page before having had the chance to write anything down.

And sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, Faye will flip to a blank page and try to start a creation of his own.

Once upon a time-

The sky-

In a land-

Lines that he has reread over and over, that begin the story in so many of his books, all seem unnatural when coming from him. Stories, poems, proses; he ends them all before the sentence finishes, unable to reach the fantastical imagery built by the words on their bookshelf. But there is one subject that’s easy to write about.

To his chagrin, Faye finds his journal has been taken over by Soraya facts.

As with most things, it starts as Soraya’s idea. A flippant comment made one day while Faye sat, journal open, face blank, wondering how to put ideas to paper.

“Why don’t you write about me?”

He was teasing. They both laughed. To his horror, it worked. By the end of that week, Faye had three pages full of their living schedule because, it seems, anything to do with Soraya never leaves his mind for long.

Morning routine, hairstyle choices, little everyday habits, aspects about his friend that don’t need documenting to remember, all flow into his journal unbidden. Making the knowledge tangible feels like learning it over again.

It’s good practice. Faye can see the steady improvement in his writing. His handwriting is less shaky, spelling takes less time, and it's easier to connect the words in his head with letters on the page. It’s good practice. That’s all it is.

After the first week, the entries come slower. Not for lack of content, but for the nagging feeling that he’s enabling something dangerous. By the time Faye’s on his tenth page of Soraya facts, he comes to an executive decision that he’s had enough practice and, for his best interest, should focus on curbing the dwindling pencil length.

It’s easy to wear down a pencil. It’s much harder to find a new one. Just expensive enough that most people would avoid losing their stock. Pen and ink are on a whole other unreachable tier.

Faye still tries. He finds himself strolling the night streets when he would usually be at home. He still much prefers reading, reluctant to drop money on what he considers a luxurious side hobby. So, he wanders.

He keeps an eye out during the day as well, but nights are more chaotic, more careless, luckier for people like him.

Faye loops through the commercial sector, buildings renewed in the night by booze and pleasure. Someone’s retching in the alleyway. An argument breaks out a few blocks away. It’s far from comforting, but it’s familiar and there is some solace in that.

Then he spots a recognizable silhouette, and the familiar streets grow even more so.

A shadowed Soraya rounds the corner in front of him, stumbling slightly. Faye starts to jog up to catch him before Soraya can trip on his own feet. Then Soraya hefts someone out from behind a building’s wall and everything slows down.

They drift closer to the streetlights. Faye sees a glint of fresh blood seeping out from a small cut across Soraya’s nose. There’s a nasty bruise forming on the side of his face. The guy, now draped over Soraya, is all limbs. He’s barely conscious, and a good head taller.

“Yikes,” Faye calls out, voice steady. His jog turns into a walk, a bit too stiff to be considered casual. “What happened to you?”

Soraya snaps up in surprise. “Faye…”

The lump braced against Soraya’s left side moans and they both sway. Soraya wraps his other hand around the stranger’s torso. Faye walks a little faster.

“Ugh. Some drunk chucklefucks at the gambling den were throwing a fit. They were losing so badly, somehow got it in their heads I was part of a cheating scheme.” Soraya scoffs and pointedly directs a look of indignation at Faye. “Which I was not, by the way.”

Despite himself, Faye feels a smile creeping up. He nods along. “What were you doing at a gambling den?”

Even under the low light Faye see’s Soraya’s cheeks darken. “Well…I just wanted to watch, okay?” he mutters.

Faye sighs, but he knows it’s the truth. Soraya might be stupid sometimes but not stupid enough to gamble with barely pennies in his pockets. At least for now.

“Anyway, they land a few. Then I feel this guy come up behind me—and it’s already three on one, the bastards. I thought for sure I was about to get my ass thrown into a wall. But get this.” Soraya nudges the dangling man with his shoulder. “He comes lunging over me to take a swing at those assholes.”

“You sure he didn’t just miss you?”

“Ha ha,” Soraya laughs dryly. “He said something about unfair fights before swinging, so I figured he’s on my side—hey, give me a hand here!”

He has no reason not to. Faye moves to support the man’s drooping body and hoists the guy’s arm around his shoulders, mirroring Soraya.

“He nails one of them square in the face, and a whole fucking fight breaks. I crawled my way out but this guy comes flying through the window right after me. I felt bad about leaving him there so…”

Soraya trails off. Faye gives a noncommittal hum to fill the space. “Alright, so what’s the plan?”

“I dunno. Idiot is barely awake and didn’t give me anything after hurling out a window. Does he look like he’s ready to answer any questions?”

As if on cue, the body between them starts to stir, letting out a long groan. His arms twitch as if moving to stretch. Upon realizing both arms are trapped, the movement changes to wrap around them in a lazy embrace.

“Awuuagh, you guys didn’t have to come get me ♡” the man slurs. “I would have found my way back to the ship.”

He suddenly pitches forward, nearly carrying them all to the ground. Soraya squawks and digs his heels in, while Faye yanks the man’s collar to haul them straight.

“Mmmm eventually,” he continues, mumbling to the cobblestones.

“And what ship is that?”

The man swivels his head to face Faye, shifting his weight onto Soraya, and pouts. “I might be a newbie, but I wouldn’t forget. I treat all ladies with respect!” He shouts into the air. “Quin Zaza included.”

He punctuates his proclamation with a chuckle, then leans further into Soraya, nuzzling his hair. Dark strands mixing where head meets shoulder. Deaf to Soraya’s protests, the stranger promptly falls back into complete inebriation.

Soraya is blushing again.

A few seconds of silence hang in the air, during which Faye firmly grabs the envy scratching inside him, threatening to crawl into his expression. Faye shakes his head—at himself and the situation—as if physically flinging jealousy from his mind.

Getting a fucking grip.

Tearing his eyes away from his friend, Faye finally takes in the appearance of their new companion. He looks to be around their age, though hard to definitively say due to the developing black eye and swelling cheeks. Some glass shards remain in his hair—which Faye carefully tousles out with his free hand. Despite being chucked out a window, there are, remarkably, no serious visible injuries. The stranger’s blue uniform is rumpled, but intact.

“Skyfarer?”

“Looks like it. There were a bunch of them gambling too.”

“Our best bet is the shipyard then. If it’s not there, maybe we can check the fields next.”

“Damnit,” Soraya lets out a heavy sigh. “I should have just left him in an alley to sober up.”

“We could still do that now.”

“True.”

Neither of them walks away.

“Military?”

“Doubt it.”

Faye laughs. “Fair enough.”

“Pirate? Seems like the type of guy to throw punches first, ask questions later.” Soraya smirks. “At least that’s my personal experience.”

“Maybe. Still doesn’t feel right though.”

“Draker then?”

Faye readjusts their position, pulling harshly at the unconscious man’s arm to keep him from drooping, earning a grumble out of him. “Yeah.”

Luckily, the city only has one airship port. Even luckier, it only takes five minutes of walking (dragging) until they start to see tail fins emerge from behind rooftops. Buildings give way to a huge open area. Ships circle the field. Larger, wealthier ones sit nestled in hangers.

Faye’s never seen so many airships in his life.

Soraya whistle appreciatively. His expression quickly sours upon seeing nearly every mooring mast filled. “Fuck. How the hell are we gonna find the right one!?”

“What was the name again?”

“Uh, Quin…Quin…Quin Zaza?”

“Quin Zaza.” Faye rolls the name around in his brain, imaging how it would look on a page, how he would write it. “Alright, there’s gotta be an emblem on the side. Maybe something like Q or Z.”

“Uh huh. Yeah, of course…Q and Z…”

“I’ll keep an eye out. You’re in charge of making sure he doesn’t throw up on us.”

“Great,” Soraya whines. “I’m kinda regretting turning down your lessons.”

“We can start as soon as we get home,” Faye answers, chipper despite knowing the probable reply.

“I said kinda.”

Faye feels a half-smile tug at the corner of his lips. They trudge on, airships looming above them. The rising sun coating the tallest few in a golden sheen.

The Quin Zaza finds them first in the form of a bellowing voice steeped with disappointment.

“OKEN! WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!”

The shout echoes across the field and proves more effective than any pail of cold water. The stranger—Oken’s sluggish body bolts upright with a wince, or as upright as he can as the full weight of an untreated hangover bears down on him. He squints at the quickly approaching man, slit vision doubling as a shield from the dawning sun.

“Oh fuck, it’s Gibbs.”

“Oh shit.” Soraya shoots a worried look across Oken to Faye. “He isn’t gonna chew us out too, is he?”

“Nah, Gibbs might look like a hard ass, but he’s actually a big softie,” Oken jumps in before Faye can respond, though the nervous twitch in his fingers betrays his confidence. He blinks. “Um…Who are you guys again?”

They don’t have time to reply. Gibbs marches right up to the trio. He wears a less disheveled version of the same blue uniform.

“I swear, Oken. On the first night docked,” Gibbs scolds, the end of his sentence puttering out, dragged down with weary displeasure.

“B-boss. I swear there’s a good reason this time.”

“Good enough to excuse smashing two men through tables?!”

Faye sucks air in through his teeth. Soraya audibly gulps.

Oken makes a strangled noise. “Who told you that? I-if that even did happen!” He tacks on.

“The rest of the crew fessed up ages ago.”

“…Sorry boss,” Oken murmurs.

Gibbs hefts a heavy sigh before giving Soraya and Faye a solid pat on the back. “Sorry, for all the trouble he’s caused.”

He scoops an arm under theirs, freeing the weight off their shoulders and roughly transfers Oken— “Augh! My head…”—into a side hold.

“Christ. We were starting to think you ran away from us,” Gibbs mumbles.

“And abandon my top-class accommodations? Never.”

Gibbs exhales deeply. “Thanks for bringing him all the way,” he directs at the pair.

“Er, right,” Soraya stutters. “Uh, he helped me out as well.”

“Ah! Yeah!” Oken perks up, with renewed energy. “You’re the reason—”

“ANYWAY! We’ve made our helpful delivery,” Soraya interjects, jabbing a look in Oken’s direction that silently screams please-shut-up. “We should get going.”

Despite Soraya’s declaration, Faye and Soraya awkwardly shuffle in place; feeling the situation too abrupt to leave, but unsure of how to properly dismiss themselves.

Gibbs gives them a once over. He chews at his lip, and for what feels like the hundredth time, Gibbs sighs again. “Well, as thanks for carrying this knucklehead over here, the least we can do is treat you to breakfast.”

They’ve never been ones to turn down free food.

“Thank you, sir.” Faye says, slightly bowing his head.

“No need for that,” Gibbs tsks with a smile. “The name’s Gibbs. Our ship is close by.”

He turns around, whirling Oken with him, and starts to walk off. With no one hauled between, Faye feels Soraya drift closer. They trail after Gibbs.

“Oh, uh, I’m Soraya.”

“I’m Faye.”

Their delayed introduction fills the temporary pause. Oken doesn’t let the silence build.

“Hey, you boys live around here?” He asks, craning his neck to direct his voice to them.

Faye quirks an eyebrow. Boys?

“Boys?” Soraya says out loud, affronted. “I doubt you’re that much older.”

“Freshly 17 baby~” Oken playfully retorts.

“And still causing as much trouble as a 10-year-old,” Gibbs grouches.

Oken ignores the comment. He looks over his shoulder to Faye, brows raised in silent question.

“I’m 16,” Faye says, shrugging. “Probably.”

Soraya frowns. He scratches his cheek nervously before quietly answering, “I’m 15…”

The confession doesn’t escape Oken’s ears.

“AWWWWW!”

“Don’t fucking ‘AWWWW’! I’m turning 16 soon alright!” Soraya yells. He jabs his thumb in Faye’s direction, not that Gibbs and Oken can really see from the front. “Faye’s barely older. And so are you!”

Soraya crosses his arms, mouth quirked up in a telltale sign of Soraya annoyance. “Anyways, all that means is you’re gonna be a bag of bones sooner than me.”

Gibbs coughs loudly.

“With age comes wisdom!” Gibbs declares with an authority that ends the conversation topic. He glances down at Oken. “Most of the time.”

“We don’t live near,” Faye says, picking up the initial question. “But it doesn’t take long to get anywhere in the city. We usually don’t come to the ports though.”

“Is this your first visit?” Soraya asks.

“It is for me.” Oken, now more sober, detaches himself from Gibbs. He’s got both thumbs pressed into his temples, attempting to dissipate his headache. Despite the slight sway in his strides, Oken hangs back and starts walking beside Faye. “I think Gibbs, and some of the others have been before.”

Gibbs laughs wistfully. “Jeez, must have been three years ago. Not much has changed though.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Soraya hums, head pointed to the sky, his face impassive as he kicks a stray rock.

Faye watches the rock roll into his path. He nudges it back.

“So are ports normally this full?” Faye asks, glancing at Oken.

“No, this is a special case,” Gibbs answers instead. “Seems like a coincidence. Unless there’s some event we don’t know about.”

“Not that we’ve heard.”

They’re interrupted by whistling and shouts. A small group has gathered at the stern of a nearing ship, all sporting the same sky-blue uniform, though some have forgone the matching jacket. The ship is smaller than the others, but as they walk closer, she fills Faye’s view, commanding his attention. The metal hull creaks, splitting the morning wind. She stands tall, emblazoned with a QZ on her tail fin, the letters connected to form a distinctive identifier.

Quin Zaza.

Faye hears the group calling out to them, the breeze carrying their voices. 

“Y’all, Gibbs found him!”

“He’s got strays in tow.”

“Oken! You trynna give us the slip?”

“Shut it!” Oken hollers back. “Just got a little lost, that’s all!”

The group stops a few paces away from where metal meets grass. Faye feels dwarfed by the Quin Zaza’s shadow. Looking up, he can barely make out the faces of the crew members above.

“You’re a sorry sight Oken! Hope you can at least stay on your feet tomorrow night!” a man shouts down, hat obscuring his eyes. He follows up with a loud laugh.

Gibbs grimaces. He clasps Oken’s shoulder. Hard. “Good thing you already got your paycheck for this catch, because the next few are going towards repair costs.”

“…Damn.”

“You’re lucky you don’t have people hunting you down for the mess you made.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“That goes for the rest of you too!” Gibbs yells over the jeering. The teasing instantly deflates into a series of groans and a half-hearted chorus of “Yes, sir”.

Faye and Soraya are silent through the exchange, feeling out of place in the familiarity. Yet, Faye’s brimming with curiosity, enough to almost wash over the undercurrent of unknown nostalgia. From the gleam in Soraya’s eyes, Faye knows he feels the same.

Soraya inclines his head towards Faye. “This really a draking ship?

“What? Doesn’t look like one?”

They both flinch at the sudden voice behind them. Another blue uniform. A man looking a little older than Gibbs fills it out. The gentle sun lighting his face does little to soften the intimidating picture composed of a gruff expression and a cigarette stuck between pale lips.

“N-no sir!” Soraya stammers out. “I mean! —I’ve just never seen one so close before.”

Faye nods fiercely to provide support.

“Crocco,” Gibbs cuts in. “These guys helped carry Oken back.”

“By the way, thanks,” Oken pipes up with a smile. “Though, if you left me there, they probably wouldn’t have thought I ran off.”

“Sorry for trying to be a good citizen,” Soraya replies flatly.

Crocco huffs a dry laugh sending out a puff of smoke. “You boys interested in flying?” He gestures to the Quin Zaza with his cigarette.

The term seems much more acceptable coming from Crocco. Soraya turns back to the ship.

“I’m interested in anything that gets to leave this dump of a place.”

“Now isn’t that nearly every draker’s story.”

Faye and Soraya make the most of self employment and loose schedules. Breakfast on the ship leads to spending the rest of the morning with the crew. Then to spending days together in the city as the Quin Zaza undergoes slapdash repairs caused by her last expedition (“It was at least 15 meters and nearly ripped out the anchor!”). They’re an eclectic group of characters, their stories even more wild. Faye even gets a new pencil—given, not stolen.

He thinks about the scenes in his books, about the words that never made it to journal pages, about the people that get to live in that reality. And Faye’s dreams are filled with blue and wispy white.

“I think—"

“…”

“I think I want to become a draker.”

“...Alright.”

“A solid roof over my head, three meals a day, plus, there’s pay.”

“Mhm.”

“One hunt is more than what I make in two months shining shoes.”

“Right.”

“…”

“…”

“Gibbs said they’re leaving tomorrow.”

Will you come with me?

“We better get packing then.”

To the skies and beyond.

They’re ready by early morning. With Soraya’s silver tongue, they’re in the skies by nightfall.

Like most things on the ship, the room they’re assigned is small, shared between four people. But Faye has his own bed and a double storage compartment to himself. He’ll live.

“Damn, the hell’s in here?” Niko taps at Faye’s only luggage with his boot, barely nudging the hefty bag from its position at the edge of the bed.

Faye smiles. “Just some books.”

When the people heard, they came swarming all around

To see the boy who pulled the skies to the ground

The first week on the Quin Zaza is the worst of Faye’s life. Altitude sickness and vertigo hitting him with a vengeance. Days bleed into each other, compounded by his never-ending headache. His lifeline becomes sweet tea and naps, the latter of which doesn’t come frequently.

Luckily for Faye and unluckily for the bankbooks, the skies are empty which means relatively smooth sailing. His luck can only extend so far, though. As fresh recruits, they’re given daily training and the worst shifts. To Faye, with no measure for comparison, crawling out of bed at ass o’clock to face the biting wind breaking against his face feels just as grueling as a real hunt. His days end just as groggily as they begin. His journal, now filled with disastrously messy draking notes, becomes his last bastion against complete memory loss.

Soraya adapts annoyingly quickly. A fact he gloats about for all of three minutes before realizing he no longer has an excuse to slack.

He still gloats about it sometimes.

“You look like shit.”

Faye stares deeply into the pit of his cup and flips Soraya off. His murky reflection distorts his face into a perfect representation of his current feelings.

Soraya leaves the kitchen door slightly ajar as he crosses into the small space with quick, easy steps, making a detour to unsuccessfully steal a sample of lunch off Yoshi. Batted away and defeated, Soraya slides into a chair next to Faye.

“That’s your fifth cup this morning. You’re gonna be so wired.”

“Hopefully.” Faye slides a hand miserably through his hair, fingers catching on uncombed curls. “I’d take an energy crash over puking my guts out.”

“Awe, poor guy,” Soraya coos. He replaces Faye’s hand with his own, petting the top of his head patronizingly. Faye has enough sense left to stop himself from leaning in. His headache must have given him temporary brain damage to find the condescending act comforting.

“I don’t get how you recovered so quickly. I mean,” Faye brings a hand up to draw an invisible line between their heads, “you’re usually so much closer to the ground than I am.”

“I will dump tea on you.”

Faye starts measuring improvement by decreasing frequency of vomit spells. And by the legibility of his notes. It’s a depressing metric.

But slowly his headache dissipates. Mind clearing to make way for wonder. Smog free skies, lungfulls of clean air, and endless blue; things he can finally appreciate. Maybe he’ll get tired of it. Eventually. For now, it’s a better life than he could have ever hoped for.

“Yo, Faye!”

From the main deck, Faye peeks around the metal wall wrapping the living quarters to see Soraya’s head poking up from the stairway to the hold. Soraya waves him over as he walks up. They meet in the middle.

“Check it out,” Soraya says, revealing two uniforms from behind his back, a familiar colour. “Gibbs finally found the spares.”

He hands the top set to Faye before throwing on his jacket. It’s a little baggy. The sleeves engulf his hands, leaving only his fingertips visible. Not terrible, considering it came from a backup supply. Soraya fiddles with the cuff, playing with the optimal length to roll up. “There are a few others to pick from. These are Gibb’s first guesses. He said they’ll try to get it tailored when we land. Pretty cool, right?”

It fits him, he looks good. It’s a small thought, but it makes Faye look away.

“Nice to finally feel like her crew.” Faye says instead. He throws on his jacket. The material is thick, a welcome layer of warmth. Unlike Soraya’s, the sleeves are just right, but it pulls tight across his shoulders.

Faye shifts around, trying to loosen the fabric. “You sure this one isn’t supposed to be yours?”

“Yeah, I’m sure!” Soraya says indignantly. “They got tags on them.”

Soraya turns around and pulls his ponytail out of the way. On the collar is a pinned piece of paper spelling out Soraya’s name.

“See?” Soraya lets his hair fall back over. He points at Faye’s jacket. “Yours is on the back too.”

“You read it?”

Soraya rolls his eyes. “I can remember the shape at least.” He leans on the rails, staring into the clouds. “Yours is easier.”

Faye fiddles with the uniform buttons. He lets the cool metal dig into his fingers, grounding him.

“F-A-Y…E?”

“F-A-Y-E,” Faye confirms.

“Faye.”

There’s a reverence in the way Soraya says his name that makes Faye suddenly very interested in the texture of his sleeves. Then Soraya stiffens, leaning over the rail.

“Faye,” he repeats. Urgent. “Look.”

He sees it, just for a moment before it dips out of sight. Cutting through the sky, the tendrils of a dragon.

Chaos breaks aboard the Quin Zaza.

Crocco’s voice slices through the wind, bellowing from the voicepipes calling for all hands-on deck. The crew come pouring out the doors with Mika leading the charge. He brushes past them, eyes burning with flaming intensity.

“Get changed. It's time to hunt.”

All Faye’s notes go flying out of his head the moment the anchor lands, dragging a real, living dragon out of the billowing clouds.

It’s long. Eel like. Fluttering fins protrude from where its head meets its spine, trailing in the current like ribbons on a kite. The Quin Zaza is bigger, by a long shot, yet she bends to the dragon’s whims, following its flight pattern and keeping the anchor’s line slack. The sun glints off its hide. Smooth and as patternless as the clouds it came from.

Faye can feel Soraya trembling. His shivers resonate through the ammunition box they’re carrying, reaching Faye’s side. His eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated despite the bright daylight.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, like a prayer.

The hunt goes as well as expected. The ship comes out much worse for wear. Soraya was nearly flung overboard. They burned through half their bomb lance rounds. Mika gets an hour of scolding for his recklessness. But they're still in the sky and now one dragon heavier.

Faye spent the whole time reloading while Soraya ran around swapping emptied guns for new ones. During butchering, they were either watching or scurrying to transport materials. It barely feels like they helped. Their sore arms are the sole proof of their contribution. Yet, Faye's hands tingle as if he pulled the trigger himself. It's scary. It's thrilling. He never wants to do it again. He can't wait to see one again.

His first dragon. Their first dragon.

That night, the crew celebrates. Faye and Soraya get their first taste of fresh dragon, and Faye nearly cries. Niko, Oken, and Soraya tease him, but he sees Soraya use the commotion as a distraction to wipe his own watering eyes. Mika nearly flattens Gibbs for the last bite. It’s rowdy. It’s noisy. It feels like a home.

Back in their room, he lies awake.

Faye pulls back his privacy curtain, careful to not clank the curtain rings. Moonlight from the porthole shines onto his blankets. He slides his journal from under his pillow.

He wants to immortalize the image. Use the words he knows he knows to capture the picture of the dragon soaring beside them.

But he can’t.

He can’t paint the scene like his favourite authors. Sentences fail to form.

Faye falls onto his bed, mindlessly flicking at the pages. He closes his eyes. It comes rushing back to him in the darkness. The sun reflecting off the clouds, off the dragon’s back. The crew running around on deck. And bright eyes. Soraya’s smile edging on panic.

“Holy shit,” he said.

He opens his eyes and writes.

First dragon today. Long and white. Holy shit.

Just one line. And he’ll remember.

They crowd and swarm to get a look at his face

The hill where they gather becoming a bustling place

Faye’s journal isn’t thick, but it lasts him. Now that he has a (relatively) steady income, expenses once luxurious to him have become affordable. Including books and journals. Still, he uses his journal sparingly, held back by silly sentimentality. He sets it aside for lengths of time, then fills the pages in sporadic bursts.

There’s a soft knock at the bedroom door.

“Faye? Are you here?”

“Takita,” he replies. “What’s up?”

Takita’s head pops into view from behind the door. She searches the top bunks for him before realizing he's sitting on the ground with a quiet “Oh”.

“I'm rounding up anyone off duty…Yoshi needs some extra hands with the potatoes,” she says with a nervous laugh.

Such a volume of potatoes can only mean one thing. They're almost out of meat.

Faye scratches his head, avoiding direct eye contact. “How many people do you have?”

“Well,” Takita’s smile wavers, “including you that makes three.”

It's too pitiful to imagine Takita and Yoshi slaving over a pile of potatoes by themselves. Faye sighs. He lays the pencil between the pages and sets his journal atop his bed. Duty calls.

“Alright, lead the way.”

Takita beams at him and disappears behind the door. Faye follows her down the corridor.

“Thanks Faye,” she says. “The other guys are either on watch or blew me off when I asked. But,” she spins on her heels to face him for a moment, “they told me you weren't doing anything important.”

“Ohhhh did they now? Mind giving me some names?”

Takita gives him an amused side eye instead. “The usual,” she says, a little exasperated, whatever memory flashing in her mind is enough to trigger old annoyances. Then her expression softens.

“Sorry, was that a new book?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just a journal.”

“Oh! I didn't know you wrote!”

She looks at him with expectation. Faye sheepishly rubs his neck. “Er. I don't really. Not stories, if that's what you're thinking. Mostly logging habits, daily occurrences, stuff like that. Nothing interesting.”

Faye expects her curiosity to die away, or even look disappointed. Her expression doesn’t change. Smile same as always. Faye clears his throat. “What about you?”

Takita hums and twiddles her thumbs. “Writing isn't exactly my thing.”

“You help Giraud with navigation records don't you?”

She snorts. “That's completely different. It’s all numbers and I'm just writing what he tells me to. I’m not very good with words.”

They climb down the stairs to the mess deck. Wood and metal walls opening to clear skies. Takita hops over the last step. She pauses at the bottom, waiting for Faye to catch up.

“Have you ever thought of it?” she says. 

Faye tilts his head.

“Writing your own story,” she clarifies.

He thinks about unfinished lines and blank pages.

“Nah.”

“Really? I thought maybe you would be inspired by all the novels you read.”

She’s not wrong. But-

“It’s tough capturing your imagination into words.” Faye laughs, a little bitterly. “After reading so much and seeing how the pros do things…it’s hard to compare.” 

“Well it doesn’t have to be the same quality right away! Or ever. You should write something for you. You don’t even have to show anyone.” Takita bounces on her toes with a mischievous smile. The wind picks up, blowing her braids into disarray. “I’d want to read it though.”

Her energy is infectious. Faye can feel his lips lifting into a smile as well. “Got any good writing ideas then?”

Takita whirls around. “Are you kidding me?! We’re flying through the skies, mountains beneath our feet! What could be better inspiration?” Her arms stretch towards the blue expanse. “If you run out of books to read, you should give it a shot.”

Faye laughs again, bitterness gone. He gives Takita a pat on the head as he passes her, taking the lead to the galley.

“Pretty good advice for a greenhorn.”

Unfortunately, he runs out of books to read.

Which usually wouldn’t be a problem if he wasn’t also overwhelmingly bored. Oken and Soraya were poached to help in the engine room and everyone else are preoccupied with their own tasks.

So, Faye finds himself in the laundry room, with his journal but no laundry. The windows provide good lighting and being below deck protects him from the wind.

The only problem left is actually writing.

Faye drums the pencil against his leg, cycling through possible ideas. It's not like he doesn’t have any, he just needs to parse through to find ones worth the effort of pursuing.

A suspiciously Takita sounding voice whispers in his mind, cutting through his tangled thoughts.

Write something for you!

Faye reels his thousand-yard stare back from the hypnotic smear of sky outside the window.

Just get it down. Get it down and the hardest part will be over.

It takes him embarrassingly long to write 10 lines. The noon sun has begun its descent. Slanted shadows slowly wipe across his page, an inescapable clock hand counting the minutes turning into hours.

But 10 lines are better than a million unfinished ones. Faye finds the resistance chipping away. The words certainly aren’t flowing. It’s a trickle of progress, yet, despite all the bets he placed against himself, it is progressing.

There’s a clatter outside the doorway. The sound of heavy boots thumping on metal that Faye belatedly recognizes; it’s the accompanying voice, which follows the footsteps, that Faye identifies first. 

“There you are.” Soraya’s brisk pace slows as he enters the room. The momentum of his swaying hair is the only evidence of his rush down the stairs. His hands are casually tucked into his pockets as his head swivels around, surveying the blatant lack of laundry. “Running from responsibilities?”

“I’m on break as far as I know,” Faye pauses with a wilting look, “unless you’re here to deliver some bad news.”

“Well, lucky for you, I have nothing to deliver.”

Soraya gingerly drops to sit with Faye against the wall. His back lets out an almost concerning string of cracks.

“Hate to say it, but I think this job is aging you rapidly, Soraya.”

“I don’t want to hear it from the guy whose knees popped so loud it spooked Vannie. Vannie.”

Faye laughs at the memory. He tries his best to refrain from further comments as Soraya squirms to find comfort leaning on hardwood. His grimace gives away his lack of success.

“Mayne really worked you guys to the bone.”

Soraya grunts. “How long have you been down here?”

“Came maybe a few minutes after you guys left,” Faye replies. “Been here since.”

“Seriously?!” Soraya continues to fidget. “How can you stand sitting straight like this for so long?”

Before his brain can catch up (which seems to be happening frighteningly more often), Faye pushes off the wall and turns his back to face Soraya. He motions with his head, welcoming Soraya to brace behind him. There’s a moment of deafening silence. Just a moment.

Before regret can wash over him, the waters still. Faye feels a heavy weight sink into him with a sigh. Their backs slot together in a balanced equilibrium keeping them both upright. The body is malleable. Faye tries not to think about the impression Soraya will make this time. And hopes he doesn’t notice how much Faye’s already been molded by his hands.

“So,” his voice comes right behind Faye’s ear, “what were you doing?”

The page under Faye’s fingers creases. Wrinkled paper mountains like furrowed brows. He forces himself to relax. Slow breaths, not deep ones; hyper aware of all the physical ways his body could betray him and give away his flushed condition.

Faye swallows as soundlessly as he can. “Writing.”

“A log or like, something original?”

“Original. Might as well keep trying if I have the time.”

Soraya nods. The back of his head tickles Faye’s neck. Faye feels him shifting, pulling his legs up from their splayed position.

“And how’s that going?”

Faye can read the unspoken request in his question. “It’s short, but I can read what I have.”

And so he does.

“What does flaxen mean?”

“Blonde.”

“Oh, so like you.”

Faye stiffens. The choice wasn’t exactly intentional, but it was easier to start by sticking to something familiar. It’s a little embarrassing to be called out.

“Vannie’s blonde too,” Faye says in a recovery attempt.

“Yeah so?” Soraya sounds genuinely confused. “Wait, are you embarrassed? Wait, is this about you??”

Faye wants to dunk his head into the laundry barrel.

“No,” he says, feeling extremely glad Soraya can’t see his face. “I'm just saying Vannie’s also blonde. Like me. And many other people.”

“Okay blonde boy,” Soraya scoffs. “So, what comes next?”

Faye’s grateful for the diversion. “I don’t know,” Faye confesses. “It could probably end here, couldn’t it?”

“I guess. But what’s he going to do with all that publicity? Seems like you’re cutting him off from a golden business opportunity.”

It’s Faye’s turn to scoff. “I think I am seriously unqualified to write about a business empire.”

“Why not? We’ve done our fair share of sales.”

Faye hardly considers haggling for dragon oil prices to be relevant experience. “It’s a wonder we aren’t swimming in money right now.”

He feels Soraya’s stifled laugh more than he hears it. It reverberates through his chest. Faye feels his heart pick up pace to chase the echoes.

“He’s going to have to settle with what he has. It's too difficult to rhyme anything with business,” Faye says.

“Seems a lot harder to write when you have to make sure things rhyme.”

“It’s like having a template. Lots of poems do it.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a poet,” Soraya says, amused.

“And I’m sure you’ve met many,” comes Faye’s sarcastic reply. He sighs, waving a hand towards his journal, though Soraya can’t see. “To be honest, I’m not sure what this is.”

“Well,” Soraya’s head drops onto Faye’s shoulder. His voice grows softer to adjust to the closing distance. “I might be an uneducated, inexperienced bum, but I like it so far. Poem or otherwise.”

If Faye dipped his head and turned, his lips would brush past Soraya’s forehead. He focuses ahead.

“I still think you should have him sell it. What’s he gonna do with all those clouds,” Soraya says.

“Maybe he’ll hoard them.”

“Greedy bastard.”

Faye chuckles. “Maybe he shares them with his friends.”

“Sure, but why not try to profit? At least a little?”

“That’s what you’d do.” He phrases it like a question. It’s spoken like an answer. They know each other well enough.

“Hell yeah would!” Soraya’s head lifts at his exclamation, but Faye's shoulder is cold only for a second.  “Maybe. Maybe. I’d save you the first bite.”

“I'm so touched,” Faye responds dryly.

“As you should be.”

Faye realizes his pencil hasn’t stopped moving. The tip ghosts over paper, doodling light grey swirls. Mindlessly occupying his hands. Lines cross over each other, bisecting and intersecting in the corner of the page.

“Maybe I wouldn’t sell it all, if I loved them.”

A sharp stutter in the swirl’s continuity. Faye almost snaps the pencil. 

“Oh. Yeah?”

“I mean that’s what they say right?” Soraya continues. “You'll do anything for love. It would be nice to share something special together. Just the two of you.”

Faye’s mouth feels barbed. “Such a romantic.”

“Only because that's all you read to me.”

“Only because that's all you bought me.”

“They were cheap,” Soraya says, shrugging. “If running a food empire is too taxing, why don’t you give this guy a girl to share with? Personally, I think he deserves a princess for all his hard work.”

Something catches in Faye’s throat. He must have inhaled wrong. He leans back, stretching out, trying to free the ball of air trapping his voice. The fabric of their pressed uniforms now prickling hot.

“Faye?”

“A princess huh?” He finally says. He doesn't even choke around the words. He’s allowed a wistful smile. There’s no one to see. “Yeah, that’d be a nice fairy tale ending.”

“On second thought, maybe not. If it were that easy for a chump to land a princess, I worry for the state of the kingdom.”

Faye barks out a cross between a laugh and a cough. It's an ugly sound but it loosens his chest. Soraya’s been around for plenty uglier.

“Chump? I feel like he’s accomplished quite a bit,” Faye says, feeling the need to defend his fictional creation.

“No way. He’s still got ways to go. Don’t knights usually have to slay some beast to be deemed worthy? All he didn’t was pick some clouds from the sky.”

“A feat which was previously impossible.”

“Yes, but no death-defying feats.”

Faye shakes his head in disbelief. He can’t help the laugh that escapes at hearing Soraya’s absolute conviction.

“In fact, I—"

“Oh. Soraya, Faye, I thought I heard you.”

Gaga’s deep voice cuts into the room. All at once Faye becomes acutely aware of all his senses; the waning sun on his skin, the crinkle of his uniform, and the pressure behind him.

Soraya’s head shoots up off his shoulder, but he stays leaning against him. Faye’s back burns.

“Gaga? What are you doing here?” Soraya asks.

“Uh,” Gaga lifts the basket of overflowing clothes in his arms. The answer is implied. “Since you’re here, can you give me a hand?”

“Man, not a moment’s rest,” Soraya whines. He follows Faye in standing before shambling to Gaga, relieving him of the top layer of the pile.

Faye relocates his journal, away from stepping range. He uses the moment to bury his face into his—marginally cooler—hands. His brain whirs, stringing together believable excuses for his flushed face. The setting sun his primary culprit. But if they notice, neither say anything. And it somehow feels worse.

Cries ring out from those noble and regal

“The prettiest things should go to the prettiest people”

They offered him riches and gold just for a taste

“In that case” he said “I shouldn't let this waste”

“Gaga?” Faye peeks into the shared bedroom with a winning smile. “Could you sharpen my pencil for me?”

“Again?” Gaga protests, but he’s already pulling a small knife from his back pocket.

Faye slinks over, handing Gaga his pencil. “The damn thing keeps breaking on me.”

Gaga rolls it between his fingers, examining the tip. “You must be pressing too hard.”

Faye fiddles with his hands. “It’s a bad habit.”

“Can’t you do this yourself? You just need a knife.”

“Yeah, but I like how you make it all pointy,” Faye says with a grin.

Gaga stares at him unimpressed. Faye tries to inject some more pleasantry into his smile. It must work because Gaga sighs and starts whittling away.

The scraps fall onto a brown cloth, set out before Faye’s arrival. Wood flakes join charcoal dust and other pencil shavings. A steady shhk sound fills the bedroom. Faye lets his eyes wander. He cranes his head over Gaga’s huge torso.

“Whatcha working on?”

“Ah.” Gaga pauses his task. He shifts to the side, giving Faye full view of the canvas.

“Oh! That’s—"

“I know Vannie already has a picture, but I wanted to try my hand at drawing it.”

Spread on the canvas is the Ship Eater, sketched out in its full glory, mating pattern decorating the length of its body. Even in pencil, it’s a sight to behold.

“I was thinking when we get to Harley, I’ll buy some colours. I’ve never really worked with colours before…”

“Whoa Gaga! It looks great!” Faye says genuinely. He can’t hide his amazement even if he tried. “I wish I could do something like this.”

Gaga turns back to the pencil bashfully. “Thanks Faye.”

The lead keeps snapping, even under Gaga’s careful hands. Seems like he’ll be waiting for a while. Faye can’t count the number of times he’s accidentally let it roll off the top bunk and hit the ground. Now he’s paying for his carelessness with his time.

Absentmindedly, Faye picks up the clothes strewn around the room. He tosses them onto the nearest bed, clearing the floor for a space to sit. Lifting a particularly wrinkled shirt uncovers a bursting sketch book.

“Yo Gaga, can I take a look?”

“Go ahead,” Gaga responds, giving the sketchbook a cursory glance before returning to the troublesome pencil. 

It's not the first time seeing Gaga’s sketches, but he’ll never get tired of it. The lifelike serenity imbued in each image is something to behold. He perfectly captures every moment on the Quin Zaza. Some pages are attached to the sketchbook coils; some loose, fluttering free as Faye flips along. He’s nearing recency, recognizing sketches from events that happened a few weeks ago.

Then his breath hitches.

A picture of him and Soraya, that day in the laundry room.

Gaga really does record everything on the ship.

The small sketch catches them mid laugh. Faye’s looking down, almost disbelievingly, at his journal, at the stupidity of their haphazardly brainstormed ideas. Soraya’s leaning into him, eyes closed rattling off more nonsense. Soraya’s head is slotted against the curve of his neck. Despite the laughter, their expressions remain soft. It's a gentle image. It makes Faye’s heart churn like it's being pulled apart by a whirlpool.

Faye’s not so dense he’s ignorant of his emotions. He’s a reader after all. But, to him, love is never as fast as they describe.

It’s never falling. It creeps in, mounting slowly until you realize you can’t breathe. That you haven’t been able to breathe for a while. Like all the air has been sucked out; reserved, dedicated, to their survival alone. But you find you don’t mind suffocating when being close to them is enough. You can live off the scraps leaving their lungs. Memorizing the way they blow it out and capturing the exhale off their lips. And it's enough. It's enough.

Over time, flooding desire dulled to quiet acceptance. Before he knew it, he became an expert at disguising love for friendly fondness. Seeing his expression laid out in front of him, it all comes rushing back full force. He looks unbelievably tender. Together, they look unbelievably carefree. For a pathetic, petty moment Faye wants to rip that version of him to shreds for making it look so easy. 

Oh no. I’m fucked.

“Faye?” Someone taps his shoulder.

Faye jumps. He clears his throat. “Sorry Gaga, I got caught up in your drawings.”

Gaga reddens. “T-that’s okay! I'm glad you like them.” He hands Faye his pencil. “Pointy as requested.”

Faye blinks owlishly at it before his brain finally snaps back in place. “Knew I could count on you. Thanks man!” he says as enthusiastically as he can manage.

Faye gets up to leave. He places the sketchbook down, still open. He’s unable to close it, to seal the picture away.

I’m really fucked.

“Uh, Gaga,” Faye fights to keep his voice from cracking.  “Could I keep this sketch? O-or could you make a copy for me?” Embarrassingly, he fails.

Faye steels himself and holds out the sketch in question.

“Oh,” Gaga sounds surprised and Faye’s ready to abandon the idea altogether. Then he smiles kindly. “Sure. Go ahead. You’re in it anyway.”

Faye takes care not to crease the paper as he holds it awkwardly by his side.

“Thanks, Gaga. I really owe you one.”

“In that case, can you take over toilet cleaning next week?”

Faye immediately scrunches his nose. Well, he did say…

“Alright. Fine.”

Later, Faye tucks the sketch between the pages of his journal, laying neatly opposite to the unfinished poem.

But it's close to finished.

Faye takes out his newly sharpened pencil.

Without another word he got up and left

Fluffy cloud morsels packed up with deft

Back to his house, but he wasn't alone

And him and his lover had a feast on their own

It’s his first attempt. It’s silly. It’s not very good. He can't find it in him to change a thing