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Ready the sails, hoist the anchor
Chart our course, face the horizon and
Take me to the edge of the world
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Minho's mouth went dry and his hands began sweating. Suddenly, he didn't feel comfortable with their proximity. “A-are you a g-ghost?”
“Hardly,” the captain laughed, “I'm very much alive. I was simply revived -- given a second chance at life.”
“How?”
“I will show you.”
The other rose from the edge of the bed, returning with a loaf sized chest. When the older opened it, he could see layers of shattered glass piled inside the crushed velvet lined walls.
“Sea glass.” Chan explained, holding up a coin sized piece. “It will help you see my past.” The captain set the box on the floor, placing the glass in the center of his own tongue. “Come here.”
Minho tensed as the older leaned forward and pressed an open mouth to his. It took a few moments for him to get used to the sensation. The other’s skin was soft, and the movements were gentle. The captain ran fingers through his hair. Minho’s eyes closed on their own when Chan’s tongue breached his lips, the other's body relaxing with a sigh. The glass felt like the way glacier ice looked -- piercing, pure, freezing. He shivered. A hand cupped the side of his neck, thumb tracing his jaw.
“Open your eyes.” The captain mumbled, body shifting closer. He could feel the other’s breath twirling through his eyelashes -- it made him warm. “When I kiss you again, open them.”
In an instant, they were reconnected. With a tiny squeeze, he was ready to look. He could suddenly see glimpses of memories -- ones that didn’t belong to him -- flash before his eyes. As he blinked, the scenes shifted until it landed on one.
The cry of seagulls and the crash of the waves mingled in the air around him as he continued to climb the knotted rungs of rope towards the crow’s nest. The wind whipped around him, curls flying in front of his eyes. He laughed to himself -- to the sky -- he loved the sea. He should have been looking for any signs of land, but instead he took in the sights and sounds that surrounded him. The sun kissing his skin. The breeze whistling in his ear. The salty spray misting over him. Many saw sailing as a way to survive but he saw it as the only way of life -- of his life. He was sure he could not survive without the sea.
The world melted away. The first thing that became clear was the voice of someone who loved him. As the image developed, he could see the resemblance. The man before him was surely Chan’s father. He was surprised to see that the older man lacked the striking silver eyes he found so breathtaking. Instead, the other had soft, brown ones that overflowed with affection and pride for his son.
One day, you will be captain.
If I am the captain, then what will you be? He heard himself say. So innocent.
I will be with your mother at last.
She is dead, though. Greif coursed through him, a combination of Chan’s past pain and his own. Are you saying you will die, Father?
Not now, but one day all men must.
I don’t want you to. His voice wavered, dangerously close to crying.
I know you don’t. A calloused hand wiped a tear off his cheek, we don’t get to choose, though. Take this and lead your crew -- not to riches, but to prosperity.
Father, he gasped, but this is your compass!
It was my compass, but now it is yours, Chan.
He was to inherit it only if his father passed. B-but,
The men grow restless and they are dissatisfied with the way I captain. Do not worry, though. I will talk to them all individually and this will be resolved soon. For now, keep this safe for me. If anything goes wrong, promise me you will escape and get as far away as possible.
I will, father. I promise.
The world seemed to fast forward until he was being woken in the dead of night.
Chan, get up. You must leave. Hurry. They’re two days early.
He was groggy as his father lead him from their shared cabin. They were tiptoeing barefoot towards the stern.
Father, where are we going?
There’s no time. They are coming.
The deck boards creaked and strained beneath the boots of a crew on their way to murder their captain.
You must jump. Go.
But, father. He was trying to wipe the fatigue away. Wait, what is happening?
A mutiny. Ice cold fear spiked through him. They’re coming to kill me. Chan, promise me you will not turn back no matter what happens.
Fath--
Promise me.
I-I promise.
You have to jump. Now. His father hoisted him onto the rail.
Are you coming, too?
No, this you must do on your own. They will follow if I come with.
There was shouting from below. The crew must have discovered the captain’s quarters were empty.
I’m sorry, I wish we had more time together. Just know that I love you so much. You are my greatest treasure, Chan, never forget that.
Before he could respond, he could hear a crew member alert the others of their location. The sound of a stampede followed. He frantically reached for his father once more in an attempt to pull him with. The first gun fired, splitting the wood to their right.
Go. Now. Good bye, I love you.
With that, his father pushed him to jump. As he free fell towards the gaping abyss below, bullets rained on deck above. He plunged through the surface of the water, sinking beneath the waves the way his heart did in his chest. The scene sped up.
His body was on fire despite being submerged. He could feel the effects from swimming aimlessly for two days. The saltwater would have burned if he wasn’t already so numb. He wasn’t sure how something hadn’t emerged and eaten him yet. Was he that pathetic? He had seen dorsal fins glide towards him above the horizon, only to turn away within ten feet of him. If he wasn’t on the verge of death, he would have been perplexed. Instead, he just wanted to rest.
His limbs were like jelly or noodles that had been left to soak too long. If someone were to reel him in and gut him, would his bones be softer than cartilage? He wondered if his father was looking for him or if he was really dead. The thought weighed on him and he feared he would finally be engulfed.
The scene changed. There was someone softly calling his name. He realized he had fallen asleep, forcing himself to wake up. It took a few moments for his vision to become clear, surprised to see Hojin sitting on the edge of the bed. Everything about him seemed gentle and soft -- nothing like the muscular first mate Minho had met. The older’s brows were creased in concern.
You need to eat. The other reminded, patting his cheek gently to keep him awake. Just a few more bites.
He opened his mouth like a baby bird, allowing Hojin to feed him another spoonful of lukewarm mush.
That’s it, the older encouraged. You’re doing so well. I’m proud of you Channie. You’re getting stronger every day.
The world blurred, and he was leaning on a crutch while children ran by him. His heart swelled as their names floated through his head. At this point, it had been almost two weeks since he had washed up on the shore of a small island -- Hojin's home. The older had been nursing him back to health, meticulously feeding and caring for him.
A piece of him craved the sea but he knew he wasn’t healed enough, and another part didn’t think he could leave Hojin. Every so often, he would open his compass to see where the arrow pointed. Sometimes it would land on the older, but he found that it normally aimed towards the shoreline. The first day he could get out of bed, he followed it to a ledge that overlooked the ocean. From then on, he liked to watch the sun set beneath the horizon and feel the last rays of light morph into the night.
He tore his eyes away from the indigo sky at the sound of his name. Hojin was waiting for him in the doorway to his house, calling to him like a shepherd beckoning to his sheep. He was Hojin's crippled lamb, but he knew the older loved him regardless. He hobbled weakly towards the other boy, leaning into the warm embrace that welcomed him. The older leaned down to place a sweet kiss on his lips, brushing the windblown curls away from his face.
Soon you will be strong enough to stand on your own and you can sail again.
Despite the hopeful tone, Hojin's eyes swirled with grief. Minho wondered if Chan had noticed the way the older choked on the last few words. Clearly, Hojin knew that a full recovery meant that Chan could leave the island -- leave him.
Come with me, he pleaded.
He was standing on the docks now. He could tell time had passed because his posture was confident and his body strong again. His fingers were laced with Hojin's. The older seemed so sad, eyes glossy and lips downturned in a pout.
I can’t just abandon my family, the other sniffed. They won’t survive without me. Why can’t you stay?
My whole life, I’ve been on the sea. He could hear the wistfulness in his own voice, spirit yearning for the freedom he was so used to. It’s my home. This is my chance to sail again, Hojin. We haven’t seen a ship pass in almost ten months. Who knows when another will dock here again?
If you go now, though, I won’t see you for a long time.
I know, his heart hurt. That’s why I want you to come with.
You know I can’t leave them. The other’s hands slipped from his. Not even for you.
Time shifted, and he was in a royal navy uniform. He felt alive in the sea breeze, but he knew a piece of him was missing, left behind with Hojin. He grit his teeth and blinked away his longing, focusing on the now rather than on what could have been. He never opened his compass anymore because it would only make his chest ache. His new crew would have hung him if they knew his origins, but he was desperate to sail again. He saluted the commander after being given his orders.
He could feel weeks pass in mere seconds before settling on the image of a burning village in the distance. He wanted to believe that wasn’t what they stood for. Astonishingly, the crew didn’t seem even remotely bothered as they sailed away, behaving as if it was normal for them to plunder and rape. In an instant, he made up his mind. He would destroy the ship from the inside out.
One moment, he was tearing holes into the hull of the ship and the next he was rowing away from the wreckage as it blazed against a black sky. There would be no survivors. He had made sure of that when he ripped the commodore’s throat out, tossing the fistful of flesh into the ocean to join the rest of the crew’s. Minho felt himself get a little sick at the imagery but otherwise he was swelling with adoration for the ruthless vigilante killer he was seeing through the eyes of.
As the next image began to form, it flickered. He shut his eyes, trying to clear it. When his eyes opened he was facing Chan once again, the sea glass gone. He pulled back, perplexed.
"Wha--" There were lips back on his almost immediately.
He froze.
"It melted." Chan muttered, feeling his confusion. "It's special."
Minho still didn't know how his captain had died but he was having difficulties remembering his own name with the way Chan's tongue was insistently working inside his mouth. He could feel the older's hands on his body and it was sparking heat through him again. Just as he threaded fingers through blonde waves, the door swung open and Hojin walked in.
He panicked, shoving the captain away.
"Captain," the oldest announced, glancing between them expressionlessly, "there is land in sight. I propose we approach and scout. It has been some time since the boys have touched down."
“How long until we reach it?” Chan wiped the corner of his mouth. The blonde seemed to eye the first mate -- daring him to comment.
“With the amount of wind right now? A few hours.”
“Thank you, first mate.”
“My pleasure, captain.” Hojin bowed and exited.
Instantly, Chan was pushing him back onto the bed and climbing over him.
“Wait,” he had his hands splayed against the older’s chest, eyes wide and anxiety rushing through him, “what about Hojin? We can’t be-- I can’t--”
The captain shushed him with a finger to his lips, petting them softly. “Don’t you want to see how I died?”
Yes, he really did -- but was it worth the first mate hating him? When Chan pressed their mouths together again, he thought maybe it was. He shivered as the older fed a new piece of sea glass past his lips, ice injected into his veins. He became boneless beneath the other and his eyes fluttered closed.
Once again, he was living Chan’s past. A small ship fished his rowboat out of the water.
A navy man. One of the men spat towards his boots.
Must be the only survivor of that wreckage we passed a few days ago.
I wonder which pirate had the pleasure of sinking those--
Their words jumbled together as they all spoke over each other. The ruckus drew the attention of the captain who clomped over on his wooden leg. How stereotypical. This guy was the embodiment of the old cartoon pirate on one of Minho’s childhood books. Chan’s thoughts flooded his, An imposter. Minho soon realized what the older meant. He wasn’t staring into the face of a sea bred pirate captain, he was looking at someone who simply decided one day that he wanted to be one. It was apparent that the crew was just as inexperienced.
They threw him in the brig. There were a handful of cowering boys in the cells around him in various states of dress. No one spoke. They didn’t need to for him to understand what form of torture they received. A lot of them looked defeated as they slumped into the corners of their prisons and trembled in their chains.
The world blurred, and he was suddenly in the captain’s cabin with fists clenched around a meaty throat. The body beneath him struggled for air but he only tightened his grip. His eyes panned over the captain’s face, bloody and missing an eye. Minho’s stomach twisted, knowing perfectly well that Chan had been responsible for the gory sight.
You will never touch any of those boys again. He felt himself snarl.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the pirate’s hands pinned to the floor boards by a knife. He swallowed his nerves and glanced at the other hand, choking back the bile that threatened to spill. It was a mangled mess with fingers twisted and snapped every which way. Minho’s conscience wanted to puke a little, but Chan’s flooded him with triumph for the justice that had been served.
He let up on the older’s windpipe, watching intently as he attempted to draw in breath. In a smooth motion, he pulled the blade from the bloody hand and plunged it into the pirate-wanna-be’s throat. It was a mixture of horrifying and intriguing the way Chan sawed through the other’s neck until the head was almost free. With one final burst of revenge, he drove it through the forehead of the lifeless skull.
He stood up to see the entirety of his work. Minho wanted to shut his eyes, but Chan hadn’t when he had lived in the moment, so he was forced to see it too. Chan must have caught the man in a vile act because the cadaver was completely naked save for the blood that coated it. Vulgar terms had been etched into the man’s skin and he had been castrated to an extreme. Chan was far more dangerous than he appeared. Minho wondered if his crew knew how vicious he could be.
Like two sides to a coin, the anger dissipated from him as his gaze fell onto the poor boy strung up to the frame on the captain’s bed. He approached carefully, the way Chan had done when he saved Minho. In no time, the ropes were cut, and the boy was crying into his chest. There were thank you’s spilling from the other’s mouth. Chan’s arms were wrapped protectively around the small body draped in a sheet, reassuring the other with soft words. When the boy looked up at him, Minho’s conscience gasped as he looked into the grateful, doe eyes of Jisung. He was so young, vulnerable, and tiny. Nothing like the marksman Minho knew now.
This time, when the world stopped spinning, he was casting off on a different ship and waving goodbye to Jisung who stood on the shore. Minho knew that Chan had brought the younger home.
Home. He could hear Chan think, smiling to himself at the idea. It is time to go home.
The view in front of him flickered. He could see flashes of tan until the scene before him burst into a clear image. His eyes traveled an expanse of skin, toned from hard work. He brushed his lips along a muscular leg, pausing to mouth at the flesh adorning thick thighs. He heard desperate moans from above him, the source out of sight. His fingers kneaded insistently, loving the way the thighs pushed up into his touch as if they were asking for more. He licked a long stripe up the side of one, sucking on the crest of a hip bone.
He could feel love surge through him as a voice whispered his name. Instead of acknowledging the call for his attention, he dipped his head to kiss the tip of a leaking erection. There was a sharp gasp in response, large hands slipping along the roots of his curly hair. At the sound of a shaky breath, he licked his lips before sinking them down the length of the other.
Chan, a-ah...I love you so much. Come home to me.
The words ignited something within Minho. He could feel Chan’s reciprocation with every movement. It was as if all he wanted to do was bring pleasure to the body beneath him. To his dismay, things began to fade. He wanted to stay in this memory the most because he had never experienced such sensations before. He awoke in a hammock below deck.
I love you, Hojin. Chan muttered to himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. I’ll see you soon.
A commotion broke out on deck and someone stumbled down the stairs before collapsing with a knife in his back. In an instant, Chan was on his feet and on his way up. Minho wasn’t sure how someone could just witness death and still fearlessly face it. It was a good thing Minho wasn’t in control of Chan’s body in these memories because they would have died the second they had stepped into battle.
It was exhilarating to plow through enemies as if they were nothing. Chan was certainly no amateur in a swordfight. They had been boarded by pirates. The men from his ship fell in droves. He was on a merchant ship. These men didn’t know how to fight. He needed to put an end to the slaughter of innocent lives. He actually liked the merchants. They had kindly welcomed him and sailed honestly with genuine goods and cargo. They were naive about the dangers of the sea, but in an endearing way.
Chan scanned the chaos, searching for the one man that could put an end to all the unnecessary death -- the captain. His sight landed on an overly decorated hat, homing in on his main target. The next few moments were a blur to Minho as Chan launched an attack against the captain. They seemed to be pretty matched in speed and strength. The fights around them seemed to dissipate as pirates and merchants paused their actions just to watch. Chan was sweating, muscles roaring in exhaustion, but the older pirate still pushed him hard with decades of experience. While Chan was just a teenager.
One wrong step resulted in the other’s blade grazing his side. He fell to one knee, free hand flying to the wound in an attempt to hold it closed for just a little longer. The fracture in his focus left an opening for the tip of a sword to first slice across his left thigh before his chest suffered the next swipe. His leg buckled, and he could feel the sharp edge slide lightly against the skin of his neck. He braced himself for the killing blow. It never came. Instead, he toppled almost lifelessly onto the deck.
When he opened his eyes, he was strapped to the mast of a ship. His torso had been bandaged but he could still feel the rope cutting into his skin. He inhaled sharply at the burn in his chest as sections of his wound rubbed against the harsh bonds. In the distance he could see the merchant ship in flames. His heart sank with the wreckage -- he hadn’t saved any of them. Minho could feel the grief Chan had in the moment. It was overwhelming.
Shouting erupted below him as the crew noticed that he was awake. Objects and curses flew towards him. After a few days without food or water, he felt on the verge of death. While he typically loved the view from the crow’s nest, it was an entirely different thing to be tied up, elevated and susceptible to the elements for roughly thirty-six hours. When he was sure he was going to fade into oblivion, he was brought down. He could barely stand anymore, the muscles in his legs overexerted and his body starved.
They dropped him at the feet of the captain.
Who are you? The pirate regarded him with narrowed eyes, Because you are certainly no merchant.
He opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out, throat too dry and voice stripped from the constant exposure to wind. The other rolled his eyes, clearly displeased with his inability to speak. With a wave of his hand, the captain dismissed him, and he was hauled below deck. With all the grace of an out of water fish, he was thrown into a holding cell. It was grimier than the last one he had been in and smelled much more like death.
They pelted him with a few disfigured potatoes, chortling at the way he flinched. He didn’t move, refusing to give them the satisfaction of watching him scramble for the morsels of food. The moment they left, though, he was. If he counted the thumps correctly, there should have been three rolling around somewhere. His moment of triumph was short lived. While he had successfully collected the earthy roots, a raspy voice cut through the creak of the ship -- startling him to the point of almost losing his catch.
C-Can I please have j-just a little? The voice pleaded with him.
He tried to focus his vision on the figure in the cell beside him. For once, he hesitated. He really needed to eat. It was life or death. When the other crawled into the light, though, he immediately offered a portion. While Chan had only seen a boy staring death in the face, Minho's heart clenched at the sight of a very sick, lifeless version of Changbin. The future quartermaster was huddled to keep himself warm, taking tiny bites to try and savor the food. Without thinking, he held out a second one to the other before taking the last one and sinking his teeth into the starchy flesh. It tasted like heaven even though it was like chewing leather.
All too soon, it was gone. He licked at his fingers and his lips, pitifully. Suddenly, he felt remorse for all the potato skin he had tossed overboard in his life. Movement caught his attention and his gaze settled on an outstretched hand reaching into his cell. Sitting atop a palm caked with dried blood and dirt, was a half-eaten potato. He could see black eyes watching him intently through the bars. Carefully, he bit the remaining piece in half again, passing a quarter of the root back to the other. They finished it in silence, but Minho could hear Chan vow silently to save the other boy if it was the last thing he did.
Minho could tell that weeks flew by in the next few seconds. There were glimpses of Chan and Changbin splitting rations and flashes of one or both being dragged from their cells to be bound and beaten on deck for entertainment. Time settled down on a horrific moment where a drunken crew member had entered Changbin’s cell and was doing unspeakable things to the younger. Chan couldn’t really see that far during the night. There just wasn’t enough light at the bottom of the ship, but he could hear exactly what was happening.
The other boy was pleading and begging for it to stop but the words only fell on intoxicated, deaf ears. It made him sick and it made him angry. Unsurprisingly, he had grown quite protective of the younger and he never liked men who forced themselves onto others anyways. His fists clenched as adrenaline surged through him.
Minho wasn’t really sure how it had happened -- if time simply jumped over something crucial, or perhaps Chan had blacked out in a fit of rage at the time. All he knew was that he was suddenly pulling the man off Changbin and snapping the offender’s neck.
The younger curled onto his side, broken sobs wracking his body. He stripped the clothes off the fresh corpse and coaxed Changbin to put them on. He pet the other's hair in an attempt to comfort. He needed to kill the captain in order for Changbin to go free.
Minho wondered how many people Chan had killed in his life. Surely he wasn't witnessing every single one, but it certainly was a good percentage. One moment, he was silently moving up the stairs in the dead of night and the next he was watching the sunrise from the helm. He limped from the tear in his thigh reopening, boots sloshing through shallow pools of blood as he made his way across the deck. He scanned the scene around him, searching for any signs of life. He would make sure there were none before he sank the vile vessel. The only movement, aside from his, was Changbin’s. The younger was waiting for him, having finished filling the lifeboat with rations. Once they were far enough away from the ship to avoid cavitation, they ceased their rowing so Changbin could wrap his leg and stifle the bleeding.
Where do we go now? The smaller boy asked.
He wasn’t sure. Neither had any clue as to where they were but he fished his compass out of his shirt. Changbin’s eyes widened at the silver instrument, tarnished but still beautiful. Wordlessly, he opened it. His heart fluttered as the arrow unwaveringly pointed the way.
We go home.