If You Were To Drown In The River Today By Tomorrow Morning You’d Wash Up At My Front Door. Why The

every time i blink my eyes it makes the tiny water-filled ring toss game in my head go whoosh

Trying out screenprinting

(7) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Your time with the aunt-nephew duo, despite all their peculiarities you chalk up to rich people stuff, is going so well until it gets to the small talk part. You never thought it'd come to almost beating the living daylights out of your savior, but here you two are. Fuck that guy.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 9K | read on ao3

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note: howl pendragon-coded rafayel, yayyyy! what's that? "what's with the summary" you say" well... THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINGGGGGGGG (rafayel didnt intend that to be the outcome at all. when ur so emotionally intelligent and a lil bit manipulative and want to help her unwind but it backfires on you bc your pookie doesnt play like that. ur kinda proud but again. that wasnt the intended outcome)

“Hello.”

Just hearing Mom say that with a voice so thin and tired that some of it doesn’t get picked up through the phone is enough for your heart to shrink in place like a child who’s aware of an incoming scolding would.

“Mom,” you gasp. You’re standing barefoot on the cool white tiles, their chill bleeding up through your soles. The clothes clinging to your body are too big, borrowed, the soft collar of someone else’s sweater sagging against your neck. “Mom, it’s me — it’s me.”

There’s a sound — a breath being sucked in too fast, and then her voice rises, making the speaker pop and crackle against your ear: “Oh my God. Oh my God!—”

“Is the ferry okay?” The phone cord coils loosely at your side, warm from the sun that slants through an arched window and makes the gold fixtures on the table gleam. You keep winding it around your fingers without thinking, make it tight enough to cut blood circulation, letting it bite into your skin before unwinding it again. Then again.

Please tell me it didn’t sink, please.

The plastic sheath creaks faintly with each nervous pull, a rhythmic distraction just steady enough to stop you from breaking open. “The ferry — is the ferry alright? Did it — did it make it back?! The fishermen — I thought they were — I tried to get them before the they hit the rocks but — fuck, I — I don’t know if it made it—”

“Who is that?” another voice shouts suddenly from the receiver, rapidly accelarating in proximity and booming with rage and fear. You can hear the sound of Mom’s phone being snatched. “Who is that?! Give me the — Is that you?!”

“Dad,” you choke, fighting the tremble in your bottom lip.

This is his breadwinner. Your entire family’s livelihood. The fact that a possible sinking after you were thrown overboard hadn’t occured to you until you were underneath a warm shower and letting your thoughts flow with the water is worse to you than being the reason why the ferry was lost. You truly don’t know what to say.

“Dad I — I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to — I thought I could get them back in, the boat was listing, the rocks were farther so I thought it would be fine, and then the wave — I don’t even know if the ferry’s — oh god, the ferry—”

Mom interrupts your babbling. “Shhhh, shhh, the ferry’s fine, baby, it’s fine, those people drove it back here—”

Your elbows come down on the luxurious table and you sink down on your forearms from relief, rubbing your face with your free hand. The position is a bit awkward because you have to hold the receiver of this old rotary phone to your ear, but you couldn’t care less.

“Where the hell are you?” Dad spits.

Mom cuts in again, her voice warbling with restrained sobs: “We thought you were gone. The coast guard said the water was too cold — and after that kind of storm your chances weren’t… that it was too late to keep searching. But we didn’t stop. We didn’t stop, do you hear me?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. They were drifting and I thought if I could just — if I could just get there in time. I didn’t — I thought I could help. I really thought I could do something right for once and instead I nearly—”

Ruined everything.

You can hear the ocean just beyond the glass in the silence that follows.

“Where are you now? Where have you washed up? I don’t recognize the number, who are you with?” he says, more insistent now. “We looked everywhere in the surrounding islands.”

“Someone pulled me out — he said this is his aunt’s place — Orphias she said, I think? The owner’s name is Talia.”

Your father swears under his breath, sharp and furious. “Private island section? That’s miles off route and from the Teeth! How—”

“I don’t know! I can’t make sense of it as well, but I didn’t pry. Beggars can’t be choosers.” When you receive no answer, you bite down on your lower lip. “Dad?”

“You stay put, we’re on our way now.” You nod even though they can’t see it. The hand not holding the phone presses to your chest, as if that might calm the erratic thump beneath. “Stay on your toes, alright? I don’t like this. The storm couldn’t have taken you that far — who did you say it was that saved you?”

“This guy — Rafayel. The nephew. He brought me here from what he told me.” You hear an intake of a big breath. “Don’t ask. I don’t know. He was—”

You stop yourself. If you talk anything related to Rafayel, Dad would freak the fuck out. A naked man on the beach so far away from the ground zero of your fall who you had to piggyback to his aunt’s house? Nothing you could say would be able to salvage any part of that sentence.

“Okay,” he says. An engine starts in the background. “Okay. How are you doing? Are you hurt at all?”

“Took you long enough to ask,” Mom nags in the distance.

“I’m okay now, I think — I’m dry, she gave me clothes — I had a hot shower…”

Dad starts ranting to himself under his breath in the unique way that he does that’s reminiscent of a sped-up tape put in another room you hear the muffled echo of. “Jesus Christ. You scared the life out of us. Hours. Gone for hours. You don’t just venture out during a fucking storm and— ”

And of course it’s Mom who stops it. “—Don’t, not now. We’ll talk about it when we see her.”

That’s how you know you’re in for a lecture. You deserve it, though. The ferry’s safety more than makes up for it.

“Are the fishermen okay?” you say, a bit ashamed to remember to ask about them this late into the conversation, but it’s fine you think — shame is a familiar companion nowadays, what’s more for the late night conversations you have with her?

“Yeah, they made it. One of ’em got a concussion, another one fractured his arm. That storm shook the poor fellas like a rattle.”

And the third one brought you here.

Yeah, that checks out.

It’s the kind of confirmation you needed. And your family, of course. An identity verification of some sorts and a guarantee that nothing bad would happen to you. Though the second part of that sentence, you feel guilty just thinking about after getting taken care of by a host like Talia who took in a stranger into her home. A wet dog, in a sense.

You move to lean against the wall next to the telephone, tilting your head back to rest on the smooth, cool surface of the wallpaper. There is a slight ache in your shoulders from the strain of the stress (and also the almost-drowning, but mostly the stress of losing the ferry), but the exhaustion is a familiar one, the kind that comes from a day spent pushing against the world, one that you welcome feeling, now that you know you haven't fucked up that colossaly. Relief, in other words, is the best drug.

"Can you get this Talia on the phone?" Mom asks. "We need the island code to find the coordinates, baby."

"You guys don't know about any Orphias?"

Dad grumbles. "You expect someone to know every single grocery store in the city?"

"Well. If it's a luxury store and the person in question is a store connoisseur—"

"Okay, alright, smartass. If you can talk back like that, I guess you're fine."

"Talia, please?" Mom reminds you. She sounds lighter, though, after hearing the brief bickering.

“I sure hope you haven’t gotten yourself into some weird island cult.”

As if to answer her question, light footsteps fade into your awareness from the outside and you turn your head to the direction of the source just as a gentle knock on the door resonates. It’s Talia hovering in the entryway, the light from the spacious hall casting a soft glow outlines her figure in the warm, golden haze of the afternoon, somehow made brighter by the smile on her face.

"Just wanted to say I prepared some snacks for you, in case you were hungry," she offers, keeping her voice down in a whisper to not interrupt yor call. She seems to hesitate, then adds, "And also... if you're not, that's all right too. You can take your time. There's no rush."

You can't help the smile that crosses your face, grateful and touched. "Thanks. Actually, could you..." You gesture with the old corded phone, once again mentally shrunk into a kid half her height when you say, "My parents would like to speak to you. Just to give their thanks. And directions. To fetch me. If that's alright?"

"Of course," she replies, fully entering the room and stepping forward to take the receiver from your hand. "I understand, they must've been worried sick. Don't worry, I'll handle it. You go to the kitchen, it's just on the left from the hall. Help yourself to whatever you'd like. I'll be right there in a moment."

Kindness is inherently woven into her attitude in the same way the scent of the sea lingers in the fabric of the sweater she's given you, reinforcing the decision of not telling the details of your arrival to your parents. You’d hate to put a woman like this in a bad position.

You murmur a quiet, "Okay, thank you," and leave the room, the hushed conversation of numbers and coordinates becoming background noise as you make your way to the kitchen from where the inviting aromas of baked treats are emitting from. It’s the flute to your snake.

The door to the kitchen creaks open under your hand, hinges sighing into a stillness too perfect to last, and immediately you’re greeted by a chaotic shock of what you first think is a purple Cookie Monster perched on the marble countertop. You stand frozen for a while, blinking rapidly to understand just what you're looking at. 

Rafayel is halfway to toppling a tall rectangular tin off the highest shelf, arm stretched, the draped sleeve of the damn curtain he has on brushing precariously close to the burner on the gas stove, which is clicking softly beside him, the faint heat of a forgotten flame warming the copper kettle that rattles lazily against its cradle. He’s framed by the cabinetry that gleams beneath glass-paned arches — crystal knobs and shell-tiled backsplash gleaming in the slanted afternoon light, inside them are shelves forming a sort of shrine: delicate teacups, polished silver tins, bundles of dried herbs bound with gold thread, and much more you can’t quite identify from your angle.

One leg is tucked under him like a smug little prince, the other dangles, toes tapping against the edge of an opened carved oak cabinet, and the sound of clinking make you notice the anklets he has on. It's feline, the way he's trying to balance. Either get on the counter with both knees, or don't. What is he thinking?

"You're going to break the counter or the cabinet standing like that," you say flatly.

He turns his head half-way to give you a view of his profile, dusky violet hair tucked behind one ear, a long, dangly purple gem earring catching the light, swaying with the movement. It's weirdly painting-esque, especially with the ensemble he has on, which fits his overall vibe, and you really shouldn't be surprised it does. Because of course the butt-naked meet-cute conversational-hazard man dresses like a Studio Ghibli fever dream styled by a Milan Fashion Week intern on mushrooms. 

“Are you calling me fat?” He frowns with a displeased pinch between his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know I’m streamlined for agility.”

Your gaze drops to the sash tied too elaborately around his waist holding the curtain in place, and the peach-colored gems and tassels at the ends of them hanging dangerously close to the open flame, and point to it with a hand. "Are you fireproof as well?"

He scoots away from the stovetop, but doesn’t give up on his destination — one particular tin. “Ah.”

"Get down before you light yourself on fire."

He sighs and pouts at that, but slides off the counter nevertheless, with a surprising grace that doesn’t quite match the amount of fabric he has on, his bare feet slapping softly against the cool marble tiles inlaid with spiraling shell patterns.

"Fine. But only because you asked nicely," he says, brushing invisible crumbs from his curtain. "You didn’t. But I imagined you might’ve if I waited long enough."

He twirls once, with the idle flourish of a flower being spun between someone's fingers, the heavy velvet draped around him swishing in soft, watery folds. It's almost hypnotic. You want to run your hands through the fabric to see if it's as soft as it looks. 

"So? Thoughts?"

You identify the curtain as a wisteria purple robe. It has beautiful peach-colored patterns that shine with his every move. Underneath, a waistcoat that's in the same peach-tone hugs his frame with a couple misbuttons — embroidered with faint glints of coral gold that shimmer when he moves. A silk shirt spills open beneath it, loose-laced and collarless, you can see from the yawning sleeves of the robe that its cuffs are unbuttoned and trailing down his wrists. The ensemble being held around his waist by the sash aside — which you think is a tassled curtain tie back — his base clothes are white, the shirt and the slacks.

You blink at him. At least he knows how to color code, you'll give him that. 

"You're giving sentient curtain from Beauty and the Beast."

"Thank you," he beams. “I knew you would appreciate my vision. See these embroideries? They mixed apricot yellow and cerise to—”

"That wasn’t—"

"It was. Don’t backpedal now." He’s disinterested in furthering that conversation, attention distracted with the tin he’s fiddling with. He sniffs its contents with a frown. "Huh. Smelled better from the high shelf.”

You subtly throw your head back and close your eyes, exhaling, then, drift toward one of the tall stools tucked under the curved lip of the kitchen island and hop on one of the middle ones. You tune Rafayel out as you gape at the feast right in front of you. Snacks? These are snacks?

God, rich people.

Folded grape leaves stuffed with lemony rice, thin slices of cured meat, wedges of blue and brie and something veined with wine, jewel-toned berries, pistachios still in shell, and golden crackers fanned into spirals, pastries and oh gosh — meticulously arranged as though she was expecting guests. This was the kind of thing that gets instagrammed, not eaten.

"—altitude nostalgia. Did you know humans smell differently at different elevations?"

But your stomach has been grumpily bubbling under its breath for a while now, and this is food, and the combination of those two things makes you an uncaring, shameless heathen. Your mouth is watering. Who even cares that one plate is probably worth more than you are. Fuck it. In a single motion, your elbow is on the table and you're leaning over the plates, already grabbing a handful of the closest pastry and taking a huge bite.

It's flaky and buttery and filled with cheese and walnuts, and the crust practically melts on your tongue. You have to fight the urge to moan in delight, and subsequently come to realize the sound of your chewing is too loud. Rafayel's talking has ceased.

A featherlight touch on the wrist that might otherwise have you suspect you brushed against fleeting clothing hanging in your closet snaps you from your blissful, mindless gorging trance, and you turn to find Rafayel staring at you. His face is blank, and there's a slight tilt to his eyebrows, gaze flitting between your eyes and puckered lips, his hand on your wrist to stop the pastry from meeting its tragic end between your teeth.

"What?" you ask, muffled and full-mouthed, lips sticky, and cheeks bulging with the remains of the pastry. You try not to feel self-conscious about the crumbs on the sides of your mouth. Instead, you raise an eyebrow. "Don't judge. I'm a growing woman."

"Growing into what? A pearl? Slow down. Chew."

"You're not my dad, what's it to you?"

"I just don't want you to choke when I just saved you from drowning, you know. But you've got some..."

"Got some...?"

He points to his own cheek and mouth area, mimicking the mess you have on your person. Then, without warning or hearing what you might say in return, he reaches out and wipes away a fleck of crust on the corner of your lips. It might be an intrusive or an impulsive thought he gave into, you don’t know, but your face warms at the proximity regardless of the context or the reason behind it, the sudden familiarity of his gesture, and the way his thumb lingers, brushing lightly across the swell of your bottom lip as if to savor the texture. You're suddenly acutely aware of the intimacy of the act and the fact that you met this man only hours ago.

What is this? Is he just very touchy?

The copper begins to hum, steam from it rising in polished spirals, catching the light through a stained-glass transom high above the doorway.

You jerk back, wiping the rest of the mess with the back of your hand, and avoid the view of his hand staying frozen in the air, hovering in the spot where your face was, and the perplexed look on his face. "I got it."

His fingers curl inward as he retracts his hand, sliding it to his side. He doesn't respond, simply watches you in silence, his eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment as he rubs his thumb and forefinger together before smoothing out again, and you wonder if maybe you should've said thank you, after all. But the moment has passed, and the thought of apologizing now seems awkward, so you do the next best thing, which is to change the subject.

"What's that for?"

“This,” he announces, tilting the tin so the embossed label is emphasized with the light falling on it — a stylized silver fish leaping over a crescent moon — “is a Moonpetal brew. Aunt Talia only brings it out for very special occasions."

You eye the tin, then him. "Moonpetal? Sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

Or out of a very expensive, fancy health food store, the kind that promised enlightenment in a biodegradable pouch.

"Everything is a fairy tale if you know what perspective to look at," he says, his voice regaining some of its melodic lilt. He pops the lid with a soft thwack and a fragrant cloud billow out – notes of jasmine, something salty-sweet sea-salt caramel, and an underlying freshness that reminded you of rain on warm stones. It's surprisingly lovely.

He dips two fingers into the tin, his rings clinking faintly against the metal, and pulls out a pinch of what looks to be dried, silvery-white petals mixed with tiny, dark, almost iridescent leaves. He brings them close to his nose, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a dramatic moment that makes his long lashes brush his cheek. "I missed this."

"Haven't been around lately, then?"

"You could say that," he answers, the way he dips his head to stare at the tea makes the purple waves of his hair shift like disturbed water. There's a particular undercurrent to his smile that you could only describe as something distorted underneath the surface of the sea.

Talia re-enters the kitchen then, catching you off-guard. You were too engrossed in the exchange to notice her arrival, but the sound of her humming catches both of your attentions. Her shawl is gone, lilac skirt swishing around her ankles and cream-colored blouse, which she's rolled the sleeves of to her elbows, is buttoned to her throat. The sun from the windows puts its spotlight on her immediately, making the shells on her earrings shimmer, the silver and opals winking in the light, and you notice that her nails are painted a pale purple.

"Sorry about that," she says. "It took longer than e — good gods, Rafayel."

Rafayel turns to her and spins, letting the robe flare, and strikes a pose. It's such a childish move that it takes you aback. "How did I do?"

"I remember that robe," Talia murmurs. She's smiling, though, even as her hand goes to her heart, clutching at the fabric of her shirt. "You used to run around with it all the time. You'd sneak in my room and steal it to play superheroes." Her eyelashes are damp, and the lines at the corners of her mouth are deepening in a way that suggests laughter. "I should've known you'd find it. You never could keep away from that thing."

You feel compelled to look away from the moment, and stuff a cube of cheese in your mouth, focusing your attention on the smooth marble counter, veined like seafoam. Somewhere above, a crystal suncatcher swings lazily from a brass hook, scattering color across the whitewashed archways.

"Hard to part with," he agrees. He runs his fingers through the folds of the sleeve, tracing the embroidery, his smile morphing into a distant, nostalgic shape. "This is a good look, right?"

"It is, you look just like a prince," Talia replies, her words holding an otherwise undetectable ‘humoring him’ element that comes off as genuine — and you have no doubt that she is being genuine, it’s obvious from her face that Rafayel is quite endearing to her.

Her attention turns to the kettle on the stove when it starts to whistle, and a flicker of surprise crosses her features. "Oh, were you going to make tea, dear?"

"Uh-huh." Rafayel glances at her and nods. "Moonpetal, to soothe her nerves."

“Good thinking, I was going to get that out for you anyway,” She steps closer, peering at the tin, her eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. "But didn't I put that on the highest shelf?"

"I came just in time to witness his mountain climbing expedition," you insert yourself into the conversation. With a smirk, you point to the open cabinets. "He's lucky the entire kitchen didn't come crashing down on him."

Talia gives him a disapproving frown, but her vast sunrays pf fondness breaks through the unenthusiastic storm clouds. She reaches out to gently adjust the collar of his robe. “Well, since you’ve already retrieved it for me… Come, let’s make it properly together.”

Talia brushes past him to retrieve ceramic cups painted with mother-of-pearl scales. Her fingers linger on his shoulder, a fleeting touch that seems to weigh more than it should.

You feel horrible for interrupting, but it’s worse to just sit there and be served. “Is there anything I can—”

Both aunt and nephew shut down the idea at the same time and their voices blend in different octaves of refusals, making you unable to differentiate who said what. So you sit back and make youself invisible for the time being, watching as Talia moves to the counter beside the stove, the colorful, slightly oversized duckling that is Rafayel trailing after her.

Both of them look out of this world. Or rather, the world of ordinary people you live in. It’s a weird feeling how you’ve intruded in this world, sitting on the kitchen island as they make tea together may just be the equivalent of the economy and business classes coming closest together when they’re separated by a curtain.

“Show me how you remember we steep it.”

Rafayel is an artist contemplating which color he should start out with as his hands hover over the teapot, and you nibble a pistachio shell into splinters as a thought crosses over your mind. They don’t seem too familiar with each other for some reason.

Well, it’s not your business.

The Moonpetal tea, surprise surprise, is what one would think liquid moonlight would taste on the tongue — cool and fresh and effervescent on your tongue, with a lingering salt-kissed sweetness that makes your shoulders relax against the wrought-iron chair. You’d helped Talia arrange everything on the patio overlooking the valley, where seabirds wheel in arcs below like scraps of paper caught in a draft, and was engaging in small talk here and there when she leaned forward, sunlight catching the opals at her throat.

“Your parents mentioned you’ve been managing their ferry? That’s wonderful! Such an important role,” she says, refilling your cup which has a thin gold band on the rim, delicate and precise. (Everything in this house is.) The porcelain clinks softly. “You must feel so connected to the sea.”

Your fingers spasm around the saucer, droplets of tea sloshing dangerously. Of course the conversation has stirred this way. You were hoping for your parents would arrive before that and you wouldn’t have to go through the ‘So, what do you do?’ question. The idea of discussing the life you're already averse to talking about with a rich woman, no less, is more daunting than the cult thing.

And worst of all, it's hopeless already, right off the bat. She's trying to be poetic about it, but there's nothing romantic about being the wheel of the car that transports people on a day-to-day basis. You aren't sure sure if you're connected to the sea. If anything, you're connected to the people who use the sea to connect. A bridge of sorts.

“Um, well. Yes. For a long time, actually.” A pause. The breeze picks up, ruffling the wisteria hanging from a lattice overhead. “I, uh, worked on the same ferry since I was fifteen or sixteen. I left a few years ago, but...”

“I assume it was for school," she prompts, her smile gentle, encouraging, but you feel anything but pacified. Your stomach plummets darkly at the mention of school, at the memories of sitting on a bench in a crowded campus and knowing you were nothing. Knowing you were less than the people around you, and the sinking realization that all of it had been for nothing because you were crawling back home at the end of the day, the world still as large and uncaring as ever, leaving you behind to rot in the past. Just another faceless, nameless drop in the ocean.

“Yes,” you say, the word brittle. “School.”

There's a silence, filled by the low hush of the wind.

You can't bear it. Not to make it awkward, you stumble over your words with the grace of a newborn calf trying to ice skate. "I — I got my degree and everything, it's just that the, um. Job hunt wasn't successful. So." You try to force a laugh, but the sound sticks in your throat.

Talia hums thoughtfully. "So many young people are struggling with the same problem these days. It's hard to find steady work." Her fingers tap the table, a gentle, contemplative rhythm. "What a blessing it is for you to become the captain of the family business!"

Yeah, lucky me.

What a blessing, to be a failure in the outside world and have to return to the safe haven of the familiar. To know that the only place that values you is the one you feel so humiliated to feel such relief in stepping foot on again. And to feel that way, to feel embarrassed, ashamed of that sense of security and joys you've come to rediscover connecting with people and taking control of the ferry that was a ball and chain to you when you were younger; to feel unworthy, and small, and like a little girl again, a child in oversized clothes playing dress-up in adulthood. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

You bite your lip. Hard. Enough to draw blood and distract yourself from the shame that burns on your cheeks. Don't cry, don't cry, please don't fucking cry in front of a literal stranger. Your knuckles turn white from gripping the handle of the teacup.

"Not captain," you correct, attempting a weak smile, though the corners of your lips feel weighed down, refusing to rise properly, staring at the dregs of tea leaves swirling into shapes that look suspiciously similar to sinking ships.. "My dad is the captain. I'm just helping out."

"Don't be modest! Captain-in-training, then," Talia insists, her own smile never faltering. "That's a huge responsibility. One that takes dedication, and skill, and commitment. It's not something that everyone can manage." She lifts her teacup in a subtle toast. "And from what I hear from my nephew, you're quite the hero. Without you, who knows what those fishermen's fate could've been—"

The world narrows to static, blurring underwater as memories surge — your mother’s disappointed sigh when you moved back home, classmates’ LinkedIn posts gleaming like knives (Curatorial Assistant @ Metropolitan Museum!), the ferry’s deck tilting beneath your boots as waves swallowed the bow…

“—really admire that kind of dedication,” Talia was saying when you tune back in. "But what did you study, if you don't mind me asking?"

Your lungs refuse to inflate properly, and you get in a careful cough in to get rid of that feeling. It doesn’t work.

Rafayel’s chair screeches suddenly as he stands, his robe billowing like a storm cloud. It startles you.

He's been so silent this whole time that you forgot he was there, curled up in his chair and observing the two of you speak, his head tilted in a way a cat’s would while watching a bird from a window. Now, his sudden motion makes the wisteria above shudder, and the wind picks up, sending the purple hair tumbling across his shoulders in waves of silk, his earring swaying.

"I'm bored," he says, the words clipped. He gives his aunt a pointed glance. "Are we done here?"

Talia's brows furrow. "Don't be rude. We have a guest, Rafayel." Her chiding is gentle, but firm. There's a certain authority to her that reminds you of how a parent would scold their child.

"Well, she clearly is. Look at her," he gestures toward you with a flourish of his sleeve, and for a second, his smile is a slash of lightning across his face. “Soooooo bored. All that landlubber talk is making her wilt. Glub glub glub, job job job. That's how it sounds. I can't stand to watch anymore."

Your mouth drops open. Landlubber?

But before you can protest, he's rounding the table, the hem of his robe dragging over the stone tiles, his bare feet making no noise. When he reaches you, he extends a hand, the gesture grand and sweeping. A prince from a fairy tale. The beads and thin chains of the bracelets you hadn’t noticed because of the concealing layers of fabric clink and shingle with the motion.

"Come," he says. "I want to show you something."

You stare at his offered palm, at the delicate bones and tendons that shift beneath the skin, the fine tracery of veins that run up the inside of his wrist.

"Umm," you trail off, wary of his motives and stealing a glance to a suspiciously calm-looking Talia. There's no trace from her earlier admonishing, it's all soft interest and a certain understanding now you aren't privy to. You wonder what that means. "It's okay, I'm not—"

"Yes, you are, you hate these talks," he cuts you off, and his hand stays suspended in mid-air, waiting. Patient, yet insistent. His fingers twitch. The sea breeze plays with the ends of his hair. Then, softer, gentler: "Indulge me."

Rafayel brings you to a damn lagoon, of all things.

Of course there's a secluded lagoon tucked away right in the middle of the island. Of course this happens to be an atoll.

As a kid, you'd spend hours scouring the coastline, looking for hidden places to be candidates for your secret base away from your siblings. It was thrilling, discovering a place that was yours and yours alone, untouched and untainted. Raf's cove and grotto became that for you, in a way, a private oasis that's yours to explore and enjoy. Except that it wasn't just a simple nook in a rock, rather, it was a legitimate, actual, real-life hidden paradise.

But this is something else. This is... a level of fantasy you're unfamiliar with. A shock and flash of endless blue, opening your eyes to sunlight after staying in the dark for a long time.

Everywhere is a kaleidoscope of hues, shades, and tints — a thousand variations of green and blue that shift and blend and shimmer in the afternoon light, creating a dazzling display cupped in the bowl of sugar-white sandbars, cradled within the surrounding forest that forms a ring around it. The water is crystal clear and pristine, reflecting the sky and the surrounding landscape with mirror-like perfection.

As you step closer, the sand squishes underfoot, cool and silky against your toes, and the sound of the lapping waves is a soothing backdrop to the rustling leaves and chirping birds. You swear you can see parrotfish nibbling at coral pillars and striped damselfish darting through shafts of sunlight and the shadows of large schools.

Yeah, you wouldn't take one step outside if this was where you lived.

You can't help the wonder from spilling forth, hundred percent sure that your eyes must be sparkling. "Wow..."

"Admit it," Rafayel says, already knee-deep in the shallows, and you sputter at the sight of the hem of his robe floating on the surface, the luxurious velvet a violet stain on the waters that's drifting and rippling gently. Not only is he ruining the fabric by not taking it off, but his pants are also intact. Can velvet even go in the washing machine? What is his pants made out of? How much would the dry cleaning bill would be? Oh god. Fucking rich people. "This beats talking about spreadsheets."

"We weren't even talking about spre—"

You're interrupted by something flying at your face, a pearly moon snail shell that thumps harmlessly against your collarbone before it ricochets off you and plops into the water with a plink.

“Catch!” He lobs another — a spotted cowrie this time — and instinct makes you lunge sideways like a goalkeeper avoiding a penalty shot. The shell sails past into a tide pool where three startled hermit crabs abandon their lunch.

“Are you five?” You swat at the next projectile, a spiraled whelk that left sand grit in your palm.

His grin sparkles with mischief as he flicks his impossibly long hair back, the wavy strands sweeping behind him, a silken curtain unfurling in a gentle breeze, and you ignore the Mom-like urge to tell him to tie his hair up. “You’re smiling.”

You weren’t — until he says it, and then you're fighting a traitorous twitch of lips as he bends to pluck something from the seabed, and there the lower half of his hair goes, getting wet. The robe is halfway ruined at this point.

Water sluices off his arms as he presents his prize, a conch shell blushed pink as dawn clouds, still glistening with seawater.

You open your hands to the sides, shaking your shoulders once. "What are we doing?"

He's not looking at you, instead, he's holding the conch between his palms, his long, slender fingers curving around its elegant curves. "You'd rather stay and talk more with Talia about what your shame thinks you're failing at?"

Your smile drops. The hot flashes are immediate. "Excuse me?"

"You're excused," is the casual response. An infuriating smile curls across his face as his thumb traces the delicate contours of the conch, lingering on a particularly rough patch.

"Listen here," you snap, stomping up to him, and the splash is louder than intended. "I don't know where you got that from, you don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't I?" Rafayel interjects with a knowing look.

He leans in, his lavender scent wafting over you, a hint of saltwater and a curious muskiness that reminds you of the depths of the ocean.

"You think these hands," he turns your palm upward, tracing saltwater calluses you'd tried scrubbing away with pumice stones, "are any less worthy than ones clutching a piece of paper from some ivory tower and treat it as a golden ticket to life?" His touch lingers over a fresh rope burn near your thumb webbing, and the heat of his skin seeps into yours. "How are you any less of a person? Is the fisherman's soul any less noble than that of the scholar's, or the artist's?"

You're speechless for a moment, staring at his hand cradling yours, the smoothness of his unblemished, ring-clad fingers a striking counterpoint to the weather-worn texture of yours. You try to pull your hand away but he doesn't relent, staring right into your soul with those horizon eyes of his.

“Of course not. That’s not — that’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it?”

His habit of answering with more questions is starting to grate on your nerves. You catch a brief flash of hurt in his quick blinks when you yank your hand away, feeling the sharp edge of his rings scrape against your skin. “What do you know about any of this? You’re just a wealthy kid who can afford to drag velvet through saltwater and mud like it’s nothing and — and you go around wearing a fur with nothing underneath, what... Spare me the lecture on shame or the dignity of hard work, you’re the last person who should be talking to me about it.”

He laughs in your face. He. Laughs. In. Your. Face.

And not a polite, demure chuckle either, no, the man throws his head back and cackles like a witch on a broomstick. Like you’ve just said the funniest thing in the world. Your blood boils. You're ready to grab the conch and bash his pretty face in, or at least shove his smug ass to dunk his head in the water, anything to get that mocking look out of his features. How dare he, to belittle you like that, to act like the entire conversation is a big joke. To mock your struggles and experiences and make them seem so trivial, when it's something that's been plaguing you since forever. Just because he's a trust fund brat doesn't give him the right to ridicule you—

"Yeah, okay. Alright. I get it." His laughter dies down with a loud exhale that has weight behind it, a distant look on his face that goes from somber to a prickly smile that raises the little hairs on the back of your neck. "I don't think it's me who you're angry at. I'm not the one calling my work, and the work of my family, worthless. Inferior. Isn't that right?"

The gentle approach suddenly turning into an unabashedly exposing angle hit you in the sternum, knocking the wind out of you, your chest starts to rise and fall in a panicked rhythm, hands curling into fists at your sides. "I'm not fucking doing this," you murmur, turning on your heels to march the other way.

"Where are you going?" Rafayel calls after you, infuriatingly light and playful in a way that gives away its purpose.

You’re not going to take this lying down.

"Don't talk to me," you throw back without looking.

"Why are you so determined to be miserable?”

You freeze mid-step, heart racing as you pivot on your heel. Your gaze locks onto him, eyes wide with disbelief, and your lips part in a silent gasp, any clever retort you could come up with having slipped away just when you needed them most. "What did you just say to me?"

He is a demon from the depths of hell, cloaked in a guise so enchanting it could make angels weep, cradling the conch shell still, turning it over as though contemplating an orb of secrets. The smile playing on his lips curls like a wicked crescent moon, glinting with trouble and utterly devoid of remorse, giving you the dread that he’s privy to every shadowy thought that dances through your mind.

"You don’t get to live what you meticulously planned in your little dream journal when you were sixteen, isn’t that what this is? End of the world as you know it?"

That is the final straw.

You realize now that you’re no more than an insect pinned under glass, a specimen for his twisted analysis during your fleeting stay in his world. The way he speaks, dripping with condescension, casually dismantling any shred of common sense and courtesy while he picks you apart — it all coalesces into a singular point of white-hot rage.

As soon as the words "My dream journal?" leave your mouth in a shriek that’s raw and torn from your throat, you're already on the move, a storm surging forward to retrace her path.

Your hand snatches his collar, fingers bunching into the soft fabric of his ridiculous robe, and you yank him down with a force that knocks the smirk clean off his face.

“You think this is about some childish fantasy? This is my life you’re sneering at and feel oh so comfortable just telling me to stop being miserable like a king demanding a court jester to stop the performance! You stand there, draped in… in whatever that is, looking like you’ve never had a real problem in your entire existence, and you dare to—to—"

Words fail you for a moment, choking on the sheer audacity of him. You jab a finger in his face, trembling. “You know nothing! Nothing about what it’s like to pour your heart and soul into something, to sacrifice, to believe you’re finally on the right track, only to come to hate the world you fought so hard to become a part of laugh in your face and send you crawling back with your tail between your legs! To have that piece of paper, that golden ticket, turn out to be worth less than the fancy toilet paper in your aunt’s gilded bathroom!”

The outburst rips through you and shakes your lungs, shuddering and violent as a rogue wave. Rafayel’s provoking smirk is gone and has been for a while now, replaced by a chilling attentiveness that is almost a calculated switch flip. He isn’t playing with the conch anymore. The silence that envelops him is more taunting than any argument could muster, as if he’s forgotten that it was he who kept prodding the beehive that is your emotions.

His eyes, wide and glazed over, seem to have lost their focus, and his lips part slightly. There's a subtle shift in his stance — not retreating, but leaning ever so slightly toward you in the space between you that has compressed.

But you don't see it.

Instead, you're consumed by the pounding of your own pulse echoing in your ears and the solid presence of him beneath your grip that you want to crumple up like paper. The warmth emanating from his skin where your knuckles graze the curve of his collarbone register as your own with how your blood is on fire. You’re too far gone, drowning in a turbulent sea of anger and humiliation, the raw sting of a confession laid bare keeping you blind to how still he’s become, blinding you to his dazed expression, as if he's caught in the eye of something both sacred and shattering.

“It’s not just about not getting to live what I planned!” you continue, voice cracking, like a mirror, or a dream, the pent-up shame and frustration of months, years, finally breaching the dam. “It’s the looks! The pitying smiles! ‘Oh, back so soon?’ ‘Couldn’t hack it out there, huh?’ It’s seeing everyone else move on, build lives, while you’re stuck in reverse, replaying all your failures! It’s the crushing weight of knowing you disappointed everyone, especially yourself. And then,” the words tumble out of your mouth like sea glass, smooth and worn down by years of turmoil and emotion. “then the worst part is… sometimes… sometimes it doesn’t even feel that bad. Being back on that ferry, feeling the deck under my feet, the people, the salt spray on my face… it feels right. It feels like breathing again after nearly drowning. And that, that tiny bit of relief, that’s the most shameful part of all! To find comfort and secretly enjoy the thing you were supposed to leave behind because it means you’ve failed at everything else! What did I do it all for if I was going to end up right back where I started, then?”

You take a moment to swallow down the angry tears, not looking up from your shaking hand about to rip his necklace right off. “Every single day I betray myself whenever I feel any kind of joy here. So yeah. Yeah, it is the shame. Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it feel good to hear that you were right?”

The ensuing quiet is deafening, filled only with the sound of water gently lapping against the shore and the occasional squawk of a seabird overhead. You can almost hear the ghost of his damned smirk in the breeze, can imagine his smugness, the satisfaction of having cracked open your vulnerabilities and laid them bare for his observation and mockery. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the humiliation in your face, the stinging in your nose that signals imminent tears, the tightness in your chest that threatens to suffocate you.

"No," he says softly, and the unexpected tenderness in his tone startles you.

Your head snaps up in a whip of your hair, your watery glare piercing through him, daring him to continue his charade of concern or pity, whichever cruel act he chooses to indulge in next. But his face betrays none of that. Instead, his features are etched in an earnest, worried way that's as foreign as his touch had been to you.

His brows are drawn together, lips pursed in a slight frown, and his irises are a stormy plum, darkened with a sincerity that seems out of place in the vibrant colors of the lagoon. His fingers twitch and relax, a rhythmic, anxious pulsing that makes the opals in his rings catch and refract the light, casting tiny, scattered prisms on his skin.

What is he, a child? What’s with the sudden remorse? He’s the one who provoked you to get the reaction he wanted. This isn’t a bonding moment, nor was it indended to be so. He taunted you without using a single offensive insult, made assumptions about you that hit all the weak places, all from his high horse — just to appear backpedaling at the very last second?

Yeah, no. You don’t fuck with that. He’s playing with you, the bastard.

"We’re done here," you spit, drop the grip you have on him, and begin marching off toward the direction of the manor, hoping to put enough distance between you and him before the dam breaks and the flood comes, your feet kicking up small splashes of water.

You stop though, sniffle vindictively, holding a finger up as if you just remembered something, and turn around, "One more thing. I hope you enjoyed making a show out of me and the momentary entertainment you got. Because the moment you take a step outside this island and cross my path, the first thing that I see that'll fit in my hand will be used to knock you flat on that dumb, pretty face of yours," you promise. "I don't care if you're rich enough to get me in trouble. Trust I have more reach than you. I don't even care you saved my life. Fucking stay away from me."

"You think my face is pretty?"

"Go fuck yourself!" The scream is so loud and sharp that the flock of seagulls perched on the rocks scatter in alarm, taking flight in a cacophony of screeches and flapping wings, leaving him alone in the center of the lagoon, his silhouette a lone figure in the midst of the disturbed waters and the swirling sand.

Rafayel stares at the wake of your departure, the conch shell in his hand. A slow, drunk smile unfurls across his face — half-dazed, half-devotional — as his knuckles drift upward, the pad of his thumb catching on the swell of his bottom lip.

As you round a curve shaded by flowering jacaranda trees, their purple blossoms fallen confetti on the path, you hear them. Voices. Familiar voices. Your parents. They are alare ready on the patio, Mom is sitting in one of the wrought-iron chairs, her shoulders hunched forward as she speaks animatedly with Talia, who is perched on the edge of her own seat, listening with that same serene attentiveness. Dad stands a little way off, near the balustrade, his arms crossed, looking out at the view, though his posture is stiff, alert.

The sight of them, solid and real, and oh-so-familiar, nudges a younger version of yourself from deep inside. You are suddenly a child again, wanting nothing more than to run to your mother and sob on her shoulder, to have your father stroke your hair and murmur comforting words after a nightmare.

“Mom? Dad?”

Their heads snap up. Mom gasps, a choked sound, and then she is out of her chair, stumbling slightly as she rushed towards you. “Oh, my baby! My baby!”

She collides with you in a fierce hug, her small frame trembling against yours, the familiar scent of her soap and worry enveloping you. You cling back, burying your face in her hair, the fight with Rafayel momentarily forgotten, replaced by a wave of overwhelming relief and a fresh surge of guilt for the fear you’d put them through.

Dad is there a second later, his big hands gripping your shoulders and rubbing your back, his eyes, red-rimmed, scanning you from head to toe. “You’re alright? You’re really alright?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” you manage thickly. “I’m so sorry I almost lost the ferry—”

“No, no, don't,” Mom sobs, pulling back to cup your face, her thumbs wiping at tears you hadn’t realized were falling. “We thought… we thought…”

“We’re just glad you’re safe,” Dad finishes, gruff with emotion. He turns to Talia, who has risen and is watching with a soft smile. “Mrs. Talia, we… we can’t thank you enough.”

“It was truly no trouble at all,” Talia says warmly. “Though, I must correct you. It was my nephew Rafayel, who found her and brought her here. He’s the real hero of the hour.”

As if summoned, Rafayel has appeared at the edge of the patio, presumably sneaking through while your family was having a group hug, his purple robe now clinging damply to his frame, the ends darkened and heavy. He's avoiding your gaze, his own fixed on a particularly interesting patch of flagstone near his bare feet, a subtle pout playing on his lips, looking less like a Ghibli prince and more like a drowned, petulant kitten.

Your parents turn to him, their expressions shifting to awe and gratitude.

“Rafayel, is it? Young man, we owe you everything,” Dad says, extending a hand.

“Yes. Yes, we do. Thank you, dear,” Mom echoes, stepping closer. “How can we ever repay you?”

“No need.” He finally looks up, his smile radiant, but his body language awkward, almost shy, as he takes Dad's hand in a firm shake. His fingers, long and pale, are a striking counterpoint to Dad's work-roughened grip, the glint of his rings catching in the sunlight and highlighting his slender digits. "I'm happy to help. Anyone would've done the same in my place."

"Nonsense," Dad insists, pumping Rafayel's hand enthusiastically. "You went above and beyond.”

"There must be something we can do. A reward, a gift, anything. It's the least we can offer."

"Oh, no. Really, you're too kind. Seeing her safe is the only reward I could ask for."

"But—"

"I won't accept anything, please, I insist." As they speak, the two of you lock gazes over their heads, and his smile stretches a fraction wider. "Besides," he continues, returning his attention to your parents. "There's no greater treasure than reuniting a family."

The conversation that follows is a short one. Your parents want to take you home as soon as possible and get you checked out by your doctor. They are adamant to pay Rafayel though, or at least send a gift, and he remains unfailingly polite and gracious in his refusal, which is infuriating since you know him to be the opposite of those things.

In fact, every part of this is irritating. The exchanged numbers with Talia, the promise of staying in touch, the hugs goodbye; all of it feels surreal, like it's happening to someone else, and you're merely an observer, hovering somewhere outside your own body. And then, just like that, it's over. You are being ushered away and find yourself in the boat your parents have taken here instead of the ferry. The motor chugs to life, and the shoreline slips away, carrying with it the island, the manor, Talia, and Rafayel.

He's standing on the dock, the sun beginning its descent behind him, his silhouette growing smaller and fainter. He raises a hand in farewell, a gesture that seems both oddly formal and strangely intimate. You don’t return it.

You miss Raf so bad.

“Are you absolutely sure you’re alright?” Mom's voice carries over the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull, a question she'd posed at least a hundred times. Dad is keeping one ear on the conversation, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigates through the choppy waters. “No headaches or dizziness?”

Wrapped snugly in a blanket she had insisted upon, you feel the boat's engine thrumming beneath your feet, a comforting vibration that seems to resonate with your bones. "I'm fine, Mom. Just tired," you slur your words, leaning into her shoulder. The warmth and familiar scent of her lull you into a drowsy haze now that you're fully safe.

“Let me just check,” she tuts, her hand gently probing your side through the blanket. “You said you hit your side when you fell?”

You remember the sharp pain when you tried standing up on that beach, the way you’d clutched your side, the blood staining your ripped turtleneck and the sand you were resting on. “Yeah, I think I got a nasty cut on the rocks or something.”

Mom frowns, her fingers pressing more firmly. “Where? I don’t feel anything. Are you sure it was this side?”

You sit up, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach, pulling the blanket away and lifting the hem of the borrowed sweater, then the t-shirt underneath. Your fingers trace the skin of your side, where the jagged rocks of the Teeth should have left their mark.

There's nothing.

Not a scratch, not a sore bruise, not even a faint pink line to indicate where the bleeding stripeis had been. The skin is smooth, unblemished,.

You stare, bewildered, your mind racing back to the searing pain, the crimson stain, Rafayel not wanting to be piggybacked because he was afraid of hurting you further. It was real. You recall it clearly.

“See?” Mom sighs, relieved. “Nothing there. You must have just imagined it in all the chaos, poor thing.”

MILD SPOILERS for the very beginning of Tears of the Kingdom. I’ve been cracking myself up over how Rauru reattached Link’s arm

⭐

just realized smth n im sure someone else has probably said it before but

whenever there r those "caleb vs zayne" art pieces/media its always like, caleb throwing carrots at him but

calebs symbol is like... literally an apple... and zayne is a doctor

an apple a day...

Gyroid bath time 🫧