Chapter eighteen - my lawyer made me change the name of this chapter

IM FUCKING BACK FROM THE DRENCHED ABYSS OF DEVON AND I AM FUCKING ENLIGHTENED (IT WAS A RETREAT) IN OTHER NEWS I GOT BACK THE RESULTS FROM MY ENGLISH IGCSE WHICH I HAD A PANIC ATTACK DURING AND SOBBED ALL OVER THE PAPER AND I GOT A MOTHERFUCKING A* SO YEAH THAT'S LIGHTENED MY MOOD A BIT TOO

now for the story lol

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Gerard didn't drink the night after the Aurora came. Not a sip. So, naturally, I made up for it by drenching myself in liquor.

It was honestly quite scary seeing Gerard sober, especially in the state he was in. It was like he was hollowed our. And when his consciousness and awareness did return, it was almost scarier.

I found him weeping up on deck again when I'd gone in search of more rum late in the night. In my intoxicated state, the prospect of communicating with the sniffling creature didn't seem too daunting at all.

It was becoming clearer with every exchange of words with Gerard while he was in this stinging, sensitive state that he wasn't actually a horrible person at all.

He hadn't been crying for himself, hurt over his loss. He cried for Ryan, for everything he was missing ending his life so early, for the intensity of his guilt and how he must have felt to think we would be better with him gone.

I had lumped myself on the step beside Gerard, thinking that he might want consolation, but after a brief and brittle conversation with, he made it clear that pity was not what he wanted. He was vulnerable– but he was volatile too. By the fierce edge to his voice and the sharpness in his eyes, with dread in my stomach, I guessed that he wanted to dispel the violent guilt in his head. He wanted to fight. Or fuck. I wasn't sure which, and honestly, in my inebriation, I couldn't decide which sounded like the shittier option. Either way I'd end up on my back.

I think I felt relief when Gerard pulled a dagger from his belt and shakily angled it at my neck. I wasn't entirely sure what the feeling could be labelled as. I was quite intoxicated. But sober enough to put up a fair fight, I discovered, after Gerard shoved me back against the rails of the ship and pressed his knife a little more purposefully against my throat. I hadn't actually intended to defend myself at all, but by now it was not only a reflex, but I almost craved the raw release of energy I only experienced in battle. I was unarmed, but my training had paid off and I found it easy to force Gerard back by his shoulders. His muscles were tense, and after neglecting to feed himself since Ryan's death he'd lost some of the weight he'd held in his arms and hips during our training sessions. I tried to ignore how agitated I was by that thought.

Gerard took advantage of my brief loss of concentration and threw a kick at my side, knocking me onto my back and forcing the air out of my lungs, leaving in its place a hollow, stifling ache. Gerard dropped down in front of me, poised to shove back my arms, but then he sighed, and slumped back to sit on his heels. "You're supposed to actually try," he said, his voice dry and his eyes half obscured by the tangle of jet black hair falling over his face.

"'M drunk," I slurred. It wasn't much of an excuse, but I deserved some slack; I was drunk. I couldn't come up with anything better.

"You can still fight when you're drunk," he hissed. "I fucking do."

"But now you're sober," I stated dumbly.

"Yes, I'm fucking sober," Gerard snapped. His tone was hostile, but there was a waver in his voice he was clearly struggling to hide.

"You fight best running on booze," I muttered. "Why are you sober?"

Gerard's eyes were sharp and cold, and he was trembling, putting all his strength into keeping composure. "Because I want to feel something."

"That's why you want to fight?" I demanded. "You want to get hurt?"

"Yes," Gerard said, staring bitterly at the rotting wooden planks of the decking. He threw his knife to the ground, and curled his hands into fists so he could press his nails into his palms.

"You stupid–" I muttered. "Feel this." I stepped closer, and draped my jacket over him. "Feel warmth. And the respect the whole crew has for you. They need you. Don't do anything stupid, I'm just starting to hate you a bit less."

Gerard sniffed, and hugged me. "Thanks," he muttered. His voice vibrated through my chest, muffled by the thick leather of the coat wrapped around him. "Pretty boy," he added.

I briefly contemplated some smart comeback, but dropped it, and simply let him go. I settled next to him on the bench by the rails, and let my head fall back so I could watch the stars.

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I was becoming accustomed to waking up with a hangover, but I was still completely unprepared for it on every occasion. Something about it was still unfamiliar. That thought just made the fact that Gerard had become familiar to me even more disturbing.

Already, the shape of him slumped next to me on the bench was a comfort, despite the harsh atmosphere around us. The sea spray spat bitterly, riding on the violent wind to gain more impact as it bit at my numb skin, and the chill in the damp morning air had close to frozen both of our coats– but I felt something feeble yet urgent blanketing my chest and heat where Gerard and I were touching. My breath felt steadier, yet to my bewilderment, I seemed to have lost control of it– or abdicated. There was a vague ache in my chest, a bit too empty and a bit too full, and Gerard seemed to have unconscious control over which way the scales tipped.

Gerard was unhappy when the crew came charging up on deck; his whole body stiffened. He sprang about ten yards away from me like I was on fire, and moulded himself into the strong and sturdy shape of first mate, squaring his shoulders, darkening his eyes and setting his jaw to mask his shivering.

He kept up the tough, antisocial front for the entire day, almost reverting to his (relatively) normal behaviour: swearing, insulting crew members, snapping at all those below his holy self, determinedly neglecting to acknowledge the fact that I was a human being– it was almost like the old days.

Goodness, I had hated the old days.

We had all hoped that Gerard's resolute fakery would have worn off within a few days, but somehow, he managed to maintain it for weeks. After a while, I began to question whether he was actually acting or not; there had been no flaw in his snarling persona, not once. Even Patrick had started to become sceptical about whether it was an act or not, even though he was the one who'd confronted Gerard in the first place, last month when the whole crew collectively had started to get suspicious about how apathetic Gerard had become.

An absent part of my subconscious wondered if what had happened after the Aurora last came had anything to do with how shut off Gerard had become. He disliked being vulnerable– perhaps, in fact, he hated having his feelings exposed so much that he was happier just acting like a prick. And even more of a prick than he had been originally.

Yes, that sounded rather like Gerard. Yes.

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afra and kiara be proud of me i haven't killed anyone else yet