pirate king (pirate!au) ➵ ateez ✔️

secret

You sit in the sickbay, quiet, uncomfortable as San moves around without a word. There's the clatter as he mixes something, from the smell, probably some sort of herbal salve to prevent infection, but that's not the most important thing right now. Even more important than your hand. Even more important than your pain.

You tongue the inside of your cheek nervously. San is practically stomping around the room, his movements only increasing in volume with every second that passes, you can clearly see the wound up tension building in his shoulders. That intimidates you, but you need to at least try to make everything okay.

It's the least you can do.

"Master?" You begin, hesitantly. San doesn't respond first, whether he can't hear you or he's plain ignoring you, you don't know, but you swallow the lump in your throat and call, louder this time. "Master?"

San freezes, hands hovering over the work table. Suddenly lost for direction, aimless, without purpose. "What." His voice is curt, short, trembling and when he finally turns around to meet you, his eyes scream "what" even louder, and you're shocked to see that tears are clinging fiercely to his lashes, refusing to fall.

The sight stings like a whip to the face.

"Master–" You begin to say, desperate to fix this somehow, but San doesn't look at you, fingers digging into the wood of his work table so hard that his fingers turn white. He's angry, no, furious with you, that much is obvious.

How are you supposed to make things right?

You merely watch in silence as San takes three deep breaths to compose himself, the furious expression vanishing only to be replaced by an emotionless mask of steel. You're not sure which one you prefer, the tension between the two of you merely thickens like growing smog. He continues smashing the marigold petals with more force than necessary, the sound of mortar meeting pestle going clack-clack in your ears like an ominous echo.

The sharp smell of potent marigold paste fills your nose, but its familiar scent isn't comforting you, instead you close your eyes and try to will the pain in your hand – and in your heart – to go away.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Wha-" You say, confused for a second before you realise, oh, that's what he's talking about. You had your reasons, sure, but speaking them out loud suddenly seems way too daunting a task for you to handle. You fumble around for the right words, but they don't come to your mind.

"I said," San repeats, through gritted teeth this time, and the fury makes his voice tremble. "Why didn't you say anything about the bleeding?"

You press your lips together for a while, keep silent. Trying to figure a way to phrase your reasoning into words seems impossible at the moment and your head hangs while San doesn't say a word either, the tension only growing between the two of you.

San finally finishes preparing the poultice with lips drawn in a tight line, his eyes don't meet yours as he steps over to you with a bandage in hand. Crouching before you, he continues to avoid your gaze even when he picks up your hand with the utmost gentleness, as though he can't bring himself to translate his rage into a physical form.

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest.

He swipes a finger over the skin around the wound, taut expression unchanging, and a shower of tiny flakes fall to the ground. They look like snowflakes.

What are those?

"What are those?" San echoes your thoughts brusquely, curiosity clashing with some attempt to remain upset. You frown, confused, bend down to squint at the small shapes. But then San shouts in horror, staring at the hand that he has clasped in his.