Work Text:
While the town of Allport is still at rest, the sun barely cresting over the mountainous peaks cutting across the Sakura sea, Gillion is wide awake, a brother’s wrath brewing within him like an oncoming monsoon. It’s a shame dawn looks so lovely for what he has set out to do today.
Even still, lets himself study the way dew collects on long blades of grass, crystalline under pale sunlight. It reminds him of his own skin, green under drops of water, the wetness of his Triton body. And behind each garden, every building he passes is shuttered and closed, and as he gets closer to his destination they become less and less crowded, more fields and flowers and larger gardens filling the gaps in between.
Slowly the cobbled paths and seaside boardwalks become nothing more than dirt—the part of the island where larger farms or estates are tended to, and farm animals Gillion has come to know of roam free. One of them, a large brown cattle, cranes its neck down to rip a large growth of grass from the earth; it lifts up again and stares balefully at him as it chews.
Sometimes Gillion still feels himself getting used to life above water.
He and his sister moved from the Undersea a little under a year ago. It was Edyn’s desire, her own request, or else Gillion probably wouldn’t have done it; and yet he knows, internally, that she wanted it for him more than for herself.
Their family owned a large estate in the undersea. His father had long since passed, and therefore he inherited it—just Gillion and the two Mrs. Tidestriders, one a widow, and the other seen as nothing more than a prospect for marriage.
There was pressure to see to it that they would be married: Gillion, to wed another Triton from a rich estate to merge their riches, and Edyn to marry into one, so she can belong to the wealthy estate of another. To keep their connections strong and highly-regarded, as their mother has put it.
And truth be told, Gillion hated the prospects he was given. He did not feel that he fit in with any he had met; and their love felt false. Forced.
Gillion knew it shouldn’t have bothered him, and he pretended so. He would laugh and smile, offer gifts and dance with as much grace he could muster. Then he would return home, and the weight of the day would finally come crashing down on his back, and the jovial attitude would wrap itself back into him, bracing itself for the next time it was needed.
Edyn would notice; she would make him his favorite meal. She would read stories with him and tell him every embarrassing mistake she made during the times she had been courted, and though he felt that she exaggerated—no one could possibly turn away his sister—he would laugh and find himself smiling again, the tension slowly melting from his shoulders.
“It is not your fault,” she comforts him; she could feel the guilt and agitation spilling in waves off her brother, “You were away from home for a while. You were trained to be a warrior, not to court. You are different…but that’s because you are special.”
And she meant it, and though Gillion had a hard time coming to terms with it…it’s true.
He had been trained for the civil war between undersea civilizations since he was little more than a guppie. He was sent away at fifteen and returned at twenty-one after the long, tumultuous war was over, and thrusted into real adulthood—a world he only understood through battle strategy.
How would he offer his hand to a maiden when it knows better to hold a sword? How could he whisper sweet nothings into his lover’s ear when he only spoke words moving legions?
It is hard to learn when it is already expected to have been learned, to go through the motions as easily as he could strike through an opposing foe.
So he tried, and he learned little, but it never felt like enough—he was far too different.
“We should go above sea,” Edyn says, the plan already mapped out under her fingertips, “The capital of the world—Allport—that is where there are people of every kind everywhere. They are progressive; they are different. That is where our destiny lies, Gillion.”
At the sound of this, Gillion remembers hope lighting up in him, a small, bright flame.
“You know if we do this, we probably can never go back,” Gillion says. “To visit, perhaps, but nothing more. Our reputation in the undersea could very well be tarnished.”
“Nothing will matter, as long as you and I are happy,” Edyn replies, grabbing his hand.
And that was that.
Gillion quite loves it. Up until the past few days, at least.
The edge of a farm passes him by, sturdy brown fences damp from overnight’s condensation. He hears a bluejay singing up in a tree, watching him with a keen eye.
This leaves a large clearing, unowned by anyone, stretching towards a clump of forest just before the mountains begin to climb upwards, their peaks staggering behind the mass of greenery. Among large patches of flowers—lilies, daisies, queen anne's lace and the like (Gillion has grown curious of the oversea’s natural creations) sprouts different trees, straying from its mass of brethren.
And there it lies.
An old, thick-trunked willow tree splays itself upwards, enormous from years and years of living. Its leaves fall in streams, like soft green vines. When the wind blows past, they sway with it, looser than normal trees do. It reminds him of the ocean; therefore, it is Gillion’s favorite, and he’s spent time under there to rest his mind, to find peace in the bustle of such a town.
But more important is the one who stands under it.
Chip James.
Chip has been one of the first people Gillion had met in this town, and through him, instantaneously made acquaintance with Mrs. Jay Ferin, Mrs. Elizabeth Lafayette, and Sir Caspian Daemaris. Gillion felt it almost immediately—felt how Chip was separate from the rest. He saw some sort of darker depth behind the spark in his brown eyes, saw the scar running from his jaw to his cheek bone. And Gillion wanted to understand it all.
Mrs. Ferin explained it to be because of his upbringing.
“He was an orphan,” she whispers to him one night, as they led each other through dance, “Until he was six. Sir Arlin James had adopted him, as he had recently been widowed and had no other offspring, and rather than remarrying, Mr. James deemed Sir Chip James to inherit his estate. And since Mr. James’s passing…”
He had also been an officer, Gillion had previously been told, for a similar length as he himself had been. Another warrior thrusted back into the normal world. A man who has been born with nothing, inherited everything, and, in turn, lost a great deal of many things.
Like a magnetic force, they had been drawn together, connected through land and sea—jagged parallels, fated to collide. And before Gillion knew it, he began to realize that perhaps this is what had been missing; this is why nothing else felt right.
“You like him, don’t you?” Edyn smiles knowingly from the doorframe of her room, nightgown swaying gently at her feet.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Gillion finds himself saying, despite his finned ears twitching on the sides of his head, his face heating slightly.
He shuts the door on Edyn’s laugh ringing across the hall.
And despite that—despite Edyn’s late night questions, him and Chip’s countless rides together on horseback and days spent sailing out at sea—betrayal burns through him like a river of fire.
Chip stands straight as soon as he sees Gillion wading through the tall grass, his blue-undersea fashioned coat billowing behind him. And as Gillion’s vision hones in on Chip, he lets himself study him for one last time, before every other chance, every meeting, every near-brush of their fingertips and every prolonged stare is severed from their future forever, fates daring to be unfurled at the seams.
Chips hair falls just under his ears and the nape of his neck, brown as dark oak, small sideburns framing his cheekbones. He tugs nervously at the cream-colored cravat wrapping around his neck, smoothing out his brown gold-buttoned vest before his hands come to rest at his sides, fidgeting nervously. His long, rich red coat hangs off his shoulders, the hem disappearing into the thickets of grass, weeds and flowers.
“Gillion—“ he begins, but Gillion holds a hand up, mouth twisted into a frown.
“Don’t,” Gillion replies, fighting the shake in his own voice. He draws his sword and clears his throat, letting the voice from his time in war wrap around his softened vocal cords, hardening them for precision, to cut through the morning air like a knife.
“Mr. James, I have been told by Mrs. Ferin that you have been seeing my sister, Mrs. Tidestrider, without my due knowledge or permittance, and without abiding to the virtues of undersea courting—let alone those of the oversea.”
His voice is clear and brazened, and the rustling of the willow tree, the song of the bluejay, both cease in his presence.
“You must know, this is a terrible misunderstanding, Gill—“
“You have no right to address me by my first name after what you’ve done,” Gillion seethes, jealousy and hurt surging through his mouth, spraying venom across the gap between him and Chip.
Chip flinches, pain poisoning his features, and Gillion feels himself aching with it. But he refuses to let it show; there is no point in displaying his true affections, not after Chip has already made his attempts towards his sister.
His sister!
The one who has been urging him at every spare moment to court Chip, to offer his hand at every ball hosted at his estate, to say the words he’s kept stowed away out of fear of ruining what has been so wonderful for him and Edyn.
He doesn’t understand.
“Mr. Tidestrider,” Chip says, the name sounding foreign and unsavory in his mouth.
Chip has been the only one in his life to call him by his first name, save for his parents, save for Edyn. It is improper to be addressed otherwise by outsiders.
But Chip is different. And so Gillion let him.
A pause. The strangeness in the change of address marinates among them. Then he continues.
“I do not wish to fight you…I wish to explain. Mrs. Ferin does not understand what she saw.”
“Mrs. Ferin is one of my most trusted acquaintances, and an intelligent woman. She knows exactly what she saw,” Gillion draws himself upwards, raising his chin defiantly, “You have dishonored my name, and you have broken our friendship. I challenge you to a duel, to restore my honor!”
He raises his sword, and shifts his feet into something old and familiar. He watches as Chip’s shoulders sag, his face crumpling to something like sadness—and Gillion, through his rage, cannot understand what could possibly make him upset, when Chip has broken him more than he could ever know.
“So be it.”
Chip draws his sword, his mouth setting into a thin line, brown eyes darkened and dejected.
For a moment, they both stand there, poised to strike.
In a flash, Gillion is on the offensive, rushing in to meet Chip in a decisive swing, only for their blades to strike together, clanging harshly through the plain and ripping the lasting fabric of silence into mere threads.
Gillion’s eyes narrow, and he pushes swiftly down, Chip’s sword hand swinging down with it; Chip sidesteps and swerves past his next hit, feet steadying behind Gillion in seconds.
Gillion spins around and his blade meets Chip’s once again, their bodies dangerously close as they glare at each other over their swords.
They begin to spar, Chip maneuvering gracefully backwards as their blades meet again and again, Gillion pressing forward with boldness he only shows in battle, finding a part of himself savoring this spar, and wishing it could be under better circumstances.
Chip’s footwork is admirable as they weave around the willow’s trunk, growing close only to step afar once again, twisting through each other’s offensive, and Gillion has the same realization as Chip, though only the latter dares to say it aloud.
“This is quite the first dance.” Of course, Chip cannot help but joke. He’s giving Gillion a rueful smile as he avoids Gillion’s attack again, his feet stepping to a beat of a waltz as he does so.
“This is not a time for pleasantries,” Gillion’s growls, sharp teeth baring as he catches a heavy hit from Chip, parrying it away.
“It is, if this means it’s the last time I’m allowed to share them with you,” Chip replies heavily, his voice adopting sincerity as he jabs towards the Triton’s head, Gillion dodging it easily.
“In what world would I want to share lasting pleasantries with a liar—a traitor,” Gillion spits back, ignoring the lump forming his throat, every long-winded conversation they’ve ever shared flashing in his mind’s eye.
In turn he lets loose a ruthless swing, slicing through the air. Chip ducks and jabs upwards, Gillion dodging easily. Chip proves himself a challenge, but Gillion has spent even longer in training than he has, his movements almost involuntary, ingrained within him.
Chip knows this, but he carries on, parrying blow after blow, his eyes not leaving Gillion’s for more than a second.
This makes things far harder for Gillion than he wishes—but along with the embarrassment, with the sting of betrayal, jealousy rears its fangs like an untamed beast; it’s the thought of Chip’s hand touching his sister’s instead of his own, caressing her face instead of his, Chip’s lips finding a home where there isn’t one, not truly, and all the while Gillion had spent building the courage to even dare to do the same…
A snarl curls his lips and he yells, throwing himself forward with unmatched force, and he catches Chip’s blade against his and swings it to the side in renewed, untapped strength; it flies out of Chip’s grasp and lands silently in a bed of grass, crushing dandelions under the weight of its metal rapier.
Stumbling back in surprise, Chip falls to the ground, landing staggeringly in the grass and shifting swiftly onto his knees, brown pants digging into the dirt. Gillion himself looks wild from the fight; his hair has come loose from where it is tied back by silken ribbon, strands falling over his forehead, and he’s panting from the exertion. He glares at Chip's bowed head.
Chip raises it to meet Gillion’s eyes, defeat laid bare on his face, and something like sorrow.
“Go ahead. Take back your honor,” Chip says stiffly.
Gillion stares at him hard, looking at the way his hair falls away from his face, the way the light of dawn casts over him like a misconstrued blessing.
His eyes shine in a way that suggests tears, and it’s hard for Gillion to pay attention any further without losing his fragile composure.
“What final words do you have to say for yourself, Mr. James.”
Gillion’s voice trembles. He fights to make sure his sword hand doesn’t shake as he brings the blade up under Chip’s chin. His eyes begin to burn. “Tell me, so I can have this be over. Please.”
There is no one in the field save for them; it is as though every living creature had hid in their burrows, understanding only two souls could be present for this moment, and it could only be Gillion and Chip. Even the grass ceases its gentle rustle, and Gillion could only hear Chips' heavy breathing, his chest expanding and falling rapidly—as though his hand was pressing against it, as though he could feel the rise and fall. As though Chip is exhaling into his ear, and Gillion can hear every hitch and stutter.
Chip blinks, and a tear escapes from the corner of his eye, drifting down his cheek and tracing his jawline. He lets out a short, shaky exhale, his breath coming out in a fine mist. It dissipates between the two of them, and then he speaks.
“…If I am to die by a blade,” Chip answers, his voice slow and pained, “I can die in peace knowing it is the blade of the one I love most ardently.”
Gillion freezes. It feels like the air has been stolen from his lungs and tossed back into the pastel-colored sky. His hand wavers slightly, the sword point dipping away from Chip’s chin and back again.
“I beg your pardon?” Gillion says, his voice nothing but a harsh, breathless whisper, accompanied by an orchestra of crickets and singing birds returning after the throes of their duel.
“If—if you could listen before you let your pride thwart me,” the fallen soldier stammers, rushed and teary-eyed, “Then I could…convey my affections to you, if you—are willing, to hear them. And to understand.”
Gillion’s sword lowers slightly, his head swimming.
“But…you and Edyn—“
“Mrs. Tidestrider was meeting in secret to aid me in my understanding of Undersea culture, and nothing more,” Chip interrupts. His voice shakes as every word tumbles from his lips. His coat spills around him like a pool of blood; his secret spills along with it, and it feels as though he’s already bleeding out before Gillion.
“She is the only one who knows of your city and it’s customs and I—I wanted to understand it, all of it. I wanted to know everything so that I may one day ask for your hand, if you shared this desire the way I have…the way in which I have desired you every day, every hour, each burning second since I have known you, Gillion, I knew, I knew I was bound to you, in my heart and soul,” his voice breaks and he blinks hard, swallowing as his neck exposes itself at the mercy of Gillion’s blade.
“But… gods , Chip… you know…”
“I know it is still improper, and wrong, to be meeting with Mrs. Tidestrider in secret,” Chip laments, his eyes closing sorrowfully. “But you know I tend to tread the lines outside of tradition. Not just with your sister, but with Mrs. Ferin, Mrs. Lafayette…I just thought you’d understand it is all the same to me…But you—you’re not the same. To be alone with you is to be swallowed by the deadliest undertow. To breathe, to speak , when you’re near…it is enthralling. And it is terrifying…and I want to always be right in what I say and do in your good graces. And it pains me…to think I have failed you.”
Exhaustion hits Gillion in full force, and he finds himself leaning into the willow tree, splaying a hand over its bark to steady himself.
And when he doesn’t answer, Chip continues. “If I was wrong—if Edyn and I truly misjudged your affections…I apologize for the strain I have caused upon you and your sister…and…”
He heaves a deep breath; the prairie swells with it, every creature and plant inhaling in synchrony.
“…And I will leave you. We may never speak again, if that is your wish.”
Gillion lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and tears begin to prick at the corner of his eyes. The anger boiling within him has evaporated with his energy. He struggles to pick words from the sky.
“I do not wish that,” Gillion says quietly, barely enough for Chip to hear.
Chip’s expression shifts—there is hope. There is still hope.
“But I need…I need to speak with my sister, so I will take my leave,” Gillion pushes away from where he supported himself on the tree, tucks away the loose hair that came undone.
Chip’s mouth opens and closes for a moment. There’s a softness in his eyes that Gillion couldn’t bear to look at, could barely get enough of, and Gillion instead searches for Chip’s sword tucked away between blades of grass. When he finds it, he tosses it in front of Chip’s knees. The dandelions previously flattened beneath the blade lift their heads, thin stems bent and curved.
“Alright,” he hears Chip say.
Gillion, barely able to meet his eye, gives a swift short bow, and begins to walk back from where he arrived.
“Alright,” he replies to the wind.
Edyn is in the parlor by the time Gillion returns to their estate.
Eyes glued to a book, it takes her a moment to look up as she hears the door swing open and closed.
“There you are Gillion, where did you—“
As soon as her eyes land on her brother, her sentence falls short, taking in his disheveled state. She sets the book on the side table and stands, brows knit in concern.
“Gillion, what is wrong?”
He paces forward, wringing his hands as he tries hanging on to whatever composure he has left.
“Is it true?” Gillion asks, eyes boring into his eldest sister.
“Whatever do you mean?” Edyn steps forward, a hand reaching out to comfort him.
He steps back and she lets it fall back to her side, blinking in surprise.
“Does Chip love me? Is that the true reason why he met you in secret?”
Edyn’s eyes widen. “How do you know of this?”
“No matter. Does he love me—answer me honestly. Please,” Gillion clenches his fists, bracing himself for the answer.
He squeezes his eyes shut. There is silence. Then he hears footsteps; his fists become held by two smaller, softer hands, and they unfurl his fingers. He wraps them around her palms.
“My little brother,” she sighs, emotion thick in her throat, “I still find it so hard to believe that you are so oblivious to his affections—that you still even have to ask.”
His eyes open, and he’s met with her gentle blues, a soft, sad smile gracing her green complexion.
“I never realized…” he broke off, looking down at their hands.
She squeezes them. “You just do not realize how much you are loved.”
Gillion’s lip quivers and he releases from her grasp, wrapping his arms around her instead. She embraces him back, warm and comforting. She smells like rain and lilies and home.
They got an invitation only a day later. A ball held at Mr. Jame’s estate, in a few days time. Edyn opened it over breakfast, before passing it wordlessly over to Gillion.
Him and Chip have not spoken since the duel, and Gillion wasn’t sure what to do next. He figured he’d wait, and see if something, or someone, would turn up. And this was it—his olive branch, written in fine golden print.
“Well?” Edyn says, studying him intently.
Gillion meets her gaze, a smile beginning to bloom. “I think we need to get you some new ribbons.”
Edyn beams.
They arrive by horse carriage; Puddle, Gillion’s esteemed creation, is a ripple of water and waves as his equestrian form slows to a halt in front of Mr. Jame’s estate; he shakes his head and water droplets spray from his mane.
The carriage is gilded with gold, built with metals and wood with sea creatures carved delicately into the chestnut finish, and a window in its side door reveals an anxious Gillion, staring out at the large home with wide eyes. He’s been here millions of times—but as a friend. This is much different.
Edyn is on the other side, looking composed and radiant as always, a comforting hand resting on her brother's shoulder. Her short hair is clipped back with delicate pins of seashells and pearls, and her cream colored dress falls down in sheer fabric ruffles, framing her shoulders with puffed short sleeves. Around her neck rests a beautiful pendant made of silver and diamonds, and it catches Gillion’s eye as lanterns lining the way to the estate’s entrance reflect against the jewelry.
“Where did you get that?” He asks, searching for a way to distract himself.
“Oh, this?” Edyn brings a hand to her neck, delicately grasping at the small diamonds. “It’s, ah…nothing. A story for another time,” she blushes slightly, a deeper shade of blue washing over her skin.
Gillion opens his mouth to press further, but before he could say anything, the door swings open, the carriage driver greeting them with a bow.
“Are you ready brother?” Edyn asks, her eyes saying “ It is okay if you’re not. It’s okay to want to leave.”
Gillion closes his mouth, setting it into a firm line. He nods.
He already turned back once. Chip would not deserve him if he did it once again.
He steps down gracefully, turning back and extending a hand to his sister, who takes it kindly and steps gently from the carriage onto the cobbled path.
The night is alive; couples and families descend from their own carriages, if not already walking towards the entrance, where every window is alight with warmth and the music can be heard from the garden. There is a hum of excitement surrounding Gillion and Edyn as they follow the stream of invitees—this always happens whenever a ball is hosted at the Jame’s estate. They never fail to entertain, and Chip is never shy of inviting people from all over, from inland to friends from across the seas, and nor does he care all too much about class distinction.
Gillion’s first ball at Chip’s home was one of the first that didn’t leave him feeling wrong or strange—and it’s one of the million reasons he grew to love him the way he did.
The thought of this settles Gillion, and he encircles his arm with Edyn’s, giving her a reassuring smile as they make it up the steps and knock on the door; a maid opens it and gives them a bow and they return it, exchanging hellos and taking in the easy familiarity of Chip’s home.
Their ears are immediately filled with the sound of instruments, chatter and laughter, the sound of feet hitting the floor to the rhythm of the music and cheering in its wake. The main foyer itself is clustered with people, some greeting friends or entering just as Gillion and his sister have, others lingering on the staircase leading upwards, deep in discussion with their acquaintances. People wave and call out to the Tidestrider siblings as they pass through, undoubtedly used to seeing their faces at The James estate, or out in public with Chip and their friends.
Gillion tries his best to be polite, but his eyes search the crowds of people, looking for that dark head of hair, playful brown eyes and a smile used best to charm everyone during his late night house parties.
“Mr. James!” the maid calls through the crowd, Gillion and Edyn in tow.
The energy is buzzing from floor to ceiling, and everything feels alive in a way the siblings have never felt in the Undersea; most balls involve formality to the highest extent. If their mother was here, she would call it a madhouse.
They shuffle through the crowd and find themselves within a group of aristocrats laughing heartily at some joke lost in the sea of conversation, and the maid parts through them, beckoning the two to follow.
“Did I hear you calling Mrs. Mathilda?” A warm, rich voice finally replies, blocked from Gillion’s view by others surrounding the group.
“Yes—the new family you invited wanted to introduce themselves,” Mrs. Mathilda turns and gestures to them again.
Gillion did not know who to expect. Him and his sister weren’t anticipating such an invite only a couple weeks into settling in Allport, but, he’ll understand soon enough that Chip is always the exception to the rule.
What he didn’t expect is a smile that practically knocked him off his feet when he and his sister finally made it to the front of the group, and he found himself standing in front of a surprisingly young man—even a bit younger than Gillion, so it seems, and that smile disappointedly disappears from view, only for a few seconds, but seconds far too long, as he dips into a bow and straightens back up, looking between the two siblings.
“My name is Chip James, and I am the owner of this estate. Mr. And Ms. Tidestrider, I presume?”
In a flurry of red hair, someone practically crashes into his side, and Gillion startles.
“Sorry, Mr. Tidestrider!” Jay says with a quick bow, bowing to Edyn as well.
Her thick red hair is pinned back into curls that spill over the top and sides of her head, and she wears a periwinkle blue dress with long white gloves. Her face, strong and beautiful, is twisted in apology.
“I know why you two are here, and I wanted to deeply apologize,” she looks between the two, her expression undoubtedly honest. “I completely misunderstood what had happened and what I saw…it was wrong. Chip—I mean, Mr. James explained everything to me. And Mr. Tidestrider, I knew how you…” she sighs, her head falling. “…I thought I was looking out for you. I wanted to warn you, so you did not find out entirely on your own. I hope you two can forgive me.”
“It was my misunderstanding as well,” Gillion said, taking her gloved hand into both of his own, “Do not apologize, Mrs. Ferin.”
Jay looks to Edyn, who says, “I admittedly would have done the same, had I thought my brother had been misled. I trust you had his best interests in mind, Mrs. Ferin, as you do mine.”
“There you are, dear Mrs. Tidestrider!”
Caspian pushes through the crowd, heaving a breath as he finds a place next to Jay, grinning ear to ear. “Quite the bit of company we have tonight, don’t we?”
“Mr. Daemaris!” Gillion exclaims, grabbing him excitedly by the shoulders.
Caspian’s attention is pulled from his sister, patting Gillion in return.
“How are you, my fellow sea-faring friend?” Caspian greets him, voice raised over the volume of the party-goers.
“I’m quite well!”
He looks back over to Edyn, his eyes landing at her neck, “I see you’re wearing that necklace I gifted you the other day—it suits you beautifully.”
Gillion’s jaw falls agape before he remembers to shut it again, and Edyn grows a few shades darker, bowing respectfully and avoiding Gillion’s stare.
“It is quite lovely, Mr. Daemaris, I thank you.”
“You can thank me by joining me in this dance, if you would be so kind?” Caspian politely extends out a hand as the band begins a new tune, the cheers and dancing beginning to regain sound once more after a brief pause.
“I would love to,” Edyn smiles. She takes his hand and begins to follow him into the crowd towards the ballroom, not before turning back to her brother and mouthing “I will explain later!”
Jay and Gillion stare off after them, before turning to each other.
“That would’ve been very helpful to know of, wouldn’t it?” Jay says, crossing her arms indignantly.
“Yes,” Gillion says, watching Edyn’s lilac ribbons twist and tangle and disappear into the flurry of guests, “It would have.”
Jay looks sideways at Gillion. “Do you want me to lead you to him? I know where he is.”
“I…” he hesitates, still staring at where his friend and sister ran off. “Please. If you could.”
“First,” she steps in front of him, forcing his eyes to rest on her face instead, “Let me fix you. Can’t go in there with this beautiful clothing all out of sorts, can we?”
It isn’t all that messy—not really. But Jay loves to do things like this; she’ll drop by and bring him breakfast, or take him out to shop when Edyn is busy. She even taught him to shoot, as the undersea didn’t have such weapons. To him, it is all reminiscent of his own older sister, and Chip himself has mentioned to Gillion that he believes they are siblings in her eyes, to make up for the one she lost many years ago.
“I feel as though some men would think of her actions as courting,” Chip says across the dirt trail as they trot on horseback through the forest, “But as you know, Jay is quite like family to me. A sister in the same way Lizzie is.”
Gillion nods thoughtfully, looking up at the hanging canopy of branches scattering leaves across the sky, leaving only small gaps of sunlight to reach the first floor. Some rays hit and refract through Puddle’s translucent body as he carries Gillion across the path, leaving a watery trail in his wake.
“Does she have any siblings?” He asks Chip.
Chip grimaces, looking at Gillion with sorrow.
“She did. A sister, named Ava. But she passed away a few years prior.”
“My apologies,” Gillion says quickly, “I didn't mean to bring up a painful subject. I assume you were close.”
Chip shrugs. “I feel more sorrow for Jay than I do myself. They were awfully close. I can’t imagine what I would do if I lost Lizzie.” He pauses. “Or you.”
Gillion blinks. “Or…me?”
Lips curling into a small grin, Chip snaps the reins in his hands, his horse trotting faster and leaving his face out fo Gillion’s view.
“Yes. You.”
She straightens the blue folds of his collar—his coat is the same color as the sea, deep shades of blue that overlaps in ripples of fabric, a blue and golden sash wrapping it around his middle as the coat itself connects and separates, falling to the heels of his boots in layers and revealing pants of sea foam and a scapula matching the sash, hanging to the knees of his pants. A gift from his sister; a hybrid of the land and the under sea’s style of aristocrat attire. To look as though he walks and carries waves with him.
“You know,” she begins as she smoothes out the lapels and fixes the golden pins in his hair, “I didn’t expect you to react the way you did. I knew how you felt, but I didn’t think you took tradition of making those sorts of…decisions for your sister—“
“I don’t,” Gillion says hastily, eyes cast aside. “I would never choose who Edyn should love. Even if she found love with someone with little money, I would support her with all my heart. I would give her everything she needs.”
“So then what was that duel all about?” she asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
When Gillion doesn’t answer right away, she gives a knowing grin. “My, was our dear Mr. Tidestrider jealous ?”
“I—“ he chokes and sputters on words; not even a single lie could fall from him if he tried. “…Perhaps.”
“On second thought, maybe I should have expected this, with how dramatic both you and Chip are,” she laughs at the scowl on Gillion’s face, but he cannot help but melt into a smile.
“There,” Jay says, smiling satisfactorily as she gives him a gentle smack on the chest and steps away, “You look very agreeable.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ferin,” Gillion looks at her softly.
“My pleasure,” she says. “Now quick, let us find him!”
She begins walking off towards the direction where Caspian and Edyn left, and Gillion follows, focusing on the noise of good company around him rather than the return of his nerves, turning down a thinner hallway with various side rooms riddled with guests, the music growing louder in his ears by the second.
The largest entryway cuts through the walk in an arch lined with detailed crown molding; this is the ballroom, where Gillion had first met him, for what feels like so long ago. Jay turns through there and looks back at him, making sure he doesn’t get lost in the throes of people flowing in and out of the room, their cheeks colored from red wine and the sweat of dancing.
When he catches up to her, she leans into his ear and says “There he is—right across the ball room, over by the mantle.”
But he didn’t need her to tell him. Gillion felt eyes land on him the moment he passed under the arch—the moment the full volume of the musician’s work hit him in direct force, and the sound of shoes hitting the wooden floors became clear as day. Chip’s presence could be felt through all of this—through the crescendo of violin strings, the candles burning on chandeliers and the unshakeable warmth of the living. It is undeniable recognition branded into every single one of Gillion’s senses.
“Mr. Tidestrider, care to dance?” Chip lowers his hand. His palm is open and inviting.
“Oh!” Gillion looks down at his friend's hand, eyes wide. “I don’t know of any overseas dances—I’m not sure how different they are from home, I fear.”
Chip’s hand falls away, and for some reason regret follows in the wake of it. Gillion has only ever felt relief at the lack of a dance partner, if not indifference. This is new.
Looking unruffled, Chip just gives an easy smile, understanding in his eyes mingling with a bit of haziness at the fault of a few empty glasses discarded behind him on a polished side table.
“Of course,” Chip tips his head. “Then maybe one day, I will have to teach you.”
A new number springs into song, and the dancing resumes. Lizzie Lafayette, stumbling into them, grabs Gillion’s arm and begins dragging him towards the floor.
“You. Tidestrider. Time to dance.”
“Pardon—Mrs. Lafayette—I was just telling Mr. James that I don’t—“
“I’m not taking no for an answer!” She shouts gleefully, swinging him along.
Gillion looks back helplessly at Chip, who doubles over in laughter, hands bracing his knees as he lifts his head back up at Gill and meets his eyes.
And they never leave.
Not once, through the whole dance, did he look away. And nor could Gillion.
And when he retires to his home late into the night, head dizzy from Lizzie’s impossible footwork and the endless stream of wine, Chip’s laugh rings clear as a bell in his sleep.
He meets Chip’s gaze almost immediately, their eyes unwavering, as though they could see through every passing body; everyone has become part of the air, part of lingering dust and particles. The entire estate feels emptied.
Chip’s hand has faltered mid-air, curled around a wine glass paused on its path to his lips. He wears cherry-red velvet over tan skin; a buttoned red vest is gilded with gold sits underneath the coat. He shines like a jewel—ruby red, red diamond, garnet and jasper.
Gillion could stand there for eternity and examine his every surface, every sharp edge, every color he created and every angle that light fell onto him. He could be asked and try to define Chip’s worth and be stuck forever failing to find the right words, because no language could possess them; it would never be enough.
Jay immediately melds into the crowd the moment she sees them find each other, taking the hand of Lizzie and joining her on the ballroom floor, leaning into her ear to whisper as they guide each other across the room, passing by Edyn and Caspian as he spins her gently with a steady hand.
And Gillion, trusting the sea of dancing people would part around his presence, begins to walk forward. He’s been here enough times to know every song played, every accompanying dance, every step and every gap in the line of paired persons, and he slips easily through every one, barely even brushing against an arm’s hair or a piece of fine fabric.
Chip stands rigid, his wine now forgotten next to him. It’s almost as if he fears moving a muscle, as though doing so would cause Gillion to vanish, or run away. But his eyes shine, his brown irises replaced with burning stars, and they pull Gillion ahead like a plant seeking light.
Then Gillion meets the end of the dance floor, he is freed of the people twisting and turning around him. And there he is—only an arms length away, staring at Gillion in a way that made him realize the full weight of Edyn’s words. Oh, how blind he has been!
Gillion lowers his head to a bow, and he see’s Chip’s shadow mirror him on the polished wooden floor, and when Gillion rises he exhales, and sees words brewing on the tip of Chip’s tongue.
“I…” Chip swallows. “...I wasn’t sure you would come tonight.”
“Chip,” Gillion smiles, reassurance fighting with the pain of hearing Chip’s doubt, the thought that maybe he was wrong after all, “I will always come when you call. No matter how near or far. Always, always .”
He says the word with every fiber of truth he can possess, with every ounce of love he could spare, and then some. He says it like a sacred promise, like a wish cast over a shooting star, like a dying breath. Gillion says it so Chip will believe it, and so he could finally let himself have it.
Chip looks like he’s about to break. Instead, he lets out a sigh, eyes closing as tears build in the corners and he wipes them away, and he presses a hand to his head, a laugh pushing out from him.
“Gods. Gods , I just love you, Gillion Tidestrider.”
“I love you too, Chip James,” Gillion says, aloud and for the world to hear.
Chip grins, and Gillion can tell an idea has come to his mind, and he watches him bow forward, extending a tanned hand toward the Triton.
“What do you say we have a real dance, Mr. Tidestrider? One where your sword isn’t at my throat.”
Gillion laughs. He takes Chip’s hand. He wants to memorize the feeling for the rest of time.
“I would be honored, Mr. James.”