conjunction

contents

i

Smoking became more and more attractive to you each day.

If you couldn't keep away from Basil Hawkins, you'd repulse him first. The boy you grew up with avoided the open fire over which your grandmother cooked, or he'd be too aware of smoked fish or steamed rice clinging to his clothes and hair, itching for a bath and more irritated the longer he went without. More than a few of your crewmates smoked, usually some psychoactive herb packed into a pipe, and restricted the ritual aft and away from two flammable pines taken from the North Blue that shadowed the captain's cabin.

You thought it'd be quite piratical of you to smoke, but the idea of developing such a dependency at sea was foolish, though not much worse than your current circumstances. Hawkins was almost relaxed on top of you, both of you breathing heavily where you laid horizontally across his bed. He bellyflopped onto your back to pin you in place through what you could admit was a tantrum with his knee dug into the mattress between your legs. When you were kids, this stopped you from getting into fights you couldn't win, and wasn't quite as ridiculous as it was now that he was nearly two feet taller than you.

You sputtered as you blew a lock of his hair away from your face. It smelled immaculate, like his conditioner.

"I don't think we should be alone right now," you said.

"I don't think you should be alone."

"Why?"

"I scared you today," he said. "I apologize."

You wriggled, forcefully, but he didn't budge. "That's not it. You're always scary."

"Then why the hyster—histrionics?"

"I'm not scared," you said. "I'm pissed off!" He almost recoiled, instead gently holding the base of your skull like he was subduing an animal. Your face was hot at the familiar position—prone, your only dignity being how your hips stayed flat on the mattress—and you swallowed. "How often does that happen?"

"Today wasn't ideal." His breath tickled your ear. "The platoon they sent was small. I'm almost insulted."

"Yeah, because now that they understand your powers, they'll totally just send more potential hostages—"

"—to protect civilians," Hawkins said. "Look at that. You sympathize with the Navy."

"I do not!"

"And overestimate them."

"I'm pissed because when the Navy didn't furnish you with enough toys, you used a CHILD—"

"Who should've fled."

You stilled. "You're blaming the victim of your Life Minus One for being there?"

"I claimed the first life I detected that wasn't one of ours," Hawkins said. "I didn't check to see the owner. It was careless."

"That kid is scarred for life."

"Unlikely. Thanks to your screaming."

As soon as the port was clear of Marines in fighting condition, you dragged your doctor over from the Grudge Dolph to stitch the kid back together. You were unimpressed at the supposed homeopath Hawkins had recruited, but it all fell away faced with actual treatment. Hawkins didn't apologize to the poor bystander, and just now he only echoed your own shrill lecture with which you'd sent him home: "if you're not sure you're looking at pirates, the Navy showing up confirms it."

"Fortunate they didn't get any organs," Hawkins said.

"'Fortunate'? You could at least pretend you dodged."

"I dodged," he said after a pause.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

"I do my best to keep you safe," he said. "You and everyone. I'm not using my crew—"

"Use yourself, then. Like a man." Hawkins went still. An apology threatened to form on your tongue at the low blow, the echo of the bullies on whom he'd first honed his Devil Fruit. But then you noticed pressure low on your back, where his pelvis kept you from kicking backward at him. "Seriously?"

"Stop moving," he said through gritted teeth.

"I don't think it's me moving that's doing it for you."

He applied more weight where his forearm crossed your shoulder blades, and into his large palm on your neck. "Test my restraint. You won't win."

You bit back a scream. Hawkins insisted he didn't mind and indeed enjoyed the fruits of you finding other companionship while you were apart, which he returned with reminders like this. And maybe he had the right idea, with discipline. You could warm his cock for hours, and it was almost always you who gave in.

"Let me up," you said.

"If I do, will you be sensible?"

"I'm always sensible."

Hawkins inhaled, audibly thinking better than to speak before he rolled off you at last. You should stand or sit up, gather your things and leave this for the light of day, but all you did was shuffle over and pillow your head on his shoulder, twining your limbs around him as he rubbed up and down your arm, his cheek to your hair.

"Hawkins," you said. "I just think you should still try not to get hit."

"Insightful."

"I know half the thing is unsettling them with your..." You twisted your fingers in his shirt. "Wouldn't it be good practice anyway? For when you run out. Or, seas forbid, you have to use one of us."

"I wouldn't."

"We're not great fighters," you said. "I'd even call half of us dead weight."

"Fishing for compliments again?"

"My self esteem isn't that far gone," you said with an eye roll. "You know that defector in the papers? His crew is all former Marines."

He nearly snorted. "'Defector.' You don't believe that, do you?"

"If it comes down to it—you, running out, I mean— " It scared you, how much you mean it: "I'd be okay with it. And I'm not alone in that. Everyone here wants to help you."

Hawkins tightened his hold on you. "I'm not humoring this."

"Well, how about this." You hooked your knee over him more securely, almost brushing the half-tent in his pajamas, and he pulled back to meet your eye. "Fight as if one of those dolls is me."

"You love your thought experiments."

"So?"

"This isn't an experiment, though. It's reality. Where I don't risk you." You bit your lip. "What?"

"Don't say shit like that when I'm mad at you."

"Still? Actually—shit like what?"

You hauled yourself off of him, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. "Valiant, princely shit. Like you're trying to woo me."

"Do you need wooing?" he said behind you. "I've always thought of you as low-maintenance." You snatched your glasses case off the side table, then your pillow, then turned to face him as you stood. "So to be clear. You're mad I won't take you hostage?"

"Good night, Hawkins."

"It's cold," he said. "Stay."

"Put on a sweater."

Your cabin was a few steps below the quarterdeck, and as you took them you considered his counterpoint for a moment as a reason why divorce was so rare in your hometown: the damn cold.

One look toward the forecastle and there were, as you suspected, a few of your crewmates passing something back and forth between them where they stood on the starboard side. You threw your pillow into your room and groped around for your coat, then crossed the expanse of the main deck before you could second guess yourself. To your relief, Faust was among their number.

"Trouble in paradise?" the bosun said, jerking his head astern.

"May I?" With some uncertainty, the man nearest to you proffered the long, wooden pipe, the stem bit tacky with resin from years of communal use. You took a steady draw, and the looks they exchanged were somewhere between impressed and scandalized. You held the smoke in for a moment before exhaling into a slightly annoyed, "What?"

"That's the closest we've gotten to Captain Hawkins using The Pipe," Faust said.

You gave him a look as you held it out, like you always did when he called your oldest friend his title, but instead you said "'The Pipe'?"

"I told you it needs a name," the cook muttered.

"Is there a shortlist?"

"Hecate," Faust said.

"The High Priestess, obviously," said the bosun. You snorted. "See? She thinks it's funny."

You wouldn't say Hawkins sometimes called you that, more of a play on the moniker he'd gained before he returned home for you than anything meaningful. One of few things you agreed on was how little sense it made, though he thought of it as tempting fate and you found it arbitrary.

You huddled closer to Faust for warmth, and he sighed, letting you into his robe. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Obviously not."

Faust didn't mean that offer, but he had a decade of experience managing you two, from the day he informed you you had a crush on Hawkins and asked you to please take it up with him instead of unsubtly sabotaging their nascent friendship. You wouldn't do so for three years and denied the observation wholesale, and Faust's present weariness made you more determined to end this, for the good of everyone around you.

You became pleasantly lightheaded after The Pipe came back around to you a second time, and excused yourself with a sincere thank you. And you paused in the companionway between your own door and the steps that would bring you back to him for a only a moment.

ii

Close to the Red Line, the North Blue had a large archipelago whose southernmost islands crossed into the Calm Belt. Your final stop before Reverse Mountain was the workshop of a shipwright who was almost certainly a retired pirate, situated in a large city where you'd resupply and unwind while the craftsman reinforced the Grudge Dolph.

The quartermaster swung for the fewest rooms he could manage at a nearby inn, and you were so appalled by your solo accommodation separate from all the men doubled up in double beds that you strong-armed your captain into staying with you. Hawkins didn't need much convincing after you confirmed it had a bathtub, and even if you laid in the queen-sized bed resolutely apart, you woke that first morning to the comforting weight of Hawkins' hand holding your left breast under your shirt.

"Hi," you said good-naturedly once his breathing changed.

Hawkins grumbled and pulled you closer, and you waited a moment or two for him to fully wake up. "Oh," he said, finally. "Sorry."

And he withdrew, disturbing the covers in an effort to restore the space between you. You hissed at the cool air and considered kicking him or chasing his body heat, but refrained.

"It's my fault," you said. "This is confusing."

You were "taking a break," which itself was something new. After a few bloody skirmishes with other pirates and a particularly exciting (stressful) escape from a Marine captain, you agreed to focus on getting into the Grand Line. The culmination of all these events raised Hawkins' bounty to 65,000,000 berries, which you thought he was entirely too pleased with but kept to yourself because you were only his navigator, nevermind you brushed your teeth for twice as long as usual so you could ogle his strong back and arms braced against the bath in the ensuite's mirror.

"Old habits," Hawkins said. He sat up, his eyes still drooping, and you seized the chance to distance yourself by climbing out of bed first. "What are you doing today?" he asked through a yawn.

With the shipwright's projected week for repairs, you went to the trouble of hanging your clothes in the wardrobe. Next to his they looked far more domestic than your separate cabins on the Grudge Dolph ever allowed.

"We're meeting Faust's parents for lunch," you said, tossing your nightshirt off.

"Shit, that's right."

They moved from your hometown shortly after Hawkins and Faust set sail without you, and this city welcomed the sight of Minks far more readily.

"I have a list of bookstores and secondhand shops where his dad said we might find supplies."

"Ritual supplies, or...?"

"I know it's unlikely," you said, "but if there's even an off chance of finding a log pose outside of the Grand Line, I don't want to miss it."

You regretted the word choice as you caught sight of Hawkins' deck on his nightstand, but he unashamedly watched you struggle with your bra hooks, percentages far from his mind. "...Hmm?" he grunted only once you pulled your sweater on.

"Well?" you said, striking a small pose.

"You look good."

"Thank you, captain." In just a few steps you propped one knee on the mattress, and he patiently let you inspect him in turn. You thought a bath and a large bed would do him good, but the whole crew was on high alert lately, no one more so than Hawkins. The loose plait he slept in was nearly undone, the scrunchie you'd knit out of scrap yarn hanging on for dear life, and another day you would've plucked it out and redone it all. "You look terrible."

"Mm."

"If you don't show up to lunch, I can make excuses for you."

"No, I'll be there. Go." You gave him a look, and against your better judgment, planted a dry kiss to his hairline as you left.

If you weren't a pirate, you wouldn't mind living in a city like this, though the very thought made you feel like a hick. You were always on the lookout for ephemerides and found enough at the second store to ask they be sent to the inn, too grateful for the solitude to regret not asking one of your crewmates to play pack mule. Besides a decade of astronomical tables, you now had a likely outdated atlas covering the first half of the Grand Line in more detail than you'd ever dreamed, and a historical doorstopper that was certainly Marine propaganda but looked nonetheless entertaining.

To your surprise, Hawkins was first to the restaurant and pulled out your chair with ironic gallantry. He helped himself to the contents of your totebag and made a face at the novel.

"It's like Sora, Warrior of the Sea," you said.

"Maybe 50 years ago."

"Well, my dad likes the author."

Faust seemed at the end of his rope, visibly relieved to have the two of you divert his parents' atention. Their indifference to the mating practices of Lesser Minks meant neither batted a feline eye at Hawkins scraping all the meat off his plate and onto yours or how you shared a generous order of legumes, instead asking after your own family or for Hawkins' side of news stories that made his name.

"It's hardly as eventful as you're thinking," Hawkins said about the chase you maneuvered out of en route to here. "They seemed green."

"Kujaku," you said after swallowing a mouthful of pita. "Captain Kujaku."

"A captain?" Hawkins said. "Liberal with their promotions, aren't they?"

Faust's mother made a noise of recognition. "The Great Advisor's granddaughter?"

"That explains it," Hawkins said.

Your eyes narrowed. "Explains...?"

"There's a vacuum ever since Tsuru left for the Grand Line, isn't there?" Hawkins said.

"Yes," you said, "but she seemed competent to me."

"Because you think she's attractive," he said with an edge to his voice.

"She can be both," you said. "I don't think personal connections should undermine how seriously you take a woman."

"What about a man?"

Faust cleared his throat.

That night, you decided against panties after your shower, and if Hawkins was exasperated by the discovery, he didn't let it show. You exchanged hardly a word through it all until you curled into his chest with a half-hearted "sorry" as he traced invisible patterns on your shoulder.

"For what?"

"This isn't fair to you."

"I'm not complaining."

And you didn't feel like repeating yourself, the terms you both knew and ignored, so you fell asleep tangled in him like none of them mattered.

But they did matter, and the reminder was ugly when it came.

The next few days were nearly boring. Hawkins joined you on some of your hunts, but not all. You made a little money in an afternoon of card readings as your offering to the crew's smoke budget, though your participation was minimal since you found it all only made you more needy for the man who couldn't stand it, and your ego couldn't easily bear his rejection due to the smell and his discomfort with touching you while you weren't sober, even though that was the point. Wasn't it?

You and Hawkins lost track of each other at a weekend flea market that Faust's parents and a few of the shopkeepers you'd already met all insisted you had to see. You kept your hopes in check, more or less windowshopping and gossiping with your captain with your hands resolutely in your pockets lest you latch onto his like an otter. But he was wont to wander with his absurdly long legs, and your eye was drawn to a beat-up table covered in... well, junk. Looping glassware that looked stolen from a chemist, ostentatious lockets and brooches, hand mirrors and wristwatches and—magnetic compasses.

"Excuse me?" you said. A very old, not particularly friendly looking man looked up from the World Economic Journal with an annoyed scowl. "Do you have anything that looks like a compass with no face, but the top is a glass dome?"

You weren't even sure he heard you with his non-reaction, how he chewed slowly on something you suspected was tobacco as he seemed to look through you. "Sold it."

"'Sold it'?"

"S'what I said."

"Here? Just now?" You could mow down whoever had the log pose, whether they were a pirate with similar ambitions or a layman drawn to novelty. Neither of you could know if it functioned or not until you entered the Grand Line.

"Few days ago. Tall man got it. Blond."

"Blond..." you repeated.

"Him," he said with a nod.

You followed his gaze straight to Hawkins searching the crowd for you, and the purpose with which he marched in your direction would have made you feel so very wanted if you weren't furious. His eyes imperceptibly widened as he recognized the vendor, and you didn't let him close the distance before you fairly sprinted off in the direction of a public park. Of course this didn't last long, how easily he caught you—every time—from his long reach to how he called your name.

"Listen to me."

You inhaled in some effort to calm yourself where you'd stopped in your tracks before you faced him. "Okay."

Hawkins blinked. "Really?"

"I'll hear you out," you said. "Since you've probably worked very hard on whatever your excuse is this time."

"Not an excuse," he said, and you scoffed. "That's not hearing me out."

"I can't make noises?"

"When they turn everything into a tribunal? No."

"Fine." You bit your lip, and he sighed.

"Now that's distracting."

"Don't look at me then."

Hawkins took that to heart, as if looking above for guidance that neither of you believed in. "I found it by chance."

"When?"

"Earlier."

"The guy said a few days ago. Was that before or after you started helping me? I mean, 'helping' me?"

"I don't—it's—" He exhaled. "Before. The shipwright mentioned that place sometimes has contraband. Shipwrecks. Whatever the Navy doesn't claim."

"'By chance,' my ass. You asked him where you could find the only log pose in the North Blue—"

"'Only' seems—"

"—so you could, what, surprise me? Because I don't really want to be surprised when it comes to my job."

"There just... wasn't a good time to bring it up," he said lamely. "The day of? You'd already asked me out for the next morning."

"Okay. Then what happened?"

"You were busy."

"Not too busy to fuck you. Repeatedly."

"And I wanted to... search with you."

"But you didn't," you said, "because you went behind my back. Why?"

Your captain really searched for the words, and you crossed your arms impatiently. Hawkins was less talkative than you—an easy feat—and struggled at times, which made you weary of interrupting him or completing his sentences on most days, especially in front of the crew, but you said "You didn't know what you'd do with it." Hawkins pursed his lips, almost a pout. "What did you think you could accomplish? Stretching this out? 'Cause we're in this stalemate, or truce, or—"

"Spell," he supplied, not really looking at you.

"Or you want to be the one to decide when I get to know things," you said. "About my own life."

"Okay, now you're in the realm of fantasy."

"I'm just throwing shit at the wall until you gather your thoughts."

"You don't have to..." He gestured vaguely. "Fill the air like this. We can just be calm."

"Calm?" Hawkins closed his eyes, bracing himself. "You act like being calm is license to be as insane and controlling and condescending as you are every single day, but I look crazy for an entirely proportional response."

"I can't change my nature," he bit out. "You of all people know that. No more than you can move the stars."

"Spare me. This isn't about nature. It's the things you keep doing, choosing to do when you know they make me want to—" You paused, then redirected. "Plenty of people sail into the Grand Line without a log pose. Surviving the entry is half of it. I didn't practice for a decade to lose my bearings without a compass. But I should be aware just how much harder or easier it can be."

"I agree."

"You agree," you repeated, and looking at him you could tell he believed himself. "But you don't fuck with anyone else's work. You trust our crew to do what you need them to. We said you'd treat me the same—"

"Well, how am I supposed to know what still stands?" Hawkins said. "Inviting me to your room. Asking for sex. Doing the all the same things as if we never talked."

"I know," you said. "I've been selfish. Of course it's unclear. But I don't know, I don't think you get to lie to me again just because you made me cum."

"I haven't lied."

"By omission." You eyed him warily. "So where is it?"

He sighed. "At the inn. Wardrobe, top shelf."

Where you couldn't see or reach. Ironically, the low overhead of a sailing ship suited your stature better than most places on land.

"And it looks in good condition?"

"Yes," Hawkins said. "I had it fitted into a new watchband for you. Leather. You'll like it."

"I'm sure," you said, and you meant it. He smiled slightly, cautious and relieved. "Hawkins. Can you answer me honestly? Just this one thing."

"Yes. Sure. Anything."

"We said we'd reevaluate once we make it over there. But when you said you'd be okay with any outcome—including one where we're done, which would take both us committing, obviously." You took a breath. "Did you mean that? That you could see a future where we're friends. That that's something you'd want."

Hawkins frowned. An actual war played out on his face, inscrutable to anyone but you, before he finally said, "No."

You smiled. "Come here."

Obediently, he bent down, like he would if you wanted to kiss him or whisper in his ear.

And you drew your arm back and punched him.

"What the fuck, woman?!"

You screamed, a gut-deep battle cry as you tackled him to the ground, straddling him like you had just that morning. "You—stupid—fucking—" The sides of your fists glanced uselessly off his forearms, but you were no fighter, and he was experienced in reversing your positions with his superior size, and you found yourself pinned in the dirt and grass, his hands holding your wrists above your head firmly but not roughly. You both panted heavily, and the dead leaf in his angelic hair would have amused you in another context.

"Are you finished?" Hawkins said.

His left cheekbone was red, and to your wild, panicked eye, already beginning to swell.

"I hit you."

"Yes?"

"I hit you."

It took a moment for it to sink in, and he still spoke slowly, like he didn't understand. "Why would I need Straw Dolls to talk to you?"

iii

Years at sea and the cabin you supposedly lived in was functionally your closet and office. When you and Hawkins were good, your bed remained pristine for weeks on end and even doubled as a guest bed or an extension of the sick bay as needed.

Now you had a poorly packed sea bag whose contents you'd swept in from Hawkins' cabin in too little time. He was deep in discussion with the helmsman and would purposely give you privacy if you asked, which you wouldn't, because you were putting off a discussion overdue ever since you entered the Grand Line. Making it past Reverse Mountain was almost worth a feast itself, and you celebrated it with the sort of kiss that left you weak in full view of the crew, something you both generally avoided. One island later and Hawkins watched you—well, like a hawk while you flirted with one of the townspeople, and when you returned to the docked ship your captain had watch, off-schedule, like he swapped shifts to wait for you.

"We only had a drink," you'd said.

Hawkins was studying a large spread of cards horizontally, for once, which he only did on his bed or the table in this straw deckhouse where you fidgeted on the ladder. When he finally looked up at you, he'd only nodded and said good night.

You hated it.

You sat on the edge of your bed across from the built-in shelves you still felt spoiled by and wondered how they fell into such disarray. The crew had a modest library in the common mess nearby where you were content to leave a fair chunk of your collection, especially astrological texts you only half-believed in now, but you kept your ephemerides and star charts, atlases and maps here. Books were among various odds and ends gathered from Hawkins' room, where you did a poor job of containing your things to a locker he'd cleared for you.

The rap of knuckles at your door could only be him.

"It's unlocked," you said.

Hawkins ducked his head in, comically surreptitious as he took in the scene. "Just making sure you didn't jump ship."

"I would've taken treasure."

Seeing as you didn't pelt him with whatever was nearby or shoo him away, your captain opened the door more fully and entered with a crate under his arm. "You left these," he said, and moved to set it on your desk, but you waved him over and shuffled up your bed to make space.

"I'm not going to ravish you," you said at his obvious distrust. "Or punch you in the face." The bruise was healed, but you still saw it when you looked at him.

"I don't see how you would," Hawkins said, looking around as he set the crate on your quilt between you two, the mattress dipping with his weight.

"This is plenty of space for a normal-sized human."

He snorted. "'Normal.'" Hawkins was only the second-tallest man on this ship, and the underdeck beams in the galley brushed the top of his head if he didn't duck.

You tilted the crate toward you. An afghan you'd knit just for your own height was bundled on top, something between a fold and a roll. Excising it from between bedding layers didn't cross your mind, but that he went to the trouble showed he meant to keep the queen-sized one you'd both contributed to. Beneath it was a few articles of clothing and some tchotchkes, like a stuffed Sea King you'd goaded him into winning for you at a fair.

You let the soft objects tumble onto your bed and stood to place some more decorative pieces on a shelf formerly occupied by logbooks. Hawkins watched you quietly until you placed the crate on the floor removed the last item: a screw-top, aluminum tin that fit in the palm of your hand. You sat next to him with it held between your palm and fingers, and took a breath.

"I'm not a flight risk," you said.

"This isn't fleeing?"

You gave him a look. "Downstairs."

"You're always welcome upstairs. You and—" He grabbed the Sea King, which you were certain you'd drooled on, how you bit into it while he buried his face between your thighs several apologies ago. "We were never introduced."

"Stop."

"What am I doing?"

You gave him a look. "This has to work in at least one way other than sex."

"What else do you want? Seriously," Hawkins said. "I gave you distance; you closed it. I said I'll be more careful of bystanders, and you're shocked at the consequences."

"You're conflating two things. Conveniently."

"'Efficiently,' I'd say. They're separate but related."

"Hitting you is all me."

"A practical demonstration of your advice that I should try not getting hit," he said with a shrug.

"That's not—" You stopped yourself. "I'm being responsible here since your perception is seriously off."

"I thought you were over this," Hawkins said. "This damned... naivete. You have no problem with Marines dying left and right so you never bloody your hands, but a little bruise—"

"On you!"

"I've had worse. I will have worse. You know that's what the Grand Line means."

"You see a black eye as a consequence of piracy, but ordinary people kill their partners all the time. If anything you're vulnerable."

"So you're protecting me."

His cadence made it sound absurd, and maybe it was, because violence was his trade and he hadn't let himself feel terror in... you were afraid it was decades, that wedge of time before he and his mother moved to the house down the hill from yours.

"I don't think we're good at this," you said. "Do you like us? Do you like how we are to each other?"

You glanced sidelong at him, and his frown was so boyish you could cry.

"...Not lately," he said, but laid his hand palm side up between the two of you. You interlaced your fingers with his, still clutching the tin in your other hand.

"I've never been mean to anyone like I am to you," you said. "Maybe my mother."

"She deserves it," Hawkins muttered.

"Maybe. But you don't."

"Well..." He stroked his thumb over yours. "I keep lying to you."

"You lie to everyone," you said, tilting your head aft, where the crew berthed. Sometimes it was mediation made tidy by sleight of hand, sometimes his sort of dishonest kindness that brought their spirits up in impossible odds, enough to guarantee everyone's survival.

"And you're the only one who knows that."

They believed in Hawkins wholeheartedly. Every death papered over by some poor hostage's life in place of his made you realize you didn't, because every one looked to you like the future.

"So we should stop," you said. "Right?"

"No." His stare pulled you to meet his gaze, and his hand pulled yours into his lap. "Give up?"

"It's not a competition."

"It is. I'm not giving up so you can tell whoever turns your head next how awful I was."

"That seems a little premature." And you couldn't face how awful you were, the dread that you'd made yourself for him only, and not even well.

"Premature..." He dipped his head, a mischievous little move, like he'd misheard. "Because you don't think we're through, either."

Instead of responding, you removed your hand from his and replaced it with the tin you'd been gripping. It was about two inches in diameter and not very deep, and where it covered most of your palm it looked trivial in his. Hawkins examined it, testing its weight—nearly nothing—before he unscrewed the top. The butcher paper on the inside didn't so much as crinkle, pressed into shape by years undisturbed. He looked to you for assent before he removed the bundle, balancing it on his knee. His eyes widened ever so slightly when he saw what it contained.

"How old is this?" he asked.

"There's a date on the lid."

He flipped it, almost like a coin, revealing a neatly cut length of painter's tape on the underside. "With the time."

"Taurus was rising," you said. "Venus was in Libra."

Held carefully between his thumb and forefinger was a ring, delicately braided from straw. The fibers were darkened by oil you'd clumsily painted on as a teenager when you decided to stop wearing the jewelry Hawkins made for you, how quickly it unraveled or rotted from heat and friction. Your childhood bedroom had a sun-bleached honor guard of the crude precursors to the straw dolls he made now, brittle with age but intact, unlike who knew how many rings and bracelets and crowns. This was the last you'd asked from him in the guise of a demanding little sister to whom the mere two years between you seemed like a chasm, who lost sleep thinking he'd go to sea and forget you completely.

Hawkins reached for your hand nearest to him—the left—and let the butcher paper in his lap fall to the floor.

"What did you make me say when we did this?" he said.

"I didn't make you," you said. "Not every time." His thumb traced the familiar path of your ring finger. "And you editorialized anyway."

"If it was absurd, yes. But I've kept a few promises."

"Like?"

"'I'll never love anyone else,'" he said simply. "Easiest one."

Your eyes were tight and dry.

He rubbed the tension from your knuckles, coaxing your fingers to splay apart. "'I'll protect you,' and 'I won't go where you can't.' And 'You can have the meat I don't eat.'"

"You need more protein," you said weakly.

"And today," he said, more serious as he slid the ring past your first knuckle, then the next, "I'll listen to you. I'll tell you the truth, eventually. I won't keep you here if you don't want it."

Keep me echoed so clearly in your head, but stuck in your throat like a sob. The straw was more amber than when he first gave it to you, and tightened by beeswax, without any give if you wanted to form a fist.

You leaned into his side, your head heavy on his shoulder, and he kissed your hair.