The room fell into silence as they prepared for what was coming. Juno was adjusting something and Ain was doing who knows what.
Gin never minded the silence, perhaps he even liked it more than any kind of sound, but it might be because it was the only thing he was used to.
He finished checking his second katana, storing it in its sheath before putting his hand in his bag to search for the vial they would need later. But his fingers brushed against something else, it wasn't glass but a stone.
Ain hadn't said a word about it, not since he left it behind that day. Maybe he didn't even remember it, or perhaps he did and just didn't care anymore.
Either way, Gin did remember it.
He remembered the mist, the silence, the swaying of the lantern.
• •
The Limbo's mist stretched infinitely. The boat creaked under Gin's boots while he adjusted the rigging, his hands busy as always. The sea here was calm and silent, and refused to take him anywhere other than this stretch of nothing. And that was fine, since he had long stopped looking for a destination.
The air smelled of salt and something metallic. Gin exhaled, watching the mist curve around his breath before vanishing. He didn't mind the solitude, or at least that's what he told himself.
"Wow. You really don't get tired of this place, huh?"
Gin's entire body tensed at the voice, his fingers stopping mid-knot before tightening with unnecessary force. He didn't even bother to turn around.
"Ain," he muttered. "What the hell are you doing here?"
The soft sound of his paws walking across the deck reached his ears, followed by a movement of his tail against the wood. "Visiting, obviously."
The man finally turned, his single green eye narrowing. Ain was perched by the mast, his sleek black fur damp with mist, and his violet eyes gleamed with amusement. He looked as out of place as always.
"I don't recall inviting you."
"You don't remember many things, Captain Solitude." Ain stretched exaggeratedly before leaning against the railing, his eyes now scanning the horizon. "I thought about visiting you. Making sure you haven't turned into one of those shady sea hermits who talk to fish."
Gin rolled his single eye. "I don't talk to fish."
"That's exactly what someone who talks to fish would say."
Gin sighed loudly, returning to his work.
The cat didn't move, he never did. Every time he appeared it was the same: some sarcastic comments, some unwanted company, and then he'd vanish as if he had better things to do. Gin didn't understand it. He had no debts to Ain, no reason or bond for which the demon would have to be here.
"You eat today?" his voice was casual, but something could be noticed underneath. Too carefree, or even rehearsed.
Gin didn't respond immediately, instead focusing on adjusting the rope that was in his hands, tensing it before stepping back.
"Didn't feel like it."
Ain clicked his tongue. "Didn't ask if you felt like it."
Gin looked at him, only now realizing the small bag hanging from his mouth.
"Oh, don't get excited," said Ain through his teeth, voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's not for you. I just happened to have some extra."
Gin narrowed his eye but said nothing while Ain threw the bag onto the crate. The familiar aroma of bread, dried meat and something sweet appeared. Ain couldn't cook, which means he got it somewhere else, other than Limbo.
Gin approached, hesitating enough for Ain to raise an eyebrow.
"What?" said Ain. "Too proud to take it?"
Gin snatched the bag without a word.
Ain smiled, tail swaying. "That's what I thought."
There was a moment of silence, Gin leaned against the railing, chewing a piece of bread.
"Don't you really get tired of all this?" asked Ain, his voice reflecting confusion.
Gin chewed slowly, swallowing before answering. "No."
Ain hesitated, moving his tail thoughtfully. "Liar."
The cat didn't insist, didn't say anything more. He just stayed there, calm, as if he belonged to that place.
The only lit lantern illuminated the environment with a warm light, flickering every so often when a gentle breeze passed.
"You really should fix the second mast."
Gin didn't even turn his head.
"You really should mind your own business," he replied dryly.
Ain laughed.
"Come on, Gin," Ain drawled. "I'm just trying to help you. What if your boat falls apart one day? What will you do then?"
Gin scoffed as he finally looked at him. "I'll deal with it when it happens."
Ain tilted his head, studying him in that way Gin had never liked. As if he were seeing something in him that he himself couldn't, as if the parts Gin had buried were completely visible to him, like that night he never dared to speak about.
"You say that," Ain mused, his voice taking on a tone that was a little too knowing, "but you've been here for years. You never fix anything, never change anything. It's almost as if..." He stopped, letting his tail curl around his paws. "As if you were waiting for something."
Gin forced himself to keep his expression neutral. "You talk too much."
"And you listen too little." Ain's eyes reflected something behind them. "It's funny, you know. Most people, when they get sick of me, tell me to get lost. But you never do."
Gin moved away. "It doesn't mean I want you here."
"Sure." Ain smirked.
Gin exhaled slowly. He could do it if he really wanted to, and the cat knew it. He could scare him, ignore him completely, but he never did, he didn't know why. Maybe it was because, no matter how irritating Ain was, he was the only thing that broke the silence.
And maybe Gin wasn't ready to admit that he needed that.
Ain settled near him, his tail gently tapping Gin's boot. And the cat had that usual expression, as if he had all the time in the world.
"You know," he drawled, "for a guy who says he doesn't care about anything, you sure keep a lot of junk."
"It's not junk."
"Mm. Right. That cracked compass you never use? The broken dagger tucked under your bunk? Totally sentimental, very melancholic loner, ten out of ten."
Gin didn't respond.
"Do you ever think," said Ain, voice light as always, "that maybe all this isn't really about the sea? Or Limbo? Or whatever poetic excuse you have this time?"
Gin kept his gaze forward.
Ain smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Maybe it's about him."
Gin froze for a moment at the mention of that man. "Why do you care?"
"I don't," he finally replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Or maybe I do. So what? Do you still think he's out there? Waiting for you to finally have courage and do something?" His tone was mocking, but underneath it was sharp. "Or did you finally find him and simply... chicken out?"
Gin still gave no response. The wind changed, not much but enough to sway the lantern. Eventually, Gin let out a sigh.
"He's dead," he muttered.
The words came out flat. He didn't elaborate, didn't explain how he found the man half-dead, how he stood there, watching as life drained from someone who at some point had hurt him in ways he never imagined he would.
He also didn't say that he could have killed him but chose not to. And that he felt worse than if he had done it.
He didn't say any of that.
The silence stretched again, and Gin found himself talking to fill it.
"He didn't even seem surprised to see me," he added. His voice was barely audible. "Like he knew I'd come, like he was waiting for it."
Still nothing, no response, no sarcastic comment. No tail tapping against the deck.
He frowned.
He looked back, and he was gone. He cursed under his breath, more annoyed with himself for noticing than with Ain for leaving.
Gin stared at the empty space for a long time, jaw tense, breath stuck somewhere behind his ribs. He didn't know why he was surprised, if it was always like this, Ain came and went like smoke.
Gin rubbed his forehead, pushing down the irritation that had nothing to do with the cat and everything to do with... something else.
When he looked back at the deck, something caught his eye; a small, shiny stone. He crouched down to grab it, and turned it in his hand. It was dark and smooth, the kind of thing that would be easy to overlook.
A faint, almost bitter smile tugged at his lips. Ain always left something behind; a strange trinket, a broken feather, or sometimes just a strangely arranged pile of dust. As if he couldn't help but leave a piece of himself behind.
And there was something strangely similar in the gesture, like a memory just out of his reach. He put the stone in his pocket. It was just a stone, it didn't mean anything, but he didn't throw it away.
• •
For a second, the boat was still under him, then it was gone. The room was there instead, his swords in front of him, resting on the desk.
"You're frowning," said Ain. "That usually means you're remembering something depressing or you just saw your reflection."
Juno looked up from her stuff. "Are you okay?"
Gin looked at her. The room felt too small all of a sudden, too bright and too dim at once, but her voice pulled him out of it.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm just thinking."
Juno just nodded slightly and went back to fastening the strap on her belt.
Ain rolled onto his back, tail moving toward the ceiling. "If this is the energy you're bringing to a demon pit, I'm going to start charging for emotional labor."
Gin shot him a look. "Keep talking and I'll throw you in first."
Ain grinned. "I'll land on my feet."
But Gin's gaze lingered on the window for a moment, on the distant reddish stain of the cliffs. The memory didn't leave, and for the first time, he wasn't completely alone anymore. And maybe that's why he stayed.