In the dark and without the slightest notion of sleep on its way, it could be difficult to keep your mind from wandering to questions, small mysteries and unknowns that loomed in the mind all the more fiercely when distractions had hidden away with the daylight. Iceberg had these sorts of nights often, wondering over all manners of questions that rarely came to a solid answer as he mulled over their points again and again in his head.
These nights, he noticed, had been on the rise ever since that miserable little brat of an apprentice had come in, siphoning away Tom's attention and causing all-around more distractions and difficulties than their group needed.
He studied the wooden boards above him, the grain the same as ever with its silent indifference to his search for answers. But as Iceberg studied the faint, curving lines of a tree long chopped away, even new questions arose. Questions that, suddenly, might have the answer there in the room with him.
Lying still for a time, debating over if it was worth the question, the elder apprentice sat upright, glancing over Tom's slow rising-and-sinking girth to spy the boy curled up on the other side; Flam's back was turned away, curled in on himself. Mental debate raged a while further, before the blue-haired head turned just enough to allow one eye to glower back. Apparently Iceberg was not alone in his occasional bouts of insomnia, though who knew what sort of things ran through the small terror's mind in the dark. "What," came the small hiss.
Yet again Iceberg questioned himself, if he should bother. "Nothing. I'll talk to you in the morning."
There was a tiny snort, and an uttered word that Iceberg figured was probably "whatever," and Flam turned away again. He, however, couldn't quite get himself to lie back down again, looking down at his lap. The thought that had arisen nagged too loudly.
"You've been on other islands," he finally murmured, watching Flam from the corner of his eye.
The boy shifted against the futon. "Yeah, so?"
"So you know what…" He trailed off one more time, before turning to sit facing his undesired coworker. "What does dirt feel like?"
The question hung in the air for a moment, and Franky looked back again, frowning slightly. Iceberg leaned forward, over the stomach of their sleeping mentor as his voice rose above the whisper. "And trees—what do they look like before they're cut down?"
Franky rolled over, still frowning. "What, are you stupid? Dirt's just dirt. Everyone knows that."
Heat rose in Iceberg's gut again, a fresh and potent reminder of why he so hated this newcomer's presence in his home. "You're the stupid one, if you can't even appreciate what those things are like on this island!"
Sitting up with a snarl, Franky had his vapid retorts at the ready. "Don't call me stupid, Icedumb, you're the one asking dumbass questions!"
"You didn't-!"
Large, webbed hands rose up and lay on top of the quarrelers' heads, gentle in spite of their heaviness. Iceberg jolted and looked over at Tom: the merman lay with eyes closed, but his smile clear even in the room's darkness.
Franky gave another snort, falling back to his bed with a thump and rolling back over, shoulders hunched. The elder boy glared at his foil a moment longer, before dropping back down to the futon as well. He didn't stare up at the wood grain, this time around. There were no answers to be found just from wondering in that room.
