Ringo tries and fail to run from trouble. Oh, and also sibling bonding.
Warnings: Hints of poor parenting and implied abuse.
03.
The Apple Of Your Eye
Seeds III
.
Ringo spends the next few nights on a tree, somewhere in the forest beyond the town. It was a bad idea- he wakes up itching and scratching from rashes, welts running down a line on his arms and legs.
It's not that he's got a choice. He's half-expecting the maid to tear the town upside-down looking for him. Or even worse, bringing along tens of Linlin's thugs who were secretly stationed on the island, tasked to keep an eye on her gaggle of kids. A healthy dose of paranoia never hurts in this world.
So Ringo sulks to the nearby river, cold water a soothing balm on his itching skin. He spends his time exploring and picks better trees to sleep in. Two days in, he fights a bear in the middle of the night and runs into a nest of snakes. Five days in, he slaps a behemoth-sized crocodile that ambushed him while he's napping by the river. By the end of the week, he's pretty convinced that this forest has a biased against him having a normal sleep schedule.
(Just like when he was traveling with Yinyin. How nostalgic.)
At least he's not that hungry anymore. When lunging around mushed-carcasses of animals become bothersome, Ringo makes camp in a decent looking clearing atop a hill. He burns herbs- lavender and mint, in the firewood, scent repelling the local fauna. He cooks and eats whatever he can and disposes the excess far away, neatly buried in the ground. It wouldn't do if the blood attracts other predators.
When the week passes quietly with no hunting party coming after him, Ringo grows angsty. He couldn't had hidden himself so well. Maybe the thugs have already found him out and are just bidding their time. Maybe the Maid already reported to Linlin, and is waiting for her to come to the island to smite him herself?
Neither options sound reassuring.
Sitting around isn't going to get him answers, so Ringo gets to work. He gathers and crush Soot weeds- long, slender leaves that secretes black-sap with water. Mix until it thickens, filter out the goo with someone's stolen underwear, then leave it to sit for a day until semi-dry. Once it's done, he meticulously slicks them into his hair until the pink locks turn black.
(Like slipping a mask on-)
Then, the next dawn, he scrubs his cheeks and arms clean in the river before cautiously heading back into town.
.
.
The town is named Hanomon.
Located right at a corner of the island, stalls and vendors lined its streets, selling from laid out mats and a canopy of voices calling out bargains and discounts. Based off what scraps of information he pieced together from discarded, pieces of newspaper and some careful scouting, the port town is actually an extension to a sizable-kingdom, connected by three stone bridges.
Not the weirdest kingdom Ringo has seen. But to his alarm, despite having two harbors - the port town, and one supposingly within the kingdom itself, there are virtually no ships in them. Small fishing boats, sure, but none of the big merchant or cargo ones he is used to seeing in other parts.
No harm asking about it.
So Ringo scouts. He wanders the alleys, takes stock of the stalls- the markets are beginning to wake, handfuls of fishmongers (sardines and mackerel; common fish) and fruit-hagglers (mangoes, papayas and oranges; tropical ) getting ready for the day. He sweeps the docks, and picks the single, greying man sprawled on a crate, a fishing rod in hand. He pats both of his cheeks twice, slipping into the persona of a local, dumb kid, and stumbles forward.
"Hey, mister!" Ringo says.
The man glances at him. "Kinda early for a kid like you to be up, eh?"
Ringo squints at him. "I'm up cuz I'm running errands for my Ma." Waits a good half a minute to mimic hesitation, then: "But I wanted to get crabs. Don't got any at the markets right now."
"Ay, I heard ya. Haf'ta wait another four months until I get my smokes," cackles the man. The horizon is still dark. "Tough luck- everyone's waitin' fer the dry season to pass."
Dry season, on this spring island? "Don't get what's hard. Can't the fishermen come faster?"
"They can't, sorry to say." A flick of his fishing rod. "Weather's been getting wilder these days, an' the currents around these parts haven't been forgiving to visitors. Not to mention that it's matin' season for the Sea Kings- whoops, shouldn't had said that to ya." The man winces. "Don't tell your ma."
Ringo manages the flattest look at him. "I already had the birds and bees talk."
"Ach- but still!" He laughs. "Anyways- might as well, like I said, it's mating season right now, so the ships can't just dock at the horizon and row in on boats at night. We'll just haf'ta wait then!"
"But why?" Ringo cocks a head. "Why not just sail in in the morning?"
"Oh, don't 'cha know? Look over there."
Following the wrinkled finger, Ringo looks across the sea. The sun is coming up, bringing with her the gradients of golden orange and pale blue. Light spills gently across the surface of the sea, and there, Ringo sees it:
Like an emerging serpent, a single, jagged, triangular shadow appear on the horizon, growing longer by the second. Then two. Then five. By the time the sun is above the sea, rows and overlaying rows of them stretch across his vision as far as he can see, towering over the crashing waves.
"This island's surrounded by them, ya know? You see them during the day when the tide is low. At night, they submerge when the tide is high. But ya can't sail in at night anyways, because that's when the sea kings are active." Laments the old man. "Ships can only sail in a few times a year when its high tide during the day. Shame, really. But we lived with it for generatio-"
Translation: no ships for at least another few months.
"-Oh, did ya know? This town's name, Ha no mon, is named after them rocks. 'The Gate of Teeth', in old terms. Kinda cool, huh?"
Ringo wheezes.
The man slaps a hand onto his back, laughing. "Cheer up, kiddo! No need to look so down. You'll be surprised how fast time passes. You'll get your crabs soon!"
Later, after he thanks the man and makes his way back to his camp, revelation strikes Ringo like a delayed slap.
Linlin had flew him in instead of docking her ship at the port before dawn, then he's been hiding out in the forest for the past week. No wonder he hadn't noticed. No wonder no one had came after him.
Why would you worry about losing the runaway kid on this hunk of rock when there is virtually no way out at all?
You were too excited, comes his thoughts that night. He lays there, unable to sleep, staring into the moonless sky. Too impatient.
What will you do?
...Well, he's come this far- No point turning back now. The next morning, Ringo carefully takes stock of what he knows so far as he munches on leftover, mashed-meat.
Jagged rocks guard the island during the day and Sea Kings feed at night. There's only a couple of times in a year ships may dock at the port; the next window is in a few months' time.
...And everyone's itching to get over the dry season to get their hands on foreign goods.
When there's demand, there's always supply. In a world full of pirates and cutthroat thugs, there is a high possibly that there are people here who had figured out how to get in and out of the island, outside of the official windows. Just to smuggle goods.
Ringo grimaced, reaching across for another bundle of Soot Weed. He'd rather not engage in shady deals or wander into a den full of criminals. However...
Well, to put it plainly: it's not the best option, but it's the best he's got right now.
Goddammit.
.
.
So, like before, he starts from scratch again.
The good news is that mapping out the port town did not take much time at all. Fortunately, there are several tall buildings for him to scale up and have a quick scan of the layout. Then, all it takes is for him to wander around the nooks and crannies, filling in the details.
(The only place that he actively avoids is the other end of the town, where Linlin's kids and maid stays, and the main streets, where most of the hustle and bustle are. He sticks to the shadows, where he camouflages better with his now black hair.)
Now, the bad news:
Despite his efforts at staying out of trouble, trouble comes looking for him this time.
.
.
Midway through his third week on this island, Ringo gets a visitor.
He's in the middle of re-slicking his hair with dye again when the bushes start rustling. He freezes mid-slick, and before he can react- a pasty-looking kid steps out from the leaves.
The first thought Ringo has is is that a boy or a girl, because the newcomer is strangely pretty for a kid; their hair is long and wavy, a shade of cool purple- no, indigo. Tall, thin legs, dressed in a yellow coat-
(A boy, the voice in his mind whispers. Don't you remember?")
-In his hands is a bundle of wriggly baby, who's staring at him with wide yellow eyes. Tufts of lavender hair sits atop her head.
...Wait.
"RIIIIIII!" Brûlée squeals, throwing up her hands.
Here, Ringo finally snaps away and locks eyes with the boy, whose narrow eyes squint into narrower slits as he takes a step forward and-
"YOU!" Barks the boy.
Me? Ringo startles, pointing to himself.
"You've got some nerves running away like that, dipshit!" The kid hisses, hands covering Brûlée's ears. Somehow, this kid is strangely articulate with his tongue stuck out like that. "Do you even- Do you have any idea how long she cried for?" Here, he jabs his palm forward with a wrath Ringo has yet to see in a child. "I'll tell you- FIVE," Then covers her ears back again. "FIVE fucking days!"
"Wha- how is this my problem?"
"OF COURSE IT IS!" The boy roars. "SHE LIKES YOU! She wouldn't stop crying or eat or sleep since YOU left-"
A stab of guilt wells up within Ringo's chest at that. Now that he's mentioned it, Brûlée did look thinner than he last saw her three weeks before- was his departure that much of an effect?
"-anny's useless and basically gave the twins to us and told us to get them to stop crying when it's her job in the first place, and don't even get me started on what I went through looking for YOU!"
Here, the boy stops in his pacing, sucks in a deep breath, and whips around to jab a finger at Ringo ( wait, since when did he get this close- ) "Of all places you choose, it had to be this forest- not that it wasn't a good choice, no one else couldn't had gotten past all the bears and snakes- But did you have to? Did you know how hard it is to carry a baby past all that? Do you? "
"You've said it- it was a good choice," Ringo answers faintly.
"YES, it is!" The boy yells, jabbing his fingers into his chest again. "But did you had to?"
And here, Brûlée bursts into tears.
The boy freezes. For a split second, Ringo sees that unguarded vulnerability in his orange eyes- guilt, worry, and alarm. Then those eyes look back at him and narrows again-
"So take responsibility, you idiot!"
-And plops Brûlée in his arms.
Ringo, for a lack of a better term, panics. Of those months on Linlin's ship, he has only ever carried the twins in their baskets. Never out of it. The closest he's gotten in skin contact is letting them gnaw on his fingers like their pacifiers. Now he's got an armful of crying, struggling, soft baby and he has no idea what to do or where to put his hands-
"That's not how you hold a baby!" The boy barks again, sharp voice slicing through his thoughts, snapping him to action. "Support the neck- higher, higher. What are you, stupid? Stop holding her like she's a potato- you have bones so use them! Tighten your arms!"
Within minutes of mad scrambling, Ringo manages to arrange Brûlée into a better posture. Her head is cushion by his right arm and palm, cradled against his chest as he rocks. Gradually, the cries die down to sniffles, then soft whimpers, then finally quiets down to a soft snooze as Brûlée falls into a nap, exhausted from her outburst.
God, Ringo thinks, looking at her sleeping face. She's so small.
When he's sure that Brûlée is full asleep, he looks back up to the strange boy again. He's leaning forward slightly, gaze focused on the baby, all the anger seemingly to had bled out of him and leaving nothing but a faint softness and worry.
(This knife-faced, almost familiar child-)
Until he looks up and locks eyes with Ringo again. A moment of silence.
Then Ringo plops Brûlée- as careful but as fast as he can- into the other's arms, then immediately turns around and ran.
(There was a delayed reaction, but he hears the enraged yell echoing behind him all the same.)
.
.
He bumps into the same boy four days later, just as he is about to question if the first time was a particularly vivid hallucination he conjured up somehow. Then again, two days later. Then again, and again.
Like this, two weeks of tense, frantic game of hide-and-seek pass (with him scrambling around the forest and the duo still managing to find him somehow). By this point, Ringo's already accustomed to start sprinting at the drop of a hat. He's even started to pay attention to his gut feelings, which tingles a split second before an angry "Get back here!" sounds out, accompanied by a small, excited shriek in the background, like clockwork.
(The result, which he will not notice until a few weeks down the road, is that he gradually builds up stamina both from running across uneven terrain and great distances. His balance and footwork improve, as does his recovery from landings.)
He is caught, finally, properly, on their eighth time. Ringo's half-engrossed with wood-cutting with a stolen axe, arms raised above his head, before he's startled shitless when he glances up into the same pasty pale face.
The boy doesn't say anything at first, just glares unimpressively at him, eyes flicking up at his axe then back down pointedly. Ringo sweats, carefully taking a step back, lowering and putting the axe head-down against the log.
"...Sit." The boy says waspishly. "And don't, so help me, even think about running."
Ringo slowly lowers himself onto the log. The baby strapped to the boy's chest this time has watery, orange eyes, instead of yellow.
"Riiiiiiiiii!" Broyé screams in delight, chubby arms outstretched. Ringo obliges, letting the boy dump her into his arms.
He spends that entire afternoon playing with her- or, as best as he could, awkwardly letting Broyé wriggle in his lap, surrendering his scarf for her to gnaw, entertaining herself while the boy glares daggers into the side of his head, seated from an arm's length away from Ringo.
It's only when he's mid-coaxing Broyé into nap-time when he hears: "What is her name?"
Ringo looks back at the boy, his voice failing him a few times. At the boy's flat stare, he gives in. "...you don't know?"
"Mama didn't tell us and we can't keep calling them baby one and two." Was the rueful scoff.
Linlin didn't tell them? Ringo doesn't know how to label the well of emotions swirling in him at those words- Confusion, mostly, and pity? Indignance?
"...It's Brûlée- I mean, Brûlée's the one with yellow eyes." He finally says. "This one here- with orange eyes, is Broyé."
"Brulee, and Broye." The boy says softly, almost as if he's feeling the words.
"No, no. Not Brulee and Broye." Ringo corrects, before he can help himself. "It's Brûlée and Broyé ."
Still, to his surprise, there was no anger at the correction. The other only looks at him, eyes almost boring into him, before dropping down to the snoozing twin. "...Brûlée and Broyé it is, then."
When all is said and done and Broyé is finally asleep, exhausted from an entire afternoon of playing, Ringo is carefully tucking her back into the makeshift carrier strapped to the front of his visitor when the boy says: "Same time in two days, then."
"...what?"
The look the boy gives him is the definition of exasperation. "Brûlée's getting antsy, perorin." As if it explains everything. Then he doesn't elaborate more, before he turns around and makes his way back from where he came from, disappearing into the bushes.
.
.
Ringo dubs him "Candy Boy" in his mind, after the single, colorful candy-shaped pin on his collar.
And Candy Boy, he finds, is like a very persistent dog.
Over the course of the month, he pops up every time Ringo turns his back, unnaturally silent and somehow able to track him down wherever he goes- by the river, the edge of the town, the beach. He loiters around for a few hours, watching Ringo like a hawk as he busies himself with entertaining Brûlée and Broyé, bouncing them in his lap. In an attempt to dispel the awkward, tense air, Ringo develops a habit of answering their babbling with hmms and haws and I see, fascinating, tell me more?
And when playtime is over and the twins falls asleep, Ringo would carefully put them back into their baby harness, and Candy Boy would nod at him and let him know when they'll be showing up next time before disappearing into the bushes before Ringo could blink.
Candy Boy also, in complete opposite of his rant those few weeks ago, rarely speaks up in Ringo's presence. When he does, it is to snark babysitting tips, or if he is taking too long to appease the twins.
"Sing them a song."
"...why." Ringo askes.
"It's almost time for their nap- it calms them down faster this way."
He blinks at him, surprised at the unnatural amount of baby-wrangling knowledge this strange boy seems to have. Then again, he looks like one of the older kids in Linlin's group. He probably has more than enough experience in taking care of his siblings.
"...What kind of song?"
"Any," Comes the scoff. "They're not picky at this age."
"Auhwah," comes Brûlée's babble, as if she's agreeing with him.
Hmmmm... he does know many songs from his years of traveling and working on the merchant vessel. Unfortunately, not all of them are kid-friendly. Ringo wrecks his brain, picking at his mind, until a distant memory of his old cabin boys group surfaces. A dark, cool evening, sipping soup by the candlelight. A pang of heartache and regret, along Suki's mellow voice crooning across from him.
"What about… there's this song a friend taught me about his hometown. Wanna hear it?" Ringo asks Brûlée, and receives an enthusiastic raspberry from her.
"Gahwah!" Brûlée's yells.
"Okay, so-" He clears his voice. "It's like, um, this,"
"...Oh, away down south where I was born
Oh! Roll the cotton down~
Oh, I used to work from night 'til morning
Oh! Roll the cotton down~"
Still, it's awkward and stifling. There is no trust between them, him and this strange boy with his too sharp eyes and smile, the yawning chasm of wariness separating them apart.
He doesn't know if he should do something about this.
(It's not like you're staying anyway.)
.
.
In the end, he gives in to the tension and asks: "What's your name?"
Candy Boy sniffed haughtily just as he's strapping Broyé into her harness, shifting slightly to compensate for the baby's weight on him. "It's proper manners to introduce yourself first before demanding the name of someone else's, perorin~"
Alright, fair enough. Ringo shrugs. "I'm Ringo."
"Ringo," Candy Boy says, as if tasting the word in his mouth. Then he starts snickering. "Perorin- What a funny name! You don't look like a Ringo."
"...Then what kind of name do I look like?"
Candy Boy tilts his head. Then, he offers: "Momo."
"Are you naming me after a peach because I have pink hair."
"Of course not." Comes the scoff as Candy Boy turns to leave. "It's because your face looks like a butt, just like a peach."
"Wow!" Ringo calls after him, as he disappears yet again into the bushes. "Excuse you!"
(He doesn't realise until a minute later, that Candy Boy didn't answer his question.)
.
.
He doesn't find out what Candy Boy's actual name is until almost two months later.
"Dammit, Peros! So this is where you've been slinking off to."
Ringo jumps at the accusing voice. From the bushes emerges a chubby girl, an exasperated look plastered on her face. She has a head of long, dark hair, wild and wavy enough, with familiar cheekbones and sharp nose.
From the corner of his eye he sees Candy Boy tenses, then a scowl once he catches sight of the newcomer. "What- what are you doing here! I thought I said not to follow me!"
"What, and miss out watching you get eaten by alligators?" The girl snorts, tossing her hair over her shoulders when she jerks her chin towards the treeline behind her. "Tough luck, bro. It's not my fault that you didn't notice me."
"Why you- you're supposed to be responsible!"
"What, like how you've been taking Brûlée and Broyé into a jungle weekly?"
"That's different-" Candy Boy insisted.
"They're literally babies."
"-Brûlée and Broyé wouldn't sleep otherwise-"
"Ah-ah-ah, shush already," She tuts. Then she levels a look on Ringo, lips pursing, before she grins. "Hi! I'm Compote, are you the coward sibling Peros' been complaining to me over the past few weeks?"
"He is most definitely not our sibling!"
"Of course he is," Compote sticks a tongue out. "Look at his hair!"
(Goddammit. Of all days it just had to be on the day he ran out of dye.)
"Just because he has pink hair does not mean he's-"
Ringo doesn't mind the insult, to be honest, because it's precisely what he did anyways. "That's me." Ringo says, looking at Peros straight in the eye, because it's hilarious. "The coward. Nice to meet you, Compote."
Peros splutters. Brûlée giggles, and Broyé starts squirming, narrowingly missing uppercutting Ringo in the chin.
Compote immediately lights up like a Christmas tree, a spark of delight in her eyes. "You're Dango, was it?"
"Ringo, actually."
"Rin it is," Compote nods sagely. "Hey, so, turns out my dumbass brother has been hiding you for some reason, apparently, so how about you tell me what he's been up to and I'll trade you embarrassing stories?"
Ringo paused. "Five stories." He bargains, a beat later.
"Three, and I'll throw in something extra." Compote rebuts.
"...Let's hear it."
Her smile grows wider. "Wanna know about the marshmallow incident?"
Peros inhales. Ringo watches as he stalks over and plops Brûlée into his arms, rearranging his limbs so he's holding the twins properly. Once he's satisfied, Peros spins back to face Compote, and let a war-cry loose from his lips just as he launches himself at the larger girl. Both of them goes tumbling onto the floor in a mess of limbs and dirt and yelling - laughter on Compote's part and indignant oh no you don'ts from Peros.
Oh my god, Ringo thinks. I like her already.
.
.
The addition of Compote is certainly… something.
She starts tagging along with Peros on his visits. There's still some wariness in her but she talks and smiles and jokes with Ringo - a breath of fresh air from the past month. Not everything is perfect, of course: Peros still avoids talking straight to him unless necessary, still suspicious and hesitant and responding only to his sister when prompted, while Ringo mostly stays quiet, only making sounds and short answers whenever she chats with him. Their group is so off-kilter that the poor girl actually has to juggle two separate conversations by herself most of the time.
And yet it does not seem to bother her: She presses on anyway, stubborn and determined to fill the silence by herself as if she can't help it.
(This trait, Ringo finds, is like Peros. After all, how else could he describe someone who spent weeks and actually succeeding in tracking a runaway down?)
Still… it isn't that bad. He spends most of his afternoon, in amusement, watching both sibling bicker back-and-forth, while Brûlée or Broyé chews on his fingers.
("Are you guys twins?" He asks one time, out of genuine curiosity.
Compote immediately made a face. "What? No, ew, why would anyone want to be his twin? Don't wanna be as boring as he is."
"Excuse me?" Peros says, scandalised.
"Okay, you're excused.")
It's nice, talking to her - Where Peros is all cutting angles, Compote is milder, though no less witty or sharp than her brother, as demonstrated by their daily arguments. In direct contrast to the roasting, she prefers everyday conversations with Ringo instead, perfectly content in chattering away at him, non-relenting in her questions.
But still.
He notices that she does not touch people. Peros touches and pats and slaps, all the time, but Compote always keeps her hands to herself, abnormal in the way she has restricted her limbs, and glaringly obvious when she always sits right outside the bubble of his personal space, never once reaching out for Brûlée and Broyé, content to just watch.
She seems sad at times. Oddly somber. Lonely too.
(Something's wrong.)
.
.
Then the tempo changes one day.
It goes like this: It's a sunny afternoon, and he's out gathering when Compote catches up to him. "Rin!"
"Hey." Adjusting his grip on the three bundles of firewood, he shifted until the weight is resting on his hip, half-turned to the girl. "You aren't with Peros today."
"Nah," Compote said, rubbing a hand on her arm. "He's busy. So I'm alone for today. Uh, are you chopping more wood today?"
Ringo blinked but nodded. With both campfire and food-fire and the addition of his visitors, his wood stock has been dwindling a little faster than he had expected. He'll have to sit down and rethink about his supplies and schedule. It's not fun to wake up in the middle of the night to chop trees just because his fire snuffed out again.
Compote hesitated, scuffing her foot against the dirt. "Oh. Can I help?"
He nodded again. Where it be helping him with keeping an eye on the fire, recounting supplies, or scouting out locations of fruit trees, rivers and ponds, Compote had been enthusiastic with offering her assistance ever since they met. After some slight contemplation, he drops one bundle of wood into her waiting arms, and beckoned her to follow him. Together, they made their way down the small path by the treeline, one that he made this morning with markings showing him the way back to the camp.
"D'you find the bear?" She asked as she followed him. Ever since Ringo had shared tales of his exploits in the woods running from wild animals, Compote had taken to them with stars in her eyes, curiosity and delight in her questions. "Y'know, the one with the white fur?"
He sighed. "Not today. Didn't see any bears at all, to be honest."
"Maybe they're all afraid of you now," Compote laughed.
Maybe they are, Ringo mused. He had been steadily improving his strength control, to the point where he's now actually knocking the wild animals out cold instead of mauling them outright. Or perhaps he'd had scared them all off by now with the number of crushed skulls from his misplaced fists. It's been over two years since he stepped foot on land and brawled bare-handedly, after all.
They'd stopped here and there to pick mushrooms, after Compote had pointed them out and Ringo recognised the edible few.
"Hedgehog Mushrooms," Ringo said, gesturing to the cluster in his hands, after picking them from the base of a tree. "Pretty good in soup- I have some meat left from yesterday's lunch, so we can make stew later. You have a good eye there."
Compote smiled, unusually shy at his words. "Thanks." She said. "Hedgehog mushrooms is a pretty cute name. I always knew them as Sweet Tooth Shrooms."
"They are. How did you know?"
"Read about them in Chef Streusen's cookbooks," she admitted. "We don't get to see stuff like these often back at sea."
Ringo hummed. "Yeah. And what about those over there?"
"Hm? Oh, is that-" Compote scrambled over, still cradling the bundle of wood close to her chest. "Puffball mushroom! It's- I've never seen this before- it's so cute!"
"Take some. They can stop bleeding, and I could always use more supplies just in case."
"Gotcha- hey, those are Chantelles! Lucky-" She skipped over, but Ringo pulled her back.
"You're right, but Chantelles also have several poisonous cousins." He pointed at the puffballs in her hand. "Unlike these, they're hard to tell apart. So it's better if we left it alone for now."
Compote winced. "Oh. Sorry."
"It's okay. Now you know." Ringo smiled. "Better now than eating it and experiencing the effects. Trust me- I know."
"...is it that bad?"
"Didn't kill me." Ringo hummed. "But I had a whole week of diarrhea. Squatting in the bushes with your entire butt out and getting ambushed by wolves is not something I want to try again."
Compote giggles. There's a lapse of silence before she pipes up again, "What about Puffballs? How do you know if they're poisonous?"
"We cut them open. If they're fully white inside, then it's edible."
(The conversation ends here, with Compote trailing after him in a comfortable silence. Talking with her seems to help. It didn't feel like a screw-up.)
(He'd always felt better when Morgans chattered away at him, too.)
"We're back!" Compote cheers, as the trees open up to the clearing where his latest camp rests.
"Finally," He sighs. Compote steps pass him, wood clacking in her arms. "I'm getting hung-"
It is purely by coincidence that he glances downwards. A flash of color, slithering across the forest floor, a sharp glint of white as Compote's foot comes down-
"- Back!" Ringo barks, dropping everything in his hands to lunge forward. Compote flinches, tumbling back in shock- but he doesn't pay attention to that, instead he swings his foot with as much force as he can into the snake.
It connects with the side of its head with a sharp crack, sending it sailing across the air and into the bushes in the far distance.
He inhales, exhales, then turns immediately. "Are you okay?"
The sight makes him pause. Compote is stock still, hands trembling, and Ringo instinctively trails his eyes across her, lingering on her feet, searching for any injury. When there is none, he looks back up in confusion, and finds the expression of fear in her eyes.
The bundle of wood is destroyed, splintered in her arms from the force of her grip.
The result of shock, and muscle reaction. Ringo frowns, and steps forward, an arm stretching out. "Hey-"
Compote flinches. Ducks back, afraid.
Something tightens in his chest. "Hey, it's- it's okay." Ringo says, lowering his voice. He lowered his hand. "I'm sorry I scared you. Are you hurt?"
A beat, then she shakes her head.
"That's good." Relief floods him. "Can you let go of that? Your hands might be hurt."
"...You're not mad?" She said, softly. Confused.
Mad? "I'm not," Ringo asked slowly. "Why would I be angry?"
Compote hesitated. "...'cuz I broke these?"
The tight feeling coils up in his guts. He doesn't like what his thoughts are hinting to him at her answer. "...No, I'm not mad." He repeated. "It's just wood. I'm not mad because you broke some wood, Compote."
It takes bit of coaxing, but he manages to convince Compote to let go of the destroyed bundle. He left them in the bushes, instead leading Compote to the logs they usually sit on whenever they visited. He fishes out spare cloth from his pile of supplies, prepares a bowl of lukewarm water, and settle beside the quiet girl.
"...I'm gonna clean your hands, alright?" He said. "I don't want any splinters left in them. It'll hurt if we leave them alone."
Compote scuffs a foot against the ground again, something which he now recognises as she only did when she was nervous. "...Okay." She says.
So Ringo does.
He does it meticulously- first, he inspects her palms, squinting to see if there's any open wounds, then flipping them to their back before doing the same. He picks out two larger pieces, fortunately not breaking any skin, and after deeming it satisfactory, he dips her hands into the bowl of water and cloth. Slowly and gently, he massages the skin, going over every inch and making sure he misses none.
It takes him about twenty minutes, during which Compote hadn't made a single peep of sound. Once he's done, he dries her hands with a dry spare piece of cloth.
"Done." He sits back. "Keep an eye on them, though. I might have missed smaller pieces. If it hurts, let me know immediately."
Compote stays quiet. She fidgets, fingers twining between each other, shoulders tense.
"...What's wrong?" Ringo asked, concern flipping in his guts. He hadn't forgotten what she said earlier.
"...They always get mad at me when I break things," Compote blurted, after a beat. "Why aren't you mad?'
Ringo stared at her. He didn't need context to fill in the blanks- looking at Compote reminds him of the time he broke things left and right, and it's only under Yinyin's gentle guidance that he learnt how to control it. He imagines someone else taking the place of his mother, someone more impatient and angier and god forbid, violent, flaring up whenever he makes a mistake.
"...it's just wood, Compote." Ringo offered. "I can always get some more. Plus, you didn't do it on purpose, did you?"
She shook her head.
"Then there's no reason for me to be mad," He continued. "Does Peros get mad when you broke things?"
"No," She paused. "He sweeps them up and yells at me to be careful."
Ringo snorts. That sounds exactly like him.
"...Thanks." Compote says. "You're really nice. I wasn't sure if you'll get angry at me, before."
"And I won't. Do you break things often, though?"
She cringed. "Yeah. Dunno why. I try really hard not to, but it always happens."
"Accidents do happen."
They fall into silence. Compote starts fidgeting again, glancing over every few seconds. Clearly, she had something on her mind.
A single thought surfaces. He toys with it, thinking of the consequences, but perhaps it's the way Compote reminds him of himself that he ends up offering: "I can teach you, if you want."
Compotes glances up at him in confusion.
"Not to break things," He explains. "I… used to be like you, too. Like this," Here, he picks up a stray rock, and clenches his fist. A muted crack, and he opens up his palms to a fistful of powdered dust.
Compote's eyes are wide.
"Took me a while," He admits, "But it can be done. I can show you how."
"...Will you?" Compote asks, and her tone is cautious at best, thinly veiling the horribly vulnerable hope underneath.
"Only if you want to," He smiles. "Think about it."
.
.
"...Okay," She admits to him, later. "Okay. I want to learn. Teach me."
Ringo grins. "You got it, Princess."
.
.
He starts by taking her to the beach, a week after making his offer. Large rocks litter across the glistening sand, solid and hot after baking under the sun for hours. He picks one that seems suitable for a seven-year old girl, patting a hand on it before tilting to glance at the nervous girl.
"Punch this as hard as you can," He says, "The first thing I need to know is to see how strong you are. Don't hold back."
Compote shuffles forward, fidgeting. She looks at him nervously, and at his encouraging nod, throws a hand back and drives it forward into the rock as hard as she can.
It doesn't pulverize into dust like he did, but the results are just as impressive - the rock caves in, huge spider-webbed cracks blooming under her tiny fist. A beat passes before it collapses inwards, pieces raining down like hail across the sand.
Holy shit, Ringo thinks. Outwardly, he whistles, and says, "Nice."
It marks the start of their training together.
The two fell into an easy rhythm. Compote drops by four times a week - the first two, she trails after Peros and the baby twins up for their usual visits. Now, she waits by the treeline before dawn on two more random days, enthusiastic and determined, bouncing after Ringo like the world's most cheerful puppy as he leads her to the beach. She picks out several rocks as they stroll across the sand, stuffing her face with fruits they harvested on the way because Ringo refuses to let her go on an empty stomach. After a brief stretching exercise, he sets her loose onto the poor rocks.
It takes her a while before she loses the hesitation. The first couple of times Compote would look back at him almost worriedly, searching for approval and only continuing after Ringo offers a nod or a verbal encouragement.
"Don't stick your pinky out. Watch your thumb- like this!" Ringo says, walking up to her and sticking his own fist up. He throws his own punch into the second rock, and it gives way under his flesh with a thunderous crack. "Remember to lock your wrists!"
After she'd gotten her system out, Ringo lets her take a short break, offering her fresh water. Then he'd pull out the stack of rocks he picked up while she was going ham at the boulders, and show her the rock exercise the way Yinyin had all those years ago.
She drinks up every advice and tips he shares with a desperation so raw it hurts to look at her. The first lesson ends with thirty-three rocks cracked into pieces. The second ends with fifty-one. The third ends with sixty-four.
Ringo lets her borrow his old rock-rucksack.
"You'll get there." Ringo tells her. He gently cracks apart a pebble into five pieces in his palm, and with his other hand he holds up a handful of sand. "Remember what I did a week ago? If I can go from this to this, then so can you."
"Really?" She asked.
"Yeah." He says, firm. "I believe in you."
.
.
The ninth attempt ends at two hundred and one, and one final rock with cracks so deep it almost fell apart into eight pieces.
But it held. It's progress.
Compote busts into tears when he tells her that.
He makes her extra servings of snake stew afterwards, and smiles as he watches her shovel five bowls down, a sunny grin of her own shining back at him.
.
.
Peros corners them on the twelfth, eyes sharp and frowning.
"Explain to me," he hisses, glaring at Ringo. "Why has my sister been coming back looking like she's been crying."
Brûlée babbles from her strap on his chest, and it softens the image of him for a bit. Ringo smolders down the twitch at the corner of his lips and resolutely reminds himself that getting stabbed by a eight year old for this is not a good way to go.
Instead, he glances sideways. "You didn't tell him?"
Compote winced. "Sorry."
"Are you forcing her into something?" Peros takes a step forward, a snarl on his lips. "So help me- if I find out that you are-"
"No, no, Peros you dumbass- Peros!" Compote steps forward, and reaches out. She freezes for a split second, but Ringo catches the swallow of her throat before she makes contact, holding Peros back. The boy stiffens up on his end, glancing down at her hands in something akin to shock, then back up at her.
"Maybe I just want to hold Custard or Angel or Zuccotto, okay?" Compote blurts. "I don't wanna- I don't want to hurt them by accident anymore. It's why I'm doing this, I asked him to teach me, so stop yelling at him. If you wanna, yell at me instead."
Peros looks at her. Really looked, frown stretching across his lips. "Why didn't you tell me?" He said, hurt evident in his voice.
"I wanted it to be a surprise," She admits, letting her hands fall to her side and looking down. "I'm not- I'm not that good yet. I just wanted to make sure I'm good enough before I do anything stupid."
Ringo faintly feels something pang in his chest. He turns his head to the side, eyes glued to the ground. This feels intrusive, like he's an outsider to the two siblings.
"...it'll be nice to hold Brûlée and Broyé someday, y'know?" Compote says, almost wistful. Tone so out of place in a seven year old's voice. "S'not fair you get to hog all the attention."
Peros watches her. Then tched, tugging her into him. "Fine," he says, into her shoulder. "Fine," He says, turning to squint his eyes at Ringo. He takes a step back, and crosses his arms. Brûlée immediately latches onto the nearest one and bites. He doesn't pay her any attention. "But no more sneaking around. And I want in to whatever you two are up to."
Compote elbows Peros in the side, igniting an 'Oof' from the boy.
"...and sorry, I guess." He says, after a beat, looking to the side with a flush to his cheeks. "For yelling at you."
.
.
"She broke my arm once," Peros admits to him, weeks later. They're seated on the soft patch of grass by the campfire, protected by the shade of the shack behind them. In the distance, rocks shatter under Compote's fists, pieces tumbling into the sand with muted thuds.
It is by luck that they find the abandoned shack by the edge of the forest, overlooking the grassy slope down to the beach, half of it torn off like some freaky monster had gotten its claws on it. It was cold and dank inside, cobwebs of all sizes stretching among the ceiling rafters, but after some cleaning they've settled into it as their base of operations anyways, taking their break in the cool shade from the harsh sunlight.
Ringo trails his eyes at the boy's thin wrists, bouncing Broyé in his lap. "...on accident?" He offers, carefully picking his words.
Peros huffed. "Yeah. We were playing catch, and she tried to steal the ball from me. Won't stop sitting on me no matter how much I yelled."
"I can imagine."
The smile tips into a frown. "Our first nanny was a bitch. Yelled at her for hours." He plucks at the grass. "She made her sit out from playtime ever since that stupid accident, and by the time she's gone she just wasn't the same again. Nanny's stupid- she didn't do it on purpose, and I was fine in the end, anyways."
Ringo makes a noise, refrains on joking about language, listening to him quietly.
"I shouldn't have screamed."
"No. You were- shocked. Surprised." And before Peros starts arguing with him, he presses on. "Someone should had taught her in the first place. Why didn't anyone teach her?"
"...I asked. But Mama was always busy. Since she's a captain and all."
Ringo bit his tongue. He doesn't think Linlin would have done a good job about it anyways. The woman was too volatile, too impatient. Attention span switching so fast that it's impossible to predict what she'll do next. He's not sure if he likes imagining the outcome of a seven-year-old kid irritating her- a careless swat of a palm and that's it.
The thought makes him sick to the stomach.
"...you're teaching her now, though, so I guess it'll be okay."
"Mmhm," Ringo combs his hand through Broyé's growing hair, untangling the knots. At the rate Compote is going, he's pretty sure she'll grasp it soon.
Bird stew for lunch sounds good for today.
A moment of silence passed, broken only by the crackle of the roasting fire, before he hears:
"...Perospero."
Ringo pauses, and blinks at him in surprise.
Perospero huffs. "My full name." He repeats, rolling his eyes, "Is Charlotte Perospero."
(Something slots into place.)
Ringo smiles. "And you say I have a weird name."
"Hey!"
.
.
A/N:
Ha no Mon. 歯の門. An archaic formal term for the Gate of Teeth. It is the name of the Port Town in this chapter, referring to the rows of jagged black rocks that surrounds the islands, which only disappears when the tide is high.
Shanty featured here is Roll the Cotton Down, kind of a leisure song sang after all the work. Ringo's trying to cope in a way after having your crewmates killed in the span of a night.
It's been a while! Thank you for reading, and I'm especially grateful to those who left reviews. I've been stuck with this chapter for a while. My writing style has changed a bit (not as depressing anymore) and I'm not too sure if I like the current final product, but eh, I can always come back to edit it again.
Anyways, Ringo finally interacts with actual Charlotte Siblings - I really wanted to explore the characters of Perospero and Compote as the eldest of the group. Honestly at this point I find it funny that Peros is already turning out to be a worrywart slash mother-hen. Don't worry, he'll get more chill when he's older.
Ringo is 10 or almost 11 here, while Perospero is 8. I always did HC that Peros is extremely intelligent as a kid and has to mature quickly due to circumstances- him being the eldest to 17 siblings as well as having a shitty parent/maid.