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There is not a day where Alphonse does not yearn for sleep.
A dream, he thinks, is a person’s gateway to escapism. Visiting the shores of places they could not travel to. Seeing the people who no longer functioned. Reminiscing on what once was with vivid imagery. It was all nonsensical. It didn’t matter. Everyone managed to make sense out of it. But the owls never granted him that luxury. He could not dream. He could not rest.
He imagined those shores he’d never have the chance to see for years. He’s thought of the people he’d spent centuries grieving for just as vividly as the average dreamer could. Imagining, wishing, persevering—it came to him as easily as living and breathing would to anyone that wasn’t himself.
The campfire’s light finally began to die. It blazed for nearly an hour on its own, glinting against Alphonse’s rusted metal. The sky was painted near black, with stars dotting the horizon like bright pinpricks. He listened to the flames that licked the air and to the crickets that chirped for their partner.
He missed Dirk.
A sudden guilt rushed through his entirety at that. Disgust, perhaps. Age granted wisdom, but centuries could not pry shame from his childish grasp. It was a thought that came out of nowhere. Blunt as a bat. Nonsensical as a dream.
He was gone. Metaphorically, physically, the verbiage didn’t matter. Alphonse made his choice, and he would not deny that it was the correct one. So did he.
A stick lay at Otus’ side from where he tiredly stoked the fire. He slept as stiff as a board, his arms at his sides as if he lay in a coffin. The sleeping bag looked nearly orange under the dying fire.
Sleep had not been doing Otus wonders. A sickly line of gray circled his eye. His frown was deep. And where Geddy might have given a gentle nudge and friendly reassurances, there was no one. Silence, save for the screaming bugsong scattered about the isles. Geddy was gone too. Otus made his decision. Geddy made his own. Otus nestled himself further into the sleeping bag, shielding himself from the sharp winds. It forced the fire to dwindle to a tiny flame.
Twig brought an arm to his face, struggling to do the same. It was late. The moon had only just reached its peak, and yet Twig was still astir. They stared at the muddy dirt, drawing things Alphonse hadn’t the context to understand with a spiked finger. He looked bored. Distracted.
“…Much too late to still be awake, isn’t it Master Twig?” Alphonse made sure to keep his voice low, though it took much more effort than it ought to have. The littlest things. The smallest, tiniest details that he wouldn’t even consider came into play as soon as he met Otus and Geddy. His voice as a pirate was brazen. Loud. Now, speaking to Twig, he tried his best to keep Otus asleep.
Otus stirred, but he did not wake. Twig nearly jumped out of his costume.
“Uh…” Alphonse watched Twig’s eyes shift toward Otus, vaguely asleep in his corner of the world. He couldn’t help but wonder what he dreamed about. Twig gave a short huff. Perhaps he preferred Otus’ company. Alphonse certainly couldn’t blame him. “Nocturnal.”
Twig left it at that. Alphonse didn’t know if he believed it.
A short silence overcame both of them. Twig cradled two of his arms close to his chest, pretending not to shiver against the cold air. The other two lay at his side.
It was then that he remembered the fragility of living things. Twig was cold. He grabbed the log that the flame rested upon, placing it further upon the base of the fire ring. Charred wood crumbled upon his fingertips. He placed more firewood within the ring, and suddenly the fire burst from the pit, flicking at the three with devilish intensity.
Alphonse kept his hand in the fire for a moment, letting the ashen logs crumble into the burning fire in his fingers. He wondered what it was like to feel the flames upon his skin. The ash upon his fingers. He finally pulled back, dusting the scorch marks from his arm with a few pats.
“Whoa—!” Twig nearly fell from his perch, watching the bonfire lurch with life. He covered his mouth. “I mean…!” His voice dropped to a whisper. They both glanced at Otus. He turned to his side, still asleep. Alphonse might have laughed if he were able. “Whoa. That doesn’t hurt you at all?”
“I can feel nary a thing,” Alphonse said as he sat back down. He felt the groans of his old metal spine as he did so. He wondered how much time he had left.
“That’s cool.” Alphonse thought that was the end of their conversation. But Twig stared at him for a long time. He was still slouched, his arms resting on his knees. He was attentive. Another gust of wind pressed across the night. It made no difference to anyone sitting in front of the fire. Otus shifted. Twig pointed at Alphonse. “People would kill to have a body like yours, I think.”
Alphonse laughed. “I’m not sure they would!” He wasn’t even sure if he would.
Twig folded his arms. He did not seem insulted or baffled. His expression was unreadable. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t. I know I would.” Twig leaned forward, glancing at Alphonse’s scorched arm. There was an intensity behind his eyes that Alphonse did not recognize. “You can’t get hurt at all. You take hits like it's nothing—I’ve seen it! And if you do manage to get broken, you can just replace all the parts.”
“Well…” It was not so black and white. Alphonse latched onto the word Twig used. Broken. Often he would have to be reminded that he was a machine. That he was a tier below the living. He was built to serve. Nothing more.
“You’re lucky, y’know?” Alphonse watched Twig fidget with the stick near Otus’ sleeping bag. He continued to draw images within the dirt. For a moment, Alphonse thought he recognized Twig’s smile in those scribbles. “If you don’t like a part of yourself, you can change it. We don’t get to do that.”
Alphonse only hummed. He didn’t know what to say. None of it was untrue. He supposed he could change if he truly needed to. Parts were parts. Metal was metal. He glanced at his palm, cold iron rusted with age and littered with scratches from wear.
“There isn’t a single part of myself that I would change,” he answered. It was the truth. Twig blinked. And then he chuckled.
“That’s funny.”
“What’s so funny about it?”
“I just realized that we might be polar opposites.” Twig was drawing a rounded house now, smoke billowing from a frost ridden chimney. The spider he drew sat utop the house with a familiar insignia upon the thorax. Twig smiled into his hand as he leaned upon it, continuing his doodles on the wet dirt. “Not that I thought we had literally anything in common before this, mind you.”
“Maybe so.” Alphonse would smile if he could. The fire continued. “That doesn’t need to be a bad thing.”
Twig’s stick pressed further into the dirt. Alphonse almost thought it would snap from the amount of pressure Twig placed upon it. It didn’t. “I didn’t say it was!” The words rushed from his mouth. He finally looked up from his collection of drawings. “You’re cool. A lot cooler than… you’re just nicer.”
Disgust. Guilt. Whatever you want to call it. It swelled in his chest again. He wasn’t better than anyone. Not now. Not after everything.
Twig’s smile faded. He returned to his drawings and Alphonse watched him intently. He was young. Otus was younger still, but Twig held a bravado that sweltered only in waves. Only the dead of night, in front of that lonely campfire did Twig finally reveal to him his fragility. He should have noticed it sooner.
“I, uh… At least he could stomach me more than most people do. No idea how you and Otus are managing so long.” He had begun to draw Dirk. His mask plagued Alphonse’s memory, vivid like dreams. Twig quickly brushed all of his drawings away with a foot. He threw the stick off the isle’s ledge and watched it tumble toward the ground. Wherever that may lay. “And he was never mean to my face. I appreciate that he mainly kept it to himself, I guess.”
“You knew of the things he’d say?”
“Yeah. I’m dumb, sure, but I’m not that stupid. I just…” His voice trailed as he thought of the right words. Something in his shoulders tensed, most likely with the weight of affairs he was too young to understand. “I dunno. Don’t tell Otus, but it was fun. I really felt important. No, that’s not it.” He turned to the sky in thought.
Alphonse looked at the same sky. There were more stars than the day before. “…Normal.”
Twig snapped his fingers, his smile rising from the dead in an instant. “Yeah…! That’s it!” he exclaimed. Otus did not wake despite his volume. It made him wonder just how heavy of a sleeper he was. “Or at least… I could pretend that I’m me a little easier.”
They were manipulated. Eroded from the person they used to be, they both molded themselves to fit the group that might have welcomed them the most. That hated them the least. They placed their care in people who might not have deserved it.
But Twig’s family loved him. Alphonse saw that, and yet Twig insisted on his solitude. He had nowhere to fit in, but at least he had his family. Alphonse was not so fortunate.
“Why must you pretend to be anyone?” Alphonse pressed. “Why not be yourself?”
It must have been the wrong thing to say since Twig finally leaned back, giving Alphonse more space than he might have wanted.
“I am being myself,” he said simply. “Other people just don’t like who that is.”
It would be easier to be someone else. Alphonse could attest to that—he was an actor after all. He’d been pretending to be someone he wasn’t for centuries. Was abandoning comfort really worth it? Then again, Alphonse made his choice. So did Dirk.
Twig looked impossibly small as he spoke, “I know it’s stupid. But I’d wear this forever if I could.”
Something clicked for Alphonse then. He understood.
“May I impart some knowledge onto you?” Alphonse asked. He placed his hands in his lap and sat straight, giving Twig attention he might not have been used to. He watched Twig shrink at his gaze. “Wisdom comes with age, Master Twig, and I feel like a life lesson is in order.”
“Depends on how old you are, geezer. I don’t take life lessons from people any younger than thirty,” Twig said. “What are you, in your forties? Fifties?”
Alphonse gave a quiet laugh. He couldn’t imagine being so young. “I’ve lost count,” he admitted. “It must have been several hundred by now. Centuries, I do mean. It’s only now that I feel my age catching up to me.” He’s heard his metal creak at the littlest movement. He’s felt his parts rust over. However much time he had left, he’d spend it in service. As he’d always done.
“…C…Centur—!”
“And while I may hold a great many years under my belt, with age comes experience. And if I may say, you are quite young.” Twig shrugged in response, indicative of his age. “Patience, Twig, is something that's rewarded in time.”
Twig laughed. “You sound centuries old.” His smile held that sense of mischief that Alphonse was used to. There was something else there. “I know that already! Good things come to boring folks to wait, I got it—“
“But do you accept it?”
“Sure.” The conversation wasn’t intense, no. It was filled with something that Alphonse couldn’t quite pinpoint. Was he having fun? “I’m not gonna wait centuries for something to happen though. Sometimes you gotta take life and strangle it a bit for it to listen to you.”
“I—Well, I wouldn’t put it so—“
“And, shoot. Maybe one day I’ll move out of my folks’ place. I’ll get a nice house somewhere dark and scary where I can spin my webs in peace,” Twig said. Neither of them paid heed to their volume. Otus shifted in his sleep, but did not wake. “But as of right now? Today? In whatever century we’re in? I wanna do my own thing.”
Alphonse and Twig were locked in a staring match for a few moments. Alphonse surprised even himself with the laugh he gave. It nearly echoed within Tropos. Otus shifted but did not wake. It was relatability that coated their words. They understood each other. No one else would.
“What—what’s so funny?” Twig asked.
“I just realized how much we have in common!” Alphonse leaned forward, the fire finally dying a bit. The wind was not so cold. Twig’s smile was sheepish, as if Alphonse’s words were a compliment. “I admire that, Master Twig. Very much.”
“…You do?”
“Yes! Centuries mean nothing against resolve. Patience is certainly important. But I respect a man who sets himself up for success.” Twig glowed at that. His posture was straighter. His smile was genuine. Man. He respected a man. How could Alphonse not see it before? Twig found solace in him. He found refuge with the only man who attempted to understand him. Alphonse suddenly felt a very large responsibility upon his shoulders. “If not for Otus, I would have been waiting for years only to be met with destruction. I truly must thank him.”
“Otus… man, that guy is so simple. And I don’t mean stupid, he’s just…” Twig looked comfortable. His shoulders were no longer stiff. His smile did not look strained. He looked to the horizon. Mountains and towering hills floated in the distance. “I’m talking to my family, right? You were there, I mean, you obviously know what happened. The minute I’m changed, I look over and the guy is staring at his shoes! Didn’t look me in the eye the entire time we were there.” Twig gave a dry chuckle. “It would have been demeaning if it was anybody else. Seriously, I would have thrown a fit. But I sort of appreciate it, I think.”
“Otus is kind at his simplest,” Alphonse said. Twig only nodded, giving Otus a spare glance. “Perhaps we can thank him in the morning.”
“Is this a roundabout way to tell me to go to bed? ‘Cause, like I said, spiders are nocturnal.”
“Some are diurnal as well.”
“Not me.”
Alphonse so wished he could smile more than ever. Alphonse imitated a yawn and stretched. It sounded convincing. He never felt more human than sitting in front of Twig that night. “Well, I’m certainly ‘bushed’. I think I will retire for the night.”
Twig blinked. “Pirates sleep?”
“Pirates dream.”
Otus didn’t think he could sleep without Geddy by his side. But his consciousness began to dwindle as Twig and Alphonse’s voices faded into the night.