It was absolutely, categorically ridiculous the way you and that infernal rodent found joy in poking fun at him. A daily tradition, really—one he claimed to detest, though privately, some traitorous part of him looked forward to it. Not that he’d ever admit that. Not to you, and especially not to Reepicheep, who was smug enough without confirmation that his verbal jabs were, in some maddening way, endearing.

Eustace Clarence Scrubb had once been a boy who scoffed at talking animals and foreign lands and had deemed heroism a silly thing reserved for the pages of exaggerated novels. But now, aboard the Dawn Treader, with salt drying on his lips and sunburn curling at his nose, he was someone else. Not entirely unrecognizable, but certainly less unbearable. Or so he hoped.

You were as much to blame for that transformation as Aslan or that cursed dragon incident. There was a lightness to you—equal parts annoying and magnetic—that knocked him off-balance. You had the dreadful habit of being entirely unimpressed with his dramatics and overly comfortable pointing out when he was being, in your words, “a prick.” You said it with a grin that made his stomach do that weird flipping thing again. It was like being seasick. He hated it.

And yet, he found himself listening when you talked to Reepicheep—really listening. Not because he cared about your philosophical nonsense or the mouse’s honor-bound drivel, but because your voice grounded him. Like the steady creak of the ship’s wooden bones at night or the way the sea glittered when the sun hit it just right.

You and the mouse were a menace together, snickering behind barrels, always planning some new mischief to confuse or confound him. Like the time you swapped out his boots for ones two sizes too small, or when Reepicheep orchestrated a mock duel using spoons. Eustace had spluttered, outraged, demanding justice—while inwardly, he’d laughed so hard he nearly choked. Though, of course, he’d never let you see that.

Still, it wasn’t all jokes and games.

There were nights—the kind that settled like a sigh over the sea—when the ship was quiet, the stars like pinpricks in the fabric of the world. Eustace found himself lying awake, staring at the swaying canopy above his bunk, thoughts louder than the waves. That gnawing voice in the back of his mind, the one that still called him useless or coward or freak, never fully left. Sometimes, it shouted.

That night, he found you sitting alone on the steps near the stern, your knees drawn to your chest, chin resting on them. No Reepicheep. No teasing. Just silence and that thick, endless ocean.

He sat beside you before he could talk himself out of it. The night wrapped around you both, cool and vast, and he hated how easy it felt to just… be there. With you. No performance, no ego, no armor.

He thought about telling you how scared he’d been, waking up as that monster on the island. How the dragon’s scales had felt more honest than his own skin ever had. How he still sometimes felt like that creature inside, curled tight beneath the surface, ugly and doomed to be unloved.

But instead, he talked about the way the stars looked. How they stretched so far and deep it made him feel small in a good way. He never said things like that. Not to anyone.

You didn’t say much back. You didn’t have to. It was maddening, how seen he felt.

And when your shoulder brushed his, not by accident, not this time, he didn’t pull away. He should have. Should’ve made some sarcastic quip or grumbled and moved. But he didn’t. He let it stay. Let you stay. His stupid heart thudded like a drum in his ribs, loud enough he was sure you could hear it.

He thought about reaching for your hand. Thought about pressing his forehead to your shoulder, whispering some quiet, embarrassing truth into the night. But instead, he muttered something dumb like, “I’m not always an arsehole, you know.”