crown to cutlass (pirate au) || DNF

❥6 | lock

A day had passed, or at least George thought so. In the darkness of the cellar, time was impossible to measure. There was no sunlight filtering through the small cracks in the walls, no noise from the outside world except the endless creaking of the ship and the occasional footsteps above. The only source of light was a dim, flickering lantern in the corner, casting long shadows across the barrels and crates stacked around him. The faint, dancing glow made everything seem distorted, almost unreal.

George's stomach twisted painfully, the sharp hunger pangs making him feel weak and lightheaded. He hadn't eaten since he arrived, and now, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach was unbearable. His head felt heavy, his limbs sluggish and numb from sitting on the cold, damp floor for so long. No way was he going to sleep there. He refused. He had standards, even if Dream was determined to break them.

But the worst part was the exhaustion. His body ached in a way that made him want to curl up and close his eyes, but sleep refused to come. His mind was too restless, too angry, cycling through every mistake that had led him here. And every time he thought of Dream, of the smugness behind that smile mask, he felt sick all over again.

The smell in the room wasn't helping—stale air, damp wood, and something metallic that lingered in the back of his throat. It made his nausea worse, and he pressed his back against the wall, trying to steady his breathing. His clothes felt sticky, clinging to his skin, and the thought of spending another minute in this grimy, suffocating space made him want to scream.

Hours dragged by, and George felt himself fading in and out of exhaustion, his body heavy with hunger and fatigue. His thoughts were muddled, drifting between anger and hopelessness, when the soft creak of the door brought him back to reality.

A figure stepped inside, his footsteps light against the wooden floor. The lantern's dim glow revealed a young man with mousy brown hair, warm eyes, and a kind smile that immediately stood out in contrast to the grimy, harsh environment George had been trapped in. He held an apple in one hand and a canister of water in the other.

It was Karl Jacobs, Dream's crew medic. George had only seen him a few times before, and Karl was never involved in the fighting or plundering. He was always on the sidelines, tending to wounds and keeping to himself. George had always found it odd that someone like Karl could work under Dream, but there he was—a quiet presence among a sea of ruthless pirates.

Karl didn't say a word as he approached the bars of the cell. He simply sat down cross-legged on the other side, his movements slow and gentle, as though he didn't want to startle George. He stretched his arm through the bars, offering the apple and the canister of water in silence. His smile never wavered, soft and understanding, as if he knew exactly what George was feeling without the need for words.

George just stared at him, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He wasn't sure if this was a trick, another one of Dream's cruel games to test his patience or his willpower. The hunger gnawing at his insides urged him to reach for the food, but his pride—and his growing distrust of everyone on this cursed ship—held him back.

"What's the catch?" George finally muttered, his voice hoarse from the dryness in his throat. His eyes flickered between Karl and the apple, wary of any hidden motive behind this sudden act of kindness.

Karl shook his head, his expression soft but sincere. "No catch. You need to eat, and you need water. That's it." His voice was gentle, almost too kind for someone who worked among pirates. It was as if Karl didn't belong in this world, a strange, almost comforting anomaly in the madness around them.

George hesitated, his stomach growling painfully, reminding him how weak he felt. He glanced at the apple again, the fresh red skin glistening in the dim light, and his mouth watered despite himself.