things nagi expected:
1. falling into the ocean
2. being mauled by a rogue bewear
3. starving and dying, probably

things nagi did not expect: turning around from his pile of matchsticks to get an eyeful of burnished adonis, cast in bronze and practically sparkling. he is made aware, at once, of the bedraggled state of his own appearance: fringe plastered stiff to his forehead, glasses askew, so thoroughly soaked in sweat he looks like he clawed his way up from the sea.

nagi begins bristling, on principle.

“just the better part of the morning,” he answers, tone curt. from their perch at nagi’s shoulder, sherlock makes a deliberate show of looking between nagi and the pile of matchsticks he’s lined up on the shore, and lets out a lilting hum that sounds at once both questioning and mocking. nagi huffs once, a quick exhale: traitor.

arms folded in front of him, nagi peers down the length of the shore that @symon had walked up, tipping his head in consideration. there are still divots in the sand from where nagi had been walking up and down the beach for the better part of the morning looking for sticks, convinced that he would have to eke out a week-long, meagre existence on the island in solitude. the burnished bronze statue of a man in front of him is… not a welcome sight, per se. but he is the first and only sign of human life nagi has seen since making landfall.

nagi sighs — more sympathetic than he had been before. “did you know what you were getting into when you signed up, or did they drop you off and then ditch, too?”

@symon
mission: deserted island

☉

is he serious? it looks like shit.

"... hm." like pokémon, like trainer: nagi's low hum manages to pack in both withering disbelief and bewildered amusement in a single note. a twig slides off from where it had been precariously balanced against his shelter, hitting the sand with a thud, an ironic rejoinder to the conversation.

"they duped me too, so," he says with a wry shrug. "i'm nagi.”

he reaches out for symon’s hand. hesitates, before withdrawing it. hastily attempts to wipe sand and grit off onto the fabric of his jeans, except his pants are in no better shape than his palms, and for all his desperate wiping, he only succeeds in smearing the dirt around on both. with a wince down at his mud-stained fingers, he holds his hand back out and gingerly grasps symon’s hand between his thumb and fingertips.

“this is sherlock.” he tips his head towards the litwick on his shoulder, who has abandoned their favourite pastime of heckling nagi, in favour of their second-favourite pastime of staring, unmoving and unblinking, at strangers. even as nagi shakes his shoulder to jostle the litwick, their luminous eyes remain locked onto the floating comfey.

leaving sherlock to intimidate the new arrivals into submission, nagi turns his gaze up to the sky, squinting against the glare of the sun. picturesque, perfect, postcard blue, framed by an encroaching wall of fluffy cumulus clouds, haloed by the afternoon light.

pretty. worrying. his own expression starts to cloud.

@symon
mission: deserted island

☉

it’s not my fault i lobster in the sun — not all of us have the genes needed to turn into bronze statues, nagi thinks viciously. he cups a hand over the back of his neck, where the skin has started to prickle. it stings where his fingers brush over it. he winces.

“probably.” he’s unable to keep the petulance out of his admission.

with the heartless disregard of an author used to killing his darlings, nagi kicks aside a support. like a tower of cards, his shelter collapses in on itself, into a pile of sticks only slightly more disorganised than they had been before. by his ear, sherlock is chortling.

when he turns to face the jungle, it’s with far less enthusiasm than symon; arms crossed rather than spread wide, brows furrowed and expression grave. the wide, green death-trap is no less forbidding than it had been when he first saw it — and decided that he was happier never stepping foot into it, ever. he glances over at symon, and the unbelievably beatific and childlike grin on his chiselled face, and sighs. death by bewear, here we come.

“you’re right,” he agrees at last, resigned to his grisly, grizzly fate. leaning over, he picks up as many sticks as he can fit into the crook of his elbow — they seemed dry enough for firewood, and he had already put in the labour of gathering them. “we should find shelter first, before it rains. and then… maybe sightsee later.”

a hard maybe, for nagi.

@symon
mission: deserted island

☉

"things," nagi repeats, deadpan. he’s no model, but he can bet that they definitely weren't liberally lubing up furniture with aloe during photoshoots. (and if they were... maybe he’s better off not knowing why.)

muscles. he's definitely talking about his muscles.

symon is right again, though. he could have been alone, stabbing sticks into the ground until a storm blew him into the sea. for all his burnished, unburnable skin and aloe’d-up muscles, symon hadn't done anything to insult nagi on purpose. as far as nagi could tell from their short few minutes of acquaintance, he isn't sure if the other man is even capable of such calculated malice.

he takes a breath, and wills his spines down.

"i can handle myself, but... thanks." his ten-second-long attempt at meditation can't bleed all the spikes from his voice, but it's softened now, tinged with a hint of sheepishness.

as symon forges a path through the jungle, a picture-perfect model of chivalry, nagi picks his way carefully through the trail symon has opened for him. in the absence of anything meaningful to do, he overthinks with every step. we need to find freshwater — something to catch the rain? — and food? — what if he slips on a rock, do i catch him i’ll die but i can’t just let him break his neck —

“they told me it was a retreat,” he says, tone distracted as he tries to peer through the undergrowth past symon to catch a pre-emptive glimpse of any fatal slip hazards in his path. “i was too short-sighted to read the small print.”

his wandering eyes slide over, and then catch with a start on a faint imprint, barely visible in the gnarl of roots and dead leaves. his hand shoots out to wrap partway around symon's (oh, hm, wow, big) bicep.

"look — there. are those tracks?"

@symon

☉

“they shouldn't be doing it to anyone.” even people built like brick shithouses don’t deserve to be swindled into a week-long trip to tropical hell — or so he thinks, until he feels the ripple of symon’s biceps flexing into his hand.

nagi takes a shallow breath. holds it. exhales. waving away his second, third and fourth thoughts of just turning around and casting himself into mercy of the ocean waves, nagi ducks under a low-hanging branch, squatting beside symon to get a closer look at the imprint in the mud.

unfortunately for symon, nagi is both not an outdoorsman, and also an idiot.

what he does have, at least, is the faintest, vaguest memory of reading about this somewhere, too much fragile pride to say i don’t know, and enough spite and stubbornness to power a small village. “it’s…” not a bewear track. i can’t say that. that’s stupid. he squints down at the track, willing his synapses to connect. “it leads further into the jungle. if we follow it, it could lead towards a water source. or shelter.”

he turns to look up at symon, in case the other man has a different opinion — and stops short, when he sees the dark-coloured smear against symon's skin. it’s obviously not sweat; nagi stares at the contours of symon’s deltoid, until he can make out the colour of the stain.

“...you’re hurt?”

@symon

☉

“right, a resort. and maybe they’ll have those drinks with the little umbrellas in them.”

nagi considers, for a split-second, refusing symon's offered helping hand, and then feels immediately guilty about his reflexive scorn. he's being nice. nicer than you deserve, butthead, a voice on his shoulder seems to say; sherlock's eyes, from their perch, are alight with knowing.

with a muttered thanks, nagi lets symon pull him up to his feet. standing up, the cut across symon's arm is close to eye-level. he gives it another prolonged, doubtful look, even as symon turns and forges ahead into the great, green beyond. it is a small cut, sure. just a nick on symon’s larger frame, but —

did he get it while pushing away the branches? another spike of guilt prickles at the back of his head.

"wait."

he reaches out again to tug at symon's elbow — quickly, this time, to avert any flexing — and starts rooting about his bag, loose paper and scattered pens rattling about as he searches. his hands emerge with one half-filled plastic bottle of clear water, and a boxful of happiny-print discount-sale plasters.

"you should still clean it, or it'll get infected." he holds both items out towards symon.

@symon

☉