Chapter Text
Skull can't even be mad after Octavio is defeated, because the food he's given afterwards is too good to complain, and there seems to be an unlimited amount of it. He's not sure what kind of restaurant this is, or if it even is one at this point, because Sheldon refused him completely when he tried to pay. Goggles and Gloves had enjoyed drinks of their own, and Vintage had eaten more noodles than Skull thought was possible. He'd acted rather serious whilst walking around and shovelling in mouthfuls, his hands making quick and elegant use of the chopsticks, but Skull had seen his wide-eyed expression and slight baby blue blush when he took the first bite. They must be some good noodles.
They eat until they can't keep going. At first, they seem to turn it into a competition, challenging the other to eat more, but soon they're both only nibbling at their last portion and taking forever to chew and swallow. They both give up at the same time, and head out of the canyon with their fellow agents. They look up, and see the zapfish is back, twisted around the battle tower where it belongs. It snuggles its way into the neon signs, and glows faintly. It's quite beautiful, and Skull and Vintage are transfixed, staring up at it.
Straining his neck a little more than his taller companion, Vintage breaks the comfortable silence. "So much for catching up over food."
"Ha, yeah…" Skull puts a hand to his stomach and winces. "I think I ate too much."
“Tch.” Vintage does his best to not look at the purple squid and scowl. Why is he not surprised? His hands are buried deep into his pockets, but there’s a rustling noise as he fiddles with the lining. Skull glances aside at his companion, and reads the intensity of his simple expression. Vintage is just looking up at Deca Tower, but every muscle seems to be in use in an attempt to hold the nonchalant look on his face. They’d spent all this time together and yet they still hadn’t talked.
Maybe some things will never change.
No, Skull refuses to allow that to happen. Just the thought of it makes him far too uncomfortable, and for a second he too finds himself also straining every muscle to not let that thought slip into reality. He has to take action immediately. He taps Vintage on the shoulder and then starts to walk off, passing the battle tower on the front side and heading towards Inkopolis Square News. Vintage’s expression relaxes into something more natural and annoyed looking as he watches Skull stare at him from halfway across the square and give him a beckoning nod up. Vintage rolls his eyes and swiftly walks up behind him, coming to a stand still just past Murch as Skull is plugging numbers into one of the vending machines positioned at the side of the tower.
The taller squid leans on the front of the machine as the metal spiral twirls with a whirr. “Grab yourself something.” A berry-red bottle clunks against the screen on its way down, and Skull crouches down to retrieve it from the bottom flap. “You’re gonna need the hydration.”
Vintage squints at him, but Skull just twists the lid off and takes a drink under his bandana, maintaining eye contact. Shaking himself out of his hesitation, Vintage inserts a few coins into the machine and plugs in the numbers for a simple bottle of water. The machine springs to life again, but Vintage isn’t as hasty to drink it, bending down slowly to grab the item and tossing it in his hands, leaving it unopened, for now.
Skull waits for him to step back over, and they begin to walk out of the square. Their steps aren’t in sync, but one never paces ahead of the other. The sun looks down on them from behind the occasional tiny passing clouds, and Skull takes another sip as they turn a corner. Vintage buries one of his hands even further into his pockets, his other hand struggling to grip the bottle as condensation forms. He moves from holding it round the top to gripping it at the cheap sticker label, and lets his arm swing naturally with the weight of it. The air around him is fresh, and the silence between them is peaceful, and Skull seems to actually know where he’s going for once. Vintage is warm under his jacket, but as they keep walking it starts to hinge on uncomfortable. His swing hesitates, and he glances at the bottle.
“You’ll have to open it eventually, you know.”
Skull’s on to him like lightning, and Vintage snaps his head round to him, eyes nakedly wide until his eyebrows sharpen, giving him something to hide behind. He tries to form words, but nothing catches in his throat. Instead, he stops in his tracks and brings the bottle up in front of him, furiously attempting to twist the lid off. Skull turns back to him, his forehead slightly crinkled upwards in surprise.
“...I didn’t say you had to open it right now.”
“I know that.” Vintage’s aggravated expression momentarily snaps up at Skull, but his height disadvantage causes the intimidation to fail, so he goes back to focusing on flailing with the bottle. His hands are wet from the condensation, and his grip fails him again, the corrugated cap rubbing his palms raw as he struggles to break the plastic seal. Between bursts of strength, he sneaks a glance at Skull, who seems almost concerned. But his worry just spurs Vintage on further, until the ball of his hand is red and his fingers ache, grooves carved into the sensitive skin.
Vintage squeezes his eyes shut and admits defeat with a huff, shoving the bottle out to the side in Skull’s direction and making it his problem. Skull tucks his own bottle under his arm and wipes his hands on his shorts before taking the bottle from Vintage and, using his shirt for leverage, opens it with a click. He twists the lid back on to make sure it doesn’t spill, and hands it back to Vintage with caution, and a curious expression. Vintage looks back and gently takes the bottle from him, carefully untwisting at the lid and succeeding in opening it. He takes a brief sip with the intention of fastening the bottle back up, but once the cold liquid hits his throat he’s drawn in, and chugs down a quarter of the bottle. The coolness contrasts with the heat of his gullet, and he can feel it as it makes its way down. It’s a strangely refreshing sensation.
“Better?”
Vintage feels his face heat up, but that gives him an idea for an excuse. “It’s warm today. That’s all.” He takes another sip for emphasis, and then puts the lid back on the bottle.
“It is warm today,” agrees Skull. The taller inkling takes a sip of his own drink, and Vintage realises he’s nearly finished the bottle. Him and his damn sweet tooth - this whole hydration thing was his idea and he still picks something sugary and fruity instead of a responsible bottle of water.
Fixing his posture, Vintage gestures with the hand that’s holding the bottle, shoving the other back into his pocket. “Is that why you made us buy drinks?”
“Partially.” The two round another corner, and a flurry of bright green enters their vision. Past the upcoming park’s decorative metal gate, round trees illuminate the route ahead, the sunlight bouncing through the leaves and leaving shimmering patterns on the grass and twisting pathways. Bushes poke through the shiny fencing, beckoning to those passing by. Shades of emerald reach out to them under mix-matched shadows of foliage, and Vintage hardly notices they’re actually going in until he’s already followed alongside Skull deep past the entrance. The realisation that the destination of their walk is nearing stands unmoving in his mind as the shade of the trees blocks the sunlight, the sweat its warmth caused to form earlier accelerating in its cooling process, and his skin freezes over.
But for once, Skull knows exactly what he’s doing. He leads them through the central path, past the families with ice creams and the children with bicycles and the couples by the flowers. More trees loom ahead, even more densely packed, like thick, green walls of life, and the path thins. There’s a small sign that reads ‘Nature Trail’, and Skull watches as Vintage hesitates in confusion. Skull’s attempts to reassure him with his eyes, soft and remorseful. Vintage responds with what he thinks is his poker face, but a hint of determination slips through. They cross the threshold together, swallowed by the overwhelming uncertainty of the life beyond it.
All is quiet beyond the entrance. Twigs and old leaves litter the old chip wood path, but Skull doesn’t care, and lets the dirt tarnish the shine of his shoes. There’s a welcoming rustle from the bushes as his presence causes a bird to spring up and feel the air in its feathers. Sensing the movement, Skull looks up at the creature, perched on a low branch and staring back, and his limited expression shows a glaze of wonder. He turns his head back to Vintage and lets his eyes smile for both of them. Vintage lets his brow relax and stands next to Skull to watch the animal in question. Its head jerks back and forth a little; its body shimmers slightly where it catches the light; its tail shakes for balance, keeping the rest of it still. Vintage breathes in, subconsciously moving forward, his mouth forming a tiny ‘O’. They hold this moment together for what feels like a picturesque length of time. Someone could take a photograph of it to print on a postcard with a sentimental caption and nothing would appear out of place.
It’s strangely natural.
Skull lets the moment flutter to an end as he steps away, giving Vintage the space to follow. Taking one last view of the bird, Vintage finds himself quickly trailing behind. The path narrows further up ahead, but the trees thin on one side, and let more sun in. Skull’s pace picks up a little as they approach it - a small bench, intricately carved raw in one piece from a log. It’s twisted and backless, supported by two thick legs buried into the dirt. One end is carved in such a way that the resemblance of a bird appears to be sat on the edge, and the other end twists round and down to the floor. Bushes and nettles guard the back, but the afternoon sun bursts in from behind and reveals the details in the trees on the opposite side of the path.
“Here,” says Skull, walking over to the bench and sitting down. He scoots over a bit to one side, and pats the spot in between him and the bird carving, placing his drink down on the twisty end of the bench. Vintage habitually rolls his eyes, but takes the seat next to him, handing his bottle to the wooden bird for safekeeping. The warmth from behind him relaxes the back of his neck, but his knee starts to bob. Skull has his legs crossed and his hands relaxed on his lap, but he’s fiddling with the green label on the bottom of his shirt, and drumming a finger on his thigh.
The silence burns between them. They’re wooden like the bench, and stuck to their spots like sweat. Skull’s brow is hot and his chest is cold and his throat is dry, his stomach twisted into one great knot. His juice bottle glares at him disappointedly, and when he sneaks a glance over at Vintage’s water bottle it only taunts him further. His lips part, but every word has already slinked out of his brain, and his tongue is bare. He thinks, hard, searching for something, anything to pass through his voice box and out into the air. Hidden under his bandana, his mouth opens and closes like a fish. He’s trying to remember how words are formed when Vintage forms one for him.
“So,” he begins. His gaze is fixated on the nothing in front of him. “Why are we here?”
Skull looks down at his hands. With a breath out, he speaks. “I wanted to talk.”
“Talk then.”
Vintage’s words are just like him - short and snappy. There’s bark behind them, and Skull can sense it coming off him in waves without even looking up. He smells the familiar scent of his bandana, and feels the texture of his hands. They’re calloused in uneven ways from his E-Litre. Their rough exterior comforts him enough to speak the truth.
“...I don’t know what to say,” he admits.
Vintage’s words are on his teeth like knives. “You could start by explaining yourself.”
Skull’s face twitches in pain. He dares to move his head and break the lack of eye contact between them. He stays there for a moment, his breaths fracturing and bumpy.
“I…”
Vintage’s nails dig into his sore hand until he can’t take it any longer, and he turns and veers into the gap between them. “Well? Why did you do it, Skull? What was your reasoning this time?”
Skull’s taken aback by the snarl on Vintage’s face, but guilt steals his lexicon. His head drops a little.
“Why would you just split the team up? Why cut us all out like that?” Vintage’s face edges on disgust, his voice straight from his chest. “We all cared about it. We all cared about you!"
Skull’s shoulders tense up as Vintage demands a response from him, fists clenched. But Skull knows he’s all out of excuses.
“I know…”
“I cared about you!” The tension in the smaller squid’s body explodes all the way down to his fingers, bursting out in small, rigid lines.
“I know you did Vintage, I-”
Vintage’s voice appears to calm down, but his head starts to shake. “We were so close and then SUDDENLY you couldn’t care less about me. Suddenly, the only thing that mattered to YOU was battle.” His gestures are sharp and purposeful. “Why?”
Skull’s worst nightmares are all being confirmed in real time, and he’s helpless to undo it.
“Because, I-”
“This rank… this stupid rank…” Vintage’s voice starts to crack as he rambles. “It’s-it’s everything to me now and that’s your fault!”
Vintage looks at him with an intensity Skull doesn’t think he’ll ever unsee. The reality of what he’s caused shakes him to his core, and he wishes he could undo it all, or at least give the boy in front of him a hug, but it's not his place to try and intervene. Not anymore.
Skull’s body pleads with him. “I know that, Vintage, but-”
“Then why?” Vintage’s face is broken, and it hurts Skull to look at him. He’s blamed himself for being useless and ignorant and he knows he was wrong. Vintage venting his frustrations confirms Skull’s every worry and lets the shorter squid finally come to terms with them, but Skull can’t keep himself repressed any longer. “Why would you-”
“Because I was scared!”
Vintage halts immediately. The adrenaline keeps his blood pumping at a rapid rate, but he’s so bewildered his face slacks and his eyes narrow in confusion. He’d just felt his rage everflowing but Skull’s exclamation knocks the momentum out of him completely.
“I valued you. When we met, I…” Skull closes his eyes and breathes deeply. That moment is burnt into his memory, and he wouldn’t remove it for the world. Vintage is watching him, his body uncomfortably relaxing into Skull’s words and gaze as the taller squid opens his eyes, gently meeting Vintage’s. “You all meant a lot to me, but... showing that was…”
Skull hesitates. His eyes dart away from Vintage, then to the space between them, then to the water bottle absentmindedly observing his confession. Vintage leans into himself, bringing his hands back to rest on his lap. His anger is waning the more he listens.
“I was scared to care. If I truly invested myself, then… then it would hurt when all that inevitably went away...” To Vintage, the lack of logic is baffling, but then he still feels attachment to his arbitrary rank, Blue Team or no Blue Team.
“But battles...” Skull’s eyes drop for a moment, but he refuses to let fear stop himself from continuing. “Tournaments, weapons, they could offer certainty.”
Vintage breaks the gap between them with his hand. He places it for support as he turns around as well as he can on the tiny bench. With glassy eyes, Skull reaches for his bandana and leans his face into the hand holding it. His eyelids are a dam as he blinks, before hooking his finger over the top of it and pulling it down, past his nose, past his chin, and to his chest, where he stalls for but a second, finally dropping the item completely.
“I knew something as good as you was bound to leave eventually.” His voice is thick with disappointment, and the bare emotion shows Vintage who he truly is. “But I can keep battling forever. So I kept you only for battles, and hoped they would make me happy.”
Reassuring words are not Vintage’s strong suit, and a Skull this open is something he’s only ever seen in childish dreams, but his last remaining bitterness can’t help but melt away at the sight in front of him, as silent as he is. It still hurts, to know what it’s like to feel uncared for and betrayed, but that feeling is overwhelmed by the knowledge that if Skull had just talked, both of their pains could have been relieved. The time they had wasted on resentment and regret could have been replaced by an even closer bond, if only they’d had more maturity.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Vintage looks up, and Skull gives him a weak smile as he speaks. “I was so scared of you leaving that…” Skull manages to hold the smile, but his eyes start to break, and he rubs at one with the ball of his hand. “...that I left you first.”
Vintage reaches out and puts his hand on Skull’s shoulder, and Skull leans into the touch. Shuffling up to him, Vintage lets Skull bring his arm around his back and pull him into a hug, and Skull rests his head on Vintage’s, the way they used to all those years ago.
“You should have told me,” Vintage whispers into Skull’s chest. His cheeks can feel the soft and worn texture of the skull bandana, and his ears can faintly hear the three intricate rhythms of Skull’s hearts.
Skull closes his eyes and runs his hand over the flat edge of Vintage’s back tentacles. It’s smooth and neatly cut, with two artistic notches that Skull starts to fiddle with. “I know I should have.”
“I cared about you so much, Skull.” Vintage’s fingers dig into Skull a little deeper, the realisation of how much he still cares washing over him once again. His head shifts as he leans more into the squid in his arms, looking at the bright wall of leaves just across the path from him. Skull turns his head to face the same way and rests it on Vintage’s.
“I know you did.”
Skull pulls his arms right around both of Vintage's shoulders and Vintage grips him back even tighter at his waist, with nothing but lost time between them, slowly unlocking. Their breaths shake in a cycling rhythm, and the world seems to pause, as if allowing them the time to catch back up with it. The atmosphere around them is patient, and even the birds seem to wait for their unspoken permission to chirp again.
“Vintage...” Skull’s voice floats through the air to Vintage’s ear, soft and gentle, and the blue squid addressed finds himself almost annoyed that his refound friend is breaking the moment. But he lets Skull shift his body, and he looks up at him, sharp red eyes meeting deep purple, fixed to each other.
“On the way here...” Skull trails off a little, glancing to the side, but Vintage spies the telltale shade of pale purple, and smiles up slightly in response. Skull looks back, and continues his thought.
“I know we’ve both already eaten a lot today, but…”
Vintage’s eyebrows drop, and his smile sinks into more of a smirk. Of course he’s thinking about food. “Are you going to ask me if I also saw the people with ice cream?”
Skull’s generic blank expression returns, but his cheeks are still slightly tinted, and he’s raised where one of his eyebrows would be. “Maybe I was actually going to ask you whether you thought the ice cream place might still be open.”
Vintage gives a “Tch,” and punctuates it with an eye roll. “You have such a one track mind.”
Skull closes his eyes and smiles. “What can I say? I have taste.” He’s snapped out of his mild smugness by a bonk to the shoulder from a half empty water bottle. He opens his eyes to a playfully unimpressed Vintage.
“Shut up Skull.”
At that, Skull grabs his own bottle and stands up. “Okay, I’m not paying for yours now.”
“What?” Vintage slides off the bench and follows behind. “I think you owe me it after all these years of dealing with the effects of younger you’s inability to communicate.”
“Ha, touché.” Skull tucks his empty bottle under his arm and reaches for the side of his bandana, leaning his head down to pull it back over his ears, when Vintage intervenes.
“Wait, stop.” Vintage is as straightforward as ever, and Skull looks at him, confused. “Leave it off.”
Skull drops his bandana momentarily, letting it rest back on his shoulders. “Why?”
Vintage looks up at his ex teammate, exposed and expressive, and breathes it all in. He thinks about how freely Skull pulled his bandana down and he feels like he could stare at his dumb pointy nose for hours.
“Because you’ll get ice cream on it.”
At that, Skull starts to walk towards the end of the trail, and Vintage is quick to follow behind. “I can just wash it.”
“I know you, you hardly ever wash that thing.” Vintage loosely tucks his hand into his windbreaker, and lets the other swing the bottle freely.
“Don’t you think I might have changed a little over the years?” Skull’s tossing his bottle as he walks, and Vintage watches as he nearly drops it.
“You might be more emotionally mature,” says Vintage, “but you’re still a complete airhead.”
“And you’re still as blunt as ever.”
Vintage squints. “Social interaction is hard.”
Skull thinks back to his failed communication, and to the awkwardness of their reunion, and about just how true that statement is, for both of them. He laughs, only briefly, but genuinely, and catches Vintage’s sweet smile in return. Time cannot keep them apart forever - it can only give them more excuses to talk.
“Tell me about it.”