Page 50 of Rears & Vices

“Recently?” the man breathed, into Everard’s left pectoral. “Yes. Right now? ’m asleep. So should you be. Some of us have responsibilities to get to in the morning.”

Everard was silent. It was a fair point.

He… didn’t, not really.

He’d worked as much as he could without stepping on anyone’s toes; ships always needed something done, and after twenty-four years of sailing, there was nothing he didn’t know how to do, even on a meregildo. But Vitaliy had said—at least implied—he keep his head down, and León hadn’t given him anything on which to focus. He had no position. No outlined duties. Nothing.

The one contribution he’d made was shave a good thirty seconds off the gun drill, and even then, it wasn’t significant; 110 guns at a firing rate of a ball every two minutes was… obliteration, in no uncertain terms, to almost every other ship upon the sea. Not to mention there was no formal gunner nor gun crew; in keeping with Vitaliy’s egalitarian policies and rotating schedules, his pirates were generally unspecialised. Rather anti–Adam Smith of him. Well, he thought, anti-Smith, except where it gave the pirates the potential to specialise themselves where they wanted, instead of being obliged to, say, haul lines for years on end…

In either case, most of them knew how to call a cadence and load powder and shot already; and anyway, they weren’t truly a warship. Everard was, on a whole, unnecessary.

“All right, sorry.” He wriggled free, ignoring D’Arcy’s soft grunt, and slid over the side, lowered himself onto the floor. He grabbed his boots and his hat and his coat. “I will let you sleep.”

As he closed the door behind him, he heard D’Arcy’s low cursing, scrabbling as he rolled himself over the wooden side of the cot. “Oh, for fuck’s… Everrr,” he groaned. “Wait⁠—”

Outside the apartment threshold, Everard bent to replace his boots. D’Arcy caught up with him, barefoot and bare-legged in a billowing shirt.

“I didn’t mean take yourself off,” he muttered, putting his forehead on the doorway. “I meant… Wait. I thought you’d something to say to me?”

“I don’t. I did. I don’t know.”

“Of course.” D’Arcy blinked sleepily, squinted one eye. “Sure you’re sober?”

Everard sighed. “Yes. It was only… Yes.”

D’Arcy waited.

“I’m sorry,” Everard blurted. “I wanted to… I feel as though I must apologise.”

D’Arcy lifted his head. His curls were spiky and wild from shared humidity and using Everard as a pillow. He looked astonished. “For what? For waking me? Or…”

Everard blew out a breath. “For—everything, I suppose.”

“Ooh.” D’Arcy held up a palm, a boy about to receive a sweet, and then wiggled his fingers. “Which encompasses...?”

Everard crossed arms over himself and glared at the hand. “Not answering your letters. To start.”

“Aha.” D’Arcy reached out to Everard’s elbow. “I like this. This is worth the getting up.” He nudged Everard closer, pulled with a single rough finger. His eyes were very dark. “Go on, what else?”

Everard took one step forward. “Not trusting you.”

D’Arcy began to back slowly into the apartment, one hand still curled beneath Everard’s left elbow through the linen; his only beckon.

The only physical beckon. There was much to be said about the state of his eyes, the deep rough of his voice.

“Mmhm. There’s a lot you don’t know, true. But keep on.”

Everard took two more steps. “I’m sorry for dragging you along here, to the Sévère. For the loss of the Brigitte.” His career, like Everard’s, gone in a single shot. “The Wanderer, too.”

D’Arcy grunted. “Acceptable losses, and neither of them your fault, mind. Especially the Wanderer. That decision you made under orders, with myself and four others to consult.”

By now they stood half-deep in the apartment, close together in near-total darkness. Everard’s breathing had begun to stutter, take thought to regulate. D’Arcy’s too.

Everard whispered, “Mostly, I’m sorry for being impulsive, with Vee. Perhaps not thinking the agreement—the matelotage quite through.” What had it got them? Any of them?

D’Arcy reached over his shoulder, pushed the door shut. He didn’t take his eyes off Everard, not once, even as the dark shuttered close around them.

“It’s your decision, Ever, and it’s done. Here we are now.” He stepped closer, breathed in Everard’s air as quickly as he let it out. “I’ll take standby. I’ll take whatever you’ll give. Just don’t go on to apologise for forgetting me, hmm?”