Page 88 of Rears & Vices

Vitaliy gave him a serious look that told him his hunch was correct. “I use advantages as I see them, yes.”

Everard bristled. “He isn’t an advantage. Or a tool, or an… an option.” Or a standby. “He’s my— He’s a person⁠—”

“A capable person, who advantageously agreed to do what I asked.”

He thinks D’Arcy capable? Everard thought. Well, and rightly so.

“Excuse me—” Vitaliy swayed suddenly, lurching right.

“Whoa.” Everard groped for an elbow. “What the devil?”

Vitaliy pushed him away and stumbled outside the cabin, into the hold; finding a douse bucket, he knelt, and promptly vomited.

“Er.” Everard ventured out. “Were you hit beneath the belt?” he asked softly, as though this weren’t the reaction of most soldiers, coming down from a fight.

He merely hadn’t expected it from Vitaliy—for some reason—especially not so soon.

Vitaliy spat. “No.” He gagged once, shuddered, picked himself up from hands and knees, and stood with a groan. “I am fine. That has been coming awhile. I am well.”

Everard wasn’t convinced. Vitya stepped back into the San Telmo’s greatcabin and slumped into a chair, his strength seeming somehow lesser. He shook all over.

That was bad. Everard shut the door and bolted it, set down the ship’s log. “Vitya. Now I’ll ask you to tell me seriously: does the battle shock affect you so acutely as a usual circumstance?”

Vitaliy laughed harshly into his palms.

“All right.” Everard crouched and put a hand on his shoulder. “Now I’m really quite worried. We should go back to the ship⁠—”

Vitaliy hunched away. “Do not—please don’t touch…” He shuddered. “No,” he gasped, as Everard drew hastily back. “Wait. In fact do touch. But… more.”

“Er.” Everard blinked. “Surely. What might I do?” Despite his concern, he smiled. “I’m going to need it direct.”

Vitya breathed out slow, but his lips twitched in faint amusement. “Lie upon me,” he said at last. “With all of your weight. Please,” he added.

“Gladly,” Everard agreed. “Let us only return⁠—”

“No! Here.” Vitaliy stood and unbuckled his bandolier, let it slump to the floor. “Now.” He began on the blood-spotted gun belt, hands frantic.

“All right,” Everard said again. “Hang on. Let me. We can take a moment, I’m sure. She won’t sink yet—I can still hear prizing going on.”

“Perran’s mates have come over,” Vitya mumbled. “For the holes.”

“Good.”

He removed Vitaliy’s belt, the herringbone waistcoat, pulled the shirt free from breeches, and, at Vitya’s nod, tugged it off. The breeches themselves, unfortunately, had to stay. He maneuvered Vitya backward, until he was knees-back against the built-in, and threw the patchwork quilt across the mattress, praying for no fleas. Everard laid his pirate down, boots and all.

Prostrate, Vitya shuddered silently, fists tight at his side.

“Just a moment.” Everard went to double-check he’d bolted the door. He even put a chair at angles beneath the brass knob handle. If the San Telmo would sink suddenly, he’d break a window.

Then he did as he was asked. He stripped his own filthy outer layers, nudged between trembling thighs, and spread himself along Vitya’s length.

“You’re not injured anywhere?” he asked, rather belatedly, and felt Vitya shake his head beside him on the pillow.

They lay there, just breathing. Vitya’s breaths were deep and long, the big body rising and falling with an imprecise rhythm not his usual. Sometimes, the breaths hitched and held. On one of these, Vitya’s hands came up to Everard’s shoulders, his back, splaying wide, and pulled, as though he could’ve got any closer.

“I’m not the heaviest option,” Everard said apologetically.

Vitya let out the breath, trembly and unsure. “It doesn’t matter.”