“Some noise often is. All sounds of that like are similar, and all are quite precious when you are the one invoking them.”
“Ah.” He smiled.
“So you do not fantasize about the Bard in that fashion?” I asked with a reassuring smile.
He chuckled and flushed anew. “Nay. I cannot envision the squeaking. I cannot even envision him making the sounds I have heard the other men make. And likewise, the idea of… lying beneath him is… not repulsive to my thinking, but it is very distant from my pleasure, if you understand my meaning.”
“I do.”
He sighed. “We have all heard him bemoan… the lack of such activities in his life, and I do not know if I can offer him that.”
This all sounded very familiar to me. I wished to tell him that Gaston was the one he should discuss this with.
“Dickey, you do not know that you cannot, either.”
He shrugged. “True. I have told myself that if he were to touch me, then perhaps I would feel differently on the matter.”
“You will not know what lies in that field until you walk it,” I said.
“I do not know if he will wish for me to climb the fence,” he said sadly.
“I see that you are here now, and not in town. How much time do you spend in his presence?” I asked.
“Well, Belfry and I knew few in town, so we often paddled out to the Queen in the evenings. And sometimes the men from the Queen came ashore, and we would all go to a tavern.”
“So, it is often the Bard, the sailors, Belfry, and you?”
“Nay.” He shook his head with a small smile. “Belfry often stays in town with Mister Theodore now. He has wished to become better acquainted with the other merchants, and Mister Theodore has been happy to introduce him about.” He shrugged. “Often these days it is just the Bard and I. He is teaching me now. I was there whenever he taught Tom something on the last voyage, and so, well, I remember better than Tom does.” He grinned. “The Bard insists I sail with you this winter. He says the haberdashery is a… Well, he says a great deal about the shop. It is not thing he would do.”
I was equally amazed and amused. “Are you going to sail with us?”
“I have broached the matter with Belfry. He is reluctant to agree to my going until he knows if his bride will arrive this winter. Of course he cannot stop me. Yet, I did decide to be his partner for the endeavor, and I feel I should not abandon him. Also, he has atrocious taste in clothing, and I feel without me the enterprise may be doomed.”
I was bemused. “Dickey, you are at quite the crossroads.”
He nodded soberly. “That also weighs heavily upon my decision as to whether to tell the Bard or not. If I tell him, and he does not reject me, then it will change everything.”
“Aye.”
“He treats me like a man, Will.” Dickey chuckled ruefully. “And here I am prattling on like some maid. It is ironic, is it not?”
I considered our words from several perspectives. “Do you feel that baring your soul to him on this matter is required in order for you to sail with us as his apprentice?”
“Nay.”
“So there are two decisions facing you, not one.”
He nodded. “Yet,” he sighed. “I do not know if I can sail with him without telling him. What if he found another?”
I sighed. In order to fully grasp the situation, I needed to either speak with the Bard, or observe them together for a time. Conversely, I did not wish to meddle. I looked about. The Bard sat in the shadows across the fire, speaking with Striker and Pete. I did not see how I could speak with him without it being meddling.
“So, on the matter of your heart, you fear rejection,” I said. “Have you been drunk with him?”
“Aye.”
“To the degree where you have to hang all over one another to return home?”
“Once.” He grinned. “I do not remember much of it, though.”
“All right, I would suggest drinking with him again, just the two of you, in a tavern. You pretend to be far more intoxicated than you are. As you stagger home, you initiate some form of contact, and see how he responds. If he rebuffs you, your dignity is intact: you can claim you were drunk. It is a time-tested tactic.”
“What the Devil do I do if he responds?” he asked with alarm.
“Well, here is the true test of your commitment to the matter. Do you wish to have that problem? Once you have answered that question, find a way, drunk or sober, to ask the other.”
He was silent for a time as we watched the fire.
“How did you know, with Gaston?” he asked.
“Oh Lord,” I sighed, as I recalled our first meeting yet again. “I was smitten with him the moment I saw him, and he with me apparently. It took months to get the matter truly sorted out. We were named matelots by those around us well in advance of our actually becoming matelots, if you take my meaning.”
“Ah.”
“He does not favor men any more than you do,” I said.
“Oh, and yet.”
I shied from the truth. “He loves me.”
“Of course,” Dickey said as if I had scolded him.
“Nay, I did not mean it to sound so. Love brings greater pleasure than the flesh alone. He finds pleasure in pleasing me and in being pleased by me, even though a man would not be his choice if it were not I. Do you understand?”
Dickey smiled and nodded. “The flesh is easy to please, is it not?”
I seized on it. “Aye, it is.”
“So my flesh should truly have no issue with the matter.”
I found myself grimacing. “Aye and nay. Your manhood has its own mind at times, does it not?”
“Aye,” he sighed.
“Well, if it does not favor men in the least, it may not rush to follow your heart at first. It might require some coaxing.”
“Ah. Well, I feel it would be happy about the matter if it were the one… active, in the… endeavor.” He was flushing again. “I do not know how either of us will react in regards the other. I am very…sensitive… there…”
I saw his concern, and instinct told me he was running from the wrong boar.
I smiled. “Dickey, has it occurred to you, that quite possibly the Bard would prefer you do the bestowing? I do not know that for fact, yet… It is entirely possible. Do not assume one over the other, until you have evidence otherwise.”
His eyes had grown very big.
“Oh,” he said.
I searched my memory for every discussion I had ever held with the Bard, or mention I had heard him make. I decided there was indeed a pattern in his references.
“I feel he wishes someone to sail him,” I said, “not the other way around.”
Dickey groaned and slumped back on the sand. “Will, I do not know how to sail anyone.”
“Well, let him teach you that, too.”
He sat upright with a distraught expression. “Oh damn.”
“What?”
“He has been waiting for me to… do something. He has… Good Lord, Will, he has been making innuendos for weeks. He’s always saying I have no grasp of the wind gauge unless it’s in the sails. I have been such a fool.”
I laughed. I could envision the Bard making blatant overtures to poor besotted Dickey and having them misunderstood. I could clearly see him casting his eyes heavenward in frustration and bemusement.
Dickey stood.
“Hold. What will you do?” I asked.
“I will … um…” He glanced nervously beyond the fire, to the Bard. “I should… speak with him on the matter.”
“Aye. Give me my bottle first.”
He took another long pull before returning it. And then he was off on stiff and seemingly reluctant legs. The Bard looked up at him curiously, and then his sardonic gaze flicked to me. I could not help but grin, and the Bard’s eyes widened for a moment before he stood and led Dickey into the shadows.
As they disappeared from view, I realized all was silent ar
ound the fire, and a dozen pairs of questioning eyes were upon me. Striker made a crude gesture with the fingers of one hand thrusting into the circle of his other hand. I shrugged and laughed, and all guffawed and offered a toast to the potential new couple. I dearly hoped the Bard and Dickey were beyond the hearing of it so that Dickey did not collapse with embarrassment.
With that, I decided to take my leave. The path up the point was not long, but it was made treacherous by my somewhat wine-sodden brain and the dark. The wind was now gusting so fiercely it seemed to blow the light of my torch away along with the flame and smoke. I was pleased to spy at last the glow of my cook fire, until I realized I had not left the fire lit – and then pleased was a very pale word for my elation.
The kettle was on, and a chicken roasting on the spit, but he was not in evidence. The door was open. I tossed my torch into the fire, and hurried into our tiny abode to find him stripped and preparing to bathe. The sight drove the breath from me.
I did not take offense at his initial startled glare, or his reaching for a weapon at my sudden presence. I drank him in. He was disheveled and filthy, as he had been every time I had glimpsed him this autumn. His shortly cropped red hair was stiff and stood every which way. The Caribe-inspired mask he oft wore was a dark smudge from one temple to the next, across his emerald eyes. He had taken to shaving again, though not often, and in the candlelight, the stubble looked as if dried blood had been smeared across his jaw. As for the rest, the angle of the flickering light caught the ridges of scars encircling him, so that he appeared striped all about like a cat. Many might have thought him a horrific image. I wanted to embrace him. I held my ground, though.
“As always, I am very happy to see you,” I murmured in French.
His expression softened, and he set the pistol back upon the chest. He touched it twice more in a curious fashion, and frowned at it. Then he caught his breath and shook off whatever whimsy had taken hold of him.
“How are we?” I whispered, and closed the gap between us. I always asked, though I now expected no answer.
He regarded me with confused eyes. It was a far cry from the feral glare I had been awarded upon my arrival, yet I knew him to be in the depths of his madness still.
“I should be…” He sighed and shook his head again, regaining more of his composure. “I should not be here… yet, but the storm… I did not wish for you to worry.”
“Thank you,” I breathed.
I gingerly caressed his cheek with the back of my fingers. He did not pull away; instead he took my hand in his and kissed it. Relieved and emboldened, I stepped in to embrace him.
“Non, do not,” he said quickly.
He stepped back into the wall, and almost the tub in the narrow space. I recoiled a little at his rebuff, though I had expected it. But old fears smoldered in my heart, and his behavior when he was thus, fanned them to life.
He squeezed my hand painfully. “Will, I am filthy and infested with vermin. I would not have you itch as I do. Help me bathe and shave.”
“Of course.”
I turned away to fetch the kettle and hide my annoyance at my foolishness. He was the sanest I had seen him since August. I had no reason to offer complaint.
“I am glad you killed a chicken,” I said to fill the silence as I emptied the boiling water into the partially full tub. “I cannot remember when last I ate, and all they brought from Port Royal was rum and wine. We pulled the Queen ashore to careen.”
“I know. I watched.”
I thought of him watching us all day, and how damn lonely I had felt. Anger ignited, and quickly swirled to ash when it encountered my guilt. He had most probably been lonely, too.
“Did you feel unable to join us?” I asked.
He nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Too many people, Will. I am sorry.”
I sighed. “I imagine they are difficult for you to manage now, but they do miss you. They worry for you.”
He stood with his back to the wall and his arms crossed and the tub between us. He was thoughtful. “Do you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive.” I shrugged. “Now test this water and see if it is to your liking.”
His eyes did not leave me, and he did not move. I sighed again.
I met his gaze and did not blink. “I forgive you for whatever you feel you need me to mete out forgiveness for.”
He shook his head with the curious mixture of wonder and annoyance he often adopted when I said something he did not wish to believe about his person. It was his mien when I told him he was beautiful.
I smiled. “You are a man possessed of a most excellent character, a veritable saint, and I feel you could never intentionally do a thing unto another that would require their forgiveness.”
He snorted, and his lips finally pulled up in something akin to a smile, though it lacked the impetus of a merry heart to truly make it one.
“I love you,” I added.
“You are truly my fool,” he said, as if it troubled him. What little amusement had touched him fled. He tested the water with a toe, and found it acceptable: his foot followed.
His words troubled me. “Am I truly so very foolish?”
Sensing my change in mood, he glanced up as he lowered himself to kneel in the bath. He studied me intently. The wind gusted at such an angle that it whipped inside and guttered the candle. I hurried to close the door.
Gaston spoke with a smirk when I turned back to him. “I do not feel you could ever engage in any foolishness I would feel the need to forgive you for.”
I smiled, as much with relief as amusement. “That is good to hear.”
We made short work of bathing him. I reveled in merely being able to touch him and assure myself he was truly present. When he was as clean as we could manage, he bade me shave him. After I finished his head and face, he stood, and looked at me expectantly. I raised an eyebrow.
“That too,” he said.
I regarded his privates.
“That will itch,” I said.
“It itches now.”
I grimaced, and very carefully did as he instructed. He stared at the wall and did not do much more than twitch as I handled him. My manhood flinched in sympathy for seeing a blade so near another.
Once he was fully shorn, we rinsed him yet again. Apparently this finally left him feeling clean enough to embrace me.
I held him tightly with great relief, and found myself musing again on bravery and desperation. Was I a brave man or a desperate one to love him so?
No answer was forthcoming, and I nuzzled his neck to divert my thoughts. I assumed he would stop me soon, yet this time I did not fear reprisal if he was to do so. To my pleasure, he did not seem inclined to put me off, and his arms came up to rub the stubble of my scalp. My hands slid over him, familiarizing themselves anew with the texture of his scars and ribs. His heart and breath were slow and steady, and his lips delicate upon my ear. He smelled of soap, and the wind rattling the door smelled of rain and smoke, and burning meat.
“Food,” I muttered with annoyance.
He chuckled as I darted out to fetch our meal.
To my delight, his playfulness only increased as we ate. We giggled and gobbled with little elegance, in order to further necessitate our cleaning faces and fingers with questing tongues. Soon, I was lying on the floor, ruminating on how damn fine life was, while he licked wine from my chest. When he brought me off, I told myself I need not wait, as this surely would not be the only time I came this night.
After that, we retired to the hammock, and he sprawled across it, seemingly with not a bone in his body.
“Make it all go away,” he whispered.
I grinned, and went looking for the oil. He seemed utterly lacking in inhibition this night. My manhood was rising again as I contemplated how far he might allow me to go.
I found the oil, and turned to find him studying me with the predatory gleam of lust in his eyes. My breath caught.
“What?” I whispered.
“You are not revolting,” he whispered back.
He had never regarded me with desire before. His manhood was not fully turgid, but it was not flaccid either. I watched as he fingered it absentmindedly, while his gaze crawled over me. This was truly a heretofore unrealized benefit to him being in his madness.
I found a knife, and carefully trimmed my nails and the horny skin around them. Then I smoothed them even further on the side of my whetstone.
He watched me with his head cocked. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing I do tonight is to hurt you. Do you understand?”
He shrugged, and his look was mildly defiant.
“Gaston, nothing. If it hurts, you will tell me, oui?”
His nod was somber, but it was obvious he harbored reservations as to the necessity of my words. I ignored that for the time being, and joined him on the hammock. He took my kisses with hungry abandon. I anointed him with gentle caresses, as I had many times before. In the past, he had come to relax beneath my ministrations with happy little grunts and mewls. Tonight, he writhed and groaned.
I soon had him on his belly, and when I reached his buttocks and slid fingers into the crevasse between, he pushed up to offer me far more. I toyed with his opening, and he rocked against my hand with little thrusts.
“Oui,” he breathed, as I pressed just a little inside.
I knew I could have him, but that would be a selfish thing born of my desires. Tonight would be for him. I wanted to paint over all of his furtive attempts at dissipation, and especially that one hideous night where last he had exercised his libido. Then I wished to fill the canvas with a new and vivid memory of carnal pleasure.
“Roll over,” I urged.
“Non, take me,” he whispered.
I gently slapped his buttock. “Trust me. If you are truly surrendering to me, then do not question me. Roll over.”
He complied, and I was rewarded with the sight of his manhood in all its glory. It was lovely: short, but strong and elegant, with surprising girth. I resisted the urge to grasp it then and there.
While he gasped and squirmed, I pooled oil in the hollows of his hip bones, alongside his member. Then I lifted his rump, so that his hips were supported above the netting upon my knees. His legs found their way around my waist. I pushed them apart again, so that he was open before me.
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