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Will wasn’t hiding. Really, he wasn’t.
Okay, maybe he was, just a little bit.
But could you really blame him?
If you found yourself accidentally stowed away on a ship, would you not keep yourself hidden too?
Especially if that ship , which is now bobbing in the middle of the ocean — is becoming more and more clearly inhabited by pirates?
If you had been running away from a particularly angered bar patron, who you really hadn’t meant to spill your drink on, would you not also have sprinted up the first ship's ramp you found?
And when that enraged man followed you, would you too not dive into the cargo load and shroud yourself between curved barrels?
If you heard shouting, and a loud scream as people filed onto the deck, wouldn’t you also stay exactly where you are?
Will had heard, clear as day, the sound of his attacker hitting the water. He’d heard the momentous splash, and the uproarious applause that flamed above. He’d heard the noise of the ramp being pulled aboard, and the scrape of the anchor being hauled up. Maybe at that point he should’ve worked out a plan to escape, but he didn’t have one. He had no escape route planned. And he didn’t want to end up thrashing in the sea. So the next best thing was just… hide and wait. Hide between the barrels and chests, stick to the shadows. Wait for the ship to dock at their next location and figure a way home from there.
One thing’s for certain, Will absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, let himself be found.
He can hear the crew above him, can hear heeled boots and shouting and laughter. He can hear the clanging of long swords, and the slam of something else. Something heavy. He doesn’t care to find out what that is, nor does he want to become acquainted with the business end of it. So Will holds his breath and prays to every deity he can remember, even the ones he doesn’t really believe in, just in case.
Despite the constant brimming panic in Will’s chest, he finds his eyes growing heavy. It had been late when he’d scrambled onto the ship, too afraid to properly study the flag waving atop the boat at the time. And now, hours later, the gentle rock of the waves just makes him want to sleep. It’s probably (definitely) stupid, but maybe if he sleeps now, he can be more alert in the morning. The sounds above him are beginning to quieten down too. The crew must be retreating to their respective quarters, though for a ship this size, Will imagines there’s a cabin for the captain, and the rest of the lost souls are shoved into one crowded room.
There’s a small, thin gap between the barrels and the wall, and if Will twists his body around, he can shimmy into space. He manages to wrestle his bursting satchel off his shoulders, dropping it close to his chest. He fights between keeping his knitted shawl on for warmth, and ripping it from his shoulders to fashion into a makeshift pillow for the night. In the end he settles on the cushion idea, the concept of laying his already sore head directly onto the damp wood an unpleasant one.
It takes a while to fall asleep. His spine is screaming at him, and his head is pounding, and his feet hurt so much. And he can hear someone above him, pacing back and forth restlessly. In a way, that last part is just as comforting as it is terrifying. It means someone is just as unable to sleep as him, he’s not alone. And at the same time he’s not alone. When Will finally drifts into a fitful rest, it’s to the sound of heels clicking rhythmically on the wood above his head.
Will awakes to a crash followed by a yell.
Then, all at once, the thunderous storming of shoes on the deck.
He grips hard at his chest, wrapping his fingers around his satchel with a fury. He can’t let the contents spill out, not here, not anywhere but especially not here. It takes a moment for everything to settle in, his eyes bleary, his head thick with an exhausted fog. But when the implications of banging and screaming on a pirate ship sink in, Will’s heart rate picks up and the urge to run is insane.
Where is he meant to go? What is he meant to do?
He’s going to die.
Holy shit.
He’s actually going to die. He can’t breathe, he doesn’t know what’s going on, not properly, but it can’t be good. None of this is good. In fact, all of this is awful.
He’s going to fucking die.
They’re under attack.
They’re definitely under attack.
Are they going to come down here, try to save their cargo? They almost certainly stole cargo.
And they’re going to see Will, and they’re going to kill him. Or whoever is breaching the deck is going to sink the ship, and he’s going to drown.
Either way, Will is going to die.
He’s not ready yet, he’s not ready.
He’s terrified, he’s actually terrified.
He’s gripping at his bag, the other hand scratching at his arms as he scrambles to curl into a ball, making himself as small as possible. He needs to hide.
There’s nowhere else to go.
There’s shouting above him, crashing and clanging. Someone swears, there’s a huge splash. Will presses his hands over his ears. Think clearly. Think clearly. I’m going to die. He’s going to die.
A pair of feet above him are stumbling, and then he can hear someone coming down the stairs, staggering. Oh god, oh god. Oh, God? God? If you can hear him, if literally anyone can hear him , keep him hidden, keep him safe. Don’t let him die. It can’t be his time, not yet, not now.
The door to the cargo load flies open, and through his muffled ears Will can hear someone panting, gasping for air. He hears the clang of metal hitting wood, a sword being dropped to the floor, and then a bang. Whoever it is has fallen to their knees, panting, desperately trying to catch their breath. Each breath is ragged, dragged from their chest as they groan.
Will keeps his face screwed up in total panic, but cracks an eye open.
However stupid this may be, however naive it may make him, he can’t help but feel bad. He peeks around a barrel, slipping his satchel back over his shoulder. His fingers curl around the bend of a chest, keeping himself low to the ground as he attempts to view the person gasping on the ground. They sound hurt. Will worries he may be listening to someone dying.
It’s dark down here, but there’s a strip of light creeping down the stairs, illuminating the back of the struggling man’s head. They’re gripping at their sides, or at least they seem to be. Their hands are inside of their shirt, stroking up and down, their face screwed up as they hunch over their knees. Will swallows harshly. Much like the battle still raging above his head, Will finds himself fighting his own war. Help this poor man, or stay hidden and save his own life.
He’s still debating it when the man decides for them. Scrambling at the floor, they drag themself across to a chest on Will’s left, slumping against it with a shaking exhale. Then there’s a grunt, and Will hears the squish and the pained cry that escapes from the man’s lips. His whole face contorts, body jerking as he presses down hard on his left side with his right hand. They twist their neck, thrashing a little, and make direct eye contact with Will in the corner.
Shit.
Will yelps, jumping backwards, his head cracking off the wall. Pain blooms at the top of his neck, running harsh rivers down his spine as he cradles his skull, whimpering.
He’s dead.
He’s already dead. Better say his prayers and say goodnight, because Will is completely, totally dead.
With a rush of adrenaline, the man leaps backwards, throwing themself sideways with a shout. “Oh, fuck!” They turn their head, snapping towards the door. “Holy shit!” He lunges forwards, “there’s someone down here!”
The scream falls on deaf ears, the crew too busy fighting for their lives above them.
Will, utterly consumed by panic, scratches at the ground, at his arms, at his face. “Please don’t kill me! I’m sorry! I’m really, really sorry! I didn’t mean to stow away! I’m so sorry, please don’t hurt me!” Face screwed up, he doesn’t catch the way the man slumps, movements growing sluggish as his sudden surge of life fading just as fast as it came.
“I’m so, so sorry!” Will continues, waving his hands out in front of him as best he can. There’s the chest and a barrel between them, boxing Will in. The man doesn’t seem to be in any sort of shape to attack him right now. All that comes in reply is a gurgle and a groan. Will squints, slowly opening his eyes. The hit he’d expected never comes.
The man, slouched on the floor, still gripping his left side under his shirt, has lolled his head back on his shoulders. His breath comes in shallow pants, his eyes fuzzy. He’s dressed in black breeches and sturdy black boots that come up to his knee. The collar of his slightly-dirty lemon shirt is ruffled, there’s a hat on the ground beside him. His cutlass is still half way across the room.
Will blinks once, then twice, and his eyes catch a spreading red stain on the man’s left side. Miraculously, Will finds his words dripping from his lips before he even has the chance to think them. “Oh god! You’re bleeding! Are- are you okay?” He scrambles to his feet, knocking his head off the ceiling. Great, he’ll have two big lumps now. The boat rocks unsteadily, and the man groans in agony again, curling in on himself.
“Peachy,” the man manages to reply through gritted teeth. He fumbles with his left hand, still tucked between the buttons of his shirt and his skin. As though he goes to grab his blade before realising he doesn’t have it. The words are gargled, thick with salt and sand. They grit across Will’s cheek, marring his flesh.
Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers.
They’re silent for a moment, aside from the man ,the pirates , heavy breathing, as Will considers his options. He’s left with the same plans as before. Stay put, or go outside and die. He’ll perish in that chaos, but here… well. The man doesn’t appear to be a threat at the moment.
He’s bleeding out.
Will swallows thickly. “Sit up,” he tries as lightly as he can. The man doesn’t listen. Grabbing his shawl from the floor, Will squeezes between two barrels and steps over the chest towards him. He grabs the man under the arms, who shouts in pain and thrashes in his grip, cursing him out loudly.
“Get your hands off me!” He insists, kicking his feet weakly, tossing in Will’s hands. Then he goes rigid, turning in on himself and screaming. Will flinches. This is hell, this is his own personal torture chamber. “Get away from me! Get away! Leave me to die in my dignity, fuck!” The man’s face is red with fury, and situated in the ray of light, Will can better make out his features. His eyes are hazy and unfocused, a deep brown. His hair is a tangled mess behind his head, wrestling free of its confines where it’s been tied at the base of his neck, it’s a midnight sort of black colour.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you,” Will promises, crouching at the man's side. He thrashes weakly again, but no hands come out to attack, so Will swallows thickly again. His sense of justice is burning in his stomach, flames licking up the base of his throat as he fumbles with his shawl. Why he’s helping, he can’t be sure. He just… couldn’t sit there and watch another person die. Pirate or not, ruthless criminal or not, Will isn’t so sure he could live with himself if he didn’t help.
“Get away from me you… you…” The insult dies a gruesome death on the man’s tongue, chin falling down as he sucks in another shaking breath. “If you’re going to- to sneak onto a ship, can you at the very least give the crew the honour of dying in peace?” He sounds desperate now, hand pressed firm to his side. The red continues to spread.
“Let me help you,” Will pleads. He can’t stand this. He can’t.
“What,” the man laughs, his chest heaves and he winces, “if you save me you think I’ll protect you? If you help me, I’ll cut you from throat to toe.”
Will swallows heavily, “maybe so,” he ruffles his shawl between his hands, “but I can’t let you die. Please, this is the least I can do.”
He’s in no position to fight, slumped and sore, breathing getting shallower by the second. He doesn’t give any permission, doesn’t say a word. Just draws his lips into a thin line and pulls his trembling hands out from inside his shirt.
His right hand that had been clutching at his wound emerges, covered in thick, viscous blood. It’s dribbling down his wrist, off his fingers, staining the floor beneath them, and Will sucks in a gasp.
Will wastes no time, he grabs his shawl between his teeth and rips until it’s similar to a long, grey bandage. It’s not sanitary, and it’s not medical in the slightest, but it’ll have to do. “That looks really nasty,” he murmurs, ushering the man to lean forward if he can. He goes, but only when Will presses on his upper back, with a blubbering sob. The burn does indeed continue down his chest, extending deep, jagged scars across his stomach.
He works in silence for the most part, only speaking to apologise again, for sneaking on, for the pain that pressing on his wound is causing. But pressure will stop the flow of blood. He finishes the makeshift bandaging by tying the ends of the shawl together. It’s already growing wet with blood, and the man is still gasping for breath, legs twitching in pain. His eyebrows are drawn tight, nose scrunched.
“Here,” Will digs into his satchel. He pushes his other belongings aside, his small coin purse, his quill and ink pot, alongside folded up paper to write on, his sewing kit and reaches for the crackers wrapped in paper at the bottom. He shoves them into the man's limp hand. “Eat, keep your strength up.”
The man doesn’t move. But his eyes flicker to meet Will’s own. “Why are you doing this?”
The words are limp, emotionless.
“I couldn’t watch you be in pain,” Will answers, rooting in his satchel again. There’s a folded picture at the bottom. He ignores it and tugs out his travel sewing kit. It’s just a threaded needle and a spool of loose thread wrapped once more in paper, but it might help. He’s no doctor, no surgeon — he’s just a tailor, but he wonders if he could stitch the man up. That may serve them better than a shoddy bandage job.
The man snorts, but raises his trembling arm to bite into a cracker. He’s weak, and he’s pale, and he’s in pain. Will can barely stand it. “Sure,” he huffs, coughing into his fist. “I could kill you, you know. Cut you down right here.”
“Why haven’t you?” Will asks hesitantly, watching, enamoured, as the man chews.
He gestures vaguely with his left arm, “cutlass is over there, ain’t it?” He drags in a breath, exhaling slowly through his mouth. “I’m not gonna survive this. Your effort is noted though.”
Will doesn’t say anything as the man continues to eat.
“Before I die,” his eyes trace the way Will turns his sewing materials over in his palms, “you feel like indulging me a little?” Will glances up, frightened. Maybe he’s going to ask for his sword. Maybe his indulgence is murder- “Why, pray tell, are you here?”
Will swallows. He fidgets. He shifts where he’s kneeling. “I spilled a drink and got chased,” it’s a short answer. Simple and sweet. If this man really is going to die, Will doesn’t want to bore him with the details.
Somehow, the man snorts a laugh. “Tale as old as time,” he shakes his head before bowing backwards, laying his skull on the cool wood of the chest behind him. “What was your plan then? Get out before we set sail?”
“Originally,” Will nods, “I never intended to stow away…” There’s a heavy silence in the air. All this running, all this trying, and he’s going to watch a man die anyway. “When it took off… I figured my best chance at survival was hiding until you dock again. Then I’d… find my way home.”
The man chuckles, wet and sad and tired, “we won’t dock for weeks. You’re going to die down here. Even if you aren’t found. You’ll starve.” He laughs again, like the thought is amusing to him. “Thank you for trying.”
“You’re welcome,” Will fiddles with his sewing needle as the man’s eyes drift closed. “C-can I try one more thing?”
The man nods, minutely. And Will realises. He doesn’t want to die with honour. He doesn’t want to die at all. He wants Will’s help. So Will obliges.
The stitches are done by shaking hands, but they’re tight and neat. Will uses his shawl to mop up some of the blood, and declares his sincerest sorrows over and over. With every stitch he says it again, sorry, sorry, sorry. The man twitches and flinches, but his face is schooled into a perfect neutral. The only sign of pain being his slow breathes, and the slight grit to his teeth. Will realises, defeated, that he doesn’t have anything to bandage him up with again, and he’s worried he may have sewn infection straight into the wound, but he couldn’t watch the man bleed out.
Speaking of which, said man is sitting up a tad straighter, dragging the pads of his fingers along the stitches in wonderment. His face is still drawn tight with pain, but he’s regained a bit of his breath. “Incredible,” he mutters, “you did a good job.” His eyes flick up to meet Will’s own, and the stare is intense. It’s burning. “What’s your name?”
“Will,” he answers automatically, jaw slacking and panic settling fuzzy into his bones. His whole body feels like it’s vibrating, restless and scared. The noise from above has died down significantly, and there’s a call to raise the flag again. They’re back on the move. They’ll come looking for this man soon, they’ll count the crew and realise he’s gone, and they’ll come down here and slaughter Will for sneaking aboard-
“Well, Will,” the man purrs, bracing his hands on the floor and pushing himself to his knees hastily. He’s unsteady, and the boat sways in the water. His voice is thick and delicate. Will does not relax at the sound of it. It’s akin to a predator, to a tiger, purring and cooing. Ready to devour. Will isn’t quite ready to be ravished yet. The man clears his throat, “I suppose I won’t kill you.”
Oh thank god.
Still no thank you though. But oh well, Will supposes he can deal with a lack of appreciation if it means he isn’t going to die today.
The man adjusts his blood soaked shirt, buttoning it with an efficiency Will hadn’t expected. The man must notice his staring, because he rolls his eyes and shifts on his knees again. “Do you value your life?”
What?
Of course?
Will nods. Where is this going? What is going on? His tongue is heavy in his mouth, throat swollen, he can barely breathe.
“Who doesn’t?” The man comments, then clears his throat. “I’ll make you a deal. You help me patch this gash up until we dock again, and I’ll make sure you survive to get home.”
That sounds… reasonable.
Will tells him as much. The man nods and rises to his feet, staggering and hunched.
“Excellent. I’ll keep the crew out of here as best I can. I’ll bring you leftovers from my rations. Try not to make too much noise.”
And with that he shuffles out of the cargo load, grabbing his cutlass on the way and sliding it into the band of his breeches, back up to the deck to survey the damage. He closes the door behind him as he leaves, and Will plunges into darkness.
An ally. Not a very trustworthy one, but an ally nonetheless. All Will wants is to survive, and if this man is going to help him, then Will won’t speak a word out of turn.
Will never got his name.
Will spends the rest of the next day holed up in his corner, hunched over his papers. He’d dug his quill out, set the ink pot on top of a barrel, and doodled. Little sketches of skirts that float, and hats full of feathers and life. He doesn’t want to waste all his paper in one go, he’s not sure how long he’ll be down here, and it’s going to be hard to keep himself entertained for all that time.
He flinches at every voice above him, every clack of feet, every drunken laugh. Multiple times he hides behind chests, being sure to keep himself silent. The man he’d helped doesn’t come down again until the night, and Will can only tell the general time because when the door opens, cool moonlight streaks in. He wishes he could see the sky out here, clear and bright with stars. He could draw it, maybe. He could picture designs, sashes and necklaces, buckles he could fashion with charms. He could literally hang the stars in the sky.
But the man does come back, and that’s what counts. He’s brandishing his cutlass in his hand, a couple of things tucked into the crease of his left elbow. He closes the door slightly, leaving it only a little bit open as he sneaks in. He tosses the parcel he’d been cradling on the floor by Will’s feet, and remains standing in place, still holding his blade out.
He’s frightened, Will realises.
“Thank you,” Will tries to ease the tension, creeping out of his hidey-hole to retrieve what he presumes to be his food for the night. When he unwraps it, he’s met with slightly cold fish and a lemon wedge sitting limp in a wooden bowl. Well, he doesn’t want to get scurvy, does he?
The man doesn’t flinch. He’s still got another parcel under his arm, and with a grumble and a wince, he steps forward. He steals himself just as fast. “I brought alcohol,” he announces, in a stage whisper. “For the stitches.”
Right, Will’s part of the bargain. Keep this man alive, and he won’t die. Pretty even deal. Even if Will is sort of a prisoner. Really, it’s his own fault.
“C’mere,” Will beckons, wiping his hands on his trousers. God, he prays he gets a wash at some point. Or a change of clothes. Or a chance to use the bathroom. The man creeps closer, placing the bottle on the ground as he moves to sit cross-legged in front of Will.
When he undoes his shirt, it’s sheepish and slow. Nothing like the efficiency yesterday. He seems apprehensive, frightened, almost. Will would be certain that the man is scared if not for his fed-up scowl. He presses the bottle into Will’s palm and huffs, as though this is a cumbersome, time wasting task, and not something that may prevent a premature death.
“Just get on with it,” the man declares, baring his side for Will to rub the alcohol into. He’s sure the pirates probably picked this up the other day when they docked, because the bottle is full, and the cork is really stuck in there. In the end, he has to grab his sewing needle and jam it into the cork, using that as leverage to wiggle it from the neck of the brown bottle.
He notes that the man isn’t dressed in his blood soaked shirt, which is a good start.
“This is probably going to sting, sorry,” Will prematurely apologises, the wound beneath his shirt doesn’t look great, but it doesn’t look infected either. Then again, once more, Will is no doctor. He wishes they were on land, Logan would know what to do, the town surgeon. The only surgeon Will had ever met who was actually qualified, rather than just being a barber who knew how to hack a limb or two off too.
“Whatever,” the man waves his hand through the air, but still sucks in a sharp breath when Will begins to clean his stitches.
It goes by quickly, in almost silence, only broken by the man across from him shuddering or wincing. He mutters a curse every so often, and they’re… imaginative. He curses out the sea itself, he swears up and down that he’ll slaughter the bastard that did this to him. He promises the kraken that he’ll find that motherfucker— And more obscenities that Will does his best to pay no mind to, he has a task to work on.
When they’re done, the man doesn’t leave, like Will expects him to.
“Are you thirsty?” The man asks slowly.
“One of the barrels down here has our reserve water. I can fill your bowl with some… Not the most dignified way to drink, I know,” he huffs and reaches for Will’s bowl. He stashes the fish bones in his pocket.
“I- Yes, that would be nice.” His mouth is tremendously dry. He hadn’t so much as considered water, but now that it’s been mentioned, it’s all he can think about. How insanely thirsty he is, how it feels like he’s a raisin down here.
He studies the way the man moves as he pokes around the various barrels stored down here, his easy sway, a simple elegance he carries himself with. When he walks, his feet practically glide, heeled boots clicking softly on the wood with each step. He keeps his head low, until he finds what he’s been looking for. He pries the top off and dunks Will’s bowl in, coming up with a bowl full of fresh water. He slides it across the ground and hovers.
“I’ll be going now. Refill that as much as you like,” he folds his arms, cutlass still in hand. A threat, and Will recognises it as such. “See you tomorrow for the same again.” And then he’s gone.
The next three days pass much the same. Will sleeps terribly, he draws the day away, daydreams a lot, stares into his coin purse, and cleans the man’s wounds when he comes in the evenings. Will would give anything to stretch his legs and have a proper wash. He’d found a bedpan, which had solved one of his problems at least. He doesn’t like to think about it.
The access to fresh water is nice. He can admit that. Sipping it from a bowl doesn’t bother him very much.
They don’t talk much. Will knows nothing about his ally. Not his name, his age, how he got his burns. He doesn’t know why he became a pirate. He knows nothing. Will decides his next mission is to amend that. He’s bored, okay? He’s getting really, really bored.
When the man comes down tonight, Will is already waiting for him. He’s been waiting for quite some time. Maybe it’s later than the other nights, because his eyelids are already heavy, and he’d been half-asleep against his chest when the door creaked open.
“Careful, Will. Sleeping out in the open, anyone could see you.” Comes a sultry drawl, cooing and teasing, as the man steps in. He’s not wearing his boots. His socks are silent on the wood floor.
Will snaps his eyes open, flinching violently in place, arms flying out. He grabs the scrap of paper off his lap and shoves it in his satchel. “Sorry! Sorry, I was waiting—”
“You’re like a lost puppy,” the man remarks with a chuckle. As he has every night, he drops a wood plate in front of Will, places the alcohol bottle on the ground beside it, and takes his water bowl to refill. Will appreciates the gesture. Like the man is setting up an elaborate dinner just for
“Well, can you blame me? I kind of rely on you for everything right now,” Will hums, already beginning to eat. What he’s eating, he’s not sure. But it tastes… fine. He doesn’t even care anymore. It’s food, and it’s water, and it’s safe and that’s all that matters.
Mike shrugs in silent reply, passing Will his water and sliding onto the floor. He’s regained some confidence over the past few days it seems. He must be healing well. He lets Will eat, and they complete their little cleaning ritual. And as always, Mike goes to leave.
This time, Will calls after him. “Wait—!”
Mike pauses in place, turning over his shoulder by the door. It astounds Will, for just a moment, when he realises Mike — the pirate, he has to keep reminding himself — doesn’t have his cutlass on him this time. “Yes?”
Voice trembling now, Will swallows the frog ribbiting in his throat. “I thought— well, maybe we could… talk? For a bit? It gets awfully lonely down here.”
Hesitant, Mike shifts foot to foot. He rubs his fingers together and huffs. “Alright,” there’s an air of nervousness to his voice, but he shuffles back over and slowly lowers himself to sit across from Will. “What did you want to talk about?”
So many things. So many questions, Will doesn’t even know where to start. “You guys— you’re pirates, right?”
Mike seems stunned, “yes. I thought that much was probably obvious. Though, we prefer opportunists.”
“Opportunists?” Will raises an eyebrow, sceptical.
Mike hums, “we seize an opportunity when we see it.”
“An opportunity to steal?”
“Precisely.”
Will chews on his lip. He wrings his fingers in front of him and sips his water. “Alright… why did you join?”
“Personal reasons,” Mike replies with a faked yawn. “My turn to ask you a question.”
That… only seems fair, doesn’t it? And besides, Will just wants someone to interact with so he doesn’t lose his mind from isolation. Maybe this is character building for him. Maybe.
“Who are you?”
The question stuns for a moment, not unlike being hit with a taser. Although, rather than thrashing and constricting, Will goes remarkably still. The cargo load is dark, the door closed properly. There’s still light seeping through the cracks in the wood, and the slit at the bottom, like it hadn’t been measured out properly. “I’m— I’m just Will.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “Yes, but who are you? What do you do?”
“I’m a tailor,” he answers, confused. Mike nods and mutters something about that explaining his proficiency with stitching. “What did you do before this?”
“I was a bookkeep,” Mike responds. His eyes sparkle for a moment, and Will blinks away the fog in his head. His features have softened significantly from just a short amount of polite conversation, and Will imagines it’s not something he gets to do very often.
“Do you like to read?” Will latches on like a leech to the topic, anything to keep Mike talking, keep the chat going. It’s pleasant, it’s relaxing. It makes Will feel less like a stowaway, one wrong move from death — and more like an equal. A friend, maybe. Like he’s catching up with an old pal, or making a new one. He’s good at that. He’s always been good at making friends.
Mike practically lights up, beaming. “Oh, I love it. I love to read,” he leans on his palm, other arm limp at his side. “Do you?”
“I don’t read very much,” Will confesses shyly. “It’s never been my strong suit. I was always better with my hands…” He trails off, gaze falling to Mike’s left arm, covered by a large burn.
“I could bring you some books if you’d like,” the offer is rushed, like it runs out of Mike’s mouth before he realises what he’s saying. “To keep you occupied.”
“That sounds nice.” Will smiles. And it does. It does sound nice. Something to do. Even if it’s not something he’s very good at. Maybe he can build some skills down here!
“I’ll bring you some tomorrow, the captain has a lot in his cabin. But he doesn’t read them. I’m fairly certain they came with the ship, if you know what I mean,” Mike snickers, then covers his mouth. When his hand comes away, his face is a perfect neutral once more. “Until then, I really should go. Goodnight, Will.” There comes that tone again. That strange purr. Then Mike rises, and leaves just as quickly.
And Will still doesn’t know his name.
He sticks to his promise. Mike comes back, two books in hand, the next night. They’re held in the crook of his left elbow, the right balancing a plate and a cup. There’s no alcohol this time. They’re done cleaning.
“Good evening,” Mike greets. He comes all the way over to Will before handing him his plate, rather than sliding it crudely across the ground as he has been. “I brought you Gulliver’s Travels.”
How ironic.
Will takes the plate, then the book. He looks at the empty cup. Mike goes to fill it. “What’s the other book?” Will asks slowly, poking around his food.
“It’s mine,” Mike answers quickly, and then he comes to sit by Will.
Will can’t be sure why. Most of their transactions are over. There’s no need to clean his stitches any further, apparently. There’s no reason for Mike to stick around. But he does, he folds his legs under himself, and opens his book, and doesn’t spare Will a glance as he reads.
Will follow suit, what else is there to do? His eyes are unfocused, and the words swim on the page, and his head aches, and the lack of light isn’t helping. After a minute or two of struggling, he feels the eyes staring at him, burning deep holes into his head, and glances up.
“Do…” Mike sucks in a shallow breath, his eyes squeeze closed and then “Do you want me to read it to you?”
Will reckons he would quite like that. Even if it is a tad embarrassing. “Yes, please, sorry.” Mike merely extends his hands for the book, and Will hands it over.
Mike reads slowly, carefully, pausing every few pages to ensure Will is still paying attention. It’s almost sweet in a way, the glimmer of starlight in his pupils as he turns each page, balancing the book on the end of his left arm as he does. His voice is soft, gentle and careful. Will isn’t sure if he realises he’s doing it, but Mike keeps putting on a slightly different voice every time he reads a line of dialogue. Will doesn’t mention it, he dares not break the trance the two find themselves in.
Will lets himself look. He lets his mind wander. He wonders how Mike got burned, why he left his job, how he ended up here. He wonders if Mike gets much careful company. He wonders if Mike is as sensitive as he seems in this slow moment. Will can see a glimpse of Mike’s soul as he reads, the brightness in his eyes, the curve to his lips as he smiles around his words.
They must read for an hour or so, before Mike covers his mouth with a yawn and dog-ears the page. “I really must go now, my apologies, Will,” the name pours from his mouth, sweet like wine, strong enough to give Will a buzz. “I’ll continue tomorrow, yes?”
Will nods and takes the book in his hands, fiddling with the cover. It’s flimsy, clearly well read. Mike takes the plate and bowl, leaving the cup. He gives Will that bit of dignity.
As he’s leaving, Will’s brain catches up with him. “Hey! Wh—” he cuts himself off, the furious look he receives scares him into silence. “Sorry, nevermind.”
Mike slumps against the door frame. He runs his palm over his face with a low sigh. “What is it?”
“What’s your name?”
Mike looks him up and down, then at the door, then back to Will. His voice is wavering when he speaks: “Mike.”
“Mike,” it tastes like sugar on Will’s tongue. He rolls the name around in his mouth and swallows. “That’s a nice name.” He says with a smile.
“Goodnight, Will.”
The door closes, but Will could’ve sworn he saw Mike blush.
Mike returns the next night, with food, as he always does. The door closes almost fully behind him, like usual. He places the plate gently at Will’s feet, picks up the book, and continues where they left off without another word. He’s solemn, and quiet, but his voice is smooth and bright. Will listens as he eats, smiling the whole time. He likes this.
Oh god, he likes this.
Sure, he’s stuck in the dark most of the time, and he’s running out of paper to doodle on. Yes, it kind of smells down here, and he’s alone. And yeah, this sucks. But it’s also sort of lovely. Mike isn’t as judgemental as he seems, he’s quiet and caring and he’s the only thing keeping Will safe. So sue him, he’s attached. He trusts this guy, this pirate, no matter how gullible or stupid that may make him.
They’re half-way through the next chapter when it happens.
The door swings open violently on its hinges, kicked with a fury. There’s a shadowy figure in the doorway, until suddenly they’re very much not in the doorway, and they’re charging into the room, something big, and heavy and sharp raised in their left hand. They’re screaming bloody murder, storming into the room, and Mike snaps the book closed.
“Stop!”
His exclamation cuts through the air, the word striking the new man like a thrown dagger, and he skids to slow down, knocking into Mike a little as he does. He’s panting for breath, weapon still raised over his shoulder, scraping across the ceiling. Will realises with a start that it’s a fucking morningstar, and that must be the considerably heavier weapon he’d heard connecting with whatever on one of his first days down here.
Where the hell did he even get that?
“Mike! What the fuck! Who is that! What’s going on down here!” The man points at Will, a jagged nail directly straight at his heart. “I’m gonna fucking kill him! Are you not gonna kill him? Can I kill him? Please!”
“No! You most certainly can not kill him!” Mike chastises, rising to his feet. The other man hangs his head sadly, still glaring at Will. He drops his morningstar carelessly with a groan that sounds something like ‘you never let me have any fun!’ And Will almost laughs. Almost. He’s still, mostly, scared. His food lays forgotten in front of him, the book discarded in a heap by his feet.
Mike, much like he’s disciplining a child, flicks the man’s forehead and bats him lightly around the head. “Remus,” he mutters, voice strikingly stern, “this is my friend Will.” Friend. “I’m keeping him safe down here until we dock and he can go home. And if you breathe a word of any of this to anyone, I will toss you overboard and watch the light leave your eyes in the water. Do you hear me?”
“How did he even get here?” Remus asks, though the malice has mostly dropped from his tone. He just sounds… curious.
Moonlight tumbles in through the open door, and for the first time, Will can see the stars. They cover the night sky, twinkling and glittering and shining, and he can’t look away. Everything is so peaceful. Quiet. Nothing like his home town.
“Do you hear me?” Mike repeats with a hiss, grabbing Remus by the ear, tugging him to make eye contact. Remus nods quickly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. This Remus fellow isn’t dressed too dissimilarly to Mike. Same black breeches, same high boots. Though his shirt is a dirty green, and much more tattered. Ripped in places, holes in his sleeves. Will could fix it quite easily enough, if he was given the chance.
Mike breathes out a sigh of what might be relief, releasing his hold on Remus and glancing over his shoulder, down at Will. “He’s… an accidental stowaway. And he saved my life, so you are not going to kill him. I owe him, I’m— indebted to him, okay?”
“He saved your life?” Remus jabs a rude thumb towards Will, who really doesn’t appreciate being spoken about like he’s not here. He figures that’s definitely an inside thought though, and promptly keeps it to himself. “Is he the one who sewed you up? Thought you said you did that yourself?”
“I lied. You’ve heard of lying, ain’t you?” Mike rolls his eyes so loud, Will can practically hear it.
Remus glances between the two of them for a moment. He lays a hand heavy on Mike’s shoulder and looks down at Will with a level of scepticism he can’t say he’s ever been surveyed with. Remus has a white streak in his hair, possibly sun-bleached, though it looks intentional. He’s rather well groomed. Will hadn’t expected that from pirates. His stare is intense, drilling into his skull, making frightful eye contact. Holy shit, he hasn’t blinked.
“Alright,” Remus declares, shrugging. “Any friend of Mike's is a friend of mine.” He reaches down, leaning, still not breaking eye contact, to pull his weapon from the floor. It’s menacing. “I can keep your little pet secret, sure.”
Mike relaxes considerably. “Thank you,” he breathes. Will is almost shocked. He, in all honesty, is surprised. At himself. Not even at Mike. Will is shocked that he isn’t surprised that Mike defended him. Surely, any other pirate, would toss the random stowaway aside to save their own skin. And yet…
And yet.
Remus snickers, brushes his knuckles over Mike’s face, and kisses him on both cheeks. “Anyway… don’t let me keep you from whatever you’re doin’ down here,” he winks over at Will. Christ, he came around fast, didn’t he?
Mike splutters, “we are reading—”
“Uh huh, uh huh,” Remus rolls his eyes and rolls his shoulders back.
“Enough!” Mike insists, and when he looks back at Will, his face is burning red. “Just go. Go to bed. A word of this to anyone and—”
“And you’ll cut me from throat to toe, yeah yeah,” Remus pats Mike on the head, tugs on his low ponytail as he goes. “You’re so predictable, Mike. Get a new threat.” And with that, Remus turns on his heel and retreats from the cargo load, closing the door behind him.
Will watches Mike hold his face, his hands splayed wide across his cheeks, the end of his left arm prodding at his chin. “Do you want to keep reading?” Will holds the book up in an attempt to break the tension. He can tell his own face is dusty pink from Remus’ crass words, though he chalks it up to embarrassment and nothing more. It’s not typical to hear open discussions of such acts, after all.
“Yes, that would be nice. I think.”
“Do you want to come onto the deck?”
Will snaps his eyes back open. He’d been slumped against the wall, half asleep, drifting on the soft cloud of Mike’s voice when the words had shocked him back to awareness. It’s been another week.
By Mike’s prediction, they’ll be docking in two days.
Through that time, Will has managed to weasel a little more information out of Mike. He joined the piracy to get away from life, not very specific, but an answer nonetheless. He doesn’t ever get seasick. He’s killed people before, only when they come at him first, and he’s not awfully fond of it. He’s mostly on the ship as the educated one, one of the only people here who can read, and the only one who’s proficient. He keeps them on course, he reads the maps, he writes the letters, the ransom notes and such.
The night he was wounded they’d been attacked by a navy ship. They’d lost two members of the crew. Mike likes to read, and he likes music and dancing, and he hasn’t said anything about his hand or his burns.
But then again, Will hasn’t asked.
Will has shared too, shared a lot. He’s told Mike all about his home town, the fishing trade, his tailoring business. He’s talked about Logan, his closest friend, and Virgil, his apprentice. He’s nattered endlessly about fashion, and found that Mike had some opinions of his own. He talked about his family, his mother and his father. No mention of any siblings. He talks about his childhood, his own short education, the fact that his mother taught him to sew at a young age. He rattles off endlessly about everything and nothing, and finds that Mike laps every bit of information up.
Will notices things too.
He notices how Mike tends to fiddle with the loose pieces of his hair at the front of his hairline whilst Will talks, he notices how Mike chews on his lip when he thinks. He notices that Mike rubs his fingers together as a fidget, and that he leans towards softer shirt colours when he dresses. Alongside that, he notices the twinkle in Mike’s eye, the splattered on blushes he gets himself into when Will tells a particularly horrendous joke.
He notices that Mike has a really lovely smile, and Will does everything in his power to make Mike smile as much as possible.
It’s nice. He likes this. Will thinks he’d like this a whole lot more if they were on dry land, but for now, this is nice. It’s nice. It’s nice.
Mike had brought him new clothes a few times too, which was even better.
“Wha—?” Will blinks blearily, yawning and stretching as best he can in his cramped corner. He grabs at his satchel to make sure it’s still there.
“The deck,” Mike repeats, folding over the corner of the page. They’ve finished Gulliver’s Travels by now, and have since moved onto Robinson Crusoe. All very ironic picks, Will thinks. But he’s been enjoying them. Mike just has… such a voice. Such a good voice. Easy to listen to. “Would you like to come up? It’s quite… stifled down here.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Will mumbles, glancing up to the ceiling. Just above him, through that plank of wood, the moon shines. The night sky sparkles. And the crew sleeps.
“Only if we’re careless,” Mike insists, rubbing over his knee nervously. “I just…. I feel guilty. You’ve been holed down here for so long. I feel as though I owe you a breath of fresh air. If you’re going to be on a ship, you may as well see the best parts of it.”
Will weighs his options carefully. On one hand, it sounds terrifying. Out in the open, where anyone could step out of their quarters and see a stranger hanging around on the deck. They could kill him. And on the other… It sounds wonderful. One night, under the stars, feeling the gentle waves, with Mike. And Mike would be there to keep him safe. And talk to him in that perfectly quiet whisper. It sounds marvellous.
Plus, he’d get to stretch his legs.
“Alright,” Will decides, “if we’re quiet. It would be nice to look at the sky for a bit.”
Mike smiles at him, a brief flash of teeth that has Will positively melting. Then he’s extending his hand and rising to his feet, tugging Will with him.
The deck of the ship is still, and silent. Mike pulls Will all the way to the mast, and settles up against it, patting the space next to him. Will sinks down easily, smiling. He’s smiling. He’s been thinking a lot about home, he can’t wait to go back. His friends are probably worried sick, maybe they think he’s dead.
Mike must read the panic on Will’s face, because his fingers sweep across Will’s cheek, pushing away a stray curl that curves around his ear. “Hey,” Mike says, quietly, “are you okay?”
“Peachy,” Will responds, a sick call back. Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers.
Mike huffs out a laugh, his chest shaking. He’s healed up well, breathing steady most of the time. He doesn’t show many signs of pain, and his wound hasn’t gotten infected. That’s all that matters. When they reach dry land, he should really go get it redressed and properly stitched though, if he can. His fingers retract from Will’s face, and Will finds himself chasing the touch, leaning into Mike.
He turns his gaze to the sky quickly, letting himself settle against Mike’s side. And the sky is magnificent. Swirling clouds, a bright, full moon and the best part, hundreds upon hundreds of glittering stars. The sky, a big black blanket, and those fireflies, trapped against it. Will’s mouth falls open in awe, studying the sparkles above him. He wonders if he’ll ever join them. If one day, he can leap from star to star, shooting across the atmosphere, burning up in all his glory. He wonders if anyone would wish upon him.
When Will drags his eyes away from the dark expanse above his head, he finds Mike isn’t looking up at all. Mike is looking at him.
“Can I ask you a question?” Will finds himself asking.
Mike smiles at him, all doe-eyed and bright. “Sure,” his cheeks are a dusty crimson, his chest rising and falling slowly. Peaceful. He looks peaceful. And he’s looking at Will with such wonder, as though the tailor had hung the stars in the sky himself. Just like he thought he could.
Will swallows, what was he going to ask again? “What happened?”
“I don’t follow you,” Mike raises an eyebrow, and whilst his face is still breezy, his tone takes a much more confused turn.
“The… your skin. Your hand,” Will rubs at the back of his neck, and his palm comes away sweaty. “I’m sorry if that’s intrusive, I’m just… I’m curious. Forgive me.”
Mike is quiet for a long second, and he turns away to look up at the moon. Will doesn’t pry any further. He just lets himself look. Lets himself watch the way Mike’s skin glows in the moonlight, the way he shines.
“It wasn’t cut and burnt by accident, if that’s what you’ve been wondering,” Mike explains, soft and quiet. Will blinks, and then Mike is looking at him again, hair almost silver in the moonlight. “My hand,” he continues, “I know you’ve been thinking that.”
Will glances down in shame.
“I don’t blame you.” Mike snickers a little, but it’s sad. The laugh doesn’t reach his eyes. All Will wants to do is reach out and quirk Mike’s lips up into that faint smile again, the one he seems to do mindlessly. “I was really young, and I don’t remember a lot of it. But there was a fire, and I’m the only one who made it out.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be, was a long time ago now. My hand didn’t make it, and I got burned up pretty bad on my stomach. I really shouldn’t have survived, but y’know, I pulled through,” Mike pulls at his shirt. “So, that makes at least twice I should’ve died and not. Starting to think it’s divine intervention.”
He glances at Will, eyes wet and wide, and hot. There’s a flame licking at his pupils, in turn, it sparks something in Will’s stomach, the urge to touch is stronger than ever. He wants to stroke Mike's skin, and pet his hair, and hold him close to his throat and tell him he’s wonderful.
“Are you an angel?” Mike asks softly, full of wonder and awe and something else, something rich and sweet. A bit like chocolate. Will has only had chocolate once, but Mike’s voice reminds him of it immediately.
“I don’t think so,” Will responds, just as gentle. They’re close, almost too close, and not close enough. Mike’s hands hovers right next to Will’s. Tossing his inhibitions to the wind, Will intertwines their fingers.
Mike smiles at him, there’s that smile, and nods slowly. “I suppose not,” humming quietly, he squeezes Will’s palm on his own. “Anyway,” he continues, “it was terrible, because I’m left-handed.”
Will perks up, shimmering and sparkling, “well, at least you’re all right now! HAH…..heh….um”
And Mike, gloriously beautiful Mike, snorts as he laughs. He bows his head and then knocks his shoulder against Will’s own playfully. “You’re awful, that was horrendous.”
“But you laughed!” Will does his best to keep his voice to a whisper, hiding his giggles behind his hand. He wipes his knuckles across his mouth, still fitfully spitting out quiet laughter, eyes locking onto Mike’s own.
Mike smiles with his whole face. It’s astounding to Will. He’s heard of smiles in people's eyes, he can recognise when someone is faking a grin, but never before has he seen someone beam like this. His whole face draws into it, every inch of him shiny and happy, like brand new. “I did, didn’t I?” Mike’s voice is quiet, a lick of wonder in his tone. Something sparks in Will’s stomach, too hot to ignore.
Mike’s hands are cold on his own. “I see why you ran away, I would too if I could see this every night.” Will isn’t sure if he’s talking about the stars anymore.
“Yeah, well… It’s not all shooting stars and wishes,” Mike mumbles, “I do miss some stability. I don’t think the plundering life is for me.”
Will bobs his head in agreement, moving in tandem with the waves. For a moment, he almost forgets where they are. He forgets he’s teetering on the edge of death. For a moment, one blissful second, all he cares about is being here with Mike. Floating in the middle of the ocean, glittering in the moonlight, holding his hand. “I… Guess I can see that,” breathy and distracted, Will lets his free hand move on its own accord. It comes up to cradle Mike’s face, stroking over his cheek.
Mike exhales on a shudder and keens into the touch.
And Will loses any sense of restraint, and leans over, capturing Mike’s lips on his own. The quiet, surprised gasp he receives in return almost has him pulling away but then Mike’s eyes are closing, and he’s sliding impossibly closer, looping his left arm around Will’s back as best he can. Will keeps his fingers splayed across Mike’s cheek, stroking over his skin, moving to tangle in the other’s hair. Lips part, and Will is barely breathing, living purely on Mike pressing close, and deepening their embrace.
When they part, Mike drops his cheek to Will’s shoulder, catching his breath and tucking his chin into his throat. “You’re wonderful,” Will murmurs, stroking deft fingers through Mike’s hair. It’s starting to come loose from its hastily tied back confines. He scratches at Mike’s scalp, and the man practically purrs.
Mike opens his mouth to answer, Will can feel his lips moving against his neck, when there’s a soft crunch across the other side of the ship, and the two move to sit bolt upright. Mike winces, body tensing, and he ushers Will to his feet swiftly. “Go, go,” he directs, pulling Will as he attempts to stand up, half-dragging the tailor across the deck and back into the cargo load. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Mike hesitates, watching carefully as Will hides himself again, tripping over his own feet. He tosses his satchel carelessly onto the ground and curls into his corner, shooting Mike a quick, scared smile. Mike pauses, hand around the door handle, hovering like a — not bad — good smell. He steps into the room, grabs something off the floor slyly, adjusts his shoes and runs back to the door. Will doesn’t realise he’s picked anything up.
He blows Will a kiss, and closes the door behind him.
Mike doesn’t come round the next day. Will waits for him, hiding in his corner. There’s only one day left, one more restless sleep. And he wants to spend it with Mike. Mike doesn’t come downstairs.
But Remus did.
When the door slammed open, Will knew it wasn’t Mike. He never threw the door open like he was trying to break it off the hinges. At first all he felt was fear, panic and anxiety. Please, he’d made it so far, just give him one normal night.
And then Will glanced up, and saw Remus grinning like a maniac, plate in hand.
“Hey, Scatton!” Remus announces, though it’s rather quiet. Like he’s making an effort not to be caught, like he actually wants to keep Will alive. “Bring your slop!”
“Remus?” Will questions coyly, craning around his barrel. “Where’s Mike?”
Remus cackles as he kicks the door closed behind him, more careful than he’d opened it. He slides Will a plate, beaming like a crazed man. “Course you’re askin’ bout Mike,” he snickers and plops down on the other side of the room.
He crosses his arms across his chest, rocking. Will raises an eyebrow and pokes at his food. He’s not very hungry. Robinson Crusoe sits discarded at his side. “I— what do you mean by that?”
Remus just grins at him, scratching his arm through a hole in his shirt. “Oh nothin’, nothin’ at all. Eat.”
Will does as he’s told, trying to ignore the intensity of Remus’ gaze, watching from the corner of his eye as Remus picks at the threads of his torn up shirt. Does he have any proper clothes?
Still chewing, Will raises a careful eyebrow, “I could sew your shirt for you, if you’d like?”
Remus’ smile drops, falling into a scowl. He uncrosses his arms and cants out across his knees, his face far too close to Will’s. It’s not nearly as kind as Mike’s, his nose bumping into Will’s. No, Remus knits his brows together and growls. He doesn’t use his words.
“Just figured you might— want some proper clothing. Get rid of the holes,” Will swallows hastily. His food tastes like nothing, chewed up slush in his mouth.
Remus narrows his eyes. “Alright then.”
Will averts his eyes as Remus whips his shirt off, quick as a whippet. He really does come around quickly, doesn’t he? Remus tosses the torn up shirt his way, and Will digs through his satchel. His fingers wrap around his sewing kit, and he pulls it free.
His fingers usually brush across his coin purse.
“I can’t promise it’ll be perfect, but I’ll do my best.” Will offers Remus a sheepish smile, lips barely curling. But Remus grins back, all teeth and spit.
“You’re good with your hands, ain’t yah?” Remus smirks, licking at his lips.
“I don’t think I like your implications,” Will snickers despite himself, tightening the stitches in the first sewn up hole. He continues onto the next one, ripping the thread with his teeth.
“Mike’ll like that.”
“I beg your pardon?” Will keeps his eyes on his work, not daring to look up at Remus for fear of being mocked for this obvious flush.
“Why do you think he’s not here?” Remus jeers, “told me all about your little cheeky sesh on the deck. He’s worried he’ll jump your bones if he sees you.”
“Oh goodness,” Will mumbles, stabbing his finger with his needle accidentally. He lets the blood get on Remus’ shirt, barely noticing.
“Well, not really,” Remus huffs, “but he is worried he overstepped, or whatever,” Remus’ tongue lolls out of his mouth, sounding as though he’s throwing up. “Heard you’re a grand kisser though. Feel like giving me some teeth?”
“I’m alright, thank you,” Will hums, because what else is there to say? His cheeks are positively flaming, blush burning down his chest. What else has Mike said about him? He can’t ask, lest he sound like a school boy with a crush.
[...]
The boat docks just before sunrise the next morning. Will can tell, because he’s awoken by feet hammering above his head, and the distinct sound of an anchor hitting the water. He listens for the plank being heaved onto shore, the sounds of voices growing distant as the crew charge off the boat.
He’s made it. He’s actually made it. At last, land. Where he can have a proper meal, and sort his bearings, and find a trade ship willing to take him aboard and carry him home. At last.
He actually survived.
He’s elated. He’s ecstatic. In all honesty, he’s shocked.
And somewhere beneath it all, he’s a little sad.
Will’s never been very good at goodbyes.
So when the door creaks open, slowly, he’s not prepared. Not really. In fact, he’s not paying any attention, which is dangerous. But he’s busy looking for his purse, his coin purse that doesn’t have any sort of money in it. It holds something much more precious, much more important.
“Will?”
He glances up, sprawled out on his hands and knees, clawing around the ground for his purse. For the drawing.
“Looking for something?” And there Mike is, hanging in the doorway, a folded piece of paper pinched between two fingers.
Will’s lips fall into a straight line.
“You dropped it. My apologies for snooping,” Mike steps into the room, the outlines of his body illuminated by the softly rising sun. He looks like he’s stepped straight out of a fire, a phoenix rising from the ashes. And in a way, is that not exactly what Mike is? He holds the paper out, and Will lunges to snatch it from his hand, tears welling in his eyes. “Sorry,” Mike says again, drawled.
“It—it’s fine,” Will wipes his eyes. “It’s just— it’s from my brother.”
Mike is silent for a long moment. “I see,” he adjusts the ruffled collar of his lemon shirt. There’s a slight red tint to the left side. How things come back to haunt them.
Will swallows. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. He— he’s with the navy, you see,” he clears his throat into his fist, tucking the drawing into his satchel. He doesn’t need to look at it, he can picture the brush strokes perfectly fine within his head.
Mike nods, shifting foot to foot. He holds the door open wider. “I see,” he repeats, monotone and flat. “You must miss him.”
“Everyday,” Will snorts. “I fucking hate the ocean.”
“So do I,” Mike snorts. He steps aside. Will gets the memo. He grabs Robinson Crusoe on his way out.
He rises to his feet, bag in hand, and traipses across the cargo load. His throat is dry, his legs trembling. The two exit the bottom of the ship in silence. The flag above the mast has been lowered, to avoid suspicion most likely. The deck is still and silent. Will isn’t sure where they are, but he’s sure he can get home from here, somehow. Even if it means another two week journey on the sea.
They head down the ramp, hands hanging close together, but not touching. Mike is solemn, face drawn tight, any emotion that was there a few days ago washed clean. All Will can see is salt and sand, dragging down his cheeks.
The first step onto dry land comes without a celebration. There are no trumpets, no fanfare. Just quiet serenity, and silent sadness.
“I suppose this is goodbye,” Mike exhales, rocking on the balls of his feet. He extends his hand, the other arm crossed behind his back. “It was a pleasure.”
“Thank you for keeping me safe,” Will offers, taking his hand. It feels like being zapped. It feels like nothing. Static. Despondent.
“No skin off my bones, I assure you,” Mike releases his hand. “Good luck getting home, Will.”
Will.
Mike glances over his shoulder, turns over it slightly. And he hesitates. He hesitates, and it’s all Will needs.
“Come with me.” Not a question, not a request, a statement. An offer. A plea.
Mike turns back towards him, face quivering. His eyes twitch, his brows smooth together, his lips curl downwards.
“Please?” Will offers again, feeling jittery all over. “I could use some company on my next boat ride.”
Mike smiles. He smiles, and it lights up into his eyes, his whole face creasing into the grin.
“And I think you’d like my town. It’s certainly slower than the plundering life.”
Mike reaches out, lacing their fingers together. When he steps closer, he presses his lips to Will’s hairline. “I suppose it would be nice to have someone else to admire the stars with.”
Will tilts his chin up, letting his lips brush across Mike’s cheek. A promise of more. “And we still haven’t finished Robinson Crusoe. I certainly won’t get through it alone.”
Mike squeezes his palm. “Then I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“Not even a little bit.”
The journey home is two weeks of near bliss. Mike doesn’t get seasick. Will finds he gets rather lovesick instead, actually. Which, in a way, is the same thing. The same washy feeling, the same stranded helplessness. And Mike does quite enjoy the slow life, as it happens.
They finish Robinson Crusoe, and when they reach Will’s town ,the first place he takes Mike is the bookstore. They’ve got a lot more books to read.