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Accismus: (n.) feigning disinterest in something while actually desiring it.
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It’s a dance they’ve done for years now. If pressed to say when it had started, Leon might offer a memory of them - perhaps twelve years old - sitting with their feet in the sand and sharing some bread that he’d stolen from the local baker earlier that morning while Baltazar had caused a commotion outside of the shop. They’d sat side by side and devoured their prize not as friends, but as necessary partners. It’s always gone like this: they work together for a common goal, enjoy the spoils, and go on pretending that there’s no love between them.
“It’s a matter o’ survival, Leon,” Baltazar had told him on the day they’d joined up with their first crew, intent on making a living out at sea. “We’ll watch each other’s backs. Make sure we both get back to shore in one piece.”
Not friends, then. Not sticking together out of any want to keep from parting. It was a practical thing then, hanging their hammocks side by side, sharing a table in the mess hall, challenging each other to hone their skills in line-laying or climbing the shrouds or bailing bucketfuls of water when the old ship started to leak later on in the season. And when Leon had fallen and snapped his wrist, Baltazar had only sat with him in the sickbay to make sure he was fine to do his duties come morning, lest they anger the captain.
Three summers they’d spent together, outdoing one another hand over fist in some attempt to prove who deserved promoting, who deserved a better cut of the pay. And on their fourth year, mutiny taught them that honesty was not going to line their pockets or keep them well-fed. In the scuffle, they’d proven themselves worthy of those promotions they’d fought for, and found themselves left and right-hand men to their new captain at the tender age of fifteen. Leon had cleaned and bandaged a gunshot wound Baltazar had suffered in the fight, the two of them tucked away in a cabin that was theirs to share. It had been just a graze, really, just enough to bleed - but he’d done it because it’d do them no good to lose the captain’s new lieutenant to infection.
When they shared a bed during the months that they’d sailed north, it was because Leon’s own bunk, pressed up against the hull of the ship, was frigid during the winter and Baltazar had complained about how loudly his teeth were chattering. Besides, two thick wool blankets and the shared body heat had been of benefit to both of them. Leon never would have uttered an admission that he slept better curled up at Baltazar’s side in that tiny bunk than he ever had in his own.
Good fortune had smiled upon them then. Two years had passed in a whirlwind as they’d traveled the world over, learning with each port they docked at that riches beyond their wildest dreams were theirs to take, if they so pleased. They also had come to learn that loyalty was a fickle thing. Their captain was a liar, and a greedy one at that. Two years of service found them staring down a cave full of gold, enough for any man to live comfortably for the rest of his days, none of which would be theirs if their supposed captain had his way. The decision had been an easy one to make, and as Leon used the heel of his boot to nudge the man’s mangled body into the river running through the cave, their fate had been sealed.
He hadn’t known then what that treasure would mean for either of them, as he’d watched Baltazar grab fistfuls of coins and fill his pockets with them. Growing up as poor as they had, it was difficult to fathom what it would mean to be rich. Some foolish part of him had thought that maybe, they’d continue to sail together, their treasure stash safely tucked away for the future. That they’d return and overtake the ship and claim that they’d found nothing in that cave. That the captain had drowned, the poor sod, and that they were in charge now. And that was how it had gone, until they’d reached the next port, just a few short weeks later.
“We can’t both be captain,” Baltazar had scoffed, as if Leon had suggested that their ship might sprout wings and begin to fly. “The men won’t respect the both of us. It’s you or me. And we both know who’s cut out for the job.”
“You’ve lost your bloody mind if you think I’m gonna let you take over,” he’d snarled, vicious in his retort because it ached in his chest to think that there was no loyalty in this world that would run deep enough to salvage the wreck that they were headed toward.
He’d slept in his own bunk that night, his nose plugged up with cotton to stop the bleeding. He hoped, bitterly, as he’d fallen asleep, that Baltazar’s jaw hurt just as much as his fist did. That the captain’s bed was lonely and empty and cold.
Two weeks later, while Baltazar’s crew swarmed another town and drank themselves stupid, while his once-partner bragged about the riches this town would bring, Leon had found himself a ship of his own. The barque, only a few years into its service, was docked just down the shore, and his share of their riches more than covered the cost of it. What was left had paid for provisions, and in the weeks to come, would buy him a crew. The cost didn’t matter. He’d recoup it in a few months’ time. What had mattered was the look on Baltazar’s face when he’d resigned that very night, packed his belongings and bid his farewells.
If he’d slept at the inn that night, alone in his bed and miserable, that was his own business and no one else’s. It had been just another step to their dance, after all, one they were both well-versed in by then.
And so it had continued for some months. Their paths crossed on a handful of occasions; one would dock before the other, drain the town dry, while the other looked on. Safe passage was given out of courtesy, an unspoken code, not out of any kindness of either of their hearts. From across the water, sometimes, Leon would catch Baltazar looking his way, and every time, his stomach would turn and he would have to look away. Curse the bastard. Curse him and his crew and his inability to see it when they’d had a good thing going.
Curse him for not thinking of this as anything more than a partnership, something mutually beneficial but impersonal. Curse him for not missing the nights they’d slept together in that tiny bunk in northern waters.
Curse the fact that Leon can no longer recall what his soap smells like or remember the sound of his snores.
***
The order tonight is clear: they’re stopping for supplies and drinks and will cast off again at sunrise. No chaos. No plundering. Everyone on their best behavior. No one dares to argue with the Sea Serpent himself.
It’s been one miserable year since the day that Leon had turned his back on Baltazar, one year of a fierce and bitter rivalry between them where their competitions had once been light-hearted and playful. He sits at the tavern, alone at the table in the furthest corner, two empty pint glasses shoved to one side of the table and his third well underway. He’s just about to lift the mug and down the rest of it when some lovely young thing makes her way over to the table - one of the tavern’s dancers, resplendent in silk and lace, and with absolutely no sense in her head, evidently.
“You look lonely, sir,” she says, leaning up against the table and just slightly in his direction. Her shirt dipping down and leaving very little to the imagination. Anyone else might have been enticed by such an act. “I can keep you company if you’d like.”
She’s pretty enough, dark hair down to her shoulders, her honeyed eyes sparkling with mischief as she looks him over. There’s a half-second of consideration - he got a room upstairs, could show her a good time, get his mind to quiet long enough to sleep tonight, perhaps - but then she reaches for him, touches his cheek, and his hand snaps up to grab hers in an instant.
“Ye’d best look elsewhere, lass,” he mutters, releasing her wrist, not at all surprised when she scutters away; he had been gentle, of course, for she’s not deserving of his wrath, but he’s glad all the same for the solitude. The rim of the mug has barely touched his lips and then from the corner of his eye, he can see someone approaching again - has she not learned her lesson? The mug hits the table with an audible thud. “Listen, I may not’ve been clear enough—”
The retort dies in his throat as Baltazar settles across from him, two mugs of ale in hand, and wordlessly slides one across the table in his direction. His eyes are dark as he regards Leon, who sizes him up for a long moment before taking the offered mug. Men like them are simple, and he sees this as the peace offering that it is.
“You’ve been followin’ me, have you?” he accuses, his tongue already loosened by drink. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t’ve known where I’d be tonight.”
Baltazar chuckles at this, low and warm, and shakes his head. “We came into port ‘bout an hour after ye,” he offers in return, shrugging his shoulders. “There’re two taverns in town. Figured I’d find ye in the quieter one. Never been one for a party.”
Of course he’d know where to find him. Of course he’d be predictable enough to be found. “Fair enough.”
They drink in relative silence, the chatter around them filling the air. Baltazar’s boot brushes against his own under the table. Leon doesn’t pull away. His expression doesn’t shift in the least as he takes another gulp from the mug. Minutes pass and he loses track of them along the way. The light has long since faded from the few windows around the tavern, now exclusively lit by a handful of lanterns scattered around the room. He’s already more than halfway through his drink.
“Was thinking of takin’ that pretty dancer up to my room.” He breaks the silence with a nod of his head in her direction. She’s lounging in some other man’s lap. Baltazar quirks a brow. It only occurs to him now why he’d thought her pretty in the first place: dark hair, dark eyes…
“Were ye now?” It’s almost accusatory despite how casual Baltazar’s tone is. He shrugs again. “Go on then.”
It’s a challenge, because they both know the truth. They both know that Leon hasn’t found a woman attractive in all of the years of his life. There were nights when their former partnership had allowed them to open up and speak of things that neither would bare to another living soul. Leon knows that Baltazar wouldn’t take her up on it either for the very same reason.
But it’s as good a challenge as any, and Leon downs the last dregs from the mug and gets to his feet, albeit unsteadily. “Thanks for the drink, mate,” he tosses casually over his shoulder. He can feel Baltazar’s eyes on him as he approaches the girl, slides an arm around her waist and whispers into her ear. He digs into his pocket and presses a handful of coins into her palm, shares a look with her, and then lets her go. He’s up the stairs and gone before any questions can be had, victorious.
Ten minutes later, she drops a spare key into Baltazar’s hand. “Room twelve, end of the hall,” she murmurs into his ear, and then she’s gone, her perfume lingering on his collar where she’d leaned in too close. It’s obnoxiously floral. He only gets up and starts toward the stairs because he needs somewhere private to take the shirt off and rinse the smell of roses off of his skin.
That night, Leon secretly cherishes the sound of Baltazar’s snores.