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“Everythin’ all right?” Wee John asks. Frenchie doesn’t even look up from where he’s cowering on the floor, clenching his lute tightly against his chest. Wee John waits patiently for an answer before he realises none will come. He sits down next to the musician/pirate and knocks their shoulders together.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks tenderly.
“The stupid English destroyed my lute,” Frenchie whispers, cradling his instrument like a father his child. “Uncultured swines, all of them,” he curses under his breath.
Wee John nods. “I’m sure Capt’n will replace it,” he tries to soothe him.
“Stede won’t be Captain for very much longer,” Frenchie whispers and looks over to Izzy. “I doubt he’ll appreciate my talents.”
Wee John can’t discount this statement. God, he wishes they would have never run into Blackbeard and his crew. Edward saved his captain’s life, though, so he can’t be too angry. But seeing Frenchie mourning his lute steers something deep inside of him. He knows the look on his face, knows the pain of losing something that no-one can replace.
“This lute… is it special to you?” he asks.
Frenchie worries his lip. “Won it, from a rich guy, fair and square. He was drunk as a skunk. I practised every day until I mastered accompanying myself,” he answers, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips. “Drove the Swede crazy,” he smirks.
“You play it beautifully,” Wee John says. “I like your singing voice, too.”
For the first time since Wee John addressed him, Frenchie looks up at his fellow pirate. “You do?”
Wee John nods. “Especially when you sing your own songs. Your voice is always so soft then.” A gentle blush creeps into his cheeks and only deepens when Frenchie’s face breaks out into a wide smile.
“I don’t think that anyone has ever said something that nice to me,” Frenchie says.
“Well, you deserve to hear nice things,” Wee John whispers as if it were a secret. Maybe it is. They share shy smiles in silence, and after a while, Frenchie’s hold on his lute slowly relaxes.
“Can I take a look at it?” Wee John asks. Tentatively, Frenchie hands the instrument over. Two strings are torn and the back of the lute has a dent in the wood. Wee John doesn’t know anything about lutes, much less about woodwork. But he mended more than one broken vessel, and he decides one thing: he will get on land and buy Frenchie new strings, no matter what.
He pulls his mate into his side, handling the lute with as much tenderness as him, and allows Frenchie to lean his head against his shoulder.
“I’m gonna fix it,” Wee John promises. “You’ll play again.”
“You don’t have to,” Frenchie says. Wee John knows he doesn’t, but he needs to. For his friend’s happiness and for the songs that will only find their way out of Frenchie’s heart and to his mouth while his fingers dance over the strings.