Archive of Our Own

The sun was cruel. It beat down hard upon the world, searing those who dared linger too long in its light. It could turn vegetation to dust, dry up entire bodies of water, and, in doing so, bring a people to its knees.

The sea was kinder by comparison—at least, it was in the case of one particular man who, adrift in a small boat, was lulled by steady waves as the sun once more rose its flaming fists. 

It had been days. Or… had it? Had it been days? He… He could no longer be sure…

Salt dusted his hair, his skin, the inside of his throat. The little food he’d had had run out and drinkable water was no longer a luxury he was afforded.

By now, he had no energy to lift his head, so he lay still in what he feared would soon become his coffin, and tried his best to let his body shut down again so sleep could spare him yet more hours of drifting, waiting, suffering…

How many more days would he survive? How many more hours?

The man had always prayed for a swift and dignified death, but it seemed that such prayers were to be left unanswered. It was a foreboding thought. For what could such silence mean for his soul after this lifetime was over…? 

Overhead, a gull cawed. A blessed breeze tickled his face. 

The kind, gentle sea carried him on.

“Careful. Be careful…”

“What in God’s name—?”

“Take him inside. And fetch some water. Now!”

Dry.

His throat, dry. His eyes, dry. His entire being… dry. 

Death had still not claimed him. It was starting to become a tedious chase that he wanted no part in.

Yet, as he let out a heavy breath and felt an ache in his chest he’d borne for days, he realised that amongst all of the sensations he had endured during his journey… he no longer felt cruelty. He no longer felt the sun.

Stranger still, however, was that within moments of regaining some kind of lucidity, something cold and damp pressed against his forehead and he found himself almost completely shocked back to life—back into his body.

Sitting up was not an easy option. He was turned on his side, and so lurched awkwardly, but then as his eyes flew open and hands jolted he realised that he was no longer cushioned by wood but sheets, pillows, soft, soft, warm fabric, and he couldn’t feel the sun because the sun was not there—a roof was—and where was he, why was he, how had he—?

“Lie down.”

A hand pulled on his shoulder, urging him to lie flat on the bed ( a bed?! ). Instantly, he felt himself sinking down into a comfort he had thought he would never know again, and… it was so unthinkable. Unbelievable. His dry eyes started to sting, wanting to well up and burst…

The cloth returned to his forehead, patting lightly at his skin.

His eyes turned slowly to his right to find a figure sitting next to him.

“Your luck has changed,” he was told, though, frankly, he did feel he needed to be told. “You require rest, however. Rest—” His doctor pulled back the cloth and swapped it instead for a glass of clear, cool liquid. “—and water.”

Seeing what looked like water—wet, wonderful, magical water—he wanted it. He wanted it so desperately. His throat begged painfully for the relief it would provide. His lips screamed. His head, feeling an ebb and flow of throbbing and delirium, almost surrendered entirely.

His luck, nevertheless, was truly changing. 

A hand came to his face and a calm voice encouraged him to slowly drink as the glass was held to his mouth and tipped carefully towards him. The first sip was resurrection. All the sips that followed were Heaven.

By the time the glass was empty, he had to take a deep breath of air, having forgotten what breathing even was, and he let his head fall back against one of the many cushions behind him. 

He was alive. By God, he was alive…

As he blinked away his anguish and attempted to bury the fears that had plagued him (even though a part of him also feared he was not yet truly out of the woods—out of the drifting boat), the empty glass was set down, thudding softly against wood. The cloth returned. He heard a gull in the distance.

It took some trying, but with some strain and gravel, he eventually asked, “Where am I?”

The man—the one sitting on the edge of the bed, cloth in hand—looked at him curiously for a moment, before replying, “On my ship.”

That was not an entirely useful answer, but he hadn’t the willpower to say so aloud. Though, that being said, he did not seem to need to. Perhaps his quip was audible in his fatigue.

“We found you adrift while sailing over from Europe. You were far out at sea,” the other explained. “We are back on our course towards Hispaniola, now. We should be there in a couple of days.”

“Oh…”

The news was somewhat disturbing. To think he was potentially so far out at sea that no one would find him… It was terrifying. And while he knew that that had been the idea, to think that it had very nearly happened if it weren’t for the crew who had helped him, well, that was enough to make him feel sick.

Or perhaps that was just the dehydration…

“I will leave you to get some rest,” the other duly announced, rising to his feet. “There should be enough water here for you for now. I will check on you again later on.”

Stuck in bed and lost for words, he could only give a weak nod before he closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. A more promising fate, but… still so far from the reality he longed for.

He woke with a start.

“So, do you have a name?”

His head throbbed, as did his eyes. 

Another glass of water was being held out to him, he realised, and he blinked through the pain to try and glance at his interlocutor despite the blur. 

“‘S a funny thing to wake me to ask,” he said hoarsely as a familiar face came into focus. He took the glass in his hand all the same, grateful underneath his wariness for a drink. 

Water had never tasted so good.

“I have actually been talking to you for the past five minutes or so,” the other said, blasé. “You just woke up in time for that particular question. Which I would still like an answer to.”

“Would you give me your name?” he posed.

“Abel.”

He was taken aback. He hadn’t expected such a rapid reply, nor did he have much time to think on it—to give it a taste test on his tongue.

“Your turn,” Abel prompted him.

There was little point in denying him that truth. He did, after all, owe the man his life (whether he wanted to or not).

“João,” he therefore supplied as the emptied glass was taken from him again.

“Ah. I see.”

“See what?” João strained, a frown forming on his face as he slowly and carefully sat himself up. His hands hurt, his arms ached, but he turned down the offer of help in favour of an answer to his own query.

Abel straightened his back and said, “You are Portuguese.”

It made João laugh. A soft, croaked laugh that saw him cough as well for a moment, but a laugh nonetheless.

“My, you’re observant!” the brunet remarked once the coughing subsided. “Is my nationality a problem for you?”

“No, not strictly,” he replied. “But to make you aware, this is a Dutch ship.”

João’s good mood died like a flame in water.

“…ah.”

“With a Dutch crew.”

“Right.”

“And a Dutch captain.”

“Any other bad news you want to give me?”

“Not at the moment,” Abel said.

His tone was void of any shared humour—as though he were being entirely serious in spite of João’s attempts at light-hearted conversation. Maybe he is the sort of man who loosens up with a drink…

But that was not important.

“So you are Dutch.”

“Well, yes,” the other responded. “I’m the captain.”

As João had suspected. It was nice to have confirmation, of course, but he was unsure if it really brought him that much comfort. In some ways, it felt like he had escaped one nightmare only to find himself trapped in another.

Of course, if they wanted me dead, they would have had ample opportunity. But then they hadn’t known he was Portuguese until now so… that could still change. There was nothing really stopping Abel even now—a pillow over the face, or a sacrilegious gun pointed at a temple.

“You should have more water,” his Dutch doctor-come-potential-captor remarked, a thin layer of concern brushed across his words. “That was primarily why I woke you, alongside making sure you were indeed still alive.”

João nearly choked on amusement and disdain. “It’ll take more than a bit of sunlight to kill me ,” he jested.

“Still,” Abel pressed, “I would advise not testing such theories in future. You are lucky we are well-stocked.”

He didn’t know what that last line was supposed to mean at first, but when the other, presumably after being faced by João’s bewilderment, turned his head towards a bowl sitting next to the glass. It was full of some strange, misty liquid that, to be honest, looked too viscous to be a liquid. 

His curiosity was very kindly seen to.

“It helps with burns, amongst other ailments,” Abel explained. “It helps ease the pain.”

“Ooh, that sounds good…”

Though João had done his best to cover his face and shield himself while at sea, with only the thin clothes he had been dragged from bed in for protection, it had hardly been perfect. He had no mirror to be able to see what he looked like, but he feared the sun may have had its way with him.

That said, the substance—something Abel insisted was natural and then offered to him, if he were currently in more pain or discomfort, which was an offer not turned down—was indeed pleasant. Cold and kind. Kind as the sea. Kind as the face, so focused yet soft, that had had him pulled from the sea…

God, what had become of him? No ship, no dignity. No direction, no clue where he was, no power, no say. No hope. No brother to fall back on. No… Nothing…

The kindness he currently knew was not quite enough to take away the pain of losing all he had known before.

Night fell like a stone into a pond, rippling across the world. João woke up more than once to find that darkness was still enveloping them, puzzled each time—at first, about where he was, and then (one he had remembered), why he was still in a bed at all.

It had occurred to him that he must have been in Abel’s quarters, seeing as though he was the only person João had had the pleasure of speaking with so far.

His suspicions had been confirmed the second time he had woken up, however, when he had realised that Abel was in fact still in the room, sleeping on some makeshift cot on the floor. It had made João feel bad, but grateful. No fuss had been made; the bed had simply been relinquished to him.

Sleep was easier to find with the aid of sheets and a pillow.

“How are you this morning?”

His initial response came in the form of a groan, soft but tired, as he forced himself awake. A small slit of sunshine shot through a window and across the room, landing just shy of the bed. João glanced at its trail for a moment. Then he took a slow breath, began to try and sit himself up, and sought out his company.

“God, you look like death warmed up.”

“How flattering,” João said with a quiet tut, before conceding: “You’re right, though. I feel awful…”

Abel gave a hum. His voice was low and there was a pensiveness to the way he considered João. As though by scanning his person, up and down, he could uncover all of his ailments—physical or beyond—and perhaps even how to cure them.

Wouldn’t that have been nice? Ha!

“Soup.”

João faltered, puzzled.

“Is that a diagnosis?” he wondered. “Or a suggestion?”

“The cook is making fish soup.”

“…and?”

“You should have some.”

“I see,” the brunet drawled, glad to have an answer of sorts. “God, you’re— you’re a bit awkward, aren’t you?”

“Speaking English will do that to a Dutchman,” Abel retorted.

João gave a scoff that made his lungs start to itch. “You make it sound like a nice enough tongue. Besides, I wouldn’t understand you if you spoke Dutch to me.”

“Nor would I understand Portuguese. Though I am sure it is… pleasant.”

“Pleasant. Sure. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Soup, though,” Abel said, bringing them back to that clearly vital thing. “I will bring you some when it is ready.”

True to his word, he did. He brought João a bowl of fish soup, and the soup was dreadful.

João did his best to not immediately let on his literal distaste at the meal he had been presented with, not wanting to offend his generous host. However, it was clear that his efforts (minimal as they may have been) were in vain.

(His face, see, was one of the most treacherous creatures that João knew—second only to a band of sea-faring men he had thought of as… comrades. Friends. Brothers. Whatever word you preferred. Either way, his care for them had evidently been one-sided.)

“Is it that bad?” Abel asked, brows knitting together as he stared at the culprit bowl.

“I— I wouldn't say bad,” the other treaded carefully, “but… it is a bit… bland… ?”

“I think it's fine for food at sea.”

Once more, João's face betrayed him. He must have grimaced, or maybe his eyes reflected some twinkle of terror at the man's impoverished palet, but damn. Damn! ‘Fine’?!

“I won't pass on your feedback, if you have no objection,” Abel remarked. “The cook might not appreciate it.”

“Wise,” João grumbled, letting another spoonful of grey water splosh back down into his bowl. “I might have some choice words for him, too. Like ‘salt’ and ‘pepper’!”

Disgruntled was perhaps the more appropriate word to describe Abel's face, along with embarrassed. While he appeared offended by João’s words, he also appeared to be offended by the food which had offended his guest. A ruthless chain!

As such, the other soon said, “ I will speak to him,” and then asked, “Are you able to eat the soup as it is for now?”

“‘Course,” replied João with a smile. “I was raised to not be fussy.”

Somehow, Abel just didn’t quite seem to believe him.

Another night, but a night that was more peaceful and calm. Abel had stayed with him again, and they had had a drink together while they spoke. About what? Well, whatever came to mind. About travelling, about home, loved ones elsewhere, about—

“Antonio?”

“My brother,” João supplied, setting down his glass. He took a slow and deep breath, and then went on: “God knows where he is. It’s been a couple of months…”

“Did he sail with you?” Abel asked him, to which the other shook his head.

“No, he, uh… He has his own ship, actually,” he said. 

It was something he was proud of deep down—that Antonio had his own means in life, now—but given recent events in his life, João now worried. He worried that not seeing Antonio could be a bad sign, or that it could be a warning of bad things yet to happen. He didn’t know what he would do (or could do) if something like this were to happen to his brother…

“I dread to ask this,” the blond pressed on, “but does he sail in these waters as well?”

“Mmmh. He does,” João nodded.

“So if I see a Portuguese ship, I should assu—”

“His ship is not Portuguese.”

Abel required a moment to process that titbit. João could hardly blame him. This was going to cause a small headache.

“His ship is not Portuguese,” the Dutchman eventually repeated, as though not convinced by his own words.

João, weary, confirmed it: “No.”

“But he is Portuguese?”

More weary still, João said, “No, he is not.”

“Then what?” Abel asked as he started to frown. “Or else, how can he be your brother?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I doubt it. Is he your brother?”

“Might as well be.”

“Then what is he if not your brother? What— What could he possibly be to you?”

“We were raised together; he is my brother,” João defended, not wanting to argue it any further. It was such a trivial thing and it was entirely irreleva—

“Why are you—”

“He’s Spanish, okay? You are so fucking persistent!”

“Spanish?”

“Yes, Spanish!”

Abel looked scandalised. As if João had just sat there and chewed on a man’s arm, or sprouted red horns and a tail.

“I am not sailing us towards any Spanish ships,” he then informed João.

“And I did not ask you to,” the other reminded him, deadpan. “You sail towards Hispaniola and that suits me fine, thank you. It was my previous heading. Take me there, and you can be rid of me at port!”

Flushed somewhat red and looking less than happy (at the situation, perhaps; at the unexpected revelation), Abel rose from his seat next to João on the bed—João, who did not at first understand why he was leaving until he recalled, of course, how he also tended to retreat rather than charge—and he, well, retreated. 

He made to leave, at first in silence, but then he stopped himself at the door. He told João to enjoy his drink and to try to rest; he would be back later.

‘Later’ took a long time to come.

“Still in a bad mood?”

“You think I should abandon you at port.”

“It would be the normal and arguably sensible thing to do.”

“The last time you were abandoned, it nearly killed you.”

“…thanks…? For the reminder?”

“If you see your brother’s ship—or whoever he really is in port, then by all means, go,” Abel told him with finality. With command. “If you do not, then you will continue to sail with us.”

“But—”

“No arguments,” the other stated. His tone was firm. His eyes were sharp. “If we do not find your brother by chance in Hispaniola, or wherever we sail thereafter, I will be recruiting you to my ship.”

João was lost, now both figuratively and physically. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you care what happens to me? I'm not part of your crew, nor am I an ally to you of any kind. Are you sure you're of sound mind?”

“Sound enough,” Abel responded, clear as day. “We could do with a decent cook.”

But João did not want to be a cook. He wanted to be a captain again, a man at the helm, a man who answered only to his own morals and the sea.

Such a thing was slowly, steadily falling out of reach.

Sleep evaded him for much of the night. 

By now, perhaps bored of how uncomfortable the floor actually was, Abel had taken to sleeping on one side of the bed, a cushion acting as a border between their territories.

Along with a dull soreness from lingering burns, João was plagued by thoughts of what could happen. Of stormy waters and cannonfire. Of Hell on Earth. Was Antonio well? Was he still in the Caribbean? Was he safe? Would he save João…?

Abel was silent, almost resembling a corpse if not for the movement of his chest as he breathed. The fact that a man so large did not kick or snore was some kind of miracle. João, too, wished he felt enough peace to be able to rest.

Bread and water made for a grim but passable breakfast. It was better than nothing. Abel was quiet, and João was silently reminded that perhaps he ought to count his blessings again. They were few, but… they were important. 

One such blessing was sitting at his desk, writing something in a small leatherbound book. His back was to João, who remained in bed; he was in deep focus and had been for the past few minutes ever since he had delivered João his meal. 

Not a word had been spoken between them. 

That was not necessarily a bad thing, though. Peace was welcome. 

And of course, watching a man so intent and deep in thought, almost working up a sweat as he wrote and wrote and wrote, was quite the source of… gentle entertainment. Easy entertainment. João did not often look at someone and feel some semblance of attraction, but, well, he had his mome—

“I am almost done. I will be with you shortly,” the captain said, not turning or even glancing back to look at João. 

“Oh, that’s alright,” João returned. He smiled to himself as he tore off a chunk of bread, ready to enjoy his meal. “I can wait.”

Their morning was a bit lighter than normal. Certainly lighter than the tense day before. Abel got into telling João of his recent travels, quite uniform, like a strict itinerary of places and people and plunder, and João, eager to listen and learn, welcomed his tales. 

Abel, it turned out, was not too bad an orator. His stories sounded simple, but with the subtle cadence of his voice, tinted with youth yet wisdom beyond his years, he made for an addictive listen. João caught himself getting lost more than once just gawking, staring at him… 

As the other spoke, however, the brunet wondered if perhaps he ought to talk as well. Not right now—he did not dare interrupt the wonderful rumble of the other’s voice—but… soon. Maybe soon, he should learn to loosen up, relax, and talk. And he knew where to start.

“He’s my cousin.”

“Who?”

“Antonio.”

“…oh.”

“You thought he was someone different to me?”

(There was no denying that it had been tense before. João was yet to decide what Abel thought about him—to work out what it was that had rattled him, because the outrage had started before João had declared his brother’s nationality…)

“You were being… cryptisch…” Abel went on.

“And you were being nosy.”

“But you are related.”

“Yes,” João replied, before he explained it in a bit more detail: “He is my Spanish cousin. My family took him in when he was about eight years old, so we grew up together. I regard him as a little brother, though I’m sure he hates the ‘little’ part.”

“I see…”

“So there is no need to discuss it again?”

“I suppose not,” Abel responded with a slow breath. “Assuming, of course, that you believe he is not a threat in any way and I do not need to worry about him should we cross paths.”

João regarded the other. He did not not know much of Abel or his ship or his crew—if had any kind of reputation, it was unknown to him—but he knew almost too much about Antonio by comparison. He could make no promises. He could make no promises either way. And Abel could see that. 

Rather than doing the expected and asking to know more about Antonio, however, Abel instead navigated them in a slightly different direction. 

He said, “I have siblings, too. Little siblings.”

“Is that in terms of age, or height?” João joked, happy to see to a change in mood. A lighter atmosphere. 

“Both, actually,” Abel answered, humouring him. But then he said, “I know how it feels, to worry about them.”

João did not recall voicing any worry about Antonio. He worried, now, that he was too obvious. That he was too easy to read. He worried that there were other thoughts and feelings he may have given away up until now, but, if he had, he would not be told as such. Nor would he dare ask. He would simply have to wait and see…

“I am sorry, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For my behaviour before,” said Abel. “I was… quite abrupt with you and I had no right.”

“Ah— Please don’t worry. I— I understand. I do.”

“But will you accept my apology?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Oh, are you begging?”

“In a way.”

“No one begs these days. How refreshing!”

“João.”

“Abel,” the other smiled. “I forgive you! Now, please, how about a drink and some far less serious chit-chat, hmm?”

In three days’ time, they were due to arrive at the island. Time was moving so slowly, it was driving João insane. He had been confined to Abel’s quarters because, as the other so said, he was still recovering and any exertion could be dangerous. That, and any extra sunlight. João did not fully disagree, but… he could only sleep so much before it began to hurt.

Abel, out of either the goodness of his heart or some strange fixation, perhaps, was doing his best to keep João company in between seeing to his duties. In some ways, it was infuriating. In other ways, it was all that kept him sane. As sane as he could possibly be.

It helped that his skin was no longer so sore, that he could move freely and comfortably, and that Abel was more the gentle nurse than reprimanding doctor, now. Though, Abel himself may also have been a remedy of sorts.

Having discovered João’s affinity for maps, Abel had supplied the one he and his crew were currently using and they talked away for a while about routes, dream destinations, old favourites. 

It was quite possibly the most pleasant talk they had had so far. It was humanising, to some degree, the pair of them chatting almost like friends about such matters. Where do you want to go next? one would ask, before the other would say, Wherever the wind takes me—as long as it’s in the direction of South America!

The next day by comparison was uneventful, boring, ordinary. 

João woke in his own time and found he had been provided with some more of that slimy substance for his face (which, with a glance in a mirror, seemed to be cooling down at last) and water. The ship's captain had made himself scarce and continued to do so until around midday, when he brought along some food. 

Together they made uneventful, boring, ordinary conversation—small talk. They spoke of the weather, of trade, of old haunts…

That was, at least, until João, driven by such uneventful, boring, ordinary conversation, said five simple words to Abel as he was about to leave once more:

“I want to go outside.”

Abel glanced back at João over his shoulder. “I am not sure that is wise. You are still recoveri—”

“This evening, then,” the brunet bartered eagerly. He was tired of staying in a bed that was not his own, of lazing about, of feeling trapped. “Once the sun disappears from the sky, I want to go outside. I want to feel a breeze and see the sea.”

For a moment, the other contemplated the request and contemplated meticulously. He was in deep thought. He was unresponsive and eerily quiet. He was so focused—on what, João didn't know—but after a few seconds, his cool gaze rose from the wooden floorboards and drifted back to a waiting João with an answer in hand:

“Fine,” he said. “At dusk.”

It brought a new kind of relief into João's life. He may have even smiled. (And Abel may have even smiled back).

As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, vanishing into the water, João closed his eyes and welcomed the cold breeze against his face.

He was leaning on the railing of the forecastle deck, feeling like a figurehead, parting the waves and grinning at the world. Oh, it was a blessed sensation. With his hair down and borrowed clothes billowing in the wind, he felt more alive now than he had for quite some time.

“Try not to fall overboard,” a voice warned from behind—Abel, of course, who sat on a wooden crate observing. “I think we would struggle to save you a second time.”

A rejuvenated smile on his face, João turned around and looked towards the other. His hair blew wildly in his face for a moment and he had to fend it off as he walked barefoot across the deck.

“Your care for me remains a mystery, but a flattering one,” he commented as he slowly trailed, taking his time. “I'm not usually one to promise to avoid danger, but… on this occasion, I may just agree with you.”

“Ah, so some sense can be talked into you. That is good to know,” Abel mused in turn. 

João claimed his seat upon a second crate which had been dragged into position earlier, while he had still been in bed. Indeed, Abel had put a bit of unexpected thought into the other's outing, providing not only seating but a makeship table in the form of a barrel and a bottle of rum to keep them warm. João's glass now waited for him, and he picked it up with pleasure.

“Speaking of sense,” the brunet picked up, lifting his glass to his lips, “are you going to explain why you are so keen to have me stay on your ship?”

Abel, who had been in the middle of drinking himself, paused, then pulled his glass away from his face. He appeared hesitant, wary. It was an accusation of sorts he did not know how to address, which was only all the more amusing.

“K… Keen…?” he repeated, the only response he could initially manage.

“Yes,” João duly nodded. He threw one leg up over the other and leaned in a little more, bridging a small portion of the distance between them. “You would rather imprison me on your ship than let me go free on Hispaniola.”

“You think it would be imprisonment?”

“You are avoiding my question.”

“And you are avoiding mine,” Abel pointed out.

With a faint laugh, borne of an incredulity at how the Dutchman was fast becoming someone who matched João's own temperament, he conceded: “Perhaps ‘imprisonment’ is too harsh.”

Abel gave a hum, pleased with the signed confession, and he responded in kind, saying, “You have experienced some horrid things recently. I would not want to dump you on an island with nowhere to go; it would not sit right with me.”

“That's… very considerate of you,” João said. His smile was soft, easy, calm, even as he sighed and explained, quite openly, his concern. “I fear I would become a burden, however. Two captains on one ship does not sound like a good recipe.”

“Bad soup,” Abel supposed.

“Bad soup,” agreed João.

“Don't think I am ‘keen’ to keep you aboard,” the other then pressed, quite serious. “Nor am I keen to be rid of you. I just… want to help. To do what is right. The sea can be cruel, and—

“She is my only friend.”

Abel looked across at João, whose smile still held but now with an air of melancholy, as he thought about the rocking waves, the possible violence and the freedom of adventure. Freedom, alone.

“Would you consider me a friend?” 

“You?”

He didn't mean to scoff so dramatically, but it happened. João apologised almost immediately, covering his mouth lest anything else unwanted spurted up and out, and he took a swig of rum to help.

Then he said, treading carefully, “What I mean is, as nice as you have been, calling you a ‘friend’ might be a stretch.”

“Mmmh. Not unreasonable,” Abel mused. Then he added: “Would you consider considering me a friend?”

João gave an unrushed nod, and then slid his glass across the lid of the barrel towards Abel and the bottle of rum he was in charge of. No request needed to be made; the other topped up his drink for him, and, ever so pleased, João said, “I would.”

With a possible friendship-to-be in hand, along with a rum, they both took to the evening. Drinks flowed, laughs were shared, and that sense of life that João had felt before was rolling on only stronger like the tide. A rolling tide. 

Before long, evening turned to night, the rum was gone, and the rest of the crew were all below deck. João’s laughter had only risen, and Abel’s mood, too, had only improved.

It was Abel who eventually suggested that they retire before the cold did them harm. He helped João, rather merry from several spiced drinks, back to his quarters. The brunet stumbled here and there and almost tripped down the steps. Kindness saw him back to bed; intoxication saw Abel dragged down with him.

Abel caught himself before he could unintentionally flatten João, whose snickering only continued. It was far too amusing to see this giant before him, all funny colours, unsure whether to laugh as well, swaying and drifting in his vision. The bed creaked beneath them.

An apology was uttered, but João silenced it with a finger to Abel's lips. Some colours became more saturated. All he could truly see was Abel—and by God, he was not going to complain about the view! ‘Handsome’ was too plain a word!

“We should, uhh… Call it a night,” the blond suggested, carefully prying himself away and leaning more upright, knee still buried into the mattress as he tried to steady himself. “I can get you some water if you—”

“Noooo, not yet!”

“It's late.”

“Can I say something first? Pretty please?”

A weak smile slipped briefly onto the other's face, as though amused by João's stupor (if not his dramatic flare). He obliged.

“So.”

“So…?”

“So! You asked me earlier on the deck if I would consider cons…” 

João quickly trailed off, his tongue tying knots in his mouth as his brain fumbled about in his skull. He laughed it off and he asked for a moment to refresh and restart, and then he tried again. 

“You asked if I would consider considering you a friend ,” he successfully said. 

“That’s right,” Abel returned. 

“Mmh, well, I have a new question for you.”

“…oh?”

“How about we skip that part,” João proposed, throwing his arms around the other’s neck and pulling him down, hot breath and rum clouding between them, “and try something more fun? Your biggest adventure yet?”

Abel did not reply. João took it upon himself to do a little persuading. Abel did not seem to need more than a few seconds’ worth to sink back down and succumb to João's… suggestion.

It appeared that there was more rum to be tasted and savoured between them both that night. Tongues exchanged favours and flavours, and hands made gentle yet clumsy gestures of fleeting, happy romance. Romance of a sort. Romance without real romance, but romance that, within the hour, left them both naked and blacked out in bed, tangled in each other's arms and doused in hard-earned sweat.

For both of them, it was peaceful and warm. They slept well. Better, in fact, than they had for days. Weeks. Months…

When the first of them woke up, it was a shock to the system.

When the second woke up alone, it was a shock of another kind.

“Are you okay?”

“Needed fresh air. Too much rum, and with the waves this morning, I just… Well, you get the idea…”

“I do. But besides the alcohol, are you okay?”

João glanced back at Abel, who must have recently risen judging by his haphazard dressing, and gave a feeble nod. 

He wasn't sure, to be honest. Everything was a blur, a haze, a flash. He could make an educated guess about what had happened between them, but… whether or not he wanted that truth to exist was another matter. And not something he wished to discuss when it felt like his head was being ground in a mortar.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Yes. I'm fine.”

“Are you okay?”

“As okay as I was before. Why?”

“Just checking. Do you need anything?”

“No, I… I'm fine. Thank you.”

“Are you okay?”

“Must you keep asking?”

“Until I get an honest answer, yes.”

“I'm fine. I just want to rest.”

“Are you—?”

“I swear to God, I will—!”

“Are you…?”

“…”

“Are you okay, though?”

“How many times have you asked me that today?” João groaned, letting his head drop down and hide in his arms, currently crossed and resting upon a vacant desk. “I've lost count!”

“A few,” Abel replied, “but that honest answer remains elusive.”

He came to perch on the edge of the desk, sitting on the verge of João's personal space. The brunet lifted his head somewhat reluctantly and looked at him; he could tell Abel was not anywhere near forgetting the matter and was unsure if he himself could keep it up. Was it a battle worth winning? Was it a battle even worth fighting? 

“Do you want to talk about last night?”

João sighed. He leaned back in his chair, almost bouncing too hard and throwing himself backwards.

“Only, I get the feeling that you might.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

They stared at each other. Abel was taken aback by such a fast and simple response, but João was having to bite his tongue, because that was the first of a few honest answers that he had been seeking—that he would receive. 

No, he wasn’t sure. What followed was him trying to put into words how it all felt. How he felt after the night before, how confused he was now it was over, how his entire life at the moment had him adrift like a piece of wood in the vast, vast ocean.

“Look,” he began, doing his best to not let any emotion or sentiment get the better of him, “what happened last night, I— The parts I can remember, I enjoyed. I did.” João wetted dry lips and straightened his posture. “But last night was… That is not who I am.”

João’s words were an attempt to reason (though whether with Abel, himself or God was unclear). When he said ‘that is not who I am,’ he believed that; he remembered being so drunk that he could barely speak, that his hands and body had done things that, in his right mind, he would not have even considered. Waking up like that, naked, no less… Talk about a shock! And with a man!  

Sure, João was a flirty sort with whomever—that was how he made his way in life, if not by the whip of a pistol—but to actually… follow through? To end up in bed with someone like Abel? So— So male, and Dutch, and tall, and— and frankly good-looking, and well-built, and, well, if he were to go into details he’d be thinking about Abel forever which— agh! Not right now, for the love of—!

“Then who are you?” asked Abel, unwittingly silencing João’s mind and calming it. His hands gently fell upon the other’s shoulders. “Tell me. Tell me who you are, João.”

João had little choice. So, he did exactly that: he told Abel who he was. 

Captain Da Soares and his band of rogues sailed the seas in search of treasure, glory, adventure and more. Born on the western coast of Portugal, the sea was his oldest companion, his best friend, his confidant.

For the last few years, he had operated in the Caribbean. He had fought the British, the Spanish, the French, the Dutch—anyone who threatened his trade and livelihood, whether naval officers or pirates as well. None were safe. 

From cannonfire and shipwrecks, he had forged his reputation: one of persistence and pestilence. He and the Pérola do Mar were a formidable force and had been for almost eight years. She was swift and cunning; he was ambitious and relentless. She was the love of his life (the sea, his mistress), and without her, he was… João. 

João, the son of a fisherman. João, who had decided he wanted to see more of the world than the line of a horizon. João, who wanted to pave his own path and make his own rules and design his own legacy. 

Many men had died at his hands. Many still would. Underneath the charm was a man prepared to do whatever he had to to save himself and the trusted few in his life, even now. He was João, the son of a fisherman no more…

…nor, however, was he truly a captain. Not at present. Not for now.

Mutiny amongst the ranks was a vile, poisonous thing, and it had sadly come to infect his own crew. Whether due to greed or envy, he was unsure. He only knew he had been dragged from bed one ordinary night at the orders of his right-hand, and cast adrift in a boat. The cowards hadn't had the stomach to kill him themselves. They had hoped the sea would do that for them. 

Well, the joke was on them! He had survived! And when he found them, he would make sure they regretted their betrayal right ‘till their final breaths…

“Your reputation precedes you, captain,” Abel said, pensive, as the other concluded his vague retelling of recent events. “The Pérola do Mar is your vessel…”

“Problem?” João asked him with a poised brow. 

He shook his head. “None. I happen to recall that episode from one or two years ago involving the Santa Isabel , a nuisance ship that was most conveniently sunk,” noted the Dutchman. “I found it an admirable feat.”

Warmth graced João's cheeks. “I'm flattered,” he supposed. 

“You should be. You are quite the name.”

“Not always a good thing,” he thought worth pointing out. “Your words are kind, though. It… It is difficult being away from her like this. I miss her dearly.”

“In that case,” Abel said as he rose to his feet once more, “we should do all we can to reunite you both.”

Chance would have been a fine thing, but that would be no simple task. João made that clear. The Pérola could have been anywhere by now, and with a mutinous crew aboard, he was not currently in the best position to reclaim his ship and rid himself of them.

Abel disagreed, however.

“We find her when we find her. Until then, you are welcome to stay with us, sail around, make your plans,” he promised. “No captain should be without his ship. I want to help.”

It begged a single question: “Why?”

“Why what?” Abel responded, seemingly puzzled.

“Why would you want to help me?” João reiterated. “I am competition. I’m a threat.”

“But you are not,” claimed the other (brave or stupidly, that was yet to be seen). “Because I trust that, when you are restored to your rightful position, you will remember who helped you. My men agree.”

“You— You spoke to your men about this? About us?”

“Not in detail,” Abel assured him. “But I consulted them on your presence, yes. They are Dutch, remember; I needed to be sure that none of them would attempt anything while you remain aboard.”

João was somewhat surprised, both that they had agreed and that Abel had felt he could ask them in the first place. Perhaps that was what separated them from João’s crew. A sense of trust. A dependability. But if they had said ‘no’ would Abel have listened…?

It was not important. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that, when he looked at Abel and read his face, he could see only confident sincerity. Plain but confident sincerity. His gaze was soft and he did not smile (it would have changed the picture), and so, João knew. He was being offered an olive branch, a figurative treaty—and it would have been foolish of João, who did not possess even the clothes on his own body, to turn him down. 

So, he didn’t.

Maybe, just maybe… it was time to start anew.

“We are due to arrive at Hispaniola by morning.”

“So soon?”

“Have the days not felt long?” Abel asked, curious.

“Not at all,” João said (though that had not always been the case). “Have they for you?”

The other gave a hum, first. Then he said, “They have flowed more calmly with you around for company. I think you have been a good distraction.”

“Ooh, I like that. ‘A good distraction’. I might use that,” João smiled away. He took a sip of his drink—his second and last for the night—and glanced back out at the setting sun as it cast gold and bronze beams across the waves. “I think I may have enjoyed your company, too.”

“I would hope so,” Abel smiled his small smile at him in turn. “Truth be told, I, uh… I would like to enjoy more of your company, if you are willing to spare it.”

“I like the sound of that, too. You are doing well today.”

“Mmh. Thank you.”

“I would spare it, by the way,” João remarked, worrying that he had not been so clear in his intention. “If I do not find my brother on Hispaniola—something I fear would take a miracle, to be honest—then you are welcome to my company, as long as I am welcome to yours. I think I would enjoy sailing with you, even if only for a short time.”

Abel hummed. “Then do,” he replied. His hand fell softly down upon João’s as they watched the disappearing sun together. “Sail with me.”

“I said I would.”

“But for more than a short while,” Abel proposed to him. “For more than a few days or weeks.”

It was quite the suggestion. It was quite a serious, sudden, shocking suggestion. 

“I don’t know if I—”

“You do not need to decide right now. Sorry, I…I got ahead of myself a bit,” the Dutchman said gingerly. His hand vanished, but its warmth remained. “It is an option for you should you want it. I did not mean to put any pressure on you.”

“And you haven’t,” João reassured him, fixing their broken bond by placing his hand down onto Abel’s, this time. “It’s kind of you to make the offer,” he said, “and I promise: I will bear it in mind.”

For now, that was all he could do. The thought of sailing off with Abel, sharing stories with him, writing new ones, exploring the Americas… It was an in-the-moment, incredible idea. An idea that made him smile so much, it was as if he had never known happiness before. 

But, on the other side of it all, there was a lot to consider. His ship, his brother, his home, his own life. He had lost all of those things, and a little beast inside wanted it all back. He wanted what he was owed and what he had earned, and by God, he was determined to have it…

So, he would have to decide. He would go with Abel to Hispaniola and stay with him if there was no sign of Antonio or the Pérola. But, if there was even a glimmer of hope that his brother or ship were around, then… then he knew what he would have to do. 

He could only hope that Abel would understand. He could only lean over and press a quick, sneaky kiss to the other's cheek while his men were away and hope—truly hope—that he would understand.