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His horse is having tummy troubles again, and Jeffrey's feet hurt from walking in his new, pretty calf-brown shoes. The heel’s a little higher than he’s used to, and he likes the way it makes his calves look in the stockings, but they rub at the ball of his foot in a way he doesn’t love. The party had been... fine? Normal, boring, whatever. Some of the boys had been there, so that had been nice: they’d bought a pamphlet of suppositions on the fate of Blackbeard and Stede Bonnet, which had been very cool!
But coming home without a potential wife is going to mean his aunt giving him that look again, that disappointed one that makes his skin shiver, and Jeffrey is tired of it! Tired of all of it!
He kicks off his shoes, leaving them in the sand, and leans against Hippocampus's warm side, trying to ignore the faint odor of something horrible coming out of his back end. Is this all there is? Will he just be going from stupid party to stupid party until he dies, heirless (and maybe hairless) in his mid-eighties, if he’s lucky?
Something scrapes against the sand: a dinghy pulling up on the beach, and Jeffrey freezes. It’s late for legitimate business, and the other kinds—look. He’s not exactly Mr. Dangerous, is all.
The man who hops out is tall, broad, with an open vest, soft-looking belly, beautiful white beard and eyes that twinkle like stars in a face brighter than the sun. It’s incongruous, that kind, happy face, makes Jeffrey sway forward, caught in his gravity. He steadies himself, swallows hard, eyes flicking to the belt that holds a knife and a gun, up across tattooed skin and thick arms and a bulge just below his belt that catches Jeffrey's eye and makes his whole body go liquid.
"Are you a pirate?" Jeffrey manages, as the man’s bare feet scuff in the sand. "Are you going to kill me?"
The pirate smiles, broad and magnetic. "Nah, bro. I’m on a mission." His voice is soft, conspiratorial, with an accent Jeffrey doesn’t recognize but that makes his words curl through Jeffrey’s belly.
The man steps closer, cocks his head, meets Jeffrey’s eye. He’s broad, not quite as tall as Jeffrey—almost no one is—but he exudes a solidity, a strength, an aura of steadiness that makes Jeffrey feel almost small. "Hey. You wanna help?"
Jeffrey glances behind him, at the lights of the party still gleaming back across the curve of the inlet. They’re glittering in the water, casting beautiful sparkles out over the bay, and they make the sea and sky look endless.
He turns back, catches sight, in the distance, of his aunt’s house: a dim candle in the window of a hulking shadow against the night sky.
What has he got to lose?
“Yeah,” he breathes, and behind him, Hippocampus nickers—a soft sound that’s almost an agreement. “Yeah, I really do.”
#
They tie the dinghy’s rope to Hippocampus’s harness, and after some whiny whinnying—the horse has always been a drama queen, but they both know some work will help him pass whatever he’s eaten to upset his stomach this time—he starts to amble down the beach towards home. Jeffrey tries not to let his excitement show in his waving hands or the squeak in his voice as he talks to the potential pirate who’s washed up on his beach.
The man’s name is Kevin, Jeffrey learns, as they walk along the sand. He is a pirate, and he usually goes by Fang—which is a really cool name!—but is giving Kevin a try again, apparently. He’s got a tattoo across his belly, a gorgeous circle of shapes, and Jeffrey want to touch it, wants to see if the lines are raised or smooth, if his skin is warm, if—
Jeffrey stumbles, tripping over a rock, and Kevin catches his elbow in a strong, warm hand, righting him without any trouble. His huge, thick bicep bulges directly in front of Jeffrey’s eyes, tattoos flexing, and Jeffrey nearly trips again, this time over his own feet.
He’s in a fall-front pair of silk breeches, stockings discarded, and he is absolutely ruining the line of them!
It takes him a moment to pull away, the brush of Kevin’s soft beard against his cheek mesmerizing. The man smells like salt, and clean sweat, and leather, and maybe... cinnamon? Something spicy-sweet that Jeffrey wants to fill his lungs—and his belly—with. Yum!
Jeffrey clears his throat, tries to pull himself together. He’s going to channel his inner Stede Bonnet! He’s going to talk to a pirate!
“So!” he says, and winces, lowering his voice. “What, um, what do you need help with?”
“Oh!” Kevin lets go of his wrist, where his thick fingers have trailed down to curl loosely. “Well, the Navy’s got this silly idea we’re pirates. Can you believe it?” He winks, and Jeffrey’s knees wobble. “So of course, we had to show them just how honorable we were!”
“You did?”
“Nah, bro! No stolen goods on our ship!”
Jeffrey glances back at the dinghy that’s pulled up on the beach, takes in the heaped crates and boxes, remembers how Kevin’s arms had bulged with straining muscle at the weight of it. He thinks he’s blushing. No, he knows he’s blushing. His cheeks feel hot, his forehead sweaty, and he knows his hair is a wreck. “So you need a place to hide them?” he asks, and Kevin grins, teeth sparkling in the moonlight. Jeffrey wonders what his cheekbones look like in the sun, whether his eyes shine even more brightly in daylight.
“Smart boy,” Kevin says, and Jeffrey thinks maybe he squeaks.
Kevin follows him up the sandy path, pulling the rope, and Jeffrey tries not to keep looking back to stare at the way his muscles bulge as he tugs the dinghy behind them.
“Can I help?” he asks finally, halfway to the house.
“Oh! Sure!” Kevin steps close, and Jeffrey can smell him, the warm, sweaty salt-leather man-scent of him. His hands are hot and strong as he presses the rope into Jeffrey’s hands, and Jeffrey feels almost small beside him, small and soft and sort of like a sketch of a character next to him. Kevin just seems larger than life, like a fleshed-out person who’s seen things, done things, and for a moment, Jeffrey wishes desperately that he’d had the courage of Stede Bonnet, to strike out on the sea, no fear, to make his own story (even if that story had ended in a sort of leopard-piano-carriage horror show that Jeffrey still wakes up picturing, sometimes). Maybe he’d look like this man, all glistening muscles and leather and studs?
Probably not. He’d still be the same old Jeffrey, just... wetter, probably.
“Pretty strong for a man in a fancy coat,” Kevin says, and Jeffrey’s whole body shivers with pleased goosebumps. “Where we headed?”
“My estate,” Jeffrey says, and he’s only panting a little bit, shoulders and core pleasantly warm with the exertion. The dinghy slides easily with a tug, and he leans forward, pulling it smoothly. It’s satisfying, feeling it cut through the sand behind them. When he glances back, Hippocampus is meandering just far enough back that Jeffrey can’t smell the awfulness periodically leaving his back end, and with every step, Kevin’s arm brushes his own.
“Your poor horse looks like he’s having a bad time.” Kevin leans in, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Pretty nice of you, not making him pull the stuff.”
Jeffrey... honestly hadn’t even thought of having Hippocampus do the pulling instead, honestly, but the compliment lands low in his belly, blows on the embers glowing there. “Yeah, well,” he mumbles, feeling his face flush. “He’s a good horse, just... not great at eating. Or digesting.”
“Had a boss like that once,” Kevin says, leaning close, the warmth in his voice making Jeffrey feel like they’re almost... friends, or something. “Used to puke in every storm. Not great for a pirate.”
“Ah!” Jeffrey turns, feels the way the grin is spreading over his face. “So you are a pirate!”
Kevin lets out a sharp bark of laughter, bumps his shoulder against Jeffrey’s. It’s bare, thick, hot and a little sweaty, and Jeffrey is suddenly desperately regretting wearing a shirt—which is ridiculous, because he was just at Lady Wigglesworth’s faux-chateau surrounded by other men dressed just like him.
Counterpoint—without a shirt, Kevin’s arm would be touching his.
It’s a strong point!
They come around the final turn, and when the lights of the house come into view—a lantern burning in the parlor, and another he’d left in his window—Kevin whistles, low and long, the sound making Jeffrey’s manhood twitch in his rapidly-untucking shirttails.
“You can, uh, leave your stuff in the stables,” he says, suddenly, inexplicably shy. “It’s—nobody’ll go in there, what with Hippo’s tummy troubles.” Tummy troubles, he repeats to himself, horrified, and uses the sudden burst of energy to yank the dingy off the path into the woods. “I’ll help you.” He picks up a crate, fumbles it, nearly drops it—and when warm hands close over his forearms, steadying him, he can’t help but look up into smiling brown eyes. They look... kind, crinkles in the corners evidence of a lifetime of laughter, brightness fixed on Jeffrey’s face.
“Do you... want to come in?” he finds himself asking, and Kevin’s hands gently take the crate from his grip and set it aside.
Beard-bristly lips—softer than Jeffrey could have imagined, both skin and beard velvet-lovely—land on his own. When Kevin’s hot, solid belly presses into Jeffrey’s, he thinks, maybe my pirate adventure isn’t a dream after all.
#
(Sneaking Kevin out the next morning past his aunt almost works—but the pirate, dressed in Jeffrey’s own clothes, resplendent in deep purples and turquoise, charms her as easily as he’d charmed Jeffrey himself. And when he kisses Jeffrey at the door, he presses a scribbled piece of paper into his hand before disappearing into the dawn.
When Jeffrey smooths the paper out, after he’s finally stopped staring at the spot Kevin had disappeared into the trees, it’s a map to an island off the coast—and there’s a heart marking a spot where Kevin’s drawn a tiny house, along with a date two weeks in the future.
Jeffrey folds it gently and tucks it into the pocket of his dressing gown, just over his own heart.)