Work Text:
The crashing of waves on the side of the ship’s helm and stern had drowned out the noise of hearties in the mess hall. Glasses clinking together as chatter filled the room, permeating into the walls.
Ashcroft sat in the corner, in perfect view of the center of the room.
The sound of a parrot cawing was the only thing he actively focused on, other than the sound of the ocean splashing around them.
Warm lights highlighting the shadows on his face and casting a soft glow on his black-and-white feathers on his head and back. A hand propped up onto his jaw, his gaze slacked and fell onto the figure in the middle of the mess hall.
Captain Silas Hawthorne in all of his glory.
What?
He sighed to himself, taking a sip of the rum the crew had stolen in the last town they had ransacked, just watching as if it was the most natural thing to do in his mellow state.
Hawthorne was chatting with his mates, clinking glasses with them as he conversed.
A captain with a tongue as clever as his would naturally be even more witty and quick-thinking when he let loose.
Insufferable natt.
Hawthorne’s blond hair shone under the warm light. Was it always that shiny? Ashcroft thought to himself, eyeing him. His tanned skin vibrant and glowing as if he had been kissed by the Sun herself.
Lucky Sun.
The sound of a bird grinding its beak broke his train of thought, parrot trilling as it landed on his table.
“Hello, Cole.” Ashcroft grumbled, his fingers scratching against the green feathers under his beak. Cole’s beak crackled under his touch, his eyes closing as his feathers puffed up.
Captain Coleslaw the III. A funny name for a bird, why was he named like that anyway? He sighed and eventually stopped scratching as the bird kept its place on the table.
His eyes eventually fell back onto where Hawthorne was situated.
He looked at his face, really looked, as much as he could from the distance between them. Perhaps being part eagle really was helpful.
Hawthorne’s eyebrows were a soft, dusty blond, slightly darker than his hair. Surprisingly, when tiddly, the furrow in his brows seemed to lessen.
His eyes were another thing. Sharp and piercing whenever he took on the captain role to heart, but now… they looked bright, soulful even in the mess hall’s lighting.
Then his gaze drifted down onto Silas’s cheekbones, his cheeks, and then his mouth. Staring at the thin trail of scar marking the skin, the scar was an earthy-toned light pink, seemingly unnatural and too earthy for someone who spent so much time around the ocean, but it felt so right on his pink lips.
He continued to ogle, eyes moving to his throat. Ashcroft squinted in his direction, swishing his glass as he watched the ice bob in the alcohol. Then Hawthorne brought the rim of his glass to his lips, taking a drink of the rum, his throat bobbing as he swallowed the liquid.
Ashcroft let out a quiet cough, almost uncomfortable as he watched the view.
It took him a moment to regain composure as he took a sip of his rum once more.
He forced his eyes off of Hawthorne, but they eventually landed on him again.
This time, they found their way to the get-up he was wearing. Hawthorne had taken off his scarf, hanging it on his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his hat, nor his coat, and some other miscellaneous accessories he decided not to keep on—however—he had noticed how the captain kept his feather earrings.
Ashcroft’s eyes fixed on where buttons were supposed to be on his collarbone, but alas, all he found was skin, and the sight of a part of his chest. Ashcroft’s brows furrowed, the crest of feathers that nestled between his hair raising up slightly.
Hawthorne’s black blouse hung loosely against his torso, hanging from all the right planes of his body. His loose sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. Ashcroft’s gaze stayed on them for a moment before looking back to the skin of his collarbone. It had… irritated him.
What are you doing, Nikolai? He huffed to himself.
“Quite a strumpet, isn’t he?” Ashcroft mused to the parrot on his table, scratching his head lightly.
Cole responded with a head tilt, his beak opening as he seemed to understand what Ashcroft had just said.
He needed a breather. Badly. He took a swig of his rum, finishing it as he wiped his mouth with the back of his palm. He then stood up, the chair seated under him bumping against the back of his leg as it moved back, his wings stretching slightly as they were no longer cramped into the tight space.
Ashcroft hadn’t even pushed the chair back as he beelined for the door of the mess hall leading to the deck.
For a moment, he thought he had seen Silas’ eyes on him as he left.
Must have been the alcohol playing tricks on him.