Work Text:
The clap of a cannon shakes the ceiling above Michael’s head. He stumbles against the staircase, cursing as the Retrouvailles teeters to the left; down below, the barrels bounce against each other, trapping Doué in their center. “Go ahead!” he cries, shooing Michael up the stairs. “I’ll be fine!”
There’s nothing to do but take his word for it: Michael scrambles onto the deck, weaving between Bradley and the brigand he’s wrestling with, dodging a cutlass to the head and a rapier to the stomach, beating a path towards the mast. The Retrouvailles is stooped on her side, her tall mast tangled in the enemy ship’s rigging. Michael feels around for his rapier and comes up empty. Luckily, there’s a scuffle happening nearby that looks promising enough: two men grappling — mystifyingly — with their hands, even though one of them’s got a sword strapped to his side. Michael recognizes the empty-handed one as one of their boatswains, so the idiot with the sword must be from the enemy ship; all the more reason to rob him blind.
He waits for their grappling to stall before he pounces. Quick as a knife, Michael rips the sword from its holster, knocking the man’s feet out from under him. He goes down with a grunt, sprawling out onto the deck in a pile of long, gangly limbs; Michael gives him a cursory look, pleased to find that he looks like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “Idiot,” Michael tells him. “If you’re gonna keep a sword, learn how to use it.”
The man stares up at Michael with his eyes wide. “What…?” he says dazedly.
But there’s no time to answer questions: the Retrouvailles is under attack, and if Michael doesn’t act quick, she’ll be dragged under. He slips past Jules and Rayan — pressed back-to-back as they fight off three burly men — then Kylian — who is in the middle of a fierce duel with the other ship’s loudly-dressed Captain — before the mast comes into view again, splintering under the weight of its burden. Michael jams the sword in his belt and grabs hold of the rigging, hauling himself up. He’s used to climbing the mast, so it doesn’t take long at all for him to reach the top, where a knot of thick ropes forms the union between the Retrouvailles and the enemy ship. Glancing down one last time at his crew below, Michael starts to hack away at the rigging.
It doesn’t take long for the Retrouvailles to pop free, but as soon as it does, Michael is almost hurled right off the mast. He feels himself stumble back over the crow’s nest, and then he’s tipping over: for a moment, all he can see is the sky, a deep and mournful blue, and then suddenly, somebody jerks him forward again.
Breathlessly, they say: “Caught you.”
Michael’s heart is in his throat. He scrambles out of the stranger’s grasp and points the sword at his throat. “Who…?” he says, then falters: it’s the idiot from the other ship, the one Michael stole the sword from.
“Are you okay?” he asks. The ship rocks beneath them. Michael can hear Kylian’s shouts from below as the rest of the crew begins to hurl the enemy overboard. “That must’ve been scary.”
Michael gives him a bewildered look. What on Earth is he doing up here? Is he mad? Acting like Michael’s some kind of hapless civilian, stumbling around like a damsel in distress — what’s his deal?
“I’m glad you could put my sword to good use,” the stranger asks. “Ah, but could I have it back, maybe? It’s a little scary out here.” For whatever reason, he’s grinning now, like Michael’s in on his little joke. He pinches the end of the blade as it presses against his throat. “Unless you’d like to protect me?”
Michael gives him an incredulous look. “Back off,” he says, right before he jumps off the crow’s nest.
He catches himself on the rigging, swinging down over Manu, who’s sweeping the remaining stragglers off the ship. Doué is finally making his way out of the cellar, having missed a majority of the action; he claps a hand on Kylian’s shoulder and helps him heave the enemy Captain’s listless body against the mast. Michael helps Manu corner whoever’s left, and together, they tie the rest of the crew to the base of the mast, conscious and unconscious alike.
“Wait,” Michael says, remembering the idiot from earlier. “There’s one more.”
The man must really be an idiot, because he’s leaning over the crow’s nest when Michael looks up. He doesn’t seem at all interested in escaping, nor does he seem worried about his safety. He grins and climbs down the rigging, and when Michael approaches with his sword out, the idiot kneels at his feet and holds his wrists out for tying.
“Are you the Captain?” he asks, once he’s bound.
Next to Michael, Doué snorts. “Michael? No, no. Clearly the Captain’s the one with the fancy hat.”
“Ah, I see.” The man gives Kylian’s hat an appreciative look. “It’s nice. I like the feathers.”
Kylian gives him a wry look. “Trying to curry favor, are you? We’re not going to spare your life for a petty reason like that.”
“No?” The man sets his round, glossy eyes upon Michael again. “Really?”
“What’re you looking at me for?” Michael mutters.
“You’re the only one I know,” the man says.
Michael scowls at him, pressing his sword to the man’s throat. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know your name.” The man grins, his eyes curving up into little half-moons. “It’s Michael, isn’t it? I heard it earlier.”
Michael shoots Doué a withering look. “A name means nothing,” he says, as Doué whimpers an apology. “We know a lot more about you than you do about us. You’ve been smuggling cargo in our territory, leeching off the Retrouvailles’.” Michael presses the sword deeper, nicking the man’s skin. Blood wells up in a thin slit, traveling down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his billowing shirt. He’s dressed rather nicely, Michael realizes, clad in a grey vest and expensive-looking trousers, wearing boots with hardly a fleck of mud on the soles; he smells rather nice too, something mild and unassuming, which is always — paradoxically — indicative of wealth. “No,” Michael says slowly, as it dawns on him. “You’re not with them at all, are you?”
The man smiles and says nothing.
Kylian pulls Michael back by the shoulder. “You,” he says, pointing first to the enemy Captain, then at the man bound at Michael’s feet. “Do you know him?”
The Captain spits at Kylian’s feet. “Why should I tell you, you swine?”
Auré jams his sword into the wood over the Captain’s head. “We’ll make a swine out of you, bastard.”
“You’ll die before you touch me,” the Captain gripes. “Bastards, the lot of you... I’ll sink you to the bottom of the sea when I’m free.”
Doué laughs. “You’ll be sinking somewhere when you’re free, but we’re not coming with you.”
“Savages. You’d drop a man into the sea without even untying him first?” The Captain fights against his restraints. “Damn you! Let me go!”
“Answer my question first,” Kylian orders. “Who is this man? Is he one of yours?”
“He’s a stowaway,” the Captain grits out. “I’ve never seen him in my life.”
All eyes return to the stranger, who is still slowly bleeding from the point where Michael’s sword cut him. “What, really?” he says, feigning surprise. “But I see you all the time, Richard. We’ve shared a meal together. I’ve seen you in your breeches.”
The Captain squawks indignantly. “Stop messing around,” Michael says, putting pressure on the blade. “Who are you?”
“It’s like he said. I’m a stowaway.” At Michael’s withering glare, the man bows his head with a little grin. “My name is Jamal.”
“Oh,” says Upa.
“What?” Kylian turns to him. “What is it?”
Upa crouches in front of Jamal with a haunted look. “You said your name was Jamal,” he says slowly. “Not Musiala, surely.”
Jamal looks away. If his hands were free, Michael is sure he’d be doing some stupid gesture, scratching his cheek or rubbing his neck, all sheepish and bashful. “Well…”
“What?” Kylian demands. “What’s going on?”
“Well, Captain,” Upa mutters with a haunted look. “It appears we’ve captured a Prince.”
—
Before they decide what to do with Jamal, Kylian declares that first, they must feast. They toss the enemy Captain and his gaggle of counterparts over the edge of the ship and start tidying up the deck, leaving Michael to entertain Jamal, who is currently laughing to himself as he rubs his sore wrists. “Why do I have to watch him?” Michael mutters, before Doué leaves to join Bradley in the kitchens. “You know I’m not good at talking to new people.”
“I dunno,” Doué whispers. “The Captain thinks he likes you. Look, he’s practically wagging his tail.”
Sure enough, when Michael looks over, Jamal is staring up at him with an eager look. “So,” he says brightly. “What kind of pirate are you?”
Michael sits down next to him. “What kind of prince are you?” he shoots back. “Your lot doesn’t usually bother with the sea. Don’t you have a throne to fight for?”
Jamal shrugs. “If I had it my way, there wouldn’t be a throne at all.”
“An oligarchy, then,” Michael guesses.
“Try a People’s Republic,” Jamal says.
Michael stares at him. “If you want something like that, what are you doing all the way out here?”
Jamal hums, staring out at the roiling sea. Yellow light bleeds out from the open doorway in one long stripe, casting a warm glow over his face. Kylian’s raucous laughter reaches them from all the way out on the deck, joined by Doué and Ousmane; Michael feels untethered all of a sudden, like he’s in the middle of a dream. It’s much too dark for him to see what Jamal’s expression is like, but he can hear the shrouded emotion in Jamal’s voice when he speaks: “I wanted to see what it was like.”
Michael frowns. “What, being a pirate?”
“Sailing the sea,” Jamal says. “It’s liberating. There aren’t many rules out here, are they?” Michael shakes his head, and Jamal continues on: “Is that what brought you out here too?”
“Something like that,” Michael replies. “I’ve always wanted to sail: I didn’t really care what for. Back when I was a kid, I really looked up to Neymar and the Anhanga, before they sank off the Cote d’Azur. Becoming a pirate seemed natural.” He sniffs, looking down at his feet. It’s kind of cold out. “The first few ships I went on were shit. But then I met Kylian, three years ago, and now…”
“Now you’re here,” Jamal finishes for him.
“Now I’m here,” Michael agrees. “I always knew I’d make it, though.”
“I can see why,” Jamal says, smiling at him, small and soft.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Michael asks.
“Just, ah, you’re good at what you do,” Jamal says hastily. His ears are a little pink. “Knocking people off their feet and all that. Um, what’s the word — swashbuckling.”
Michael snorts out a laugh. “Thanks. You looked like a right idiot today when I knocked you down.”
“I felt like one,” Jamal says. “But that flew out of my head when I saw you.”
Michael feels himself flush. He ducks his head, hiding his face from Jamal’s warm, earnest gaze. “Shut up,” he mumbles, fiddling with the hilt of Jamal’s sword. “Flattery doesn’t work on me.”
“You didn’t even let me finish,” Jamal says amusedly. “How do you know I was trying to flatter you? I could’ve been insulting you. Maybe your clumsy sword-handling made me feel like less of an idiot.”
“Clumsy?” Michael says, affronted. “You’re the clumsy one, leaving your sword out like that for anybody to grab.”
“You caught me off guard,” Jamal protests. “Besides, once I realized you took my sword, I had no interest in getting it back. You seemed like you needed it more than me. And anyway,” he pauses, and Michael’s curiosity gets the better of him. It’s a mistake, meeting Jamal’s eye. His gaze wells with such staggering warmth that Michael can feel the heat of it prickle against his skin. “I stopped seeing sense once I caught sight of you. You’re really…” Michael blinks at him, wide-eyed, and Jamal huffs out a breathless laugh. “You’re really pretty, Michael.”
The stars twinkle overhead. Jamal’s eyes themselves feel some kind of celestial body, gleaming in the dark as they fix on Michael. “Oh,” Michael says.
He’s saved from having to come up with anything more by Doué, who walks up to them with a crooked grin, smelling of garlic and cooking oil. “I’m very sorry to interrupt,” he says, shooting Michael a sly look. “But dinner’s ready.”
“Shut up,” Michael says stonily, springing to his feet and stalking towards the door. Jamal follows after him with a little smile.
Dinner is a rowdy affair. Michael keeps to himself like always, smiling over the rim of his cup at Doué’s enthusiastic retelling of Kylian’s duel with the enemy Captain. Jamal sits across from him, splitting his attention between the crew and Michael, albeit unevenly: he spends most of his time studying Michael so intensely that Michael begins to feel like he’s pinned to his chair. Under the table, their knees knock together. Jamal winds his foot around Michael’s ankle and grins as he bites steak off the end of his knife.
“Some prince you are,” Michael says.
“I’m trying to fit in,” Jamal replies.
Michael gives him a wry look. “We use our utensils and our manners, thanks.”
“Elbows off the table too?” Jamal asks with a little grin. Mystifyingly, he seems to find everything Michael says funny.
“If you want to spare them,” Michael replies, just as Rayan leaps onto the table and starts to bellow a sea shanty, nearly stomping on Jamal’s hand right before it retreats.
Once the crew is swept into song, everyone gets progressively drunker. Jamal doesn’t take the drink he’s offered, which is just fine by Michael, who would rather not baby-sit a drunk prince; instead, he drags Jamal out of mess by his elbow and brings him up onto the deck, where the cold bites at their fingers and the drowsy warmth sloughs off of them.
“I’m going to bed,” Michael tells him. “You’ll have to sleep in the Captain’s quarters.”
“What?” Jamal frowns. “I can’t share with you?”
Michael gives him an incredulous look. “Are you mad? Two people can’t share a hammock.”
“Sure they can,” Jamal says simply. “I’ll be on one end, you be on the other. How big is this hammock?”
“Not big enough for two,” Michael shoots back.
“I could fit,” Jamal insists, grasping his wrist. Michael, caught off guard by his touch, lets go of any protest he was about to make. “We can just squeeze together. What’s so wrong with that? I’m sure you've done it before, living on a tiny ship like this.”
“Tiny?” Michael echoes. “The Retrouvailles isn’t tiny, you’re just posh.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter if I’ve done it before. It’s different when it’s… you.”
Jamal stares at him, his eyes glittering in the dark. “Different how?” he asks, hushed.
Michael ducks his head, staring at Jamal’s fingers, pressed to his quivering pulse. “You’re…” he says helplessly. “You’re just…” He tries to make sense of it, this squirmy feeling in his chest that makes him feel like he’s splitting apart when Jamal is up close. “You’re different,” he finishes. “That’s all. I don’t know why, but…”
Suddenly frustrated with himself, Michael falls silent. He’s startled out of his brooding by the feeling of Jamal’s warm palm cupping his cheek. “I think I know why,” he says quietly, his gaze achingly tender. “I can show you, if you’ll let me.”
Imperceptibly, Michael nods. Slowly, Jamal leans in, guiding him forward by the curve of his jaw, and presses his lips to Michael’s. Warmth blooms from every point where their skin touches. Michael feels like he’s on fire, like Jamal’s stripped his soul open, his heart shuddering with an incomprehensible relief: his breath escapes him in a small, unsteady gasp, and he fists his fingers in Jamal’s collar to keep from stumbling right into him. Nobody Michael’s kissed before has ever done so like this: gently, sweetly, like his mouth is something to revere. Jamal’s hands cradle his face so carefully that he’s almost afraid he really will break.
“Do you get it now?” Jamal asks, when they break apart. His eyes are dark and wet; his gaze is so incredibly soft it makes Michael’s chest hurt. He rubs a thumb over Michael’s lip, pressing into the corner of his mouth. Every gesture he makes is fragile. Is it because he’s a prince? No, Michael thinks. This unbearable, overwhelming adoration that bleeds right out of him, warm and sticky-sweet: it could only be because of Jamal.
The world seems so much larger with Jamal in it: he hadn’t thought that was possible.
“Yeah,” Michael says, breathless. I do.”