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Perhaps
Sometimes, at night, before I fall asleep, there is a part of my mind that tells me stories. All right, to be honest, it's most of the time. And it has been so for as long as I can remember. My stories, told to myself - and yet it almost feels like someone else is doing the telling. Lately, the stories have quite often concerned a certain pirate and a certain Commodore - not that I complain. Most of the time, I just curl up and listen, so to speak, and the stories will come, sometimes slowly, bit by bit, sometimes complete before the first word is shaped. Sometimes I try to cling to one bit or other, to carry it with me through sleep, so I can use it at a later time, if it still seems as right as it did just before sleep took me. And sometimes - very rarely - I get up and get my glasses and a pen and some paper and I write down what I am told. Last night was one of those times.
Perhaps
by Oneiriad
Disclaimer: Potc are not mine. Jack is not mine. James is not mine.
James fell in love with Jack.
It’s an old story, really, told many times before. In many ways, this time was no more remarkable than any of the others.
Perhaps it had started on the docks – with a handshake and a leer and a look and a chase. Perhaps.
Perhaps it had started at the fort – high and mighty Fort Charles – with brief words, and kohl-rimmed eyes gazing into broken-hearted ones. Perhaps.
Perhaps it started with the Act of Grace, given by the Governor after much daughterly pressure – forcing Commodore to deal with pirate – sorry, to deal with privateer Captain on a regular basis. Perhaps.
Or perhaps it even started with the dinner invitation, and it was hard to tell whether the inviter was more surprised than the invited at it happening or vice versa. But Jack went and ate cherry pie and drank brandy at a naval man’s table. Laughter echoed in the night. So, perhaps.
It had been slow at first – both had tasted hurt before, both were cautious. Still, there were other dinners, and meetings at taverns and at inns. Once they even went to see a travelling troupe of actors – Jack made catcalls and threw nuts at the poor people, while James rolled his eyes at his antics.
Slow at first, yes, but something took root. Something grew. Something set a bud.
In the Commodore’s bed they met – for James thought Jack might derive some small pleasure from that location, and he wished to give it to him. Jack stroked and kissed and licked and sucked and swallowed, but when James – fair man that he was – tried to repay the favour, Jack suddenly stiffened, froze, and then batted his hands away. Then he left, leaving behind a spent and confused and hurt man.
Jack went back to his ship and his cabin. He stood before a large mirror and removed the clothes he had hastily thrown back on. He studied himself, fingers travelling over tanned skin.
He found the sores. One-two-three, he counted. Three too many. Far too many.
Alone in his cabin, he thought of white skin, smooth and unblemished. He imagined sores on that skin. He imagined ravings in that crisp voice. Tears stung his eyes. He could not bear those thoughts.
And so he would not have it.
Three days later black sails caught a morning breeze, carrying a ship out to sea. Rumour had it they were going far away – some said to Singapore, some said to Madagascar, some said they were going after the very Manila Galleon. The only thing the rumours all agreed on was that they were not coming back any time soon, if ever.
High above, at a place where it might have started, James stood, a sash left behind by a too-hasty departure wound and wound and wound again in his hands. Alone and lost, he looked at the black sails until they vanished below the horizon.
Perhaps one day he would receive a letter – explaining, apologizing, asking for forgiveness for that single, terrible act of piracy that a certain scoundrel had not found it within himself to commit.
Perhaps…
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