The Steady Plan

[quigonejinn]

Bush had a steady plan for shore leave when alone -- it was different, necessarily, when he was with other officers, but with the necessities of taking on supplies, of water casks and biscuit storage, there were plenty of times when he was alone on leave.

And when he was in a port with temporary freedom, he needed to make the most of it. In fact, he had followed his method for years. It was simple, and it had yet to disappoint. Find an officer tavern. Get blindingly drunk. Go upstairs or next door with an obliging woman. Fuck her until his money ran out and she begged off.

He had even modified the plan somewhat this time. He hadn't even intended on touching the boy: get him blindingly drunk, maybe. Normally, maybe something about getting somewhat drunk himself, and then, the two of them going upstairs with one woman. Maybe something about taking turns with her, maybe something about the warmth of lying in bed next to another man and how things occaisionally went on from there after she had left -- it was a plan that had worked, quite well, more than once, and Bush had bought him that first tankard out of nothing but general friendliness since he was sitting in the corner of the tavern, curled up and looking miserable and alone while Bush was in an expansive mood.

And then, the boy had turned a little so that his face was in the firelight, and Bush's mouth went dry.

Even a lieutenant with no imagination could see the resemblance.

...

So no going upstairs or next door, and Bush had the vague feeling that he was being sneakily drunk under the table -- the boy even had Hornblower's tricks for getting out of drinking like supposedly topping up everybody's glass when he had only barely touched his or splashing the side of his glass so that it looked like he was drinking more than he was. It would have signaled lack of enthusiasm, or maybe that Bush was getting set up to be robbed, except the boy was talking about ships. Mathematics. Navigation.

He was wearing a midshipman's uniform. Those could be bought, but he had also brught a book with him. To read. In a tavern. On port leave. He kept it on his knees, and Bush got a glimpse of the spine of it -- Norie's Seamanship, with a scrap of paper sticking out near the place where, from memory and close experience with the book, Bush knew to be the chapter about navigation in the low latitudes. All of this could be studied, learned off like a piece, which would mean that he would be ludicrously expensive, but Bush would have bet his life that was genuine enthusiasm, genuine knowledge.

No going upstairs. That face. Those hands. That way he had of almost licking his lips -- just laying his tongue on top of his lips, for a moment, just long enough for you to register that it was out before he remembered that it was a sign of youth, of inappropriate enthusiasm, to make such a face.

Bush's heart had been pounding for half an hour now; it ached, and so did the entirety of his chest. He had never seen Hornblower when Hornblower was a midshipman, but Bush swore that he just wanted to look at him, soak it up, and take it back to the Hotspur with him to be marveled over, thought about. Pulled out like a treasure.

And then, the boy bent close over the table, and said, very solemnly, with just a trace of red on his cheeks, "Do you play whist?"

...

There were cards on the floor. Bush wasn't entirely sure where they had come from, but he had a memory of a few brushing against his coat and drifting onto the floor when he'd leaned in and kissed -- the boy had been holding them, shuffling them, maybe, and Bush had come in too close for him to keep hold.

It hadn't been a long kiss. Bush was a sailor. He spent his life aboard ship, had never had a sweetheart worth mentioning, and it was mostly just to press his mouth against those lips and lick at the spot he had been watching all night. The boy was already taller than him. Bush had to pull his head down for the kiss, and the boy did, in fact, smell like the sea. He looked like a boy from some lights, but he was taller than Bush, had the smell of salt and tar in his clothes, was wearing a Navy uniform that Bush saw every day.

"You need four to play whist, midshipman," he said. The boy -- really, the young man -- was watching him with those rich brown eyes, kept looking at him over the midshipman's uniform. Both of them were panting; they could hear the tavern next door, and eventually, the boy reached down and began to unbutton his vest so that Bush might see him without it.

...

Later, Bush would curse himself for not being able to fix a better image of the boy's face in his mind.

What memory he did have was from the tavern, blurred by drink, and also, while he was fucking him from behind into the bed -- that jaw, that chin. The softness of the lashes when Bush ran his fingers over the eyes and they closed for him. The strong nose, and underneath, a mouth that was the softest thing that Bush thought he had ever felt, particularly when it opened and sucked the fingers of his left hand in. Hot, soft, and Bush took the hint and sank forward with all the weight of his body. All the way up, and as a reward, felt the boy tighten up underneath him and that soft, soft mouth go slack, too.

Earlier, he had taken Bush's fingers dipped in a little lamp oil. Bush had been settling in for a long bout of finger-fucking and preparation, but the first one had gone in easy with only a bit of a sigh and an arch of the back. The second went in just as smooth, without even a sigh, and the boy even went back onto the fingers, pressed himself in one smooth motion all the way up to Bush's palm.

Two fingers. All the way.

The boy was on his hands and knees, now, on the bed, palms braced against the wall behind the headboard and his legs spread behind. Bush was coaxing the boy's shirt up over his back, trying to get him undressed -- he thought he would have more time, plenty of time during a leisurely finger-fucking, and he wanted to see him naked. Even now, though, every time Bush would get the shirt to show more than a a few inches of back, the boy would move in the contrary direction.

He was using his palms and his knees to give him leverage. Bush was already in him, but the boy was trying to get more, and when Bush paused to concentrate on getting the shirt off, the boy tossed his head impatiently. He made as if to turn around, but Bush caught his hands -- not hard, but tightly enough so that the boy would know that he wasn't supposed to pull them free, that he was to hold still and not use the wall to press himelf back like that.

"Slowly," he said and pulled the boy into sitting position, leaned close himself until they were lying against each other, back to front. "We've got all night. When do you have to be back?"

The shirt was still between them, but it was thin, made of linen. It was a cheap shirt. There were a few ruffles at the wrist, and most of the volume around the neck came from curls that were almost free now. They were loose that they were disorderly; Bush could imagine that this was what Hornblower's hair looked like when he did not take the time to brush it out, could not imagine what it would take to get it to lie flat and amenable to being put into a queue. It felt wrong -- terribly wrong -- to think of his captain at this point because this was quite certainly not him, could not possibly be him, but now, the boy had shifted his weight.

He wasn't pulled against Bush anymore. He kneeling over Bush of his own volition, straddling him with his back to him.

"Sir," he said, almost in a whisper, raised up almost entirely off of Bush, then slid back down again. This time, he was the one using the weight of his body, and Bush was vaguely aware that he had mentioned his name in the tavern. He was also aware that he was gripping those boy's hands bruisingly hard. He had to be hurting him, but when Bush tried to loosen his grip, he found that his fingers would not obey him.

"William."

And then, again, amazingly. Almost begging. "Sir. Please."

The world went into a blur.

Afterwards, the boy curled up against him like a kitten against its mother, like the man he was, playing at being something less. Bush could see it, had felt it obscurely for most of the night, but he put a protective arm around him anyways and pulled him close.

It was a large bed; he had spent more for a place than he usually did. There was room. They could even draw the curtains and sleep like decent people, but it was difficult even to form thoughts anymore, even more to move, and it was far easier to fall asleep with the boy's breath against his chest.

...

The boy was gone when Bush woke. The cards, the book. Every trace of him, as far as Bush could tell. This, in and of itself, was not surprising -- no doubt he was due at bells, too, and when Bush counted his money, checked his watch, he found that it was all there. Washed hs face in the bit of water in the basin, tried to shake the worst of this strange weakness from him. Checked the room again to make sure that he was leaving nothing, and then went down the stairs and found the innkeeper.

"The young gentleman who I shared a room with last night," Bush said, holding the man by the elbow. "You wouldn't have seen which way he went, would you? Left? Right?"

He did not know the boy's name, but if he'd gone left, he was likely on a ship bound for the Mediterranean. Right, and he would have been going to the Caribbean, the New World. It would fit with the tab in Norie's about latitudes. The innkeeper looked at him, wide-eyed, for a moment, then pulled away.

"Young gentleman, sir?"

And the innkeeper made very daring and pulled a hair from the lapel of Bush's coat -- it was long and gold. It looked like a woman's, and it shone, very brightly, even in the weak morning light.




Again, let's pretend that this is not the most shallow fic ever, uh, and that it was not, ah, inspired by the fact that I had an icon that I was obsessed with last night and one of phantomsangel's that made me go *___*. Let's pretend that it was inspired by those nifty Japanese stories about a man who stops at a mysterious temple for a night?