Page 103 of Rears & Vices

Could their matelotage still be false for Vitaliy? A convenience? A… tool?

“You’ve… used me to placate him. That pretty French bastard. That’s what I am to you? A political tool? Some kind of alliance?” He staggered back—Vitaliy reached out, stopped himself quick with a press of flattened lips, as if afraid—and Everard stumbled, shoulders back into the closed door to the parlour, meaning to flee.

But—the parlour, where the Stanhope press sat. The parlour, with dangerous paper and ink and even more dangerous words.

The press had been a gift. An option. An alternative. Vitaliy had, in fact, encouraged him off and away from the Sévère.

Alarie’s motivations weren’t Vitaliy’s. They couldn’t have been. Vitya wouldn’t have manipulated him for the sake of Alarie. Because at no point had it seemed like Vitaliy wanted to utilise Everard for anything—so much so, in fact, that Everard had felt quite useless. Kept.

It had been by design. Not making Everard feel useless—that was Everard’s own insecurities clamoring—but Vitaliy had carefully not obliged from him anything. Not a single thing. He’d wanted piracy to be Everard’s choice. Had given him options.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want him to stay.

Everard glanced beyond Vitaliy to where D’Arcy sat lounged, totally unselfconscious to be eavesdropping. The very fact he wasn’t up in arms at Everard’s side, in defence of him, said almost everything.

Then D’Arcy looked up and smiled. Winked.

If it weren’t real, he wouldn’t have done it.

Almost everything.

“I don’t believe you,” Everard said quietly. “I think you are lying to me, Vitya.”

Vitaliy’s eyes widened. His skin was flushed in reverse, the pale chest blooming red beneath the laces of his shirt, his tanned face blanched grey as bone.

“That’s what Alarie wants, maybe. But that wasn’t what you wanted, when you asked me to be your matelot.” Everard stepped closer and put hands up to either side of Vitaliy’s face, threaded his six fingers through soft hair as gently and insistently as the first day they’d met—Come here, come here, come close.

Vitaliy, who had wept to be used as a weapon. Vitaliy, who had been pressed and made into a king’s soldier and spy and people’s pirate and revolutionary’s filibuster and—while he slept, most vulnerable of all—other men’s lover.

Vitya wanted him. Had wanted him. Wanted so badly now, he shook with devastation.

Everard said, “You wanted me.”

Vitaliy let out a trembling, uneven breath. “I did,” he confessed. “Yes. Yes. You are brave, and considerate, and very intelligent, and selfless and loyal, and I think war does not… the Navy did not deserve you,” he said fiercely. “Neither do I. You should have the San Telmo, your own fleet, and gain and glory. But I want you here anyway. I want you because of it.”

Everard said, “Vitya…”

“That’s truth. The rest of it was a lie. I’m sorry. But here you are wasted, and everyone knows it. I thought you maybe wanted—if I could make it easier, make it justified for you to go…”

“Listen.” Everard put his forehead on Vitaliy’s, felt the man bring his hands over Everard’s wrists—maybe to break his grip, or maybe just to touch him.

Everard said, “My answer to Alarie was no. I told him absolutely not. No. Never. I don’t want to be his admiral. I wouldn’t be his bloody king if he asked. I have what I want,” he said firmly, and clutched tighter, moved the tips of his fingers across the sensitive nape. Vitaliy shuddered; his eyes closed. “I have it here. It isn’t the San Telmo, or an admiralty, or a fleet, or glory. It’s here. With you. That’s all.”

He leaned in—Vitaliy’s hands over his wrists spasmed, and his breath came in hot, sweet puffs from that quiet, perfect mouth⁠—

Distantly Everard heard the creak of upholstery, high-heeled boots stepping as quietly as they could manage with the halting limp; his haze broke apart in waves as he turned slightly.

D’Arcy put a hand on Everard’s shoulder as he slipped past. He murmured the familiar, wry “Finally. Don’t kill each other.”

“No,” Vitaliy said loudly.

D’Arcy froze, his hand on the latch.

“No?” Everard said, startled.

“Lieutenant,” Vitaliy said, softer. His eyes were open, blue-black, pupils wide. His thumbs stroked at Everard’s wrists, over and over, as he drew back slightly. “Lieutenant, he means you as well.”

Had he?