Page 25 of Rears & Vices

Everard stared, knowing it was awkward behavior. He wanted to be looked at again. Looked upon and maybe even thanked. Instead, he was ignored and⁠—

Thwack. Paper cloth hit him in the chest. He clutched at it and glared at the culprit. D’Arcy raised insolent, sleek eyebrows.

“They were looking for you,” he drawled.

“What, at Bess’s?” Everard’s heart sank. “Already?” Had they been rough with their demands? Did she know of his charges? Had he kept the good widow from anything at all?

“At the docks,” came a soft, deep voice from the bed: Bellingham St. Clare. “Marine patrol. They were dawn seize orders.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Everard said. “I was told it was to be dawn, but that was aboard a ship in harbour. I didn’t think they’d put out a goddamned redcoat patrol for a witness!”

Just what in hell had Vitaliy done in his pirating? Had the admiralty ever been so dogged in their pursuit of one, save Blackbeard? Special-order marines, a covert court-martial…

The marines. He paused, suddenly realising. “You’re who told Preston about my impending arrest. Aren’t you, Private?” The address slipped out of long habit. He really mustn’t do that anymore—as it was no longer his right.

D’Arcy stood from the armchair. “Everard…”

The young man went so pink that his freckles nigh on disappeared, but he nodded. “Yessir.”

“Then thank you indeed, Mr. St. Clare, for informing him,” Everard said, turning to face the bed. If Vitaliy could not recognise his own sacrifice, he could bloody well recognise the poor marine’s. “Though I very much regret you had to be further dragged into this, and hope you don’t come to feel the same.”

They were the right words with the wrong tone, that sounded insincere even to his own ears. Mr. St. Clare ducked his head to his miniature scripture, his flush deepened to crimson.

“No, sir.”

Everard pulled on his day waistcoat with especial vigor—to hell with doing up buttons. “No, no—if everyone would please cease calling me sir!”

Vitaliy’s glance snapped back to him; this time, his brow was unmistakably furrowed, but Thom was finishing the last scrapes over his skin.

Thom withdrew, stropping the razor with wide eyes. Vitaliy sat up, put hands on his knees⁠—

Nothing. Still nothing. He was a statue, bloodless except for an inevitable nick by his jawbone that let a tiny drop of red.

D’Arcy took him by the left arm, spoke into his ear. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” He pulled. “Stop glaring. Come on—breakfast. You need it.”

“And then what?” Everard spat. He tried to shake free, but D’Arcy held his elbow fast. “After breakfast, what? And what about the patrol?”

That was the question, wasn’t it?

What now? What now?

“After breakfast,” D’Arcy said, unperturbed, “lunch. Then a nap? I haven’t had an undisturbed nap in years, seems like.” He made to open the door. “Or we could fuck; haven’t done that in as long⁠—”

He hissed, and let go Everard’s arm. Vitaliy was there beside him; he had plucked D’Arcy’s hand free and dropped it, like moving a kitten. It seemed to have taken as much effort. Then, ignoring D’Arcy’s grunt of protest, he stepped forward, and—slowly, watching for Everard’s flinch—reached and smoothed down the lapels of Everard’s waistcoat.

“What are you doing?” Everard asked stiffly.

“Dressing you. Might I?” Vitaliy asked.

“I—er—all right?” This close, he could feel the heat of Vitaliy, the life of him. He still had translucent lines of lather on his cheeks. He smelled like olive-oil soap curing in the sun.

One by one, Vitaliy began to do up the little brass buttons of the waistcoat. Everard didn’t move; neither did anyone else.

Vitaliy said, “I will tell you what after, if you wish to listen. You’re due at least that. Regardless of the circumstance, I owe you my life.”

There it was. And Everard didn’t know what to feel after all.

“I’m not due a thing,” he insisted. “I wanted⁠—”