Trilogy No. 109: Sail Away

by Lee Rowan

  Not two cots. One. Big enough for them both; it made perfect sense. Archer repeated his idea of the night before, that they should keep watches, and Will again discouraged the notion in a way that left no room for argument.

  Archer stared at the taut sailcloth, with its cover neatly folded at the foot. He tried not to think of Will stretched out upon it, half-naked and asleep, unconsciously alluring and utterly oblivious to his best friend's unworthy desires.

  Aboard ship, his unrequited longings were manageable; there were obstacles and distractions enough to keep him from dwelling too closely on the attractions of the shipmate whose black curls, deep brown eyes, kindness and courage had won his heart. In the year or so since he'd had the misfortune to fall in love with Will, he had not let his feelings overwhelm him so. Not more than once or twice. Well, perhaps a dozen times, at worst. But here, alone...

  Archer sighed. He was doing that a lot, lately. Sighing, and wishing he could either transport Will back to the Calypso or fuck him senseless. Neither of which was even remotely possible.

  He is going to send me mad.

  * * * *

  Marshall frowned into the tropical darkness and wondered what he was going to do, how he could broach the subject of his friend's health without sounding like a fussy old maid. But broach it he must. There was definitely something wrong with David.

  It didn't seem to matter what they'd eaten for dinner; they had only to settle down for the night and the problem presented itself, usually about the time Marshall was drifting off to sleep with Davy's back snug against his. Davy would start to shift restlessly, then he would hop up, find his boots, and trot off down the path. Something wrong with his insides, no doubt, but he never seemed to have the problem during the daytime.

  Not that Marshall entirely minded. His own body seemed determined to embarrass him, and he found himself utilizing the minutes of Davy's absence to relieve his inappropriate urges. The privacy was helpful, but he was starting to worry about Davy's health. He didn't seem to be sleeping well at all.

  But it seemed he'd hardly been gone for two minutes than there he was, back again, climbing onto the cot and settling down near the edge. “G'night, Will."

  Marshall hesitated a moment, wondering if he should inquire after his friend's health once more. No point; Davy would give that odd, annoyed little sigh and reassert that he was fine.

  Perhaps tomorrow.

  * * * *

  Marshall shifted drowsily, warm and comfortable but aware of a slight tugging, a faint bit of pressure. Just at the edge of sleep, he let his hand drift down to find his cock, nudging it forward just a bit as his fingers closed around the shaft. It felt good. But it also felt ... odd. Wrong. As though, somehow, his cock was slightly numb. He closed his fingers a little more firmly, to no effect.

  And then his slowly wakening senses told him that was not his own member he was holding with such affection. And that the pressure along the length of his shaft came from its being tight against, and between, Davy's firmly rounded buttocks. Their was no space between their bodies; even his face was against the back of Davy's neck, just where it joined the shoulder.

  Shock held him motionless. And in that split second of horrified, mortified awareness, he sensed that Davy was also holding very, very still. Not even breathing. Waiting.

  I wonder if he'd believe I'm still asleep? But no, the frozen moment was becoming endless; he had lost the opportunity to feign a snore and roll away.

  He drew in a breath, a few golden hairs tickling his nose. What to say? What could he say?

  The obvious, of course. “Davy, I—"

  He started to draw his hand away, and to his astonishment Davy caught it in both his own, holding it where it was.

  "Don't stop!” he commanded in a strangled whisper. “For God's sake, Will, don't stop!" He thrust into Marshall's grasp, and with each movement ground his arse against Marshall's overstimulated organ.

  Will's body needed no more encouragement, and any uncertainty about handling the unfamiliar equipment was overridden by Davy's wordless encouragement. He matched Davy's rhythm, his sweat and Davy's making it almost too smooth, too slippery—a moment's frustration when it seemed he could not get close enough—and he was drowning in a wave of pleasure that blotted out thought. He heard Davy cry out, shivering; the cock in his hand seemed to swell and throb, and then Davy relaxed against him, letting out a long, deep breath.

  As the overwhelming physical reaction began to subside, he was left again his usual self-conscious self, wondering what on earth had possessed him. Davy's softening cock slipped from his grasp, but before he could draw his arm away, Davy pulled it close, holding Marshall's hand to his lips.

  "Thank you,” he murmured.

  Marshall laughed, embarrassed. “For what?"

  "'S’ wonderful. Thank you.” And he snuggled back, not letting go, and eventually began to snore.

  Nonplussed, Marshall lay there, acutely uncomfortable. He tried tugging his hand loose but didn't want to wake his—dear God, friend, yes, but—what else, now? What more?

  He had to get up and find somewhere else to sleep ... but where? His body was making it clear that he was already falling asleep—now was the time and here the place. He knew he wouldn't be out for long, though, and after all, Davy tended to sleep like the dead ... and it felt so good to hold him like this, his cheek resting on the side of Davy's head. Tomorrow, though—what would he do tomorrow?

  Even that worry could not keep his eyes open.

  * * * *

  As Will's breath evened and his body started to relax, David Archer let his feigned snore return to normal breathing. He could scarcely believe what had just happened, could not believe that Will had gone through with it.

  He opened his eyes, staring out into the mottled darkness of the tropical growth. His desire was, for once, sated. A great contentment filled him, even though he knew that the morning would bring its own difficulties. Will would not simply accept the role of lover—no, that was making it too simple. He would not accept the role of sodomite, even though what they'd done might not technically have been that.

  He's not going to want me. Not going to want me in the same bed, that's certain.

  Well, in a way that might make life a little less trying, wouldn't it?

  No. Not after this—the brief ecstasy followed by the warmth against his back, the sheltering arm around him, the breath against his cheek. He had managed to struggle up to the mountaintop, glimpse the Promised Land—and know that it would be denied him.

  He smiled at his own melodrama. Perhaps not. Perhaps Will would consider that if they were to be trapped on this godforsaken chip of land, they could share this pleasure at least until they were rescued. If they were rescued. Right now, he fervently hoped they could stay here forever.

  They wouldn't. Not forever.

  But just for now...

  Spent, weary, content for just this precious moment, he slipped off to sleep.

  * * * *

  As he'd expected, Will was gone when he awoke. Archer got up, broke his fast with a couple of the custard-fruit, and wandered down to the empty beach. The sea stretched out endlessly, gentle waves rolling up to lap at the shore. Birds wheeled overhead, but no sail broke the smooth line of the horizon.

  And no Marshall in sight.

  Poor Will. No telling how long it would take him to get over his embarrassment. And in the meantime, there were shellfish and coconuts to hunt. He pulled on his trousers, rolling up the cuffs, and set off to forage. He would have preferred to wander around without the garment, but the sight of a decently covered torso should reassure William that his shipmate hadn't cast aside all civilized behavior.

  It wasn't until the sun neared its zenith that Archer began to feel just a little uneasy. Perhaps he should go looking ... No, it wouldn't do to hunt Will down, he'd done nothing wrong. Neither of them had.

  But knowing Will, that might not be how he would see it. William was courteous to the po
int of being annoying. If something went amiss, he was quick to take the blame for it.

  How would he see what had transpired last night? Would he see it? Or would he act as though nothing had happened? That would be easiest, certainly. Behave as though it had been an odd dream, nothing more, and find a plausible reason for changing the sleeping arrangements so the distressing incident could not be repeated.

  That, Archer decided, was the likeliest reaction. The other possibilities—guilt, anger, recriminations—Will would go through all that, but most probably the conflict would remain within the confines of his own skull. They would not speak of what had passed between them, and eventually Will would be able to convince himself that it had never happened.

  I wish I could.

  He smiled ruefully at the thought. No, I don't. He wanted to remember every second of it, every touch and sensation, even if there was no hope of ever having it again. Especially if there was no hope—

  "Davy..."

  He spun about, startled. He'd been so distracted he hadn't heard Will come up behind him. “Yes?"

  "Davy, I'm—” Will was anxious, hollow-eyed, as though he had not slept at all, and he would not look up. He had put his uniform back on, all of it, the brass buttons fastened up tight. He looked terribly uncomfortable. “I don't know what to say."

  "It wasn't a dream,” Archer blurted. “It was real."

  Will winced as though struck. “I know. And I'm sorry."

  "I'm not!” Before he could stop himself, Archer seized Will's arms, shaking him a little, startled at his own temerity. “I'm not. Don't apologize to me, I don't regret an instant."

  Will did meet his eyes then. Whatever he'd expected, it was obviously not this. “You don't?"

  "No, I don't. I only regret it was so quick. I was afraid you'd stop before—"

  "Davy!” The long fingers caught his arms just above the elbows. “Davy, don't you understand—I practically raped you!"

  "You—” He would have laughed, except he saw how deadly serious Will was. “Like hell you did! You were asleep, for God's sake!"

  "So were you!"

  "Not for long!"

  Will stared at him for the space of a breath, and his horror-struck expression suddenly wavered. A giggle escaped; he looked embarrassed, but relaxed just a bit, letting his hands drop. “I suppose not. But I shouldn't have—"

  "Don't blame yourself,” David insisted. It was his turn to hold onto his friend as he tried to turn away. He weighed what he wanted to say, what he wanted to do, and realized that to salvage anything, he would have to abandon his own desires. “Will, how long has it been since either of us had shore leave? Don't you just—go off, in your sleep sometimes? I do. We simply happened to be in the same bunk, that's all."

  He forced a smile, a shrug, a lie. “It felt good, I'll not deny it, but I don't suppose it was anything more. I won't drag you to the parson and demand you make an honest woman of me."

  He couldn't read the succession of emotions that flashed across Will's face before the on-duty mask slipped into place. Relief? Regret? What was he feeling? “I suppose ... So you think it was just physical, then?"

  Archer didn't know what to say. The truth? I love you, I want you, let's go back to bed! Hardly. He shrugged again.

  "It's still against the Articles...."

  "Bugger the—” He took a deep breath. “In case you hadn't noticed, Mr. Marshall, the Admiralty is not well-represented in this particular principality. We could break every one of the Articles singly or in groups, right in broad daylight on the beach, and they'd be none the wiser."

  Will's brows drew together and David could just imagine the pictures he was conjuring up. Damn his literal mind!

  "Not that I have any inclination toward breaking most of them,” Archer added hastily, “except perhaps that damned bloody Number Two, and we haven't the means for most of the others, seeing as they involve ships and we haven't got any.” Most of them. But he would dearly love to find as many different ways as possible of breaking Article Twenty-Nine.

  "Discipline is important,” Will said mechanically.

  Fine, then. Will was still speaking to him. The subject was rather more tedious than he'd have preferred, but at least they were still friends. “Yes, of course it is. You can't have a ship full of fighting men and keep them in order without discipline. And most of the articles make sense. If the food's rotten, you have a duty to let your officers know, so the crew doesn't get sick. Arson, robbery, murder—they're crimes, it's the same on land."

  "Of course."

  "But if you think I'm going to charge you with breaking Twenty-Nine, you'd better think again."

  The relief on Will's face, plain now, gave him courage. “I don't think the Articles belong in a friendship,” David went on. “The sensible ones are just law or good manners, and the—” Watch yourself, Archer! He stopped for a breath, thinking quickly. “The personal ones ... Twenty-Nine is useful to keep officers from abusing men under their command, or to make older ratings think twice about interfering with the youngsters. We both know men who deserved to swing. But so long as it doesn't affect ship's discipline, and isn't hurting anyone, I think a man's private life should be just that."

  Will let out a long breath, and sat down in the sand, raking long waving lines with his fingers. He was quiet for so long that Archer eventually hunkered down beside him. The sun was warm on his back, the sand cool where his toes dug into it. He studied his friend's pensive face, but could still read nothing. “Will?"

  "Davy...” His voice was very quiet, tentative. “Are you certain it was just physical? For you?"

  Archer felt himself flush, and cursed his fair skin. But Will was still looking at his own fingers as they made those smooth, curving patterns. “I—” He swallowed, hardly able to hear himself think over the thudding of his heart. “I don't suppose it matters, really."

  Will stopped his wave-making. “It matters quite a lot. I don't—it wasn't—” The long fingers clenched on a handful of sand. “Davy, for me—it wasn't just physical."

  Will dropped the sand, scrambling to his feet, dusting the remaining grains from his hands. “I'm sorry, Davy, I'll—I'll go camp on the other side of the island, I'm grateful for your toler—HEY!"

  He toppled quite nicely as Archer hooked a leg around his ankles and dropped him to the sand, then rolled so their faces were scant inches apart. Will's breath was warm and sweet.

  "Do you mean to tell me,” Archer said, “that your idiotic hammock wasn't an accident?"

  "No! I mean, no, it wasn't an accident, but it's not—I wasn't trying to seduce you, Davy!"

  "If that was you not trying—you damned near drove me mad, you know—I've been trotting off to make do in the bushes every night just to be sure I wouldn't skewer you before morning!"

  "Oh!” Will blinked. “Oh, you're all right?"

  "All right? I've had the worst case of blue balls—” His body was just about ready, at this point, for another trip to the underbrush, so he leaned close to demonstrate exactly what he meant.

  Will's eyes widened, but he didn't try to move away. “Oh. No, I—hell, Davy, I thought you had some kind of flux!"

  "If that's what you want to call it...” Giddy and reckless, he rolled over, pulling Will atop him and drawing his face down for a kiss. Their first kiss. That sensuous mouth, sampled so often in his dreams, was every bit as intoxicating in reality. Will was very, very tentative, and David wondered whether this was the first time he'd ever been kissed—it was surely the first time with another man—but Will was a quick study.

  "I do think it's contagious,” he remarked after a little while.

  "Yes,” Will agreed a little breathlessly. “Aren't you squashed?"

  "Yes. It's wonderful. Care to try again?"

  "Yes."

  Perhaps it was foolish, even dangerous, to make love on the open sand. But there had been nothing on the horizon for as far as the eye could see, and he was not going to do anything that migh
t distract Will, or give him cause to reconsider. It would not take long; the way Will was writhing against him he could only just keep from spending.

  Damned uniform buttons ... it took forever to undo enough of them to work Will's trousers down his hips. No drawers, thank God, he'd come up on deck in such a hurry when the storm hit, there'd been no time to put them on. Couldn't get at his own buttons at all, didn't care, he could touch bare skin now as he hadn't been able to the night before. The sweet hunger overwhelmed him as he ran his hands up Will's back, falling into the same rhythm as the breath panting against his neck. He wrapped his legs around Will's, reached down to squeeze his arse and lock them together as the pleasure reached unbearable intensity.

  "Davy!"

  And then they were lying quietly, laughing, holding one another, washed up on another shore.

  "We'd better go back in the trees,” Archer said after a time. “You won't like the sunburn you'll get if you fall asleep in that position."

  Will looked startled, suddenly. “Oh my God!"

  Archer glanced past him. “No ships,” he said. “No one to see, Will. Only you and I."

  "Let's go back to camp, then."

  "Yes."

  Will was frowning already as they sat up, brushing sand off their bodies. “Davy ... what will we do on the Calypso?"

  "If you think you can get your yard up when you know Captain Smith's around, you've more nerve than I,” Archer said. “I think once we're back on the Calypso, we'll have to wait for shore leave and practice by ourselves—each of us, alone."

  "We'd—we'd better practice together a bit more, while we can!” Will looked a little abashed at his own boldness, but Davy rewarded him for it with another kiss.

  He did want to get into the cool shade, though. He wanted to see Will naked on that cot, wanted to show him what they could share, until they were both too tired to keep their eyes open. “Come on, then!” He scrambled up and ran for their camp, but Will's longer legs overtook him before he'd even reached the trees.