Chapter Text
The Special is a glorious thing in the dying light of dusk.
The hull, now completely free of scum and debris, is a warm, soft shade of maroon. The sails are creamy and pristine, the crew tying them up rapidly with soft ropes as the ship drifts slowly into position. The clang of chains fills the air as the anchors drop.
Mere seconds later Queen Elizabeth drifts into the gap between the two other ships, the anchors lowering rapidly to aid in slowing her momentum. The ship is barely stopped before Brian’s crew is rapidly lowering a gangplank and rushing across onto the other ship.
“Come on, where’s the plank?” Crystal snaps. “Let’s go. Come on.”
John understands his impatience; with Roger so easily in reach, all he can do is fidget as the gangplank Is brought up. The wood clatters against Queen Elizabeth’s hull, and then John is all but running across the deck to be the first across it.
His boots meet the familiar deck of his ship, the fine cedar and oak faintly charred now but almost more beautiful for it. He looks around, eyes flicking across the smooth, blackened siderails and the bit of charred wood on one of the bannisters, searching for Roger and Freddie all the while.
“John!”
He spins, heart skipping a beat at the sight of blond hair—and Harris isn’t who he was looking for but he’s a sight for sore eyes all the same, grinning as he bounds across the gangplank from the Special.
“Can you believe it?” he crows. “Nobody can manage to stay dead around here, can they?”
And that’s when John fully takes in the healthy flush to his cheeks and the life in his eyes. “You mean—”
“Something about the curse breaking. I dunno. The captain knows more, I think,” he says, his smile just widening even more. “I’m just glad to be free. Do you have any idea how crowded that ship was getting?”
“Captain May is twice as happy, you know,” Ratty says as he hops down from the gangplank and strolls over to them. He’s still got his navy reds on but he’s torn the sleeves off of his jacket, leaving it a frayed-edged vest. Judging by the attire of the rest of the crew it’s a look that’s beginning to catch on. “Although I don’t know about sticking around this hunk of junk. Looks in need of a good paint job, doesn’t it?”
“I kind of like it,” John says faintly, his head spinning as he looks between the two of them. The din of voices is rising around them as more and more people come aboard, his crew mixing with Roger’s.
“Woah,” Harris jokes, clapping his arm. “You okay? Come on, it’s alright. Who would command this charred piece of shit into battle if you’re out of commission?”
“Not sure it can even take a good battle.”
“Oh, if it can survive sailing through hell I’m sure it can take the Royal Navy, no problem.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t work on getting her seaworthy in the meantime,” Harris says, already surveying the damage. “We can spend the night at it, and…”
“Of course,” John says, allowing a small smile. “Yeah. That’d be brilliant. Ratty, can you—”
“You don’t even have to ask,” Ratty grins. “I’ve got it covered. Go find your boy.”
He huffs out an approximation of a laugh, turning toward the aftdeck and scanning it quickly. The helm is abandoned, Roger nowhere in sight—and even through the crowd of people he can’t spot him, nor can he see Freddie anywhere.
He glances around one more time before heading quickly toward the door leading to the captain’s quarters, opening it quickly and turning into the tiny hallway. There are limited places he could be on the ship, and if he isn’t in there then—
Just as he rounds the corner in the hall he smacks into someone. He stops short.
Roger is looking right back at him, his eyes large and surprised and his gaze so heavy John feels like he’s pinned under it. The feeling doesn’t linger for long; Roger licks his lips as if to speak, and the movement snaps John straight back into the moment.
The hallway is already almost too narrow for two people to walk side by side; he barely has to step forward before Roger is pressed against the smoke-tarnished wall, his chest warm where it’s pressed against John’s own and rising and falling as he breathes, unerringly alive and moving and well, and John can’t help but bracket his hips with his hands and just feel him.
Roger’s hands find his cheeks, one finger tracing against the corner of his no doubt still-puffy eye, his mouth drawn and sad. “Deaky,” he whispers.
“You’re never doing that to me again,” John says to him. “Do you hear me?”
Roger’s eyes flick down to his mouth as if he’s watching his lips form the words.
“You don’t get to decide I can live without you, and that the world will be okay without you in it. We fucking need you.”
“I’m sorry,” Roger murmurs, and then his eyes are jumping back up to John’s own as he traces his cheek again. “I didn’t—I thought it would work. I didn’t think it through—didn’t know that you would—”
“Of course I—do you even understand how many people there are to miss you? You can’t just—”
“Okay,” Roger murmurs quickly. “Okay, okay.”
“Fucking asshole. You motherfucker.”
“I know, baby. Sweetheart,” he adds, and he leans forward and pecks John on the lips.
He probably just meant it as a punctuation to his point, but John doesn’t let him pull away. He chases his lips after the fact, kissing him hard and needy, and Roger clings to him just as hard and sighs through his nose as if being trapped between John and the wall is utter bliss, sucking on John’s tongue and easing the harshness of his movements and making John dizzy just by existing.
He doesn’t want to stop—he barely can stop, but his lungs are burning. He rests his forehead against Roger’s, breathing in his air and the first real breath of oxygen he’s drawn in over a day, reveling in the tiny act of being allowed to hold him this close when he never thought he’d touch him again.
“Freddie told me everything that happened,” Roger murmurs. “I thought you were going to be safe when we sent you away. I’m so sorry.”
John shakes his head softly. It hardly matters now; not after everything. “Where’s Freddie?” he asks.
“Coming. He said he’d be back here soon enough.”
John loosens his hands on Roger’s hips just enough to let him slip away and finish their journey toward the captain’s quarters. John barely lets him make a step before reaching out and intwining their fingers. Roger just smiles at him when he does.
“I really am sorry, John,” he murmurs as they push into the captain’s quarters. The room looks different, the once-grand and imposing white shades of the walls now suitably darkened. Between that and the fire blazing in the fireplace the whole space feels a little warmer and homier, a far cry from the disturbing cold that had surrounded the room after Stirling’s death. Roger pauses in the middle of the room, turning to look at him. “I didn’t think it through. I’m so sorry for hurting you.”
John just looks at him, mouth pressed together.
“It’s all over your face,” Roger mutters. “I’m so sorry, baby. I just wanted to end it—to make sure everybody would be safe.”
“What happened?” John asks him softly.
Roger shrugs. “What you’d expect. He basically shot me the second he recognized me.”
“But you’re his son.”
“Yeah,” Roger murmurs. “His son who betrayed him and mutinied against one of his own ships. His son who he never really wanted in the first place. His—”
“Fuck him,” John growls. “I’ll kill him my damned self if I have to.”
Roger just sighs, his eyes going heavy again as he strokes his fingers against the soft hair at the nape of John’s neck.
They’re interrupted by the door creaking open, Freddie stepping through carefully. His eyes fall onto John and he smiles softly. “I hoped you’d be here,” he says, shuffling slightly as if he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to come further into the room.
Roger just extends a hand toward him, Freddie’s shoulders relaxing as he steps forward and intwines their fingers. And it’s sending that dizzy feeling through his head again, seeing the two of them together like this—thinking about all three of them existing in the same world, in reach of each other and more alive than ever because of it.
“Freddie,” John says, and Freddie’s eyes jump back to him as Roger pulls him closer into the two of them. “You got him back, didn’t you?” he asks. “You brought him back.”
Freddie’s smile slips as he glances at Roger, but Roger just gives him an encouraging look. “Fetched him from the locker,” Freddie murmurs. “It’s where all things end up going when they’re taken from here. It’s not much.”
“A beach,” Roger supplies. “Just one really long, foggy beach. You can’t see anything but the sand and the water.”
“That’s how it appears to mortal souls, sometimes,” Freddie muses. “The water is what’s important, though. Nothing can pass through that place except for sea and air. Sea happens to be my expertise. I walked until I found Roger, and then we walked together until we found your ship. We used her to get back out. Probably a story for another day.”
“Thank you,” John murmurs, his eyes traitorously welling up. He pulls Freddie closer, tucking his small frame into his chest and kissing his forehead; Roger steps back to make room, a sweet smile spreading across his lips as he watches the two of them. “For everything you’ve done for me—for both of us.”
“Don’t thank me,” Freddie replies. “I did it for love. You know that.”
John just sighs into his hair, one arm wrapped tightly around Freddie’s waist and the other still holding Roger’s hand. Roger presses closer, tucking himself into John’s other side and wrapping his arms around both of them.
It doesn’t last long enough; a shuffling noise in the hall has Freddie straightening suddenly, his eyes wide, and then a moment later the door swings open once more.
Everything in the room seems to freeze as Brian steps through.
He’s dry for the first time that John’s seen him, his hair fluffy, his curls hanging shiny and brilliant. His skin is healthily flushed, his lips pink, his eyes bright and no longer quite so sad—life radiating from him, and John’s heart stops.
But Brian is completely still in the doorway, his eyes locked with Freddie’s.
“Was it him who you did it for?” Freddie says, breaking the silence.
“You’re not allowed to bring back souls,” Brian says quietly, his gaze unwavering. “We’ve both broken rules.”
Freddie scoffs out a laugh. “So this is it, then.”
“Of course it’s not—”
“I’m happy for you, Brimi. I really am.”
Now it’s Brian’s turn to scoff. “Oh, don’t give me—”
“I swear. I never wanted you to be cursed like this. I only ever wanted you to be happy.”
“And I only ever wanted you.”
That shuts him up.
Roger’s hand that was previously resting on John’s hip slides around his waist as he shuffles closer to him. Brian steps forward, closing the door behind himself softly and pacing toward their little huddle, but Freddie doesn’t shrink from him; if anything he only stands taller, his shoulder brushing John’s chest, until he and Brian are practically toe to toe.
“Ten years,” Brian murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I waited for you ten years just for a single day with you, and you weren’t there.”
“Brian,” Freddie starts.
“Not even a message. So I waited another ten, and you still didn’t come.”
“Brian, it’s—”
“And I loved you anyway. Do you know that, Freddie? I love you anyway. But your track record isn’t great these days, and when Roger—” his eyes flick up to Roger’s and John feels him stiffen in his arms at it, a tension that John knows all-too-well straightening his spine, “—I thought you’d abandoned us. I was losing my mind, John was a disaster waiting to happen, and you weren’t there.”
“I’d never leave you like that,” Freddie says quickly. “Of course I wouldn’t. As soon as it happened I set out to bring him back. You have to know that.”
“I know that now,” Brian murmurs. “And I—I was so upset back then, but you just blamed yourself for the whole bloody curse, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. How could I not?”
“Maybe because sailing the sea for the rest of eternity was never a curse in the first place,” Brian replies. “Not to me. Not if I had you. But I never really did. Did I?”
Freddie lets out a long breath, the sound catching in his throat. “You’ve always had my heart,” he whispers.
John almost feels bad for watching them, then. He almost feels guilty for seeing the way Brian leans forward until their foreheads are nudging together, for the way Freddie’s eyes flutter shut as if he’s in utter bliss. He looks to Roger instead; Roger who’s still standing next to him, pressed into John’s side and blinking at the others with an expression John can’t begin to quantify.
They settle not long after, Harris knocking on the door to leave them with bread and stew and a pitcher of wine. They start at the table and then move to the couch, and then the floor, Roger getting up now and then to stoke the fire.
John can’t help but notice how the four of them drift closer and closer all the while, and something about it makes his chest ache.
“What did you do on the island then, Fred?” Brian teases.
Freddie raises his eyebrows. “You’re hoping for stories of debauchery, aren’t you? Oh, we got absolutely trashed on rum and every night we waded out naked into the surf to—”
“Is that what you did when Rog came to visit, then?” John asks, grinning.
Roger winks at him. “Oh, baby, don’t you know.”
“Please,” Freddie chimes in. “Roger was passed out from almost drowning for the first three days. He could barely lift a finger.”
“And the rest of the two weeks?” Brian asks innocently.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Roger chides.
Brian just winks at him, and when John looks to Freddie he’s grinning.
“You have to be captain,” Roger whines. “Who else would do it?”
“I don’t know. Any of your first mates, maybe? Your own second in command?”
“But they chose you,” Roger huffs.
“Roger, you’ve already made him your representative at the Brethren Court,” Brian starts.
John crows victoriously. He’d nearly forgotten. He swiftly plucks the necklace off his own neck before depositing it over Roger’s head. Roger just glares at him flatly.
“Okay, he was your representative,” Brian continues.
“That’s one less duty, then,” Roger reasons. “Will you please consider being captain of the ship you were already captain of in the first place?”
John rolls his eyes. “I’ll consider it,” he says, but by the look on Roger’s face he already knows the answer.
“In all truthfulness, it wasn’t easy,” Freddie murmurs to him as an aside as Roger and Brian bicker loudly, a burst of laughter breaking through the air every few seconds. “I’m not sure of the exact details, but he well and truly thought he was dead. I spent the first week trying to convince him otherwise, and then the second week trying to convince him that his father wouldn’t finish the job the minute he next saw him.”
John glances at Roger—but he looks utterly alive now, the wine sending a flush up his cheeks and his eyes bright as he laughs at whatever Brian is saying.
“it’s in the past though, isn’t it?” Freddie murmurs with a small smile. “None of it really matters anymore. Not really. That was practically years ago.”
John turns to him, the dark warmth of Freddie’s eyes swallowing him whole, and smiles. “Thank you, anyway. Thank you for looking out for him.”
“You don’t have to thank me for something like that.”
“My dad’s a fisherman,” Brian murmurs, the light from the fire playing across his face. “Or he was, anyway. That much is true.”
John runs his fingers through Roger’s hair thoughtfully. The four of them are sprawled on the floor, Brian only barely propped up against the footboard of the bed and the others piled in various positions around them. Judging from the way Freddie is breathing he’s dozing off, or nearly there.
“I don’t really know what else they say, but I’m guessing most of it isn’t quite accurate,” he continues. “Me and Freddie were going to run away together, but we didn’t make it that far. My dad found me a job as an apprentice shipbuilder. I was supposed to get married. I wasn’t supposed to leave the colony again. In the end I just couldn’t do it.”
“So you ran away,” John finishes for him.
Roger shifts, his hair tickling the top of John’s chest, and lets out a long sigh.
“I wasn’t going to leave without telling them,” Brian says. “I was going to leave a note. And I had to tell her that I was leaving. I couldn’t just abandon her.”
“Your betrothed?”
He nods, then huffs out a little laugh. “She didn’t curse me,” he says. “You know that? She didn’t, really. To sail the seas forever and be with the one I love…I don’t know if she meant it to be a curse. The more I think about it, the more I don’t think she meant it that way at all.”
“What happened?” John asks.
Brian shrugs softly, moving to stroke over Freddie’s shoulder when the other man grumbles at the jostling. “She just explained it to me. She told me that if I wanted to go so badly, I needed to go right that instant, so I did. It was the ship I was working on that she’d tied to the curse. The Special,” he clarifies, sending John a soft smile. “We’d just finished building her the day before. Beautiful thing.”
“Were you upset?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I missed my family, obviously. My friends—I knew I’d never see most of those people ever again. By the time a decade had passed most of them had moved on to other places, and over time it was just less painful to stop looking, for both them and for Freddie. And that’s when I met Roger.”
“Come on, John,” a voice murmurs in his ear. “You can’t sleep on the floor. Come on.”
He tries to offer a counter-argument, but all that comes out is a vague grumble. Warm hands help him to his feet and the next thing he knows he’s being settled down into the sheets. Something tickles his nose, and he recognizes Roger’s hair just by the smell.
“Stay,” he manages to murmur, his fingers turning to close around a wrist.
Someone huffs out a laugh—Freddie, he thinks. “Grabby,” Freddie laughs.
“Stay,” he repeats, cracking open his eyes enough to see Freddie hovering uncertainly by his side.
Freddie sighs, a smile quirking his lips. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, darling.”
He sleeps more deeply than he has in weeks. Roger runs around him in endless circles in his dreams, water rushing below his feet and the sky an endless blue above. When he looks up into it he realizes that the blue of it is the ocean itself, ships moving to and fro far below him and stars dancing around his feet.
Roger is laying on a blanket, raising his palm to the sky and measuring the distance between stars with his fingers. Roger is laying in a hammock; Roger is laying on the beach; Roger is laying on a couch.
Roger is laying on his chest.
He’s resting his chin against his own hand, using the extra height to watch the sea move outside of John’s window in the governor’s mansion. The breeze is rolling in honey-thick and just as sweet, the way it always does in stifling Caribbean summers. They’re stripped down to breeches and open cotton shirts, but even then the heat is cloying. John feels his brain melting just laying there.
For a long moment Roger watches the water, his eyes as distant as the sea itself, a tiny frown marring his brow. It’s longing; John recognizes that now. He’s longing.
A trace of John’s palm against his shoulder has Roger looking up, his face softening, his eyes as blue and clear as the Caribbean. “I love you,” he murmurs with a soft smile, kissing John’s chest right above his heart.
But of course morning comes eventually.
It’s grey when it does. John sits up from the pile of quilts and furs, turning to look out the window at the steely coldness of it.
Brian is still asleep, his curls tangled with the white sheets. Roger is tucked up against him, his nose pressed into Brian’s neck, always seeking out warmth even in sleep. John is loathe to leave them; he wants nothing more than to curl into their warmth and doze the day away.
But Freddie is silhouetted against the dawn light.
He slips out of bed silently, leaving his two bedmates curled together. He throws on one of the heavy dressing gowns at the foot of the bed, tiptoeing up behind Freddie silently and resting his elbows against the balcony rails, their shoulders pressed together as they breathe the salty air together.
“The navy is moving,” Freddie murmurs to him. “I can feel it.”
John turns to look at him, taking in his profile: the sharp line of his jaw, the plush fullness of his mouth, the dark charcoal shadows of his eyes. His brow is furrowed slightly as he looks out at the shadows of ships rising up through the marine fog, the Special bracketing them on one side and Sheffield’s ship on the other.
“New ships coming in,” Freddie continues. “Guns in the water. The weight of them—they leave an odd film on the waves. They taste coppery.”
“You can feel them like that?”
Freddie turns to look at him then, startled as if he didn’t even notice John was there. All at once he smiles, but John knows him well enough now to recognize how his eyes are still pinched at the corners; how his mouth is tight with tension.
“Freddie,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “It’s okay.”
“I know that,” Freddie says quickly. “Darling, of course I do.”
“We’re going to be alright.”
Freddie’s smile falters.
“We’re going to be okay,” he says, picking Freddie’s hand off the rail. His fingers are cold, and John cups them in both of his palms. “We’ll look out for each other. The Special is a terror on her own, and Queen Elizabeth was the pride of the Royal Navy for a reason. Together we’re stronger than anything they throw at us.”
“They have an awful lot to throw,” Freddie says, his smile falling away. His eyes are honest all at once, large and vulnerable. “I just—if something were to happen to you all I couldn’t bear it. Do you know that? Getting Roger back was one thing, and it nearly killed me. I don’t think I could do it again, let alone three times.”
“Nothing is going to happen,” John murmurs.
“Don’t make me lose all three of you,” Freddie whispers, looking him dead in the eye.
John can’t stop himself; he reaches forward to pull Freddie close to him, and Freddie goes with the motion easily, leaning forward into the shelter of John’s body, their chests pressed together and their breath coming in sync.
John isn’t sure which of them leaned forward first. He just knows that when their lips meet there are no fireworks or sparks; instead he’s filled simply with the safe knowledge that goes with homecoming. He relaxes into it, cupping Freddie’s jaw and leading him closer, the feeling of peace sinking into his core until he feels like he could laugh from it; from the way it’s expanding and growing and breathing.
“Nothing is going to happen,” he whispers when they finally part, their mouths mere breaths apart, close enough that he feels Freddie’s sigh as if it were his own.
He hears shifting behind them, and a moment later Roger is there, stepping behind Freddie and hooking his chin over his shoulder to gaze at John with warm blue eyes, still shaking off the haze of sleep. He ducks forward briefly to peck John on the lips, a slow smile spreading across his face that John can’t help but mirror.
“Good morning,” John murmurs to him.
“Morning,” he answers, ducking to nose at Freddie’s jaw, and Freddie huffs when Roger hits a ticklish spot. “What are you two doing out here, then?”
“Worrying needlessly, I think,” John replies.
“Mmh, we can’t have that. It’s too early still for worrying.”
“How you manage to be so flippant about all this, I’m not quite sure,” Freddie says, genuine anxiety betraying the dryness of his tone.
“It’s a talent,” Roger replies. “What do you think? Will it rub off on you if I try hard enough?”
“If you try hard enough to rub off?” John repeats.
Roger grins at him, just about to reply when the sun breaks over the waves, cannon fire beginning in the distance.
Behind them, Brian sits up in bed, suddenly wide awake as his eyes fix on the horizon.
John meets Roger’s eyes once more. “It’s time, then,” he murmurs.
Roger only nods.
They scramble to get ready. All the cannonballs are neatly stacked, the powder ready to be lit, everyone in position as the world holds its breath.
In the end it ends before it even begins.
It feels good to be back at his ship’s helm in a way he’d never expected. It’s not satisfying in and of itself; the same nerves are doubling back and settling on his shoulders—but it feels better now, somehow. Even with the weight of all that’s happened, between a solemn nod from Harris, a grim smile from Ratty, the warmth of Roger at his side—somehow it feels right. It feels right to be back in control.
“Let’s end this, huh?” Roger says into his ear, his breath hot. “End it once and for all.”
John nods, pressing back briefly into the warmth of Roger’s palm at the small of his back.
Beside them people are running to and fro across the deck of the Special. He can see Freddie leaning against the side rail, the waves rushing up that much higher to greet him, the wind tousling his hair. Brian is at the helm, and he looks up just as John turns to see him. When their eyes meet he smiles.
It’s the Dauntless in no-man’s-land; it’s only right that it’s that ship, the ship that started it all; the ship where Roger and John first met, where all of this began. It’s only right.
The Armada, reduced to a mere shadow of its former power and fighting its own battles with the Navy, hangs back.
Maybe the Navy was waiting for them to step in. John isn’t sure anymore. All he knows is that it’s one ship against both of theirs, and for once their enemy doesn’t stand a chance.
From his right he hears clanking as the Special’s gun hatches are hoisted open in unison.
“Crystal will back us up if we need it,” Roger murmurs into his ear. “The entirety of the Cross is already ready to go. One word from him and we’ll have every ship at our disposal.”
“Will we need it?” John murmurs, gripping the wheel that much tighter in his grip.
Roger’s lips ghost against his cheek. “I highly doubt it,” he murmurs, a smile in his voice.
The Dauntless is already nearly upon them, the Special turning ever so slightly closer to the wind to flank her other side. They’re going to blow it out of the water; one pass and the entire ship will be a wreck. John can already tell.
Something doesn’t feel right.
Ratty clears his throat. “In ten…”
“On your word,” John replies, but it doesn’t feel right.
Something isn’t right.
He looks to the other ship and Freddie is already meeting his gaze, eyes wide.
John frowns. He scans the other ship rapidly, his eyes flitting from crewmember to crewmember all the way up to the helm—the captain, the first mate—
“Hold fire,” he cries immediately.
Ratty turns to him, eyes wide. “What?”
“Hold fire,” he says even louder, watching as heads turn to him rapidly. On the Special he can see Freddie give the same command, the sails loosening rapidly as they cut their speed. “Hold fire and come about. We’re calling a parlay.”
“With the navy?” Ratty asks incredulously.
He turns, eyes rapidly searching for Roger’s—and there he is, comfortingly warm and confused and trusting. And John can only say one thing.
“It’s my dad.”
It all fades so rapidly into the past; as rapidly as the Navy disappears from the horizon, the last ships of the Armada running for the hills, their fleet all but decimated by the Navy and the Cross combined. It fades as rapidly as the call goes out to the Brethren Court, the eagles flying and the smoke signals blazing as Roger prepares to host the first meeting of the court in well over a decade, his talking points prepared for the moment when he’ll face his father again and depose him for good—not with a pistol, but with the words that have always been his greatest strength.
It all fades so quickly that all John can do is blink.
Roger hadn’t wanted him to go, but John has never been happier about a decision in his life.
His dad had been alone when he’d boarded the Dauntless. The crew had stepped aside to let him pass; they hadn’t even bothered to strip him of weapons, and when John had entered the stateroom off the Captain’s quarters he’d still been shrouded in the dark fabric of Roger’s coat, pistols and sword at his side, his hair loose and tangled.
None of it had mattered. His dad hugged him just like he always had. Some things don’t change.
It’s sunset again; sunset, and the Special is sailing beside them. He can see Freddie still leaning against the side rails, Brian’s first mate steering and politely pretending she doesn’t see her captain leaning beside the new stranger on deck and murmuring a little too softly and a little too closely into his ear.
Roger is leaning against their own side rail, looking right back at them. Even from this distance it seems like they’re having a conversation; Brian leans in and laughs something, Freddie grins, and a moment later a smile spreads across Roger’s own face. John watches for only a moment before sidling up beside him, his hands bracketing Roger’s own on the rails as he leans his chin against his shoulder.
“Don’t tell me that’s some kind of ocean magic,” John murmurs.
And Roger turns to him, as radiant as anything, his eyes ever-so-bright and his smile blinding. “I’m just happy,” he breathes, and John can feel it radiating off of him, can taste it.
It’s a long ways back to the Isla de los Muertos; a long way until they’ll be able to resettle the fleet, assess the damage—until they’ll be able to find a place to dock the Special for good and welcome Brian back to land—until they’ll all be able to settle a little together before they head back out to sea, as all things do.
And John doesn’t know where they’ll go, but he knows they have the world at their feet.
“I love you,” he whispers, and Roger turns to kiss his jaw sweetly.
“You can still come home,” his father said gently. “If you come with us now, we can pretend none of it ever happened. We’ll pardon you, the Cross can go free, we won’t pursue any of the vessels and everyone can go on their way. The Commodore is already making plans to hunt down the rest of the Armada. This can still have a happy ending, John.”
It’s the same question, over and over. It’s the same dilemma.
“I’ll find a way to write to you guys,” John said quietly. “Even if it’s through the Navy itself, I’ll find a way. I’ll find a way to tell you that I’m alright.”
His father sighed. “Are you sure about this? We just want you to be okay—to be safe. Roger is a good lad,” he added. “He was a good citizen before he was taken. It’s tragic. I know that you’ve always wished to find him again, but sometimes some things are best left in the past, John. Do you really want to follow that thread? He’s a traitor.”
And John had looked up then—looked up from the raw mess he was making of the calluses he was nervously picking, the weight of Freddie’s necklace comforting against his chest—and met his gaze, his own eyes wet, not with sorrow but with a love he couldn’t even begin to quantify and a hope he himself didn’t quite understand. And it had been answer enough.
Months later, the Brethren Court meets. Captain Taylor had taken his stripping of leadership remarkably well, with the court arguing that he could no longer bully the world into doing his bidding with only the sorry remains of an armada and enemies in every corner. He hadn’t been quite as quiet upon witnessing his leadership be given instead to his son, but Roger had taken the hurled insults in stride.
A week later the last ship of the Armada had gone down in a storm.
If Roger was upset, he barely showed it. He took the news with barely the batting of an eyelash, his mouth pressed into a solemn line. After all, there had to be nine pirate lords—always nine, and with Taylor not having left a clear successor and his firstborn already holding a position on the court, his title naturally had to fall to his daughter.
They just had to find her first.
But that would come after; there were plots and charts on Roger’s desk to prove it. They still have time.
“Hear these words, for I have a story,” Roger whispered, the moon shining in through his quarters in the Isla de los Muertos, the salt heady in the air, and somewhere above him Brian had giggled.
Freddie is somewhere to John’s left. He can sense him there even if he can’t see him, and when he reaches out slender fingers weave between his own. It had been a long day full of meeting and planning, and it feels good to be near to the three of them once more.
“Once upon a time there was a war, and four boys lived through it,” Roger continues.
John rolls closer to Freddie until he can locate his throat in the dark, pressing his lips to it reverently and marveling at the way Freddie’s breath catches. He hears Roger huff out a laugh.
“And after the war was over and the truces were made and the sea remained untamed, the chaos returning to the water as all things do, after all that—after it was over, they lived for themselves.”
Brian lets out a burst of laughter. “Is that our happy ending?”
“Not happy enough for you?”
“Anything’s happy when the three of you are involved.”
Roger coos under his breath. “Oh, you…”
“Oh, get off—”
The mattress bounces as they wrestle, and John can only let out a laugh against Freddie’s throat. The moon escapes from behind a cloud, casting the room in blues and silvers, Freddie’s skin an endless expanse of lavender below him, and he can’t breath around all the love in his chest.
“John,” Freddie breathes, a smile in his voice.
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
And John does.