Page 89 of Rears & Vices

“I smell pretty horrific, too.”

Vitya shook his head again. His own scent was sharp and metallic—not from blood but from sweat dried amongst fear and terrible strain. He clutched harder at Everard for a moment, and then with a sigh his arms came fully round Everard’s waist and loosened.

After a quarter hour, his breaths settled, though his body remained tense.

Everard, whose own reaction to battle was a few hours off at least, and who was neither anywhere close to sleep, had in the meantime put one ear alert to the crew’s footsteps up and down the weather deck. Things were progressing normally, in that someone had pulled up from the San Telmo’s stores of liquor, and singing had begun alongside the goodwill repairs Perran was ordering.

The other ear he’d put to listening to Vitya’s closing throat and halting lungs, as the man attempted to broach speech, again and again, giving it up each time.

Eventually he succeeded: softer than a whisper.

“I called for no quarter.”

Everard remained still. He didn’t know what to say. It was true. Vitya had done that. Had followed through with it. Put his own knife and gun to it.

“We flew the red, as Varfolomey is known to do,” Vitya pressed. “For those who seek a fight, no quarter. It is meant to make others resistant to meeting with the Sévère at all. It has made others careful with her. But…” He stopped.

“Then a man-o’-war with ulterior motives raised the black and wasn’t,” Everard reasoned. “They engaged us. Hunted us. What were you to do otherwise?”

“Listened to you. We might have fled.”

Everard had thought so, had obviously thought he’d been in the right at the time, but now, hours later, faced with circumstances and consequence, he knew better.

“And risk a mutiny? Wreck Varfolomey’s reputation? Risk further challenge against him, future loss, because of it? No, Vitya.” He pulled a bloodied-knuckle hand up and kissed it. “You had it right, and I was wrong. I think too much like a Navy man with the reputation of the whole Crown behind him. I would’ve fled in your position—but you could not.”

Vitaliy growled; it ended in a choking sob. “And then someone u-used me and my ship as weapons.”

Everard nodded, scraping his cheek against fuzzy, damp blond, nuzzling. If he lifted up, he’d have to peel himself free. “It would seem so.”

“S-someone who knew exactly how to manipulate my approach, our approaches, both of us. Vee and Varfolomey both.”

“Or perhaps,” Everard said, “someone shot off provocatory guns, put you into a corner, and faced you with an impossible choice, all for the possibility of meager gain.” He raised his head, met Vitaliy’s eyes. “What do you think of that?”

Vitaliy shook with laughter and tears; these ran streaming into the silvering hair at his temples, until he dashed them away with ringed fingers.

“I think sounds familiar.”

“Damn, but it does!” Everard said lightly. “It sounds quite like anything I’ve ever done. Or any sailor or soldier.” He put his forehead on Vitya’s beautiful high one, just for a moment, and then settled back. “You understand. You were pressed. As I was.”

Vitaliy nodded. “Fished out of the Delaware.”

He didn’t have to say more.

“A Barcelona dockyard, for me. How many years?”

“Fourteen.”

“You’re much more a Vitya than a Henry.”

Vitya snorted. “I am both. But firstly, Vitaliy Gray, American, born to unmarried Russian and Quaker in a brick-built house on Water Street, Philadelphia.”

“We’ve one of those in Kingston.” Everard blinked solemnly down. “It is still called King Street.”

Vitaliy’s shaking was a better percentage laughter then, so Everard went on.

“Everard Rubén Anderson de Anglada,” he introduced himself archly, “a su servicio. Fifth son of an English bastard of a textile-mill owner and a Catalan farmer’s daughter.”

“A textile mill,” Vitaliy whispered raspily. “Cotton?”