Page 90 of Rears & Vices

“Yes.”

“American cotton?”

“It is undoubtedly so now. My father—well, it would be Lucas, my eldest brother, who has charge of it, since the bastard’s dead—takes it from raw to printed lienzos and then trades it straight back to the states. I know that much from letters; I haven’t been back since I was pressed. If we ever…” Everard cleared his throat. “… If you and I ever make it to Philadelphia, I could still point you out Anderson calico at ten yards.”

“You have not returned in twenty years? Some history there.”

“Twenty-four years,” Everard said. “The history is my madre had always the latest calicos: in layers sufficient to conceal that my father kept her half-starved.”

Vitaliy inhaled. “I’m sorry.”

“Mind you, it wasn’t a question of monies.”

“Mmm. And still you do not make a habit of eating dinner,” Vitaliy said, sad and revelatory.

“A habit long-standing. Either I was fed from the profits bled from slavery, or I took meat from her mouth.” He licked his lips. “Fairly literal, some days. Five boys, you understand.”

Vitaliy’s arms came back around him, squeezed him closer.

“A boy of—twelve, you said?—should not have to worry over such things,” he said, quietly into Everard’s hair. “Nor would most begin to think of them. But you forged yourself papers to be legally English… without a need?” he questioned.

“Well, I didn’t wish to claim his particular paternity, you see, and since I was pressed… I’m not acquainted with a sole relation of his in London, anyway; probably they disavowed him, too, or he came from nothing. Later on, D’Arcy got me into the necessary officers’ clubs and made my tradesman pedigree mysterious enough no one dared ask.”

Vitaliy nodded.

“And d’you know how many Andersons there are in the Navy?” Everard said dryly. “Forgery was the easier option.”

This time, the laughter was unmistakable.

“You,” Vitaliy gasped. “I’m sorry. You are telling me awful things…”

“Oh, but I do understand,” Everard replied immediately. “I feel quite the same.” He paused, considering. “Though the reflection of it is likely less pleasing—far too many brackets, lines.”

“Mmm. No.” Vitaliy shifted. “It is a serious face, and no wonder,” he said. “Until you lift that judging eyebrow, and the light shines in…”

“Er.”

“You are doing it now.” Vitaliy pressed his fingers in hard where they rested on Everard’s back. “Especially the judging. No, it’s the right brow,” he said, as Everard rubbed his left one self-consciously. Vitaliy pulled his hand gently away, wove his fingers through Everard’s. “And whomever told you it was an unpleasant face is a liar. Or jealous,” he added, uncharacteristically undiplomatic. “Too much comparison to your pretty lieutenant, maybe.”

“Oh?”

Vitya thought D’Arcy was pretty?

“But the two of you are like sunset and night.”

“Inseparable?” Everard said, jesting—and was startled when Vitaliy nodded.

“Also… incomparable. Impossible to compare,” he clarified.

Flustered, Everard said, “Sounds like a man-o’-war.” He cleared his throat. “You’re speechifying. You must feel better?”

Vitaliy grunted, a deliberate show of quiet. He shifted once more—a roll of hips, with definite intent⁠—

Everard laughed. He’d been aware of this… development, but that Vitya would bring attention to it now surprised him. “Madman. I couldn’t possibly. In another’s bed?”

“I could,” Vitaliy said frankly, and tightened his grip on Everard’s back, as though preparing to flip them.

“No, sir,” Everard said, pushing the big hands away and down. “No, you have consigned yourself to lying in the unknown of this mattress, whilst I have not—you are my island—see how I am not touching?”