Jack Rackham (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jackrackham) wrote2023-05-23 07:40 pm
jackrackham) wrote2023-05-23 07:40 pm
Make you a sword of me?
Jack flips through the few shirts lying in his dresser, feeling full of nervous energy. There's something exciting about the prospect of being able to fight again, even if only played with an aim to practice. It feels like something that really truly belongs to him and who he is, even in this place.
Even if the shirt he arrived in Darrow with weren't dirty, he would be a little wary now of repeating the whole outfit lest it trigger something in him like had happened on horseback. Regardless of how well Eliot had taken it, Jack wants to be able to show Eliot that he's not going to lose himself like that again. Even more, he wants to show Eliot that he's good at something. It would feel good to be able to show him something worthwhile, to impress him.
He pulls out a loose sleeveless shirt, pulls that on and tucks one side loosely into the belt of his old trousers. He tucks his dagger down into his boot, situates his sword belt on his hips, and grabs his sunglasses before heading out the door.
When he arrives at the boardwalk, Jack wanders a little ways from the few people out this early. The sky is clear and blue, the lingering sunrise keeping an orange tint to the sand and sea. The air hasn't warmed up yet, and the salt breeze feels soft against his face. He paces a little in the sand, thinking over different ways they might spar.
He's not sure that he has much to teach if Eliot is looking for that, but he is looking forward to seeing how Eliot fights. He's looking forward to seeing Eliot. After the mess of the last week, it'll be good to do something that feels uncomplicated.
Even if the shirt he arrived in Darrow with weren't dirty, he would be a little wary now of repeating the whole outfit lest it trigger something in him like had happened on horseback. Regardless of how well Eliot had taken it, Jack wants to be able to show Eliot that he's not going to lose himself like that again. Even more, he wants to show Eliot that he's good at something. It would feel good to be able to show him something worthwhile, to impress him.
He pulls out a loose sleeveless shirt, pulls that on and tucks one side loosely into the belt of his old trousers. He tucks his dagger down into his boot, situates his sword belt on his hips, and grabs his sunglasses before heading out the door.
When he arrives at the boardwalk, Jack wanders a little ways from the few people out this early. The sky is clear and blue, the lingering sunrise keeping an orange tint to the sand and sea. The air hasn't warmed up yet, and the salt breeze feels soft against his face. He paces a little in the sand, thinking over different ways they might spar.
He's not sure that he has much to teach if Eliot is looking for that, but he is looking forward to seeing how Eliot fights. He's looking forward to seeing Eliot. After the mess of the last week, it'll be good to do something that feels uncomplicated.
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It happens too fast: Eliot doesn’t even process it, he’d only just got his sword up and then Jack’s rushing at him. There’s no time to react or begin to remember how to counter such an attack, just the animal hindbrain instinct to get away. Eliot lurches back too sharply and overbalances, falling onto the sand with an undignified yelp.
His face goes hot with a sudden flare of anger and shame at being laughed at. His first instinct is to argue that he wasn’t ready, but it would sound petulant—and when Jack leans over him and asks if he’s scared, the words die in his throat.
Eliot’s never seen him like this, all cocky and confident. He doesn’t know how to respond to it. No one talks to him like this, and some childish, hurt part of him wants to rage at it, but it’s like some electric current connected at Jack’s taunting. He’s angry but he’s suddenly energized. He wants more.
Eliot shakes his head to clear the daze as he plants the rapier in the sand and takes Jack’s hand to get up. He can feel grainy grit sticking to his back and it barely registers.
“Fuck you,” he laughs, slightly hysterical and echoing Jack’s grin. “Don’t you dare go easy on me, I won’t forgive you.”
He’ll have to get serious in return. There’s more strength in Jack’s wiry arms than he expected, and he’s astoundingly fast. It’s more of a challenge than Eliot thought, doing this without magic to sharpen his senses. He starts to position himself even before he picks up the rapier, to keep his chest turned away and present a narrower profile.
When Jack cuts at him again, he still steps back in alarm but he’s able to circle a few paces around to the side. He can stay on his feet and keep moving off Jack’s line of attack if he focuses, but the motion is frantic and he’s constantly on the defensive. The ferocity of Jack’s swings is such that Eliot only manages to parry once before he stumbles—the satisfying clang quickly met by another blow, close to the hilt, and Eliot is disarmed.
“Well,” he says, leaning on his knees to catch his breath, “shit.”
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As Eliot stands, Jack steps closer and runs a hand over his own right shoulder, bringing attention to it so that Eliot will look at the small collection of scars there. The one that Eliot had helped him treat after he'd arrived has healed, but shows up lighter than the rest. "The way I fight, here is the most obvious target." He pats his shoulder then drops his hand. "It's the safest place to be hit. Maybe your illustrious teacher taught you to avoid being hit altogether, but if you don't have magic sometimes the best you can do is to decide where you're going to be hit."
He shrugs and chuckles, "I tend to take broad strokes because I want to end the fight quickly instead of slowly bleeding a man out. Anne would have a knife under your ribs before you noticed what was happening, but against me- you might have the space to find an opening." Eliot would do better to learn this from Anne, but he recognizes that he's a less intimidating teacher and more of a friend. He lifts his shirt on one side long enough to show a long thin scar that runs from his side halfway down his stomach, then lifts his eyebrows at Eliot. "It's been done before."
Jack flips his sword around in his hand, then brings it up to pat Eliot's arm with the flat of the blade.
"Come on," he urges, getting back into a fighting stance. "You can do better."
Eliot is messy at first- he misses easy parries, gets pushed back easily. But after a little while, something shifts and he seems to focus in. They work through a few more bouts and each time Eliot comes back more forceful, better. The first time Eliot actually lands a blow, it's to his right shoulder.
Jack grins. "Good, now hit where I don't want you to hit." A long bout follows and Eliot gets into the rhythm of parrying. Jack, encouraged, presses harder.
They're both getting tired. Eliot lands two more blows on his shoulder and one on his chest that gets close enough to skin that it neatly slices the fabric of his shirt. Jack laughs, loud and pleased- Eliot takes the opportunity to press closer.
Jack feigns getting pushed back by Eliot's advance, guiding them up the slope of the beach. When he's high enough above Eliot he kicks out. His boot lands squarely on Eliot's chest and pushes him onto his back in the sand once again. When he reaches him, he stands straddling his waist and triumphantly stakes his sword into the sand beside his head.
Flushed and tired and defiant, Eliot looks beautiful. Jack's face is already flushed, so he doesn't have to worry about Eliot seeing him blush. "Better luck next time."
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Bingle, to be sure, was characteristically terse training him and Benedict on the voyage for the keys. But the man was otherwise deferential, and he didn’t fucking smirk.
So Eliot gets angry, even at his own little victories, even though Jack looks so vibrant and so happy like this, and seems so pleased at his marginal improvement.
He feels a vicious satisfaction about slicing Jack’s shirt, the little gap that grows to expose flushed skin underneath. But it’s short-lived, and Eliot’s attempt to capitalize on the momentum falls apart when Jack kicks him, and he goes tumbling down and the rapier falls out of his hand when he lands hard on the sand.
It knocks the wind out of him and he’s outraged, lying on his back coughing, and once he’s caught more of his breath he glares up at Jack standing over him. Dimly, Eliot registers the fact that in any other circumstance he’d enjoy seeing Jack from this angle. But for a moment all he can feel is rage, at his wounded pride. He should have expected this.
He could answer the smugness with some biting retort, or a magical show of force, but that would be as good as sulking like a child. When what he wants, and what it seems Jack wants, is to give as good as he gets. If subterfuge is what it takes, so be it.
Eliot gives a shaky nod for a reply, thinking about how Jack will let himself be hurt in order to gain an advantage. He rubs at his chest; it’s going to bruise, he’s certain.
It’s deeply undignified, but Eliot’s able to plant his hands and scoot out from under him like a crab. He lifts himself into a crouch, panting, and Jack holds out a hand for him to get up but he shakes his head.
“Just give me a moment–”
Eliot shifts his weight, quick, into a left hook that catches Jack low in the ribs, and launches himself with the momentum, tackling Jack around the waist and sending them both toppling and rolling down the rest of the slope.
Eliot laughs, breathless but delighted as they scuffle in the sand. It’s messy, and Jack strikes back at him and they’re both going to be bruised by the end of it, but his anger has evaporated. He hasn’t been in a fight like this since he was a kid, and he lost too many of those to count, but this feels different. This feels good. Without the formality of weapons and technique they’re more evenly matched, both willing to fight dirty.
And eventually he seems to prevail, sitting on Jack to hold him down. He opens his mouth to say that he’s had enough for the day when he feels Jack move, reaching, and remembers in a moment of perfect clarity that he keeps a dagger in his boot.
They’re both tired but it’s easy, laughably easy for Eliot to grab his wrist and pin it down. He calls the knife to his hand with a thought and Jack goes still beneath him, eyes wide and dark, when he holds it gently to his throat.
Eliot grins, smug and elated. “Knew I’d get you eventually.”
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No formal thought about desire or want enters his mind. Jack doesn't think I'm going to kiss him- he simply does. Eliot's lips are soft and dry and he sighs against them, even as the blade at his throat begins to draw blood. He feels for that moment triumphant and at peace. He wants to be closer, to have more of this. He wants Eliot. As he surges forwards a fraction further the dagger cuts a little deeper. He feels a trickle of blood or sweat trail sideways down his neck, but doesn't care to know which.
Eliot isn't kissing him back. The realization hits him like a sudden weight to the chest and he falls backwards against the still cool sand. Eliot's expression is frozen in shock, and Jack falters, opening his mouth to speak but not knowing what to say.
"Let me up," he says eventually, using his free hand to push back against Eliot's shoulder until he releases him and allows him the room to get back to his feet. Eliot follows, hovering close, but Jack steps away.
"I'm sorry." His faced is flushed and the adrenaline of their fight has begun to twist itself into a deep anxiety and regret. He can't meet Eliot's eyes.
"I was-" What was he? Exhilarated by Eliot pinning him against the sand? That's not exactly an excuse. It's clear that Eliot doesn't want him in that way and kissing him was trespassing where he doesn't belong. Eliot has been so kind to him and this is how he repays him, by taking advantage of being allowed to be close to him and putting his own desires ahead of Eliot's comfort.
"I wasn't thinking." That much is true. He begins to walk back to where his sword is still staked in the stand. As he picks it up and sheaths it back in its proper place, he can only think about how much Eliot didn't deserve this from him.
"We should stop for today," He lifts his hand to the cut at his neck. It's not deep enough to be dangerous, but it's still producing a thin stream of blood. He can feel the slickness of it against his clavicle and beginning to soak into the fabric of his neckerchief. He roughly pulls the knot free from the neckerchief and presses the fabric against the slim wound, staunching the flow of blood. It's nothing he hasn't had before, and he doesn't blame Eliot for the pain. The only reason the wound is there is because he'd crossed a line that he knew shouldn't have been crossed. "You did well. We can try again another time."
He readjusts his sword belt on his hips with one hand and looks away back towards the boardwalk. "You'll need time to clean up before work." He doesn't bother to recover his dagger. He's not sure that he could actually face Eliot right now, anyway. "We can talk later."
He starts to walk away. This isn't okay, but maybe it's still something that he can be forgiven for. He just needs time to think of the words to explain himself, and he won't be able to do that right now.
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Eliot registers the two sensations at once, and can’t parse the meaning of either at first. In an instant he freezes, his breath caught in his throat. Jack is kissing him. Jack is kissing him and the dagger has cut him, surely, and Eliot remembers his dream from the other day with sickening clarity.
He can’t move. He’s hurting Jack and he can’t move, he can only stare at Jack’s face too close and out of focus, feel his breath on his cheek and he wants to drop the knife but he’s too afraid of deepening the cut.
When Jack pulls away and pushes at his shoulder, Eliot regains some sense and scrambles off him. It feels like something awful is about to happen: more blood, a punch thrown.
His first thought is that this is a cruel joke somehow, or a ploy to win the fight by exploiting the weakness in Eliot’s character. But then Jack apologizes, and there’s something so broken in his voice that even though he’s turned away, Eliot knows he wouldn’t find any malice in his expression.
Eliot makes a pained sound at Jack’s halting explanation. He follows him, one hand reaching towards him, towards the blood on his neck. He can’t speak. He feels less than corporeal, like if he gets too far from Jack, from being grounded in his orbit, the slightest breeze would disintegrate him.
I’m dissociating, he thinks. Jack won’t look at him, he’s going to leave and there’s still a line of red on him.
“You’re bleeding—” it comes out as a whimper, and Eliot wants so badly to fix it. He wants to apologize, to go back somehow and prevent it from happening, or stop Jack from leaving now, but he can’t.
More than anything, Eliot wants to hold him.
It’s only Jack’s shaky assurance that they’ll talk later that keeps Eliot a little sensible. Whatever just happened, they’ll see each other again. They can talk about it. But right now, Jack can’t look at him, and Eliot needs to let him go.
“Okay,” he says numbly, and Jack starts to walk away.
Eliot looks down at the dagger in his hand, and the thin streak of blood drying on the edge. What a horrible little thing.
He finds his sword, and takes it back to where he’d set down his bag, and lays it and the dagger next to each other on the sand. He wants to look up the street, to see if Jack is looking back at him, but he can’t. He sits down heavily and he feels, in that moment, more tired than he’s ever been in his life. He ought to brush himself off a bit before he puts his shirt back on, but he stares down at his hands in his lap and he cannot make himself move.
Eliot tries to make sense of it all. Jack’s never expressed any real interest in him, aside from a confusing moment on his birthday. And given what he knows now, he thinks it’s probably all due to Jack’s wrestling with his sexuality. It would explain the way he left, definitely. The best thing Eliot can do for him is to be a supportive friend, let Jack know that he understands it wasn’t personal, that it was just…
He wonders if sparring like this is something Jack did with Charles. If that was a kiss he wasn’t able to give him in life, and now Eliot’s stolen something from a ghost. He shivers in the breeze, the sweat cooling him too much. It wasn’t meant for him at all, that’s obvious, and he digs his hands into the sand, feeling like a monster for wanting to remember the sensation.
He didn’t kiss Jack back.
The realization feels like a stone in his stomach. He didn’t kiss him back and he’ll never get another chance. He shouldn’t even want another chance.
Eliot tastes acid in the back of his throat as the toast threatens to come back up. He tries to breathe steadily, he needs to fucking get a hold of himself. He needs, as Jack said, to get ready for work. And then he has to get through the day at the Archive and hopefully then he can see Jack again later.
He’s able to stand, though his legs are shaky. Eliot forms the little spell to get all the sand off him with a flick of his hands, and pulls the handkerchief from his pocket to blot unshed tears from his eyes.
Eliot runs his thumb over a small embroidered flower and sighs. It can’t have meant nothing, if Jack made this for him. If he held some latent attraction, and maybe he’d never have expressed it if Eliot hadn’t suggested he could experiment the other day.
He can’t spend all day panicking about it, but maybe this doesn’t have to be a catastrophe.
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By the time he arrives back in his small sterile apartment, his blood is still thrumming and his hand shakes as he pulls his stained kerchief away from his neck. It looks ugly, but the cut is clean and it seems to have stopped bleeding.
"Fuck." He stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is mussed and sandy, his face flushed, and his throat smeared with his own blood. It had been his own fault, and it was stupid- to kiss Eliot when he knew that it would be unwelcome. And not just that, but injuring himself in the process. Eliot had a blade to his throat, what about that did he think was any sort of invitation?
He knows he should take a shower, or eat something, but instead he sits down on the toilet and groans. What is it about Eliot that makes his mind stop functioning? It's happened more than once now and he can't believe that it's only because he's attracted to the man. He's been attracted to men before- he was attracted to Charles and he never tried to kiss him on the mouth. Could it be as simple as feeling safe with him?
Jack spends most of the day in a steady state of panic. The more he thinks about it, the more that he realizes that kissing Eliot is a catastrophe from which it will be difficult to return to any sort of normalcy. He manages, eventually, to take a quick shower, change into more modern clothes, dress his cut with little butterfly strips- the ones Eliot had bought him for his arm months ago, and eat a couple pieces of toast. The empty scabbard he leaves tucked down into his boot. He doesn't want to look at it right now.
When Eliot texts around noon, he's already holding his phone, stuck in a loop of wondering if he should send him a message, then scrolling up to the picture Eliot had sent him after transforming back into a man- shirtless and smiling from the bathroom floor. When the text comes in he nearly drops the phone in surprise. But he won't wait for the invitation over to be revoked. He hovers over the keypad a moment, types out I'm sorry, erases it, types out I always want to see you, erases it, and finally types "I'll be there" and sends the text. That by itself seems so plain that he starts typing out an explanation for why he kissed him, how he hopes that it won't ruin their friendship...but he quickly realizes that it's too much for this medium. He deletes what he'd been writing and puts the phone face-down on the table.
Not til eight. It feels like an interminable amount of time, and he paces around his apartment not knowing what to do. He has to come up with what he should say to him, that much is clear. And what else- should he bring something? There's so much about this place and Eliot's worlds that he still doesn't know. Are apology gifts compulsory or an overreach?
He sits down at his desk and writes out some notes about what to say. He starts with the full truth: that for a time now he has been growing in fondness for him- that now, he loves him and cannot imagine ever being able to stop loving him. He crosses it all out. This is going to be painful enough without him forcing Eliot to reject his heart as well as his body. Eliot knows that he's attracted to him, and that's the only thing that he should be addressing. Anything more feels selfish. He's kept these sort of feelings to himself before. He can do so again now.
He tries to take a nap and fails, writes a few more sentences on his notes that he crosses out, and paces around the apartment more. Shortly before eight, he walks to the store and wanders the aisles wondering what would be an appropriate apology for kissing someone that did not wish to be kissed. He ends up at the long shelf of wines and stares for a moment at the variety before picking something red from a higher shelf.
When he reaches Eliot's door, he takes a few steadying breaths. It doesn't take long for Eliot to open the door after he knocks and Jack sidles his way into the apartment already speaking.
"I won't take up too much of your time. I just want to be clear that I know that trying to kiss you was a mistake and a trespass." He takes a deep breath during which Eliot gently pulls the bottle of wine from his hand. His voice is a little shaky as he continues, and he forces himself to meet Eliot's gaze with his own. He continues, speaking earnestly and also much faster than he had planned.
"I have wanted you- to be quite honest, maybe since we first met, but I have recently become aware of the fact that you are...that you are a temptation to me. I'm not entirely used to dealing with this sort of thing, but I promise you that I will never do anything like that again. You deserve that respect from me. I have been and continue to be your friend, and I don't need this to be anything more than that. I know that you don't want this to be anything more than that. I will manage myself and things can continue as they were."
He swallows on a dry throat and waits for Eliot to answer. He feels terrified. "If the wine is too much, I can take it back. I didn't know what to bring."
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He takes a shower and tries to eat, without much success. The Archive proves a poor distraction, too. It’s quiet, with little maintenance to do in the cold, climate-controlled stacks, and John seems more reclusive than usual. So Eliot is alone with his thoughts for most of the day, and he struggles to plan how he’s going to handle conversation with Jack later.
Away from the adrenaline of the fight, it’s easier for Eliot to rationalize that Jack isn’t angry at him. He didn’t storm off so much as flee, and Eliot’s own apprehension was from the blood and the memory of that stupid dream. The situation, however awkward, is manageable. But he doesn’t know how Jack will respond to any offer to explore this development, or how willing he’ll really be to talk through it. So it takes Eliot longer than he’d like to compose a suitably neutral text. His pulse skyrockets at the extended ellipses on the screen, and Jack’s eventual response offers no clues to his mood. He’ll just have to try to keep calm about it, for both of them.
It’s easier said than done, and after work Eliot spends far too much time deciding what to wear, as if everything somehow hinges on that. In the end, not wanting to assume how Jack might react, he stays in his work clothes and eats a few slices of cold pizza in front of the fridge.
Eliot startles when the buzzer goes off, despite how much he’d been anticipating it, and he shakes his head to himself as he lets Jack up.
He’s already talking as soon as Eliot opens the door, and holding a bottle of—surprisingly nice wine, and in any other circumstances that might imply something. But there’s a vast gulf between the offer of wine and what Jack’s actually saying, and Eliot frowns a little as he takes the bottle from him.
His lingering worry that Jack would be angry with him is gone in an instant. Eliot’s never seen him like this, looking so afraid that it’s heartbreaking.
But then Jack admits that he wants him, just like that, and Eliot freezes in place with his mouth hanging open. He feels a shiver go through him when Jack calls him a temptation, and all his rationalizing that it wasn’t personal goes flying out the window. And yet, despite that, Jack thinks that he’s offended him somehow, which doesn’t make sense at all.
It takes him a moment to speak at all, shocked as he is by this revelation. His mind races too fast to form any sort of coherent statement, and Eliot struggles to conceptualize his own feelings in light of this new information.
“It’s—this is lovely, thank you,” he glances down at the bottle and sets it on the kitchen counter and immediately forgets it exists. “You should sit, you’re practically shaking, have you eaten? I could…” he wants to keep his hands busy and fix Jack something to eat, but more than that he doesn’t want to go too far from him.
Instead, he paces by the couch. He can make sense of this, he can make this work.
“You can’t just assume,” Eliot begins, affronted at the idea that Jack seems to have gotten, that he doesn’t find him attractive. “I mean—” he cuts himself off with a sigh. He doesn’t want this to be a confrontation. “Listen, if I’ve given you that impression I need to apologize, I’ve done you a real disservice. But you don’t know what I want, and, and up until this morning it wasn’t relevant, and now…”
He can almost convince himself that it’s simple, and he was mistaken. It makes sense if it was just a mutual attraction between friends, and after all Eliot has no frame of reference for romantic feelings anyway. This will be easier, for both of them.
“You can’t think I’m angry with you, I couldn’t bear it.” He offers Jack a smile and a nervous laugh. “This is because of the other day, right? You want to try being with a man, and it was on your mind and then when we were sparring—” Eliot shrugs. “Heat of the moment, makes perfect sense. And now…I didn’t think you had an interest in me specifically but if that’s the case then it’s-it’s simple. We could just…give it a go.”
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Jack opens his mouth to speak and utters a couple half-spoken syllables before he shuts his mouth again. He takes a breath and tries again. "This isn't because of the other day- I do have an interest in you specifically. I have had an interest in you specifically. I had an interest in men long before Anne suggested I act on that interest. As you well know. Eliot-" He feels angry and he's struggling to put into words why he feels that way. He was expecting either forgiveness or anger, and instead Eliot is being annoyingly vague. He feels like he has no solid information to work off of.
"Do you want to fuck me?" The question comes out too aggressively. He feels strange and exposed, sitting and watching Eliot pace back and forth. He cant keep his own hands still. "Or are you offering because..." He falters again, unsure about Eliot's motivations. Eliot said that Jack doesn't know what he wants, and that much is definitely true. Did he just offer up sex because he feels sorry for him? Or because he's concerned about him? It feels notable that Eliot hasn't touched him at all since he scrambled away from him on the beach. "I know you're complimentary, but you don't have to mean all of that. It's alright."
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He huffs, insulted. “I always mean what I say, you’re not a, a pity fuck-” the idea’s so far from the truth that it’s almost laughable, and Eliot grimaces, and tries again.
“We don’t need to be at odds about this, I just–” He sighs heavily, moving to sit down next to him. He’d thought hat he could be more articulate and less overbearing if he’d kept a bit of distance between them, but all he’s managing is useless spluttering.
Everything seemed clearer on the beach, until it wasn’t. They understood each other in that moment, in combat, and Eliot wants that feeling back. He’s barely said anything and he’s already made such a mess of it all. But he needs to try to make it right, for Jack’s sake. He aches to touch him, but he hesitates, hands twisting in his lap, afraid of making Jack flinch away again.
Eliot takes a breath and leans a little closer, holding Jack’s gaze and hoping that will convince him of his conviction. “Of course I want you, why wouldn’t I?”
He rests a hand on Jack’s knee; perhaps he ought to let it be with just that, but he keeps talking, he needs to make sure he explains. “It’s just that there’s a world of difference between wanting someone when you don’t think you’ll ever have the opportunity, and…” Eliot waves his free hand back in the direction of the beach. “I mean, you just ran away this morning, I didn’t know what to do…I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’ve never wanted that, so I’ve never…said anything.”
Any further clarity fails him, and he gives an awkward shrug.
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He turns back to Eliot and finds him closer than he'd been expecting. His eyes flick down to look at Eliot's lips before returning to his gaze. He says of course I want you like its a foregone conclusion, but it doesn't make any sense to Jack.
"Since when have you wanted me? Don't you have better options?" His brow furrows and he's not sure how to continue. He doesn't believe him and he's not sure how to get that point across without calling him a liar. But surely Eliot of all people, the most handsome and charming man he knows, would have plenty of offers.
"Why would you? Look," He takes a hand and gently pushes back at Eliot's shoulder. It's just enough space that he feels safe from his own impulses. It gives him some space to think. Eliot's hand remains on his knee, a warm and pleasant weight, but he tries not to think about it. "I know that I am not an attractive man. That has been a fact of my life. And while I have some days made up for that fact by speaking eloquently and being the smartest man in the room, this is not one of those days and this is a different sort of room."
It's true, more true now that he knows Anne had never really wanted him, had wanted something completely different. When in his life has anyone just wanted him and not something that fucking him accomplished for them?
"Eliot," he tilts his head a fraction as he lets his hand slip from Eliot's shoulder. He's thinking of the urge that moved him to kiss Eliot, the smell of the sea, the feel of the sand cool against his back. When he speaks again his voice has lost its conviction. He feels tired, and at a loss for how to make his way out of this mess he's made. He doesn't want another person putting him ahead of their own feelings for the sake of his ego. "If you wanted me this morning, why didn't you kiss me back?"
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“Not attractive—” Eliot raises his eyebrows, muttering under his breath in disbelief. It’s heartbreaking to hear this, to see how little Jack thinks of himself and how unappreciated he must have been to think this way.
He doesn’t want to crowd Jack, even though it’s clearly difficult to speak of these things and Eliot wants to wrap him up in a hug. So he stays put, and Jack keeps his hand on his shoulder, and it feels good to have that other point of contact. At least there’s that, the warmth of his hand, and he’s not fully pushing Eliot away.
He can’t bear Jack being so defeated—he needs to explain himself, after hearing all that. He needs to make it right. When Jack’s hand slips from his shoulder he wants to reach for it, but he thinks that Jack probably needs words more, at the moment.
“I was startled,” Eliot begins to say. “And…Jack, you were bleeding and I was the one holding the knife, so yeah I froze up.” He exhales heavily. They can be frank with each other here, and maybe that’s the kind of room this is. “This may shock and alarm you, but on account of my fucked-up jaw I don’t often get people going in for a kiss right away.”
Eliot softens, and his shoulders slump a little. He doesn’t want this to keep being an argument but he has too much energy to lay out the facts with tenderness. His fingers twitch on Jack’s leg. When he speaks again, it comes out fawning and eager.
“It’s not about options, it’s—do you want a list?” Eliot tilts his head, thinking quickly. “I wasn’t expecting to…to have to argue your own appeal to you but I can make a list if you need me to.” It’s so easy to think of, and he sits up straighter and flushes, feeling sweat start to prickle as he speaks.
“Your shoulders were so distracting this morning, you—” Eliot babbles, a neediness in his voice that he hasn’t indulged in a long time. “You’re charming, and sharp, and your hands are just exquisite, and your hair always smells so good—”
He huffs a soft laugh as a memory comes to mind. “I know exactly since when, actually, the first time I met you and we went to that coffeeshop, and you…” He smiles at Jack with a wistful look. “You took your hat off and like, ran your hand through your hair and you looked so…” Eliot bites his lip, feeling deeply exposed. “I kinda just wanted to go suck you off in the bathroom.”
“But then we were friends, and you were with Anne, and—God, Jack, sometimes I’ve thought about you when I’m with other guys, I couldn’t just tell you that.”
He takes a breath to compose himself, realizing the enormity of what he’s just said, and Jack is staring at him red-faced but he doesn’t want to take any of it back. He wants to move forward.
Eliot takes Jack’s hand and runs his thumb over the knuckles. He glances away for a moment before looking back at him.
“I’m sorry I froze up,” he says, quiet and earnest. “I didn’t do it right before, will you let me try again?”
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He wants to object, to ask questions- what about my shoulders was distracting? It's just that shampoo that smells good. What would you like my exquisite hands to do?- but Eliot just keeps talking. His mind is knocking around back and forth between new things to say and new feelings that he's not sure how to articulate. He wants to kiss him- his lips, the jaw that is apparently and bewilderingly reason enough for others not to kiss him. He wonders if anyone that's avoided kissing Eliot has seen his lips as they are now. He's speaking quickly and there's something in his voice he hasn't heard before. It's rare that Eliot is this direct with him, that he let the facade drop a little to show a face not so commonly seen. He can hear the need in his voice and he wants to climb onto his lap.
The hand on his knee consumes half of his awareness. As his mind races with the mental image of Eliot thinking about him when he was fucking someone else, there's a part of him that is fully devoted to the soft twitch of Eliot's fingers and the warmth of his palm. Then Eliot is taking his hand and the focus once again splits- Eliot's hand on his knee, Eliot's thumb brushing over his knuckles, Eliot's lips, his voice quiet and low, asking to kiss him.
Nervously, he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, wetting it before he tries to speak again. He knows he's sitting stiffly, but he can't quite force himself to relax. He exhales a breath and nods before he even realizes that he's doing it. "Yes." His voice is low, and cracks slightly as he continues. "Yes. Try again."
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“Okay,” Eliot answers quietly, with a soft smile. He feels the tension leave him like a knot that’s been loosened—the certainty of knowing they both want this is so freeing. So it feels right, as natural as gravity when he leans closer to kiss him.
It’s better than this morning. It’s better even than he’d imagined before because this is deliberate, and real, the warmth of his lips and the gentle bristle of his moustache.
Jack makes some sound low in his throat and Eliot shifts, planting his hand a little higher on Jack’s leg to lean onto him.
He is still, he realizes with a strange thrill, holding Jack’s hand. He gives it a squeeze and then lets it go to rest on Jack’s jaw, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear and relishing the way he sighs at the touch. Jack’s quiet but enthusiastic, and if he’s holding himself very still it’s probably, Eliot thinks, that this is all very new.
Teasing, he brushes their noses together after a moment, pulling away just enough that Jack tilts his head to close the little distance and kiss him again, and Eliot hums with pleasure. He doesn’t feel frenzied at finally getting what he wanted, like he thought he would. He’s calm, and he wants this to be good for Jack, and he wants to take his time.
Eliot leans back to look at him and take a breath. Jack isn’t terribly mussed but flushed. He looks beautiful, and Eliot wants to tell him so, but that feels like too much, too soon. Instead he just smiles, raising his eyebrows.
“There, was that all right?”
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"Much better." His gaze drifts to Eliot's lips and he tries to remember for a moment how long it's been since anyone kissed him- the early days with Anne, maybe? Very early on when neither of them had really figured out how things were going to go.
There is also the matter of Eliot's hand, which is higher on his thigh than it had been. Every moment that passes it becomes more clear that Eliot doesn't intend to stop with kisses. There's certainly focus and intent in how Eliot is looking at him now, and he finds it both exhilarating and intimidating.
"Can I-" He leans forward and kisses Eliot again, taking his bottom lip between his own. His hand hovers to the side of Eliot's jaw as he presses further into the kiss. There's a growing anxiety in him that he's having trouble suppressing. They've covered well enough by now that kissing is acceptable and desired, but he's not sure just where Eliot's boundaries lie. Clearly sex is on the table, but in what way?
Eliot's thumb shifts against his thigh and his breathe catches in his throat. Jack leans back from the kiss, glancing from Eliot's lips to his eyes to his own hand still hovering. It feels like Eliot is waiting for him, but he wishes that he would just show him to the bedroom, push him on the bed, and take what he wants.
In the absence of knowing how to proceed, he starts talking. "The picture you sent on your birthday, wearing my necklace- You looked so exhausted and so pleased with yourself." He takes a short breath, feeling his heart still beating fast in his chest. "I confess I have thought about it. Often." His eyes shift away from Eliot and then find his gaze again. He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, considering the admission before he adds, "I've done more than think about it. Once or twice."
The corner of his lips lift into half a smile. Nervous, but sincere. "I'd very much like to see that look again, in person."
He pulls his hand away and reaches out again, this time towards Eliot's chest, but he can't convince himself to make contact. As much as Eliot has made clear, it's not clear how he wants this to go, and Jack doesn't want to make assumptions. He spent too long ignoring what Anne really needed and he doesn't want to be so foolish again.
"Do you want me to touch you? Do you-" He wants to press forward and kiss him again, but he holds himself back. "What do you want me to do?"
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He tilts his head in consideration as Jack begins speaking. He’d forgotten about the photo with everything else going on, and now the thought of Jack using it as inspiration makes his pulse race faster. He certainly wouldn’t mind lying there and watching Jack get himself off, and he shifts in his seat and opens his mouth to say so, but Jack gives him pause.
There’s something wrong about how hesitant Jack is, more than just the uncertainty of a first time with a man. It’s like there’s some force preventing him from doing what he wants, and his questions, which Eliot would normally find sweet and helpful, sound concerning in this context.
There’s a needy part of him that wants to simply take Jack’s hands and show him, but as much as he misses the contact, there’s clearly an issue that needs to be addressed. It alarms him that despite Jack's stated desire, he’s acting like a dog fearful of being kicked.
Eliot chews his lower lip and sucks in breath through his teeth as he considers how to answer. If the last few minutes have proved anything it’s that talking things out might actually be a viable problem-solving strategy. As long as he doesn’t make Jack more skittish than he already is.
He gives a nervous laugh. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he says, hoping that will put Jack at ease a little. “This is good, I think we should…before we get too far ahead of ourselves, just talk about this a bit? And get an idea of what we’re both comfortable with.”
He glances at Jack’s hands, his eyes, his face still flushed. These things are usually easier to talk about, but then there’s usually a common frame of reference. “Maybe,” Eliot sighs, trying to frame the question, “I wonder—I don’t know how it was like for you before, but just so I know—what you’re used to in bed, if there’s anything you want to try?”
Eliot hates that he sounds so awkward. If it were anyone else he wouldn’t feel nearly so apprehensive, but this is Jack. He wants to get it right.
He huffs a soft laugh, meeting his eyes again and finding confusion there. “I don’t mean to make this sound like a business transaction. But I want this to be…equitable. For the record, I do want you to touch me. Lots, actually,” he adds with a sheepish grin. “I’m fairly easygoing, like I enjoy a lot of things but I don’t know what you particularly enjoy, or…or what you don’t.” He looks at Jack, serious. “And I want this to be good for you.”
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Moreso- he's not exactly sure what Eliot wants to know, or why. His impression is that Eliot wants an idea of his experience level and is also concerned about making a move that Jack isn't going to like, both which seem like strange requests to him. He's not sure why either would matter.
"I don't need special treatment. I just wanted to know the rules, if you have any."
Eliot's face shows that that's not the answer he's expecting, so Jack huffs out an anxious breath and keeps talking, picking up speed as he goes. "What do you need to know?"
His hands don't settle on any one place as he continues talking. He moves them to his lap, gesturing in the air, settles one on the back of the couch then takes it away again, pushes one back through through his hair. "I've had things up my ass- fingers, memorably-the handle of a silver hair brush...Anne liked to ride me but she didn't like to be touched. It's-" He fumbles over the impulse to explain the events in Anne's past that might explain why Anne didn't like to be touched, but none of that is for him to tell, even if he was sure it was the real reason and not just that she was secretly wanting something other than him. Instead, he just moves on. "She'd tie me to the bed. Which was fine enough, but if my hands aren't moving my mind tends to wander."
"Before Anne was Jo. Josephine. It was just flattery and fucking from her and after a year she stole my purse and left, I don't think there much else to say. And before that...a couple fumbles in my youth..." He looks away and looks back while he gestures vaguely with his hand. "I know pirates and sailors tend to have a reputation for fucking their way through every available woman...I definitely saw it at the brothel. But I had Anne, and then I had Nassau and a war and..." He shrugs, stopping short of adding Charles to the list. "It wasn't a focus."
"If my limited scope of experience is a problem-" He reaches out now to gently cup Eliot's jaw, then slide that hand down until it's resting on Eliot's chest. "You can direct me. I won't object."
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But then there is Jack’s hand on his face, on his chest, and Eliot’s doubts are pushed aside by longing. He wants him, and he wants to make him happy, however much effort it takes.
“…Huh,” he answers after a moment. He needs to be careful here, and not give Jack any impression of pity, but it’s difficult to express his feelings on the subject without being horribly awkward.
Eliot smiles, he hopes reassuringly. “Of course it isn’t a problem. That’s all good to know, and I ask because…” He puts his hand on Jack’s, holding it to his chest, and spends a quiet moment tracing the metacarpal bones, the rings, the shape of his fingers. “If the focus in the past has mainly been about someone else’s gratification…”
He falters a little, pondering. Easier to start with specifics. “I wouldn’t tie you up, for example, unless it was something you wanted,” Eliot says quietly. “If it was something Anne needed that’s one thing, but…like, being restrained excites some people, makes other people feel comfortable, it varies. But I wouldn’t ask you to just tolerate it, or anything else for that matter, merely for my sake.”
“I wanted to get an idea of your outlook, I suppose. For my part, the way I approach sex is…” Eliot looks down, smiling to himself. He shifts his hold to lightly stroke the underside of Jack’s wrist. “I like providing for people. I enjoy being a good host, and a good king.” He looks up, meeting Jack’s gaze with a grin. “I like seeing someone at the height of pleasure and knowing that I’m what got him there. I’m certain it would be equally enjoyable for both of us, but since this is a new experience for you, I’m more interested in exploring what you need." He take a breath and lets it out in a soft sigh. “I’d really like to give you my full and undivided attention.”
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His fingers twitch under Eliot's gentle grip before he shifts his hand down a fraction to squeeze loose a button on Eliot's shirt. That accomplished, he dips his fingers to touch the skin beneath. It's a small action, but deliberate. Definitely not something he would have done with Anne, and that matters- it makes this feel like more than just a replacement for what he's lost. Eliot's chest is warm and soft and, as he presses his fingers flat, he finds a small dusting of chest hair. He smiles softly, not sure if he's feeling Eliot's heart or his own beating down into his fingertips. "I have considered you."
He chuckles lightly, and glances up at Eliot, catching his gaze. "If you want to show me the heights of pleasure you are welcome to it, but I would..." He lets his thumb trace back and forth and he watches it for a moment, getting used to the amount of attention that Eliot is giving him even now. He's not used to being watched with such interest. As much as Eliot has made clear, he can't shrug off the idea that there's something he's missing or doing wrong. "I'd like you to show me some of what you like, too."
He leans forward and kisses Eliot slowly and deliberately, only pulling away when Eliot starts to lean further in and open the kiss. If this is happening, the bedroom is probably the right place for it. He stands and walks towards the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. He discards the shirt on top of the small curio cabinet that he remembers contains Eliot's crown and bits of spell components. He considers it for as long at it takes to make sure that the shirt hasn't fallen to the floor, wondering if Eliot might like to wear his crown for this, or to cast some spell, but he doesn't feel right asking. If feels like too much to imply how much he likes the power that Eliot holds, both in title and skill.
He leaves the shirt behind and bends to pull off his boots and socks. Halfway through, he glances up to find Eliot still at the couch watching him. "Well, my liege," he says with a smirk, "Are you coming?" He's trying to tease him, but it comes out sounding a little more sincere than he'd been intending. He focuses back down on removing his other boot and sock, then turns and walks into the bedroom.
Eliot's bedroom is beautiful, all dark woods and soft furnishings. In some ways, it looks more familiar and more like home than anywhere else he's been in Darrow. While he's still alone here he takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and goes to sit on the edge of the bed.
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He’s transfixed watching Jack shed his shirt, the way he discards it on the cabinet feels oddly deliberate. Eliot’s almost irritated by it—a little bit of mess left behind in a carefully curated space. Like he owns the damn place, like he belongs here. He wants to say something teasing to that effect. But when Jack stoops and addresses him with smirking fealty his throat goes dry in an instant. It’s not a joke, he thinks. Not entirely, anyway, judging by the look in Jack’s eyes. No one’s spoken to him like that in a long time, much less in an intimate context, and it makes him want to get up and press Jack against the wall. But he can’t move.
“I-I’m just going to get some snacks,” he announces to Jack’s back, before rising shakily from the couch to retreat for a moment to the kitchen. Eliot exhales in a near-hysterical laugh, leaning on the counter for support. The shock of the moment has been replaced by a light and bubbly feeling; it might have just been aimless teasing but it’s made Eliot playful, and he wants to see how deep the sentiment might run. He turns his face to hide a grin against his shoulder, even though no one’s there to see, and tries to center himself.
He doesn’t want to make Jack wait too long, and so he quickly puts together a tray of little things: clementines and grapes and cubes of a nice sweet gouda. He fills a pitcher with ice water and draws a figure on the glass to keep it cold, and takes it all with a couple cups, arms full, to the bedroom.
He finds Jack laying back on the bed, his legs hanging off the side, staring up at the canopy with some unreadable expression. And for a moment Eliot is silent, just watching the rise and fall of his chest, the edge of his ribs dipping down to his flat stomach, and he thinks with a strange fondness that Jack looks right here, in his bed. He’d furnished the room to be a spectacle of comfortable excess, soft sheets and too many pillows, and now he thinks maybe the purpose of it all was to surround Jack’s narrow torso and bony shoulders in well-deserved luxury. Eliot wishes he could see this every day.
He draws in an audible breath and Jack turns to look at him, and Eliot smiles at the way his hair fans out on the duvet. “Hey,” he says, putting the pitcher and glasses on the bedside table and setting the tray down on the bed. “Sit up, have a little something to eat.” Eliot smiles as he says it, making his tone serene and commanding, and sinks down next to him when he complies. He plucks a grape from the bunch and puts it to Jack’s mouth, shivering at the brief flick of his tongue against the pad of his thumb when he takes it, blushing. He loses a moment staring at the movement of Jack’s throat as he swallows. “Good,” Eliot says, softly, and keeps his hand there, thumb brushing against his lips in consideration.
“If we’re discussing what I like,” he begins, giving him a mischievous glance, “I’d like your assistance with the rest of these…pesky buttons, to start with.” Eliot looks down at his shirt before shifting his gaze to the small dark shape on Jack’s ribs, the tattooed figure of an animal. He smiles, reaching out to lightly stroke the ink lines. “And then perhaps you could introduce me to your little friend here.”
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The gentle way that Eliot commands him is a relief. It is easy to do as he asks- sit up, eat a grape, undo buttons. He'd been feeling like he'd gotten in over his head and this grounds him in a way that feels comfortable. He doesn't know how to talk about what he wants, or even what he wants, except for the quiet thrill of knowing that he's doing what Eliot has asked of him. He blushes at the affirmation, a little embarrassed at how much Eliot saying Good makes him relax.
"You don't have a spell for that? Snap your fingers and your clothes are all off and folded neatly in their places?" he teases with a brief smirk, already turning and reaching out for Eliot's shirt cuff. When Eliot's hand instead travels further to caress along the line of his ribs and the small figure that sits there, he closes his eyes briefly, sighing against the press of Eliot's fingers. In the touch he can already feel the beginnings of a bruise forming from their fight earlier in the day. Eliot's touch is light, and it's not unpleasant to have a reminder of how evenly matched they were when it came to fighting hand to hand.
"Pictish design, or so said Greaves-" Jack catches Eliot's wrist as he draws it back and turns it so that he can pay attention to the nice gold cuff-link there. "He was a Scot by blood, but born in Barbados, so it may have been his own invention." He smiles at the memory of being laid out on the deck, a hulking red-haired man hammering away at him with a needle, Charles watching, amused and pleased, from a little ways away.
He figures out how the cuff-link works before removing it gently, then folds back the cuff, taking a moment to examine Eliot's wrist, his elegant fingers, the whorls on his soft fingertips.
"A fox. Earned by my cleverness." Jack runs a thumb over Eliot's wrist, then gives into the urge to dip his head and kiss the delicate skin there. This is no throne room, and he is no knight, but Eliot does deserve this kind of attention and care. He looks up when he hears a soft moan escape Eliot's lips, and is pleased to see his mouth open, his expression startled. It's nice to know that he can take a few liberties and still be doing the right thing, to get reinforcement that Eliot is enjoying this. He gestures for Eliot's other hand. When he gives it, Jack smiles and pays attention to the cuff-link there. "There was a French man-o-war. I found a way to capture it."
"That was early days." He dips his head a measure further, feeling vulnerable in knowing that Eliot is watching him. He could add that Charles chose the spot, that his hand was once where Eliot's just was, but it feels at once inappropriate and immaterial. Eliot doesn't feel like a replacement for how he felt about Charles, and bringing him up now would only suggest a connection where there isn't one.
Eliot lifts a small slice of citrus to his mouth and he takes it. The taste is bright and sweet and makes him realize how thirsty he's been. Eliot's thumb lingers at his mouth and he takes it between his lips, sucking a drop of juice from the pad of his thumb.
He leans back to set the cuff-links on the side table and takes a moment to pour a glass of water.
"Do you always treat your conquests like this?" He nods to the plate of fruit and cheese, but there's more to it than that- more than the food, he wonders if the care that Eliot is showing him is more than he usually shows men in his bed. Maybe he should have expected more from Eliot, but he figured that all sex between men must be rough and quick. He didn't think that men had sex like this- with care and attention.
He drinks half of the glass and then hands it over to Eliot to drink so that he can reach out again, this time to the remaining buttons down the placket of his shirt. He's faster here than he'd been with the cuffs, pressing buttons open and pulling the shirt up from its neatly tucked position to expose Eliot's slim soft torso.
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“I like watching you work,” he says, soft and intent, in reply to the teasing. Jack goes even redder and Eliot grins, delighted to see this side of him that’s so receptive and eager to please. He likes the energy between them now, the thing taking shape here, and he finds it an easy role to play.
It’s comforting being pampered like this, and Eliot can easily imagine himself in Whitespire, his servants preparing him for bed. The routine was awkward when he first took the throne; despite all his snobbishness he doesn’t believe in any inherent kind of superiority, least of all over elves and fauns and all sorts of folk grateful to not be living in a reign of terror. But there were rules about these things, and it was all tied into the magic of the place, and the job, and he had to get used to it.
And in a sudden jarring moment Eliot forgets to breathe, caught by the light, reverent touch of Jack’s lips to his wrist. He exhales in a barely-voiced moan, and glances down to meet Jack’s gaze, and between the cow-eyed sincerity and the tender warmth of his mouth, Eliot’s confidence is obliterated.
It shouldn’t be possible to be so turned on by one little kiss—but if he didn’t need to show Jack a good time here and maintain a certain amount of self-control to do so, he’d be a whimpering mess from it.
He shifts, and clears his throat. “Clever indeed,” he murmurs, trying to sound calm as he gives Jack his other wrist to work on.
Eliot distracts himself with food, munching on sections of clementine as Jack works. He gives Jack a piece, a little reward for being a quick study, and gasps at the delicious tingling when he sucks the juice off his thumb. It’s like Jack’s pulling his heart out through his hand, and his pulse races as he thinks of other tasks for that clever mouth—but there’s an apprehension he has to quash. Jack could hurt him, like this, his teeth are so close. He could, but he won’t, because he wants to be good. And Eliot sighs, a little shakily, grateful when Jack passes him the water.
He finishes the glass and hands it back to Jack, and considers the question. “I’d say I’m always decently hospitable,” he answers slowly, “but this is…it’s different with you.” His fingers trace over the fox and the scars, hands skimming over Jack’s chest and shoulders to map him out. “I know you, I know we both like fine things, and I see this as an opportunity to be a little more…decadent than usual. I don’t…I hadn’t been telling men I’ve met in bars about the magic. They don’t need to know that about me.”
Eliot wonders if that last bit was too much or too honest for the tone of this little scene, but he covers the doubt by giving Jack a smirk and shrugging out of his shirt.
“So,” he says, “you see yourself as a conquest in this situation?” Eliot grins playfully, testing the waters. “I suppose I did defeat you in battle. But I assure you I’m quite ah, magnanimous in victory.”
Eliot leans in, and his hands settle at Jack’s waist and tug him gently closer. He whispers into his ear, “come here,” beckoning Jack onto his lap.
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"Why would you hide what you can do? You're a powerful man. I'd think other men would like that." He sighs lightly, as he follows the line of Eliot's collarbone with his eyes. "I do. Like it."
Maybe it's too much to admit, but he has an instinct to flatter Eliot, and more, it doesn't make sense to him that Eliot would hide what seems like a fundamental part of himself. This really is different, if Eliot usually prefers anonymity with the men he fucks, but he deserves some praise for who he is and what he's accomplished. Jack doesn't want this to feel anonymous and it seems like Eliot doesn't either- or at least they know each other too well now to pretend.
He sets his elbows on top of Eliot's shoulders, ready to pull himself flush against him or grind down against him, but Eliot's hands are already up between them, tracing up his torso and over his chest. When Eliot said he wants to be decadent about this, Jack thought he'd only meant the food, but he's beginning to realize that his entire approach is different than he'd been expecting. Maybe Eliot wants it this way, or maybe he thinks that this is what Jack needs, but in the least he's learning that he's going to have to be patient and follow Eliot's pace.
Searching for a more comfortable position, he lifts himself up on his shins and tilts his hips forward. As he settles back down, he voices a small noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a moan and a sigh.
As Eliot continues to explore his chest, Jack lifts a hand to the back of Eliot's neck, gently pressing fingers along his spine up into his hairline. His skin is smooth, his hair a pleasant texture, and it feels nice to cycle between the two.
"If you hadn't used magic, I would have had my blade at your throat instead, and we wouldn't be here now." He smiles a little, relieved now that this is where they are. "Unless you had plans to lose your mind and kiss me in the middle of a sparring session?"
Eliot's hand stills for a moment and then traces a small circular scar that rests over his heart. Jack tips his head to the side, looking more at Eliot's hand than at the scar itself. When Eliot stays quiet, Jack glances to his face. The expression that he finds there seems hard to read, but he guesses that he's intrigued by the origin of it.
Jack smirks. It's entirely possible that Eliot likes his scars. It is proof that he's had an exciting life and been in life or death situations. It must be a thrilling reminder. "A lead shot. I was lucky I wasn't closer when he fired the pistol. Hurt like hell when they dug it out."
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It’s not how he expected this to go, none of it is. Jack’s careful hand on the back of his neck, idly petting him and giving him such a deep feeling of calm it’s disturbing. His questions, the uncanny way he can get under Eliot’s skin even now, framing a very reasonable withholding of personal information as hiding. Eliot could explain himself, try to convey the disappointment he felt the first time he bragged about his world to a local and was met with polite disinterest. He could try and express how that feeling made him stop mentioning it, or caring so much about getting to know anyone here, how he started to think of his casual encounters as glorified masturbation. But he can’t go down that line of thought, because it’s not about trying to explain how he feels. It’s not about him, it’s about making Jack feel good and enjoying this little bit of time for what it is, and he needs to stop thinking and just act.
Eliot dips his head to kiss the scar, and pulls Jack closer with one hand firm on his back to feel the muscles there, tight despite how readily he goes where he’s led. He slings his other arm around Jack’s hips, relishing the warmth and pressure of their bodies pulled more flush against each other, the slowly building humidity of shared breath. Most of all Eliot loves the way Jack shudders when he traces the divot of the scar with his tongue, reverent, as if he could erase the memory of suffering and claim this man, for just a little while, as his.
When Eliot tilts his head and mouths at his nipple, he can feel Jack’s sharp intake of breath and the low sound that gets stuck in his throat. He relishes all the sensation, the quickening pulse next to his ear, and no longer feels lost in his own head about this night. He looks up at Jack, his expression smug and a little devious, before he pulls away.
“You feel so fucking good, can I just—you won’t mind if I show off a little,” he says, breathless and smirking. It’s not even flashy, lifting the tray of food out of the way with telekinesisand setting it on the table, but Jack seems awed all the same. Eliot looks past his flushed face to the lamp and it clicks off with a thought, and for a moment they’re in darkness. Then, he sighs and wills a cluster of little lights into being. They twinkle like warm candle-colored fireflies as they drift on the canopy of the bed and glint off Jack’s necklace. Eliot almost wants to ask him to keep it on. He looks at Jack with a smile, shifting further onto the bed so he can lean back, and toys with the waistband of his jeans. “There now, that’s so much better, don’t you think?”
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Eliot speaking brings his attention back and for a moment he just looks at him, speechless at how beautiful he looks with the low warm light reflecting off his eyes and his smooth skin.
"I-" A laugh bubbles up out of his throat. It feels faintly ridiculous, that Eliot wants to be here with him, that he's a magician that can cast real magic, and he's charming enough to do it now just for atmosphere. This all feels unreal, like he's dreaming it.
"Eliot, you can show off anytime you like." He's not sure how to parse what he's feeling, but he does know that it's something fond and pleased and yet it also feels too big to exist in his body. The immensity of the feeling presses outward from his chest in a way that makes him feel like there is something inside of him trying to fight its way out. Eliot has leaned back, but Jack follows him eagerly, tipping his head to smother his smile at Eliot's temple. He mouths along the edge of his jaw, then drops a foot to the floor to brace himself as he explores the shifting landscape of Eliot's neck and the gentle hollow behind his collarbone.
He shifts to go lower, but his position at the edge of the bed makes it difficult to explore with more than his hands. Reluctantly, he pulls away and stands, a small smile returning to his lips when he finds himself weak in the knees.
As Eliot moves fully onto the bed and turns to look up at him, Jack divests himself of his trousers and underthings. It's a relief, to no longer be so constrained, but he already misses the gentle pressure of the boxer-briefs (he remembers with a little laugh, that Eliot had picked them out for him.) He carefully removes the rings from his right hand and sets them beside the tray of food. They'll just get in the way if they stay on his fingers.
As he's turning back to Eliot, a small mote of light flies in front of his face and he reaches out, lifting up two fingers to gently touch it. It's warm, like candlelight- He's almost expecting it to be solid like wax, but as he pushes his fingers into the light it splits and rejoins behind them. When he looks back down at Eliot, the open desire he sees there cuts right through him. Still keeping his eyes on Eliot, he pushes the same two fingers that he'd used to touch the mote of light into his own mouth, half curious if there might be a lingering taste to the magic. Not finding any, he wets his fingers with saliva and then drops his hand to stroke his cock once, then again, an unvoiced moan at the back of his throat as his gaze shifts down the length of Eliot's torso, settling on the bulge evident in his jeans.
"Another pesky button there?" he says and he kneels onto the bed and directs his attention to the waistband of Eliot's jeans. He undoes the button, but stops short of undressing Eliot further. It feels to him like something that he shouldn't do without being asked. He pulls his hand away and sets it instead along the inside of Eliot's thigh, stroking there as he glances up to meet Eliot's gaze. He feels comfortable in this space, but impatient. He isn't really sure where to go from here or what Eliot is expecting, but he knows he wants more.
"How are we going to do this? Do you want to fuck me? Do you want to be the woman?" Either option feels intimidating, but Eliot has been so considerate with him thus far and his own desire is making details unimportant. He doesn't really care what Eliot decides, as long as he gets to be closer to him as soon as possible.
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That certainty doesn’t keep him from letting out a needy whine, though, when Jack sucks on his fingers. Eliot squirms in place, eager and gripping a fistful of sheets to keep himself from just stripping down. He needs to give Jack something to do, since he so clearly likes to be useful and reacts so charmingly to praise.
His breath quickens when Jack comes back to the bed, and it feels good, the way Jack orients himself to him. He feels powerful, and he likes it, but even more he likes that Jack likes it. Eliot gives him a slow, hungry smile. He’s going to take such good care of him. “Go on,” he says, his voice low and calm, and nods at Jack’s hands for him to continue.
Eliot’s not surprised by the question, or bothered by it, but it does deserve a more substantive answer than ‘neither’ to correct the assumptions Jack’s working from. So he sits up on his elbows and considers him.
“There’s a lot of different ways to fuck,” Eliot says slowly, his smile widening as he watches Jack work. He holds admirably still, despite wanting to grind up against his palms, and continues his explanation. “But in any circumstance neither of us is ‘the woman,’ and that’s kind of the point. We’re not-” he groans in relief as he’s freed from his jeans, and lifts his hips to be extricated. He huffs a laugh; he’s so eager he’s already leaking a damp spot onto his underwear and Jack’s looking at his cock like he’s starving, but Eliot exercises the most restraint known to humanity and keeps talking.
“-We’re not operating within the bounds of some idea about proper order,” he explains, and reaches out to thread his fingers through Jack’s hair. “It’s not a performance with a set script or roles, it’s…a conversation, and we decide what we want together. It’s collaborative, not transactional.” Perhaps it’s not the best speech, but he can hardly do better in these circumstances.
Eliot clears his throat and kicks his jeans off the bed with an awkward shake before he notices where Jack’s attention has gone. He’s staring at Eliot’s socks, or the garters at least, one hand resting warm on his ankle. He can feel his pulse through the thin silk and the slight tickle of Jack’s fingers on the back of his calf as he’s starting to figure out the clip, “Oh it’s all right, leave it,” he laughs softly. “I’ll keep them on, just come back here.” Jack looks up at him with an expression in his dark eyes that stops his breath for a moment.
He draws Jack up with a hand on the back of his neck to lie on top of him, and shivers at the electric tingle of skin on skin. Jack is soft where he’s not wind-chapped from a life at sea, and Eliot wants to memorize every inch of him. From their bony knees bumping to the weight of him and the feel of his ribs when he breathes, it’s like an echo of this morning—but better in every possible way. He presses a hand to the small of Jack’s back, like they’re dancing, and ruts against him slowly. Eliot has to stifle his moan in a kiss just below his ear, the skin hot and sweat-damp under his mouth. Neither of them may last very long at this rate, but it will surely be worth it.
Pulling away a bit, he peppers Jack’s face with kisses and notes the dazed look in his eyes. “If you’re curious how it feels getting fucked in the ass,” he smirks, breathless, “I’d
love to enlighten you. But that’s a lot of effort and I’m-” Eliot laughs. “-impatient. So let’s start a little simpler.”
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After a minute, he feels the silk sock and the elastic garter pressed against his ass- Eliot lifting a foot to hook behind him and urge him closer. A laugh caught halfway in his throat at the reminder that he didn't actually manage to get Eliot fully undressed shifts immediately into a moan when he follows the unspoken demand and presses closer.
He nuzzles into Eliot's temple, hiding a smile there. The idea that this might not be the only time they fuck removes the remaining anxiety he had about how this is going. He wants this again- to find new ways to make Eliot sweat and moan his name, to know the feeling of every smooth surface of his body.
Slowly, they become a chorus of pants and moans. The gentle shifting of their hips speeds up- One elbow planted beside Eliot, the other with his fingers dug into his hair, he struggles to move faster and press closer.
Eliot's hand fists into his hair and he moans out Eliot's name, pausing for a moment, his head resting against Eliot's chest. He can hear Eliot's heart beating fast, feel his cock twitching pressed between their bodies, and this feels right. He doesn't feel awkward or lost or too inexperienced. This is Eliot and there's no denying that they both want this.
"Hold on. H-hold on." He pulls back enough to kiss him, but both of them are breathing too quickly to maintain a kiss for very long. Instead, he kisses along his jaw, then pulls back, running his hands along Eliot's chest, tracing over his nipples and down his waist. He feels dangerously close to a precipice, and he doesn't want to cum without palming Eliot's cock.
"I just need-" He sits up enough that he can reach between them to wrap his hand around both of their cocks. Around them, the motes of light surge and flicker, and Jack smirks from within a daze, hoping that that means he's distracted Eliot enough that he can't keep focus on his spell. He strokes them once then lifts his hand back to his mouth, licking across the palm of his hand before returning it slicker.
"That's...so hot but let me get...I've got something better than spit," says Eliot, and fumbles for his side table. It's awkward, reaching backward, and Jack follows his hand to open the drawer. With direction, he retrieves the small bottle from within and hands it over to Eliot.
Oil spills over Eliot's hand and he joins Jack's hand, sliding over their cocks until they are impossibly slick.
"Oh, yes. That's...good. You're perfect." Jack's hips involuntarily jerk forward as they both stroke. His arm holding him up trembles and props his other hand beside Eliot. His heart is pounding against his ribs and he whimpers. Between quick breaths he mumbles out "Eliot, please."
Eliot's hand strokes quickly, fisted around Jack's cock now, and Jack whines, only able to hold himself up as his vision momentarily whites out and he cums over Eliot's hand.
"Eliot," he gasps through his orgasm. Afterward, Eliot brings a hand up to stroke his chest and push back his sweat-damp hair. His breath slowing, he's able to ease back and return his attention to Eliot. Eliot is gently stroking himself and Jack watches him for a moment, taking in for a moment how utterly perfect he looks in this moment- his cock slick and straining, his eyes dark and lidded, he lips parted, breathing hard.
"Let me." Jack replaces Eliot's hand with his own. He starts slow, enjoying how Eliot pants and squirms under him, but he quickly speeds up. It's not long before Eliot is moaning loader, his head tipped back gasping as he cums. The motes of light spark and sizzle like a hundred lit fuses. Jack strokes him through it while the room momentarily glows.
As the motes of light shift back to their dim glow, Jack falls to Eliot's side, smiling lazily and listening to his own heartbeat slow, his breathing evening out. His mind feels fogged over and he can't think of anything to say. For the moment, he's okay with simply resting next to Eliot, staring up at the gently shifting lights.
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If he were coherent he’d tell Jack how proud he is of him, but all he can manage is a breathless litany of “yes” and “good.”
Eliot flashes a quick triumphant grin. Jack’s needy and begging as he strokes him, and Eliot would give him anything he asked. He’d give him the world if he asked.
He wants to tell Jack all these things after he finishes but he can’t form the words. The hand on his cock drives all thought from Eliot’s mind, and he can only whine and gasp Jack’s name, and the flare of the lights match the spots in his vision.
Jack rolls off of him and Eliot keeps his eyes closed, lets out an unsteady exhale, and lays in the hazy muddle of returning thought.
He counts his own heartbeats, feeling heavy and tired, the familiar sequence of sensation spinning out like it does after every sexual encounter. It will be awkward, Eliot knows—he waits for the inevitable moment that the physical presence of someone else in his bed grows too uncomfortable and he has to get him to leave.
He doesn’t want it, of course. He wants to make this last but he knows it won’t, he’ll start to get irritated by another body this close to him, and he needs to ensure Jack doesn’t feel bad about it.
But as his breathing slows to normal and Jack is lying quiet beside him, it doesn’t happen. Eliot realizes, with slow confusion, that he doesn’t mind the feeling at all. That he only feels the strange calmness he’s come to associate with being close to Jack. The sex was fun and good and he feels satisfied, providing Jack that experience. But in some unfamiliar way, it isn’t enough.
He keeps his eyes closed and imagines what it would be like, if this was different. If he were different, and good for more than just a nice time. I could be happy like this, he thinks. And as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he wants it, so badly he has to hold his breath for a sudden moment. He doesn’t want to play the good host and get Jack cleaned up and sent on his way. He wants this feeling to stay, for Jack to stay, and he wants Jack’s arms around him and he’s certain that if he were better, and deserved it, that it could be different and he could fall asleep feeling safe.
He ought to tell Jack this, that he’s never wanted something like this before but somehow he needs it now. Jack is just his friend, he has no illusions about that. But maybe it wouldn’t be too much to ask him to stay, maybe he wouldn’t mind giving Eliot more than what he already has.
“Hey-” he starts to say, finding his voice hoarse, but at that same moment Jack rolls over and the mattress dips as he moves to get up.
The peaceful feeling is gone, and all Eliot’s certainty along with it. He makes himself smile and be charming.
“How are you feeling, was that all right?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at Jack. It’s an important question, but not the one he wanted to ask. But he can only be responsible now, the moment for tenderness and vulnerability has passed.
He almost wonders if Jack wants to go another round, but something in his bearing tells Eliot to give him space. So he manages to form a little abjurative spell with one shaky hand and he sits up on his elbows and flicks his fingers at Jack like he’s brushing dust away, and in an instant he’s clean and dry.
Eliot lays back down with a sigh. The little lights seem dimmer than before.
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He'd expected that by now Eliot would be rolling back towards him- maybe gloating a little, considering how easily and thoroughly he'd managed to undo him. He'd expected a hand on his chest and the warm smile that he's come to expect. He wants to smile and joke about his ridiculous socks, tell him that next time he'll manage to undress him completely, but none of that feels appropriate.
The silence begins to feel like dismissal.
Could it be, he thinks, even though Eliot had said he wanted this, that he actually didn't? Or that Eliot had thought he'd wanted him, but the actual experience had been a disappointment? Had Eliot been acting for his sake? He's not sure which is worse, and the thought makes him feel sick. Can it be that he's destined to keep hurting the people he loves in the same way?
He pushes himself up to sit and bends to retrieve his trousers and underwear from the floor. When he looks back at Eliot, he finds him smiling, but it's the smile that stops just short of showing off the crooked tilt of his jaw. It's practiced and perfect, and he has no idea what it's hiding, but he does know that he's done something wrong to make it necessary.
He huffs an embarrassed laugh at Eliot's question. He feels like a selfish fool. Before he can answer, Eliot makes a shooing motion at him and suddenly they're both clean, like this never happened at all. He pulls on his underwear and trousers, standing as he does. At best, this was fine for Eliot, but it was transactional, and he's slipped on this mask so that Jack will leave him alone instead of hanging around.
"More than all right," he answers honestly, and looks back down at Eliot, the little lights dimming around them and obscuring the details of his expression.
"I should let you get to sleep," he says, watching the shadows shift around Eliot's face.
One last transgression- He bends to kiss him once more and lingers there a moment, afraid that it might be the last time.
"See you later" he says. Hovering there, one hand on Eliot's chest, he nearly adds thank you, but it feels too pathetic to voice out loud. Instead, he walks away, retrieves the rest of his clothes from the other room, and leaves Eliot's apartment without saying anything else.
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“Sure,” he says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Get home safe.” He says it like this is any other evening coming to a close, and he’s horrified at himself.
A lightheadedness suffuses him even before Jack is gone, but the sound of the door closing knocks something loose in him, and Eliot sits up and draws his knees to his chest and the little lights wink out as he starts shaking.
Jack’s hand on his chest was so warm, and now Eliot just feels so cold, like he’ll never be warm again.
He tugs the duvet loose and wraps it around his shoulders; he surely cuts a pathetic figure just huddled in the dark so he reaches to turn on the lamp. The light doesn’t improve his mood as much as he’d thought, revealing only the food and water still mostly untouched. It seems such a meager offering now.
A glint of silver catches Eliot’s attention and he stares at the two rings sitting on the nightstand where Jack had left them. For a long moment he doesn’t know what to think. See you later, he’d said, but in Jack’s absence it’s impossible to take his words to heart. The rings seem less like a reason to return and more like they’d been abandoned as Jack cut and run.
He reaches out to touch them but draws his hand back. He’s trembling, and for a moment he has the wild irrational thought that he cannot touch these things or else he will sully them somehow, as surely as sullied Jack in this whole endeavor.
He tries to take a breath to steady himself but only manages a sob. Dimly, Eliot knows he ought to eat, but he glances at the tray of fruit and cheese and feels a little ill. He’s spoiled everything, and Jack must be regretting it by now.
Eliot’s up and staggering out of the bedroom before he realizes it, taking the duvet with him. The weight of it is like a mantle and it helps the shaking enough that he can walk, but he feels wobbly and wild-eyed as he looks around the apartment like it’s a crime scene.
The dagger, too, was left behind. It feels like an indictment. Eliot frowns at it, and the bottle of wine in the kitchen. It’s far better than he deserves, but he needs something to chase the chill and the tremors away.
He pours himself two fingers of whiskey instead. The first swallow burns his throat as he takes the glass back to the bedroom. Eliot laughs to himself, thinking that the sting is the least he deserves. He only realizes he’s crying once he’s back in bed, curled up in a pile.
If there’s a silver lining to be found, at least Jack left before seeing what a pathetic mess he really is.
“Fuck,” Eliot whispers, trying to concentrate on keeping his hands from shaking and spilling the drink. “Fuck.”
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He makes it down five flights before he slows down and another before he stops completely and drops to sit on the landing of the stairs, hastily wiping tears away from his eyes. It's only then, with his palm pressed against his face, that he realizes he left his rings behind. He left his dagger behind, too.
He takes in a deep breath and lets it out, trying to slow down his breathing. He leans over, letting his hands slide back into his hair and fists his hands there, pulling just tight enough to feel pain.
What is he supposed to do now? He can't just walk back up there, sweaty and crying, and ask for his things back. Eliot's already had enough of him for one evening, if his silence was anything to go by.
For a while there, he thought at least they'd had an understanding. He'd though that Eliot had enjoyed himself, but Eliot's silence calls into question all of his assumptions. What a fucking farce this has all been, he thinks. He feels even more confused and upset than he had this morning.
Could it be that Eliot was regretting his decision? Had he done something wrong that hurt Eliot? Was it just bad sex and he didn't know any better?
"Fuck," he says, bringing his hands down to scrub over his face. He thought it had been good. Not just the sex, but being close to Eliot in that way had felt far more comfortable than he'd expected, far more like he belonged in that bed. It had seemed for a little while like their friendship could extend to sex without any hiccups at all. He'd felt safe with him.
He dwells for a moment on what didn't happen after- Eliot rolling to him and putting a warm hand on his chest, smiling his crooked smile, asking him to stay and sleep next to him, going for breakfast in the morning.
He sighs. He shouldn't have expected it, but part of him did.
"Jack Rackham, you are a fool."
He sits there for a few minutes more, coming to rest his head against the side of the stairwell. He feels exhausted. Only when he hears someone opening the stairwell door above does he push himself back to his feet and walk down the remaining flights of stairs. He has no interest in interacting with some random stranger right now.
His apartment is cold and stark and strange. Once in the door he locks it and gravitates to his desk- the one piece of furniture that he'd added since he moved into this place, and now the most familiar. A blank notebook offers him the chance to write any of this down, but he finds he can't order his thoughts enough to write a word. For a while he pulls over his algebra textbook and distracts himself with a different sort of frustration.
He should try to sleep, he knows, but it would hurt to confront his cold bed knowing that Eliot is in his own, sleeping soundly. He digs out his phone and opens up his texts with Eliot, scrolling back a little bit to look at their texts from today and the last few days. It's past midnight, now. Calling now to leave a message would wake him, but he could leave a note for him to read in the morning.
What, though? He can't let on that he'd been hurt by Eliot's quiet dismissal, or that he would have liked to stay. Leaving immediately is probably just what Eliot expects from his partners and he'd been wrong to hope for anything more. He definitely can't let on how much he cares for him. There's no guarantee that Eliot even wants to sleep with him again.
At the same time- he has been wrong about Eliot's intentions and desires before. There must be a diplomatic way to ask if Eliot ever wants him again.
After a couple of false starts, he texts Thank you for the transformative experience. Hardly the swordplay I'd intended to have when I awoke this morning, but a welcome lesson nonetheless. If you are still a willing teacher, I would enjoy trying something else, some other time.
Then, he adds, Do you think that I should accept Jacobs offer? The date this Saturday? If he's no longer interested, Eliot deserves a simple way to let him down an Jacob is an simple alternative. It would be much easier for Eliot to suggest that Jacob might be a better match for him than it would be to turn him down outright. He presses send, then tuns his phone face down on the desk. His hand rests there a moment, as if he might read Eliot's mind across the distance, then he returns to his studies.