Work Text:
It’s been dark, lately. Too many clouds, rain always threatening just out of reach. The Revenge doesn't steer into it, not yet, but neither do they try to avoid it. Or maybe they’ve been sailing within the storm for weeks, caught in something none of them can escape. Doesn’t matter if rain isn’t pattering on the deck, or if the waves are too calm beneath them – it’s still a storm.
Frenchie misses the stars most of all. It’s hard to navigate without them; when there’s no ground beneath his feet, where else should he look but the heavens? But there’s nothing up there for him, not now.
He still looked, for a while. Stared at the clouds, and wondered when he’d see beyond them. But even when the skies were clear the stars had lost their shine. He’s no longer grounded in their brightness.
He’s not even trying to look, now. He’s hidden down in the ball room instead, soaking in his own misery.
Too-light footsteps and the whisper of cloth against wood drag him out of his thoughts.
“You don’t have to hide, you know,” Frenchie says, wiping the tears that he’s not even going to bother trying to pretend aren’t there from his face with one rough black sleeve.
Jim steps out of the shadows with a small huff, now-permanent frown plastered on their face. “You’re crying.”
“Well spotted.”
They hesitate, and he gets it. He’s not good at talking about emotions, either. Usually he just locks all the bad stuff away, tries to forget it – but it’s not working today. Hasn’t been working for a long time, maybe. Sorrow creeps in, day after day, like a poison.
“Are you… okay?” they venture, dropping to sit in front of him.
Frenchie laughs, wiping more tears from his eyes. “Are any of us?”
“… do you want to talk about it?”
“Not any more than you do, babes,” he whispers, closing his eyes and letting his head tilt back against the wall.
Silence falls for a long moment. Frenchie breathes, and tries not to think about how dark everything has become.
Cloth shuffles, then a hand finds his. Frenchie opens his eyes, staring up at Jim, who’s now crouched in front of him. They give him a half smile and stand up, tugging on his hand.
“C’mon.”
Frenchie follows, if only to keep holding their hand. It’s warm, and even though the ship is stifling, he still craves their heat. Something to prove he’s alive.
Jim leads him through narrow hallways, and up onto the deck. There’s a breeze tonight, soft against his skin. It’s dark, and he can just make out someone at the helm. Fang, probably.
He follows Jim across the deck, and up the ropes to the fighting top. There’s enough moonlight to climb by, but he still accepts Jim’s hand as they haul him over the edge.
They flash him a smile and sit with their back to the mast, patting the wood underneath them until Frenchie settles beside them. Stares out at the dark sea, listens to the lap of waves against the hull, and wishes he could stop crying.
Their hand finds his again. Frenchie clings back, breath hitching.
“Why here?” he whispers.
Jim hums and squeezes his hand. Their fingers are strong, calloused just like his. “I know you like the stars. And at least up here we can feel the wind.”
“Can’t see the stars, though,” Frenchie chokes out. “Been too many storms.”
A warm body presses against his side as Jim shuffles a little closer. “Yeah. I know.” Their head settles on his shoulder, and they let out a sigh that tells him they know exactly what he means.
“But not tonight,” Jim whispers. “They’re pretty nice tonight.”
They don’t tell him to look up. And maybe that’s why Frenchie does. He’s never needed someone to tell him what to do – just needed someone at his side until he’s brave enough to try it for himself.
And when he looks up, gazing at the heavens, trusting that Jim won’t let him drown in the darkness of an empty sky alone – the stars are so bright he can barely believe it. Spilling across the skies as far as the eyes can see, swirling in gorgeous shapes, constellations that he still knows off by heart. And the moon shining among them all, bright and full.
His breath hitches again. Frenchie rests his head atop Jim’s, and keeps his eyes on the heavens.
For five, ten minutes, they just sit together. Watching the stars, letting their heartbeats align. Jim is warm against him, a beautiful contrast to the cool night breeze.
For the first time in weeks Frenchie feels grounded. For the first time in weeks he feels a little more whole.
He’s not really expecting the kiss. Jim pulls way, just far enough so that they can turn towards him, reach a hand for his cheek, and pull him in. Their mouth is surprisingly soft, gentle in a way he didn’t know Jim could be. He’s not expecting it, but once it happens – once they’re there, kissing him like they think he’s something delicate and lovely, something worthy of being handled with care – he can’t imagine that this would have ended any other way.
“Is this okay?” Jim asks, voice whisper-light.
Gentle. So fucking gentle. Frenchie nods, and kisses them. “Yeah, babe.”
Jim shifts again, swinging a leg over his thighs and settling in his lap like it’s something they do every day. He once again wonders if they’re a cat, making themselves at home wherever the fuck they please, but then they’re tilting his face up, kissing him a little deeper, and all he can do is go along. They feel good in his lap, anyway; heavier than he anticipated, weight as grounding as the stars and moon. His hands find their hips, stroking at the slip of bare skin in their new black clothes, kissing back with the same slow gentleness that Jim is giving him.
“I can help,” Jim whispers against his mouth, voice desperate and sad and how did he miss that, how did he not see that they were missing the stars just as much as he was, “make it better, just for a while. Olu – Olu wouldn’t mind. I can fuck you, or suck you off, or –“
Their hands start to move, and Frenchie knows where this is going. He curls his hands around their wrists, stops them before they can even start reaching for his belt.
He breaks out of the kiss and shakes his head. Squeezes their wrists and smiles, so they know he’s not bad. “Oh, no, babe. Not really my thing.”
“Fuck,” Jim breathes, starting to clamber off his lap, “shit, I’m sorry –“
He grabs their hips, tugging them back down. They settle, but don’t look any less wary – yeah, definitely a cat. That’s alright. He likes them, anyway. “’S all good.” He leans up, presses his mouth against theirs again. “I like the kissing. Kissing is nice. It’s just the rest of it that’s not for me.”
Their weight settles properly on him again. Jim searches his face, eyes still worried. “You’re sure? I don’t want to – to hurt you.”
Frenchie knows that. He’s been at the end of their knife, and he still knows that they don’t want to hurt him at all. Besides. That was a long time ago.
“I know.” He kisses them again, just to make sure they know he’s being serious. “And you’ve already made it better. Promise.”
Jim’s eyes get bright and wet. They drag a hand roughly across them and nod. “Okay. You… you make it better, too.” Their voice gets all choked up, and he knows the grief they’re trying not to let out, the worry, the pit in their chest. “So don’t you fucking go anywhere, okay? Keep watching the stars with me. We’re gonna make it through, but I can’t fucking read them alone. I don’t know shit about navigation.”
The lump in his throat is back, tears threatening to fall. But he just nods, and pulls them in for a fierce hug. “Yeah, babe,” he chokes out, pressing his face into their shoulder as they wind strong arms around him and squeeze him back. “I can read them for both of us.”