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~*~
They’re too late.
It isn’t a surprise so much as the crushing of some vague hope that Leon had held on to. It’s been weeks now, trapped in a constant race where he’s stuck sailing upwind and always just one step behind.
Two days prior, they’d skimmed along the outskirts of the island to find it in chaos, and black sails in the distance told him everything he needed to know: Baltazar had gotten there first, and there was nothing left for them.
He’d been in a foul mood ever since, locked up in his cabin once the course was set - this time, for rest and supplies, because as tempted as he is to push through and try to best his rival, he’s not foolish enough to end up out in open water without enough food to make it to shore again.
“Cap’n’s in a mood,” Leon had heard one deckhand muttering as he’d stalked by on his way to the galley that morning. “I’d steer clear if I were you.”
“Been a bit since we’ve docked,” another whispered back - too loud for someone who was supposed to be aiming for subtlety. “Maybe he just needs a good lay.”
Their giggles had rung in his ears and if he’d been even just the slightest bit less exhausted, he might’ve strung them both up for their impudence. As it stood then, he’d spent the last two nights restless, plotting a course to all of their next possible destinations - and trying to figure out which Baltazar was less likely to be targeting. It had become a near-obsession, a bone-deep frustration that he couldn’t quite rid himself of.
And so the minute they’d docked, he was storming off into town, intent on drinking himself into a stupor if it meant not thinking about that bastard and his stupid, smug grin.
The tavern is packed, but thankfully there’s an empty stool at the bar, and the man behind it is smart enough to not attempt to strike up a conversation with him. The ale is cool at best, but it’s strong, and that’s what really matters. He drops a few coins on the bar and drinks deeply from his mug.
Maybe those idiots had been right. Maybe he needs a good drink and a good fuck to knock him out of the routine he’s fallen into. Maybe it would do him some good to work out all of those frustrations, let him clear his head and get back to business.
Turning on the stool to lean one elbow against the bar, Leon scans the gathered crowd for anyone of interest. Surely he’s not the only one here looking for some distraction for the night.
Then, he locks eyes with someone from across the room. The scowl on his face is immediate, countered by a shit-eating grin from the man staring back at him.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he swears under his breath, quickly turning back toward the bar and reaching for his drink. Maybe he can down it and get out of this place before—
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Damn it.
Baltazar’s voice is unmistakable. He doesn’t turn his head to look at him, because he knows the smugness that awaits. Instead, he stares straight ahead at the back of the bar, mug clutched in his hand like a lifeline. “What in the hells do ye want, Baltazar?”
The man next to him, apparently sensing the tension, gets up to move, and Leon could curse him too, because Baltazar takes that as an invitation and sits down next to him, waving the barkeep over and ordering another drink. The moment they’re alone again, he sees Baltazar look over at him from the corner of his eye.
“Aww, come on, Leon, why so sour?” he chuckles, in a familiar, low rumble. “I jus’ came for a drink like anyone else!”
“Came to gloat is more like it,” Leon grumbles, scowling deeply at his mug as though it’s the cause of his annoyance. “Why don’t you just leave off? I was havin’ a perfectly lovely night before you came along and stuck your nose into it.”
Baltazar shrugs, taking a gulp of his drink and sighing heavily. “Ahh, so that’s the cut of it, eh? Jealousy never did suit you.”
Leon’s knuckles are gone white where he’s gripping the handle of his mug. “Leave off, Baltazar, or I’ll make you regret it,” he warns, through gritted teeth. Most nights, that might be an idle threat - tonight, not so much.
But Baltazar has never been one to know when it’s time to quit.
“Look, Leon, it’s hardly my fault that you can’t keep up because yer ship’s slower ‘n mine,” he laughs - it distinctively feels like he’s aiming for all of the sore spots that he knows will rile Leon up. “If it’ll make you feel better, maybe I’ll give you a head start tomorrow, aye?”
Baltazar’s jaw makes a sickening sound as Leon’s fist connects with it. The scuffle that ensues is a whirlwind of grabbing hands and boots against the floor, stools knocked over, shouting and swearing loud enough to draw attention from even the most drunken of patrons. By the time two (much bigger) men manage to get to them, Leon’s hand is around Baltazar’s throat, and Baltazar has a handful of his hair fisted in his fingers, yanking so hard that Leon’s scalp feels like it’s on fire.
They’re both shoved out into the street unceremoniously, with a warning that the neighborhood guards won’t be half as kind. Leon rights himself with a huff, and storms past Baltazar wordlessly, intent on heading straight back for the ship, drinks and everything else be damned. He’ll leave tonight if he has to, anything to get to that next port first, anything to prove that he’s just as capable, if not more so.
But Baltazar reaches out and tries to grab him by the wrist, fingers brushing against the back of his arm and missing their mark. “Leon, wait!”
He doesn’t want to wait. He doesn’t want to stay here, and think about everything they’d had before, and everything they’d lost when they’d gone their separate ways. He doesn’t want to think about how lately, second place seems his lot in life. He doesn’t want to think at all.
“Leon!”
The road back toward the ship is around the other side of town, but cutting through the alleyways will get him there sooner. More dangerous maybe, at this late hour, but he can take down anyone who gets too close with little trouble. And so he dips into the shadows behind the tavern - just to find himself suddenly grasped by the shoulder and shoved up against the wall.
“Will you listen to me, you bloody idiot?!” Baltazar hisses, and Leon struggles against the hands pinning him to the wall. “I’m tryin’ to apologize!”
“I don’t want your apologies,” Leon spits, trying to shove at Baltazar’s chest, desperate to get some space between them. Because every time this happens, every time they get too close and they lose their temper and everything comes rushing back— “Let me go!”
Baltazar’s grip tightens, a grimace on his face as he tries to hold Leon still. “Stubborn bastard,” he growls, so close to Leon’s face that he can smell the alcohol on his breath. Too close, he’s too close—
Their lips meet and who groans first is hard to say; there’s nothing sweet about it, all teeth and tongue, and not an ounce of fight leaves him. But this time, Leon is fisting his hands in the front of Baltazar’s shirt, biting down on his lip with sharp teeth and smirking at the noise that his rival makes in turn. He can taste blood - good. Let the bastard feel it tomorrow.
It earns him a hand at the back of his neck, twisting in his hair and forcing a pained cry from his mouth. Baltazar grips hard and pulls, and he can do nothing but allow himself to be manipulated, turned and shoved face first into the wall. In an instant, Baltazar is crowding him up against it, his other hand at Leon’s belt and his cock hard against the curve of his ass.
“Horny bastard,” Leon hisses, as a cold hand shoves into his trousers and wraps around his own hardening length, stroking him to help him along. “Should’ve known this is—nghh—what you wanted all along…”
“Shut yer mouth,” Baltazar growls, but there’s less venom in it than he’d intended as he releases Leon’s cock to instead hurriedly shove his pants down around his knees. “You’re no better and you know it.”
The night air is cold, and Leon shivers against it, but it does nothing to deter him. Nor does the sound of the crowd inside the tavern, just on the other side of this wall, or the thought that any one of those patrons could come out here to take a piss and find them like this.
Let them watch.
Leon squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing hard as he listens to the sounds behind him - Baltazar’s heavy breathing, the rustle of fabric, a stifled groan. Baltazar spits into his hand and unceremoniously pushes two slick fingers inside of him, with little care about taking his time or making sure Leon’s comfortable - that’s fine by him, because every second they’re wasting on this is a second that his frustration grows.
“Hurry up,” Leon growls, pulling against the hand in his hair to look back over his shoulder, trying to catch just a glimpse, but Baltazar immediately shoves him back against the wall.
“Hush, unless you want the whole damned town to hear us…”
It has the intended effect, though, because soon enough, Baltazar’s fingers are guiding his cock instead, sliding home in one hard thrust that knocks the air from Leon’s lungs.
He sets a punishing pace. Just like he always has, Baltazar takes whatever he wants without any shame, without any hesitation. That’s fine - you can’t steal what’s given willingly anyway, and Leon is nothing if not willing. He covers his mouth with one hand to stifle his own noises, the other scrabbling against the wall in an attempt to find something, anything to grip on to, to brace himself against the onslaught.
The grip on his hair relents and slides down to the back of his neck instead. Leon arches his back and moans against his palm at the sudden change in angle, the way every thrust hits a spot that has his knees going weak - almost embarrassingly so, because were it not for the wall he might be a heap on the floor already.
Baltazar can read him like a map. He pulls out with little warning, and guides Leon back against the wall, closing the sparse distance between them to kiss him. Before Leon has a chance to ask what he’s doing, he’s got his pants shoved the rest of the way down, and Baltazar grabs him by the thighs, hoisting him clear off of the ground. Leon scrambles to throw his arms around Baltazar’s shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist, and there’s a minute where they both struggle to find just the right spot.
But then, braced back against the wall, Baltazar lowers him down and Leon reaches awkwardly between them to guide him, and they both moan aloud as they find their mark. Leon swears under his breath and before he can even fully finish, Baltazar is kissing him deep, fucking him into the wall as though the entire world has narrowed down to this single space, this single point in time.
Baltazar comes first, and Leon would mock him for it were he not also right on the very edge of it. He barely manages to get a hand around his cock before he’s spilling too, fucked through the heat of it until they’re both panting and shaking and Baltazar has to lower him to the ground with trembling arms.
The next kiss is undoubtedly their last, for gods know how long, and Leon lets all pretense go, holds onto Baltazar for longer than he should. Once they part, it might as well be as though none of this had happened between them. He’s quick to step back into his trousers, buckling his belt and trying to ignore the soreness that he already knows is going to follow him for days.
Baltazar won’t look at him. It’s always just like this. But something in the air shifts, and just as he’s ready to brush past him and head straight back to the docks:
“I was just messin’ with you, you know?”
Leon blinks, looking up to watch as Baltazar straightens out his shirt. “Pardon?”
“Earlier, I didn’t mean a lick of what I said. We all go through spurts of bad luck. Yer a damned fine captain, Leon.”
Leon stays quiet, unsure how to respond at first. It’s sincere, that much is obvious. But it feels…too much, for who they are.
“…sorry about your jaw,” he concedes, finally. “Shouldn’t’ve let you get under my skin like that.”
Baltazar chuckles. “You’ve got one hell of a punch,” he answers. “It’ll hurt for a few days. Probably deserved it though.”
They linger there for a minute. In a moment of passing fancy, Leon considers asking if he’d like to just split a room for the night, get some rest. But it truly is passing, and he shrugs it off. “I’d best get back to it,” he says, already turning on his heel to make his way back to port. “Fair winds, Baltazar.”
“Hey, Leon!”
He pauses, looking back over his shoulder.
There’s that grin. “About that head start…”
Leon shakes his head. “Forget about it. I’ll race you there. To the victor goes the spoils.”
“Hah. Suit yourself,” Baltazar laughs. “Following seas, mate!”
Baltazar’s laugher rings in his ears long after he’s made his way out to the port. And if there’s a skip in his step as he crosses the docks?
That’s no one’s business but his own.