Chapter Text
Everything was vaguely hazy in a slightly pleasant, slightly nauseating way. Henry had already had a few drinks from the liquor cabinet in Philip's quarters. He figured they were about to be his quarters, so what did it matter? The liquid courage had given him the nerve to wander onto the island in search of something else. Philip mostly favored gin, which Henry barely tolerated.
It had all started when he'd been arguing with Philip. Henry's older brother was settling down soon, getting married, and he wanted Henry to take his place as a Captain in the Queen's Navy. It was a position suiting a prince. And then eventually, after fighting too many battles and colonizing too much land, Henry would be expected to get married too. Henry wanted nothing to do with any of this. Had never wanted anything to do with any of this.
Yes, the bar he'd found screamed den of iniquity. Yes, Henry was wearing his uniform still. But at the time it didn't seem like such a terrible idea. (And maybe, perhaps, he had the tiniest bit of a death wish at the moment.)
“You lost, sugar?” the curly haired woman behind the bar asked.
“I’m exactly where I intend to be,” Henry slurred with a confidence he rarely felt when not inebriated, “Something strong and brown, please. Whatever you’ve got.”
Before she could even serve Henry, a man slipped into place beside him, his tanned hand reaching behind the bar for a whiskey bottle even as the barmaid slapped his fingers away. He poured them each a shot, and slid the amber liquid in front of Henry.
“You’re not a pirate,” the stranger hummed in delight.
And, fair enough, glancing around it did seem like every other person in the bar had a sort of piratical quality about them. Looking back to the man who had spoken and seeing him properly for the first time… Well, Henry had the breath knocked out of him by a gorgeously roguish man in a loose shirt with a crown of wild curls. He looked... kind. The sort of man Henry wished he could spend more time around. Much more time around.
"I'm not," Henry agreed, knocking back the shot. He winced at the burn just a little before turning back to look at the strange man. "Are you? You don't look like the type to pillage a village or buckle any swashes." Alright, maybe he was a little drunker than he'd thought.
The man glanced down at himself, drawing Henry’s eyes to the rest of his ensemble, leather trousers included. “What type do I look like, then?” he asked, filling Henry’s shot glass again before he even touched his own, grinning like a cat.
Letting his gaze sweep up and down the stranger's body, Henry took the question seriously. "You look like a coffee seller. Not a merchant, with a ship, mind you, but the man on the corner who sells you a cup that's so strong you can't taste anything else for a week."
That drew a laugh out of the strange man. “Doesn’t sound like a bad life, honestly. There are more morally dubious things than over-caffeinating the masses.”
He ran his fingers over the sleeve of Henry’s coat, taking in the texture of the fine wool. Henry was a little too loose, otherwise he might have shivered at the feeling of it. Not that it meant anything. Pirates tended to be more flexible when it came to matters of morality, but surely even they didn't want the things Henry thought about late at night, alone in his bunk.
“I am a pirate, though.” the man said with a smirk.
"If you really are a pirate, which I doubt," Henry said, knocking back his second shot, "You're apparently not a very good one. I thought all the pirates were dripping with gold and silver and silk, all the things they've taken from the rich and given to themselves you know? Modern day Robin Hoods."
“Perhaps I’m a pirate who prefers simple things over the flash of stolen gold.”
Henry still didn’t believe it. A real pirate, for one thing, wouldn't be caught dead conversing with a British soldier. And, at least in Henry's experience, pirates never missed an opportunity to show off. The man was lying about something, but Henry's liquor-soaked brain couldn't quite piece together what. Still, he didn't object when the man took a seat beside him. The stranger was pretty, and Henry was weak. He so rarely got an excuse to stare at pretty men these days. He'd made a rule for himself not to hook up with anyone on his own crew, lest word get back to Philip, so Henry had few chances to truly indulge his lechery. And it was looking like he'd have even fewer in the future.
“Who died?” the man asked, “You’re drinking like you’ve come from a funeral.”
"I'm celebrating," Henry said with a sardonic smile, lifting his empty glass in the air, "I'm to be a Captain in Her Majesty's Navy. There is no higher honor."
“Ah,” he nodded in understanding, “Congratulations. A pirate by a different name. The same amount of killing and bloodshed except in the name of a queen. How proud you must be.” His lofty friendly tone took on a steel edge as he poured himself a few fingers of rum from behind the bar. “At least you look good in the uniform.”
Maybe the stranger was a pirate after all. He certainly seemed to have experience with the Navy. Though it was probably a common opinion on islands like these, hating the crown. How many local people had been killed in the name of a new dominion? Henry hated it. Every drop of blood on his hands, and there had been a fair amount, was burned into his memory. But he'd never been given a choice. It was the Navy or the Army, and at least the Navy meant he didn't have to see his Grandmother as often. Meant he didn't have to do as many stupid, princely duties. If Henry had gotten his way, he would have gone to university. He could have studied literature perhaps. But that didn't suit a man of his station. Real men joined the military. Real men conquered nations. Real men killed.
“That’s it for celebration, then?” the stranger said, “Drink yourself stupid in a dangerous place? There are so many better options. There’s a bonfire down by the beach. We could…” he shrugged, his finger drawing a soft pattern on the back of Henry’s hand. “Get some air.”
This time, Henry did shiver. If he hadn't already been flushed from the alcohol, he surely would have gone pink. It was always a delicate balance, finding people broken in the same way he was. Revealing too much was dangerous, but it often took a leap of faith if one ever wanted to actually feel anything. Maybe that explained why the man was talking to Henry at all. Maybe he had the same cracked cog in his mind that had made Henry wheel down the wrong path since childhood.
"Alright," he heard his own voice answer, more stable than it had been previously, "I like the beach. And I should probably stop drinking and get some air."
For as drunk as Henry was, there was a startling clarity to the night as they walked down towards the water. He could feel the brisk, cool air on his skin. He could smell the wood of the bonfire, and what might have been a pig someone was roasting on it. He could see the way the silvery moonlight shone on the stranger's dark skin, making him glow like a nereid. The man didn't linger close to Henry in the way people usually did when they wanted something. Instead, he took off his boots and dug his toes into the soaked sand. Henry kept his shoes on, staying up out of the reach of the small waves.
"I'm Alex, by the way,” the man said, “Alexander Claremont-Diaz.”
Even in his inebriated state, Henry knew he shouldn't reveal too much to strange pirate boys with pretty smiles. He was a prince, and thus valuable. And if they were on this dark corner of the beach for the reason Henry was hoping, he didn't want that information getting back to anyone. "George," he found himself saying, a fake name slurring off drunken lips. Lips that wanted so badly to lean closer, to close the distance between them.
Alex stared out at the water, as if hypnotized by it. For a moment, Henry wondered if the pirate had forgotten he was even there, until Alex spoke, his voice soft and reverent. “Did you dream of the sea? When you were younger? Does she call to you? It's a hard and dangerous life. You have to want it in your bones.”
The question surprised Henry, and for whatever reason, he answered honestly. "No. I was always afraid of it. When I was little, my parents took me to the beach and a riptide stole my favorite toy boat. I was devastated and terrified. It can take things from you so quickly." He looked out on the dark, glowing water, and saw the ship that would soon be his moored in the distance. "You're lucky. Most people don't get to do the things they spend their childhoods dreaming of."
"Then why?” Alex asked, glancing over his shoulder to look at Henry properly, “For the money? The power? Legacy? The ocean will destroy you if you aren't reverent and enamored. You can have the best men and still dash your ship upon the rocks if you don't understand the sea.”
"Call it the family business. All the men in my family join the military, so I did as well." Money, power, legacy, none of those things meant much to Henry. He was more concerned with simply surviving.
“And you’ve never wanted to forge your own path?”
Henry wanted to forge his own path every day. He spent every waking moment on Philip's ship wondering what would happen if he disappeared at the next port. If he just slipped into the crowd and never came back. But he'd just end up on someone else's crew, serving some other violent monolith. If not the monarchy, then greed. He'd chosen his path.
When Henry didn’t answer, Alex tilted his head back, looking up at the sea of stars above them. "What did you spend your childhood dreaming of, then? Tell me you at least know your constellations. If your navigator is otherwise indisposed, a Captain should know where he's going."
"I do know my constellations," Henry admitted with a small smile as he too looked up at the inky sky, pinpricked with light, "I was a bit obsessed with them as a child. The stories, finding my favorites. It always seemed a bit poetic. We look up and there's just this random scatter of stars- no real pattern. But mankind, we had to make it make sense. We drew imaginary lines so we could make pictures and find our way. We created our own meaning." He looked back down at the man, Alex, still smiling, "Would it shock you if I said I always wanted to be a writer?"
“What would you write?” Alex asked, “True journals of the high seas? Poetry? Fiction?”
"I wish I could have written poetry. And novels. Maybe an autobiography, if my life were interesting enough. But mostly I think in poems." Poetry started forming in his mind the more the alcohol seeped into his veins and the longer he looked at Alex. He was so handsome.
Perhaps the same thoughts were on Alex’s mind, because he didn’t immediately respond, instead closing the distance between them and running his fingers down the lapels of Henry’s Navy jacket. Henry would have sworn they were standing directly next to the bonfire for how hot he suddenly felt.
"Why did you bring me out here, Alex?" he whispered. Their eyes locked, and Henry felt his mind go delightfully blank in a way that seemed to have little to do with the alcohol.
“You’re beautiful,” Alex exhaled, as if that was explanation enough, “I’ve seen the most gorgeous cliff top views the islands have to offer, held the finest of silks, traded in gold and jewels and even the occasional art piece, so consider me well qualified. You’re breathtaking.”
"I think I'd like the sea more, if Neptune looked like you," Henry slurred. Not his finest line, but it was becoming increasingly hard to stay vertical and increasingly hard to think. He swayed on his feet and ended up clutching Alex’s biceps for balance. He could feel the muscles there, strong and sturdy.
Whatever he’d imagined Alex would say in response, it wasn’t the words that actually came out of his mouth as he gripped Henry’s arms in turn, holding them both steady. “You don’t have to go, you know. This is a bit of a crossroads for the various routes. You could get on a ship and never return. Who would stop you?”
Henry barked a laugh at the idea. "And go where? Live how? They'd come after me, you know. They don't like to lose track of a prince." He looked back up at the ship in the distance, dread coming up his throat like bile. "Philip is probably looking for me. I should go." He pushed away from Alex, stumbling on the loose sand with his unsteady legs. "Shit. Might have had too much to drink."
Alex stared at him. “You’re a prince? That’s why they’ve given you a ship?”
Distantly, Henry was aware that he'd made a mistake. That it was probably a bad thing to be alone on a dark beach with a pirate who knew he was a prince. But something about Alex's face made it seem like a crime to lie. He nodded jerkily, "Prince Henry George Edward James Fox-Mounchristen-Windsor. Spare to the British throne. I lied a little when I said I was called George. It's only my middle name. One of them. Don't be cross?" Henry didn't think he could handle an angry Alex.
Broad brown hands clutched at Henry again, trying to help him stay upright. Alex pressed a fleeting kiss to the back of the prince’s hand. “Come with me. I know we’ve just met. My captain would give you a position on the ship. You could be free.”
And, despite it all, there was a part of Henry that wanted to stay. That wanted to drag Alex down into the sand, that wanted to run away with the strange man and his crown of curls and live the life he'd always wanted. At least Alex thought he was beautiful. But it didn't work like that. Chaining himself to another ship, to another captain, to a different kind of conquest, wouldn't make him any happier, "If you think you're free," Henry hiccuped, "You're delusional." He did his best to turn back and head home, but he realized that many of the lights in town had gone dark, and he had no idea what path would actually take him back to the ship. "Fuck," he grumbled, plodding along on the sand in the vague direction of the ship.
Unexpectedly, Alex’s voice seemed to follow close behind Henry as he stumbled across the beach, though the words made little sense to his liquor-soaked mind. “Do you ever think about how much of our precious lives are built on happenstance? You could have wandered into any building. You could have been killed hours ago. You could sail off into the night and be a piss poor captain. Instead? You met me.”
And then, Henry felt a sharp pain in his temple, and everything went black.