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tabula_x_rasaTitle: Don't Approve a Single Word
Fandom: Bandom (FOB, with Cobra, Panic, MCR, TYV)
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Pete/Patrick (Pete/Ryan, others mentioned)
Wordcount: 9,480
Disclaimer: Nothing to do with real people, all fictitious.
Summary: When Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III is caught in flagrante delicto with the boy next door, he's cut off from his family and inheritance. Left to wander the streets of London and shift for himself as best he can, he follows a boy with a beautiful voice onto a ship and out to sea.
Written for my hc_bingo bingo card, "Loss of job/ income" square. Really.
~*~
Peter hadn't been thinking; that was always what got him into trouble. When his temper took over, or when he was thinking with something other than his head (he would like to say his heart but that wasn't always quite true), he became quite reckless and could act in a way that did no credit to his family name or breeding. He was not so much spoilt or unfeeling; his faults arose from his impetuous nature and feeling too much rather than the reverse. Combined with a lack of that delicacy required in a real gentleman, he had become something of a notorious figure in society, partly because his faults were not those a gentlemen should have— he was not in debt from gambling, was not seen abroad in the whorehouses, but neither did he cheat at cards or break his word. Nonetheless, there was a feeling that Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III was not what a gentleman should be.
When Ryan Ross came home for the school holidays at the end of Michaelmas term, he wasn't just the annoying tag-along from next door, someone Peter was forced to socialise with because his parents were in their circle. Suddenly he was clever and well-read, capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation about subjects Peter was actually interested in, and much prettier than any of the girls floating around in crinoline hoping to catch a husband. And he still looked at Peter with wide-eyed adoration.
He was only sixteen, true, but Ryan was the one who had brought up the Greeks. It was hardly Peter's fault at all.
What he did take responsibility for was getting caught in the kitchen. The pudding had been very distracting, but there had been no excuse outside of laziness to not take the pudding and Ryan up to his own room immediately, where the door locked. It would have at least bought them time to rearrange themselves in a less compromising position, hopefully one with trousers.
Instead there had been screaming kitchen maids, and Ryan with only his shirt and waistcoat, and Peter with no clothes at all, and the pudding, which had been everywhere.
Ryan was taken home at once and shipped off to distant relations in the Lake District the next day. Peter spent the entire next day confined to his room until he was taken to his father's study for a lecture. His father said quite a lot that meant very little to Peter about family honour, societal expectations, public mores, and the responsibilities owed by someone of Peter's position and standing.
His father reminded him that Ryan, as an impressionable schoolboy, could be excused such youthful indiscretions, but Peter was well past that age. Lord Wentz reminded Peter of the Right Hon. Gerard Way, who had had to leave Britain over this sort of scandal and was now only mentioned in hushed tones and not in the best drawing rooms at all. Peter for once managed to bite his tongue, and did not point out that a life of indolent luxury on the Amalfi coast with an extremely attractive Italian boy was hardly a fate worse than death.
"I don't believe you're taking this seriously," his father frowned so much it was nearly a scowl. "What do I have to do to impress upon you the seriousness of your actions?"
Peter shrugged. "To be honest, I'm pretty sure it'll happen again. Not with Mr. Ross, perhaps, but he wasn't exactly the first."
For some reason, this was not what his father wanted to hear.
"You will cease all such behaviour instantly. If I ever hear another rumour of an inappropriate relationship--"
"It's my life!" Peter raised his voice.
"I understand you are infatuated with this boy--"
"It's not about Ryan. Or rather, not just about Ryan."
"You know such... liaisons... are inappropriate in the extreme. A lifestyle of this type is impossible."
"I know no such thing," Peter said coldly.
His father looked apoplectic. "You will be shunned from all real society forever if you keep on like this. Think of how it looks on your family. Think of your mother--"
Peter could contain himself no longer, and rose to his feet. "Just because the rest of society is so cowed or so stupid they're willing to remain miserable the rest of their lives doesn't mean I am. It's my life, and I intend to live it as I see fit."
"Then you can have no connection with this family. You have an hour, then you must be out. Stay away from your brothers and sister, I don't want you polluting them any more than you already have."
Peter froze; his temper was suddenly gone and little wiggling worms of doubt began crawling through his mind. "What?"
"That is an order. You have an hour to pack your things and be gone. Do not appeal for an allowance; none will be forthcoming. I don't wish to see you again in this life or the next."
The room swam briefly around Peter. Then he found his feet and with them, the hard inner steel of his resolve. "Fine."
He spun and threw the doors of his father's study open, slamming them as he had always wished to do. He stomped up the stairs to his room. He had a leather knapsack there and he began shoving things in at random. Clothes, books, whatever money he had in his room.
There was a quiet knock on his door. "What?" he snarled.
"Peter?"
It was his mother. He tried to compose himself slightly, smoothing back his hair. Although he had no doubt whose side she was on, he hadn't quarrelled with her. He opened the door and stepped back so she could enter. She looked on the verge of tears. Peter tried to smile.
"Please reconsider," she begged.
"Even if I was that way inclined," he said, as kindly as he could, "it's no longer just in my hands. Father has made his wishes perfectly clear."
"But what will you do? Where will you go?"
Peter hadn't thought any further than getting out. Her questions were disquieting instead of merely predictable.
"Don't worry," he dutifully kissed her cheek. "I'll take care of it."
"You can always come back," she whispered. "If you repent."
"I can't," he said.
She sobbed and fled. For the first time Peter considered the effect of his actions upon her. He was sick with shame, but he was in an impossible situation. He could no longer stay here; they would all be better off without him.
After 45 of the allotted minutes had passed, Peter left his room forever. He saw his sister peeking from around her door down the hall and offered a small wave. She burst into tears and slammed the door. Peter felt another twist in his gut, but he had been forbidden contact with her, and didn't want to cause her any trouble.
He went down to the kitchen to beg some walking food. Then he went back to the hallway, put on his good coat and his hat, gloves, and scarf. He took one of his umbrellas. There was no one in the hall except a wide-eyed footman.
"Well," he said to the footman, whose name was Alex-- they were all Alex-- "farewell."
"Good-bye, sir," he replied. "Good luck."
Peter stepped out the door for the last time. He was still on the first step when the door shut behind him. Peter reminded himself firmly this was not the time for wallowing in melodrama, and set off into the city.
He'd run out of money in three weeks-- the first week he'd lived in the manner to which he was accustomed before realising he was almost broke already. He'd packed all the wrong things-- his clothes and shoes were too thin, he had too many books, which were very heavy, and he looked absurd with his gentleman's trappings.
He had no skills beyond a certain gift with words, but the newspapers and broadsheets laughed him out of their offices, thinking him a gentleman dilettante, out for a pretend job for a lark. He had no references, no access to his club, and most of his friends had dropped him.
The few people he could rely upon he couldn't reach. Mr. Michael Way, his particular friend at school, would probably be loyal but had followed his brother to Italy. Peter thought of going to Italy himself, where he would at least have a friendly welcome, but had no money to get there.
Peter stayed in a series of increasingly dire inns. They got darker, shabbier, more cramped and damp. He seemed to be heading at full speed toward the time when his funds would be completely exhausted, and once there was nothing left to sell... he didn't know what would become of him.
Peter had been thrown out of his dirtiest, meanest lodgings yet, and he had no money left. He had long since sold his books and his leather bag. He'd also sold his umbrella and his nice coat. His replacement coat— too big and of cheap material, a cast-off's cast-off— was a poor match for the London winter.
Peter wandered, no where to go and nothing to do, down through the streets of Hackney— streets he was barely aware of in his previous life, where he'd never been further east than the edge of Whitechapel. The words he'd said to his father in his study only a little over a month ago now seemed like something out of a dream. He'd never before realised how important money was, not just in making you who you were but in every aspect of life. Nor had he realised how difficult it was to get.
And yet, he would not go home.
He didn't think his father would welcome him back yet, even as chastised as Peter was. Peter had no intention of repenting what he felt was a perfectly valid way of life; more valid, indeed, than many.
Righteousness did not buy supper, however.
Peter kept wandering, trying to keep out of the smaller passages. Even with his ruined clothes, he still didn't fit here. He moved wrong, perhaps, and as soon as he opened his mouth the game was up past any doubt. He couldn't reproduce Cockney; he didn't even understand half the words.
In the past weeks Peter had learned to keep his eyes down. It kept him from getting involved in someone's business.
"Aw right, Sir? Wan' somefink warm, sir?"
Peter couldn't help looking over; it had been so long since anyone had spoken to him. But it was girl in a ragged dress, almost blue with cold herself. She had a key around her neck. She was younger than his sister, and Peter's stomach roiled.
She'd perked up a little when Peter had looked at her, and he quickly looked away and hurried on. He heard her muttering curses after him, although they were half-hearted compared to the abuse he used to get when he still looked like a man of some means.
She'd probably take him just for a chance to get inside. Pete might have taken that offer. It was full dark now, and the typical London drizzle was turning into a real rain. Peter walked without stopping, walked to keep warm, not paying attention, letting his feet take the easiest path, which was downhill.
He ended up at the river bank. It wasn't nice, with wide pavements and sheltering trees like Embankment. There were reeking docks and trash every where. Maybe Peter could try for a spot aboard a ship. Maybe if he just acted drunk he'd get press ganged. The Indies seemed impossibly appealing at this moment.
The idea of being in the Navy and not being an officer was rather more alarming than not; the merchant marine even worse. But it would be a bed, and food of a sort, and maybe he could find a ship going to Italy and skip out once they got there.
Peter had never had much of a desire to leave London; merely going to the country had been torture. But London didn't seem to want him any more.
He found himself at the end of an empty dock, and sat down for awhile. He could hear a cluster of mudlarks getting ready to go out for the night to do their grim scavenging. He kept silent and still until they were well past. He wouldn't put it past them to kill someone just to see what was in their pocket, for all that they were children. Probably older than they looked; no one seemed to grow very much in the East End. At least Peter didn't stick out that way.
He looked at the water below his feet, lapping quietly. It stank, but everything stank. No telling how deep the river was here. There was a little light from somewhere, and it just caught the tops of some of the rises.
Peter was so tired. He drifted into a sort of doze, staring at the water beneath him. It would be easy to just slip off the dock, and that was all his problems solved. Right now, it was easier to stay on the dock than slide off it, but how long would it be before the reverse was true?
Peter heard, from somewhere behind him on land, singing. It wasn't the ordinary sort of drunken chorus he'd become accustomed to, but a single voice, lifted high and clear. And beautiful.
Peter had once been a connoisseur of beauty. It had been sorely lacking in his life since he'd left his father's house, but he still knew it when he found it.
This might be an Irish tenor. Peter held his breath and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the way the notes hung in the air, every one full and perfect, sometimes warbling, sometimes steady, pulling at his heart. Without thinking about it, Pete opened his eyes and climbed to his feet, using a post as support. He just wanted to see who was making this extraordinary noise.
The darkness was thick, and although the singer had to be about level with Peter's position, Peter could see nothing of him. He just wanted to get a look, he told himself.
He walked back along the dock as if in a trance, pulled on by the voice. It wasn't just beautiful, but filled with passion, leaping up and down the scale. Peter could only make out every third word or so, and he didn't recognise the tune. He walked faster, almost running.
He hit the street and followed along faithfully. They might have been the only two people in the world. Peter didn't think he'd mind if they were.
Finally, the vocalist came into view. A lamp had been left on in a window and spilled a sickly pool of yellow light on the street. The singer was small, and sort of round and white, with light hair under a dark cap.
Peter jogged the last few steps, unable to help himself. "Good evening."
"Ahh!" the man— or boy, really— startled and back a few steps away from Peter. Only prudent, in this part of town.
"I apologise," Peter said contritely. "It wasn't my intention to startle you. But— I heard you singing. And I had to speak to you. Your voice is remarkable."
The boy looked nonplussed. "Me? I was just… singing. I can't really." He was Irish, and Peter was charmed.
Peter laughed. "There's no need for false modesty. Didn't I just run several for several streets to tell you how beautifully you sing? Do you perform anywhere?"
"I— perform? Of course not. I'm just a sailor."
"Then it's fate," Peter murmured.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing," Peter grinned, the one he knew was toothy but still somehow engaging. "I was only saying to myself a moment ago—" his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the remains of a pie in the boy's hand. Peter's mouth watered. He swallowed, and hoped his stomach didn't embarrass him. "Ah, I was just saying to myself, that it is time for me to go to sea. The very thing for you, Peter old man, I said, was a long sea voyage." He finally was able to tear his gaze away from the pie. The boy had noticed, and Peter was mortified. He did the only thing he could think of, and kept talking.
"Which ship is yours? Where is it headed next? Are you looking for new crew? Might I escort you there? I'm afraid this part of London isn't very safe at this time of night."
"I don't suppose I can stop you, but I can take care of myself."
"But anyone could come up on you unexpectedly," Peter said pointedly, before realising this might not be the best circumstance to remind the boy of. Peter might speak like a gentleman, but he wasn't dressed like one, and this made him much more suspicious than he might otherwise be, if he fit neatly into a category. Then again, if Peter fit neatly into any category, he wouldn't be in this position.
"My ship's the Cobra," the boy said, startling Peter a little. "I'm not sure we're taking on anyone new just at the moment."
"Nonsense," Peter said, refusing to let his precious good mood slip. "Ships always want crew."
The Cobra was small, for a sea-faring ship. A tall man met them at the top of the gangplank.
"Paaaatrick! My own Patrick! What have you brought us? Dinner?"
Patrick, Peter thought. That must be his boy's name.
"Er," said Patrick. He whispered in the tall man's ear. Peter couldn't stop himself from fidgeting.
Patrick then abandoned him, jumping down into the ship. "Hello?" Peter called after him.
"Don't worry, señor, you're with me now." The tall man looked down at him. He seemed very tall. "I am Captain Gabriel Saporta, and this is my baby. Ship. My baby ship. You know?"
"I know," Peter thought he'd better say.
"Well said. Well, this is the SS Cobra. Patrick tells me you're hungry and want to join our crew."
Peter tried not to blush, but his cheeks felt warm. Well, at least they weren't basing their relationship on lies. "Both those things are true," he said.
"What's your name, hombre?"
"P- Pete Lewis." He stumbled a little, making up the alias out of his first two names on the fly. He didn't think Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III would be acceptable shipboard nomenclature.
"Pete Lewis," Captain Saporta said it slowly, stretching the syllables out. "What do you do?"
"What?"
"What do you do? Aboard ship? Specialities, skills? Experience?"
Peter froze, but only for a moment. He looked Saporta in the eye. "I can be anything you want me to be, sir."
Saporta raised an eyebrow, then grinned. "Well, if you don't work out, we'll just throw you overboard. How does that sound?"
"I didn't have other plans."
Saporta laughed. "I like you, Pepi. You have style. If not the sartorial kind."
Peter sighed and looked at himself. "Unfortunate circumstances prevailed."
"Don't they always," Saporta said. "Welcome aboard, Pete Lewis. Let's get you some dinner."
Peter stepped up, hesitated on the top of the gang plank, then let himself fall forward. Once the deck was beneath his feet, his past was over. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III was gone. There was just Pete now.
The crew was crowded around the ship's table, tucking into a roast and potatoes. Pete's stomach growled loudly, but there was so much noise he didn't think anyone else noticed. He saw Patrick and squeezed in next to him.
"So you're here," Patrick observed, buttering a biscuit.
"I am," Pete said warmly. "I'm Pete Lewis, by the way." He grinned and tried to hold out a hand, but there wasn't enough room.
Patrick nodded at him. "Patrick Stump," he said.
"Listen up, mauditos," Capt. Saporta shouted. "This is Pete Lewis, he'll be with us for awhile. How long is up to him and to you."
Pete leaned over to whisper to Patrick. "He was just kidding about tossing me overboard if I don't work out, wasn't he?"
Patrick shrugged. "It would be the first time." Pete started to relax, then Patrick added "but Captain Saporta likes novelty."
"Ah."
A ridiculous round of introductions followed. There was Suarez and Ryland and Nathaniel, there was a Brendon and a Spencer and an Andy and a Joe. It would take days for Pete to get the names sorted, and Pete was good at names. Saporta's first mate was a very pretty boy named Victor. It was multicultural and loud and if Pete, in his past life, hadn't been introduced at court he would have been terrified. But as it was, Pete threw himself into dinner, both food and conversation, and he revelled in it.
"Can't you even tie a knot?" Patrick was grumpy with him again. Patrick was often grumpy with him. Pete didn't mind so much. It was like being grumped at by a kitten or puppy. Adorable.
They had put out to sea the very day after Pete joined them, heading for the Caribbean. They'd been at sea for three days and the food was still fresh and the ship still clean.
"Of course I can tie knots," Pete smiled sunnily. The past three days had been so much better than the past month there was no comparison. "Shoe, Windsor, bow tie—"
"Real knots," Patrick said, a pleading, desperate tone in his voice. "Mariner's knots?"
"Show me again?" Pete said hopefully.
"Wait— which side is port and which is starboard again?"
"Argh!" Patrick took off his hat so he could grab at his hair. "How do you not know that yet? Captain Saporta sir?"
Saporta leaned over the upper deck railing. "Si?"
"Permission to throw Lewis overboard, sir?"
Saporta laughed. "He followed you home, Stump. You clean up his messes."
"I didn't want him in the first place!" Patrick objected.
"Then don't let strays follow you home, Mr. Stump."
Patrick grumbled something about "messes" and "keel haul". Pete politely didn't pay him any attention.
It was night watch. Pete, as the newest member of the crew and therefore lowest on the pecking order, shivered in the fog, coat collar up and hands in his pockets. He heard footsteps; it was Victor, the first mate, pacing slowly along the deck.
"Sir," Pete nodded at him.
"Lewis," Victor nodded at him. He was all wrapped up, buried in a huge scarf and a cap pulled low. They stood together at the railing for awhile, listening in the dark. "So," he said, in his light, pleasant voice, "what did you do before this? You certainly weren't a sailor."
"Nothing of consequence," Pete answered honestly.
Victor looked at him out of the corner of his eye and arched an elegant eyebrow. He seemed the best bred out of the rest of the Cobra crew, although Pete tried to pretend he didn't notice things like that.
"I was a wastrel and a layabout," Pete clarified. "I'm out here now trying to make something of myself."
"Hmm," Victor said, and moved away, continuing to pace the deck on his own.
It was during such night watches that Pete's longing for his old life was most intense. He did miss his family, even his father, and he began to have some hope that not too many years would pass before some sort of reconciliation might be made. He accepted that a complete restoration was impossible, but that he might attend his sister's wedding, and take tea with his mother again, these were possibilities to be cherished.
Not entirely to his credit, Pete's longing for home and family was very tied up with not just a longing for his favourite dogs and old London connections, but with a longing for a hearth with a fire laid expressly for his comfort by someone else, and his books, and for a laden sandwich tray and dessert table. The lack of the last two was especially keenly felt as the voyage continued on. Not that they starved; Mr. Suarez was very careful in that respect, despite the impression that might be given from the laxity of manners and overall gaiety of the crew. But ship's biscuit and grog did not give much variety or provide for any delicacy of palette, and in this way was Pete's old plan of joining the Ways in Italy kept alive.
As much as he was desirous of seeing Mr. Michael Way and his brother again (and Pete had missed Mr. Michael Way's steadying character quite severely, and now thought he would not have become involved in quiet so much mischief as he had if Michael had still been an active and immediate influence in his life), he was equally dreaming of the pleasures and luxuries he would find in resuming a lifestyle he was most used to. Good wine, good spirits, excellent food, taste in art and music shared with accomplished people.
Pete's brief span of indigence had made him most appreciative not just of the ease and grace of his old way of life, however, but most ready to appreciate any comforts in his new one. Warm sun, a carrying breeze, the occasional fresh fish, the interesting characters he was surrounded by, the peculiar new sensation of being useful— all these things were so much better than what he had faced that he could not help but enjoy them.
It wasn't exactly baking on the deck, even in the midday sun, because it was the North Atlantic in winter. Andy Hurley had taken off his shirt anyway, and Pete couldn't stop staring.
"That's astonishing," he said, leaning in much closer than propriety should allow. "How many do you have?"
"I'm not sure, anymore," Andy shrugged. "I lost count around forty. That was several years ago."
"Do they hurt?"
"Yes," Andy smiled. "But not in an unpleasant way, exactly."
Pete couldn't stop staring. "I'm sorry— may I?" When Andy nodded, Pete carefully touched his arm, running his fingers lightly over the bright pictures. "They don't feel any different," he said, surprised.
"Not if done correctly."
From that point on, all Pete could think about was tattoos. He wanted one of his own, badly. Possibly more than one. Possibly quite a lot more.
"Everyone has a tattoo except me," Pete complained, examining the art work on Brendon's arm as they sat together against the side of the ship.
"I don't," Patrick said, as he happened to walk by.
"Why not?" Pete asked.
Patrick shuddered a little. "No desire, I suppose."
"We could draw some on," Brendon suggested brightly.
"No, thank you," Patrick's voice was deliciously dry.
When Brendon's face fell, Pete nudged him. "You can draw some on me, if you want." Brendon's face brightened, and he ran off to fetch a piece of charcoal. Pete and Patrick exchanged an amused look before Patrick continued on his chores.
Something curled and flipped in Pete's stomach, and he felt light enough to float along above the ship like a kite.
Pete's all-consuming fascination with tattoos was soon joined by a fascination with guitar. It seemed like most of the crew played; they had a few instruments they all took turns playing. Joe and Patrick sometimes duelled each other; Pete loved to curl up and watch and listen. They all took turns teaching him, but when the crew played together he preferred to listen instead of attempting to keep up.
His favourite nights were the ones the crew hung out together on the deck after supper, especially when Patrick and Brendon sang in harmony. Captain Saporta would chime in when he pleased, with Ryland and Alex singing back-up, and these were the times Pete wished they'd never hit land again.
The ambient temperature got warmer and the weather nicer. By the time they landed in Jamaica, Pete was turning a nice brown colour and had taken to eschewing his shirt when the sun was high.
He was as impatient as the rest of the crew to get off the ship; he had never gone so long without fresh food and water.
"Lewis," Captain Saporta called, "a word, por favor."
"Si, mon Capitaine?" Pete hadn't spent much time in the Captain's cabin. Something about it was… creepy.
Saporta was sitting behind his desk, fingers steepled. He looked at Pete over his hands for a moment without speaking. "Are you going to be with us on the return voyage?"
"What?"
"You signed no contract. No Cobra crew does. You're free to go when we hit land. You wouldn't be the first."
Pete stared at him, stunned and needing a moment to gather his words. "I have no reason to stay in Jamaica."
"Sometimes men find a reason, know what I'm saying?"
Pete nodded. "I'll be back, sir. I'm not ready to leave yet."
Saporta looked at him another silent moment, then grinned. "Good. We put a lot of work into you. We'd like more of a return on our investment."
Pete laughed. "If you promise not to maroon me, I'll stay as long as you let me."
Kingston was every bit the hedonistic sailor pleasure-land Pete had been promised. The streets were full of beautiful, exotic women in filmy dresses, every other building was a tavern (the others were brothels), and it was easier to get rum than water.
First thing, Pete went with Joe and Andy to get a tattoo of his own.
"Oww," Pete groaned.
"I knew that place wasn't reliable," Andy said, as they half-carried him back to the ship.
"So we should have tried the one with the shrunken head hanging outside?" Joe grumbled.
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Pete groaned. "I just need to lay down for a little."
"What happened?" Patrick rushed over when Pete stumbled aboard.
"You're still here, Mr. Stump? Why are you still here?"
"Someone has to watch the ship," Patrick muttered. "And what have you been doing to yourself in Jamaica?"
"I'll show you my tattoo," Pete offered, trying to pull up his shirt while Joe and Andy still gripped his arms.
"A tattoo. Of course you got a tattoo." He eyed Joe and Andy. "Are you two responsible for this?"
"Hey, man," Andy held up his hands. "It was all his idea."
Pete started to tip over. Patrick lunged and caught him. "I should lay down," he said, mouth smooshed into Patrick's shoulder.
"Fine, come on," Patrick sighed. He helped Pete walk below decks and, after a couple of hilarious mishaps, got Pete in his hammock.
"What did they do to you?" he muttered. He laid a hand on Pete's forehead.
""M fine," Pete slurred. "Had some liquid courage first."
"You— you're drunk?"
"Whoo!" Pete flailed his arms out in triumph.
"I can't— dammit, Pete."
Pete's eyes were closed… laying down was such a relief, as was being back on a ship where the floor moved like it ought… so he didn't see the cup of water coming.
He raised his head as much as he could and blinked at Patrick. "Wossat?"
"Oh, sleep it off," Patrick snapped, and stomped up the stairs.
By the time Pete had slept it off, it was night-time. He woke up thirsty and sore. It felt like there was a burn on his stomach. He lifted his shirt up, then remembered he had a tattoo of his own now.
He sat up, head spinning a bit, but managed to get out of his hammock quietly. He turned the corner, intending to head up on deck, but found the passage blocked. He stepped back around the corner automatically, and only then did his brain process what he'd seen.
He eased back around the corner to take a better look and make sure his eyes hadn't deceived him.
Pete crept back to his hammock and thumped his feet on the deck, making it sound like he'd just got up. He groaned loudly and stumbled back to the stairwell.
This time, Brendon and Spencer were standing a respectable distance apart, although Spencer's shirt was rucked up around his waist and Brendon's hair was wildly ruffled.
"Hey," Brendon said. "It's the illustrated man!"
"You heard?" Pete grinned and lifted his shirt to show them.
Spencer moved the lantern to get a better look. "It looks rather red," he said, frowning. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Isn't it supposed to look like that?" They all examined Pete's stomach.
"I don't know… it looks really red," Brendon said. "But I guess we'll wait and see, eh?"
"Yeah," Pete muttered. "Have you seen Patrick?"
He found Patrick in a small cafe along the waterfront, just as they'd said. "How are you feeling?" Patrick asked.
"Better than earlier, I think. Thank you for taking care of me."
Patrick flushed— a blush?— and stared down at his plate, filled with empty shells, the remains of his supper.
"Would you like anything?" Patrick asked. Pete ordered— the same as Patrick, plus lemonade instead of something harder.
"So," Pete said, as they waited. "Brendon and Spencer, eh?"
"Brendon and Spencer what?" Patrick looked genuinely puzzled.
"They said I'd find you here," Pete muttered, smiling at the tabletop.
After dinner they walked along the beach, far enough that the sounds of rowdy Kingston faded into background noise. "It's so beautiful here," Pete said. "I can't believe I never would have thought of coming here on my own."
"That's what seeing the world's about, isn't it?" Patrick said. "The unexpected things. The places you never expected to love, the people you never expected to meet."
"Yes. Quite." Pete looked at Patrick in the moonlight, and smiled and smiled.
When Captain Saporta showed back up at the boat two days later, he was being carried over the shoulder of a tall, dark-skinned man the others greeted with a great deal of enthusiasm and familiarity.
Even Patrick, usually the most reticent, ran up to him with a wide smile and grin. "Travis! Long time, no see! How have you been? Are you coming with us?"
"Let me put your no good Captain down. He's still drunk off his arse."
"I prefer him that way," Victor said coolly, and held open the Captain's cabin door for Travis.
Once Travis dumped Saporta in his bunk, he came back on deck for hugs from everyone.
"Are you coming with us?" Victor asked.
"Please please please!" Brendon climbed on Travis like a monkey scaling a tree. "Don't leeeeeave us, Travie!"
"I guess the people have spoken," Travie said, peeling Brendon off with Ryland's help.
The crew sent up three cheers. Pete joined in; why not?
The Cobra left Kingston under Victor and Travie's command; Saporta was still sleeping it off. They headed straight back across the Atlantic, intending to land in Portugal. As they raised the sails, the whole crew sang a song about how sad they were to leave Kingston and a pretty girl there, and once Pete learned the words to the chorus he joined in, singing at the top of his voice with a clear heart.
"So what's your story, Pete Lewis?" Travie asked, sitting next to him as they rolled under the stars the first night out of Jamaica.
Pete was about to repeat the standard patter he'd given everyone else, but something about Travis seemed to inspire confidence, and then he noticed Patrick nearby, listening avidly while pretending to be busy folding a rope.
"Really?" Pete asked.
Patrick looked up immediately and left the rope, coming to sit on the other side of Pete. Out here, in the middle of the ocean, it didn't feel like anything bad could touch him. It would be a relief.
He leaned his head back and fixed his gaze on the stars overhead. "My father is rich. No— my father is not just a wealthy man, but a Baronet. I offended him— I did something that impugned family honour. I refused to repent, so he threw me out. I was cut off completely and my name's probably been crossed out of the family Bible. I was forbidden to see the rest of my family. I was about as successful as you might imagine at surviving on my own. Then one night Patrick walked by and I didn't dare let him leave without me."
It had taken such a short time to say, for something so big. It had got so big, while a secret inside him, that it seemed the heavens should have opened with his announcement. Instead there was silence, or as much silence as there ever was aboard a ship. The slap of waves, the creak of the sails.
"So you're really a lord?" Patrick asked quietly, finally.
Pete turned his head to face Patrick and opened his eyes. "No," he said. "I'm disowned. The title will go to my brother."
"Heavy," Travie murmured.
When Pete looked around, he saw the rest of the crew gathered around, attentive. They hadn't been there when he started, but he wasn't surprised to see them. He didn't mind. He smiled at them all, instead.
"Why did you have to leave your family?" Brendon asked. Spencer hissed and elbowed him sharply.
Later that night, Brendon explained in whispers, standing next to Pete's hammock. "I only asked," he said, "because I had to leave my family too." His eyes flicked, irresistibly, to Spencer's hammock.
"The same reason as you," Pete whispered, and let his eyes deliberately rest in the same direction.
Brendon looked both shocked and sympathetic. "You were in love?" he whispered.
Pete made a face. "Nothing quite so romantic, I'm afraid. But I wanted the option."
Brendon nodded, understanding shining from his face. And then he shot a sly look at Patrick's hammock. Pete struggled to keep his face blank, and they bid each other good night.
Brendon, thoughtfully, put it out that Pete had been involved in an unsuitable romance, so no one asked any other questions. Pete was content to let them imagine what they would.
Although there were some considering looks directed his way, everyone accepted that Pete was Pete now, and did not treat him any differently. That had been what he was afraid of most, and he felt much better with one less secret weighing him down.
They were a week off the European coast when Victor had an accident.
He'd been climbing in the rigging, racing Nathaniel, when a rope snapped loose. It snapped straight into the back of Victor's head, pushing his head forward to bounce off a boom, and Victor fell.
He had luckily— or more like cleverly, because obviously Victor had done it on purpose— tied a rope around his waist, and Victor dangled above the deck unconscious instead of falling to his death.
Half the crew swarmed up the rigging to cut him down. The other half stood below, ready to catch Victor or anyone else who fell. Victor was lowered carefully to Captain Saporta, who carried him into his own cabin, moving with the most amount of care anyone had ever seen from him.
The Captain was thrown out shortly after so Alex, Joe, and Spencer could tend to Victor. The rest of the crew hung around on deck, uneasy and sick with anxiety.
Finally, Spencer came out, face pale and eyes wide.
"What happened?" Saporta asked, hands in his hair.
"Ah… Victor's not Victor."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Patrick demanded.
"Victor is actually Victoria."
"What?" Pete asked, when it seemed like no one else was going to.
"He is a she," Spencer said.
"Are you sure?" Ryland asked.
Spencer shot him an annoyed glare. "Very sure. I've seen the evidence with my own eyes."
A true uproar followed. Saporta darted for his cabin, demanding to be let in. "She can't be unchaperoned!" he shouted, pounding on the door.
Spencer rolled his eyes. "Also, she's going to be fine. Thanks for asking."
"Hey!" Suarez stuck his head out the door, still blocking Saporta from entering. "Victoria needs quiet. Everyone shut the hell up!"
Everyone guiltily quieted down, and Captain Saporta at last forced his way into the cabin. Pete couldn't resist trying to take a peek himself. He reasoned it was all right, since he would be a much better chaperone than Saporta.
Victor— Victoria— was propped up in bed, her shirt undone and a tangle of bandages on the bed next to her. She was clutching the sheet up near her shoulders.
"Victoria." Saporta uttered the name like it was a holy word. Then he brightened considerably, somehow beaming with his entire body. "Now we can be married!"
"Are you fucking insane?" Victoria said.
Pete grinned and eased himself out. Victoria would be fine.
"Damn," Travie was saying on deck. "This is the craziest boat I've ever been on. I am never leaving again."
It was a week before Victoria was allowed to resume half her duties. She'd stopped binding her breasts, but of course there weren't any dresses on board.
"Actually," Victoria said, "there are rather a lot of dresses. Just not any I would consider wearing. Don't ask, none of them are mine. Besides, how am I supposed to climb the rigging in skirts?"
"You're never climbing the rigging again," Captain Saporta said.
Victoria told him to bugger off. She'd been getting testy while confined, and Saporta quickly found business on the other end of the ship.
Pete continued to lean against the railing near her. "So," he said conversationally, "I'm the world's biggest asshole."
"Not that I'm disputing it, but what particularly led you to this conclusion?"
"Here I've gone on for months and months worrying over my little secret about who my family is. Your secret was much bigger."
Victoria shrugged, then winced. Pete understood she still had a large bruise all around her middle where her lifeline had caught her. "You lost your whole family. That's not nothing. We all do what we have to do," she said.
Pete got another tattoo in Lisbon, and another in Marseilles, one on each arm. These healed much more cleanly. Though he still felt undecorated when he ran around the ship without a shirt, he had almost caught up to Brendon already.
Pete was so involved in debating the great philosophical questions aboard ship ("How did Victoria relieve herself without anyone noticing she was female?") that it was a shock to hear Joe and Travie shout from the crow's nest that Sicily was in sight. They were suddenly in Italy.
When Captain Saporta asked the crew where they wanted to land, Pete shouted "Naples!" The only other person to put in a request was Ryland, who shouted "Moscow!" So Naples it was.
It was spring in the bay of Naples. The water was a vibrant light blue, the flowers on Capri and on the coast were in full bloom, and Vesuvius hovered over it all, quiet and purple.
Pete slowly packed up all the possessions he'd accumulated in a bag made of string. He wasn't really a sailor, and he'd arrived at his intended destination. He went to see Captain Saporta.
Saporta eyed the bag next to Pete's feet and said nothing.
"I have some friends near here," Pete said. His throat felt rough and swollen. "I'm going to visit them."
"Are you going to come back?"
Pete was unable to respond.
"Well," Saporta said, looking casually out his window, "not that I care. No contracts, remember. But we leave when the tide turns on the third day after this one. See you around, heffe."
Pete stumbled up on deck. He couldn't face the rest of the crew, but he wanted one more glimpse of Patrick. He found Patrick on the dock below, with Victoria, once again disguised as Victor, supervising the unloading of the hold.
Pete went up to Patrick, hiding his bag behind his back. He put a hand on Patrick's shoulder, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Hmm? What? Be careful with that one!— oh, no Pete, I'm fine."
"As you wish." Pete let his fingers linger on Patrick's shoulder, but Patrick was busy with his manifest and didn't notice.
It took Pete most of a day to make it down the coast to the villa the Ways lived in. The place was moderately large, rambling, and old and crumbling. It was situated on top of a cliff, with breathtaking views, and no doubt suited Gerard Way exactly. Pete found himself smiling even before he knocked on the gate right as the sky began painting itself in rose hues for sunset.
The Mr. Ways were thrilled to see him and made it clear Pete was welcome as long as he had a mind to stay. Supper was exquisite and the company charming. After eating, Pete and Michael sat out on the terrace drinking their lemoncellos. Gerard and his Frank were on the piano in the drawing room, and the french doors were wide open, providing just enough volume for the music to be audible but not overwhelming to conversation. It was the most civilisation Pete had experienced in months, and it felt as real as a dream.
Michael, after berating Pete for dropping out of all contact— "William Beckett is telling everyone you're dead, you know"— caught Pete up on how the world had moved on without him. Although the people Michael spoke of had once been intimate friends and acquaintances, now they felt to Pete like characters in a book. Personalities and histories he was familiar with, but not people he could interact with or even touch.
He drifted a little, listening to the pleasant sound of Michael's voice mingling with the arpeggio being played inside when one name in particular caught his ear and snapped his attention to focus.
"That boy who lived next to you, Ryan Ross? He apparently ran off from school with the son of a merchant named Walker to live as wandering minstrels or something. Caused quite the scandal."
"Did he?" Pete grinned. "Good for him."
Michael laughed. "Yes," he said with an affectionate look. "I thought you'd say that."
The guest room Pete was given was well-appointed and tolerably modern, having perhaps been updated in the 18th Century, and the bed was large and soft. It was also too quiet, too empty, too still, and the bed too large and soft. Pete tossed and turned all night, longing for the waves and the sway of his hammock, and the sleep sounds of other people.
Pete did his best to be a good guest in the morning but ended up taking a long nap in the afternoon, in a lounge outside by the pool. Over dinner that night, he spoke of his life aboard the ship— keeping the secrets that ought to be kept, but there were plenty of other scrapes to keep Michael and Gerard and Frank entertained.
It rained that night so they all stayed inside. Gerard was finishing up a painting under Frank's supervision. Pete watched the way Frank hung casually on Gerard's shoulder, fingers twisting in his hair, leaning over to giggle in his ear. Pete felt a twist of jealousy in his chest. Not for them, but for what they had, that easy and open affection.
"Peter," Michael said quietly from where he'd snuck up next to him, "why are you here?"
"What?"
Michael just looked at him.
"I wanted to see you."
"And I'm very glad you did. But why are you still here?"
"Should I leave?" Pete asked hesitantly.
Michael rolled his eyes. "Only if you want to. But I was under the impression you wanted to."
"It's lovely here," Pete said automatically.
Michael snorted. "Of course it is. It's the Amalfi Coast. But don't you want to go home?"
Pete stared at him, forgetting all good manners in the surprise. "I can't go home, Michael, you know that."
Michael gave Pete the kind of look that said he was very disappointed in him.
It wasn't until Pete was trying to sleep in his too-big, too-soft bed that he realised what Michael had meant.
"I need to go," he said at breakfast. "Back to my ship." No one looked the slightest bit surprised, although Michael did look proud.
The rain had made the hillsides slippery and the journey back to Naples stretched out even longer than the trip down had. Of course it did; now Pete was in a hurry, now Pete had somewhere to be.
It had been dark for hours by the time Pete reached Naples. It was a Friday night and the streets were swarming with revellers, both locals and travellers. Pete's progress seemed tortuously slow, but at last dandies and ladies gave way to the rougher drunks of the docks. Docks shared a certainly similarity the world over, and it was starting to feel welcoming and pleasingly familiar to Pete.
He waved cheerfully to the prostitutes and side-stepped a brawl as it spilled out of a taverna. A one-eyed, roguish sort of person Pete wouldn't leave alone with a horse was attempting to sell suspiciously bedraggled flowers. In a fit of extravagance and inspiration, Pete bought the lot, and proceeded without further delay to the Cobra's berth, leaving a trail of wilted petals behind him.
The ship appeared deserted, though he knew someone must be on it. He was very hopeful about who that someone might be. He ran up the gangplank, heart pounding out of all proportion to the exercise. He dashed about, quite wild and quite at a loss, until he heard a melody, picked out on a guitar, and a moment later the lifting sounds of his favourite voice.
Pete followed the music around the ship, following dark, twisty corridors until he found a little alcove he'd never seen before. Patrick had his back to him, focused on his guitar and his song.
Pete left his bag on the ground and snuck behind him, choosing to announce his return by dumping his armful of flowers all over Patrick.
Patrick shouted, and panicked, and jumped to his feet and flailed his arms until he saw Pete, bent over and leaning against the wall, laughing so hard it hurt.
"Pete. Did you just… dump dead flowers all over me?"
Pete wiped at his eyes. "They weren't supposed to be dead… I just wanted to cover you in flowers, is that too much to ask?"
Pete had seen Patrick annoyed often enough that he knew Patrick wasn't really annoyed right now; just a little annoyed, a little embarrassed, and a lot confused.
"I, ah—" Patrick carefully set down the guitar and brushed the last of the flowers off his hat. "Captain Saporta, that is, seemed to be under the impression you might not be sailing with us."
"I changed my mind," Pete said. "Or rather, I was made to know my own mind."
"I see," Patrick said, then— "What?"
Pete smiled, and stepped into the alcove properly, crowding Patrick against the bulkhead. "I realised I needed to return home, to my family," Pete said.
Patrick struggled to find a proper facial expression then said "Have you heard from your father the baronet then? Was there a letter in port—"
Pete laughed. "My real home. My real family." And then, as there seemed nothing else for it, he leaned in and pressed his mouth against Patrick's.
Much as Pete would have liked to linger there— for hours, or days, or years— he pulled back almost at once. Patrick looked rather as if he'd been hit in the face instead of kissed.
Pete smiled coyly and leaned in again, pressing another kiss to Patrick's mouth, and then another, as long as he was there.
Patrick looked entirely flustered, and Pete approved very much. "Oh," Patrick said. He reached up and adjusted his hat, then adjusted it back. "Oh." Then: "Are you drunk again?"
Pete remained calm, though it cost him a great deal. "I have never been more serious and sober. Whatever your feelings on the matter, as long as I am near you, I cannot but be satisfied and content."
"Really?" Patrick at long last said. "But… me?"
"Of course you! Patrick, you're the one that saved me."
"Saved you? From what?"
Pete laughed, though it was turned on himself. "From everything. From myself, from my life, from London. From hunger— surely you remember that much?"
Patrick blushed, dropped his eyes, mumbled something.
"Patrick," Pete groaned. "Please make me some sort of answer. End my agony of suspense."
Patrick's gaze was still fixed upon the floor. "I knew I shouldn't have kept you," he muttered. But before Pete could move, or react, or process his words, Patrick lifted his face and returned Pete's kisses in kind. "I didn't think I'd see you again." He punched Pete in the arm. It was a great deal harder than Pete would have expected. "You mustn't do that again."
Pete could not describe his emotions even to himself. Patrick had kissed him; Patrick wanted him to stay. "I won't," he said, trying to be solemn when he wanted to whoop and laugh. "I swear it."
He took Patrick's hand and laced their fingers together. "If we're but together—" he started to say.
"Pete," Patrick interrupted. "Shut up." He pulled Pete close and kissed him again, and Pete found there were better ways to communicate.
Epilogue
Pete had no card to present, but the footman was the same. "Mr. Wentz!"
"Not for quite a while, now," Pete smiled. "Is my mother at home?"
"She is. I'll just—" Alex hesitated, obviously unsure how to go about this without giving offence.
"It's all right," Pete said gently. "Go in and announce me. I am, after all, a visitor."
Alex the footman returned almost immediately to show him in.
"Oh, it really is you!" his mother cried, rushing to his side. They embraced warmly and Pete felt himself nearly overcome with emotion.
"I shouldn't stay long," he said. "I'm not sure father would want me to. But I wanted to let you know I was all right."
"Are you?" she said anxiously, smoothing his shirt across his shoulders, pushing a lock of hair out of his face. "All right?"
"I truly am, mother. Much better than I've been in a long time."
"Are you…" she hesitated, searching for the right word.
"I'm happy," he supplied. "I am gainfully employed, satisfied by my work, and surrounded by excellent people."
"I am glad," she said.
He stayed for 15 minutes, the length of a usual morning visit. He did not want to be there when his father returned, not yet. Pete told her it had been good to see her again, how glad he was everyone was well, that he'd missed them, and that he regretted nothing.
The last perhaps upset his mother a little, but Pete didn't want to lie to her. He was happy, he was at peace, and he wouldn't change his position now for the world.
Patrick was sitting in the square when Pete left his parents' house, reading a newspaper in the least nonchalant manner Pete had ever seen. He smiled and ran across the street to join him.
"How did it go?" Patrick asked, before registering Pete's smile.
"It was very pleasant," Pete said, as Patrick folded his paper and stood up to join him. He had longed to bring Patrick inside to meet his mother but finally discretion recommended itself and won, just this once, over passion. Patrick had been contented with hovering outside anxiously.
He turned them toward the road, walking slowly. The neighbourhood appeared unchanged but he didn't belong there, not anymore. Even his parents' house wasn't someplace that aroused the requisite feelings of comfort, ease, and familiarity. It was no longer his home.
"I think I'm actually relieved," Pete said, knocking his elbow against Patrick's. "I really feel as if I'm all done with that now."
"Your family?" Patrick said.
"Always the sceptic," Pete said fondly. "I have a new family now, as you know. A new family, a new home." He stopped and stepped in front of Patrick, to force him to look at him. "I wouldn't trade."
Patrick searched his eyes, his face, and must have been satisfied with what he found there. Again, somehow. "You're probably mad," he said, a slight smile on his mouth.
"Wouldn't change it for the world, either, would you?" Pete grinned. Patrick laughed, and touched Pete's elbow, and they continued down the street.
They would all be fine, Pete thought. They were happy, and he wasn't afraid, and he was where he belonged.
~*~
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Fandom: Bandom (FOB, with Cobra, Panic, MCR, TYV)
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Pete/Patrick (Pete/Ryan, others mentioned)
Wordcount: 9,480
Disclaimer: Nothing to do with real people, all fictitious.
Summary: When Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III is caught in flagrante delicto with the boy next door, he's cut off from his family and inheritance. Left to wander the streets of London and shift for himself as best he can, he follows a boy with a beautiful voice onto a ship and out to sea.
Written for my hc_bingo bingo card, "Loss of job/ income" square. Really.
~*~
Peter hadn't been thinking; that was always what got him into trouble. When his temper took over, or when he was thinking with something other than his head (he would like to say his heart but that wasn't always quite true), he became quite reckless and could act in a way that did no credit to his family name or breeding. He was not so much spoilt or unfeeling; his faults arose from his impetuous nature and feeling too much rather than the reverse. Combined with a lack of that delicacy required in a real gentleman, he had become something of a notorious figure in society, partly because his faults were not those a gentlemen should have— he was not in debt from gambling, was not seen abroad in the whorehouses, but neither did he cheat at cards or break his word. Nonetheless, there was a feeling that Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III was not what a gentleman should be.
When Ryan Ross came home for the school holidays at the end of Michaelmas term, he wasn't just the annoying tag-along from next door, someone Peter was forced to socialise with because his parents were in their circle. Suddenly he was clever and well-read, capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation about subjects Peter was actually interested in, and much prettier than any of the girls floating around in crinoline hoping to catch a husband. And he still looked at Peter with wide-eyed adoration.
He was only sixteen, true, but Ryan was the one who had brought up the Greeks. It was hardly Peter's fault at all.
What he did take responsibility for was getting caught in the kitchen. The pudding had been very distracting, but there had been no excuse outside of laziness to not take the pudding and Ryan up to his own room immediately, where the door locked. It would have at least bought them time to rearrange themselves in a less compromising position, hopefully one with trousers.
Instead there had been screaming kitchen maids, and Ryan with only his shirt and waistcoat, and Peter with no clothes at all, and the pudding, which had been everywhere.
Ryan was taken home at once and shipped off to distant relations in the Lake District the next day. Peter spent the entire next day confined to his room until he was taken to his father's study for a lecture. His father said quite a lot that meant very little to Peter about family honour, societal expectations, public mores, and the responsibilities owed by someone of Peter's position and standing.
His father reminded him that Ryan, as an impressionable schoolboy, could be excused such youthful indiscretions, but Peter was well past that age. Lord Wentz reminded Peter of the Right Hon. Gerard Way, who had had to leave Britain over this sort of scandal and was now only mentioned in hushed tones and not in the best drawing rooms at all. Peter for once managed to bite his tongue, and did not point out that a life of indolent luxury on the Amalfi coast with an extremely attractive Italian boy was hardly a fate worse than death.
"I don't believe you're taking this seriously," his father frowned so much it was nearly a scowl. "What do I have to do to impress upon you the seriousness of your actions?"
Peter shrugged. "To be honest, I'm pretty sure it'll happen again. Not with Mr. Ross, perhaps, but he wasn't exactly the first."
For some reason, this was not what his father wanted to hear.
"You will cease all such behaviour instantly. If I ever hear another rumour of an inappropriate relationship--"
"It's my life!" Peter raised his voice.
"I understand you are infatuated with this boy--"
"It's not about Ryan. Or rather, not just about Ryan."
"You know such... liaisons... are inappropriate in the extreme. A lifestyle of this type is impossible."
"I know no such thing," Peter said coldly.
His father looked apoplectic. "You will be shunned from all real society forever if you keep on like this. Think of how it looks on your family. Think of your mother--"
Peter could contain himself no longer, and rose to his feet. "Just because the rest of society is so cowed or so stupid they're willing to remain miserable the rest of their lives doesn't mean I am. It's my life, and I intend to live it as I see fit."
"Then you can have no connection with this family. You have an hour, then you must be out. Stay away from your brothers and sister, I don't want you polluting them any more than you already have."
Peter froze; his temper was suddenly gone and little wiggling worms of doubt began crawling through his mind. "What?"
"That is an order. You have an hour to pack your things and be gone. Do not appeal for an allowance; none will be forthcoming. I don't wish to see you again in this life or the next."
The room swam briefly around Peter. Then he found his feet and with them, the hard inner steel of his resolve. "Fine."
He spun and threw the doors of his father's study open, slamming them as he had always wished to do. He stomped up the stairs to his room. He had a leather knapsack there and he began shoving things in at random. Clothes, books, whatever money he had in his room.
There was a quiet knock on his door. "What?" he snarled.
"Peter?"
It was his mother. He tried to compose himself slightly, smoothing back his hair. Although he had no doubt whose side she was on, he hadn't quarrelled with her. He opened the door and stepped back so she could enter. She looked on the verge of tears. Peter tried to smile.
"Please reconsider," she begged.
"Even if I was that way inclined," he said, as kindly as he could, "it's no longer just in my hands. Father has made his wishes perfectly clear."
"But what will you do? Where will you go?"
Peter hadn't thought any further than getting out. Her questions were disquieting instead of merely predictable.
"Don't worry," he dutifully kissed her cheek. "I'll take care of it."
"You can always come back," she whispered. "If you repent."
"I can't," he said.
She sobbed and fled. For the first time Peter considered the effect of his actions upon her. He was sick with shame, but he was in an impossible situation. He could no longer stay here; they would all be better off without him.
After 45 of the allotted minutes had passed, Peter left his room forever. He saw his sister peeking from around her door down the hall and offered a small wave. She burst into tears and slammed the door. Peter felt another twist in his gut, but he had been forbidden contact with her, and didn't want to cause her any trouble.
He went down to the kitchen to beg some walking food. Then he went back to the hallway, put on his good coat and his hat, gloves, and scarf. He took one of his umbrellas. There was no one in the hall except a wide-eyed footman.
"Well," he said to the footman, whose name was Alex-- they were all Alex-- "farewell."
"Good-bye, sir," he replied. "Good luck."
Peter stepped out the door for the last time. He was still on the first step when the door shut behind him. Peter reminded himself firmly this was not the time for wallowing in melodrama, and set off into the city.
He'd run out of money in three weeks-- the first week he'd lived in the manner to which he was accustomed before realising he was almost broke already. He'd packed all the wrong things-- his clothes and shoes were too thin, he had too many books, which were very heavy, and he looked absurd with his gentleman's trappings.
He had no skills beyond a certain gift with words, but the newspapers and broadsheets laughed him out of their offices, thinking him a gentleman dilettante, out for a pretend job for a lark. He had no references, no access to his club, and most of his friends had dropped him.
The few people he could rely upon he couldn't reach. Mr. Michael Way, his particular friend at school, would probably be loyal but had followed his brother to Italy. Peter thought of going to Italy himself, where he would at least have a friendly welcome, but had no money to get there.
Peter stayed in a series of increasingly dire inns. They got darker, shabbier, more cramped and damp. He seemed to be heading at full speed toward the time when his funds would be completely exhausted, and once there was nothing left to sell... he didn't know what would become of him.
Peter had been thrown out of his dirtiest, meanest lodgings yet, and he had no money left. He had long since sold his books and his leather bag. He'd also sold his umbrella and his nice coat. His replacement coat— too big and of cheap material, a cast-off's cast-off— was a poor match for the London winter.
Peter wandered, no where to go and nothing to do, down through the streets of Hackney— streets he was barely aware of in his previous life, where he'd never been further east than the edge of Whitechapel. The words he'd said to his father in his study only a little over a month ago now seemed like something out of a dream. He'd never before realised how important money was, not just in making you who you were but in every aspect of life. Nor had he realised how difficult it was to get.
And yet, he would not go home.
He didn't think his father would welcome him back yet, even as chastised as Peter was. Peter had no intention of repenting what he felt was a perfectly valid way of life; more valid, indeed, than many.
Righteousness did not buy supper, however.
Peter kept wandering, trying to keep out of the smaller passages. Even with his ruined clothes, he still didn't fit here. He moved wrong, perhaps, and as soon as he opened his mouth the game was up past any doubt. He couldn't reproduce Cockney; he didn't even understand half the words.
In the past weeks Peter had learned to keep his eyes down. It kept him from getting involved in someone's business.
"Aw right, Sir? Wan' somefink warm, sir?"
Peter couldn't help looking over; it had been so long since anyone had spoken to him. But it was girl in a ragged dress, almost blue with cold herself. She had a key around her neck. She was younger than his sister, and Peter's stomach roiled.
She'd perked up a little when Peter had looked at her, and he quickly looked away and hurried on. He heard her muttering curses after him, although they were half-hearted compared to the abuse he used to get when he still looked like a man of some means.
She'd probably take him just for a chance to get inside. Pete might have taken that offer. It was full dark now, and the typical London drizzle was turning into a real rain. Peter walked without stopping, walked to keep warm, not paying attention, letting his feet take the easiest path, which was downhill.
He ended up at the river bank. It wasn't nice, with wide pavements and sheltering trees like Embankment. There were reeking docks and trash every where. Maybe Peter could try for a spot aboard a ship. Maybe if he just acted drunk he'd get press ganged. The Indies seemed impossibly appealing at this moment.
The idea of being in the Navy and not being an officer was rather more alarming than not; the merchant marine even worse. But it would be a bed, and food of a sort, and maybe he could find a ship going to Italy and skip out once they got there.
Peter had never had much of a desire to leave London; merely going to the country had been torture. But London didn't seem to want him any more.
He found himself at the end of an empty dock, and sat down for awhile. He could hear a cluster of mudlarks getting ready to go out for the night to do their grim scavenging. He kept silent and still until they were well past. He wouldn't put it past them to kill someone just to see what was in their pocket, for all that they were children. Probably older than they looked; no one seemed to grow very much in the East End. At least Peter didn't stick out that way.
He looked at the water below his feet, lapping quietly. It stank, but everything stank. No telling how deep the river was here. There was a little light from somewhere, and it just caught the tops of some of the rises.
Peter was so tired. He drifted into a sort of doze, staring at the water beneath him. It would be easy to just slip off the dock, and that was all his problems solved. Right now, it was easier to stay on the dock than slide off it, but how long would it be before the reverse was true?
Peter heard, from somewhere behind him on land, singing. It wasn't the ordinary sort of drunken chorus he'd become accustomed to, but a single voice, lifted high and clear. And beautiful.
Peter had once been a connoisseur of beauty. It had been sorely lacking in his life since he'd left his father's house, but he still knew it when he found it.
This might be an Irish tenor. Peter held his breath and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the way the notes hung in the air, every one full and perfect, sometimes warbling, sometimes steady, pulling at his heart. Without thinking about it, Pete opened his eyes and climbed to his feet, using a post as support. He just wanted to see who was making this extraordinary noise.
The darkness was thick, and although the singer had to be about level with Peter's position, Peter could see nothing of him. He just wanted to get a look, he told himself.
He walked back along the dock as if in a trance, pulled on by the voice. It wasn't just beautiful, but filled with passion, leaping up and down the scale. Peter could only make out every third word or so, and he didn't recognise the tune. He walked faster, almost running.
He hit the street and followed along faithfully. They might have been the only two people in the world. Peter didn't think he'd mind if they were.
Finally, the vocalist came into view. A lamp had been left on in a window and spilled a sickly pool of yellow light on the street. The singer was small, and sort of round and white, with light hair under a dark cap.
Peter jogged the last few steps, unable to help himself. "Good evening."
"Ahh!" the man— or boy, really— startled and back a few steps away from Peter. Only prudent, in this part of town.
"I apologise," Peter said contritely. "It wasn't my intention to startle you. But— I heard you singing. And I had to speak to you. Your voice is remarkable."
The boy looked nonplussed. "Me? I was just… singing. I can't really." He was Irish, and Peter was charmed.
Peter laughed. "There's no need for false modesty. Didn't I just run several for several streets to tell you how beautifully you sing? Do you perform anywhere?"
"I— perform? Of course not. I'm just a sailor."
"Then it's fate," Peter murmured.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing," Peter grinned, the one he knew was toothy but still somehow engaging. "I was only saying to myself a moment ago—" his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the remains of a pie in the boy's hand. Peter's mouth watered. He swallowed, and hoped his stomach didn't embarrass him. "Ah, I was just saying to myself, that it is time for me to go to sea. The very thing for you, Peter old man, I said, was a long sea voyage." He finally was able to tear his gaze away from the pie. The boy had noticed, and Peter was mortified. He did the only thing he could think of, and kept talking.
"Which ship is yours? Where is it headed next? Are you looking for new crew? Might I escort you there? I'm afraid this part of London isn't very safe at this time of night."
"I don't suppose I can stop you, but I can take care of myself."
"But anyone could come up on you unexpectedly," Peter said pointedly, before realising this might not be the best circumstance to remind the boy of. Peter might speak like a gentleman, but he wasn't dressed like one, and this made him much more suspicious than he might otherwise be, if he fit neatly into a category. Then again, if Peter fit neatly into any category, he wouldn't be in this position.
"My ship's the Cobra," the boy said, startling Peter a little. "I'm not sure we're taking on anyone new just at the moment."
"Nonsense," Peter said, refusing to let his precious good mood slip. "Ships always want crew."
The Cobra was small, for a sea-faring ship. A tall man met them at the top of the gangplank.
"Paaaatrick! My own Patrick! What have you brought us? Dinner?"
Patrick, Peter thought. That must be his boy's name.
"Er," said Patrick. He whispered in the tall man's ear. Peter couldn't stop himself from fidgeting.
Patrick then abandoned him, jumping down into the ship. "Hello?" Peter called after him.
"Don't worry, señor, you're with me now." The tall man looked down at him. He seemed very tall. "I am Captain Gabriel Saporta, and this is my baby. Ship. My baby ship. You know?"
"I know," Peter thought he'd better say.
"Well said. Well, this is the SS Cobra. Patrick tells me you're hungry and want to join our crew."
Peter tried not to blush, but his cheeks felt warm. Well, at least they weren't basing their relationship on lies. "Both those things are true," he said.
"What's your name, hombre?"
"P- Pete Lewis." He stumbled a little, making up the alias out of his first two names on the fly. He didn't think Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III would be acceptable shipboard nomenclature.
"Pete Lewis," Captain Saporta said it slowly, stretching the syllables out. "What do you do?"
"What?"
"What do you do? Aboard ship? Specialities, skills? Experience?"
Peter froze, but only for a moment. He looked Saporta in the eye. "I can be anything you want me to be, sir."
Saporta raised an eyebrow, then grinned. "Well, if you don't work out, we'll just throw you overboard. How does that sound?"
"I didn't have other plans."
Saporta laughed. "I like you, Pepi. You have style. If not the sartorial kind."
Peter sighed and looked at himself. "Unfortunate circumstances prevailed."
"Don't they always," Saporta said. "Welcome aboard, Pete Lewis. Let's get you some dinner."
Peter stepped up, hesitated on the top of the gang plank, then let himself fall forward. Once the deck was beneath his feet, his past was over. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III was gone. There was just Pete now.
The crew was crowded around the ship's table, tucking into a roast and potatoes. Pete's stomach growled loudly, but there was so much noise he didn't think anyone else noticed. He saw Patrick and squeezed in next to him.
"So you're here," Patrick observed, buttering a biscuit.
"I am," Pete said warmly. "I'm Pete Lewis, by the way." He grinned and tried to hold out a hand, but there wasn't enough room.
Patrick nodded at him. "Patrick Stump," he said.
"Listen up, mauditos," Capt. Saporta shouted. "This is Pete Lewis, he'll be with us for awhile. How long is up to him and to you."
Pete leaned over to whisper to Patrick. "He was just kidding about tossing me overboard if I don't work out, wasn't he?"
Patrick shrugged. "It would be the first time." Pete started to relax, then Patrick added "but Captain Saporta likes novelty."
"Ah."
A ridiculous round of introductions followed. There was Suarez and Ryland and Nathaniel, there was a Brendon and a Spencer and an Andy and a Joe. It would take days for Pete to get the names sorted, and Pete was good at names. Saporta's first mate was a very pretty boy named Victor. It was multicultural and loud and if Pete, in his past life, hadn't been introduced at court he would have been terrified. But as it was, Pete threw himself into dinner, both food and conversation, and he revelled in it.
"Can't you even tie a knot?" Patrick was grumpy with him again. Patrick was often grumpy with him. Pete didn't mind so much. It was like being grumped at by a kitten or puppy. Adorable.
They had put out to sea the very day after Pete joined them, heading for the Caribbean. They'd been at sea for three days and the food was still fresh and the ship still clean.
"Of course I can tie knots," Pete smiled sunnily. The past three days had been so much better than the past month there was no comparison. "Shoe, Windsor, bow tie—"
"Real knots," Patrick said, a pleading, desperate tone in his voice. "Mariner's knots?"
"Show me again?" Pete said hopefully.
"Wait— which side is port and which is starboard again?"
"Argh!" Patrick took off his hat so he could grab at his hair. "How do you not know that yet? Captain Saporta sir?"
Saporta leaned over the upper deck railing. "Si?"
"Permission to throw Lewis overboard, sir?"
Saporta laughed. "He followed you home, Stump. You clean up his messes."
"I didn't want him in the first place!" Patrick objected.
"Then don't let strays follow you home, Mr. Stump."
Patrick grumbled something about "messes" and "keel haul". Pete politely didn't pay him any attention.
It was night watch. Pete, as the newest member of the crew and therefore lowest on the pecking order, shivered in the fog, coat collar up and hands in his pockets. He heard footsteps; it was Victor, the first mate, pacing slowly along the deck.
"Sir," Pete nodded at him.
"Lewis," Victor nodded at him. He was all wrapped up, buried in a huge scarf and a cap pulled low. They stood together at the railing for awhile, listening in the dark. "So," he said, in his light, pleasant voice, "what did you do before this? You certainly weren't a sailor."
"Nothing of consequence," Pete answered honestly.
Victor looked at him out of the corner of his eye and arched an elegant eyebrow. He seemed the best bred out of the rest of the Cobra crew, although Pete tried to pretend he didn't notice things like that.
"I was a wastrel and a layabout," Pete clarified. "I'm out here now trying to make something of myself."
"Hmm," Victor said, and moved away, continuing to pace the deck on his own.
It was during such night watches that Pete's longing for his old life was most intense. He did miss his family, even his father, and he began to have some hope that not too many years would pass before some sort of reconciliation might be made. He accepted that a complete restoration was impossible, but that he might attend his sister's wedding, and take tea with his mother again, these were possibilities to be cherished.
Not entirely to his credit, Pete's longing for home and family was very tied up with not just a longing for his favourite dogs and old London connections, but with a longing for a hearth with a fire laid expressly for his comfort by someone else, and his books, and for a laden sandwich tray and dessert table. The lack of the last two was especially keenly felt as the voyage continued on. Not that they starved; Mr. Suarez was very careful in that respect, despite the impression that might be given from the laxity of manners and overall gaiety of the crew. But ship's biscuit and grog did not give much variety or provide for any delicacy of palette, and in this way was Pete's old plan of joining the Ways in Italy kept alive.
As much as he was desirous of seeing Mr. Michael Way and his brother again (and Pete had missed Mr. Michael Way's steadying character quite severely, and now thought he would not have become involved in quiet so much mischief as he had if Michael had still been an active and immediate influence in his life), he was equally dreaming of the pleasures and luxuries he would find in resuming a lifestyle he was most used to. Good wine, good spirits, excellent food, taste in art and music shared with accomplished people.
Pete's brief span of indigence had made him most appreciative not just of the ease and grace of his old way of life, however, but most ready to appreciate any comforts in his new one. Warm sun, a carrying breeze, the occasional fresh fish, the interesting characters he was surrounded by, the peculiar new sensation of being useful— all these things were so much better than what he had faced that he could not help but enjoy them.
It wasn't exactly baking on the deck, even in the midday sun, because it was the North Atlantic in winter. Andy Hurley had taken off his shirt anyway, and Pete couldn't stop staring.
"That's astonishing," he said, leaning in much closer than propriety should allow. "How many do you have?"
"I'm not sure, anymore," Andy shrugged. "I lost count around forty. That was several years ago."
"Do they hurt?"
"Yes," Andy smiled. "But not in an unpleasant way, exactly."
Pete couldn't stop staring. "I'm sorry— may I?" When Andy nodded, Pete carefully touched his arm, running his fingers lightly over the bright pictures. "They don't feel any different," he said, surprised.
"Not if done correctly."
From that point on, all Pete could think about was tattoos. He wanted one of his own, badly. Possibly more than one. Possibly quite a lot more.
"Everyone has a tattoo except me," Pete complained, examining the art work on Brendon's arm as they sat together against the side of the ship.
"I don't," Patrick said, as he happened to walk by.
"Why not?" Pete asked.
Patrick shuddered a little. "No desire, I suppose."
"We could draw some on," Brendon suggested brightly.
"No, thank you," Patrick's voice was deliciously dry.
When Brendon's face fell, Pete nudged him. "You can draw some on me, if you want." Brendon's face brightened, and he ran off to fetch a piece of charcoal. Pete and Patrick exchanged an amused look before Patrick continued on his chores.
Something curled and flipped in Pete's stomach, and he felt light enough to float along above the ship like a kite.
Pete's all-consuming fascination with tattoos was soon joined by a fascination with guitar. It seemed like most of the crew played; they had a few instruments they all took turns playing. Joe and Patrick sometimes duelled each other; Pete loved to curl up and watch and listen. They all took turns teaching him, but when the crew played together he preferred to listen instead of attempting to keep up.
His favourite nights were the ones the crew hung out together on the deck after supper, especially when Patrick and Brendon sang in harmony. Captain Saporta would chime in when he pleased, with Ryland and Alex singing back-up, and these were the times Pete wished they'd never hit land again.
The ambient temperature got warmer and the weather nicer. By the time they landed in Jamaica, Pete was turning a nice brown colour and had taken to eschewing his shirt when the sun was high.
He was as impatient as the rest of the crew to get off the ship; he had never gone so long without fresh food and water.
"Lewis," Captain Saporta called, "a word, por favor."
"Si, mon Capitaine?" Pete hadn't spent much time in the Captain's cabin. Something about it was… creepy.
Saporta was sitting behind his desk, fingers steepled. He looked at Pete over his hands for a moment without speaking. "Are you going to be with us on the return voyage?"
"What?"
"You signed no contract. No Cobra crew does. You're free to go when we hit land. You wouldn't be the first."
Pete stared at him, stunned and needing a moment to gather his words. "I have no reason to stay in Jamaica."
"Sometimes men find a reason, know what I'm saying?"
Pete nodded. "I'll be back, sir. I'm not ready to leave yet."
Saporta looked at him another silent moment, then grinned. "Good. We put a lot of work into you. We'd like more of a return on our investment."
Pete laughed. "If you promise not to maroon me, I'll stay as long as you let me."
Kingston was every bit the hedonistic sailor pleasure-land Pete had been promised. The streets were full of beautiful, exotic women in filmy dresses, every other building was a tavern (the others were brothels), and it was easier to get rum than water.
First thing, Pete went with Joe and Andy to get a tattoo of his own.
"Oww," Pete groaned.
"I knew that place wasn't reliable," Andy said, as they half-carried him back to the ship.
"So we should have tried the one with the shrunken head hanging outside?" Joe grumbled.
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Pete groaned. "I just need to lay down for a little."
"What happened?" Patrick rushed over when Pete stumbled aboard.
"You're still here, Mr. Stump? Why are you still here?"
"Someone has to watch the ship," Patrick muttered. "And what have you been doing to yourself in Jamaica?"
"I'll show you my tattoo," Pete offered, trying to pull up his shirt while Joe and Andy still gripped his arms.
"A tattoo. Of course you got a tattoo." He eyed Joe and Andy. "Are you two responsible for this?"
"Hey, man," Andy held up his hands. "It was all his idea."
Pete started to tip over. Patrick lunged and caught him. "I should lay down," he said, mouth smooshed into Patrick's shoulder.
"Fine, come on," Patrick sighed. He helped Pete walk below decks and, after a couple of hilarious mishaps, got Pete in his hammock.
"What did they do to you?" he muttered. He laid a hand on Pete's forehead.
""M fine," Pete slurred. "Had some liquid courage first."
"You— you're drunk?"
"Whoo!" Pete flailed his arms out in triumph.
"I can't— dammit, Pete."
Pete's eyes were closed… laying down was such a relief, as was being back on a ship where the floor moved like it ought… so he didn't see the cup of water coming.
He raised his head as much as he could and blinked at Patrick. "Wossat?"
"Oh, sleep it off," Patrick snapped, and stomped up the stairs.
By the time Pete had slept it off, it was night-time. He woke up thirsty and sore. It felt like there was a burn on his stomach. He lifted his shirt up, then remembered he had a tattoo of his own now.
He sat up, head spinning a bit, but managed to get out of his hammock quietly. He turned the corner, intending to head up on deck, but found the passage blocked. He stepped back around the corner automatically, and only then did his brain process what he'd seen.
He eased back around the corner to take a better look and make sure his eyes hadn't deceived him.
Pete crept back to his hammock and thumped his feet on the deck, making it sound like he'd just got up. He groaned loudly and stumbled back to the stairwell.
This time, Brendon and Spencer were standing a respectable distance apart, although Spencer's shirt was rucked up around his waist and Brendon's hair was wildly ruffled.
"Hey," Brendon said. "It's the illustrated man!"
"You heard?" Pete grinned and lifted his shirt to show them.
Spencer moved the lantern to get a better look. "It looks rather red," he said, frowning. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Isn't it supposed to look like that?" They all examined Pete's stomach.
"I don't know… it looks really red," Brendon said. "But I guess we'll wait and see, eh?"
"Yeah," Pete muttered. "Have you seen Patrick?"
He found Patrick in a small cafe along the waterfront, just as they'd said. "How are you feeling?" Patrick asked.
"Better than earlier, I think. Thank you for taking care of me."
Patrick flushed— a blush?— and stared down at his plate, filled with empty shells, the remains of his supper.
"Would you like anything?" Patrick asked. Pete ordered— the same as Patrick, plus lemonade instead of something harder.
"So," Pete said, as they waited. "Brendon and Spencer, eh?"
"Brendon and Spencer what?" Patrick looked genuinely puzzled.
"They said I'd find you here," Pete muttered, smiling at the tabletop.
After dinner they walked along the beach, far enough that the sounds of rowdy Kingston faded into background noise. "It's so beautiful here," Pete said. "I can't believe I never would have thought of coming here on my own."
"That's what seeing the world's about, isn't it?" Patrick said. "The unexpected things. The places you never expected to love, the people you never expected to meet."
"Yes. Quite." Pete looked at Patrick in the moonlight, and smiled and smiled.
When Captain Saporta showed back up at the boat two days later, he was being carried over the shoulder of a tall, dark-skinned man the others greeted with a great deal of enthusiasm and familiarity.
Even Patrick, usually the most reticent, ran up to him with a wide smile and grin. "Travis! Long time, no see! How have you been? Are you coming with us?"
"Let me put your no good Captain down. He's still drunk off his arse."
"I prefer him that way," Victor said coolly, and held open the Captain's cabin door for Travis.
Once Travis dumped Saporta in his bunk, he came back on deck for hugs from everyone.
"Are you coming with us?" Victor asked.
"Please please please!" Brendon climbed on Travis like a monkey scaling a tree. "Don't leeeeeave us, Travie!"
"I guess the people have spoken," Travie said, peeling Brendon off with Ryland's help.
The crew sent up three cheers. Pete joined in; why not?
The Cobra left Kingston under Victor and Travie's command; Saporta was still sleeping it off. They headed straight back across the Atlantic, intending to land in Portugal. As they raised the sails, the whole crew sang a song about how sad they were to leave Kingston and a pretty girl there, and once Pete learned the words to the chorus he joined in, singing at the top of his voice with a clear heart.
"So what's your story, Pete Lewis?" Travie asked, sitting next to him as they rolled under the stars the first night out of Jamaica.
Pete was about to repeat the standard patter he'd given everyone else, but something about Travis seemed to inspire confidence, and then he noticed Patrick nearby, listening avidly while pretending to be busy folding a rope.
"Really?" Pete asked.
Patrick looked up immediately and left the rope, coming to sit on the other side of Pete. Out here, in the middle of the ocean, it didn't feel like anything bad could touch him. It would be a relief.
He leaned his head back and fixed his gaze on the stars overhead. "My father is rich. No— my father is not just a wealthy man, but a Baronet. I offended him— I did something that impugned family honour. I refused to repent, so he threw me out. I was cut off completely and my name's probably been crossed out of the family Bible. I was forbidden to see the rest of my family. I was about as successful as you might imagine at surviving on my own. Then one night Patrick walked by and I didn't dare let him leave without me."
It had taken such a short time to say, for something so big. It had got so big, while a secret inside him, that it seemed the heavens should have opened with his announcement. Instead there was silence, or as much silence as there ever was aboard a ship. The slap of waves, the creak of the sails.
"So you're really a lord?" Patrick asked quietly, finally.
Pete turned his head to face Patrick and opened his eyes. "No," he said. "I'm disowned. The title will go to my brother."
"Heavy," Travie murmured.
When Pete looked around, he saw the rest of the crew gathered around, attentive. They hadn't been there when he started, but he wasn't surprised to see them. He didn't mind. He smiled at them all, instead.
"Why did you have to leave your family?" Brendon asked. Spencer hissed and elbowed him sharply.
Later that night, Brendon explained in whispers, standing next to Pete's hammock. "I only asked," he said, "because I had to leave my family too." His eyes flicked, irresistibly, to Spencer's hammock.
"The same reason as you," Pete whispered, and let his eyes deliberately rest in the same direction.
Brendon looked both shocked and sympathetic. "You were in love?" he whispered.
Pete made a face. "Nothing quite so romantic, I'm afraid. But I wanted the option."
Brendon nodded, understanding shining from his face. And then he shot a sly look at Patrick's hammock. Pete struggled to keep his face blank, and they bid each other good night.
Brendon, thoughtfully, put it out that Pete had been involved in an unsuitable romance, so no one asked any other questions. Pete was content to let them imagine what they would.
Although there were some considering looks directed his way, everyone accepted that Pete was Pete now, and did not treat him any differently. That had been what he was afraid of most, and he felt much better with one less secret weighing him down.
They were a week off the European coast when Victor had an accident.
He'd been climbing in the rigging, racing Nathaniel, when a rope snapped loose. It snapped straight into the back of Victor's head, pushing his head forward to bounce off a boom, and Victor fell.
He had luckily— or more like cleverly, because obviously Victor had done it on purpose— tied a rope around his waist, and Victor dangled above the deck unconscious instead of falling to his death.
Half the crew swarmed up the rigging to cut him down. The other half stood below, ready to catch Victor or anyone else who fell. Victor was lowered carefully to Captain Saporta, who carried him into his own cabin, moving with the most amount of care anyone had ever seen from him.
The Captain was thrown out shortly after so Alex, Joe, and Spencer could tend to Victor. The rest of the crew hung around on deck, uneasy and sick with anxiety.
Finally, Spencer came out, face pale and eyes wide.
"What happened?" Saporta asked, hands in his hair.
"Ah… Victor's not Victor."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Patrick demanded.
"Victor is actually Victoria."
"What?" Pete asked, when it seemed like no one else was going to.
"He is a she," Spencer said.
"Are you sure?" Ryland asked.
Spencer shot him an annoyed glare. "Very sure. I've seen the evidence with my own eyes."
A true uproar followed. Saporta darted for his cabin, demanding to be let in. "She can't be unchaperoned!" he shouted, pounding on the door.
Spencer rolled his eyes. "Also, she's going to be fine. Thanks for asking."
"Hey!" Suarez stuck his head out the door, still blocking Saporta from entering. "Victoria needs quiet. Everyone shut the hell up!"
Everyone guiltily quieted down, and Captain Saporta at last forced his way into the cabin. Pete couldn't resist trying to take a peek himself. He reasoned it was all right, since he would be a much better chaperone than Saporta.
Victor— Victoria— was propped up in bed, her shirt undone and a tangle of bandages on the bed next to her. She was clutching the sheet up near her shoulders.
"Victoria." Saporta uttered the name like it was a holy word. Then he brightened considerably, somehow beaming with his entire body. "Now we can be married!"
"Are you fucking insane?" Victoria said.
Pete grinned and eased himself out. Victoria would be fine.
"Damn," Travie was saying on deck. "This is the craziest boat I've ever been on. I am never leaving again."
It was a week before Victoria was allowed to resume half her duties. She'd stopped binding her breasts, but of course there weren't any dresses on board.
"Actually," Victoria said, "there are rather a lot of dresses. Just not any I would consider wearing. Don't ask, none of them are mine. Besides, how am I supposed to climb the rigging in skirts?"
"You're never climbing the rigging again," Captain Saporta said.
Victoria told him to bugger off. She'd been getting testy while confined, and Saporta quickly found business on the other end of the ship.
Pete continued to lean against the railing near her. "So," he said conversationally, "I'm the world's biggest asshole."
"Not that I'm disputing it, but what particularly led you to this conclusion?"
"Here I've gone on for months and months worrying over my little secret about who my family is. Your secret was much bigger."
Victoria shrugged, then winced. Pete understood she still had a large bruise all around her middle where her lifeline had caught her. "You lost your whole family. That's not nothing. We all do what we have to do," she said.
Pete got another tattoo in Lisbon, and another in Marseilles, one on each arm. These healed much more cleanly. Though he still felt undecorated when he ran around the ship without a shirt, he had almost caught up to Brendon already.
Pete was so involved in debating the great philosophical questions aboard ship ("How did Victoria relieve herself without anyone noticing she was female?") that it was a shock to hear Joe and Travie shout from the crow's nest that Sicily was in sight. They were suddenly in Italy.
When Captain Saporta asked the crew where they wanted to land, Pete shouted "Naples!" The only other person to put in a request was Ryland, who shouted "Moscow!" So Naples it was.
It was spring in the bay of Naples. The water was a vibrant light blue, the flowers on Capri and on the coast were in full bloom, and Vesuvius hovered over it all, quiet and purple.
Pete slowly packed up all the possessions he'd accumulated in a bag made of string. He wasn't really a sailor, and he'd arrived at his intended destination. He went to see Captain Saporta.
Saporta eyed the bag next to Pete's feet and said nothing.
"I have some friends near here," Pete said. His throat felt rough and swollen. "I'm going to visit them."
"Are you going to come back?"
Pete was unable to respond.
"Well," Saporta said, looking casually out his window, "not that I care. No contracts, remember. But we leave when the tide turns on the third day after this one. See you around, heffe."
Pete stumbled up on deck. He couldn't face the rest of the crew, but he wanted one more glimpse of Patrick. He found Patrick on the dock below, with Victoria, once again disguised as Victor, supervising the unloading of the hold.
Pete went up to Patrick, hiding his bag behind his back. He put a hand on Patrick's shoulder, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Hmm? What? Be careful with that one!— oh, no Pete, I'm fine."
"As you wish." Pete let his fingers linger on Patrick's shoulder, but Patrick was busy with his manifest and didn't notice.
It took Pete most of a day to make it down the coast to the villa the Ways lived in. The place was moderately large, rambling, and old and crumbling. It was situated on top of a cliff, with breathtaking views, and no doubt suited Gerard Way exactly. Pete found himself smiling even before he knocked on the gate right as the sky began painting itself in rose hues for sunset.
The Mr. Ways were thrilled to see him and made it clear Pete was welcome as long as he had a mind to stay. Supper was exquisite and the company charming. After eating, Pete and Michael sat out on the terrace drinking their lemoncellos. Gerard and his Frank were on the piano in the drawing room, and the french doors were wide open, providing just enough volume for the music to be audible but not overwhelming to conversation. It was the most civilisation Pete had experienced in months, and it felt as real as a dream.
Michael, after berating Pete for dropping out of all contact— "William Beckett is telling everyone you're dead, you know"— caught Pete up on how the world had moved on without him. Although the people Michael spoke of had once been intimate friends and acquaintances, now they felt to Pete like characters in a book. Personalities and histories he was familiar with, but not people he could interact with or even touch.
He drifted a little, listening to the pleasant sound of Michael's voice mingling with the arpeggio being played inside when one name in particular caught his ear and snapped his attention to focus.
"That boy who lived next to you, Ryan Ross? He apparently ran off from school with the son of a merchant named Walker to live as wandering minstrels or something. Caused quite the scandal."
"Did he?" Pete grinned. "Good for him."
Michael laughed. "Yes," he said with an affectionate look. "I thought you'd say that."
The guest room Pete was given was well-appointed and tolerably modern, having perhaps been updated in the 18th Century, and the bed was large and soft. It was also too quiet, too empty, too still, and the bed too large and soft. Pete tossed and turned all night, longing for the waves and the sway of his hammock, and the sleep sounds of other people.
Pete did his best to be a good guest in the morning but ended up taking a long nap in the afternoon, in a lounge outside by the pool. Over dinner that night, he spoke of his life aboard the ship— keeping the secrets that ought to be kept, but there were plenty of other scrapes to keep Michael and Gerard and Frank entertained.
It rained that night so they all stayed inside. Gerard was finishing up a painting under Frank's supervision. Pete watched the way Frank hung casually on Gerard's shoulder, fingers twisting in his hair, leaning over to giggle in his ear. Pete felt a twist of jealousy in his chest. Not for them, but for what they had, that easy and open affection.
"Peter," Michael said quietly from where he'd snuck up next to him, "why are you here?"
"What?"
Michael just looked at him.
"I wanted to see you."
"And I'm very glad you did. But why are you still here?"
"Should I leave?" Pete asked hesitantly.
Michael rolled his eyes. "Only if you want to. But I was under the impression you wanted to."
"It's lovely here," Pete said automatically.
Michael snorted. "Of course it is. It's the Amalfi Coast. But don't you want to go home?"
Pete stared at him, forgetting all good manners in the surprise. "I can't go home, Michael, you know that."
Michael gave Pete the kind of look that said he was very disappointed in him.
It wasn't until Pete was trying to sleep in his too-big, too-soft bed that he realised what Michael had meant.
"I need to go," he said at breakfast. "Back to my ship." No one looked the slightest bit surprised, although Michael did look proud.
The rain had made the hillsides slippery and the journey back to Naples stretched out even longer than the trip down had. Of course it did; now Pete was in a hurry, now Pete had somewhere to be.
It had been dark for hours by the time Pete reached Naples. It was a Friday night and the streets were swarming with revellers, both locals and travellers. Pete's progress seemed tortuously slow, but at last dandies and ladies gave way to the rougher drunks of the docks. Docks shared a certainly similarity the world over, and it was starting to feel welcoming and pleasingly familiar to Pete.
He waved cheerfully to the prostitutes and side-stepped a brawl as it spilled out of a taverna. A one-eyed, roguish sort of person Pete wouldn't leave alone with a horse was attempting to sell suspiciously bedraggled flowers. In a fit of extravagance and inspiration, Pete bought the lot, and proceeded without further delay to the Cobra's berth, leaving a trail of wilted petals behind him.
The ship appeared deserted, though he knew someone must be on it. He was very hopeful about who that someone might be. He ran up the gangplank, heart pounding out of all proportion to the exercise. He dashed about, quite wild and quite at a loss, until he heard a melody, picked out on a guitar, and a moment later the lifting sounds of his favourite voice.
Pete followed the music around the ship, following dark, twisty corridors until he found a little alcove he'd never seen before. Patrick had his back to him, focused on his guitar and his song.
Pete left his bag on the ground and snuck behind him, choosing to announce his return by dumping his armful of flowers all over Patrick.
Patrick shouted, and panicked, and jumped to his feet and flailed his arms until he saw Pete, bent over and leaning against the wall, laughing so hard it hurt.
"Pete. Did you just… dump dead flowers all over me?"
Pete wiped at his eyes. "They weren't supposed to be dead… I just wanted to cover you in flowers, is that too much to ask?"
Pete had seen Patrick annoyed often enough that he knew Patrick wasn't really annoyed right now; just a little annoyed, a little embarrassed, and a lot confused.
"I, ah—" Patrick carefully set down the guitar and brushed the last of the flowers off his hat. "Captain Saporta, that is, seemed to be under the impression you might not be sailing with us."
"I changed my mind," Pete said. "Or rather, I was made to know my own mind."
"I see," Patrick said, then— "What?"
Pete smiled, and stepped into the alcove properly, crowding Patrick against the bulkhead. "I realised I needed to return home, to my family," Pete said.
Patrick struggled to find a proper facial expression then said "Have you heard from your father the baronet then? Was there a letter in port—"
Pete laughed. "My real home. My real family." And then, as there seemed nothing else for it, he leaned in and pressed his mouth against Patrick's.
Much as Pete would have liked to linger there— for hours, or days, or years— he pulled back almost at once. Patrick looked rather as if he'd been hit in the face instead of kissed.
Pete smiled coyly and leaned in again, pressing another kiss to Patrick's mouth, and then another, as long as he was there.
Patrick looked entirely flustered, and Pete approved very much. "Oh," Patrick said. He reached up and adjusted his hat, then adjusted it back. "Oh." Then: "Are you drunk again?"
Pete remained calm, though it cost him a great deal. "I have never been more serious and sober. Whatever your feelings on the matter, as long as I am near you, I cannot but be satisfied and content."
"Really?" Patrick at long last said. "But… me?"
"Of course you! Patrick, you're the one that saved me."
"Saved you? From what?"
Pete laughed, though it was turned on himself. "From everything. From myself, from my life, from London. From hunger— surely you remember that much?"
Patrick blushed, dropped his eyes, mumbled something.
"Patrick," Pete groaned. "Please make me some sort of answer. End my agony of suspense."
Patrick's gaze was still fixed upon the floor. "I knew I shouldn't have kept you," he muttered. But before Pete could move, or react, or process his words, Patrick lifted his face and returned Pete's kisses in kind. "I didn't think I'd see you again." He punched Pete in the arm. It was a great deal harder than Pete would have expected. "You mustn't do that again."
Pete could not describe his emotions even to himself. Patrick had kissed him; Patrick wanted him to stay. "I won't," he said, trying to be solemn when he wanted to whoop and laugh. "I swear it."
He took Patrick's hand and laced their fingers together. "If we're but together—" he started to say.
"Pete," Patrick interrupted. "Shut up." He pulled Pete close and kissed him again, and Pete found there were better ways to communicate.
Epilogue
Pete had no card to present, but the footman was the same. "Mr. Wentz!"
"Not for quite a while, now," Pete smiled. "Is my mother at home?"
"She is. I'll just—" Alex hesitated, obviously unsure how to go about this without giving offence.
"It's all right," Pete said gently. "Go in and announce me. I am, after all, a visitor."
Alex the footman returned almost immediately to show him in.
"Oh, it really is you!" his mother cried, rushing to his side. They embraced warmly and Pete felt himself nearly overcome with emotion.
"I shouldn't stay long," he said. "I'm not sure father would want me to. But I wanted to let you know I was all right."
"Are you?" she said anxiously, smoothing his shirt across his shoulders, pushing a lock of hair out of his face. "All right?"
"I truly am, mother. Much better than I've been in a long time."
"Are you…" she hesitated, searching for the right word.
"I'm happy," he supplied. "I am gainfully employed, satisfied by my work, and surrounded by excellent people."
"I am glad," she said.
He stayed for 15 minutes, the length of a usual morning visit. He did not want to be there when his father returned, not yet. Pete told her it had been good to see her again, how glad he was everyone was well, that he'd missed them, and that he regretted nothing.
The last perhaps upset his mother a little, but Pete didn't want to lie to her. He was happy, he was at peace, and he wouldn't change his position now for the world.
Patrick was sitting in the square when Pete left his parents' house, reading a newspaper in the least nonchalant manner Pete had ever seen. He smiled and ran across the street to join him.
"How did it go?" Patrick asked, before registering Pete's smile.
"It was very pleasant," Pete said, as Patrick folded his paper and stood up to join him. He had longed to bring Patrick inside to meet his mother but finally discretion recommended itself and won, just this once, over passion. Patrick had been contented with hovering outside anxiously.
He turned them toward the road, walking slowly. The neighbourhood appeared unchanged but he didn't belong there, not anymore. Even his parents' house wasn't someplace that aroused the requisite feelings of comfort, ease, and familiarity. It was no longer his home.
"I think I'm actually relieved," Pete said, knocking his elbow against Patrick's. "I really feel as if I'm all done with that now."
"Your family?" Patrick said.
"Always the sceptic," Pete said fondly. "I have a new family now, as you know. A new family, a new home." He stopped and stepped in front of Patrick, to force him to look at him. "I wouldn't trade."
Patrick searched his eyes, his face, and must have been satisfied with what he found there. Again, somehow. "You're probably mad," he said, a slight smile on his mouth.
"Wouldn't change it for the world, either, would you?" Pete grinned. Patrick laughed, and touched Pete's elbow, and they continued down the street.
They would all be fine, Pete thought. They were happy, and he wasn't afraid, and he was where he belonged.
~*~
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