Page 113 of Rears & Vices

D’Arcy had anticipated this somehow, although they were at sea, and Everard had never, in his memory or anyone’s, been sick at sea—he pulled a sawdust bucket close. Cedar and oak and fir shavings floated up into Everard’s nose as he was thoroughly sick, and sneezed, and was sick again.

D’Arcy was there beside him as he shook. He pushed hair back from Everard’s brow, carefully wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.

“I don’t want—can’t hear any more of how,” Everard said weakly, after. “Only… why.”

“All right,” D’Arcy said softly. “To make a long tale short, it was necessary to keep Alarie’s mounting suspicion off my back. He knows about Vee—that he’s American, and up to his ears in it with Madison—but not me, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Alarie knows… I don’t know! What’s to know?”

D’Arcy nodded. “I am—and have been—agent for the Americans. Occasionally the French.”

“You what?” Everard stood abruptly, conking his head on the upper bunk, also accidentally stealing the handkerchief; he clutched it over his mouth in horror as he backed away. “Sodding—ow. Agent... spy. For how long?”

D’Arcy looked uncomfortable. He made to stand. “I’ll wake Vee⁠—”

Everard snatched away the handkerchief to enunciate. “Sit down,” he ordered; D’Arcy complied. “How bloody long?”

“Since I’d met Vee. Thereabouts.”

“Which was—certainly, that was York, three years ago?” Anger flared. “You were turned under my goddamn nose in the middle of war?”

D’Arcy shook his head.

“Then how bloody long ago!”

“Eighteen-oh-eight. Eighteen-oh-nine? I hardly remember. It was the West Africa Squadron in infancy. We were posted to the same frigate.”

Everard staggered. “Vitya was a marine. And you—and he—and you— He was a marine!”

D’Arcy grinned weakly, scratched at the nape of his neck. “I like a red coat on a man?”

“Idiota, idiota, puto tontorrón. I am such the idiot,” Everard said emphatically.

“Hey, now,” D’Arcy protested, “slurs are uncalled for.”

“Have you two been… this whole time?”

“No!” D’Arcy put up his hands and waved. “No, no, no. Not until”—he smiled crookedly—“the other night. I swear to you, Ever. Vee and I weren’t— We were never suited, and just he and I in bed, it’s… You maybe saw a bit of it. But he loves you; he’d do anything for you.”

“Anything, except not put his fists to the face of the other man I love,” Everard said bitterly.

D’Arcy’s face worked, conflicted. “Everard, neither of us was prepared for the extent of your reaction. I’m sure if he’d known… hell, if I’d known…”

They hadn’t known I loved him.

“I thought you were dead,” Everard muttered, stunned and shamed to his marrow. “Even if you’d just been my lieutenant… I’m responsible… Of course I would care.”

“No, you aren’t responsible,” D’Arcy said firmly. “I’m sorry. It was really only bruising. The rest was feigned. And I was very drunk, which made it easier. Then”—he chuckled—“we both thought he maybe hadn’t done enough. Especially when Stephan stayed vigil all of an hour.”

Everard made a nauseated groan, put his hands over his face. “Enough? Please—it’s too much.”

“You’re not responsible for it, Everard. And neither is Vee, not truly. You mustn’t blame him. Blame me alone, if anyone.”

But how is that possible? Everard thought. It’d been Vitya’s fists, his boots, his careful, meticulous touch. Thanks to sharing combat with the man, Everard could see it there in his mind, just as well as he could not ever, ever imagine it. Vitaliy making a fist, drawing back⁠—

Everard groaned, and was obliged to lean and be unexpectedly sick again, saliva and desperation the only things left in him.

D’Arcy reached an arm around, pulled Everard deep into his sturdy, warm shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured in litany. “I’m sorry.”