THIS IS RIDICULOUSLY LONG. I mean it. feel free to skip.

[ringringitsgod]

characters: Charlie Dalton and Captain Kennit Ludluck.
rating: R. :)
summary: These are your revolutionaries, Babylon. You should feel safe and comforted by the fact that they are the paragon of utmost sanity.


Charlie is fucking tired.

Sword training isn't quite what he expected it to be. For one thing, it didn't come naturally, like soccer or boxing. It's different. It just doesn't feel right. He's glad for upper body strength, but it only gets him so far. Though it is nice learning from someone who knows what he's doing, and as they walk back from the makeshift training center, Charlie keeps looking at the Captain with nothing less than complete admiration. Not all poetry is words. He's trying to walk without wincing, keeps pushing his hair out of his face and biting back complaints, when really all he wants to do is sleep for days. But he only made the mistake of protesting once. He won't do it again.

It's almost sad, how he doesn't even consider going back to his own apartment. Cordelia would be waiting with mace and too many questions, and if Knox showed up- he just can't deal with that right now. Instead, Charlie pushes his way into Kennit's apartment (blissfully roommate free, he misses those days) and doesn't even hesitate before collapsing on the couch, stretching out on his back and massaging one arm. "Fuck," he mutters, which really sums up just about everything. It hurts more already than he thought it ever would. Charlie watches the Captain out of the corner of his eye, resisting the urge to just close them and drift into blissful silence. But, no. This is far from the time for sleep. Maybe later, maybe when he doesn't hurt quite as much.

"Was I alright?" Charlie asks, opening his eyes again, lacing his hands behind his head, resolving to make this look like it was easy on him.

It wasn't as though Kennit had been deliberately cruel. As fun as that could be, it lead to bad habits in the long run, and he doesn't want Charlie to be afraid of his sword by the time he can actually use it.

At the same time, he hadn't been nice, either. This was, in some ways, Kennit's way of saying - what we have does not make you my equal. It will not make me play favourites. He needs to believe it of himself, too.

Kennit hides every inch of his grim amusement at the boy's pained twitches and shining eyes on the way back. There's victory there, too - he beat the boy with a stick and he soaked it up as he soaked up Kennit's words. Nuwanda is an excellent pupil. An excellent co-conspirator. He ropes his mind back in where it belongs.

Back at the apartment and he gets them both drinks almost before anything else. He, too, smarts where his leg meets the wood of its cup, and the scar of his not-so-mortal wound twinges a little. After months of being back on land, months of healing, months of swinging a sword in the living room when no-one was around, he still feels a touch out of practice. "Haven't killed any men in a while, eh, Ludluck?" the charm asks him in his own voice, but he ignores it.

He hands Nuwanda one of the wide-based wine glasses and sits down in the space where the other's legs curve back towards the couch, pulling his good leg up, his own wine dangling from his hands as he considers the question honestly. "You were fine," he says in a deep, murmurous tone. "You'll get better with practice. Part of learning the art is teaching each part of your body to be entirely within your control. It hurts, but once you've mastered your own strength, technique comes swiftly afterwards."

Charlie laughs a little into his glass before he drinks. He's heard this before. "You sound like my boxing coach back in Vergennes," he says idly. If he thinks of the sword as an extension of his fist, it's a little easier, but it's still not the same. Charlie favors raw power, the flash of adrenaline at the very last second before fist connects with bone. If you do it well - and, yeah, if you play a little dirty - they never see the hit coming. A sword is different, perhaps not in a bad way. It's flashier. Deadlier. His only regret is that his conventional training never taught him how to aim to kill.

He's grateful for the wine, as it wakes him a little. He stretches before speaking again, arching his back and hearing a few things pop. It's been a while since he's been this worn out. "You kicked my ass," Charlie points out, though he smiles when he says it. It's less of his placeholder smirk and more genuine, though that mischief never leaves his eyes. There's an implied I liked it hanging there, even as he doesn't say it aloud. He shifts slightly to give the Captain more room - and he should probably sit up, but his body is protesting too much to extend that courtesy.

Maybe his grip on the wine glass is a little too tight, and he notices his knuckles are white. Still used to the stick. He's a quick study, that much is true. "So," Charlie says, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "Want to tell me the reason behind the sword training?"

Kennit watches Nuwanda's stretch like a lion watching its prey, tracing a hand over his chin as he does so. Six months and he's still not used to being cleanshaven; his stubble feels rough and awkward under his hand. "I kicked your ass," he agrees, his own indiscernable European lilt fading in favour of imitating Charlie's accent.

The question is a difficult one to answer. Why had he, at that moment, decided to give Charlie another way to take out his anger on the world? It had just struck him. Nuwanda's seeming lust for the violence Kennit had threatened had surprised him, and then once the initial flavour of the shock had faded, his mind (as always) had carried on to darker plots and places. Violence. Andrew Wells. The thought had carried through. "Everyone should know the sword," he says idly, as though that was a real reason. "However." Kennit takes a deep draught of his wine (blood-of-mine-enemies) and pauses for a moment, letting the other possibilities hang there.

"It's about more than fighting, or defending yourself," he muses, really just speaking his thoughts aloud. Kennit glances over at Charlie, giving him a significant look. "There's something in swordplay that hones a man, makes him realise himself. There is a reason why scholars throughout the years, even here, have drawn philosophies from the tenants of the art." These are things he's learned, not theories that were ever taught to him; Kennit learned to fight in the quick of battle, the metal in his hand as easily an extension of himself as his hands or mind. "And I'd like to teach you something, at least," he adds a little derisively, giving a grin as sharp as a knife.

As the Captain talks, Charlie loses track of himself a little. Makes him realize himself. There's that hum of godlike intensity in his chest, low and familiar. Something of a comfort, in that terrifying way that he likes. He absorbs it all and files it away in his head, but when he comes to, he realizes he's been unconsciously swirling the wine glass and running his other hand through his hair. The entranced expression fades from his face as he props himself up, taking another drink.

"You teach me plenty," Charlie says dismissively, though he means the truth of it in a way he can't express. Eagerness replaces exhaustion on his face as he goes on. "I like learning. I want to learn more." Because it's not enough, it's never, ever enough. Born with an entire collection of antique, one-of-a-kind silver spoons in his mouth, and now nothing is ever enough. Charlie tips his head back to look at the ceiling, a sort of newness washing over him. It's another phase in their revolution. "I want to realize myself," he says, "I mean, more than I already have."

The unnatural angle of his head, this rush, it all makes him feel a little constricted, so Charlie snaps his eyes back to the Captain and drinks again. "And I want to fight, when I'm good enough." It's added as a matter-of-fact afterthought, said around the rim of the glass and an eyebrow raised. His eyes are a little wild and, despite the pain, his body is thrumming with wine and excitement. This is good. This means it won't break him, or at least, he's fairly certain. I want, I want, I want, he knows he's being sort of a giddy idiot about all of this, but he can't help it.

Though the wine and philosophy has awoken Nuwanda, it makes Kennit strangely laconic, and his expressions seem to drift across his face slowly, the glass swinging from his fingertips in pendulum arcs. His mind, as always, races; cataloguing the way Charlie echoes him, the way the wine affects him so quickly (though the boy is not exactly tolerant of Kennit's cocktails of words and alcohol at the best of times, let alone after so much exertion, so he doesn't know why it surprises him.)

Kennit is so relaxed he almost forgets himself and rolls his eyes; Sa save him from the overenthusiasm of teenage boys. Still, he loves the way Charlie's ears give Kennit's words more meaning than he could sonorously bestow upon them. "You will. You will. You will," Kennit tells him, answering each demand seperately. The first he is sure of; no matter how self-depricating he may be, he revels in some of the things he has taught Charlie, even if he is just layering darkness over natural intensity. The second is entirely up to Charlie.

The third... ah. "Promise me you'll not get yourself killed," Kennit says. It isn't a nagging tone, just a morose acceptance of the fact that Charlie is an idiot. Passionate, vivacious, arrogant and an idiot. If there is one thing he will drum into the boy's head it will be that swords can just as deadly for the one holding them, no matter how experienced they are. Kennit thinks of his unglorious stab wound and the rush of bleeding to death and shudders minutely against Charlie's leg, closing his eyes as he sips the wine. "Or challenge anyone who can fuck you over easily - again." Kennit is vulgar outside of the public eye, and the word fuck still tastes perfectly vicious on his tongue.

He will. It makes Charlie grin at the Captain, not even bothering to hide the obvious approval of getting what he wants. There's little that pleases him more. But then, he goes on, and Charlie's face darkens almost instantly. "Yes, sir." He flinches when he says it, because he's been trying to break himself of that habit and because it's the voice he used for his father. Obedient son with rebellion bubbling just below the surface. That's not who he wants to be with Kennit. It takes some effort to sit up, pulling one knee to his chest and cradling the nearly emptied wine glass in his hand. "I promise I won't get myself killed," he repeats, and the smirk is clearly evident in his voice. He's not on a suicide mission here. "Wouldn't dream of it."

It's the other way around, he thinks, and drains the last of the wine before setting the glass on the floor. "And anyway, if all else fails," he says nonchalantly. The sentence doesn't end, however, as he punches one fist into his freed palm. It's not as strong as it would be, were he awake and sober, and pain shoots through his body again. "More my thing." But that memory of Faith is still there, that nagging reminder in the back of his head that there are some here he can't beat. In fact, there are probably many.

"Faith was an honest mistake," he says a little too loudly to cover up the defeated undertones, leaning over to get in the Captain's line of sight. He's not that stupid, and he's being underestimated, and Charlie hates that. "I don't really plan on challenging anyone until I know I can. Or until you tell me to."

The stormclouds brewing in Charlie's expression trouble Kennit only mildly. If the boy did do something stupid- no, it was easier not to think about that, for fear of having to trace back the rumble of dread to its source. Kennit would ensure he wouldn't, whether Charlie liked it or not.

Still, Kennit has to let him make his own decisions and then be there to pick him up if he falls on his face. Let him think he is invincible, for now. "An honest mistake," he echoes, feeling out the saying. Mistakes hardly ever feel honest. Kennit shifts to look at Charlie, study the red-wine smolder in his eyes. Until you tell me to. Sa's balls, that's dangerous territory; yes, Kennit has been shaping his Nuwanda to strain at the leash like a hunting dog, waiting for release. Nevertheless he wants to see how far he could take it, how far forward Charlie would leap, snarling.

The contemplative expression fades and Kennit gives Charlie a wry, raised-eyebrow look. "Keep in mind that we'll need at least a few people here still favourable to us when the revolution comes." If the revolution comes, he sometimes thinks but never vocalises. They can both be arrogant and abrasive, which attracts some but disgusts others, and he knows that. Still, he refuses to seek trouble amongst people who could one day be useful (Sofer doesn't count, but Vilma does. Levinson doesn't count, but the other two might. Lehane doesn't count, but Lyra does.)

"There's this thing I've picked up on," Charlie drawls, inching himself closer to Kennit as he does. "People here are cynical. Unhappy. Can't you feel it? They want a revolution." In his world, everyone should want a revolution. Their revolution. It's going to happen, and if he keeps telling himself that, it will. Nothing exists but his own thoughts. Charlie flirts with that philosophy constantly. "They won't want to listen to the hypocritical, rich, preppy assholes," he continues, spitting each word with every ounce of personal contempt he has, every square inch of that scared and wronged boy hiding inside of him. "They'll want us."

That wasn't where it was supposed to end. There's more on his mind - there's always more, but Charlie cuts off his thoughts with a kiss. He's tired, so it's quick and surprisingly innocent, more about saying I know what the fuck I'm talking about without words. Even as he breaks away, he keeps his hand gripping the Captain's collar. "They'll favor us if they know what's good for them," he says, unable to keep that grin from spreading across his face. These ideas mean the world to him.

Still. A part of their conversation still troubles him, some residual fracture in his bravado that Neil left. Charlie glances down between them and thinks this over. He won't get himself killed. He can't get himself killed. Literally. He's Nuwanda. The name alone, echoing over and over in his mind (under the constant chorus of Plath, and he wishes it wouldn't when he's around Kennit, but it does; I would breathe water) is enough to shake him back to the present. "I promise," Charlie repeats, pressing their foreheads together and smiling again. The rest just slips out. "This is too important. Anyway, if I died, Knox would off himself, and I can't have that."

Funny, how Kennit thinks; I should win him back with speeches, but then it's Charlie preaching to him, and it sounds bitter but invigorating and Kennit lets himself nod and smirk-smile and believe. You promise. So close Kennit can smell the wine on his breath and he effectively swears an oath (so casually, everyone is so casual about these things here.) Slowly, Kennit's smirk grows to match Charlie's, a wickedness in his grin that says I know things you don't.

It fades, though. When they speak like this it's as though victory has come and gone and they are toasting successful anarchy in private. The other boy, though, he irritates Kennit. At first it was fascinating, the way Charlie sought to turn his Captain's attention away from his former schoolmate, but as the days eased on and Kennit carefully watched the journals, or caught glimpses in his walks past the school of the two of them together, and it began to nag at him. Jealousy had always been one of his major faults, and this was a plague of it; Knoxious Overstreet may have been wide-eyed and romantic, unable to hurt a fly, the strongest possible contrast from the unfurled banner of Charlie's exuberant violence but when it came right down to it. Charlie had been his first. Charlie had known him longer. It was unacceptable.

He speaks these things only with his eyes, though; his face is carefully schooled into the same heart-thumping knowledge of their inevitable triumph that had consumed him just moments before. "No, we can't," he murmurs, and reaches up to take Charlie's hand and gently unwind his fingers from Kennit's shirt. He holds it there a moment, pulse fluttering under his thumb. "Sleep here tonight, Nuwanda," he says suddenly, and there's no question in his voice. The boy is tired, but Kennit wants him here, wants to be able to watch him dream by the light of the candles at Kennit's bedside, well into the night.

It's probably a huge mistake to ever bring Knox up. Charlie doesn't enjoy delving into that part of his mind and heart, because it's intensely complicated, and everything he thinks and feels contradicts something else. They should meet, they should stay far, far away from each other. They'd get along well, they'd both hate him forever for associating with the other. Knox is good for him, Knox is only holding him back. It's two different worlds. Charlie knows which one he should want to live in, but that's not the case. There's something very wrong with him.

"Shit, like I'd go home?" he laughs, sliding both hands up to grab Kennit's shirt again. It's less forceful this time, only driven by that instinct he's always had. Tell him no, make him not do something, and he'll just do it again. Just to test you. "Cordelia's too much to handle. Asks too many questions." Charlie drops his head to speak into Kennit's neck instead, wine and exhaustion knocking down the few barriers he already has. "Will do, Captain, but not yet. I like this."

Charlie's insomnia was well-known at Welton. Anyone who made the mistake of rooming with him found out soon enough that Charlie Dalton does not shut up. Ever. Especially not at night, when his thoughts are finally free to roam without the disapproving glares of Nolan and Hager, the constant threat of the paddle hanging overhead. Count aloud. Charlie's whole body twitches quite noticeably at the memory and hopes Kennit doesn't ask. Still, he's been sleeping better in Babylon. Usually because he's with the Captain - though the night that Knox first came through, that's still the best sleep he's had in years. He's already thinking of what poem he'll leave for Kennit this time, when he leaves, if he leaves. Whitman, maybe. The possibilities are limitless.

He's fully aware that he's trying to push the Captain down onto the couch, their position precarious enough as it is. "I'm not up for planning," he admits lightly, hoping that that doesn't earn him a lecture about being ready at a moment's notice, la la la. Not when he's tired and halfway to drunk. "Tell me a story." Charlie just wants to curl up against him, and listen, and drift off to his voice - and a bed would be easier, yeah, but this is what they have and he's not moving for the world.

The feel of Charlie's startling shiver and the idea of what kind of thoughts might have prompted it is enough to pique Kennit's curiosity, but he stays silent. He let's himself be pushed down, stretched out, Charlie's arm draping over him. It's easier just to go with it; but he cannot bear to have his authority challenged, even in the tiniest of ways, and as he slides into the comfortable couch corner his hand reaches again for Charlie's fingers. His grip is firmer this time as he plucks them from his shirt, and he rakes his fingers through the other's hair afterwards, feeling every strand against his palm.

A story. Kennit can manage that; he has a thousand stories, some are even true. He sifts through all the baggage he carries with him with detachment. Something humorous? No, he does not feel like laughing, or faking laughter. Neither does he wish for the complexities of political intrigue, or anything with a moral for Nuwanda at its end. Perhaps just something true; maybe it is time to speak deliberately of Althea - and Wintrow. (Or perhaps the mention of Knox has made him a little petty.)

"I know I've told you about the dragons," he muses aloud, "And the great sea serpents of the deep, with their poison like acid, but I've neglected to tell you about the other people of my world." Kennit swirls the dregs of his wine and finishes the glass; he'd refill their glasses, but Charlie is a perfect weight against his chest and he finds he doesn't really need to move after all. Instead, Kennit fishes in his pocket for his crumpled and treasured packet of cigarettes. He hadn't even smoked when he'd arrived here, he hadn't, but that had changed swiftly despite the constant warnings about the limited air space and 'other people's comfort'.

"The Vestrit family were one of the twelve great Trader families of Bingtown," he says, lighting the cigarette with a long inhale and wrapping an arm around Charlie to pass it to him, leaving it resting just above his stomach. "Noble people, their ownership of a liveship was not just a point of pride, but something important to them. However times in the coastal cities were hard, with war on every side and the Jamilliean Satrap weak." Kennit hums with amusement before continuing. "The Vestrit family married one of their daughters off to an average man, not of Trader stock at all, and that was their downfall. For war emerged from distant shores, and took their men and boys, leaving Kyle Haven head of the Vestrit family."

When he thinks of Kyle Haven, Kennit's face twists with ugliness, but his voice retains the smooth undullations of a storyteller's voice. "Haven ignored the planting that would keep the Vestrits fed through the winter months, and took his cowardly, cowering youngest son from the monastery he had spent most of his life, and with the money and the boy he went to the docks and took what was now rightfully his." Kennit pauses, knowing this will at last tie the story to him; "The Liveship Vivacia."

God, he could do this for the rest of his life. It reminds him of late nights with Neil and Knox, the cave, every time Keating called him to his office and tried to talk him down from that ledge he's so fond of. It never really worked, but the stories he told of London, Welton, Chester, the ways they were different, the ways they were exactly the same, have stuck with him. Charlie rests his chin on Kennit's chest and listens, taking in every word, every intonation and tucking it away among the poetry he's memorized for lack of anything better to do. This is more or less the same thing, anyway. His stories about being the hell-raiser of Welton Academy pale in comparison to the king of pirates, but the menial acts give way to some very big ideas. At the core of it, they're on the same level - their means of getting there are just different.

"Your ship," he murmurs before taking an appreciative drag from the cigarette. One day, he'll have a pipe. Charlie twitches again at the thought (why everything traces back to old bastards hurting him, he doesn't know) and reconciles that the familiar feeling of smoke in his throat is worth the dull pain against his ribcage. He has to wonder where this is going, but the words are wrapping around him like silk, and that's almost enough. Charlie turns his head to exhale before passing the cigarette back with a little reluctance.

His eyebrows are raised in eager expectance. "You took it, right?" Charlie traces his fingers along Kennit's jaw and down his throat, almost unconsciously. This could involve kidnap, murder, intrigue. Power. A devilish grin passes over his face. "Tell me this one ends in bloodshed, because I could go for that." Those stories are always his favorite, whether they're his or anyone else's.

"Patience," Kennit says with a chuckle, taking advantage of the situation to puff on the cigarette, blowing a smoke ring because he can. It's ironic - he's never managed patience himself, unless it is the patience of a predator in the long grass waiting for something small and terrified to twitch.

"Kyle Haven," Kennit spits, leaving Charlie's questions unanswered as he continues his story, "Saw the opportunity for profit in the Chalcedian war sweeping his new family's land. Liveships were usually merchant ships, but with so little goods Haven decided to turn to a new pursuit: slavery."

Kennit arches his neck a little, letting Charlie's fingers trace the story out of him. "But as you know, liveships have thoughts and dreams and feelings, for all that they are wood. Vivacia only sailed because she was bound to the boy, a miserable wretch himself, terrified of his father and dreaming of a quiet monastery away from the filth of the slaves and the breaking of Vivacia's innocence." He pauses for a moment, caught up in his own story. The charm, he realises after a moment, is laughing, and he muffles it with his sleeve. "The Haven boy lost a finger due to the harshness of the crew, and when he tried to escape his own father tattooed his face, enslaving him as he had all the fugitives and refugees on his boat of floating refuse, marking him as Vivacia's."

He draws a deep, heavy breath, but refuses to give Charlie time to interrupt. "And so it was that I discovered them. I already had a fair fleet behind me, many ex-slaves and their families, of boats I had captured and taken. But a liveship - the fleet falcons of the sea, oh, I saw Vivacia as a pretty prize. Here is your bloodshed; I took her for my own, the slaves within Vivacia rising up to help me conquer her before joining my crew. It was a great battle, but my leg..." Suddenly Kennit tenses, his mind focussing in on the phantom limb that still haunts him, the leg that still aches late at night, when he is alone in the darkness. "It was gangrenous, mauled by the putrid toxins of a sea serpent. Even as I claimed the ship as mine I knew that I might not live to sail her."

"You lived." Charlie knows he's seen Kennit going to Sofer's meetings, but he says it anyway, because they're here and they're alive. More alive than they would be otherwise. He presses his thumb against Kennit's slow pulse and smirks, not entirely sure of what he's trying to feel for. There's that thing that he told Knox, and it's on the tip of his tongue - we all have to shed a little blood. But there's punching a fink (and yeah, he's still mad that Knox didn't just finish what he started and beat the guy within an inch of his life, but in the world of Overstreet, one punch is roughly equivalent) and then there's losing your leg. "If I could find your books," Charlie muses, lifting his head, bringing his mouth closer to Kennit's own to taste the exhale of smoke. "I'd read them all."

For all his talk, the topic of death makes Charlie deeply uncomfortable in a way that he can't describe. There's so many levels - Sofer can't die, Neil still isn't here, Sofer can't fucking die. It isn't fair. So, he goes for a different approach. "His father made him a slave?" Charlie feels every inch of himself tremble, just the slightest bit, tremors of the rage he thought he'd expelled during sword practice. Then again, that could have just heightened it, and he clicks his teeth to fill the tense silence. "Fucker," he finally mutters, unable to hide how frenetic his voice has become at the mere thought. "Tell me he got what he deserved, because I can't deal with that shit, I just can't."

It all hits just a little too close to home. Tattooing and enslavement are a far cry from what happened to him, but Charlie looks at it all as a metaphor. He's got plenty of scars that could count for tattoos, and the Welton tie was a symbol if his conformity, whether he liked it or not. Even here, even now. He hasn't brought himself to burn it yet and isn't sure that he ever will. Still. Charlie's fingers drum agitatedly against the Captain's neck as he seethes, waiting for the ending he wants to hear.

Kennit grins, and flicks his tongue out like a snake to run very lightly over Charlie's too-close lips. "Patience," he says again. All good things to those who wait. "I needed the boy on the ship; he was bonded, I couldn't sail her without him there. I would have had Haven killed then and there, but he begged for his father's life. And in return for it, on the deck of the Vivacia, he used the skills he'd learned in the monastery to safely remove my leg." He huffs out a breath, remembering his blood soaking into Vivacia, blood as memory, giving them their own strange bond. "I lived," he adds, rather unnecessarily.

"As I recovered, I kept the boy's father hostage so I could keep the ship complicit. I dearly wanted to kill him, believe me, but I knew there were bigger things at stake." He feels Charlie shake beneath him; yes this, this is what good storytelling is about. "However as the days grew on his father's madness showed itself, and he would curse and beat the son who was saving his life more often than not." He gave a look of distaste. "Enough went on during our adventures that the boy who started out as a cabin boy began to grow into himself, into the ship, to see my ideals with as much passion as I did - enough so that he could inspire me out of the bleakest of pessimistic despairs. And one day, he told me, that he did not want his father dead by his hands, but he wanted him out of his life forever."

Kennit lets that hang there a moment - he milks the anticipation for all it's worth. "So I disposed of him," Kennit says. He leaves it ambiguous; what he had done to Kyle Haven was perhaps more inhuman than outright killing him, and Charlie does not need to know that bloodless, hateful side of him, not yet. "And the boy discarded his family name and finally took true command of his vessel, our vessel, as a Vestrit. Wintrow Vestrit."

Of all the other tales Charlie has heard, most have had Wintrow in them; strong and upright, standing steadfast by Kennit's side as he'd achieved his greatest dreams. He has always let his eyes fall a little too dreamy when talking about him, his descriptions a little more lavish than usual. Wintrow Vestrit; the cycle he'd never completed. At least not until here, now, with Charlie. "My first prophet," he says. "My first mate. Yes, Wintrow managed to make a good deal more out of himself than just a nine-fingered slave boy. He and Vivacia and I rode the seas like a storm. And Etta," he adds, as if an afterthought. He thought no more of her than as: his woman. The charm always scolded him for leaving her out of his stories when she, too, had played such a noble part. "And Etta," he adds again softly, lost in his own thoughts.

"Oh." It's all Charlie can say for the moment as comprehension dawns, perhaps a bit slower than it would were he in a right state. But words never fail him for very long - they are, after all, kind of his thing. "You never told me that Wintrow-" Was what, was what? He refuses to finish the sentence he had in his head. Was like me. No, no, hell fucking no, he won't overstep that line. Up until now, he had identified with the mystery kid. But not a prophet, not a first mate. Fuck that. I'm better, Charlie thinks, and it begins looping in the back of his head. Because he begged for his father's life. Really? It doesn't make sense. He sounds like every other boy at Welton who didn't have the courage for that final blow. He would have done it. He would have, he would have. He's better.

There's this coil of intense jealousy, always burning somewhere inside of him. For as indiscriminating as Charlie seems when it comes to picking his friends, his enemies, and everyone in between, he wants what is his. He will take what is his. If someone tries to challenge that, well, god help them, because they're going to need it. It's bad enough when it's just idling, but whenever Knox gets that sad look in his eye about Chris, something inside of him snaps. Just a little. And now, this. And the coil's all but melted entirely, spreading throughout every bit of him. I'm better, I'm better, I'm better. As if his single-minded determination weren't dangerous enough on its own, add envy into the mix, and even Charlie knows how volatile he can get. He'll triple his efforts, he'll do anything to prove himself.

It's only then that Charlie realizes he's been staring intently at nothing in particular. He breaks through the fog and shakes his head a little. That kid isn't here. Charlie is. And he may not be a prophet, but he's Nuwanda, the revolutionary and the one with his mouth pressed against Kennit's. He'll prove himself. Not because he feels he has to, but because he wants to, he really, really wants to. Charlie bites down on Kennit's lower lip, not even that hard, and presses his thumb into his pulse again before pulling away just barely. "Good story," he says, proud of himself for hushing the derisive edge. "Wish I had one to tell you in return." It's an invitation with a self-deprecating tint, but Charlie just smiles. He's not tired anymore. Until the day Kennit admits that he's better, Charlie is pretty positive that he won't be tired again.

"I never did," Kennit replies, hearing his unspoken words easily. For reason that he might draw too many connections from it, take meaning that wasn't there. But now he's beginning to understand that the boy's affection for him can be useful, in the same way that Etta's was, or Vivacia's. He needs it to be useful, so he can justify why he keeps letting it happen.

Charlie seems to sear his palms, it's extraordinary the way this heats him. This, this is what Nuwanda is like, and Kennit lets him nip, lets him push, because it's a reward for being so thoroughly manipulated. He is quite certain that at swordpractice tomorrow Nuwanda will be the best he can be; and the day after that, and the day after that. No more complaints. And no more talk of Knox.

Nevertheless, Nuwanda is all muted sound and fury, and Kennit is tired. Perhaps he should have left this for another night and told a quieter story instead, lest that spark burn out too soon. For a moment they are both quiet, and then Kennit digs his fingers into the sore muscles of Nuwanda's side a little too deliberately, and moves him so Kennit can slide a little further down the couch. He has a vague urge to do it again, for no reason at all, so he does, flat-palmed bruising pushes as he waits for the wince. The thrill of power is a delicious wake-up call, and he stares, wondering how far he dare to go.

He's guessed enough already, from the hints and the secrets and the rage that flared in Charlie as Kennit had told the story - the same empathic rage that had flared in Kennit when he had lived it. "Tell me about your father," he says. It is not a question, not a suggestion for a story. "Would you have had me dispose of him, too?"

The Captain will be waiting for a long time, because he doesn't wince. Maybe he wants to, maybe there's a very slight huff of breath, but he's going to put his high pain threshold to work. Charlie just quirks an eyebrow and shifts easily, still not ready to give up this position. "I would have done it myself," he says, and there is absolutely nothing in his tone or on his face to suggest he's putting on a show. Because at the end of the day, when he's this manic and pained, there is no show. "You could have helped," Charlie adds quickly, and he means that, too.

"Take Kyle Haven, add in every other horrible person in the world, and you get Charles Dalton." He pauses before backtracking a little to add, in the most reverent and obliging tone he can muster, "The third." He hates that they have the same name, hates it when Cordelia refuses to at least call him Charlie. She has no idea what that name holds for him. It isn't his own.

"He thought I wouldn't fight back," Charlie says with just a hint of bitterness, starting to get on a roll. "His mistake, letting me sign up for boxing. And soccer, and rowing. And anything that made me feel good, because I figured it out." He taps his head with one finger, a small smile on his face. "Every other guy put up with their fathers' bullshit. I wasn't going to lay down and take it. No fucking way. Fighting didn't stop him - actually, it made it worse." Charlie is quiet for a moment, clicking his teeth idly and tracing one hand up and down Kennit's side. He's probably seen the scars. It's best to not mention them.

The momentary lapse is just that, however: only a moment. Then everything courses through him again, and that devil's grin is back, sliding his other hand into the Captain's hair. "He beat the shit out of me," Charlie says. "Probably my mother, too. He made me go to Welton. He never approved of Knox or Neil. He wanted me to be a banker. He was an all-around bastard, but I fought back, and I showed him." He brings his face close to Kennit's in the silence that follows, lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I showed him that he couldn't fucking control me. No one can, unless I want them to." And that is that. Charlie is sure that this isn't anything the Captain hasn't heard before, but he just stares him dead in the eye and waits.

Everything he does, Nuwanda can take it just a little bit further. Kennit pushes him, he pushes back. Kennit waxes lyrical and Nuwanda's inspiration shines in his eyes. Kennit asks the hard questions and Nuwanda answers them, right into his personal space. He's insane. Kennit likes it.

Kennit grins, Nuwanda's words bringing back other submerged memories which normally trouble him only in sleep. Not real, not real he tells himself, but his eyes are dark with the same pain as Charlie. Despite that, perhaps because of it, he's not going to ask. Kennit assumes automatically that he is one of the privileged few Nuwanda wants to let control him (there have been other times, where Charlie wasn't quite so cocksure and openly angry, when Kennit wouldn’t even need to think about the remark.) Even if- well, he's a pirate after all, ocean and rage in his blood, and clocking all the landtime in the world won't change that. Captain Kennit Lucluck takes what he wants, and what he always seems to want are things he can't control. Etta's wild love that meant nothing when he commanded her, Wintrow's spitting in his face even when he lay beaten like a dog, Vivacia's sail's curling in the wind, turning though he ordered her straight ahead. Althea Vestrit, murmuring her lover's name in her poppy-fuelled sleep.

He strikes like a cobra, pressing his lips against Nuwanda's furiously, dragging his mouth open, his hands going to his shoulders and holding him in place. It was this or hit Charlie, and he wouldn't have lain down and taken it. No fucking way. Instead Kennit presses them together, the way Charlie curves into him getting too damn familiar for his liking. He gives a wet lick along Charlie's ear. "No-one can," he agrees, his bite the snap of sails in the wind, his hands touching scattered poetry over his chest, under his shirt. "So who do you want to, Nuwanda?" He whispers the name like tar.

A thousand names flash through Charlie's head, quick as lightning. He sifts through them, weeding out the obvious ones. Knox, no, he made Knox. It's completely the other way around. Their control issues are easier to figure out. Give and take, give and take, and now he has to force his brain to get away from Knox, focus on who he's actually with. Neil, maybe, occasionally, just for the hell of it, but those pipe dreams do him no good here. Spitfire, possibly, but he's too nice, not direct, Charlie's not direct, no one here is direct, no one save the Captain. His thoughts are starting to venture into fractured words with the occasional line of poetry, so he cuts it off, cuts it all off. Charlie laughs (a little low in his throat, a little madder than usual) while he drags his teeth along the Captain's neck, over his Adam's apple, and finally speaks. "No one," he echoes hoarsely. And that's the truth.

Well. Partly the truth. Power games are Charlie's favorite, part of some sort of sick inbred fascination that he's always had. Right here and right now, the answer is as far from no one as it gets, but admitting that would take away all the fun. He'll fight it. Instead, he runs his tongue along the Captain's teeth. "I am the master of my fate," Charlie recites, his fingers wound perhaps a bit too tightly in the man's hair. And then, jerking his head just enough so that the words can be intelligible yet still swallowed up, "I am the captain of my soul." He opens his eyes and locks on. Your move, Captain.

Kennit knows this game, but the answer still elicits a reaction; for a moment he is strangely comforted and then possessive desire kicks in, flooding his veins like adrenaline. He pushes Nuwanda away just to see his face clearly and the challenge written on it before following swiftly, re-tangling their tongues. His mind is racing, trying to place the quote; he doesn't think he knows it. He'll have to google it later. He can't come up with one to match it. No matter.

Right now he's just trying to stop Nuwanda thinking, capable hands sliding slowly and surely up the sides of his legs, holding their gazes firmly, biting at the boy's lip; and he is the first to draw blood, the coppery taste of it awaking something deep and dragon in him, leftover from strange dreams. He trails reddened lips along the line of Nuwanda's jaw, tongue darting out to lap at the hollow below his ear and it's not quite virility paint, but one works with what one has to hand.

"I don't think so," Kennit pants, his breath gentle on wet skin. He knows, but he still wants to hear it, but he doesn't have to hear it, because he knows - his thoughts are swirling incoherently, more cycles. One stands out amongst the rest, though; Nuwanda can quote his eerily apt lines as much as he wants, but not all poetry is words.