malevolence lay on this voyage. He could feel himself surrendering to it, growing listless, reckless, and this last blow had left him reeling. He had not thought it was possible to hate Walker more, but this ... it was unspeakable.
He risked glancing up, meaning to say so, and caught Kenyon's eyes. They were full of fire and fury, hotter by far than his words, and the look of implacable anger made Josh's heart stall in delight. Such beautiful eyes! So fluid, so expressive, so very green in the gold of the lantern.
Control yourself! He should certainly not be leaning forward, gape-mouthed and entranced. Kenyon might notice. He might notice and understand. Then ... then it could be Josh, hanging by his neck from the yard arm, slowly choking to death.
"The shirt is not the only thing in ruins." Josh's voice sounded unnaturally loud to himself. Walker had stepped over the line, and now he was just a little too angry to keep his mouth shut. "By God, sir, you might be his latest victim, but you are not his first—you've seen how he treats the men."
"They cannot appease him," Kenyon agreed and tried to lean down to mop the bloodstain away. His hiss of pain was soft and lay unacknowledged between them, for it was a mark of how far their friendship had come that he let himself flinch at all—a human weakness he would not have shown to another soul on board. "They run about furiously to look active but achieve nothing. I believe he's afraid of them. But the more he tries to grind them down, the more just cause he has to be afraid."
He's afraid ? Josh had never thought of it like that. He had imagined Walker merely loved the power. But if he was only a small, terrified man trying to protect himself from those he believed were stronger than him, did he then deserve pity? No, I think not.
Kenyon shuffled gingerly forward to the edge of his cot and braced himself to slip off, so that he could kneel and clean the floor without bending. The movement took him from deep shadow into lamplight, baring his shirtless skin to Josh's rapt gaze. Mother of God! Such arms he had, pale and strong, the yellow light pooling in their curves. His long neck and flanks and chest were sleek as cream and scarcely scarred. And his back, the elegant curve of spine brutally cut from waist to shoulders, swollen, bruised, and oozing blood.
Josh made a noise, clapped his hands over his mouth to stifle it, and cursed his vivid imagination. It had chosen that moment to replay to him the scene of punishment on deck; the beautiful young man tied to the grating, the lash, Kenyon's frown of pained concentration, the grunts of impact and the small, involuntary gasps of his breathing.
I was appalled, I was! Oh Mary and Joseph! Why must I be such a monster?
"Are you quite well?" Kenyon looked up with terrible innocence. Oblivious.
"Just feel ... a little sick." Josh drained his wineglass, filled it up again and drank half down before he felt collected enough to go on. "It looks painful. For all love, sir, lie down. I'll swab the floor."
The lieutenant retreated, easing himself down to lie on his stomach with his head propped on one arm. That was better, for now only his amused expression met the light, and even that was half-hidden behind the veil of his long, dark hair. "I made the mess; I should clean it," he said. Josh's mother had had a similar saying, and the familiarity of it was a balm after that rush of paralyzing lust. Affection was safer.
"I know my place," he said, smiling and had begun to relax over scouring the stain away, when the treacherous voice in his head added, On my knees for you. He choked again and scrambled back to his bottle. It was a difficult game he played with the wine—he needed it to knock himself out so that he neither lay awake listening to Kenyon breathing nor ran the risk of speaking out of his extraordinarily vivid dreams. But he paid in evenings of lowered inhibitions, the mortal dread of exposure, and lately a growing suicidal wish
He risked glancing up, meaning to say so, and caught Kenyon's eyes. They were full of fire and fury, hotter by far than his words, and the look of implacable anger made Josh's heart stall in delight. Such beautiful eyes! So fluid, so expressive, so very green in the gold of the lantern.
Control yourself! He should certainly not be leaning forward, gape-mouthed and entranced. Kenyon might notice. He might notice and understand. Then ... then it could be Josh, hanging by his neck from the yard arm, slowly choking to death.
"The shirt is not the only thing in ruins." Josh's voice sounded unnaturally loud to himself. Walker had stepped over the line, and now he was just a little too angry to keep his mouth shut. "By God, sir, you might be his latest victim, but you are not his first—you've seen how he treats the men."
"They cannot appease him," Kenyon agreed and tried to lean down to mop the bloodstain away. His hiss of pain was soft and lay unacknowledged between them, for it was a mark of how far their friendship had come that he let himself flinch at all—a human weakness he would not have shown to another soul on board. "They run about furiously to look active but achieve nothing. I believe he's afraid of them. But the more he tries to grind them down, the more just cause he has to be afraid."
He's afraid ? Josh had never thought of it like that. He had imagined Walker merely loved the power. But if he was only a small, terrified man trying to protect himself from those he believed were stronger than him, did he then deserve pity? No, I think not.
Kenyon shuffled gingerly forward to the edge of his cot and braced himself to slip off, so that he could kneel and clean the floor without bending. The movement took him from deep shadow into lamplight, baring his shirtless skin to Josh's rapt gaze. Mother of God! Such arms he had, pale and strong, the yellow light pooling in their curves. His long neck and flanks and chest were sleek as cream and scarcely scarred. And his back, the elegant curve of spine brutally cut from waist to shoulders, swollen, bruised, and oozing blood.
Josh made a noise, clapped his hands over his mouth to stifle it, and cursed his vivid imagination. It had chosen that moment to replay to him the scene of punishment on deck; the beautiful young man tied to the grating, the lash, Kenyon's frown of pained concentration, the grunts of impact and the small, involuntary gasps of his breathing.
I was appalled, I was! Oh Mary and Joseph! Why must I be such a monster?
"Are you quite well?" Kenyon looked up with terrible innocence. Oblivious.
"Just feel ... a little sick." Josh drained his wineglass, filled it up again and drank half down before he felt collected enough to go on. "It looks painful. For all love, sir, lie down. I'll swab the floor."
The lieutenant retreated, easing himself down to lie on his stomach with his head propped on one arm. That was better, for now only his amused expression met the light, and even that was half-hidden behind the veil of his long, dark hair. "I made the mess; I should clean it," he said. Josh's mother had had a similar saying, and the familiarity of it was a balm after that rush of paralyzing lust. Affection was safer.
"I know my place," he said, smiling and had begun to relax over scouring the stain away, when the treacherous voice in his head added, On my knees for you. He choked again and scrambled back to his bottle. It was a difficult game he played with the wine—he needed it to knock himself out so that he neither lay awake listening to Kenyon breathing nor ran the risk of speaking out of his extraordinarily vivid dreams. But he paid in evenings of lowered inhibitions, the mortal dread of exposure, and lately a growing suicidal wish
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