Most men wait until they've been at sea for several weeks before looking for women in their bunk mates - for soft lips, or fine hands, or long curling lashes, and a nice round bottom beneath the blue breeches of the men they work beside. There are some who don't look at all, but stare stonily out at the water and whisper their wives' and mistress' names, grunting grim and solitary until they reach their release alone. And those as do look for comfort in the hands of a friend don't ever kiss or lay beside one another after. Whatever happens in the cramped dark confines of the hull ends when land's in sight, and not even the slightest murmur of it passes over sailor's lips when they've women on hand.
That's the way of it, the way it's always been, but Joe can't care anymore. It's been three long sea voyages he's worked beside Will, and felt the touch of his big, sure hands, and even on land he lies in his still bed and burns for it.
When they set sail from Portsmouth, Joe's wife sees him off from the docks, watching as they shove off. Joe waves back, standing so closely beside Will that their shoulders brush, and he feels the heat coming off Will's body. He's happier than he's been in months, and what he wants to do is to press Will down onto the deck and use his hands on Will until he cries out and comes. His fingertips ache, wanting the feel of Will's skin.
Joe's never wanted anyone like this in his life - no woman, and no man, just Will. Will, who has a shy smile and a deep, husky voice, and whose mouth is wide, wet, warm and strong. He kisses Joe as though he needs to, and he's beautiful, Joe thinks, there's simply no other word for it. Sometimes when wind whips Will's curls across his brow and he looks at Joe, it's as though Joe's being tossed by rough waters - his knees buckle, and he has to hold tight to whatever's nearby to keep from falling.
Joe likes his wife well enough, and that's more than most marriages have, he knows. Love's a luxury for the rich and a trap for the foolish, but Joe's beginning to think that maybe here on the open water the rules are different. They must be, because when Joe's with Will he's different, and better, and it's as though everything's fallen into place to put them right where they are, doing exactly what they're doing, no matter what that is - mending sails, singing, listening to the tales of men who've been sailing longer than they've been alive, or biting kisses onto one another's skin in the dark.
They're only two weeks out still, and at night Joe listens to the quickening of Will's breath as he takes his ease alone, one hammock over. There's just enough light that he can see Will's hands moving, his neck arching up, his tongue sweeping out over his red lips.
"Joe," Will whispers, and his eyes snap up to find Will watching him, eyes half-slitted. "Joe," Will exhales again, body stretched taut, and all of Joe's patience washes away as Will breathes in choppy pants. When Will reaches out for him, Joe lets himself be pulled into Will's hammock, where Will's broad, clever hands flip open his britches and bring him to orgasm quickly. He gasps into Will's mouth, and this, this is perfect, Joe thinks, as he shudders over and over again.
After, he stays there, lying beside Will like they are man and wife. He rubs his nose against Will's cheek, and chuckles when Will nips at his chin.
"I've missed you," Will murmurs, and Joe can only nod before his eyes drift shut, and he sleeps.