Jack stands at the stern, one ringed hand on the taffrail, watching the pale buildings of Port Royal shrink and disappear into the distance. He closes his eyes, and feels the sweet sharp wind lift his hair about his face. Feels. Feels.

So many years it has been—ten long years. And now he's back in the living fleshly world, back where he can feel the wind on his face, and smell the salt spray, and taste... why, anything and everything that takes his fancy. The curse has been upon him for so long, and for so long, he has been half a man and less. And yet, the loneliness has almost been worse than the curse itself. Never to reveal himself... never to let anyone close, lest they guess his unimaginable secret. To pretend, and pretend, and pretend...

No more pretence. Now, life calls. Freedom calls, and the Pearl carries him to it.

"Captain?"

Jack turns, and sees Gibbs behind him. He flashes him a gold-laced smile. "My good First Mate! What remarkable timing you have, Mr Gibbs. Quite utterly against the Code, but my eternal thanks regardless. There's me, running a little short on escape plans, and then I glimpse Mr Cotton's parrot, and realise there's a perfectly wonderful plan just waiting for me. Can't tell you how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

Gibbs returns Jack's smile. "Our pleasure, Captain. What course would you like us to set?"

Jack makes a moue, and waves out to sea. "Oh, that way; any way that takes us toward the horizon, and away from this wretched place. Mr Gibbs, I must confess to a powerful hunger. Feeding a man who's going to be dead soon anyway appears to be of rather minor concern to the garrison of Port Royal, so, what have you got?"

Truth is, ever since the lifting of the curse, Jack has known hunger again, a hunger such as never before. For ten years, he has eaten only out of a sense of duty to his body, or to help pass his way in society; for food has had no taste to him, and there has been no slaking his hunger. But worse truth is that, ever since the lifting of the curse, he has been presented only with vilest prison food, thin gruels, weevilly bread, or half-rotten fruit. Other prisoners were amazed at his desire even for this sad fare... at the thought of what real food could be like, Jack's mouth is filling with saliva, and he can hear ominous rumbles in his stomach. "Come, Mr Gibbs!" he cries. "What can the Quartermaster bring me? I'll be in the Great Cabin."

"We'll do our best, Captain!"

Jack takes a last look at the receding island, closes his eyes again and takes a deep, deep draught of the clean salty air down into his lungs. Alive, and free. What a thing to be. He shakes his head, like a dog shaking off water, and makes his way down to the Great Cabin. His cabin.

Ten minutes later, AnaMaria arrives, bearing a tray. Jack looks up from his seat at the table, which is spread with maps, and feels his nostrils flaring in anticipation. This is food. AnaMaria places a pewter plate in front of him, piled high with thick salty slices of ham, rich red tomato halves, and a good wedge of cheese, and follows it with a bowl of bread, and a tankard of ale. "Here you go, Captain..." She pauses, comes round beside him, looking at the maps, and the pencil lines Jack has traced across them. "Where are we bound? Are we to look for..." a smile plays around her lips and her eyes are dancing with mischief. "...benefactors?"

Jack barely hears her. He's staring at the food. A river of saliva runs inside his mouth. "What? Oh, I... I'm making a plan. Off with you now. Go on, go! Go go go!" His voice is rising as she makes a face at his back and retreats from the cabin, taking care to close the door hard.

Jack reaches out a trembling hand and strokes the taut red skin of a tomato. He picks it up gingerly, concentrating on the cool, wet feel of the fruit, and brings it close to his lips. He closes his eyes and inhales. Ah, yes... yes... When he puts out his tongue, and gently licks its rubicund flesh, explosions of taste skitter round his mouth, and he suddenly crams it in, chewing and grunting, rolling his eyes behind his closed lids. Juice runs down his chin and into his beard. He swallows, and opens his eyes wide. Oh yes, this is food, and it's good. He spears a chunk of ham with his knife, taking a huge bite. "Ana!" he roars suddenly. "Ana!"

A clatter of footsteps, and the door opens to show inquisitive eyes. "Captain?"

"More," sighs Jack. "More. And rum."

"Yes, Captain!"

Late afternoon sun slants through the mullioned windows of the Great Cabin when Jack awakes from his food (and drink) induced stupor. He lies with half closed eyes, enjoying the movement of the ship, its familiar creaks and groans and the muffled shouts of the crew. Enjoying the feel of the sheets on his cot, and the smell of—lord, what is that smell? Jack sniffs experimentally and realises that unfortunately it appears to be emanating from his good self. Prison, he reflects, will do that to a man, even when that man is Captain Jack Sparrow. Still, he has had a good long bathe in the ocean on the way to the ship—it's probably his filth-crusted clothes.

He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot, and experiences a sudden moment of light headed confusion. Oh! He's only had that tankard of beer, and a couple of glasses of rum, but he certainly can't drink the way he could when he was... the way he was. A smile twists over his lips. The good news is, there's no need to pretend to be drunk ever again—he can truly become drunk, drunk on everything.

Jack undoes the flamboyant sash from around his waist, peels off his salt-crusted vest and shirt, hauls off his stiffened boots and drops his breeches, leaving them all in a pile on the floor. Mischievously, he saunters over to the door, hammers on it, and cries, "Ana! Oh AnaMareeeeea! I have something for you!"

When Ana comes to the door, Jack opens it only a crack. She can see little, beyond a dark eye, and glint of gold tooth, and a sliver of bronzed skin. He peers out, smiling. "Now, Ana, I hope you won't think me ungentlemanly, but..."

"Jack?"

Jack slowly opens the door, but moves round behind it as he does so, only revealing his head and one shoulder. "Darling, sweetheart, could you possibly find it in your heart to... find some young rapscallion on board who wouldn't mind a spot of, well, dare I say it, for I know it's less than typical a request from one as relentlessly piratical as I, but here it is, a spot of... washing?"

AnaMaria sees the pile of discarded clothes on the floor and can't but smile. Jack Sparrow likes to swagger with the worst, but at heart, he has his own strange standards. "Your clothes sir? Or... yourself?"

"AnaMaria!" Jack puts his hand over his heart in mock outrage. "Are you suggesting I'm not entirely clean? I assure you that I'm probably quite the cleanest man on this boat."

"Aye, well, that's as may be," she mutters, as she picks up the pile of clothes. "Filthy dogs and proud of their dirt, every one." She turns to leave, tipping her head to the side, the better to see behind the door, laughter playing on her face at Jack's clowning. "These'll be dry by nightfall Captain, I'll return them to you."

"Aye, see that you do!" Jack closes the door and smiles. He's lucky to have some good people in this crew. Odd, every man jack of them, but generally good.

He wanders over to the wide curved windows, enjoying the roll of the ship under his feet, and stands there, naked but for his jewels and bandanna. After a moment he begins to feel self consciously bare, so takes up his tricorn, and grunts in satisfaction at the feeling of protection it gives him.

Jack looks down at his chest, tracing scars that were put there long ago. He traces the branded "P" on his wrist, and the tattoos that are scattered up his arms. Feeling skin again, warm skin. Skin that can now be hurt, as it never could while he was under the curse—the one good thing that came of being undead. On the other hand, skin that can now be... he runs a hand down his chest, appreciating the beating of his heart, and down lower, appreciating the pulse of blood under his skin. Ahh yes, something very good to be reintroduced to. Perhaps—he almost calls AnaMaria back, before remembering the very ill things that come of shipboard messing about, particularly when one has no intention of making the arrangement a regular one. He sighs. Perhaps a stop in Tortuga or Petit Goave is called for?

Wait, a little voice tells him. Remember the difference between prison fare and the delight of today's repast. Find the right one, and this could be...

"Ah, yes, so it could," Jack murmurs to himself as his fingers stroke their way down his flanks. Just find the right one.

Half awake, half asleep, Jack lies on the cushioned seat below the windows, one arm behind his head, the other idly stroking patterns across his stomach, feet crossed at the ankles. His vivid imagination works through the long list of people that he knows, looking for the ideal elements that will make up the right one.

Eyes... dark, oh yes, dark, none of those cold blue eyes for him. Dark and burning, that can return the fervour of his own. And the mouth must have full and curving lips, that smile suddenly and light up the night with it. Good teeth, no traces of scurvied rot. Skin, skin matters. Must be goldy-smooth. And long legs, that can run fast, make fun of the chase. Slim waist, slim hips. And breasts that... In Jack's half sleep, an eyebrow rises quizzically. There is no vision of the breasts. Ah well, good to have some points of flexibility. He breathes deep and slow, trusting his strange and lively brain to bring him the right answer.

Suddenly, his eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright.

"Oh, for the love of God, no!" cries Jack. But there it is. The right one.

Best to do this quickly, thinks Jack. So that evening, as the "officers" of the Pearl sit around the table, finishing their evening repast with a rousing round of grog, Jack weaves unsteadily to his feet and raises his cup for silence. All eyes upon him, Jack gives what he hopes is a winning and inspiring smile.

"Good news, boys! And girl! I've a plan, and it's a good one. What we're going to do is, go back to Port Royal!"

The silence is utter. Jack continues to smile, fixedly. Finally, Gibbs clears his throat.

"Jack... Captain... why in the name of all that's free would we do that? There's no place in the Caribbean more guaranteed to give us a welcome warmer than hell's own!"

"Because... there is something there that I want," says Jack, through gritted teeth.

Puzzled glances are exchanged. "Do you mean, the treasure from Isla de Muerta?" Gibbs hazards. "'Od's bones, Jack, it's the most heavily guarded booty on the Main! Why would we risk the Pearl, and our lives, for such a fool's errand?" There are murmurs of agreement.

"No, no, no," says Jack testily. "Not that treasure. Not all treasure is silver and gold..."

AnaMaria slams her cup down on the table and cries, with an edge in her voice, "I know what he wants! He wants that pretty golden thing that brought us to all those troubles in the first place!"

Eyes turn to Jack. He sighs. "Well, alright, yes, you have me straight to rights, you're all terribly observant, please congratulate yourselves, so how about we all get up on deck and change our course, 'cause I can't do it on me onesies."

Gibbs stands, and takes Jack's arm, leading him to the corner of the cabin. "Now listen, Jack," he says in a low voice. "You know we're your men, and we're behind you all the way, but we can't possibly go back and take the Governor's daughter. Unless... perhaps you've a ransom in mind?"

Jack's face is a study in blankness. Finally he leans into Gibbs's ear, and hisses, "I don't want the Governor's daughter. Have you no ears on the sides of your head? I want the pretty golden thing... no, not her, the other pretty golden thing."

Gibbs stands back, folding his arms. "Oh ho, it's the boy you want? And may I ask"—a wicked grin spread over his face—"what you would want him for, Captain?"

Because I've been undead, unslaked, unrelieved for ten years and I refuse to take anything but my true heart's desire to break the drought. "Because he makes good swords," says the Captain sulkily.

Gibbs is still smiling. "Aye, he does, I hear. But what you've not told me, Captain, is... whether he wants to... make swords... for you? Which would seem to me to be the key question, unless you've changed your ways, and don't really care whether his will is in the doing of it. And us sailing back to Port Royal don't seem to me to be the best way of getting the answer to that question."

Under the gentle murmur of the First Mate's words, fog is clearing from Jack's mind, and he can feel a plan formulating. He raises his eyes to Gibbs's, and nods. "You're right, Mr Gibbs, there are far better ways to solve this little dilemma." He turns back to his foc's'le council. "Good news lads—well, hopefully better news than last time. We're going for some shore leave, I've been a-prison too long and the landlords are missing me! Set a course for Tortuga, if you please, Mr Gibbs, and let's do it fast—I've an urge to put this beautiful ship through her paces."

Will is polishing a blade when the door to the smithy creaks open. It is thoughtless, repetitive action which gives his mind room to wander, something that he needs more and more these days. These days which are themselves so endless and repetitive, almost the same as before. Before that strange interlude which haunts his memory now, with visions of blue seas, full white sails, swords flashing, black eyes and a gold smile glinting, fear sending power to every muscle in his body, the visceral joy which came with conquering...

"Will Turner?"

"That's me," Will says, turning from his daydreams to see a young boy standing in the doorway, holding an envelope.

"I have a letter here for you, sir."

"A...?" Will strides over and takes the envelope, giving the boy a coin and thanking him. The child turns to go, then turns back, saying, "Sir, if there's a reply, I'm to take it today."

"What? Oh, very well, wait outside, will you?"

As the door closes behind the boy, Will breaks the seal on the envelope and draws out the paper. Something else falls to the floor, and Will slowly bends to pick it up... a long taper of bone. Will freezes, finds himself not even breathing. That... belongs to Jack. With trembling hands, he unfolds the paper.

Why, hello, Mr Turner, begins the letter, in an impossibly florid hand, and an odd shade of green ink.

I trust this letter finds you well and none the worse for our incounter?

I find myself unexpectedly in need of your services, some of wich simply cannot be fulfilled by my good crew. These services may vary, I shood warn you, and if there are elements of a piratical life in wich you do not feel you could partake, I shood understand.

If however this letter finds you at shall we say an opportune moment perhaps you could come and discus this matter with my good self. Sadly I am not welcome at your current port of call, so shall await your reply at the Three Crowns inn, Tortuga.

Always at your service,
Captain Jack Sparrow.

Will's hands shake as he reads the letter. He can't help but smile at the entire thing—the mocking tone, the terrible spelling, the green ink... he can almost hear Jack's voice as he reads and re-reads it. But what does it mean? What services? Does he need a sword? A sword-arm? For how long?

But does it matter? For the simple fact is that at that moment, Will can think of nothing—nothing—that he wants more than to leave this place, to run to the Pearl, to feel the sea again, and the freedom of being his own man. With a pang, he thinks of Elizabeth. But surely she would understand? If it's only a few weeks, and if Jack needs him? Does Will not owe him this much?

A timid knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. It's the boy again. "Sir? Have you a reply? Only, I need to get back to me father's ship, we're headin' back to Tortuga, and if you've a reply, I must take it now, sir."

Jack is woken from his sleep—face down on a table at the Three Crowns—by a rough shake to his shoulder. "Captain!" It's Gibbs. "The rum-runner's ship is putting into port. The one you sent the message by. And not too soon either, your crew are tired of this town," he mutters.

"What?" Jack struggles to focus, and as the words sink in, he feels a rush of nervous energy. "Right, right, well, might as well go on down there and see if the boy..." He trails off. "Right, right... Mr Gibbs, my hat if you please, why thank you, let us away."

It's a bright noon, and, walking along the dusty waterfront to the dock, Jack squints across the water to the approaching ship. He reaches into a pocket of his frock coat, then runs a blackened finger under his eyes to lessen the glare. Still can't see. Finally he pulls out a small spyglass as he strides along, training it on the ship. "Ah ha!" he exclaims to himself, as he spots the child to whom he'd entrusted his missive. "Good news, Jack... now you can settle this for yourself one way or another..." He puts away his glass and picks up his pace.

By the time he reaches the dock, the ship is unloading, tied up next to the Pearl. Jack winds his way along the wharf, past barrels, shouting sailors, and what passes, in Tortuga, for customs men. And then stops short. For he sees the messenger boy, and behind him... oh, behind him! And the beaming smile that covers Will's face when he spots Jack!

"Damnitall, Mr Gibbs, don't tell me we doesn't know the answer to this key question!" mutters Jack to himself, and he grins wide and wicked, opening his arms to his friend.

"Boy! What in the name of Hades could you be doing in these parts?"

Later that night, Jack sits up on the bow, taking bowsprit watch. The moon is full, and pale phosphorescence drifts across the rippled surface of the ocean, tracing the lazy tracks of porpoises. Jack inches forward, on his belly, along the bowsprit. Down below, he can hear the crew laughing, the clink of glasses and pewter, the rattle of dice. Occasionally, he fancies he can hear the blacksmith's voice. What's a man to do?

Jack lets his mind drift back to the wharf. He'd pulled the boy to him, slapping him on the back in greeting, and felt like the world stopped its turning as Will's ear came in contact with his own. The heat, the smoky burnt smell of his skin. When Will put an arm round him, too (hesitantly?) he'd had to pull suddenly away, because for the first time in ten years, the heat in his heart had shot down to his groin and made its presence felt... at the memory, Jack groans, and bites his hand.

"Jack? Are you alright? What are you doing there?"

Jack turns his head, trinkets clinking, and sees Will standing behind him.

Jack's face is unreadable in the moonlight, but the glinting of his gold teeth reveals his smile. "Why, of course I'm alright, I'm on the Pearl, aren't I? And you also?" He shimmies backwards off the bowsprit and Will looks quickly away, his heart thumping, as he catches himself watching the slight curves of Jack's body. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But so hard to avoid when Jack is right there, inches away from him, oddly too close as always. "And are you enjoying yourself, boy? Have you found the rum?"

At this, Will's lips twitch into a smile. "Well, I've done better than that, I've found it, and I've brought it to you, as Mr Gibbs suggested."

"Oh, did he indeed? And why do we think that might be?" enquires Jack, taking the proffered bottle, and drinking deeply, without taking his eyes from Will's.

"He said you might like to take the time to talk to me about the services you need from me. And I do agree, it's about time you elaborated on your rather... vague! message... oh, no Jack, I don't want any—"

"What? What!" Jack thrusts the bottle at Will's chest, briefly enjoying the contact of his fingers against the firm wall of muscle. "Be a pirate, boy!"

"No, truly Jack, I don't usually—"

"What? Usually go to sea on a whim? Usually run away from your fiance? Usually disobey the law of the land, and risk your life to save a pirate? Far as I can tell, "usually" covers a fair bit of ground for you, young William. Don't see why it can't cover obeying your Captain's orders and joining him in a drink!"

"But..." Will sees the glint in Jack's eyes, the determined tilt of his head, and wonders why he's arguing. "Oh, alright, let's celebrate!"

Mercurial as ever, Jack's face has gone crafty, suspicious. "Celebrate what, mate?"

Will is non-plussed. "Why... this... doing things on a whim. Mateship. Following your instincts instead of the rules of—of engagement." The double meaning, covering the times he has crossed swords with Jack, and the strange state between Elizabeth and himself, sends an odd frisson down his spine and he takes the bottle from Jack's warm hand, taking a great swallow. Oh, it burns! He splutters and coughs and Jack laughs merrily.

At the end of the bottle, Will's head is spinning slightly, but the warmth running through him and the liberating joy he feels at being here, on this ship, more than compensate. He and Jack are sprawled together, their backs to the bow, their stomach muscles weak from laughter. Will is having the time of his life, but, he realises vaguely, he still has no idea why Jack summoned him. Does it matter, when he's sitting right here, his shoulder touching Will's, singing? Isn't this enough? It is.. and yet, it isn't.

"Jack... Jack, truly now, hush, stop singing, and tell me, what did you need me for? How can I help you?"

Jack falls silent and stares up into the rigging, the dark flapping sheets. "There's a long story there, young William, and I'm not sure if I've drunk enough to tell it... go and get us another, will you mate?"

"No, go on Jack, I'm listening, I don't mind how long the story is, tell me, we have all night if need be!" He turns to his right, tries to give Jack a reassuring smile, and starts slightly to see the pirate's face already turned to his, so close he can almost... yes, he can feel Jack's hot, spicy breath. Jack's grin is devilish and almost frightens him as he mutters, voice like gravel, "Yes, I suppose we do, don't we?"

"Well, yes, quite, so go ahead, tell me the story."

"Alright, since you ask... but which version do you want?"

"Why, the true, the real, the right version, of course."

"And are you sure on that? Because I must tell you..." Jack's voice drops to a hoarse whisper. "... it's not a nice story."

Will's heart is pounding, but he is resolute. "I've seen a few things in the last month or so that aren't nice things, Jack. I think that a man who's seen piracy, murder, hangings, curses, and people who turn to decaying skeletons in the moonlight, can take a nasty story."

"Well, ain't it funny you should bring that up, Will. For that's the crux of it." Jack puts down the empty rum bottle, and reaches over, and puts his hand on Will's thigh. Both men show no reaction to the touch. Both men are lying. "See this hand? And the moon shines on it, and it's still skin and flesh and blood and bone and everything else it should be?"

"Aye, I see," says Will, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. "And I saw it when it wasn't so."

"You did, you did. And yet, we haven't... spoken of it, have we?"

"No. Have you... have you spoken to anyone about it, Jack?"

A short laugh, and the tinkle of shaking beads. "No, you're my lucky number one. So there's a service you're doing me, eh? And the fact of it is, it wasn't... easy, being that way. I had to watch meself. Which I did well, and there was not one single soul as knew the state of me. The outside state, can be hidden by avoiding the moonlight. Not such a trick, when you learn to like the darkness of a tavern, or the solitude of a boat all to yourself. But the inside of it... ahh, there's another story."

Jack pauses, sighs and pats Will's leg. "Are you quite sure about the other bottle idea, dear boy?"

Will is suddenly feeling quite against anything that will require his movement, away from the warmth of Jack, and Jack's hand. The thought of all that Jack has been through is pulling at his heart, which is a soft and sympathetic organ at the best of times, and is even more so under the twin ministrations of rum and Jack's voice. "Go on, go on..."

"Inside, I was as dead as me hand in the moonlight. I could feel nothing, taste nothing, smell nothing..." Jack leans his head back on the bow, taking a deep breath. "Sea air, now...' he murmurs, but the reality of it is that he is breathing in Will, so close to him. He shakes his head, doglike. "Where's the point of eating ash? Of drinking down nothingness? Of touching a body that might as well be smoke, that cannot touch me back?" He presses down, lightly but with intent, on Will's thigh.

"Oh," says Will, thinking of Jack touching a body, and trying to stop his leg from pressing up against Jack's hand, and wondering why it would want to do such a thing?

Suddenly Jack leaps to a crouch, spinning round to face him. His eyes are wide, his grin wider, the shadows and hollows of his face are chiaroscuro in the moonlight, as the breeze lifts his hair around his head in a coarse black halo. "But now! Now, William! Now, I'm born all over again! Come, come with me." He grabs Will's wrist, and pulls him up. The empty bottle clatters to the deck and rolls, clanking hollowly, with the motion of the ship, as Jack and Will make their way down to the Great Cabin.

The cabin is dark, save for moonlight, and Jack lights first one lantern, then another. They hang from the low ceiling of the cabin, swaying as the Pearl sways. Will sways too, whether from the ship's movement, or the rum, he doesn't know. What is he doing here? He shouldn't have come here, everything is telling him. Everything except his heart... and his gut.

"Sit, sit," says Jack, patting the seat beside him, under the tiny panes of the stern window, beneath which Will can hear (and feel, when he sits) the ocean slapping the ship. The lanterns flicker and cast strange shadows on their faces, their skin made gold and bronze in the candlelight. Silence for a moment or two as they watch each other, one warily, the other thoughtfully, and then Jack breaks it.

"The thing is, Mr Turner, I've been given a gift, ain't I?"

"A gift?"

"Oh, aye, a great gift. It's a chance to do everything for the first time... for the second time, if you get my drift. You'll find that ten years more or less wipes a body's memory of whatever it may have felt in the past."

"It does?" Will feels like no time could ever, ever erase the warmth rising through him as he sits here, so quiet and close to Jack, watching the strange beauty of his face, the odd work of art that is his way of presenting himself to the world.

"It does," says Jack quietly, his black eyes boring into Will's. "And... after my little sojourn at His Majesty's pleasure, I've decided that all the new first times are going to be the best I can make them."

Will gives an involuntary shiver. Jack's words are not giving him a clear indication of what he means, but Jack's eyes are speaking to him, calling him... Will feels a heat and intention coming off Jack, and it fits so snugly and closely against the mysterious stirrings deep inside him, but for all that, Will can't quite enunciate to himself what they mean... although... surely, surely they can't mean that? Will doesn't even know what that would mean. He is too afraid, both of the potential embarrassment of being wrong, and the dark fear of being right, to ask. What if Jack... wants him? What if that means that what he is feeling is.. desire for Jack? He waits for Jack to speak, but the pirate is silent, his eyes devouring Will's face.

"Well," Will says slowly, his voice sounding thick and strange, "how can I help you with that?"

"So you would help me?"

"I—of course I would, Jack." Now, surely, he will make himself plain to me.

But no. "So tell me, Will... what would you do for me?"

This time the silence goes on for at least a minute. The two men sit, their eyes locked, their hearts beating hard. Jack will not make the first clear move. How could it be the perfect thing he craves, if it is not crying out to Will's flesh the way it is to his own?

At last, Will slowly opens his mouth. Jack's gut twitches and churns at the shape of that perfect mouth and the darkness he can glimpse inside it. And he closes it again. And opens it, and says, "I would... I will... do anything for you, Jack. Anything at all."

Leaning forwards, he reaches out and puts a hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack lets out a low breath and leans toward him. Will feels drawn, sucked closer to him, and the closer he gets, the more afraid he becomes, till he can feel the heat of Jack's face on his own, and Jack's breath on his mouth, and their eyes are just inches apart, Jack's filled with fierce joy, and Will's with fear and longing combined, as he realises that his deepest instincts were right. They are so close that Will can feel Jack's whiskers as he whispers, "Anything at all... well, how about this for a start?" and, his black eyes still boring into Will's, kisses him.

Will's eyes snap shut and he hears a small sound escape from his throat, because this kiss is... it's melting him, running through him like flying embers, and he can't believe how soft and hot and insistent Jack's lips are. That they are so beautiful, not just to look at, but to touch. How can it be like this, to kiss a man? This doesn't feel wrong in any way, this feels like the best thing that has ever been done to him. Jack tilts his head, never breaking away from the kiss, watching Will's reaction, and the excitement is building to a fever in him as he feels Will kissing him back. Jack cautiously slides the tip of his tongue between his lips, parting Will's own, and there is no resistance. In fact, the boy's mouth opens pliantly, hotly, allowing Jack to explore. Will feels like he is in a dream... the taste of rum, and gold, and the smell of Jack's skin... and then it's gone.

"Ohh," breathes Will into the aching void, his eyes still shut. Jack is inches away from him, his face flickering between lust and mischief. "Open your eyes," he commands. Will does so. "Are you alright, boy?" Will nods, mute, his body taut and hot and thrumming like a plucked string. Finally he manages, "I didn't know... it could be like that."

Jack smiles a half smile. "I had a vague memory... but no, mate, it isn't always quite like that. Sadly."

"And... is this what you... are these the..." his heart quickens again at the thought of what he is saying, "the services you require from me?" There's naught but a cocked eyebrow in response. "Why, why me, Jack?"

"A hundred reasons that I know of, and doubtless a thousand more that I don't," says Jack, growing impatient, he can't talk now. "Hush now, hush, and..."

In one swift movement, he is on top of Will, straddling him where he sits, and kissing him again, harder this time, like a man who is losing his control. He devours Will's mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, pushing his hands through the boy's hair, pulling his face close, the better to possess him.

Will is fluctuating between glorious desire, and sudden flashes of fear and sobriety in which he realises he is, unresistingly, allowing himself to be ravished by a man (and a pirate to boot!) and is nearly drowned in a wave of guilt and revulsion at his own behaviour. But when Jack's hot fingers begin to trace their way down his neck, to his chest, sliding into his shirt, tracing electrically over his skin, all the confusion clears, and he knows with utter clarity that this—whatever this is—is what he wants, and must have.

Jack smiles into Will's mouth as he feels the younger man's response, the hands sliding up his back, pulling him close, and then bites his lip and grunts as Will moves to kiss his neck, wetly, sliding his tongue into the hollow at the base of Jack's throat. Jack's breath catches, for he cannot quite believe that this is so easy, and the boy's artless response is so unwavering and passionate— kissing the whelp has been like opening the hatch to face a hurricane. Jack's exploring hands under Will's shirt move up, over his deliciously muscular shoulders, but he can't reach more without ripping it. Tempting, but good cambric is hard to replace. He climbs off Will, backing into the table, pushing it backwards with a loud scrape of wood on wood. Will looks up at him in alarm.

"Jack? Jack, did I, I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?"

"No, God's blood, no, come here!" Jack pulls him to his feet and, smiling all the while, begins to remove Will's shirt. "Show me," he murmurs into Will's ear as he pulls the shirt from the back of his breeches. "Show me how beautiful you are." Will obediently lifts his arms and Jack pulls the shirt over his head, dropping it at their feet.

They stand silent for a moment, and Jack stares, mute for once, drinking in the beauty of the body before him. He can see the blood pulsing in the boy's throat, and touches his fingers to it, then trails them down across the curving, golden, hairless planes of Will's chest, across the hard rosy nipples, down the faint and delicate line of hair that begins under his rib cage and leads down to his navel, only to disappear into his breeches, where, to Jack's relief, there is a very clearly visible silhouette, straining to be freed. Jack lays his ear against the boy's heart, which is pounding, hears his deep rasping breaths.

"Jack, what do I... what do we...?"

"Hushhhh," murmurs Jack, and snakes a hand upwards as he listens, slipping his fingers into Will's mouth to silence him, and to feel its liquid inside. Will tastes salt and tar and Jack, and swallows hard as he feels the pirate begin to lick and kiss his way over his body, down his chest, to his navel, to... oh, Lord... but no, Jack veers off, creeping round behind him, mouth and hands never pausing in their ministrations. The kisses on Will's neck, down his back, tingle all down his spine in a glorious warm shivering trail, and he shudders. Jack rubs his face on Will's skin, like a cat, leaving trails of black kohl that mark his path, and Will's body seems to move of its own accord, his fists clenching, hips straining to find some purchase that will give him relief.

Jack seems to sense the movement, and, standing close behind Will, so that Will can feel every inch of Jack's own excitement, he slides his hands down, over those sharp hip bones, down into the dark warmth of Will's breeches. "Oh! Oh!" is all that Will can say, as Jack's hot fingers slide along the pulsing, aching length of him. He has to close his eyes, and leans back against Jack. Jack's tongue is as busy as his hands, tracing wet curlicues up the side of Will's neck, into his ear, and his long, wild hair swirls over Will's tingling skin as though it has a mind of its own. Will is floating, writhing, and just as he feels that he can't hang onto this glory for another moment, that he is going to fall off the edge, he is distracted by the sensation of his breeches falling to the floor, and the realisation that he is standing, naked and panting and erect, in the hands of a fully dressed Jack.

It strikes him that this is a very inequitable state of affairs.

To Jack's surprise, Will steps away from the embrace, and turns to face him. Ah, what a vision the boy is, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on his skin, his whole body pulsing with passionate blood! Jack reaches for him, but Will smiles and puts out a hand to stop him.

"Wait, wait, Jack...!"

"I've waited long enough, no more waiting!" growls Jack.

"Fair's fair, Jack!" cries Will, dancing out of his way. "You're not the only one who'd like to see skin." He climbs onto Jack's cot, and demands, "Take off your coat!"

Jack narrows his eyes, flashes a golden smile, and drops his coat to the floor.

"And your shirt!"

Very slowly, Jack pulls his shirt from his sash, and lifts it over his head. Will feels time slow down as Jack's body is revealed to him, bronzed, wiry, muscular, like a carving, so beautiful! He reaches out to touch, but now Jack steps back, says mockingly, "Thought you wanted to watch, mate?"

"...I do," says Will, throatily. And does, as Jack bends and pulls off his boots; fixes his eyes on Will's, and undoes his sash; pauses for an endless moment, and then lets his trousers fall. Watches Will's flushed face, and the teeth biting at his bottom lip. It's clear the boy has never seen a naked man in this state before, and Jack doesn't mind admitting to himself that as naked men go he's a rather arresting sight. He reaches down and hauls Will to his feet, pulls the boy to him, and lets the tingling contact of skin on skin do the talking.

Sweat breaks out on Will's upper lip as he comes into full contact with Jack, with the thumping hardness of his chest, and his taut stomach, and... oh, he can barely think on it... their shafts touch, slide, both silkier and harder than he could have imagined, had such a thing ever entered his head. Jack's mouth seeks out his own, a dark tongue plunges inside him, and Jack's hands slide down to his arse, pulling him closer and tighter. Will clutches Jack, thrusting against him, feeling the delight building in him, getting so close...

Jack breaks off his kiss, and mutters against Will's burning ear, "Oh, no, not like this... mate, you haven't come till you've come in Jack Sparrow's dark wicked mouth." But, oh! Just the picture of such a strange unthinkable thing lights a bursting fire in Will's gut and with a tremble and a cry, clutching on to Jack like a drowning man, he falls into the golden heat and comes against Jack's belly, waves of delight pulsing out of him.

Jack holds him tight as he shudders his way through, blasted by the sensation of Will's seed spurting against him, running into the crevices between their bodies, sliding down his cock with an exquisite delicacy. He is still faintly astonished by the strength of Will's passion, in the face of his obvious innocence in the ways of men, and delighted at the thought of how far he can take the boy from here; but these thoughts are only creeping round the edges of his main preoccupation, which is how he can find the same relief without scaring the life out of Will.

Will lifts his sweaty face to Jack's, and mutters, "I'm sorry... but, um... thank you..."

Jack slides a hand down between their bodies, lifts slick fingers back up to his mouth, and licks them languidly. Will's breath catches in his throat. Suddenly, head temporarily cleared of his own desperate need, he realises how much he wants to please Jack, to give Jack the same sensations. Stranger still, he wants not just to touch Jack, but to taste him, and he can't believe it, but words come out of his mouth and confirm it:

"Jack, I want... I mean, I don't know how to, really, but I want to... to do what you said... to you. I mean," and he buries his face against Jack's neck, his jawline, hiding his face as he mutters, "I want you in my mouth."

Jack, theatrical, throws his head back and mouths, "Thank you, God!" to the ceiling of the cabin. He pulls Will's delectable face from its hiding place against his throat, and kisses Will with abandon, thrusting against him to demonstrate his ardour, then mutters into Will's mouth, "You wondrous creature... shall we do this in comfort?" Will is nodding but Jack has not waited for a response and has thrown himself down on the bed. "Come here, lovely!" he growls.

Will's heart is hammering as he climbs onto the bed, between Jack's knees. Jack is the strangest, most beautiful thing he has ever seen. His hair spreads out in a wild tangle over the pillows, and his chest glints in the lantern-light, which catches the gleam of a gold tooth. Will runs his hands up Jack's legs, up to the concave curves of his belly, down to the curls of dark hair, feeling the wetness of his own liquid, and momentarily unsure what to do. He looks up questioningly at Jack, and Jack has a hot and curving smile playing about his lips. "Just do what feels good to you," says Jack, "'cause sweetheart, it all feels fan-fucking-tastic to me."

Will grins in return, and bends, and runs his tongue over Jack's slick stomach, tasting himself, salty and bitter. He cleans him like a cat, till he can taste Jack again, and then, taking his heart in his hands, licks a long, clean stroke up Jack's erection. He is gratified by the resulting twitch and groan, and suddenly loses his fear in the joy of pleasing. He bends to work in earnest, licking around the head of Jack's shaft, and finally opening his mouth wide and taking in as much as he can. Instinctively, he sucks hard, and feels Jack's hips lift off the bed, pushing into him. The pirate's hands are in his hair, loosening it from its queue, clutching at him as they begin to move together. Will looks up, and Jack's eyes are fixed on him.

Jack is momentarily stunned by the sight of those dark eyes, full of desire to please, and the strong golden shoulders, and the even more distracting sight of that wide, expressive mouth wrapped around him. Too much! First the sensation of Will's tongue, the hot liquid interior of his mouth—then, which is almost better, the mental picture that he, Jack Sparrow, has somehow (how?) made this beautiful, upstanding young man run away from his rich and lovely fiancee, remove all his clothing, and suck fervidly and hard upon his fierce pirate's cock—one, or both of these things are taking him deep into the realm of the exquisite. He throws a forearm over his eyes, and lets the sensations take him. Take him to the point where he doesn't know himself, doesn't care where he is, can't think of anything but the liquid deliciousness gathering in his belly, and he arches up off the bed, thrusts mindlessly, cries "Ahh! Fuck! Will!" and pours all his joy into Will's accepting mouth.

Will gags, and swallows, again and again, not knowing what else to do. He watches Jack's face as he comes, and with a cold stab the realisation comes that this is what he has wanted from the first moment he laid eyes on him. And that he wants more. He waits for the final shudders to run through the pirate's body, hears a long, drawn out breath, and then creeps up to lie beside Jack.

They lie there for long moments, silent, but the heart of each is singing, under a blanket of unasked questions and surprise. Will cannot quite believe what has just happened. Elizabeth creeps into his head, but he pushes her away. Don't think about it, his heart murmurs. That was too wonderful to question.

And with that comforting thought, he falls, suddenly and unexpectedly, into a deep sleep. He does not hear Jack whisper his name, or feel him stroke his hair, or respond to the small, sleepy kisses lavished on his head.

When dawn breaks into the cabin, Will swims slowly and giddily back to wakefulness. He is warm, and rocked by the gentle motion of the ship, and at first he is as unaware as a baby of where he is. But that is of course a temporary condition, and there are only brief seconds before he becomes aware of the other body under his outflung arm, and the shoulder against which he lies, the long hair under his cheek, and the aching throb in his head. He stops breathing for a long moment, and his heart floods with shock.

What has he done? What manner of man has he turned into?

And why, why has the mere recollection suddenly made him hard, and full of desire?

Will bites his lip, and slowly, silently, disengages himself from Jack's sleeping form, looking away from the long lashes on Jack's cheeks, his slightly open mouth, the warm flush of his lips. He creeps around the cabin, collecting his clothes, strewn about the floor, and leaves. He does not know where to go, but he leaves.

Read Part 2