Will won out in the end. He knew well enough that flattery and a willingness to learn something from Jack was the easiest way to get him to do something, and make it seem like it was his idea all along. It was eighty seven years after he'd completed his studies as a cartographer that Jack picked up a brush again and painted purely for pleasure, passing on advice to Will about the techniques of proportion and foreshortening and the formulas for mixing colours. Two years after that, and they were both accomplished enough to rival any artist, though Will, despite feeling pride in his work, would shy from that particular label. Jack would joke that all artists dreamed of immortality; but they were immortals dreaming of art.

Jack's favourite medium was watercolour, and the scratchy precision of pen and ink. He could render any flora or fauna or anything in between in uncanny detail, with the accuracy of a Durer engraving. There were dozens of rolls of paper and notebooks filled with sketches of birds and fish and the perfectly rendered colour and texture of seaweed and shells. There were depictions of the all the ports he visited and brought back along with stories for Will. There were many depictions of their respective ships, drawn so meticulously that they could have served as blueprints, the minutiae of knot and sail and rope drawn in with a pen nib that was as needle-sharp as Jack's tongue.

There were many other works as well, softer and darker but no less accurate: Will at the helm of his ship, surrounded by crewmen; Will asleep, a curl snaking between the curve of neck and shoulder; Will looking up from a book, smiling; Will scowling at their chessboard, chin cupped in his hand as he plotted Jack's downfall; Will, sex-flushed and bare-chested and highly amused, propped up on a pile of pillows; and Jack's favourite, Will standing in the prow of the Pearl, sword in hand, head thrown back with a grin that was wild and wonderful, backlit by lightning in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Will forewent details in favour of colour and motion. He was a connoisseur of light and shadow. 'Chiaroscuro', Jack called it. Will painted storms and weather and the sleek lines of all the hulls he had traversed from memory. Will preferred the solidity of oil paint for the ephemera he painted, the sculptural quality of it, using both hands at once as he hunched over a canvas and worked at a furious pace. He would apply paint with the brush poised in his right hand, and then the forefingers of the left would skim over the colour, blending and smoothing. Watching him work was almost like seeing him peel back the top layer of the canvas, revealing what was underneath.

It was one of those mercifully quiet afternoons when the Dutchman's crew could enjoy a breather, and laugh and joke as though they sailed on any other ship. It was the kind of afternoon that could find its captain on the dark sister of his own pale vessel, on the floor of the great cabin on his hands and knees, clad only in his oldest breeches and with his hair drawn back to the nape of his neck. He forewent the rigidity of an easel as he worked hues of cadmium yellow and white highlights into a large canvas. Will worked quickly and silently, enjoying this as much as any other act of creation, watching the images form under his hands in the same satisfying way that a sword would take shape, revealing its soul to him inch by inch. A prickle at the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the long strands of hair that refused to stay in the queue told him that he was being watched. He continued for a few minutes longer, then sat up on his haunches to survey his work so far, then held up the canvas without turning, displaying it to the air above his shoulder, facing it towards the doorway.

"Well? What do you think?"

"Beautiful. Always beautiful," Jack said, letting out a long breath. Then he moved his attention from the arc of Will's spine where it met the top of his breeches, and the curls at the back of his neck, to the canvas.

Will craned his neck round, a grin playing around the corner of his mouth.

"And the painting?" he said slyly.

Jack strode over to him with a chuckle, and crouched down behind Will, wrapping an arm round his waist and tucking the point of his chin firmly and deliberately into Will's shoulder, scratching against the skin with the fuzz of his beard, the two beads lying cool against Will's neck.

"You know me all too well."

Will turned in Jack's grip, and tried to give him a stern look. Jack bit his lips, and the dimple that only Will got to see formed by the side of his mouth as he tried not to snicker, eyes flicking pointedly to a spot on Will's face.

"What?"

"You've got a bit of, um..."

A long streak of sunlit yellow ran up from the top of Will's left cheekbone, across his temple and through his hair, no doubt when he had tried to push an errant strand out of the way. Jack ran a thumb across it, then held it up for Will to see, smirking.

"Oh, damn," Will tutted, reaching out for the bottle of turpentine and a rag to scrub at it. While he was otherwise occupied, Jack knelt down on the paint-flecked sheet Will had laid out to protect the floor, and studied the painting more thoroughly. It was the ship that had gone down the week before, the Maynard, the deck ablaze, sending sparks and plumes of smoke up into the cool blue haze of twilight. Jack shivered involuntarily.

"Will. Everyone should see these. Not just me an' you an' the crew, I mean. These ain't like nothin' I've ever seen before in any gallery."

"What are you talking about?"

"Let me take 'em ashore. Show 'em to people."

"And sell them?" Will queried sharply.

"Oh, aye. We're terribly short of money in the realm between the living an' the dead, ain't we? No. Exhibit them."

"You're serious?"

Jack nodded, turning to face him.

"Get somethin' of yours out in that world. Somethin' that's just yours, an' ain't got nothin' to do with bloodlines. You won't let 'em have any of those far-too-bloody-effective swords of yours. Why not give 'em this?"

"Why would I do that? It's just a pastime. I enjoy it, but, I'm not..."

"Not an artist? Really? What's art for then? T'ain't just summat pretty to look at," here, Jack's eyes swept deliberately over Will's body with a leer, and at Will's pursed lips and glare, he leaned in with a laugh. "S'posed to make you think as well, ain't it?" He looked at the painting again, his face becoming once-more solemn. "An' this... This does. Why not use it as a way to reach the living, an' not just the dead?"

"Do you really think it's any good?" Will said, surprised. He knew that he was a decent swordsmith (although again Jack would insist that he was 'the best'), because he had seen enough swords to be able to compare them to his own. He had never seen much in the way of art, though, other than the stiff portraiture and frescos in the houses of Port Royal that he dimly remembered from a lifetime ago. He knew what he painted was nothing like those, so how could it be art?

Jack tried to stop his eyes from rolling heavenwards, and his fingers twitched out to grab Will by the shoulders.

"Yes. I bloody do. There's something... special about 'em."

"But so are yours. Why don't you exhibit them?"

Jack shrugged.

"I can paint what's there in the world. Everythin' real, everythin' exact, every detail. Just like a map, eh? But you... You paint where the real things end and dreams begin."

Will raised an eyebrow, still unconvinced.

"You're trying to dazzle me with words."

Jack grinned smugly.

"Aye, that is my talent, darlin'. Mebbe this is yours."

Will sat and contemplated the painting quietly.

"I'll think about it. Perhaps there's one or two I can part with. But I like having them with me."

Jack nodded, and slipped an arm around him. Will had never said it, but Jack had an inkling that this was, somehow, Will's eulogy for the souls he ferried from this world to the next, a remembrance far lovelier than a cold tombstone. Jack leaned over and pressed a firm kiss against the melancholy quirk of Will's brow, and Will half-shook himself out of his reverie, forcing a smile.

Jack stood up and carefully lifted the painting, walking to the easel that Will had shunned and propping it on the ledge. At Will's frown, he turned his hands upwards and blinked innocently.

"That layer needs to dry before you can do the next one," Jack said, picking at the knot in his sash before unwinding it and letting it drop. "Besides, I think you need a change of subject."

As Jack's hands went to the buttons of his waistcoat, Will cocked his head to one side, eyebrow raised, not fooled for an instant.

"And what subject would that be, I wonder?"

"My favourite one."

"Yourself?" Will said, crossing his arms and biting the inside of his cheeks to stop from laughing as Jack hopped across the floor slightly on one foot, trying to prise his boot off with one hand and hold up the other, index finger raised to emphasise his point. Will had painted Jack before, many times, and he was always a very willing (if fidgety) muse. Will's first attempt had left Jack uncharacteristically speechless, but not speechless enough to stop him from declaring it to be 'enough to give old El Greco a run for his drachmas', which Will could only assume was a good thing.

"Aye. Me. An' you know why?" Jack said, throwing down one boot with a quick grin of victory, before switching to the other foot, hopping in the opposite direction.

Will merely gestured with his hand for Jack to continue, not trusting the laugh welling in his chest to stay in its rightful place if he risked opening his mouth.

"Because..." Jack huffed, hopping and tugging unsuccessfully, before he made a face and bounced over to Will, sticking out the booted foot and looking hopeful.

"A little help?"

Weakly, Will tried to grasp Jack's foot, still bobbing up and down, before he turned his face up to Jack, and managed to wheeze out,

"You can stop hopping now."

Jack looked down in confusion, as though needing to confirm that he was, in fact, still hopping.

"Oh. Oh right."

It was no good. Will gripped Jack's heel reflexively and doubled over with laughter. Jack wobbled slightly at the pressure and stuck out a hand for balance. Since the nearest surface was Will's head, this only made Will laugh harder.

"Shut it! I am in a very undignified predicament. S'not bloody funny," Jack said, taking a half-leap backwards and finally yanking his foot free from the possessive boot. Will rocked backwards, clutching the boot to his chest, swiping the corner of his eye with the back of his hand which succeeded in replacing the yellow streak he had so carefully cleaned off earlier.

Jack gave the top of Will's head a quick, affectionate glance, then pulled himself up straight and said firmly,

"William!"

Will tilted his head up, still hugging the boot, his smile broad and sunny, and Jack inwardly gave himself a round of applause.

"As I was sayin'," Jack continued, his voice dropping an octave into a silky rumble, "the reason I like you painting me, is not in this case, as you might imagine, the overwhelming truth that all roads lead to Jack, or at least, ought to," Jack paused to raise an eyebrow as Will spluttered again, then started to work on his long socks. Perfectly balanced, he angled one leg up in front of him, elegant as a dancer, rolled the sock down and drew it off in one slow movement. Will put the boot down and gave him a wry look, leaning back on the heels of his hands to watch the show. Jack did the same with the other sock, never faltering once and keeping his eyes on Will all the time.

"It is because, when you paint," Jack said, his voice growing quieter as he pulled his shirt over his head, "you look at whatever you're painting like there's nothing else in existence." His hands went to his breeches, and he undid the buttons slowly, one by one. Will was watching him quietly now, his breath quickening.

"I like it when you look at me like that. All intent an' focused."

With a little hip wriggle, Jack let the breeches drop, and stalked towards Will.

Even with all the eccentricities of his dress, Jack managed to look still more exotic when naked. He knelt in front of Will, reached up a hand, and pulled the bandana from his head, shaking his hair out. Will swallowed hard, all thoughts of doing anything as civilised as art thrown out of the galley window. Jack lay back on the sheet, his head near Will's knee, every trace of the jester gone. His eyelashes fanned against his cheeks for a moment before he looked up at Will almost coyly, and said in a low, sultry whisper,

"Paint me."

Will realised his mouth was open and shut it with a click. He nodded a couple of times, then stood to fetch a fresh canvas, but Jack was already up again and tugging at him, shaking his head and prising the frame out of his hand.

"No, no, no, luv. Not like that," he said firmly, leading a bemused and highly aroused Will back to the sheet and settling onto it again. Jack arranged himself, one elbow crooked under his head, flicking a few strands of hair across his shoulders, a leg drawn up and the other out straight, his hand settling into the curve of his waist. He looked like a male odalisque. Will felt another low rush of warmth settle in his cock as Jack's gaze held him, dark and quiet. Jack reached out and lifted one of Will's brushes from the sheet, still tipped with yellow paint. He slipped it between Will's fingers, then drew Will's hand forward until the head of the brush grazed his sternum, streaking the first mark onto his skin.

"Paint me."

Will let out a soft, involuntary gasp.

"Come on, darlin'. Don't be shy. I promise I'll restock your supplies, an' make it worth your while."

Will watched as Jack shifted and lay prone, eyes smiling up at him, daring him to continue. His gaze flicked down to the bronze planes of Jack's body, already marked in places by the hands of other artists that made him laugh inwardly at the glimmer of jealousy that twinged inside him. The skin of Jack's abdomen was stretched taut and expectant; a smooth canvas stretched over a frame of muscle and sinew and bone waiting to be primed with gesso. Waiting for the hand of a master to reveal the image that trembled, latent, beneath the quivering surface.

Will started slowly at first, sketching a shivery trail from one nipple to the other and over them, watching them harden. The tickle of the hogshair brush and slide of the paint made Jack jump and hiss involuntarily when Will found all the sensitive spots he knew were there. When Will reached out his other hand to start blending the red and yellow he had applied to the skin around Jack's ribcage and abdomen, Jack arched up towards the touch, eyelids fluttering and his cock jerking up to slap against his belly, and Will suddenly felt the urge to work more quickly. He picked up a tube of ultramarine paint, the most precious in his palette, and his favourite colour. He set down the brush and squeezed a generous blob of paint into his palm.

The sensuous slick squelch of paint through his fingers, somehow reminiscent of the cool squish of mud through his bare toes that he remembered from a long-off boyhood, and the glitter of Jack's unwavering eyes combined to make the idea irresistible; decadent. He knelt between Jack's thighs, and shot him a glance filled with dark heat before sliding his hands across Jack's belly, down his hips, and up the length of his cock, so warm the paint felt like it was melting. Jack's head lolled back, thunking against the hard floorboards as Will started working his shaft with both hands, twisting and squeezing the turgid flesh with just the right pressure until Jack was bucking up towards him, gasping breathlessly.

"Ah, Will, yeah. That's... that's good. Mmm, faster. You... ... Oi! You gave me blue balls!"

Will looked up at him, and gave him a slow, filthy grin commandeered straight from Jack's own repertoire.

"I can soon fix that," Will said in the soft, growling tone that always made Jack squirm. And squirm he did, upwards into the suction of Will's mouth as it closed warm and wet around his erection.

The earthy flavour of the pigment mingled with the salt tang of Jack's cock, and the odd, cloying taste of the carrier oil. Will pulled off him for a moment, his tongue working over his lips, when he felt Jack start to shake. Looking up sharply, he saw Jack with his fist pressed to his mouth, choking back a guffaw. He took a couple of gulps of breath, then waved a hand encompassing Will's confused face.

"Blue really is your colour, mate." He sat up and reached out towards Will's mouth, rubbing off the paint as best he could from Will's lips and moustache as Will tried to bite his fingers.

"Much more better than ordinary rouge on you, in my opinion. An' it's ultramarine ain't it, made from the finest Afghan lapis lazuli; virgin blue for saints and madonnas."

"Then it's hardly appropriate for either of us."

"Looks pretty, though."

Jack looked down appraisingly at the motley Will had dressed him in, before Will butted his head up and leaned into him.

"I think it's some of my best work," Will murmured softly against Jack's lips, before they both pressed in close, and Jack learned exactly what blue tasted like. His hands went out and he traced a path down Will's chest with his thumbnails, hooking them into the top of Will's breeches and tugging hard. Will rocked forwards, his tongue sliding deeper into Jack's mouth, fingers skating Jack's collarbone and smearing twilight blue in their wake across his throat. Jack undid the buttons that had been keeping him from the rest of Will's skin and yanked them over Will's hips. Will twisted to the side and kicked them off. Jack reached up and held the back of Will's head, keeping Will's mouth on his as he traced the ridges across the roof of Will's mouth with a fluttering tongue-tip, and working the knot of the queue from the dark curls. Will knelt up and locked his arms round Jack's waist and pulled him forwards, pressing their bodies into alignment.

Jack grabbed hold of three or four tubes of paint, straddled Will's hips and bore down on him, squirting a rainbow across his chest and chortling gleefully.

"Your turn," Jack said wickedly, gliding his hands through the paint and wriggling further onto Will's lap. Will grabbed one of Jack's hands, which happened to be covered with vermillion paint, and moved it down onto his cock. He moaned as Jack bit at the unmarked skin on his neck, grinding against him, hard and hot against his hip as he slid through the thick texture of the cool paint. They found each others lips again in a kiss that was sticky and felt like a mouthful of honey, tongues slick and frantic.

Jack was the first to pull back for breath.

"Up," he grunted.

Will rose and turned onto his hands and knees, Jack curling behind him and nipping at the skin of his buttocks. Will's head tilted down and his hair spilled over his face, breathing hard as Jack worked the colour into the skin at the back of his thighs and his tongue painted Will's entrance wetly, before licking deep and sending a shudder of pure desire through Will's body.

"Oil," Jack muttered, the brush of his lips and whiskers making Will jump and squirm.

"There," Will tossed his head at the nearby bottle of linseed oil he'd been using to thin the paints. He felt Jack move away from him, and heard the sound of the bottle being unscrewed. The heady, distinctive scent of the linseed added to the low, earthy smell in the cabin, and then Will felt the first cool drips of oil running down his back and between his cheeks, and he bucked and hissed, letting out a long, hitching moan as Jack nudged back up against him and slid a finger into his hole. His cock jutted up and twitched towards his belly each time one of Jack's long fingers slid in and out of him. Jack watched it move as he spread a bright orange flush of paint across Will's arse, gnawing on his lower lip, feeling the echoing pulse and rush in his own demanding erection, pressed snugly against the crook of Will's knee, daubed blue as Jack ground against it. He added another finger, then darted forwards as Will moaned and arched his spine up towards the movement inside him. A clear bead had welled up at the tip of Will's cock, and Jack burrowed his head between the angle of bicep and thigh to twist upwards towards it, his tongue flicking out to lap at it.

"Now, Jack," came the urgent voice close to the top of his head. Jack backed out of the frescoed arch of Will's body and drew his fingers out.

"Turn over. I want to see you."

Will tumbled onto his back and pulled Jack down on top of him, crushing his mouth against him and wrapping his legs around his waist. Jack pushed forwards with a twist and slid up past the tight ring of muscle into Will's body. With a raw snarl and a sharp intake of breath, they found their rhythm and the rest of the world disappeared around them. They slipped and slicked against one another, each grind of their hips drawing another moan and gasp from each of them, as the cadmium swirled in with the carmine across their chests, and a bolt of the ultramarine slid across the raw umber, their skin held together by a viscous prism. Unwittingly, they painted each other with a glowing sunset over a darkening sea.

Jack wrapped his arms round Will and rolled him over, kissing him roughly before pushing him upwards by the shoulder, the other hand grasping at the slippery vermillion of his hip. Will threw his head back and rode him hard, stomach muscles clenching.

"God, that's perfect. Will... that's... aahhh..."

Jack slid his hand across to curve around the solid length of Will's cock. Will moaned and pitched himself forwards, burying his face in the warm blue crease of Jack's neck.

"Lean back, darlin'. Gotta make sure you leave a signature, eh?"

Will's eyes crinkled at the corners and he gave a sharp grunt of amusement, nipped at Jack's lips, then sat up again, eyes shut tight, smeared with wode across one cheek. He writhed his hips faster, the oil and pigment gliding together between his and Jack's skin, mixing to make a dark, midnight purple the colour of bruises.

"I'm close. Jack... I..."

Jack felt Will's muscles squeezing him and bit back a groan, his hand rubbing faster along Will's cock, paint sliding through the creases of his fingers. Will tossed his head to the side, hair flying, and opened his eyes, staring down at Jack.

Jack watched the flush rising up Will's sweat-slicked chest, up his neck and into his cheeks, and Will opened his mouth and keened. Hot gushes ran across Jack's belly and streaked up towards his ribcage, the pale gloss varnishing the glow of colour on his skin. Caught in the tight, twisting spiral of Will's orgasm, Jack bucked upwards with a growl, drawn along with him into the sweet rush of climax.

Will lowered himself down slowly, chest heaving as Jack wrapped his arms around him. He wriggled from side to side a little, raising his head to grin at Jack with satisfaction.

"I think our colours are well an' truly mixed."

"Just making sure."

Will gripped Jack by the hip and rolled them to one side. They glanced down at the matching landscape of colour splashed across their bodies. Jack chuckled then ran a hand up into Will's hair, and tucked himself against the brightness of Will's chest, sleepy and sated.

"Will, m'love. Your talent is unsurpassed," Jack yawned approvingly into a distinctly rosy nipple.

"And apparently I'm quite good at painting as well," Will said, deadpan, snuffling his nose into Jack's hair, which smelled like linseed oil and sex, which Will decided was a rather pleasant combination.

Jack blinked into wakefulness after an hour or so. Will had thoughtfully tucked the sheet around him before going back up above to his duties. Jack noticed the large bottle of turps that Will had conspicuously left for him near the washbasin, and a heap of several cleanish rags. Unwrapping himself from the sheet, he looked down to admire the results of their afternoon's work. Immediately he frowned slightly, craning his head to the side, then gave a snort.

There, across his belly and hips and down one thigh, in flake white paint, was Will's distinctive signature, all loops and curves like waves.

Bending to pick up the turps bottle, Jack noticed a piece of paper wrapped around its neck. He unrolled it and smiled.

A month or two later, a normally quiet afternoon in the Royal Academy was interrupted by the raised voice of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was staring down a rather disreputable-looking figure, grasping a canvas bound in a sheet.

"Now look here! You can't just barge in unannounced and expect this protégé of yours to secure a hanging space for the Summer Exhibition. It's simply out of the question! There are matters of protocol to consider..."

"Protocol takes precedence over talent, then, does it?"

"Indeed it does."

"Ah. I've met your type before, mate. Tell you what, why don't you have a looksie at the painting first, then we can talk all the protocol you like."

"Good day, sir."

"You're makin' the biggest mistake of your life..."

"I said, good day, sir!"

"Bloody fool."

Jack turned on his heel and stomped out of the stuffy room full of stuffy pictures of stuffy people, presided over by the stuffiest snit he had laid eyes on (and he had had the misfortune to lay eyes on an unholy number of them), and almost knocked over a wide-eyed boy who had been eavesdropping on the whole thing outside the door.

"Careful there, sonny. Don't want you exposin' yerself to somethin' as pernicious as protocol. Highly calamitous to a man's sanity."

The lad gave him a half-frightened glance with those sombre, dark eyes. Jack threw him a wink and set off down the corridor, when he heard a timid cough.

"‘Scuse me, sir?" came the quiet voice.

"Eh?" Jack said, turning round to find the boy just behind him again.

"May I see it? The painting?"

Jack studied him for a moment, assessing the drab clothes splashed with tell-tale spots of colour on the hems of the shirt sleeves, and the faint smell of linseed oil that made Jack take a step back, suppressing a grin. The lad must be a student at the school, despite his youth. Jack picked at the bindings around the sheet, and removed it with a flourish. The boy's mouth dropped open. He crouched to his knees and studied the painting with a hunger that was almost feral, his gaze sweeping ravenously over the whorls of white and greyish blue and yellow that comprised a perfect rendition of the Dutchman in a storm at sea, the worship of light that was present in all of Will's paintings. Finally, the boy glanced back up at Jack, who was watching him with some amusement.

"It's extraordinary," the boy said breathlessly.

"You think that's extraordinary, you should see the man who painted it."

"His technique is like nothing I've ever seen on earth."

"Quite right, very astute of you."

Jack frowned slightly, cocking his head to the side.

"What's your name, lad?"

The boy looked up from the painting again, straightened, and held out his hand politely.

"Turner, sir. Joseph Turner."

And then Jack did laugh, head thrown back, the hallowed halls of the Academy ringing with the sound.

"Well, Mr Turner, I have the oddest notion here, but it seems to me as how this painting belongs with you," Jack said with a headshake, thrusting the painting towards the boy's outstretched hand.

"What? Sir, you can't just..."

"Oh, I rather think I can. I've got an unshakeable notion that the man who painted it would be more than happy for you to have it. Not quite keepin' it in the family, perhaps, but close enough, I'm sure."

The boy gaped at him, open-mouthed in confusion, still unable to speak as Jack retreated away from him along the hallway and out into the sunlight, down towards the docks where the stench of the river would soon dissipate into the smell of the open sea. Back home again, in the midst of the open ocean, where, spray-spun and glorious, Will was waiting for him.

Jack made sure he stopped by an artists' supply shop on his trek down, and bought (yes, bought) dozens of tubes of paint and a number of different brushes and several metres of good canvas.

And a whole quart of linseed oil.