The Troubles of Jack

Marc had been sufficiently poked, prodded, disrobed and tucked into a tiny cot, in one of the darkest and stuffiest cabins on the ship. The only personnel on the ship who slightly resembled a physician was Gibbs, who simply poked at the boy for broken bones, gave him a gulp of rot-gut whiskey, and laughed heartily in the lad's face, telling him how lucky he was to be alive.

As soon as Gibbs was satisfied that the lad was neither sick nor wounded (and the former was very much feared, considering the state of things), he wrapped the man up in bedclothes and exited the room.

Marc drifts in and out of consciousness for several hours. When he finally comes to, it’s well after midnight. He blinks in the darkness, peering through the shadows, trying to associate himself. His torn clothes lay crumpled in a wet pile over on a chair, and a single candle burned blearily off in the corner. A musket and a pair of boots lay disguarded on the floor. He was, it seemed, in somebody's cabin that was, at least until very recently, occupied and in use. No sort of an infirmary to speak of, no sir. He knew by now that he was no longer on the navy ship. And then it came to him… the blast of cannonballs and the smell of blood, the sounds of naval cannons and gunshots, and then, cold, bitter water filling up his nose.

Now where was he? The man who had been caring to him earlier wasn't wearing a uniform to speak of, and his hair was in a dissarray... but he spoke the queen's english, and this, of course, was a very good sign. Marc had heard rumours of pirates, that the soulless madmen were simply overtaking the carribean waters as of late, and that it was a very dangerous time to be out at sea. But most of the pirates he'd been warned about were from Spain, or worse, further south in the barbaric islands, so the stranger’s familiar accent gave the lad some relief.

He could tell it was past sun-down, because the candle at the corner of the room was now down to a dull flicker, wax licking down the sides, and there was no sunlight leaking through the walls. He wriggled out of the confining bedsheets and stood unsteadily on the planks of the floor, the air was unbearably hot inside the tiny room, and his bare skin felt slick with sweat. He wiped the wild curls of black hair from his eyes and started to explore the cabin, opening drawers, staring at carved obscenities in the woodwork. On the dresser he found a tattered tricorn hat, flea-bitten at the edges, and flopped it onto his head. With a narcissistic smirk the lad picked up a small hand-held mirror and eyed himself, tilting the corner of the hat far down over one eye, cocking a hip, and winking at his reflection. He looked good. My god, Marc, he thought to himself, for a man who should be dead, he looked quite good.

Just then, as he was admiring himself in the buff, the cabin door flew open with no announcement.
Clutching an oversized jug of rum like it was an extension of his being, Jack stood unsetadily in the doorway. His mouth hangs open as if he is about to speak, but no words escape, as he finds himself staring at the image of Marc, body all slender and nude.

Marc is standing there, mirror in hand, hat flung over his eye, naked as the day he was born.

He drops the mirror and it crashes dramatically into a hundred pieces.
"Oh shite! Shite, ah'm sorry!" He blurts, then grabs the hat, backing himself into a corner and concealing his genitals with the oversized tricorn. "Ah didn't.. oh, god... ah thought ah was alone!"

Jack manages to close his mouth, eyes still stuck to the boy's form, all white and willowy, with lean muscle and shiny sweat licked all over. He's pinker now that he's got some air going through his lungs, and his cheeks are painted a brazen crimson with embarrassment, chocolate eyes wide and long-lashed. The hair simply drops from his head like the plume of an exotic bird, so inexpilcably curly and mad he resembled a gypsy lass off an italian road, selling roses.

He was absolutely beautiful.

"I'm sorry I broke the mirror..." Marc repeated, voice quieter now. His eyes are averted, down at his feet.

Jack looked at the shards of glass scattered on the floor and shrugged. "No worries! The man it belonged to is dead anyway." He staggered across the cabin then, kicking at the glass with his bootheels. Marc continued to press himself into the walls, the hat clutched tightly in his hands.

Jack gets within a foot of the boy, then flashes a madman's smirk, golden teeth showing. "So, wot's yer name then? My name is Jack... Sparrow. CAPITAN Jack Sparrow." He puffs out his chest with the last three words, then performs an extravagant bow.