[ though cassidy's come to accept his apartment as his own, it still only bears small traces of him. the drawer full of limes in the refrigerator, open boxes of sugar cereals that he's recently discovered on the counter, a growing collection of alcohol on the kitchen table along with groceries he never bothered to give a proper place. abandoned clothes draped over the couch arm in the living room, and in the bedroom, sparse papers strewn about the desk, hand-drawn maps and star charts and a couple sketches. he keeps his frock coat draped over the back of the desk chair, his hat set at a jaunty angle on one corner, his belt with his pistol and cutlass on the seat.

other than that, the walls, shelves, and most of the flat surfaces remain bare, failing to reflect their vibrant, borderline flamboyant, but ultimately temporary owner. it's the temporary part that's the key. cassidy doesn't want to settle in too deeply, lest he forget that he can't stay forever.

it's his relationships that are fast making this strange city feel a little like home. faces he's used to seeing, voices he's used to hearing. skin he's used to touching. it's becoming a little like nassau, but cleaner, brighter, and with far fewer prostitutes. he didn't mean to form attachments. he'd never needed them before, though he did, secretly, appreciate returning to the same port after a week or several weeks at sea and being greeted by the same faces. the same barkeeps and tavern wenches, the same fences and fellow pirates. at least with john, he can almost entirely blame it on that sentimental idiot, his charm, and his romantic sensibilities.

he can blame it on the way john's hand seeks his under the pillow and draws it out into the light, fingers slotted together. john's hand isn't as soft as some others he's felt, but it's still softer than his own, and warm. familiar. as familiar as the lips on his cheek, the voice in his ear. they're his own kind of creature comforts.

but they don't negate what a bastard john is. cassidy bites back a whimper as john's finger teases him, pushing in too shallow and too brief. a pitiful noise still escapes him, sounding in his throat. (a complete bastard.) he turns his cheek under john's lips, twists until his mouth is free of the pillow and he can see john from the corner of his eye. ] Fuck you. [ it's low and gravelly, almost a growl. ] You know what I want.

[ his fingers tighten around john's. ]

I want the same things you want. Only, I don't want to talk about it, you lousy cur. I want to fucking do it. So... [ he pushes back against john's finger, insistent, impatient- ] shut your fucking mouth and fuck me.