How to Predict the Weather

Something was in the air.

It was in the rustle of the rigging and the way the ship gently rolled in the shallow water swell, in the low slant of the sun, the sweetening taste to the wind, the clouds herding overhead. Life at sea had a way of attuning a fellow to the subtleties of the weather—sailors all had a storm glass in them—but there was nothing subtle about a change in the seasons.

Not long until the sky would shake itself clean like a dog. A welcome thing after the drudgery of a long grey winter. Tandred straightened up from hauling about a length of sodden rope as thick as his wrist and breathed it in. Despite the crispness of the air, he was sweating.

"Spring's on its way," Flynn said.

He was leant over the rail of the Admiral's Pride, gazing out over the ocean with a hand slanted to his brow. Seabirds wheeled above the waves and the sun smouldered on the horizon, casting its gold into the waves and over Boralus' ramshackle dockside storehouses. Its rich light made everything look that little bit more beautiful. Even Flynn himself, in the way it caught flyaway strands of his hair and set them aflame. He was an exciting distraction even when he was being a good-for-nothing.

"Aye, and I won't live to see it if I have to stow the rest of this line by my own self," Tandred said. "All hands, you laggard."

"Ah, you've mostly got it under control. Heave ho, mate. Put your back into it."

Flynn glanced over his shoulder and gave him a cheeky wink, then continued his gazing over yonder and not at all helping with the sundry shipboard tasks that he'd been lured into with the promise of a sipper of grog. The problem with delegating to a fellow captain was that he knew how to delegate right back.

Tandred snorted and set to his task with renewed vigour, though it was still as much of a two-man job as it was before. "On account of your helpfulness," he said, "I've decided drinks are on you tonight."

"Tonight?" Flynn said, turning. "Not got plans, then?"

Tandred peered up at him from under the brim of his hat.

"I just would've thought..."

"Hm?"

"Nothing," Flynn said after a moment. He leant back with his elbows slung on the rail, finally distracted from the ocean by Tandred's ongoing efforts. The last of the sunlight kissed his grinning face. "Nothing. Let's make a proper night of it, what do you say?"

"Well," Tandred said, his load lightened as Flynn finally shifted his arse and helped him heft the coil of rope belowdecks. "Since you're buying."

Tandred was halfway home when he recalled what day it was, his memory jogged as he passed by the bakery. Heart-shaped bunting strung under the eaves. Pink icing on the cupcakes in the window. Rose petals strewn about the display. Aha.

Something in the air, indeed.

And he was to spend the evening with Flynn, was he? Sorry sod must have kissed goodbye to his latest sweetheart, whoever that had been. Things never did seem to last for him, and as far as habits went, Tandred tended to find something else to think about whenever Flynn started rhapsodising about the newest love of his life, such as how he was going to get the stubborn tarnish off that one spot of brightwork, or what was for dinner that evening.

All that aside, Tandred couldn't blame him for wanting a distraction this particular evening if he was tending a bruised heart—or, as the case may just as likely be, a bruised ego. He'd prefer if it were that. It'd make for a better evening for both of them, what with Flynn's indignant squawking being more easily borne than him feeling sorry for himself.

Fondness blossomed in him, as it did whenever he thought on Flynn and his particular ways. Maybe he'd buy him a drink or two after all. What were mates for.

The evening breeze escorted Tandred by knifepoint, and on arriving at the Snug Harbor, he took a minute to blow on his raw pink fingertips and stamp the feeling back into his toes. Spring may be on its way, but winter was a guest who tended to long overstay its welcome. Flynn had secured a corner near the fire. A foaming flagon of ale sat at his elbow, as did several empties, with him working on another. He lit up when he saw Tandred, thumped his drink down and waved him over, cheeks dimpling in a wide smile. He seemed well on his way to merry.

"Look who's here. Bring your arse to anchor!" Brimming with his inimitable good humour, as always. He shuffled over to make some room, but not hardly enough. "There once was a blond sailor mate, who scurried in haste, being late—"

"Oh, are we at this part of the evening already?" Tandred gave Flynn's ankle a kick until he relinquished more of the space under the table. The man was like a blasted starfish when he had a few in him. One with a gift for doggerel.

"He fell on his cutlass, which rendered him nutless, and really quite ruined his..."

That certainly banished Tandred's apprehension that he was going to spend the evening moping. He'd neatened his beard and combed his hair, tied it with a ribbon instead of the usual leather thong, and was beholding Tandred with gleeful anticipation, waiting for him to finish the rhyme.

He looked—he looked proper handsome. It's not as though Tandred didn't know it, or that Flynn himself didn't have a habit of informing anyone who'd listen of the fact, but he'd clearly scrubbed up a touch just for tonight. Especially for tonight. As if this were a—

"Date?" Tandred said before he could catch himself. An awkward heat climbed his neck. "Ah, no—gait."

Flynn guffawed. "Date's funnier," he said with merciful irreverence, and slid the full flagon across the table and into Tandred's waiting palm.

"Ah, you've no ear for it," Tandred said, just to make him snort.

The shift of his arm made Tandred conscious of how he'd squeezed onto the bench next to his comfortable bulk, shoulders pressed together, thighs touching, their warmth mingling. They often sat like this, the Harbor being a well-patronised tavern and competition over the good seats being what it was. Something of a pleasant arrangement, though it did make Flynn's attentions inescapable.

He was crowding in on Tandred now, leant with his chin propped on his hand, a damp patch rising up his sleeve where he'd landed it in a puddle of ale. He looked for all the world like he knew something Tandred didn't and was just desperate for him to ask him about it.

"Heh." Tandred swilled off a third of his pint in one gulp. "All right, what is it?"

"I was just thinking," Flynn said.

"Careful with that."

"It's everyone else who needs to watch it when that's afoot, sunshine. No, I," Flynn said, "have had recent success in securing some finance against my old girl, and I was wondering—"

"So the scuttlebutts were telling it true."

"Ah! Bloody twattlebaskets." Flynn sat back with a slap to his thigh. "Should've known you'd know by now. All right, go on then, give me a scolding."

"Like that, would you?"

"Some of us can't just ask Mother dearest for some pocket money when we're feeling a bit skint, you know..."

"Now you're on the right lines for it, mate."

Flynn downed his ale in a show of devastation, then resumed his previous lean. The damp patch on his sleeve had spread further; sobriety and Flynn were in a war of attrition and the casualties were as often items of his clothing as they were his drinking companions.

"Look," he said, prodding the tabletop. "The 'Wake's foredeck is saggier than a witch's tit and she's got shipworm out the aft. You can bend my ear about exploitative lenders all you like, but I've got debts to square up."

"Aye," Tandred said, lifting his drink to his mouth, "aye, all right. All things told, I can hardly lecture you over partaking in a spot of bottomry, now, can I?"

Flynn's brows lifted. "Oh, I knew it," he said with rapt conviction.

"What's that you say?" Tandred raised both eyebrows right back.

Flynn looked up at the tavern ceiling and explored his back teeth with his tongue, then slammed both hands onto the table. "All right, I'm going to the bar. Fresh one?"

With a grin, Tandred raised his glass.

"Now, I couldn't trust him to know his business, let alone do it, and a man like that aboard a ship is a man who gets other men injured, or worse. I dismissed him, cut his wage, even threatened him with a lash or two, not that I would—but try as I might I couldn't shift him."

"The thing about seamen is," Flynn said, holding up finger that swayed like a buoy. "Thing is—"

"Hard to get out of your hair."

"Exactly."

"It's just that," Flynn said, the moon-eyed sot, "I'm just waiting for you to say those three little words, Tand."

Tandred gazed into his eyes and, beneath the table, laid a hand upon his knee. Here it was, then. He took a deep breath.

"It's my round," he said, full of feeling.

Flynn squinted in silent laughter and pushed his nose against Tandred's cheek. "That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard you say."

They stumbled out into the night, bell clanging for last orders as the Harbor's door swung shut behind them. The salutary effects of the evening's cheer insulated Tandred from the cold. He was peripherally aware of it, but it couldn't penetrate the warmth of however many ales combined with Flynn's ebulliant company.

"What was it," he said as they meandered along the promenade, arms slung over each other's shoulders, their breath visible and the hard glint of frost on the pavement. He kept having to steer Flynn straight, and despite walking perfectly well himself, from the occasional yank, Flynn thought he was doing the same for him. Tandred could feel his breath on his neck. It fogged the edges of his attention, and it took some effort to chase down what he was going to say. "Ah, what is it you were wondering about? Before?"

"Hmm?" Flynn took a sharp turn into an intersecting lane. The cobbles were uneven here and there, and Tandred stumbled, saved only by Flynn strongarming him back onto his feet. He then proceeded to manhandle Tandred up the slant of a root cellar door, hoisted him atop a coal shed and then pulled him onto the verdigris roofing of the adjoining home.

"I think this is trespassing," Tandred said.

"Ah, you'll get off with a slap on the wrist. Come on, careful now!"

With one perilous foot in front of another and with sincere effort to not be distracted by his appealing embonpoint, he let Flynn lead him across ridges and narrow plankways with drunken confidence, to higher and higher vantages until they were near the docks, atop the harbormaster's offices. There, Flynn bunched his coattail under his backside and settled down, patting the span of wooden ridgepiece beside him.

Well, it's not like Tandred could feel most his extremities at this point. He sat next to Flynn, their shoulders pressed together, thighs touching. The wind came off the ocean like a guillotine; he pulled his coat collar up around his face.

"What I was wondering," Flynn said. He'd lost his ribbon at some point in the evening, likely scrumming at the bar. His hair flew loose in the wind. "Remember that sixteen hundredweight of canned goat trimmings in non-specified meat jelly that I acquired on the assurance that it was finest quality pemmican?"

"How could I forget."

"Got a buyer," Flynn said smugly. "It'll be a twenty day round trip to Kalimdor, but I'll be shot of the bastard lot of it."

"Well, it has to go somewhere, I suppose," Tandred said. "Ratchet bound, are you?"

Flynn nodded. "And so I was wondering, do you want to come?"

Twenty days on a boat with Flynn. It had its appeal—his command was cheerful, his crew a solid lot. It was always a pleasure to watch him work the lines: the thick curve of his biceps, the flex of his muscle-strapped shoulders. Sometimes a quiet torment to be sure, but three weeks? He could suffer it well enough.

Visiting Ratchet wasn't as appealing a prospect by a long shot, but even through the fog of their revelries, Tandred sensed there was more to it than that.

"We could, while we were over that way, er—what I'm saying is, it'd be easy enough to cook the logs if we were to dock for a spell at Theramore. Pun maybe intended."

The night blurred, Boralus' lights smearing out of focus.

"Just a flying visit, mind," Flynn said, sounding a little helpless. He put his hand on Tandred's arm and, politely ignoring his crumpling composure, turned his attention to the sea.

Jaina's absence was like a hole cut into his world; he lived with a constant awareness of the spaces where she should be. To spend even a few hours with her after so long... and more, to see where Father had breathed his last? Maybe not cathartic on its own, but for Jaina to share it with him, it could be. Closure for them both.

Tandred blinked and blinked again until he could see clearly Flynn's bold profile edged by the silvery moonlight. He so fiercely wanted this, but—this was to be an evening of hopeless longings

"That would be treason," he quietly said.

Flynn rubbed at the back of his neck, an exhaled breath ghosting in the air. "Only if the Admiralty caught wind. I trust my crew. And you, but I reckon that goes without saying at this point."

"It's such a risk, mate. I couldn't."

Flynn squinted and held up his hand in a pinch, the merest space between finger and thumb. Just a little one. "I mean," he said, "the gobs are going to turn around and flog that canned gristle to Northwatch. I'm already halfway to hanged if anyone notices."

He was rather sanguine about the whole thing. You could take the man out of Freehold. If there was anything Tandred had learned about Flynn, is that when it came down to it, there wasn't much difference between his alcoholic bravado and what proved to be some rather misplaced bravery.

"Flynn." Tandred took his hand, lowering it to his lap, and shook his head with some regret. "Thank you, with all my heart."

A touch too sincere. Oh dear.

Flynn was no longer staring off over the wild dark sea, his full attention instead on Tandred, eyes creased at the corners as he smiled bemusedly. He could blame the drink, or he could let Flynn do that for him. Or, even with the current liable to move against him, he could set a course. He took a breath so deep the chill air burned his lungs. Flynn's wrist was cool and his pulse steadily thrummed under Tandred's fingers. He let his thumb stroke the back of his hand. Flynn's eyes softened.

"I was wondering something myself." The ale still had Tandred's tongue, and he willingly let it do the work for him, his hope so thick it stripped him of all his fear. "Is this a date?"

"You're the one holding my hand. You tell me."

Tandred snorted and let go. "Another round of flirting then, is it?"

"Or you could cut to the chase. Just a hint," Flynn said, catching Tandred's face with the flat of his hand and gazing at him with terrible fondness. His fingers were freezing. "But if you ask a fellow out for drinks on this particular evening, he'll likely make assumptions."

"Ah." Tandred grinned sheepishly back, his heart lifting as high as a spring tide. "For what it's worth, I had noticed you'd shaved for it."

"For you, mate, anything."

"Except helping me stow a bit of rope, as I understand it."

"Oho! I see you're not going to let that one go for a while—"

Tandred cut to the chase. He looped the cord of Flynn's necklace around his fist, raked his other hand into his hair and pulled him in. The coin was an icy brand against his palm, though the hitched gasp Flynn made against his mouth flushed him warm from head to heel.

He kissed Flynn's parted lips, and Flynn delved into it, head tilted to let Tandred have more of his mouth, low noises rising from the back of his throat. He smelled like the salty air and the ale they'd drunk, the woodsmoke from the chimneys they'd catfooted past. His hair was like raw silk in Tandred's numb hand.

Tandred finally broke the kiss, moving his mouth aside from Flynn's. He dipped his head, resting their foreheads together. Their breath mingled in puffs of white.

"Blimey," Flynn said, drawing the word out. His smile outshined any star in the night sky.

Tandred gave his cheek a pat, scratchy with fresh stubble already. "Things have a way of sneaking up on you, don't they?"

"Could melt the frost in a five mile radius."

Tandred laughed and turned his body to him and pressed in close, to fend off the icy air and because he wanted to. Flynn's wandering fingers slid between the buttons of his coat, sharp points of cold that had Tandred gasping. He muttered something unflattering about Flynn's character that made him chortle.

"Would you come with me, though?" Flynn said, nuzzling in close to better wheedle, pushing Tandred's hat askew. "Skive off your noble duties or whatever the blazes they have you doing. Come sailing with me."

Far be it from Tandred to argue against that. "Oh, all right," he said, as though his arm were twisted. "I'll be wanting a cabin, though."

"Well, listen to mister lah-de-dah here. You'll share my cabin and you'll like it."

Flynn got to his feet and hauled Tandred up with him. They wobbled precariously a moment on the roof's ridge, clutching each other's forearms for balance and whooping, full of tipsy confidence that they wouldn't fall. Flynn lead the way with a hand caught in Tandred's cuff, over the plankways and rooftops and the slope of a root cellar, the wind snapping their coats about their legs.

It began to rain as they landed their boots on the cobbles, nothing but a grim cold mizzle, but for the first time in months—it wasn't snow.