He stares up at the moon, his thoughts as full as the celestial body itself.
It gives him a sense of calm, of serenity; floating in the night sky and casting its cool white-yellow light down. His thoughts wonder from here to there, focusing on nothing in particular for very long. He knows the drink in his hand has something to do with that. Perhaps that was why he started drinking it.
He inhales deeply. The air here is crisp and smells of wet leaves and grass at night. Sometimes it still surprises him when it doesnât smell like salt and brine and the stink of working bodies, adhering to his orders. Every once in a while he thinks he catches a whiff of something older stillâMirandaâs perfume or Thomasâs aftershave. He wonders about this now and why it is that scent evokes memories in people.
He smirks at himself and takes a sip of the wine. Heâs caught himself in another strange line of thought. No, not really strange, he reminds himself. They are thoughts born from having the luxury of time to think them, a luxury he had been denied for a long time. Until he settled here, among an orchard of peach trees.
He remembers how he had wept at the sound of music not too long ago. They had gone into town to attend the townâs small theatre. The harmonics of instruments heâd long since forgotten had filled him with emotion. It had been the startling effects of the orchestra as much as it had been the music itself that drew his tears.
Thomas had understood, God bless him. Thomas had known.
He wonders if he will always be like this from now onâreacting to sights and sounds and smells, of all things, for the remainder of his days. Constantly existing between past and present in a way he was incapable of experiencing as Captain Flint. And it is a much more non-violent way of existing, he knows; a more passive way.
Yesterday, Thomas had told him he recognized more of his lieutenant than when they had first arrived here. He is happily forced to agree with Thomas, despite his still-contrary nature.
James smirks again. Thomas has a way of undoing him, piece by piece, as much as he ever did, in all things.
The door creaks open and shuts hesitantly behind him.
âJust wondering if youâd like more wine.â
Thomasâs voice. It is rougher now, but still somehow soft when Thomas wishes it, like now.
James turns in his chair, glass extended out.
Thomas fills his glass, his own wine glass in his other hand. He turns to leave but James gently grasps his wrist.
Thomas sits his glass down and begins rolling his fingers and thumbs over Jamesâs shoulders. James instantly melts a little, humming and closing his eyes.
âMay I ask what you were thinking about?â Thomas asks.
âI was pondering why certain smells cause us to remember things, or at least thatâs how it started,â he replies, eyes still closed.
Thomas lets out a small chuckle.
âIâm not sure why,â he muses. âPerhaps it is one way our minds keep us from forgetting.â
James sighs and settles down further in his chair. Thomasâs fingers are doing wonders on his muscles, easing them like a balm. His thumbs systematically smooth over the knots and thicker cords of muscle until James is half asleep. He thinks he can still see the outline of the moon behind his eyelids, a dark circle surrounded by red-orange.
He lets his head fall back against the chair. Â He remembers when he was a boy and first saw the moon out at sea. How exciting it had been; the vast black ocean stretched out before him, the sounds of the water lapping and crashing against the hull. The silvery quick flash of fish swimming by and the tales of pirates in his head.
Thereâs the soft press of lips against his forehead.
âTime for bed, old man,â says Thomas.
James opens his eyes. The memories scatter in lieu of the face looking down at him, upside-down. Thomas presses his lips to his own. He has already made new memories in this place, with this man. Perhaps it was all worth it, he decides, letting the simplicity and comforting ease of the thought fill him and refusing to consider it further than that.
He leaves the chair and they retire inside the cabin. They finish off their wine and go to the bedroom. It is on the tip of his tongue to ask Thomas the question, âDo you think it was all worth it?â but he stops himself. He is too tired. Instead he holds Thomas close, face buried in the crook of his neck. He lets all thoughts drop away. He can think them tomorrow. Or the day after. He breathes in the faint aroma of soap and ink from Thomas. He thinks of peaches and falls asleep.
