CHAPTER EIGHT. Once Upon A Sailboat

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            There was barely much air to breathe in the haste of soirée preparations. The house creaks under the stress of the looming evening filled with festivities, a slow groan that elicits the hairs to prickle along the skin of those who inhabit the premises.

            Cassidy does not overhear, for he's too enthralled by the creak of the wooden pier. He recalls the scent of masculinity. The gruffness of a voice that haunts him. The pained, yet timelessly beautiful expression of forbiddance.

            He gnaws on a piece of sugarless wax, flavored pepsin. Nervousness eats away at him, but the thought of Killian satiates the dull ache.

            He's reminded of the phone call he'd made when he returned to his bedchamber the night prior. To Lorna. She was delighted to hear from him, though hesitant. To hurt such a kind soul arouses that steady throb in his stomach. It is carrying up toward his chest, now.

            He couldn't think of her. Not now. Instead, he turns on his heels and makes a fleeting dash toward the Chevalier mansion. He had to see him again. Satisfy that ache.

Josette had been staring at Jack Shepard for approximately twenty-two minutes. She just couldn't help herself. He wasn't towing a shovel as normal, but cleansing the stained glass arranged into fours on the doorway leading to the Chef's quarters.

He did it often, but she figured he'd chosen today of all days by dint of the celebration set for eventide.

She threads her pearled fingertips through her ocher tresses, each motion meticulous. Her eyes do not stray from the fellow.

He doesn't cease in his work, even with the sensation of her eyes on him. He feels it like a feather to his skin. The sound of Charles Chevalier voice reverberates through the interior. It strikes a chord in his spine, forcing him to stiffen and stand upright.

Josette watches the change in his shoulders, how they harden. She grips the wrought iron balcony railing. His shoulders sag when he senses her eyes depart from him. It is then that he raises his crystalline eyes and gives his neck a slight twist so that he is able to make out the empty space for which she used to inhabit.

He could not possibly be besotted with the woman. It would be his certain demise, he thought as Charles' voice grew nearer.

He could not leave his mother with another grave to dig. He could not let her lose another son.

Killian Alcott is within his quarters. Cassidy graces the hallway and makes his presence known with a single knock, adamant on taking the boat out. It is the only thing he could think of in such a haste to get the man alone.

Killian rises to stand, his quill abandoned with a droplet of ink still adhered to the tip. He preferred a traditional approach to sudden bursts of literary motivation. He had Cassidy to thank for it.

When he tugs his chamber door inward, said catalyst is there before him. Like a mist and a muse combined. A lively apparition. His brows upraise, shock bracketing his fallen mouth.

"Cassidy," he breathes. It's light and airy. Cassidy quite enjoys the sound of his name on the writer's lips. An illicit melody.

Cassidy is all boyish grins. "Care to accompany me sailing, Mr. Alcott?"

"Killian," he corrects casually. It has become visceral. A force of habit. His fingertips graze the nape of his neck apprehensively. "I suffer a sour stomach on the waters."

If there is one thing to note where Cassidy Chevalier is concerned, he is steadfast in nature. "No worries, I have a fix for the nausea." he says with a smirk. He reveals a pill box to the nomad. "Ettie, she fell ill recently. Food allergy. Doctor Ambrose, our personal family physician, he prescribed her thalidomide."

Killian counters by plunging his hand into his own pocket to retrieve a mint. He lifts it to Cassidy's eye level, "This will do."

The ends of Cassidy's lips stretch outward. He flashes Killian a toothy smile, to which Killian is positively indebted. He could never grow tired of such a sight. Cassidy tilts his head, urging Killian into the hallway. Killian has no other choice but to follow.

The pair journey toward the dock to retrieve the boat mostly wordlessly, which Cassidy undoubtedly pilots. They sail outward a decent ways, so far that the mansion is a hillock haze.

The sailing ship, Philomena, was constructed of aged oak and had masts as tall as it was. Sails ranging in color from dove grey to white replaced its once-green foliage. One experienced a sensation of peace that may be likened to a meadow upon viewing the lush, deep, almost dark timbers. But in the years that followed, the aroma would be of the open sea, which is constantly changing and moving beneath the ebbing clouds, rather than wildflowers.

Cassidy slips his hand into the pocket of his trousers, revealing a small wrap of reefer after he steadies his cherished watercraft.

Amused, Killian remarks, "You're going to operate this vessel under the influence of herb?"

A smile lines Cassidy's lips, "Indeed I am, Mr. Alcott." Killian yields just this once.

Cassidy unveils a box of matches from the depths of his trouser pockets. He flicks the head of the match against the striker. With one brush, the drug is ignited. Cassidy then takes a long pull, before offering it to Killian, who declines.

"It will relax those shoulders, Mr. Alcott." he attests with a nod toward the man's tense frame.

A lopsided grin emerges on Killian's lips as Cassidy ambles toward him, a smirk of his own latched to his flesh-colored lips.

"I have a method to lighten the high. Are you opposed to it?" Cassidy asks.

Killian doesn't say anything, but has a playful gleam in his eye. Cassidy knocks Killian's knee with his own, to which Killian parts his legs, allowing Cassidy to step between the middle.

He takes a swift drag, then leans down. He takes his thumb and circles the center of Killian's lips. Killian parts them slightly, granting Cassidy the ability to exhale a string of smoke into his mouth. Their lips brush. Their eyes lock. And then the moment passes.

Cassidy retreats thereafter, gathering himself by edging toward the other side of the boat. He glances back at Killian over his shoulder, finding the man entranced by him as well. They both smile.

Killian tosses his head back a bit, lying his hands flat against his chest; entwined. "Is cannabis your only indulgent, Mr. Chevalier?"

"Off the record?" Cassidy replies with the arch of one single brow.

"You have my word."

Cassidy wriggles one shoulder, "I've dabbled in pearl, but found that it struck a wrathful fire in me. I became my father." The last sentence hangs in the air with irrefutable tension.

"You and your father have a strained relationship, so it seems." It departs from Killian's mouth as a statement. A reiteration of sorts.

A wry laugh escapes from Cassidy's larynx, "Your observations are without error, Killian."

Killian pauses for a beat before asking, "Is there reasoning for it?"

After throwing the partially smoked joint into the ocean, Cassidy pivots on his heel and starts in Killian's direction.

His gaze wanders as he sits across from him. "My existence is a nuisance to him. I am the object of his furies," he explains.

Killian remains silent, watching the saddened man with the boyish frown bordering his full lips. He straightens his leg and uses the tip of his loafer to bump Cassidy's exposed ankle. All he wants is for the bloke to feel valued, not for the intent of obtaining his attention. Still, he possesses it. Cassidy looks up at the Englishman, allowing his gaze fall on him.

"Am I a nuisance to you, Mr. Alcott?" Cassidy whispers, the words forced out in one terrified breath.

They look fixedly at one another, silent for a short stretch. They take that time to embrace the appearance of the other. Cassidy eyes the loose top button of Killian's button down, the silver chain that lies behind the fabric. There is a patch of dark hair there, just below his collarbone, in the center of his chest. A vacant expanse of alabaster skin. His mouth begins to water. He swipes his tongue along the outside seam of his lower lip.

Killian closely observes as the man's lips part and the shell-pink organ darts between them. His gaze moves down to Cassidy's hand, which is clutching the side of his own knee with white-knuckled fingers. The tanned skin there forges around the thick bands of veins that trail upward and disappear beneath the sleeve of his patterned leisure shirt.

Killian draws a breath after being rendered short-winded, "Not in the slightest, Cassidy. I'm afraid you are the object of all my desires."