Chapter Text
The living room of John's house buzzed with warm conversation. The light from the fireplace cast soft reflections on glasses, armchairs, and smiles. Dagny was telling a story with her usual irony, and John laughed, tilting his head slightly. Francisco stood nearby, wearing his familiar faint smile, leaning back and brushing shoulders with Hank, who stood behind him, lazily wrapping an arm around his waist.
Hank's hand was warm, steady, full of unspoken closeness. His fingers lightly touched Francisco's stomach — not possessive, not jealous, just... belonging. A freedom they had chosen in each other.
Francisco laughed at something Dagny said and took a sip from his glass.
Then Ragnar appeared beside him.
"Try this," he said, handing Francisco a slender glass of amber rum. "Old stock from Cuba. Worth raiding their ships for, I'd say."
Francisco took the glass, and for a moment, his fingers trembled.
He remembered.
It had been rum — back then, years ago. He and John had sat together in silence, after a long conversation, after long, wordless glances. And he had kissed John. Gently. Slowly.
Rum was on his lips. John hadn't pulled away. On the contrary.
His hands had slid into Francisco's hair, and in the stillness, a sound had escaped him — low, restrained, but real. Francisco had felt himself lose balance — not from the alcohol, no. From the truth. From want. From the fact that it was John.
And then a voice had come from the doorway:
"Are you two still alive?"
Ragnar. Of course. The rescuer. Or the interruption.
Now Francisco looked at John again, and John was looking back.
They both knew. Neither had forgotten.
Hank's hand gently tightened on his side, not questioning — just touching.
Francisco turned his head slightly to meet his eyes, and smiled softly.
He wasn't hiding anything. No one had ever asked.
He took a sip of the rum.
The taste was the same.
But now, Hank was the one standing beside him.