all I can do (PG, Adam/Tommy)
Title: all I can do
Author: etharei
Fandom: Glam RPS
Pairing: Adam/Tommy
Rating: PG
Summary: Finally, "somebody threw you into the swamp and left you for drowned," replied the man, his speech clear and flawless. AU set in early 20th century New Orleans.
Disclaimer: I don't own the individuals mentioned herein, and no profit was made in the writing or posting of this piece of fiction.
Warning: allusions to drowning
Notes: I apologize in advance for all historical and technical inaccuracies in this fic. Written for the 'Drowning' prompt on my hc-bingo bingo card. Title from lyrics of "Voodoo" by Adam Lambert. Many thanks to my lovely beta janescott ♥
all I can do
Light played oddly before his eyes, a distant glow bordered by rippling tones of deep blue, with wispy specks floating this way and that. He wanted to reach out and touch them, capture them, like fireflies around his mother's dress, but he found his hand to be a very long way away and not inclined to obey him. He was cold, though not as terribly as he had been that time he'd fallen into the frozen creek behind their country house, and his body was as heavy as a block of ice.
It began softly, just at the edge of hearing. Some part of him sensed that time no longer held meaning, so that the volume of the music grew almost imperceptibly. For a while, he assumed it to be part of this numb dreamscape he'd found himself in. No voice in life could sound notes so pure; he felt an odd sense of privilege to be granted this preview.
Then it occurred to him that he might be dead, and this was the herald of unseen angels bearing him up onto Heaven.
Only, he was quite sure that his final destination would not be the blessed gates of Above, but rather the brimstone causeways of Below; his father had been quite assured of it. Even now he still felt the keen bite of that Enemy, skepticism, and could not summon any words of final prayer.
The singing grew louder, louder, until Tommy realized that it was not coming from around him but from very far away, as if trying to pierce the vicious substance that held Tommy in its embrace. It grew so loud that Tommy began to feel his very bones vibrating to it, and there began a deep rhythm that beat to match the wordless tune. He knew not what to make of his body's unexpected participation in the song, but he was too intrigued in the line of melody to be troubled about it.
The song expanded and pounded and breathed, breathe, live, all his being thrumming and caught in its sinuations. Finally, a last mighty ripple of sound hit Tommy like a physical blow, and he cried out from a sudden, sharp, inescapable pressure.
Swamp muck. It was slimy, choking, utterly vile, and it seemed to pour out of him like a river, the watery egress searing his insides like fire. He coughed and hacked and vomited for an unknown length of time, surrendering to his body's instinctive ejection of the foul-tasting matter, and afterwards lay weakly on the hard surface, likely covered in his own mess but too exhausted and focused on each new breath to care.
He must have lost consciousness, because the next time he returned to awareness, he was relatively dry and ensconced in comfortable warmth. There was a pillow under his head, a warm blanket wrapped around him, and a thin sheet sparing him at least the chill of the hard floor. The room he was in was mostly dark, with a small fire crackling at the far end.
There was a man watching him. Tommy felt a flare of alarm, but his body was still mostly numb, and the likely explanation for his situation was that the stranger had provided him with shelter and warmth. He considered sitting up a little, but all his muscles were terribly weak and even the effort of shifting positions left his heart pounding.
He took a deep breath and tried to speak, managing a raspy, "Um, hello?"
"Hello," said the man, like an echo. He was sitting against the wall, where the shadow of a rough-hewn support beam kept most of him hidden.
Tommy cleared his throat, making a face at the disgusting taste lingering in his mouth. "What happened to me?" There was no answer for a few minutes, and Tommy wondered if this was an escaped slave, or an adventurous settler from a place that did not speak English. Not for the first time, he wished he'd paid more attention to his French.
Finally, "somebody threw you into the swamp and left you for drowned," replied the man, his speech clear and flawless.
"Oh." Tommy blinked. He remembered being in the swamp, sinking, struggling to escape. "Are you sure it was... perhaps I fell off by accident?"
Somehow, even though he couldn't make out any details of the man's face, Tommy felt the amused look being directed at him. "An accident that received a great deal of assistance, then. And you managed to fall into sack first before you fell overboard."
"But-" More details materialized. He hadn't registered the sack until it had been pulled down over him, the burlap scratchy against his skin. "They were my friends! I had done them no wrong that I know of. And if I had, I would have gladly made amends. Why would they wish me harm?"
"That is for you to worry about," said the man. "And clearly they sought to do more than harm. They wanted you dead, little one. I find it best to accept hard truths early on."
Tommy frowned, trying to come up with plausible reasons for why the young men whose invitation to "tour the bayou" he'd blithely accepted had, with no warning, tried to kill him. His face must have shown his distress, because the man sighed. "How old are you, fair lordling?"
"The name is Ratliff, sir." Tommy scowled at the thatched roof far above. "And I'm not as young as I look." He gave his age.
There was a pause from the other man. "Oh. You are older than I."
"Believe me, you are not the first to think me younger." He stole a glance; the man, insofar as he could judge when all he could see was a dark outline, now seemed somewhat embarrassed. "It is a constant annoyance, though all the women I know are dreadfully jealous of it."
There was silence for a while, at least in terms of conversation; the world beyond their shelter carried layer upon layer of sounds. Tommy found the cacophony remarkably soothing. His father's house was near enough to the city that they were subjected more to the rhythm of civilization than to the tangled melodies of Nature. He felt as if he was in the belly of the latter, now, yet the fire and the roof gave the illusion of separation.
"Your family," spoke the unseen man again, his voice almost tentative. "Will they be looking for you?"
"For how long was I asleep?" Tommy looked around him again. His eyes were adjusting to the flickering light.
The shadow shifted. "A few hours. Dawn is not far off."
Tommy tried to think through the residual fog in his mind. The most recent memories, right before he hit the water, remained out of his grasp. But he did recall the earlier parts of the day: escaping to Mr. Pittman's music shop before his mother and father awoke, reluctantly returning home to prepare for the party. Doing his best to be sociable, watching his older brother (and their father's heir) holding court near the fountain, drinking more of the excellent vintage than he ought. There had been so many people. And it was so far removed from the familiar society of London, where he'd had at least a passing acquaintance with everyone. This strange new land... he liked the land well enough, at least. He was not skilled with remembering faces, and could grasp only a faint suggestion of a conversation involving a boat and the bayou.
"I cannot remember," he said aloud, exhaling in defeat. "Somebody tried to kill me, and I cannot remember."
"At least you are alive to find out who it was?"
There was that. Tommy turned to his side, propping his head up with an arm, to face his mysterious rescuer. "And to whom do I owe my life, good sir?"
The man chuckled, and for some reason the thought came to Tommy that the sound would be lovely if it'd had real joy behind it. "Call me Adam."
It felt most improper, which would have endeared Tommy to this stranger to begin with. And the man had saved his life. "Thank you, Adam," he said, trying to convey his sincerity through his voice. "I am in your debt. Perhaps... when I return home, I can arrange for some form of reward or compensation?"
"It is no matter." The shadow of a hand waved dismissively. "I was nearby and I witnessed your struggles," replied the man. "Despite certain tales about us folk who choose to live apart from society, I dislike violence and needless death. It was little enough trouble to pull you out and wait for you to wake."
It was said so matter-of-factly, in clear tones that rang of good breeding and education, that for several moments Tommy believed him. Except… he remembered the singing, down in the dreamless dark. Some instinct told him that he was in the water a terribly long time, the swamp having gotten into his lungs and his stomach. He'd been dead, or as good as, and this man had brought him back; he was sure that it had, in fact, taken a great deal of effort.
Exhausted, he drifted off again with these thoughts chasing around his head.
Sunlight on his eyes woke him. In the daylight, what he'd thought to be a rude little shelter turned out to be a sturdy little hut: open on two sides, made of wood, vines, and living branches from two supporting trees. A lot of it was resting on the roots of one large tree, and the water of the swamp sloshed only a few feet below the floor. Birds sang cheerfully amid nearby branches. Tommy looked twice at a thick brown vine that suddenly moved; and saw large reptilian eyes regarding him impassively before the whole slithered up another branch.
There was food laid out for him, much to his surprise. Pieces of meat skewered on long sticks, very thoroughly cooked, on a fat leaf for a makeshift plate. There was also a cracked cup next to a pitcher of clean water, half of which Tommy downed right away. He did not bother to imagine where the meat could have come from, and simply ate one bite after another. The texture was unfamiliar, somewhat gamey and with an odd flavor, but his ravenous stomach welcomed the food. A small orange, sweet and ripe, rounded off the meal. Tommy finished the water and went to sit on his little pallet.
Adam reappeared soon after. He arrived at the hut with nary a sound, and seemed to hesitate when he saw that Tommy was awake and waiting. After a moment, he gave only a nod of greeting, setting down a net filled with... stuff... and a sodden burlap sack. The latter, Tommy realized, was likely the one that had nearly been his tomb the night before. Adam did not notice him staring, instead taking a drink from a tub of water in the corner and picking up a worn leather satchel. He went around the hut, inspecting various areas and tinkering with unidentifiable items hanging from the ceiling that Tommy had assumed were only for decoration.
In the daylight, up close, Adam was... nothing Tommy expected, yet as familiar as an old friend long missed. Between darkness, fatigue, and a foggy mind, he had not bothered to form any particular image of his rescuer that could now be challenged by the reality of daylight. Adam was tall, dark-haired, and arrayed in such a peculiar manner of garments, ornaments, and paint that Tommy felt he'd need a day to describe every detail. The whole, however, was extraordinarily... enchanting. One scarcely knew where to begin to look. Pendants and beads covered his chest where his shirt was open; vines, embroidered and real, patterned the trousers that clung like a second skin to his legs; a large blue teardrop outlined in black accented one eye. He looked alien and ridiculous and beautiful. A fly buzzing on his chin made Tommy aware of his gaping - he promptly shut his mouth, though he could not tear his eyes away just yet.
On anybody else, Tommy would have thought them a peacock, a gaudy hedonist, or perhaps insane. But the one thing that had left an impression on him from their brief exchange the night before was Adam's voice. Not just the pleasant timbre of it, the familiar mode of speech - there'd been intelligence, quickness of thought, an edge of wit, the ghost of humor. Perhaps that pre-disposed him to thinking well of Adam - along with, of course, the unquestionable fact that he owed Adam his life - but he thought he could see those traces of Adam's character in his appearance. He'd dressed this way deliberately, had applied the paint and chosen the accessories with care, and self-assurance oozed out of every movement, as if he believed that he was dressed exactly as he ought to be. The only possible reaction, Tommy felt, was respect.
"Mr. Ratliff," he spoke finally, in a voice that would not have sounded out of place among the cream of New Orleans society, "If you are ready, I will escort you to the edge of the bayou."
Tommy suspected the providence of the boat tethered to a tree a short distance from the hut, for it looked a little too clean for the damp air of the swamp, but said nothing as he boarded. He was too busy sneaking glances at Adam, fascination only growing with every minute. He knew he should pay more attention to his surroundings, but every view of the swamp looked as indistinguishable as the next, and inevitably his eyes would find their way back to the lean, glittering figure on the other end of the boat. Adam paddled only part of the time, and preferred to move them along using a long pole that he used to push off trees and rocks.
Are those real feathers in his hair? Tommy shook his head at himself and tried once again to get his bearings. He doubted he'd be able to find even the hut now. He turned to ask some question of Adam, and caught a flash of glittering eyes before Adam's head jerked guiltily away.
Tommy couldn't explain why the discovery that Adam had been looking at him in return quickened his pulse. It made him feel less guilty, though he also thought that Adam would not dress the way he did if he didn't welcome an acceptable amount of staring. He began to lengthen his looks, allowing his eyes to linger; not at all a hardship, when every glance at Adam seemed to yield a fascinating new detail. A tooth-shaped jewel hanging from his ear! It seemed to him that the boat was moving slower, encountering more rocks or roots that had to be circled.
Eventually, Adam's eyes met Tommy's again, and this time their gazes locked for a long, weightless moment.
"You are not afraid of me," said Adam, a statement rather than a question.
Tommy answered regardless, "Of course not." Why would he be? "You saved my life."
"I'm a pirate, you know. A rogue and a thief. Cursed by civilized people." Adam affected a villainous expression, or tried to, but the result made Tommy laugh. The burst of sound startled a nearby bird, who scoldingly chirped at him before fluttering away. Adam did not seem at all put out by the response, one corner of his mouth twitching. "A gypsy. A witch. I prey on the virtue of respectable young men and women. I rob the graves of the dead. I steal babes from the nursery and make deals with the devil."
"You pulled me out of the water," interrupted Tommy. "You saved me when I would have drowned. I would not care about all the rest, if they were true- which they are not."
"But they are. At least, some of them." In a blink, without the slightest shifting of the boat, Adam was looming over him, his face only inches away, the fringes of his purple coat brushing over Tommy's thighs. Tommy became suddenly aware of how much larger Adam was, taller and broader, and the difference was even more pronounced with Tommy seated and Adam half-standing. How the slender boat didn't so much as rock, Tommy couldn't say. "I am a creature of the bayou, Mr. Ratliff, and you are on my land. I could exact... payment."
There was a heaviness in Adam's gaze that sent a shiver down Tommy's spine. Even then, when fear would have been a very natural response, Tommy could feel none. Indeed, he felt no desire to move away from Adam, but instead caught himself leaning forward, closing the awkward distance. The world took on a strange sharpness; his body seemed only partially under his control. It was Adam who shifted back, eyes wide. Not thinking, because actual thoughts would question the loud pounding under his ribs, Tommy moved forward, craning his neck up, a deliberate glide until soft, damp lips met his, a quiet sigh.
The bayou was quiet about them. Adam's eyes were blue as the clear sky. Tommy felt a little as if he was waking up from a dream, the world rushing back to fill his senses; the bright sunlight, the stiffness of his ruined evening clothes, the miasma of the swamp.
"That," Adam's voice cracked; he cleared his throat. "That will... that will do." He appeared to struggle for more words, gave up, and returned to guiding the boat. They continued moving along; there was a faint splash from behind them, inviting Tommy to peer over the side of the boat. A large, reptilian tail swished occasionally, breaking the surface of the water, and one could make out the outline of the crocodile's head as it occasionally nudged the keel.
Adam brought him to the edge of the bayou, where an abandoned house was slowly being reclaimed by the woods. He gave Tommy directions to the nearest habitation, where he would be able to find a way back home. Tommy nodded, and dutifully repeated the directions when Adam looked doubtful. Adam grudgingly acceded that he was correct, and handed him a satchel of clean water.
"Well," Adam said, finally, turning to leave, "good-bye, then."
"Wait," Tommy interjected, then mentally swore at himself for not preparing what to say next. But Adam was waiting for him. Why, he wanted to ask, why had Adam saved him? "My sister... reads these books, and she's always sighing about, um, giving a lock of her hair as tokens. But, I thought... hair is easy to lose, and yours is shorter than hers, so, um. I wanted to ask - might I have a feather?"
Adam stared at him for a long moment, while Tommy worried at his bottom lip. Then Adam smiled, a truly happy smile, and - the brightness of it left Tommy a little out of breath, his mind giving up on thought altogether. It was another, different face of Adam's; yet at the same time, of a piece with all the rest: the song in the water, the protector shadow, the clever eccentric, the man of the bayou.
A deep blue feather was carefully selected and detached from Adam’s thick, trailing mane, and Adam trailed the tip of it over his lips, his eyes distant and unreadable.
“For remembrance,” said Adam, gaze never wavering from Tommy. “For revelation. And for a safe return.”
The feather pressed into Tommy's hand. Tommy held it carefully as he stood on the rickety pier and watched the boat float back towards the trees, gliding along without rowers. Adam looked back once, and then a light mist and the shadow of trees swallowed him, and he was gone.
It was a little disappointing to appear at his father’s house after a near-death experience and find that he hadn't yet been missed. Most of the household was still recovering from the previous night's affair. As they were a little ways out of New Orleans, some of the guests were staying the weekend, and of these there were a few others who were yet unaccounted for. His mother admonished him for destroying his clothes and sent him off to bathe without bothering to hear the story he'd cobbled together on the journey home.
If Tommy could not precisely recall who had brought him to the bayou and tossed him overboard, the sudden paling of two of Mr. Sigur’s sons upon seeing him at dinner was proof enough. He did his best to appear as disinterested in them as he did everyone else. Nobody seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, save his sister, who knew him too well.
He would, he knew, find out the why and the what for eventually. He slipped a finger under his vest and felt the feather he had tucked into the lining; it was difficult to feel wholly angry at the attempt on his life, when it had introduced Adam to him.
That night, he fell into bed feeling all the aches and pains that his body had hitherto postponed. Sleep came swiftly, as soon as he had tucked the feather under his pillow; and then he was back under a roof made of rustling branches, stars glinting between gaps, Adam's soft singing borne by the breeze off the bayou.
Author: etharei
Fandom: Glam RPS
Pairing: Adam/Tommy
Rating: PG
Summary: Finally, "somebody threw you into the swamp and left you for drowned," replied the man, his speech clear and flawless. AU set in early 20th century New Orleans.
Disclaimer: I don't own the individuals mentioned herein, and no profit was made in the writing or posting of this piece of fiction.
Warning: allusions to drowning
Notes: I apologize in advance for all historical and technical inaccuracies in this fic. Written for the 'Drowning' prompt on my hc-bingo bingo card. Title from lyrics of "Voodoo" by Adam Lambert. Many thanks to my lovely beta janescott ♥
all I can do
Light played oddly before his eyes, a distant glow bordered by rippling tones of deep blue, with wispy specks floating this way and that. He wanted to reach out and touch them, capture them, like fireflies around his mother's dress, but he found his hand to be a very long way away and not inclined to obey him. He was cold, though not as terribly as he had been that time he'd fallen into the frozen creek behind their country house, and his body was as heavy as a block of ice.
It began softly, just at the edge of hearing. Some part of him sensed that time no longer held meaning, so that the volume of the music grew almost imperceptibly. For a while, he assumed it to be part of this numb dreamscape he'd found himself in. No voice in life could sound notes so pure; he felt an odd sense of privilege to be granted this preview.
Then it occurred to him that he might be dead, and this was the herald of unseen angels bearing him up onto Heaven.
Only, he was quite sure that his final destination would not be the blessed gates of Above, but rather the brimstone causeways of Below; his father had been quite assured of it. Even now he still felt the keen bite of that Enemy, skepticism, and could not summon any words of final prayer.
The singing grew louder, louder, until Tommy realized that it was not coming from around him but from very far away, as if trying to pierce the vicious substance that held Tommy in its embrace. It grew so loud that Tommy began to feel his very bones vibrating to it, and there began a deep rhythm that beat to match the wordless tune. He knew not what to make of his body's unexpected participation in the song, but he was too intrigued in the line of melody to be troubled about it.
The song expanded and pounded and breathed, breathe, live, all his being thrumming and caught in its sinuations. Finally, a last mighty ripple of sound hit Tommy like a physical blow, and he cried out from a sudden, sharp, inescapable pressure.
Swamp muck. It was slimy, choking, utterly vile, and it seemed to pour out of him like a river, the watery egress searing his insides like fire. He coughed and hacked and vomited for an unknown length of time, surrendering to his body's instinctive ejection of the foul-tasting matter, and afterwards lay weakly on the hard surface, likely covered in his own mess but too exhausted and focused on each new breath to care.
He must have lost consciousness, because the next time he returned to awareness, he was relatively dry and ensconced in comfortable warmth. There was a pillow under his head, a warm blanket wrapped around him, and a thin sheet sparing him at least the chill of the hard floor. The room he was in was mostly dark, with a small fire crackling at the far end.
There was a man watching him. Tommy felt a flare of alarm, but his body was still mostly numb, and the likely explanation for his situation was that the stranger had provided him with shelter and warmth. He considered sitting up a little, but all his muscles were terribly weak and even the effort of shifting positions left his heart pounding.
He took a deep breath and tried to speak, managing a raspy, "Um, hello?"
"Hello," said the man, like an echo. He was sitting against the wall, where the shadow of a rough-hewn support beam kept most of him hidden.
Tommy cleared his throat, making a face at the disgusting taste lingering in his mouth. "What happened to me?" There was no answer for a few minutes, and Tommy wondered if this was an escaped slave, or an adventurous settler from a place that did not speak English. Not for the first time, he wished he'd paid more attention to his French.
Finally, "somebody threw you into the swamp and left you for drowned," replied the man, his speech clear and flawless.
"Oh." Tommy blinked. He remembered being in the swamp, sinking, struggling to escape. "Are you sure it was... perhaps I fell off by accident?"
Somehow, even though he couldn't make out any details of the man's face, Tommy felt the amused look being directed at him. "An accident that received a great deal of assistance, then. And you managed to fall into sack first before you fell overboard."
"But-" More details materialized. He hadn't registered the sack until it had been pulled down over him, the burlap scratchy against his skin. "They were my friends! I had done them no wrong that I know of. And if I had, I would have gladly made amends. Why would they wish me harm?"
"That is for you to worry about," said the man. "And clearly they sought to do more than harm. They wanted you dead, little one. I find it best to accept hard truths early on."
Tommy frowned, trying to come up with plausible reasons for why the young men whose invitation to "tour the bayou" he'd blithely accepted had, with no warning, tried to kill him. His face must have shown his distress, because the man sighed. "How old are you, fair lordling?"
"The name is Ratliff, sir." Tommy scowled at the thatched roof far above. "And I'm not as young as I look." He gave his age.
There was a pause from the other man. "Oh. You are older than I."
"Believe me, you are not the first to think me younger." He stole a glance; the man, insofar as he could judge when all he could see was a dark outline, now seemed somewhat embarrassed. "It is a constant annoyance, though all the women I know are dreadfully jealous of it."
There was silence for a while, at least in terms of conversation; the world beyond their shelter carried layer upon layer of sounds. Tommy found the cacophony remarkably soothing. His father's house was near enough to the city that they were subjected more to the rhythm of civilization than to the tangled melodies of Nature. He felt as if he was in the belly of the latter, now, yet the fire and the roof gave the illusion of separation.
"Your family," spoke the unseen man again, his voice almost tentative. "Will they be looking for you?"
"For how long was I asleep?" Tommy looked around him again. His eyes were adjusting to the flickering light.
The shadow shifted. "A few hours. Dawn is not far off."
Tommy tried to think through the residual fog in his mind. The most recent memories, right before he hit the water, remained out of his grasp. But he did recall the earlier parts of the day: escaping to Mr. Pittman's music shop before his mother and father awoke, reluctantly returning home to prepare for the party. Doing his best to be sociable, watching his older brother (and their father's heir) holding court near the fountain, drinking more of the excellent vintage than he ought. There had been so many people. And it was so far removed from the familiar society of London, where he'd had at least a passing acquaintance with everyone. This strange new land... he liked the land well enough, at least. He was not skilled with remembering faces, and could grasp only a faint suggestion of a conversation involving a boat and the bayou.
"I cannot remember," he said aloud, exhaling in defeat. "Somebody tried to kill me, and I cannot remember."
"At least you are alive to find out who it was?"
There was that. Tommy turned to his side, propping his head up with an arm, to face his mysterious rescuer. "And to whom do I owe my life, good sir?"
The man chuckled, and for some reason the thought came to Tommy that the sound would be lovely if it'd had real joy behind it. "Call me Adam."
It felt most improper, which would have endeared Tommy to this stranger to begin with. And the man had saved his life. "Thank you, Adam," he said, trying to convey his sincerity through his voice. "I am in your debt. Perhaps... when I return home, I can arrange for some form of reward or compensation?"
"It is no matter." The shadow of a hand waved dismissively. "I was nearby and I witnessed your struggles," replied the man. "Despite certain tales about us folk who choose to live apart from society, I dislike violence and needless death. It was little enough trouble to pull you out and wait for you to wake."
It was said so matter-of-factly, in clear tones that rang of good breeding and education, that for several moments Tommy believed him. Except… he remembered the singing, down in the dreamless dark. Some instinct told him that he was in the water a terribly long time, the swamp having gotten into his lungs and his stomach. He'd been dead, or as good as, and this man had brought him back; he was sure that it had, in fact, taken a great deal of effort.
Exhausted, he drifted off again with these thoughts chasing around his head.
Sunlight on his eyes woke him. In the daylight, what he'd thought to be a rude little shelter turned out to be a sturdy little hut: open on two sides, made of wood, vines, and living branches from two supporting trees. A lot of it was resting on the roots of one large tree, and the water of the swamp sloshed only a few feet below the floor. Birds sang cheerfully amid nearby branches. Tommy looked twice at a thick brown vine that suddenly moved; and saw large reptilian eyes regarding him impassively before the whole slithered up another branch.
There was food laid out for him, much to his surprise. Pieces of meat skewered on long sticks, very thoroughly cooked, on a fat leaf for a makeshift plate. There was also a cracked cup next to a pitcher of clean water, half of which Tommy downed right away. He did not bother to imagine where the meat could have come from, and simply ate one bite after another. The texture was unfamiliar, somewhat gamey and with an odd flavor, but his ravenous stomach welcomed the food. A small orange, sweet and ripe, rounded off the meal. Tommy finished the water and went to sit on his little pallet.
Adam reappeared soon after. He arrived at the hut with nary a sound, and seemed to hesitate when he saw that Tommy was awake and waiting. After a moment, he gave only a nod of greeting, setting down a net filled with... stuff... and a sodden burlap sack. The latter, Tommy realized, was likely the one that had nearly been his tomb the night before. Adam did not notice him staring, instead taking a drink from a tub of water in the corner and picking up a worn leather satchel. He went around the hut, inspecting various areas and tinkering with unidentifiable items hanging from the ceiling that Tommy had assumed were only for decoration.
In the daylight, up close, Adam was... nothing Tommy expected, yet as familiar as an old friend long missed. Between darkness, fatigue, and a foggy mind, he had not bothered to form any particular image of his rescuer that could now be challenged by the reality of daylight. Adam was tall, dark-haired, and arrayed in such a peculiar manner of garments, ornaments, and paint that Tommy felt he'd need a day to describe every detail. The whole, however, was extraordinarily... enchanting. One scarcely knew where to begin to look. Pendants and beads covered his chest where his shirt was open; vines, embroidered and real, patterned the trousers that clung like a second skin to his legs; a large blue teardrop outlined in black accented one eye. He looked alien and ridiculous and beautiful. A fly buzzing on his chin made Tommy aware of his gaping - he promptly shut his mouth, though he could not tear his eyes away just yet.
On anybody else, Tommy would have thought them a peacock, a gaudy hedonist, or perhaps insane. But the one thing that had left an impression on him from their brief exchange the night before was Adam's voice. Not just the pleasant timbre of it, the familiar mode of speech - there'd been intelligence, quickness of thought, an edge of wit, the ghost of humor. Perhaps that pre-disposed him to thinking well of Adam - along with, of course, the unquestionable fact that he owed Adam his life - but he thought he could see those traces of Adam's character in his appearance. He'd dressed this way deliberately, had applied the paint and chosen the accessories with care, and self-assurance oozed out of every movement, as if he believed that he was dressed exactly as he ought to be. The only possible reaction, Tommy felt, was respect.
"Mr. Ratliff," he spoke finally, in a voice that would not have sounded out of place among the cream of New Orleans society, "If you are ready, I will escort you to the edge of the bayou."
Tommy suspected the providence of the boat tethered to a tree a short distance from the hut, for it looked a little too clean for the damp air of the swamp, but said nothing as he boarded. He was too busy sneaking glances at Adam, fascination only growing with every minute. He knew he should pay more attention to his surroundings, but every view of the swamp looked as indistinguishable as the next, and inevitably his eyes would find their way back to the lean, glittering figure on the other end of the boat. Adam paddled only part of the time, and preferred to move them along using a long pole that he used to push off trees and rocks.
Are those real feathers in his hair? Tommy shook his head at himself and tried once again to get his bearings. He doubted he'd be able to find even the hut now. He turned to ask some question of Adam, and caught a flash of glittering eyes before Adam's head jerked guiltily away.
Tommy couldn't explain why the discovery that Adam had been looking at him in return quickened his pulse. It made him feel less guilty, though he also thought that Adam would not dress the way he did if he didn't welcome an acceptable amount of staring. He began to lengthen his looks, allowing his eyes to linger; not at all a hardship, when every glance at Adam seemed to yield a fascinating new detail. A tooth-shaped jewel hanging from his ear! It seemed to him that the boat was moving slower, encountering more rocks or roots that had to be circled.
Eventually, Adam's eyes met Tommy's again, and this time their gazes locked for a long, weightless moment.
"You are not afraid of me," said Adam, a statement rather than a question.
Tommy answered regardless, "Of course not." Why would he be? "You saved my life."
"I'm a pirate, you know. A rogue and a thief. Cursed by civilized people." Adam affected a villainous expression, or tried to, but the result made Tommy laugh. The burst of sound startled a nearby bird, who scoldingly chirped at him before fluttering away. Adam did not seem at all put out by the response, one corner of his mouth twitching. "A gypsy. A witch. I prey on the virtue of respectable young men and women. I rob the graves of the dead. I steal babes from the nursery and make deals with the devil."
"You pulled me out of the water," interrupted Tommy. "You saved me when I would have drowned. I would not care about all the rest, if they were true- which they are not."
"But they are. At least, some of them." In a blink, without the slightest shifting of the boat, Adam was looming over him, his face only inches away, the fringes of his purple coat brushing over Tommy's thighs. Tommy became suddenly aware of how much larger Adam was, taller and broader, and the difference was even more pronounced with Tommy seated and Adam half-standing. How the slender boat didn't so much as rock, Tommy couldn't say. "I am a creature of the bayou, Mr. Ratliff, and you are on my land. I could exact... payment."
There was a heaviness in Adam's gaze that sent a shiver down Tommy's spine. Even then, when fear would have been a very natural response, Tommy could feel none. Indeed, he felt no desire to move away from Adam, but instead caught himself leaning forward, closing the awkward distance. The world took on a strange sharpness; his body seemed only partially under his control. It was Adam who shifted back, eyes wide. Not thinking, because actual thoughts would question the loud pounding under his ribs, Tommy moved forward, craning his neck up, a deliberate glide until soft, damp lips met his, a quiet sigh.
The bayou was quiet about them. Adam's eyes were blue as the clear sky. Tommy felt a little as if he was waking up from a dream, the world rushing back to fill his senses; the bright sunlight, the stiffness of his ruined evening clothes, the miasma of the swamp.
"That," Adam's voice cracked; he cleared his throat. "That will... that will do." He appeared to struggle for more words, gave up, and returned to guiding the boat. They continued moving along; there was a faint splash from behind them, inviting Tommy to peer over the side of the boat. A large, reptilian tail swished occasionally, breaking the surface of the water, and one could make out the outline of the crocodile's head as it occasionally nudged the keel.
Adam brought him to the edge of the bayou, where an abandoned house was slowly being reclaimed by the woods. He gave Tommy directions to the nearest habitation, where he would be able to find a way back home. Tommy nodded, and dutifully repeated the directions when Adam looked doubtful. Adam grudgingly acceded that he was correct, and handed him a satchel of clean water.
"Well," Adam said, finally, turning to leave, "good-bye, then."
"Wait," Tommy interjected, then mentally swore at himself for not preparing what to say next. But Adam was waiting for him. Why, he wanted to ask, why had Adam saved him? "My sister... reads these books, and she's always sighing about, um, giving a lock of her hair as tokens. But, I thought... hair is easy to lose, and yours is shorter than hers, so, um. I wanted to ask - might I have a feather?"
Adam stared at him for a long moment, while Tommy worried at his bottom lip. Then Adam smiled, a truly happy smile, and - the brightness of it left Tommy a little out of breath, his mind giving up on thought altogether. It was another, different face of Adam's; yet at the same time, of a piece with all the rest: the song in the water, the protector shadow, the clever eccentric, the man of the bayou.
A deep blue feather was carefully selected and detached from Adam’s thick, trailing mane, and Adam trailed the tip of it over his lips, his eyes distant and unreadable.
“For remembrance,” said Adam, gaze never wavering from Tommy. “For revelation. And for a safe return.”
The feather pressed into Tommy's hand. Tommy held it carefully as he stood on the rickety pier and watched the boat float back towards the trees, gliding along without rowers. Adam looked back once, and then a light mist and the shadow of trees swallowed him, and he was gone.
It was a little disappointing to appear at his father’s house after a near-death experience and find that he hadn't yet been missed. Most of the household was still recovering from the previous night's affair. As they were a little ways out of New Orleans, some of the guests were staying the weekend, and of these there were a few others who were yet unaccounted for. His mother admonished him for destroying his clothes and sent him off to bathe without bothering to hear the story he'd cobbled together on the journey home.
If Tommy could not precisely recall who had brought him to the bayou and tossed him overboard, the sudden paling of two of Mr. Sigur’s sons upon seeing him at dinner was proof enough. He did his best to appear as disinterested in them as he did everyone else. Nobody seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, save his sister, who knew him too well.
He would, he knew, find out the why and the what for eventually. He slipped a finger under his vest and felt the feather he had tucked into the lining; it was difficult to feel wholly angry at the attempt on his life, when it had introduced Adam to him.
That night, he fell into bed feeling all the aches and pains that his body had hitherto postponed. Sleep came swiftly, as soon as he had tucked the feather under his pillow; and then he was back under a roof made of rustling branches, stars glinting between gaps, Adam's soft singing borne by the breeze off the bayou.