James loves the same way he sails: quietly, without drawing attention to himself, trying not to appear as though he is enjoying himself even though his entire life can be summarized in flashes of the sea and Jack's eyes.
He's been told, time and time again, by many sources, to follow his heart, it will guide him true. However, he can't help but feel that his relationship with a pirate, no matter how tightly he grasps at it, can lead to nothing but that same heart - and the rest of him - dashed upon the rocks: he's not sure whether it's the guilt or the pleasure that is sharper.
Jack doesn't know it yet, but he holds in his hands two compasses that don't point north. That's what a pirate deserves, he thinks when he's particularly cynical, for being content with secondhand goods. A wealth of rubbish, some might call it. Or an embarrassment of riches.
James spends considerable time wondering what Jack would call it.
He wants so badly to ask, to say something. But he does not speak. That's not what he does, what this is. He knows that he has very little to barter with and plenty of shallows, barely visible but crippling nonetheless, to navigate. One wrong look, one touch that lingers too long, and he will drive Jack away to another man with 'loverly brown hair' that the pirate will pet and play with until they both exhaust each other. Maybe, James reflects, that other man's throat will tighten in the same way every time he sees Jack. Maybe he too will make the mistake of wanting to keep Jack. It feels impossible not to try.
James has never wanted anything more than to be at sea: he fought hard with his father and even harder with his mother to join the Navy. His life is not without regret and an absence of letters from home, but sailing is all that James knows and would ever want to know. He is nothing without it.
James the sailor. Yes, that feels right, feels true. The only thing he questions is when Jack became his horizon.
He hates feeling maudlin and concludes that he has too much time on his hands. He resolves to be more thorough in his duties at the fort and even more diligent in his inspections of the fleet. He may have to take the ships out more often to patrol the waters around Port Royal. Never mind his maid's disapproving clucking noises as he staggers into his home some nights, more often than not lately. The same goes for the delicate fingers he feels tracing the dark circles around his eyes when Jack thinks he is asleep. Kohl that will never see the light of day, so that all that is left are the shadows.
He is a sailor, he tells himself firmly, so sail. Leave the thinking to the philosophers. Ignore Jack's rum-soaked voice that is always whispering, low and warm and so clear, and leave the horizon be.