The radio babbled storm warnings all of yesterday and today, of wind and heavy rain. Overhead the sky was a riot of greens and grays, heavy like water and thick with thunderheads. There was no shelter on the deck of the Freedom's Call, only a token awning at the helm. The sleek yacht currently sailed off the western coast of Italy, within a cup of shoreline marked in a triangle by the cities of Piombino, Follonica and Punta Hidalgo.

Tristan shouted their location to Seto before he moved to the stern to drop anchor. Seto was learned in several of the Romance languages, and while his mate was not, he was ever bemused by Tristan's gift for pronunciation - he spoke the city titles with the relish of eating expensive chocolate.

Italy truly was their Eden. Seto felt it, and though this was the first time he convinced Tristan to come along with him, he believed his certainty was not incorrectly placed. When he joined Seto at the Freedom's controls, Tristan's head tipped back to watch the storm unfolding above them, and his face was bright with fascination.

"We're going to get wet," Tristan said, drawing himself in against Seto's back. His arms were very brown and stood out against the chest of Seto's white linen shirt. Cooler air sang over the long-nosed bow of the ship. It pushed at them, muggy and charged with potential.

"We can go below," Seto said matter-of-factly. His fingertips brushed Tristan's wrist, and he felt Tristan's smile against the nape of his neck.

"Any excuse," Tristan chuckled.

"If you really want to stay on deck…" Seto trailed off, turned in Tristan's arms and tapped one long finger against the center of his partner's chest.

"And get wet?"

"You'll get wet one way or another."

"You can't sound crude even when you try, dear," Tristan punctuated the saccharine word with a firm hand on the back of Seto's khaki slacks, earning a muffled gasp and a sardonic arched eyebrow.

"Oh? You seem to appr-"

A faraway roll of thunder tore their attention once more to the sky. Pink pronged lightning crackled on the western horizon.

"We're close to shore," Tristan said quietly, "the forecast said the storm would be mild."

"We can go below," Seto smiled.

"We can," Tristan agreed, "but not yet. Please? I want to watch it. I'll come in when it starts to rain." He stepped quickly, pivoting until he stood between Seto and the captain's chair. "Please?" He asked again, a child's eager enthusiasm in his smile.

Seto released him then, reluctantly, chuckling at his helplessness in the wake of Tristan's will. "I am hardly a patient man, you remember. And if you come below in wet jeans and I have to peel them off, I warn you now. You might live to regret it." For the barest breath his fingertips slipped into Tristan's back pocket, trailed slowly over the ridges of sewing at his hip, and then he stepped back to the hatch at the opposite end f the boat. He could feel Tristan's eyes on him as he went.

Only when they were separated by feet and feet of deck did he look back, look up at Tristan at the bow, and watch him climb forward onto the point of the bow. He was barefoot, moving carefully, and Seto allowed himself the warm spark of arousal that came with the display of slow grace and control.

Layers of clouds peeled back like an oil painting of Ascensione Della Maria, spilling brief radiance into the sea, catching the Freedom in its circle. Tristan looked up as sunlight pooled warm on his skin, and after a last lingering glance, Seto mirrored him, leaning into the heat like a benediction while a snatch of sunlight gilded their ship.

Before the light faded, swells fleeing the head of the storm crashed into the port side of the Freedom, and the yacht rocked solidly on her keel like a rubber duck in a bathtub. Seto staggered and jerked his chin down, peering up the swaying deck to where Tristan-

Tristan was gone.

The space where the lean frame stood upright on the bow was empty but for the vastness of gray stormclouds stretching away to the northern shoreline. He was nowhere on the deck; Seto was alone. Fear stitched beneath Seto's ribs with sharp needles, and he plunged toward the bridge.

---

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