The space between them now cannot be more than a few millimetres, and James’s eyes are practically crossed as he stares at Sparrow, so, so maddeningly close, his breath warm and wet, whispering across his skin, one hand rising to almost, almost touch, just raising the hairs along cheek and neck. He swallows hard, feeling the heat from Sparrow’s body mingling with the heat from his own, swirling in an insane mixture of desire and apprehension.

God damn you, Sparrow, just move!

But he did no such thing, and James felt that he must soon do something or else run mad, even madder than he seemed to be at the moment. But if Sparrow made the first move, then it made this Sparrow’s fault, and that was something which would make this entire affair much easier. Trouble is, Sparrow seems to know this just as well as James does, and is holding back, in his own peculiar way, just as James is.

Oh, sod it, James thinks, and suddenly, very suddenly, he stands up, forcing Sparrow stumbling backwards. Smoothing a wayward hair behind his ear, he stalks over to Sparrow and grips him by the wrist, much as he had done that day on the docks so long ago, one thumb tracing over the lines of veins so close under the surface. He feels Sparrow’s heartbeat speed up, feels the heat of his blood, and he pulls him close, lips almost, almost brushing against the pirate’s. His voice is wicked as he whispers sharp and clear.

‘Oh I dare, Sparrow.’

And with that, he kisses him.