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For as long as João could remember, he had wanted to live on the water.
A life at sea intrigued the adults around him, who wondered if the boy would become a fisherman or something of the sort, but young João shook his head, told them no. That wasn’t what he meant.
Their next guess was hospitality, a role aboard a cruise ship, perhaps, yet the boy dismissed that path too. The third and final notion—to enlist in the Portuguese navy—wasn’t terrible by any means, but it was rules and service and discipline. An image so unlike the wild-haired, dreamer child.
João's actual answer was simpler in nature; he wanted to sail and go on adventures, just like the pirates in his beloved storybooks, but the idea was bound to raise concern. Grow up, be realistic, they might tell him. Or worse, the adults would intervene. They might force João down a boring career path, someplace far away from the charm of the waters, and so, rather than share his dream, the young boy said nothing at all.
The wish didn’t die in his silence, however. Instead, it was nurtured and grew. Clever João, young as he was, quickly learnt the workings of the older mind. He did well in his studies to raise no alarm bells, and once of age he got himself a job.
This pleased the ever-watching adults, who soon stopped prying into his business, and João gained greater freedom from then on. Behind the veil of employment he imagined sprawling seas, the deepest lakes and picturesque canals, and come payday he envisioned an old chest of doubloons, rather than his money on an ATM screen.
As an adult he still cherished such visions. In the night they came to life. From the comfort of his bed he clung to his dream, hoping someday for a life on the water, wherever it may be.
Ten years later, Amsterdam.
Morning began to the tune of bells: the historic carillon chiming every fifteen minutes, and the modern ding ding! of frustrated cyclists shooing pedestrians from their path.
Gabled houses lined the wide canal—some painted black, others boasting exposed brickwork—and each had a hook installed for hauling goods. On the corner of the street sat a cosy pub, a drinking hole for the locals, while on the canal itself bobbed moored houseboats long and short. Older vessels mixed with flat-roofed studios.
A handful had been occupied by families for decades; generations who passed permits down the line, whereas others left to age and fall apart were bought cheap by hopeful new arrivals unafraid of the costly repairs.
The traditional boats garnered plenty of attention, namely envy in the height of summer, and the boxy studios—often serving as hotels—likewise fought for a slice of interest. Beyond all of them, however, at the end of the row and nearest to the pub, one could find a place that didn’t care for such fuss: a quiet, unassuming houseboat which husbands João and Abel called home.
Sunlight filtered through their bedroom's voile curtains. Bell chimes became a faint echo. The weekend had arrived, and peacefully at that, and it was João who emerged from sleep first, smiling at the mop of blond hair to his left.
Abel slept curled up tight, face down as always, burying a snore within their duvet. Though the sound lacked the charm of the church carillon, and at its worst it could rival the thunder, the sleeping man proved endearing all the same.
Carefully, João rolled onto his side, watching bare shoulders sink and rise. He waited for the snores to ease into deep breaths, the sign that Abel was also stirring, and took up his chance to extend a hand, running fingers through soft, loose hair.
“Amor.” João pecked the top of Abel’s head, rewarded with a gentle, approving sigh. “It’s morning.”
“Mm.” Abel peeled his face from the bedding, slow and awkward like a bear post-hibernation. He leant into the touch, a wordless don't stop, and flopped an arm across in a lazy hug.
João understood and continued his work, taming Abel's bed hair into something smart. “D’you want coffee in a minute?”
“Make it two.”
The arm over João started to curl, gaining the strength for a proper hug. Abel pulled him in close then propped himself up with an elbow, revealing a network of crease marks on one cheek and down his side.
“Morgen."
“Bom dia,” João beamed, following the marks up and down Abel’s torso. “Somebody slept well, hm?”
“I did. How ‘bout you?”
João hesitated. The carillon bells resumed outside, accentuating the pause. More often than not it was Abel who rose first—namely for a smoke and a coffee—before waking João with his own, fresh brew.
“Not as good as your sleep, I’d wager,” João replied, brushing longer hairs from Abel’s eyes.
Abel approached the matter with care. He sat up in bed, João did the same, and afterwards he stared in that knowing, quiet fashion which had once been difficult to grasp. “Talk to me,” he encouraged. “Bad dream?”
“A dream about a dream; my childhood dream.”
“What of it?”
João brushed knuckles to Abel’s creased forehead, answering before the man thought himself into knots. “Do you remember that bar we went to years ago? With the landlord even taller than you, who wore a little plush parrot on his shoulder?”
“Someone asked if it was real, and tried talkin’ to it,” Abel replied. “The landlord confirmed they were drunk, gave them water, n’ then he turned on us.”
“To us.”
“You were scared by him too, don’t deny it. You even used me as a shield, n’ he laughed.”
João might have done something of the sort, and fumbled while ordering his drink, but that was besides his current point. “You remember the bar, which is good,” he pressed ahead. “It means you also remember how I—three drinks in—shared the full extent of my silly childhood dream.”
“It wasn’t silly.”
“I wished to be a pirate and sail around, Abel. What parent would hear that and say wow. I’m so proud of my son?”
The other man refused to budge. “You should live for yourself, not others, and when you have a dream, you shouldn’t feel the need to hide it."
“It is what it is,” João deflected. “I can’t exactly go back in time to tell them, and besides—I did get my dream. Our home is on the water, is it not?”
“You got part of the dream,” Abel stated. “Which means there’s more to do.”
“You mean the pirate fantasy?”
“Of course.”
A laugh bubbled up. João’s mood lifted in turn. Even before marriage Abel granted such comfort, listening to João’s mad ideas and never judging. In fact, tipsy Abel once revealed he fell in love with João’s imagination, and sober, fluffy haired Abel confirmed as much the following morning.
“Piracy isn’t legal,” João stated, just in case. “How about we get that coffee now, hm?”
Abel concurred, the drink would do nicely. “It's my turn to do the food shop today,” he added, clambering out of the bed after João. “Write down what we need, n’ I’ll sort it.”
“Thank you.”
João swirled the sponge inside their coffee cups, setting each one on the draining board when clean. A pair of plates followed, then two glasses used for nighttime, bedside water, and after that the washing was done. He flicked suds from fingers into the sink, and dried off with the nearby hand towel.
Above the sink sat a long, rectangle window, granting a view of tall houses and the street. It was just high enough that Abel didn’t have to stoop, yet low enough for João to avoid standing on tip toes, and the rest of the houseboat followed suit; a happy medium given their height difference. Not once did it feel cramped for two people, and large windows granted ample light.
True, their abode wasn’t grand like the vintage vessels, or boasting the features of the new floating boxes, but what it had suited them just fine. Together they created a garden on the rooftop, an extra place to relax and call their own, and Abel found a spot to safely stow his bike. Best of all, when the home was completed—garden created and rooms decorated—they went and bought themselves a little wooden boat. Something for trips down the city’s canals.
On that note, João smiled to himself. He entered the living room in a couple of steps, unlike Abel who could do it in one stride, then bypassed the sofa with its cushions and blankets, and the coffee table hosting design magazines.
The object of João's interest was a low bookshelf, bursting with tomes well-read, well-loved, next to leather-bound finds from antique markets. On top of the unit lay a velvet lined box, a sturdy case containing an old spyglass, and next to that a long-stemmed clay pipe. The former purchase was João’s, the latter Abel’s, and close to them more treasures were displayed; sea glass and pottery gathered on holidays.
Seeing their interests laid out, aligned in taste, filled João with a certain sense of pride. He knew he’d been right to move abroad and live with Abel, just as he’d been right that fateful day, years ago, to visit Carcavelos beach during his lunchbreak—despite the strong winds and threat of rain—and approach the lone man carrying a blue bag.
Both man and shopping bag intrigued, clearly hailing from a different land, and it was just the company João needed. Behind the stormy visage lay good manners, good advice, and when João had to leave, the man—named Abel—implored him to wait a moment. He offered his number, said how long he'd be in Portugal, and then from his blue bag he revealed another bag, and said here, take this. They're useful.
At the time, João had laughed. The pair still did when they recalled their first encounter. Past João didn't know he'd just met his future husband, but he knew that he liked Abel and his useful bag, and wished to see him again very soon.
A familiar thump thump announced Abel’s return, alongside the clatter of his bike being parked. To the unsuspecting guest it always sounded like a threat, or a wayward drunk tourist stumbling onto the houseboat, but thankfully João knew otherwise. He could tell when it was Abel as opposed to a neighbour, and even knew which local cat had hopped aboard for a nap.
The banging resumed, getting nearer. Abel’s head popped through the open door. “Liefje.” He held out the shopping bags, just as blue as the one he gave João in Carcavelos. “I got everything.”
Flushed cheeks were a rare, strange sight. Abel even paused to catch his breath. Though the supermarket was a bike ride away, João hadn't asked for anything heavy, nor did Abel tend to struggle with such a trip.
“Did you go to a different supermarket?” João enquired.
“No. Why d'you ask?”
“Just wondered.” João left the matter be. It was sunny outside, after all, so perhaps his poor husband suffered beneath its rays. “No alternatives, today?” he asked next.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Abel faked his horror, heading to the kitchen to unpack. “Did anyone drop by while I was gone?”
“No, thankfully.”
An echoed hoera came from inside a cupboard. Abel emerged to reach for the bag, finding something soft and warm instead. He’d caught João’s hand, in which sat a box of sprinkles. João arched his brow and pulled two more from the bag.
“Hagelslag wasn’t on the list, Amor.”
Abel’s eyes darted elsewhere. “They’re surprises, not alternatives.”
Both brows raised high that time. To Abel’s credit he’d chosen different types, and gone adventurous with the third. “Mocha flavoured does sound nice,” João replied, inspecting each side of the box.
“A nice surprise,” Abel bargained.
“Yes, yes,” João conceded, laughing. “Got any more surprises I should know about?”
“Not in here.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Abel unpacked one bag and flattened it, helping João with the second. He returned them to the cupboard beneath the sink, ready to be used next time. João trailed in his shadow all the while, peering round to search the man's face, and at last he found a sign: the end of Abel's mouth began to curl.
“What have you done?” João’s stare narrowed. “Did you buy a second bike?”
“No. Don't need one.”
“Did you drop something in the canal, then?”
“Wrong again, Captain.”
João stilled, head cocked at an angle. Abel lunged out the door and so he followed, bare feet slapping against the small boardwalk. He searched left and right, heard the giveaway thumps, and scrambled around the houseboat towards the water's side where Abel stood inside their wooden boat.
“Behold.”
Abel gestured to the back end of the smaller vessel. Flags for Portugal and the Netherlands were fixed on either corner, while in the middle sat a new addition; a familiar black flag with a skull and crossbones. Beside Abel's feet lay an aged wooden chest, another piratey addition they didn’t own til now.
“Abel,” João began, bewildered. “You weren't even gone that long. How and where did you get those?”
“You can do anything if you cycle fast enough.” Abel stood taller, hands on hips. The wisp of a smile conveyed his pride.
No wonder he returned red-faced, João realised, approaching the boat and Abel's outstretched hands. With a little hop he was in, held flush to Abel's torso, waiting for the boat’s rocking to calm.
“It looks great,” João praised, slowly bending at the knees to sit down. “Imagine driving this down a canal.”
“You won’t have to.” Abel lowered too, meeting João's widened stare. He extended his legs towards the front of the boat, crossing them at the ankles beside the wooden chest. “Do you remember that houseboat party from last summer?”
The cogs whirred, but not through bad memory. João knew the party very well. He'd misunderstood the invitation for starters, thinking ‘pirate costume party’ might mean something fancy, as opposed to the Dutch let’s all sit in a circle, and so he put everything into their attire.
João bought himself a feathered captain’s hat for the occasion, a shirt he could unlace with large, billowing sleeves, and found someone online selling long leather boots designed to complete a pirate ensemble. He also oversaw Abel’s look to be safe, minus the hat because two captains would cause problems, and because he knew that if he let Abel choose he'd go cheap—something wrinkled in a smelly plastic packet.
“I remember,” João replied, smiling. “We were the best looking couple that night.”
“Thanks to you.” Abel pretended to tip an imaginary hat. “We still have those outfits safe,” he continued. “And we have something important to do.”
João held a breath, pulse thudding in his ears. He wiped clammy palms on his jeans. His smile grew wide, then wider still, until his cheeks began to ache but he didn't mind. Not when the cause was too good to be true.
Their conversation in bed resurfaced, looping around until he felt dizzy. The same thing happened years ago when Abel said let's be together, and during all the happy milestones afterwards.
“Are you saying what I think you're saying?” João wanted- needed to check.
“I am.” Fondness softened Abel's features. He took trembling hands into his own. “Let’s get into those outfits, and achieve the rest of your dream.”
“Sailor,” João called out. “Don't forget the city has speed limits.”
Abel's cigarette bobbed around an aye aye, but whether he'd obey the warning was uncertain. Sunglasses aside he looked the part, sat in his own laced shirt with flowy sleeves, and trousers that tapered into brown, leather boots. He’d even washed the wax from his hair and left it be, allowing the wind to tousle loose strands as it pleased.
João wisely told him no eyepatch this time, for two eyes were better to sail their humble motorboat. The feathered captain’s hat sat neatly atop his head, pinned to the back of his hair to keep it steady, and during their venture down the canal a hand appeared, brushing the folded tops of his long boots.
“I like these,” said Abel. “I like it all.”
“Don't I know it,” João chuckled, recalling last summer’s ‘after-party’ back home where Abel wasted no time in appreciating his clothes. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” João soon added, walking two fingers along Abel’s thigh. To his delight, leg muscles tensed. Abel plucked the last of his cigarette from tightly pressed lips, stubbing it out in a tiny, silver pot.
“We should wear these more often,” Abel suggested. João approved with a melodic hum. Teasing fingers retreated and he looked ahead too, waving at some tourists on the upcoming bridge. The people waved back and held up their phones, documenting the interaction.
“Look in the chest.”
João turned from the bridge. Abel’s foot tapped against the wooden chest. He hadn’t paid it much mind until then, largely because someone refused to let him near it, but now Abel insisted he look and do so fast, tapping the box again.
João obliged and opened the lid, greeted by folded blankets, bottled water and snacks, and a pair of filled water pistols. He put two and two together, the pistols and the people, and removed his own sunglasses to send Abel a stare.
“Amor, we’re not shooting the people.”
“We’re pirates. It’s allowed.”
“There are children.”
The latter failed to strike a sympathetic chord. If anything, it encouraged Abel more. “They’ll enjoy it.”
“Oh, will they now?”
“Of course. It’s hot today.”
“Alright then.”
João grabbed the pistol, found the trigger, and took a shot before Abel could blink. The shock of water made him swear, recoil, and caused the boat to rock in turn. Abel checked the centre of his chest as if expecting to find blood, but all he saw was a great big wet patch.
“That’s mutiny,” said Abel. “I’m your husband.”
“No such thing. I’m your captain.”
“You’re-...! No, actually. You’re right.” Abel shrugged in his surrender. “Good aim, Liefje.”
“Why, thank you.”
João’s ears pricked to the noise on the bridge. The tourists enjoyed their little display. An older man in particular, a father, perhaps, laughed loudest of them all, prompting João to change his tune. He couldn’t let the bridge man have too much fun, and a captain must always look out for their crew.
“Go on.” João held out the pistol. Abel’s mouth pulled up on one side.
“You wish to retaliate?” he asked, intrigued. “I thought you cared about the children.”
“We’re pirates, it’s allowed,” João quoted. “Make sure you hit that man in the face.”
With ‘enemy’ defeated and tourists entertained further, the boat resumed its course. It stopped briefly for a hunt—a cafe detour for lunch—followed by more delays from people and staff asking for photos in a pirate-themed sweet shop.
Once back in their vessel, they enjoyed their spoils. Abel balanced a hefty paper bag in his lap, and dedicated one hand to rummaging around while the other focused on steering.
“D’you want a hand with those?” João offered, laughing softly.
“Mnyo. S’alright.”
João handed him some water to go with that mouthful, before seeing to his own paper bag. From silver and gold almonds to jelly sea creatures, João had chosen sweets to suit the day’s theme. He owed it himself, his childhood self, specifically, to cherish every turn on their spontaneous voyage, for wouldn’t any decent pirate do the same?
Granted, their boat wasn’t large. It wasn’t at sea, either. Thanks to Amsterdam’s rules it could only cruise at a near-walking speed, but João loved the journey regardless. He let Abel spray some tourists walking on the cycling path, deeming it a good deed for the sake of their city, and he laughed hardest when Abel encountered a larger, narrow vessel—one of those booze while you cruise special tours—and demanded orange juice from its stunned captain.
The sun set behind proud gables. Saturday’s bustle became a murmur. João and Abel, still in their pirate garb, settled down in their stripey deck chairs, and from a spot by their feet they fetched matching glass tumblers, bringing them together with a satisfying clink.
“Proost.”
“Saúde.”
They sipped. Spice and caramel warmed throats and tongues. The rum paired well with ginger ale, and better still with their ongoing venture. Despite tasting it before Abel smacked lips loudly, raising his drink to inspect ice and liquid amber like a jeweller appraising a stone.
The comfy rum bubble held them both. Abel searched for João’s stare and found it waiting, willing; a gentle smile causing eyes to form crescents. “Thank you, Abel.” João shifted his chair to close the little gap. “Today has been…”
“It’s not over.”
“I know.” João flopped his hand across, cupping Abel’s forearm. “Part of me wishes it wouldn't end, either, but if we did this forever, it might lose its meaning.”
“We might be arrested as actual pirates.”
“That too.” João laughed through his nose. He released Abel’s arm to raise and curl his index finger, brushing it against a fair yet warm cheek. Maybe it was the drink working through Abel’s system, or perhaps the sun had left its mark while they sailed. Whichever the case Abel didn’t mind the touch. He leant into João’s hand as he had in bed that morning, angling his head to kiss João’s knuckles.
“Did we achieve your dream?”
“Tens times over, at least.” João glowed in his delight. “It was everything. Like you.”
“I sailed well,” Abel supposed. “And our boat looked good.”
“You didn’t speed.”
“I didn’t.” Surprise took hold. Abel voiced a huh and tapped against his glass. “It was a successful day,” he announced, pausing to chug the last of his drink. The tumbler went to the floor and out of harm’s way. “Tell me your next dream. We’ll make that happen too.”
Between the sailing and stops around the city, João hadn’t considered such a notion. He was too busy living one dream to find another, and as he lingered in Abel’s patient stare, he remained certain he didn’t need to, either. “I have what I want.” João finished his drink, clambering from his deck chair to put his glass beside Abel’s. En route to his seat Abel caught his wrist, guiding João to sit across his lap instead.
“Are you sure?” Arms circled João’s waist. João thanked the rum for making Abel bolder. His legs swung back and forth over the side of the chair, while keen lidded eyes studied Abel's mouth.
He wondered if they’d also taste sweet from the drink, and then, in the spirit of their day, figured it would be better to stop thinking and find out. João closed in, wasting no further time, prying an unexpected moan from the touch. A hand cupped his thigh, gave a squeeze. Upon their parting Abel sighed, conveying a need far from sated.
“What about you?” João brushed their noses together. “What’s your dream?”
“I have what I want, as well.”
“But what did young Abel want?” João clarified, prompting his husband to give it some thought.
“I had a few ideas back then,” Abel replied. “Detective was my favourite.”
The bookshelf below deck came to mind. Abel owned plenty of crime stories to support that revelation, and was partial to Nordic noir. João could picture the scene easily; the detective of few words stood proud in his trenchcoat, lit cigarette between his lips, mulling over his latest grim case to the sound of heavy rainfall.
“Could I be a witness?” João proposed, wanting a part of that fantasy. “Or better still, a suspect.”
“D'you want to be interrogated?”
“Oh, yes. Thoroughly.”
“I see.” Abel's tone spoke of promise. He squeezed João’s thigh a second time. “Sounds like we've got a plan.”
João agreed. He'd sort the costumes again, to be safe, and as for how they’d act out such a dream… they would cross that bridge when it came. “Any other dreams/roleplays in mind?” he asked.
Abel shook his head, content. The city's murmur had reduced to almost nothing. It felt like the street was theirs and theirs alone. João settled into Abel's arms, head tucked beside the other’s neck, watching light ripple upon the canal.
“This has been the best.”
“Still not over, Captain,” said Abel. “I have duties to perform below deck. With your permission.”
João regarded the pink of Abel's ears, and the hopeful loud swallow which followed. He didn't need to ask what the other man meant.
“Permission granted,” he teased against Abel's earlobe, looking forward to the night ahead.