put all your paper maps away (mercator here can't help) - ApocalypticDemon (2024)

If pressed on the worst aspects of these godforsaken Admiralty meetings, James would have to say that it is how damnably hot they always were.

Sweat is beginning to bead on his upper lip and dampen his undershirt at the small of his back. Yet, he smiles through it and avoids telegraphing his discomfort. James is surrounded by a small cluster of men, though their names escape him. Some were new faces, promoted to the upper echelon of the Admiralty during his long absence. A few were familiar, but none notable enough that James had thought to commit their names to memory. Perhaps that was unkind, but those were the facts of the matter. They all stood close, drinks cradled in their gloved hands, listening to James with rapt attention. James’s throat feels as if he has been speaking for an eternity, scraped raw with the effort. The few survivors of the expedition were still the favorite topic of conversation, and James had been made to retell their miraculous rescue several times over.

“Yes, then Sir Ross, as if he was our personal messiah, appeared on the horizon. Truly, it is only because of him that I stand before you today.” James plasters a conspiratorial smile on his face, dropping his voice slightly and leaning towards the group as if telling a scandalous secret. “Though, I dare say he could have chosen to come a bit earlier, saved us all a bit of a walk.”

That earns him a round of laughter, the men’s eyes twinkling with mirth as they set upon him for more details. James indulges them as best he can, obfuscating the less pleasant aspects of their long walk with inconsequential details. That which he glosses over is not suitable for parties, and James had little interest in revisiting those memories himself, even in his private rooms.

None of them seemed to suspect his misdirection. It seems he still plays the part of merry-maker well, still capable of earning polite laughter and entertaining those who wish to be entertained. If the words taste like ash in his mouth and the misdirections and dishonesty weighs on him more with each passing minute, well. What are a few more secrets for him to keep?

Blessedly, after a few more moments of conversation, the men finally turn their attention away from James, and he can let his face fall. He moves away from the small group and takes up sentry in a slightly less populated corner, his glass of brandy still cradled in one hand, undrunk. He just holds it there, idly swirling the drink as he glances around the room, trying to ignore the sense of melancholy that is stirring inside him.

He should be happy, now, to be surrounded by such company; the warmth, the light, the food. He has what he always wanted. The dining room is crowded, and in months past the sound of china clinking against itself and the hum of overlapping voices would have been precious signs of life. Now, it is not even a hollow comfort. He still wants, perpetually unsatisfied with his station, even now, newly exonerated and soon to be knighted.

It’s not enough to have such success on his own.

Each time he turns, he expects to see Francis at his side. Now, he is like a ghost. He can feel Francis at his elbow, nearly hear his voice in his ear, but each time he looks, he finds these sensations to be nothing more than a phantasm, a hopeful fantasy.

Francis, predictably, is not there as James looks over the crowd. He never had the taste for parties, and James cannot imagine that his feelings on the matter have changed in the intervening years. James sighs inwardly and tamps down on his growing disappointment. He had hoped to see Francis, however briefly. The light from the candles glitters dully in his drink, refracting in the cut crystal of the glass. He tilts the glass as if he were scrying, but only finds that, at the correct angle, the refraction casts a dull rainbow on his starched gloves.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

James jerks in surprise, looking up to see none other than Sir James Ross standing beside him, sporting a small, wry smile. James reaches for an appropriate response, but comes up empty; instead, he makes an inarticulate noise and reaches out for a handshake. Ross takes his hand, shakes it once, and then clasps his other hand on the back of James’s trapping his gloved fingers between his palms.

“My apologies, Commander Fitzjames,” Ross says, still smiling. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

James shakes his head, dismissive. “You are forgiven. I must’ve taken up the brown study for far too long. How have you been since our glorious return?”

Ross casts him a knowing glance, releasing James’s hand, but not stepping back at all. “Quite well. It is good to finally be home. Even better to say that I could bring you lot back with me. You are adjusting well, I trust?”

“As well as one could hope. Though I think I prefer the quiet to the hubbub of these parties, now.”

Ross hums an agreement and turns to look out over the crowd. “I can’t say that ever goes away.”

James is silent for a beat before looking away from Ross’s profile and following his gaze. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, not designed to project well. “I fear I am more changed than I seemed, out there. It is unclear to me whether it is for better or for worse.” In his periphery, he can see Ross turn to look at him, but he avoids his gaze, resolute, as if by this action alone he could ignore the depth of his confession.

“I can’t say that ever fades, either.” He allows a brief beat of silence. “Have you spoken to Francis since we made landfall?” Ross’s voice is tentative, and when James glances over, Ross is looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“I had rather hoped he would be here. I have not received so much as a telegram from him. Have you heard anything?”

“Heard anything? He is staying in one of our guest rooms. It would be difficult not to hear him.” Ross pauses for a long moment. “He truly didn’t tell you?”

A pit is beginning to form in James’s stomach. He cannot fathom any reason Francis has to hide from him. Perhaps he offended him somehow; perhaps Francis simply grew tired of him and severed contact at the first opportunity. James shakes his head, chewing the inside of his lips. “No, never. Is he alright?”

“Healthy as a horse, he is. Melancholy, though. I had hoped that he was speaking with you, but I confess that I’m not surprised to hear the opposite.”

“Does he seem willing to receive any correspondence?”

Ross huffs, amused. “Regardless of his willingness, I think it would do him good. After the court martial and contacting the families of the dead, God rest their souls, Francis has spoken to seldom few, and is sought out by even fewer.” Ross looks James in the eye, intense. “I keep him company as best I can, but I am only one man. I suspect he would value a message from you more than anything.”

James holds his gaze for a long moment, rendered speechless, then nods slowly.

Ross smiles and claps James on his uninjured shoulder, mindful of his old wounds. “Good man. Take care of yourself, Commander Fitzjames. May we meet again soon.”

James watches him wade his way back into the thick of the crowd and mingle with the other members of the service, then drinks the rest of his brandy in one mouthful. He places the empty glass on a table nearby and swiftly makes his way towards the exit.

Ross’s concern over Francis’s seclusion leaves him unmoored, mind churning with the worst possibilities for Francis’s health and happiness. Eventually, after being ensnared in a few more brief conversations, James formally makes his excuses and escapes into London’s streets. The air is humid and heavy, oppressive as the night’s gloom and clings to his exposed skin as he walks.

One thing is clear, at least: Francis is not going to write to him of his own volition. If James wants this to change, he must be the one to take action.

The walk is long and tiresome, but even as an ache slowly settles into his joints, James’s mind is a flurry of motion, swiftly composing a letter to Francis that would rekindle their friendship and draw him back into his orbit.

Determination swells bright in his chest, pressing against his breastbone. In the morning, he will write to Francis, and he can finally set his worries over him to rest.

—

The whole world is white.

Hazy with wind and blown snow, it stretches endless and desolate towards some sightless horizon.

The air burns bright and cold in his lungs as James swipes the back of his hand over his eyes. He blinks rapidly as fresh flakes stick to his lashes, threatening to freeze his eyes closed as the brutal chill makes his eyes water. Wind lashes his cheeks, nearly deafening him as it howls. Beneath his feet, the ice rumbles, a warning.

Something crashes in the distance, its echo reverberating from all directions. James freezes, tilting his head as he strains to hear over the howl of the wind. It happens again, closer now: a gunshot. Some deep instinct tells him where to go, and he follows without question, running as fast as his legs will carry him.

A pressure ridge rises from the great white nothing and he skids to a stop, breathing hard. Another gunshot cracks just beside his ear, without a flash of powder, but James flinches all the same, clasping his hands over his ears as it echoes off the wall of ice. When it passes, a great silence descends. The world is motionless. Dead. He takes a step forward, freezing as the ice groans under his weight.

Blood stains the snow before him, laying out a grisly path. James follows it, careful not to tread on it, feet crunching in the snow. He slips, just, once, and nausea twists in his belly as a meaty squelch sounds just beneath his feet. He twists around to glance behind himself, blood is slowly seeping up from beneath, filling his footsteps.

Finally, the path reaches its terminus. A truly alarming amount of blood streaks the ice hole’s mouth, seeping through the chiseled edges, spreading threadlike through the ice, like veins. He skirts forward, looking over the edge.

Sir John lies wedged in the hole, his body bent at unnatural angles. His leg still ends in a bloody stump, raw muscle and bone glittering with frost. His eyes are wide and stare accusingly at James, bright in his frozen, blue face. His lips move slowly, slurring out something James cannot hear.

James falls to his hands and knees, leaning over the lip of the hole, shouting out his name.He reaches out, cursing when his fingertips barely brush John’s shoulder, and leans further into the hole. He manages to grasp the fabric of his greatcoat, which crunches as it folds under his grip. The moment James gets a solid hold, Sir John seizes his elbow with unnatural strength and heaves.

James falls, the ice digging into his underarm as his shoulder screams with Sir John’s weight. James scrambles to get his limbs beneath himself, to pull himself upright under their combined weight. He manages little more than an uncoordinated shuffling as he lay prone on the ice, grimacing at the visceral crunching of Sir John’s body as his frozen joints bend and pull.

“James,” Sir John seethes, voice low and hateful as he claws his way up James’s bicep.

The ice shrieks as it cracks beneath them, and Sir John’s body jerks as he wedges deeper into the hole. James screams as something in his shoulder pops horribly and he pitches forward, blindly scrabbling for purchase as he slides partially into the hole after Sir John.

“It should have been you.”

James whines as Sir John resumes his ascent, heedless of his wounded shoulder. James’s belly clenches with the accusation.

“I called, and you did not come. You know as well as I that it should have been you.” Sir John punctuates this by seizing James by the hair, yanking his head closer, until their foreheads nearly touch.

“I tried, Sir John, you must understand that I tried—” James jerks ineffectually, tries to free himself, but John’s grip affords him no leverage; instead he remains half-bent into the hole, held there like a bug pinned under glass.

Sir John grips James’s face, his expression twisted, grotesque, his fingers ice cold and burning as his fingernails cut into the delicate skin around James’s eye. Blindly, James bats at Sir John’s wrist, eyes watering.

“Let go,” he pleads, voice cracking. “For God’s sake, you’ll kill us both! Let go, I’m only trying to help!”

Blind in his fury, Sir John simply digs his fingers into the perimeter of James’s eye socket. They sink further into the hole as John’s dangling weight shifts, and James is forced to fling his uninjured arm to the side, bracing them.

“You want to help you, you say. You were the military man, James. You and I both know I should not have been the one in the hunting blind.” He punctuates this by pressing his thumb into James’s eye.

James screams, loud enough to echo off the ridges, and tries in vain to wrench away. He calls out to anyone: the ships, to God, to anybody who could be listening. At last, he begs for Francis, who would not even look twice at him.

“You call for Francis, now? You think he will come for you? Hear me well, James: there is nobody. Nobody came for me, and now nobody will come for you.”

James sobs, twists hard, finally dislodging Sir John’s grip on his ruined eye. His head smacks the ice as he slides again, now barely holding them above the inky water below. He blinks, dazed, and stares blankly even as Sir John sways perilously beneath him, now face to face with what lies beneath the ice.

The distorted faces of his men stare back at them, crowded together, eyes and hands pressed up against the other side of the ice. Their frozen eyes accuse him, their faces contorting as the light refracted around them shifts with the patterns of blown snow overhead, at once animated and motionless. The shifting of the ice and heaving of the ocean below morphs into a cacophony of their voices, begging and condemning him in equal measure.

“Sir John, stop, I beg of you.” His voice is small, now, hoarse and confused. “Please, I only wanted to save you.”

Sir John only sneers, grasps for his face one last time. James’s grip fails. His stomach flips with a brief weightlessness as he falls headlong into the water below.

The cold is a shock, and James involuntarily gasps, filling his lungs with burning water. He chokes, tries to cough as he sinks, Sir John still greedily holding on to his greatcoat, dragging him down. James reaches up in desperation, but his fingers only brush the underside of the unyielding ice sheet. He gets one last, lingering glimpse up the hole, still trying desperately to save himself.

There, at the edge, is the faintest smudge of a man’s figure, shifting with the waves. It turns away and vanishes, just as James is forced to take one last smothering inhale.

—

James blinks awake and sighs, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye. His head pounds as he sits up, and he pauses for a long time on the edge of his bed, rubbing at his brow and temple, waiting for the pain to recede. It hardly does, but this task occupies him enough that he hardly thinks of the dream as he wanders out of his room and installs himself in front of a banked fire. As he settles in, gooseflesh slowly erupts on his skin, and a chill sinks into his bones.

London is cold, this time of year. Not so frigid as the Arctic, James supposes, but enough to seep through his clothes, clawing its chilled fingers beneath his skin to grip at his bones. Even with the aid of the woolen blanket draped over his legs, in front of fading coals that are more ash than ember, the cold lives in him.

In these darkened moments, when the ice and grief weights him like leaden shackles, he manages to wish for the crush of society, the warmth of bodies pressed on the periphery of a dance floor, heated through by movement and proximity. It’s exhausting, and he knows he’s losing his taste for it. He wishes for the way it used to be, dragging with him the dead memory of his old life, hauling it like his own spiritual sledge. Sometimes, though, the glittering ideals would drive away the images his mind conjured in sleep.

Just after their rescue, he could have relied on Francis to banish the vestiges of memory and nightmares alike. He had been a fixture at James’s bedside as he recovered, unwavering in his care of James and of the bedraggled remnants of their crew. Even as James recovered slowly, in unpredictable, gradual stints, Francis had spared a few moments for him. Just hearing his voice and knowing he was nearby, alive and well, was enough to tether James to reality and chase away his fears. James was certain that Francis had his own troubles that he certainly needed to attend to. Perhaps he had ignored them for the sake of others. Perhaps that could explain his seclusion now.

Since they returned home, Francis had retreated from his side. It was as if, on the dock, James had turned around and found Francis missing, as if he was a phantom blown away like so much smoke on the wind. Francis was absent from the courtroom after they were absolved, though James hadn’t noticed, preoccupied with his own fragile health. Now, though, knowing Francis was in England, even still in London, but gone from James’s life, paints his absence in a much worse light. It pained James, that Francis could so swiftly be done with him, as if in the relative safety of England, Francis had reevaluated his friendships and found James wanting.

The possibility left James hollowed out, as if he, too, was like the Greeks: once, a single whole made of two conjoined souls, cruelly cleft in twain, left adrift and wanting for his other half. He thought he had found his pair in Francis, in whatever Francis could give him; now, here James is, surrounded by people and yet alone, yearning for that which he cannot have.

James drags the edge of the blanket higher, draping it up over his middle and curling his hands beneath the fabric, as if that would chase away the ache that has settled in his breast. He could stand and stoke the fire, make the room a small measure warmer, but it seems to great an effort. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could return to the warm embrace of sleep, but on nights like this, sleep is always painfully elusive. He finds it easier, now, to simply stay awake for the remainder of the darkest hours and hope he will find easier rest the next evening.

Presently, James finally collects himself and forces aside these morbid thoughts and stands, so he can be closer to the hearth, where he halfheartedly stokes the embers. Eventually, he loses himself in the mechanics of rekindling the flames. It’s slow work, but the flames glow softly until they take hold all at once, and the hearth begins to throw heat into the room once more. He stares into the flames for a long few moments before tearing his eyes away and looking out the window at the early morning cityscape.

His life looms large, aimless, and empty without Francis in it; it seems nearly unimaginable, after all they survived together. As the sky slowly brightens, Ross’s encouragement rises in his memory and James knows with alarming certainty that he can change his path.

Francis could ignore him, should he so wish, but James hopes desperately that Francis returns his missive and they could rebuild something. Maybe it will never be what it was, but James would prize any token of Francis’s affection, even the most fleeting moment of attention.

Perhaps, if Francis ignores enough of his missives, James could contrive a reason to visit, in such a way that Francis could not ignore him and retain any sense of politeness.

James is shaken from his thoughts as the first rustlings of movement echo through the club. He quickly folds up the blanket, placing it far away from his chair, hiding the evidence of his lingering infirmity. By the time the first man walks into the drawing room, he is upright and projecting an air of unbothered grace. More men follow, in a slow trickle as they begin attending to their daily duties.

If any of them think it is odd that James is already awake, that the fire was already roaring in the hearth by the time they woke, none of them give the thought voice.

—

Several days have passed since James’s appearance at the party, and he still has not penned a letter to Francis. Each time he sits down before his writing desk, ink and quill at the ready, his words fail. The daily passage of his life, the inane meetings with Navy members, the meals he eats alone, the novels he reads, are so trivial that it does not deserve the consumption of parchment and ink. The enormity of his loneliness, his craving for Francis’s company, clogs his throat and leaves him with an empty page.

Instead of writing, he spends his days staring over London, wallowing in his ineffectuality. Oft-times, he is so consumed by it that he fails to speak a single word to another human being.

Today, a stormy sky hangs low over London, and James catches his ghostly reflection in the window. His face always look drawn and pale these days, transparent as glass. It’s fitting. James can see the roles he used to fill, their general shape, but he no longer fits them. He haunts his own life, a specter to himself that nobody can truly see, as if his body passes, ineffectual, through solid things, and only the empty shell truly interacts with the world.

What his Navy mates must think of him now. Once, he commanded this space, attracted people to him like a gravitational well, but now he holds no sway here. Instead, he sits alone by a bay window, leaned over a chessboard. He moves one pawn forward, and then looks to the scattered pieces on the opposite side, his hand hovering over one to make his next move.

A shadow falls over him and a man’s hand enters his field of view, deftly reaching around his and moving one of the pieces.

“Check.” The voice is warm and familiar.

James studies the board, considering, and then leans back to look Sir James Ross in the eye.

“Excellent choice,” James says, leaning forward and extending a hand. “I can’t say I was able to see that path clear.”

Ross smiles and shakes his hand firmly, taking up the seat opposite him. “Commander Fitzjames, I hope you are still doing well.” He pays no further attention to the game.

“Please, just James.”

“James, then. You are doing well, though?”

James smiles wryly. “One cannot complain.” He avoids Ross’s eyes by focusing on the chessboard, resting his knuckles against his lips. In the silence between them, the bishop clacks loudly on the tile as he sets it down. Ross trades a few more-or-less calculated moves, giving and taking pieces in turn.

Eventually, James tilts his head to the side, resting his cheek on his hand. “I mean no disrespect, but may I inquire on whom you are waiting? Perhaps we could summon them again?”

Ross looks at him in plain confusion. “I am here to speak to you, James, why else would I interrupt your time?”

“Surely you didn’t come all this way just to play chess and ask after my health?”

“No, I can’t say I did.” Ross leans back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “I thought I would invite you to dinner with myself and my wife, the evening after next.”

James interlaces his fingers, running his thumb against the heel of his hand. “That’s very kind of you. That sounds most agreeable.” James looks over Ross’s shoulder for a long moment before speaking again, his voice gone slightly tentative. “Is this to be a public affair?”

“No, nothing of the sort. It will only be the four of us.”

“Four?”

Ross smiles, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Francis will also be in attendance, naturally.”

“Naturally,” James said, voice only a little faint. He ignores the way hope lurches in his chest and schools his features into something he hopes approximates neutrality.

Ross looks at him, and James has the strangest sensation, as if Ross can see through to his very core and sense how deeply James wants to see Francis again. James holds his gaze for a moment more before looking away, glancing down at the chessboard and shifting his bishop a few spaces with little consideration. He chances a glance up at Ross, who is now staring intently at the board, calculating. Their conversation seems to be put to rest, at least for now.

The remainder of the game unfolds gradually, a gentle interplay of action and reaction, before it becomes evident that this will end in a draw. When it inevitably does, Ross smiles and rises from his chair. He smiles brightly at James when he accompanies him to the door.

James stands on the front stoop as Ross makes his way down the steps and melts into the heaving crowd. He sighs as cool air brushes his face, enjoying the sensation for a long minute before he retreats back to his previous post.

As he resets the chess board, his heart flutters like a hummingbird beneath his breastbone.

—

James stands before his mirror, endlessly straightening and re-straightening his cuffs and styling his hair. Every few moments, James glances at his pocket watch, as if that will draw the appointed hour closer, or reveal suddenly that he will arrive disrespectfully late.

James straightens his waistcoat once more, as if it will make any difference and huffs at the way it lays on him. He supposes he should be thankful it now only looks slightly ill-tailored, rather than as if it was sewn for a different man altogether. It’s several years out of fashion, certainly, but he has not cared enough to update his wardrobe the way he once had. It all seems so frivolous now.

When he catches himself checking his cuff links yet again, he reaches the limit of his patience. He forces himself away from his mirror and sets off for the off for dinner, timing be damned.

Cool air brushes his cheeks as he leaves and London’s streets greet him with a general crush of bodies. He allows himself to be gently buffeted by the people making their way through the city, quietly reveling in the wall of noise and undeniable life. Each time he feels the cold, he expects the world to be desolate and silent; the bustle of the city brings a small tender smile to his lips, even when people bump his walking stick and disturb his balance.

The few miles between the naval club and the Ross’s home pass in a haze, and James finds himself on the Ross’s doorstep altogether too soon.

Now, facing down the door, the nerves that he had managed to banish for the previous few days rear their head once more. His hand trembles as he raises it to the door, and he lets his knuckles rest against the thick oak for a long moment before he breathes deeply, braces, and knocks.

A long moment passes before the door swings open and the footman steps aside.

“Welcome, Sir,” he says, as he takes James’s coat and hat. “Let me fetch the master. Wait here, please.”

James nods, casting a look around the foyer as the man walks off. It is tastefully decorated, dark wood paneling and a lovely rug that James takes a long moment to appreciate. The house is warm and suffused with soft sound, a distant clatter of pots and pans, footsteps, and conversations. From the gentle muddle, Ross’s voice grows louder as he and his Lady Ann emerge from the gloom of the home’s interior.

“Welcome! I hope the streets of London treated you well?” he says warmly, clapping him on the shoulder.

James smiles. “They did. Your home is lovely, you have excellent taste.”

“Flatterer,” Ross says, playfully. “You have only seen the foyer. Let us give you the grand tour, and then hear what you have to say.”

“Capital,” James says, and means it. He tries not to feel too crestfallen that Francis is not the one accompanying Ross, and chides himself for it.

“Then it’s settled. Supper should be served soon, but we still have some time yet. Come,” Ross says, sweeping a hand out expansively before him, and turning away.

As James moves to follow.

“Jim? Who was that, at the door?”

James freezes as Ross turns back, an impish smile on his face.

Francis is standing halfway down the stairs, one hand on the banister, staring directly at James.

James’s mouth goes dry; it dawns on him that he has never seen Francis outside of his uniform. A red and black brocade waistcoat highlights his sturdy figure, showing how well he’s filled out since their return. He looks hale and healthy, almost as if the Almighty himself has rolled back time for Francis alone, and left James wanting by comparison.

James blinks, self-conscious under Francis’s intense stare. He has to resist the urge to look down and away, to scuff his feet against the floor like a nervous schoolboy. As Francis does nothing but stare, he attempts to unstick his tongue from the top of his mouth and make some witty greeting.

Francis beats him to it. He says James’s name almost reverently, just once, and then hurries down the stairs, striding quickly across the foyer, and clasps James’s gloved fingers between his palms. His gap-toothed smile is blinding.

“James. It’s so good to see you.”

James manages a genuine smile in return, overwhelmed by Francis’s vigor, and touches his elbow with his spare hand. “It’s good to see you, too. I had hoped to manage it earlier, but I didn’t know where you were staying.”

Francis has the decency to look chagrined by that, at least, dropping James’s hand and glancing away. “Yes, well. Much to do after we returned.” When he looks back at James, his expression is earnest. “Please, believe me when I say that my absence was unintentional. It truly is a blessing to see you again.”

James nods, robbed of his voice. Francis smiles again, soft and small, and takes up a post at James’s elbow, gesturing for Ross to start his tour. As they walk side by side, James feels something in himself slot back into place. Having Francis at his side is soothing, a restoration of what James thought he had lost those long, arduous miles ago.

He stumbles his way through the tour of the home, listening with one ear to Ross and his wife. Several times, James has to shake himself from his reverie, realizing that he had been completely deaf to whatever conversation Ross had been trying to make. Each time, Francis quirks an eyebrow at him, face growing more and more concerned.

Francis seems well, in good humor, and it settles James to see him so cheerful. He had been dour for such a long time, there at the end of the world, and he had nearly forgotten that Francis was capable of such boundless happiness.

When he was dying, he could see the strain it put on Francis, even in the throes of his illness. Now, though, Francis seems truly content, and that is enough for James.

Several hours later, James is reclining in a chair by a roaring fire, smiling as Ross tells a long, winding tale. James is slightly fuzzy with drink, and the particulars of this tale have started to fade from his memory. Something about a dance on the ice in Antarctica, James thinks. This story is far flung from the tragedy of James’s own life, and it’s a deeply pleasant contrast. It is not being told solely for his own entertainment, this much is plain to him; Francis is smiling along with Ross, fond.

“Oh, yes, and I seem to recall that you wore the gown quite handsomely, Jim,” Francis manages, dissolving into laughter when Ross swats playfully at Francis’s knee. It is full-bellied and genuine, and warms James more than the fire and filling meal, more intoxicating than the brandy.

It has been a long, long time since he had seen Francis so unburdened; the longer James considers it, the more he suspects that, until this moment, he had never seen Francis truly happy.

Francis leans back in his chair, still chuckling, and glances over at James. His gaze is warm, almost fond, inviting. Were it not for those glances, the soft-spoken invitations Francis extends for James to tell his own tales, James would feel an interloper. But Francis keeps inviting him in, asking him to share his stories, embellishing when James skips details. When James cedes the spotlight, he still looks at him knowingly, with enough twinkle in his eye that James feels in on some joke.

It’s more than James could have hoped for.

At the conclusion of Ross’s story, James feels a pleasant tiredness pulling at his bones, and he has to actively fight falling asleep in the chair. He blinks just slightly too long, and when his vision returns, Francis is looking at him knowingly.

“Are you alright, James?”

“Perfectly so,” he mumbles, slowly straightening in his chair, rising to his feet with a groan. “Though it seems to me it is time I take my leave. Thank you very much for your hospitality.” He says, directing this final comment to Ross and Lady Ann.

“Of course,” Ross says, looking similarly tired, but in no hurry to stand. Lady Ann seems much the same.

Francis, however, does rise. “Come, James, let me see you to the door.”

He allows Francis to lead him into the foyer. At the sight of James, the footman moves quickly out of view, leaving the two of them alone in the darkened room. The only light is what little that seeps in from the gas lamps outside and the lantern in Ross’s sitting room. The gold illumination is dim, but catches on the edges of Francis’s face, makes his eyes surprisingly dark.

“It was a pleasure to see you again tonight, James,” Francis says, low and earnest. He steps closer and takes James’s upper arms into his hands. It’s disturbingly close to the way he held him at the cairn, all those distant miles ago. Now, as it was then, it is a steady comfort. “I’m glad to see you so healthy, after everything.”

James manages to nod, unable to choke out any kind of response.

Francis smiles, thin, and then does what he never has: he wraps James in a warm embrace.

He’s suddenly everywhere, steady and firm. It makes James’s skin feel like it could ignite just from the touch alone. He stands stunned, long enough that he can feel Francis begin to falter, before he grasps his shoulders in return, a ragged breath escaping him.

“I’m glad to see you again, too. Please, write, lest we become strangers to one another.” Suddenly exhausted, drops his forehead to Francis’s shoulder, just for a moment, before he tightens his hold and whispers, “I missed you.”

Francis huffs at that and takes a step back, but he doesn’t look upset by the admission. Francis nods. “And I, you. Forgive me for my absence. I thought I would give you the time to recover on your own, misguided though that may have been. I will write, you have my word.”

James nods again and they separate fully, just as the doorman arrives, James’s hat and coat in hand. James dons them quickly, eager despite himself to get home and into his own bed, reluctant though he is to leave Francis’s company. Francis walks him to the door and ushers him outside, waiting on the doorstep until James manages to hail a cab.

James rests his head against the grimy cab window as they clatter down the road. There is no moon in the deep night sky, but the gas lamps that line the street burn brightly enough to shimmer along the city’s edges, turned to gossamer golden threads in the hair of passersby, in rippling pools of water that have gathered in the gutter. All things are shot through with tarnished gold.

—

James stands between endless rows of yellowing tents when the fog rolls in. It’s heavy and thick, as always, muffling the subdued sounds of the camp.

A frigid wind begins to blow, twisting the fog into horrid shapes before him, coalescing into shapes of shuffling, skeletal bodies. He flinches as one reaches toward him, shuddering as its frozen, distended fingertips brush against his hair.

Something calls to him, indistinct with distance, and he follows.

The tents stretch on endlessly, emerging like a funeral procession, each indistinguishable from the next. Fog presses in from all sides, blinding him.

He walks for a long time, each step measured and even, pacing himself as if he were trekking several miles, rather than walking from one end of their camp to the other. Bereft of any other options, James pushes on, hoping to find any trace of what few of his men remain. The endless tents seem like his own personal purgatory, crafted for him alone to wander until his penance ends.

More ghastly hands reach from the gloaming, catching and tangling in his coat and hair, grasping at his ankles. It is silent as the grave as he pushes onwards; even the sound of his boots crunching on the shale is muffled, as if underwater. No voices call, no other footsteps echo. There is nothing but the softest susurrus of the wind in his ear and the ragged edge of his own breath.

Nerves begin to flutter in his belly as he realizes that he is well and truly alone.

He has to find the men, wherever they are, this much is clear to him. It propels him forward, this nervous urgency. They must be far-flung from him, though he has no idea how this is possible. The only sign that this desolate place ever supported humans is the scattered detritus of his men’s lives; rusted-out empty tins of food, glimpses of unmade bedrolls through the tent entrances. It’s as if all their owners simply put down their belongings and evaporated.

The wind shifts, and with it, so does the fog. The hands that had found purchase on him are temporarily dislodged, and the wind whispers like overlapping voices in his ears. There, made small by the distance, is a shade. Just the smallest smear of charcoal in the slate grey, but as James squints at it, it resolves into the figure of a man. The features are much too small to be identifiable, but hope surges in him as he lurches forward. He calls out, waving, his breath steaming in the cold air and echoing loudly across the shale. The figure does not move; it is unclear if James can yell loudly enough to cover the distance.

He shouts again, urgency brewing in him as the tents decay around him, yellowed with age and splattered with brown, dried blood, tattered and shredded by time and claws, until naught remains but their frame and scant scraps of fabric, nothing inside but shale. The figure is barely closer, still only the size of James’s thumb against the horizon. The voices on the wind intensify, coalescing into identifiable words and phrases, though the sheer mass of sound makes individual voices incomprehensible.

The wind roars, whipping James’s hair about his face, and he presses a hand to his hat to keep it in place, bending forward against the gale’s force. One tent splinters and cracks beside him, clattering to the ground and demolishing the remains of the tent beside it. He tries to sidestep the collapse, but loses his footing and lands beside the wreckage, laying within the rotted timbers like so many bones on the shale.

The fog whips back around him on the wind, thick and oppressive, like the walls of a hurricane. The insistent whispers retreat back into silence, and James lets his head rest on the ground, just for a moment. He thumps his head against the stone, sighing heavily.

A rock shifts close nearby.

James freezes, straining his ears over for its source. For a long moment, there is nothing, save for his pulse thudding dully in his ears and the shudders of his exhales, and the howling of the wind.

Directly beside his ear, rock crunches as if underfoot. James jumps upright, ungainly as the wind whips at him, nearly knocking him back down. He staggers back into the alleyway, and draws up short when he sees the shade from the horizon, now very near and very clearly a man.

“Francis, thank God.” His voice shakes with relief

His back is to James, but he would know his shape anywhere, the line of his shoulders, the way he folds his hands behind his back.

He does not answer.

James draws up short, a mere pace behind him. Now, his words come out slow and tentative, nearly snatched away by the wind. “Francis?”

Francis only turns his head fractionally in his direction, still silent.

More and more of the tents surrounding them succumb to the force of the gale, splinters and fabric buffeting them as they fly by. Stray wood whips past James’s face, some of the shrapnel slicing open his cheek along the bone. Blood trickles, hot and sticky, down his cheek. He reaches out for Francis, seizing upon his shoulder, bracing against the carnage as Francis stands, undisturbed and resolute.

Agonizingly slowly, Francis turns and stares at him, face blank and skin waxy, ashen. James snatches his hand away as if burned, but Francis snatches his wrist, holding him in place with his icy fingers.

Francis’s chest is gone nearly in its entirety. From his breastbone from his pelvis, his torso is a vast, gaping hole, his shoulders only supported by the ivory curve of his spine. His viscera is wholly absent, the wound cold and bloodless, and James can see clear through to the interior lining of his greatcoat.

He tugs insistently at James’s wrist, and James drags his eyes away from the gory scene before him. Francis’s mouth moves, soundless, eyes wild, his grip around James’s wrist turned bruising.

Before he can get Francis to repeat himself, he crumples. James follows him to the ground, scrabbling for his shoulders, but Francis’s body dissolves beneath his fingers, dissipating into grey smoke and swept away on the gale, until all that remains are the scraps of his clothing, greatcoat now threadbare and fragile, in James’s hands.

James can do nothing but sit, legs stretched out before him, clutching Francis’s coat in his lap as the camp around him is swept away by wind that feels fit to strip flesh from bone, leaving him alone in the vast, endless stretch of Arctic fog.

All around him, a familiar beast’s roar rises, drowning out even the gale, and when James raises his head to seek out its source, the beast is charging him. There is no time for James to struggle; all he manages is to crush Francis’s coat to his breast and raise one hand to shield his face. The beast’s jaws seize upon his upper body, crushing his ribs.

James screams.

—

James only just manages to smother the cry in his throat when he wakes. He clutches his duvet, twisting the heavy fabric between his trembling fingers.

This is the first time that Francis has made an appearance in his dreams. Other Arctic visions have haunted him, his men, Sir John, the Tuunbaq. The only memory that thus far had been spared was Francis.

It had been an unrecognized blessing.

James wills himself to calm, but he is well and truly awake, and it becomes clear that tonight, too, will be a sleepless night. The sky is dull grey with predawn light as he slips from beneath his covers and sits heavily in his lone desk chair. It’s too early even for the morning birds, and the dim silence weighs on him.

He lights a dim kerosene lantern with the intent of reading one of his novels, but instead watches as the flame flickers inside the smoke-stained glass and casts dancing shadows in the small sphere of light.

At long last, the sun rises. He rises with it and goes about his daily ablutions. As the sounds of other club members waking and going about their business filters through his door, he sits back down at his writing desk.

He fully intends to sink into the easy motions of writing. Though he just saw Francis the night prior, he wants to write him before any of the other people he truly should respond to. He sits there, stymied, the pen held aloft for so long that a few errant drops of black ink drip to the page. He hastily sets the pen back in the inkwell, lest he make more of a mess, and sits there, doing little more than watching the blot seep into the rough parchment. He stays, entranced, until the silence of his room is broken by a soft knocking at his door.

The doorman hands him a small collection of envelopes, which James takes with a soft thanks.

One is from Sir James Ross, addressed to him in a tight scrawl. The second is in a hand he would recognize anywhere; Francis’s gentle, looping handwriting spells out his name on the ivory envelope. It’s not a thick missive, but there is more heft to it than Ross’s. A thrill runs through him, and he hastily puts Francis’s letter aside. He works Ross’s missive open with less care than is truly necessary.

It’s an invitation to yet another party. This one is a reception to his and Francis’s looming knighthood ceremony. The letter is brief, polite, and reassuring that it only requires their presence and little more, but even that makes James weary to his bones. James groans under his breath and resigns himself to another exhausting evening in a few weeks. He tosses the letter down on his desk with a sigh and rubs a knuckle against his brow. It seems, now, that his eagerness to carve out a position for himself in society has become his own prison.

James shakes his head, putting his maudlin ruminations aside and takes Francis’s letter in hand. He stands still for a long moment, simply running his thumb along his name. The char creaks as he settles his weight into it, pressing the envelope flat to work his letter opener beneath the paper and slicing the paper open in one clean motion. With careful hands, he withdraws the letter, only two or so sheafs of parchment, unfolding it delicately.

Dearest James,

James smiles despite himself, runs his fingertips across the word “dearest” almost reverently. He knows Francis doesn’t mean this the way that James wishes he did, but in the privacy of how own rooms, he allows himself to pretend.

I hope you will forgive me for my hate in writing to you. In truth, I couldn’t bear any longer a separation. I have nothing much to speak of that is of note; rather, I wished to impress upon you that I do treasure our brief moments of communication, and to ensure that the hearth of our friendship remains warm.

I do lament that I couldn’t dissuade Jim from hosting a post-knighting celebration. He was happy to have you to visit, and encouraged to see that you were as healthy as he had hoped when he prevailed upon you in the naval club. But it is to my chagrin; you know as well as I that I am not, nor have I ever been, an adept member of society, let alone popular within the Admiralty. I am certain our honors only came after vigorous date. But now I am only complaining, and I had other reasons to speak than commiseration.

I had hoped to extend to you another, more personal invitation. Jim and Lady Ann are to take a trip, departing the day after our reception. I had hoped you would join me for dinner while they are away. Do let me know if this is agreeable to you. May we meet again soon.

Yours,

Francis R.M. Crozier
James sets the letter aside and hastily takes his pen in hand to accept. He confides in Francis that he also dreads Ross’s party, aside from possibly seeing the rest of their men and taking heart in their shared recoveries, despite how changed they are. He briefly laments his loss of ease in society, how he secretly longs to shrink from the excessive attentions of socialites that he had once hoped to count himself among. He pauses, just for a moment, before he signs it.

Faithfully Yours,
James Fitzjames

—

Francis meets him in the hall before the ceremony. His dress uniform is still perfectly tailored, shockingly neat despite the small patches near his elbows.

The hall is abuzz with conversation, almost overwhelming in its volume, but something in him eases when Francis comes to rest at his side. He doesn’t speak, just stands beside him, and James is content to let him, creating their own shelter of silence.

Unfortunately, this peace wouldn’t last. The doors opened and they were ushered in, to be recognized before a grand crowd. It is painfully long, tedious, and though if finally grants James the accolades he had always hoped for, it rings hollow. The ceremony is exhausting, and James truly wants nothing more than to spend time with Francis. Each time he turns around, though, he is thwarted; there seems to be an endless stream of men he has and hasn’t met that want to make his acquaintance, and Francis slips into the crowd and vanishes.

He is so occupied that he is dreadfully late to Ross’s reception. By the time he arrives, the party is well underway. Upon entry, he is almost immediately seized upon by yet another small crowd of men with whom he is only tangentially familiar, drawn into seemingly endless questions about his time on the ships, the ice, about their return.

Seldom do they ask after his health. He should not be surprised; he was the expedition’s second, by the end of things, and the men of the Admiralty are anxious for the more salacious details, now that the survivors have been so thoroughly honored. Certainly only Francis exceeds him in interest. As the expedition’s leader, he alone is responsible for keeping the survivors alive long enough for Ross to find them. He gives them what they want, though his mind wanders as he recites his tales as if they were not a part of his life, but a fabrication, rehearsed and clean, with only the safest moments embellished.

He hates the cottony sensation of partial truths on his tongue, hates that these men cannot fathom that he was changed by his time in the Arctic. Yet, he pastes on the face they expect, if only because it will prevent them from insinuating that he is unwell and keep them oblivious to his true nature, which he only trusts with those few men Francis brought home.

The conversation drags on, and James wishes desperately to be anywhere else.

When the men around him turn their attentions away from his tales, James casts about for any familiar faces, and spots Ross and Francis, alongside Blanky, Jopson, and Little, in a small tight group across the room.

Francis looks at peace, unbothered by crowds, and James tries not to choke on his envy, to covet the comfortable intimacy of that group. Suddenly, the men around him, trying repeatedly to drag him into conversation, feel more like prison guards than colleagues.

Under the pretense of finding himself some brandy, James manages to separate himself from his would-be admirers. He sways his way through the crowd, sidestepping several bids for his attention, and eventually reaches them.

Quite suddenly, he is loathe to interrupt, and briefly considers melting into the shadows and leaving them all well enough alone. These thoughts are banished when Francis looks up from his tea and his eyes land on James. He smiles broadly and beckons him over.

Jopson, Blanky, and Little all have gathered around Francis and Ross, but shuffle a bit to make room for him beside Francis. How they had all shrugged off the attentions of the Admiralty was beyond James, but he is grateful for the relative seclusion. As the conversation lulls for a moment, he cants towards Francis, his voice low.

“Are these the only men from the expedition here?”

“All but Le Vesconte,” Francis murmurs back. “He’s off with some former shipmates.”

James nods, half to himself, and casts a slow look across their small crowd. His men are looking well. And they are still his men, despite the fact that they made landfall months ago, that he could easily be given command of another vessel, or they could, and likely would, be reassigned. They survived the ice together, despite all odds, and that has cemented their bonds in a way that he has never experienced, and hopefully will never experience again.

The survivors are all seem content, each living out their days happily and in relatively good health. Jopson is regaling them with tales of his home, a small cottage on the outskirts of London, afforded on his and Little’s pooled income. Their life, from Jopson’s perspective seems simple but charmed. Private.

As the conversation shifts yet again, James finds himself drifting. Distantly, he wishes for the strength to retreat from society as his men had. He does have the funds, after all, to find his own home, but the club rooms were familiar, comfortable, and he truly had no quarrel with the proximity of other men. He imagines himself in Jopson’s shoes, sharing a hope with another, fantasizing about who he would choose to spend his days with. He envisions Dundy, for a moment, but the image fails to coalesce into anything more than vague ephemera.

His mind seems to settle, quite outside his conscious choice, on Francis. The images are crystal clear, now: Francis in his home, sharing meals and tea. Even in his mind, the image is warm, like sunlight on his skin. It would only be polite, quiet companionship, but seems an intimacy that even Dundy could not provide.

The realization shocks James; he has been so inept in his control that he has allowed himself, quite unaware of the extent of his true desires, to crave Francis’s undivided attention. He craves his presence in his daily life, misses Francis when he is gone, and longs to await Francis’s return as a wife would expect a husband’s return.

James abruptly reorients himself in the present conversation, willing his mind off these paths and hoping his face isn’t flushing. He thinks he manages it, but catches a long, lingering look from Blanky. His face is an echo of the expression he held when he told James the tale of Fury Beach — something stern and altogether too knowing. His keen eyes flick briefly to Francis, then back to James, and he slowly raises a brow. His expression is otherwise stony, but thaws instantly as Little draws him into the conversation. In that moment, it is as if Blanky, of all people, is the one that can see through to James’s core.

Perhaps he is more transparent than he thought he was.

Francis’s presence at his side is now a burning brand, radiating warmth at James’s elbow. James had wanted Francis beside him so deeply at the last Admiralty gathering, but now he thinks he may have cursed himself.

“I’ll be back momentarily,” he says, mostly to Francis. “I could use a drink.”

He can feel Francis’s eyes on his back as he retreats, neck burning as he heads nominally toward the drink table. As he wanders away, a voice he’d recognize anywhere cuts across the crowd.

“James! There you are,” he waves, beckoning him towards the small group of people he’s ensconced within.

James waves back, making his way towards Dundy.

“Here he is, the man of the hour! I hope you remember George, I was just telling him about our time on the Clio.”

James does not, in fact, remember George, but allows himself to be pulled into the tale nonetheless. He cannot bring himself to mind, but as minutes crawl by, it’s clear that he is again enmeshed in a conversation that he doesn’t want to participate in, but can’t escape. He plays along for Dundy’s sake, adding small details where he can. The minutes drag, but he tries his best to stay engaged.

Someone’s fingers brush up against the delicate inside of his wrist, just past the end of his sleeve. James suppresses a bone-deep shudder, turning over his shoulder.

“Can’t help but notice that you left to get a drink, but never once did your fingers actually touch a glass,” Francis says, gently teasing. He presses a small glass of brandy into his hand with a smile. James catalogues the way their fingers brush together, careful not to let them linger.

“Thank you. I’ll be back around soon, I assure you,” he says softly.

“Come now, James, you need not let Francis keep you all to himself,” another man interjects, one whose name James cannot remember, despite being introduced a scant few minutes ago. On first blush, his tone is jovial, but there’s a hard edge beneath it. Francis looks mildly affronted, opens his mouth to respond, but James beats him to it.

“Pardon?” he asks, with false lightness.

“Don’t play dumb. We can see how Francis is monopolizing your time with his little group— you must know that others wish to speak with you, and that he cannot lay sole claim to your attention.”

Francis’s expression has gone still as stone, but James’s indignation surges.

“I resent that accusation, both of this- this manipulation, and that I am oblivious enough that I cannot notice when I’m being taken advantage of. That small group is made up of my men, and Francis is my captain.” His breath is starting to come faster, now, anger simmering. “I care for their well-being, and wished to hear how they were faring. Spending time with them was of my own volition, not a consequence of Francis monopolizing me.”

The group is uncomfortably quiet in the wake of his tirade, and James can sense that he has misstepped by aligning himself with Francis rather than with the men before him.

He cannot bring himself to care.

“You wouldn’t begrudge a man for speaking with one of his closest friends, no?” Dundy cuts in smoothly. “Given our history, I would have tried to monopolize James’s attention for myself, were he not so popular.”

There is a general murmur of agreement from the group, but when James turns to apologize to Francis, he is gone. James walks away with little more than a parting comment to Dundy. It’s rude, but Dundy smiles knowingly at him and waves him off.

He meanders through the crowd once more, his head on a swivel, but there is no sign of Francis, not even hiding in the darkened corners of the hall. He does spy Blanky, though, who seems to be scanning the room with much the same expression he wore when he observed the ice. Blanky meets his eye and starts cutting through the crowd towards him.

“Have you seen Francis? He said he’d bring you a drink, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.”

“Can’t say I have. Dundy’s friends were quite rude, and seem to have run him off.”

Blanky looks at him again for a long moment, assessing. “I’ve never known Francis to back down from a bit of disrespect. Usually he returns in kind, regardless of the repercussions.”

“Truthfully, they were right bastards about our friendship. It was out of line and quite unprompted. I gave them a piece of my mind, but it seems the damage was already done.”

Blanky hums. “I haven’t yet checked the gardens. Perhaps you can cool off out there and find Francis at the same time.” With that, he pivots on his heel and vanishes back into the crowd.

James blinks at his retreating back, perplexed by how suddenly Blanky recuses himself from searching for Francis. Nonetheless, James passes through the double doors to the chill outdoors.

It takes a long moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they do, Francis isn’t in sight of the raised patio. His shoulders slump, just slightly, defeated. His heels click on the stone as he makes his way down the terraced steps and along the narrow footpath, weaving between wilted flowers and well-trimmed hedges. After a few minutes of wandering, he finds his way to a small, secluded dead end in the hedges.

There Francis is, sitting on a small stone bench. He is slumped forward, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed and staring morosely at his interlocked fingers. James finds himself lingering on his profile, wishing to smooth away the displeasure from Francis’s brow. This urge pulls James closer, and his heel crunches on a stray piece of gravel. Francis glances up as he approaches, but just sighs and goes back to staring at his hands.

“It’s a bit cold to be lounging in the garden, Francis.”

“You are more than welcome to return to the party. I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“If you think that I wouldn’t seek you out after you vanish without warning, you have severely misunderstood our relationship.”

“Perhaps I have, given that I’ve been monopolizing your attention. By all means, James, enlighten me.” The way he says it is acidic, spitting out James’s name with enough vitriol that it nearly burns.

“I fear you may be daft, if you think I only spend my time with you because you entrap me in conversations.” Francis looks affronted at this, but James charges again, before Francis can truly get going. “Furthermore, if you hadn’t scuttled off at the first unkind word, you would know that I don’t agree with that sycophant. I defended my choice to spend time with you and the men tonight, and if you were paying attention, you would see that I am most comfortable at these godforsaken gatherings when I am with you.”

“You hardly spoke with us all evening, James.” His voice is lower, now, almost despairing. “Forgive me for mistaking your silence for displeasure.”

James sigs and stares Francis dead in the eye. “I spoke more with Dundy’s friends because it is expected of me. It’s a strain, to pretend that I am still content to tell tales of my exploits and aggrandize myself. You, of all people, should know that I am little more than an act.” His voice cracks on this last sentence, and he curses himself for it.

Francis deflates completely. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to suffer my melancholy. You can go back to the party and enjoy yourself, though.”

“It’s as if you can hear me, but somehow don’t understand what I say. Let me make myself plain,” James says, softly, coming to rest so close that their shoes nearly touch. “I have no desire to return to the party without you.” He gestures at the space beside Francis. “May I?”

Francis nods slowly, and James sits, ignoring the way the stiffness in his spine stretches with the motion in favor of watching Francis turn so they sit side-by-side.

They rest there in silence for a long time, Francis constantly lacing and unlacing his fingers, looking anywhere but James. James himself is content to simply enjoy his company, until the chill night air finally works its way beneath his coats and he shivers.

Francis nudges him with his elbow and rises. “Come now, we’ve been out here for long enough. You’ll catch cold if we stay longer.”

James follows him and they make their way back through the hedge maze, shoulder to shoulder. “It’s unlike you to be so ruffled by one man’s rudeness. Does something else trouble you?”

“Nothing of concern. I have a question to ask you, sometime later, but this is neither the time nor the place.” Francis turns to him just outside the lit windows, pausing. “Perhaps we can test how long it takes for our guests to notice our return.”

“My, my, are you suggesting that we avoid the guests of our own party?” He grins, conspiratorial. “Lead the way.”

The crowd has thinned a bit, but not so much that their lengthy absence was noted. Dundy has migrated to the expedition survivors. Francis rejoins them ahead of James, glancing over his shoulder in open invitation.

James follows him, as he always does, and as he suspects he always will.

—

When Ross’s home comes clear on the street, relief washes through James. It has been a long walk from his rooms, made longer by the deep ache that has settled into his hips and spine. Now that it’s within reach, the prospect of resting is tantalizing.

As he makes his way up the steps to Ross’s painted front door, he glances to the sky, casting a skeptical glance over the dark clouds that loom in the distance. It could be a trick of the sinking sun, casting the clouds a dark grey with their own shadows, but it looks to be a nasty storm brewing.

Nervous excitement bubbles in his stomach as he knocks on the door and he has to resist the urge to shift from foot to foot while he waits.

The doorman allows him entry, and James waits just inside, scuffing his toe against the rug. Francis emerges from the dim hall and leads them to the kitchen and sits across from him. THe table is already set, with two bowls of steaming stew and plates of bread, all of which are painfully inviting. Francis gestures at James with his spoon and tucks in. James follows suit, reveling in the flavor of the thick broth and tender meat on his tongue. He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat.

“This is delightful.”

“Not my cook, so I can’t claim responsibility. But I don’t disagree.”

The comfortable silence between them thaws and gives way to an easy, drifting conversation. Were it anyone else, James would find himself bored of discussing such trivial matters, but with Francis, he doesn’t mind. There are no masks to be donned, no rules that he needs to follow, nobody to impress. Francis has seen him at his most diminished, and James suspects he has seen Francis much the same. He still cracks jokes, as is his wont, and the first time he makes Francis laugh, full-bodied and genuine, James soars with it. He spends the rest of the dinner chasing that joy.

As dinner is cleared, hunger sated, Francis stands, and James follows him back out into the foyer, but draws up short when he catches a glimpse of the grandfather clock’s face. He fumbles for his pocket watch, pulling a face at the late hour. He glances out the windows framing the grand front door, as if that will present him with a different answer, but is only greeted with flat darkness brewing outdoors.

“Good God, Francis, is it that late already? I should be getting on, let you have some of your evening to yourself.”

Francis looks a bit disappointed, but covers it before James can truly tell. “It’s no imposition, and you are here on my invitation, besides.”

“Still, I have taken up far too much of your time.” A great peal of thunder rolls through the house, then, as if punctuating James’s decision. He glances at the ceiling, wry. “And, it seems, I have some weather to outrun. If I catch a cab, I may yet make it home without getting drenched.”

“If you insist, then.” Francis fetches his coat and helps James into it, though he needs no assistance. James allows it, if only to revel in the way that Francis’s hands brush against his shoulders. Francis accompanies him across the short distance to the door, holding it open as James crosses the threshold. “I hope you enjoyed dinner?”

“Of course I did.” James turns as Francis lingers in the doorway. He spends a fraction too long, appreciating the figure that Francis strokes in the doorway before remembering himself. “I always enjoy your company. Is there anything else you require?”

“Francis just smiles. “No, nothing. I would just like to see you actually catch a cab before I shut you out.”

James nods, casting another skeptical look at the sky as thunder rumbles yet again, much more insistent this time. The storm is apparently slow-moving, but it looms overhead now, clouds dark as pitch. Lightning cuts across the dark skies again, and low thunder rolls almost continuously now. He glances at Francis one last time, a final thanks on his tongue, when a raindrop lands square on his nose. He flinches, reflexively wiping the water from his face, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Francis raise the back of one hand to his lips to hide a smile. Before James can admonish him, another fat, heavy raindrop lands on his cheek, and yet another on his brow. He turns to hurry down the stairs, resigned to his extremely damp fate, but Francis’s hand closes around his wrist, tugging him back through the doorway. He ducks inside just as rain pounds the pavement in earnest, as if Noah’s flood itself had descended upon London.

“I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude,” James laughs as he wipes away the scant few raindrops from his face. “Would it trouble you terribly if I waited out the storm here?”

“Oh, yes, it certainly does. That’s why I dragged you back over the doorstep myself.” He tips his head towards the library. “Would you like some tea while we wait? I can ring for some.”

He agrees, settling into one of the chairs to wait.

—

Rain lashes at the windows, thunder still rumbling loudly enough to rattle the panes. James checks the sky for the umpteenth time, but with the sun long gone, it’s impossible to tell clouds from night sky. When he drops the lacy curtains, the draught is strong enough that it subtly lifts the fabric. He checks his pocket watch, the dying firelight only just enough to read the hands, grimacing at the lateness of the hour. His departure is long overdue, but he loathes the thought of trudging through such a vicious storm; catching cold is a certainty in such a gale, if he manages to not be blown down into the gutter and drown, first.

Francis looks chagrined, eyes lingering on the crack between the curtains. “It seems I’ve cost you your window of opportunity.”

James hums. “I don’t think there was any opportunity for me to have made it back without getting drenched. If I’d left then or now, the result would have been the same. That being said,” he sighs, heading back towards the center of the room, “I think it’s time I take my leave.”

“Nonsense. Stay here for the night, and leave in the morning, when the storm has passed.”

“Your kindness is much appreciated, I can’t accept. I have no nightclothes, nor clothing for tomorrow.”

“I would lend you one of mine. We are similar enough in size that it should do, just for one evening.”

“I wouldn’t want to take advantage of Ross’s hospitality, given that he’s not here to grant it.”

“He’s not here to forbid it, either.” Francis gives him a sly, almost impish look when he says it, but sobers quickly. “Please, James, I ‘ll not have you catching your death on account of a man who is not even here.”

James acquiesces. “Alright. If you insist.”

“I do. Come now, let’s get you to bed. It is altogether too late to still be awake.”

He allows Francis to lead him through the house and up the stairs and situate him in a small bedroom with a basin. It’s a quiet affair, aside from the lashing of rain at the windows, but James cannot say he minds. Francis’s fingers brush his when he presses a spare nightshirt into his hands, and then Francis is gone with a gentle goodnight.

James stands in the middle of the room for a long moment, just running his thumbs along a sturdy seam. The fabric is worn and soft, but not threadbare. When James slips it on, it hangs scandalously short, the sleeves draping high on his forearms, but it’s comfortable despite itself. It’s warm and smells of Francis. He climbs between the chilled sheets and presses his face into the shoulder of the garment, imagining that Francis was there with him, his arms steadfast and wrapped around him, warming them both through.

It rings hollow in James’s chest, but he can’t bring himself to set the fantasy aside, even as his eyelids grow heavy.

—

Smothering heat washes over James, billowing over him like the heat thrown off a coal furnace, and smoke clogs his throat. He rubs at his eyes, brushing away stinging sweat that drips steadily into his eyes, and glances around the room.

The world rather refuses to come into focus, wavering and indistinct. Smoke distorts the edges of the furniture, obscuring the door frame. There are no visible flames as of yet, but the heat is so intense that James fears the furniture may burst into flames of their own accord. A figure looms in the foyer just beyond, and he staggers towards it, giving chase.

He knows, instinctively, that it’s Francis.

He calls out to him through the smoke, throat closing and dissolving into heavy, wracking coughs before he can choke out his name. The air shifts and Francis’s shadow twists and valishes, as if it was never there, nothing more than a mirage.

Still coughing, eyes watering with the force of the fit, James staggers through the doorway, into the hallway adjacent. Each step is a hardship, like his ankles are weighted with leaden shackles, and with each passing moment, the smoke billows thicker and heavier from some unseen source.

Four doors branch from the foyer. The front door is closed at his back, the rest ajar, giving way to hallways that stretch endlessly into the smoke. The doorway he just passed through stretches similarly away, the dining room long gone. Frantic, he tries to haul the front door open. Instead, the knob sears his palm, red-hot. He tries again, his palm blistering as the metal welds to his skin, and he shouts, cradling his scorched hand to his chest. He coughs as he stands there, lost, staring emptily down each endless hallway as flames begin to lick through the walls, casting an eerie, dancing light in the haze.

A flicker of motion catches James’s eye, dark even against the smoke, and flits past the grand staircase.

He gives chase, staggering past the dark banister as quietly as he can. An almighty crack resounds all around him. He trips forward, leaning against the staircase and covering his ears against the din. Behind him, the ceiling caves in, flaming rubble missing him by mere inches. Heat from the wreckage sears his face, even as he steps away from the smouldering beams. The banister, now partially crushed under the wreckage, erupts into flames, forcing him deeper into the inferno. He retreats, heart in his threat, but holds on to the hope that, if he can just find Francis, they may both still escape with their lives.

Distantly, he hopes a neighbor has seen the flames, that a fire brigade has been dispatched, that some sort of rescue is coming. The inferno is all-consuming. James holds on to the dim possibility of escape, but his hope fades the deeper into the manor he goes.

“Francis!”

He calls out as loudly as he can, and then bends double, coughing hard enough that he thinks his lungs may dislodge themselves from his rib cage. He sinks to his hands and knees with the force of it, tears streaming from his eyes. Black spots dance in his vision as the fit passes, his breaths ragged now. Each inhale burns, but he forces himself to rise on shaky legs and push on.

Finally, he arrives in what appears to be a ballroom. Francis stands in the center of the room, heedless of the still-burning embers that rain down around him and alight on his shoulders, his hair, his bare hands. Above him, the room groans and cracks dangerously.

James looks up.

Beams and rigging haphazardly cross the ceiling, stretching up so far that they vanish in the hazy orange glow. Distended, charred bodies reach across them, twisted so they secure the rafters. Their faces are all turned towards James, contorted into grotesque masks of agony, anger, their bulging eyes and empty sockets boring into him. James stands in the doorway, transfixed by horror. Nausea twists in his gut as he traces the grisly sight down the wall; viscera twists in and throughout the wall paneling, mixing with the rope and canvas that also lies, slumped, amongst the high beams and fluttering to rest on the floor.

He forces his eyes away, rubbing a knuckle against his eye to wipe sweat out of the way, dragging his hair from his face, where it lays plastered against his forehead. He forces himself to focus only on Francis.

“Francis, please, this way! We have to go!”

Unbothered by the ongoing destruction, hands tucked in his coat pockets, Francis finally turns and takes a step toward him. The hardwood floors buckle beneath his booted feet, squelching horribly as viscous, dark blood oozes up from beneath the floorboards. It glimmers like obsidian in the light of the flames.

James retreats as Francis approaches, step for step, repelled by something he cannot articulate. His back comes up against a wall where the door had been, but it compresses as his knees give out, making a terrible, fleshy noise as it takes the weight of his floor. Francis is still silent, his approach slow and inexorable.

He is close, now. Half of his face, split neatly down the center, has come away. Remnants of his skin melt down his exposed cheekbone and jaw like candle wax, the aqueous humor of his eye making the bones and gristle glisten. Portions of his neck have melted away, too, revealing the ivory joints of his vertebra, the damp glistening fibers of his muscles and vascular system. He crowds James back into the wall, bending until they are face to face, his empty eye socket staring at him impassively, an accusation.

Francis removes one of his hands from his pocket, burned away to nothing but bleached bone.

James scrambles backwards, silently throwing his hands out before him to repel Francis. He’s bereft of the strength to do anything else, not even to plead. Francis bats his hands away effortlessly. The force of the gesture dislodges some of the fluid from Francis’s face, and it splatters on James’s cheek. He recoils, gagging, but Francis seizes his chin in a vice-like grip, forcing him to look upon his face.

His fingers are like the Arctic, as strong as ice-cold metal welded to exposed skin. It burns his skin more than the flames, and try as he might, James cannot force himself free.

“Do you see, now, James?” His voice is soft, but as hostile as it was at those wardroom dinners all those years ago. There is no kindness here. “Do you see what happens when you are cut loose from command? The price you pay for your unearned pride?”

“Francis, stop, please—”

In a flash, Francis’s hand releases his jaw, but locks around his neck, instead. James scrabbles at Francis’s wrist, flails out at Francis’s jaw, a desperate bid to loosen his grip, to get any leverage, but it’s in vain. His lungs burn, stuttering as he chokes.

Francis leans down, so close that his lips nearly graze his ear. James cannot look anywhere aside from the charred corpses in the rafters. “Gaze upon your works, ye mighty,” Francis intones, his breath cold as death against his cheek.

James paws helplessly at Francis’s shoulder, as immovable as marble. Another crack resounds, and Francis’s grip slackens almost imperceptibly. James bucks up in his grasp and tries to dislodge him, expending his last reserves of strength in this final, desperate effort.

It is all in vain. One crash elides into another, an all-consuming roar, and James watches, helpless, as the rafters collapse on themselves, one after another, a mass of timbers and bodies that crases down atop both him and Francis, burying them, entwined, in the rubble.

—

James wakes gasping, his heart thundering in his ears. The linens are wrapped hopelessly around his limbs. He must have been thrashing in his sleep. James just hopes that he wasn’t screaming, that he hasn’t disturbed Francis or the rest of the household. He throws the blankets off, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh as the chill air rushes in.

Wind is still howling outside as he hesitates, perched on the edge of the bed, half-fearing that the floorboards will be heated beneath his feet. As he lets his soles alight on the floor, though, the wood is cold, and the room smells of nothing but sweat, dust, and rain. As he makes his way to the basin on coltish legs, here is no lingering scent of smoke, no distant crackle of flame, no sounds of a building collapsing. There is nothing but the sounds of a stormy night.

James splashes icy water over his face, holding himself upright with an iron grip as the water drips from his chin. He breathes slowly, willing his racing heart to follow in kind, and runs a still-damp hand over his face, letting it come to rest over his mouth. His hair sticks to his forehead and the nape of his neck, his borrowed clothing clinging to his skin. He is still trembling, even now, and has to consciously resist the urge to sink to his knees and wait for it to subside.

The images of his dreams linger in his mind’s eye, the bodies of his men, Francis’s horrible melted visage. He shakes his head vigorously, trying to banish the memories, but without success. After a long few minutes of waiting, James resigns himself to yet another partial night of sleep. Even as the adrenaline begins to fade and the true lateness of the hour becomes clear, he cannot calm himself enough to rest.

James opens and closes the bedroom door carefully, praying that it does not squeak on its hinges. Francis’s room is just adjacent to his, and he keeps his footsteps light so the floorboards don’t creak under his weight, and creeps slowly through the dark, one hand tracing the wall. Finally, he eases his way through the house and reaches the library.

There, an orange light flickers beneath the closed door, and the fear he has only just suppressed rears its head anew. Adrenaline surges as he throws the door open, imagining flames already eating up the walls.

Francis, still fully dressed, with a teacup in his hands, stares at him, eyes wide with surprise. The room is in perfect order; all the books, aside from the one Francis has laid open on the table, are in their place. The room is warm and comforting. The fire is perfectly contained within its hearth, small and well-managed.

The doorknob is cool beneath his palm.

Francis’s expression morphs from alarm to a look of concern that James knows well. His eyes dart down to James’s knees, his bare feet, and then back up to Jame’s eyes. James’s face flames under the scrutiny. His state of undress is entirely unacceptable for company, especially given the display he has just put on.

“James? What’s happened?” His teacup makes a hollow knock against the table as Francis puts it down and crosses the room.

He just shakes his head, unable to respond with words, so overcome is he with the dissonance between his expectations and banal reality. James leans hard on the doorjamb, relief washing over him and taking what little strength he had out with its tide.

“Are you quite alright?” Francis’s voice is so soft it’s unbearable, and his hands are similarly gentle where they rest on his arms, his brows knit in concern. “Christ, James, you’re shaking.”

James nods, so slight that it’s nearly imperceptible. “Yes, I’m alright,” he says, when Francis doesn’t step away.

“Come, sit,” Francis urges, tugging him along by his elbow.

James follows dutifully, trailing behind him, self-conscious. Francis sits heavily and pats the cushion beside him in open invitation. The couch gives just a little as James settles into it. He bows forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. He takes one long, shuddering breath, but can’t seem to make himself speak. It’s as if his voice is trapped in his throat, and he feels fit to choke, but is at the mercy of his body. He simply cannot will the words out of his mouth.

In lieu of more conversation, Francis just presses a teacup into James’s hands. He stares blankly into the drink, watching the way the firelight dances in the small ripples. He manages a small sip of the drink without spilling any, despite his shaking hands.

Francis turns towards him, though James doesn’t look up from his drink. Their thighs press together, now, and James has to actively avoid leaning into Francis’s warmth. Slowly, Francis’s hands cover his own, gently grasping the rim of the cup, and James lets him take it from his hand and set it aside delicately.

As if he’s afraid that James will spook like a wild animal, Francis settles a palm on his back. His thumb swipes back and forth there, tracing over the prominent knob of his spine. He exerts no pressure, simply letting his hand rise and fall with James’s unsteady breaths, and maintains a steady sweep of his fingers across James’s back.

“Do your dreams trouble you?” he says, hesitant.

James nods. He bows forward even further, letting his hair hang into his face. “It’s ridiculous, I know. And yet, here I am.” He runs a palm over his face, speaking between his fingers. “Did I wake you?”

Francis makes a skeptical noise in his throat. “One needs to be asleep to be woken,” he says, wry. “And it’s not ridiculous. I’ve known many men who suffer as you do. It seems we are two sides of the same coin: you get some rest, but are plagued by dreams, and I cannot sleep at all.”

James huffs at that, but cracks a small smile. “At least you aren’t tempted by sleep. Forgive me if I overstep, but I envy you.”

Francis purses his lips, but says nothing else. They lapse back into silence. James is content to let Francis keep rubbing along his spine. The simple touch makes his muscles unwind, shoulders relaxing by small degrees, his tremors subsiding.

After a few long minutes, disturbed by nothing but the crackling of the hearth, Francis speaks, his voice once again slanting into tenderness.

“I have heard that some men find relief when they talk about their torments. If it would ease your mind, I would listen.”

“You have already borne so many of my burdens. I can’t ask you to take on any more.”

“If I insist, would you?”

James looks sidelong at him, but doesn’t move otherwise. If Francis withdraws now, he doesn’t think he could forgive himself. At long last, he manages to corral his thoughts into something resembling coherent sentences and speaks, wringing his hands. “It was about Carnivale. The— the fire.” His voice breaks, and his mind skirts away from the grisly details, both real and nightmare. “Forgive me, Francis, I can’t—”

In the corner of his eye, Francis stills, his hand ceasing its slow path along his spine, and glances between him and the lit hearth. “I can douse the fire, if you need. If it bothers you.” He pulls his hand away and rises, but James grasps at his forearm, holding him in place.

“There is no need. It’s small penance for my hubris as a leader, I suppose. This fire is as safe as it can be, I know this.”

Francis settles back down beside him, reaching his arm across his shoulders. “It’s not penance. There’s nothing to pay for, either. You planned a party, not a funeral pyre. You couldn’t have known Doctor Stanley’s plans any more than I could, nor could you have stopped them.”

Tears well in James’s eyes, his throat growing tight as Francis presses on.

“You need not believe me, James, but it’s true. You were doing what you thought was best, there was no way for you to anticipate what was to happen.”

A tear escapes and tracks down his cheek, tripping from the tip of his nose and landing on his hands. He wipes his face, blinks hard to stem the flow, and nods, slightly at first, but then with more force. He shifts despite himself, scrubbing at his eyes as the tears threaten to spill over again.

Francis tugs gently at James’s shoulder, pulling him close. Bewildered, still struggling to contain himself, James follows, until Francis wraps him in a one-armed embrace. James’s temple comes to rest against Francis’s shoulder, and he takes a stuttering breath. Francis’s hand continues its slow track up and down James’s spine, resuming its slow, predictable circuit, until James’s eyelids grow heavy, his body leaden with exhaustion, and he drifts slowly into a dreamless sleep.

—

Morning greets him most unpleasantly.

Sunlight streams, too-bright, into James’s eyes, and he’s slightly overwarm from the blanket that he’s swaddled in. It’s a clear morning, that much James can tell, the storm long gone. The fire has burned itself out and the candles have been extinguished. His neck aches mercilessly, and when he sits up, the rest of his spine complains. He is far too old to be sleeping on couches.

He is also alone.

James cannot say he is surprised that Francis left in the night; for one, the couch is not designed for one man to sleep on, let alone two. For another, Francis has no obligation to sleep beside him at all; it was untoward of him to allow himself to fall asleep on him in the first place. Yet still, he laments his absence. The memory of Francis’s gentle touch lingers like a phantom on his skin, and James wraps the blanket tighter around himself as he stands.

He makes his way back up through the house and to his temporary room. Francis is nowhere to be seen, and James hears nothing but the quiet steps of servants working in the home.

He slowly dresses in his previous day’s clothes, wincing as his joints crack and his tense muscles pull. In truth, it is an effort to bide his time before he has to see Francis again and truly know how thoroughly he’s embarrassed himself. Honestly, storming into the room like a raving madman and be so distraught that Francis had to soothe him like he was a frightened child and not a fully grown man. It’s ridiculous.

For a long, long moment, he stares across the room at his reflection, smoothing the fine wrinkles from his waistcoat. With a resigned sigh, he makes his way back down the stairs to find Francis, as enthused about the prospect as a man walking to his own execution.

In truth, he should have been able to find Francis sooner, but he’s not familiar with the layout of Ross’s home, and his memory for directions is much diminished. He finds him sitting at one end of the dining room table, a humble serving of food before him, but there is another place set for James across from him. Francis glances up and waves him over, wordless, and James does as he bids. He sits down, and when Francis gives no further indication of speaking, he eats his meal quietly, the only sound between them the clink of utensils against china plates.

When James hazards a glance up, Francis looks preoccupied. He is ostensibly reading the newspaper, but he hasn’t turned a page since James sat down. James’s breakfast churns in his stomach, fearing the worst. Ultimately, his appetite abandons him wholesale, and he pushes his plate away, just slightly.

Francis looks up at the sound of china scraping across the table, cautiously eyeing James’s half-eaten meal.

“I owe you an apology for last night,” James says, startlingly loud in the silence between them.

Francis draws back, brows knitting, and puts his newspaper down.

“Yes, an apology. I’m sure you’re familiar with them. I imposed myself on your evening, even more so than by simply staying the night. It’s not your responsibility any longer to— to tend to me as I required last night.” He pauses for a long moment, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “It was not my intent, but I did nonetheless, and cost you your peace. I am sorry for it, and I wanted to say as much before I returned home.”

Francis looks flummoxed. “No apology is required. I cannot fault you for having the same acquaintance with the wee hours of the morning that I do,” he says, turning a bit wry at the second comment, but largely serious. “I was happy to share them with you and bring you the solace you needed. I’d have it no other way.”

James laughs at that, but when Francis doesn’t join in, he trails off. “Surely you jest?”

“No.” Francis leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Is it so difficult to believe that I invited you here because I care for you, and that I chose to ease your burdens for that same reason?”

Now it is James’s turn to be on the back foot. “I— I had hoped so, yes, but I didn’t want to assume. Not now.”

“You may assume, if it keeps you sane. The thought of you suffering needlessly for my own protection brings me no comfort.”

James watches Francis, wary, waiting for the moment this is revealed to be some elaborate ruse, but nothing is forthcoming. “Then it truly was no hardship?”

“Of course it wasn’t.”

“If I may, then, why have you been so distant this morning? I had assumed that my indiscretion had upset you.”

Francis scoffs something that sounds a lot like “indiscretion,” and sits back in his chair. “No, that’s not it. Now it is I who owes you an apology. I’ve been so caught up in my own thoughts that I have been a poor host. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

A beat passes and James has to resist the urge to fidget with something. He can see that Francis is mulling something over, and doesn’t want to interrupt.

“Do you remember, at Ross’s party, that I told you I had a question?”

James nods. Francis looks down at his interlocked fingers. A long moment passes.

“It’s less the question that troubles me and more your answer. I am nervous, if you would believe it.” He chuckles to himself softly, self-deprecating.

“The longer you prevaricate, the more worried I become. There’s nothing so horrible that I can conceive of that would make me react as poorly as you seem to fear.”

James has been fiddling with the napkin ring again— a habit he never truly managed to break, this constant, subtle motion— but this sudden gravity commands James’s full attention and he stills, the ring still cradled in his fingers. Silence stretches between them, interminable, and James begins to fear he has done something, or that some terrible event he isn’t privy to has occurred.

“Francis?” he hedges, again fussing with the ring.

“I said, last week, that I had a question for you. Will you still hear me out?” Francis looks anywhere but him.

“Of course,” James says, earnest. “Always.”

“I have been— thinking.”

“A dangerous pastime.” James smiles, says it lightly, but Francis just furrows his brow. “My apologies. Please continue.”

Francis looks over James’s shoulder, but he takes a fortifying breath and does. “I’ve been taking up a room here, in this place, for far too long. While Jim has not rescinded his hospitality, nor ever seemed to regret housing me, I fear I’m taking advantage of his kindness. Our trials are over, our pay has been meted out, and we’ve been formally honored. There’s no need for me to live solely off charity.”

Francis deflates, looking back down at the tabletop. James passes the rink from hand to hand, faster now as uncertainty simmers beneath his skin.

“I had hoped, now that we are both confined to land for the foreseeable future, that you would consider taking up rooms with me. We’re both on half-pay, now, but if we pooled our funds, I am certain we could find someplace suitable for both of us.” Francis looks James in the eye for a short moment before glancing away. “That is, only if you are amenable.”

James blinks, clutching the napkin ring firmly enough that it leaves marks on his palm. It seems too good an offer to be true. His feelings towards Francis are entirely untoward, and far more that Francis has expressed in return. He fears it would not be possible to hide the depths of his affection for long. But he is nothing if not selfish, and he desperately longs for more than the mere scraps of Francis’s company than he has managed to cobble together since their return. He would take anything.

It seems he’s tarried too long, though. Francis pushes away from the table and stands, looking down. “My apologies, James, I’ve been too forward. You’re entitled to your privacy—”

James waves him off. “No, you haven’t. You simply caught me by surprise, is all. I would love to.”

Relief is plain on Francis’s face, and he smiles, tentative and small, before it blossoms fully, again showing the charming gap between his teeth. “Truly?”

“Would I lie? I would do it gladly.”

Francis takes a long moment to absorb this, but then he smiles. It makes James’s heart flutter. All of his suffering would be worth it, if he gets to see Francis so joyous for the rest of his life.

—

It takes several painful weeks of scheduling tours and debating locations before they settle on their new homestead. The moving process is swift in comparison. Given that there is only one chest of drawers worth of belongings between them, beyond what scant furniture they have collected, most of their respective lives still fit within a single trunk.

At long last, James tucks his last item of clothing into the dresser and turns to watch the line of Francis’s back as he coaxes their kindling into a proper fire. He stands back from the fire and wipes his brow, and James smiles despite himself. Together, they sit in the room in easy companionship and enjoy their hard-won home. It’s humble, to be sure. It consists of little more than a kitchen, a sitting room, and two bedrooms, but it is theirs, and that is truly what matters to James.

Ultimately, their hunger drives them from their sitting room and to the kitchen for sustenance. They cook a simple soup that Francis remembers from his childhood, and they share it at the table. Truly, James had done little but slice vegetables and hand Francis what he needed throughout the cooking process, but it yielded a hearty soup that they share together at their small table. At the end of their meal, Francis gathers their empty bowls and washes them in the basin, drying his hands as the water drains. James places the last of the dishes on the rack with a gentle clatter.

Francis eventually comes to rest at James’s side, patting him on the shoulder and letting his touch linger. “Thank you for helping with dinner this evening.”

“For what it’s worth. You did most of the work,” he says, gazing up at Francis warmly. “But you are quite welcome. I can’t expect you to do everything around here. It’s our home, after all.”

Francis brushes his thumb across James’s sleeve, just once, and smiles to himself. “Yes, well. It’s past time for me to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He makes his way down the hall, leaving James standing in the kitchen, tea towel still in hand, watching the doorway Francis vanished through, his footsteps retreating softly. Francis’s warmth lingers, a ghost on his skin.

—

They settle into an easy pattern thereafter, each rousing early as is their habit. They dine together, then go their separate ways until supper. James often remains at home, reading or otherwise whiling away the hours, while Francis disappears for hours at a time. Sometimes he gets concerned by Francis’s frequent absences, but he doesn’t want to be overbearing, nor does he want to impede Francis’s freedom. It’s not his place. In any case, Francis is always home by sundown, often with new ingredients to experiment with in their meals.

This evening is much the same. As the sun courts the horizon, the front door clicks open and shut.

“I’m back,” Francis calls, his voice receding into the kitchen.

James rises and follows Francis as he drops his parcel on the table before pressing sundry vegetables into James’s hands. He turns, back to James, and begins working on something James cannot discern. Dutifully, James peels and chops the vegetables mechanically, content to work beside Francis in silence, the quiet broken only by the sounds of their tools working against the countertop.

James slows in his work and glances sidelong at Francis, watching him from the corner of his eye.

Francis’s brows are drawn together in deep thought, his movements confident and fluid where James’s are still awkward and unsure. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and James’s eyes linger as the fine muscles in his forearm flex and work beneath his skin.

He seems to thrive in experimenting with cooking, and he is rather more adept than James is when it comes to improvisation. James appreciates it; it’s a skill he had never thought to cultivate, and now he envies Francis’s skill.

Francis glances back his way as he switches tasks, and James quickly looks back to his own work, flushing at being caught staring, stiffly chopping his carrots.

“Behind you,” Francis murmurs, very close to his ear now. He settles his hand on the small of James’s back, the full breadth of his palm palpable through his shirt. James jumps despite himself, and the knife slips in his hand, slicing cleanly into his finger.

James hisses, the wound already throbbing as blood wells on his fingertip. He curses, wrapping a cloth rag over the wound. Francis’s attention is on him in an instant, pressing his fingertips to the inside of James’s wrist, coaxing him to turn his hand over. He pulls the cloth away to inspect the wound, his salt-worn fingers gentle against James’s palm.

“You’d best be more careful.” The gentle burr of his voice makes James’s ribs ache. He cradles his hand in one palm, holding him still with his thumb, inspecting his fingers with his other hand. “Doesn’t look too bad. Stay here.”

With that, he vanishes into the depths of their home. James replaces the towel over his fingers, listening to Francis rustle around in his rooms and make the trek back through the hallway. Francis gestures for his hand again, and James passes it over without resistance. He relaxes despite himself as Francis holds his fingers straight. He lets his eyes slide shut for a long moment, cataloguing the rasp of Francis’s fingers over his skin as he expertly binds a plaster of his fingertip. Francis inspects his handiwork, swiping a thumb over James’s pulse point. He cannot suppress his shudder. Francis eyes him with concern.

“Are you unwell?”

James shakes his head mutely, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Francis looks unconvinced, and slowly lets James’s hand drop.

“Why don’t you sit, hm? Don’t want you to hurt yourself again.” His voice is still so painfully soft. James nods and sits, resting his elbows on his tabletop, watching Francis flit to and fro beside the countertop.

Slowly, the kitchen is suffused with the smell of hearty soup, and Francis fills two small bowls with healthy servings.

It’s filling, hearty, and James lets himself enjoy the flavor of it. He gets so mired in his own thoughts that he fails to notice that Francis finishes his meal well before him, not until Francis leans up against the corner of the table. James lets his spoon drop, looking up at him dutifully.

“I’ll leave you to it, but please take care of yourself. I’d not see you injured again, if I can help it.”

James nods slowly. “I’ll try.”

“Good.” Francis nods, crossing his arms. “I was planning on going for a walk tomorrow with Blanky and his wife. Would you care to join us? We would be glad to have you.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on your time. You spend enough of it with me, I can’t imagine you’d want more.”

Francis, puzzlingly, looks disappointed, expression melting into concern. “You hardly leave the house now, James. I’m worried about you. It’s not an intrusion if I’m inviting you.”

James shakes his head again, trying to ignore how disappointed Francis looks. “It’s alright, Francis. I’m well enough just staying home, if it’s all the same to you.”

Francis’s expression shutters, and James tries not to let guilt strangle him.

“Alright, if that pleases you. But please, don’t withdraw wholly from life. Please, take care of yourself.”

Francis walks behind him, out of his line of sight, and down the hallway. His bedroom door closes with a dull thump, oddly final. James stares into his bowl, idly sweeping his spoon through the cooling broth, appetite gone.

—

The next morning, Francis lingers in their foyer, fiddling with his coat buttons as if one refuses to clasp. After watching for several minutes, James takes pity on him, brushing his hands away and doing it himself. Francis settles his hands on James’s, all care, rooting him to the spot. James tries not to lean into the touch.

“Are you certain you want to stay here?” Francis says, almost beseeching.

The guilt James feels at his hopeful expression destroys his resolve. “If you’ll have me, I’ll join you. Let me get my coat?”

Francis smiles, bright and genuine, and drops his hold. James moves quickly, still shrugging his coat over his shoulders as he returns to the foyer. Francis takes his arm, links them at the elbow, and steers him quickly out the door and down the street.

When they arrive at the park, some small place that James has never heard of, Blanky and his wife are not alone. Dundy is also there, to his surprise and pleasure. Francis drops his arm as their friends enter their line of sight, and Dundy rushes James, wrapping him in a warm hug, laughing. It’s infectious, and James finds himself grinning back, clutching him close.

“Jas, you old dog! It’s been too long!”

James holds him by the shoulders, still smiling. “It has! I hope you’re well?”

Dundy says he is, and immediately launches into tales of his most recent escapades as the five of them begin a circuit through the park in mismatched pairs. Francis drifts between Blanky and his wife ahead, and James and Dundy, who lag behind. Conversation is easy, comfortable, and James feels lighter than he has in a long time. His life is most agreeable, but he hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed Dundy in the last few months. James himself speaks of nothing in particular, happy to let Dundy steer the conversation, but the next time Francis pulls ahead, Dundy leans into James’s space, speaking little louder than a mumble.

“How have you been, truly?”

“I’m well, Dundy, I wouldn’t lie about that.”

Dundy eyes him skeptically, but accepts his answer. “And you’re happy? With Francis?”

James looks at him directly now, defensive. “Yes, I am. He’s my closest friend on this Earth, aside from you.”

“You needn’t flatter me so, Jas, it’ll give me a big head. I am glad, though. You deserve happiness, after everything.”

James digests this, chews the inside of his lip. “And you, Dundy Are you satisfied?”

“Oh, more than,” he says, smiling broadly. “But I’ll not tire you with more stories.”

“I would hear them, you know. I could never tire of you.”

Dundy hums. “I’ll have to test those limits, then.” He pauses for a long moment. “Never mind all that, though. That’s far from what I wanted to ask you, anyway.”

James looks over at him again, brows drawn close. “Well?”

“I was given tickets to the opera by a friend, but I admit I have little use for them. It’s something that neither I nor Blanky care for. Would you have use for them? I’d thought that you and Francis might enjoy them, given that you used to frequent the theater, before.”

James considers this. He had seen Francis at the theater, once, all those years ago. Whether he was there for the sake of the show or for Ross’s companionship, James couldn’t tell, but he had seemed interested enough, then. “If you won’t miss them, I’ll relieve you of them. It’s been too long since I went, anyway.”

“Capital! Here,” he says, withdrawing a pair of tickets from his pocket and pressing them into James’s hand.

“Were you that confident, that you could pawn these off on me?”

“Always come prepared, James.”

James laughs, but tucks them into his breast pocket. He supposes he has no choice but to ask Francis now, and hope he’s amenable to the prospect. He stores those thoughts for another time as Francis circles back to them and restarts an easy conversation.

Eventually, though, Dundy excuses himself and takes Francis’s place at Blanky’s side, leaving him and Francis alone together.

“I fear Dundy has saddled me with tickets to the opera this coming week. If you have no other plans, would you care to join me?”

Francis tilts his head, considering. “It’s been a long time since I went to the theater. I could be persuaded, though.” He looks over at James slyly, a light in his eye. “I would be glad to.”

The rest of the walk passes easily, and they lapse into comfortable silence.

By the end of their walk, James is tired, but his spirits are high. He gives another long, companionable hug to Dundy.

“I am happy for you, Jas,” Dundy says lowly in his ear. His voice rises as they part. “Please, take care. And write to me, for the love of God.”

James agrees, grinning, and waves as they all go their separate ways.

The walk back to their rented rooms is similarly pleasant, if quiet. Francis seems fatigued from the outing, as well, but disguises it better than James does. He seems in good spirits, though, as they return home.

Francis lingers in the doorway to his bedroom as they retire for the evening. “Thank you for this afternoon. You should join us again soon.”

“I will.”

Francis nods and closes the door behind him. James looks at the paneling for a long moment, tracing the grain with his eyes, before retreating to his room.

—

Evening looms, casting deep shadows over the room as James stands before his vanity, straightening his lapels for the umpteenth time. Dissatisfied, he fiddles with his cuff links endlessly, as if rotating them this way and that makes any difference. He runs his fingers through his hair, fluffing it a bit in an attempt to amplify its volume just a little, but he hasn’t bothered to curl it as he used to. Unstyled, it lays a bit flatter than he’d like. He shakes his head, just slightly, to feel it brush gently against the nape of his neck. He smooths his hands down the front of his jacket one last time, checking for wrinkles in the cloth.

He’s struck by how long it’s been since he examined himself so closely. The last time he was so meticulous about his appearance was months ago, at the very least, on the evening that he reunited with Francis. Before that, it was probably before they abandoned ships. He still finds himself surprised by his own face; he still expects it to be the same as it was before. His skin is marred, now, and he’s lost the youthful fullness in his cheeks.

He’s thankful, though, that his face isn’t the same as it was after everything. Once they made landfall, he looked so ill that he startled himself the first time he caught his reflection in the mirror. Then, he’d thought for the briefest of moments that he was staring his own ghost in the eyes. His hair had been lank and lifeless, his skin pale and waxen, cheeks so sunken and stretched over his brittle bones that he looked more skeleton than man.

Now, he looks like a synthesis of the two. His pockmarked cheeks still lack the fullness of his youthful vigor, but he’s no longer deathly pale, and the scars on his face are beginning to fade. He supposes it’s much like the rest of him. Not wholly diminished from the man he used to be, but fundamentally changed.

How odd, to have a point in his life that divides it neatly into “before” and “after.”

A firm knock at the door draws James out of his reverie, and he turns over his shoulder, twisting his cuff links again as Francis opens the door. Francis looks him up and down, his gaze settling on his hands, watching their nervous work for a long moment before finally meeting his eyes. James thrills privately at the attention.

“Ready?”

James nods, finally dropping his arms as Francis ushers him through the door.

The trip to the opera house is unremarkable. Their cab is quiet, but Francis’s thigh jostles James’s whenever the cab hits a bump in the cobblestones. James watches the city pass outside as they rattle down the road, admiring the way the fading sunlight plays across the architecture, casting the city in luminous gold highlights.

James clambers out as they draw to a halt, holding out a hand for Francis as he clambers out of the cab as he would for a lady.

“Piss off, James, I’m not that old,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it. James just holds his hand out again, meaningfully, and Francis sighs, but takes it. When his feet hit the ground, James drops his hand, but stands close as they jostle their way through the crowd.

The seats are quite nice, in their own private box. James idly wonders how Dundy got tickets for such expensive seats as they settle into their chairs. The crowd chatters beneath them, filling the semi-dark room with an indistinct hum. James is content to ensconce himself in the warmth of the room, the conversation around them, but Francis shifts in his seat, leaning closer to him.

“How did Le Vesconte get these seats? This doesn’t seem like something he’d enjoy.”

“I was wondering that, myself.”

Francis hums, thoughtful. “I wonder who he’s in cahoots with.”

James laughs softly. “Francis, it’s an opera, not a conspiracy.”

“Perhaps. But it is unusual, mark my words.”

“I agree, but is it truly worth worrying about? It’s just a seat.”

Francis grumbles and sits back, unsatisfied, but tables the discussion. Before James finds anything else to discuss, the curtain rises and the chatter is smothered beneath an eruption of applause. He settles in, watching Francis do the same from the corner of his eye as the performance begins.

He had been expecting to muddle through with his vague understanding of French or Italian; he’s pleasantly surprised by the English libretto, the opera easily comprehensible as the story unfolds.

He is familiar with the myth, vaguely remembers the trajectory of the narrative, but is entranced by the performance nonetheless. When the lead remains on stage alone, abandoned by her lover, his stomach is in knots, dread pooling in his belly. He knows where this is going, but he finds himself hoping against hope that this time it won’t be a tragedy, even as she begins eulogizing herself.

His hopes are dashed, as he knew they would be, when the soprano grabs a knife and gouges deep wounds into her arms. Blood pools on her wrists and stains her dress as she sinks into the arms of her handmaid. The orchestral strings sink lower and lower as she falls.

Her voice, soft at first, then gaining in strength, rises through the hall as she sings through her death scene.

James’s heart clenches as he registers what she asks. The singer’s voice increases in urgency, reaching higher and higher as she begs for her handmaiden to remember her.

It brings him back to the ice, to the way Francis would hold him close as he lay slowly dying. It filters back to him, now, the last time he was so embraced. He had known, in his core, that he was dying. Francis, stubborn though he was, had to have known, as well. His voice had failed him, but James had wanted, desperately, for Francis to be his guide over death’s doorstep. He had wanted to offer his own body as payment, spared only by the failure of his voice.

Then, all he had wanted was for Francis to remember him, and was selfish enough to hope that his death would not be a hardship. All he wanted was for Francis to live, to find happiness, to leave his bones behind to fade into the landscape.

The aria unspools around them slowly, agonizingly so, and his throat goes tight with emotion. He clenches his jaw, brings the back of one gloved hand to his lips, praying that he is not obviously moved.

James must make some noise as the vocalist’s final cry crests above the rest of the orchestra. Suddenly, Francis’s hand covers his without warning, warm even through their gloves. His fingers grip James’s firmly as the aria’s climax hangs in the air, and fades into nothing, as she slumps on her handmaid’s arms, dead. James blinks hard, willing himself not to weep. When he draws his next slow, shuddering breath, Francis’s thumb strokes over James’s knuckles, just once.

As the chorus chimes in and ushers in the opera’s end, Francis’s hand remains, steady as always, a lifeline for James to grasp at as he drifts, utterly unmoored. He breathes slowly, deliberately. A long beat of silence rests over the hall as the final chord fades.

Applause erupts.

As people file out of the hall in a noisy crush of bodies and crinoline, James and Francis remain seated. James manages one last slow, steady breath, and Francis finally removes his hand. When James drags his gaze to Francis’s face, his expression is completely unreadable. James chastises himself for needing such support in public, certain that he has made a fool of himself. Nevertheless, he stands slowly, avoiding Francis’s eyes as they walk side by side through the remnants of the crowd.

James hails a cab after he grounds himself, and they clamber in together.

The trip back to their home is painfully awkward, a warped mirror of their trip to the theater. Francis seems withdrawn, preoccupied.

“Beautiful performance, don’t you think?” James manages, voice rougher than he had hoped, but not fragile.

“Hm?” Francis says, distracted. “Oh, yes,” he mumbles, looking studiously out the opposite window, “extraordinary. Very well done.”

While their conversation on the way to the opera hall had been minimal but comfortable, it is an acute agony now. James closes his eyes and turns away, leaning his temple against the dirty cab window. Nothing else passes between them as they pull up outside their shared home and they climb out. James does not wait for Francis, though he can hear Francis thank the driver behind him as he marches up their front steps.

By the time Francis enters the hall behind him, James has doffed the majority of his outerwear. He averts his eyes as Francis takes off his jacket, but he can still see the look Francis shoots him in the corner of his eye.

It’s surprisingly dark in the hall with the door fully shut behind them, despite the light of the streetlamps filtering in through the windows. James stands woodenly as Francis’s footsteps approach him, examining the floor between his shoes. James looks up only slightly when Francis’s shoes enter his field of vision, staring resolutely at Francis’s knees. He is forced to meet his eyes, though, as Francis ducks down.

His face is cast mostly in shadow, but his darkened eyes shine in the half-light as he leans in close, gaze flicking over James’s expression.

“Are you alright, James?” The question is so earnest, and his brows are pinched with worry.

James manages a tight-lipped smile, though he can tell the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes. I’m just tired, it’s late.”

Francis does not move for several breaths, but eventually sighs and backs away. “Alright. Get yourself to bed, then,” he says, taking James’s outerwear from his arms. “Good night.”

James does as he bids, heading down the hall to his room and mechanically readying himself for sleep.

He lies there for a long time, listening to the quiet settling of the house around him, to Francis’s footsteps. They stop in the hallway for a long moment, and then hears a muffled sigh. Francis mutters something unintelligible as his door creaks and his footsteps cease.

—

James weaves his way through the crowd at the edge of the packed ballroom, cradling a small glass of champagne in his hand. Despite the vaulted space, the press of the crowd and the wool of his dress jacket is almost unpleasantly hot. He smiles cordially at the people he passes, but avoids getting entangled in any of the conversations.

A headache is blossoming behind his eye, slight now, but threatening more, and he longs for a moment of quiet seclusion.

The crowd thrums around him, a gentle hum of voices throughout the room, warm and light and alive. Couples swirl on the dance floor, keeping time with the muted string music that floats through the space. He’s found his way to a suitably isolated place, leaned up against one of the room’s many pillars, content to be ignored by the rest of the party for the moment. He surveys the crowd a few moments more before his gaze finally settles on a figure he’d recognize anywhere.

Francis is tucked against James Ross, conversing happily. James lingers on him as Crozier glances away from Ross and miraculously meets his eye from across the room. He smiles at him, fond. James smiles back, and raises his glass slightly in a private toast. Francis mirrors the gesture and slowly turns away.

James drinks his champagne in one swallow, placing the glass on the table beside him. He looks down and tugs on his cuffs, inspecting the shine of the brass buttons and stitching on his gloves, trying not to smile too obviously at Francis’s fleeting attention. The light catches on one of the buttons, reflecting into his eye, and he blinks away from the suddenly painful shine.

A loud clatter rings out, like a china plate dropped on the ground, and James jerks his head up, wincing as pain sparks behind his eye. He rubs his eye socket, grimacing. It’s suddenly bright in the room, though it had been dim only a few moments ago. The thin, painful lance is slowly burrowing deeper into the orbit of his eye, sparkling across his face when he moves his head. He turns away from the crowd, pressing fingers to his face, though it only magnifies the ache. He blinks rapidly against the sudden brightness in the room and presses the heel of his hand firmly against his eye.

Red light catches in the edge of his vision. He makes his way to an even darker corner of the room, where the crowd is thin, trying desperately to find a modicum of relief.

In the corner stands a vanity topped with a silver mirror so polished that it nearly glows in the dim room. It’s odd, considering that the hall is otherwise bereft of furniture. The crowd parts before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

James looks transparent as a ghost, thin and sickly, in the mirror’s cool reflection.

He slowly approaches, uncertainty weighing down his steps. As he draws to a stop before the vanity, an icy breeze cuts through the room, chilling his fingertips and biting his nose, its whisper in his ear muffling the sound of the crowd behind him. His eye burns, and he hisses, pulling his palm away from his face.

His iris is ringed with blood, staining the white of his eye red, like dye dropped into a pool of water.

He watches, mesmerized, as blood wells up in his eye, pools in his water line, and leaks down his cheek, leaving a pink trail behind as it drips to the floor, a tiny speck on the marble. Helpless, he stares at his reflection as blood beads in rapid time along his hairline and begins to trail from his nose, spreading in the creases of his face. It’s lurid against his pallid skin. His face becomes wan and skeletal, sores opening, festering, and rotting away to reveal the alabaster bones of his jaw and his yellowed teeth.

His mouth fills with the taste of iron.

Nervous, he runs his tongue over his teeth, and one of his molars tears out of place, as if his gums were nothing more than wet tissue, falling through the now-gaping hole in his cheek. It clacks dully on the ground and cracks in half. A shard of it skitters out of sight.

Blots of blood grow on the fabric of his thin nightshirt, and it oozes, warm and sickening, over the prominent grooves of his rib cage and the sunken plane of his stomach. He presses his palm against the wound that has re-opened yet again beneath his breast. It aches fiercely, and the wet fabric squelches horribly under his fingers.

A whine breaks from his throat as fear settles in his stomach. He turns away from the vanity in a panic, tries to call upon the nearest person for help, but the crowd has vanished completely, dispersed like smoke on the wind.

Francis stands in their place, alone in the center of the white marble floor.

James urges himself toward him on impulse. The stone floor is frozen, numbing the soles of his feet. All at once, his muscles fail him and he staggers to rest against the nearest pillar, leaving crimson smears on the burnished gold paint.

“Help me,” he croaks, stretching one bloodied hand out before him, beseeching.

Francis approaches slowly, his stern footsteps reverberating wildly in the cavernous space. His gait is far from his focused confident stride, bordering on a saunter that is almost gloating. HIs face is unreadable, lacking the open, friendly expression that James had seen a scant few minutes ago.

He comes to a stop mere inches away from James, but makes no move to help. He stands, arms folded behind his back, watching with detached interest.

In desperation, James heaves himself off the pillar, spending the last of his strength to stumble towards him. As his knees give out from beneath him for a final time, he reaches for Francis instinctively, clutching at the sleeve of his crisp, new Navy uniform. It wrinkles beneath his grip as he holds himself upright.

Francis glances at the bloody smears that James’s fingers leave behind, lip curling in disgust. The gold tassels of Francis’s epaulet brush gently against his fingertips, ice cold.

Finally, Francis looks him in the eye and settles one palm on James’s tricep, gentle as he did on the shale. His other hand nudges James’s hand out of the way and cradles his ribs, fingers settling between the prominent ridges. The gentle touch pulls his rough shirt fabric over his wounds and James hisses, tries to flinch away. Francis smiles at him, placid and vacant. It brings James no comfort.

“Francis, please,” he manages, lisping through the new gaps in his teeth before he chokes off and curls forward, protecting his aching wounds. He’s clutching at both of Francis’s shoulders, now, knuckles white.

Francis makes a considering noise, high in his throat, and slowly unlaces the top of James’s night shirt, snaking his hand beneath the fabric. James gasps, flinching away from his frigid fingers, but Francis pursues, dogged, and presses his hand flat against James’s skeletal chest. He moves slowly, seeking something, and comes to rest a scant few inches from James’s heart.

All at once, James knows what he’s about to do, and tries to twist away, protesting. “No, don’t—”

Francis presses his palm against the open wound, firm. James curls forward with a wounded noise, pressing his forehead against Francis’s crown. It burns, but Francis’s touch is firm, almost as if he was trying to stem the flow of blood, but the pressure of his hand increases by degrees, inexorable, leaving James breathless with pain.

Somehow, they’ve moved even closer, with one of James’s arms wrapped around Francis’s shoulders, clinging to him with the desperation of a drowning man holding a rope.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be alright. I’ll see it to myself,” Francis murmurs into his ear, his breath fanning across James’s tangled hair.

Francis shoves his palm forward, just once, purposeful, and his hand pierces James’s chest with a dull, wet ripping sensation, his flesh giving way as easily as the skin of a rotten fruit.

His heart stutters in his chest as he chokes, fingers going bloodless in Francis’s coat sleeve.

Slow, probing, Francis’s fingers caress the inside of his ribs, stroking the lobes of his lungs reverently, before tracing their way up his aorta. James’s pulse thunders in his ears, drowning out everything but the horrible wet sounds of Francis’s perverse exploration. When Francis’s palm cups his heart, it is no longer beating, but wriggling like a trapped worm between his fingers.

James can no longer draw breath, paralyzed by pain and betrayal in equal measure. His vision greys at the corners, but all he can focus on is the bland, detached smile on Francis’s face as his fingers tighten. James’s lifeblood runs in viscous rivulets down his exposed forearm, staining the fabric of his shirtsleeves and forming a large puddle beneath Francis’s elbow.

He strains for words, but is too weak to speak them as his chest spasms against Francis’s wrist. His limbs cease to obey him and his legs give out wholesale. As he collapses, his heart rips from his rib cage with a sickening squelch and he lands hard on the tile, his head cracking painfully against the floor.

His heart squirms weakly in Francis’s palm. James gasps like a fish out of water, writing weakly on the floor, fumbling to grasp at Francis’s boots. Francis kicks his hand out of the way with his foot, nudging his shoulder with his toe until James tips onto his back.

He crouches beside James, looking only at the heart in his hand. His lips twist into a self-satisfied smile as he watches the golden light glisten in the blood that oozes from the gaping wound in his chest.

“What was it you said out there, James?” Francis sounds serene, almost bemused. He gestures idly with his bloodied hand. “Help me out of it? Use my body?” He looks down at James only then, pressing his heart to his lips.

He grins, wide and mocking, and bites into his heart, his teeth making a horrible rending sound as they tear through his raw flesh. Blood wells up against his lips, spilling between the small gap in his front teeth and cascading down his chin. He wipes it away, messy and careless, with the back of his hand.

James gags on the blood in his throat, feels it splatter against his lips, helpless to do anything but suffocate. He fumbles for Francis’s sleeve, pleading.

Francis knocks his arm out of the way and pats his cheek, mocking. It leaves a sticky hand print behind. “God will provide, eh, James?”

James manages one last choking breath, grasping feebly at nothing, fingers only weakly flexing against the tile. The last thing he sees before the darkness overtakes him is his own monogrammed boots, weathered and worn, on Francis’s feet.

—

James snaps awake all at once, bolting upright and heaving for breath, blood pounding in his ears. His nightshirt and linens are soaked in cold sweat. His stomach roils and pressure builds in the back of his throat as he flings back the covers and tumbles out of bed, cracking his knees against the hardwood. He sucks in one last breath before falling to his hands and knees, retching.

He slumps sideways, half-reclined on the floor, propping himself up with one shaking hand as he paws at his chest. His breath comes fast as he shuffles backwards, towards the bed, and collapses wholesale against the frame as his elbow gives out. Shaking, he prods at his ribs gingerly, expecting to find his wounds opened again, for a third time.

All he finds is warm, dry skin and tight scar tissue in the shallow divot between his ribs.

He sighs in relief, withdrawing his hand from inside his shirt, instead tangling his fingers in the smooth fabric of his nightshirt. His heart still hammers beneath his fingertips, but his pulse is steady in his chest.

He swipes his other trembling hand across his forehead, tucking his sweaty hair behind his ear. It trails uncomfortably against his skin and tangles in his fingers.

The phantom sensation of a hand in his viscera remains, making his stomach twist dangerously. He swallows thickly, lets out a long, shuddering breath, even as the vivid images of the dream begin to fade from his mind’s eye.

He shifts slowly, slumping even further towards the floor, his head coming to rest against the mattress rail. He allows his eyes to slide closed as he resigns himself to letting the tremors run their course.

Perhaps by the time he is free of them, he will be too exhausted to dream.

A series of soft yet urgent knocks at his door makes him start, and he knocks his head against the bed frame. He groans as he struggles to stand, but his shaking is so intense that his limbs will not support him, and he slumps gracelessly back to the floor with a loud thump. He swears, laying flat on the ground in defeat as the knocking comes again, much more intent.

“Are you alright?” Francis’s voice is tight with worry, muffled through the door. “May I come in?”

James sighs, tips his head back against the bed frame again. “I’m fine. Come in, if you want.” He grimaces; his voice is much more fragile than he had hoped.

The door creaks lowly, disturbing the still air of the room.

“James?” Francis says his name slowly, his steps faltering.

James flops one of his hands over his head, so it’s visible over the mattress. As Francis rounds the corner, James half-expects the callous phantom from his dreams, but rather than looking at him callously, Francis swears and kneels swiftly at his side, close enough that James can feel the warmth radiating off his skin, his face knit with concern.

“I said I’m alright,” James sighs, sitting up and leaning again against the mattress. “You needn’t have troubled yourself.”

“It’s far too late for that.” Francis holds up one of his hands, gesturing meaningfully at James’s forehead. “May I?”

James nods, resigned, and breathes slowly as Francis presses his hand against his cheeks, his forehead, feeling for fever. When he withdraws, he looks perplexed. Concerned.

Francis shifts so he’s sitting fully on the ground and loops one hand around James’s shoulders, tugging at him until he’s leaning against Francis’s chest. Gingerly, he trails his hand down James’s forearm, dislodging his fingers from their grip. Francis’s fingers replace his, just beneath his breast, as if he was also feeling for the same open, festering wound James had. He lets his hand rest there, gentle against the gnarled scar. James can feel his chest shift as he sighs in apparent relief.

Francis lets him rest there, tucked close against his chest. James’s breath finally begins to steady, his pulse slowing as they sit entwined on his bedroom floor. In a moment of weakness, he lets his head loll into the space where Francis’s neck and shoulder join, heedless of the sweat that still clings to his skin.

“You should have told me you were unwell,” he rumbles beneath James’s ear.

James tucks his face further into Francis’s shoulder, his voice muffled. “I’m not ill, this will pass.”

A beat of silence. “Is it still your dreams? This is the second time I’ve seen you suffer so.”

James hums in confirmation. “They’re getting more frequent.”

Francis swipes his thumb across James’s shoulder, holding him tighter by a few degrees. His breath flutters in James’s hair when he speaks. “Are they always so affecting?”

“No. The dry heaving is a new development.”

Francis holds him closer still, tilting his head until his cheek rests against James’s temple. “Are you certain you don’t need a doctor? I can send for one.”

James shakes his head, as much as he can allow. He melts into Francis’s hold, body slowly going limp, even as guilt creeps in. “I’m sorry.”

“What in heaven for?”

James shudders, the last iteration of this exchange trailing its ghastly fingers through his mind. His breath stutters, and Francis holds him closer still.“For waking you. You can’t pretend you were still asleep this time.”

“Don’t be. I’d rather know that you’re safe now instead of worrying the whole night.” He shrugs, jostling James’s head with the motion.

He has no rebuttal, so he allows himself to simply enjoy Francis’s gentle embrace. He takes a deep breath and tangles his fingers in Francis’s shirt, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he lets himself be cradled in Francis’s arms.

“I think it’s time you got back to bed, hm?” Francis murmurs, pulling away, but his smile is audible.

James grumbles, but leans away as Francis stands. He takes Francis’s proffered hand and lets himself be tugged to his feet. He turns and slowly crawls beneath his mussed covers as Francis rounds the foot of the bed, but as he settles in, Francis moves towards the door. James is seized by a sudden, vital need to not be alone, and manages to snatch Francis’s shirtsleeve before he moves out of reach.

“Please, don’t go,” he says, voice soft, childish.

Francis stands there, considering, staring at James’s hand for a long, terrifying moment. Embarrassed, James releases him, curls his hand to his chest, turning his face into the pillow as he murmurs an apology. His voice is muffled now, cheeks flaming.

The bed dips under Francis’s weight and James tips with it until his forehead rests against Francis’s knee. Neither he nor Francis move away. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, as if he’s anticipating a blow.

Nothing comes.

Instead, Francis’s fingertips swipe gently across his temple, brushing a few errant strands out of his face and tucking them behind his ear. His hand tarries there, fingertips brushing the shell of his ear. Then, like he’s making a decision, Francis runs his thumb across James’s cheekbone, just once. James sighs, chills running down the nape of his neck as Francis’s fingers chart a new course. He blinks slowly as Francis strokes his brow ridge, the periphery of his eye socket, along his jawbone, before retracing its path.

James presses closer, until his nose brushes against Francis’s thigh, but Francis doesn’t stop. Fondness swells in his chest. Francis has been so kind to him, and he feels the need to come clean, to tell him what disturbed him from his sleep.

He’d trusted Francis with the worst of himself before, and he wonders if he could do it again.

Francis breaks the silence between them first. “This isn’t like you, James. What’s wrong?”

James draws a shuddering breath, steeling himself. “It’s the ice. I can’t shake it. It’s always there, just out of sight.”

“It will be with all of us, James. It’s only natural, to be so changed.”

“It made me weak. I lived through a war, but I can’t come to grips with the fact that it was the Arctic itself that laid me low. I can’t forget it.”

Francis hums, but doesn’t argue, though when James cracks one eye open, it’s plain on Francis’s face that he wants to. But he is watching James, considering, apparently waiting. James looks away.

“Do you remember that last day?”

“I do.”

“I had lost my faith in our survival completely. Truthfully, I wasn’t certain I would survive the night. I was convinced that no rescue was coming.” James tears well in his eyes and he squeezes them shut for a long moment, turning away and hiding his face.

One escapes, and Francis swipes it away, so tenderly that James has to bite back a whimper. It’s so much and so little, overwhelming in its simplicity. Francis just shushes him and runs his fingers through James’s hair, gently tracing from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck.

“I wanted out of it, Francis. I didn’t want to burden you with hauling me, with constantly trying to mitigate my pain when others needed the help far more.”

Francis just cards his fingers through his hair, silent permission to continue.

“Do you remember when I tried to speak to you, just before Ross arrived? My voice failed me, just as my body had.” His voice stutters. The words press up in his throat, the depth of his selfishness roiling in his stomach.

Francis again smooths his fingers across his brow, trying to soothe him.

“I was afraid, in pain, and I was desperate for relief. I just wanted it to stop. Francis—” his stomach constricts at the potency of the memory, but forces himself to look Francis in the eye and barrels onwards before he loses his nerve. “Francis, I was going to ask you to kill me.”

Francis freezes utterly, his fingers curled sharply against the nape of James’s neck.

“I knew, in that moment, that it was near, and that I was going to do nothing but strain our resources. I told myself that you needed food, and even the healthiest of us were starving. It seemed comforting, at the time, that I could be more useful in death than in life. But I also, selfishly, wanted the pain to end, and I wanted you to be the one to grant it to me. Though it never came to pass, I still dream of it, and I need to tell you that I am sorry for it, Francis. For ever considering such a thing. It haunts me, that I could be so selfish, and I hope one day you can forgive me for it.”

He closes his eyes again, waiting for the inevitable condemnation.

It is silent in the room for a long, long time. Eventually, Francis’s fingers tentatively resume carding through his hair, achingly gentle against his scalp. James opens his eyes slowly.

Francis looks stricken, but when James meets his eye, he schools it into something more difficult to read. He leans down closer, cupping the base of James’s skull. “You don’t owe me any penance, James. Perhaps God wanted you to live, as much as he did the rest of us. Either way, you’re here now. I think that’s all any of us can ask for.”

James mumbles another apology anyway.

“There is no sin here for which you need absolution.” He says it so easily, so gently, still toying with the hair on his nape. When it becomes apparent that Francis is not going to speak any more, James closes his eyes, again pressing as close to Francis as he can.

James sighs, long and slow, taking comfort in how close Francis is to him now, how gentle his hands are, despite James’s deepest, most shameful confession.

Francis remains there, by his side, until James falls into a deep, blessedly dreamless sleep.

—

James wakes alone, well-rested for the first time in recent memory. He curls a hand in the blankets, blinking sleep from his eyes.

Sunlight filters in through a gap in the drawn curtains, a single golden shaft that shines on the center of the floor. Fine particles of dust dance in the light, drifting aimlessly, like flakes of snow.

Something in the kitchen clatters, followed by muffled swearing.

The memory of his midnight confession floods back in, and James buries his face in his hands. He groans, softly, regret a heavy weight on his heart.

Well. Might as well suffer the consequences of his actions sooner rather than later.

James dresses without much thought and forces himself to leave his bedroom. The kitchen has been quiet for several minutes now, and James’s stomach flops unpleasantly as he rounds the corner.

A plate is still set for him, but Francis is already washing his plates in the basin. Water sloshes softly as James starts eating, but Francis doesn’t even turn to face him. James eats quietly, hardly daring to look up from his food, let alone speak.

He manages one or two bites before he truly feels like he’ll be sick, and then summarily gives up and puts his utensils down. He reaches for a napkin, wringing the fabric between his fingers, weighing his words.

“Thank you for sitting with me, last night.”

Francis looks over his shoulder at him and nods.

James bites the insides of his lips, nodding to himself, and looks back down to his plate. Shame burns in his throat like bile.

“I have to visit a few people today, So I’ll be back home later than usual. You’ll probably be eating alone tonight.”

James nods, dejected, then realizes that Francis still cannot see him. “Yes, of course,” he manages, thin.

Francis faces him and nods, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He co*cks his head and gives him a considering look, but seems to think better of saying anything. He tosses the dowel down with a slap of damp fabric, and leaves.

James watches his back as he retreats, burying his face in his hands once Francis is out of sight. His limbs feel leaden. He doesn’t look up as Francis thumps down the hallway and out of their home, closing the door heavily behind him.

James rests his lips against his knuckles, following the grain of the table with one of his fingernails, willing his stomach to stop churning. He knows, now, as clearly as he has known anything, that there is no recovering from this. Desperately, he wishes he could cram the words from the night before back into his mouth, lock them away from prying eyes, where they can alienate nobody except for himself.

At length, he manages to stand and brew a small pot of tea and makes the short trek to their living room before he feels ready to be sick again. He sits heavily in his chair, taking one of his discarded books in hand, fully intending to read. Instead, he just idly traces the embossed lettering that once spelled out the book’s title. The tome was old enough that whatever ink had once filled the title has long since worn away, leaving just the faded cloth binding. He thumbs the edges of the worn cover, running his fingers over the pages to distract himself.

Long after the sun sank beneath the horizon, James is still seated by the window, staring listlessly out the foggy panes. The book lays flat, unopened on his lap, his teacup still full and long since gone cold. He idly follows the path of a figure as it shuffles down the street, almost invisible when they pass between the streetlamps.

The door opens, loud in the empty house. Craning his neck, he looks over the top of his chair to see Francis scuffing his feet on the doormat, coat in hand. Francis glances over, expression almost uninterested.

“Oh, you’re still awake. I wasn’t sure you would be.” He leans against the doorjamb, eyeing James carefully.

James tries to disguise how exhausted he is. “How was your afternoon?” He ventures, aiming for levity. His voice betrays him, nevertheless. Even to his own ears, he sounds tired.

Francis shrugs, shifting his coat so it drapes over his other arm. “Well enough, I suppose.”

“Good. I was going to brew a pot of tea, if you’d like some.” It’s a desperate bid to spend some time with Francis, to maybe clear the air.

“No, thank you.” The words are gentle, but James still feels the last, lingering remnant of his hope dashed, as a ship against a rocky shore, as Francis continues. “I think I’ll just go to bed, if it’s all the same to you.”

James’s stomach sinks, but he nods and turns back to the window. “Of course,” he manages, weak. “Sleep well.”

There’s another rustle of fabric and a faint huff from behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look. He can’t bear it. When Francis’s figure appears in his peripheral vision, his hand settling on the back of his chair, he still cannot bring himself to look him in the eye.

“It seems like you could use some rest, as well. Come, you don’t look as if you’ve left this seat for hours.”

Caught, James nods, slowly, just once. He looks balefully at his cold mug of tea, betrayed by the evidence he’s left behind, but reluctantly stands. He and Francis part in the foyer, as he wanders back into the kitchen to dispose of his drink, and Francis retires to his bedroom.

Bereft of any excuse to stay awake outside of his rooms, James follows the same path mere minutes later. He pauses at Francis’s door, as he has done many times before, cataloguing the whorls of the grain and the soft sounds of someone readying for bed behind the thick panels.

Later, he lies atop his bedclothes, staring at the dim outlines of his ceiling, gnawing on the inside of his cheek with such intensity that he risks drawing blood.

He does not sleep.

—

The next few days pass similarly; Francis attends to his apparently quite busy schedule, leaving their home for long stretches of time. When he is present, he constantly shoots James weighty, unreadable looks.

Today follows the same pattern as the last. Francis again lingers in the foyer as James finishes his breakfast, fastening his coat.

“I’ll be back later,” he says, carefully giving no estimate on when he’ll return.

When James does nothing but hum in acknowledgement, Francis scrutinizes him again, silently observing from the foyer. James carefully meets his eye, to see that Farncis’s expression is now plainly readable.

He is looking at him with blatant pity. James can hardly stomach it and looks down sharply, ignoring the slow tread of Francis’s footsteps as he leaves the home.

Today, James can’t even muster the energy to read. He wanders, as if a ghost, through the house, restless and aimless. Even when he passes close to the windows, the curtains thrown open to let the sun in, the light seems dull, hardly gracing the corners of any room he’s in. As the sun sets once more, he can’t even muster the energy to eat, let alone cook, and retires to his bedroom, just before nightfall.

The mattress creaks as he sits on the edge of the bed, running his palm across the bedspread. His mind is little more than a muddle, misery bubbling atop every other thought he has. He has half a mind to leave their home, never to return, to give Francis his peace. The thought comes with an acute agony in his breast, and he has to bite down on his lower lip to center himself, lest he be wholly overcome.

The fabric rustles prominently in the room, the only sound aside from his carefully metered breathing.

The front door bangs open, loud as a gunshot in the silence, and James startles badly. He exhales slowly, frightened despite himself, as footsteps, strident at first and then slowly, pace through the house.

Just beyond the door, the steps draw to a halt.

Francis knocks, terribly softly, at his door. James can’t bring himself to answer, still fragile, but Francis doesn’t wait for an answer. He opens the door slowly, leaning partially through the doorway before his eyes land on James, in all his miserable glory.

He looks almost paralyzed, frozen just inside the doorway.

James exhales softly, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Don’t just stand there,” he says, gesturing vaguely before him, a mockery of a grand gesture of welcome. “Come in.”

Cautiously, as if he’s convinced James will rescind his welcome, Francis steps inside, softly shutting the door next to them. The air in the room is still as Francis crosses the room, as if the world itself is holding its breath before some irreversible point of inflection.

Francis sits at the foot of the bed, turned towards James so their knees nearly brush. His face looks aged beyond his years in this moment, looking at James with a expression serious. He folds his hands in his lap as James squirms under the scrutiny, suddenly uncomfortable.

“What do you want, Francis?”

Now it’s Francis’s shoulders who slump, and he closes his eyes. Still looking down, somewhere around James’s knees, he speaks.

“Must I want something from you to seek your company?”

James clenches his jaw, staring resolutely at the corner of his bedroom. “You haven’t sought it out for much else, these past few days.”

“You’re right. And for that, I am sorry.” Francis lists sideways, just a bit, into his line of sight. “I had thought that you would rouse in your own time, if I gave you space. I can see now that this was in error.”

James looks at him, now, out of the corner of his eye, restlessness starting to brew beneath his skin.

“You’ve seemed unwell, these last few days. Each time I see you, you look exhausted and drawn, and no amount of cajoling can convince you to leave the house. I am, and have been, worried for you.”

“You shouldn’t be,” James says, standing, starting to pace. “I’m alright, I assure you. Don’t let what I told you in the night trouble you.”

Francis tips his head, but stays perched on the bed. “Is that what this is about?”

“What else? Nothing else could have perturbed you enough to drive you from your own home.”

“Nobody has driven me from my home. I have, truly, been booked with appointments, and it seemed to serve dual purpose of letting you recover from what was ailing you with quiet.” Francis pauses, looking perturbed, now. “Do you truly think that I would think so lowly of you?”

“Who wouldn’t?” James scoffs, running his fingers through his hair. “The depths of my soul repel even myself. You needn’t lie to me.”

“I am not repulsed by you, James. I could never be.”

James laughs, disbelieving, and turns to face Francis. Francis’s earnest expression disarms him, leaving him adrift.

“It’s true.” He stares James in the eye.

James is helpless to do anything but stare back, spellbound.

Francis continues, slow and deliberate. “But if you think your confession is that upsetting, let me match yours with one of my own.”

James stands there, deathly still, as Francis visibly braces himself and forges on.

“You told me that you were going to ask me to ease your passing. A mercy, in some fashion. That you would ask this of me is not distressing, and in fact, I understand.” He looks down at his hands. “What distresses me is that I would have done it. Had the Almighty not interceded on our behalf and we had all been lost, James, I would not have hesitated. I could deny you nothing, not even for my own selfish gain.”

As if drawn by some force outside him, James strides towards Francis, coming to rest between his knees. He waits, expectant for Francis to look up.

When their eyes meet, the air between them is charged with something that he cannot name. Slowly, James sinks to his knees, resting his palm atop Francis’s intertwined fingers. Francis laughs, suspiciously wet, at the gesture, but unlaces his fingers and clasps James’s hand between his palms.

“Now it is I who requires your forgiveness, James.” His voice is little more than a trembling whisper. “I meant to match you, confession for confession, but now it is I who has burdened you with the depths of my affection.”

James shakes his head. “Then we are both damned by our sentiments. You’ve done nothing that I must forgive.” He rests his other palm atop Francis’s knee, swiping his thumb idly there. “All I would ask of you is that you stay here, with me.”
“I could never leave. Not then, and not now. I fear you may never be rid of me,” he says reverently, pressing his lips to James’s knuckles, still clutching his hand.

James smiles, giddy at the feel of James’s lips against his fingers, overcome with affection. “I am glad to hear it. I had so convinced myself that I’d ruined the only good thing left in my life.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You still have Dundy, don’t you?”

That startles a laugh out of James. “Fine, then, I feared I had ruined one of the two good things I had left in my life.” His voice drops, then, so soft it’s almost inaudible. “I do mean it, though, Francis. I wouldn’t be alive without you, and your company is what fills my life with any meaning. I want, desperately, to remain by your side for as long as I walk this Earth. I have for years, now. I think I always will. I had only been to afraid to ask if you’d walk with me.”

Francis twists his hands, freeing them from James’s grasp. As if he were something precious, fragile, he takes James’s face in his hands, cradling his jaw. James melts into the touch, sighing.

“I would do it gladly,” Francis says, his voice a gentle rumble. “There is nothing I could deny you.”

James rises, just a little, bracing some of his weight on Francis’s thigh. The motion brings him so close to Francis that their breaths mingle.

“Not even this?”

“No,” Francis breathes against his lips.

He leans forward, just slightly, and kisses James softly.

It’s a chaste thing, barely the briefest press of their lips, but it feels as if a star has burst beneath his breastbone, sparkling through him to his fingertips. When they part, James is robbed of breath. He’s come to cradle Francis’s jaw in his hands, too. Francis’s eyes stay shut as James brings their foreheads to rest together, so close that their noses brush.

“And if I asked,” James says, little more than a whisper, “would you have me, too? In whatever way you wished?”

Francis blinks, pupils wide and dark with desire. He’s a little cross-eyed, trying to meet James’s gaze from this close, but it’s so endearing that James nearly melts.

He nods, just once, and James seals their mouths together without hesitation.

James kisses him like a man starved, crushing their mouths together even as Francis clutches at his shoulders, hauling him up from the floor until he straddles his lap, leaning so hard against him that he fears they may both overbalance. He whines into the kiss as Francis’s deft hands wander, sweeping down his shirt front, nimbly undoing the buttons and working it off James’s shoulders. James breaks away just long enough to toss his shirt across the room, out of sight.

Unobstructed now, Francis nips gently at the hinge of James’s jaw, making him gasp, and traces his way down the long column of James’s neck, fumbling with the closure of his trousers.

“Too many clothes, Christ almighty,” he grumbles into James’s skin, biting at his clavicle. James moans, clutching at Francis’s shoulders as he hums appreciatively, nipping again at his collar.

In the time that Francis has stripped him of the majority of his clothes, James has only managed to free Francis of his suit jacket. James makes an inarticulate noise of frustration and shoves his hands beneath Francis’s shirt, getting his hands on as much of his skin as he can manage. Francis simply kisses him again, runs his fingers across James’s exposed skin, cradling his flank with one hand. With the other, he tweaks one of James’s nipples, making James gasp into his mouth. He smiles against James’s lips and does it again, humming appreciatively as James whines.

His pleasure is building now, heavy in his groin. Each touch, each tantalizing nip of teeth, makes him twitch and whine now, his co*ck hard now and impossible to ignore. He grinds down, impatient, but Francis backs off, touch infuriatingly light.

“Don’t tease,” he says, voice low and rough.

Francis happily ignores him, turning his attention back to James’s neck, lavishing his teeth and lips against the delicate musculature there. He kisses the hollow of his throat as he drags his palms torturously slowly down the plane of James’s stomach, coming to rest at his hips. He palms James through his trousers, finally, grinning against his skin when James grinds down, the movement uncoordinated with desperation. He grips James’s arse firmly with one hand, urging him closer, until their hips align.

James gasps, chasing the blessed friction desperately as Francis groans into his throat, moving as much as Francis’s grip will allow. The touch is electric, diminished though it is by the layers of their clothing. Need surges through James as he fumbles for the closure of Francis’s trousers.

When he manages to unfasten them, Francis grabs his wrist, pulling his hand away.

“Francis,” he whines, frustrated.

“Let me tend to you first,” Francis says between gentle kisses, appeasing.

It’s so easy to acquiesce, and he does, lets Francis have his way with him. Despite his own desperation to touch him, he trusts Francis, in all things. This is no different.

Mercifully, though, Francis wastes no time, tugging at James’s trousers as he works them open. James twists, hips clicking a little as he wriggles to free himself without moving too far away. He couldn’t bear too much separation, not now.

As he clambers back into his lap, Francis sweeps his hand over James’s hip, soothing, his eyes asking his question for him.

“I’m fine,” James murmurs, “they don’t hurt. I’m just getting old.”

Apparently mollified, Francis sweeps his thumb over the space where James’s leg joins his torso just once, before his hand sweeps forward, tracing the line of his pelvis. Finally, mercifully, he takes James’s co*ck in hand. James moans as he strokes his fingers down its length, tortuous in his pace, as if he’s taking careful stock of each inch of James’s body. He thumbs against the head, gathering the fluid that is already beading there and using it to ease his way as he begins stroking James in earnest. James moans outright at his first full stroke, thighs tensing against Francis’s hips.

“What a picture you are, James. You should see yourself now. Gorgeous.”

James whimpers despite himself as heat rushes through him, his face flushing. Francis steadies him with his free hand, running his palm gently down his flank as James twitches at the mercy of his ministrations.

“You like that, do you? Hearing how beautiful you are like this?” Francis tightens his grip, thumbing at his frenulum on the next upstroke as he noses against James’s ear, lavishing his attention on the hinge of James’s jaw. James groans, craning his neck to grant Francis more access. “You’re a marvel, you know. Such sweet sounds,” he says, punctuating his words with a twist of his wrist that makes James tremble.

He grips Francis’s shoulders and rolls his hips once, matching his pace, gasping at the sensation.

Francis practically purrs. “And so beautifully sensitive, as well. Have you been saving yourself? For me?”

The thought of that, of only letting Francis get his hands on him, makes him flush, pleasure coiling almost painfully in his belly, now. He moans, wanton, shameless, rolling his hips freely now, in time with Francis’s fist.

“I had— I—” he huffs as Francis flicks one of his nipples again, his thoughts scattering. He shuts his eyes tightly and tries to apply singular focus to speaking. “Not in so many words. I wanted— wanted it, though. Longer than you know.”

Francis groans, surging to kiss him again, open-mouthed, tongue and teeth in equal measure. He catches James’s lower lip between his teeth and redoubles his pace as James trembles beneath his hands, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead, the small of his back, the back of his knees. When he thumbs at James’s slit, James breaks away, crying out, deliciously oversensitive. He rests their temples together, panting, nearly overwrought.

“Close, I’m—” he gasps again, limbs tensing in the wake of Francis’s relentless pace.

“Go on, then.” Francis’s voice is warm in his ear, encouraging.

It’s all the invitation he needs. He crushes their mouths together as he spends in Francis’s hands, trembling as Francis’s unwavering hands work him through his climax. When his touch tips over into oversensitivity, James paws at his wrist, grunting.

He pants against Francis’s mouth for a long while, wrapping his arms around Francis’s shoulders as he calms. Slowly, he lists sideways until his cheek rests against his shoulder. While he collects himself, Francis wipes off his hand with a handkerchief, careful not to dislodge him.

When he’s steadied, James leans back to look Francis in the eye. He palms Francis again, relishing the way Francis sighs and cants his hips into the touch, the way his eyes fall closed.

“May I?”

Francis nods, breath catching, and James gets on without hesitation. He draws Francis’s co*ck out of his smallclothes, licking his other palm to ease the friction. Again, Francis catches his wrist, bringing his lips to his palm. Slowly, he licks James’s palm, laving his velvety tongue across his fingertips. Enraptured, James lets him, experimentally pressing his fingers against his tongue. Francis gets a devilish look in his eye and takes his first two fingers into his mouth, running his tongue over the digits, sucking gently on them. James flushes, his spent prick twitching with renewed interest. Reluctant, he breaks Francis’s grip and finally takes his prick in hand. It’s shockingly hot and thick in his palm, its head already flushed an angry purple.

Francis twitches at the touch, which James takes as encouragement, setting a steady pace as he kisses him once more.

They trade languid, unfocused kisses as James picks up the pace. A clever twist of his wrist has Francis’s mouth falling open with a shaky groan, which James drinks in greedily. Experimentally, James does it again, thrilling a bit when it earns him another desperate noise and Francis thrusts haphazardly into his fist. He’s hampered somewhat by James’s weight on his lap, but the slow heave of their bodies together makes James warm.

“James, I’ll not last—” he grunts, his voice strained with pleasure.

James pays his protestations no mind, diverting his attention to Francis’s neck, a sweet vengeance for the gentle torture Francis put him through earlier. He kisses up his jawline and down the line of his throat, cataloguing every inch of his skin with his lips. He increases his pace in time with each desperate noise Francis makes, undeterred by the growing burn in his wrist from the awkward angle.

All at once, Francis scrabbles at his shoulders, nails scraping his skin, reduced to little beyond chanting James’s name and making sweet, choked-off noises in his throat as his body goes rigid beneath James’s hands. His hips jerk once, twice, and then he’s spilling, startlingly warm over James’s fingers. James works him through the aftershocks until Francis whimpers, fumbling for James’s forearm, holding him still in the aftermath.

For a long moment, they simply breathe together. Francis knocks their heads together, gently, cupping the back of James’s skull.

Eventually, though, the sensation of cooling sweat and drying seed grows unpleasant. Francis gingerly wipes James’s palm with the same soiled handkerchief, and then nudges his hip with his fingertips.

James slides gracefully from his lap, languishing on the mattress as Francis dampens a rag. He watches, appreciative, as Francis strips fully, drinking in the full shape of him as Francis cleans himself off. His eyes linger on the dimples at the base of his spine, the shower of light freckles that cascade down his back and shoulders. When Francis catches him staring, James thrills in the flush that grows in his cheeks. Wordless, he beckons Francis closer, letting his head rest on the mattress as Francis approaches.

He lies still as Francis washes him with the same rag, hissing a bit at the chill of the water against his heated skin. When Francis leans away, though, James whines, reaching for him. Francis dances just beyond his range, smiling.

“Lovely though this is,” James pouts, put-upon, “it’s damn cold in here.”

“Oh, is it, now?” Francis rests his hip against the mattress, resting some of his weight there. His voice is playful. “And what do you propose to solve this problem?”

James splays his hand against the mattress, tantalizingly near Francis’s hip, his gaze turning lecherous, now. “Come closer, and I’ll tell you what I think.”

Francis cracks a smile and does as he bids, crawling atop the covers and laying down beside him. James rolls until they are face to face, and Francis settles one palm on the jut of James’s hip. He seems hesitant, now, almost embarrassed, and James tugs him closer.

Francis follows, letting James maneuver them until they lie flush, limbs comfortably entangled, warm and sated and safe.

—

James blinks slowly awake as sunlight filters through his bedroom window. He’s ensconced in their duvet, though he distinctly remembers falling asleep on top of their covers. Francis must have wrangled them beneath the covers sometime in the night.

He blinks, turning to inspect the rest of the bed.

He’s alone, but when he runs his hand across the sheets beside him, they’re still warm.

Slowly, he rouses, wrapping himself in a dressing gown and sleepily shuffling his way down the hall. A happy clatter drifts from the kitchen as he approaches.

Francis is idling by the stove, monitoring the kettle and pan that rest on the stovetop. James watches the line of his back appreciatively, drinking in his fill without shame, now. Francis turns to grab something from the kitchen table, catching his gaze as he does. He smiles, small and soft, but lets his eyes trace the outline of James’s figure in return. James thrills at the thought that they can both do this now, see and be seen by each other without consequence.

Breaking the spell, James tilts his head in question, but Francis shakes his head in return, a gentle dismissal.

Instead of following Francis into the kitchen, James chooses to sit in their small, makeshift library.

James picks up another novel and sits before the window, watching the sun arc gently above the horizon, casting its warm glow over the rooftops. He flips through the book’s pages idly, watching the way the amber light glints on the gilded pages, marveling at the golden shine as he tilts the book between his palms.

Francis settles his hand on the back of his chair and leans over his shoulder. “Are you ever going to read that book, or are you just going to fondle it until it falls apart?”

James twists to grin at him, marveling at the broad, gap-toothed smile on Francis’s face as Francis draws the book from his hands and places it on a table. “Time will tell, I suppose.”

Francis just huffs at him and plants a kiss at the corner of his mouth, pressing a still-hot cup of tea into his newly empty hands. The sunlight catches in the steam as he rests the saucer in his lap. James cranes his neck and captures Francis’s lips in a chaste kiss.

When they separate, the same sunlight catches in Francis’s hair, burnishes his skin, glints in his eyes. Caught there, just for a moment, they stare at one another, and James sees that this will be the rest of his life.

It stretches out endlessly before him, comfortable and warm, gilded in sunlight.