It's impossible that it's this simple. It can't be that it's this simple. Nothing in life has ever been truly simple (at least, not after he'd let his overactive mind have at any particular problem or thought or faint impulse).

And yet.

There's William's arm holding him, comfortable and warm. There're Archie's lips pressed to his skin, smiling and gentle. There's the very dangerous chance that, if he doesn't watch himself, he might feel something along the lines of actually incredibly happy.

Horatio doesn't bother trying to speak properly. Even as his lips open, he knows there isn't going to be anything apart from a shaky exhale between a nervous sob and a giddy laugh. The sound escapes softly, nearly muffled against William's collarbone.

There's nothing remotely elegant about the way he squirms now, free arm as inelegant and gangly as ever when attempting to work anything apart from his shipboard duties. It feels incredibly important, all the same, with twisting and the faintest huff of his own breath, to get his fingers caught painfully tight in the fabric at the back of William's coat. Equally imperative is scrambling his other fingers to find proper purchase with Archie's again; to tug insistently for increased proximity.

So little affection is needed to remind a body of the craving for gentleness.