There's nothing like kissing a smile and feeling lips curl up against one's own. For Horatio's money, there must be nothing in the world like kissing Archie Kennedy entirely sober, either, and feeling that delicious little lift of lips.

His own smile is much more flickering, the usual uncertain twitch at the edge of his expression that threatens to break into a grin but can't always manage. Novelty comes with nerves to a constantly fretful mind.

Of course, maybe someday it won't be novel. That's a thought to keep the warm flush in his cheeks nearly as much a the brightness in Archie's eyes.

Horatio's breath comes in a shaky exhale as Archie turns to William. It's impossible not to wonder, faintly, at the probabilities of the moment. What were the odds of men of this persuasion finding each other in the first place? What were the odds of any given pair feelings devotion more than lust? What were the odds of that pair being allowed by fate and the Admiralty, even unknowingly, to move together through the fleet? How much farther did those odds jump when each inquiry involved three individuals as variables rather than two?

It's also impossible, for all his mind is whirling, not to feel a curl of genuine pleasure at the way Archie and William look at one another.