Archie is at least largely clothed as he waits in the wardroom, though he's letting his jacket and hat hang on a chair while they're at leisure.
"Horatio," he greets with a smile and only a touch of nerves for the uncertainty, "William. Perhaps it's best we block off the door before we begin any conversations?"
Even through the thick fabric of his uniform, Horatio's fingers feel — again, suddenly, in this new light — heavy and electric, and what William is having trouble understanding is how Horatio can mister them both so easily and how Archie can look so relaxed.
He looks between the two of them, then nods without a word and moves to ensure they won't be interrupted by anyone barging in.
Horatio remembers, after all, this old lick of nerves in the corners of Archie's lips. The uncertainty blares out at an uncomfortable level, nearly to the point of finding he can't quite tell if the tension he feels at William's elbow is the other man's nerves or his own sharp tension.
His feet, at least, know how to move toward Archie. His mind stops him short of being unbearably close, barely masked by glancing back toward William at the door.
"Well, then."
Catching hold of the back of a chair might stop his hands from starting to shake with frustration. One can only hope.
And William will seek purchase against the door he's just shut, leaning his full weight against it. This makes him feel better in more ways than one: it's physical support, and further reassurance that if anyone wants to interrupt them, they'll have to go through him.
There's also something reassuring in keeping his distance, for now. Let Horatio be the one to fall into Archie's gravitational pull first.
"I don't think so."
He lifts a hand to fuss at his collar, then drops it away, clasping both behind his back.
"I — I'm anticipating a passionate argument from Mr. Hornblower regarding the numerous reasons why this would be... not a poor decision, but one that would carry with it quite a lot of risk. He's free to make his case, and Heaven knows he has a way with persuasion, but should an opportunity arise in which we'd face considerable less risk, I would be willing. Because things on my end are, well, much the same as on Mr. Kennedy's."
Just minus the poetry of it all.
Cheeks going a little pink, he looks at Horatio, then at Archie.
Horatio doesn't (can't) claim to be a proper student of human nature, but he flatters himself that he's been learning Archie and William. He studies the pair of them, after all, the way he studies the horizon and the tension in the sails. In the odd moment of peace, he turns thoughts of them over and over, the way he turns over his mental charts and possible counts of whist.
He wants to trust the flicker of hope in Archie's voice. He wants to believe the flush kissing William's cheeks. He wants to trust the flutter in the pit of his stomach to hear--not read, not glean, not surmise--that this (whatever 'this' properly is) is what they want.
But Archie is the 4th lieutenant. But William hadn't been on the Justinian a terrible lifetime ago.
For a moment, he can force himself to properly sharpen his features. With his eyes locked down on the table, he can force his lips into the wry smile he's perfected for his infrequent attempts at properly making jokes.
"It would seem Mr. Bush has spoken my piece for me." Self-deprecation always brings something properly amused to his tone, so he add absently, "And far more eloquently than I could hope to, I'm sure."
What can he do, after all, but repeat the prohibitions they already know? What can he say but words which have already been said a thousand times over (how many Sundays had they shared? how many more Sundays did they have?) and clearly disregarded enough to all be standing here in this room? What could he profess honestly, in the face of gentle, genuine emotion?
In a crisis, Horatio come to trust the odd elasticity of his own mind. It's not quite as easy as reading the motions of a deployment of ships, but there's the same keen quiet in his eyes and clear whirling of his thoughts through a thousand possibilities as he takes a breath. "It isn't--"
It's a mistake, he realizes too late, to glance up at William's face. It's a mistake to allow his gaze to flit back over Archie's features.
"It's--"
They look so close to happiness. For all the loss they've suffered, for all the sacrifices they've made, Archie Kennedy and William Bush look as if they might have struck on something that will give them peace.
And he'll ruin it.
Without ever further opening his mouth, he'll ruin it. He'll drag this glimmer of hope back down into the mess of reality. He'll throw death down in this quiet little room where the men he cares for more than he can say might have found meaning.
Horatio can't remember the last time his voice cracked and trembled as it does now, features furrowing as he ducks his head nearly to the point of pressing his chin to his chest. "If-- anything were to happen to-- either of you--"
There aren't words to follow. There isn't breath in his lungs for them, but they also simply aren't there.
"We could-- die any day on this damnable ship, Horatio. We're in the middle of a bloody war."
Because of course that would be Horatio's concern. Of course, dear man that he is, he'd deny himself this gift out of some misguided attempt at preserving their safety.
Not, of course, that Archie isn't concerned with exactly that. It's just that after the life he's lived-- after the hurt and the shame and the deprivation-- it's impossible for him not to take tight hold and keep what he can.
(Besides, he knows intimately how men turn a blind eye. Even on this ship, there were some things people chose not to see-- and, if all else failed, his own reputation to tarnish and his own neck to offer.
For now, though, William's eyes give him hope, and Horatio's make him brave.)
"And-- you're right. We'd have to be careful, and maybe-- not here, or at least not much, but-- Please." His voice is soft as his gaze drifts with a briefly apologetic smile from William to Horatio. There are older ghosts here than the second lieutenant yet knows, "Horatio, haven't we sacrificed enough for the navy? Hasn't enough been taken from-- from us? Isn't there-- one good thing we can keep for ourselves?"
And then, steady, his eyes turning to William welcomingly (he is not forgotten; not a third wheel but another point on this triangle,) "It's worth it to me, for that chance. You both are."
Although-- and, importantly, his gaze dropping a little nervously as he adds, "If you-- wished it, at any rate."
Edited (I thought he was done I was wrong ) 2017-03-09 19:18 (UTC)
They could die any day, any of them, all of them. To William's mind, that's even more a reason to seize what precious time they have; then again, if this is the sort of thing that might invite danger — and much as men choose not to see certain things here and, sometimes, even on shore, that's not true of all men — then they may be hastening an unpleasant fate.
Maybe not death, but something that may be equally terrifying. Maybe not in Archie's eyes, nor in William's, but in Horatio's, certainly.
Because the thing is, dedicated as they all are to the cause and the crown, our of the three of them, Horatio's passion burns brightest. Horatio's identity is knotted up entirely in his role not just as an officer, but a sailor, period. That's what he is first, above all else. That's his priority, that's how he thinks, that's... what holds his heart most firmly. William knows this. William has, perhaps, already made his peace with it — this knowledge that Horatio could never give himself up entirely to him or to Archie, or to the both of them in some configuration.
After all, this isn't the first time he's had such thoughts. It's just the first time he's surrendering them to the air.
And he's finding that as he speaks, his thoughts — and feelings — clarify themselves further.
To Horatio, though his attention flickers to Archie briefly as he speaks: "I understand the worry. I'd be a fool if I didn't, hardly fit for service." What he doesn't say is such an attitude would be suicidal, but he thinks it, and it sits in his head like a cold weight. "But Archie and I are of the same mind. What if something happens to us with this not acted upon? Wouldn't that be worse?"
Wouldn't it be worse to die with that regret hanging like a shadow on their hearts?
Horatio should know better than to look up. He should know better than to trust himself to meet Archie's eyes when the man says 'please.' Apparently, he doesn't. And maybe, a piece of him nags, that's a good thing. Maybe it's for the best that he sees the earnestness in the question--the certainty when Archie looks across at William. Maybe it's important that sees the understanding that glints in William's eyes.
(What would it be, to give in to that piece of himself? What would it cost, to catch hold of what was being offered so freely and selflessly?)
He tries to speak, attention flitting with the rankle of a cornered animal between the other lieutenants, but words fail him--as they always have.
(What would it be to see Archie happy and relaxed? What would it be to see William comfortable and elated?)
The shake of his head brings him back to himself enough to snap his mouth shut again. A better man would have responded by now. A better man (a man more deserving of this offer of trust and affection) would have at least sorted out what the tangled mess in his mind meant.
The two of them are of the same mind. The two of them are strong and certain. The two of them had managed to speak aloud the profession he hadn't yet been able to articulate.
That look in Horatio's eyes like he's trapped is like a punch to the gut. It has Archie shifting just a little; settling somewhat heavily into a chair. That shake of Horatio's head earns a definitive twist of Archie's lips.
But surely he and William can't be so wrong. He can't help the glance towards the second lieutenant, seeking a sense of certainty, before he moves forward in the conversation again.
"'ratio--" His voice trembles just slightly, and he frowns all the further at the momentary weakness in his tone, "Just-- for my sake, and you don't-- even need to actually say the words, but just-- If the rules weren't in our way, would you-- want this?"
It takes a moment to imagine a world without rules. For all his mind can move with alacrity in the application of rules, it staggers him slightly to think without their guidance.
Thankfully, it's just academic enough to snap something closer to clarity over the tangle of his thoughts. For better or worse, it's just painful enough to see the twist of Archie's lips and feel the weight of William's attention.
"I would." Amazingly, Horatio can even keep his eyes lifted from the table as he says it. "If my-- affection wouldn't bring you any closer to a noose, I would."
For all that William could, theoretically, stand silently by and watch this unfold between the two of them, he finds it impossible to idle when Archie's voice loses the surety that he read in the man's earlier words, and when Horatio's carry such grim weight.
And when he, himself, has so much he thinks should be said.
He wants to reassure Archie, but what comes out first is: "For God's sake, Horatio!"
Yes, they're in a war. Yes, they could die in any number of ways.
But.
"Must that be the first place your mind goes? A fear of loss is one thing, but you can't let it — you're no fortune-teller, man. You cannot say for sure that anything you do or we do together would bring any of us anywhere."
Ships stray off course all the time. Who's to say they wouldn't be hanged for something else, anyway?
William's sudden outburst gets Archie's attention startling back to him before he can think to respond to Horatio. The surprise melts quickly from being stunned to rather obvious adoration.
William has always known, somehow-- better than Archie, at any rate-- how to appeal to Horatio's logic. It's likely for the best that he'd taken the lead in the response. Horatio isn't one, after all, to respond well to the knowledge that anyone would be more than willing to die for him.
(No matter, that Horatio should have known this about him by now. No matter, that it had already been attempted by Archie himself.)
"He's right, you know. Surely you of all people know how-- little we are masters of our own fates, in the end," he says instead, "And how-- often have we lost or nearly lost one another, 'ratio? Did you feel-- no regret for missed chances, after-- after the Papillon? I certainly did. I have no desire to-- suffer that again, not now I know you-- both feel the same."
It's good luck Horatio is already clinging to the back of a chair. The tremble in his fingers hasn't gotten any better. Far worse, the attack from both sides is enough to send him nearly physically reeling.
There isn't a single tack to take in this. There isn't an answer squarely down the middle, with the merits of his reasoning assailed on the one end and the sharp prickling of emotions besieged on the other. He has Dover bearing north two miles and a nor'easter that veers four points as he's dismasted in the safety of the wardroom.
"Of-- course I had regrets." The crackle hasn't left his voice. That, at least, is a good reason to keep his words soft as his fingers tense on the back of the chair. "But of course I have to think of this first. I won't-- miss something again."
Horatio had missed with Clayton. He had missed with Bunting. He had even missed with Archie--the man he had known best, the man he had the strongest need not to lose track of--and he had missed so that Archie's pulse nearly ran out into nothingness in the dingy dark of Ferrol.
The memory is beyond bitter in his mouth. The hand closest to Archie moves against his will; comes short of properly reaching out to instead land sharply on the table.
The look on Archie's face doesn't go unnoticed, but for all that it warms William's heart and sends a pleasant, quick buzz all through him, he finds himself focused otherwise on Horatio — on the frustrated furrow in his brow, on the spot where his hand's come into contact with the table.
They've struck a nerve.
But of course they have; Horatio's are exposed at all times, it seems, frayed and still sparking. Volatile.
William pushes himself away from the door, abandoning the solidity and reassurance of the heavy weight behind him. With careful steps, he moves to Horatio, pauses, then lays a hand on the man's upper arm. His fingers curl against the fabric, against the swell of Horatio's muscle.
It takes a few moments, to understand exactly what it is Horatio's speaking of (what he's afraid of. It takes a few moments, but when he realizes, his expression morphs rather obviously from understanding to briefly haunted to gently frustrated.
(They'll speak of all that later, perhaps. It occurs to him they'll have to tell William of it all; of Ferrol and of life of the Indy. Of Simpson-- and there's another flicker of his expression, just briefly, gaze shifting briefly towards the other lieutenant-- and the ache of the Justinian.
Later. They can exorcize the old ghosts, later-- together, perhaps, if they're lucky.
If Horatio isn't such a fool about it all.)
He's glad for the way William moves closer and rests a hand against Horatio. He's distracted, briefly, by how appealing and right the image looks.
But when he's finally gathered all his thoughts back together again, Archie's shifting in his own chair and reaching out to brush his fingers lightly, familiarly, against the back of Horatio's hand.
"Three pairs of eyes looking, 'ratio," he finally says, "Surely it'll be easier not to miss things with that many, rather than-- just one?"
The words swim in his ears for a moment before properly settling in against the noise of his mind. They set a faintly different lens on reality as Horatio's mind flies back over the last few minutes of conversation.
They also make William's hand on his arm somewhat more gently insistent. They pull Archie's fingers on his hand into something somewhat more properly pleading.
Horatio knows the risks. He's weighed them over and over in his mind--over the last few years, over the last few minutes. It comes oddly warm in his gut to set them aside for a moment and contemplate what the quiet request of the other two men means to them.
They all know the risks. They all know the care, the discretion, the protective delicacy that they'll have to conduct themselves with. Two of them--two of the best men Horatio has ever known--are prepared for all that trouble for the simple reward of complete honesty with one another. One of them--the least deserving of this amazing gift--is fighting that honesty tooth and nail, the other two hearts be damned.
There will be time to hate himself later; to tear through the last few months and brand his sins against his mind like scars. Now, surely, there's time enough to let his heart behave the way hearts were meant to.
His lips press into a thin line as he wavers. His brow furrows more acutely as his hand on the table shifts briefly, thumb catching with nervous affection at Archie's fingers over his own. His breath comes in an unhappily sharp exhale as he lets himself turn, forehead seeking the unfamiliar security of pressing in against the crook of William's neck.
What an odd thing, to be so willing to die for these men and so petrified of showing living affection.
Much as Horatio can't predict the future, William can't see into the past; he doesn't know what experiences were shared before he set foot (and then whole body) on board. He doesn't know what Horatio and Archie have endured, both together and separately. He can guess, though. He can reach into the memory of his own nightmares, and he can guess.
But now's not the time for guessing; now's the time to focus on the present, on the stunning reality that includes Horatio turning into him. William blinks, gaze flickering uncertainly to meet Archie's as if asking for some confirmation that this is really happening.
He doesn't need it, in the end. The warmth he feels between them as he curls an arm around Horatio's middle, the salty scent of his hair — it's all too real for him to deny or question.
The sight of Horatio seeking the gentle affections earns a bright smile. The thumb twisting to smooth at his fingers is entirely welcome. Archie shifts his grip to take Horatio's hand lightly, brushing a light kiss against the inside other young man's wrist.
It's then he catches William's startled glance, and he manages a soft smile as he rests his cheek briefly in Horatio's palm, nodding encouragingly.
He'll get up in a minute to properly hold them both. For now, he has to just marvel quietly at the sight of the two men who hold his heart holding one another. For now, he has to press another kiss against Horatio's skin.
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.
William can't say for certain what it is about the way Archie nods that makes the tension he didn't realize he'd been holding in his shoulders melt away, but he believes it may have something to do with his boyishness, his confidence, his enthusiasm for this and... many, many other things. It was that that drew William to him in the first place; with Horatio, it was his seriousness, his dedication.
To feel that seriousness breaking down in his arms, to feel that dedication shifting — it makes his head spin, to the point that he tightens his hold on Horatio, closing whatever space was left between them.
When he turns his head, it's to kiss Horatio's curls.
When he seeks out Archie's attention again, it's to urge him, through gaze alone, to join them.
The gentle tug at his fingers from Horatio is certainly motivation enough to get him back to his feet, a final kiss pressed against Horatio's skin as he lets go. For a moment he just stands there, reeling slightly, a look full of hunger and adoration in his eyes as he watches William press a kiss against Horatio's hair.
Then, in almost the same heartbeat as William's eyes lift to meet his, he's stumbling towards them, seeking an angle he cah manage to hold them both from.
Horatio has been held before, in theory. He's been tugged roughly against another body. He's had an arm slung absently over him in a small space. He's been dragged back from a fray with arms clenching his own tight. He's let someone he trusted settle in snug under his chin and cling in utter exhaustion.
The fabric of William's coat is rough against his cheek but comfortingly familiar. What's new is the sensation of being held tight, strong arms taut with an emotion he can't quite place. What's fascinating is the unfamiliar cocktail of emotions bubbling through his entire being at the soft kiss pressed to his hair and the awareness that Archie is sweeping in close.
He should say something. He should have some awareness, at all, of what needs to be said in a moment like this.
"--a-all right."
It's not that. It's definitely not that.
But it's what Horatio has, other than a painfully tight grip on the back of William's coat and a hand scrambling to find similar purchase on Archie.
Horatio has a kind of power over math, over numbers. He has a fundamental understanding of them that will only serve as further aid as he climbs the ranks — it's a skill nothing short of impressive, sometimes even brilliant in the right circumstances.
William has no such gift. With Archie moving to join them, he finds himself a little unsure of their angles, of this shape it is they're supposed to be making. He feels Horatio's hand at his back like a ball of heat; he feels a similar heat from Archie, in his proximity alone. That's what he gives himself up to, in the end. That's what has him turning just enough to welcome Archie into their embrace, to go searching for the other man's fingers while the arm he has around Horatio curls a fraction tighter.
There's a low purr that escapes him as he's pulled into the warmth of the two young men. He can't help the jolt of pleasure through him, to e so surrounded by the both of them. He leans into Horatio's touch as he catches at William's questing hand, tugging it up to his lips to press a kiss against his knuckles. The next one, pressed against the inside of William's wrist, is a lingering one.
There's something tentative to him, still, when he finally lowers he and William's joined hands and shifts to press a somewhat hesitant kiss against Horatio's cheek.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beautiful :'|
"Horatio," he greets with a smile and only a touch of nerves for the uncertainty, "William. Perhaps it's best we block off the door before we begin any conversations?"
Or whatever else may occur, for that matter?
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He looks between the two of them, then nods without a word and moves to ensure they won't be interrupted by anyone barging in.
"That should do it."
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Horatio remembers, after all, this old lick of nerves in the corners of Archie's lips. The uncertainty blares out at an uncomfortable level, nearly to the point of finding he can't quite tell if the tension he feels at William's elbow is the other man's nerves or his own sharp tension.
His feet, at least, know how to move toward Archie. His mind stops him short of being unbearably close, barely masked by glancing back toward William at the door.
"Well, then."
Catching hold of the back of a chair might stop his hands from starting to shake with frustration. One can only hope.
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His own hands shuffle idly at a book and various other items left spread on the table; something to keep them busy so they don't visibly tremble.
"Have we need of-- further clarity on how things stand on my end?"
For once, there's not a trace of a jest in his voice; simply a hint of an edge as he studies the two men's faces with something rather like hope.
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There's also something reassuring in keeping his distance, for now. Let Horatio be the one to fall into Archie's gravitational pull first.
"I don't think so."
He lifts a hand to fuss at his collar, then drops it away, clasping both behind his back.
"I — I'm anticipating a passionate argument from Mr. Hornblower regarding the numerous reasons why this would be... not a poor decision, but one that would carry with it quite a lot of risk. He's free to make his case, and Heaven knows he has a way with persuasion, but should an opportunity arise in which we'd face considerable less risk, I would be willing. Because things on my end are, well, much the same as on Mr. Kennedy's."
Just minus the poetry of it all.
Cheeks going a little pink, he looks at Horatio, then at Archie.
"I... like you both very much."
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He wants to trust the flicker of hope in Archie's voice. He wants to believe the flush kissing William's cheeks. He wants to trust the flutter in the pit of his stomach to hear--not read, not glean, not surmise--that this (whatever 'this' properly is) is what they want.
But Archie is the 4th lieutenant. But William hadn't been on the Justinian a terrible lifetime ago.
For a moment, he can force himself to properly sharpen his features. With his eyes locked down on the table, he can force his lips into the wry smile he's perfected for his infrequent attempts at properly making jokes.
"It would seem Mr. Bush has spoken my piece for me." Self-deprecation always brings something properly amused to his tone, so he add absently, "And far more eloquently than I could hope to, I'm sure."
What can he do, after all, but repeat the prohibitions they already know? What can he say but words which have already been said a thousand times over (how many Sundays had they shared? how many more Sundays did they have?) and clearly disregarded enough to all be standing here in this room? What could he profess honestly, in the face of gentle, genuine emotion?
In a crisis, Horatio come to trust the odd elasticity of his own mind. It's not quite as easy as reading the motions of a deployment of ships, but there's the same keen quiet in his eyes and clear whirling of his thoughts through a thousand possibilities as he takes a breath. "It isn't--"
It's a mistake, he realizes too late, to glance up at William's face. It's a mistake to allow his gaze to flit back over Archie's features.
"It's--"
They look so close to happiness. For all the loss they've suffered, for all the sacrifices they've made, Archie Kennedy and William Bush look as if they might have struck on something that will give them peace.
And he'll ruin it.
Without ever further opening his mouth, he'll ruin it. He'll drag this glimmer of hope back down into the mess of reality. He'll throw death down in this quiet little room where the men he cares for more than he can say might have found meaning.
Horatio can't remember the last time his voice cracked and trembled as it does now, features furrowing as he ducks his head nearly to the point of pressing his chin to his chest. "If-- anything were to happen to-- either of you--"
There aren't words to follow. There isn't breath in his lungs for them, but they also simply aren't there.
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Because of course that would be Horatio's concern. Of course, dear man that he is, he'd deny himself this gift out of some misguided attempt at preserving their safety.
Not, of course, that Archie isn't concerned with exactly that. It's just that after the life he's lived-- after the hurt and the shame and the deprivation-- it's impossible for him not to take tight hold and keep what he can.
(Besides, he knows intimately how men turn a blind eye. Even on this ship, there were some things people chose not to see-- and, if all else failed, his own reputation to tarnish and his own neck to offer.
For now, though, William's eyes give him hope, and Horatio's make him brave.)
"And-- you're right. We'd have to be careful, and maybe-- not here, or at least not much, but-- Please." His voice is soft as his gaze drifts with a briefly apologetic smile from William to Horatio. There are older ghosts here than the second lieutenant yet knows, "Horatio, haven't we sacrificed enough for the navy? Hasn't enough been taken from-- from us? Isn't there-- one good thing we can keep for ourselves?"
And then, steady, his eyes turning to William welcomingly (he is not forgotten; not a third wheel but another point on this triangle,) "It's worth it to me, for that chance. You both are."
Although-- and, importantly, his gaze dropping a little nervously as he adds, "If you-- wished it, at any rate."
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They could die any day, any of them, all of them. To William's mind, that's even more a reason to seize what precious time they have; then again, if this is the sort of thing that might invite danger — and much as men choose not to see certain things here and, sometimes, even on shore, that's not true of all men — then they may be hastening an unpleasant fate.
Maybe not death, but something that may be equally terrifying. Maybe not in Archie's eyes, nor in William's, but in Horatio's, certainly.
Because the thing is, dedicated as they all are to the cause and the crown, our of the three of them, Horatio's passion burns brightest. Horatio's identity is knotted up entirely in his role not just as an officer, but a sailor, period. That's what he is first, above all else. That's his priority, that's how he thinks, that's... what holds his heart most firmly. William knows this. William has, perhaps, already made his peace with it — this knowledge that Horatio could never give himself up entirely to him or to Archie, or to the both of them in some configuration.
After all, this isn't the first time he's had such thoughts. It's just the first time he's surrendering them to the air.
And he's finding that as he speaks, his thoughts — and feelings — clarify themselves further.
To Horatio, though his attention flickers to Archie briefly as he speaks: "I understand the worry. I'd be a fool if I didn't, hardly fit for service." What he doesn't say is such an attitude would be suicidal, but he thinks it, and it sits in his head like a cold weight. "But Archie and I are of the same mind. What if something happens to us with this not acted upon? Wouldn't that be worse?"
Wouldn't it be worse to die with that regret hanging like a shadow on their hearts?
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(What would it be, to give in to that piece of himself? What would it cost, to catch hold of what was being offered so freely and selflessly?)
He tries to speak, attention flitting with the rankle of a cornered animal between the other lieutenants, but words fail him--as they always have.
(What would it be to see Archie happy and relaxed? What would it be to see William comfortable and elated?)
The shake of his head brings him back to himself enough to snap his mouth shut again. A better man would have responded by now. A better man (a man more deserving of this offer of trust and affection) would have at least sorted out what the tangled mess in his mind meant.
The two of them are of the same mind. The two of them are strong and certain. The two of them had managed to speak aloud the profession he hadn't yet been able to articulate.
He can't even answer a simple question.
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Perhaps they'd misread. Perhaps Horatio didn't want--
But surely he and William can't be so wrong. He can't help the glance towards the second lieutenant, seeking a sense of certainty, before he moves forward in the conversation again.
"'ratio--" His voice trembles just slightly, and he frowns all the further at the momentary weakness in his tone, "Just-- for my sake, and you don't-- even need to actually say the words, but just-- If the rules weren't in our way, would you-- want this?"
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Thankfully, it's just academic enough to snap something closer to clarity over the tangle of his thoughts. For better or worse, it's just painful enough to see the twist of Archie's lips and feel the weight of William's attention.
"I would." Amazingly, Horatio can even keep his eyes lifted from the table as he says it. "If my-- affection wouldn't bring you any closer to a noose, I would."
That much is simple. That much is honest.
That much also isn't the world they live in.
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And when he, himself, has so much he thinks should be said.
He wants to reassure Archie, but what comes out first is: "For God's sake, Horatio!"
Yes, they're in a war. Yes, they could die in any number of ways.
But.
"Must that be the first place your mind goes? A fear of loss is one thing, but you can't let it — you're no fortune-teller, man. You cannot say for sure that anything you do or we do together would bring any of us anywhere."
Ships stray off course all the time. Who's to say they wouldn't be hanged for something else, anyway?
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William has always known, somehow-- better than Archie, at any rate-- how to appeal to Horatio's logic. It's likely for the best that he'd taken the lead in the response. Horatio isn't one, after all, to respond well to the knowledge that anyone would be more than willing to die for him.
(No matter, that Horatio should have known this about him by now. No matter, that it had already been attempted by Archie himself.)
"He's right, you know. Surely you of all people know how-- little we are masters of our own fates, in the end," he says instead, "And how-- often have we lost or nearly lost one another, 'ratio? Did you feel-- no regret for missed chances, after-- after the Papillon? I certainly did. I have no desire to-- suffer that again, not now I know you-- both feel the same."
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There isn't a single tack to take in this. There isn't an answer squarely down the middle, with the merits of his reasoning assailed on the one end and the sharp prickling of emotions besieged on the other. He has Dover bearing north two miles and a nor'easter that veers four points as he's dismasted in the safety of the wardroom.
"Of-- course I had regrets." The crackle hasn't left his voice. That, at least, is a good reason to keep his words soft as his fingers tense on the back of the chair. "But of course I have to think of this first. I won't-- miss something again."
Horatio had missed with Clayton. He had missed with Bunting. He had even missed with Archie--the man he had known best, the man he had the strongest need not to lose track of--and he had missed so that Archie's pulse nearly ran out into nothingness in the dingy dark of Ferrol.
The memory is beyond bitter in his mouth. The hand closest to Archie moves against his will; comes short of properly reaching out to instead land sharply on the table.
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They've struck a nerve.
But of course they have; Horatio's are exposed at all times, it seems, frayed and still sparking. Volatile.
William pushes himself away from the door, abandoning the solidity and reassurance of the heavy weight behind him. With careful steps, he moves to Horatio, pauses, then lays a hand on the man's upper arm. His fingers curl against the fabric, against the swell of Horatio's muscle.
"This is about all of us."
Not just you.
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(They'll speak of all that later, perhaps. It occurs to him they'll have to tell William of it all; of Ferrol and of life of the Indy. Of Simpson-- and there's another flicker of his expression, just briefly, gaze shifting briefly towards the other lieutenant-- and the ache of the Justinian.
Later. They can exorcize the old ghosts, later-- together, perhaps, if they're lucky.
If Horatio isn't such a fool about it all.)
He's glad for the way William moves closer and rests a hand against Horatio. He's distracted, briefly, by how appealing and right the image looks.
But when he's finally gathered all his thoughts back together again, Archie's shifting in his own chair and reaching out to brush his fingers lightly, familiarly, against the back of Horatio's hand.
"Three pairs of eyes looking, 'ratio," he finally says, "Surely it'll be easier not to miss things with that many, rather than-- just one?"
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The words swim in his ears for a moment before properly settling in against the noise of his mind. They set a faintly different lens on reality as Horatio's mind flies back over the last few minutes of conversation.
They also make William's hand on his arm somewhat more gently insistent. They pull Archie's fingers on his hand into something somewhat more properly pleading.
Horatio knows the risks. He's weighed them over and over in his mind--over the last few years, over the last few minutes. It comes oddly warm in his gut to set them aside for a moment and contemplate what the quiet request of the other two men means to them.
They all know the risks. They all know the care, the discretion, the protective delicacy that they'll have to conduct themselves with. Two of them--two of the best men Horatio has ever known--are prepared for all that trouble for the simple reward of complete honesty with one another. One of them--the least deserving of this amazing gift--is fighting that honesty tooth and nail, the other two hearts be damned.
There will be time to hate himself later; to tear through the last few months and brand his sins against his mind like scars. Now, surely, there's time enough to let his heart behave the way hearts were meant to.
His lips press into a thin line as he wavers. His brow furrows more acutely as his hand on the table shifts briefly, thumb catching with nervous affection at Archie's fingers over his own. His breath comes in an unhappily sharp exhale as he lets himself turn, forehead seeking the unfamiliar security of pressing in against the crook of William's neck.
What an odd thing, to be so willing to die for these men and so petrified of showing living affection.
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But now's not the time for guessing; now's the time to focus on the present, on the stunning reality that includes Horatio turning into him. William blinks, gaze flickering uncertainly to meet Archie's as if asking for some confirmation that this is really happening.
He doesn't need it, in the end. The warmth he feels between them as he curls an arm around Horatio's middle, the salty scent of his hair — it's all too real for him to deny or question.
His mouth opens, then closes. He had words.
Lots of them.
They're gone now.
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It's then he catches William's startled glance, and he manages a soft smile as he rests his cheek briefly in Horatio's palm, nodding encouragingly.
He'll get up in a minute to properly hold them both. For now, he has to just marvel quietly at the sight of the two men who hold his heart holding one another. For now, he has to press another kiss against Horatio's skin.
"Thank you," he murmurs softly.
It's absolutely for the both of them.
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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.
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To feel that seriousness breaking down in his arms, to feel that dedication shifting — it makes his head spin, to the point that he tightens his hold on Horatio, closing whatever space was left between them.
When he turns his head, it's to kiss Horatio's curls.
When he seeks out Archie's attention again, it's to urge him, through gaze alone, to join them.
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Then, in almost the same heartbeat as William's eyes lift to meet his, he's stumbling towards them, seeking an angle he cah manage to hold them both from.
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Horatio has been held before, in theory. He's been tugged roughly against another body. He's had an arm slung absently over him in a small space. He's been dragged back from a fray with arms clenching his own tight. He's let someone he trusted settle in snug under his chin and cling in utter exhaustion.
The fabric of William's coat is rough against his cheek but comfortingly familiar. What's new is the sensation of being held tight, strong arms taut with an emotion he can't quite place. What's fascinating is the unfamiliar cocktail of emotions bubbling through his entire being at the soft kiss pressed to his hair and the awareness that Archie is sweeping in close.
He should say something. He should have some awareness, at all, of what needs to be said in a moment like this.
"--a-all right."
It's not that. It's definitely not that.
But it's what Horatio has, other than a painfully tight grip on the back of William's coat and a hand scrambling to find similar purchase on Archie.
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William has no such gift. With Archie moving to join them, he finds himself a little unsure of their angles, of this shape it is they're supposed to be making. He feels Horatio's hand at his back like a ball of heat; he feels a similar heat from Archie, in his proximity alone. That's what he gives himself up to, in the end. That's what has him turning just enough to welcome Archie into their embrace, to go searching for the other man's fingers while the arm he has around Horatio curls a fraction tighter.
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There's something tentative to him, still, when he finally lowers he and William's joined hands and shifts to press a somewhat hesitant kiss against Horatio's cheek.
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gay.
bro.