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Once he sees James Fitzjames with sober eyes, he knows he’s got a problem.
Francis still wants to punch him, but that something else, of which he’s begrudgingly become more and more aware has also remained. He’d assumed it a result of drink-fuelled lust, a mirage, his brain confusing the upheaval of annoyance with that of attraction. And yet.
And yet.
He’ll blame it on the withdrawal, he thinks. Surely even when one is sober, one isn’t truly of sober mind for a significant period of time after consuming as much alcohol as often as he did. For example, his mind also has him convinced that he spied his steward Jopson in an amorous embrace with Lieutenant Little through a crack in a doorway. The stuff of a sick mind.
And he knows Fitzjames is a dashing sort of fellow, anybody with two eyes would notice that. He remembers immediately noticing how handsome he was the first time they met, in the same way that he also noticed how attentive Jopson was the first time they met, or how good-humoured Blanky. It wasn’t personal opinion, just accepted fact. If it weren’t, Francis would have been able to forget it the first time the man opened his blasted mouth and ruined it.
But soon enough, his mind has sobered more thoroughly than he’d ever have wanted or imagined, raw with scenes of James’ Carnivale burning, of abandoning the ships, his ship, of the unbearable monotony of endless walking and hauling which lay ahead of them. He spends time thinking on how much worse things could have been had he sobered up a moment later than he began. Alternatively, he imagines the benefits of continuing to drink through it all, through this, of adding a numbing layer to this sudden exposure to both his sober mind and the dire state of their circumstances at once. (Lastly, he thinks of how certain events may have been avoided if he’d sobered even earlier. The Carnivale. Blanky’s leg. The deaths of all the men so far. Even Sir John. He imagines never needing to sober in the first place, continuing to drink in moderation, or even occasional excess like some of the other men, without relying on it. He knows this is unhelpful.)
He feels a deep set embarrassment to have to ask for his men’s trust more than ever now. And yet, he knows he is doing better. Knows he is proving a more worthy Captain, from the way Jopson tends to him (not that this had ever faltered), to the faces of his Lieutenants as they take his orders, to the men who look to him with renewed loyalty in their eyes.
And through it all; there is James. Francis finds his eyes often wander until they spot James in any and every situation. Even when he tries not to do it, it’s as if there’s something missing in the landscape. But then there he is, never too far off, sun shining down on his hair, or pink flushing his cheeks, or coat fit attractively across his chest and shoulders.
The attraction wouldn’t be (so much of) an issue on it’s own, but at some point he’s gone and found himself liking the man. Found himself wanting to un-furrow the man’s brow and inspire one of his transformative smiles, found himself wanting to actually seek his advice when making decisions, found himself wanting to earn the other man’s conversation; not the obnoxious stories he used to flaunt at the beginning of the voyage, but true and easy conversation. And even more he finds himself wanting desperately for Fitzjames to want the same things of him. Silly, he thinks, a man of his age pinning all his self worth and happiness on the mutual respect of a man he once despised.
He’d never have said a thing, never have gone to him — except James is the one to come to him.
After hours of building camp he’s finally settled for the night, exhausted down to his very bones, when he hears the rustle of the tent flap.
“What is it Jopson—" His words fall flat as he looks up to see an un-Jopson-ly figure.
“Say go and I’ll go,” James speaks quietly, allowing the tent to fall closed behind him.
“James?” His gait is tense, and there’s worry in his voice. “I’ll not say anything till I know what this is about.”
James’ face is heavy, almost grave, but his eyes are bright. He makes his way toward Francis, who sits up in the bed to reach for the oil lamp.
“Please don’t.” He speaks quietly.
“Alright,” Francis holds a hand up in surrender. “Can’t sleep?”
James’s brow furrows, giving a quick shake of his head. He perches on the chair at Francis’ desk, just a few feet from the cot. But he doesn’t look at him. Francis can just about make out his face. His body, usually so elegant, almost seems too long for it’s own good, folded awkwardly onto the small chair. James uncharacteristically trying to make himself smaller.
“I feel something wretched.”
“I don’t think there’s a soul left in this camp who doesn’t feel wretched James,” Francis sighs, rubbing a hand across his face and settling back against the bedstead so he’s closer to eye level. “Hard not to be.”
“That’s the thing. I’m distracted. I catch myself not feeling mournful and feel even worse for it.”
“What do you mean, distracted?” James lets out a short puff of air. Shifts his legs.
“I’ve seen you looking Francis.” He whispers it quickly. Francis feels himself freeze.
“What do you mean by that?” His voice wobbles against his will.
“You don’t have to be coy with me. I’m trying to tell you that— that it’s not unwelcome.”
Francis stares at him through the darkness. Speechless.
“And I realised you weren’t to know, and you aren’t the sort of man to trouble another fellow like that, so I thought I’d… do it for you.” He lets out a short laugh then, voice croaky. “I’m sick with waiting.”
Francis lets it wash over him, hands gripping the blanket hard to stop himself doing anything too brash.
He thinks of all the times James has reacted well to the attentions he’d been paying him as of late, attributing it all to James’ generally sociable and outgoing nature (and on his worse days to James’ unending vanity). And yet… There were moments. Recontextualising in his mind. Brief looks and touches and a tension, that he half thought he’d imagined.
“If you don’t—“ James starts after a few more moments silence and then balks. Starts again. “Maybe I should go."
But Francis gets half out of the bed, a hand reaching forward. “No! Don’t go.” He doesn’t touch James, but retracts the outstretched hand as James resettles in the chair. Francis’ ears are still ringing with what he’s said.
“I need to— I need to get this right.” He turns from James, studying a spot on the blanket intently. “Because I am your commanding officer and I need you to know I have never been that kind of Captain. I would never abuse my power like that and if I ever gave you the impression that you needed to—”
“— Jesus Christ Francis! I was trying to say the opposite of that,” James leaps from his chair at this, moving towards the cot. “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve been looking back for months, but you’re either too polite or down on yourself to notice!” He cuts himself off after he realises that he’s been speaking too loudly and turns away. Then, quieter, into the dark tent, “I’m getting sicker Francis. I know I am. And God forbid you do too. I have enough regrets and I’m honestly past the point of pretence. Or good manners. And I just feel as if we’re running out of time—“
“Come here, James.”
“…What?”
“Come here.”
James takes a moment before turning around. He eyes him suspiciously before moving to sit apprehensively on the edge of the cot, like he’s not sure if it’s what Francis meant.
“Did you come here tonight to tell me that?”
“No,” James fidgets. Francis searches his face in the dark. “I didn’t plan on speaking at all.”
“No?” Francis breathes.
“I… was going to barge in dramatically and ask you to kiss me.”
Francis swallows hard. Tries not to let it show on his face but knows he’s smiling like an imbecile anyway. Not that it matters in the dark. “Well I’d say you got the first part right.”
“And the second?” All air has left the tent.
“Ask me.” Francis takes a shaky hand to James’ cheek. Brushes a thumb over the skin.
“Kiss me, Francis.”
When their lips meet, Francis’ mind fills with a hundred images he has of James up to this moment. Of James laughing, and James in his dress uniform the first time they met, and James toasting one of his own ridiculous stories.
Then he feels James’ hand grasp his thigh and he’s pulling the other man into his chest and into his arms. James makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat as he surrenders, draping himself over the top of Francis who drags a hand through that perfect hair as he deepens the kiss.
“You beautiful thing,” Francis draws back to murmurs against his lips. “I can’t believe you.”
“Hm?” James hums absent-mindedly, eyes closed, as his thumb maps out Francis’ jawline. His other hand is still heavy at his thigh.
“I let you wait too long, I’m sorry.”
“Not the time for sorries, Francis.” James kisses his jaw, moving a hand to the collar of Francis’s night shirt and finding hot skin at his collar bone. Brushing down and through the soft hair at his chest. Francis’ hands move to James’ shoulders to slip him out of the coat he still wears, both mens’ hands working down the sleeves until it’s pushed out of the way.
They lie kissing, tentatively and then lazily, for what feels like hours, and Francis would quite happily spend hours like this. Hands wander but with little intention or attempt to take things further. James takes his boots off so he can more comfortably lie on the bed. Francis’ mind is trying to cling to what’s happening, like it’s already becoming a memory and he needs to hold down its edges. He can’t let this escape him.
But when his hands find James’ arse, James bites him and with a whine moves to straddle Francis’ lap. He shoves blankets out of the way to get a better grip, to get their bodies closer together. Francis exhales loudly as his hands grasp for James’ waist, pulling him into his groin as his mouth finds the crook of his neck.
“Tell me what you’d like,” Francis mouths into the skin there.
“I would like to please you Francis,” James replies quickly, “To be good for you.”
The words go straight to Francis’ prick. “You are pleasing me, you have no idea—"
When their mouths meet again it’s more desperate, both men breathing hard through their noses as their mouths seal together. Francis nips James’ lower lip and James whines, arms wrapping around his neck as he bears his body down and grinds against Francis’ groin.
“Such a desperate little lad in my lap, I don’t even know—" Francis digs his nails in, encouraging the man to move his hips.
“Before you say another bloody thing about abusing your power—"
“I wasn’t going to, but now that you mention it—"
“—Francis I want you to. Use me. Please. I’m offering myself to you.”
The words scrape across Francis’ cheek and send a shiver up his spine. Even the part of his brain which he’d occasionally allowed to indulge in fantasies like this (of course this wasn’t a fantasy, he had to tell himself, this was real, it was), had never imagined this. It had always been somewhat burdensome for James, who deigned to lower himself, to allow Francis to touch him in a moment of weakness. For him to want in the way Francis wanted was something he was completely unprepared for. Even more so to be told that James wanted him to take the lead.
“Let's get you out of these then,” He starts warily, grasping the waistband of James’ trousers. He climbs off of Francis for a moment, sitting back on the bed and allowing the man to peel them off his legs along with his underthings. He throws them aside before going to the fastenings on his own.
“Let me, please.” James crawls forward, hands stroking up Francis’ thighs till they meet his hardening prick. Francis doesn’t know what to do with his hands as fingers find buttons and his face presses into the crook of Francis’ thigh.
“Jesus,” Francis can’t help but thrust up into him, hands clinging to James’ back and neck as he reaches for the waistband. He presses open lips to his lower abdomen, nose nudging layers of shirt away. Francis helps to pull his own trousers down to his knees until he’s bare. He can feel his prick straining up and before he knows it James is asking if he can put his mouth on him, please let me, and Francis is praying to God, any God that still exists here, as he guides James by the neck to the head of his prick.
It starts happening quicker after that and Francis wishes he could see more of what was happening, wishes they weren’t in this tiny bed in this blasted cold tent, not that either of them are cold anymore. But it only means his body is more receptive to every other sensation, through the blurred haze of pleasure he can feel James’ soft hair gripped between his fingers, and James’ lips around his prick, and James’ hands on his bare thighs. James circles his tongue over the head and looks up at Francis.
“You’re far too good at more things than can be healthy for one man, James. Ah Christ—" James rewards the compliment by swallowing Francis down till the hilt touches the back of his throat and he chokes. Francis tries to move him off and has his hand batted away as he starts to move up and down, making absolutely obscene noises. Francis tries to keep his hips still but he can’t help thrusting up into wet heat.
‘I didn’t mean that as a challenge,” Francis groans, taking a thumb to James’ cheek where tears have blossomed.
“Do you like it like this? When it makes you cry?”
James makes a note of ascent as fresh tears fall and Francis tightens his grip in his hair.
“You like your mouth filled like this?”
James chokes again as Francis moans.
“Would you like me to finish here, like this? Because at this rate— Jesus, it won’t take long,” and at that James is digging nails into Francis’ thighs and moving his head till Francis lets him up.
His mouth pops off Francis’ prick, lips red and wet, and he’s already speaking with a gasp, “No, don’t, I want to feel you inside me first. I want you to bugger me.”
“Fucking hell, now? Here?”
“Not to be melancholic but if we don’t do it now, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to manage it.” James says it plainly but then he smiles weakly, his cheeks still wet. Francis pulls him into a quick kiss.
“Don’t even say that,” He mumbles before leaning back in, mouths opening wider.
“Will you?” James tries again. leaning his forehead to Francis’.
“You say that like it’s something burdensome James, when you’d be the one with the prick up your arse.” James coughs and then laughs in embarrassment. “Of course I want to, but I don’t want to hurt you. I haven’t anything to make it easier.”
“That’s alright. For me at least, I’d like to be able to feel you tomorrow.”
“Not your first time then?”
“No.” James says slightly smugly.
“It might not be long, now you’ve got me all worked up like this.”
“I won’t need long either.” Francis hasn’t even been able to look at, let alone touch James’ prick.
“Did you touch yourself whilst you had me in your mouth?”
“Didn’t need to.”
He grins again. “Will you let me touch you now?”
James reaches for where Francis’ hand rests on his forearm and guides it down to feel the hard, leaking cockstand between his legs.
“Fuck.” Francis rubs a thumb over the tip before before brushing fingers down the hot length. When he grips him at the base James jolt forwards.
“If you touch me, I can open myself up. Should make it easier.”
So James kneels before Francis, licking his fingers at length and with ample performance before he starts probing between his legs with winces. Francis teases his cock with light fingers.
He watched as the other man sinks onto a finger and starts moving slowly up and down. Watches him as he hisses and screws his eyes up tight.
“Mm I could watch you do this for hours.” Francis leans in to whisper by his ear as he takes his cock into a fist.
“Wait till it’s your prick.” James bites back, fumbling and then almost crying out.
By the time he’s riding several fingers, he gets a rhythm built up, thrusting into Francis’ hand.
“Francis, Francis,” He sighs, face falling forward into Francis’ neck, “I need you inside of me now, please.”
Francis screws his eyes shut so he doesn’t finish untouched, and removes his hand from James’ prick. “How will I have you?”
“On my back. So I can see you.”
James moves then, withdrawing his own fingers and lying back right there on top of the bedclothes. He spread his legs wide, knees bent and feet braced against the bed.
Francis has an eyeful of completely too much, even in the darkness.
And then he’s on James, climbing up the other man’s body and meeting him with a searing kiss. He takes a hand to his own prick, holding it in place, and the other to James” hip. James’ thighs tighten around him desperately.
“Are you sure about this, love?”
The endearment slips out before he can help it but James seems to practically glow with it.
“Stop making me wait.” James’ hands wind around his back bringing him into a tighter embrace.
Francis spares a single thought to the possibility of someone entering the tent at any moment to see their Captains buggering, completely exposed, laid bare before God, Queen and Country; but then he’s guiding his cock into James’ tight heat and his mind goes otherwise blank.
James keens, his eyes shut tight and back arching as he tips the crown of his head into the pillow. His neck is bared to Francis, who runs a tongue up its length, right over the adam’s apple as his hips start to move.
“Please Francis. Please.”
“What do you need?”
“… More.”
Francis feels hands brush down to grip his arse and he stutters forward, deeper into the other man. It’s been several years since Francis has been this close to another human, let alone inside one. He feels drunk with it.
He’s propped on elbows either side of James’ heads and his hands grip tight into the pillow as his hips start to take over from his brain. James’ legs close to cradle around the backs of his thighs.
He can feel James’ pulse racing at his neck, his breathing hard and quick. Francis takes his teeth to the skin as he feels his cock bottom out, swallowed completely into James’ hole.
“Jesus, you— don’t stop,” James stutters over the words as Francis bites down, sucking hard at his neck. He feels as if he could burst, and needs something to cling to so he doesn’t scream.
“I feel so full, I— Faster—"
It’s easier now James is well stretched, and as Francis shifts slightly on his arms he falls forward and finds a different angle. They both cry out, cutting themselves short as James begins to meet Francis’ thrusts halfway, pushing his hips off the bed faster and faster.
Francis’ face falls away from his neck, forehead to the pillow. His mouth is hot at James’ ear. “So eager for me— To think I’d never have known— If only—"
“Will you touch me? I want to finish with you inside of me.”
“Fuck, I— Have you just left it—" Francis reaches down to find James' prick leaking between their bellies. He takes it in his grasp.
“Please Francis.” His voice is high and desperate and when Francis turns his head it’s to see more silent tears running down the other man’s face. He leans in to lick them off with his tongue.
“You’ve taken me so well, love.”
James winds a hand up and around the back of Francis’ neck. Francis frigs his prick in time with the thrusts, and then watches as James’ eyes go wide, a silent cry as he turns his head sideways into the pillow and finishes between them. Francis feels him clench around his own prick, thinks he hears a quiet “Francis” as the remaining spend pulses out of him.
Francis kisses his cheek as he moves to withdraw his own cock from inside James.
“You lovely boy, you—" Suddenly James’ grip is tight as he comes back to awareness.
“No no, don’t. Stay inside me.” He grabs his arse again, fully sheathing Francis back inside him. “Finish inside me, I want you to.”
“Christ.”
He watches James’ flushed face, the post-spend ease in his eyes and smile, even as they still shine with tears. He’s gone slack and Francis thrusts shallowly into him, teetering on the edge of crisis.
“Use me Francis, please.”
Francis eyes flutter shut as he falls over the edge, finishing deep inside the other man. Thrusting through the pulses as James clings to him, holding him close as he’s filled with wet heat.
“Darling.” He whispers into Francis’ skin.
Francis gasps for air as he expels the last of it, collapsing on top of James. He takes a few moments to catch his breath and then goes to move but James won’t let him.
“Don’t— Let’s just stay here.”
Francis manoeuvres them so that he’s not putting the full force of his weight on the other man, slipping into the warmth at the side of his body. The movement means his softening prick slides out of James, who shudders at the sensation. Francis uses some of the already ruined sheet to wipe James’ spend from both of their torsos, and then James is guiding his hand away and down between his legs. He can feel the slickness at James’ hole, his own spend leaking out of him and onto the sheet. He swears under his breath.
“Leave it.” James whispers under his breath, and Francis draws his hand around James’ hip in the embrace.
“So this was… unexpected.”
“Only because you were being obtuse.”
“Well, I can’t say I ever really thought you’d be interested.” Francis kisses his shoulder lightly.
“I repeat the sentiment.”
“That’s just a polite way of calling me unintelligent.”
James scoffs, turning his face into Francis’. But then Francis can see him watching for a reaction, his eyes more vulnerable now.
“Was it— Did I—"
“It was good James. You were so good.” And he know’s he’s got it right again because James’ whole face relaxes.
He brushes a hand through Francis’ hair in response.
And so they stay there, and for once they don’t think about tomorrow or the next day or even the next hour. They don’t think about what they need to do next or how this will change things.
Francis does think that if he has to die out here, he’d like it be exactly like this. Clinging to James Fitzjames in the afterglow.