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Francis first thought, when he reads the name of his third in command to be, is goddamn it, not that insecure self-important twat. He can’t even hope it might be someone else, for who could share his name other than perhaps his father?

The letters almost seem to meet his eyes. James Fitzjames.

For a moment, he wishes it would have been anyone else. Then, he consoles himself with the knowledge that they will barely cross paths, outside of command meetings.

They will be on different ships. Just as he and Ross were in the Antarctic, himself confined to Terror and Ross over on Erebus. He and Ross had tried to run into each other then, and still their meetings had been both brief and scarce. Avoiding Fitzjames shouldn’t be too difficult, the distance comes hand in hand with their positions.

After yet another moment of reflection, he thinks that if he can put their, hm, history aside, then it will be completely tolerable, even if (when) they do encounter each other. He decides he will make it completely tolerable, he will have to, in the worst case scenario he will do so by ignoring Fitzjames entirely and hoping the man catches on.

Upon further consideration, he realises that the other has just as much reason to ignore him in return, regardless of anything Francis has decided to do. Acting as if they’ve had prior engagements would be a poor idea, for both of them.

Surely, James isn’t so stupid as to be ignorant of that fact. The man isn’t naive. These kinds of relations ought to be avoided.

He keeps scanning the roster, looking for familiar names. He finds a few, and yet he can’t quite tear his attention off that first one which caught his eye.

Good lord, knowing Fitzjames, it will be a challenge. Hopefully, they can both pretend their previous meetings have been few, and all of them bland and ordinary. Hopefully, James has a solid pokerface. Francis sighs, putting the roster away. Either way, his presence will surely make three years seem all the longer.

He can already feel a headache coming on. Three years, and warm summers, with our Lord behind us. God be willing, the Arctic be willing…

Clear through to the Pacific Ocean. 

***

It is September, and a damn cold one. Not by polar standards, surely, but by his own.

James isn’t an arctic veteran, after all, and there isn’t much to be done about that. Not much to be done about his perception of temperature, which seems to betray and disappoint at all times, lately. Frost everywhere, ice in the water, ice coating the wooden flooring outside. Even the air seems to burn his nostrils if he breathes deeply enough.

And yet, he is out on deck. The boards are slippery under his boots, he gets no real grip. He has to walk slowly, keeping his head lowered to the wind and his hands buried deep in his pockets.

Once more he sullenly wonders why he was put in charge of magnetic readings, instead of someone more experienced. They’ve got a perfect candidate over on Terror, after all. Francis Crozier seems to have experience in every area he himself lacks. James shouldn’t be thinking of him.

He has been getting better at it, and at redirecting his mind when it strays. Because it does stray, perhaps inevitably so, and each time he curses himself in the moment before he re-centres his attention on something else. He thinks he ought to be getting better at it, given how much time he’s had to practice the skill. Over a year now, since they left England.

He watches the compass, trying to keep focused. Moving around magnetic north in a circle, was it?

He ought to note it down, the log book is right there after all, but he dreads taking his hands out of his pockets. The cold makes his fingers stiffen, not to the degree that he can’t hold a pen, but enough that making sure his writing is legible takes double the usual effort. If his memory with numbers was better, he would take the observations out here and note them down below deck.

Alas, he thinks with some measure of irony, pulling off one glove, what we do for glory.

Sir John strides up to him as he finishes the notes and closes the book again. For queen and country.

James makes a comment about the magnetic readings, and sir John responds just as he knew he would, speaking of previous experiences, of the poles. James grins, nodding. Their friendship has been a welcome distraction, these months.

Sir John Franklin never seems to be anything other than contented, and James mirrors his spirit easily. He takes interest in anything the other says, he does so gladly. Sir John has led an interesting life, and it isn’t hard to draw anecdotes of it out of him, at least not when they are alone. His opinions, too, can be extracted with a bit of prodding.

Seeing someone every day, it is nearly impossible to not take a certain liking to the person. At times, James wishes he had more exceptions to that rule. He catches feelings of affection as easily as a sickly child catches a cold.

With sir John, it is nothing but a joy. With Francis…

James should not be thinking of him. It is harder than it ought to be, and not helped along by anyone but himself. A voice calling, that of Henry Collins. 

“Sir John, Captain Crozier requests an ice report. Shall I send mister Ried?”

“No need, you tell Francis that James and I will be joining him for dinner.”

Goddamn it. He smiles, meeting sir John’s gaze.

Collins goes past them, shouting for a ship’s boy to open the flag box. Goddamn it, why today?

Worse than a wardroom meeting, an entire dinner of three courses… He knows the proper seating arrangements, he knows that he will be sat opposite Francis, for the whole blasted event.

Sat opposite him, unable to look him in the eye, surely just as unable to  chew and swallow a single bite. The thought is already making him nauseous as he shuffles his way towards the hatch leading to lower deck, having made some hasty excuse to take his leave of sir John. He’s made it through similar before, during this year away, and yet…

Lately, everything has seemed far harder than it ought to be. Well, he thinks, after a while of sitting at his bunk, alone in the dim afternoon, a chance to get further practice in acting.

He tries to tell himself that he can make it into a game for himself, a challenge. A test, to see just how far he can delude himself, or convince himself to take up a different mood than he actually holds. He will be happy, amiable and amusing.

He will act as if he has no particular opinion of Francis, as if he is barely there. As if it would make no difference, were he not there, seated opposite James.

Lord knows, it will be difficult. It’ll take most of his ingenuity, and all of his resolve. He will have to make sure the mask holds.

He sighs, running his hands over his face. It’ll have to hold.

Christ, it will have to hold. 

***

It is august, and over a month since they sailed from Beechey. James’ quarters are dark, and nearly silent.

As silent as any room aboard a ship can be, at night, with wind in the sails. James Fitzjames sits half dressed at his berth. He has been sat there a while.

He is debating with himself, whether he ought to light a lamp. He thinks that the room would feel less lonely if he did, but then he would also be blinded to the deepest shadows, lingering about every corner. He is not afraid of the dark, and lessening his own perception of it is only worth it to a certain extent.

A burning flame can be a comfort, but it can also be a reminder. Of home, of other places, rooms he would rather forget.

He shudders. He thinks of how one question, said without thinking, can ruin everything, can crack it open easy as cracking an egg, and take it out at the foundations, never to be rebuilt.

He tugs off his boots and puts on another pair of socks. He should not have been still for so long, had he gone to bed immediately then he might’ve kept some warmth. The cold is in him now, burrowed deep through his extremities, sitting tight against his skin. He almost debates taking a drink, something strong to warm him from the inside out, something to make it a bit easier to fall asleep, but he has tried it enough times already to know he will only regret it. It will not help.

He elects to keep the shirt on, only switching his trousers to a more worn pair, one that is softer about the seams. And then, he sits, unmoving at the edge of the bunk.

A bed seems far more empty when you lie in it. Like this, facing the small room, his eyes failing to fully take in the dark, he can almost imagine that someone else also sleeps here, that there is someone right behind him, lying turned to the wall.

A warm body, someone… Someone to hold. Someone who would hold him.

He swallows, suppressing a shiver. The creaking of a ship at sea, frothing waves at the hull, his own breaths… It isn’t hard to imagine a second set of breathing, nearly in time with his own. Maybe he is just well practiced at it. It comes halfway unconsciously, the slow breaths, the imagined sensation of a warm back pressed against his own.

His heart races, it beats solitary and heavy. Somebody in his bed, lying turned to the wall… He turns his head, and the berth is just as empty as he knew it would be. So empty it almost feels as if it gazes back at him, as if it meets his eye.

He gets under the covers. He lies turned to the wall, feet and hands still far too cold. Too cold for him to fall asleep. He puts one hand underneath his neck, and the other to his ribs, he presses one foot to the back of his knee. And then the other, alternating. It doesn’t help.

He curls up on himself, and he can’t help but think of it, of arms around his torso, warm hands…

He shuts his eyes tightly. Somebody’s hands on his face. Rubbing slowly, tracing, caressing… The rare compassionate lover he has had, the rare times when it was anything but rushed.

One of them had been drunk, very much so, he had called James by women’s names, and he had passed his hands over his face, slowly tracing each feature… Close your eyes, he had slurred, and James did.

The drunk lover had ran light fingers over his eyelids, tracing patterns over his cheeks, making him shiver, again and again.

They never met a second time. James doesn’t grieve him anymore. He doesn’t miss him, only the way he’d touched him. For once, it had not been rushed. He had been gentle with him.

And the latest one. James should not think of him. Of Francis.

He shudders at the name, he shakes his head. But the thought has already taken root, he is too tired, too pathetic, to stop it.

Francis, running a hand over his cheek, stroking his hair, fumbling, caressing… James imagines it, involuntarily, vividly.

The taste of whiskey still burning down his own throat, the smell of it on Francis’ breath… He was never quite light handed, even when it was obvious he tried to be. Never speaking, much like how it was, silent, smiling.

His heart races, his pulse seems painfully heavy. A warm body. Someone to hold, someone who would hold him.

It is such a base desire, all the more perilous for it, one that only finds him late at night, when he ought to be sleeping. He wants someone to hold him.

God, he wants to be held.

He wraps his arms around himself, grabbing at the fabric of his shirt. Anyone would do. Anyone at all.

He is cold, even as the space beneath the covers is gradually warming, all too slowly… He hates going to sleep alone. He hates waking. The faint sound of snoring reaching him from tween decks, where the hammocks hang side by side. The small sounds of other people, making him feel no less solitary, only deepening the isolation.

Times like these, he knows surely that he is small and pathetic, that he never grew past twelve, nothing but a fraud, an embarrassment. And a goddamned sodomite to boot.

Each night he faces the wall so he does not have to look at the empty room, so he does not have to see that he is alone. It is a child’s worry, having no one to turn to in the night, no arm to sleep on, no steady hand to hold. He should be just fine on his own, and yet...

Thirty four damn years, and he’s still not used to it. With practice, it ought to get easier, this pain. It ought to lessen eventually, it ought to release him.

Good lord, he misses when he was only a ship’s boy, when he hadn’t his own berth and slept in a hammock each night, because at least then there were other people right beside him, in the same room. At least then, he could hear them breathing, and always be aware that there are folks he knows nearby.

There are folks he knows nearby, that has not changed, and yet… It does not feel the same.

Maybe it is insufficient, it is not enough anymore, without all those minute everyday interactions between equals. He misses them, though they ought to be of no real importance. No one embraces a commander. No one even claps him on the shoulder or back, anymore. It is a sign of respect, he knows that, and still he wishes it was not.

He wants to be touched, and is there anything more terrible? Is there anything more terrible, more ruinous, a traitor to strength and sanity, anything more terrible than the wish to not be alone? It makes one so weak.

Having his own room is a luxury. He should not feel shunned, as he does.

He thinks of Francis’ hand over his own, over a year and a half ago by now, and it sends a hot surge of pain through his chest.

How far between the ships? he thinks, shuddering. How far? As if it matters.

Christ, as if it matters.

As if that is the only distance there is, as if Francis would crawl into bed with him, were he here, in the same room…

He feels like he is burning. The pain in his torso, like embers destroying him from the inside. Eating him up, devouring. Burning him away, little by little, until there is nothing left.

He wants someone to devour him. He knows who, there is only one person who he would allow to destroy him so, to wholly annihilate him and wipe him clean off the map. He wants someone to devour him, and he knows who that someone would be.

He wants to go to pieces completely, and he wants to be held while he does.

He would never come back together again, he would leave himself behind, let it die, the horrible thing. Going to pieces, as he deserves to, and still, how he wishes he would not be abandoned afterwards. How he wishes someone could love him, even if he broke entirely. It is an impossibility, and he knows that.

James Fitzjames is alone in his bed, and he is burning up. Weak and desperate.

He grits his teeth, keeping himself from breaking. It will do no good. He clutches his hands together. If he stays still long enough, maybe they will stop feeling like his own.

Maybe he will be able to pretend, for a moment, that someone else is holding them, comforting him. Telling him that it is alright.

Maybe he will be able to pretend, for a moment, that it is alright.

Darkness all around. He might be able to pretend that he is not alone.

Once, he had fallen asleep after their encounter. He had awakened mortified at his own lack of self control, but Francis had not said anything. God, he didn’t say anything…

He is burning, and it isn’t fair, that it should hurt so much. After all, don’t all sailors miss somebody? Haven’t they all left someone behind?

The real pain, he supposes, is that he could not fully leave him behind. He hasn’t been allowed to forget Francis Crozier.

He grits his teeth through wardroom meetings, and dinners, he says goodbye afterwards the way one must, and during nights like these he burns unending. It makes you so weak, to miss someone.

He blinks, as the inside of his nose stars stinging. He winces. No, God no, not tonight… He does not want to cry. It never makes anything better.

What is there to cry about? The answer comes quickly. Myself. The lonely, pathetic thing. Desperate, clinging… Ruinous.

The room is so cold. It is as if he can feel its emptiness, staring at his turned back, pressing up against him. It is like a physical presence. Or absence.

To share his bed with the emptiness, to have it wrap its arms around his waist like a lover…

Warm hands on his neck, gently pulling his hair from his face. Francis’ hands, it must be. Broad knuckles, calluses from handling rope and tying knots, another from holding a pen, his squared fingernails… He sees them before his eyes, and clasps his palm over his mouth to keep from whining.

The great abyss of his own longing… James misses him. It hurts. Far more than it should. How quickly it can all be ruined.

He wants to be held, and isn’t that a poor desire? Ruinous, a traitor to strength and sanity. A need only acceptable for a child to have, or perhaps an old woman.

The wish to not be alone.

And the damn tears begin to trickle, and he grits his teeth around a sob. The damn tears begin to trickle, and he can’t get them to stop.

There is no point in trying to get them to stop. He knows that, already, sure as he knows his own weakness. They dribble down his face, soaking into the pillow. His breath hitches painfully. There is no point in it. 

***

“And the soldiers in the alleys below started using their matchlocks on us, those muskets for which you carry a lit taper at all times.”

James grins, continuing. Really, he is faring far better than he’d dared to hope. He is turned to the room, only seeing a trace of Francis in the corner of his eye, barely more than a blur.

He is amiable, amusing, seemingly happy and relaxed with one elbow leaned on the table. He doesn’t have to hear a word of Francis’ maddening voice. As long as he speaks, he does not even have to chew or swallow a single bite. 

“When we’d shoot one of them, they would fall down on top of these tapers and they would catch fire like tinder piles.”

He jokes, the lieutenants laugh, just the way it ought to be. His mask is yet more solid than usual, and no one seems inclined to question him on it.

He is faring far better than he’d hoped. It isn’t easy, this, and yet it seems he is pulling it off.

“Now, I’d just loaded a rocket and aimed, when I was pierced… Single musket ball, the size of a cherry.”

More like a cherry pit, he thinks, hand still raised in a false demonstrative gesture. It doesn’t take more than a split second before he’s gathered himself again. He is leading the room where he wants it, they all swallow his bait, hook line and sinker. “It passed clean through my arm and kept on in.”

Francis has heard a quite different version of this story, he remembers with a sudden chill coursing through him, as he presses his fingers to his ribs, to the scar, a more honest version, and far more vulnerable. To make matters worse, he had heard it from James’ own mouth.

He has to make a real effort now, to ignore him. He keeps his gaze straight forward, watching Edward Little or watching the door. He keeps on speaking as if he never paused, barely hearing his own words.

He gazes straight forward. He can’t allow his eyes to wander, as he knows where they would land. 

“It was our very own doctor Stanley, in fact, who dug out the shot.”

He gets some breathing room as Hodgeson speaks of the peace treaty. He swallows. Jopson refills his drink.

Then, James risks a glance at Francis. The other stares into the tabletop, one hand on his crystal glass.

Good, James thinks. We’re both ignoring each other.

The easiest option, the easiest way this could turn out. Perfect, exactly what he’d hoped for. It will not be more painful than it has to be. It almost feels like an alliance between them, bringing an unstoppable and horribly impractical flash of affection blooming through his chest.

Good Christ, he is as inept at getting rid of old emotional bonds as he is adept at forging new ones.

He re-centres, redirecting his attention. Good, we’re both on the same page. Hodgeson has finished speaking, James smiles wider and launches back into the story with renewed vigour. 

“By which time I was up on the bow with my arm in a sling, smiling for the official portrait. Have you seen it?”

“Tell us about bird-shit island, why don’t you, James?”

His voice cuts through the room. James is struck still, struck mute. In an instant, his mask falters, almost ridiculously quick.

Without being able to stop himself, he turns to Francis, meeting his eyes. The room is entirely silent.

Goddamn it, James thinks, without any real fire.

The other looks at him with measured distain, he thinks he ought to have expected it, and yet it feels like a blow. His dream of some mutual understanding crumbles, and he knows he is terribly stupid for ever having it, for ever letting it grow. Francis looks away again. 

“That’s a capital story.”

And then, again, silence. James can’t take his eyes off him.

God, he has wanted to look at him during the whole dinner, it seems impossible now to look away. And he is seated right there, so close, just past Franklin. Close enough that if he leaned forward over the table, if he first shifted his chair back to where it ought to be, James could reach him. He could grab onto his collar.

Within an instant, his mask has faltered, he is almost in disbelief at it, he had thought it so solid just a moment ago. Francis has somehow caught him off guard, ejected him from every plan he had, and he has done it thoroughly. He can’t regain his balance.

Goddamn it.

The familiar way in which he said it, first name and all… And worse, it had seemed easy for him to look away from James. As if…

He swallows, and forces himself to lower his gaze. He has trouble finding any description, anything to liken it with, the casual way Francis dismissed him.

As if I barely even existed.

He remembers where that started, when Francis began looking through him… Sir John finally speaks, interrupting the awkward silence. 

“Mister Ried and I chatted about the ice today.”

He makes an effort to catch his breath. They keep speaking, old ice, perhaps a channel coming from the north…

He wonders absentmindedly if it would’ve been better to stay silent, if it would have been less painful to sit absolutely still opposite Francis and stare at his own plate to avoid looking him in the eye. Too late, now.

He tries for a smirk, hoping no one is watching him too closely. 

“It has yet to be named, and I thought sir James Ross could be honoured thusly.”

His own voice comes harsher than he’d like, he almost regrets responding at all. 

“Hear hear.”

“You approve, Francis?”

And then, that damn timid smile. It isn’t fair, that it should show in this way. James looks down.

His voice, low, seeming almost hesitant. Never light handed, he thinks, momentarily cursing himself before directing his mind elsewhere.

“He’ll be very pleased.”

***

There is a sundog facing him as he gets out the hatch. Francis is already gazing at it, stood by the railing. A few words exchanged with sir John, and then James has to walk past him. 

“Goodnight, Francis.”

He does not say it out of obligation, though he hopes he invites Francis to think so, to think that to be the reason behind his actions.

He knows why he does it, in actuality. He can see right through his own motives, along with his own convoluted excuses on the matter. He knows that he does it for no reason other than wanting those sharp eyes on him, even for a moment. Pathetic. 

“All is well.”

He doesn’t get a single word in return. Francis turns back to the sundog, unspeaking, and James shuffles away over the icy deck like a rejected mutt.

He comes to stand beside sir John. It is not a sound decision, and yet he makes it. He begins to speak of Francis. 

“There is nothing worse than a man who’s lost his joy.” It is an unfair statement, and James knows that. Still he continues, laying out the reasons why he should not feel this way, why he should not feel anything at all for him, anymore. “He’s become insufferable. And he’s a lushington to boot.”

He notes to himself that he is sounding most unkind. His judgements are harsh, much more so than Francis deserves, at least in comparison to himself. He hopes sir John might choose to indulge him, but of course he does not. 

“We should be better friends to him, James.”

“I can’t work out why he’s even here.”

He goes on, barely hearing his own words, glancing past Franklin to the man still stood by the railing, seeming to him like a beacon. Blinding, even without him looking James’ way. 

“One glance from him…” It is too late to take it back, he has already began the sentence. “I have to remind myself I’m not a fraud.”

Not quite truthful, he thinks, and yet too close to it for comfort.

He is a fraud, in every way. Francis might not have a catalogue of all the ways, even if he did it would be incomplete, but he knows more of it than he should.

It is not illegal to be a bastard (near enough), it is not illegal to lie. What he and Francis did, however…

“I will not have you speak of him uncharitably, James. He’s my second. If something were to happen to me you’d be his second.”

He suppresses a shudder, keeping his gaze low. He watches the toes of his own boots. He tries to keep his mind empty, bright and wide, annihilated. Most of all, he tries to keep it cold. Sir John speaks once more, patting him on the arm. 

“You should cherish that man.”

Good lord. He can’t find any response. In a way, Franklin is right, though he can’t possibly know in what manner. Maybe, if James had just learned to cherish him…

A gust of wind, making him shiver. It really is freezing. He feels around his pockets for the gloves, without finding them. 

“Hang on.”

Sir John turns to him. 

“I must’ve forgotten my gloves below deck, pardon me…”

“Well,” a gesture towards the hatch, “go on.” 

He does so. Still, he has to walk slowly. Every surface is covered in ice. Francis glares at him with one eyebrow raised. 

“Mislaid my gloves,” James mutters, finding the sentence much too familiar. It’s ironic, that this of all things would keep him aboard Francis’ ship. “I won’t be long.”

You’ll be rid of me soon enough, he thinks, frowning. Don’t you worry. And he goes below.

The wardroom seems strange without Francis present, almost ghostly. He feels like a trespasser. Of course, it was not the first place he’d looked.

He retraced his own steps in order, from the ladder and through lower decks. He is sure that he wore gloves, when he arrived. He remembers taking them off when Neptune came to greet them, probably putting them away in some pocket before kneeling to pet him, as to not get dog hair all over them.

He had checked his pockets again, each one, finding nothing. The wardroom is dark and silent, other than the faint whisper of waves against the hull. Jopson met him in the hall and let him in after James explained his errand. Shouldn’t take long.

He walks around the empty table, the empty chairs set at it. It is strangely silent, the light dim...

He circles the empty table. He finds his gloves laid neatly on his own chair, he must’ve placed them there himself, perhaps intending to pick them up not more than a moment later. He must’ve forgotten.

Having retrieved them, he returns, resisting the urge to linger, to see what books Francis has brought aboard, to see how he keeps his rooms these days…

He climbs the ladder, and the wind strikes him in the face with cold fervour. Another gust as he passes Francis, it catches the sails and makes the ship lurch. James braces for it, keeping balanced with the ease of experience, of many years at sea.

He turns, just in time to see a ship’s boy coming down from the rigging, both feet on the railing and one hand in the net. And as the ship sways so, rolling one way then the other, the boy looses grip.

His feet slide out from under him, the wood is slick with ice. He tumbles.

The back of his knees catch for a moment at the railing. He cries out. He falls overboard.

Silence, then shouting, for a line, all eyes on the man in the water! James riles back on his feet, without thinking he sets off across the deck.

Francis lunges to stop him, but James dodges, running past him.

He does not slip. He gets one foot over the railing, the heel of the boot keeping him steady.

His breaths come harsh. He sees the boy’s light hair, still bobbing above the surface. James braces himself, before flinging himself over the side.

It is only when he hits the icy water that he realises what a mistake he has made.

***

Winter had come to London, and he was sure it would be a cold one. After so long abroad, James found it hard to adjust to the familiar wet chill.

Adjusting to most things was harder than he would’ve liked it to be. Away from home, or in war, enlisted, it is easy to forget yourself. And now, he was back. He woke up back home and he did not find himself standing quite where he would’ve liked to be stood after so long.

Well, the promotion was a good thing. Right place and right time is a powerful combination, he had learned that many years ago. And yet, much remained the same.

His rooms remained empty, his nights remained dark. Here he was, and the only thing he could think to do in order to drive away the chill was seek out the wrong places, most urgently.

He ended up in a shady gentlemen’s club, one of those catering to a certain kind of gentleman, and one he was surprised to discover still operating. He had been there before, though it seemed a long while ago now. It wasn’t even the kind of place where they had to recognise you in order to let you in, the fact they hadn’t yet been sold out to the proper authorities must’ve been some kind of miracle.

The man at the door asked him a few prodding questions, making sure he had money to spend, before stepping aside. With how he was dressed, James thought he oughtn’t have needed to ask. Terribly posh, really, with a silk cravat and polished buttons shining. All the fine things he had learned not to miss, during the years away.

Fine fabrics, finer fragrance, almost shameful in their decadence. He brushed his gloved hands over the front of his suit, surveying himself. Not too bad.

He felt himself grow warm with anticipation, with the thought of someone to share a bed with… Shameful, indeed.

The room was just as he remembered it. Smoky and dim, lit by paper lanterns and kerosene burners. There were opium rooms in the back, though James had never used them. He’d seen enough of the drug, in wilder dens than this one, to know it was best to stay away.

He stood by the bar, glancing around. Of course, he knew why he had come, what he was hoping for. He only needed to pick out who he wanted it to be.

Some amount of challenge was most fun, it most made him feel desirable. But it had to be possible, lest he end up feeling scorned and disappointed instead. He scanned the room, luckily without seeing any too familiar faces. No interesting faces, either.

He ordered a drink, pawing at his hair, he found himself slowly growing bored. Or growing desperate. He watched the door, one elbow leaned against the bar.

It was not with an immediate startle that he saw Francis Crozier enter. Of course, James did not know his name then.

He could not quite place his face, though there seemed to be something familiar about it. He watched the man with only the vaguest interest, as he walked in and to the bar, settling on a chair a distance away.

James nearly dismissed him. He thought he had dismissed him, in fact. He watched the door.

And yet, his attention kept drifting, to the man at the end of the bar. He drank whiskey, stubby fingers holding the glass as if it were something much finer. Short combed hair, blond shifting to grey, a concerned set about the eyebrows. He seemed to stand out somehow, set apart from this wretched place.

He seemed… frankly, he seemed far too ordinary for a place like this. Maybe that was what kept drawing James’ eye.

The decision came upon him gently, in time with the gradual change in body language that came halfway subconsciously these days. He became lighter on his feet, more coquettish in his mannerisms. Glancing over once more, he knew he had decided. This one, it’ll be.

James had charmed enough ordinary men in his life, enough to think himself mostly adept at the dance, at making himself just enough of a woman to catch the other’s fancy. He was often at an advantage in this, his thick curling hair and graceful build only helped the matter.

The real fiddly business came in getting both noticed, and then wanted, enough for the other to approach. If he were to be the woman, then he ought to be the desired one.

That had always been part of the fun, at times more so than the result of it. Playing coy, watching the man make a decision about him, in the best cases watching him work up the courage needed to do such a perilous thing. So perilous a thing as to admit to sodomy, even to another presumed sodomite. It was a kind of game, it always had been. Playacting, watching himself from the outside and making sure it was an enjoyable sight.

This man, he knew, would be a challenge. It seemed he was there to drink, without the intention to do much else. He had to catch the other at the right moment, drunk enough to be open to such a thing, not so intoxicated as to decide to take his leave.

He took a seat, a bit closer, and within the man’s field of vision. James sipped his drink without urgency, he glanced to his right, thinking he might catch the man’s eye.

After a while, he did. He turned away again, quickly as if to hide that he had been looking. He ran a hand over his neck, feigning embarrassment and playing with his hair, winding it around a finger and letting it drop. Then, he sat back, seeming more a man again.

He hoped for some measure of confusion, but when he next caught the other’s eye that was not what he found.

The man gazed at him as if he had been looking a long time, as if there was barely a thrill to it anymore, but instead heavy acknowledgement. As if he knew him.

James gazed back, swallowing. Oh. It’ll be different than I thought.

Maybe better. He turned away. The rush flowed hotter than he’d expected it to, James felt his own heartbeat speed up. That raw unveiled gaze.

He thought he recognised him, suddenly, though he still had not the slightest clue as to where from. Something about the set of the shoulders, something about the pale blue eyes… James could not place him.

He finished his drink and called over the bartender, removing his gloves as if to begin a meal. 

“I’ll have a glass of whatever liquor he’s having.”

He was not subtle, gesturing towards him. An acknowledgment in return.

When he got his whiskey, James stood. He walked slowly into the dim room, away from the bar. He wanted to know, if the man would follow him.

He only went far enough to be nearly out of sight, seated on a divan, turned half away. He sipped his whiskey, he swallowed. Warmth bloomed immediately up through his throat and chest. James shivered.

God, he wanted the man to follow him. He wanted to sit beside him, to have him touch his face. Softly, or not softly, it didn’t much matter.

Were he gentle, James would be a damsel. Were he rough, then he’d be a martyr.

He did not feel much like either, sitting on the divan as if it were a hard chair, feet firmly planted on the floor. He felt like a soldier. He had not felt like anything other than a soldier for a long time.

He thought rooms like these ought to have lifted it, the warm air drove away any chill, there were less pretences here, fewer keen eyes…  And yet…

The playacting did not come as easily, anymore. He had not been casted as a woman in a while, neither in pantomime or in any indecent encounters. For a moment, he grew afraid that the mask would not hold if he were. That it would desert him, revealing he did not know what, lying beneath, soft and unfinished like a bug removed from its cocoon too early. It would leave him lost, like with a stranger in a dark alley, like a traitor with a knife…

For a moment, he was afraid, almost more so than he was lonely. He thought he might be better off leaving, while he still had the chance.

Christ, he did not want to go. He did not want to go back to an empty room. Before he could decide to do so, someone came and stood before him. James looked up, gaze meeting those blue eyes. 

“Hello,” he said stupidly, and the man smiled. 

He sat down next to James, less than an arm’s length away. 

“Do you know me?” he asked, voice lower than he’d expected, as if he was telling a secret. 

Irish, James noted. Now, he was really at a loss as to where he might’ve possibly recognised him from.

Maybe, he’s simply intending to give me an excuse, something to explain away the staring, the flirtation.

Or, maybe he did somehow know him. He glanced the other’s way, meeting his eye and taking a drink to avoid answering. The man grinned then. He chuckled, shaking his head slightly, almost chiding. As if James ought to know him. 

“You have me at a disadvantage,” James managed, and the man nodded. 

“Seems so.” He smiled at him, taking a sip from a newly filled glass. The same whiskey, the same amber colour. “Unless I happen to be mistaken, and you are not our new commander James Fitzjames.”

Incredulous, James stared at him. This was a different danger than the one he’d anticipated.

His eyes flitted once more over the man’s features, the crow’s feet, the dented cheeks, rosey like a boy’s. He could not place him, could not remember where he would’ve seen him before. And he is Irish, who in the hell do I know who is an Irishman?

Very rude, to strip James bare without offering up a name in return. It would’ve been in his rights for James to be angry with him for it, for embarrassing him and putting him on the spot. He knew that, and yet he was only curious. Interested.

Our new commander, he had said. 

“You are a Navy man then,” he asked, and the other nodded. 

Christ, he really was taking a risk, now. As he rose in rank, he had tried to swear off these sorts of things, for exactly this reason.

The higher up you were when you happened to be caught, the longer you’d fall. And most people were caught, eventually. He had tried.

If only he did not hate being alone so, if he did not hate it to the degree that he did, then maybe he could have succeeded and built himself a virtuous life, a life that was decent through and through...

The worst part was that knowing the danger only seemed to make him more eager, more keen to get near the man. He entirely put any perceived rudeness aside, he leaned in closer, crossing his legs. He made his voice soft and agreeable. 

“I do recognise you, I think. I’m terribly sorry, you’ll have to excuse my poor manners… It seems I have lost your name.” 

“Francis Crozier,” the man said. 

The pieces slotted in place all at once. The Irishman, the drunkard, the one who was such a masterful seaman that even the Admiralty could not turn him away. The very one who accompanied Ross to the Antarctic. Ever unlucky in other pursuits, in both love and gambling, ever truthful according to the best accounts, ever impolite according to the worst.

He had heard much of Francis Crozier. James had not expected him to look so commonplace, so much like any other man.

He had not expected to meet him here, in a place as low as this. He had not taken him for that kind of man, and from what he’d heard, no one else had done so, either. He gazed mutely at him for a while.

This one, it’ll be. He had to reply, to find some response. 

“I have heard of you.”

“Only horrid things, I’m sure,” the other murmured. 

“I’ve heard you’re a skilful sailor,” James said, quite amorously, and then he said nothing more. 

They sat close to one another. He liked to imagine himself through the other’s eyes, even more so now, now that he knew he must’ve heard of him in turn.

Later on, when Francis had finally leaned in and kissed him, James suggested they go elsewhere. Though, going to mine the landlady might kill you, he made sure to say, laughing.

He never invited anyone home.

Francis did not laugh. He leaned in and James kissed him again, and again. Francis’ hand in his hair, by his cheek… He wanted his hands on his body, all over it, pressing down until he knew he was real. Rough, or gentle, it didn’t much matter.

Once more, he suggested going elsewhere. Francis obliged. They went to his rooms, and they did what a certain kind of gentleman does with his fellows.

There was a kerosene lamp by the bed, James liked to think the light it cast made him look golden, shining, beautiful. Francis sure reacted as if he was.

He ran his fingers over James’ torso, almost reverently. He looked down at him, as if he never wanted to look at anything else. He felt desired, he felt beautiful. Stunning. Francis hands were very warm.

Afterwards, he thumbed carefully at the reddened scar by James’ ribs. It had not fully paled then, hadn’t fully settled even though it was a few years old. 

“I’ve heard your tale of this,” Francis mumbled. “Or heard tell of the tale, from others. I’d thought it embellished,” he admitted, chuckling. 

“Parts of it were,” James admitted in return. “Or, rather… well. People only want to hear of some things, when it comes to injuries. And while dining, they want to hear even fewer.”

“Hm.”

Like this, he must look beautiful. Splayed out on the bed, all long limbs and smooth skin, with soft dark hairs all over. And thick strands draped over the pillow, like a saint’s, or a siren’s. Showing the right amount of melancholy, enough to spark interest and not much more.

Omissions aren’t lies, he thought, looking at the ceiling. Not that he had ever shied away from lying. And yet, Francis’ silence prodded at him.

He almost felt at ease. He almost felt as if he would be at ease, regardless of what mask he wore, or did not wear.

He tried to tell himself that this was only a game, that they were both neatly fitting into the archetype where they most liked to reside. Francis in the role as the rejected drunkard, turning to men when shunned by the fairer sex, James as the young accomplice, naive, not knowing any better.

“What was it like, then?” the other asked, voice low and confidential. 

He tried to tell himself that Francis was also acting, that he must be.

It was a neat little narrative, a fitting dichotomy. Himself, an Achilles burning much too quick, and Francis, steadying him, solid and slow.

Surely, Francis was not actually so captivated with him. The interest shown was flattering, yes, but not entirely genuine. After so short a time spent with each other, how could it be anything else? 

“It was by a street barricade,” James began. “Chinkiang. We were using firecrackers. In order to aim one props them onto a sort of low scaffold, keeping steady… Well, I was gunnery lieutenant then, so I loaded one. Didn’t get the chance to set it off.”

He grinned, little more than a show of teeth.

It was much different, to tell it like this. Much different than the ways he had told it before… Mostly, it was far more uncomfortable.

Francis Crozier’s attention was a heavy thing, he learned in this moment, and it was hard to believe he could deserve it. He forced himself to continue.

He spoke of it as a wife tells her husband of a bad dream, inviting and expecting comfort. He moved closer, and Francis took him in his arms. 

“The part people don’t much enjoy hearing, I suppose, is that I was frightened. Very much so.”

He swallowed, neglecting to elaborate on the extent of it, to say that he had screamed, and cried, that he had wet himself in the moment before he lost consciousness.

“I thought I was going to die,” he said simply. 

Francis pet his hair. He liked feeling so small, playing something other than the part he was usually assigned these days, that of the honourable Navy man. The one full of courage, of faith, able to suffer through anything and come out of it smiling, as jovial as ever. He played damsel, now.

He thought Francis must enjoy being more the man out of the two of them, seeming the stronger one. He enjoyed thinking that Francis could take care of him, protect him in the way men do not usually protect other men.

It really was an inversion, a pantomimed imitation of some natural state of affairs. It was pathetic that he should happen to like it so much, even if it was only playacting. 

“I was lucky,” he said. “They dug out the shot, I recovered. I was on my feet again within a month.” 

Francis nodded. They were silent for a long time, before James got up, and dressed.

On purpose, he left his gloves in Francis entryway. One could always retrieve them later. It was a neat excuse, if he wished to see the man again. He thought he might want to.

They said farewell at the door. James walked home, feeling warmer than he had since he left the orient. 

***

It is only when he hits the icy water that he realises what a mistake he has made.

His limbs stiffen, his coat grows heavy. The cold is so intense that it hurts.

The wind is loud. He flails, trying to keep above the surface, turning his head wildly to spot the boy, he must be here somewhere.

Salt in his mouth. He recalls hearing once that the water of the polar seas was always colder than freezing. Now, he thinks he can believe it.

There, a flash of light hair. He paddles for it, or tries to.

He can’t feel his hands, not as anything more than two clusters of pain at the ends of his arms. Where is he? The boy must be here somewhere.

James tries to keep above the surface. His clothing is so heavy, weighing him down, threatening to pull him below, into the vast depth.

The cold is so intense. His limbs feel as if they’re breaking apart. Everything is so heavy.

The sea is not still, as it looked from the deck, it lurches and sways. Salt in his mouth, in his eyes. The swells lift him, toss him around.

Once, he had dove into a river in England, fully clothed, to rescue a drowning man. He remembers telling Francis of that, once.

He had succeeded then, the man had lived. He had been rewarded for his courage, afterwards.

This is different.

Current of the river be damned, this is worse even so.

As he fights just to move, he realises his own weakness. Man’s general weakness, perhaps. The cold is overpowering him, and it does so easily.

It doesn’t matter that he is a good swimmer. It doesn’t matter.

He is nothing in comparison to the freezing cold. He turns his head, seeing nothing but ice and dark water.

The boy must’ve drowned, he thinks with dull horror, knowing he is not far behind.

They must be shouting from the ship still, but he can’t hear anything, anything but the roar of the waves and the wind. He treads water, kicking, fighting to stay above the surface.

He can’t tell whether he kicks his legs. He can only hope that thought translates to action…

He is a good swimmer, but it doesn’t matter. It will not save him.

His coat is so heavy, every layer of clothing is soaked, it weighs him down.

The waves wash over his face, he fights for breath.

The deep darkness pulls at him. He feels as if it grabs around his legs, keeping him from kicking.

The seeping cold makes his limbs stiffen. He can barely move them. God, he thinks, I’ll sink like a stone.

He kicks, he flails. It won’t be long.

He can’t hear anything but the wind, he sees nothing but ice and dark water. He is numbed. He doesn’t have the energy to be afraid.

His head is pulled under water, at the surface again he gasps, he fights for breath. He can’t feel his legs, or his arms.

There is a line thrown to him, he sees it fly. It lands, not more than a few feet away from him. It might as well be a mile.

I’ll sink like a stone.

He thinks he might as well try, to make it closer. He thinks he owes it to whoever threw it, to try.

James gathers what strength he has left, he paddles for the line, with limbs frozen stiff. He can’t lose orientation, even as he goes blind with sea spray. Forward. Forward.

He fights to stay above the surface. It is exhausting.

He only grows heavier. He only grows colder.

He is pulled under the surface, but he comes up again.

There. The line. He can reach it now. He can’t feel his hands. 

“Grab on!” someone shouts from the deck. 

He sees the rope, but he has trouble closing his hands around it.

If he stops paddling, he will sink. He is sinking already. He tries to grab on.

The cold does not hurt anymore.

He can’t feel his hands, can’t feel if there is a line there or not.

One final gasp for air. He holds his breath.

He sinks. There is only dark water. 

***

He returned to retrieve his gloves, and then returned once more. The fourth time he came walking down Francis’ street, it was raining.

Perfectly ordinary London rain, heavy and only slightly colder than lukewarm. He wore a heavy woollen coat which smelled now of wet sheep, he thought he should have worn a cap, if only to keep his hair dry. He debated turning back.

He didn’t much see a point in it, if he wasn’t looking his best. After all, wasn’t that the point? Shouldn’t that have been the point of it, to know he looked good in someone else’s eyes? Preferably such critical eyes as Francis’.

And yet, he kept on down the sodden street, pointless or not. He wondered briefly why he was doing so, what he really wanted out of this, without finding an answer. He decided not to interrogate his own motives further (later on, he comes to regret this).

He continued on, until he was once again stood before Francis’ door. And Francis arrived, and invited him inside. He took James’ coat. James thought the gesture an interesting gentlemanly contrast to his unkempt hair and wrinkled shirt. He spared a glance to the hallway mirror, finding his own visage had fared well enough, despite the rain. The cold lent a rosiness to his cheeks which almost made up for the dreadful state his hair was in. He dragged a hand through it, sweeping it to one side.

He followed Francis through the house, then went past him into the bedroom as the other picked out a bottle and two glasses. That was the way they had done it, twice now.

Francis offered him whiskey, James accepted, they drank together and he toyed with his cravat until it came undone, and then the next piece of clothing, and the next… Last time, he had also gone on in before Francis. He had not been able to resist some amount of poking around.

There were books, and he’d read the titles. Some Shakespeare, some Herodotus even, the Iliad and Odyssey.

There was a chest of drawers, and on a reckless whim he had pulled them out. He had been astonished to find them halfway empty.

This time, he did not prod. He stood in the middle of the room, and he waited for Francis. He ran his hands down his own torso, down the row of buttons. He thumbed at the cravat, thinking he might just take it off already.

It had grown familiar, and comfortable, this dance. He had learned what he could expect, now.

Francis would indulge him, and James would make sure he did not come to regret it.

He waited, and then Francis came and stood opposite him, so close they were almost touching already. They both drank, and Francis began fiddling with James’ waistcoat. He obliged, unbuttoning it, slowly enough to make the other wait a little, quickly enough to show that he was interested.

His hair was only damp now, falling before his eyes in half wavy strands, he turned his face towards the buttons to make sure it did so. He tossed the waistcoat onto the floor, and then the cravat. The other was not far behind, and he continued with the shirt. When that was off, and he stood in front of James like an aged god wearing nothing but the trousers, he crossed the room to place his glass on the nightstand.

James followed. He sat down at the edge of the bed, somewhat coyly, intending to make Francis take his shirt off him.

Francis stood before him. He reached out and caressed James’ face. God, his hands were warm. James leaned in.

He shut his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. The scent of him, of skin and a touch of musky perfume. His fingers, moving lightly, carefully.

When he opened his eyes again his gaze met Francis’, slightly above. He rubbed his thumb over James’ cheek. He met Francis’ eyes.

When he asked, he did not even hesitate. 

“Francis, could we turn out the lights?”

“Oh, yes.”

And he turned his back, going first to the lamp on the chest of drawers by the door. James sat frozen at the edge of the bed.

He had barely even heard his own words. It felt like frigid mist rolling in. Suddenly, he could identify what it was he wanted.

A terrible chill running up his spine. A tremor as if the very earth was quaking.

All at once, he knew. The point was not playacting anymore. His mask had fallen, and he had not even noticed it slipping.

Jesus Christ, he had not noticed!

And there it was, the horrid unfinished thing he knew had lurked beneath, soft and squishy, fit for nothing other than to be trampled underfoot. Shameful and pathetic. Longing only to be known, seen in its entirety, as if that was a noble wish, as if his very life depended on it. As if it was anything other than an impossibility, or something which would annihilate him.

He could identify what he wanted. He wanted to be honest with him, with Francis.

He knew, it would fully destroy him. There would be nothing left.

He was lost, and the lamp on the dresser went out, and Francis returned to put out the one on the nightstand, also. As if it was not even a strange request. As if it made no difference, whether he was allowed to look at James or not. It should make all the difference.

He would be annihilated, killed, wiped clear away. He clenched his hands around the sheets, trembling. He could not… this wasn’t… he couldn’t…

This was not what he had thought it was.

He felt ill suddenly, heartbeat running like blows through his body, and Francis halted in the middle of a movement, looking at him. His gaze was so heavy. As if he looked through him, rather than at him.

As if he could see his very soul. What a horrible thing. Francis watched him. Was there anything more terrifying? 

“Are you alright, James? You look pale.”

He felt ill. He felt sick, and in the same moment he knew that he was. It was like looking down into a great abyss.

He felt sick. He got to his feet. He heard his own voice more than he noticed that he was speaking. 

“I have to go.”

“James, what-“

“No,” he interrupted. “Don’t, please, don’t ask me anything.”

He picked up his waistcoat from the floor. He fumbled with the buttons, getting them closed again, all too slowly.

Francis watched him, still undressed, arms hanging by his sidess. He did not reach for him. James did not look at his face. 

“You’re just going to leave,” Francis mumbled. 

James only nodded, struggling to get his waistcoat closed. He grit his teeth. The goddamned buttons. His hands trembled so.

He had to put an end to this, he had to, Francis could pick him apart entirely, and what would he do then? What would he do, reduced to a pile of rags?

He had the terrible feeling that, once Francis had taken him apart, he would never come back together again.

He had the feeling that if he stayed for even a moment longer, he would let him, without putting up the slightest resistance. Francis picked up the cravat from the floor. 

“James…”

“I have to go. It’s finished. I can’t… I’m putting a stop to this, Francis, and you will let me. You will let me do this.”

He took the cravat from his outstretched hand. He stuffed it in his pocket, to tie it again would take too long. It might give him time to change his mind. 

“Don’t try to make me stay,” he said, voice choked half away. 

Francis only stared. He stood unmoving, and he watched, as James squirmed under his gaze.

He brushed his hands over the front of the waistcoat, all put to rights. He did not want to leave.

He felt sick. It scared him, that he did not want to leave. That, if anything, ought to be taken as a sign, he thought, a sign to get out of this while I still can.

And Francis only watched him. It felt like burning, like turning to ash. At least, it seemed he would listen. It seemed he would at least let him go.

It would not be more painful than it had to be. It seemed so, until he turned to the door.

“James!” Francis snapped. 

He said it like an order. He said it rough, loud and sudden.

James stopped, frozen in place. His voice and accent only made it harsher, no one had ever said his name in such a hard way before, in that way which almost sounded callus. He stood still, half dressed, and Francis’ gaze burned at his neck.

Well. He certainly doesn’t treat me like a lady, anymore. Or like a friend.

The mask truly had fallen. No more acting. It was over.

He turned, he couldn’t do otherwise, when asked in this manner. Francis only stood there. God, it really was ruined.

James forced himself to speak, even as his throat ached terribly. He felt cornered. He spoke with panic. He struck out, in every direction. 

“Yes, what? This was never going to last, you know that just as well as I do! These kinds of relations, they ought to be avoided. We both know that! I was weak in my vices. I’m sorry, I know it isn’t the part I played with you, but I do know better. I might even be less naive than you. I’m doing what’s right, you must know that! What more, Francis, what else is left to say before you let me go?”

Francis did not move, he did not look at him.

James swallowed, pain running through his chest, spreading like a fissure opening, up his nose and to his eyes, they were burning now. He would not cry. Good lord, he would not cry!

His throat ached as he swallowed down the tears. Francis did not reply, he did not look at him.

He had gone cold, turned away. James stood in the middle of the room, waiting, breathing shallow.

He felt dismissed. Scorned. He supposed that he deserved it. He felt burned away.

It was as if he barely existed. 

“Will you not say anything?” he rasped, jaw stiff. 

Francis was silent. He did not look at him. 

“Christ.” 

So he would not even get any last words. He had wasted that chance by running his mouth, by shouting, without thinking of what he said. Francis would not speak to him.

Tears in his eyes. James went for the door, fleeing. His feet carried him off, following some natural instinct which went no further than escape.

This time, Francis did not stop him. Hands numb, he wrenched open the door. 

“Farewell, Francis.”

As soon as he was out on the street, he ran. The rain whipped against him. He did not bother to button his coat.

He ran, and the rain poured down his face, much like tears would. His lungs burned. His eyes burned. He ran, fast as he could.

The rain ran down his face. It was lukewarm. It tasted of salt. 

***

He must’ve grabbed the line. He coughs, gasping once more for breath. He can’t feel his arms, or his legs.

Someone hoists him up. He can only tell because something hard, the railing of the dinghy, he later understands, bashes into his ribs and knocks the air out of him.

He coughs up seawater. The taste is acrid, both salty and acidic.

He coughs and gasps for air. His chest burns with every breath.

He is too cold to shiver, and he knows that this is bad.

He sees his own hands against the thwart of the boat, they’re pale, he can’t feel the wood against his palms. He sees them as if they’re far off in the distance.

Someone grabs him by the shoulders, nearly getting him upright. 

“Where’s the boy?” he grates out, voice rough. 

“Gone,” somebody tells him. 

The oars are moving, he notes, someone is rowing.

Closer to Terror, to the ladder still there down the side of the ship. Only ice and dark water. 

“I saw him,” James rasps. “You must get him!” 

No one listens to him. He can’t feel his body.

He looks down at it, slumped in a position which ought to be most uncomfortable. He can’t feel it.

He thinks of moving. He doesn’t manage more than a slight shift.

He loses time, suddenly they’re trying to get him standing. Someone grabs at his arms. William Strong, he notes, that’s who it is. Other people he can’t quite make out.

The ladder is close by, but the dinghy sways with the waves, he can’t control his limbs. He can’t reach out to begin climbing.

He still does not shiver, and he knows that this is bad. The dinghy sways, he gazes dully at the ladder, bobbing up and down. He wonders how he will possibly get onto the ship without falling in the water again.

Without the hands steadying him he isn’t sure he would even remain standing. The waves make the boat lurch. Around him people are shouting, but he can’t quite hear what they’re saying. 

“Goddamn it!” someone calls, and James thinks he knows the voice. 

Suddenly someone is climbing down the ladder. It must be him.

He braces one foot to each side of the lowest rung, he turns halfway towards the dinghy and reaches out his arm, the one that isn’t clutching at a higher rung. 

“Come on,” Francis growls, voice carrying over wind and breaking froth. 

“No. You’ll fall in,” James mumbles, voice rough.

Francis glares at him, as if to say I don’t like it any more than you do.

He reaches out farther, hanging dangerously off the side of the ship.

“For God’s sake, just grab on!”

James watches his own feet, managing to get one onto the edge of the railing. Somebody’s steadying him from behind.

Now! Francis shouts, as the waves lurch, bringing them closer. James leaps.

He watches his own feet, passing over the dark water, at least one makes it to the rung, and Francis catches him, arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

The ship lurches with the waves. It sways. 

“Climb,” the other says in James’ ear.

He can’t lift his arms. He blinks stupidly at the ladder. He can’t feel his body, the only thing keeping him upright is Francis’ arm around his waist. 

“I can’t,” he breathes. “I can’t move. God, I’m sorry.”

“Lean toward the ship.”

He does so.

With dull horror, he watches as Francis lets go of the ladder, shifting his hand onto a higher rung. He moves first one foot then the other, to the next step up, keeping hold of James as he does so.

His face is tense with concentration. 

“Try to get one foot up, would you?”

He tries. Francis hoists him up. Then he turns his face upward, towards the deck. 

“You’ll reach him now!” 

Sure enough, they do. Hands grab at his coat, at his arms. James is hauled aboard.

As soon as no one is holding onto him anymore, he collapses onto the deck. He falls.

It does not hurt. He sees the wooden boards. They ought to be cold against his cheek, they’re covered in ice after all, but he does not feel it. His vision is going foggy.

Finally, he lets his grasp on consciousness slip away. It is far easier than it should be, to let go of it. It runs through his fingers smooth and easy as sand. Immaterial as mist parted by a breeze.

Vaguely he notes that someone turns him over. And then nothing more, nothing but sweet warm darkness. 

***

He thinks that he must’ve fallen asleep. There is the warm light of a lamp, there are hands removing his coat. His eyes meet with Francis’.

James grins. Francis is undressing him.

God, he has missed it, missed it to a degree which has made him ache. How many times has he not cried, wishing for something like this, trying to convince himself there was still a chance? Trying to imagine a world where he had not ruined it.

God, he has missed it. Immediately he tries to help it along, he tries to get his hands on the buttons of his own waistcoat, but he can’t get any real grip around them.

He is aching all over, he notices suddenly, though he can’t quite figure out why. It is vague and all consuming, he can’t pinpoint any source for it, any wound. He wonders if he ought to be worried.

It isn’t dissimilar to how he aches at night, alone, and that is not a disease of any kind, even though it sure feels like it. And even if it is an illness, being with Francis always seemed to lessen it…

If only he had not ruined it, if only… If only he had learned to cherish him.

He tries again to get a hold of the buttons. 

“You’ll have to help me,” he slurs, chuckling, and Francis shushes him. “I’m trembling like a bridegroom.” 

“Quiet,” Francis mutters. “Be quiet, James.”

Christ, he really is aching now. Tears in his eyes, he tries to keep on smiling, he does not want the other to stop.

He allows Francis to undress him, but the pain is only growing. He is going to pieces. His heart races, it beats solitary and heavy.

How he has missed him. God, it hurts.

He is freezing, and he doesn’t understand why. He looks up at Francis, he tries not to be afraid. He can’t be a coward this time, he refuses to ruin it again, he will not turn him away.

The cold is in him now, burrowed deep. All through him. It feels like being undone, but being without him was worse, he knows that it was worse.

He is shivering violently. Uncontrollably. It hurts.

He is frightened, now. Something is wrong with him. He knows, something is wrong.

Something must be wrong and he doesn’t know what. Something is breaking, and he feels every crack.

His teeth clatter, he is barely intelligible when he speaks next. 

“What are you doing to me? Francis, please… be careful.”

He is being taken apart. He knows now, he knows that this is what he has been dreading all along. Francis is picking him apart, and he will never come back together again.

He doesn’t have the strength to put up any resistance. He doesn’t want to resist, not when Francis is the one devouring him, undoing... He has missed it. He has missed him.

There will be nothing left. He knew this would happen, he had fled from it. He had been so afraid.

I ought to have stayed. He didn’t have the guts to go to pieces in Francis’ arms. He had run. And yet, he is back.

Going to pieces. It hurts. He will be destroyed, entirely.

He had not expected it to be so physical. 

“Careful. Be gentle with me,” he mumbles, teeth clattering. “Slowly.”

“Quiet, James,” the other growls under his breath. 

“You were always so gentle,” James whispers. “Gentle and kind to me.”

Francis never spoke to him in this way, back when they were close… It never hurt so much before.

He always tried to be light handed, to take care of him, that had always been clear… He should’ve been more thankful for it. He should’ve cherished him, every moment, every touch. He did not know how much he would miss it, being touched by anyone, and most of all by him.

It hurts as if he is breaking apart. It feels like burning, like turning to ash. Like being annihilated, killed, wiped clear away.

But at least, he is not alone. He burns unending.

There will be nothing left. He is afraid, not of Francis but of his own body, of the shivers running through him as if the very earth is quaking. God, the very earth is quaking beneath him.

It hurts too much. More than he can take. He knew he would be too weak, he knew he would not be able to take it…

He grits his teeth. He can barely speak. 

“You have to stop. I’ll break.”

He gasps, choking on his own breath. His teeth clatter. He hears himself whine, a painfully small sound. Pathetic.

He can’t bear it. It hurts too much. All he had wanted. Everything…

He fumbles for the other’s hand, for his face. 

“Francis, I’m sorry.”

Francis stands up then, no longer leaned over him.

He withdraws his hands and turns to the side, as if to speak to someone else. James had thought they were alone.

“You take care of him,” Francis says to whoever it is, he says it harshly, and then he turns, and disappears out of sight. 

Goddamn it. I drove him away again. Oh, he does not want to be alone. Going to pieces, without anyone to turn to, without anyone to tell him that it is alright. Desperate and pathetic.

James nearly cries out with it, with that old pain, that old horror. He swallows down a sob. The damn wish to not be alone.

He grits his teeth, keeping himself from breaking. God, he will not break, he will not cry!

The steady face of doctor McDonald above him.  

“Don’t you worry,” he says. “We’ve got you. Peddie, something for the pain, if you will.”

A bottle is put to his lips, he swallows. It tastes horrid. It burns in his throat, in his chest. Aching all through him.

The bullet was worse, but he has already swallowed by the time he thinks to compare. Anyway, he doesn’t see the sense in refusing this (whatever it is) if it is offered, if the bottle is quite literally put to his lips for him. It burns in his chest, in his stomach.

He doesn’t understand where he is. Because if doctor McDonald is here, it can’t be those halfway familiar rooms back in London.

It can’t be, even though the light is much the same… He has too many memories, now. It doesn’t fit.

God, it hurts. He loses track of time. A mess of vertigo, of the bunk swaying beneath him.

When he next comes to, the pain has lessened, though he still shivers, more intensely than he ever has before. His teeth clatter together, no matter how he tries to stop it.

He glances around, finally he recognises the room. He must be on Terror, still. His heartbeat feels like blows running through his body. Like being struck, repeatedly.

McDonald goes by, and James catches his arm. 

“The boy,” he begins, and the other shakes his head. 

He failed, then. The boy had drowned, just the same as if he had not dove in to save him. It feels like a heavy stone being dropped into the pit of his stomach. 

“Who was it?” James mumbles. 

“David Young, I’m told. A ship’s boy.”

“Where’s Francis?”

The doctor gestures vaguely towards the door. He pats James on the shoulder, having freed himself from his hand. 

“Just outside. He’ll be back in soon enough, don’t you worry.”

***

He leaves sickbay when James has calmed down, when he lies sedated and only halfway conscious. They’d gotten him dressed, in warm dry clothing.

We didn’t give him much, he won’t be passed out for long, McDonald had said, after giving Francis the prognosis.

All in all, he has fared well. They got him out of the water and rewarmed in time. Thank God.

It could have been far worse. Francis knows, it could have been so much worse. If the dinghy was not already in the water, if he had not caught the line…

Outside, he comes face to face with sir John. From one glance, Francis can tell that he is upset, seething might be the more accurate word. That catches him by surprise.

For a moment he almost wonders if sir John heard James’ slurred words, if he heard them and understood, before he dismisses that as a ridiculous thought. It would take some imagination to understand what James meant, and yet more to think it anything other than confused ramblings. At that, sir John wasn’t even in the room.

For a while they simply stand silent, without speaking. He can’t place the other’s anger, can’t find a context for it. He opts for looking past it, acting as if he does not notice at all. 

“He’ll recover fine,” he says simply. 

Sir John bridles at that, barely concealed. 

“Don’t tell me you are angry with him?” Francis says, as that option suddenly occurs to him. 

“What Fitzjames did was entirely unnecessary,” sir John replies. “Unplanned, reckless. Completely idiotic.” 

Francis would be inclined to agree. He would, if he did not so well recognise that anger. It is not ordinarily directed at James.

Diving into the sea of the Arctic, fully clothed, is an action so risky that it might as well be called suicidal. And yet, Francis has the inescapable urge to defend the man. Impractical, wholly unstoppable. He can’t do anything to dispel it, anything but follow instinct. 

“But if he had succeeded in saving Young, we would be calling him heroic.”

“He did not succeed,” sir John says, his tone sour and dry. “His chances were minuscule, you know that as well as I do. He should not have acted so impulsively.”

“Is that not the same courage he has been commended for, many times over?” Francis counters, halfway in disbelief at his own words. 

The same courage he has bragged about countless times, to an excessive degree considering the acts in themselves, he thinks, but does not say. Lord knows where he gets the strength to refrain.

He wonders once more why he so desires to defend him, and for this of all things, for something so altogether stupid. 

“Could we truly expect him to do anything else, to act in any other way?” he mutters, feeling a tad more genuine. 

James Fitzjames is impulsive, asking him to be anything else would be inviting disappointment. The thought that sir John has not learned that surprises him. Though, he thinks, he himself has truly had ample reason to learn it, and learn it well.

He had learned it the hard way, through disappointment, through scorn. He himself might be the outlier between the two of them. 

“I’ll be returning to Erebus,” sir John states. “Send Fitzjames over once the fool is upright again.”

“Will do.”

And he goes, leaving Francis to sigh and run his hands over his face in the hallway. His cheek and shoulder both ache, he had hit the deck hard after failing to tackle James to the ground, after failing to stop him.

He rubs his eyes, sighing. The headache is coming on.

Christ, James had tried to touch his face. The way he had reached out…

You were always so gentle. Christ.

He thinks he ought to go back in, but he resists.

He resists, and for the first time in over a year he thinks of James, and of himself. He properly thinks of it, without turning his mind away.

He thinks of the man at the other end of the bar, the man who had stared at him, though it seemed he did not recognise him. Francis had placed him quickly, it did not take him long to realise where he had seen him before. That gave him much time to make a judgement on the other’s interest, much time to iron out his intentions.

He was already more than a little drunk, and he was soon sure that he wanted James. A little later, he thought James might want him. The way he stared, the way he fidgeted with his hair, with his gloves…

Christ, I invited him home, he thinks now, in the hallway outside of sickbay. He invited himself, he mentally adds, a tad more crassly.

And he thinks of the last time, of their last night.

He is still angry. He recognises that, whenever he dares to think about it, which isn’t often these days. It is too impractical, to ache so much, to burn.

I know it isn’t the part I played with you, James had said, with something akin to rage in his voice.

Playing a part. As if it was all acting. As if it was not real.

He could not understand why anyone would take the risk they took disingenuously, with the option to do anything else, to play any other part. James could play at anything, could be anything, to anyone. Francis still does not understand why James had chosen him, instead of anyone else.

He had not had the option to avoid Fitzjames, he could not have acted in any other way. He had been drawn to him, and unable to resist.

Are you alright, James? That still makes him angry.

That even now, he can’t help but wonder what brought it on, he can’t help but remember James’ expression sitting at the edge of the bed, jaw clenched and face grey.

He had just stared, and Francis still can’t understand what brought it on. He hates that as James slammed the door behind him, leaving Francis alone and half dressed, part of him wondered earnestly if the other was alright. Part of him wondered whether he would get home safe.

He hated that he was so sentimental, so soft. That he could not be altogether angry, even as he felt tricked, betrayed, strung along. It was a failure all too familiar.

At that, it was a failure that continually got him hurt, that he had always known would get him hurt.

It had done so since he was a child, stuck in a home where nothing but personal strength would save you.

He thinks of James diving over the side of the ship, without a moments hesitation. In a way, it is not so different.

David Young had drowned. James had left, after thoroughly denouncing their whole relationship. Francis had tried to stop him.

He was left alone, freezing, and knowing he had failed once more. And James was left freezing…

He hates that he still cannot stop himself from drawing connections between them, linking them together, trying to find likenesses, something in common, preferably something intrinsic and unchangeable. He wants to be connected to James, linked somehow, and he knows that it would be better if he did not want it.

It won’t happen, and he won’t stop wishing for it. But it is finished.

James had ended it, and Francis had let him. It is over. He ought to be angrier than he is. The door to sickbay opens, and doctor McDonald meets his eyes. 

“He’s asking for you, sir.”

What can he do other than oblige?

***

James is sitting up in bed. He had held his breath, to hear what was said. Sir John’s words, and Francis’.

If he had succeeded in saving Young, we would be calling him heroic. He did not succeed. He had held his breath, and shuddered.

He had known that there was no reason to disagree with sir John, and yet... Is that not the same courage he has been commended for, many times over? And yet, Francis had defended him.

Sir John was right, it was stupid, reckless and bound to failure, no miracle had occurred, he had not succeeded.

Francis must’ve known, he had tried to stop him after all. He had lunged for him, and James had dodged.

It would have been infinitely easier to simply agree, without putting up a fight. James would not have put up a fight for his own sake, not over this, not after failing. Not against that anger, the righteous fury which he has only seen turned to others, and barely even then. Sir John keeps himself in check, and he does so well. He is not angry, unless he has been given good reason to be.

James shudders. Only hearing it through the door was almost too much for him.

Send Fitzjames over once the fool is upright again. He will not have to face sir John for a while yet, then. Thank God.

In this state, James isn’t sure he could bear it. He wants to know, if he could bear facing Francis.

Like having an open wound, only half healed, he wants to touch it, to press his fingers against it. He wants to feel the pain come alive, coursing through him. Or maybe, he would find that it does not hurt anymore, that something has changed. 

“Has he gone?” he asks McDonald, and the man goes to the door. 

“He’s asking for you, sir.”

Christ, did he have to phrase it like that? James thinks, wincing, and Francis comes back into the room, as if it were perfectly natural.

He walks up to the bunk. James sits unspeaking. Francis regards him silently, wearing that same guarded expression he always wears around him these days. He despises it, even as he knows that it is deserved.

He misses him, he misses the look of easy acknowledgement… He misses the time when he knew him. He misses being known by Francis.

He looks away, fiddling with the buttons of his cuffs. Someone else must’ve helped him get into the clothing, a shirt and a sweater. Dry woollen pants. He doesn’t remember it.

At least, he does not shiver as much anymore. Only a slight tremor, barely visible. 

“There’s a difference between pulling this kind of stunt in England, and doing it in the Arctic,” Francis says, voice low. 

James glares at him. 

“I took note of that myself as soon as I hit the water,” he replies sullenly. 

Francis raises an eyebrow.

Behind him, doctor McDonald goes out the door and shuts it. He isn’t sure how long a time has passed since he was alone in a room with Francis. He can’t recall a time, after that time.

I can’t let him slip away. I can’t waste this. He shivers, not with cold.

I can’t be alone.

Francis cheek is reddened, as if with a fresh bruise. 

“What happened to you?” he mumbles, trying for some amount of humour. 

“Don’t ask.”

He does not meet James’ eyes, but he does not leave, either. He searches for something to say, something to bridge the distance.

He needs to bridge the distance. The distance I created.

He is desperate for it, he knows now, it will not get easier with time. He will not forget Francis Crozier, no matter how hard he tries.

He has to try for another approach, because ignoring it feels like knives all through him, it doesn’t work.

He will not forget. He has learned that now.

He says the only thing he can think of (other than those unspeakable things, of course, those constant pathetic desires). 

“Thank you… for getting me up. Taking that risk, for my sake.”

“I would’ve done the same for any of my men,” Francis mutters, and James knows that he is telling the truth. 

“Even so, I am grateful. If you hadn’t, I would’ve still been in the dinghy. Or perhaps in the water.”

Francis looks at him, nearly smiling. He nods, once.

That unstoppable affection, running over him like a tidal wave. All-consuming. Francis smiles at him. 

“I’m sorry,” James blurts out, and the smile drops. “I should not have… between us, I mean…”

“Don’t,” Francis says, voice like a warning. 

“I am sorry.” He holds his breath, watching his own hands. A weight over his shoulders, over his lungs. “Francis… could we not start over? Could we…”

“I don’t want to hear this.” 

“Please.” 

Goddamn his dignity, whatever he has left of it. This is more important.

He looks back at Francis, he watches as the other looks away and shakes his head. His teeth are gritted, his brows furrowed and tense. James doubles down. He can’t do otherwise.

Goddamn it, he has to try. He can’t give up halfway.

He forces himself to keep speaking. 

“I was afraid, Francis… I was afraid of being honest with you. I wanted to! And I was afraid of wanting it, too. I… I should have had courage. But I was cowardly, instead. I should not have ended things, I should not have been so cruel to you.”

Francis swallows. His hands are clenched. 

“Not here,” he says, voice so low it is almost a growl.

“What?” 

Francis turns to him, finally. His expression is pained, composed and stiff.

His gaze burns. As if he is seeing through him. It is no less terrifying than it was last time.

James forces himself to avoid looking away, he forces himself to keep on meeting the other’s gaze. It burns. 

“I’m not saying never,” Francis whispers. “But not now. Not here.”

James can’t find any reply. He meets Francis’ eyes, and he tries not to tremble. Embers all through his torso. Pain like something breaking. 

“Christ,” Francis mutters, “maybe never. Not here,” he repeats, “not now. Not now, James.”

He turns away. James resists the urge to catch his hand, to cry, to kiss it... Anything to keep him here a moment longer, to get those eyes on him again, anything. He resists.

He can’t believe that it is too late. He can’t believe that he truly ruined it, took it out at the foundations, never to be rebuilt… What he wouldn’t do to take it back.

He resists. But as Francis reaches for the door handle, a surge of panic shoots through him, too powerful to hold back. 

“Wait,” he croaks.

The other stops, without turning. James chokes the words out, barely breathing. 

“Francis… I need you.”

Francis winces. He shudders, at the door. 

“No,” he says. Then, he pauses, as if considering something. “Farewell, James.”

He opens the door, he walks through it and closes it behind him.

A hundred lonely nights come over him all at once.

It is like falling into a pit. Like being plunged into freezing cold water.

James suppresses a shiver, watching the shut door, the empty room. Small, and pathetic.

He lies back on the bunk. He breathes deeply, painfully, hitching, trying not to sob.

The damn tears begin to trickle, and he makes no effort to stop them. No point in it, he supposes.

The damn tears begin to trickle, and he shuts his eyes.

He turns to the wall.

He hopes he will not dream. He hopes he will dream of Francis.

He hopes he will not dream.

***