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It is an utter bacchanal–there are men in a giant cast iron soup pot, the origins of which Francis cannot place; there is booze and food enough to glut even the most ravenous of sailors; homemade costumes half horrifying half titillating, and all of it enclosed in massive edifice of canvas and sailcloth. Like something out of a dream–Francis feels as if he has awoken from his recovery and been transported to some alternate universe.
The only tell is that, as men recognize their captain among them, they straighten up and hide their cups behind their backs, looking nervous and guilty as they tug at forelocks.
He flashes a smile at each one and gestures vaguely. Carry on.
It is good for the men to blow off some steam, ahead of what awaits them. Fitzjames has had a useful idea, for once in his life.
Speaking of, where is the man? Francis had expected him front and center, perhaps on a stage, perhaps carried about on the shoulders of drunken revelers. Yet he is nowhere to be found, although the strange, maze-like construction of the tent could certainly be to blame.
It is not as if he needs to seek James out–he will see the man in due time. Yet he cannot quite settle, not knowing where he is. It is like an itch that demands scratching, and so Francis slips away from Jopson and goes searching.
Behind doors and sheets, through strangely lit tunnels and around blockades of crates, Francis looks. Finally, feeling slightly claustrophobic, he follows his druthers and pushes through a tent flap that flutters in the breeze, promising an exit to the outdoors.
This is where he finally finds Fitzjames–outside, away from the party, leaning against a stack of crates.
He is also wearing a dress, and smoking a cigarette, entirely unaware that Francis has just intruded on his privacy.
It feels rude not to alert him of said intrusion, but something stays Francis’ tongue. It is a rare opportunity, indeed, to observe his second so unguarded. Fitzjames is always ready with a mask; Francis would take the measure of the man, without it.
He looks…tired. No, exhausted. His face is lined with shadow, eyes downcast, the corners of his mouth turned in a frown as he stares into the middle distance. He has had a difficult time, without Francis to share the burden of command. The realization pulls painfully at Francis’ heartstrings in a way he had not anticipated.
He also cannot help but note the dress–of course, everyone is in costume, it is only logical that James would be as well. And yet he does not look as the other men did–not as if he is playing at dress up. Perhaps some key part of the outfit has been discarded, deemed too hot or heavy to drag around. Or perhaps James is actually…comfortable, this way. Settled in his skin in a way Francis has rarely, if ever, seen him.
It is not what one would call a pretty dress, certainly. It is a dirty sort of off-white, perhaps made of castoff canvas. Not elegant, or delicate, or even particularly alluring in itself, but Francis also cannot deny that it holds a certain attraction, occupying as it does a nebulous space between the masculine and feminine.
Fitzjames wears it well. The long, flat lines of his torso stand out against the bodice, the skirts pooling around his lower half playfully concealing him in folds of fabric while also hinting at the fact that such a garment might quite easily be lifted. His Welsh wig has been cast aside on a nearby crate, and his hair is long and rich and curling.
Then there are his lips–his mouth–pursed around the cigarette. It is one of their dwindling supply, growing more precious every day.
Long hands, long fingers, and the warm, welcoming glow they are cast in when James inhales. It is enough to make a man dizzy. As Francis watches, a gust of frigid Arctic wind acts up, whipping Fitzjames’ skirts about his legs and blowing out the ember of his cigarette.
James curses and fumbles around for a match in some hidden pocket. Once acquired he strikes it and brings it up near his lips to relight, cupping a hand around the flame to protect from the wind. As he does, he glances up and finds Francis’ gaze, unerring, like magnetism.
James must be tired indeed, because he doesn’t so much as twitch in surprise at finding Francis watching him. He just inhales, deeply, holding the smoke in his mouth before letting it slowly escape.
They regard each other in silence–odd, for them, but perhaps less odd now that Francis is sober and James is beaten down by carrying the command alone.
Eventually Francis takes half a step forward and mutters in a low, cracked voice, “May I join you?” He needn’t ask–he is the commanding officer, and requires no such invitation. But right now, in the cold, alone together outside a tent full of men trying to forget their doom by making merry, it seems wrong not to.
“Of course,” James says, voice rough with smoke, shifting over slightly so that there is a spot to lean against the crate next to him.
Francis takes the offered place and lets the silence settle back over them, trying not to concentrate overly much on James’ silhouette to one side, the movement of the cigarette lifted to lips, the deep breath in and the sweet smoky exhale.
Tobacco has never been Francis’ poison of choice, but, newly sober and facing a walk on which some if not all of them will perish, he finds he suddenly understands the appeal. It looks warm–comforting. Something to do with one’s hands. He realizes too late that he is staring at James’ mouth quite intently.
James catches his eye and holds out the cigarette towards him, offering a taste. “Only do not use it all in one go–I have just the one. The rest are for the men.”
Ah, their supply has dwindled indeed. They will have an unhappy crew when they run out, but that is a problem for another day.
This day, or night, or whatever blasted time it is, Francis lets the worry go in favor of taking James up on his offer. The smoke is warm and putrid and nearly gags him on his first inhale–it makes him feel alive. He tries not to notice that James is watching as he opens his mouth to let it escape into the thin, cold air. He watches as it drifts away towards the stars.
“It seems almost a waste, to let it go like that, and only the one cigarette between us.”
He is only trying to make conversation, deflecting from his building sense of unsettledness with the way James is watching him. When he says it, though, Fitzjames looks at him even more oddly, in a way Francis is not sure he likes.
“We might make it go further,” he eventually says, sounding a little strangled.
Francis raises an eyebrow at him, handing the cigarette back. Their fingers brush, and Francis can’t help thinking that it may be the first time they’ve ever touched. “Have you been gifted with the power to produce bread and fishes out of thin air in my absence?”
James huffs a laugh. “No, Francis, I am not Christ. I meant–sharing. We might share.”
“We are already sharing, James, if you had not noticed.” There is an arresting flush building across the bridge of James’ nose–Francis is quite distracted by it. The night, the stars, the revelry inside, from which the two of them alone are separated—something is making him feel very strange indeed, distracted by small, beautiful, inconsequential things.
“I only mean that there is a way we might be further efficient at it.”
“Oh? Enlighten an old man.” The blush spreads further. Utterly captivating, Francis thinks to himself. Strange yet right, to have Fitzjames before him, blushing like a maid and outfitted in a dress to boot. How strange these Arctic nights become.
James clears his throat and looks away, then back, eyes skittering over Francis’ face.
“When I was young my mates and I would share the smoke, sometimes. In cases where there was not enough to go around.”
Francis quirks an eyebrow. “And how does one accomplish that? Netting the smoke out of thin air?”
James looks unamused, but not angry. Just—serious. Focused.
“By breathing one another in” (or maybe “by sharing breath”)
Assaulted all at once by the process of imagining what, precisely, James might mean by such a thing, Francis can only say, so soft and low it sounds like an invitation, “Oh.”
James swallows, suddenly beset by nervous energy, turning away and fiddling with his hands. “Of course, I do not mean to suggest any impropriety, it is only—“
“We have so few pleasures left, now. And fewer still to come,” Francis finishes for him. “No, James, it is right to make them last. Come, show me how it is done.”
Fitzjames is now looking at him as if Francis is some apparition, though whether one which is to be welcomed or feared remains to be determined.
“It will involve close quarters,” he says, as if attempting to talk Francis out of it, although with only the slightest application of will.
“We have shared close quarters before and will do so again,” Francis says, nearly surprised by his own low rumble.
James looks…warm, although it is in fact quite cold. But his face is pink, and the ember at the end of the cigarette held between his lips glows red and hot. The layers of his dress suggest blankets, swaddling comfort and heat. He inhales, and holds it, looking at Francis with some trepidation but also a fair amount of resolve.
Then he leans in. Francis feels, for all the life of him, as if he is about to be kissed, and cannot stop the frisson of disappointment when James stops a hair’s breadth away, tapping the end of one long finger in the middle of Francis’ lower lip. Open up.
Francis spends a precious second considering whether to refuse, a second in which he also realizes that James is literally holding his breath waiting, and then he lets his mouth fall open, natural as anything. James’ face telegraphs relief for the brief second before Francis closes his eyes, concentrating entirely on the way he can feel the barest brush of James’ lips as he opens his mouth and exhales smoke onto Francis’ tongue, smoke that Francis inhales, greedily, down into his lungs where it burns.
When he opens his eyes, finally, James has pulled back slightly and is regarding him with a faint air or trepidation, mixed with a hidden sort of longing that suggests he might desire a repeat of the whole affair. Francis is practiced indeed at hidden longings, but has rarely if ever had he had the opportunity to grant one’s fulfillment.
“That is a wise conservation of scarce resources,” he manages, though it sounds a little strangled.
Something in James’ expression loosens, just slightly, a certain tightness about the eyes relaxing. “I’m glad you agree,” he says, and Francis has never heard his voice so deep, “would you like to…again?”
Francis trusts himself only to nod.
James does not hesitate this time, sucking in his own breath full of smoke and leaning forward, and this time Francis doesn’t think about closing his eyes but they flutter shut regardless, of their own volition. James is also less careful about maintaining a respectful distance—as his upper lip brushes Francis’, he reaches out and grabs Francis about the shoulder as if to steady himself.
It is just as sweet and burning as before, but this time Francis feels oddly, strikingly aware of James before him—the way the tip of James’ nose bumps his own, the way he can feel it when James’ eyelashes flutter. The tight grip James has on his shoulder and the heat of his body, so close. He is also suddenly, viscerally aware of the fact that he is breathing in smoke that has been heretofore held in James’ mouth. It is…intimate, like a kiss is, like sex, sharing something from your own body with another.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
This time, James pulls back hardly at all, looking at Francis from deadly close range—so close Francis can see flecks of gold in his deep brown eyes—and says only, “Again?”
Francis nods, not trusting himself to speak.
James approaches slowly, covering the scant distance between them in a way that makes the air sear with possibility, and Francis—Francis has always been impatient, when it comes to beautiful things.
He slides one hand up the nape of James’ neck, into his hair—soft, so soft, like a woman’s—and pulls him in.
Later, he will justify to himself that he was overeager for another lungful of tobacco. That he was quite unaware of his own strength, or perhaps of James’ biddability.
That he did not mean to.
In the moment, though, there is only James’ soft, surprised sound as Francis seals their lips together. There is only James’ warm smoky breath in his own mouth, filling his lungs.
Only James, James, James whining and pushing Francis down on a crate, adjusting his skirts so he can climb into Francis’ lap and cup his face, breathing into it.
“Tell me you want this,” he says into Francis’ mouth, and so Francis reclaims his grip on the back of James’ neck and reels him in. This time there are no excuses, no presumption of sharing resources. The cigarette, in fact, has wholly disappeared from the scene, ground out under James’ boot heel half smoked. Instead, there is only James, and Francis, and the soft, nearly pained noises they make as they kiss. The way James touches him, delicate, reverent, stroking his neck and kissing the side of his face.
Francis lets it go on for a moment, lost in the bliss of so much attention. Then he gets his wits about him and draws James to him, encircling him and pulling him further onto Francis’ lap, making James’ breath stutter and moan, and begins to kiss James properly, deeply, with intention, mind skittering, distracted, over what their options might be. James could get on his knees, here, or Francis could get a hand up his skirt and tug him off; perhaps, though, they should go somewhere else–there is a skeleton crew alone on the ships, presenting a rare opportunity for privacy. Surely, though, the two captains would be missed from the party. On the other hand, they have not been missed so far, and besides, Francis has one hand up James’ skirt and has begun to caress the outside of his bare thigh and he’s so warm, and making such sweet, desperate noises besides, throwing his head back to let his hair spill down in the moonlight–
A frisson of laughter, of men, too close, interrupts them. They pause in their movements, stifling their sounds.
James remains in his lap, looking down at him.
“Perhaps,” Francis says, “I might have a spare cigarette or two stowed away in my personal stores. On board the ship, in my rooms.”
“Oh,” James says, looking rather incapable of saying much else.
“Would you care to accompany me in locating them? We might…share another.”
“Yes,” James says, overeager, and then he is climbing off of Francis in a flurry, nearly tipping over in his haste, an Francis huffs a small laugh as he stands and steadies him.
“Easy, there, sailor. We have time.” He stares at James’ face, in the moonlight, and feels a strange sense of yearning–as if he already misses what he does not yet have. And so he cradles James’ face in his hand, and kisses him.
It tastes like smoke.