No infringement of the following characters and situations is intended.
Warning: Rated [MA] Mature Adults only. Contains strong m/m sexual scenes, violence, coarse language and adult themes.
The Albatross
A/H M/M MA PWP
This story is based upon the episode "The Duchess and the Devil", where Horatio finds his friend Archie, given up for dead, a prisoner of war.
Please note this story contains sex and adult themes.
The fly crawled with excruciatingly slow steps across his grimy, sweat stained face, yet Archie had neither the strength nor will to swat it away.
He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the hateful words that floated through the barred window.
"I heard he had a fit, this Mr Kennedy, and you had to knock him out to save yourselves from getting killed. What sort of a midshipman is that?" Hunter sneered.
"You weren’t there, you don’t comprehend the circumstances," came Horatio’s prim reply.
Circumstances! Archie glared at the filthy ceiling, seeing a vision of his own personal demon. He shut his eyes tight, trying to banish the demon, but he never could.
Circumstances. Don’t make excuses on my behalf. Don’t do me any favours, Horatio. You did what you had to. You left me to die. A silent tear fell from the corner of his eye. Let me die now.
Horatio would not leave without Archie, or let Archie leave without him. He screamed at Archie to stay with him, begged his forgiveness, bullied him into surviving the night when a lesser man would have let his friend slip away. He stayed with Archie night and day, until duty required him elsewhere.
Horatio let the wooden spoon sink into the grey glutinous mass before he put the bowl aside.
Archie had tried to starve himself to death; the alternative wasn’t much better.
Archie lay there listlessly, fair hair spread in tangles across the pillow. A wan smile touched his lips.
"Am I worth the effort, Horatio?"
Horatio, his face as tender as it was beautiful, smiled. He stroked Archie’s cheek softly.
"Yes." He lay down on the bed beside Archie, stretching out his long limbs. He was tired.
"What, no strength left for the ‘Duchess’," Archie teased. His hand reached out to pat Horatio’s breeches, and found a hardness pressing back beneath the cloth.
"What have we here." He slid his hand up and down in weak strokes.
"Archie," Horatio breathed, his lithe body nearly undulating under the light touch.
"Ready and primed I see." The teasing hand slid up.
Horatio just breathed out, slowly.
Archie’s hand slipped down again. Horatio’s body trembled for a second beside him.
"Been a while, Horatio," Archie whispered to the dark, curly head pressed against his shoulder.
Horatio breathed out at last, recovered himself and rose slightly, his face like a warm and living Greek statue, flushed with life and laughter. And love. He stole a kiss, and then drew back, waiting for Archie’s reaction.
Archie seemed to grow pale, then resolute.
"Kiss me again, Horatio," he asked.
Horatio slid down across him, his lips touching Archie’s, then covering them with his warm mouth, grazing stubble against stubble, tongues brushing soft, delicate skin.
There was a hard rap at the door.
Horatio drew back, slowly, sitting up.
"I’m sorry, Archie."
"Go," Archie gave him leave softly.
Horatio stood to leave, turning back to see in Archie’s eyes a brightness that could have been fever, or desire, or both. He came back to the bed, arranged the blankets and placed a kiss tenderly upon Archie’s forehead like a mother.
"Sleep now. I will be back," he promised.
Archie nodded, eyes already closing in exhaustion.
Horatio turned the handle on the door, tasting Archie, and prison food, still on his lips, before he stepped, blinking, into the bright Spanish sunlight.
PART 2
Horatio accompanied the so called Duchess on her walk, and answered her questions, but his mind, and more importantly, his heart, weren’t in the present. The Duchess, angry at his vague assents at appropriate intervals, lengthened their walk, until the shadows grew dark and Horatio grew fractious and uncommunicative.
"He’s not going anywhere, you know," she finally snapped as Horatio picked up the face, relieved to be finally turning back.
Horatio almost stumbled, losing his stride.
"What?" He thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her correctly.
"Your friend. He’s not going anywhere."
Horatio coloured a little, caught off guard, then schooled himself into an expression of studied neutrality.
"I’m concerned about Archie of course," he replied formally. "He’s still very weak."
She looked him up and down with an eye that had seen a lot more of the world than young Hornblower would for quite a while. She mocked him with her smile, and Horatio walked on, annoyed, mortified that he was so transparent. It would not do. He wasn’t aware that she had seen him with Archie, and had been struck by the tenderness of the young man as he nursed his friend.
Archie was asleep when Horatio returned. He slumped into the chair and soon joined him.
The shuddering of the bed didn’t wake him, nor did the half choked cries; he’d become used to sleeping on a crowded ship. But the name Simpson brought him instantly awake.
Archie was in the throes of another of his violent fits, shaking uncontrollably.
Horatio sprang onto the bed and held him tight, wrapping his arms around Archie, trying to still the convulsions, afraid his friend would swallow his own tongue.
"Archie, Archie, it’s alright, it’s only me," he soothed as the tremors grew shorter, slowing until Archie fell into a deep sleep in his arms. Gently he laid him down at last, covering him with the blanket.
Horatio stretched out beside his friend, then gave up the pretence, cold and uncomfortable, shucking all but his shirt and climbing in under the sheets.
Archie didn’t move, but when Horatio woke during the night, Archie was curled against him, soft and warm.
The next time Horatio woke something wet was tickling his ear. He reached out to push the annoyance away, and connected with something solid.
"Hey," Archie laughed. He bent and grazed Horatio’s throat. He felt the skin move and vibrate below his lips.
"Archie, what are you doing?"
"I think you know," Archie whispered huskily, sliding on top of Horatio with a wanton look in his eyes, pushing up Horatio’s linen shirt, exposing smooth skin and muscles, skin which puckered instantly on contact with the early morning air.
Archie kissed first one, then the other pinched nub, sucking them, hot and wet, making Horatio arch and stiffen, that gorgeous mouth wide open, just right for kissing.
They kissed deeply, clutching each other as Archie rose up, pressing down, the friction between them making Horatio close his eyes tight.
Archie slowed, tiring too quickly. Horatio rolled him under quickly without thinking, without noticing Archie tensing, just for a moment until he felt Horatio’s tongue deep in his mouth, Horatio’s hands, his long slender hands on his flesh.
Horatio surged forward and came, his face straining, his seed spreading in hot jets across Archie’s stomach.
Ghosts clouded Archie’s eyes, he struggled to banish them, struggled to remember this was Horatio, this was something he wanted, this was someone he wanted.
Horatio was still breathing hard, his sun browned skin now sheened with sweat. Slowly unfolding himself Horatio reached down, taking Archie’s quivering member in his hand and finishing him in several quick strokes.
They settled down together, exchanging nothing but occasional lazy kisses.
Archie drifted into sleep again, but this morning at least there was some colour in his cheeks.
Horatio slipped his shirt back down in an attempt to tidy himself. His skin was flushed, his dark hair tousled and awry, his eyes deep, his lips swollen, but he couldn’t see himself. He dressed and tied up his hair and waited for his gaolers to bring them what passed for their breakfast.
PART 3
As a mark of respect to his rank, small and temporary though it may be, Acting Lieutenant Hornblower was invited to dine with the Prison Commandant, Don Massaredo, and the Duchess of Wharfedale.
She noticed it a the first moment as Horatio sat down, a dreaminess in his features, his lips still red and swollen. She fancied the boys had found ways to amuse themselves in that little room of theirs right enough. She was annoyed, having hoped to pass the time with the ridiculously pretty young man herself, and the jealous part of her nature wanted to tell the Don that if Kennedy was well enough for that, he was well enough to go back to his cell.
But that would only earn her Horatio’s enmity, and what was the point in that? So she smiled and nodded in reply to his greeting, and tore up her bread in silence, lamenting that she would never feel what it was like to wrap herself around that particular young body.
Horatio however was in fine spirits, his eyes shining and flirting with the Duchess across the table, blissfully ignorant of how close he was to getting a face full of what passed for coffee or a good sharp kick in the shins.
Horatio was still bubbling over happily, in spite of his predicament, when he returned, only to find Archie lying on his side, sullen and unresponsive.
"Archie," Horatio kissed a pale cheek, but the cold stare was unmoving. He slumped into the chair, his long frame sagging, all the life and light slipping away and he suddenly looked a good few years older than he really was. Archie’s moods would try the patience of a saint, and Horatio was a long way from taking holy orders. The others questioned Archie’s sanity, and, in his most private moments, Horatio worried about Archie too. Years of torture, aboard the Justinian as well as nearly two years as a prisoner of war had stripped away Archie’s naturally happy temprament, and it had damn well nearly destroyed Archie. Even now, no matter how much love and attention Horatio lavished upon him, it could go either way. If Archie survived, Horatio was afraid that perhaps his mind would not. Archie had changed, and their friendship was not enough to bridge that change, the resentment, the shame. Horatio represented everything Archie wanted to be, could have been, but wasn’t. Because he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t strong enough.
Silent tears slid down Archie’s face as he stared at the wall behind Horatio, making a diagonal track across his pained yet handsome face. Horatio closed his eyes to the sight, at a loss.
He opened them again. "I didn’t mean to...take you like that," he tried to find the words. "I wanted you, I thought you...I’d never take what wasn’t offered, Archie. You’re the only," he hung his head again. "You’re the only friend I have, and I’ve missed you. I thought you were dead."
"Why couldn’t you have left Simpson for me to kill."
Horatio raised his head and looked into his friend’s troubled eyes. "He gave me no choice. And it was Captain Pellew who killed him, not me. "
"You never gave me the chance to have my revenge on him." Archie insisted, his voice breaking into a sob.
"The Captain had the revenge for both of us. "
"I should have stood up to him."
"He’d have killed you," Horatio reminded as gently as possible.
"You did. You stood up to him. I’m not as brave as you."
"Yes you are. You’re still alive. Don’t talk like this, please, Archie."
The ragged edge in Horatio’s voice, the utter distress in his face forced Archie into silence. It even brought him some degree of satisfaction, that he could move the placid lake that was Horatio into moments of extreme delight or despair.
Horatio sank into the chair again, exhausted. Leave him behind, the men whispered amongst themselves. Kennedy was a liability. But Horatio couldn’t. Not so long as neither of them could forgive or forget how Archie had come to be taken a prisoner of war, even if the circumstances had not been wholly of their making.
It dragged on him now, like an anchor. The sensible, logical thing to do was to leave Archie behind. He had a duty to his men, to the Captain, to his country, to make his best effort to escape. But damned if he could leave Archie behind again, adrift in the bed as much as he’d been left adrift in the jolly boat. He couldn’t leave Archie behind, not again. He couldn’t live with Archie’s death on his conscience. And Archie knew it.
Archie followed the furrow that darkened Horatio’s brow, following his thoughts just as easily.
"Hunter wants you to let me die. Half the men do. You’re blind if you can’t see it. I was trying to do you a favour. "
"Don’t, Archie," Horatio didn’t want anymore of this.
"You don’t hear them because you’re too busy entertaining the Duchess. They’re all talking about you. I hear them. When you’re out on your walks." His voice was a sneer. "You never saw that Hunter was eating all my food, that Hunter was fucking me, that Hunter isn’t any better than Simpson!" His voice rose to a scream of accusation.
"Archie!" Horatio was horrified.
"You were out discussing the day’s weather and I just let him. I didn’t fight. Not like you. Not like you, Horatio. I’ll never be like you." Archie sank back into the bed.
Horatio had stood up to Simpson, and had nearly got himself killed three times over for his trouble. Only the Captain had saved him. That’s what Archie needed. Someone to save him. Archie had been brought so low he had nothing left to lose. Well, Horatio wasn’t going to lose him. Not like he’d lost Bunting. He would get through, he would reach Archie. He would, he promised himself.
Determined, he stood and poured out a cup of water, diluting a few drops of laudanum into the cup. Archie was too ill to be excited like this, and Horatio was feeling the strain of the nearly constant suicide watch.
Archie turned his head away when the cup approached, but Horatio caught his head, brought the cup to his lips and forced him to drink.
"You are going to get well," he promised. He waited until Archie slid into sleep, then knocked on the door to be let out.
Hunter flew back against the wall, doubling over, glaring up as he wiped the blood from his lips. Horatio, tall and angry, curling hair framed by the light through the door’s barred window, stood over him, tensed, ready to strike again.
"Don’t you ever touch him again, you bastard!" A part of his mind was surprised to hear himself scream and swear, the other part of his mind wanted to murder Hunter, strangle the life from him. The two warring parts kept his anger in some sort of check.
"Get out of my sight!" he roared, and Hunter scuttled out, ducking around Horatio, frightened of another blow.
Horatio stood for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing hard, then sat down on his bunk and wept, just for a moment as everything surged over him like an angry sea. He was losing control. Of himself. Of his men. Of Archie. He should have never have given in to Archie, not yet, not when Archie still confused him with Simpson, Hunter and god knows how many others.
He stayed there until the door being shoved open broke in on his thoughts. The Don wanted to see him. The Duchess had gone. Horatio was hardly surprised. She’d made it pretty clear the last time they’d spoken that she had tired of his company. She knew about Archie, and though she had not spoken of it directly, it had been there between them, the disappointment, almost humiliation that Horatio had chosen, and not chosen her. She had left him a book and a dictionary, however, telling him to get out of there, and get out as soon as he could.
Horatio took the book and walked back, with some foreboding, to the room where Archie slept, thoughts of escape, the dispatches, the Duchess all pushed to one side when the door was opened and he saw Archie lying there, asleep on the bed.
The muffled whimpers woke Horatio, who struggled to get comfortable in the chair again, and failed. Archie was having another nightmare. He didn’t like to think about what. Or rather who.
He’d never understood what Clayton had tried to warn him about. Not at first. Archie had shown up with bruises about the same time Horatio’s had started fading. He knew Archie must have taken a beating, but never how badly, not even when he’d seen the welts across Archie’s skin when Archie had had the fits, once three in one night so violent Horatio had nursed Archie on the deck for the rest of the night, rather than have him fall from his hammock again and hurt himself. He couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe, until he’d seen Simpson leaving the gunroom, buttoning his breeches. Horatio had found Archie, huddled in the corner, bleeding, screaming at him to go away. Horatio had vividly remembered his father treating a woman who had screamed the same way. And he remembered why.
Archie, oh Archie. Archie had been younger than Horatio when he’d joined the Justinian. Simpson had half killed him the first time, and Archie had submitted, just out of survival. After that, he’d been Jack’s boy, and that was all there was to it. When Jack wanted Archie, everyone else found something else to do in other parts of the ship.
Archie had never told Horatio all of it, but Horatio could guess, filling in the blanks from his own experience. He rested his head on his hand, frowning at the memory, watching Archie thrash helplessly.
How many years had Archie endured what had driven Horatio to wish for death after only a few months?
Horatio folded Archie in his arms, stroking his damp hair, shushing him softly.
"We’ll be alright, Archie," he promised. "You were my first and only friend. I won’t forget that. I’ve remembered everything you’ve taught me. Don’t leave me here, Archie. Please don’t leave me here alone." He buried his face against Archie’s tangled hair. He’d lost his ship, his freedom and probably his career. He couldn’t lose his one and only friend. Not again.
PART 4
Horatio leant against the window, tall enough to rest his arms upon the sill. He looked like a child pressed against a shop window, yet beneath his curiosity, watching life go on outside their room, there were silent calculations ticking away in his mind; how many guards, where did they get that goat they were dragging, how many chickens there were scratching in the courtyard, perhaps they’d get chicken for dinner tonight.
"‘Ratio," called Archie.
"Mmm?" answered Horatio, still staring up at the impossibly blue sky. He thought he’d seen a seagull. He’d give anything to be free to soar on the wind again, to be as free as the literal bird.
"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are," Archie smiled.
Horatio, in all his young glory turned, blushing, stammering.
"I...ah...no...I…"
"You are," Archie assured him, a light in his dark sea coloured eyes, a light absent to long. He pushed himself up on his pillow. "The first time I saw you, well, you looked like a drowned rat, but you were so perfectly formed. I thought here’s a boy who belongs on a stage, not a deck." The smile faded. "God help me, Horatio, when Simpson came back I prayed he’d choose you over me."
"He did," Horatio reminded softly. "It’s past, Archie. Like a battle or a bad storm, we endured and we survived. You must forget him."
"I can’t." Archie’s voice wrenched with new pain. Simpson had ripped him open and laid his foul seed inside Archie, and it festered inside him, like a cancer.
Horatio closed the gap between them and took Archie in his arms. He didn’t know what to say, but he held him, and that was enough.
"Give me your strength. Horatio, give me your goodness. He’s left a stain one me and I can’t fight it anymore. Help me," Archie pleaded of him softly. And Horatio kissed him, offering all he had, ready to give Archie what he needed.
Archie’s tongue slid into his mouth, striking a match inside Horatio, a fire that burned down low, and lower. He kicked off his shoes and pulled his jacket off, stock, waistcoat and shirt soon following. He lay back on the pillow, eyes dark and enticing, at Archie’s leisure. Archie pulled at the buttons on his trousers, and they too joined the pile on the floor.
"‘Ratio," Archie breathed, captured by his friend’s incredible grace, reclining as though he were about to be painted. Archie threw off his shirt and the two boys wriggled under the blankets, giving up looking for touching. Hands and mouths grabbed at each other greedily. They played and teased, wrestling, tickling and slapping, laughing so hard they had to silence each other with flesh and kisses.
Then they grew quiet. Horatio’s shoulders quivered. Archie’s slicked down member brushed at his friend’s pale marble buttocks. They lay cradled side by side, the memory of Simpson making them pause. Horatio covered Archie’s hand which lay clasped across his stomach. He brought the hand to his lips, kissing the front and back, then licking down the fingers in long strokes that made Archie reassess his image of Horatio for a moment before his desire blazed up, fuelled by the scent and taste of Horatio. He grabbed him close, held him tight in his arms, kissed the hollow between throat and shoulder and pushed his way inside him.
Horatio choked down his cry, eyes screwed shut, hands clenched in tight fists.
Archie moved back and forth, slowly, minutely, like a dance, and soon Horatio caught the rhythm, relaxed, and joined in the dance. They caught each other’s hands, rocked and swayed back and forth, fast and slow, fast and slow. Archie let go of Horatio’s hand to stroke down Horatio’s fine pulsing manhood. Strokes and thrusts moved in time. Horatio felt like he was flying through water, leaning along the bowsprit. Faster, faster he urged. The faint echo as they broke together floated through the window.
They lay, tangled, sweaty and spent, breathing fast for several minutes together. Archie’s eyes traced Horatio’s every movement as he fetched the water and cloth to clean themselves, then relieved himself by peeing into the bucket in the corner.
Archie smiled when Horatio climbed back into the bed with him and lay down beside him, and he closed his eyes to sleep.
They slept as the afternoon shadows crept up the wall. The room darkened and lamps were lit throughout the fort. The guard sent to fetch Horatio for dinner with Don Massaredo found them sleeping together in the bed like children.
Horatio, woken by the noise of the door opening, slipped from the bed, luminous in the lamplight, his dark hair spilling around his shoulders, pressed his finger to his lips for silence. He snatched up his shirt from the floor, letting it billow out over his lean frame.
"Tell Don Massaredo my regrets, but I would prefer to dine with Mr Kennedy tonight, to ensure he eats sufficiently."
The guard spoke English about as well as Horatio spoke Spanish, but Don Massaredo understood, especially when he was told of the state of undress the young gentlemen had been found in. He shrugged. It made no difference to him what his prisoners did, just so long as they didn’t try to escape. And young Mr Hornblower could be counted upon to stay where he was, at least until his friend had recovered his health.
Horatio closed the door behind him, making the smallest noise as possible, but the moment the Acting Lieutenant slid home on the other side Archie was seized suddenly by another fit, moaning and thrashing uncontrollably, and it scared Horatio as he held Archie tight, feeling each convulsion shake through both of them. His greatest fear was that Archie would die like this in his arms as each violent spasm shook him.
"Archie! Archie!" he tried to soothe him, but Archie just shook and cried in his arms. Damn Simpson for doing this, for Horatio was pretty sure Simpson had done this to Archie. If Archie had taken a beating like the one Horatio had, it wouldn’t surprise him. Stiles had told him of men rendered insensible after such attacks.
This is what must have happened the other morning, when he’d left Archie to have breakfast with the Don and Duchess. Archie must have had a fit. Left alone and scared, no wonder he’d been so cruel to Horatio afterwards. Archie knew as well as Horatio did that these fits weren’t just a liability to their escape now, they’d effectively scuppered any of hope of promotion for Archie, certainly he’d never be given a captaincy. Horatio felt a deep sadness for his friend; he had deserved better. Clever, cheerful Archie had deserved far better than this. No wonder he had wanted to die. No wonder healthy and whole Acting Lieutenant Hornblower had been the last person he’d wanted to see.
The tremors eased and again Horatio fetched a cup of water with a half measured dose of laudanum and pressed it to Archie’s lips, to quieten him.
"I’m sorry," Archie croaked as Horatio dabbed at his forehead with a damp cloth.
"Sorry for what? You’re sick. I’ll look after you and you’ll get better," Horatio liked fondly.
Archie’s eyes cut through his lie like a knife through butter, but they were both too polite to say anything.
The guard at the door spared them any further discomfort, bringing their dinner, with Don Massaredo’s compliments.
Horatio set it down on the table with a smile. Wine, glasses for two and a candle.
He passed a glass of wine to Archie, they drank, never leaving each other’s gaze, then they kissed, tasting the wine on each other’s lips.
Horatio smiled, even more handsome in the soft light, as he arranged the tray in front of Archie.
"Tell me about London, Archie. Tell me about the theatre."
"You’ve never been?"
Horatio shook his head regretfully.
"Oh, you should go, Horatio. The lights, the fashions, the music. When we get back to London I’ll take you," he enthused, then grew quiet, remembering their predicament.
Horatio seized on the attempt at cheerfulness.
"Where shall we go?"
"Drury Lane, the King’s Theatre, Covent Garden," Archie’s eyes lit up.
"All?"
"Oh yes. I’ve been in this stinking hole for so long. I want music an laughter. We shall see every new show. We’ll go to Batholomew Fair, and I’ll take you to see the unicorn at Don Saltero’s Coffee House."
"Unicorn?" Horatio arched one eyebrow.
Archie nodded enthusiastically. His eyes brightened. "We’ll go to Ranelagh and certainly Vauxhall. I’ll show you off, we’ll watch the fireworks, and then we’ll find a quiet little spot..."
Horatio blushed.
"We’ll have such fine days, ‘Ratio, fine days and fine nights," Archie assured.
"Do you think they have a zoo in the gardens?"
"I’m sure they must do."
"I’d like to see a zoo," mused Horatio. Being tone deaf he could not share in Archie’s musical enthusiasms, but it gave him great pleasure to see Archie smile.
Hunter saw even less of Hornblower with the Duchess gone, and that suited him just fine. If Hornblower wanted to waste his time on a lost cause, that suited him fine, too.
Archie was pale, grey and sweating. Horatio, his arm tight around Archie’s waist, helped Archie circumnavigate the room in slow, painful, unsteady steps.
"Just a few more, a few more steps," Horatio coaxed between gritted teeth, counting out the steps before letting them both collapse upon the bed.
"Enough, Horatio. You’ve earned your sainthood," Archie insisted.
Horatio sat up. "You’re doing well, Archie."
"Yes, I’ll soon be well enough to be put back in my cell," he laughed a thin, horrid laugh, the dreadful laugh that made Horatio both annoyed and frightened. Archie hated Horatio’s help as much as he needed it. He would always be beholden to Horatio, for his imprisonment, for his rescue.
Horatio wouldn’t give up on Archie. He stayed with him, fed him, comforted him and drilled him into walking the length of the room and back, over and over, to regain his strength. It gave him something to do. It gave them both something to do. The men grumbled but Horatio was working on their escape. He had to get Archie well enough to leave with them first. His priorities were not shared, and there was talk, but Horatio was too focused on Archie to notice.
Horatio made himself concentrate on his book, still a jumble of foreign words, and not watch Archie as he paced back and forth, his steps stronger now, but he was still self conscious, liable to snap at Horatio if he was too ready to catch Archie when he tired or stumbled. Horatio studied the black type and tried to forget his friend who paced back and forth in front of him wearing nothing but his shirt.
"I think I should like to go on your walks by the sea, Horatio," Archie flashed a grin at him suddenly. "Do you think you could ask the Don?"
"Certainly," Horatio smiled back. "Come here."
Horatio leant back in the chair, smiling widely as Archie came to him. He let the book fall to the floor as Archie knelt in front of him, eyes bright as he plucked one button open, then the other, then peeled back the cloth. Horatio was already at half mast, twitching, waiting for Archie’s touch. Tender strokes from Archie’s tongue along the delicate skin brought him standing at attention.
"Archie, are you sure," Horatio asked, reading his friend’'s intent. Archie was only just well enough to leave his bed for short durations of exercise, and Horatio was afraid of the memory of what Simpson had done to him. He was too used to Archie pulling away suddenly, going completely cold while Horatio still burned.
"Sssh," Archie shushed him.
Dark brown eyes gazed into dark green ones. The old chair creaked as Archie climbed onto it, kissing that mouth, mounting Horatio. The chair groaned even further as they rocked in a position that made Archie’s ill used muscles scream, which brought Horatio, thrusting up from the chair into Archie as they kissed, Archie who fitted him like a perfect glove, very quickly over the brink.
Archie slid from him, grinning at his smiling, tousled hair friend. It took a few moments for Horatio to recover himself, clean himself, then finish Archie in the bed, kissing and petting him with such sweet gestures.
He loved to feel Archie, his mouth, his hands, his body, the strength that he saw in his friend, even if his friend did not. There was flesh on Archie’s bones now. His skin was pale, but less grey, his eyes brighter, the smiles came more readily to his lips. He was getting better. He arranged the sheet carefully around his friend.
"Sleep now," he kissed him like a brother, then like a lover. "I shall stay and watch over you."
Archie was right. He did get well enough to return to the squalor of their cell. This time Horatio had no distractions, and he made sure Archie ate, bathed, slept and they spent what time they were allowed in the yard, Archie teaching Horatio what he knew of Spanish, the student soon surpassing the teacher.
Horatio wished for a barometer as Archie’s moods swung from fair weather to foul without warning or reason, and the strain of walking on eggshells made Horatio too often distant and polite, when he knew he should make much more of an effort to reach beyond the veneer of civil friendship they’d both erected. Archie was ashamed by his moments of weakness, and Horatio was embarrassed for him. He wanted to hold Archie in his arms, see him smile, hear him laugh, but he knew it was never going to be that simple again.
Horatio reached over and slide back the lexicon from where Archie had shoved it, and opened it quietly, without comment, politely ignoring the sudden outburst. Archie was ill and had to be indulged, it was what he’d been taught. Archie was sitting back listlessly against the wall, watching the men with barely disguised hostility, as they watched him back.
"They hate me," he announced tiredly.
"No they don’t," Horatio didn’t even look up from his book. "They’re just bored and impatient."
"They think you’re weak. They think I’ve made you weak."
"That’s not true. You’re my friend and I need you to come with me when we escape. I’ll need your help, to deal with Hunter, if nothing else. I need a friend here, Archie. You’ve no idea how much I need your friendship." His voice caught; Archie had torn another admission from him.
"We’re not going until you are well enough to go with us, and that’s my final word on the matter."
"I don’t think they care what you say anymore, Horatio."
Horatio frowned. "That’s mutiny." He dismissed the possibility.
Archie shrugged. Horatio was losing command of the situation, but Archie no longer pressed Horatio to leave without him. He couldn’t bear that. If Horatio went, he had to go with him.
Horatio went back to his book, Archie went back to watch the men talking amongst themselves.
PART 5
Now Horatio knew what had driven Archie mad. The pain in his legs had gone; he simply could not feel them anymore. The tiredness, hunger and thirst ceased to concern him. It was the noises, the scratching of rats, the stamp of feet above him, the half heard voices that whispered and laughed, mocking him. The constant never ending noises frayed at his nerves. He ground his teeth in frustration. If Archie could survive this, then so could he. He’d lost command of his men. It was a fitting punishment. He coughed, the cough dragged out into a long hacking dry retch. He deserved death.
They dragged Horatio from the hole and threw him into the cell. Archie caught him, Horatio falling into his arms. He eased the long limbs onto the nearest cot, with Hunter’s help. It gave Archie a joy he couldn’t repress on his face to have Horatio returned and to have his friend rely on him, to feed and wash him, to repay his debt of care. And there was a tenderness in all his attentions, a tenderness Horatio responded to and Hunter watched with glum disgust from the other side of the cell. At night he heard the stolen kisses realised he was right, more than loyalty had kept Hornblower here to look after his mate. The little bastards were fucking each other.
Horatio and Archie clung together in the cramped little cot, half naked and sweating, mouths silencing each other as their feverishly wandering hands brought straining flesh to spill warm semen over their hands. Archie watched Horatio, head thrown back, eyes closed, and kissed him more deeply. God, but he was beautiful, and it thrilled Archie to touch him, to be able to make Horatio cry his name in heated gasps, to beg for his touches, to crave a little comfort. Archie’s hand skimmed possessively over Horatio’s perfectly formed flank. His Horatio. He smiled happily, feeling the silky smooth skin beneath his touch. His Horatio.
Horatio was allowed to take his walks again. He had no Duchess to accompany him, but nor was he allowed to take Archie with him. So long as Archie stayed behind, Horatio could be assured of returning. So Archie watched him take his walks through the bars, naked longing pinching his face.
Horatio was conscious of Archie’s desire to walk in the fresh air, by the sea, yet he needed this time alone, to sort out his feelings, regain his strength from being shoved down that damn hole as punishment. He’d only had a taste of what Archie had suffered. He’d been broken, like Archie had been broken. Not as completely, not utterly, but it had certainly taken the wind out of his sails.
Sails. He stopped to watch the sails offshore. His heart quickened alarmingly. It was the Indy, he was sure of it, pursuing a Spanish frigate.
The Indy. Home. Haven. Horatio could have kissed the deck as he stumbled aboard. He nearly did, through sheer exhaustion. He wanted to stay here. Here was comfort, friends, protection, someone else to make the decisions for him. A knife flashed through him. He’d given his word to the Don. The horrible realisation, so close to being free. He had to go back.
Archie winced at each cannon as it fired. He couldn’t help it. Each oar drove him further from rescue, further towards the prison, a place of both heaven and hell. Damn Horatio for having to do the honourable thing. Archie could do no less than support him. He felt branded a coward enough already. Above him, Horatio steered, grimly determined.
The reality was less than he feared. He had given up his freedom, but he had Horatio. A room to share, with no rank, no war, no one to judge him, for Horatio never would, at least. Just the two of them, in their little cell. It was a home of sorts.
PART 6
Horatio was woken by a body climbing into bed with him.
"I’m cold," was all Archie said, pressing his cold clammy limbs against Horatio’s warm flesh and falling asleep with annoying ease.
Horatio himself lay awake, staring at the ceiling, envying Archie’s ability to sleep anywhere, wondering if Archie had many brothers. Horatio, an only child, still found sharing his bed and quarters uncomfortable at times. He loved Archie, but not when he had cold feet and cold knees and cold hands.
Horatio rolled onto one side. Leaning on his elbow, he watched Archie sleep. a soft smile played on his lips. Archie slept through the night now, the fits and nightmares had eased. There was new colour in his skin. Don Massaredo treated the returned young gentlemen as guests, inviting them to dine often at his table. The fresh food and fresh air had helped Archie remarkably. Even the Don had noticed that Archie had changed from the sullen and rebellious prisoner he’d first made an acquaintance with.
Horatio smiled openly. With his health Archie’s looks and humour had returned. He brushed a stray lock of hair from Archie’s face. He wondered that he’d come to care for Archie so much. He couldn’t remember the first time. Yes he could. He lay down beside Archie, their faces almost touching on the pillow, the dark eyes liquid.
He’d woken in his hammock, his cock hard, swollen and painful. He’d groaned, trying to get comfortable, without any success. Archie’s hand had snaked across the inches between their hammocks, curling around his manhood. He’d gasped. Their eyes met, and he’d wondered how long Archie had been awake, watching him. Then Archie had begun to pump him in strong, steady strokes. Horatio had writhed in the canvas. It had taken everything he had to keep quiet. He’d come in a rush, sinking back in the hammock in relief. Archie’s hand rested on his fluttering stomach for a minute or two, feeling him breathe. Then the hand had slipped away, and Horatio had fallen asleep. It was hardly grand, but it had been a start. He felt himself stirring, even now.
"Archie," he murmured in his friend’s ear. "Archie."
Archie nuzzled closer, without opening his eyes.
"Archie," Horatio insisted.
Archie mumbled something.
Horatio shook his head fondly at his sleepy friend, then pressed his lips to Archie’s, sliding his tongue along his lips, then slipping inside.
Archie opened up to him, the kiss deepened as Horatio enfolded Archie into his embrace. Just the feel of him, alone, together in their private world, bounded by the four walls of their cell.
Horatio’s slight gasp of climax floated through the window sometime later. Horatio lay sated, dark hair curling across the pillow, throat slightly arched, his shirt having fallen wide open, revealing skin golden with a fine dew.
Archie lay beside him, hair falling sweetly across his face, gentle smile on his lips as he surrendered to sleep.
Horatio reached out for ropes and railings to steady himself, hoping no one would notice. They did, but were too polite to mention it. Less than a day at sea and he still did not have his sea legs back.
His face lit up, seeing a solitary figure at the fo’c'sle.
"Damn sporting of the Spanish to let us go," he started, then realised he had none of his friend’s attention.
"Archie!" he beamed. "Glad to be back?"
Archie drew his coat closer. His face was turned to the wind and sun, savouring both.
"It’s...it’s...nothing has changed. It’s exactly the same as it always was. Life goes on. But I’ve changed. They look at me like I’m a ghost." He looked to Horatio. "Do you think they’ll forget, I mean, how I came to be captured?"
"Nobody blames you," Horatio assured. "Certainly not the Captain. He judges men by what they do. Not by what people say about them."
"All I’ve managed to do is get myself captured."
"So did I, " Horatio reminded. He couldn’t see the cause of Archie’s melancholy. The Captain would give him his chance, if for nothing else than because Archie was Horatio’s friend, and Horatio placed great store in his friend.
There was the rub, as far as Archie was concerned.
Horatio suddenly remembered and fished in his pocket for the packet.
"I’ve brought you your letters, Archie," he announced, handing it over. It was a pathetically small bundle for the time Archie had been in prison.
Archie accepted them with an air of resignation and sat down on a sea chest to read them. He opened the first, with Horatio waiting upon him expectantly, and his face fell further as he read.
"What is it, Archie?" Horatio could see the news was bad. Damn, he’d hoped these letters would cheer Archie.
"My brother, half brother," he corrected. "Has been killed. Shot in Paris as a spy." Archie stalked off. Horatio snatched up the letters before they were lost, glimpsing a coat of arms on the paper and seal.
Archie was leaning over the taffrail. Horatio joined him, half afraid he would jump.
"So now you know, I’m the bastard son of a lord." Archie sneered.
Horatio ignored the challenge. "I’m sorry for your sad news, Archie, truly I am. As for your birth, it means nothing to me. I’m the son of a poor country doctor."
Archie nodded. Horatio could be a bit of a snob at times, but at least their friendship was strong enough to bridge the social divide. The division of rank would be harder. They would no longer mess together, or sleep together.
He watched the wake spill out in front of them, then looked toward Horatio’s profile as he stood beside him.
"I do not think a braver gentleman, more active-valiant or valiant-young more daring or more bold, is now alive," he quoted softly to himself.
Horatio would go far, and Archie would be left, trailing in his wake, just like the little cutter that bobbed behind the Indy, following along on it’s little rope.