Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

George is having a nightmare.

Edward has learned to recognise the sounds even in his sleep now. He wakes to find himself already half out of his hammock, reaching out to where George’s hammock hangs even before George gives one of his proper choked little cries.

“You’re all right, George. It’s me. It’s me. It’s safe.”

He presses his hand to George’s shoulder and George twitches awake, a hand coming up to clutch at Edward’s wrist.

“It’s safe,” Edward whispers again.

“Edward? Oh ... oh, I was back there and it was awful and I, I ... oh. But you’re here and ... and it’s safe?”

“It’s safe,” Edward says again but he’s beginning to feel sick. John hasn’t spoken. Why hasn’t he spoken? Can he really sleep through George and Edward talking like this? Yes, they are keeping their voices low, yes, they all know how to sleep through sound, you learn it on any ship but they are so close to him and he is still not stirring? Is he even breathing? How is Edward supposed to tell? He needs to check but George is still gripping him and he cannot reach over without risking disturbing him more and of course John is fine, of course he is but what if he isn’t, what if, what if –

“I can hear you gasping.” John’s voice is heavy in the dark. “I’m all right. Go back to sleep.”

Edward sags a little with relief. George loosens his grip, shifts in the hammock to reach out to John in the bunk. There is a movement and although Edward cannot see it, he knows John is now holding George’s other hand.

“It’s safe,” Edward says. “We’re safe.”

If he keeps repeating it, they will believe it.

If he keeps repeating it, he will believe it too.

*

If someone had ever told Edward Little before the Arctic that he would succumb to the crime of sodomy, not with just one man but with two, he would have laughed in their face, perhaps even struck them for it, depending on the place and tone. He was an upstanding officer, he was a gentleman and besides, the act was one he had simply never understood. Yes, the voyages were long and sometimes lonely but in the end, you returned to port. Why do anything foolish in the meantime?

But that was before the Arctic. Before the ice and the cold and the ever-present exhausting horror. Before George and John. Before the darkness and death and weight and the nightmares. Now, he looks back at his previous self and cannot truly understand who that man was. He used to laugh, he remembers that. He used to enjoy the company of others. He used to find rising at the bells easy, a new day full of possibilities.

Now the only thing that forces him up is knowing that if he does not rise, George and John will not either.

“Come on,” he coaxes gently. “Breakfast in the ward room.”

“Oh.” George looks pale. “Must we? I, I am not ... perhaps we ... ”

John huddles back on his bunk, saying nothing. He has put almost no weight on since their rescue. It is almost as though he has forgotten how to eat and his body has forgotten how to take the food he chokes into it.

“We will go and have our breakfast,” Edward says firmly. “Come on now. Come now, wash your face, George, while I help John up.”

“I, I do not need help,” John mutters but he stumbles as he leaves the bunk and Edward has to catch him. He is so weak. It hurts to see it but Edward is accustomed now to hiding that hurt. He gives John a gentle squeeze of affection, encourages him to stay standing while he helps to dress him. They would send a steward but Edward has given up on them all. All the Terror ones are dead or promoted and Edward does not trust the men on this ship. He looks after George and John and then himself. That is how he does it.

George is sorting himself but slowly. His hands are trembling. The only time they still is when he sleeps or when he is alone with Edward and John and not thinking. Edward leaves John a moment, strokes George’s thin hair.

“You are doing so well,” he says. “Do you think there will be toast? Do you remember telling me about how you used to slice your toast up into bits when you were a child?”

“I ... oh. Yes, I ... I did tell you that, didn’t I? I liked them better in slices, it just tasted better that way. In slabs I always found it quite boring, even unpleasant but once it was in thin little rows, it was just delicious. I still find that a little, to be truthful but I do have to think on my dignity now, don’t I? Still, I can tell you Edward that when I am alone, I cut my bread into little bits. Perhaps when I am home, I shall enter the realms of sin and dip them into the marmalade jar!”

George relaxes as he rambles and John does too, as though hearing George’s words is a tonic for him. Perhaps it is. Another time, another place, Edward and John had laughed together about George’s ridiculous rambling, joked about it. Then, when it had been taken away, they had missed it so horribly. George has to be coaxed into it now but he will get better. He will. Edward knows it.

“I can walk,” John says. “I don’t need help.”

Edward smiles at him, lets his elbow go. John takes a step towards the door, then pauses.

“You ... you’re both coming with me? Aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Edward says reassuringly. He gives George a little push and George nods, moves to John’s side. Edward moves carefully in front of them and opens the door, then gently encourages them out.

The ship is not the Terror. He misses her in a strange way, even though he remembers sometimes thinking that he would never wish to set foot on her again. But he had forgotten her size compared to other ships, the feel of them compared to her. The fact she was home and this is not and it is filled with strangers.

He cannot make himself like any of the other men here. They do not know. They do not know. Even those that have befriended the other survivors, they don’t know. Edward wants them all to stay away from him and his and he cannot shake it off. It doesn’t matter though because there is likely nothing he could do to make George and John more comfortable around others anyway. George’s hands shake. John does not meet other people’s eyes any more. Edward cannot bring himself to try and encourage him otherwise. He is afraid too.

The only people in the room are men that Edward does not know. Before, he would have already have learned their names, even things about their lives and families but he does not seem to have that capacity now. He knows their faces, knows he should know but that is it. He manages a weak smile at them all, then softly pushes George and John forward.

“Come on,” he coaxes gently. “I’m hungry. But please don’t cut up your toast and dip it in the marmalade jar!”

George manages a tiny choked noise that is almost a laugh. He sits and Edward waves away the steward – whatever his name is – to serve George and John himself. He knows how best to do it anyway. Lots for George but only a little for John with seconds after if John gets it all down. Too little for George and he thinks he is being punished, too much for John and he simply freezes up and stares at it until it is cold.

“Here, John,” he murmurs. “That’s it. You can eat that, can’t you?”

John nods but he does not eat. Instead, he plays with it, watching George as George devours his. Edward allows it for a while, then puts a hand on John’s bony shoulder.

“Just a mouthful,” he says. “I know you can, John.”

His favourite things are always soups and slippery things that John can swallow without even noticing. Breakfast is often a trial. He wishes for eggs, for fresh fruits that he could peel and drip down John’s throat. But they are on a ship and such things simply don’t exist.

John nibbles and sips with tiny, methodical movements. Edward watches, eating his own with little interest. The food all tastes of nothing to him these days. He eats it because he must, because food keeps a man strong. That is it. He does not like or dislike food any more. The other Edward, the one separated by a gulf of ice, he had feelings about food. But that is not him now. He is someone else.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “That’s my John.”

John smiles at him, his cheeks a little flushed. It’s nice to see it. His blush has always been pretty. As he became been sicker, he has flushed less and less. Edward has missed it.

“Can you manage a little more?” he asks but John shakes his head and Edward decides to leave it. Lunch will be better.

*

Some of the men – their men, the survivors – talk of being bored on the ship.

Edward cannot understand it. He cannot seem to get bored. He can sit for hours now doing nothing, as long as he knows where George and John are. If they are with him, he does not want anything more. He can sit and dream and feel safe because they are with him. Sometimes, he dozes and wakes and they are both leaning against him and it is as good as anything he can remember.

Today, John’s head is in his lap and George’s is on his shoulder. Edward strokes John’s hair softly and it reminds him of the first time he ever dared do such a thing; the day Sir John died. He had been preparing for bed, exhausted and afraid when George had knocked.

“Come and help me soothe him,” he had begged. “He’s been crying in there for hours. It can’t be right.”

There had been no need to ask who “he” was. Edward had not really sure any man would welcome being interrupted in such throes of distress but in truth, he had not wished to be alone either so he followed. George didn’t even knock, he simply walked in and together, they witnessed John curled on the bed, his face red and blotchy, tears still dripping helplessly down his face.

“Oh John,” George had said and had gone to sit next to him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “Oh, come now. Come now.”

Edward had watched awkwardly as John had wept into George’s shoulder. He struggled with seeing such excess emotions and John in particular, who was always so controlled ... this could not be merely Sir John’s death, distressing as that was but he did not pretend to understand what else it could be.

“I’m sorry,” John sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I, I cannot ... ”

“It’s all right,” Edward had said because he wanted to say something good. “It’s all right, John. We’ll take care of you.”

He’d stepped closer then and because he wanted to help, he’d put his hand on the back of John’s head, stroked his hair softly. It had felt good beneath his fingers and so he had continued. John had given a little sigh and his tears began to slow. He went still in George’s arms, his breath gradually going soft and deep, as though he was falling asleep between them. George looked up at Edward and smiled proudly and Edward found himself smiling back, feeling oddly warm and pleasant. There was something about it that had stopped him feeling so alone. The three of them were together, they were linked and it felt safe.

He shakes off the revere.

“I think we should take a walk around the deck,” he says.

They both stiffen, as he knows they will. Company is no longer a thing to be sought, it is a thing to be feared, shrunk from. But fresh air is important, as is the little exercise it gives them and Edward knows that it must be done.

“Come on,” he says. “It will not be so busy as all that, we shall not be in the way. George, would you get John’s scarf for him, it is closest to you.”

Truly, the weather is no longer cold enough to require all of their Arctic layers but John is so thin that he trembles at a breeze so Edward always sees him well bundled up. After everything, he will not have John snatched from him by something so stupid as an ill-timed cold. He wraps the scarf around John’s neck himself and John smiles at him, leans forward for a moment to put his forehead against Edward’s.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Edward tells him, reaching behind him to take George’s hand so he will not feel left out of this sudden, lovely connection. George takes his hand, nestles close to his back and for a moment, the three of them stand there, warm and loving and Edward feels a flicker inside, a flicker of something that might be hope.

“Come on now,” he murmurs. “Just a quick turn on the deck. Then perhaps we shall play cards, yes? I believe George owes me a great many buttons from last time.”

“Ah, but this time, luck shall be mine,” George says, sounding for a moment just like his old self and Edward feels another flicker of that hope. He squeezes George’s hand before he reluctantly disengages from their impromptu embrace, encouraging them out and upward.

It is sunny outside, sunny and even warm. Edward struggles not to flinch at the men there, some working, some not. Their men work, of course, to show willing but there are simply too many and some are still too sick so there are a great many people on the ship with nothing to do but idle. He does not mind seeing their men too much but still, it is strange.

Amongst the men on deck stands Captain Crozier. Edward is conflicted. The captain’s presence is a help to John, who desperately tries to look stronger when he is around, but it is a hindrance to George, who trembles more violently, shies away. The captain has forgiven him multiple times but George has not forgiven himself, perhaps never will. Even now, he presses nearer to Edward, bows his head so he is not looking at anyone. Edward pushes him forward very gently.

“I still wonder at seeing water again,” he says softly. “The beauty of it after all the ice.”

In truth, his feelings are more complicated. He wants to look at the water and love it as he remembers the old Edward used to but instead, he finds that it fills him with a vague sense of uncanny dread. What is down there in the water? What is waiting for them on it? The world is filled with horrible, dark things that wait and water seems dangerous and terrible now.

“Oh, look!” John says softly, delightedly. “Birds!”

Edward smiles at him. John is staring at the gulls with such obvious happiness. When they saw the few on their walk, John was never in a condition to appreciate them. It is nice now to see him be so happy. On his other side, George starts to recite a poem about birds that he has learned from somewhere and it is easy to excuse himself and slip away from them for a moment, knowing they are safe together as long as he can see them.

“Edward,” the Captain says. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” Edward says, trying to look as though he is. He is not quite sure what “well” is supposed to be but he is standing tall and his hair is brushed and his beard trimmed so he supposes that it well.

“And the others?”

“Good, sir.”

He isn’t sure if he should share George’s continued nightmares or his own need to check John is still breathing when he wakes. Or any of the other things. He does not want the Captain to worry, after all. Besides, they are getting better, all of them, it is just taking time.

Captain Crozier is looking at him thoughtfully. Edward hopes his own expression is the correct one. Sometimes, his face feels stuck these days and he is not sure what people think of it. George and John never seem to worry.

“We’re making good time,” Crozier says. “So I’m told. If it carries on like this, we’ll be back in England soon.”

Edward stares at him blankly. Logically, he knows this is where the ship is taking them but the idea that they might actually reach the place seems almost laughable. England seems like a dream that burned up with Carnivale and he cannot picture being there.

“Edward,” Crozier says gently. “There are things that are ... forgiven for us now. Because of what we have been through. Things that are tolerated. But when we arrive back, those things will no longer be looked on so gently. Do you understand?”

Edward does not until he follows the Captain’s gaze. George and John are standing together at the railing, watching the birds swooping and they are holding hands.

Edward stares at their interlinked fingers, his mind crawling slowly over it. Yes. Yes, once they would not have dreamed of doing such a thing in public. Yes, back in England, such clear and obvious affection could be misconstrued – or correctly construed. Yes, what they have shared in the Arctic is not something that anyone can understand, is deeply wrong by the standards of many –

His breath catches in his throat. He clenches his fists, rubs his thumb over his index finger, tries to gasp in air. He must breathe. He must breathe. He is a First Lieutenant. He must remain calm. He has important decisions to make.

“We, they, it is nothing,” he grinds out. “Just, they ... they have both been ill. They ... they only ... but I will talk to them, of course I will.”

The Captain’s eyebrows raise slightly. He puts a warm hand on Edward’s shoulder, squeezes gently. Edward resists the urge to clutch at him like a child. It occurs to him with another bewildering sickly swoop that the Captain might know. He cannot remember now how circumspect he has been. How careful. Once he was careful, they all three were, soft and secretive and never shoving anything but it has been so long since then with so much horror and death. When they first came onto this ship, it seemed only natural to explain that they would share a cabin together, even though it meant there was almost no space, because it was so clear that it had to be that way. Was that abnormal? Is it all known? What will happen if it is? Oh ...

“I shall ... go and ... I shall go,” he says.

Crozier looks at him. There is such pity in his face that it hurts. Edward has to move away from it or crumble. He is useless, he knows it. The Captain knows it.

But he is not useless to George and John.

He moves to them, stands just behind him so that anybody who glances will not see George and John’s clasped hands. George is reciting another poem – or perhaps inventing one. John is stroking the wood of the rail with the fingers of his other hand, looking dreamy as he stares at the waves. They are, briefly at least, peaceful and it calms Edward to see it.

“The sun feels lovely,” he says softly so they know he is there.

“Yes,” John says and Edward notes the little flex as he squeezes George’s hand. “Yes, you ... you were right, Edward. I’m glad we came up.”

Edward smiles at him, feels a wave of relief. He is not useless to them. He is helping. Day by day, they get stronger and he will help them, he will make them better and things will be well.

*

He had first realised there was something complicated between George and John one night when he’d heard John going into George’s room. Normally, once asleep, Edward slept as the dead but slowly as their time on the ice lengthened, sleep began to slip away from him. He would lie awake, staring into the inky dark, his mind churning uneasily over the men, the bear, the captain, if he should do this or that, what he ought to try, what was the better choice?

He was lying there, twisting it all around in his mind over and over when he heard George's voice, soft and muffled by the thin wood.

“John?”

John's voice, more muffled still.

“I, I cannot sleep, I … would you mind?”

“Of course not. Come on in.”

Soft sounds. The knock of a body against wood. Edward listened and realised John had climbed into George's bunk with him.

The idea of it was peculiar. The thought of two in these thin little beds … they would have to be knotted around each other, twisted up like pieces of rope. Did they lie face to face or back to back? Or was George cuddling John to him with John facing away? They must be warm, so much body heat …

A sudden sharp little yelp from the other side.

“Stop that!”

A sound that he was sure was from George, a giggle.

“Sorry.”

“You are not sorry or you would stop doing that!”

A scuffling. A sharper knock on the wood as though someone had been shoved back.

“I say, careful. We mustn't wake poor Edward.”

“No, otherwise he would learn what a depraved lunatic you are.”

Soft chuckles. A brief silence. What had they been doing? Surely they had not … they would not … John would never, he … and George, well, George was … but …

“He looks so ill, doesn't he?” George's voice soft but clear. “I'm worried about him, John. Both of you, you take it all on so.”

“I can't help it. Neither can Edward. He does not look ill, you exaggerate … ”

“Do I? A man changed as he is? That is ill in my book, John.”

“You should do this for him.” John's voice was so soft that it would have been inaudible, except that Edward's ear was pressed to the wood now. “You should hold him like this. It … I never thought … ”

“Shush, don't embarrass a man now. Let's go to sleep instead. I have early watch, you know. Can I stroke your hair?”

“If, if it will help.”

“Always. Like a little cat. I used to own a cat – her name was Sooty, of all things. She was a good little thing, I did love her very much. She wasn't really supposed to be in my room but she would come in at nights and lie on the bed with me and I could reach out and pet her if I was afraid of the monsters that might be waiting beneath my bed. Your hair is almost as soft as her fur was. Such a lovely thing. I always meant to get another, you know … ”

His voice dips and rises in gentle way, murmuring softly. Edward means to think on what he has heard, to consider what it means but somehow, the lilt of George's voice is irresistible and somewhere along the line, his eyes close and before he knows it, he is waking, feeling better than he has for a while.

*

They are supposed to be eating, all officers together tonight and Edward is dreading it. He does not want to see all the healthy men who do not know. He does not want to see the less healthy ones that do. He does not want to watch George cower and John sit ramrod straight until he is pale with pain. But it must be done. It must be done, the three of them must go, that is all there is to it.

“Do you remember when we had truly smart clothes?” he asks, not really wanting an answer, just speaking because the silence in their little cabin is oppressive. “Dress uniforms?”

“I suppose an Esquimaux has them now,” John says. “They are welcome to anything I have left behind that is of use to them, I assure you!”

George jerks; a sudden, violent movement. Edward knows at once that they have somehow stirred a memory in him though he does not know what it is. He reaches out.

“It's well, George,” he says. “All is – ”

“Mr Hickey,” George says in a choked voice. “Mr Hickey took your coat.”

A strangling silence falls. They do not speak of Mr Hickey much. Edward cannot hear the name without feeling a burning hatred. Mr Hickey who stabbed John till he was near death, pretended it was Esquimaux while John lay unconscious, lied to them all. Who stole George away and left him so frightened that the nightmares still torment him. Mr Hickey who took the Captain, who would have killed him, Mr Hickey, the monster in their midst.

“I, I should have, I should have taken it back,” George says, his voice trembling. “I should have done something. I should have stopped him. I am sorry. I am sorry, I am sorry - ”

“You did nothing wrong,” Edward says automatically. “George, stop. You could not have taken it back, you could not have stopped him and Mr Hickey is dead now so it does not matter.”

George shakes his head, does not speak. Edward is not sure which part he is denying. John's eyes have glazed over and he is not looking at either of them. He claims he does not really remember being attacked. Edward is not sure that it is the exact truth. Once, John would never have told a lie.

But they are all different men now.

“You did nothing wrong,” he whispers again. “George. The Captain himself has told you. You did nothing wrong. Please believe us. We would not lie to you about that. Believe us.”

“I … I want to … oh Edward, I want to … ”

“God will have forgiven you,” John says, his voice dull. “So should anyone else. Besides, I do not want the coat. Edward, could you give them my excuses? I, I do not think I could possibly eat, I … I am unwell.”

Edward looks between them. George, white and shaking and John, white and still.

“George, will you sit with him?” he asks. “I will give your apologies to all and … and I will see some food is sent. Promise me you will drink, John, if nothing else?”

John nods but his eyes are already closed and he is sinking into one of his torpors where he cannot be roused. George moves to his side, helps him lie down on the bunk, takes one of his pale, thin hands in his. He looks at Edward and his eyes are haunted.

“They say we are near home,” he says. “Oh, how I long to be home.”

“Yes,” Edward says, seeing smoke-blackened ruins, smelling the horrifying char of flesh. “Yes.”

The meal with the officers is interminable. He eats the food without thought, answers when spoken to, his mind with George and John. He knows they are safe, of course, no harm can come to them on this ship, they will protect each other but he cannot stop thinking of things that could go wrong. Of things that could hurt them. Of John’s breathing and George’s trembles.

When he finally returns to them, they are asleep in each other’s arms, safe and warm, an empty tray on the floor showing that at least George has eaten. Edward knows he should get into his hammock but instead, he pulls up a chair and sleeps propped on it, close enough to feel their living warmth and listen to the soft, soothing sounds of their breathing.

*

His mind became oddly haunted by the sounds he had heard from George's cabin.

It was surely just George being kind, protecting John, “their little youngster” as he'd playfully commented at the start of this voyage. A man might share with another man and it be entirely innocent, might it not? John's belief is strong, he would never succumb to sodomy.

And yet as Edward watched them, he thought he discerned a change between them. A softness on John's face that was directed at nobody but George. A physicality that spoke of some sort of intimacy.

And Edward was wildly, wildly jealous.

He wanted it. Whatever they had, he wanted it with every part of him. It was frightening how strongly he felt it; a scratching desire that squirmed in him. He was shocked by the sheer intensity of it. He'd never felt anything like this before. Why would he want anything so much? He could not be thinking of sodomy, he was not a man like that, he never had been. How could he be feeling like this? What did it mean?

He tried to cram it away. To ignore the strange nonsense that his brain was producing. It was the ice. It must be. The ice was making them all mad. He must just be lonely. This nonsense will pass if he left everything be and stopped looking at George and John and trying to catch them touching and stopped listening at the cabin wall, wanting, hoping, thinking …

He was mad. He had to be. He had finally gone mad because of the ice and he could tell nobody because to confess such bizarre fantasies to George and John was unthinkable and more and more, they were the only people he could trust.

“I think we should start meeting, the three of us,” George said one day. “We can talk without any prying eyes. Our own little lieutenants meeting. Just thinking more about what we're doing. Get things off our chest. I know you and John never tell anything to others.”

“You value talking too much,” Edwards told him but feels a thrill inside him at being allowed to get close.

*

When the ship's doctor – Edward does not know his name, cannot remember it – comes to see John, he frowns.

“Are you eating?” he asks bluntly.

“Yes,” John says limply. “Of course.”

“Do your wounds still hurt?”

“They are mostly healed.”

The doctor raises an eyebrow slightly.

“Not the question I asked, Mr Irving.”

John does not speak. He looks at Edward instead; a pleading little look. Edward wants to help him, knows he cannot. The doctor, whatever his name is, he will be good for John. John needs to be helped. He wants John healthy. He needs that.

“It only hurts when I eat,” John mumbles at last. “I am quite well. I am. I am quite well.”

The doctor gives another sigh.

“You must eat more,” he says. “Do you not want to be well and hale for your family when you return home?”

John's eyes glaze. Edward knows he is trying to imagine it. Trying to imagine his father, his brothers, his friends. He also knows that it is no good. They are all ghosts, imaginary creatures. They aren't real. They belong to the other John, the John before the ice and are nothing to do with the man that exists here at all.

Perhaps the doctor, whoever he is, understands that too. He gives a low sigh, shakes his head slightly. Gives John a tonic that Edward isn't sure will do anything and knows John won't wish to take anyway. Another responsibility Edward must not forget.

“And you?”

He blinks. The doctor is looking at him.

“I am not injured,” he says, a little puzzled.

“But are you well?”

He is standing. His clothes are clean. He does all his duties. George and John are living,

“I am well,” he says.

*

George's “little meetings” were surprisingly soothing. They did not always talk. Sometimes, they sat together, played cards or silly games that George apparently used to play in school. It was good for the three of them to be together, Edward thought. Sometimes, for mere moments, he could forget the ice and the cold and the bear. He could just be Edward Little again.

They were playing cards. John had consented to gambling, so long as it did not matter and thus, they were playing for matches and buttons. George was losing and making indignant noises each time.

“You really should just go out, you know,” John said peacefully.

“Nonsense!”

“I don't think you have enough for a stake.”

“Well then, I'll have to trade kisses until I win it back!”

“Kisses?” John said, his expression taking on the rigid look that usually forewarned a lecture.

“Oh, don't be such a prude! We used to do it all the time in school! Nothing strange about it, think of Sir Gawain and his Green Knight!”

“Pagan,” John said but he had relaxed again, was even smiling. “Kisses?”

“Yes. One kiss is one match.”

“If your luck continues how it is, I shall expect to be smothered with kisses then!”

Edward had not spoken throughout the exchange. The curious desire to be kissed by George had flooded him. The even more curious desire to watch George kiss John was almost as powerful. He could not understand either and yet he found his focus on the game far more intense than it ought to be. He wanted George to lose. Perhaps, from the look in John's eyes, he wanted the same.

George sighed when he finally put his cards down.

“Fiends,” he said. “Very well then. I announce myself poverty stricken and will have to sell the silver to provide for my children.”

“You don't have any children, you lying reprobate,” John said and George laughed, then leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

The kiss was soft, gentle. It only lasted for seconds. Yet Edward saw the way John melted before it, the way his head tilted, the way that, if they were alone, he would clutch at George and keep him close. As it was, his fingers made a desperate grasping motion before he pulled himself back, his eyes dark and bewildered. George smiled at him, then turned to Edward and did the same.

His mouth was hot. For a moment, his tongue touched to Edward's lip, a flicker that sent desire through all of Edward's body. George was so wonderfully, wonderfully close and when he made to pull away, sanity departed and Edward did not stop himself from clutching at George's arm, kissing him back. George made a sweet little noise, opened his mouth pliantly and oh, oh Christ, Edward wanted more of it.

“He did not lose that badly.”

John's voice was barely more than a whisper. When Edward looked at him, he saw a hungry flush on his face. Lips parted, eyes wide. John understood. John wanted it too. And Edward was hot with madness and did not care and there was burning a fire within him that he had never felt before and there was only one way to smother it.

“Didn't he?” he said roughly and then he pushed George back towards John. And George understood, he caught John's face in his hands, kissed him again and John sank into him, eyes closing, surrendering. He wanted. He wanted and John wanted and George wanted and they would have to pay for it, Edward knew they must pay, but right then, as he watched John press close to George and George's hands begin to wander down John's body, he could not help but think that the price would be worth it.

*

They are talking of being close to England. Close to home. Men are talking about wives, sweethearts, families.

Edward stares at the unfathomable waters and vaguely remembers the old him that always used to say you knew the English waves over any other. He remembers saying it. Remembers thinking it. But it was a strange untruth. These waves are the same as any others and if they chose to turn on them, they would all die here just as sure as in any other sea.

“They have sent word ahead,” Captain Crozier tells him. “There may be people waiting for us.”

Edward swallows. There will be questions. So many questions. Reports. Letters.

“Is there anyone that you think might be waiting for you?” Crozier prompts gently and Edward realises he is talking about family.

“I … I do not know,” he says. “I expect my father will write a letter. I do not know.”

“Well, I shall try my damndest to keep Lady Jane from you,” Crozier says with a sigh. “She'll have a thousand questions. I see no reason why you need to be put through them all.”

Edward wonders what answers he is supposed to give. Nobody will understand them anyway. Nobody who was not there could ever understand. They will ask questions, so many questions and the answers will be long and dreadful and the responses will be too. People will know of them and they will dislike them and the idea makes him faintly sick. And they will talk to George and John too and how can they stand up to it? John is still unbearably thin. George still cries in the night. How can they stand it? He will help them, of course, he will be with them ...

“Edward,” Crozier says. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course,” he says automatically. “I am quite well.”

Crozier does not look like he believes him. Edward does not really know what else he can do to convince him. What more can he do? He is working so hard still, he is neat and standing. What more does the Captain need?

*

He fell for them helplessly and the only thing that kept him sane was knowing they had fallen for him back.

It should have been wrong. There should have been shame, disgust. But Edward did not feel those things. He knew it was not done, knew they must be careful but then, he excelled at being careful, always had. At least this was care that can be taken with happiness at the end. Every day that they made sure nobody saw them was another night where he could slip to George's room and they would both be there, waiting for him. On days when their schedules did not overlap well enough, there was always one of them to offer their love to him just as he was always there for them. He had never felt so cared for in all his life, did his best to repay the adoration in kind. And oh, that was easy. He would never have imagined another man's body to be appealing but they excited him more than he could say. The first time George encouraged him to use his mouth, he nearly spent untouched from the sheer pleasure of it. The first time John whispered in his ear “Please, please put your fingers in me, I love it, please.” he trembled in anticipation, not disgust. It was beautiful. It was all beautiful and Edward could almost thank the unending winter for bringing him such undreamed of joys.

But nothing lasts forever.

*

England is on the horizon.

They all stare at it together. The men around them are cheering, overjoyed. Edward stands with George and John and wonders why he feels nothing at all.

“Home,” George whispers, his eyes shining in a way that Edward hasn't seen for so long. “Oh, just think of it. Another day, another day and it will be ours again!”

“Yes,” Edward says because he knows that is what is expected. “Yes, I … cannot believe it.”

John looks as though he does not believe it either. He sways a little and Edward automatically reaches out to support him.

John twitches away.

Edward stares at him, bewildered. John does not look at him. He is staring at the land on the horizon, his look glassy. He is shaking slightly. When Edward reaches out again, John takes a deliberate step, distancing himself from them.

“What's wrong?” George asks, looking at them. “Aren't you excited?”

“Of course,” John says, his voice flat. “It will be as before, won't it? Everything will be as before. We can forget.”

And Edward feels a gulf suddenly between them; a horrifying empty space of nothing that holds them apart. Forget. Forget everything, become the men they once were and leave each other behind. Only he does not remember who that man was and he does not want to leave them behind.

“Yes, I suppose we can,” George is saying, his voice still cheerful. “I shall be glad to forget.”

“Yes,” Edward says slowly, numbly, staring at the chasm that suddenly cuts him off from everything that matters. “Yes.”

*

When he saw John on the sledge, the first thing Edward thought was that he was dead. He looked dead; face white, lips tinged blue, clothes soaked in blood. But then George cried out wildly for Doctor Goodsir and Edward fell to his knees beside John and realised that he was still breathing. Only just but yes, the breath was still coming from his dry, parted lips.

“John,” he said and other words spilt around him; the Esquimaux killed Farr, attacked John, stabbed him over and over, tried to mutilate him, dying, John is dying …

“He is strong,” he whispered to George as Goodsir and Bridgens worked on John. “He is strong. He won't die. Everything will be well.”

George said nothing. It was as though he didn’t really believe what Edward was saying. Edward could not blame him. The world was falling apart.

But he was right. John did not die. He lay there and breathed and slept through Mr Hickey's near-hanging, the bear attack that killed so many of them and scattered others into the fog. Others that included George.

“He'll come back,” Edward whispered to John's silent form as he dripped water through unmoving lips. “He'll come back to us. He's lost. But he'll come back and he'll be safe. Everything will be all right.”

But George had not come back. And it was not all right.

*

Disembarking is a messy, confusing business and Edward is terrified of it.

Men everywhere, running around, talking loudly, orders being barked as everyone tries to remember what they need, make sure they are ready.

He has packed his meagre possessions, packed George and John's too. It is not much. None of it is much. He finds himself thinking of the things that he has lost, that sit on a slowly mouldering ship or lie across the shales. He does not care about them exactly, they are not his after all, but the other Edward's. But now, so close to England, he remembers that other man better. Remembers who he is supposed to be and dreads it with all his heart.

There are indeed people waiting, far more people than Edward remembers seeing or hearing for a long time. A noisy clamour; shouts and whistles and cries. Is it always like this? Is this because of them? What do people think they have to celebrate? What do people think he can possibly do?

Somehow, his feet take him down and he is lost amongst the crowds. Fast-talking eager people, crushing him. What do they want? He doesn't know them. He doesn't know any of them. Where are the men he knows, where are George and John?

He sees George standing beside a woman, arms around her, his face in her shoulder. Her hair is blonde, like his and it takes Edward a moment to realise she is one of his sisters, come to find him, greet him. He tries to step towards them but it does not seem possible. His feet are not in his control, nothing is in his control. He is caught up, swept, they are gone and briefly, he thinks he sees John over the heads of the crowd, tries to call out to him but it does not work and John is gone. Everyone is gone. He knows nobody, he knows nothing, he is lost and afraid and this is not home, this is hell.

“Sir?”

A voice. He turns to it, looks at a man that he does not know. There will be so many of them now. The world has been so small and now, it will be horrifyingly large.

“Are you Lieutenant Little, sir?”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Yes, that … I am.”

The man gestures for him to follow and so he obeys.

He does not know what else to do.

*

“Can you eat this?” he whispered. “Please?”

John looked at him with exhausted eyes, nodded his head but when Edward gave him the morsel of meat, he struggled to swallow it. He was bones now, bones and almost translucent skin. The wounds were not healing, slowly soaked his clothes with blood, however often they were bandaged.

“It hurts,” he said miserably. “Oh Edward, it hurts.”

“I know. I know but you must, John. You must.”

“Edward … I'm going to die. You know it.”

“No. You are not going to die. I won't allow it!”

“You cannot keep me from God if He wants me, Edward.”

Edward shook his head, said nothing. John would scold him for blasphemy after all. But he did not care. He would fight God. He would fight everyone. He could not lose John. Not John, not his John. He had lost almost everything else. He would fight every step of the way to keep John.

“Another bite,” he begged. “John, please. Do not talk of dying. You cannot die.”

“Edward … I don't think I can chew it. I am so tired and my teeth hurt so much ... ”

“Then I will chew it for you. I will do anything you need, John. You cannot die. You cannot. Please. Please don't leave me. I cannot manage without you.”

John tried to smile. Touched Edward’s face with the twigs that were his fingers.

“I love you,” he murmured, his eyes closing. “Dearest Edward.”

“I love you too. I love you too, so much. Please don’t die. Please.”

“I will try,” John’s whisper was paper-thin. “For you, Edward. I will try.”

He took the mouthful that Edward had pulped and swallowed it. Edward hated the pained cringe that followed but at least it showed John had swallowed something. He will not die. Never.

*

They give him rooms. He is fussed over because he is a hero. He is given the letter that informs him that while he is away, he has been promoted to Commander.

It is all meaningless.

Edward does not know what to do with it. He does not know what to do with any of it. He cannot sleep because he cannot hear John breathing. His fingers twitch with the need to help George and John dress, to see them all right before he dresses himself. What is he supposed to do without them? They are all he has lived for and now they are gone. The man promoted to commander is dead and the shell in his place does not consider the idea of returning to sea an honour at all. He sits in the rooms and does not see them. What do they mean? What does any of it mean?

He dreams of dark voids. Of ice and water. Of empty lonely places where he reaches out, crying, but there is nobody and nothing there. He is trapped in a void and he does not know what to do.

*

John hadn’t spoken for a while now. He stirred sometimes when Edward touched him and he continued to breathe but sometimes so shallowly that Edward cannot hear it without checking. He checks it, then fed him softly, methodically, his mind dull. Le Vesconte wanted to leave. He wanted to leave. He wanted them to leave the sick. John is sick. They’ll leave him. They’ll leave him and he’ll die. He’ll die. He’ll die. But if Edward stays he might die. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to die but John. John. John.

There were noises outside but they meant nothing. He was so tired. So tired. He can’t leave John. He has to leave John. His head ached. He wanted food. He wants ... he wants ...

“Edward?”

The Captain’s voice. But he is not here. They took him, the monsters, they took him and the men will not rescue him, that is why they are going to leave their sick, that is why they are going –

“George, come here.”

George?

He looked up. And there was George; dearest, dearest George, standing at the mouth of the tent, his face pale, trembling violently, messy and confused and sick but still George and he was not dead, not dead in the fog or killed by Hickey but alive. And then George had fallen into his arms, was weeping into his shoulder and Edward was holding him as tight as he could, trying to remember how to think, how to breathe.

“John,” he croaked. “John, wake up. It’s our George, John. He is back with us. John?”

John’s eyelashes fluttered. He smiled dreamily.

“George?”

“Yes,” George croaked. “Yes, I ... I am here. Oh John. Oh John.”

“I am glad you’re here,” John murmured. “So glad.”

He had not spoken again for a long time after that. But he endured. The three of them endured. And somehow, they lived.

*

He swims through the void until Jopson comes to see him.

“The Captain thought you might want some help before the party, sir.”

Edward looks at him quite blankly. He is not sure that he remembers the party. There has been a lot of post. None of it has seemed very important. But he doesn’t particularly want to argue so he shrugs and watches as Jopson begins to move through the rooms, tidying up and arranging things.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” he says. “You’re a lieutenant now.”

“A lieutenant without a ship, sir,” Jopson says. “Promoted in the most unusual of ways. And as the Captain does not intend to return to sea, I shall not be doing so either.”

“Oh,” Edward says, not able to work out how the two things link together. Jopson looks at him for a moment, as though waiting for Edward to say something, then continues moving around the room.

“The Captain wanted me to tell you that he knows what a debt he owes you,” he says quietly. “If there is ever anything that we can do for you, please contact us.”

“Thank you,” Edward says because again, Jopson seems to want a response. Jopson looks at him.

“Mr Hodgson is coming to the party, I believe,” he says.

Edward blinks, the idea sinking in. George? It is important to be well for George.

“Is, will, will John be there?”

“I am not sure,” Jopson says and a small frown creases his forehead. “The Captain hasn’t been able to reach him. But I would hope so. He deserves it after all.”

“Jopson ... what is this party?”

Jopson walks over to him, begins to shave him.

“A celebration for the triumphant survivors, sir. Those who paid for the rescue ships, who fought to help us, getting to meet us, that sort of thing. Hear our tales.”

Edward stares at nothing and tries to think. The idea of talking to strangers about their stories ... he has been spoken to briefly by someone, he remembers vaguely but it was brief and nobody expected anything more than bare bones. Will they want more?

“The Captain plans to keep it as easy as possible,” Jopson says. “You don’t have to answer any questions you don’t wish to, sir. Just direct people to him if necessary.”

Edward nods obediently.

“George will be there?” he says.

“Yes, sir. At least, I believe so. I have not spoken to him personally.”

Edward wonders if George will be all right. It sounds like there will be a lot of people, as well as the Captain. He wonders what he ought to do if George is not all right. Can he help? Surely he can help. He looks after George and John ...

“I hope John is there,” he murmurs.

“Yes sir. Now, come and let me dress you.”

He obeys. Jopson gently cleans and dresses him, brushing off his coat, tightening his shirt and trousers. They seem to fit even worse than they did before. Edward does not really understand it.

“I’ve been eating,” he says when Jopson looks at him slightly.

“Regularly, sir?”

“Of course,” he says, wondering if it’s true. Food doesn’t stick in his mind after he’s eaten it. It is not impossible that he has sometimes missed meals. Stupid really. After so long without food, to ignore it when it is brought to him ... surely it does not make sense?

“Well sir. You can eat tonight”

“Yes,” he agrees because it seems the best thing to say.

*

The party is noisy and Edward hates it immediately.

It’s so bright. There’s crystal and gold and marble and things glowing and gleaning. There’s people, people everywhere and he doesn’t know them. He knows that he needs to be brave and sensible but he doesn’t want to be. Why are there so many people here? What do they want? He’s horribly aware that his breath is beginning to come in tight gasps and he is having to grip his fists tightly. He can’t. He can’t do this.

“Sir?” Jopson’s voice is quiet.

“Is, is George here yet?” he forces out.

“I don’t know, sir. Shall I see if I can find him? Would you like me to find you somewhere to sit?”

He shakes his head. Sitting will make no difference. These people will still be here, clustering and fluttering and talking. He needs to stay on his feet. Stay alert. The Captain might need him. George or John might need him.

Jopson moves away and Edward puts his back to a wall, watching carefully. His men, their men, he can see them amongst the others. They all look thin, pale, slightly surprised by the healthy, happy ones around them. But they look all right. They are alive and living, even thriving. He is glad to see that. He is glad to know that they have lived.

“Edward?”

He turns, stares into George’s wonderful and familiar face. He looks better, so much better. His hair is well groomed, his cheeks a little redder and rounder, his uniform bright and shiny. He looks as Edward remembered him from so long ago, a confident, happy officer, excited about life.

He has come back.

“Edward! Gosh, you look ... ”

George trails off. Edward swallows. He looks bad. That is what George is trying to say. He looks bad.

“It’s good to see you,” George says brightly. “Where have you been staying?”

“I ... rooms. There are rooms.”

“Well, that’s good! Dundy and I have been sharing, though I don’t know how long for.”

Le Vesconte. The man who would have left their wounded behind. Who would have left John to die. It is not fair to blame him. Edward could have resisted, did not. It was his own choice. But Edward cannot think of him without it being tainted. He does not know what else to do.

“Edward? You ... shall we go and get you something to drink? You do look rather strange.”

“Do you know if John is coming?”

George’s happy smile wavers for a moment. He looks away.

“I have not heard from him,” he says, his voice low. “I ...I hoped he might have spoken to you, truthfully. But I ... I suppose not.”

“No,” Edward says, thinking about John’s pale, thin face. “No.”

The gulf has opened between them. He does not know what to do. George is well. Truly well. And Edward is ... lost. He does not know what he is doing. He does not know where he is. George and John are well and they do not need him and that is good, it is good but if they are well and do not need him, what is he?

The night slips away from him. He is dimly aware that someone has found him a drink, that it is clasped in his hand. That people talk to him, give him names that he does not keep. George is with him, then he is not. He sees Le Vesconte, looking perfectly coiffiuered again, talking to someone in a Captain’s uniform, looking clean and pressed. He does not see John. John is not there. John is gone.

Food. It tastes of ashes. He eats it. Conversation swims around him. He doesn’t understand a lot of it. The weather? The weather is always the same, cold and ice all around, what is there to say about it? Family? Family is all far away, your only family are your men and they cannot be your friends. George and John are his family but they do not need him. He can’t think. He wants to go but he does not know where to go. There is nowhere but the ice.

Somehow, he is outside again. He does not remember leaving. He walks aimlessly. No ice. There is no ice here. They are back in England. There is no ice. There is nothing more to fear. And yet he is drowning in terror.

“Sir?”

He blinks. Jopson. Jopson has somehow found him.

“Sir, where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I see,” Jopson says as though this is quite a normal answer. “Why don’t you come with me, sir?”

“I don’t want to go back to the party,” he says.

“No sir,” Jopson says and puts a hand on his shoulder, encouraging him. Little allows it. He has no idea how to resist it. He lets Jopson push him through the streets, through a door, up a flight of stairs. He is gently guided into a chair.

“Thomas? Oh, thank Christ, you found him.”

The Captain, his face very pale. Edward looks up at him. He should stand but Jopson has a hand on his shoulder and it is too hard to push it away.

“Sir,” he says.

“Are you all right, Edward?”

“I ... I am ... ”

The words stick. How can he ever even dream of explaining? What words could ever come together to articulate the void that engulfs him, the horror that crushes him, the emptiness? George and John would not have needed his words, they would have known but they are gone. They are gone.

“I am not well,” he whispers eventually. “I am ... not well.”

The Captain does not question him further. He lays a hand on the top of Edward’s head, a gentle, soothing hand.

“Then we will look after you until you are,” he says.

Chapter Text

It is dark in the tent and George is afraid. They are coming. He knows they are coming. They are coming for him because he is nothing and nobody to them, he is worthless and they are coming and they will kill him, they will kill him, they will kill him and it will hurt and he does not want to die, he does not want –

And then he is standing outside, the light on the shale too bright. Everyone is at the table and he moves towards it, looking for his own little seat, his own banished place but it is not there. And then he sees the meat on the table and realises it is him, him, they are eating him –

George wakes with a violent jerk, almost falling from the bed. He catches himself, forces himself to still. He is cold with sweat. Another dream. Surely one day, they must end? They must fade from his mind like drawings on a cold windowpane. It is ridiculous that they still haunt him this way when he is home and safe and there is nothing to fear any longer.

He shudders. Scrambles from the clammy bed. He is awake now and there is no point attempting to return to sleep. His stomach aches with hunger. Perhaps Mrs Jones has his breakfast already made. She is a good woman, she understands his needs very well and does not question them.

No breakfast yet but cold food has been left; bread and jam and cold cuts. He tears a hunk off the bread, thickly spreads the butter and jam on before biting it. It is always good, soft bread; the softest that can be brought. He likes his jams sweet and fruity, bursting in his mouth, filling him with pleasure. He eats another slice, then dips his fingers into the jam and licks it off, closing his eyes at it. It’s not enough – sometimes, he thinks it will never be enough – but it is so, so pleasant that it is almost enough.

He forces himself away from the table and takes himself to wash and dress so Mrs Jones can bring his real breakfast through. It does not exactly matter – she has seen him in far more embarrassing states than with his fingers in a jam-jar – but he tries, he does try to make her life easier, give her less to ignore. Besides, he is a gentleman. A fallen one, perhaps, but still a gentleman.

As he washes, he looks at the collection of bottles nearby. It is early, too early, however tempting it is. He is not that man. Not yet. A cigarette though, that is allowed and so he lights one, inhaling deeply, trying to relax. It was just a dream. A stupid dream. There is no need to be afraid any more. He is home now, home and safe. There is plenty of food now, there is a roof over his head, there is comfort and affection to be had whenever wanted. There is nothing to be afraid of.

The sound of plates and the delicious smell of breakfast brings him back. He stubs out his cigarette and checks himself before going out. He looks decent enough – smart, washed, dressed. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“Mrs Jones! Oh, you do spoil me!”

She smiles at him, pushes the plate towards him. George sighs with happiness. Scrambled eggs and meat, fried bread, kippers. He eats all of it with shameless ease, licking his fingers when juices spill. Every bit of it, delicious and hot and wonderful. He loves it. He could eat it doubled.

He notices that Mrs Jones has – slightly pointedly – repositioned his letters from yesterday. He has not opened them. He saw Dundy’s handwriting on the top and decided to ignore them. He is tempted to do so again but it is childish. He is not childish. He’s a grown man who is quite capable. Quite capable.

He pours himself some hot chocolate and dips some bread in the marmalade before opening the letter. Dundy’s letter is short and to the point, as most of his letters tend to be. He’s going to continue his plans to return to the Arctic and bring back the bodies of their fallen friends. The expedition is almost finished in organisation. Has George reconsidered?

No. He has not. The thought of it makes his stomach twist in a horrible fashion. He does not understand why Dundy can even imagine going back. Or rather, he does but he does not like to for it is simply a reminder that Dundy is a better person than him. A braver man. A more suitable man.

He crumples the letter, tosses it aside. None of the things beneath are of consequence. Nothing from ... well, he did not expect it, of course. Edward and John have quite moved on in their lives now. That is good, pleasing. He is happy for them. Perhaps they have returned to sea or found wives and jobs on land. He is very happy for them.

His stomach aches. Somehow, he has finished all of the marmalade. He looks at the empty pot, at his sticky fingers and feels queasy. He knows he shouldn’t do that. He shouldn’t eat when he isn’t paying attention. It is foolish. Doing so makes him eat until he is sick, a waste of the food. A waste of everything.

He retrieves Dundy’s crumpled letter, takes it to his desk and tries to compose a reply. Simple, to the point. No, he has not changed his mind but of course, he thanks Dundy for thinking of him, wishes him every success – except he does not because every success is dangerous, every success could lead to too much coming back, information that George does not want anybody to know, information about things he did, his betrayals, his weakness, his sins ...

He scratches out what he has written, gives up.

“Mrs Jones, I am going to my club,” he says. “I doubt I will be back until late but if you could leave out something cold for me, it would be appreciated.”

“Of course, sir,” she says, smiling at him. She is always kind. He does not deserve it, of course but he is grateful for it. He pays her more than she asks, tries to give her gifts that she often refuses to accept but he does his best. He can’t do much but he can do that.

At the club, he can forget a little. He smokes. Drinks. Eats a hearty lunch. Plays cards with other gentlemen, wins and losses, nothing groundbreaking – he has won and lost more at other games. He laughs at their jokes and stories, contributes some of his own, carefully cultivated stories that he has picked out and picked over. Nothing that might endanger him, make him look a fool – or worse than a fool.

Evening draws on and he leaves this club to attend other places. Places where a man might find any sort of company he cares to. He is not fussy about company, men and women are both equally pleasing to him, except that he likes them well-built. Strong and solid. He pays well, tries to please. Shares tobacco and laudanum, though he is careful with the laudanum. Too easy to go too deep. It is not safe to do that with another person. They might ask a question. He might answer it truthfully.

He comes back late, as he almost always does. Mrs Jones has left food and he eats it all. When he goes to bed, he takes the heavier drought of laudanum; the one that leaves him floating on air. The heaviness of it, the way his mind can simply turn into freshness, nothing matters, nothing, he is nothing and he likes that so much.

It is better to be nothing.

*

Inviting John to his bed was entirely chaste, at first.

John was a poor sleeper, even at the start. George would hear him sometimes, murmuring and whispering to himself. Once they became trapped in the ice, once winter became the only season, his sleep became worse, his murmurs louder. One night, when it was particularly bad, George left his cabin and entered John’s. It seemed only right to put his arms around him, pet his hair and lie down with him on the little bunk. There was space to curl up together if you they were careful and there was something lovely about it, winding his body gently around John’s, cuddling him, feeling his warmth.

“This helps,” John murmured sleepily, sounding bewildered and so George whispered back. “You can always come to me if you cannot sleep. I’ll happily hold you.”

And so John would do so, often slipping into George’s cabin, cuddling down with him. They learned how to fit together, the best way to lie, curved and comfortable. George found he could not resist the occasional tickle and John’s indignance made it even more delightful. He would lie still, let John settle, then go for his ribs while John squeaked and tried to elbow him.

“You behave like a child sometimes,” John grumbled. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you love me,” George said happily, burying his cold nose in the back of John’s neck.

John twitched slightly and it occurred to George that it might not be because of the cold nose. The thought was not unpleasant to him, though he supposed it should be. It was not a good idea to fall for men on ships. Not truly a good idea anywhere but certainly not on the ships and certainly not with dear John, married to his Bible. And yet although John had twitched, he had not tried to flee. He was lying settled in George’s arms, his fingers curled over George’s gently, warm and limp and George found himself wondering a little what it would be like to have John love him. Wrong of course, quite wrong because of their roles, their positions, their responsibilities ... but perhaps pleasant too. John was handsome after all. Strong in his way. Yes, it would not be so bad if John were to love him.

He closed his eyes and dreamed.

*

He is woken from his swimming opium dreams by Mrs Jones knocking hard on his door.

“Mr Hodgson?”

“Yes?” he mumbles. He has overslept before when he has overindulged, perhaps he has done so again. Mrs Jones rarely disturbs him though, this is unusual, to say the least.

“Mr Hodgson, there is a gentleman to see you. He says he won’t go until you do. When I said you were indisposed, he said he would wait on the doorstep if needs be.”

His head is fuzzy. A gentleman? Well, he knows many of those but ...

“A name?”

“Doctor Goodsir.”

His stomach churns. His head is suddenly clear of fuzz but filled with bewildered horror. Goodsir. Goodsir, here? He cannot be, he cannot ... why would he visit George, of all people? He cannot ... why would ...

“What should I do?” Mrs Jones sounds uncertain.

“I, you ... y-you must let him in, of course, you ... I shall be in the drawing room presently, I ... g-give him anything he wants.”

“Yes, sir.”

She walks away and George tumbles from the bed and vomits painfully into the chamber pot, stomach empty from sleep. Goodsir. Goodsir, Goodsir, Goodsir. Goodsir of the cold eyes and judgemental stare. Goodsir who knows his sins, all of them. Goodsir, who has every right to judge him, Goodsir who must hate him ... he cannot be here for anything good. He cannot ... he cannot ...

He washes out his mouth. Stumbles into clothes. Takes a bottle of laudanum and allows himself a few drops, to take the edge off. He looks at himself in the mirror, tries to make sure that he looks presentable. Looks are his only strength. Appearances are vital. He can do this. He can do this. It will not be like before.

He leaves the room, lifting his head high, plastering a beaming smile on his face.

“Doctor Goodsir!”

Goodsir is standing by the window. His hair is still curly, though it is tamed now, not the bush of the shale. He has a beard still but it is trimmed, neat. His clothes are plain and smart but he has a golden watch chain. He looks at George with a quiet gaze, no longer the cold, hunted fury that appears in George’s dreams.

“Hello, Lieutenant Hodgson.”

“Oh goodness, you can call me George, we aren’t ... besides, I am not truly a lieutenant any longer, I have no intention of returning to the sea.”

His voice sounds all wrong. High-pitched with a fake shrill sort of happiness. Goodsir looks at him and his eyes are clear. He can see what George is. He knows.

“W-would you like breakfast? I, Mrs Jones will ... bring up more, she’s a very good woman, I don’t deserve her at all, she’s far too ... I ... ”

He stumbles, trails off. He doesn’t deserve her and Goodsir knows why. Oh God. He should have taken more laudanum.

“I will take breakfast with you,” Goodsir says with a small, tight smile. “I must apologise for the early hour, I did not know you would be still abed.”

“Oh, well, I ... I was out at a ... gathering last night. Stayed out a bit too late really. Still. Never mind.”

Mrs Jones bustles in, laying the trays down. She gives George her lovely smile, then looks at Goodsir.

“I can rustle up some more, sir, if you need extra.”

“Oh no, thank you,” Goodsir says. He smiles, a smile that George doesn’t remember seeing for a long time. A nice smile, friendly. A real smile. A smile George does not deserve to see. Mrs Jones smiles back, then bustles out. George’s stomach growls. He wants to eat but Goodsir is looking at him again and he can feel his traitorous hands beginning to tremble beneath the table. He does not want Goodsir to see that.

“Please, tuck in!” he says brightly.

“Thank you,” Goodsir says, coolly polite again now. He takes some toast, begins to butter it. George tries to force his hands to move. Goodsir is busy now. He won’t see the shaking. He won’t. And he is so hungry, he wants to eat, he needs to eat ...

He finally drags movement out of his heavy arms. Helps himself to food. Slowly. He can be slow. But oh, he’s so hungry, even though he feels kind of sick as he looks at Goodsir’s face. Oh God, help him get through this.

His trembling hand makes him knock the knife against the plate. It sounds horribly loud. He does not dare meet Goodsir’s eyes.

“What brings you here?” he asks. “If, if it is suitable to talk about over breakfast!”

“I visited the Captain recently,” Goodsir says, his voice quiet.

“Oh!”

Honestly, it is not what George expected to hear at all and he pauses a moment, trying to put it together. It has been a long time since he saw the Captain. He hasn’t exactly tried to put him out of his mind, nothing like that but ... well. He has not thought about him.

“He said that it had been a while since he heard from you,” Goodsir says.

“Well, I ... I can’t imagine he’s been that worried, I ... ”

He bites back the urge to say Why should he care about me? The captain cares about his men. All his men, even the useless, treacherous George Hodgson. He told George that he was forgiven, more than once but George knows what he really meant. “You couldn’t be expected to be better. You lived up to my expectations, which were nothing to begin with. You were always useless.”

“Did you know that Lieutenant Little is living with him?”

George considers this. He supposes he did know it in some way but truth be told, it has been a long time since he wrote to anybody that did not write to him first. Writing to Edward and John when they both want to forget things they shared is ... hard. How does a man keep a light correspondence with men he has loved, worshipped, longed to be with for the rest of his life? Because he did, he does and knowing it is not reciprocated ...

“Is he well?” he asks because that seems a normal question.

“Tolerably,” Goodsir says. “I believe he has been quite unwell for a considerable time. But he asked if I had spoken to you, then became distressed. I believe he thinks that you feel I hold some animosity towards you. Is that correct?”

George feels his hands become useless. They shake violently, so badly that his shoulders are shaking too. He clenches them into fists, stares over Goodsir’s head so he does not have to meet those dark eyes that stared at him so coldly as he joined Hickey’s group, as Hickey made him sit on a little throne, smiling so kindly: just right for an officer, isn’t it? Eating his food, his food while Goodsir did not because Goodsir is a good man, a better man –

“Please,” Goodsir says and his voice sounds almost distressed. “Please, Mr Hodgson, I ... I want to make it clear that I bear you no ill will. I never did. You were forced by ... necessity, by things beyond our control. You did not harm me. I forgive you anything that you think needs forgiving.”

George cannot look at him. Goodsir does not know. Not really. Goodsir did not shame himself. He did not fail. He did not betray everyone he loved. He stayed true to himself. He stayed true. George did not. George became a monster out of fear and hunger and he is sometimes not sure that he has ever come back.

“It is kind of you to, to say so,” he forces out, wondering if the thing on his face resembles a smile or not. “I appreciate your forgiveness.”

Goodsir looks at him. George looks away, unable to meet his eyes any longer. He feels sick.

“You should write to Mr Little,” Goodsir says. “He misses you.”

“I will write,” George says as casually as he can. “I am sure that he does not miss me so much though. Why, many people much more interesting people must speak to him quite often.”

“But he wishes to speak to you,” Goodsir says simply.

George does not know what to say to that. He nods slightly because that seems like what Goodsir needs him to do. He wishes he would go. He does not want this. He does not want it. Oh, for it to be over.

“I will write to him,” he says again. “I am glad to hear he is doing well.”

“Mr Hodgson ... ”

Oh, why will Goodsir not stop? George feels as though parts of him are being torn away. He has worked so hard. He has worked so hard to put everything together and now he is being shredded.

“Thank you,” he says. “For coming, I mean. Forgiving me. I do not really deserve it but it is most kind of you, most appreciated, I am glad that you .. well, you were always a good man, weren’t you, I am glad you were able to come home and continue it, I, I am very impressed by you.”

He is babbling but he doesn’t care. Babbling is silencing. Mr Goodsir is too well mannered to speak while George rambles and he must simply sit and listen while George drowns the silence with word after word. If he talks for long enough, time will pass and Goodsir will leave and George will be safe. All he wants is to be safe.

After a while, Goodsir quietly stands and George cuts himself off to smile a bright, fake smile. Goodsir looks at him with eyes that someone else would consider gentle but George knows better.

“It’s all right,” Goodsir says softly. “I will go now.”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t have to,” George says brightly but Goodsir shakes his head.

“No. I know I have made you uncomfortable and I am truly sorry for that. It was not my intention. But do please try to believe that I meant what I said, that I bear you no ill will and wish you nothing but the best. You should write to Mr Little, I know he would be grateful to hear from you.”

“Of course,” George says. “Well, if you must go ... ”

He knows he sounds insincere, does not really care. Of course he wants Goodsir to go. His presence is almost intolerable. Once he is gone, it will not be so bad.

He sees Goodsir to the door, of course, as he should. He watches the man walk away, then returns to his room, closing the door behind him. His weak, pathetic legs give way beneath him and he crouches on the floor, pressing trembling hands to his face. He is safe but he does not deserve to be safe. He is a useless, mewling creature that ought to have been put down. Ought to have died in the Arctic, ought to have been banished from society forever. And yet here he is and he knows he does not deserve it and knows too that one day, everybody will know and it will be snatched away from him and then what? Then he will reap the punishment he knows he deserves, then he will suffer, then ...

He forces himself up, stumbles to the table, begins to eat the leftovers there. He does not bother with cutlery. He eats with his hands, scooping things up and licking his fingers after. He licks the butter from the plate, scoops the jam out and swallows it in lumps, barely tasting the sweetness of it, just needing it. He eats until he is gorged, until his stomach throbs with food. It is too much and not enough. He does not want to stop. He wants to be full, full to the brim, he wants to be so crammed with food that there is nothing else that get into him. He wants to feel sated, satisfied, he wants to be safe.

There is no more food. He grips the edge of the table, insides roiling. He is not sure that he can move but he does not want to stay still. He does not want to be here. He wants more food. He wants to know everything is well. He is afraid and he hates this fear. Weak. He is weak and pathetic and useless and if there were any justice, he would have died in the Arctic, along with all he could not save. But there is no justice, there is just life and he is just here, pathetic and worthless and not brave enough to die.

*

Falling for John was a delightfully pleasant little diversion.

George had no expectations of it. No dreams of reciprocation, of finding dark corners to indulge sinful lusts. Perhaps that was why it was so pleasant. He had always liked John, his seriousness offset by his sudden bursts of humour, his creative spirit, his delightful manner of being outraged by teasing. Somehow, offsetting that with a sudden physical desire, a knowledge that John was terribly important to him was deeply pleasant. He looked forward to John’s cuddles and play. He looked forward to seeing him. It was a delight and there had been so few of them that really, he saw no harm in indulging himself. He was careful, of course – he did not want to exploit John, nor make him uncomfortable. But when he was alone, he sometimes allowed himself the occasional fantasy about John’s powerful thighs, about his plump and pretty lips and it was utterly delightful.

He got the idea that Edward knew or at least suspected something. Suddenly, he seemed to be watching George and John with a look that was different from his usual ones. George wasn’t quite sure what to make of it but there was a part of him that was simply glad to see Edward taking an interest in something that wasn’t the running of the ship. The man looked so weighed down these days, it was quite dreadful and George had no idea how to fix it, except to keep trying his usual methods of chattering brightly and trying to be friendly, making sure they all meet together regularly for talking and card games and any other pastime he can imagine. It was a little glimmer of light in all the darkness and George lived for it.

*

How can be possibly write to Edward?

What can he possibly say? “Hello dearest Edward except I no longer have the right nor privilege to call you such? I know that you must think often of my cowardice with distain but please believe no man could despise himself more than me. Please give me news of John, who I miss most terribly but must also view me with appropriate disgust. With all the love you cannot want offered, George.”

The thought of it leaves him empty and when he is empty, fear gets in. His drops are not enough to keep him free from nightmares, nightmares of Hickey, nightmares of the ice, nightmares of the bear, nightmares of the meat. Those are the worst for he dreams of it and wakes hungry and salivating, even though it is disgusting and repulsive. He should not be allowed to be with decent people. He should not have come home. He should have been brave enough to die.

But he was not then and is not now so instead, he continues to live. He takes more laudanum to blur the world, drinks to make it less painful, finds company that does not care what state he is in, as long as he pays well. Sometimes, it almost works. The laudanum is the best, taking great sheets of his time and blanking it but he knows that is dangerous. He might say the wrong things to people. He might give himself away and that cannot be risked, not when he has so many secrets.

He misses being open with people. Misses being able to trust them. He was trusting, he remembers. He was able to talk, to believe. When he was with Edward and John, it was so easy, even before they had slipped so sweetly into love – and oh, it had been so sweet. That first time, it had almost been an accident, a play gone gracefully right. His play-kisses, suddenly serious, John all but swooning in his arms with Edward watching hungrily and oh, he had known it was dangerous but kissing them both, touching them both, it had been so perfect, so beautiful, a rapture he had not felt since childhood but he had not deserved it, he knows that, even knew it then, he is rotten inside, they are better without him, everyone would be better without him.

Oh, if he could just be brave.

*

“Should we be doing this?” John whispered, even as he pressed closer, tighter, fingers coming up to almost claw at George’s hair. “George, George, we ... oh, we ... ”

George didn’t think he could answer and so he didn’t, simply kissed John’s lips over and over, slid his fingers over John’s hips. John arched and behind them, Edward gave a tiny groan and it seemed only right to hold out a hand to him, pull him closer.

“Should you like to kiss John too?” he murmured. “His mouth is so sweet, I think you’ll like it.”

Edward looked shy, uncertain and so did John, so George gently pushed them towards each other, watching as their lips met. The kiss was as shy and uncertain as themselves and then slowly deepened into a warm passionate one that could almost have left George nervous of his own place except that John was still clutching at him and Edward was pressing close and he knew he was part of it, he was an important part and watching them was beautiful.

“You both look lovely,” he said and they turned back to him then, both kissing his face, Edward moving to his lips and John moving to kiss his throat. George felt such a hot delicious feeling go through him. Oh, they were both lovely as the sun on a spring day and George couldn’t quite believe he was going to get to have them both. Perhaps the ice had finally driven him mad and he was lost in a delusion but if he was, it was too sweet to fight. He kissed Edward back, he stroked his hands down John’s back and felt for his skin, smiling when John jerked at every gentle touch. Yes. Yes, this was a delusion he would gladly embrace.

*

His mind is wandering.

He knows he should keep a grip on it but he does not wish to. When he was with Hickey, he allowed his mind to do this. To drift away from him, to remember other places, to pretend it he was not where he so obviously was. It is pleasant to do that now, to let the drink and laudanum and his own weakness lull him better places. He can pretend that he is in the past, he is the George Hodgson who believed in himself, who believed it was capable of being a good, strong navy man. Who never disgraced himself. Who never fed from his men. Who doesn’t hide from the world and pretend everything is well when it is not and never could be. Better to wander through the world and let dreams shield him.

He does not want to die, of course. He knows that. It would be a great sin. But if he were dead ...if it were just to happen, if it were just to become a fact ... that should be pleasant. It would be all over then. It would end and he need not think or feel so lonely or knew that he deserves the loneliness and nothingness that is the life he must live.

He knows he is deeply intoxicated, though cannot remember what with – simply drink or perhaps more. It does not matter. He is clumsy, barely able to stand. A target for any that would wish to harm him. He is there to be harmed and yet the streets are empty. What must the passersby think? Second Lieutenant George Hodgson, a drunken wretch. But there are no passersby. At least, he thinks there are not. The world is swirling. There could be any number of people. They could come and they would find him, they would know he was as weak as ever and they would have him, they would finally get his flesh the way he knows they wanted it, he will be devoured as he deserves but he is afraid, he is so afraid! He is somehow sitting down and he presses against the wall because it is at least solid, even though the rest of the world continues to move –

“George?”

He cowers for a moment before numbly thinking that Hickey and Tozer would never use his Christian name. Confused, he lifts his head but the wavering shape before him does not make sense for it looks like the dear face of Edward Little but Edward cannot be here. It does not make sense, even though it does look like Edward; his soft dark hair and face creased into the worried expression George knows so well.

“Oh George,” Edward says and then his hands are on George and he is helping him up, holding him gently and George closes his eyes and prays that he will never wake up from this dream.

*

He knew that he shouldn’t listen to Hickey.

He knew it. Of course he did. But there was this horrid curl of terror inside him that he couldn’t ignore, couldn’t fight. He knew Hickey was right, that was the awful thing. He knew that the food was strange and easily spoiled, he knew there was no game, he knew that he was feeling weaker and stranger. He had seen the way Edward and John were changing, the way the men were changing and how could he ignore it? How could he?

Of course he could not be Hickey’s captain. Of course not. He was no captain and anyway, how could he leave Edward and John? He never could. He never would.

And yet he did not tell. And when Hickey told him of the savage attack on John, he did not question. He let his fear guide him, acted against all he ought to be and let down the men who he had grown to love the most. Just a little more time and John – his dear, precious John – would have died outright and there was little hope he would survive now. Not lacking good food, not when he could not walk.

When the bear scattered them and George found himself lost in the fog, it was almost a relief. At least now, choices had been taken from him. At least now, he did not have to think.

*

He wakes slowly, which is always pleasant. There is a languidness to this sort of waking where he can pretend all is well in his life. He is somewhere soft and warm and there is no shame or fear and if he reaches out, there will be someone beside him, someone kind and loving -

“George?”

The voice is soft but it is undoubtedly real. George feels the languidness fade, replaced with confusion. There shouldn't be anyone there. He never brings anybody back, that is a rule and he is home, he knows that too, he always knows home when he is there. What is this? What -?

“George. Here, I have some water for you.”

He opens his eyes. He stares.

“Edward?”

Edward smiles at him. The room is dim, the curtains undrawn but it is really him. His hair is thicker than George remembers it being, though he supposes that makes sense. They have been back for a long while now. Edward will be healthy again.

“Here,” Edward says and George sips the water gratefully, pleased to soothe his dry mouth.

“I thought you were a dream,” he says, then winces at his own stupidity. “What … what are you doing here? Not that it is not lovely to see you, of course, it is most wonderful but if I had known you were coming, I would have … well, it is quite a surprise, that is all!”

Oh, why must his stupid mouth gabble? Why must he always sound a fool? His head is aching abominably due to his overindulgences and he cannot help but flinch when Edward steps towards the curtains. Edward stops at once.

“You wrote to me,” he says quietly. “Do you not remember? You did not strictly invite me but I thought … ”

George stares at him blankly. He did not write to Edward, he is sure of it. He remembers deciding not to write to Edward in point of fact. But Edward would not lie about such a thing.

“I wrote to you?” he says and Edward produces a scrap of something, hands it over. In the dim light, it is hard to tell much but George does recognise his own writing, just about. It is scrawled, even by his new standards and the letters are ill-formed. There are blots too and George knows at once that he must have been insensible when he scratched this out. Shame hits him in a cloud. Edward must know – and if he did not, George has certainly proved it now.

Edward opens the curtains a little, letting light spill in. George looks at him, glad to distract himself by seeing him properly again. It is odd to see him no longer shaggy and harried. He has put weight back on, although less than George has. His hair is neat, his beard gone, his sides neatly trimmed. He looks a first lieutenant again, a healthy, proper man and George feels another wave of shame. He lies here; flabby, balding, pale, having sent a drunken missive to a man who owes him nothing.

“I am so sorry,” he mumbles, looking at the letter again. The words are hard to make out without study but he sees that he has scribbled something about how tired he is and then beneath it: I wish I could sleep forever.

“I … oh dear Edward, what must you think of me?” he says, trying to make his voice go light.

“I think you should have written to me before,” Edward says. “But come, you'll feel better after breakfasting, I am sure. I .. I hope I am welcome?”

He looks at the floor as he says it and there he is, there is George's sweet Edward, going from an assured man to one who cannot quite believe that people could appreciate him and everything he offers. George finds himself smiling, overwhelmed briefly with joyful memories snatched between the pain and fear and loss. He feels a stir inside him which he quickly pushes away. It is not his place to think of such things now. They are in the real world again now. There is no place for such sin.

“You are welcome,” he says warmly. “Oh Edward, you are more than welcome! You will like the breakfast, Mrs Jones is a delight, she really is and she finds the softest bread, truly, oh and the jam, well, you will love it, I know you will. Have you had time to wash and refresh yourself? Yes? Oh, well, I shall do the same then and you can tell me everything you have been doing.”

He washes himself quickly, trying to stay calm. He must not let himself become foolish. Edward has come to see him, to make sure he is fine and of course he can convince him that he is. He will assure Edward that he is well and content and it had merely been a drunken silliness and Edward will return to his better life and all, all will be well.

Mrs Jones is obviously surprised when she sees Edward – he must have quietly got George to bed without disturbing her – but the moment that she discovers he is and old shipmate, she is delighted and courteous. She scolds George gently for not telling her, asks Edward what he wants, fusses affectionately over him in the way she does. Edward looks a little uncomfortable, which George is not surprised by. He wishes Edward would ask for a little more food, truth be told. He suspects Edward is looking at his repast and judging it, as perhaps he should. It is, after all, large as always. But then, why should he let Edward judge him? Have they not earned good meals now they are back in the world? Does he not deserve this after everything he has suffered?

(he deserves nothing. He knows it. And yet he keeps trying.)

They do not talk as they eat, which George remembers is often Edward's way with him. Edward has long teased him for his tendency of getting distracted at a meal when he talks and he is quite right. Eating and listening and talking do not always go together, not for George. It is oddly pleasant to be reminded of Edward's understanding of it. It is nice to be known in such a small, sweet way.

“So, Edward!” he says once Mrs Jones has cleared the plates away. “Tell me how you have been!”

“I have been very ill,” Edward says with a quiet simplicity. “It has taken a long time to … become better. If it weren't for the Captain, I do not know what would have happened to me but I was not alone and that saved me. But much of what I have done is simply been to sit and do nothing except look at the sky and listen to the Captain and Jopson talk to each other.”

“Jopson is still with the Captain then?” George asks. He feels the cold little tinge of jealousy that he has always felt. The Captain always thought Jopson was better than George and the fact that he was right to has not sweetened the feeling.

“Oh yes,” Edward says. “I do not think they will ever willingly part. Jopson does not want to leave him and the Captain does not want to be left. He is much better than he was when we were on the voyage with him, George. He no longer drinks.”

George nods, not sure it means anything to him. He is glad that the Captain has continued to avoid drink. He is glad he is happy. He is glad he has helped Edward back to health.

“I did not realise you were ill,” he says. “You looked … well, it has been so long since I last saw you of course but I suppose I did not think about it.”

He found it hard to think of Edward the last time they had seen each other. It had been when at the great party to celebrate their survival and achievements and it had been such a whirl of voices and food and talking, so much talking but so much that couldn't be said. Edward had been there, he remembered that, looking distant and uninterested. John had not been. John had vanished.

“Have you spoken to John?” he asks and Edward's face falls.

“No,” he says. “I have written, So has the Captain. He answered the Captain's letter but it was nothing substantial. He was staying somewhere up in Scotland. The Captain got the impression that he is … not doing well.”

George swallows. The thought of it, of John somewhere off alone, somewhere cold and lonely, thin and fragile. He ought to have done something, something more than simply stepping back and yet ...

His mouth feels dry. His stomach feels empty. The world feels sharp. He wants to dull it as he always does but Edward will see. Edward will know.

“I hoped you might have heard from him,” Edward says quietly. “He always adored you. I thought he might not want to leave you behind.”

“I … no, don't be … he didn't adore me.”

George can feel himself blushing at the thought of it. Remembering John cuddling into him, remembering the way John would look at him, the way he would melt when George would stroke his hands.

“I haven't … thought about it,” he says. “Not for a while. I haven't … well, it’s best to forget it all, isn't it? Best to put it behind us.”

“Is that how you feel?” Edward asks quietly.

George doesn't know what to say. It isn't the same for Edward. He did nothing he need be ashamed of – well, except perhaps for falling into their triad and George hopes he is not ashamed of that. Of course it is not the done thing, not for someone like Edward, but he was so kind, his presence so delightful, the idea of him regretting what they shared …

“I did very little to distinguish myself,” he says in the end, trying to smile as though it doesn't matter too much. “No man really wants to remember his worst moments.”

“Is that why you have been taking those mixtures?”

Oh. Oh, Edward has been through his room then. Not just put him to bed but snooped, searched, spotted the signs that George is a weak, pathetic man with no control, no strength. As if the pathetic drunken letter was not enough.

He stands up, moves away from the table, trying to be casual, as though he doesn't mind. He clasps his shaking hands tight, hoping that Edward has not seen. Not that Edward does not know – on the ship home, his hands had shaken almost constantly and Edward had held them, stroked them, even kissed them on occasion and sometimes, that had helped, it had been so soothing but he must not think on it. He must not.

“Sometimes, I find it hard to sleep,” he says, as lightly as he can. “The mixtures help a little. I don't see there is anything much wrong with that.”

“I didn't say there was,” Edward says. His voice is not harsh or condemning, but quiet, gentle. George feels an urge to drop to his knees and put his head on Edward's lap. Edward has always had this effect on him. How had he forgotten? But he must not. He must not. He must show he is at least something.

“You don't need to worry about me, Edward. I'm sorry I sent such a letter – must have been a night when I was at the club, perhaps Weston's birthday. I intended to write to you and obviously, that was the moment and, well, of course, it wasn't a very coherent letter.”

“No, George. That won't wash, not with me. You might not have had time to read that letter you wrote but I did. You wrote of your despair. You wrote that you are tired of living in fear. What are you afraid of, George?”

“I … drunken rambles Edward, nothing more.”

“George, please. Please. Trust me. Trust me and tell me the truth.”

He closes his eyes, wishes he could close his ears too. He feels queasy, longs for a drink. He normally has something at this time. When had that begun?

“Edward, I am fine.” He tries to make his voice cool. “I really don't see why you are fussing so. I'm sorry my letter worried you but I am quite well. Why not return yourself to the Captain or wherever else you might wish to be?”

“I wish to be with you,” Edward says. “I wish to know what is wrong. I wish to help you, just as the Captain and Jopson helped me. I wish to know you are well and truly happy and not afraid of shadows and filled with poison best expelled. We suffered a great horror, George. We do not have to feel it forever.”

He says it so sincerely. So surely, as though it must be the truth, as though he can make everything right. George feels a horrible feeling inside him, as though he is going to weep. He should be a man, a man of the navy and he cannot even hear Edward speak without tears.

“I do not need anything from you,” he whispers. He wants to sound angry, wants to be cruel enough to rebuff but it does not seem to be in him. Perhaps because he is too tired. Perhaps because that is not in him. There is a shred of comfort there. He is not cruel.

Edward's hand touches his shoulder. It is warm, solid, as it has always been. He suddenly remembers Edward at the first; the smiling first lieutenant, brave and cheerful, speaking of his excitement at their voyage before them. Edward, who hoped for promotion on their return, spoken of his duty. Who had slowly become weighed down by everything and yet never broken, not like George.

He has not thrust Edward from him and Edward takes it as acceptance. He reaches with his other hand and George finds himself turned around, facing Edward's gentle face.

“Trust me, George. As you used to. Let me try and help you. Please?”

“Edward. Edward, I cannot. Please do not, please, please do not, I will bring you down, just as I did before, I will … I cannot … Edward … ”

Words stick in his throat. He feels as weak as he knows he is. When Edward pulls him into an embrace, he obeys, slumping close, pressing his face against Edward's comfortable shoulder and surrendering to the tears that will no longer be held back. Edward does not speak. He just strokes George's neck with gentle fingers and rocks him and George clings to him and prays Edward can work the magic he has seen before.

*

The camp should have been hell.

He was away from everything it ought to be. No longer with his Captain, his men – for these men are not his, they are Hickey's, that is instantly crystal clear. No longer with Edward and John, his companions, his friends, his lovers. They struggle with the sledges even more now there are fewer men and then, then there is … well.

And yet it was not hell for hell was when he was alone, trapped and cold and despairing in the rocks. Here, there is food and company, even if the company frightens him. Men that he thought he knew are strangers now. Hickey was a sweet, affable seeming captain for them all and George was terrified of him. Hickey would gut him in a heartbeat and smile after and then they would gorge upon his flesh. He had betrayed everything he loved and had held dear and yet in a sick, unforgivable way, he did not regret it. He wanted to live. He wanted to live. He wanted to live and if that meant he must give himself to the devil then so be it. He would deal with all else later and pray that Hickey spared him long enough.

It was cowardly. He knew that. But the desire to live was more powerful than all else and he clung to it as tightly as he could and if beneath his heart, there was a space which ached for Edward and John, ached to know they were well and would also live, he was able to ignore it because if he lived, if he lived, he would have all the time to long for them in the world and that would have to be enough.

*

He has fallen farther than he has realised.

It is a few hours before the sweats begin in earnest. Before his mouth becomes dry and his stomach aches. He knows what he wants, knows too that he cannot have it. Edward knows too.

“Jopson did this for the captain,” he says softly, taking George's hand. “I can do no less than do it for you. It will not be so bad for you, I know it, but it will be hard. But I am here, George. I will not walk out.”

“You should,” he says, wondering why it is so cold. “You should, Edward. I will only bring you down.”

“Stop that. I don't want to hear that again, George. You never bring me down. When you feel better, we will talk more seriously about anything else that needs speaking of but until then, I want you to stop thinking anything except that I will be with you and I will help you get better, just was I always hoped that I could.”

He strokes George's trembling fingers with his thumb and George closes his eyes. He will get worse, he knows, Edward's hand will not be enough but right now, it is a soft and pleasing anchor.

“Will you read to me?” he asks. “You used to on the journey home, do you remember? To John mostly, the poor thing could not hold a book but I would listen. It was so lovely, listening to you.”

“Of course,” Edward says. “Is there anything you particularly want?”

“Just your voice,” he says and opens his eyes a little. Despite the sweat and the queasiness, he feels a flicker of pleasure at seeing Edward blush. It is not quite fair, of course, he should not be thinking of this in that way. This is the action of a friend, a good, generous comrade in arms. It is permissible to mention their old bond but not to act on it, George is sure of that. There's not many men that desire the things George does. He would not expect it, even if he might dream of it and as Edward begins to read, he lets himself drift back, pretend he is on a ship with Edward, John hanging nearby in the hammock and that later, he will kiss their mouths and know he has their love to keep him alive.

*

Edward asked him nothing about the camp when the he, the Captain and Goodsir were able to escape. He simply clutched George to him, let George weep helplessly against him. He asked George nothing except to hand him things to try and tempt John.

John was almost nothing but a skeleton now. He had spoken once when he had seen George but not since. They cuddled him between them at night, holding him near, trying to press warmth into him. Sometimes, he seemed to respond, to shift and settle in their arms, respond when George kissed his lips. But often, he lay there totally still, far away from them all, on the shores of death, if not on the way to it.

“He will live,” Edward said dully when this was suggested to him. “He will. He will.”

Sometimes, George thought the only thing keeping Edward this side of life was his desperate need to keep John and George alive in turn. The desperate prayer that they would be all right, that they would stay. Sometimes, George had to stop him from giving all his food to them, force him to drink and sleep. It gave him something to focus on too, something to think about apart from his own hunger and exhaustion and pain. He had a feeling that without each other, they would all fall apart. He would protect Edward and John, they would protect him. They could hold onto life as they held onto each other and he was proved correct. Together, they were more than themselves, he knew it. Together, they would be fine.

*

He wakes quite suddenly in the night, conscious that he has been having some sort of awful dream that he does not want to remember. His first instinct is to rise from the bed and find a bottle but as he stirs, he realises there is a weight close to him and when he looks over, he sees Edward is sleeping on the other side. George is not surprised by this – it is not as though there is another bed – but the sight of it reminds him that he is trying to change now. That he has sweated and shuddered and still feels sick.

As he looks at Edward, Edward opens his eyes, looks at him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Just a dream. Did I wake you?”

“I still don’t sleep well,” Edward says softly. “I cannot quite believe there is not something that needs doing or someone that needs me and when I wake up and it is silent, I find it quite disturbing. I am so used to noise.”

George knows just what he means. Being alone – truly being alone – has been hard. Years on ships got him used to the noises of men; of the stirs and groanings of wood. London is not a quiet place by any stretch but it is not the same, somehow. And having grown accustomed to sleeping at Edward and John’s sides in the tent and ship, at hearing their breathing and rustling and the way Edward sometimes talks in his sleep ... yes, he has missed that.

“Do you have a lot of bad dreams still?” Edward asks.

It is on the tip of George’s tongue to tell a merry lie but the darkness stops him. Somehow, it is easier to speak in the dark. To tell truths that he cannot speak when the sun shines.

“Yes,” he says. “So, so many. Some are abstract but I dream of ... of the bear and of the ice and of H-hickey ... ”

“He is dead, George. You realise that, don’t you?”

George does not answer. Edward does not know. He was not there. Hickey ought to be dead, yes. He and Tozer both. But they fled, their bodies unseen and George knows Hickey. He was not a man such as others were. No, Hickey still lives. He is still out there somewhere. And perhaps he does not care about George any longer but perhaps he does. Perhaps he will come and George will be punished as he deserves.

“You are trembling,” Edward says and his hand comes up to clasp George’s. “You’re all right, George. You’re all right.”

He said this often on their voyage home but his voice sounds more convinced now, more certain. George leans closer to him without thought, puts their foreheads together. Edward does not move away.

“Edward, I ... I hate knowing myself. I don’t know how you can be here with me, how you can want to be with a man who is so awful, so ... who disgraced himself so, who proved to be nothing more than, than ... ”

He trails off. For a moment, Edward doesn’t answer, just squeezes his hands. When he speaks, his voice is confident and calm; First Lieutenant Edward Little, the man who could tell you what to do and you would do it and know you were all right.

“That’s not ever what I saw, George. I never saw disgrace in you. I saw my own, my inadequacies. Do you hate me for letting the men get armed?”

“No, of course not! That was a mistake, you didn’t mean it ... and besides, you were at risk. Tozer could have hurt you, you knew that.”

“And Hickey could have hurt you. We all made mistakes, George. We all did what we did to survive. I wish I had done things differently. I know you do too. But now, we have to forgive ourselves. Atone if we can. And we have to go on living somehow because we survived, George. We survived and I don’t know if it means anything but we did and now, we have to carry on.”

His voice is still so calm. George swallows. He wants to speak but his throat is hurting and there are no words to say. Edward squeezes his hand again.

“Go back to sleep now,” he says. “No more nightmares.”

George lets his eyelids fall shut, takes a deep breath and lets darkness wash over him. Edward is here. Edward is here and he is safe and there will be no more nightmares.

*

It was so strange being back in England.

The smells, the sounds. The people. Different people, not just the same faces over and over. And they were all so well fed and happy and there were colours again. It was almost overwhelming to see it all, to hear it all.

Dundy did not seem overwhelmed. He seemed to have returned to the tall, stately man he had always been, only a slight limp as a reminder that he had fewer toes than when he had started. His hair was already combed and neat. George’s hair did not seem to wish to return to its former state. It was thin and ragged and George tried not to mind but he did. He looked so ill somehow, as though he had left something behind in the Arctic and couldn’t get it back.

“Look forward to the party, old thing?” Dundy sounded bright, happy.

“Oh yes,” George said, although he wasn’t, exactly. His uniform did not look smart on him, even though he had taken it to be tucked and pinned and corrected. He felt like a child dressed in clothes that were too big. His hair was thin and he felt as though everyone could see his missing teeth. It would be noisy and there would be questions ... so many questions.

“I do hope Edward and John are there,” he said, knowing he had to sound cheerful and so focusing on something he knew would make him happy. “I did not say a proper goodbye to either of them as we disembarked you know and I would like to know why are all right. Well, I am sure Edward will be but John has been so frail, I do hope there is someone taking care of him. It will be good to check - ”

He stopped because Dundy was looking at him. It was a look of such obvious pity that it made George want to flinch back from it.

“George,” Dundy said. “You have to let them both go now.”

“W-what do you – ?”

“It was all very well out there, George. Latching onto them. They were your fellow lieutenants on a ship with ... well, I know it isn’t done to say it but we know what Crozier was most of the time. We got back in spite of him, not because of him. In spite of Edward too – no, you know it’s true, he was all but dead wood by the end. He won’t be staying in the Navy, I know it and I’m sure Irving won’t either. There’s no point hanging onto them and quite frankly it looks ... well. The kinder people will celebrate your loyalty but the others? A suspect set of friendships at best, George.”

He said it all quite cheerfully, as though he was just advising George on how best to wear his hair. George stared at him, his stomach cramping with a hollow distress. What was Dundy saying? What was he implying? He couldn’t mean ... he couldn’t think ...

“Best to let it all go now, old thing,” Dundy said gently. “All that ... you know you don’t need any of it now you’re on land, do you?”

All that. As though the love, the passion, the joy of Edward and John was just a fad, a little warmth in the cold. When it hadn’t been, it hadn’t, it had been rich and delightful thing, a beautiful thing and yet, yet, nobody would understand, would they? They would not see it, just as Dundy did not see it, Dundy who had been there, whom George had seen weep over the memory of Fitzjames shamelessly. Dundy knew and yet he did not know and if he did not know then ...

Did Edward and John feel the same? Feel that what they had shared was something to be banished, put behind and ignored now they were home? Had they dismissed it as just an action of desperate men and now were looking to reality?

Perhaps they felt the same as Dundy. Perhaps they had never felt as he had felt.

John was not at the party. Edward was but he was cold, distant, almost as though George were a stranger. As though they had shared nothing. He should have realised, of course. He should have realised that Edward and John wouldn’t feel the same way that he did. Why would they love a man like him when there were so many better options available? He had been a fool once again and now all that was left to him was trying to live, just like before.

*

George cannot deny that he greatly likes Edward living with him.

There is such space for Edward, even in these cramped rooms. They read together comfortably, they talk, they play cards. Edward gently pushes him into actually dealing with his correspondence. He says nothing about George’s need to eat more than most men (although George notices that he does not need to eat as much with Edward there, distracting him) He sometimes accompanies George to his club as a guest and George sees sparks then of the old Edward, the one who enjoyed the company of others, did not feel melancholy at the idea of state meals. It is nice to see and he is happy in those moments. He is happy in many moments now that Edward is here.

But Edward will leave, he knows that. Must leave, for he has his own life to live, his own career to think of. They are friends, friends are good to each other but that is all. Or at least, all they have spoken of and all George can really believe. He wants to be worthy of being a friend. He does not want to be burden Edward with the nonsense that surrounds him.

They are lying back to back, trying to sleep but it is cloyingly hot and oppressive in the room. George knows there is a thunderstorm coming and at the bright flash of lightning, he is out of bed, staring out of the window, counting for the thunder. It was close and he is delighted by the boom, the raindrops hurtling down. He has always loved a thunderstorm. The gloriousness of it; the way the weather breaks into rain and wildness, the flashes of light that seem to come from nowhere. He knows, of course, it is all science – atmospheric pressure and so on – but he can never quite help believing that it comes from God, a blessing or a scolding, depending on who is watching.

A fork of lightning in the sky and he sighs, happy to see the jag of it. Too often, lightning is just the flash and he prefers the bolt. The rain is running down gutters, making a little river of the street. This was what he missed when he was in the Arctic – the beauty of true, running water, the movement of it, the excitement of rainfall. It still excites him, all this time after their return. Rain, true rain, not snow or slush or hail. Rain.

The thunder booms again and he laughs but as he does, he hears a distinct sound from the bed, a sort of strangled moan.

“Edward?”

“I … I … come away from the window George, do, please, I … ”

Edward's voice is trembling. George obeys at once, pulling the curtain closed again and moving to the huddle beneath the blankets. Edward is tense, his hands up to his chin. George does not need to see his face to know it is pale.

“Edward, what is the matter?”

“I … I cannot … it makes me think of, of … the lightning in the Arctic, the awful sounds, the … lying in those tents in the ice and knowing the hail will fall and … does it not bother you?”

“No,” George says softly. He puts a hand on Edward's shoulder, rubs a gentle circle there. “No, those were ghastly things, I agree but this, this is just a good old English thunderstorm. Rain and lightning and a few booms of thunder. I like it. I always have.”

“I, I never did much,” Edward says, clearly trying to laugh. “As a boy, I was quite afraid. As a man, I just disliked. Now, I … I find myself afraid again. Like a child.”

His laugh turns into a sound more like a sob. George presses his shoulder.

“Edward, come to the window with me. Yes, now. We are quite safe in this house, lightning will not strike it, there are so many taller things around. Look at it and see the difference and it will help. No, no argument now. Come. See it.”

He tugged Edward gently from his bed. Edward came, shivering and together, they stood before the window, curtains slightly parted, watching the rain drum roughly against the panes, running down in floods. Another flash of lightning, the bolt visible for those few, glorious seconds, then seven seconds before the thunder crash.

“Isn't it lovely?” George says, still rubbing Edward's shoulder. “It is not the same, Edward. Not here. There is rain, quite natural feeling and in the morning, the sun shall come out and sparkle on everything like diamonds and it shall be quite beautiful. We shall go for an early morning walk to enjoy it and then breakfast out somewhere – I believe I know a place, quite rustic but pleasant – ”

He is looking at Edward as he speaks and Edward's face is illuminated by the next flash of light. He is not looking at the window either, but at George and his face is … it is …

George kisses him. He does not even think of what it means, he simply acts and Edward kisses him back, passionate, wild, desperate. George kisses him harder, pulls him close, fingers clutching and Edward clutches him back, scratching his shoulders in a most delightful way. George trembles at it, inflamed in a way that he does not remember being for so long. Yes. Yes, he wants this. He wants Edward, he wants his body, he wants his mouth on his, hair in his hands, thighs wrapped around him.

“Edward,” he whispers against that greedy mouth. “Edward, do you remember how you would beg to see my face as we fucked but it was always so hard to do it properly in those little bunks? Well, Edward, darling, we have a bed now and I can show you just how it can be done, oh, let me sweetheart, let me - ”

“Yes,” Edward breathes. “Yes, yes, please, yes.”

He has always been like this in bed, quiet apart from gasps and stifled moans, a contrast to dear John, who had to be silenced at every turn, so wildly out of control he became when pleasured. George always craved the privacy to see if he could make Edward louder, allow John free rein to be as he wished. He knew they did not have that privacy yet, they must not wake Mrs Jones, but it was better than being in a tiny cramped cabin with men on every side. George cannot not do everything he might crave but this space, this bed, this thunderstorm is a gift that he has no intention of wasting.

He pushes Edward onto the bed, follows him, divesting himself of his nightclothes, watching hungrily as Edward does the same. Then they are kissing again, moving their bodies gently, finding a fit so quickly that it is like they have never stopped doing this. George delights in running his hands over Edward's body, delights more in feeling the healthiness of it. Muscles instead of waste, warm, soft skin rather than cold and dry. He knows Edward is doing the same to him, feels a brief stab of shame that he has gone to seed, there are few muscles to touch but then Edward kisses his shoulder and gasps “My George, my precious George.” and thoughts are forgotten in the need to coax more such words from his mouth.

“Darling,” he whispers against Edward's skin. “My darling Edward, my lieutenant, my captain - ” and Edward arches, moans, scrabbles at George's shoulders again.

“More,” he says. “More, George, more, I have not, I … I will not last if you are not quick, I will not last.”

He does not last, reaching climax with a shuddering groan before George has even entered him fully. George does not mind. He pulls back, curls against Edward contentedly and Edward strokes him kisses him, whispers that George is beautiful and perfect and next time he'll last longer, he promises, next time -

“Next time?” George gasps out and Edward looks at him and for a moment, his hand almost stills.

“There will be one?” he says, voice half-firm, half a plea and George catches his face, kisses him, grinds into that wonderful solid hand.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes, yes - ”

He spills into Edward's fist. The thunderstorm is over, there is only the soft sound of more gentle rain pattering away at the world outside. He is warm and safe and loved and for a moment, he feels cleansed in a way he has only felt once before.

*

He wakes early in the morning, aware that Edward is softly kissing him and thrilling at it. They make love sleepily; languid and dreamy movements that they have never been able to indulge in before. He delights in kissing Edward's fingers, in stroking the backs of his legs lightly, in playfully nibbling at his hips. Edward does the same, running his hands down every bit of George's face as though attempting to memorise it; squeezing George's sides, sucking on his fingers. He can see George now, see him truly and there is no sign of disgust or displeasure, no repulsion and George feels almost beautiful under his gaze.

“I thought you wouldn't want it,” he says as they lie next to each other, Edward's head tucked beneath his chin, arm and leg thrown over George's body. “I thought you … I thought … now we were back to England, I thought you would want to go back.”

“I never wanted that.” Edward's voice is quiet. “Losing the two of you broke the last part of me that felt whole.”

“Oh Edward. Edward, I have been such a fool, we both – ”

“No.” Edward's voice is firm. “No recriminations, George. It had to happen. I had to heal, become myself without you both. I just wish you had not felt so alone.”

“Oh, I wasn't alone!” he begins automatically, putting the jovial merriness in his voice. “No, I was quite – ”

He stills his tongue. Edward has lifted his head. There is no recrimination in his eyes, only gentle understanding but he knows that George is not speaking the truth and George swallows the rest of the easy lies.

“I did not know what to do,” he says quietly, truthfully. “I did not know who to turn to. Nobody understood, nobody could understand and I could not tell them even half of it. I know you have said over and over that I need not blame myself, that I committed no unforgivable sin but I did, Edward. I did. I chose Hickey over death. If I had spoken of his ideas earlier, John might never have been hurt at all. It might have all been quite different.”

“Or it might not,” Edward said quietly. “We cannot know what would have happened, though it is man's nature to try and learn it. You did not speak because you did not know what Hickey would do to bring about his plans. You thought he was speaking of hypotheticals and that there was time. You did not know, George. And yes, perhaps a part of you was tempted by an idea and there is no shame in that. We have all been tempted.”

George closes his eyes. He is not quite sure that he can believe Edward, even now, but it does not feel as wrong as it has before. Perhaps … perhaps Edward is right. Perhaps he is not a monster, not a total one. Perhaps he can be forgiven and healed, just as Edward has been done.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too,” Edward answers, tightening his grip. “George, I … I would be with you for the rest of my days. I would stay at your side and … and be a partner to you. I know, I know there is still much to say and do and that it is too early for such promises, I cannot believe I am speaking of this but … but God, I have missed you!”

George stares at him for a moment, unable to speak. His heart feels as though it has grown and filled his throat. Edward loves him. Edward loves him and he wishes to be with him and he doesn't deserve it, he knows it but he has it and he cannot think of anything he wants more.

He kisses Edward deeply and for a long moment, they do nothing but hold each other close, both knowing that it is agreement, that if they can help it, they will never part again.

But it is not perfect.

George breaks the kiss, looks at Edward. Edward looks back.

“John,” he says.

George nods.

“We have to find him, Edward. Perhaps he does not want us any longer, perhaps he is happy, perhaps he believes it was a horrible sin that he sees no reason to revisit but we must try if we are to be complete.”

“But how?” Edward looks lost. “He has answered none of my letters, I do not even really know where he is, he … I doubt he would welcome us, George.”

George smiles. He feels calm suddenly. Edward has saved him, helped him become solid again and now, he will do what he does.

“Nil desperadum, Edward! A little thing like an unanswered letter does not stand in the way of true love, you know. And I think I know just who will help us and what we can do.”

Edward blinks, then smiles, trusting. George puts their foreheads together for a moment, basking in the glow of love and warmth and trust and knowing that he need hide nothing from Edward for Edward already knows every part of him and loves him anyway.

Chapter Text

Morning.

He does not really know if he has slept. It is sometimes so hard to sleep or to tell dreams from reality when he does. He was in the Arctic again, shale beneath his feet, walking and walking and watching crimson blood splash onto the stones from his gaping wounds. They ache in his chest, throb when he sleeps or wakes. They throb now. He has been given things to put on them but he does not know if he should. Perhaps the pain is a sign from God. Perhaps if he gets rid of it, he is going against God. It is so hard to know. It is hard to please God.

He washes. The water could be warm here, just as it sometimes was on Terror. The coal burn, burn, burning away to heat them. A waste. A sin? So many sins, so many of them, surrounding him like a fog that he cannot walk away from. He must just let the miasma flow, try to sometimes recognise them. Sometimes, he thinks when he identifies them correctly, they can be forgiven because he can ask but trying to find out himself is so hard and nobody understands. Nobody does.

He prays, as he does regularly. He has an idea that once, he did not need to pray as often but then, he was not such a sinner once. He did not allow such things to happen, he did not deserve to be punished … but perhaps he was punished, perhaps that is why everything happened to begin with, his own sin, his own crimes, his own hubris. Yes. Yes, perhaps that is it. He has thought this before but it is so hard to keep a grip on his thoughts these days. Things slip away from him. He is so lost. Perhaps he was always lost but when he prays, why does Jesus not come and take his hand, guide him? What is he doing wrong? He must be doing something wrong.

Breakfast. He stares at it, tries to eat. It does not taste. Food has not tasted for so long. It should not. Too much pleasure might be a sin. How can he be sure what is too much? Perhaps best to avoid all things.

(George never liked that philosophy. He had always laughed with John, admitted he loved to indulge his senses. Food and wine, soft things to touch. John had lain next to him once as he explained this, let George run his fingers over and over through his hair as he spoke, imagined sitting with George somewhere in a club, watching George smoke some fine cigar, sipping rich wine, tasting some unusual morsel and feeling lapped in luxury. Sometimes, that imagining would take a different turn, become him sprawled on velvet, naked, George leaning over him, also naked, touching, stroking so smoothly, every inch of John's body, dreamy and wonderful and perfect, George, dear, dear George - )

His stomach roils. His throat clamps shut. He can eat no more and pushes away the dry bread that he was nibbling upon. He sips some more of the water – cold, bracing – and tries to make himself finish the glass. He must be good. He must good. It is important to drink. It is important to sustain himself, even though it is hard, so hard.

Nobody knows why it is so hard. Nobody seems to understand. They say his wounds are healed. That they should not affect his throat and stomach now. But they do. They do all the time. What else can it be but that? Unless it is another angry response from the Lord, scolding him, sending a message he does not understand. If only he understood, if only he could understand …

He goes for his walk. Slow, careful – he cannot walk in any other way these days. He grows tired so easily. It seems a sin, no longer to be as healthy as he once was – he knows he was healthy once. Edward complimented him on it as they lay in bed together, him straddling Edward while Edward stared up at him, eyes alight. Such a strong man, my John, no wonder George likes to have you like this, you … I … yes ...

The memory is confusing. All memories of Edward and George are confusing. He does not know what to do with them. He does not know and he cannot talk about them. Not to anyone. He has talked to people about some things. About the confusion. About the loss. About Hickey, the devil incarnate, the monster. About his fears. He can talk about those because they are not necessarily sins in themselves. But Edward and George; their beauty and love, that is … that is … what is it? A sin? Yes, some would say so, he has said so, what Hickey and Gibson did was sinning, pure and simple, disgusting sin but Edward and George who were so warm, so loving, who fed him from their plates and let him sip from their cups, who cradled him in their arms and warmed him with their skin, how could that be a sin? How could they deserve to be damned for such gentleness, such love, such goodness? Yet if it was a sin for one, could it be not a sin for another? Is he wrong? Perhaps Mr Hickey is only damned because of his own evil, his wickedness. Perhaps when he caught them in that hold, he should have understood and yet then, he did not, he did not understand anything, he did not feel as he feels now, he did not see even though he thought he did, another sin, a sin of pride, such wicked, wicked pride …

He closes his eyes. His thoughts are so slippery. He used to be so clever once, able to keep things together. His maths was beyond compare. Now he is nothing but a shell, a skeleton that walks and sins and poisons the world and yet he must be supposed to be here for otherwise, the Lord would not have spared him. The Lord would not have let him live when so many others had died. But what is he here for? Why does he continue to live?

He has to sit down. His legs are too weak. He is too weak. There is sun here and he lifts his face to it, prays again, the same words. Or are they? Has he made a mistake? He goes back to the start to be safe. He must say the words right. He must get it right. He must … he must … otherwise …

He is back in the ice, climbing one of the seracs. They will be back with Edward again soon, if he has survived and he must have done, he must. Edward is strong, the advance party was good and the bear has gone. They will be there waiting and it will be lovely to be back together again, even if they will have to be careful. It was hard enough to be secret in cabins but in tents with Le Vesconte so close and the other men around, other officers … well, they will need to be careful. But George is confident they can hold each other, cuddle close in the dark and that will be pleasant enough, John is sure. A little piece of comfort in all of this, for the walk will be dark and cold and dangerous and though the Captain is confident, he is not sure, he is not sure they can make it -

A sin, that. Doubt. Doubting his Captain, his Captain who is God upon the ships, he is doubting God, he is a sinner, that is it, he has done this, he has brought the sin –

He jerks awake. His mind is spinning. He has slept in the sun and dreamed slippery blasphemies that he can only just remember. And to fall asleep during prayer. What is wrong with him, why is his body like this, why is he so weak and useless, why, why, why?

Despair is a sin. He must not despair. He must continue to pray and he will find the way. He will be guided to safety, he will be looked after and kept safe because God is forgiving, He has infinite forgiveness, to believe he is cut off from it is foolish and he just needs to keep trying. To keep trying again and again until he finds his way. He must find his way. He must find the steps that will lead him to the path of God.

He reads his Bible, whispering the words aloud to show he is truly taking them in. They must mean something. They must. They must be the guide, if he can only pick it out. Why does it not come together? Why is he not good enough? Why? Why? He knew once, he is sure he did. Sir John gave great speeches and he listened and understood them, didn’t he? He is sure he did. But Sir John is dead now, killed by ... by what? A devil? The devil? Captain Crozier spoke of it as a god and it could be a god, of course, for the Old Testament says “Thou shalt have no God before me.” not that there is no other god but that, is that blasphemy to think so? He cannot remember. Why can he not remember?

Lunch. Soup. He is able to sip that, even drink it in gulps sometimes, if it is not too hot and he is quick. He does not think there is any sin in that.

More prayers. Prayers and prayers and prayers. He must untangle what he is, what he has become. He must. There must be, there must be answers, there must be forgiveness.

(“Do you think anything can be forgiven?” George asked once. The three of them were together but not together, it was before that when John was simply aware of a craving for George’s companionship, a thrill at the way George smiled at him.

“Of course. God – ”

“What about by Man?” George interrupted. “You? Could you forgive me anything?”

“How egotistical to make it all about you,” Edward teased softly and George laughed in reply but his eyes were fixed on John’s, as though the answer mattered a great deal and John felt one of those strange warm flickers that sometimes came when he thought that something he was doing was important to George, that something he was doing could make a difference and he had to swallow before he spoke.

“George, I do not believe you could do anything I could not forgive, if you repented. I am a Christian after all.”

“Coward’s talk,” Edward said then, not unkindly but firmly. “You can’t hide behind God when it comes to matters of forgiveness. You may forgive on a spiritual level but on the physical one?”

John had felt uncomfortable then, as though Edward had laid a finger on his heart, revealed something he had not wanted revealed. He knew Edward did not mean it that way, that the conversation was an exploration, not intended to wound but he knew his greatest struggle was in forgiving sins, in accepting the weakness of others. He knew that he was found wanting. Could he forgive George anything? And if he could, was that a different kind of weakness, forgiving George because George was so precious in his heart? Ought he allow George to be so precious in his heart?

“Oh Edward, you make everything so serious,” George grumbled and Edward snorted.

“You turned the conversation to forgiveness for your terrible sins, of which I have no doubt are many and varied!”

“Oh, no so varied you know, although once – ”

“Do not share your sordid stories!” John interrupted and both the other men laughed but it was a kind laugh, not a cruel one and John smiled at them both and forgot the confusion Edward had sparked inside him.)

He moves around his little rooms, straightening everything. He needs everything to be tidy, arranged perfectly, just as they were before on the ship. Everything must be clean. Cleanliness is next to Godliness and he needs to get closer to God. He needs to. He must. He must. He had a cleaner for a while but he could not bear seeing another person in the house. Now he does what he must himself and a man drops off supplies for him once a week. He must be alone. As alone as he can be. Being around people so often, getting to know them so well, might that not have been a sin too? Or a start of a sin?

Edward and George did not think so. He quivered with fear one night as he lay between them and a lightning storm raged outside. George teased him for fearing the lightning but Edward seemed to know without speaking that it was not the lightning John had remembered to dread. He was supposed to be a good man and yet here he lay, naked between two other men, sodomy was sinful, it was and yet he did not feel sinful there, just loved and completed and protected. Edward put their foreheads together, began to murmur a prayer and John joined in the words. They had felt good then. Warm words, proper ones that meant something, that made him believe and trust. George had stroked his shoulders, spoken as well and after all three of them had said “Amen.” he kissed the back of John’s neck and whispered “Dearest John.” That was all. It had been all he had needed. He had known – or thought he knew – that he was safe. Safe and loved by man and God.

God, please. Please show me the path to forgiveness. Please. Please. Please. Please. I will do better. I will. I will, if you only show me how.

His dinner. He tries to eat more then. Bread, fruit, cold chicken. He cannot eat red meat. It makes him vomit. It could be anything. George ate of man’s flesh. He had to. He would have died. He wept over it over and over, apologised on his knees. Did he still pray, as John did? Or had he attained the forgiveness that John so craves? Surely he must have. George is a good man. George will be able to atone. They will be forgiven. They must be. But what if God is not forgiving them? Are his prayers for them enough? He must not stint on those prayers either. It could be a sin to be selfishly focused on himself and not them. It is important to try and save Edward and George, more important than saving himself. His people. His fellow lieutenants. His partners. His soul made into two pieces, placed in other bodies for him to love and adore because oh, he loved and adored them. The nights in their bunks, pleasuring them, being pleasured ... he remembers his wanton begging and them never denying him, he remembers pleasing them too, listening to Edward gasp his name heavily, George telling him he was good, he was amazing, he was doing wonderfully ...

Sin. Sin. Sin. All around him.

He kneels on the ground again, lowers his head and begins the dull litany of prayers that surely one day will guide him to salvation.

*

He dreams of the ice.

It is all around him, cracking and shifting. He knows he must stand straight and tall but his feet cannot find purchase. The men are nearby, he must look right but he cannot, he cannot do it. If Edward or George were beside him ... but he does not know where they are. They are lost somewhere within the ice. He ought to try and find them but when he looks down, he sees the ice is turning red. His wounds are bleeding. If he tries to walk, he will die. He cries out for help but all he can hear is the cracking, groaning ice and he realises that he is alone and there is nobody and perhaps there will never be anybody ever again.

*

Each week, the man he pays comes to his little cell to deliver supplies and the letters that he has been sent. There are not many. He does not know what to do with them when they come. It is so hard to read anything these days and when he has the energy, he knows it ought to be the Bible that he peruses and examines, looking for the perfect phrases that will help him find his way.

Today, there is a letter from Captain Crozier. John recognises his sharp writing. He cannot ignore a letter from the Captain, it would be wrong, a sin, the Captain is God on ship, the Captain is God, the Captain ...

His fingers tremble on the paper. He lowers his head for a moment, reciting a psalm. He remembers the psalms. They were beautiful to him, once. He loved to sing them. He loved to sing. When was the last time that he sang? He cannot remember. He supposes that it does not matter.

The Captain’s letter is short and to the point. He reminds John that he has invited him several times and John has always demurred but now, he will not take no for an answer. John will come to see him and if he does not, Crozier will come up himself and drag John out.

John almost laughs at it, not because he believes it to be a joke, but because he can hear Crozier’s voice rapping out the demands in his head. It is strangely real, almost as though the Captain shouts at him through the paper. Perhaps he does. The Captain is God. God can speak from anywhere. Is this then a message from God? A command from the Lord that must be obeyed? If it is, he will obey, of course, he is a good man, he is, he obeys his Lord but what if he is wrong? What if this is a temptation, a lead to sin? The devil speaks sweet words, he knows it. If he is wrong, the sin miasma will only worsen and he will be punished and others around him will be punished, he must, he must make the right choice but what is it? What is it?

He sinks to his knees, prays and prays until he almost cannot remember why he is praying. Another sin, losing his attention. He is a disgrace. He is unGodly. He is imperfect and dirty and should be punished, he should be but why must others be? Why does he know nothing? He used to know so much but this is his punishment for that knowledge, perhaps, for the sin of arrogance and pride, yes, sins, so many sins, he must ... he must ... but the Captain is God. Can he deny the Captain? If he does, will the Captain come here? The Captain must not come here. The Captain must not see his little shack, his bare rooms. The Captain must not. He will not understand. He will try to make John sin. Better to go, to keep the Lord’s secrets here and make sure that he serves his Captain appropriately. Then he can return. He can be safe. He must be safe. Then the Lord will speak to him again, he’ll find it, he’ll find peace, he will, he will, he will –

He gets off his knees, looks at the letter again, smoothing his hand over the writing. Yes. Yes, he shall go. It will be good. If it is the temptation of the devil, he will be able to defeat it and that will help. If not, he will act in another way. And if this is the will of the Lord, he will have done well. He will please and perhaps some more of the pain could fade away and the sin will be gone.

*

He tries not to let the Sin of Vanity hit him when he dresses for his journey but it is a little hard. Thinking of the Captain reminds him of how he used to look. He was smart, once. His clothes fitted him well. He took a certain degree of pride in making sure that he looked well enough in his clothes, believed it to be a sign of his strength and a good way to lead. Now, his clothes are all plain and they hang off him in a way that shocks him. It is not that he has not known he is thin, he has been thin for a long time but he is unappealingly thin, sickly thin. The Captain will worry. He does not wish the Captain to worry. This visit must go well, it must, it needs to be good so the Captain will not worry and will be happy and John continue to atone and he will free everyone from sin, he will free them all, keep them safe, he must, he must but he cannot put weight on, he cannot. Perhaps he can lie, say he has been ill, it is only a small lie, the littest lie ... but lying is a sin, isn’t it and he has told so many lies, so many terrible lies, sins all sins, he must pray, he must, he must pray to the Lord for understanding, he must pray and .. and ... perhaps he can do something to the clothes? Make them a little presentable?

“I look terrible, don’t I?” George says sadly, when they are on the ship to return them to England. John does not quite understand why he is saying it. George looks perfect because he is alive and John had long believed him dead. Yes, he is thin and weary but he is there, beautiful as an angel.

“You’ll look better soon,” Edward says. He sounds almost himself again, almost the man John remembers him being. “Both of you. We, we will be eating better now. Fresh fish, just think of that!”

John tries to think of it but the idea makes his stomach roil and he huddles down in the bunk. George seems to sense it, sits down next to him, strokes his face.

“We’ll have them make you a soup,” he says. “Something salty and hot, yes? It’ll be so good for you. You will eat it, won’t you?”

John finds himself smiling, leaning into George’s fingers. He has given himself to these men, given body and soul entirely and it is a wonder to him still. He nods obediently and is delighted when George’s face lights up in a beaming smile. He is missing teeth but John does not care. He is there with them and they are going home.

He blinks, remembering he is home – such as it is. He did not think of what home would mean. What it would be. He did not think of what he would have to do. It is important, of course. He must do it right. He must atone. He has done so much wrong, he must fix it all, must, must, must –

He leaves his clothes as they are. He must not lie to the Captain. The Captain will be distressed but John will be able to explain it, make it clear. Captain Crozier was never very Godly, not like Sir John, but he was good enough to understand. He will understand. He must understand.

*

The journey is terribly uncomfortable. He has never liked journies at the best of times and this is not. He cannot stop feeling on display, as though he is being watched, judged. Of course, all are being watched, judged, the Lord is always looking and no man should care about the views of other men but he does because he knows they see him. They see him and they know him and they know he is not right. He is a Sinner and it shows all over him. And there is too much time to think. He tries to pray but knowing others are around him makes it harder than ever to keep the words in his mind. He must not be distracted and yet he is, he is distracted by the people, the sounds, the movements. He hears voices and thinks it is the men that were left behind on the ice, even though it cannot be so. He forgets where he is, then remembers with a start. He tells himself Jesus is with him but it does not feel true. So little feels true. Once he was so sure. So sure he knew the Lord’s desires, so sure he knew how to fit into the world. Now he has committed sins he does not know are sins and done things that should be sins but he is not sure are. He has survived hell but he does not understand how. He does not know how and he knows that he did not deserve it and his mind crawls with too much knowledge and not enough.

The Captain’s house is small and pleasant looking but more luxurious than John’s. He forces himself to know at the door, to stand stiffly to attention, as though he is a sailor again. When Jopson answers the door, it is like being back on the Terror and for a moment, he is there, the groan of the ice, the creak of the wood, the sound of the men ...

He blinks firmly. He must not slip away, here. It is important to show the Captain that he is well and understands and is atoning properly. Jopson is looking at him with that polite smile but Jopson is clever. Jopson sees a lot.

“Come in, sir.”

“I am sorry I am early,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse, raspy. He has not used it often. He wonders if he should clear his throat, decides against it. He does not want to draw attention to it. He allows Jopson to take his coat, follows Jopson to a small sitting room.

“John. Ah, for God’s sake man, what have you done to yourself?!”

John dips his head, ashamed. He was foolish to think he would be able to conceal anything. He must be open, that is all, that must be what is required, openness, honesty, proof that he is doing all right, despite it all, proof, proof that he has not turned from God, that he never, ever will, despite everything, that he will get back to God ...

“John? Oh for ... come and sit down, lad, you look like you’re going to drop where you stand. Have you put any weight on at all?”

“I, I am ... I do not know. I don’t ... pay attention to such things.”

That sounds the right sort of answer. The correct way to consider it. It is not important, not when it comes to spiritual cleanliness. But Captain Crozier does not look as though he thinks it is important. In fact, he is frowning.

“Is nobody paying attention to such things for you, then? I thought at least your family – ”

“I am not staying with them,” John says, shaking his head. “I am living alone, currently, as I contemplate what to do next.”

Crozier’s face does not relax at this. He sighs, shakes his head.

“Thomas, the tea, please. And some of that dumpling thing, John clearly needs it.”

Jopson hurries away. John wonders if he ought to refuse the “dumpling thing.” Would that be the right thing to do? Or would it be rude? Rudeness is not a sin in itself but directing that rudeness can be wrong, he must be polite, he must ... he ...

“I should have dragged you up here soon,” Crozier says, voice more gentle now. “John, tell me, what have you been doing to yourself?”

“Nothing, sir. I, I live a good life.”

“A good life according to who, exactly? You certainly don’t eat good food!”

“I, I do, sir, I ... I still find it hard, sometimes, to eat. I ... my wounds ... ”

“Those wounds should be totally healed by now, there’s no reason they should still cause trouble!” Crozier says, sounding so much like his old, moody self that John finds it oddly relaxing, even as he cringes from the words that once again, show that somehow, nobody understands.

“Not all wounds are in the body.” Jopson’s voice is quiet. He puts a bowl on the table before John, a bowl filled with some sort of stew. John wants to thank him for understanding but all he can see is the meat beneath the dumplings and his stomach is contracting.

“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t. It, it is not, I can’t, please sir, please, please ... ”

Jopson removes the bowl. He gestures at the Captain to remain silent, a gesture that is really against the natural order of things but then, they are not on a ship any longer, they do not have to obey the rules except that they do, they do, rules are important, rules are vital, why, why aren’t they thinking, why aren’t they, do they pray, he needs to pray, he needs to but if he does, the Captain will see and he’ll know, what should he do, what should he do?

“Here.” Jopson’s voice is very quiet but very firm, cutting through the swirl of thoughts. “Drink some tea, sir. I’ll make something with the apples, I think you’ll enjoy that. They are still fairly fresh.”

It occurs to John that he does not know when the apple picking must have been. He does not really know what season it is. It has not been important. He nods to Jopson, sips the tea. It is hot. He is not sure that it tastes of anything besides that. Crozier is watching him though, so he takes another sip.

“John, you’re wasting away,” the Captain says, more gently now. “Why is that happening to you, lad? Why have you been hiding? You haven’t written to anyone but me – did you not want to know how Edward and George were doing?”

Oh, his heart aches to hear their names. Again, it is like being on the ship, the Captain giving orders, all of them obeying. So easy, for a while, until the knots had all come undone. Would it be such a sin to ask if they are well? Surely, it cannot be, it is just him caring for his fellow man, the Captain wants him to ask, doesn’t he?

“Are they well?” he rasps and the Captain nods.

“They have both struggled,” he says. “Edward did not know what to do with himself and so did nothing and George did not know what to do with himself and so did too much. You have fallen into a different category, haven’t you? You do something but not healthily.”

John cannot answer this and so he does not try. He tries instead to make sense of what the Captain has said of his fellows. Edward must have sunk into himself again, the way he sometimes does. George must have tried to hide behind happiness and words. Oh, his prayers have not been answered then, he wanted it good and easy and happy for them, he wanted them well ...

He sips a little more of the tea, stares down at it, the moving liquid dully. He should not have come. He has brought something bad. He will only make things worse for everyone. But he must try and do better. He must. He must fix things, he must, God has given him a chance and he must ... he must ...

“Put that down before you drop it.” The Captain’s voice is gentle. “Oh, John.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I did not want you to worry. I did not ... I ... I am doing well, I am, I ... I am atoning, you see, I am atoning and I have to be sure that I am not sinning but it is hard, it is so hard and I get so tired but I am trying, I pray every day, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong but I am trying.”

Crozier is staring at him, he knows it, even if he is not meeting the man’s eyes. Jopson is staring at him too. Eyes on him, all the time, knowing his sins, knowing ... knowing. He should not mind. But he does.

“I cannot keep a grip on my thoughts,” he whispers. “I try to focus, I know if I could do, I would be able to atone better, I would be able to ... to ... to fix it all but ... but ... I forget what I am doing, I get lost, I ... I pray but I do not know that I am heard, I know that is blasphemy but ... but ... ”

“Eating would help,” Jopson says. “A man can never keep a grip on a thought with no food inside him.”

“I do eat. I do, I ... but I cannot ... I ... I don’t know how to do it.”

He feels a child. The Captain shakes his head gently.

“John, why are you trying to do it alone? You have family, I know you do. You have friends. You’re telling me there’s nobody that would stand by you? Nobody who’d sit and give you a drink, make sure you’re eating?”

“But I, I need to ... I need to hear God,” John says desperately. “If I am talking to others, if I am with them, I might, I might ... I have to know, I have to ... I have ... ”

The Captain leans out, puts a hand on John’s arm, silencing him. His gaze is direct. When he speaks, his voice is blunt.

“You aren’t hearing God, John. You said as much yourself. You’re still in the ice, aren’t you? Sitting in the cold and trying to see if you deserved it. But you didn’t, John. None of us did. It just happened. If it were a test, it was a test of what men we would become. Not punishment for the men we were.”

The words are solid. They seem true. Could they be true? Could it be that John had not understood the message? Could he have been making a mistake? But then, then he has become something bad, he has sinned and let people down, he has ... he has ...

He puts his head in his hands. The Captain’s hand is still on his arm and he squeezes.

“You have to trust your friends, John. You have to trust the people that love you. Let them be God’s words to your ears.”

John feels as though he wants to weep but he does not know how. He does not know if he dares lift his head. He does not know if he dares believe. The Captain knows so much but he is not Sir John. He is not pious, he is not a true believer, he could be wrong, he could be ...but is this flurry madness? The inability to think, as Jopson has suggested?

“How can I know?”

The cry tears from his throat, loud enough to hurt. The Captain does not seem to mind. He squeezes John’s arm slightly.

“I took a liberty, John. I trust you will find some Christian charity to forgive me if required. I think there are others who can tell you God’s will better than I.”

The sound of a door opening. Puzzled, John lifts his head.

They do not look as they did when he last saw them but he knows them at once. Both have filled out, George more than Edward, though Edward’s hair is much improved and George’s remains thinner than it was when they began their voyage. They no longer look haggard, suffering wraiths. They are there. They are real.

“Oh John,” George says and his voice is full of shock and love. “Oh darling.”

And then John is weeping, weeping wild tears that seem to come in an agonising torrent and they are there, they are with him, their arms around him. George kisses his cheek, his neck, a rainfall of soothing kisses. Edward stays still, strong, a weight against John’s side, holding him down, holding him safe. Their fingers tangle with his and he clings to them, gasping for air. They are here and they are real and God has not struck him down, indeed, God suddenly seems nearer than He ever has before. His splintered soul no longer hurts him. It is softened, rounded, completed.

“I am sorry!” he chokes out. “Oh, I am sorry!”

“Don’t be.” Edward’s voice is solid, calm. “Don’t be sorry, John. You did nothing wrong and you will be all right. We will nurse you back to health.”

“I cannot eat,” he says. “I cannot. I do not know what is wrong with me, I ... ”

“We will feed you,” George says and though his voice trembles, it is with love, not fear or repulsion. “We will feed you, dear heart, as Edward did before, if we must. We will chew it for you and have you swallow until you are well. But you will be well. You will.”

John closes his eyes, lets his body go limp between them. They are real. They are real and surely, surely if God did not want this, He would not have allowed it? Surely this cannot be wrong? When he lay in their arms, he felt closer to the Lord, closer to understanding than ever before. Surely, surely, it cannot be wrong?

“Would you pray with me?” he whispers and they do, their voices overlapping as they speak words that he has mumbled dully over and over when he has been alone. The words no longer seem cold and dry. They are bright, like butterflies in a patch of sunlight and John can see them spiralling up to Heaven and he knows that he has been heard.

*

They keep him in George’s rooms to heal him. The landlady tuts at their cramped living space but she does not see the harm in it. She brings rich things for John to eat; soups and broths and soft, sweet things that Edward and George coax into him, bite by bite. Sometimes, he eats them himself. Sometimes, he finds himself shuddering and crying and on those days, they feed him with spoon or, as George promised, with their own hands and mouths. His mind seems to become clearer, his focus sharper. He finds himself able to sit up and listen as Edward reads or George talks. He feels present in a way that he has not for so long. It is strange, almost unnerving, as though parts of his life have slipped by him; first in a horrid, endless nightmare and then in a warm, strange dream. But now he is awake. Now he is alive.

With life comes a different type of pain. Memories that seemed dull now shine more brightly, good and bad. He remembers the glory of the beginning of the voyage so powerfully that it makes him long for it again, then remembers the horror of the ice and feels cast down almost to hell. He remembers the fate of the men, the suffering of them, men he liked or thought brave. That though they have survived, so many did not. He sees this has left marks on Edward and George too. George still weeps in the night and his hands still shake. Edward is often prone to being overwatchful, alarmed by small noises. John longs to comfort them, realises he cannot. Realises too that this is how they feel about him. It is a strange thing, to love and be loved. Joy and pain, intermingled. He did not imagine it wold be this way – but then he never imagined how it would be to truly love.

It is a sunny day and he is sitting by the window, half-asleep. He can hear Edward and George happily arguing about something they have read and it is a pleasant thing to hear, a sign of their deep affection for each other that they can quarrell and make up in the same sentences. Their words do not really matter, just the fact that they are speaking is a comfort and John lets his eyes close and dozes for a while, drifting on a sea of peace.

He suddenly realises that silence as fallen and he has a moment of fear, fear that they have left him, fear that something has happened. But when he turns, he sees they have not left him. Instead, they are kissing each other, deep and silent, George running his fingers through Edward’s hair, Edward’s hands stroking George’s back. They have petted and held John, kissed him gently but not like this, not with this passion and John feels a sudden stir in him, a memory of moments that seemed lost, seemed hundreds of years ago. He watches them, delights in their gentleness with each other and yet also the passion of it, the pressure of their bodies together, the movement of them, so perfectly balanced. He feels heat in his belly, even a little stir at his loins. Nothing down there has worked in so long that the movement makes him gasp and Edward and George jerk apart, looking guilty.

“Sorry,” Edward mumbles, blushing.

Sorry? Do they think they need to be sorry? Sorry for loving each other? Sorry for reminding him of how it was when they were all together? Have they been hiding it from him, thinking that he would hate it? Do they think - ?

George smiles. He understands without words, just as he seemed to that first time, so long ago when their play became real. He steps to John’s side, kneels down, looks up at John, then puts his hands on John’s knees. Then he kisses John’s lips and John feels a rush of glory. It is the only word for it. His heart beats fast in his chest as he kisses George’s back, cups George’s face with his hands, strokes the soft skin of his cheeks. He has never wondered what it would be like to touch beauty before but now, not he can see it is possible and this, this is it. Or nearly. Nearly. And George knows too because he reaches out one of his hands and then Edward is with them, leaning up to kiss the side of John’s jaw and John wonders if it is possible to die of happiness. If he does, he knows he will go straight to Heaven, a thought that should be blasphemous but is not. He believes in God and he believes that this cannot be wrong and that he has been spared to live and love and be happy.

“Love me,” he breathes and they do, with hands and tongues and whispered words of adoration that he returns with joy.

*

He curls drowsily between them after. There is space to do so here, space to lie stretched out, space for them all, even in this fairly small bed. Edward and George are both holding him gently, leaning against him and he is deliciously warm.

“This place is too small,” George says. He sounds drowsy too. “Or will be soon.”

“Do you have a suggestion?” Edward’s voice is content. He knows the answer is forthcoming. George always has ideas.

“Well, we should have a cottage together,” George says happily. He rubs John’s side lazily. “Somewhere out of London. I don’t want to be here any more, it’s too crowded. I want fresh air. Somewhere beautiful, somewhere green. I do love green. A garden. Some small village or town where we could be private. We could grow flowers and vegetables ... ”

“And who will look after them, exactly?” Edward is laughing a little now.

“We will! I’ll do my bit, I promise! Imagine eating things we’ve grown ourselves!”

“I don’t quite see you as a natural farmer, George.”

“You’ll help me. And we’ll have someone in to clean and help cook and people can visit us and we’ll be able to be alone at nights, just the three of us, we can ... we can be ourselves. We can be us.”

Us. Yes, John thinks, they will be themselves there. They will be old comrades, living together, quite natural to the outside world but together, they can love and be happy and experience everything they need to. John will never need to hide his hunger for them, his love and they will never have to do so either. He can almost see their home in his mind’s eye. He and George will go to a church together and pray and Edward will wait at home for them. They will grow things as George has said; flowers and fruits both. There will be a riot of colour and chaos and they will be happy. They will have separate bedrooms for show and their real bedroom for love. Not a cramped and crammed place but a space their love can expand in and be beautiful.

“Yes,” he says, lifting his head and taking George’s hand in his.. “Yes, that’s what we’ll do, George. That’s what we’ll do.”

Edward does not speak. He presses closer and his hand closes around both of theirs. John looks at their fingers, clasped and joined and connected and he doesn’t feel a trace of doubt. He may not understand, he may never understand but this is right and he knows it more than he has ever known anything.

They will be together. And whatever happens after that, it will be the most wonderful blessing in the world.