Archive of Our Own

It’s John’s hands that finally do him in. Or rather, John’s fingers. Deftly sewing a button onto one of the lieutenant’s shirts, thread caught between his lips. Until he’d seen that, Harry could mostly keep his thoughts about John respectable. Mostly. Of course, his mind wanders a little whenever John bends to get a book from the stack by his bunk. And he’s had a dream or two that left him sweating and sticky. For the most part though, he’s had control of himself. Kept his longing for John as innocent as he can and not let himself think on it when taking care of his needs. Now, though, with the image of John’s nimble fingers working a needle and manipulating thread still fresh in his mind, it’s all he can do to keep himself in check until days end.

There’s not much privacy to be found aboard ship, especially not at his rank, but if one is quick enough about it and not so frantic that the hammock creaks, it’s possible for a man to relieve himself discreetly while others sleep or do the same. Harry’s preferred method is on his back, knees drawn up to make a tent of his blankets under which he can work himself freely. The wait for a few men to begin snoring so as to better conceal the sounds is spent gently squeezing himself, and running fingers over his sack while imagining John’s nimble fingers in place of his own.

John wouldn’t go about such things quickly, he thinks. John would take his time with a lover, explore him properly, take him apart piece by piece. Find all the ways to please him that he could. Henry’s not enough experience to know what would please him, not beyond the obvious, so his body would be undiscovered country for John to claim as his own. He closes his eyes and imagines John watching the path his fingers take, speaking encouragement in the same soft, coaxing tone as he uses in their lessons. Those sharp eyes taking note of every reaction, cataloguing it for the next time.

Somewhere in the hold, some blessed soul gives an almighty grunt of a snore, and Harry takes the chance to roll his palm over his weeping tip with a hiss. He wonders if John would find him lacking. He’s about average, he thinks, at least based on what he’s seen when the men are changing or pissing or suffering morning stiffness. Maybe a bit less. God help him but he hopes that what he’s got would be enough for John.

John’s is a bit more than average, at least going by the outline Harry’s managed to catch sight of when he sits. That, or he has particularly big stones. Both ideas seem equally appealing. He wants his hand on it. Wants to know how it’d fit in his grip, if stroking it would feel anything like stroking his own. John’s smile is so handsome, so John’s face must be stunningly beautiful when he’s being touched. God, how Harry wants to touch him. Not just his prick, but everywhere. His broad chest, that he hopes is hairy. His legs, lean and strong. His hands. His perfect bloody hands. Harry wants to suck every one of his fingers, get them wet and slick so John can push them into him. He doesn’t know what that feels like, and trying it in his hammock would be too much of a risk, but he knows he wants it. Especially after today, after seeing how John’s fingers so carefully handled the needle. They’d not hurt him, he’s certain of it. John would be gentle, work him open slowly, show him why some men enjoy buggery as much as they do.

Or maybe John prefers things the other way, maybe he could watch John open himself up and make space inside for Harry’s prick. He’s such a gorgeous arse, Harry wants to see it bared to him, spread open as John brings himself pleasure with his own fingers. He’d teach Harry how to do it, patient like when he teaches him to write, showing him first then letting Harry try himself.

Christ, why hasn’t he said anything? Why hasn’t he admitted to John that the longing he’s certain he’s spotted in John’s dark eyes is mutual? If he could just find the words for it, he wouldn’t be imagining John’s touch, he’d be remembering it. It’s fear that’s stopping him, of course. John’s too bloody noble, too likely to push him away and tell him he’s too young, too inexperienced with his own sex to be sure of what he wants, too good a sailor to go tainting his reputation already. Harry isn’t sure he could take the rejection, not when his desire for John extends far beyond lust. He wants to take rooms with him on land, be as a husband to him, a wife. Be woken by John’s touch every morning and fall asleep sated and drained each night.

He bites on the flesh of his thumb and pulls harder at himself, as fast as he can manage without rustling the blanket and drawing undue attention. Imagines John doing the same in his little cabin, those fingers wrapped around his prick as he imagines Henry. Ecstasy is so close now, and he pulls his hand from his mouth to shove it beneath the blanket with a handkerchief. He wouldn’t need it if he were with John, John would swallow him down and lick him clean, looking up at him with the well-concealed cheekiness Harry knows dwells beneath the serious exterior.

He gasps, toes clenching as it hits him, panting his joy softly and feeling the pulse of himself in his hand. The image of John spilling too rolls through his mind. John, spilling over his own chest. John, spilling over Harry. The thought burns through him and pulls another spurt forth with such aching pleasure as to force him to bite his blanket.

Finally it subsides, leaving him weak limbed and shivering. He wants John here, now, stroking the sweaty hair from his forehead and whispering to him, in that way he has of taking the words of other men and expressing them such as they become his own and all the more beautiful for it. He wants to pull John close and stumble through his own declarations, watch that darling unsure smile he gives at praise brighten his face. Kiss away any trace of uncertainty until John believes wholeheartedly how lovely Harry thinks him to be.

It is only partially the fog of satiated desire that has him resolving to declare himself. If John truly does not want him then so be it, at least in knowing so he might begin to find his way to acceptance. But if there is any chance at all of having John as his own, he has to take it. He cannot endure another day of John’s company and another night of his own without knowing.