Leading, he takes care not to trip them up, and to make sure he's the one holding their balance when the ship leans. It would be better to be doing this on land, in a parlor with a crackling fire and the curtains drawn, able to bump into a settee or onto soft rugs on the floor. But that life is not for them— as men who seek companionship with other men, and as sailors. In those respects this is a luxury, and something neither of them would ever be afforded without Francis' rank and post here on Terror.

She is a tough, proud, discreet ship. Holding all of their secrets safe within her, willing to take them to the bottom of the sea before a betrayal. A better lover than most people ever could be, and one who will cradle them as best she can the whole way out into the cold and dark, and back home again.

Thomas deserves that care. He is impossibly sweet, and Francis is very happy he can share the spoils of his privileged position with him. He never imagined himself here; he wonders if Thomas ever did.

"You may," he tells him, and flexes their fingers where they're linked, affectionate. So charmed to be asked. "And you may ask me anything, as much as you like."