Jamie isn't at all delicate, but Crozier worries (a light worry, but all the same) about him now and again. Put to harsh living too young. He's an aristocrat, to be sure, but cover his name up on his service record and you'd never know. Some modernists say civilized societies should not send children to war, he once opined over a dinner. It was not a popular remark.
But it was a long week. Nothing for it.
Jopson makes him smile. They have a comfortable routine by now, and they move easily around each other. His hands warm under the attention, and he feels it like a soporific; a luring thing, a siren song of giving up only half-undressed. No, no, forge ahead. Quick but not hurried, in companionable quiet.
Eventually, his voice very low—
"Get yours and sit with me a moment, will you?"
If he falls asleep before Jopson there'll be no end to trip hazards.
Their routine hardly changes belowdecks or not, and once he's sure Crozier's warmed up enough he helps him into his night clothes and has the fur back round his shoulders as soon as he can, with a mug of quickly cooling tea to press between his palms.
"Of course, sir."
And he does as told - makes up a cup for himself, a little hurried and slapdash, but tea is tea. It will be a warm welcome after a day out in the bitter cold. The tent helps to some degree, of course, but it is the arctic. But soon enough he settles beside the man, unable to help fussing the way he pulls the fur up higher on the man's shoulders.
"Are you well, sir?"
He still feels the ghost of Ross' hands on his cheeks, the glimmer and warmth of his smile - we're lucky. It leaves so many questions and makes Crozier's usual quiet feel leaden with something he doesn't recognize or understand. He can't help but glance back at the man cocooned in furs and quilts. Remembers the feeling of his hair on his brow as he saw him carefully placed into his cot.
"I didn't put honey in your tea, but if you think it might help, I'm happy to remake it, Captain."
"I'm grand, Jopson," is warm, faintly amused. Quiet enough not to disturb Ross, who lingers in twilight. Relax, kiddo. "I'm only hoping you'll humor me with your company for a spell."
Just sit with some tea. No conversation needed, no goal in mind. They have a few minutes while the tea's pleasantly warm, and Crozier will want to find unconsciousness as quickly as possible after, which means shuffling Jopson along with him. Might as well be complementary in their timing. He doesn't imagine anything as dire as Has no one ever simply wanted to sit with you?, but more thinks his steward is like a shark of diligence, perpetually in motion.
But there's no need, right this second. A more pressing need: just this. Companionable silence and knees knocking together. Chatting would risk waking up Jamie, so he doesn't bother whispering anything. When he's done, he gives Jopson a look—
Anything he can do to smooth things along, so they can all pass out? This is a different feeling than their introductory weeks, suspicious and reluctant to accept help. Reciprocal, instead.
Sitting still, warm cup in hand, and the quiet of the tent takes time to acclimate to. No, if the question had been posed, Jopson has not been asked to simply sit for a while. There are always things needed from him, responsibilities to fulfill, lists to be made and checked. But here they are in the quiet - enjoying tea, enjoying the knocking of knees and quiet looks.
It makes him realize just how tired he is, too. Down to the bones, really. Perhaps not as much as his Captain, but it's there - the fatigue of many months finally catching up. He's nearly done with his tea when he catches the man's eye - and smiles warmly. A small shake of his head and he rises, taking the man's cup from him. He can wash it up properly in the morning. He quickly drinks down the dregs of his own so as not to waste it (and to taste the touch of honey he's come to enjoy in these moments).
He doesn't bother with layers like he had with the other two men - simply takes the time to undress. Never would he ask the man to help him - even when he was beaten and sore. When he shrugs his shirt of, the marks are dwindling, but a few look like they've taken, dry skin making the welt a semi-permanent discoloration. It will ease over time when the bruise wears off.
It's bitterly cold, though, and he pulls on a thick jumper instead of his nightshirt with his long drawers. Stupidly, though, he's gotten it twisted, fumbling with a sleeve himself much like Ross had.
"You can lie down, sir - I'll be there in a moment." Whispered, of course.
He has to turn the lamp out, set out their things for tomorrow, a laundry list of things. Well, once he can get the sweater twisted round correctly. It's soft against his skin, though - an old thing, worn in the elbows, the rich green of the color fading over years of wear.
Francis puts the light out, and then shuffles over to rescue his steward. Haunted by bruises, and how beautiful he looks besides; easier to be in darkness, which he is adept at moving in. Years of night watch and navigating inky waters. Once Jopson is righted, he catches him around the middle and herds him to the cots. Gentle but firm.
"So I do."
And so do you.
He knows what he's got ahead of him in the morning, and so Jopson is bullied in the middle again. Crozier will be up with or before him, having stuck it into his mind to do so, in need of getting ahead of weather patterns for certain observations. Ross can sleep in, and be poked awake at a respectable, but not brutal hour. As is his right as ranking officer.
If he could hold them both he would. Check heartbeats, and toes and fingertips. Somewhere forever warm and comfortable. But this will do and do well enough to be a luxury besides. He doesn't want to presume, but he doesn't want to let Jopson fold in on himself if he has the option to clutch him close, and so that's what he does. Rails between them, but the blankets laid overtop of the cots dampen it enough not to be a pain. He holds one of his steward's hands against his chest, tucked under thick layers of everything, warming it.
A knot tightens behind his ribs, knocking up against the beat of his heart. Ross' words, his hands, his smile. Crozier's quiet, his smile, his hand. He feels a little like he's under water, like he can't make sense of the hazy comfort wrapped up in tent flaps, fur, and canvas. A whirlwind, being urged to bed before his tasks are complete, before the night feels fully settled and right. A creature of routine, he doesn't always know what to do when he's pulled from it.
The warmth of Crozier's chest helps - his fingers flexing against the fabric of his night clothes. He blinks up at the man in the dark, searching for his eyes, his nose, his mouth. There's too much distance, but he doesn't want to leave the sleeping Ross, either. Better to stay close to both, isn't it?
That knot - annoying and pressing and real - makes him act selfishly. (Something he'll feel guilt over later). Pushing across the rails so he's taking more of the brunt of it, he presses into Crozier's space, the hand on his chest curling into the fabric of his clothes to hold him there just long enough that he can kiss him - chaste, but lingering, yearning.
"I agreed to this abduction with the understanding I'd be given a feather bed," he murmurs, a little sleepy and sweet. "I suppose this will do, sir."
He wants to kiss him again. Wants to hold his hands. Wants to press against his chest and curl into his warmth and disappear.
The kiss bewitches him. A fool you are, he tells himself. Of course a young, beautiful man has a dazzling effect. Folly of all old men, and not everyone is as blessed as Jamie, perpetually stunningly handsome, attracting so many admirers he's begun to hand them out to other people. Sophy wanted James and took the consolation offer; Jopson, hired by him in the first place.
He doesn't resent it. Life could be miserable, instead he doesn't have to be lonely.
(Except when he is.)
Go to sleep, he instructs himself, and then feigns ignorance by leaning forward to tangle closer to Jopson and kiss him again. He chases that taste of yearning, opens his mouth to it, gives what he can. Whatever he has left at the end of this long, cold day. They're going to nod off in minutes no matter what they do, so surely there's no harm in this.
"A feather mattress is still a feather mattress, after all."
Penguin or goose or any fowl. Anything this man laid him down on he'd have willingly, take what he can get of these warm, perfect moments. It's easier in the dark to think they're elsewhere, away from the bitter cold of the arctic, the ship - that this could be anywhere warm and comfortable. He imagines Crozier bathed in the light of a fire crackling in a hot stove, or in a hearth. That these aren't cots, but indeed a feather mattress somewhere.
(His father always told him he needed to tame his imagination - focus on the work at hand - that folly would lead nowhere if duty and diligence didn't stand first in line).
But Crozier kisses him and he welcomes him, one arm wrapping round his neck, free hand on his chest, legs tangling, arching closer to him. Crozier tastes of tea and spice, a flavor he chases with slow, open-mouthed kisses. Better that his tea was weak and quick - the warmth of this here and now will be all he needs.
When the ship sails back to England and the boat docks, this is what he'll take with him.
To be responded to like this— it could wake him up again. Well, maybe not. Perhaps if he were Jopson's age. Crozier is far from decrepit, but there's little use barking up a tree that'll see him embarrass himself. Still. It stirs something in him, a feeling that tempts a slippery slope downward into fancies he has no business indulging in.
It's alright. Safe in the dark, in this place away from the world. He kisses him with intent, and affection, and longing. He kisses him until his consciousness starts to wane, and all they can do is trade soft, sighed nudges and nuzzles on the fade out into settling in comfortably all a-tangle.
He doesn't dream.
Crozier wakes when he means to, in the morning. It is a painful thing to leave the nest they've all made, Ross cuddled up at Jopson's back, and Jopson in turn clinging to him. He's careful about it, tucking them in together and slipping out as gracefully as he can (it's a task and a half but he manages it). He can do a day without a shave, his hair is fair enough for it, and though he misses Jopson's attentive hands on him now after becoming so used to it, he's perfectly capable of dressing himself. Breakfast will come later, no use bogging himself down to soon. A trick to slip out without disturbing either of the two men still abed, but he goes anyway, and finds just one midshipman and a lieutenant scraping themselves out. Good enough. He makes a rasped joke about short straws, and the humor seems to bolster them against the obnoxiously bright cold. To work. He'll be back in a few hours to rouse Captain Ross, if Jopson hasn't made short work of it by then. But maybe not; maybe he'll get lucky and find them both still abed, with Jopson lured to inaction by the familiar wiles of just how comfortable James can make someone.
Jopson dreams of warm seas and sunny skies. Occasionally, a phantom set of arms strong and rugged around his middle, hands on his back, in his hair - a myriad of mixed images that have him sleeping soundly and deeply. It means that when Ross snuggles up against him in the early morning he doesn't stir, turning into it instead, becoming a tangle of limbs and warmth.
He usually wakes to the rocking of the ship, the noises outside, the sounds of the belly of the beast waking. Here it's different - the stark quiet of the ice, the gentle puffs of the captains' breaths in the morning. He doesn't have any of those markers, wracked with fatigue from a whipping, a week of tending to a tired Captain, and now exhausted by the ice and cold. He's gotten himself pressed in against Ross' neck, nuzzled in, arms around the man, one hand having gotten stuck up the back of his night shirt - seeking warmth.
They look a sight together, no doubt, but he's pleasantly unawares. There's movement somewhere at the far reaches of his consciousness but it registers only as a flickering of candle light in his dream when it is in fact Crozier entering the tent. Ross stirs with nothing more than a grumble and a slow, slow turn in the covers. It's more a stretch, arms tightening around Jopson, legs tangling even further - the pair of them nearly inseparable in the mass of blankets and furs.
"Turn that bloody light out, Frank," comes a graveled mumble, though a quiet one - turned against Jopson's hair on a soft nuzzle. Thomas sleeps on, still and quiet.
"No such luck, Captain Ross," comes the reply (earning a grunt of complaint over the honorific), though his own voice is conversational, low, not overloud and needling as one might expect to come from an attempt to wake him. "You're still in the Antarctic, and you still have duties today."
Crozier pulls his hat off, sets it aside, then his gloves, and comes to sit next to Ross and observe the tangled pair. Good luck for him pulling through, light or no light. It warms him more than a fire to see, and he extends a hand to pass over Jamie's hair, stroking down his cheek, his jaw, smiling at him when he hums. Jopson next, dark and silky, tucked in close. The fur blankets make them seem like they've been eaten by a very lazy bear. A fairy tale one, not a horror story. Something a benevolent witch has done to keep them safe.
"You both needed the rest."
"And you, old man?"
"I'm fine."
"Mmn." Jamie looks at him. He can tell from the way his posture shifts just a little that he's flexing his feet, and resettling the way his arms are tucked around Jopson. Quieter: "He's special, you know."
"I do know."
They look at each other for a little while, Crozier's hand on his hair, thumb petting against his temple. Silent, but perfectly understood things pass between them. He leans down, then, and does what Jamie wants him to do, which is kiss him. A sigh of contentment greets him, and he kisses that from Ross' mouth, too.
The rumbling of voices, the shift of the warm, soft foundation beneath him. All signs that he shouldn't be shoving them off and enjoying his rest, the dreams, any of it. Duty, diligence, all of that. It's a slow rise to waking, one that's a little fumbling really - a shift of his head in against Ross' chest, the reach of his arm tighter round his middle. There's a sigh, the soft sounds of skin and sticky wet. He opens his eyes slowly, blearily observes the two men - feels immediately like he's stumbled upon something he shouldn't have.
These two love one another - it's been obvious from the firs time he suspected, even more now. It's a deep rooted thing. A thing he wishes he could reach and touch, trace the lines of it and find where it hits deepest. (He knows, of course - the heart, something more maybe. What must it feel like to have roots intertwined the way these two do?)
"M'apologies," a mumble as he tries to sneak away, to peel arms and legs from the trap of the other man's body. "I'll go fetch-"
Jamie tips his head back from the kiss at the interruption but holds onto Jopson, even with eyes burning and focused on Crozier.
"Hush now," the captain finally says and Jopson goes still, blinking sleepily and moving slowly, when Jamie's hand settles on his cheek. "You needed the rest."
A little jab there - you needed the rest, Crozier had said - two can play that very silly game. But the game doesn't matter when he leans down and slowly, slowly, kisses the dark haired man - a soft, slow thing that the steward can't make sense of. Can't make sense of the way he carefully leans into it, the way he wants to, maybe a foolish, childish gambit to taste even a hint of what the two captains share.
He's asked Jopson more than once, now, if it's alright. If it's not too much. He's told him that he has the final say, no matter what. But does that actually matter when he's a steward and the questions are being posed by his commanding officer? Now, both of them? No one to take shelter in if he didn't want it, nowhere to disembark and flee?
And yet he hears him. I imagined it was you the whole time. Crozier slides his hand over Jopson's cheek, feeling the way his jaw moves, the tendons there, as he returns Ross' kiss. Jamie is good at this, he knows. Like sinking into a warm bath. Watching them turns a latch inside of him that threatens far, far too much while he has duties to attend to. While anything. It is a sight that makes the threat of execution and even Abraham's hell seem laughable.
His thumb touches the corner of Jopson's mouth, catches some warm castoff of saliva from Jamie tipping in closer, slower, a sensual thing. He notices, his gaze cutting up in the lamplight to appreciate the fact that they're being watched. He breaks off a moment later, but it's only to mouth at Francis' hand. When he tips his head back, the encouragement is palpable. So Francis leans down, and catches his steward's mouth in a kiss, too.
The kiss does make him melt, the tension of a startled awakening turning into rounded shoulders and softened features. Enough that he leans up into the kiss, something low rumbling in his chest when Crozier touches him. Crozier. He's suddenly, intensely aware that his captain is watching, making white-hot sparks sing up his spine, make his feet flex, make his fingers twist in Ross' shirt.
Easy, though, to chase after Ross, to press his mouth against the man's jaw, his cheek - he's sure he can feel Ross smile, hear him chuckle, but Jopson can't be sure with the thunderous noise of his heart beat heavy in his ears. H
Crozier's kiss comes and Thomas wants nothing more - immediately yielding to him, pliable and hungry and wanting in the slow and sleepy hunger of it all. Made worse, too, by Jamie's roaming hands - a slide of a broad palm down his back to the meat of his ass. No squeezing, just palming lightly over it like an itch that can't be reached. Thomas reaches for Crozier's face, shoulder, anything.
Jamie doesn't waste time - mouthing at the older man's hand, licking at the thumb already slick with their saliva, then drop of a kiss against the soft spot beneath Crozier's ear as the other pair kiss.
Easily one of the most debauched things he's participated in of this decade, and it's just kissing, and they're in a tent, and he's fully clothed. Crozier kisses him, nearly gasping for how easily Thomas opens to him, how hungry he seems in response at the same time. It makes him want to lift up and get a knee on the configuration of cots, press him down, kiss him deeper, pin him there. And Jamie is licking over his neck, his jaw, putting teeth against his earlobe, all of it making every nerve ending light up like shotgun pellets hitting metal siding. Sparks, everywhere.
Jamie steals his mouth, after a moment. Francis cradles his steward's face, beautiful boy, presses fingers in his mouth. They swap again and they're still there alongside Jamie's tongue when he kisses Thomas; Francis watches this, commits it to memory, the look, the sound, the smell of everything sleep-warm coming to life.
Oh, what's the point of exploring or sailing, they could do this forever instead.
"Do we have time for me to suck your cock?"
That'll be seared into memory, too. Just where he wants it. Like a criminal being branded.
Alas.
"Not at all," Crozier says, rasped laughter in his voice. "And a heartbeat with this blanket tugged down and you'll lose all interest anyway."
Jamie groans, and not in an altogether amorous way.
"Both of you, up now."
A beautiful moment. Not ruined by its brevity. He kisses Ross' forehead, and Jopson's temple, and sits back with intent to help get everyone sorted.
Thomas can't discerne where he fits in this, only that right now it doesn't matter. Not with Crozier kissing him, the fingers in his mouth, Ross kissing him in a way that makes his toes curl against his calf. All of it so much at once, overwhelming and blissfully perfect - he's never done this before. Not with two men. Never - the threat and mess of it too difficult to cover up.
Do we have time for me to suck your cock?
Perverse that he wants to see it - even worse that he wonders how quickly his Captain would lose his resolve if they both had their mouths on him. (Even more debauched and foul. Who has he become out here on the seas? Or was he this man all along?)
"Yes, sir," he mutters, shocked back into reality when Crozier sits back. His face flushes and he peels himself from the furs, carefully placing them back round Ross. "I'll have the water ready for your shave, sit," a beat, like he realizes he shouldn't be the one giving orders. "If you wish. At the very least, Captain Ross, I'll see to you."
As exhilarating and freeing as the beautiful moment was - he feels like a madman. His mind turned over, spinning in time with the rhythm of his heart pumping too-hot blood through his veins. He's hardened some, too, but he lets the cold do some work.
"I forgot myself, my apologies, Captain."
Earnest, embarrassed, wired up tight for how easily his routine has gone off course.
"Don't apologize when we're the ones making a mess of your schedule," says Ross, stretching as he makes to get up. Slow about it, he reaches out and obliges Crozier to give him a hand. "And besides, we can blame Commander Crozier," fair play for earlier, "for not waking us sooner."
"I've woken you right on time." He threatens a pinch but doesn't follow through, since they do actually have to get to work. Helps him change, instead. Not nearly as graceful as Jopson, especially given the slightly clunky layers he's got on, but it'll do. "We'll be working on the observatory hut today, there are readings for you to go over. Not much hiking for the naturalists, so Jopson will have plenty of opportunity to catch up on anything I've robbed him of time for this morning."
"Are my lieutenants up?"
"One of them. The other will be by the time you're out."
They talk shop. Crozier declines being shaved, opts for tomorrow, continues to go over schedules and necessities while Ross undergoes — businesslike enough not to watch too closely the artful way Jopson handles it all, but there's no fooling where his gaze is fixed. Heatedly discussing the potential for volcanic drafts by the time they're heading out, like some men might invest their energy into horse racing or cricket.
A day that promises to be brutal work. At least Jopson gets to babysit Mr Hooker and one of the other surgeons who's doing diagrams and drawings of everything, and isn't asked to haul rocks or transfer samples. During midday meal, Crozier returns to shove food into his mouth and make plans to teach everyone who can't use celestial navigation tools the proper way to do it, and assigns Hooker the job of coming up with a lesson structure for anything else he's missing. He's keen on this, hoping to be at least a better sailor than a peer of his called Darwin, if not a better scientist, though it's clear the rivalry is very friendly. Tomorrow, for a lesson, everyone will be too knackered today.
The days out on the ice pass with some regularity - tough work, long hours, bitter conditions. The storm they road in on has left its mark behind, a few intensely cold fronts whipping winds over the shore. It leaves the men worn thin and exhausted most days, the camp going quiet as the night watch wake up. When Jopson lays awake, Crozier and Ross sleeping soundly pressed to either side of him, he swears he can hear the ships groaning from the distance. Impossible, but it's a haunting thing, the whistle of arctic winds.
The tent has a safe place for a canvas set up, Ross' paints left on a stool set in front of a makeshift easel. For all his self-deprecating comments about his artistry, he has a keen eye, the colors vivid. They spend portions of the night in quiet, the occasional ribbing or quiet musing about stars and rocks interrupting brushstrokes. Jopson keeps the water warm so he may clean his brush, and enjoys the view in all ways - the painting, Ross in his warm underclothes cut against the lamplight, Crozier sitting nearby with a book in hand, a warmth in his face.
It's murderously cold, but he could suffer it if life was like this on the other side of it all.
They've just come off one such night, but the day leading up to it had been easier - no dragging rocks or hiking, just spending time in the observation tent chipping at stones and talking theories, gazing up at the sky and making conjectures based on things Jopson can't understand when he stops in with warm drinks for those working. The night has set, the work ended a little earlier than usual for the evening meal - a small reprieve after a brutal week's work. They're poised in the tent exactly as he's come to enjoy.
Ross, ignoring his painting after an hour of working at it, chattering on about what Mount Erebus might look like without ice and snow atop it. Jopson's sure Crozier isn't too far away, but he's just turning in to get himself into night clothes after helping the other two men.
It takes a few moments to undo all the layers, but he finally makes it down to his shirtsleeves, pulling the fabric up and off his back. Ah, yes, his back. Healing - a few smaller, striped patches mottled green and plum and yellow, healing but taking their time among the scars from years ago. It's cold, but he bends to dig out his sweater - routine all out of sorts.
"We must determine what makes a volcano's clock tick, Frank... imagine the timing should we see one burst to life!"
Jopson shakes his head, smiling, at the fantastic dreams of the other men. They live in the stars, the waves at their heels. Thomas doesn't know where he lives, but it's pleasant here in the tide of them.
"Go and start talking to it about the politics of land ownership," he suggests. "She'll blow her top in no time."
They both know it's just pressure. They have diagrams of what could be beneath an active volcano, courtesy of thousands of years of human observation and the madness of men who've gone digging in dormant ones. A venture he finds altogether more horrifying than any potential death at sea. What if a mountain collapses on you? Just another kind of exploration to be sure, but he'll pass, if it's all the same.
Quick when he wants to be — as many years in the rigging as any other man — Crozier is handing something to Jopson. One of his own shirts (the last clean one, rowboats will come tomorrow to exchange laundry), oversized for the steward.
"This instead of your nightshirt, if you please." Jamie has a remark about this being very fetching, and Francis tells him to pipe down, you hedonist. It just makes him chuckle. "It'll be looser on your back, if you'll hold still for a while once we're rolled up."
He's had the oil in an inner pocket all day, keeping it as warm as it's going to get. They can all finish what they're up to, changing, putting things away. Ross tells a story about earning lashes with five other boys, and having really been hoping to get out of it on account of nepotism, but such favoritism was not to be. As a twelve-year-old, though, the worst of it was sitting still for so long in recovery, and then having to scrub the decks when he was too ill from wound fever to do anything else. It was on Acteon, which was always nearly sinking from rot. He and Crozier talk a little about the tide language between Martinique and Plymouth, which has something to do with the Acteon's service, probably.
Ross reaches over to turn the light off, when they're finally abed. "How come you never rub bruises off my back anymore?" he asks.
"You complain whenever you're over my knees for more than a minute."
Utter madmen, the pair of them. It makes for a light and merry room, their banter, and Jopson knows he could be content to listen to them for hours, days, even. There are no horrific weights of the world in this tent, just the understanding of three men in their position. He makes a small, frustrated sound when he can't seem to fish out his clean nightshirt - and then goes quiet when the other is handed to him.
Crozier's. He blinks, a little doe-eyed at the man, taken aback and having been lost in his own thoughts. He nods slowly, rolls his eyes at Ross.
"Of course, Captain."
And on it goes - too big, slipping annoyingly over his shoulder when he climbs into the cots between the men. He doesn't fully realize why he's been given the shirt until he's settled and Jamie laughs, bright enough to fill the room.
"My back is fine, sir. It's healing," he says on a little sigh, but he's partially masking the way the scent of the shirt makes heat rise to his cheeks. "You both require your rest if you're to be up giggling like school children for the evening."
Ross squirms and lets out a sound that's a little undignified, caught between a snort and a laugh. That pinch at his side he deserved from Crozier many, many times, this time comes from Jopson. A comment - oh indulge a little, Thomas - and further laughs as the other captain rolls onto his side to look at him in the dark.
It's a besotted kind of thought. No one wants to hear it, for it's so saccharine it can't be true, but Crozier can think it to himself and be content about it. Knowing that Jopson feels at ease enough to pinch him, knowing that Ross is delighted to have someone else to conspire with about all his notions for the world and humanity, and that he gets to be here, witnessing all of it. What other perfect is there. This'll do him, just here, in a tent.
"You sweat under your coat and then your skin dries out when it gets cold again," he murmurs as he gets situated. Up on one elbow just enough to have leverage to slide both hands under the shirt (his shirt) and Jopson's bruised back, oil warmed in his palms. The blankets cocooning them like a nest. "If something splits open you probably won't even tell anyone."
So, this is necessary. And there's the hell-worthy crime that Crozier misses touching him, that he's wanted to since it happened the last time, and it's been too long already. Too long, and he hadn't been able to do it like this, tucked under the same cover, laying side by side. Ross can barely see them in the dark, he knows, but there's enough movement and there's awareness, and it makes for something lovely to experience even simply on the sidelines.
"This is plenty restful, anyhow. Believe me."
A rejuvenating thing, this kind of connection. Ross seems to agree (Crozier knows he does), and he lays a hand on Jopson's chest, petting him slowly. His fingers toy with the collar of the shirt — Crozier's — as if a coy reminder of who it belongs to. All wrapped up in each other.
The scent of the oil hits him, could take the breath out of him for all the things his body remembers to be associated with it. More impactful, though, are Crozier's hands sliding over his back and under the shirt that smells like the man in all ways. There's no helping the little sigh in the dark, the way he holds his breath for a few seconds just soaking up the feeling of being touched by him.
"I saw McCormick for it, sir," he says finally. There's a small spot at the downward curve of his right shoulder blade that split a few days ago and has been cleaned and is healing up nicely. "He told me it is nothing of concern."
But concerning this moment? Ross' hand on his chest, Crozier's hands on his back, his own stomach doing a strange twisting at the way he's being handled from both sides. It's warm beneath the furs, warmer now with hands on him. Tentatively he reaches to touch Ross, a hand pressing to his side, curiously mapping the line of it. Ross pets up above the loose collar, fingertips sliding against the skin of his throat in a way that makes Jopson's head tip back, exposing more of his throat.
"I'll tell you a well, next time, sir. My a-"
Ross' fingers up over his chin, against his lips, gently and sweetly shushing the apology away.
Warm and low. For seeing the doctor about the cut, for letting himself be hushed, now, instead of apologize. Plenty of space for my apologies when it's a part of polite conversation, but there's no need here and now. He continues to touch him, first just petting him, spreading the slick oil to relax him, before seeking out particular spots that seem to want for attention, be it challenged patches of skin or tension just under it.
Francis, because he has little shame despite acting within its orderly lines much of time, thinks about fucking him. He thinks of sliding a hand further down, tugging his steward's knit drawers down over the curve of his rear, and delving oiled fingers in deep. He could, in this position. He could have him hitch one knee up over Jaime's hip, and then press his cock into him. He won't, won't suggest it nor yearn for it— potential mishaps are far too dire to risk. But he can't help thinking how Jopson seems made for it.
Just his touch, and it's more than enough. Down the strong column of his spine, his shoulderblades, the curve of his hipbones, the small of his back. Around his ribcage where he can reach, and the back of his neck. Slow, methodical movements. In time, he slips one hand forward. Still tucked under his own shirt on Thomas' body, he pets over his chest, and up. Cradles the swell of his pectoral muscle, squeezes gently, swipes his thumb over the nub of one nipple. He kneads there as attentively as he had on his back and shoulders, and he hears Jamie sigh with obvious desire, his own hands palming over Thomas' torso, meeting Crozier's hand with a layer of fabric between them for a moment. He drops careful, chaste kisses against the young man's throat, his jaw, his cheekbone.
Good boy, you are - and his skin feels like it lights aflame with heat, prickles at the nape of his neck, beneath every patch Crozier's hand grazes. It earns the older man a little squirm, an arch of his back, the press of his ass backwards as he absently presses into the hands on his chest, nipple turning stiff and wanting. He wants to feel him, touch him, be nearer now that he can feel the man's hands everywhere.
Never in his life would he imagine he'd be here - pressed between two men in the cozy warmth of the closest thing to a bed he's had in months. Two men he cares for. Two men that make it impossible to think clearly, overloading every sense, his body stuttering in his attempt to react. It's always been hurried fancies in cupboards or quiet, cheap rooms, or tucked into a very dark corner of a pub to find men like him.
This isn't crude, tasteless, quick. It's electric with something else that he feels afraid to name.
Instead he turns in against the chaste kisses, chasing after his own now, coaxing Ross into a sweet, soft barrage of kisses, slow and careful. He slides his own hand round the back of Ross' hip, anchoring himself on him as he shivers with the attention, stifling a moan into the other captain's mouth.
Jamie returns each sweet little kiss, tasting the low rumble of his voice on his tongue, all with the warmth of the other captain's hand beneath his own. He drags his hand away just to sneak up the front of the man's shirt, pet slowly from his chest to his navel and back, fingers brushing over Francis' with each pass, a centimeter higher on the up, a centimeter lower each time.
Impossible not to notice how Jopson responds to him. Makes something in him feel hungrier than it has any right to, not when he already has him here under his hands, against his body. Some of it is facilitated by Ross, he's certain — how could it not be, one of the most beautiful, affluent men in the bloody world sweetly touching and kissing him and coaxing him into being comfortable — but it's a jolt to his own ego, it bolsters his own particular affections. He puts his mouth over where that tiny split of skin is, linen between his mouth and the cut, and then noses higher, so he can kiss the back of his neck and the curve of his shoulder.
Feels good, doing this. He's slowly getting hard, but he's in no hurry about it. The way Jopson shifts back into him is pleasing, makes him heat up further, but he doesn't follow temptation to rut into him. Instead he continues to touch him, paying special attention to anywhere that earns more of a reaction. He plays with his chest, firm and sensual, liking the shape of him, the wiry hair, the hard buds of his nipples that he finds and tugs on gently.
The sounds, the telltale movements, just about make up for the fact that he can't actually see Jamie and Thomas kissing. Knowing they're doing it is dreadfully arousing in any event, and he can only encourage it. After reaching out to run an affectionate hand over the other captain's hip, he slides his touch down again, back on Thomas' body. He presses against his abdomen, his belly, and lower, to cup him through his pajamas. There's no pretense of rubbing his thighs, though his touch retains that steady, soothing energy as he cradles his weight of his prick.
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But it was a long week. Nothing for it.
Jopson makes him smile. They have a comfortable routine by now, and they move easily around each other. His hands warm under the attention, and he feels it like a soporific; a luring thing, a siren song of giving up only half-undressed. No, no, forge ahead. Quick but not hurried, in companionable quiet.
Eventually, his voice very low—
"Get yours and sit with me a moment, will you?"
If he falls asleep before Jopson there'll be no end to trip hazards.
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"Of course, sir."
And he does as told - makes up a cup for himself, a little hurried and slapdash, but tea is tea. It will be a warm welcome after a day out in the bitter cold. The tent helps to some degree, of course, but it is the arctic. But soon enough he settles beside the man, unable to help fussing the way he pulls the fur up higher on the man's shoulders.
"Are you well, sir?"
He still feels the ghost of Ross' hands on his cheeks, the glimmer and warmth of his smile - we're lucky. It leaves so many questions and makes Crozier's usual quiet feel leaden with something he doesn't recognize or understand. He can't help but glance back at the man cocooned in furs and quilts. Remembers the feeling of his hair on his brow as he saw him carefully placed into his cot.
"I didn't put honey in your tea, but if you think it might help, I'm happy to remake it, Captain."
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Just sit with some tea. No conversation needed, no goal in mind. They have a few minutes while the tea's pleasantly warm, and Crozier will want to find unconsciousness as quickly as possible after, which means shuffling Jopson along with him. Might as well be complementary in their timing. He doesn't imagine anything as dire as Has no one ever simply wanted to sit with you?, but more thinks his steward is like a shark of diligence, perpetually in motion.
But there's no need, right this second. A more pressing need: just this. Companionable silence and knees knocking together. Chatting would risk waking up Jamie, so he doesn't bother whispering anything. When he's done, he gives Jopson a look—
Anything he can do to smooth things along, so they can all pass out? This is a different feeling than their introductory weeks, suspicious and reluctant to accept help. Reciprocal, instead.
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It makes him realize just how tired he is, too. Down to the bones, really. Perhaps not as much as his Captain, but it's there - the fatigue of many months finally catching up. He's nearly done with his tea when he catches the man's eye - and smiles warmly. A small shake of his head and he rises, taking the man's cup from him. He can wash it up properly in the morning. He quickly drinks down the dregs of his own so as not to waste it (and to taste the touch of honey he's come to enjoy in these moments).
He doesn't bother with layers like he had with the other two men - simply takes the time to undress. Never would he ask the man to help him - even when he was beaten and sore. When he shrugs his shirt of, the marks are dwindling, but a few look like they've taken, dry skin making the welt a semi-permanent discoloration. It will ease over time when the bruise wears off.
It's bitterly cold, though, and he pulls on a thick jumper instead of his nightshirt with his long drawers. Stupidly, though, he's gotten it twisted, fumbling with a sleeve himself much like Ross had.
"You can lie down, sir - I'll be there in a moment." Whispered, of course.
He has to turn the lamp out, set out their things for tomorrow, a laundry list of things. Well, once he can get the sweater twisted round correctly. It's soft against his skin, though - an old thing, worn in the elbows, the rich green of the color fading over years of wear.
"You need to rest."
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"So I do."
And so do you.
He knows what he's got ahead of him in the morning, and so Jopson is bullied in the middle again. Crozier will be up with or before him, having stuck it into his mind to do so, in need of getting ahead of weather patterns for certain observations. Ross can sleep in, and be poked awake at a respectable, but not brutal hour. As is his right as ranking officer.
If he could hold them both he would. Check heartbeats, and toes and fingertips. Somewhere forever warm and comfortable. But this will do and do well enough to be a luxury besides. He doesn't want to presume, but he doesn't want to let Jopson fold in on himself if he has the option to clutch him close, and so that's what he does. Rails between them, but the blankets laid overtop of the cots dampen it enough not to be a pain. He holds one of his steward's hands against his chest, tucked under thick layers of everything, warming it.
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The warmth of Crozier's chest helps - his fingers flexing against the fabric of his night clothes. He blinks up at the man in the dark, searching for his eyes, his nose, his mouth. There's too much distance, but he doesn't want to leave the sleeping Ross, either. Better to stay close to both, isn't it?
That knot - annoying and pressing and real - makes him act selfishly. (Something he'll feel guilt over later). Pushing across the rails so he's taking more of the brunt of it, he presses into Crozier's space, the hand on his chest curling into the fabric of his clothes to hold him there just long enough that he can kiss him - chaste, but lingering, yearning.
"I agreed to this abduction with the understanding I'd be given a feather bed," he murmurs, a little sleepy and sweet. "I suppose this will do, sir."
He wants to kiss him again. Wants to hold his hands. Wants to press against his chest and curl into his warmth and disappear.
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Odd texture and all.
The kiss bewitches him. A fool you are, he tells himself. Of course a young, beautiful man has a dazzling effect. Folly of all old men, and not everyone is as blessed as Jamie, perpetually stunningly handsome, attracting so many admirers he's begun to hand them out to other people. Sophy wanted James and took the consolation offer; Jopson, hired by him in the first place.
He doesn't resent it. Life could be miserable, instead he doesn't have to be lonely.
(Except when he is.)
Go to sleep, he instructs himself, and then feigns ignorance by leaning forward to tangle closer to Jopson and kiss him again. He chases that taste of yearning, opens his mouth to it, gives what he can. Whatever he has left at the end of this long, cold day. They're going to nod off in minutes no matter what they do, so surely there's no harm in this.
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Penguin or goose or any fowl. Anything this man laid him down on he'd have willingly, take what he can get of these warm, perfect moments. It's easier in the dark to think they're elsewhere, away from the bitter cold of the arctic, the ship - that this could be anywhere warm and comfortable. He imagines Crozier bathed in the light of a fire crackling in a hot stove, or in a hearth. That these aren't cots, but indeed a feather mattress somewhere.
(His father always told him he needed to tame his imagination - focus on the work at hand - that folly would lead nowhere if duty and diligence didn't stand first in line).
But Crozier kisses him and he welcomes him, one arm wrapping round his neck, free hand on his chest, legs tangling, arching closer to him. Crozier tastes of tea and spice, a flavor he chases with slow, open-mouthed kisses. Better that his tea was weak and quick - the warmth of this here and now will be all he needs.
When the ship sails back to England and the boat docks, this is what he'll take with him.
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It's alright. Safe in the dark, in this place away from the world. He kisses him with intent, and affection, and longing. He kisses him until his consciousness starts to wane, and all they can do is trade soft, sighed nudges and nuzzles on the fade out into settling in comfortably all a-tangle.
He doesn't dream.
Crozier wakes when he means to, in the morning. It is a painful thing to leave the nest they've all made, Ross cuddled up at Jopson's back, and Jopson in turn clinging to him. He's careful about it, tucking them in together and slipping out as gracefully as he can (it's a task and a half but he manages it). He can do a day without a shave, his hair is fair enough for it, and though he misses Jopson's attentive hands on him now after becoming so used to it, he's perfectly capable of dressing himself. Breakfast will come later, no use bogging himself down to soon. A trick to slip out without disturbing either of the two men still abed, but he goes anyway, and finds just one midshipman and a lieutenant scraping themselves out. Good enough. He makes a rasped joke about short straws, and the humor seems to bolster them against the obnoxiously bright cold. To work. He'll be back in a few hours to rouse Captain Ross, if Jopson hasn't made short work of it by then. But maybe not; maybe he'll get lucky and find them both still abed, with Jopson lured to inaction by the familiar wiles of just how comfortable James can make someone.
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He usually wakes to the rocking of the ship, the noises outside, the sounds of the belly of the beast waking. Here it's different - the stark quiet of the ice, the gentle puffs of the captains' breaths in the morning. He doesn't have any of those markers, wracked with fatigue from a whipping, a week of tending to a tired Captain, and now exhausted by the ice and cold. He's gotten himself pressed in against Ross' neck, nuzzled in, arms around the man, one hand having gotten stuck up the back of his night shirt - seeking warmth.
They look a sight together, no doubt, but he's pleasantly unawares. There's movement somewhere at the far reaches of his consciousness but it registers only as a flickering of candle light in his dream when it is in fact Crozier entering the tent. Ross stirs with nothing more than a grumble and a slow, slow turn in the covers. It's more a stretch, arms tightening around Jopson, legs tangling even further - the pair of them nearly inseparable in the mass of blankets and furs.
"Turn that bloody light out, Frank," comes a graveled mumble, though a quiet one - turned against Jopson's hair on a soft nuzzle. Thomas sleeps on, still and quiet.
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Crozier pulls his hat off, sets it aside, then his gloves, and comes to sit next to Ross and observe the tangled pair. Good luck for him pulling through, light or no light. It warms him more than a fire to see, and he extends a hand to pass over Jamie's hair, stroking down his cheek, his jaw, smiling at him when he hums. Jopson next, dark and silky, tucked in close. The fur blankets make them seem like they've been eaten by a very lazy bear. A fairy tale one, not a horror story. Something a benevolent witch has done to keep them safe.
"You both needed the rest."
"And you, old man?"
"I'm fine."
"Mmn." Jamie looks at him. He can tell from the way his posture shifts just a little that he's flexing his feet, and resettling the way his arms are tucked around Jopson. Quieter: "He's special, you know."
"I do know."
They look at each other for a little while, Crozier's hand on his hair, thumb petting against his temple. Silent, but perfectly understood things pass between them. He leans down, then, and does what Jamie wants him to do, which is kiss him. A sigh of contentment greets him, and he kisses that from Ross' mouth, too.
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These two love one another - it's been obvious from the firs time he suspected, even more now. It's a deep rooted thing. A thing he wishes he could reach and touch, trace the lines of it and find where it hits deepest. (He knows, of course - the heart, something more maybe. What must it feel like to have roots intertwined the way these two do?)
"M'apologies," a mumble as he tries to sneak away, to peel arms and legs from the trap of the other man's body. "I'll go fetch-"
Jamie tips his head back from the kiss at the interruption but holds onto Jopson, even with eyes burning and focused on Crozier.
"Hush now," the captain finally says and Jopson goes still, blinking sleepily and moving slowly, when Jamie's hand settles on his cheek. "You needed the rest."
A little jab there - you needed the rest, Crozier had said - two can play that very silly game. But the game doesn't matter when he leans down and slowly, slowly, kisses the dark haired man - a soft, slow thing that the steward can't make sense of. Can't make sense of the way he carefully leans into it, the way he wants to, maybe a foolish, childish gambit to taste even a hint of what the two captains share.
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He's asked Jopson more than once, now, if it's alright. If it's not too much. He's told him that he has the final say, no matter what. But does that actually matter when he's a steward and the questions are being posed by his commanding officer? Now, both of them? No one to take shelter in if he didn't want it, nowhere to disembark and flee?
And yet he hears him. I imagined it was you the whole time. Crozier slides his hand over Jopson's cheek, feeling the way his jaw moves, the tendons there, as he returns Ross' kiss. Jamie is good at this, he knows. Like sinking into a warm bath. Watching them turns a latch inside of him that threatens far, far too much while he has duties to attend to. While anything. It is a sight that makes the threat of execution and even Abraham's hell seem laughable.
His thumb touches the corner of Jopson's mouth, catches some warm castoff of saliva from Jamie tipping in closer, slower, a sensual thing. He notices, his gaze cutting up in the lamplight to appreciate the fact that they're being watched. He breaks off a moment later, but it's only to mouth at Francis' hand. When he tips his head back, the encouragement is palpable. So Francis leans down, and catches his steward's mouth in a kiss, too.
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Easy, though, to chase after Ross, to press his mouth against the man's jaw, his cheek - he's sure he can feel Ross smile, hear him chuckle, but Jopson can't be sure with the thunderous noise of his heart beat heavy in his ears. H
Crozier's kiss comes and Thomas wants nothing more - immediately yielding to him, pliable and hungry and wanting in the slow and sleepy hunger of it all. Made worse, too, by Jamie's roaming hands - a slide of a broad palm down his back to the meat of his ass. No squeezing, just palming lightly over it like an itch that can't be reached. Thomas reaches for Crozier's face, shoulder, anything.
Jamie doesn't waste time - mouthing at the older man's hand, licking at the thumb already slick with their saliva, then drop of a kiss against the soft spot beneath Crozier's ear as the other pair kiss.
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Jamie steals his mouth, after a moment. Francis cradles his steward's face, beautiful boy, presses fingers in his mouth. They swap again and they're still there alongside Jamie's tongue when he kisses Thomas; Francis watches this, commits it to memory, the look, the sound, the smell of everything sleep-warm coming to life.
Oh, what's the point of exploring or sailing, they could do this forever instead.
"Do we have time for me to suck your cock?"
That'll be seared into memory, too. Just where he wants it. Like a criminal being branded.
Alas.
"Not at all," Crozier says, rasped laughter in his voice. "And a heartbeat with this blanket tugged down and you'll lose all interest anyway."
Jamie groans, and not in an altogether amorous way.
"Both of you, up now."
A beautiful moment. Not ruined by its brevity. He kisses Ross' forehead, and Jopson's temple, and sits back with intent to help get everyone sorted.
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Do we have time for me to suck your cock?
Perverse that he wants to see it - even worse that he wonders how quickly his Captain would lose his resolve if they both had their mouths on him. (Even more debauched and foul. Who has he become out here on the seas? Or was he this man all along?)
"Yes, sir," he mutters, shocked back into reality when Crozier sits back. His face flushes and he peels himself from the furs, carefully placing them back round Ross. "I'll have the water ready for your shave, sit," a beat, like he realizes he shouldn't be the one giving orders. "If you wish. At the very least, Captain Ross, I'll see to you."
As exhilarating and freeing as the beautiful moment was - he feels like a madman. His mind turned over, spinning in time with the rhythm of his heart pumping too-hot blood through his veins. He's hardened some, too, but he lets the cold do some work.
"I forgot myself, my apologies, Captain."
Earnest, embarrassed, wired up tight for how easily his routine has gone off course.
"Have you eaten? Ah, the tea-"
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"I've woken you right on time." He threatens a pinch but doesn't follow through, since they do actually have to get to work. Helps him change, instead. Not nearly as graceful as Jopson, especially given the slightly clunky layers he's got on, but it'll do. "We'll be working on the observatory hut today, there are readings for you to go over. Not much hiking for the naturalists, so Jopson will have plenty of opportunity to catch up on anything I've robbed him of time for this morning."
"Are my lieutenants up?"
"One of them. The other will be by the time you're out."
They talk shop. Crozier declines being shaved, opts for tomorrow, continues to go over schedules and necessities while Ross undergoes — businesslike enough not to watch too closely the artful way Jopson handles it all, but there's no fooling where his gaze is fixed. Heatedly discussing the potential for volcanic drafts by the time they're heading out, like some men might invest their energy into horse racing or cricket.
A day that promises to be brutal work. At least Jopson gets to babysit Mr Hooker and one of the other surgeons who's doing diagrams and drawings of everything, and isn't asked to haul rocks or transfer samples. During midday meal, Crozier returns to shove food into his mouth and make plans to teach everyone who can't use celestial navigation tools the proper way to do it, and assigns Hooker the job of coming up with a lesson structure for anything else he's missing. He's keen on this, hoping to be at least a better sailor than a peer of his called Darwin, if not a better scientist, though it's clear the rivalry is very friendly. Tomorrow, for a lesson, everyone will be too knackered today.
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The tent has a safe place for a canvas set up, Ross' paints left on a stool set in front of a makeshift easel. For all his self-deprecating comments about his artistry, he has a keen eye, the colors vivid. They spend portions of the night in quiet, the occasional ribbing or quiet musing about stars and rocks interrupting brushstrokes. Jopson keeps the water warm so he may clean his brush, and enjoys the view in all ways - the painting, Ross in his warm underclothes cut against the lamplight, Crozier sitting nearby with a book in hand, a warmth in his face.
It's murderously cold, but he could suffer it if life was like this on the other side of it all.
They've just come off one such night, but the day leading up to it had been easier - no dragging rocks or hiking, just spending time in the observation tent chipping at stones and talking theories, gazing up at the sky and making conjectures based on things Jopson can't understand when he stops in with warm drinks for those working. The night has set, the work ended a little earlier than usual for the evening meal - a small reprieve after a brutal week's work. They're poised in the tent exactly as he's come to enjoy.
Ross, ignoring his painting after an hour of working at it, chattering on about what Mount Erebus might look like without ice and snow atop it. Jopson's sure Crozier isn't too far away, but he's just turning in to get himself into night clothes after helping the other two men.
It takes a few moments to undo all the layers, but he finally makes it down to his shirtsleeves, pulling the fabric up and off his back. Ah, yes, his back. Healing - a few smaller, striped patches mottled green and plum and yellow, healing but taking their time among the scars from years ago. It's cold, but he bends to dig out his sweater - routine all out of sorts.
"We must determine what makes a volcano's clock tick, Frank... imagine the timing should we see one burst to life!"
Jopson shakes his head, smiling, at the fantastic dreams of the other men. They live in the stars, the waves at their heels. Thomas doesn't know where he lives, but it's pleasant here in the tide of them.
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They both know it's just pressure. They have diagrams of what could be beneath an active volcano, courtesy of thousands of years of human observation and the madness of men who've gone digging in dormant ones. A venture he finds altogether more horrifying than any potential death at sea. What if a mountain collapses on you? Just another kind of exploration to be sure, but he'll pass, if it's all the same.
Quick when he wants to be — as many years in the rigging as any other man — Crozier is handing something to Jopson. One of his own shirts (the last clean one, rowboats will come tomorrow to exchange laundry), oversized for the steward.
"This instead of your nightshirt, if you please." Jamie has a remark about this being very fetching, and Francis tells him to pipe down, you hedonist. It just makes him chuckle. "It'll be looser on your back, if you'll hold still for a while once we're rolled up."
He's had the oil in an inner pocket all day, keeping it as warm as it's going to get. They can all finish what they're up to, changing, putting things away. Ross tells a story about earning lashes with five other boys, and having really been hoping to get out of it on account of nepotism, but such favoritism was not to be. As a twelve-year-old, though, the worst of it was sitting still for so long in recovery, and then having to scrub the decks when he was too ill from wound fever to do anything else. It was on Acteon, which was always nearly sinking from rot. He and Crozier talk a little about the tide language between Martinique and Plymouth, which has something to do with the Acteon's service, probably.
Ross reaches over to turn the light off, when they're finally abed. "How come you never rub bruises off my back anymore?" he asks.
"You complain whenever you're over my knees for more than a minute."
Jamie laughs, bright.
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Crozier's. He blinks, a little doe-eyed at the man, taken aback and having been lost in his own thoughts. He nods slowly, rolls his eyes at Ross.
"Of course, Captain."
And on it goes - too big, slipping annoyingly over his shoulder when he climbs into the cots between the men. He doesn't fully realize why he's been given the shirt until he's settled and Jamie laughs, bright enough to fill the room.
"My back is fine, sir. It's healing," he says on a little sigh, but he's partially masking the way the scent of the shirt makes heat rise to his cheeks. "You both require your rest if you're to be up giggling like school children for the evening."
Ross squirms and lets out a sound that's a little undignified, caught between a snort and a laugh. That pinch at his side he deserved from Crozier many, many times, this time comes from Jopson. A comment - oh indulge a little, Thomas - and further laughs as the other captain rolls onto his side to look at him in the dark.
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It's a besotted kind of thought. No one wants to hear it, for it's so saccharine it can't be true, but Crozier can think it to himself and be content about it. Knowing that Jopson feels at ease enough to pinch him, knowing that Ross is delighted to have someone else to conspire with about all his notions for the world and humanity, and that he gets to be here, witnessing all of it. What other perfect is there. This'll do him, just here, in a tent.
"You sweat under your coat and then your skin dries out when it gets cold again," he murmurs as he gets situated. Up on one elbow just enough to have leverage to slide both hands under the shirt (his shirt) and Jopson's bruised back, oil warmed in his palms. The blankets cocooning them like a nest. "If something splits open you probably won't even tell anyone."
So, this is necessary. And there's the hell-worthy crime that Crozier misses touching him, that he's wanted to since it happened the last time, and it's been too long already. Too long, and he hadn't been able to do it like this, tucked under the same cover, laying side by side. Ross can barely see them in the dark, he knows, but there's enough movement and there's awareness, and it makes for something lovely to experience even simply on the sidelines.
"This is plenty restful, anyhow. Believe me."
A rejuvenating thing, this kind of connection. Ross seems to agree (Crozier knows he does), and he lays a hand on Jopson's chest, petting him slowly. His fingers toy with the collar of the shirt — Crozier's — as if a coy reminder of who it belongs to. All wrapped up in each other.
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"I saw McCormick for it, sir," he says finally. There's a small spot at the downward curve of his right shoulder blade that split a few days ago and has been cleaned and is healing up nicely. "He told me it is nothing of concern."
But concerning this moment? Ross' hand on his chest, Crozier's hands on his back, his own stomach doing a strange twisting at the way he's being handled from both sides. It's warm beneath the furs, warmer now with hands on him. Tentatively he reaches to touch Ross, a hand pressing to his side, curiously mapping the line of it. Ross pets up above the loose collar, fingertips sliding against the skin of his throat in a way that makes Jopson's head tip back, exposing more of his throat.
"I'll tell you a well, next time, sir. My a-"
Ross' fingers up over his chin, against his lips, gently and sweetly shushing the apology away.
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Warm and low. For seeing the doctor about the cut, for letting himself be hushed, now, instead of apologize. Plenty of space for my apologies when it's a part of polite conversation, but there's no need here and now. He continues to touch him, first just petting him, spreading the slick oil to relax him, before seeking out particular spots that seem to want for attention, be it challenged patches of skin or tension just under it.
Francis, because he has little shame despite acting within its orderly lines much of time, thinks about fucking him. He thinks of sliding a hand further down, tugging his steward's knit drawers down over the curve of his rear, and delving oiled fingers in deep. He could, in this position. He could have him hitch one knee up over Jaime's hip, and then press his cock into him. He won't, won't suggest it nor yearn for it— potential mishaps are far too dire to risk. But he can't help thinking how Jopson seems made for it.
Just his touch, and it's more than enough. Down the strong column of his spine, his shoulderblades, the curve of his hipbones, the small of his back. Around his ribcage where he can reach, and the back of his neck. Slow, methodical movements. In time, he slips one hand forward. Still tucked under his own shirt on Thomas' body, he pets over his chest, and up. Cradles the swell of his pectoral muscle, squeezes gently, swipes his thumb over the nub of one nipple. He kneads there as attentively as he had on his back and shoulders, and he hears Jamie sigh with obvious desire, his own hands palming over Thomas' torso, meeting Crozier's hand with a layer of fabric between them for a moment. He drops careful, chaste kisses against the young man's throat, his jaw, his cheekbone.
u saw nothing
Never in his life would he imagine he'd be here - pressed between two men in the cozy warmth of the closest thing to a bed he's had in months. Two men he cares for. Two men that make it impossible to think clearly, overloading every sense, his body stuttering in his attempt to react. It's always been hurried fancies in cupboards or quiet, cheap rooms, or tucked into a very dark corner of a pub to find men like him.
This isn't crude, tasteless, quick. It's electric with something else that he feels afraid to name.
Instead he turns in against the chaste kisses, chasing after his own now, coaxing Ross into a sweet, soft barrage of kisses, slow and careful. He slides his own hand round the back of Ross' hip, anchoring himself on him as he shivers with the attention, stifling a moan into the other captain's mouth.
Jamie returns each sweet little kiss, tasting the low rumble of his voice on his tongue, all with the warmth of the other captain's hand beneath his own. He drags his hand away just to sneak up the front of the man's shirt, pet slowly from his chest to his navel and back, fingers brushing over Francis' with each pass, a centimeter higher on the up, a centimeter lower each time.
👁️👁️
Feels good, doing this. He's slowly getting hard, but he's in no hurry about it. The way Jopson shifts back into him is pleasing, makes him heat up further, but he doesn't follow temptation to rut into him. Instead he continues to touch him, paying special attention to anywhere that earns more of a reaction. He plays with his chest, firm and sensual, liking the shape of him, the wiry hair, the hard buds of his nipples that he finds and tugs on gently.
The sounds, the telltale movements, just about make up for the fact that he can't actually see Jamie and Thomas kissing. Knowing they're doing it is dreadfully arousing in any event, and he can only encourage it. After reaching out to run an affectionate hand over the other captain's hip, he slides his touch down again, back on Thomas' body. He presses against his abdomen, his belly, and lower, to cup him through his pajamas. There's no pretense of rubbing his thighs, though his touch retains that steady, soothing energy as he cradles his weight of his prick.
🙅
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