welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

[misterhornblower]

Rainwater dripped from Horatio's uniform to the floorboards as he trudged belowdeck, shaking with the bone-deep cold the winter rain and the harsh wind in the rigging had left him with even once his punishment had concluded. His legs and arms ached, the palms of his hands were raw from the harsh rope used for the rigging, and the once-lively curls of his hair, now drenched with a combination of rainwater and ocean spray, clung to the edges of his face. The usual bawdy ruckus in the enlisted men's quarters was much too loud, doing nothing for the ache in his temples.

All he wanted to do was change clothes, climb under many blankets, and hope to god Simpson would stay out of the mids' quarters long enough for him to catch at least some rest. Of course, the previous day's wounds also had to be cleaned, lest any of the open cuts decorating his face were to become infected, so that would cut into any amount of time he'd find to sleep, too.

Please, God, don't have him be here. Please. I need to rest. I'm sore enough as it is.

To Horatio's surprise and great relief, all of the hammocks were empty when he opened the door and closed it behind himself. It was all the better, seeing as he still wasn't quite comfortable stripping down in front of other men and desperately needed to change into something dry. He wasted no time in shucking off each sopping wet layer where he stood, but took great care in spreading his drenched uniform out to dry on the floorboards afterwards - it would reflect even more poorly upon him to report for duty tomorrow in a crumpled uniform with footprints on it than it had to report in the deeply bruised state that had earned him the miserable punishment he'd just returned from.

With his uniform set out to dry as best he could, Horatio wrung a few drops of water from his queue, changed into a dry shirt and breeches, and climbed into his hammock at long last - but as soon as he reached for the wool blanket bunched up on the other end, the doorknob twisted. Dammit! He immediately went limp and slowed his breathing in an attempt to create the impression that he was sleeping - provided it was Simpson at all, perhaps being 'asleep' would be enough to spare him from a beating over some made-up reason that essentially amounted to his being present in the room at the same time as the bloody tyrant.

The door opened, then one foot, followed by the other, contacted the floorboards. Horatio cracked one eye open so slightly it almost remained shut altogether, his heart racing behind his sternum - only to realize to his great relief that the figure wasn't the mids' shared tormentor, it was Kennedy.

"Archie." The hammock creaked as Horatio sat up and offered a faint smile in greeting. The deep purple bruises dappling his skin and the swelling on both sides of his face had undoubtedly gotten worse since the last time Archie had seen them, but, lacking a mirror, Horatio wasn't certain just how bad it was, although he was sure he must look utterly pathetic.

Hardly how he'd expected his first week in His Majesty's royal navy to transpire. Welcome to purgatory, indeed.

Comments

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

Even now, Archie doesn't know just what he'd been thinking, welcoming the new midshipman aboard, helping him get settled in, and all the while never breathing a word of warning about what awaited him. Perhaps it had just been the look on Hornblower's face as he'd climbed up from the boat and onto the ship - anxious and overwhelmed and more than a little nervous, of course, as Archie knows he himself had been - but hopeful and excited all the same, all innocence and optimism and pride in his brand-new uniform, embarking on a brand-new adventure. He simply hadn't had the heart to crush his dreams so quickly, to do anything but soothe the newcomer's nerves as best he could - get a smile out of him, if at all possible, and pray that it wouldn't all come crashing down the moment Jack entered the cabin.

It had, of course, and worse than even Archie had foreseen. He always seems to forget, when Jack's out of sight, just how horrible the other man can be. Somehow he'd made himself believe that Horatio would be all right, that it was something in Archie personally that offended him so, that their newest midshipman would be - safe. Untouchable. He'd only just come aboard, and been nothing but deferential and eager to prove himself; what fault could even Jack find in that?

Now, seeing Horatio's chest battered with bruises, his noble face so swollen as to be almost unrecognizable, Archie fancies he can feel every ounce of Jack's longstanding hatred for him turned in upon himself. He should have done something, he should have known -

He hadn't even lifted a finger to stop him. Hadn't been able to so much as look Horatio in the eye as he'd explained it - the way of things.

He does his best to smile back, weak, apologetic, but it vanishes almost immediately as he steps closer and sees the full extent of Hornblower's injuries. It's worse than he'd thought.

"My God, Horatio..." He trails off, staring in slack horror. All that, and then hours in the rigging, the cold, harsh rain beating down on him? It's a wonder he hadn't collapsed long before now. "My God, what's he done to you?"

[misterhornblower]

Horatio offers a small, passive smile, averting eye contact when the question's posed. "I'll live." Probably. Although he's beginning to wonder if it's worth living if this is what awaits him every day. The dark, icy waves below him had only grown more inviting as the miserable hours in the rigging stretched on, and while their call has become somewhat muted now that he's in his own hammock in a set of dry clothes and finally out of the rain, it hasn't been altogether silenced. He keeps those thoughts to himself, though, seeing no need to trouble poor Archie with them.

Horatio bends forward and pulls the blanket at his feet up to his hips, taking a few moments to mentally compose his next statement before speaking. "Is he always this bad to new crewmen?"

Is it ever going to stop? He hasn't seen any bruises on the other midshipmen, even Archie, who seems to be the longstanding recipient of most of Simpson's wrath, but the man clearly still terrorizes them. Archie's terrible fits alone are evidence of that.

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

Archie hesitates. No is the easier answer, and the true one; they all have their initiation, of a sort, but while it's bad it's normally not as bad as all that. Never before had Clayton resorted to aiming a pistol at the man to stave him off.

"He'll let up on you soon enough," he says instead, with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Fresh blood, and all. Keep out of his way and his interest will wane."

Jack has other favorite targets, after all, and they all know it. Archie's smile fades once more, his expression darkening with memory and dread - with an effort he shakes it off, approaching Horatio's hammock.

"You're not going to try to sleep like this, are you? If you don't get these wounds cleaned up they won't possibly heal."

[misterhornblower]

His interest in you didn't wane, Horatio almost says, but he stops himself. Archie already knows that, and it would be out-of-bounds to make such a comment anyway.

The tenderness is comforting, even if rather unfamiliar - contrary to what most who knew him in passing seemed to believe, having a father in the healing profession had not entitled Horatio to the type of gentle caring he'd been shown by Clayton and now Archie. But this - this feels decidedly different than Clayton tucking him into his hammock and telling him to just rest until he was himself again on his first night aboard the Justinian. Archie is his own age - and handsome, very handsome, enough so that even the occasional touch on the arm is enough to make Horatio's pulse rise to an embarrassing degree despite all attempts to keep himself calm and collected.

Without much thought, he lifts a hand to his forehead and allows the pads of his fingers to lightly drift across the gash over his right eyebrow, examining.

"I'm going to clean them," he says quietly. "Just wanted to warm up first."

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

It shouldn't be exciting, letting his hand fall to rest on Horatio's bare arm. Shouldn't make his stomach flutter or his heart skip a beat; after all, it's more than half Archie's fault that Horatio is in this mess at all, and if there's anything he should be feeling it's guilt.

And he does feel guilt - guilt at seeing Horatio cold and weak and in pain, compounded by the guilt at how much he welcomes even the brief contact, how attractive he finds the other man even with his features obscured by bruises. Unnatural, disgusting - Jack has told him often enough just what he is. How wrong, how broken he is, to feel the things he feels.

But despite all of that, despite everything, he can't stop himself from taking a moment, gazing quietly on Horatio's face, kind and fair - beautiful even in its suffering.

Unnatural.

Archie turns away, cheeks flushed with shame, and gropes blindly for water and cloth.

"Let me help you," he says quietly, turning back, now holding the dampened cloth. "Please."

[misterhornblower]

Horatio knows he shouldn't feel disappointed when the momentary touch is broken off, but it's hard not to, flustered as he may feel - the hand on his forearm was wonderfully warm against his rain-chilled skin, and moreover, it belonged to Archie.

When his shipmate asks to clean the open cuts on his face , Horatio silently balks for a moment, scrounging his mind for a believable reason to decline. Naturally, innocent, lovely Archie doesn't realize how intimate such a gesture would be; to him it's certainly just a normal act between two normal shipmates - and Horatio would prefer that he continue to believe as much. But he can't think of a reason to decline, and even his usual urge to isolate himself and deal with the pain alone seems to be wavering in the face of an offer of genuine comfort, given how small and pathetic he feels right now.

"...Alright," Horatio agrees after a moment, averting his eyes as he undoes the single loop closure at the neckline of his shirt, exposing the deep bruises that bridge his left collarbone and another partly-healed nick just below. "Thank you, Archie."

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

Hornblower - Horatio - visibly hesitates, and Archie cringes internally, convinced that he's crossed a line, revealed something he'd much rather keep hidden. The offer is innocent enough, in that he'd do the same for any shipmate looking as poorly as Horatio does, but...

But Horatio acquiesces at last, and Archie can't help but smile in relief, even as he gazes sorrowfully at the further cuts Horatio reveals. Why hadn't he stepped in? Is he so much of a coward, that he would stand by and watch Horatio suffer - Horatio who'd done nothing wrong, who couldn't have had the first idea what terrors awaited him in the mids' quarters - simply to save himself?

Suddenly his smile is gone, and he finds he can't bear to meet Horatio's eyes as he dabs as gently as he can at his cuts.

"It's nothing," he murmurs, throat thick with guilt. "Truly, Horatio."

[misterhornblower]

Horatio can feel Archie's pity for him as the other studies his face and lifts a damp cloth to the first of the cuts. His shipmate is so gentle, even as his face abruptly falls and his eyes move away from Horatio's own as if he's suddenly remembered something sobering - and, for all Horatio knows, he may well have. You don't know half of what he's capable of, Clayton had told him this morning. He still is uncertain of the full extent of Simpson's wrath, and can only pray that he will never know.

When Archie speaks, his voice is stricken with what sounds to be guilt. But why? There's nothing that he could have done to stop that bastard, and he's already doing more than Horatio would ask of him, much more.

He hesitates before speaking, as if standing at the edge of a towering precipice and looking down at the depths below. To comment on it, assuming he's correct in his assumption that it's guilt in the first place, would be invasive - but it's difficult to see Archie like this, and the combination of sympathy and his own guilt win out.

"It's not your fault, Archie," he hazards, meeting the other's eyes with a shallow smile he hopes is reassuring.

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

The next day passes without major incident; so does the day after. Jack is still there, of course, still helping himself to the other mids' laundry and their rum and anything that takes his fancy. But while he still seems to harbor a special grudge for Hornblower, taking every opportunity to try and trip him up on deck, or poke a hard finger into his bruised ribs - taking care never to be witnessed in the act - it is nothing that cannot be borne.

Archie himself is in agony. The bulk of Simpson's wrath seems to have shifted from himself to Hornblower, and Archie is torn between blessed relief and terrible guilt. Trying to attract Jack's attention back to himself seems singularly ill-advised, and nothing that Horatio would thank him for, if he knew - but much as he dreads the idea, he can't help wondering if he has a duty to do so. After all, as he'd told Horatio, he's used to Jack's punishments and rages; and he's borne it thus far, hasn't he?

But his courage fails him yet again, as he thinks of Jack's cold eyes fixed on his, of turning in an isolated corner of the ship to find Jack blocking his way, that telltale smile on his face. Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow - because Horatio doesn't deserve any of this, and he'd called Archie his friend. What kind of friend stands by and watches the other suffer, when he has it in his power to take on that suffering himself?

In the end, the decision is not left up to Archie. Jack, it seems, has not entirely abandoned his favored target. It's early evening and the cabin is empty, the other mids up on deck, when Simpson catches him. Perhaps he'd shown a little too much kindness and solicitude to Hornblower; perhaps Simpson is still put out over his failed promotion; perhaps he simply dislikes the look of Archie's face. It hardly matters, because the result is the same, and nightmarishly familiar. Jack is, if anything, more vicious than usual, spewing hatred and vitriol into Archie's ear as the young midshipman chokes back sobs, taunting him as he falls helplessly to hands and knees. When it's over, what seems a thousand years later, he caps it all off with a vicious kick to Archie's ribs, one that sends him crashing to the deck.

Eventually, he manages to stumble to his feet and collapse in his hammock, and the next day passes in a blur, only Archie's years at sea and his months of enduring Simpson's various abuses saving him. No one seems to notice anything amiss, at any rate - or if the other mids do, they're too wise to remark on it out loud - and it's only once the supper-table is cleared away and the others have dispersed throughout the ship that Archie's feverish control slips and he falls to the deck, muscles convulsing uncontrollably as he screams.

[misterhornblower]

The scream is immediately recognizable from where Horatio is standing, even through the generalized chaos of loud drunks and the delighted squeals of local women some of the enlisted men have brought 'tween-decks.

"Archie!" he exclaims under his breath, eyes widening. He shoves a few crewmen out of his way as he hurries in that direction and orders a few more to step to the side, and by the time he's in the doorway of the small dining room, he's short of breath. That isn't to say he's aware of the fast rise and fall of his chest, the pounding of his heart - his eyes lock onto the body convulsing on the floor and everything else all but ceases to exist.

Horatio drops to his knees beside Kennedy and wraps a hand around his violently clenched bicep, pointlessly rubbing the far side of his chest with his other palm as if the small gesture will do anything to help. "Archie!" he whispers frantically, "Archie, Archie, it's okay, you're alright. Shh-shh-shh, everything's fine, you're alright--" Have they lasted this long in the past? This seems like it's lasting longer. Where's Clayton? I'm not prepared to deal with this. I don't know what I'm doing. What if he hurts himself? I have to find Clayton--- but I can't leave him alone, either. Dammit!

Clearly the only thing to do is to stay where he is, his friend's rigid body half in his lap as he tries to hold him still and keep him from injuring himself on the hard floor. Kennedy should be in his hammock, away from hard surfaces, but moving him during one of his fits is a two-person job, so this will have to suffice.

"Come on, Archie," Horatio quietly urges, staring down at his deeply contorted face. "Everything's alright."

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

But Archie's much too far gone to hear Horatio's pleas, or even be aware of his presence. He doesn't fight when Horatio pulls him into his lap, but neither does he seem to gain any comfort from the embrace. He continues thrashing and moaning, eyes sightless and rolling in his head, and as he twists violently the side of his shirt rucks up, revealing an ugly, purpling bruise on his ribcage.

Eventually, after what must seem like a long time to Horatio, his convulsions slow, and then stop altogether as Archie slumps bonelessly in Horatio's arms, unconscious. He's shivering, either with cold or the aftershocks from his spasms, his face sweaty and pale.

It's a long time after that - a few minutes, at least - that his eyes finally open. They dart from side to side in panic and confusion, and one hand clutches desperately at Horatio's sleeve. Finally, he looks up, blinking as recognition slowly dawns.

"H...Horatio?"

[misterhornblower]

Horatio's jaw clenches the moment he sees the deep bruise stretching across much of his friend's side. Simpson! How could I have missed it? If I'd been paying more attention maybe this wouldn't be happening to begin with. The thought is momentarily wiped from his mind when Archie's eyes finally open, however. All he can think then is Thank God.

"I'm right here, Archie." Horatio swallows and removes the hand that had held Kennedy's arm when he was still convulsing to rests it over the one Archie is using to grasp his sleeve instead. Were the situation different, he probably wouldn't take such a risk, offer such an intimate gesture - but Archie is so clearly afraid and he himself is swept up in the moment to a degree that has momentarily robbed him of his usual self-restraint where these matters are concerned. To lay his hand over Kennedy's bent, rigid fingers is second nature, and he's half unaware that he's done as much, so focused is he on re-establishing verbal contact. "You're okay. Do you feel alright?"

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

Archie opens his mouth as if to speak, but all that comes out is a wordless babble that turns into a moan. He's drained both mentally and physically, exhausted and still anxious, and his eyes dart to the door again. It's clear who he's expecting to see there, especially when he raises one hand to push weakly at Horatio's chest. The other is still wrapped tightly in the cloth of his sleeve, however, making any attempt to shove him away useless even if he wasn't weak as a kitten.

"He'll find you..." he says, still watching the door to the cabin anxiously. "You can't...You have to leave..." Simpson's harsh words still echo in his head, as loudly as if the man was right there, standing over him. You're mine, Kennedy. I own you. You'd be dead if it wasn't for me. "P-please, Horatio, get away..."

[misterhornblower]

"You know I can't do that. Just rest, Archie." The only word truly fit to describe the sight before him is heartbreaking - the bright, friendly face that greeted him despite the miserable rain and freezing gusts on his first day at sea has somehow been reduced to fearful exhaustion without even a shadow of its wonderful smile left, all because of that man. What right does he have to torment them? To torment Archie? "If he finds me, so be it. I'd be a poor friend to leave you alone."

There's no telling how badly Simpson hurt him - all he knows is that the bruise covering much of Archie's ribcage is massive enough to be the result of kicking, and the memory of how much force hit his side when he received a similar treatment is still fresh. He desperately wants to know when this happened, whether there was some sign that he missed - but Archie's still clearly quite rattled, and the last thing Horatio wants to do is send him into another fit, so he resolves to ask about the specifics later.

"Come. You should settle into your hammock if you feel ready to get up."

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

He could, though. Oh, Horatio could leave him quite easily, and no one would blame him - Archie certainly wouldn't. Not when he thinks of how roundly Jack had beaten Horatio just days before, how the newest midshipman seems to have attracted Jack's especial wrath, just as Archie himself had months ago. Horatio's already a target. He doesn't need to make things worse for himself.

But he knows, just as certainly, that Horatio wouldn't leave him. He's brave and loyal, and when he says he's willing to risk himself rather than leaving Archie alone, Archie knows he means it. It's simply not in him to abandon someone he thinks of as a friend - someone who needs him - even if it means putting himself in danger.

Archie shudders in mingled helplessness and relief. He wants Horatio to get out, to save himself, but at the same time the thought of him leaving again is almost too terrible to bear. Horatio's words barely register; the hammock is so far away, and Horatio is here and close and warm and Archie's so cold, so tired...He rolls half onto his side, whimpering as he inadvertently brushes his elbow against his tender ribs, and simply buries his face in Horatio's shirt, curling half in his lap and shutting out the world. It's the end of everything if Jack finds him like this now, but he's so shaken and hurt and frightened, and Horatio is so warm and comforting, he can't bring himself to care. Jack is clearly set on making him miserable, either way. What's the point of denying himself this small relief, when he knows the suffering will never end even if he does?

[misterhornblower]

Horatio sees him flinch when his elbow moves past the area of the bruise and frowns, his brows furrowing as he very lightly sets a hand between Archie's shoulderblades. He is careful, for there is no way to tell if his fingers are resting over an unseen injury, and the last thing he wants to do is cause Archie any additional discomfort. He's suffered enough, more than enough.

Horatio stays still, perhaps a little awkwardly, as Kennedy tucks his face into the loose fabric of his shirt and leans into him more heavily. Were the circumstances different, Hornblower might enjoy this - but at the moment all he can think about is the fact that Archie is distressed, and scared, and weak, all because of that animal. Something has to be done.

Horatio pauses as his focus returns to the immediate, then carefully asks after a few moments: "How badly are you hurt, Archie?"

[misterhornblower]

When Archie falls asleep, Horatio has to will himself not to wake him up. What if he doesn't get up? The question plagues him, staying at the forefront of his mind for a good hour as he watches the soft rise and fall of his friend's chest beneath the clean, dry blankets the Don had allowed him. The urge to touch his face and feel the warmth of his skin and the substance of his body, to reassure himself that Kennedy is here and alive is overwhelming.

Archie tried to kill himself. It's too much to process, to even begin to wrap his head around - even moreso because he could have stopped it had he not been so selfish as to prioritize something as insignificant as going on walks outside of the prison while Archie was left here, languishing, the only one aware of what he was doing utterly indifferent. What would I have done if you'd died because of me?

Horatio swallows against the tightening of his throat. This is his fault. Archie is almost dead, almost gone forever because of his own stupidity. He blinks rapidly in an attempt to hold the tears welling in his eyes at bay, and for a few seconds, he succeeds - but ultimately, they spill over, and within a few minutes he chokes back the first of multiple silent sobs, doing his best to stay as quiet as possible. Archie desperately needs rest, and the least he can do is to avoid waking him up.

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

He hadn't tried to kill himself, Archie might have protested if he'd known Hornblower's thoughts, or if he'd been capable of articulating such a distinction at all. He'd tried to die. Nothing so active as suicide; he'd simply stopped eating. Stopped trying to live, because what was the point? Every attempt at escape only made things worse, and even Horatio's entirely unexpected appearance at the door of his cell had brought more uncertainty than reassurance. Horatio was supposed to be free, not trapped in hopeless misery with Archie. He was supposed to be immune to such things as capture by the enemy. And even if he kept his promise, and made good on his attempt to escape -

Well, he certainly didn't need Archie there, slowing him down. Being a burden.

Perhaps, he'd thought as he'd sat in his cell, his mind sluggish and his body weak, perhaps Horatio had never come at all. Perhaps it was simply an hallucination brought on by the lack of food; his mind's final gift to him, a familiar and sympathetic face before the end -

Do you have a sweetheart back in England, Archie?

He wakes with the unanswered question still ringing in his ears. The bed where he lies is soft and warm, the mattress and blankets thick, entirely unlike the thin, bare pad he'd used for weeks. The musty, stale stink of the cell is gone, replaced by a gentle, almost floral scent -

And someone is crying.

He blinks his eyes open, confused and still half-asleep, and struggles to focus on the figure at the side of the bed. Nothing else matters, not the room nor how he'd ended up here, only the source of those quiet, broken sobs, because the person sitting there is familiar but only marginally, because in all the time he'd known him Archie had never, ever seen him like this before, hunched half over, shoulders bowed, hands raised to cover his face as he shudders near-silently.

"...Horatio?"

[misterhornblower]

Dammit.

Horatio sniffles and wipes his eyes with the backs of both wrists, doing his best to steady his chin before making eye contact. Archie already knows he's been crying, but at least he can attempt to regain some of his composure before showing his face. "Go back to sleep, Archie," he whispers when he at last looks up to meet Kennedy's eyes, voice thick with tears even despite his attempts to keep it steady. "You need rest. You'll recover sooner if you do."

Please. You have to get better.

Does he even want to? Horatio can only hope that he's realized that life is still worth living, that it was foolish to try and end it - yet he cannot shake the sickening feeling in the pit of his gut that Archie's opinions on the matter probably haven't changed within the past few hours.

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

He doesn't mean to stare, but somehow he can't look away, watching Horatio weep in quiet, disbelieving horror. All of his own troubles are, momentarily at least, forgotten in the face of this baffling, discomfiting sight. Horatio doesn't cry. He's not like Archie, he's strong and brave and -

But he can't deny the evidence of his eyes. What he doesn't understand, though, is why. What could have brought Horatio Hornblower so low?

"What's wrong, Horatio?" he asks quietly, completely ignoring Hornblower's instructions to go back to sleep. As if he could sleep now, knowing his friend was so miserable. He stiffens as something occurs to him. What else? "Is it the Duchess? Is she all right?"

[misterhornblower]

The Dutchess? For a moment all Horatio can do is stare in disbelief, mouth half-open. He really thinks I care about him that little--it's no wonder, I certainly haven't shown him that I care.

"Archie, the Dutchess is fine." Horatio swallows hard as another wave of tears silently spill over his cheeks and gather beneath the point of his chin. How don't you see that I'm crying because of you? "I--" He falters, then tries again. "You scared me. I was a terrible friend for getting distracted by frivolous conversation and walks by the sea while you were--" A quiet but harsh half-sob cuts the sentence off prematurely, and it takes Horatio a few seconds to pick up where he left off, voice shaking. "While you were dying. I'm so sorry, Archie. I failed you."

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

For a moment all he can do is lie there dumbly. Horatio is crying, is this upset, over him? He blinks, trying to absorb it all - and then the guilt overtakes him. Archie sees himself as responsible for the wellbeing of all his men here, and he'd obviously included Archie in that count, even though they haven't been shipmates for years. And Horatio does care about him, on a more personal level, as a friend; even Archie knows that much, regardless of whether he deserves that loyalty or not.

And Archie had completely blown off Horatio's overenthusiastc sense of personal responsibility and his friendship alike, never once considering how his own actions might affect him. He looks away, ashamed.

"You didn't fail me, Horatio," he says quietly, his gaze fixed on the blankets. How had he gotten here, to this room? He doesn't remember, but of course it must have been Horatio, raising the alarm, making sure he was taken care of. His guilt increases. "You didn't do anything wrong."

[misterhornblower]

"I did, Archie. I didn't pay attention, I was too busy trying to be up to the standards of the Dutchess to realize that you'd--"

Horatio cuts himself off and lapses into silence, pressing his lips together for a moment to try to keep the lower one from trembling. "You were starving yourself and I didn't even realize it," he at last chokes out. His voice breaks halfway through the statement.

As soon as the facts of the matter are laid on the table, the questions that his utter panic had previously supressed rise to the surface of his mind, demanding an answer. Horatio yields. "Why, Archie?" he whispers, blinking back another wave of tears as he attempts to catch the other's eye. "Why have you done this?"

[misterhornblower]

Horatio wakes up in increments the next morning, occasionally coming into just enough consciousness to realize that his body has stiffened from sleeping upright in the chair at Archie's bedside before again drifting off. It's only on the third time he wakes up that he opens his eyes more than a sliver, taking in the pale grey light filling the room for a few seconds before he lifts his head and straightens his back, stifling a grunt at the discomfort of suddenly returning his spine to a more natural alignment.

He studies Archie's peacefully sleeping form for a few moments of still silence, unsure whether to smile or frown - just looking upon him is enough to bring forth feelings of deep affection, as well as excitement for the future - but also horror with how thin he is, how pale. His cheekbones are so much harsher than they were when the two of them first met, and a combination of starvation and sleep deprivation has carved dark circles beneath his eyes. He never would have thought he'd see Archie like this, even during the dark times on the Justinian.

But hopefully--hopefully he will eat this morning, seeing as he now has a full understanding of just how important to Horatio it is that he do as much. He waits for the guards to arrive in silence, staring at his knuckles and stretching his legs out in front of him, then stands and quietly walks to the window as time continues to drag on. It's a good thing that they're on the late side, seeing as he needs all the sleep he can get, but he also feels a great deal of urgency where getting him to eat and drink is concerned.

Horatio goes ahead and pours some water for his companion to keep himself occupied for a few more moments, setting the cup at the corner of the table before pacing back to the window again. The rain's let up, thankfully. He'd had no idea rain in a place as arid and warm as this could be so freezing until last night.

His head immediately turns when the door opens, and he makes eye contact with the guard who's come bearing a bowl of porridge, then glances down at Archie to hopefully bring to the man's attention that he's still sleeping. He takes the bowl with a quiet gracias - Horatio doesn't speak Spanish, but he's picked up at least that much - and sets it next to the tin cup on the dresser, waiting until the man's left and closed the door behind him before lightly, repeatedly tapping Archie's shoulder to wake him. Even a gentle shake, it seems, would be enough to hurt him in his frail state.

"Archie," he whispers. "Time to wake up. Breakfast is here."

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

Archie sleeps, and for once he sleeps peacefully, untroubled by fits or dark dreams. He wakes to a comfortable bed and a cool room just beginning to brighten with still-dim morning light, and a feeling of deep contentment that he cannot at first credit.

And then he opens his eyes to see Horiato gazing earnestly down at him, tapping his shoulder so gently it seems he fears Archie will shake to pieces at the slightest hint of rough treatment. He smiles reflexively, still not quite knowing why, only sensible of that deep feeling of warmth and happiness. He feels unaccountably weak and lightheaded, his limbs terribly heavy, but for some reason it doesn't matter, because for some reason he is so happy and Horatio is here and -

"Good morning, Horatio," he murmurs sleepily, and at that the memories come rushing back all at once: the night before; the fumbling, earnest confessions; the eager, joyous clasp of hands; the kiss - and he opens his eyes wide with a little disbelieving gasp. "Oh -"