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

[misterhornblower]

"Of course." he murmurs in resonse to the thanks, then adds, "There has to be a way, Archie." He cannot will himself to utter the words 'I am right' no matter how badly he wants to reassure the other - they have to try, but there's certainly no guarantee that they'll succeed. At least his own suffering will be over if Simpson goes over the deep end and just kills him in response, he supposes.

Now that Archie is back on his feet, the urgency of the fit that summoned him to the room a far echo, Horatio is acutely aware of how close they're standing, the intimacy of the hand that stupidly lingers on his shipmate's elbow longer than it would were it to belong to a normal, healthy young man - so he immediately breaks eye contact and steps back, rather awkwardly chewing on the inside of his lip. "I... I imagine you'd probably like to rest."

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

Archie shakes his head mutely. It's no use arguing, but neither can he bring himself to hope that there really is a chance. He can't afford to. Better to accept the situation for what it is, and prepare himself for the next, inevitable encounter with Simpson the best he can.

"He'll make Lieutenant eventually." He's got to, hasn't he? That's the one eventuality they've pinned all their hopes on - that Simpson will earn his promotion, and be transferred to another ship, leaving them in peace. "It won't...it won't last forever." It can't. Or at least, Archie knows he won't be able to bear it forever, not if things continue the way they have been. Simpson will be assigned to another ship, and the world will go back to the way it should have been; or Archie will die. Or go mad, perhaps; or his fits will become so bad he'll be unfit to continue to serve, and he'll be discharged from the Navy in (personal, if not official) disgrace.

None of that is something he wants to think about right now. He nods gratefully, even as he regrets Horatio withdrawing the solid, supportive hand on his arm. Better this way. Archie doesn't deserve the comfort.

"I would, very much I think." He tries to smile, his head already starting to droop. He's so tired. "If you...if you wouldn't mind helping me into my hammock..."

[misterhornblower]

"Of course, Archie." The smile he gives in return is equally shallow, pitying. It is Horatio's turn to hold back his incredulity: he knows, just as he is sure Archie knows, that Simpson may never make Lieutenant - for all of his sinister cleverness, the mids' tormentor is hardly a smart man, and the exact vein of mathematical knowledge he seems to utterly lack is that which is necessary to pass the lieutenancy exam.

He adjusts his pace to match Archie's as the two walk to the bunks; when they reach his friend's, Horatio pauses, eyes flitting over the hammock as he tries to determine the best way to offer assistance. He decides upon interlacing his fingers and lowering his joined hands so that they offer a foothold and hopes it's enough.

"Leg up?"

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

Archie feels faintly ridiculous, needing a leg up just to get into his hammock. What kind of a sailor is he? What kind of a man?

But in the aftermath of his fit, he knows he's still too weak and shaken to make it on his own, and the only thing more embarrassing than asking Hornblower for help would be to try it on his own and end up crashing back down to the deck. He nods, unable to meet Horatio's eye, and sets a foot in Horatio's joined hands, clambering up a little awkwardly, but successfully enough.

Once he's safely in the hammock, he shifts his body into place, taking a moment just to catch his breath before finally looking at Horatio again.

"Thank you, Horatio." He pauses, gaze drifting aimlessly down Hornblower's chest, at eye level. "Please...please don't say anything about this. It'll only make things worse."

[misterhornblower]

Horatio falters. Archie's right, of course - it's the same reason he'd lied when asked where the bruises on his face had come from just a few days prior - but the request that he do nothing is still a hard pillow to swallow. After a few seconds of silence, he slowly nods.

"I-- I won't, Archie. You have my word." Horatio presses his lips together and does his best to catch Kennedy's eye in an attempt at assuring him of the truth in the statement. Hopefully, the other will get some sleep before Simpson comes barging in - fatigue is brutally evident on his face as he looks down upon it, and he knows the fit in and of itself has exhausted his poor friend.

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

Archie sees him hesitate - that's why he'd made sure to make him promise, because he'd known Horatio would want to do something. He understands as well as any of them the necessity of keeping quiet - he'd refused to rat Jack out even when he'd shown up to duty with bruises on his own face - but when it comes to a friend being hurt, Archie knows it'll be harder for him to keep quiet.

But it's a necessity. And eventually Hornblower nods, understanding, and Archie nods in return, relieved.

"All right. His eyes drift shut briefly, safe and warm in his hammock with Horatio at his side - and he forces them open again, offering a tired smile. "I'll be fine, Horatio. Don't worry about me."

[misterhornblower]

By what definition of fine?

Horatio keeps his uncertainty to himself, however, and offers a small, mostly forced smile in return. Poor Archie. he didn't do anything to deserve this.

As he looks down at the half-awake figure in the hammock, he's again overcome with affection, rendered momentarily silent - Kennedy's bangs look like gold thread where the the light of the oil lamps illuminating the mids' quarters catches them; even in the wake of his suffering his face is gentle, a reflection of the fundamentally good soul within him. Even in their present hollowness there is something captivating about his pale eyes and the chestnut lashes that frame them, although that can hardly compare to the way they crinkle at their outer edges when he smiles-

Horatio swallows hard and breaks eye contact upon realizing he's been staring and silently hopes it's gone without notice - his friend has enough to worry about without the sexual deviancy of a trusted companion being added to that list.

"Alright. Get some rest, Archie."