hmsindefatigable | welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

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.

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"Archie. Archie, please." The legs of his chair audibly scrape against the floorboards beneath them as he pushes it back and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, crowding in beside him. He reaches across Archie's thin body and gives his far shoulder a squeeze, his hand lingering in place even once he relaxes it.

"Listen to me. You're getting out of here whether you like it or not. You're coming with us. And if you refuse to come with us I suppose I'll just stay here and rot in prison instead of enjoying life on the Indy too. I'm not leaving you." He pauses, swallows hard. And what if none of this sinks in? What then? I can't make him eat. When he picks up where he left off, his words are more of a plea than a statement. "I need you. I need you alive."

And it is the truth. Even in a proper sense of the word need, in a way that ignores the force with which the feelings he had struggled to tamp down have returned now that Archie is here, in front of him - he cannot bear to leave this man, and he will not. If that means dying in this godawful prison, so be it.

He keeps expecting Horatio to give in, to stop pursuing what is clearly a fruitless endeavor and go back to his cell - or back to the Duchess, to his walks along the shore. But every time Archie looks away or refuses to answer, Horatio only seems to become that much more determined. He sits on the bed, his thigh pressed close against Archie's side, and Archie shudders, closing his eyes against Horatio's hand pressed against his shoulder, against his pleading, insistent words.

A part of him longs to believe everything Horatio is saying. Longs to put his fate in Hornblower's capable hands, even to confess - to everything. He has been so afraid, so alone - he is still so afraid, and as for loneliness...

What would Horatio say, if he knew the truth? If he knew how many long, cold nights Archie had passed in prison with only the thought of Horatio himself to keep him warm? If he knew how the memory of his arms wrapped tight around Archie had brought him the only comfort he knew in the awful, exposed darkness of the oubliette? So many impossible fantasies, trivial though they may have been - a sympathetic hand, a word of encouragement, a familiar, warm body pressed against his in the narrow cot.

And now Horatio is here, and the hand, the body, the encouraging words all made real. Archie opens his eyes, seeking Horatio's kind brown ones - those eyes he had missed for so long. For a moment he only stares, in a kind of desperate, longing supplication - Horatio, please help me. And then he remembers.

Here is Acting Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, handsome and brave, as yet seemingly untouched by prison and the horrors of war, strong enough not only to fight for his own survival and escape but that of his men as well. Strong enough to set himself on returning to the Indy without so much as a thought of the dark spectre that awaits them both there. And here is Midshipman Archie Kennedy, presumed dead and more than half there already, utterly incapable of making even his own escape despite multiple opportunities to do so, prone to fits and terrors he cannot control, whose first act upon seeing his former shipmate had been to cry out and turn his face away in fear.

He cannot compound the stark difference between them further by confessing to anything. Not his fears, not the shameful, deviant inclinations that would have Hornblower recoiling in shock and revulsion. He shakes his head in quiet despair.

"I'm sorry, Horatio." For everything he is, for every way in which he has failed to measure up. What more can he say? "I'm sorry."

No.

The rest of the statement, at least to Horatio's ear, is implied: I'm sorry, but I still want to die.

He feels sick, worse than he did on the day they first met. He's tried everything, and nothing has worked, and he can't even convince his best friend to not die. Horatio bites his lower lip to keep it from quivering as he squeezes Kennedy's shoulder again.

"Archie." He swallows thickly. His voice breaks as soon as he tries to speak again, but he forces himself to continue. "Archie, please. You have to eat, and drink, and you're going to get better and you're going to leave with us, I know you will. You have to."

Horatio blinks rapidly in an attempt to fight off a pending wave of tears and faintly shakes his head from side to side, at an utter loss. "We all need you. You can't die." Without much thought at all, he lets the hand fall from Archie's shoulder and lightly rests it on his cheek, just enough to keep him from looking away.

"Archie-- please."

There's a cruel irony to it - he'd imagined what it would be like to touch his face and look into his beautiful blue eyes so many times before, and as if by divine punishment, he has at last been presented with it - but the cheek beneath his hand is cool and hollow; the once-bright eyes have gone dead. There is no romance to the moment, no beauty - it is happening because the other party has lost the will to live.

God is punishing him, and Archie has been dragged down with him.

He does still want to die, even if that hadn't been precisely what he meant. There is no more urgency to the desire now than there had been earlier, no inclination to take a more active role in his own demise; if nothing else, he knows he cannot do that to Hornblower, cannot smother himself in his pillow or wrest a gun from a guard to turn on himself (even had he the strength, of body or of will, to do either; and he has not). No. He could not do such a thing, and leave Horatio to - as he certainly will - take the guilt and the blame entirely on himself. In any case, he still shies away from the thought of anything so violent, so decisive.

But to waste away slowly, to slip unresisting into the quiet and comforting darkness, leaving all of his fears and his failures behind...that he could do. He can leave Horatio with, if not the knowledge, at least the belief - plausible enough - that it was unavoidable, that there was nothing anyone could have done. That it was the brutalities and the miseries of the Spanish prison, and Archie's own weakness, that was at fault, and not Horatio himself. Deep down, perhaps, he knows that Horatio would never shift the blame away from himself so easily; but there would at least be a chance...

Horatio's hand falls to his cheek and it is so close to what Archie has longed for that suddenly he feels certain that none of it had been real at all. Horatio, the Duchess...all an extended hallucination, and perhaps he is even closer to death than he had thought. He lifts his eyes to the apparition, his mind already clouding again with hunger and exhaustion, and when he sees the utter grief and despair on Hornblower's face a stab of guilt shoots through him in return. Surely he is being terribly selfish, making his friend suffer so...but no, no. Horatio is not here, he is far away, making a name for himself at sea, and giving no further thought to Archie Kennedy. He smiles, wistful and dazed.

"I hope you are happy, Horatio, wherever you are," he says, his voice faint and growing fainter. His eyes slide away, glazed, no longer able to hold Horatio's gaze. "I hope you are somewhere warm and free."

"What-- I'm right here. Archie, what are you talking about?" He's delirious. He's about to lose consciousness again. Horatio's eyes widen and he yanks his hand away, nigh-leaping off of the side of the bed in his hurry to fill a cup with some water.

There's little of the gentleness of the previous exchange when he returns to his friend's bedside - immediately, he slides a hand between the back of Archie's head and the pillow, cradling it so that it's at least somewhat upright as he presses the small metal cup to his lower lip. The time to offer him a choice in the matter has passed, and he'll be damned if he lets Archie die in some hellacious prison.

"I'm right here-- Drink. Archie, drink. You're delirious." The surface of the water trembles unsteadily with the quivering of Horatio's hand even despite his best efforts to stabilize it lest he spill water on the blankets. Kennedy is already cold, and he's just now starting to finally dry off from the rain - getting wet again will only slow down that process, and it's a wonder he hasn't caught ill already.

Yes, he is delirious, or at least he thinks he is. How kind of Horatio to notice it, imaginary though he may be.

The apparition vanishes all at once, leaving Archie's head lolling on the pillow. He hardly has time to react to its sudden disappearance before it returns, sliding a hand under Archie's head, bringing a cup to his lips. Horatio's hand trembles, and some of the water splashes into Archie's mouth; he swallows some quite without meaning to and coughs up the rest, shaking his head. How can he choke on imaginary water? Or more to the point, perhaps -

If he can taste an illusion of water sliding down his throat, if he can feel the tremble of a fantastical Horatio's hand pressed nearly against his jaw - what else might he feel? What else might he taste?

Gathering his strength, he meets Horatio's eyes again, and gives him a smile that is both brilliant and sweet - at least, until Horatio notices the addled, faraway look in Archie's eyes. He may not be imagining Horatio's presence as he thinks, but he is certainly somewhat unhinged. And at the moment, he doesn't really care. If he's going to go mad, he may as well enjoy it.

"You're so kind to me," he whispers, and with a great effort reaches up to push the cup away from his lips, his eyes fixed on Hornblower's face. How well he remembers it, all these months later, to be able to mentally reconstruct it such detail. "But I don't want water. I want you." One hand reaches up towards Horatio's face, then falls halfway there and catches his hand instead, pulling him closer. "Kiss me."

Horatio freezes, and for a moment, he wonders if he's the one who's delirious. The scenario is too close to something that might happen in a dream, a world in which everything happens exactly as Hornblower wants it to and Archie shares in his perversions and loves him. He is very close to accepting the offer, even despite the obvious danger of doing so when they could be intruded upon - before he realizes that his friend almost certainly thinks he is his sweetheart back in England, not a fellow man. Not Horatio Hornblower.

Some of the warmth fades from his cheeks, replaced by a terrible, twisting ache in the pit of his chest. He can't kiss Archie, no matter how desperately he wants to and has wanted to for years - not when Kennedy is ill, when he's delirious and might do something he'll regret. Not when the person he wants almost certainly isn't actually Horatio but is in fact a woman, one of the few things he can never, ever be.

With great effort, Hornblower speaks up, lightly squeezing his friend's hand. "Archie, you don't-- You don't know what you're saying. It's-- only me, Horatio. She's not here. Come, now. Drink." He moves the cup back into place and tips it ever-so-slightly, just enough to wet Kennedy's lips. He will have to settle for continuing to imagine what they would feel like against his own and simply be grateful that Archie is here, alive, reunited with him even despite all of his own private sins.

Horatio swallows hard as he waits for the other to comply. Even following his swift realization that his first interpretation of the request wasn't correct, his heart continues to race; his mouth is still dry. 'What if it had been...?' something in him quietly asks. 'What if it had been?'

For a moment, everything is perfect. Horatio's eyes lock on to his, his cheeks flushed attractively pink; Archie fancies he even sees him drawing closer, as if to oblige the request. And then he backs away once more, with a gentle but undeniable rebuff, and Archie's heart sinks in confusion and disappointment. He can do nothing but comply dumbly with Horatio's encouragement, drinking quietly and obediently as he tries to work out what had just happened. Surely his own hallucination would not refuse him? Is he that wretched, that now he cannot even allow himself even a dream of what he has wanted for so long? Or perhaps he'd made a mistake; perhaps it had never been a hallucination after all...

Either way, the result is the same. There will be no happy ending for him here, no comfort, no joy. His expression crumples in misery, and he pushes the empty cup aside, curling onto his side with his face turned away.

"Leave me."

I can't.

Archie's certainly disappointed upon realizing that his sweetheart isn't there - who wouldn't be? - and the crushed look that overtakes his face all at once is enough to make Horatio's heart twist with anguish. For a moment, he feels as if he cannot draw air into his lungs. I should have just played along.

Hornblower lightly sets the cup down on the table and rests his hand on Archie's forearm.

"We'll get out of here, Archie. And when we do, she'll be waiting for you." Will she? Or will she have simply written him off as dead and moved on? Or moved on even without assuming he's dead - although Horatio can't fathom how anyone could do that, seeing as he'd give just about anything for the request uttered a few minutes ago to have been meant for him. Archie's so wonderful he hardly seems real - kind and funny and selfless and incredibly good looking, and for whatever reason he seems to see something in him, Horatio Hornblower, that makes him worthy of friendship.

The realization that follows the thought gradually settles onto his shoulders like a feather drifting down onto the ground - lightly, at first, until the warmth welling in his chest has reached the whole of his body. I'm in love with him.

The effort needed to keep himself from saying as much almost kills him.

Who is he talking about? The Duchess? Why would the Duchess be waiting for him? Why would Horatio bring her up again now? He's hopelessly confused, but more than that, he's heartbroken and unhappy and so very, very tired. He could ask Hornblower to clarify, but what would be the point? All it would get him would be an elaborate explanation that he couldn't follow in his present state, or perhaps Horatio growing flustered and embarrassed that he'd confused Archie...or worse, frustrated that he hadn't been able to follow along...

Better not to ask at all. Better not to look at Horatio, for fear that he won't be able to control himself, that he'll break down into tears and begging, into a bald confession of his feelings that Horatio won't be able to deflect so easily. No. Better to sleep. Tomorrow he will wake, and the apparition will be gone; or it will turn out not to be an apparition after all; or he will die, and none of it will matter.

He makes a wordless, vague noise in response, barely anything at all, and shifts on the bed, closing his eyes and keeping his face turned firmly away.

"Archie... please look at me."

He knows it's selfish - that he should just let Kennedy rest - but he cannot bear even the mere thought of giving up when he's so clearly upset. His fingers curl around Archie's arm and give it a light squeeze he hopes is comforting. What do I do?

He swallows hard before speaking; the words that follow aren't easy. "If.. If you'd like to write her, I may be able to arrange for the letter to be sent to England. Obviously, they'd want to read it first to make sure it doesn't contain escape plans, but surely they'd understand the desire to write to one's sweetheart back home."

He does, unwillingly enough. How can he not, when Horatio asks so quietly, so gently? When Horatio's hand wraps around his arm, giving him a squeeze so sweet and encouraging that tears spring unbidden to his eyes?

He turns and looks, unhappily watching that handsome face, so earnest and worried for his friend. His friend... And now he is talking about her again, this mysterious woman - a woman, he comes quickly to understand, that is not the Duchess after all.

Your sweetheart back home. The idea is so ridiculous, so absurd, that a laugh bubbles up and out before Archie can stop it. He can almost see the incredulity on Simpson's face, almost hear how eagerly he'd abuse Horatio of such notions, were he here now. A sweetheart? Kennedy? Hornblower, don't you know? Kennedy has no sweetheart. He never will. Don't tell me it's escaped your notice what he is...

"My sweetheart..." He gasps the words through the laughter, and then the laughs turn to coughs, and then he cannot stop, his weakened body shuddering as tears stream from his eyes. Finally, with Horatio's help, he manages to control himself, feeling shaky and raw and exhausted all over again. For a moment he can only sit there, hunched halfway over, catching his breath, and then he shakes his head, a minuscule motion.

"I...I have no sweetheart back home, Horatio." He swallows, his throat sore. "There is no woman in my life." His eyes are on the blanket, avoiding Horatio's gaze. Will he guess? Will he realize what Archie is saying? Perhaps he'll be lucky, and Horatio won't hate him. There are a few who know the truth of what he is. Clayton knew. He'd never judged Archie for it, never treated him any differently. He'd never stopped Jack from making Archie's life a living hell, either, but then, Archie had never expected him to. He'd been grateful for the small amount of normalcy, of acceptance, Clayton had offered.

God grant him such a blessing, that Horatio should still offer him half the kindness he does now, once he realizes what kind of monster Archie is. He shakes his head again, eyes still downcast, sober now.

"There never was."

'There is no woman in my life.' Surely he doesn't mean-..? But if there's no woman, if he's never had a woman back home, whose presence could he possibly have hallucinated? It might really have been meant for me, Horatio realizes, trying his best to keep a hold on himself - it won't do to get his hopes up. Please let that be the case.

He might actually want me. He asked me to kiss him.

He realizes after close to a full minute of stunned silence that he still hasn't said anything - and knows the impression that might leave. Horatio desperately racks his brain for something, anything to say to indicate that if his assumption is correct, that Archie is like him, he's hardly in danger of having that fact reported to their superiors once they're free. The best he manages is a quiet "Oh." Horatio lifts the hand he'd returned to his lap when Archie sat up during his coughing fit, starts to extend it, then briefly hesitates. If I'm misreading this situation, it could all be over. All of it.

But I can't let him think that I'm disgusted. So he brings his hand to lightly rest on Archie's skinny forearm, silently hoping as his heart pounds in his chest that the gesture will be enough to convey as much. His mouth feels remarkably dry, and when he speaks up, his voice is barely louder than a whisper, lest the guards overhear. "That really was meant for me, then."

Please say yes. He hardly knows what he'll do if Archie says yes - he certainly hasn't ever been kissed and his knowledge of such things only extends to what he'd overheard the other boys, the normal boys, discussing in the schoolyard during his teenage years - but for once Horatio Hornblower tells himself he'll figure it out later.

He could love me back. He could actually love me back.

Edited 2018-08-26 11:53 (UTC)

Horatio is quiet for a long time. Too long, and Archie is helpless to do anything but lie there - too weak to run away, too mentally exhausted to shrug the whole thing off, blanket the awful revelation with some comforting lie that will preserve their friendship. He could, perhaps, in other circumstances - but he has suffered so much, he has hidden who and what he is for so long, and he is, after all, just this side of starving. He can't think where to begin.

At Horatio's quiet oh, Archie's heart plummets, only to speed up so that Archie feels certain Horatio must hear it as his hand settles on his arm. He lies there, not daring to move, not daring to breathe. What does this mean? Why would Horatio touch him now - now, after everything? And then Horatio speaks again, and Archie's brain nearly sputters to a halt.

Of course. Kiss me. I don't want water, I want you. How could he have been so reckless, so stupid? Even if he'd been certain Horatio wasn't really there, he never should have taken the chance. Never should have thrown his friendship away over some ridiculous, impossible fantasy. What will Horatio do now? Call the guards? Write to the Admiralty? Have Archie thrown into the oubliette? He can't really imagine Hornblower doing any of that, but certainly he will abandon him now - plot his own escape with the other men, and leave Archie here to rot.

He squeezes his eyes shut, expression crumbling in shame and misery, before forcing himself to meet Horatio's eyes again. After all, he is still an officer in the King's Navy. The least he can do is face the consequences head-on.

"I'm sorry, Horati-Acting Lieutenant Hornblower." He swallows. Sorry isn't nearly good enough, but what more can he say? His cheeks are burning. Horatio's hand is still on his arm - at any moment he will twist Archie's wrist in vicious outrage, recoil from him with the same expression of disgust that Jack had given him, the moment he had realized the truth. "I m...meant no disrespect."

Archie's interpretation of his feelings on the matter is so far from the truth that a short, disbelieving laugh quietly leaves his lungs with his next exhalation - and then the smile glowing in his entire body wins out and makes its way to his face. He meant it for me! Archie fancies me!

"No, no, Archie, don't apologize--" Horatio swallows and hesitates, suddenly self-conscious - he's never done anything like this, after all - then lifts his free hand and lightly cups Archie's stubbly cheek. He finally allows himself to stare unabashedly into the the pale blue depths of Archie's eyes, to study the man's high cheeks and strong jawline without averting his gaze every few seconds for fear of being noticed. His mouth feels incredibly dry when he opens it to speak again, heart racing. I can't just say 'I love you', he might just want to lie with me and nothing more. But that doesn't sound like Archie, and, in retrospect, the tenderness with which his friend had dabbed at the gashes Simpson had kicked into his face and chest couldn't have been borne only of lust - nor had it seemed to be something that would happen between two friends who didn't like other boys, as Simpson had put it.

"I... fancy you greatly, Archie. I have fancied you since you first welcomed me onto that ship. I have hoped every day that I should be lucky enough for the same to be the case for you."

Edited 2018-08-28 03:16 (UTC)

He laughs and Archie cringes away, only for Horatio to catch his cheek in one gentle hand a moment later. Reluctantly, again unable to deny him even such a small, tacit request, Archie lifts his eyes to Horatio's face, to see him...

Smiling?

For a moment he can only stare, uncomprehending yet unable to tear his gaze away from Horatio's beautiful face, his deep brown eyes, his soft pink lips...He has never allowed himself to gaze so long and so deeply before, but now, what does it matter? Horatio knows the truth. He has no further secrets to hide.

And it seems he doesn't have to.

It takes a few seconds for what Horatio is saying to sink in. I fancy you greatly. Surely...surely he doesn't know what he's saying. Surely it is a different expression, where Horatio grew up, one that means merely friendship. I care about you, it doesn't matter to me what you are. You are still my friend. But no. No, Horatio had smiled, brilliant and beautiful, he had brought his hand up to Archie's face, he had said I have hoped every day... Slowly, as if in a dream, Archie brings his own hand up to press against Horatio's, his eyes widening in hope and wonder.

"You..." He hardly knows how to say it, and he pauses, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat. "You...you were sweet on... on me? You wanted..." It's too much to hope for, and he stops, falling silent.

"But...the Duchess..."

It dawns on him all at once - Archie wasn't envious of him this past morning, he was envious of the Duchess. Over the attentions of himself - ordinary, plain Horatio Hornblower. It all feels too outlandish to be true.

"A friendly acquaintance, Archie. I have no romantic feelings for her, I assure you." He briefly hesitates, then adds more quietly, "Or any woman."

It's the first time he's ever said as much to anyone. The feeling of relief, of freedom, is immense. He's still my friend even knowing that. He's more than my friend. His heart beats faster in his chest as he searches Archie's pale eyes for some level of understanding, of recognition.

"...And I am sweet on you. Presently."

Horatio swallows dryly - even though Archie has just said, more or less, that he feels the same way, he still cannot shake the feeling that he must have misheard the confession, that this cannot be real. He focuses on the surprising warmth of the hand resting over his, committing the touch--so simple, and yet, so intimate--to memory, as if it there is some risk that it will be abruptly withdrawn at any moment.

Edited 2018-08-28 23:14 (UTC)

Of course he was envious of the Duchess. Walking along the coast, in the sunshine, with Horatio Hornblower at her side, polite and attentive and with her arm securely enfolded in his? Sitting alone in his cell, he'd been able to think of nothing, nothing he wanted more than to be in her position. To walk with Horatio, in bliss and privacy and something almost like freedom, to be able to smile at him and see him smile back...Who wouldn't be jealous?

A friendly acquaintance. Nothing more. Of course. Horatio has always been too shy, too kind-hearted, to be anything but solicitous to any woman who glanced his way - and the Duchess is hardly the first. Archie knows this, of course, but he'd never thought...

He licks his lips, and then smiles, tentatively at first, still weak, still exhausted. But - for the first time in months, perhaps years - hopeful.

"Then...my earlier request stands, Mr. Hornblower." His smile grows wider. It's just him and Horatio here, and a comfortable bed, and though he may still be a prisoner, he is no longer alone. His life is no longer bleak and meaningless. There is a light in it now, in the form of Horatio Hornblower.

"Kiss me."

This can't be real.

He's fantasized about this moment for so long, and yet, now that it has by some miracle arrived, Horatio realizes that he's not quite sure how to go about it. His heart races, putting its previous pace to shame as he studies Archie's lips, momentarily hesitating before he leans in close enough to feel his friend's warm breath against his skin.

As soon as he moves closer, the rest happens as a gentle cascade - as if being pulled by an invisible magnet, he thoughtlessly bridges the rest of the gap between them and presses his lips to Archie's, gently at first, and then more deeply, the tip of his nose pressing into Kennedy's cheek. It is so much better than it had ever been in his daydreams - even in his frail state, Archie is warm, responsive. Hesitantly, Horatio lifts the hand that isn't on his cheek and weaves his fingers into his friend's hair, so much longer than it was the last time they'd seen each other.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you more than I have ever loved anything or anyone.

Horatio is certain that his legs would already have buckled beneath him had he not been seated on the edge of Archie's bed, and equally confident that he would sell his soul if it meant that this moment, this perfect moment, would never end. Soul-deep contentedness warms his whole body - and for the time being, nothing else matters.

It is real.

Archie knows it from the moment Horatio's lips touch his. He could not imagine anything so perfect. It must be real.

Horatio's hesitation is real too - that moment of uncertainty before he moves in, and Archie's heart floods with tenderness and affection at the sight of it. Oh, Horatio. Clearly, this is all new to him. Less so to Archie, who at least has the experience of a few clandestine encounters on shore leave - some more ill-advised than others. Up to him, then, to lead Horatio through this.

He brings his hands up to Horatio's face, brushing his fingers lightly along his jaw with a sense of quiet wonder, then cupping his cheeks gently, urging him forward. A noise escapes him as Horatio deepens the kiss, an eager, quiet whimper, and his fingers slide up to twist in Horatio's brown curls, as he has wanted to do since the moment when that curly head had first peeked over the side of the Justinian.

By the time they finally break apart for air, Archie is panting and exhausted. But he's happy, happier than he can remember ever being, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright as he lifts them eagerly to Horatio's face. He smiles, still with a hint of shyness, but wide and warm.

"Horatio Hornblower."

"Archie."

Thank God he's finally smiling again, the same smile that had greeted Horatio when he first looked up the Justinian's towering hull and wondered how on earth he would possibly get from the violently rocking jollyboat to the main deck. At last he allows himself to acknowledge the fear that's been curled deep in his chest from the moment he first saw his friend curled in a heap on his hard cot - he'd thought Archie might never smile again, that the Spanish had simply broken him.

But they didn't, and now Hornblower finds himself looking at the most brilliant smile he's certainly ever seen, and it's because Archie fancies him. He can't help but to smile back, still full of warmth and excitement, and after a moment of hesitation he returns hand to Archie's cheek, feeling the dip starvation has carved beneath his cheekbones. He wants to ask how long the feelings have been mutual, to resolve a few lingering questions about the meaning behind some of their closer moments, but Archie is clearly very tired, so he tucks the question away in the back of his mind and turns his attention back to the moment.

"I consider myself truly lucky to have met you."

Horatio's smile is truly beautiful, and Archie hasn't had the opportunity to see it nearly often enough. How cruel a world this is, that it should not have the joy of Horatio Hornblower's smile every minute. And yet how wonderful, that he should exist at all, that Archie Kennedy should be lucky enough to know him. More than just know him. To have so much more.

Lucky. Yes, they are both lucky, tremendously so, and perhaps none of the rest of it - the horrors of prison, Simpson's torments - perhaps none of it matters after all. Archie smiles back, or tries to. But weeks of starvation cannot be cured by a kiss, no matter how sweet. He had been weak and tired before, and the emotional flurry of the past few moments had done nothing to help that. He has been fighting his body just to stay awake, when all it needs is rest.

His body. Never reliable at the best of times; how many times had it betrayed him, and to what horrific results? Simpson's scorn and then rage at Archie's utter failure to keep control of himself. The near-ruination of the taking of the Papillion, a mission dependent entirely upon secrecy and silence. And the final, inevitable result, his own capture by the Spanish, adrift at sea.

Now it betrays him again. There is a moment of lucidity, a bare second when his eyes meet Horatio's, wide with fear and knowing horror. And then he arches up off the bed, head falling back, shaking so violently he's in danger of falling off the side and onto the floor entirely. No secure cocoon of a sailor's hammock here. Only Archie, falling victim to yet another fit, wailing all the while.

Oh, God. Horatio springs into action before his thoughts can fully catch up with the situation, leaning over Archie and bracing his hands on his friend's rigid arms in the hope of at least keeping him on the bed until the convulsions stop. The last thing he needs in his current state is to hit the ground when his body is stiff and unable to break the fall - he's too frail, and for all Horatio knows, it could result in a broken bone, one which he might not recover from.

"Archie, Archie, shh, it's okay." I did this. It has to have been the stress of thinking I was upset with him. This is all my fault. I should've been more aware-- "Everything's alright." He lightly rubs one arm in an attempt to be soothing, although his fingers never release their stabilizing grasp. The romance of the moment is gone, shelved without a second thought in light of the emergency at hand. There will be time later to dwell on the excitement of his first kiss, of learning that his feelings are reciprocated - but right now, all that matters is seeing the fit to its end.

He's much too far gone to hear Horatio's frantic attempts at reassurance, or even be consciously aware of him - of anything that is happening. But the touch helps - Horatio's firm grip keeps Archie safely on the bed, and the reassuring pressure of his hands, the rhythmic rubbing of Horatio's fingers upon Archie's arm, finally work their magic.

The fit passes at last, and Archie collapses in a weak, undignified heap on the bed, all but gasping for breath. His eyes dart around the room vaguely, never focusing on Horatio, but one hand reaches out, grasping blindly.

"I'm right here. It's okay, Archie. Just- just rest." Horatio gently guides his friend's outstretched arm in the direction of the shirt hanging loosely from his chest - like someone in great pain, Archie seems to want something to grasp at, and he is happy to oblige if it will bring him some degree of peace.

It is the first time that he is able to act as he would like to in the wake of a fit; now that the secret that has held him back up until now is no longer a concern, Horatio is free to scoot closer and lightly brush a few damp strands of Archie's bangs away from his eyes, leting his touch linger on the other's cheek for a few moments before he falls into lightly stroking his jaw.

"Are you okay?" He's careful to keep his voice soft and even, to avoid betraying his own stress and worry. Archie needs calm and quiet right now, and it would be selfish to deny him that. I have to get him to drink. Dehydration and hunger can't be helping his condition. Nonetheless, Horatio resolves to bring that up in a little while, but not immediately. First, he must simply catch his breath and regain his composure.

welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

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