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.

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[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 -"