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When they took the second floor rooms, it was without realising that if one was abed in the first bedroom with the door open, they only had to crane their neck a fraction to see the other abed in the second.
It’s with this thought that Harry wakes to the startling cry. It’s not the first nightmare Mr Collins has suffered since their return and is unlikely to be the last. Harry himself suffers with them enough. He cranes his neck but it must be late, as all the lamps are out and curtains still drawn, so all he can see is blackness.
He climbs from bed anyway, reaching for the lamp on the sideboard with clumsy hands and igniting it hurriedly as he hears another noise of distress and pads across their shared sitting room to the other man’s bedroom.
The kindly landlady hadn’t batted an eyelid at two navy-men wanting two bedrooms to share while they were on shore leave — they didn’t mention where they’d returned from and she didn’t ask. If she’d seen their names printed in the papers she didn’t mention it.
The door is pulled ajar, and when he pushes it slowly open it’s to find Mr Collins, still abed but with the bedclothes in a mess about him, as he thrashes, dark hair plastered to his head with sweat.
It’s still taking practise to find the best way for each of them to help the other through these nights. In Harry’s experience they’re often endured alone, and he’s sure that Mr Collins isn’t letting on the true frequency of his bad dreams either. But when the dreams are bad enough to seep into the waking world and alarm the other, it’s often a case of watching the other ride it out. To be there to sooth them when they wake. Harry has roused Collins a few times when he feared the man was going to injure himself. This time he simply sits meekly at the foot of the bed, something he’d have been shy to do a few months ago but has since become routine. Their arrangement was practical, after all.
When Collins lets out another upsetting cry, arms clawing at his own torso, Harry places a careful hand on the other man’s exposed ankle where it lies above the bedclothes. Its something that’s worked in the past. Helped to ground the man in the present without startling him too much. Harry circles the ankle in his grip and speaks softly.
“It’s ok, Henry. You’re just having a bad dream. It’s 1849 and you’re in bed in London.”
The man stirs slightly but soon escapes Harry’s grip as he turns again over onto his front with a groan. Harry tried not to focus on the new expanse of muscular thigh on display at this angle. He’s seen more in the past and been professional about it.
He reaches for an ankle again.
“It’s me, Harry. It’s just another nightmare.” They still habituate to calling each other Mr Collins and Mr Goodsir but it’s in these private, dark moments that they gravitate towards the Christian names they’ve both told the other to use.
He thinks he hears (feels) the man stir, and he stands from the bed, moving closer to his head to watch for signs of consciousness.
He watches as the man seems to settle, the fight in his body giving out and his breaths becoming more even. He watches the man’s eyelids flutter as he nuzzles his head into the pillow.
“Henry?” He tries once more but there’s no response. He waits for a few more minutes, sitting politely on the day chair in the corner until he’s convinced that the man’s returned to more peaceful sleep, his body swept to one side and nigh shirt and bedclothes askew but calm and breathing evenly. He leaves, creeping back across the sitting room.
While Harry Goodsir missed Scotland, he preferred to miss it than to ruin his good memories of it. London offered both he and Mr Collins some anonymity, and kept them busy. As an afterthought, it also kept them together, but that was merely logistical. They’d formed a loose friendship that had begun through a kind of reliance on each other during their time in the north; they seemed to understand each other’s idiosyncrasies and needs better than anyone else did. Which was why these nighttime routines weren’t an imposition.
He raises the lamp to the clock in the mantelpiece as he passes — its ticking one of the only noises in the dark flat, but for Collins snoring, the buildings creeping, and the hum of the city — and finds that it’s a quarter past 3. He’s glad he still has several more hours to relish in sleep as he feels like he still needs it. He just prays that his own is peaceful as he extinguishes the lamp and climbs back under the covers, burrowing away from the cold.
Harry emerges into the sitting room the next morning to the sound of a teaspoon on a teacup, and Mr Collins smiles at him as he takes the seat opposite.
“Morning, Doc.”
“Good Morning Mr Collins.”
“Were you in my room again last night?” Collins furrows his brow after speaking the words, and then tries again as he sets his teacup down, “That is to say, did I wake you?”
“They’re getting shorter, which is an improvement! I did… try to rouse you, but you settled right down so I left.”
“Right. Good.”
“Do you remember it? Did you wake?”
“Not exactly. But I remember something. Your voice perhaps. I couldn’t have been sure if it was last night or the one before or a complete fabrication of the dream.”
“Do you wish to speak of it? The dream.”
Mr Collins’ brow furrows. “I think not, no. It was mostly more of the same.” The man takes another sip of tea as his eyes wander to the window. Harry’s eyes follow, admiring the morning sun’s transformation of the landscape. It’s been a grey November so far, and they both welcome the light.
Harry reaches for the pot to pour himself some tea, wondering how to broach the topic.
It’s my birthday day after tomorrow. I don’t want to make a fuss, but I’ll be 30 and I thought we might celebrate. Just the two of us. Especially since we didn’t get to celebrate yours. We can share the day.
Mr Collins had turned 30 at some point while they were out on the shale, when the days and weeks had blended together. He’d turned 31 not long after their arrival back in England, when they’d lived in shared solitude — barely speaking, even to each other, passing like ships in the night to feed and wash themselves. He felt guilt that they hadn’t marked the occasion.
What Harry says instead is: “Could you pass the sugar?”
For the first six months, they’d both sustained on halfpay. They hadn’t needed much else, as they’d barely gone anywhere, and neither had entertained the idea that they would be able to earn anything more in their current state. Until Harry had. He’d got a job in a small bookshop at Charring Cross. It wasn’t anatomy, but he was thankful for that. And he liked the work. The bookseller was happy to have him, an expert who could speak to particularly medical-minded customers on his behalf, and Harry was happy to talk about anatomy and books all day.
He didn’t intend to go back to sea. If there was ever time to leave the navy, surely it was then.
His brother’s letters, with offers of help in finding more suitable employment, or otherwise, mostly went unanswered.
Henry remained on halfpay and while Harry knew it was for the best, he also worried that he’ll be called up. It’s unlikely they’d call men up so soon after a mission such as theirs, but time moves along quicker than either of them can comprehend.
While Harry feels like he’s barely held together sometimes, he knows that Henry reached that point long before he did. Harry does his best for him but knows it cannot sustain. And the idea that he could hold a job on land, let alone back on a ship, is ridiculous.
He sometimes feels he’s in an impossible position, knowing that the man needs help from someone more senior and knowledgeable on the mind than he, but not wanting to risk the likely outcome of Collins being institutionalised. Never mind the accolades they had received on returning, Harry doubted they’d resist carting the man off to Bedlam for long. Although, he mused grimly, if any one of the few returned men spoke of what had happened to them in the north they’d all have been locked up along with him. They were all getting by on the basis of a narrative, a lie, that was necessary in the circumstances. Not only for their ability to function in the English society they’d left behind, but for that same society to let them back in.
When he arrives at the bookshop, Mr Brown — the proprieter — is writing at length at the front counter.
“Good Morning Mr Brown.”
“Mr Godwin.”
Mr Brown knew who Harry was, knew his true name, but this was the name they’d agreed he could use at work, to save any invasive questions from curious customers. He still got the occasional odd glance, the “you look very familiar”, but it helped enormously.
“That order I put in for you arrived, it’s in the back.”
“Oh already?! Excellent.”
Once the dark cloud started to lift, several months after their return, Harry began to wonder how he’d ended up living in London with Henry Collins when most of his crewmates were dead. Maybe they’d be better off apart to avoid the reminder. Maybe he would return to Scotland after all.
But then it had started with the books. Mr Collins had come to him one day grasping one of the novels Harry had left lying around and told Collins he was more than welcome to read. He had read it, and wanted to talk with Harry about it. After that, they would decide on a book and then read it one after the other so that they could discuss. Once Harry started work at the bookshop he begun bringing volumes home for this express purpose. They now had a neat line of shared books on a shelf in the sitting room, as well as a few others scattered about.
This was a new volume that admittedly he’d never have picked out for himself, but he has a suspicion Collins would enjoy. He liked to see the man talk about a book he’d enjoyed more than he liked to read a book he’d personally enjoyed.
It was set on his desk, bound in brown paper with his name on the front. He placed a hand to it for a moment before deciding not to open it yet, dropped off his over coat, gloves, and hat before taking up the broom.
He went to unlock the front door and sweep the front steps only to be immediately met by a man with a furrowed brow who’d clearly been waiting for them to open. He frowned further at Harry before stepping past and inside. He was happy to let Mr Brown handle that one.
Harry finds Collins sitting in the dark when he returns home. It’s not late yet, but it’s November.
On unlocking the front door to find their rooms in silent darkness, Harry assumes the other man must be out. On a walk, running an errand, making a rare visit of some sort. But then he hears a quiet rustling and quickly lights a lamp to investigate.
“Mr Collins?” He says, raising his voice. The air is cold, like no one has been in the room in a while.
There’s no reply but he moves toward the sound anyway.
Collins is sitting on a chair that he’s moved over to sit directly before the window, which he’s opened wide and is staring out of blankly.
“Mr Collins?” He tries again, quieter now, just a few feet behind him. Collins doesn’t respond. Harry can feel the chilly breeze circling his bones, watches the way it rustles the curtains and Collins’ hair. “Henry?”
The man startles and turns. His eyes shift from panic and confusion to relief. His face is pale white, his lips nearly blue.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.”
“I don’t…” He shook his head, moving the chair back so he can stand. “What time is it?”
“Perhaps a half past five?”
“Oh.” He runs hands through his messy hair, clarity coming to his face. Harry moves past him gently, pulling the window shut.
“Come. What do you need?” He shepherds the man away from the window, fetches a blanket to tuck around his shoulders, fingers lingering there as he rubs the warmth into him.
“I don’t. I don’t remember the last time I ate.”
“There, let’s get some food in you.”
They eat and Harry tells him about his day at the shop and the customers he met. He gradually eeks conversation out of Mr Collins in return, who seems to come to life as he makes his way through the meal.
When they’re finished, Harry remembers what he’d brought home.
“Ah! I have something for you.”
Collins feints polite surprise as if it’s going to be anything other than a book. Harry finds it in his work bag and brings it over, placing it in Collin’s eager hands on the tabletop, blanket slipping from his shoulders. His cheeks are pink with warmth now.
“Thank you.”
“You haven’t even opened it!”
He prises the paper open gingerly, and as the cover and title are revealed his smile broadens.
“Oh! I’d been hoping to read this one!”
“I thought so.” Harry holds back a triumphant grin.
“Thank you, Doc. I’ll start on it tonight.”
When Harry wakes on his birthday he realises he still hasn’t told him. Or anyone. And it’s fine because he doesn’t want a fuss anyway, does he. It’s fine.
He get’s up and dressed only to find that Collins hasn’t risen yet and so he packs himself off for work quickly.
Before leaving, he decides to write a quick note which he leaves on the table where Collins likes to take his morning tea.
Mr Collins,
I had to leave for work. I should be home at the usual time. Perhaps we could visit the local public house tonight for a drink or two?
I hope you have a good day.
Harry Goodsir.
He doesn’t tell Mr Brown once he’s arrived at the shop either. He’s not sure why. But he’d rather the work day just went on as usual. It’s a long and busy day, and Harry drags his feet home through the cold, climbing the stairs with heavy limbs.
When he opens the door to darkness again he think’s he’s got the same problem he’d had a couple of nights ago. He tries a “Hello?” before hearing an “In the sitting room!”
Harry traipses his way through without reaching for a lamp only to be brought up short.
The room’s lit by at least a dozen candles, with decorative ribbons stung between the different fixtures. Several wrapped packages sit on the table.
“Happy birthday!” Collins cries with glee, jumping up from one of the chairs.
Harry feels a smile cross his face. “How did you…”
“You told me once. I remembered.” He smiles in return, “Were you planning to let it pass by?”
“Well, not exactly,” He laughs, coming forward into the room.
“Come, sit! Would you like some port?” The man produces a bottle and some glasses from behind the gifts.
“Blimey. Yes please.”
They clink their glasses and take a sip.
“I’ve booked a table for dinner.”
“You have?” Harry’s head spins.
“At that restaurant you kept mentioning a few weeks ago.”
“Oh gosh! You shouldn’t have.” Harry kept hearing about it from customers and pretending he wasn’t longing to go, when of course he was.
“But I should.” Collins eyes him warmly. Then he reaches behind himself, and puts his glass down. “You had some letters.”
He sifts through them, recognising various familiar hands who’d clearly written to him for his birthday. His cheeks flush in shame as he thought of assuming he’d been forgotten. About not having written for any of their birthdays.
He sets them aside for a moment to take a drink. Eyeing the packages wrapped in brown paper.
“For me?”
“Of course.”
The closest looks like a book. And it is.
“How did you know?”
“I spoke to Mr Brown, of course. Asked if there was anything you’d had your eye on.”
“This is too much.”
He shrugs, smiling. “No it’s not.”
“Thank you. Henry.” He eyes him over the table to see if the name is acceptable. The man barely flinches.
He’s also bought him a new neck tie, and an umbrella.
“This colour would suit you” and “I broke your old one” are his explanations.
“This is too much.” He repeats.
“I wish you would stop saying that.”
“But you’re on—“
“In case you haven’t noticed you haven’t been letting me pay for much around here recently. I had some to spare.”
“Well. Thank you. Really.” Harry says after a moment. He reaches for Henry’s hand where it rests on his glass, just allowing his palm to press over knuckles for a moment in what he hopes is a friendly gesture.
And then Harry withdraws it and asks Henry about his day. They both get through another glass of port.
“We should leave soon. For our table.” Henry says, emptying his glass.
Harry stands, feeling almost woozy.
“Yes, let me just. Sort myself.” He rushes to his room to check his appearance. Comes back for his new neck tie, which Henry beams at when he sees wrapped around his neck.
They walk to the restaurant in companionable chatter, Collins telling Harry about his interaction with Mr Brown in order to get hold of the book Harry had been coveting.
“He’s definitely an… odd man. Kind, though.”
“Yes. He just seemed rather wary of me is all.”
“I think he’s wary of most people.” Harry says faintly, wondering if that wariness came from the fact that Mr Brown likely knows that Collins had returned from the expedition with him. While some reacted to them with deference, they often received suspicion too, and probably deserved it.
“He…” Henry pauses, his face almost embarrassed, “Questioned me fairly thoroughly on whether I thought you had a sweetheart?”
“What?!” Harry’s voice pitches high in exclamation. “Oh Christ, he’s always trying to suggest eligible young ladies. Says I’m of the age to be looking for a wife.”
“Yes, he was… rather persistent.”
“Christ. Sorry.”
“It’s quite alright, it was entertaining.” Collins smiles mischievously. “I believe he thinks you must have some sordid affair carrying on, to not be interested in anyone he’s suggested.”
Oh, if only it was that, Harry mused. “Certainly a hilarious prospect.”
“So you’re not—“
“No, there’s no truth to it!” Harry exclaims, almost afronted.
“You’re under no obligation to tell me of course.”
“There’s not! I don’t think I’m so canny as all that to be able to hide an affair from you of all people. When you know I’ve ne’er spent a night away from my bed since we… got the rooms.” Well, my bed or yours, he thought quietly.
“I never meant to offend.” Collins places a gentle hand on the arm of his coat.
“I know, I know.” He says gentler now. “And I shouldn’t disparage Mr Brown either, he’s just being kind. In his own way.”
“I’m sure he is. Although I did find some of his additional lines of conversation a little intrusive…”
“I won’t even ask.” He sighs, cutting the conversation short as they arrive outside.
The restaurant is clearly a fine place but not too pretentious, full of people and laughter and piano music. The food is excellent and the wine even better. Collins asks Harry about his previous birthdays (mainly childhood — they avoid the recent years), and tells Harry about his own in turn. They speak about the fashions of the terribly fashionable people around them. The narrative they fabricate about the internal politics of the waitstaff. The book Henry had started the other day.
They go to the pub afterwards.
“And so this was to be your non-birthday birthday celebration?” Collins says shaking his head, the slur to his words becoming evident.
“I hadn’t thought it through that far.”
They both get ale and sit in the least crowded corner of the very crowded room. They share some more chatter and Harry can feel himself growing sleepy. If he squints his eyes — the crowd of tightly packed men, the noise, the heady air — almost makes him feel as if he were still on Erebus.
That rouses him, awfully, and he jolts upright nearly spilling his ale.
“Are you well?” Collins places a gentle hand on his shoulder where he’s seated next to him on the bench.
“Thinking of things I shouldn’t.”
“Mm. It’s the smell I think.”
Harry’s glance shoots to his. “You too?”
“We’ve hardly had much occasion to… frequent rooms filled with men in this manner. Of course one’s brains wanders.”
“I almost felt like I could hear…” The ice, he thinks.
“Mm.” Henry hums non comically, taking a drink. Looking away from Harry.
“You know who I was thinking of the other day?”
“Who?”
“Lieutenant Gore.”
He feels the man skip a breath next to him. A line has been crossed. They rarely spoke of the expedition, but even less so did they speak the names of the men left behind.
Harry continued. “I was looking at the bookshelf and recalled the way the Lieutenant allowed me to store many of my books in his cabin when I first arrived. I brought too many of course. He was First Lieutenant, he didn’t have to do that.”
“No I suppose he didn’t.” Collins says quietly.
“And I find I don’t mind to remember? When I’m remembering acts of kindness.”
“I remember the first time we spoke on board.” Collins speaks with something like a laugh, or a cough. “You were kind to me then. Always were.”
“You do?”
“Yes, you were interested in learning about the diving equipment.”
“I was, I remember now. But surely that wasn’t the first time we spoke?”
“Perhaps not, but our first proper conversation.”
“I see.” Harry watches the other man take a slow sip from his glass.
“You have a way of… making a fellow sure you’re perfectly fascinated by everything he’s saying.”
“I was! I often am.”
“Felt like I could trust you after that. If anything went wrong with the helmet, at least one of the surgeons knew something about it.”
“Well, Doctor—“ He says too loudly, scares himself. Can’t speak any of the Doctor’s names yet. Takes a gulp of his drink. “All of them would have been capable of treating you.”
“But it was you I wanted.”
Harry feels a warmth deep in his belly at the words he can’t quite explain. Or perhaps doesn’t want to. “Henry…”
Henry’s eyes travel over his face at this. “Yes?”
“Let’s go home.”
They’re practically holding each other up on the way home, tucked into each other’s coats against the brisk November night. It begins to drizzle and Henry makes a flippant remark about someone forgetting their excellent new umbrella, which makes Harry laugh and they begin to walk quicker. Suddenly everything is absolutely hilarious to them — a man struggling with an umbrella which keeps turning inside out, the loud operatic but awful singing emerging from a nearby building, the shop sign which has a faded letter and now spells out a crude word — and Harry feels warm and happy and he barely notices the rain and most of all he feels astoundingly alive in a way he couldn’t have imagined just a few months ago.
When they get in the door it happens almost is if they’d planned it. As easy as breathing. They’re laughing to the point of crying, and Henry’s turning his head into Harry’s shoulder, stooping to do it as the other man unlocks the door, delicate fingers at his ribs and “oh i’m laughing so hard my belly hurts,” and Harry’s reciprocating with a friendly hand grasped at the back of the neck, when suddenly he can feel lips, light at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, and he’s sighing at the sensation as he exposes more skin to the other man.
“Yes, that’s… nice.”
Henry bears down, placing kisses into the warm skin with laughter still on his breath, and then presses him gently back against the door so he can give him some more attention.
Harry’s hands have wound through his hair while Henry’s mouth sucks at the skin, the occasional pinch of teeth. Harry can feel himself getting warmer, pleasantly buzzing from the alcohol and his muscles relaxing under the ministrations. But then Henry’s moving, mouth hot and wandering, up to the corner of Harry’s own mouth. He kisses the corner of his mouth with a sleepy grin and then eyes him in question before being pulled forwards.
Henry tastes of the ale they’d both drank and he feels it down to his toes. Harry’s eyes flutter shut as hands fit perfectly into the concave of his waist. He kisses sloppily from the alcohol but slowly and Harry opens his mouth to him, forearms pressing the man in closer.
There’d been moments before. But never this. Never a kiss.
Harry could lie and say he’d never considered it, but it was almost true because he’d thought it a boyish fantasy.
They’d taken to holding each other after Mr Collins had confessed his inner turmoils while they were in the north. But he’d been able to ascribe most of that to the cold, and their collective crumbling sanity. They had certainly not been the only ones.
Since they’d returned, this had only happened on rare occasions. Harry had chastised himself for thinking so often of the way Henry had curved his larger body around his own back on one particular cold and miserable night. They’d both finally been able to sleep and he’d wanted to cry with it.
By the time they make it to the sofa, Henry is pouring out a glass of the port they’d been partaking in before they left, and bringing it to his lips as he eyes Harry over the rim.
Harry perches on the edge of the sofa, suddenly shy. He’s not sure whether to settle back against the other arm, or move closer so that their legs touch.
“Want some?” Henry asks after a moment. Harry’s not completely certain what he's asking.
“Mm.” He makes an affirmative noise, and then Henry’s leaning over him and bringing the glass he’d just been drinking from to Harry’s lips.
He flushes as he drinks, as Henry tips the glass for him, knee precariously close to his hip. He’s thinking about the other man’s lips being on the glass just seconds before, can see the wet redness it’s left behind there as Henry licks them absentmindedly. He’s thinking of the time he woke from a nightmare to find Henry straddling him, the only way he’d been able to stop Harry from hurting himself.
The drink is heady and rich as he gulps it down.
When Henry moves away to set the glass back on the table, Harry finds himself following, his body pressing against Henry’s side, who puffs out a laugh as he turns his head and Harry kisses him again.
Their tongues are both sweet with the port and Henry brings an arms around his back as Harry’s hand finds the back of the sofa for purchase.
“Harry…” He says in question, in warning, in realisation.
“You started it,” Harry laughs in response.
Henry’s hands run down Harry’s back. “And I’m glad to continue it.”
“We’re not— we’re just— it’s all in good fun.”
“Yes.” He says, bright eyes levelling with Harry’s. “Would you call me Henry? I always like it when you do.”
“Henry.” Henry smiles at this which makes Harry smile in response. His cheeks are red. He pulls the other man back into a heady kiss.
He kisses unlike Harry could have imagined, to the extent that all his other senses seem to numb. His fist tightens on the back of the sofa as he deepens the kiss, head tilting to get better access.
He imagines how warm they could have kept each other had they done this during the long nights in those frigid tents. Imagines how he’d have gladly administered kisses to his other crew mates had it helped them — had it kept them healthy. Had it kept them alive.
Harry feels himself melting into Henry, his whole torso slumping forward in surrender against another warm torso in attempt to keep himself in the present. His head spins, either with the alcohol or the touch, as Henry encourages him forward.
He climbs into Henry’s lap and hands glide up his sides, under the coat he still wears.
Seconds later he’s throwing his arms out blindly behind himself to wriggle his way out of it. He feels hands at his shoulders, pushing material delicately down his arms as a pair of lips suck on his lower one. The coat falls to the floor and he falls closer into the man’s lap as arms fold and tighten around his waist. He sighs into Henry’s mouth. Their teeth catch slightly.
He moves his own newly free hands down to fuss at collar and cravat, loosening them with shaking fingers, until he can push greedy palms against Henry’s collarbones, his neck and sternum. There’s a suggestion of hair, peaking out from his upper chest. Harry feels his hips push closer, feels the other man’s evident arousal through his trousers. Henry’s hands move lower.
“What do you… like?” Harry finds himself asking, lips hesitant to leave Henry’s.
“S’your birthday,” Henry says noncommittally, but his voice has grown gravelly. His hands brush protectively over Harry’s arse who inhales sharply at the contact. “You tell me.”
“Oh is that what that was?” Harry smiles, “A birthday kiss?”
“Something like that.” Henry buries his face back into Harry’s neck in reminiscence of how they’d come through the door, all tongue and teeth and lips. Harry sighs and leans into it. A hand going up to pet his soft hair.
“Well I’m quite happy with how things are proceeding currently.”
Henry hums against his neck and Harry grinds down into his lap, allows their bodies to press closer for a moment, both rocking slightly as hands wander.
Then Harry pushes him back against the sofa, his eyes going wide in surprise as Harry’s quick hands returned to his collar, unbuttoning his waistcoat and then shirt. Harry’s eyes wander over chest and soft middle, parts of Henry he’d seen before but hadn’t been able to touch, hadn’t been able to taste. He thinks faintly of the first time he’d examined the man in a medical capacity, and how even then he’d stood out next to the scrawny ships boys. His hands are sliding around waist and he’s pressing his mouth to collarbone before he’s thought about what he’s doing. Henry’s hands tighten, pulling at Harry’s arse as his mouth moves lower, placing kisses down his sternum, tongue swiping over nipple before sucking down. Henry moans and Harry fits his fingers into ribs, rubbing his cheek on soft hair as he moves his mouth over to the other. Harry shifts and then he can feel Henry’s thickening arousal right there, and he gasps and bites down.
“Harry,” Henry says, voice wobbling.
He moves shaking hands down to the waistband of trousers, fingers on the fastenings in a question. His mouth is too busy, tongue intrigued by the goosebumps that have emerged all over his flesh. The way Henry arches up into the touch, in invitation, has Harry pulling them open, holding himself back slightly so there’s room, finally moving to rest his forehead against Henry’s chest so that he can look down. Now that his trousers are open to his groin, bunched and braced tight over his thighs where both of them have refused to move — Harry spares a moment’s thought for Henry’s thighs — he can see the growing hardness in his smallclothes, the way it’s straining upward. He reaches out to touch, light fingers tracing it through the fabric and Henry whines. Harry pushes his own hardness against Henry’s thigh, trying to find some relief.
As Harry’s fingers go to pull away his smalls he hears Henry’s protest, “You don’t have to— it’s—” It’s large, is how Harry would have finished that sentence, and he’s seen a fair few for comparison. It strains hard against his belly, long and thick.
Harry soon gets eager hands on him, bringing the man back into a kiss as he takes it into his fist. Before long he’s rutting against him fully clothed, Henry leaking against his trousers, their mouths sloppy and wet.
“Henry. I need—”
“Take these off, I can’t reach—” He’s palming at Harry’s trousers, who quickly kneels up and pushes them and his smalls down to his knees without fanfare. Harry presses back against him quickly, reattaching at the lips as their pricks slide against each other and both men groan. He feels Henry’s hand reaching down between them both, feeling Harry for the first time, aligning their pricks for a moment as Harry nips at his lip, before pressing his own prick down so it moves between Harry’s legs.
“Oh,” Harry feels a shudder go through his body.
“What should—” He knows Henry’s asking if they'll fuck but he doesn’t know if either of them could manage it right now. He can feel Harry trying not to rock forward into him.
“I want you to use my thighs.” He says, liking the feeling of the thick prick there already. Henry’s hips jolt upwards in response so he clearly likes the idea too.
“Can you turn around?” He says faintly, and Harry stands for the first time, pulls his trousers down further so they’re around his ankles, watches Henry eye him under heavy eyelids, as a hand rubs over his prick absentmindedly.
Harry turns and sits himself on Henry’s lap gingerly, wondering how to arrange himself, until he feels hands hook under his armpits manoeuvring him into place — and if that doesn’t just go straight to his prick. Henry sits himself upright, legs spreading wide, and draws Harry’s back as close to his chest as he can — they pause a minute for Henry to peel Harry’s shirt off so that they’re skin to skin — and he seats him high on his hips, so that he can guide his prick through Harry’s legs. He feels small and held in a way he's rarely felt as an adult.
“Now close your thighs, nice and tight.”
Harry does, hands reaching out to brace himself on the sofa, but instead firm hands find his waist and grip, grounding him tightly against the other man’s prick. They both groan at the sensation. Henry feels hot and wet and hard, and Harry looks down to find that he easily emerges through his thighs. When Henry thrusts up his whole body feels alight as he whimpers.
“Yes, like that.”
“Touch yourself for me.” Henry says by his ear before gripping him by the waist and beginning a steady rhythm of pushing through Harry’s thighs.
Harry’s hand shakes as he brushes it over his own prick and he begins to move his hand in time with Henry’s thrusts. Henry’s groans as they brush right over his ear are certainly helping.
“That’s so- that’s so good—” Harry manages, his eyes fluttering open and shut as the sensation takes over his body, as Henry’s manhandling of him meets his thrusts up. His back is hot with sweat, and he feels plastered to Henry's chest.
“You’re the one letting me—”
“God, don’t—” He reaches tentative fingers down to feel where his thighs are damp, to feel where Henry’s prick appears and disappears through them.
“Ahg. Touch— touch me like that please.”
Harry feels Henry’s rhythm stutter. But then he’s gripping Harry tighter, lower down by his hips and begins thrusting with renewed vigour. Harry's hand on himself is too quick, too harsh. He feels dizzy with it. Harry moans and allows his fingers to rest over the head Henry’s prick, pressing down into the gap with more deftness to feel it moving up and down.
“Oh Harry. Christ. I’m going to—”
“Please.” He says, moving his fingers and tightening his thighs. And then he feels Henry biting his shoulder as he groans and spend shoots from his prick. He keeps thrusting though it, albeit less precisely, as his spend covers Harry’s thighs and abdomen.
Harry can feel heavy breathing against his back and his hand works quickly over his own prick as he chases his own crisis. The sight of himself covered in Henry’s spend is nearly enough to finish him off, and he gasps as he feels the pull of orgasm deep in his belly.
“Harry that was…“
“Help me, please.“
When Henry’s firm hand replaces his own, it only takes a few light touches and Harry cries as he's sent over the edge, his spend meeting Henry’s .
“Finished so pretty for me.” Henry says, deep by his ear, nose burrowing into his neck as he slumps back against the other man’s chest.
When their breathing returns to normal they’re both... quiet. Harry stands with an awkward laugh, turning to see the other man. He looks thoroughly debauched and part of Harry wants to jump on him again.
“I’m going to… wash myself.” He says instead, suddenly feeling all too sober, aware of his nakedness in the middle of their sitting room, his trousers and small clothes slung around his ankles. He steps out of them, leaving them behind without waiting for an answer or looking back. When he makes it to the bathroom he considers he might need to take a bath but can’t be bothered with the fuss it would take at this time of night.
Instead he wets a cloth and begins wiping himself down in front of the mirror. He failed to bring a lamp with him so he does this only by the light of the moon spilling in through the window. After a few seconds he hears feet behind behind him and meets Henry’s eyes in the mirror. He’s wearing his trousers again, but his shirt still lays unbuttoned, exposing his chest.
He approaches Harry wordlessly and then takes the cloth from his hand. Begins to clean Harry up himself. Harry shivers as he wipes back and forth across his abdomen, feeling like they’ve swapped places as doctor and patient. He rings the cloth out and runs the tap over it again before wiping down Harry’s legs.
“All done?” Henry asks with a whisper. Harry looks over himself for anything he’s missed.
“I think so.”
They eye each other a moment, curious expressions, and then Henry turns to ring the cloth out again, rinses it and hangs it over the side of the sink. Takes a step closer towards Harry.
“Good night.”
“Good night.” Harry echoes, eyes wandering over the man’s face before lowering his gaze to his own feet.
Henry turns and leaves.
They both retire to their separate bedrooms. Doors closed, so they can’t see the other.
Harry doesn’t sleep for a long time. But when he does, it’s deep and dreamless.
“It’s alright Harry, you’re alright—”
Harry gasps awake to the sound of Henry’s voice, face inches from his own. His body feels like he’s been running, drenched in sweat, muscles tense, panting for breath.
“What—”
“Nightmare.” Henry says in explanation.
“I don’t... I don’t know.” Harry blinked a few times before his eyes adjust to the dark room. To Henry’s face right above him.
He’s suddenly aware of Henry’s hands on his arms, holding him in place on his back, and Henry’s knees bracketing his waist. Henry’s weight on his thighs. His heart’s still racing. It’s a few night’s since incident, which has, as of yet, gone un-acknowledged. They’ve been on their usual cheery, if slightly, wary terms since.
Henry must notice him noticing. “You were thrashing… you were going to hurt yourself. I didn’t know how else to stop you.”
“Oh.” And then: “Thank you.”
Henry moves his hands off him and sits up warily. “Are you alright?”
“I think so.” Harry brings a hand to brush sweaty hair away from his forehead.
“You’re still shaking.” Henry looks somber.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“No, now none of that.” Henry goes to move off but Harry reaches a hand out to stop him.
“Could you—”
“Whatever you need.”
“Could you just stay a while?” Harry hears his own voice catch on the words. “Until I’ve calmed down.”
Henry hovered a moment, half on Harry’s body and half out the bed. “Should I…”
Harry guides him back down on top of him. “Can you just stay there, please.”
“I’ll crush you.”
“Don’t be silly. You can lie down.”
Henry’s knees settle back down either side of his hips and he lays so that they’re stomach to stomach, chest to chest. He slips his arms under Harry’s shoulders and rests his head in the pillow next to Harry’s own.
“Like this?”
“Yes,” That’s perfect, Harry wants to say with a relieved sigh. “It’s the… your weight. It feels nice. Calming.”
“I see.”
He feels Henry gradually go from hesitant to relaxed, bulk dropping pleasantly deeper against Harry’s body. They lie like this in silence for long enough that Henry asks “Are you planning to go back to sleep like this?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Harry says, blinking his eyes back open.
“I’m open to the idea.” Henry mumbles, face turned into the pillow.
Stay Harry thinks, fingers brushing Henry’s thighs, his back. And he does. By the time they’re both about to drift off they’ve manoeuvred themselves so that they’re lying on their sides and the other man curls around Harry. It’s less intense but Harry thinks of how well he’d slept the last time this had happened, and can feel himself smile as he drifts off to sleep.
When he wakes, it’s because Henry is stirring behind him. He can… He can feel the other man’s arousal pressing into his lower back. Harry tries not to react. He feels so warm, the blankets sitting just right around them, and he could stay there forever.
When Henry adjusts slightly, Harry tries not to make a noise, holding himself still. But then he realises the man is moving away, extracting his arms and legs and backing away from Harry.
Harry’s charade of being asleep is over and he turns, opening his eyes to look at Henry as he stands from the bed.
“You don’t have to… get up yet.” Harry says, quietly, sleepily.
Henry starts at his voice, turning around with a jolt. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” His face is pink.
“It’s no matter.”
“Are you… well?”
“Yes. Quite.” Harry feels suspended, trying not to look anywhere except the side of his face that he can see. “And you?”
“Good. Yes I’m well.” Henry coughs politely. “I should get dressed.” He says vaguely, and moves around the bed. Harry watches as he walks through the doorway. His hair messed from lying on the pillow next to Harry’s. His strong shoulders visible through the white nightshirt. The curve of his arse—
Henry doesn’t shut the door behind him, and so Harry also adjusts himself so he can watch the man walk across the dark sitting room. He can’t see him clearly again until he presses open his own bedroom door. He doesn’t close that either.
Harry holds his breath as he disappears for a second. He appears again in front of the doorway as he drags his shirt over his head. The morning light bathes his bare chest gloriously. Harry wants to run his face over it again. In his efforts, Harry accidentally leans against his bedside table and sends his book flying off the side. It hits the floor with a crash.
Henry turns towards the sound, his eyes coming into contact with Harry’s.
He’s found him watching.
He smiles like it's what he intended all along.