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“No. Absolutely not, Alexander. I will refuse to go if afforded the option.” Doctor Stephen Stanley rubbed his wary temples while being provoked by his companion. The fellow surgeon, Alexander MacDonald smirked playfully, loving to twist the other man’s arm hoping just maybe that Stanley would enjoy himself.
“Oh come now. John’s and I will be in something similar. On my way out I’ll make sure Harry knows of the theme.” The Scotsman continued, making his case for the party. Stanley turned his back to the man, signaling he did not want to continue their discussion of petty costumes and parties but both men knew they needed it. Something to talk about besides frostbite, scurvy, and their eventual starvation.
MacDonald would never dwell for too long on the bad, he had been an arctic explorer long enough not to give up on hope but he was beginning to feel the strain in his joints, signaling the beginning of the end. He often thought they were like frogs, docilly sitting in water while waiting for the heat to scald them alive, but their end would be more brutal.
The party was godsend to many, including himself. This carnivale allowed for him to venture out of his ship every so often before returning to a sickly Captain Crozier. It gave him time like this, to see Stanley who had been hiding out for most of the expedition. It was a rare chance that they both had ended up on the journey, having known one another for years before and flirted for even longer. It would have been even more interesting if they had been on the same ship but Alexander had been promoted to head surgeon of Terror and Stephen head on the flagship.
MacDonald moved quietly behind the taller man, gently running his hands across his stiff back, feeling the roughness of his wool uniform against his fingers. Stanley stopped his work, he put the pen down from his journal and turned to the shorter man with a sigh echoing from his stern lips. His tired icy eyes filled with warmth for his partner, taking Alexander’s hands in his own, they were just as rough and cold as he portrayed himself as.
“Alexander,” Stephen whispered his name, sending a shiver down his spine, “I would do anything for you but I would not dress as a clown. These men need to respect me.” They held onto one another, not daring to take things further in the event that a crewman needed medical assistance or Goodsir would return from his own studies and duties. Stephen was right, they needed to be respected even as formalities broke down with the lag in leadership.
“Oh darling, don’t you worry your heart. I think the men would be delighted to see a theme in our costumes. You would make the most handsome of clowns.” He teased, seeing his stern partner’s cheeks heat up ever so slightly at the compliment. This was the Stanley he enjoyed most, the flustered one who took to his jests and compliments as the flirtation they were meant to be.
“Let me think on it then.” Stephen relented, making Alexander grin harder than he had in months. The taller man let go of him only to push MacDonald’s one rebellious curl off his forehead, allowing his hand to graze his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into the briefest of touches.
“You won’t regret it.”