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Truth be told, he thought this Carnivale was going to crash and burn. Perhaps literally. It wasn’t that Edward didn’t trust Captain Fitzjames to throw a party to raise morale. Rather, it was just about the thing he most trusted Captain Fitzjames to pull off without a hitch. It was the pre-existing circumstances which called all manner of doubt into Edward Little’s mind. It just seemed like the sort of thing which was rife with the possibility of chaos. They’d already lost Sir John to that Thing on the ice, buried his leg in a too-big coffin for that was all they had left of him. And Mr. Blanky lost his leg to the Beast too, though, mercifully, not his life, before Lady Silence managed to bind it - though none of them are quite sure how, they’re just thankful they probably won’t lose more men to it. And they’ve been stuck in the ice for what feels like a million years (Misters Blanky and Reid do think that there is a very real possibility of thaw in the future and, by extension, survival; given that neither man is prone to jest about such serious topics, Edward is inclined to take them at their word). And Captain Crozier...well, he’s glad that Captain Crozier has been indisposed long enough to avoid the planning and execution of the Carnivale.
Unfortunately, the Captain’s illness means that Edward is in charge of Terror and all her men. Unfortunately, the Captain’s illness also means that the one person whose presence Edward wouldn’t mind enduring the Carnivale for is also, unfortunately, indisposed.
Edward wants nothing more than an excuse to leave the party, retire to his bunk, and sleep until they’ve discovered the bloody Northwest Passage and are lauded as heroes back in England. And then he wants to sleep for a minimum of three years more. He wants to relax, to not hold so much tension in his shoulders and jaw. He’s earned that, he thinks, they’ve all earned that. He’s been a fan of the classics since he was a boy, but now more than anything, he relates to Odysseus. He too wants to be home, wants to go somewhere where men would mistake an oar for a shovel because they’ve never been troubled by the sea. How nice it would be to retire somewhere in the country and keep his feet firmly on solid ground, where people wouldn’t look at him and try to understand what he’s been through.
If they make it back home, and that’s an if of monumental proportions, the admiralty will probably erect an eyesore of a statue in Sir John’s memory. Lady Franklin will insist on nothing less. Something big and dramatic, right in the middle of London where people decades, maybe even centuries from now will come to look at and think ‘such a tragedy that Sir John didn’t live long enough to see the discovery of the Passage with the rest of his men’; as if the tragedy isn’t that they can never tell anyone what happened in fear of sounding mad, as if the tragedy isn’t that they’ve been through all this and will have to live with it for the rest of their lives.
If Edward lives, he will get a small cottage and try to forget. He will grow his own vegetables and keep horses and be thankful that he was allowed this small fraction of mercy.
In all his fantasies of survival, of actually being alive, he’s still alone. His dreams may be dreams, but they’ve got to have some semblance of reality to ensure they’re at least a little bit achievable. And that’s the second thing he’s carried with him from boyhood. The deep, abiding loneliness which has been his constant companion whether at home or at sea. It isn’t as though he’s lonely by choice. He doesn’t think that people generally are, but what would he know? He doesn’t make deep enough connections with others to ask that sort of question. He has trouble picking which words to use before the opportunity vanishes, letting himself be happy, drawing attention to himself. And now he’s alone at a Carnivale, the resource consumption of which still worries him, while it appears that everyone else on the expedition is enjoying themselves for the first time in years.
As acting Commander, Edward’s been patrolling slow circles around the event throughout the night. He’s observed the festivities enough to know that he doesn’t think he’d have much fun if he wasn’t tasked with such responsibility. He’d enjoyed spending some time with the other officers, at least, the singular silver lining of the night. Irving got spectacularly tanked, possibly for the first time in his life, and sang. The singing was surprisingly good, both because of the quantity of alcohol he’d consumed, and because Edward didn’t think of Irving as the sort of man to serenade his shipmates while wearing the paper wings and halo of an angel. If anything, he assumed that if Irving was going to dress as a heavenly messenger, he’d at least have gone for biblical accuracy with a flaming sword and more eyes than could be counted.
It’s definitely a good thing he didn’t go for biblical accuracy.
Hodgson had tried to goad Irving into singing bawdy tavern songs but found that he could not recall the words to teach him. He then laughed so much that he looked nauseated. Edward, being a good Lieutenant, and a good friend (he hopes), ensured that they both had tin cups of water before moving on to monitoring the rest of the men.
Captain Fitzjames cut a dashing figure as Britannia as he mingled with Terrors and Erebites, playing the gracious event host. He seemed relieved, Edward noticed, and maybe even a little surprised, that no bad consequences came of it. Also like Edward, he appeared to be a little bit lonely. That was a silly thought. The Captain could sit down with any of his men and be welcomed, especially after organizing such an effective morale booster. There was no reason for Fitzjames to be wanting at a Carnivale he specifically engineered so that no man would be left in need of company.
Several times he passed Mr. Blanky using his wooden leg as a goblet. That sight, at least, put a smile on his face. He was glad that the ice master could make light of such a traumatic incident, and that his wooden leg was working as both an appendage and drinking vessel.
Tucked away from the crowd, was the catatonic Private Heather, a paper crown disguising his shattered skull. The marines took care of him, as they had been since he first got wounded by the Tuunbaq, holding his hand to see if he’d squeeze back, remarking upon the events of the night in case he would hear in his vegetative state, making sure he was included. Edward checked on the cluster of marines by Heather once at the beginning of the night and spent the rest avoiding looking at him.
If he was being honest, looking at William Heather’s body - because at this point it feels almost feels untrue to call him William Heather properly when he’s trapped in a coma, he’s more a living corpse than a man - upsets him. He supposes seeing another man’s brain poking out the top of his damaged head ought to upset someone, but he also feels a pang between his ribs at how well-taken care of Heather is by his fellow marines. He’s not jealous of a comatose man, but he can’t help but wonder if the same thing happened to him, would the other officers take as good care of him, or would they immediately schedule a promotion to replace him?
And then, of course, there’s the dancing.
The lack of a full band hasn’t managed to deter anyone yet. In addition to Irving’s singing, someone broke out a fiddle. Some men are dancing quadrilles or polkas, counting the steps aloud. Others move with wild abandon, happy to be free and alive and off those damn ships with no fear of attack. Others still dance slowly in pairs, as tenderly as you’d see at any private ball. Those are the men he avoids looking at for fear of his heart, like a wounded animal, howling from the space between his ribs.
Returning to the Odyssey, what is it that Odysseus tells himself in Book XX when he plans his revenge on the suitors? Something along the lines of ‘buck up, old heart, you haven’t been through all this to give out now’. He can’t remember the exact lines, only the intention. It’s been so long since someone’s quizzed his Homer.
Edward could dance if he was so inclined. Such activity is common on expeditions such as this one. He remembers reading about how during the Ross expedition to the South Pole, a festivity much like this one was held, and Captain Crozier opened the evening by dancing with “Miss” Ross, resplendent in the finest gown he could find in Antarctica. He doesn’t doubt that, as Terror’s commanding officer, he would have faced any opposition if he and Captain Fitzjames began the evening with a similar spectacle. He doesn’t doubt that Fitzjames is probably as divine a dancer as he is a story-teller. Any man dubbed the Best Walker in the Navy must be good on his feet. It isn’t the lack of a partner that’s got him so blue, rather the lack of a certain partner. And then there’s the fact that for all his Naval prowess, Edward lacks initiative in such matters. Even if his ideal partner was here amongst the revelers, nothing about this situation would change. He’d still be patrolling the perimeter, glum as anything, with the added addition of watching the one person he wants so badly to embrace probably dancing with any number of the crew.
He turns a corner for what must have been the dozenth time and coming down from Terror - why it’s Captain Crozier looking hale and healthy and ready to resume his position. With him, of course, is Jopson. Rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed as ever. If taking care of the captain during such a dire illness strained him in any way, he does not show it.
Edward does not jog over to them. He walks briskly, thank you very much, he slides over the snow and ice with speed and efficiency and tries desperately to ignore the beat of his heart so violent he thinks it could crack the pack ice and free the ships if it were any more anguished.
“Ah, Edward!” Crozier’s customary greeting makes something in his chest clench and unfurl in rapid succession.
He comes to a halt in front of the pair, for a second his feet scramble for purchase despite the relatively flat and steady ground. He disguises any momentary stumbling with a nod. He disguises his worry over whether you can actually sustain rib damage from your heart trying to beat itself out of your body by telling the Captain that he looks well and offering to show him around, perhaps to where Fitzjames was last spotted atop a crate reciting Brutus’s ‘friends, Romans, countrymen’ speech for a small assembled crowd.
“I am not so old and decrepit that I need one escort to a party, let alone two,” Crozier says, looking how Edward feels, which is to say uneasy.
Edward thinks he is going to throw up right there on the Captain’s boots. After which, of course, he will be the laughing stock not only of the ships but of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, all because he couldn’t pluck up the courage to ask a man to dance. He can feel himself swaying in an attempt to assuage his nerves, a habit he has found himself partaking in more than usual lately. He has not survived this long in this frozen hell to find himself conquered by a dance invitation. If something does go horribly wrong - Blanky and Reid were incorrect about the coming thaw, Lady Silence did not manage to quell the Tuunbaq, any number of outside factors add up to send the men into a state of mass hysteria - he does not want to die not having at least asked Thomas Jopson to dance.
Heart! bear it. Worse than this thou didst endure. That was it. That was the line.
He starts slowly, the words sticking to his tongue, “in that case, sir, would you mind if I borrowed Jopson for a dance?”
What follows is an agonizing few seconds of silence wherein Edward wishes he had gotten eaten by the Tuunbaq. Jopson looks at Edward, then at Crozier, who also looks at Edward before looking back at Jopson. A small, almost knowing smile pulls at the corners of Crozier’s mouth. “Take good care of him,” he says in a tone that’s almost fatherly and good God this is almost worse than being rejected.
He expects Jopson to look as mortified as he feels. Instead, he’s met with a look of surprise, a pleasant gleam in his eye so unexpectedly kind that Edward feels the ground shift and toss under his feet. Jopson extends an elbow to him, Edward threads his own through it feeling tremors from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Crozier already took off in the time it took for this brief interaction, off to confer with the group of doctors sitting together, or share a joke with Blanky, or inform Fitzjames of his return to health. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he is arm-and-arm with Thomas Jopson and Edward doesn’t think he’s felt warmer in his life.
It’s Jopson’s job to read nonverbal cues from his superiors, to have a solution for a problem before it is even uttered, if it is uttered at all. That is why when Jopson leads him away from the general throng of dancers, to an undisturbed section of the elaborate tent free from wandering eyes, Edward feels himself exhale a breath he thinks he must have been holding his entire life. Is this what it is to be known? Jopson knew he’d hate being watched by the other men in an act of casual intimacy, he must know how much effort it took to ask.
In the hollows of Edward’s heart, amidst the valves and chambers, is a spot untouched. Like a mirage on the ice, or a tree atop a barren hill. That spot has just been struck with lightning, scorching through him, burning down the rungs of his spine. It’s not desire, per se, and he wouldn’t deign to call it love, but the word ‘want’ seems to fit that space just perfectly. Yearning for someone to understand him in all his eccentricities and inadequacies. Yearning he believes has just been met as though it was no effort at all.
“I, uh, I-” he didn’t far enough through his plan to actually consider the mechanics of dancing. He got stuck on the fear of rejection, the courage it took simply to ask. “I, you see...I don’t actually know how to do this. I mean, uh, I’ve never done this before.”
“With another man?” Jopson asks plainly, untangling their arms but holding Edwards trembling, sweaty hand in his own.
“With anyone,” he confesses and it feels like an admission of guilt. Again it isn’t coming from lack of desire. He’s been to many balls, been asked many times by girls in their first seasons who soon clued into his lack of attention, by boys who’ve always wanted to dance with a navy man. But he could never bring himself to say yes. To say so would open up the possibility of scrutiny. What if he’s a terrible dancer? What if his partner realizes halfway through a waltz that he’s actually a tremendous bore who isn’t worth their time? Most of the time he’s faked a stomach ache or come up with any number of excuses to get out of dances. Besides, he’s wanted men before, wouldn’t have minded dancing with several of them if it had been this private, but he’s never liked a man like this. So much it takes the heart right out of him.
Jopson smiles, quiet and yearning. He touches Edward with utmost gentleness, as if one or both of them will shatter with too much pressure. “That’s alright, there isn’t much to it.” If he’s taken aback by Edward’s lack of social skills and dance experience, it’s buried somewhere inside of him. Carefully, he takes Edward’s hand - the one that isn’t tangled in his own mitten-clad fingers - and finds it a home on his shoulder, takes a step forward and places his other hand on the small of Edward’s back.
They’re so close he can feel Jopson’s breath against his jaw. So close the slope of his perfect nose nearly brushes against Edward’s own. So close that Edward can now see that his eyes are not blue, or grey, or even green but some other colour which hasn’t needed a name until this exact moment.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes.”
Slowly Jopson leads him in a slow, slightly misshapen box step. They’re too far from the rest of the crew to hear any of the singing or music, but that doesn’t matter in the slightest. What matters is that Edward Little is dancing with Thomas Jopson, and for the first time since they passed Greenland he feels warm. He feels light, almost, like nothing else matters in this pocket of space and time they’ve carved out for themselves. A tiny spot of hope in the frozen wasteland where they’ve come to the end of their humanity.
“You know, I don’t think there is any danger of tripping over your own feet, not when we’re going this slow,” Jopson teases, and even from where Edward is making determined eye contact with two pairs of spit-shined boots moving almost in tandem, he can hear the ring of laughter in his voice clear as Sunday bells.
“I’m sorry,” he says (whispers). He jerks his face up too quickly, overeager to correct his mistake, and the tip of his nose makes a moment of contact with Jopson’s. They’re close. They’re so close. Edward prays to a God he thought abandoned them out here and to all the Inuit gods watching over the tundra that maybe they’ll have the occasion to share this proximity again.
“There’s no need to apologize, sir.”
“Please don’t call me that. Not when we’re-” he would use his hands to gesture as to their interaction, had they not been on Jopson. When they separate, he thinks he will stick to Jopson’s slops like frozen fingers on the barrel of a gun.
“What shall I call you then?”
“Edward. Please.”
“Only if you call me Thomas.”
He swallows and watches Jopson, no Thomas’s eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple. “Deal”.
They continue dancing, though it rapidly ceases to be a box step and more of a slow rotation. Edward hasn’t given any thought of how or when they’re going to stop. The world could end around them, Carnivale could descend into chaos and violence, all the things he’s worked so desperately to avoid, and he doubts he’d notice.
“You’re a very handsome man, Edward Little. I was worried I wouldn't get a chance to dance with the best-looking man on the expedition tonight. So, thank you for asking me."
A noise leaves Edward’s mouth that could be a wheeze, or a gasp, or a very shrill squeak, the likes of which could be heard by Neptune and Neptune alone. He wants to retreat inside his body the way he normally does at parties. Instead, he finds himself inching closer and closer to Thomas until their chests are very nearly flush against each other and his forearm is cradled between the warmth of their bodies. Thomas drops his arm to span the length of Edward’s waist. A new axis for his body to rotate on.
His breath hitches in his throat, his heart stutters in his chest.
Of all the ways he imagined this interaction going (of which there were many, and the majority ended with him embarrassed and/or miserable) he never factored in tenderness of this magnitude. He didn’t think it was possible, here at the end of the earth.
Thomas hooks his chin over Edward’s shoulder, bringing them closer than he thought was even possible. He hums a tune, low and unfamiliar but unspeakably aching and gentle and the buzz echoes in both of their chests.
They dance for five minutes or maybe five hours more. Or maybe they dance until the world ends and reforms, all those changes unnoticed. Maybe Edward’s actually long-dead and the afterlife is a quiet, constant revolution. An exchange of heartbeats. A press of bodies in the face of adversity.
The party is still going, not going as strong but going nonetheless, by the time the first sunrise of the year begins to crack through the horizon. With a great deal of reluctance, they stop dancing but remain holding hands, and regroup with the others to watch the first beams of light after what felt like millennia spent in the dark.
In various corners of the tent, Hodgson shakes Irving awake from where his crumpled halo and wings were tucked into the other lieutenant’s shoulder. Blanky reattaches his wooden leg, the marines maneuver Private Heather out so that he can feel the warmth of sunlight on his damaged skin again. As they weave through the bodies and the decorations, Thomas and Edward witness something extraordinary: the captains together, not arguing, not ribbing each other. It’s the polar opposite of the majority of their interactions. They’re standing as close as Thomas and Edward were when they were dancing; Crozier’s hands poised on Fitzjames’s waist like it’s such a breakable thing, Fitzjames drawing a thumb over Crozier’s cheek, their foreheads pressed together.
They’re smiling so wide with so much unguarded tenderness that Edward knows immediately this is a sight not meant for any spectators.
He tugs on Thomas’s hand to draw him away. Hears a quiet “well then” leave the steward’s lips. He must have known, the way he knew Edward wouldn’t want to dance in the public eye, the way he must know a great many things. And Edward feels respect and admiration towards both of the captains, and he’s glad that they’ve managed to find happiness despite everything, but he does not want to see them kiss.
He’d quite like to kiss Thomas. Though the mere thought sends his stomach into an elaborate acrobatics act and attempting the action would probably end with him vomiting, passing out, or both. Another time. They’ll have another chance. He feels Thomas’s arm snake around his waist once more, feels his own arm move to encircle his shoulders. They watch the first pink streaks of light cut across the sky and cheer with the others.
More time. They’ll have more time.