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This is not the first night Ishmael cannot sleep through.
He has been a notoriously restless sleeper longer than he can remember; his waking hours have always been irregular at best, his head too full, too loud, too messy and too talkative and too much too much too much for him to sleep properly, most nights. And three weeks at sea have done little to temper his worries.
This is not the first night his sleeping is touch-and-go, stop-and-start, restless and reckless, but it is one of the worst recently. Eventually he gives up trying, slips quietly as he can from his bunk in the fo’c’sle and blearily makes his way on deck.
It’s a chill night, and the few scattered crew making up the current watch huddle around oil lamps and each other, helplessly defiant against a biting wind. Ishmael plucks a lantern from its place in the tangle of ropes and clambers onto the bulwarks, holding the tiny, wildly flickering flame against his chest in one hand and wrapping his fingers round the rigging with the other.
He is not sure how long he sits there, curled around a dying lantern and looking out at the choppy waves and trying to pretend the side of his face hasn’t gone numb from the wind. But eventually, he hears one of the mates — loud and brash, so Stubb, probably — call the change of the watch from somewhere aft, hears the quiet shuffling of his crewmates behind him, hears footsteps approaching.
Queequeg doesn't say anything when he steps up beside Ishmael, but Ishmael turns to face him anyway, holds the lantern between them so it lights up Queequeg's smile in its golden glow. He looks down at the harpooner from his perch on the bulwarks and can't help but smile back.
"You okay?"
Ishmael shrugs, tries to appear less fragile than he feels. He slides off the bulwarks and stands close to Queequeg and the lantern's flame stills, sheltered between their bodies from the wind. Ishmael's mind calms, too. It still flickers and cracks, but more gently, now.
It is not the first time that Queequeg has had that effect on him.
"Couldn't sleep,” he says.
Queequeg's hands are on his arms, and Ishmael doesn't really remember when that happened, but his heartbeat quickens and he can feel himself melting into his touch. Queequeg’s brows are furrowed, eyes concerned, and he presses his forehead to Ishmael’s.
"S'nothing to worry about, really." Ishmael smiles up at him, tries not to get distracted by the lamplight sparkling in his eyes. "Happens all the time."
"It does?"
"I—yes.” A pause. “But it's alright, really—“
"Did I help?"
And that catches Ishmael off guard. Queequeg’s directness always has. Ishmael splutters. Fumbles with the lantern and laughs nervously and averts his eyes and tenses into himself because yes , Queequeg helped, yes , the first night he fell asleep next to Queequeg in the Spouter Inn was the first he can ever remember sleeping all the way through, and yes, something about the soft, steady rise and fall of his breathing and the warmth of his presence and the comforting weight of his arm thrown over Ishmael put him at ease in a way he couldn't and can’t explain and yes, Ishmael has never known anywhere softer, warmer, safer than by Queequeg's side, wrapped in his arms, but God , he doesn't know how to tell Queequeg that. Doesn't know how to tell him that, yes, Queequeg, yes, it was only a few days, but I grew so used to falling asleep next to you, so accustomed to waking up in the middle of the night like always but, not like always, having you there when I did, so used to forgetting the world outside our room, outside the bed, outside your body pressed against mine, so used to pretending that there was no one else, nothing else in the world but you, me, your hands in mine and your lips on my forehead and your smile in the sunrise and you, you, you, Queequeg, so used to you.
"'Mae?" Queequeg's hands have found Ishmael's face and his eyes are soft, worried in the light of the lantern. "Did I help you—sleeping? Feeling better?"
God, yes. “I — I think so."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Because I can't pretend that, here. Pretend there is no world outside of you. "It — it's really all right—“
"Come with me."
"What?"
Queequeg smiles, takes the lantern from his hand and laces his fingers through Ishmael's. "Come with me. You can stay with me."
Ishmael can feel his face grow hot, and he is glad for the darkness. He looks away again. "I—I wouldn't want to put that — imposition on you."
Queequeg shakes his head. "You don't." He is already pulling Ishmael back toward the main hatch, chuckling lightly. "Should have told me."
"But—Tash and Dag—“
"Are on watch now," he says, and leads Ishmael belowdecks, back toward the steerage. "And — they don't mind, anyway." He opens the door to the empty harpooner's quarters, sets the lantern on a chest in the corner, turns and pulls a flustered Ishmael into his arms and squeezes him tight while he stammers and stutters. Ishmael’s heart is thudding wildly, madly, fondly, and his cheeks are flushing and his mind is reeling, but Queequeg takes him closer and presses his lips into Ishmael's hair and says, "It's okay" and Ishmael gives up. Lets himself relax into Queequeg's embrace. He tries to forget, a little, the world outside this tiny room, tries to forget how confused he is, how terrified, at this gentle power Queequeg has to calm his aching soul.
Queequeg holds Ishmael till his breathing slows, till he can think only of the steady heartbeat in Queequeg's chest. Ishmael tilts his head back and looks up at him with an apologetic smile.
"I—Thank you."
Queequeg is still smiling, still amused at his flustered Ishmael. He presses his forehead to Ishmael’s again, murmurs a soft “you’re welcome,” holds him closer to him.
They climb into the too-small bunk together, Queequeg first, pulling Ishmael down so he is sprawled on top of him, and Ishmael still hesitates, of course he does, holds himself up away from Queequeg, stammers about not wanting to make Queequeg uncomfortable, about taking up too much space in that tiny bed, but Queequeg just pulls him close to his chest and kisses the crown of his head and whispers "Go to sleep , 'Mae," and so he stills.
Ishmael could think of a million and one reasons why he shouldn't be here. But, for now, at the very least, he doesn’t. Queequeg his holding him and stroking his hair and breathing soft and steady beneath him, and the lantern in the corner is close to dying, and God , did he miss this, God , does this feel safe, and right, and good , in a way that nothing else in his life has. So Ishmael buries his face into the warmth of Queequeg's chest and lets himself fall.
He sleeps through till morning.