Chapter Text
John Irving tried to take a deep breath. And then, he tried to take another. Yet, the more he gasped for air, the more that the very substance eluded him. He tried again. This time his heaved with effort and his breathing sounded strained to his ear. His hands clutched at the front of his coat, navy wool sticking between his fingers, feeling ever closer to damnation. A wounded laugh tore itself from the back of his throat. If his father were here, he might say that John was being hysterical. And he might very well be right.
He felt the all too familiar sting of tears in the corners of his eyes. So he shut them, trying to block out the sinful thoughts that plagued him, even now. All his life, he had suffered from twisted visions. Thoughts that went against every fiber of his being, that disgusted and horrified him in equal measure. For the most part, he tried to contain them. With scripture, with Sunday service, with anything that could possibly convince God to look past his fallible human heart, given to thoughts of blasphemy and horrible cruelty. In desperate times, he even tried to contain them by punishing himself, yet no matter what he did, those thoughts never ceased. If anything, they were only getting worse.
He cursed, kicking the desk in his cabin, jostling his pen from its place and making it fall to the floor with a clatter. If he were even slightly in the right frame of mind, he might have bent down to pick it up, but it seemed all he could do was watch as its ink spilled black onto the floor. He mumbled a few words of apology to the Heavenly Father who, like in all things, fell silent. His silence was deafening.
"Lieutenant Irving, are you coming? We're waiting for– All you alright?"
John looked up to see Lieutenant Graham Gore standing in the doorway, the fragile curtain separating them from the hallway barely grazing his face. A face that was looking at him with no small amount of concern. John tried to reply, to assure him that he was alright, but to his horror, a small sob escaped as soon as he opened his mouth.
Gore was quick to act. He pulled the curtain across the door, reached forward to take John's trembling hands in his own, and led him to sit on the bed, seemingly all within an instant. He sat across from John, his grip never leaving their place on his hands. Their sudden proximity simultaneously comforted and distressed John greatly and he struggled to regain his composure as Gore leaned forward to speak with him, fixing him with those pretty blue eyes of his.
"Having a rough night?" he gently asked. John could only give him a small nod in reply, not trusting himself to speak with all the phlegm and tears in his throat. Gore gave a small sad smile and squeezed his hand in understanding. Just that small action made his head swim with sinful ideas... of men embracing each other, of being in love with one another... of the possibility that he could be one of them. If he were a man of stronger resolve, he might have dropped his hand and demanded that Gore leave his quarters, if only to separate him from these ideas and forget they ever existed. But he didn't do that. Shamefully, in his moment of weakness, John clung to Gore's grip, and it was nearly enough to make him sob again.
"I..." John paused, his broken voice stilting his few words. He tried again, "I can't–" He sighed. That wasn't much better. He took a deep, shaky breath. "I-I've been having... dark thoughts," he said finally, his voice hardly louder than a whisper.
Gore nodded, seeming to understand what John was getting at. "My brother used to suffer them as well." He chuckled. An unexpected sound, given the dreary gloom currently clutched around John's heart. "His name was also John, funnily enough. You rather remind me of him."
John felt his cheeks grow warm at him saying that so he hurriedly turned his gaze to the bedding in a poor attempt to hide it.
Gore, in his kindness, said nothing. Instead, he glanced around John's meager cabin, his gaze passing over what few belongings he kept with him before landing on a small book of melodies, a passing gift from his brother before leaving London. "Do you sing?" he asked. John nodded, still feeling rather bashful, and Gore smiled at him. It was such a lovely smile that he felt his wretched heart swell at the sight of it. "Have you ever heard 'Hampstead is the Place to Ruralize?'" Gore asked. "It's one of my favorites, has been since I was a child." He paused, suddenly timid. "I could teach it to you, if you'd like."
John found himself entranced with the way he suggested that, all red-cheeked and softly spoken. He seemed rather meek for someone who had whisked him aside only a moment ago. His grip tightened on Gore's hand. "I'd like that," he told him. And he would; he'd have Gore sing the bloody alphabet if it meant John could keep him for even a moment longer.
Gore's smile grew wider and warmer. "Alright. I, er, haven't sung anything in a while, so forgive me if I sound like horseshit." John winced at that – for how could such a pretty face say such horrid words? – but his discomfort was all but gone once Gore opened his mouth to sing:
“Oh! Hampstead is the place to ruralize, ri-ti-turalize,
Extramuralize, Hampstead is the place to ruralize
On a summer’s day.”
Gore's voice was soft and low and in a tone only John could hear. He half-sung, half spoke the melody – perhaps a little embarrassed to be singing to him in such close quarters – yet it only endeared him to John further. John couldn't help but notice the faint rosy glow on his cheeks, how their foreheads brushed together in the slight rocking of the ship below them, how sweet Gore's smile seemed in its proximity. In truth, John was only half-listening to the words. He was far too enraptured with how Gore breathlessly laughed at some of the more ridiculous lines in the song... and he was breathless too. Tears forgotten, feeling lighter than he had in months. If that was the point of all of this, then he had to commend him for it.
"Oh, Hampstead is the place to ruralize
On a summer's day..."
Gore's voice slowed to a close, and he looked at John with a strange expression. An expression that left John's heart pounding, his mouth dry, and his blood rushing to his ears and cheeks and to... other places. If only for a moment, he was not a child of God, but only a man, with another sitting before him. He wished that God would turn His gaze away, so He could not see the wicked thoughts that were racing through his mind. How Gore's hand lifted from its place on his own, as if he meant to place it on John's cheek–
"Graham, when the hell are you going to find that bastard–"
John hurriedly broke away from Gore and turned his face to the back wall, flush with embarrassment as whatever spell they'd been in was shattered. He furiously rubbed at the stray tears clinging to his cheek. He did not know whether Lieutenant Vesconte's arrival was a blessing or a curse, but he did know that he could not risk being seen in such a vulnerable state.
"Ah. I see you already have."
"Hello Dundy," Graham easily replied, not bothering to move from his place on the bed. "Irving was feeling rather under the weather, so I thought I'd cheer him up."
"I see... Should I fetch Doctor MacDonald, then?"
Gore must have sensed the way John tensed up beside him, for he said, "No, I don't think there's any need for that." He reached out to grab John's hand, making John look back at him. "We should be out shortly."
Vesconte snorted. "I bloody well hope so. Captain Crozier's been staring daggers into Fitzjames for the last hour and Hodgson won't shut up about his bloody 'club,' so the sooner the two of you come along the better."
And with that, he stormed out of the room, leaving them alone in that creaking room.
Gore smiled at him, smoothing the front of his naval issue coat with a spare hand. "That should lend you a moment to recover," he said gently, giving John's hand one final squeeze. And John let him. He didn't know why, but he did. And he felt the loss of Gore's broad hand around his own when Gore finally let go.
"I..." John didn't know what it was he wanted to say. Every word he could think of seemed woefully inadequate to describe however it was he was feeling. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he mumbled finally, not trusting himself to look Gore in the eye. Yet that was exactly what happened as he found himself in Gore's hands once again, only now they were cradled around his face, brushing aside the stubborn tears remaining there.
"You don't need to call me that," he replied, his blue eyes looking down at him with an unbearably earnest look. It was difficult for John to think with Gore standing over him like that, his legs nearly straddling his knees. "At least, not while we're in private." He hesitated for a moment before leaning down to murmur, "I'd like you to call me Graham, if I can call you John."
There was something so beautiful and horrible in the ease in which he said their names. An ease that made John feel as though he was going to fall apart. "G-Graham–" He nearly hated how wonderful it felt to speak his name, and he found himself weeping again.
"No, no, please don't cry," Gore– Graham, begged. "Please, John..." Hearing his name spoken so beautifully from that pretty mouth only made him weep all the harder.
"I-I'm sorry, I... I don't know why–"
If he had another thought left to say, he never got the chance, for Graham kissed him in the middle of it.
He'd never been kissed like that before. With silent tears running salty down his cheek, or with a hand placed ever so delicately under his chin, as if he were something fragile in danger of breaking. And certainly never with a man, and not with one he had barely spoken to up until a few moments ago. Kissing him wasn't at all the rough and bruising experience he might have expected. Graham was gentle and kind, holding him like he was something dear to him, and it was enough to make his toes curl in his boots. He was frozen, stuck between his desire and the shock of it all.
Their embrace ended as quickly as it had begun, yet paradoxically John felt as though it had ended far too soon. He found himself craving to feel Graham's soft lips on his own again. And he felt tremendously guilty for it.
Graham stumbled backward, looking nearly as troubled as he was. "I'm sorry," he said, a distant look in his eye. "I... I don't know why I did that." If he was hoping for an answer, he was in poor company, for John was utterly tongue-tied. He raised his hand, as if he meant to reach out to John again, but thinking better of it, he stopped halfway and let it fall to his side. "I'm truly sorry," Graham apologized again, his gaze turned to the floor. "It won't happen again."
John felt his mouth grow dry. "It's alright, I-I didn't–" I didn't mind, are the words he can't bring himself to say. The very idea turned to ash as soon as he tried to tip those words out into the room. "I don't blame you," he said instead, causing Graham to turn his gaze back to him. He found himself wanting to be kind to him, just as he was kind to him. "Nostalgia can make a man do... strange things."
Graham gave a strange smile at that, as if he were peering at John through a pane of hazy glass. "I suppose you're right," he quietly replied. Then, shaking himself from his sudden thoughtfulness, he walked back towards the door, before stopping himself in the entryway. "I'll see you at the meeting, then," was all he said.
And then Graham was gone, leaving John alone with his pounding heart and racing mind.
He was frazzled and uncertain at the officers' meeting in Terror's wardroom. Only half-listening to the matters at hand, his eyes puffy and red from his earlier crying fits, and shaken whenever someone called on him. However, there was one thing he was sure of: no matter where he looked, his gaze always seemed to fall on Graham, and he felt positively undone every time Graham caught his eye and smiled at him.