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Dundy was not one to monitor his alcoholic intake. He was attuned to his own physical needs such that he could instinctively imbibe the proper amount to hit that sweet spot where his body felt like it flowed and danced of its own accord, alight with the ecstasy of simply Being. Everything moved in a glorious blur; his senses overloaded in the way that translated into giddy elation. Fitzjames soared by with a spin of gold and Dundy caught him about the cheek with a kiss, receiving a demonstrative twirl for his efforts before the Captain flounced off, ever the reliable host, even in inebriation (although he could be counted on to be far more level headed than even Dundy was in this regard). Dundy thought it didn’t really matter how he comported himself tonight; there were three other Lieutenants so he figured he was free to enjoy himself outside the bounds of duty. And Bridgens stuck by him, sensible old Bridgens, in his shining rays. The man would keep him in check if need be.
Still, Bridgens was no agent of revelry and Dundy craved, oh yes he craved, someone to swing about the dance floor, someone to hold close, someone perhaps to kiss. He deserved that, before preparations for the walk out were in full swing. This was their last great night after all. There were no ladies here, but that did not seem to matter to the men around them, many caught in the arms of another. Their faces glowed red with cheer, laughter rolled, noses bumped and hands moved along bodies, hinting at other desires, not to be consummated here in front of all, but exhilarating in the potential. Dundy had always considered himself a great attraction, so it was an insult to be courted by not even one crew member, not even a stuttering cabin boy! He thought he sighted George Chambers currently blushing as he had his backside stroked by one of the Marines. Perhaps they were intimidated by his status and it was easier to pair with men of closer rank. Logical, but it left Dundy noticeably alone, and he would not be outdone by those beneath him. It would not do to be seen without someone on his arm. So Dundy sets about finding himself a companion.
He scans the crowd. There is Irving, occupied with his musical performance, and Little looking quite lost with his meager costume, hovering and blinking like a lost child. Not the kind to parade, not the kind to dance that one was. Dundy set his teeth. Graham or Fairholme would have allowed him a bit of a display. Dundy is just moving on to consider the eligibility of the mates when he spots Hodgson. Terror’s Second Lieutenant looks dashing in his unconventional way, the fey lines of his features curled in sincere joy, pale skin and hair striking in a sea of brown and black.
Dundy sidles up to him. Places a hand upon his arm.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Very much so! I have not had such fun in so long! I am very glad Captain Fitzjames thought of such a thing. Reminds me of back home. My parents would hold parties, for every holiday, there were-”
Hodgson rambles and Dundy hopes he will not be questioned on the details. He does make the point of appearing to listen, nodding and humming at opportune moments, but he retains not a word. Instead, Dundy watches Hodgson’s lips move, tinted even more pink from drink, quite fine and soft-looking.
“-so you can imagine the surprise when the dogs got out and tore into the chicken before the guests had even arrived! I say, Lieutenant Le Vesconte you appear distracted.”
He has been caught. Hodgson’s large eyes twinkle mischievously, like bright merry Christmas lights, promising warmth and good cheer. Enchanting. Who could resist? Dundy thought to try his luck. Who would remember afterwards, when their heads pounded and bodies felt like dry paper, who would care in the bright light of the first sunrise? He catches Hodgson around the neck and Hodgson sways gaily, from drink or delight, perhaps both. Dundy slips his other arm around Hodgson’s waist.
“You look quite something,” Hodgson says, gazing up into Dundy’s face, his speech slightly slurred. Close now Dundy can smell the remnants of fruit on his breath, suspects Hodgson has been drinking from a special store of his own, separate from the ale, whiskey, or officer’s wine. Dundy anticipates it will taste divine.
“I’m here to steal a kiss, mademoiselle,” he purrs, leans forward, eyes closed and body primed for that sweet union of lips only to be stopped by the blunt pressure of Hodgson’s fingertips. Dundy's eyes startle open.
“You think you’d have me so easy?” Hodgson’s voice has lowered, acquired an unexpected sultriness.
“Honestly, I did.” It does not make sense. Hodgson is here, in his arms, looking neither put out nor frightened nor angry. In fact, he seems quite pleased at his position, the way his other hand sits pleasantly atop Dundy’s chest and he bears that playful little smile.
“No, no, no.” Hodgson tuts, and he pulls Dundy’s arms from around himself. Dundy in his shock allows himself to be manhandled free of his control.
“I don’t take kindly to men who think they can have their way with me. Why don’t you show me you deserve it?” Hodgson crows. There is no animosity in it. Happiness spills and spreads across Hodgson's skin, twisting it into the most charming shapes. Then he steps to the side, out of Dundy’s grasp, and takes off. Not fleeing, for before he turns around the pole he stops and blows a kiss in Dundy’s direction.
So, he wanted to be chased did he?
Dundy leaps forward, shoves another man out of the way who curses and stumbles to a fighting stance, before he realizes his assailant is the Lieutenant and relaxes in submission. The drink is spilled onto Dundy’s arm, but it doesn not matter for he can still sight Hodgson swerving between gaps in the sea of bodies. His great wig keeps him visible. It also hinders his speed and it takes little time for Dundy to close some of the space between them and Hodgson must sense his approach, for he looks behind him, taunts with a beckoning hand or a flip of his wrist, before sprinting again. This game repeats until Dundy is gasping for breath. It is all too much, his athleticism will not be challenged by George Henry Hodgson of all people! Dundy must take drastic measures.
Bridgens had been watching this dance from a polite distance, but as Dundy signals to him, he comes to heel with bemusement on his face, far more bold than the steward would permit himself in sober circumstances. Dundy shouts his plan to be heard above the din.
“I do not believe this is wise,” Bridgens replies.
“Well, I have to prove myself you see.”
“And this is the way to do it?”
“Absolutely.”
Bridgens fetches the gun and Dundy aims it high, shoots, and the cracking noise catches the attention of those near, a frozen moment of collective fright, but when they see it is only the Lieutenant they roar in renewed sport.
“Will you form a ring for you King?”
There are titters at the rough rhyme, but the curious men assemble as requested, until a circle is pulled far enough that Hodgson stands on its edge. Dundy strides forward and takes a knee in front of the other Lieutenant. Hodgson gasps.
“You have rebuffed me fair maiden. A grievous mistake, I must inform you, for am I not the shining beacon of manhood?” He pounds his chest, and doffs his crown, shaking his hair out to let its silver waves frame his face in the way he knows looks rougeish.
“You certainly are shining!” Hodgson exclaims and Dundy grabs his hand, kisses the back of it. Again comes another cheer. Dundy rises to his feet, steps back and pulls Hodgson along, until they stand in the center. With an outstretched hand he addresses those around him.
“Who here wishes to confess to their King and Queen?”
“What a jape!” Hodgson giggles, leaning into Dundy’s side, close enough that Dundy can slip a hand along the inner seam of his leg. Hodgson’s eyes go big as saucers.
“Now? Here?” There is a bite of nervousness.
“No, we must attend to our court first. Present yourselves!” Dundy says and the men clamor to form a line in front of them, bowing extravagantly, and yelling in an indistinguishable cacophony. Hodgson’s momentary nervousness is swept away, he claps, savoring the scene, and then to Dundy’s surprise he jerks Dundy’s sword from its hilt, and jumps out of his inelegant caress. Hodgson kneels to press the sword upon the shoulders of each assembled man.
“I bless you Mr. Helpman and you Mr. Farr and you Mr. Wentzell!“ He continues down the line. Dundy is impressed. Even in sobriety he could not name all the men on Erebus, but Hodgson is a good monarch, aware of all his subjects.
“And do I get a blessing?” Dundy asks. He pouts dramatically, crosses his arms, but leans forward where Hodgson stands after having blessed the last man.
Hodgson places his hand on his hip and a fist to rest under his chin as he makes a show of intense thought. “You have been very good. A very stately and handsome King. I suppose you do.”
Then, in front of everyone, Hodgson kisses him. They are both delirious with drink and cresting anticipation and the raving energy of the party such that the result is uncoordinated and sloppy. They can barely maintain the contact as Hodgson laughs into his mouth. Dundy thinks it utterly perfect.
And to his satisfaction his early theory proves correct. Somehow, so far from home, so far from England, Hodgson tastes of strawberries.