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Francis should have stayed in bed. He really should have stayed in bed.
It’s still dark, though it’s well past nine o’clock in the morning, as he makes his way down to the empty quay, the sky silvering slightly in the east as the sun approaches the horizon. It’s cold, too, really bloody cold. Even with his scarf and his coat, it still cuts through him as if he’d wandered out of the sleek, minimal Norwegian hotel in his pyjamas.
God, he’s tired. He’d kill for a cup of coffee, a nice, warm mug between his hands while he sits in a nice, warm room, in a nice, warm bed.
Though the bed probably wouldn’t do him much good; he’d been in one all night and only managed about three hours of fractured sleep. The rest of the night was spent staring at the ceiling, staring at the window, at the gauzy curtain and the streetlight shining through it, staring at his phone, his empty inbox.
His thoughts had been busy, hectic, wearying, and yet he hadn’t thought much at all, as if it was all transfigured into unintelligible TV static; a loud, constant nothingness.
He felt numb, the same way he’s felt for the last few weeks; his limbs too heavy to turn off the lamp on his bedside table, too heavy to get up and plug his phone in to charge, or to get a glass of water. Too immobilised to do anything but lie there and let his thoughts assault him, as a castle is besieged.
Now, alone, cold, tired, he kicks absently at a pebble by his feet, sends it skidding off the side of the harbour and into the sea, which frothes here and there with ice slush.
This isn’t his first time in Tromsø, at its university, but it’s his first time attending this particular conference, his first time attending with almost every other academic in his department.
It’s a rare occurrence that they’re all in the same place at the same time, so of course John - as Head of Department after James Ross had left for that much celebrated job in Antarctica - had seized the opportunity and arranged some team-building, some - Christ - some bonding.
Back in London, in an email sent to all departmental staff, Francis glumly learned that this would take the form of a whale-watching trip, once all the main conference events were finished.
Francis doesn’t know why John is so bothered about team-building. The department functions, basically, and everyone has their own research interests to be looking into.
Personally, he couldn’t give a toss. He doesn’t need a team. He already has Tom Blanky and James Ross and - and why would he need anyone else? No one else wants him, anyway. He’s a deadweight, a hindrance to any team he’s on, spoiling the mood, draining the enjoyment from any situation. It’s one of his finer talents. He’s no use here, no use anywhere.
He kicks more viciously at another pebble, with a satisfying force that sends it flying out across the water, almost hitting the hull of a moored fishing boat.
He’s best off alone, holed up in his office, marking first-year essays or working on yet another mediocre paper, where he can’t annoy anyone or embarrass himself or disappoint those close to him.
Christ, he thinks, staring down at his feet. Christ, fuck, what am I doing here, he tells himself frantically. What am I doing at this conference, in this city, this country? Why am I on a fucking quayside in the Arctic Circle in fucking February? The immense pointlessness of it all suddenly seems to weigh down on him, the pressure enormous and unavoidable. He feels like he can’t breathe.
He’s just about to turn and go back to his hotel room when he notices James Fitzjames making his way along the harbour towards him.
Great, fucking great.
“Morning,” James says as he approaches, and Francis is somewhat gratified to see that James is clearly as tired and unwilling to be here as Francis himself.
Francis just nods at him.
James sticks his hands in his pockets and glances out at the water, a cold, grey sheet of slate stretching out across the fjord, towards the mountains and the sea.
In the east, the sky is finally paling, dark blue becoming watery, diluted, grey like the sea, grey like the ice and the concrete quay beneath them.
Grey like James’ wool coat, which he pulls more tightly around himself, hunching his shoulders slightly to push up his scarf and keep his neck warm. His cheeks are slightly red from the cold air, his nose too.
It looks good on him, Francis thinks.
“I thought you’d have Le Vesconte with you,” Francis says, just to have something to say.
James looks at him with a calculated expression, as if he’s trying to figure out if there’s some hidden barb in Francis’ words.
“He’s at breakfast with the others. I wasn't hungry,” he eventually says, turning to look back the way he came. Francis lingers on the sight of his sharp profile against the sky, and then follows his gaze. “They’ll all be down soon, I expect. I thought John would be here by now, at least.”
“Well,” Francis says before he can stop himself. “You know how he is.”
James’ expression hardens; in the past it’s been quite clear that they have rather differing viewpoints of how John is.
“It was nice of him to arrange this,” James says, firmly. “He didn’t have to.”
Francis isn’t in the mood to argue, he doesn’t have the energy for it. They stand in silence until their colleagues start appearing, all in various states of wakefulness; Le Vesconte and Hodgson, Little, Collins, McDonald and Goodsir, and finally John himself, looking distinctly well padded, well fed and well slept, listening to whatever Graham Gore is telling him with a rather self-satisfied, patrician smile on his face.
“Good morning, all!” John says once everyone’s gathered. His voice makes Francis feel even more exhausted. He rubs his eyes tiredly when he thinks no one’s looking, but he catches James watching him when he’s done.
“So grateful you all braved the cold for this,” John is saying. “I’ve been promised it’s a wonderful experience. We just need to head along to the boat, they’ll be waiting for us…”
They see no whales, of course.
The boat is a sleek, electric thing, and it hums quietly around the fjord, the city of Tromsø disappearing from view as they skirt round another, larger island. Mountains rise up around them, austere and snow capped, and soon enough there are no traces of civilisation to be seen at all. Seabirds wheel around overhead, the wind whips around them, and Francis almost starts to enjoy himself, the air cold and fresh and exhilarating in his lungs.
This feels to him like the very edge of the world, as if at any moment they might round the next barren, rocky headland and emerge into an open sea, nothing before them but the vast expanse of an endless ocean, and an endless sky above it all.
But still, no whales.
Their guide looks apologetic as the boat makes its way back to dry land. We can’t guarantee it , she says. Sometimes they’re just not here.
Francis finds he can relate to that.
“Well,” John says with a sigh, when they’re all assembled on the quay once more. James stands beside him, looking oddly fidgety, as if there’s some place he needs to be, as if there’s something on his mind. “I’m sorry for this disappointment, gentlemen.”
Francis thinks that if Sophia were here, she’d tell him off for that. Francis would tell him off too, would tell him to stop being so fucking pretentious and old fashioned, but John is allocating the research budget this year, so Francis keeps his mouth shut.
He tries to stop thinking about Sophia. He glances at James, and then tries to stop thinking about him as well.
John’s still talking, he’s mentioning something about taking a trip on the cable car that runs up Tromsø’s most hospitable mountain top, and some people seem to be up for it, while some seem keen to wander around town for a while.
Francis’ stomach tenses slightly with anticipation; this is an opportunity to escape, an opportunity to return to his hotel room and no longer be observed, to once again be alone and unseen and unloved - but safe, at least.
When decisions have been made and people start to depart, he turns to leave and almost walks into James, who has somehow come up behind him without him noticing.
“Sorry,” James says, holding up his hands as if in surrender. There’s that nervous, fidgeting air about him again. “I was just - what are you doing, now?”
Francis shrugs slightly, glancing around, his escape seeming less and less likely by the second. He clenches his teeth and has to take a breath before he can reply. “Uh, nothing.”
James nods a little. “Well we could - we could get a coffee, if you want.”
Francis looks to the people assembled loosely around them, those who weren’t bothered about the cable car but were up for an exploration of this small, arctic city. They look back with curious expressions, clearly surprised that the two of them are managing to have anything resembling a civil conversation.
Francis suddenly longs to get away, to be alone, out of sight of so many inquisitive eyes.
“I’m fine,” he finally says, “but thanks. I was going to-”
“Not with everyone,” James cuts in with an earnest, stubborn look on his face. “Just me. I thought we could find somewhere nice, and have some peace and quiet.”
This is both unexpected and expected at the same time. Unexpected, because Francis has never really spent any prolonged time with James in a non-work capacity. After all the arguing of a few months ago, they’ve barely even had a proper, friendly conversation in recent weeks, beyond bland pleasantries in the staff kitchen at work.
It is also expected, strangely, because James has occupied Francis’ thoughts for an embarrassingly long time, and this is the sort of thing Francis has imagined him saying in the daydreams he sometimes allows himself, that happy world where everything works out alright.
“I didn’t think you could manage ‘peace and quiet’,” he says eventually, as the others give up on waiting for James and start to make their way into town.
It’s just the two of them, now.
James raises his eyebrows and elbows him gently, almost playfully. “Well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you.”
At this, Francis manages a smile, and gets a smile from James in return. It warms him through, it leaves the pervasive arctic chill far behind.