Archive of Our Own

John’s fingers tremble as he wrestles with the knot on his cravat. It had been getting tighter all evening, it must’ve been. Finally loosening it, he rips it from his neck and shoves it into a drawer by his bed. It’ll be creased tomorrow, and a nightmare to right. He slams the drawer shut.

He’s felt something clawing at him all day. He had even snapped at Gibson in the morning and felt rotten about it. Gibson had worked hard to regain his trust since, well, the incident John had been so gracious to forgive. He hadn’t forgotten it though. It flashed through his mind every time he saw Gibson, or saw Hickey, or god forbid, every time he saw the pair together. They weren’t - they couldn’t still be up to anything, Gibson had swore on it but, since the majority of men had left for Erebus, leaving a small handful behind with Hickey and Gibson included, he had started seeing them together again around every corner. It felt like he couldn’t not see them.

He had seen them together that morning, talking on the lower deck, and Hickey had looked straight at him. Straight through him, it felt like. He had a nasty little smirk, like he could tell exactly what John was thinking. Maybe he could. Hickey had taken on an edge with everyone since his punishment, but especially when it came to John.

He doesn’t want to imagine what Hickey must think of him. What he may see when he pries beneath John’s carefully constructed layers. What he might recognise there.

John had hoped the lashing would fix whatever was broken in the man. Hartnell - and by extension, that idiot Manson, who Hartnell seems determined to carry with him - had used the opportunity as one should. He had risen anew, seemingly whole for the first time since his brother had been lowered into the ground. He’d been working with Mr Blanky, learning the ice, building himself as a whole new man. But maybe Hartnell wasn’t broken like Hickey was, like John feared he was. Maybe a soul can only be so damaged before it crumbles to dust, with nothing left to rebuild from.

It had been wishful thinking perhaps, hoping to see a truly broken man fixed.

The ship is quiet now. The majority of the men had moved to Erebus three mornings ago, and it was empty without them. John wasn’t close with any of the men who had gone, there’s a hierarchy to consider after all, so it’s not that he misses anyone in particular. He just misses the noise. He can only hear the ice now. A ship shouldn’t be like this.

It’s empty, an omen. It feels like lying in his grave.

It’s funny to think that noise had been the hardest thing for him to get used to when he had first sailed. He had only been 13 when he joined the Navy, which now seems awfully young to have signed his whole life away. He had grown up in a big house with a loving but strict father who didn’t abide noise from John and his brothers during the night, and even the noises of the city did little to prepare him for the kind of noises one deals with a sea. The Naval College had been even stricter, so when he finally did sail with a ship, the constant noise from the ocean and the men had meant he barely slept the first few weeks aboard. Now he can hardly stand to be without it.

The only noise in his cabin right now is his own laboured breathing. He stares down at his bed, suddenly furious at the state of it. It’s made - he’s not a heathen, besides Gibson would’ve done it if John didn’t make a point to do so every morning. Start the way you wish to continue, and all that, but fat lot of good it had done him today. He’d had to turn his bed around as the ship had tilted, but he doesn’t like sleeping with his head by the door. It didn't feel right. Suddenly, almost frantically, he decides that if he does not fix it right now, he will surely die.

He rips the top blanket off and throws it to the floor. It’s just a blanket, so there’s no satisfying impact and that makes John angrier. He feels mad with it, his thoughts just one long high pitch wail as he pulls drawers open to find any spare fabric. He yanks his coat off the hook and shoves it along with a spare pair of trousers under the covers on the low side and thumps it a few times to try and level it. It barely changes anything, his bed just looks lumpy and uncomfortable and still terribly uneven but he keeps hitting it just to feel the impact.

Something has built up inside of him and he can’t shake it out. He hits it, and imagines the ice, how it would shatter his hands if his rage led him outside. He hits it agains and imagines the death and the doom, and keeps hitting and thinks of Gibson and Hickey and of himself. He mostly imagines himself, the foolish little John Irving of almost three years ago who thought this would be an adventure, and of the little boy who wanted to sail the seas as a grand captain, to sail away from all his problems and secrets and know only the sea and have only the sea know him, the John Irving that had doomed him from the very start. He had thought the ice would cure him, once and for all, and maybe it still will, by keeping him here forever until there is no John Irving left, and therefore no problem left to solve.

It’s still in him when he slumps forward, burying his face in sheets with a noiseless scream. He hasn’t the energy left to keep hitting, he just wants to cry. The ship creaks as if echoing his plight. No, it’s taunting him. The ice has come to remind him that she has energy yet.

After a moment, he pushes his unwilling body up and throws his pillow to the correct side of the bed that he can probably no longer call a bed, with the damage he has done to it. It’s a complete mess, no more level than it was when he started, with one large lump at the new headboard and a tremendous dip in the middle. It looks utterly unappealing but he pulls himself onto it anyway and lies down on top of the blankets. As soon as his head touches the pillow he bursts into tears.

There’s a rap on the wall beside him, and then George’s voice, soft and gentle, says, “John?”

John doesn't say anything. What can he say? He rolls onto his right side, curls himself against the wall and presses his forehead into the wood. He presses in too hard. It hurts, and will likely leave indents on his skin, but he doesn’t pull back. Another sob escapes him and he hears George say his name again.

He can hear George moving around, can hear him talking. John doesn’t know if he’s talking to him or to himself, but it’s comforting. George is always talking to himself. John can usually hear him through the wall late into the night. It’s probably practice that helps him keep going when no one listens to his anecdotes. That would bother John, if it were him no one cared to listen to. But George is assured in himself, and what he wants to say, and will keep talking until he makes his point. John likes to listen to him just to hear that confidence. He can’t make out what George is saying over his own heavy breaths. He wishes he knew what George was saying.

The door rattles as it slides open. John blinks up at it, and through the tears, sees George poking his head through the crack. He sits up quickly, wiping at his face.

“George,” he says. He tries to say it with some sternness, but he knows how bunged up and sniffly he sounds. He must seem pathetic.

George tilts his head. John has never been good at reading expressions but it’s clear as day that he is looking at him with pity. George slips into the room, sliding the door shut, and leans over him. He brings one hand up and starts stroking John’s hair. George has always been tactile, since the first day they met he was far too affectionate and John has wanted to hate it the entire time but he leans into the touch and George hums.

“Oh, dear,” he whispers, pulling his thumb across the angry red lines John had pressed into his forehead. “What ever is the matter?”

John shakes his head. He rubs at his still-wet eyes as if he can hide the evidence and hangs his head. The whole world feels heavy.

Almost immediately there’s hands on his cheeks and George is pulling his face up to look in his eyes. George’s eyes are very blue. He’s smiling at him softly, but he looks sad. John wonders if it’s his fault. It makes him want to cry again.

“Come here, old boy,” he says softly. John knows George must be speaking quietly, but his voice is clear and cuts through the ringing of his ears, and sounds so loud against the silence of the deck. Is his voice carrying to every man on board? Everyone must know he’s here.

He feels George brush his shoulder as he sits beside him, leaning into him thanks to the still-uneven bed. He doesn’t hesitate as he pulls John into his arms. They’re heavy around his shoulders, but it’s not a bad heavy. He feels warm. It’s as though the pressure of George’s arms are pushing against the pressure that’s been rising in his chest, and, bewilderingly, the clash makes him cry again.

“There, there. That’s alright,” George murmurs into his hair. One of his hands is heavy on John’s back and the other rests on his neck, his thumb stroking the hair there. “You’re alright. Let it out, John. It’s okay.”

John is absently aware that he must be making an awful mess of George’s jumper. He buries his face in it regardless. It’s soft. He calms eventually, lulled by George’s chatter and his comforting hands. Musician’s hands with delicate musicians fingers, John thinks, for George has told him enough. Listed all the instruments he plays more than once. John suddenly feels lucky the ice had not frozen his fingers before John got to know them on his skin.

After a few minutes, John’s tears dry and he sighs against George’s neck. His eyes feel heavy, whether from the tears clinging his eyelashes weighing them down, or from George’s hands and muttering soothing him to sleep, he cannot say.

“There we are,” George whispers. He pulls away, his hands back on John’s cheeks and John would hate to look any needier than he no doubt already does but he feels himself try to follow. George smiles at him. It’s a real smile, the way his eyes crinkle are proof enough. “There we are. I’d say you needed that, didn’t you? No shame in it, John, we all need a good cry from time to time. Why, just last week I lost a button from my waistcoat - not an important one, mind you, not a fastener, just one of the decorative ones on the outside but it completes the looks, you know - and Gibson had no spare buttons, and it felt like the world collapsed on me. I couldn’t tell you why, the brain is funny like that, but would you believe just then Edward walked by and found my button between the boards? Truly a marvel, that man. He didn’t even fetch Gibson back, just sewed my button himself as I cried. And when I was finished, he asked if I was alright and I said to him, ‘nothing to worry about, dear chap, just pat my head and call me darling and I shall be as right as rain’. Poor man looked terribly uncomfortable and patted my head so reservedly that I couldn’t help but laugh, and as it happens, that was cure enough. What I’m saying, John, is- whatever set you off was probably just your brain telling you that you’d gotten too full of feeling and needed to let some out. No shame in that, now is there?”

John shakes his head, but it feels like an untruth. He agrees with George, and he would never judge George for his tears, but he feels shame regardless. Shame is part of him. He feels shame that he was not also there to pat George’s head and make him feel better like George is doing for him now. He feels shame that he wishes he had been there to call George darling.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” George asks, blessedly seeming to be oblivious to John’s turmoil even as John tries to hide his face in his shoulder. “Or shall I just pat your head and call you darling? I won’t look uncomfortable though, I will thoroughly enjoy it so you must prepare not to achieve the catharsis of laughter.”

It’s far too embarrassing to ask for what he wants. John has long known shame like a familiar friend and consults it in most of his decisions, but his deepest, darkest shame has always regarded his wishes and desires. Usually they’re more sinister, and he has to pray harder to rid himself of them, but he can’t deny that, at his core, he craves touch and affection and love. He’ll regret it most likely in the morning, when his head is clear enough to dwell, but right now he just wants George to hold him tighter.

He knocks his head against George’s chin and George chuckles. The rumble of it tickles John’s ear. His hand comes up to John’s head and true to his word he pats it like one would pat a little dog begging for scraps. “Alright, darling, there you go.”

George’s pats gradually turn into caresses, flattening John’s hair off of his face as John leans further and further into his embrace. Eventually, George’s hand stills altogether and it’s all John can do to keep from whimpering at the loss. The consistent pressure from the hand still heavy at his crown is all that keeps him from truly begging.

George looks around, and sees the half open drawers and strewn clothes. He runs his free hand along the lumpy ‘mattress’ John had made and says, “whatever have you done here, darling? Seems like quite the mess.”

“It was the wrong way round,” John croaks. His voice is hoarse and George reaches forward to the cup of water on the bedside table. It had been empty last John knew, Gibson must’ve refilled it. George lifts it to his lips and John sips at it slowly. “The bed was wrong. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah. Well then, come on, darling, stand up and I’ll fix it for you.”

George places the cup back on the table and stands up, holding out his hands. John can hardly meet his eyes, but he tries. George has kind eyes and it makes John feel better to see them. If George wasn’t so kind, he would feel like a burden. Instead, he just feels loved and taken care of, and warm like a child curled up in a mother’s lap.

It’s another mental hurdle entirely to take hold of George’s hands, but he feels cold without them and forces himself to reach out. He can let himself have this, just this once, since George offers everything he wants so nicely. George pulls him up and he wobbles slightly, unsteady. His legs don’t feel like they’re holding him at all. He’s so tired.

John leans against the wall, sags against it with the effort of holding himself up without George’s help and lets George get on with his plans. George is talking, of course, saying something or other about beds. “There’s a real trick to it,” he’s saying, but John missed what it was that needed a trick. He’s already pulled back the sheets and has piled up books from the shelf where the tilt is most evident - “you’re not reading any of these at the moment, are you, John? Oh, how fantastic, Robinson Crusoe! You know, I read this over and over as a boy, I was incredibly taken with it. I fancied myself a wild explorer, but I never ventured farther than the garden gate. I’d ask to borrow it from you again but, well, probably not the best place for it, I suppose” - until the tilt seems less severe. He tucks John’s spare trousers in the gap towards the middle and, on top of it all, folds the coat in such a way that it’s thicker at the bottom and trails off to level the bed far better than John’s half-hearted attempt had managed. As if an afterthought, he pulls off his own jumper and lays it flat across the top and smooths it with his hands. Then, he pulls the blankets back over the top and tucks them in.

George steps back with a satisfied little huff, standing so his shoulder brushes against John’s. “Now, I wager this won’t be comfortable, but I’ll have Gibson fetch some things tomorrow - blankets and such, left behind hammocks perhaps, even spare wood and we’ll have Mr Honey make a whole new frame - and we’ll make it right without you losing your library. How’s that sound?”

John feels like a child, talked down from his tantrum with simple placations. He nods, unable to speak and unable to meet George’s eyes.

“That’s alright,” George says. He puts an arm round John’s shoulders and pulls him back into the warmth of his neck, giving him a kiss on the temple for good measure. John’s already weak knees beg to give out. “I’ll sort everything, you know I will. You won’t have to lift a finger. I’d bet good money Gibson could probably get it done before you’re even finished with breakfast, you’ll never even notice. Come now, let’s sit you back down. There we are, darling, isn’t that better?”

George lets him go as they sit down, and John misses the warmth instantly. George’s wager was correct, his creation is not comfortable - John can feel all the books where they meet underneath him, even through his coat and George’s jumper - but it’s better. The pillow will probably raise his head enough that he won’t even notice the remaining tilt. George, blessed George, puts an arm round his back and John nods into his neck. George says something else but John doesn’t catch anything outside of the ‘darling’ he tacks onto the end.

His head feels cloudy but it’s not so unpleasant anymore. It’s a kind of reassuring emptiness now that he’s secured in George’s arms. He doesn’t feel much outside of held. He could fall asleep, most likely, especially if George keeps talking. His voice just passes by John’s ear like a calming breeze. He’s saying something John only catches the middle of, only becoming aware of his words when he says: “-rocked so wildly by the storm that I had tried to sleep sitting up, and, as you can imagine that was a plan so poor I have yet to rival it in misfortune. To say I became reacquainted with my supper would be an understatement. I’ve never been one to get seasick, before or since, so-“ John fades in and out of understanding. Probably for the best, he thinks, with where the tale is headed. It’s just nice to hear him. 

It’s pleasant, for a while, just George’s chatter and John’s breathing. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, and he doesn’t really care.

The rattle of the door breaks him out of it and he lifts his head from the comfort of George’s shoulder to gaze blearily at whoever has caught him in such a state. He’s miraculously unconcerned about being caught, sleepy and fairly content as he is, but the back of his mind tells him that, at any other time he wouldn’t be so calm to be seen like this.

Edward is still dressed in his greatcoat and his eyebrows are furrowed. John hopes he isn’t mad. He’s glad that, of all people, it’s Edward to find them. Even the one small part of his brain that remembered to panic relaxes at the sight of him. George has remarked before that Edward seems to have a sixth sense for when he is needed. His power never goes to his head, however, because he is also burdened with the false belief that he is always unwelcome. He is not unwelcome now. John wants to reach out for him.

Without being asked, Edward steps into the cabin, sliding the door shut behind him. John wonders if Edward could feel his mind reaching out. How does he know he is needed? What sounds does he follow? Maybe George had asked, and John isn’t aware enough to hear. Maybe, for all his doubts, he just knows what they need.

Edward sinks to his knees before them, placing both of his hands on John’s thighs. He looks up at him so earnestly that it makes John want to cry again. In this of all positions- A man on his knees is a familiar nightmare, a familiar dream. Edward’s hair is curled, having been wet by snow and sweat, and his eyebrows are still frosty. John wants to reach out and brush them clean. He thinks to touch Edward now would be the death of him. George’s hand reaches out instead and strokes his eyebrows and whiskers until the snow is gone. John’s hand rests limply in his lap.

Edward smiles up at him but his eyes look so sad that John can’t even meet them. He turns his face into George’s collar and hides there.

“Is everything alright, John?” Edward asks.

John shakes his head, but pulls far enough away from George to do Edward the decency of looking at his face.

“I’m rather afraid this dear thing has worked himself up over something, Edward,” George answers instead. “You should’ve seen the state of the room, he’d made quite the mess, our John.”

“Do you feel any better?” Edward asks. He brings a hand up to hold John’s elbow and John leans forward into it. He wants more, he’s greedy and he always has been. The movement makes Edward smile, but he pulls his hand back to rest it on John’s knees again anyway.

“Somewhat,” John answers. His voice still wobbles and he hates the sounds of it.

“Don’t worry, darling. Edward and I will stay as long as you need. won’t we, Edward?” George says. Edward looks up at him and nods. “We have no place to be until morning, no men to supervise, no watches to conduct. It’s just the three of us. We’re all yours for the evening, should you like to keep us.”

John’s lip quivers. There’s something about the way George is speaking to him, as soothing and lovely as he is, that makes John feel like a child. They must think him pathetic, needing to be cradled and doted on as such. But he wants them to stay so badly. Perhaps it’s not a bad thing, to need them as he does, when they are so willing to give themselves to him.

He looks down at Edward, who is still smiling up at him, and John hopes that he manages to smile back.

“Please,” he whispers, and hopes it doesn’t sound like begging.

George presses a kiss to his brow and John feels it catch like a match struck somewhere in his heart, the fire spreading through his body. George continues smoothing his hair back, pushing it away from his forehead and kisses him there again. John clenches his eyes tight, but tilts his head up towards George like one of his mother’s flowers searching for the sun but too afraid to look. George, for all his affection, has never read a room correctly, and doesn’t give him another kiss, instead just turning his head and pressing a cheek to John’s forehead, holding him like a small child against his chest.

Edward reaches out, less confident with all his actions than George, and takes one of John’s hands. He keeps his other hand on John’s knee, rubbing gently at the fabric of his trousers. Edward never gives affection for his own benefit, not like how George will hug and kiss to make himself feel better. Edward purely likes to give, to comfort. He sees what John needs and offers it selflessly.

The three of them work well together, they always have. John has never been on a ship where he has felt so in harmony with his fellow officers, even now as the ship has devolved so terribly from its former glory. For all the ship has tilted, he feels steady with the pair of them at his side. Edward and George compliment each other so perfectly, John thinks. Edward is the thought, and George is the action, and John has sometimes worried he doesn’t fit between them. But he fits right now, here, in George’s arms and Edward’s tight grasp. George’s other hand has migrated to Edward’s shoulder, completing the triangle they make, connecting them at all three points.

He has thanked God before, when he still assumed God was on his side, for putting him on this ship with the two of them. If he had been on Erebus, there’s no way he could’ve gotten this from whatever combination of Gore, Le Vesconte and Fairholme he had been placed into. He wants to believe this is where he belongs, between the two of them, but he hasn’t yet figured out why God’s punishment would come with such a gift.

He tries to nuzzle closer into George’s warmth to forget about all that for right now. Edward’s hands are heavy on his thighs. He wants to think about that.

George must read something in the way John noses at his throat, because he hums and presses another kiss to the peak of John’s eyebrow, before pulling back slightly and saying, “be a dear, will you, Edward, and fetch the blanket from my room?”

John wants to whine as Edward’s hands leave his legs, but he places one of them briefly on John’s cheek as he gets up to go, and that will have to sustain him. Edward moves the same hand over to George’s cheek, and John can’t see what he does but he can feel George laugh. Edward stands back and watches the pair of them settle back together for a second, before he turns and slips out of the room.

John doesn’t hear George’s door go straight away, but about a minute later there's a tap on the wall behind him and he feels George turn.

Edward’s voice is muffled but he asks, “Do you want a jumper, George?”

“Yes, thank you!” George calls back with his own rap on the wood. “Marvellous thinking, Edward! Do you know, darling, you’re so warm, I’d almost forgotten where we are? When we get home, you shall have to visit me. Stay with me, if you’d like it. I’m always frightfully cold in my own bed, but of course that was before I knew true cold like this. Regardless, I think I should miss you too much if you never visited, not just as a heater, but a treasured friend-“

George is still talking when Edward returns, sans coat but arms laden with blankets. He stops at the door and watches them. John can never tell what Edward is thinking. It’s easy to know with George, for he’ll say it without prompting, and then continue talking, but Edward speaks predominantly in eyebrows and it’s a language John wasn’t taught at school. He smiles at them before he drapes the blanket over John’s shoulders, and passes George a jumper he had hidden beneath it.

“Oh, terrific choice, Edward,” George says. He passes John off into Edward’s arms, like a mother handing off a helpless babe, so that he can put it on. It’s a mossy sort of green, and John doesn’t know why he’d even brought it. It’s not the kind of colour you can slip on with your uniform, like the navy one that they’re now sitting on, so he probably never has a chance to wear it. It makes him look like a fisherman, it’s lovely. John forces himself to stop looking, and leans forward into Edward’s chest and takes a deep breath of him.

Edward’s arms come up around his shoulders. He’s still standing, and it makes John feel small, which is usually the opposite of how he feels next to Edward. It’s nice, being small. He feels safe, and protected, and warm. If this is how Edward gets to feel all the time, John envies him.

George’s hand has come to rest on his lower back. He can feel Edward’s chest rumble as he whispers something, and George likely responds but John can’t hear it. He can hear Edward’s heartbeat, and he wants to fall asleep.

Edward presses a kiss to John’s head, like George has been doing, and John has the wildest thought that, were he a cat, he would purr so deeply and so long, so content is he with the kisses he has been gifted. Instead, he just tightens his hands in Edward’s waistcoat and tries to bury himself further into his warmth. When Edward pulls back, to reposition John back into George’s newly woollen embrace, he kisses George’s forehead too.

Edward slips back onto his knees, one hand on George’s knee and the other hand holding John’s.

“Are you tired, John?” Edward asks.

John nods. He’s fairly preoccupied with Edward’s hand. It’s rough and callused, and John traces the skin with his thumb. George’s hands are delicate, in spite of the fact he does the same work they all do, but Edward’s are heavy and strong. John likes them both. Edward smiles at his absentminded little movements, and lifts their joined hands to his lips so he can kiss John’s fingers.

“I can stay with you, if you’d like it,” George whispers against his forehead.

“Please,” John whispers in return. His voice is still croaky and raw from the earlier crying, the little water he had drunk having long been used up. He tilts his head up towards George, and can just about see him smiling. His lips could brush George’s neck, if he let himself do so. What harm could it do? God has already punished him, leaving him here, leaving him for dead, and He has still seen fit to grant John the two men before him. Perhaps it’s meant to be a temptation, a trick to seal his fate, but they’ve been locked in the ice for a year and a half now, and his fate feels quite securely sealed. He lets his lips touch George’s neck and feels his pulse beat underneath. He pulls away quickly, and hides his face, and his smile, in George’s collar.

“I’ll stay then, darling, you have nothing to worry about. A good choice, if you ask me. You have my blanket after all, so I'll positively freeze on my own.”

“Thank you, George,” John whispers. George rewards him with another kiss at the temple.

Edward clears his throat. He sits back on his heels, withdrawing his hand to rest again on John’s knee. “I should retire then.”

John’s eyebrows furrow with confusion. Edward can’t go. They need him. He’s the third point in their triangle without him they’re - just measly little line, with no support, no foundation. Does Edward want to go? He doesn’t want Edward to go, he doesn’t want him to be on the other side of George’s empty cabin thinking John doesn’t need him too. Edward’s thoughts are always determined to isolate himself. He will lie by himself and he will stew with the imaginings of George and John curled up together, complete without him. He doesn’t want Edward to leave. All thoughts of sin seem small now. How could any of that matter? He wants them both.

Edward won’t meet his eyes, so John reaches out and clumsily retakes his hand. He squeezes Edward’s fingers and pulls his hand to rest against his chest. Edward’s fingers spread out against John’s heart and he looks up at him wide-eyed. His shoulders relax and he leans forward. John wants to keep pulling the hand up to his mouth so he can kiss it too, but he leaves it on his chest so that Edward can feel how his heart will break if he leaves.

George laughs, John can feel the air of it brush his nose. “Well, Edward,” George says. “John’s made his point, don’t you think?”

“Indeed. I can stay, too, dear John. There’s no need to fret.” He turns his hand in John’s grasp and laces their fingers together. John lets out a sigh.

“See, darling, nothing to worry about, just as I said.”

Later, he will recall it as an act of madness, explicable only by his tiredness, and how soft George and Edward have made him. He feels weak, like the chains that bind his heart have slipped off his shoulders for one blissful moment. He leans forward towards Edward, separating their hands but bringing it up to his cheek instead, stroking his whiskers and his eyebrows and pushing his hair back from his face. He can’t decide where to let his hand settle, but opts for cradling Edward’s head like he has been cradled by the both of them, pulling him forward so their foreheads rest together. He can feel Edward’s fingers tighten over his thighs. Finally, he presses forwards and kisses the corner of Edward’s lips. It’s as close as he can bring himself to go. George rubs his back as he does so, whispers something like, “that’s good, darling.” John can feel the tears threatening to fall from the corner of his eyes but he ignores it to look in Edward’s eyes. He has lovely eyes.

George’s hand has moved up between John’s shoulders, rubbing gentle little circles between the blades. John doesn’t think he could bear it if he only showed his love to one of them. He pulls back from Edward slowly, leaving one hand on his cheek, and turns to George, his eyes wide and pleading. He thinks George takes pity on him, because he takes John’s face in both of his hands and pulls him in. Edward’s hands stay on his thighs, and John can feel him watching as George kisses him. It is gentle, and soft, and over so soon. George smiles at him, and then he smiles down at Edward.

Tomorrow, he will think it an act of madness, and long to do it again.

They make John drink the rest of his water cup and then lie him down on his side. George slips in behind him, pressed into the wall. He wiggles a little as he tries to cover them with the blanket - only over the legs, the miracle of George’s arms is that for the first time since they left London, John actually feels warm enough without pulling the covers up to his nose. George settles his arm over his ribs and his hand comes to rest against John’s heart.

Edward potters around the cabin for a moment, folding the clothes they've shed, and putting out the lantern. He leans over John to reach George, and John watches over his shoulder as they seem to have a silent conversation - all eyebrows. When Edward leans down to press their lips together, John feels wholly surrounded. George is heavy against his back, and Edward is draped over his side, one of his arm’s in front of John’s face, resting on a small slither of available mattress to hold himself up. John loops his hand around Edward’s wrist and strokes it as his eyes fall shut to the sound of their lips meeting behind him.

Edward pulls back from George and, with a lingering kiss to John’s forehead, moves back to finish getting ready. He unbuttons his shirtsleeves before pulling out the stool from under the basin, and sits himself alongside the bed. He lays his head on the soft of John’s side, turning his head to press a kiss through the fabric. John’s eyes flutter open at the attention.

Edward’s hair falls into his eyes and he smiles up at him. George makes a soft noise into John’s neck but is otherwise quiet, his hand still warm on John’s chest. John reaches out to push Edward’s hair away from his lovely face and smiles back.

“Will you be comfortable?” John asks, running his hand through Edward’s hair. Edward smiles up at him.

“My back shan’t forgive me tomorrow but I don’t care. Don’t worry yourself with it, dearest John. I would like to stay.”

“You know Edward can sleep anywhere,” George whispers into his neck. He places a kiss to John’s hair line before continuing, “you remember that time he nearly fell asleep halfway up the mast don’t you, darling? I don’t remember why you were so tired, Edward, but you were perfectly balanced up there, I hadn’t even noticed you had left us.”

“It’s a talent,” Edward says. “I’ll be alright, John. Besides, you are quite comfortable.”

“Hear, hear.”

John’s hand touches against George’s where it has also come to ruffle Edward’s hair. George gives his fingers a little scratch in acknowledgment, before returning it back to its place by John’s heart. John leaves his own hand in Edward’s hair.

“Go to sleep now, darling,” George whispers.

John never wants to deny George anything, so he closes his eyes, and lets the warmth they surround him with carry him away.

Gibson will find them like that in the morning, and, with whatever logic his warm and hazy mind still possesses, John will count them as even.