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There are many stories about the Arctic. Her brutal climate, her ice floes that could crush great ships and leave men stranded, only to die from their own hungry dogs. Her seemingly unending days, and then her even more unending nights. How no one could see you through the blinding snow storms. There are less stories of just how vocal the Arctic can be. Snow and ice push up against your ship, wailing to be let through the thin wooden barrier between you and the harsh chill that can claim a man within hours.
Walton could not find the need to worry about the wind at the moment. Instead, all his attention was directed to the man whose hand he held as if it were his last tie to the mortal plane. He might as well have been, with how close they had grown in the short while they had known each other. Victor shuddered, and Walton almost felt his heart stop.
Robert Walton had trained himself for many years to face the frigid climate of the land he so often dreamt about. His furs became to him as commonplace as his own skin. He felt naked without them sometimes. What he had not prepared for was just how clean the air was, nor how filled with sound it was.
Back in England, he often felt as if he were choking when he went outside, and in all his research there was nothing but words of desolation and despair. This seemed to go hand in hand with silence. Here, his lungs drank in each breath, glutting his throat with what might as well have been ambrosia, and he was flooded with sounds of wind, of snow and ice all working in unison to create a cacophony of unparalleled splendor. Oftentimes he would simply stand on deck and breathe, and listen. It wasn’t until he was so cold that his flush could be seen even through his heavily pigmented skin that he would seek what little warmth he could inside his cabin. He was writing to his sister on such observations when The Swiss showed up.
The moment Victor had stopped breathing in the oxygen above deck, his body shut down. Robert’s ears had been ringing when he placed the frail man next to the cook's fire. Afterwards, Walton would personally bring the emaciated man out of their now shared cabin every once in a while, so that he might once more sustain himself on the atmosphere, filled with the most wonderful of sensations. Victor had grown much, much weaker since these first few days. Too weak to be brought into the fresh air, for fear of fainting or hyperthermia.
Now, Robert sat alongside the man who he had come to think of as a part of his very being, and was forced to watch as Victor’s strength withered.
“Are you cold, do you have enough blankets?” He said, gripping the hand of his dearest companion ever so tighter. The room itself was of normal temperature, the residual chill of the Arctic seeping in through every seam and crevice in the wood. Victor just lay there, frame shaking underneath the mountain of furs and fleece.
“Once we return to Archangel, we shall find you a proper doctor. You will become well again, I’m sure of it.” Robert said, having taken to placing the skin of his wrist upon the man’s forehead, trying to feel for the temperature. But he was no physician. He wasn’t fully sure what the hot sweat under his skin meant. He feared what would become of his dear friend, even if he made it back to England with him. Would his condition deteriorate more, not having any access to the harsh yet healing climate of the pole?
Victor choked out a weak chuckle, somehow dry and bloody sounding at the same time. He grasped at Walton’s hand, though to call it a grasp would be to exaggerate. Perhaps a better suited word would be caress, as it was only through the captain’s compliance that Victor could move him. Slowly, he brought Robert’s hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips against where rich melanin faded into pale and chilled palm. The hands and feet were the first to freeze, blood becoming cold and altogether unhelpful. Victor’s hand was shaking as he held Robert’s wrist.
“While a nice sentiment, I doubt my ability to last until then.” He muttered in between faint kisses, light as the first snow of winter finding it’s place on the ground. Robert’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t think he could bare the implications.
“Victor, please, you mustn’t talk like that.” He pleaded, though it was in vain. They were both painfully aware of the European's condition, and how it seemed intent to worsen with every day. A smile played upon Victor’s lips, chapped and unused to doing so from hours and hours of grief.
“My apologies.” He rasped out, gingerly letting go of Robert’s hand, which felt so cold without his gentle touch. His fingertips trailed down the captain’s arm, brushing past a thick fur coat before falling to his side. Victor shifted then, though slowly, moving away from Walton and to the other side of the bed. He groaned when he had finally settled again, carefully unfolding the layers of blankets before lightly patting the open space he had created. They had done this often, lain with each other. It was never debaucherous, but it was very intimate. Victor did it for Robert’s sake, he knew. It didn’t take long for Robert to shed his heavy fur coat and join Victor in the bed. It took even less time for his arms to find their way around the man’s abdomen, his head resting on Victor's Sternum. He could feel the weak rise and fall of his dear friend’s chest. He sighed, opting instead to listen to the steady thump, thump, thump of Victor’s heart. It wasn’t fast, but it was consistent. Walton knew that this took a lot out of Victor, both physically and emotionally. The man had been so afraid to be affectionate again when they had first met. Feared what may happen because of it. Yet Walton was persistent, and patient. Victor too, let out a sigh, carefully threading his pale fingers through his companion’s densely curled hair, slightly frizzy from the cold and dry air. He absentmindedly wondered what his own hair looked like, having not cut it since he started his chase. It already tickled the bottom of his shoulder blades when not tied up.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget you.” Robert said unprompted, shifting so that his cheek now rested on Victor’s clavicle, his calloused fingers now carding through fine silk like hair, gently untangling the threads. Walton was particularly fond of the white streak that started at Victor’s hairline and carried on throughout. He had committed every feature of the other man to memory. Walton was no artist, but often he would find himself toying with the idea of sketching his beloved friend.
“That’s a rather tragic confession.” Victor smiled, a humorous air to his voice. A slight nudge from the man in his arms stopped the words that might have come next. Victor looked down, and was met with a sea of emotion. Walton glared at him with dark brown eyes, passion burning behind them. Victor’s smile faltered, grip in the other man’s hair tightening ever so slightly. He looked away, suddenly very interested in the wood grain of the cabin’s walls.
“I,” he began, searching for the right words. “I may be able to lie with you, Walton, but I don’t believe myself capable of loving you. Fully, that is. Of loving you the way I loved Henry, or Elizabeth. Of loving you the way you want me to.” He said, a confession of his own. His eyes seemed to be glazed over, as he looked out towards nothing in particular. He was snapped out of it by Robert nuzzling into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against delicate arteries when he spoke.
“This is enough.” He declared, not quite content, but not quite longing either. Victor felt himself shake, felt himself let his forehead fall to Walton’s shoulder, doing his best to keep his breathing calm and steady.
“If you say so.” Victor mumbled, hands going from Robert’s hair to the dip of his back, fingers digging into the billowy cotton of the man’s blouse.
“I do.” Robert assured, placing a final kiss upon Victor’s jaw before settling in. Soon, Walton’s chest began to rise and fall in a rhythmic pattern, steady and consistent with sleep. The air around them had become easy to breathe again, tension having eased away. Victor breathed deeply of it, holding the captain just a bit closer, before allowing himself to drift off to sleep, aswell. Outside, the wild kept howling with a frozen tongue. But for now, for this moment, the two rested in the warmth of the other.