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Francis slumps in his chair, waiting for sleep to take him, but it will not. Perhaps it is the drink, moving sluggishly through his veins, that keeps him hovering on the cusp of sleep and wakefulness. Maybe it is something else. His mind floats away from him, over the ice and the inkblack sea and sky. His body, restless, stirs even as he sits slumped in his uniform. One particular, stubborn, part of him surprises him with its wakefulness. Almost reluctantly, he presses one firm hand against himself. A hot rare waking. His mind drifts, thinking of a smaller hand pressing against him, how long ago that was now; how long and how little he was given, when he wanted so much.
sorry to say this is just a fic where Francis has a wank and has his own moment of unwellness imagining James as an enthusiastic lover.