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Quincey Morris’ ‘campfire’ was, in actuality, a roaring fireplace in his London apartment. Arthur Holmwood had, over the course of their friendship, shared many actual campsites with the American, and he was glad that in this instance, his friend had been speaking in metaphor. Arthur was still soaring from his successful proposal and in no mood to ‘rough it’.
Quincey’s London rooms were a little overly-warm from the aforementioned fire, but otherwise, well appointed and comfortable. He had decorated them with pelts draped over his couches and chairs, as well as some thick furred rug that Art figured for buffalo. There were a few of his guns on display on a wall rack, as well as souvenirs and trophies from his adventures strewn about. In another man’s home, less artfully arranged and less genuinely come by, the whole arrangement might have read as tacky. But these were Quincy P. Morris’ lodgings, and the force of the cowboys’ presence left them feeling authentic, perhaps even exotic.
Quincey looked up as Arthur opened the door, smiling in his easy fashion. Jack, it seemed, had already been here for a while. He was seated beside Quincey on the couch, pale cheeks flushed, his jacket and waistcoat discarded onto the nearby armchair. Jack didn’t unbutton himself easily, but when faced with Quincey’s ‘wine-cups’, the heat of the fire, or more likely, a mixture of the two, Art wasn’t surprised he’d come out in such a disheveled state.
Quincey beckoned Arthur to join them, and Arthur crossed the room and seated himself on Quincey’s other armchair, taking a moment to strip out of his outerwear as well. Quincey raised a glass- whiskey, not wine as he’d said in his letter- and Jack mimicked the gesture a moment later, movements a little sluggish.
“To the groom to be!”
“C-congratulations, Arthur.”
Arthur flashed them both a toothy smile. In public, he had to maintain the decorum of a lord-to-be, but here among friends, he could revel in his own good fortune. He helped himself to a glass poured from Quincey’s open decanter.
“I believe we were promised ‘messages which would make our ears tingle,’” Quincey drawled, leaning back into the couch and slinging an arm over the back. Beside him, Jack looked down into his glass. Quincey and Arthur shared a glance, and in unspoken agreement, Quincey’s arm slid down from the couch to Jack’s shoulders, pulling him close and giving him a conspiratorial shake. “But not before I regale you with my last adventure on safari.”
Jack made a show of extracting himself from Quincey’s hold for the sake of his dignity, but Arthur couldn’t help but notice he seemed relieved at the momentary reprieve from talk of Lucy. Poor chap.
Quincey launched into a wild tale from his latest trip to Africa, and all the while, they emptied and filled their glasses.
—-----
Jack’s pale face had taken on a bit of a flush from drink and the laughter that Quincey had managed, quite miraculously, to pull from him during his raucous storytelling. He had never been a joyous fellow, but Arthur thought he’d at least shaken off some of the depression with which he’d begun the night.
So it was with no small surprise to Arthur that the moment Quincey excused himself to ‘rustle up some grub’ for them, Jack’s face fell once more. Whether Quincey’s presence had somehow warded off his sorrow, or whether Jack had been putting on a front for the cowboy’s benefit, Art couldn’t be sure.
Both men listened for the door to click shut. It would take a few minutes at least for Quincey to descend the stairs to the landlady’s flat below in search of food, more if they knew Quincey and his love of idle chatter.
Quincey’s footfalls faded down the corridor. Jack turned to Arthur with the gravity of a man on the execution block, and with about the same amount of hope.
“I… I suppose Lucy told you,” he said. He did not elaborate further, and the fact that Arthur didn’t ask him to clarify was confirmation enough. The doctor sighed, nodding grimly to himself.
Art couldn’t help but take pity on him. His own happiness was so complete, and Jack such a dear, old friend, that he felt no ill will towards him, and wanted, as best he could, to help mend that broken heart of his.
“Only the broad strokes, old chap. She said a husband and wife should have no secrets between them, and I agreed. But the details, I told her she should keep as her own. I imagine that Miss Murray of hers will have them, but I felt no need.” Arthur was assured of Lucy’s love and her faithfulness, and he’d wanted to spare as much embarrassment as he could on both their parts.
Jack reached across to Arthur and took his hand in both of his. Those long, clever surgeon’s fingers of his were cold, in spite of the heat of the room.
“Art, I swear to you, I didn’t know Lucy was the one who’d stolen your heart. I should have known, if I’d taken even a moment to consider it ....” Jack’s misery was so complete that Art couldn’t consider for even a moment that it was feigned. He squeezed Jack’s hand, feeling his own warmth transferring into chill skin as they touched.
“I know, dear fellow. There’s no ill will on my part, and I hope you won't begrudge me my happiness.” Jack let out an offended gasp at the mere thought of that, but Art smiled through it and continued on. “I know you wouldn’t. I can’t very well fault another for being charmed by her when I myself have fallen so completely under her spell. Lucy is infinitely loveable. She said you were a gentleman throughout, and considers you still a dear and trusted friend. So have no fear there.”
Jack still looked crestfallen, but visibly rallied himself to meet Art’s gaze. “I would never have asked her, had I known. You know that, I trust?”
Arthur nodded without even a moment’s hesitation. “I know.”
With one more squeeze, Jack released Art’s hand and sagged back into the couch, looking relieved. “Thank God for that.”
Both men breathed out a long sigh. Jack straightened back up. “I profess no belief in ‘fate’, but… what are the odds, do you think, of us three friends all proposing unknowingly to the same woman, and on the same day, no less? Coincidence seems too mild a term for it.”
He said it in a musing way, one of his curious thought experiments, but Arthur considered, and let out a noncommittal hum.
“Yes, rather unbelievable, isn’t it.”
—-----
Quincey came back with a platter laden with rolls and cheeses and little hand pies that his landlady had somehow produced at this odd hour. New bottles of brandy were uncorked, and the next round of storytelling began.
Now that Jack didn’t look quite so stricken, Arthur shared the full tale of his courtship with Lucy, from meeting her to wooing her, to the secret correspondence they’d shared by letter, and the dates they’d managed under the guise of casual acquaintanceship. Both of his friends loved Lucy, but they loved him as well, and they toasted his victory and good fortune without an ounce of resentment. It won them even more regard in Art’s eyes.
Perhaps it was the wine or the late hour or the fact that his emotions had been tugged to the extremes of late- his engagement a great swell of happiness, his father’s failing health a staggering pit of helplessness and loss- but Arthur felt giddy and sentimental all at once, and he took Jack and Quincey each by the hand and reswore the oath of brothership they’d taken on their first great adventure together into the Koreas. They’d been barely out of boyhood then, though all three were convinced otherwise. Somehow, amidst their blundering and bravado, the bonds they’d found on that trip ran true. It felt only right to speak again those words. If his eyes were a little misty as he spoke, Quincey and Jack were good enough not to comment on it.
—-----
Talk of their old oath brought on tales of that first adventure, and from there, there was no stopping Quincey. Drink made Arthur sentimental, Jack quiet, and Quincey more garrulous. He spun yarn after yarn, some of journeys that Arthur had been a part of (though they had grown into almost unrecognizable shape due to Quincey’s ‘added flourishes’), until the fire in the hearth began to gutter.
Somewhere along the line, Jack’s head had sunk down onto Quincey’s shoulder, and with an easy motion, Quincey had guided him to lie with his head pillowed on Quincey’s thigh. It spoke to Jack’s exhaustion and inebriation that he’d done so with no protest. All the while, Quincey kept talking, though he ceased his wild gesticulations in favor of stroking Jack’s hair.
When the next wild tale ended, Arthur cut in before Quincey could begin anew.
“How’d you manage it, then? Or, I suppose, more to the point, why?”
Quincey went still. For a moment, Arthur thought he’d feign ignorance, but in the end, Quincey just let out a low whistle.
“Figured it out, did ya? Thought you might.” He didn’t seem particularly surprised, and not at all apologetic.
“Well, you weren’t precisely subtle, old bean. Three unknowing proposals to the same woman in one day? Two is a coincidence, perhaps. Three, unbelievable. So it stands to reason that one of us must have known. I didn’t. Dear Jack didn’t.”
He looked at Quincey and waited. Again, no denial. Arthur continued on.
“So tell me why.”
Quincey reached for his glass and drained it.
—------------
“Well, it had to be all on the same day, for Lucy’s sake,” Quincey explained.
Arthur snorted. “For her sake? She was in tears from the stress of it all! How on earth was any of this to her benefit?”
Quincey held up a hand. “Now, just give me a minute to explain. It had to be done, I’ll get to that in a flash. I figured it’d best be quick. I know how much Lucy cares about everyone else’s happiness. The way it happened, she was troubled for ‘bout half a day ‘fore you restored her happiness. Imagine if she’d had our proposals on different days. If she’d had to turn down an offer for a worthy suitor and then dwell on it all day and night, not knowing if the one she was waiting on was going to make good?”
Arthur considered. The assessment… was not wrong. Lucy would’ve been wracked with guilt, and would have considered the hurt she caused Jack and Quincey over her own hope of future happiness. Quincey’s machinations, though they had distressed her, had at least seen her quickly relieved.
He carded a hand through his curls, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“I know how you saw to my timing.” On the 23rd of May, Quincey had come to Arthur and told him, ‘you’d best stop draggin’ your feet and ask that girl o’ yours before someone else does,’ amongst other things.
“When you said you ‘had it on good authority someone else was fixing to propose to her’, I didn’t know you meant yourself, Quincey.” He said flatly.
Quincey just grinned, absolutely shameless.
“I take it you knew Jack was considering it as well,” Arthur pushed on, continuing to unravel Quincey’s little web.
The grin faded. “I hope you don't blame him, Art. He honestly didn’t know any o’ this. I’m the one who convinced him to buckle down and offer her the ring he’d bought her.”
Quincey’s hand kept moving in slow, soothing motions on Jack’s scalp. Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place in Arthur’s mind.
“And why convince him to do that, if you knew we were both after the same girl?”
“ ‘Cause It was the best way I could figure to make sure we all stayed friends through all this!”
Arthur just stared at Quincey, who huffed out a breath and made to shift, only to remember that Jack was still passed out against him. He went still and lowered his voice.
“Look, you needed a kick in the heels to get a move on and stop makin’ Lucy wait, and Jack… you know how he dwells on things like nobody else. We both know he, well, he’s never been taken with a girl before. And his life would be a lot easier if he could marry a lady. You can’t blame him for grasping into that possibility with Lucy.
So imagine it. He’s got a ring in his pocket, but he doesn’t ask her. Y’all get married, and he’s left to wonder how things would’ve been different if he’d said something. That sort of thing grows into resentment, regret. Those thoughts can poison a friendship over time. He’s hurt now, but he’ll heal, and one day, this’ll be a funny story we all tell to one another.”
That, too, Arthur couldn’t refute. He’d known Jack from his school days, and in that time, he’d seen him obsess over school mates, that odd professor of his, a fellow doctor during his residency. Never had a woman captured his interest, until Lucy. Art hadn’t even considered that possibility, when he’d introduced them, so accustomed he’d become to Jack’s usual preferences.
But what he hadn’t anticipated, Quincey apparently had, and he’d acted to lance a boil before it could begin to fester. How many friendships had come to ruin over jealous hearts and unspoken affections, because they lacked the eagle eyes and odd insights of one Quincey P. Morris?
Arthur was convinced he had the shape of it now, but he asked anyway.
“And what do you get out of this, Quincey? It could’ve just been two proposals in one day.”
Quincey shrugged his shoulders, and for the first time all night, his voice lacked conviction.
“Now, you say that like I wouldn’t’ve jumped at the opportunity to take Lucy’s hand if she’d’ve had me.”
Arthur merely arched an eyebrow at him, unconvinced.
Quincey’s hand began absently stroking Jack’s hair again. His gaze never left Art’s.
“I would’ve,” he said, a little grumpy at Art’s disbelief. “And it had to be all three of us. Because it’s so unbelievable. Because it’ll make this all a silly little coincidence, rather than an awkward competition.”
That, at least, was truth. But not the whole truth, Arthur was sure.
He smiled at Quincey. “How noble of you. So, tell me, exactly how long have you been in love with Jack?”
—---------------
Quincey’s startled sputtering was quite gratifying. He stumbled to get out a protest before finally slumping back into the couch miserably, a mirror to Jack just a couple of hours earlier.
“Since Korea, Art. Since damned Korea!”
Arthur felt his jaw drop. “But that’s been-”
“Years, yes, I am aware. You don’t know the half of it, Art. He’s got me so mad for him, some days I think I’m gonna end up in his asylum.”
Arthur steepled his hands in front of his mouth to hide his smile. To think, Quincey, the man he’d never seen hesitate in his entire life, had carried a secret torch for years. And for Jack Seward, no less. What a turn of events this had become.
“He focuses so hard on just one person at a time, he won’t even notice anyone else. At first, he was in love with you, then that chemist fella in the year ahead of him, then that damn teacher o’ his, and on and on ‘til Lucy. Meanwhile, I gotta boil us alive in this room to get him to take his damn jacket off.”
“And you thought you could help pick up the pieces of his broken heart?”
Quincey let his head loll back onto the back of the couch as he looked heavenward.
“It isn’t like that. I wasn’t trying to hurt him on purpose so I could take advantage. If I could’ve spared him the heartbreak completely, I would’ve. But I didn’t realize you all were both fallin’ for Lucy til it was too late, and at that point, he was gonna get hurt regardless.”
Arthur nodded. “So you intervened to soften the blow.”
Quincey let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I know I ain’t the type he falls for. He likes intellectuals, people who can keep up with that brain of his. But even knowin’ the most I can ever be is his friend, I couldn’t just let things lie. At least now, he can move on to someone new, and maybe it’ll finally be someone who can love him back, the way he deserves.”
Arthur had to fake a coughing fit to cover his laughter at Quincey’s utter, sincere misery. Apparently he’d never overheard Jack narrating one of his personal diary entries as Art had, with all the asides about how manly and muscular and noble he’d just so happened to have noticed his companions were.
Well, Jack’s true ‘type’ was just one of the things Quincey had failed to notice. Another was Jack’s stirring from his slumber when Quincey had first started shifting around. Art chose not to inform him of either. Quincey had had his fun playing puppeteer a few days past, and now Arthur was trying his hand at it. He couldn’t be sure exactly how much Jack had heard of their conversation, or how much he would remember, given the amount he’d drunk, but if nothing else, certain truths would be there in his subconscious, waiting for Jack to notice and examine them further.
Oh, the hour was late, but Arthur was in fine spirits. He stood, and leaned over to clasp his hands on Quincey’s shoulders, smiling wide.
“Oh, buck up, old pal. I’d wager it’s not so bleak as all that. Now, I’d say it’s past time we called it a night. I’ll help you get Jack settled into the guest bed and be on my way. I’m sure things will work themselves out in the morning.”
—-------------------