Chapter Text
By the time John finishes his watch he feels frozen through. He isn't, he knows, because if he were his fingers would be pale and hard already and he would be considering waking Dr McDonald for assistance. Tonight it's simply the usual dull ache in his bones and the feeling that he'll never be warm again. He trudges down the corridor to his cabin as quietly as he can, lest he wake George or Mr Blanky. He usually passes Edward on his way out for his own watch, but tonight their timing must be slightly off as he encounters no-one. He slides his cabin door open and steps inside.
His cabin is small, of course, has always been small and will always be small but it never feels smaller than when he comes in wearing all his layers, which suddenly feel maddeningly constrictive now he is out of the seemingly-endless stretch of sea and sky that surrounds them. They are maddening to remove too, as he long ago told Gibson he need not wake up to assist him after his night watches. In fact, he very nearly curses when he stretches to remove his uppermost gansey and accidentally hits his hand against the wall that adjoins his cabin and George's.
So it's only after several minutes of wrestling with heavy woolen clothing that he is able to say his bedtime prayers, blow out his candle and then, finally, curl up on his narrow bunk and try to find some semblance of warmth. He curls up on his side, back pressed against the wall, his knees positioned carefully so as not to press uncomfortably against the bed guard. He slips his hand under his pillow, which was already flat by the time they left Beechey a couple of months ago, and which would be terribly uncomfortable if he wasn't so exhausted.
Which is how he finds the letter.
At first, he thinks it must be one of his own notes - a list of tasks to perform perhaps, or items to arrange to be brought up from the hold - that Gibson knocked off his bookshelf when making the bed.
However, when he pulls it out from under his pillow he can already feel that it has some kind of wax seal. Maybe Captain Crozier had an order to communicate that couldn't wait until the morning but was not so urgent as to require Jopson to come and inform him of it. But that would be very strange indeed. John braces himself to rise up out of bed.
Looking at the letter by the light of his freshly-relit candle, he is still none the wiser. The handwriting that addresses the envelope to “Lieutenant John Irving ” is vaguely familiar, but not to the point of being identifiable. It is not from someone with whom he shares a high level of familiarity, or it would surely simply be addressed to "John". And yet it also cannot be from a relative stranger, otherwise his Christian name would not have been included at all. It is all very puzzling but he's sure there will be a rational explanation once he sees what it contains.
He opens it carefully, cautiously even. And, as it turns out, all the caution in the world could not have prepared him for its contents. He reads.
My dearest,
Who I am I cannot say, but equally I cannot contain my warm sentiments towards you for even a moment longer.
When you enter the same room as me I feel my heart quicken at the simple joy of your company, even if it only lasts for mere moments. I long to spend hour after hour with you, to hear your thoughts on topics of all kinds and, sometimes, I even flatter myself to imagine entertaining you with some of my own.
Your beauty is unparalleled, and the fact that you are seemingly unaware of it yourself only intensifies it, like the sun through a magnifying glass. The way your face becomes stern when you shout out an order sends a shockwave through me each and every time. And the way it softens when you are at ease makes me wish to be able to give what comfort I can to you in these dark times.
Yesterday I found your sankhar scarf after you dropped it on your way to the hold. I confess I had to resist the temptation to keep it, just for a day or two, to feel closer to you. I returned it post haste, as the thought of you being bereft of such an item in this cold was too much to bear. Though I could not help but imagine warming you myself instead, pressing my warm hands against your cold neck and hearing you sigh with relief. And perhaps pressing my mouth to that same skin, if it pleased you. The mere thought threatens to overwhelm me even as I write this now.
I had hoped that my ardour, which began when we first met, would cool. That I could become used to bearing it as a passion shared by me and me alone. And yet I find myself incapable of remaining silent. Although I cannot name myself, it is my sincerest hope that you will be able to identify me from the contents herein.
I would not be so arrogant as to assume my feelings are reciprocated, yet forgive me for the simple fact that this remains my sincerest hope.
Yours,
X
John continues to stare at the letter long after he finishes reading it. The letter stares back.
This must surely be some sort of jest amongst the men at his expense. There can be no other explanation. And, indeed, through their treacherous words they have even succeeded in making him feel flushed from its contents. He must get to the bottom of it and identify the culprits post haste before any more letters of this sort are written or received.
He resolves to set to work on it in the morning, placing the letter back under his pillow for safe-keeping. He blows out his candle once more and curls up again to go to sleep, focusing on the sounds of the ice and his own breathing, lest his mind drift into consideration of a mouth pressed against his vulnerable throat.
