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Chapter Text

Macao, July 1819

Laurence sees Tharkay for the first time since the end of the war at a crowded port in Macao, on a stifling summer afternoon nearly indistinguishable from the day they met in the very same city, more than a decade ago.

People thronged around Temeraire excitedly, clamoring for his attention, but Laurence hardly noticed. Tharkay stood just outside the perimeter of the crowd, and at the sight of him, all the noise suddenly receded into the background, growing muffled and dull, as though Laurence were underwater.

The first thing he registered was that Tharkay’s hair was longer, tied back so that it fell loosely between his shoulder blades, and Laurence wondered why this was so significant that it should be the first thing he noticed.

Tharkay had not perceived his attention just yet; as Laurence looked on, Tharkay scanned the crowd around Temeraire still, presumably in search of him. He began to observe other details then, one after the other like a tumble of cards—his skin was darker, as though he’d spent the past few years they'd been apart under an unrelenting sun; his freckles were more pronounced, dotted across the bridge of his nose like a pale constellation; the lines on his face had deepened, further proof of time passed. With kohl smudged around his eyes to ward off the glare of the sun and his clothes desert-worn, Laurence imagined that he must be some sort of mirage that would dissolve the moment he blinked.

And then, their eyes met, and Tharkay smiled, a quiet, fond smile so heartrendingly familiar that for a second, Laurence forgot how to breathe.

Paris, March 1814

A cold draft came in through the broken windows and the hole in the ceiling where it had partially caved in. The room had been some fashionable apartment on rue de Ravignan before its current occupation, but war and all its miseries had not been kind to it. The walls were mostly intact; the plaster had cracked off at parts, exposing the brick and wooden beams beneath, and there was broken glass on the bare floor. It was better quarters than what most of the rest of the Corps had to make do with, in deference to his rank and his injuries. With his myriad bruises, bandages pulled taut over his tender wounds, Laurence felt an odd affinity with the place, as some mirror of his present state.

He shifted in place, reaching for the glass of water set on the crate next to his bed, careful not to put any strain on his broken ribs. The springs beneath him creaked with the movement.

The wind brought with it the scent of burnt gunpowder and the sulfurous smell of dragon refuse. Dust hung thickly in the air, from the rubble of what used to be Montmartre.

It was past midnight, but Laurence was wide awake, staring contemplatively at the ceiling. Sleep would not come to him, and he knew it would elude him for hours more. He had considered going to Temeraire for company, but his body felt too heavy to move.

By his count, it had been a half hour since Tharkay had come in his room to say his goodbyes.

*

“May I come in? I know it is quite late.”

Laurence pulled himself up to his elbows. “Tenzing? Of course, come in.”

Tharkay nodded, and closed the door behind him. With great care, Laurence sat himself upright on the edge of his bed, and waited for Tharkay to speak.

“I apologise for troubling your rest, so late this evening,” Tharkay said at last. He stood by the window, leaning against the wooden frame. The backlight from the white-yellow streetlamps outside traced his silhouette sharply, but obscured most of Tharkay’s face.

Yet, there was an uneasiness in the way he held himself, a troubled stillness, that told Laurence something weighed heavily on his mind.

“It is no matter. I was not asleep anyway,” Laurence replied truthfully. Rest came to him these days only reluctantly, and whatever he did manage was fitful at best.

“Well, I am sorry to disturb you regardless,” Tharkay said, arms crossed against his chest, “but I made a promise to you once, that I would not depart without my telling you so.”

“Depart—” Laurence made to stand, though a twinge of pain along his side made him falter almost immediately, as though to berate him for undertaking the action much too fast, quite too soon.

“Will, please, do not exert yourself,” Tharkay said, stepping forward, catching him gently by his shoulders.

Laurence let himself lean against Tharkay slightly. “D—depart?” he repeated, an expression of open confusion on his face. “How do you mean, Tenzing?”

“I mean to say that I have come to take my leave of you,” Tharkay said. Despite that he was holding Laurence close, his gaze was cast down on the floor, as though to avoid meeting his eyes.

“But why? Is it something we—have I done something—”

“No!” Tharkay said, looking up sharply. He bit his lip, and turned his head to the side.

“No,” he repeated a moment later, his voice more level. He guided Laurence to sit back down on his cot.

“It is not your fault at all. It is only that I have done what I said I would do," he explained, when Laurence continued to look at him imploringly. "The war is at an end and Buonaparte is exiled. I no longer have reason to stay.”

“But surely,” Laurence said, leaning forward, trying as much as he could to restrain the pleading note in his voice, “that is not, in itself, a reason to leave?”

“I’ve no wish to lie to you, but you’ve promised me once, that you will allow me to keep what little mystery I can about my person,” Tharkay said, with a small smile, and Laurence could see in it a hint of his usual wryness. Yet the smile, Laurence thought, was oddly hollow, almost strained.

“Yet if it is some fault of mine, something I can rectify—”

“Please, Will. Believe me when I say my decision in no way reflects my opinion on your company, or of the Corps. I will only admit that war is a wearisome endeavour, and I have grown too familiar of this continent.”

There was nothing unreasonable in his answer, but still—something in Laurence wished to contest it, despite that he had no right to ask it of Tharkay, and had often said as much to him—

“Where will you go?” Laurence asked.

Tharkay shrugged. “I have obtained passage on a ship out of Liverpool, bound for America. Gherni has agreed to come with me, to accept a commission with John Wampanoag’s company.”

“I see. And how long have you intended…?”

“Only recently, though I’ve been considering the possibility since Quatre Bras. I wished to see you some ways into your recovery first, before embarking on anything final,” Tharkay said. He made to step back, but Laurence’s hand shot forward and wrapped around his wrist.

Laurence knew it was the height of impropriety, that he ought to cease from this interrogation, but there were too many questions that begged to be asked, as much as he might dread their answers. “When do you intend on leaving?” Laurence forced himself to say at last.

Tharkay’s eyes darted at his face, then at the fingers around his wrist. The streetlights cut harsh lines across the planes of his face. “If I manage to cross the Channel by tomorrow, I will make good time,” he said, confirming Laurence’s suspicion that he meant to leave at that very moment.

“Will you not at least wait until Temeraire wakes in the morning? He will want to see you, before you go.”

Tharkay shook his head. “I am not one for protracted goodbyes. I have finished my preparations and now is as good a time to leave as any,” he answered.

“Of course,” Laurence said, as the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach calcified into something he vaguely recognised as resignation. There were a great number of other things he wished to say, for a part of Laurence knew with unshakeable certainty that after Tharkay walked out of the door, it would be the last he would see of him for a good long while.

Stay, he would have said. Your place is here. Do not leave me.

Instead, Laurence asked, “Is it truly your wish to leave?”

Tharkay met his eyes with a level expression. “It is.”

A pause, and then Laurence let him go, his hand falling limply to his side. “I would never ask you to do anything that is contrary to your wishes.” This time, it was Laurence who looked away. “I am sorry to see you go.”

Tharkay was silent, the heavy sort of silence that suggested he meant to say something more, but dismisses it at the last second. Instead, he stood up straight, and stretched out a hand.

“I hope to meet you again someday, William Laurence.”

*

Laurence shook himself from his reverie, and held out his bandaged hand; the sensation of touch lingered, burning like a cold brand on his palm. There was something, he knew, that he ought have said, a cue missed and a line misspoken. He closed his hand into a tight fist, and threw his arm across his eyes.

In a moment, he would get up from bed, and go to Temeraire. Temeraire would not question his presence, and Laurence needn’t tell him the news until morning. He would read him his letters, or perhaps a book; there was a study down the hall with a private library, mostly unscathed, that should provide him with something appropriate. In the meantime, Laurence would simply try his utmost to forget the slightly rueful smile on Tharkay’s face as they shook hands, that Laurence only now realised was an apology.

The Atlantic, 1816

In the immediate aftermath of the war, there was not much time that could be spared for idle rumination, but what little free time Laurence had he would admit he spent in distraction over this last conversation. Upon reflection, it made sense that, wanderlust having driven Tharkay as far as it had, that wanderlust now then drove him on. So why was it that this last goodbye felt so different than when it had driven Tharkay in the same direction as Laurence? It had been too many years since he was a man of the sea, but regardless he was not unaccustomed to long, uncertain farewells between friends.

So, for the first year or so, Laurence managed to attribute the restlessness as some natural consequence of being an aviator.

It was hardly a miserable existence. It could not be, so long as Temeraire were with him. Laurence returned to England with a full pardon, while Temeraire’s advocacy of dragons rights faced a much more welcome reception after his role in the overthrow of Napoleon. His family had reconciled with him, and there were his friends and comrades in arms who supported him. Even his notoriety faded steadily, into the obscurity of peacetime.

But something felt off, something was missing, and he could not place its cause, despite that its absence was a palpable weight on his chest. He berated himself as the most ungrateful creature, but the question had occurred to him, more than once:

Was this truly the happiest he’d ever been?

Was it truly the happiest he’ll ever be?

It was small, commonplace things, that gained significance only in hindsight. It did not measure that mere trivialities should summon forth within him the most profound melancholy: a clear night sky on dragonback; the scent of green tea and harness oil; the quiet chatter of a game of piquet between friends. Sometimes, there would be a sudden flurry of many wings and voices just outside Temeraire’s pavilion, and he would turn around expecting to find a band of feral dragons at his back and a familiar figure at the helm. But each time he would be disappointed, because Tharkay was oceans away, and Laurence would wonder why the thought should even have occurred to him at all.

It was not until two years after the end of the war that Laurence realised that he had made a habit of it, that what he mistook for expectation was hope, that Tharkay should return.

Macao, July 1819

Laurence disembarked from Temeraire with the ease of long practice, and asked if he could have the crowd to give them space. The congregants readily acquiesced upon Temeraire's request and began to disperse, until a solitary figure came into view, marked apart from the mass of moving bodies as a fixed point.

(Has it been five years already? Or has it only been five years?)

Tharkay began to approach, and Laurence made to walk towards him, almost dreamlike, almost as though his feet moved of their own volition. They met in the middle of the quay, the crowd thinning out around them.

“Tenzing,” Laurence said. “I am glad to see you are well.”

Laurence berated himself inwardly. Such tepid words with which to greet an old friend, but he was at loss for anything else to say. Anything else he could think of seemed insufficient.

A flicker of apprehension crossed Tharkay’s expression, and he seemed to be at a similar loss for words. Despite that Laurence had not seen him in so long, to his eye, discomfiture was yet still unusual on Tharkay, contrasting with the easy, careless elegance Laurence remembered. His eyes scanned Laurence’s face, wary, almost expectant, as though he thought Laurence would say something more.

“Will—” Tharkay started then to say, but was interrupted as a loud voice rang out, yelling, “Tharkay!”

A leathery set of wings flapped and stirred up a warm summer breeze through the port, and a dragon’s snout came in between them as Temeraire leaned down to nuzzle at Tharkay. The strength of a dragon’s affection, always formidable, had in this case almost knocked Tharkay off his feet, but he recovered himself just in time, arms embracing Temeraire’s muzzle.

“I am happy to see you too, Temeraire,” Tharkay said after several moments, laughter in his voice. “It has been far too long.”

“Indeed, I have not seen you since the end of the war,” said Temeraire. “Laurence and I have missed you so terribly!”

Tharkay looked up at Laurence as he petted the side of Temeraire’s muzzle, one eyebrow raised. “Is that so?”

“Of course,” Laurence replied, now smiling widely. “Temeraire sulked for quite a while after your departure, as I had warned you he would.”

“I did not sulk. I was only worried that Tharkay was stolen away, for I did not understand why he left at all,” Temeraire explained, before turning back at Tharkay. “Even now I still do not understand, but that no longer matters, now that you are returned to us.”

“If it is any consolation,” Tharkay replied, still looking at Laurence, “I have missed you as well. Both of you.”

"You must tell me all about your adventures in America. Can you tell me more about the dragons serving in Congress?”

Tharkay blinked. “I was sure I have mentioned it in my letters.”

“Well of course I have heard tell of it from your letters, and from Wampanoag too, but I should like to hear it from you directly! All we’ve had to make do with all these years are your letters, and it was a poor substitute for your company," said Temeraire.

“Am I to take that as commentary upon my unsatisfactory epistolary skills, for my company to be so preferred?” asked Tharkay wryly.

“Now that is unfair, Tenzing. Temeraire only meant to express that so much of the pleasure of your conversation is in the delivery,” said Laurence, grinning.

"Then I can only say that the sentiment is mutual. It is not quite the same hearing about Temeraire's antics without your worried expression."

After so long a separation, Laurence had been afraid that the easiness of company they had both grown accustomed to should be lost, the trust and camaraderie they had built something that had to be rebuilt, if even such a thing was achievable. Now, Laurence realised, it was as though Tharkay had never left.

“If a worried expression was all it took to qualify as pleasant company,” said Laurence, “then my companionship should have made me the star of London society, what with how often Temeraire had to speak in front of his Lordships.”

Tharkay laughed openly, and for the umpteenth time, Laurence felt something undefinable constrict in his chest at the familiarity of it. He wondered if this should persist for the entirety of their renewed acquaintance. He wondered, once more, if he was meant to say anything else, but if he was, the words did not come to him then.

London, January 1815

On the morning of the 27th of January, Laurence woke early enough to find most of London still asleep. He had spent the previous night at the city’s covert, a nearly deserted affair—by happenstance, James and Volatilus were also stopped in London, doing their route, and James had joined him for supper in the dining hall. But they had flown out at first light, and Laurence took his breakfast alone.

Of course, he merely needed to step out to the courtyard if he truly desired company. He waited until the sky was mostly light before he roused Temeraire from sleep for a morning flight, the dragon blinking blearily at him as Laurence put a hand on his snout.

Though he did not say as much to Laurence, he recognised well enough when Temeraire was nervous. He was to speak in Parliament that afternoon, as the session’s first order of business, and for the past week he had been pressing Laurence for advice on how he should and should not speak, proper ways of addressing his lordships.

“I am sure you will do splendidly, my dear. You have always been a far more gifted politician than I,” said Laurence over the wind.

Temeraire craned his head back to look at him, flying at a leisurely pace. “Oh, but it is sometimes so difficult to say what I mean, in the manner it needs to be said, when they insist on asking such silly questions.”

“In that, I can only say you must persevere, as the rest of us do. At the very least, they will be hard-pressed to ignore your input, when you are nearly the same size as Westminster itself,” replied Laurence with good humour.

By the time they returned to the covert, there was a boy waiting at the entrance with the post, looking up at Temeraire with an expression of determined nonchalance. With a coin for the boy, Laurence received that morning’s newspaper, the front page of which was dominated by speculation as to the afternoon’s proceedings, whether Temeraire would knock down Westminster, drown it in the Thames, or simply eat the members of Parliament that disagree with him, with the implication that (being a publication of Whiggish persuasions) this would not be such a lamentable outcome so long as he made sure to eat the Speaker of the House, and select members of the ruling party.

The rest of his post consisted of a letter from Lady Allendale, inquiring after Temeraire; a letter from Granby and Iskierka, lately stationed at Gibraltar; and the most recent missive from Jane, ordering them to report to Dover as soon as their business in London had concluded. And last was a letter, come from New York, dated the 4th of December.

My Dear Laurence,

This is a shorter letter than you deserve, though I will be content if it should reach you in time that my wishes for a Happy Christmas would not be so absurd. The year’s unusually cold summer has been followed by winter of the most bitter cold, and the Hudson is frozen to a halt. Only yesterday Gherni and I had to haul a steamship out of the bay and into the Atlantic, along with a dozen other dragons. She is, of course, quite content to play in the snow, telling me that in England she had missed a proper winter. Tell Arkady she misses their company as well, and asks when they would follow her here.

In response to the inquiries that Temeraire put forth in your last letter, please let him know that Wampanoag will be glad to receive any of his questions as to the state of the rights of dragons in America. He has been positively emphatic in his desire to help Temeraire advance the cause of British dragons, though I’ve often expressed that there is not much he could do being an ocean away. In response, he accuses me of being overly pessimistic, which admittedly is not an accusation I could in fairness deny. To that end, I have included Wampanoag’s address below, so that they may feel free to correspond directly, without the hassle of an interlocutor plagued by my sorry disposition. I personally recommend Iskierka’s greater participation in the process, mostly so that I will not have to wait for your letters to forward the news of Temeraire’s success, as I am sure it will be the front page of even the papers here should you follow that advice.

To-morrow I am headed west, to the Great Lakes territories. I suspect that Temeraire would greatly enjoy himself here if he ever had occasion to visit, if only for the dozen languages he could add to his collection, including one or two spoken exclusively by dragons. I continue to lament that my own set has been entirely useless in my travels, which of course is a rather trivial lament, when English and French serve me fine in the ordinary course of business—but there have been times when I have had to turn to the services of a translator. Would you be surprised if I tell you that my pride did not suffer such blows so gracefully? You might laugh at my anguish at not knowing any of the native tongues of a continent I have never been to, but I have been from Calais to Tianjin and back without ever needing a translator, so I choose to deride it more as a lack of foresight on my behalf. If I sound unbearably arrogant, that would be because I am, and I thank you for indulging me in this, as in all else.

Perhaps I will try to pick up Cree, or Ojibwa, or some dialect of Iroquoian. I am sure I can bother Wampanoag for instruction, when he is not wanted in Boston or Salem...

It continued in that manner for the rest of the letter—Tharkay asked after his health, and Temeraire’s, and of the Corps’, of his family’s well-being and the state of England after the war.

He looked down at the beaten parchment in his hand, at the lines of Tharkay’s elegant hand and his effortless wit, the familiar voice. There was the round stain of a coffee ring, a blot of ink that marked a careless moment. He read the postmark and the outdated well-wishes, that quantified not only the distance of their separation, but the measure of time passing, irreversible, irretrievable. Grains of sand in an hourglass.

Laurence smiled, despite the pang in his chest for a friend dearly missed, for winters spent in far-away places. He tucked the letter in his front coat pocket and returned to Temeraire’s side, already composing in his head what he would pen in his reply, the stories he wished to tell Tharkay, the questions he wished to ask.

And it was in that manner that the years passed, through words and letters, though they were more sporadic than not, given the miles of ocean their correspondence had to travel, and the vaguely nomadic nature of both their circumstances. Years passed, and they wrote each other letters, and Laurence kept every single one he received, read and read again until the words were familiar, after which he would keep it with the rest, folded together and tied with twine. It was another habit he did not notice forming, that with each one he lingered over the parting words, despite that they always, without fail, ended with the same sentiment: 

I remain, as ever,

Yours,

Tenzing Tharkay

The Pacific, 1819

Their journey to the capital was a leisurely flight up the coast. Unencumbered by crew or harness, Temeraire was able to fly as he liked, as fast as he pleased, with the ocean always on their starboard side. The world below them was sharply halved by colour, their course tracing the boundary between the green earth and the gray-blue of the sea.

At Guangzhou, a Jade Dragon delivered a welcome missive from the Emperor, expressing anticipation at their impending arrival to Peking. In a pavilion outside Fuzhou, Temeraire was reunited with several dragons of the Chinese corps that fought with them in Russia, formerly of Lung Shao Chu’s niru. During the day, people would wave as they flew overhead, and pray for good fortune as only a Celestial’s appearance could bring.

“You’ve kept in practice,” Tharkay spoke in Chinese.

Laurence shifted in his seat to turn towards him, the sunlight glinting off his fair hair. “It is all by Temeraire’s effort,” he replied in kind. “He is insistent that I should one day be as fluent as he.”

“In anticipation of future plans, perhaps?”

“You mean for when we visit here again?”

“Rather more for when you visit here permanently,” Tharkay said, and then at Laurence’s astonished expression, added, “Only after Temeraire saves all the dragons of Britain, of course. What better place to rest upon his laurels than here in China?”

“Oh lord,” said Laurence, reverting back to English. “I do wish you would not give him any more ideas.”

“I would say it is more encouragement than ideas. I cannot plant ideas that are already in his head.”

“Of course I would not force Laurence into doing anything he does not like, but perhaps when he is older and tired of England, he will not find the idea so objectionable,” said Temeraire, all serene magnanimity.

“Perhaps, my dear,” said Laurence with a smile. “I shall let you know the very moment I grow tired of England.”

“But for now, he wishes for your continued prosperous and enduring career in politics!” Tharkay said, as Laurence laughed.

In a quieter voice, Laurence spoke again, after several moments’ pause, “I do not think I would mind it so much, in truth. I could not have seen myself to it years ago, but now it no longer seems so unthinkable.”

Tharkay turned away and looked out to where the ocean stretched to the horizon. “I’ve always thought that home is an evolving concept.”

Laurence followed his gaze. “If it would make him happy, I should be glad to call it home,” he replied, his voice sincere, and with a finality that saved Tharkay from having to come up with some answer.

A part of Tharkay—the part of him that persisted in humouring his laughably romantic sense of irony, to the point of self-indulgence—observed that it was perhaps an unavoidable consequence of his background, that the closest thing he had to home should be the distances in between, a life lived in intervals.

They will arrive at the capital in less than two weeks time. Tharkay closed his eyes as the wind swept in from the east, and inhaled the smell of the sea.

Chapter Text

Peking, August 1819

By way of the letters Temeraire received from his mother, Laurence knew that Prince Mianning had ascended the throne earlier that year, after his father had finally succumbed to his ailing health. So it was with mounting incredulity that Laurence realised that the Daoguang Emperor himself was waiting on them at the main gates of the palace, the Imperial Guard as his formidable retinue surrounding them on all sides.

Laurence bowed deeply at the waist, and beside him he felt Tharkay do the same. Temeraire, however, was fixated by the dragon that stood at Mianning’s side.

Lung Tien Yu took after her father in most aspects, with a Celestial’s sleek build and wing shape, the characteristic frill. But she was not the perfect black of a Celestial, with a slight violet sheen to her hide, and she had her mother’s horns on her forehead, and her purple and green markings dotting her wings. She inclined her head politely to their party, a relatively modest net of iridescent pearls about her neck her only adornment.

“She remembers you both quite well, Lao-ren-tze, though she was but a hatchling when she last saw you,” said the Emperor. “She is eternally grateful for your rescue of her in France, as am I.”

Laurence looked at Temeraire, who had been silent throughout the introductions. He worried, internally, if something was the matter, if the reunion did not quite meet his expectations. When Temeraire finally stirred, it was to lean forward and nuzzle his daughter with obvious affection, and spoke in Chinese, “Your mother will be very happy when I tell her how much you look like her.”

Lung Tien Yu blinked, her frill expanding in what Laurence recognised as an expression of happiness. She replied, in perfect English, “I am glad that you should compliment me so. Will Father join me and Grandmother for tea?”

*

Temeraire flew off with Yu to visit Lung Tien Qian in the Ten Thousand Lotus Palace. The Emperor had the servants show them to their rooms, prepared for the duration of their stay. There was a banquet to be held for them come the end of week, but they otherwise had free reign to explore the capital as much as they wished, and both of them had not been in Peking in some years.

“Certainly a lot of fuss for what is essentially a simple family visit,” said Tharkay. “Though somewhat understandable given the family in question.”

Laurence nodded. “They have had time to make arrangements. Temeraire has intended to visit ever since Yu was escorted back to China, but Mianning wanted to wait until after his ascension.”

“Until he had secured his position enough to welcome foreigners to the palace, perhaps,” Tharkay said shrewdly.

"Fair enough, when he still has his detractors at court, though the loudest of them have fallen out of favour since the last rebellion. Oh," Laurence said, as he came upon their rooms.

Tharkay laughed. “I am flattered they remembered well enough to grant me my old quarters,” he said, putting a hand upon one of the columns.

It was the room where Tharkay had spent much of his recovery, last they were in the city. Old paintings adorned the ceiling, and one side of the room opened up to a large garden. There was a large empty space in the centre of the room where tables had been strewn with maps.

There were many late nights, when moonlight poured in from the gardens, the peal of windchimes as an early summer breeze came in through the windows. They looked over maps of Mongolia, Siberia, and the Tartary, discussed plans and strategies over cups of wine or too-fragrant tea. Laurence would always find excuse to stay for far longer than he needed to, until there was no possible excuse he could provide.

Even then, Laurence should’ve recognised something in his desperate need for reassurance that Tharkay was safe.

He could not say they were fond memories, too fraught as they were with worries of the war in Europe, of the oncoming invasion of Russia. They were not the happiest memories, for the times that Tharkay had allowed him to help change his bandages, or when he kept Tharkay company through sleepless nights, sitting out in the garden until exhaustion had won over his injuries. Yet, they were not unhappy either. Odd, how nostalgia can colour even the most melancholy remembrances.

Even then, perhaps he should’ve said something.

*

They spent the next few days exploring the surrounding grounds of the imperial palace and the city proper. The product of Mianning’s rule was already evident throughout the capital—already there was an official Western quarter, although small by the city’s proportions.

Laurence’s favourite by far were the merchant districts. The markets were as lively as he remembered: throngs of men and dragons in silk harnesses, lavish carvings and gilt on the rooftop eaves, vibrant rolls of fabric and porcelain in the storefront windows. As the evening came on, the lanterns were lit in myriad bright colours, and on the third night there were even fireworks, in celebration of the birthday of a local magnate’s son.

That afternoon, they explored an area near the foreign embassies, which traded mostly in jewelry and porcelain goods. He did not have much in mind by way of purchases, setting out. Upon Tharkay’s recommendation, he had bought a scroll of Chinese poetry for Sipho the previous day, but he had yet to find a present for Jane, or for his parents. And something appropriately shiny for Iskierka.

Emily had taken after her mother in many respects, growing up to become an overly sensible young woman who did not care much for ornamentation, but he thought he could press upon even her the handsome jade necklace he came across, if he were to present it as a belated wedding present.

“A pity that Granby and Iskierka could not be spared to come with you. They did not have occasion at all to sightsee, when they were both here,” Tharkay said. “Iskierka would’ve enjoyed decorating him in silver and jade netting,” he added, conscientiously.

Laurence laughed. “I would be happy to act as her proxy in that regard, if it was not so easy for him to retaliate in kind. Whenever I displease him, he would threaten to introduce Temeraire to Iskierka’s favourite tailor.”

“That is true, but he has no such leverage over me. You can tell him the present is from me, though he might opt to shoot the messenger in my stead. I will have to decide if I can find it in me to subject you to that.”

The words, said so indifferently, inspired in Laurence a cold feeling of dread. He went still, and responded, forced lightness in his voice, “Well, can you not deliver it to him yourself? Perhaps you can spare time to visit us in England.”

Tharkay shrugged. “The Lacewing is making port in Hangzhou in a month or so.”

Laurence blinked. “Hangzhou?”

Tharkay nodded absently, examining a delicate vase of porcelain. “The firm has a new office on the Oregon coast, and customs are cheaper there than in Canton. Americans are as fond of silk and tea as the British, but the Lacewing can only do so many crossings in a year. I’ll tell Wampanoag then that he should send another ship, perhaps around November. Maybe Devereux can spare one of his clippers.”

“I see,” Laurence said. Suddenly, the trinket in his hand held little interest for him anymore.

They perused a few more stalls, with Laurence managing half-hearted conversation to make the rest of the trip pass amicably, though Tharkay easily noticed his distraction. Laurence waved away his concerns, when he gave voice to them, and blamed his sudden weariness on their long travel. If this did not convince him entirely, Tharkay did not show it, and only nodded understandingly.

Somehow, Laurence had not realised how dearly he had been hoping that Tharkay would return with him to England.

*

That night, Laurence could not sleep. He sat up on the edge of his bed, before he picked up the brass candleholder on the bedside table and lit the wick.

On nights such as these, when he was plagued by some implacable restlessness, he would seek Temeraire’s company, sitting against his foreclaw and enjoy his conversation, or simply to watch the stars. On other nights, he would sit at his writing desk, and bring out his bottle of ink and parchment for a letter to—

There was no need for that now, he realised. The one he would write to was only a room down from him.

He made his way down the narrow corridor in his dressing gown, his feet bare so as not to make a sound. The candle made flickering shadows against the walls. When he came upon the door to Tharkay’s quarters, he stopped, one hand up and poised to knock.

Laurence shut his eyes, and lowered his hand. He blew out the candle, and returned to his room.

*

Laurence’s distracted mood persisted throughout the next day. Thankfully, Temeraire provided lively conversation that only demanded his occasional contribution, regaling him with Lung Tien Yu’s myriad accomplishments in the arts and sciences. Dragons were not generally the most parental creatures, but Temeraire had the air of every doting father that Laurence ever met.

“She is already a decorated scholar,” he said, as Laurence sat on a cushion in his pavilion. “Yu intends to take the civil service exam sometime within the next year, despite that she is exempt from doing so, being the companion of the Emperor.”

“She is a credit to her parents, certainly.”

“Oh, we should be glad that she does not take after Iskierka much aside from her appearance. But pray, Laurence, you have been very quiet this whole while.”

“Have I? I am sorry, my dear. I did not rest very well last night.”

“Only yesterday you seemed so happy. Is it because Tharkay is not here?” Temeraire looked around, as though expecting to see him.

“He had informed me he has errands he must run today,” said Laurence woodenly. “For Wampanoag. He will be leaving for America next month,” he added, and even he could not miss the note of dejection in his voice.

“He is? But I had thought he would finally be returning with us to England!”

Laurence ran a hand on Temeraire’s muzzle. “To be frank, I had hoped for the same. But his business takes him elsewhere.”

“Well, I hope he will not leave again without saying goodbye. It is a terrible habit of his,” said Temeraire gloomily, and took a drink of tea from his large porcelain bowl.

Laurence shot up to his feet. “He would not,” he said, but already there was that sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “You cannot think he wishes to leave us?”

“I had once thought that he would never leave your side, and then he was gone for five years,” Temeraire said, as he flattened his ruff against his neck and rested his head on his forearms. “I do not think he wishes to leave, but perhaps he is just so used to wandering, that he has never quite learned how to stop.”

*

Laurence stopped by Tharkay’s quarters first, before checking the market district. He looked through the stores they visited the previous day, before going to the stores they had passed on, asking if anyone had seen a man of Tharkay’s description. Having found no sign of him, he returned to the main palace, and made his way through the vast ensemble of lakes, gardens and pavilions.

All the while, the dread he felt within him grew heavier and heavier, like wading in quicksand. It was unfounded, of course; he did not honestly think that Tharkay would leave without so much as a word. He had said goodbye in Paris, after all. But Temeraire’s words remained at the forefront of his mind, and imbued him with a sense of urgency that told him he must speak with Tharkay, as soon as he could.

He was reminded of when he received the letter months ago, during the voyage to Macao, in which Tharkay had told him he would be in Canton for the summer. Laurence had rejoiced at the chance to see him, realising in full how much he’d longed for their paths to cross again. He had feared that his reply would not reach Tharkay in time, that he would arrive on the continent and find him far long gone.

Laurence hurried.

Just past noon, it began to rain, one of those odd summer showers where the sun does not bother to hide behind the clouds.

Montmirail, February 1814

It was a stray bullet, a lucky shot from some boarder on Temeraire’s back, or so Tharkay was informed later on. He had not been there; he could not have known. All he saw was Temeraire flying to retreat behind their lines, and blood blooming like some bright red flower on Laurence’s chest as he was hoisted down from his back.

He pushed his way through the aviators crowded around Temeraire, and saw Laurence on the ground. At his side, Emily Roland was pressing her neckcloth down over the wound on his chest and shouting urgently for a surgeon, but he could not hear her voice over the ringing in his ears. He fell to forward to his knees to help, putting his hands over hers to staunch the flow of blood, but already there was blood everywhere, blood over his hands, blood to his elbows and none of it was his—

Emily got to her feet and ran through the camp, searching frantically for the doctor. She remembered the look on Mr Tharkay’s face, his attention wholly focused on the captain as he repeated his name brokenly, “Will, Will, Will.” All his usual calm and competence was gone, stripped away, and the overwhelming panic on his face rendered him nearly unrecognisable.

She had never seen Mr Tharkay like that.

She wiped the tears from her face with her bloodied hands, and ran faster.

Laurence’s chest still moved, but only faintly, and his lips were tinged with blue. What was it he had to do? He had to stop the bleeding somehow, but he’d already lost so much blood, and where was that damn surgeon?

He felt raw, vulnerable, as though he were caught in a sandstorm, the sand tearing away skin and flesh and leaving him bare to his very bones. Sand got into his mouth and his throat and his eyes and beneath his fingernails, a lungful of sand to tear him apart from the inside. He would later be able to recognise and label the sensation as grief.

Something was collapsing inside his chest, something important, leaving behind a yawning absence. What had all his defences mounted to? When had he become so unaccustomed to loss?

How had he ever thought he had nothing, when now, in front of him was proof of everything he had to lose?

Granby made his way to the front, Dorset and Emily hurrying closely behind him. “Tenzing,” he said, grabbing him by the shoulders to pull him to his feet. “Tenzing, the surgeons are here, they’ll see to Laurence, patch him up right—”

At first, Tharkay tensed, as though he meant to resist being taken away, before he looked up at Granby, his eyes wide with fear. “John?” he said, and beneath his fingers, Granby could feel him shaking slightly.

Granby's heart sank. He had seen the same expression on soldiers often enough, after wars had been lost. And suddenly, he realised the looming possibility, the potential loss of more than just one friend.

“Tharkay,” said a voice from up above them. Temeraire lowered his head to their level, looking down at his captain. “Tharkay, listen. They will save Laurence. They must,” Temeraire said, his voice calm, instead of the childish frenzy Tharkay might have expected.

And that was the trick, wasn’t it? Tharkay was a creature of the desert, but Temeraire was born at sea, and knew what had to be done. To anchor yourself down against the wind and the gale, resolve and determined certainty for when the alternative was so unthinkable that it cannot even be entertained.

Otherwise, the only other option was to let the ropes break, and drown.

Tharkay let Granby haul him to his feet, all the strength in his body suddenly leaving in a single rush. He leaned back against him as they both stood aside, watching wordlessly as Laurence was taken away to the medic’s tent.

Temeraire nudged Tharkay’s arm, and Tharkay absently ran a comforting hand on his snout, though for whose comfort Temeraire could not say for certain. Laurence would not have wanted either of them to fall apart, and so Temeraire will hold together for both their sakes.

I am treasured by Laurence, Temeraire thought, and so is Tharkay, and I will keep that which is precious to Laurence safe, until he returns.

“He will be okay, Tharkay,” Temeraire said, because the words needed to be said aloud. “He will.”

Here, Temeraire thought, is someone else who cannot afford to lose my captain as much as I. And if this was not reason enough for the words to be true, then what was?

The Great Basin Desert, November 1817

There was a damp chill in the morning air. Tharkay’s breath showed white as he gazed westward, where the ridge of the Oquirrh Mountains formed a crisp silhouette against the sky. It was still rather dark, but dawn was steadily rising as a wave, the crest slowly swallowing the stars.

At great heights, whether he was far up the mountains or flying on dragonback, the quality of light was sharper, thinner, clearer, something he noted ever since he was a child, after being taken from his mother’s home to lower, foreign places. It seemed to him that light took on weight as it fell to earth, pooling at the bottom of valleys and plains, flowing into hollows and crevices like honey, viscous and golden.

Tharkay sat near the campfire with Gherni neatly curled around him, still fast asleep. By the light of the dwindling fire, he read Laurence’s latest letter, retrieved from the last outpost they passed, now many miles behind them.

He read the letter once, and then again, making note of what he would say in his reply. Then, with great care, he held the letter over the fire, flames licking the curling parchment, until all that was left were ashes, scattering in the wind.

He wondered why he never considered simply not writing back.

If it was only love, or even heartache, he might’ve stood a chance. He could cauterise the wound, staunch the bleeding, and all he would be left with was scar tissue. But sentiment lingered, each letter a sharp knife that opened the wound over and over—he couldn’t bear the thought that Laurence should think he had cast him aside. He couldn’t bear that Laurence should blame himself, as Tharkay was certain he would. But, mostly, he couldn’t bear the thought of silence.

Somewhere, somehow, he had become accustomed to counting upon the background noise of company: Arkady and the band of ferals; Iskierka and Granby’s affectionate bickering; the children taking care of Kulingile. The gentle cadence of Laurence’s voice as he read to Temeraire whatever book he had managed to procure for him, carrying over the wind late into the evening. After traveling over mountains and oceans with such company, the quiet of the desert had taken on a hollow quality, as though their presence had carved out an emptiness that was not there before.

To think, he had once thought of himself as a creature of scarcity.

Looking up at the waning moon, at the unfamiliar stars of the Western sky, blinking out one by one, Tharkay realised that somewhere along the way, he had forgotten how to be alone in the desert, among the shifting sands.

Peking, August 1819

A wooden arch bridge led to an island in the middle of the lake, where a lonely pavilion stood, surrounded by red lilies in full bloom. The paint on the bridge and the pavilion were faded from neglect, weathered with age, but the flowers were yet well-attended by the palace gardeners. Remnants of the afternoon’s rain dripped from their petals, and hung in the cool dusk air.

Tharkay was standing at the water’s edge, nearly indiscernible against the blue-violet backdrop of late twilight, illuminated only by fireflies and the paper lanterns floating on the surface of the lake.

“When were you planning to tell me?” Laurence said, panting slightly.

Tharkay turned at his approach. His hair and coat were damp; he’d been standing out here since the rain. “You are out of breath. Is something the matter?”

“I have been searching for you, all day.” Neither of them missed the lack of an answer. “Were you ever planning on telling me?”

“I cannot know what you mean, Laurence.”

“Were you ever going to tell me that you never intended to come back?!”

Tharkay tensed. His eyes were unnaturally bright in the dark, reflecting the flickering light of the lanterns and fireflies.

“You would not tell me why you left, why you could not bear to stay," continued Laurence. "And I let you go, simply hoping that I would see you again soon, that you would return soon enough. But you never did. You never meant to.”

He did not know how to classify what he was feeling, which perhaps explained how little control he had over the words tumbling out of his mouth. He could hear the quiet anger and frustration in his own voice, the palpable hurt—

“You meant to leave for good and you did not even tell me why.”

—But a part of Laurence had known all of this, hadn’t he? Had known it since that night when Tharkay took his leave of him. And yet, Laurence had let him go, because he thought he had no right to ask Tharkay to stay. It was only now that realisation hit all at once: the lingering loneliness, the inexplicable malcontent, because he knew all along that Tharkay never meant to come back.

It was restlessness, Laurence thought. I was meant to run after him, even back then.

Tharkay did not respond immediately. Laurence expected him to deny it, to deflect with words and prevarications, convincing half-truths and deliberate omissions. Instead, when he finally spoke, it was in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, almost careless, as though the words were of no great import.

“There was a moment, towards the end of the war, when I thought I might’ve lost you,” Tharkay said, staring straight ahead. “Leaving was an act of self-preservation. You can call it cowardice. Neither of us would be wrong.”

“But you did not lose me,” replied Laurence, brows furrowing as he tried to decipher Tharkay’s meaning. “The war has long since ended.”

“There are many ways of losing someone.”

“Wouldn’t leaving only have ensured that?” Laurence felt his hands clench into fists at his sides. “I am your friend—you cannot think I would ever choose to abandon you if it was in my power to prevent it.”

“Will you not be satisfied unless I put it to words?” asked Tharkay curtly, and did not wait for an answer. “Fine. I realised I could not bear to lose you in any way. I realised I could not keep you, when you were the only thing I ever wanted. So I left.”

The words sank into Laurence, heavy as a stone.

"W...wanted?"

"Will you have me repeat it as well?" he asked, sounding exasperated.

“Then,” Laurence said, in a slightly dazed voice, “you lied to me. When you told me you did not wish to leave because of me.”

Tharkay turned away. “I did not lie. I did not wish to leave.”

“Yet you still left.”

“What else could I have done?”

“You could have stayed.”

“And what would’ve been there for me, had I stayed?” Tharkay asked, a trace of real anger bleeding through his words. “If I did not lose you to war or battle, I would in all likelihood eventually lose you to your best chance at happiness. I am not noble enough to be content with your happiness if I have no part in it, but neither am I monstrous enough to wish against it.”

“If my happiness was such a major facet of your considerations,” Laurence said hotly, “should I not have had a say in the matter?”

Tharkay smiled mirthlessly, palms facing outward. “Ah, but I am a singularly selfish creature. Surely you must know this about me already?”

“On the contrary,” Laurence replied, “I do not know of a more foolishly selfless man in my acquaintance.”

“Perhaps I can introduce you to a mirror,” said Tharkay, not bothering to mask the ugliness in his voice, sarcasm reliable like armor.

Laurence stepped forward, cutting the distance between them in three short paces, and grabbed Tharkay by his shoulders.

“I missed you. Every single day we were apart, I missed you.”

Tharkay paled. “Now you are just being deliberately cruel.”

“It is only the truth, and I will say it how ever many times it bears repeating. I missed you dearly.”

“That I am a creature so starved of affection does not mean I would ever desire it out of pity—” Tharkay spat, but Laurence cut off his words.

“Why do you persist in telling me how I must feel?!” Laurence cried, a tremble in his voice. “For five years I had to wonder why you left, and why your departure felt as though some vital piece of me had gone with you! For five years I wondered when I might see you again, and now that I’ve realised what I nearly lost, you should insist that I cannot know my own heart, that—”

“Will, please, don't—”

“—the only way I could possibly love you is out of some foolish sense of obligation! How must I convince you? Has my own devotion been so paltry that you cannot possibly believe that I can love you in return?”

Ringing silence met his words.

“You cannot mean that.”

"Tenzing, please."

What can one say when confronted by such honest despair? “It cannot be true. I have wanted for so long,” Tharkay said, speaking more to himself than to anyone else. "It cannot be true."

Softly, slowly, Laurence held Tharkay’s face in his hands, and saw that his eyes were wide with something very much like fear. It was vulnerable, fragile, like a pane of the most brittle glass and with the same translucent quality. A part of him wanted to look away, as Tharkay must surely not wish others to see him as he was now. But Laurence held his gaze, and willed Tharkay to see that he was just as afraid, just as defenceless, as full of hope and fear and yearning—

Laurence kissed him, because words could not be enough. Laurence kissed him, because Tharkay had fled to the other side of the world, waiting only for the the worst of his cynicism to be justified, a lesser kind of happiness in itself, and the one he thought he must settle for. Laurence kissed him, and felt Tharkay pull him forward by the back of his neck, returning the kiss as desperately as a drowning man inhaling that first gasp of air.

Years spent in idle longing cannot hope to find outlet in a single moment, but Laurence did not think that was reason enough not to try. Perhaps they could succeed with a moment (his mouth was warm), or with a series of moments (his lips were soft) (his eyes were shut tight) (his hands were tangled in his hair, rough where they touched his skin) (he loved him, he loved him, he had told him he loved him).

Tharkay broke the kiss and leaned forward, hiding his eyes in the crook of Laurence’s neck as Laurence embraced him tightly.

“I treated it as an affliction to be cured by time, or distance,” he said, a quiet confession.

“You say I am selfless, but I cannot say I am unhappy that you failed, when I consider what your success would’ve meant for me.”

”I had thought I could forget you, that I could let you go before I lost you—”

“You have me now. You have always had me,” Laurence whispered against Tharkay’s hair.

“I ran away to places that would not remind me of you,” Tharkay replied, still in that same quiet voice, as though he did not dare speak the words any louder, ”before I realised that the sky itself reminded me of you.”

Laurence saw the lights reflected in the water, and knew that this time he must say the words aloud. “Then stay with me.”

Xuanhua, May 1812

They were three days out from Peking, and the Chinese had made arrangements for Laurence’s crew in the local magistrate’s house. It was not a particularly grand house, and the city itself was but a product of its proximity to the capital, but Tharkay was grateful for the roof over his head. He suspected there would not be much opportunity for it in the coming months.

Staying behind had been out of question, of course, though a part of him had thought Laurence would insist against it on account of his injuries. Thankfully, Laurence had only looked relieved when he informed him he intended to come with them. With the rest of the formation having left for Gibraltar, it was perhaps not so surprising that Laurence should be grateful for the company.

The scars and bruises would heal and fade with time, and the weeks since his rescue from the cave had already seen them some way into recovery. His ribs no longers ached, and the welts on his back no longer kept him awake at night. Yet, his hands were still poorly, his fingers wrapped tightly in bandages.

It was the worst and most appropriate target they could’ve chosen, for a man who made his way through the world with just his words and the quickness of his hands. In light of that, Tharkay supposed he could be grateful that his captors hadn’t seen fit to cut out his tongue too, though of course their restraint was also to preserve its intended utility. He supposed he could also be grateful that they didn’t kill him. He decided that, on the whole, he would choose not to be grateful for anything, his former captors being far too dead to appreciate any gratitude directed their way anyway.

Tharkay regarded the basin of lukewarm water set on a small wooden table, an old mirror hanging above it. There was a candle on the windowsill, somewhat dim against the half-hearted light of early evening streaming in from outside.

He resolved to take it a step at a time. He set a towel on the edge of the shallow basin, before taking the bristle brush in hand and applying the lather. He managed, with only minimal difficulty, at putting the razor to the strop, drawing the blade across the leather in long, deliberate strokes.

He held the blade up to the light, which glinted rather tremulously on the newly sharpened edge, on account of the state of his hands.

Even in the much tarnished reflection offered by the mirror, Tharkay could make out the fine tremor of his hand as he held the razor. He hesitated for a moment longer, before he brought the blade up to his cheek, his other hand pulling the skin taut.

Tharkay winced, and blood trickled in a line down his face. The cut bled freely, bright red against the lather. In a fit of frustrated temper, he cursed out loud, and threw the razor into the basin with a clang.

“Are you alright, Tenzing?” came a familiar voice from behind him. Laurence was suddenly looking into the room, one hand on the doorway, a worried expression on his face. “I heard noises.”

“Will,” Tharkay replied, composing himself quickly. He did not want to give Laurence much more reason to fret over him, though he would politely and firmly deny the accusation, while at the same time politely and firmly insisting that he was perfectly justified in doing so.

“But you’ve cut yourself!” Laurence said. “Why did you not call for my help?”

Tharkay turned away. “I had thought I was recovered enough to not require it. I’ve already imposed upon you far too much.”

But Laurence had already recovered the razor from the basin, and was regarding Tharkay with a mildly disappointed expression he usually reserved for when Temeraire had said something impolite to company that did not deserve it, or at least not so straightforwardly. That was not to say it wasn’t effective on Tharkay either, to his own personal consternation.

“I know you do not appreciate being made to feel like an invalid, but for the time being, I must ask that you put up with it.”

Tharkay weighed his chances of dissuading Laurence from his current course of action, and sighed. “Then I am in your debt.”

Laurence set his coat on the back of a chair, and pulled his sleeves up to his elbows. But Tharkay was naked to the waist, with only the bandages wound around his torso. He felt the disparity keenly. Tharkay busied himself by taking the towel from the washstand and wiping away the remaining blood, and reapplied some lather.

Soon, much too soon, Laurence was already unfolding the razor and holding it with his thumb and forefinger on the shank of the blade. They stood in front of the mirror, with Laurence slightly behind and to the side of Tharkay. Tharkay closed his eyes and resolutely ignored how the front of Laurence’s chest brushed against his shoulder.

He felt the blade slide down his cheek, making a soft rasping noise as it scraped across the stubble. Perhaps closing his eyes was not the wisest decision, as Tharkay had no choice but to focus on the warmth of Laurence’s fingers as they brushed his hair behind his ear. He felt Laurence’s breath against his neck as he undertook the task with quiet concentration. Heat seemed to radiate off him like a furnace, though that was very likely only Tharkay's imagination.

The alternative, of course, was to meet Laurence’s eyes in the mirror. Tharkay kept his eyes closed.

Fingers pressed lightly on his jaw, and Tharkay turned his head to the side wordlessly. The blade slid smoothly on his skin in slow, careful strokes, and with another gentle touch to prompt him, he tilted his head back, exposing the long column of his neck. He worried, as the blade slid down his neck and up the line of his throat, if Laurence could at all discern the quickness of his pulse.

Laurence stepped away to wipe the razor clean, and Tharkay let out the breath he did not realise he’d been holding. As Laurence made to start on the other side of his face, he spoke, in an effort to break the tension that had settled around them like frost, “I hope you will forgive my dreadful slowness. I am not as deft at doing this for someone else as Granby, or the palace attendants.”

“Not at all,” said Tharkay, closing his eyes once more and turning his head obligingly. “I am grateful for the assistance.”

The rest of the time passed in silence, broken only by the rasp of the blade on skin. Tharkay distracted himself by tracing their projected route in his head—their direction will soon take them past Kweisui, past Baotou, past the great bend of the Huang He and onto the edge of the Gobi desert—

—Laurence’s chest pressed against his back, and a light touch underneath his chin made him turn his head just so. Another careful stroke of the blade across his cheek, his jaw, fingertips on his face and on his neck to draw the skin taut. A barrage of soft, gentle, maddening touches that made Tharkay grit his teeth. If he had not been so intimately familiar with the genuine article, he would’ve called it torture, though it was a near enough thing. It was all his self-control could manage to stand still and keep from pulling away—

It was with some relief when Laurence stepped away and set the razor on the edge of the basin. Tharkay let himself relax, before Laurence ran the back of a hand down his cheek, across the newly shaven skin.

Tharkay froze, and opened his eyes unthinkingly, to see Laurence’s face mere inches away from his. If he were the type inclined to notice such details, he would notice that, in the candlelight, Laurence’s eyes were not a uniform blue, but had hints of grey, like wisps of cloud on a clear sky. A moment passed, in which those eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and flashed with something like recognition, like—

(He wondered, in that moment, what would happen if he did not step back, as he knew he should. He wondered if the hand would trail down his neck, if those fingers would trace his pulse. He wondered how Laurence would react, if Tharkay were to simply close his eyes and lean into his touch.)

Tharkay turned away, and whatever spell had overcome Laurence was similarly broken. He stepped away and looked down at his feet, face slightly flushed in embarrassment. Tharkay stepped towards the basin and washed his face of any remnant lather.

“I apologise if that was rather...brazen of me,” said Laurence, thinking that his action must have given offense. Tharkay patted his face dry with the towel, and turned towards him with an easy smile.

“No, I was simply caught off-guard,” he said honestly. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Laurence nodded. “Supper is ready, if you would like to come down.”

“You may go on ahead. I will follow you momentarily.”

After Laurence had left the room, Tharkay let himself lean with his back against the wall. His skin still felt oversensitised where it remembered Laurence’s touch. He pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes, until he could imagine the frayed ends of his self-control coiling back into place. Until that expression of surprise on Laurence’s face stopped seeming to him something almost like hopeful expectation. Until the moment stopped feeling like a missed opportunity. It would pass.

He let out a calming breath. It would pass, soon.

The Palace, August 1819

Even now, even in the dark, he still noted little tells of caution, of disbelief, as though Tharkay was still expecting Laurence to come to his senses. There was freneticism in the way he kissed Laurence back, how he pulled him so close, pressed every inch of himself against Laurence as to fill every hollow space, fill every ocean that ever separated them. He hoarded every touch, every noise, as if he foresaw an eventuality in which he would have to sustain himself indefinitely on mere strands of affection. A lifetime habit of skepticism that might take years to undo, but Laurence was already committed to the undertaking regardless. However long it would take, Laurence would convince him.

They lay on Tharkay’s bed together, a tangle of limbs. Laurence carded his fingers through Tharkay’s hair, and found traces of gray. He buried his face against his neck, and said, “Why did we wait?”

He asked the question against Tharkay’s skin, against his neck and chest. “Why did we wait?” He mouthed at his throat, the line of his jaw and the jut of his collarbone. “Why did we wait so long?”

Tharkay mumbled something unintelligible, and it took a moment for Laurence to realise what he was saying. “I’m sorry,” he said breathlessly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—”

Laurence kissed him and swallowed the apologies into his mouth, and ran his fingers down his sides.

"No, no, it is my fault,” he said, touching their foreheads together, “that I did not see what was in front of me then.”

Tharkay cupped his face, his eyes closed. “I am sorry that I ever left you.”

“I should've followed you sooner," Laurence said. "I should've asked you to stay."

There were no more wars, no more duties to fulfill, no more obligations to honor that were as important as this. Hindsight could not recover the years they lost, so Laurence kissed him deep enough to make up for all of them. It could never be enough, but it will be. They had time enough.