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When Henry Le Vesconte looked in the mirror, an unfamiliar man in a lieutenant’s dress uniform stared back at him. A valet was still setting his epaulettes into place, but Henry could find no joy in the sight of what he’d worked so hard for; he tried, but only felt like a pig being fattened up for slaughter. He sighed, and as his head tipped, he caught a glimpse of James in the mirror, leaning against the door frame behind him. A moment later, Henry had dismissed the valet, and James had stepped inside and closed the door.
Their eyes met, and James shook his head, wordlessly.
A million responses, each more verbose than the last, came to the tip of Henry’s tongue, but, “You’re sure?” was what he ended up blurting, to his great embarrassment.
James’s expression was openly pitying, and Henry flinched; he didn’t need his pity, not when it was James whose repeated failure had put them into this position. “He says that it defeats the purpose of the arrangement, if the lieutenants are already too close with one another. That we’re… supposed to be fostering new bonds, not hiding behind old ones.” James appeared genuinely uncomfortable to parrot the words, and Henry’s anger cooled momentarily as he was reminded that it wasn’t just him affected by this arrangement, as Sir John Barrow called it.
“That’s funny,” Henry drawled, sardonically, as he turned away from James and heavily sat himself down in a nearby chair. “That’s funny, considering Hodgson is also a pal of yours, and yet the Admiralty has no issue with forcing you to marry him.”
Ever fond of the dramatic, James threw up his hands in defeat and huffed, loudly. “I know him, yes, but he’s not you, and you know that. I’ve never buggered him, that’s for certain—”
“Oh, but you’d like to, is that it?” Henry snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t care that I’m being signed off to some purser’s son from God-knows-where because your boy is rich and pretty and just adores your stories—”
James’s eyes flashed. “Dammit, Dundy, I said that I’d try, and I did! Several times, at your request! But if neither of you are unfit, then the Admiralty doesn’t give a rat’s arse if you’re unhappy. And, unfortunately, everybody knows that you’re the absolute model of a naval man, and this Little fellow is as clean as a whistle, so there is nothing that can be done. And I knew that, and yet I tried anyway, because you asked me to.” As he spoke, he crossed the room, taking long, purposeful strides until he was standing directly in front of Henry’s chair. “So quit your grousing and do your duty by marrying this nobody, and perhaps if you’re lucky he might at least be handsome.”
Henry opened his mouth to shoot back a scathing reply, but was interrupted by a polite knock on the door, and a voice informing them that the ceremony was about to start. James called back their thanks, before turning to glare at Henry again.
“Please,” James begged, a sincere note to his voice. “Everything will only be harder if you decide to hate this man before you’ve even met him. Make an effort, at least? I’m sure he’s not particularly happy about having to marry you, either, considering your… reputation.”
“Harsh,” Henry muttered, sourly.
“I wouldn’t need to be if you weren’t making this so difficult,” James shot back. “Now, get up, and let me fix your hair, because I want that man to fall in love with you instantly, and right now you look like a morbing, half-drowned badger.”
Henry reluctantly submitted to James’s whims, and then he was whisked away, into a crowded chapel where a loud organ was banging out something that might have been music, and it was a conscious effort for him not to simply pass away beneath the inquisitive gazes of what appeared to be every member of his family and then some. The Little side of the chapel was comparatively sparse, and Henry paid no attention to it; he was far too focused on James’s hand at his elbow and the long aisle stretching out before them, seemingly infinite in its length. This was the one privilege that they’d been allowed—as a yet unmarried officer, James should not have been qualified to escort Henry to his groom, but Barrow had acquiesced to that, and Henry supposed that he should have been grateful.
And he was, in some ways; he was grateful to have James there to steady him, as the stalwart presence at his side that he always had been. In other ways, he detested how it felt as if James was walking him to the gallows, and that once James released him from his hold, they would be relegated into separate worlds, never to meet as friends (or lovers) again. And, for a moment, Henry wished that the aisle was infinite, and that he and James could simply continue walking, arm in arm, forever, without needing to reach the end.
But that was, of course, impossible, and eventually, Henry’s foot brushed the edge of a step, and he was forced to bring himself back into his body and not simply allow James to dictate where he went. As he ascended the stairs onto the dais, slowly and numbly, James’s touch vanished, and he wanted to flee back to him, but didn’t allow himself even as much as a glance behind. There was an audience, here, and he was expected to perform.
Then, once he had made his peace with that, Henry determinedly set his eyes upon his groom for the first time.
Lieutenant Edward Little was, first of all, a broad and looming sort of man, but had a slight curve to his shoulders that implied he spent most of his time trying to hide that fact. His long, sharp jawline was lined by thick, yet well-trimmed whiskers, and the harsh slope of his nose gave the impression that he was staring down, displeased, at Henry, though his dark eyes were alight with only anxious warmth. He was standing so still that Henry found himself reflexively glancing down at his breast to check that he was breathing, which turned out to be a mistake, as Henry then noticed that Little’s uniform was ever-so-slightly too small, and when he inhaled, the buttons began to strain against the rise of his formidable chest.
All of the blood in Henry’s body rushed to his cheeks, and his mind disintegrated into fuzz aside from one single thought: this man could crush him like a gnat, and Henry desperately wanted him to. Then, Henry had to frantically remind himself that he was supposed to be unhappy about this, not immediately concocting a scheme to seduce his husband-to-be.
Edward reached out his hand, and Henry took it, as was expected of him. His palms were calloused—workman’s hands, which immediately made Henry wonder what sort of work he did while he was on land to make them that way. For some reason, the first notion that came to mind was wood-chopping, which then conjured an image of Edward in only his bracers, drenching his shirt with sweat, and left Henry frantically trying to think of anything else.
This effort was not helped by Edward looking him up and down with concern, then bringing Henry’s hand to his lips so that he could press a polite, gentlemanly kiss to Henry’s knuckles.
“Oh, Lord have mercy,” Henry mumbled under his breath, quiet enough that no-one but himself could hear it, and for once, he dearly hoped that his prayer would not be answered.
At the reception, Henry struggled to enjoy himself. Usually, he was the sort to thrive at a party, especially with James at his side, but the overwhelming majority of the guests seemed to have automatically assumed that he would be the wife of this relationship, next to Edward. Henry had never thought of himself as a wife; he had always considered himself the model of a navy man, and as he’d expected to marry James, who was exceptionally wife-like, there had never been any doubt in Henry’s mind that he would be a proper navy husband.
But, sitting next to Edward—tall, strong, handsome Edward—Henry paled. Every comment that was directed at Edward instead of him made him feel more and more emasculated, and he slowly but surely sank down into his seat, giving up on making himself any sort of presence and resigning himself to being the docile male-wife that everyone seemed to expect him to be.
And, worst of all, James was across the hall, surrounded by adoring sycophants, including his own groom-to-be, and despite Henry’s best efforts, he remained oblivious to Henry’s plight. He had been trying to catch James’s eye for the better part of an hour, by that point, and incessantly failing, leading him to retreat further into himself and start picking listlessly at his food.
Then, out of nowhere, Edward’s hand fell gently on Henry’s arm, startling him from his stupor. “Lieutenant Le Vesconte?” questioned Edward, in those soft, honey-like tones of his that made Henry’s cheeks immediately colour. “Are you… well?”
Henry hesitated, slowly looking up to meet Edward’s eyes and finding only unfiltered concern there. After the day that Henry had had, it was genuinely touching, and his eyes immediately—embarrassingly—began to water and burn. “No,” he whispered. “No, I’m really not, Lieutenant Little.”
Edward flinched at the use of his title, as if he was regretting using such formality at their own wedding dinner. “Okay— okay. If you’ll allow me… I’ll take care of it?” he offered, hastily.
Henry blinked and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything in response, Edward had slipped one arm around his waist and effortlessly lifted him to his feet, drawing the attention of every pair of eyes in the room. A rush of panic shot through Henry’s body; he didn’t know Edward well enough yet to trust that he had a plan, here, and it was terrifying to be completely at a stranger’s mercy in front of a crowd of people whose opinions he actually cared about.
“My apologies, er, ladies and gentlemen,” said Edward, and though he still spoke lowly, his voice carried throughout the room in a manner that Henry was most envious of. “My husband and I have had a… very long day, and I’m sure all of you who know me are… are no doubt aware that I am not, er— particularly fond of large gatherings. Please, ah, continue to enjoy yourselves as long as you’d like, but we will be bidding you farewell.” He made an awkward gesture with his free hand, as if he had intended to tip his hat but had forgotten that he wasn’t wearing one, before hastily tugging at Henry’s waist and leading him out of the room.
In the corridor, they paused for Edward to let out a deep, shuddering breath, and untangle his arm from Henry’s back. Henry stared at him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Henry blurted, as he glanced back towards the hall, where the sounds of the party were resuming in force. “I mean— thank you, but that wasn’t necessary.”
Edward’s hands stilled where they were straightening the lapel of his jacket. “Pardon?” he questioned, eyelids fluttering as he returned his focus to Henry. His pupils were wide—round and confused and innocent, like a cow’s.
Henry swallowed the lump in his throat and repeated himself. “You didn’t have to rescue me like that,” he said again. “I appreciate it, but I didn’t mean to tear you away from your party.”
Edward let out a nervous chuckle. “Oh, uh— I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t like crowds. Happy for an excuse to leave, honestly,” he admitted, and then he paused, his eyes darting around, away from Henry’s face. “And… you said that you were unwell. Isn’t… isn’t what I did simply what any man is supposed to do for his spouse?”
Henry was speechless. No, that wasn’t right—he could have spoken, but he didn’t dare to, in case his words would either shock him from this wonderful dream that he was surely having, or finally push the tears beading at the corners of his eyes over the edge. Therefore, he simply shook his head dismissively, with a quiet exhale, and gestured for Edward to follow him out to their carriage.
Edward went in first, as Henry paused to give the driver his address. Then, he followed suit, hoisting himself up into the dark, intimate space and finding Edward tucked awkwardly into one corner, his head hung low and his expression gloomy.
“…Little?” Henry prompted, hesitant and confounded. Most of his hesitance stemmed from not knowing whether to call Edward by his first or last name; the rest from fearing that his presence would only deepen Edward’s melancholy.
“I need to apologize,” murmured Edward, after a long moment. “I only… wanted to help. I thought I was doing right, but I… I overstepped. I’m so sorry. I should have known that it wasn’t the party—it was me, and now I’ve only made things worse by forcing you to go home with me early.” He sighed—the sort of long-suffering sigh only delivered by those with far too much weight on their shoulders—and dropped his head into his hands, hiding himself from Henry’s sight.
“Good Lord, Little…” Henry breathed, for lack of anything more articulate to say. He quickly moved across the carriage, sliding into the seat just next to Edward, and the press of their knees against each other made the other man instantly startle and look up, warily. Henry was ready for him; he caught Edward’s chin in his hand, forcing him to meet his gaze, and Edward froze like a deer in headlights.
“Le… Le Vesconte?” Edward stammered, gorgeously unsure of himself. He made no move to pull away.
“Edward,” Henry purred, in well-practised low, sultry tones that he knew to work on both sailors and doxies alike. Edward’s eyebrows shot up, like two fuzzy caterpillars climbing into his hairline, and his eyes blew wide with surprise, but he still remained motionless; Henry noted all of this, and decided to gamble.
Henry could almost hear the dice clattering across the table; he closed the gap, and kissed Edward as he had never kissed any man before.
And after a brief, terrifying moment, Edward kissed him back.