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"I’m so sorry, Francis," began Ross. "We’ve been searching for him ever since it started snowing. I thought… Well. You know how we were when we came back."
Oh, Francis knew. The bone-deep anxiety that came with the first snowflakes. Maybe you had never left that place. Maybe you had dreamt the warmth, dreamt the satiety in your stomach, dreamt the strength back in your muscles.
That’s why he had hurried back from the tailor shop he was visiting that evening, to the Rosses’ house where he and James were waiting for their court-martial. But James wasn’t here.
"You’ve searched the whole house?" he heard himself say, distantly. His head was buzzing.
"And in the nearby garden. Oh, Francis… do you have any idea where he could have gone? "
He opened his mouth. It felt dry.
"South. He’ll have gone south."
"James! Jaaaames!"
The sound of Francis’ footsteps trampling the snow to the rhythm of Ross’ calls. How awful, to be cold again. How awful, to fear for James again.
Ah! As if that fear ever left him. Oh, James was hale again, or as hale as he could be after six months at sea, spent in his berth drinking lemon juice, and three more months back on English soil, where both Francis and the Rosses took great care of him. But there was something in his eyes, in his close-mouthed smile as he tried to hide his missing teeth, that gnawed at Francis.
"Jaaaames!"
And now he’d gone and lost him again. A polar veteran, surprised by winter! He should have known better, really, should have felt the crispiness in the air that always heralded snow, should have stayed with him, distracted him, should…
"Francis!"
He stopped dead in his tracks.
"Francis, I’ve got him!"
He ran towards Ross’ voice, his breath puffing out little clouds in the cold night air.
James was in a frightful state, and yet Francis hadn’t felt such relief since the cries of “We are saved!” outside his tent, back on the shale.
"Oh, James…" he sighed, and quickly took off his coat to put it on James’ bare shoulders.
He was still wearing his slippers, now caked with mud and sludgy snow. His shaky hands grabbed Francis’ coat to close it tighter around him. He stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on the ground. Now that Ross had interrupted his walk, he seemed ready to crumble to the ground.
"Let’s get you somewhere warm, hmm?" said Francis softly, as he put his arm around James’ shoulders.
James’ shaky legs started again with some delay, carried only by Francis’ momentum. Over his shoulder, he looked helplessly at Ross.
"I’ll run home, warm a hot water bottle and fetch all of our blankets."
Francis nodded in agreement. He tightened his grip on James. It’ll be alright. They’ll be alright.
James had let him peel off his soaked clothes, and didn’t utter a word as Francis dried him energetically. He remained silent when Francis buttoned up his night shirt, and when Francis motioned him towards the bed. Still, his mouth stayed closed as Francis climbed after him and tugged them under all the blankets Ross brought. He simply closed his arms around his first, nesting his cheek against Francis’ warm back. Francis let himself be held.
It had happened once before, aboard the Enterprise. They were sharing a berth then, Francis sleeping in a hammock suspended next to James’ bed. It was one of the first nights, when James was still too bone-thin to keep warm, and Francis got weary of the sound of his chattering teeth. They hadn’t talked about it afterwards, James’ even breath on his back as he finally fell asleep reward enough.
"I’m sorry."
The words were spoken so very softly, Francis might have thought them dreamt, were it not for the slight tightening of the arms around his chest.
"What ever for?"
Silence. Then,
"I don’t know what happened. It started snowing, and then… and then… I don’t know. I’m sorry," he repeated.
Francis put his hands over James’, interlacing his fingers with his.
"It’s alright," he spoke tentatively. "It’s the first snow since… well. It’s normal to feel out of sorts."
"But it didn’t affect you. I was the only imbecile walking out there. And you had to take care of me again – no, Francis, don’t. Let me finish."
Francis shut his mouth, pressed James’ hand on his heart instead.
"Ever since we came back, I feel… inadequate. Feel like I’m ready to burst at my seams, to show the world what ill-shaped creature came back from the Arctic wearing James Fitzjames’ face. And I keep thinking it’ll get better, I’ll get better at remembering who I am. You’ve done so much to bring back my aching body home, and I can’t even bring my traitorous mind back. I wish… I wish I could answer to the curious with your easiness, smile at Ross and Anne’s children like you do, but here I am, collapsing at the first reminder of our journey."
Francis felt wetness on his back, and couldn’t keep quiet anymore.
"It’s all pretence, James," he grumbled softly. "I am as crumbling as you are. When the snow fell, I came running back home, needing to see you."
He fell silent again, hesitating. This, he had not shared with anyone. Wasn’t sure he was even ready to say it out loud. He licked his lips.
"At night… at night I often wake up. Do you know, I carried you so long on my back after we abandoned the boats that it feels so very wrong to not feel your weight there anymore. I keep jerking up, thinking suddenly that I must have dropped you some miles behind, and was so exhausted I didn’t notice."
He is crying too, he notices distantly. It feels good to have confessed this. To be relieved of a James-shaped weight that had sat heavily in his ribs.
He feels James shift then, his warming legs closing around Francis’ hips.
"Is it better?" James asks softly, his breath warm on his neck.
And god, Francis might weep. That’s where the James-shaped weight belongs. That’s where he can carry it, can keep him safe. Not trusting his voice, he bring James’ hand to his mouth, and press a soft kiss to his palm. James’ shaky laugh tickles his hair. Yes, they’ll be alright.