Work Text:
PART I
One: Posy
Francis has had this cough now for decades.
He blames the whiskey and the coal smoke and even God when he's feeling nostalgic, but really it's his heart, and he knows this.
It's not so uncommon. On land, there's always a good chance some other poor bastard at the public house de nuit will have a handkerchief stained purple, and raise a glass in brotherhood towards Francis when a fit comes upon him. Aboard ship, there's normally a mate who he makes a military effort to avoid lest he have to form a bond of sorts. But its commonness makes it no easier for those afflicted with a reserved soul.
And in truth his condition is and always has been twofold: he coughs, and he loves too much. As a child he was simply seen as sickly, always something in the throat, always excusing himself as he'd been taught. His first bloom came at nine years old, and his mother was just greatly relieved that it wasn't tuberculosis. But they began, and without much exception, seemed to never quite stop.
At first it was two years of sweetpeas for Clarissa Winters, then one of amaryllis for Anna McSweeney, then a humiliating five of foxglove for Janey Doyle who sat next to him in their small country classroom. And so on and so on, one flower only subsiding in favour of another.
He took to solitude out of necessity, and then it became him, and eventually overtook him and into the cold arms of drink at the tender age of twenty. (Francis' mother told him it was a gift to have so much love; he tried to believe her, and not to think about what it said about his capacity to /be loved in turn.) He took to the sea for the love of it - a pure and decent love not tainted by markers - but not solely so. The life of a seaman seemed preferable to say, the priesthood, as the women were nil between docks where nuns were abundant. It was an easy decision, one that appeased both his passion and his practicality: a quiet existence quite apart from love. He had three full expeditions of this newfound peace and normalcy of no bloom at all, before he met Ross.
Two: Geranium
They met several months before setting sail together, at an Academy function. Francis had heard of him, of course - it was hard not to in those days - but they had managed to never cross paths due to their shared inability to exist on land for too long. Francis was introduced to him with the embarrassing kind of tipsy caveat you can expect at these events, as having polar aspirations; Ross latched onto this, his eyes sliding over to him, a new spark of interest in his polite smile. The tipsy admiral moved on but Ross closed in on Francis like a shark: he bombarded him with questions, a firm, excited grip on Francis' arm as the other hand gesticulated wildly with a glass. He painted a picture of the vast frozen seas, a gleaming ship cutting through, and Francis came away from the encounter with a job offer and an irrepressible grin. He reflected on the brisk walk home that he'd never felt quite such a strong kinship with anyone, even amidships.
They spent a lot of time in each others' company before departure, and Francis was so busy with their preparations to take much notice when his cough returned. He had met women at numerous Academy events; his treacherous heart had no doubt pinned itself to one of them after so long deprived, even though none of them stood out in his mind. After a lifetime of this, it had become more a nuisance than anything. Most of the time it barely mattered to him what girl was in question - he almost felt he had no choice but to have one as a type of placeholder. All this to say, he didn't pay much attention to the geraniums when they came in, and it was not until one week into the voyage that he was given reason to suspect he had made a grave error.
The realisation happened during a chess match, a few whiskies deep, Ross stretched across his chair like a cat in a sunbeam in the dim cabin. They were still in the Atlantic. The mood on the ship was still light.
Francis saw an opportunity open up on the board; grinning, he toppled Ross' final bishop and nabbed it before it rolled onto the floor, placing it tmat the edge. When he looked up gleefully at his opponent, Ross had his damn eyes closed, head lolling up with an expression of deep contentment. He had a ridiculous moustache back then, which from this angle looked even more like some small heinous creature had fallen onto his lip and made a home there.
'James,' Francis said.
'Mm,' came the reply, but no movement save for his breathing in the candlelight.
'You let your guard down, old man,' Francis prodded, and to this Ross finally opened a singular eye and peered across at him, then down at the board.
'Oh, blast!' he exclaimed, briefly furious and then laughing, deep and throaty. 'You bloody knave!'
Francis grinned, leaning back in his own chair and taking an indulgently long sip from his glass. Ross appraised him wickedly, then threw the discarded bishop square at Francis' chest. He tried to duck and in doing so, lead the piece straight to his glass where it plopped comically. Francis burst into a twin fit of laughter, which soon gave way to coughing as it usually did, flowers or no. In his inebriated and jovial state, a petal found its way to the floor, after which he scrambled to correct as this was uncouth even for him. Both their laughter subsiding, Ross glanced at the petal and perked up delightedly.
'Pelargonium!' he exclaimed. 'Your girl has good taste. From the country, no doubt? My grandmother had just the same at her estate.'
It had not, had never, occurred to Francis before this moment that the flowers could be for someone other than a girl. No matter that he had no one particular in mind on long, cold nights. He certainly /had liked girls in his past, no doubt about it, but... perhaps life on ships had turned him peculiar. Because for a second there, as Ross spoke so fondly of his grandmother, he looked handsome enough that Francis wondered if the flowers were possibly for /him.
Francis invented a girl, called her Janey after Janey Doyle back in Ireland, and soon excused himself saying the attack had worn him out.
In his berth, he sat atop the bedcovers, head in hands.
If his paranoia was to be believed, he had developed unnaturally strong feelings towards a fellow officer, something that would get him hanged at the drop of a hat if anyone found out. That was his primary concern. It would take years to come to terms with the magnitude of what it meant; at that moment, he found the reality of it less alarming than the sudden threat to his safety. Luckily, Ross himself had not suspected. There was no use even avoiding the man, as the lie was told, and they would have to rely on one another over the next three years. Besides, he could be wrong.
As the months went on, he was forced to conclude he was not in fact wrong. His fast friendship with Ross remained the best thing in his life, and Francis locked the perverted side of himself away in his berth; his fictitious Janey took on a life of her own in his evermore elaborate tales of attempted courtship. He had never enjoyed punishing his men, least of all for desperate sodomy, but now more than ever he had to keep up the appearance of a strong intolerance for such behaviour.
He hoped the geraniums would cease, but luck had never been on his side.
Three: Wisteria
The lie was harder to maintain on return: Ross wanted to meet this girl Francis had been pining over for the voyage's duration. No matter that she did not feel the same way, clearly: he simply wanted to meet the woman who had captured his friend's heart. It was quite the conundrum, and Francis obfuscated as long as he could, and as it turned out obfuscated long enough that Ross in the meantime met Anne. It was a relief and a gutpunch in equal measure: Francis felt he could hardly have gone on much longer with things as they had been. Anne was brilliant, of course - a match for Ross' wit and charm both, and it was no surprise they were engaged within weeks. The geraniums continued, but Ross was too preoccupied to notice or otherwise care about. Francis knew himself by now - he knew they would probably not cease until they are replaced. It didn't bother him, now no one was asking questions of them.
Sophia Cracroft came into his life via her imitable uncle Sir John Franklin. She was sharp and gorgeous, interested in naval expeditions and travelling herself. He does not know if it was desperation, drunkenness or simply pure infatuation, but the morning after the dinner at which he met her, Francis' hangover came in the form of wisteria.
It was a novelty, finally having a bloom he could talk about. He thought he probably talked about it too much, but he couldn't help himself. Sophia didn't feel the same as him, and makes it quite clear that never will. She let him down kindly and swiftly, but unfortunately this had never done much to deter his weak heart. Maybe he really was sick, and likes the pain.
He didn't know what he was expecting or even hoping for when he proposed to her. Maybe an end to the fear; the supposed guarantee of a single flower for the rest of his life. Rest.
They had become something almost like friends in the few weeks they had known each other. Francis didn't hide the wisteria or explain it, but from the way Sophia never asked about it he thought she knew what it meant. She liked his company, and he hers. This felt like Francis' destiny, to sit beside those he loves in silence. It could be worse, of course. But not by much.
So he asked one day, two whiskies deep despite the early hour. Sophy just looked at him over the sheath of papers she is perusing.
'You wouldn't want that, Francis,' she said softly.
'What if I do?'
She sighed, leaned back into the hard couch of her uncle's drawing room.
'We both enjoy our freedom. You would not want to stay away from the sea for the sake of a family, and I would not want to stay away from the Academy but for filling the role of a wife.'
It was true, but Francis didn't accept the fact. It took him two years, at which point he changed tactic. During that time, he had headed his first expedition, which had been a thrill and a torture at once, with this new knowledge that he could develop unwanted feelings for someone on his crew. Luckily or unluckily, the wisteria never stopped.
When he asked the second and final time, he approached it in such a way as to appeal to her practicality. It's not until he sees her face that he realises the extent of his endeavour's futility.
'Dearest Sophy,' he said, and felt himself deflate. He had been up late the previous night, working up the courage that failed him now: or rather, revealed his failings to him in one fell swoop. 'I... I came here, as you can probably suppose, to propose a mutually beneficial marriage, one that would grant you freedoms previously barred from an unmarried woman.' She looked despairingly at him; he ploughed on before she can interject. 'But I realise the reality of the situation is, I have nothing to offer you that your uncle cannot provide you. Your intelligence and charm make you rather more popular with my peers than I am, and any of them would be happy to discuss your interests. I bring no guarantee of good money, or a stable life. I can only give you love. Which is why I would like to ask, for the final time for all our sakes, if you would marry me just for that.'
Sophia looked faintly heartbroken. She pulled him inside and ordered tea to be brought in.
'Francis,' she started, eyes on her hands as they fidget on her lap. 'You must know you are a dear friend of mine.'
'I do. And you mine.'
'So I must be straight with you.' She paused uncharacteristically. 'I do not believe you would want me as your wife.'
'I can assure-'
'Please, I must say this. I truly believe, if we wed, you would be miserable. I love you like a brother, Francis, and that is it. You would have to wake up everyday in the face of this.'
As I do already. 'I would spend the rest of my life miserable if it meant I could have it with you,' he replied.
At this, she finally met his eyes. 'And you think that's fair?'
He was taken aback by this. She added, leaning forward to take his hand, 'As your dear friend, I don't wish to make you miserable for the rest of your life.'
And so he resigned himself, once more, to the ceaseless flowers, and watching from afar.
*
Ross married six months before Franklin was set to depart for the Arctic again. He could not then in good conscience join the expedition, and nor did Francis want him to.
Anne was a card, and seemed to like Francis in kind, and with the fresh balm of new heartbreak it was almost pleasant to spend time with the happy couple. There was a humiliating bouquet for a fortnight before the initial engagement, a brief resurgence of geranium that mingled with Sophy's everpresent wisteria at the height of that summer's anguish. He managed to convince Ross it was some sordid affair to get his mind off her, and luckily it didn't last long because-
Because the moment he met Anne, he knew Ross was the happiest he had ever and would ever be. It was love on another plane from their close friendship, and Francis could hardly begrudge him that. He was getting good, in his old age, at resigning himself to the cold.
He would miss Ross' company at sea, of course, but he was beyond such friendships now regardless. He would be content in his berth with his bottles and the wide open sea, or indeed the wide impenetrable pack. Where better for the loneliest man on Earth than the end of the world?
*
He met Fitzjames before the expedition's departure of course, but not as long as one would think for colleagues embarking on a three year trip together. Francis made no effort to hide his dislike of the man, and before long Fitzjames dropped his dandy enchanté act in turn, and they resolved to spend as little time as possible together going forward. This would not be difficult, being in command of different ships, and Fitzjames under Franklin's thumb to the point where it was no use conversing with him where Franklin would suffice.
Francis had a good team of men, most notably Blanky, whom he had sailed with some years ago. The man was both an extremely competent Ice Master and excellent company, qualities that Francis had concluded were about equally as important on these voyages. There was also Jopson, the only man in the world who never commented on Francis' affliction, not once, despite witnessing it every day.
The wisteria did not fade, and Francis had not expected it to. His life was one in absentia: he now lives as a Sophia-less man, a ghost that will haunt him until another takes its place, if another ever came.
Aboard Erebus, the men did not ask, but they muttered to each other when they thought he was just a tad drunker than he really was. He did not socialise, this time not out of fear of developing new bloom but for the safe and ugly reason of his own bad humour. In a way, he was aware that his goal was to die in the Arctic. When the reality set in, he was relieved.
PART II
Four: Petunia
When Sir John was killed, Francis cannot say he was truly sorry, but he was aggrieved to find himself finally in charge of the expedition he had felt snubbed from captaining before.
Fitzjames took it very badly, and the silver lining was having him approach Francis in desperation after the fact.
Naturally, as they had been stuck in the ice for months now, many prospective plans had been made for the long trek home, but none were compelling enough to be unanimously voted for. Blanky in particular had always ensured Sir John never felt comfortable in any one plan of action, so that they remained uncommitted while he privately worked on the problem. Francis had stopped suggesting his own theory about King William Land after it was shut down twice in favour of some rubbish Fitzjames had spouted; both times, Blanky had shrugged minutely across the table at him and grinned.
Now it was Fitzjames across the table, Blanky up top carolling men with packing up what remained of the carnivale. He could not seem to meet Francis' eye easily.
'Captain, I know you and I have our differences...' He trailed off here, as if waiting for some kind of polite disagreement. 'But I believe the only way the crew is getting out of this place alive is through our cooperation and solid leadership.' Another pause. He looked up, sharp suddenly. 'I know you agree.'
He did, and it was not such an astute conclusion to make of a seasoned captain, but it struck Francis nonetheless. Fitzjames came into focus for a moment in his mind's eye. This new vision cleared his throat, unsure of the silence before him.
'I will leave the... particular details of our long-term plan to you and the ice masters. I will contribute what I can, it is merely that the ultimate decision is not mine to make.'
He had never been to the Arctic before this. Francis thought it freshly irritating that the man had so little expertise yet so much power. He was still young, although he would not look it for much longer.
*
The sickness had already begun by carnivale, but it grew steadily over the winter until very few were unaffected, even if in some minor way. Francis kidded himself one of these, but really his vice and his lifelong sense of grating illness merely masked any symptoms that tried to rear their heads. He knew this. He drank more.
The most common were tooth loss, bleeding gums, constipation. The jovial spirit had died with Sir John, it seemed, and everyone was dour.
He and Fitzjames were in his cabin on Erebus, playing cards; mostly silent, mostly companionable. One of the mates was going to die within the week, Goodsir had said earlier. Dehydration. Couldn't keep anything down. They were playing cards on self-imposed assignment, to stave off madness.
Francis put down a set of spades.
'You dog,' Fitzjames murmured, the corner of his lips turning up. He was appraising the set wolfishly, after a moment uncrossing his legs and leaning over the side-table to double-check. 'I knew you had my five.'
Francis was about to retort something cold, or if he was feeling generous, childish (he hadn't decided which), when Fitzjames met his eyes, grinning wide now, lopsided.
It was pure déjà vu; it was terrible and cutting. It was not, necessarily, a surprise.
He had been living in fear of a moment such as this ever since Ross' marriage. He feared blooming friendship with anyone could spell disaster now he knew this about himself. He was, if at anything, surprised that he and Fitzjames had become friends.
Nothing happened, if course.
Fitzjames looked at him oddly for a moment, evidently concluding he had overstepped some boundary and leaned away, busied himself with his own cards, a little flustered. Francis did not correct him.
The déjà vu did not mean anything other than a reminder from God that he could not get too comfortable. There was a darkness within him: step back.
He refilled his glass.
*
Eventually, the wisteria stopped and was replaced by blood.
He had hoped the thought of Sophy might keep him going, keep him sane, but alas. He no longer had it in him to convince himself she owed him anything, let alone his own life.
*
Francis did his last good deed of his life when he ordered Jopson to pour his whiskey stock away.
He knew they would be moving on soon and could not take his stash with them, and he did not want to die convulsing in a snowstorm of the shakes before the men had progressed to safety.
He spent a week in his berth convulsing instead. Jopson and Goodsir attended him, under strict instruction of secrecy. He remembered hardly any of it, but he knew that right before he went under, Fitzjames had knocked on his door.
'Get out,' Francis had said gruffly, despite his not being technically even in the room. Mercifully, Fitzjames stayed the other side of the door, although he didn't deign to actually listen to him. Francis was sweating profusely, and his bowels were upset already which did not bode well for the rest of the experience.
'Captain,' Fitzjames said, then nothing. Above his own laboured breathing, he could hear the man sigh through the cracked wood, then a small thud.
'Be gone,' Francis choked out, spluttering phlegm into the pan at the foot of his bed.
He almost thought Fitzjames had gone, when the small sound of a creaking board broke through his swirling soup of a brain and he said quietly, 'You're braver than you realise, Francis.'
His footsteps disappeared down the galley. And then Francis, too, was gone.
*
He emerged a broken man, but no more broken than he went in and a damn sight more able to pull a sled.
He did not remember his last hazy encounter with Fitzjames until he saw the man across the deck of Erebus, the first time out in the weak sunlight in a fortnight. Fitzjames was turned away from him, collar high, Welsh wig round his ears. Francis knew it was him from his posture, upright and open, like the bust of a ship or a sunflower turned toward its sun.
Francis blamed the brief poetics on his lack of sleep. He trudged over to join him, trying to make as much noise as he could do as not to startle him - not that he'd be capable of it.
If Fitzjames was surprised to see him, he hid it well; all he offered was a sideways smile and a: 'Good morning.'
Francis looked out across the ice with him. On the horizon to the east, he saw a dark spot low to the ground. Charring.
'Are you well?' Francis asked. Really he meant the ship, the men, the preparations. Fitzjames smiled again like he was touched.
'I'm excellent, Captain. Yourself?'
He mumbled something evasive, caught off guard even though he was the initiator.
He didn't stay outside long - even this mild effort had exhausted him and he predicted an afternoon at his desk would be the only way he would make it to dinner. He bade Fitzjames farewell, and as he was turning he got his reply.
'See you at dinner.' And a hasty addition, soft even though they were alone. 'You look good, Francis.'
This is when he remembered the conversation through the door. He thought for a moment he must have hallucinated it, but the way Fitzjames' gaze flitted between Francis and the horizon somehow made him sure he did not.
You're braver than you realise.
It was a lie, but a kind one, just like this was.
*
The final sledging party left the ship on a relatively mild morning in the Spring. The plan was as preposterous as it was unlikely, but simply by taking action the men were envigorated. Francis headed the rear party, Fitzjames the front. He had insisted despite Fitzjames' protestations that Francis would be far better suited to navigate. Really, the alterior motive was to keep an eye on the man and let him set their pace.
Several weeks prior, Francis had walk in on him dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief, and even through the dim cabin light he could see the cloth was speckled with blood. It was his hairline, the follicles losing their grip as the disease took hold. By Fitzjames' lack of horror at this, Francis suspected it had been happening for some time. He hid this well too. Francis did not ask, as there was nothing that could be done, and he knew Fitzjames would appreciate that.
*
That first night on the ice was rough. The captains took the smallest tent between them, luxury compared to the five-men sardine tins of the rest.
Unsuprisingly, Francis did not sleep, but instead stared up at the pitch dark and listened to the banshee winds.
Fitzjames shuddered with cold in his bag, keeping up such a violent rhythm that Francis knew they would both be sore come the morning.
The next day was worse, and the downward trend continued. They made it less than a mile in the blizzard, and had to eat in their tents. Francis joined Blanky's tent for dinner in an effort towards solidarity; as he ate on the edge of the group, he looked around and realised that the men in their desperation seem to have taken two to a bag, using the second as a kind of cover. Upon inquiring about this system, no one seemed bothered by it in the same way Francis felt.
He was struck suddenly by the thought that here, at the ends of the Earth, the only God watching them was one of his own invention. That was to say, he was being childish: of course it was better to share a bed and live than to die out of shame. Besides, he was the only one who would feel this shame, and he had become adept at hiding.
When Fitzjames retired from Dundy's tent at last, he found Francis comparing their bags to decipher if one was larger and more capable of fitting two. He smiled bemusedly and starting the elaborate dance of removing his layers. 'Everything alright?'
Francis grunted in reply, then realised he would have to convey his thoughts out loud seeing as no opportunity for telepathic understanding had arisen as he had hoped. 'The men are sharing, and I thought we had better too.'
Fitzjames stopped still, midway through unbuttoning his coat, eyes glued to the buttons. 'Oh?' he said, and the pitch of it made Francis look over at him. His expression was rigid, a rising pink at his neck that would not totally be explained by the cold.
Francis huffed. 'There's no need to be embarrassed, man - this is the only way penguins survive in the South, you know.'
Slowly, Fitzjames continued unbuttoning, then turned away to untie his boots. 'If you think it would benefit us,' he said, blandly polite.
'Considering I don't think either of us slept a wink last night, it's worth a try,' Francis retorted. He didn't know why this irritated him but it did. Was it that he was simply too repulsive, even sober, to share proximity with? Surely at this stage Fitzjames was in no position to be picky. Or perhaps it was worse, and somehow he knew what Francis was.
Fitzjames turned back to him, seemingly ganglier and more malnourished without his thick coat obscuring the truth. He must have seen some mortifying expression on Francis' face then, as he frowned ever so slightly, and then almost as fast it dissolved in fatigue. 'Alright,' he agreed.
It was an awkward effort to climb in beside one another, but as soon as they were situated it was immediately more bearable than the previous night. Francis tugged the second bag atop them and settled to face away from Fitzjames, hiding his head in the furs, arms crushed against the fabric. He could feel Fitzjames' socked feet against his own, twitching.
'Those penguins were onto something,' Fitzjames said softly, and Francis snorted a laugh.
It was not déjà vu, as Francis had never shared a bed with another man in his life - but it reminded him of some kind of unrealised dream, some future he had yearned for, unacknowledged, where he shared simple intimacy with a man like this. A man like Ross. Like Fitzjames maybe, in another world.
In this world, he just said, 'Goodnight.'
After a moment, a shuffle behind him, the reply, quiet among the howling noises of outside their bubble. 'Goodnight, Francis.'
*
At breakfast (hard biscuit, weak tea), Francis was grinning along with some joke Dundy was relating, when a fit of coughing erupted in his throat. He scrambled for his handkerchief and excused himself. When he was at a good distance from the camp, he opened his fist expecting blood.
It was a single petunia petal.
*
There was, of course, no doubt who it could be referring to this time. Francis stared for a long moment into his hand, then shoved it deep into his pocket and set his eyes on the blank horizon.
It was no use thinking on it; they were all going to perish within the month, probably far less. If anything, this could perhaps be blamed on their situation - a last emotional hurrah before cessation.
After a while, Blanky came to join him carrying both their lukewarm mugs.
'All alright, Frank?' he said, sipping his tea, savouring the last of it. They looked out across the ice together.
'Just a sick old man, Tom,' he replied. 'I'm sure you can sympathise.'
'Can I fuck,' Tom scoffed, and Francis barked out a laugh. He turned to take his own tea, and his eyes flickered to Fitzjames back at the camp. He was smiling at something, looking small in his hood.
Blanky followed his gaze and hummed. 'Our James is looking better today.'
Francis turned his back firmly on the party and drank. 'I think he was halfway to frostbite yesterday,' he replied when he'd swallowed. Blanky hummed again, and Francis refused to make eye contact.
*
It did not last.
Fitzjames suddenly took a downward turn a few days later; Francis woke in their bag feeling particularly, suspiciously warm, and when he shuffled around to face Fitzjames it was evident the man had a fever. No one sweats in the Arctic, not in Spring, not in a blizzard.
He shook Fitzjames' shoulder lightly. 'James. Wake up.'
The man was breathing harshly, but breathing, so Francis tried not to catastrophise. He did not wake, however.
Goodsir confirmed the fever, and ordered he should be bundled on a stretcher to be pulled by the dogs.
He slept most of the day and finally woke at dinner. Francis was taking his in their tent in the event of it.
Fitzjames' voice was croaky, parched. 'Francis,' he said, then violently coughed up the nothing in his stomach. At once, Francis set his food aside and dripped water from his cup into Fitzjames' mouth, muttering all the while arbitrary things about the day he had missed. Fifteen minutes later, Fitzjames sat up in their bag, a mug of thin soup in his hands. Goodsir had checked him over; concluded little, just said quietly, 'I believe the lead is coming back for you, sir.' Fitzjames thanked him warmly, but when he had left his face had fallen into a hollow sort of expression. Resignation.
'I'm sorry, Francis,' he said, not looking at him.
'Whatever for, man?'
'I'm afraid I may be leaving you to command alone.'
'Shush,' Francis snapped, surprising both of them. He paused for a moment. 'You eat your inedible soup.' Fitzjames smiled and took a sip.
He did not think on it. He did not think on it.
*
From then on, Fitzjames walked aside the sleds rather than helping pull then, and Francis got into the habit of making him talk as they went. If Francis left him to his thoughts for too long, he'd end up looking like they were consuming him, becoming a ghost, and Francis wouldn't be having that.
At night they still shared a bag, endorsed by Goodsir for heat retention and by himself because you can't catch lead poisoning or scurvy, especially when you already have it, and what did it matter anyway?
The future closed in, a month to a fortnight, a week to the next meal. Francis stayed awake most of his nights, watching Fitzjames' shadow breathe.
*
The strange thing was, after that singular petal at the second camp, no others had come.
Francis had expected a continuation, accepted the inevitability, felt distantly relieved when none came at his next coughing fit, and then Fitzjames had fallen ill and it had slipped from his mind. It only occurred to him on one of these awful, intimate nights.
He looked over at Fitzjames' profile, and didn't know what to think. Maybe it had been a momentary lapse of madness - although that was unlike Francis. Final emotional hurrah indeed. Maybe he was now too sick for any flowers to bloom at all. He didn't know. It still didn't matter.
*
Then came the worst day.
'Francis,' Fitzjames rasped from below. He was still in their bag as Francis layered up to emerge for breakfast, hoarding a few more minutes if warmth.
'Hm?' Francis replied, distracted by his glove having twisted in some impossible and unique way that was trapping two fingers together.
'I don't think I can get up, Francis.'
Now he looked down. Fitzjames was, strangely, smiling, although it was sad. His eye sockets protruded terribly in his face now, making him look like a haunting.
'Course you can, you just don't want to,' Francis retorted, false unaffectation. Fitzjames didn't reply.
After a minute, Francis sat heavily next to him. He was reminded suddenly of old Neptune, hunkered down by the fireplace, as Fitzjames shifted in his cocoon.
'We can have a rest day,' Francis decided. 'It will do us all good.'
Fitzjames turned, his head close to Francis' knee. 'It's okay,' he said softly. 'Not a very surprising turn of events.'
'I'm getting Goodsir,' Francis said instead of engaging with that. As he was about to stand, Fitzjames reached for his arm, squeezing it weakly before falling away. His eyes were already closed again.
*
Francis sat with him most of the day, and thought.
The thing is, he would not have been entirely surprised if he had continued to hawk up petunias. In fact, he would have been so unsurprised that in turn he was a little surprised at their absence. He concluded, as before, that it was something about their imminent death, some kindness or final suffering: to be denied love. But that too-
Francis did not feel especially deprived of love, in his capacity to feel much at the current time. He felt a heavy dread; he felt tired; he felt different to how it was with Sophia, and even Ross. They had both loved him as a great friend, he knew. As did Blanky, Jopson; Fitzjames. There was a perplexing sense of stability in his soul now it was at the end of things.
He was mulling this philosophy over when the second petal came up, wiping out the theory. Francis pressed it between the pages of his logbook, which was still in his coat pocket despite having been empty for weeks now.
So his capacity for love was trying, feebly, to break through his thick skin. That was reassuring, he thought, but not to any particular end.
*
A half hour later, it happened again, but this time there were three petals. Throughout the afternoon, the frequency of fits grew; he waved Goodsir off when he popped up, likely fearing it was Fitzjames'.
He had no idea what it meant, and hardly found it in him to bother figuring it out when next to him Fitzjames breathed weaker and weaker.
*
Fitzjames woke after dinner, startled by a particularly bad fit.
'Are you alright?' he croaked, looking so worried that it actually made Francis laugh within his coughing, which made the whole ordeal even worse.
'I've had this cough longer than you've been alive,' Francis got out when he was able. Too late, he realised that was too close to the subject he dared not speak of, so aimed it back to him. 'How are you feeling?'
'Tired,' Fitzjames said, embodying it. He blinked blearily; Francis moved closer incase his eyesight was being affected in one of the myriad ways poison robs you of it.
He talked about nothing much until Fitzjames fell back asleep.
*
The wind was dying down. The night was eerily still, claustrophobically.
Francis did not intend to sleep. There would be time enough for it soon.
'Tell me something beautiful,' Fitzjames asked hoarsely.
Francis closed his eyes and could not picture anything.
'Come on, Francis,' he teased. 'Humour the dying man.'
'Shush, you. I'm thinking.' He could hear the man's grin as he did so.
'Love, I suppose, is quite beautiful,' Francis offered eventually, sounding unconvinced even to himself.
'Says the cynic,' Fitzjames scoffed. 'Love is too general and afar to be entirely beautiful.'
'True.'
A pause. A rustle of furs.
'I suppose in this final hour it won't matter if I admit my ineptitude in that area.'
Francis snorted. 'Go ahead, but I can't imagine you will enjoy it as much as me.'
Fitzjames chuckled. 'Well, maybe ineptitude is a poor word choice. More- unavailability.'
This piqued a thread of interest. 'Oh? Is there a poor secret wife somewhere?'
'Oh, no, nothing like that!' He sounded affronted by this hypothetical ungentlemanly behaviour. 'It's just not- a given, for men like me.'
That settled between them like fresh southern snow. Francis blinked in the dark, cut through somewhat.
'Francis?' Fitzjames said, sounding nervous.
Francis shook himself out of it. 'You... You're alright, James.'
Sigh of relief: deepest breath he'd managed in a while.
'We can talk about something else,' Fitzjames said.
'You know James Clark Ross?'
Fitzjames went very still beside him in the bag. Even his shivers momentarily stopped. He made some affirmative noise.
Francis swallowed down his whole life. 'Coughed geranium for two years over him.'
Fitzjames was doing a horrible impersonation of a corpse. Francis hesitated, then touched his elbow into the man's ribs, just to check. Fitzjames shuffled minutely, then seemed to breathe again.
'You...?' he said, then, 'Geranium?'
He made it sound so distasteful that Francis opened his mouth to reply and just laughed instead. After a moment, Fitzjames joined him.
When they quietened, Francis continued. 'It would be an understatement to say I've had worse luck in love than you.'
Pause; just breaths. 'If you say so.'
Tell me something beautiful. Maybe they wouldn't even get sunset.
'Anyway, you've done just fine.'
Fitzjames scoffed. 'How do you know?'
'Take a guess, James.'
Falling, falling. None of this is real enough to matter now.
'You- me?'
It's endearingly stupid, and high off the adrenaline of shedding his final confession, Francis grinned. 'Yes, me-you. In fact, I would have gone with you-me?'
'Francis- I can't believe this.'
Francis tried not to let it get to him, the fact that even here his unloveability had followed him.
'Believe it or don't. Just know, you're- not without luck. In that area.'
'Francis,' Fitzjames repeated. In his frustration his voice was stronger, more like it used to sound. 'You moronic man-' He seemed to cut himself off. 'But your- flowers- you haven't had any... You're trying to make me feel better!'
'I promise I'm not,' Francis answered, but he could already feel Fitzjames' deflating beside him, curling up on his side like a wounded animal.
'One final humiliation,' Fitzjames sighed.
'Jesus Christ, James! Fine. Here, look.' He grabbed his logbook from his coat and fumbled the first few pages until he could feel the skin of the petal. 'Feel that, you idiot.'
Tentatively, Fitzjames did. Their fingers brushed in the dark and Francis guided them to it.
'See?' he said, almost angry now.
There was a very long silence as Fitzjames rested a fingertip on the petal in the book. Francis did not remove his own.
'I never saw them,' Fitzjames said quietly.
'I think the lead and the scurvy got to them. They stopped entirely for a while, then- came back. But I know it's you.'
'How?'
Francis smiled and relinquished his hands to his lap. 'No one else it could be.'
Pause. 'What are they?'
'Petunia.'
An exhale, covering some other sound. 'My mother's garden, back in Brazil.'
The confirmation was almost unneeded.
'Francis,' he started, then had to start again. 'Francis, I'm... sure the lead has affected you the same as the rest of us, but there is also the- possibility.' He stopped.
'...Of?'
Audible annoyance. 'Are you being deliberately obtuse?'
'I don't think s-' And then he thought of his mother.
He was sat on her knee, spluttering as she patted his back; one of the first times. 'Your flowers are just like our garden's, Frank. They bloom when watered and leave when either dry or overwatered. Your flowers will stop when out of love or when loved in return. That's the true beauty of them.' And she'd kissed the top of his head, and he'd giggled, and they had run outside to pick the sweetpeas.
'Ah,' he said, all these decades later.
'There you go,' Fitzjames huffed.
'Are- what-'
'It's more likely the lead was affecting them the other way,' Fitzjames barrelled on. 'In me, I mean. Seeing as I've- got it worse.'
'Worse?' Francis repeated dumbly.
'Dying,' he clarified, then added, 'And the other way too.'
It made sense, intellectually (and only intellectually). Fitzjames' tenuous and deteriorating grip on health and mere consciousness would have- Well. He had a strange sense of swooping like a tern, avoiding, by the narrowest margin, the rest of his life (however long) spent coughing up petals aimed at nowhere, no recipient or possibility left: no James.
And then he pulled the train of thought back.
'You dare claim you have it worse,' he said sharply, and Fitzjames laughed, tension leaving his body like a spirit exorcised.
'So you believe me?'
'I suppose I have to. It's only fair.'
A hum of approval. Francis took the logbook and set it aside, shuffling further into their pocket of warmth and reaching out for Fitzjames. He came closer almost magnetically, his head soon at the crook of Francis' neck.
'Such a shame,' Fitzjames murmured. 'Such a lovely shame.'
Francis pressed his dry lips into his hair and held tight.
*
In the morning, rescue comes.