Work Text:
Walton put his quill down, sighed, and checked the candle. He still had enough light and the urge to write more still held his hand. He stood away.
He wished he could tell his sister about the unnatural feelings that gripped his heart. She knew, to some extent. Robert had never been able to hide from his older sister, not that he tried much. Talking to her came to him like breathing, and she was perhaps the only being he could confide in freely.
Outside, the gales of the Arctic howled. He prayed for the well-being of the men he posted on watch. The ship had been stuck in the ice for four days now, and the mood descended faster and faster into dread. Robert wasn’t immune to it, but there was nothing they could do but pray.
The freezing air seeped into his cabin despite the iron stove burning at maximum capacity. It might be a little unsafe, but his roommate needed all the warmth possible.
Walton sat by the bed where Frankenstein shivered in his sleep. He sweated due to the fever and murmured names of his lost loved ones. Robert’s heart climbed in his throat. He hadn’t known him for long, but this man’s tragic fate touched Walton in places he couldn’t name.
Frankenstein clenched his fists in an aggressive access of delirium while cursing and calling for his friend Henry. How cruel life had been for him! Robert couldn’t imagine losing all his family to an enraged monster or how miserable his life would be without his sister. And yet Frankenstein had persevered and hunted the animal responsible for his hardship even if it almost cost him his life. The admiration he felt for this man was limitless. If only Walton could find a way to convince him to live, but what a man that had lost everything would want to live for?
Robert put his hand on Frankenstein’s fist, stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. The dry, cracking skin was a telltale of his woes. An urge to stroked his hollow cheek rose, he kept it for himself.
"Oh, my poor friend," he said. "How much you’re suffering."
He stayed at Frankenstein’s side as the man’s breath sped up with reassuring words and spall gesture of comfort. The fever ran high. If only he could take it away from him! If he only could offer him a gift so beautiful Frankenstein would heal! Walton knew such fantasies were fruitless, almost unnatural, but such was the nature of his heart.
When the fever receded, Frankenstein opened his eyes and stared at Walton. A supplication? A surprise to see someone by his side, helping him through his misery? His cheek was harsh due to Frankenstein’s thick beard. Walton swallowed. He had done it without thinking. The man was conscious, so conscious his eyes bore hole into Walton’s soul, and Walton couldn’t breath. Frankenstein was conscious, and he leaned on his palm. He closed his eyes, allowing himself this small reprieve. Walton watched, unable to move or say anything, as if it could blew this moment like the cold wind blew the candles.
"Walton," Frankenstein breathed out. "You are too good for me. Only cold and death are awaiting me. My losses are too great, I cannot care about you as you care for me."
"Shhh," Walton said. "Maybe I cannot care for you as much as I wish, but I hope I can at least comfort you through your ordeal."
Frankenstein closed his eyes as a tremor ran through his body. He wetted his lips before opening them again. "You are too good for me," he said again. "My deepest apologies, I do not have the strength to narrate the rest of my tale tonight. Tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be stronger if the Lord wants it so."
"Then I’ll let you rest," Walton said. He put a kiss on Frankenstein’s forehead. Deliberately. He dared not think. Frankenstein’s skin was so hot and wet. Robert had kept his hand on his cheek and he pressed it again, lightly, before letting go.
He looked down with a trembling heart to see how his boldness had been received. Hopefully that man he dared calling his friend wouldn’t reject him?
Walton couldn’t decipher what emotion was crossing Frankenstein’s eyes. He read tenderness and longing, but it might be a trick of his heart. He dared not hope. He never met a man like him. He had heard about them, though. They existed, somewhere. Frankenstein had spoken in such gentle regards of his friend Henry, Walton had hoped— He had hoped—
Frankenstein smiled, tired and already dozing off. His hand grabbed Walton’s and squeezed it. Robert interiorly wept at his friend’s weakness. "Don’t leave me alone," Frankenstein whispered.
"No," Walton said. He expected the man to fall asleep then, but he kept talking. Walton sat more comfortably. He loved hearing him talk. He had such a wonderful mind.
"I’ve never dared ask Henry about—" he was saying. "About those fantasies. I believe — and let be clear that it hadn’t been a conscious decision of mine— that this monster I’ve created came from this unnatural wish to— ah. I shouldn’t talk about such abominations. I’ve never seen women the way I’ve seen him. He was so bright, so—"
A fist of cough overtook him. Walton held his hand firmer.
"You’re the first man I met who shares my tendencies," Walton confessed. "I am sorry if my feelings came out inappropriate. I know you are grieving and suffering like no other man in this world. If you need me to step back—"
"I wish I knew what it feels like," Frankenstein said. He sounded firmer, healthier. Making a request. Walton, who couldn’t believe his ears, sat there, holding Frankenstein’s hand without budging.
"Another man’s touch," Frankenstein elaborated. "I couldn’t have it with Henry, and though I didn’t want to tainted him with my needs or expose myself, I regret now that it is too late to not have even asked. I haven’t been able to know this touch through my wife either, since she— oh Elizabeth please forgive me. Robert. Show me. Show me what it feels like before I meet my fate."
A childish joy spread inside Walton. He never thought he’d felt this warm feeling ever. And how could Robert deny a dying man, especially when he wanted so dearly to please him?
He cupped Frankenstein’s head, helping him straightening up and supporting his weight when his friend himself couldn’t. He leaned down and kissed his lips. He didn’t know what he should be doing, in twenty-eight years of life he had never done this. Neither had Frankenstein.
His lips were as wretched as his hands, and his beard tickled Robert’s nose. He was certain his own beard tickled Frankenstein’s as well. The tenderness of the touch made his stomach tingled, and his heart was so full— suddenly the Arctic didn’t feel so cold. He held Frankenstein’s brittle body in his arm, holding him up and pressing him against his chest. They parted, briefly, to kiss each other back immediately.
Frankenstein fisted Walton’s jacket like a falling man held to a cliffedge. Walton didn’t know who’s lips parted first, but the kiss deepened and the room became scalding. The fever burnt through each other, and Frankenstein panted. Too soon, his friend broke away and looked at him, his eyes lidded and his chest heaving.
“Robert,” he said. “How much I wish I could have done this sooner. I cannot comprehend how I could want this from another man, but you are so kind and gentle I cannot imagine a world where I would not want this.”
His body was becoming limp in Walton’s arm, so he laid him back on the bed.
“Rest,” he told Frankenstein. “We’ll have time for this again tomorrow.”
It was Frankenstein who stroked Robert’s cheek through his beard then.
“Stay.”
How could Walton deny such a brilliant, gentle man? He laid down next to him, using only one of the multiple blankets covering his friend. He didn’t want him to overheat due to his fever and Walton’s own body heat. Yet he sneaked an arm around Frankenstein’s waist and kissed his temple. The man had already drifted away.