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It surely was that specifically sharp twinge he’d felt that had him reactively grimace which must have caught his admiral’s watchful eye. Perhaps his hands being balled into fists, his fingers frequently shifting stiffly in the attempt of finding a position which diminished the pain, did not benefit his goal of secrecy either. Though, truly, does anything regarding his person often slip past that ever-attuned look?
“Captain Hardy, please, if you could stay a while longer.”
Nelson’s polite call over the rumble of shuffling shoes and murmured conversations between his fellow captains and officers has Hardy stopping in his exit and turning to face the man who wearily smiles back at him from the seat he has retaken at the table. His own feet don’t move, remaining stuck to the deep red carpeted floor whilst his mind cycles through what the topic of discussion could possibly be. Another rehashing of their established battle plans? A change to the training regimen? A matter teetering on the personal?
The final officer leaves the cabin with a respectful nod of the head and at last the door is shut.
Nelson’s wiry frame seems to shrink a fraction more as he allows his shoulders to minimally sag and a breath to escape his lips. He flippantly gestures to the chair on his left, the one Hardy had occupied previously, his words leaving him as a hum decoratively laced by his Norfolk drawl that refuses to iron out with time.
“Sit, Hardy, sit. Please.” He adds the word of supplication after a pause, as if wanting to ensure it doesn’t have the ring of an order to it.
As told, the captain walks with careful steps to join his admiral’s side, the wobbling of his shadow across the baby blue walls being more honest about the jittery feeling seeping into his bones than his composure lets show. He is perfectly silent as he moves despite his impressive stature and, coming to a stop at his chair, he takes a moment to tower over Nelson—who has to crane his neck more than usual to look up at him—attempting a final time to gauge the contents of their oncoming talk. Hardy sits with a weight settling on his stomach after reaching no conclusion and, almost as though to burden him further, the pain in his joints flashes hot for a number of seconds.
He’s scarcely been aware of how long they’ve been sitting in silence when Nelson speaks, gentle.
“Is something the matter, Hardy?”
A personal discussion, then. Hardy asserts to himself.
“No, Sir,” he hears his voice say, rigid and formal.
As expected, it is not enough to pacify his admiral whose gaze has since intensified, turning scrupulous and needling into Hardy’s warming skin. He isn’t entirely certain of how Nelson does it but his right eye—unfocused, hazy, dilated, a misty white akin to fog dancing across a lake’s undisturbed surface—would lure him as a siren would to a sailor; the left—a pretty blue, active, knowing—would ensnare him completely. With one look, Nelson would pin Hardy to his spot like a butterfly is pinned to a board by its wings. Hardy wonders if this is a shared experience other men under Nelson can attest to, or if it is one restricted to the women who love him. More worryingly, if it is his own, unique reaction.
It is unlike Hardy to mull over such frivolities, and yet this seems to be just another side effect of being by his trusted admiral’s side.
Nelson takes a sip from the last remains of wine in his glass, his tongue sweeping his lips clean prior to him speaking once more.
“Forgive my insistence, but I noticed you seemed tense during our meal. Did one of my men say something that displeased you?” A concerned pause. “Did I?”
Hardy’s expression gives nothing away, he knows this, but as he goes to reply he begins to realise that perhaps his reluctance to share the news of his physical ailment will dissipate regardless of his wishes.
“No, my Lord. And, most certainly, you never could.”
The admiral’s mouth quirks at the subtle message of ceaseless support in his friend’s response, but he is adamant on unearthing the truth so he presses on, unyielding.
“Then was the food not to your liking? I’ll have it adjusted for tomorrow, if so.”
It is at this point in time, the two men holding one another’s gaze—one pressing, one struggling to hold strong—in a silent battle of wills, that Hardy’s defences falter and he sighs in surrender.
“It’s my rheumatism, Sir.” He confesses it almost ashamedly, though he knows it is through no fault of his own. “It has been steadily worsening these days.”
A taut ache in his knuckles has him abruptly clamp his jaw shut, a detail unmissed by Nelson whose expression morphs into one of genuine sadness. Hardy looks to the side for a moment, disliking the effect his honesty had, and instead focuses on the dinner plates and glasses yet to be cleared from the gleaming surface of the table.
“Oh, that’s a hard thing to hear. Have you consulted the physician?”
“Not yet, Sir. It’s a trivial matter.”
Hardy catches his mistake too late, for a flash of annoyance strikes Nelson’s left eye like lightning and his lips harden into a line. There is a breeze that blows against the squared windows which line the quarter gallery, the darkening sky’s cold hues just beyond their glittering reflections strongly contrasting with the warmth of the cabin’s glow.
“Your well-being is far from a trivial matter to me.”
The captain minutely shuffles in his seat, shoes making a muffled sound against the carpet beneath them, as he briefly breaks eye contact again, momentarily feeling not dissimilarly to a scolded schoolboy. It is Nelson’s turn to sigh, but with it all traces of irritation fly away, leaving behind solely affectionate concern.
“Will you allow me to have a look?”
It is only by biting his tongue that Hardy stops himself from commenting on the fact that there is scarcely anything to truly look at aside from mild swelling, but he acquiesces as he always does and raises a worn hand above the table and towards Nelson. Nelson takes his hand into his own, so careful and tender in touch that it’s almost comical. That little hand, bony and cool, treating his own fuller, larger one with such care, as if his were far more fragile. Hardy could not admit to anyone that it made something swirl within his chest.
Nelson studies his hand with intensity, turning his palm down to properly look at Hardy’s knuckles, to rub over them with the pad of his thumb in a light caress.
“Is the pain great?” he asks in a whisper, his eyes focused on where their skin touches.
“It is tolerable, Sir.”
The admiral huffs, annoyed again.
“Come now, Hardy. Away with the Sir and excessive formality. We are our own company, at the moment.”
Hardy doesn’t respond, ever trepidant of crossing those lines of authority and hierarchical respect despite how intimate the pair has grown over the years. At his persisting silence, he only has a moment’s warning—Nelson’s face flickering with mirth—before the man leans forward and grazes his lips against Hardy’s knuckles in a fleeting kiss.
Whatever swirled in Hardy’s chest before now fully lurches and spins and twists in delight. His heavy cheeks heat up and he can only wish that the orange-toned cast of the cabin’s iron lights is enough to dull the redness he is sure is settling on his ears.
“Did that help at all?” Nelson’s tone is playful and he rights himself in his seat but does not relinquish his hold.
Hardy’s tongue feels to be of lead, but he manages to manoeuvre it enough to reply.
“Quite, thank you.”
That thumb is still soothing over his knuckles when a second question is posed.
“Is anything else the matter?”
Hardy contemplates prior to speaking, but he realises that perhaps the pleasure of having Nelson’s attention overrules his habit of keeping personal issues discreet.
“A mild headache.” He fortunately cuts himself off before a Sir can leave him.
As expected, the posture of the man abreast of him instantly stiffens, his worry multiplying.
“Is it the onset of a fever?”
Hardy is quick to shake his head, assuaging any brewing fears.
“It is most likely due to a lack of proper rest.”
A true enough statement, as far as Hardy is concerned. A two year long blockade which has been mostly uneventful and therefore tedious would wear out any toughened sailor, but sleep has been especially hard to come by as of late, the shores of his mind being continuously crashed upon by waves of thought.
The hand holding his disappears and Hardy feels its loss deeply, but Nelson is already shifting in his seat, seemingly determined.
“Let me help you remedy it then, Hardy. Come,” he pushes his chair back and stands, smiling down at his captain, “lay in my cot.”
Whatever wind which had been, until that instant, blowing in Hardy’s sails is abruptly taken away and he is left becalmed, only his scantily expressive nature saving him from openly gawking at the suggestion.
“My Lord, I could not impose -”
“Please, Hardy, it would be of no imposition in the slightest. After all you’ve done for me…” Nelson stares at him, pensive for a drawn out moment. “Let me care for you. I’ll call my steward to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth, perhaps that will ease your pain; though I insist on you visiting the physician as soon as you are able.”
Hardy is well aware that there is no use in arguing and Nelson is already setting about getting things in motion, trusting that the former will do as told in the meanwhile. Of course, Hardy does. He stands, crosses the cabin’s floor, and goes to the after cabin where he knows Nelson’s cot to be.
It is not his first time here and it most certainly will not be his last, but he still looks around uselessly. He notes the writing desk almost entirely swamped in half written letters and piles of sealed despatches, the cabinet that holds a number of personal effects and trinkets, a thoroughly read Bible at its edge. He attempts to draw comparisons between Nelson’s cabin and his own, thinks about how they are not too different, and recalls the frequently used hatchway in the deckhead that connects them both. These ponderings intended to distract himself prove fruitless, for his mind remains in a foolish tug-of-war regarding whether he shouldn't encroach in such a way on his friend’s personal time, or if he should allow himself to indulge in the familiar comfort.
He hears Nelson’s muffled voice speaking to someone—a steward, probably—and within minutes the admiral is approaching with a bowl in hand and a neatly folded cloth over the rim of it. Nelson tilts his head at finding Hardy still fully dressed in his uniform, awkwardly looming over the especially low cot that is so charmingly donning embroidered pink bed hangings. Nelson sets the bowl down on the scant clear space upon the nearby desk and approaches with a soft smile.
“Here, Thomas, I’ll help with your coat.”
Hardy’s pulse stutters.
“Sir, that’s -”
“Really, at least call me Nelson if you insist on keeping such a staunch barrier between us.”
There is the undercurrent of irritation in his words and Hardy doesn’t dare to stoke the sparking flame, so he corrects himself.
“Nelson.” That smile which yearns to spread but is contained, for he knows his admiral is insecure of his lost teeth, glimmers like a new light in the dim cabin before it quickly grows crooked at Hardy’s following words. “There is no need to lower yourself to such a level for me.”
For a few seconds Hardy thinks that the man will pretend to have not heard him, his left hand working on sliding the blue coat off of Hardy’s broad frame with no significant pause. Only when setting the garment carefully over the back of his writing chair does Nelson speak, voice subdued.
“Lowering myself, by taking care of a dear friend?” He looks up at the other with an almost dejected glint in his eye. “Don’t be foolish, Thomas. You’re far too bright a man to hold such a silly notion.”
Without break, Nelson’s fingers begin unfastening the buttons on Hardy’s waistcoat, and the taller knows his quickened breath hasn’t gone unnoticed when the edges of Nelson's lips turn up. His hand is slow but practised, and eventually all buttons are free and Hardy is shrugging the waistcoat off into Nelson’s awaiting hold. It is made to join the coat, and then those thin fingers are reaching up to the black stock around Hardy’s neck, and it takes all his will to not flinch at the first contact. Nelson is watching him, as if expecting him to say something, but when he doesn’t, the man begins to undo the bound material. Hardy’s neck bobs against Nelson’s knuckles as he swallows, prompting a glance up at his face from that blue eye which quickly refocuses on the stock that the one-handed admiral is clearly beginning to struggle with. Hardy slowly lifts his own right hand and joins in the endeavour, speeding up the process until Nelson can slide the stock away with relief.
“There you go,” the small man breathes, satisfied after having set the garment aside and enjoying looking at his well-done work. Hardy is mute as he’s studied by Nelson’s roving eye, whose hand once again rises to smooth out the material of Hardy’s shirt as if he were not about to lay in it and worsen the supposed wrinkles. “Now lay down and shut your eyes. I’ll be beside you.”
There is that subtle apprehension again, but Hardy doesn’t let it stop him from slipping off his shoes and climbing into the cot that mildly swings with his weight. At the same time, Nelson brings closer the already utilised chair to sit at Hardy’s side and sets the bowl of water in his lap. Once Hardy is settled the other dips the cloth into it and proceeds to tenderly dab at his forehead, carefully nudging back the rust-coloured locks of hair curling upon it.
Hardy holds Nelson’s gaze, watches the languid movement of his friend as he carries on the process of dipping and dabbing, over and over. Minutes pass just so, with only the slosh of calm waves lapping at the Victory and distant footfalls to fill the perfect quiet.
“Is this helping at all?”
He’s always speaking in a whisper now, tone dulcet, and Hardy’s own Yes comes out as a mumble.
After having lifted the cloth from his captain’s forehead, Nelson leans in and presses an adoring kiss to the dampened skin.
“Better?” He smiles, wetting the cloth once more.
“Much.”
Again, they allow themselves to be wrapped in silence. Goodness knows for how long they remain as they are, focused solely on one another. And then a yawn slips from Nelson’s own mouth and Hardy, who has begun to drift in and out of consciousness at the tender ministrations, makes to weakly grab at the slender wrist overhead.
He doesn’t speak, merely looks into Nelson’s eyes that blink back at him. Understanding crosses the other’s face, the remaining half of his right eyebrow arching.
“You wish me to join you?”
“I wish you would also rest.”
Nelson smiles, head bobbing in acknowledgement.
“Yes, of course.”
There is a sweet sense of shyness to his movements as the admiral sheds his coat and waistcoat, tugs at his stock and toes off his shoes, only to set everything away. The feeble lighting softens the shadows cast by the keloid scarring on the right of his forehead, but it is enough to make his greying hair—a tad dry, a little frizzy—glitter like silver, swooping at the sides of his gaunt face until it is pulled back, tied with a customary ribbon. His shirt hangs loosely over his thin frame, and briefly Hardy worries whether the man is eating too little once more. The concern is packaged and sealed to be reopened at a later date when Nelson’s body slinks into the cot beside him, the already minimal space growing impossibly snug for them both.
He wriggles and shifts until he gets into a comfortable enough position, his left arm folded over the soft expanse of Hardy’s chest.
“Am I taking up too much room, Thomas?”
Nelson feels the laughter bubbling within the man before it even tumbles out of him and fills their moment with its merry sound.
“Our tight fit is assuredly not due to you, Nelson.”
The older joins in with a chuckle of his own, his hand patting over Hardy’s heart with an eventual sigh.
“What a joy it is to hear you laugh.”
Nelson burrows his face deeper into the crook of Hardy’s neck, feels his pulse against his lips, and closes his eyes. His hot breath tickles at the sensitive skin there, its rapidity lessening to a steady, calm pace, and Hardy makes no complaint at the sensation.
“Likewise,” Hardy replies with a smile as he moves to embrace the other who he knows relishes in being so securely held.
He distantly notes, with his nose in Nelson’s hair and their warmth being so intimately shared, that his head no longer dully throbs, but feels to be lighter, almost a separate entity to his body. Perhaps this is another side effect that his admiral has on him which he should note.
“Rest, Thomas,” Nelson murmurs, sounding drowsy himself, and Hardy can’t fight his urge to press a kiss to the crown of the man’s head in return.
“Thank you.”