Chapter Text
Tharkay knows from the moment Laurence offers him his hand that he is well and truly fucked. He takes one look into his eyes, blue and earnest and shining, and he knows.
“I think I would be sorrier to lose you than I yet know,” he says, hand still outstretched, and he marvels at this, at the look of utter composure on his face, when he has all but turned Tharkay’s world on its head. When – all his life – all he has known has been one long parade of downturned eyes and faces turned away, and now – this.
Tharkay realizes belatedly that he has been staring – at the set of his shoulders, the gentle slope of his nose, the curling strands of blond hair falling to frame his face – and forces himself to smile.
“Well, I am set in my ways,” he says, “but as you are willing to take my word, Captain, I suppose I would be churlish to refuse to offer it.”
Laurence’s hand is warm and firm in his. Tharkay is so very fucked.
*
It is certainly something, to be trusted again. Upon their return, Tharkay is folded almost seamlessly into their ranks. The aviators rally around him almost to a man – even Temeraire, it seems, counts him as one of his own. It is… odd. Not unwelcome, but odd all the same.
He holds that feeling close even when he ventures back to the Pamirs, first to coax Arkady and his band away from their mountain home, and then to find the British Corps as many more dragons as he can.
Up in the thin mountain air with the cold biting at his face, it is easier to breathe – easier to think, away from the heady, intoxicating warmth that is William Laurence. Things hadn’t been like this with Sara; they had loved each other most ardently, that much was true, but Sara had been like a drink of cool water and the promise of shelter after a long trek through the Taklamakan. Laurence is flame and fire and warmth; more like fine wine than water, strong and sweet and every bit as addictive.
Tharkay rubs a hand over his face and turns back to the mountains before him.
*
The Laurence he meets on the ship to Australia is a good deal closer to the Laurence he is used to, if slightly more distant than he expected. Which is a relief; Tharkay doesn’t think he could ever grow used to the man he had met in the English countryside, his heart turned cold and quiet. He remembers the sight of tears running down his face, and the aching desire he had felt to reach out and wipe them away.
This Laurence is quiet and pensive still, but at least he is smiling again.
What with Iskierka and Granby’s arrival and several conflicts between the prisoners held on board, it is almost three weeks before he next speaks with Laurence. When he does, the man is pale and gaunt, with dark circles beneath his eyes.
“Laurence,” he says, “have you been eating or sleeping? At all?”
“Ha,” says Granby, hiding his smug countenance in his cup.
“I find that sleep is intent on evading me, these days,” the blond says, offering a wan smile. Presently, he yawns and reaches up to rub at his eyes. He looks, quite frankly, a mess; for William Laurence, that is serious indeed.
“I hope you haven’t been to see Temeraire this morning,” Tharkay comments, taking the seat by Granby. “I can only imagine what his reaction will be.”
“Oh, he has,” Granby pipes up, all too gleefully. “He all but pitched a fit; perhaps Laurence will listen to us now, and catch a proper rest for once. It cannot be comfortable on the dragondeck, especially with Iskierka there.”
“It is comfortable enough,” says Laurence, stifling a yawn.
*
He does not see Laurence again until later that evening, when the other man is stumbling back from the dragondeck. His eyes take in the rumpled, dishevelled state of Laurence’s clothing, the damp from the sea spray seeping into his shirt and breeches.
“The clouds were too low for Temeraire’s liking this evening,” he offers by way of explanation. “He will not have me sleeping on the dragondeck tonight; he fears that a storm might wash me overboard.”
Laurence yawns, his eyes drifting shut for a fraction of a second; it is only Tharkay’s quick reflexes and the nearby railings that save him from losing his footing.
“If you do not get a proper rest soon,” he says drily, “then a storm will be the least of Temeraire’s concerns, to be sure. Can you even stand?”
“It is of no concern,” he insists. The man is swaying slightly on his feet now, in a manner that has nothing to do with the waves rocking the boat.
“Laurence,” he all but pleads, “Will. If you continue on in this manner, you are likely to kill yourself.”
“What will you have me do, when sleep does not come easily?”
Laurence’s skin is warm even through the fabric of his clothes, warm enough to burn
“What you need,” he says lowly, holding his gaze, “is a distraction.”
Straightening up, he continues, “Captain Riley has been so kind as to give me my own chambers on board. They are comfortable enough – perhaps, from time to time, you could join me. It would be a welcome respite,” he adds meaningfully, “from what you are needlessly putting yourself through.”
Laurence moves automatically to defend first the state of his quarters by the gaol, and then the dragondeck, before, finally, conceding defeat. Tharkay feels as if he should have a calendar on hand to mark the occasion.
“In any case, I could not intrude on you in such a manner,” he says hastily, clearing his throat. “Especially not when –”
Abruptly, he turns away, face shuttering as he does so.
“The offer still stands,” Tharkay presses, bewildered. Then, thinking to lighten the mood, he jests, “Surely you would not think to deprive me of your company?”
Laurence is silent for the longest time.
For a while, there is nothing but the gentle lapping of the waves and the smell of brine in the air. Then, at last, in a voice barely above a whisper, Laurence speaks. “I did not think you would still want it.”
There are many things, then, that flash through his thoughts. With all the time they have spent in close quarters, he finds himself slowly growing accustomed to Laurence and his manner of hiding everything he truly means behind proper decorum and stilted speech. It is his father’s old diplomacy lessons all over again, or something very much like, prying words from their meanings and putting them together again; Laurence says everything, and nothing at all, and in that moment, Tharkay wants to give him everything, to lay himself bare at his feet.
“I could never hate you,” he says instead. “Once, I would have despised everything that you stood for – but not you, Laurence, never you.”
But that is not enough to express the depth of his feelings, it seems, for Laurence simply smiles at him, weak but grateful. It is a welcome sight nevertheless; Tharkay can barely remember the last time Laurence’s smile reached his eyes.
“Laurence,” Tharkay says, holding out his hand, “will you come with me?”
*
After that first night, it is easy – all too easy, in fact – to draw Laurence away from their companions. On the days when not even Temeraire’s presence or Granby’s quick wit can ease the tension in his shoulders, all Tharkay has to do is lay a hand on his shoulder and nod meaningfully in the direction of the stairs. Most days, a simple game of cards will suffice; sometimes, what Laurence needs is the quiet of the cabin to wrestle his thoughts away. On the others…
Laurence snuffles slightly in his sleep, shifting to press his nose into the crook of Tharkay’s neck. Tharkay allows himself a smile as he reaches up to tuck away a loose lock of blond hair. They have hours yet before the bell for dinner will sound; he can afford to let Laurence doze for a while. He can afford to let himself enjoy this.
Tharkay will never tell, but he lives for those other days.