Chapter Text
Granby had wanted to say it in Cusco. They had stood together on the terraced hills that overlooked the court of the Sapa Inca, all the wide world away from anything like home and anyone who might have reprimanded them, and Granby's heart was heavy. It longed to unburden itself. A second confession could scarcely have worsened matters, the way they stood already, and perhaps it would have been better to get it all out at once. If Laurence had liked to shun him for any of it, then Granby might as well get his heart broken properly and over with.
But Laurence had been so dreadful about it, about him being an invert, that is; all polite confusion and awkward commiseration, so bound and determined to be an absolute gentleman. Granby would almost have preferred it if he had recoiled from him, or looked at him with horror—but no, he wouldn't have, of course not; he could never have borne that. But neither could he say what else he felt, not in the face of William Laurence and his perfect damned courtesy.
"I am very sorry," Laurence had said, "—very sorry, indeed," apologizing when there was nothing to be sorry for. Granby felt certain that his other confession would have been received the same way, had he had the courage to make it. Laurence would have apologized for being loved, and unable to love in return, and he would mean it, damn him. Granby had no wish to hear it.
His feelings must have shown on his face, and in his silence. Laurence clapped him on the shoulder, once, to comfort him. Granby did not reach up to touch his hand, did not kiss the fingers, so well known from all the long years. He kept perfectly still, and after a moment Laurence took his hand away.
He had been inexpressibly stupid at the beginning. It had begun harmlessly enough, a delicate flutter in his stomach when they went up for maneuvers together, his eye lingering too long when Laurence fastened his harness. He was handsome enough, and a good captain, even if he still seemed dreadfully severe and stiff. He liked an older man. Courage had always been attractive to him, too, and in that respect no one could be at all dissatisfied with Captain Laurence. He had loved before for worse reasons, and Granby cheerfully gave himself permission to be bewitched.
It rather embarrassed him, but Granby had been in love many times. He had not expected it to last any longer than the others. He had sometimes been in love for a mere matter of days, or hours, always a transient, fleeting emotion. Little had laughed at him for it, and called him heartless; Granby had never minded. He saw no point in a lasting attachment in this service. It was not as if he could expect a family or a home, after all, and he was used to leaving friends and lovers behind when switching posts. There was no harm in indulging in fantasy, for however long it lasted. There was great fun in it, too, for a while; he made Little leave on his captain's coat when they were in bed, much to the man's quiet amusement, and it gave him more interesting incentive for his work, which was all to the good in any case; he thought if he performed well enough on Temeraire, he might soon be tapped for premier on a formation leader somewhere, perhaps even a Longwing or a Regal Copper.
It surprised him, then, to find himself turning down Captain Roland, when such an offer arrived. He puzzled about it at the time, and had even more time to think it over during the long voyage to China, all of them kept together within the narrow confines of the ship, with danger and strange sights on every horizon. He remembered, as if he had seen it through thickly bottled glass, being sick with fever, and having the captain come and visit him. Laurence sat by his bed a very long time, talking in a low voice, and laid his hand on Granby's forehead. His hand was cool and gentle on his burning skin. He had wanted to be sick forever, if only to have Laurence come and tend him. The fever had subsided; the feeling had remained.
By the time they arrived in China, Granby was as well acquainted with his own feelings as he ever wanted to be.
Granby had, he rather felt, a knack for making wretched bargains with fortune; he had wanted to be fevered, and so he was, it seemed, forever on his sickbed with poor Laurence leaning over him like some broad-shouldered angel of mercy; he had cavalierly offered various arms, legs, and eyes to make Iskierka less of a tyrant, and so here he was. It was the last time, he promised himself. He was not a religious man, particularly, but he felt rather suspicious now that there was something paying close attention to him, and it was both bloody-minded and literal. No more promises or offers of various parts, at all, not unless it was staggeringly and monstrously important.
Right now, however, he would have given his other arm to be able to shave properly.
He had never given much thought to the act of shaving before, much as he had never given much thought to eating with a fork and knife, or tying back his own hair, or any number of tasks that were now so daunting as to seem impossible. But Granby was not inclined to give way before them: he was determined that everything should be as it was before. He would not be an object of pity, he would not be a burden for Laurence to carry. Everything became easier directly he put on his hook, and a good thing, too, as they were all shortly in such a rush of capturing ships and settling with the Tswana and talking Portuguese nobles off their mad ledges that it was some time before Augustine, catching him privately, said,
"John, I do not mean at all to criticize, but have you noticed that you're growing a distinct resemblance to a rather unfortunate bear?"
And Granby realized, with a start, that he had not shaved since they left the Incan Empire.
He had immediately found the nearest mirror clean enough to show his face and lathered the month's worth of growth on his chin and neck. Having done so much, however, he hesitated: the cut-throat razor he held in his unsteady right hand seemed to grow sharper the closer it came to his skin. Dismayed, he set it down again. It wasn't only that his weaker right hand did not seem to be able to hold it quite as steady as he liked, but also that he wanted to brace his other hand against the skin of his face, to flatten it for shaving. A hook was not sufficient for the purpose, he found; experimenting had only led him to narrowly avoid poking himself in the eye.
Still it had to be done. He could not claim to be Laurence, and present an immaculate appearance to the world no matter how improbable the circumstances, but he did not mean to be as bedraggled as all that. Anyway Iskierka would inevitably try to repair his appearance, if he left it untended too long, no doubt by covering him with as many rubies and emeralds as she could contrive. He set the razor unsteadily against his cheek.
"Poor Iskierka won't know who to kill when she finds my throat slit," he said aloud.
"Let us worry about that another time, if you please," said a voice from the doorway. Granby lowered the razor with relief.
"Laurence! Pray tell me the Incans have sent over some beasts and we're off to battle directly; I daresay this scruff is as good as armor."
"I am sorry to disoblige you," said Laurence with rough humor, "but it appears that peace will reign for at least one more day. No, I'm afraid the prince means to do us honor. We are all invited to dinner tonight, and no doubt Hammond will have some instruction for us. We shall have to wait for your hopes to be answered; in the meantime, however, may I be of use to you? Captain Little led me to believe that you may need some assistance."
Granby felt himself coloring. So Augustine had sent Laurence to his door, had he?
"—No," he said, after a moment. "No, it is only an infernal struggle, Laurence, but I will master it yet. I do not suppose," he added with desperation, "that this is not a particularly important dinner, or perhaps that the prince will not mind just a few nicks? Nothing to signify, of course—"
Laurence coming forward took the razor neatly out of his hand.
"Do sit, John. This will not take a minute."
"Oh, will it," said Granby despairingly, but he sat. There was no other chair in the room; Laurence was obliged to lean over him. The cut-throat razor was steady in his hand, and he set it expertly against Granby's chin, his other thumb resting against his cheekbone. Granby pressed himself back into his chair. He could feel every part of his body yearning to move closer to Laurence, and he had no wish to betray himself. His skin was alive at Laurence's touch. He was very conscious of his racing heartbeat, which he was sure was visible in his throat, the very throat so exposed to Laurence now.
With deft, methodical strokes Laurence began to scrape away at his beard, which fell away in tufts to the floor. His eyes were intently focused on the task before him, his face set with careful concentration. Looking at Laurence with his face so close to his own was torture. Shutting his eyes was even worse. He could feel every minute shift in Laurence's movements. The rough pad of his thumb dragged fire across his cheek. Granby felt the heat of Laurence's body as he came closer, but could only wait in blind anticipation for the next stroke of the razor; a peculiar kind of agony.
Yet he dared not open his eyes again. He was sure Laurence would see something in them that he could neither take back nor deny.
His cheeks were done, finally; he felt Laurence get up to rinse off the blade in the water basin. Then he was back, with a freshly stropped blade. He leaned in very close to get at the delicate bits around his nose and mouth. Granby was very aware of the warmth of Laurence's leg as it pressed tightly against his own; there was precious little room for him to work. Granby hardly dared breathe. It seemed to him that Laurence was taking an ungodly long time around his lips; he could feel the blade stroking carefully up and down, and Laurence's fingers braced on his cheek, thumb now at the corner of his mouth. Granby was beginning to become inordinately well-acquainted with that thumb pad, with the callous right in the middle; the one part of Laurence that he knew about as well as he wanted to.
Laurence went away again to the water basin. Granby held himself still, trying not to shiver like an untouched boy. Then Laurence was back, his fingers on Granby's chin, tipping his head back. Granby, feeling safe to open his eyes again, stared at the ceiling. The razor was pressing against the skin of his neck now, cutting through the last few weeks of growth, Will Laurence's hand as certain as the blade itself. Granby could not easily describe what he felt at that moment. There was a trembling within him, which Granby was doing his best to suppress, and his chest felt painfully tight. He felt that he might burst out of his skin. The razor withdrew, finally. To cap it all he felt a soft damp cloth go all over his face, cleaning him off; Laurence's handkerchief, he realized after a moment.
"There," said Laurence finally, while Granby tried to recover himself. "Not a scratch on you. Iskierka and Hammond will both be pleased."
"They can both go to the devil together, but thank you anyway. I suppose I'm fit for the House of Lords, now." He looked himself in the mirror and saw a face much altered from the one he remembered. "If the Admiralty ever see fit to strip your rank again, Laurence, I shall hire you to valet me. I suppose I am as presentable as I will ever be, but lord! How happy I will be not to stand up again in front of these foreign royals and make a polite sound. We cannot get gone from their sight fast enough. Give me our old mad king home in England, any day, who does not know us from a shoemaker to invite us to dinner, and would not constantly be trying to marry me."
Laurence said gently,
"As for that, John, it may be some time yet before you are quit of monarchs..."
So it seemed that they were meant to return to the Imperial Court of China, as if one trip were not enough for any body. Granby imagined Iskierka's reaction upon seeing in how many ways Temeraire was given precedence in that country, and sighed, but he did not otherwise object.
"Well, we shall have to make the best of it," Granby said. "And it'll hardly be privation for the dragons, at least, in China; better than we can say for many other places."
"I hope I do not impose on you too terribly for it," said Laurence. "The journey may be for many months yet."
"Laurence, how ridiculous. Of course not," said Granby. "But however are we supposed to leave?"
Somehow there was another ship. Granby was tired enough of sea travel that he could have burned it himself, with no need for Iskierka. How many times now had he chased William Laurence around the world? Did the man have a compass that pointed only at the nearest ship?
"This voyage will be better than the last, I hope," said Laurence, as apologetic as if he had heard Granby's thoughts. "And perhaps with a better outcome."
"I suppose I've only one arm left to lose, and the Emperor of China can hardly hope to take me to wife, so there's good news enough for me already." Granby leaned against the railing, turning his face to the wind. "Not that our journeys ever seem to end as properly as they should. It seems I can hardly reach one port without being directed to the next, I may as well be the Flying Dutchman. How does the play go? Twelfth Night, or some such—"
"'Journeys end in lovers meeting,'" said Laurence, smiling. "Perhaps the hands will perform it for us."
"I'd rather see my own journey's end." He paused, and added, "But that is the nature of the service, I suppose."
Laurence said, hesitatingly, "There will be the other aviators in our complement, this time. I am particularly glad for Captain Little's company."
Granby stared, trying to understand what he was getting at. "Oh?" he managed.
"Permit me to say," Laurence said, awkward with a hint of color high on his cheek, "that there are few men of whom I think so highly."
Granby closed his eyes in horror. Laurence was giving them his blessing.
"I see," said Granby, strangled. And then, "No, you don't see. Little and I—"
Laurence was looking at him, nothing but concern on his face. Granby wished he could trace the lines that time and the service had written there. He wished he could write new ones of their own. If he could get on his knees right there, on the deck of the ship, and beg for it, he would have.
"It's not what you think," said Granby, miserable. "Iskierka knows more than I've let on to her about, but she doesn't know everything, either. I—"
Hammond, huffing up to them on the deck, forced an end to the conversation.
"Ah, Captain, there you are! I must tell you that it is of the utmost importance that we begin preparing for the Imperial Court with every moment we have. Prince Mianning will expect us to be fluent in the language and customs by the time we arrive. I will say, it is of the utmost use for us to have an agent of the court here with us, and we must not waste any time in practicing the forms with Gong Su. You remember the technique, I hope?" and Granby, grateful for the interruption, slunk away.
It had scared him how close he had come to confessing.
He couldn't avoid Laurence completely, after that. There were dinners on board the ship, formal ones, thrown by Captain Blaise, and informal gatherings among the captains, dice and cards and conversations serving to while away the long hours of the voyage. He sat next to Laurence in the ship's glittering stateroom and only asked him to pass along the Madeira. They made a pair at whist and spoke only of the weather or the game. Laurence could not have failed to notice the distance Granby had suddenly put between them, but he never spoke of it. It was so like him. Granby suspected that Laurence would have let him cut him dead without saying a word, rather than be rude.
The days were long. Every night Granby was aware of Laurence, sleeping in the next room, separated only by a thin bulkhead. They sat at the same table for breakfast. Laurence shifted, his elbow brushing against Granby's remaining arm, and Granby dropped his fork. He focused on breathing for the rest of the meal. Augustine, who knew everything, of course, threw him worried looks. Hammond made it easier for him. More and more often, he demanded the monopoly of Laurence's time, often keeping him from early morning until late into the night, until at last Temeraire threatened to dig up the floorboards so that they could go flying. Granby found himself feeling an odd sensation; relief and fury, mingled. Having to see Laurence, to be near him, was inimical to his health. It was always a great effort not to touch him, and every conversation turned into an agonizing struggle not to say something entirely inappropriate. It was safer, and better, to stay away.
Yet the thought that Hammond should be shut up with him instead maddened him. He felt sick with it. Granby wanted to be the one there with him, from morning until night, wanted to serve him, help him, as he had done before, when Laurence was his captain. He wanted to be there in Hammond's place; he knew, at the same time, that he was being irrational. Granby had no business helping Laurence prepare for China; he had no place at Laurence's side. The feeling persisted, uneasily akin to jealousy; Granby forced himself to stop thinking about it.
The days were long, but the months were short. They would be entering the Sea of Japan soon, Captain Blaise announced one day, and Granby realized that very soon they would arrive at China's shores. Laurence would soon be swallowed up by the Imperial Court and all their intrigues. Granby could be of no use to him there. And if Laurence stayed—Granby's heart hammered painfully. And if Laurence should stay in China, as he had once told Temeraire he would, if Laurence would stay—
There could be nothing for Granby in China. He could not depend on Iskierka to fling him madly after Laurence, as she had done before. They would sail back to Europe, to the war with France, and Laurence would remain behind.
Granby was struck by an unreasoning fear. He had done it before. Laurence had sailed to Africa without him, after all. Granby had left him on shore at New South Wales. But this felt different, somehow. He couldn't explain it. He knew only that now, less than at any other time, he could not have let Laurence go.
"Forgive me, Captain, if I intrude, but your instruction at the moment is at a somewhat delicate place. We may well find it advantageous to schedule further practice sessions—we are in nowise ready to face the Emperor, and you cannot imagine the very great weight the court gives to the smallest matters, the utmost perfection is necessary—"
Granby, descending from the dragondeck, found Hammond once again harrying Laurence. The hours he spent every day shut up with Hammond and Gong Su were, it seemed, not been enough; more was being required.
"And, Captain, you must consider the very great importance of the credit your performance will give to the crown prince. You dedication so far has been commendable, but we are not so confident yet that we are not in need of further practice. The forms of your greeting to the Emperor—"
Laurence looked so very weary that Granby spoke without thinking.
"Here, now, what are you on about, bothering the captain?" he said. "Haven't you had enough blood for today, you old bat? I won't say you're coming off a mad governess over the whole affair, but anyone can see Laurence doesn't need any more damnable lessons. He's more likely to fall dead asleep at the Emperor's feet, the way you keep pressing on. Lord knows he's not a debutante in his first season, I think Laurence can be trusted to make a few polite sounds without making an ass of himself."
Hammond spun around, mopping his forehead. He didn't look very well, Granby noticed with satisfaction.
"You seem to think nothing more is at stake than a presentation at a ball!" he said hotly. "I assure you, the future of our entire mission—if not Britain herself—depends on these vital points of etiquette the Chinese find enormously important! The tiniest flaw in our entrance—the merest mistake--will be seized upon by enemies of the throne to undermine us."
"Yes, yes, Laurence will be sure to practice his curtsey, I'm sure. But not tonight, in any case—I'm afraid Laurence has already agreed to an engagement with me tonight," said Granby, hoping that Laurence did not begrudge the invention. "I hope you won't mind very much."
"Mind? Yes, I should say that I would mind—"
"Very good," said Granby cheerfully, choosing to be deaf. He took Laurence by the shoulder and steered him to his cabin. Hammond, like some very determined terrier, followed them down to the captain's quarters, yammering on about the devastation of the China trade and the wreck of all of Britain's hopes, or something such like. It all very much noise to Granby; he turned and shut the door on Hammond's face as he was going on about the inevitable domination of Napoleon's empire, should the mission fail. He shook his head.
"By God, Laurence, I don't envy you in the least. The very vulture is nothing to it. If he isn't forcing a fellow into marriage, he's sending him mad with dancing lessons. This is a strange sort of gothic novel we've wandered into."
That brought a smile to Laurence's face, at least. Granby had not seen it since the beginning of the voyage; he had forgotten to treasure it. Granby stared, because of the way it changed his entire face, making him look younger, for once, than his years. His eyes were darker when he smiled, or perhaps it was only the shadows in his cabin. The sun was going down in front of the ship, and only the reflections cast from the water shed any light into the cabin.
"Hammond is an unlikely choice of villain," said Laurence; rather wrongly, in Granby's opinion. "It is not—I do not resent him. I am determined to see out my duty, and I do not doubt what he says of the very importance of the mission. It is only chafing, at times, to be constantly a student."
Granby snorted. "You'd be right to resent him, if you want my opinion on the matter. Not that anyone in their senses should pick me to be a prince of anything—no, I suppose Iskierka would, which only proves my point." He rummaged through the chest at the foot of his bed, throwing out a mess of rumpled shirts and a slightly faded book that he had half-heartedly begun reading. Finally he held up a bottle of brandy, triumphant. "Shall we? I wouldn't lay odds that Hammond isn't outside in the hall at this moment, ready to pounce; you're much better off in here with me."
"It would seem so," said Laurence ruefully, and accepted a glass from Granby's hand. Their fingers brushed. They drank. The sun died, and the nearly full moon came up; the waters, unusually calm, shone a little with the eerie green phosphorescence Granby had sometimes seen on long sea-voyages. A foxfire sea and a gibbous moon. A night for witches, he might have said, save that Laurence disliked superstition. A night for lovers.
They spoke of other things, a conversation that unspooled gradually between sips of brandy, until it was as if for all the world they were captain and lieutenant again, sharing a private drink at the end of a day's work. The years had been pulled back, but there was no treason to come, and no exile; Granby was still young and foolish enough to believe that love could never hold him, and Laurence had not yet let the world make him grim. It was idle, foolish fantasy, and Granby forced himself out of such imaginings. Granby would not give up Iskierka for anything, not even to be Laurence's premier again, and what Laurence had done, he would never undo. Yet still there was a part of him that longed to live those years over again, those wasted, wonderful years that he had spent longing for affection that could never be returned to him in full measure; he could not help but wonder if Laurence felt the same.
"I will not deny the simplicity of those years," said Laurence, when Granby could not help posing a version of the question to him, "And perhaps no man would quibble with a return to youth, if offered. There is appeal, certainly, in believing that we might make remedy for the mistakes of the past, or even avoid them completely. Yet to consider it too deeply can only invite regret, and regret is not forgiveness. That can not be earned by dwelling on the past."
He spoke as an authority on the subject. Granby said lightly,
"Oh, I cannot say so. I find that the more I think on years gone by, the more I find to forgive myself for. I've seldom wronged anyone as much as I have myself." Granby brought out the bottle again, and Laurence did not turn away the offered glass. They sat drinking together for a while, in easy silence, watching the moon-lit horizon shift outside Granby's window.
Presently Laurence set his glass down.
"I would speak on that subject," he said, "if you will permit me. I thought I had offended you. It seemed to me that I may have made an unwelcome remark. If I have, I would ask forgiveness for it, if I can."
"Forgive you?" said Granby, very startled. "Lord, for what? If anything, I should be asking you for forgiveness. Turning cold all of a sudden without telling you why, barely saying a word to you over the past months—I've been a complete swine about the whole business."
"Then, if I may ask," began Laurence, a new urgency in his voice, and then he cut himself off. "I beg your pardon. I would never hope to intrude."
"I wish you would," said Granby, low.
"John? What do you mean?"
Granby refilled their glasses, a trifle too generously. He took a long draught before he spoke. "What were we speaking of, the last time we spoke? Spoke for real, I mean, and not damned stiff niceties at dinner."
Laurence hesitated. "We were speaking of Captain Little, I believe."
"Yes," said Granby. "I was—I was trying to tell you that we aren't lovers."
After a short silence Granby went on.
"Not to say we never were, nor that we won't ever be again, but—"
He trailed off.
"Forgive me, then," said Laurence, after a moment. "I assumed."
"You weren't wrong to, I suppose. We always got along well enough. And we were looking for the same thing, not to be a lecher about it. We might still be together, if not for...Well. The truth is, I haven't had a lover for some time. I'm sorry," he said suddenly, lurching to his feet. "I don't know where this is coming from. Am I being indelicate?"
Laurence looked up at him from his seat by the window. Oh, he looked young; and it occurred to Granby then that they were young, the both of them, that they might have years and lifetimes ahead of them, if they wanted it, and if the war did not get very much in their way. It was funny, in a way, because that had never occurred to him before. He had always been so very concerned with the moment he was in, always chasing the next approving look, the next lingering touch, the next adventure.
"No," said Laurence, in a voice that was so low as to be nearly inaudible. "You cannot speak too much, on this."
He was so tired of that chase.
Granby was still standing. He had drunk the brandy too quickly, and it had gone to his head. He sank down to the floor by Laurence's feet.
"John—"
"Will," he said, begging. "Just ask me. Please."
Laurence took a breath. The meager light coming in through the window touched his eyes and lips with silver. Granby wished he had lit a lamp. He couldn't see the expression on his face. Laurence deserved every light there was in the world, and Granby could look at him forever. Laurence touched his tongue to his lips and said,
"I should not ask; I should not want to know. Forgive me. You said that you and Little were lovers. Why are you not lovers still?"
"Because there's only one man that I love," said Granby. "Will—"
His breath caught. He couldn't even say it, in the end. Instead he took Laurence's sea-calloused hands in his own and pressed them to his lips, shaking just with the touch of him. He had trusted Laurence before with knowledge that could have ended his life, but he hadn't feared that as he feared doing this now. It wasn't his life he was putting into Laurence's hands, but his heart. It felt harder, infinitely harder.
Laurence gasped.
"John—" he said, and Granby kissed his hands again, his lips lingering on the knuckles, large and slightly uneven from years of ungentlemanly pursuits, brushing along the fingers and underneath to the palms, trying to convey everything he felt and could not say.
At last he stopped, and looked up into Laurence's face. He was breathing fast.
"I am very sorry," Laurence said, and Granby felt his heart shrivel in his chest. "—sorry, indeed, that I did not suspect earlier."
Granby forced himself to breathe.
"What?" he asked, and then Laurence kissed him full on his open mouth.
The next night there was a storm. The ship shivered and groaned under the shrieking wind. The shoals were very near. The ocean was a dark, roaring presence beneath their feet, bent on their disaster, and the dragons were still chained down. Laurence rushed into the rain, scaling the heaving deck of the ship as easily as if it were level ground. In a moment he had cut through the ropes. Even through the terrible noise of the storm Granby could hear the sound of many wings unfurling as the dragons took flight, throwing off their chains. Granby, straining to look through the streaming rain, saw the heavy chains loop around his arms.
There was no time to react. In a moment he was gone, between one flash of lightning and the next. The chains dragged him over the edge and down, down, into deep water.