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Robbie disliked the habit.
He shouldn’t have even noticed it, really. His mind was always a blur of ropes and sails and repairs needing doing; it wouldn’t have come to his attention if it had been anyone else. The scientific men were less of his ilk than the ordinary sailors were, and were almost universally a nightmare to talk to. They drifted around the edge of his notice, important only because the entire crew was important.
Hyacinth Cavendish, however, stood out. Perhaps not for the qualities he had, but those he lacked— somewhere in the process of his indulgent education, he’d missed whatever tutorial had them all sneering down their noses at regular people. Any of them would talk your ear off about their studies, but Cavendish had an earnestness that the others lacked. He believed, perhaps naively, that anyone could understand. Would backtrack and reword and babble through a bright smile, eyes shining with a mirth unbecoming of a gentleman.
That was what had drawn him in, at first. That smile.
It meant that he had eyes on the man for weeks. Glanced at him as secretively as he could manage, before they’d finally got some time alone to disregard their standard orders. That was about when he’d noticed.
He’d not connected the dots, at first. The process was quick, easy to ignore, and he couldn’t recall it being there at the very start of their voyage.
A bite of whatever they’d been served. Then, usually, a slight frown. And then he’d take his tonic— head tilted back, mouth slightly open, as though waiting to receive communion. Cavendish was long past the point of flinching, but he’d still pick his drink up the moment the drops were down, corners of his chapped lips tugging back in disgust.
Hours later, Robbie would taste the bitterness of laudanum lingering, as though it had soaked into the pretty pink flesh of his mouth and stayed.
Robbie wasn’t sat near him, but he watched all the same. Mainly because the reactions there would tell him what sort of man he would be spending his evening with— the incessant enthusiast he had come to adore, or someone sick and snappish and dull.
He couldn’t hold it against him. How was the man to have guessed? This was his first time properly at sea, living off tinned things and biscuit. It wasn’t his fault if his constitution had chosen to fail him.
But even knowing that, it was something of a disappointment, to catch that movement in his periphery. Hy hadn’t even bothered waiting for the food this time, and he prodded at it listlessly, managing perhaps half by the time Robbie had cleaned his own plate. In between the raucous conversations of the mess, Robbie watched in snippets, concern building in his chest. Over time, Hyacinth quieted, then stilled, then slouched, suppressing a yawn.
That was why Robbie didn’t like it. He hated watching those bright eyes go pinpoint-pupilled and fuzzy. At a high enough dose, all the energy would leave him. The constant tapping of fingers and toying with instruments or notebooks would stop. Like watching a flower wilt.
Shortly after, Hyacinth departed. Stumbled as the ship rocked. Off kilter.
Robbie didn’t follow directly not wanting to be spotted, but left as soon as he’d finished his tea. Hyacinth only went one place after meals.
Standing before the small sliding door, looking both ways— he knocked.
“Are you quite alright?”
It felt a little bit inadequate; of course he wasn’t. The man was desperately unsuited to his environment, lighter and paler week-on-week. Privately, Robbie thought it something of a miracle he’d survived this far.
At least it meant there would be no scandal, when they got back.
Robbie didn’t get a reply, so he slid the narrow door open, and stepped over the threshold. Though small, the cabin was a great deal more luxurious than what most of the men got. No hotbunking, for one. The high, small bunk was Hyacinth’s and his alone.
The man himself was curled in the blankets, looking well and truly hard done by. The inescapable cold of the ship had tinged the tip of his nose blue, his breath coming in slow, shaky puffs. A woolen hat was pulled low over his dark hair. He’d pulled out one of the drawers underneath the bunk, and shoved a small ceramic basin in at the end near his head. Nauseated, then.
“Too much?” Robbie asked. Half-lidded eyes turned to him.
“Somethin’ like that,” Hyacinth muttered, sounding surprisingly rueful, even through the pain. “Swear it’s on purpose, sometimes.”
“You know it’s not.” Robbie barely had to take two steps to cross the space, to get a hand on the sad, scrawny hunch of a body. “Can I be of any help?”
Hyacinth nodded, yawning again.
“C’mere,” he managed, shifting what little he could in the tight space. “‘S bloody freezin’ in here. Worse than the balloon.”
“Of course.”
Robbie picked his way into the bunk, careful not to put too much weight in any one place. He slid in behind Cavendish, his body between his compatriot and the cold of the wall. Just the other side of it, the bulkhead was freezing, solid steel soaking up the impossible cold at the edge of the world.
It was not a space for two bodies, especially not the two of them. Robbie had to get close, closer than he’d been with girls back home— Hyacinth’s spine pressed right to his chest, Robbie with his arms about him, tucking his chin over the other man’s shoulder. Here, they were always so heavily clothed that nothing could feel intimate, but the scrap of exposed skin between collar and hairline was like elysium to him, and he had no choice but to press a kiss to it.
“Not now, dear friend,” Hyacinth protested, misunderstanding him utterly. “You don’t want to risk it.”
“No, I don’t,” Robbie agreed, feeling suddenly ashamed— he wasn’t that ravenous. “I just think you’re charming.”
“Liar,” Hyacinth protested, obstinate even as he settled into Robbie’s arms. He made a small, stifled sound of pain, jaw tightening as something shifted. “This is dreadful. You can’t possibly find me appealing.”
“Tell me more about the balloon,” Robbie urged. “About your new sails. Are they coming along well?”
There was similarity, in the principles of sailing on the sea and in the air— but more importantly than that, Hyacinth loved to speak on it. Robbie was quite sure that he’d ramble for a whole day on the topic, if one were to let him— thank the heavens that his work demanded readings every two hours.
“Yes!” True to form, he brightened almost immediately, a little of the tension seeping out of his shoulders. “I, I’ve found a flaw in my modeling that might explain some of the unresponsiveness we saw last time! I knew there was something. We’ll soar above the Pole yet.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s with some of the controls we took from the Andrée design.” Here he slowed, already slurring a little as he fought the haze. “We use stronger materials, but I didn’t account for the changes in tension…”
He carried on a little while, like that, Robbie half listening, half focused on nodding and cuddling and doing all within his power to soothe him when he suddenly tensed, or when the strain of a groan crept into the edge of his voice.
Uncharacteristically quickly, the lecture began to trail off, losing coherence. He seemed simply too tired to continue, blinking his way back up from drowsing to force out a few more words. Curse their surgeon and curse the medicine-chest, curse that little brown bottle and every drop in it.
“Don’t carry on if it’s just on my account,” Robbie said, managing even in their confines to pat his shoulder. “Rest, my flower. You can tell me at observations.”
“Mhm,” Hyacinth hummed in agreement. He reached for Robbie’s hand, clutching it to his chest. He didn’t need to ask aloud.
“I’ll stay,” Robbie promised.
Mere minutes later, the motion of the sea had rocked them both to sleep.