FIC: "The Simplest Gift" - Archie, Horatio - Hornblower fandom - G
Title: The Simplest Gift
Author: Lemur (Lemur710@aol.com)
Type: FPS
Genre: Drama
Fandom: Horatio Hornblower
Pairing: Archie/Horatio
Rating: G
Warnings: Big spoilers for Mutiny and Retribution
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. They belong to C.S. Forester and the folks at A&E, and probably lots of others who aren’t me.
Feedback: That’d be great. Especially constructive criticism.
Archive: List archives; otherwise, just ask. :)
Summary: Ruminations on a deathbed and drinking Portsmouth dry.
Author’s Notes: Wow, it’s been a long time since I’ve written fanfic... Written in 40 minutes for a contrelamontre challenge. (BTW, if you’ve not see the Hornblower movies, my god, what are you waiting for??)
The Simplest Gift
By Lemur
Mr. Bush said if one were hungry enough, the hospital broth tasted almost good. Horatio said the weather in Kingston was beautiful, no matter the circumstances that brought one there. Both said Archie would be fine.
Archie felt as though he were only sane man in the room.
They kept the conversational jovial on his behalf, speaking only in dashes about the trial, the events that brought them here and the damnable turnings of fate. They tried not to make Archie laugh too much. Laughing brought on the coughing, and the coughing brought the red to his mouth. Horatio chastised him for not eating, said he needed his strength. True enough, perhaps, because Archie didn’t have the strength to tell him that everything he let slide down his throat - even water - tasted of blood.
It was a casual thought, in the end. A slow blink, a fly buzzing over his head, and Archie realized, I’m done. He could feel in his chest that he would not rise again from this bed. He lacked the desire or even the sadness to cry about it. The dull pain in his heart made him think of drunkenness, those now-blessed, torturous nights in Portsmouth with Horatio by his side, mouths sharp with port.
They laughed then. No worries of blood, no consideration for the aching wound that Archie had carried even then. It was too perfect and too painful. Archie remembered looking across the table at the man, at his smile.
When they’d first met aboard Justinian, Archie hadn’t been in any frame of mind to form a friendship. What had formed was an alliance of the abused. He’d only suspected, idly, of course, that, had life been different, or were circumstances to change, he and this Midshipman Hornblower might possibly be friends. The lad was brave enough, with a strong streak of compassion and honor, a decently quick wit, even if he knew nothing of the theatre. But when terrorized out of one’s wits, almost literally, one has difficulty making friends. It took all Archie’s own courage to rally time and again, to be seen as Simpson’s favorite beating-boy, and then stand with eyes raised when the man was gone. To show he had been beaten only physically, though he knew from the tremble in his legs that he’d been shattered to the depths.
“Horatio,” Archie had said, possibly slurring the words on his drink-thickened tongue. The Portsmouth pub hummed and peaked around them, laughter and shrieks, two lieutenants of His Majesty’s Navy mere backdrop to the locals. “Horatio,” he’d said again.
The man himself snuffled into his glass. The dark liquid splashed and dotted his chin as he lifted his face. “I do believe you’ve said that twice now, Mr. Kennedy,” Horatio replied, and the words were endlessly playful.
“Have I? Perhaps I like to say it. Horatio.” Archie’s body felt heavy and warm, his movements slow and dizzy. He’d imbibed so much and couldn’t feel the recklessness of his words, though reckless he knew they were. “I rather like the sound. The way it feels on my tongue.”
Horatio stared back with an equally drunken smile and his dark brows quirked. “What are you on about, Archie?”
And Archie couldn’t reply. His chest ached. His heart hurt, and he didn’t want to feel this way, at a loss again, so soon. So soon after Simpson, so soon after Spain. He had wanted to stand with eyes up, courage and capability, before he gave another power over him. Yet a word, a sound of disapproval from the man sitting with him and Archie feared he might break, again. He could not possibly put himself to rights once more.
“Words, words, words,” Archie said at last, and swallowed another deep mouthful.
Horatio grinned, his tidy teeth tinged red from the port. “You’ve had too much to drink, my friend. Too much by far, I’d say.”
Archie grinned back. “You use too many words when you’ve been drinking, Horatio. Too many by far.”
Horatio laughed, easy and carefree, a person Archie might never have suspected lay beneath the harried and rigid Midshipman. And therein lay the trouble, he’d supposed. The fragile boy who got seasick at Spithead had excited his compassion, his innate - often foolish - need to help others. The courageous man who’d dared challenge their tormentor had ignited his admiration and respect. The vexingly loyal man who rescued him from a Spanish prison had claimed his devotion and his gratitude.
Had these men been separate unto themselves, Archie might have kept his mind, but they were in one together, a person heating Archie all over with compassion, admiration, respect, devotion and gratitude. A heady mixture Archie suspected too well became something dangerous, especially in the Navy. Horatio was irksome enough; his constant need to be right and the fact that he usually was, his ridiculous pride, his rigidity when it came to the rules of life aboard ship; each had turned Archie red with irritation twice or five times in their friendship. But all that ranked so little, seemed even at the time painfully irrelevant in the light of everything else.
In all ways, Horatio was everything Archie desired. Everything he could possibly want. Even in that he could not be had. Midshipman Hornblower did not violate the Articles. Lieutenant Hornblower had learned only to bend them when King and country necessitated. No rank, no understanding of the twisting, unregulated ways of the world would ever allow Mr. Hornblower to touch a fellow officer, to touch another man. In all their years, Archie hadn’t managed to solicit even an embrace. How tragically perfect, how like every play Archie had ever memorized and loved.
But it was the hope that killed him, that barbed his heart each day. It was that, at the table in Portsmouth, Horatio had held his stare for as long as Archie had desired it. Their gazes had glittered at one another, drunk and lovely, and Archie knew longing shone in his. Want and need and god-forsaken love had shown in his. He had never held eyes with another like that, never for so long, never so without purpose or reason, never so intensely that he felt it through every part of him, forgot the people around him, forgot himself and touched Horatio’s hand.
Lieutenant Hornblower had pulled back then, with a casual smile, and torn off another hunk of bread.
Lying on his cot in Kingston, Archie felt the pain in his heart more than the bullet in his belly. The broth tasted like blood. The water tasted like blood, and Archie ached so deeply, so intensely, and so without return that death seemed beautiful to him. He could give this to Horatio. He could give himself completely, for once, and not to have muster the strength to raise his eyes again. He could lower his gaze forever, for Horatio, and hold on to only that moment of their eyes meeting and raise them no further.
It wasn’t perhaps until their eyes met again, across the courtroom - met and held in that aching, beautiful way Archie had clung to in Portsmouth - that Archie realized how sincerely he loved, and how little it mattered that Horatio did not.
Horatio would live. Beyond that, nothing - truly nothing - mattered at all.
Author: Lemur (Lemur710@aol.com)
Type: FPS
Genre: Drama
Fandom: Horatio Hornblower
Pairing: Archie/Horatio
Rating: G
Warnings: Big spoilers for Mutiny and Retribution
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. They belong to C.S. Forester and the folks at A&E, and probably lots of others who aren’t me.
Feedback: That’d be great. Especially constructive criticism.
Archive: List archives; otherwise, just ask. :)
Summary: Ruminations on a deathbed and drinking Portsmouth dry.
Author’s Notes: Wow, it’s been a long time since I’ve written fanfic... Written in 40 minutes for a contrelamontre challenge. (BTW, if you’ve not see the Hornblower movies, my god, what are you waiting for??)
The Simplest Gift
By Lemur
Mr. Bush said if one were hungry enough, the hospital broth tasted almost good. Horatio said the weather in Kingston was beautiful, no matter the circumstances that brought one there. Both said Archie would be fine.
Archie felt as though he were only sane man in the room.
They kept the conversational jovial on his behalf, speaking only in dashes about the trial, the events that brought them here and the damnable turnings of fate. They tried not to make Archie laugh too much. Laughing brought on the coughing, and the coughing brought the red to his mouth. Horatio chastised him for not eating, said he needed his strength. True enough, perhaps, because Archie didn’t have the strength to tell him that everything he let slide down his throat - even water - tasted of blood.
It was a casual thought, in the end. A slow blink, a fly buzzing over his head, and Archie realized, I’m done. He could feel in his chest that he would not rise again from this bed. He lacked the desire or even the sadness to cry about it. The dull pain in his heart made him think of drunkenness, those now-blessed, torturous nights in Portsmouth with Horatio by his side, mouths sharp with port.
They laughed then. No worries of blood, no consideration for the aching wound that Archie had carried even then. It was too perfect and too painful. Archie remembered looking across the table at the man, at his smile.
When they’d first met aboard Justinian, Archie hadn’t been in any frame of mind to form a friendship. What had formed was an alliance of the abused. He’d only suspected, idly, of course, that, had life been different, or were circumstances to change, he and this Midshipman Hornblower might possibly be friends. The lad was brave enough, with a strong streak of compassion and honor, a decently quick wit, even if he knew nothing of the theatre. But when terrorized out of one’s wits, almost literally, one has difficulty making friends. It took all Archie’s own courage to rally time and again, to be seen as Simpson’s favorite beating-boy, and then stand with eyes raised when the man was gone. To show he had been beaten only physically, though he knew from the tremble in his legs that he’d been shattered to the depths.
“Horatio,” Archie had said, possibly slurring the words on his drink-thickened tongue. The Portsmouth pub hummed and peaked around them, laughter and shrieks, two lieutenants of His Majesty’s Navy mere backdrop to the locals. “Horatio,” he’d said again.
The man himself snuffled into his glass. The dark liquid splashed and dotted his chin as he lifted his face. “I do believe you’ve said that twice now, Mr. Kennedy,” Horatio replied, and the words were endlessly playful.
“Have I? Perhaps I like to say it. Horatio.” Archie’s body felt heavy and warm, his movements slow and dizzy. He’d imbibed so much and couldn’t feel the recklessness of his words, though reckless he knew they were. “I rather like the sound. The way it feels on my tongue.”
Horatio stared back with an equally drunken smile and his dark brows quirked. “What are you on about, Archie?”
And Archie couldn’t reply. His chest ached. His heart hurt, and he didn’t want to feel this way, at a loss again, so soon. So soon after Simpson, so soon after Spain. He had wanted to stand with eyes up, courage and capability, before he gave another power over him. Yet a word, a sound of disapproval from the man sitting with him and Archie feared he might break, again. He could not possibly put himself to rights once more.
“Words, words, words,” Archie said at last, and swallowed another deep mouthful.
Horatio grinned, his tidy teeth tinged red from the port. “You’ve had too much to drink, my friend. Too much by far, I’d say.”
Archie grinned back. “You use too many words when you’ve been drinking, Horatio. Too many by far.”
Horatio laughed, easy and carefree, a person Archie might never have suspected lay beneath the harried and rigid Midshipman. And therein lay the trouble, he’d supposed. The fragile boy who got seasick at Spithead had excited his compassion, his innate - often foolish - need to help others. The courageous man who’d dared challenge their tormentor had ignited his admiration and respect. The vexingly loyal man who rescued him from a Spanish prison had claimed his devotion and his gratitude.
Had these men been separate unto themselves, Archie might have kept his mind, but they were in one together, a person heating Archie all over with compassion, admiration, respect, devotion and gratitude. A heady mixture Archie suspected too well became something dangerous, especially in the Navy. Horatio was irksome enough; his constant need to be right and the fact that he usually was, his ridiculous pride, his rigidity when it came to the rules of life aboard ship; each had turned Archie red with irritation twice or five times in their friendship. But all that ranked so little, seemed even at the time painfully irrelevant in the light of everything else.
In all ways, Horatio was everything Archie desired. Everything he could possibly want. Even in that he could not be had. Midshipman Hornblower did not violate the Articles. Lieutenant Hornblower had learned only to bend them when King and country necessitated. No rank, no understanding of the twisting, unregulated ways of the world would ever allow Mr. Hornblower to touch a fellow officer, to touch another man. In all their years, Archie hadn’t managed to solicit even an embrace. How tragically perfect, how like every play Archie had ever memorized and loved.
But it was the hope that killed him, that barbed his heart each day. It was that, at the table in Portsmouth, Horatio had held his stare for as long as Archie had desired it. Their gazes had glittered at one another, drunk and lovely, and Archie knew longing shone in his. Want and need and god-forsaken love had shown in his. He had never held eyes with another like that, never for so long, never so without purpose or reason, never so intensely that he felt it through every part of him, forgot the people around him, forgot himself and touched Horatio’s hand.
Lieutenant Hornblower had pulled back then, with a casual smile, and torn off another hunk of bread.
Lying on his cot in Kingston, Archie felt the pain in his heart more than the bullet in his belly. The broth tasted like blood. The water tasted like blood, and Archie ached so deeply, so intensely, and so without return that death seemed beautiful to him. He could give this to Horatio. He could give himself completely, for once, and not to have muster the strength to raise his eyes again. He could lower his gaze forever, for Horatio, and hold on to only that moment of their eyes meeting and raise them no further.
It wasn’t perhaps until their eyes met again, across the courtroom - met and held in that aching, beautiful way Archie had clung to in Portsmouth - that Archie realized how sincerely he loved, and how little it mattered that Horatio did not.
Horatio would live. Beyond that, nothing - truly nothing - mattered at all.