porn battle fic: The Morning After (Hornblower)
I spent the day skiing, got home late, and so figured I'd just knock off a drabble for today's Porn Battle contribution. Didn't work out that way. (Ran up against the comment character-count limit yet again. Sigh.)
The Morning After
Hornblower, Archie/Horatio, "hangover" - R, 752 words.
Archie did not want to open his eyes. Clearly, it was morning; the sunlight cruelly pierced his eyelids, and someone was beating him about the head with a large stick. He groaned, and instantly a cool cloth was on his brow.
"Are you all right?"
"Kindly do not shout, Horatio."
"I am not shouting. You are recovering from an excess of drink."
"Then why did you ask?" Archie said peevishly as he opened his eyes. He would swear that had been an indulgent smile on Horatio's lips, damn him, but it - along with the cloth - disappeared instantly, replaced by a tight expression that Archie supposed was intended to look stern.
"I merely wanted to ascertain that you were fit to return to the ship."
The ship. Dear God, the ship. Archie looked around in a panic: a small, furnished room, doubtless at the inn where he - where they -
He buried his head in his hands. "Was I wretchedly drunk?"
"You were."
"Did I make an ass of myself?"
"You did." Archie groaned, and Horatio relented: "You did not. You sang a few airs, and you danced a few pretty steps."
"And that is all?"
He looked away, across the room toward the hellishly bright square of the window. "Do you not remember?"
"Not a thing," Archie lied, watching Horatio's face. It was a mask, a complete mask.
Horatio shrugged. "I helped you up here. Then we slept like the dead." Abruptly he turned away. "I shall check on breakfast," he said, and left the room.
Archie lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes again.
Because he remembered. Oh, yes, he remembered. He remembered laughing with Horatio, and the girl who served them drinks; he remembered suggesting to Horatio that maybe they should all go to a room, the three of them, but for some reason it was just him and Horatio, stumbling up the stairs. He was drunk, Christ yes, he was in his cups, but not so blinded by drink that he didn't remember. The way Horatio had undressed him carefully and laid him in the narrow bed. The warmth of Horatio sliding in beside him, the scent of wine as Horatio lifted himself on an elbow and whispered in his ear, "It's all right, you'll be fine, I've got you."
Hands rubbing his back, warm through the linen of his undershirt. Hands on his hip, on his thigh. Perhaps he moaned - no, he was sure he must have, must have pressed his arse back toward Horatio, must have tilted his head back to lie against his friend's shoulder. Horatio had grown hard against him. Horatio had not had as much to drink.
The room spun and tilted whether his eyes were open or closed, so he concentrated on the one fixed star in his firmament: he concentrated on Horatio, on his breathing, on his hands, on the skin of his chest - their undershirts were both rucked up and Archie could feel the fine hairs, the beads of sweat, the pulse of Horatio's increasing heartbeat. He could sense his desire.
He too had desire, but not the means; not after the amount of claret he'd drunk. Even had the girl been there he would not have been able to raise his flag. But Horatio's breathing was becoming increasingly desperate, the motions of his hands as he clutched at Archie's flanks increasingly rough - and then suddenly Horatio gasped, "Forgive me," and pushed himself away.
"'s all right. Feels good. Your hands." Archie had rolled to his back and tried to pull Horatio closer, and just thinking about it now he felt the blood rushing to his face, Christ, where had he found the courage to do that?
"You should sleep," came Horatio's unsteady voice.
And so that was what he did, feigned sleep, took deep and steady breaths. But his head was beginning to clear, and he listened closely, listened to Horatio's breathing go ragged again, to the rhythmic motion of his hand, to his quiet, choked-off gasp. The mattress shifted minutely, and then he must have fallen truly asleep.
"Are you capable of a soft egg?" said Horatio from the doorway.
His stomach churned. "Christ, no."
"Perhaps in a while, then" said Horatio, crossing to him. "You must take some water, at least." Archie took the pitcher from his hands and drunk greedily. "I am sure you regret being so immoderate."
"Completely," said Archie. Not at all, he thought. Not at all.
The Morning After
Hornblower, Archie/Horatio, "hangover" - R, 752 words.
Archie did not want to open his eyes. Clearly, it was morning; the sunlight cruelly pierced his eyelids, and someone was beating him about the head with a large stick. He groaned, and instantly a cool cloth was on his brow.
"Are you all right?"
"Kindly do not shout, Horatio."
"I am not shouting. You are recovering from an excess of drink."
"Then why did you ask?" Archie said peevishly as he opened his eyes. He would swear that had been an indulgent smile on Horatio's lips, damn him, but it - along with the cloth - disappeared instantly, replaced by a tight expression that Archie supposed was intended to look stern.
"I merely wanted to ascertain that you were fit to return to the ship."
The ship. Dear God, the ship. Archie looked around in a panic: a small, furnished room, doubtless at the inn where he - where they -
He buried his head in his hands. "Was I wretchedly drunk?"
"You were."
"Did I make an ass of myself?"
"You did." Archie groaned, and Horatio relented: "You did not. You sang a few airs, and you danced a few pretty steps."
"And that is all?"
He looked away, across the room toward the hellishly bright square of the window. "Do you not remember?"
"Not a thing," Archie lied, watching Horatio's face. It was a mask, a complete mask.
Horatio shrugged. "I helped you up here. Then we slept like the dead." Abruptly he turned away. "I shall check on breakfast," he said, and left the room.
Archie lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes again.
Because he remembered. Oh, yes, he remembered. He remembered laughing with Horatio, and the girl who served them drinks; he remembered suggesting to Horatio that maybe they should all go to a room, the three of them, but for some reason it was just him and Horatio, stumbling up the stairs. He was drunk, Christ yes, he was in his cups, but not so blinded by drink that he didn't remember. The way Horatio had undressed him carefully and laid him in the narrow bed. The warmth of Horatio sliding in beside him, the scent of wine as Horatio lifted himself on an elbow and whispered in his ear, "It's all right, you'll be fine, I've got you."
Hands rubbing his back, warm through the linen of his undershirt. Hands on his hip, on his thigh. Perhaps he moaned - no, he was sure he must have, must have pressed his arse back toward Horatio, must have tilted his head back to lie against his friend's shoulder. Horatio had grown hard against him. Horatio had not had as much to drink.
The room spun and tilted whether his eyes were open or closed, so he concentrated on the one fixed star in his firmament: he concentrated on Horatio, on his breathing, on his hands, on the skin of his chest - their undershirts were both rucked up and Archie could feel the fine hairs, the beads of sweat, the pulse of Horatio's increasing heartbeat. He could sense his desire.
He too had desire, but not the means; not after the amount of claret he'd drunk. Even had the girl been there he would not have been able to raise his flag. But Horatio's breathing was becoming increasingly desperate, the motions of his hands as he clutched at Archie's flanks increasingly rough - and then suddenly Horatio gasped, "Forgive me," and pushed himself away.
"'s all right. Feels good. Your hands." Archie had rolled to his back and tried to pull Horatio closer, and just thinking about it now he felt the blood rushing to his face, Christ, where had he found the courage to do that?
"You should sleep," came Horatio's unsteady voice.
And so that was what he did, feigned sleep, took deep and steady breaths. But his head was beginning to clear, and he listened closely, listened to Horatio's breathing go ragged again, to the rhythmic motion of his hand, to his quiet, choked-off gasp. The mattress shifted minutely, and then he must have fallen truly asleep.
"Are you capable of a soft egg?" said Horatio from the doorway.
His stomach churned. "Christ, no."
"Perhaps in a while, then" said Horatio, crossing to him. "You must take some water, at least." Archie took the pitcher from his hands and drunk greedily. "I am sure you regret being so immoderate."
"Completely," said Archie. Not at all, he thought. Not at all.