Title: Goodnight Noises Everywhere
Word Count 1480
Rating R for dreadful smut
Goodnight Noises Everywhere
I was thinking about the silver razor, actually. About the things that we bring with us from place to place, what we loose, what we keep. I did not mean the whole thing to go to smut.
Horatio blinked. The lamp was lit, and his sleepy eyes saw strange halos in the light and shadows. His sleepy mind listed the things in the room-- he had done this a child, when he could not sleep. It was an old game for him. 'This is my toy horse, this is my book, this is my little white chair...' He had little trouble sleeping now, but he played the game anyway. He counted Archie's things too.
There, hung to dry, on their little clothesline, Archie's drawers. (These were the most recent ones, best-drawers, as yet with no patches. He had received them from his mother, six months back, for his birthday. He had worn them yesterday under his dress uniform, as yesterday had been Sunday.)
There over the back of the chair, Archie's jacket. Horatio's was one the back of the door.
There, on the desk, his silver razor in its oblong case. It was a lovely thing, one of the few lovely things he had brought from home. Archie's father had sent it to him, from Ayrshire, when Archie was new on Justinian. When Horatio pictured Archie's family home he imagined it full of items as lovely and fine as the silver razor.
There, half under the blanket, Archie's collected works of Marlowe. The calfskin binding was worn, thin, so soft that it felt to the hand, like nothing at all. He could only feel the texture of it with with the more knowing skin of his face. He had not done that in a long time. There was a gull feather serving as a bookmark. Horatio did not have to touch the book now to know the feel of it, he had touched the outside often enough when they had been apart, (torn apart, torn to pieces,) he had been able to do that much, though he could not bear to read it. They had come once, to take Archie's things away. He had bared his teeth and said something that made them leave. And so, the little sea-chest had stayed put, and the book in it. But the book had not any trace of specific human, specific beloved. Only Archie's name inked in the front with a date 6 years back now. It had smelled like any book, it had been devoid of any comfort.
It had not, as the shirts had, smelled of Archie specifically. There had been a shirt, gone now, with which he had-- with which he had comforted himself. He had slept with it, wept into it, thrust himself into the folds of it, sobbing even as his bodily need betrayed his heart.
All done now. Archie had come back, the shirt had gone over side with no ceremony. It had not even been worth saving as a rag. And Archie had some idea of course. He had found out. He found out most things about Horatio, one way or another. 'You committed solitary indecencies into my shirt?' He had teased Horatio about it, but his eyes had been watchful and sad even so. And of course one could not say: 'Poor me, I had such a miserable lonely time, safe here on the ship, while you were starving in prison.'
But all done now, all done and over.
All done and over, and no need to speak or think of it. The here and now was enough. And now, distant and thin, he heard the bell, for the change of watch. He wiggled himself lower in his hammock and smiled. Two minutes by the beat of his heart, and Archie's step in the passageway. The door opened. He watched Archie undress, golden in the flickering light. He waited to see Archie sling his own hammock, but Archie did not do that.
“Asleep Horatio?” Archie's voice was soft in case he was.
“No.” Horatio's voice was soft in return. “Waiting for you.”
And Archie came close to kneel by the edge of the hammock, and he folded the wool blanket back, and his hands were warm on Horatio's skin. Archie's breath was sweet on the hollow of Horatio's neck, and Horatio's shiver stilled with the press of that kind mouth.
“No don't get up. Just let me.” Archie's voice was jagged. He pressed gently to keep Horatio still.
The hands were under Horatio's nightshirt now, touching his collarbone, his chest, his side. Archie drew the shirt up and away as Horatio wiggled free of it, The blanket was over the side as quickly, and Horatio bare in the lamplight.
“Did you lock the door?”
And Archie's voice was dark with promise, and the sound of it, the touch, was moving lower now, over his hitching belly, gentle in his lower hair, delicious and slow, and not where he needed it so. Archie's eyes were wide and watching, Looking was its own caress, and it made Horatio throb.
“Yes, Horatio. I mean to please you.”
A kiss then, tasting of galley coffee, and Horatio whined against the push of tongue and lips. He lifted his hips, but the hand was warm on his belly now, too high, and he squirmed like a cutworm to bring it to his cock. He felt the puff of laughter against his skin, and then the hand, the hand just right. The hand, oh, stroking him, and Archie's fingers in his mouth now, for him to bite and suckle, and to muffle the sounds he could not help.
“Want you inside me--” Horatio said.
Archie nodded, and his hand slowed, stilled, lifted away.
“Come down here then--” Archie's voice was a whisper, and he was gripping his own cock now, not stroking it, but clapped on, as if to stanch a wound. Horatio did not think he was aware of it.
Horatio scrambled down to the blanket. Archie had the little jar now, and seeing it in his hand tightened everything inside. Horatio closed his eyes, and shivered.
Archie was always careful to apply the contents of the little jar, to slick Horatio, and himself too. But Archie would not need much now. His cock, peeked from his encircling hand, red, swollen, gleaming with spend. Horatio, closer now, could see that Archie too was trembling.
There now, the touch of fingers, stroking, sliding. His hips lifted to follow them, he could not help it. There were nights when they rolled and wrestled, bit and growled, when play led to love, when they were bruised and wry at breakfast. But Archie was never rough here, his touch on this place was as light as he could make it.
“Please--” Horatio said again.
And the fingers pushed gently within him, And he was pushing too, helping them forward until they came to the good place, the sweet place, and all was heat and clench within Horatio, but Archie, watching, seemed to know, seemed always to know. And the stroking within was all at the good place now, and his own fingers in his own mouth because he was going to cry out. And Archie must have let go of himself, because he had Horatio's cock in his other hand, and Horatio no longer knew if he was struggling toward the pleasure or away from it.
But it could not last, he had only moments now.
“Now. Do it now.”
He reached for Archie, drew him down, close. The heat and strength covered him, his own heat and strength pushed back to bring them together. Archie's hands under him lifting, and at last, at last, Archie sliding into him.
And Archie was over him, propped on his hands, and his eyes were dark, and his mouth was panting, and his hair had fallen loose to shield them both. And it was aching, aching. He pushed up sharp as it broke over him. Archie held him tight, and stilled himself as Horatio shivered and bucked.
“There, Honeybee. There.” His voice was soft and gruff.
“You. You haven't--”
Horatio was driving it forward now, moving under Archie, reaching up to touch the open mouth, the flushed cheeks. He felt the rhythm break. Archie's voice in his his ear, words snagged high on a sob.
And it was done, and he drew Archie down against him, limp and damp and heavy.
Morning would come, sooner than either of them wished. But there was time to sleep, here on their little blanket. The ship rolled under them, and the night sky rolled over them, and there was plenty of time.