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“What’s the worst of it, Collins, that you would be willing to share? It might help to say it out loud.”
He could feel the gentle pressure of Doctor Goodsir’s hand in the centre of his back. He couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him for any other reason than practicality and necessity, and Goodsir’s proximity was intoxicating for more than one reason.
“I’ve tried, Sir,” Henry responded, hands shaking. He had tried inasmuch as he had imagined it. He had whispered to himself, standing on deck at watch - Ever since I came back up from under the water I haven’t been right. Something down there rearranged me body and soul. I am so hungry, I am so hungry for things unspeakable and I cannot live with myself but I also fear I cannot die.
“W-well, you haven’t tried with me.”
Oh, the things he had wanted to try with Doctor Goodsir. From the early days on the ship he had been so different from the rest. Sweet natured and kind, the contrast especially sharp when he stood next to Doctor Stanley, who had inadvertently been the one to show Henry what it was he so craved.
As men fled for their lives from the flames at Carnivale, Henry had smelled it. The blood. He could hear the hearts of the men around him thudding in desperation, and he had been ravenous. He had never been so hungry. In the madness he had let himself drink, just once from a man whose face he could not look at, and his satiation was brief. It was horror that flooded him instead, terror that carved him out and left him a hollowed out man, all emptiness and echoes.
Yes, he had wanted to try things with the good, kind Doctor. In the early days Henry imagined sitting next to him, just enjoying hearing him talk about whatever had caught his fancy that day. And then later, as the days got shorter, Henry thought about touching Goodsir's hand, then holding him close. Kissing him. More than that. Everything.
On his darkest days, both before going below and after, he imagined a sunny cottage back in Kent, far away from prying eyes and so quiet, except for Goodsir’s quiet voice, quiet touches and quiet glances and at night, a single bed.
Henry was suddenly acutely aware of how Goodsir smelled, so close to him now. He was aware of the pace of his heartbeat, the way his blood thrummed against the thin, pale skin of his throat.
Henry’s skin prickled. His whole body lurched with need. He shook his head and backed away from Goodsir, retreating into his tent.
He was overheated in his need. He began to pull at his great coat, his jumper. He bit down on his tongue, trying to calm himself.
“Collins?”
Henry hadn’t heard Goodsir follow him in. The doctor put his lantern down gently, and kept one hand up, as if Henry was an animal who needed to be calmed. He almost laughed at the thought. He was an animal, and Goodsir had no idea.
“Please,” he said.
What Henry had meant was, Please leave. Please get as far away from me as you can. I’ve gone strange and I can’t tell horrible from supper. But that, evidently, was not what Goodsir heard.
“I’m here, Collins.” Goodsir removed his overcoat. “Or would you prefer Henry?”
At the sound of his Christian name, Henry could have wept. Was Goodsir determined to strip away all of his resolve? In the small tent, in which they could both only just stand with the tops of their heads brushing the canvas, Goodsir’s scent was overwhelming, his presence so much larger than his small frame suggested.
“Doctor,” Henry said, with a whimper better suited to a dog.
“Harry. Why don’t you call me Harry?” Goodsir — Harry — took a step closer to Henry. “I’m finding I have much less time for formalities out here on the ice. Don’t you think?”
He was too close, and Henry needed too much. He closed the distance between them, taking Harry’s hips in his hands and burying his face into the place where Harry’s collar opened. Henry inhaled and could almost taste him.
Harry squirmed slightly against him, in surprise or discomfort Henry didn’t know, but he barely moved. Henry was stronger now too, had been since…
“Henry,” Harry said, and his voice was lower, darker, than it normally was, and Henry was struck with the realization that Harry’s particular kindness had perhaps been a kindness towards him in particular.
Some deeper part of him was desperate to linger here. To get Harry to use that voice again, to say Henry’s name, to revel in the sensation of the warmth of Harry’s frame against his.
But he was so, so hungry.
He licked a stripe from Harry’s collarbone to the place his pulse beat rapidly under his chin and Harry jerked his head back in surprise. Henry anchored one of his hands into Harry’s remarkably soft curls.
“Henry, what-” Harry struggled against him for only a second, but stopped when Henry’s teeth, his rapidly lengthening and sharpening canines teased at the tendons in Harry’s throat.
“I’m sorry,” Henry muttered onto Harry’s skin before he broke it, before he began to drink of this man who was so kind, sweet, and gentle. It was beautiful, the taste of it. A gorgeous silken heat that coated the inside of his mouth and warmed every one of his extremities. He’d never had anything like it on his tongue ever in his whole life, this manna from heaven. He never wanted anything else to pass his lips again.
If Henry had had more control about him, he would’ve been concerned that Harry would call out. The man at Carnivale had, he had screamed in fact, but no one had noticed amongst the chaos. He’d pushed against Henry and struggled until he’d been too weak.
It wasn’t until Harry’s blood was rushing down his throat that Henry realized Harry wasn't struggling. Nor did he cry out in fear. No. Harry was giving in.
Then Henry felt it.
As he’d broken Harry’s skin, he’d moved his thigh in between Harry’s legs instinctively, to hold him up for when he inevitably began to fail. But against his thigh, his hip, Harry had begun to rut. Henry could feel Harry's yard though his trousers, hard and pressing into him.
With blood in his belly he was more in control and Henry drew back, pressing his thumb to the place where Harry’s blood welled up. Harry’s face was tipped back, eyes closed and lips parted, in what could have been ecstasy. He rubbed against Henry again and let out a small groan.
With his own answering moan, Henry shifted his hand from Harry’s waist to his arse, and began to assist Harry’s movements, increasing the pace. Harry’s eyes flew open but his focus was muzzy. He couldn’t land on a single place on Henry’s face, instead letting his gaze trail across his features.
Henry felt more himself now than he had in months, in years, maybe ever. He felt better than himself. He had fed of a man willing and unafraid and had controlled himself enough to leave him alive. And now that man, whom Henry had watched and dreamt of, was chasing his pleasure against Henry’s thigh.
“That’s it,” Henry said, with uncommon confidence. “Please, Harry.”
Harry’s hands squeezed Henry’s biceps weakly, and bit by bit he gave in even more to Henry, giving him all of his weight. Harry bit his bottom lip, and then his eyes landed and stayed on Henry’s mouth.
“You… you drank…” Harry’s fingers touched Henry’s lips, and that’s when he realized they were still coated in Harry's blood. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like, a monster, worse than the one that hunted them still. But Harry’s fingers lingered at Henry’s lips, and Henry found he wanted to kiss them, and so he did.
Harry’s face tightened and his body convulsed. His legs closed on Henry’s thigh and he moaned Henry’s name through his soft mouth. Henry had never seen something so lovely, and he was responsible for it.
He held Harry to him as Harry’s frame relaxed. Harry held him too, gently, still.
There would be no cottage in Kent, but there could be this. Just for a moment, there could be this.