Work Text:
3 May, 1870
It was still dark when Harry was awakened by cold air finding its way under his blanket. He listened for a moment to his surroundings and, finding the room silent, he turned around to find the other side of the bed empty. There was a dip in the pillow and blankets laid pushed to the side and wrinkled. Harry extended his hand and felt the bedsheet. Some warmth still lingered there, Henry had to get up recently.
He had a habit of getting up at night. Harry would wake up at a sudden absence by his side and hear Henry’s footsteps on the stairs, the back door being open and the creaking hinge of the privy. From time to time, on his way back, Henry would wander into the pantry and help himself to whatever sweets Margaret left there for later.
‘Don’t you have something sweeter awaiting you in your bed?’ Harry would ask in the morning, plucking the crumbs out of his beard.
‘As if,’ Henry would grumble. ‘At least the sponge cake doesn’t say, not now, Henry, I need to get up early .’
‘We both do, so better make haste,’ Harry would tell him, pulling his nightshirt up to his waist and watching, amused, as Henry struggled with too many buttons.
There were those other nights too. Bad nights, when dark, mingled thoughts came to plague Henry and he would pace the downstairs hall back and forth, smoking his pipe. On those nights Henry would sneak out of bed quietly, after, Harry suspected, laying sleepless for some time.
‘Don’t wait for me,’ he would say if he saw him lift his head from the pillow. ‘I need to clear my head.’
Awaken, Harry would crack the bedroom door open and listen to his footsteps faintly echoing on the staircase. Once, upon finding Henry’s side of the bed empty and worry gnawing at him more bitterly than usual, Harry had gone downstairs, chamberstick in hand, to offer his help or company.
‘It’s not as good as laudanum,’ Henry had told him then. ‘And certainly not as good as the wine of coca, but it helps somewhat and I’m better off with it in the long run.’
Harry had gone back to bed that night with an acute sense of helplessness.
The morning chill started getting to Harry again, making him shiver, so he pulled his blanket tighter around himself. That would have to do until his source of warmth returned. May had barely begun and cold weather returned, almost a fortnight ahead of the Ice Saints, with occasional bouts of ground frost in the mornings that made Henry worry for his roses.
He had to nod off for a while because the night started to disperse somewhat, pitch black around him had turned dark grey, when the door creaked quietly and Henry slipped into the bedroom.
‘Good morning,’ Henry said, carefully closing the door behind him. ‘Did I wake you up?’
Harry rubbed his face and nodded. ‘Have you been up long?’ he asked.
‘Flossie came here earlier to tell me she wanted out,’ Henry said, taking his dressing gown off and putting it over the back of a chair. ‘There’s a nightingale up the tree. I listened to him sing for a while.’
Harry lifted the covers to let him in but Henry ignored the gesture and, instead opened the window and leaned out.
‘You can hear him from here,’ he said after listening for a moment. The bird indeed sang; his loud and clear mating call carried far in the quiet of the dawn. ‘Clouds have dispersed and you can even see the waxing moon. I think we’re going to have some sunshine today, finally.’
Morning air, brisk and wet with dew quickly filled the room and Harry pulled the covers back, sealing them tightly around himself like a cocoon.
‘Aren't you cold?’ he asked, watching Henry with tender amusement. ‘You must feel the draft, surely,’
‘What draft?’
‘The dra - never mind, just come here. And close the window.’
Henry did as asked. He wore, to Harry’s chagrin, a monstrosity made of red flannel, that Americans apparently called a union suit. His brother-in-law had recommended and his sister sent him two, by his request.
When the parcel had finally arrived, Henry, quite delighted, brought it to the drawing room and unpacked it on the table there, unfurling the garment like a flag about to be put on a mast then giving it a good shake and putting it to his body to measure sleeves and legs against his limbs.
‘Should fit,’ he decided and prompted Margaret to state her judgments.
‘If you like it,’ Margaret had said at first sounding somewhat sceptical and then, shrugging her shoulders, added, ‘Never mind what I think. It’s between you and the washerwoman.’
‘Oh, I know, Maggie!’ Henry called to her, not discouraged by her lukewarm response. ‘You could put my monogram on it, that would look nice. What do you think?’
‘And where am I supposed to put it?’ Margaret asked.
‘You decide, you know best.’ He had turned to Harry then, expecting an opinion from him too.
‘It doesn’t seem practical,’ Harry had started carefully not wanting to spoil Henry’s joy but also wanting the thing repacked and sent back to the country of its origin. ‘Those buttons at the front. Imagine doing and undoing them all the time. It seems tedious.’
Henry had quickly counted the white buttons one by one under his breath, with the garment still draped against his body. ‘You just do it once a day,’ he said. ‘Not that much of a hassle.’
‘Wouldn’t it be rather inconvenient while, you know-’ Harry had trailed off and given Margaret a quick glance, wary not to offend or embarrass but she hadn’t seemed either. Rather, she had looked quite amused, beholding the scene with raised eyebrows and a crooked grin that reminded him so much of Henry’s.
‘You unbutton those two or three at the bottom and you’re ready,’ Henry had stated.
‘No, I meant -’ Harry had started but Henry lifted a finger, stopping him mid-sentence, as if the red flannel had been about to uncover some new wonder. He had flipped the garment backwards and with joy proclaimed, ‘It has a flap!’
The said flap, placed conveniently at the seat and sporting a noticeable darn where Henry had tried to carefully extract his initials with scissors, was hanging limp on one side. One of the buttons had come loose and hung on a single thread revealing a portion of a pale buttock.
‘Turn around,’ Harry said and, just as Henry did, he grabbed the button and yanked it off. ‘This draft.’
‘Oh, thanks galore!’ Henry called looking down over his shoulder, surveying the damage Harry had done. ‘And on my birthday no less.’
‘It was coming off anyway,’ Harry said, giving Henry his button back to put safely away. ‘I promise I’ll sew it back on myself, just come back to bed. It’s cold without you.’
‘You’d better because I surely won’t let Maggie do it.’ Henry grumbled under his breath climbing back to bed and Harry put his arm around him and cuddled close, fitting his body to Henry’s.
Funny, how easily they could fit together like that without much tossing and turning and how easily they fell back into the habit of doing so. It made him think of those pictures Henry cut out of periodicals and glued onto stiffer paper only to cut them into intricately shaped pieces. He kept them in a box, with other toys, for when his nieces and nephews visited. Children took great joy in piecing those pictures together, he had explained to Harry and there had to be something to it because he rather enjoyed the afternoon he and Henry had spent putting them together.
‘Oh, you feel cold,’ Harry said, running his hand up and down Henry’s arm, trying to get rid of the chill still clinging to him. He put his nose to the back of Henry’s head and inhaled deeply. The crisp smell of spring in full bloom lingered there, tangled in his hair.
‘I’m not,’ Henry said, relaxing under the touch. ‘I…I needed to think.’
‘About what?’
Henry took a deep breath before answering.
‘Since it’s my birthday,’ he started. ‘And on such occasions one feels the passage of time more acutely I -’ he broke for a moment as if trying to find the right words. ‘I have my will made. I’m sure you’re aware of it.’
Harry hummed in confirmation, unsure where Henry was going.
‘I made bequests for all my sisters and for William, too. Most of it will go to Margaret. I don’t expect she’ll ever marry, and I don’t want her to live on anyone’s mercy after my death. You understand it, Harry, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Harry said and Henry continued.
‘I will not leave anything to you. At least not anything of monetary value.’
‘Henry, I really don’t expect -’
‘I know that, but if there’s anything, say, sentimental…’
‘You’re asking -’ Harry, utterly surprised, laughed. ‘Good heavens, I - I really don’t know, can’t think of anything…’
‘That’s all right,’ Henry said. ‘You don’t have to answer right now. Just tell me if you’ll think of something.’
Harry nodded, bemused still. Having come back from the Arctic with little more than the clothes on his back, he had never gotten to keep any material mementoes of Henry and of what they were to each other. No lock of hair, no letter, no gifted item, throughout the years they were apart he had only his memory to rely on.
But the memory was fickle and unpredictable. Many times he had wanted to see Henry as he saw him first, with windswept dark hair and cheeks reddened from sunshine; smiling, strong and hale. Instead, unbidden, visions came of the man lost and terrified whom he could bring no reprieve as a lover, a friend or a doctor.
And with the time passing, Harry had felt that, despite recalling it often, Henry's face seemed to be slipping out of his memory somehow. His features had been becoming less sharp and pronounced, as if obscured by fog, growing thicker as days went by.
He had him now, in the flesh, within the reach of his hand, returned to him by happenstance. The same man but changed with life, with time. Harry could not help but mourn their youth a little.
‘Robert still has my camera,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll take it back with me next time I visit.’ Henry moved, turned around under his arm to lay on his back and Harry lifted himself on his elbow to look at him. Grey-haired and with wrinkles that didn’t smooth out anymore when his face relaxed, he was just as handsome as when he had loved him the first time. ‘I’ll have you sit for a photograph,’ Harry said, running his fingers through his hair. ‘What do you think?’
‘If it’s something you wish for,’ Henry said.
Harry bent down and kissed him. ‘Yes, I’d like that very much,’ he said.
Outside the window the dawn was breaking, the rising sun was slowly adding colours to the world and the white buttons on Henry’s union suit shone against the red flannel. Harry pushed the topmost out of its hole.
‘Is there anything you’d like to keep If I go first?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact…If you haven’t promised it to anyone, your watch.’
‘My watch?’ Harry repeated, surprised. ‘No, I haven’t. May I ask why?’
‘It’s a bloody good watch,’ Henry said, grinning. ‘Still ticking after all these years.’
‘Truth.’ Harry smiled.
‘You’ve had it on you as long as I remember,’ Henry continued. ‘You had it when we first met, you brought it back from the Arctic, still working and hauled it twice across the world since.’
He put his hand on Harry’s. Warm and rough fingers folded under his own and squeezed gently before releasing them.
‘It does seem fitting, then.’ Harry agreed. ‘Although some parts of the work needed repairing or replacement. The chain is new…’ He splayed his palm on Henry’s chest, above his heart.
‘No one lives a life without changing,’ Henry said. ‘Especially after all we’ve been through.’
His pulse wasn’t as fast as it was in their youth, an inevitable change coming with age, but it was beating just as strong.
‘I didn’t upset you, Harry, did I? I want to have this matter settled in advance and not to cause any additional grief to Maggie or you when my time comes.’
‘Henry, Is there something you're not telling me?’ Harry asked, feeling sudden worry overcoming him.
Henry looked at him, brows knitted in confusion. ‘Goog God, no!’ he protested when he grasped his meaning. ‘I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. I think we are both holding up rather well for our age.’
Relieved, Harry went back to the buttons, opening another two and sneaking his hand under the fabric to stroke the hair there.
‘And what age is that?’ he asked, feeling still quite young himself, especially that there was time still to make a good use of the early morning.
‘Oh you know, we’re well settled in our lives.’ Henry stretched leisurely under his touch, watching him from half-closed eyes. ‘You’re done with your travels and I have a job I’ll stick to until I’m too old to work. We have fulfilled our duties and aspirations, and for those we didn’t, well, it’s too late now. There’s nothing for us to strive for anymore, only the rest of life to live, hopefully, long and comfortable.
‘Ah.’ Harry popped another button free, feeling Henry’s eyes on him, following his every movement. ‘That’s a very dejective outlook, Henry,’ he said.
‘So you disagree?’
‘Partly. What about debauchery?’ Harry countered.
Henry sat up and, grabbing him by the waist, tried to pull him closer, close the distance between their lips. Harry let him only to evade him smoothly at the last moment, to give him the thrill of a chase.
‘We can always strive to stoop lower in debauchery,’ he said.
‘So you say…’ Henry grinned and instead of taking the bait, he reached under Harry’s nightshirt and up his thigh, stopping there for a moment on his way to his favourite part of Harry’s body. ‘And I think I know what you have in mind.’
‘Do you, now?’
Henry nodded slowly. ‘You want to turn me around,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Bend me over and make use of that flap.’
‘I -’ Harry started before bursting into laughter. ‘I -’ he tried again. ‘Oh, good God.’
‘You hate it, don’t you?’ Henry said. The suit hung on him, half-open, revealing his broad chest covered in thick, greying hair and Harry took the opportunity to run his hand through it, skimming his pinky over one of the nipples.
‘I did,’ he said. ‘I have come to tolerate it by now.’
Downstairs, the clock, always mercilessly reliable, started ringing a full hour.
‘Five already,’ Henry said and sighed. ‘Either we’re doing it quickly or we’re having tea in bed.’
Harry sat up and, taking his head in both hands, kissed his forehead. ‘I’ll make it this time,’ he said. ‘It’s your birthday after all.’ He got out of the bed and put on the dressing gown; Henry’s, he didn’t bother with finding his own.
‘You know what age we are?’ Henry said. ‘I’ll tell you.’ He sat at the edge of the bed watching him put the dressing gown on and when Harry was about to tie up the belt he grabbed the hem of the gown and pulled him close. ‘We prioritise tea over buggery, Harry. We’re old.’
‘Oh come now, not all that old,’ Harry told him as Henry took to tying the belt into a neat bow. ‘If buggery is still a feasible option.
‘There,’ Henry said, done with the bow. He gave it a final tug and after releasing it he rested his hands on Harry’s behind.
‘You know what?’ Harry said, putting his hands on Henry’s shoulders. ‘It’s the first Tuesday of the month today.’
‘Yes. Maggie’s out for the evening.’
‘So, since we’re fending for ourselves tonight,’ Harry said. ‘I’m thinking, we could do something for your birthday.’
‘Yeah?’ Henry grinned up at him. ‘And what do you have in mind?’
‘Dinner and a pint or two at the pub.’ Harry said and Henry made an exaggerated frown. ‘Oh, disappointed?’
‘I was rather thinking about something more akin to what we did on your birthday,’ he said.
‘On my birthday? This year?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please, remind me what did we do, Henry?’
Henry squeezed his buttocks. ‘I told you I loved you,’ he said, grinning slyly.
‘Did you, now? Did you?’ Harry took Henry’s head in his hands, making him look straight up at him. ‘Henry Collins, on my birthday you came to me unannounced, in the middle of the day, wild-eyed and tousled, saying you didn’t have much time. And, because apparently what we had done the day before wasn’t enough for you, you took me right there on the sitting room floor -’
‘That’s the part I really had in mind. I only said -’ Henry interjected and Harry, his hands still holding Henry’s head in place, kissed him hard.
‘Do be quiet and listen,’ he ordered him. ‘You didn’t know it was my birthday, you didn’t remember. When we were done, you said “we are never doing it on the floor again” which very soon turned out to be a complete, utter lie. Afterwards, you stood there, useless, probably staring at my arse, as you do, while I was trying to fish my trouser button from under the settee. And only upon leaving, with your hand on the doorknob, you mumbled something while biting on your pipe. Until New Year’s eve I was - stop smiling, Henry - until then I was trying to decide if what I heard could really be “Harry, I love you” or if it was just my wishful thinking. Stop. It.’
‘I can’t,’ Henry said in a voice strained by suppressed laughter. ‘You’re smiling back.’
Harry kissed him again, but it only made him giggle.
‘So listen,’ Harry continued. ‘Tonight we’ll be decent. We’ll go to the pub, we’ll eat dinner there and we’ll drink for you. And then, when we’re back at home, I will keep you up all night. Does it sound like a decent birthday celebration to you?’
‘Yes, very much so,’ Henry agreed. ‘Only…Harry, dear, I need to be up early. Can we move the last part to Saturday night and sleep in on Sunday?’
‘Yes, Henry, we -’ Harry sighed. ‘We really are old, aren’t we.’
Harry ran his hand through Henry’s hair before smoothing it back, and all at once, Henry’s face grew serious.
‘It’s George’s birthday as well,’ Henry said.
‘I know, I remember.’
‘We’ll drink for him too.’
‘We will.’
‘And for John and Archie. If you’d like.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ Harry said, touching his cheek, running his thumb across the warm skin, bringing a small smile back to his face.
‘I’d better see to the tea when we still have time,’ he said and Henry let go of him, releasing him from the embrace.
‘Harry, I love you.’ Henry said, loud and clear, as Harry was about to open the door, leaving no room for any doubt.
‘I love you too, Henry,’ Harry replied. ‘Many happy returns.’