The Very Little While.
May. 9th, 2006 01:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quigonejinnStarted a long-ass time ago. Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
black_hound for the historical pointer and the general encouragement.
It took a long time for Hornblower to touch Bush again after Gracay: they had been friends of that sort for a long time. There was no regularity it, but it had always been there. Those two nights in Kingston were spent as much with each other, sometimes a girl between them, sometimes not, as at the gambling tables. Once on Coiba, quiet as thieves despite the racket of an equatorial forest at night, and even once while the Lydia was manning and running on a skeleton crew, and Bush went into the stern cabin and found his captain sitting in the darkness, getting ready to sleep on his coat and a cloak because he did not want to go back to shore.
It took a long time for Hornblower to touch Bush again after Gracay, and this is why: he was in the habit of coming to see Bush before he turned in for the night upstairs, and on one particular night, when most of the house was already asleep, Hornblower came in and, in a strange mood, locked the door behind him.
Bush was sitting on the edge of his bed. He had been staring at one of the few English books that the Comte had in his library, but he looked up from it when Hornblower came in, and he put it away entirely when Hornblower came to stand by him. They said a few words to each other, and when Bush looked up that time, that night, Hornblower found that there was a strange lump in his throat. It was hard for to speak, and Bush was looking at him in that quiet, steady way that Hornblower remembered from the quarterdeck of the Sutherland. He had seen it on the Lydia, and the Hotspur before that. The Renown, too, though most of his recollections of Bush from that period were actually from the fort that they had stormed together. There had also been that terrible moment on the deck where Hornblower thought that Bush was dead.
That had been the last time that Bush actually had been in command over him, and with Bush looking at him like that, quiet and expectant and waiting for orders, Hornblower got down on his knees.
Bush opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it again, and together, they got Bush's trousers down to his knees -- the knotted-up end of the trouser made a soft noise when it hit the floor, and then Hornblower took Bush in his mouth. They were two friends, after all, and they were far away from the Navy and the Articles of War. The odds were that they would never see England again, and even though Bush would look at him like Hornblower was still his captain, that did not mean very much to Hornblower at this moment. He put his lips around Bush, pressed his tongue underneath, and heard Bush sigh. Bush put a hand in Hornblower's hair, sighed again, and the sound made Hornblower shift a little on the floor.
All Bush was wearing now was an old shirt. If he raised his eyes a little, Hornblower could see thrugh the linen. Bush's ribs -- scars, the stomach rising and falling with Bush's breathing, and Hornblower pressed his mouth a little closer. He laid his tongue alongside underneath again, moved it a little against Bush. It tasted and felt much as the rest of him did. Smooth, faintly salty, and ventually, the hand that Bush had in his hair slid back until it was almost holding Hornblower by the nape.
And then, tentatively at first, more strongly when it became clear that Hornblower would let him do it, Bush began to move Hornblower's mouth. He had fingers tucked almost into the hair where it went into the tie that Hornblower used to keep his hair back, and tenatively, more strongly, pushing Hornblower's head down, then pulling it back up. Slow, steady strokes. That hand in his hair. Hornblower closed his eyes, felt his mouth move without any effort on his own part, smooth skin under his lips, and there was Bush's breathing. There was Bush's hand, and the heat between Hornblower's legs grew until he could feel it crawling up his back and down his thighs like a living thing. He moaned around the prick in his mouth, but he barely heard himself through the haze.
In fact, Hornblower wasn't aware how hard he was had been gripping the side of the bed until Bush took his hand away.
Hornblower must have made a noise when he looked up.
"Perhaps if we -- " Bush said.
Bush was still mostly soft. He looked apologetic, and it would have hurt Hornblower's vanity more if he hadn't been so dizzy from being close to another human being, from forgetting his loneliness for a little while, and then, somehow, he'd gotten his own shirt and jacket off, kicked his breeches under the bed, and Bush was on his hands and knees on the bed.
There were scars on his ribs. There were scars on his back from the Spanish rebellion about the Renown. There was a seam along his side from where he'd gotten in a boarding action at Trafalgar and been so fighting-mad that he had not known it until after he'd been given a prize command and found blood running down his ribs, onto his legs. Hornblower had heard the story during that night in Coiba; otherwise, he would have assumed that it was another one of the Renown scars. Gone to his grave thinking that. He ran his fingers down it, kissed the back of Bush's neck, and after spitting in his palm, Hornblower realized that he had forgotten what it felt like to be inside another person.
He had Bush by the hips, and it was hard to go slowly and just not push all the way in. Hot and tight -- Bush was always warmer in the arms than a woman, and Hornblower had no idea why. Maybe, possibly, it was the uniform with the heavy wool coat and shirt and stock, but that could not be the reason now, and when he ran his hands over those old scars of Bush's, felt how they were, through mysterious means, even hotter than the rest of Bush's skin, he heard Bush sigh and saw that his own hands were shaking. He tried, then, as he had every time that they had done this before, to reach his hand down to put around Bush, but Bush pushed his hand away. Hornblower tried again, thinking that it might have been a mistake, but Bush pushed Hornblower's hand well away.
Bush was still soft. This had never happened before, and Hornblower watched as those broad shoulders sagged a little and Bush dropped his head again. His queue slipped off his neck and fell so that it lay by his jaw, and Bush held very still.
Dizzy as he was, Hornblower would have said something. He was even reaching over to pull Bush off of him, but Bush made a determined effort. He slid back, making a noise in his throat, and the heat and the warmth, the sight and the body of an old lover was too much. He remembered broad shoulders, had seen those narrow hips and that same pattern of scars during too many happy times. Bush moved again; Hornblower cried out a little, and it only took a little more before Hornblower was fucking Bush from behind so hard that the bed moved. Bush had to put a hand out against the wall to keep him from being shoved up into it; Hornblower pressed Bush's legs apart more and more widely, and he eventually put a hand on Bush's not to hold him still, but so that he could use the leverage to fuck him harder.
Eventually, Bush let out a noise, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, and Hornblower finished utterly out of breath. He was gasping and biting his lip to keep from shouting at how good it felt; he had to make a conscious effort to get his fingers uncurl from Bush's hip. He was panting so hard that the lamp by the bed wobbled before his eyes, and he had the feeling that he was smiling.
When he saw the look that Bush had on his face before managed Bush to hide it, though, it wiped all the joy from Hornblower: for once, Hornblower read Bush correctly. Fear, grief. Shame. A great deal of shame, more fear, more fear, in fact, that Hornblower had ever seen on the most fearless man he knew, and when Hornblower saw how Bush wiped his face clean and tried to look calm, try to make one of those stumbling speeches, things came tumbling back. The look that Bush had given him at the start, quiet, waiting for orders. The sight of him on his hands and knees, head down and waiting and silent, scars on him front and back, and the the stump making for a grotesque ending on what should have been a foot.
Hornblower had not noticed it before. He felt ill with self-hatred, and they lay together in bed for a while afterwards, but eventually, Hornblower dressed, unlocked the door. Whatever they had done before, they had done it as friends, but now, he went back to his bed.
It took a long time for Hornblower to touch Bush again after Gracay: he never wanted to risk Bush wearing that expression again. It took, in fact, until a particular night in Le Havre, a year after Bush had begun commanding the Nonsuch on his own and a little while, a very little while, before Caudebec.
black_hound for the historical pointer and the general encouragement. The unhappiness had a special quality; Hornblower, laying aside his newspaper to look up at the play of shadows on the bedtester, suddenly realised he was lonely. He wanted company. He wanted friendship. Much more than that, he wanted comforting, he wanted affection.
It took a long time for Hornblower to touch Bush again after Gracay: they had been friends of that sort for a long time. There was no regularity it, but it had always been there. Those two nights in Kingston were spent as much with each other, sometimes a girl between them, sometimes not, as at the gambling tables. Once on Coiba, quiet as thieves despite the racket of an equatorial forest at night, and even once while the Lydia was manning and running on a skeleton crew, and Bush went into the stern cabin and found his captain sitting in the darkness, getting ready to sleep on his coat and a cloak because he did not want to go back to shore.
It took a long time for Hornblower to touch Bush again after Gracay, and this is why: he was in the habit of coming to see Bush before he turned in for the night upstairs, and on one particular night, when most of the house was already asleep, Hornblower came in and, in a strange mood, locked the door behind him.
Bush was sitting on the edge of his bed. He had been staring at one of the few English books that the Comte had in his library, but he looked up from it when Hornblower came in, and he put it away entirely when Hornblower came to stand by him. They said a few words to each other, and when Bush looked up that time, that night, Hornblower found that there was a strange lump in his throat. It was hard for to speak, and Bush was looking at him in that quiet, steady way that Hornblower remembered from the quarterdeck of the Sutherland. He had seen it on the Lydia, and the Hotspur before that. The Renown, too, though most of his recollections of Bush from that period were actually from the fort that they had stormed together. There had also been that terrible moment on the deck where Hornblower thought that Bush was dead.
That had been the last time that Bush actually had been in command over him, and with Bush looking at him like that, quiet and expectant and waiting for orders, Hornblower got down on his knees.
Bush opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it again, and together, they got Bush's trousers down to his knees -- the knotted-up end of the trouser made a soft noise when it hit the floor, and then Hornblower took Bush in his mouth. They were two friends, after all, and they were far away from the Navy and the Articles of War. The odds were that they would never see England again, and even though Bush would look at him like Hornblower was still his captain, that did not mean very much to Hornblower at this moment. He put his lips around Bush, pressed his tongue underneath, and heard Bush sigh. Bush put a hand in Hornblower's hair, sighed again, and the sound made Hornblower shift a little on the floor.
All Bush was wearing now was an old shirt. If he raised his eyes a little, Hornblower could see thrugh the linen. Bush's ribs -- scars, the stomach rising and falling with Bush's breathing, and Hornblower pressed his mouth a little closer. He laid his tongue alongside underneath again, moved it a little against Bush. It tasted and felt much as the rest of him did. Smooth, faintly salty, and ventually, the hand that Bush had in his hair slid back until it was almost holding Hornblower by the nape.
And then, tentatively at first, more strongly when it became clear that Hornblower would let him do it, Bush began to move Hornblower's mouth. He had fingers tucked almost into the hair where it went into the tie that Hornblower used to keep his hair back, and tenatively, more strongly, pushing Hornblower's head down, then pulling it back up. Slow, steady strokes. That hand in his hair. Hornblower closed his eyes, felt his mouth move without any effort on his own part, smooth skin under his lips, and there was Bush's breathing. There was Bush's hand, and the heat between Hornblower's legs grew until he could feel it crawling up his back and down his thighs like a living thing. He moaned around the prick in his mouth, but he barely heard himself through the haze.
In fact, Hornblower wasn't aware how hard he was had been gripping the side of the bed until Bush took his hand away.
Hornblower must have made a noise when he looked up.
"Perhaps if we -- " Bush said.
Bush was still mostly soft. He looked apologetic, and it would have hurt Hornblower's vanity more if he hadn't been so dizzy from being close to another human being, from forgetting his loneliness for a little while, and then, somehow, he'd gotten his own shirt and jacket off, kicked his breeches under the bed, and Bush was on his hands and knees on the bed.
There were scars on his ribs. There were scars on his back from the Spanish rebellion about the Renown. There was a seam along his side from where he'd gotten in a boarding action at Trafalgar and been so fighting-mad that he had not known it until after he'd been given a prize command and found blood running down his ribs, onto his legs. Hornblower had heard the story during that night in Coiba; otherwise, he would have assumed that it was another one of the Renown scars. Gone to his grave thinking that. He ran his fingers down it, kissed the back of Bush's neck, and after spitting in his palm, Hornblower realized that he had forgotten what it felt like to be inside another person.
He had Bush by the hips, and it was hard to go slowly and just not push all the way in. Hot and tight -- Bush was always warmer in the arms than a woman, and Hornblower had no idea why. Maybe, possibly, it was the uniform with the heavy wool coat and shirt and stock, but that could not be the reason now, and when he ran his hands over those old scars of Bush's, felt how they were, through mysterious means, even hotter than the rest of Bush's skin, he heard Bush sigh and saw that his own hands were shaking. He tried, then, as he had every time that they had done this before, to reach his hand down to put around Bush, but Bush pushed his hand away. Hornblower tried again, thinking that it might have been a mistake, but Bush pushed Hornblower's hand well away.
Bush was still soft. This had never happened before, and Hornblower watched as those broad shoulders sagged a little and Bush dropped his head again. His queue slipped off his neck and fell so that it lay by his jaw, and Bush held very still.
Dizzy as he was, Hornblower would have said something. He was even reaching over to pull Bush off of him, but Bush made a determined effort. He slid back, making a noise in his throat, and the heat and the warmth, the sight and the body of an old lover was too much. He remembered broad shoulders, had seen those narrow hips and that same pattern of scars during too many happy times. Bush moved again; Hornblower cried out a little, and it only took a little more before Hornblower was fucking Bush from behind so hard that the bed moved. Bush had to put a hand out against the wall to keep him from being shoved up into it; Hornblower pressed Bush's legs apart more and more widely, and he eventually put a hand on Bush's not to hold him still, but so that he could use the leverage to fuck him harder.
Eventually, Bush let out a noise, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, and Hornblower finished utterly out of breath. He was gasping and biting his lip to keep from shouting at how good it felt; he had to make a conscious effort to get his fingers uncurl from Bush's hip. He was panting so hard that the lamp by the bed wobbled before his eyes, and he had the feeling that he was smiling.
When he saw the look that Bush had on his face before managed Bush to hide it, though, it wiped all the joy from Hornblower: for once, Hornblower read Bush correctly. Fear, grief. Shame. A great deal of shame, more fear, more fear, in fact, that Hornblower had ever seen on the most fearless man he knew, and when Hornblower saw how Bush wiped his face clean and tried to look calm, try to make one of those stumbling speeches, things came tumbling back. The look that Bush had given him at the start, quiet, waiting for orders. The sight of him on his hands and knees, head down and waiting and silent, scars on him front and back, and the the stump making for a grotesque ending on what should have been a foot.
Hornblower had not noticed it before. He felt ill with self-hatred, and they lay together in bed for a while afterwards, but eventually, Hornblower dressed, unlocked the door. Whatever they had done before, they had done it as friends, but now, he went back to his bed.
It took a long time for Hornblower to touch Bush again after Gracay: he never wanted to risk Bush wearing that expression again. It took, in fact, until a particular night in Le Havre, a year after Bush had begun commanding the Nonsuch on his own and a little while, a very little while, before Caudebec.
He wanted his breakfast, but he wanted news of Bush even more.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-09 11:37 pm (UTC)That bit is so amazing; the words, the structure. This is wonderful, balanced, sharp fic. I love that you undercut the sex with their disconnection, and the fact that Bush couldn't get hard -- even for Horatio, because of Horatio. Also the little bits of Hornblower rationalisation: They were two friends, after all.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-10 10:41 pm (UTC)And er, that sentence made no fucking sense, but I'm glad that you got the sense of offsetting and all that. I would write a more coherent, responsive feedback, but I jut finihed watching a movie that features not one but two sex cenes and all kinds of Sleeping Murder kind of noises for NINETY MINUTES and looking at his movie-wife with Ewan-type adoration and;lkgjdfhgdf. Oh