Work Text:
He slipped into Hodgson’s tent at night; the days were abhorrently long now, in the summer, so unlike England, but that disconcertion had fled for Tozer over the course of three years in the Arctic. They didn’t obey the sun, anyway. They stopped when Hickey said it was time to stop, and they walked when Hickey said it was time to walk. Tozer didn’t know how Hickey had any idea of what way to go, but it was him with which he’d thrown in his lot, for better or for worse, ‘til death did them part, as it were. Still, now the weary sun had sunk, and the shy moon hung in her place, peering down at Tozer with a silver curiosity as he crept across the shale, slipping behind the canvas flaps into the dim light.
The tent was mostly empty – it was a mockery really, another jeer by Hickey to have his pet lieutenant set up in a cardboard castle, watching him dance for his amusement. Hodgson wasn’t dancing now. He lay in the tent on a bedroll with his back to Tozer, a blanket drawn up around him halfway. He had made no move at his entry, even though he must have heard it.
Quietly, Tozer toed off his boots and, without asking for permission, slipped under the blanket behind Hodgson. Tentatively, he wound his arms around a torso that had once been slim, and now had taken on a skeletal aspect, obvious even through his layers and his greatcoat. Hodgson tensed at the contact, but made no sound, and Tozer wondered who he thought was behind him in that moment.
“’s just me.” The ‘sir’ crumbled into dust before it could breach his lips. Instead, he sunk down, resting his forehead against the nape of Hodgson’s neck. He smelled disgusting, unclean; they all did. Tozer didn’t draw away.
There was a long moment of silence, where Tozer listened only to the tandem of their breaths.
Eventually, Hodgson spoke.
“When I was at Eton,” he said quietly, “there was another boy there. He was obsessed with medical curiosities. He told me once, of a case he’d read about in…A Physical Dissertation on Drowning, I think it was called, wherein a man, having fallen from a boat, survived two hours underwater, alive. An account almost a hundred years old now, I believe…even as a child, I treated it with some scepticism. He told me, though, that when a body goes under cold water, the frigidity preserves its life through slowing down the functions of the corpus to a crawl.”
In the gaps between his words, their hearts rang out like bells in the silent night.
“I used to have so many thoughts – it drove John to distraction, you know. Never could get them in the right order, or say the appropriate one for the proper situation. Now…everything’s so low inside. One thought dominates.”
“Hunger.” Tozer whispered into the grimy skin of his neck.
Hodgson just lay there for a moment in dreadful, silent agreement.
“My hand hurts.” He said, dully.
They both knew what that hand had been exchanged for. When Hickey had made the proposition to Goodsir – Hodgson, in exchange for his reticence – Tozer had been selfishly angry at the surgeon for just standing there. It had been Hickey who made the threat, but Tozer couldn’t be angry at him, so it was with a misplaced vindictiveness that he’d thrust Goodsir’s apron into his chest, peril in his eyes as he looked into the man’s tired, grieving eyes. Later, later, he’d been in Goodsir’s shoes; he’d stood there as, at Hickey’s behest, Hoar had come up behind Hodgson, grabbing the back of his coat and twisting up one arm, while Des Voeux grabbed the fingers of his free hand and began to bend them back. He’d been paralytic in that moment, hadn’t known if his help would have been welcomed anymore, hadn’t known if he’d have moved if it had been.
Cowards, the both of them.
Tozer felt movement against him as Hodgson turned, their drawn, wrung-out faces an inch apart.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Hodgson whispered.
He wasn’t sure if Hodgson meant it as a rejection, or simply an acknowledgment of Hickey’s imposed hierarchy, his farce of respectful distance, giving their ‘commanding officer’ a tent all to himself, which only served to keep him alienated from the group, and cold in the freezing nights. Tozer’s hands clenched tighter in the back of Hodgson’s pea-coat.
“We shouldn’t be here.” They didn’t belong here. None of them did. Fuck queen, fuck country, fuck the fucking North-West fucking Passage. He wanted to be back in Liverpool, drinking shitty beer in a shitty pub while it poured with rain outside and Will mocked his terrible singing. He wanted to fall face-first into a rocking hammock, content in the knowledge that when the Lieutenant shouted at him in the morning for reporting in with a hangover, he’d be in good company with the rest of his lads. He wasn’t going to get any of that.
“I spoke with Goodsir.” Hodgson said, apropos of nothing, it seemed.
“I know.”
“I told him…I told him that I wanted to live.”
“’S every man’s right.”
“I want to live. I want to live, but…but more than that, I don’t want to die.” Hodgson’s voice cracked, and as it did, his eyes began to trail tears, running in grim, silent rivers down the deathly paleness of his cheeks. “I know what awaits me on the other side. There is no Saint that can save my soul now.”
Tozer shuddered as he thought of his last sight of Collins – writhing on his back as the Bear tore him apart, his face a grotesque mask of agony, crying out in terror and his soul…his soul…
He took his hands from the coat and brought them up to frame Hodgson’s face. His skin felt rough and blistery under his palms, the sores radiating heat. Such an imperfect human. Tozer remembered Hickey’s hands on his face the same way, the way they felt soft and cold, how his face still looks so smooth and impossibly clean. He’d assured Armitage that Hickey would see reason, but every day, every day Hickey seems more distant, more alien to that man who had won Tozer’s loyalty. Hickey was beginning to remind him of the Bear.
“If your saints don’t want your soul, give it t’ me. Let me keep you.” He didn’t say ‘safe’. There was nothing he could do to promise that, to enact that. But he’d cradled the vessel of Hodgson’s soul enough times over the expedition, felt the beat of its heart, and heard the sound of its laugh, that he felt he could ask for it to be his for the night. For a moment. For this second.
“You don’t want it, sergeant.” Hodgson whispers, more tears falling.
“My name’s Solomon.” He said, to no avail.
“You don’t want it.” Hodgson said again, “Wretched, cursed thing. ‘Guai a voi, anime prave. Non isperate mai veder lo cielo; i’ vegno per menarvi a l’altra riva ne le tenebre etterne, in caldo e ’n gelo.’”
The words were birthed into the dark, and died there, leaving behind a silent epitaph.
Now, it was Tozer who broke that silence.
“…I don’t speak any Spanish.” He said, and it seemed to both shock and surprise Hodgson so that it actually startled a croak of a laugh out of him. It was a pathetic, wet, wavery sound, but in the midst of their desolation, it sounded strangely beautiful to Tozer.
Then there were lips pressed to his, and he leaned into them with an easy familiarity, tinged with an uneasy desperation. Hodgson’s lips were both wet with tears and cracked with drought against his, and Tozer knew his own weren’t much better. What began as gentle then grew harder, and Hodgson’s hands clenched in the sides of his jacket as he pressed closer, as they both sought the warmth that had left them what felt like centuries ago. Even when the sun was out, the temperature hung around 30 Fahrenheit, and dropped in the night. There was an immediate relief in the closeness of bodies, of human heat, of blood racing along its natural course.
Tozer opened his mouth and felt Hodgson’s tongue enter; their mouths were foul, not having had access to toothbrushes or toothcreams. He found he didn’t care much – they’d both had more reprehensible things in their mouths recently than they’d wish to recall in the moment.
“Solomon,” Hodgson breathed into him, “Solomon.”
Tozer had thought he’d heard every enticing, appealing thing he could pry from Hodgson’s mouth over the years, but they all faded into insignificance to his name. He jerked his hips as he pulled him closer by the back of his neck now, the small of his back, until they were so close they would have been indistinguishable in the dark. Closing his eyes, he slipped a leg between Hodgson’s, rubbing up against him as they slotted together tighter. He screwed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead into Hodgson’s shoulder. One thrust, two, and before he could make a third, he felt himself rolled over on his back, Hodgson abruptly straddling him, his warm pressure sitting on his cock and making him audibly gasp and he jerked upward at the sensation. His eyes flew open.
The sight that greeted him shouldn’t have been attractive, really. Hodgson looked terrible, and the glow of the moon only highlighted the deep hollows of his eyes, the red of the sores cracking his face, the thinness of his hair. But then, he was George, and Tozer couldn’t remember at what point the latter had become more important than the former.
He didn’t have much time to think before Hodgson started to grind on him, shifting with a determined focus as he rubbed down on his cock and Tozer had to bite into his lip to keep from making noise. The friction of their clothing, the closeness of another body, the increasing pace of their rhythm, all sent sharp shocks of pleasure through his long deprived body, and his hands gripped Hodgson’s clothed thighs tightly as he started to thrust up in time, hips jerking off the ground.
Tozer closed his eyes again, trying to block out the cold and the rocks digging into his back, thinking back on when they’d last done this – it had been the carnival, he thought. He’d been pleasantly sloshed, more so than he’d allowed himself on the whole expedition, but the drink was plentiful that night, and strong, the press of bodies producing a welcome heat. He’d found Hodgson that night, in a dark corner, with that stupid Marie Antoinette wig on. Tozer had made some stupid crack – what had it been – about ‘conquering the French’, gutsy in his drink. It had always been the lieutenant who had arranged their previous meetings, the lieutenant who had come to him. But he’d felt daring that night, and had been rewarded in the shadows…hadn’t he? The memories were fuzzy, but there had been some kind of pleasure, and licking into Hodgson’s grinning mouth to taste his own spend, laughing at hearing him laugh, a brilliant thrill of arousal at Hodgson jokingly calling him ‘Sir’ Hotspur. The last private moment between them, hidden behind net-covered crates, Tozer’s hand down Hodgson’s trousers, Hodgson groaning into his skin where he was leaving his own mark against his clavicle, before the fire-
He cursed and, with a desperation-fuelled swiftness, threw Hodgson off him, rolling over and setting himself between the man’s splayed legs, not thinking, not thinking about the fire and about Will slipping from his hands, and he’s shouting ‘You’re crushing him!’-
Tozer kissed Hodgson again, savagely, their teeth clacking together as he scrambled for his trousers, slipping them down, barely flinching at the frigidity of the air on his straining cock. Hodgson had the same idea, and his thin fingers, a few of them red and swollen, were already unbuttoning his fly and now Tozer spat into his hand and wrapped it around them both. Both groaned into the seal of their mouths at the sensation, Hodgson’s knees spasming against his side briefly. The saliva lubricated the slide of his dry hand, and the slipping of Hodgson’s cock against his own had him leaning in further, thrusting, his free hand fisted in the discarded sheets. It wasn’t long before he felt fingers wind in his long hair, gripping and pulling, the sensation shooting straight to his balls and he grunted at the familiar sting, almost missing Hodgson’s own small, faint noises of pleasure under the obscene squelching sounds that came from under his hand. It didn’t seem to matter to his cock how miserable their situation was, how dirty and cold, because he was leaking, beading droplets of precum that he swiped when his palm rubbed over their spongy heads, twisting on the downstroke. Soon he started to feel the buildup, the hot core in his groin and he breathed harder and faster, speeding up his strokes. Now, Hodgson’s legs had clamped around him, and he too, was twitching, jerking wildly, his tongue sliding in and out of his mouth like he was fucking him. Despite the temperature, the air in the tent felt humid with their body-heat.
Under him, Hodgson whimpered suddenly, then stiffened, shooting his load in white ropes over Tozer’s fist. The fingers in his hair tightened harder, and he winced as Hodgson trembled in his orgasm, groaning into his mouth, before abruptly going limp, falling back into the bedroll with a quiet thump. Tozer let his softening cock go, tightening his hand around himself and jerked harder, staring at Hodgson’s mouth, red and swollen, split in places from the harsh environment. He clenched, feeling himself wind tighter and tighter, stroking himself faster, and then he felt Hodgson’s hand on his, slim fingers wrapping around his length and the sensation ended him. He came hard, splattering more cum over his already messy hand as he tugged himself through it, abusing his length until he grunted at the soreness of his shaft.
With a long, shaky exhale, he collapsed onto Hodgson, sticking his nose into his open collar. He’d move in a minute…he just needs a minute. He wrinkled his nose as he lazily wiped his mess of a hand on the canvas floor; he’d deal with it later. For now, he just lay there, and when a long-fingered hand rested itself in his brown hair, Tozer allowed himself a moment of pretence; they were on Terror, in Hodgson’s cabin and after one of their meetings, instead of stuffing himself back into his uniform as fast as possible, he’d shoved Hodgson, muttering for him to ‘budge up, mate’, and they’d laid down together, safe for the moment, warm.
He couldn’t keep that image in his head for long – it had never happened, after all. Their couplings were always quick affairs, there never being a place on a ship to draw out things like that. There was a moment where he almost regretted it had never been different.
He swallowed and, with a grunt, rolled off of Hodgson, dislodging the hand. Tucking himself away, he shivered as the vastness of the cold universe seemed to descend upon him all at once. When he looked over Hodgson was staring up at the tent peak.
“I spoke to Hickey t’day,” Tozer said, eventually. There was no indication that Hodgson was listening. He licked his dry lips, a frisson of nerves running through him. “I said we should go back to the ships – by the time we reach ‘em, there’ll likely be leads. Open water.”
At his words, Hodgson finally swivelled his eyes towards him, before rolling over on his side. He’d buttoned himself back up, pulled the ratty blanket up to his waist. It was almost as if nothing had happened, if Tozer didn’t feel so damn unsteady inside.
“Go back…to Terror?” Hodgson whispered, an odd note to his voice. Melancholy, guilt. Could be anything.
Tozer nodded, picking at a loose thread on his slops.
“Hickey said ‘e’s thinking ‘bout it. But the lads- Tommy, William…if he don’t make a decision soon, they want to walk out on their own. Leave the boats, go for broke.”
A moment of silence.
“Will you go?” Hodgson asked.
“…Will you come?” Tozer replied.
“So you’ll stand a greater chance of survival with more men?”
“Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”
Another burst of deafening silence. Outside of the tent, a sudden gust of wind moaned through their ghost town.
Hodgson laughed. It was a horrible sound, broken and cracked, spilling misery out over the shards of its body.
“Why not. What’s one more betrayal. I’ll go where you lead, Solomon. For all the good it’ll do you.”
One hand reached out to Tozer, as if for a hand-shake. He reached back, clasped it, but didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned down, closed his eyes, and pressed their foreheads together.
“We’re none of us heroes here, George,” he whispered, the hand in his tightening at the use of Hodgson’s first name, the only time he’s ever said it out loud, “but there ain’t nobody I’d rather be a coward with than you.”
And that was something.
It would have to be.