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The last time they lay down to stargaze, they were both ten years younger and fitter and had a bottle of whiskey.
Now they have used the excuse of going camping, and Ann has sent them off with a kiss each and a bottle of tea. They have even brought a tent that they do not lie in, the blankets borrowed to wrap themselves tight in the grass.
A warm day, a warm evening. A cool night, now, the sun disappeared, the scent of grass and pollen and wildflowers sultry in the air. Younger men could let it go to their heads.
(Younger men did, in Hobart, once.)
(Twice.)
Frank reclines on his elbows, contemplating the clear sky above, the pin pricks of light. It is the first time all that day that there is a smile playing around his mouth. If James were a more suspicious man, he might think something regretful had passed between Frank and Fitzjames in Brighton. If he were less experienced perhaps he would, but he has seen the many phases of Frank all through their long association, can read the signs of him better than he can read sea or sky.
Nothing regretful, then. But something that has given him pause.
For all that he hates to admit it, when he first saw Frank and the frail form of Fitzjames on the shale among the remains of their men he had thought--
Well, no matter now. Such days are behind them. Fitzjames has Le Vesconte, as Frank took pains to tell him even after he could see it for himself, the subtle signs apparent that only a man who has been in that position could recognise. Fitzjames has Le Vesconte and James has Frank. Beyond that there is nothing he need wonder at. He knows as well as anyone what the ice does to a man. He will not begrudge Frank what peace Fitzjames brought him when he could not.
He has told Frank that, surely. On the shale and on the Enterprise and here. Has shown it to him in a hundred ways. Frank can have no doubt of that and yet—
A nudge to his shoulder. “Something on your mind, old man?” And a slight trace of that dear smile.
“How is Fitzjames?” Not the words he meant to say yet how the question presents itself, unbidden.
“Fitzjames has made an excellent recovery, as you well know. He and Le Vesconte are bound for Portugal next week, as I’ve already told you. And I’ve also,” and now he drops a kiss to James’ forehead that leaves him feeling foolish for the traces of jealousy, “told you that I have no desire to travel out there with him.” Now that smile is a touch more knowing that it has any right to be and James is forcibly reminded that for all he knows Frank, Frank knows him just as well and perhaps better. “Though I have been thinking...”
James’ breath catches. “Yes?”
“Perhaps Italy. Florence, if you and Ann were willing. You know I could not appreciate it before, but perhaps, another try?”
James musters a smile even as his vision blurs, some nameless thing rising within him. Damn starlight and moon making it hard to see. He could hardly appreciate Italy either while Frank—while he was away, something of the chill creeping into his bones that heat could not dispel.
(Could not hope to try.)
“We must ask the good lady herself,” and the hoarseness of his voice betrays him as Frank eases himself down, fingers finding his beneath the blankets.
A squeeze of his hand. A kiss pressed to his jaw. “I think you will find the good lady herself agrees. A change of scene for us all.”
Damn eyes betraying him again, but through the haze the moon catches the golden threads still in Frank’s hair and no matter that they are aged men now and Hobart far away, no matter the scars left upon their souls, in the safety of the grass he draws Frank into his arms and kisses him, brow, cheek, lips, and feels the smile to meet his own, the damp of tears shared.
Those fingers curl around his wrist and he feels what he has known all along—
When it comes to Frank’s heart, his place has long been secure.