Work Text:
To the surprise of many, Granby is, for the most part, a temperate drinker. He finds an excess of liquor makes him too maudlin when he is sad, too intolerant of idiocy when vexed, and too prone to a sort of effusive romanticism in the presence of comely men. In his youth it was hardly an ideal vice for a hotheaded invert hoping for his step and he has accumulated enough scars across his knuckles and memories of close calls to keep the habit even as a senior officer.
There are certain times though, when the liberal application of drink is exactly what is called for: when he screwed up his courage and asked Immortalis’ dark haired captain up to see his sketches, for instance; or tonight, where if Laurence and Tharkay aren't slumped lovingly in each other's arms by the end of it, it certainly won't be for lack of trying.
The common room is just a touch overly warm, the raucous laughter and voices raised in hoots and cheers bounce around the stone walls, and the floor is sticky in more than a few spots where beer or wine or rum has splashed from a careless cup.
“All aboard!” Pemberton reads from the little slip of paper she has drawn from the hat. There is a great crack of laughter as Harcourt shouts “No!” in mock dismay and braces herself, little glass held high as Berkley rushes towards her. He snatches the shot from her and she throws her arms around his waist, hauling back mightily until his feet leave the floor. He tosses the drink back just as many hands reach forward to steady them before Harcourt overbalances. Next to them, Augustine Little is scrambling down from Chenery, where the two of them have executed the same maneuver with equal speed and significantly less danger to life and limb.
“Point to Captain Little and Captain Chenery,” Pemberton calls, to simultaneous whoops and hisses from the respective teams. Catherine has been set down in a chair, still red faced from her exertions and shaking with laughter. Berkley leans next to her, slapping her back.
The aviators, never a crowd likely to shy away from the chance for a drink, have thrown themselves into making merry with the greatest enthusiasm. If Napoleon leaves Elba tonight, it will be a force of first and second lieutenants that musters from Loch Laggan. Granby doubts there is a single sober senior cap amongst them.
Laurence is flush faced and loud, mostly thanks to Jane Roland, who has been passing him drinks with an utter confidence that he seems incapable of refusing. Even Tharkay, usually resistant to being liquored up, has yielded to Granby’s heroic efforts and become increasingly loose limbed over the course of the evening and prone to sudden barks of laughter that seem to surprise him as much as anyone else.
Granby himself is wavering on the precipice of embarrassingly drunk. He can feel it at the edge of his thoughts. There is a certain lyrical quality to his thoughts as he looks at Augustine Little –who has gone a long way towards being forgiven for his earlier antics simply by being the most beautiful creature in creation– and a certain impulsive urge to simply smash Laurence and Tharkay’s faces together and be done with it.
They certainly could not be much closer if they tried. The two of them move like clockwork, or like dancers across a floor. They have been a matched pair all evening. Though each round has grown more boisterous, more chaotic, they have thrashed their competition at every turning. James can hardly call out “Over wings!” before they are back to back, arms twisting over shoulders and craning necks in sync to catch the drink from the other’s hand. When James calls “Night Maneuvers” Tharkay barely needs to reach out before Laurence –who would never stoop to peeking, of course– has already found him.
They have roundly trounced St. Germain and Jane, first and second lieutenants together on Aequitas for nearly ten years, and also Sutton and Warren, thick as thieves since boyhood. Little and Granby, who are graceless, laughing, enthusiastic, are barely in the running. If Tharkay and Laurence have noticed the whole of the covert watching them speculatively, they have given no indication, their eyes only for each other.
“Take the next turn with me,” Augustine says in his ear, and Granby realizes he has been lost in speculative thought. At the center of the room, Emily is swinging about with a protesting Mrs. Pemberton as Warren and Sutton make a credible attempt to beat them. Jane is watching her daughter with a lopsided smile, but catches Granby's eye and herds Laurence and Tharkay out again with a wink.
James has picked up the bowl and is shaking it with a gleeful grin. He unfolds the next slip of paper, then looks up to see who is playing. “Chandelle!” he says, making a credible attempt to appear to have read it from the paper.
“Oh lord,” Laurence says next to Granby. The flight maneuver is familiar to him, and it is not the first time he's joined in this drinking game. Across the room, Tharkay is listening to Jane's explanation with raised eyebrows. He grins when she finishes, and lowers himself into a chair, tipping his head back to balance the little glass between his lips.
“Go!” James cries, and Granby throws himself forward. It is not a big room, but he and Laurence race to cover the handful of paces to Tharkay and Augustine. Granby is faster, or would be, if Laurence did not snatch the back of his coat and haul him back at the starting line just as James yells “Go!”
“Oh, foul!” Granby reels back, pinwheeling for balance, then surges forward. Laurence has already reached the other side of the room, bending his own head down to Tharkay's. Granby is two steps behind him and then he has caught up and there is only Augustine Little.
Augustine is already laughing so hard he is nearly spilling the drink balanced between his teeth before Granby can put his own mouth down to it. Augustine is rising from the chair, one hand at the back of Granby's head, the other on the small of his back to turn them. Granby lands in the chair with the heady burn of rum in his mouth as Augustine leans over him, hands cupping Granby's face.
The liquor is tracing a fiery path down into his chest, but all he can think of is Augustine. Augustine with his limpid blue eyes and lips the color of bruised strawberries, who has just spun and dipped Granby as though he were not a head taller, who is taking the glass away from Granby and laughing, and ruffling his hair.
Next to them, Tharkay and Laurence have not fallen starry-eyed into each other’s arms. Laurence is wiping a splash of whisky from across his nose with a handkerchief produced from Tharkay's breast pocket. It's like setting a match to powder and not having it light.
“A damned disgrace,” Granby says. Little, still hovering above him, raises his eyebrows. “Not you,” Granby says quickly, struggling mightily up out of the chair. “Never you, but these blasted idiots will be the death of me.”
He shoots a venomous glare at the two of them, still close and easy with one another. Laurence is leaning with his elbow on the back of Tharkay’s chair, his other hand still resting on Tharkay’s shoulder. They are as casual as though they loitered by a park bench, twin pairs of eyebrows raised in curiosity at him.
Granby could spit.
“I do not credit it. I cannot credit it. I have never taken you for a stupid man, Laurence, and I know Tharkay is not, so how? How can you do this–” He leans down to Augustine, presses their foreheads together for a moment as they were before, “–I love you so much. I would kill a man for you. I might kill these men for you– “ before turning back to Laurence and Tharkay. “How can you not have a fucking epiphany. Are you stupid?”
“What the devil is he saying?” James asks softly, sitting next to Harcourt.
“It’s the Geordie coming out,” says Harcourt, leaning back over to him.
“It’s not the fucking Geordie,” –it is– “it’s sheer aggravation. I have been shackled with these two for nigh on ten years, watching them both fall over each other in bloody self sacrifice while both pretending there's not enough heat between them to warm a cup of tea.
“And now what? You will go back to your damp little Scottish estate to be miserable and pining all winter, rattling about in cold beds because you,” he points at Laurence, “are too well bred and you,” now to Tharkay, “too stubbornly inscrutable to speak plainly and be done with it?”
“Well I like you both too well to let you wither on the vine out of pure pigheadedness,” Granby finishes defiantly. “I will say I have been quite patient but if there is nothing for it but to make myself a nuisance, I will badger you both all the way back up to Auchmeddan. Only say the word and we will clear off and let you two have it out, but for God's sake, you must say something!”
He is out of breath by the end of it. There is a long moment of silence until at last, Laurence clears his throat. Tharkay tips his head up to hear him better. It is as if there isn't another soul in the world as they hold a hasty, whispered conversation.
Oh, if that isn't a pretty picture: Tharkay's fingers brushing gold locks away from Laurence's ear, Laurence with eyes closed, the better to hear the words Tharkay is fucking whispering in his ear. It all looks like one of those paintings he had to stand around and drink wine and look at in Spain. They could be Day and Night or some other learned allegory Granby has never had the schooling or inclination to understand.
“You are about to lose me so much money,” Tharkay says, low, to Laurence at last, a statement that Granby has only moment to consider because in the next, Laurence has leaned down to kiss Tharkay lightly and then allow himself to be drawn down to Tharkay's lap. Tharkay looks extraordinarily smug about the entire situation.
Laurence is less sanguine. “If that will allay your concerns, John,” it is surprising, with that tone, that he hasn't been called “Mr. Granby” he thinks, “We are neither of us in danger of withering.”
Behind him, there is a whoop of delight. St. Germain’s voice booms. “Pemberton, you dark horse! Have you taken the pot then?”
“You knew?” Granby says, the words coming out as something close to a squawk as he whirls on Emily’s former chaperone. “All this time they were in,” he flaps a hand at the two, “whatever this understanding is, and you knew?”
Pemberton smiles, unconcerned, and evidently something north of twenty pounds, twelve shillings and three silver plates richer. “Knew how to keep my mouth shut,” she says primly.
Granby turns back to Laurence. “You utter villains. Pray, if you tell me next that this happened before our business with the Sapa Inca, I swear to you I will consider it the end of our friendship.”
Laurence, at least, has the grace to look rather abashed at that. Still, he turns his head to look at Tharkay first, and continues only when the other man nods his assent. “It was shortly after we recovered Tenzing from the Blue Crane Mountain,” he said, referencing the bloody, gritty site of General Fela’s last stand. Even Granby prefers to not think about that time, Laurence reeling from first the loss of his memories, then the return of them, Tharkay very cruelly used indeed, and all around them a shocking, senseless waste of men and dragons.
Tharkay's face remains drolly amused, but Granby marks that his arms have tightened around Laurence and Laurence’s jaw is tightly set. At once Granby feels all the piss and vinegar drain out of him; maudlin has arrived very abruptly. An arm slips about his own waist. Augustine has come up behind him. “Well none of us had considered provoking a brain fever as a way to bring them around to each other. And we could not have in good conscience done a head wound anyways.” Augustine says consolingly. “So maybe it is better that it has been done for us.”
There is nothing for a moment, then something that could only be called a snort leaves Laurence, followed a moment later by a bark of laughter erupting from Tharkay, so abrupt that it makes both Granby and Laurence start. Augustine is grinning too. Granby feels a sense of relief as Laurence meets his gaze with a rueful smile.
“Truly Will, after this week with your companions, I am beginning to see how you have accomplished being in so many ridiculous predicaments.” Tharkay is wiping his streaming eyes on his sleeve. “I should almost prefer enemies; they at least are more predictable. It's a pity we did not last another day, I might have been able to have the windows reglazed at Auchmeddan House with the winnings.”
“I beg your pardon?” says Laurence, drawing back to look at him with genuine surprise.
“I had rather planned to be overcome with ardor after being slipped some of Chenery’s love potion in my tea tomorrow morning,” Tharkay says dryly. “Iskierka was offering odds of eighty to one.”
Chenery, who has been doing his part putting them away all evening and is now somewhat glazed, perks up at this. “I told you it would work!” he says jubilantly, only to be shushed by St. Germain.
“You meant to rig it?” Berkley guffaws. “Why, you damned bastard! And a confederate to bet for you and pass along the winnings, I imagine? Who was it then?”
Tharkay shrugs. “The point is rather moot, now that I have donated twenty pounds to Mrs. Pemberton.”
“Cheating,” Laurence says with disapproval. He has twisted in the circle of Tharkay’s arms to look down at him reproachfully. “I should say you have been served your just deserts for your sins.”
Tharkay is gazing back up at him with a complete lack of repentance and an inexpressible fondness. “You know,” he says wryly, “I very much think I have.”