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[gildedlife]

it’s my birthday

[gildedlife]

‘ cheating if i say both? ’ he smiles, finally, brought closer to life by sweet eats and the promise of more. it remains a tired expression, but is no less a grateful one.

‘ you could spoil a man like this. ’ happy as he sounds to accept this fate, he’s already begun formulating plans to repay her. he drops his pen instead of picking up work for a third time. ‘ you’re certain there’s nothing i can do? i can’t let you feed me the whole day through. ’

she wipes excess oil from her fingers onto her apron, then gets them oily again picking her own waffle half into pieces. she smiles at him, chewing. "you're looking like scotty doing her science homework."

the house is quiet mid-day. usually just her home. dishwasher running. he is welcome company.

"anyway. blackberry or raspberry? i was going to make a jam but now i'm thinking i might prefer the fresh ones."

[gildedlife]

@inrovina.

‘ they’ve decided to send me to the arctic. ’ it’s the first time james has said this aloud, to anyone, though he’s known for a few days and should already have begun making arrangements. it sinks like a stone, though he’s made an effort to deliver it like something to be waved off, moved past quickly.

he slumps farther into the couch next to xeno, pretending to pay attention to what’s on the screen before them. he won’t look at him, fearing he’ll find some weight in his gaze he isn’t prepared to shoulder.

‘ a promotional thing. ’ a photo op. ‘ must’ve forgotten i’ve aged since my last—adventure. ’ this, too, he tries to make sound like it’s less important; like his physical condition matters as little to him as it does to the company shipping him out. ‘ feels a little… rushed, i suppose. ’

[gildedlife]

contrary to his expected reaction, james feels emboldened by francis’ order—‘don't’—following a brief and futile war with himself and his features. he looks frozen by it, almost terrified, yet these are the very feelings that drive him forward in the end, having been made to feel more secure by the thought that the ugliness of their tones may shade the ugliness of his mistake.

he stands, but doesn't approach. he's backlit by the rising sun through the rear windows, francis still shrouded in near darkness toward the front of the house.

what have they now to lose but each other? no command, no respect that isn’t defined by them alone, no expedition nor reputation nor men. perhaps james is too selfish to see it differently—as plainly and as loveless as francis does by choice or by training—but he has never been so sure of needing someone. time and trial has proven it well, yet now it is his will that guides him. a longing he cannot pretend is absent.

‘ and i cannot do this for the rest of my days, ’ he argues, that spark from their first year in command returned; lending life to his gesticulating limbs, his jumping shoulders. ‘ so tell me now, francis, and i shall—i shall reduce myself for you. i shall pretend not to feel as i have felt. i’ll pose no threat to you. ’

it would be a mercy, to offer either answer now: friendship, or the possibility of more to be mined from francis, no matter how long it should take. it would be fatal, to hear that he has destroyed it all.

‘ else— ’ james halts again, his arms falling defeated to his sides. his next breath comes out short and sorrowful. ‘ i beg you, do not let this hope live in me. ’

Francis has already turned away from the slumbering form of his friend when James begins to wake. The redhead is slowly moving towards the hallway. Suddenly, he freezes at the sound of his name coming from a groggy voice behind him. Francis pauses for an instant, internally berating himself for disturbing his friend. Not only for the younger man’s sake but for his own. He is not prepared to have this conversation right now, nor has he even begun to form opinions about it in his own mind, not to mention develop actual words to verbalise what feels to anyone else.

Something about the way James says Francis, causes the redhead to feel a million different emotions all in the space of one single moment. He gulps, closing his eyes before turning and forcing himself to look at his friend. Only keeping eye contact for a few seconds before he is forced to look away again. He wants to act as normal as possible but his efforts are in vain. He feels his abdomen tense up, the large knot within feeling as if it is tightened by an ever-increasing amount.

Francis can only shake his head at the brunet’s words. James has nothing to be sorry for. The redhead knows this yet he can’t help a note of frustration boil within him. Frustration caused by his own response to his friend’s confession, frustration at James’s need to apologise for telling the truth, mostly frustration at himself for what this admission has stirred within him. Something he had long avoided looking at square in the eye but with which he was now being forced to face. He was like a child kicking and screaming against something he had no escape from but which he must now face head on, whether he likes it or not!

His immediate impulse, however, is to run, there was safety in avoidance. To be anywhere rather than here with James; the source of his turmoil. He knew in the back of his mind that he did not want to end their friendship; that was never an option. Right this instant, however, he needed some distance from the other man so that he could clear his head. He felt like an animal trapped in a cage and James was blocking the only means of escape.

“Don’t.” is all Francis manages to bark. His voice sounds odd like it is not fully connected to him, as if he is detached from his body; watching the scene play out between the two of them from a distance. He does not mean to sound harsh but his voice is laced with his growing frustration. His growing anger makes him braver and he finally stares down at James, unsure if he wants to scream at him or wrestle. How dare he risk ruining their friendship! How dare he forced the redhead to face these … feelings! After everything they had been through together!

Instead, he turns away from the brunet and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I can’t do this now.” He admits, intending to turn away and head out for a walk as quickly as his old legs can carry him.

[gildedlife]

not a monday and not a munday, but i finally have a minute alone in my apartment without things to do and i’m pretty happy with how it’s looking these days :’)

[gildedlife]

having tried and loved many in his time—particularly in his past travels, which had always challenged his palate in a way he’d found thrilling—james is all too happy to talk of puddings. it’s a topic on which he never dreads to be pressed, regardless of company, spirits, or circumstances.

he starts slightly when addressed, but refocuses quickly, his eyes again on the spread.

‘ have you any favorite flavors? ’ he asks, peering in and categorizing each treat in his mind, creating easy paths to suitable suggestions depending on how she answers. ‘ textures, perhaps? combinations? ’

@gildedlife

KIERAN TAKES MADDIE INTO THE CITY TO BUY SOME FLOWERS THAT DON'T GROW NATURALLY OUT NEAR THE GLASS COMPOUND. The small-town girl is simultaneously overwhelmed and intrigued by the big city; she ends up wandering off to explore on her own.

She's peering into a bakery's display case, now, taking too long to decide between different types of stuffed croissants. She looks up and locks eyes with James—the first stranger (un)fortunate enough to meet her gaze.

"Now, we bake breads, and all, but all this, it's real impressive. What do you think I should get?"

[gildedlife]

the unfortunate result of so shallow a sleep, james slips again into dreams, only this time of a kinder nature. they are fragmented, stitched together without cohesion, a series of memories remolded to suit his delicate state.

his men, alive, a comforting fiction in rest but sure to renew his grief when he wakes. vignettes of francis in this setting, or perhaps farther out—domesticated and glad to be, never far from james. though james floats through these visions happily, beginning to warm under a dancing, half-bright beam of the early-morning sun, each of them feels snapped from him a moment too soon.

worse yet, his unanswerable hope remains after he stirs to consciousness, only to die with sourness at the recognition of what disturbs him.

had francis intended to depart so early, without a word to the coninghams? surely not, he thinks, knowing that despite his brusqueness and fresh upset, he would not dismiss the hospitality of a family whose morals james has not debased. a walk, he guesses. a ride into town. anything to escape, if only until his fine compass guides him back to bid a proper farewell.

irrespective of any larger plan francis may harbor, james takes his shot now, seized at once by the threat of being parted from him. he shall let francis go, of course; he could not bear the resentment his entrapment, nor what a mere plea may breed in him. you are free, he thinks, in a voice not his own.

i only ask that you do not cast me out without a word. without a thought. not after i have endured by your side that which i have not, cannot share with any other.

‘ francis. ’ the distance between them is not small, though it is devoid of sound at this hour. it is a gap to be closed. they have done it before. ‘ i do not ask you to forgive me, ’ he says, his voice so rough he must pause to clear his throat. ‘ but i am—i am sorry. ’

Francis had been so distraught he had forgotten to take his chamberstick back with him. Regardless, his eyes soon adjust to the semi-darkness as his head continues to spin. He suddenly feels confined even within the large room. The deep blue of an impending sunrise paints his bed chamber when he stumbles to his feet and pulls back the curtains of his window, trying to feel less penned in. The coastal view looms before him and he briefly wishes he could be at sea again. On a ship, life made sense to the captain. There were rules, there was order. Everyone knew their place and so did he. Emotion was secondary to duty. He could easily distract himself with his day-to-day routine. The here and now. There were always problems to solve and orders to give.

The other obvious distraction had been whiskey. He didn’t know how long he had relied on it. All of his adult life. Perhaps even as far back as starting his naval career when he was not even twenty. Nevertheless, he had never let it interfere with his duties. Not until after Sir John had been brutally killed and he was left to command the expedition in its entirety. However, he had been mild-to-moderately drunk for three years previously. Had let the sting of Sophia’s rejection crawl under his skin like an infection and whiskey was his only medicine. He had spent long hours ruminating over Van Diemen's Land and the platypus pond. How foolish he had been. How he wishes he was such a fool now. His new dilemma seemed an impossible one to face.

A hand on a hip while the other holds him upright against the niche of the window, he breathes unsteadily, trying to slow down his uneven heart rate. It feels like a steam engine racing in his chest. He prays his heart won’t give out now, not after everything it had survived thus far. He is certain it is the heart of a ninety-year-old, rather than his fifty-six years. He takes some more deep breathes, closing his eyes. Innumerable moments pass. He turns to sit down on the bed. Knowing sleep is impossible and he is doomed to remain conscious for the rest of the day.

He takes the large glass of water left on his beside table and gulps it down without breathing; wishing it was the familiar sting of whiskey against the back of his throat. Water drips down the side of his mouth as he wipes it with the back of his hand. He is exhausted yet wide awake. He has never felt so old. Forcing his aching limbs into a standing position, he turns as to walk to his washstand before noticing the piece of paper on the floor a few inches from his door. It hadn’t been there earlier. He takes it up with a shaky hand, his back reminding him of its age. With an unintentional groan, he stands upright, opening the folded piece of paper, unsure what he will find.

Francis reads the message several times over in his mind. It is obvious who the author is. The redhead can’t help the dark chuckle that escapes him as his mouth curves into a momentary grin. How fitting Francis had only moments ago wished to be a fool and now James admits he is one. He shakes his head. Right now he has an unfounded anger towards James but despite this he can't help but sympathise. He is annoyed what implications the younger man's confession has done to their relationship. The feelings it has invoked in the redhead. Nevertheless, he cannot help but love his friend. They had been through too much together for him to feel anything else. It is himself he is sickened by. Himself is ashamed of. He can admit, however, that he is uncomfortable by what James has confessed to him. Perhaps if he had known this fact a year ago, he would have outright rejected the brunet altogether. Now however, that seems all but impossible. Maybe he too is a fool after all.

He knows this changes everything between them but he can’t help but grip onto their friendship like a life raft. Francis may be many unsavoury things, but he is unrelentingly loyal. He doesn’t know how he can face life without James. He feels both anger and heartbreak because this situation could be the end of their friendship. His mind briefly wanders to dangerous territory. To the whiskey in the cabinet downstairs. Old habits die hard, after all, and he couldn’t help himself but note its location on his second evening in Brighton. He had never intended to drink it. Now, however, he feels the pull of the bottle more strongly than he has ever felt since giving it up all those months ago on Terror. He sighs. He wants to get lost in oblivion. He does not want to face his feelings, his stomach still knotted in his abdomen.

Biting his lip, he absentmindedly strokes the inked letters of the note before putting it aside to wash. The sunrise illuminates the chamber as he slowly dresses, unsure what his intention is. A few minutes spent pacing his room proves unhelpful and he decides to go downstairs, perhaps a walk outside would do him good. His body aches a little as he descends the staircase quietly. It is still early and he doesn't wish to disturb the household. It doesn't cross his mind that James would be down there. Why the thought had not occured to him, he doesn't know.

Suddenly, he spots the man's familiar slim frame enveloped in a chair in the parlor that opens up onto the hallway. The redhead freezes, his stomach clenching as he glups hard. James's eye lids are closed and as Francis steps forward he notices the man's soft curls framing his face, his chest rising and falling gently in slumber. The redhead studies the younger man's features before pulling his eyes away. He can't afford to look at him for too long. He glances up at the wooden cabinet behind James; a large bottle within, the glint of a honey colored liquid. He exhales in frustration and begins to turn away, intending to head for his overcoat and the escape of the front door.

[gildedlife]

his fond appreciation sets in before he’s processed what she’s said, like such an outpouring of warmth needs no shape before it begins to heal him. james lifts his head, lagged, and remains momentarily slack in the face as he digests her words.

he responds to the waffle first, deciding that to take a bite of her cooking will be the simplest way to convey thanks.

‘ you are much too kind, ’ he says, and he’s back to it, only slowed by one-handed eating. ‘ it’s easy work, really. just glacial after the rest of it. ’

@gildedlife

"the state of you."

she says this with the love you'd have for a dog with his fur full of mud. in reality it's just james bent over some papers at her table, tearing his hair out. she's making waffles in a waffle iron; one comes out torn so she offers him half.

"i'm sure wayne could look at it for you. the quarterlies and all?"

[gildedlife]

THE TERROR (2018) — 1.01 'Go For Broke' ☛ For @abrahamvanhelsings

[gildedlife]

seeing an opportunity to be seized, james leans down and kisses him where his skin is exposed, soft and near inhumanly warm. he slides the belt out, unfastens his trousers, and hikes them back with him when he straightens.

‘ crêpes, ’ he echoes. so charmed it startles him, despite his having started the exchange himself. ‘ and a long nap somewhere in the middle. our laziest day yet. ’

he grins, to the ceiling again, lazy and loopy. in his head echoes the we, we, we. our jam. our toast and our walnuts.

his midriff exposed, and his hips shifting a fraction off the bed so his belt will be easier to pull. in the moment he likes this feeling, out of his body. stumbling and pliable and held in james' steady hands.

"love it. and crêpes. and lattes all day."

[gildedlife]

‘ eggs and toast in the morning. or kippers? ’ the smile is evident in his voice now. ‘ something sweet at night. french toast. pancakes, perhaps. we’ve got good jam. ’

james drops the other shoe and shucks his socks, then grabs him behind the knees and tugs him forward, raising his eyebrows when the motion against the bed causes control’s shirt to ruck up. the belt goes next.

‘ where do we stand on caramelized bananas and walnuts? ’

it's so easy to topple him. his shoulderblades hit the mattress, one hand stretching behind his head as support, the other resting over his stomach. he looks up, even tilting his head to glance past his eyebrows—he looks like he's stargazing in here.

"breakfast for dinner," he speaks to the ceiling. "i think it's underrated."

he glances back down, then, adjusts his legs to make it easier for james to remove his other shoe.

[gildedlife]

auth.ority (2014) // th.e ter.ror s1e8

@gildedlife

[gildedlife]

chin low, lips curled with affection, james only watches him for a moment, like he can’t force himself to show this sweetness to its end. he looks at his folded hands and nearly whines, so overwhelmed by the sleepy innocence of it.

‘ have i ever been so relieved? ’ he teases dryly, though he is glad enough to hear he likes them that the slightest hint of color rises to his cheeks. without warning, he pushes control back onto the mattress by his shoulders. next, he lifts one of control’s feet so that he can set its heel against his own hip, then gets to work untying his shoes.

‘ we’ll have breakfast twice. ’ the first shoe falls to the floor with a thump and he bends for the other. ‘ to make up for it. ’

"i thought you wanted to cook," is a feeble protest because he lets himself be moved easily, a guiding hand on his back, to shuffle across the floor.

this is the way it goes: he always arrives at james' door like this, low-energy, unkempt, wired from the eight hour flight. it always takes a day for him to come back into the man he wants to be. a re-imagining of sorts. a reset.

even now he just sits on the edge of the bed, hands patiently folded in his lap, like he's waiting for james to show him something.

"i like the pillow cases, too."

[gildedlife]

at his praise, james all but preens, lost for a few seconds to the fantasy of being seen by another as a person without obvious defects. ‘nothing i would want to criticize, at all.’ what a thought.

‘ you’ve done little but convince me you’ve a… good head on your shoulders. ’ he thinks he sounds old for this; he wrinkles his nose and then pulls his lips between his teeth to show it. the statement is also unflirty, which he doesn’t mean to be. ‘ though i wouldn’t mind a ‘grump.’ i manage them well, i’ve been told. ’

he pauses again, this time to smile. ‘ i’d like you to to feel you can be honest. yes. don’t think it’ll cost you your depth, in my eyes. ’

HE FEELS POORLY FOR STARTLING JAMES, LIKE THE MAN IS SOME SKITTISH HORSE CULLEN MEANS TO SOOTHE AND TAME. In reality, Cullen himself would never think so little of somebody so worldly, so capable, so charismatic, so...

Anyways. He feels bad.

"No! You don't seem—nothing negative. Nothing I would want to—criticize, at all." He clears his throat, sips his own beer. He wipes foam from his lips. "Honestly, I usually seem like a huge grump. You give some people an inch, they take a mile. But it's nice being...honest. Frank. I want you to see more to me than...that." He shrugs. "There are worse things than caring."

[gildedlife]

‘ wearying. ’ he answers too readily and embarrasses with it, his chin and gaze jumping back up like he’s startled himself and wants to head his dramatics off at the pass. he narrows his eyes to wrinkling before the smile comes, which is as good an indication as any that it’s somewhat forced.

it’s for her, this warmth. he doesn’t mind if she knows it. she deserves to have an effort made.

‘ i was very good at it before, ’ he says, scratching his eyebrow and looking at the floor, as if too focused on recalling this memory to take in any more complex visual information. ‘ i suppose that isn’t something to boast about, coming from insurance. to a decent person, no less. ’ he cuts—he’s arrived. he can see the james of yesteryear. ‘ i was good. ’

SHE LIKES HIS LEVITY, HIS CHARISMA. Her whole body is close to his, companionably so. The lack of distance means she can tell when he pulls away, when he no longer wants to meet her eye. She tries all the same to look at him, to smile.

His questions are short but impossible. The weight of his conflict suddenly feels heavy on her own shoulders. "Nobody really sells their soul anymore," she says back, just as soft and kind, if anything at all. "How's it, really?"

[gildedlife]

something something james fitzjames patent liar who only tells the truth when he's alone with his thoughts (and eventually when he's speaking to francis) saying sir john loves the men more than god loves them and its a meaningless platitude he doesn't really believe said only to ingratiate himself with his betters and then later saying to himself when no one else is listening that francis loves the men more than god loves them except this time it's truly what he thinks because there's no one around to perform to!!!!!!!!!

[gildedlife]

‘ worth crying over? ’ he jests with a smile, which is a hair sadder than usual. they know very well that he hadn’t been crying about anything in ikea, excepting perhaps the stuffed sharks.

he crosses to kiss him, too endeared by what he says and how he says it to give it a miss, even if it’s at the cost of their momentum.

‘ bed, ’ he orders, captain-like, before giving control a guiding pat. ‘ we can talk there. you’re barely standing. ’

@gildedlife: “i wept openly at ikea this weekend.” / i think the people deserve to know james and control are engaged. maybe newly reunited after a long-distance stretch for this…

control is jetlagged again, swaying on his feet in the middle of james' living room, on what is hopefully his last visit before this is also his home. there are new sets of towels, his own space in the dresser.

"they have good glassware."