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It will be time to leave soon, Gibson thinks as he holds his rolled tobacco out to the wind and lets the gust blow the still-glowing tiny leaves in a wide scatter. Some of them land near Hickey’s tent in front of him. Gibson leans as far back against the sledge as he can, laying his legs out flat on the ground. It’s the only way he can keep his knees straight and not feeling the pain prickles that began when he woke up this morning. The sun is lowering fast now, the tents shadow growing longer and darker by the minute. Gibson drops the cigarette and the wind scuttles it away across the gravel. The Artic wind smells different from any other wind he’s known on land or sea. He likes it, and he thinks it will be nice to have mixed with Hickey’s smell when it’s time to leave.
He’ll be leaving very soon, so he rubs the ring around his neck and waits for Hickey to appear from his tent. Gibson has been sitting for about twenty minutes when he sees Tozer emerge from the tent. His arms are wrapped around his chest and he halts when he sees Gibson. He looks Gibson up and down and snorts. “I always knew you were daft and I didn’t think you could outdo yourself. But now look at you out in this wind just woolgathering on the ground. You look ridiculous. He was out of his mind to bring you.” Tozer jerks his head back at Hickey’s tent. “I’m warning you. He’s in a bad mood. We didn’t get far today. He won’t put up with you like this.”
“Good,” Gibson says, nodding his head. “That’s good.”
Tozer squints at him. “Good?”
“Yes.”
“Fucking daft.” Tozer huddles into himself as he stalks away to his tent.
Gibson fiddles with his ring.
There’s just the barest glow of light left in the sky when Hickey steps from the tent, combing a hand back through his hair. Gibson smiles. Hickey has such beautiful hair and such beautiful hands. Seeing them together has always squeezed his heart, like a ribbon being pulled tight around a present. He watches Hickey’s face as the wind blows his long coat back from his calves, revealing his boots. Gibson has always been able to tell that they’re secondhand but they fit so smartly on Hickey as if they’d been made bespoke for him in a fancy shop in London. Gibson thinks how, if he and Hickey were living in London together, that this is the kind of gift he’d give him. Not for his birthday, not for Christmas. Just for the occasion of love.
He turns his eyes back up. He’s accustomed to seeing Hickey in the dark, from all those months they spent behind crates as they’d moved their bodies together. It’s easy now for him to tell that Hickey is staring at him almost evenly. Almost, because there’s an inquiring and almost mirthful shine in his eyes.
“Billy.” Hickey takes a step forward and inclines his head to the side. “Do you want to tell me the story of why you’re sitting alone in the dark in this very unpleasant environment?”
Gibson has no use for pretense any more. He has no speech. Any prelude he might have given for this was smoked out of him as soon as the first sparks of pain shot through his joints. As pointless as trying to argue about leaving.
He pulls off his Welsh wig and drops it. The wind threads through his curls and he shivers but doesn’t cringe. Then he peels off his gloves and tosses them onto the hat. He yanks his scarf off with one quick tug, balls it up, and throws it on the pile. His skin feels as if cold water is being dumped on it but it stays where it lands, doesn’t drip away. He shakes once. Then he fingers his shirt and undoes a few of the buttons. He shakes again and finally his hands drop to his sides and he trembles as he looks up at Hickey.
The wind caresses Hickey’s flapping coat and tosses strands of hair across his eyes. Gibson’s heart twinges. He used to love brushing Hickey’s hair out of his eyes after their breathing had calmed and they’d pulled apart, getting Hickey’s sweat on his fingertips, rubbing it on his own face. He resists the urge to tilt his head back and bask in the memory. It’s not time for that yet.
There’s only the barest beam of light left in the sky but Gibson can see that the shine of mirth is completely gone from Hickey’s eyes. In the one moment before Hickey paints his composure back on, Gibson sees the reflection of jagged chasms in his eyes, chasms like places where a person’s most precious things slip out of one’s hands and tumble over the edge and never stop falling because there is no bottom. And all the needles and thread in the world can’t close the wound their absence leaves. The blood pools in the corners of the soul and hold it down on the ground. Animals caught in traps have more strength.
The light completely vanishes as Hickey blinks himself out of his spell and his unclouded eyes are the last thing Gibson sees. “Where.” His voice is flat and it’s not a question.
“My knees.” Gibson doesn’t waste time. He raises his voice over another current of wind. “Come here.”
Even through the wind, he can feel Hickey moving towards him. The draw of him still feels as natural as warmth. When Hickey is a foot away from him, Gibson unclasps the chain around his neck. He feels for Hickey’s hand, turns it palm-side up, and places the ring in the center. “Do something with me. It’s the only thing I want before I leave.” His voice cracks as the cold jitters across his skin. His breath is starting to heave and every second hurts but he sits perfectly upright against the sledge with his bare hand on Hickey’s gloved one.
For a few agonizing moments, Hickey doesn’t move. Then, quick as a minnow in a pond, he puts the ring in some pocket, shrugs out of his coat, kneels, pulls Gibson’s shoulders away from the sledge and wraps the warm coat around him. He lifts up into a crouch and takes both of Gibson’s hands. “Slowly,” he says.
Gibson pulls his knees up and bites back a gasp as pain shoots all the way up his thighs. This is new. It’s not surprising, though. He tolerates the pain by grasping both of Hickey’s hands, such a blessing to hold them again, he’s never believed in blessings but this is one.
He wraps an arm around Hickey’s shoulders and together they step haltingly across the gravel and into the tent. Hickey lowers him to the ground and produces blankets from somewhere, Gibson’s not sure where, his temples are pounding and his head swims as Hickey lays one blanket over him, then folds up another and slides it under his head for a pillow. Gibson’s brain is still fuzzy with the aftershocks of the pain and it’s with a jolt of his heart when the next thing he’s aware of is Hickey’s face next to his on the pillow.
Hickey takes both of Gibson’s hands and rubs them vigorously between his own, exhaling hot breath on them. Gibson can’t remember Hickey taking off his gloves. But it’s easier to accept the memory lapses because Hickey is touching him.
“Hmm. I love your hands,” Gibson murmurs.
Hickey keeps rubbing. “Why’s that?”
“Did I never tell you?”
“Could be. You should say it now, though.”
“So we both remember?”
“That’s it.”
“Alright.” Gibson settles his cheek into the pillow and finds his memory isn’t failing him. It’s brimming with moments, all on showcase across his mind, as if they’ve been stroked onto canvases with bright daubs of paint. Unforgettable, even now. “Well, the first time we had watch together. You already knew how I felt about you, I could tell, and I was worried sick you didn’t feel the same until you put your hand on mine. I loved it even through the glove. And then more when we went below deck and you took my hand and pulled me down with you. You’re so small.” He breathes a laugh. “But your grip was iron. I might still have the marks of your fingers on my skin. I saw your hands bare for the first time and they were so small against mine and I was ever so fond. And then how you used them when you ravished me, like something so strong and soft at the same time, like, I don’t know, a storm maybe, the good kind, just rain and thunder, your roughness was the thunder but then you touched me so soft like the rain drizzling at the end of the storm. Or like a sun shower. Do you know what that is? It’s when it rains while the sun is out. It’s like…like a wonder of the world, just like every time I see you…” He trails off, eyes closed, and Hickey stops rubbing his hands, instead keeps both of them safe within his own.
Gibson has no idea how much time has passed when he opens his eyes again. He feels warmer, the heat from Hickey’s body radiating into his own. His legs are warm and not aching in this moment. This is a lot to ask for, and he thinks that he’ll be satisfied with it even if Hickey has forgotten about the ring.
It’s as if Hickey has been listening to his thoughts. He produces the ring from somewhere and presses it against Gibson’s palm. “I’d never touched a ring before I found this one.” Hickey angles his face closer to Gibson to speak in his ear. “It’s not expensive. Even I can tell that. But it was the nicest thing I’ve ever owned so I knew I’d give it to you.”
Gibson frowns even as he moves his forehead against Hickey’s. “I don’t understand. I’d already left you when you gave it to me.”
Hickey scoffs. “Where’s it written that I can’t give you a gift whenever I like?”
“But to give me your nicest possession when I’d made you unhappy?”
“That’s why it was time to give it to you. So that if you accepted it, you’d still be willing to have some part of me. And some part of me is still me. So when you kept this ring, you decided to keep me forever. I sleep well at night knowing that.” Hickey sighs airily with satisfaction.
Gibson thinks about all the reactions he could have to this. If he were able, he could tackle Hickey in either laughter or frustration. He could pull away from him right now. He could say nothing and stew in anger or bafflement or say nothing and wonder in silence at the bizarre majesty that is Cornelius Hickey’s mind. The grace with which he unties his seemingly knotty logic into an explanation that’s so obvious and beautiful.
Gibson nudges Hickey’s forehead with his own. “You’re impossible but you make everything in the world possible. Maybe some things not even in this world. How do you do that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he pulls his hand free from the blanket and holds his fingers out. “Marry me, Cornelius. That’s the last thing I’ll ask of you. Marry me.”
Hickey doesn’t even stall. Gibson’s eyes ache in the best way, happy tears straining behind them, as Hickey gently holds Gibson’s outstretched hand, feels for his ring finger, and pushes the ring as far back as it will go. “I thee wed, Billy,” he whispers.
Gibson exhales a small sob as he takes Hickey’s hand, finds his ring finger, and kisses it up and down. “I thee wed.”
Hickey removes his hand from Gibson’s and feels for Gibson’s lips, then nestles closer and kisses him. He strokes Gibson’s cheekbone with his thumb.
It’s not like the old days, when they’d grasp the backs of each other’s heads and try to pull each other closer than was actually physically possible, pushing their lips together so hard and long that they’d forget to breathe. Tonight, Hickey kisses him hard enough so that he opens Gibson’s mouth but doesn’t jostle Gibson’s head. Gibson can tell how carefully he’s moving, each moment made in the decision to keep Gibson in comfort, and a tear slides sideways from his eye and across the bridge of his nose. Hickey wipes it away with his thumbpad, then gently runs a fingertip across Gibson’s wet eyelid. He blinks his eyelashes against Gibson’s. Butterfly kisses. Gibson blinks back until he can’t keep from chuckling. Hickey presses his lips against Gibson’s forehead. Gibson kisses a line along Hickey’s jaw. They make a kind of game of it, exchanging kisses like vows, touches like promises. Gibson nudges the tip of his tongue against Hickey’s and Hickey runs his tongue along the upper row of Gibson’s teeth. They keep kissing as Hickey traces the circle of Gibson’s cheek and Gibson reaches to the back of Hickey’s neck and strokes the nape. He runs his fingers through Hickey’s hair and sighs against him, relishing the softness. Hickey moves a finger around in the hollow of Gibson’s throat. They never stop finding each other’s lips.
Gibson never dreamed he’d have a wedding night. He doesn’t care that they’re not naked, that Hickey’s hands never stray below his shoulders, that there’s no bed for them to roll around in. It’s his wedding night, and Hickey is his husband, and the aurora and shooting stars outside are for them, the earth’s gifts laid at the alter of something just as natural as that earth: their love.
To Gibson’s surprise, Hickey falls asleep first. Gibson cradles him, still planting kisses on his hair, while he listens to the wind. It’s loud, but Gibson thinks his heartbeat is too. The wind probably hears his heart thump in content rhythm, powerful because of the sweetness and glory it has known tonight. The wind hears me, Gibson thinks as he buries his face in Hickey’s hair and closes his eyes. It hears a married man.
In the morning, before they can hear noises of anyone else stirring, Gibson lies with his head in Hickey’s lap. Hickey threads his fingers into Gibson’s curls and Gibson idly plays with his other hand. The light is growing bright. It will be sunny today.
“When will you do it?” Gibson asks after awhile.
Hickey strokes his hand from one side of Gibson’s head to the other. “When you can’t walk at all. Or, more likely, when you can’t haul.”
“How?”
“With a knife. Quickly.”
Gibson toys with Hickey’s fingers. “Will you take the ring back?”
“No.” Hickey pulls a curl back from Gibson’s forehead and takes it between his fingers. “That’s yours. You know that.”
“That’s mine.” Gibson holds up his hand and considers the ring. “I have to put it back on the chain, so no one will see.”
“You can do that later.” Hickey breathes in deeply. “This is comfortable right now.”
“Don’t give me any warning. Just do it.”
“If that’s how you want it, Billy.”
Gibson watches the tent walls ripple in the wind. You’ll hear me then too, he thinks as the wind picks up and the walls blow inward. Oh you wind. You heard me in my greatest joy, and you’ll hear me when I leave.