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Restful sleep, it feels, is a rarity: what little Harry gets borne by sheer exhaustion rather than meaningful relaxation. He dreams of sleep, of warm blankets and uninterrupted rest—increasingly rare as time goes on.
It is almost expected, then, when the scream comes.
Harry is on his feet before he even realises it, shrugging on his waistcoat—he doesn't even bother undressing for bed any more; he is always needed for something. He can hear the susurrus of voices in the hall and slides the door to his cabin open, following the sounds of the crowd.
“What the—”
“This time of night?”
“Who in the fu—”
Men cluster in various states of undress around the cabin almost directly opposite, and Harry immediately knows the source of the scream.
His stomach twists in a pang of sympathy—he is well aware that Henry Collins has troubles, tonight's interruption only another hint at the problems that lie behind those soft, dark eyes. Harry has seen the glaze of melancholy that washes over Collins when he suspects he is unobserved. Yet somehow, he always seems to be a subject of Harry’s gaze.
He shoulders through the tangle of murmuring men, medical case in hand, pushing up his glasses and straightening his clothes as best he can. There is a heaviness in the pit of his belly: the familiar desire to fix things, to make things better—surely there is something he can do to help.
"Excuse me, please," Harry clears his throat, "I'll take care of this." He can see the tall silhouette of Stanley in the corner of his eye, standing in his own doorway shaking his head in dismissal. Harry catches his eye and steels himself. "I'll take care of this," he repeats, firmer this time.
Stanley simply rolls his eyes and returns to his cabin.
There have been no further noises behind Mr Collins' door—at least none that Harry can hear over the mutters of the men, who are slowly dissipating, returning to bunks and hammocks, a few dark looks cast towards the closed door.
Harry knocks, far more tentatively than he'd intended. "Mr Collins? It's Mr Goodsir, may I come in?"
No reply—though Harry did not expect one. He can see the faint glow of the lamp between the door's shutters and breathes deep, trying to make his voice sound firm.
"Mr Collins, I believe it would be best to check on you, so I am coming in."
There is a faint scrape of wood as Harry slides the door open, treading softly despite already announcing his intentions. Collins is far larger, far stronger than he is, and could easily remove Harry if he did not want him there—though he doubts that is likely; Harry knows that Collins’ nature is far gentler than that, and a familiar warmth stirs within him in a flurry of sensation. He slides the door closed as softly as he can, finally turning to see Collins for himself.
Harry’s stomach clenches at the sight. Collins’ dark eyes are wide and fearful, the whites showing even in the dim light, rimmed in tears and redness. His chest still heaves with frantic breath, barely calmed in the short time since the scream was ripped from his throat. Large hands shake on crumpled sheets and Harry swallows at the concern that rises as a hard lump in his throat.
"I—I'm sorry." Collins' voice is soft, ragged at the edges like torn cotton. "I didn't mean to wake anyone."
Harry swallows. Collins' hair is in disarray, tousled waves and curls just begging to be smoothed down, his whiskers standing on end like a frightened cat’s. Despite his size he looks small, curled in on himself as he is, and Harry feels another flutter in his chest.
The thin, over-washed fabric of Collins' nightshirt clings to sweat-dampened skin, practically transparent, every curve and muscle outlined. The thick hair of his chest is a silver-flecked tangle beneath the low neckline—another layer of softness that cries out to be touched. Harry swallows, the urge to run his hands over every inch of Collins' broad chest rising with each deep inhale of his scent: rich and heavy, heated skin and sea salt.
“Please,” Harry says, “don’t apologise.” He steps a little closer, reaching out, though he does not know what for. “I was concerned. I want to help.”
Collins swallows, the ghost of a smile passing over his lips for the briefest of instants, though the wariness in his eyes remains.
“You really needn’t concern yourself with the likes of me, Doctor.”
Harry can feel his heart clenching and purses his lips, settling on the side of Collins’ bunk in a sudden fit of daring. “Yes, well...perhaps you will let me care for you, instead?”
That seems to pique Collins’ interest and he straightens up, fingers loosening from his sheets as he looks at Harry for what feels like the first time. His expression shifts, from wariness to something far softer and infinitely sadder.
“Nightmares,” he murmurs finally. “I know I shouldn’t be affected by such things, but after what happened to Billy Orren I can’t seem to shake them.” He shoves his hair from his face, a few dark strands resolutely clinging to skin that radiates heat, noticeable even from where Harry sits. “I see things, I hear them. Even when I’m awake they seem to follow me.”
Harry nods, Lord knows, this expedition has already been so hard on all of them; he suspects that if he truly slept then the nightmares would find him, too. Shuffling up the bunk a little, he chances to put his hand on Collins’ thigh, taut and solid and blazingly warm beneath the tangled sheets.
“I am here, you know. Even if it is just to talk. Sometimes I feel that can be as good as any medicine.”
Collins’ eyebrows twitch up in surprise, bringing another bubble of concern to Harry’s throat, his fingers tightening unconsciously at the knowledge that even the most basic of kindnesses is so unexpected.
There is a flash of pink as Collins’ tongue slips out to sweep over his lips, his gaze dropping to where Harry’s fingers dig into the meat of his thigh.
Harry does not let go.
"I truly didn't mean to wake you all,” Collins says, voice soft. “I didn't want anyone to check on me." His shoulders droop, the thin cotton of his nightshirt slipping a little lower, exposing more of his broad chest, sweat still tangled in salt and pepper curls. There is a shudder of breath as Collins exhales, raising his head to meet Harry’s eyes. "But I am glad it's you."
Harry nods, unspeaking, taking hold of a corner of Collins’ sheet to brush it across his forehead, gently mopping the sweat from his brow.
His hands move of their own accord, stroking down cheeks, smoothing out the rough hair of his whiskers in a soft sweep that is almost a caress. Memory surges in Harry’s mind: comforting his younger siblings, woken by nightmares and thunderstorms—his natural instinct since he was a child to provide care however he can. He sighs, losing himself slightly in the sensation of touching another.
“I’m sure we all need some degree of comfort, given the circumstances.”
Harry combs through tangled waves of hair, pushing them back from Collins’ furrowed brow, feeling him relax ever so slightly with every touch. It is comforting, being so close, the knowledge that such a strong and solid body is only inches away from Harry’s own, warm and welcoming and alive in a place as harsh and beautiful as the Arctic. Harry traces his fingers over every little worry line on Collins’ forehead, hoping he can in some way soothe the uncertainties that brought them forth. There is a peace in bringing comfort to another, and as Collins sighs out, breath warm on Harry’s skin, those tight lines relax, just a little.
It is almost second nature, then, for Harry to press his lips to that spot.
"Oh." The exhale is soft and Collins sits back, searching Harry’s face for any sign of regret or remorse; something which Harry knows he will not find. His hand slides over the sheets, the tips of his fingers barely brushing Harry’s own, tentative. "Is that how it is then, doctor?" His voice is low, tinged with uncertainty, but no hint of disgust, no accusation, only a simple question shining in dark eyes no longer wide with fear.
Harry pauses, wetting his lips. This is the point where he could stop this, deny, pretend. This is the point of no return.
He always has loved the thrill of new discoveries.
"I suppose it is."
"Huh," there is a flicker of surprise that ghosts across Collins' face, chased away by a soft, almost tentative, smile. "Well, okay then."
Large hands raise either side of Harry's face, thick fingers brushing over his skin with utmost gentleness. He feels his glasses unhooked from his ears to be gently folded and set aside.
The world blurs and refocuses, and then there are lips on his.
Collins' lips are chapped but warm, plush against Harry's own and pressing forwards ever so slightly, almost a continuation of his question.
Is this all right?
Inhaling deeply, Harry slides his hands from Collins' hair to his face, threading through rough whiskers and holding him in place as their mouths slide together, his confidence growing with every shift of their lips.
Strong arms wrap around him as Collins pulls Harry even closer, large palms warm where they are pressed to his back. His lips part, their mouths moving together, kisses growing deeper and messier with every passing second.
Harry groans when Collins’ tongue nudges against his own, the noise rising from his own throat a surprise even to himself. He has known of his inclinations for so long, yet rarely had a chance to indulge them—and even then he has never felt a heat quite like this. Shifting, Harry kicks his shoes off, swinging his legs up to join Collins entirely in his bunk—though that is no small feat given the breadth of him: something which makes Harry shudder in the most delicious way.
Collins breaks their kiss as Harry scrambles to settle alongside him, a gentle smile teasing at his lips, a gentleness to his gaze that has butterflies rising in Harry’s stomach. He sits back, tugging Harry to lie atop him, big hands sliding down to hold tight on his waist, one thick thigh pressed firmly between Harry's legs.
“Is this okay?” Collins murmurs, eyes searching Harry’s face for any sign of uncertainty. His fingers stroke up Harry’s sides, tightening when Harry’s hands land on his chest.
“Y-yes, definitely.” Harry’s voice quivers, the force of his own desire surprising him as his fingers fumble in the thin cotton of Collins’ nightshirt, the maddening need to run his hands over heated skin overtaking all other senses. “Is this?”
Collins nods, teeth scraping over his lower lip as Harry finally manages to tug the shirt up enough to spread his hands over the curve of Collins’ stomach, fingers immediately trailing up the softly-furred belly to reach his chest and tease over dusky pink nipples.
“Oh, that’s—” Collins arches up as Harry squeezes, slamming their lips together to muffle the rumbling groan that rises in his throat.
Harry’s pulse is starting to speed, a heat coursing through him that threatens to overwhelm his every sense. He can feel his trousers tightening with every press of Collins’ thigh against his stones, his breath catching with every sweep of Collins’ tongue against his own. It is intoxicating, thrilling, the knowledge that the rest of the crew and the worst of repercussions are only a few feet away.
Still, Harry cannot bring himself to stop.
Collins’ hands slide from Harry’s waist to his hips, heavy and warm even through the layers of his clothes. In his grasp Harry feels delicate, tiny, the thought of those big hands wrapped entirely around his middle bringing a familiar heaviness between his legs that Harry is all too used to ignoring. His breath catches when Collins presses up, the smallest of moans threatening to break from his lips—were they not so thoroughly occupied with Collins’ own.
Arousal surges through Harry as he is pulled closer, his hands roaming over every inch of Collins that he can reach, fingers threading through coarse hair, squeezing into soft skin layered over hard muscle. He rocks his hips without thinking, rutting into Collins’ thigh, a whine leaving his lips when Collins shifts, breaking their kiss.
“You might be more comfortable here,” he says, gently urging Harry from his position atop one thigh to spread his legs a little wider, clearly indicating that Harry should settle between them. When he does, Collins’ hands immediately return to Harry’s hips, pulling him close, shared gasps mingling as their cocks press together.
The heat is quickly rising in the little cabin, burning through Harry’s veins in a flood of unchecked arousal. He reaches once more for Collins’ face, tugging at his whiskers and dragging him in for a kiss that has them both gasping.
They move together, muffling each other’s groans with their lips, Harry’s hands delving back beneath Collins’ nightshirt to knead and squeeze at his chest. He pulls back, meeting Harry’s gaze and draws in a shaking breath.
“So, um…”
Collins’ voice is as soft and gentle as his touch, his fingers tightening on Harry’s hip for the briefest of squeezes. "Do you want to maybe, um..." His eyes are wide, hopeful, all traces of fear dissipated in the heat of their bodies pressed together.
Harry swallows, chokes, swallows again. He can feel his fingers trembling—though whether through nerves or anticipation he cannot tell. "Oh! Oh, yes, very much so.” He glances down, biting his lip at the sight of thick thighs either side of his hips, gaze sliding inevitably upwards towards the more than generously tented drawers. “H-How did you want to—"
Harry knows exactly how this is supposed to go—he is an anatomist after all; and truth be told, he is always eager to learn more.
Collins’ smile could almost be called shy if it weren’t for the wicked gleam in his eyes. His tone is low, his tongue slipping out to sweep over kiss-swollen lips, Harry’s gaze following, dragged over that perfect cupid’s bow. "Well.” The smile widens. “I'd like it very much if you were to take me, Dr Goodsir."
Despite the blood that is already thundering through his veins, Harry can feel his cheeks burning. He splutters, words escaping him as Collins grins up, looking entirely too pleased with himself at Harry’s reaction.
Harry sits back, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make himself presentable—despite knowing it will only spring straight back into his face. His hand tightens in the hair of Collins’ chest as he murmurs, trying not to sound too flustered, "I think you can call me Harry now."
Collins’ fingers tighten on Harry’s hip once more as he leans up, smile softening. “Okay...Harry.”
“...Henry.”
They come together in a kiss as gentle as a sigh, reaching for each other in the same moment. Harry’s hands land once more on Henry’s chest; something that has him huffing out a small laugh against Harry’s lips.
“You definitely seem to like having your hands there.”
Harry gives a brief squeeze, feeling the hard length of Henry’s cock pressed against his stomach as he arches up, and triumph flares in his belly. “Mmm, well, so do you, it seems.”
Henry only smiles, sliding one hand up and under the back of Harry’s shirt, the rough pads of his fingers trailing over Harry’s skin to make him shiver. His other hand slips to the front of Harry’s trousers, palming his cock, stroking the length of it over the rough wool.
“What say we take these off?”
Harry bites his lip, and, feeling emboldened, places his own hand on the front of Henry’s drawers. “I will if you will.”
Henry’s grin flashes once more, sunlight through clouds. “I think we can arrange that.” He shuffles, reaching for the buttons of his drawers and shoving them downwards before Harry can even think of offering to help. He watches, entranced, as Henry tugs the underwear off, catching Harry’s eye with a grin before he wets his lips and bundles the fabric into a tight wad to shove beneath his hips, tilting them up. He settles back, legs spread wide in invitation, thickly muscled thighs now fully visible, covered in the same dark hair as his belly and chest, unfathomably warm on either side of Harry’s hips.
He glances down to where Henry’s cock stands proud and tall, arching against the gentle curve of his belly. It is thick and heavy, pink head glistening beneath Harry’s gaze, twitching as Harry continues to stare, taking everything in. Henry’s balls are covered in the same silvered-dark hair, drawn up against the thick base of his cock, as beautiful as the rest of him. Harry can feel his breath quicken as his gaze trails lower, following the dark hair between the round cheeks of Henry’s arse, his fingers already twitching at the thought of spreading him open.
Harry reaches down, fingers trailing the length of Henry’s cock, and he swallows at the pulse of heat that rushes through him when he wraps it entirely in his grasp. He can feel Henry’s every heartbeat beneath the smooth skin and squeezes, immediately rewarded by being tugged in for a fierce kiss. Henry’s breath is warm as he groans into Harry’s mouth, one big hand fumbling unsuccessfully at the front of Harry’s trousers.
“Yes, ah! Just...just a moment,” Harry gasps between kisses, his fingers brushing over the rough skin of Henry’s own as he flicks his buttons open, trousers and drawers both. His head is spinning, it feels, the onslaught of sensation almost overwhelming—yet still not enough. Broad palms slide beneath his trousers, taking one arse cheek in each hand and squeezing tight, Henry pulling them flush, his voice rough and ragged against Harry’s throat.
“I have grease…” Henry says, faltering a little, “somewhere.”
Harry shakes his head, face pressed once more to the intoxicating sweat-scented softness of Henry’s chest. “It’s fine. My case. I have an oil of castor.” He feels breathless, elated, unable to keep his hands from roaming the expanse of Henry’s body beneath him.
Gentle fingers rise once more to Harry’s face, pushing his hair from his forehead, Henry meeting his gaze with wide eyes. “You should fetch it quick, then. I want you.”
Harry nods, reluctant to pull away for too long, already addicted to the feel of Henry’s flushed skin against his own. He fishes the bottle from his case, a gasp leaving his lips as, the instant he returns, Henry works his trousers below his hips, exposing Harry’s cock to bob in the cool air.
“Please,” Henry murmurs, thick fingers stroking the length of Harry’s shaft, “I don’t want to wait.”
Harry nods, quickly slicking his fingers with the oil and diving in for a deep kiss, sliding his fingers into the cleft of Henry’s arse as he does. He circles, dampening the hair that curls around the tight furl, easing over it in smooth strokes that are far more confident than he himself is.
“Yes. More.” Henry’s voice is low, a sigh leaving his lips as Harry presses his fingers in, feeling Henry relax around him. “That’s what I want.” He shifts, raising his hips and stripping his nightshirt off completely, leaving himself completely exposed to Harry’s gaze. Reaching for Harry’s other hand, firm on his hip, Henry gives it a little squeeze, lips curving in a gentle smile. “Now get up here so I can kiss you.”
Pursing his lips, Harry frowns. He wants to take his time, to work Henry over until he is shaking and begging—though he supposes now is not the time or place. He settles for a quick curl of his fingers, the clench of Henry around him telling him that he has indeed found the right spot—his anatomical knowledge as impeccable as always.
There is a whine, and Henry’s thighs clench. “Harry, please. Kiss me. Take me.”
“Yes, I’m here, I’m ready.” Harry bites his lip, quickly slicking his cock and settling back between Henry’s thighs. “I have you.” He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging Henry’s entrance, slick and wet. “Let me just—”
Henry surges up, arms encircling Harry completely to haul him forward, sinking into the tight heat of Henry’s body with a groan that is swallowed by his mouth completely. Immediately, Harry’s hands find Henry’s chest, fingers digging into thick hair as he sheathes himself entirely, the sheer heat blocking out all other senses. He groans, rocking his hips instinctively, and feels Henry clench, grinding back against him, his own hands sliding up Harry’s sweat-damp shirt to caress the lines of his back as he kisses him deeply.
They break apart, gasping in at the same moment, the heat between them rising with every shift of Harry’s hips. His fingers tighten and Henry groans, dragging one hand from Harry’s shirt to press over his own mouth, cutting short the gasp of Harry’s name that escapes him.
A sudden thrill runs up Harry’s spine, the danger of discovery, the thought that a few mere panels of wood are all that separates them from the rest of Erebus’ crew. It is intoxicating, the moan that rises in his throat completely unbidden, and with his next thrust Harry presses forward, muffling himself in the sweaty softness of Henry’s chest.
This only seems to spur Henry onward, the hand not occupied in muffling his own moans sliding into Harry’s hair, tangling in the curls and holding him in place. The scent of musk, of sweat and sex is overwhelming, the salt of Henry’s skin lapped up by Harry’s eager tongue as his hips move without thought or rhythm. His lips find the tight peak of one nipple and Harry draws it into his mouth, sucking hard, trying to resist the urge to sink his teeth into the soft flesh. He feels wanton, feral; this want, this aching need, far more powerful than any notion of desire he has ever felt before. His senses are flooded, his every nerve ablaze; all thought, all touch, every gasping breath—all for the man beneath him.
"Henry."
The fingers in his hair tighten and Harry is dragged into a kiss that is all teeth and tongue and barely-muffled moans. He can feel his own thrusts speeding as he rocks into the tight, hot heat of Henry’s arse over and over, pleasure rising with every ragged thrust.
Harry wants to sob, unused as he is to his own pleasure. He can feel his peak drawing ever closer, far faster than he could have anticipated, his thighs trembling with every clench of Henry around him, feeling a burst of heat with every slick slide of his cock trapped between their stomachs. His movements stutter when Henry’s fingers tighten in his hair, the single jolt of pain-pleasured sensation tipping Harry suddenly, unexpectedly over the edge. His blood rushes, thundering in his ears as he groans out his climax, shuddering with each pulse of his cock as he spills inside Henry with a muffled whine of his name.
“Oh god, Harry.” Henry’s voice is low, rough, and filled with awe. “You feel so...you’re so good.” He slides a hand down Harry’s side and holds tight to his arse, keeping him in place. “Will you touch me? Please?”
“Mmph,” Harry mumbles, his nose buried in the sweaty curls of Henry’s chest, shivers running through every inch of him. Henry’s cock twitches between them, still hot and relentlessly hard, slick where the tip has rubbed against the rough trail of hair on Harry’s own stomach. “Y-Yes, of course.”
Sliding his hand between them, Harry has a moment to admire Henry stretched out beneath him, looking even more wrecked than when Harry first entered the cabin. His hair is a halo of sweat-slick waves, mussed by Harry’s own hands. His eyes shine with desire, not a trace of fear to be found in any inch of his flushed face. Henry’s teeth scrape over his lower lip, his eyes squeezing closed as Harry takes him in hand, still rocking into him, though he can feel his own cock softening.
Harry’s movements are quick but sure, his heart pounding with every whisper of his name that falls from Henry’s lips, broken by soft moans when he flicks his wrist.
“Good,” Harry murmurs, “let me take care of you, I want to see.”
Henry’s breath catches as he thrusts into the circle of Harry’s fist, the thick muscles of his thighs tightening. He is panting now, clenching around Harry as he arches up, fingers tight in twisted and sweat-soaked sheets.
“H-Harry!”
With a groan, Henry surges up, crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss as his cock pulses, coating his stomach and Harry’s hand in stripe after stripe of his release, his breath leaving him in what sounds almost like a sob. His stomach quivers as Harry runs a soothing hand over it, the kiss steadily softening to a lazy tangle of tongues and slowing breath.
“I—” Henry starts, a shudder running through him when Harry pulls out to tug his trousers back up. “Now I am very glad you came to check on me.” He smiles, soft and gentle, and Harry feels a tug at his heart. “You know, I think I may be able to rest well now, Doctor.”
Harry returns the smile, dipping down for another gentle kiss. “Yes, well, I think I shall stay to observe just a little longer, if you don’t mind.” He reaches for Henry’s nightshirt, mopping the mess from his stomach before settling down next to him, nuzzling his nose once more into the pillowy softness of his chest and feeling strong arms immediately wrap around him.
“I did say I’d take care of you, after all.”