Playing Cannibals

by RarestOfBirds

Summary:

FitzRoy draws on Darwin’s arm. It’s 1833, and this is the most erotic thing either of them has ever done.

/I think the guy who discovered natural selection and the guy who invented the weather forecast fucked on HMS Beagle send tweet.

Notes:

ok maybe a crumb of context:

Did you know that Darwin wasn't actually working for the Navy, nor was he even the ship's actual naturalist – he was officially Captain FitzRoy's "gentleman companion"? Did you know that he wasn't assigned to sleep in the captain's cabin but he did sometimes anyway? Did you know that before the voyage, FitzRoy received a letter from Darwin that began in a slightly apologetic tone, assumed Darwin was about to say he had a girlfriend, threw the letter in the bin, dug the letter out of the bin, and realised Darwin was actually just asking him to put in a good word for a friend's son who wanted to join the Navy? Did you know that FitzRoy named a mountain after Darwin for his 25th birthday? Did you know that Darwin wrote to his sister that FitzRoy made rooms seem larger and air easier to breathe? Did you know that when Darwin was away from the ship, FitzRoy wrote to him to say (paraphrased) "I think of you every time the ship pitches, please come back ASAP, here's two paragraphs of the imaginary conversation I'm having with you"? And also "est avis in navibus Carlos rarissima Darwin," which means "the rarest of birds in ships is Charles Darwin"? Did you know that FitzRoy called Darwin "Philos," short for "natural philosopher," which they definitely both knew just meant "love" because they'd both studied Greek? Did you know that Darwin got kinda mad about FitzRoy getting married when they returned to England, and didn't attend the wedding?

Haha that's so weird idk what it's all about tho

     They didn’t need to talk, and so they didn’t.  Dinner was over, and plates had been cleared, but Charles remained in the captain’s cabin, reading.  Robert sat across the small drafting table, writing in his journal.  The captain was in shirtsleeves, and his dark hair was tousled and unbrushed.  His spectacles were on, giving him a wide-eyed, youthful appearance that made Charles’ heart twist inside his chest.  Charles thought about dwelling on that feeling - then decided against it.  He returned to his book, content to continue in their comfortable silence.

     The sea had other plans.  Beagle gave a great lurch, sending Charles nearly out of his seat.  He caught himself on the table, jogging it – and somehow this , rather than the motion of the brig, caused Robert’s hand to jolt across the page.

     “Darwin, you great orang-utan,” he chided, jabbing at him with the pen.  The ink made contact with the back of Charles’ hand, leaving a black splotch.  

     “My hand!” he cried, in mock indignation.  “See what you’ve done!”

     Robert glanced over.  “That little spot?  It will remove in seconds.”

     Charles waved his hand in Robert’s face.  “The least you can do is continue the work.  Perhaps I might like to look like a tattooed cannibal,” he joked.

     Robert grinned.  “You should be so lucky.  I must remind you: some of my best friends are tattooed cannibals.”  He rose from his seat, and rounded the small table to where Charles sat.  “Roll up your sleeve.”

     “What?”

     “You heard me,” said Robert.  “Roll up your sleeve.  I’ll give you a nice little drawing.”

     It dawned on Charles that this wasn’t a joke, and he mutely obeyed.  Robert sat on the table in front of him, and lifted Charles’ forearm to cradle it, gently, in his lap.  He inspected the arm, and then rotated it, so that Charles’ palm was facing up.

     “That’s not even the side with the spot,” Charles whined.

     “Better canvas,” said Robert, beginning to draw.  “Flatter.  And not so deuced hairy. ”

     Charles laughed.  “You wish your body grew half as much hair as mine.”

     “Perhaps I do.”

 

     The nib was cold and wet against Charles’ skin.  He leaned forward to observe Robert’s work.  “What’s that squiggly line?” he asked.

     “Oh,” said Robert, stopping instantly.  He looked at the line he’d just drawn, then chuckled.  “Why, it’s the coast of the Brazils,” he said.  “I suppose it… slipped out.”

     “You know it by heart?”

     “It haunts me,” said Robert, with a wry twinkle in his eye.  “Fear not, my dear Philos – I’ll decorate it.”  

     Charles took in Robert’s fine, angular features, which were fixed in an expression of extreme concentration as he drew.  He was so close, Charles could smell his hair – all tallow soap, tar, and sweat.  So close that (if he wanted to), Charles could rise from his seat and wrap his arms around the man, lift him from the drafting table, and – 

…and then what?

     Charles fidgeted in his chair, and Robert tutted in admonition.  “Hold still,” he insisted, tightening his grip on the back of Charles’ wrist.  This only served to send another wave of uncomfortable yearning through Charles, and he struggled to keep his composure.  He didn’t know if it was a disappointment or a relief that he felt when they were interrupted by a knock.

 

     “Come!” barked Robert, dropping Charles’ hand.  Charles withdrew his arm from the captain’s lap, and looked up just in time to see Bynoe peering through the open door.

     “How do you do, gentlemen?” he said – then glanced at Charles’ inky arm.  “Am I… interrupting something?”

     “No, doctor,” said Charles.  “We’re just–“

     “Playing cannibals,” Robert interjected.

     “Yes, letting off smoke.  Playing cannibals,” Charles added earnestly.

     Bynoe regarded them in inquisitive silence.  Charles could practically see the man’s thoughts turning over in his skull.  Then – 

“It is well that you find time for levity, captain.  With your spirits high, we will surely pass any test the ocean throws at us.”

     Robert returned Bynoe’s warm smile.  “Thank you, doctor.  What news have you brought?”

     “Just that Midshipman King has made a turn for the better.  I thought you’d like to know.”

 

     Charles felt Robert relax beside him.  Midshipman King was the son of one Captain King, and Robert had known him since he was a little boy.  He hadn’t seemed seriously ill, but Charles knew how Robert cared for the lad.

     “Yes, indeed,” said Robert.  “All thanks to your skilled and tender care, no doubt.” 

     “You oblige me much, captain,” said Bynoe.  “Now I really must retire for the night.  I’ll… leave you fellows to the India ink?” 

     Charles searched hopelessly for an appropriate farewell, and settled for what he hoped was a polite nod.  

     “Rest well, doctor,” said Robert.

     “You as well,” said Bynoe, as he retreated again from the cabin.  The door shut behind him with a soft click.

 

     Charles stared at his own forearm.  Robert had an exquisite hand, and the lines of ink swirled across his skin with characteristic elegance – clusters of leaves and flowers sprouting from the coast of the Brazils, amid a pattern of waves.  Robert nudged him, and held out a damp washcloth – which Charles rose to accept.

     “It seems a shame to erase such a beautiful drawing,” said Charles.

     Robert took back the cloth, and lifted Charles’ arm again.  “Allow me,” he said, and began to wipe.

     Charles stared at the top of Robert’s head.  From this angle, his coarse, black waves obscured much of his face, but for the equally-black swoop of his eyelashes.  Charles cleared his throat, reaching for a script – any ritual etiquette to guide the situation.

     “You oblige me greatly with your kindness,” he said.

     “I beg of you, sir, don’t mention it,” said Robert, who had also retreated into ritual etiquette.

     “Robert –“ said Charles, and Robert looked up at him, with eyes large and dark behind his spectacles.  Charles marvelled at his friend’s grace and certainty.  Charles may have been the larger man by some margin, but Robert had a way of making him feel small, and worthy of protection.  

 

     The moment didn’t last.  Robert broke eye contact, and looked back down at his hands.  He gave Charles’ arm a final wipe, then retreated to the corner, where he began to fold the washcloth with an air of extreme focus.  Soon, the cloth was folded so small that Robert could do no more.  He regarded it with a baffled look, before casting it carelessly on the floor.  Finally, he looked in Charles’ direction once more, and gave a genteel cough.

     “Mr Darwin,” he began.  “Would you do me the great pleasure of remaining after supper tomorrow night as well?”

     “The pleasure would be mine,” said Charles.  “But, for…?”

     “To play cannibals.”

     “Ah, yes.  Of course.  Bynoe did say –“

     “– he did, indeed.”  

     There was a brief silence.

     “I should be off to bed as well,” said Charles.  “With Midshipman King on the mend, I won’t have the cabin to myself much longer.”

     “Quite,” agreed Robert.  “But tomorrow?”

     “Cannibals?”

     “Cannibals.”

     Charles bowed, and Robert returned the gesture.

     “Good night, captain.  Rest well.”

     “Rest well, my dear friend.” 

 

     Charles felt his graceless way down the narrow corridor, as he did every night – only this time, he could feel his heart pounding in his ears as he went.