Chapter Text
When James was fourteen his parents had taken him to Rome. He wandered around the Captioline Museum alone, lost, bewildered; statues peering down on him, cold marble eerily alive with ages past. He still remembers it all so well – coming upon a bust so polished and lively, steady determination resting in its features with a form of beauty he had not seen before. He read the plaque beneath the statue: Gaius Julius Caesar.
He looks over at Sir John, profile stern in the whistling cold wind. They’re decades and miles away from Rome, yet the bust it’s all he can think of as he timidly studies him. There is a likeness there, echoes of the emperor evoked in his Captain. James wants to sing his praise like Caesar had been praised, and hold triumphs and festivals in his name.
But this he knows is impossible.
So he will love him in silence instead. He will keep his praise in the recesses of his imagination, far, far away from the warmth of Sir Jonh’s cabin where it so longs to be spoken into life.
James has to look away from him, shame creeping into his admiration. Standing on deck, he looks outwards instead, the still night’s stars reflected on the unforgiving, ice riddled waters surrounding them. He can feel Sir John’s stern eyes on him.
“Something’s troubling you, James. What is it?”
He hesitates and decides not to speak any truth into the silence. Instead he lets it settle, trying to find the appropriate response. But in that silence a strikingly green light dances into being above them, flaring across the stars.
“Sir John, look…”
He bids James’ wish. “Ah. Aurora Borealis. The name comes from a Roman goddess, did you know?”
James smiles, “really?”
“Yes, she was said to be the bringer of dawn, racing across the sky in her chariot every morning.” Sir John turns to him with a clever smile.
James muses in return, “well, it is deserving of such a name. When I look upon it I see only God, as if it’s his…very brushstrokes of creation.”
James notices Sir John’s attentiveness. He continues –
“It makes me feel…loved. Like that same light dances through me.”
Sir John hums thoughtfully before he speaks. “You have a talent for poetry, dear James. Have you written anything?”
James looks at him, cheeks burning. How unfair that he can speak to him in such a way – He does not know what it incites in him. “Don’t tease me.”
Sir John only laughs, and puts a gentle hand on his back. “I’m not! Truly, I would be honored if you’d recite something for me. Tomorrow evening?”
James falls asleep that night with thoughts of Sir John, his voice, piercing gaze and hand on his back perpetually swelling and moving through his mind. Fading into dream, he sees marble columns, tunic and toga flung onto a mosaiced floor, and a thousand kisses.
He bolts awake feeling very cold and full of a long forgotten shame.
The next evening he knocks on Sir John’s door. Anticipation flutters in his chest and he feels sort of shy, like he used to be when he was fourteen. He remembers it well — the nervousness to say something wrong, to say anything at all and disgrace himself in front of his superiors.
He enters and finds Sir John sitting comfortably in a chair by the fireplace, unburdened by his uniform and a book in his lap. It is warm and welcoming in the cabin, and the sight of Sir John so at ease helps settle his nerves.
“Ah, James. Please, sit.” He gestures to the chair beside him.
James settles, discarding his coat in the process.
“Are you familiar with the Latin language?” Sir John asks casually.
“Not really, Sir. I always wanted to learn it though, but I never found the time.”
“I see. Do you know Catullus?”
“The roman poet?”
“Yes. I always carry him with me. His words, at least.” He smiles and lifts the book in his lap, opening it delicately.
“Shall I begin?” Sir John continues.
“Please, Sir.” Does he sound desperate? He doesn’t mean to.
But Sir John only smiles and starts reading. “Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.” The words flow as effortlessly as if he were speaking his mother tongue. It sounds familiar somehow, alluring, and God, Sir John reads it like a spell enthralling him.
“Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.”
James leans back in his chair and looks at Sir John. “That was beautiful. What does it mean?”
Sir John does not hesitate as he translates just as passionately in the English language. “I hate and I love. Why I do this, you might ask – I know not, I only feel it happening and am tortured.” He looks at James sincerly all the while.
At first he doesn’t know what to say. He promised himself he would not praise. “It sounds better in Latin.”
Sir John huffs a laugh, “yes, English doesn’t justify its elegance. I always found the language clumsy when it comes to poetry.”
“It’s quite gripping, though. Why are we cursed to love and hate without knowing the reasons why we do?”
“Cursed? I’d call it a blessing. God makes us love and hate, James. It’s all after his accord, we love and hate because of him and for him.” The passion hasn’t dwindled from his voice.
“I do believe you’re right. I never knew you were such a romantic.” James tries and smirks.
Sir John laughs again. “You’ll find there’s quite a lot you don’t know about me.”
Why is his voice streaked with mischief when he says it? James doesn’t dwell on the matter as Sir John continues, “Come, would you please me by returning the favour?”
James feels very hot suddenly, and clears his throat as Sir John hands him the book. “I’ll try. what should I recite?” The book feels awkward in his hands.
“Anything you wish. Please.” Sir John encourages him.
James opens the book on a random page. Catullus V . the words on the page intimidate him, and he starts quite unsure of himself – “Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus, rumoresque senum severiorum omnes unius aestimemus assis…”
He stops and looks up at Sir John. “Go on,” he commands.
James obeys, thirsting to prove himself. “Soles occidere et redire possunt; nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda.”
He yields his control, lets the language rouse his own passion, and the next line comes out unhinged, like he means what he is saying. “Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum; dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, aut ne quis malus invidere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.”
He finishes breathlessly, feeling lightheaded and drunk on the language, and slowly looks up. Something flickers in Sir John’s gaze. It is not a look he has ever seen on him before.
It takes a few breaths for either of them to speak.
“And you’ve never read Latin before, correct?” Sir John poses, looking amazed, yet keeping his demeanor calm.
“No, Sir.”
“Well. You have a talent for it. I’ve never heard someone recite it quite so nobly before.”
Nobly. No one had ever called James noble. But the description feels right, and he claims it along with his confidence.
“Thank you. I should like to hear the translation of it. Could you?” He hands the book back to Sir John, who has gone inexplicably mute at the preposition. Their eyes meet, and there’s a delicate anticipation in the air; something not yet spoken into being lurking in Sir John’s gaze.
Then there’s a knock on the door, and the tension snaps, startled by the intrusion.
“Come in!” Sir John straightens his back and lifts his head like the Commander he is.
A steward enters lightly. “Sorry to disturb, Sirs. Sir Crozier wishes to summon you for dinner tonight aboard HMS Terror, Sir John.”
“Very well. At what time?”
“As soon as is convenient on your account, Sir.”
“Thank you. At ease.” His tone is less imperious now, tuned to a commander’s warm, yet assertive one. It makes James feel dutiful and devoted.
The steward leaves. John sighs, "God be good.”
“Good luck,” James teases, making him chuckle.
“Oh, but we must be kind to him. He is an honorable man.”
James laughs at that. Quite hard, in fact. Sir John tries to keep serious and fails – “really.” He smiles lightly.
“All right.” James stops laughing, looks at him, tries to contain his mirth. But it escapes from him once more, and Sir John laughs too.
Before leaving, Sir John offers him to stay and borrow his books. James gladly accepts. Now here he still sits, and it feels far too quiet, far too lonely. He glances through the window out from the stern. The lights coming from HMS Terror makes him sting with jealousy, and he can’t take it, so he looks away onto the desk, where the Catullus poem collection rests.
He rushes to the bookshelf. After skimming past a few shelves, he finds the translation section ( how does Sir John have time to read all this? ) and grabs a Latin dictionary. Then he pours himself a generous whiskey, sits down with a thud, and delves into his endeavour.
Three whiskeys later the door creaks open and Sir John enters the room. James stands up with a startle.
Sir John steps further in, discards his coat and sits wearily in his chair, groaning as he reclines.
He looks at James, still standing, and smiles. “I’m glad to still find you here.”
James can’t quite catch his breath. The poem is burned into him, and he can’t feel anything but fervour pulsing.
Sir John picks up his pipe, lits it. He inhales, looks at the books, papers, rushed scribbles and mussed ink on the desk and lets a thick cloud of smoke escape his mouth. “And I see you’ve made quick work of the translation.” He looks back at him, lips curving up in a confident smile.
James can’t take it. The air is flush with tension and impatience and he has to speak words into it — It is unsound and precarious, but the liquor has made him brave and restless, so he does not hesitate as he starts —
“Let us live, my Lesbia, and love…
…Suns may set and rise again,
for us, when once the brief light has set,
an eternal night must be slept.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred…”
He finishes, out of breath and unsteady on his feet. Sir John puts the pipe away and stands slowly. James does not look away from him for a second, though the look in his eyes could mean anything; he expects Sir John to order him to leave, to yell at him, to strike him, but he does none of that. Instead he softens his gaze and steps closer.
“James…”
James’ fervour hasn’t subsided. He stands unflinching as Sir John gently puts one hand on his neck, finger pressing against his pulsepoint, air hitching in his throat – but before he can catch his breath Sir John’s lips are on his, insistent and gentle.
James yields. Another hand goes around his waist, and in response he moves against Sir John and puts his arms around his back. Sir John pulls him towards him, and their kiss deepens as James stumbles forwards, pushing him into the chair.
He crashes onto him with a muffled moan, chasing the relief, the freedom accumulating from a lifetime of his desire’s captivity. So this is what he feels like? He would have heard himself musing, if it wasn’t for the press against Sir John’s body, the wetness and softness of his lips against his.
Sir John’s hands are still on him, buckling him down as he presses up against him. James pushes himself towards him, the desire burning in the friction making him gasp and moan.
“You must be quiet, James. No one can catch us like this.” Sir John murmurs against his ear.
James stops, breathes heavy. “I’ve never…dared this before. With another man, I mean. Is…is it wrong?” He looks achingly at Sir John.
Sir John kisses him tenderly. “Dearest…if providence has given us this gift, should we not use it?”
All his shame and guilt washes away. “Will you show me how?”
Sir John keeps his devoted eyes on him and his hands go to the buttons on James’ vest. “May I?”
“Yes.”
James keeps himself patient as Sir John slowly undoes the buttons. Once he is done he looks up at James, inviting him to go on, and he does, throwing off the vest and pulling off his tunic.
Sir John puts his hands on him then, more eager than before. James shivers at the touch, reaches for him, and moves against him again, pleaing, “now you. Please.”
“Go on.” Sir John responds sternly, leaning back and letting his hands rest on James’ waist.
James paces himself as he fumbles with the vest, eventually - finally getting it open.
“Good, James.” Sir John slowly removes his vest and tunic. He puts one hand on James’ cheek, warm and flush. “You are doing so good.”
The words make him feel shy and feverish. He leans against him, bare skin against his, a warmth he has never known before. “Why do you praise me so?”
A hand runs up his back. “Because you are worthy of it.” Sir John’s voice is so tender it makes James’ want to scream. He looks away.
Sir John puts his hand on his cheek and says, “Look at me. Te cupio . Let me show you how much I mean it.”
James nods, tense and ready. Sir John moves his hand down his chest, stomach, all the way down to the hem of his trousers. He unlaces them before moving on to his own. “I want to see you, James. Will you let me?”
James stands and kicks off the rest of his clothes. Sir John does the same, sits down again and looks up at James.
“ Pulcher…” he cherishes him. His hands trail up James’ thighs, gripping and pushing him down into his lap again.
James watches in astonishment as Sir John takes him in his hand, making him jolt his head back. “God…” He exhales.
Sir John’s hand moves on him, caressing tenderly, and he hums as he kisses James’ chest, muscles flexing under his skin. James pulls him up and finds his lips with his own and kisses him clumsily. He pushes into his hand and Sir John guides him as he follows his rhythm. James looks down, amazed at the large hand around him. Then, he notices Sir John’s own full arousal and a whimper escapes him.
“Wait, I want to try something. Lie back, please.” James pleas again.
Sir John does as he is asked, that starved flicker still in his eyes. James moves closer to him, leans onto him, and drives his hips against him. They both groan, moving together. James doesn’t know where to put his hands, but his awkwardness drowns in his pleasure, and he finds a place for them in Sir John’s hair, thugging boldly. Sir John tightens his hold around him, and one hand moves down to the curve of his posterior, gripping and pulling. Sir John’s hand there incites something new in him and he tires to suppress his moan.
“Fuck-” He mumbles against Sir John, who looks up at him with a curious smile.
“Filthy.” He grumbles.
Sir John moves his hand, finger lightly brushing over his opening, and he swears again, dazed by the unfamiliar twinge it sends up his spine.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes– I…fuck,” He manages.
“Good.” Sir John keeps his demeanor calm. “You’re being so good for me, James.”
James kisses him again, and manages to catch his breath somewhat before speaking. “I’ve heard of…have you ever…given it to someone up there?”
Sir John huffs a laugh. “Yes.”
“How many?”
“I couldn’t say…there has been quite a few over the years…”
James’ jealousy comes crashing. He has to look away.
“…And none of them were like you. James, look at me. I only want you.”
James looks back at him. His features are streaked with earnestness. “I want to. Please.”
Sir John studies him for a moment before speaking. “Can you take it?”
He nods desperately. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll need you in another position…the desk.”
James gets up quickly and looks at the desk cluelessly.
“Lean over it.”
He tries his best to follow Sir John’s instructions, leaning on his elbows on the desk.
“No. You’ll be hurting like that…here.” Then Sir John’s hand is on his back, pushing him all the way down against the cold wood. He props a pillow under his abdomen and sits down in a chair he places behind him.
“You’re so tense, James. Will you relax for me?” He says, hands tracing up his legs, thighs, and locking around him.
He spits into his opening, and his lips lands on him. Da mi basia mille. It’s gentle, soft — like the first time he kissed him. Sir John pushes his tongue against him and pleasure flares up his spine; he finds he doesn’t mind the cold wood he’s pressed against, as it makes the warmth of Sir John’s mouth more exquisite and he relaxes into the feeling.
“Good God…” he mumbles, voice tweaking as Sir John starts working his tongue into him.
He tries to thrust himself further in, but the resistance is too much and his mouth leaves him — “Christ, James…you’re so tight. This will take some time.” He says against his skin and places another kiss on it.
“I want it, please.”
“No. I’ll destroy you. I want you to feel good, and to do so you have to be patient.” James sighs at his words. Patience has never been a strong virtue of his.
"But since your eagerness always gets the best of me…I’m going to try to put one finger in. Good?” He continues.
“Yes.”
More spit, and a finger pressing. He starts entering him slowly, and James hisses and tenses.
“Unclench for me…” James responds instantly, finger sliding easier into him.
When it’s all the way in, Sir John curves it downwards, touching a nerve James never knew existed — the pleasure blazes up in him, and he suddenly feels like he’s very close.
“ Pulcherrimus …You look so beautiful right now.” Sir John says, and it’s enough to break James completely.
Sir John’s hand goes around his length, and just the touch is too much. He inhales sharply and trembles.
He’s never come like that before. The pleasure erupts in him, and for a moment he loses all sense and grasp of his thoughts, mind going murky as pleasure twists through him.
His whole body heaves and is heavy with the aftermath.
“Turn around. I want to kiss you.”
He could never disobey his Captain. He turns and slides down into his lap, and reveres in his lips as they are on him again.
After a moment his attention travels to the hardness pressing against him. “Tell me what to do…I want to please you.”
“Would you put your pretty mouth around me?”
Just the thought of it makes his mouth go dry and starving. He responds instantly, "yes. Do you want me on my knees?”
Sir John nods and James gets down slowly, knees lading on the floor as Sir John spreads his legs further apart. The arousal in front of him is full in length. It intimidates him, nervousness building up again as he looks down.
Sir John puts a hand in his hair, fingers easing in between his curls to massage lightly, not insisting or forcing him any way. “Take your time…whenever you’re ready,” he says softly, and James look up and meets his eyes, blushing from the position he’s in and the patience persistent in Sir John’s disposition.
He leans into his hand and turns slowly to kiss the inside of his thigh, relishing in the feeling of his skin against his lips. More confident and assured now, he watches the look on Sir John carefully as he puts his hand around him and strokes down slowly, watching as his eyes slide shut and he lifts his head in pleasure.
“James…”
His name spoken in such an unconstrained tone, in Sir John’s voice , makes his hand more persistant, faster, and the grip in his hair tightens – it is still not forceful, but he can tell the bonds of control are slipping from Sir John, and it makes him want to see him completly unbound.
He breathes onto his length for a little while, anticipation fluttering in his chest, desire stirring.
He puts his lips onto him. God. Sir John’s arousal twitches, encouraging his need to please, unshackeling his embaressment of inexperience – he takes him into his mouth, moving down and heaving up again carefully. The grip on him tightens once more and pushes him down slightly. He heeds, and obeys the movement Sir John sets in motion, urging him down, driving him up, taking him further in every time he’s pushed down.
“How good you are being for me, James…taking it so beautifully,” Sir John praises and pushes himself all the way into him, nearly making James choke. He resists the reflex in the back of his throat and instead moves his mouth faster.
He wants to tell Sir John that he can take it, tell him to give in, to use him and fuck into him unhinged, but his mouth is disobediant and unrelenting, and he saves his demands for another time. Yet it’s as if Sir John can sense his intent; he thrusts into him, breathing heavy as he matches his rhythm.
It doesn’t take long for Sir John’s hips to jolt up violently a final time, and he spills into him, keeping his deep groan low. James swallows hard. He feels satisfied and proud, and looks up to meet Sir John’s eyes as his mouth slips off him.
Sir John’s grip in his hair is loose and lingering. “Come here.”
James trails up his stomach with his tongue lazily, up his chest, and places light kisses on his neck, sitting down in his lap once more.
“Did I hurt you?” Sir John looks at him concernedly.
“Not really. I liked it. I like it when you loose control.” James beams and relaxes against his chest, elated and drunk on him, feeing the rumble as he chuckles.
Then Sir John embraces him tightly and James is certain they’re the only ones in the world.
Conturbibamus illa, ne sciamus, aut ne quis malus ividere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.