Chapter Text
John has trouble sleeping. He roams the lower deck like a phantom, listening to the cracking and screeching of ice against wood. He can stay in his cabin of course, read or simply wait for oblivion to overtake him, but John finds this state of temporary nonexistence strangely appealing, drifting as he is through this endless night, unmoored and translucent.
He halts as he passes Edward’s quarters, pulled back into his somatic existence, sees the dim yellow light spilling from within the small room, comes closer. He hears— sighs, little stifled noises, of pain or otherwise, he cannot tell. It gives him pause. It is not proper and John would hate to intrude on Edward uninvited at this late an hour but the first lieutenant has not been well recently, jostled by their distempered captain and steeped in worry, a walking embodiment of restlessness. And is this not John’s duty too, to offer his friend a helping hand whenever one is needed? He hesitates, then knocks softly, once, slides the door to the side.
Edward’s name stills on his lips. John feels acutely that he’s transgressed some invisible barrier. It takes him a moment to figure out the layout of the scene. There’s Edward (a relief to see him unharmed), seated on his bed in his shirtsleeves, sweat beading on his brow, eyes shut tightly, face fixed in an expression John’s never seen on it before. And George is here too, but on the floor for some reason, turned away from the door, knelt before Edward, hands on his hips and his mouth, his mouth— oh. Oh.
Blood rushes to John’s cheeks as he chokes on the hot, stifling air.
He should not have stopped, shouldn’t have listened.
He must avert his eyes, must turn around, must flee, leave his friends to their depravity and pray for their salvation once he’s alone.
But he stays, and he watches, paralyzed.
George whirls around, wipes his reddened lips with the back of his hand in gesture so grotesque that John feels his breath hitch in his throat. He stares at John, first in confusion, then in fear, then— it is something else entirely. The air around John prickles at his skin. When George speaks, his voice is so clement and warm and beckoning that John can’t help but listen. He only says, “John, God, don’t go, please”. It is so very simple. It is a plea. It is an invitation.
John wavers at the threshold, then enters on unsteady legs, slides the door shut behind himself.
His mind swirls, his heart thumps in his ears, the shrieking voice of his waning reason screaming in protest, but George’s outstretched arm is so pretty and welcoming, and the look in his hazy, dark eyes so fond, that John takes his hand and lowers himself to the floor next to George. And George kisses him, and his mouth tastes bitter but his lips are quick and eager, and John opens his mouth in his confusion and welcomes George’s tongue, and it is clumsy and wanton and wet and so much more than John’s imagined it to be.
They part and John is unsure of what is to come but George’s gentle hand is on his cheek, and it guides his gaze up, up, until he meets Edward’s wide, feverish stare. He looks disheveled, half of the buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the sickly pale skin beneath, and he appears to John so fragile suddenly. Then Edward calls him by the name, and it is different from George, sadder and with an odd hint of desperation to it. He says, “stay, please”. It is all too quick and too confusing but it is then that John knows that he will stay. And he will be held and he will be fine. In the stifling sweaty embrace of their limbs he will be absolved, his friends’ clumsy affection concealing his shortcomings and here at least he will be good, he will be enough.
John traces Edward’s thighs with his hands, and it feels so lovely, not judged for his desire to touch and be touched in turn, and, delighted, he presses a chaste kiss to his knee. As in a dream, one of the dreams he hurried to forget directly upon wakening, reaches forward to where Edward’s flies are undone and his erect prick is wet from George’s tongue. Edward’s eyes are wide on him, an explosive concoction of fear and wild, insatiate want in them, and John tries to concentrate, opens his mouth takes him in, circles the head with his tongue and then dips deeper, deeper until he cannot go any further. He only has a vague idea of what it is he’s supposed to be doing but a moan from Edward stirs him and he repeats the motion, feels how the man shudders beneath him. Then Edward’s hands are in his hair, and John is grateful for the direction as Edward rolls his hips into John’s mouth and John moans in answer. Then George’s breath is hot against his neck as he whispers how well John is doing and how pretty he looks (and at that there’s an approving little whimper from Edward) and how he should keep going, just like that, take Edward in in full, yes, yes, and George is breathing heavy too, the slick sound of skin on skin dizzying, and John is grateful, so grateful he moves faster and faster. Edward’s movements become more and more erratic and John’s head begins to reel as Edward gasps, “John, I am— “. But he chokes on his words as a sticky warmth fills John’s mouth and he swallows and drinks it until there’s no more left. He distances himself, tries to find the ground again but before he can Edward’s lips are on his, slick and fervent, and he licks the bitterness from John’s mouth eagerly, meticulously. Then they part and Edward is looking down at him, awed and beautiful and he says, “thank you”, and he looks so serene then, if only for a moment, that there’s such great warmth at John’s heart that John thinks that if he were to die now, he wouldn’t much mind it. And then Edward slips down and this time his lips are on George’s mouth, gentle and soothing. George’s hand is working at his own prick, quickly, desperately. John sits back on his heels, weaved in a pleasant velvet web of longing, and watches as Edward moves from George’s mouth down his jaw and his neck, leaving dark little spots in his wake which George no doubt will have to conceal later, and George arches and moans gently in reply. And then Edward takes him carefully by the wrist to stop his frantic movements and ducks down, lips stretched around George’s cock, moving elegantly along its length. George’s fingers twist in his hair, tugging and pulling as he comes undone, writhing and rocking under Edward’s tongue. His face is turned towards the ceiling as if in prayer, neck outstretched, lips scarlet and ajar as if in a silent cry, and he looks so magnificent, so splendid, brilliant in the twilight of the room, that John cannot stop himself and he reaches up and places his own lips over George’s, claiming them as his own, drinks the pleasured breaths that flow from them. George moans into his mouth, greedily, obscenely. He bucks and trembles as he reaches his apex and John feels hollowed out and refilled anew with an undying flame. And when he finally lets go, Edward is wiping his mouth with his hand, cheeks pink and eyes hazy, hair wonderfully tangled, almost angelic, because how can something so nice and beautiful be sinful.
John feels overwhelmed, drowning in this all-consuming, blinding affection that he’s stumbled into. When he feels George’s hand brush his thigh, he realizes suddenly just how hard he’s been and somehow feels shame burn at his face, winces a little. But then George’s hand is on his chin again, urging his gaze up, and when their eyes meet, George only says, “let us take care of you, John”. And he trusts them to. John lets the last vestiges of his loneliness and decorum that still clothe him slip away, and he feels so much lighter without them.
He is still a little stiff when George shifts behind him, presses John’s back to his chest so John’s lying against him, George’s strong, sure arms supporting him at his sides. Edward straddles his thighs and leans over him, presses a chaste, tender kiss to his temple. John feels himself begin to melt, fuse with their two bodies. George’s hand moves to his flies, and John is glad to at last be free of the strain of the fabric. George’s graceful, nimble fingers wrap around him, and the feeling of them is divine. Edward works at the buttons of his shirt, presses his hands to his skin, and John feels a shock rush through him from that point of contact because he has not been touched like this in so long and he’s forgotten just how lovely it feels. Then Edward’s hands are joined by his lips, at John’s collarbone, and along his shoulders, then his chest and his stomach, a myriad of soft smooth kisses, or a scrape of Edward’s teeth or a press of his tongue. George strokes him with his palm and John thrusts into George’s hand blindly, frantically and George’s tells him how good he will make him feel, and how beautiful Edward looks, doesn’t he, like this and how sweetly John moans, moans just for the two of them. And in that moment, John knows what he is and why he is here still, it is all laid out in front of him, plain and clear in the dazzling light that surrounds him. And John does sound sweet, increasingly so, as he climbs closer and closer to his crisis in a flurry of Edward’s hands and George’s fingers and Edward’s lips and George’s mouth and yes, yes, the wave breaks over him and he drowns in it readily, joyfully.
When he comes up for air, he is still half-lying there on the floor, soft and wet and absolved, delirious in the heat. And Edward and George are still there, looking at him with affection, their chests rising and falling in a shared rhythm. John watches them fuse together in a slow, languid kiss above him, and he feels at peace.
He is dimly aware that they cannot stay there much longer, that they will have to get up, gather their discarded clothes, and then, inevitably, part. But for now this is good, and it is enough.