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viceindustriousTitle: Full in the Sight of Paradise (Part 2/2)
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: Blackwood survives his last confrontation with Holmes. Coward escapes Parliament. It's time to pick up the pieces.
Word count: 9000
Notes: Part 1 is here.
Coward never thought he could have wanted anything more from Blackwood, or that there would ever come a day where he wished for something other than what he had been given.
These were not favours he could hold in his hands. They were kisses stolen in the soundless corridors of the Lords, they were bruises like emeralds given to ornament his skin. They were glances that set him apart, set him above, every other thing in the whole order of creation.
Coward was far wealthier than Blackwood yet he never felt so wealthy as when he was rich in Henry's affections. Of course his money was the reason Blackwood never furnished him with real trinkets. Henry's pride would never allow him to give Coward anything less than that which Coward could buy for himself, though once Henry held the throne of England, Coward would not be surprised to find the Koh-I-Noor left under his pillow for a gift. Still, nothing would ever hold as much value as the lingering touch of Henry's hand.
Huddled by the fire, he can't help but wish it had been different; a ring, a tie pin, a set of cuff-links? Nothing Blackwood gave him would ever have left his person, he would have those things now, but-
But there's no use in wishing. There's nothing left to sell.
Yesterday he'd hurried out onto the street after the coal cart had been by, scrabbling in the dirt for scraps. The fire eats mercilessly away at what little they have left. On his hands and knees, on his hands and- and he pinches the thin skin below his knuckles to try and block the memory but he can't stop it, just like he can't stop wishing for what might have been.
What if they had left the country straight away? Oh but Henry would never have countenanced that kind of retreat. If he's going to wish he may as well wish that his bullet had found Holmes' heart
He might wish he could stop the rats from getting into the food, but then he'd have to wish that Henry would start to eat again too. His own appetite is all but dead since every meal that Blackwood won't take drops another leaden weight in his stomach.
Coward knows his family have disowned him publicly. It's foolhardy to imagine they might not mean it, dangerous to think of going to them for help now. If he's arrested then what will happen to Henry? Coward buries his face in his hands and then laughs, muffling his hysteria with his palms so as not to wake Henry. He expects his mother would refuse to read the papers, red faced and tight lipped. He wonders about his father. It won't just be the papers of course, it will be people in the streets from high to low and will they only talk of murder? Have the other members of their group come forward to talk about unnatural vices too?
Murder in print makes him think of breakfast. He used to make Henry read the paper to him in bed, watching him with smiling eyes as he spoke oh so solemnly of horror and depravity.
What sort of wicked creature, Coward would grin and pull the paper from his hands. What sort of devil . . .
And he'd climb astride him, the paper falling to the wayside in a rustle of irrelevant stories.
Breakfast would be nice. Tea and toast. If Henry would eat. If Henry would only, only eat. His fever isn't getting any better (and if Coward could bear to think about it honestly, he'd have to admit it's getting worse) and he sleeps through most of the day. Coward has to wait until Henry is half delirious to press an honest answer out of him about the pain in his stomach and the pain in his joints, about how he feels so dizzy but please, Daniel, you shouldn't worry.
Wait and see, the doctor had said, but patience is easy to counsel. When he is holding his breath, watching helpless as the light fades about him, every second is twice as hard to bear as the last. Hope is something he clings to but it's as a chain running faster and faster through his hands and all the while the pain of that compounds, their money is dwindling.
There's Henry's ring.
Not his signet, Henry offered him that to sell almost straight away, but the one he took from Rotheram.
The black stone catches the light when Henry's hands twitch in his sleep. Or maybe Coward only imagines that, maybe his eyes end up creeping back there of his own accord. How many doctors would it buy? How many meals? But he can't ask Henry for that. He would say yes, Coward thinks, but he remembers how Henry was that night.
Blackwood has different ways of being silent. Sometimes he's quiet to tempt you to fill the void with your own words, to reveal things about yourself that you don't even know you're revealing. Sometimes the quiet hums and then Coward can almost pick Henry's thoughts out of the air. The best silence of all is the kind they make between themselves.
The night, Henry's silence had frightened him. He would have broken it straight away if there was anything he could have said, but it would have been laughable to ask the question. Was Thomas dead? There was his ring on Henry's finger. Coward thought they would be celebrating before Blackwood moved past him wordlessly and sat, staring at his hand.
Coward had seen something in Henry then, or felt it perhaps, for the silence that billowed out from him had been a heavy, thick thing between them. A howling lack, dark as the onyx of the ring and cold, as though it were pouring from a place where no light had ever been. It brought an awful knowledge with it; that was the precipice upon which Henry teetered and how deep the darkness in him went, how easily those things which fuelled him might also destroy him.
All he could do was sit with Henry in his silence and watch as he lifted his hand and turned the ring back and forth. Until Coward couldn't stand to see it any more, the dark of the stone reflected like a mirror in the darkness of Henry's eyes, each image seeming to grow as they swallowed one another up. He snapped and tried to cover it with his own hand and Henry flinched. Wherever his mind had taken him, Coward was not there. It must have felt like the touch of a ghost.
Let me see, Coward had said that, hadn't he? Did he know at the time what he was repeating? The same words that Henry had put to him the first night they spent together. When Henry had been inside him and Coward's eyes had been shut tight against the power of it, sure that one more sense would undo him completely.
Let me see, he said, meaning, let me in and Henry had jerked his hand back and struck him, the look on his face like that of some wild animal, cornered and panicking and most of all, blind. Coward had dropped to his knees and caught that hand again, had pressed his lips to the stone of the ring and felt Henry's fingers trembling, held them tight, I'm here. Neither of them moving until Henry turned his hand to brush the cheek he'd struck in mute apology.
Coward won't ask him to give the ring up. Perhaps, perhaps if it were their only option. But it's not, is it?
-
Three streets over, the lamps of Spitalfields Market shine gaily in the night like the lights of a carnival. Even here, Coward can smell chestnuts roasting. Christmas is coming, only a fortnight away and in the market the vendors will be calling out their prices to steam in the cold air, lifting their goods to the eyes of the crowds huddled around their stalls, haggling down to the last farthing.
It's a different kind of trade that brings him out tonight. His clothes aren't fit to save him from the stark chill of the wind but they're fit enough for his purpose and he has the nervous flush of his skin to keep him warm besides. If it wasn't so cold he doesn't think he could stand that prickling heat on the back of his neck, if it wasn't so empty he doesn't think his stomach would settle.
But he must think of this pragmatically. He was never afraid to get his hands dirty before. He'd liked it then, hadn't he? All those necessary evils? All that blood on his hands, crimson that mottled his skin like a blush divorced of shame. Even the first time, the blades had made him more excited than nervous.
It's not so simple when the sacrifice is yourself but Coward refuses to think of that way. He isn't a martyr, this is just another means to an end and nothing more. If you want to draw a straight line you keep your eyes on your point of destination, not on the hand that holds the pen.
He knows the reputation of this street now. He has found his feet leading him back here time and time again through no will of his own. Like a sleepwalker who only wakes when he finds himself at the edge of some hazard. The business that goes on down here is subtle unless you know what you are looking out for. Things in the dark that perhaps you choose not to see.
He hopes Henry does not wake while he is gone. He hopes his dreams are pleasant ones.
Coward leans back against the wall, his shoulder blades laying uncomfortably against the brick, and lets his gaze linger on the men who pass by. He positions his limbs as best he can to make an open invitation of his body, hands in his pockets pulling his trousers tight against his hips.
In these past weeks he's almost forgotten how to wear a mask, the ways in which to close the real parts of himself away. That attentive, earnest sincerity he showed Sir Thomas, the respectful inclination of his head toward his peers, he'd torn that false face off in Parliament the day things all went wrong. He'd thought then that at last he would be free of it.
It's difficult to patch it back together now. He licks his lips, anxious and cannot quite shutter the restless shine of desperation in his eyes.
Anchored to the tide of panic and relief that tightens his ribcage as he is passed over again and again, his heart sinks when a man finally approaches him. Coward plasters a smile over his dread and tries to remember that this is what he came here for, keeps his mind on why he came here and doesn't look too hard at the man in front of him.
It was one of the decisions he made before he came out tonight, don't look too close, set yourself apart from what you're doing. All this is forgotten as the man puts a hand on his shoulder. It is incredibly heavy and Coward draws in a startled breath. He looks up and thinks of the rats that slither through the floorboards. He can't tell the man's age, he seems more weathered than old; there's no grey in his hair but the lines on his face are deep.
He opens his mouth with no idea what he's going to say but the way the man's gaze drops makes him press his lips together tight. The hand falls to the top of his arm and steers him down the road and Coward allows it, dumbly. They step into the mouth of a narrow alley, the shadows pooling darker here to gave them a cheap sort of privacy.
All at once Coward is pressed back against the wall with the rough, grim weight of another body. The smell of unwashed clothes fills his nostrils. The man paws at him between his legs and Coward tries to wriggle back into the brick, rises up onto the tips of his toes.
"Money," he gasps, startled into abruptness.
The man stops. Coward freezes too, be pleasing, he thinks frantically. Everything is happening so fast but if he can just remember that. It's just another role. He puts his hand on the man's chest and bites his bottom lip, ducking his head.
"You won't regret it," he says, softly.
The man laughs at him. "You'll get your money after."
Coward tries to step back but the wall is right there, caging him in. He shakes his head.
"I need it first."
The man grabs him by the collar. "You saying you don't trust me, whore?"
He shakes him and Coward teeth rattle inside his head, there's not enough flesh covering his bones. He feels hollow, as empty as an echo.
"No," he says and puts a beseeching hand on the man's arm. "Please. It's fine."
The man snorts impatiently and rolls his eyes and there's a very simple sort of contempt in that gaze. It's ridiculous for Coward to be talking of what's fine or what isn't. For an instant Coward thinks of bolting, of diving up out of this darkness and running back onto the street, surfacing in a crowd of noise and light and warmth. But the endless maze of the city only leads back to the same place in the end, there's nowhere to run to.
He's haltered again, hands pushing down on his shoulders and Coward lets it happen. He gets onto his knees for this nobody, this no one, an ugly shape cut out of the ash of night. Cold, scummy water soaks through his trousers. He doesn't know what to do with his hands so he rests them on his knees, so neat a gesture it feels absurd.
When the man unfastens his trousers, Coward glances away. His cock is like a pale little grub, something so pathetic about the sight that Coward is almost embarrassed for him. He doesn't want to look at it, let alone. Well.
He won't think of Henry and dirty up his image by bringing him here.
In fact, it doesn't matter what he tries to think of. As soon as he opens his mouth for this stranger his thoughts flee like vermin from the light. There is a perfect, blank space in his head where the details of this picture are burning themselves. His mouth is open. He is kneeling amongst the rubbish. Water drips from a ledge onto the cobbles in loud, fat drops.
Later it will feel as though as chain has been run right through him, that he couldn't close his mouth for the entire time, or move. Or breath.
The man feeds him his cock and Coward's stomach turns at the dank, half flaccid flesh filling his mouth. The taste curdles on his tongue. Nausea tickles the back of his throat. The cold pricks up his senses, the grit digging into his knees, the heavy rasp of the man's breath, he's trapped in the reality of the moment and if he tried to crawl out of his head? All he can see then is the picture he makes, the hollow of his cheeks as he sucks.
The man touches his hair, petting him, muttering encouragements under his breath. His words are all sickly sweet, crooning questions in a way that bothers Coward more than the filthy thing in his mouth. Isn't he good at this? Isn't he doing so well? Isn't he pretty like this and isn't this what a mouth like he was made for? Coward's hands are kneading his thighs and he's trying not to gag.
Pretty? His jaw hurts and there's spit on his chin, his eyes leaking tears. There's pressure making his ears buzz and his face must be red, not enough air, his breath too shallow. Far too slowly the endearments turn to curses. Coward chokes as the man's cock jabs at the back of his throat
He panics when the man jerks forward and stills, beats his hands against the course wool of his trousers, trying to push him away. The man's thumbs press into the side of his face and his head is forced back against the alley wall and then there's sudden warmth spilling across his tongue. Coward retches as it pools at the back of his mouth, trickling down his throat.
The man tucks his softening cock back into his trousers. Coward stares at the floor, shivering. He wipes his arm across his mouth leaving a long, damp smear on the cotton. Runs his tongue all over his teeth and swallows until his mouth feels dry.
The coins are tossed onto the ground in front of him. Coward glances up to see the man's back as he walks briskly away, and then scrabbles forward to grab them off the floor. They bite into his palm as he squeezes them tight in his fist and pulls his knees into his chest, leaning back against the wall, breathing hard and fast through his nose.
He makes it halfway back home before he has to stop, lean against the wall and throw up. He hasn't eaten all day, it's just bile but he can't stop, dry heaving until it feels like his insides are bruised and the back of his throat is burning. No one spares him a glance as they walk by.
-
"Come back to bed, Henry," Coward murmurs, stretching his hand out across the cold mattress.
His skin itches under his clothes, his head is pounding from a lack of sleep. Henry tosses and turns all night, kicking out from the depths of his unconscious delirium. It's the third time this week that Coward has woken from uneasy dreams to find the bed empty.
Henry is kneeling next to the cold fireplace, pawing frantically at the coal dust with shaking hands. His clothes hang on him, loose. His body is too long, too lean, he looks like a scarecrow or some kind of insect, too many angles all folded in on themselves. Coward had been dreaming of a book, impossible to read because the words kept shifting and slipping off the pages and now he wakes to find the floor covered in the same sort of meaningless scribbling.
The circles are smudged and uneven, the runes have been drawn over one another, spiralling out from Henry and his cinder blackened hands. The lines he's making cross where they shouldn't in unsymmetrical, manic knots. Coward pushes himself wearily upright and the mattress sags down through a broken slat in the bed frame. He kicks a cup across the floor as he steps out of bed, spilling brackish water over his toes.
"Come back to bed," he says, putting his hands on Henry's shoulders.
He closes his eyes as Henry keeps scrawling in the ash. It's too easy to feel the bones beneath his palms.
He imagines the fireplace roaring and the splinters under his feet the thick pile of a carpet. Finding Henry in that old leather chair with a book in one hand, the other propping up his head. Leaning over the back of the chair and whispering, come back to bed. Henry marking his place and putting the book aside and sometimes he'd come to bed and sometimes Coward would climb onto his lap and sometimes they'd fall onto the floor together.
And every time he thinks on it now he can feel the skeleton of this future grinning at them both. Henry starts to shake violently under his hands and Coward sinks to the floor and circles him tight with his arms.
"It's okay, it's okay, hush," he says and rocks them both back and forth, smearing Henry's drawings.
He grips his own wrists hard and keeps making soft, comforting noises against Henry's shoulder until he stops shaking. He doesn't think Henry can tell what he's saying but maybe the sound of it helps. The fever has only gotten worse and brought these episodes along with it. There are times when Henry stares around wide eyed, like he can see something Coward cannot and times when he doesn't seem to see Coward at all.
"Daniel?" Henry asks, he sounds terrified.
"Yes, it's all right. I'm here. I'm here, Henry," he presses a kiss to Henry's cheek. "Please, it's cold. Come to bed."
"I'm not cold."
Coward clenches his jaw and swallows the sob in his throat with fierce determination.
"I know, but I need you to keep me warm don't I, darling?"
Slowly, Henry nods and then allows himself to be led back over to the bed. They're both covered in soot but Coward doesn't care about the black marks he's leaving as he helps Henry back under the sheets and then tucks himself in beside. Henry shivers, his eyes moving restlessly around the room.
"Time to sleep now," Coward says, stroking the side of Henry's face. "Close your eyes."
"Daniel, I don't feel very well," Henry says.
"Don't worry about that. Close your eyes."
Henry's eyes slip closed and Coward sighs, he can still feel him trembling beneath his hand. The window rattles above them. He thinks of a nursery rhyme, the north wind will blow and we shall have snow . . .
"And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?" he sings beneath his breath, off key, combing his dirty fingers through Henry's hair.
Henry settles in fits and starts until finally his breath falls into the calm rhythm of sleep. Coward's eyes are heavy but he's sure already he won't find rest again tonight. He's left a dark grey smudge on Henry's cheek, a blurred suggestion of a hand print. Mine, he thinks quite seriously, you can't have him.
For a moment the thought is reassuring in its perfect sense, but then as Coward smiles, it collapses. It's only the logic of a dream and he's so tired he can hardly tell the difference between those and waking thoughts but he knows at least that this is not a hope he can cling to without it giving way.
He's learning now, how to clip the wings of his hope. It's something he has to believe can be mended later for Henry always told him how he loved his vision, the unabashed scope of his dreams, but for now the small victories must be enough. They'll have money to pay the doctor again soon. Perhaps he can figure it so they can find a room somewhere above ground, with light and air to help Henry's condition.
It's all accounting after all and Coward is a quick study. So he's learning what parts of himself he can give up and he's learning how to better sell what he has left. How to stand, how to smile. The look in a man's eyes that says he wants you to be silent, the one that says he wants you to talk to him, make playful conversation or beg or make believe. He can do all those things and never lose count of how many seconds he's left Henry alone.
A bedbug crawls across the pillow and Coward watches with a detached sense of revulsion, unmoving. He does fall asleep then, tracking its slow progress across the bed, wondering if he could begrudge a small part of his flesh to a customer so undemanding.
-
"Typhoid," the doctor says.
Coward looks down at his hands.
The skin is peeling back from his cuticles. There are little callouses growing on his palms, patches of dry skin. He has to use the same soap powder on the floor, on their clothes, on his skin.
"I'm sorry," the doctor says.
Coward nods.
"How long will it take him to recover?" he asks.
And clenches his teeth against the silence that follows and stares at his hands, his poor, dry hands. He isn't going to look at the doctor's face, these ordinary people don't know how to wear their masks properly, they give everything away with one glance.
"It's not-"
"My cousin's wife was struck with typhoid before they were engaged," Coward says. "They'll have been married six years come next spring."
He walks over to the bed. The doctor is sitting beside Henry on the one good chair they have. Henry is delirious. Henry has been delirious for the past day and a half. His eyes are open but he's blind to both of them, shivering and sweating.
"I'm afraid there may be some complications."
"Shhh," Coward hushes Henry, who is mumbling something insensible. His lips are cracked, half stuck together with dry saliva.
He kneels down beside the bed and wrings out the rag that's soaking in a cup at the side of the bed. He presses the damp cloth gently to Henry's mouth, dabs it against his forehead and follows it with the stroke of his hand. He needs Henry to know he's there, that things will be okay. His touch will come through where ever Henry might be, even if he's trapped in the deepest sort of nightmare Coward is sure his touch will find its way to comfort him.
"There's considerable swelling in his abdominal region," the doctor says. "I believe his intestine may be ulcerated."
Coward winces. His hand trembles, skipping over Henry's skin. He lets it fall onto the pillow above Henry's head and clutches it so hard the cotton squeaks.
"Which has provoked infection, this delirium, the fits you described, point to an inflammation of the brain itself."
"You don't know that."
After a moment the doctor agrees. "No."
Coward hears his poor attempt at diplomacy for what it is and worse, can pick out every strand of pity in it. He looks up at the doctor and his eyes sting like they're burning.
"Well for God's sake man, what's to be done for him?"
The doctor's hands are chubby, clumsy looking things. Coward watches him fidget uneasily in his chair, folding them together and then unfolding them again. The light from the window has the soft dwindling quality of a winter afternoon. It casts a warm glow over the three of them, so very deceptive, this sunset in orange.
"Well. He should have milk," the doctor says. "Beef tea. For his comfort. I have a compound that may help the fever, however . . ."
The doctor looks around the room, at the floorboards, the grey-white of the bed, at every place but Coward. He steeples his fingers together tentatively and there's something so damnably apologetic about him that Coward can barely stand it.
"However?"
It's a snarl. He can see the shape of himself reflected in the doctor's glasses, crouching, tense. He brushes his hair out of his face, eyes narrowed. His gaze is as flat as a viper's and the pity on the doctor's face hardens. Coward understands it's his own manner of speech, his bearing, that had surprised compassion out of the other man in the first place. Coward had read the unspoken question on the doctor's face the first time he'd been called for, how did someone as clearly well bred as Coward come to such a sorry pass?
Now he's bristling at being spoken to like this by a man who pays his fee in pennies.
"However, one may wish to weigh the expense against the good it will do."
"Will you say what you mean," Coward snaps.
"Your friend is dying."
"Don't be absurd."
The doctor says nothing for what feels like a very long time. Coward leans on the bed, dizzy.
"I'm sorry," the doctor offers again, standing up.
Coward shakes his head, pulling himself up to his feet. His body seems very light all of a sudden, as though he's only barely anchored to it. He gives a short, jagged laugh.
"And what are you?" he sneers at the doctor. "The son of a shopkeeper I expect, who acquires a little learning and thinks that he can, that he can . . . "
Hand out a death sentence to a man like Lord Blackwood. Coward laughs again, a sound tumbled up into a choked gasp as if he's been struck in the stomach. The doctor frowns, puffing himself up, offended.
"I'd make my peace with it if I were you-"
"If you were me," Coward echoes, derisive.
"For I doubt he will last the week."
The smile drops from Coward's face in an instant.
"You charlatan," he hisses.
He strikes the man across the face with the back of his hand, feeling the sting of it in his knuckles. The doctor staggers backward, trips over the chair and falls. He doesn't make much noise when he hits the floor, a dull thump like a sluggish heartbeat. Coward watches the fear flare in his eyes and glances at Henry; who isn't smiling, who doesn't say, don't frighten the man, who doesn't say anything at all. The doctor tries to scrabble backward but he's got one foot caught in the chair and doesn't seem to realize it.
These pests get everywhere, Coward rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes, this world is crawling with the miserable and the weak and the worthless, there's just too much filth and this one says that Henry will die. That Henry will die and what, that he should live? That any of them should live.
He steps toward the table and the doctor makes a strangled, panicked sound that makes no sense to Coward until he looks down at his hand and finds he's picked up the bread knife that was laying there. The blade is the wrong shape, he thinks dreamily. The handle is warm and smooth is in his palm, a tawny sort of wood that's been polished slippery by use.
"False words are not only evil in themselves," he says, pointing the knife at the doctor and the sun catches on the blade like marmalade. "But they infect the soul with evil."
It would be simple to end this man's life. That pale, fatty neck would tear open so easily and then his blood would gush bright and cheerful, cherry red through the floorboards. The doctor could choke on his own vile pronouncements, drown himself, blubbering. Beneath the floor the rats would try to clean their whiskers but Coward could see this man bled dry, their fur matted with gore, their tails clotting together a make a rat king.
"Get out," Coward says.
The chair rattles against the bed frame as the doctor jerks his legs free and staggers to his feet, almost tripping again in his haste. Coward forces himself to concentrate on the weight of the knife as he turns it in his hand, counts each rotation until he hears the door close.
He screams.
Maybe he wants to turn that scalloped edge on his own belly, deflate the pain that's suddenly ballooning inside him before it bursts and poisons his blood. He tosses the knife to the floor in disgust. Henry turns toward the noise, eyes sightless as marbles.
"Don't listen to him," he points his finger at Blackwood. "Don't you dare, don't you-"
He stops, clasping his hand over his mouth. His stomach lurches and he staggers over to the side of the bed, falling to his knees beside the overturned chair.
"You won't do that to me. I know you won't do that to me, Henry. You promised. You promised, remember?"
-
He wakes to a warm hand touching the side of his face. It can't be much later, the sun has set but the fire hasn't burnt out. His legs have fallen asleep beneath him. The corner of the mattress is digging into his cheek, his neck's gone completely stiff and there's-
And there's a hand touching his face.
Coward jerks upright, scrabbling at his waistband for a weapon that's not there and Henry laughs. He holds his hand up in front of Coward's face, his fingertips damp, confronting him with his own tears and Cowards blinks, startled, and wipes his cheeks hurriedly.
"Henry?"
Henry has turned his hand back to himself and is frowning as though the sight of Coward's tears are something he can't quite comprehend. He tilts his head and moves his fingers slowly in the dim, uncertain light of the fire.
"Henry," Coward says again and pulls Henry's hand down to the bed, squeezing his fingers together. "How do you feel?"
Henry's frown deepens.
"Would you like something to eat?" Coward tries. The question feels heavy on his tongue. The weight of those words are too familiar to him.
"Why not?" Blackwood says.
"Henry you have to-" he stops, astonished. "You're hungry?"
"Dinner might be pleasant," Henry says.
Coward laughs, then quickly covers his mouth. The sound is bright and shocking in this room and it feels dangerous to Coward, too much joy could break something surely? Like moving a cold dish into a hot oven, something in him will crack if he lets it out.
"That's . . . " he grins, giddy and struck almost wordless with relief. "Wonderful. All right, yes."
He looks over his shoulder at the dresser. No solids, that's what the doctor said and although Coward finds himself mentally scoffing at this advice now, he suppose it might be better not to take the risk. The shape of the dresser swims, indistinct before his eyes and Coward blinks to clear his vision. He finds he can't quite recall what they have left to eat. It doesn't matter though, he can make do with whatever is there.
Wincing, he uses the wall to brace himself as he stands, legs already humming with pins and needles. He locks his elbows to stop his arms from shaking too badly and lets his head hang down for a moment as he catches his breath. There are shiny patches all up the wall where his hands have been, oil from running his hands through his hair over and over as he prayed at Henry's bedside.
"What about Kettner's?" Henry asks.
"Kettner's?"
Coward sounds out the word, confused.
"The mousseline?" Henry says. "It was practically indecent how much you were enjoying that asparagus."
"That little place on Church Street . . . "
"Ah, you do remember then."
Coward shakes his head, he has a fuzzy recollection of bronze and muted greens, soft colours in the wallpaper and softer lights. The memory is bleary and half formed, like something left soaking too long underwater.
"No?" Henry continues. "The Cavour perhaps? Unless you have your-"
"Henry, what are you-"
"-mind set on some place already?"
Henry is smiling at him, his arms folded across his lap. The shirt sleeves are too short and his wrists are bare. Coward's mouth hangs open, he gathers his breath to speak and then exhales silently. He reaches down and brushes the skin on the back of Henry's hand.
"We can't," he says, averting his eyes from Henry's face. "We can't go to the Cavour."
It's like lifting up an old paving stone and closing your eyes so you don't have to see the skittering things revealed beneath.
"Butting heads with Abernathy again?" Henry asks.
The web of skin between his forefinger and thumb feels tight as he circles Henry's wrist. He mouths the word, no, his lips hardly moving. Reginald Abernathy has been dead for almost five years. He thinks, sickly, Henry should remember that. If Abernathy had not peered down his nose at Henry with quite such obvious contempt he would no doubt still be alive today.
The point remained. He was not. The Cavour had been Abernathy's favourite haunt, Coward remembers, and how Henry had laughed and declared that he was damned if he was going to have his choice of dining establishment dictated to him by anyone, let alone a fool like Reginald.
"Daniel?" Henry prompts.
"Oh," Coward says. He traces the creases of Henry's knuckle with the edge of his fingernail, takes a deep breath. "Yes."
"The man's ridiculous, have you heard his latest bright idea for Ireland?" Blackwood snorts.
Coward pins his smile to his face hard. He thinks with the fire behind him, Henry won't be able to see how his mouth is trembling. There's an ache in his throat, a dark black clot tangled up in his vocal cords, he knows he won't be able to make a sound that doesn't crack and break into a sob.
Even if he trusted himself to speak he wouldn't. If he talks it might break this spell. Henry sounds so much better than he has in days. So he's dreaming awake, in another time and place, but at least he's lucid and at least Coward is there with him.
"Did you . . . " Henry pauses and Coward looks up. There's a bemused sort of frown on Henry's face. "Did you shave?"
Coward nods. Henry touches his jaw, turns his face from on side to the other.
"I'm not sure if I approve," he says.
Something wicked and completely familiar creeps into Henry's gaze and in that moment Coward could believe that they'd both been plucked out of this pit of the present. Henry's eyes seem so clear, so certain. If Coward pinholes his world to just that, he could believe he was waking suddenly from a nightmare and finding Henry there to comfort him. He does nothing as Henry leans up and steals a kiss from him.
The humming, thoughtful note Henry makes against his lips tickles.
"Well, I suppose I have no objections," Henry says, with mock reluctance. "Though perhaps further investigation is warranted."
His mouth is so dry. His hand is hot on the side of Coward's face.
"Will you humour me in something?" Coward asks.
-
He prepares a supper as best he can, uses the bread knife to saw through pieces of beef that are more gristle than meat. The blade scores lines into the table but the sinews just stretch flat and white and refuse to tear until his palm aches from the weight he has to put on the handle. He starts to think he made the right decision with the doctor, it could have gone badly for him.
Henry is sitting in bed, talking about plans that have already taken place, happy in his delusion. Coward presses harder on the knife. He's used to blades that pass through flesh like butter, but perhaps that's just a delusion too. The past does seem like a dream, something hovering at the back of his mind but impossible to recover and crumbling apart the longer they have to breathe the foetid air of this reality.
Except if he were mad and merely dreaming the deaths of all those people, they wouldn't be here, would they? Besides, he doesn't care to wish their deaths away. He's wondered if this is punishment for what he and Henry did, has tried to wonder but he cannot believe it. He had been afraid to look into himself but now it's come to this he finds there is no guilt buried within him at all.
The water boils, the meat stews. Coward finds the last stub of a candle they have left and lights it carefully, cupping the flame in hand as he carries it over to the chair they use for a bedside table.
"This is cosy, isn't it?" Coward says.
Henry catches his hand and holds it over the candle flame. Coward smiles and does not pull away, his fingers still in Henry's grip which does not force, merely steadies him there for just a breath after the first lick of pain across his palm.
"You're right," Henry says and releases him.
Coward passes his fingers through the fire and then holds them up, unharmed.
Once the broth is done, he pours a bowl and brings it over to the bed. Henry is sitting up, cross legged. It's as though he can't see the room or what they both look like and although Coward can tell when a shadow of pain crosses his face, Henry just pauses for a moment, blinks or gives a slight shake of his head and then carries on like nothing's wrong.
Coward climbs onto the bed and sits back on his heels, he puts the bowl into Henry's hands and Henry immediately places it down in his lap.
"We'll have you Home Secretary within the year," he's saying.
Coward stares at the bowl.
"Is something wrong, Daniel?"
"I was thinking . . . is this, is this not a grand enough ambition?"
Blackwood frowns, puzzled. His hand is resting on the spoon and Coward touches him, tries to curl Henry's fingers around the metal but Henry turns his palm and strokes up the inside of his wrist instead.
"Would you have been-" Coward stops and grits his teeth. "Could you be happy just with this?"
He links their fingers. Henry looks down at their hands, then up at Coward.
"Could you?" Henry asks.
The broth almost spills out of the bowl as Coward jerks his hand back. Henry laughs, indulgent and knowing and Coward feels as though a tiny hole has been pierced in his lungs. There's a chill pain in his chest that reminds him of having too little breath, suffocating on swallowed air.
Henry shakes his head. "If you said yes-"
"But, no, I-"
"If you said yes, well, I wouldn't believe I was talking to my Daniel."
Coward shivers.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Henry says.
The bowl is still there in Henry's lap, ignored. Coward picks it up and stirs the broth, little concentric circles that disappear as soon as he stops moving the spoon. He stares at the grease floating filmy over the liquid, stirring one way, then the other, round and round like he's shifting tea leaves; searching for an answer.
-
It's like their first night here all over again. Regurgitated, vile, now Coward doesn't want to let Henry sleep because he can sense the rot that's worked its tendrils through the frame of Henry's bones. For now he can hold it at bay, he can stretch this one night into an eternity if he can just keep talking. Sleep is too close to that other thing. Slipping away into sleep, he doesn't want to let Henry travel that far from the shore of his embrace. Maybe if they make it through this night together, in the morning things will be different.
He thought the rabbits in the butcher's window reminded him of the dead. Lying on his stomach, one hand on Henry's chest, he is stretched out and concave, his skin velveted with dirt. He listens to the rattle of Henry's breath and clutches on to the sound. He mumbles nonsense, fragments of sentences that are shattered by exhaustion. He loses the thread of his own thoughts and in the end all he can say is; I love you.
And when he can longer stop his eyes from closing, he can still say that. I love you, you'll remember that, won't you, Henry? Don't forget that. Keep that.
Packing him endearments for the dark.
-
In the morning things are different.
The fever is gone. It's snowing. Henry isn't breathing any more.
There's nothing in for breakfast but if Coward goes outside the snow will soak through his shoes and the bottom of his trousers and he thinks; better to just go back to sleep for a while. When he wakes up again the sun may have melted the ice and baked the cobblestones dry. He huddles closer to Henry because Henry is cold and pulls the blankets over both their heads to block the light and closes his eyes.
The afternoon brings clear skies in an arctic, callous blue. The space between Henry and he, which Coward so desperately tries to wriggle into, refuses to warm.
The back of his throat is aching with words he can't speak, their jagged edges cutting his insides to ribbons, a chain of broken glass that's unwinding from his heart and out of his silent mouth. Too late to be sleeping in, Henry, wake up. Come back.
He rests his head on Henry's still chest and starts to cry and all there is then is pain. Hurt blots out the sky, blots out the room, blots out the bed, everything but the feel of Henry's skin against his wet cheek.
The world is a vast, vast place. Outside of this one small space, Coward can imagine the innumerable labyrinths of streets, of roads and rivers and then, of fields and mountains and forests. Unknown faces in unknown towns. Oceans. Other countries. Deserts and wonders and stone stacked up into shapes he's never seen before and in all of these places, amongst all of uncountable creation, he will never find Henry again.
There's nothing to any of it it then. Paper and ash, the painted backdrop to a play. Without Henry, nothing is real because nothing matters. It hits him very sudden and very strong and stops his tears the moment he realizes, even if he leaves this room, he will never leave this room.
And finally he can speak.
"It's all right," he says and kisses Henry on the cheek.
He drags the table over to the staircase, then piles the chairs on top of it. In the kitchen, he breaks off what parts of the cupboards he can and adds them to the stack. The dresser drawers come next, he tries to move the dresser itself but it tips over and he hasn't got the strength to push it over the uneven floorboards. It's enough anyway.
It's not too difficult to start the fire. Coward stands and watches it burn until he's sure it won't go out (until he's sure he couldn't climb over and get to the door) and it's almost shocking how fast the wood catches, how quickly the flames start to leap up toward the ceiling.
Almost shocking but for the pleasant peace that's settled over him. He's smiling as he climbs back into bed with Henry. The fire will burn them out of any recognition. He's heard reports of pauper's graves, eleven, twelve bodies all buried together with no soil to separate one from another. How lovely it is to think of laying, twined with Henry like that for all eternity. Perhaps the fire will melt them together now.
As the smoke fills the room, Coward doesn't fight the dizziness that rushes over him with each breath. He can hear screaming coming from above, past the buzzing in his ears and the hot ache in his head. Thick, charcoal storm clouds are rolling over the ceiling. His fingers feel weak as they work the ring off from Henry's hand, shaking and clumsy. He presses it between their two palms for a moment, then swallows it.
As the smoke fills the room, Coward doesn't fight the heavy black weight that's pooling in his lungs, his breath shallow and choked. His panic struggles somewhere in the distance, he's smothered with his face against Henry's neck and his hands in Henry's hands. The room is spinning around them. His heart is beating fast and painful, fluttering like the first time they met.
As the smoke fills the room. As the fog comes in off the Thames. As his eyes close, memory unfolds itself, diffuses like light caught in smoke, in fog, in vapour and every moment in time is shining all at once in this great net of stars.
Henry's nets wrapped around him. Henry's fingers meshing through his hair.
-
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: Blackwood survives his last confrontation with Holmes. Coward escapes Parliament. It's time to pick up the pieces.
Word count: 9000
Notes: Part 1 is here.
Coward never thought he could have wanted anything more from Blackwood, or that there would ever come a day where he wished for something other than what he had been given.
These were not favours he could hold in his hands. They were kisses stolen in the soundless corridors of the Lords, they were bruises like emeralds given to ornament his skin. They were glances that set him apart, set him above, every other thing in the whole order of creation.
Coward was far wealthier than Blackwood yet he never felt so wealthy as when he was rich in Henry's affections. Of course his money was the reason Blackwood never furnished him with real trinkets. Henry's pride would never allow him to give Coward anything less than that which Coward could buy for himself, though once Henry held the throne of England, Coward would not be surprised to find the Koh-I-Noor left under his pillow for a gift. Still, nothing would ever hold as much value as the lingering touch of Henry's hand.
Huddled by the fire, he can't help but wish it had been different; a ring, a tie pin, a set of cuff-links? Nothing Blackwood gave him would ever have left his person, he would have those things now, but-
But there's no use in wishing. There's nothing left to sell.
Yesterday he'd hurried out onto the street after the coal cart had been by, scrabbling in the dirt for scraps. The fire eats mercilessly away at what little they have left. On his hands and knees, on his hands and- and he pinches the thin skin below his knuckles to try and block the memory but he can't stop it, just like he can't stop wishing for what might have been.
What if they had left the country straight away? Oh but Henry would never have countenanced that kind of retreat. If he's going to wish he may as well wish that his bullet had found Holmes' heart
He might wish he could stop the rats from getting into the food, but then he'd have to wish that Henry would start to eat again too. His own appetite is all but dead since every meal that Blackwood won't take drops another leaden weight in his stomach.
Coward knows his family have disowned him publicly. It's foolhardy to imagine they might not mean it, dangerous to think of going to them for help now. If he's arrested then what will happen to Henry? Coward buries his face in his hands and then laughs, muffling his hysteria with his palms so as not to wake Henry. He expects his mother would refuse to read the papers, red faced and tight lipped. He wonders about his father. It won't just be the papers of course, it will be people in the streets from high to low and will they only talk of murder? Have the other members of their group come forward to talk about unnatural vices too?
Murder in print makes him think of breakfast. He used to make Henry read the paper to him in bed, watching him with smiling eyes as he spoke oh so solemnly of horror and depravity.
What sort of wicked creature, Coward would grin and pull the paper from his hands. What sort of devil . . .
And he'd climb astride him, the paper falling to the wayside in a rustle of irrelevant stories.
Breakfast would be nice. Tea and toast. If Henry would eat. If Henry would only, only eat. His fever isn't getting any better (and if Coward could bear to think about it honestly, he'd have to admit it's getting worse) and he sleeps through most of the day. Coward has to wait until Henry is half delirious to press an honest answer out of him about the pain in his stomach and the pain in his joints, about how he feels so dizzy but please, Daniel, you shouldn't worry.
Wait and see, the doctor had said, but patience is easy to counsel. When he is holding his breath, watching helpless as the light fades about him, every second is twice as hard to bear as the last. Hope is something he clings to but it's as a chain running faster and faster through his hands and all the while the pain of that compounds, their money is dwindling.
There's Henry's ring.
Not his signet, Henry offered him that to sell almost straight away, but the one he took from Rotheram.
The black stone catches the light when Henry's hands twitch in his sleep. Or maybe Coward only imagines that, maybe his eyes end up creeping back there of his own accord. How many doctors would it buy? How many meals? But he can't ask Henry for that. He would say yes, Coward thinks, but he remembers how Henry was that night.
Blackwood has different ways of being silent. Sometimes he's quiet to tempt you to fill the void with your own words, to reveal things about yourself that you don't even know you're revealing. Sometimes the quiet hums and then Coward can almost pick Henry's thoughts out of the air. The best silence of all is the kind they make between themselves.
The night, Henry's silence had frightened him. He would have broken it straight away if there was anything he could have said, but it would have been laughable to ask the question. Was Thomas dead? There was his ring on Henry's finger. Coward thought they would be celebrating before Blackwood moved past him wordlessly and sat, staring at his hand.
Coward had seen something in Henry then, or felt it perhaps, for the silence that billowed out from him had been a heavy, thick thing between them. A howling lack, dark as the onyx of the ring and cold, as though it were pouring from a place where no light had ever been. It brought an awful knowledge with it; that was the precipice upon which Henry teetered and how deep the darkness in him went, how easily those things which fuelled him might also destroy him.
All he could do was sit with Henry in his silence and watch as he lifted his hand and turned the ring back and forth. Until Coward couldn't stand to see it any more, the dark of the stone reflected like a mirror in the darkness of Henry's eyes, each image seeming to grow as they swallowed one another up. He snapped and tried to cover it with his own hand and Henry flinched. Wherever his mind had taken him, Coward was not there. It must have felt like the touch of a ghost.
Let me see, Coward had said that, hadn't he? Did he know at the time what he was repeating? The same words that Henry had put to him the first night they spent together. When Henry had been inside him and Coward's eyes had been shut tight against the power of it, sure that one more sense would undo him completely.
Let me see, he said, meaning, let me in and Henry had jerked his hand back and struck him, the look on his face like that of some wild animal, cornered and panicking and most of all, blind. Coward had dropped to his knees and caught that hand again, had pressed his lips to the stone of the ring and felt Henry's fingers trembling, held them tight, I'm here. Neither of them moving until Henry turned his hand to brush the cheek he'd struck in mute apology.
Coward won't ask him to give the ring up. Perhaps, perhaps if it were their only option. But it's not, is it?
-
Three streets over, the lamps of Spitalfields Market shine gaily in the night like the lights of a carnival. Even here, Coward can smell chestnuts roasting. Christmas is coming, only a fortnight away and in the market the vendors will be calling out their prices to steam in the cold air, lifting their goods to the eyes of the crowds huddled around their stalls, haggling down to the last farthing.
It's a different kind of trade that brings him out tonight. His clothes aren't fit to save him from the stark chill of the wind but they're fit enough for his purpose and he has the nervous flush of his skin to keep him warm besides. If it wasn't so cold he doesn't think he could stand that prickling heat on the back of his neck, if it wasn't so empty he doesn't think his stomach would settle.
But he must think of this pragmatically. He was never afraid to get his hands dirty before. He'd liked it then, hadn't he? All those necessary evils? All that blood on his hands, crimson that mottled his skin like a blush divorced of shame. Even the first time, the blades had made him more excited than nervous.
It's not so simple when the sacrifice is yourself but Coward refuses to think of that way. He isn't a martyr, this is just another means to an end and nothing more. If you want to draw a straight line you keep your eyes on your point of destination, not on the hand that holds the pen.
He knows the reputation of this street now. He has found his feet leading him back here time and time again through no will of his own. Like a sleepwalker who only wakes when he finds himself at the edge of some hazard. The business that goes on down here is subtle unless you know what you are looking out for. Things in the dark that perhaps you choose not to see.
He hopes Henry does not wake while he is gone. He hopes his dreams are pleasant ones.
Coward leans back against the wall, his shoulder blades laying uncomfortably against the brick, and lets his gaze linger on the men who pass by. He positions his limbs as best he can to make an open invitation of his body, hands in his pockets pulling his trousers tight against his hips.
In these past weeks he's almost forgotten how to wear a mask, the ways in which to close the real parts of himself away. That attentive, earnest sincerity he showed Sir Thomas, the respectful inclination of his head toward his peers, he'd torn that false face off in Parliament the day things all went wrong. He'd thought then that at last he would be free of it.
It's difficult to patch it back together now. He licks his lips, anxious and cannot quite shutter the restless shine of desperation in his eyes.
Anchored to the tide of panic and relief that tightens his ribcage as he is passed over again and again, his heart sinks when a man finally approaches him. Coward plasters a smile over his dread and tries to remember that this is what he came here for, keeps his mind on why he came here and doesn't look too hard at the man in front of him.
It was one of the decisions he made before he came out tonight, don't look too close, set yourself apart from what you're doing. All this is forgotten as the man puts a hand on his shoulder. It is incredibly heavy and Coward draws in a startled breath. He looks up and thinks of the rats that slither through the floorboards. He can't tell the man's age, he seems more weathered than old; there's no grey in his hair but the lines on his face are deep.
He opens his mouth with no idea what he's going to say but the way the man's gaze drops makes him press his lips together tight. The hand falls to the top of his arm and steers him down the road and Coward allows it, dumbly. They step into the mouth of a narrow alley, the shadows pooling darker here to gave them a cheap sort of privacy.
All at once Coward is pressed back against the wall with the rough, grim weight of another body. The smell of unwashed clothes fills his nostrils. The man paws at him between his legs and Coward tries to wriggle back into the brick, rises up onto the tips of his toes.
"Money," he gasps, startled into abruptness.
The man stops. Coward freezes too, be pleasing, he thinks frantically. Everything is happening so fast but if he can just remember that. It's just another role. He puts his hand on the man's chest and bites his bottom lip, ducking his head.
"You won't regret it," he says, softly.
The man laughs at him. "You'll get your money after."
Coward tries to step back but the wall is right there, caging him in. He shakes his head.
"I need it first."
The man grabs him by the collar. "You saying you don't trust me, whore?"
He shakes him and Coward teeth rattle inside his head, there's not enough flesh covering his bones. He feels hollow, as empty as an echo.
"No," he says and puts a beseeching hand on the man's arm. "Please. It's fine."
The man snorts impatiently and rolls his eyes and there's a very simple sort of contempt in that gaze. It's ridiculous for Coward to be talking of what's fine or what isn't. For an instant Coward thinks of bolting, of diving up out of this darkness and running back onto the street, surfacing in a crowd of noise and light and warmth. But the endless maze of the city only leads back to the same place in the end, there's nowhere to run to.
He's haltered again, hands pushing down on his shoulders and Coward lets it happen. He gets onto his knees for this nobody, this no one, an ugly shape cut out of the ash of night. Cold, scummy water soaks through his trousers. He doesn't know what to do with his hands so he rests them on his knees, so neat a gesture it feels absurd.
When the man unfastens his trousers, Coward glances away. His cock is like a pale little grub, something so pathetic about the sight that Coward is almost embarrassed for him. He doesn't want to look at it, let alone. Well.
He won't think of Henry and dirty up his image by bringing him here.
In fact, it doesn't matter what he tries to think of. As soon as he opens his mouth for this stranger his thoughts flee like vermin from the light. There is a perfect, blank space in his head where the details of this picture are burning themselves. His mouth is open. He is kneeling amongst the rubbish. Water drips from a ledge onto the cobbles in loud, fat drops.
Later it will feel as though as chain has been run right through him, that he couldn't close his mouth for the entire time, or move. Or breath.
The man feeds him his cock and Coward's stomach turns at the dank, half flaccid flesh filling his mouth. The taste curdles on his tongue. Nausea tickles the back of his throat. The cold pricks up his senses, the grit digging into his knees, the heavy rasp of the man's breath, he's trapped in the reality of the moment and if he tried to crawl out of his head? All he can see then is the picture he makes, the hollow of his cheeks as he sucks.
The man touches his hair, petting him, muttering encouragements under his breath. His words are all sickly sweet, crooning questions in a way that bothers Coward more than the filthy thing in his mouth. Isn't he good at this? Isn't he doing so well? Isn't he pretty like this and isn't this what a mouth like he was made for? Coward's hands are kneading his thighs and he's trying not to gag.
Pretty? His jaw hurts and there's spit on his chin, his eyes leaking tears. There's pressure making his ears buzz and his face must be red, not enough air, his breath too shallow. Far too slowly the endearments turn to curses. Coward chokes as the man's cock jabs at the back of his throat
He panics when the man jerks forward and stills, beats his hands against the course wool of his trousers, trying to push him away. The man's thumbs press into the side of his face and his head is forced back against the alley wall and then there's sudden warmth spilling across his tongue. Coward retches as it pools at the back of his mouth, trickling down his throat.
The man tucks his softening cock back into his trousers. Coward stares at the floor, shivering. He wipes his arm across his mouth leaving a long, damp smear on the cotton. Runs his tongue all over his teeth and swallows until his mouth feels dry.
The coins are tossed onto the ground in front of him. Coward glances up to see the man's back as he walks briskly away, and then scrabbles forward to grab them off the floor. They bite into his palm as he squeezes them tight in his fist and pulls his knees into his chest, leaning back against the wall, breathing hard and fast through his nose.
He makes it halfway back home before he has to stop, lean against the wall and throw up. He hasn't eaten all day, it's just bile but he can't stop, dry heaving until it feels like his insides are bruised and the back of his throat is burning. No one spares him a glance as they walk by.
-
"Come back to bed, Henry," Coward murmurs, stretching his hand out across the cold mattress.
His skin itches under his clothes, his head is pounding from a lack of sleep. Henry tosses and turns all night, kicking out from the depths of his unconscious delirium. It's the third time this week that Coward has woken from uneasy dreams to find the bed empty.
Henry is kneeling next to the cold fireplace, pawing frantically at the coal dust with shaking hands. His clothes hang on him, loose. His body is too long, too lean, he looks like a scarecrow or some kind of insect, too many angles all folded in on themselves. Coward had been dreaming of a book, impossible to read because the words kept shifting and slipping off the pages and now he wakes to find the floor covered in the same sort of meaningless scribbling.
The circles are smudged and uneven, the runes have been drawn over one another, spiralling out from Henry and his cinder blackened hands. The lines he's making cross where they shouldn't in unsymmetrical, manic knots. Coward pushes himself wearily upright and the mattress sags down through a broken slat in the bed frame. He kicks a cup across the floor as he steps out of bed, spilling brackish water over his toes.
"Come back to bed," he says, putting his hands on Henry's shoulders.
He closes his eyes as Henry keeps scrawling in the ash. It's too easy to feel the bones beneath his palms.
He imagines the fireplace roaring and the splinters under his feet the thick pile of a carpet. Finding Henry in that old leather chair with a book in one hand, the other propping up his head. Leaning over the back of the chair and whispering, come back to bed. Henry marking his place and putting the book aside and sometimes he'd come to bed and sometimes Coward would climb onto his lap and sometimes they'd fall onto the floor together.
And every time he thinks on it now he can feel the skeleton of this future grinning at them both. Henry starts to shake violently under his hands and Coward sinks to the floor and circles him tight with his arms.
"It's okay, it's okay, hush," he says and rocks them both back and forth, smearing Henry's drawings.
He grips his own wrists hard and keeps making soft, comforting noises against Henry's shoulder until he stops shaking. He doesn't think Henry can tell what he's saying but maybe the sound of it helps. The fever has only gotten worse and brought these episodes along with it. There are times when Henry stares around wide eyed, like he can see something Coward cannot and times when he doesn't seem to see Coward at all.
"Daniel?" Henry asks, he sounds terrified.
"Yes, it's all right. I'm here. I'm here, Henry," he presses a kiss to Henry's cheek. "Please, it's cold. Come to bed."
"I'm not cold."
Coward clenches his jaw and swallows the sob in his throat with fierce determination.
"I know, but I need you to keep me warm don't I, darling?"
Slowly, Henry nods and then allows himself to be led back over to the bed. They're both covered in soot but Coward doesn't care about the black marks he's leaving as he helps Henry back under the sheets and then tucks himself in beside. Henry shivers, his eyes moving restlessly around the room.
"Time to sleep now," Coward says, stroking the side of Henry's face. "Close your eyes."
"Daniel, I don't feel very well," Henry says.
"Don't worry about that. Close your eyes."
Henry's eyes slip closed and Coward sighs, he can still feel him trembling beneath his hand. The window rattles above them. He thinks of a nursery rhyme, the north wind will blow and we shall have snow . . .
"And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?" he sings beneath his breath, off key, combing his dirty fingers through Henry's hair.
Henry settles in fits and starts until finally his breath falls into the calm rhythm of sleep. Coward's eyes are heavy but he's sure already he won't find rest again tonight. He's left a dark grey smudge on Henry's cheek, a blurred suggestion of a hand print. Mine, he thinks quite seriously, you can't have him.
For a moment the thought is reassuring in its perfect sense, but then as Coward smiles, it collapses. It's only the logic of a dream and he's so tired he can hardly tell the difference between those and waking thoughts but he knows at least that this is not a hope he can cling to without it giving way.
He's learning now, how to clip the wings of his hope. It's something he has to believe can be mended later for Henry always told him how he loved his vision, the unabashed scope of his dreams, but for now the small victories must be enough. They'll have money to pay the doctor again soon. Perhaps he can figure it so they can find a room somewhere above ground, with light and air to help Henry's condition.
It's all accounting after all and Coward is a quick study. So he's learning what parts of himself he can give up and he's learning how to better sell what he has left. How to stand, how to smile. The look in a man's eyes that says he wants you to be silent, the one that says he wants you to talk to him, make playful conversation or beg or make believe. He can do all those things and never lose count of how many seconds he's left Henry alone.
A bedbug crawls across the pillow and Coward watches with a detached sense of revulsion, unmoving. He does fall asleep then, tracking its slow progress across the bed, wondering if he could begrudge a small part of his flesh to a customer so undemanding.
-
"Typhoid," the doctor says.
Coward looks down at his hands.
The skin is peeling back from his cuticles. There are little callouses growing on his palms, patches of dry skin. He has to use the same soap powder on the floor, on their clothes, on his skin.
"I'm sorry," the doctor says.
Coward nods.
"How long will it take him to recover?" he asks.
And clenches his teeth against the silence that follows and stares at his hands, his poor, dry hands. He isn't going to look at the doctor's face, these ordinary people don't know how to wear their masks properly, they give everything away with one glance.
"It's not-"
"My cousin's wife was struck with typhoid before they were engaged," Coward says. "They'll have been married six years come next spring."
He walks over to the bed. The doctor is sitting beside Henry on the one good chair they have. Henry is delirious. Henry has been delirious for the past day and a half. His eyes are open but he's blind to both of them, shivering and sweating.
"I'm afraid there may be some complications."
"Shhh," Coward hushes Henry, who is mumbling something insensible. His lips are cracked, half stuck together with dry saliva.
He kneels down beside the bed and wrings out the rag that's soaking in a cup at the side of the bed. He presses the damp cloth gently to Henry's mouth, dabs it against his forehead and follows it with the stroke of his hand. He needs Henry to know he's there, that things will be okay. His touch will come through where ever Henry might be, even if he's trapped in the deepest sort of nightmare Coward is sure his touch will find its way to comfort him.
"There's considerable swelling in his abdominal region," the doctor says. "I believe his intestine may be ulcerated."
Coward winces. His hand trembles, skipping over Henry's skin. He lets it fall onto the pillow above Henry's head and clutches it so hard the cotton squeaks.
"Which has provoked infection, this delirium, the fits you described, point to an inflammation of the brain itself."
"You don't know that."
After a moment the doctor agrees. "No."
Coward hears his poor attempt at diplomacy for what it is and worse, can pick out every strand of pity in it. He looks up at the doctor and his eyes sting like they're burning.
"Well for God's sake man, what's to be done for him?"
The doctor's hands are chubby, clumsy looking things. Coward watches him fidget uneasily in his chair, folding them together and then unfolding them again. The light from the window has the soft dwindling quality of a winter afternoon. It casts a warm glow over the three of them, so very deceptive, this sunset in orange.
"Well. He should have milk," the doctor says. "Beef tea. For his comfort. I have a compound that may help the fever, however . . ."
The doctor looks around the room, at the floorboards, the grey-white of the bed, at every place but Coward. He steeples his fingers together tentatively and there's something so damnably apologetic about him that Coward can barely stand it.
"However?"
It's a snarl. He can see the shape of himself reflected in the doctor's glasses, crouching, tense. He brushes his hair out of his face, eyes narrowed. His gaze is as flat as a viper's and the pity on the doctor's face hardens. Coward understands it's his own manner of speech, his bearing, that had surprised compassion out of the other man in the first place. Coward had read the unspoken question on the doctor's face the first time he'd been called for, how did someone as clearly well bred as Coward come to such a sorry pass?
Now he's bristling at being spoken to like this by a man who pays his fee in pennies.
"However, one may wish to weigh the expense against the good it will do."
"Will you say what you mean," Coward snaps.
"Your friend is dying."
"Don't be absurd."
The doctor says nothing for what feels like a very long time. Coward leans on the bed, dizzy.
"I'm sorry," the doctor offers again, standing up.
Coward shakes his head, pulling himself up to his feet. His body seems very light all of a sudden, as though he's only barely anchored to it. He gives a short, jagged laugh.
"And what are you?" he sneers at the doctor. "The son of a shopkeeper I expect, who acquires a little learning and thinks that he can, that he can . . . "
Hand out a death sentence to a man like Lord Blackwood. Coward laughs again, a sound tumbled up into a choked gasp as if he's been struck in the stomach. The doctor frowns, puffing himself up, offended.
"I'd make my peace with it if I were you-"
"If you were me," Coward echoes, derisive.
"For I doubt he will last the week."
The smile drops from Coward's face in an instant.
"You charlatan," he hisses.
He strikes the man across the face with the back of his hand, feeling the sting of it in his knuckles. The doctor staggers backward, trips over the chair and falls. He doesn't make much noise when he hits the floor, a dull thump like a sluggish heartbeat. Coward watches the fear flare in his eyes and glances at Henry; who isn't smiling, who doesn't say, don't frighten the man, who doesn't say anything at all. The doctor tries to scrabble backward but he's got one foot caught in the chair and doesn't seem to realize it.
These pests get everywhere, Coward rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes, this world is crawling with the miserable and the weak and the worthless, there's just too much filth and this one says that Henry will die. That Henry will die and what, that he should live? That any of them should live.
He steps toward the table and the doctor makes a strangled, panicked sound that makes no sense to Coward until he looks down at his hand and finds he's picked up the bread knife that was laying there. The blade is the wrong shape, he thinks dreamily. The handle is warm and smooth is in his palm, a tawny sort of wood that's been polished slippery by use.
"False words are not only evil in themselves," he says, pointing the knife at the doctor and the sun catches on the blade like marmalade. "But they infect the soul with evil."
It would be simple to end this man's life. That pale, fatty neck would tear open so easily and then his blood would gush bright and cheerful, cherry red through the floorboards. The doctor could choke on his own vile pronouncements, drown himself, blubbering. Beneath the floor the rats would try to clean their whiskers but Coward could see this man bled dry, their fur matted with gore, their tails clotting together a make a rat king.
"Get out," Coward says.
The chair rattles against the bed frame as the doctor jerks his legs free and staggers to his feet, almost tripping again in his haste. Coward forces himself to concentrate on the weight of the knife as he turns it in his hand, counts each rotation until he hears the door close.
He screams.
Maybe he wants to turn that scalloped edge on his own belly, deflate the pain that's suddenly ballooning inside him before it bursts and poisons his blood. He tosses the knife to the floor in disgust. Henry turns toward the noise, eyes sightless as marbles.
"Don't listen to him," he points his finger at Blackwood. "Don't you dare, don't you-"
He stops, clasping his hand over his mouth. His stomach lurches and he staggers over to the side of the bed, falling to his knees beside the overturned chair.
"You won't do that to me. I know you won't do that to me, Henry. You promised. You promised, remember?"
-
He wakes to a warm hand touching the side of his face. It can't be much later, the sun has set but the fire hasn't burnt out. His legs have fallen asleep beneath him. The corner of the mattress is digging into his cheek, his neck's gone completely stiff and there's-
And there's a hand touching his face.
Coward jerks upright, scrabbling at his waistband for a weapon that's not there and Henry laughs. He holds his hand up in front of Coward's face, his fingertips damp, confronting him with his own tears and Cowards blinks, startled, and wipes his cheeks hurriedly.
"Henry?"
Henry has turned his hand back to himself and is frowning as though the sight of Coward's tears are something he can't quite comprehend. He tilts his head and moves his fingers slowly in the dim, uncertain light of the fire.
"Henry," Coward says again and pulls Henry's hand down to the bed, squeezing his fingers together. "How do you feel?"
Henry's frown deepens.
"Would you like something to eat?" Coward tries. The question feels heavy on his tongue. The weight of those words are too familiar to him.
"Why not?" Blackwood says.
"Henry you have to-" he stops, astonished. "You're hungry?"
"Dinner might be pleasant," Henry says.
Coward laughs, then quickly covers his mouth. The sound is bright and shocking in this room and it feels dangerous to Coward, too much joy could break something surely? Like moving a cold dish into a hot oven, something in him will crack if he lets it out.
"That's . . . " he grins, giddy and struck almost wordless with relief. "Wonderful. All right, yes."
He looks over his shoulder at the dresser. No solids, that's what the doctor said and although Coward finds himself mentally scoffing at this advice now, he suppose it might be better not to take the risk. The shape of the dresser swims, indistinct before his eyes and Coward blinks to clear his vision. He finds he can't quite recall what they have left to eat. It doesn't matter though, he can make do with whatever is there.
Wincing, he uses the wall to brace himself as he stands, legs already humming with pins and needles. He locks his elbows to stop his arms from shaking too badly and lets his head hang down for a moment as he catches his breath. There are shiny patches all up the wall where his hands have been, oil from running his hands through his hair over and over as he prayed at Henry's bedside.
"What about Kettner's?" Henry asks.
"Kettner's?"
Coward sounds out the word, confused.
"The mousseline?" Henry says. "It was practically indecent how much you were enjoying that asparagus."
"That little place on Church Street . . . "
"Ah, you do remember then."
Coward shakes his head, he has a fuzzy recollection of bronze and muted greens, soft colours in the wallpaper and softer lights. The memory is bleary and half formed, like something left soaking too long underwater.
"No?" Henry continues. "The Cavour perhaps? Unless you have your-"
"Henry, what are you-"
"-mind set on some place already?"
Henry is smiling at him, his arms folded across his lap. The shirt sleeves are too short and his wrists are bare. Coward's mouth hangs open, he gathers his breath to speak and then exhales silently. He reaches down and brushes the skin on the back of Henry's hand.
"We can't," he says, averting his eyes from Henry's face. "We can't go to the Cavour."
It's like lifting up an old paving stone and closing your eyes so you don't have to see the skittering things revealed beneath.
"Butting heads with Abernathy again?" Henry asks.
The web of skin between his forefinger and thumb feels tight as he circles Henry's wrist. He mouths the word, no, his lips hardly moving. Reginald Abernathy has been dead for almost five years. He thinks, sickly, Henry should remember that. If Abernathy had not peered down his nose at Henry with quite such obvious contempt he would no doubt still be alive today.
The point remained. He was not. The Cavour had been Abernathy's favourite haunt, Coward remembers, and how Henry had laughed and declared that he was damned if he was going to have his choice of dining establishment dictated to him by anyone, let alone a fool like Reginald.
"Daniel?" Henry prompts.
"Oh," Coward says. He traces the creases of Henry's knuckle with the edge of his fingernail, takes a deep breath. "Yes."
"The man's ridiculous, have you heard his latest bright idea for Ireland?" Blackwood snorts.
Coward pins his smile to his face hard. He thinks with the fire behind him, Henry won't be able to see how his mouth is trembling. There's an ache in his throat, a dark black clot tangled up in his vocal cords, he knows he won't be able to make a sound that doesn't crack and break into a sob.
Even if he trusted himself to speak he wouldn't. If he talks it might break this spell. Henry sounds so much better than he has in days. So he's dreaming awake, in another time and place, but at least he's lucid and at least Coward is there with him.
"Did you . . . " Henry pauses and Coward looks up. There's a bemused sort of frown on Henry's face. "Did you shave?"
Coward nods. Henry touches his jaw, turns his face from on side to the other.
"I'm not sure if I approve," he says.
Something wicked and completely familiar creeps into Henry's gaze and in that moment Coward could believe that they'd both been plucked out of this pit of the present. Henry's eyes seem so clear, so certain. If Coward pinholes his world to just that, he could believe he was waking suddenly from a nightmare and finding Henry there to comfort him. He does nothing as Henry leans up and steals a kiss from him.
The humming, thoughtful note Henry makes against his lips tickles.
"Well, I suppose I have no objections," Henry says, with mock reluctance. "Though perhaps further investigation is warranted."
His mouth is so dry. His hand is hot on the side of Coward's face.
"Will you humour me in something?" Coward asks.
-
He prepares a supper as best he can, uses the bread knife to saw through pieces of beef that are more gristle than meat. The blade scores lines into the table but the sinews just stretch flat and white and refuse to tear until his palm aches from the weight he has to put on the handle. He starts to think he made the right decision with the doctor, it could have gone badly for him.
Henry is sitting in bed, talking about plans that have already taken place, happy in his delusion. Coward presses harder on the knife. He's used to blades that pass through flesh like butter, but perhaps that's just a delusion too. The past does seem like a dream, something hovering at the back of his mind but impossible to recover and crumbling apart the longer they have to breathe the foetid air of this reality.
Except if he were mad and merely dreaming the deaths of all those people, they wouldn't be here, would they? Besides, he doesn't care to wish their deaths away. He's wondered if this is punishment for what he and Henry did, has tried to wonder but he cannot believe it. He had been afraid to look into himself but now it's come to this he finds there is no guilt buried within him at all.
The water boils, the meat stews. Coward finds the last stub of a candle they have left and lights it carefully, cupping the flame in hand as he carries it over to the chair they use for a bedside table.
"This is cosy, isn't it?" Coward says.
Henry catches his hand and holds it over the candle flame. Coward smiles and does not pull away, his fingers still in Henry's grip which does not force, merely steadies him there for just a breath after the first lick of pain across his palm.
"You're right," Henry says and releases him.
Coward passes his fingers through the fire and then holds them up, unharmed.
Once the broth is done, he pours a bowl and brings it over to the bed. Henry is sitting up, cross legged. It's as though he can't see the room or what they both look like and although Coward can tell when a shadow of pain crosses his face, Henry just pauses for a moment, blinks or gives a slight shake of his head and then carries on like nothing's wrong.
Coward climbs onto the bed and sits back on his heels, he puts the bowl into Henry's hands and Henry immediately places it down in his lap.
"We'll have you Home Secretary within the year," he's saying.
Coward stares at the bowl.
"Is something wrong, Daniel?"
"I was thinking . . . is this, is this not a grand enough ambition?"
Blackwood frowns, puzzled. His hand is resting on the spoon and Coward touches him, tries to curl Henry's fingers around the metal but Henry turns his palm and strokes up the inside of his wrist instead.
"Would you have been-" Coward stops and grits his teeth. "Could you be happy just with this?"
He links their fingers. Henry looks down at their hands, then up at Coward.
"Could you?" Henry asks.
The broth almost spills out of the bowl as Coward jerks his hand back. Henry laughs, indulgent and knowing and Coward feels as though a tiny hole has been pierced in his lungs. There's a chill pain in his chest that reminds him of having too little breath, suffocating on swallowed air.
Henry shakes his head. "If you said yes-"
"But, no, I-"
"If you said yes, well, I wouldn't believe I was talking to my Daniel."
Coward shivers.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Henry says.
The bowl is still there in Henry's lap, ignored. Coward picks it up and stirs the broth, little concentric circles that disappear as soon as he stops moving the spoon. He stares at the grease floating filmy over the liquid, stirring one way, then the other, round and round like he's shifting tea leaves; searching for an answer.
-
It's like their first night here all over again. Regurgitated, vile, now Coward doesn't want to let Henry sleep because he can sense the rot that's worked its tendrils through the frame of Henry's bones. For now he can hold it at bay, he can stretch this one night into an eternity if he can just keep talking. Sleep is too close to that other thing. Slipping away into sleep, he doesn't want to let Henry travel that far from the shore of his embrace. Maybe if they make it through this night together, in the morning things will be different.
He thought the rabbits in the butcher's window reminded him of the dead. Lying on his stomach, one hand on Henry's chest, he is stretched out and concave, his skin velveted with dirt. He listens to the rattle of Henry's breath and clutches on to the sound. He mumbles nonsense, fragments of sentences that are shattered by exhaustion. He loses the thread of his own thoughts and in the end all he can say is; I love you.
And when he can longer stop his eyes from closing, he can still say that. I love you, you'll remember that, won't you, Henry? Don't forget that. Keep that.
Packing him endearments for the dark.
-
In the morning things are different.
The fever is gone. It's snowing. Henry isn't breathing any more.
There's nothing in for breakfast but if Coward goes outside the snow will soak through his shoes and the bottom of his trousers and he thinks; better to just go back to sleep for a while. When he wakes up again the sun may have melted the ice and baked the cobblestones dry. He huddles closer to Henry because Henry is cold and pulls the blankets over both their heads to block the light and closes his eyes.
The afternoon brings clear skies in an arctic, callous blue. The space between Henry and he, which Coward so desperately tries to wriggle into, refuses to warm.
The back of his throat is aching with words he can't speak, their jagged edges cutting his insides to ribbons, a chain of broken glass that's unwinding from his heart and out of his silent mouth. Too late to be sleeping in, Henry, wake up. Come back.
He rests his head on Henry's still chest and starts to cry and all there is then is pain. Hurt blots out the sky, blots out the room, blots out the bed, everything but the feel of Henry's skin against his wet cheek.
The world is a vast, vast place. Outside of this one small space, Coward can imagine the innumerable labyrinths of streets, of roads and rivers and then, of fields and mountains and forests. Unknown faces in unknown towns. Oceans. Other countries. Deserts and wonders and stone stacked up into shapes he's never seen before and in all of these places, amongst all of uncountable creation, he will never find Henry again.
There's nothing to any of it it then. Paper and ash, the painted backdrop to a play. Without Henry, nothing is real because nothing matters. It hits him very sudden and very strong and stops his tears the moment he realizes, even if he leaves this room, he will never leave this room.
And finally he can speak.
"It's all right," he says and kisses Henry on the cheek.
He drags the table over to the staircase, then piles the chairs on top of it. In the kitchen, he breaks off what parts of the cupboards he can and adds them to the stack. The dresser drawers come next, he tries to move the dresser itself but it tips over and he hasn't got the strength to push it over the uneven floorboards. It's enough anyway.
It's not too difficult to start the fire. Coward stands and watches it burn until he's sure it won't go out (until he's sure he couldn't climb over and get to the door) and it's almost shocking how fast the wood catches, how quickly the flames start to leap up toward the ceiling.
Almost shocking but for the pleasant peace that's settled over him. He's smiling as he climbs back into bed with Henry. The fire will burn them out of any recognition. He's heard reports of pauper's graves, eleven, twelve bodies all buried together with no soil to separate one from another. How lovely it is to think of laying, twined with Henry like that for all eternity. Perhaps the fire will melt them together now.
As the smoke fills the room, Coward doesn't fight the dizziness that rushes over him with each breath. He can hear screaming coming from above, past the buzzing in his ears and the hot ache in his head. Thick, charcoal storm clouds are rolling over the ceiling. His fingers feel weak as they work the ring off from Henry's hand, shaking and clumsy. He presses it between their two palms for a moment, then swallows it.
As the smoke fills the room, Coward doesn't fight the heavy black weight that's pooling in his lungs, his breath shallow and choked. His panic struggles somewhere in the distance, he's smothered with his face against Henry's neck and his hands in Henry's hands. The room is spinning around them. His heart is beating fast and painful, fluttering like the first time they met.
As the smoke fills the room. As the fog comes in off the Thames. As his eyes close, memory unfolds itself, diffuses like light caught in smoke, in fog, in vapour and every moment in time is shining all at once in this great net of stars.
Henry's nets wrapped around him. Henry's fingers meshing through his hair.
-
