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The night breeds bold men. Tommy knows this better than most.
He grips the cigarette tighter between his thumb and forefinger and inhales a long drag. The heat blooms inside of him, chasing out the chill of the polar night. The tip of the cigarette glows blood orange with flickering embers and casts long shadows on the crates stacked behind him. There is a single lantern strung up on the tent wall behind him. The yellow canvas appears almost translucent under the focused beam of whale-oil light, stretched taut like a thin skin membrane.
This winter, as long as she is sunless, takes no prisoners, and those who survive her will be left worse for wear. No melodrama, just hard fact, and the fact is, this expedition has been hard on all the men. If the scurvy fails to take them, if they can fight off the cold and the hunger and the weakness and the doubt, then it still will have been for nothing.
The creature haunts their every waking step. The white bear that is unlike any bear Tommy’s ever heard tale of in all his twenty years. Another fact to add to the increasingly growing list: failure hangs over every man’s head like a waiting noose. It’s only a matter of time.
For better or worse, this strange arctic night offers them all a place to hide. In many ways, the sprawling labyrinth of canvas tents and wooden walls is the safest haven they have known since departing Baffin Bay. Here, in the warm skeletal frame of Carnivale, built in honour of all they left behind in England, the men endure. Here in the bowels of old Britannia, they are free men.
Carnivale is a dream, a spinning carousel of light, music and colour. The men are merry; their mirth spills out of them like leaking oil, transforming the desolate white landscape around them into a shining mirage of home.
“Oi, pass that here,” Sol says, gesturing to the half-smoked cigarette in Tommy’s hands.
He hasn’t had that much to drink yet tonight, but the cold air goes straight for his head all the same. It’s like chasing another drag of his cigarette, being so damn near to the sergeant. Another bad habit Tommy Armitage cannot seem to quit (not, mind you, that he particularly wants to—he’s never exactly been one for sensible decisions).
Smiling with his eyes, Tommy lifts the cigarette to his mouth and takes a puff, inhaling the smoke deep enough to colour his insides ashen. Instead of exhaling, he keeps his lips shut tight, pulling the cigarette away from them and flicks it on to the ground at his side. He sees the look of confusion, then mild irritation, as it works its way along Sol’s brow line. Without missing a beat, Tommy walks forward, shoulders loose and arms light by his sides as he closes the gap between them.
He reaches up and lets his hand slide into the familiar curve of Sol’s jawline. It sets a shiver running up the length of his arm the way the older man leans into the touch. He’s the scruffiest Tommy’s ever seen him; the coarse hair of his beard drags across the bare skin of his fingertips like a hundred tiny pinpricks. Tommy is reminded of his carelessness with the needle and thread in the days leading up to Carnivale. He feels it every time he flexes his fingers, the rough surface of his woollen gloves scratches against his fingertips, irritating the sensitive skin.
The costumes were Sol’s idea, and what an idea they were. The costume itself isn’t much to stare at (there’s only so much Tommy could do with old sacks and threadbare rags) but christ, doesn’t it look a pretty sight on Sol anyway. The material of his uniform peaks out from under the length of his cape, lobster red, like the soft underbelly of some wild creature. He never thought he’d see the day when Solomon Tozer would be draped in the fruits of his own labour. It’s a sight and a half. Sol wears it so proudly too, the rags hung across Sol’s broad shoulders like some kingly robe. The vision sets something warm bubbling deep inside Tommy’s stomach, makes him ache with a want and need far stronger than any kind of hunger he’s ever felt before.
There is a mountain of things Tommy Armitage has to feel ashamed of, but apologising for who he is – what he is – will never again be one of them. A lesson learned well enough, etched in spilt blood, old bruises and a father’s love for his cups rearing its head in a furious temper that knew no sense of confinement.
Aye, Tommy's lived a life, not always happy and rarely ever easy, but he’s lived it all the same, which is more than most lads his age can say. He’ll live some more tonight, if he has his way.
“What’d you go and do that for?” Sol pouts, voice low among the muffled cacophony of the festivities around them. He kicks off from the crate he was balancing on and sways into Tommy’s space so their bodies are flush together. “Waste of a bloody good smoke,” Sol says, voice rumbling low in Tommy’s good ear. The warm pool in his stomach deepens. Sol is solid against him and Tommy tightens his grip on the man’s jaw to stop the force of the impact from knocking him over. Sol looks down at him with earth-deep eyes and time seems to slow around them until they are cocooned in their own little bubble of stillness.
The choice is easy enough. It always has been.
Tommy all but manhandles Sol’s jaw to press their lips together. His free hand travels up the length of Sol’s tunic and he wraps his fingers in Sol’s scarf to keep them both steady. The planes of Sol’s mouth are as familiar to him as any curve of his own body. They slot into each other like their bodies were carved and hollowed out to contain only one another. The first time they did this, it was nothing more than a quick fumble in the orlop, hidden from sight of any prying, accusing eyes. In the dark, with the full weight of the marine’s prick in his mouth, it had taken all of his willpower to keep from making too much noise. Now, in the dark, with a hundred eyes surrounding them, Tommy couldn’t give less of a fuck if he tried. Let someone stumble in here by accident. Let them see the fruits of his hard earned labour.
As if he’d read his mind, Sol suddenly cups Tommy’s cheek with his own large palm and twists the other round to grab the small of Tommy’s back, pulling him closer, impossibly so.
He presses into the line of Sol’s wide mouth with his tongue, seeking entrance, hungry for more, and Sol obliges, his mouth hanging loose to let Tommy take what he wants. The warmth is familiar, and Tommy adds his own heat to stoke the flames further. He lets the breath he was holding go, lets the ash and smoke travel from him deep into Sol’s own throat. He hears Sol cough, his body jerks against Tommy’s own from the surprise of it all, and when he tries to pull away with a short christ lad, Tommy gives chase, pulls at his jaw to tug him right back again and swallows the words whole.
That’s another thing he’s learned in his time out here at the white edge of the world: it is easier to want another man if one does it in the dark. It is a blessing to know him and hold him in a world that feels built to house only two.
The night breeds bold men. It gives life to lovers too.
Tommy kisses him deeper, slower, and Sol melts into his touch. He can taste the sweetness of the tobacco and the acrid tang of the smoke as it leaves his lungs and passes into Sol’s own. They are one being, breathing in tandem, sharing the gift of life between them. Tommy gives and Sol takes. It is their way. Or, at least, it usually is.
Perhaps it’s the buzz of Carnivale, or the cold arctic air going to his head, whatever the case, the fact remains true: the night breeds bold men indeed, and none as bold as Tommy Armitage.
When he pulls away from Sol, a thin trail of saliva follows him as he ducks his head to leave a wet path of kisses down the side of Sol’s neck. He feels Sol’s arm around his back tighten, but whether the sergeant's trying to hold Tommy steady or simply keep himself afloat, Tommy isn’t sure. Quite frankly, he’s too preoccupied to care.
His hands are in Sol’s hair now, nimble fingers twisting through sandy curls. He wonders what sort of sweet sounds Sol would make if he gave them a tug, then realises he doesn’t have to wonder at all. He grabs a fistfull of blonde curls and yanks his wrist to the side, Sol grunts, caught off guard, but doesn’t fight against it. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, ey?” He says, breathless and deep. He’s not mad, far from it. He’s grinning wide, dimples etched into his cheeks, whiskers dusted with frost, eyes glittering in the whale oil light.
Tommy returns his grin and plants a chaste kiss on the tip of Sol’s frozen nose. “That depends on you.”
Sol raises a single eyebrow, the whites of his teeth sparkling as his grin widens impossibly further. “Does it now?”
Tommy nods. “You know I’m good for it Sol,” he purrs. He brings a hand up to Sol’s cheek, traces the crevices of his face and savours the way Sol’s whiskers scratch at the pads of his pinpricked fingers. It sends a shiver down the length of his spine. “Always have been. Tell me I’m good. Tell me I make you feel good.” He’s looking at Sol with wide doe-eyes, a picture of innocence to mask the schemes hidden underneath as he plants the seeds for his eventual victory.
Just as Tommy knew he would, Solomon Tozer comes to him like a loyal hound. He reaches his hand up to take Tommy’s chin in his fingers, extending his thumb upwards to brush against Tommy’s bottom lip. He holds it there, lets the pad sink into the warm flesh and Tommy feels him shiver against him at the sensation of hot breath on cold skin. “‘Course you do, Tom lad,” his voice barely a whisper against the cacophony of festivities around them. Sol looks at him with eyes as brown as the earth’s deepest cavern, big and beautiful and endlessly adoring. “Fucking perfect you are.”
There’s nothing else for it.
Tommy presses a soft kiss to Sol’s thumb before pulling away from him. He misses the pressure immediately, aches for it, but knows this sacrifice is necessary. Sol’s grin falters slightly, the ghost of a frown playing on his lips at Tommy’s teasing. Tommy sees the words bubbling up inside him, but before Sol can speak them into existence, Tommy reaches out with his hand to grasp the front of Sol’s trousers, palm pressed flat against his sergeant’s half-hard prick.
The words die in Sol’s throat and he gasps instead at the unexpected pressure. His body goes rigid. “Fuck me,” he breaths out, voice cracked and bending over the last few syllables like a drowning man’s last desperate gasp for air.
Tommy smiles, saccharine and deadly. He’s got Sol right where he wants him. The rest is easy. Under the cover of night, this comes naturally to him.
“Maybe some other time. Tonight I want my cock in your mouth,” he squeezes his hand around Sol’s bulge and relishes the way the sergeant squirms under his touch. “C’mon Sol,” he whines. He leans forward, pressing into Sol’s space until his lips are hovering over the marine’s ear; breath hot against his skin, voice as quiet as a prayer uttered in the lonely dark. “Be a sweetheart and get on your knees for me, ey?”
It’s bold, and it works exactly the way he’d expected it to.
Sol all but drags Tommy over to the stack of crates in the corner of their little sanctuary by the collar of his page boy’s costume. Sol plonks him down on the edge of the nearest crate none too gently, then offers a chaste kiss to the hairline of Tommy’s dark curls in apology before sinking to his knees, tugging aside Tommy’s burlap layers to get to his woollens.
It takes Sol’s meaty fingers a second of fumbling to pop his buttons open and even then he doesn’t bother pulling his trousers down, just parts the fabric wide enough for Tommy’s cock to spring free.
He can claim a decent length; not as big or girthy as Sol’s own, but then again, few men are. There’s a thatch of dark hair at the base which snakes its way up to his stomach, hidden underneath the scrunched up burlap sack at his waist. Sol nestles himself between Tommy’s legs, sets a large palm across his right kneecap and spreads them wider to fit his broad frame.
God, he’d give fucking anything for someone to walk in on them right now. To catch them here in such a compromising state. There’d be no doubt about it: it’d be the end of a cat o’ nines for the pair of them. If they’re lucky.
If he’s lucky, some unsuspecting sailor will find them here—a marine. Daly perhaps. Or Pilkington. He’ll stumble in through the parted canvas, too far into his cups to know he’s intruding; if he’s lucky, the sailor will look up just in time to see Tommy’s cock buried deep in his sergeant’s mouth.
Three broad strokes from Sol’s large hand are all it takes for his prick to grow hard and stiff, and Tommy’s hips shudder up into each pet like it’s the air he needs to breathe.
“Look at you,” Sol grins, all teeth and dimples. He strokes him, thumb running over the length of Tommy’s tip to slick his hand up with the fluid already leaking from the little pink cap. “Proper little whore ain’t ya?”
“Don’t be gentle,” Tommy says breathlessly. He doesn’t know why he says it. It’s more of a confession than an order. He almost fears he’s made a mistake, then he sees it.
In the yellow halflight, the look Sol gives him is a wondrous thing, as heady in his want as it in his adoration. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at him. “Aye, if you think you can handle it.” His voice is rough, betraying his otherwise serene demeanour. Sol tightens his grip on his prick and he can’t help himself, he gasps, bucking his hips up into the friction provided by Sol’s iron-tight grip.
“Argh—” It doesn’t matter that the crates behind him are digging into three separate points of his spine. It doesn’t matter that the sound of men celebrating around them is a roaring thunderclap in his ears. It doesn’t matter that he can feel the blush creeping up his neck and colouring his cheeks a telling shade of pink. It all pales in the face of the truth sitting right in front of him: Sol is his.
For tonight at least, they belong to each other.
He reaches down and gets his hands tangled in Sol’s beautiful curls, digging his fingers in deep enough to feel Sol flinch from the pressure. Then he pulls down, hard, and watches as Sol’s cheek bobs against the sensitive cap of his prick. Sol grunts and the vibrations send a delicious bolt of pleasure racing through him. In a way, it acts like a confession too.
“And you?” Tommy slurs, the heat between them is making what little grog he consumed go to his head. Makes him slow and dizzy. He can feel the heat climbing up his neck and deepening the colour of his cheeks. Although the world outside is a frozen wasteland, he’s never felt warmer than he is now. “Can you handle it?”
The tension snaps, the air around them burns hot as coal fire. Sol dips his head and without warning, takes Tommy full to the hilt in one go.
“Oh fuck—” Tommy gasps as his head falls back against the crates and his skull rattles on the wood. The pit in his stomach opens wide and the heat rushes through him like smoke and ash. He bucks his hips up into the tight, hot wetness of Sol’s mouth and feels the sergeant groan around his swollen prick.
Sol’s tongue presses flat against his length as he bobs his head over the sensitive slit, licking a wet trail down to the base where his other hand fondles Tommy’s stones.
Tommy squirms under Sol’s touch. “Christ, Sol,” he mumbles breathlessly, delirious and aching. ”Like that—ah—shit,” Sol hums, pleased with his work, and the vibrations send a wave of pleasure shooting down Tommy’s throbbing prick. He’s suddenly thankful for the stack of heavy boxes behind him, without them it would have been impossible for him to stay upright. He tightens his grip on Sol’s hair to keep himself steady.
Sol’s a large man, he takes Tommy with such ease, unhooking his jaw and puffing out his cheeks to accommodate him better. He bobs his head in quick, short ministrations and the sound of wet flesh on flesh is obscene enough that Tommy can feel the heat burning up his cheeks and neck. Sol’s forehead shines with sweat, his eyes are dark, full blown and brimming with tears as saliva dribbles from his swollen lips. He gazes up at Tommy and the look of worship on his face is almost too much for Tommy to bear. His instincts tell him to look away, to cast his head down to stare at the floor.
But no, this is what he wanted, isn’t it? More than anything in the world.
Solomon Tozer and all his devotion. And what a sight it is.
“You’re beautiful,” Tommy whispers, awestruck, and he’s rewarded with a low moan of pleasure from Sol that sets his head spinning.
His legs turn to jelly as he feels the tip of his prick bump against the back of Sol’s throat. Sol speeds up his motions, taking him whole then pulling off again. Tommy forgets himself in his delirium. Panting like a man starved of air, he snaps his hips forward relentlessly, fucking himself into the haven of wet heat that is Sol’s mouth. How Sol manages to keep up, he’ll never know.
“Oh–oh–Sol!” He gasps. He feels the tension in his body like a coiled spring ready to snap. He tugs at Sol’s curls helplessly, the only forewarning before he spills hot and fast down Sol’s throat.
He tries to pull away, but Sol’s hand shoots out, fingers curving into the groove of Tommy’s hip to stop him from retreating any further. His prick’s still in Sol’s mouth, he can feel it starting to soften around Sol’s lips, slick with his own saliva and Tommy’s seed.
Tommy can’t help it, the sight of Sol is like nothing he’s ever seen before. To think, Sol’s taken a piece of him now. It belongs to Sol, along with every other part of him. Because that’s the truth isn’t it?
I love you, Tommy thinks deliriously. I love you and I don’t care which of these bastards know it. I’d tell them all. Gather the crowd and make an entire show of it. I’d take the cat for you. Anything you asked of me, I would. Even if you didn’t, I still would.
Instead, he breathes out a low fuck, as Sol slides his lips off his softened prick and neatly tucks Tommy back into his woollens like it’s no problem at all. Specks of Tommy still linger around his mouth, white and shining. He won’t pretend he doesn’t already miss the warmth of Sol’s pliant mouth, but he figures he can cope without it for now, if this is what the view looks like.
“Sorry for the mess,” Tommy says, his smile still shy despite it all.
Sol chuckles and it’s a wonderfully rich sound that drowns out the hubbub of festivities around them. Makes Tommy lick his lips in hunger and half wish he was capable of going another round sooner rather than later.
“No lad,” Sol says, running a hand through his curls in an attempt to unflatten them from his sweat-soaked head. He looks up at Tommy from where he kneels on the ground, bathed in the yellow light from the burning whale oil, and is as radiant as the sunrise itself. His tongue darts out to the side to lap up the remaining drips of Tommy’s spend around his mouth. Tommy watches unblinking as Sol’s tongue retreats back into the cavern of his mouth and he swallows thickly. ”That’s not the sort of thing you should worry that pretty little face over. Fuck me, you’d give any molly a run for her money with eyes like that.” Sol reaches up to brush his thumb across the snow-chapped skin across Tommy’s right cheek.
Tommy catches the way Sol inhales deep, finds himself mirroring him, the sentiment makes something in his heart flutter. The look of adoration in the sergeant’s face turns his limbs to jelly all over again.
“There it is again,” Sol murmurs. “How’d you make them do that? It’s not right. Drive a man crazy that will.”
If boldness was a man’s folly, the night would breed more cowards than brave men.
Lucky for Tommy Armitage, Carnivale is a land of opportunity. Here in the bowels of old Britania, boys become men.
Here, for one night only, men become lovers.
“Don’t do it for no man,” Tommy says. He waits until the confusion causes Sol’s brow to dip and the dimples to deepen. He lets his voice fall to a hushed whisper, teasing Sol closer by twisting his fingers in his tunic and scarf and pulling until their foreheads are touching. He can feel Sol’s breath, hot against his cheeks, and he smiles, eyes like the rolling sea that carried them from home and into each other’s arms.
“Don’t you know? It’s for you, Sol.”
Only for you.