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Fic: Nothing Better or More Delightful (Benjamin January mysteries, NC-17), Part 1
Title: Nothing Better or More Delightful
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: NC-17. One explicit m/m/f sex scene, slight mentions of drug/alcohol abuse and past violence.
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly, and you should all read them.
Notes: The incredibly gorgeous art is by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
evian_fork, and you can see more of it here. Go and give her feedback!
I am SO GRATEFUL toegelantier and somebraveapollo, lovely and magnificent betas.
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
polybigbang
Summary: Ben and Rose have rescued Hannibal from unjust accusations and an untimely death, but they're not sure what to do next. The trip back from Mexico is a chance to figure out where everyone belongs. (Set in the aftermath of Days of the Dead.)
14,003 words. Also available on AO3
January knocked a second time on the door and waited; he’d almost given up and stepped away when he heard Hannibal’s faint “Ine.”
Inside the inn room, which was small and looked too much like every other inn room between Mexico City and Vera Cruz, Hannibal was slumped in a chair, head lolled against its back; if January hadn’t just heard him speak, he would have assumed he was asleep. He was still wearing the dress that would be a necessary disguise until they’d escaped the country, though he’d discarded the veils and gloves that made it believable. Without them, he was too obviously a man, particularly now in the evening, when his chin was lightly shaded with stubble. He was by no means ugly, but neither was his face one that could be taken for a woman’s, even with yards of black silk to support the illusion.
The dress hadn’t made him feminine, but it did make him look like a stranger; January was familiar with how color and line could change a person’s form, but was still startled by the extent of the transformation. The full skirt with its padding of petticoats hid his legs, the tight sleeves exaggerated the boniness of his arms, and against the glossy black silk his skin was colorless as wax. He looked brittle, breakable, and January didn’t like it. Though maybe it was only his face after all, tilted up slightly as though in expectation of a kiss, eyes closed, hair straggling loose across one cheek. It had seemed easier to smuggle him away from the accusation of murder than stay and try to prove his innocence in court, but January suspected that it was hard on Hannibal. Not only was he leaving people he’d lived among for months, but almost everyone he’d met remained convinced by the false charges. That so many had believed him a murderer weighed on him.
"Where’s Consuela?" January asked, looking away and around the bare room, which held nothing more than the chair, a bed, and a small table with a water pitcher.
It again took Hannibal some time to answer, and when he did it was nothing January didn’t already know. “She’s leaving.”
January suppressed a sigh. Hannibal had obviously drugged himself nearly unconscious on opium; it was in his softly slurred words, the emergence of his Irish accent, the languid lines of his body. He didn’t need to see Hannibal’s eyes to know the pupils would be mere pinpricks. January supposed he couldn’t blame his friend; he’d found riding in a carriage over these roads painful enough, and he hadn’t been traveling with a broken bone. “How’s your leg?”
Hannibal smiled slightly, not opening his eyes. “Can honor set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound?”
A less than helpful answer. January knelt beside his chair and lifted his skirts to check the splint. There was no impropriety in a doctor examining a patient, of course, but January hadn’t often had a patient who was also a former lover. He was very aware of a time when he might have pressed his mouth to the same spot on Hannibal’s bare leg where his hand now rested, of exactly how soft the skin would be, of how Hannibal’s voice could turn husky with pleasure. He shoved away the thought. That was over, and had been for quite a while. Ever since Rose had begun to accept his overtures of romance, he had been faithful to her; he’d formalized that rule with his vows at the altar. And Hannibal had understood his commitment, had never reproached him for ending what had been between them. Hannibal was still his friend, and that was the more important part. If January had further desires, it was only to be expected, but he loved Rose too truly, too deeply, to betray her.
Hannibal, apparently free from similar thoughts, continued to soliloquize over his head– Honor hath no skill in surgery, then?– and January let the flow of well-known words, made musical by Hannibal’s accent, steady his mind. He focused on the medical problem in front of him. The bruises covering Hannibal’s leg made it easier, though they had faded somewhat, mottled green and yellow rather than the deep purple of a week ago. The bandages seemed tight enough, and nothing was obviously pulled out of alignment by the jostling of travel. Nonetheless, he ran his hands over the break to check that the bone was still properly set, and Hannibal cut off mid-line. January glanced up at him, and saw the evidence of pain in the tightness of his mouth, though he held himself still for January to finish his examination.
January dropped Hannibal’s skirts back into place, self-consciously acting out a pretense of modesty, though for whose benefit he wasn’t sure. He stood and, not knowing what else to say, continued Falstaff’s speech: “Doth he feel it?”
“‘Tis insensible. Yea, to the dead,” Hannibal answered, though he spoke the words with a subtle mockery.
January looked down at him. Hannibal’s collarbones and wrist bones, revealed by the cut of his dress, were too prominent, jutting out from beneath stretched-thin skin; the lines in his face were etched deeply enough from pain and weariness that even the laudanum hadn’t softened them. He hadn’t come down to dinner, which January had hoped was only to keep the inn’s servants and their own police escort from noticing him. But from the look of him, January wasn’t sure he’d eaten all day. Hannibal had come so close to dying. Sometimes January just wanted to touch him, to make sure that he was real and not some dream of hope or denial.
Once he had spent so much time with Hannibal that he had ceased to be quite conscious of him, simply taking for granted the sound of his schooled French and laughter and extraordinary music; the sight of his sly grin or the elegant angle of his long fingers; and most of all how he had felt, the casual brush of his shoulder against January’s when he would sit beside him, the shape of his arm when January grasped it to steady him, the heat and fineness of his skin against January’s palms. And then he had left, and the absence of all those things was like a hole in January’s life. Sometimes January had forgotten he was gone, and had caught himself looking for Hannibal on a crowded street, or thinking he should invite him to dinner; once he had woken in the middle of the night, certain that he had heard Hannibal calling him– as he had occasionally– drunk and come to beg a place to sleep or a loan or simply company. But of course there had been no one there. January had always grumbled and complained, even as he let Hannibal in, but this night, with no one there to disturb his rest, he had missed him so fiercely that it had been a physical pain, as though he had taken a blow to the chest.
It had been almost a relief to rush to Mexico, though his reason for doing so was less than desirable. But at least he had finally been doing something, had some possibility of reclaiming Hannibal and filling that empty space. January supposed some part of him would always fear loss, forever aware of how easily, how permanently people could be taken away. But this time, for once, he had won; Hannibal hadn’t died, and soon they would all be back home in New Orleans.
“Go to bed, Hannibal,” January said finally.
“Can’t. I tried lying down, and it felt like the corset was stabbing me.” He pressed a hand to his waist. “And I can’t manage to unlace myself. I don’t know how women do this every day.”
“Come on, then.” January gave him a hand to his feet, catching his elbow when Hannibal swayed. The point of the bone was sharp in his hand. He sat Hannibal on the bed, facing away, and unbuttoned the dress. Hannibal was silent as he did, head hanging forward and hair falling to either side of the nape of his neck.
January untied the bow at the top of the corset and began to draw the laces out; he’d grown used to doing this for Rose recently. She had a trick of tying the laces so that she was perfectly capable of removing a corset on her own, but January liked to help her, found it both domestic and sensual. He liked the silkiness of the ribbon, warm with a day’s worth of body heat, contrasted to the stiff frame of the corset; he liked the slow reveal of skin and the ridges of the spine.
The corset Hannibal was wearing was Rose’s, in fact. She and Hannibal were nearly the same height, and shared the same slim build, though Hannibal was thinner enough that whoever had laced him up that morning hadn’t pulled the corset as tight as they might have. It lay close against his skin, but no more than that, forming no falsely slender waist; his dress wasn’t fashionable enough to require it. Even so, he sighed as the corset loosened, and when January pulled it off, there were red lines in his flesh where it had pressed. January smoothed his thumb over one without thinking. Hannibal, always so sensitive to touch, shivered. January’s hand stilled, and he sat motionless. He could feel the ribs just beneath the skin, and somewhere deeper, Hannibal’s heartbeat.
Hannibal pulled away and turned to look at him, eyes very black and clearer than January had expected. “Rose is waiting for you,” he said.
“I know.” January took a breath to say something more, but let it out wordlessly instead. He clasped Hannibal on the shoulder. “Sleep well.”
Hannibal smiled and nodded, but when January closed the door behind him, he was still sitting upright on the bed, his skirts a spill of black against the brightly colored blanket.
The thing about being on a ship, Rose had discovered, was that there simply wasn’t much to do. She hadn’t been able to pack nearly as many books as she would have liked, a necessary sacrifice in the name of having luggage that was not too heavy to carry. Between the outward trip, what free time she’d had in Mexico City– which, admittedly, wasn’t much– and the portion of the return journey already past, she thought she might have read every page with her four times over. There was a limit to the enjoyment one could take from Lyell’s Principles of Geology, no matter how glad she’d been to finally acquire her own copy.
Hannibal had made the same discovery, or at least he speedily closed the volume of Italian poetry he’d been reading when she approached him with a deck of cards and an offer to play.
“Not picquet,” he said in a tone of exaggerated horror, though he grinned up at her where she stood beside his chair. “I think I’d rather break my other leg than play even one more game of picquet.”
“How do you feel about whist?”
“Much warmer, thank you. Will Benjamin play too, then?”
“No, he discovered over breakfast that another one of the passengers is also a doctor. I think he’s lost to us for at least the next few hours.” She handed the cards to Hannibal and stepped away to pull an empty chair closer; Hannibal made a move as though to help, but she waved him back down. “If he hasn’t reappeared by this afternoon, I suppose I’ll go and remind him of the duties of friendship. Until then we can play German style.”
They played for pennies. Rose supposed that both she and Hannibal could now afford to gamble much larger sums, but it was old habit. So was letting Hannibal deal; he could shuffle so much more neatly and quickly than she could, his clever fingers riffling then sorting the cards without his sparing a single glance downward to direct them.
The sun came bright over the water, sparkling off the thousand waves that seemed tiny from her own position high on the deck, and she had to shade her eyes in order to even look out across them. Despite the intensity of the light, a cool wind kept away the heat, turning the tops of the waves to white and tugging at her hair; when she turned back to accept her cards from Hannibal, she noticed his cheeks and nose had been touched with pink. For a moment, she studied the color the wind had brought out, how it gave his face a new vividness, until he tilted his head in silent inquiry and she smiled, looking down at her cards to arrange them by suit.
She had been surprised when Hannibal had announced he was going to Mexico with Consuela. She’d known she would miss him, but felt she had no right to insist he stay; hadn’t she herself left family and friends for the sake of a school in New York, and then New Orleans? Hannibal had given her his books and a few other odds and ends he didn’t care to pack, made a firm promise to write, and treated the whole matter as an impulse, as though his departure was a little thing. She had matched his light tone until the last moment, when she and Benjamin had gone down to the docks to wish him and Consuela farewell.
Most of the passengers had already boarded, and he’d already made his goodbyes to Ben, when he turned to her for the last time. “Fare thee well; The elements be kind to thee, and make / They spirits all of comfort!” He had taken her hand, but only the fingertips, a soft touch that she could barely feel through her gloves, and added, “Be happy, Rose.”
Acting on a suddenly felt emotion, she embraced him; he felt smaller, somehow, than she had expected, but more solid. His cheek was rough against hers, and his startled laugh was close by her ear. He caught at her shoulders briefly before she pulled back, his grip loose and quickly gone again. His smile stayed, though, his eyes bright, the lines at their corners deep.
“You as well,” she’d said.
His smile had died back. “Oh, you needn’t worry. I’ve never yet resisted even the smallest of temptations.” Then he’d stepped back and walked onto the ship, disappearing into a crowd of sailors and other passengers on board.
She and Benjamin had stood and watched while ropes were untied and shouts rang out and a great deal of nautical business was conducted, all of which eventually resulted in the ship swinging out into the current of the river. Benjamin had sighed, still staring after it, though to Rose’s eyes the crowd on board had become an unidentifiable mass of colors and shapes. “He can always come back,” he’d said, offering the words less to her than to himself, but Rose had agreed nonetheless.
“Diamonds,” Hannibal said now, turning over the trump card, and laid down a seven of clubs from his hand.
Rose was drawn abruptly from her thoughts, and had to look hard at her cards before laying one down that lost the trick anyway. “I’m sorry you weren’t there for our wedding,” she said. “I would have liked you to have been.”
Hannibal glanced up at her, pausing for a moment before laying a three against her Jack. “I wish I had been,” he said simply. Then he grinned. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been in such a hurry....”
She primly lifted her chin. “Are you actually advising me against rash behavior?”
“I suppose I must not be, since that would clearly be ridiculous.” Rose was pleased to see his eyes sparkling with amusement. He had been subdued these last few weeks, worn and afraid, though her and Benjamin’s presence had seemed to lighten his burden somewhat. He had been entirely delighted when he’d first noticed her wedding ring, his troubles disappearing for one moment in his pure joy. She had known he would be happy for them; Hannibal was much too fond of romances not to be. She had looked forward, on the trip to Mexico, to his reaction. He was perhaps her closest friend, strange as that seemed given the differences between them. She knew he had found her solitary life a thing to be regretted, even when she herself had not wanted anything else. So it had felt natural when he had kissed her cheek in congratulations, and it wasn’t until afterwards that she thought perhaps it should have seemed strange.
“Of course, Benjamin’s been waiting for you to marry him for years. I’m not surprised he didn’t want to give you time to change your mind.”
“As if I would have.” She drew another card and slotted it into her hand. “Besides, what was there to wait for?”
“Nothing, if Virgil’s to be believed. Collige virgo rosas.”
She laughed at him. “If I’m the Virgo in this allusion, does that make Ben the rose?”
Hannibal lifted his eyebrows in a parody of surprise. “What, don’t you think he’s pretty enough for it?”
“I fear it might offend his dignity.”
“That’s true. Don’t tell him I said so, then, and I will refrain from repeating the observation.”
Rose placed a hand over her heart in a schoolgirl ritual. “Your secret is safe with me.” He bowed his head in gratitude. She had always liked the way he spoke to her, frank and easy, without the flirtations and flowery poetry he used with other women. She knew neither type of conversation was entirely proper for her to listen to. But Hannibal had never tried to seduce her, despite his reputation, and Rose had been otherwise so careful when they’d first met, aware of her tenuous position as an unmarried woman. Hannibal’s friendship was the one indulgence she allowed herself, so grateful to finally be able to discuss a new novel or her thoughts on Greek translations with someone who didn’t look at her askance for being a woman who thought at all. Or, worse, treated listening to her as an indulgence she would be obliged to repay with love. She hadn’t had many friends then; she’d had her students, and there’d been neighbors and market women she knew, but in Hannibal she had found a person who shared her interests, one with whom she could speak freely.
Or sit quietly, as they did now. They continued to play out tricks, turning over and picking up the cards in companionable silence. Hannibal occasionally turned his head to watch another passenger walk by or to look out over the water, but Rose only watched him, limiting herself to surreptitious glances. He’d shaved his mustache, and she wondered, if he was to kiss her cheek again, if she would be able to feel the difference.
She’d had a chance to return his kiss, but hadn’t taken it. When the mystery of Fernando’s death had been resolved, and there was nothing left to do but clean up the mess, she and Hannibal had shared a horse for the long ride back to Mexico City from Mictlán; he’d been quiet on the way, in a great deal of pain and barely awake. Benjamin had gone to the hacienda with Don Prospero and Anastasio’s body. She had felt Hannibal swaying behind her, lacking the energy to counterbalance the horse’s movements. Worried that he would fall, she’d taken his arm and pulled it around her waist, placing it where she could hold on to him.
She’d been surprised to feel him stiffen and pull back; she hadn’t realized he was still conscious. “I’m fine. I can hold to the saddle horn.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she’d said, tightening her grasp. His hand beneath hers was cold and clammy, though the night was mild and he had Anastasio’s coat wrapped around him. “It’s easier this way.”
She thought he would have liked to protest again, but he only sighed shakily. He gradually relaxed, his weight slowly falling against her back. His head nodded once or twice against her shoulder before coming to rest. He didn’t seem to be entirely asleep; now and then he would straighten as though to give her space, or his fingers twitched where they lay against her hip. He had been so close to her that she could feel the warmth of his breath, could smell the brandy on it; he had been so close that it would taken only the smallest turn of her head to bring her mouth to his. It would have been easy, and she’d found herself curious about how his kiss would differ from Benjamin’s, about how he would react– Hannibal, her dear friend who so loved to talk of romance without ever seeming to think of her in that light. But she hadn’t done it, not then, with his body leaning soft and heavy against hers only because he needed help. She hadn’t wanted to take advantage of his trust for a kiss it seemed likely he wouldn’t even feel, almost certainly wouldn’t remember.
Now she looked from her cards to his face, wondering how much of that night he had retained. If he’d suspected her impulse, he gave no sign of it. When they ran out of cards and paused to add their scores and reshuffle the desk, Hannibal began a story of a party Consuela had held one night, back before they’d first visited the hacienda, and how he had won a fortune from a nobleman at cards and then lost it again by betting the same man that he, Hannibal, could finish off an entire bottle of wine without pausing for breath. “And I would have won too, you know, if I hadn’t started to cough.” He shrugged and finished dealing the cards, setting the rest of the deck carefully atop the book they were using as a table. “Not that I would have had time to spend it, unless I could have bribed Santa Anna into helping me. He did seem rather buyable.”
“But then you wouldn’t have had to write to us,” Rose protested.
Hannibal looked startled. “That would have been for the best, surely.”
“Not at all. If you weren’t here, I’d have to play Patience instead, and I’m terrible at that game. I can never win, not even when I let myself cheat.” She patted his arm in a more heartfelt reassurance, and then let her hand stay there, finding herself comforted by the touch and not quite wanting to draw back. Hannibal didn’t say anything or pull away, but as the moment drew out, he gave her the second curious look of the morning, as though he couldn’t understand her actions. Rose avoided his eyes, sitting back and picking up her new hand of cards; she wasn’t entirely certain of her intentions herself.
Hannibal had been glad for the distraction of Rose and cards; he hadn’t been inclined to sit with his own thoughts this morning. Not that he often was. But with Rose at hand it was easy to let himself chatter, devoting himself wholeheartedly to light, meaningless words that he forgot as soon as they left his mouth. Once or twice Rose stared hard at him, as if she might sweep away his persiflage and force him to speak truth, but each time she let him go instead. He could see the questions in her eyes, but as long as she didn’t speak them, he would pretend to be blind. His balance slipped slightly when she reached out to him, laying her hand on his arm in a manner more free than in his memories; had she used to touch him, and he had somehow forgotten? Perhaps his efforts at drinking himself into oblivion had been more successful than he’d realized. Or perhaps, more likely, her trust in Benjamin had relaxed her constraint. She had leaned close to him for it, and he could see the color of her eyes behind the glass of her spectacles, pale in the strong sunlight, more grey than green. Her hand was slender, curving gracefully into her wrist, and her fingers were long and square-tipped. Hannibal held a smile on his face that felt like a wooden mask, and after a beat she sat back, apparently at ease.
Eventually Benjamin arrived, which divided Rose’s attention. She borrowed his watch to check the time and suggested that they move out of the sun, which the day had carried across the deck of the ship. As she gathered their things with her typical brisk efficiency, Benjamin pulled Hannibal to his feet, handed him the crutch, and helped to steady him– unnecessary, but Hannibal saw no reason to tell him so. Ben’s broad hand firm on his back; Ben’s laughter, low and close, as he ducked his head to make a joke about clumsiness into Hannibal’s ear; and Rose glancing at them over her shoulder, her wind-blown hair forming a halo around her face. Nothing more than that, and yet it was enough to make his heart lift.
It was so easy to be glad when he was with Benjamin and Rose. Of course, that was his problem: he had made a habit of doing whatever came easiest. Leaving New Orleans for Mexico had been the one difficult task he’d recently set himself, and that had failed utterly. He had wanted to stay in New Orleans. He just hadn’t trusted himself to do so. He’d been there for four years already, letting time flow past as time tended to do, paying it no heed. He liked New Orleans. It was a city that loved wine, women, and song; a city too busy and crowded for any individual to matter much. It was the sort of place he would have dreamed of as a child, dangerous and cosmopolitan and excitingly exotic, and which he liked now simply because it gave him space, enough money to live, and a few people to talk to.
But it had become obvious that Benjamin and Rose would marry, and so they should. Even if she’d been willing and Hannibal had had money and a home and the least vestige of a good reputation to offer, he wouldn't have been able to give them to her; the law stated that whites could not marry coloreds, as though they could make one group superior simply by declaring it so. What choice did he have but to leave? They had been generous friends, infinitely tolerant of his faults; they never would have told him to go. But Hannibal knew himself, and he was not so reliable as them. It was only a matter of time and drink until he would have ended up on Benjamin’s doorstep, wanting what he shouldn’t want and remembering what it would be better for all to have forgotten.
Even now, after months of separation and despite his awareness that it was wrong to think of Benjamin this way when he was now Rose’s, still he sometimes dreamed of him, of his smooth warm skin and how the muscles moved beneath it, the strength and gentleness of his hands, his deep voice. Hannibal had never expected Benjamin to stay with him forever. Each time Ben had taken him into his bed, he’d been pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t the last time. Until it was, of course, and Hannibal had found himself not so dispassionate as he’d thought. At least with Rose he had known from the very first that his love was to be unrequited, having seen how she held herself apart from others, how she steeled herself against flirtation. But he had also seen her strength, the flashes of courage and compassion, that she showed when the occasion called for it. The first time she had offered him a place to sleep, it had cost her, though he hadn’t realized it until later. She must have feared the outcome of having a man– nearly a stranger, and one entirely drunk to boot– spend the night beneath her roof. But she had taken him in nonetheless, an act of deep bravery or trust. She and Benjamin deserved one another. They were people of potential, people destined for love and family and a place in the world. Their married life would have no room in it for someone like Hannibal.
They found new seats beneath a cloth the sailors had hung to provide shade. After they’d arranged themselves, Benjamin produced refreshments, acquired from a waiter he’d fallen into conversation with. There were grapes, a soft cheese, and a sweet bread with cinnamon swirled though it; slightly stale now, since it had been baked back on shore, but still appealing.
“I gave Consuela our address, so she could write to you,” Rose said, pulling a grape from its stem. “That seemed simplest.”
“Simplest to lie?” Hannibal said. “I’m surprised at you, Athene. Or did you just want to keep my love-letters for yourself?”
Rose flicked the broken stem at him, and he put a hand to deflect it not quite quickly enough. Benjamin watched them, smiling, and said, “Why don’t you stay with us? It wouldn’t have a been a lie, then.” Hannibal didn’t answer at once; he noticed Rose watching him covertly. “It’s a large house. There’s plenty of room,” Benjamin added, once the silence had become awkward.
“Then I couldn’t possibly afford the rent.”
Benjamin frowned. “Hannibal–”
“I don’t need to beg a home from you. I’ll be fine. I assume they haven’t entirely cleared up the Swamp since I was last there.” He considered his next words, not particularly wanting to speak them, but knowing that he’d put it off for long enough. “Besides, I don’t mean to stay in New Orleans for long.”
Benjamin looked down at his hands, covering some emotion– surprise? hurt? He set aside the piece of sweet bread he’d been holding, and folded his hands on his lap. Rose only calmly asked, “Where will you go?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Somewhere to the north, I suppose, since I seem to have worn out my welcome to the south. Philadelphia’s large enough to need musicians, or New York. Not Boston. I was there once and found it not to my taste, though that might have been because it was February and unspeakably cold. It’s such Protestant city: no appreciation for the merrier things in life.” The thought of any of these places left him tired. He wanted to be back in Mexico City, to have again Consuela’s affection and a comfortable job at the Opera and no other responsibilities. He wanted– wanted so badly that he could barely consider it, lest he should fall into temptation– to take Benjamin’s offer, to live with him and Rose and be part of their family. But what a disaster that would be. He would end by being a burden on them, as he had been a burden for so much of his life.
He reached into the pocket where his bottle of laudanum waited, but changed his mind and brought his hand back out still empty. On a boat with a broken leg was a truly terrible time to attempt giving up a drug, but he could at least try to drink a bit less. He saw Benjamin notice the movement but he didn’t remark on it. He raised his gaze to Hannibal’s face, eyes rich dark brown and melancholy as a funeral. “When will you leave?” he said.
Hannibal couldn’t hold his gaze. How happy they all could be, if he were a better man. “Soonest is best, I think. I’ve no reason to delay, though perhaps I should settle on a destination first. I would benefit from a change of scene. Libertà va cercando, ch'è sì cara / come sa chi per lei vita rifiuta.” Again he wished for a drink, but this time he didn’t even move his hand. It was almost like an improvement.
Rose rested her head on January’s shoulder, and he stroked her hair, letting his fingers slip slowly through her curls. He was soothed by the touch, and continued on, his hand moving over the outer curve of her ear, the line of her chin, the side of her neck. The back of her neck was still sweaty, where her hair had trapped the heat, though the rest of her had cooled. He circled her shoulder, traced down the trail of her spine, and finally settled low on her back. They lay close, quiet, for some time. January was beginning to drift off when Rose spoke, her voice not drowsy or warm with intimacy, but with the scholarly air she had when confronted with a mathematical problem. “I’m worried about Hannibal.”
“He doesn’t seem happy,” January said. “I think his leg hurts him more than he says. And he must be missing Consuela.”
“Yes, that’s true, but it’s more than that. Why doesn’t he want to stay in New Orleans?”
January had his suspicions, but didn’t know how he could voice them to Rose. That morning Hannibal been pale in the bright light off the ocean, though he had talked lightly in his normal manner: Latin and Shakespeare, long stories that involved someone’s aunt’s maid’s lover, cheerfully cynical observations of Don Prospero and his family. But January had known him for years, and recognized the signs of unhappiness. Hannibal had spoken quickly to avoid certain topics and had been too quiet otherwise; his expression had too often been blank and withdrawn. He had held himself carefully, not relaxing as he would once have in January’s presence, and how could January blame him? January had imagined an ideal future for the three of them, closer even than they had been before, but if Hannibal would rather flee New Orleans entirely, January couldn’t stop him. He knew exactly how he had hurt Hannibal, and as much as he missed his friend, as much as he would have given to close the distance that had grown between them, he saw no way of doing so.
“I’ve never understood why he does most of the things he does.”
Rose tilted her head back to glance up at him, and January felt guilty, knowing his answer had been more obfuscation than truth, and knowing she could tell. “If he wanted to go somewhere else, I suppose I couldn’t argue against it, though it would be hard, him leaving again so soon. But that’s not the case. He just doesn’t want to stay.” She paused, thoughts clearly turning over in her mind. “It’s because of us.”
“I think so,” January agreed cautiously. “Things have changed, after all. He might feel as though we don’t want him around anymore.”
Rose leaned back further, the better to converse, and propped herself up on one elbow. “That’s ridiculous.”
January shrugged. “Of course it is. But the more we protest, the more convinced he’ll become that we’re only sparing his feelings. Words alone are worth little, when that’s all you have to give.”
“Well, why should he think he’s an imposition now, and not before? What’s changed?”
Everything, January thought, and said, “Our marriage.”
“Ah,” Rose said. She considered that, brushing her hair back behind her ears. In the dark of their cabin, January could see only a few glimmers of light along her cheeks and nose, the details of her expression hidden in the shadows. Finally, Rose spoke again, her voice somewhat hesitant. “I know you’ve slept with him before.”
January was shocked, and though it seemed there were a thousand things to consider in the light of that revelation, somehow the first thing he said was, “How?”
Rose laughed, though she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, as though to spare his feelings. “Hannibal told me.”
That was even more surprising than the previous sentence, and this time January could only stare at her.
She dropped her hand, her face again composed. “Don’t hold it against him. It was before I’d met you, and he was very circumspect; your name was never even alluded to. If I hadn’t come to know you fairly well, I don’t think I would have recognized his description. It ran rather more toward poetic quotations than identifiable details.” She pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “Besides, he was very complimentary.”
January groaned and covered his eyes. “I am going to kill him.”
“I may have figured it out without his assistance, you know. He doesn’t try to hide how highly he thinks of you. But there was more to it than that.” She thought for a moment, her eyes distant. “I don’t mean to say it was obvious. Maybe it was only that I knew what I was looking for. When the two of you are together, you have always been so... aware of him. You turn to him whenever you have something to say, and you notice when he enters or leaves a room, and you’re the first to lend him a hand when he’s not well. It’s as though part of your mind is always with him.” Her eyes focused, looking at him, and January wondered what else she saw. “You do it to me, too.”
He reached up and touched her cheek, lifted his head to kiss her. She responded readily, angling her head slightly to better meet him; he felt her fingers brush over his shoulder and neck and up into his hair. She was soft and sweet-smelling in the darkness, and he felt like he could kiss her forever. But too soon she drew away and asked, amused, “Is this your way of avoiding the conversation?”
“Is it working?”
“I am still capable of thinking, even while you’re kissing me.” Her smile faded, and she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “But you’re not... you’re not still sleeping with Hannibal now, are you?”
“No,” January said, startled. “Rose, of course not. I would never betray you like that. I– that is, we– haven’t for some time now.”
She nodded calmly, but he felt some of the tension leave her. Still, her next question took a while to come. “Do you still desire him?”
His first impulse was to deny it, but he suspected that to do so would be pointless and Rose would only be hurt by the lie. He forced himself not to answer until he had thought about it honestly. January had slept with men before Hannibal– furtive schoolboy fumblings, a few late nights with other young surgeons at the Hôtel Dieu– but it was mostly a means to an end, and a rushed, somewhat unsatisfying end at that. He hadn’t missed those encounters when they’d ended. But sex with Hannibal had not been like that at all. Hannibal had seemed to enjoy what they did for its own sake, not just as a way to quench lust without a woman; he hadn’t been embarrassed by his body or January’s. January had responded to how Hannibal would linger over the act, as eager to give pleasure as to receive it, to his lack of shame. It made January want to return the favor, and so he’d begun to seek out the places that made Hannibal’s breath quicken, to find what he liked the most. The first time he’d managed to break Hannibal’s usual matter-of-fact composure, he’d felt pride and a growing desire to do it again, to make Hannibal come so hard he had to muffle his cries into January’s shoulder, his grip bruise-tight on January’s arm, his smile afterwards dazed.
January turned and buried his face against Rose, childishly hiding himself. He felt her now, the sweet curve of her waist into her hip, her breasts pressed against his chest, the soft skin of her arm as she put it around him. She brushed her lips over his ear, the only part of his face she could reach, and he was grateful for that comfort. This, too, he wanted, almost more than he could stand. “I vowed to be faithful to you,” he said.
“Yes, I remember.” The dryness of her voice made him laugh, and things felt slightly less terrible. “Is that the reason why you ended your relationship?”
“What else could I do?”
“That seems to me to be the important question.” Rose stroked his back, an idle movement while she reflected. “My father, of course, made no such vows of fidelity to my mother. I don’t know if he loved her. As much as he loved his wife, I suppose.”
January sat up. “Are you suggesting I set up Hannibal as my plaçée?” The absurdity of this conversation struck him, and he began to laugh. “We’ll buy him to cottage next to Minou; she’d be delighted. She could teach him how to bake a blancmange.”
Rose laughed too, but she quieted more quickly. “No, that doesn’t seem like the solution to our problem.”
“There isn’t one. Rose, I won’t give you less of me, force you to wait and wonder.... I won’t treat you so poorly.”
She took a moment to reply, then looked directly at him, her expression nearly a challenge. “I want Hannibal.”
The idea had never occurred to January; of course he knew they were close, knew they loved one another– but as friends, some part of his mind added. “Do you mean– I– you want Hannibal as a lover?” Rose nodded. January couldn’t think of anything to say except, “Are you sure?”
“Well, I suppose I’m not. It’s not as though I have much experience at this.” She smiled briefly and raised one shoulder in a curiously uncertain gesture. “But I trust him. And I think I want him. It seems to me that I might like him very much.” She took his hand, carefully folding her fingers around his. “Are you angry?”
January was too surprised to feel much else. He had spent so long waiting and hoping for Rose to find her passion again that it still seemed nearly impossible she should feel it for him, much less someone else. But there was a certain logic to her attraction to Hannibal; January couldn’t deny that he was trustworthy and considerate and had been her companion for years. He tried picturing them kissing, Hannibal’s hands in Rose’s long hair, stroking her cheek. The image caused him no pain. He couldn’t prevent the thought that followed quickly on its heels: Hannibal and Rose both kissing him, all three of them together. How would it be to have two loves, and that much more happiness?
Oh, Mary Ever Virgin, he thought, closing his eyes in prayer. Pray for us sinners. But is it so wrong? All I want is to bring another into my family.
To Rose, he said, “I’m not angry. I suppose if I will be having an affair, it’s only right that you should too.”
Delight shone on her face, and she kissed him hard. “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
January shrugged helplessly. “Who does understand love? But its presence must be better than its absence.”
“How do we tell Hannibal?” Rose retreated slightly, her voice worried. “That is, do you think he would be willing? I’ve just been assuming– what if he’s not?”
January thought of how stiffly Hannibal had held himself that morning, as if he clung to his self-control with an iron grasp for fear of what he might do without it. He had clung to Rose in very much the same way, when she had offered him her hands to hold while January had had to pull straight the break in his leg so that it could be bound properly to a splint. Hannibal hadn’t screamed or wept, though January wouldn’t have blamed him, but he had held on to Rose like a drowning man offered a branch. Even when the worst of the pain was over, he had kept her hands, seemingly finding comfort in her touch, until she’d pulled away to assist January with the splint.
But there had been better times too: Hannibal in his bed, laughing until January rolled over on top of him and kissed him. He had reached up to hold January in place, spreading his legs to let him settle between them. He had tasted of champagne and coffee, January remembered. He remembered too, later that same night, the small sounds Hannibal had made when January pressed into him, the arch of his back with the knobs of his spine standing out, the muscles of his thigh straining under January’s hand.
“I think Hannibal is very far from unwilling,” said January.
Part Two
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: NC-17. One explicit m/m/f sex scene, slight mentions of drug/alcohol abuse and past violence.
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly, and you should all read them.
Notes: The incredibly gorgeous art is by
evian_fork, and you can see more of it here. Go and give her feedback!I am SO GRATEFUL to
egelantier and somebraveapollo, lovely and magnificent betas. Written for
polybigbangSummary: Ben and Rose have rescued Hannibal from unjust accusations and an untimely death, but they're not sure what to do next. The trip back from Mexico is a chance to figure out where everyone belongs. (Set in the aftermath of Days of the Dead.)
14,003 words. Also available on AO3
January knocked a second time on the door and waited; he’d almost given up and stepped away when he heard Hannibal’s faint “Ine.”
Inside the inn room, which was small and looked too much like every other inn room between Mexico City and Vera Cruz, Hannibal was slumped in a chair, head lolled against its back; if January hadn’t just heard him speak, he would have assumed he was asleep. He was still wearing the dress that would be a necessary disguise until they’d escaped the country, though he’d discarded the veils and gloves that made it believable. Without them, he was too obviously a man, particularly now in the evening, when his chin was lightly shaded with stubble. He was by no means ugly, but neither was his face one that could be taken for a woman’s, even with yards of black silk to support the illusion.
The dress hadn’t made him feminine, but it did make him look like a stranger; January was familiar with how color and line could change a person’s form, but was still startled by the extent of the transformation. The full skirt with its padding of petticoats hid his legs, the tight sleeves exaggerated the boniness of his arms, and against the glossy black silk his skin was colorless as wax. He looked brittle, breakable, and January didn’t like it. Though maybe it was only his face after all, tilted up slightly as though in expectation of a kiss, eyes closed, hair straggling loose across one cheek. It had seemed easier to smuggle him away from the accusation of murder than stay and try to prove his innocence in court, but January suspected that it was hard on Hannibal. Not only was he leaving people he’d lived among for months, but almost everyone he’d met remained convinced by the false charges. That so many had believed him a murderer weighed on him.
"Where’s Consuela?" January asked, looking away and around the bare room, which held nothing more than the chair, a bed, and a small table with a water pitcher.
It again took Hannibal some time to answer, and when he did it was nothing January didn’t already know. “She’s leaving.”
January suppressed a sigh. Hannibal had obviously drugged himself nearly unconscious on opium; it was in his softly slurred words, the emergence of his Irish accent, the languid lines of his body. He didn’t need to see Hannibal’s eyes to know the pupils would be mere pinpricks. January supposed he couldn’t blame his friend; he’d found riding in a carriage over these roads painful enough, and he hadn’t been traveling with a broken bone. “How’s your leg?”
Hannibal smiled slightly, not opening his eyes. “Can honor set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound?”
A less than helpful answer. January knelt beside his chair and lifted his skirts to check the splint. There was no impropriety in a doctor examining a patient, of course, but January hadn’t often had a patient who was also a former lover. He was very aware of a time when he might have pressed his mouth to the same spot on Hannibal’s bare leg where his hand now rested, of exactly how soft the skin would be, of how Hannibal’s voice could turn husky with pleasure. He shoved away the thought. That was over, and had been for quite a while. Ever since Rose had begun to accept his overtures of romance, he had been faithful to her; he’d formalized that rule with his vows at the altar. And Hannibal had understood his commitment, had never reproached him for ending what had been between them. Hannibal was still his friend, and that was the more important part. If January had further desires, it was only to be expected, but he loved Rose too truly, too deeply, to betray her.
Hannibal, apparently free from similar thoughts, continued to soliloquize over his head– Honor hath no skill in surgery, then?– and January let the flow of well-known words, made musical by Hannibal’s accent, steady his mind. He focused on the medical problem in front of him. The bruises covering Hannibal’s leg made it easier, though they had faded somewhat, mottled green and yellow rather than the deep purple of a week ago. The bandages seemed tight enough, and nothing was obviously pulled out of alignment by the jostling of travel. Nonetheless, he ran his hands over the break to check that the bone was still properly set, and Hannibal cut off mid-line. January glanced up at him, and saw the evidence of pain in the tightness of his mouth, though he held himself still for January to finish his examination.
January dropped Hannibal’s skirts back into place, self-consciously acting out a pretense of modesty, though for whose benefit he wasn’t sure. He stood and, not knowing what else to say, continued Falstaff’s speech: “Doth he feel it?”
“‘Tis insensible. Yea, to the dead,” Hannibal answered, though he spoke the words with a subtle mockery.
January looked down at him. Hannibal’s collarbones and wrist bones, revealed by the cut of his dress, were too prominent, jutting out from beneath stretched-thin skin; the lines in his face were etched deeply enough from pain and weariness that even the laudanum hadn’t softened them. He hadn’t come down to dinner, which January had hoped was only to keep the inn’s servants and their own police escort from noticing him. But from the look of him, January wasn’t sure he’d eaten all day. Hannibal had come so close to dying. Sometimes January just wanted to touch him, to make sure that he was real and not some dream of hope or denial.
Once he had spent so much time with Hannibal that he had ceased to be quite conscious of him, simply taking for granted the sound of his schooled French and laughter and extraordinary music; the sight of his sly grin or the elegant angle of his long fingers; and most of all how he had felt, the casual brush of his shoulder against January’s when he would sit beside him, the shape of his arm when January grasped it to steady him, the heat and fineness of his skin against January’s palms. And then he had left, and the absence of all those things was like a hole in January’s life. Sometimes January had forgotten he was gone, and had caught himself looking for Hannibal on a crowded street, or thinking he should invite him to dinner; once he had woken in the middle of the night, certain that he had heard Hannibal calling him– as he had occasionally– drunk and come to beg a place to sleep or a loan or simply company. But of course there had been no one there. January had always grumbled and complained, even as he let Hannibal in, but this night, with no one there to disturb his rest, he had missed him so fiercely that it had been a physical pain, as though he had taken a blow to the chest.
It had been almost a relief to rush to Mexico, though his reason for doing so was less than desirable. But at least he had finally been doing something, had some possibility of reclaiming Hannibal and filling that empty space. January supposed some part of him would always fear loss, forever aware of how easily, how permanently people could be taken away. But this time, for once, he had won; Hannibal hadn’t died, and soon they would all be back home in New Orleans.
“Go to bed, Hannibal,” January said finally.
“Can’t. I tried lying down, and it felt like the corset was stabbing me.” He pressed a hand to his waist. “And I can’t manage to unlace myself. I don’t know how women do this every day.”
“Come on, then.” January gave him a hand to his feet, catching his elbow when Hannibal swayed. The point of the bone was sharp in his hand. He sat Hannibal on the bed, facing away, and unbuttoned the dress. Hannibal was silent as he did, head hanging forward and hair falling to either side of the nape of his neck.
January untied the bow at the top of the corset and began to draw the laces out; he’d grown used to doing this for Rose recently. She had a trick of tying the laces so that she was perfectly capable of removing a corset on her own, but January liked to help her, found it both domestic and sensual. He liked the silkiness of the ribbon, warm with a day’s worth of body heat, contrasted to the stiff frame of the corset; he liked the slow reveal of skin and the ridges of the spine.
The corset Hannibal was wearing was Rose’s, in fact. She and Hannibal were nearly the same height, and shared the same slim build, though Hannibal was thinner enough that whoever had laced him up that morning hadn’t pulled the corset as tight as they might have. It lay close against his skin, but no more than that, forming no falsely slender waist; his dress wasn’t fashionable enough to require it. Even so, he sighed as the corset loosened, and when January pulled it off, there were red lines in his flesh where it had pressed. January smoothed his thumb over one without thinking. Hannibal, always so sensitive to touch, shivered. January’s hand stilled, and he sat motionless. He could feel the ribs just beneath the skin, and somewhere deeper, Hannibal’s heartbeat.
Hannibal pulled away and turned to look at him, eyes very black and clearer than January had expected. “Rose is waiting for you,” he said.
“I know.” January took a breath to say something more, but let it out wordlessly instead. He clasped Hannibal on the shoulder. “Sleep well.”
Hannibal smiled and nodded, but when January closed the door behind him, he was still sitting upright on the bed, his skirts a spill of black against the brightly colored blanket.
The thing about being on a ship, Rose had discovered, was that there simply wasn’t much to do. She hadn’t been able to pack nearly as many books as she would have liked, a necessary sacrifice in the name of having luggage that was not too heavy to carry. Between the outward trip, what free time she’d had in Mexico City– which, admittedly, wasn’t much– and the portion of the return journey already past, she thought she might have read every page with her four times over. There was a limit to the enjoyment one could take from Lyell’s Principles of Geology, no matter how glad she’d been to finally acquire her own copy.
Hannibal had made the same discovery, or at least he speedily closed the volume of Italian poetry he’d been reading when she approached him with a deck of cards and an offer to play.
“Not picquet,” he said in a tone of exaggerated horror, though he grinned up at her where she stood beside his chair. “I think I’d rather break my other leg than play even one more game of picquet.”
“How do you feel about whist?”
“Much warmer, thank you. Will Benjamin play too, then?”
“No, he discovered over breakfast that another one of the passengers is also a doctor. I think he’s lost to us for at least the next few hours.” She handed the cards to Hannibal and stepped away to pull an empty chair closer; Hannibal made a move as though to help, but she waved him back down. “If he hasn’t reappeared by this afternoon, I suppose I’ll go and remind him of the duties of friendship. Until then we can play German style.”
They played for pennies. Rose supposed that both she and Hannibal could now afford to gamble much larger sums, but it was old habit. So was letting Hannibal deal; he could shuffle so much more neatly and quickly than she could, his clever fingers riffling then sorting the cards without his sparing a single glance downward to direct them.
The sun came bright over the water, sparkling off the thousand waves that seemed tiny from her own position high on the deck, and she had to shade her eyes in order to even look out across them. Despite the intensity of the light, a cool wind kept away the heat, turning the tops of the waves to white and tugging at her hair; when she turned back to accept her cards from Hannibal, she noticed his cheeks and nose had been touched with pink. For a moment, she studied the color the wind had brought out, how it gave his face a new vividness, until he tilted his head in silent inquiry and she smiled, looking down at her cards to arrange them by suit.
She had been surprised when Hannibal had announced he was going to Mexico with Consuela. She’d known she would miss him, but felt she had no right to insist he stay; hadn’t she herself left family and friends for the sake of a school in New York, and then New Orleans? Hannibal had given her his books and a few other odds and ends he didn’t care to pack, made a firm promise to write, and treated the whole matter as an impulse, as though his departure was a little thing. She had matched his light tone until the last moment, when she and Benjamin had gone down to the docks to wish him and Consuela farewell.
Most of the passengers had already boarded, and he’d already made his goodbyes to Ben, when he turned to her for the last time. “Fare thee well; The elements be kind to thee, and make / They spirits all of comfort!” He had taken her hand, but only the fingertips, a soft touch that she could barely feel through her gloves, and added, “Be happy, Rose.”
Acting on a suddenly felt emotion, she embraced him; he felt smaller, somehow, than she had expected, but more solid. His cheek was rough against hers, and his startled laugh was close by her ear. He caught at her shoulders briefly before she pulled back, his grip loose and quickly gone again. His smile stayed, though, his eyes bright, the lines at their corners deep.
“You as well,” she’d said.
His smile had died back. “Oh, you needn’t worry. I’ve never yet resisted even the smallest of temptations.” Then he’d stepped back and walked onto the ship, disappearing into a crowd of sailors and other passengers on board.
She and Benjamin had stood and watched while ropes were untied and shouts rang out and a great deal of nautical business was conducted, all of which eventually resulted in the ship swinging out into the current of the river. Benjamin had sighed, still staring after it, though to Rose’s eyes the crowd on board had become an unidentifiable mass of colors and shapes. “He can always come back,” he’d said, offering the words less to her than to himself, but Rose had agreed nonetheless.
“Diamonds,” Hannibal said now, turning over the trump card, and laid down a seven of clubs from his hand.
Rose was drawn abruptly from her thoughts, and had to look hard at her cards before laying one down that lost the trick anyway. “I’m sorry you weren’t there for our wedding,” she said. “I would have liked you to have been.”
Hannibal glanced up at her, pausing for a moment before laying a three against her Jack. “I wish I had been,” he said simply. Then he grinned. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been in such a hurry....”
She primly lifted her chin. “Are you actually advising me against rash behavior?”
“I suppose I must not be, since that would clearly be ridiculous.” Rose was pleased to see his eyes sparkling with amusement. He had been subdued these last few weeks, worn and afraid, though her and Benjamin’s presence had seemed to lighten his burden somewhat. He had been entirely delighted when he’d first noticed her wedding ring, his troubles disappearing for one moment in his pure joy. She had known he would be happy for them; Hannibal was much too fond of romances not to be. She had looked forward, on the trip to Mexico, to his reaction. He was perhaps her closest friend, strange as that seemed given the differences between them. She knew he had found her solitary life a thing to be regretted, even when she herself had not wanted anything else. So it had felt natural when he had kissed her cheek in congratulations, and it wasn’t until afterwards that she thought perhaps it should have seemed strange.
“Of course, Benjamin’s been waiting for you to marry him for years. I’m not surprised he didn’t want to give you time to change your mind.”
“As if I would have.” She drew another card and slotted it into her hand. “Besides, what was there to wait for?”
“Nothing, if Virgil’s to be believed. Collige virgo rosas.”
She laughed at him. “If I’m the Virgo in this allusion, does that make Ben the rose?”
Hannibal lifted his eyebrows in a parody of surprise. “What, don’t you think he’s pretty enough for it?”
“I fear it might offend his dignity.”
“That’s true. Don’t tell him I said so, then, and I will refrain from repeating the observation.”
Rose placed a hand over her heart in a schoolgirl ritual. “Your secret is safe with me.” He bowed his head in gratitude. She had always liked the way he spoke to her, frank and easy, without the flirtations and flowery poetry he used with other women. She knew neither type of conversation was entirely proper for her to listen to. But Hannibal had never tried to seduce her, despite his reputation, and Rose had been otherwise so careful when they’d first met, aware of her tenuous position as an unmarried woman. Hannibal’s friendship was the one indulgence she allowed herself, so grateful to finally be able to discuss a new novel or her thoughts on Greek translations with someone who didn’t look at her askance for being a woman who thought at all. Or, worse, treated listening to her as an indulgence she would be obliged to repay with love. She hadn’t had many friends then; she’d had her students, and there’d been neighbors and market women she knew, but in Hannibal she had found a person who shared her interests, one with whom she could speak freely.
Or sit quietly, as they did now. They continued to play out tricks, turning over and picking up the cards in companionable silence. Hannibal occasionally turned his head to watch another passenger walk by or to look out over the water, but Rose only watched him, limiting herself to surreptitious glances. He’d shaved his mustache, and she wondered, if he was to kiss her cheek again, if she would be able to feel the difference.
She’d had a chance to return his kiss, but hadn’t taken it. When the mystery of Fernando’s death had been resolved, and there was nothing left to do but clean up the mess, she and Hannibal had shared a horse for the long ride back to Mexico City from Mictlán; he’d been quiet on the way, in a great deal of pain and barely awake. Benjamin had gone to the hacienda with Don Prospero and Anastasio’s body. She had felt Hannibal swaying behind her, lacking the energy to counterbalance the horse’s movements. Worried that he would fall, she’d taken his arm and pulled it around her waist, placing it where she could hold on to him.
She’d been surprised to feel him stiffen and pull back; she hadn’t realized he was still conscious. “I’m fine. I can hold to the saddle horn.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she’d said, tightening her grasp. His hand beneath hers was cold and clammy, though the night was mild and he had Anastasio’s coat wrapped around him. “It’s easier this way.”
She thought he would have liked to protest again, but he only sighed shakily. He gradually relaxed, his weight slowly falling against her back. His head nodded once or twice against her shoulder before coming to rest. He didn’t seem to be entirely asleep; now and then he would straighten as though to give her space, or his fingers twitched where they lay against her hip. He had been so close to her that she could feel the warmth of his breath, could smell the brandy on it; he had been so close that it would taken only the smallest turn of her head to bring her mouth to his. It would have been easy, and she’d found herself curious about how his kiss would differ from Benjamin’s, about how he would react– Hannibal, her dear friend who so loved to talk of romance without ever seeming to think of her in that light. But she hadn’t done it, not then, with his body leaning soft and heavy against hers only because he needed help. She hadn’t wanted to take advantage of his trust for a kiss it seemed likely he wouldn’t even feel, almost certainly wouldn’t remember.
Now she looked from her cards to his face, wondering how much of that night he had retained. If he’d suspected her impulse, he gave no sign of it. When they ran out of cards and paused to add their scores and reshuffle the desk, Hannibal began a story of a party Consuela had held one night, back before they’d first visited the hacienda, and how he had won a fortune from a nobleman at cards and then lost it again by betting the same man that he, Hannibal, could finish off an entire bottle of wine without pausing for breath. “And I would have won too, you know, if I hadn’t started to cough.” He shrugged and finished dealing the cards, setting the rest of the deck carefully atop the book they were using as a table. “Not that I would have had time to spend it, unless I could have bribed Santa Anna into helping me. He did seem rather buyable.”
“But then you wouldn’t have had to write to us,” Rose protested.
Hannibal looked startled. “That would have been for the best, surely.”
“Not at all. If you weren’t here, I’d have to play Patience instead, and I’m terrible at that game. I can never win, not even when I let myself cheat.” She patted his arm in a more heartfelt reassurance, and then let her hand stay there, finding herself comforted by the touch and not quite wanting to draw back. Hannibal didn’t say anything or pull away, but as the moment drew out, he gave her the second curious look of the morning, as though he couldn’t understand her actions. Rose avoided his eyes, sitting back and picking up her new hand of cards; she wasn’t entirely certain of her intentions herself.
Hannibal had been glad for the distraction of Rose and cards; he hadn’t been inclined to sit with his own thoughts this morning. Not that he often was. But with Rose at hand it was easy to let himself chatter, devoting himself wholeheartedly to light, meaningless words that he forgot as soon as they left his mouth. Once or twice Rose stared hard at him, as if she might sweep away his persiflage and force him to speak truth, but each time she let him go instead. He could see the questions in her eyes, but as long as she didn’t speak them, he would pretend to be blind. His balance slipped slightly when she reached out to him, laying her hand on his arm in a manner more free than in his memories; had she used to touch him, and he had somehow forgotten? Perhaps his efforts at drinking himself into oblivion had been more successful than he’d realized. Or perhaps, more likely, her trust in Benjamin had relaxed her constraint. She had leaned close to him for it, and he could see the color of her eyes behind the glass of her spectacles, pale in the strong sunlight, more grey than green. Her hand was slender, curving gracefully into her wrist, and her fingers were long and square-tipped. Hannibal held a smile on his face that felt like a wooden mask, and after a beat she sat back, apparently at ease.
Eventually Benjamin arrived, which divided Rose’s attention. She borrowed his watch to check the time and suggested that they move out of the sun, which the day had carried across the deck of the ship. As she gathered their things with her typical brisk efficiency, Benjamin pulled Hannibal to his feet, handed him the crutch, and helped to steady him– unnecessary, but Hannibal saw no reason to tell him so. Ben’s broad hand firm on his back; Ben’s laughter, low and close, as he ducked his head to make a joke about clumsiness into Hannibal’s ear; and Rose glancing at them over her shoulder, her wind-blown hair forming a halo around her face. Nothing more than that, and yet it was enough to make his heart lift.
It was so easy to be glad when he was with Benjamin and Rose. Of course, that was his problem: he had made a habit of doing whatever came easiest. Leaving New Orleans for Mexico had been the one difficult task he’d recently set himself, and that had failed utterly. He had wanted to stay in New Orleans. He just hadn’t trusted himself to do so. He’d been there for four years already, letting time flow past as time tended to do, paying it no heed. He liked New Orleans. It was a city that loved wine, women, and song; a city too busy and crowded for any individual to matter much. It was the sort of place he would have dreamed of as a child, dangerous and cosmopolitan and excitingly exotic, and which he liked now simply because it gave him space, enough money to live, and a few people to talk to.
But it had become obvious that Benjamin and Rose would marry, and so they should. Even if she’d been willing and Hannibal had had money and a home and the least vestige of a good reputation to offer, he wouldn't have been able to give them to her; the law stated that whites could not marry coloreds, as though they could make one group superior simply by declaring it so. What choice did he have but to leave? They had been generous friends, infinitely tolerant of his faults; they never would have told him to go. But Hannibal knew himself, and he was not so reliable as them. It was only a matter of time and drink until he would have ended up on Benjamin’s doorstep, wanting what he shouldn’t want and remembering what it would be better for all to have forgotten.
Even now, after months of separation and despite his awareness that it was wrong to think of Benjamin this way when he was now Rose’s, still he sometimes dreamed of him, of his smooth warm skin and how the muscles moved beneath it, the strength and gentleness of his hands, his deep voice. Hannibal had never expected Benjamin to stay with him forever. Each time Ben had taken him into his bed, he’d been pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t the last time. Until it was, of course, and Hannibal had found himself not so dispassionate as he’d thought. At least with Rose he had known from the very first that his love was to be unrequited, having seen how she held herself apart from others, how she steeled herself against flirtation. But he had also seen her strength, the flashes of courage and compassion, that she showed when the occasion called for it. The first time she had offered him a place to sleep, it had cost her, though he hadn’t realized it until later. She must have feared the outcome of having a man– nearly a stranger, and one entirely drunk to boot– spend the night beneath her roof. But she had taken him in nonetheless, an act of deep bravery or trust. She and Benjamin deserved one another. They were people of potential, people destined for love and family and a place in the world. Their married life would have no room in it for someone like Hannibal.
They found new seats beneath a cloth the sailors had hung to provide shade. After they’d arranged themselves, Benjamin produced refreshments, acquired from a waiter he’d fallen into conversation with. There were grapes, a soft cheese, and a sweet bread with cinnamon swirled though it; slightly stale now, since it had been baked back on shore, but still appealing.
“I gave Consuela our address, so she could write to you,” Rose said, pulling a grape from its stem. “That seemed simplest.”
“Simplest to lie?” Hannibal said. “I’m surprised at you, Athene. Or did you just want to keep my love-letters for yourself?”
Rose flicked the broken stem at him, and he put a hand to deflect it not quite quickly enough. Benjamin watched them, smiling, and said, “Why don’t you stay with us? It wouldn’t have a been a lie, then.” Hannibal didn’t answer at once; he noticed Rose watching him covertly. “It’s a large house. There’s plenty of room,” Benjamin added, once the silence had become awkward.
“Then I couldn’t possibly afford the rent.”
Benjamin frowned. “Hannibal–”
“I don’t need to beg a home from you. I’ll be fine. I assume they haven’t entirely cleared up the Swamp since I was last there.” He considered his next words, not particularly wanting to speak them, but knowing that he’d put it off for long enough. “Besides, I don’t mean to stay in New Orleans for long.”
Benjamin looked down at his hands, covering some emotion– surprise? hurt? He set aside the piece of sweet bread he’d been holding, and folded his hands on his lap. Rose only calmly asked, “Where will you go?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Somewhere to the north, I suppose, since I seem to have worn out my welcome to the south. Philadelphia’s large enough to need musicians, or New York. Not Boston. I was there once and found it not to my taste, though that might have been because it was February and unspeakably cold. It’s such Protestant city: no appreciation for the merrier things in life.” The thought of any of these places left him tired. He wanted to be back in Mexico City, to have again Consuela’s affection and a comfortable job at the Opera and no other responsibilities. He wanted– wanted so badly that he could barely consider it, lest he should fall into temptation– to take Benjamin’s offer, to live with him and Rose and be part of their family. But what a disaster that would be. He would end by being a burden on them, as he had been a burden for so much of his life.
He reached into the pocket where his bottle of laudanum waited, but changed his mind and brought his hand back out still empty. On a boat with a broken leg was a truly terrible time to attempt giving up a drug, but he could at least try to drink a bit less. He saw Benjamin notice the movement but he didn’t remark on it. He raised his gaze to Hannibal’s face, eyes rich dark brown and melancholy as a funeral. “When will you leave?” he said.
Hannibal couldn’t hold his gaze. How happy they all could be, if he were a better man. “Soonest is best, I think. I’ve no reason to delay, though perhaps I should settle on a destination first. I would benefit from a change of scene. Libertà va cercando, ch'è sì cara / come sa chi per lei vita rifiuta.” Again he wished for a drink, but this time he didn’t even move his hand. It was almost like an improvement.
Rose rested her head on January’s shoulder, and he stroked her hair, letting his fingers slip slowly through her curls. He was soothed by the touch, and continued on, his hand moving over the outer curve of her ear, the line of her chin, the side of her neck. The back of her neck was still sweaty, where her hair had trapped the heat, though the rest of her had cooled. He circled her shoulder, traced down the trail of her spine, and finally settled low on her back. They lay close, quiet, for some time. January was beginning to drift off when Rose spoke, her voice not drowsy or warm with intimacy, but with the scholarly air she had when confronted with a mathematical problem. “I’m worried about Hannibal.”
“He doesn’t seem happy,” January said. “I think his leg hurts him more than he says. And he must be missing Consuela.”
“Yes, that’s true, but it’s more than that. Why doesn’t he want to stay in New Orleans?”
January had his suspicions, but didn’t know how he could voice them to Rose. That morning Hannibal been pale in the bright light off the ocean, though he had talked lightly in his normal manner: Latin and Shakespeare, long stories that involved someone’s aunt’s maid’s lover, cheerfully cynical observations of Don Prospero and his family. But January had known him for years, and recognized the signs of unhappiness. Hannibal had spoken quickly to avoid certain topics and had been too quiet otherwise; his expression had too often been blank and withdrawn. He had held himself carefully, not relaxing as he would once have in January’s presence, and how could January blame him? January had imagined an ideal future for the three of them, closer even than they had been before, but if Hannibal would rather flee New Orleans entirely, January couldn’t stop him. He knew exactly how he had hurt Hannibal, and as much as he missed his friend, as much as he would have given to close the distance that had grown between them, he saw no way of doing so.
“I’ve never understood why he does most of the things he does.”
Rose tilted her head back to glance up at him, and January felt guilty, knowing his answer had been more obfuscation than truth, and knowing she could tell. “If he wanted to go somewhere else, I suppose I couldn’t argue against it, though it would be hard, him leaving again so soon. But that’s not the case. He just doesn’t want to stay.” She paused, thoughts clearly turning over in her mind. “It’s because of us.”
“I think so,” January agreed cautiously. “Things have changed, after all. He might feel as though we don’t want him around anymore.”
Rose leaned back further, the better to converse, and propped herself up on one elbow. “That’s ridiculous.”
January shrugged. “Of course it is. But the more we protest, the more convinced he’ll become that we’re only sparing his feelings. Words alone are worth little, when that’s all you have to give.”
“Well, why should he think he’s an imposition now, and not before? What’s changed?”
Everything, January thought, and said, “Our marriage.”
“Ah,” Rose said. She considered that, brushing her hair back behind her ears. In the dark of their cabin, January could see only a few glimmers of light along her cheeks and nose, the details of her expression hidden in the shadows. Finally, Rose spoke again, her voice somewhat hesitant. “I know you’ve slept with him before.”
January was shocked, and though it seemed there were a thousand things to consider in the light of that revelation, somehow the first thing he said was, “How?”
Rose laughed, though she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, as though to spare his feelings. “Hannibal told me.”
That was even more surprising than the previous sentence, and this time January could only stare at her.
She dropped her hand, her face again composed. “Don’t hold it against him. It was before I’d met you, and he was very circumspect; your name was never even alluded to. If I hadn’t come to know you fairly well, I don’t think I would have recognized his description. It ran rather more toward poetic quotations than identifiable details.” She pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “Besides, he was very complimentary.”
January groaned and covered his eyes. “I am going to kill him.”
“I may have figured it out without his assistance, you know. He doesn’t try to hide how highly he thinks of you. But there was more to it than that.” She thought for a moment, her eyes distant. “I don’t mean to say it was obvious. Maybe it was only that I knew what I was looking for. When the two of you are together, you have always been so... aware of him. You turn to him whenever you have something to say, and you notice when he enters or leaves a room, and you’re the first to lend him a hand when he’s not well. It’s as though part of your mind is always with him.” Her eyes focused, looking at him, and January wondered what else she saw. “You do it to me, too.”
He reached up and touched her cheek, lifted his head to kiss her. She responded readily, angling her head slightly to better meet him; he felt her fingers brush over his shoulder and neck and up into his hair. She was soft and sweet-smelling in the darkness, and he felt like he could kiss her forever. But too soon she drew away and asked, amused, “Is this your way of avoiding the conversation?”
“Is it working?”
“I am still capable of thinking, even while you’re kissing me.” Her smile faded, and she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “But you’re not... you’re not still sleeping with Hannibal now, are you?”
“No,” January said, startled. “Rose, of course not. I would never betray you like that. I– that is, we– haven’t for some time now.”
She nodded calmly, but he felt some of the tension leave her. Still, her next question took a while to come. “Do you still desire him?”
His first impulse was to deny it, but he suspected that to do so would be pointless and Rose would only be hurt by the lie. He forced himself not to answer until he had thought about it honestly. January had slept with men before Hannibal– furtive schoolboy fumblings, a few late nights with other young surgeons at the Hôtel Dieu– but it was mostly a means to an end, and a rushed, somewhat unsatisfying end at that. He hadn’t missed those encounters when they’d ended. But sex with Hannibal had not been like that at all. Hannibal had seemed to enjoy what they did for its own sake, not just as a way to quench lust without a woman; he hadn’t been embarrassed by his body or January’s. January had responded to how Hannibal would linger over the act, as eager to give pleasure as to receive it, to his lack of shame. It made January want to return the favor, and so he’d begun to seek out the places that made Hannibal’s breath quicken, to find what he liked the most. The first time he’d managed to break Hannibal’s usual matter-of-fact composure, he’d felt pride and a growing desire to do it again, to make Hannibal come so hard he had to muffle his cries into January’s shoulder, his grip bruise-tight on January’s arm, his smile afterwards dazed.
January turned and buried his face against Rose, childishly hiding himself. He felt her now, the sweet curve of her waist into her hip, her breasts pressed against his chest, the soft skin of her arm as she put it around him. She brushed her lips over his ear, the only part of his face she could reach, and he was grateful for that comfort. This, too, he wanted, almost more than he could stand. “I vowed to be faithful to you,” he said.
“Yes, I remember.” The dryness of her voice made him laugh, and things felt slightly less terrible. “Is that the reason why you ended your relationship?”
“What else could I do?”
“That seems to me to be the important question.” Rose stroked his back, an idle movement while she reflected. “My father, of course, made no such vows of fidelity to my mother. I don’t know if he loved her. As much as he loved his wife, I suppose.”
January sat up. “Are you suggesting I set up Hannibal as my plaçée?” The absurdity of this conversation struck him, and he began to laugh. “We’ll buy him to cottage next to Minou; she’d be delighted. She could teach him how to bake a blancmange.”
Rose laughed too, but she quieted more quickly. “No, that doesn’t seem like the solution to our problem.”
“There isn’t one. Rose, I won’t give you less of me, force you to wait and wonder.... I won’t treat you so poorly.”
She took a moment to reply, then looked directly at him, her expression nearly a challenge. “I want Hannibal.”
The idea had never occurred to January; of course he knew they were close, knew they loved one another– but as friends, some part of his mind added. “Do you mean– I– you want Hannibal as a lover?” Rose nodded. January couldn’t think of anything to say except, “Are you sure?”
“Well, I suppose I’m not. It’s not as though I have much experience at this.” She smiled briefly and raised one shoulder in a curiously uncertain gesture. “But I trust him. And I think I want him. It seems to me that I might like him very much.” She took his hand, carefully folding her fingers around his. “Are you angry?”
January was too surprised to feel much else. He had spent so long waiting and hoping for Rose to find her passion again that it still seemed nearly impossible she should feel it for him, much less someone else. But there was a certain logic to her attraction to Hannibal; January couldn’t deny that he was trustworthy and considerate and had been her companion for years. He tried picturing them kissing, Hannibal’s hands in Rose’s long hair, stroking her cheek. The image caused him no pain. He couldn’t prevent the thought that followed quickly on its heels: Hannibal and Rose both kissing him, all three of them together. How would it be to have two loves, and that much more happiness?
Oh, Mary Ever Virgin, he thought, closing his eyes in prayer. Pray for us sinners. But is it so wrong? All I want is to bring another into my family.
To Rose, he said, “I’m not angry. I suppose if I will be having an affair, it’s only right that you should too.”
Delight shone on her face, and she kissed him hard. “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
January shrugged helplessly. “Who does understand love? But its presence must be better than its absence.”
“How do we tell Hannibal?” Rose retreated slightly, her voice worried. “That is, do you think he would be willing? I’ve just been assuming– what if he’s not?”
January thought of how stiffly Hannibal had held himself that morning, as if he clung to his self-control with an iron grasp for fear of what he might do without it. He had clung to Rose in very much the same way, when she had offered him her hands to hold while January had had to pull straight the break in his leg so that it could be bound properly to a splint. Hannibal hadn’t screamed or wept, though January wouldn’t have blamed him, but he had held on to Rose like a drowning man offered a branch. Even when the worst of the pain was over, he had kept her hands, seemingly finding comfort in her touch, until she’d pulled away to assist January with the splint.
But there had been better times too: Hannibal in his bed, laughing until January rolled over on top of him and kissed him. He had reached up to hold January in place, spreading his legs to let him settle between them. He had tasted of champagne and coffee, January remembered. He remembered too, later that same night, the small sounds Hannibal had made when January pressed into him, the arch of his back with the knobs of his spine standing out, the muscles of his thigh straining under January’s hand.
“I think Hannibal is very far from unwilling,” said January.
Part Two