A Jolly Good Fellow
"For he's a jolly good fellow!" slurred Lieutenant William Bush as the newly-promoted Commander Horatio Hornblower lowered him onto his cot. It heaved; Bush had to cling to the edges of it. He made a futile attempt to pull off his boots; but his wounds combined with the quantity of brandy he had consumed made that quite impossible. Hornblower, ever helpful, obliged.
Then, at a gesture from Bush, Hornblower removed the man's breeches as well, leaving him to sleep comfortably in his shirt. As a final kindness, Hornblower moved to unbuckle Bush's stock - and suddenly felt a strong, horny hand on the nape of his neck, pulling him down and kissing him squarely on the lips.
The kiss lasted but a second. "A jolly good fellow," Bush murmured muzzily, his eyes drifting shut.
Hornblower smiled. Of course this was just an expression of Bush's high spirits; probably he had been aiming for Hornblower's cheek. Dear Lieutenant Bush, whom he had found miraculously alive amongst the dead; Hornblower's heart leapt at the memory. Bush had treated him like a brother, not even begrudging his promotion. Bush seemed to genuinely care about him; though Hornblower felt himself worthy of no one's affection.
Hornblower bent down and tenderly pressed his lips against Bush's. Bush's eyes fluttered open; then he clumsily threw his arms around Hornblower and kissed him back with all the gusto one might expect of a lusty--and drunk--British sailor.
Hornblower nearly laughed with joy. He thought Bush was laughing too; but broke the kiss when he realised Bush was coughing, painfully. Poor man: his chest wounds must make it difficult to breathe. Hornblower lightly traced a long-fingered hand down Bush's "classic torso," feeling the bandages beneath his shirt. Lower and lower he reached, until a noise made him stop: the sound of heavy snoring.
Bush was asleep, exhaustion having finally mastered him. Hornblower blinked, his eyes stinging with tears. He had spent his entire life craving affection. He had no memory of his mother; his father had been stern. He had grown up, friendless and alone in the harsh life of the Royal Navy. Now, although he could hardly believe it, he loved and was loved in return. He kissed his friend on the forehead, and took his leave.
The next morning, Bush was taken back to the hospital. He slept most of the day; then awoke to find Hornblower sitting on his bed, holding his hand and caressing it. "I counted every minute until I could see you again," whispered Hornblower, his voice trembling with emotion.
Hornblower had Bush's hand halfway to his lips, when he realised that Bush was staring at him astonished--and amused.
"Ha-h'm." Hornblower let Bush's hand drop. "I brought you another...another..." Words failed him. He pointed awkwardly at the pineapple sitting in a basket beside Bush's sick bed; then turned away with as much dignity as he could muster. He hesitated in the hospital doorway for an instant; but strode out without looking back.
Once outside, Hornblower felt his heart explode in agony. What a terrible fool he had been. To think that a fellow officer might harbour fond feelings for him--the idea was ludicrous in the extreme. He didn't deserve love any more than he deserved his promotion. Failure, disgrace, and humiliation awaited him. Bush was no doubt having a hearty laugh at his expense; Hornblower savagely hoped that his chest wounds hurt him.
Hornblower, alas, did not consider that fever, exhaustion, and brandy might have conspired together to muddle his friend's memory of the night before. Had he stopped in the doorway of the hospital room and looked back, he would have seen Bush's face contorted in hurt bewilderment, with his hand--whose fingers Hornblower had almost kissed--outstretched.
When they met again at Portsmouth, neither man mentioned the incident in the hospital. Bush had convinced himself that it never happened, a delirious dream; and Hornblower resolved to show no sign of the twisting turmoil in his heart.
In such circumstances, it is hardly surprising that Hornblower chose a wife.