PART 4 - ARCHIE

By Lizard

Sunken, wretched - a shipwreck, am I. What am I going to do with myself? Every time there is a knock at the door, there is a lurching pain in my chest, hoping it is him. And vain beast that I am, I want to be presentable for him. Not sickly and pale and stinking to high heaven. One would almost think we were a married couple - undoubtedly I would be the wife. Pathetic. Stupid. Worthless. Emotional. He has noticed how I have distanced myself from him. I know - I can see the hurt in his face when I lie back on my cot and refuse to respond to a question, or when I bring up the subject of sex to shut him up. It amazes me how one so handsome and admired could be so inexperienced in this area.

But what use is this distancing doing to me anyway? It only makes him frustrated and silence, leaving the air between us thick and charged with unspoken words of resentment. Yet I know that that is preferable to letting him see how dear he is to me - my guiding light, if you will. How ridiculous I have become - he has made me soft in the head. I must keep him at arm's length, lest he veritably takes over my mind. Hah, what's the use in trying - he has already taken over. Dare I say it, but I think about him too often for comfort - wondering what he is doing, thinking, feeling, what he thinks about *me*, feels about me...

I must stop this nonsense before it gets out of hand - I try so hard to cut off our conversations when they get too intense, when I fear that I might blurt out something stupid in my unguarded state. But it is no use - Horatio sees through my disguise and, in disgust, reverts to that old commandeering attitude of his. The impatience and hurt in his eyes wrench at my insides something awful, and often an apology is on the tip of my tongue, before I remember my resolve and hold back. But doesn't he see? Doesn't he understand that he musn't...musn't get too *close*?

Whenever he is near me, there is an almost visible electricity between us. I feel it prickling up my spine if he accidentally brushes my hand, or when I am caught within the gaze of those melting brown eyes of his. This unbelievable tension - surely he must sense it too? It cannot all be within my head. Why, every moment he is in this cell with me, I feel it there hanging above us. A rain cloud just waiting to *burst* with a deluge and drench us both to the skin. Even now my skin crawls with the thought of it. Something too pleasurable. Too dangerous.

A knock on the door - at last, he has come from his daily stroll about the prison grounds. Rubbing his eyes to help them adjust to the dark cell compared to the brilliant sunshine outside; like a kitten pawing sleepily at its eyes. He looks so content and relaxed - oh, that I may have some of his contentment. What is his secret? Huh, no secret - he is the great Horatio Hornblower, after all. No wonder he is so at ease - undoubtedly he has already formed some plan in his mind to escape to the Indy. He sits down and, once again, we converse. Always conversing - I shall never grow tired of his voice or his presence here in this cell with me. But there must be more than this? I know there is, and fearful though I am, I long to embrace it.

Ah, says a little voice in my head. But you know exactly what you long to embrace, do you not? Who are you trying to fool? Go on, tell him. Tell your dear Horatio that you're a dirty-minded faggot just like Simpson, and you want to do to him exactly what Simpson did to you, no matter how much it hurts him. Explosive thoughts within my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut to drive them away. NO! Enough of this stupidity! So what if I feel this way about him? It will all be for naught - he doesn't feel that way about me, and I thank God for that. For only God knows what sort of trouble would be unleashed if we were to let things take their course...

I turn my head back to look at him again. While my mind has been whirling with such filthy thoughts, he has been gaily chatting about another childhood memory of his. His eyes become clear and animated as he describes his first kite-flying session with his father. The happy remembrance of his younger days brings a dainty flush to his cheeks. As pretty as a maid. What am I thinking? He is no maid - he is a man. A beautiful, honourable man. My best friend, and I *must* keep my distance. There is no other way. I cannot kill myself - Horatio feels he needs me to comfort him. Almost as much as I need his friendship and approval.

We need each other - hah, how pathetically romantic. And yet, despite my cynicism, there is a strange clenching sensation in the pit of my stomach at the thought of our companionship. What a feeble word to call it by - we are more than companions...We are...We could be...

No. Delusional fool! Stop thinking like an idiot. Black out such wicked thoughts - Horatio does not deserve to be tainted by them. I can feel my face draining of expression and an uncomfortable hiatus appears in our conversation. He turns his head towards me with a puzzled smile - and I can see the exact moment when he realises I have blocked him out. I *have* to do it. He does not understand, the pitiful innocent, but he will be grateful afterwards. His face, first flushed with contentment, is now flushed with anger. His eyes spark as he stares at me in disbelief. I long to say sorry, to tell him to continue, but it is too late. He stands up and walks to the opposite end of the cell, as he has always done when he is either contemplating something earnestly or is angry with me.

But then he turns towards me, opens his lips to begin speaking; closes them again, and then determinedly walks forcefully towards my cot once again. I cannot prevent a sharp thrill trailing from the bottom of my spine to the hairs on the back of my neck. Both our eyes widened and alert, I watch his approach and await the arrival of the storm.

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