Newkirk doesn't know what he should do. Say something? Say nothing? It's a bloody fearful matter he's getting himself into here; it could wholly upset his life on the Leviathan, which he loves… despite the horrid creatures, great and small, that come with.
No, that's not true – he does know what he should do. He ought not to say anything. He ought to shut his eyes again and stay well enough away from all of it. Full stop.
But he can't. Once he figures it out, curiosity eats at him for days – and something else, something like fascination. Something strangely akin to jealousy.
And then, just like always, he goes and does something barking stupid.
It's breakfast, and he's on his way back from taking food to the three Clankers who don't rate fancy staterooms, when he sees Mr. Sharp. The other midshipman is finishing the morning's deliveries, too, and is just bidding goodbye to Alek. Er, the prince.
Newkirk can't hear what the two of them are saying, but he watches Sharp carefully. He notices the way the middy smiles. And he notices the way that smile lingers, tucked up in the corners of Sharp's eyes.
"Mr. Sharp!" Newkirk calls, hurrying a bit to catch up. Sharp slows and Newkirk draws even. "How's the, er, the prince?"
Sharp shrugs. "Well enough. Tired of being under lock and key, but I can't blame him for that."
Newkirk makes a noise of agreement... and then he does the something barking stupid.
He grabs Sharp's arm and forces the other boy to a stop.
"You like him," Newkirk says softly. Says, not asks. He's suddenly certain he already knows the answer even as he wishes he hadn't said anything at all.
But he can't take the words back. They slide under the noise of the ship, deadly and dangerous, and hit home. Sharp blanches. "Aye, h-he - we're friends, of course we get on -"
Newkirk shakes his head. Inwardly he's telling himself What are you doing? Let it be! Good advice; smart thing to do. But… he can't. "No. I mean... More than that."
Sharp says nothing, but he has the look of a trapped animal: helpless and panicking for it.
"It's all right if you do," Newkirk hurries to say, stomach sinking, trying to fix a mistake that's past mending. Sharp's his friend; he owes the boy his life; what happens behind closed doors is no one's business anyhow. "With me, that is. Well – it isn't really, but – I won't give you hell about it. After all, you saved my life."
"Twice," Sharp says, grinning. His voice is a weak croak, however, and the grin is a sickly, half-hearted thing.
"Right, yes, er, twice. I just wanted to be certain of... where everyone stands," Newkirk says, feeling like a perfect ass. Sharp seems shattered. Should have left it alone, he berates himself. What's it harm? – except this is war, and they're fighting the Clankers, and it could harm a great many people indeed. "I'm sorry to - to have mentioned it."
"No," Sharp says. He takes a breath, exhales heavily, and then grimaces. "Blisters, what a mess… I'm only wondering how it is you noticed before he did."
"Oh," Newkirk says, jolted out his self-conscious panic. He thinks about that for a moment. So maybe it's not as bad as he was fearing, if Alek –er, the prince, doesn't know.
Still, Sharp looks right awful, and he's clearly waiting for an answer beyond oh. Newkirk does his best to come up with a clever response so he can pretend he isn't the world's grandest idiot. Something one of the boffins once said (he's almost certain) pops to mind. Hoping he's got it right, hoping for restored levity and camaraderie and the end of this damned awkwardness, Newkirk says, "Well, he is royalty. They always marry their cousins, don't they?"
The other middy's sickly grin flickers back into place, slightly stronger this time, although touched with something Newkirk can't (and doesn't want to) name. "Aye, that's true enough."
"I won't tell," Newkirk adds, realizing he hasn't said that yet. An accusation to the captain about this sort of thing could get Sharp tossed off the ship, after all. "The prince or - or anyone else. Unless you want me to...?"
Sharp turns positively green. "Barking spiders! No!"
Newkirk shuffles his boots and rubs the back of his neck. "Oh. Aye. Thought not."
"No," Sharp says, er, sharply. He leans forward and points a warning finger at Newkirk's face. "And don't you bloody ever tell him, or next time I'll leave your bum to drown!"
Newkirk nods absently – until the words sink in. Then he sputters, indignant. " 'Next time'? Next time we're attacked by Germans with a – with a whatever sort of cannon that was, you mean, and I'm stranded aloft because my crewmate was too busy barking fencing w-with..."
He stumbles over the last word and trails to an uncomfortable stop, foot firmly in his mouth again as Sharp gives him a pained and worried look. Because, that day - it wasn't really about fencing, was it?
Well.
Newkirk swallows. Stands straighter. Resolves not to be so sodding stupid.
"Next time," he says, nodding crisply. "Right you are, Mr. Sharp."
