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Bush watches Hornblower with eyes that see more than they should. He sees beyond the wild beard and bleary eyes to the man beneath, beneath even the uniform. There is something within this young man that catches Bush's breath and wrings it from him, leaving his lungs feeling burnt and exhausted as though he's been sucking in the roiling smoke from the heated shot for days. Hornblower's voice has gone hoarse and rough, like a intimate whisper when he and Bush speak of the men, of food, of relief and of water. Bush wishes Hornblower would drink more down, quench his dry throat so that there was not the harsh rasp that scrapes across Bush's nerves like the plucking fingers of Atropos, sorting through threads for his own. Bush moves closer to the younger man, stepping into the sheltering shade brought by the shift of the sun. Hornblower leaps up with strength Bush envies to the parapet and wields their lone telescope. Bush shifts and smiles as the change in his perspective sends the sea spilling beneath Hornblower's feet. He is not quite a man, Bush thinks, as Hornblower calls out to one of the men in his cracked voice. Not quite a man, but Bush is unsure what else he could be.
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