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Henry has thrown himself on the bed. Really he has no shame. And when Thomas has blown out the last candle he lies with him in the dark. One without honor, one without shame. What a good couple they make.
There should be rage inside of Thomas, and there is, but shapeless, with nowhere to go. Beating against the king’s half asleep form like a bird to a window. Searching for the other, dear body and finding his instead, like a knife still stuck in the wound.
By his side, Thomas will always be prevented from having desires of his own. Must be the reason why he chose to be a collaborator. This relief, even more than riches and comfort. To live on behalf of someone else, someone who had enough life force for both of them. And now, what he wanted has turned hateful.
There is a weight, and a warmth on his back. Henry is hugging him, resting his head on his shoulder. A bitter, sick feeling runs through every inch where their bodies touch. Then a doubt creeps into Thomas’ mind.
They sure had been going on for a lot of time with their game, their sharing and exchanging of women, so much that their women had become less like partners and more like messengers, packages for their desire. Their fluids had mixed multiple times in a girl’s womb. This would only be the next step. What’s the difference anyway? Thomas is kept at the palace for what he can give to his king. Just another whore, only of a different kind.
Almost waiting for him to reach the due conclusion, Henry’s hands go down, lower than they ever were on his loins.
“What are you doing?” says Thomas. It’s not something to say to his king, and not in that tone. But grief gives him authority. In the darkness he’s less of a servant and more of a man.
Also Henry is less of a king now, and just as drunk. “I thought you might want a little relief, now that you're out of women.”
Apathy for himself is the only thing stopping Thomas from turning around and punching him. It’s an insult, that he only liked Gwendolyn for the relief, but it’s Henry’s chosen insult for the night and he has no intention of letting go. Wants to make his little saxon angry, wants to get an emotion out of him, disgust, anything.
They have already touched before, jokingly in the showers, like a children's play, but this is different. Well, his king won’t get the reaction, the spontaneous emotions he wants. Thomas turns on his back and gives an imperscrutabile smile. His teeth glimmer in the dark. Come on. If you want it so much, take it.
Henry finds a space between his legs and lowers his pants. Finds his soft cock, a special toy for a special occasion. Starts stroking, with his terrible blue eyes in the moonlight, daring the other to do something.
Thomas feels himself get hard. With all his might and cunning, he’s nothing but a toy for this manchild, this manwoman who won’t take no for an answer. There is some perverse pleasure in watching his king service him, while feeling used by his hands, his own pleasure extorted. It’s what they deserve. They’re being punished by one another, casually, each on the path of their sin, and they must bear this together, hand in foul hand.
Henry sucks on his nipple. “You owe me, you know? What if I die tomorrow?”
Thomas chuckles, breathless. “Yes, if I know you, you are going to die once or twice in your tent before dawn, happily, and then you’re - going to tell me all about it.” Can’t help hating himself when a moan escapes his lips, and Henry gloats.
Here’s why they needed women. Why Henry sometimes instructed a particularly clever girl on how to touch his friend, doing things to him that he knew would be appreciated. Henry needed models to imitate, flesh to wear in secret. He imagined Thomas serviced, in ways he didn't dare act upon, he barely had the courage to think by himself. And now he’s really drunk and guilty and he wants attention, and this makes him honest.
Would he fuck his own guards? No, thinks Thomas, he’d be too proud for that. He wants him because he deems him superior, even to himself. This he can’t admit, not even to his own ego, but look how he goes down on his cock. Taking his time licking up and down the shaft, lapping at the base, keeping it wet. Again his daring blue eyes, like a predator playing with food. Daring him not to like it.
“I like women” says Thomas under his breath, although it sounds more like a concession than a statement.
“Me too.” Dazed and proud, Henry looks at him. I don’t care, that's what it means. I don’t care what you like fucking. I am your king and I will make you feel what I please.
And yet, he’s the one looking like that. Like he’s taking pleasure from just his mouth.
Yes, Henry feels so good with his mouth full. Coming to think of it, he’d speak much less if he could have this plug at disposal all the time. He’d be sparing of words, wise like a saint! He missed this more than his mother’s breast as a child. He’d always liked to feel Thomas’ words inside his brain. Thomas’ actions inside his plans, and sometimes Thomas’ conscience in his heart. And now this. There was only one place left where they were not together and he wanted it! Wanted him! Irked his pride, like an itch inside of him, halfway through devotion, spite and rage. This man, born a peasant, always unmoved by everything, coming along with his sins only to emerge barely delighted, always one step ahead - only too impassive to actually go beyond, made all of a king’s desires seem empty - and he wanted such a man naked, stripped on a bed, offering his dick to be touched, that unseizable ivory dick of his. How many times he'd spied on that dick getting in and out of a beautiful pussy, how many times he'd seen that butthole twitch in an orgasm belonging to someone else, in a bed next to him, just a few inches from his face. And now finally, with one of his mentor's balls in his mouth, his shaft towering over him, he feels peace, a burning peace.
Thomas is surprised when he feels a warm wet tongue around his asshole. There he is, his majesty, smiling at him like a harlot with nothing to lose. If Thomas doesn’t do something, he knows how it’s going to end.
But what then? What would his king do if he could take anything that he wanted? He’d be left with nothing but to beg. Beg to be wanted. And he wants to beg, you can read it on his face. It's the last resort of his power.
Poor king.
Thomas places both hands over Henry’s head, smiling, as if to give him a new crown with his palms. Then he fucks his mouth. Hard, to make him choke on it.
Henry is so eager, his throat so willing, that he doesn't even gag. He's just surprised, moans. What a sight. He gasps for hair, face red, drooling when Thomas leaves him empty to stain his cheeks with precum, only to start again. Thomas does not spare him. What do the priests say? Ask and ye shall receive. Let's see how much he can take, how deep he can stomach what he wants.
Thomas grabs him by that well fucked throat, almost choking him with a slow, patronizing grasp. “How much do you want of me tonight, my prince?” he spells out, low and calm on the other’s lips, almost kissing him but not quite.
“Everything” Henry gasps, dizzy.
Thomas kisses him slowly on his forehead. How much can slowed down rage be mistaken for passion.
Henry lowers himself on Thomas, who’s lazy under him like a handsome animal put on the table. Not even a hint of reserve on the king’s face as he fills himself. Only effort, drowsiness, and a masochistic elation at last. Conquering, even as he is conquered, he rides his new mount with no pity or reserve. Thomas lies down, owned, with a feeling of shame at the pit of his stomach.
His king has thin legs, pale and red like those of a virgin. He is most likely a virgin, at least to this. His half erect cock bouncing frantically, pink and youthful, showing no sign of all the action he’s been into, has Thomas grab those hips and bounce them back up and down. He does not know what he feels, but he must feel more than his opponent, or he’ll be overwhelmed and defeated.
He grabs Henry by both his legs, throws him on his back, and starts pounding him into the mattress. The other looks like he was waiting for nothing else, moaning so loud that he needs to be shut up with a hand on his mouth. And still under that hand the mouth is smiling, teeth grinning, tongue licking the palm.
Thomas fucks him harder. Until the moans start to break into whimpering. Good. He wants to break him. To exploit his eagerness to be treated like a whore. To mistreat him more than he likes. To the point that he doesn’t know what he likes.
“Thomas-”
His king must have something left to violate, and they’re getting there with each thrust.
“Thomas, stop.”
Thomas holds him in his clutch. It's so obscene to be so close, finally the dreaded thing happening and to be the one who makes it happen. It’s like tricking the devil. He caresses Henry’s face, a mocking too subtle for the other to get. “What’s the matter my prince? Didn’t you want this?” Kisses him when he tries to catch a breath.
“It’s too much!”
“Nothing’s too much”, a deeper thrust, “for you, isn’t it? Do they know at court, that their king likes to be treated like a whore? That he wants with his hole more than he likes with his cock?” He stops and grabs him by the neck again. “Well, your secret is safe with me.”
Henry looks at him dazed, amazed and desperately fond, before Thomas resumes taking him deeper and deeper. He knows what he’s doing. He’s punishing his king.
And he wants to be punished, to subject himself to the cold judgment that his saxon spares him of everyday - he doesn't want to be spared, he wants to be taken - taken and plunged down into oblivion.
Even in the midst of it, Thomas finds himself disconnected, thinking. What if he fucked him to death? Would that save him? Save him from what?
“Not with my hole, Thomas.”
They’re both spent now. It makes no difference if they hate or want each other.
“What?”
“Not with”, Henry’s pride is creeping back, his honesty retreating, “not with that.”
A strange silence falls.
Thomas looks on the other side of the bed, and he sees a man younger than him, with pale skin, all red and sore, too disgusted by pity to ask for it.
Kisses him on his cheek. Feels sorry for him, and ashamed of himself to the very end. For taking advantage of a vulnerability he always knew was there, not even that deep, under the tin foil that is a king's ego. No one should be king when he needs love so much.
And where was this boy’s father - fair and short lived, married at 15 and stricken with fever in France? Would Henry need him, or want him too out of his way? Was Henry able to receive what he wanted?
This is as close to love as Thomas could feel for him. Love through the eyes of someone who doesn’t want him. Eyes wider and more distant than his own.