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HENRY FEELS COLD without the warmth of them surrounding him. He leads them up into his bedroom, considering the possibilities of the night. Though when he turns back to them briefly to see them interlocked with each other, he wonders how much attention will be on him during their nightly escapades. He gets to his bedroom here; he spends most of his time here, even if Lucy goes back to their nicer dwellings, because it is comfort to him. How many nights had he stood at that wall, scribbling his ideas -- the crazier ones, the ones he needs to work through? The strokes of genius that plague him in the early morning when there is too much absinthe? He will probably rip more wallpaper off the wall soon, intending to coat the whole room in his drawings. Why not? It is his home. 

He locks the door when prompted by Hippolyte; he is obedient. Then, he stands there awkwardly, unsure where to proceed here. It is clear they wish to lead this night, so he looks between them with curiosity. Is Henry feeling... inadequate? A weird sensation he is not used to. Right. He needs to center his mind. They came up to his room for a reason, so he must be enticing. . . He moves to remove his shirt, tugging it from his trousers. He discards it to the side, as if he is not aristocracy; he has no interest in politeness. Not here. There are no rules here. 

"I ..." He swallows, looking between Connor and Hippolyte again, trying to gauge what he needs to do. He moves toward his dresser, opening the large drawer full of his tools. "For your viewing pleasure." He says, before he moves to sit on his bed. He clears his throat, blushing a bit. "How ... do you want me?" 

Tag: Connor Morrison & Hippolyte Barthélemy 

"It would seem, that some things are just not meant to be."

Henry is rendered silent by Benedict's declaration. He stands there in bewildered silence, this time ignoring the rest of the world as he looks back into those familiar blue eyes. No, he had not considered this ending. Benedict was young; there was still so much life for him to live. . . there was plenty of art he could create, plenty of time to hone his craft, but no. This has sucked out the joy in everything truly. Henry has been lucky to channel his pain into art; Benedict has not. Henry is speechless. He does not know what to say, but the stirrings of anger have begun again in his stomach. He remembers snipping at Lord Bridgerton for his callousness. . .

But in the end, it had been his decision. His fear. 

Henry Granville caused this. The self hatred was warranted. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but the words die on his lips. Any earlier questions left his mind. He fights the instinct to touch his cheek. This is decidedly worse than anything Henry could have pictured. He thought Benedict was young, that he could bounce back. He thought that there could be others -- but no. Henry perhaps did doubt how much Benedict Bridgerton loved him, for the world has turned to ash for them both. 

It is a wonder he does not resort to violence -- for the world being the way it is, for making two men who love each other so deeply to feel so broken by their rules. Maybe it is time to start breaking them. In this moment, Henry could not care about his own sadness, his own worries or cares. He finds he wants to burn down the palace and shout for love, for peace, for acceptance. Perhaps then he would have never forced this wedge between them. Perhaps then he would not fear the gallows. Maybe he should not fear them. Maybe death will be a new life. 

Henry presses his lips together, and he thinks about the man he has become. He does not like it. He stares at the Saint Sebastian at night and wonders why he has made himself a martyr -- why has he given into their demands? The risks had been too much, but. . . The wheels turn in his mind, and he considers where they can go from here. There must be a next step for them. They must find friendship again. Benedict had preached about Henry not losing his happiness, but it seems Benedict has lost his as well. He cannot touch him; he cannot comfort him. He cannot change his mind. Not here. Not like this. Henry does not even know if this sudden burst of confidence will remain, but it proves one thing for certain: he loves Benedict Bridgerton, more than he has loved anyone else on this earth. 

"You always did think so harshly of your talents," Henry offers, his tone turning into something more sentimental, fond. He had originally intended to push away the Bridgerton, but now? Now, he would do anything to see him smile again. "It seems you have lost your way." His jaw sets, and he glances back at the party -- this time searching out Lord Anthony Bridgerton. "Do not worry, little dove. The flowers shine brighter after a spot of rain." Perhaps he should have reminded himself of the same thing a long time ago. He clenches his fist together as he sees him and his wife at the party, enjoying themselves without a care in the world, able to throw their love in everyone's faces in public. Without any fear. And yet what they did was dishonorable. 

Henry, oh Henry, you had been so rash six months ago. Perhaps he has gotten the sadness out of his system (a thought he very much will dispute, for the depression is overbearing most days). Why had he not listened? Why had he just forced the decision on Benedict without talking about the other possibilities? "There is a spot just beyond the maze." He says quietly now. "A hidden alcove. Meet me there in a half hour's time. It is easy to lose someone in the Queen's vast maze." 

Tag: Benedict Bridgerton

HENRY STARES PLAINLY as Lady Wetherby talks to him. She's already planning her portrait and the clothes she wishes to wear during it. Henry just nods along, offering polite responses, forcing a smile as he does. It is fascinating to see how she views her relationship with Lord Wetherby. He wonders how well Alfred is playing the part: spectacularly, if her attitude is anything to examine. . .

There is suddenly a shadow beside them, and Henry turns to look. He is staring at Benedict Bridgerton, who is in turn staring back at him. It seems Benedict did not seek him out for the surprise on his face. Henry swallows, pursing his lips together before nodding his head to Cressida. "Do be sure to send a note to my studio, Lady Wetherby. We will get a date arranged for the portrait." And then she is gone, off to look for Henry's former lover and her current husband. 

Life is strange. Henry is quiet after her disappearance. He struggles to look up at Benedict, and there is that creeping worry that Anthony will see them like this. . . Henry looks up at Benedict and clears his throat. "Bridgerton," he greets with a smile that does not reach his eyes. If he looks at Benedict long enough, he can see that this time apart has taken a toll on them both. "It is... good to see you." He says, treading on ice. "I do hope you have been well." He hopes Ben doesn't bring up anything that might lead to Henry having a panic attack. He's been bad about controlling them now; he never used to have them before this whole mess--not since his youth. Perhaps he is getting old and more afraid of the world around him. 

Tag: Benedict Bridgerton

HENRY'S VISION IS BLURRY. He reaches out to Benedict when he feels him near, pressing against his (former) love in his need. The migraine is sudden and painful. He feels sick to his stomach, breathing heavily as he tries to keep upright. He allows Benedict to move him, not fighting it. Now is not the time to fight; it is obvious that this stress has taken a physical toll on him as well. "I am fine," He says, voice hoarse as he speaks through the pain. It is decidedly not fine, but now is the time to start pushing down his feelings. He regrets bringing up his guilt about the situation; if he had just kept his mouth shut, he and Benedict could have had a beautiful final night together. Now there is nothing but pain and agony. 

"I am sorry, too," Henry says, opening up his eyes to look up at Benedict. He memorizes his features -- or he tries to. He leans into his touch, unable to help it. He still loves him. He will always love him, but they are compromised. He will not risk them again. "There will be no need for that. . . I can manage." He swallows tightly, tears brimming his bloodshot eyes once more. "Goodbye, Benedict."

The silence after Benedict leaves is deafening.

---

HENRY SPENDS THE FIRST MONTH in Paris nearly intoxicated every day. He throws himself into the party culture there, relying on drinking, on drugs, on meaningless sex to keep him going. He is a mess. He is a whirlwind of guilt. He should have run away with Benedict. If he had asked him to go with him, they could have left the Ton and the scandal behind. Alas, Henry was too much of a coward to think clearly, and now he has hurt them both. He has never hated himself this much, but the hatred is strong. It is all he thinks about, especially when he lies next to another man who's name he's forgotten, trying to remember the way Benedict used to touch him, the way he tasted. . .

He begins to paint again as the second month starts. Henry decides to paint the tragedies of Greece to work through his feelings, starting with The Capture of Ganymede and Orpheus and Eurydice. They are his darkest works, filled with emotion -- they are perhaps his best works. Henry works through his religious trauma by also painting Saint Sebastian. . . with himself as the likeness. Let him bleed for God, for he is damned by the Christian God that his people believe in. He doesn't have much love for religion. Not here, not now, and especially not with a deity who seems to hate him. Why create him in the first place? It is somewhat grotesque when he finishes it: a reflection of that self hatred boiling inside him. 

It is much better than a portrait that needs to be windowed. 

He happens upon some of his friends in Paris and finds some semblance of peace. It is not enough. Henry still lets himself go somewhat, losing weight and growing out a beard. He does not try to contain the pain any longer, using it to paint. He also barely writes to Lucy, only sending quick notes every once and a while to assure her that he is still alive.

France is a good backdrop for his heartbreak. He considers permanently relocating here; it is a better environment than England, especially when it comes to people like him. Alas, that thought process ends when he receives an official correspondence from Her Majesty Queen Charlotte, requesting him to return home to paint a portrait of her daughter.

He cannot say no to a Queen, so he gathers his things, says his goodbyes, and sets sail back to England. . . regretfully.

---

LUCY IS WORRIED by his appearance when he gets off the boat. He gives her a one-armed hug and presses a soft kiss to her temple. "I am all right, cherub. I have missed you." And he realizes he has -- she is a foundation for him, and she can ground him now that he is back home. Six months away had been difficult. He shows her his works, explaining to her what he'd done. She thinks he is brilliant, and he continues with his third piece: Medusa and Theseus. They spend a few quiet nights together before he is called to the palace for his duty.

The Queen observes him as she oversees the portrait. "You look terrible, Granville. Usually when someone returns from a long vacation, they look revived." He only glances at her with a brow raised. "My apologies, your majesty." She huffs. "No matter. I will have a tea party on Saturday -- perhaps that will cheer you up." Henry smirks a little bit, unable to help himself. He would never say he is friends with the queen: no, he would never be that bold. But after they have known each other for this long, she has... taken some interest in him. He is thankful for it and for the protection. Alas, a tea party is the last thing he wants right now.

However, it is a lovely affair. Henry makes conversation with old friends and acquaintances, speaking about how lovely France was and not commenting on any concerns about his appearance except to reassure them that he is fine. He looks muted, only wearing navy, no purple anywhere in sight. He wants to blend into the background now as best as he can. He hears Lucy curse under her breath beside him and cannot help but follow her gaze to --

Benedict Bridgerton. Henry's mouth feels dry. His chest tightens, and he does not know what to do with himself. He scans the party only to also find Lord Bridgerton, and he is surprised by the panic that seizes him. He excuses himself to make his way across the garden, to try and hide himself away so he does not have to confront his problems. His hands are shaking as he tries to drink his tea. He wills away the trembling, trying to focus his mind on the potential encounter. To his dismay, however, Cressida Wetherby approaches him. Great. 

Tag: Benedict Bridgerton

PERHAPS I CAN JOIN YOUR COLLECTION, is the first statement that pops into his head. Henry! Goodness, control yourself. Has his relationship been lacking lately? Or is it his own inability to remain pure? "Indeed we do." He concurs, watching the way Hippolyte's hand moves across the statue. He must get his mind out of this filthy gutter. "I would love to see your collection one day. And if I have the opportunity to meet the man first, I will be sure to let him know about your interest. . ." It is hard to focus, he realizes. Why? Is he really that aroused? 

Yes. Yes, he is. Goodness. He hopes Alfred doesn't see him like this -- not that he would mind, most likely. Though he may feel a little inadequate with the way Henry blushes and nearly giggles like a woman during her first season. 

Any coherent thought left his body when he felt the arm wrap around his waist. Henry is very aware now of Connor behind him; this was not the way he expected to find Morrison -- especially when he hears: Pretty little plaything, isn't he? The air seems to leave his lungs with his gasp. Instinctively, he presses back against him -- and his face has flushed. That settles it, then. 

He would be a good plaything indeed. Henry shivers at the way Connor's breathing tickles his ear, and his mind wanders. He stands in horny silence as he imagines Connor and Hippolyte upstairs in his room. They hold him down and have their way with him, and he enjoys every moment of it. His daydream continues to get kinkier with each passing second as he pictures himself restrained for both of them, at their complete mercy, begging for more --

Is he supposed to say something? Henry hardly finds himself in this state, so flustered that he cannot talk. It is a welcome change. Sometimes, it is nice to get completely out of one's mind -- and why not do it for a night of debauchery? Again, Alfred wouldn't mind. Hell, Alfred might be jealous he didn't get to join in. He clears his throat, tilting his head to glance back at Connor. "Ah! Hello, D-Doctor," oh hell. He doesn't know if he wants Morrison's hand to travel up to grip him by the neck or travel lower into his trousers, but he is in need of something or else he might explode. 

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy & Connor Morrison

"I CAN ONLY IMAGINE," Henry says as he holds her hand, giving it an assuring squeeze. "You were thrust into a world that you only knew from a completely different perspective. . . but hopefully, it is a better one." He leads her out into the hallway, starting their journey through the manor to the kitchens. He does not expect her to ask about his nightmares. His inclinations are not a secret to her now, not after the parties. He considers what to tell her, what -- will be suitable. Henry does not want her to pity him. 

"My father was far from kind," Henry offers as he continues down the path, walking slow so that she may not lose pace with him. "He had a very particular way he wanted my siblings and me to act, and when we did not meet those expectations, he sought to punish us." Henry does not carry any physical scars of those encounters, but. . . well, he does not wish to dwell on the bad. Not when his life has been so good. "I still have nightmares of him, even though he has been dead for half a decade now." He figures that could suffice, and she does not... want the darker memories, the darker nightmares. He does not wish to frighten her. There have been a few closer calls, but he has managed on the other side of it. 

He goes to turn down another hallway only to be greeted by a wall. Henry stares at it, blinking, before he laughs. "I suppose it is harder to remember the layout at night." He turns to her with a smile before glancing down the hall. "We will manage. I hope." 

Tag: ali