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I NEED YOU. If Henry was destined for the pits of hell, he was making sure that Anthony Bridgerton would join him there for ruining such a union. He is so desperate in this moment; he feels pathetic, that he should beg for Benedict's attention in spite of wounding him so deeply. Tomorrow would bring great regret, and Henry does not know if he will ever recover from this wound. The old scar had opened up from Alfred's attack, and he may just need to paint a Saint Sebastian that was bloody, weeping blood from his heart. 

Henry whimpers softly against his kisses, brushing his hands over Ben's bare chest. He gets lost in it, enjoying the way Benedict feels against him. This will be the last time, so he must cherish every moment. Every touch. Every kiss. Every stroke against his cock. He cannot believe he caved so easily -- that he gave in to Anthony's demands and gave in to Benedict's sweet kiss. He is a weak man. Is this courage or foolishness?

I need you, too. Benedict says against his cheek, and Henry brushes his fingers through his hair. He nudges against him, and there are tears trickling down the older man's cheeks. He is weak. He brushes his fingers along Ben's cheeks, sniffling as he moved to rub their noses together. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry it has to be like this." Henry presses kisses against his skin, trailing his fingers along the back of his neck. 

Tag: Benedict Bridgerton

HENRY INHALES SHARPLY as the gloved hand touches him. Oh. Oh my. He's quiet, pupils dilated with delight. Is he supposed to be speaking? He's completely lost in the touch, at the way the finger dances up his chest. He sputters out nothing and decides to just enjoy the moment. Henry wonders if it's the alcohol that makes him lean into the touch on his jaw. No, no -- it is simply the energy radiating off the man before him. Goodness. 

He could also listen to him say Henry's name all day. . . especially when paired with the grip on his chin. Henry blinks a few times, cheeks flushing as he meets the doctor's eyes. He's not used to being so wooed like this. "Well hello, Doctor." Henry says when he finds his voice, and it absolutely takes a minute. His voice even cracks -- how old is he? He clears his throat, trying to get his bearings. "Yes, I am acquainted with Connor. He's just inside. Would -- " Is his mouth dry? He wets it, unconsciously biting his lower lip as he does. "Would you like to come inside, Dr. Barthélemy?" 

What was the accent? French? Yes, that seemed right. It's been some time since he's been in Paris, and he finds himself suddenly eager to go. He does not move an inch though, not wanting to lose the grip on his chin. He may need to ask Alfred to manhandle him later tonight -- to work off this energy. 

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy

THE COLORS HAVE FADED, and Henry cannot find beauty in the way he once did. After their last night together, Henry went off to Paris. He barely remembers the boat ride or getting there. The first few weeks are a blur as well, but over time he stopped drinking so much and threw himself into his art. Henry starts a series on Greek Tragedies, and he paints the Abduction of Ganymede first with some liberties of his own. It is perhaps one of his best pieces.  

Five months pass before Henry returns to London, and he is halfway through his next piece: Orpheus and Eurydice. He has painted the background of Hades, and when he returns to London he intends to work on the portraits. He's been pouring his pain into these pieces. He is lost without Benedict. 

He is a different person when he returns: a man who has thrown himself into much meaningless sex. He has grown a beard, keeping it to high society's expectations but having it all the same. Henry has had his hair cut so that his curls do not show as prominently. But, perhaps, worst of all is the emptiness in his gaze. Lucy saw it as soon as he got off the boat. He displays the Abduction of Ganymede at the Somerset House, and it reignites his career around town. 

The Queen commissions a landscape of Hyde Park, and he does not question it. He takes a break from Orpheus and Eurydice and goes out to the park early in the morning to start laying out his sketching. He works without his jacket, but it is a hot summer day and he cannot handle the heat when he works. He is alone and in his element. And in spite of his mood, he tries to make the colors as vibrant as he can. 

Henry looks up and sees a young woman in his frame. He sighs loudly; his patience, and perhaps his manners, is gone. "My lady," he calls out, "could you perhaps walk quickly?" He presses his lips together in agitation. He is a different man.

And no, he has not sought out Benedict Bridgerton, nor does he need intend to do so.

Tag: ali

HENRY WATCHES IN DESPAIR as Benedict tries to process the news. It is horrible news, but he would rather not lie to him -- not when they have such little time left."My father had the same affliction," Henry admits, pressing his lips into a thin line. "I am better off than he, but I watched him deteriorate. It is not pretty. Soon I will not be able to leave bed at all." He looks surprisingly calm for sharing all of this horrible news. It seems to hit him then, that he will not paint for much longer.
 
"Ah. This is. . . ah. At least I can say I made my mark." Henry muses quietly as the fear shines in his eyes, and he stares at the blanket now, not at Benedict. "At least my art will live on in some way at the Palace, and -- and -- perhaps my paintings will find their way into more galleries and museums after I am gone." Gone. He will be gone. He is barely forty, and his life is over. 

He reaches to cup a hand over his mouth. Henry's thoughts begin to race. He will be gone from this world. What had Shakespeare said? Out, out brief candle. Why would he think of Macbeth at a time like this? Perhaps for the discussion of life, of death. A few tears trickle down Granville's cheek. He looks back up at Benedict, moving his hand away. "Will you make sure I am remembered?" He asks softly. "Though, you are still so young, you may forget me yet as the time passes." Henry stares at him with a blank, fearful gaze. "Will you forget me? Am I forgettable?"

tag: Benedict Bridgerton

HENRY HAD SMIRKED at Benedict's comment. Perhaps there will be some testing of the theory -- but only if Benedict does truly show interest. He relaxes an arm against the breakfast bar in his kitchen, brow raising at the younger as he says he doesn't want to inconvenience him. Henry rubs a hand over his bearded face, giving him a curious look. "Inconvenience? You are my guest, Benedict Bridgerton, you silly boy. It is no trouble." 

He was adorable with the way he stammered. Was he nervous? Henry stands tall again, tilting his head curiously. Is that a hint of a blush on his face? Curious indeed. . . 

"Thank you. I redesigned the architecture a bit when I bought it to be more useful. It is rather comfortable, is it not?" He places a hand on his side thoughtfully. "I spend a lot of time upstairs, so I figured I better like the place. Lucy was a dear and recommended some things as well. She really has quite the eye for design. She actually designed this shirt." He's wearing a short-sleeved button down with a charming design on it. Henry looks like a modern hipster artist. He takes another drag of his vape before putting it back in his breast pocket.

"Oh, you cook? Now that is fascinating. I didn't think a proper lad like you knew how." Henry teases as he turns to his fridge. "But you can help me prepare the ingredients, if you must feel the need to be useful. Would you like something to think? I have wine, beer," and then he turns back to Benedict, "and tequila." 

Tag: Benedict Bridgerton

HENRY POUTS when Connor pours himself brandy. What gives? He has been robbed with this water. He takes another sip of it before choking on it as Connor speaks. Henry laughs and chokes at the same time, patting at his chest. When he regains his breath, he shakes his head. "No, no. I don't believe that will be necessary. He seems like... a good lad. I hope. I beg." He pouts again, looking at his water. 

"This is supposed to be a safe space. Ugh -- I thought I was being so careful, but it always a -- " He hiccups again. " -- bloody gamble." He places the cup down, resting his elbows against his knees and is quiet for a moment.

"Can I be honest for a moment?" Well, too late, Henry. He's been very honest. "For a moment, I believed that Bridgerton would join us. There was something in his eyes. . . curiosity. Maybe more. So perhaps all will be well. I will speak with him next I see him. . ." He furrows his brows together and then looks at Connor. "You think it will be all right? Do tell me it will be. Even if you must lie." 

Tag: Connor Morrison

LAUGHTER RINGS THROUGH THE HALLWAY, as the party ramps up further. It started a few hours ago, and there are bodies, and the smell of sex and tobacco in the air. Henry brushes his hand along the side of a younger man's torso as he walks along, spotting Alfred across the room laughing with some of their friends. He smiles to himself. It is a good night. A lovely night. Lucy is seated on a sofa in their library, lips locked with another woman, while a man brushes his hands along her back.


This is freedom. To explore themselves sexually, to talk about art, and music, and to not live those stuffy lives of the Ton. Here, there was no hiding, no secrets. Just life, and the admiration of life. Granville, someone calls his name, and he turns. Lips press against his cheek, his neck, and he relaxes into the man's touch. There is no stress here. No fathers, no brothers, no honor. Second sons really do have all the fun. 

There is a loud knock on the door, and Henry gently separates himself from his handsy gentleman friend. "Go on, dear." He murmurs, giving his arse a gentle pat before sneaking passed him to the small foyer. His house is not grand -- his brother got the manor, the money, but the Queen treats him well. He has a small estate out in Sheffield, should he desire to ever go there. He nearly knocks down a statuette -- oops! Perhaps he has been drinking! 

Henry laughs to himself as he goes to open the door, standing confidently there with only his open frilly white shirt and purple breeches. He smiles curiously at his new guest, admiring his sense of style, from the trim of velvet on his coat to the silk stockings. "Well, hello there, my good sir." He has never seen this gentleman before in his life, but it is clear to him that he will be a friend in this atmosphere. "You are most welcome here, but do tell me: who has told you about my little soiree?" Henry leans against the door. The more he admires this new face, the more attractive he becomes. Could be the brandy. Could be the other's dashing good looks.

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy