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Post by bunny on Apr 4, 2021 0:04:18 GMT
"AND HERE WE ARE," Henry says, opening the door to his two-floor flat. This is where he lives most of the time, but he does have some property out in the country (and another apartment in New York). However, they are both now in London, and it has been a few months since Benedict walked into his gallery and insulted his art to his face. Since then, they have spent a considerable amount of time together. . . Henry cannot figure him out. The younger man has been radiating this energy that Henry finds intoxicating, but he seems to be exploring himself. Which is fine. Perhaps tonight will ignite something in them both. Henry offered Benedict use of his studio, which is the entirety of the second floor, to take his time and create an art piece he is proud of with Henry's expert eye helping him. The fact that he'll be sleeping over is a plus. . . Henry gives him a tour - of the studio, of the guest bedroom where Benedict will be sleeping, and then he even shows him the master bedroom. "With room enough for at least four people," Henry says with a saucy little glance, "but could most certainly fit two rather comfortably. Don't you think?" He lets that hang, wondering if the power of suggestion will lead Benedict one way or the other. They will see. "We can get you set up for the morning, but afterward I could cook us dinner -- unless you would prefer to have food delivered?" Henry asks, and he pulls out his vape pen, taking a drag and blowing out smoke to the side. It's a terrible habit, but he likes the taste. "I want to make your stay most comfortable, Ben." Tag: Benedict Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Apr 3, 2021 23:13:18 GMT
THE SUN SETS ACROSS THE COURTYARD, visible to them both from Henry's studio in his country estate. It is not as big as his brother's, but the Queen has given him land that is quite comfortable. He is hardly here, but he does go on painting retreats to get away. Lucy will also spend time when she wishes to be alone. It is a good resource for them both, and Henry has invited Benedict to this space to give them some breathing room. Away from London and the Ton. It has already been a magical getaway, especially as his heart grows fuller with each passing moment with him. They had been painting in the large room; the double hung windows covered the walls to allow the most sunlight -- the best light for painting. As dusk begins to settle, Henry finds himself wandering over to Benedict. There's some gold paint on his fingers. (Intentionally? Well, Henry won't tell.) "I think we've done fruitful work today," he murmurs, reaching to brush those fingers against Ben's cheek. He smiles to himself before leaning in to kiss the other's brow. He trails his fingers down across his cheek, smearing the paint there . "Hmm," he hums, a low rumble in his throat as he kisses behind Ben's ear. "I think we can find other things to do for the night. What do you think?" His touch is gentle across Ben's cheek, down his jaw, to his neck. He continues to kiss down the other side of his face, hoping to completely distract him now. And if that doesn't work, Henry sliding into Benedict's lap might. The golden hand trails down Ben's exposed chest from his open shirt. "Tell me if you do want me to stop, but I feel as though you won't. . ." He pulls back to look into his beloved's eyes, a smug little smirk across his lips. Tag: Benedict Bridgerton (Of course I had to include paint.)
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Post by bunny on Apr 3, 2021 10:59:44 GMT
HE IS WEAKER with every passing day. It started with his hands shaking while he painted. Henry ignored it at first, because he is still relatively young. This affliction affected his father much later in life -- he refused to believe this was happening to him now. He'd been able to control the shaking enough to not alarm anyone, but he could see it getting worse and worse as time continued on. . . And one day, he just collapsed from what felt like exhaustion. Henry couldn't understand what was happening to him, but he remembered watching his father fall. He'd become bedridden quickly after that. Would the same fate befall him? He receives grave news when the doctor comes to check him. At the time, Lucy had been in the room while the doctor explained that what Henry had was hereditary. It was curious that it came on so early, but it was not completely uncommon. Death was certain, but with medicine, they could extend Henry's life for some time. He did not know how much time that was. The tonic tasted terrible, but it numbed him enough not to feel the heaviness that had set in his bones. The doctor promised he would be back on his feet within a few days, but he also warned that Henry's health will continue to decline. They should start making preparations. Henry is still processing the news when he hears the door open downstairs. Someone has come to visit. He does not know if he is strong enough for visitors at this time - whether that be physically or mentally. Still, Henry moves to sit up when he sees Benedict at the door. He is pale, cheeks looking gaunt and eyes somewhat sunken. "Bridgerton," he greets in a softer tone. "I feel as though I've been hit by a runaway carriage." He pauses and thoughtfully adds, "and the horses along with it." He admires Benedict, and he finds himself mourning what will never come now. There had been something forming between them that could not yet be defined. It would never be defined now. He would not let Benedict go through that -- falling in love with Henry just to lose him in a short amount of time. "I appreciate you coming to see me." He is quiet for a long moment. No, he will not keep it secret. It is better to just confront his reality. There's a pause, and his eyes become glassy. He clears his throat. "I'm afraid it's... terminal. A death sentence, if you will." He smiles bitterly, looking away from Benedict. "I thought to lie to you, to assure you that I will be fine, but that is very much the opposite of true. And I do not think I would have been able to hide it from you for long." Henry lets out a shaky breath. He composes himself. "I know this must be a shock, Bridgerton. Alas, it is my truth." He glances down at the blanket. "I suppose I made it all count in the end," he says thoughtfully after a moment. "I have very few regrets, and that is something to boast about." Henry glances back up to Benedict quietly. "I will leave you all my supplies, you know. My unfinished works. All of it. And I expect you to do great things with them." A stray tear trickles down his cheek. Tag: Benedict Bridgerton Note: *vine vc* I can't believe we've done this
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Post by bunny on Apr 3, 2021 10:33:29 GMT
IT WAS A MUGGING, Benedict explains, and Henry sees red for a moment. How vile. How dishonorable to take advantage of a man just walking down the street. Benedict did not deserve such treatment; he was a good man. No, a great man. And this is how he is rewarded? With blood and bruising? Henry reaches down to brush some hair away from his face, trying not to hurt further what has already been damaged. "I am sorry to hear it," Henry says softly, unable to keep himself from trying to soothe him with light touches, carding his fingers through Ben's hair. "Just rest." He urges. "I will take care of you. You are safe now, Bridgerton." Ah, he has fallen for him. It is the first thought that crossed his mind as he stared down at the beaten Benedict on the chaise. . . the fear that had surged through him upon seeing him in such a state. . . he wanted to protect him. Henry was not a man of violence, so what good could he have done? Perhaps talked his way out of pain with just giving away the money. . . alas, he was not there, but he can pick up the pieces. He pulls his hand away, pressing his lips together thoughtfully as he realizes how familiar he is being. He will dwell on that later. "I will return momentarily." Henry promises, and he leaves the room. The servants are sleeping as well at this hour, so he must go to the kitchens on his own. He grabs a bowl of water and a cloth, and he goes to his stash of opium; it will dull the pain. Henry returns shortly to the room and drags over a chair, putting the bowl against it. "Let's get you cleaned up," he murmurs, soaking the cloth in water. He also goes to pour some of the liquid opium into a spoon before holding it to Benedict's lips. "Do you trust me? This will ease the pain. Not too much of this, or you'll be flying into tomorrow." He teases with a sad smile. It really does pain him to see him like this. Tag: Benedict Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Apr 3, 2021 9:56:06 GMT
HENRY IS LOST TO BENEDICT NOW, at least for the time being. He is deep beneath the waterfall of loneliness now. He can see the look in Alfred's eyes as he dismissed Henry. It is still so fresh, and the artist is in shock. He cries quietly into his chest, not wanting to draw more attention to this room. His sobs are violent, ripping through him as he tries to catch his breath. It is an end Henry could not see coming, but is this not how it always ends? How many relationships had been lost to the rules and ways of the Ton? Maybe men like him were not supposed to be happy. Maybe that was his curse. Maybe that is why God hated his kind. . . But how could something so beautiful, so pure, be evil? Alas, the happy feelings would never stay. Henry had always been so sure, but this time hurts the most. Alfred Wetherby had been his soulmate. They were different, yes, Alfred was more of a sporty type while Henry preferred to be surrounded by paints in his studio, but they were suited for each other. He remembers the glow in Wetherby's eyes during sunrise, while they lay naked in the grass of Alfred's country home. . . nothing else in the world mattering except for the golden flecks in his eyes and the smile on his lips. All of that had been so -- so -- wrong. The memory burns him, and he presses in closer to Benedict. Henry would never have that again. Perhaps it is dramatic to think that way, but Henry is getting older. How many more opportunities will he have to curb this loneliness? When will he be too old to find love? Already it is so difficult. He will have no problem finding partners to bed, but will another Alfred even exist? Would it even be worth it to try again, when it would end in heart break once more? Would someone ever choose Henry?Benedict's arms are warm and comforting against him, and he feels himself being pulled from the coldness of his heart. His breathing gets a little easier, and he melts into the grip. He listens to Benedict's heartbeat, and it soothes him away from his crying, encouraging him to breathe at a more normal pace. Henry keeps his eyes closed, just enjoying the hug. It is unexpected -- all of Benedict's kindness had been unexpected. "Thank you," he says quietly, embarrassed by the display of emotion. He does not pull back from his grip, even though Henry knows he should. He finds he does not wish to move. Not now, perhaps not ever. "I wish they would all leave," Henry murmurs after a moment, lips brushing against Benedict's shirt as he speaks. He has no intentions of moving from this spot until Benedict pushes him away. "I cannot face them. . . I. . . I don't know what to do." He admits quietly, and he's looking up at Benedict, vulnerable and desperate. "Alfred and I. . . I thought we. . . I don't know what to do. I don't know who I am now. I feel. . . betrayed. I feel. . . broken. Beyond repair." He laughs helplessly, a few more stray tears sneaking down his cheeks. "That sounds so pathetic. You must think so little of me now. A man getting his heart torn apart by another man." Perhaps he will pull away. Henry tries, moving to wipe his eyes. He needs more alcohol now. "Thank you for that, Bridgerton. I am terribly sorry you saw that display. . . it was unbecoming of me. I -- erm -- " He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I will be all right. You can go back out to the party. I don't wish to ruin your night further with my dramatics." Tag: Benedict Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Apr 3, 2021 9:33:25 GMT
THIS WAS EVERYTHING. Loving Benedict, having Benedict love him -- being in love. . . Henry is still in the honeymoon phase (and may he never leave it). They can hardly keep their hands off each other, which is dangerous. Henry is usually so composed in public, but it is too much to handle seeing the way Benedict catches his eye across the ballroom. There is a fire burning inside him, and it's name is Benedict Bridgerton. He gives into those carnal desires, sneaking off to the garden, where they kiss and touch and make love under the stars. He's gotten careless. It's foolish, but he cannot help himself. Henry loves being in love. He has no idea they were found that night until Anthony Bridgerton is standing at his doorstep. The sudden appearance of the older Bridgerton brother makes Henry's brow raise in curiosity, head tilting in confusion. Henry is dressed more casually in the comfort of his own home; he had been painting a piece for the next gallery, and it shows in his appearance. He has paint smeared across his cheek and on his shirt. "Oh, Lord Bridgerton," he says, and he bows his head politely. A matter of great import. Something was amiss. "Of course. Do come in." He leads Anthony inside the sitting room away from his studio. Of course Lucy is out on a stroll in the park with her friends, so he is alone to deal with Bridgerton. There are rocks in his stomach. "Would you care for some tea? Something stronger? Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable." He smiles, and there is a tenseness to his body as he stands there, waiting for Anthony to answer. No, this could not be good. It doesn't seem to be urgent enough to mean Benedict is in peril, so it can only mean. . . please let his suspicions be wrong. If there is a God above, may he be with Henry now. He has heard of Bridgerton's temper. Tag: Anthony Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Apr 2, 2021 9:10:08 GMT
#48: Your muse comes to mine after being assaulted. THE HOUR IS LATE. Henry hears the knocking upon his door after the second round of it. He's alone in the studio -- Lucy had long since gone to bed. He yawns, gripping a candle and -- for caution -- the fireplace poker. It is not entirely strange that someone shows up late in the night because of the nature of artists, but usually there is some notice beforehand. Henry is comfortable, missing his shirt at this hour and instead only wearing his trousers and a silk robe that hangs open over his frame. He is in the comfort of his home, and it shows in his appearance in spite of the late night guest. "I am coming," he says at another bout of knocks, glancing up the staircase to make sure Lucy has not been woken; he would hate for her to lose sleep. They really are partners, two like-minded individuals who have so much in common. They may not be in romantic love with each other, but they do love each other deeply. Henry really does only want the best for her, for her to feel freedom in this stuffy life. He does not hear footsteps from above -- she must be still asleep. Good. He places down the candle by the door and holds the poker close as he goes to open the door -- -- And he gasps at the visage before him, dropping the poker. "Benedict," he says, and he forgets himself. This may be the first time he's used the man's given name, but Benedict Bridgerton is standing there in the dim light of his home with blood on his person. Henry immediately reaches for his face, cradling it to check him for further injury. He cannot see well in this light. "Come on, come in." He says quickly, moving his hands away, feeling some blood on his hand from other's busted nose. "Easy," and he goes to support Benedict by the waist after closing the door behind him. "Easy now. We will get you right as rain." He already is considering the possibility of calling the doctor, but he will examine Bridgerton himself first. He leads him to the only lit room in the house at the moment, the studio, and guides him to lay on the chaise lounge. "What has happened? Where does it hurt?"Tagged: Benedict Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Apr 2, 2021 8:49:41 GMT
#24: My muse is being punished by yours.
THIS IS NOT HOW HE EXPECTED THE NIGHT TO GO. They are alone. The night is quiet, still. Lucy is in the country at her family home, so Henry has been living alone in their home -- which, in turn, has meant his home has been open to men coming in and out without having to disturb her sleep. Let it be known that Henry absolutely has a promiscuous streak in him. Alfred has been long gone from his life since his marriage, and Henry has used this time to find himself again in many ways. What he did not anticipate was that someone was watching from afar. Perhaps it is jealousy that brings Benedict here tonight. Perhaps it is something else, but Henry has not seen that look in his eyes before. There's something. . . primal about his gaze, as though Benedict Bridgerton was going to eat him alive. He smiles as he backs up, feeling as though he is prey. "Bridgerton. Coming to my home uninvited in the dead of night now? How bold. Though, perhaps not unexpected with how our friendship has progressed." His back presses against the wall, and his eyes lock on to those familiar blue. There is a tightness in his pants as his heart starts beating more rapidly. "What -- " He pauses, wetting his lips. His mouth feels so dry. "What can I do for you?"Tagged: Benedict Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Apr 2, 2021 8:34:50 GMT
"KNOW YOU ARE ALWAYS WELCOME, BRIDGERTON." Henry responds to Benedict's appreciation. He goes so far to put his shoulder on the other's arm for a moment, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He finds that desire to touch him, to be closer to him -- and Henry knows he must be careful. He pulls himself away, creating a brief distance between them as he goes to get his cigarillo in an ash tray by his station. The closer he is to Bridgerton, the closer he wishes to be. Still, he returns as he takes a drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs as he listens to Benedict's harsh critiques of his own work. His brow raises curiously as he leans forward to the parchment. Henry's free hand measures out the distance between the body, the head, the arms. He blows smoke from his nose. "Art is an interpretation," he begins, looking over the shading. "This is not a complete work of art, of course, but that is not the goal of the night. It is to practice." Henry straightens his back, but he keeps his hand close to the sketching. "You do have a keen eye, because there is some disproportion between the neck and the torso, and the right leg is extended too far. The right foot also looks broken in its current position." He points it out. "The depth is there, you have done good shading around the face. Remember to focus on a singular light source. Do not be afraid to have them adjust their position for your purposes." He takes the charcoal from the bottom of the easel and lighting sketches some lines in the empty space that coincide with Benedict's shadows. "Imagine that this is where the sun is in the drawing. Let it define where each shadow would fall, what part of the skin it will highlight and what part it will hide." Henry puts the charcoal down and turns to meet Benedict's eyes. "These are all easily fixable. You are not hopeless, Bridgerton. As I said, your hands are much better than they were the first night you trained here. But if you are this dedicated to perfecting your craft, perhaps you should come on as my true apprentice. We can set appointments around my schedule." Hadn't he just told himself to keep distance between them? Alas, his mouth spoke before his mind could stop him. This does not have to be a bad thing. "And we can train in the daylight, when the mind is sharper. I do enjoy these parties because it allows me to be free, but I did the bulk of my training at all hours of the day while at the Royal Academy. You are serious about this, I can tell. Take this next step, and we can work on portraiture. Painting. How these can be fixed with a swipe of a brush. The beauty of paint is that it can be painted over when we make a mistake -- or what we perceive to be a mistake. Remember: Rome was not built in a day. You have such great promise. Let us bring you to the next level." Tagged: Benedict Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Apr 2, 2021 8:13:10 GMT
HIS BROWS FURROW when Benedict approaches, when Henry feels the hand upon his arm. Although he was convinced he'd pulled himself together, more tears trickle down his cheeks. The painter inhales a deep breath as Bridgerton speaks, as his own words are thrown back at him. He smiles bitterly. Does he not know there are still fronts? That even in the backroads of society, there are still façades and roles to play. Henry needs to be stronger for everyone else. . . He looks into those familiar eyes, feeling some comfort in them. Bridgerton has become a good friend. They have found some common ground after the confusion of that one night, months ago, when he'd been caught in the middle of doing the dirty with his former beloved. Ah, the thought of Alfred sends pain through his chest once more. It feels like the air is trapped in his throat, his lungs burning to try and breathe. His lower lip trembles. If you need a moment, take it. He had been taught by his father to keep a stiff upper lip, especially when confronted with pain. (And oh how his father caused him such pain in a lifetime.) It is hard to be in touch with his own feelings on this level. He cannot remember the last time he experienced this kind of heartbreak. Henry keeps his eyes locked on Bridgerton's, frozen in time there as he keeps inhaling sharply. The man's hand is still warm and comforting on his arm, trying to ground him. "Fuck," he whispers under his breath. "Fuck," he says again, and then he's gone, giving into the cascading sadness in his heart. The river rapids pull him underneath his despair. The sobs build quickly, and he presses his face against Benedict's chest without hesitation. He grips at his shirt and cries. He doesn't know how long he stands there bawling his eyes out, but it is comforting to have Benedict there. No, he does not have to hide his feelings from him. This is a safe space between them, and Henry is extremely grateful for Bridgerton's friendship in this moment. Tagged: Benedict Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Apr 2, 2021 7:56:46 GMT
THE COMFORT IS NICE. It is hard for Henry to be so vulnerable in front of someone else. When he was staring at the ceiling earlier in the night, he was mostly left alone -- Alfred had left not too long after their deed was done, and no one really paid mind because they were too consumed with themselves. He and Connor are friends; they know each other. They mostly know each other's bodies, but there is still a friendship there that has grown over the better half of a decade. Though, the moment Connor turns, Henry scrunches up his face with intoxication. He truly has overindulged tonight. He closes his eyes briefly and sees the Bridgerton's baby blues again across the room. So many emotions flooded through Henry in that short span of time: humiliation, fear, arousal. . . He is no stranger to being watched, but the way in which Bridgerton stared. . . the way in which he left. . . His eyes open when Morrison returns. "Thank you," he murmurs, reaching for the glass. He takes it and sips it slowly. Hm -- he is perhaps more dehydrated than he realized. He takes his time with the water, letting Connor's concern hang in the air for a moment. He considers how to tell the story. It is so difficult for him to be so open sometimes, but he perhaps should get it off his chest. Henry sighs softly, brushing his fingers through his mussed up hair. "Alfred and I were being intimate earlier in the other room. We had it to ourselves at the time. Normally, it wouldn't bother me when the door opens. . . because it usually leads to fun situations. . ." He trails off, staring at the water as though it's betrayed him. "But Bridgerton opened the door." He purses his lips together. "And I --" He hiccups suddenly, flushing in embarrassment from the noise. "We locked eyes, and now everything is. . . confusing." Henry pauses once more. He struggles to put the rest of it into words. He turns to Connor, meeting his eyes helplessly. "I met Benedict Bridgerton at a gallery, and he and I have. . . built a rapport. He's aspiring to be an artist, so I invited him to a few painting nights at the studio. Then I was bold enough to invite him to this." He searches Connor's eyes for answers he does not have. "He stood there when he found us, and I enjoyed it when he found us. I'm afraid I am developing feelings for him, which is confusing enough. . . but I do not know if he is like us. And he stood there like a deer on a hunt for a brief moment before leaving the room. I did not see him again that night. . . and, of course, everyone usually knows, but now I fear I may have made a grave mistake."Tagged: Connor Morrison
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Post by bunny on Mar 31, 2021 10:40:45 GMT
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Post by bunny on Mar 31, 2021 9:14:11 GMT
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Post by bunny on Mar 31, 2021 8:49:58 GMT
HENRY ENJOYS HOSTING. That much is certain. He enjoys the parties - the laughter, the booze, the opium. But sometimes, he prefers the more intimate affairs, where it is just a few artist types with some models in the center of the room, where they drink by candlelight and discuss music and art and politics. . . They are less wild and more personalized. He usually hosts them when Lucy has other affairs, because he likes to keep himself busy without going to the men's club all the time. Another reason he has enjoys these more intimate gatherings is that he continues to invite Benedict Bridgerton.
Ah, Benedict. How fascinating a friendship. What started as a snarky remark at a gallery has turned into a beautiful relationship between them. A platonic one, of course, though Henry has been processing that he may... perhaps... be too fond of him. It's troubling. Not that he and Alfred aren't open to that kind of thing, of course. They are quite free, not bound by the rules of society, but at the end of the day... it should perhaps only be them. Oh dear. What to do with these feelings. Though, he is thoroughly convinced that Benedict is not like him, that he prefers the company of women. Especially since he discovered what occurred among Benedict, Miss Delacroix, and his wife. It seems he has a continuing flirtation with Miss Delacroix -- at least, that is what Henry sees at his parties. So he must push aside his feelings and see Benedict for what he is: a dear friend. But they had locked eyes that night, and Benedict had not immediately run away. They stared at each other, and for fuck's sake, Henry couldn't stop thinking about it. The gathering has continued late into the evening as it usually does, and Henry rises from his seat, admiring the final touches he's made to his sketch. He tilts his head thoughtfully and makes a mental note to fix something in the morning. For now, he is more interested in the only other patron still there: Bridgerton. His brow raises at the frustrated sigh, and Henry makes his way over to the easel. He stares at it quietly for a moment, letting Benedict brood. "Apologies?" he asks, moving his gaze from the easel to the artist. "I would like to remind you that you are never imposing, Bridgerton. I rather enjoy your company, even this late in the night. You should know that by now." He teases, giving him a warm smile before turning back to his sketch. "What pains you about this? It's perhaps the best I've seen from you yet. Even the hands are better." What? He enjoys teasing him. Tagged: Benedict Bridgerton
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Post by bunny on Mar 31, 2021 2:54:16 GMT
FOR A BLISSFUL MOMENT, Henry believes he will be left alone in his sorrow. That time has passed. He sinks down in the chair, trying to remember how to breathe. In through his nose, out through his mouth. It will be all right. This feeling is not foreign to him; he has been broken before. Plenty of times. He is a man in his prime. There will be others. And -- perhaps -- he will no longer seek LOVE. The dreaded word, that feeling that betrays even the strongest men. How hilarious it is to recall the words he said to Benedict at the opera: You have no idea what it is like to be in a room with someone you cannot live without and yet feel as though you're oceans apart. Did Alfred truly not feel the same way? It terrifies him, the notion that Alfred could live without him, that he did not have that same love and desperation. Is Henry a fool? A bumbling idiot who romanticizes even the notion of love? He would do better to just pretend, like Alfred will. To become a man that Lucy could be proud of -- to give her children. To forget about these silly dalliances, this time in his life that his father was convinced would end when Henry found his senses. When the door opens, Henry looks up like a lost deer in the woods encountering a hunter. There are tears trickling down his cheeks; his eyes are spiteful, for he tries not to cry. It is Bridgerton. Benedict Bridgerton. Why is he here? Well, of course, he was invited to the party -- Henry always extends an invitation to him. He's grown fond of their conversations, of the hours they'd take to study composition and light. But why here? Why now? ( And have you been entirely faithful to Alfred in your mind, Henry? Or have you been fantasizing about the man before you?) He swallows, feeling as though there is a rock lodged in his throat. "Bridgerton," he manages after a moment, though it is still difficult to find his voice. He is surprised by the man's apology. What has Benedict done? Nothing. He has been a good friend. Henry purses his lips together as he watches the tentative step forward. He considers. They are alone. There is no need to hide here, and yet Henry cannot allow himself to give in to this pain. Not like this. He has been so put together. He is a pillar, the foundation of many. It is hard to show his crumbling façade. Henry takes out his handkerchief and blots at his eyes briefly. "I am fine." He manages out, sounding stronger. More put together. He can do this . "Come, I do not wish to ruin the party." He smiles tightly as he goes to stand. Let it be known that Henry Granville is a fool. Tagged: Benedict Bridgerton
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