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“You can’t be serious,” Buckingham says.
Richard, who was in the process of removing his shirt in a slow, tantalizing way, is brought to a halt. “What?”
“You know… that,” Buckingham says as he points with his head.
Richard blinks, slightly annoyed. By this point they should be naked already and rolling on the bed. “What?”
“The boar, Richard. The boar!” Buckingham says, doing his best to mask the way his voice breaks in exasperation.
“Oh,” Richard says. “You mean Whitey?”
As if on cue, Whitey snorts softly by the foot of the bed. He tries nuzzling against Buckingham’s leg, who looks back paralyzed with horror.
“Yes, I mean Whitey,” Buckingham finally admits. “We can’t… do things if he’s in the room.”
Richard sighs, realizing that his chances of getting any action tonight are rapidly dissipating. “Why not? We’ll close the canopy.”
“It’ll know,” Buckingham says, as if he was describing an all-knowing, all-powerful entity. “This is Catesby’s fault. He probably left him here on purpose.”
“It’s not the first time Whitey has spent the night in my room,” Richard says, as he extends a hand to pet him. Whitey takes this as encouragement to hop on the bed, and Buckingham almost whimpers.
“Richard, not on the bed!” he says.
“Oh, come on,” Richard says, clearly enjoying the pained look on Buckingham’s face. “He’s perfectly clean, and besides…” Richard says as he pets Whitey’s cheek affectionately, “it is a cold night. If you’re not sleeping here at least Whitey will keep me warm.”
“What? If I’m not— please, I…” Buckingham stutters. He seems to go from disbelief, to anger, and then finally to resignation as he starts undoing the knot on his trousers.
Richard can’t help a smug grin when Buckingham, reduced to only a shirt, blows off the candles and joins them on the bed. Whitey shuffles between them to make space and lets out a happy grunt, perfectly content between the two warm bodies.
“Aww, he likes you,” Richard coos.
“This is unbelievable,” Buckingham mutters to himself.
“No, I mean it,” Richard says. “Whitey is always wary of strangers. He must sense we’re very close and that you pose no danger.”
“Well…” Buckingham says, the tiniest smidge of pride in his voice. “Animals do have their intuition. I think I read somewhere that pigs are particularly smart.”
“Really?” Richard says.
“Really,” Buckingham repeats.
Whitey snorts, seemingly in agreement, and the two men are unable to suppress their laughs.
“I never thought I would ever sleep with an animal like a commoner,” Buckingham says, tentatively trailing his hand through Whitey’s fur. After the laughter has died down, he still finds himself smiling.
“I bet you also never thought you would ever sleep with a king,” Richard says, and even in the dark room, Buckingham can see the way Richard looks at him, soft and happy.
“Good night, my king,” Buckingham says, and feels Richard’s hand on his cheek. He takes his hand and plants a slow, sweet kiss.
“Good night…” Richard says after a pause. Buckingham tries to keep his eyes open for as long as he can, tries to memorize the image of his king as he is now, sleepy and content, but soon fatigue takes hold and the world of dreams claims him.
And it is here, when he is half asleep and half awake, in this in-between world of shadow and soul, that he hears Richard’s voice complete his previous sentence.
“… my love.”
But when he wakes up he won’t remember.
What he will remember, however, is that Richard does absolutely nothing to stop Whitey from slobbering all over his face the next morning.
“No! No! Stop!”
“Sweet dreams, your grace?” Richard says with an amused look on his face. He’s already half dressed and sitting by the table, eating from a bowl of berries.
“Ugh!” Buckingham exclaims as Whitey finally recedes, allowing him to sit up on the bed.
“I was going to wake you up with a kiss, but it seems Whitey wanted to go first,” Richard says, the traitor. Whitey scurries away from the bed to his master, who offers him a berry.
“Don’t reward this sort of behavior,” Buckingham says, standing up. He walks over to the small table with the bowl of water to wash his face, scrubbing himself raw with the cloth.
Richard offers him a cup of drinking water with a mischievous smile, and Buckingham looks at him with a betrayed look on his face.
“Don’t pout,” Richard says as he takes the cloth from Buckingham to help him dry his face.
“I do not pout,” Buckingham says after taking a sip from the cup, decidedly not pouting. He would like to say he will never forgive Richard for the horrors inflicted upon his person since the previous night, or something to that effect, but privately he knows he would forgive the man anything.
“My lords,” a voice says as the door opens to reveal Catesby, bringing a tray of pastries from the kitchen. The smell of freshly baked treats is enough to distract Whitey from his reign of terror it seems, because as soon as Catesby enters the room he runs out the door like a wild beast out for blood.
“You might want to catch him before he breaks into the butter again,” Richard says calmly.
Buckingham blinks. “The butter?”
“Yes, my lord,” Catesby says with a solemn look on his face. “I will come back later to help you dress.”
The door shuts, leaving Richard and Buckingham alone in the room.
“Richard, the butter?” Buckingham repeats, aghast. “We eat from that butter.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, would you like some now?” Richard says as he inspects the tray Catesby left behind on the table. “It seems we have some jam, as well.”
“I… don’t feel particularly hungry,” Buckingham admits.
Richard lets out a small laugh. “Well, we can’t have that,” he says as he walks over to Buckingham, swinging his hips. “Perhaps I can help the young duke recover his appetite.”
Buckingham smirks, placing his hands around Richard’s waist, and when Richard pulls him in by the laces of his shirt, he feels a hunger of a different kind. “I think you might.”