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The Queen had fled to bed barely a quarter hour after supper tonight. Since the King had chosen to be sequestered off to Kew, it had happened at least once a month during the season and more frequently as the air chilled and the ton became quiet yet again. After a decade in service to Charlotte, Brimsley had learned quickly to respect her space as much as his duties allowed. In turn, Charlotte had picked up on the ins and outs of how to get her privacy while keeping his peace of mind intact.
Brimsley knew that Her Majesty was quite likely wide awake in her bed chambers: However, that was none of his business. She was stuck with him all hours of the day; he did not wish to annoy her further by hovering at night as well.
Part of him was bothered by how her eyes were alight with mischief when she waved him off tonight. However, as he pondered this, he quickly recalled that his Queen was a mystery to him on the best days. Perhaps she was planning some outing she knew would risk sending him to an early grave.
How joyous, yet another thing to linger on his mind.
Whenever she made time for herself, however, Brimsley found himself floundering. He could try and distract himself with only so many hobbies, after all. Countless tied chess games and piles upon piles of books from the Royal Library later, he found himself sitting in front of his hearth with a tumbler of neat whiskey in one hand and a sheet of parchment in the other.
In what had become a nearly weekly ritual, Brimsley took a swig from the smooth lip of the glass before setting it down on the ground beside him, the glass making a satisfying clink as it made contact with the uneven stone of the hearth. He fumbled about on the floor for his discarded quill, fingers deftly grasping the honestly gaudy gift from the Queen herself.
The rain beat down upon the window panes of his room, and the brunette had to resist the urge to cover his ears. What was once such a soothing sound when he was a boy now grated on what was left of his heart, a constant reminder of the night that he had met the man that he would have done anything for and the ache his absence left in his chest, throbbing like an abscess.
How could a man he had not seen in nearly a decade still hold such a tight grip on his heart?
That was always a part of his charm. Brimsley mused to himself, an uncomfortable stinging sensation behind his eyes making itself known with the subtlety of elephant stampeding through the palace.
Brimsley knew this feeling. He knew it meant he was dangerously close to falling into the hole in which he had spent far too many hours over the past years. The hole in question entailed a relatively predictable pattern of events.
First, the Queen’s man would begin sobbing, tears of loss, love, and betrayal all overflowing and fighting to be heard by Brimsley. Then, he would lose all his breath. Being unable to get his breath back made it exceedingly hard to do much more than sit on the floor and desperately try to bring so much as a gasp of fresh air into his tight lungs. Usually, the cycle would end with him uselessly begging himself to forget his blonde-haired love.
Reynolds had given him some of the happiest memories of his life but, as was so often the cause of his episodes, some of his worst as well. Brimsley honestly believed them to be some of the worst emotional wounds that he could fathom one being able to survive. Sometimes, Brimsley wondered if he had survived at all or if the moment Reynolds had left, so had part of himself. Some days he felt like a fraction of the person he once was, following behind the Queen like a kite upon a string.
However, after a few breaths and downing a couple of sips of whiskey straight from the bottle, Brimsley managed to compose himself. As he began to write with shaky hands and even more wavering resolve, the man questioned why he even put effort into these letters anymore.
It wasn’t like anyone ever read them, much less responded.
Finally, his quill hit the paper and the scratching of the sharp tip against the parchment was a welcome reprieve for Brimsley’s frazzled nerves, the familiar feeling of connecting with his love equally painful and soothing at the same time.
“Francis,
I write to you again even though you have made it quite clear that you do not care to read or even send your regards. Some may call me a fool; heaven knows that I do.
If I am honest, part of me wishes you would write back to tell me how horrible I was to drive you this far away. What was it, Reynolds? Have I not aged well enough? Did you finally tire of my stubbornness? I know that you would not disappear as you did without good reason.
I have caught your eye countless times over the years at Kew, and I can see that you are disappointed in something.
I know you, Francis, better than I know even myself. –”
A tear slips unnoticed down the intoxicated man’s cheek, dropping onto the page and staining the parchment with yet another reminder of his weakness.
Pathetic, thought Brimsley, swiping angrily at his face and flinching as the weather only worsened outside the palace.
The brunette stared at the half-completed letter and felt a deep and prolonged sense of loneliness grasp at his throat, stealing his breath and heart away all in one fell swoop.
What was the point? Reynolds had gone to Kew and made a point to avoid any and all contact possible with Brimsley ever since that fateful day five years prior. Did he genuinely think anything he could write would matter to his former lover?
Were he sober, perhaps Brimsley would argue that Reynolds was most likely focusing on the King’s health and could not be distracted by any flights of fancy. Or maybe he had finally found another rider, one closer in proximity and fitter than Brimsley, with his slowly receding hairline and rapidly expanding waistline every passing year despite his best efforts to slow the turning gears of age.
But he is not sober, and while those thoughts weren’t comforting in the slightest, neither did they seem truthful. Reynolds had loved him. Brimsley knew that much.
Not enough, it seemed, as there were no miracles in sight. If great love could bring great miracles as his lover had claimed so long ago, Brimsley supposed they must have had a pretty horrid love. The only fruits the tree of their passion produced were those of countless sleepless, sorrow-filled nights and aborted glances across hallways.
Staring at the letter on the ground in front of him brought to the surface uncomfortable feelings he had been sure the alcohol would have long drowned out-- feelings of yearning and regret swirled around his chest, settling like an iron grip around his heart.
How had he ever been stupid enough to think he had a chance at fighting for Reynolds? It was apparent the man was destined for more than a simple, secret lifetime with Brimsley from the moment they met. Reynolds had always burned brightly where Brimsley sank into the background, a mere flicker of a candle compared to Reynolds’ blaze.
Gazing at Francis’s name, inscribed on the paper like he had done hundreds of times before, the grip around Brimsley’s heart tightened to the point that, for a moment, all he could do was sit and claw at the soft, well-loved night shirt he donned as his mental anguish managed to make him feel closer to the grave than any fever or infection ever had.
'Oh, Francis…' Thought Brimsley. Did he even honestly know the man whose name he had written more than any other in his lifetime? It had been so long, too long; who was to say he was even vaguely similar to the young man Brimsley had fallen so deeply for?
The parchment was in his hands now as he caressed the newly dried ink of his beloved’s name with his thumb. He pondered whether every detail he had memorized still rang true. Did Reynolds still hate grapes more than any food in the country? Had his blonde locks started to go gray around the edges yet? Does he still furrow his brow whenever something causes him to worry, and if severe enough, did he still slip up and break back into his old habit of tearing at the skin of his lip with his teeth?
Brimsley did not know. It stung to think about.
Brimsley held the paper to his chest, eyes tracing the seam on the sleeve of his shirt he had mended himself the night after his first meeting with Reynolds with a look of melancholy fondness that he had picked up from the Queen shortly after the King removed himself from her life and back to Kew.
Sometimes he would wonder if the young Queen understood just how similar their plights were. The main difference is that Charlotte knew that, despite his madness, George truly loved her more than life itself. Brimsley could not say the same for Reynolds.
Letting out a stilted, melancholy laugh, mindful of his volume even in his inebriated state, Brimsley folded the half-completed letter into thirds, knowing that he could not bear to send his courier to Kew in this weather, especially for such a pointless missive on his behalf.
If he didn’t wish to see the understanding and confused pity of the royal courier whenever he would return just to say that Reynolds had refused to do so much as acknowledge his letter, that was his business and his business alone.
Brimsley wasn’t quite sure when he had begun shaking, but it took him quite an embarrassing amount of time to realize that it wasn’t his vision shaking but his entire body.
How excellent, just what he needed tonight. Yet another reminder of his weakness.
Unbidden, Brimsley’s memory recalled the way Reynolds’ eyes would soften immediately upon identifying one of his episodes, always quickly heralding him into a private corner and tucking the brunette’s head beneath his chin, carefully linking their pinky fingers and whispering about the mundane parts of his day as if he was born with the innate ability to soothe Brimsley and his frazzled nerves.
It was– well, it had been one of the things about Reynolds that he loved more than anything else in the world.
Perhaps he hadn’t composed himself as much as he had thought, after all…
In the soft glow of the fireplace, Brimsley found himself growing impossibly more resentful at his love– What right did he have to still feel this way after so long? He had to let this rather long-lived fancy go. For his Queen. For his sanity.
… For Francis. He had to respect the man’s apparent wishes, not out of a place of care but of simple common decency. That was all.
Mind made up, the tipsy man made his way to his feet, disregarding the number of times he had come to this same conclusion over the years and forcing himself to believe that this time, it would be different. It would be for good. He’d make sure of it.
Crumpling the most recent evidence of his affections into a little ball, Brimsley threw it into the small bucket of paper scraps and old bottles in the corner of his room before making his way to the desk, grabbing any evidence of his attempts at reaching out to Reynolds or efforts to convey his gripes and sorrows on paper. He gave them the same treatment, sparing no stray quill or scrap of parchment.
As Brimsley’s actions became increasingly erratic, impressions of calm blue eyes and soothing touches flashed past his eyes, and he couldn’t help the sob that fell past his lips. Deft hands grappled with his shirt, which he had stolen from Reynolds years and years prior, to feel closer to his lover when they had to be apart.
He had to let go. There could be no more delay. If Brimsley couldn’t let him go, it would be his ruin; he was sure of it.
Brimsley repeated this fact over and over as he finally managed to grapple the fabric off his torso and began to take halting steps in the direction of his hearth. He knew that once he could no longer seek comfort in the physical reminders of Reynolds, such as his shirt or the thin band of brass that was always hidden in one of the interior pockets of his jacket, he would eventually forget it all.
Well, hopefully...
‘Shirtless, crying, and drunk… what a dignified trifecta, Bartholomew, truly showing your maturity!’ His inner voice intoned, entirely unhelpful and unfortunately correct.
“It’s for the greater good. Stop delaying it!” Brimsley hissed to himself, forcing himself to look away from the fire as he reached the shaking hand grasping the beloved shirt towards the flame, only shedding more tears when he finally heard the hissing of the flame eating its way up one of the sleeves.
He knew he had to let go.
Brimsley was so close to finally moving on… All he had to do now was let go!
“Come on, Brimsley. Stop this madness. You have to let go and put an end to all this madness. Just…” Brimsley couldn’t breathe. His wheezing attempts to push himself to take the final steps were pathetic at best, worrying at worst. The last thing he had from Reynolds was burning.
He was burning it.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t do this.
He couldn’t–
Brimsley’s resolve snapped like a twig beneath a boot as he tugged the smoldering shirt from the hearth, swatting at the burned sleeve with a panicked frenzy. Hissing in pain as he caught a burning cinder to the wrist for his efforts, Brimsley suddenly felt twenty times as sober than he had just a moment before. He was muttering to himself as he frantically gazed around his room, looking for something (anything, really) to put out his mess.
His eyes landed on the emerald glass of the carafe of water on his bedside table: He threw up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever higher power was looking out for him at this moment in time and hurried his way over.
Throwing his shirt on the floor, Brimsley fumbled with the container and, without much preamble, he poured the water directly onto the smoldering sleeve, letting out a sigh of relief when the embers were immediately extinguished.
Upon further inspection, a good three-quarters of the sleeve remained intact. Although a part of Brimsley's mind was urging him to finish the job, calling him weak for once again holding onto relics of a past love, most of him was simply overwhelmed with relief.
Maybe one day he could let go; There’s always tomorrow, after all.
Exhaustion began to creep in through the cracks in his facade; his rage and panic burned brightly but were incredibly short-lived. It always had been– it was one of the many things both Reynolds and Her Majesty were hellbent on ragging on him for.
Stooping to pick up the shirt, Brimsley collapsed back onto his mattress with a dull thud.
The brunette yearned for so much at that moment— sleep, Reynolds, the ability to go back in time, a hug…
Only one of those was within reach, however. Brimsley would have to make do.
The exhausted man curled up on his side, his trusty pillow at his side and his quilt bunched up underneath him. He was too emotionally and physically exhausted to even consider getting underneath it.
Brimsley wasn’t quite sure when, exactly, his consciousness lapsed. But one moment, he was staring out the window, the damp, charred shirt hugged to his chest as he drowsily watched the droplets race each other down the panes of glass, and the next the wavy-haired, drowsy was awoken to the softest series of taps he had ever heard.
Straining to listen out and figure out where exactly the noise was coming from, Brimsley felt tense when he realized that someone was undoubtedly tapping on his door.
A glance at the window revealed that it was likely not too long past midnight. The moon was still high in the inky black sky.
‘What in God’s name could be so time sensitive that I am to be woken up in the middle of the night?’ Brimsley thought, scooting to the edge of his bed and scanning his clothing rack for a simple shirt to throw on.
The tapping came once again, a slight bit louder this time.
Brimsley sighed at their impatience as he pulled on a loose-fitting black linen shirt, briefly running a hand through his hair as he stepped in front of the door, tugging it open with just a bit more force than strictly needed.
The first thing the brunette noticed was his visitor’s eyes. Slate blue irises reflected the flickering lamplight with a beauty that, if Brimsley didn’t know any better, he would say was frankly impossible.
But Brimsley knew those eyes. Brimsley knew them intimately well. He knew how they lit up when the man laughed and softened with even the slightest cause for concern.
He knew how they could make men weep in fear with their cruelty and make himself fall apart at the seams with no more than a single promise-filled glance.
Those eyes…. They could only belong to one man.
“F–Francis?”
“Bartholomew.” Reynolds had aged since the last time he had seen him. No longer a teenager as he had been when they met, the blonde-haired man had lost whatever softness had been left around his face, slight wrinkles marking his otherwise flawless skin, telling tales of great laughter and yet an even more significant concern, if the deep wrinkle between his brows was anything to go by. His hair was longer now, blonde strands framing his face where they had escaped the ribbon that collected all of his hair away from his face. He was as gorgeous as the day Brimsley first laid eyes on him. And he was here, tapping on his door in the dead of night.
This could not be real.
“I assure you, it very much is. The rain was rather raucous the entire ride here; would you mind if I intruded for a moment?”
Had Brimsley said that out loud? Goodness, he was more exhausted than he had thought. In his shock, Brimsley’s mouth opened of its own accord, and he couldn’t stop the words before they were already out in the air.
“What– I, yes... Yes, of course, do forgive the state of my chambers. I do not often host visitors, and it is a bit of a state.” Brimsley stumbled to step back, discreetly toeing the half-finished bottle of whiskey behind his coat rack as he reluctantly allowed Reynolds to enter his bed chamber, standing awkwardly to the side, nearly in the corner of the room.
In the light of the dwindling flame in his fireplace, Brimsley took a moment to regard his former lover, the crushing feeling of inadequacy adding to the melting pot of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Where Reynolds was tall, fit, effortlessly gorgeous, and as graceful as a leopard, Brimsley was short, soft around the edges, relatively unremarkable (in his opinion, at least), and stilted, awkward.
Utterly undesirable…
What had this man ever seen in him? Why would Reynolds ever subject himself to Brimsley’s presence again now that he was free to dally about Kew undisturbed? As Brimsley spiraled internally, Reynolds took stock of the room he hadn’t seen in so many years. Where there had once been a controlled sort of chaos around the space in the form of clothes, books, drafts of missives, and plans for the passing weeks on every available surface, there was now nothing. A slim picking of clothes, a plain red quilt, an empty desk, and an odd stale, dusty smell permeated the air as if it had been abandoned for quite some time.
Brimsley had simply come to live with it, but it seemed that Reynolds was jarred by the changes if the furrow between his brows was anything to go off of.
Reynolds’ frown grew in intensity as his eyes traveled to the bucket filled with empty liquor bottles and rolls of parchment bunched up and discarded. If only Brimsley had known the man was coming, he would have tidied up or, better yet, made a run for it while he could. However, As it stood, Brimsley could not do much more than stand like a fool, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck.
“I apologize for my bluntness, but… what business do you have here, Francis?” Brimsley finally spoke, curling his fingers into fists behind his back to ensure he remained in control of his body and did not fling himself on the unsuspecting King’s man.
“I have a couple of messages to pass along but, well, right now my business is with you, Bartholomew…” Reynolds tried to catch Brimsley’s eyes with little success, taking a step forwards as the brunette took one back.
Reynolds had always been perceptive, scarily so, and considering the way Brimsley was trying ever so hard to become one with the wallpaper behind him with not an ounce of subtlety, the heartbroken servant feared his former lover may have been able to see right through him.
“Me? Whatever business could you have with this washed up servant..?” Rarely was it that Brimsley’s voice was anything other than fond when speaking with Reynolds. Even when the King and Queen were first married, Brimsley had made an effort to understand his side and still joked around with the blonde even in their most tense moments.
Now there was none of that. Only distant melancholy and something that sounded scarily like defeat, even to Brimsley's ears, colored his words. Reynolds reached forward to try… Well, Brimsley wasn’t quite sure, but whatever the gesture was meant to be, he weaved away from the other’s gloved hand nonetheless.
He did not need to test the strength of his will any more than he already was in allowing the man into his bed chambers. Even the wounded noise Reynolds made at being avoided made Brimsley want to surge forward and embrace him like he had never left.
It was too dangerous a game to play.
What in God’s name had possessed the man? First, he ignored him for years, not bothering to send word or make any effort to connect whenever Brimsley was duty-bound to stand outside of the King’s bed chambers, and now here he is, at his door in the middle of the night acting as if nothing has changed.
“Bartholomew… Are you well? I haven’t seen you in many moons, and yet I can still tell when something is amiss.” Reynolds’ voice broke Brimsley out of his reverie, the tinge of worry wrapping around the brunette's frazzled nerves like a quilt warmed by a fire. Although it momentarily calmed the blaze of anger and betrayal, years of neglect were not so easily brushed aside.
Brimsley rarely got angry, but both men knew that when he did, it was practically unstoppable.
"Oh, now you ask if I am well! I am touched, Francis, truly! Nearly a decade of me asking after you and finally you have graced me with your presence as if we are still teenagers and not nearing thirty years of age!" Even in his rage, Brimsley's voice was barely above a whisper.
"What...?! Bart--" Reynolds started but was swiftly cut off by the firecracker of a shorter man.
"Don't you dare use my given name right now, Reynolds. You lost that right the moment you left this place and didn't so much as spare me more than a glance. You--" Brimsley jabbed his finger into the blonde's chest, eyes burning like the smoldering depths of a volcanic pit, "--acted as if I meant nothing to you. I have spent the better part of a decade yearning for you and now you stand here as if you are unaware of what you have done, which is utterly preposterous, mind you!" He took a shuddering breath before continuing.
"I have spent countless nights writing to you about everything under the sun and tracking down the poor courier to take the trip to Kew and back. You could have at least had the decency to tell me to bugger off, you know..."
The tears, of which Brimsley was sure he had run dry earlier in the night, fell unbidden down his cheeks as he stared at the shell-shocked expression marring Reynolds' beautiful face. The regal man seemed to take a step back on instinct before catching himself, the shock in his eyes quickly morphing into a steely resolve that, once upon a time, would have sent Brimsley running in the opposite direction, whether it was out of fear or arousal depended on the day.
"Bartholomew-"
"Don't." Brimsley hissed, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. Unfortunately for the brunette, Reynolds seemed to have shaken off his momentary shock and returned the attitude right back, taking purposeful strides forward until there was but an arms-length between them.
"Bartholomew Thomas Brimsley, you will stop and listen to me for a moment. You have said your piece and now it is my turn, unless I am mistaken, which I assure you I am not." The authoritative tone of Reynolds' voice caused Brimsley to pause for just a moment, which the other man must have taken as a form of agreement as he continued to speak.
"I do not know of these letters you speak of-- Don't make that face, I speak plainly. I have never so much as seen one of these servants you speak of. I did not think you would be sending me anything, Brimsley, not after the note I left on your desk that night before the King's departure!" Reynolds took advantage of Brimsley's moment of shock to reach up and carefully swipe at the tear tracks that marred his former lover's flushed skin.
"What... what letter do you speak of?"
Reynolds' eyes met with Brimsley's own watery ones and, for just a moment, the world seemed to stutter on its axis. Both boys were searching for any scrap of evidence of dishonest or ill-timed humor on the other's part, but gradually, the reality of the situation finally settled over them.
"You never got my letter-" "You didn't just leave-" They spoke simultaneously.
Reynolds let a quiet, wounded noise escape from the back of his throat.
"Of course, I didn't just leave. Did you genuinely think I would abscond to Kew in the middle of the night and not explain myself to you somehow?" Reynolds' hand, which had not moved an inch from where he had cupped it around Brimsley's jaw but moments prior, held the shorter man in place as he tried to bow his head away from the blonde's prying eyes.
"I had hoped that you would send word but... weeks passed and then months and then, well, you barely looked at me when the Queen next made her way to Kew so I presumed that you had... well--"
"--Abandoned you." Reynolds sighed sadly, eyes glistening as he gazed down at the man whose world was splitting apart and drifting back together all at once. Brimsley wondered momentarily if this is how the King felt during his episodes, questioning reality even when the evidence lay directly before him.
"...Yes, although based on the fact that you make eye contact with me when you tell me of this mysterious letter, I believe I may have been mistaken. Am I... correct to assume you did not intend to forgo me for a different rider and relinquish my existance to mere memory?" The icy shell Brimsley had adopted since Reynolds had last seen him was melting rapidly, replaced with an achingly cautious emotion between hope and disbelief.
The Queen's man's statement sent Reynolds into a bout of laughter far too loud for the late hour, but he did not care in the slightest.
Brimsley was torn between pouting at being laughed at and joining in. Ultimately, he settled for hitting Reynolds' chest with his hand, allowing it to rest atop the wrinkled fabric afterward.
"All these years, and yet you are still jealous of a man who never has or will exist. You are precious, Bartholomew." Reynolds laid his forehead tentatively against Brimsley's own, their breath mingling in the slim space between their bodies.
"Ever since I first caught sight of you, I knew you were it for me. Even if things may be difficult, even if you drive me insane more days than I care to mention, even if we are separated for far longer than we can bear, you are the love of my lifetime. You are mine, Bartholomew, just as I am yours."
Between Reynolds' saccharin words and the stoic softness that Brimsley had only ever seen behind closed doors, the brunette knew his long-standing grudge had crumbled like ancient ruins, weathered by time and sent tumbling by a singular gust of wind.
"I am yours. I have never stopped being yours, no matter how confused or heartbroken I was. You are it for me, Francis, so do not hurt me like that again, you hear?" Brimsley's fingers tightened in the fabric over Reynolds' heart as he tugged the other man closer. Brimsley's obsidian eyes bore holes into those of his lover, scouring his gaze for any sign of doubt or hesitance.
All that he found was a deep determination and a spark Brimsley had missed so dearly that he almost wanted to cry for the third time that night. Idly, he noted that he really needed to get better control of his tears behind closed doors. It was becoming quite the issue as of late.
"For as long as I breathe, you have my word that I will do everything in my power to avoid even a fraction of the hurt I caused to come to you ever again." Reynolds breathed out as if reciting a prayer, barely loud enough for even Brimsley to hear despite their close proximity.
"You had better or I may have to resort to drastic measures." The brunette matched his pitch, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"And what are those, if I may inqure?"
"You will just have to hope that you never have to find out, hm?" Was it just the moment's intimacy leading to an overactive imagination or was Reynolds somehow impossibly closer than before?
"I suppose so... the curiosity might just kill me, though, Brimsley."
Brimsley couldn't help the giggle that burst from his mouth. "And you call me the dramatic one in this partnership."
"It's because you are. I may have my moments but you? You are on a whole other level, my love." Reynolds was grinning, and Brimsley was sure he could feel himself just moments away from swooning.
"Francis... at risk of only furthering your opinion of my supposed dramatics, I must tell you that if you do not kiss me soon, I might actually kick you out of my chambers until morning." Brimsley tried his best to put on a faux-serious expression but based on the amusement plainly visible on Reynolds' face, he supposed he wasn't doing the best job.
However, he ultimately lost that train of thought when he suddenly found the warmth of his partner's lips pressing softly against his own. Instantly, he was 18 again, kissing Reynolds in the privacy of the royal garden just after dark on their last day before the future Queen's arrival: Nervous and excited and so incredibly enamoured with the man before him.
But he wasn't 18 anymore. He was nearing 30, yet somehow, in this moment, that filled him with a sense of accomplishment rather than existential dread.
The Queen's man reached up with his free hand to card his fingers through the hair at the nape of his partner's neck, completely dislodging the ribbon with not so much as a second thought. Reynolds, in return, curled his free arm around the shorter man's waist, resting his hand on the small of his back.
There, intertwined in the small, stale-smelling room that Brimsley had spent many a night drinking himself silly and reuniting with Reynolds in his dreams, the brunette swore his heart was about to burst. Someday he would want to know how, exactly, they had missed each other's letters entirely all these years (Brimsley had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps the servant he had been sending spent his free time dallying with one of the chambermaids instead of actually delivering his mail), but for the moment, all the man wanted to do was bask in Reynolds presence in a way he had not been able to do since they were teenagers.
With a gentle pop, Brimsley managed to separate his lips from Reynolds'.
"My God, you have no clue how long I've waiting to be able to do that again," Reynolds murmured, his joy evident through the quiet, sweet upward lilt to his voice. Brimsley thought he was adorable in his newfound expressiveness.
"-- I can't believe I finally get to be with you more oft than naught." Reynolds continued, not missing the confused expression that must have made its way onto the brunette's face at the declaration.
"Oh, god-- You've distracted me from my purpose here, Brimsley!" Reynolds chided playfully, pulling the other boy over to the bed and practically pushing him down on the messy quilt before taking the spot beside him. They sat with their knees facing each other, Reynolds quickly twining one of his ankles around Brimsley's.
"And what, exactly, is your purpose?" As hard as he tried, Brimsley found himself hoping beyond all hope that he came bearing news of the King's miraculous return to health or, perhaps, the information that George was to at least be moved to Buckingham house now that the children were becoming old enough to remember his absence.
The heavens seemed to be smiling down on the two of them tonight as Reynolds' lips parted and Brimsley practically hung onto every word.
"I have been sent to formally inform the Queen that the renovations she ordered on the old stable across the field are complete. Obviously, it was a reasonably quiet operation for discretion's sake, but a crew of builders has created appropriate lodgings for the King during his episodes far closer to Her Majesty. With the promotion of a few long-standing loyal guards and me by his side, His Majesty will be officially moved in come tomorrow night's end." Reynolds rambled on, getting lost in the logistics of the situation as he was often prone to do.
"That... That means... You will be here? Indefinitely?!" Brimsley was sure his eyes were as wide as dinner plates as he grabbed his partner's arm, as if Reynolds would disappear the moment he finally felt secure.
"Indefinitely. I will be a mere ten-minute walk away from now until I am old and sagging in all the wrong places." Reynolds confirmed, hand coming up to rest atop his lover's.
"Why was I not aware of this?! I understand that you left a letter that must have gotten lost in the chaos of your departure but why did the Queen never ment...--" Brimsley paused, a flash of Her Majesty's mischievous glance from earlier in the night popping to the forefront of his mind, "--Oh, damn it all... I think she has us figured out, Francis!"
Where the brunette had expected to see Reynolds begin panicking or stuttering or racing to flee Buckingham house, instead, he saw the embodiment of calm acceptance and even amusement. To say he was confused was... well, an understatement, to say the least.
"Considering His Majesty is quite rubbish at keeping secrets, especially regarding the Queen, I had expected as much.
Brimsley had to slap a hand over his own mouth to contain the exclamation that threatened to wake even the Queen herself with its volume at the revelation.
"I have not had quite enough sleep to process this. Much more and you may have to interrupt the medic's beauty sleep when I swoon and smash my head on the floor, love." As much as his statement was in jest, Brimsley was not feeling the most steady even in his stationary position.
"You act as if I would not catch you; I have done it before. It is no different now, Bartholomew." In his momentary shock, Brimsley had forgotten just how perceptive his partner was.
"You say that now. Let's not test your theory, hm?" The man, exhausted in more ways than one, motioned to the bed they sat on and felt his walls creep back up the slightest bit at the vulnerability of the night finally settling in.
"Come to bed with me, Francis?"
"You need never to ask, Bartholomew. If you wish me here, then that is where I shall be."
Moments later, once Reynolds had kicked off his boots and pilfered one of the linen sleepshirts Brimsley had left lying on the back of his desk chair. Brimsley found himself with an armful of the lithe King's man. Reynolds had wrapped one arm around Brimsley to his fingers up and down the younger man's spine and pillowed the other beneath his head so that he may gaze into his lover's eyes.
There, in the dying embers of the hearth's fire and the watery light of occasional moonbeams peaking through rainclouds, Brimsley took the opportunity to press kisses to every available inch of Reynolds' face until he eventually gave in to the gentle coaxing of the blonde man's fingers on his back and sunk his head into the space beneath his jaw, breathing in the scent of fresh parchment, spring rain and the lilac soap that he knew had to be a gift from one of the nobles (more likely than not the King himself) and, most importantly, the musky scent that could only be Reynolds'.
It did not take long until he was finally back under the thick, warm blanket of sleep that Reynolds had pulled him from.
Reynolds took a moment to take in everything he could about his lover as he dozed from the faint smell of whiskey on his breath to the warm combination of citrus and various spices from his time spent wandering in the kitchens when off duty to the way that his hair was becoming wavier than it was in his teens. The man cursed his flawed thinking in not giving Brimsley his letter in person all those years prior, knowing he could only guess at the depth of hurt he had inadvertently caused all these years. He made a mental note to track down a new royal courier; if Brimsley's letters were not getting delivered, it was obviously overdue.
That was an issue for another day, however, as now all he planned to do was sink into the embrace of the only person he had ever truly loved, the one Reynolds knew he would now have a lifetime's worth of moments with, and rest well for the first time in nearly a decade.