lord privy seal

they remain in repose, like dolls waiting to be picked up by bored children, set in the shady sidelines as the golden couple shines in the sun. how blinding the gleam and how flowing the wine that it makes his mouth slip from a daydream that it ought not to have. the sound of laughter doesn't pierce through the haze, as it is a sound that seems too dreamlike. it is her shifting features which brings him to the present, and a conversation meant to have remained in the fog of the mind. wine-rosy colour creeps to his cheeks, clearing his throat a moment as if he might hope that would be enough to seem as if he had misspoke, that the burning sun had made a mirage of words otherwise said. love, he thinks — mary must be teasing him, in that way that she loves to. "i am sure your sister would be able to find you a respectable man of good standing," he says quickly, a swift look of his eyes to white-taloned falcon as she hunts. "like how your brother has done."

he watches her with a lawyer's study, for the cracks in the lines, as if her eyes were like pots of ink that might pen lies. she is all fire; not a hearth, for she sparks too much, ready to ignite gunpowder. she laughs, as if it were all so preposterous, as if he does not have the pages of history books and his own grief to prove him otherwise. she lays out the terms as if she read them from the scroll herself, memorized to synapses. an existence summarized to a few paragraphs. machinations put in place to continue a legacy... to ensure mutual survival. it is a life beyond his wildest dreams. to be king, and his son after him to be so as well, and to let his blood soak into the tapestry of this country forevermore, to be the river from which it runs. he has already kept a tally of reasons of why she might wish to be free of him. that word in of itself the linguistic noose. wife and husband are they on parchment only; what kind of marriage is this? his mouth twists in slight displeasure at her mockery, clapping for an empty theater, though it is born more in light annoyance than hard sentiment. that he should relax any more than when he was minister, servant, seems unthinkable to him. complacent men become dead men. "don't you know me better than that, wife?" he mocks back, the lightest repartees. a moment, perhaps, which feels closer to a marriage than most. she knows that worry is at the core of him; crystallized in his veins. he considers, for a moment, the treachery which has passed through his ears. is the offense so light that it is not worth mentioning, like the barest graze of a dagger? will even a pinprick open a wound and force feverish blood to flow out? would it arouse suspicion not to be told? he must weigh the scales and try to decide which one will not tip it over. "when last i visited the lady mary," he begins, that title which plagues the former princess, though he imagines it is less than a word to her, as it was to her mother. stripped of title by law but not by honour, she carried herself as queen until heaven. mary remains under house arrest; what is there to do with her? it would be war to kill her, and war to set her free. she is well-treated within her gilded cage, and he goes to visit her sometimes, perhaps out of guilt. these are the way things must be. but a girl can dream, can't she? "it has been..." what is the right word to use here? proposed does not seem like it. "speculated that there would be peace with spain, if i were to have a different wife." these are put in the lightest terms because such fanciful talk is all there was; a prisoner knows better. "someone recognized by spain." it amuses him, he supposes, that the spain would rather the heretic over the jezebel. but thomas has never intended to be an enemy of them, only made such by fate. "it is a level of desperation that suggests to me they are exhausting all of their options before considering outright warfare." and that this one is even put into the air makes his bones feel as if they draw very close. he looks to her, with the thought that the greatest turmoil they have dealt with is that amongst each other. peace times bound by law. now, they may have to contend with an invasion, together.

It's a laugh like honey, and all he wants is for it to slide down his throat, sweet and sticky. A taste he'd never get sick of. What does Scott enjoy about his bitterness, his frostbitten lips? Scott is the golden boy, the one who radiates charm, who could be in anyone's apartment. Who could be making anyone kneel at his feet. He's selfish in making Scott chase him, but it's a feeling he's unused to. It's addictive, this power that Scott gives him. This heady high that warms up his ice cold heart. He watches the other, eyes as sharp as a fountain pen as he registers every moment, every micro-change. He doesn't want to miss anything; he wants to archive it, polaroid print it. A scrapbook of moments he was wanted. His lips twitch, not a frown, just the edge of the feeling as Scott steps away him. But soon clothes are being discarded and those sizzling nerves calm again. Thomas takes in the show, the fluid movements, his breathing shallowing, like a man falling under the ice. His hand goes to Scott's hair, gripping loosely, but having enough purchase that he could grip him tight if he tried to get away again. The world around melts like snow and it feels like nothing else exists exist him and Scott here, in this moment. He's watching, transfixed. He has dreams about Scott. God, he hopes that they break past his unconscious while Scott is ever sleeping beside him in bed. Dreams that look like this... "Show me," he beckons, his body reacting from just the anticipation, like a live wire. Scott will be able to feel it, with the way he's leaning. "I want to know. So I can help you decipher them..." A convenient alibi; Thomas, always oh so helpful...