Archive of Our Own ^beta

There is a clear recognition even in the pouring rain, and Thomas feels the sting of the tender flesh upon his back. Tired eyes disguise the fearful gaze that rests upon the figure standing at his doorstep. He is tall, lost, mumbling uncertainties yet, there is a prideful air about him. 

“What…” What are you doing here? He wants to ask, the words creep from the back of his throat yet stick like burning coals. 

“You’re Thomas.” It is not a question, but rather a statement. The red head towers over, blue eyes lowered as he fished for a response in the silence. “I’ve seen you in my dreams. That’s how I knew to come. Even if I don’t know who I am. I…I always dream about you.”

This can’t be real, Thomas thinks to himself.

It’s a warm summer, and rain falls from the sky, and it is not cold and dingy like England. Everything is new, fresh, and alive here in Italy, so he does not expect this. Bad things don’t happen here, they can’t. He refuses to accept it. Yet, he is here. The brazen redhead upon his doorstep.

“Come in.” He does not know why he says that, but the red head enters and Thomas feels the scars on his back sting.

_____

It is still summer, just a year past. 

He wakes to light spilling in from the window, and the gleam of the sun’s rays rest upon his aged face. His back throbs, but not out of pain. There is a hand that has snaked its way down his shirt, resting upon the tender, healed skin. It then moves and gently rests upon his dark-colored curls before retracting. 

Thomas groans, his throat caught between a sound of annoyance and sigh of pleasure. The scars still hurt, but he enjoys when Henry - or rather - Harry touches them. He feels better. Harry makes him feel better.

“You dozed off.” Harry says, the radiant rays reflecting off of his bright, red hair. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Well you did.” Thomas replies. “What time is it?” He asks. “I’m to meet a client this evening–”

“He canceled.” 

Thomas flips to his back, and as he lay upon Harry’s lap he begins wondering if he truly did cancel or if he came and Harry sent him away. It would not be the first time Harry chased off his clients so they could spend more time together. It was not as if they are short of money or materials, they are happy seas away from England. Even if Henry does not remember who he is. Even if he refuses to believe that he is the ‘lost King of England’.

Thomas has told him countless times to the point where Harry’s over-denial of his identity sometimes makes Thomas wonder if he’s tricking himself.  Maybe this man, adorned in English jewels and lavish fur coats when first he arrived at Thomas’s doorstep, is not the king. Perhaps, he was as he told Thomas, and English trader who had gotten lost on his way, and an injury to his head left him incapacitated in this foreign land.

Yet why then…why was he here?

Why did he know Thomas, why did he seek him out?  There had to have been a familiar subconscious hidden within the depth of Harry’s mind screaming at him, directing him to find Thomas. This subconscious had to be Henry.

Yet, Harry denied it. He still does.

Thomas, though seas away reaches out to his contacts in England to confirm his fears. It is a risk, as he himself is supposed to be dead. He was never supposed to survive the botched execution, even if it was stopped midway due its grotesque nature. Rafe nor Princess Mary were supposed to smuggle him, half alive to Italy and help him start a new life. 

Though he supposes if that can happen, than an amnesiac king showing up disoriented at his door step is possible. Not two months after the arrival of Henry at his residence were Thomas’s fears confirmed. The king has gone missing, Rafe says, an attempted assassination or attack, they don’t know, he is gone and England is in chaos. 

So it all points back to the man who showed up at his door a year ago. The king…the prince, the commoner. But he is Harry, and he wants to be called Harry so Thomas calls him that. He wants to stay with Thomas, so Thomas allows it. 

“Just a week, and you are on your way.” Thomas had warned him, and Harry promised to heed that command. However, Harry or Henry…he is not great at taking orders from others. He stays, they grow closer. Short conversations grow long, nights in separate rooms converge to Harry sitting at the edge of Thomas’ bed, talking to him hours into the night about religion, about Italy, about Thomas.

Soon after, very seldom are discussions the only thing that fill their nights.

Harry makes the first move, as customary. Henry is the one who chases, so why would Harry be any different? The first night they kiss, Thomas allows it openly, but when they want to go further, he pauses. 

It is immoral, not because he lays with another man, but because this is the king. Memories or not, Thomas is below him, a commoner, a fugitive and a traitor. He knows they cannot go back from this, for if he allows Harry in, they are bound. And if Harry’s memories return, and he realizes what Thomas has allowed him to do… 

 “I held a snake once…” Thomas says the third or fourth time he has denied Harry. “I didn’t know whether or not it was poisonous, but it bit me.”

“Am I the snake?” Harry asks. 

“Yes. You are.” Thomas admits. “Yet, I know you are poisonous, and your venom runs deep. That much I understand. What I don’t know Harry is when you will strike. It is not a matter of if, but when.”

Harry stops him with a kiss, as they sit in low light, the oil lamp dimming from hours of use. He strokes Thomas’ hair, then cheek. He is gentle as he tugs on the collar of his shirt and softly, without verbal permission, simply a look of assurance in Thomas’s eyes, pulls down. The fabric slips from his shoulder, and it rubs uncomfortable against the healed welts on his back and neck. Harry has seen them, and they do not turn him away. Often time, he kisses them, just as he kisses Thomas now. On the collar bone, along the neck. 

“Just close your eyes.” Harry says, in a voice, just like Henry’s.  “I will not bite.”

“What if you remember who you are one day?” He asks, as if he knows it is foolish to be carried away like this. Why would he allow such a thing? For as always, he is a victim to Henry’s will and allows the king (or not king) to push him down upon the mattress. 

“I will not,” Harry reassures as if a snake waits to strike. 

Harry takes him that night, and it is better than Thomas has ever imagined. He supposes he should savor it, for when Harry’s memories return, it will be over. 

____

“I did chase him away. Your client” Harry confesses, placing his book down, quill still in hand.

“I figured.” Thomas isn’t angry, he can’t be angry at Harry. 

“You are my muse, and I’m stuck mid poem. If you were to go to work well…I’d be stuck here until you returned.”

Thomas sits up but does not make it that far. He leans against Harry’s broad shoulder, eyes closed. Harry doesn’t say a word, he continues to write. There is a calmness that Thomas allows to enter their space, he doesn’t fret about lost clients or the chaos currently befalling England.

They are happy now.

Harry is the carefree poet he always wanted to be. He is popular among the town for his song, his writing, his art…he is talented, and his skills of creation are known for and wide. He has amassed a following; priests, dukes, and lords who commission his poetry, who come to hear him speak, and sing. He throws lavish parties and is free to be himself without the weight of the crown.

And he is free to love Thomas, openly and tenderly. Thomas is quiet, he rather hides from the company that Henry invites.  

He is aged now, and he fears his body is older than it should be, but Henry loves him. He makes him feel young and alive, and they have pledged themselves to each other.

All is well now; Thomas forces himself to accept.

Maybe Henry will never come back. Rafe is away, Richard and so many others believe him to be dead, Gregory despises him and thinks he is dead, he is dead to most…so this is what he has.

So he pretends as long as he can, that this life will last. He pretends that he doesn’t lay against the snake, waiting for it to bear its fangs inside of him. This time, it will kill him.

____