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The room in which George had first kissed Samuel had been beautiful, but Sam didn’t remember much of it. He remembered the smooth slide of the textured wallpaper against the nice coat he’d been wearing, and the jolt of being pushed forcefully against the wall; he remembered the way his feet had sunk into the fluffy carpet and the way his boots had pinched. Most of all, though, he remembered the unyielding press of the King’s mouth on his.
It wasn’t the most pleasant memory, but it carried a sense of nostalgia for days when things full of hope had been beginning. Sam cherished it.
***************
The room where they had first dined together was small and cozy, full of warm light and the savory aroma of the roast fowl they’d been served. Samuel had nervously avoided His Majesty’s eyes, speaking haltingly and acting restrained. His Majesty had reached across the table and tilted Sam’s chin up. He’d probably intended to smile softly, but the king had no in-betweens: he either smiled brightly enough to compete with the sun, or he didn’t smile at all.
“If you don’t want to be here, Bishop, just say so.”
There it was again, that exclusive binary: either incredibly selfish or as giving and unselfish as Christ himself.
“Of course I want to be here,” Sam, unlike George, smiled softly. “I’m just nervous. Surely I can’t be blamed for that.”
“If I did, it would be terribly hypocritical of me to blame you when I am equally as nervous.”
***************
The first time Samuel kissed George was in the hallway outside that dining room, overwhelmed with hopeful, grateful surprise and something like desire. He didn’t remember the hallway at all, except that wood paneling had dug into his back when he leaned up against the wall, arms around George’s neck. The kiss managed to be both soft and overpowering at once, and when George pulled away, Sam only took half a breath before reeling him back in.
***************
The room they’d had their first fight in was George’s private sitting room.
“You can’t just—you can’t just have his hands cut off!” Sam had protested, more loudly than he’d meant to. The messenger who had informed the king of a thieving pageboy, the subject of the argument, had looked up in shock at the protest and quickly scurried out of the room.
“Why not? That’s the punishment for theft.” His Majesty had shrugged as if he hadn’t just ended the welfare of a human being.
“What if it was me? What if I’d stolen from you?” Samuel couldn’t deny that he’d gotten more argumentative since he’d come to England, though he couldn’t have given a specific reason for it.
“You’re mine. I couldn’t hurt you.”
Sam had blinked in surprise. “Yours? Of course, I’m your subject. So was that boy.”
George had huffed in exasperation, throwing his hands up. “You’re special.”
Now Sam was angry. Anger scared him; he needed to be able to think clearly, but he felt blind. “I’m special? So you corrupted a bishop. Very special. Good job.”
“Corrupted? Is that all you think of me?” George had swallowed hard.
The words ‘no, never,’ and ‘no, I love you,’ pushed at Sam’s throat, beat against his ribcage along with his heart, demanding out, but when he tried to reply, that wasn’t what he said.
“Less what I think of you, more what you make obvious.”
Samuel regretted the words the second they slipped from his mouth.
“Out. Leave.”
Sam had left without looking back, because he knew if he did, he’d stay.
***************
The room they made up in was dimly lit, but that didn’t matter. Sight wasn’t necessary for speech—or sensation.
***************
They had only been together for three weeks, but it felt like forever as Sam reflected on it, tracing languid patterns across George’s chest.
George’s breathing rate finally slowed, and he laughed hoarsely. “I swear, Sammy, for a minute there, you glowed.”
Sam just grinned in response. Too tangled in the covers to move and too blissed out to care, he mumbled something into George’s collarbone.
“Hmmm?”
“I said, ‘can we do that without fighting first?’.”
“Absolutely any time you want.”
Sam sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry I said those things. I—”
There were those words again, on the tip of his tongue, and all he could think about was the damage they’d done before, when he hadn’t said them.
“—I love you.”
George wrapped an arm around him tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of Sam’s head.
“Thank god I’m not the only one,” he murmured. “I love you so much, Sammy.”