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It does not take much to wake Reynolds, nowadays. After so many long years at the King’s side, he is used to being wrenched from even the deepest sleep by the click of the door opening, a soft knock, a ringing bell.
Tonight, it is a knock.
A knock means the King is wandering but not dangerous. Reynolds’ job will be to follow. He drags a hand over his face and groans–he had hoped that after the tiring day and his calming medicine, the King would sleep through the night and long into the morning.
Well. There is nothing to be done. Reynolds hauls himself out of bed, tugs on his trousers and grabs one of his boots before hesitating.
That had not been the usual knock. That had been–
Oh!
He opens the door with a boot still dangling from one hand, his chest bare, his hair untended.
Sure enough, standing in the doorway with a tilt to his head and a growing smile on his lips as his eyes skip from Reynolds’ face down to his bare chest, is Brimsley. Brimsley, in his deep blue jacket and red sash, his hair in windswept disarray, his cheeks tinged with pink, his beloved brown eyes twinkling.
Whatever is he doing here?
Reynolds glances down the corridor, confusion swirling with delight inside his chest. “The Queen–?” he asks in the barest whisper.
“Asleep at Buckingham House,” Brimsley whispers back.
Reynolds’ eyebrows shoot upwards, and he steps back, opening the door wider to allow Brimsley entrance to his bedchamber. The pace of Reynolds’ heart changes as soon as Brimsley crosses the threshold and they are properly alone–though they are not safe.
There are two doors into Reynolds’ bedchamber, now. The one that Brimsley entered through, leading into the empty corridor, and the one on the other side of the bed that leads directly into the King’s bedroom.
Since Reynolds moved in here, his meetings with Brimsley have had to be few and far-between. The danger is so much greater than it used to be–and it has always been high. Reynolds really should bid Brimsley leave as soon as possible.
Instead, he opens his arms and Brimsley steps into them, sweeping Reynolds into a tight embrace, and as it always does, the world falls away.
Brimsley is warm, tucked into Reynolds’ chest where he belongs, face pressed to Reynolds’ neck, fingers splayed across the bare skin of Reynolds’ back. Reynolds presses a kiss into Brimsley’s hair, smiling at the thinning patch at his crown. He smells like lavender soap and safety and a little like horse , and Reynolds swells with that so-familiar sensation of fondness, of adoration, of love.
“Is everything well?” Reynolds whispers into Brimsley’s hair. “It is late. You must have–did you ride here?”
“All is well,” Brimsley says, exhaling into Reynolds’ chest, running his fingers up and down Reynolds’ spine. “I missed you.”
Reynolds tightens the embrace as the swell of fondness deepens, and threatens to sweep him away. “And I you,” he says. He closes his eyes. “Always.”
Brimsley is the first to pull away, softly tugging free of Reynolds’ arms and looking about him with a frown. “Where– oh .” He crosses to the door, leaning outside and bringing in with him a small basket. He smiles, that gorgeous glint back in his eye. “Would you care to join me for a picnic?” he asks.
Reynolds gapes. The vision before him is nothing short of astonishing. It is the middle of the night. The fact that Brimsley is even here is more than a miracle, but to find him smartly dressed, horse-scented, picnic-wielding, is nearly more than Reynolds’ heart can take.
Is it a notable day? Their anniversary is not for another month, and twenty-eight years is hardly one that calls for a specific acknowledgement.
“You romantic soul,” Reynolds tells him, disbelief warring with adoration. “Tell me you did not carry a picnic basket here on horseback.”
Brimsley just grins.
Reynolds had foolishly believed he could not love the man in front of him more–has believed that a thousand times before and been proven wrong.
A picnic.
Oh, it is a dangerous idea. Reynolds is meant to be stationed within this room at all times when he is not within the King’s chambers or following His Majesty on his mad rambles. If the King wakes and Reynolds is not here…
“You will lose me my job,” Reynolds tells Brimsley. His voice is soft and brimming with affection.
The ghost of a frown crosses Brimsley’s forehead. “Was it a bad day? I will gladly leave the supplies as a gift and go. I know we cannot be caught.”
“Don’t you dare,” Reynolds says. “After you came all this way? The King will keep for a night. If I am missed, I will simply say I was feeling unwell and chose to take some night air.”
Brimsley’s lips press into a fond smile. “Are you certain? You know I am just happy to see you.”
“Well, I am not happy with just seeing you,” Reynolds says, casting around for his other boot and pulling them both on with careful, quiet movements. “I have been promised a picnic with my beloved. I will settle for no less.”
The smile that breaks across Brimsley’s face is nothing short of extraordinary. Reynolds bathes in the glow of it, his own smile tugging at the muscles of his face. He fumbles his shirt, attempting at first to stuff his arm into the neck hole, and Brimsley presses a hand to his face to muffle a laugh before coming forward and helping him dress, just like they used to all those years ago. When the King still had lucid days just as often as mad ones. When the Queen could call him back from the brink. When Reynolds and Brimsley were stationed in the same building, together.
Brimsley reaches up on his toes to arrange Reynolds’ hair, and Reynolds ducks his head to help him reach, taking in the concentrated focus on Brimsley’s face, the small creases at the edges of his eyes.
“Did I wake you?” Brimsley asks, his whisper brushing over Reynolds’ lips.
“I am often woken,” Reynolds says, as Brimsley steps back to admire his handiwork. Reynolds poses for him and is rewarded with another smothered laugh. “I am glad to be woken by you. ”
“Flatterer.”
“It is the truth.”
Brimsley smiles widely, openly, unrestrained, and Reynolds wishes not for the first time that he had a picture of that smile, hidden away within his jacket to bring out during the most difficult moments.
“Shall we?” Reynolds offers his arm.
Brimsley sweeps up the picnic basket and fits himself at Reynolds’ side, just where he belongs.
The corridors beyond Reynolds’ room are quiet, dim with the shadows of nighttime, but there is still a danger. They steal around corners like young boys, Brimsley poking at Reynolds’ ribs and tugging him back by his jacket so he can check the path ahead is clear.
A part of Reynolds cannot even believe the other man is here–every time he catches sight of Brimsley’s shining eyes, his boyish smile, a shock of amazement sears right through Reynolds’ bones. It has been a difficult day, as Brimsley guessed. It has been a difficult week, even. The pressure of it all has been resting heavier upon Reynolds’ aging shoulders, and now in the span of a few minutes, Brimsley has somehow removed that growing pressure entirely.
It is a miracle.
He is a miracle, and Reynolds somehow keeps managing to forget that, no matter the ache of missing him.
“Hey.” He catches Brimsley’s gloved hand as they approach an alcove just off the servants’ entrance. Then, when Brimsley turns to him in surprise, Reynolds grabs his lapel and tugs him in for a kiss.
Brimsley moves eagerly under his touch, but with a surprised noise in the back of his throat. Reynolds feels him smile.
“You are remarkable,” Reynolds tells him, pulling away just so he can watch Brimsley sway back into his arms. “Go on. You were leading me towards an adventure.”
“Hm?” Brimsley blinks up at him. “My apologies, Sir, I seem to have forgotten.”
“Oh? Have I truly stunned you? Your mental facilities must be on the decline.”
“I’ll show you decline,” Brimsley jabs him with his elbow. “Come along, you menace. Attempting to seduce me in the stairwell when we are both well past fifty.”
“You don’t look a day past forty five,” Reynolds says, reaching past him to open the door into the grounds. “After you.”
Brimsley sniffs. “Flatterer.” Then he gives Reynolds a pleased, sideways look, and leads him onto the open grounds.
The air is slightly cooler than Reynolds had anticipated, after the warm day, but when he looks up, the sky glitters with the light of countless stars, and the moon casts a stunning, otherworldly glow to the space. Reynolds finds he does not mind the excuse to walk closer to Brimsley.
“Where to?” he asks.
“I thought of that spot by the river,” Brimsley suggests. “I imagine the night jasmine will be blooming.”
“Perfect.”
Reynolds glances up at the house, then dares to sling an arm around Brimsley’s waist, tugging him close so their uneven footsteps send their stride into a wobbly dissonance. Neither of them attempts to move away, as they steal through the shadows, down the carefully-manicured paths of the Kew gardens, and eventually their strides find their symmetrical rhythm.
“Tell me all that has happened since I saw you last,” Reynolds says, and Brimsley does. He leans into Reynolds’ side and talks, the cadence of his voice soothing hurts Reynolds did not even know he had. He tells of the Queen and her hunts for Lady Whistledown, her newfound determination to marry her children off, her teas with Lady Danbury and Lady Bridgerton. He tells of her discussions of love, and how he has been thinking more of Reynolds of late, and Reynolds turns his head and presses a kiss to Brimsley’s hair.
“You mean to say,” he teases, “That I have not always occupied your every thought? It seems the two of us are indeed at odds, then, for I think of you every moment of the day.”
Brimsley laughs, nudging into Reynolds with his shoulder, knocking their aligned footing once more to chaos. “I know that is not true. Tell me of the King.”
“There is not much to say.”
“Then tell me of you , my love.”
“Oh, there is not much to say there, either,” Reynolds says, but he finds there are stories to tell, anyway. He tells Brimsley of the thoughts that have been occupying him of late; of the books he has been reading and the latest updates within the King’s ramblings. He tells him of nighttime awakenings and the blister formed by his new boots.
They speak of life. Of the little things, and of the big things.
They speak of memories, of their early arguments and the way they used to butt heads over floral arrangements. They laugh over the way they used to tear each others’ clothes off with the promise of fifteen minutes.
“I believe it would take the full fifteen minutes for me to get out of these boots, now,” Brimsley says.
“I’d help you,” Reynolds replies. “We could do it in five.”
“Could we, now?” Brimsley waggles his eyebrows, and Reynolds is tempted to take him up on the offer, despite the cold.
“Fiend,” he says.
“Only when you’re around,” Brimsley says.
They reminisce about those years of a shared bedchamber, arguing lightly over which of them used to steal the duvet (it had definitely been Brimsley), and which of them used to snore (that was, admittedly, Reynolds).
They do not talk of the day the Queen moved back to Buckingham House. Tonight is not about melancholy. The tendrils of it creep over a lull in the conversation, and so Reynolds draws Brimsley in for another kiss in the moonlight until his thoughts are firmly set in the here and now.
“God in Heaven, your hands are cold,” Brimsley says, springing back when Reynolds reaches to cradle his neck.
Reynolds wiggles his fingertips and bares them like spears. “Would you care to warm them for me, beloved?”
“Not on your life,” Brimsley says. “I brought you wine and strawberries. Warm your own hands.”
“ Strawberries ?” Reynolds says. “My goodness, you do treat me. Carry on, then.”
“I shall.”
Brimsley waits for Reynolds to tuck himself back in at his side before continuing on their meandering stroll through the midnight gardens.
They hear the stream before they reach it, the rush of hissing water skipping merrily over stones. The smell in the air shifts; the night jasmine is indeed in bloom, and both Brimsley and Reynolds pause to breathe it in.
“Heavenly,” Brimsley says.
He is the heavenly one, Reynolds thinks. He is not quite a big enough sap to say it out loud, however. It is a little on the nose, and he has not yet had any wine. Perhaps it will slip out later.
“Here, I think,” Reynolds suggests, as they reach a flat expanse of grass. He considers the white material of his trousers. “I don’t imagine a blanket would fit in that basket.”
“No,” Brimsley admits. “But I did bring…” He produces a pair of napkins with a flourish, and Reynolds laughs.
“My dear Brimsley,” he says. “I do love you.”
Brimsley colours, his shoulders wiggling a little with delight. “Well. I should hope so.”
Reynolds leans in to give him another kiss, and another on the nose, and then he lays out his napkin and perches atop it carefully as Brimsley reveals the wonders within his picnic basket.
There are the promised strawberries. A small gathering of slightly-squashed chocolate cakes. A hunk of cheese. And–
“Is that what I think it is?”
Reynolds grabs the wine and holds it up, squinting in the moonlight to read the label properly. It is –his very favourite vintage. “Brimsley,” he says, looking over their picnic at the other man. Brimsley sits with his knees gathered in, and a shy, pleased look on his face, and Reynolds was once again wrong.
Somehow he loves the man even more than he had a half hour ago.
How does this keep happening?
“Oh, come here,” Reynolds says, setting the wine (carefully) aside and reaching for Brimsley. He forgets about grass stains, seizes Brimsley’s beloved face and kisses him until neither of them can remember their names.
That’s more like it.
The wine is opened a while later, after several complaints about cold hands, some muffled laughs turning into kiss-smothered moans, and a surprisingly earth-shattering orgasm.
“Well,” Brimsley says after, sitting back on his elbow looking positively rumpled, swilling wine in his free hand. “That went down even better than expected.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Reynolds says, shifting so he can lean back against Brimsley, looking up at the sky through the canopy and sipping wine. “Turning up with strawberries and wine in the middle of the night. Honestly.”
“Well,” Brimsley says, leaning over him to select a piece of cake. “Maybe.”
Reynolds tips his head back to smile at him. “It is good to see you,” he says.
Brimsley feeds him a bite of cake, and for a long while, they exist together, sipping at decadent wine and eating decadent cake and humming appreciation for each bite. When Brimsley’s elbow tires, he lies back and stares up at the sky, and Reynolds moves so he is lying on Brimsley’s shoulder.
Then he shuffles closer, because it is a bit cold.
Brimsley whinges about his cold hands again, and Reynolds chooses not to stick his fingers beneath Brimsley’s shirt (again), because he is a saint.
Time slips past. Reynolds’ eyes grow heavy.
The empty glass cradled in his hands falls to his chest, and he startles, sitting up and rubbing his hands over his face with a groan.
“Hm?” Brimsley stirs, blinking up at him with a yawn before sitting quickly upright himself. “Goodness. I did not think the ground could be so comfortable.”
“Was it comfortable?” Reynolds asks, reaching over to pluck a stray blade of grass from Brimsley’s hair.
“Not at all,” Brimsley laughs. “My back will be a nightmare come morning.”
“And I will not be able to look left for a week,” Reynolds says, rubbing his neck. He rises to his feet with a long groan–his knee clicks–and he holds out a hand for Brimsley.
“Come along,” he says.
Brimsley sighs, but he rises, packing away their picnic detritus and taking Reynolds’ hand. “I suppose we should get back,” he says.
Reynolds raises one eyebrow. “Bored of me already?”
“Never.” Brimsley blinks up at him. “But we cannot fall asleep on the grounds. We ought to return.”
“We will return,” Reynolds says. “And there will be no sleeping in the grass.” Likely there would be no sleeping at all. “First, will you dance with me?”
The pleased flush that colours Brimsley’s skin is truly delightful. Reynolds remembers the first day he discovered Brimsley’s secret love for dancing; how could he ever forget the way the Queen’s Man had stood at the edge of that ballroom, so much want in his eyes as his feet subconsciously tapped out the rhythms of the dancers?
Reynolds had wanted nothing more than to sweep him into the middle of them all, to capture Brimsley’s surprised delight and show him off in front of everyone– look , he had wanted to shout (still wants to shout), look at how beautiful this man is within my arms.
Instead, Reynolds had waited until they were alone in Brimsley’s rooms, and he had swept the man into his arms and paraded them both in a mockery of the performance they had watched all evening. They had both been appalling. They had laughed so hard Reynolds’ stomach had hurt.
They are not so appalling anymore. When Reynolds pulls Brimsley close, Brimsley fits into his arms like spellbinding perfection. His left hand clasps Reynolds’, the golden ring now a touch too tight on his third finger–a gift of many years ago, typically hidden beneath a white glove, and their careful secret. Reynolds lifts Brimsley’s hand to press a kiss to the ring, and then he leads them into their favourite routine.
There is no music, except the bubbling of the stream and the pulse of their hearts. There is no audience except the frogs in the river and the ants in the grass. There is no decadent gown to trip on, or a newly-fitted suit to marvel upon. Still, it is perfect.
They move as if they are one body, so many years of practise within their footwork now. Reynolds spins Brimsley away from him, brings him back, locks eyes with him and basks in the flush of heat that prickles up his spine.
An owl hoots somewhere in the trees. A breeze rustles through the branches and ghosts over Reynolds’ skin. The air smells of jasmine. And Brimsley is in Reynolds’ arms.
If every night were like this one, Reynolds would consider himself the happiest man in the world. As it is, he stores up the joy like a child hoarding toys, and he fills the aching parts of his soul with the upturned shape of Brimsley’s eyes, the bone-deep peace humming in Reynolds’ heart, the press of Brimsley’s hands, the sound of the stream, and the undeniable bliss of knowing he is loved.
Right here. Right now.
Tomorrow, Brimsley will return to his post. No doubt the both of them will be half-delirious from a lack of sleep. It will be worth it. Tomorrow night, Reynolds will sleep alone in his bed, and he will think of tonight, and he will smile.
His beautiful, romantic-hearted, beloved Brimsley.
“It will be difficult to top tonight,” Reynolds says, swaying with his love beneath the moonlight. “I shall have to think hard to woo you even half as well.”
Brimsley smiles, and as their steps slow he grows closer, his head resting now beneath Reynolds’ chin. “This was not supposed to be a challenge,” he says.
“Well, I have taken it as one,” Reynolds decides. “Just you wait, beloved Bartholomew. I shall sweep you off your feet so entirely you will be swooning for a week.”
“Well then, my dear Francis,” Brimsley says. “I will anticipate your response.” He grins, that glint back in his eye again. “And then I shall outdo you once more.”
“You may try,” Reynolds says.
Please , he thinks. Try.
Give me another night like this.
Give me a lifetime of stolen moments.
Give me you.
Always, you.