Some nights, all the drinking and carousing that are to be had in England are not enough to satiate Henry Plantagenet. He is young, and common sense has not yet begun to apply to him. Thomas Becket drinks and carouses alongside him with great enthusiasm and proficiency and is never satiated, but he takes this to be a matter of temperament rather than of the years that separate him from his king.
Thomas likes his bed to be warm and thick with furs, and he has no objection to Henry finding his way into it, but it is a bit much that he is thrashing around and chattering without the slightest intention of sleeping a wink. Having purchased this luxury at the price of honor should he not be able to enjoy it?
He speaks to Henry of weighty matters calculated to sink his lids shut, but Henry is glib and impervious. "You can't be trying to improve me at this hour, so you must be trying to impress me! Don't you know that I'm already impressed?" he interrupts to ask.
Thomas reaches out his hand and strokes the inside of Henry's thigh, firmly, the way he soothes a nervous horse. Henry's hose are long gone, and his thighs are still slightly sticky and musky with the scent of the brunette who had given up her evening to them. His soft whimper is almost like that of a horse releasing all its fears in a single breath.
Before Henry knows just what is happening, Thomas has his head beneath the coverlet and he is licking, licking Henry's thighs clean of every trace of her. Henry stops just short of begging with words, but desire ripples all through his body, puddles in his cock, spills over as Thomas completes his self-appointed task.
Thomas thinks he sucks cock rather well, competently and with a flair all his own, but that isn't why Henry shudders and comes like divine revelation, falling back flat, eyes closed, lips parted. "Oh my Thomas," he repeats himself, reverently.
"Oh, my prince," Thomas Becket draws up his coverlet around him and sighs, tenderly. "Sleep a little now." Henry curls up on his side like a sleeping puppy, but his eyes are open again.
"Thomas, do you love me?"
"I understand you, my prince."
"I didn't ask you to understand me, did I?" Henry ruffles.
"I think you'll find it's a far rarer thing than love. Love is a slut whose affections are fleeting, and we won't speak of her tonight, my king."
"I thought you liked sluts. You certainly liked that girl we had earlier well enough."
"Certainly, my prince. I have no objection to taking my pleasure where I find it today. But I have learnt not to expect it to be there tomorrow."
"You're talking over my head again, Thomas."
"Yes, I know how you like it." But Thomas draws Henry's head up to his pillow and silences his protests with a gentle kiss.
Some nights, Henry Plantagenet finally gives in to sleep with arms twined around him and warm breath at his neck, and Thomas Becket abandons himself to it, luxuriating in Henry's reflected warmth and contentment. Some nights cannot last forever, but while they do, Thomas is surprisingly pleased.