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It is mere minutes before Henry decides the meal is not enough, nor the presence of God. The chapel provides solitude that the King is rarely allotted, guards disjointed by wood doors, only to ever enter at the King's word. If you'd ask him, Henry would say the diplomatic answer, that it was the overbearingness of lingering in the presence of the Holy Father that led him to such restfulness, that it was the domineering spirit inside him that made him no longer able to sit still.
“I deserve a reward. For putting up with all those pestering priests this morning.” Henry pauses, considers, as if the idea had just procured itself in his head, as if he hadn't been ruminating on it for the last hour, rehearsing how to say it. “Of course, you deserve a reward too, with your new honor.”
Thomas, to his credit, pretends not to be swayed so easily, sat straight in the pew next to Henry, in great opposition to the manner in which his King slouches beside him, legs flopped and propped up as he picks through the plate. “Wearing this ring and being by your side is honor enough, my prince.”
“Yes, Yes! But we are due for a celebration. It shall be your first act as Chancellor. Something, imperious, grand, memorable.” He gestures wildly, as if God or Thomas were to grab his hint out of thin air, put it to their own lips.
Thomas is persuaded, smiling to himself at the King’s sudden timidity, the pout growing on his face at Becket’s refusal to give in, to offer himself up on a silver platter, not unlike the one their crumbs sit atop now. “We have promised them the hunt, my lord.”
Henry nods, eager, plate pushed aside in favor of climbing across the pew, grabbing at Becket’s thighs and knees, as if he thinks he needs to plead, make a convincing argument, as if he couldn't just speak the words and command Thomas on his knees without a second thought.
The notion of Thomas not loving Henry in the manner he felt for him, the feeling being possibly unreciprocated, the codependence, a pretended threat, the constant iteration that Thomas not only values his company, but cannot live without it, the assurance that if Thomas Becket were permitted any place in the world he would chose by Henry’s side time and time again, a broken flute repeating the same note.
“Oh, the hunt. Make them wait! Let them linger around the halls, praying to their God that I learn to give them better respect. Maybe I will have such an epiphany while your tongue is down my throat.”
“Our God, my prince.” Thomas corrects, but abidginly leans over Henry, who goes willingly against the pew, at Thomas mercy.
“Ha! As if you are to pretend you are more in his pocket than I am. It is I with the divine mandate. God loves me till the day he removes my crown.” And, for effect, Henry does start removing clothes, pulling at his own trousers in such an eager manner that Thomas laughs a little, his King has never been known for his patience.
“As I see it, I am mandated through you, my lord. Which I believe makes what I am about to do an act of God.”
Henry nearly squeals with laughter, ruffling his closest companions head with adoration, akin to the way he pets at the palace dogs, a reward for his wit. He lets himself be kissed again, groaning in annoyance when his fingertips hit cloth rather than skin, before suddenly leaning back with a twisted lips, cleary in response to some revelation that Thomas was sure would only make this task more difficult.
“Thomas, as you know, I do not often dwell on the peculiarities of God, but performing this act here is surely frowned upon, yes?” Even as he disputes, Henry tugs on Thomas’ shirttails, petulance like a child begging for dessert, or a King begging for the warmth of his friends mouth.
Thomas gives him a small smile, placating him with a whispered, “What he does not know will not hurt him,” while tugging Henry's trousers down the rest of the way, starting to mess with the rest of his coverings.
The King’s brows raise, but his face is placated in contentment, eyes shining and lips askew, like Thomas had made some sort of joke. “And he will not know?”
Thomas wore his most assuasive mask, the one he took on when Henry was being particular. “Not if we do not tell.”
Yet this did not sway him. Thomas recognized it as just another pawn in part of Henry’s great purpose in life, to test the boundaries of Thomas Becket’s morality, or lack thereof. “Am I wrong in thinking that God is all-knowing?”
“Good thing this shawl is all covering.” Thomas says, and for affect, throws the cloth around the both of them, till they are half hid under it like children hiding from wet nurses.
Henry laughs, gasping when he is taken in hand, arching his back. “It grows a bit tiring with you, having all the answers all the time. My clever little Saxon, never gives me the chance to answer a thing.”
“You can answer this now, then, my prince. How would you like to come?” Thomas jerks him off slow, allows him to answer, swiping at the tip with his thumb to gather precome to ease the twist of his hand.
“I have been hard since your little performance in there,” Henry says, out of breath but otherwise relaxed, splayed out in the manner only a King would in a place of God. “Proving yourself to your position with such ease. I bet God wishes he had someone like you at his beck and call.”
Thomas kisses him to shut him up, which Henry accepts happily, taking favor to grasp at Thomas’ hair and head rather than the back of the pew. “Stop speaking about God. You did not answer my question.”
“Oh, that,” Henry says into Thomas’ lips, smiling against them, as if he were to forget the end result of all this. “Is blasphemy to leave a mess, I suppose. So down your throat, my little Saxon. On your knees like the rest of my subjects.”
Thomas obliges with one more kiss, descending to his knees with ease, slipping Henry into his mouth like he had a dozen times before, Henry's fingers taking to scrape at his scalp.
Henry laughs, jaw open. “Who would have thought. Thomas Becket at worship in the house of God. What a privilege it is to be the recipient of such a devoted sinner.” And then, groaning at the tongue that lay against the back of his cock, he added, “I swear, Thomas, I would choose your hand or throat over a thousand whores. It is hard to make up for their cunts, yes, but this,” he pauses, hand patting at his cheek endearingly, “is divine.”
Thomas considers pulling off and attesting that the King also enjoys another body part of his, at least when the time and sentiment are right, but he allows him the victory and does not point this out, instead focusing on doing his duty and making his prince come down his throat as he has so commanded.
Thomas never expects anything in return, as is one subjects duty to his liege, swallowing the seed and allowing himself to rest back on the bench, catching his breath in the dank air. Despite Becket’s insistence against it, a courtesy, Henry is often more than willing to give it, always eager with his mouth or hands, as he does now, ignoring altogether Thomas’ dismissive hand to drape himself across the pew and nuzzle into Thomas’ trousers, undoing them quickly with deft hands. He loiters now, playing with fabric, dissimilar to other times when he is so quick with the need for it that he nearly tears the linen.
Becket had told him once,“a King gets on his knees for no one.” And although he had meant it quite literally, unrelated to sex entirely, Henry had taken it to heart. Becket preened every time he got to see his command in action, the effect he had on someone so much larger than him, so much more important to politics. He doubted he would ever see his name scribbled among Henry’s in the history books or on the tomb, but the fact that he held such an effect, even in secret, filled his selfish desire.
Although it was secret no longer. I never did anything without your advice. No one knew it, now everyone will. That’s all.
It was not often they did it like this, this reciprocity manner, ordinarily getting off together in ways that, to Henry, did not diminish the illusion of his authority and, to Becket, did not make him feel like a slave to the crown. It was easier to finish together, no King on his knees or taking action that could possibly be perceived as demeaning to his person, and Becket’s own pleasure, nothing more than collateral. Although they both knew what it was, appreciation, a plea, a promise, see how good this is for you too, and please don't leave me.
But there were perks to this method as well, as Henry liked having the proof, seeing Thomas hard after pleasing him, more reason that he was as appreciative of the relationship as Henry was.
He worked now, Thomas careful not to touch much, minus a hand at the small of Henry’s back, petting softly when he thought of it. He expected that the church would be descreated anyhow, as the one line they had not crossed was Thomas actually finishing down Henry’s throat, as that nearly felt like sedition. Although, Thomas did occasionally amuse himself with what expressions would fall across the faces of the English if they knew their King had a Saxon’s cock down his throat.
Henry pulls away with sudden urgency, sitting up entirely to access the arrangement, content smile on his face, brought forth by swollen lips. It occurs to Thomas to kiss him again, whenever he has spoken whatever pestering notion is on his mind that is stopping Thomas from finishing. “I did not ask you, Thomas. Where would you like to come?”
Thomas looks at him, ridiculous, the muss of his hair, face pinkened, the brightness of his blue eyes even in the dimness of the chapel. A thought suddenly occurred to Henry, evident by the smile that stretched across his face. “I told them I would pray after my snack, and here I am, doing just that very thing!” He says, leaning back over, lapping at the tip like a cat, little flicks of his tongue dipping into the slit.
Thomas smiles to appease his joke, and gently lifts the corner of his cloak discarded to the seat of the pew. Henry returns to sitting, bites his lips in a way that tells Thomas that there is a game at play, and the cloak was not the correct answer.
“I would hate to dirty it. Not that we cannot find a new one, but the blue is an excellent color.” Henry answers with a slight pout, hands running the length of Becket’s thighs. It is all Thomas can do to hold in a sigh when he asks, “How would my prince like me to come?”
“Well, you hold such a noble position now, my Chancellor. Perhaps it is not so undignified now if,” Henry cuts himself off, wearing an expression Thomas cannot at first recognize, a notion terrifies him as there is very little he has not come to know about his King. It’s near bashfullness, with a hint of amusement, and suddenly Henry is back over and sucking Thomas down to the hilt, with as much ferocity as Thomas has gotten from highly paid whores and sultry village women.
Thomas understands now, but it is still a shock, and he wonders distantly how he will be punished for this later, how Henry will win his dignity back, put Thomas back in his place at his heel. But it is difficult for any man to weigh on these things when the King of England is swallowing around you, not on his knees but might as well be, exhibiting such submission Thomas feels as though they have suspended their titles and now only operate as God’s creations.
Henry barely coughs in the end, sitting up proudly, wiping spend from his mouth and grinning at the heaving man next to him, for once not feigning the effect his King has on him. Henry slouches back, eyes closed and eager to let Thomas clean them up, cheeks flushed while he listens to his chancellor come back into himself.
“Cat got my little Saxon’s tongue, eh? It is not often I render you speechless, Thomas.”
Thomas rolls his eyes, wiping a hand over his face, begrudgingly very keen on the reward he was granted. “My lord is very talented with his tongue.”
Henrys eyes brighten, back into life, shoving at Thomas’ arm. “Yes, all that you have taught me! If only Eleanor wasn’t such a wench, she would love me more if she was the recipient of this.”
Thomas dutifully puts them back together, smoothes Henry's shirttails and trousers, and musses with his hair, while Henry chatters about the hunt and the priests and, to Thomas’ delight, no more of God.