Chapter Text
A sigh. "....And he won't see me."
"Well you must make him see you, George. How hard can it be, the man worships the ground you walk on-"
"-Well that was before he heard the rumours of my manufactured presence at his Court, Mother."
"Don't take that tone with me - this is hardly my fault now, is it?"
George sighed again, knowing he was pouting but not caring enough to stop. Even his hair had given up the fight today, coiling in the humid air. "He feels betrayed."
"Surely he knows," Mary scoffed, picking at an errant thread on her collar - her outfits were getting increasingly elaborate, not nearly as gauche as the disaster of a dress she'd worn on her first day at Court, but more refined, and certainly more expensive.
Power suited her. George didn't know how to feel about that. Not while Ja- the King, the one he'd pledged to serve above all others, was keeping to his chambers and steadfastly avoiding his self-confessed Favourite. The King was alone, and did not want to be seen. His Queen, perhaps, may yet coax him out. Nonetheless, he did not want visitors, and George was told in no uncertain terms that he was not to be disturbed by anyone.
George swallowed. Unless... there were other beauties here at Court. They'd been increasing in number, as of late. Some were younger than George himself even, and pleasant, in a tittering, spineless sort of way. His lip curled. No, James was his, would forever be-
-But oh, how he could picture it. And with his ascending family, treasure trove of gifts and swathes of admirers, it probably shouldn't have made him feel quite so sick. Light streamed in through the windows, but it felt like the sun no longer shined upon his face.
"George," snapped Mary. "Just listen to me. You're going to ruin this before you've taken full advantage."
George winced. "Mother-"
"-So I'm going to try to get the rumour mill running in your favour. Until then, I want to see less of this fucking incessant moping. It does not suit you. It certainly does not suit the King."
"How would I know?" he countered, back to morose with the fire gone from his belly. "He gets in these moods... His spirits get so low."
Mary's lips twitched, sharp eyes narrowing, and he could almost see the wheels turning in his mother's formidable mind. "You're taking this very hard. As you should."
George rolled his eyes. "But? I assume there's one coming."
"I question your reasoning, I won't lie. And you do know, right?" Mary's gloved hand closed over George's, firm, unwavering. "Surely you understand that this cannot be love, George."
"Do you think me so naive?" George was so, so quick to say.
"No. Not usually." She tucked a lock of his wilting hair behind his ear. "Not my George. But sometimes I wonder... and with what's at stake here, I'd like you not to give me reason to wonder."
And George.... Well. Maybe George couldn't feel love, but he felt a steady hand on the small of his back guiding him through Court. He tasted venison, mead but never tobacco. He heard desperate cries caught in a raspy throat as he hitched legs higher and higher still into the air.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the fresh-kissed face of a King, looking up at him like George himself was heaven sent, his George, his boy, his sweet Steenie-
-But when he opened his eyes, he saw the disappointed face of his mother, which was something he never wished to see again, no matter how much he pretended he no longer cared. He could not let her down.
He could not let anyone down.
And so he needed a plan.
*
A Masque without the King in attendance seemed rather pointless, but Mary was insistent that George dust himself off, dress in his most seductive attire and do his best to look winsome in the hopes that the King may venture down to take in the show.
No such luck, and George mournfully sipped his wine as the scene unfolded. Not just the actors, but the gaggle of pretty boys George had been saddled with. New additions to the Bedchamber, no doubt. They talked errantly in various states of inebriation, braying with laughter at whatever the others may have said. There was no need for the reverent attention typical to a Masque when its biggest champion, James, was not there to ensure it.
George caught snatches of conversation, some of which made his blood boil. "He sent me flowers," said one, and there was a running joke about "mutton" and "lambs" that caused George to gulp the last of his wine down with anguished vigour.
He tried to turn his attention back to the stage, his hands trembling.
And that's when he saw it.
The young hero dropped to his knees, letting out a wail as his fair "lady", resplendent in his wig, lay limp in his arms.
George remembered the gentle touch of James after that first horseback confrontation with Carr. George, the underdog. George, the faithful hound.
How happy James had been to see him alive after the pox...
But no. George shook his head at his own thoughts, reaching for more wine. Surely this half-formed idea in his wine-soft mind was too far?
Still, his eyes lingered on the doomed lovers.