"The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly - by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous operation, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep."

— Geoffrey Chaucer

Charles woke to dim light and a hand on his shoulder. Any movement was draining; rolling over onto his back was a laborious and exhausting undertaking, though not without reward. "Henry," he murmured, low and weak as the dwindling firelight painting the king's face in hues of shadow and pale gold. "What're you—"

Henry laid a finger on his lips to quiet him. "Do you consent?" he asked softly, eyes liquid and dark, and Charles had to close his own against the sharp welling of emotion as a months-old dam gave way without warning and flooded him with that most dangerous and poignant of humours. It had been so long since he last felt hope, and yet:

"I can't. You know I can't."

Fingers in his hair, feather-light, stroking it back. Soothing. "I know. I wouldn't ask that of you now. But even so, I would share your bed tonight, if you'll have me."

"Why?"

The fingers trailed downward until his cheek was cradled in a warm hand. The other mirrored it, framing his face, and a single chaste kiss pressed against the center of his forehead. Henry had done this when the fever was recently broken, but that had been an act of joy. This one held nothing but tenderness, and a glimmer of something rawer. "Because I very nearly lost a dear friend," came the words, ghosted across his skin on a soft breath. "And I dreamt that it fell to me alone to bury him."

Charles ached. The whole of his body was heavy and sore, each breath a chorus of blades and bruises in his chest, but even worse than the physical ache was the...for lack of a better term, the spiritual ache. The bitter awareness, present even when he had skirted the edge of delirium, that he was alone because he had chosen to be. That his isolation was not a necessity, but a petty act born of perceived betrayal. That if he asked, Henry would be at his side in an instant, and because of this very fact he would never be able to.

To be ill and uncared-for is the greatest trial of man, but so keen was the edge of his despair that he had been moved to tears of selfish, selfish relief when his fever-blurred eyes first found another in the room, and then for grief had let the tears fall when it turned out not to be Henry. William had been distressed by the sight, perhaps believing him to be suffering or truly too ill to control himself, but he listened to Charles' pleas and brought him cold water and clean linens instead of physicians and their knives. For days, William and Anthony cared for him, even when the knives at last arrived to do their bloody work, but still he yearned for a different voice, a different gaze, a different touch.

It would be a lie to deny that he had desired nothing so ardently as this: for Henry to find him, to come to him, to give him the attention he so desperately craved.

"I can't," he said again, but Henry had to know, he had to know that Charles was still too ill and far too weak, and could give him nothing of what he sought.

"I know, Charles, I know," Henry whispered, smoothing away his worries with thumbs along his cheekbones. "You don't have to. You don't have to do anything, just let me sleep with you tonight."

Charles let out a long breath, and opened his eyes. "All right. I consent."

"Thank you," Henry said, quietly earnest, then lifted the blankets and slipped in first beside Charles, then over him, braced on his elbows, poised inches above him. "Do you consent?" he asked again, such gentleness in his voice as Charles had never heard before, and the hope rose further, lapping at the shores of unreason.

"I consent."

Another kiss on his forehead, between his eyebrows, longer this time, but still soft, with no demand. Charles let his eyes drift shut. The darkness made no difference, and if this turned out to be nothing but a dream, he would welcome it all the same. The brush of lips against his outermost lashes, then, short and light and barely there. A kiss at the corner of his mouth, innocent and lingering. Another day, it would have teased, or worked its way to the center, but here it simply the press of lips, not shy but not at all presumptuous. Henry pulled back just enough to speak, his words tracing lines of breath and movement on Charles' skin. "Do you consent?"

The hope surged wildly, and Charles turned his head to catch Henry's lips. Henry smiled against him, and took his face between his hands once more to kiss him properly. This one was closed like all the others, but it was sweet, and fuller, and growing, and it felt like relief. Like water after a drought, rest after long toil, or a promise finally kept. He began to respond in kind, hands coming up wrap around Henry's arms as Henry's weight settled down against him, but after a dizzying moment of movement, of potential, of the tumultuous possibility of something more, Henry pulled away. "Careful," he warned, sounding torn between concern and breathlessness. "Don't make offers you can't afford to fulfill." Charles opened his eyes at that, and even in the uncertain ember light he could see the bright fondness reflected back at him.

"You know I'm good for it," he returned, more than a bit breathless himself. "Just not tonight."

"No," Henry agreed, and went back for more, but more restrained this time, lips soft and warm against Charles'. "Tonight is for you. Now rest, and let me."

Charles found himself relaxing further and further into the pillows, eyes half-lidded, as those quiet kisses stepped steadily down the side of his neck, meandered over his collarbone, and trailed down the skin exposed by the loose laces of his shirt. Any lower would have ruined him, but Henry stopped there, forehead resting on Charles' chest. His breathing was still too wet by half, rattling in his lungs until he could find the strength to bring it out, but Henry — usually so leery of illness — seemed only solemn as he pulled himself back up and slid over onto the empty space on the mattress, releasing him.

"Turn over," he murmured, and waited patiently while Charles did, ignoring the soft groan that slipped out at the stiffness in his back. He closed the space between them and slipped his arms around Charles from behind. "We have much to discuss," he said quietly, "but it will wait until you're stronger. For now…" He kissed the smooth skin behind Charles' ear, and for long moments was silent, breathing in the scent or the stillness. "For now, just rest, and recover your health."

Charles slept deeply, and when he woke, it was to find sunlight pouring through the leaded glass and Henry still there, arms loose around his waist, sleeping peacefully in his bed. Like all paradisal scenes, it was not built to last; but for the first time in many dark months, he felt the first stirrings of contentment.

A/N: LISTEN I'm weak for unexpectedly requited love and also I have developed an surprising fondness for these characters. I know that in life they were deeply flawed, but in this imagined pre-canon of a fictional show they are simply trying their best. Thank you for reading my garbage and feel free to leave any feedback you would like to.