Chapter Text
“Deep blue is truly your colour, and it will go perfectly with that pale brown suit we bought recently,” George chatters, touching Henry’s shoulder ever so lightly. Henry gives him a brief smile. George knows Henry thinks it excessive to possess cravats in every conceivable shade—all but red and white—though Henry never voices the complaint. His voice is back, but soft as a whisper; only George can hear it when Henry leans close. Even then he cannot speak long, so he measures every word. George gladly repeats those words for the public, the sole transmitter—a perfectly reasonable excuse for Henry to bend near, brushing George’s ear with warm breath even in the middle of the street.
“Do we need anything else?” George announces, strutting down Regent Street. He notices the distant look on Henry’s face; perhaps something is wrong, or perhaps he is simply tired. George touches his hand for a moment, and Le Vesconte gives him a strange, fleeting smile.
“Present for Rose,” he whispers. “A handkerchief?”
Before George can protest that a handkerchief is a poor gift for the sister who had been gracious enough not to ask too many questions about Henry’s living in George’s quarters—or his insistence on wearing cravats and strange case of laryngitis—Henry is already steering him up the stairs of a shop marked Madame Elise in curling gilt letters.
“Wait—there is a better one down the—” George starts, but the next instant they are inside, greeted by two fresh-faced young women and a respectable Madame whose expression does not shift an inch at the sight of them.
“A fine morning, madam,” George says, removing his hat. “My friend has troubles with his voice. I am merely here to assist—no more than a humble voice, like Metatron, but for earthly matters. Such as… a handkerchief for his beloved sister.” His rambling always receives a polite laugh. Henry smiles as well, nothing in his manner betrays anything but perfect confidence.
Madame beams with measured warmth as one lavender-scented girl shows an array of handkerchiefs. Henry scarcely inspects them, only pointing toward one embroidered with roses.
“Well, of course! An excellent choice, sir.”
“Roses for Rose? Truly?” George blurts, but Henry only answers with that same odd smile.
“Anything else?” Madame asks brightly.
George, used to answering such harmless questions on his own, opens his mouth—only for Henry to lean in again, whispering.
“Well, thank you, madam. My friend also says he noticed some very elegant corsets in the back of the shop,” George chirps, repeating Henry’s words before they register. He nearly whips his head around, but Henry remains unshaken, continuing in the faint whisper George alone can hear, “which he would be most interested in purchasing as a present… to his wife.”
The last word catches. George turns to him slowly, but Henry is already listening to Madame, who grows even more animated as she extols the quality of the garment and how such a thoughtful, costly present must surely delight its recipient.
“What are you doing?” George breathes, but Henry ignores him—and Madame does as well, beckoning them toward a corset embroidered with small flowers. She asks whether the gentleman knows his lady’s measurements.
“He says no,” George answers, suddenly weak, his gaze fixed upon the pale cream corset. “But she is very tall, long in the waist, not more than 28 inches and has grown slender after an illness,” he murmurs absently, the anger that ought to burn in him curiously absent. Instead, heat blooms traitorously across his cheeks. Henry’s breath is close to his ear again. “But they are doing all in their capacity to improve that…”
Madame nods with sympathetic assurance. She has no doubt that such a respectable gentleman as Henry spares no effort in the care of his wife’s health.
George’s stomach sinks, as though he has committed something unforgivable merely by standing there.
Henry whispers again.
“Indeed,” George echoes, voice dull, repeating Henry’s words without protest. He does not try to stop Henry when he takes up a slip of paper and neatly writes the address for delivery.
***
“You have no business—do you hear me?” George’s voice rings out, sharp enough to startle the silverware. “No business whatsoever conducting yourself in such a manner! Do you hear me?”
Across the dining room, Henry sets his teacup upon its saucer with infuriating calm and offers a quiet yes—far too soft for George, who is already marching across the room.
“It is not merely reckless,” George goes on, breath coming quicker, “but you drag me into your—your depraved diversions, placing us both at risk of a trial and public disgrace!” He stops directly before Henry, chest rising and falling. Henry only lifts his brows, polite and slightly surprised.
“Yes, depraved,” George insists. He waits Le Vesconte to contradict him, to murmur that nothing beautiful can be called perverse, even if it is not meant for the people like George. Instead Henry simply inhales and answers, quiet as ever:
“Should I have it returned?”
His expression remains perfectly unreadable. George stiffens, affronted and flustered in equal measure.
“Well—certainly not!” he bursts out far too quickly. “You must then return a handkerchief for Rose, and—”
He breaks off. There is—good heavens—undeniable mischief in Henry’s eyes. A flush leaps up George’s neck.
“You know what? Pray do as you wish with it!” he snaps, turning sharply and quitting the room with loud, purposeful steps, his cheeks burning.
Later that evening, when he retires, he finds a box laid neatly upon his bed, tied with an delicate ribbon. He exhales with a thrill and relief.
***
George looks at the box as though it might spring at him. Granted, he has taken it out of the closet himself—as he has for the past six days—but the air around it feels oddly assertive. He squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, brow tightening into the posture his father once told him was essential for any soldier. Then he opens the box.
In the evening light, the pale ivory cotton sateen looks almost grey as its damned buyer and George cannot begin to guess what prompted such a gift. He doubts he wants to know. He hardly knows why he keeps staring at the thing at all, the white-on-white embroidery delicate as frost.
Madness, he thinks, scoffing to himself. Utter madness.
He wouldn’t even fit into it—the waist is too narrow even unlaced—and even with his slight build he would most likely fail to squeeze in. Certainly not now, when Henry observes his meals with such serious attention, an attention that shames him and pleases him in equal measure. George has grown used to Henry’s strange, almost officer-like practicality in all matters concerning him. Nearly as serious as George is when he watches Henry around sharp objects—a silent arrangement for life.
Miserable as he is, Henry is much the same. They have always met as equals, even at the bottom of humanity’s moral ledger. But this—this shifts something. It alters the frame entirely.
George’s fingers drift over the corset, soft on the surface, baleen stiff beneath like the bones of some pale creature.
If he tries it on—as he has wanted to for days—the thought strikes through him, burning like acid, flushing his face and tightening him low between his legs, would he be admitting he is not Henry’s equal? Not as strong, not as wilful? Not that he thinks women lesser—Plato himself said they differ but are not unequal—
He lifts the garment out. It is heavier than he expected, more solid. “All the pursuits of men are the pursuits of women also,” he mutters under his breath. Isn’t that so, old Greek?
He presses the corset to his torso, fingertips tracing the raised embroidery—soft, tender, the gentlest thing he has ever touched. The idea of being wrapped in something so smooth makes his mouth twitch, the swell in his trousers thickening with humiliating speed. That cannot be right. He tries to steady his breath; it refuses to settle. God may punish him later, but not before punishing him for far graver sins—sorrow, death, disgrace. He clenches his jaw, fingers gripping the fragile fabric that deserves no such treatment.
Perhaps garments like this are made precisely for people like him. Henry knows him too well—knows the filth and weakness George thought he had hidden. His eyes sting, and he blinks hard to clear the gathering wetness. Very well. If Henry meant to prove something, he has succeeded.
Sniffing once, George shrugs off his jacket, then his vest, then strips out of his trousers, flinging them toward the corner of the room. He fumbles with the long tails of his undershirt, hesitating. His eyes slide toward the mirror in the corner of the bedroom. The shirt will stay on.
George draws a deep breath and holds it, as though about to sing in the choir as he once did as a boy. Church is the last thing he wants to think of; he scowls at himself and holds the corset more tenderly. He loosens the lacing to what he hopes will fit, his fingertips suddenly cold, almost numb. He licks his lips, refusing to acknowledge the rise under the cotton of his shirt, the anticipation gathering there. He has never made a good discovery in his life, yet some part of him still hopes this one might be different.
Eyes closed, he pulls the corset over his head; his shirt hikes foolishly to his hips as he wriggles until the garment settles against his torso. Even unlaced, it steals his breath—tight as his old service vest and jacket, yet kinder, less stern, though just as firm around his waist. George bites his lip, tugging his shirt down beneath the corset to hide his shame. He avoids the mirror - he does not dare face what he might see.
Reaching behind himself with stiff arms—worse than ever this past year, Henry having taken over the back-scrubbing and all—he fumbles for the laces. He only manages to grow breathless, clumsy, humiliated. Of course he cannot do it alone. Tears sting again, absurdly, like a child denied a party just as he is about to step out, dressed and hopeful.
Only then does he notice Henry in the doorway, arms folded, smiling faintly. Henry never comes into George’s room. George always goes to him. So—
“What the hell are you doing here?” he blurts, cheeks burning with shame and anger.
“Do you need help?” Henry asks. The whisper barely reaches him over the pounding in his ears, blood rushing from head to belly and back again. To be seen like this—surrendered to low want, loose as some libertine woman his mother feared he would entangle himself with—makes him squeeze his thighs, pleasure tightening through him.
“Could you not call for me?” George snaps, lifting his chin. Henry hums and comes closer.
“I did,” he murmurs, his voice rougher than before. Of course he did. George simply hadn’t heard—he’d been too deep in his own debauchery. If Henry had needed something urgent, if he might have done something foolish, and George would not have heard. The realisation stings worse than the shame.
He swallows hard as Henry steps close enough to touch the garment, laying his palm flat against George’s chest.
“Well… if you are already here…” George turns, unable to meet his eyes, presenting his back instead, shoulders squared out of habit.