When Edward is three, they all go to stay with Aunty Joan and Uncle Edward. There’s a strange feeling about the place: all the adults are talking quietly in corners and breaking off when the children come near, like they’re waiting for something. His father says Uncle Edward isn’t feeling very well, that he’ll probably get better but they all need to be with Aunty Joan, just in case.
He doesn’t say in case of what.
It’s scary. Edward can’t sleep properly: the bed is too large, and too unfamiliar, and the shadows in his room are darker and scarier than the shadows at home, and the wind howls around the stones and his cousins are bickering next door-
His cousins are bickering next door.
Edward slips out of bed, and out of the corridor, padding in to the room opposite. Harry sits on the end of the bed; Richard stands by the fireplace glaring at him, hands on his hips- Aunty Joan in miniature, except his hair isn’t long enough- it only grazes his jaw. Both fall silent and turn to look at him as he appears, and Edward shrinks nervously. “I can’t sleep,” he says, and Richard’s expression softens.
Edward shrinks some more. “Can I come in with you?”
“We’re kind of in the middle of something-”
“Of course you can,” Richard says, ignoring Harry and coming to scoop Edward up. Edward clings to his neck as Richard carries him to the bed and tells Harry to get out of his way, which Harry does, though he grumbles under his breath about it. Richard plops Edward down, and scrambles in to bed next to him, pulling the covers around them and letting Edward snuggle up to his side, A moment later, Harry is on the other side of him, and Edward is enveloped in warmth.
“Your mother could not kick my father’s ass,” Henry mutters under his breath.
“Yes, she could!” Richard retorts and Edward drifts off to sleep to his cousins bickering about whether Aunty Joan or Uncle John would come off better in a siege. As his lids grow heavy and his breathing evened out, Richard pressed his lips to his hair.
Edward is seven. Richard is thirteen, now, and King, which means Edward doesn’t get to play with him so much. Ever. He’s been excited about coming to Court ever since his father said he’d bring him; he couldn’t wait to come and see Richard. Except, he’s barely seen Richard, and now he probably won’t. They’re going home tomorrow morning. Edward curls up in bed and tries not to cry about it- he’s not a baby, anymore, and it’s not that big a deal. He’s seen Harry and that’s…
Just not the same. Harry’s alright, but Richard’s better; he’s kinder and more patient and he looks pretty and smells nice. Sometimes Ned can make him smile- or laugh- it’s the best thing in the world.
He drifts off to sleep, and has the strangest dream: that Richard comes, and kisses him on the forehead, and gives him a present.
When he wakes up, he’s clutching a book to his chest. He stares blearily at it, and then at the inside cover. for Ned, my favourite cousin. But don’t tell uncle John I said that or he’ll get mad and make the council meetings last three times as long as they already do. Anyway, sorry I didn’t really get to see you that much. I’ll tell your dad he has to bring you back sometime soon. Richard ii Rex Britannica
When he’s fourteen, Edward kisses the son of one of his father’s friends in the stables, and rolls about in the hay with him a bit. It’s nice, kissing, and being pressed up against him, right up until the moment his mother catches them at it. She sends Ned to his room, and Ned’s friend back to his father, and later, she wants to know what on earth he was thinking of.
Edward doesn’t know how to tell her he was thinking that Richard’s hair was that length, and that colour, and would probably feel just like that if Edward was ever allowed to run his fingers through it.
(When he’s fifteen, and bored on a rainy day at Court, he decides to go to riding despite the weather. He gets to the stables and stares wide eyes as Richard moans beneath his friend, Robert de Vere. It’s not until de Vere pulls back sharply on Richard’s hair and ducks his head to nip at Richard’s throat that Edward has the presence of mind to run all the way back to his room and hide under his covers)
When Edward is eighteen, Queen Anne comes to speak with him. Robert de Vere has been forced in to exile, “and the King can’t sleep alone,” she says, worry colouring her voice. “And I can’t always be with him, there are times…” she blushes, and Edward blushes too, though he doesn’t know why. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? Being his bedfellow for some of the nights?”
Edward doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all. The King wraps his arms around him, and sometimes he cries in to the back of Edward’s shirt when he thinks Edward’s sleeping. Others, he presses kisses to Edward’s neck, or his hand, and once on his lips. Edward fought very, very hard not kiss back.
The thing about Richard is: he kisses a lot of people. He kisses Anne all the time- of course he does, she’s his wife. He kisses Norfolk, and Northumberland, and Salisbury- chastely, for the most part, though once when the King was very drunk- the Christmas after de Vere was sent away-, Edward saw Salisbury gently untangle Richard’s hands from his hair and hold him at arms length after the king ended up slipping his tongue in to his mouth. “I think perhaps you ought to go to bed, your majesty,” Salisbury says softly, gripping his waist as the King’s knees gave way. “You’ll feel better once you lie down,” he hands the King over to Anne and Edward, and between the two of them, they get Richard undressed and into bed, Richard complaing the whole time that he wasn’t tired and he would be alright and then “Where’s Robert?” Anne and Edward glance at each other, and Anne sighs softly. “You go back down,” she says, “I’ll get him to sleep.”
“No!” Richard sits up at that, grabbing at Edward’s shirt and pouting at Anne. “Mine. My Edward.” He pulls at Edward’s shirt harder, tugging him down on top of him, and then passes out, arms wound around Edward’s neck.
“Well, “ Edward says ruefully, as Anne helps untangle him. “At least his sleeping.”
Richard kisses a lot of people. He kisses Salisbury, and Norfolk, and Northumberland. He kisses Anne. He kisses Uncle Gaunt and Uncle Gloucester, and Edward’s father and mother, and their aunts, on the cheek in hellos and goodbyes.
He kisses Henry like he hopes it kills him, furiously pressing their lips together like his touch is deadly poison.
He doesn’t kiss Edward. Not in public, not in daylight. He smiles, and brushes Edward’s face sometimes, but he doesn’t kiss him. Not unless he thinks Edward’s sleeping.
Edward doesn’t understand.
When he’s nineteen, Robert de Vere dies in exile.
Richard is ashen and silent, in private, he gets distracted easily and starts to cry without warning, and Edward holds him until he stops. Sometimes he nudges Edward’s face with his lips as though he’s going to -
Edward pulls the covers over them, wrapping his arms around Richard’s waist. “Can I ask you something?” he asks, and Richard says
Edward swallows. “Your grace…why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?”
he expects Richard to deny it, to claim he’s being ridiculous. Or to dismiss him entirely. Instead, Richard says:
“Because you’re my favourite cousin. You always have been. And you’ve grown up in to a handsome man, Ned, and if I start to kiss you I’m not going to stop.”
“I wouldn’t mind. If you never stopped, I mean.”
“You would.” Richard said quietly. “once they hurt you for it.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I love you.”
Richard shudders. “Don’t,” he says, “Please. Don’t.”
Edward leans over and kisses him on the mouth, shifting to straddle his hips.
“Don’t,” Richard says again, but he’s running his fingers through Edward’s hair and arching upwards, and the next words out of his mouth are “Please don’t stop…”
