Holland touching him is a soothing and relaxing thing. He enjoys it as he talks. The other rolling onto his back has Kell shifting onto his side. He knows that Holland had never wanted to rule, had wanted nothing but for white London to recover. He reaches out to brush his fingers through his hair again.

“Maybe you can find a successor one day,” Kell says carefully. “A king doesn’t have to stay a king forever.” Not that leaving a throne is common.

“You can be free,” he leans and kisses the others shoulder lightly