Chapter Text
Having grown up with a loving, supportive family, Alexander Claremont-Díaz is no stranger to physical touch. As a child, when he scraped his knees from running around the backyard or fell because his sister June had pushed him a bit too hard while playing, his dad would kiss his 'boo-boos,' hug him, and sing softly in his ear to calm his tears.
In middle school, during those awkward years between childhood and adolescence, before he had grown enough to fill out his lanky limbs and his face had cleared from hormonal acne, his mom, Ellen, would kiss his forehead and remind him that true beauty came from within, no matter what his immature classmates said.
In high school, when the stress of his advanced classes, the physical exhaustion from lacrosse, and the never-ending tasks from student government, debate club, and diversity club became overwhelming, his sister used to embrace him firmly, patting his back warmly to calm him down, while whispering reassurances.
His family had always been there, through everything. Through the challenging years leading to a divorce, political campaigns, long nights before finals, monthly self-worth existential crises during college, and a sexuality crisis that led to falling in love with a foreign prince.
Alex had Ellen, Oscar, June, and, eventually, Nora and Leo to remind him he was loved—through sincere words, warm hugs, forehead kisses, and whispered affirmations.
Now, as an adult, as a man who loves his partner more than words can ever describe, Alex enjoys wrapping his warm hand around the prince's waist at public events. To some, it might seem like a sign of ownership, an act of possessiveness, or even smugness, rather than what it truly is: a display of genuine affection, a show of support and comfort for Henry.
Henry never rejects the touch because, even if it goes against the royal protocols that have been drilled into his skull for as long as he has lived, he would never deny Alex, or himself, that relief.
Only Alex's touch can bring him comfort in a room full of prying eyes; only his presence can quell the chills that travel down his spine every time he makes eye contact with a judgmental pair of eyes.
Only Alex. Always Alex.
However, having grown up in what can only be described as a glorified prison, he rarely reaches out for Alex himself. And when he does, he usually chooses to intertwine their pinkies together. Even that, at times, feels like the worst crime ever committed by a man—a sin, his grandmother, the Queen of England, would say.
Henry had Bea, and once upon a time, he also had his dad. However, Arthur, as loving a father as he was, often spent months filming movies away, and Bea, as amazing a sister as she still is, endured the same treatment and shortcomings he had.
Catherine was always there, in the shadows. She had never quite understood that her fight for Arthur had been the beginning of a life fighting, not the end. As a result, she raised her kids just as she had been raised herself, as heirs, as people who owed their lives to their country. And Philip, well, he has always thrived in the 'future king of England' life.
He knows how it looks to the public. He has been made aware, a multitude of times, that people seem to perceive his reserved behavior as disinterest or even neglect.
He wishes, sometimes, that he could force himself to be more open with his affections because he knows that Alex grew up like that. He's been working on it for a while, but it’s hard to break a lifetime of habits and strict behavioral rules.
That pinky holding, though, is progress. It's him trying.
Alex knows this, and on the rare occasions when Henry reaches out, he just brings their intertwined pinkies to his lips and presses a soft kiss.
Henry might love Alex differently, and people might not understand it, but it doesn't matter because they don't have to. Alex knows and he understands.