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As much as they complain about cloudy weather in England, Henry can’t help but miss the coverage as he rushes to get back inside the building from the car. Rio is hot. Rio is sunny.
The city’s culture is bright and overwhelming when you’re shadowed with grief.
Henry is dragged by Shaan to the seating area and turns on autopilot as a few passersby and reporters recognize him. Gentle smile, polite but uninteresting comment, and move on.
There’s a glass door ahead of him, and Henry squints preemptively, waiting for the blinding, intolerable sun. The door opens, and yes, it’s there. As blinding and intolerable as he expected. God, he wants to go home. He shields his eyes with his hand and tunes out the cheers after every diver's barely audible splash into the pool. The cheers aren’t for him, he thinks thankfully. A place where he’s not the highlight of everyone’s day.
He’s guided up the bleachers to where he’s supposed to be sitting. It’s in the row immediately after where the shade from the overhang ends, and Henry wishes he had put on more sunscreen. Wondering what old millionaire he’ll be forced to make small talk with, he lifts his hand from where it had covered his eyes.
The row is wide with room to walk, wide enough for Shaan and Henry to enter the row with Shaan at his side. The seating is sparse, a few people he knew, and some he didn’t. Many paid him no attention. They were all quiet, uninteresting, and probably draining. The only people talking were those at the end, towards his seat. There’s a familiar young man and woman chatting, partially obscured by some ancient man standing in the row in front of them. That man sits down.
The familiar pair. There’s... someone. Someone Henry has been seeing across every form of media. Someone who’s curly locks have never been more than smudges of ink on the cover of a tabloid. Who’s eyes he’s never seen light up in this strange semblance of a natural setting, where yes, he may be in public, but the attention is not on him. Someone who could rise to the same height of young political stardom as Henry.
Alex Claremont-Diaz. Son of the rising blue presidential candidate, Ellen Claremont.
Henry’s never been more afraid to meet someone.
Alex is saying something to his sister, and she notices Henry before Alex does. Henry registers her blinking in surprise and lightly nudging Alex. Alex blinks with a subtly more owlish expression and stands up. He makes a gesture for her to stand, and his sister, June, Henry remembers, follows a few steps behind.
Henry feels warmth in his chest. It’s plenty warm outside, but it’s been months since he felt that from his core. Something in his chest is fighting to break out. He makes eye contact with Alex and is only vaguely aware of the polite nod he makes. Everything in his stomach wants to leave his body. Alex’s strides are smooth, confident, maybe a little bit eager, but that’s totally just Henry’s hopes projecting onto him. He’s already enamored with him, just by seeing the way he walks. He’s fighting to keep his breath controlled. It’s disgusting how in awe he is, and he’s not even said a word to him.
Alex is there. He’s right there just an arm’s length in front of him, and he’s holding a hand out to shake. Henry wills himself to be still while he shakes his hand, but he’s sure his entire body was shaking more.
“I’m Alex. Claremont-Diaz, son of the presidential candidate,” he says, as if Henry hasn’t been voraciously looking at every form of media that has him in it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.” He flashes his winning smile.
The introduction feels decidedly formal. It has the air of a careful negotiation, like they’re about to start discussing the terms and conditions on a contract. Henry can’t stand that, and if Alex’s sister wasn’t already extending her hand, he would’ve left.
At June’s utterance of “Your Highness”, Henry has to stop it. He’s plugged in enough to pay attention to the news, and he’s seen her too. Though he might pay more attention to one over the other, he knows the both of them. Their responses in interviews, however filtered, hold unguarded and real passion, and their shared interviews together are always a delight to see. They deftly answer questions while still finding ways to act in the obnoxious ways siblings do. There’s something to them. He’s not going to tolerate another empty diplomatic relationship where he fakes having the personality of a plain porcelain bowl. He insists, no pleads , they call him Henry.
Alex barks out a quick laugh in one syllable, one syllable that sounds infinitely more natural, and jokes, “So I’m not supposed to bow? Come on, I’ve been practicing.”
“Oh no, of course not,” he says before they start walking back to their seats. “You’re actually supposed to kneel and kiss my boots.” June is giggling, but Henry can’t help but stare and listen to Alex. Through a breathy laugh, Alex is grinning at him. It reaches the corners of his eyes. They’re sitting in the sunlight, and Henry is hit with a sudden clarity regarding why Alex is the image of male American beauty in the magazines.
His jaw is casting a sharp shadow on his neck, and every curl is highlighted. His skin is glowing, with a few little moles dotting the exposed areas. Henry’s trying his best not to think about kissing the two just below the left corner of his mouth. His eyes are half lidded because of the direct light, giving an unintentional look of intensity that absolutely isn’t making Henry swoon. Beneath his long eyelashes, his eyes look like the coffee you drink before midnight when you have a paper due at eleven fifty-nine. No creamer, just sugar, and a lot of caffeine. Something to keep you up at night.
Henry is fucked.
Henry is fucked, and they’ve only just sat down, and Alex is still looking at him.
The heat that Henry feels in Rio is overwhelming. It smothers him with its music and colors. The city and its people mean well, but it’s insistent. Enjoy yourself, it demands. Be happy, it screams. That’s what he tastes in every drink and what weighs him down in every bite of their food.
But, the warmth he feels in the way Alex is looking at him. That’s inviting. He looks at him like he wants to hear what he has to say and would listen with baited breath. He looks at him like this is a moment he’s been waiting for, and even if Henry knows it’s not, Henry wants to make that imaginary waiting worth while.
Alex nudges their elbows together where they are on the armrests and says, “You’ve got some bite for someone who took etiquette classes.”
“And you’ve got nerve for sassing royalty.”
“So you get a fancy metal hat, whatever. You’re not… That big of a deal.”
“Says you.”
And Alex makes the most indignant noise and Henry isn’t sure if it’s in real offense or an exaggeration for the humor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t have to play dumb,” Henry says plainly, “People already know you are.”
Alex flicks Henry’s knuckles and turns to June. “Hey, Bug, this guy’s being mean to me why aren’t you doing anything about it.”
“You’re whining to your sister because you can’t come up with something to say?”
“No!”
“He’s got you there,” June interjects.
“Whatever,” Alex pouts and crosses his arms in finality. He turns to June and says in a stage whisper, “Can we keep him?”
June punches Alex’s shoulder and tells him that he has to ask Henry if he’s okay with that, and Henry is beaming. He basks in the friendship and the ease at which they joke and mock each other for the rest of the afternoon until the event ends. Alex even invites him to join him and June for dinner in the city, and he asks Shaan if it was okay like asking a father for permission to take out a daughter. Henry nearly cries of both laughter and reminder of grief.
He lamely offers Alex a handshake before they leave, but Alex pulls him in for a hug. Henry knew this already, but he can’t help but think about how true it is. He’s fucked.