Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Under the North Portico, tucked into a small corner in the basement of the White House, is the bowling alley. 

The basement itself is a thing of legend, stuffed with a chocolate shop, a florist’s shop, and an honest-to-God dentist’s office. But, none of them have quite the same pull as the bowling alley. It’s a favorite stop on the White House tour, the one-lane previously traipsed by some of the world’s most famous and powerful people in between debriefings in the Situation Room. 

On their first night in the Residence, Magnus and Catarina had snuck off to the bowling alley with a six-pack of Stellas apiece and gotten slowly, spectacularly drunk. 

“Everything’s gonna change now, isn’t it?” Cat had whispered, as they lay there, heads against the shiny, slippery floor. 

Magnus had turned to her, blinking through the haze of intoxication. He had watched as she swallowed slowly, eyes trained resolutely at the ceiling. From that angle, that close to her, it was like they were lying on the floor of her tiny bedroom in Brooklyn. Not on the floor of a building older than the country it was in. 

“Yeah,” he’d said finally, and he’d known, right then and there, that his simple, monosyllabic answer would turn out to be the biggest understatement of the century. 

A few things stand out in his mind of the whirlwind of January 2017. 

The bowling alley. His first night in the East Bedroom, lingering hints of fresh paint still in the air from the day’s chaos of moving the new First Family in. The stutter in his calculus TA’s footsteps at 8 am on the Georgetown campus as she’d walked into a discussion to find him as one of her students, sitting in the second row. The tiny gold American flag his mom pinned to her lapel over breakfast, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, talking to the Prime Minister of Japan between sips of black coffee. 

Now, Magnus picks up the half-empty bowl of Indomie from the nightstand. Most of the time, it’s the only thing that can get him through hours of problem sets and listening to the robotic (ha) voice of his network fundamentals professor. That, and the requisite Earth, Wind & Fire record procured years ago from a tiny record store in Greenpoint. The editorial Vanity Fair had run on him last year said that his go-to comfort food was some French fodder that he couldn’t even spell. 

It couldn’t be further from the truth. He shovels some noodles into his mouth. 

The record fades momentarily into static, before the fuzzy sax notes of “September” surround him.

The door opens then, and Catarina enters, large takeout box in hand.

“Hi,” she says, kicking the door shut with her foot. “Still alive?” 

“Barely.” He pauses the lecture webcast on his screen.

“I come bearing Cinnabon.” She lifts the box. 

“Ugh, my queen,” Magnus groans, setting the now-empty bowl on his nightstand. 

“Mom President sends hugs and kisses. Via Ragnor, which is about as pleasant as it sounds.” 

“Has she left her office? Like, at all?” 

“Nope,” Cat says, popping the “p” before plonking down on his bed and sending his papers flying. She ignores the scathing look he sends her. “Can you imagine having to listen to Boris Johnson’s voice for another four hours? I’d pirouette off the Truman balcony.”

“I think Bart might be well on his way to making you do just that,” Magnus says, referring to the giant o-chem MCAT textbook that she’d inexplicably named Bart.

She lets out the signature groan that comes along with any mention of the MCAT. 

“Bart really out here making me want to end it all and join Lincoln’s ghost in haunting the White House for centuries to come.”   

“It do be like that sometimes,” Magnus says solemnly.

“It really do.” 

She sighs heavily before pulling her phone out of her back pocket. He watches as she fires up her Google alerts. It’s a thing she does when she’s stressed, keeping tabs on their tabloid coverage. 

“Anything good?” Magnus asks, reaching towards the box of Cinnabon.

She scrolls for a second. “Yeah, apparently you were romancing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in LA last week.” 

“Um, I wish I’d been romancing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in LA last week.” 

“And Cosmo did a whole thing on my hair routine… oh and that shoot you did with GQ is all over Instagram.” She turns her phone to him and he’s met with the picture of himself in a deep red suit and wisps of gold in his hair and around his eyes. It’s his favorite from the shoot. 

Cat’s grinning. “You look hot. You know, surprisingly.” 

He grins back, flipping her off and stuffing his face with more Cinnabon.

“And the assholes?” 

She shoots him a look. 

“Come on,” he whines through a mouthful. “You know I wanna know. It’s the only entertaining part of my day.” 

“Couple comments about you ‘killing masculinity,’ but killing that kind of masculinity is a good thing anyways.” She grins at him ruefully, which she always does, even though she knows he couldn’t care less. It’s just in her nature. Cat’s a protector, and that gets amplified when it comes to him. It always has, since the day Magnus met her. 

“Well, then they’ll be happy to know that I just closed a one-year partnership with… drumroll please… Marc Jacobs Beauty.” He mimes dropping a mic, and she laughs.  

Magnus is… a lot, he supposes, for the small subset of stuffy older Americans, the ones who lamented the loss of the “good old days.” Having an Asian-American woman as the fucking President of the United States was one thing, but having that woman be the divorced single mother of an openly bisexual son who wears makeup and an adopted Black daughter? Magnus grins every time he thinks of one of those racist, homophobic pricks having an aneurysm whenever his mom or the First Family is mentioned. He hopes it really fucking hurts. 

Besides, it’s no secret that he’s got the highest approval rating of the entire First Family. The Bane-Roberts campaign PR team had struck marketing gold in Magnus, Catarina, and Maia, the Veep’s granddaughter. Here were three young, intelligent, attractive individuals who could appeal to the ever-elusive 18-25-year-old voter demographic. Pretty soon, the three of them became stars in their own right.

Magnus in particular had gotten... a lot of attention. 

By the time his mom became the presumptive Democratic nominee, he’d begun making weekly appearances in every magazine on the face of the Earth, his face splashed across glossy pages in high definition. There were at least a dozen fan accounts on Instagram (that he knew of) by the time the DNC rolled around. He had four luxury makeup brands fighting to do his makeup for the inauguration. 

That, and the particularly mortifying teen magazine that had gushed about his “soulful eyes” and his “megawatt smile.” Cat had taken full advantage of it by reading the infernal words out loud in a high-pitched voice every time he entered the same room as her.

So it’s all (mostly) worked out for him, he thinks. 

Their phones buzz at the same time. Magnus’s is buried somewhere under the mountain of papers, so he waits for Cat to tap on her screen. 

“Emergency meeting with Ragnor,” she reads out. 

“What, now?” 

“Yeah.” She sits up, stretching. “Something about approving the final designs for our outfits.” 

“Outfits for what?” Magnus knows but he’d rather pretend he didn’t. 

“Ha-ha,” Cat monotones, standing up and throwing one of his pillows back at him. “Shut your face and let’s go. I’d rather not be on the receiving end of whatever mood Ragnor’s in today because you made us late.” 

Magnus groans with all the drama he can muster and falls back against the headboard. 

“No thanks. I’m staying here with my Cinnabon. Carry on.”   

Cat is clearly having none of it, because she grabs him by both wrists and pulls him up with Herculean strength, ignoring the colorful array of expletives he lets loose as she does so. 

“Did I mention I don’t like you very much?” Magnus eventually says to her as they near one of the many briefing rooms in the West Wing. 

“It’s a wedding, Magnus. There are worse things in the world.” 

“Can you stop being the harbinger of doom for once in my life please.” 

“Guess I’ll also just stop bringing you free Cinnabon then, Maverick,” she retorts, heavy emphasis on his Secret Service code name.  

He gasps. “Fuck off, Miracle.” 

“Ooh, not very friendly.” 

Magnus settles for the mature move, which is sticking his tongue out at his infuriating sister as they plop down into two of the chairs surrounding the giant desk. 

“Remind me again, which one of the royal inbreds is getting married this time?” he asks, picking up a pen from the holder in the middle of the desk and twirling it in his fingers. 

Catarina narrows her eyes at him. “I feel like you should know this by now, you know, ’cause we leave in two days.” 

“Hey, you see this?” Magnus points at his head. “This is only for the most valuable and useful information.” 

“What, like ‘did you know that more Monopoly money is printed in the world than real money?’” she says dryly, fingers going up helpfully in air quotations to illustrate her point.  

“Excuse you, ma’am, that is a very important fact. You saw the laugh it got from the Secretary of the Treasury last week.” 

“Yeah, I bet it’s the answer to ending poverty across America.”  

Magnus throws the pen at her. “Answer my question, asshole.” 

“Prince Jace.” 

“Which one is he?” 

“The blond jock dude.” 

“Ohhh the one who looks like he spent four years doing keg stands at frat parties, right?”  

“That’s the one,” Cat says, rolling her eyes but grinning anyways. 

“And the bride? Isn’t she like, an artist or something? See, I did remember that!” 

“Clary. Clary Fairchild,” Ragnor says as he walks in, arms laden with files and his customary venti Americano with two extra shots. “She had an exhibition at the MoMA last year.” 

He drops the files with a definitive thwack on the cherry wood desk. 

“Alright, First Offspring. I’m gonna make this quick. I have approximately ten minutes before I have to meet your mom. She’s about this close to blowing her fuse with Johnson.” Ragnor holds up his index finger and thumb to indicate just how short this time span is.

“I can hardly contain my excitement,” Magnus says gloomily.

Ragnor fixes him with the classic, piercing green gaze that’s been known to terrorize many a White House intern. It tends to work on Magnus and Catarina too, and has ever since he started working for their mom ten years ago. That’s probably why one of his main duties as the deputy chief of staff is to manage the lives of the First Family – no one can quite handle the two of them like he can.

“Seriously though.” Magnus feebly thinks trying one last time is worth a shot. “Is it too late to pull out? Or why can’t we just dress up that one Secret Service agent who everyone says looks like me and send him in my place?” 

Ragnor sucks in a deep breath. Magnus is almost certain he’s doing his “count down from 10 to stop yourself from murdering the guy you’ve been in charge of for ten years” exercise. 

He places his palms on the desk. “We have been over this. When the Royal Family invites you to one of their weddings, you don’t say no. Especially when you happen to be the fucking First Son and First Daughter of the United States. It’s international relations 101.” 

“Well, I for one,” Cat says, pointedly eyeing Magnus out of the corner of her eye. “Am excited. Imagine if I get to dance with some duke or some rich ass European heir? I’d, uh, die.” 

“Yeah because your fucking arteries would rather clog themselves than listen to those prissy assholes talk about their latest imperial conquest.” 

Ragnor snaps his fingers in front of Magnus’s face. “Pull it together.”

He then pushes two folders across the desk at Magnus and Catarina. “Here are the final designs.” 

Magnus looks down at pictures of the deep maroon Dior suit he’s going to be wearing. He recalls, with vivid clarity, the murderous expression on Ragnor’s face a month ago when Magnus broached the subject of… playing around with the strict dress code they’d been given. The royals were clearly hell-bent on dragging him into their dull and dreary lives, but Magnus was going to go down fighting if he could help it. Deep maroon was the compromise they arrived at, after Ragnor’s emphatic I did not get a master’s degree to sit here and debate royal wedding dress codes with you, you little shithead.

“Oh my God, I fucking love it,” Cat gushes, her fingers running happily over the picture of the sun yellow Stella McCartney in her folder. 

Magnus’s own outfit is beautiful enough, he supposes. With a little creative wrangling, and some discreet help from Dior’s creative director Maria Chiuri, he’d managed to sneak in some gold trim along the contours of the suit. But, if he’d truly had his way, it would have been a very different story altogether. 

“Good.” Ragnor glances at both of them in turn. “Approved?” 

“Approved,” Magnus and Cat say together. 

“What’s Maia wearing?” Magnus asks, handing his folder back to Ragnor. 

“Prabal Gurung, of course,” comes Maia’s voice as she breezes in. “I’m not an animal.”

She drops into a chair unceremoniously, letting out a long and steady groan at the ceiling. “I am so over US Weekly trying to set me up with Adam Whitelaw’s trust-fund baby son. I mean, at least try and set me up with someone who doesn’t look like he spends his entire inheritance on yacht parties.”

“Hello to you too, sunshine,” Cat says, reaching over and ruffling Maia’s hair, earning herself a raised middle finger in the process.

“Like, look at this bullshit, bro.” Maia pulls her phone out of her pocket and reads, with a disgusted expression on her face, “An inside source at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner claimed that the VP’s 22-year-old granddaughter was seen getting very friendly indeed with Bradley Whitelaw, the oldest son of Senator Adam Whitelaw. Only time will tell if this new political romance will play out.” 

She looks at the rest of them incredulously, dropping her phone on the table like it’s personally offended her. 

Cat laughs. “Maybe you can snag a dance with Prince Alec and give them something new to print. Rumor has it he doesn’t have a date to the wedding. Single and royally ready to mingle.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. 

“Yurgh.” Magnus makes a hacking sound from his throat. “I’m gonna throw up.” 

“Calm down, drama queen,” Catarina chides. 

“You dare bring the cursed name of my arch nemesis into the conversation and then tell me to calm down?” 

“People don’t have arch nemeses, Magnus.” 

“Yeah, well, most people haven’t met His Royal Pompous Asswipe in person then have they?” Magnus retorts.  

Since his mother’s inauguration, the media has cast Magnus as the American equivalent of Alec, or His Royal Highness Prince Alexander of Wales, the Crown Prince of the United Kingdom. Alec also happens to be the one person Magnus would willingly sacrifice in case the Earth ever gets overtaken by alien overlords. The press just loves comparing the two of them, figureheads of their countries, which Magnus thinks is frankly ridiculous. They could not be more different. At least Magnus has personality. At least the most interesting part of his image isn’t simply that he was born white, rich, and famous.  

“Why does he have to be there?” He scrunches up his nose in disgust.

Maia rolls her eyes with so much feeling that Magnus is sure they’re going to get stuck in the back of her head. “Jace is his cousin and Alec’s the best man. Of course he’s gonna be there.” 

“But doesn’t he have something better to do, like staring at his own face in the mirror for hours on end?” 

“I mean… it’s a nice face,” Maia says, shrugging, pointedly ignoring the scathing look Magnus throws her way. 

And the worst part is… she’s not wrong. Alec is irritatingly attractive, like he was made in a lab. Which he probably was. Whatever. That’s beside the point. 

“Bet it’d look a lot better if he pulled it out of his own ass once in a while.” 

“Woof.”

Ragnor clocks Magnus with a dangerous look on his face, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Listen to me, you little shit. You better get all this out of your system right now because if you misbehave, believe me when I say, I will personally ensure that you won’t live to see 23.” 

Magnus makes a face at him and gives him a mock-salute, knowing very well that Ragnor is more than capable of seeing the threat through.   

“I emailed you three the finalized flight itinerary already, so don’t you dare text me tonight asking me for it,” the man in question says, as he picks up his files and stuffs his phone back in his pocket. “You’ll leave Friday afternoon and be back Sunday night.”  

Magnus groans, pressing his palms against his eyes. “Just shoot me now.” 

“Careful what you wish for,” comes Ragnor’s sing-song voice, fading as the door behind him shuts. 

By the time they enter one of the cavernous ballrooms in Buckingham Palace for the reception, Magnus is minutes away from ripping his suit off and running out into the grey British night. The ceremony had been exhaustingly long and mind-numbingly boring, and it didn’t help that they were seated too far back in Westminster Abbey to actually see any of it. Apparently the five million members of the Royal Family, stiff members of Parliament, and foreign dignitaries outrank political offspring of the United States. 

“Did you see the profiteroles?” Maia is saying as she appears next to Magnus where he’s standing with Catarina next to the only tolerable spot in the place, the bar. She looks like she just found out unicorns exist. “They are topped with edible gold.” 

“I literally do not understand the point of edible gold. It tastes like nothing.” Magnus says. 

“I think the point is to show off the fact that you can spend thousands on something that tastes like nothing,” Cat muses, chewing thoughtfully on one of the said profiteroles. 

The bride, Clary, is being spun around in the middle of the ballroom in a cloud of white lace and silk by her new husband, Prince Jace. Magnus supposes they make a good couple, and he can appreciate the loving look on Jace’s face. What he can’t appreciate is the thousands of comments on every goddamn social media post about the wedding that berated Clary for being a so-called “commoner.” The ones that simply could not let go of the fact that Jace had chosen to marry not some snobbish debutante, but a woman from perfectly normal, modest background who had worked hard to make a name for herself. 

These people and their obsession with aristocracy. Magnus hates every little bit of it. 

He’s in the middle of drowning his woes in champagne when Maia points at a floral monstrosity taking up half the room that’s supposed to pass for a flower arrangement. “You see that? That thing is worth $1 million.” 

Magnus nearly chokes. “What?” 

She nods. “People said it’s, like, poppies and hydrangeas and God knows what else, and that it’s got literal diamonds and pearls in it.” 

“You are shitting me. Empire blood money, eat your heart out.” 

Cat lets out a loud, undignified guffaw that attracts the disapproving attention of a few stuffy dukes and duchesses sitting at a table near them. There’ll probably be a dozen headlines tomorrow along the lines of First Daughter Gives Americans a Bad Name by Having an Actual Personality. 

Then Maia elbows Magnus, a shit-eating grin on her face, and points again at the flower arrangement. “Look who it is. Magnus, it’s your BFF.” 

And there he is, in all his stupid, maddening, infuriating glory. Standing next to the mountain of poppies, diamonds, and pearls, perfectly composed, talking with the easy confidence borne of the royal blood that flows through his veins. He’s tall, so tall, and his hands are clasped behind his back which only serves to emphasize his broad shoulders. 

His Royal Highness Prince Alexander of Wales. Heir to the British throne, and royal pain in Magnus’s butt. 

“Retract your claws, brother mine,” Cat whispers in his ear, voice light with amusement. “Doubt Mom or NATO would appreciate you starting the second Anglo-American war.” 

“I’d be surprised if someone went to war for him, given that he’s about as interesting as a turnip,” he bites out, picking up his second pre-filled flute of Bollinger from the bar and downing it immediately. Cocky British princes make him stress-drink. 

And to his utter dismay, Catarina has begun to make her way over to Alec, who notices her and gives her a smile so dazzling and so movie-star before taking her palm as she nears him and kissing the back of it. Magnus doesn’t even need to see Cat’s face to know that she’s fucking swooning. He watches, hand clenched so tightly around the empty champagne glass that he’s afraid he’ll break it, as they talk for a few seconds, before the moment of reckoning arrives and Cat turns to look at him, gesturing him over. 

Magnus sucks in a deep breath and places the glass on the tray of a passing waiter and grabs another one before he forces his feet to move towards them, helped along by the discreet shove Maia gives him. 

The prince’s hazel eyes linger on him as he comes to a stop in front of them, a small, amused smile on his handsome face that Magnus just wants to wipe off. He’s dressed in this ridiculously well-fitted black suit with coattails and a gold waistcoat underneath. 

“Magnus.” His deep voice is clear, thick accent sounding out the vowels in Magnus’s name in a way he thinks he’ll never get used to. Or wants to get used to. He nods and smiles. “Always a pleasure.” 

“Your Highness.” It takes an ungodly level of effort to keep seething sarcasm out of the ‘highness’ bit as Magnus returns the smile. 

“You know you can call me Alec, right?” As if Magnus needs his permission. 

“Really,” Magnus says, and he can physically feel his eye twitching. “Well, thank you for letting me know.” 

Alec gives him a funny look before he turns to Cat. “I was just about to convince your lovely sister to accompany me in a dance.” 

Cat huffs out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I don’t really know how to – you know, waltz.” 

“That’s perfectly alright. It’s not too complicated. You just follow my lead.” Alec gives her a dazzling smile, and Magnus is sure that if Cat were anyone else, she’d be melting into a puddle. Nevertheless, she smiles right back at him and places her hand in his outstretched one, which is the First Daughter-appropriate version of said swooning. 

Magnus wants to barf all over Alec’s stupid perfect hair. 

He watches, seething, as Prince Asshole takes his sister into the crowd of powdery rich people and starts pirouetting her around. What’s really fucking annoying is that Alec is actually really good at dancing, so much so that people around them have started to notice. Especially the photographers milling around the ballroom, who are now being drawn to Alec and Cat like moths to a flame. 

He walks back across the room to Maia, who is happily snacking on gold-topped profiteroles and watching the scene unfold with barely restrained glee. It’s not exactly that she’s happy that Catarina’s snagged a dance with one of the world’s most eligible bachelors; it’s more the fact that Maia loves fucking with the tabloids, and the First Daughter dancing with the Crown Prince of England is about as juicy as it gets. 

The same can’t be said for Magnus, however. Maia must sense him stewing away next to her, because she turns to him and smirks. 

“Shut up,” he says sourly. 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“Your face is enough.” 

“And your face is priceless. We should get you to more royal weddings.” 

“I would literally rather have Ragnor skin me alive.” He snatches one of the profiteroles from Maia’s plate, ignoring her noises of protest, and pops it in his mouth. 

“Is it really that hard for him to stay out of the headlines for like, two seconds?” Magnus grits out, fuming, as two photographers in the corner nearly pull each other’s heads off trying to get the perfect shot of Alec twirling Catarina around. 

“Yeah, kind of. I mean, to be fair, Magnus, they did print his fucking sonogram,” Maia says. 

It’s a known fact that the media has some sort of otherworldly obsession with the royals, which is part of his whole problem with them. Alec especially seems to have the entire world wrapped around his little finger – the minute he steps out of one of his giant castles, the world swoons as if he just managed to end child hunger by doing so. 

And he’ll never admit it, but Magnus can recall the day he saw Alec for the first time, almost a decade ago, with vivid clarity. 

He was 13 years old. It was one of those rare, quiet nights in the small Brooklyn brownstone he grew up in when his mom was home for dinner, when the smell of her fresh nasi goreng would fill every corner of the room. The TV used to run quietly in the background as he, Citra, and Cat sat at the table. And on that particular night, the TV had been turned to TMZ, Cat’s obsession of the month. The story on air was about the Crown Prince of England, who had accompanied his parents on his first proper royal tour, starting in the Bahamas. 

The pictures were of a teenage boy with thick, mahogany hair and shiny hazel eyes. He was smiling in a way that was almost luxuriating, like it made him happy to smile so without pretense, unabashedly. Like there was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be than right there, with his family, on a white sand beach with the sun on his shoulders. Magnus remembers wondering how much courage it took to smile like that before the eyes of the whole world, like nothing could ever stop it. He was carefree and beautiful. 

Then, Magnus met him for the first time, and the veneer was shattered. The resplendent smile was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by stoic, measured nothingness. He had realized that the Alec from the beach was nothing more than a mirage. The real Alec is the cardboard cutout Prince Charming, rigid and forever slave to centuries old tradition. He’s the image of untouchable splendor that constantly reminds you that he’s more than, and that you are less than. And the look in his eyes, God that look, when they met for the first time – that had confirmed it.

Now, Alec makes eye contact with him over Cat’s shoulder, gives him a perfunctory nod, and Magnus nearly blows his fuse. 

“I’m going to fucking kill him.” 

“Not an entirely wise thing to do in Buckingham Palace, just saying,” Maia says, patting him on the shoulder.  

And eventually, he has to swallow his anger to play nice with some dignitaries who come up to them. He answers their questions about college and the state of affairs back home. He assures them that President Bane is doing everything in her power to foster international relations and diplomacy. He laughs his politics laugh at their jokes and throws in a few of his own. He invites the daughter of a Serbian count to dance and indulges her countless questions about living in the White House. 

But somehow, His Royal Fucking Highness keeps cropping up, whether in passing during a dance, or out of the corner of his eye, watching him, as Magnus throws his head back and laughs at something the Australian Prime Minister says. 

At one point, maybe somewhere between glasses of champagne he’s lost track of, Magnus spots him standing placidly next to the flower arrangement, calmly taking dainty little sips from his own glass, and surveying the scene in front of him like a businessman taking stock of his assets.  

And that is just too much. 

The next thing he knows, he’s walking towards Alec. As Alec notices him crossing the length of the ballroom, his eyes turn unreadable. He watches him keenly, never looking away, until Magnus is standing right in front of him. 

“Hello again, Magnus,” he says. There’s a small smile playing across his lips. His accent is so infuriatingly posh. Magnus wants to break it apart. 

“So this is your new plan, huh?” He waves his glass up and down over Alec’s figure. 

“I’m sorry? What plan?” 

“Dancing with my sister. What, you stopped trending on Twitter? Jace dominated the headlines for too long?” 

Alec has the nerve to look a mix of wounded and surprised. As if he doesn’t hate Magnus just the same. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Come on, Alexander,” Magnus pats him on the shoulder, “Let’s not pretend. You don’t have to keep up the façade with me.” He makes a show of crossing his heart. “I won’t tell, promise.” 

Alec narrows his eyes. “I’m not sure what I did to provoke this,” he says evenly, “But I can clearly tell you’re not in the right mood. Perhaps you should sit down for a bit. Take a break.” 

He gestures at the glass in Magnus’s hand.  

It drives Magnus absolutely fucking insane that Alec thinks he can stand there, like the condescending prick he is, and pretend like he’s above being normal and human and that he can tell Magnus what to do. 

And to make it worse, he doesn’t even wait for Magnus to respond before he’s turning around, jaw locked, to walk away. 

Fuck no. Not again. 

Magnus grabs his wrist with his free hand. “The hell’s your problem, man –”

Then, Alec rips his arm out of Magnus’s grip, turning to face him with a dangerous glimmer in his eyes, like a lion ready to attack. But he does this with such force that it throws Magnus completely off balance and sends him flying forward into Alec’s chest. He stumbles over his own feet, reaching out and grabbing Alec’s sleeve to try and steady himself. Then, he’s toppling to the side, and dragging Alec down with him. 

Magnus realizes, with a horrific lurch in his stomach, that they’re headed straight for the table supporting the mountain of flowers, and that what’s about to happen is worse than his worst nightmare.

The resounding crash of the table as they fall onto it might just be the loudest thing Magnus has ever heard. Or maybe it’s the deathly silence that immediately follows. There’s a sharp pain spreading from his elbows where he’s clocked them against the floor. His blood screams in his ears, heart sprinting in his chest, as flowers and diamonds and pearls rain down around them, a strangely beautiful sight. Magnus might have appreciated it if he didn’t want the earth to open and swallow him whole.  

He hears Alec’s faint, mortified “Oh my fucking God” before he sees his face, shocked beyond measure. The minuscule diamonds and pearls are sprinkled all over Alec’s hair, sparkling like some kind of minimalist, avant-garde crown. How fitting, Magnus thinks, in a moment of wild frenzy.  

He vaguely registers two things: one, that he’s basically sitting in the Crown Prince of England’s lap, a situation he never thought he’d find himself in, and two, that Ragnor is probably going to eat him for dinner, before camera flashes start going off. 

POPPYGATE: FSOTUS AND PRINCE ALEC BATTLE IT OUT AT ROYAL WEDDING

MAGNUS BANE ATTACKS CROWN PRINCE 

THE END OF BRITISH-AMERICAN DIPLOMACY? AN INSIDE LOOK INTO THE YEARS-OLD BATTLE BETWEEN THE PRINCES OF AMERICA AND THE UK

Magnus had been strong-armed into a briefing room by Ragnor the second they had gotten back to the White House on Sunday night. He had shot a desperate look at Cat, but had gotten a sympathetic smile in return. 

He watches Ragnor now, who’s been maddeningly quiet the entire time. He’s slowly dropping newspapers and magazines emblazoned with damning headlines on the table in front of Magnus, one at a time, letting the smack of each hitting the cherry wood echo eerily around the room. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, and Magnus feels approximately two inches tall.

Ragnor picks up one newspaper, holding it like it’s a piece of used toilet paper, face screwed up in utter disgust as he reads out, “Sources close to the FSOTUS and the Royal Family claim that Mr. Bane has had it out for the Prince from the start. It certainly raises the question of whether this enmity, peaking quite… expensively at the Royal Wedding, could affect, according to some sources, the increasingly strained relationship between President Citra Bane and the Royal Family.”

Magnus wonders, miserably, if it’s too late to get the Secret Service to hide him in some WITSEC safe house in middle-of-nowhere Nebraska. 

Ragnor lowers the paper onto the desk, his gaze cutting. Magnus sinks further into his seat.

“What,” Ragnor says menacingly, voice barely restrained. “I repeat, what could have possibly compelled you to tackle the Crown Prince of England at one of the most internationally prominent events of the year?” 

“Well, I didn’t tackle him, and he started it –”

“I cannot express how much I do not give a single flying fuck about who started it.” 

Magnus sighs. “Look. I’m sorry. Can’t I just like, release a statement apologizing? It shouldn’t be that big of a deal.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Magnus. They’re calling it Poppygate.” 

“That’s… actually kind of cute,” Magnus says before he can stop himself. 

Ragnor throws him an absolutely withering look and he effectively shuts himself up. 

Magnus slumps back in his chair, thinking bitterly of the tweets he’d read on the plane before this current torture session with Ragnor. The good people of British Twitter had taken it upon themselves to send him tens of thousands of death wishes and spiteful jabs at his supposed “utter disrespect” for the monarchy and how dare he come to their country and attack their Crown Prince. To make matters worse, Alec’s horde of fangirls had taken to leaving biting comments on every single one of his Instagram posts, dating all the way back to 2013. He supposes he should applaud the sheer effort. 

Then, he sees the vein popping in Ragnor’s forehead, and thinks he’d rather face the combined armies of British Twitter and Alec’s fangirls than him. 

“What do I have to do?” he asks finally. 

See, objectively, Magnus knows that he’s dragged them into a proverbial media shitstorm that could very well be detrimental to Mom President’s re-election campaign. The last thing Citra needs is for her son to be caught, in high definition, endangering the line of succession and putting the Royal Family out of a million bucks. He knows that he’s going to need to work his ass off to fix it. 

Still, he also knows that whatever Ragnor is going to have him do is going to be about as pleasant to him as being put through a tree shredder.  

“We’re releasing a statement with the Royal Family stating that it was a misunderstanding and that you and Alec have been close friends for a long time.”

And he’s right. 

Magnus’s mouth drops open. “You want me to pretend he’s my best friend? Have you met the guy?” 

“Are you even listening to me? I don’t care if he’s the human equivalent of dry leather!” Ragnor seethes. 

“Look, it was just an accident, okay? Like honestly, just a tiff –"

Ragnor holds up a silencing hand. “I don’t think you realize the magnitude of this situation. You, the First Son of the United States, were caught, on camera, having a ‘tiff’ with the fucking heir to the British throne, a ‘tiff’ which resulted in the two of you falling into a million-dollar flower arrangement, at a Royal. Wedding. During the year in which your mother, the first female President of the United States, is running for re-election.” 

Well, when you put it like that. 

“Can’t you just fake my death?” Magnus asks feebly, after a beat of silence.

“Trust me, that was the first avenue I wanted to explore.” 

Ragnor drops into his chair with a mundane finality. “So,” he continues, “The only way we get out of this Anglo-American clusterfuck is for you and Alec to pretend like it was all just a huge misunderstanding and that you actually think he’s the reason why the Earth rotates. I don’t give a shit if you hate his guts in private. Make a voodoo doll of him and stick pins in it – I literally do not care. But as far as the public is concerned, you and Prince Alec are BFFs. Congratulations.” 

Magnus sighs. “Fine.” 

Ragnor cocks an eyebrow. “Fine what?” 

“I’ll convince them.”

“No. Convince me.” 

Magnus would rather climb Mount Everest. It might be easier. 

“Now,” Ragnor stands and starts gathering all the magazines and newspapers, “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go deal with the Prince’s team and figure out the best way to get you two on a ‘best celebrity bromances’ Buzzfeed list.” 

His eye twitches, as if he can’t believe those were actual words that just came out of his mouth.  

“I swear I lose five years of my life every time I look at your face.” 

Magnus grins, despite everything. “Love you.” 

“Eat a dick,” is Ragnor’s way of saying it back.  

“You,” Ragnor says at 7 am on Wednesday, two days later, parading into Magnus’s room without warning and ripping him out of his mountain of problem sets and empty jalapeño chip packets. “Are going to Wimbledon.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Magnus manages, rubbing his eyes. “Like, Wimbledon Wimbledon?” 

“Yes, unless there just happens to be another tennis tournament also called Wimbledon happening right now that I’m not aware of,” Ragnor says flatly, before yanking the curtains open and flooding the room with offensively bright sunlight. 

Magnus throws him a sour look. Ragnor holds out a card to him, which he takes. 

It’s thick, high-quality paper, soft as butter, bearing the coat of arms of the Prince of Wales and the Championships Logo, and embossed in gold lettering which proclaims:  

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES

&

THE CHAIRMAN AND COMMITTEE OF MANAGEMENT OF THE CHAMPIONSHIPS 

REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF MAGNUS BANE IN THE ROYAL BOX ON THE 6^TH OF MARCH 2020.

Magnus has to laugh. He just has to. 

“Okay seriously. Who held what gun to Alec’s head to get him to send this?”

Ragnor pointedly ignores him. “The Prince is going to be presenting the winners’ trophies, so he’ll be in the Royal Box. This is the perfect time for you to make an appearance together and fix at least some of this shitstorm you pulled us into. I approve the plan, your mom approves the plan, and so does the Prince’s equerry.” 

“The fuck is an equerry?” 

“Oh for God’s sake – look. I just got out of twelve straight hours of dealing with royal shitbags and PR assholes from both sides of the Atlantic. I am running on zero hours of sleep, four shots of espresso, and one strawberry Pop-Tart. I have managed to concoct a plan which, if you do it right, might just save our asses. So listen up, buttercup, because I’m not repeating myself and I will end you if you mess this up even a little bit.” 

He raises his eyebrows at Magnus, daring him to say anything. Magnus sighs and gestures for him to continue.  

“So. You are leaving tomorrow morning, and you’ll be back Sunday night. You have the appearance at the Wimbledon finals, and the next day you have a televised interview with a local London talk show and dinner with the prince and family. Everything is laid out here.” 

Ragnor drops an ominous-looking black folder into Magnus’s lap. Its contents range from a minute-by-minute schedule of the plan to fool the world, to a social media plan that, among others, requires a minimum of four Instagram stories per day and two overall posts from each of them, to an “HRH Prince Alec Fact Sheet” that Magnus thinks might as well just be a blank piece of paper. 

“All you have to do is sit next to him, look pretty, and act like you think he’s the fucking eighth wonder of the world.” 

Magnus scoffs. “How dare you suggest I use my beauty for such nefarious purposes?”  

“Honey, don’t be so dramatic.” Magnus can hear the eye roll in his mother’s voice as she enters his room, heels clicking authoritatively. She’s followed closely by Luke Garroway, Head of the White House Secret Service, and one of Magnus’s favorite people in the whole world. 

The man in question shoots him a sheepishly apologetic smile, which Magnus can only return. 

The President of the United States takes him in, sitting there bleary-eyed and surrounded by the aftermath of finishing five problem sets in one night, and sighs dramatically and turns to Luke and Ragnor.

“My dumbass son is going to be the death of me,” she bemoans.   

“Good morning to you too, mother,” Magnus says dryly. He knew he got his penchant for dramatics from somewhere. 

“Poppygate? Really? Do you always have to do the most?” 

“What can I say, you know I have an image to keep up,” he tries, and earns himself a light smack across the head. 

“If it were up to me you’d be locked up in the West Wing for the rest of your life,” Citra says dangerously. “You’re lucky that Ragnor had a calmer mind.”

“I’m being forced into friendship with a tumbleweed against my will.” Magnus waves the offensive black folder in her direction. 

“Please. It’ll be a few days of you sitting next to Prince Alec, getting photographed, and staying in a palace,” Citra says. “Even you can handle it.” 

Magnus slumps. “Clearly you all thrive on this… this schadenfreude.” 

Ragnor snorts. “More than you know.” He turns to Citra. “That should be all on this front, ma’am. I can head over and start setting up for the conference with the Secretary-General now.” 

“Yes, thank you Ragnor. I’ll be there in a bit.” 

“Okay, one more thing,” Magnus says, waving in Ragnor’s direction. “I actually still have class on Friday.” 

“I called your professor already. Believe it or not, she seemed to agree with me that British-American relations are actually important.” Ragnor feigns surprise. 

And with that, and a final huff in Magnus’s direction, he stalks out of the room. 

Magnus’s mom sighs a deep, my-son-is-going-to-give-me-grey-hair sigh before sitting down next to him on the bed. 

“Alec started it,” Magnus says quietly, very aware that he sounds like a petulant child. 

Citra reaches up a hand and pushes his hair back. “Maybe so. As your mother, I’m inclined to believe you. But the world isn’t going to be so nice.” 

Magnus laughs dryly. “Yeah, I’m getting enough death threats to last me a lifetime.” 

Citra’s expression softens a bit. “I’m sorry, sayang.” 

“No, I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I fucked up.”

He turns to look at his mother. “I’ll fix it.” 

She shakes her head, a small smile on her face. 

“Okay,” she says as she stands from the bed, President face back on. “I have about a hundred meetings before that conference with Guterres.”

She leans in and plants a kiss against Magnus’s forehead. “Safe flight, baby. I’ll see you when you get back.” 

“Wait, who am I getting for security? Please don’t say Dun –”

“Duncan.” 

“Fucking – Please no. Luke can take me.” 

“Luke cannot,” Citra retorts. “He has better things to do. Don’t you, Luke?” 

“I do, ma’am,” the traitor says, grinning at Magnus’s mom. 

Magnus throws him a sour look. 

“But,” says Luke. “There’s nothing I can’t delegate. Besides, I don’t think Duncan’s ready to deal with Magnus again. Not after the Madagascar incident.” 

The memory brings an unwarranted smile to Magnus’s face. The image of Duncan, barely holding back a slew of profanity, hopelessly trying to convince a spectacularly drunk Magnus and Maia to climb down from a palm tree. 

Citra looks back and forth between Magnus and Luke, before she sighs. “Fine. I trust you more anyways,” she says to Luke. 

Magnus whoops and bumps his fist against Luke’s outstretched one. Luke isn’t Secret Service so much as basically the closest thing to a father Magnus has. He’s been with Magnus’s family for as long as he can remember, even longer than Ragnor, an ex-Marine who joined his mom’s security detail back when she first ran for New York State Senate and rose through the ranks with her. 

“Oh, and honey?” The President stops in the doorway, the small American flag on her blouse glinting in the sunlight. “Try not to start World War III before you graduate college, okay? Love you.” 

Magnus runs a hand through his hair while staring into a mirror attached to the back of the leather seat in the car. His eyes are a bit bloodshot from the flight, but he supposes that was bound to happen when he decided to spend the entirety of it stewing internally and staring out of the window into the black sky as if it was personally offending him. 

“I can always arrange for a fake passport and set you up in some middle-of-nowhere fishing town in Scandinavia,” Luke had offered on the plane, a wry smile on his face. “You can live out the rest of your life in obscurity.” 

“Ugh, you’re my king,” Magnus had said emphatically. 

London is sunny for once, and as the car pulls into the All England Club, excitement is as palpable in the air as it had been during the wedding. Hordes of people crowd the streets and grassy areas in front of giant screens showing a live feed of Center Court. A British player is playing today in the finals, so there are so many Union Jacks everywhere that Magnus’s eyes hurt. 

The car stops by a private entrance. Luke steps out before him, as always. 

There’s a tall Indian man waiting for them, dressed in a flawless smooth black suit, back ramrod straight and a neutral smile on his face. 

“Mr. Bane, Agent Garroway. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I trust you had a decent flight,” he says in the most robotically pleasant voice Magnus has ever heard in his life. “My name is Raj Mehta. I’m Prince Alec’s equerry.” 

Magnus is kind of speechless, but he takes Raj’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Good to meet you, Raj.” 

Raj pulls a tablet out of the inside of his jacket, and Magnus is surprised he doesn’t hear his robot joints creaking as he does so. He turns and starts double-timing inside the Clubhouse. 

Magnus throws a look at Luke, who shakes his head in amusement, and then the two of them book it to catch up with Raj. 

“I trust Mr. Fell has briefed you on the plan for the weekend?” Raj asks as his fingers fly over the tablet. He looks up expectantly when Magnus doesn’t respond right away. 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“Wonderful. You’ll be staying in the guest quarters at Kensington Palace, and we have the talk show tomorrow. As for today, we’ve just got the match and there will be photographers. Quite a few of them,” he adds, smooth professionalism hiding: try not to fuck it up. 

Magnus smiles at him. “Sounds good.” 

A giant non-disclosure agreement later (seriously, what could the most boring person on the planet possibly have to hide?), Raj gestures for Magnus to follow him. 

“Excellent. Now, His Highness is waiting.”  

The man in question is waiting for them in a cavernous VIP lounge on the second floor, dressed in a perfectly tailored light grey suit with a dark blue tie. He’s all immaculately swept back dark hair and brilliant smiles at people who greet him, and Magnus just wants to disappear into the Earth below him.  

As Magnus and Raj approach, his attention is caught and he turns to look at them. The smile drops just a bit. 

“Magnus,” he says, the slightest hint of a steely edge to his voice and smile. If Magnus were anyone else, he’d miss it. Alec holds out the hand that’s not holding a pair of Ray-Bans. 

“Alec.” Magnus takes his hand and shakes it. Surprisingly, his hands are not as soft as Magnus thought they’d be. He notes a few calluses along his fingers. Maybe he’d been slacking on the manicure routine.  

“I see you’ve managed to learn how to balance in the past week,” Alec says through his teeth. Somewhere in the crowd, a camera flash goes off. 

Magnus laughs his well-rehearsed camera laugh, the one that’s endeared him to thousands around the world. 

“Fuck you.” 

“I bet you’d love to,” Alec says through a laugh of his own, patting Magnus gamely on the back. 

“Eat a dick.” 

“Why, are you offering?”

Magnus is in the middle of thinking up a way to sucker punch Alec in his ridiculous defined jawline and somehow pass it off as a friendly pat when Raj materializes next to them. He glances at a photographer in the back of the room discreetly out of the corner of his eye, who gives Raj a faint nod and small thumbs-up. 

Magnus wants to barf. 

“I believe we have what we need for the moment, sir,” he says to Alec. “If you’d like to accompany me to the Royal Box now?” 

Alec smiles at him before turning to look at Magnus.

“After you, Your Royal Highness,” Magnus says, sickly sweet, gesturing with his hand. 

There’s a glint in Alec’s eyes, almost like a challenge. And Magnus gives it right back to him. 

Here we fucking go. 

The Royal Box is packed full of so many famous people that Magnus’s brain hurts and he has to stop trying to make a list after a few seconds. He spots Idris Elba in all his magnificent, sky-blue suited glory and, imagining Cat’s reaction, thinks that the day might not be too bad after all. He’s in the middle of waving hello to Tom Holland, who he’d met at a gala last summer, when a voice from the front row sounds.

“Alec!”

Magnus turns with the man in question to see a woman in a light pink fitted blazer and pants combo waving in their direction. He recognizes her instantly: the dazzling smile really seems to run in the family. 

As Magnus follows Alec to the first row, Princess Isabelle takes off her next-season Prada sunglasses and smiles at them. 

She allows Alec to lean down and kiss her on both cheeks before she’s reaching around him to face Magnus. 

“I have heard quite a bit about you, darling,” she says gleefully, reaching out a perfectly manicured hand that Magnus takes. 

She’s got an infectious smile. Magnus finds himself grinning, despite the surly cloud that is Alec standing by them. “All bad things, I assume?” 

“Positively sinful,” she says, winking.  

Magnus laughs as she pulls him into a quick hug. When they break apart, Magnus can see Alec’s eyes practically watering with the effort of not rolling them. 

“Now, now big brother,” Isabelle tuts, placing a placating hand on Alec’s bicep, “Let’s play nice for the cameras, shall we?” 

“I’d rather jump off the Tower Bridge,” Alec says, smiling sweetly at Magnus. 

“Oh my God, same!” Magnus says, his blood boiling. “Amazing how we have so much in common.” He turns to wave enthusiastically at the photographers below them, all of whom have their giant lenses steadily trained on the three of them. They better get some good fucking pictures out of this. 

“Act like you like me,” he hisses at Alec, who, with immense effort, laughs a perfectly rehearsed Instagrammable laugh and puts his arm around Magnus’s shoulders and waves at the cameras. 

Isabelle looks like she’s having way too much fun with this when they let go of each other.  

“I am utterly floored by your friendship,” she says cannily, “Have you exchanged friendship bracelets yet?” 

“Shut up, Izzy,” Alec mumbles. 

Magnus spends the entirety of the match sweating profusely and internally cursing Ragnor into oblivion. He and Alec smile and wave for the cameras, and with each passing second Magnus feels his will to live slowly ebb away. He supposes he might have enjoyed the prime seating to watch the greatest tennis players in the world battle it out for the top spot under different circumstances. But all he can think about is how the players had to bow to Alec (“It is customary for players to bow only when HM the King and/or HRH the Prince of Wales are in attendance,” per the Royal Box etiquette packet Ragnor had forced him to read) when they entered the stadium and he just wants the Earth to swallow him whole. 

It’s helped only slightly by the fact that Alec seems to be just as miserable as he is, simmering with barely restrained resentment next to him, betrayed only by the muscle twitching in his jaw. Their arms brush on the shared armrest once, and Alec yanks his arm away with staggering speed, as if Magnus had set him on fire. 

“You really should learn to relax sometimes, pretty boy,” Magnus says over the din of the crowd as one of the players hits an ace. 

“So you think I’m pretty?” Alec gives him a honeyed smile, which Magnus very considerately does not punch. “How sweet.” 

He laughs like Alec’s said the funniest thing in the whole goddamn world. “I’m gonna cut your crown jewels off.” 

“Oh, I don’t think you can afford them,” Alec bites back, clapping politely. 

Fucking fuckhead dickwaffle piece of fucking shit. Magnus wants to throttle him, geopolitical relations be damned.

When the match is over, Alec gets shepherded back inside while the Court is set up for the trophy ceremony. Isabelle glances at him from across the seat recently vacated by her infuriating brother.

“Uh oh. You’ve got the darkest look on your face,” she muses, pushing her sunglasses down her nose. 

Yeah, and I might be responsible for your brother’s murder soon. You won’t hold that against me, right? I think you’re kinda cool and I think we’d be great friends – 

“Not really my crowd,” he says instead, smiling with a shrug. He should probably school his features.

She gives him a knowing smile and a wink, which throws him off, but before he can poke at it further, the announcer’s voice booms across the stadium: “Ladies and gentlemen, for the presentation of the trophies, please welcome onto Center Court, His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales.” 

Alec walks out to resounding cheers, an easy, charming smile on his face. On the huge screens, he looks every bit the picture-perfect fairytale prince: young, handsome, confident. His posture is perfect. His hair is perfect. He might as well have been Photoshopped. 

Magnus claps, albeit begrudgingly, alongside the rest of the crowd as Alec shakes hands and waves. If there’s one definitive thing about the British Magnus knows, it’s that they adore their Crown Prince. It isn’t that surprising, really, and extends well beyond the UK’s borders. Alec has consistently appeared in “World’s Most Eligible Bachelors” lists since he turned 18. People seem to really dig the quiet, charming archetype, the Cambridge history degree, the scandal-free life, the movie star looks. 

Which Magnus thinks is kind of ridiculous, since he’s never actually heard one word out of Alec’s mouth in a public setting that didn’t sound like it had been pre-approved by a team of overworked speech writers. “Prince Alec” has about as much personality as a cardboard box. He’s known that since the day he met him four years ago, the day that had taken everything he’d ever thought about the Prince of Wales up until then and shoved it out the window. 

The Alec standing in the middle of the stadium now is carefully curated, plucked and polished and created for the masses, a kind of wild, untouchable fantasy that the world seems to absolutely lap up for some goddamn reason. 

It’s almost like he doesn’t exist on the same plane as everyone else – and he’s acutely aware of it.  

Somewhere between the trophy handoffs and speeches, Alec’s eyes meet his in the crowd. He’s too far away to accurately gauge his expression, but the eye contact just makes Magnus sweat and seethe more in his seat anyways. 

God, he hates Ragnor. 

The next day, after the televised twenty minutes from hell finally ended, Magnus’s phone blew up. Apparently, he and Alec were trending everywhere. Ragnor had sent him a blow-by-blow report of every single article that mentions him and Alec, including screenshots of tweets gushing over their bromance at Wimbledon, how great the two of them are, how jealous everyone is of such an iconic friendship. 

One of the tweets was a picture of him and Alec on the talk show alongside: omfg look at my fucking kings (heart emoji) (crying face emoji) (heart emoji). He almost hadn’t recognized himself in the picture. He’s grinning and laughing while sitting next to Alec, which is the greatest oxymoron on the fucking planet. And, Magnus had noted with seething annoyance that Alec looked absolutely perfect in a well-fitted button-down, as per usual, like he didn’t even need to try. 

It was so incredibly annoying. 

He got about five million likes when he posted the requisite picture of the two of them at Wimbledon. Then Maia had texted him a screenshot of the post, alongside an infuriating array of emojis: smirk face, tongue, and water drip, and Magnus almost threw his phone on the ground. 

And back at Kensington, he’d barely knotted his tie for his dinner with Alec and Isabelle, when Raj approached him. 

“If you’d like to accompany me to escort His Highness from the archery range?” Raj had said to him. Because of course there is a literal indoor archery range in Kensington Palace. 

So apparently Alec is into archery. That at least explains the calluses on his hands. 

Then the second they got to the range, Raj’s phone had blown up, and he’d hastily left to deal with whatever catastrophe that needed to be dealt with, with an apology and a the prince is just inside, Mr. Bane. 

So here Magnus is. Standing at the entrance to the archery range, wishing with all his might that he could be anywhere else in the world, and watching Alec sense his presence and slowly turn to face him like a lion staking out his prey. 

“Magnus. What a pleasure,” he says, not even the slightest hint of said pleasure on his face. “Have you come to threaten my balls again?” 

Magnus spreads his hands and gives him a mock bow. “Always, darling.” 

Alec raises the bow in his hand. “You realize I’m the one holding a weapon here, right?” 

“Is this how the Royal Family usually treats its guests? Threats of murder?” 

“No, we usually just reserve that for the most special ones,” Alec says sardonically. He picks up an arrow, notches it, and then sends it flying straight into the bullseye with unnerving ease.   

“I’m flattered.” 

See, this? This he can do. Indoors, shielded from cameras and nosy talk-show hosts, he can be as open and unabashed in his dislike of Alec as he wants to. He doesn’t have to hide it behind smiles and handshakes. This is manageable. It’s familiar. And Alec, surprisingly, has got some fight in him as well, so it’s pretty much the best case scenario.

The muscle ticks in Alec’s jaw, and Magnus surmises that he’s just as thankful for this as he is. 

Alec’s got his bottom lip between his teeth as picks up another arrow and shoots it, again, straight into the bullseye.

Hell if Magnus is just going to stand there and watch him have his playtime. Alec is in the middle of pulling the string back again when Magnus says, “Let me try.” 

“What?” He might as well have asked Alec to give up the crown, judging by the look on his face. 

Magnus fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Come on. Hand it over.” 

“You know what?” Alec says, leaning against the bow in the most infuriating way. “I don’t think you can handle it.” 

“Oh please. It doesn’t take being British to shoot a goddamn arrow. Besides, how hard can it be?” 

He half expects a cutting retort, but Alec just rolls his eyes and places the bow in Magnus’s outstretched hand. It’s heavy, made of expensive-looking wood. 

“Here.” Alec hands him a leather cuff. 

“The hell is this?” 

“It’s an arm guard. Unless you’re into being whipped by bowstrings,” Alec says dryly.

“Now how would you know what I’m into and not into?” 

Alec falters, the color rising in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean –”

Magnus snorts, pulling the arm guard onto his forearm. “Relax, Your Highness.” 

He mimics the stance Alec had taken up earlier, and raises the bow, but ends up finding it almost impossible to pull the string back. “What the fuck? Why is it so tight?” 

“It’s supposed to be tight. That’s how the arrow gets the momentum to –”

“Yes, yes, thanks for the physics lesson, Professor.” 

Alec mutters something that sounds a lot like “dickhead” under his breath, before he’s suddenly in Magnus’s space, way too close, raising his hand to his elbow. And every cell, every nerve in Magnus’s body shocks into action. 

“You have to –”

He stops short when Magnus pushes his hand away. 

“Dude, get off me.” 

“Christ, do you always have to be such a prick?” Alec snaps. “I’m just trying to help you.” 

“I don’t need your help, Your Royal Highness. I’m not one of your poor, lowly subjects.”

“I didn’t say you were – you know what? Forget it. Don’t know why I thought this was worth it.”  

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alec snarls. “Maybe it’s the fact that you’re so content to live in this bubble of hatred that you can’t even handle one normal conversation.” 

Magnus is bristling. He lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s fucking rich coming from you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“Don’t fucking pretend. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” 

Alec’s eyes flash. “Please. Enlighten me.” 

This is exactly what Magnus hates about him. The haughty look on his face, the constant air of believing he’s fundamentally above everyone else. As if he doesn’t know, as if the entire thing was so inconsequential to him that he can’t even bring himself to remember it.

“Just – forget it,” Magnus snaps. “This whole goddamn thing was a stupid idea anyways. Fucking Wimbledon and –” 

“Believe me, I am waiting for this weekend to be over just as much as you are. Then we can get back to a world where we don’t have to see each other every bloody day.” 

And Magnus fucking loses it. He throws the bow down on the ground, not even caring that it probably costs more than one of his kidneys, and gets up in Alec’s face.

“You know this doesn’t end after today, right?” he says heatedly. “To the rest of the world, you and I are best friends. If we just stop seeing each other it doesn’t work. So I guess it fucking sucks for you, Prince Charming, because you’re stuck pretending to be my buddy for the rest of our lives.” 

Alec’s eyes are full of utter contempt when he snaps, “You’re right about one thing. It does fucking suck.” 

“Yeah, I bet. Bet it fucking sucks for your image too, having to be seen with a freak like me.” The word, that word, tastes horrible in Magnus’s mouth. Four years’ worth of horrible.

And to say that Magnus isn’t prepared for the look that crosses over Alec’s face as soon as the words leave his mouth would be a gross understatement. 

Alec looks like he’s been slapped. He immediately falls back onto his heels. 

“That’s not – that’s not what I meant,” he says quietly, after a beat of silence. 

Magnus’s face feels hot, and he vaguely registers that he’s trembling. He clenches his fists and tries to force his arms to still. Alec’s silence is completely throwing him off, and he can finally feel the full effect his own anger is having on him, rearing its ugly head until he can’t really comprehend anything else. 

He can’t really help it. This is four years in the making. 

Alec’s watching him unwaveringly, and there’s something entirely unreadable in his gaze. 

“I don’t think you’re a freak. I would never think that,” he eventually says, voice strangled. “I have never thought that.” 

I have never thought that. 

The words ring in Magnus’s ears, in Alec’s rounded vowels. They go against everything he has ever thought, has ever been made to believe in, for the past four years. They go against the bitter, prickling sensation he’s carried in his chest since the day he and Alec met for the first time. The same bitterness that flared whenever he saw Alec, whether on a screen, or on the pages of a glossy magazine, or occasionally in person. 

That bitterness is fighting in him now, trying to reconcile itself with the man who stands in front of him. A man who’s looking at him with torn open eyes, arms limp at his side, his expression impossible to interpret. 

And, well – it’s not working. 

Before he can grapple with it, Raj is approaching them to usher them out of the range and back inside the main palace for dinner. Alec stares at him and Magnus just stares right back, because right now, in a rare, rare moment in his life, he’s coming up completely speechless. 

And as they walk, he finds himself attuned to Alec walking in front of him, whose eyes are trained resolutely on the ground. There’s a tense set to his shoulders, and a few times, Magnus is almost sure he’s going to turn around say something, but he never does. He just follows Raj silently.

Over dinner, the silence continues, broken periodically by the sound of forks hitting plates and Isabelle’s attempts at starting a conversation. Alec looks at him occasionally over his roast chicken, chewing his bottom lip, but doesn’t say a single word. 

“Well then,” Isabelle says eventually, finally giving up and falling back into her chair, eyeing both of them sourly as she shoves a piece of potato in her mouth in a very un-princess-like fashion. 

Throughout the whole affair, Magnus finds that he can’t stomach anything. 

Later that night, wrapped up in the insufferably heavy duvet in his guest suite at Kensington, Magnus debates telling Cat about what had transpired at the archery range. But surprisingly, he finds that he can’t really say a word about it without his throat tightening uncomfortably. 

Her face on his phone screen is one of rapt attention as she takes in the gilded headboard behind him. 

“That’s probably made of pure gold right? Right? Like it has to be.” 

“Yeah, financed by the blood, sweat, and tears of the poor and disenfranchised.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You do realize you live in the White House, right? Like, built by slaves and all.”

If they were together, Magnus would have thrown one of the downy pillows at her. 

“Stop making me aware of my hypocrisy. It’s exhausting,” he says instead, glumly. 

She laughs, before saying in a horribly posh, completely butchered British accent, “Well, we must all grow, mustn’t we.” 

“I hate you.” 

“Ah yes,” she continues the disgusting accent. “The scornful words you most often say to thy enemy. How is Prince Alexander? Still looking like a total dish?” 

Magnus falls back against the countless pillows without ceremony. He knew the conversation would eventually turn to Alec. 

“Still being a royal pain in my American ass.”

“Oh really? Do tell, darling.” 

“If you keep talking like that I’m gonna block you.” 

“So utterly spiteful and terribly uncivil –”

Magnus groans loudly as she lets out an insufferable cackle. 

“Okay, fine, fine,” she says finally. “Tell me about your trip from hell.” 

The tightness in his throat returns. 

So he groans again. “I can’t sleep in this ghost house.” He kicks the duvet off and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m going exploring and taking you with me.”

“Oh God. I don’t want to be held responsible for trespassing on British soil. I’m too young to die.” 

“Well, think of this is payback for them ‘trespassing’ on the rest of the world’s soil for literal centuries,” Magnus says dryly, exiting the guest wing and heading out into the vast, cavernous hallway. The plush, dark red carpeting is soft under his feet. Everything in the palace gleams ominously in the little light that remains on during the night, polished and buffed every day, no doubt, by the countless servants that mill about the place like worker bees tending to their hive with an almost obsessive air about them. 

“Look at that poli sci double major coming out to play like it’s nobody’s business.” She grins.

Magnus laughs. 

“Dude wait,” Cat says suddenly. “Did I tell you that white-feminist-ass intern finally got fired?” 

“Wait, for real? Lauren what’s-her-face?” 

“Yeah.” She lets out a laugh. “Ragnor did it himself.”

“God I wish I could have seen that. Your life is so much more interesting than mine.” 

“Says the guy inside a literal palace. Being best friends with a literal prince.” 

“Ugh, enough about Prince Dickhead. You tell me – how goes the MCAT prep?” 

She raises her eyebrow, but lets the deflection slide, before sighing dramatically. 

“Bart’s being a bit of a dick.” 

“Bart is made of paper and ink. I don’t think being a dick is in his capabilities,” Magnus says pointedly. 

“Bart rejects your undermining of his capabilities. He wants me to tell you that, and I quote, ‘you know nothing, bitch.’”

“Tell Bart I’m gonna set him on fire when I get back.” 

“BART SAYS –”

Then, a sound stops Magnus dead in his tracks. “Wait.” 

“Hello? What happened?” 

“I – wait. Hold on.” 

“Magnus, what’s happening?” Cat says loudly.  

“Shush.” 

“Don’t shush me, the fuck –”

“One sec.” 

Magnus puts the phone down with his hand over the speaker, ears straining. Somewhere in this haunted house, someone’s playing the piano. At 2 am in the morning. 

And playing it really, really well. 

“I’ll call you back,” he says to Cat.

She makes a face at him. “Don’t get yourself thrown in a dungeon.” 

“You’re hilarious,” he says flatly. “Love you.” 

“Love you.” 

He stuffs his phone back into this pocket and lets himself follow the sound of the piano up the ornate staircase to the second floor. He’s almost certain that he’s not allowed to be wondering around the palace this late at night. The beady eyes of British historical figures that adorn the walls follow him accusingly, making their displeasure at an American boldly roaming their halls known in centuries-old oil paint. 

He finally comes to a stop in front of a dark wooden door, nestled in an alcove. It’s half-open, and soft yellow light streams out from behind it into the dark hallway. He peaks inside. 

It’s a small room (well, small by Kensington standards), and it’s decidedly the most contemporary and unique space he’s seen in the palace thus far. Other than the baroque fireplace and the more permanent wall fixtures, the rest of it is a colorful array of plush armchairs, soft rugs, and a blue velvet loveseat covered in fluffy throw blankets and small pillows. Rows and rows of books line some of the walls. The source of the music is a gorgeous, shiny, black Steinway grand piano in the corner. 

And seated at the Steinway is none other than Alec himself. 

Magnus can’t see his face, but he instantly recognizes the head of dark hair bent over the keys. He takes a step closer to the door. 

Then the floorboard creaks under his feet, and the music immediately stops.

Shit. Magnus waits, kicking himself internally, with his heart in his throat. 

There’s an impossibly long moment of silence, before Alec’s voice comes, quiet and tired, “Iz, I know, I’m going to bed soon – oh.”  

He stops short as Magnus pushes the door open fully and enters the room. 

Alec looks mildly surprised. His hair is messy, sticking up in a million different directions. He’s in a worn grey shirt and sweats, looking impossibly human and not the slightest bit like the cardboard cutout, untouchable Prince Alexander version of him that Magnus is used to, the version that screams that he’s next in line to the world’s most prominent throne. 

It’s… kind of disarming, Magnus has to admit.  

“What are you doing here?” Alec’s tone isn’t accusatory, but more of genuine curiosity. He’s worlds apart from the Alec at the range. 

Magnus isn’t sure what to do with it. He’d normally have a cutting rebuke lined up, ready to roll off his tongue with inherent ease. But here, in the middle of the night, faced with an Alec that’s all soft edges and big, bottomless eyes, he comes up completely nonplussed. 

He finally goes with pointing dumbly at the piano. “Heard you playing.” 

There’s a pause as Alec tilts his head to the side as if he’s seeing Magnus for the first time. “Why are you awake?” he asks. 

“Could ask you the same thing.” 

Alec opens his mouth and closes it, before finally saying, “I have trouble sleeping sometimes… well, most of the time.” 

Before Magnus can respond, a wave of black and white flashes in the corner of his eye, and he’s suddenly being accosted by a very happy, very excited border collie. 

“Well hello,” he says, unable to help the smile on his face as he squats and scratches the pup behind its ears. “Who are you?” 

“That’s Bilbo,” Alec’s voice comes, and Magnus looks up to see him focused intently on Magnus and his dog. Unbelievably, there’s the slightest hint of a smile playing across his lips. Magnus is certain he’s imagining it. 

“Bilbo?” 

“Yeah, um.” Alec’s cheeks flush as he coughs. “Bilbo Waggins.” 

“You named your dog Bilbo Waggins?” 

“Yes I did,” Alec says, a little defensively. “Not a problem, is it?” 

Magnus raises his hands. “No, not a problem at all.” 

The Lord of the Rings was definitely not on the HRH Prince Alec Fact Sheet. 

He points again at the piano.  

“Rachmaninoff.” 

“Pardon?” 

“You were playing Rachmaninoff.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Alec looks surprised, maybe even a little impressed, that Magnus recognizes Rachmaninoff. Magnus actively chooses not to lean into it and call him out for the elitist assumption. 

Bilbo nips at Magnus’s hand, clearly upset at the lack of attention, so he indulges him for a bit. He’s also acutely aware that Alec is still watching him steadily. 

“Of course you would play Rachmaninoff,” Magnus says, standing up and letting Bilbo make his way over to the blue loveseat.  

Alec frowns at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s just so… you.” 

“Ah, and you know me so well to come to that comprehensive conclusion, don’t you?” says Alec derisively, narrowing his eyes at Magnus. 

“I know enough to come to that comprehensive conclusion, yes,” Magnus quips. He doesn’t tell him that Rachmaninoff was, in fact, on the HRH Prince Alec Fact Sheet. 

Alec rolls his eyes, but says nothing.  

See, Magnus knows he should just fuck off back to his room and get some sleep before his early morning flight back to DC. And a big part of him is screaming that he’s already spent enough time with Prince Dickhead this weekend without needing to add midnight private concerts to the list. Especially after what happened at the archery range. 

But, he can’t really help it. His curiosity is getting the better of him. 

So, he walks over to the piano and sits on the edge of the bench.

Alec sputters. “Do you mind?” 

“Shut up and move over.” 

Alec looks like he’d much rather lick the ground, but he eventually lets out an annoyed exhale and moves over on the bench. And suddenly, they’re sitting close enough for Magnus to feel Alec’s knee pressed against his, to see his Adam’s apple bob in his neck as he swallows roughly, gaze keenly trained on the piano keys to avoid Magnus’s eyes. 

This night keeps taking… interesting turns. 

He shifts in his seat, and at the movement, Alec raises his eyes and looks at him. Well, more like stares at him. 

“What?” Magnus asks. 

“You’re, er.” Alec clears his throat. “You’re not wearing makeup.” 

Magnus resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah? It’s two in the morning.” 

Alec says nothing, gaze dropping back onto the piano keys. He swallows, raises a hand to rub his nose.

“Guessing Rachmaninoff was part of prep school training?” Magnus says, after the silence becomes a shade too uncomfortable. 

“No,” Alec says defensively. “Well, kind of. But my mum was the one who taught me how to play,” he adds hastily over the laugh that bubbles out of Magnus. 

“Ah.” 

That gets Magnus a cutting look, and a: “What d’you mean, ‘ah?’”

Magnus shrugs nonchalantly. “Your technique was kinda off.” 

His technique was actually perfect, but that’s not really Magnus’s problem. 

Alec lets out a scoff, absurdly posh and elegant. It smells like mint. “My technique was ‘kinda off?’”

“Yeah.” Magnus bites down on an unbidden grin. “I could show you if you want.”

Alec glowers at him. 

“What? Scared I’ll show you up in your own house?” 

Alec pulls a face. “Go on then. Play something, maestro.” 

Shooting him a glare, Magnus raises his fingers to the smooth keys and plays a few chords. It’s a familiar tune taken right from Magnus’s childhood. Nothing like the Rachmaninoff Alec was playing earlier. That has its merits; he’s not denying it, but Magnus much prefers this kind of music. 

Magnus says, “It’s from a scene in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince when –”

“When Ginny kisses Harry.” 

Alec looks just as surprised with himself as Magnus is, like he hadn’t expected himself to speak. Magnus’s fingers still on the keys, and he watches as Alec takes his bottom lip in between his teeth again, an action he’s seen him do countless times this weekend, and look down at his folded hands. 

Magnus has absolutely no idea what to do with this Alec. He can handle stuffy and unbearable Alec with absolutely no problem. He just does not know what the hell to do with the Alec who’s sporting day-old stubble and knows, by-heart, which goddamn song is played in which Harry Potter scene. Long-standing grudges on British princes will do that to you. 

It’s incredibly disconcerting, so Magnus can’t really be blamed for wanting to poke at his edges. 

“So Prim and Proper Prince Charming likes The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter? Isn’t that like, royally indecorous or something?” 

Alec rolls his eyes with painful exaggeration. There it is. “I didn’t spend my childhood just learning how to curtsy, you know.” 

Magnus shrugs. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

Alec lets out a long, exasperated sigh. Magnus bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and raises his fingers to the keys to continue playing.

Then, after a few seconds, Alec says, quietly and tentatively, “The music was the only good part of this scene.” 

And there, shockingly, is something Prince Alec has said that Magnus actually agrees with.

“Mhm,” he hums in agreement. “I’m still kinda pissed Ron and Lavender got the kiss Harry and Ginny were supposed to get.” 

“Yeah. And not to mention, movie Ginny was… utterly boring.” 

“Oh my God, right? So disappointing.” 

Alec huffs out a small laugh. 

“I didn’t expect this side of you,” Magnus says, after a beat. “Did they like, make you sign an NDA about yourself or something? Can’t talk about anything remotely interesting?” 

Alec lets out another tiny, indignant scoff, before his lips press into a thin line. 

“I just – I just don’t like being an open book.” 

“As opposed to… what? Being perceived as boring?” Magnus raises an eyebrow at him. 

He knows the comment is kind of antagonistic (he can’t really help it), but shockingly, Alec’s reaction to it is the exact opposite of what he expects: he smiles. And it’s not his photograph smile either. This one is softer, crooked. Almost private. Alec looks down at his hands, fingers running absentmindedly over the calluses on his fingers. 

He finally says, quietly, “Can I ask you something?” He pauses to swallow, before: “Why do you hate me so much?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Magnus looks at him, unsure what to say or do. It’s such an honest, direct question, posed without any pretense, and so not what Magnus has come to expect from a man whose entire existence is curated for him. For one, the deep-seated reason behind his dislike of the Crown Prince is definitely not something he’d expected to be having a midnight heart-to-heart about with the man himself. Nor did he expect Alec to even want to know. For all Magnus knew, both of them would be perfectly content just silently hating each other from across the Atlantic for the rest of their lives. 

He finally goes with, “You really don’t remember, do you?” 

Alec shakes his head.

Magnus sighs. It’s not a memory he chooses to actively engage with. It just has an incredibly annoying habit of popping into his head at the most inopportune of times. Like when he’s cramming for a final, or when he’s trying to stop his eyes from glazing over during a briefing with Ragnor. And, it always, always, leaves him seething. 

He plays a few stray notes on the piano. This is it, he supposes. They’re finally going to hash out everything. 

“It was at the Rio Olympics,” he begins, pointedly staring at the piano keys instead of Alec. “I came up to you after the opening ceremony and introduced myself. And you just – you just looked at me like I was gonna make you lose your breakfast. You said ‘hello’ and then just turned around and walked away. You didn’t even shake my hand. Like I was – like I was some freak.” 

He turns to look at Alec. And maybe it’s the quiet of the night, or the fact that Alec’s looking at him like he did at the range, with more honesty in his gaze than Magnus could ever expect, but Magnus finds himself saying words he never thought he’d ever say aloud, even to himself, let alone to the man they’re about.

“Look, being who I am, looking the way I look, the makeup and all – I wouldn’t change it for anyone, mind you, like fuck the world and what it thinks. But sometimes, the shit they say about me gets hard. And the way you, Mr. Perfect Prince Charming, darling of the world – the way you looked at me brought those bad feelings back. I knew then, definitively, that I was never really going to measure up to someone like you. Ever.” 

There’s a long moment of quiet, broken only occasionally by Bilbo’s soft snores from the loveseat. Magnus feels his skin prickling. He’s almost certain Alec is going to curse him out or sic the British Army on him, or both. 

But, after a few more agonizing seconds of silence, Alec says, in a quiet voice, “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to make you feel like that, and I know me saying that now doesn’t change anything, but I really am. Sorry.” 

Magnus doesn’t quite know what to say. He just sits there. 

Alec continues, “I was an arsehole. To be honest, I was an arsehole pretty much every day since,” he pauses, swallows. “Since my brother died. I know that’s not an excuse, but…” he trails off, chewing his bottom lip. 

Magnus remembers, of course, what had happened. Five years ago, the youngest royal sibling had died in a horrific car crash, all of eight years old. Prince Max, known for his dimpled smile and big, soulful eyes behind spectacles, had been the darling of the royal family, adorable and quietly, fiercely intelligent. 

His funeral had been televised. Pictures of the tiny coffin draped in ornate cloth made their way around the world. Magnus remembers a few things about the funeral. And one image that stands out, crystal clear in his mind, is the image of Alec in the funeral procession walking behind the coffin, on display for the whole world to see.  

Magnus supposes he’d be a bit of an asshole too, if his grief had been televised in high definition for countless strangers to pick apart. And they had picked it apart.

He realizes then that he’s never really considered how similar they are, at least in the circumstances they both find themselves in. Constantly on display, constantly being seen, constantly scrutinized and taken apart for the consumption of millions. He supposes he’s been afforded the luxury of having to deal with it for a few years. Not like Alec, whose name has been known by the world since the day he was born. 

It is exhausting, and it’s… honestly, it’s a bit of a revelation to imagine that Alec could feel the same way he does. That he too could feel the burden of the world watching his every move and sometimes, sometimes, cripple under it. 

Magnus exhales. 

“Thank you… for telling me,” he says. “And I’m sorry about your brother.” 

Alec gives him an almost imperceptible nod and clears his throat in the most absurdly elegant way. They sit in silence for a while, and it’s fucking awkward and so out of his comfort zone that Magnus craves the sweet release of mutually shared antagonism. He barely resists the wild urge to elbow Alec. 

Instead, biting the inside of his cheek, he swipes Alec’s phone from where it’s sitting on top of the piano and points it squarely at his face to bypass the Face ID.  

He ignores the squawk of protest Alec lets out and starts tapping on the phone. 

“What on Earth are you –”

“Shut up. Here,” Magnus says, thrusting the phone back into Alec’s hand. 

“What did you do? Who did you text? I don’t trust you one bit.”  

“Oh my God, relax, Alexander. I just gave you my number.” 

Alec looks like Magnus just told him he’d found alien life on Mars. 

“Since we’re gonna have to pretend we’re buddies indefinitely, it just makes things easier,” Magnus says stiffly. “Logistically.”

“Right,” Alec says dumbly. “Logistically.” He stares at the phone in his hand like it’s going to explode any second. 

Magnus rolls his eyes. 

Fucking royals. 

He gets the first text almost a week later in the middle of his Intro to Machine Learning lecture. 

It’s a screenshot of a Daily Mail article about Magnus’s recent trip to New York. A picture of him in all black looking mildly pissed off. 

You kind of look like Malfoy here 

This is Alec 

Magnus rolls his eyes and adds the contact to his phone. 

His Royal Pompous Asswipe

if anyone is the slytherin here you are

I’m a Hufflepuff, thank you very much

that… honestly makes so much sense

What’s that supposed to mean? 

whatever you want it to mean sweetheart

You’re such a tosser

don’t recall having “tossed” anything recently

Then, ten minutes later, he gets: 

Bloody Gryffindors 

And if he smiles begrudgingly at his phone, maybe because Alec got his Hogwarts house right on the first try, nobody has to know. Really.