Chapter Text
It’s an accident. Alex doesn’t mean it. He trips over his own two feet and clearly falls into some sort of bizzaro-wonderland, because he is going absolutely crazy.
Back track a few hours, Alex Claremont-Diaz has had enough of his sister June and best friend Nora’s consistent back and forth. Whether they’re glaringly obviously flirting or just plain bickering over something as trivial as self-tanner or the intended message of their late night indulgence of a Hallmark movie, he’s temporarily over it.
Usually he’s fine, but usually he’s at home, where he can easily get away from it. Here, in sunshiny California, where they’ve set up camp at June and Alex’s Dad’s for the entire Summer, they have conjoined bedrooms.
Separated by a measly excuse of a door that doesn’t even lock and flies wide open if not jammed at the hinge with a magazine, Alex is basically bunking with the girls, who are sharing June’s queen-sized bed. Alex’s Dad Oscar is entirely oblivious to the situationship going on between the two girls. June and Nora are entirely delighted about this. Alex needs a break.
He had sulked into June’s room to a smattering of protests from where the two of them lay together atop the sheets, to which he had melodramatically tutted, sighed, and grabbed the nearest magazine from June’s dresser.
“Hey, Alex! We weren’t finished with that!” His sister had squawked.
“Who reads magazines anymore? Are you middle-aged women at a dentist’s office?” Alex bypassed the kicking pedicured feet from the bed, beginning to fold the glossy paper in his hands to fix between the doorframe to jam it shut.
“Give it!” Nora squealed, grabbing for his wrists. “Prince Henry’s in California. Here, where we are; California! We have to figure out where he’s staying.”
That is exactly when Alex knew he needed to get out. He rolled his eyes, huffing loudly. “I wish you two would shut up about that dude already.”
“Alex, you’re such a buzzkill.” June joined in the brewing squabble, clambering over Nora and successfully - unfortunately - acquiring the magazine from Alex’s grip. “He’s a philanthropist. He’s a good guy!”
Alex snorted. “He’s the Prince of fucking England, not a Saint. He hardly needs to be pushed further onto any pedestals; the Monarchy’s got that covered for you, guys.” He peeked at the magazine cover, the signature swoop of Prince Henry’s golden hair enough to make his skin prick in irritation. “Pretty sure you’re setting the whole feminist movement back by, like, a lot, with your deranged co-obsession.”
“You don’t get it, Alex.” Nora pretended to wistfully sigh, leaning back into June’s shoulder and the mountain of throw pillows behind them. She flipped the pages open on her lap to reveal a two page spread, giant photographs of Prince Henry, his sister Princess Beatrice, and some other guy at the Griffith Observatory.
“Apparently they’re here the whole summer. Henry, Bea and his best friend Pez are doing charity work.” Nora explained, with a pursed lip like it would put Alex in his place.
‘Bea’, she calls the Princess; like she knows her well enough to know how she likes her coffee and eggs in the morning. Actually, Alex thinks that may well be the case. He shuddered.
“We’re going on a hunt for them.” June took the magazine in her own hands. “Surely they won’t be that hard to find.”
“Yeah, sure, just look out for the stupid limousines with blacked out windows and about a hundred security guards.” Alex teased completely meaningfully.
“You’re such a pessimist.” June scowled.
“A realist.” Alex deadpanned.
“Well, we’re dreamers.” She took Nora’s hand, resolutely, nodding once. “Just because you don’t appreciate the Prince doesn’t mean we can’t. And just because you don’t believe we can find him doesn’t mean we won’t!”
“Sure.” Alex had said, and that was the end of it.
Until it wasn’t.
Until, horribly, it felt much more like a beginning.
The afternoon began delightfully, a stroll on his lonesome down Melrose Avenue, iced latte in hand and blazing sun warming his skin. It was nice; quiet. Apart from the blaring Taylor Swift through his bulky headphones, that is. It’s healing.
Taylor was singing of her London Boy as Alex meandered down the tourist-heavy lane. It’s Alex’s guilty pleasure song; sue him. June and Nora would smother him if they knew. He keeps this one a private love. (In retrospect, he should have seen this entire thought process as some gruesome foreshadowing.)
All was well, blissfully calm and right in the world, on his sweet way to his favourite little bakery for a well deserved muffin, until he had accidentally sauntered into a gaggle of mewling teenage girls. The exact sort of situation he was actively, actually trying his best to avoid.
It’s typical of Melrose to be so busy, especially in the Summertime, but usually not in one specific spot. One tiny, concentrated spot. This was his first error. Stupid, oblivious past-Alex.
No room on the sidewalk left for him to skirt either side, the crowd was quite honestly pulsating; rogue screams and cries and plenty of camera flashes. Alex had initially surmised that there was some sort of influencer or something on the loose, by the age and appearance of the rapidly increasing congregation. He was a little aggravated, in all honestly; that kind where you’re not totally over your earlier irritability, and it doesn’t take much to become riled up again.
For instance, it would have taken a sizeable amount less than a sizzling hot car door to the face to have provoked him.
Alas, here he is.
“I am terribly, awfully sorry!” That same world famous magazine-glossy golden swoop of hair is swishing around in Alex’s very face, stuffed in the back of a very fancy car.
Because, His Haughty Royal Highness, the Prince of England - or Wales, or whatever, Alex doesn’t care - has essentially smacked him in the face. With his car door. But still.
He was trying to scoot around the other side of the car. He just wanted his muffin. They bundled him up into the backseat as quickly as you could say ‘lawsuit’.
Alex squints, view a little disorientated, dignity definitely so, but sense still intact. “It—It’s fine.” He rubs his apparently speedily swelling eye, finding blood on his cheek. “Can I, like, leave?” He glances around the car uncomfortably.
The Prince quickly brandishes an entire tissue packet from his back pocket and hands it swiftly and apologetically to Alex.
“Um…you seem a little bit out of it.” Princess Beatrice, or, y’know, Bea, as Alex’s degenerate gal pals would call her, is literally squashed into his side. In the back of this car. Where he is sat with the grandchildren of the Queen of England, their alarmingly brightly dressed friend, and someone he would assume to be a bodyguard or equerry of some sort.
“I’m fine.” Alex insists, dabbing gently at his face. What in the hell is going on? Did he fall? Smack bang onto the ground and into a hallucinative comatose state? Is this a fever dream induced by June and Nora’s incessant drivelling? He knew they were turning his brain to mush. Is this real life? Real real life? Where he’s Alex Claremont-Diaz and not random-Royal-Family-vacation-associate-slash-casualty.
“What’s your name?“ The Prince all but demands. Jeez, can’t a guy catch a break? He’s just been assaulted and now he’s practically being yelled at.
Alex makes a face. He’s not sure which kind, not really a good one, but he is not liable for any offence someone wearing a cashmere sweater on a day like this would take.
“Alex.” His eyes flit around awkwardly. Not because he has a concussion, but because somebody some people consider extremely important is less than a ruler’s length away from his face right now.
Okay, Alex knows that the Prince technically is extremely important; for his charity work or whatever he does and the fact that he was born into royal riches. What he totally resents is the mass hormone-induced hysteria surrounding the guy. He’s never not Twitter’s White Guy of The Month.
Why he is so materialistically adored, and for what reason exactly, is entirely lost on Alex. A national treasure, sure; he’s about as bland as a piece of bread.
“How many fingers am I holding up?!” Their friend, causing more damage to Alex’s eyesight with his hideous ensemble of clashing patterns than his own actual black eye, throws a hand into Alex’s face.
“Pez, not helpful.” Prince Henry immediately removes the four fingers, thank you very much. “Shaan?” He turns, a little helplessly.
“Are you dizzy at all? Would you like some water?” The older guy in the dress shirt, Shaan apparently, sat beside Pez - what kind of name is ‘Pez’? - and across from Alex and the Prince and Princess of an entire nation, asks calmly.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Alex shakes his head, fingers still too tempted to resist from grazing the soft, bruising skin around his eye and tacky beet-red blood.
The group around him eye one another cautiously, puzzled by his reaction for whatever reason.
“Do you…know who we are?” Princess Beatrice holds onto Alex’s shoulder lightly, gingerly angling him to face her like he’ll have some earth-shattering realisation and begin to wail or fall at their polished feet.
“Bea!” The Prince rolls his eyes, a semblance of humility on show, at least.
“Not like that! Gosh, sorry! That sounded terribly pompous. I just mean…I suppose I assumed you would recognise us; have more of a reaction.” She backtracks, only to ruin it for herself again with: “Is that not why you were on the street, by the car?”
Alex puffs a shocked laugh through his lips. “Funnily enough, I do recognise you from every media outlet available, yes.” His eyes widen sarcastically, but it just hurts the whole right side of his stupid sore face.
“Do you—would you like a photograph? Autograph? I’m really sorry about your eye.” The Prince scrambles by his side, wincing when Alex turns to face him, mauled (okay perhaps that is slightly melodramatic) side of his face on show.
Alex laughs for real this time, startled and amused. “I don’t want a picture with you. Sorry to disappoint, but I was categorically not stalking your town car.” He looks around at all of them, puzzled faces with concerned gazes.
“Oh, whoops.” Beatrice laughs, but only sounds a little embarrassed. “Well, where were you off to?” She prods brightly.
Alex furrows his brow at the strange small talk. “Home.” He annunciates emphatically. “Where I would like to be headed now. Thanks for the concern, but I’ll be taking off now—”
“Wait! Let us drive you home, you’re bleeding.” The Prince inspects his face, fingertips honestly almost hovering over his skin, which makes Alex increasingly uncomfortable. He seems genuinely fretful, and looks back over to Shaan, who begins to speak immediately.
“Listen, we cannot let you leave alone. You’re injured, and the Prince is liable for—”
Okay, so His Royal Slyness was worried about his image, not the drying curdles of blood beneath Alex’s eye, got it.
“I’m not going to sue you, for Christ’s sake.” Alex groans, aware of his ostensible petulance but in no right mind to care. “I just want to go home.” He feels like a child, and despite his overriding aggravation, is beginning to feel a little humiliated.
“Alex, we insist on escorting you home for your safety.” Shaan is so prim and proper sounding. Alex imagines that he is usually embellished in designer waistcoats and whatnot, and that this tailored navy dress shirt is the closest he’s getting to a vacation-vibe.
What a life, tending to the young adults of the kingdom; cleaning up their messes, following them around on their Summer-long expeditions. Truly riveting.
Alex huffs, sighing, giving up. “Fine.”
Prince Henry seems to relax beside him, falling back into his seat. Alex retracts his thigh away from where it quickly brushes his, skin burning despite the overzealous air-con in this car. Alex clears his throat. Henry crosses his legs at the shins.
“So, Alex, how do you do?” Pez holds his hand out for shaking, smiling wide and with teeth, staring straight into his soul, as soon as Alex has recited his father’s address to the driver.
“Um,” Alex hesitates, taking his hand and playing along, still genuinely unsure as to whether or not he is conscious and sentient at this moment in time. He smiles back, if not still a little irked, and definitely sarcastic in saying: “Just fantastic, thank you.”
“Again, Alex, I can only apologise for the door fiasco.” Prince Henry stews to his left.
“Firstly, please do not call it a ‘door fiasco’.” Alex shivers. “Secondly, it’s fine.” He dares to glance to his side for a split second, the Prince picking at the skin around his nails. “Seriously. Please stop apologising.”
It’s not totally fine. Alex is actually partially livid. But not about the injury. About the Prince fucking Henry of it all. How on earth is this happening to him?
“What do you do, Alex?” Beatrice taps his knee to get his attention, beaming, for some reason. “Are you at university here?”
God, he wishes these people would stop addressing him directly by name. It’s weird. He feels like a particularly exotic zoo animal. And it’s getting harder to convince himself he is not experiencing some elaborate psychedelic freak show fever dream.
“I literally just graduated high school.” He explains. “I start college in the Fall, but not here. I’m vacationing here, at my Dad’s place, so…” He trails off lamely.
“Oh, cool! Henry and Pez graduated last year, too. You guys are about the same age.” The Princess chirps. Alex isn’t sure what to do with this information, but, alright.
“Where are you originally from?” She continues.
He feels like he is being interviewed. His eye is throbbing. He just wanted a muffin.
“Bea, you are interrogating him.” The Prince speaks across Alex, chastising his sister. He leans back in his seat and tuts in a way that only sounds endeared. “Sorry, Alex.”
Alex feels a little woozy. “It’s fine.” How many times is he going to say that? He turns back to Beatrice. “I’m from Texas.”
“Howdy!” Pez squawks. Alex has to pretend he didn’t just jump a little in his seat. He doesn’t even fully mean to, but he kind of just ignores Pez. He doesn’t know how to tackle that.
“Do you guys go to college? Or…?” It seems like the polite thing to do to ask, despite the fact that playing 21 Questions with the Royal Family is the most irrational, unbelievable thing that has ever happened in Alex’s stupid life.
Not knowing where or if they even go to college at all; he knows June and Nora would be shaking their heads right now. Well, if they had heads left on their shoulders after finding out where he was. He genuinely doesn’t even know if he will tell them. Which is insane, because he’s never not told either of them anything, but this is something bigger than himself. He knows he can’t open the jar without never being able to close the lid again.
“I’m finished; graduated just there.” Bea explains jovially. “Pez is a wild beast who cannot be tamed or pinned down.” She deadpans, motioning to the man, who is tossing jelly beans in the air and catching them in his mouth at an alarmingly impressive rate. Like, seriously, wow. Then she turns to her brother, slight airiness in her tone. “Henry has some decisions to make.”
The Prince shifts in his seat. Alex feels the movement beneath his own thighs.
“That’s one way of putting it. Thank you, Beatrice.” He says pointedly. Alex senses tension and doesn’t so much decide not to poke the bear with a stick rather than just not care that much.
The ride is mostly quiet from then on out. Beatrice attempts to reply to her brother, begun with a very sassy sounding breath, but is cut off by a steady warning glare from Shaan, which even Alex startles a little at. Pez passionately sings along to what Alex swears is a Glee cover of a song and not even the original playing through the car speakers. Henry gazes out of his window. Alex shuts up. Happily.
They arrive at Alex’s Dad’s with a smooth glide onto the street across the warm asphalt, the town car a striking contrast to that of the mom-mini-vans and dusty pick up trucks otherwise lining the driveways.
Henry lunges forward to depart the car, allowing Alex out from the middle seat. He holds the door open as Princess Beatrice and Strange Pez chorus equally bubbly ‘goodbye’s.
Alex thanks them, genuinely, especially Shaan, before thanking the driver too and kicking his legs out onto the suburban sidewalk.
“Should I trust you with that door?” He asks the Prince, holding his hands out in front of himself as a shield of amour, and perhaps a shield of humour, to avoid the odd, awkward energy between them.
Alex supposes that sort of energy is natural for a stranger who has accidentally assaulted another.
Prince Henry laughs. He laughs! Who knew?
Alex watches the guy second guess himself, before closing the car door and turning his preposterously postured body toward Alex’s Dad’s front path. He gestures his hand out in front of him as if to say ‘after you’, in reply to Alex’s perplexed gaze.
“I truly am sorry about that.” Prince Henry screws his eyes shut like he’s embarrassed, following Alex’s slow gait to the front door, sauntering along beside him but with a sizeable space between them.
“So you’ve said.” Alex doesn’t chuckle, but it’s something close. He schools his expression to something less satisfied.
“It doesn’t look too bad.” His spindly fingers actually touch Alex’s face this time, before rapidly retreating, as though he has been burned. He does an awful job at playing it cool. Alex always figured he had a stick up his ass, but it is one thing to passively presume this about a global figure, and another thing entirely to witness how tightly wound he is up close.
“Yeah, you would say that, perpetrator.” Alex hums, faux-serious.
The Prince laughs a little again. He looks back to the car; perhaps self-consciously. He’s hard to read.
“Well, um, it—it was nice to meet you, Alex.” He stammers over this attempt at sincerity, Alex guesses.
“Yeah, well.” Alex stands with his back to the front door, arms raising by his sides, like saying ‘what you see is what you get.’ “Thanks for the ride, Prince Henry.” He walks backwards the rest of the way to the door, the other boy taking off down the path.
The Prince kind of cringes, looking back over his shoulder. “Just ‘Henry’ is perfectly alright.”
“Okay, Just Henry.” Alex calls drily, cheekily, distance between them growing as Henry reaches his car. “See ya on the magazines!”
Just Henry smiles, all downturned and modest. Alex buys it for a few short seconds.
“Goodbye, Alex from Texas.“ He gives a small salute, still smiling like he’s a secret, still to be found out.
Alex squints his eyes, raising a brow in silent question.
“I like your Texan drawl that you probably think isn’t very obvious but actually is.” Henry explains, biting his bottom lip on a smile.
“Huh.” Alex huffs out through something that is not a returning smile but may look like one.
He looks to the town car on his Dad’s driveway and back to Henry. “This was the weirdest day of my life.”
Henry follows his gaze and meets Alex’s eyes again. “Sor—”
“If you say ‘sorry’ again, I’ll hit you with a car door.” Alex interrupts.
Henry’s hands raise in surrender, polite but still apologetic smile on his face.
He lingers for a moment, kind of just starting at Alex, which is kind of weird. “Bye, then.”
“See ya.” Alex quirks a brow, waving his hand lazily. “Thanks for the ride.” He nods to the car. “And the shiner.” He winks with his black eye.
It looks like Just Henry is restraining himself from expelling another apology. Alex is glad he resists.
“Where were you actually going today?” He blurts out, maybe even surprising himself, if the look on his face is anything to go by.
Alex snorts. “Dude, I just wanted a muffin. I was walking to my favourite bakery on Melrose.” He admits unabashedly.
Henry nods, then grins, mostly to himself, retreating fully down the path and climbing into the car, every movement seemingly practised and perfectly poised, like he has been trained precisely on how to do it.
The window rolls down before Alex gets the chance to fold through the front door, Henry with one short, clipped wave of a hand, Bea behind him throwing her arm around happily.
Bewildered, Alex waves back, then backs into the house, to the smell of his Dad’s quesadillas and sound of the crackly kitchen radio and June and Nora’s screeching giggles from the backyard. He is enveloped back into normality; comfortable, warm.
But when he passes himself in the front hall mirror, black eye aside, he feels altered.
Maybe he’s dizzy, dazed and confused. He’ll chalk it up to the heat and dull pain in his face and pretend what just happened did not happen at all.
“Alex, you good for quese—Woah, Mijo!” Oscar must’ve heard the door. He drifts into the front hall and startles. “What happened to your face?”
“I fell.” He doesn’t know why he lies. He could’ve just said someone opened their car door on him. He didn’t have to say who. “Tripped over my shoelace.” He kicks his shoe out in front of him slackly.
“Fell onto your eye?” Oscar asks, upon further inspection, fingers on Alex’s face. He feels like a very popular fish in a very small bowl today.
“Looks like something scratched your cheek on the way down; that’s where all the blood has come from.” His Dad shakes his head, patting Alex sturdily on the back. “Go get yourself cleaned up.” He stalks off back into the kitchen, questioning rhetorically; “What are we gonna do with you?”
June and Nora are wonderfully calm about it, maybe because they’re more interested in returning to June’s bedroom to cut out pictures of Henry to glue in a glittery scrapbook or play with each other’s hair or whatever they do when no one else is around, but Alex is grateful all the same. They’re concerned, of course, but get over it as soon as Alex presses that he is absolutely, categorically fine. They know him well enough to know that he is telling the truth.
At least about that.
It feels criminal, keeping something so cataclysmically enormous from them, but he literally cannot find an appropriate way to make the words fit into his mouth. They’re all scrambled even in his brain. Honestly, truly, he’d rather entirely forget about it. Like, forever.
Sure, it was kind of hauntingly remarkable, the kind of thing that happens to nobody, and the people it does happen to at least come away with some form of creditable evidence.
Alex has evidence, alright, quite literally written all over his face, but in about a week’s time, it will have faded, and hopefully that fuzzy feeling in his chest and head will have to.
He showers and eats and tells the girls and Oscar that he is having an early night; don’t wait up for him.
When he retires to his bedroom for the evening, he shuffles over to the crack in the door between he and June’s room, picking up the magazine from the wooden floor below.
He hesitates, on golden hair that even a photograph this glossy could never do proper justice, staring down at the Prince, Just Henry, and sticks the paper between the door and its frame, kicking it shut with his foot.