Work Text:
i. first shot
Mary Mountchristen-Windsor dies on June 5 th , 2020, on a Tuesday morning, after an unexpected heart attack takes her before she’s rushed to a hospital.
Catherine Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor hears the news in her rooms, having her morning tea. Her equerry enters with a gentle knock. “Your Majesty,” she calls gently; Catherine’s fingers still around the loop of her cup. She looks up, and she knows.
Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor is out of the country for a royal event. He gets a call, and a minute later he’s rushed to the airport. His hands tremble where they’re hidden in his pockets, his head ducked so the cameras don’t catch the tear-streaked face. The news isn’t out yet. He’s the heir to the throne now.
Beatrice Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor is in the music room at Kensington Palace, head bowed over a piano. She isn’t given the courtesy of a knock—the door is pushed open, and she barely gets the chance to lift her eyes before she’s surrounded by PPOs. “It’s Her Majesty, the Queen,” she’s informed. “She passed away unexpectedly five minutes ago.” And her first thought isn’t of the implication, or the responsibilities, or even herself. She stands up, and there’s only one person in her mind.
“Bring me to Henry.”
Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Catherine’s youngest son and the most sensitive out of all of them, is on a run in the gardens, music blasting in his ears. Freddie Mercury’s voice echoes around him as his feet beat onto the pavement, and he feels the sweat sliding down his back, allowing him a moment of distraction from the weight of the crown and all the responsibilities that it brings.
He slows down when he notices the crowd by the doors, PPOs lining the stairs. Comes to a stop when a figure in a nightgown slips from between them and reaches for Henry. “Bea?” he breathes out, removing his earbuds. “What’s going on?”
Her hands wrap around him. “It’s Gran, love,” she says softly. Henry stiffens. “She passed away.
ii. bruised knuckles
“Fucking monarchy,” Alex mutters under his breath as he pulls on the sleeves of his jacket, trying not to melt under the burning heat of a rare, sunny London day. The suit is suffocating, the tie is too tight around his throat, Alex is jetlagged, and the last thing he’s capable of right this moment is to pretend that he cares about the death of a monarch across the ocean that did nothing but beget white supremacy, racism, and homophobia in her entire lifetime.
“Why the fuck are we here anyway?” he asks as they’re sequestered through another door, presumably closer to the resting place of the Queen, though Alex knows fuck all about where they are. “Wasn’t the whole goddamn point of the Revolutionary War was that we wouldn’t have to care about the monarchy in the first place? Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, celebrating this shit?”
“Curse one more time,” June mutters under her breath, sending a scathing look his way, “and I’m taping your mouth shut for the rest of the day.” Alex makes a face; June makes a face back before she returns to the front, head poised like the proper First Daughter that she is, and Alex clamps down another string of curses to stiffen his spine and forces himself to put one step in front of the other.
At least June is wearing a short-sleeved dress. He’d give fucking anything to get rid of this goddamn jacket.
“How much do you think this funeral cost?” he asks June merely a minute later; she lets out a sigh but doesn’t discourage him, and Alex ignores the weird looks he receives from the people around before he continues. “Like, I thought England was in a financial crisis or something.”
“When it comes to monarchy, crisis isn’t really a word that’s in their vocabulary.” She flashes a sweet smile to who is no doubt a high-level political figure. “Mum wanted to send them invoices for our flights. I think she would’ve if she wasn’t up for reelection next year.”
Alex snorts. “I fucking wish I could’ve seen the new Queen’s face if she got it.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t have gone to her. Some security would probably set it to fire and blast us on the news before she could even lift a finger.” She meets Alex’s eyes, and for once they share a smile, acknowledging the absolute absurdity of the situation, even though they both have roles to play and places to fill and cannot, in any circumstances, afford to get the crown’s wrath on them. Ellen is knee-deep into her campaign—the Queen’s death, unironically, couldn’t have been more timely—and is relying on her children to make good. Alex wagers yelling at the top of his lungs that monarchy sucks is not on the list of acceptable behavior.
“It’s just for another couple of hours,” June promises, sympathy in her eyes. “And then we can leave. You wanted to see Big Ben, right?”
“Hell fucking yeah I want to see Big Ben.” June gives him a look that says she’s not exactly happy about the curse on his tongue, but Alex simply grins until he gets a glare from another person in their group, morphing his face into an acceptable solemnity to stare forward. He doesn’t know when the funeral procession will start, but he’s fucking hoping it’s soon because the sun is unyielding, and he thinks he’s in danger of a literal heatstroke if he stands there for another minute or so.
“I’m gonna find a bathroom,” he tells June when the coffin doesn’t appear within seventy-five seconds. Her eyes flare with worry.
“Alex—”
“Bug, I’m gonna fucking suffocate if I don’t leave for a second.” He squeezes her arm. “I’ll be back soon, I promise. Just a minute.” Then, he’s out in the halls of Westminster Abbey, already crawling with security and royals and a myriad of representatives he should probably know but doesn’t. He barely asks a guard where the nearest bathroom is, who is sorely unhelpful, and he’s then lost for another five minutes before he’s pushing open a door; even under the gilded walls of the bathroom he feels like he can breathe for the first time.
He doesn’t notice the figure pressed to the wall at the corner. Doesn’t notice anyone else until he’s standing in front of a sink, and then his eyes catch the person. A muffled scream leaves his lips. “Fucking hell.”
There’s a hoarse laugh, so quiet that it doesn’t even echo around the walls. “Don’t let my brother hear that; he might have your head for such disrespect.”
The figure is familiar. Gentle golden waves fall over his forehead, cut just short enough to barely skim his brows, clumped in places like it’s been gelled back before until the man mussed with it. Blue irises framed by red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks, look glazed over, and red lips are chapped and bitten down, glimmering with lingering droplets of what smells like whiskey, though Alex can’t be quite sure. A flask dangles from long, smooth fingers; under Alex’s gaze, though, he tucks it into the pocket of his jacket and crosses his arms, lips twisting into a humorless smile. “Don’t tell him that, either,” he says now, though his voice is quieter, smoother, like each word is laced with pain. “I’m not quite sure he’d approve.”
Alex looks back up at the man’s face, the familiar features twisted with grief and exhaustion, though not enough that he can’t match it up to the pictures plastered all over the newspaper. “Your Highness,” he breathes out. “Henry.” Maybe it’s heretical, but Henry smiles again and tips his head and Alex doubts anything that happens within the four walls of the bathroom will leak to the outside world.
“Alexander Claremont-Diaz,” Henry says; words slurring in his inebriated state, though Alex doesn’t miss the sense of mocking behind them. “I’m guessing Madam President was entirely too busy to make an appearance herself.”
Fuck you, Alex thinks, the words at the tip of his tongue. He should say them—he would, in any other situation. There’s no love lost between the prince and him, no point in pretending they’re friends. Yet the words get stuck in his throat. Fuck you, he thinks, except Henry looks utterly, absolutely broken, and the curse doesn’t make it past his lips, not this one time no one is close enough to hear him.
“There are more important things in the world than the death of a royal,” he says instead. Henry flinches but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t give Alex a moment of relief from the intensity of his gaze. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss.”
He’s not. Maybe Henry hears it in his voice, too. Maybe he sees it on his face. Alex braces himself for the anger, for indignation, for a sliver of the annoyance that colored those eyes just a moment before. Yet his shoulders slump, his eyes flutter closed, and when he smiles again, this time there’s something raw about it. Something real. “I’m not,” he admits in a small voice. “Isn’t that the biggest bloody heresy? I’m not… sorry.” He opens his eyes to meet Alex’s again, now softer than before. “I do apologize for snapping at you. I haven’t been… Well, I haven’t had the best bloody week, clearly.”
Alex snorts, a small thing that catches him off guard. “I wonder why.” He watches a smile tug at the corners of Henry’s lips, mirroring his own. A shared moment of understanding, hidden in the heart of the castle.
“I’m supposed to go out and pretend to be bloody devastated at her death,” Henry whispers first, breaking the silence. “Pretend she wasn’t… She wasn’t choking the life out of every single family member. Stand next to my brother and sister and share in their grief as if…” His voice trails off and he tugs the flask back out, taking a large gulp. Alex follows the line of his throat as it bobs.
“Or you could hide here,” he offers impulsively. He knows jack shit about monarchy, about the expectations and the formalities, but he can’t imagine Henry is in this bathroom with their blessing. PPOs follow each member of the royal family like fucking ducklings wherever they go, and he thinks he would’ve noticed men dressed in black if they were stationed outside. “Pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.”
Blue eyes meet his again. “That would be a marvel, wouldn’t it?” He’s standing up properly now; Alex doesn’t know when it happened, but they’re closer, standing only two feet apart, enough that if he reaches out, he could touch Henry’s face. His hair. “I give five minutes before they find us.”
Alex’s lips quirk up. “Three minutes,” he says, wrapping his fingers around Henry’s flask. “And they’ll bust the door down.” He takes a gulp, watching the color rise to Henry’s cheeks, watches his eyes follow his throat as well.
“Five minutes.” Henry takes the flask back, fingertips brushing Alex’s. It’s an innocent touch, barely fucking there, but Alex shivers anyway. Inexplicably, he can’t quite look away from Henry, can’t look away from how his lips wrap around the mouth of the flask, how his neck stretches when he tips his head back. “And Philip will be with them for a dressing down.”
Alex makes a face. “Rude,” he whispers, and it’s delightful, the laugh that escapes Henry’s lips. He takes the flask back. “Guess I should keep hold of this, huh? Don’t want your brother accusing you of disrespect.”
“Right. Instead he’ll accuse you of accosting me, I imagine.”
“I can handle a bit of bad publicity.” He tucks the whiskey in his pocket and smiles. Maybe it’s his imagination, but Henry’s shoulders are looser now, his eyes are brighter, and that by itself feels like victory. He doesn’t even feel the grief permeating the walls.
“Where the fuck have you been?” June hisses when he returns to his place. He huffs out a breath.
“The fucking castle. Couldn’t find the bathroom for hours.” Their eyes meet. If June can tell he’s lying, she doesn’t call him out on it. Her eyes turn to the front, and Alex’s eyes flicker around the room, waiting until the familiar face appears at the door, following the procession of his family. He’s at least a head taller than both his mother and sibling yet doesn’t look imposing, not like the brother by his side. There’s something elegant about the way he holds himself, the way his chin juts forward and his shoulders square.
Alex stills when blue eyes find his in the crowd. Tries to put a discreet smile on his face. He doesn’t know if Henry sees it, but the blues do glimmer bright under the sunlight. He presses a hand over his chest, where a piece of paper replaced the flask that’s now snug in Alex’s pocket.
A piece of paper, with Alex’s number scribbled on top. Definitely against royal protocol. Alex finds that he doesn’t fucking care.
iii. poison, all alone
Thank you,
Henry writes the next day, when Alex’s plane has long touched the ground and he’s safely surrounded by his own blankets.
For not throwing me to the wolves. I believe I owe you my gratitude.
Don’t fucking mention it.
A sense of familiarity, an olive branch, a peace offering. He doesn’t want Henry to text him like a stuck up royal.
I wasn’t gonna say no to free alcohol.
I do miss that flask.
Simple, to the point. Alex can imagine the small smile on Henry’s lips. The fingers grasping the olive branch.
He puts his phone away and stares at the ceiling.
Is this actually allowed? Texting?
he messages Henry a few days later. He’s about to go on a run—his shoes are already tied, hair pulled back from his forehead with a headband. His fingers are jittery and his water bottle is half-finished. He should leave. He tells himself to leave without waiting for Henry’s answer.
June would call him stupid if she knew. He’s a prince—third in line to the throne now after the untimely death of his grandmother. A mounting pressure on his shoulders to present himself well, to show the image of a perfect prince to the world, to mold himself into exactly what the crown requires.
Alex still remembers his picture from that stupid J-14 magazine, the perfectly boyish look he flashed to the camera; he still remembers the jealousy that brewed in his gut every time his fingers moved over it. Henry, with his perfect charm, his perfect hair, perfectly blue eyes, perfectly respectable smile. Henry, in all his glory. Henry, the prince.
Now, he wonders how real any of that was. Wonders why, when he tries to think of the prince, all he can think of is the boy in the bathroom with red-rimmed eyes, whiskey-stained lips, and a twisted smile as he confessed to Alex what he could no doubt sell to the tabloids for tens of thousands of dollars and chip the barely standing reputation of the monarchy.
I’m not, the words whisper in his ear now. I’m not sorry. Henry, the prince with an entire country’s weight on his shoulders, trying to survive. Henry, who sees his grandmother’s death as a relief because she saw him more as a pawn than a child. Henry, just a boy, regardless of what the world thinks.
His phone pings. Alex grabs it before he can stop himself.
No, Alex, phones are actually banned from Kensington Palace in the 21 st century.
Cheeky.
Alex shoots back his reply. He’d never admit to Henry that the joke put a smile on his face.
You know that’s not what I fucking mean.
Cursing, might I say, is also frowned upon in royal circles.
Good fucking thing I’m not a royal then.
Alex bites the inside of his cheek. His fingers hover over the keys for a few seconds before he finally decides to bite the bullet. He thinks Henry should know.
I like it, by the way. That we’re texting. Just so you know.
Henry doesn’t answer for a long time. Alex puts his phone on silent and goes on his run, pumping just a bit harder than he’s used to. Running until his muscles are screaming at him. When he’s back, there’s a reply from Henry waiting for him in his inbox.
Good to know.
Henry has an appearance.
Alex knows this because recently, he’s turned on notifications for royal news; if anyone asks, he’ll deny it tooth and nail, but he turns on the news when he gets the notification, and there’s Henry, decked in all black, offering the barest hint of a smile to the camera.
Alex snaps a picture. Then he goes to their texts.
That tie does nothing to your eyes.
He doesn’t expect an answer, not anytime soon anyway. He turns back to the screen, eyes taking Henry’s figure. He’s good at it. Really fucking good at it—the pretending, the posing, the… prince-ing. Regardless of how much it hurts.
But you do look good.
The next text is sent before Alex can think too much about it.
I know you fucking hate royal events but you do.
He throws his phone away. His eyes find Henry on the screen again, the freckles dusting his nose and the lashes spread on his brow, and tries to catch the strands of hair falling out of place. Tries to catch the red lining his eyes. A piece of the real him he’s seen in that bathroom.
Piercing blue eyes find the camera. The corner of his eyes twitch; slowly, he runs a hand through his hair, letting a few strands fall on his forehead. Alex’s heart palpitates. He mirrors the smile, though Henry can’t see it.
Unfortunately, the mourning period disallows anything that includes a fleck of color.
Henry texts later, much later, when Alex is in his room and buried under textbooks. He grabs his phone immediately anyway.
Fucking shame.
You should wear blue next time. It’ll make your eyes pop.
I’ll think about it.
Alex forces himself not to respond.
Next week, a blue tie peeks from under Henry’s suit. His eyes find the cameras again, a strand of hair fallen over his forehead.
He smiles. It looks real.
Do you ever feel like your entire life was written for you in stone since the day you were born and there’s nothing you can do to change one bloody bit of it?
Alex wakes up to that message from Henry, and with his sleep-addled brain he stares at it, the words bouncing around in his mind without making much of a sense, beating to the rhythm of his heart. Nothing, he reads, over and over again. Nothing you can do to change it.
He forces himself to stand up and get at least half a cup of coffee in his system before he attempts an answer. It’s partly yes—his mother is a politician, and while it wasn’t set in stone that she would become president, all of Alex’s life was shaped around the fact that she was raised by someone who cared more about her country than her kids. Alex understands this, understands why they had to move to Washington D.C., why he sometimes felt invisible to his parents, why it was inevitable that they’d end up at a place like this where he’d have to morph himself into his best self to ensure his mother’s success. Yet none of that, not even the worst parts, comes even close to what Henry is talking about.
His fingers hover over the keys, apologies lining his lips, yet it doesn’t feel right. None of it feels quite right, and Alex ends up deleting all of them before he starts over.
Did you know that they called Mom the Lometa Longshot?
Alex doesn’t expect it, but Henry’s answer is quick.
When she first ran for the House, right?
Catching up with your American politics I see.
No one expected her to win at the time. Not even her own fucking husband. She campaigned so hard for that position but it was always a dream. Until it happened.
Mom had these dreams since before she even had June. Run for the House, represent her state, and eventually lead her country. Become the president. Become a force of change. I’m not saying she’s a bad mother but that’s who she’s always been. A leader first. And we simply had to get used to it because she wasn’t going to give up on her dreams for us.
I don’t fucking know how it’s like to be born into a monarchy or to have everyone’s eyes on me since I was a fucking baby, but I know what it’s like to be dragged around your entire life for a parent. I don’t know if I would’ve chosen to move to D.C. if not for Mom. I don’t know if I would’ve left Texas. Would’ve even imagined going into politics.
He bites the inside of his cheek, tempted to delete the whole goddamn thing. It’s too much, suddenly, to confess the deepest parts of his heart, the parts he wasn’t aware were even there until he put it into words. Yet there’s the small script underneath that says Read, and he can almost see Henry on the other side of it, and he wants him to keep this piece of Alex. He thinks Henry will keep it safe.
I’m sorry about that, Alex.
Alex snorts. Even now, Henry is the one apologizing.
Don’t be. I’m not sorry.
Maybe I don’t have the best fucking parents or didn’t have a normal childhood but maybe it was all for a reason, you know?
Maybe it was so I could be where Mom is in the future. Follow in her shoes so I can make this country into a better place. Use the platform she gave me.
Though I guess having a crown over your head is a whole another story.
Henry doesn’t answer for a long time. Alex forces himself to drink his coffee, forces himself to cook so his hands are too busy to check his phone every five minutes. It’s over thirty minutes later that Henry answers.
Don’t check the news tonight. Please.
Alex’s heart bottoms out. He lasts a few hours at night before he’s curled up in his bed, opening up The Daily Mail. And there it is, in big bold lettering, with a picture attached at the end.
PRINCE HENRY SEEN OUT WITH SOCIETY DARLING FOR THE FIRST TIME AFTER QUEEN MARY’S FUNERAL
Alex texts Henry the next morning. It’s innocent, simple, and cheery. Nothing that would indicate he looked at the article. He attaches a picture of his botched latte art and makes fun of himself, and when there’s not an immediate answer he forces himself to put on his sneakers and go on a run. Music blasts through his earbuds, blood pumps through his veins, and he runs until the burn in his legs replaces the ache in his heart.
His phone is still blissfully notification free when he’s back.
He makes dinner. He eats it as he puts on a TV show, which he can’t even recall the name of, to unsuccessfully distract himself.. He gives in and checks his phone. Nothing.
He reads. He actually picks up a fictional book instead of a textbook or a newspaper article or even a stupid fanfiction. He sneaks into June’s room, grabs one from her bookshelf because—stupidly, desperately—it sounds like something Henry would enjoy, and he reads it, fifty pages, hundred, waiting for that telltale ping from his phone. He falls asleep, book over his face. He wakes up an hour later. Still nothing. He checks the article, reads it until his stomach feels sour, and then turns his phone off.
He gets ready for bed. He tries to fall asleep but fails, and wakes up early the next day anyway for college. Rinse and repeat.
“Hypothetically,” Alex starts, keeping his eyes peeled at the onions in front of him, yet he feels Nora still next to him anyway.
“I have a feeling whatever you’re gonna say isn’t going to be very hypothetical.”
“Hypothetically,” Alex insists, “if I were texting with someone kind of a lot, but like completely platonically, and then… And then if they were to go on a date, which they have every right to because you know we’ve been platonic the whole time and it’s not like I was trying to keep them from—”
“Alejandro, get to the fucking point.”
Alex huffs out a breath and drops the knife before he cuts himself or stabs Nora or something. “If they were to go on a date and I kind of didn’t want them to go on a date… What do you think that would… mean?” He doesn’t look at her but he can feel her eyes piercing his head. The pot in front of her is completely forgotten, and it’s a good thing they’re only cooking pasta because otherwise Alex would’ve been worried.
“Hypothetically,” Nora says gently, and just the simple fact that she’s going with his bullshit excuse tells him he looks just as shaken as he feels, “I’d say the things between you two might not be as platonic as you thought they were.” Alex stares at her as long as it takes for the tears to come, and then he hides his face behind his palms, pressing the heels to his eyes.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice shaky around even that one word. “Fuck.” He feels Nora’s hand over his arm but he doesn’t look up, doesn’t even move, until she’s tugging at his sleeve and he simply has to.
“Who is she?” she asks because that’s all she knows, and suddenly Alex wants to laugh. Laugh and cry at the same time because he’s kind of realizing he’s not fully straight at the same time as he’s about to have a mental breakdown about having a crush for a goddamn prince, because that goddamn prince isn’t even answering his texts anymore, because he’ll be coming out to his best friend with sobs lining his throat and instead of celebrating Nora will have to hug him, and even when Alex thought for sure he was straight he would’ve never, ever wanted this to be the moment he shared this with her.
“They’re not…” he whispers, finally dropping his hands. “They’re not a she.” And at least Nora has the decency to pretend as if Alex hasn’t revealed something profound.
“Okay.” Her hand travel down Alex’s arm and finds his elbow, squeezing in support. The words spill from Alex’s lips before he can help it.
“We’ve been texting like, all the time.” He lets his hands drop from his face and stares at his nails bitten down to the core. “And he’s just—I don’t even fucking know. He has this way with words and I keep checking my phone to see if he messaged back because I just wanna hear from him and he’s just…so fucking nice and I…” Alex’s voice trails off, the images of that fateful article dancing in front of his eyes. He tries to gulp around the knot in his throat. “He went on a date with someone,” he whispers. “He asked me not to read too much into it but now he’s not answering my texts and I can’t even fucking do anything about it because he’s on the other side of the fucking Atlantic and it just feels—It feels…” Alex finds Nora’s eyes and admits the one thing he’s not allowed himself to think about until then. “Fucking horrible.” He breathes in, breathes out, and again until his lungs don’t feel the size of beans, until he feels like he can get oxygen into his veins.
Nora squeezes his elbow, taking his attention away from his collapsing lungs, if only for a split second. “Alex,” she says quietly, and it’s almost on instinct that Alex tenses. “Who is he?” His heart stutters again. He stares at Nora’s fingers, wrapped tight around his wrist; stares at the floor, at the counters, anything but her eyes. Yet the truth leaves his lips anyway.
“It’s Henry.”
iv. diesel is desire
Nora gets him a plane to England. Alex doesn’t question how.
“We’re making an appearance,” she tells him when they land—the FSOTUS and the granddaughter of the Vice President, attending a surprise movie premiere. Alex doesn’t even know what they’re supposed to be watching. “It’s a blockbuster.”
“Not really fucking helping, Nora.”
“Just pretend like you’re interested.” She squeezes his arm and steers him over the red carpet, and when cameras flash into their faces Alex wonders if the pictures will make the news. If Henry will look at them and get the same twisting feeling in his gut. “Smile, Alejandro. Only a few hours until you reunite with your boyfriend.”
Alex smiles. It feels fake.
Kensington Palace looms in the sky as the driver brings them up to it.
Cash is in the front seat, flashing glances at Nora and Alex like he’s trying to puzzle out what the fuck they’re doing there. Alex’s knee is bouncing, and Nora has a hand over it, squeezing at intervals, murmuring stupid nothings into his ear as a sore attempt at distraction.
Alex smiles. He holds her hand. He tries to keep his knee still and fails. “Henry knows we’re coming?” he asks, finding Nora’s eyes in the dark.
“Shaan knows. He’s Henry’s equerry,” she answers cryptically. Alex guesses the answer is no. They’re at the gates anyway. Someone opens the door for Alex and he stumbles out, hands still shaky, squinting at the castle as if he can fold it into something manageable and hide inside the edges of it until it didn’t feel quite so impossibly large to his eyes.
“His Highness is in the music room,” the man informs him. Shaan, Alex assumes. He nods and stares at the palace back again, gulping around the knot in his throat.
“How…” The words feel like a struggle on his tongue. “How is he?” He looks back at Shaan, and for the split second he allows his real emotions to filter through his face, there’s a wretched look in his eyes. Alex’s heart bottoms out even as Shaan smooths his expression and straightens up.
“I think he’d very much like to see you, sir.”
Alex shares a look with Nora. She nudges him without a word, the last comforting touch before he’s being led through the halls gilded in gold and finery so rich it makes him sick, until the sound of a piano wafts through the air and Alex finds himself following it without anyone’s guidance. Shaan stops in front of the door and turns to Alex, searching his face. “Be gentle with him,” he says—the words of a friend instead of a handler. All Alex manages is a nod. Then, he’s alone in the hallway, in front of the door that leads him to a broken boy with a heart of gold, and Alex doesn’t hesitate before he knocks.
The music stops. Alex didn’t even know which song was playing. “Who is it?”
Alex hesitates for a second before he gives his name. There’s no point in trying to hide from Henry. “I was just passing by,” he tries to joke, though his voice feels entirely too brittle. The door, unnervingly, stays quiet. “Please?” he offers then, voice significantly thinner. “If you want me to fuck off, I will, but I just… I’d like to at least be given a chance.”
Another beat of silence. Alex is about to turn around and convince his dumb brain that a guy who doesn’t even deign to show the fuck up or respond to his messages isn’t worth a second of his time when the handle finally turns, and Alex is faced once again with the most devastating man he’s met in all his life, standing just a few inches taller and peering at him with blue eyes deep enough to contain the entire Atlantic Ocean. He could easily drown in them, Alex thinks, if he wasn’t too careful.
“I don’t.”
Alex blinks. “What?”
“I don’t want you to fuck off.” The curse, on Henry’s lips, feels wrong, but his voice is velvety-smooth, like a warm blanket on a cold winter day, and Alex lets it wrap around him. “I’ve never wanted you to fuck off.” A confession and a declaration in one. Alex doesn’t quite know what to do with it until Henry steps back, a blatant invitation to step in.
The door clicks behind them. Alex notices the key sticking out of it, though Henry doesn’t lock it back.
“You went on a date.”
There was an intention, at some point during the car ride here, to start the conversation in amicable terms, with some small talk, even if it’s about the horrid London weather. But the words are out there now and Alex doesn’t take them back, peering at Henry’s face through his lashes. It’s twisted into a kind of pain he doesn’t try to hide. “If you could call it that.” His eyes find Alex’s in the dim room. “You looked.”
Alex doesn’t try to deny it. There’s no point, really. But pieces fall into place regardless, the missing parts of the puzzle now forming into a full picture, the senseless edges now filled with paint and blood. “It was arranged,” he says, gauging Henry’s reaction. His words still ring in Alex’s ears. Nothing, he thinks. There’s nothing you can do to change one bloody bit of it.
Henry laughs. “Every single bloody date I’ve been on has been arranged, Alex.” He runs a hand over his face, and when he looks up again the pain is hidden behind a mask, almost impenetrable if not for the eyes glimmering with lingering tears. Alex notices that they’re puffy now, that dried tear tracks trace over his cheeks. “I don’t get to meet someone and take them out because I bloody well liked them. I don’t get to go out to clubs and flirt. Every hour of my life is pre-arranged, from breakfast to dinner to events to stupid dates and I just… I’m just strung along like a puppet, like their perfect prince because that’s what I’ve been born into. That’s my job .” He blinks furiously and looks away. “I thought it might be different. Without Gran. I thought for bloody once I’d get to be myself but… I’m not allowed. I’ll never be allowed, and that’s the end of it.”
If it was possible, Alex thinks he would be able to hear his heart shatter in his chest. “You are,” he whispers. Henry doesn’t look at him, but Alex steps forward until the space between them shrinks into ten feet, then eight, then five; until Henry is almost within arm distance. “You are allowed, Henry. You’re allowed to do whatever the fuck you want.”
Henry smiles. “That’s not quite how that works for me, unfortunately.” Their eyes meet, and there’s a chasm between them Alex doesn’t know how to close, a distance he isn’t sure he could overcome. “It’s okay,” Henry says, and Alex’s heart cracks all over again. “It’s my destiny. I’ve been born to bear it. You don’t have to worry about me.”
And Alex, as idiotic as it is, refuses to accept that.
“Fuck that.”
Henry blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“ Fuck that.” Alex takes another step. Only four feet between them now. “Fuck the monarchy. Fuck the royals. Fuck everything that keeps you from being who you are.”
The wretched look returns to Henry’s face. “Alex—” he tries, but Alex is faster. Another step. Barely three feet between them now, enough that he hears the slight hitch of Henry’s breath. Feels the warmth emanating from him.
“You can’t live your entire life in a cage, sweetheart.” The endearment slips from his lips. He lets it, especially when Henry’s lips part just at the sound of it. “Don’t… Don’t spend your life in a cage. There’s so much of you. So fucking much.” Another step. There’s barely any space between them now, enough that when Alex reaches up to cradle Henry’s face, his elbows press against his chest. “People deserve to see it.”
Henry doesn’t say anything. Alex’s heart pitter-patters in his chest when it hits him exactly how close they are. Exactly how many inches away Henry’s lips are, exactly how much he has to reach up to meet them. “Um,” he manages.
Henry lets out a hoarse laugh. “Quite.”
“I wasn’t…” Alex forces himself to scramble together a proper sentence. “I wasn’t going to… Fuck.” He inhales shakily. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’m gonna close the distance between us in a minute,” he whispers. “And if you don’t want me to, you can push me away. You can tell me to fuck off, and I’ll get out of your hair. But I… I meant every word I said, and maybe you didn’t fucking mean this when you said you’ve never been on a real date but I… I’m fucking giving it a shot, I guess, so just… Just let me know, sweetheart. Whatever it is. I’m gonna shut up now so you can answer.”
Blue eyes search Alex’s, and unless Alex is fucking dreaming about it, he swears he sees amusement behind them. “Okay,” he says with a quirk of his lips, and Alex fucking hates he can’t read anything from his voice.
“Is that a good okay?” he says breathlessly. “Because, like, you have another thirty seconds.”
Henry smiles this time, properly. “Okay,” he repeats, lifting his hands to take Alex’s in them. For a split, Alex is sure this is the rejection—that Henry will drop his hands, that he’ll step back, that apologies will fall from his lips. Then, Henry takes a step forward, right into Alex’s space, and whatever imagination he’s built up in his head shatters.
“Sweetheart?”
Henry doesn’t answer. He takes another step, and Alex scrambles to match them so he doesn’t fall down. Another. Then another. One hand finds Alex’s waist to steady him, the other stays exactly where it is, and he doesn’t stop until Alex’s back hits the door, until the breath wooshes out of him. Only then does Henry reach away from Alex, not to move but to simply wrap his fingers around the handle, flipping the key so it locks.
“How much time do I have left?” he asks, as if Alex hasn’t lost count the moment Henry’s fingers pressed onto the bare skin of his hands.
“Zero,” he whispers. It sounds about right. He watches Henry smile, watches him bracket his hips with his hands, watches a strand of hair fall over his forehead.
“Good.” He leans in, just a breath away from Alex. “I’d rather just show it, then.” Then his lips closes around Alex’s, teasing out the last bit of composure he had, until his mind quiets down to two words repeated over and over again.
Holy shit.
v. honor and truth, broken and blue
“I’m bi,” Alex blurts out when they’re standing in front of Kensington, Henry’s hands still wrapped around his. A beautiful smile spreads on Henry’s face.
“Yeah?”
“Just… Just thought you should know.” He clears his throat and frowns, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m still, like, figuring shit out so I’m not super experienced in… this, but I really fucking like you and—”
Henry kisses him then, effectively shutting him up. “You’re doing great, love,” he murmurs, and Alex preens under the praise, looking up at him through his lashes. Gentle fingers tangle in his curls and Henry’s eyes dip down, first to his lips, then to the edge of his collarbone where it disappears under his hoodie. Alex feels hot under the collar as he watches Henry take him in. “I’m very, very, gay.”
“I noticed,” Alex says cheekily, though it’s an effort to suppress his smile. Henry sends an unimpressed look his way. His lips are pursed, and Alex simply has to kiss them again, and then again, then one last time before Shaan clears his throat. Before the outside world catches up to them.
Alex meets Henry’s eyes again. “Call me,” he pleads; he doesn’t want to sound desperate, but if Henry leaves him hanging this time, he’s not sure he’ll have the means to fly to England again. “Text me. Just… Don’t disappear again.”
“I won’t.” It’s a promise, and Alex chooses to believe him.
“Good.” He squeezes Henry’s hand, and then he has to step back into the cold weather, into the clutches of the reality. Into the van that’ll take him away from Kensington, the plane that’ll take him out of the country.
Still, a part of him lingers with the boy that watches him drive away, that offers a ghostly smile and a wave before the car disappears.
Told you I wouldn’t disappear.
It’s the first text Alex gets from Henry right before he falls asleep in the hotel room. His lips are split into a wide smile as he types back.
Good to know.
Alex texts. Henry texts back. And despite the entire world trying to make him think every single flirty message they send each other is wrong, it feels absolutely, irrevocably right.
Got myself a lil gift.
Alex sends a week after he returned from England, a photo attached underneath. A bisexual flag pin on his lapel, small enough that it blends into the background, but bright enough to pick out on the surface. Alex loves it.
Gotta claim my identity.
I’m proud of you, love
You fucking better.
Also don’t fucking ever stop calling me love.
He imagines Henry’s laugh, imagines him clutching the phone to his chest in the dark of the night. Then, his phone lights up again.
Never.
And then a picture. Alex’s contact info, now titled “Love.” Alex tries not to feel too much about it.
Turns out I might be into American politics after all.
Alex gets the text on a run and stops at the nearest bench so he can respond to it. There’s a YouTube link attached with the latest presidential debate, of his mother absolutely decimating Richards where he stands. Even just the sight of it gives Alex goosebumps.
“I have two young adults in the White House, Richards,” she says, her words ringing through Alex’s earbuds. “Trust me when I say this—I know very well the importance of the second amendment, but I also know the fear of parents all around the country when they send their kids to school every single day. Common sense gun regulation isn’t about taking them away from sensible adults; it’s to ensure there isn’t another kid lost to a preventable violence because we were too timid to do something about it.”
She reminds me of you,
Henry’s next message says. Alex has to blink his tears away.
No fucking shot. She’s brilliant.
You don’t give yourself enough credit.
Henry types. He types for a long time, enough that Alex has to force himself to put his phone away and continue his run. His thighs are burning by the time he makes it home, but there’s a message from Henry, and as he slumps against the wall and pulls it up a knot tightens in his throat.
I’ve had partners before. In Eton, in Oxford. Casual hookups with no strings attached and NDAs longer than a newspaper. Never once did any of them have the absolute audacity to show up in Kensington in the middle of the night just to tell me I deserve everything I could ever want. I don’t know if I believe in it yet, but I will never forget, for the rest of my life, you holding my hand in that stupid music room and showing me a whole other world I can be a part of.
Maybe you’re not changing a whole country like your mum, but you changed the course of my life, Alex. I’d like to think that means something.
Alex doesn’t cry. He doesn’t, except the only reason is he’s too busy blinking at the ceiling and trying to see the keyboard through his tears so he can type. His fingers are shaky over the keyboard and it takes him a few tries to finish the message without typos.
Next time I see you I’m gonna fucking murder you I swear to fucking God.
You can’t just say stuff like that to me.
How fucking dare you?
I rather thought honesty was a sought-after quality in a partner.
Alex swears he can see Henry smirking at his stupid phone, swears he must know what that one word does to Alex’s heart. Partner, he thinks over and over again, the word bouncing around in his mind for the rest of the night. Partner, partner, partner.
Would you?
Henry asks later, when Alex is getting ready for bed. Alex ignores just how absolutely late it must be in England and decides not to chide him for it for once.
Would I what?
Would you want to see me?
As if it’s a fucking question. Alex snorts and pushes his glasses up.
I think I made it quite fucking clear that I would.
Good.
The next day, there’s an invitation in Alex’s mailbox.
The campaign is on full swing, Alex feels buried in that and classwork for hours on end, yet when an invitation from the Royal Family shows up, apparently you don’t reject it.
“Alex,” Zahra says carefully, peering at him from above her phone. Alex tries not to fidget. “Is there something I should know?”
“Nope.” Alex pops the ‘p’, puts on a wide grin, and does absolutely nothing to ease Zahra’s worries. The next week, he’s on a flight anyway, trying not to bounce off the walls or count down the goddamn minutes until he gets to see Henry again.
First, it’s a climate conference. It fits nicely with Ellen’s campaign. “Climate change is a big talking point,” she says as Alex shoves his clothes into a small suitcase. “Your appearance there will be crucial.”
Henry’s bright blue eyes swim in front of Alex’s vision. “I know, Mom,” he says, zipping the suitcase. “Climate change is important. We have a plan to tackle it. Got my script.”
“Don’t take this lightly, sugar.” Then, she hugs him anyway, and Alex accepts it. “Safe travels.”
The whole way there, Alex imagines Henry’s fingertips caressing his skin, his lips brushing over his chin, his collarbone, his mouth until Alex is left without words or muscles to stay upright. Henry sends the address to his hotel before Alex even lands, and first order of business Alex takes the car there and lets his imagination materialize in real life, lets himself get lost in Henry’s touch and Henry’s voice and Henry’s words.
“I missed you,” Alex whispers into the space between them as Henry peels off his shirt, as his fingers dance over his chest. He doesn’t even have a moment to regret the words.
“I missed you, too.” His eyes are darkened under the German night sky, and Alex chases them until they tumble onto the mattress and he falls asleep in the same bed as the Prince of Wales. It feels fucking right.
Then, there’s the polo match.
Tickets are 10,000 dollars,
Henry says, and Alex tries not to spurt out his entire cup of coffee.
What the fuck kind of a polo match is this?
It’s for charity. Believe me, I can barely justify people paying that much just to see a polo match.
Right
I don’t know if Mom would be cool with me using campaign funds for a fucking polo match
I’ll get you a ticket if you would like to come.
I’d really like for you to come.
Alex stares at the message for a few seconds before he lifts his head. “Zahra!” he yells into the hallway, rushing out of his room. “Zahra, Zahra, Zahra, Zah—”
“Kiddo, if you don’t shut up I’m taping your mouth.” Zahra’s head pops out of her office. “The fuck is going on?”
“I need you to clear my schedule for next weekend.”
Zahra’s eye twitches as she stares at Alex like he’s a puzzle she can’t quite solve. “Why?” she asks after a pause, and Alex has to bite the inside of his cheek so he bides his time to come up with an acceptable explanation.
“International relations?” he offers. Zahra’s eye twitches again.
“International relations.”
“You don’t have to make it sound so fucking dirty.” It’s hypocritical, considering Alex is already imagining Henry’s thighs bracketing a horse, already imagining Henry’s thigh bracketing him afterwards in the hidden corners of a hotel. “Henry invited me to his polo match. It’s like, a fucking charity thing so it’d look real bad if we said no.”
Zahra stares at him blankly. “Henry,” she deadpans. Alex gulps around the knot in his throat and nods. “Prince Henry.”
“Is there another fucking Henry we know of?”
“Prince Henry,” Zahra insists, “invited you to a charity polo match for some goddamned reason—”
“We’re friends, Zahra,” Alex interrupts, but it falls on deaf ears because Zahra is staring at him like he’s planning the downfall of his mother’s campaign—and yes, sure, maybe it won’t look that fucking well if the public knew the First Son was hooking up with a goddamn Prince of Wales—and Alex finds himself shifting under her gaze. “We kind of…connected. At the Queen’s funeral. He thought I’d enjoy it.”
Zahra doesn’t bring up that Alex has never once been able to sit still through any sports game. Doesn’t bring up that he doesn’t even particularly like polo. She sighs, squeezes the bridge of her nose, and then looks up at him. “I better not regret this, Alex.”
Alex stops himself from hugging Zahra to death only by the look on her face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
Got the all clear
Better make it worth my while, your highness
That is the plan
Henry makes it worth his while.
He greets Alex at the airport in a hoodie and sunglasses, lips tilted into a small smile. “Not here,” he murmurs when Alex gets too close—and Alex gets it, he does. He’s not even out as the son of a pretty liberal president; he can’t quite imagine what it must be like for Henry, carrying the weight of a monarchy on his shoulders—but he holds Alex’s hand in the back of the car, their palms sliding together, and somehow that’s enough.
The polo match is brilliant, not even one bit because Alex is interested in polo. He watches Henry with his tight leggings and brilliantly golden hair; watches Henry maneuver his horse; watches Henry walk over the grass all the way to Alex just to bring him back to the stables. He watches Henry then, bracketing Alex’s shoulders against the wooden wall, watches Henry as his hands skim the bare skin of Alex’s arms and watches him as he kneels in front of Alex, deftly working the button of his pants.
“Fuck,” Alex breathes into the space between them. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna fucking kill me.” Henry grins wickedly, like it’s a promise, and then dips his head and takes Alex apart piece by piece.
Henry makes it worth his while two weeks later, when he visits LA for a movie premiere.
“Come with me,” he pleads on a phone call, voice dripping with sleep. It’s three a.m. on the other side of the pond, but Alex doesn’t reject his call, cannot reject his call, even if part of him wants to tell him to go the fuck to sleep. “I can’t… I can’t really have you with me at the premiere but I’d like to see you.”
“Sweetheart,” Alex drawls out, cuddling under the blankets, “bold of you to assume I wouldn’t fly across the fucking world just for you.”
He imagines then, Henry blushing. Imagines the splotches of pink dusting his cheeks. And when they’re together he traces the line of them so he can memorize every single inch, every pixel; to carve it into his mind so he doesn’t lose it. He finds that the red travels all the way down to his navel, finds all the sensitive patches on the canvas of his skin, and when he eventually collapses over his chest in the privacy of their room he inhales the familiar scent of him, something that;s slowly making its way up on his list of places that makes him feel safe, feel loved. He doesn’t dare use that word, not with Henry, but it slowly tangles around his heart and Alex doesn’t quite know how to solve all the knots.
“Thank you,” Henry whispers into Alex’s hair, warm lips ghosting over the curls. “For…”
Alex looks up. “Commandeering a private plane for a booty call?” he offers, earning a soft laugh from Henry that turns into a soft kiss when Alex’s head tips forward. Blue eyes, darkened in the late hours of the night, study Alex’s face.
“For reminding me there’s more to life than the monarchy.” His fingers tangle in Alex’s hair and before Alex can even find the words to respond they’re kissing again, and everything else melts into the background.
Henry makes it worth his while a few weekends after, when the weather is getting colder and Halloween is approaching.
Do y’all royals even celebrate Halloween?
Alex asks as he’s munching on a croissant, sprawled over the kitchen counter in the late hours of the night. Regardless of what hour it is in England, Henry’s response is quick.
Bold of you to assume we’d do anything fun like that.
A laugh escapes Alex’s lips, though it feels bitter. Another message pops up.
Dad did, when he was alive. Not publicly, but he’d buy us costumes every year and insist on doing a mock trick and treating. Palace staff hid in rooms so we could knock on them, and they would give us treats. We have pictures dating back to when Bea was just a baby.
Philip got tired of it pretty quickly but the rest of us continued the tradition for years after.
Henry doesn’t say the words but Alex hears them anyway, in the spaces between the lines. Until Dad died. A weight settles on his chest; he straightens up just so it doesn’t crush his lungs and chews on the inside of his cheek, debating the words. Nothing feels right—too short, too long, too much, too fake, too… something. He settles for something simple.
That sounds fucking lovely.
It was. I do miss doing it.
Henry’s message is wistful, but not quite broken, not so shattered that it’s impossible to put back together. Alex decides to take a chance.
So.
We might be throwing a lil Halloween party next week at the White House next week.
Just June and Nora and me and maybe a few friends.
You should come.
Dress up as whatever the fuck you want, sweetheart.
There’s no answer for a long time. Alex forces himself to get off the counter and properly eat his breakfast, and then dress up for a run. Finally, when he’s back, there’s a message.
I think I have some costumes I could dust off.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Alex breathes as he takes Henry in, decked in a version of Leia’s most famous dress, standing at the doors of the white house like an angelic mirage descended on earth. “You look…”
A flush dusts Henry’s cheeks, bringing him squarely back on earth. “Ridiculous?” he offers with a self-deprecating smile. Alex snorts.
“I was gonna go with beautiful, but I’ll take that.” He grabs Henry’s hand and drags him inside, fingers sliding along each other, and he thinks he doesn’t mind it quite so much that Henry feels real and solid under his fingertips. He doesn’t mind the imperfections, the flaws, the chinks in his armor. It’s everything that makes Henry who he is, a collection of parts Alex is slowly losing his heart to, and he wouldn’t exchange any of them, like a puzzle that wouldn’t be complete if you misplaced or swapped any of the pieces.
“The party isn’t going to start until, like, ten,” he tells Henry, and the horrified look in his eyes is enough to know jetlag will probably be hitting him in full swing by then, “but in the meantime I have a surprise for you.”
Henry arches a brow. “Love, I do like you, but putting this costume on took forever and I’d like to not remove it anytime soon.”
“Not like that.” Although, looking at how the pants hug Henry’s thighs, Alex thinks he wouldn’t exactly mind if Henry meant it that way. “I just—you’ll see.” He brings Henry to his room, ignoring all the implications behind it, and grabs two jack-o-lantern baskets. They’re the cheapest ones from Spirit Halloween because like everything, Alex has procrastinated on buying them and spent the entire time trying to plan the whole thing, but Henry cradles one like it’s a precious piece of art, fingers skimming over the cheap plastic.
“Alex,” he asks quietly. “What’s this for?” His eyes are shining when he looks up, and Alex thinks that deep down he must know—even if he doesn’t dare hope. Alex grins.
“We,” he says, poking Henry in the chest, “are going trick-or-treating, baby.” He watches Henry’s eyes turn misty, watches his fingers tighten around the basket, yet all he offers is a nod before he follows Alex into the hallways of the White House, the doors Alex has painstakingly decorated with the help of June and Nora, the candies offered by the staff just to reminisce one of the normal parts of Henry’s childhood.
“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Zahra had said when Alex told her about his plan, but she opens the door now, decked in a brilliant copy of the Scarlet Witch costume, and Alex’s grin is wide enough to reach from ear-to-ear.
“Do not,” she threatens, “take a picture of me, or else I swear to God I’m telling your mother to fire you from her campaign.” She drops KitKats into Henry’s basket, eyeing him up and down as if looking for hints that his “friendship” with Alex is anything but innocent, before her gaze returns to Alex. “One time.”
Alex is still grinning even as Zahra’s eyes narrow. “On my honor.”
The door shuts behind them, and Alex takes Henry’s hand in his fearlessly, leading him down, without even checking whether Zahra is still behind the wooden surface.
“Alex.” Henry stops in front of Alex’s door, merely thirty minutes before the party. His makeup is smeared just so, his hair is sticking out from the pins he put it down with, yet he’s the same angelic person Alex saw in front of the White House doors, the same beautiful being he’s met all those months ago.
“Yeah?”
Henry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. His fingers tighten around Alex’s hands; then, he tugs until Alex is facing him, until they’re chest to chest, until his body heat wraps around Alex like the softest blanket in the entire goddamn world. He searches Alex’s face before he leans down and captures Alex’s lips, cradling Alex’s face like he matters more than the basket of candies, more than the questions still hidden behind his throat.
He's smiling when he pulls back. “Just wanted to do that,” he murmurs, and Alex tells himself he won’t be desperate, not for Henry’s touch, but a soft moan leaves his lips anyway. Henry lets out a soft laugh. He kisses Alex again, and then presses him against the door and kisses him until Alex feels weak in the knees, and if he had concerns about anything Henry didn’t say, it melts into the floor.
“Shall we?” Henry asks later, cuddled up in Alex’s bed, already late for the Halloween party. Alex searches Henry’s face, with his eyes and his fingertips, following the makeup and the glitter. He shoves his concerns back.
“Yeah.”
Can we call?
It’s rare that Henry asks whether they can call instead of simply ringing Alex, so the message immediately sends Alex’s stomach somewhere below his feet. He sits down onto the bed before his knees give up and sends a quick yes, chewing his lip before his phone lights up. A facetime call, Henry smiling at him from the screen, a stark contrast to the face that welcomes him when he accepts.
“Baby?”
Henry looks wretched. There are large circles under his eyes, tear tracks running down his face, and even now, as Alex watches, he has to blink several times so he can focus. “Baby,” Alex repeats, quieter this time, voice cracked in the middle. A hollow smile tugs at Henry’s lips.
“You look beautiful.”
Another time, Alex would’ve flushed. Now, all he manages is a frown.
“I don’t think I tell you that enough.” Henry’s voice is rough, not just through the connection but through his throat as well. Alex opens his mouth but he doesn’t have the right words—doesn’t have anything to respond to that with. Thank you feels too callous, you don’t need to doesn’t ring true, and I feel it already feels too much. He doesn’t really get the chance anyway. “Alex?”
He clears his throat. “Yeah, baby?”
“What are we doing?”
Alex’s heart, wherever it is under his feet, stutter. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to let his nerves shows too much. “Doing about what?” he asks, even though he knows exactly what Henry is talking about. Knows exactly what he means.
Henry’s eyes, where they meet Alex’s through the screen, look absolutely heartbroken. “You know what I mean,” he whispers, and Alex can’t even deny it. He almost tastes blood where his teeth bite into his cheek. I don’t know, is the most truthful answer, yet it doesn’t feel enough. He can’t say it, not when Henry looks two seconds from shattering.
He says the only other thing he’ll allow himself. “What do you want us to be?”
For a moment, Henry is silent. He searches Alex’s face, pixelated as it is—his eyes are glimmering again, not simply with sunlight, and Alex aches to reach out, aches to wipe those tears away so he doesn’t have to hurt ever again. “I’m happy,” he finally says, and Alex’s heart shrivels to the size of a goddamn raisin. He gulps through the knot in his throat.
“I’m happy, too.” And then, “With you,” just so Henry doesn’t doubt it at all. His lips curve into a small smile—it’s fleeting, but at least it feels real under the layers of pain.
“I miss you,” Henry continues. “I…like you.” He doesn’t say it outright, not now, but the meaning is clear. This, whatever this is between them, isn’t casual for him. It hasn’t been casual for him for a while, maybe the whole fucking time. “I don’t… I don’t want to lose you.”
Alex clutches the phone tight as if he can simply reach through if he tries hard enough. “Baby, you’re not going to lose me.” And it’s the goddamn truth. Somewhere along the way, somewhere between the heated kisses and the teasing texts and the warm nights they spent together, Henry wrapped around Alex’s heart like ivy, so tight that Alex isn’t sure he’d be able to untangle all the knots even if he wanted. “You’re not, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
A tear slides down Henry’s cheek. He’s silent for a moment, and then, “Mum’s sending me on a date tomorrow.”
Alex’s entire body turns cold. He doesn’t even manage to string together words in his mind before Henry continues.
“It’s… It’s good for the image of the monarchy, she says. Bullshit she’s been fed by her staff, no doubt, and I tried… I tried to reason with her, but…” Henry swallows and looks away from the phone. “It’s already been arranged. She wants me to go.”
There’s a good chance Alex’s heart is scooped right out of his chest, with how hollow he feels. “Baby,” he manages, just that word, that term of endearment, and Henry cracks. There’s another tear, and then another, and his voice is choked when he finally manages to speak.
“I knew you’d see it in the news,” he says, and Alex can’t even fucking deny it. The one time Henry asked him not to look, the one time he could’ve given Henry a bit of trust, he fucked it up. “And I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to think it was my choice. I don’t want you to think I want this, any part of this. I’m not… I wouldn’t do that to you. Even if we weren’t… Even if this was casual. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”
“Henry—”
“I wouldn’t.” Henry finally looks at the phone, eyes glimmering with fresh tears. Alex’s fingers twitch, as if he could reach through the screen if he simply tried hard enough. “You must know that.”
There’s only one right response to that. “I do.” The word comes out shaky so Alex clears his throat. “I know that. Don’t you ever—Hen, don’t doubt that, okay?” He doesn’t want to cry. He shoves his tears back, locks them up somewhere in his throat where he knows they’ll boil over the moment he ends the call, but for now he focuses on his… On his boyfriend. That term feels right. “If that’s… If that’s what you need to do, you don’t have to worry about me, okay? Don’t even think that. It wouldn’t even fucking be simple for me to come out right now so I can’t imagine… I know it’s not easy for you. I get it, okay?” He offers Henry a shaky smile. There’s an unreadable look behind his eyes, a kind of determination Alex doesn’t remember seeing from him. He nods.
“Okay.” It’s quiet, but it’s there and that’s worth everything. “I will… I’ll try to get some sleep now, I think.”
Alex frowns. “You sure?” He doesn’t want to let Henry go, not now, but Henry nods.
“I would… I would like to be on my own a little bit.” Before Alex’s throat can tighten, he mirrors Alex’s smile. “I miss you, darling.” Those four words. They’re worth a whole goddamn universe.
“I miss you, too.”
The call disconnects. Alex stares at the screen for another ten seconds before the first tears fall.
Alex checks the news on his phone first thing next morning.
He expects the news to already be there. The arranged dates, he’s found out from Henry, tend to make the news pretty quickly. He expects to see staged pictures, expects a beautiful girl in Henry’s arm, and tells himself he wouldn’t feel jealous—he’s promised Henry that he wouldn’t—even if he’d give up a lot more than he’s willing to admit just to be the one next to Henry. It’s not fucking fine, but for Henry’s sake he’ll have to pretend.
Yet nothing. Alex waits for a few more hours, droning through the breakfast and his morning run and even a fucking stretch he does to wake his muscles up, checking his phone every now and then, but nothing pops up. No news of Henry. No news of the date at all.
Baby?
He texts when the time nears three p.m. and he assumes the date isn’t actually happening.
Everything okay?
He doesn’t expect such a quick answer, but his phone buzzes merely a few minutes later. His heart stops when he reads the text, and then flutters like a butterfly.
I came out to Mum this morning.
She cancelled the date.
She cancelled any future dates.
+i. we’re burned for better
Alex’s palms feel sticky with sweat.
He wipes them over his pants, and then freaks out for just a moment that they might’ve left stains. Black doesn’t show, but he’s standing in front of a fancy fucking restaurant, he’s wearing a three-piece, and he’d be damned if the media fixated on that one imperfection over what this day is supposed to mean.
February 14 th . Valentine’s day. Over a month since his mother took the office again, over three months since she won. The air in the White House is finally calm, the staff preparing for a final term without worrying about reelection, and Alex lets himself relax along with it, focus on something else—something equally as important.
“I’m bi,” he tells his mother the day after election results are made official. They’re in the gardens and Alex squints into the sun the whole time, refusing to look at Ellen’s face, refusing to even move his hands from where they’re tucked into his pockets.
Ellen speaks after a beat. “Okay,” she says. She doesn’t turn to Alex either, but her face looks serene when he dares a glance at her, a smile playing on her lips, and something like relief washes over him.
“Okay,” he repeats. Balances on the balls of his feet. “I have a boyfriend.”
Ellen’s smile widens. “I figured.” Alex gulps, picking at the edges of his nails, letting out a shaky breath. Here goes nothing, he thinks.
“It’s Henry,” he whispers, the name like a bomb between them. “Prince Henry.” He doesn’t turn to his mother, but he winces instinctively, ready to protect himself against an onslaught if that’s what comes after. He feels Ellen’s piercing blue eyes on him, feels her lips part and her eyes widen.
“Come again?”
“I’m… I’m dating the Prince of Wales. Well, the younger one, at least.” He glances at his mother. “This is the part you yell at me for keeping it a secret and jeopardizing the entire election because I know that’s what you’re thinking of.”
There was no yelling that day. Instead, Ellen had cursed under her breath, and then plastered a smile on her face that looked anything but real, but at the end of the day she’d hugged him and pressed a kiss in his hair, and Alex wanted to cry not simply because his mom had accepted him even with his flaws—Ellen is liberal, sure, but it’s different believing you might have your parent’s blessing and seeing it blossom—but also because he isn’t sure whether Henry got a hug from Catherine the same way, whether he felt the love of a parent that he deserved.
Did she hug you?
He asks when he’s back in his room, under the blankets. He falls asleep right after, and only in the morning does he see Henry’s answer.
I believe I’d made it clear I didn’t actually go on that date, love.
Not the fake fucking girlfriend.
Your mom.
Did she hug you? When you came out?
There isn’t a response at first. Alex waits for it, unable to look away from the screen until those fateful three dots appear, until the message pops up.
She didn’t.
I think she was just overwhelmed with the implications of it.
She didn’t hate me for it. That’s all I really wanted.
Alex’s stomach knots. He doesn’t tell Henry, but his mind screams for it. You deserved it, he thinks. She should’ve hugged you, he thinks. That wasn’t enough, he thinks.
No arranged dates for you again, then?
he asks, joking, always joking just to put a smile on Henry’s face. He hopes it works now, even though he can’t see Henry through the phone.
I’m afraid not.
That was three months ago. Now, Henry has a date in his schedule for the night, and Alex’s palms feel clammy as he waits for him, but all of it seems worth it, somehow. The weeks of back and forth between the White House and the Buckingham Palace, the arguments Henry cried through during long nights, the painstaking planning of every single second until Alex wanted to scream—they’re all worth it for this moment. A statement. A revelation. A date.
And they don’t even have to hide behind closed doors. What a way to crash out of the closet.
“Are you sure?” Alex had asked Henry last night, when the sun has set, the White House quieted down, and Alex’s insecurities started eating at him. “We don’t… We don’t have to do this. Not if you’re not ready.”
Henry had stared, across the ocean, across the fucking world, pixelated and tired, yet it reached deep into Alex’s heart anyway. “Love, I’ve waited my entire goddamn life for this.” There was a smile on his face that sprinkled over Alex’s heart, and Alex found himself mirroring it, giving it back in the hours before Henry’s flight, before he sleeps and wakes up and then has to spend the entire day preparing for a date in front of the world’s eyes. “I’m ready if you’re ready. I’m ready to tell the world.”
There’s no doubt left in Alex’s mind. “Let’s fucking do this, baby.” Even now, with his nerves stretched tight, with cameras already flashing at the corner of his eyes, there’s no doubt in him, no matter what happens at the end of the day. They’ll shoulder the hateful comments. They’ll shoulder the homophobia. They’ll shoulder all of it, as long as they’re allowed to do it together.
A black van approaches the restaurant. Alex straightens up and dries his hands again before clasping them in front of him, the picture-perfect boyfriend the Buckingham Palace wanted him to be. Then, Henry steps out of the car, all long legs and navy suit and the red tie, the fucking patterned red tie that almost gets Alex to laugh, and all the thoughts of formalities and image disappear from Alex’s mind. He grins—a real grin, not a practiced one for the cameras.
Henry grins back. The night suddenly feels brighter.
“Hi, love,” he whispers when he’s close enough. He’s beautiful—Alex always thinks he’s beautiful, but it’s a marvel seeing him in public like this, under the lights of the night, without having to hide. He reaches out now, the smallest touch he’ll allow himself—the smallest the palace would allow when they were drafting the terms. Just a brush against the back of Henry’s hand, just enough to leave him wanting.
“Hey, baby.” His grin widens. “You look fucking beautiful.”
“Same as you.” He takes Alex’s hand when he tries to pull back and slides their fingers together. There’s something mischievous behind his smile that makes Alex’s breath catch. He doesn’t move as Henry reaches with his other hand, as he cups Alex’s face with it. Doesn’t move as he tips down, and stays perfectly still even as Henry’s lips press onto the corner of his, even as Henry lingers there just for a single breath until Alex feels shaky on his knees. He lets out a soft breath when Henry moves back and blinks.
“What was that for?”
Henry shrugs. To stick it to the monarchy, he mouths, quiet enough that they won’t be heard. “Shall we?” he asks out loud, and Alex has to let out a snort.
He slides his arm through Henry’s. “We fucking shall.”