Archive of Our Own

7.30am – Breakfast, Eton College. Age 13. 

Henry straightens his bowtie in the mirror. He hadn’t slept well. It’s not all that surprising, really. He’s not been sleeping well for weeks coming up to leaving home. Philip had spent the whole summer grinning and telling him how much he’d love it at Eton, kept shoving his shoulder and slapping him on the back so hard that Henry had almost fallen over. 

They’d arrived yesterday afternoon – some staff had hauled all of Henry’s belongings, packed neatly into trunks like he was in an Enid Blyton novel, up to his room while some more checked and triple checked all the security protocols, while Henry’s mum held him so tight that he felt like he was suffocating in Chanel No 5. He didn’t mind, not really, just hugged her back twice as hard. Dad ruffled his hair and kissed his head and told him to try to enjoy himself, but that they were just at the other end of the phone if he needed them. 

Henry had nodded, swallowed down the lump in his throat as he watched their car drive away, something big and empty settling in his chest. He’d claimed a headache, gone up to his brand new empty bedroom with its chipped paint and blank walls and the starchy new bed linen, then cried silently while he listened to the rest of the boys introducing themselves to each other until he fell asleep. 

He’d woken up multiple times in the night, wary of the shapes the shadows made and the strange whistle of the trees outside, the creaks of doors opening down the hall. 

Henry looks at himself in the mirror again. He stares at his own eyes, at the faltering nervousness in them and the tired dark circles beneath. He inhales deeply and heads downstairs. 

The dining room is busy when he arrives. He follows an older boy, dressed with his shirt on top and his pyjama bottoms still on, to find the way. The noise creeps out of the door as someone leaves, holding the door open for the boy in front of him. He brushes past Henry on his way out, doing a slight double take as he passes. Henry joins the queue snaking towards the hatch. Whispers travel down the line, and Henry can see the elbows being shoved between each person, the glances in his direction. He swallows down the dryness in his throat and keeps his head down as he approaches the front of the queue. 

‘Oh,’ says a surprised voice when he reaches the front. ‘Your Royal Highness, um. Good morning.’ 

Henry gives a tight smile. ‘Good morning,’ he replies. 

‘What would you like? Sausage, egg? Bacon?’ 

The thick smell of oil and fried breakfast churns something in Henry’s stomach. 

He shakes his head. ‘May I just have some porridge,’ he says. ‘Please.’ 

1.30pm – Lunch, Kensington. Age 14. 

Henry has walked the same stretch of road four times already. He’s bundled up in a hoodie and a baseball cap over his hair, clutching a ten pound note in his fist that he’d borrowed from Bea, who narrowed her eyes at him quizzically but didn’t ask any questions as she handed it over with a reminder to pay her back. There’s a PPO trailing him up and down the same stretch of pavement, hanging back just enough so that Henry can slow down to catch a glimpse of the words on the sign without walking into him. He feels faintly absurd, making this man more than twice his age follow him up and down the street all so that he can follow through on some ridiculous plan to sneak out of the palace and order some lunch by himself. Ever since Pez asked him if he’d ever tried the falafel stall round the corner last week, Henry hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. He’s never even had falafel before but he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the fact that he could. 

He’d never even entertained the idea that it was something he could do until Pez had asked, stretched out on the sofa and tossing a tennis ball up in the air, ‘Is the falafel place round the corner good?’ As though it was a given that Henry might have ventured out of the walls of the palace to try it. As though it was as simple a question as the colour of his socks (black, always, ever since he had been pictured with light blue socks with tiny navy dogs on them last summer, a gift from Pez to ‘spice up’ his wardrobe. Barely a toe into his teenage years and already being told it was ‘time to leave the silliness and frivolity of childhood behind’).

Ever since then, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, and the thinking about it has progressed to walking about it. Walking past it, slowly. Every single day for the past week, trying to catch enough of a glimpse at the menu to make a decision about what to try. A falafel salad box, a falafel wrap, with halloumi or without, chilli sauce or no chilli sauce. There are so many factors and decisions, and Henry doesn’t know where to even begin . 

Except, he’s pretty sure that the PPO behind him just rolled his eyes and the guy at the falafel cart is definitely giving him a look that’s less wondering whether he’s a prince and more in line with wondering if Henry is casing the joint to steal a lot of chickpea-based foods. So he takes a deep breath and instead of heading on past the stall again, he stops in front of it and he swallows. 

The man doesn’t say anything at first, just waits with a vaguely puzzled look on his face. 

‘Er,’ Henry says. ‘Hello. May I have—’ He pauses, then inhales, eyes scanning the menu again like he doesn’t have it memorised. ‘Um. May I please have—’

The man stares back at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘You want a wrap or a box?’ 

‘Um.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘A wrap, please.’ 

The man nods and turns. Then pauses, turns back to Henry with slightly narrowed eyes, as though he’s trying to place him. ‘You want it spicy?’ 

‘Spicy?’ 

The man holds up a bottle of red liquid for him to see. 

‘Oh,’ Henry says. ‘Just a little. Please.’ 

The man nods, piles his wrap high with salad and falafel, wraps it up and hands the long, white paper baton to Henry. 

‘Enjoy.’

Henry takes it back to his rooms, creeping through the palace on quick feet in case somebody stops him. He’s not sure he’s done anything wrong , not really, but he doesn’t exactly want to find out. 

He unwraps it carefully, peels back the paper and eyes the beige wrap in his hands before he takes a bite.

Henry has eaten a lot of excellent food – Michelin-starred restaurants and tasting menus from top chefs – but none of them compare to the earthy taste of the tahini, the crunch of the salad or the softness of falafel. Henry chews carefully, picking up tomato and carrot, the sharp hit of the spicy sauce. 

Henry looks out over the gardens. He smiles happily to himself and takes another bite. 

3pm – Afternoon snack, Brooklyn. Age 24. 

‘I got donuts,’ June says, putting the box she’s been cradling in her arms down on the table. ‘Where’s Alex?’ 

Henry raises an eyebrow at her.

She nods. ‘Stupid question.’ 

Alex is upstairs, eyeball-deep in his Note for the Law Review. Every so often, he comes downstairs to swear into the fridge and pick up another coffee, at which point Henry also shoves a glass of water into his hands. 

‘When’s it due?’ June asks. 

‘Thursday.’ 

She hums, and opens the box of donuts. Henry gasps. ‘Oh June, these look incredible.’ 

‘Dibs on the sesame yuzu,’ she tells him. 

Henry’s eyes travel over the box – glossy chocolate on the boston creme, bright thick yellow on the lemon, the matte orange of the mango lassi, the classic vanilla glaze – before settling on vibrant green matcha. 

‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ he tells her, as she snaps a picture for instagram. He pops to the kitchen to grabs a stack of plates and pour two mugs of tea from the pot he’d brewed before she arrived. 

June grins as he returns with a tray laden with tea and plates. She picks one up, admiring the china pattern Henry carefully selected while Alex sat there with his head in his hands going, ‘babe, I adore you but they both look the fucking same. Please just pick whichever one you want and don’t tell me how much it cost.’ 

‘You are so wasted on my brother,’ she says serenely. 

‘It is true he doesn’t appreciate the necessity of an afternoon tea break,’ Henry agrees. 

‘Alex doesn’t appreciate the necessity of any form of break,’ June corrects. 

‘I can hear y’all bitching about me,’ Alex’s voice yells from the top of the stairs. Henry grins. Right on time. Every month like clockwork when Henry and June have their bookclub meeting and sit and talk about it over donuts, Alex will appear ten minutes after she arrives laden with baked goods.

Henry shares a look with June as Alex starts to make his way downstairs. ‘We’re not complaining, we’re talking about you with only fondness and affection,’ Henry tells him as he comes to stand next to him. 

Alex narrows his eyes at Henry before he reaches over and plucks the mango lassi one from the box. 

‘Y’all are the worst, I regret ever introducing you.’ 

‘No you don’t,’ June says. 

Alex grumbles, and Henry grins, takes a bite of his donut. The matcha hits his tongue and his eyes roll back into his head. He moans. 

4.15pm – Tea, Buckingham Palace. Age 18. 

Henry hasn’t even been finished with his exam four hours before he finds himself in his grandmother’s study at Buckingham. It’s the final day of his A-Level exams. It’s June. The grass has been scorched to a prickly, dusty brown under the heat of the relentless sun. 

His father has been dead for fifteen days.

There had been the offer to defer some of his exams until later in the summer, but they’d all come with a tone that had told him this wasn’t a real offer. He would sit them now. Stiff upper lip. Keep calm, carry on and have a breakdown afterwards. 

His grandmother stirs the sugar cube into her tea. 

Henry takes a sip from his. There’s a plate of biscuits in front of them. Garibaldi – thin and dry with currents squished in them. She gestures towards one, and Henry takes a bite and remembers being six years old and shoving one down the crack of the sofa.

‘Now,’ she says, peering over the rim of her glasses. ‘There are some matters we must discuss. Ones that are particularly pertinent now you’re going to Oxford.’ 

Henry clears his throat. ‘Matters?’ 

He doesn’t bother to correct her that he’s not actually gotten in to Oxford yet. That his offer of a place to study English is conditional on his exam results. It doesn’t matter. They both know that. 

Whatever that piece of paper says in August, he’s going to Oxford. 

‘I may be old, but I am not naive about the things that go on in this family,’ she says. ‘And I know that you understand that you have a duty.’ 

Henry feels heat creep up the back of his neck. For months, there’s been a cavern in his chest, growing each day. He feels it crack and widen just a little more. He says nothing, but he can feel the ghost of the firm press of Philip’s friend Jasper’s hands on his waist, and the feel of Tom from polo’s lips on his neck and the way she’s looking at him says she can see it all too. She knows. 

‘I know that you’re young and the thought of going to university is… exciting.’ She says the word like it’s a bad taste in her mouth. ‘But your priority must be maintaining a good, traditional royal image.’

There’s a clink of her china cup settling back into the saucer. ‘I would strongly recommend that you keep any deviant desires that you might think you harbour to yourself. Your duty, Henry, is to the crown. To bear heirs. That is what you must do. And if you need assistance in that regard then we can assist in finding someone… suitable. And then, we can discuss ways to ensure that you’re both… compensated. There are, of course, channels to ensure that necessary appearances are maintained.’ 

Henry’s stomach lurches. The heat creeping up his neck is flooding his cheeks, to the tips of his ears. His ears are ringing, high-pitched and endless, and he feels it again – that crack in his chest, the empty space next to him where his parents should be, the darkness that inches closer every day.

‘Do I make myself clear, Henry?’

He looks up, catches her shrewd grey eyes. ‘Yes, Grandmother.’ 

5pm – Pre-dinner snack, Llwynywermod. Age 5. 

Henry was always a child happy with his own company. Despite how often he followed Bea around like a shadow, it wasn’t exactly out of character for him to disappear off and be found in some corner attempting to read a book just like he’d seen his mother doing or with his toys, making up worlds, or staring wistfully out of the window across the valley. Henry fell in love with solitude at a young age. 

Dinner was an informal affair in Wales – none of the stuffiness that often came with meals with his grandmother, where he had to dress in stiff wool shorts and itchy socks, where she would stare at him down the table and tell him to sit up straight even though he could barely see across the table. Dinner at Kensington would often be brought by the nanny, and his parents would sit with them – his dad in a suit and bow tie and his mum in a big ballgown looking like a princess – before being whisked out to some event. 

Wales was where all of that fell away, where nobody old enough to be his grandpa called him ‘Sir’ (which was odd because his name was Henry ). Where mum and dad danced in the kitchen and burnt the dinner because they were kissing. Where they kept Jaffa cakes in the pantry. 

Henry doesn’t remember the first time he tried a Jaffa Cake. He doesn’t remember the first time he bit into one and felt the crack of dark chocolate and the sharpness of the marmalade burst onto his tongue. What he does remember is that they used to keep them in the pantry at Llwynywermod. He remembers being five and hungry . 

Henry takes another bite. The tangy orange jelly is soft against his teeth, and he grins as he tastes the squishy sponge, the snap of the sweet dark chocolate. 

Mum and Dad had been busy, moaning about Gran again, and they’d barely even noticed when Henry had come into the kitchen and said he was hungry. They’d just said that it would be ready in half an hour. Henry knows how long half an hour is – the big hand of the clock had been at the top, so when it gets to the bottom – and it’s forever. So, Henry had decided that he needed a snack. He’ll still eat all of his dinner, but he’s starving. 

He takes another bite. It’s dark in here, and quite nice. It’s quiet and warm and he’s surrounded by tasty food. He shifts. There’s a slight tightness in his tummy, and this bite doesn’t feel quite as good as the last – a little too sickly sweet and uncomfortable as he swallows. 

The door cracks open and light pours in, before a shadow blocks the brightness. 

Then, there’s a stern voice. ‘Henry Fox.’ Henry looks up, squinting slightly at the light. His mum stands in her soft pink jumper, glasses resting on her end of her nose and her hair tied up,her hands on her hips like she’s cross. 

His tummy jumps uncomfortably. 

Uh oh. 

7pm – Hors D’Oeuvre, New York. Age 24. 

‘You look ridiculous,’ Alex says, sliding into his place next to Henry. 

Henry turns to him. ‘Evening, love.’ 

Something hot burns in Henry’s chest when he looks at him. Alex wears his hair slightly longer now, like he did when Henry first saw him all those years ago in Rio. He’s dressed in a sharp black tux. He looks devastating. ‘Who gave you the right?’

‘How was your journey? 

Alex has come straight from the office where he’s been doing an internship, changed hastily in the bathroom and bundled himself into the back of a limo and downtown.

Alex glares at him, his eyes scanning the length of Henry’s body, searing hot. Henry turns to him for a kiss, which Alex delivers quickly, before murmuring, ‘that tux belongs on the bedroom floor, Wales. You look like sin.’

‘Hors d’oeuvre, Sir?’ a waiter asks. 

Alex scoops up three from the tray, and makes easy jokes with the server. So goddamn charming. ‘Fucking starving,’ he murmurs, shoving one in his face. 

‘Did you eat lunch?’ 

‘What do you think? Got pulled into a meeting,’ he says, swallowing down a salmon vol-au-vent. Alex swipes a glass of champagne from a passing server with another smile. It’s incredible really, how quickly he can switch between frustration and affable ease like turning off a switch. ‘Then I had to show Parker how to use a fucking photocopier because he’s got shit for brains.’ He looks around the room. ‘What is this again? Why are we here?’

‘Good question,’ Henry comments. ‘A gala for Planetary Health.’   

Alex blinks. ‘Planetary Health,’ he repeats. ‘That’s what we’re calling it now? A fun new rebrand for the impending destruction of the planet.’  

Henry hums. ‘Philip was meant to come but someone had the foresight to recognise that perhaps flying him in to attend a gala about climate change probably wasn’t the smartest idea.’ 

Alex nods. ‘So they just sent the other guy who they make fly back and forth to London every month because they can't let go?’

‘Quite.’

They’re interrupted by the arrival of one of the organisers – a tall, reedy man with oversized teeth and large glasses. ‘Your Royal Highness, such an honour to have you here. Thank you so much.’ 

‘Quentin,’ he says. ‘May I introduce my partner, Alex.’ 

Quentin Fairclough looks down at Alex’s outstretched hand and clears his throat. ‘A pleasure,’ he says. Henry watches as Alex’s hand tightens around his bony fingers. He sees the tightness in his face when Alex shakes just a little too hard. 

‘All mine,’ Alex says smoothly, giving him that wide, impossible grin before releasing his hand. 

Henry curls his arm around Alex’s waist and tugs him closer. He watches the flicker of dissatisfaction cross the man’s face, watches as he tries to school his wrinkles into a neutral position. He fails. And well, Henry is tired and doesn’t want to be here anyway.

Henry smiles placidly. ‘It really is such a shame we can’t stay,’ he says. 

‘We can’t?’ Alex interrupts. Henry pinches his waist. ‘Right! Yeah, such a shame.’ 

‘Alex was just telling me about a very important appointment he’s been called away for.’

Alex nods gravely, his eyes darting to Henry. ‘Really important. So sorry, Quincy. Sweetheart,’ he says to Henry, gesturing to the door where Cash is standing surveying the room.

Henry nods quickly, as Alex grabs another canapé from the passing server. ‘Really sorry. Very best of luck with the rest of the evening.’ 

Ten minutes later, they’re in the back of the limo and Henry is chasing the taste of champagne off Alex’s tongue. He’s still hungry – they’ll order delivery later – but first, he snakes his hand down against the front of Alex’s trousers and hears him hiss, ‘baby.’  He’s got other matters to attend to. 

7.45pm – Starter, Buckingham Palace. Age 16. 

Henry sips from his soup spoon. It’s leek and potato. His least favourite. He’s already thinking about the curry Dad will order on the way home. 

He glances across the table at him, sipping placidly from his own spoon while Philip drones on about his latest escapades in the RAF. Dad's mouth quirks into a smile at Henry. He winks. 

Henry’s mother gently rolls her eyes at the pair of them. ‘Stop it,’ she whispers, hiding her own secret smile behind her spoon. 

‘What was that, Catherine?’ 

She straightens her back. ‘Nothing, Mum. Just saying how lovely the soup is.’ 

Henry’s grandmother hums.

‘You’ll never guess who I saw last week,’ Philip says. ‘Archie Hadlow.’ He nods towards Bea. ‘He always had a bit of a thing for you, you know. You could do far worse. He’s just about to graduate from Sandhurst, his father’s probably about to croak so he’ll inherit—’ 

Catherine sighs and sets down her spoon. ‘Jesus Christ, Philip. Really?’ 

Next to Henry, Bea is stiff, her fist curled tightly around her spoon. 

‘What? He had a heart attack last month, he’s hardly the picture of health. I’m just saying she could do worse than a Duke with half of Yorkshire—’ 

‘Well luckily this isn’t 1820, Pip. I’m sure your sister is perfectly capable of finding a date without your interference.’ 

Henry glances over at Bea, at how her jaw is clenched. She inhales smoothly and sits up tall, sliding smoothly into her princess role. 

‘He’s a perfectly decent chap—’ 

Bea narrows her eyes. ‘Hardly likely if he’s friends with you,’ she says haughtily.

‘People are going to start talking about the fact you’ve never had a boyfriend, you know—’ 

Henry feels his stomach twist. 

Bea gasps. ‘Oh no! People talking. Good lord, what ever will I do?’ 

‘Henry,’ his grandmother says, cutting through the noise. The room falls silent. 

Henry’s head snaps up to look at her, her cool blue eyes focused solely on him. 

He blinks, then quietly says, ‘yes?’

‘I had the pleasure of seeing the Duke of Marlborough last week at the stables,’ she says, taking a spoonful of her soup, before setting it down on the table. ‘He has a granddaughter about your age.’ 

‘Mum,’ Catherine says, tired. 

‘Venetia,’ she says. ‘Pretty girl. She's very accomplished at dressage by all account and a talented flautist.’ 

‘Does she have a dowry of twenty thousand a year, play the piano and sew as well?’ his father cuts in. ‘What is this nonsense?’

His grandmother glares at his father down the table. 

‘I suggested that he might bring her along to the garden party next month for you to meet her. All that time at a boy’s school, it would be… beneficial for you to meet some suitable young ladies.'

The back of Henry's neck feels warm. He opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't know what, but he he has to say something.

‘That’s enough.’ Henry looks across the table at his father, his eyes flaring. ‘He is sixteen!’ his father exclaims. ‘He should be focusing on school.’ 

‘I don’t believe I gave you permission to speak—’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Mum. Arthur’s right. You can’t go trying to marry off these two just because Philip’s got himself a girlfriend. They will find people when they’re ready. It will be their decisions, not yours, and we will be happy for them when the time comes.'  

She gives Henry and Bea a smile that he thinks he is supposed to be reassuring, but all Henry can think of is last month. Last month when he finally carried through on the intricate tangle of thoughts that had been playing out in his head, in his dreams, and kissed James Radcliffe senseless behind the stables after polo practice – how good it had been, the feel of his hard muscle under Henry’s hands and the bite of his kiss, how right his short hair had felt curled in Henry’s hands and how Henry had wanted to swallow every gasp from his lips. How they’d repeated that every practice since and every time Henry became more sure of himself.   

'Yes, we will.' Arthur nods across the table and catches Henry’s eyes. 'Whoever they choose,’ he says. 

Henry drops his gaze, and lifts his spoon to his mouth. 

8pm – Main Course, London. Age 8. 

Henry loves it when his dad drives, especially when he puts the roof down. It’s a summer evening, and the warm winds whips through Henry’s hair as they roll through West London, making their way home from the set where his dad has been filming.

‘Now then,’ Dad says, fiddling with the volume on the radio. David Bowie’s voice comes from the speaker and Henry turns round to grin at him. ‘Should we go home and have dinner or should we swing by McDonald’s and—’ 

‘Yes,’ Henry says quickly. 

His dad laughs and the sound makes Henry smile. Well, that and the thought of chicken nuggets. 

‘Good lad. We need to get your mum a strawberry milkshake though or she’ll send me off to the tower. She always knows.’ 

Henry giggles at that. He loves this ritual – the normality of getting a McDonalds with his dad. For a little while, it’s just the two of them, laughing and joking and there’s nobody there to stare at them. They pull into the drive thru and he orders before pulling round to pick it up and parking up in the car park. Henry digs into his nuggets while his dad bites into a burger. 

‘Can I ask you something,’ he says. 

Henry nods, slowly. He’s not entirely sure what his dad is going to ask. 

‘You seemed… quieter than usual today,’ he says. ‘Did you not like coming to set?’ 

Henry swallows, then shrugs. 

‘I thought you did. You don’t have to come with me, you know. I only asked because I thought you liked it.’ 

He shrugs again. ‘I don’t know,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s just… I like watching you but there are just a lot of people and they all watch me.’ 

He nods slowly. Henry has never liked the attention – he remembers being four-years-old the first time he realised the cameras were following his family specifically. Going to set had always been an escape from that, but lately, he watches his father stand in front of all those cameras, and he can’t understand why anyone would want to do that in front of so many people. 

‘You don’t have to come, you know that, right?’ 

Henry bites down on his lip, and looks down. He picks up a chip and dips it in the ketchup. Quietly, he says, ‘I like spending time with you.’ 

‘Henry,’ his dad says softly. ‘Oh love, you don’t have to come to work with me just to spend time with me.’ 

He swallows, feeling his face flush. His dad sounds sad. 

‘I'm sorry if I ever made it seem like I don't have time for you outside of work. I really thought you liked it.' He pauses. 'Hey, how about we do something next weekend? Just us. We could go sailing or to the theatre. We could go bowling? Anything you want.

The knot in Henry’s chest loosens. His lips twitch and he nods. ‘Can we get pizza after?’ 

His dad laughs, loud and bright. He nods. ‘Of course. Whatever you want.’ 

10pm – Dessert, Brooklyn. Age 27.

‘Oi,’ Henry says as he wanders into the kitchen. Alex had gotten up ten minutes ago and not returned. He’s standing at the fridge eating tiramisu out of the dish. 

Alex grins sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’ 

‘Thought you were coming back.’ 

‘I was,’ Alex tells him. ‘But then I got hungry.’ 

‘And so instead of coming back with it, you thought you’d just stand and eat it from the fridge like some heathen.’ 

‘Pretty much.’

Henry watches as he gives him a small, gentle smile, a little chocolate powder coating his lips. Henry wants to kiss it off. Not now though. It’s not the time. 

Henry opens the drawer and pulls out a spoon. Wordlessly, Alex sets the dish on the granite and dips his own spoon back in. He’s quiet and Henry knows why. 

He exhales slowly, glancing up across the kitchen at the calendar. ‘We’re going to lose,’ Alex says. 

And there it is. Election day eve 2024 and if the polls hold, the Republican candidate will take the White House. 

It’s been an ever-present sinking weight for months. The polls haven’t shifted in weeks, and Alex has been determinedly ignoring it, talking round it, desperately trying to pretend it is happening. But it is. They all know it.

Henry glances over at Alex. For once, he doesn’t look stressed or frantic, just sad. 

‘Yeah,’ Henry says. ‘I think we probably will.’ 

‘I know it’s dumb. I know that this is how it goes,’ Alex tells him, raking a hand through his hair. ‘People get bored, they want change, they look to the other guy.’ 

‘Hey,’ Henry says softly. ‘You know you don’t have to do this with me.’ 

Henry rubs his thumb over the skin-warm ring on Alex’s finger and squeezes his hand, and knows it says everything for him: you don’t have to pretend, you don’t have to justify your feelings. You can be sad.

Alex nods, all of those unspoken words lingering. ‘He’s going to undo it all,’ Alex says. ‘All of her work.’ 

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Henry tells him. ‘You have done so much. All of you. He can’t undo all of it. He can’t undo the way that you inspired people and gave them hope. The way you still do. He can’t undo all of it. Some things will stay.’

‘But all of the things we never finished. All of the stuff they’ve spent fucking years stonewalling us on and holding up in pointless committee hearings – gun control, healthcare.’ Alex sighs. ‘I can’t help feeling like we didn’t do enough, didn’t do a good enough job. Like, if we’d done enough and if they liked us then why aren’t they gonna vote for our guy.’

‘Love,’ Henry says. ‘Look at me, and trust me when I say this with the utmost love and affection, but this is not about you.’ 

Alex laughs weakly at that, gives Henry a wry smile. He knows every winding train of thought Alex’s busy brain takes, and how it leads him down all sorts of paths – how some of them lead to bright sunlight meadows and some of them to deep dark forests. Of course Henry knows that somewhere deep down Alex is blaming himself. Wondering if he could have done more, if he'd been more present, less present. Taking it all on his shoulders, like always. Some habits die hard. 

‘You could not have done any more, you have given so, so much. This is not on you, it’s not on any of you.’ 

‘What do we do when they make it worse?’

Henry sighs. He sets down his spoon and moves to stand behind Alex. In the dim kitchen light, he wraps his arms around Alex from behind and presses a kiss to his hair. ‘We do what we always do. We carry on, and we fight. We make things better in whatever way we can for as many people as we can.'

Alex huffs out a laugh and turns in his arms to face Henry. His eyes trace the lines starting to appear on his forehead, the dark pools of his eyes, the strong set of his jaw.

‘But right now,’ Henry says. ‘All we’re going to do is eat the rest of this tiramisu.’  

A smile flickers across Alex’s face – still sad, still resigned. That's okay, Henry can't change everything. ‘I really fucking love you.’ 

Henry leans in. The chocolate powder has already disappeared from his lips, but he kisses him anyway. ‘I should hope so too.’  

12am – Midnight Snack, Kensington Palace. Age 22.

Henry is usually very good at remembering to ask for more supplies for the kitchen. He’s always on top of the essentials – tea, Jaffa Cakes, Cornettos. 

Usually.

Lately though, he’s been distracted. Philip’s upcoming wedding had meant he was stress-eating Cornettos more than usual, then the cake disaster had happened and asking for them to be topped up had slipped his mind. 

So now it’s midnight and Alex Claremont-Diaz is in his house and Henry desperately needs to eat a Cornetto about it. He doesn’t have any though. 

His fingers tap against the counter. He looks down at the freezer drawer full of chef-prepared meals he just has to stick in the oven when he wants one, all carefully packaged and labelled, and sighs. 

The thing is, he knows where there will be Cornettos. Alex had requested an ice cream that they hadn’t been able to acquire and Henry knows they’ll have gone for Cornettos as the next available option. There won’t have been any thought put into trying to find another, closer alternative. They’ll have just given Alex whatever was easiest, and that will have been what Henry usually orders. Cornettos. 

He shouldn’t go and pilfer an ice cream from his guest in the middle of the night. It would be horrendously bad manners but, well, Alex will probably never know. As vices go, a middle of the night ice cream could be worse. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he makes his way down to the kitchens slowly. He might not be able to sleep, but that doesn’t mean he’s not tired. He’s exhausted, truthfully. It’s been days of endless stress all culminating in disaster and countless meetings – truly, he hadn’t known just how many meetings it was possible to fit into one day – where Philip sits and glares and tells him what an embarrassment he is, and how upset Martha is. He’d tried to get an early night, but it had pretty quickly become apparent that sleep was going to elude him, and if Henry has learned anything from years of insomnia, it’s that lying there thinking does nothing to help him drift off. 

His feet carry him downstairs while his audiobook plays through his headphones. He’s not even bothered to put his slippers on. It’s not unusual for him to roam the halls like this at night, but he doesn’t usually stray as far as the guest quarters. 

Henry flicks on the light in the corridor. He’s so tired, bone-weary and lost in his audiobook, that he doesn’t even notice that the light in the guest kitchen is already on when he ambles into the room halfway through a yawn. 

In the kitchen, hunched over his phone, is Alex. Henry tears out his earbuds and reflexively, his back straightens. 

‘Hello,’ he says, his voice hoarse and unused, before he stumbles into an explanation caught in an apology. ‘Sorry. Er. I was just. Cornettos.’ He gestures towards the freezer behind Alex, actively praying for this all to be some bizarre stress-induced nightmare. Given the general necessity of being able to sleep to have a nightmare, though, his chances aren’t high. 

Henry steps over to the freezer and pulls out the box, taking out a cone. He hands one to Alex. They quickly fall into their usual rhythm – Alex taking everything Henry says with the least possible good faith and immediately bristling. Usually Henry jabs back, sharp and pointed, but tonight he’s too tired; all he can do is stumble through the tangled mess of thoughts in his brain to ‘do you think we should rehearse?’ 

Alex rolls his eyes at that, a scoff on his lips at the thought. ‘Do you need to?’ Of course Alex doesn’t need to rehearse. All of this is as easy as breathing to him. For Henry, he feels like he’s choking, suffocating in this thick disguise. 

‘I thought it might help.’ 

To which Alex responds by lining up a perfect candid Instagram shot of Henry’s hand next to a box of Cornettos, his heavy ring glinting in the corner of the shot. 

‘There are a lot of things worth overthinking, believe me. But this isn’t one of them.’ 

Henry frowns down at his ice cream. ‘I suppose.’

All at once, the strange detente is broken. Alex looks up at him, the softer expression on his face set hard again. ‘Are you done? I was on a call.’ 

‘Of course. I won’t keep you,’ he says, making his way to the door. 

Henry twirls his Cornetto in his hand as he lingers in the doorway. Alex is focused on his phone again, brows furrowed and lips curved into a practised smirk. It’s such a familiar image, except for one part. Henry knows a lot about Alex Claremont-Diaz. He’s seen practically every interview he’s ever done, poured over every photoshoot, he’s spent an embarrassing amount of time on Alex’s many fansites. In all of that, this is new information.

‘I didn’t know you wore glasses,’ he says, and then he leaves. 

He unwraps the Cornetto, cool ice cream against his tongue. He heads back to his room and very determinedly does not think about Alex, and how soft and unguarded he had looked wearing glasses, as he does. 

3am – Post-night out, Oxford. Age 20.

‘This is the only good thing about going out,’ Henry says, biting into his kebab as they wander down Cornmarket, the wide city streets quiet save for a few noisy groups of revellers. 

Pez raises his eyebrow at him, and stabs his plastic fork into his chips and cheese. ‘Is it? The highlight of your night is a kebab? When you disappeared for a full forty-five minutes with that dashing blond from the rowing team?’ 

Henry glares at him as a crowd of freshers stream past. It’s early enough in the term that Henry is still a novelty for a lot of people. They gawk and whisper loudly as they walk by ‘Oh my God, it’s Prince Henry!’ 

‘It’s alright darlings,’ Pez calls out loudly. ‘He’s not that impressive! He’s got chilli sauce on his shirt.’ 

Henry looks down at his pristine blue and white shirt. ‘God I’ve missed this,’ he says, taking another bite. 

Henry loves Oxford. He loves its whimsical dreaming spires and the rising dome of the Radcliffe Camera against soft puffy clouds. The Rad Cam isn’t his favourite library – that’s one of the faculty libraries with its wood panelled walls and big open windows, though he’ll never reveal which to anyone who asks. He likes the peace. He loves the wide city streets and the way they shine golden in the afternoon sun. It’s always busy – bright and alive. And most importantly, in Oxford, he’s free. He’s free to slip into libraries and to speak his mind in tutorials. He’s free to kiss boys in dirty bathrooms and behind the stables, to drop to his knees on the worn carpet of his own bedroom and put his well-practiced skills to use and enjoy himself, to climb into bed with someone whose name he only remembers from the papers they’ve signed and hope to forget his own. 

Oxford is freedom – here he’s just Henry, a neurotic English student who reads too much and barely sleeps. He goes out and dances until sunrise, fuelled by vodka and the need to lose himself in another body. It’s risky. He knows it’s dangerous. He knows that all the legally binding agreements in the world can’t stop someone from talking if they’re willing to take the risk. But sometimes, after he’s spent too much time in London, under his grandmother’s thumb and watchful eye, he needs to be in Oxford. He needs space, he needs to forget. He needs the distraction, and the fun. He needs to sit on a wall and eat a really good kebab with Pez. 

Pez tilts his chips and cheese at Henry. He takes a forkful. God, there's no way those two things should work together that well. ‘What happened at home then?’ 

Henry turns to him and watches as the coach to London rolls past them. ‘The usual. Philip getting on at me about finding a suitable wife, joining the military, same old same old.’ 

‘And how was that global education conference last week?’ 

Henry exhales. He knows what Pez is really asking about. ‘He threatened to push me into the Thames.’ 

Pez hums. ‘Well look on the bright side. At least he didn’t threaten to push you under a bus. And you’re an excellent swimmer, so.’ 

‘So the bright side is that he doesn’t want me dead?’ Henry asks.

‘Silver linings, poppet,’ he says, gesturing for Henry’s kebab. 'We must find them where we can.'

Henry sighs and hands it to him, lets his head fall on Pez’s shoulder and hopes one day he’ll be able to forget about Alex Claremont-Diaz. 

11am – Brunch, Lake LBJ. Age 26.

‘Good morning,’ Henry says softly, ducking his head for a kiss. Alex’s neck is stretched upwards, waiting. Henry kisses him softly and quickly. They have an audience now, and they have plenty of time in the world for longer, lingering kisses later. They have all the time in the world. 

Henry looks around the kitchen, at the plates piled high with pancakes, bacon, migas, jugs of mimosa, juice, platters of fruit and cereal. There’s a teapot on the side. ‘Did you do this?’ he asks. 

He knows it’s not possible. Alex only got up half an hour ago and came downstairs while Henry jumped in the shower. Bea smiles sleepily at him from her spot between Philip and Ellen, cradling her tea between her hands. 

Philip eyes the slices of avocado with trepidation while Nora very valiantly tries to disguise her laughter across from him. Henry finds the whole sight – Philip, Martha and Ellen Claremont in Oscar Diaz’s lake house – so innately bizarre that he’s spent half the weekend wondering if he’s in some strange fever dream. He has to keep pinching himself to remember this is all completely real. 

Alex reaches up to pat Henry’s hand, which has come to rest on his shoulder, like he knows how utterly insane this entire set-up is and wholeheartedly agrees. He shakes his head, cupping his hands around his coffee. The smell wafts towards Henry – sweet and cinnamony. Alex nods towards his father who drifts back into the room, polka dot apron on, whistling. 

‘Morning, mijo,’ Oscar says over his shoulder, waving a spatula around as he searches for another box of eggs. ‘What do you want? Eggs? Fruit? I got that granola you like. Or I can make waffles? Lemme make you waffles.’ 

‘Oscar, this is—’ 

‘Pa, come sit down,’ Alex says, rolling his eyes. 

‘Hush, mijo. It's not every weekend your son gets hitched.’

‘I mean, it’s literally happening again in like a year but sure,’ Alex says, shovelling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. 

Oscar points the spatula at him. Alex’s fingers stroke the brand new band on Henry’s finger. The one he put there yesterday, in front of all their closest friends and family, along with a thousand promises to love him forever. 

Oscar is still eyeing him expectantly. Henry smiles widely at him, grabs a plate and starts to pile it high. ‘Thank you, Oscar. This looks wonderful.’

‘See, he has manners,’ Oscar says, glaring at Alex again. ‘Not like you. It's like you were raised in a fucking barn, ungrateful little shit.’ 

Philip looks up, startled, and Henry holds back a laugh. He looks around cautiously for the ears of any tiny nieces, and is relieved to see them sitting outside with Catherine and Leo on the lawn. 

Ellen hums, and reaches over to steal a piece of Alex’s bacon. 

‘Hey!’ Alex yelps, whacking her hand away. ‘I said thank you!’ He squawks at his dad. ‘Can’t believe y’all are being such shits to me, I’m a married man now.’ 

His ring catches the light as he gesticulates at his parents. Henry feels something bloom happily in the centre of his chest, a flower unfurling in sunlight. He watches them all around the table, looks out at the lake and inhales softly. Alex’s laughter rings out and Henry slides into a chair at the other end of the table next to Pez, and wonders if anything will ever be better than this.