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Philip glances in the mirror, making sure no traces of lint have found their way onto his suit, before looking down to inspect his shoes.
Polished to perfection as expected. Good.
There is a knock at the door. An aide tells him that the plane is on schedule and about to land.
Philip nods at himself and exits the bathroom, shoulders straight.
Martha is waiting for him, a step away from the Foreign Secretary and the rest of the welcoming party, wearing a modest designer dress in a muted shade of blue, ready to greet His Majesty The King of Sweden upon his arrival on British soil.
It’s an honor, Grandfather told him, his face stern and serious, for Dear Cousin Wilhelm to have chosen the United Kingdom as the location for his first state visit.
Philip of course did not argue that it most certainly was not Dear Cousin Wilhelm’s choice where to go, but the Swedish government’s, which—if his aides are to be believed—has been hashing out new advantageous treaties and business deals with its British counterparts for well over a year, and which must be as eager for any positive publicity to reach voters usually disinclined to vote for any party aiming to preserve traditions as Britain's own is, because he knows his place.
Not that that makes his thoughts any less true or the impending visit any less important.
The young King is popular. Popular and infamous, depending on who you ask. Cheered on by those who would otherwise see every monarchy burned to the ground. His wedding—the first queer royal wedding in modern history—having been dubbed "The Wedding of the Century", overshadowing even Philip’s own when it came to global media attention, both positive and negative.
Philip doesn't know what it is about younger royal brothers and their weakness for dark-skinned, promiscuous Latin men, but if today has to be anything then it’s a good reminder of exactly how glad both he and the entirety of the United Kingdom can be that he was born first and has exactly zero interest in racing cars of any kind.
It’s the privilege of the spare he guesses, being of limited enough dynastic importance that following romantic whims and ideations is seen as something endearing rather than a mockery of all that the monarchy stands for, or at least it is by a certain, unfortunately vocal percentile of the population.
They call the young King—who is most certainly no longer a spare and hasn't been in years—progressive and revolutionary, and while neither of those are things Philip—or his Grandfather—would usually want to be associated with, their own monarchy could do with a boost in popularity as well.
Being seen with King Wilhelm is expected to do just that, boost the monarchy’s—and Philip’s own—popularity, both among those who appreciate their future King managing to keep a stiff upper lip during tumultuous times, and the ones who are insistent on plastering garish multicolored flags everywhere to make it known that they do not disapprove of anyone’s private bedroom habits.
And anyway, it’s not as if their own institution’s entire existence is being threatened by one single man’s refusal to have his needs seen to discretely, or so his Grandfather insisted.
Philip is not bitter about that. The common masses gleefully obsessing over the lone heir to one of Europe’s oldest ruling dynasties throwing away centuries of tradition and propriety and duty, all for some common, ill-bred Latin paramour, and a male one at that, is nothing to be envious about.
Philip did everything properly.
Married a dutiful, noble girl aware of the expectations placed upon her, one easily instructed and respectful of their heritage and traditions. A sensible partner chosen with exactly that, common sense, rather than any body part usually not openly mentioned in polite society, and certainly not in mixed company, or worse, public.
It’s how it’s always been done.
A respectable spouse to keep up appearances and represent the monarchy. A long term ally instead of a short lived infatuation. Someone with connections and an understanding of what it means to preserve and live up to centuries of heritage.
Someone like Martha, who embodies the term noblesse oblige, quiet and discreet and willing to silently look the other way if needed, someone not political, who he can trust and respect as his spouse, with no need for anything so undignified as a coming out, or worse, actual marriage, just to satisfy some infantile ideation of fleeting happiness.
Someone the complete opposite of … well. It wouldn’t do to be seen as disapproving of a foreign Head of State or his choice in partner, especially not when he’s also a royal cousin.
The Royal Family is supposed to be neutral, he tells himself, an image which is especially important for Philip to keep up considering his own younger brother’s overly emotional lifestyle choices.
Philip is good at it, too, as is Martha, never saying or wearing or looking at anything controversial, or worse, scandalous. Not unless her duty requires her to, which it usually doesn’t.
Of course people tweet less about that—or whatever the current trend might be. He married as befitting his rank, and there was nothing scandalous about his wedding, no cause for schadenfreude. Not unless one counts the unfortunate business with his younger brother and his future, regretful choice in spouse, which Philip would prefer one didn’t.
He most certainly doesn't, and he only wished the media would stop bringing it up every time Henry and his spouse so much as breathe out in public.
Ruining a once in a lifetime celebration of your future monarch, the future head of your family, is neither romantic nor cute, no matter what the tabloids might say.
Philip deserved better. Martha, too, of course.
It's not every day one becomes a Duchess and future Queen.
Speaking of, his wife is right now taking a small step towards him, a concerned look on her face.
"Philip?" she asks, quiet enough for no one else to be able to overhear. "Are you alright? You know the press will have a field day if you are seen as anything but cheerful and delighted today, don't you?"
"Of course I know," Philip snaps.
The tabloids accusing him of homophobia simply because he stuck to proper decorum at Henry's wedding is something which is hard to forget. Royals are supposed to present a dignified image to the world, not share their every thought and feeling with it like some common celebrity.
"But this is a state visit, and I am here to greet a foreign Head of State, not celebrate his choice in ... acknowledged companion."
Philip doesn't pull a face. They are not alone after all, and Martha unfortunately does have a point.
His every expression will be analyzed as soon as he steps out onto the tarmac or his face is caught by a camera. Insinuating blatant untruths about his views on alternate lifestyles or the life choices of his selfish younger brother from every frown and less than graceful gesture.
"Certainly," Martha says. "But attitudes are changing. Maybe if you're seen treating King Wilhelm and King Con—I mean ... people might take kindly to you greeting King Wilhelm as a cousin as well as a Head of State. After the formalities of course. Especially after—"
Philip narrows his eyes and Martha falls silent again. Good. He doesn't need her to tell him how to do his duty. Also King Wilhelm is only his fourth cousin, and it being twice over doesn't change the fact that he wasn't even invited to the wedding.
His Grandfather was, accompanied by his mother, but no one else from this side of the family, the seats in the cathedral instead reserved for minor Swedish government officials of little importance and even shorter tenure.
Not that Philip wanted to go. It’s not protocol. Only the late Queen Kristina and her Prince Consort were invited to his own wedding almost a decade ago, with even the then-heir Crown Prince Erik having to stay at home.
Then again it’s not as if the Swedish monarchy had to accommodate an entire Commonwealth's worth of foreign Heads of State like the British one did, or as if protocols weren’t already being broken left and right for the sake of King Wilhelm’s unconventional choice in spouse.
Either way, both events are in the past, and their guest lists do not change the fact that they both have duties to perform and countries to represent.
There is movement outside the windows, the plane clearly having landed and about to come to a halt on the tarmac.
Philip straightens, but refrains from anything as uncouth as cocking his head or rolling his shoulders.
There are usually two state visits to the United Kingdom in any given year, and Philip has already welcomed plenty of them. Granted, most were welcomed by a lesser representative of the King at the airport, with Philip only greeting them upon their arrival in London at the earliest, and the eyes of the world will be especially attentive for this one, but all of that is neither here nor there.
King Wilhelm is his cousin, and over a decade younger at that. There is no need to be nervous.
There is no time, either.
The stairs are in place, members of the RAF forming an honor guard to the left and right of it, the press and court photographers waiting off to the side.
Philip doesn’t need to look at his wife to know that she will dutifully walk out beside him, and so he doesn’t, instead he schools his face to something slightly more friendly than he usually would when greeting foreign dignitaries while still staying professional.
It’s an unexpectedly sunny day. The sky clear of any clouds, making it hard not to squint while looking up at the door of the plane, where King Wilhelm is supposed to emerge from at any moment.
Philip thinks he can already hear the clicking of the cameras, and lifts his head, trying his best to look as if he’s trying to hold back joy at seeing his cousin again, rather than forcing an illusion of it.
King Wilhelm appears. Tall and wearing a dark blue suit. Regal, Philip can’t help but admit. Not that that’s much of a surprise. Philip has seen enough pictures and videos of the young King to know that he’s grown quite a bit from the sulky child he remembers. Confident and self-assured and aware enough of his not so soft power to use it to his advantage and force his own government to make concessions in his Consort's favor they never would have made were they not desperate to avoid a constitutional crisis for a few years yet.
Philip would almost be impressed, were King Wilhelm’s actions all not obviously and admittedly carnally motivated, with the young King not even attempting to hide or be a bit more discreet about said fact, having elevated his Latin paramour to a rank never been seen before.
Philip thinks he can hear cheers coming from somewhere. No doubt uncultured airport workers in their garish safety vests. Philip himself can’t see them, but he knows some were allowed to watch from a less than sensible distance.
King Wilhelm raises his hand and waves. Short and cheeky and with a grin the press has labeled charming multiple times in the past.
Philip forces a half-smile. No one’s ever called his smile charming.
He expects the King to start walking down the stairs now, but of course he doesn’t.
Instead he steps as much to the side as he can and turns around to wait for his spouse to join him.
Right.
King Wilhelm’s spouse is smiling as well, abashed in a way which can only be fake, because surely the man has to revel in all of this, in all the royal pomp and ceremony he is now entitled to, having even future Kings of a bloodline as noble and ancient as Philip’s own bow in his presence.
Philip doesn’t scoff, not even when King Wilhelm’s left hand vanishes behind his spouse’s back and the cheers grow louder.
Philip thinks he can even hear a catcall, which is utterly inappropriate, especially when one is not only at one's place of work, but also in the presence of royalty.
The King and his spouse look at each other for a second which shouldn’t drag out as long as it does, and then wave again, giving the photographers time to take pictures and the press to tweet their first sappy and off-topic messages.
It’s expected, Philip tells himself. His Grandfather does the same whenever he exits a plane abroad, although of course alone and without any unnecessary displays of emotions, as do Philip and Martha.
The Swedish Air Force plane is not as large as it could have been, considering the entourage of government officials and businessmen and staff Philip knows have to have traveled with the young King.
No doubt another one of these climate change measures, which really shouldn’t apply in cases like this. Not when there are so few royals left in the world and the number of commoners is ever growing. Let them take less leisurely trips abroad instead of keeping their representatives from properly doing their duties in a way which positively reflects their country.
Not that Philip is ever going to say any of that anywhere the public can hear of course. Philip has class.
At least there is one benefit to all of that nonsense however, and that is that the King and his spouse can’t walk down the stairs next to each other, and because not even said spouse’s unmentionable wiles are able to bend protocol that much, it’s King Wilhelm who starts his walk down first, smiling and energetic and sure in the knowledge that he has the upper hand, as is of course his due.
He waits again at the bottom of the stairs, tilting his head up once more to follow his spouse’s every move, as if his Mexican—no, his brother’s spouse would have gleefully harked on about that even more than he already did everything else regarding the entire situation in Sweden—Argentinian? Yes, that does sound more accurate. As if his Argentinian mother never taught him how to walk down stairs and he’s in danger of falling.
Martha next to him hums, quiet enough to be almost inaudible to anyone but him. She does that sometimes. It’s distracting, but as she never does it loud enough for anyone other than Philip to hear, he’s been kind enough not to admonish her for it and merely stuck to pretending not to notice.
He does the same now, as the young King and his spouse start making their way past the honor guard.
The Consort is not staying the expected two paces Philip is sure even Swedish regulations demand behind his monarch—he has met the late Queen Kristina and her Prince Consort on multiple official occasions, and he’s quite sure her spouse knew his place—but instead walking close enough to the young King for their fingers to brush.
Philip is proud of Martha’s ability to hold back a gasp at that renewed breach in protocol.
Of course his younger brother and his spouse hold hands all the time in public and insist on being overly affectionate, but Henry was also—thankfully—born second, and it’s been years since he was a working royal.
Philip ignores the fact that King Wilhelm was born second as well.
He had what? Almost eight years to prepare for his role.
Shouldn’t he be especially considerate of at least some traditions, if not out of propriety, then at least to assure his own nobility and conservative politicians? Surely he can’t blatantly disrespect everything his family and bloodline have stood for for centuries?
The Consort opens his mouth and mutters something as they walk, quiet, but clearly not quiet enough for the young King not to hear, and King Wilhelm chuckles, his grin widening as he replies, leaning into his spouse enough for their shoulders to brush as well.
Philip’s pleasant and professional expression freezes.
Now the Consort is chuckling as well.
Martha’s humming changes key.
Their eyes meet—King Wilhelm’s and his Consort’s, not King Wilhelm’s and Philip’s—and really there should be a time and a place.
There are still cheers, and if any of the officials assembled behind Philip make any sound of disapproval, then no one is going to hear or notice. Good.
The King and his spouse are still smiling when they reach the end of the corridor formed by the honor guard, all standing at attention, and now it’s Philip’s turn to step forward.
He bows as is proper for a prince to greet a King, while Martha curtsies.
"Hey, Pip," King Wilhelm says, cheerful and not at all mocking, and somehow that is worse.
He freezes, relieved that his face isn’t fully visible right now. No one’s called him Pip in at least fifteen years.
"Your Majesty," Philip presses out, face and voice as neutral as he can manage.
He is not a Pip. Also King Wilhelm is barely in his mid-twenties, practically a child.
"Relax," King Wilhelm says. "No one can hear us yet, we have at least two more minutes to be familiar with each other."
Wrong, Philip thinks. For one he’s too old and too much of a working royal to have to endure silly childhood nicknames, and for another while he has known or at least been aware of Martha living in the periphery of royal circles all his life, he is quite sure she’s never heard him be called anything quite so undignified out in the open and by someone not his problematic younger siblings as Pip.
"Of course," Philip says, holding back a Your Majesty, because he’s never been snarky in his life.
"Simon, this is my cousin Pip and his wife Martha," King Wilhelm introduces, and Philip wishes he couldn’t tell that King Wilhelm's left hand has to be comfortably resting on his spouse’s lower back, if only for a short, probably meant to be reassuring moment.
Martha's never needed any of that of course, always aware and sure of her place in life.
"How do you do?" the Consort says in perfect English. "It was a pleasure having your Grandfather and mother attend our wedding. Wille was so happy to see his godmother again."
He’s grinning, already well aware of what Philip’s reply will have to be.
Philip bows.
"Your Majesty," he presses out, knowing it won’t be the last time he’ll have to call the Latin upstart that.
Really, what was Dear Cousin Wilhelm thinking insisting on gender equality or what on earth ever when he had his Royal Court announce his engagement to Mister Simon Eriksson?
King Wilhelm’s father was never more than Prince Consort, nor would Philip’s dear late father have been, if only he had lived long enough, and both of them were far more worthy and aware of their place.
Also they were married to women, and while the title of Queen is inherently lesser than that of King, at least such a concession—however illogical and confusing as to who the actual ruling monarch and person of higher rank is might have been—wouldn’t have come with the added discombobulation of having a King and a King Consort. Not that King Consort Simon could ever be mistaken for a Scandinavian royal born and raised.
Swallowing down any resentment he won’t allow himself to feel, no matter how much he pities what the Swedish monarchy currently has to endure, he rises up again.
"How do you do," he replies, still unable to comprehend just how the young King managed that. "An honor to make your acquaintance."
At least Alex refused any and all titles. Not that that’s a possibility when you marry not only a King but also the last living member of your country’s Royal House.
Martha next to him curtsies as well, politely greeting the Consort as if everyone isn’t well aware of exactly how he earned his undeserved rank.
"It’s been quite some time since I was in England," Wilhelm says, addressing Philip, although thankfully without that childish nickname. "I think part of the visit included you taking me to some horse race or another?"
"A polo match, Your Majesty," Philip can’t help but correct, no matter how impolite that might be.
"Ah yes," King Wilhelm says. "I was never all that fond of those. I don’t think we ever made it there, did we?"
No they didn’t, Philip well remembers. There was a change in schedule.
Not that Philip should have been surprised.
His most vivid memory of King Wilhelm is from a polo match, although many years before that particular unfortunate visit. Back when the young King was still a whiny eight-year-old Prince and spoiled second born, and his family in England on a semi-official summer visit to their cousins.
Both of their parents and siblings were present, all dressed in light summer colors, having a rather delightful time, and yet none of that kept the then Prince from throwing a tantrum loud enough for the public to hear, and for no reason other than one of the horses unhappily collapsing right there in front of two royal families, and passing away before it could be brought out of sight.
As if horses didn’t die all the time.
He remembers how Crown Prince Erik coddled the younger boy, gently wiping away his tears rather than admonishing him for his lack of composure in public, and maybe he should have known already then that the future of the Swedish monarchy was doomed.
Even Henry was never as soft as that, nor was their sister Beatrice. They certainly never cried or had screaming fits because of horses dying during or after races or polo matches. Why would they? A horse passing away after giving its best is far from unheard of, if usually not quite as public.
Philip keeps his answer polite and not judgmental as King Wilhelm turns his attention back to their spouses with a nod.
It’s time to greet the rest of the welcoming party.
King Wilhelm and his Consort are all proud decorum and poise as the waiting officials are introduced to them, the rest of their entourage following shortly after, and Philip should be happy and relieved, he knows, at how easy they both make it look, even the Consort who should at best be a Prince, and preferably not even that, and yet somehow he isn’t.
He can’t help but notice how their eyes keep meeting time and again, gentle and loving and revealing much more than they should, and it makes him uncomfortable, no matter how often he’s seen Henry and his spouse do the same.
It’s different though. Henry is of no dynastic importance, he hasn’t been ever since Martha bore Philip the required heir and spare. Dear Cousin Wilhelm is a King.
All these public displays of affection are indecent at best.
Not that anyone else seems to mind, and if they do they are too courteous to show their true thoughts and feelings.
Philip knows how to keep up a facade, and he most certainly isn’t going to be shown up by some minor local official or whatever, especially not when said official is giving every impression of being endeared by Sweden’s King Consort.
Not much longer, Philip tells himself. And then he has until the state banquet tonight before he is expected to be courteous again.
It’s not a reassuring thought. King Wilhelm and his spouse will be the guests of honor of course, with his Grandfather hosting, just like it will be his Grandfather who will be there at the actual arrival ceremony, with no need for the second in line to be present. Not when the first in line will be.
He is aware of the schedule of course, of the plans and the protocols. He has been raised for this. To welcome foreign Heads of State with all the expected pomp and circumstance.
He knows every detail of the ceremony, the amount of soldiers on Horse Guards Parade and then later for the procession to Buckingham Palace. He knows exactly how many horses will ride along with the state carriage as it makes its way along the Mall, how many guards will line the streets. He knows the battalion chosen to form the guard of honor and what his mother’s role—who is indeed rather fond of her fourteenth godson and will thus actually be in town for once—in all of it will be.
He also knows how much trouble it was to justify Henry and his spouse being there for a state dinner, when they are neither working royals nor do they have any connection to Sweden apart from them being a couple consisting of a second born royal prince and his cheeky, upstart Latin paramour with more curls than is good for anyone, which was of course not a valid argument on paper, nor was them being homosexuals as well, even if that is very much the only reason they have been invited. To show the monarchy’s openness, acceptance and loyalty, both to the general population as well as one’s family, even the prodigal sons.
Philip has always hated that parable.
There is a giggle, short and sweet, too high for it to be a man’s, and Philip is surprised to see that it is Martha.
The press is watching, Philip tells himself, and Martha is well aware of what image she has to present.
Friendly. Professional. Family.
Martha is good, he realizes, as she shares another laugh with King Wilhelm and the Deputy Lieutenant of Essex.
Well, of course she is. Philip chose her, even if it took his Grandfather pointing her out as an option for him to see what a wise choice she would make.
Not one to be outdone by anyone not his Grandfather, Philip turns to the King Consort of Sweden.
He was born for this, he tells himself.
Sweden is a very important partner, he has been repeatedly reminded. A partner to which ties need to be strengthened rather than have them fray, and unlike his siblings Philip will not be an embarrassment to his rank and family.
The Chief Constable halts in his rather lively reply to the man, and Philip is surprised. Philip might not know him well, but he always took him to be rather conservative.
Or maybe that was his predecessor.
"Your Majesty," he greets the King Consort, who looks at him with a knowing glint in his eyes.
"Cousin Philip," King Consort Simon says. "The Chief Constable has been telling me all about how enthusiastic everyone is to welcome us here. Not a single march or protest announced in all of Essex."
Philip forces his instinctive grimace into a smile.
"Of course," he says. "How could we be anything but welcoming? Indeed I couldn’t even count the number of rainbow flags I saw on my way here, and I have no doubt that they’ve multiplied since."
King Consort Simon grins.
"How lovely to hear," he says, before adding, "I always tell my husband that there is rarely a kernel of truth to any prejudices except those revealing one's own flaws."
Funny, Philip thinks. Only this morning he told Martha the opposite.
"How lovely," Philip parrots back.
The King Consort nods, his head moving to no doubt share another besotted glance with King Wilhelm, and surely there can’t be another person as infuriating as his regrettable brother-in-law, despite their outward similarities.
Philip, wise as he is, uses the time King Consort Simon is distracted to gesture towards an aide off to the side, who nods in return.
Good. It seems his internal clock has yet to be proven wrong.
"Your Majesty?" Philip says. "I think the Bentley meant to take Cousin Wilhelm,"—see? he can totally do this—"and yourself to London will arrive at any moment."
"How kind of you to tell me yourself," King Consort Simon says, and if there is an undertone to his reply then at least the Chief Constable of Essex Police doesn’t seem to notice.
Not that that’s saying much. Anyone used to royal circles would recognize the words as the insult that they are no doubt meant to be.
Philip is almost impressed, or he would be, were it not him being slyly compared to a member of staff catering to their better.
"We will see you and Cousin Martha at tonight's state banquet, won’t we?" the King Consort asks, as if he isn’t well aware of said fact.
As if Philip's presence isn't essential.
Philip nods, because the King Consort is right.
Philip has done his part. Has greeted King Wilhelm and King Consort Simon at the airport. Has proven that he isn't homophobic, and that he has been looking forward to finally meeting his royal cousin's spouse.
He won't be required for anything else until the evening, not with his mother in town. Not with his Grandfather healthy and insistent on fulfilling all his duties as King for as long as he can.
There is no need to rub it in however, no matter how unaware of the jab those in earshot might be.
"Of course, Your Majesty. I mean Cousin Simon," Philip grits out.
Maybe he underestimated the upstart.
His family might have had its own share of excitement and scandals, but none of their Kings ever married a biracial son of some common drug-addict and a Bolivian immigrant. Argentinian. Whatever.
None of his ancestors ever made a male lover his equal. Not one.
Of course the man has to be formidable in some unspeakable way or another to have gotten not only King Wilhelm, but also his government and Royal Court on his side.
"Philip?" a serene voice next to him pipes up, and oh wasn’t Martha talking to King Wilhelm just now? "The cars are here."
Philip nods again. He will have to formally send the King and King Consort on their way of course, before they can leave. To his Grandfather who will be waiting on Horse Guards Parade for the actual welcome ceremony, where Philip has no place yet.
This is how it is. Hierarchies exist for a reason, to keep society from falling apart, and one day he, too, will be King and no longer expected to lower himself before anyone.
Not yet though, and because his life is meant to be one of duty and service, he puts on a pleasant face and walks ahead of his wife towards the King of Sweden, already well able to imagine the gushing headlines about his and King Consort Simon’s arrival, which will make little mention of Philip himself, and if then merely as the head of the welcoming party, not unless the press manages to find fault with any of his facial expressions, and Philip for sure has not given them the opportunity, nor will he now.
Philip has to be satisfied with that.
"Your Majesties," Philip says, and Dear Cousin Wilhelm’s smile is bright and unrestrained as his fingers brush those of his spouse.
It’s strange, because while he’s always known the youngest member of Sweden’s Royal Family to be overly emotional, he would have expected his sly upstart of a Consort to be the more gleeful one.
He isn’t though, his smile knowing and cheeky, yes, but also polite and restrained.
In the distance, people are cheering.
Philip clears his throat.
"It was an honor. Both me and my wife are already very much looking forward to seeing you again tonight."
"Sure Pip," King Wilhelm says, thankfully quietly, before he raises his voice again. "As are King Simon and I."
There is a final flurry of pictures before Their Majesties are gone again, and all Philip can do is keep a neutral expression at that particular choice and order of words, while thanking any deities willing to listen that his younger brother and his menace of a spouse will be seated too far away from the guests of honor during tonights banquet to cause any trouble, or so he hopes.