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The First Son of the United States pulls at the bowtie at his neck, desperate for some relief from the stuffiness – both literal and metaphysical.
When he, June and Nora had begged his mom for something useful to do over the summer he had envisioned some on-the-ground volunteering in Washington, doing Zahra’s bidding or getting involved with the National Conference of State Legislatures. He hadn’t expected to be flown to London, shoved into a suit and told to smile big and wide at a conference on international financial reporting and corporate governance, followed by a gala with watered down spirits and tasteless hors d’oeuvres.
To make matters worse, the White House Trio aren’t the only suckers being paraded around on behalf of their family. No, Prince Henry is here too, because of course he is.
Alex narrows his eyes as he watches the Prince. The usual prickly annoyance flares to life inside him as Henry converses politely with a group of men and women Alex doesn’t recognise – some British nobility, probably. His smile is placid, his expression light, and his suit a bland shade of grey, entirely void of personality. Just like him.
“Earth to Alex,” June interrupts, her voice close to his right ear.
He turns abruptly, tightening his grip on his watery whiskey-and-coke. “What?”
“Have you finished your homoerotic ritual of staring at your supposed mortal enemy from across the gala floor while fingering a glass of expensive whiskey and frowning cynically?” Nora asks in one breath.
“How long have you been practising that one?” Alex asks, setting his glass down and turning to his sister and best friend.
“The five or so minutes you’ve been staring at Prince Yummy over there.”
That gets Alex. He jumps to the defensive, narrowing his eyes at Nora now. “I was not .”
Nora puts her hands on her hips. “First of all, you so were. Second of all-”
“Children,” June interrupts, ever the mediator of the three of them. Alex glances over at her. She looks beautiful, dressed in silk the colour of mulberries with gold jewellery at her throat and bangles on her slim wrists. “Let us focus on something more important – a party.”
“We’re at a ‘party’” Alex points out, his eyes scanning the wide, marbled hall. People of all ages, heights and nationalities mill about, dressed in their finest clothes and sipping champagne from tall glass flutes. A string quartet plays somewhere off to the side.
“A party party,” June corrects, a mischievous smile on her lips now. She looks eagerly between Alex and Nora, both of which have turned immediately toward her at the mention of something more akin to the type of party they’re used to.
“Pray tell, babe,” Nora says, flipping her curly hair over her shoulder. “Give us the deets.”
“Chester-”
“Who?” Alex asks, frowning. British people and their stupid as fuck names.
“Some guy I danced with,” June explains flippantly, “He’s not important. What he said was. Some Oxford students are throwing a party nearby, someone’s parents are away etcetera you know the drill,” she grins as Nora whoops with joy and throws her arms around June’s neck. “He gave me the address.”
“Best news I’ve heard all night!” Nora chirps in June’s ear.
Alex relaxes too, a grin spreading across his own face. Yes. He loves parties – the way he can sink into the moment, losing himself in the loud messiness of it all. He’s long perfected the right balance between not enough and just enough alcohol to wave goodbye to the weight on his shoulders and remain in control of his faculties. Right now, he needs that weight to disappear. Right now, he needs something fun and stronger than weak spirits.
“I say we sneak out now,” he waggles his eyebrows at June and Nora. “Plenty of time to get changed and sink the minifridge.”
“That,” Nora says, “Is the best idea I’ve heard all night. Let’s go.”
///
Whoever this apartment belonged to, they were rich. Really rich.
Rich enough to fix up the magnitude of damage that drunk college students were almost certain to leave behind by the end of the night. That thought makes Alex feel less bad about what he’s seen in the two minutes since he’s arrived – a smashed vase and a dint in the wall from an overly zealous couple, clinging to each other as they stumble in search of a free room. People dance and grind where they can, some atop tables, others on whatever furniture that can carry their weight.
“Well,” Nora says, her eyes scanning the room, “Brits definitely know how to throw a party.”
The music is loud, the bass thumping in the back of Alex’s skull as he too surveys the room. There’s beer pong in one corner and king’s cup in another. Everywhere he looks there’s grinding bodies and skin on display, glitter streaked across cheekbones and red solo cups full to the brim with some nameless liquor.
“I say we find ourselves some drinks,” June suggests, tugging at their wrists. Alex follows amiably as they make their way into a modern-looking kitchen, crisp white and stocked with the latest appliances. A mound of alcohol bottles already sits on one side of the sink, some spilled over and dripping onto the tiles below. June automatically rights them.
“Order up,” Alex tells June and Nora, plucking three solo cups from a towering stack and setting them on the bench.
Nora slides over a half empty bottle of vodka while June rummages around in the fridge, producing a bottle of lemonade that by some miracle is still fizzy. Alex pours generously into each cup, dunking an extra nip of vodka into his own drink. He already feels pleasantly buzzy from pre-game, but another shot can’t hurt.
“Open,” he tells Nora. With sparkling eyes she tips her head back and sticks her tongue out as Alex dribbles vodka into her mouth, laughing as Nora gulps it down.
“Me, me, me,” June chants. She tilts her head back and Alex pours vodka into her mouth too.
“Cheers,” he tells them joyfully, knocking the vodka bottle with their raising cups and then throwing back a generous gulp. It burns his throat, but he relishes in the feeling of it sliding down his oesophagus and warming up his chest.
Niggling at the back of his mind is his mother’s voice – the warning to be good, to behave in a manner befitting her station. The devil on his shoulder urges him to reach for another drink though, so he does. He lets bubbles fizz on his tongue and he smiles at pretty British girls and admires the soft curves of their hips and their plush lips as they talk and dance with him. Losing himself in conversation is as easy as breathing; it’s the mask that’s harder to take off. Even when drunk it slips on.
He’s pulled from his conversation by Nora’s fingernails digging into the soft part of his forearm. “What?” he whines as he stumbles into their small huddle. “I was busy.” It’s been a while since his last hook up, alright. He needs something to take the edge off.
June giggles and glances at Nora, hands over her mouth. “Oh nothing,” Nora says airily, “I just heard that a certain Prince is here, thought you should know…”
Something flickers inside of him. He blinks away the fog of the alcohol and straightens up, his head immediately turning to survey the room. “Where?”
Nora breaks into a shit-eating grin, flashing her pearly whites at him. “Why do you ask, babe? Wanna go link up with your bestie?” she trails backwards, pulling June and Alex after her into the next room over.
“Funny,” Alex tells her, “Real funny. Now where is he? Because I want to be five hundred yards away from there.”
He stops short as their expressions morph into something far off and dazed. June’s mouth pops open and Nora’s eyes widen. “Guys…” he says curiously.
“Be our guest, little buddy,” Nora butts in gleefully, “I’m fine rightttt here,”
“Oh my,” June covers her mouth, eyes filling with mirth. “This is… exquisite.”
“What-“ Alex turns around, frustrated at their stilted sentences and curious about the object of their attention. It couldn’t be…
Alex freezes as his gaze lands on a tall figure on the grand dining table, strobe lights bathing his body in pinks and greens and blues. His blonde hair is messy and loose around his face, his half-open shirt falls off one shoulder, revealing a strong chest and broad shoulders. Glitter is smeared over both of his cheeks, and he holds a half empty bottle of wine in one fist. The other hand is curled around behind him, braced on the nape of the man behind him.
Alex watches as Prince Henry - stuffy, boring, insipid Prince Henry - grinds back into the crotch of the man and throws his head back as said man leans forward and sucks on the column of his neck. The man's hand slides up Henry’s stomach and pulls him back into the roll of his hips.
“There’s no way-“ Alex says, his jaw practically grazing the dirty carpet underfoot. “That’s- That’s not-“
“Henry,” Nora finishes. “That’s Henry.”
Supposedly Henry throws back another gulp of wine and twists in the man's arms, rolling his hips forward. Alex looks away just as a broad hand clamps on to the Prince’s round ass and squeezes.
“Fuck,” June says in a hushed voice, “He looks so different. ”
“If I thought he was yummy before…” Nora links her arm with June and they burst into giggles.
Alex … Well Alex isn’t sure what there is to giggle about. He feels like he’s been hit over the head with a sledgehammer, his world whirling around on its axis as he tries to reconcile the Henry he knows and the Henry on the table.
This Henry glows bright, and it’s not just the lights, nor the alcohol – though both might be part of it. This uninhibited version of Henry exudes magnetic energy, drawing in a larger crowd of cheering supporters as he shouts along to the music. Whilst grinding seems to be in his repertoire, dancing is not.
Alex will never admit it, not to a single soul, but there’s still something strangely attractive about watching the whitest man on earth “start the mower” and wiggle his hips from side to side without a sliver of poise about him. When he finally drags his eyes away to look at Nora and June, he finds them gone.
“The fuck,” he stands on his tiptoes and scans the crowd, looking for Nora’s curly hair. “Nora,” he growls under his breath, cursing both the culprit – he’s sure of it – and whatever genetics made him five-feet-eight (and a half). He turns back around to scan the other direction.
As he turns a warm body bumps into him, and he feels liquid splash onto his arm and drip down his fingers, leaving stickiness in its wake. “My apologies,” says a familiar British lilt in his ear. Oh no.
Alex turns around and comes face to face with Prince Henry himself. His face, still stupidly symmetrical, is slightly flushed, and this close Alex gets a good look at both the freckles across his nose and the perfectly situated mole above his lip. For years, Alex had sworn it was artfully drawn on, but up close Alex can confirm its legitimacy.
He makes a concentrated effort to look away from his lips as Henry stumbles back and looks at him with drunken surprise. “Oh, Alex!” he says, and to his great astonishment it’s a smile that spreads across Henry’s face, not annoyance. To make matters even weirder, it’s not the close-mouthed press-smile he so often dons, but something real and infectious that burrows into Alex’s chest and tugs at his heartstrings.
Alex tries desperately to find something to annoy him about it – his teeth are too straight, too white, probably perfectly crafted by royal dentists – but really all he can notice is the dimple lines at each corner of his mouth and the way his gummy smile transforms his whole face. He hates how good he looks; how he wants to drink in every inch of his appearance. He pinches the inside of his wrist.
“Henry,” he manages, his eyes sweeping up and down Henry’s long, lithe body. His jeans are tight, and he can see that Henry’s shirt isn’t just unbuttoned but missing buttons. At the back of his mind, he wonders if Henry and that guy had had a little detour on their way here.
Then it hits him. Henry. Kissing a guy.
Bisexual? He’s seen pictures of Henry with women splashed across magazine pages more times than he can count…
Henry’s gaze is heavy-lidded as he takes Alex in. Warmth spreads through Alex’s chest and down his arms and legs as Henry bites his bottom lip and grins again, “Care for a drink?” he wiggles the wine bottle in Alex’s face, narrowly missing his nose and sending drops of wine splashing over the two of them. “Oops,” he grins, mischievous and lop-sided this time.
Alex has been hit by a bus. Who is this guy? Where is the quiet, bland Prince in the impeccably tailored three-piece suits and where is he being held? “Maybe you should have some water,” he says, finding his voice.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Henry asks, flicking him a disapproving look that lodges in Alex’s ribs. Then he hiccups and presses his hand to his lips. Oh no . He rights himself again and grins, “I’m good.”
“Clearly,” Alex says, watching as Henry sways. The lights catch the glitter on his face, and his eyes are wide and a deep, bottomless blue. Alex hates himself for noticing; blames it on the alcohol coursing through his own bloodstream. He blinks himself back to reality.
“Eye feathers,” Henry says nonsensically, his body tipping to the side.
“What?” Alex asks, reaching out to steady him. Christ - Henry is drunk.
“Where is Pez?” Henry asks instead, twisting his neck and looking over the crowd. On his tiptoes the top of Alex’s curly hair barely brushes the Prince’s chin. “Pez - PEZ! I need my loyal vassal. I’m under siege.” He turns back and blinks at Alex, as if surprised to still find him standing in front of him. “ALEX-” he says a little too loudly.
“Henry,” he says back just as loudly, trying not to roll his eyes. At least he’s right about one thing - the Prince can’t handle alcohol, and his face is flushed red from intolerance.
“Where’s your drink?” Henry asks, tipping forward and looking into the depths of Alex’s empty cup. Blonde hair tickles Alex’s nose for the briefest second before Henry glances up and fixes him with a pout. He smells like something light and citrusy.
Impulsively Alex says, “What are you having?”
“Vodka,” Henry says promptly, still holding the wine bottle. Alright. Alex decides not to point it out.
At least vodka is easy to swap with water, which the Prince clearly needs. “Good,” he says stoutly. “Let’s get some motherfucking vodka.” He pushes Henry ahead of him toward the kitchen, grimacing at himself. Oh Nora and June were never going to let him live this nightmare down. Stuck on babysitting duties for the Prince of Wales. He glances around for them, desperate for some back up. He wished he knew what Pez looked like.
A little voice at the back of Alex’s head reminds him he doesn’t need to do this. He’s under no obligation. This is Henry’s turf. His PPO’s are around here somewhere. There’s every chance this is an average Friday night for the Prince of England’s hearts and Alex has been spending a little too much time with his overcautious and worry-wart big sister.
Even so, he shoves Henry against a bench to rest and turns his back on him, grabbing the vodka for show but filling a cup to the brim with tepid tap water. The music thumps in his ears as he quickly gulps down half of it and refills it for Henry.
“Here you g-”
“ALEX!” shouts Nora from the entrance to the kitchen, “Henry!” she wobbles on her feet, glancing between the two of them. Her hair is wild and there’s more cleavage showing than he remembers. “What the fuck are you doing in the kitchen, come dance!”
“Oh,” Henry shakes his head vehemently, “Not a dancer I’m afraid-”
“After what I saw out there, I am not taking no for an answer,” Nora waggles her finger at him. Alex watches from the sidelines as his supposed best friend sucks up to his mortal enemy. He narrows his eyes as Nora strikes forward and takes Henry’s wrist. “Pleeeeeaseeeeee?”
“Okay,” Henry says, caving immediately. Alex’s head ping pongs back to him, his eyebrows flying up his forehead. Henry’s huge gummy grin is back, his eyes crinkled as he lets Nora pull him out to the dancefloor.
“Well fuck me, I guess,” Alex says to their retreating bodies, suddenly standing alone in the kitchen. “I’ll just …” he doesn’t bother to finish the sentence.
He takes a sip of the water to steady him. Then another. After a long moment he says fuck it and takes another swig of vodka before following Nora and Henry out onto the makeshift dancefloor. He wasn’t going to let some dickwad Prince steal both his best friend and his night from him.
Some Britney Spears song is playing and the air is thick with a combination of smoke vapours and the unmistakable smell of weed. Every available surface seats masses of people; girls throwing long hair over their shoulder, the flash of abs as clothes are thrown to the side. It’s exactly like the house parties Alex attended in his teens, except for the Prince dancing with Nora, June and a dark-skinned man with bright orange hair and an even brighter orange getup. He watches as June puts her hands on Henry’s shoulders and he spins her, laughing, safely depositing her back on the sticky floorboards. There’s a hot, itchy feeling erupting under his skin again.
“Alex!” Nora gestures at him from the thick of it, bouncing up and down on her tiptoes. Alex watches as the orange-guy, whom Alex has an inkling is Pez, leans forward and whispers something in Henry’s ear. All of a sudden Henry has turned around and it’s not June or Nora attempting to pull him into the throng, but Henry.
“Can’t dance?” Henry asks, raising an eyebrow. Alex resents the few inches of height he has on him as he bows his head down and squints at him.
“What makes you say that?” Alex shoots back, narrowing his eyes as Henry straightens.
“It might have something to do with you sulking on the outskirts,” Henry says conspiratorially.
“I am literally outdancing you right now,” Alex tells him, unimpressed by his tone. Internally, he’s storing all the new data Henry is giving him, doing his best to analyse how he had gotten it so wrong.
“Ah yes,” Henry gestures grandly to Alex’s posture - his legs are slightly apart and his hands are stuffed in the pockets of his denim jacket. “The … what do you call this dance move, Alex?”
“Bite me,” Alex says, crossing his arms, unimpressed.
“Is that something you’d like?” Henry grins at him, his eyes roaming over Alex’s body. Alex tries not to choke on his own tongue at the brazenness and his implication. “Or are you simply deflecting?”
“I don’t fancy dancing with the guy trying to hook up with my sister, sorry,” Alex tells him blandly, cautiously investigative. What is the Prince’s deal? And why is he talking to Alex like a peer when all he’s ever done is swap cool indifference with him?
To his utter annoyance, Henry tips his head back and roars with laughter. “I’m not looking to “hook up” with June, Alex,” he grins like Alex just told the funniest joke known to mankind.
Alex stares back. “Nora, then,” he tries, scanning Henry’s expression and body language.
“Not her either,” Henry says in a sing-song voice. He leans closer, pupils blown wide and a coy smile on his lips, “Dance with me.”
For some insane, unknowable reason - maybe it’s simply curiosity, more than anything - Alex lets Henry take his wrist and drag him into the crowd. He nods at Pez cordially as the song shifts from Britney into something faster and louder. The hits of early 2000s pop soak into him, mixing with the taste of freedom he feels being away from home and the vodka in his stomach. His body decides to dance before his mind agrees, and as bodies press in behind them and his companions blur Alex feels himself let go of that last rope tethering the burden to his shoulders.
Alex’s hips move easily to the beat and his body rolls intuitively. He even sings a little, his voice carrying over the din. Time pushes on, slippery in his hands. Nora and June attach themselves to Pez, grinning and squealing and jumping together, arms loose around shoulders and Pez’s blinding white smile brighter than the strobe lights.
It’s not them he’s most aware of though. It’s Henry. The wine has made him loose and blithe. His shirt buttons finally give way, revealing the trail of hair leading from his belly-button down below his waistline. Alex tunes into the rise and fall of his own chest as his eyes fall upon the contours of Henry’s chest; pale and dotted with moles and freckles. This close, he can see the sweat in his hairline and a drop sliding down the column of his throat and into the groove of his collarbone.
Henry’s eyes meet his; deep blue pools Alex wouldn’t mind throwing himself headfirst into. He doesn’t know where that thought comes from, but his alcohol-addled brain convinces him not to care. Unbidden, he sidles closer, as if some magnetic force is reeling him into Henry’s orbit. Alex’s throat tightens and he licks his lips as Henry reciprocates, now mere inches away, too close and yet…
It’s Alex that breaches the distance, but not by choice. An elbow digs into his back and propels him forward, into Henry, who reaches out and steadies him automatically. Warm palms grip Alex’s waist and bicep, soft and smooth and probably meticulously exfoliated each day by royal attendants-
“Oi!” Henry’s posh voice is transformed by the short, harsh vowel sound. “Watch where you’re go- Dylan.” Alex’s head jerks up at the shift in tone.
His eyes settle on the guy. The guy that had been casually groping the Prince and kissing his neck only an hour or two ago. Dylan slides into the space between them, broad shoulders eclipsing Alex’s frame as he sidles up to Henry. “Hey,” his voice walks the line between casual and sultry, and he touches his fingertips casually to Henry’s bare arm, spinning him away from Alex. Red flashes before Alex’s eyes, and a ferocious feeling flares in his chest. “I was wondering where you had gotten to,” Dylan says.
“Just ironing out some British-American international relations,” Henry parries back easily. “Have you met-” As he turns back to Alex, Alex turns and bolts. Panic seizes him as he ducks out of the lounge and winds his way through the kitchen, out through the balcony and into the fresh air.
The feeling in his body - the hot, bubbly feeling in his stomach and the fluttering in his throat - doesn’t subside like he hoped it would. The cool breeze doesn't calm him either, it only freezes the sweat sitting across his brow and dripping down his back; only reminds him of the warmth of Henry’s palm as it had steadied him.
He closes his eyes and painted behind his eyelids is a broad smile and messy sandy hair. What the fuck is happening to him. The feelings inside him are not precisely hate, rather they feel akin to… He pushes the thoughts away, impatient and aggravated by the confusing blend of emotions swirling around inside him. He doesn’t care anyway. His brain is just stupid and overthink-y and perhaps he just needs another drink to quiet the voice at the back of his head down again.
“Alex!” says the most insufferable person in the world.
Slowly he turns, steeling his defences against the threat that is Henry. Spoiled, privileged, Prince Henry, he reminds himself. His defences almost completely falter as Henry presses some water into his hand and fixes him with a sweet expression and pouty lips. “Are you quite alright?”
“I’m just getting some air,” he says, harsher than intended. His internal defences lock into place as annoyance festers with each blink of Henry’s stupidly golden lashes. “What do you want?”
“I thought I should check on you,” Henry quirks an eyebrow at his attitude shift.
“Why?” Alex asks snarkily. He feels his hackles raise further as the drunk Prince stays close.
“I didn’t realise we’d slipped back into a Cold War,” Henry comments, his eyes roaming over Alex’s face, questioning and faintly concerned.
Alex rolls his eyes, irritated. “Consider it a failed armistice,” he leans on the railing. “Quick, you had better get back to your waiting subjects.”
“At least come out of the cold-”
“Stop telling me what to do! You’re not the Prince of me!” Alex bursts out. The warm prickly feeling in his stomach turns to acid.
Henry stops, his brows furrowing. “I didn’t mean-”
“Of course you didn’t,” Alex says, “You’re just used to everyone obeying your every wish, ready at the drop of the hat to do your bidding.”
“Christ, you are insufferable,” Henry says, straightening up and pushing his shoulders back. He sounds close to sober now. “Do you ever get tired of-”
“Of what?” Alex pushes, eyes narrowing.
“Of being a prick!”
Alex is momentarily thrown by the deep undercurrent of resentment in his words and the steely glint of Henry’s eyes. He hadn’t thought his words had provoked that much of a reaction, but perhaps the mutual dislike ran deeper than he had thought. “Says you,” he snaps back. “Mr I’m-so-important. Sorry I’m not obsessed and fawning over you like everybody else.”
“Perhaps,” Henry says silkily, his face blotchy red and his fists clenched by his sides, “You could take a moment to get to know me beyond my title. I thought you of all people would be sympathetic.”
Blind fury seizes him. Alex stalks toward him. “Oh yeah?” he asks, inches away from Henry. “Right back at you.” The memory of Rio swims before his eyes; the naive eagerness he had approached Henry with, whole-heartedly convinced of their natural alliance, and the brutal cut-down Henry had thrown back in his face, severing any chance of a friendship.
“What could you possibly me-”
“Perhaps you should get back to, uh, domestic relations,” Alex says over the top of him. The last word said, he stalks past Henry, bumping his shoulder none too gently on the way.
He does his best to avoid Prince fucking Henry for the rest of the night. One drink and two drinks and three drinks later he’s playing kings cup with people who had introduced themselves with names like Basil and Atlas and Ellery . Fucking British people. He loses himself in winning the game - because the need to win doesn’t stop when the alcohol hits his lips, in fact it gets stronger - and then winning another. He flicks on the golden boy persona switch and smiles his way into groups across the room, his curls and American accent piquing attention as he flits from group to group.
Eventually, in the early morning, Nora and June wind their way back to him and pull him from a leather couch now reeking of smoke and alcohol, and drag him toward the entrance where Cash and Amy stand at attention.
“Wait,” he tells them, turning back to stub the end of his smoke in a potted plant. As he does, he catches a glimpse of none other than Henry trailing down the hall, a playful smile on his face as Dylan stalks after him.
Alex locks his jaw and jerks his head away, stomping out the front door without looking back.