Chapter Text
For the first week of the Rio Olympics, Alex’s mind is a blur of stress. This is their first big shot to represent his mom as just the three of them, the carefully styled Whitehouse Trio, just a few short months before the election. The entire thing is a mess of nerves, he shakes hands with a thousand diplomats, Olympians and reporters on autopilot, meeting their eyes with charming smiles “Alex Claremont-Diaz. My Mom’s running for president.” They each accept this with gracious smiles of their own- most too white and too straight to be entirely sincere, and Alex ticks them off his list. He sits gracefully in the crowd shots and helps June collect the shots of them in Magazines and Newspapers after, little pencil rankings of their outfits beside them.
The swimming event should be no different. The crowds ripple around them as they take their seats, one of the many little clusters at the front of the stadium, away from the main crowds and differentiated by little flags on the fencing. The one next to them, separated by a thin row of seats, bares the English flags. Nora wrinkles her nose in mock distaste. “Right by the Queen herself,” she says dryly “we are honoured.” Alex rolls his eyes at her but doesn’t sit. He’s pretty sure he’s spoken to most of the visiting British, the list on his laptop doesn’t indicate any atrocious gaps in his coverage, at least, but he wants to be sure. Making a good impression now is crucial. International relationships are delicate things.
Sure enough, there’s a new face amongst the crowd. Straight backed, surrounded by Civil Service Men in neat uniforms. He’s recognisable despite the fact he’s not facing Alex, eyes on the rippling water. The race itself hasn’t started yet, the athletes and their teams still milling around while the eager crowd surges in. The camera crews pan around, and Alex knows that, in their home countries, new crews are chattering on right now about the “Air of expectation!” Apparently, a lot of eyes are on Michael Phelps, expecting great things from him. Alex sympathises, in a weird way.
He wrenches his mind away from that train of thought, still staring at the prince stood in the next section over. He’s so close, face tense as he speaks to the man beside him- the Prime Minister, Alex notes with vague amusement, a greasy man in a blue tie who looked at Alex as though he was something unpleasant when he offered him his hand. He’ll be up for re-election soon. Personally, Alex hopes he’ll lose. The Prime Minister turns away, hand on his phone, and Alex gets his first true, in person view of Prince Henry.
His hair is somehow even more gold in person than it ever was in June’s old photo, like someone pulled the sun’s rays from children’s books and spun it into a wig. Princely hair, Alex decides. It fits him. He wonders if it’s as soft as looks, then shakes himself. He’s here to be charming, not deeply weird. Asking to stroke a Prince’s hair is not Son-of-the-President behaviour. So instead he paints on his press smile and strides towards where the prince stands at the edge of the barriers separating them and holds out his hand.
“Hello. My name’s Alex Claremont-Diaz. My Mom’s running for president. It’s an honour to meet you.” There. Perfectly charming, and he didn’t even mention his hair. Which is good. Because Alex doesn’t care about his hair. At all.
The prince gives him a strained smile back- Alex sympathises, these events are exhausting at times- and shakes his hand. “Charmed.” He says, coolly.
For a second there is silence, then Alex’s hand begins to burn, as though the prince has pressed a brand to his skin. His eyes go wide, meeting Prince Henry’s in confusion, but then Henry is stepping away, his expression cold, something curled there that looks almost like disgust. “Get rid of him,” he whispers, harsh and urgent, to the security guy stood nearby, and then Alex is being ushered into his seat, holding his hand in numb confusion. June and Nora give him matching confused looks as he sits, but Alex says nothing. He’s too busy staring at the mark on his hand.
The rest of the event passes in a blur, he barely notices the record being set, past the roar of noise in his head as he stares at it. Engraved on his left palm, Texas roses wrapped around a crown in deep black and white.
---
Alex’s Mom has two romantic soul marks. One is on her cheek, the shape of his dad’s lips, a glimpse of waves. After their first date, Oscar had kissed her there, and the mark had remained, even though the divorce, on both of them. It was faint, now, but it would never vanish. Though deeply incompatible, they would always be bound to one another. The other is from Leo, on her right forearm where he’d held it when they first met, an orchid wrapped in vines. It had inspired his nickname for her, and also prompted several questions from fourteen-year-old Alex, deeply curious about how his mom had two. It wasn’t rare, but he’d never encountered it before.
Alex has always been curious about soul marks. He’s had his most important ones for as long as he can remember, the brightly coloured symbols of platonic love: his dad’s is on the back of his head, covered by his hair but always there. When Alex shaved his head for a Cancer Event at 16, he’d had pictures taken of it, his house key wrapped in lime casing- the fruit of Mexico tied to his home in Texas. His Mom’s is across his back, a bluebonnet framed by a laurel wreath. Alex loves it, too. The photo of it sits right beside the one from his dad on his desk. June’s is on his right shoulder, a red carnation with stitches running through it, pressed there when she’d first held him, three years old and eager to meet her new brother.
---
Now, matching the brightly coloured one Nora left on his right hand, lies a Black and White mark against Alex’s palm, left by the second fucking Son of England. The prince who had stared at Alex in utter horror and disgust when their hands had touched.
Alex pulls out of the event hastily, his heart hammering. The Secret Service agents follow him in swift footsteps. He leaves June and Nora behind, muttering apologies about easy access to drinks and early mornings. They will stay on to keep up appearances, but June squeezes his arm sympathetically as he leaves. He doesn’t let her see the mark.
He spends the rest of the day in the hotel, systemically tearing his own mind apart, turning the events of their meeting over in his head. If it were a photograph, he thinks, pulled from a magazine and turned over and over like this, it would have begun to curl at the edges. He can almost feel it soften in real time, the harsh edges of surprise and disappointment closing into something smaller, more fragile.
Into a fast-burning anger. How dare he? How fucking dare he? How dare Henry swan into his life, photo-perfect and set for life, brand his skin with a romantic mark that would never fade, and then cast him off as if he were nothing. Even if the mark had been platonic, a symbol of friendship or camaraderie, it would be ridiculous, achingly painful and dismissive. The expression on his face as he’d turned away sharpens in Alex’s mind like a knife point, until he feels as though he’ll bleed on it and never stop. The mark across his hand is a wound that will never scar over. A reminder of the sharp point of Henry’s pursed lips.
When June and Nora get to the hotel two hours later, they find him doom-scrolling coverage of the race, scanning every clip uploaded to YouTube for a glimpse of Henry after he turned away. There’s nothing. Any shots of him are too blurry to make out any detail? Does he even know yet? The thought that he doesn’t, that he could possibly have just turned his back and not even glanced at the black and white lines that must surely be crossing their way over his skin in a mirror to Alex’s agony.
June sits carefully on the edge of his bed. “Told you you’d regret that mimosa.”
“It wasn’t the drinks,” he says, mournfully, into his pillow. He’s being dramatic. So what? He’s earned a bit of melodrama.
She arches an eyebrow at him anyway, his infinitely snarky older sister “No?”
“It’s the Prince of England.” He answers, bitterness spiking through his voice.
“What?” She asks. If it were any other situation, the confused surprise in her voice would be funny.
He holds his left hand out to her, palm up. For a second, they sit in silence. Her shocked sympathy settles across him like a blanket.
“I didn’t even see you talk to him,” She says eventually “Is that why British Security practically threw you at us?”
“He didn’t even look at me once it happened,” Alex says quietly. “He just left. Told his security to get rid of me.”
June sucks in a breath, tone harsh. “I’m going to break into Buckingham Palace.”
“Please don’t.”
She falls quiet again, settling beside him on the double bed, before saying “It’s in Black and White.”
“I noticed.” Alex deadpans. He’s been trying not to think about it. About what it means.
“Are you… is that…?” her questions die on her throat.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Alex points out. “He looked at me like I was dirt.”
June mutters a harsh, angry curse in Spanish. Alex is surprised, she rarely uses their shared second language.
“Does it matter to you?” She asks.
“It shouldn’t.”
“Emotions don’t work that way.”
“I know, okay. I know. I’m just… not thinking about it.”
She nods, runs a hand through his hair. “Want a distraction?”
He nods, and she smiles and reaches for the TV remote lying on his bedside.