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27 May 2016
TD Garden, Boston.
A month into the first summer without his father, a fourteen-year old Henry stood in the VIP box of the world’s most famous arena and thought that professional sports were simply socially sanctioned violence performed for people with too much adrenaline.
The air in the box was refrigerated to a temperature. Below them, the ice gleamed under harsh floodlights, a blinding white sheet scarred by steel blades. The arena smelled of stale beer, floor wax, and the aggressive cologne of the donor class.
He zipped up his jacket and tried not to think about the fact that his father would have loved this. By any reasonable metric, the youngest prince of the United Kingdom did not belong at a Stanley Cup playoff game in Boston in the middle of his grief year; he belonged in London, where the sky was sensibly grey and the mourning was neatly pressed and the condolences came on heavy paper with embossed crests.
“Come to America,” Alex had insisted over the phone from whatever room in whatever royal residence Philip currently had him camped in. “Just for a few days. You can’t just… rot, Hen.”
Henry had stared at the wall of his bedroom and thought, I can absolutely rot. Watch me.
“I’m quite all right,” he lied.
“You are the least all right person I’ve ever met,” Alex had replied, like it was a compliment and an accusation at once. “I’m telling you. It’ll help. Noise. Action. Giant men hitting each other with sticks. It’s fun.”
Henry had hung up on him twice. Alex had called back three times. Two days later Bea arrived in his doorway wearing a vintage Queen band shirt and menace. She had already booked the tickets.
“You’re going,” she told him, the way other people say please do not touch the glass. “We’ll sit in a box, you can glare, I’ll get drunk on novelty cocktails. June is coming because she needs a holiday from saving her mother’s career with a phone.”
So here he was in Boston. Glaring. Trying not to see the empty seat beside him where his father would have shouted advice at complete strangers and made friends with the vendor who sold pretzels the size of tax codes.
“You look like a Victorian child about to perish of the vapors,” Alex said, materialising at his elbow with two steaming paper cups and too much light. He shoved one into Henry’s hands. “Hot chocolate. It’s ninety degrees outside, but here we cosplay Siberia.”
Henry sipped. Down in the bowl, two teams spilled out onto the ice for warmups to whistles and a thump of music he could feel in his ribs. Their sweaters were the wrong shades of primary; their names looked like they’d been printed by governments. A child in a glittery jersey shrieked, stunned by her own glee.
Bea, who had already traded her tiara for a knit beanie from the team store and was somehow making it punk, leaned into Henry’s shoulder.
“If you behave,” she said, “I’ll buy you any limited edition book you want.”
“Bribery noted,” Henry said, and tried not to flinch when a puck hit the glass with a noise like a gunshot.
The game was a blur of violence and speed. Diplomatic Protection hovered by the suite doors with the brittle expressions of men who realized they were guarding royalty in a room full of flying rubber projectiles.
“Watch this,” Alex said, grabbing Henry’s forearm and pointing down at the ice. “Power play. June and Bea are betting on a fight, but I think Boston is going to try to score.”
Henry allowed himself to be pulled, the heat of Alex’s hand burning through the wool of his sweater. This was the secret, wretched thing in Henry’s chest: he was in love with his brother’s husband.
It was a humiliating cliché. It was a sin. It was the sort of thing that would make his formidable grandmother crumble into a pile of dust and pearls. Henry VIII might be laughing in his grave right now.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Alex said, nudging him. “Stop it. Look at the ice. Look at the speed. Be amazed.”
“They are just skating in circles and hitting one another,” Henry muttered, though he didn't pull his arm away.
“That’s the spirit.”
The play had stopped near their corner. A scrum was forming against the boards directly beneath their box. Henry looked down. Two players had separated from the pack. They were both young, roughly Alex’s age, panting heavily, steam rising from their helmets in the cold air.
One was massive, wearing the Boston colors—Number 81 on his back. Rozanov. The other was smaller, faster, wearing Montreal's colors—Number 24. Hollander.
“You are being lazy,” the big one—Rozanov—said. His voice was deep, accented—Russian, Henry thought. He shoved the smaller man, pinning him against the boards right below Henry’s line of sight.
“I am not being lazy,” the other man—Hollander—snapped, shoving back, though his glove lingered on the Russian’s chest a second too long. “I’m drawing a penalty, you giant oaf. It’s strategy, Ilya.”
“It is pathetic,” the Russian—Ilya—replied. He leaned in, his helmet bumping the other man’s visor. To the crowd, it looked like intimidation. To Henry, it looked like gravity. “You are just jealous because I am faster than you.”
“You skate like a tractor,” the smaller man hissed, looking around nervously to see if the referees were watching. “And stop crowding me. The cameras are on.”
“The cameras are looking at the puck, Hollander.”
Alex, who had the attention span of a golden retriever, suddenly stiffened beside Henry. He grabbed Henry’s wrist, squeezing hard.
“Holy shit,” Alex whispered, his voice dropping to a harsh hiss. “Henry. Look.”
“I am looking,” Henry whispered back. “They are arguing about skating mechanics.”
“No,” Alex hissed. “That’s Shane Hollander. And Ilya Rozanov.”
Henry blinked. The names vaguely registered. “Rivals?”
“Yes, rivals! The biggest rookies in the league. They hate each other. Like, historically. They’ve been at each other's throats since juniors.” Alex’s eyes were wide, scanning the two men with the intensity of a hawk. “Look at them going at it.”
Henry watched them. He watched the way the Russian man, Rozanov, shifted his weight so he was effectively shielding Hollander from the rest of the scrum. He watched the way Hollander scowled at Rozanov, but his skates were angled toward him, drawn into his orbit.
“Maybe they are friends,” Henry suggested quietly.
“No way,” Alex whispered. “Ilya checked Shane into the boards last period so hard I thought he broke a rib. They’re mortal enemies.”
Just then, the referee skated over to break it up. The Russian man stumbled slightly, and his gloved hand shot out to steady himself on Hollander’s waist. Hollander didn’t flinch away.
The play resumed. The Russian man turned his head as he circled back to his position. He looked up at the VIP box. He caught Henry staring.
Henry jutted his chin, lifting it just enough to look down his nose through the glass. He cocked a single, imperious eyebrow.
Go on, the look said. Try to intimidate me.
Ilya Rozanov might be six-foot-something of Russian muscle and engineered violence, a man who cultivated a villainous reputation to keep the world at bay, but nothing can intimidate Henry when he was raised in an asylum.
Rozanov’s lip curled up behind his mouthguard. It wasn’t a sneer. It was a smirk of recognition. The man turned back to Hollander, slashed his stick against Hollander’s shin pads in a way that looked violent to the cameras but clearly wasn't, and skated off.
After the horn, the noise didn’t so much end as collapse—floodlights softening, music swapping from war drums to pop, an exhale from twenty thousand throats. On the ice, helmets tipped, gloves tapped. The scoreboard blinked its verdict in pitiless red: BOS 3 — MTL 2. Boston by one, courtesy of their captain knifing through a tired line and deflecting a blue-line shot past a sprawling goalie with two minutes to go. Of course it was him. The Russian with the villain’s reputation.
Bea whooped, June clapped like she was at a committee hearing that had finally adjourned, and Henry pretended he’d known what was happening the entire time. He had not.
“Thank God,” Henry exhaled, taking off his VIP lanyard. “It’s over. We can leave.”
“Leave?” Alex turned, his eyes bright with the manic energy of the event. “Hen, we’re going down to meet the players. I promised the foundation director I’d say hello to the boys.”
“You promised,” Henry repeated flatly. “I did not.”
“You’re my emotional support Englishman. Move it.”
Diplomatic Protection ghosted them into the corridor before the crowd could decide it loved them. The tunnels beneath TD Garden were all concrete and rubber-mat floors, chalkboard arrows, the humid breath of machines. Somewhere a radio crackled in a Boston accent so powerful it ought to be subject to licensing.
“Five minutes with the teams, then out,” June told them, scrolling through a stream of texts. “Photo wall, youth hockey cheque thing. Try not to get tackled by a linebacker in skates.”
“I make no promises,” Alex said, grinning, and Henry could feel the corridor get brighter just because Alexander Claremont—no, His Royal Highness Prince Alexander—had decided to be in it.
It was a specific kind of torture, watching Alex. Since the wedding of the century, the public had developed a fascination with the new Prince Consort that rivaled the early frenzy surrounding Henry’s own father. They tracked his clothes, his hair, his life. Time Magazine named him as the most photographed man in the world.
There was no barrier, no stiff upper lip whenever Alex interacted with the people. A woman from the catering staff dropped a tray of napkins when Alex looked at her, and instead of stepping over it, Alex crouched down to help her gather them, laughing off her apologies until she looked like she might faint from devotion.
Phones had started to appear, slowly at first, then like mushrooms after rain. Alex’s name boomeranged down the room in whispers—that’s him, the American, the prince one—and suddenly they were in a gentle riptide: trainers wanting a picture for a kid at home, a rink attendant introducing a nephew, a donor attempting to hand Alex a Sharpie with the gravitas of passing a sword.
They reached the mouth of a lounge done up in institutional grey dressed as silver. Donors in cufflinks milled with rink crew and a small flock of children in jerseys swallowed by their own joy. Beyond the glass, Boston had finished the handshake line. The captain peeled off first, light brown hair damp, sweater half-undone, the C stitched over his heart.
“Ilya Rozanov,” a handler murmured, as if anyone with eyes could have missed it.
He came toward them with that grace Henry had only ever seen in apex predators. Ilya was towering over Alex. He didn't look at Henry. He looked exclusively at Alex. His eyes traveled slowly, deliberately, starting at Alex’s boots, moving up the denim of his jeans, lingering on the fit of his shirt, and finally resting on his face. It wasn't a polite look. It was a consumption.
“Your Royal Highnesses,” Rozanov said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Congrats, Captain,” Alex said, and the room warmed another few degrees at Captain. “That tip-in was rude.”
Henry felt a violent, irrational urge to step forward and physically place himself between them. He knew this Alpha’s reputation. Rozanov was a predator on the ice and, by all accounts, a hedonist off it. He collected trophies.
“The cameras,” Ilya said, shaking his head slowly, a smirk playing on his lips. “They are shit. They do not do this justice.”
Alex’s grin faltered for a split second into genuine surprise. “Excuse me?”
“The photos in the magazines,” Ilya clarified, stepping closer, invading Alex’s personal space. “They make you look... polished. Plastic. But up close?” Ilya tilted his head, his gaze heavy and lidded. “You are very beautiful. Dangerous.”
Henry’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to reach out and pluck Ilya Rozanov’s eyes straight out of his skull.
“In Russia,” Ilya continued, his voice dropping into something intimate and mocking all at once, “we think Americans are loud and British are... stiff. Boring. We do not usually like.” He paused, his eyes darting to Henry for a nanosecond of dismissal before locking back onto Alex. “But for you, Prince Consort? We can make exception.”
Alex blushed under the attention and Henry wanted to chide him for it. “I’ll take the compliment, Rozanov. Even if it was backhanded.”
“Was not backhanded,” Ilya said softly. “Was observation.” He reached out then, grabbing a marker and signing his game stick—a piece of carbon fiber that had likely bludgeoned three people that night. He shoved it into Alex’s chest, his knuckles grazing Alex’s shirt. “For the collection. Tell your husband he is lucky man. If he gets bored, you come to Boston. We show you how we play.”
Alex laughed again, clutching the stick, completely charmed. Henry stepped forward, his patience evaporating.
“We have a schedule to keep,” he said, his voice freezing the air between them.
Ilya looked at Henry then. The man had the guts to smile at him with that same knowing, arrogant smirk from the ice.
“Of course,” Ilya said. “Run along, little prince.”
Henry wanted to snap back and say, I see you watching Hollander. And I know you can’t do a damn thing about it.
But chose to keep his mouth shut for the sake of Alex and his sister who was totally swooning over the Captain of Boston Bears.
Henry knows a thing or two about pining. He knows it when he looks in the mirror, and he certainly knows it when he sees Ilya Rozanov pin Shane Hollander against the boards.
14 June 2017
Sports Foundation Gala
The Tate Modern London
If there was one thing Henry detested more than the suffocating heat of a crowded ballroom, it was the specific, glazed-over expression of a man who had just been charmed by Alexander Claremont-Diaz.
He stood in the shadow of a massive industrial pillar, nursing a glass of sparkling water he had no intention of finishing, and watched his brother’s husband work the room.
It was, objectively speaking, a masterclass. Alex did not simply attend a party; he besieged it. He moved through the throng of Olympians and rugby captains with a magnetic pull that defied physics, his head thrown back in laughter, his hand resting casually on the arm of a bewildered sprinter from Jamaica. He radiated the kind of blinding, effortless charisma that usually resulted in treaties being signed or—more likely—hearts being broken.
And Henry? Henry was the accessory.
He was the Spare, the decorative bookend, dispatched from Kensington Palace because the Duke of Cambridge had contracted a sudden and mysterious "indisposition" (which Henry strongly suspected was code for "a weekend in the Cotswolds with his mistress").
So here Henry stood, playing the role of the dutiful brother-in-law, while Alex smiled at a Canadian hockey player as if the man had personally invented the concept of ice.
"Henry!"
The voice cut through the ambient drone of string quartets and polite chatter. Henry stiffened as Alex waved him over.
"You have to come here," Alex insisted, closing the distance and gripping Henry’s elbow. "Shane was just telling me about the nutritional logistics of a playoff run. It’s fascinating, Hen. Truly Masochistic."
Henry turned his gaze to the man in question. Shane Hollander. The face of the NHL. The "Golden Boy" of North American sports.
And, at this precise moment, a man who looked as though he had been struck by a divine revelation.
Hollander was staring at Alex with an expression that could only be described as devout. His dark eyes were wide, his mouth slightly ajar, and he was nodding enthusiastically at whatever Alex said, regardless of whether it made sense. He looked like a man who had prepared a speech but had forgotten every word the moment the sun came out.
"Your Highness," Hollander managed, remembering his manners a beat too late. He offered a hand, but his gaze darted immediately back to Alex, drawn like a moth to a very expensive, very dangerous flame. "It’s… it’s an honor."
"Mr. Hollander," Henry said, trying not to grumble. "A pleasure."
It was not a pleasure. It was, in fact, singularly irritating.
"Alex was just saying you love horses, is about to be the youngest member of Team GB," Hollander said, looking at Alex as if Alex had personally sculpted the English language out of clay. "That’s amazing. I mean, really cool."
"He's brilliant," Alex said, beaming at Henry. He put his hand on Henry’s shoulder, and Henry felt a traitorous flush creep up his neck, hot and humiliating. "He won't tell you, because he's British and pathologically repressed, but he’s the smartest person in the room."
Hollander looked at Henry then, but the admiration didn't fade. It just pivoted, fueled by Alex’s endorsement. "Wow. That’s... you guys are quite the team."
Henry felt a muscle in his jaw jump. Team. As if they were partners. As if Alex didn't go home to an empty apartment in the palace while Philip was "away." As if Henry didn't spend his nights staring at that photo of him and Alex in that godforsaken Disney space ride, wishing he could be anyone else.
"We do our best," Henry said stiffly.
He watched as Shane Hollander melted further under Alex’s attention. Alex asked a question about face-off percentages—something undoubtedly researched in the car ride over, because Alex never entered a room unprepared—and Hollander lit up. He leaned in closer than was strictly necessary, his posture open, deferential, utterly enamored.
It was entirely innocent, of course. Alex flirted with the world because that is how Alex survived the world. He made everyone feel like the only person in the room because it kept them from looking too closely at the shadows under his own eyes.
But Henry hated it.
He hated the way Hollander smiled, shy and eager. He hated the way Alex laughed, exposing the column of his throat. He hated that he was standing here, the dutiful escort, watching a handsome athlete look at Alex with the kind of open, uncomplicated adoration that Henry had to bury under layers of duty and shame.
"And this," Alex said, pivoting suddenly, his hand sliding from Henry's arm to gesture behind him, "is the trouble."
Henry blinked, pulled from his internal brooding. A shadow had detached itself from a nearby waiter’s station and was now looming over them.
Ilya Rozanov.
He was bigger than Henry remembered from a year ago. Broader. He wore his tuxedo with an air of aggressive disdain, the tie slightly askew, his light brown curls are messy in a way that looked deliberate. He held a tumbler of dark liquid that definitely wasn't the house wine.
"Rozanov," Shane said.
"The table was boring," Ilya said, his voice a deep rumble. He looked at Alex, then at Henry. His gaze was heavy, knowing.
"Your Highness." Ilya offered a mock salute with his glass.
"Just Alex," Alex said, flashing that blinding grin again. "Big fan, Ilya. I saw the highlights from the Boston game. That check in the third period? Lethal."
Ilya smirked. It was a dangerous expression, one that suggested he knew exactly how lethal he was. "He was in my way."
Henry watched the dynamic shift. Hollander was no longer looking at Alex with puppy-dog eyes; he was glaring at Ilya, his hands clenched at his sides. And Ilya… Ilya was ignoring everyone else to stare down Shane, a challenge written in the set of his shoulders.
Alex, oblivious, clapped his hands together. "Okay, photo op! The press officer is giving me the signal. Henry, get in here. Ilya, you too. Let’s look like we’re solving international relations."
As they shuffled into position—Alex radiating light in the center, Shane trying to look dignified, Ilya looking like he was plotting a heist—Henry felt Alex lean against him.
"Smile, Hen," Alex whispered in Henry's ear. "You look like you're planning a murder."
"I am contemplating the death of my patience," Henry whispered back.
Alex laughed just in time as the photographer snapped the picture.
21 December 2018
Kensington Palace, Apartment 1A
Henry sat on the edge of his bed, the morning edition of The Times spread open on his knees. The headline was not a surprise—he had known it was coming for weeks, had watched the legal machinery grind its slow, inexorable way toward this conclusion
ROYAL DECREE ABSOLUTE: PRINCE PHILIP AND PRINCE CONSORT ALEX FINALIZE DIVORCE
Below the fold, a smaller, crueler headline: America’s Prince Returns Home Alone.
Henry traced the line of Alex’s jaw in the accompanying photograph. It was an old picture, taken three years ago on the balcony after the wedding. Alex was smiling beautifully, but Henry knew better now. He looked at the tightness around Alex’s eyes, the way his hand gripped the railing just a little too hard.
He looked like a man who knew he was walking into a trap.
Henry folded the paper, meticulous and slow, and set it on the nightstand.
Alex was gone.
There would be no more late-night texts about American politics that Henry pretended to understand. No more sneaking out to get kebabs at 2 AM. No more of that electric, terrifying friction whenever they were in the same room.
Alex had packed his life into boxes and flown back to Texas, leaving behind a shattered marriage and a brother-in-law who had never once had the courage to tell him the truth.
Henry stood up and walked to the window.
He was sixteen. He had his whole life ahead of him. That was what everyone kept saying.
You’re young, Henry. You have so much time.
But time felt like a threat now. Time was just a measure of how long he would have to exist in a world where Alex Claremont-Diaz was thousands of miles away, building a life that had nothing to do with him.
"I will not be like this," he whispered to the empty room, staring hard at his reflection in the glass window. "I will not be a tragedy."
10 January 2019
Eton College, Windsor
Henry sat in the library, the glow of his laptop the only light in the room. He had created a fake Twitter account, @HistoryBuff1998, ostensibly to follow historical societies and museums. In reality, it was a shrine to Alex Claremont-Diaz.
He scrolled through the timeline. Alex was back in Texas, working on his mother’s presidential election campaign. There were photos of him at rallies, hair windblown, looking more alive than he ever had in the stifling confines of Kensington Palace.
Henry typed a reply to a tweet criticizing Alex’s stance on immigration reform.
@HistoryBuff1998: perhaps if you understood the nuances of the policy instead of relying on xenophobic rhetoric, you would see the merit in Mr. Claremont-Diaz's proposal.
He deleted it. Too formal. Too Henry.
@HistoryBuff1998: u sound like u eat dry toast for fun. read a book.
Better.
4 September 2020
University of Oxford
They called it his "Fox-Boy Era."
It was a moniker bestowed by the tabloids, initially with a sneer, then with a sort of grudging admiration as the string of conquests grew. The Spare, finally living up to the reputation of a royal wild child.
Henry leaned back in the booth of the Turf Tavern, nursing a pint of ale, and watched the boy across from him talk.
The boy—Julian? Justin? Something with a J—was blond, athletic, and currently explaining the nuances of the Oxford rowing team's training schedule with an enthusiasm that bordered on religious. He was perfectly nice. He was perfectly handsome. He was perfectly boring.
"And then Coach said we needed to focus on the catch," J-something was saying, gesturing with a fry. "Because if you miss the catch, the whole rhythm goes to hell."
"Fascinating," Henry murmured, taking a sip of his drink.
It wasn't that he didn't try. He did. He went to parties. He flirted. He took boys back to his rooms and let them touch him, let them think they were the ones unlocking the enigmatic Prince Henry.
But every time he closed his eyes, he saw brown skin and dark curls. Every time someone laughed, he waited for the specific, sharp bark of Alex's amusement, and when it didn't come, disappointment curdled in his gut.
He was eighteen now. He should be over it.
"Henry?"
He blinked, refocusing on the boy across the table. "Apologies. You were saying?"
"I asked if you wanted to go back to my place," the boy said, a hopeful flush rising on his cheeks. "My flatmates are out."
Henry looked at him. He saw the way the boy's eyes widened slightly, the way his hand twitched on the table. He saw the hunger there, the desire to be the one who claimed a prince.
It made Henry feel cold.
"I can't," Henry said, sliding out of the booth. "I have... an essay. For Tutorial."
It was a lie. He had finished his essay three days ago. But he couldn't do this. Not tonight.
He walked back to his rooms alone, the damp Oxford air clinging to his coat. When he got inside, he locked the door and pulled out his phone.
He didn't have Alex's number anymore. He had deleted it the day the divorce was finalized, a performative act of closure that hadn't closed anything at all.
But he had the internet.
He opened a private browser window and typed the name that lived under his skin. Alex Claremont-Diaz.
The results flooded the screen. Alex at a fundraiser in Austin. Alex speaking at a rally.
And then, the pictures Henry hated most.
Alex with a man.
Congressman-Elect Claremont-Diaz Spotted with Tech Entrepreneur Michael Holtz.
Henry zoomed in on the photo. Holtz was tall, dark-haired, handsome in a bland, corporate way. His hand was on the small of Alex's back. Henry felt a surge of possessiveness so violent it made his hands shake. That was his place. That was where his hand should be.
He opened a new tab. Michael Holtz.
He read everything. Holtz's business history, his family background, his political donations. He found a lawsuit from three years ago alleging wage theft. He found a rumor about a messy breakup in San Francisco.
He filed it all away in the dark, quiet part of his mind where he kept his secrets.
It wasn't that he wanted to hurt anyone. He just... needed to know. He needed to know if this man was worthy of Alex. (Spoiler: He wasn't. No one was.)
He did this every time. When Alex was linked to a chef in D.C., Henry found the health code violations for his restaurant. When there were rumors about a legislative aide, Henry knew his voting record better than his own constituents did.
He was the ghost in the machine. He told himself it was protection. He told himself he was just looking out for Alex, because Alex was too trusting, too open, too ready to give pieces of himself away to people who would only break him.
But deep down, Henry knew the truth.
He was waiting. He was watching the board, tracking the pieces, waiting for the moment when the game would shift and he could make his move.
He was officially studying English Literature. Unofficially, he was majoring in Alex Claremont-Diaz Studies.
He had set up Google Alerts for "Alex Claremont-Diaz," "Ellen Claremont," "Texas Politics," and "Claremont-Diaz + Scandal." Every morning, he woke up to a curated digest of Alex’s life.
He knew when Alex passed the bar exam (top 5%, naturally). He knew when Alex was spotted having dinner with a "mystery brunette" who turned out to be Nora Holleran (Henry had breathed a sigh of relief so profound it rattled his windows).
He also knew that Alex was angry. The articles described him as "fiery," "passionate," "a political firebrand." Henry read between the lines. Alex was hurting. Alex was lonely. Alex was throwing himself into work to avoid thinking about the past.
Henry understood. He was doing the same, burying himself in books and polo and the endless, crushing weight of duty.
Alex was running for Congress. Henry watched every debate, every speech, every interview. He watched Alex charm crowds in dusty town halls, watched him dismantle opponents with a smile that was all teeth, watched him fight for the people who had been left behind.
He created a new Twitter account, @TexanAtHeart, using a VPN to mask his location.
@TexanAtHeart: ACD for Congress! Finally, someone who knows the difference between a policy proposal and a platitude. Also, he has great hair. #ACD2021
He liked a tweet from June making fun of Alex’s coffee addiction. He retweeted a video of Alex dancing with a constituent at a fundraiser. He felt like a ghost haunting his own life, watching the person he loved from behind a screen of glass and pixels.
When Alex won, Henry celebrated alone in his room at Kensington Palace, drinking a glass of whiskey and whispering "Congratulations, love" to the empty air.
1 May 2022
Kensington Palace
The internet did not break often. It bent, it stretched, it occasionally snapped back like a rubber band against the collective consciousness of the world, but a true, structural fracture was rare.
Henry was sitting in the window seat of his quarters, rain streaking the glass in a dreary grey curtain that matched his mood, when the notification vibration from his phone buzzed against the hardwood.
It was his "watch list" alert. The specific algorithm he had tuned to track high-level cultural shifts that might interest Alex.
TRENDING: #TheVideo
TRENDING: #ShaneAndIlya
TRENDING: #AlphaPlusAlpha
Henry frowned. He picked up the phone, unlocking the screen to see a deluge of red notification bubbles on his secret Twitter account. The timeline was moving so fast the text was a blur, a chaotic waterfall of caps lock and reaction GIFs.
He tapped the top link.
It was a video hosted on a third-party site, ripped from an Instagram story before it could be deleted. The caption read: HAYDEN DIDN’T CHECK THE BACKGROUND. HOLY SHIT.
Henry pressed play.
The video was shaky, handheld footage. A man Henry recognized as Hayden—Shane Hollander’s teammate—was speaking to the camera, holding a protein shake, rambling cheerfully about offseason training. He was in a kitchen, a massive, modern space bathed in morning light.
“—so basically, you gotta keep the reps high even when you’re tired,” Hayden was saying.
But Henry wasn’t looking at Hayden. He was looking over Hayden’s left shoulder, through the open archway into the living room.
There were two men on the sofa.
Shane Hollander was wearing grey sweatpants and a t-shirt that looked two sizes too big. He was sitting with his legs pulled up, a mug in his hands. And hovering over him, leaning down from the back of the couch, was Ilya Rozanov.
It wasn’t the aggressive posturing Henry had seen at the gala. It wasn’t the tense rivalry of the ice.
Ilya was stroking Shane’s hair. His hand—large, scarred, heavy—was moving with a tenderness that made Henry’s chest ache. Shane tilted his head back, exposing his throat, a gesture of absolute, terrifying submission.
And then, Ilya kissed him.
Hayden moved, obscuring them, and the video ended.
He refreshed his feed. The internet was, as expected, losing its collective mind.
@SportsIllustrated: The NHL’s biggest rivals were secretly dating for YEARS and no one knew. This is the plot of a romance novel.
@Deadspin: Imagine checking someone into the boards so hard you fracture their rib and then going home and kissing it better. King behavior.
@TheBostonGlobe: Hollander and Rozanov’s relationship raises questions about the NHL’s culture and professionalism. We’ve reached out to the Ottawa Centaurs, Montreal Voyageurs, and the league for comment. Updates to follow.
@PuckBunny99: THERE IS NO WAY. NO WAY.
@StatsGuy: Two Alphas? In the same house? Domestically? The territorial pheromones alone should have blown the roof off. This is insane.
It was the "Alpha" commentary that dominated the conversation. Society tried to be tolerant to an Alpha and an Omega, or two Betas. But two Alphas? Two dominant, aggressive, top-tier athletes?
It was biologically discouraged. It was socially baffled. It was viewed as a recipe for violence, not domestic bliss.
And yet, Henry had seen the way Shane leaned into Ilya’s touch during that game years ago. He had seen the peace there.
He felt sick, watching the tide of homophobia and biological essentialism rise. People calling it "unnatural," calling it a "power play gone wrong," speculating on which one of them had "give way" to make the other win.
And then, as Henry refreshed again, a new tweet appeared at the top of his feed.
Alex Claremont-Diaz @TheAGCD • 3m
🔁 Quote Tweet @TheBostonGlobe
I’ve had the privilege of meeting Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov before, and I’m going to keep this simple because they deserve humanity, not commentary.
They are two of the best athletes in the world. Nothing about who they love changes what they’ve earned—every goal, every save, every hour of work that got them here.
The least we can do is make sure nothing and no one tries to make their lives smaller than their merit.
Let them play. Let them live. Grow up. 🏳️🌈
6.5K Retweets | 9.2K Quotes | 90K Likes
Thread
puck girlie @PuckPalace • 54s
Replying to @TheAGCD
PRINCE ALEX 😭 “humanity, not commentary” THANK YOU
SensSeasonTickets @BywardBleachers • 47s
Replying to @TheAGCD
Ottawa better wrap around Ilya like armor. That’s OUR captain.
BruinsOldHead @SouthieSeasonTix • 41s
Replying to @TheAGCD
He wore the C here once too. Still proud of him. Anyone mad can stay mad.
DC Policy Wire @Capitol_Gavel • 5m
Replying to @TheAGCD
Congressman Claremont-Diaz is framing this explicitly as a meritocracy issue, shifting the conversation away from sexuality and toward professional equality. A strong move to rally support ahead of the Dream & Unity Act.
Henry stared at the screen.
Of course. Of course Alex would dive headfirst into the fire. Of course Alex, now a freshman Congressman with a target on his back, would burn political capital to defend two hockey players he barely knew, simply because it was the right thing to do.
And he can never be more proud.
It was a Tuesday in mid-February, 2026, when the ‘PearGate’ incident hit the internet like a thunderclap.
Henry was in a meeting for the 2028 British Olympic delegation when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. He excused himself, stepping into the hallway to check the App.
And there it was.
Alex Claremont-Diaz, Congressman for Texas's 35th District, had gone rogue.
Henry read the tweet, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. "Go home, eat a soft pear."
It was so Alex. So beautifully, recklessly, brilliantly Alex.
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Royal Watchdog @RoyalWatchDog • 34m
Did anyone else catch Alex Claremont-Diaz going rogue for ~45 seconds before the tweet vanished? 💀 Screenshots are forever. #AlexClaremontDiaz #PearGate
[IMAGE ATTACHMENT: SCREENSHOT]
Rep. Hal Rogers @RepHalRogers • 1h
Today I filed an amendment to strip the bloated “Green Energy” slush fund from the FY27 omnibus. We can’t waste billions on solar fantasies while families fight inflation. It’s time to back reliable, baseload power. 🇺🇸 #KY05 #Appropriations
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Alex Claremont-Diaz @TheAGCD • 48m
Replying to @RepHalRogers
I wrote that rider in ‘25 and it lowered energy costs by 12% in your own district, Hal. You’re trying to bankrupt the grid to protect an industry that peaked when you were middle-aged. You’ve been in Congress since Thriller dropped. Please go home, eat a soft pear, and let the people who will actually be alive in 2050 handle the future.
⚠️ This Tweet has been deleted.
3.2K Retweets | 8.1K Quotes | 45K Likes
Thread
Nora Holleran-stat 📊 @NoraHolleran • 30m
Replying to @RoyalWatchDog
The data regarding the 12% cost reduction in KY-05 is accurate. Also, pears are high in fiber. 🍐
Hunter 🇺🇸 @FreedomEagle2024 • 32m
Replying to @RoyalWatchDog
Typical DC elitist lecturing Kentucky. Stay in your lane, Claremont-Diaz. #USA
June C-D @JuneCD • 28m
Replying to @RoyalWatchDog
I turn my back for FIVE MINUTES to buy a coffee and he starts a political incident involving fruit.
Pez 🦋 @PrincePercy • 25m
Replying to @JuneCD
Darling, you must admit, "Eat a soft pear" is a devastating insult. It’s gentle yet ruinous. I’m having it printed on t-shirts immediately.
Politico Playbook @playbookdc • 15m Replying to @RoyalWatchDog
Developing: Whitehouse declines to comment on "private social media usage," but the tweet has been scrubbed from all servers.
ashley (taylor’s version) @ashley_reads • 33m
Replying to @RoyalWatchDog
“Let the people who will actually be alive in 2050 handle the future.”
GAG. HIM. 💀 I know he’s no longer a prince but Alex Claremont-Diaz remains the People’s Princess of roasting old men.
BBC Breaking News @BBCBreaking • 10m
Whitehouse has issued a brief statement regarding a "security breach" on the First Son’s social media accounts. #PearGate
Dr. Karim Haddad @DrKarimH • 5m Replying to @RoyalWatchDog
As a medical professional, I advise against eating pears if you are currently choking on your own rage.
Zahra Bankston @ZBankston • 2m
Replying to @RoyalWatchDog
I am going to kill him.
Ramona Holloway @RonaHolloway • 1m
Replying to @ZBankston
Get in line.
Henry’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He switched accounts to @HistoryBuff1998, which he had kept active all these years.
@HistoryBuff1998: Replying to @RoyalWatchDog
A devastating critique delivered with culinary flair. Truly, a masterclass in political discourse. #PearGate #TeamAlex
He hit send, a small, secret thrill coursing through him.
Henry smiled. Alex was in trouble. Alex was probably getting yelled at right now. Alex was alive, and fighting, and setting the world on fire.
And Henry, thousands of miles away, was watching every spark.
The waiting was the hardest part.
It was an active, grinding endurance. Henry threw himself into his duties with a ferocity that alarmed his staff and delighted his grandmother. He cut ribbons, he shook hands, he sat on committees. He reorganized the Royal Collection's archives. He learned to fly helicopters. He learned to pilot the monarchy through the choppy waters of a changing world.
But in the quiet moments, in the dead of night when the palace slept around him, he was just a man waiting for a ghost to come home.
He watched Alex's career from afar, a spectator in the nosebleed seats. He saw Alex navigate the treacherous waters of Washington with a grace that belied the fire in his belly.
He had waited, and he had fought to death, and he had won. They’re endgame.
October 14, 2032
Vancouver, Canada
The rain that had threatened the coast all morning held off, leaving the sky a bright, scrubbed blue that reflected off the glass towers of Vancouver.
Henry stood on the edge of the sprawling green at Jericho Beach Park, the collar of his windbreaker turned up against the breeze coming off the Pacific. Technically, this was the "Commonwealth Family & Youth Initiative" picnic—a casual engagement designed to soften the transition of the monarchy. Since his grandmother’s abdication last month, Henry existed in a strange limbo: he was King in name and authority, but the coronation wasn’t until May of next yesr. He was a monarch without a crown, touring the realms to reintroduce himself not as the Spare after Philip was stripped of his titles and barred from inheriting the throne because of the Omegaril scandal, but as the Sovereign.
But mostly, he was just a father trying to convince his three-year-old son that the other children weren't going to eat him.
Across the grass, chaos reigned with a pop-up hockey rink that had been assembled on the pavement, and Alora was currently in the thick of it. Wearing a miniature Team Canada jersey over her dress, she was chasing a ball with a plastic stick, screaming in a mix of English and Spanish that had the local children captivated. She was pure Alex—fearless, loud, and entirely convinced that she was the main character of the event.
Archie, however, was pure Henry.
He was currently attached to Henry’s leg like a barnacle, his face buried in the denim of Henry’s jeans. His thumb was plugged firmly in his mouth, a habit they’d been trying to break but had surrendered to for the duration of the tour.
"Archie, darling," Henry murmured, resting his hand on his son’s soft, copper-brown curls. "Look. There’s a face painter. I believe I saw someone getting a tiger."
Archie shook his head against Henry’s thigh, tightening his grip. "No."
Henry sighed, crouching down until he was eye-level with his son. He knew this feeling—the overwhelming noise, the strangers, the terrifying demand to perform happiness. He smoothed Archie’s hair back.
"You don't have to play," Henry promised. "You can stay right here with me as long as you like. We can just watch."
Archie peeked one eye out, skeptical. "Promise?"
"King's honor," Henry said, tapping his nose.
Archie considered this, then turned slightly to watch the fray, though he kept one hand fisted in Henry’s jacket.
Henry straightened, keeping a protective hand on Archie’s shoulder. He watched Alex across the field, laughing as he high-fived a mascot. It was a good day. The press was kept at a distance; the mood was light.
"Hi."
The voice came from knee-height.
Henry looked down. Standing there was a boy, perhaps five years old, holding a slightly deflated red ball.
He was a striking child. He had a mop of unruly, dark curls that refused to sit flat, and eyes that were a startling, intelligent hazel. But it was the dusting of dark freckles across his nose and cheekbones that made Henry pause. The boy studied Henry with a frank, unblinking assessment that felt unnervingly familiar, radiating a confidence that bordered on arrogance, softened only by the gap-toothed grin he suddenly flashed.
"Hello," Henry said, smiling. "I like your ball."
"It's not mine," the boy said matter-of-factly. "I stole it from the goalie. He wasn't using it right."
Henry choked back a laugh. "I see. A tactical acquisition."
The boy looked at Archie, who had removed his thumb from his mouth and was staring at the older boy with wide, fascinated brown eyes.
"I'm Wyatt," the boy said to Archie. He held out the ball. "Do you want it? I'm bored of it."
Archie hesitated, looking up at Henry for confirmation. Henry nodded gently.
"I'm Archie," his son whispered, reaching out to touch the red rubber.
"Cool name," Wyatt decided. "Come on, Archie. I saw a dog over there with three legs."
Henry watched, baffled and charmed, as this strange, charismatic child broke through Archie’s defenses in under thirty seconds. He was still trying to place the boy’s features—the flawless tan skin, the dark hair, the sharp jawline that was already defining itself—when a voice called out from the crowd.
"Wyatt! You little terror, give the ball back!"
Henry looked up.
Walking toward them, looking effortlessly windblown in a leather jacket and scarf, was Shane Hollander.
The years had been kind to him. The jet-black hair was cut shorter now, but the dark eyes were just as intense, and the freckles—the same ones scattered across Wyatt's face—were unmistakable.
Trailing a few steps behind him, looking significantly more disheveled and pleased, was Ilya Rozanov. He wore a beanie pulled low over light brown curls that matched the chaos of his son’s hair, his hands shoved in the pockets of a coat that looked expensive but treated poorly.
"Oh, Christ," Henry muttered, a smile breaking across his face.
"Your Highness," Ilya boomed as they got closer, his grin lopsided and lazy, teeth flashing white. "I see my son is harassing one of the heir to the throne. Is this an act of war?"
"He's giving him stolen property, actually," Henry said, straightening up and offering a hand to Shane. "It's good to see you both."
Shane shook his hand, his grip firm. "Your Majesty. Sorry about Wyatt. He has no concept of personal space. We're working on it."
"He has plenty of concept," Ilya corrected, stepping up to shake Henry’s hand after Shane. "He just chooses to ignore it. Like his father."
Henry looked from Ilya to the boy—Wyatt—who was now leading a mesmerized Archie toward the edge of the field where the three-legged dog allegedly resided. The resemblance was suddenly arresting. The boy had Shane’s coloring and poise, but he moved with Ilya’s loose-limbed, predatory grace. A perfect, terrifying mixture of the two.
"He is..." Henry gestured to the boy.
"A nightmare?" Shane suggested fondly.
"A perfect mix," Henry corrected. "He's got your freckles, Shane."
"And my charm," Ilya added proudly. "Obviously."
"Obviously," Henry deadpanned. "I assume you're in town for the hockey exhibition?"
"Coaching clinic," Shane said, rolling his eyes as Ilya poked him in the ribs. "Ilya is 'guest lecturing.' Which mostly means showing kids how to check people into the boards without getting caught."
"It is an art form," Ilya argued. He looked past Henry, watching Wyatt take Archie’s hand to help him over a small divot in the grass. Archie, usually so skittish, held on tight, looking up at the older boy with hero worship written all over his face.
Ilya’s hazel eyes glinted with mischief. He nudged Henry.
"Look at that," Ilya rumbled, nodding at the two boys. "Your kid likes my kid. He’s got good taste. Maybe they’ll get married one day, eh? They be endgame. Imagine the dynasty. Hockey and royalty. We would be unstoppable."
Henry visualized, with crystal clarity, scooping Archie up, marching him back to the motorcade, and locking him in the highest tower of Windsor Castle until he was at least forty-five.
"My Archie is three," Henry said, feeling the same irritation he felt in the tunnel years ago. "And he is not marrying anyone. Least of all a chaotic, hockey-playing ruffian who steals equipment."
Ilya threw his head back and laughed, a booming sound that made a passing Mountie flinch. "You sound just like Shane's dad. 'Oh no, the big bad Russian is coming for my baby.'" He winked at Henry. "Spoiler alert, Wales: the Russian always wins."
Shane sighed, long and suffering, but he was smiling as he watched their sons run. "Don't listen to him. But... it is good to see you, Your Majesty."
"And you," Henry said.
Across the field, Alex spotted them. He enthusiastically waved at Shane and Ilya then jogged over, Alora bouncing on his shoulders.
"No way," Alex shouted. "Shane! Ilya! Did we just form a diplomatic summit?"
"Only if you have vodka, Prince Consort,” Ilya said confidently.
Henry looked at his husband, then at his son holding hands with the son of two hockey legends, and felt the timeline settle into something perfect and strange.
"I believe," Henry said, "we can arrange that."
End.