Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alex Claremont-Diaz does not give a fuck about the royal family. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he clicks through the channels to find the live broadcast of the royal wedding. He knows he’s found the right one when he sees a sea of people crowding outside of Westminster Abbey waving Union Jacks and banners with the bland, forgettable faces of the happy couple. Alex tosses the remote to the couch carelessly, padding into the kitchen and rummaging through the cabinets, pushing aside Nora’s health food granola bars that she won’t admit contain as much sugar as a candy bar and June’s wide selection of tea. He victoriously retreats back to the couch and plops down on it, an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers in hand. 

They’re still playing footage of carriages and the cheering crowd when Alex hears June and Nora’s door quietly click shut. Alex looks over his shoulder to see June squinting in the blue light of the television, crossing her arms over her fluffy bathrobe that she’s wearing over a pink pajama set, her curly hair piled atop her head. “Don’t you have a paper to write?” she asks, her voice hoarse from sleep. 

He did, but he was resolutely ignoring it. “Aren’t you on deadline?” he shoots back in self defense. 

She ignores his question, instead falling onto the cushion next to him and stealing a cracker from the sleeve, stuffing the entire thing in her mouth and chewing with some difficulty. “Did you make coffee?” she asks groggily, covering her mouth so no crumbs escape while she chews. Alex shakes his head, making June roll her eyes and rise from the couch with a huff. 

“Cinnamon and sugar!” Alex calls after her when he hears the coffeemaker gurgle from the kitchen. 

“I know!” June calls back to him. 

A few minutes later, Alex accepts a steaming mug of coffee from his sister and takes a long, grateful sip. June falls back into her spot on the couch with her coffee and a bowl of popcorn despite the early hour. June’s presence at his side is familiar and comforting, as it’s not unlike dozens of other mornings they’ve had over the years with neither being able maintain a normal sleep schedule. 

“Why are we watching this?” June asks, leaning forward and hypocritically picking up a magazine with Prince Philip and soon to be Dutchess Martha pictured on the cover, Prince Philip Says I Do! scrawled in giant letters across the page. “Did you know that they spent $75,000 just on the cake?” 

“That’s depressing,” Alex replies. “Don’t they have poor people in Britain? Someone should destroy that cake in protest.” 

June snorts, still looking down at the open magazine. No matter how much June harps on about journalistic integrity and serious reporting, she can’t resist a trashy tabloid. “That’s a waste,” June comments. “We could break in and steal it, distribute it to the hungry commoners.” 

Alex laughs. “Let them eat cake,” he recites in a truly terrible English accent. He claims to make his accent intentionally terrible for the purposes of righteous mockery, but that is a filthy, blatant lie. 

“Why the fuck are you guys being to loud?” Nora grumbles from the doorway of her and June’s room. She shuffles over to the couch and drops on the other side of June, throwing her legs over June’s lap, who moves her bowl of popcorn to accommodate her. “It’s ass o’clock.” She leans her head against the back of the couch and closes her eyes. 

“Royal wedding,” Alex and June say in unison, and Nora opens her eyes to look at the screen as the carriage containing the royal family stops in front of the Abbey and the door swings open. 

The first person to step out is Princess Catherine, looking regal and beautiful as always, though her smile looks forced even from a distance. She is followed by her eldest son Philip, then Princess Beatrice and Prince Henry. Nora hums neutrally as the family greets the people lined up outside the church, with Philip in his dress military uniform, and the rest of the family in color coordinated, but not matching outfits. A few minutes before six, the carriage carrying Philip’s bride, Martha, pulls up and the woman’s father assists her as she steps down. 

June hums appreciatively as she stuffs a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Damn,” she says, “that dress is gorgeous.” Alex agrees, and pointedly doesn’t think about how much it probably costs. 

“Yeah,” Nora agrees, “she looks surprisingly hot and not at all like a nun considering this is the royal wedding. What do you think Alex,” she leans over June to look at him, “smash or pass?”

“Nora!” June exclaims, swatting Nora on the shoulder; Nora looks unrepentant. “She’s literally getting married,” she chastises predictably. Alex smiles to himself. ‘Smash or pass’ is a game that Alex and Nora play only when they’re around June because they know that it annoys and confounds her. 

Alex makes a noise as if in contemplation. “Pass,” Alex answers dismissively, completely ignoring June’s protests. “Rich, white, blonde,” he counts the characteristics off on his fingers, “I can find that in literally any NYU classroom.” He takes a long pull of his coffee as the bride waves at her admirers. “What about you?”

“Smash,” Nora says in a tone that suggests this is the obvious and only acceptable answer. “We’ll have a lurid affair and then I’ll be able to use our lesbian adultery to blackmail the royal family and milk them for all they’re fucking worth.” She taps her index finger on the side of her head haughtily. 

“And what does Martha get out of all of this?” June cuts in, amusement hidden in her skeptical tone. 

Nora shrugs casually, but a wide smile spreads across her face. “Her first ever orgasm?”

Alex laughs and, despite her best efforts, June hides her small giggle behind her hand. They all fall silent to watch Martha make her slow march down the aisle, the long, intricate lace train trailing behind her. She steps up to the altar and doesn’t turn to face her soon to be husband, instead facing the front of the church and the priest. The three of them settle in and pull blankets into their laps to wait out what is undoubtedly going to be the longest and most boring wedding ceremony ever. 

“What about Philip?” Nora asks, breaking the silence. “Smash or pass?” 

Alex grimaces. “Pass,” Alex answers emphatically. “He is about as interesting as a wet piece of cardboard. I’d probably fall asleep in the middle of him fucking me.” 

June scrunches up her nose as Nora’s eyebrows shoot up. “You would bottom for the Prince of England?” 

“Please,” Alex says, flapping his hand dismissively. “His fragile masculinity would never allow him to bottom,” he argues. “And you know I’m vers.”

Nora’s smirk turns mischievous. “Indeed I do Alejandro.” 

“Can we not discuss my little brother’s sexual preferences?” June begs, groaning into her hands. “It’s too early for this.” 

“But I agree—pass,” Nora says, obediently moving on. “ Prince Henry on the other hand. He could get it.” 

The camera pans around to the audience in the church, most of whom look bored, but are trying to look touched and moved by the power of true love. As the camera lands on the royal family, Alex’s eyes drift to His Royal Highness Prince Henry, wearing a lush waistcoat embroidered with gold thread under a perfectly tailored suit jacket with not a single hair out of place. He looks as disinterested and aloof as always, his polite facade cracked only by the tight pinch at the corner of his mouth. Alex scoffs. “Sure,” he says sarcastically, “if you’re into prince fucking charming.”  

“You mean you wouldn’t take the chance to have hot, steamy hate sex with your arch nemesis?” Nora says, looking at him as if he’s the crazy one. “Enemies to lovers, Alex. Have we taught you nothing?”

“Gonna have to agree with Nora on this one,” June chimes in. “He is a mysterious young royal and you’re the tempestuous ingenue who will come to see him in a new light. It practically writes itself.” Alex rolls his eyes, thinking that the only mysterious thing about the prince is how he’s managed to become the physical embodiment of the color beige. 

“Stop trying to Jane Austen my life,” Alex says, pushing at June’s shoulder. “And Henry is not my arch nemesis. He is a prince and an international figurehead,” he motions to the TV despite that Henry is no longer pictured on screen, “and I,” he motions to himself, “am some guy. That is not the makings for a rivalry.” 

“Whatever,” June says, flapping her hand at him. They settle into silence again, blinking drowsily at the screen as the sun rises over Brooklyn, shining through their windows and casting their living room in warm morning light. Why did people watch this shit? This was boring as fuck. 

Alex’s mind wanders back to Henry unbidden. It’s not that Alex really had a lot of reason to hate Henry—they only met one time during his mom’s campaign almost four years ago. When his mom lost the election, their lives went on with Henry as a prince and Alex as a…student and waiter at a diner. They never had reason to cross paths and they likely never would again—at least that was one teeny, tiny, minuscule silver lining to the nightmare that was Richards’ administration.

The infernal ceremony finally ends and the happy couple retreat down the aisle, her hand demurely placed in his. Martha’s smile is small and polite, and Philip looks…respectable. Alex shakes his head to himself—it’s their literal wedding day and they're touching each other like siblings—it's passionless and about as sexy as a business transaction. Was there anyone in the royal family that wasn’t boring as shit? 

The camera follows them as the newlyweds thank their guests for coming—foreign leaders and diplomats and the A-list of the A-list celebrities, most of whom the couple has probably never even met before. Alex thinks he can almost feel the temperature drop in the room as the couple steps up to President Jeffrey Richards and his First Lady—why can’t she just smother him in his sleep? Alex knows she wants to; you can see it in her eyes—smiling and shaking their hands as if their citizens didn’t literally protest in the streets the last time Richards entered the country. 

The screen goes dark as June lifts the remote and turns the television off. “At least we don’t have to be there,” June says lightly, looking to either side at Alex and Nora. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, throwing his head back and draining the final dregs of coffee that remain in his mug. “Thank fucking god.” 

———

Alex swipes his MetroCard to step onto the relatively empty subway platform and looks up to see that the Q train wouldn’t be leaving in a few minutes. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the news. 

2 Dakota Pipeline Protesters Face Federal Charges Over 2017 Damages

Why Richards Voters Stick With Him

Bernie Sanders Will Participate in Next Debate, His Campaign Says

Pete Buttigieg Bets His Campaign on Breakthrough in Iowa 

Alex pockets his phone and shakes his head to himself—the first primaries don’t even start until February, but there are already about a million Democratic candidates determined to vanquish Richards, completely ignoring the fact that what they’re really doing is splitting the democratic vote. Not that Alex is going to say anything about it. 

Alex is grateful when he steps into his 9:30 philosophy class, where he can be free of the interminable talk of politics and the impending election for an hour and a half. 

It’s not that Alex doesn’t follow politics anymore—it would be irresponsible not to, and it’s basically impossible with his family—but he doesn’t have the same hopes and dreams of participating in politics anymore. Those dreams basically died when the final state turned red, pushing Richards over the required 270 electoral votes to win the presidency. The corpse of his dead dreams were then mercilessly mutilated in the months following the inauguration, in his first few months at Georgetown. 

He wrote papers on how the Electoral College is at odds with democracy, using the election that his mom lost as an example and thought ‘Why am I doing this?’ He had debates against white guys playing ‘devil’s advocate’ to argue for conservative policies that everyone knew they actually agreed with and thought ‘Is this really what I want to do with my life?’ He walked to class, reading the news on his phone that only frustrated and angered him and thought ‘What am I even doing here?’ It was a no brainer when he applied to transfer to NYU the following semester as a philosophy and sociology major, pointedly avoiding political science. 

———

Alex has two jobs, but one isn’t technically a job since they didn’t pay him—one was to pay his, admittedly small, portion of the rent and utilities, the other was to make him feel like he wasn’t a useless piece of shit. 

After Alex’s two Friday classes end, he takes the train back to Brooklyn to his volunteer job at the Okonjo Foundation Center for LGBTQ+ Homeless and Disenfranchised Youth. Queer people make up for around forty percent of the homeless youth in New York, an already pervasive issue that was only exascerbated by Richards’ endless and very pointed attacks against the LGBT community, especially trans people. Every headline made him want to put his fist through a wall or burn down a fucking building, preferably the White House. This job makes him feel about twenty percent better. 

The shelter is relatively small, having only been opened a few years ago, so everyone helps where they can. Alex prefers the legal department as he has a brain for reading and interpreting laws and guidelines that pertain to all kinds of services that the shelter provides, from emancipation to name change to welfare applications, and it comes with the added bonus of looking good on his law school application. Today, however, the director Juliet stops him before the door even falls closed behind him. 

“Alex! Thank god you’re here,” Juliet calls from her place behind the front desk as she waves him over. Juliet Costa is a lesbian woman from Indiana with a public administration degree from Harvard and an ever changing hair color; right now it was purple. She’s kind and patient and her default state is stressed, so Alex basically did whatever she said, mostly without complaint. 

He approaches the desk warily—usually when Juliet said something like ‘thank god you’re here’ it meant that she was going to pass off a task that was too time consuming or too gross for her to handle. “Hey Jules, what’s up?”

She releases a deep sigh as she stands, straightening out a stack of papers. “The owner’s coming today with a donor. I need you to show him around.” She shoves the stack of papers at him, and Alex has to fumble to grab them from her hand. “Sign those.” 

Alex looks down at the paper atop the pile and sees the words at the top of the page: Non-Disclosure Agreement. Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. It wasn’t unusual for large donors to want to see the shelter. It was unusual for them to send a fucking NDA. 

“You know the drill: show him around, explain the day to day, let him interact with the more outgoing kids—” She cuts herself off as Alex turns to the last page and scrawls his signature on the dotted line. “You should actually read that.” He shrugs and hands the papers back to her—it’s not like he’d talk to anyone other than June and Nora—and she takes them, albeit reluctantly. 

It’s only a few minutes before the door opens, letting in the sounds of the city street and two men. One Alex recognizes from the shelter’s website as the owner Percy Okonjo. He was tall and dark with his buzzcut dyed a very nice shade of lavender. He reaches out his ring laden hand to hold open the door for the person behind him. The other man steps inside and, after the door falls shut behind them, he pulls down the hood of his navy blue sweatshirt to reveal an infuriatingly familiar face. Alex’s brain stutters, trying to reconcile that what he sees in front of him is in fact reality. It’s a face that he’s memorized from the covers of magazines and photos on a screen and his own memory of their first meeting—a day that plays over and over in Alex’s mind; it still makes him angry, even over three years later. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Alex mutters under his breath.

Chapter Text

The key to being in his family, Henry has learned, is all about knowing precisely where the lines are. As long as he knew where the lines were, he could walk right up to them, maybe poke at them a bit, without ever crossing them. As Henry looks around the lobby of Pez’s shelter—where he is anonymously donating hundreds of thousands of dollars of the crown’s money—he thinks that he is stepping dangerously close to that line. 

Anyone that read the NDAs that Shaan insisted he send ahead of time could figure who the donor was, so it's unsurprising when the director, Juliet, looks completely cool and collected when she politely shakes his hand. The person beside her looks comparatively shaken. Henry does a double take, staring at the volunteer who was standing to the left of the shelter’s director, taking in the now familiar dark curls and smooth skin and deep, earnest eyes. Henry’s convinced that his heart may have actually stopped. 

He hasn’t seen Alex Claremont-Diaz in the flesh in nearly four years, and he’d convinced himself that he never would again. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up with his eyes, but Henry would know that face anywhere—he’s seen it enough in his dreams. 

“Alex,” he says as he takes his hand with a tight smile. Henry returns the gesture slowly, still looking at Alex with what he is sure is an awestruck expression. 

“Henry,” he says needlessly, quickly forcing his face into something neutral and polite. He reluctantly releases Alex’s hand from his hold and puts both of his hands behind his back. “Nice to meet you again.” 

Alex’s dark brows knit together and his head tilts very slightly to the left. “You remember meeting me?”

“Yes,” Henry nods, “Alexander Claremont-Diaz. Your mother was running for president of the states last time we met.” Henry doesn’t mention that he stayed up all night to watch the election results come in, and he’s not allowed to say that he was disappointed by President Richards’ victory. 

“Well, it’s good that you already know each other,” Juliet says with a genuine smile, her brown eyes shining behind her thick framed glasses, “because Alex will be showing you around today.” 

Alex’s smile and nod is a little tight, and Henry can tell that he’d literally be anywhere else on the planet. Henry is finding a bit difficult to breathe. “Lovely,” Henry says in his most polite tone. “If you’d just allow me to have just a moment to confer with Percy.” He drags Pez off to the side and leans in close without giving anyone else the opportunity to protest. “You must be joking,” he grounds out, hopefully quietly enough so as to not be heard. He feels a bit relieved to see that Alex and Juliet have retreated behind the desk to have their own hushed conversation. 

“This is brilliant Haz,” Pez says, smiling wide as he lays a congenial slap on Henry’s upper arm. “You can finally make a move so I can stop hearing about this bloke.” 

“So you thought you’d play matchmaker?” Henry asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Frustratingly, Pez’s smile only grows so wide that it nearly reaches his ears. “Nope,” he says, his tone delighted, “it was in no way my doing.” He raises a single hand and puts the other over his chest as if taking a solemn oath. “I promise.” Henry raises a deeply skeptical brow at him. “Henry really,” he says, letting his hands flop back to his sides, “my family owns so many shelters and clinics across the world, I have no control over the hiring process. I employ people to do that for me.” 

“So,” Henry says slowly, “you really didn’t…”

“Nope,” Pez says, the smile returning to his face. “It seems that the red string of fate has brought you back to each other.” 

Henry rolls his eyes dramatically. He does not believe in things like fate or destiny. Good things have not been known to happen for Henry thus far in his 22 years of life; he wasn’t betting on the universe to start doling out blessings now. 

This sentiment was only reinforced when Pez and Juliet left for their meeting, and Alex’s manufactured smile dropped off his face the moment they stepped out of sight. Alex leads him around the shelter quickly, introducing the rooms and narrating his routine as a volunteer in a flat monotone, not even looking at him. As the tour goes on, Henry talks less and less, only making affirmative hums to show that he was listening. 

He eventually leads Henry to a door labeled ‘Rec Room’ and pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back at him for the first time in a half hour. “You’re going to meet some of the kids now. Don’t touch or hug any of them without asking permission.”

“Of course,” Henry agrees. 

“You’d be surprised at how many people need that reminder,” Alex comments with a slight roll of the eyes, though Henry is relieved that the gesture is clearly not aimed at him. “Also, most of the residents are trans because someone implemented a policy that allows homeless shelters to deny access to transgender people just as homelessness among trans people increased, so they have to come to places like this that aren’t funded by taxpayers,” he complains, and Henry smirks to himself; its the most animated Alex has been all day. “So don’t feel awkward about asking for pronouns.” 

At that, Alex opens the heavy door and Henry follows after him to a large, colorful room with bookshelves lining one wall stuffed with books for all ages as well as board games. The other wall appears to be one large chalkboard, filled with drawings of varying skill sets. There are also tables and an area that has jump ropes and hula hoops and the like. The back door is being held open by what looks like an abused chalkboard eraser and Henry can see part of a small green space that contains a swing set and what looks to be a modest vegetable garden. 

“We take kids ages twelve to seventeen,” Alex explains as Henry takes in the room, “but most of them are on the older end right now.” They stand there for a second longer before Alex says, “They’re not going to fucking bite.” 

Henry surveys for a few more seconds and decidedly walks up to someone staring up at the bookshelves, offering an awkward, “Hello.” 

“Oh hi,” they say, turning around and immediately offering their hand, “Claudette, pronouns she/her.” Henry takes her hand gratefully and shakes it for a few seconds—Claudette has a surprisingly firm shake—before releasing it. 

“I’m Henry, he/him,” he says, and then motions to the bookshelf in front of her that she was looking at just a moment ago. “Were you looking for a book?”

She shakes her head and turns back around quickly enough that her ponytail bobs with the movement. “No, I was looking for a game to play. Do you have a favorite?”

Henry hums contemplatively as he looks at the shelf and finds himself in the unfortunate position of not having played many board games in his life. They didn’t exactly break out Monopoly at royal family dinners. “I can’t say that I do.” 

“What about UNO?” Claudette asks, reaching up for a small box the size of a deck of cards. She can’t quite reach it, even on her tiptoes, so Henry reaches up and snatches the box off the high shelf and studies it before handing it to her. 

“Alex!” she yells to the man across the room who looks away from the drawing he was studying on the chalk wall. “We’re playing UNO.” 

“Good for you,” Alex calls back with a good natured thumbs up. He quickly relents and stomps over when Claudette levels him with a pleading look. “Don’t put any money on this,” Alex warns him jokingly. “Her UNO skills could drain even your bank account.” 

Henry laughs and Claudette beams at the praise before turning and looking for a fourth player, eventually waving over a girl called Emily, who looks to be about 15. Emily grumbles, “I’m terrible at this game!” as she obediently walks over and pulls out a chair regardless. 

“You can’t be bad at UNO, it’s a game of chance,” Claudette argues. 

Despite this, Claudette absolutely wipes the floor with each and every one of them. After they grow tired of the game, the two girls retreat out the back door, but not before calling a “It was nice to meet you!” back to Henry. 

Henry stands from the table, surveying the room once more, and sees an older teen standing at the chalkboard, working on a very large and impressive drawing of a dragon. Henry walks up and introduces himself and they simply nod and say, “Jade.” 

Jade doesn’t say what their pronouns are, so Henry offers, “My pronouns are he/him.” 

Jade doesn’t look away from their dragon, but he can see the corner of their mouth tick upwards. “They/them,” they reply. They look over at him and ask, “Do you want to draw something?” 

Henry shakes his head empathically. “Oh no. You’re very talented, but I can’t even draw a straight line.” 

Jade performs a deeply melodramatic eye roll. “First of all, no one can draw a straight line, that’s why we have rulers.” Henry smirks and nods; that was a fair point actually. “And second of all,” they continue, “anyone can draw. It’s not an ability that you’re born with, it’s a skill that you practice.” Jade dusts off their hands on their dark jeans and picks up a piece of chalk, offering it to Henry. “You’ve just never tried before.” 

Well then, that’s him told. He takes the piece of chalk and retreats to an empty section of the board, staring at it. He can’t think of anything to draw for a moment—what’s that quote? It's so fine and yet so terrible to stand in front of a blank canvas— but eventually lands on attempting to draw a dog. The result is borderline embarrassing next to a literal teenager’s masterpiece of a dragon. They’ve managed shading and depth, and Henry’s dog looks like it was drawn by a particularly untalented child. He hears Jade laughing, and whips his head around to see that they are indeed laughing at his drawing. “I told you I’m not an artist,” he grumbles. 

“No, it’s cute,” they say, putting down their chalk and walking over. “Do you have a dog?” they ask, turning to him. When he confirms that he does, Jade orders him to pull up a picture, and he obliges, as he has many. “Oh cute,” they comment, leaning in to look at his phone screen, “what’s his name?”

“David.”

Jade smiles. “That’s my brother’s name.”

“Oh,” Henry says, “is he here?”

The smile drops off Jade’s face, making Henry regret asking the question immediately. “No,” they say flatly. There’s a brief beat of silence, but Jade recovers quickly. “The best way to learn to draw is to draw from life,” they say, motioning to the picture, “so you can see how every form is made up of a series of shapes. Then you can add details.” 

Henry thanks them and they both return to their respective projects, working in silence for a few minutes. Henry erases his monstrosity and looks down at the photo of David, looking for the shapes and hesitantly sketching out a series of circles and triangles and trapezoids. Once he’s finished with that, he’s pleasantly surprised to find that he has indeed created a shape that vaguely resembles a dog. As he starts to fill in the details of the fur and eyes, he flicks his eyes over to see Jade beginning to sketch out what he thinks will become a sword. “So do you like it here?” he asks, breaking the comfortable silence. 

“It’s alright,” Jade says. “It’s better than where I was before.” Henry's hand pauses and his heart strains at hearing such a young person say something so heartbreaking so casually. It makes him briefly feel guilty for complaining about his own circumstances. “Are you going to start working here?” they ask.

“No, I’m just donating,” Henry answers, continuing with his drawing. “I live in England so I can’t be around much.” 

“Cool,” Jade comments. “I used to love One Direction.” 

Henry snorts, but tries to cover it with a cough. “So do you want to be an artist when you get older?” he asks. 

“Yeah I want to make comics,” Jade says, immediately brightening when talking about their desired vocation. 

“Like,” he takes a second to remember what they’re called, “Marvel?”

Jade grimaces. Apparently not. “No, not like Marvel. Like Tillie Walden and Alice Oseman.” 

Henry makes a mental note to look them up when he has the chance. “Well you are quite talented. I think I’d like to read it whenever you write a comic.” 

“Really?” Jade asks shyly, their skin darkening with a slight flush. 

“Of course,” Henry says, and steps back from his completed drawing. “I think I’m done,” he announces. 

Jade saunters over and studies the drawing. “It’s pretty good,” Jade says, and Henry smiles. It is actually surprisingly good. It’s nowhere near as good as Jade’s dragon, but it’s probably the best thing Henry’s ever drawn, which, to be fair, isn’t really saying much. 

“Well, I had an excellent teacher,” he says, taking a picture to send to Bea. “I think I’ve been distraction enough. I should let you get back to your work. Thank you for talking with me Jade. It was lovely meeting you.” 

They don’t offer their hand to shake, so Henry doesn’t either, simply meeting Jade’s gaze as they study him. “Can I…” they start reluctantly. “Can I hug you?” 

That wasn’t at all what Henry was expecting but he says yes immediately. Henry hardly has the word out of his mouth before Jade launches their small body into Henry’s arms, and he stands stiffly for a second before returning the hug, holding on until Jade starts to pull back a few seconds later. “Bye,” Jade says, turning back to their drawing, and Henry walks off at the clear dismissal. 

Henry looks around the room and decides to return to Alex, who is glaring at him with his brow furrowed, an expression that Henry has seen from him several times today. “Jade hugged you,” Alex says as soon as Henry steps up to him. He shakes his head, but Henry thinks it’s to himself. “Jade never hugs anyone.” 

Henry shrugs. “They’re lovely,” Henry says earnestly. “We had a nice conversation.” 

Alex searches him, his expression indecipherable. “Huh.”

Henry shifts from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “What?”

“Nothing,” Alex says, shaking his head again. “I’m just surprised.” 

“At what?” 

“That you have, you know,” he motions inelegantly to Henry, “feelings and stuff.”

Henry’s brows shoot up. “And you’ve reached the conclusion that I don’t in all of the five minutes you’ve known me?” 

Alex narrows his eyes at him, and Henry doesn’t shy away from his glare, noticing the vein twitch in his eyebrow. Alex, however, has to jump back so as to not get hit with the door as it opens, which undercuts his vitriol a bit. 

As Henry follows Pez out of the shelter, he thinks back to the first time that he met Alex. He remembers so much about that moment—Alex’s bright, animated smile as he talked to the two women that Henry didn’t yet know of, his long, curly hair, even the yellow ipe-amarelo in his pocket. He remembers thinking he was beautiful, incredible, remembers how he set something in Henry ablaze. 

What he doesn’t remember is what he had done to make Alex despise him so. It wasn’t too long after his father had passed, and so many of his memories in that period are hazy and shrouded in pain and grief. No matter how hard he searches the recesses of his mind, he comes up with nothing.

Chapter Text

The elevator is out of order, which wouldn’t usually bother Alex, but he’s had a long day and his feet are screaming at him. He makes the slow march up the three flights of stairs to get to his apartment. Every step feels like he has a lead weight around his ankles. He stops on the second floor landing when he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket and he pulls it out to see June’s name flashing across his screen. He furrows his brow, sliding his thumb across the screen and putting it to his ear. 

June doesn’t give him a chance to say anything before she’s talking. “Please tell me you’re almost home,” she says frantically. 

Her tone is panicked enough that Alex starts climbing the stairs again, a little faster now. “Yeah bug, what’s up? Are you okay?”

He hears June groan in frustration over the line, and he reaches the floor and pushes the door open, seeing June standing at the door to their apartment, arms full of paper bags and digging through her purse to find her keys. He jogs up to the door and motions her aside to put his own key in the lock. 

“Thank you,” June breathes out gratefully as she passes him through the door. She immediately goes to the kitchen to unload grocery bags onto the counter, and then turns on him. “How much do you love me?” 

Alex stops in his tracks and squints suspiciously at her. This is a tactic straight out of the Manipulative Sibling Handbook—Alex would know, because he practically wrote it. How much do you love me? is what he asked every time he wanted June to drive him to lacrosse practice or cover for him so he could stay out all night or buy him alcohol when he wasn’t yet 21. Alex sighs. “What do you want bug?” 

“I have someone coming over,” June says, turning to the counter and unloading food from the grocery bags. Alex walks over to the doorway of the kitchen, leaning his weight against the frame. “I’m writing a profile on them and they’re only in the city for the weekend, so I invited them over for dinner and I need you to cook.” Alex starts to protest, but June cuts him off, anticipating his rebuttal. “And before you say anything, no we can’t do a restaurant. He got back to me too late to make a reservation and a decent cafe will be too crowded.” 

Alex releases a heavy sigh and kneads his fingers into his temples. Okay. That makes sense. June can’t cook for shit; their abuela tried to teach both of them, but June was a lost cause when it came to cooking, so they stuck to baking. “What about Nora?” Alex asks as a last-ditch attempt. 

“She has a group project due on Monday; she’s going to be working all weekend,” June explains, “and Nora’s cooking skills don’t extend far outside pasta, and over my dead body am I serving millionaire philanthropist Percy Okonjo and the literal Prince of Wales buttered noodles like a toddler at Olive Garden.” 

Alex head snaps up when he hears the name. Fuck. No fucking way. “ That’s who you’re writing an article about? Seriously?”

June rolls her eyes. “Percy Okonjo has a lot of great projects in the city and he’s looking to open up a shelter and a clinic in Los Angeles. I would be the first person to profile him in the U.S.” She turns to him, her big Diaz eyes pleading and shining. “Please Alex.” 

Alex sighs again—June using that look should be against the law; she knows exactly how effective it is. “Fine,” Alex relents, and June beams. “I need to shower first, I’m covered in grease and syrup. What am I making?”

“I wanted to do ropa vieja but it would take way too long to make, so I got the ingredients for curry,” June tells him. It was true that ropa vieja would have been nice—Alex has perfected their abuela’s recipe, which is actually her Cuban neighbor’s recipe, but she claims hers is better and no one would dare argue her on that point. But Alex made curry pretty often since he was able to replicate the green curry from their favorite Thai place well enough. “I bought a tiramisu at the bakery, but I’m going to claim I made it.”

Alex retreats to the bathroom and turns on the water to the shower so it can heat up. He pulls off his uniform and drops it to the floor and steps into the shower. He tries to be as quick as possible but his mind still wanders regardless, caught on the fact that Prince fucking Henry is going to be in his apartment, eating Alex’s food with Alex’s sister. He’d honestly rather die. 

He wasn’t so bad at the shelter yesterday, he supposes. He was polite during the tour and he was surprisingly good with the kids, though you’d have to be the literal devil incarnate to be mean to homeless kids. What really surprised Alex, the piece of information that was niggling at his brain, was that Henry had remembered him, and not just in the have we met before? way. He remembered Alex’s name—his full first and last name. Henry had to have met hundreds of people in the last four years. 

The pipes creak as Alex flicks the water off, dispelling any thoughts about Henry from his mind. He grabs a towel and ties it around his waist, retreating to his room to find something to wear. Alex’s room used to be an office, and that fact shows in the large bookshelves that Alex can never manage to fill and the heavy oak desk pushed off to the side. This apartment used to belong to Nora’s parents—which is the only reason the three of them could afford the rent, which they really only had to pay at all because June insisted. They used it when they had business in town, but then relinquished it to their only daughter when she got into Columbia’s master’s program. June followed not too long after when she got a job at the Times. Alex came to claim the empty room when he needed to get away from D.C. and couldn’t think of anywhere better to go than to his only friends in the world. He decides on jeans and a sweater, throwing them on over his still slightly damp skin. 

June perches atop the counter while he cooks and asks him about his day, which is about the same as every other Saturday at the diner—some kid managed to get syrup all over the vinyl tabletop and Alex had to use five rags to clean it, a middle aged man yelled at him because his eggs were cooked wrong, as if Alex, a waiter, had any control over that, and a group of tourists asked him how to get to Brooklyn, and were embarrassed to find they were already in Brooklyn. June hummed to show she was listening and laughed in the right places while the wine in her glass dwindled to nothing. 

Alex is just turning off the rice cooker when a knock on the door echoes through the apartment; they both freeze and look at each other. June jumps from the counter and starts pulling at her shirt as if she’s hot. “Fuck,” she says emphatically, “I should have done a power pose before this.” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “I’m not convinced that TEDTalk wasn’t full of shit.” 

“It works,” June insists. “I do it every time I have to talk to my editor. Or mom.” She shifts to put her fists on her hips in what he thinks is supposed to be Wonder Woman’s pose. “I don't know why I’m so nervous all of a sudden. I do profiles all the time.”  

Alex steps up to her and puts his hands over her shoulders, kneading out a few tense knots. He makes insistent, but hopefully fortifying, eye contact. “This is your job June. You’re very good at your job,” he says firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Now go open the door.” 

June nods, taking a deep breath, and Alex drops his hands from her shoulders as she pulls away to go to the door. Alex turns his attention back to the rice, listening to June politely greeting her guests. He can tell that it’s mostly Percy talking, his voice loud and animated and grandiose, but he hears Henry as well, his voice quieter, but distinct, politely thanking her for having them. 

Alex runs out of things to keep himself occupied, so he saunters over to the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching June in her element. June wasn’t an extrovert by any definition of the word, but she was damn good at her job and could be charming as hell when she needed to be. Alex knows based on the smile on Percy’s face and the way he’s hanging on her every word that she’s already started to work her magic. 

He looks over to see Henry hanging back a bit, letting them talk as he looks around the room with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes wander and eventually land on Alex, his neutral expression falling away, being replaced by surprise and then confusion until landing on wariness. 

June looks up and follows his eye line, looking back at Alex. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she says, waving her hand to beckon him closer. Alex considers just staying in his hiding place in the kitchen or retreating to his room now that the food’s done, but dismisses it after only a second, not wanting to do anything to fuck up June’s article. “This is my brother Alex.” 

“Alexander!” Percy says brightly before June has the chance to make proper introductions. “What a coincidence to be bumping into you again. How lucky.” 

“Yeah,” Alex says, keeping any sarcasm from his tone. “Real lucky.” Percy just beams at him, but Alex can tell by the way that Henry narrows his eyes that he’s picked up on Alex's derision. 

“You guys have met?” June asks, looking back and forth between them. 

“Percy owns the shelter that I volunteer at,” Alex explains. “They were there yesterday.” 

“Yes, Alex was our lovely tour guide,” Percy says, clapping his hands together. “And please, call me Pez, like the sweets.” 

June smiles politely, but Alex can tell that it’s forced. “Well we’re happy to have you,” she says kindly, and then shoots him a questioning look, and Alex nods. “If you’ll just sit at the table, we’ll have dinner out in just a moment.” June doesn’t hesitate to drag him into the kitchen, glaring at him once they’ve stepped through the doorway. “Why the fuck didn’t you mention that you knew them?” 

Alex shrugs, reaching up into their cabinet, looking for four plates that match. “It never came up.” 

“Yes it fucking did Alex,” she grounds out, making an effort to keep her voice low. “Just promise me that you can be nice.” 

“June, c’mon.” He puts silverware on top of the plates and shoves them at her. “If I can play nice with republican congressmen, I can get through one dinner without starting an international incident.” 

June’s look is skeptical, but he doesn’t give her a chance to retort, stepping out of the kitchen with the food, forcing her to follow. Henry and Pez’s conversation abruptly cuts off when he approaches the table. Alex sets down the bowls in his hands as Henry studies the wood grain like it’s the most interesting thing in the world and Pez beams up at them. 

Once everyone is served there’s a few moments of frankly awkward silence, filled only by the sounds of metal scraping against ceramic. Henry clears his throat, looking up from his rice that he’d been picking at with his fork. “Thank you for having us,” he says, even though Alex knows that he’s already said this. “You have a lovely home.” 

“Well it’s no Buckingham Palace,” Alex says, leaning back in his chair. “But we make do.” Alex expects to see something—anger, annoyance, resentment—in Henry’s eyes, maybe a spike of challenge that he saw at the shelter, but instead, he just averts his gaze, looking down at his plate. Alex isn’t sure why that disappoints him. 

“Thank you, your highness,” June says politely, shooting Alex an acidic glare that’s sending a very clear message that he should shut the hell up. 

“Just Henry, please,” he requests, looking up at June with a tight smile. 

Thankfully, Pez interjects, and the tension in the air dissipates as Pez and June talk about her job at the Times and Pez’s travels and living in New York, and they have a very long conversation about Broadway musicals. Henry doesn’t say anything, but Alex can tell that he’s following the conversation, even smiling at a few of Pez’s remarks. His smile is small and private, but genuine, unlike the one Alex has seen in photos and interviews. It makes Alex uncomfortable, just as seeing him smile at and hug the kids at the shelter had, making him face the notion that the prince may actually be human. 

Alex was content to observe silently and keep his mouth shut, but Pez seems to have other ideas. “So Alex,” he says, turning to him. “What do you do?” 

Alex breathes a sigh of relief that it’s just meaningless small talk. He can do small talk in his sleep. “I go to NYU,” he answers, and adds, because he’s sure someone will ask, “I’m studying philosophy and sociology.” 

“Oh, how interesting,” Pez says, and Alex is surprised to find that he actually does sound interested. “And what are your plans for after graduation?”

Alex bristles slightly, shifting in his seat, remembering conversations with his grandmother and his dad where they’d asked countless questions to the tune of ‘and what are you going to do with that?’ He calms slightly when he sees Pez looking at him expectantly, eyes bright and intrigued. Thinking that the man probably doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body, he answers simply, “I’m going to law school.” 

“Really?” Henry blurts out, speaking for the first time in many long minutes. 

“What?” Alex almost snaps. 

Henry straightens his spine, looking down at his plate, his ears turning pink. He looks up again, at him, but not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s just,” his eyebrows furrow, searching for the word, “quite unexpected. I suppose.” 

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up, the smile spreading on his face not kind. “And you’ve formed opinions on my career path in all of the five minutes you’ve known me?” 

Henry’s eyes narrow, recognizing his own words thrown back at him, and Alex’s smile turns delighted to see that he’s finally getting under the prince’s skin, eagerly anticipating his heated retort. His glee is short lived, wincing in pain after June kicks him in the shin under the table. 

June steers them onto safer topics, and it's only a few more minutes—all of them without input from Alex or Henry—before they finish and June directs their guests to the living room while they clear the table. After the table is clean and the dishes put away, June pulls him off to the side with her bony hand encircling his wrist. “Can you take Henry somewhere so I can talk to Percy?” 

He would rather die. “Where?” 

“I don’t know Alex,” June says, rubbing at her forehead, and then she throws her arm out. “Your room?” Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, not your room,” June relents. “You’re a mess.” 

Alex is about to point out that he is being very nice to June tonight and that she owes him about a million favors, but then he follows June’s line of sight to the living room window that leads out to their fire escape. “No,” Alex insists. “No fucking way.” 

June ignores his protests, walking over to the window and opening it, letting in cool autumn air and the distant sound of a siren. “Henry,” she says politely as she turns around. Henry obediently looks up at her. “Would you mind stepping out a moment,” she motions to the window, “so I can talk to Percy on the record?” 

“Step out…” he says slowly, “out the window?” His perfect brows knit together and Alex has to hold back a laugh. As much as he doesn’t want to hang out on their very small fire escape with Henry, he will be delighted to watch His Royal Highness stumble out of their window. 

“If you would be so kind,” June says with a charming smile. Alex smirks at the way she leans a little into her southern accent. Everyone thinks Alex is the charming one, and he is, but June knows when to use what she’s got to her advantage. 

Unsurprisingly, Henry relents and takes the few steps over to the window, giving him a questioning look. “Age before beauty,” Alex says, motioning to the window with a sarcastic flourish. Henry rolls his eyes, but obediently climbs out, doing so surprisingly gracefully, though it’s still a bit awkward since the window is pretty small and Henry is not a small man. 

Alex follows and sits on the stairs, a few steps above the platform. The grated metal digs uncomfortably into his ass, but he’d prefer that to standing pressed up against the prince on the small fire escape. Henry leans his crossed arms against the black metal railing and looks out over Brooklyn and the distant, hazy Manhattan skyline. Alex takes a moment to study Henry’s profile, his pale skin illuminated by the golden light of sunset and—well—even Alex has to admit that he’s pretty fucking beautiful. With his strong jawline, high cheekbones, soft hair, and aquiline nose he looks like a Greek god or marble statue in the flesh. 

So he’s hot, whatever. Alex’s issue with the prince was never his appearance—it was his personality, or in Henry’s case, lack thereof. 

Henry flicks his eyes over to him, and then faces forward again. “So—”

“Let’s not,” Alex cuts him off, putting up a silencing hand. 

“Actually let’s,” Henry says, shifting to put his back to the railing, facing Alex. He leans his weight against the railing, crossing one leg over the other and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I’d like to know why you seem to hate me so much.” 

“Oh is that what you’d like your highness?” Alex challenges. 

“It really is.” A bit of challenge flashes across Henry’s face, and the semblance of an actual spine makes something spark behind Alex’s solar plexus.

“So you remember meeting me, but you don’t remember being an asshole?” 

Henry face falls into an expression of unadulterated confusion. “I…do not.” Alex scoffs. “Remind me?” 

Alex almost doesn’t want to, but Henry just had to ask so fucking earnestly that he gives in. “Fine,” Alex huffs. “I walked up to you and shook your hand, and as soon as I introduced myself, you looked at me like I was the gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe and turned to your fucking equerry and said ‘can you get rid of him?’” Alex remembers it like it was yesterday. His mom’s campaign wasn’t easy on him or June—they were always being scrutinized, and it felt like shit to be dismissed by yet another person just a second after they met. 

Alex can almost see the cogs turning in Henry’s brain, and then his face clears in realization. “Oh,” he says, looking down at his shoes. “I didn’t…you weren’t supposed to hear that.” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “Yeah I fucking realize that. It was a shitty thing to say either way.” 

“So that’s it? You’ve hated me since the moment we met?” 

“Well it’s a lot easier to hate someone when you meet them one time, that meeting going shitty, and then you never see them again,” Alex explains. 

“I suppose,” Henry says, and Alex thinks he actually sounds upset. “Well, not that it’s any excuse—I recognize that my actions are my responsibility no matter my circumstances—but my father had just died about a year earlier. I was kind of a prick to every single person on the planet at the time, so it wasn’t about you personally.” He takes a steadying breath. “But I am sorry. Truly. You didn’t deserve that.” 

Alex studies him, takes in the vulnerable expression in his eyes, and deflates a bit at how genuinely remorseful he seems. “Thanks for saying that,” Alex says. He doesn’t say it’s fine, because it still kind of sucked. “You’re forgiven, I guess.” He shrugs a single shoulder. 

Henry snorts, and it’s the most inelegant sound Alex has heard from him. “How gracious of you.” 

Alex hums. “Does this mean I get a statue in front of Kensington? I understand if it’s not in the budget,” he holds his hands up sarcastically, “it takes a true artiste to get my hair right.” 

Henry laughs and shakes his head to himself, and Alex can’t help but smile at the sound.  They fall into a silence after that, nothing but wind and the sounds of the city between them. Alex doesn’t think it’s necessarily awkward, it’s actually an inordinately comfortable silence, but Henry breaks it regardless. “So,” Henry says awkwardly, making Alex whip his head around from where he was studying the distant skyline, “law school.” 

Alex waits for him to say more. He doesn’t. “Was there a question in there somewhere?” he asks with brows raised. 

“I’m just surprised is all. I thought it would be politics. Congress by thirty was it?” 

Alex’s brain stutters, just blinking at Henry. “How the fuck did you know that?” 

“Oh,” Henry says, looking down at his hands to hide the light pink flush rising on his cheekbones, though that may just be from the cold wind blowing against the side of the building. “You must have mentioned it in some interview,” he says, flapping his hand casually. 

Alex eyebrows furrow. “An interview…from my mom’s campaign?”

Henry pauses, his eyes fixed somewhere over Alex’s shoulder. “I suppose.”

“From four years ago.”

“If you say so,” Henry says quickly. “Are you avoiding my question on purpose?” 

“No,” Alex grumbles, looking down at his thumb nail, where he’s started absentmindedly picking at his cuticle. “Politics is show business for ugly people,” he quotes. 

Henry releases a surprised laugh. Seeing him now, and with the kids yesterday, Alex has discovered that Henry’s laughs and smiles in interviews and public appearances pales in comparison to his genuine joy. The way his cornflower blue eyes light up and his smile makes the corners of his eyes wrinkle is nothing short of captivating. Despite his best efforts, Alex can’t keep a reactionary smile from his own face. “What?” 

“It’s something my first semester political science professor said and I’ve never forgotten it,” he says. “With these genetics,” he motions to his face, offering his winningest smile, “my hands are tied.”

“Okay,” Henry says, rolling his eyes in a dramatic display, “but what’s the real answer?”

Alex raises his brows at Henry, and to his credit, he doesn’t shy away from his scrutinizing look. “You really want to know?” he challenges. 

“I really do.” 

Alex releases a long breath. “It’s a long story.” 

“Well,” Henry looks through the window, and Alex leans forward to see Pez talking animatedly into June’s voice recorder, “it appears that we’re going to be out here for quite a while.” 

“It’s just,” he puts his forehead in his hands, trying to figure out how to explain this. “Did you know that the U.S. spends more than any other developed country on healthcare, yet more than 60% of personal bankruptcies are due to medical debt?” It was a rhetorical question, but Henry shakes his head anyway. “And any bills to reform healthcare get killed in the Senate because they claim that universal healthcare is ‘too expensive.’” He sighs heavily. “And that’s just one example. I can mention mass incarceration or climate change or immigration or how the fucking President seems to throw a dart at a fucking board to decide which human rights he’s taking away that week, even though the Constitution that the Republican Party loves so fucking much doesn’t even allocate that much power to the President—” he cuts himself off and looks up at Henry, who’s still looking back at him intently. “Sorry,” he says, and Henry puts up a hand as if to say ‘it’s okay.’ He looks down to see that his cuticle has started to bleed at his ministrations. 

“What I’m tryin to say is, I used to want to work in politics, and not because of the attention or the power—though I’m not the paragon of humility or anything—but because I wanted to help people,” Alex says. “But I realized that the people that I wanted to help most are the ones hurt most by the political system, and it’s not a happy accident that the system hurts minorities and benefits rich, white men—it was built to operate that way.” Alex shrugs nonchalantly. “So I help at the shelter and,” he gestures inelegantly, “law school.” 

Henry turns his head to the side, looking out into the street, but Alex can see his lips curling into a small smile. “That’s very admirable,” Henry says quietly. 

Alex just shrugs. He doesn’t want admiration. He doesn’t fucking deserve it, especially when he knows he could be doing more. “Can I ask you why you decided to donate to the shelter?” It’s not the question Alex wants to ask. He wants to know why Henry donated anonymously. Why Alex had to sign a fucking NDA. 

Henry turns his head to look at him. “You can ask,” he says in a tone that suggests that Alex won’t get an answer.

He wants to push, but the intense, almost hesitant, look in Henry’s eye makes him force down his curiosity. “Oooh,” he says in a teasing tone, putting his chin in his palm. “Prince Henry has secrets. Who’d’ve guessed.” 

Henry’s smile is relieved. “We all have our hidden depths.” 

There’s another silence, but this time, Henry is looking at him, not like he’s searching for anything, just looking. Alex looks back. 

“What’s your favorite color?” Alex says when the tension becomes too much. 

“What?” Henry asks through a surprised laugh. 

“I’m workshopping our friendship bracelet design in my head,” Alex jokes, and Henry rolls his eyes, but an amused smile is on his face. “I’m thinking we should combine our favorite colors so we match,” he puts his hand sarcastically over his heart, “or you can wear my favorite color so you’ll have a piece of me always.” He playfully puts his chin on his folded hands, “Thoughts?” 

“Here’s a thought: you’re a wanker,” Henry says. He slides his back down the railing and sits on the platform on crossed legs. It’s kind of a mind fuck to see a prince sitting criss-cross-applesauce on his fire escape. “It’s green,” he offers reluctantly, as if he’s giving Alex nuclear codes and not a fairly innocuous fun fact about himself. “What’s your favorite color then?” 

“Red,” Alex answers. Henry nods as he smiles and hums. “What?” Alex says defensively. 

“Oh nothing, nothing,” Henry says with his palms up placatingly. “It just makes sense is all.” 

“The fuck does that mean?” 

Henry sighs and pulls at the pads of his fingers. “Red symbolizes ambition, confidence, passion, courage, among other things,” he flaps his hand casually, “so…makes sense.” He shrugs, but Alex can feel the anxiety rolling off of him. It makes Alex smile despite himself. 

“And what does green symbolize?”

Henry flicks his eyes up to him, but quickly looks back at his hands. “Um,” he says, “balance, growth, healing, harmony, luck…” 

Alex nods as Henry peters off. “Makes sense then.”

Henry snorts ruefully. “Not sure about that.” 

Alex studies the self deprecating curl of Henry’s shoulders as he looks down at his hands, and wishes that Henry would look up at him again. Before he can say anything, the window slides open, making both of them jump and look over to June’s head sticking out through the window. 

She looks around dramatically. “No blood to clean up?” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “Nope,” he says, standing up and brushing off his jeans, “we’re really bonding.”

Chapter Text

Though Henry thinks the name is a bit redundant, Pancake Billy’s House of Pancakes predictably smells like pancakes. The bell chimes when Henry opens the heavy glass door, but the sound is swallowed by chatter and metallic clanking from the kitchen, so no one looks up. 

He hovers awkwardly at the door until a woman behind the counter with bright red bangs hanging in her round face looks up at him and calls out, “Sit anywhere honey,” in a deep Brooklyn accent. 

Henry slides into a vinyl booth at the back corner of the diner and pulls down the hood of his sweatshirt, looking around to ensure that no one is looking at him, which thankfully, they’re not. He pulls a Splenda packet from the glass dish against the wall and twists it between his fingers. It’s only a few minutes before a waiter comes over with a pen and small notebook in hand, and it’s thankfully the waiter that he came here to see. 

Alex is wearing a snug Pancake Billy’s t-shirt that shows off his lightly muscled arms along with a name tag and an adorable apron stuffed with napkins. He doesn’t look up when he positions his pen over the paper and recites in a monotone, “Welcome to Billy’s what can I get—” He looks up and cuts himself off. “You’re fucking kidding me.” 

“Good morning to you as well,” Henry replies pleasantly. 

Alex’s arms fall to his sides, pen in one hand, notebook in the other. “Are you stalking me?” he asks with his brows raised. 

“No. June told me where you worked.” 

“That doesn’t mean that you’re not stalking me,” Alex points out. “It just means that you’re a resourceful stalker.” 

Henry tamps down his smile as he rolls his eyes. “I was hoping to have a conversation with you.” 

“Well I can’t take my fifteen for another twenty minutes,” Alex says. “And you’re going to have to order something to keep the table.” 

“Do you have Earl Grey?”

Alex huffs at him. “You’re going to hold this table during the Sunday brunch rush by ordering the tea that we charge 89 cents for?” Henry looks around and notices that the diner is nowhere near half capacity, and raises a skeptical brow at him. Alex doesn’t shy away from his gaze. “Sorry, we don’t have beans on toast, but I may be able to scrounge up some wonder bread from the back,” he says, pointing his pen behind him. 

“Are you allowed to bully customers?” 

“Please,” Alex scoffs. “This place is always short staffed and I’m good at my fucking job. I could probably slap you and they wouldn’t fire me.” 

Henry snorts a laugh. “I’d prefer if you could refrain from violence if possible.” Henry doesn’t mention there’s a PPO on the other side of the diner that would do serious physical damage to Alex if he so much as laid a finger on Henry. 

“No promises,” Alex deadpans as he lifts his notebook back up to his eye line. “Order?” 

“Surprise me,” Henry says, handing the large, laminated menu back to Alex. 

Alex takes it with a wide smile. “You are so going to regret that,” he says with an amused smirk as he scrawls something on his pad of paper before turning on his heel and disappearing behind two swinging doors to the kitchen. Henry allows himself a moment to admire his ass in his fraying jeans, a feature that he has not had the chance to memorize through Alex’s Instagram posts. 

Alex wordlessly sets down a steaming mug of hot water with a tea bag as he gracefully glides by. Henry smiles in gratitude and forces the tea bag to the bottom of the mug with the spoon and reluctantly stirs in a packet of creamer, the metal of the spoon clinking against the ceramic walls. He takes a sip and it’s not…terrible, considering the circumstances. His eyes follow Alex around the diner, watching him pull a fake smile—which is actually very convincing, but Henry can recognize because he’s seen his real smile— at customers and run an exasperated hand through his thick head of curls, which explains why they’re so much more disheveled than usual. 

Henry is taking a long sip of his tea when a plate appears in front of him, the ceramic clattering against the vinyl tabletop, and Henry looks up to see Alex sliding into the booth across from him. He looks down at his plate, at what appears to be a breakfast sandwich with bacon and an egg between two large pieces of toast. It seems normal enough, but Henry squirms when he glances up to see Alex’s expectant look. “Um,” he starts reluctantly, “what is this?”

Alex leans his weight back against the booth, crossing his arms and smirking at him. Henry’s eyes catch on the lightly defined forearm and the dark freckle near his wrist, and wonders if his clothes are hiding a plethora of freckles littering his body. “The Su Special. Bacon, maple syrup,” he says, listing the ingredients off on his fingers, “hot sauce, and a fried egg between two pieces of Texas Toast.” Alex smirks. “It’s an off menu item.” 

“What an honor,” Henry says, looking down at the sandwich. 

Alex stares at him silently, and it’s clear that he’s waiting for him to take a bite, so carefully picks the sandwich up off the plate, holding it in front of his face. He flicks his eyes up to Alex to find a challenging glare, so he takes a single bite. He immediately feels something warm gush out of the sandwich and looks down to see yellow drip down his hand and onto the plate. “Oh Christ,” he says once he’s swallowed his small bite, setting the sandwich down and looking around the table for a napkin dispenser. 

“Oh yeah, I forget,” Alex says in a tone that suggests he did not actually forget. He reaches into his apron and pulls out a napkin, leaning across the table to offer it to Henry. He takes it gratefully and wipes his hand and face. “The egg is cooked over easy.” 

Alex’s smile as he watches him clean himself up is mischeivous. “I’m glad I could amuse you,” Henry says drily. 

Alex’s smile spreads wider, revealing his deep dimple on the right side of his face. “I couldn’t resist the chance to see a member of the fucking royal family eating the Su Special.” Henry glares at him, and Alex releases an amused puff of air through his nose, and returns his hands to their previous state, crossing them over his chest. “So what was so important that you had to follow me to my job and sit in the corner watching me like the serial killer you obviously are?” 

Henry rolls his eyes, but he can feel his skin prickle at the possibility that Alex noticed his eyes on him as he glided gracefully between the tables. He hesitates for a moment, rehearsing what he’s decided to say in his head one last time. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper, sliding it across the tabletop to Alex, who picks up reluctantly. He unfolds the paper, presumably reading the numbers scrawled on the page, and looks up at him with a silent question in his expression. 

“That’s my phone number,” Henry says. Alex’s dark eyebrows shoot impossibly higher, and Henry quickly explains, “I can’t be back in New York nearly as much as I’d like, and I really do care about the shelter.” The shelter, in actuality, was Henry’s idea, not that he could tell anyone that. After sixth form, Henry and Pez parted ways for the first time since they met in year seven, with Henry going to Oxford and Pez to work for his parents’ foundation and learn from the ‘school of life,’ as he put it. Pez would still call him and come back to London, and when he did, he would ask Henry’s opinions about his pending philanthropy projects. Henry came up with the idea to start a shelter for LGBT youth in America after seeing how his community was suffering under Richards’ administration. But he couldn’t be a part of it openly, and he certainly couldn’t explain to Alex why he cared so much. “I was hoping that you could send me updates,” he adds with the inflection of a question. 

Alex studies him for a moment. In the short amount of time that they’d spent together, Alex has done this many, many times—looks at Henry like he’s trying to see down to his bones. Henry desperately hopes that he’s not as good at reading people as Henry suspects. “Alright,” Alex decides with a nod. “I guess I could do that,” he says, running his thumb over the ripped edges of the paper absentmindedly, shrugging a single shoulder. 

Henry breathes out a sigh of relief—both at that Alex agreed and that he didn’t push for more details. “You have to dispose of that after you program it into your phone,” Henry points out, gesturing to the slip of paper still clasped between Alex’s fingers. “I suggest shredding or burning it. 

“So, write it on the bathroom stalls,” Alex says, leaning over to tuck the paper into the back pocket of his jeans. “Got it.” 

Henry turns his head to look out the window to hide his small smirk, taking in the hustle and bustle of Brooklyn on a late Sunday morning. His eyes catch on a woman across the street walking a dog that Henry thinks is a golden retriever, on couples walking leisurely hand in hand, on stressed parents trying to keep their toddlers from running off. Alex is already looking at him when he turns back around, and he doesn’t avert his gaze when Henry meets it. 

Alex’s break will be over soon by Henry’s mental calculations, so he grabs the butter knife out of the tight roll of the paper napkin and cuts his breakfast sandwich in half, offering Alex the half that Henry hadn’t bitten. “Are you planning to write this charitable donation off on your taxes?” Alex asks drily. 

“The royal family has a legal tax-exempt status,” Henry replies flatly, making an effort to keep his expression level despite his amusement. He thrusts the sandwich forward more urgingly. “Do you want it or not?”

Alex rolls his eyes, but the corner of his lips tick upwards slightly, just for a moment, as he snatches the food from Henry’s hand. They eat in relative silence for a few minutes until Alex pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time, then stands and wordlessly stacks Henry’s mug on top of the plate and whisks it away into the kitchen, returning with the bill. 

Alex slides the slip of paper across the table, but doesn’t release it from under his fingertips when Henry goes to grab it, and he looks up to meet Alex’s eye. “Don’t forget a tip, your highness. Not so little that I’m offended, but not so much that I feel dirty.” Alex straightens, releasing the paper from his hold, and winks at him. “Good luck treading that line.” 

———

One of the many many perks of private aviation is that it makes it virtually impossible to be late to your flight—the plane simply does not leave until you are on it. Despite this, it is not a feature that Henry has ever had cause to utilize, as neither Shaan nor Henry himself would ever allow himself to be tardy. 

Pez, however, did not have the same priorities as Henry did, stumbling onto the jet fifteen minutes after their scheduled take off. “You’re late,” Henry tells him flatly, not looking up the page of his book. Pez groans and slumps down in his seat. Henry flicks his eyes up, taking in Pez’s hunched and disheveled frame. “Rough night?” he asks. 

Pez flips him off wordlessly as the plane rumbles to life and starts to speed down the runway. “This city certainly does have an illustrustrious nightlife my friend,” he says, smirking to himself as he rests his head against the cool glass of the window. 

Henry raises his eyebrow judgmentally, though he’s fairly certain Pez’s eyes are closed; it’s difficult to tell as a large portion of his face is hidden behind sunglasses with crystals embedded in the frames. “It’s nearly 3 p.m.,” he points out. 

“Hush Henry,” Pez says, reaching out his hand as if he’s going to press his palm over Henry’s mouth, but can’t since he’s out of reach. The hand flops back into his lap defeatedly. “Sunday is the day of rest.” 

Henry releases an amused puff of air as Pez sinks impossibly further into his seat cushions. “Since when were you a Christian?” he asks, but never gets an answer, as soft snores spill out of Pez’s slack mouth. 

Henry rolls his eyes as he picks his book back up, cracking it open to the marked page. It’s not that Henry hates flying—it would be an impossibility considering how much he’s jetted around the world—but he could never sleep on flights, no matter how long. He’s tried counting and sleeping pills and melatonin, but he could never silence his mind, which was a shame, as these long flights were really quite boring. 

Henry spends a few hours with his mind focused on the book, his consciousness transported to a magical world in one of his fantasy novels that he enjoys, but he could never read out in public—it would be undignified for the royal family to be caught reading something written this century. Eventually though, his mind inevitably wanders. And predictably, his mind wanders to Alex. 

Henry has been embarrassingly obsessed with Alex Claremont-Diaz for years, since they first met at the 2016 Olympics. Alex was bright and vibrant, and far too much to handle in his grief addled state. If he got close to someone like that, he knew that he would allow them to consume him.

That didn’t mean that Henry put the man out of his mind. No matter how hard he tried, images of dark curls and brown eyes and a carefree, elastic smile flashed behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. He spent his days imagining what Alex would really be like—how Alex’s laugh would fill a room, how he would look swaying in a sun soaked kitchen, Henry’s arms around him as a kettle boiled, how he would charm Henry just as he did every person that interviewed him. No matter how hard he tried, Henry couldn’t keep himself from imagining Alex at night, alone in his palatial, impersonal room at Kensington—how Alex would arch up under Henry’s hands, how he would gasp when Henry pulled his earlobe between his lips, how he would feel moving over Henry, sweat on his brow.    

Now that he has properly met Alex, he knows what he’s like, and it only makes Henry want him more. He knows that Alex is charming, but with Henry, he’s snarky and the challenge flashing in his eyes makes something unfamiliar and heady spark in his chest. He’s earnest and intelligent, and hearing how we desperately wanted to help others made Henry yearn to be able to do the same in real, genuine ways that he couldn’t now. He knows that Alex is funny, that he can make Henry laugh without even trying. 

He also knows the exact shade of Alex’s eyes. On magazine covers or in social media posts, Alex’s eyes were a deep, dark brown, dark enough that the iris was nearly imperceptible from the pupil. But as they sat on a fire escape in the setting sun, Henry could see the faint shades of amber and bronze flecked though Alex’s eyes, the orange light of golden hour turning them to pools of honey. Henry felt like a man wandering the desert for years, finally getting his first drop of water. 

Though Henry hadn’t lied, there may have been more than one motivation for giving Alex his number. 

He’s snapped out of his reverie by Pez’s loud, frankly obnoxious, yawn as he stretches out his arms, knocking aside Henry’s water bottle that was sitting on the table between them. Henry stands it back up with a glare. “How long was I out?” he asks, looking down at his gaudy watch that Henry knows he never adjusts the time on, so it’s probably at least a few hours off. 

“A few hours.” 

“Ugh.” Pez reaches over and snatches Henry’s water bottle despite his grumbled protest, tipping it back and emptying half of it into his mouth. “It seems like society should have developed the technology to make this flight shorter by now,” he complains, depositing the half empty bottle back on the table. “So what did you get up to last night?” 

Pez, of course, tried to rope Henry into making the rounds at the clubs like they used to when Pez made his way back to London when Henry was in university. Henry declined; he knew he would never be able to shake his PPOs in an unfamiliar city and he wasn’t really up to getting drunk on vodka and finding someone to hook up with in a sticky bathroom stall. “Not much,” Henry answers, lifting a single shoulder in a shrug. It was true—Henry went back to his five star hotel room, far too cold from the air conditioning that hotels never seem to turn off. He spent the night writing poetry in his leather bound journal and calling Bea. He went to bed early, but didn’t get much sleep, instead staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how he could see Alex again. He felt truly pathetic when he reached over the side of the bed to retrieve June’s business card from the pocket of his slacks and ran his finger over and over the edge of the card stock, desperately trying to talk himself out of it. 

Pez lets out a bored hum at Henry’s nonanswer. “Those Claremont-Diaz siblings are really something huh?” 

“Percy,” Henry says in a warning tone. 

A cheeky smile spreads across his face. “I know that when you were going on and on about Alex— ” Henry rolls his eyes, resenting the use of that descriptor. He only talked about Alex when he was very, deeply drunk off his arse. “—I said you were pathetic and hopeless and obsessive—”

Henry furrows his brow. “You never called me any of those things.” 

“I must have been talking to Bea then,” Pez says, gesturing dismissively. “But I get it now my friend. Those Claremont-Diaz genes are the eighth wonder of the world.” 

Henry buries his head in his hands and groans Pez’s name though his fingers in a pleading tone. 

“Please,” Pez says emphatically, drawing out the word long and loud. “I had to hear about Alex’s deep brown eyes and the freckles across his fucking nose for three years,” he says in a deeply condescending tone. “You,” Pez points at him, “have to listen to me talk about the most beautiful woman I have ever seen for ten minutes. June is a goddess, Henry. A goddess.” 

Henry lets his hands fall back to the table top, sighing deeply. “She is very pretty,” he agrees, relenting.

Pez smiles and starts to ramble on about June and whether she’s single and how he can woo her if she is. Henry listens, nodding along and humming in agreement in some places, making suggestions in others. Henry looks out the window, watching the tops of fluffy, white clouds as the plane flies on. 

———

The day after he and Pez returned to England, Henry awoke early to take David on a morning run, and he had no notifications. On Friday, he hides in the corner during a charity ball, and checks his phone to find no texts. A week after returning, he waits in the corridor outside his therapist’s office, and looks down at his messages to see nothing but a text from Bea whining about the dullness of croquet. The following Saturday, he rolls over in bed and grabs his phone to check the time, finding that it’s much later than we would usually wake up, and that his lock screen was completely free of any texts from Alex. After two weeks, Henry is starting to suspect that Alex threw his number away the second that Henry was out of sight. 

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon when neither he nor Bea have any responsibilities—he’s sure his grandmother would prefer he go to church, but it’s not a strict requirement outside of holidays, so to hell with it. They’re in the music room, Henry spread out over a green velvet chaise lounge, Bea perched atop a deep blue ottoman with some stringed instrument that Henry doesn’t know the name of, but Bea inconceivably knows how to play. 

Henry feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he leans over to pulls it out of his joggers. The screen lights up when Henry tips it toward his face, and he sits up when he sees that he as a message from a number that he doesn’t recognize. He unlocks his phone with his fingerprint, seeing that the person sent him a photo. It’s a picture of Jade, standing in front of a drawing on the chalkboard—a beagle that looks very much like David, Henry notices—grimacing at the camera from behind their dark curtain of bangs. 

Henry smiles down at his phone, saving the picture to his camera roll. His thumbs hover over his keyboard as he contemplates what to type back, settling on a simple Thank you. 

Henry’s text is marked read almost immediately, and Henry’s heart jumps when three dots appear, hopping up and down to indicate that Alex is typing. Henry stares at the screen so long without blinking that his eyes begin to water, and after three minutes, Alex’s reply is significantly shorter than Henry expected. 

at your service your royal highness

how long do i have to do this before i get knighted? 

You are utterly ridiculous. 

you misspelled “charming and sexy” 😉

Henry snorts, shaking his head. “What are you looking at?” Bea asks, breaking the comfortable silence between them. Henry looks up at his sister to see her studying him curiously, still strumming at the strings of her instrument. “You’re smiling.” 

Henry rolls his eyes. “Am I not allowed to smile?”

“There’s certainly no law against it, at least not last I’d checked,” she says, shrugging noncommittally. “I’d just assumed it was a personal preference.” 

“Shut up,” Henry grumbles. Henry’s phone vibrates in his hand again, and he only resists for a few moments before looking down. 

so much for that english lit degree huh

“Seriously,” Bea says, her hands finally pausing, the quiet music halting abruptly. “Who are you texting?” 

Henry opens his mouth to answer, but then clamps it shut after a few seconds. Henry tosses his phone aside onto the cushion nonchalantly. “Pez,” he says, lifting a single shoulder in a shrug. 

Bea squints at him—Henry has never been able to lie to her—but she doesn’t press him, slowly lifting her fingers up to the strings and going back to quietly strumming. 

———

 Henry and Alex haven’t texted since Alex sent the first picture. Henry is swinging wildly back and forth between wanting to text Alex all the time, every moment of the day, or not texting him at all, not wanting to annoy him or appear desperate, which he undoubtedly was. He desperately wanted not to mess things up with Alex again, like he had the first time they met. 

Henry tosses his phone back and forth between his hands, not watching the film playing on Bea’s laptop despite the fact that he practically begged to watch it. It was was either this or Mamma Mia! for the tenth time in a row. He likes Abba as much as any other sane human being, but there’s only so many times he can listen to Stellan Skarsgard squawk his way through ‘Take a Chance on Me.’ 

Henry zones back in to see Chief Chirpa on screen and it immediately brings Alex to the forefront of his mind, not that this is a difficult task, as he has permanent residence there. The resemblance is uncanny—tiny, pissed off, adorable—and Henry snaps a photo of the screen and looks down at it, considering. 

The trouble with giving Alex his number for an express purpose is that he’s unsure if they’re allowed to talk outside of those parameters without it being strange. He shakes his head at himself and sends the photo, typing out the message This bloke looks like you, sending that as well. 

Henry tosses his phone aside, ignoring the nerves bubbling in his chest and the unsubtle sideways glances Bea keeps flicking his way. Henry never had those cliche teen experiences of agonizing over what text he should send to his crush. Henry always assumed that the movies and shows and books were exaggerating, but apparently not. This was the worst. 

Henry wishes he had the dignity and self control to not immediately look when his phone buzzes. 

🙄

you’re not funny

why the fuck are you watching that 

Not a Star Wars fan?

of course I’m a fucking star wars fan

but what kind of masochist chooses to watch return of the jedi of their own free will???  

blink twice if you’re being held captive

You can’t see me you nitwit. 

And Return of the Jedi is my favorite. 

incorrect. 

I can’t be wrong about my own favorite. Art is subjective. 

🤮

well it subjectively sucks

They end the series with hope and love and joy. I think there’s merit to be had in a happy ending that ties everything up nicely. 

how prince charming of you

are you about to break out into song

Henry’s small laugh is cut off by the sharp elbow that’s driven into his rib cage. “Ow!” Henry jumps away, rubbing at his painful side. “What was that for?” 

“You wanted to watch this stupid film and you’re not even paying attention,” Bea whines, throwing her hand out at the screen. “Who the hell are you texting?” she asks, grabbing for the phone that Henry holds out of reach. 

“No one,” Henry says, typing out his reply. Then he amends, “Pez.” 

“You’ve been texting Pez a lot lately,” she says skeptically, raising a single brow. 

“Communication is essential to maintain any relationship,” Henry says flatly. 

Bea rolls her eyes dramatically. She reaches over and presses the space bar to pause the movie, and then sits up on her knees to face him. “Why won’t you tell me who it is?” Henry doesn’t reply, hoping that, despite years of evidence to the contrary, his sister will give up if ignored. “Oh my god, is it a boy?” 

Henry pauses, willing his face into something neutral. “I’m a grown man, Beatrice. I do not talk to boys.” 

A slow smile spreads over Bea’s face. “So there is a boy?”

“No.” 

“Fine,” Bea relents, sitting back into her place on her bed, her voice amused. “I’ll drop it—for now—but I’ll get it out of you eventually.” 

Henry locks his phone and sets it aside, sighing deeply. It’s not as if there’s truly anything to tell. 

———

Surprisingly, Alex keeps texting him after that. It starts slow, with Alex mocking the photos of Henry in the press that were leaked to show that he was worldly and adventurous or making fun of the silly things that the royal family scripts for him to say at interviews and appearances. 

Henry texts back while suffering through periods of royal monotony, during meetings and appearances and social teas and charity auctions among many, many other things. He’s shares bits of his life with Alex, like how Bea is always stealing his leftovers and how Philip is always bothering him about refusing to touch his royal account and how David wouldn’t stop chewing holes in the sweaters that Henry forces him into when it’s chilly. 

To his delight, Alex shares details about his life too. He tells Henry about his classes, that Henry thinks sound endless fascinating, and regales Henry with dramatized stories about annoying and rude customers at the diner. He also continues updating Henry about things going on at the shelter and sending photos of the kids. 

Henry soaks in details of Alex’s life ravenously, checking his texts constantly and officially following Alex on Instagram. If Henry thought he was obsessed with Alex before, he was well and truly engrossed now. The first time Alex sent him a selfie—him laying back against his pillows, reading glasses on, surrounded by papers—Henry has to put his face in his hands for five entire minutes, and considers that he desperately needs to get laid. 

Since the day they met, Henry had always felt this magnetic pull towards Alex. No matter how many people he slept with or ‘dated’ he could never force the man to leave his mind, at least not permanently. Now, he has a chance to really be in Alex’s life, and to have Alex be in his, and he wasn’t going to muck it up with feelings. He couldn’t.

Chapter Text

Halloween, in Alex’s humble and correct opinion, is the best holiday ever invented. When you’re a kid, it’s all about getting dressed up and eating candy until you pass out, and when you’re older, it’s about getting dressed up and drinking until you pass out. That coupled with the fact that it comes with no obligation to buy a gift or endure a passive aggressive family dinner makes it basically perfect. 

Almost every gay bar and club in the city has a Halloween party the weekend before the holiday, but June and Nora’s favorite has always been Ginger’s Bar, and Alex basically just follows them wherever they go. June pushes the door of the bar open, the sounds of music and raucous laughter spilling out onto the Brooklyn street, and holds the door open for Alex and Nora to follow. 

He follows them to a table at the edge of the room surrounded by some of June's friends from work and Nora’s from her master’s program. Alex offers to get the first round while the women greet their friends, making his way through the crowd with a tray of drinks held over his head with the expertise of someone who’s been a waiter for three years. Alex sets the tray in the middle of the round table, and everyone retrieves their drinks with thanks. He grabs two shots of tequila and downs them like water. 

“Damn Alex,” Nora comments with a raised brow, her eyes looking slightly bulged behind her strong prescription glasses that she never wears, but broke out for her Velma costume. “Drinking to forget?” 

Alex wordlessly flips her off and grabs his gin and tonic off the tray to sip slowly, tuning into the conversations around the table. “I read your article about the impeachment inquiry,” June comments to her friend Clare. “It was great.” 

“Thank you,” Clare said with a sweet smile, sipping on her own whiskey. Clare was older than June, and she had the vibes of an old, distinguished man that sat at a mahogany desk with his feet up, especially after five years on the New York Times’ political beat, not a job that Alex envies. “In the name of unbiased reporting, I never said this, but the House would be idiots not to impeach,” she says. “It’s basically a done deal at this point.”

“Thank fucking god,” June says emphatically while Nora hums the tune of ‘Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead.’ 

“Not that it even fucking matters,” Alex grumbles into his glass, realizing that he said it far louder than he meant to when heads whip around to give him skeptical looks. “Democrats are the minority party in the Senate and they need a two-thirds vote to remove him from office,” Alex shrugs and takes a deeply bitter sip. “An impeached president has never been removed from office, that’s not changing now.” 

“True,” Clare agreed, putting her own glass down on the table with a dull thunk, “not that I need you and your one semester of political science to mansplain the impeachment process to me.” Alex nods and mutters an apology, feeling appropriately chastised by June’s most intimidating friend. “But an impeached president also hasn’t ever won reelection,” she points out. 

“Yeah,” Alex says the way someone might say ‘duh.’ “That’s because Clinton got impeached in his second term and Andrew Johnson was Andrew Johnson.” 

“Come on Alex,” June implores in a uniquely older sibling tone. “Stop being so cynical.” 

“Sometimes cynicism is called for,” he says. “Richards could probably start shooting people on Pennsylvania Avenue and not lose any supporters. They’re like a fucking cult.” 

“I think that’s simplifying,” June says, rolling her eyes at him. 

Alex opens his mouth to retort, but before he can get a word out, a palm slaps over his face. “And you’re done,” Nora says. “June, you know you can’t talk politics to Alex; it’s like giving a hopped up toddler sugar.” Alex glares at her and licks her fingers to free herself. She pulls her hand back, and scrunches up her nose in disgust, wiping her hand on Alex’s low effort Indiana Jones costume. “Let’s talk about something much more interesting,” Nora says, placing her chin in her crossed hands and grinning impishly. “Like that guy over there that has been staring at Alex so hard that he might fucking melt.” 

Alex furrows his brow and looks around the bar, making eye contact with a man in his mid-twenties leaning against the far wall. He doesn’t avert his gaze when Alex catches him looking, instead taking a sip from his drink and looking back intensely. Alex flicks his eyes up and down the man’s body and, well, he’s very hot and very much Alex’s type with dark skin and piercing eyes and a dark buzz cut with a fade. 

Alex downs his drink in one go, contemplating. “Are you going to go talk to him, or are you waiting for a written invitation?” Nora asks challengingly. 

Alex raises one shoulder nonchalantly. “Not my type.” 

“He’s exactly your type!” 

June squints at him suspiciously. “Does this have something to do with why you’re always on your phone?” she asks, raising a single dark brow at him. Alex hates that gesture, especially from June, mostly because he’s never managed to do it. 

Alex looks down, shying away from his sister’s gaze. He hasn’t told June and Nora that he was talking to Henry, not that they haven’t asked many, many times. Alex rolls his empty glass between his palms and flicks his eyes up to glance at the man, who’s still looking at him intently. June’s wrong; this has nothing to do with Henry. He and Henry are just talking. They talk about stupid stuff—movies and books and the shelter and their days—it’s not like it’s anything…important. Alex doesn’t know what his uncharacteristic hesitance is about, but there’s no fucking way it has anything to do with Henry. 

Alex rises from his chair and downs another shot. He crosses the bar, ignoring the wolf whistles from the table he left, stepping up in front of the man and plastering on his thousand watt, charming smile. “Hey.” 

Alex talks to the man—Roman, he learns—leaning against the wall of the bar, speaking loudly to be heard over the music. He learns that he was born and raised in Brooklyn and owns a tattoo shop in Bushwick, so his tattoos are very real and have nothing to do with his half assed pirate costume—Alex has always found tattoos unbelievably attractive on every gender. 

Roman is confident and funny and when he leads Alex onto the dance floor by the hand, he doesn’t resist and when he pulls Alex close with his arms around his waist, he snakes his own arms around his neck in return, and when he leans in and kisses Alex, Alex returns it fully. Roman is the first to pull back, but doesn’t go far. “Wanna get out of here?” he asks, and Alex can feel his breath against his the shell of his ear as he speaks. 

Alex freezes. There’s no reason for him to say no—he likes Roman, at the very least, enough to go home with him—but he opens his mouth, and nothing comes out but a choked breath of air. Roman steps back and drops his hands, sensing his hesitance. “Or…not.” 

“Sorry,” he breathes out.  

“Don’t worry about it man,” he says, putting his palms up placatingly. “It’s alright. Can I give you my number or something?” he offers.

Alex hesitates for a beat. “Sure,” he relents, handing over his phone despite the fact that Alex knows that he’ll never call him. 

He types something in quickly, but doesn’t release the phone when Alex tries to take it back. “I’m not looking for anything serious right now,” he looks up and down Alex’s body in a way that leaves nothing to interpretation, and then winks at him to really drive the point home, “just so you know.” 

Alex actually releases a sigh of relief when Roman disappears into the crowd, which is ridiculous. He’s being fucking ridiculous. 

Alex looks back and finds the group’s table empty, with Nora and June dancing together with a couple of their friends. Alex sighs and saunters over to the bar, ordering another shot, which he throws back, taking comfort in the familiar heat that spreads in his throat and chest. He then picks up the old fashioned that he ordered and takes a sip, closing his eyes. 

Alex gets significantly more drunk, drunk enough to turn off his brain and dance in the crowd, flirting with people without a single care.  

He stumbles over to the bar and leans heavily against it. The bartender holds up a silencing hand before he can even open his mouth to order another drink. “Sorry kid, you’re done for the night.” 

Alex throws his head back and groans dramatically. “Kai,” he says, drawing out the name of the bartender. “C’mon,” he slurs. “Look, I’m fine.” He attempts to touch his index fingers to the tip of his nose, wincing when he pokes himself in the eye. 

Kai glares at him, deeply unamused. “Go home,” they order, and then tips their head to the side, considering him. “Can you even read your phone to get an Uber?” 

Alex flips them off lazily. “It’s close enough to walk.” Alex straightens and tips his chin up, searching the crowd for the ginger wig of June’s Daphne costume. He spots June and Nora dancing alone near the back wall and elbows his way through the crowd to get to them. “Hey,” he yells over the music when he reaches them. “I’m heading out!” He points his thumb in the general direction of the exit. 

June disentangles herself from Nora and searches his face for…something. He was usually better at reading June’s expression, but his brain isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. Just drunk and…tired.” 

“We’ll go with you.” 

Alex waves his hand in dismissal. “I’ll be fine.” June looks like she wants to argue, but he cuts her off before she can say anything. “It’s two blocks, June. I’ll be fine. I’m a big boy.” 

June rolls her eyes, but she nods in acceptance. He leans down and kisses June on the top of the head—he always got more affectionate when he was drunk—and turns on his heel, pushing through the crowd to get to the door. 

The sidewalk is crowded with drunk people in disheveled costumes, and Alex stumbles around them to get through, breathing a sigh of relief when the crowd thins the further he gets from the bars and he can feel the cool, October air against his skin rather than the sweaty bodies of strangers. 

The trip back to the apartment is usually only about ten minutes, but the walk is lengthened by Alex’s intoxication, taking careful steps to ensure he doesn’t fall. After twenty minutes, he’s fumbling to slide his key into the lock, pushing his way into the dark and empty apartment. 

Alex starts undressing, removing the pieces of his costume as he walks to his room, leaving a trail of clothes through the living room that he knows he’ll have to pick up before June gets home or she’ll kick his ass. He looks down at his phone as he pulls an old lacrosse sweatshirt over his head, swiping away the new headlines from his news app and opening his messages, seeing a new one from June. 

Text me to say you’re home safely please. 

i’m home dangerously

Stop it. 

i’m home lethally

Dumbass. I fucking hate you. 

Alex snorts at himself and his own dumb joke. He goes to lock his phone, but looks down when it buzzes in his hand with another text from June. 

Drink some water and go to bed. I’ll see you at home. ❤️

Alex rolls his eyes to himself even though no one is there to see it. He would never say so to June because she would probably bite his head clean off, but she can be so much like a mom sometimes. Not their mom per say, but what he imagines other people’s moms are like. Alex shakes his head to himself to clear those thoughts away.

He pads to the kitchen, his bare feet chilled by the hard wood floors of the apartment, pulling out a glass and filling it with water from their filtered pitcher in the fridge. He downs it in one long gulp, and then refills it and retreats back to his room, setting the glass down on his bedside table. 

He falls down on his unmade bed, holding his phone over his face. He squints at the screen as he opens Twitter, but his mind is elsewhere, exiting the app and opening his messages with Henry. Alex sent a picture of him in his costume earlier. He didn’t know what he wanted Henry's reaction to be—he wasn’t flirting, he wasn’t —he just knew that he wanted a reaction, which he did not get. Instead, Henry was talking about how, while people in the UK did celebrate Halloween, the royal family has never been permitted. Alex tamped down on his disappointment and joked that he was deprived of a childhood and that it was practically child abuse. 

There’s this…thing. A thing that he only reminisces about when he’s well and truly drunk off his ass, as he is now. The first time he saw Prince Henry in June’s magazine, how he would come back to it again and again and imagine what he was like in real life, what his hair would feel like through Alex’s fingers. He never told anyone about that—he would take that to his fucking grave—but it was something that he considered when he was having his bisexual awakening in his final year of high school. His infatuation with the young prince got added to the long and damning list he’d made of ‘evidence I may not be 100 percent heterosexual.’ 

And now, he has the asshole’s phone number. Now, he texts him basically every day, at every hour, about everything. If only twelve year old Alex could see him now. 

“Hello?” A voice says from the speaker of Alex’s phone; he didn’t even remember making the call. “Alex?” 

Alex draws back and looks at the screen to see that he called…Henry. Fuck. That was a bad idea. He had a very inconvenient tendency to say whatever he was thinking when he was drunk. He puts the phone back to his ear and stutters out a, “Hi.” 

“Alex,” he hears Henry say, sounding confused and long suffering. “It’s nearly 4 a.m. my time.”

“Oh,” he says, his brow crinkling as he lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Did I wake you?”

A pause. “No.” 

“You hesitated.” 

“No, I really wasn’t lying,” Henry says, sighing. Alex can hear rustling over the line, and Alex imagines him sitting up against a shiny, gold headboard and pushing aside a comforter made of Egyptian cotton or like, the hair of virgin priestesses or some shit. “I never really sleep all that much.” He pauses and Alex makes a noise of acknowledgement—he never really sleeps much either, always worried about getting his schoolwork done or how he could be doing more at the shelter, always feeling like there weren’t enough hours in the day. “If you ask me if I've tried melatonin, I’m hanging up and deleting your number,” he adds drily. 

“But sweetheart,” he slurs sarcastically, “what we have is special.” Fuck, so much for not flirting. 

Henry chokes out what Alex thinks is a laugh. “Christ,” he says emphatically, “how drunk are you exactly?” 

Alex hums, actually contemplating. “Somewhere in between very and extremely,” Alex concludes. 

“I’m sorry,” Henry says with the inflection of a question. “Was there a reason you’ve phoned me in the dead of night?” 

Alex shifts uncomfortably. He’s not sure why he felt the need to call Henry, but he suspects it has something to do with the way his smooth, posh accent sounds filling Alex’s ear. “I’m tired and I was hoping your nerd ass could bore me to sleep.” 

“It’s always a pleasure to be appreciated for one’s abilities,” Henry replies sarcastically, but Alex thinks he can hear a small smile in his voice. 

“So talk.” Alex scoots up his bed to rest against his pillows, putting the phone on speaker and placing it next to his head. “Entertain me jester.” 

Henry scoffs, and Alex smirks at the thought of offending his delicate royal ego. “What exactly would you like me to say?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, shrugging as well as someone can shrug while lying down. “What are you doing right now?” 

“Um, I’m reading,” he says with some hesitancy, and Alex hears some shifting over the line again. “I apologize that it’s not very exciting.” 

“Well I did say I wanted you to bore me,” Alex says, hoping that Henry can tell that he’s joking. “What are you reading?” 

He hesitates for a beat before answering, “Frankenstein.” 

“Frankenstein?” Alex furrows his brow. “By Mary Shelley?” 

“Yes,” Henry answers, sounding unsure. “Have you read it?” 

“Yeah, actually. It was like, the one book I actually read in English class. It was alright.” 

“Alright?” he parrots, sounding indignant. “It was the book that originated the entire science fiction genre.” 

“But it’s so slow,” Alex complains, drawing out the final word like a whiny toddler. 

“Well some people possess the mental fortitude to power through some things and recognize the story for its more complex themes,” Henry says, sounding every inch the pretentious English major that he was. 

“Well some people had undiagnosed ADHD in high school,” Alex says, injecting humor into his tone. “So, Frankenstein huh? Don’t remember that from the Wikipedia page?” 

There’s a silence, a not insignificant one at that. “What?” 

“What?” 

“What Wikipedia page?”

Alex scrunches up his face in confusion, and then has to hold back a groan when he realizes what he’d said. Fuck. Fuck, he really shouldn’t have called him. He does not need to know how much Alex has hate read Henry’s Wikipedia page in the last four years, and he especially doesn’t need to know how much he’s not-hate read it in the last month. “Nothing, I just mean that Frankenstein doesn’t seem very princely,” Alex says quickly, hoping that it’s convincing. “Shouldn’t it be The Etiquette Handbook and Imperialism 101?” 

Henry snorts in that unflattering way that Alex likes. “I’ve already read those unfortunately,” he says. “I know that this may be surprising, but I actually do things other than kiss babies and drink tea.” 

“Of course, I assumed it was posture coaching and ballroom lessons and riding a white horse into the sunset,” Alex jokes. 

A beat of silence. “No comment.” 

Alex bursts into laughter, far more raucously than he should. God, he’s so drunk. “No but really, I read what your favorite book is somewhere.” Alex racks his brain, remembering that he thought it was ridiculously dull, which fit perfectly with the boring, pompous view of Henry that Alex had built up in his mind at the time, but no longer matches the Henry he knows now, the one that complains about his sister stealing his leftovers and whose favorite movie is Return of the Jedi. “Charles Dickens,” he realizes aloud. “Great Expectations.” 

“Yeah,” Henry breathes out. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Alex smiles. “I did sign an NDA sweetheart.” 

Henry coughs over the line and mumbles something that Alex doesn’t catch. “I’ve never read it.” 

“What?” 

“I’ve never read Great Expectations,” he admits. “I was supposed to read it in sixth form and then again in university, but I never did. I am of the opinion that reading should be enjoyable and that man is dull.” 

“That’s saying something, coming from you.”

“Hush, you wastrel,” he says, sounding amused. “Anyways, that’s why the PR team assumed I’d read it when they were selecting my favorite author, and I was too embarrassed to say that I hadn’t.” 

Alex shakes his head in disbelief. “Don’t people ask you about it?” 

“Yes, all the time. I just do what any English Lit major worth their salt would: I read the Sparknotes, and I bullshit.” 

Alex laughs fully, throwing his head back into the pillows, and he hears Henry’s own laughter through the phone, filling the air around Alex. 

Alex closes his eyes, content to lie in his room, filled only with the sound of Henry’s waning laughter. “So who’s actually your favorite author?” Alex asks softly, hesitant to break the peaceful silence that’s fallen between them. 

Henry doesn’t speak for a few moments, either thinking or hesitating, but eventually he answers, “Jane Austen.” 

Alex hums. He’s not sure why, but it doesn’t surprise him. “Pride and Prejudice right?” 

“Yeah,” Henry answers. 

“I figured. June never shuts up about that fucking book. I think I’ve seen the movie enough to quote it from memory, and I like Kiera Knightly as much as any other living, breathing human being, but I have to maintain that no man looks good with sideburns.” 

“I think I’d have to agree with you there,” Henry says, a smile in his voice. 

“So tell me about it,” Alex orders. 

“Tell you about what?”

“The book. I’ve never read it. Tell me about it.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” Alex says definitively. “I’m sure you have a whole TEDTalk rattling around up there somewhere. Have at it your highness.” 

Alex settles back against his pillows and pulls his comforter up to his chin, humming tiredly here and there to show he’s listening as Henry talks about the book that he obviously knows as well as his own name. Henry’s voice is honeyed and soft, and Alex loves the way it sounds even more when he gets impassioned and talks so fast Alex isn’t sure he’s still breathing. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he wakes up the next morning, he finds a text from Henry.

Good night Alex. 

Alex smiles when he reads it, the corners of his mouth stretching across his face further than the simple message warrants. 

Chapter Text

Alex used to really like Thanksgiving. When he was a kid, Thanksgiving was a holiday for his abuela’s cooking and playing card games that he made up with his cousins, yelling at the TV in two languages as the Cowboys lost, and eating until they passed out. It all changed after the divorce, just as everything else did. 

At first, his parents couldn’t stand to be in the same room with each other, so they would alternate holidays, June and Alex jetting back and forth between California and Austin. Now that they were both adults and none of them had the time or the money, they opted to host a single holiday at his father’s lake house. 

If Alex was being honest, he would have to admit that he wished he could stay in New York. Cooking a turkey in their cramped kitchen and having a small dinner around the table in their apartment with June and Nora had to be better than…whatever this was. Every year, without fail, his parents managed to find something to scream at each other about across the table as June tried to mediate, Leo stammered awkwardly with his eyes trained on the table, and Alex sat stone faced, wishing he could clamp his hands over his ears like he used to when he was a kid. 

His dad didn’t hesitate putting him and June to work in the kitchen, with June kneading the dough for conchas and Alex chopping up pecans for pie, while he made seven different things, gliding around the kitchen with grace. He laughs and jokes with them, keeping things light like he always did. He and his mom were always firm coparents, but after the divorce, Oscar seemed to cast himself in the role of the ‘fun parent.’ 

It’s well past a normal dinner time when they finally sit down at the table, with only June, Alex, his parents, and Leo this year. As dishes were passed and silverware clinked against ceramic plates, his parents asked June how things were at her job—she said they were good, but stressful—and Alex how things were going in school—he said fine. His answer to this question always had been and always would be ‘fine’ no matter what the true answer was. His parents tended to be hands-off when it came to his education. They made it clear that it was important that he get good grades, both for his collegiate aspirations and, though they would never admit it, their reputations as politicians. They expected him to do well, but they weren’t actually there to see him drowning in high school, weren’t there to see the desperate lengths he went to in order to meet their expectations, weren’t there to question whether he needed anything more from his parents that Alex would never demand—it’s why he was never able to get an ADHD diagnosis until he went to his college’s counseling center. 

There is a brief silence after the small talk and checking in is out of the way, and Alex glances up from his plate just as his mother is tentatively looking around the table. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself just as she did before stepping onto a stage to make a speech, and then she sets her fork and knife down on the table, the utensils making a definitive thump against the wood in the relative quiet of the room. She has yet to say a word, but Alex’s body goes cold with dread at the determined look on his mother’s face. 

“There’s something we should discuss,” Ellen says in her authoritative voice. “As a family.” 

June shoots him a concerned look before asking, “What is it?” 

“It’s nothing bad, just an announcement,” she says, a shaky smile spreading across her face that doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s nervous, Alex realizes, his mother is nervous and she’s trying to cover it up. Alex hasn’t seen his mother nervous since election night. She crosses her hands atop the table, straightening her spine. “I’m running again.”

Everyone goes so still that Alex could’ve sworn someone had pressed pause, freezing them in their place—no moving, no breathing, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Ellen looks at them all expectantly, waiting for them to say something. No one did, so she adds, “For President,” needlessly. 

June flicks her eyes over to him, her gaze pleading, begging for him to say something, to break this awful silence. Alex lowers his silverware to the table, setting them down as quietly as possible. “Why?” he croaks out, keeping his voice carefully level. 

Ellen’s face clears in relief. If Alex knew his mother, and he did, she would have rehearsed this entire conversation in her head already, anticipating their questions and scripting precisely what her responses would be. “Well, I think we can all agree that Richards cannot be reelected for a second term,” she says lightly, resting her elbows atop the table. “It will take a strong democratic candidate to defeat him.”

“And that just has to be you?” June grounds out, her hand so tight around her fork that her knuckles are lightening. Alex reaches across the table and places his own hand over hers, gently removing the utensil from her fist. 

Alex takes a deep, calming breath. “There are already sixteen democratic candidates running, Mom.” 

“None of them have the experience or support that I have,” his mom replies rationally, and Alex hates that it sounds rehearsed, that he’s asking the exact questions that she’d expected, following her script to the letter. “According to our projections, I would have the best chance in the election.” 

“You lost the last election Ellen,” his father shoots back angrily. 

Ellen’s calm demeanor falls away, as it always did when his dad got involved. “I won the popular vote.”

“And that doesn’t matter!” Oscar throws his utensils down and Alex winces at the loud clatter of metal against the plate. “You don’t have the votes in the right places!”

“I don’t need you to explain the Electoral fucking College to me Oscar!” she shoots back, her voice raising and venom lacing through her tone. “I took Poli-Sci 101!” 

“There are other people on the ticket who have more universal appeal, El,” Oscar says, exasperated. “They’re our best chance to get Richards out of office, especially if you gave them your endorsement.” 

“Universal appeal,” Ellen parrots bitterly, rolling her eyes melodramatically. “You mean yet another old white man? Because that’s what the country really needs.” 

“What about Elizabeth Warren?” June interjects, sitting forward in her seat. “Or Kamala Harris?” 

Ellen’s demeanor shifts, softening when talking to June. “Both good candidates that I would be happy to endorse,” Ellen says diplomatically, her palms up. “But they don’t have support among the working class. They’re too far to the left.” 

Alex scoffs—you can’t play the middle when one side of the ideological spectrum is literal fascists—but he holds in his comment when he realizes the date. “Wait a minute,” Alex says, sitting forward and putting up a silencing hand, though no one is talking yet. All heads turn to him when he says, “The filing deadline for primaries was November 8th.” 

Ellen shifts in her seat. “Yes,” she says hesitantly, “I registered in April.” 

“So this isn’t a discussion then, is it?” he challenges rhetorically. “You’re informing us that you’re running whether we like it or not.” 

“Alex—”

“When’s the announcement Mom?” he cuts her off. 

There’s a beat of silence. Ellen’s emotions don’t show on her face, but Alex can see the vein in her forehead twitch from across the table. “Tomorrow.” 

Alex releases a deeply bitter laugh. He pushes his chair back, the wood of the chair scraping against the floor noisily. “I need some air,” he says through his clenched teeth, turning on his heel and walking out, slamming the door shut on the protests behind him. 

Texas days were still hot in November, at least compared to the New York weather that Alex has grown used to, but the temperature drops as the day starts to make its transition to night. The evening sun is dipping below the distant mountains, turning the cloudless sky burnt orange, a dark blue settling into the atmosphere. He stops on the edge of the porch, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm down despite the sound of raising voices from inside the house. 

He descends the three porch steps and strides down the hillside leading to the lake, pacing up and down the dock, kicking pebbles into the water and watching them splash and make ripples on the otherwise undisturbed surface. He drops down at the end of the dock, pulling his feet up to take off his shoes and socks, rolling up the cuffs of his navy chinos before putting his feet into the cool water. Alex tries again to take a few deep breaths to calm down, kicking at the water in frustration when he still feels just as angry and blindsided as he had before. He puts his face in his palms, holding in a scream. 

Alex pulls his phone out of his front pocket and fiddles with it—it would have been cathartic to throw it into the water if he had the money to replace it. He just fiddles with it, not doing anything productive as his nerves are still buzzing. He opens his messages with Henry, seeing the picture that Henry had sent him just that morning of his dog David—he still didn’t understand that name, who the fuck names their dog David?—wearing a slytherin scarf. 

idk who the fuck you think you’re fooling you hufflepuff ass bitch

It is not I, but David, who is the Slytherin.

And I prefer to think of myself as a Ravenclaw. 

what were your pottermore results?

I, as you Americans say, plead the fifth. 

Alex smiles softly to himself. They’ve been talking to each other for less than two months, but Henry has become something of a constant in his life. He was just…surprising. He was so much more than Alex initially thought he was, and that’s just based on what he’s learned so far. Alex is hungry for more, to discover all the complex layers and hidden depths of Prince Henry. His thumb hovers over the call button, considering and second guessing, before definitively pressing it. 

“Alex?” Henry says after a few rings. 

“Do you not have caller ID?” Alex asks casually. “Am I calling you on a burner like a drug dealer?” 

“Um, no?” Henry says, confusion lacing his tone. “I mean no, I’m not a drug dealer, but yes, I do have caller ID. I’m just surprised you called. I thought you were having dinner with your family.” 

“Yeah,” Alex releases a rueful puff of air. “It was a real hoot.”

“Are you okay?” Henry asks. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s fine,” Alex says, waving his hand dismissively despite the fact that no one can see him, sitting alone on the dock, staring out at the still lake. “Thanksgiving was basically invented to fight with your family. It’s nothing new.” 

“Alex,” Henry says firmly. “Do you want to talk about it?” he repeats, his voice softening. 

Alex took a shaky breath around the lump rising in his throat, looking down at his feet kicking slowly through the lake water. Fuck. Alex hates crying. He would not fucking cry. “My mom is running for President again,” he all but whispers. 

“Oh,” he hears rustling over Henry’s side of the line. Alex does the math in his head, it should be almost 11 o’clock in London, and he briefly wonders where he is right now. “I gather that this is not good news.” 

“No,” Alex says, “but also yes,” he runs a frustrated hand down his face and groans, “I don’t know.” He pauses, taking a few deep breaths to collect himself. “The last campaign was just…hell on our family. I mean, Richards had literal sexual assault allegations against him, from fucking minors no less, but no one even fucking cared about it. You know what they did care about? My parents’ fucking divorce.” He huffs. “I know it’s not the same but, you must kind of get it. At least a little?” 

Henry hums, considering. “I suppose I do,” he says quietly. “My family and my life have always been…scrutinized.” He pauses for a second. “My parents did their best to shield me from the worst of it. But after my father died…” he peters off. 

“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers, feeling ridiculous for whining. Of course his struggles couldn’t compare to Henry’s. This had been Henry’s entire life, while Alex, for the most part, could live a normal life. Most people couldn’t pick their congressmen out of a line up, let alone their kids. But when his mother ran for election, she did the opposite of what Henry’s parents did. Other presidents did what they could to shield their children from the spotlight, while Ellen Claremont shoved him and June into the fray, using them to garner support among the younger generations that Richards couldn’t appeal to. It worked, but when his mom made her kids a part of her platform, she basically declared open season for the press and the public to tear apart their lives, everything from their grades to their relationships to their race. “I don’t know how you do it.” 

The laugh that fills Alex’s ear is not amused. “Well,” Henry says, “I’m not sure I am doing it gracefully.” 

“Okay Prince Charming,” Alex says skeptically, and he swears he can almost hear Henry’s eye roll over the line, which makes him feel marginally better. He sighs as he lays down, his spine against the uneven wood of the dock, his hand holding the phone close to his ear. He looks up at the deep blue of dusk, a few stars beginning to dot the sky. There was too much light pollution to ever see them in New York, or even in Austin, but here, the stars are clear and bright. He’s sure that if Henry were here, laying beside him on the dock, he would be able to point out the constellations, might even tell him the myths and legends they were based on. “I just wish— Why can’t she—” he cuts himself off, not wanting to say it out loud. 

“Alex,” Henry says patiently. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I am happy to listen if you do.” 

Alex scrunches his eyes shut, forcing a single tear from his waterline down his cheek. “Why can’t she just be my mom?” he chokes out. “Just once.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “My whole life she’s always been working toward the next thing. She was mayor, then state senator, governor, Congress, Speaker of the House, fucking President. I thought it was so cool at first—I actually thought that my mom was going to be the first female president, and June and I gave up our entire childhoods so she could get there. But…she never asked. She never once asked me what I wanted or what June wanted.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until they hurt. “Is it so much to ask that, before my mom makes a huge decision that will affect our lives, that she ask for our opinion? Is that really so fucking selfish?” 

He doesn’t realize how out of breath he is until Henry says, “Breathe.” He takes a stuttered breath, and then another. “Deep breaths Alex. In and out.” Alex does, remembering the breathing exercises that his therapist taught him—in for six, hold, out for six. “Are you alright?” he asks once Alex’s breathing has leveled out. 

“No,” Alex breathes out, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.” 

“No need to apologize. I said I was here for you and I meant it.” 

Alex laughs wetly. He reaches up and runs his palm over his cheek, and he pulls his hand back to see dampness glistening on his hand—he hadn’t even realized he was crying. He never cried. “Can we talk about something else?” he pleads.

“Like what?” 

“Anything. I really don’t want to go back in there after I stormed off like a fucking toddler.” 

Henry laughs. “Coward.” 

“Asshole,” Alex shoots back, a small smile making its way onto his face. “What are you doing?” 

Henry’s silent for a moment, and Alex can hear him shifting over the line. “Um, nothing?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible liar?” 

“Bea. On many occasions,” Henry answers. “Most people are quite convinced by my untruths.” Alex chooses not to examine that he now knows Henry better than ‘most people.’ “I’m just— oh hello David.” He hears snuffling over the line as Henry coos at his dog adorably. 

“Okay I have to ask,” Alex says. “What is the deal with your dog’s name?” 

Henry pauses, using his regular voice to address Alex. “What do you mean?” 

“David,” Alex says emphatically. “Who the fuck names their dog David? David is what you name your divorced great uncle with a bald spot, not your dog.” 

“Shockingly, I had no say over the name of my great uncle, nor any other of my family members.” Alex rolls his eyes. “And I named him after Bowie.” 

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Bowie? As in David Bowie?” 

“Yes,” Henry answers with the inflection of a question. 

“That’s very…” Gay, Alex thinks. Do exclusively straight men name their pets after David fucking Bowie? Not that he’s interested in Henry or his ambiguous sexuality, of course. “Why not call him Bowie?” 

Henry hums as if considering. “That’s a bit on the nose isn’t it? I have a reputation as an international man of mystery to uphold.” 

Alex snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, sure,” he said sarcastically. “So it’s like, 11 o’clock on a Thursday night, and you’re hanging out with your dog and doing what?”

A beat of silence. “Nothing much.” 

Alex groans dramatically. “You’re supposed to be entertaining me. Dance for me, jester.” 

Henry huffs. “If you must know, I’m watching Great British Bake Off.” 

“Cute. Love that for you. Not embarrassing though.” 

“I may, um…” Henry starts hesitantly. “I may be wearing one of those peely face masks.” 

Alex throws his head back and releases a single vindicated “Ha!” Henry groans. “I knew it!” 

“ Instant regret.” 

“I knew you had one of those 16 step Korean skincare routines.” 

“I do not,” Henry protests. 

“Please,” Alex says. “I bet the mask you have on has gold in it and costs more than my fucking rent.” 

“Look, I have an appearance tomorrow,” Henry says, not arguing Alex’s point. “I didn’t think I’d be scrutinized.” 

“No judgement here. Gotta keep that pretty face in check sweetheart,” he says in a teasing tone. He tips his head back when he hears the door to the lake house bang shut, seeing June leaning her hip against the porch railing, looking down at him. “I have to go,” he says to Henry. “Thank you for talking to me.” 

“No need to thank me,” Henry says kindly. “Are you going to be okay?” 

Alex sighs, watching as June saunters over and perches atop the porch swing. “I will be. Thank you.” 

Alex pauses, listening to the steady rhythm of Henry’s breathing over the line, and becomes painfully aware that this is the first time he’d ever called Henry while sober. “Alex?” Henry says, breaking Alex out of his thoughts. “Hang up.” 

Alex releases an amused puff of air. “You could always hang up y’know.” 

“I really couldn’t,” he says in an earnest tone that Alex doesn’t have time to decipher. 

“Alright,” Alex relents. “Good night, your highness.” 

Henry makes a small grumbling of disagreement and Alex smiles. He hears him say, “Good night Alex,” before Alex presses the red button on his screen to end the call. 

Alex breathes in the cool air of Texas nighttime, dropping his phone on top of his stomach and crossing his hands over it. It’s only been about an hour since his mom told him the news, but it already feels like it’s been the longest day of his life. He’s deeply emotionally exhausted, though he feels significantly more settled after calling Henry. His stiff joints protest when he rises from the dock and makes his trek up the hill toward the house. 

Alex plops down onto the porch swing where June is curled up, a blanket around her shoulders. She opens one side in offering, and Alex smiles, ducking under the blanket, pulling it around himself with one hand, the other draped around June. “Are you okay?” June asks, looking up at him, her brown eyes reflecting the porch light. June looked more like their mom than Alex did, but she undeniably had Diaz eyes. The furrow of her brow and the tight concern around her eyes reminds Alex of their abuela. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Alex answers. “Is there any blood? Because I cleaned it up last year, it’s your turn.” 

June lets out a small laugh as she drops her head onto Alex’s shoulder. “No, things calmed down pretty soon after you left.” She pauses, only the sounds of the crickets chirping in the woods on the other side of the lake filling the air between them. “We don’t have to…”

“Yeah,” Alex sighs resignedly, “yeah we do.” Alex’s brain was wired for politics, it always would be. People don’t like women in positions of power, but they like wives and mothers—it was partially the reason that Ellen made her whole family a part of her last campaign. Alex and June would have to do the same this time. If anyone thought that their mother had fallen out with her children in her pursuit of success, she’d be written off as cold and uncaring, with every debate question being about whether women can really handle the presidency and every article title being something along the lines of ‘If Ellen Claremont Can’t Run Her Own Family, How Can She Run the Country?’ 

June releases an unhappy breath. “I know.” She turns her head to look up at him, her sharp chin digging into his shoulder. “Who were you talking to?” 

Alex blinks at her. “Nora,” he lies easily. 

June reels back and looks at him. “No you weren’t.” She squints her eyes at him suspiciously. “Why are you lying?” 

“I’m not. I was talking to Nora,” he insists, doubling down. 

“So you’re telling me,” June says slowly, “that Nora was on the phone with you at the same time she was on the phone with me?” Alex freezes. Fuck, he hadn’t thought that through. “Alex,” June urges, driving her bony elbow into Alex’s ribs. 

“Ow! Fuck, okay,” he says, rubbing the place on his side that she assaulted. “I was talking to Henry.” 

“Henry who? Someone from school?” 

“No,” Alex says vaguely, looking away, down at the lake, the surface rippled by the gentle breeze. “It’s Henry as in…Prince Henry.” She looks back at June and her wide eyes. “Of Wales.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” June asks, shocked. “Is that who you’ve been texting nonstop like a teenage girl with a crush?” 

Alex bites his cheek—it’s not a fucking crush. He’s a grown man, he doesn’t have crushes. “We just talk. It’s not that big of a deal.” 

“So you guys are friends?” 

Alex waves his hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t go that far.” 

A pleased smile spreads over June’s face, completely ignoring his protest. “You actually made a friend.” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “I have friends.” 

“Yeah, me and Nora,” June says. “But this is like a real friend that you’ve actually made. And he’s royalty—which is so boujee of you by the way. You’re like the main character of a rom com. Like Notting Hill.” 

“It is not at all like that.” He stands from the seat and bends over, kissing the top of June’s head. “I’m going to bed. Are you going to be alright?” 

“Yeah,” June answers, looking up at him, eyes shining. “We’re going to be fine.” 

———

Alex sits next to June in his mother’s office the day before they’re supposed to fly back to New York, his leg bouncing up and down as their mother’s terrifying deputy chief of staff stares them down from the other side of her heavy oak desk. 

She slams down two blank sheets of paper in front of them. “I need you two little micreants,” Zahra looks directly at him at that, “to write down anything—and I do mean fucking anything—that you have gotten up to in the last four years that could reflect badly on your mother.” 

Alex picks up the pen in front of him and taps the putt of it against the paper. “What kind of stuff?”

“Anything,” she repeats, emphasizing each and every syllable. “Any dumb posts you made on social media, anyone you’ve sexted, any ignorant bullshit you said in class. We need to delete posts and hand out NDAs and spin stories before the press has a chance to start digging, if they haven’t already.” 

June nods in easy acceptance, picking up the pen and putting it to paper. Alex’s stomach roils when he glances over and sees the first item on June’s list—one word, written in her neat print: Nora. 

Alex turns back to his own blank page and blinks down at it. He starts to write and gets two letters— Bi —before scribbling it out. He never came out to his mother—or either of his parents—and he wasn’t going to do it now, not through a fucking piece of a paper where Alex is meant to reveal his dirty secrets and skeletons in his closet. 

Both his and June’s papers are nearly full when they stand up and hand them to Zahra. After he passes off his paper to her, she stacks them together and looks between them with a steely gaze. “If either of you does anything to fuck up this campaign, I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts and know many very painful and slow ways to kill you and dispose of your bodies. Do I sound like I’m joking?” They both shake their heads with wide eyes—Zahra had always been legitimately terrifying. “Get out of here,” she waves them away. As they open the door, she calls after them, “And check your personal emails!” 

Alex stumbles as June clamps her hand around his wrist and pulls him into her childhood bedroom, the walls plastered with an odd mix of astrology charts and clippings of old articles she wrote in her school paper. She pushes the door shut with a quiet click and turns on him, crowding him further into the room. “What did you put on that list?” she asks. Alex eyebrows knit together, and June huffs. “Or maybe I should be more precise—Alex what didn’t you put on that list?” 

Alex looks away and swallows thickly. “I put everything that was relevant,” Alex lies, crossing his arms defensively. 

“Alex,” she says, stepping closer and speaking in a hushed tone, “You know I’ve always supported you in coming out when you’re ready, but,” she pauses, shaking her head, “but this is important.” 

Alex drops onto June’s tiny twin bed, putting his face in his hands. “I know,” he insists, speaking through his fingers. 

The mattress dips as June sits down next to him, their legs pressed together. “Y’know,” she says, aiming for casual, “you never actually told me why you didn’t want to come out to mom and dad.” 

“Because I didn’t want it to be,” he throws his hand out in no particular direction, “this.” 

June raises a brow at him. “This?” 

“This!” he exclaims, throwing out his hand again. “I tell mom that I’m bi and she goes right into discussing how it fits into her next campaign. How I’ll have to hide it or be grand marshal of the next pride parade.” He falls back, laying down against the mattress and looking up at the glow in the dark stars still stuck to June’s ceiling. “Is it so much to ask that I get to come out to my mom and not Madame President?” 

June lays down next to him, looking at him and not her ceiling. “I guess not,” she says. “But this is bigger than us, you know that. Richards is causing a lot of people pain and, as much as I hate to admit it, mom has the best chance at beating him.” 

“Yeah I know,” Alex sighs. Alex knew that what he wanted had to come second, at least until Richards was out of office. But this is one thing that he wanted to hold onto. “I can keep it a secret.” 

“You could get outed by any guy you’ve slept with,” June points out. 

“You’re really overestimating how often I’m getting laid.” 

June scrunches up her nose despite that she was the one who brought up his sex life. “What about Henry?”

Alex whips his head around, his face inches away from his sister’s. “What about Henry?” June raises a suggestive brow at him. “It’s not like that.” 

“I can tell you like him.” 

Alex turns back to the ceiling, away from June’s scrutinizing gaze. Fuck, how does June always know everything? “I don’t like him.” 

“Liar.”

“I don’t,” Alex protests. June hums neutrally. “I don’t,” Alex repeats. “Not like that.” 

Alex sees June studying him in his periphery and takes care to keep his face flat and neutral. “Okay, whatever.” She sits up and then stands, offering her hand down to him. “Come on, there’s leftover pie in the kitchen.” 

Alex shoots her a grateful smile and allows June to haul him to his feet.

Chapter Text

Henry had always hated Sandringham. It wasn’t all that different from other royal properties, all red brick and sprawling, green lawns, the decor impersonal and gaudy. He has endured many a Christmas dinner at Sandringham, and it seems that every year, Henry’s desire to shrink in on himself until he disappeared completely only grew. He has yet to succeed. 

Before dinner begins, which starts whenever Gran makes her way to the table, the entire extended family gathers in one of the many, many, many sitting rooms in the house, drinking and chatting and making condescending remarks about the appearance or occupation or life in general of distant cousins. Henry and Bea take upon themselves their usual burden of holding up the wall, huddling in the corner and snickering about their cousin Charlotte’s latest doomed dalliance or their uncle Raymond’s newest wife, who seem to be getting younger and younger, or their aunt Ruby’s odd obsession with her horses.

“Perhaps we should play a drinking game,” Bea says, handing him an overfull glass of what is undoubtedly very expensive champagne. “Drink any time someone makes a vague reference to my ‘problem,’” she manages the air quotes despite the glass of water in her hand, “and when anyone asks if you have a girlfriend.”

“You don’t drink,” Henry points out, “so you will become pleasantly hydrated, and I will be passed out drunk within the half hour.” 

A wide smile spreads over her face as she shrugs. “I would pay a small fortune to see you get sloshed in front of Gran.” 

Henry winces at the thought. “I think I’d rather die,” he mutters. “She’d pay a very large fortune for a legitimate reason to disown me, better not give her any more ammunition.” 

Bea rolls her eyes at him. “You do always get very dramatic before these silly dinners,” she comments, managing to level him with a scrutinizing gaze while taking a sip of her water. “What these people,” she motions around the room with her glass, “think of you does not matter Henry.” 

Henry huffs, emptying his glass and setting it down on the small, seemingly useless table behind him, grabbing another from a passing tray. Henry gave her this same speech the first dinner after she got out of rehab, and Henry had certainly gotten it before on several occasions. It did nothing to loosen the anxious knot in his stomach. 

A butler with an impossibly straight spine announces that dinner has been served in a nasally voice. Henry takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Into the trenches then.” Bea holds up her glass in offering, and Henry obediently clinks his glass against hers and resigns himself to his fate. It’s two hours, Henry reminds himself, just as he must each and every year. You just have to get through the next two hours. 

The first course mercifully goes by without any input from himself or Bea, and Henry slumps down in his chair, checking his phone underneath the heavy mahogany table. He opens his messages with Alex. Henry knew that his two roommates were out of town for the holiday—Henry was curious, but he hadn’t asked why Alex wasn’t celebrating with his sister—and Alex sent him photos of sticky notes that his other roommate Nora left around the flat. One on the coffee machine: You have to drink  actual water Alejandro. One on the cinnamon shaker: Yes, we realize coffee contains water. This does mean it counts as water. Another on the fridge: You also have to eat food. The last one inside the fridge: Coffee is not food. 

ffs I’m not a fucking child , Alex had texted him. 

Not physically at least.

🖕🏽

He jumps, his head shooting up, when he feels a sharp pain in his leg as Bea kicks his shin under the table. He looks up at her to find her subtly flicking her eyes over to their cousin sitting next to her. James. Henry holds back a pained groan. He hates James. “Hm?” he asks, turning his attention to his cousin. 

“I was just asking,” James says, evidently put out at having to repeat himself, “how you were enjoying your gap year.” He takes an innocent sip from his glass; Henry knows better. Insults in his family were delicate, well crafted things, all implication. The underlying question here was: how are you enjoying doing absolutely nothing with your life? 

Henry pulls on his press smile with some effort. “It’s been busy,” he motions with his own glass magnanimously. “I’ve been doing a lot of charity work, royal duties,” he says vaguely. 

James hums. “You were always a bit of a bleeding heart. I’m sure that will change once you enlist,” he sets his glass down on the table with a thump. Henry holds back an eye roll—as if any royals in the military would actually ever see combat. Though, with Henry’s luck, his grandmother will likely decide that he belongs on the front lines. “Though I’m not sure why you’ve been jetting around the world when there are people that need your help right here in your own country.” 

“Oh?” Henry asks, feigning ignorance. 

James hums again affirmatively. “But thankfully the withdrawal agreement will be passed soon enough. It’s about time we be through with that business.” 

Henry nods bitterly. Talk of the The Withdrawal Agreement—Brexit—was virtually impossible to ignore; people had been discussing it since 2016, but it had dominated the news in the UK during the summer. Henry usually didn’t keep up on British politics much—the royal family were not permitted to vote or even comment on political matters. He remembers his father sitting in a leather armchair, wireframe reading glasses perched on his nose as he scanned the newspaper each day, grumbling about politics and parliament, complaints that could never leave the four walls of their home. It frustrated him not to have a say, and the more Henry heard about things like Brexit and the Tories that supported it, the more he understood his frustrations. “I’m not sure that I agree,” Henry says diplomatically. “I, as well as many other citizens, think that Brexit is likely to have a negative impact on minority ethnic communities.” 

James actually rolls his eyes at him, an extremely undignified gesture that Henry would never even attempt at Sandringham. “There’s that bleeding heart again. Brexit is about sovereignty.” 

Henry schools his expression. “Britain benefits massively from EU membership, and withdrawal would damage our economy, threaten jobs, and harm our security. It seems to me—”

“How it seems to you doesn’t really matter though, does it?” James cuts him off, putting up a silencing hand that Henry finds deeply condescending. “I know they didn’t teach you such things in your English courses, but the United Kingdom is a democracy. Brexit is the will of the people.” 

Henry sighs internally. Arguing with his family has proven to be a Sisyphean task; he doesn’t know why he still tries. “You shouldn’t be commenting on such things Henry,” Philip chastises, somehow sounding simultaneously bored and firm. Bea turns her head so Philip can’t see her roll her eyes. 

Henry deflates, sitting back and picking at his meal petulantly, the conversation going on around him. Henry and Bea share commiserate looks across the table when his Aunt Ruby asks Bea how she’s ‘recovering,’ and then again when their cousin Oliver asked what happened to that nice girl that he’d been dating. Henry huffs and obediently takes a drink from his wine glass at each comment, though there weren’t as many as he’d anticipated. There was one upside to having a new sister in law—it was Martha’s first Christmas at Sandringham, so she and Philip drew the bulk of the attention. Henry can’t help but notice that his mother doesn’t say a word the entire dinner, hardly ever looking up from her plate as she mechanically cuts her food and lifts it to her mouth. 

It actually takes nearly three hours to finish the ridiculous six course meal, and another thirty minutes for everyone to politely bid one another good night. Henry breathes a sigh of relief when he steps into his assigned room in the house—he hates the room; it’s drafty and cold in both temperature and in spirit. He loosens his tie that has felt akin to a noose around his neck and pulls off the rest of his clothes, digging through his suitcase to find a black henly shirt and his striped candy cane pajama bottoms that Bea always insists he wear in the spirit of the holiday. 

There is another sitting room in the section of the house that was always assigned to Henry’s family when they were forced to stay there. They used to gather and throw themselves over the furniture drowsily, exchanging gifts and laughing about the silly things that their aunts and uncles had said at dinner, and his dad would read a passage from The Gift of the Magi. The tradition died with his father. Since then, only he and Bea met after they were excused from the dinner table. 

Henry sits in the overstuffed embroidered armchair nestled between the window and the fireplace, throwing one leg over the arm and pulling out his phone, seeing that Bea sent him a text saying she would be there in twenty minutes. 

Henry opens up his messages with Alex, intending to text him ‘Happy Christmas,’ but his thumbs hover over the keys. He does the math in his head and it’s shouldn’t be too late in New York. It’s become something of a habit that they talk on holidays, but it's always been Alex calling him before. He presses the button to call him before he can second guess it. 

“Henry?” he hears Alex say after the call connects. “Shouldn’t you be having some sort of royal banquet or something?” 

Henry huffs, shaking his head to himself as he smiles. “It’s a family dinner you ninny.” He hesitates for a moment, wondering if this is too weird, too…revealing. “I just wanted to call to wish you a Happy Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas Henry,” he says. Henry has to tamp down on his smile—he always likes it when Alex says his name like that, like the word encapsulates his entire being when it rolls off of Alex’s tongue in his deep voice with a honeyed Texas drawl peeking through the vowels. 

Every time Alex has called him, the sound of his voice always makes a sense of longing wash over him. He feels like he knows Alex so much more intimately than he has almost anyone; it’s hard to believe they’ve only seen each other in person thrice. Henry wishes desperately that he could accept the invitation to a New Year’s party at their flat that June sent him, but security would never allow him to attend a party in a private residence full of strangers. Also, he isn’t sure that Henry and alcohol and Alex make for an auspicious combination. 

Henry lets out a content hum, leaning over the other arm of the chair, practically laying down. They sit in a comfortable silence for a few long moments, Henry’s breath syncing up with Alex’s own exhales filling his ear. “Is something on your mind?” Alex asks after a few minutes. Henry releases an inarticulate grumble. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.” 

“I know.” 

There’s a beat of silence, but Henry swears he can hear Alex considering. “You know you can talk to me right? I mean, I’ve already dumped a bunch of emotional baggage on you.” 

Henry reminisces on their last call a month ago with mixed emotions. Of course, Henry’s heart broke at hearing Alex struggle to breathe and cry to him over the phone. Henry longed to pull him into his chest and run soothing circles over his back like his mum used to do when he was upset—4,000 miles had never felt wider than in that moment. But selfishly, he was touched that Alex trusted him with that honesty, with that vulnerability. 

“It’s not that serious really it’s just,” he drags his palm down his face, “I just—What do you know about Brexit?” 

“Um,” Alex says preceding a moment of surprised silence. “Not that much honestly. I know that, in 2015, the Conservative Party called for the referendum and most people voted in favor of leaving the EU.” Henry hears him release a rueful huff. “And I also know that it’s mostly xenophobic bullshit that will hurt y’all’s economy in the long run.” 

Henry nods silently. “Why do you know all that?” 

“What?” Alex asks, befuddled. “What do you mean?” 

“I just mean…I don’t even keep up that much on British politics because I can’t vote and I can’t comment, so I figure, what’s the point in getting upset over something that I have no power to change? And it’s not as if you can affect the outcome, so why do you know about it?” 

There’s a pause in which Alex considers. “I don’t…I don’t really know. I guess I just…care?” It seems that all Alex does is care—Henry wonders how he has the capacity to hold it all. Alex takes a deep breath, and Henry waits patiently. “I mean, the EU and British politics don’t really affect me personally, but I do still care about people outside of my own country. Also, issues like xenophobia, racism, and nationalism are definitely not problems exclusive to Britain.” Henry makes a contemplative noise, nodding to himself. “You’re not as powerless as you think you are y’know.” 

“I’m not?” 

“Duh,” Alex says, and Henry smiles. “Doesn’t your family donate like, millions of dollars to charities every year?” 

“Yes?” Henry answers with the inflection of a question, not sure what he’s getting at. 

Alex sighs. “Look, when it comes to big things like that, we’re all a little powerless. Like, I can’t do anything about Richards being in office and doing shit that literally violates people’s rights, but I try to do what I can to help.” Henry doesn’t say anything, and Alex goes on. “So just…figure out who needs the most help and use your imperialist blood money to help them, moron.” 

Henry releases an amused puff of air, turning to look out the window, seeing the yellow lights that illuminate the gardens below. “That’s actually very good advice.” 

“Yeah, I’m a fucking paragon of wisdom—Oh sorry Sarah can you take them? I’m on break,” Alex says, the second part clearly not for him. 

Henry’s eyebrows knit together. “Where are you right now?”

“Work,” Alex says as if this should be obvious. “June and Nora are in Vermont for Hannukkah and I get paid time and a half for working on a holiday.” 

“So you’re working on Christmas Eve?” Henry asks rhetorically. “That’s grim.” 

“The joys of capitalism,” Alex says, though his tone is lighthearted. 

“A communist then?” Henry jokes. 

“I prefer to think of myself as a democratic socialist,” Alex replies. “Which is not, by definition, socialism. But according to Republicans, anyone who holds radical beliefs such as ‘healthcare is a human right’ or ‘people should be able to afford to live’ is basically the second coming of Karl Marx.” 

Henry laughs. He sits back and looks up at the ceiling again, but breaks the short silence between them to ask, “Wait what are you doing for Christmas?” 

“Nora and June and I already decorated and exchanged gifts and stuff before they left,” Alex answers, attempting to sound casual, but actually sounding sheepish. “I’ll probably just order Chinese and watch movies or something.” 

“What about your parents?” 

Alex releases a sardonic laugh. “My mom is way too busy with her campaign to leave D.C. I don’t know about my dad. I didn’t ask him, he didn’t ask me.” 

“That’s kind of rubbish,” Henry comments, hoping he’s not overstepping. “You shouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone.” 

Alex makes a noise of solemn contemplation. “Y’know…I used to really love Christmas. Now, it just feels like another day.” 

“What happened?” 

Alex grumbles. “Well I used to love Christmas because we had so many traditions as a family, but then my parents were always fighting, which made them…not very fun anymore,” Henry’s heart squeezes in his chest at how distant Alex’s voice sounds. “And then they got divorced, so…”

Henry waits for a moment for him to finish his thought before he realizes that he was done. “I’m sorry. I kind of feel similarly…all of our happy holiday traditions ended after my father’s passing, and now we’re left with only the unpleasant royal obligations. For what it’s worth,” Henry adds softly, “I hope that you get to love it again. Someday.” 

“You too.” Henry can hear the smile in Alex’s voice, imagining the dimple on his right cheek deepening and his dark eyes lighting up, making a smile rise on Henry’s face as well. 

He hears an old floorboard creak and Bea pauses only a few steps into the room, looking down at him with her brows scrunched together. “I have to go,” he says in a hushed tone as if it will somehow prevent Bea from hearing him. “Happy Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas Henry,” he replies, and Henry lowers the phone and shoves it in his pocket after the line disconnects.

Bea raises a questioning eyebrow at him as she hands Henry his paper wrapped gift and falls onto the couch. “That wasn’t Pez,” she states, though the question is clear. 

Henry rolls his eyes as he hands his own gift over. Henry never knows what to get Bea as a present—he settled on coasters made out of repurposed vinyl records. “No,” Henry answers simply, knowing that his stubbornness would do nothing to deter his sister from pestering. 

He was correct. “Henry. Do not make me beg.” 

Henry turns so he can sit up in his chair. He looks out the window, away from Bea’s piercing eyes that look far too much like their father’s. “Alex.” 

“Who the hell is Alex?” 

Henry sighs. “Alex Claremont-Diaz.” 

“Is he—” Bea starts slowly. 

“Yes.” 

“—that guy you were obsessed with a few years ago?” 

Henry throws his head back against the cushion of the chair and groans. “I wasn’t obsessed,” Henry lies. 

“Is he who you’ve been talking to nonstop?” 

“Bea,” he pleads. 

“Do you like him?” Henry looks back at her, expecting to find her face set into something teasing. Instead, her eyes are reflecting what Henry almost thinks is…concern? 

It makes him pause. “Uh,” he says hesitantly, suddenly shy under Bea’s gaze, rubbing a palm over the back of his neck. He doesn’t want to answer, isn’t sure how to decipher the expression that Bea’s features have settled into, but he doesn’t like to lie to his sister. It would be a lie to say anything but—“Yes.” 

“Do you think he likes you back?” 

Henry considers and well, sometimes he thinks the answer is yes. He’s sure it’s wishful thinking, but there are times that Henry is so sure that Alex is flirting with him, that he can almost hear something akin to affection in his tone. It’s still not a lie when he says, “I don’t know.” 

Bea looks at him, her light brown eyes boring into his soul, making Henry feel transparent. “Open your gift,” she orders in a soft tone.

Chapter Text

Jesus fucking Christ, Alex thinks as he scrolls through his phone, looking at the day’s discouraging headlines. 

American Airstrikes Rally Iraqis Against U.S.

Inside China’s Push to Turn Muslim Minorities Into an Army of Workers

Inside a Texas Church: Guns, Bibles and a Spirited Firearms Debate

Bernie Sanders Is in ‘Good Health,’ His Doctors Say

“Alex!” Nora drunkenly yells into his ear, throwing her arm around his neck. “Stop texting your boy toy! It’s a fucking party!” His face is so close that he can smell her breath. She smells like a liquor store. 

Alex spent his first New Year’s in New York drunk and depressed, alone on the couch, drinking straight from a liquor bottle as he watched the ball drop. June would never admit it, but he knows that her choosing to host a New Year’s party at their apartment was at least a little bit because of him. Instead of dragging him out by the earlobe, she invites friends from work and Nora invites friends from her master’s program and Alex eventually had enough acquaintances from school and the diner and the shelter to invite. 

His apartment is packed well past capacity, the furniture pushed against the walls so people can dance to the loud music from Nora’s perfectly curated Spotify playlist, everyone pleasantly drunk, Alex watching it from his place leaning against the wall. It’s not usual for him, a dance floor and the bottom of a bottle are normally where he thrives, dancing and singing along without a care in the world or a thought in his head. Tonight though, all the alcohol has done is make him maudlin. 

“Henry is not my boy toy,” Alex yells over the loud music. He kept his…whatever with Henry a secret from Nora for as long as possible, knowing that it would give her endless ammunition for teasing and mockery, but she was nosy and had no qualms about reading his texts over his shoulder. “He is just a guy that I text sometimes.” And call, he doesn’t add. His calls with Henry feel too intimate to share with even June for a reason that he refuses to ruminate on. 

“Keep telling yourself that little buddy,” Nora says, ruffling his already disheveled hair. Alex bats her hand away with a scowl. “Come on,” she groans, loud and long, tugging on his hand to pull him onto the makeshift dance floor. 

Alex rolls his eyes, but grins at the excited whoop that Nora lets out when he relents, following her into the small crowd to dance in the low light to the pounding bass of Get Low. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the coffee table as he glides by, clutching it in his fist by the neck, taking a few hearty swigs. 

Alex feels more himself once he’s drunk enough that things get hazy around the edges, dancing with Nora and then June and then Carlos from the diner and then Juliet from the shelter, the bottle in his hand gradually getting emptier. 

June turns down the music when it’s thirty seconds from midnight, everyone turning toward the television as the ball inches lower and lower, the crowd gathered in Times Square cheering in anticipation. At five seconds to midnight, people start counting down, their voices filling every corner of the room. It’s a miracle they haven’t gotten a noise complaint. 

Five!

Juliet slips away from his side with a playful wink, retreating to the edge of the room where her more introverted wife is waiting for them to reunite with a New Year’s kiss. 

Four! 

Alex turns his head to one side, and then to the other, half heartedly considering finding another lonely, single drunk to share a messy kiss with at midnight. He faces forward again, giving up his search after what was barely long enough to be considered a moment. 

Three!

Alex smiles softly when he sees Nora gather his sister in her arms, pulling her closer by the sway of her waist, June laughing as Nora bumps their noses together. Alex looks away as they beam at each other, looking into the other’s eyes as if in their own little world, the scene feeling too intimate to witness. 

Two!

Alex makes his way through the crowd, excusing himself politely to people who were too drunk to care or notice. He puts his back to the wall next to their living room window, looking down at the streetlights illuminating the Brooklyn streets as he tips his head back to drain the final dregs of his liquor bottle. 

One!

The room erupts, and Alex looks on as people share a New Year’s kiss with their loved ones as if he’s watching from behind glass. He can see everything happening around him—the sloppy, drunk kisses, the confetti raining down from party poppers, the popping of champagne—but the sound is muffled, the colors dulled, an insistence prickling at the back of his mind that something was missing that Alex can’t name. 

Alex crouches down and deposits the empty glass bottle on the wood floor, sliding the window open, the chilly air of northeastern January seeping into the overheated room. He steps through the window frame onto the fire escape, sliding the window shut behind him to muffle the sounds of the party raging on the other side of the glass. 

He walks up to the metal railing of the fire escape, the cold metal digging into his abdomen as he leans against it, looking out and listening to the sounds of New York celebrating the first few minutes of the new year, fireworks in a rainbow of colors sparkling and crackling over the city skyline. Alex looks up, wishing that he could see the stars, but finding nothing but empty darkness. 

Alex drops onto the second step above the platform, pulling the insubstantial jacket—which was much more useful for the purposes of fashion than warmth—tighter around himself in an attempt to fend off the cold. Pulling out his phone and pressing on Henry’s contact name was practically a habit at this point. For months, every time he was bored or upset or angry or amused, he would pull out his phone and send a string of texts to Henry. 

“Happy New Year,” Alex says as soon as he hears the call connect.

Alex hears Henry’s drowsy grumbling and some shuffling on the other end of the line. “Alex?” 

“Duh,” Alex says, leaning back against the steps behind him, ignoring how the grated metal digs painfully into his spine. “Why do you sound like that? Did I wake you up?”

“Of course you woke me up you git.” More shuffling and a click that Alex thinks is the sound of a lamp being switched on. “It’s five in the fucking morning.” 

Alex smiles—Henry rarely curses; it sounds profane in his posh accent. “Wow, you’re bitchy when you’re tired.” 

“You’re the worst. I could count this as an assassination attempt you know, chain you up in the Tower of London.” 

“Kinky,” Alex comments with a smirk, mostly to hear the affronted little choking sound that he knew Henry would make. “I am calling you to wish you a Happy New Year, which most people would consider nice and thoughtful.” 

“It’s been a new year in London for over five hours—”

“And yet I got no call from you,” he points out, feigning hurt. 

“—as I imagine you know. The entire world does not measure time based on the New York time zone,” Henry says drily. 

“It should honestly,” Alex says. “Time zones are so stupid.” 

There’s a short, considering pause. “Are you serious? I can’t tell if you’re being serious.” 

“I’m completely serious,” he says indignantly. “Time zones are stupid,” Henry makes a noise as if he’s going to interrupt, but Alex cuts him off, “and if you try to explain the rotation of the earth to me, I will find a way to reach through the phone and choke you to death.” 

“That reaction is unwarranted,” he deadpans. “But please, explain to me your completely reasonable disdain for time zones.” 

“I get that the sun rises and sets at different times in different places, but I don’t get why it matters if the sun rises in one place at 7 a.m. and in another at 10 p.m.” 

“It would be confusing!” Henry argues, his indignation making him sound significantly more awake than he did a minute ago. 

“We would adjust,” Alex shoots back, waving his hand dismissively. “What would actually be less confusing would be if it were the same time everywhere in the world.” 

“I can’t even begin to explain all the ways in which you’re wrong,” Henry says, and Alex rolls his eyes—what a pompous ass. “Is this really the hill you’re prepared to die on?” 

“Bold of you to assume I need to choose just the one hill. I’m like a cat—I have nine lives. I can choose all the hills.”

“You’re ridiculous is what you are.” He hears more shuffling on Henry's side of the line, and when he speaks again, his voice is more distant, like he’s sitting against his headboard with his phone on speaker beside him. “So you called me at the crack of dawn to torture me with your blatantly wrong opinions on the measurement of time?” Henry asks judgmentally. 

I called you because I felt alone in a room full of people, Alex thinks, but doesn’t say. I called you because hearing your stupid voice always makes me feel better. Instead, Alex jokes, “Yup. This is all part of my elaborate plan to bring down the monarchy one person at a time.” 

Henry hums. “Well you must be playing the long game considering that I am currently fourth in line for the throne.” 

“Yeah I’m starting with the most annoying and going from there.” 

“Ha,” Henry says humorlessly. “Shouldn’t you be at a party right now?” 

Alex squints, thinking back, trying to recall when he told Henry about the party; he hadn’t. “How the fuck did you know about that?” 

He hesitates, but eventually answers, “I may have received an invitation.” 

“Of course.” Alex’s breath leaves him in an irritated huff. He certainly hadn’t ivnited Henry, but it has June’s fingerprints all over it. “June is such a meddler.” 

“Oh,” Henry says, his tone flat and indecipherable. “Older sisters can be like that, in my experience,” he says, aiming for humor, but for some reason, falling short of it. 

Something stirs in Alex’s chest, throwing him strangely off kilter. He can’t decipher Henry’s tone, which annoys him. He wants to poke and prod until Henry laughs, or makes a cutting joke, or tells him what’s wrong. Instead, he changes the subject. “Can you see the stars in London?” 

“What?” Henry sounds confused at the non sequitur. 

“The stars,” Alex repeats, staring up into the black, empty sky. “We can’t see them in New York, but what about London?” 

“Um, no,” Henry answers, albeit hesitantly. “There are a few places just outside the city where people go to stargaze, but there’s too much light pollution in London.” 

Alex nods, despite the fact that Henry can’t see him and the movement makes the stair he’s laying against dig painfully into the back of his skull. “Yeah, same here. It’s always a little jarring when I go back to Texas and see a sky full of stars. I’ve grown so used to not even looking up anymore.” 

“Do you miss Texas?” Henry asks, his voice with a touch of gentleness that it didn’t possess before. 

Alex shrugs, as much as he could with one arm around himself to keep warm and the other holding his phone to his ear. “I guess. Sometimes.” 

Henry waits, as if he’s expecting Alex to say more. He doesn’t. “Would you like to elaborate on that?” Alex just grumbles in reply. “You don’t have to of course.”

“No, it’s just,” he runs his palm down his face, releasing a small groan. “It’s complicated.” 

“I’m willing to listen if you want to talk about it.” God, Henry would’ve made a decent shrink in another life. He should honestly start billing Alex. 

Alex sighs, his breath coming out in a white little puff. “You know that feeling that you get when you look at a picture of someone that you don’t see anymore, and it makes you happy because you loved them and you had a lot of great times together, but it also makes you sad because you’ll probably never talk to them again?” Alex asks. It’s the way he feels when he looks at old pictures of Liam, or even when he finds family photos from before the divorce—that feeling of I’ll never have that again. He winces at himself when he thinks of Henry. “Fuck, sorry, of course you do.” 

“It’s fine Alex,” Henry reassures him. “But yes, I get what you’re talking about. That’s how Texas makes you feel?”

“I guess,” he whispers, reaching up to the key hanging around his neck that no one, not even June, knows is there. He wears the key as a reminder of where he’s been, of the place that made him the person he is, but not where he wants to go. He can go back to his mother’s house in Austin any time he wants, but it’s not his home anymore. He learned a long time ago that home isn’t a place. 

Texas always fills his chest with a sad sense of nostalgia. A feeling of Oh, how I loved this place. But oh, how it can never be as it was.

“Do you have a place like that?” Alex all but whispers into the phone. 

“No,” Henry sighs. “I guess I’ve never really…had somewhere that I had a strong connection to. Somewhere that felt like mine. Like home.” 

Something behind Alex’s sternum aches, making him wish he was propped up against Henry’s headboard beside him, so he could take his hand, or run comforting fingers through his hair, or pull his face to his chest and hold him tight. “I hope you get to have that. Someday.” 

Henry makes a small noise of agreement. “Me too,” he whispers, so quietly that Alex almost doesn’t catch it. 

Alex closes his eyes, listening to the distant popping of fireworks and the thumping of loud music on the other side of the glass and the steady, even sound of Henry’s breathing in his ear. 

“Alex?” Henry says, breaking Alex out of his trance; he makes a questioning noise. “I wish I could have been there tonight.” 

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Me too.” 

They eventually hang up after Alex complains one too many times about being cold, but he still doesn’t go inside just yet, shivering as he lays back against the steps, warmed by something unfamiliar and heady spreading out in his chest. 

Alex pockets his phone, laying his hands atop his stomach, feeling it rise and fall with his breath. He turns his head sideways, unfocusing his eyes to blur the lights of the city spreading out before him, finally putting a name to the feeling that has been blooming behind his solar plexus every time he’s thought about Henry in the last few months.

Chapter Text

Alex wakes, as he does most days, to a text from Henry. He unlocks his phone with his fingerprint, rolling over in bed so that it can stay connected to his charger. 

Are you aware of what a truly massive country you live in?

How far is Connecticut from New York? 

do I look like fucking google maps to you

Since Google Maps does not yet have a physical form, I’m not sure I have all the necessary information to answer. 

yet?

It seems inevitable does it not? 

google taking a sentient form and becoming our all knowing overlord??

weirdly yeah

does the British government have something in the works that you’d like to share with the class? 

If I told you that, I’d have to kill you. 

What are you up to today? 

sitting on my ass and doing nothing

so living the dream i guess 

Most Saturdays were reserved for schoolwork and volunteering at the shelter, but he was already weeks ahead of schedule, as the spring semester just started and Alex threw himself into his assignments to distract from the campaign and whatever feelings he had for Henry that he was trying to beat back with a slipper and ignore. 

Henry doesn’t answer right away, so Alex guesses that he had to actually start paying attention to whatever meeting, appearance, or riveting game of cricket he was trying to tune out by texting Alex. Alex huffs, tossing his phone aside and rolling over, not even attempting to go back to sleep since he’s already slept well past when he would normally wake up, but just lying there, listening to the sounds of the street below filtering in through the poorly insulated glass of his window. He stares up at his blank, white ceiling, noticing the cobweb in the corner that he never dusts when he half asses his way through cleaning his room. He gets bored quickly, begrudgingly throwing his comforter aside, shivering at the cold air that invades his warm cocoon and makes goosebumps rise on his bare legs. 

The apartment is empty and still when he opens his door and makes his way to the kitchen, finding a pot of coffee already brewed and looks at it consideringly, wondering how long it’s been there. He dumps it out into the sink and starts brewing a fresh pot, and then reaches into a cabinet over the refrigerator that they never use where he knows June hides the good bagels, taking one out and popping it into the toaster. 

He retreats to the couch with his steaming mug of coffee and bagel smeared with cream cheese, depositing them on the coffee table and opening his email, as he does every single day, scanning through spam and promotions for college events, searching for Zahra’s name. 

Alex and June haven’t been asked to do much for the campaign yet, just posting on social media after the announcement that Ellen was running and retweeting anything that she posted about her policies. With the Iowa Caucus in just over a week, Ellen was campaigning her ass off. Today, she was being interviewed on the NPR Politics Podcast, and Zahra had tasked him with tweeting about it under pain of death. He should really start compiling all his correspondence from Zahra for his inevitable murder trial. 

Alex reaches for the remote and surfs through the channels, settling on that program on the Food Network where people make elaborate cakes that everyone watches, but never on purpose. He switches through various apps, scrolling absentmindedly while the show plays in the background, none of it really capturing his attention.

Alex hates days like this. He always sets out trying to relax, but he actually spent these days stressing out about how much he couldn’t relax. Nothing holds his interest, and hours and hours pass by until June comes home and asks him what he did that day and the most honest answer he could give would be ‘I have no fucking clue.’ 

At first he’s relieved to hear a knock at the door as he will graciously accept the company of either of his roommates, or any other human being for that matter, but then he furrows his brow, narrowing his eyes at the closed door. Nora never forgets her key and June is probably going to be working well into the evening. 

He reluctantly rises from the couch, walking over as another knock, more insistent this time, sounds through the apartment. He yanks open the door and freezes, the breath leaving his lungs when he sees the person standing on the other side. 

“Henry,” he breathes out, his eyes wide. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

One side of Henry’s mouth ticks up into a crooked smile. “Always nice to receive a warm welcome,” he says with some humor, but with an undercurrent of anxiety. 

Alex rolls his eyes, but he shuffles Henry inside so he is no longer hovering in the hallway in his ineffective disguise of a navy blue zip up sweatshirt. Alex is painfully aware that he looks like he just rolled out of bed in sweatpants and an old lacrosse t-shirt, his hair probably sticking up in a hundred different directions. Before he can close the door, another man that he hadn’t taken notice of glides through the doorway behind him. “That’s Joseph, my PPO,” Henry says by way of explanation, standing in the entryway behind Alex. “Shaan wouldn’t let me come up without security.” 

Alex closes the door as the PPO disappears into the corner to fade into the wall. “I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered that Shaan thinks I’m a threat to your safety.” 

Henry releases a small chuckle, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, kneading the middle of his palm as he looks around the apartment absentmindedly. Henry eventually turns back to him, locking eyes with Alex for the first time in months. He knows that it’s impossible, but when he looks at Henry with his tawny hair and blue eyes and broad shoulders that taper to his narrow waist, Alex is sure he’s managed to become more beautiful since the last time they saw each other. 

He thinks back to the last time he saw Henry in person, exiled to the fire escape and tentatively letting go of years of resentment—it feels like it was years ago. This impromptu meeting in Alex’s empty apartment in midafternoon is a strange juxtaposition to that day—he knows Henry now, and Alex is inexplicably drawn to him like Henry has his own gravitational force. Alex puts his back to the door, keeping as much distance between them as possible. 

“What are you doing here?” Alex repeats. 

Henry lifts a single shoulder in a shrug, his voice carefully casual. “I was in Connecticut for a charity polo match,” he lifts his palm to run it over the back of his neck. “It turns out it’s only about 45 minutes from the city, which is actually quite convenient.” 

Alex pushes down the urge to relentlessly mock Henry for playing polo to ask, “Convenient for?” 

There’s a pause, a significant pause that hangs in the air between them with a palpable weight. Henry seems reluctant to break the silence, but he does, saying, “I suppose…I just thought it would be a shame to be so close and not visit.” His cheeks immediately turn a rosy pink, his light complexion doing nothing to hide his sheepish reaction. 

Alex turns the confession over in his mind, trying to figure out what Henry meant by it, why he went nearly an hour out of his way just to see Alex. He briefly considers that Alex might mean as much to Henry as Henry did to him, but he banishes the thought to the back of his mind. “What did you want to do?” He simultaneously hopes for and dreads the possibility that Henry would want to just hang out here—hours alone in Alex’s empty apartment, just a single thin wall between them and his bedroom—he could only exercise so much self control. 

“I can’t be here for too long,” Henry says, not really answering his question, but giving Alex about five new ones. “Only a couple of hours at most. And I’d prefer we not go anywhere with too many tourists.” 

Alex nods. “So we’ll start in Times Square and then we can hit the Empire State Building before going to see the Statue of Liberty?” 

Henry shoots him a deeply disgruntled look. “You’re such a wanker.” 

Alex grins. He pulls on his sneakers and grabs his coat. He had the perfect place in mind. 

———

The Book Terrace is a community bookstore that June loves because it’s not too busy and has a ‘vibe’ that she likes, which Alex guesses is the perfect vibe for a nerd like Henry. The bell chimes when they open the door, sunlight streaming through the front windows, illuminating the dust floating through the air. There are used and new books lining the shelves, the smell of old paper and ink and cedar filling the air around them. It’s not somewhere that one would expect to find a prince, but Henry looks like he fits right in, blending in with the sepia tones of the faded wood shelves and weathered, well-loved pages. 

“Oh,” Henry says in surprise, looking down at the tri-colored tabby cat head butting his leg, “hello.” 

Alex turns his head for a second in an attempt to hide the small smile rising on his lips unbidden. “Did you just greet the cat?” 

Henry crouches down, the hood falling off his head, the sun catching in his hair and turning it to spun gold. He holds out his open palm to the cat, and she sniffs his hand, leaning into the offered touch. “Do they not teach you manners in America?” Henry asks, running a gentle hand from the cat’s head all the way down her spine. “It would explain a lot about the way that you are.” 

Alex snorts. “Is that a subtle hint that you want me to start curtsying when I greet you?” 

“Well I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” Henry looks up at him, his eyes lighting up with easy amusement as he smiles. He turns back to the cat, now purring under his touch, to give her a final pat in farewell before standing, brushing away the cat hair clinging to his hands. 

Alex allows Henry to lead him though the store, first sauntering over to the small table filled with staff recommendations. Henry picks up a book off the table, and Alex does the same without reading the title or looking at the cover. Henry turns it over to read the summary on the back of the dust jacket, and Alex watches Henry as he does so, taking note of his pupils scanning the words and his eyebrows furrowing slightly in contemplation, eyes catching on the tiny wrinkle that forms between Henry’s light brows that Alex longs to smooth out with the pad of his thumb. He quietly returns the book to the table, and Alex does the same. 

They walk the shelves slowly in relative silence, Henry picking up random books, taking in the covers and titles and summaries and humming consideringly. Alex does the same, but mostly watches Henry. There’s something about Henry’s presence that overwhelms Alex’s senses—it’s both intoxicating and calming, the air between them crackling with intensity, but also settled and comfortable. It shouldn’t make sense, but it just does. 

“Do you come here often?” Henry asks, breaking Alex out of his reverie. He looks up to see Henry returning a book to the shelf, sliding it between two paperbacks with weathered covers. 

“Not really.” 

Henry flicks his eyes up from where he was reading the summary on the back of another dust jacket. His long fingers span the entire back cover, and Alex briefly considers whether they are what his abuela would call ‘piano playing hands.’ “Not much of a reader?” 

Alex raises his eyebrows at him. “Are you calling me dumb your highness?

Henry’s head snaps up to him, and he tucks the book he’d picked up under his arm. “Of course not Alex,” he assures sincerely despite Alex’s joking tone. “You’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met.” 

Alex is taken aback by the genuine compliment, Henry’s tone making it clear that he wasn’t merely being placating—he meant it. Alex didn’t know how the fuck to feel about that. “One of?” 

Henry rolls his eyes, making the tight feeling in Alex’s chest subside. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“To answer your question,” Alex says, scanning the titles scrawled across the spines unseeingly. “I used to read a lot as a kid. My favorite used to be Prisoner of Azkaban but…” he waves his hand inarticulately. 

“Ah,” Henry says, nodding. “I see your predicament.” 

“Well are you going to recommend me something? Convert me to your nerdy English major ways?” 

One side of Henry’s lips ticks up as he reaches under his arm and wordlessly hands over the book he was holding. Alex looks down at it before taking it slowly, clasping the paperback in both hands, seeing an illustration of a woman obscured by a smear of red. He reads the title— The Round House— in big, bold letters at the top of the cover. “I read it in university,” Henry explains without prompting. “I think you’ll find it interesting.” Alex nods, turning the book over in his hands, but not reading the short blurb on the back. He tucks it under his arm, and turns on his heel to keep browsing the shelves. 

They continue to look around, walking up and down the aisles formed by the shelves stuffed with books in relative silence. It’s not an awkward silence, not an empty space that Alex itches to fill, but comfortable. It’s strange, he thinks, there aren’t many people in Alex’s life that he can simply exist around. He can’t pinpoint the moment when Henry became one of them. 

When they go to check out, Henry has three books in his arms—Alex can only see the top one, which is titled Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. When he places his haul on the counter, he smiles and greets the cashier politely, and the woman that checks them out either doesn’t recognize Henry, or is professional enough not to cause a scene. 

Alex sets his own books—the one that Henry gave him, We Should Never Meet by Aimee Phan , and a pre-owned, heavily annotated collection of poetry—on the counter. Once he’s checked out, he takes his bag and goes to stand next to Henry where he’s studying a poster on the wall. They stand holding their books in heavy silence as other customers mill around them, not paying them any mind—no one recognizes Henry, and for the majority of the day, he didn’t seem to be worried that they would. Alex supposes that London is probably a lot like New York—if you don’t draw attention to yourself, no one will pay attention to you. 

Alex remembers that Henry said he couldn’t stay long, and the time between now and when he’ll have to go is dwindling smaller and smaller by the second. Alex wishes it wasn’t, desperately wishes he could freeze time and he could stay inside the small bookshop with Henry forever, watching his loose, comfortable limbs walk the aisles leisurely, studying his face scrunching up in contemplation when he browses the shelves, sitting with him as he reads peacefully in a pool of warm sunlight. “I know you probably have to leave soon—”

“Would you like to get something?” Henry cuts him off, motioning to the small counter in the shop where they sell coffee and tea and a few pastries. Henry’s expression is carefully neutral, but Alex can see the hope there.

“Yeah,” Alex agrees with a smile, and Henry’s smile in return is small and relieved, as if Alex would ever say no. Henry gets his tea and Alex gets coffee in the largest cup that they carry, and they end up settling into one of the small couches in the back. As Alex sits next to Henry, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from his sun warmed skin, his brain unhelpfully points out that this is the closest they’ve ever physically been to each other. 

The cat jumps up on the back of the couch, nosing at Henry’s hair, and Henry pays her no mind, simply opening one of his books to a random page, seemingly reading a few lines. Alex can’t help but smile to himself. 

This entire day is settling strangely in his chest. It makes him uncomfortable how comfortable it all is. It gives him a strange sense of deja vu—like he’s been here before, in some other universe, in another life. A simpler one. He can almost imagine it, but he doesn’t want to. He’s spent far too much of his life wishing for things he couldn’t have. 

“So,” he says, desperately needing to break the far too peaceful silence between them, “polo?”

“Hm?” Henry flicks his eyes up to him, and then puts the book back in his bag, turning to face him with his tea clasped between both his hands. “Yes, I’ve been playing since I was a child.” 

“Like, with the horses and stuff?”

“And stuff,” Henry echoes, one side of his lips lifting in a teasing smirk. Alex can’t keep his own amusement in check at the image. “What about that could you possibly find amusing?”

“I don’t know,” Alex says, tipping his head to the side, a clear picture in his mind, “just Prince Charming, riding into the sunset on a white horse. You really have a firm grasp on your personal brand, your highness.” 

“It’s a brown horse,” Henry corrects flatly, making Alex roll his eyes. “And I’m far from Prince Charming.” 

“Agree to disagree.” 

Henry releases a sigh as he shifts in his seat and then promptly changes the subject. “How is your mother’s campaign going?” Alex throws his head back, his skull banging into the wooden frame of the couch, letting out a long groan. “Don’t be so dramatic,” Henry says through a small laugh, nudging his shoulder. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” 

“No it’s just,” he runs an exasperated hand through his hair with a sigh, kind of wanting to groan again, “the Iowa Caucus is in like, a week.” 

Henry blinks at him, no recognition in his eyes. “You must know that I have no idea what that means.” 

Alex laughs sardonically—most Americans didn’t really understand it. Four years ago, Alex went to the Iowa caucus with his mom and he kind of loved it. He felt something electric zinging through his veins at being right there in the action. It reminded him of the direct dremocracy of Ancient Rome, but now that he’s less young and naive, he realizes that the process is just overly complicated and frankly, stupid— show business for ugly people, his mind supplies. “It basically kicks off the presidential race,” Alex explains, leaving out the details, since they’re confusing and largely irrelevant. “Mom has been campaigning like crazy—not that she really needs to—because caucus winners go on to win the party nomination over half the time, and it’s the first time that the candidates are in an actual contest, so doing well is important for fundraising and endorsements and…” Alex cuts off his rambling. “Sorry, you don’t care about this.” 

“No I do,” Henry reassures him, still looking at him intently as he had for his entire rambling explanation. “So you think your mum will win?”

“Yeah, probably,” he answers, shrugging nonchalantly. He takes a long pull of his coffee despite the fact that it’s too hot to drink, needing something to do with his hands. It burns his tongue. 

Henry studies him with a furrowed brow, the wrinkle forming between them, and Alex tightens his hands around his coffee cup to keep them from reaching out. “Do you want her to?” 

“No,” Alex says automatically, but then quickly amends, “I mean yes, of course I do.” He pauses running a frustrated hand over his face. “Well, it’s complicated.” 

Alex snaps his gaze up when he feels a gentle hand on his arm, finding Henry looking at him, his expression intent and soft and inviting. He moves his hand away too soon, but not before Alex can memorize the way the soft pads of his fingers felt dragging against the sensitive skin of his forearm. “I hope you know by now that anything you tell me stays between us,” Henry reassures him softly.  

Alex swallows thickly, filing away any emotions he feels from the earnest look in Henry’s eyes for another time. Or preferably never. “Should I draft you up an NDA to sign?” he jokes. 

“Alex.” His tone is simultaneously firm and encouraging, slightly chastising. 

Alex sighs, pulling one knee up onto the couch, averting his gaze to a random potted plant on a shelf. “It’s complicated, because, as her son, it would be really easy for me personally if this race ended before it started, but I also love my mom and I know she really cares about this.” Alex hasn’t told anyone this—not even June or Nora—how he secretly wishes that his mom would be forced to drop out early in the race. But Alex knows his mother. The Lometa Longshot, practically built for shattering glass ceilings—he knows that she will go all the way and no matter the outcome, win or lose, it’s going to fucking suck. “And also, I really want—need—Richards out of office, and I know, from a political standpoint, that my mom is the strongest candidate on the ticket.” He shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant, rolling a fray on the cuff of his jeans between his fingertips. “So yes, I want her to win. Mostly.” 

Henry doesn’t reply right away, but Alex can almost hear him thinking, considering his words carefully as he always does. “Can I ask you a personal question?” Alex looks over at him, nodding reluctantly. “The current state of your country seems to…upset you. Significantly.”

Alex smirks ruefully. “Understatement. Go on.” 

“Have you ever thought about just…leaving?” 

“Not really,” Alex says, letting out a weary sigh. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” 

“I mean I can, but that’s exactly why I can’t.”

Henry’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I’m not sure I’m following.” 

“I can leave if I want to, but there are a lot of people that can’t,” Alex says, attempting to explain. “I have a lot of privilege and opportunities that others don’t, and I just think I could use that to make things better for the people who are being treated like shit instead of just leaving them here to rot and fucking off to Canada.” 

“Canada?”

“Just one example,” Alex says, waving his hand dismissively. “So what?” Alex studies Henry, raising his brows at him questioningly. “Are you thinking of fleeing England?”

Henry lets out a small, humorless puff of air. “I don’t think I should say.” 

“In case you forgot, I’m the one of us that actually did sign an NDA.” 

Henry rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. “It would be a lie to say I haven’t thought about it—fleeing the palace to live out my days in the solitude of the Welsh countryside, renouncing my title, burning something down on my way out.” 

Alex smiles, always happy to hear Henry’s more rebellious imaginings. “Drama queen,” he says with a smile. He waits a few seconds, his tone more serious when he asks, “Renouncing your title though? That seems…extreme.” 

“Yes.” He says it without inflection, simply stating a fact. 

“Why haven’t you?”

“I…it’s complicated.” He looks down at his hands, where he’s running the nail of one finger over the skin of another, leaving an angry red line in his wake. “I just don’t want to run away. It would feel like giving in. I’d rather—” Henry looks up at him, a piercing gaze that makes the rest of the world fall away. His expression is something that Alex’s brain can’t decipher, but his heart rate picks up nonetheless. “—have something to run toward.” 

———

“I hope to see you again soon Alex,” Henry says as they stand on the sidewalk next to a large, dark SUV idling at the curb. 

Alex kind of hates when Henry says things like that, something so earnest and genuine that he can’t make a joke to break the tension between them. “Me too,” he replies, looking up into Henry’s blue eyes, made clear and crystal by the bright light of the cloudless day. 

A small smile rises on Henry’s lips, and he shifts his weight, putting his hands behind his back. “I can’t imagine you’ll be finding yourself in London in the near future?”

Alex snorts. “That shithole?” he jokes, and Henry rolls his eyes. “In your dreams.” Henry breathes out a laugh, looking down at the sidewalk before meeting his eyes again, something hesitant and hopeful there. 

There’s something heavy and crackling in the air between them—something left unsaid that is keeping them both rooted in place while the driver waits in the car for Henry. Alex is strangely content to meet Henry’s gaze and wait. 

Alex is surprised when he’s pulled into a hug, standing stiffly for a moment before his whole body melts into it, wrapping his arms around Henry’s shoulders and holding him back just as fiercely as he’s being held. Every part of their bodies are pressed together—chest to chest, hip to hip—locking into place as if they were a perfect fit. Alex buries his face in his shoulder, taking a deep breath to find that Henry smells like freshly pressed linen and the crisp, clean air right before a thunderstorm. 

They pull back but don’t step away from each other, so close that Alex can feel the breath that he can see in the chilly February evening brushing against his face. The sun always sets so early in winter, and seeing Henry silhouetted in the setting sun reminds him of when they were on the fire escape—when Henry first started to become a real person to Alex. It’s strange to think that the man in his arms is that same person, but with a few masks removed. He wonders how many are left. He wonders if he’ll ever have the chance to see what lies underneath them all. 

He wonders what it would be like to kiss him. 

It’s not the first time Alex has thought about it—not by a long shot. He’s probably considered it dozens of times since Henry was just the boy in the magazine. But now, Henry is the man holding Alex as if he’s precious and they’re so close and Alex would only have to surge forward a few inches for their lips to meet. Henry might even kiss him back, he thinks. 

But then he remembers the people rushing past them and the car that’s taking Henry back to London and the promise he made to June. He takes a step back, removing himself from the comfort of Henry’s arms and feeling cold despite his heavy jacket. 

Henry obediently drops his arms to his sides, taking a step backwards toward the car, but not turning around just yet. “Goodbye Alex.” 

Alex smiles, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm his rapid heart rate. “See ya around your highness,” he says, just to see Henry roll his eyes, which he does. He bends his knees and sweeps his arms out in a dramatic curtsy, which makes Henry laugh before turning around to open the door. 

Alex stands on the sidewalk and watches the car drive away, only turning to walk back towards his apartment once it’s long out of sight.

Chapter Text

Henry is certain that the keynote speakers at these summits must be chosen from some directory of ancient men with monotone voices. He isn’t really paying attention, as this is a summit about sustainable energy that he knows nothing about and he’s only here because the monarch wants to appear to know about it. Instead, he’s scrolling through articles on his phone, which he’s hiding under the table in the hopes that no one takes notice. 

Boris Johnson Moves Boldly to Consolidate Power

Opinion—Boris Johnson’s Ultimate Deceit

Boris Johnson’s Mental Health Comments Show Just How Out Of Touch He Is

Henry, of course, knew who the Prime Minister was. He knew that he was a conservative tosser backed by the Tories whose main goal was to deliver on Brexit and seemed to have difficulties with honesty. It seemed that the British people either loved or hated the man—Henry fell on the side of hate quite quickly. But he never knew the full scope of it. He didn’t know about how truly racist the man was or about the disgustingly homophobic comments he’d made or how his views on mental illness were not only ignorant, but dangerous. He hadn’t known. He was ashamed not to know. 

Henry has spent much of his life studying history. Since realizing he was gay in his preteen years, he felt so disconnected from his own community and people, watching pride parades and queer joy from a distance, as if on the other side of glass that he couldn’t break through. But Henry knew about queer history. He knew about Freddy Mercury and Elton John and Bowie. He knew about Oscar Wilde and Virgina Woolf and Alan Turing. He’s read about the Beaumont Society and Gilbert Baker and the formation of Stonewall UK and the AIDS epidemic. He felt powerless in the present and wary of the future, but the past—the past was Henry’s safe haven. 

Henry has spent far too long in a fugue state, not having the energy to care about anything, too caught up in his own head and its host of issues. He would have never engaged with current politics, never focused on the pain and frustration being inflicted by the powers that be in his own nation, if it weren’t for Alex. Alex has this way about him—Henry has seen it, has felt it—he cares so deeply about everything, all the time, so much that it makes you want to care as well. 

He’s startled by the sharp pain of Bea’s elbow driving into his ribs. “Henry,” she chastises, leaning in to whisper. “If I have to pay attention to this old git prattling on, so do you.” 

“No one’s forcing you to listen,” Henry points out in a hushed tone. Bea’s eyes narrow in an acidic glare, looking as if she’s considering where to next aim her elbow. “Sorry,” Henry says, relenting and locking his phone, holding it between his palms under the table top. 

“Why were you reading that rubbish anyway?” Bea asks. 

“Nosy.” Bea just lifts her brows, waiting for an answer, completely unrepentant for reading his phone over his shoulder like an invasive parent. He sighs. “It was the news.” 

“Yes, I have fully functioning eyes,” Bea says impatiently. “Since when do you read the news?” 

Henry turns his head away, looking up at the keynote speaker unseeingly. Since Alex, he thinks, but doesn’t want to say. The confession, though small and seemingly insignificant on the surface, he’s afraid will reveal the depth of Henry’s feelings for him—Alex isn’t just a crush, someone he wants to sleep with or even date, but he is someone that makes Henry want to engage with the world in a different way. “I think the real question,” he says, deflecting, “is why I wasn’t reading it before.” 

“You certainly haven’t forgotten the political neutrality speech we’ve had drilled into our heads since primary school. What’s the point?” 

“But don’t you wish you could change any of this?” Henry asks, motioning to his phone inarticulately, but hoping Bea catches his meaning. 

“Of course Hen,” Bea says, exasperated at his prodding. “But we’re not politicians and thankfully, the times when the monarchy decided the laws are long over. We’re figure heads.”

“Useless figure heads,” Henry replies, leaning in closer, making an effort to keep his voice at a whisper. “If we were regular citizens we’d at least be able to vote and share our opinions on things. We’d have an effect.” 

Bea had already been sitting quite still, but now she seems frozen, like someone had turned her to stone as she sat in her uncomfortable seat. The only movement is her eyes, flicking over his face, studying him. “Where is this coming from? You’ve not said anything like that in years.”

Henry used to whine about the crown and its expectations quite often, when he was young and naive and thought his father would live forever. Everything that happened—his father dying and he and his siblings having to display their grief for the masses who were crying for a man they never knew, his Gran ordering him to push down his sexuality, losing his mum to an unfathomable sorrow just when they needed her most—it took the fight out of him. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about lately,” Henry answers vaguely. 

There’s a beat where Bea continues to look at him in stony silence. “Is this about Alex?” she asks. “His parents are politicians right? His mother is running for president of the states?” 

Henry looks around at the people sitting near them, finding no one taking note of their conversation. “Are you insinuating that I’m changing for a boy that I like?” 

Bea raises a brow at him. “Well are you?” 

“No,” Henry insists. “Nothing about me has changed just…woken up, I suppose.” He looks away, trying to hide the blush that he feels burning on his face. The confession feels bigger than a simple answer to her question. 

“Okay,” she whispers, sounding unconvinced, but letting it go. 

“What do you have against him anyway?”

Henry looks back at his sister to see that she’s turned back around in her seat to face the stage. “Nothing.” 

“Liar.” 

Bea whips her head back around to glare at him with an annoyed look; he recognizes it well from her teenage years. She opens her mouth to answer, but stops herself when applause erupts around them, and they both obediently clap their hands together as the speaker walks off stage, and someone steps up to the podium to announce yet another speaker. It was going to be a very long day. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Bea whispers, leaning over once the next old white man has taken the stage. 

“Alex wouldn’t hurt me.” 

“Maybe not on purpose,” Bea insists. “But I’ve never seen you like this about anyone Henry.” Bea flicks her eyes to the people around them to find that, just as before, no one was paying them any mind. “You like him. You really like him. I’m just worried about what will happen if he doesn’t feel the same.” 

Sometimes, Henry almost thinks he does. He felt it when they’ve been on the phone, not saying anything to each other, Henry just listening to Alex’s breathing through the speakers and Alex listening to his. He felt it when Alex led him into a sunlit book shop, and something warm and unnamable bloomed behind Henry’s breastbone at someone understanding him so deeply. He felt it when Alex clung to him as they hugged goodbye, his senses flooded and overwhelmed by the scent of cinnamon and pine as Alex buried his face in Henry’s chest. Sometimes, despite himself, Henry allows himself to hope. 

“And what if he does?” Bea goes on when Henry doesn’t reply. “He’s not just some hookup or someone to snog in the back of a pub.” 

“No, he isn’t,” Henry replies quietly. “But we could make it work.” Henry has spent much of his life believing that being with someone he could love is impossible—it’s why he’s never had a real relationship with someone, so he wouldn’t be faced with a choice he couldn’t make. He doesn’t know where the unearned confidence has suddenly come from, but as soon as he says it, he knows without a doubt that it’s true. 

“You know it’s more complicated than that Hen,” Bea reminds him as if reading his thoughts. 

Henry leans back in his chair, shooting her a half smile. “When has anything in my life ever been simple?” 

Bea gives him a wary look, but thankfully stops arguing, turning back to the speaker, tapping a rhythm out on the table with the pads of her fingers. Henry turns his phone over in his hands, his lock screen lighting up to display the reply that Alex had sent to Henry’s previous complaints about having to attend this very event. 

god gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers

send pics of you in lederhosen plz 😘

Henry smirks, ignoring Bea’s glare that he sees in his periphery as he taps out a reply. 

———

Henry has barely set his weekender down when he hears a knock on his door, and he sighs, his bed calling to him after a long day of speakers and shaking hands and posing for photos in front of windmills before the short flight back to London. 

He opens the door to find Shaan, a perturbed pinch in his brow, holding a box against his chest. He thrusts the parcel in Henry’s direction, and he takes it reluctantly. “You should instruct Mr. Claremont-Diaz to alert someone on the royal staff before sending you any more mail,” he says flatly. “It would save security a significant amount of time.” Shaan turns on his heel and walks briskly away once Henry’s nodded his thanks.

Henry climbs into his bed, box in hand, and searches around for a pair of scissors to cut the tape with. He slices it open with a discarded letter opener that he found in his bedside drawer, pulling aside the flaps to find that the box is filled to the brim with red, white, and blue buttons that read ‘Claremont,’ the year printed below in a smaller font. Henry rolls his eyes, but smiles at Alex’s unique brand of absurdity. 

Did you really send me a massive box full of campaign buttons?

This seems juvenile, even for you. 

The text is marked read almost immediately, the three dots appearing to show that Alex is typing. 

oooh you got it early

just trying to brighten up that wardrobe sweetheart 😉

if I have to see one more plain grey suit I’m going to vomit

Drama queen. 

I sincerely hope that this gross miscarriage of campaign funds is worth it to you.

no regrets

happy birthday 🎂🎁 

Oh.

Henry stares down at his phone screen as if his glare would make the message change. He wasn’t aware that Alex knew when his birthday was. Or that he would care. His vision refocuses when his phone buzzes in his hand. 

there’s an actual present in the bottom of the box btw 

Henry throws his phone aside and furrows his brow as he digs through the small buttons to reach into the bottom of the box, and his hand closes around something. He pulls it out to find that it’s a book, turning it over to see the dark green cover with the gilded letter inlaid to alert him that it’s a collection of poems, apparently the fifth volume of said collection. The book is clearly old and well-loved, the edges of the paper soft after years of someone paging through it, notes in neat script in the margins. Henry opens it to find an inscription written on the inside cover—

For my Christopher, 

“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. So medicine, law, business, engineering...these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love…these are what we stay alive for.”

All my love, 

Daniel 

Henry recognizes the quote immediately from the poems that his father used to read them from an old book when they were sick—it’s Walt Whitman. Henry runs his fingers over the old, slightly smudged writing, something prickling behind his eyes for a reason he can’t fathom. 

He’s picked up his phone before he’s even registered the movement. “You got me a book,” Henry says when the call connects. 

“Good to know that your vision has remained intact,” Alex says teasingly. 

Henry has so many questions, and not knowing what to ask next has rendered him speechless. “What are the tabs?” he asks after a few moments, running the pad of his thumb over the multicolored sticky tabs littering the pages. 

Alex releases a small, slightly nervous sounding chuckle before he explains. “The pink tabs are the ones that I liked. The green ones are the poems that I thought you would like.” 

“And the purple ones?”

“The ones that I liked that I thought you would also like.” 

“Seems like a complex system.” 

“I am nothing if not a thorough note taker.” 

Henry hums in reply, running his fingers over the handwritten annotations of a stranger in the margins. Henry has received plenty of gifts over the years from his friends and family and sometimes even random citizens. They’d made him feel loved and appreciated and cared for, but he’s never received a gift that’s made him feel quite so known. 

“This is very kind,” Henry says, speaking around the emotion rising in the back of his throat. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” Alex replies, his voice casual. “It’s no big deal.” 

“Yes it is,” Henry says, voice hushed and sincere. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” he hears Alex reply, his voice softening to match Henry’s. “Happy Birthday.”

They only talk for a few minutes, hanging up so that Henry can finally go to bed after the long day. Despite his claims to be tired, Henry doesn’t sleep. Instead, he lies on his back and stares at his ceiling, eyes tracing over the cracks that he’s long since committed to memory after many sleepless nights such as this. Only one thought echoes in his mind, over and over and over as he closes his eyes— I am utterly, inexorably, irreversibly in love with Alex Claremont-Diaz.

Chapter Text

“Alex!” Nora whines, drawing out the vowels, throwing her head down on the peninsula counter that separates the kitchen from the living room. “Why do you cook so fucking slow?” 

“Shut up,” Alex says, turning away from his simmering pot to throw a spare strip of bell pepper at her. It bounces off her nose harmlessly and onto the counter; she picks it up and takes a bite of it. Alex was making ropa vieja, which takes hours, but it was his favorite. “Perfection can not be rushed.” Nora rolls her eyes as she pops the rest of the pepper into her mouth. 

June, Nora, and Alex always did the same thing for their birthdays, but those plans died a tragic death when his mom texted him earlier that week under the guise of checking in, but actually reminding him not to be seen doing anything drunk and/or stupid. Their birthday plans usually include Alex being both very drunk and very, very stupid, so they decided on a night in, with Alex cooking, as he always did, June baking, as she always did, and Nora sitting on her ass and impatiently berating them, as she always did. 

Alex leans back against the counter and pulls his phone out of his pocket, looking down at his text conversation with Henry.

Happy Birthday! 🎉 

is that a fucking emoji??

did Pez steal your phone?

I reserve the use of emojis for special occasions. 

aw I’m touched

you do know it’s not my birthday for another four hours right?

It’s your birthday in London. 

ugh time zones wreaking havoc once again

Henry hasn’t texted back in hours, but it’s fine. It’s no big deal. The time difference sometimes makes things tricky. 

“Why are you doing that with your face?” Alex flicks his eyes up to see Nora motioning to his face, her index finger turning in a little circle. 

“I’m not doing anything with my face,” Alex deadpans, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

June hums skeptically around the rim of her wine glass. “Yeah, she’s right, you’re doing that thing with your eyebrows.” She also motions to his face with her finger, and Alex leans over the counter to bat her hand away. June obediently lowers her hand. “Did more pictures of Justin Trudeau doing blackface come out?” she asks, shaking her head. 

“Ugh,” Nora groans emphatically. “Don’t remind me. He used to be such a dreamboat.” She looks back to Alex just when he thought they were going to drop it. “So what’s with the pensive brows? Is it about Henry?” 

Alex rolls his eyes, turning around to mix the pot needlessly. He’s spent far too much time with June and Nora; they could read him like a fucking book. “Oooh,” June says. “Interesting.” 

“Nothing is interesting,” Alex argues, turning back around and crossing his arms petulantly. 

Nora raises her brow, a shit eating grin on her face. “Has someone changed their answer to ‘smash or pass’ Alejandro?” 

“I am a living and breathing bisexual man,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. “But it’s not like that with me and Henry.” It’s more, Alex thinks, but will never say. He’s been trying not to put words to the feeling he has whenever he gets a text from Henry, or sees him, or hears his voice, but denying it doesn’t make it go away, doesn’t subside the pained twinge behind his sternum every time he has to go a day without talking to him. Whatever it is between them, it’s more than just simple attraction.

Fuck, Alex likes him.  

“So you’re friends,” Alex doesn’t say that they’re not friends, because he’s pretty sure that they are, “but you also want to bang him?” Nora asks. “How does that work?” 

He glares at her judgmentally. “And how long were you friends with my sister before y’all started dating?” 

Nora narrows her eyes at him, lifting her glass to her lips. “Touché.” 

June gives him a significant look at his obvious deflecting that Alex pointedly ignores, flicking off the burner with a decisive click. 

They settle in the living room after dinner, passing around a bottle of expensive bourbon that his dad sent him as a gift. June raises her brows at him, attempting to seem casual as she takes a sip. “So did mom call you today?” Her tone suggests she already knows the answer. 

Alex leans back, sinking into the cushion with a smile. “Oh you didn’t see her Twitter post? Something about wanting to protect the future of our nation for her children. She even tagged me and everything.” It may seem sad to an outsider, but their mom missing their birthdays has been something of an inside joke between them since they were kids. It started when Alex turned twelve and June tried to make their abuela’s tres leches cake to cheer him up. Since then, they always make sure that their birthdays are special, mom or not, and June’s cakes eventually became edible. 

“That might be worse than the time she texted me at 11:57 on my 21st birthday,” June says with a small laugh. “I didn’t even see it until the next day because I was drunk off my ass.” 

“You guys are so depressing,” Nora interjects. “My parents are fucking great.” He and June both roll their eyes—yeah, they knew. 

They all whip their heads around at the sound of an insistent knock on the door. “Oh,” June says, looking down at her watch. “They’re here earlier than I expected.” 

“Who?” Alex asks after her as she walks to the door, uncrossing his legs and sitting up when she doesn’t answer. “What did you do?” 

June opens the door, ignoring him completely. “Come in,” she says brightly, ever the hostess, and Alex looks up and is shocked to see Henry, with two people following behind him. 

“Henry,” Alex says dumbly, staring up at the man as he pulls off his light jacket and his shoes, at June’s request. Even though he and Henry talk nearly every day, there’s something different about seeing him in person, as if just being in the same room makes something in Alex’s chest unwind. He scrambles to get off the couch, his stumbling having nothing to do with being buzzed. 

Before he even considers it, he throws his arms around Henry, gathering him into an impromptu hug, Alex inhaling the familiar scent that he made an effort not to commit to memory, but did nonetheless. Henry returns the hug, squeezing his arms around his shoulders before Alex pulls away, looking up at him. “You’re here. What are you doing here?” 

“I’m here too,” Pez interjects brightly before Henry could even open his mouth. Alex pulls his gaze away from Henry’s face to see Pez standing behind him—the PPO apparently having disappeared to check their closets for assassins or atomic bombs. “You know, in case you were planning on greeting all your guests,” he says, his smile teasing and a little too knowing for comfort. “Do I get a hug too?” 

Alex takes a small step away, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Henry’s body, raising his brows. “You can get a hug from the person that I assume invited you,” he shoots an accusing glare at June, “without telling me.” 

“Oh well fuck me for inviting the first actual friend you’ve made in years to your birthday,” she snarks in a flat tone, completely unrepentant. 

“Ah, so it seems the antisocials have found each other,” Pez says brightly, making Henry shoot an acidic glare that even Alex would crumple under. “Truly a match made in heaven.” 

Alex rolls his eyes at Pez, and turns to Henry. “Do you want a drink?” He doesn’t give Henry a chance to answer before turning on his heel and walking toward the kitchen, trusting that he will follow. He looks back over his shoulder and is pleased to see that he is. 

Alex turns on him as soon as they step into the kitchen. “So you came to my birthday,” he says, a smile spreading over his face. He subtly flicks his eyes up and down Henry’s form—he looks fucking good. His hair looks just as soft and his eyes just as bright and his body just as perfect as always, but there’s an extra lightness to him today, an easiness that Alex has never really seen, only heard in his soft voice pouring into Alex’s ear through the speaker of his phone. 

“Yes,” Henry says, one side of his lips lifting in a cute half smile that’s almost shy. “June invited me. You were right—she is a meddler.” Alex lets out a small, amused laugh, and Henry’s smile widens, now spreading over both sides of his face. “Pez insisted on tagging along to ‘keep me company,’ but I think he just wanted to see your sister again.” 

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. “Does Pez have a thing for June?”

“Most definitely,” he replies, his smile amused. “He talks about her constantly.” 

“Well my sister is demisexual and in a disgustingly committed relationship, but if he wants to hit on her, I welcome him to try.” He lifts a single shoulder in a joking shrug. “I could use some entertainment.” 

“Well I’ve found that Pez is always useful for that,” Henry says through a breathless laugh. 

Alex’s gaze catches on his eyes—Henry’s eyes always light up when he laughs. Alex hasn’t gotten the chance to see them up close very often, and it’s only when you’re really close that you can see the true complexity of the iris, the dark blue ring and the small flecks of teal swimming in the cornflower. Alex takes a tentative step forward, the air around them crackling and heavy. “So,” he says quietly. Henry swallows, and Alex’s eyes catch on the bob of his Adam’s apple up and down. “Did you want something to drink?” 

“I’ll take anything that isn’t vodka,” Henry answers, matching Alex’s hushed tone. 

“Not a vodka drinker?” 

“Not in polite company.” 

Alex smirks, leaning his hip on the countertop beside him. “What ever have we done to give you that impression?” 

Henry releases a small laugh, looking away from him before quickly turning back. “Do you have wine?” 

“What are you a divorced mom?” Henry’s eyebrow ticks up. It’s a gesture that Alex finds irritating on most people; Henry somehow manages to make it hot. “Alright,” Alex puts his hands up in surrender, “I’ll get you your wine. But you should know that the wine in this house comes from a box.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.” 

June is practically sitting in Nora’s lap when they get back to the living room, Pez sitting in the armchair next to the couch, all of them already laughing and talking as if old friends. Alex drops onto the sofa, accepting the quickly diminishing bottle of bourbon from June’s hand and taking a swig, and he’s pleased when Henry sits down next to him, their legs close enough to feel his warmth, but not touching. 

“Alex,” June says in a voice of someone who is tipsy and well on their way to drunk. She flaps her hand to get his attention even though he’s sitting right next to her. “Did you see that tabloid article about you?” 

Alex takes another sip as he thinks. “Would you like a glass for that?” Henry asks judgmentally. 

“I’m good thanks,” he answers dismissively before turning back to June. “The one about us being nepotism babies? Because I thought that one was just under researched.” 

“No,” June says, “the one about you being a recovering alcoholic.”

“Recovering?” Nora pipes up skeptically. 

Alex flips her off, which only makes her smile wider. “No, but I did see one about dad being in a gay love affair with Rafael Luna,” Alex says with an amused smirk, though Raf is the only openly gay man in Congress, so he’s basically accused of sleeping with any man he so much as looks at. 

“Oh my god,” Nora cackles into her hand. “Do you think there’s fanfiction?” 

“Probably,” June says, giggling. “And I’d sooner gouge out my eyes than read a word of it.” 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Pez says, leaning forward in his chair. “But what are all of you on about?” 

“Tabloid articles,” June answers. 

“It’s a natural byproduct of the election campaign,” Alex says, pulling his legs up on the couch, smiling at Henry when his knee bumps his thigh and Henry doesn’t pull away, the places where their bodies touch each other prickling even through layers of fabric. Henry smiles back, the tips of his ears slightly pink. “It will get worse when Mom is the official nominee.” 

“When?” Henry asks. “You think it’s so inevitable?” 

Most of the democratic nominees dropped out after his mom had a sweep of victories on Super Tuesday earlier that month, realizing that they’ll never get enough delegates to secure the nomination. Elizabeth Warren and Pete Buttigieg were still in the race, but them dropping out is only a formality at this point. The only other candidate that even comes close to Ellen’s support is Bernie Sanders, but he thinks his mom is right—he just doesn’t have enough support among centrists and older generations. If Alex had to guess, Sanders will drop out after the next few Midwest primaries and the DNC will only be a formality. “Yeah,” Alex says, choosing not to explain all of that right now, “I think it’s inevitable.” 

Neither June or Nora disagree, nodding their heads as they sip from a glass of wine that they’re inexplicably sharing. “Well hopefully she’ll choose a different VP this time,” Nora says. “I don’t have time for that shit.” 

“Doubt it,” June says. “She needs an old, white, middle-of-the-road man to balance her out. And it would make her look disloyal if she chooses someone else, and then people start throwing around words like ‘bitch’ that would kill any woman’s campaign.” 

Nora scoffs unhappily, knowing that June is right. “But he’s so annoying.” 

“Believe me, I know. I’ve been at Hanukkah the last two years.” June complains emphatically, “His opinions on abortion—”

Alex groans, cutting June off. “No politics on my birthday!” 

“Oh really,” June says, raising her eyebrows and smirking mischievously. “That must be a new rule. I seem to remember once—I think it was your eighth birthday—you harassed the employees of Sea World—”

Alex throws his head back against the cushion. “Oh my god,” he whines, “do you know another story?”

June goes on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You practically filibustered the entire tour to berate and question the trainer. I think he cried.” 

“He didn’t cry,” Alex defends, rolling his eyes. 

“I distinctly remember tears.” 

Alex sees Henry laughing into his palm, and turns his head to glare at him. “It seems that you haven’t changed then.” 

Things devolve from there, with June telling more stories from their childhood together and Pez talking about what Henry was like as a gangly teenager at Eton and, as the night goes on, they laugh louder and the bottles get emptier and more parts of Alex’s body are touching Henry’s as he leans further into him. Every time something of note happens, Alex looks at Henry, wanting to always see his reaction, wanting to share this with him, wanting to say— This is my life, these are my people. I think I’d like you to be one of them. 

Eventually, June raises her glass and exclaims, “I’d like to propose a toast!” in the slurred speech of a now deeply drunk person. Nora grabs her waist when she almost falls out of her lap. “To my baby brother,” she reaches over to boop him on the nose, and Alex bats her hand away. 

“This is unnecessary,” Alex argues. 

She shushes him. “Alex,” she says, looking right at him. June has always been good at hiding what she was thinking; she wasn’t like Alex, who wore his heart on his sleeve. But right now, all of the love and pride and sincerity is clear as day in June’s big Diaz eyes and Alex wants to turn away. He would never say it out loud, but he stopped caring about pleasing his parents a long time ago, but June—Alex needed June to be proud of him. “You are the most amazing and wonderful and kind little brother anyone could ask for. I love you, even when you’re being so annoying I want to kick your ass.” He releases a small, watery laugh. “I love you. Happy Birthday.” 

They clink their glasses together, and when he turns to knock his glass against Henry’s, his gaze on Alex is piercing and indecipherable. Alex stands to gather June’s small frame into his body in a tight hug, and she drops a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Okay,” he says through a laugh, “you’re switching to water.” 

“When did you become such a buzzkill?” she calls to him as he walks to the kitchen. Alex rolls his eyes, though no one can see it, so he throws a middle finger over his shoulder. 

When he comes back and gives June her glass of water, he notices that Henry’s seat is empty. He looks around as if he’s hidden behind one of Nora’s potted plants, and Nora catches his eye as she points toward Alex’s room as the other two are embroiled in conversation. 

Henry doesn’t notice when Alex crosses the threshold into his room, so he leans his weight against the doorframe, taking the rare moment to observe Henry in the flesh. Henry’s leaning into the cork board above Alex’s desk, studying his meticulously organized calendar and old postcards and pictures and things he liked enough to pin up, squinting so he could see them in the dimness, as he hadn't turned on the light. Henry looks at home in the light of the moon shining in through Alex’s window, his blonde hair turned silver and his smooth, pale face illuminated, making the few freckles that litter his form stand out more. He was breathtakingly beautiful, like a marble statue in a still, empty museum after they’d closed the doors and turned out the lights. 

Alex shuts the door behind him, attempting to minimize the chances of eavesdropping, the quiet latch of the door finally getting Henry’s attention. “Sorry,” he says as he startles, standing up straight and running his hand through his perfect hair. “I didn't mean to snoop.” 

“It’s okay,” Alex reassures him, walking up to his desk to turn on the lamp there. He looks back at Henry, their bodies so close and neither of them making any move to distance them. “Are you alright?” 

“Yes, I’m fine. It was just, you know,” he motions toward the living room inarticulately. Alex doesn’t know, but he doesn’t push. Something about the pensive curve of Henry’s brow tells him he shouldn’t. “I was just—”

“Taking pictures of my room to add to your stalker wall?” Alex finishes for him. 

Henry’s laugh is more relieved than amused. “Precisely.” 

“Knew it.” He motions to the small gift bag resting atop the desk. “Is that for me?”

“Oh god,” Henry groans, running his palm down his face. “I was hoping I could just leave that there and you would open it after I’d left. I am terrible at giving gifts.” Alex smiles, finding his sheepishness at the gift kind of adorable. 

“You didn’t have to get me something.” 

Henry shrugs, aiming for nonchalant. “I know, but I wanted to.” He looks down, running his fingers over the wood grain of Alex's desk. “And you got me something.” 

Alex bites his cheek, looking down at their feet, only a few inches apart, his face burning at the reminder of the gift he sent Henry, buried under a juvenile joke to diminish it. When Alex saw the book at the shop, he immediately thought of Henry—it just felt so him, timeless and beautiful and sincere, affection threaded into every page and curved letter. Alex thought about Henry reading the poems that he had marked and felt vulnerable, like he was cracking open his ribcage and allowing Henry to look inside. But he sent the book anyway. 

Alex reaches into the gift bag, pulling out the gift to find that he’s holding a mug. He turns it over to see that it has a picture of a cat wearing a gigantic cowboy hat on it, the word ‘Moewdy’ written underneath in bold letters. He looks up at Henry’s mortified face waiting for his reaction, and he flattens his lips, attempting to contain his amusement. He fails, doubling over in raucous laughter. 

“Hey,” Henry says through his own laughter, nudging Alex with his arm. “You can’t laugh! I told you I’m bad at gifts!”

“No, you’re not,” Alex protests through the final vestiges of his laughter. “I love it. Really.” 

“There is actually, um,” Henry shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “something else in the bag.” 

Alex furrows his brows, setting the mug down on his desk and leaning over to look into the bag, moving aside the tissue paper and finding a plain white envelope inside. He pulls it out to see his name written across it in Henry’s neat script. Inside is a slip of paper, informing him that a sizable donation has been made in his name to the Texas Civil Rights Project. He stares down at the paper, something prickling behind his eyes and spreading out in his chest—a feeling that he’s been failing to ignore for months. 

“Are you okay?” Henry asks after a long moment of silence, resting a gentle hand on Alex’s forearm, an electric shock running down Alex’s arm at the skin to skin contact. 

“Yeah,” Alex says through a watery laugh, blinking away the tears flooding his waterline. “It’s just,” he gently sets the envelope down next to the adorable, ridiculous mug, “you’re not bad at gifts.” He looks down at Henry’s hand, still near his elbow and running soothingly back and forth down his arm. He looks back up, into Henry’s eyes, dark and deep in the dim light of the room. “I’m really glad you’re here,” Alex admits.

“So am I,” Henry says softly. Alex hadn’t even realized how close they’d become until he feels Henry’s breath against his face. 

As Alex stares into Henry’s deep, earnest eyes, he thinks, not for the first time, how much he wants to kiss him. The difference is that now, he can’t think of a reason not to. In a moment of heady confidence, Alex moves his hand, grabbing the hand running over his forearm and intertwining their fingers. Henry’s eyes widen, looking down at their joined hands and then back up at his face, his expression holding an incongruent combination of hope and wariness. There’s a question in Henry’s eyes, and Alex hopes his answer is the right one. He thinks it might be. 

He lifts his other hand to Henry’s face slowly, giving him more than enough time to duck away from the touch if it’s unwanted. He doesn’t. Henry’s skin under his fingers is soft and smooth, and Alex can feel the short hairs of his evening stubble on his face, wondering what it would feel like scraping against his lips. Henry leans into the soft touch, his eyes falling closed. Alex has to pull him down a little for their lips to touch, but Henry follows willingly. 

They meet in the middle in a gentle, hesitant kiss. It’s only a brief brush of the lips, but Alex’s body lights up at the touch, his thumb moving absentmindedly over Henry’s high cheekbone. Alex’s mind scrambles to catalogue the soft pressure of Henry’s lips against his and the hesitant hand on his hip and the sweet exhale into his mouth, just in case he never gets to have this again. 

Henry is the first to pull back, but he doesn’t go far, staying close enough that Alex can still feel his puffed exhales against his lips, his breathing far too fast after such a short kiss. Alex leans forward, pressing their noses together, feeling the hard bone of Henry’s strong nose against his. Alex releases Henry’s hand from his hold, burying both his hands in his hair, reveling in the fact that he finally knows what it feels like threaded between his fingers. “Henry,” he whispers, his tone almost pleading. 

This time, Henry kisses him. 

Alex often thinks about the first time that he saw the ocean—when he stared out at the Gulf of Mexico with wide eyes. He stood, his feet digging into the sand as the tide lapped over his legs, and for the first time in his young life, became aware of how truly small he was, that he was just a tiny piece of a vast universe. He remembers closing his eyes in that moment, the salty sea wind whipping against the side of his face and the sound of crashing waves filling his ears. He had never before felt simultaneously so alive and so at peace, and he hasn’t experienced anything that has made him feel that way since. 

Until now. 

Everything in Alex’s mind goes quiet as Henry’s lips move against his, slow and languid, as if time stood still just for them. Henry’s arms snake around his waist pulling him impossibly closer, and Alex follows, every piece of their bodies locking into place, completing a puzzle. Henry’s tongue sweeps over his bottom lip and Alex opens up to him. Their tongues brush together, sending a trail of sparks shooting down his spine, shocking Alex back into reality. He pulls back, his chest rising and falling against Henry’s as they’re still tangled together. 

“I…” he starts, wishing he could tell Henry how amazing that kiss was, how it was the best of his life, how much he likes him, how much he wants to be with him. But unwelcome phrases echo in his mind— This is bigger than us. 

I can keep it a secret. I can keep it a secret. I can keep it a secret. 

So instead, he says, “I can’t do this.” 

Henry’s face falls and he pulls back, releasing Alex from his hold as if he were on fire. Alex mourns the feeling of being enveloped by Henry, aching to pull him back in, to change his mind, but he can’t and he doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Alex interrupts. “I wanted to kiss you. It has nothing to do with you.” Henry’s brow furrows, wrapping his arms around himself, eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. Alex takes a tentative step forward, the few feet separating them feeling like miles. “Can we talk?” he asks, motioning to the window seat nestled between two bookshelves. 

Alex takes a deep, shaky breath when he sits next to Henry on the small bench, taking care to ensure their legs aren’t touching. “I…” he says, and looks forward into the dark room, unable to meet Henry’s searching gaze. “I’m bisexual, and I’ve never told my parents.” He shakes his head to himself. “No one can know, not if my mom has any chance of winning this election.” 

“Alex—” Henry starts, his voice soft and sympathetic and bordering on pleading. 

Alex puts up a hand to silence him. “I know it’s fucked up, but it’s true. My mom doesn’t need to be answering questions about her son’s sexual exploits on the debate stage. It’s the kind of thing that loses elections in races this close.” He remembers what June told him, sitting beside him on her old twin bed— Richards is causing a lot of people pain…Mom has the best chance at beating him. People need Richards out of office more than Alex needs a boyfriend. “I’m sorry, but no one can know.” 

Henry’s hand slips into his, and Alex knows he should pull away, but he doesn’t, taking comfort in his grounding touch. “We could keep things…quiet, for a while. No one would have to find out.” 

Alex huffs bitterly, finally turning his head to look at Henry, his eyes holding hope that Alex hates to crush. “They always find out. And no offense, but a prince isn’t the most inconspicuous choice of partner.” Henry’s lip ticks up in an attempt at a smile. “I just can’t. Not right now.” 

There’s a short beat of silence, and Alex feels his pulse pick up as he awaits Henry’s response, dreading it. “I’ll wait,” he says.

“What?”

“You said you couldn’t right now,” Henry says slowly, squeezing Alex’s fingers between his own. “I’ll wait until you can.” 

Alex's breath leaves him, and he barely notices when a tear that he was trying to contain escapes from his eye, slowly making its way down his cheek. He makes no effort to brush it away, staring at Henry, searching for something to say. It’s difficult to render Alex speechless. 

“Alex,” Henry says after he doesn’t reply, “if you don’t feel the same way I do—”

“I do!” Alex turns his body in the seat, facing Henry fully. He pulls his hand into both of his own in a gesture that he hopes is reassuring. “I do like you, so fucking much, but I can’t ask you to wait for me. I…” he shakes his head as his words taper off. 

Henry reaches up and cradles his face in his large hand, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb, the gesture intimate and soft and making Alex want to melt. “I would wait for you forever Alex.” 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, closing his eyes and resting his head against Henry’s, silent tears rolling down his cheeks in earnest. Henry saying things like that was making this impossible, and it was already really fucking hard. 

Henry’s thumb starts running soothing circles over his cheek, and Alex tightens his hold on Henry’s other hand, never wanting to let him go. “You’re worth waiting for,” he reassures softly. 

Alex squeezes his eyes shut tighter, forcing more tears from his waterline, feeling guilty and pathetic for what he’s about to ask. “We can still be friends right?” he asks, his voice hoarse and barely audible. 

“Of course,” Henry breathes out; Alex can feel it against his lips, still tingling from their kiss. “Always.” 

Always.

Alex wishes they could say that about something else. About something more.

Chapter Text

Henry made it a point to come to Buckingham as little as possible—something about being so close to his grandmother made his stomach turn and his skin feel too tight—but it was an inevitability. Henry arrived for his meeting with Philip five minutes early, settling in and reaching for the tea that magically appeared in every room in Buckingham, knowing that his brother would be precisely on time—not a minute late, but not a minute early. 

Philip shows up at 11 a.m., his equerry in tow, sitting across from Henry at the overly large dark oak table, not looking up at him, instead sorting through papers with a pensive brow. Henry shifts anxiously in his seat—he had no clue what this meeting was about. He’d racked his mind on the entire ride over, but considering he hasn’t been in the news in months and he, for once, had no complaints pertaining to his packed schedule, he came up with nothing. The silence between them was long and uncomfortable—the silences between he and Philip always were. Henry could not simply exist around Philip the way he could Bea, and he desperately wished for Philip to ask him about the weather. It was inordinately warm for a British spring. 

Philip eventually stops shuffling and faces him, looking back at Henry with eyes so much like Dad’s and Bea’s, light brown and with flecks of green, but Philip wore them so differently—they held no warmth, no kindness, no humor. “I imagine you know why I wanted to meet with you today Henry,” he says calmly, displaying no emotion. Henry suspected that Philip only had two emotions—indifference and anger. 

“Actually I don’t Philip,” Henry shoots back, folding his hands atop the table. “You know, since you never told me.” 

His eyes narrow as if already put off by Henry’s petulance. He reaches over to a manila folder resting on the table at his elbow, opening it and lifting out a single piece of paper. “Joint Council for the Welfare of Immigrants, Refugee Action,” he reads off the page in a flat tone, holding the paper between his fingers, “Law Centres Federation, Safe Passage—”

“What are you doing?” Henry interjects, cutting him off. 

Philip flicks his eyes up to him judgmentally. “You don’t recognize the charities that you requested to support?” 

It takes a Herculean effort not to roll his eyes; it is a dangerously close thing. “Of course I do. I just don’t know why you’ve dragged me here to read them off to me. If you have something to say Pip, please do get the hell on with it.” 

Philip throws the paper down to exhibit the one other emotion in his roster. “You must know that these aren’t appropriate Henry.” 

Henry raises a single brow. “I don’t see why not.” 

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.” 

Henry leans back in his chair, releasing a rueful laugh. “That must be a new opinion. I seem to remember you thinking I was an idiot, loudly, on several occasions.” 

“Always with the dramatics,” Philip says with a sigh. “Supporting these charities would be perilously close to taking a political stance. You must know that.” 

Henry won’t pretend he didn’t, won’t pretend that he didn’t know it was a long shot when he submitted a request to support new charities, but he had hoped. Maybe he truly was as dumb as Philip believed—when had hope ever gotten him anywhere? “What about the other ones?” Henry asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Philip raises his brows at him as he picks up the paper again. “Oh?” he says, condescension dripping from his tone. “You mean YoungMinds, Mental Health Foundation, Rethink Mental Illness—”

“Yes, I know what they are,” Henry snaps, interrupting him again.   

Philip throws the paper aside again with a scoff. “Those are almost worse.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You think it’s wise to give the press a reason to look into your mental state?” 

Henry can’t resist anymore, finally dramatically rolling his eyes. “I have depression and anxiety Philip.”

“Exactly.”

Henry’s breath stutters as his chest clenches, his features hardening so as to not show an outward reaction. Henry doesn’t like lying, but it's become a necessity in his life. The person he undeniably lies to most of all is himself. He tells himself that nothing Philip says to him hurts anymore. He tells himself that he doesn’t miss the boy that used to laugh and run and play with him and Bea as children. He tells himself that he doesn’t care what Philip thinks of him. Lies, lies, lies. “A lot of people struggle with mental health,” he says, his voice carefully level. “It’s not something that I’m ashamed of.”

“And what exactly have you got to be depressed about Henry?” Philip asks sarcastically. Henry almost rolls his eyes again—sarcasm didn’t suit his brother. “Being a royal is a privilege, not a chore. It wouldn’t kill you to try and be happy about it.”

Henry looks away for a moment, running his fingers over the table, feeling the grain of the wood under his fingertips. “I can just use my own money to support the charities,” he says, not looking back at his brother. 

“You will not,” he insists, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. Only just a year ago, that voice alone would have made Henry bend to his will. 

He whips his head up to glare at his brother. “You can’t prevent me from doing it.” 

Philip’s eyebrow shoots up in surprise. “You’ve certainly chosen an interesting moment to grow a spine.” 

Henry doesn’t say anything, but he meets Philip’s scrutinizing gaze, something that he used to shy away from. After his father died, Henry didn’t have the energy to fight, didn’t see the point in trying to go against the crown's wishes, to wage a battle that he knew he would ultimately lose. He hadn’t seen the point in much of anything. Until Alex. 

Just thinking about Alex made something bittersweet twinge in his chest, every spark of joy drenched by reality. The memory of their kiss, the way Alex’s soft Cupid’s bow felt under Henry’s tongue and the way his waist fit perfectly under his hand, but then the pained look in Alex’s dark eyes when he pulled back and explained that he couldn’t. Alex's unwavering insistence that they couldn’t be together the way Henry ached for, the way he suspected Alex wanted as well, but also the intangible but enticing possibility of someday. Henry had never had something to fight for before. 

Philip looks down at his watch and shoves his papers back into the folder, standing from the table. “For once in your life Henry,” he says, standing up and looking down at him as if scolding a child, “just do as you’re told.” 

Henry doesn’t reply when Philip turns on his heel and walks away, simply sitting at the table and listening to the door slam shut with slightly more force than necessary. 

———

Sometimes, Henry really hated going to see his therapist. When he first started seeing her, he was resistant to the idea of needing therapy in general, everntually giving in only because Shaan existed. He begrudgingly kept going becuase he actually did find it helpful. It did not feel helpful today. 

He saw Grace every two weeks. His last session he spent nearly the entire allotted hour complaining about finally kissing the man he wanted to be with, only to be told that they could not date under no uncertain terms—Grace did not much help with that; the intricacies of U.S. politics were well and truly outside her purview—and today, he’s explaining the events of his morning, whining that his brother was mean to him like a petulant child. 

“You are allowed to talk to me about anything that you’d like, Henry,” Grace reassures him after he’s voiced this concern. “You know that. It’s my job.”

Henry shrugs, his mug of tea clutched between his hands. Grace always kept an array of beverages in her office for her patients, including Henry’s favorite brand of his favorite tea. “It’s not very important.” 

“It’s important if it’s upsetting you.” 

Sensitive, Henry thinks . It’s a word that’s been echoing in his mind all day. His parents had always called him a sensitive child. He was never interested in the same things as other boys his age—he liked reading books and listening to music with Bea and learning the piano and watching films with his dad. His parents said it made him special, that he had a big heart that he wore on his sleeve, another thing about him that resembled his father. As he got older, it became less and less a compliment. “I shouldn’t let it get to me,” Henry says. 

Grace looks at him, studying him with her deep brown eyes—the color reminded him of Alex’s, the way they were so dark they almost looked black. The squint of her eyes and the wrinkle of her forehead and the way she was tapping the butt of her pen against the notepad told Henry that she was considering her next words carefully, trying to ensure that whatever she said wouldn’t make him shut down. “Do you know what emotional abuse is?” 

Henry felt suddenly as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, the tension making the silence between them deafening. “No,” Henry insists, shaking his head. “This is nothing like that.” 

“Oh?” Grace waits, giving him a moment to explain. He doesn’t, tightening his hands around his mug until his knuckles turn white, until he’s sure he’ll shatter it between his hands. Grace takes a deep breath, setting aside her notepad on the small table beside her and crossing one leg over the other. “Emotional abuse is one of the most difficult forms of abuse to recognize, but it can be just as damaging as any other form,” she explains. “I would define it as controlling another person by using emotions to criticize, shame, or manipulate that person. In general, I would consider a relationship emotionally abusive when there is a consistent pattern of abusive words and bullying behaviors that wear down a person's self-esteem and undermine their mental health.” She pauses, giving Henry a few seconds to process what she’d said. “Sound familiar?”

Yes, Henry thinks, but doesn’t want to say. His mind wanders to his grandmother, sitting him down after he’d graduated and telling him to keep the deviant desires he was harboring to himself, protecting the reputation of the crown, uncaring of Henry’s life or happiness. He thinks about Phillip, telling him to be a man, serve the interests of the family, stop being a disappointment. He thinks about his entire bloody life, trapped in a palace that felt more like a cage than a home, serving a cause that he was certain he did not believe in. He thinks about things that he’d pushed deep down, that he’d locked in different rooms and dusty cupboards in his mind so he would never have to face them again.

Henry shakes his head as if to dispel the thoughts from his mind. It doesn’t work. “It’s different,” he insists.

Grace gives him a look that he knows all too well—a look that tells him that she thinks he’s lying. He used to lie to his therapist all the time, trying to give her the answers he thought she wanted rather than the ones he knew were true. He wanted someone to tell him that he was okay more than he wanted to truly be okay. Right now, Henry genuinely did not know if he was lying to her or himself. 

Grace turns to pick up her discarded notepad and pen before asking, “And how do you feel it’s different?” 

“Because,” Henry starts, not really having an explanation yet. “It’s just…family drama. Everyone’s family fights.”

Grace nods—Grace nods either to show that she was listening or when she was considering. He thinks this is the second one. “Yes,” she says slowly. “That’s true.” She sighs to herself, lowering her notebook and urging him to meet her eyes. “You’ve relayed to me before that you feel trapped in your situation by your position, and that there’s nothing that you can do short of abdication, which would involve you virtually disowning your entire family.” She pauses, and Henry reluctantly nods, taking a sip of his tea that was rapidly cooling. “So you minimize your own feelings and try to convince yourself that things don’t affect you as much as they actually do so you won’t feel the need to resort to such a drastic measure.”

Henry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Aren’t you technically a member of the royal staff?” he asks rhetorically. “Are you allowed to suggest I abdicate?”

The corners of her lips lift into a small, amused smile. “That’s not what I was suggesting. Most patients who are in a situation in which they are being abused, I would suggest that they get out of it, but I understand that isn’t a viable option for everyone.” 

Henry hums around the lip of his mug. Trapped, trapped, forever trapped. Around and around in a never ending circle he goes. “So what would you suggest I do?”

“Exactly what you did do. You stood up for what you wanted. You advocated for yourself.” She smiles at him kindly, and Henry shrugs sheepishly. “I know you may not see it this way Henry, but you have made tremendous progress. You would never have been able to do that when you first started seeing me.” 

———

Sometimes Henry feels better after therapy, sometimes worse, but it is always emotionally draining. 

He was quiet in the car on his ride back to Kensington, silent as he climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, staring at the wall unseeingly as he laid on his side, and didn’t say anything when he heard a knock at the door that he knew was Bea. 

She knocked again before warning, “I’m coming in,” pushing the door open slowly and peering inside. “Hey, you alright?” she asks, holding the door open for David to trot inside before shutting it with a quiet click. 

Henry grumbles inarticulately in a way that didn’t mean no, but certainly didn’t mean yes either. David jumps up onto the bed and curls up, his head resting against one of Henry’s feet. Bea climbs into the bed, sitting up against the headboard with one leg crossed over the other demurely, looking down at something on her phone. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Henry groans again, rolling over so he’s on his back, crossing his hands atop his stomach and staring up at his blank, white ceiling. “Philip was an arse.” 

“Shocking,” Bea says flatly, not looking up from her phone. 

“I had therapy.” 

“Ah,” Bea nods, leaning back and falling silent. 

Henry closes his eyes even though he knows he won’t fall asleep, comforted by the warmth of David’s head resting on his foot and Bea’s steady presence and the sound of the wind whistling past his windows, allowing his mind to wander. 

Progress—Henry had always hated that word. It’s the word Grace used when Henry finally started to open up and be honest in therapy, when he agreed to go on medication, when he went an entire month without having an anxiety attack. He hated that he was supposed to celebrate these tiny successes, like a child receiving a participation ribbon that he would ultimately shove in the back of his closet and forget, that he was supposed to pat himself on the back for baby steps and the bare minimum. 

Henry thinks back to this time last year, to how he was eight months ago—has it really only been eight months?—when he didn’t know Alex. He begrudgingly admits that Grace may be right. Alex didn’t change him, not fundamentally, but he feels more like himself now, more like he was when his father was alive. But he was also so much more than he was then. Henry used to be terrified and unsure of himself, scared to death of the world and his place in it. He had meaningless sex with men before shoving an NDA in their faces, and ripped up the phone numbers of anyone he had a connection with because he thought that secrecy and lies were all he had to offer. 

He didn’t think that anymore. 

They stay like that for a while, Henry thinking as he lies under the warmth of the covers, listening to the intermittent clicking of Bea’s nails against her phone screen. Eventually, Bea breaks the companionable silence saying, “Hen?” Henry opens his eyes and makes a noise to show he’s listening. “I’ve got N.A. Are you going to be alright?” He nods as she climbs out of his bed, and then reaches between the pillows she was lying against, tossing his phone onto his stomach. “That has been buzzing nonstop. Tell that boy to get a hobby.” 

Henry rolls his eyes and waits until she has shut the door behind her to check his phone, seeing that his screen is filled with unread texts from Alex, complaining about everything from New York humidity to tabloid articles to his sociology professor that was making his final semester at university hell. 

Just as Henry finishes reading his twelve texts, his phone starts vibrating in his hand, Alex’s name flashing at the top of the screen. This is something new, something they didn’t do before they kissed. It perhaps had something to do with putting an official label on their relationship, even if that label was ‘friends.’ 

“Fucking hell I thought you were dead,” Alex says as soon as the line connects. 

Henry breathes out through his nose in an almost laugh—so dramatic. “I trust you mourned.” 

“I was on the anger stage,” Alex says. “But that may just be my day.” 

“Yes I gathered,” Henry replies. “You described New York as a boiling cesspool and your professor as a, and I quote, ‘sad little man with a superiority complex bigger than his bald spot.’” 

“I stand by that.” There’s a pause, a pause in which Henry knows that Alex is thinking, so he turns his head, looking out into the unusually nice weather, the bright light of late afternoon shining through the large windows in his room, catching on the gilded material of his bed frame. “Are you alright?” Alex asks eventually. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You sound weird,” Alex says. “And then I asked if you were alright and you didn’t really answer, which kind of solidified my suspicions that something’s going on.” 

“It’s nothing,” Henry says, ignoring the ‘minimizing your feelings’ echoing in his head in the voice of his therapist. “I just had a bit of a distressing day.” 

Alex hums in acknowledgment. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“Okay,” Alex says in easy acceptance. “Did you know that I’m taking an English class this semester?” 

“Oh?” Henry rolls over, putting the phone on speaker and laying it on the bed next to him. “I didn’t think that would fall within your area of study.” 

“Not usually, but I had a gen-ed that I never completed because I didn’t want to.” Henry breathes out a small laugh. “It’s full of pretentious assholes.”

“I know the type.” 

“From where? The mirror?” Alex shoots back jokingly. 

“Oi!” Henry exclaims, and a smile spreads over his face at Alex laughing at his own childish joke. His mind feels lighter at the sound of Alex’s laugh pouring from the speaker, the warm sound filling his ear. He closes his eyes, remembering how it feels to hear it in person. “What is the class called?” Henry asks once Alex has settled. 

“BIPOC and Queer Gothic.” Henry’s eyebrows shoot up—he knew classes like this existed, saw them on the class listings while registering, but he never got to take them no matter how much he ached to. The classes he took in university were practically public knowledge, and it wouldn’t take much for the tabloids to speculate. “But we’re reading Dracula right now, which is stupid.” 

Henry’s eyebrows furrow as he glares at his phone as if Alex would be able to feel his scrutiny from across the pond. “What?” 

“It’s not even queer.” 

“You’re joking.” 

“Don’t use that tone with me jackass,” Alex says, and Henry swears that he can hear him rolling his eyes. “But please, explain to me how Bram Stoker’s Dracula is a quintessential piece of queer media since you’re the gay overlord or some shit.” 

“Don’t be a tosser,” he says, though Henry smirks—this is something they do now, talk about things like this since it became evident that they were both queer. Henry likes it. It’s always been something he’s shared with his closest friends, and he only kept it to himself with Alex because he was afraid the admittance would reveal his feelings for the man. He’d already made that clear as day when he snogged the living daylights out of him. “Bram Stoker was incredibly gay—he used to write fan letters to Walt Whitman that read like love letters, he was a close friend of Oscar Wilde’s, and the character of Dracula was basically an amalgamation of a very embarrassing crush on actor Henry Irving. And—” He cuts himself off, standing up from his bed to cross the room to his bookshelf, running his finger over the S section. 

“What are you doing?” Alex asks after a few seconds. 

“Looking for my copy,” Henry says, flipping through the pages to find what he’s looking for. “In chapter three—” Henry starts when he finds the page.

“Jesus, are you going to write me a fucking book report?”

“Hush,” he says, turning back to the book. “Vampires have embodied cultural anxieties about widespread shifts in gender presentation and sexuality in popular media since the nineteenth century, and the biting of the neck is pretty widely accepted as a shorthand for sex. In chapter three of Dracula, there are three vampire women that approach Jonathan Harker with the intention of feeding on him, and Stoker writes the scene as erotic, saying that Harker wishes for them to kiss him, and then Dracula says, quote, ‘Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me!’” Henry lowers the book, putting it back on the shelf and retrieving his phone from where he set it. “Please, I beg you, tell me the heterosexual explanation for that.” 

“Okay,” Alex says through a laugh. “You got me there.” Henry climbs back into his bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard. He suspects that Alex already knew this, but Alex has a way of dragging Henry out of his sullen moods by bringing up things that he knows he will get worked up about; it has yet to fail. 

“I’m convinced that every vampire story is at least a bit fruity. There are no straight vampires. Have you ever read Carmilla?”

“Have you ever read Twilight?” Alex shoots back. Henry grumbles in disagreement, and Alex laughs. “Yeah, neither have I, but Nora, June, and I hate watched the movies and they are extremely heterosexual. Almost painfully so.” 

Henry hums. “Cultural appropriation,” he jokes, and Alex laughs. 

Henry lays back, content to listen to Alex ramble about everything from his mother’s campaign to his classes, smiling at the way he speaks impossibly quickly when he gets passionate or worked up, Henry making intermittent noises to show that he’s listening and the occasional question or comment, but mostly just listening and letting Alex talk, filling all of the cold and impersonal crevices of his palatial room with warmth and light. The sun dips lower in the sky, turning Henry’s room the burnt orange of golden hour, then the dark blue of twilight, until it was the black of dusk. Henry doesn’t turn on the light, letting himself sit in the darkness—if he doesn’t turn on the light, he can almost convince himself that Alex is right next to him.

Chapter Text

“—and I can't stress this enough: voter registration drives are nonpartisan, so do not mention your mom, don’t mention her campaign, don’t mention her policies, don’t mention her goddamn cooking. As far as you’re concerned, you’re an orphan for the day,” Zahra’s raspy voice lectures him over the phone pressed against his ear. Alex wasn’t really listening—he knew how voter registration drives fucking worked—instead, he was trying to slot a campaign event into his week when he was supposed to be studying for finals while also workshopping a final paper in the back of his mind. He can feel his brain becoming overwhelmed, but Zahra keeps talking anyway. 

“You’d be at NYU on Friday and then a CUNY on Saturday with June. If you ever checked your goddamn email then you would know what was appropriate to wear and—” Alex zones out again, staring at his ceiling, trying to frantically rearrange his schedule with two less days to study. He closes his eyes, trying to keep his breathing steady. 

“Are you even fucking listening to me you little shit?” Zahra growls over the line, making Alex snap to attention. 

“Yes,” he lies, and then amends, “I’ll read the email.” 

Zahra makes a deeply skeptical noise. Alex runs his hand over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, trying to rub away the heavy feeling of fatigue. “You fucking better. You’re a grown adult and I am way too busy to hold your hand through this.” 

Alex almost points out that she was the one that called him, but doesn’t because he prefers all of his body parts where they were. “Of course Z. You can count on me.” Zahra makes another vague grumbling noise before the line goes dead, and Alex pulls back his phone to see that she had indeed hung up on him. He sighs, flopping his arm across his bed, tossing his phone to the mattress. 

Alex closes his eyes, blocking out everything and trying to think. He has two final exams next week that he was planning on studying for all weekend and a final paper that’s due on Friday that he’ll now have to finish tomorrow at the latest. It’s overwhelming and there aren’t enough hours in the day, but Alex can make it work. He always makes it work. 

“Alex,” he hears June say from above him, grumbling when she nudges his shoulder. “What are you doing? It’s after eleven.” 

“Leave me to die,” Alex says, not opening his eyes. 

“Drama queen,” June comments flatly. Alex feels the bed beside him shift and looks over to see June laying on her side, studying his face, probably recognizing Alex’s mood from many finals weeks past. “What’s up?” 

His immediate impulse is to say ‘nothing’ or ‘I’m fine,’ but he knows that June will see through him like glass. “It’s just…a lot,” he admits, reaching his hands up to run down his face.

June hums in acknowledgement. “Did you take your meds?” 

“Yes,” Alex sighs, suppressing an eyeroll. 

“Okay,” June says. Alex turns over to match her position, lying face to face on his bed. “Take me through the list.” 

“I have my philosophy of law paper due on Friday, my sociology final next Monday, and my human rights final on Wednesday.” 

“Weren’t you taking four classes?”

Alex nods, his face smushed against the pillow. “I already turned in my English final.” 

“Overachiever,” June comments, and Alex rolls his eyes. “So what’s the issue. It seems manageable.” 

“It was,” Alex complains. He had a list, a schedule in his head of everything he had to do and when he had to do it, that is, until Zahra fucked it all up when she called him that morning and reminded him of his campaign responsibilities. “It was until I had to figure out how to do all that and register voters for mom all weekend. I guess I’ll just have to give up eating and sleeping for the next week.” 

“Alex,” June says, a furrow in her brow and a tone in her voice that matches mom’s, the one that means ‘I’m about to say something that you don’t want to hear, and I’m trying to think of a way to say it without pissing you off.’

Alex sighs. “Just spit it out June.” 

There’s a short pause before June finally says, “I’m just worried about you.” Alex opens his mouth to protest, to say that she doesn’t need to worry, that he’s fine, always fine, but she puts up her palm to stop him. “You’re going to burn out if you keep taking everything on like this. You need to take something off your plate.” 

“Cool,” Alex says drily. “I’ll drop out of school.”

“Shut up.” Alex pretends that it hurts when June slaps him, frowning as he rubs the shoulder she assaults. “That’s not what I meant and you know it, you little brat.” 

Alex laughs. “Do you want to be the one that calls Zahra to say that I’m not going to the registration drives this weekend?” He raises questioning eyebrows at his sister. 

June grimaces. “Yeah, no, I’m not doing that.” She climbs out of the bed and stands over him, hands on her hips, the way mom used to when he was late to school and she was too busy to deal with his shit. “Get up, sit at your desk, start typing,” she orders. “Laying here and worrying is only going to make you more stressed out in the long run.” 

Alex grumbles, but he knows she’s right. He stumbles over to his desk, wincing at the bright light of his laptop, and starts typing. 

It’s slow at first, and he crawls through the introductory paragraph—Alex fucking hated introductions—taking hours to write a measly single page. He starts to write in earnest once he gets to the body paragraphs, the words flowing as he’s been writing this paper subconsciously in moments of monotony, at work, at the shelter, during his last classes. 

June interrupts him after a few hours, leaning her head through the doorway. “There’s dinner.” Alex hums in acknowledgment, his fingers flying over the keys. “You need to eat.” He hums again. “Alex,” June says in her most scolding tone. 

“I’m in the zone, Bug. I want to finish or I won’t be able to come back to it.” 

He hears June sigh, but then a quiet click of the door shutting behind her. The next time Alex looks up, there’s a bowl of buttered penne—Nora’s specialty—and a steaming mug of coffee sitting next to him on his desk. 

It’s well past 2 a.m. by the time Alex has typed the final word and climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling and rubbing the arches of his feet together, too wired to sleep. Alex does the math quickly in his head, determining that there’s a chance Henry could be awake. He reaches for his phone before giving it any further thought. 

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Henry asks as soon as the line connects after only two rings. 

Alex smiles, something inside him settling, his mind disquieting at the sound of Henry’s voice. “Shouldn’t you?” Alex shoots back in a challenging tone. 

“I’m taking David on a walk at a perfectly reasonable hour,” Henry answers. “What’s your excuse?” 

“Just finished a final paper.” Alex rolls over onto his side, looking out his window to see the distant lights of the city that never completely shut off. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah,” Henry says, “so you’ve called me so I can bore you to sleep?”

I called you because your voice is the only thing that calms me down, Alex thinks. You’re the only thing that makes my mind quiet. Alex will never say that—it would cruel, to both of them. Alex said they could only be friends, and he wasn’t going to fuck that up with impromptu confessions of infatuation. “Yeah,” Alex says softly, injecting humor into his tone. “Something like that.” 

“Well at least I’m good for something,” Henry says, aiming for the same humorous tone and falling slightly short of it. Alex can imagine the tight pinch at the corner of his mouth. “What would you like me to talk about?”

“Anything,” Alex says, laying back and putting his phone on speaker, but then changes his mind when he hears the wind whipping on the other side of the line. “Where are you?” 

“Llwynywermod with Pez.” 

Fuck, British names are so fucking ridiculous and Henry has no right sounding so hot when he says them. “Jesus Christ,” Alex says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Alex lies, wanting Henry to say it again so he can record it and set it as his goddamn ringtone. He briefly considers that he desperately needs to get laid, but the only person he wants to get laid with he has made extremely off limits to himself, a decision that he regrets every single time he calls Henry, or sees a photo of him, or thinks about him. “What are you doing in…” Alex could not even begin to attempt to pronounce the word, so he doesn’t try. 

“Llwynywermod,” Henry repeats, and Alex holds back a groan. “We’re just getting away from the city, brainstorming philanthropy projects, mostly while sloshed.” 

Alex smiles at the image of Prince Henry drunk, supremely envious that he’s never had the chance to see it himself. “What kinds of projects?” 

“AIDS clinics in Botswana and Zambia, perhaps LGBT shelters in the UK and Australia. Percy’s parents’ company is rich enough that Pez can do almost anything he’d like with the foundation.”

Alex hums. “Extremely torn between saying ‘that’s really cool’ or ‘eat the rich.’” 

“Well as ‘the rich,’” Henry says, smile in his voice, “I’d prefer to remain uneaten.”

Alex pushes down the strong urge to make a very dirty joke by changing the subject completely. “So does Pez know?” he asks, ignoring social convention and giving into consuming curiosity. “That you’re gay?” 

Alex only has a second to chastise himself for overstepping because Henry answers right away—in the months they’ve been friends, especially since they kissed, there doesn’t seem to be a subject that’s off limits. Except for Them. “Yes. Of course.” 

Alex huffs, but he supposes Henry’s right. Pez is Henry’s best—and seemingly only—friend, so of course he knew that he was gay. “So was he the first person you told?” 

Henry makes a considering noise. “I never really told him,” he says. “We just eventually reached a point where he knew and I knew he knew, so there was no longer a reason to use carefully gender neutral terms when referring to potential partners.” Alex makes a noise of recognition—that was kind of how things went with him and Nora too. Maybe it was a best friends thing. There’s a pause, and Alex doesn’t fill the silence, recognizing it as one where Henry is thinking of something to say. “Why do you ask?” 

Alex shrugs, though he knows Henry can’t see him. They do FaceTime sometimes, and as much as Alex wishes he could see Henry’s face, eyes drowsy from the early hour and cheeks pink from the Welsh wind whipping against his skin, Alex knows that he probably looks like death warmed over with messy, unwashed hair and deep bags under his eyes. “I guess I’m just curious.” 

“Nosy more like,” Henry huffs, though there’s humor in his tone. “So you want me to tell you my coming out story?” 

“If you want to tell it,” Alex says, trying to sound nonchalant and uninterested when he actually wants to scream ‘yes’ like an overeager child. 

“Well, I’m sure that there are plenty of people that suspect my sexuality, as I am not very good at playing straight, nor am I a monk, but the only person I’ve actually ever told is my sister.” 

Alex rolls over on his stomach, looking at his phone, waiting for Henry to say more. “And how did that go?” Alex prompts. 

Henry sighs. “It’s kind of a long story.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Henry pauses, and Alex can almost hear the gears turning in his mind. “I can’t imagine that you’ve kept up with British tabloids?” 

Alex lets out a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, no. I don’t hate myself.” 

He hears Henry let out a small puff of air. “So you wouldn’t have seen news of my sister’s drug addiction?”

Alex thinks back, remembering stories on Twitter, trending hashtags. He’d always written them off as unimportant—he didn’t give a shit about the royal family. At least, not at the time. “I always assumed they were rumors.” 

Henry hums a sound of acknowledgment. “Well, they were, but they were also true,” he admits resignedly. “They called her the Powder Princess.” 

A laugh escapes Alex’s throat, and he slaps his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says, pulling his hand away. “I know this is serious and everything but, fuck, that is such a terrible nickname. Why are you Brits so bad at naming things?”

“It’s alright,” Henry says, a hint of amusement in his tone, making Alex relax. “Bea actually quite likes the alliteration. She thought about getting a t-shirt made.” 

Alex laughs, letting his head rest on his crossed arms as he listens to Henry tell the rest of his story. Henry recounts the story of his sister becoming more withdrawn, her face more gaunt, her clothes looser on her malnourished form. Of her being sent to rehab against her will and leaving hours later to get high again. Of Henry coming out to Bea outside of a club, still wearing his pajamas, trying to convince her to go back to rehab, to not leave him alone. Alex blinks away tears, imagining a freshly eighteen year old Henry, grieving and overwhelmed and terrified. Alex can hear the distance in his tone, and aches to reach out and grab his hand. 

Alex listens, his head pillowed against his hand as he is lulled into a state of calm by Henry’s soft voice. He doesn’t realize he’s done until Henry says, “I think this is the most words I have ever said in my life, so if you would put us both out of our misery and say something, that would be splendid.” 

“No, no,” he says through a small laugh, “I’m glad you told me. I like listening to you.” 

“Um,” Henry clears his throat awkwardly, “anyway, do you have one?” 

“One what?” Alex asks, playing dumb. 

“A coming out story,” Henry says, exasperated, as if Alex was being particularly stupid. 

“It’s kind of…morbid.” 

“And mine was a fairytale?” Henry asks, and Alex can imagine him cocking his eyebrow up judgmentally. 

“Yeah, I guess that’s fair,” Alex concedes, shifting again to lay on his back, staring up the ceiling, studying the ever present cobweb that was barely visible in the dimness of the room. “Did you hear about the Pulse Nightclub Shooting in 2016?” 

“Yes,” Henry confirms, sounding wary. 

“Yeah,” Alex sighs, trying to think of a coherent way to explain. “The thing about America is that shootings happen like, all the time, and its tragic and horrible and we all want to change it but the minority that doesn’t want gun reform and the corporations that pay off politicians always seem to win out,” he mentally chastises himself for going off on a tangent. “Anyways, we kind of become desensitized to it—like you look at the news and see that there’s been a shooting and you don’t even have time to let it affect you because you’re a person with a life and responsibilities and you know there will be more people to mourn in a few days or weeks.” 

Alex pauses to take a deep breath, and Henry says, “Okay,” sounding equal parts confused and encouraging. 

“But the Pulse shooting just really affected me because it was a massive hate crime and I, like, just figured out that I was bi and I was slapped in the face with the reality of how dangerous that could be and it was fucking terrifying.” Alex swallows around the lump forming in his throat. “June was back in Austin for break and we were watching the news coverage together on the couch in complete silence, and I just blurted out ‘I’m bisexual’ because I…I didn’t want to die without telling someone.” 

“Christ,” Henry says once he’s sure Alex is done talking. “That’s grim.” 

“I tried warning you,” Alex says through a half hearted laugh. “Would you believe me if I told you that was the more positive of my coming out experiences?” 

“And who was the worst one?” Henry asks hesitantly. 

“Liam,” Alex says emphatically, holding back a pained groan at the memory. “He was my best friend for like, my whole life, and it all fell apart when we started…hooking up, I guess is what you would call it?” Alex remembers the first time he kissed Liam; even though he was drunk, he remembered, and even though he was exhausted, he stayed up for another hour just to keep kissing him. It all seemed so innocent at first, until it wasn’t. “Long story short, I had a sexuality crisis, realized I was bi, and told Liam that even though I was queer I wasn’t interested in dating him.” Alex cringes at the memory. Now that he can imagine himself in Liam’s shoes, he can understand his friend’s anger. He actually took it rather gracefully, considering. “Turns out ‘thanks for the handy, but let’s go back to being platonic bros’ is kind of a friendship killer.” 

“Christ,” Henry says again. Alex releases a weak laugh, but it peters off quickly. 

There’s a brief silence, and Alex wonders if Henry is thinking about the same thing that Alex is. He hopes not. Alex wants to reassure Henry that they are nothing like Alex and Liam, that Alex would be with Henry in a heartbeat if he could find a way. Alex wants to tell him that this isn’t just history repeating itself—another friend that he’s kissed and ultimately rejected. Alex wants to tell him how much he wants to kiss Henry again, but won’t because he knows that he would never be able to stop. Alex has always been an all or nothing kind of guy. He can only dream of having all of Henry. 

“Have you fallen asleep?” Henry asks, making Alex blink the drowsiness away from his eyes. 

“No,” Alex says, holding back a yawn. “No, I’m still here.”

The yawn traitorously escapes from his mouth, and Alex tries to muffle it with his hand, but he can tell by the small, amused laugh in his ear that Henry heard it anyway. “Alex,” he says softly. Alex loves the way Henry says his name—he doesn’t say is lazily like most people, but carefully, overemphasizing each syllable. It almost makes him want to ask Henry to call him ‘Alexander’ just to hear it roll off his tongue. “Go to sleep.” 

Alex hums in agreement, finding it more difficult to keep his eyes open. “Will you—”

Henry waits a few seconds after Alex cuts himself off, waiting to see if he will manage to get out a full question. Alex knows that he won’t. “Will I what?”

“Will you stay on the line until I fall asleep?” he almost whispers, glad that they weren’t on FaceTime so Henry couldn’t see the heat rising on his face. 

“Of course love.” 

Alex closes his eyes, and he’s not sure how long it takes for him to fall asleep. As he slips into unconsciousness, a neverending chorus of love, love, love in Henry’s smooth accent plays over and over in Alex’s mind.

Chapter Text

This was all Pez’s fault. 

If Henry had a penny for every time he thought those words—

It started with The Okonjo Foundation fundraiser in LA that Pez insisted he invite Alex and his roommates to. Henry hadn’t realized truly how far apart New York and Los Angelos were—apparently they were on opposite sides of the very large country—and offered to cover Alex’s airfare. After a characteristic joke about Henry trying to be Alex’s sugar daddy, he eventually agreed. 

The fundraiser was a lot of shaking hands and making small talk and eating food in very small portions and drinking champagne, all the while keeping a careful distance between himself and Alex. He and Alex were always purposefully on opposite sides of the room, but the air between them seemed to crackle, and Henry’s eyes were perpetually drawn to him—how could they not be, with Alex looking gorgeous in a silk suit perfectly fitted to his body, his eyes bright and laugh genuine as he snickered quietly with Nora? Sometimes, Alex would catch him looking and Henry would whip his head around in an attempt to hide the hot blush he could feel on his cheeks. Other times, Henry would look toward Alex and find his eyes already on him, and Alex wouldn’t look away, but a pleased smirk would rise on his face as he held Henry’s gaze. 

There was disagreement on what to do afterwards, with some of them wanting to meet back at the hotel and some wanting to go out. They compromised, ending up at a bar near their hotel, dark and crowded enough that they could perhaps manage maintaining a low profile. 

Which is how Henry ends up pressed up against Alex’s body in a crowd of people, trying desperately to keep his hands to himself even as he can feel Alex’s warmth radiating from his body and the rainbow lights reflecting off of his shiny curls as he dances as if no one is watching. It’s all Pez’s fault really. 

“Henry,” Alex says in a whining tone, throwing his head back in complaint. “How are you such a terrible dancer?” 

Henry has spent the last few minutes swaying back and forth to the beat with his arms crossed self consciously over his chest to keep them from reaching out toward Alex. He may have had enough vodka to agree to dance in the first place, but he certainly wasn’t drunk enough to actually attempt it. “The family-mandated ballroom dancing lessons didn’t exactly cover,” he motions his hand around at the writhing masses, “this.”  

Alex laughs. “Well I don’t waltz sweetheart,” he says, the colorful lights making his long lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones. The pet name always makes Henry’s heart rate pick up, but hearing it now, the alcohol making Alex’s slight Texas drawl heavier, Henry’s entire body feels ablaze. “Just move your hips man. Loosen up a little,” Alex says, his tone light as he grabs Henry’s hips, and something warm pools at the base of Henry spine, scrunching his eyes shut as he becomes pliant under Alex’s touch, fighting back thoughts of Alex’s hands on Henry’s hips in other contexts, of his hands in other places. 

“Let’s keep things PG boys,” Bea says with a cheeky grin, sticking her head over from where she’s dancing between Pez and Nora. Nora snickers at the comment, and Alex raises his middle finger at her, a gesture that she happily returns. 

Much to Henry’s chagrin, Alex does pull back, lowering his hands and taking a small step away from him, putting space between them that feels much wider than it is. Henry mourns the loss of contact, but doesn’t reach out for him, taking a small step back himself. They eventually make their way back to their corner booth when a slower song starts playing through the speakers, sliding in with June sitting between himself and Alex and Alex sitting between June and Nora. Henry knows that June and Nora can’t publically be in a relationship, but they don’t hide as much as he’d expected. They share an apartment and have been seen together over the last few years, but the media appears content to see them as platonic ‘gal pals.’ It seems that humanity does not change over the centuries. 

Henry is surprised at how easily their friendship groups slot together, with Nora throwing her arm over Bea’s shoulders and both of them laughing congenially, Pez and June reminiscing about early 2000s pop culture that Henry has never even heard of, all of them sharing stories and poking fun at one another as if they were all old friends and not an eclectic group of individuals thrown together by some strange twist of fate. 

They stay at the bar until the early hours of the morning, drinking and talking and laughing, Bea calling it a night and dragging them out of the club when Pez becomes drunk enough to attempt climbing on a table. They make their way up to their three reserved hotel rooms with much more stumbling and noise than is necessary and Bea, the only one completely sober among them, does her level best to wrangle the group into the elevator with as little disturbance to other guests as possible. They step out on the fourth floor, Nora and June clinging to each other, though neither of them is more sober than the other, Bea trying to support Pez’s large form, his arm pulled around her small shoulders, and Henry and Alex walking on their own, but bumping into each other intermittently due to their inability to walk in a straight line. 

Nora unlocks her door with the keycard and pulls June in, their limbs entangling and giggling into each other’s mouths before they even get the door closed. They reach Bea’s room next, and she pulls the keycard out with some difficulty with Pez still hanging off her, practically dragging him inside. Before the door closes, she turns back to Henry, stopping him before he can follow. “I trust you two can handle yourselves,” she says, pulling another keycard out of her pocket and holding it out to him. “I’ve got to make sure this one,” she jostles Pez, making him grumble, “doesn’t choke and die on his own vomit.” 

“Hey,” Pez pipes up in protest, sounding about halfway to sleep. “I’m not even that drunk,” he says, slurring his words so much that it’s hardly understandable. 

“Sure,” Bea says skeptically, thrusting the key at him more insistently, and Henry takes it without thinking, his brow furrowing. 

“What?” 

Bea rolls her eyes at him, evidently exasperated with all of the drunk shenanigans she’s endured that night. “Good night Henry,” she says before kicking the door, shutting it in his face. 

Henry blinks at the door for a moment, turning away to see Alex leaning against the wall near their final room, duffel back resting at his feet. “Are we rooming together?” Alex says, looking around as if there were someone else that he could exchange Henry for. 

“Evidently,” Henry says, fiddling with the keycard, running the edge over his index finger, leaving behind a red line. “If it makes you uncomfortable I’m sure I can work something out.” Henry doesn’t mention the fact that the hotel is fully booked and that he’d rather sleep on the carpet in the hallway than intrude on the space reserved for their PPOs. It may sting a bit, but he would figure something out if Alex truly didn’t want to room with him. 

“No of course not,” Alex says quickly, and then shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s fine.” 

Henry takes moment to look at him, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. He searches Alex’s face, trying to find a trace of discomfort, and finds none. Maybe this really isn’t a big deal for him, and maybe it shouldn’t be for Henry either. They were friends—he’s shared a room with Pez plenty of times. He shakes his head to himself as he unlocks the door, dispelling the thoughts in his mind, inconveniently reminding him that Alex isn’t Pez, that Alex is different. 

Henry halts to a stop only a few steps into the room, barely registering Alex gliding past him, muttering something under his breath, before digging through his bag for his toothbrush. Henry walks fully into the room slowly, listening to the water running in the bathroom, setting his bag down next to the bed—the one bed. Henry briefly considers that sleeping on the carpeted floor of the PPOs’ room might be preferable. 

The sound of Alex walking back in breaks him out of his reverie. He blinks a few times, looking up to offer, “I can sleep on the—” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Alex says, putting a silencing hand to cut him off. “It’s a king size bed and we’re grown adults. We can share a bed for one night.” 

Henry just shrugs a single shoulder, nodding his agreement. The thing is, Henry isn’t sure that’s true. He is sure that once he’s known Alex’s weight next to him on a mattress, the warmth of his body under the covers, what it feels like to wake up with Alex next to him, well, Henry doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sleep again once he knows all that. 

He doesn’t have much time to consider before Alex is pulling his shirt over his head, and Henry’s eyes catch on the unfamiliar expanse of smooth brown skin, of his lightly muscled stomach and prominent collarbones that Henry wants to explore with his tongue. He turns away, his face burning hot in what he knows is a deep red blush that his pale skin is powerless to hide. 

“Sorry,” Alex says, a smirk evident in his tone. “I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sense of decorum, your highness.” 

“Shut up,” Henry says, ignoring Alex’s amused laugh and studying the wall as if he’s going to be tested on it. 

“Okay you can turn around now,” Alex says, and Henry reluctantly turns around to see Alex in an NYU jumper and a pair of soft looking grey joggers as he climbs under the covers and sits against the dark wood headboard, looking down at his phone. Henry bends down to dig through his bag for a change of clothes and his toothbrush before retreating to the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. 

He brushes his teeth and dresses quickly, then rests his hands on the counter, taking a few deep breaths, steeling himself. His hand pauses on the doorknob, not yet turning it. It’s one night, he reminds himself. Just one night. 

Alex is laying down on his back when Henry steps out of the bathroom, squinting up at his phone. He looks over when he hears the bathroom door shut, setting aside his phone and watching Henry as he rounds the bed to the unoccupied side—he wonders if Alex naturally slept on the left or if he somehow knew that Henry sleeps on the right. 

He climbs under the covers, reveling in the warmth of Alex’s body in the too cold room, keeping a careful distance separating them. He reaches over and turns off the lamp on the nightstand on his side of the bed and Alex follows suit.

Henry lies on his back, staring up at the hotel ceiling. It’s not dark, not completely. It never is in cities like LA and London and New York; there’s always an ever present ambient glow that seeps into the room. Henry doesn’t think he’s ever experienced complete and utter darkness. He used to be glad for that, until Alex asked him if he could see the stars. 

Henry used to love the stars, but more than anything, he loved stories. He cherished the days when his parents would wake him and his siblings early and take them to the V & A, leading them through the rooms and telling them about the exhibits inside. Henry hung on his parents’ every word—every historical fact that his mother told him about the sculptures, and every one of his father’s fantastical stories about gods and goddesses and ancient Greeks. Arthur also told him about the stars, lying on their backs in the garden at Llwynywermod. Arthur pointed up at the night sky and told him about the vain queen Cassiopeia and the supernaturally gifted hunter Orion and the young nymph Calisto. Since his father died, Henry rarely looked up at the sky anymore. 

That is, until a month ago, when Henry was at Llwynywermod for the first time in so long, looking up at a dark sky littered with stars as crickets chirped in the distant woods around the house. He connected the bright dots of Orion and Ursa Major and Minor and Cassiopeia, and he thought about Alex and he thought about having a place that felt like home. He thought about his dad, and how home had never really been a place for him at all. 

He allows his eyes to fall closed, blocking out his surroundings despite that he knows he won’t fall asleep for hours, if at all, not with the warmth filling the few inches between his and Alex’s bodies and the steady rhythm of his breathing. 

“Henry?” Alex whispers, and Henry only hums questioningly in response. “Are you asleep?” 

“Yes,” Henry says, not opening his eyes. 

“Asshole.” Alex drives his sharp elbow into Henry's ribs, making him snap his eyes open and rub his side. “I’m not tired,” Alex whines, and Henry feels the bed shift and sees Alex turning on his side on his periphery, looking up at him. “Talk to me,” he needles, poking his side. 

Henry lets out a long breath, but he obliges, turning over to face Alex, their faces close, close enough that Henry can see the light pouring in from the window, reflecting in the blackness of Alex’s eyes. He’d forgotten to close the curtains before, and now he’s glad for it. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very annoying?” 

A slow, lopsided smile spreads over Alex’s face, revealing the deep dimple on his right cheek. “Yes,” he says. “Many, many times.” 

Henry smiles back. He’s fairly certain that Alex couldn’t annoy him if he tried. He hopes Alex knows that; he thinks he does. “So how did lunch go with your dad?” he asks, obediently talking to him as requested.

“Oh just peachy,” Alex answers sarcastically, the smile dropping off his face. 

“Was it really so bad?” Henry asks gently. Henry would never admit it, but he didn’t have the highest opinion of the Claremont-Diaz parents. Ellen usually appeared more in Alex’s stories than Oscar did, but it was clear that there was tension on both sides. 

“Not so bad,” Alex concedes with a sigh. “He spent most of it talking about his trip to Yosemite and how June and I should go cliff diving with him, even though June is fucking terrified of heights.” Alex huffs. “And then he started harping on my plans now that I’ve graduated, because apparently working at a shitty diner while I study for the LSAT isn’t fucking good enough I guess.” 

Henry hums thoughtfully. “Yes I’ve also been getting a lot of that as of late,” he says. “But you’re nothing like me Alex. You know what you want to do and you go after it, no matter what anyone thinks. So what’s bothering you?” 

Alex releases a long exhale through his nose. “I just,” he starts, and then pauses. “He’s been trying to get me back into politics since I changed my major. He said he could pull some strings and get me an internship in some senator’s office, and even when I told him I wasn’t interested, that I don’t want to go into politics, he just says that it’s such a shame to throw away my potential.” His gaze flickers away for a moment, but then he locks eyes with Henry again. “I just wish he got it, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Henry says, aching to reach out, but forcing his arm to lay limply on the bed between them. “Yeah I think I do.” 

“What would you do?” Alex asks, shifting infinitesimally closer to him, his cheek smushed adorably against his pillow. “If you could do anything?” 

Henry lets out a discontent noise. “Well the traditional career path is military—”

“I didn’t ask what you have to do, your royal highness,” Alex interjects with a roll of his eyes. “I asked what you want to do?” 

Henry sighs, just looking at Alex for moment, breathing into the space between them. He’s hesitant to say—it’s not a question that Henry is often asked—but he doesn’t have to think about it. “I’d like to be a writer,” he admits, trying to remember if he’s ever told anyone that before. He doesn’t think he has. “I suppose.” 

Alex’s dark eyebrows scrunch together. “Can’t you do that?”

“Not really. It’s not exactly seen as a worthy pursuit for someone in the royal family.” 

“Fuck your family,” Alex says firmly, much louder than the hushed tones they had been using. “It’s your life Henry. You can do whatever you want with it.” The way Alex is looking at him, it seems as if he’s talking about more than just his silly aspirations. Henry wants to look away—it feels as if his gaze is boring into his soul, into his bones and internal organs, seeing all of his broken parts. 

No, Henry thinks, he can’t. He can’t do whatever he’d like with his life, but he likes that Alex thinks he can. It’s a very nice dream. “Maybe,” Henry concedes, though he knows he’s lying. “I think that if I was half as brave as you, I could do just about anything.” 

Alex’s face shifts into something indecipherable, falling in between pained and affectionate. He scrunches his eyes shut, his eyelids wrinkling, and when he opens them a few moments later, they meet Henry’s again. They fall into a brief silence, not uncomfortable persay, but weighted with potential energy. “How drunk are you?” Alex whispers, shifting a bit closer to him. 

“Um.” Henry’s brows knit at the non sequitur. He actually does give his answer some thought, taking stock of his body and his mind, though he knows he only had a few drinks. “I feel alright.”

“Good,” Alex says, already surging forward and taking Henry’s face in his hands before he kisses him. 

Henry is frozen in surprise for a moment before he responds, opening up to him and pulling Alex closer to him by the sway of his waist, so close that Henry can feel Alex’s chest rising and falling with each breath against his own. 

Alex and Henry’s first kiss on Alex’s birthday was lovely in every way, though tentative and measured. It was imbued with pent up yearning that Henry felt in his own chest for months and he never imagined Alex could feel as well until it became clear in the gentle press of his lips and his hands running through Henry’s hair. It was the kind of kiss that Henry imagines the protagonists of Jane Austen novels share in a foggy field, the rising sun behind them. He could practically hear the music swell. 

But this kiss, this kiss is how Henry has imagined Alex kisses, the Alex that he saw at the Olympics all those years ago. It’s hungry and wanting and passionate and it sets Henry’s every nerve ending on fire. Henry is Icarus and Alex is the sun and he doesn’t even care anymore if he gets consumed. 

Alex groans into his mouth when Henry turns them with one hand on his hip and the other on his neck, deepening the kiss with Henry half on top of Alex. Henry gets lost in the sensation, every place that Alex’s hands touch lighting up, sparks dancing down his spine when their tongues brush, his breath catching in his throat when Alex pulls his hair. 

Alex makes a small noise of complaint when Henry pulls away, but gasps when he kisses along his sharp jawline and up to his ear before running his lips down his neck. He pauses at Alex’s collarbone, delicate and beautiful, and he sucks on the freckle there, hoping to leave a mark of his own. 

“Henry,” Alex groans, burying his hand in Henry’s hair and running his fingertips over his scalp, arching his body up to meet him. 

He loves the way that Alex says his name, his barely noticeable Texas drawl lengthening the vowels. He’s heard Alex say his name in an exasperated tone, drawing it out long into a groan when he’s being difficult. He’s heard Alex say his name through a breathless laugh, inexplicably amused by something Henry had said. He’s heard Alex say his name softly, in a hushed tone when Henry had a hard day and Alex can tell that he needs a gentle touch rather than his usual playful prodding. Alex has never said his name like this—breathy and pleading and impassioned. Now that Henry has heard Alex saying his name in pleasure, he is certain that it’s a sound he’ll never forget. He wants to hear it again and again and again. He wants to hear it for the rest of his life. 

Which is what makes Henry pull back, dropping his head onto Alex’s shoulder and leveling out his breathing, the only thought echoing in his mind being— Not like this. 

“Are you okay?” Alex asks, the hand in his hair no longer clutching at the strands, but now running soothing circles. 

Henry lets out a slow, steady breath. “We shouldn’t do this.” 

“We can,” Alex argues, but it sounds a bit half hearted. “But if you don’t want to—”

“That’s not it,” Henry says, lifting his head off Alex’s shoulder and looking down at him, finding dark brown eyes searching Henry’s expression. “I just don’t want this to be something we’ll regret.” 

Alex shakes his head in small jerks. “I wouldn’t regret it.” 

Henry sighs, reaching his hand up to run through Alex’s disheveled hair. “I know love,” he whispers. “But I don’t want our first time to be—”

Henry cuts himself off, sighing deeply. He hates this, suspected Alex hated it too—the purgatory they were in. The mocking promise of ‘someday’ that felt at once inevitable and impossible. 

“I don’t want this to be something that we have to ignore in the morning,” Henry amends. 

Something in Alex’s expression shifts, suddenly tired and resigned, and Henry knows that he agrees. “Fuck,” Alex says, running his palm down his face. “Yeah you’re right. I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Hnery reassures, shaking his head. 

“Ugh,” Alex scoffs, one side of his lips quirking up. “You’re so hot when you're all righteous and upstanding.” 

“Alex,” Henry chastises, holding back an amused laugh. 

Alex laughs, his eyes the brightest thing in the dark room. “Okay, we should probably sleep,” Alex concedes, “which would be a lot easier if you weren’t literally on top of me right now.” 

“Oh,” Henry says, looking down, almost having forgotten the position they ended up in. He rolls off Alex onto his own side of the bed, shuffling the duvet and settling closer than they were before, but still not touching. Henry closes his eyes and says, “Good night Alex.” 

“Good night Henry,” Alex whispers in return. 

Before Henry even opens his eyes, he can feel Alex’s warm exhales against his neck. He looks over to see Alex splayed over him, the space between them having diminished in sleep with Alex’s arm thrown over his chest and his head laying on his shoulder, their legs tangled together. He remains as still as possible, wanting to look at him with his soft curls aglow in the early morning sun and his features smooth and relaxed for as long as he was allowed. 

He reminds himself of what he told Alex months ago— You’re worth waiting for. Henry knows in that moment that it’s true—he would wait a lifetime for a year, a month, a week of mornings like this one. He pulls him closer with his arms around his shoulders, knowing that he’ll never be able to forget the feeling of calm that washed over him when he woke up with Alex Claremont-Diaz in his arms.

Chapter Text

There are always protests at the DNC, Alex reminds himself, closing his eyes and taking slow, steady breaths to ward of the anxiety attack that’s been building for hours, leaning against the back wall of the elevator. 

“Are you okay?” June asks quietly, the elevator making a dull ping every time it ascends another floor. 

He looks over to see June clutching at her own elbows, as if hugging herself. He reaches over and pulls her under his arm, dropping a kiss on her temple. “Yeah,” he lies. “I’m fine.” He can tell by her sigh that she doesn’t beileve him, but the way her shoulders droop and the wetness in her eyes that she’s blinking back make it clear that she doesn’t have the energy to push. Not tonight. “What about you? Are you okay?” 

“I’m,” June starts, straightening her shoulders a bit more. June wasn’t normally a liar, though she was a very good one. “I will be,” she says, which he supposes is honest enough, but it feels like a lie. It feels like the same lie they’ve both been telling since November. 

The elevator chimes when they reach their floor, the doors opening and he and June don’t hesitate to step off, desperate to get to their empty rooms with big, warm beds to sink into. They come to a slow stop in front of June’s door. Alex’s heart constricts when he looks at his sister—his usually put together, perfect, and polished big sister—looking disheveled and exhausted and on the brink of a meltdown. “Do you want me to…” he motions inarticulately to the door, unsure of what comfort he can offer. It was usually June holding him up, not the other way around. 

The corner of her lips lift in the beginnings of a grateful smile. “No it’s fine,” she reassures him. “I think I just need to sleep for like, a year. At least.” She sighs and pulls him into a quick hug. Alex wants to sink into it, take comfort in June’s familiar embrace, but she pulls back and pats his arm. “Good night baby bro.” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “Don’t call me that.” 

She reaches up and pats his head in a deeply patronizing gesture. “Tiny, miniature, itty-bitty, baby brother,” she teases, genuine humor in her tone for the first time in hours. 

“Fuck off.” Alex bats her hand away. 

June digs her keycard out of her bag and unlocks her door. “Go to bed,” she orders, looking back at him before she pulls the door closed behind her. 

Alex leans back against the door to his hotel room once it shuts, closing his eyes and releasing a long breath, the air whistling through his nose the only sound in the room save for the AC making the room a little too cool for comfort. He’s tried to cobble together a list, something to calm him down, but the only thing he has so far is One: There are always protests at the DNC. 

There were Black Lives Matter protests and protests against corruption and for abortion rights and gun control—the kinds of demonstrations that Alex would have gone to, maybe even helped organize if he were in another life. Even when there were protests he didn’t agree with, they only made him mad before, they were never personal. But today, there were Richards’ supporters, shouting things and holding signs about his mom and about her family—about him and June. They were personal this time, and they didn’t just make him mad, they made him afraid. 

Alex doesn’t open eyes for fear of what will happen when he does, but he has to. He isn’t going to fall asleep any time soon and he knows that the hotel has a bar downstairs and all he wants to do is drink his weight in Maker’s and pass out on his king sized bed. He yanks his door open but freezes, blinking to clear his eyes, convinced that he must be hallucinating because, on the other side of the door, blue eyes wide and fist suspended in the air just short of knocking, was Henry Fox-Mountchisten-fucking-Windsor. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Alex blurts, and then winces when Henry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry just,” he leans out and thankfully finds the hallway empty, “just come in.” He grabs Henry by his broad shoulders and pulls him inside, and Henry follows with a little stumble. 

Alex looks up at him and he has so many questions—what he was even doing in New York, what he was doing here— but he didn’t care about any of them, not right now. Right now, all he wanted to do was turn off his brain. 

“Alex are—”

Alex cuts him off, surging up and crashing their mouths together, pulling Henry down to meet him by the back of his neck. The kiss is hard and fast and passionate and infuriatingly brief, Henry only returning the kiss for a moment before pushing him back and keeping a hand spread over his chest to keep him there. 

“Alex,” he says, breathlessly. “You don’t want—”

“Yes, I do,” Alex interjects frantically. “You know I do.” 

“It’s not what you need,” Henry says, this time softly, soothingly, cradling his cheek in his palm, his fingertips in Alex’s hair. “That’s not why I’m here.” 

Alex swallows around the lump rising in his throat, looking up into Henry’s eyes and then closing his own, not wanting to see the concern and care there. “Then why are you here?” he asks, frustration lacing his tone. 

“For you,” Henry whispers, pulling Alex against his chest and Alex collapses into him, inhaling the scent of Henry and scrunching his eyes shut, forcing out a few tears that he’s been holding back for hours. 

Alex hates crying. When he was twelve years old, he got back from Boy Scouts camp and found his father gone—no warning, no conversation, no goodbye. He cried for days. He would pass the room that his parents used to share, now half empty, and he would stop in his tracks and try to keep his breath steady as he cried. He would go into the kitchen, where his dad used to store pans in the oven and cook abuela’s recipes with Alex by his side, and he would sit hunched over his cereal and sob at the kitchen table. He would lie in June’s bed, looking up at the glow in the dark stars that Dad helped her stick to the ceiling, holding her hand and neither of them acknowledging the tears running down their faces. After a few weeks, Alex was so sick of crying, sick of feeling sad and exhausted and pathetic. He can count the number of times he’s cried since then without running out of fingers. 

Now, Alex buries his face in the soft material of Henry’s undoubtedly expensive button down and sobs, one of Henry’s hands running over his back like his mom used to when he was sick as a kid, the other buried in his hair, running soothing circles on his scalp. He’s whispering into his ear, reminding him to breathe, telling him that he was there for him—he didn’t say that everything was fine. Henry wasn’t a liar. 

Alex doesn’t know how long they stand there—it could have been minutes or hours or merely moments—but he pulls back eventually, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand, looking down to see the sky blue of Henry’s shirt turned navy from his tears. He stares down at the wet patch, contemplating if he should apologize or not. 

Henry leads him over and pushes him to sit on the edge of the bed, and Alex lets himself be manhandled with no resistance. Henry bends over to rummage through his bag, grumbling under his breath, probably about Alex not folding his clothes, and sets a t-shirt and sweatpants beside him on the bed. Alex reaches up to unbutton his shirt, his fingers trembling and he only manages a few buttons before Henry bats his hands away and takes over; Alex flops his arms back to his sides with a huff. This certainly isn’t how he imagined Henry undressing him for the first time. 

“Y’know,” he says a in perturbed tone, his voice slightly hoarse, “you’re sending some mixed messages for someone who’s turned me down for sex twice now.” 

Henry doesn’t respond, just looking up from Alex’s shirt to glare at him, making Alex’s lips quirk up into an almost smile. 

“How did you know what happened?” Alex asks pulling on his own t-shirt and changing his pants without Henry’s assistance. 

“Pez was in town to sort out some things at the shelter, and I came with him. I saw some articles,” he explains, standing up straight and averting his eyes as Alex changes. He rubs his palm over the back of his neck, “I may have Google alerts on for you.” 

Alex scoots back until his back hits the headboard, pulling his knees to his chest. He would tease him for that, but he has alerts on for Henry too. Henry looks down at him, still standing over the bed. His eyes were so intense, they’re hard to look at sometimes, they’re even harder to look away from. “Do you want me to go?” he asks. 

Alex shakes his head. “No.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Do you want to sleep?” 

Alex rubs a hand down his face; he’s exhausted, in every sense of the word, but he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he tried. “No.” 

“Alright,” Henry says with a single nod. He rounds the bed and reluctantly climbs on top of the covers, his back against the headboard, their shoulders only inches apart. 

Alex leans over and opens the bedside drawer, grabbing the TV remote and surfing through the channels until he hears intense music and stressed out rambling. Alex sits back, relaxing against the pillows and tossing the remote aside. “What is this?” Henry asks, sounding skeptical and slightly wary.

“Chopped,” Alex says, a genuine smile on his face. “It’s a cooking competition show.” 

On the screen, someone is on the verge of tears because they just cut themselves and they only have five minutes left to plate. “It seems very harrowing.” 

“Welcome to America sweetheart,” Alex says. He scoots closer to Henry and lowers his head onto his shoulder, and Alex smiles to himself when Henry wraps his arm around him and pulls him closer. 

They watch a few episodes in comfortable silence, but Henry eventually gets sucked into the show, occasionally muttering things like ‘he has one minute left and he’s making a vinaigrette’ or ‘she should be plating by now’ or ‘why do they always go for the ice cream machine? you cannot make ice cream in thirty minutes.’ Alex settles further into his firm, warm shoulder and hums in agreement to all his comments, his eyes growing heavy. 

Alex wonders if this is what it would be like if they could be together, really together. He can imagine nights like this, entangled on the couch with their feet up on the coffee table, David laying across their laps, watching something on the TV after work or school. He could imagine falling asleep in Henry’s arms, being nudged awake so they could go to sleep together in a bed that they share. 

It’s a very nice dream. 

———

 The first time Alex woke up in Henry’s arms, he never wanted to leave. He kept his eyes closed, basking in the warmth of their bodies pressed against each other and the strength of Henry’s arm holding him close. He woke up slowly, staying entangled as long as possible as the sun rose higher in the sky until their respective alarms went off. 

This is nothing like that.

Today, he’s startled by a loud banging at his door and he jerks out of Henry’s embrace, landing ass first on the carpet. “Fuck,” he says, scrambling to his feet as the banging continues. He looks down to see Henry blinking awake, raising his hand to block out the sun shining in through the large window. His hair and business casual clothing are thoroughly disheveled and crumpled, and Alex almost smiles at the image of the prince looking decidedly less distinguished. 

“Alex Claremont-Diaz!” Zahra yells from the other side of the door, still pounding at it with her fist. “We have a strategy session in fifteen minutes and I have a key, so I don’t care how naked you are, if you don’t answer this door in thirty seconds, I’m coming in.” 

Henry sits up, looking much more awake than he was a moment ago. “Who is that?” he asks, his eyes wide. 

“Zahra,” he answers, walking over to the door. 

“What are you doing?”

Alex flaps his hand at him to get him to stop talking. “Shut up,” he orders in a hushed tone. “I have to answer the door—anyone that knows her would tell you that wasn’t an empty threat.” Henry's eyes dart around the room as if he’s looking for something to hide behind. “Just don’t say anything.”

Alex slides the chain into place and unlocks the door, opening it the few inches that the chain allows. Zahra’s furious face suggests that she might be able to power her way in to beat his ass either way. “Good morning Z,” Alex says brightly, a smile on his face. 

Zahra just grimaces in response, looking down at the sliver of his body that she can see. “Please tell me that I didn’t just fucking wake you up.” 

“You didn’t just fucking wake me up,” Alex lies. 

Zahra narrows her eyes at him in a way that would make him fear for his life if it weren’t for several inches of wood between them. He’s pretty sure that she growled. “You will get dressed,” she grounds out angrily, pointing a chastising finger at him. “You will be in conference room B in fifteen minutes or I will come back up here and drag you out of this room by your fucking earlobe,” she orders. “This is the fucking Democratic National Convention Alex, this is the last day that I should have to deal with your shit.” 

“Okay, sure thing Z. See you there, love you bye,” he rushes out as he shuts the door. 

Alex turns around to find Henry standing at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest in his typical closed off stance. Alex sighs, hating what he has to say next. “You need to go.” He walks over to his bag and rummages through it, pulling out clothes for him and throwing a hoodie at Henry. Henry catches it on instinct, but furrows his brow at him. “This hotel is crawling with reporters. You can’t leave wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday,” he explains. 

“I don’t see why that matters,” Henry says, rubbing his eye drowsily with the hoodie still clutched in one hand.  

“Sure,” Alex says skeptically. “And when photos come out of you leaving my hotel room I’ll politely inform the media that we were having a platonic slumber party.” Henry rolls his eyes dramatically. “Tell them that we were braiding each other’s hair and talking about boys, maybe even a pillow fi—” 

“Okay, okay,” Henry interrupts him, exasperated as he pulls Alex’s old NYU hoodie over his head. It’s a little short on him and it stretches across his chest and shoulders, but Alex would be lying if he said he didn’t like how Henry looks in his clothes. 

Alex dresses quickly and pulls on his shoes, looking down at his phone to check the time and mourning the caffeine that he won’t have time for. 

They walk to the door and stand in front of it, just looking at each other. Alex can’t help but remember the image of his parents, long before the divorce, meeting in front of the front door, keys and briefcases in hand, kissing before leaving for work. This is achingly reminiscent of that, but also nothing like it. 

Alex pulls Henry down into a hug, holding him tight, trying to savor the feeling for as long as he’s allowed. “Thank you,” he says into Henry’s ear. 

“Of course love,” Henry replies, holding him back just as fiercely.

Chapter Text

Alex is startled out of a dead sleep by an insistent buzzing against the wood of his nightstand. He groans, burying his head in his pillow, waiting for it to stop. He doesn’t even have time to consider closing his eyes before it starts buzzing again almost immediately. 

He slaps at the nightstand searching for his phone, closing his fingers around it and lifting it to his face. He winces at the bright light, squinting until his eyes adjust. The first thing he notices is that Zahra is calling him. The second is that it’s four o’clock in the fucking morning. He almost whines—he has a shift at the diner at six. 

His phone stops buzzing and predicatably immediately starts again. Alex takes a deep breath and slides his finger across the screen, lifting his phone to put it against his ear. 

Alex opens his mouth to say something—likely a complaint about the hour—but can’t get out so much as a syllable before he hears Zahra screaming into his ear. “What the fuck Alex?” she shouts, sounding genuinely angry, not her usual harsh tone that she utilizes to intimidate people into doing what she wants. It makes Alex’s chest constrict, shooting up in bed, more awake than he’s been in weeks. 

“Wh—”

“Do you remember when I asked you to tell me everything that could reflect badly on your mother?” Zahra cuts him off, not allowing him to get a word in. “Did you think that was a goddamn joke? That I just like to hear myself fucking talk?” 

Alex rubs his eyes, trying to rid his eyes of the haziness of sleep. He feels like he’s ten steps behind; he hates not knowing things. “What are you talking about Z?” 

Zahra growls, actually growls, either at the nickname or Alex’s ignorance. “Check the fucking news,” she grounds out. 

Alex hadn’t noticed when his hands started shaking, but it was more difficult than it ought to be to switch Zahra to speaker so that he can type his own name into Google. The results that immediately pop up make his stomach drop to his feet. 

BREAKING: Presidential Candidate Ellen Claremont Offers No Comment on Rumors Surrounding Her Son’s Sexuality 

Photographs Call Into Question Alex Claremont-Diaz’s Sexual Orientation

Son of Presidental Candidate Caught Getting Steamy in NYC Gay Club

What Alex Claremont-Diaz’s LGBTQ+ Identity Means for the Claremont Campaign

Alex’s vision starts to go blurry at the edges as he switches over to the images, seeing himself in pictures he hadn’t even known were being taken. Alex, kissing some guy whose name he no longer remembers on Halloween, another with him and a friend from the diner in the background last New Year’s, another from a random night out with Nora and June he can barely recall, all of them blurry and poorly lit, but undeniably him, and undeniably kissing men in each one. Alex wants to throw his phone against a wall. 

Alex can hardly hear Zahra talking over the speaker, but her tone is still harsh and rambling, probably elaborating on her earlier promise to murder him and dispose of his body. She’ll surely make it as slow and painful as possible. 

He swtiches to Twitter, knowing what he’ll find but foolishly hoping to be surprised. Sure enough, he and his mom are both trending. He masochistically clicks on the tags, finding tweets speculating about his sexuality—most of them wrong—calling him slurs—he doesn’t dwell on those—trying to identify the other guys in the pictures—Alex isn’t sure even he could do that—and people claiming that he just single handedly bombed his mom’s campaign and their one hope to get Richards out of the White House—and, well, they’re probably right about that. 

Alex throws his phone to the side, burying his face in his hands and blinking back the tears flooding his waterline—he would not fucking cry. “Fuck,” he says emphatically, pulling at his hair uselessly. 

“Yeah, you’ve really done it this time,” Zahra says, no longer shouting but sounding just as angry. “I have put up with a lot of your shit over the years Alex, but this has got to be the fucking—”

“Zahra, give me the phone,” a firm voice on her end orders, and it only takes a moment for Alex to identify it as his mother’s. He can imagine her holding out her palm expectantly and raising her eyebrow just like June does. 

There’s a shuffling sound as Zahra transfers the phone over to his mother before she speaks, and Alex closes his eyes, wanting to bask in the comfort and old familiarity of his mom, wanting to bury his face in her shoulder like he used to when he was barely tall enough to reach her knees. “Hey sugar,” she says, as softly as he’s ever heard his mother, her Texas accent that she usually masks clear as day, “you there?”

“Yeah,” Alex sniffles. “I’m here mom. Look, I’m so—”

“Listen to me Alex,” she says, turning off her mom voice so efficiently Alex could almost convince himself that he’d imagined it. “We’re going to fix this okay?” 

Fix this, Alex thinks. What does she mean ‘fix this’? “Okay?” Alex stutters out, realizing that his mother had only paused to receive a verbal confirmation that he was listening. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Ellen says, in her mayor voice, her Speaker of the House voice, her Madame President voice. Alex is well acquainted with it. “You’re not going to go on social media, you’re not going to call anyone or answer any calls, you’re not going to leave your apartment.” It’s a clear set of instructions. His mom likes those—Alex didn’t get his penchant for making lists from nowhere. “Zahra and I will be there as soon as we can. The next flight out is at seven, so we’ll be there in a few hours. Just get some sleep and we’ll work things out when we get there. Okay?”

“Okay,” Alex croaks out. He swallows to wet his throat, but the line goes dead before he can get another word out. He reaches over to look at his phone, seeing that the call had been disconnected. 

He can see on the screen that the call had only lasted eight minutes and forty seven seconds—how had his whole life fallen apart in less than nine minutes? 

Alex sits back against his headboard, eyes unfocused and watery, and makes a list in his head. 

One: His mom has two debates in September. One in October. 

Two: 61 percent of Americans support same sex marriage. 

Three: The general election is 89 days away. 

The list almost makes him feel better. Almost. But then he adds item number four. 

Four: His mom didn’t even ask if he was okay. 

He wheezes as his lungs work overtime trying to pull in oxygen, and Alex puts his hand over his heart, feeling it beat too fast as he counts in his head like his old therapist at NYU taught him—in for six, hold, out for six. He stares at the cobweb in the corner of his room—why does he never clean that damn cobweb? If he weren’t too stubborn to buy a fucking stepstool—he still can’t breathe, only making it to three before the air rushes out of him again. 

He startles at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, refocusing his blurry vision to see June standing over him, her hair piled messily atop her head, still wearing her pajamas. Her eyes are wide and sympathetic; he’s equal parts annoyed and grateful to see it—she and their mom share the uncanny ability to mask their emotions if they don’t want you to see them. 

“Alex,” she says softly, climbing into the bed and pulling him into her chest. It should feel ridiculous with Alex being half a foot taller than June and broad enough to eclipse her, but it doesn’t—he wraps his arms around her middle and buries his face in her hair just as he always had when they were younger. A dry sob escapes his chest unbidden, but the tears that are prickling behind his eyes don’t escape onto his cheek. He refuses to cry. He won’t. “Oh Alex,” June says, running her hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

He wants to tell her that it’s fine, but that would be the weakest lie he’d ever told. He wants to tell her that it’s not her fault, which was true, but he couldn’t get the words out. 

She shifts to sit against the headboard, pulling his head into her lap. He doesn’t resist, allowing himself to rest against her thighs and close his eyes as his sister runs soothing fingers through his hair. “You should sleep,” she suggests. 

“I have a shift,” he replies weakly, the first thing he’s said in—well, he doesn’t know how long. 

“I already called. Go to sleep.” 

Alex was certain that he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, but as he relaxes into his mattress, he realizes how truly exhausted he is. The last thing he thinks before he slips from consciousness—

Five: He is not okay. 

———

Alex doesn’t sleep soundly, tossing and turning and jolting back to consciousness after a dream that he can’t remember the details of. When he wakes up fully the sun is still low in the sky, shining between the skyscrapers in the distant skyline. 

He grumbles and pauses in his stretching when he looks up to see June asleep, her head lulled to the side in an angle that can’t be comfortable. He digs through his comforter to find his phone, lifting it up to his face to see that he’d only slept two hours. He warily notices his lock screen full of notifications, but his breath leaves him when he reads the headlines. 

Prince Henry Comes Out as Gay on Social Media

QUEEN HENRY! HRH Prince Henry Reveals Himself to be LGBT in a Tweet

Royal Family Declines to Comment on Prince Henry’s Sexuality

Alex shoots up into a seated position, knocking June’s hand away from where it was buried in his hair. He ignores June’s drowsy grumble, scrambling to open his Twitter app, seeing Henry's name in nearly every post on his timeline. He goes to Henry’s account and the most recent post reads—

HRH Prince Henry @hrhhenry

My heart goes out to @alexgcd in light of today’s news. As a gay man, I understand how terrifying this must be. Outing someone is not only a violation of privacy, but it can be dangerous. Taking the deeply personal choice to come out away from someone against their will is shameful and reprehensible under any circumstances and for any reason. 

Darkness starts to encroach on the edges of his vision as he stares down at the screen, reading it over and over as if it will change. 

As a gay man—

As a gay man—

As a gay man—

“Fuck,” Alex breathes out. It’s the only coherent thought in his mind. 

“Alex,” June says, her voice laced with concern and sleep. “What’s going on?” 

Alex ignores her question, partially because he doesn’t think he could get a full sentence out if he tried, and partially because he has no fucking clue. He doesn’t know why Henry would do something so fucking stupid, that is, until he taps on his screen and sees the trending page, full of Henry and the royal family, Alex’s name nowhere to be seen—no one gives a shit who the son of a politician is fucking when the world’s most eligible bachelor, and a member of the royal fucking family, outs himself as gay.  

“Oh that fucking asshole,” Alex grounds out, shooting up from the bed to call Henry, pacing the room as endless ringing sounds in his ear. He doesn’t pick up, and Alex dials again with a creative string of expletives. It rings again and again with no answer. 

“Alex,” June repeats as she rises from the bed. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

Alex doesn’t answer, calling again. This time, it goes straight to voicemail. He throws his phone on the bed, and it bounces off the mattress and lands on the floor with a clatter; he doesn’t even give a shit if it’s broken. 

Alex runs his hands through his hair, pacing the room and trying to stave off another panic attack, but all he can think about is Henry. Henry, and the way his voice gets all distant and resigned and vulnerable when he talks about his family, about everything they’ve done and said to him over the years that beat him down, forcing him to make himself smaller and smaller. Henry, locked in his room in Kensington Palace, the place that’s more a prison than a home, terrified and alone. Henry, who isn’t answering his goddamn phone. 

June is saying something, has probably been saying something to him for the last several minutes, but he wasn’t listening. He cuts her off to say, “I’m going to London.” 

“What?” June screeches from behind him as he reaches into the bottom of his closet to find his duffle bag that’s small enough to be a carry-on. “Alex, you can’t go anywhere.”

He ignores her, unplugging his phone charger from the wall in and shoving it into the side pocket, pausing when he hears a crinkling. He reaches in and finds a folded up piece of paper, unfolding it to see the logo of the hotel they stayed at in LA. He doesn’t remember Henry putting it there, but he obviously had considering the neat, lovely cursive scrawled over the page is undeniably his hand writing. 

You want nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.

Alex runs his thumb over the edge of the paper, crinkled and worn after sitting in his duffel bag for months unnoticed. A familiar feeling blooms behind Alex’s solar plexus, a feeling that he’d experienced so many times before—every time he’s heard Henry’s smooth, accented voice fill his ear from three thousand miles away, every time Henry wraps him in his arms and nothing and no one else in the universe matters, every time he feels Henry’s soft lips moving contentedly against his, as if Alex is enough on his own, without any posturing or facade. Alex is in love with Henry. He’s been falling in love with him for months, slowly and steadily and inevitably, and Alex is sick and tired of ignoring this feeling in his chest that makes him want to wrap himself around Henry and never let go. 

“Alex!” June says, her tone suggesting that it’s not the first time she’s said his name, her hand pushing at his shoulder snapping him out of his reverie. 

Alex looks up, finding her with wide, concerned eyes. “I’m going to London,” he repeats, walking over to the bed to put his bag on top of it, grabbing shirts off hangers at random and stuffing them in without bothering to fold them. 

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” she says, exasperated. “You can’t go to London. Mom said you couldn’t go anywhere.” 

Alex narrows his eyes at her, annoyed that Mom has apparently appointed him a babysitter. He’d say something to that effect if she didn’t look so worried about him. “Well that’s too bad,” he says instead, “because I’m going.” 

“Alex, I’m not letting you get on a transcontinental flight when you’re obviously in the middle of a mental breakdown. I know you’re upset about what happened but—”

“Check your phone,” Alex says, cutting her off. 

June rolls her eyes at him. “I already know.” 

Alex raises his brows. “Get your phone. Check Twitter.” 

June stares at him for a second, and Alex stares back. June has always won staring contests and battles of will since they were kids—she was always the more patient one between them. Alex doesn’t look away, and June huffs, pulling her phone out of her pocket. He can pinpoint the moment that she sees the news, her eyes widening comically. “Holy shit.” 

“Yeah,” Alex says, pulling out his laptop, looking up the earliest flights to London. His head aches at seeing the numbers—the ticket will cost him nearly half his savings, but it’s worth it. Henry’s worth it. 

“Oh my fucking god,” June says. “You’re actually going.”

“Yup.” 

“God,” June breathes out resignedly. “Mom is going to kill us.” 

“Yeah probably,” Alex says, confirming his flight to depart in two hours from JFK. He tosses his laptop to the side on the mattress, rising from his bed and grabbing his bag, making the last minute addition of his worn copy of The Lightning Thief before zipping it up and pulling it onto his shoulder. “I have to go.” 

He walks past her out of his room and June turns with him, following him to the living room, where they find Nora standing in her and June’s doorway. “The fuck is going on?” she says, rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her fluffy bathrobe. 

“Alex is going to London,” June answers as she follows after him in his rush to the door. 

Her eyebrows shoot up, but a pleased grin rises on her lips. “Fuck yeah,” she says. “Get it Alejandro.” 

He rolls his eyes at her but smiles, thinking to grab his sunglasses from the entryway table and pulls up his hood in the most ineffectual disguise ever. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually going after him,” June says as he walks to the door, sounding delighted. “This is so Jane Austen.” 

Alex turns over his shoulder to raise his brows at her. “We aren’t like, together, you know that right?” He isn’t sure why he needs June to know that, but he does. He would have told her—they tell each other everything. Well, except for the three times that he’s made out with the prince and conveniently forgotten to mention that. “We’re just…” Friends. That’s the word that he should say, but can’t bring himself to. It’s not enough. It hasn’t been enough for months. 

“I know Alex,” she says before he can finish his thought. “You’re not nearly as subtle as you seem to think you are.” She pulls him down into a hug, holding on for only a moment before releasing him so he can leave. “Text me when you land.” 

He opens the door, calling over his shoulder, “Sorry in advance about Mom.” 

“I can handle Mom. Good luck.” 

———

It was raining in England. 

Henry often complained about British weather, saying that it was perpetually cold and rainy and overcast, but Alex loves the rain. 

It doesn’t often rain in Texas, but when it did, it really went for it—torrential downpours and rumbling thunder and cracking lightning filling the sky. Alex loved it—would stand outside and let the rain wash over him, ignoring his mom’s requests from the porch for him to come inside, the water soaking through his clothes to his skin and down to his bones, the steady sound of the water pounding against the ground, drowning out every other sound in the world and calming his mind. 

Alex sits in the backseat of an SUV driven by what he assumes is one of Bea’s PPOs, as he realized about halfway through his flight that he couldn’t just take a taxi to the gates of Kensington and demand to see the prince, at least not if he didn’t want to be shot or dragged to the Tower of London. He watches as the droplets of water race down the glass of the window, feeling simultaneously calm and also buzzing with anticipation, a contradiction that it seems only Henry can make him experience. He sits back, resting his head against the seat, letting the sound of the rain pelting against the roof wash over him. 

Alex has only met Bea in person once. As he climbs out of the car and rushes to the side door of the palace, Bea is waiting for him just inside, her hair in a neat topknot and dressed as casually as he’s seen her in loose jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. A smile spreads over her face when she sees him, crooked and indicative of a secret rebellious nature that fits right in with the stories Henry’s told him. “Well, you look like shit,” she says, tone light hearted. 

Alex laughs, running his fingers through his damp hair self consciously. “I’ve kind of had a day.” 

“And I'm sure a flight across the pond didn’t help, but of course a phone call wouldn't suffice.” She shakes her head. “You and my brother—two peas in a pod truly.” Alex lifts a single shoulder in an unrepentant shrug. He’s not sure that’s true. He doesn’t think they’re perfect matches or opposites; they’re more like two sides of the same coin—different on the surface, but made of the same stuff. “Henry’s up in his room,” she motions in the general direction of the staircase. 

Alex takes a second to actually take in his surroundings, looking up at the high ceilings and the floor to ceiling windows and around at the heavy, opulent furniture, spotting a leather jacket thrown over the back of the couch and a worn cardigan over the arm of a chair—some of the very few details that make the pristine palace feel like Bea’s and Henry’s. Bea takes pity on him after seeing his overwhelmed expression and gives him specific directions to Henry’s room, wishing him luck before disappearing through one of the many doorways. 

Alex stops in front of Henry’s door—what he hopes is Henry’s door—considering whether he wants to knock or whether to make a grand entrance and just walk in. He decides that privacy probably trumps drama, so he raises his closed fist to the door, knocking three times in quick succession. “I’m fine Bea!” Henry’s voice calls from inside.

Alex takes that as permission enough, turning the knob and opening the door slowly. Henry is standing by a baroque fireplace, twisting a signet ring around and around on his finger, staring at seemingly nothing in particular. He looks up at the sound of the door opening, his eyes widening. Henry always looks gorgeous, but the bags under his eyes are a bit darker and his hair is more haphazard than he’s ever seen it. Alex smiles when he looks down and sees that he’s wearing a hoodie that bears the NYU insignia. “Alex,” Henry says breathlessly, staring at him as if Alex were a ghost. 

Alex shuts the door behind him and closes the distance between himself and Henry quickly. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that right?” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at him. 

One side of Henry’s mouth ticks up in a cute half smile, taking comfort in familiar antagonism. “You came all this way to call me a fucking idiot?” he asks, some humor injected into his tone. “You could have texted me, saved the trip.” 

Alex almost bitterly chastises him for not answering his fucking phone, but instead, he reaches into the pocket of his chinos to find a folded up peice of paper, now slightly rain smudged, but hopefully still recognizable. “I came all this way to find out what the fuck that means,” he says, slapping the paper against Henry’s chest, which he grabs and unfolds, squinting down at it. 

His expression softens as he reads the words, calmly refolding the paper and placing it on top of the mantle of the fireplace. He takes a deep breath, taking his signet ring off his finger and placing it on top with a click to hold it in place. “You know what it means Alex,” Henry says, turning back to him and looking at him intently, his emotions clear as day in his beautiful blue eyes. 

Alex reaches his hand up, sliding it over Henry’s jaw and into his hair, pulling him down into a kiss. Alex can feel Henry melt into him, reaching his hands around to rest on Alex’s waist, pulling him closer so that they’re chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. Alex feels the way that he always does when he kisses Henry—like feeling the waves lapping against his ankles, like closing his eyes and listening to the rain, like coming home. 

Alex pulls back, only far enough to say, “I love you.” 

He can feel all of the breath leave Henry at once, the exhale brushing against his lips. “I know.” 

Alex reels back, his mouth dropping open and looking up to find humor lighting up Henry’s eyes. “Oh fuck you,” he says, lightly slapping Henry’s chest. Henry laughs, still holding him close by the sway of his waist. “Say it back.” 

“I’m sorry love, couldn’t resist.” He pulls Alex back in to drop a kiss on his forehead, and Alex’s eyes fall closed, his heart skipping at the soft gesture. “I love you Alex.” He reaches one hand up and pushes an unruly curl behind his ear, his fingers stroking through his hair. “I’ve been in love with you for longer than you know. I love you more than I could ever have the words to truly express.” 

His senses are overwhelmed at the confession, the words sparking something in his chest. Alex considers himself a well spoken individual, but he could never string any words together to make Henry understand how he feels about him, so he surges up and kisses him again, hoping that he can show Henry just how much he means to him. 

Alex’s mind goes pleasantly quiet, and he allows himself to be led to the bed, following Henry’s lead as he splays his hand over Alex’s chest and pushes him down to lay on his back, the mattress firm against his spine. Henry follows him down, kissing him deeply and letting his hands explore Alex’s body, goosebumps rising everywhere that he touches. 

Alex has imagined being with Henry like this more times than he could count, and when he had, he’d thought things would be impatient and hungry and passionate, Alex’s skin sparking and catching fire under Henry’s touch. He’d imagined hard and fast. 

Alex doesn’t usually do slow, doesn’t do patient, but now, with Henry, he takes his time. He flips them over with a hand on Henry's shoulder, hovering over his body and undressing him slowly, studying every unfamiliar swath of skin, hoping to one day have every inch committed to memory, and reveling in every aborted noise that escapes Henry’s lips. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to them, either of them, but Alex loves Henry and Henry loves him and right now, he can pretend that’s all that matters. 

Thunder rumbles overhead, the sound swallowing their groans and quiet gasps and whispered reassurances and murmured ‘I love yous.’ Lightning flashes, illuminating the palatial room with their clothes scattered on the floor and the bare expanse of Alex’s torso as Henry runs the tips of his fingers over his skin, watching goosebumps rise in his wake, connecting the dots of the freckles scattered over his body to make constellations. The sound of rain beating against the windows fills Alex’s ears as they move together, as he makes love to Henry as if they have all the time in the world.

———

Alex wakes up slowly, opening his eyes to find the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, casting golden light over the pristine corners of Henry’s room, and the comforting warmth at his back that he fell asleep with absent. He groans as he turns over, flopping his arm out to find the spot that Henry once occupied cool to the touch. 

Alex sits up, looking around at the room that he was too single mindedly focused to notice the previous night. He studies the elaborate gilded headboard and the embroidered comforter and the Victorian furniture that Henry never would have chosen, looking for the snippets of him in the room that could be in a museum. He sees a worn cardigan with so many patches that it probably should have been thrown away years ago laying across the back of a chair, and imagines it hanging in his closet next to Alex’s hoodies. He sees his shelf full of books and pictures them filling up the shelves in Alex’s room that are always too empty, Alex’s law textbooks and Henry’s queer romance novels sitting side by side. He sees a leather bound writing journal and imagines Henry sitting up against his headboard, ink from his fountain pen staining the tips of his fingers. 

He shakes his head at himself, closing his eyes so he’ll stop picturing Henry’s and Alex’s worlds slotting together. He’s getting way ahead of himself, planning their entire lives after one night together. He makes a list in his head as he waits to see if—when—Henry comes back.

One: They never put a word to what they are to each other. 

Two: The queen has specifically told Henry that he’s not allowed to be gay publicly.

Three: Alex has sixteen missed calls from his mother.  

He opens up his eyes to look at the white ceiling, noticing a few cracks from the age of the building. When he looks at the facts, it looks bleak. He knows that they’ll have to face the music eventually, but nonetheless, he adds one more item to the list.

Four: Henry loves him.

Alex hears the door creak open, and sits up to see Henry walking in, holding a steaming mug in each hand and kicking the door shut behind him. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and an Oxford sweater and Alex is very aware of how naked he still is. Henry’s face lights up, pale skin illuminated by the orange light shining through the windows. He sets a mug of tea on the nightstand, kissing Alex quickly on the lips before handing him a cup of coffee. Alex takes it in a daze, caught up in the domesticity of the moment. 

“Good morning love,” he says, sitting on his knees on the edge of the mattress, sipping his tea. He reaches out and ruffles Alex’s unruly hair that he desperately needs to cut. “Your hair in the mornings is truly a wonder to behold.” 

Alex laughs, grabbing his hand to remove it from his nest of curls, holding it between them. He takes a sip of coffee and is surprised to find that it’s made with cinnamon and sugar—just how he likes it. “Where the hell did you go at the crack of dawn?” 

Henry hums, putting his tea on the nightstand and sitting in front of Alex; Alex spreads his legs apart to accommodate him. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a run.” He puts his hands on Alex’s thighs, the touch feeling natural and intimate even through the lush material of the blanket. “I had a lot to think about.” 

Alex just nods, trying not to panic, repeating item four of his list over and over in his head. “Something to share with the class?” 

Henry raises the hand that Alex isn’t clinging to, running it through his hair in a soothing gesture. Alex leans into the touch, unsure if it’s meant to calm Henry or him. “I have a meeting with Gran today to discuss ‘my actions,’” his hands are occupied, so he can’t do the air quotes, but Alex can hear them. “I’d like for you to be there.” 

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline—a meeting with the Queen of England definitely wasn’t on his agenda for the day, or for any day, ever. “Am I invited?” 

“I’m inviting you,” Henry says, his eyes a clear blue and resolute. “We’re going to be discussing my future,” he lifts Alex’s hand to his mouth, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles. “That’s you.” 

Alex’s breath catches in his throat. Fuck, he thinks, this man cannot be real. Alex can’t believe that this is his life. “I love you,” Alex says through a watery laugh, as if he could say anything else. 

“I love you too,” Henry replies automatically, easy as breathing. “Does that mean you’ll come?” 

“Of course baby,” he says, squeezing his hand and taking note of the pink dusting Henry’s cheeks at the pet name for further deliberation. He sighs when he looks over at his phone sitting on Henry’s nightstand, next to his book of the complete works of Oscar Wilde, thinking about the mess he left back in his own country. He picks it up, looking at the missed calls from his mom and Zahra, and texts from his group chat with Nora and June—June asking for details, Nora mostly sending eggplant emojis. “I have to call my mom,” he says resignedly. 

There’s a silence and Alex looks up to see Henry’s face a bit paler than it was a moment ago. “Does she not know you’re here?” Alex shakes his head. “I’ll give you some privacy.” 

He starts to stand up, but he stops when Alex tightens his hold on his hand, urging him to sit back down. “Would you think I was totally pathetic if I wanted you to stay?”

“Of course not,” he answers, settling back into the mattress. 

Alex is glad that he doesn’t have to ask Henry to hold his hand, he just does it, taking one of Alex’s hands between both of his own, running the pad of his thumb over his knuckles. Alex’s thumb is shaky, but he manages to go to his mom’s contact and press ‘call,’ reluctantly lifting his phone to his ear. 

His mom picks up after only a single ring. “Alex?” she asks, sounding frantic and exhausted. He recalls with some guilt that he’s five hours ahead of New York.

“Hi Mom,” he breathes out. 

“Where the hell are you?” she grounds out. “Tell me that your sister chose the worst possible time to acquire the least funny sense of humor ever. Tell me you’re not actually in London right now.” 

“I am. I am in London.” 

“What part of ‘don’t leave your apartment’ wasn’t fucking clear to you Alex?” Ellen Claremont rarely got mad, least of all at her children. She was firm, logical, even in the face of childhood tantrums and teenage angst. Alex thinks he could count the number of times she’s yelled at him on one hand. 

“I had to Mom,” he defends. 

“I’m not hearing an explanation,” she says impatiently. “Where are you?” 

“I’m at Kensington Palace.” 

“Alexander Gabriel, my patience for your smartass humor ran out about sixteen hours ago.” 

“I’m not lying,” Alex borderline shouts into the phone, and Henry squeezes his hand in an attempt to calm him down. Alex shoots him a grateful look. “I’m at Kensington. I had to,” he closes his eyes, taking a breath. “I had to see Henry.” 

There’s a silence, and Alex can almost hear the gears turning in his mother’s brain, piecing together everything that happened the previous day. “How do you know Prince Henry?”

“We’re together.” 

“Together as in…”

Alex huffs. “Together as in he’s my boyfriend.” Alex glances up to see Henry smiling at him, and Alex lifts his hands to his mouth to kiss them—he supposes they have a word now. 

His mother releases a long suffering sigh and Alex can imagine her fingers twitching, itching for a cigarette to calm her nerves. “Christ Alex,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?” 

“I guess it just didn’t fit into ‘one good thing, one bad thing,’” Alex says bitterly. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Alex rolls his eyes, thankful that his mom can’t see the gesture. “What do you think it means Mom? You haven’t exactly had time to be a parent the last few years.” More like the last ten years, Alex thinks, but would never say. This wasn’t the time to unpack all of his childhood grievances; that would take all fucking day. 

“You know I’m always your mother first,” Ellen replies. 

Alex laughs, actually laughs out loud, sardonic and bitter even to his own ears. The sad thing, Alex thinks, is that he’s pretty sure she actually believes that. “Please,” he says sarcastically. “Mom, we both know that if I wanted to sit down and tell you that I was bisexual and had a boyfriend, it wouldn’t be at our dining room table. It would be in a conference room with Zahra taking minutes for your PR manager.” 

“Alex—”

“No,” he snaps, cutting her off. “You know what Mom? I’m done. Your kids are half Mexican and leftist and queer and fucking proud of it. I can’t speak for June, but I am sick and tired of watering myself down so that you can win elections. I’m fucking done.” He presses the red button at the bottom of the screen to end the call, silencing his phone, ignoring his mother’s name flashing across the screen as she attempts to call him back immediately. 

He tosses his phone to the mattress and puts his face in his hands, holding in a scream. “Fuck,” he groans, drawing out the word. “I just yelled at my mom,” he realizes aloud. “I’ve never talked to my mother like that in my entire life. Oh my god.” Henry’s large, warm hand pulls him close and runs comforting circles over his back. Alex closes his eyes and rests his head against his shoulder, thinking that, at least when his mother flies to England to rip him apart limb from limb, he’ll die happy. 

“It’s okay Alex,” Henry says into his ear. “I’m sure that was probably difficult to hear, but I think you needed to say it.” 

Alex thinks back over everything that’s happened that year, about the articles coming out about him and June, about the fake smile he’s plastered on his face at events, about the social media posts that Zahra had to check and double check, about the protests at the DNC, about being fucking outed, about not allowing himself to be with Henry. He hadn’t realized how exhausted it all made him, didn’t realize how heavy the weight he was carrying felt until he let it go. He now feels about a million pounds lighter. He feels like he can breathe for the first time in months. 

“Yeah,” Alex says on an exhale, reaching his arm up Henry’s back, his hand finding its home in Henry’s hair, pulling their bodies as close at they could get. “Yeah you’re right. Thank you.” 

“You don’t need to thank me. I’ll always be there, as long as you want me.” 

“And I’ll always want you,” Alex says, considering what a romcom thing it is to say—though he’ll never give June the satisfaction of admitting it out loud—but it’s true. He knows that he’ll love Henry until the day he dies. He’s never been so sure of anything or anyone. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, comfortable silence as they hold each other, breathing steadily into one another's hair and feeling their heartbeats in the place where their chests are pressed together. “What time is the meeting?” Alex asks, tentatively breaking the silence. 

“We’re meeting for high tea,” Henry says, pulling back but still touching Alex’s arms, stroking them absentmindedly. Alex rolls his eyes just to make Henry smile, which he does. “So at four.” 

Alex hums. “That’s a few hours from now.” 

“How ever will we fill the day?” Henry asks sarcastically, a gleam in his eye. 

“I can think of a few things.” Alex falls back into Henry’s lush pillows, pulling Henry down on top of him by the nape of his neck. When they meet in the middle in a deep kiss, they’re both smiling into it.

Chapter Text

Henry couldn’t sleep. 

That wasn’t unusual for him—Henry often could not sleep. What was unusual was the weight of someone else in his large, normally empty bed. Alex has his back to Henry, and he is holding him close against his chest, skin on fire at every point of contact between them. Henry leans in and kisses the freckle on his shoulder, burying his nose in Alex’s mussed curls, inhaling the scent of pine and lavender. 

Henry stares unseeingly at the far wall, feeling the steady rise and fall of Alex’s breathing under his palm. He feels restless and jittery and his mind in reeling in never ending circles. Henry drops a parting kiss in Alex’s hair before pulling away, carefully extracting his arm from under Alex so as to not wake him. He collects his trainers and a lead and David before heading for the door, kicking off the ground in a light jog. 

It was hardly past five o’clock, the birds chirping and the sky lightening, turning the royal blue color of predawn, and Henry knows that the sun will begin peeking over the horizon in a few short minutes. 

As he picks up speed, he thinks about the previous night. He thinks of Alex showing up at Kensington after what Henry is sure was the longest day of both of their lives, looking beautiful and exhausted and slightly damp. He thinks about Alex kissing him, of Alex saying that he loves him, of Alex making love to him and Henry running his fingers down the knobs of his spine, a storm raging outside to match the maelstrom behind his sternum. 

They kissed and confessed and fucked like nothing else mattered but now, Henry watches as the sun begins to rise over the grounds of Kensington. It is a new day, and Henry will be forced to face the music.

Henry had always been quiet and thoughtful, but he had never been particularly good at thinking. His mind was at once his greatest asset and his greatest downfall. He was intelligent and creative and imaginative, but his thoughts often became cluttered and tangled and Henry could think himself down a spiral so dark that he couldn't face reality for days. If he were Alex, he would make a list. If Henry made a list, there would only be one item—he loves Alex and Alex loves him. No matter what happened with his family, with his grandmother, that was the only thing that mattered. 

It’s about half six when Henry turns back toward the palace, when both his and David’s breathing start to become labored. He lets David off his lead and puts food and water in the respective bowls before retreating to the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief when he finds it empty. He turns on the kettle and pours grounds into the coffeemaker, searching for mugs as he listens to it gurgle. 

Henry is pouring cinnamon and sugar into a novelty mug just as Philip bursts through the door, his hair and suit more askew than Henry has seen them since he was a teenager. “Done hiding in your rooms like a child?” he asks, his voice acidic, but considerably more calm than it was yesterday, when he was screaming at Bea to let him in before smashing a vase against the marble floor. Henry doesn’t look up, giving the process of measuring out sugar far more care than necessary. 

“Did you need something Philip?” Henry asks flippantly. 

Henry looks up, finding Philip barely containing his anger, the muscle in the jaw ticking as he clenches it hard. He leans casually against the counter, raising a challenging brow, but silently wishing that the coffee would brew faster so he could retreat back to his room. “Actually yes,” he spits. “I need for you to stop with this foolishness and fix your mess.” 

Henry knows that what he did was rash and impulsive and perhaps a bit selfish. He knows that Philip probably expects an apology, some show of remorse. He shouldn’t hold his breath. “There is nothing to fix,” Henry says, emphasizing every word. 

Philip scoffs. “You’re clearly too young and immature to understand.” 

“I’m twenty three—”

“Exactly!”

“—and I’ve known that I was gay since I was eleven, Philip,” Henry says, his voice rising despite himself. He could never manage to keep his cool around his brother no matter how hard he tried. “It’s not changing.” 

Philip rolls his eyes, something that his brother barely even did as a teenager. The gesture is far too human for him. “Really, you think I don’t know that?” 

Henry feels the muscles in his shoulders tense, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you mean?” 

“You think I didn’t know you were gay? You are hardly an actor Henry.” Henry shifts his weight uncomfortably. He knew he wasn’t great at playing the straight man, but it made him feel ridiculous that the closet he’s spent years in was apparently made of glass, that he was agonizing over putting on an act that wasn’t even convincing. “I expected you to not be so stupid and selfish as to do something like this.” He throws his hand out, gesturing inarticulately. “I expected you to be a man and fulfill your responsibility to your family.” 

“No,” Henry says firmly. “I’m not—”

Philip cuts him off before he can complete his sentence. “What do you expect to happen here Henry? I would genuinely like to know.” Henry remains stubbornly silent, looking away from his brother for a moment, clenching his jaw. “You want to be grand marshall of London Pride? You expect to marry a man at the Abbey? Make him the duchess of Cambridge?”

Henry closes his eyes, releasing a slow breath through his nose. “No,” Henry whispers. He should be able to have that life, if he so chooses, but when he imagines it, it’s not what he wants. It’s just not him. 

The coffee maker mercifully beeps and Henry rushes to pour coffee into Alex’s mug, and he picks up his own tea before passing by his brother to leave the kitchen, ignoring his presence entirely. Philip turns with him, calling his name as Henry walks down the hallway. Henry keeps walking as if he hadn’t said anything. 

Henry opens the door to his room with some difficulty, balancing his mugs in one hand as he turns the knob, hoping that he doesn’t drop them. He can’t keep the smile from his face when his eyes fall on Alex, sitting up in bed, looking drowsy and harried and gorgeous as always. Alex was made for golden hour, the sunlight shining on him, illuminating his soft skin, catching on the strands of his silky hair, bringing out the often hidden flecks of amber and gold in his irises. 

If you had asked Henry just a few short months ago, he would have said that he’d been in love with Alex Claremont-Diaz since the moment he saw him. Now, he knew that this wasn’t true, that the way he felt about Alex all those years pales in comparison to the real, true love he feels for the man in front of him. He loved the idea of Alex that he’d made up in his imagination on lonely, desperate nights, but he hadn’t really known him. He hadn’t known how Alex sometimes holds his hair back with one of his sister’s sports headbands because he’s too stubborn to get it cut. He hadn’t known that Alex stubbornly wore contacts that he hates because he thinks his glasses make him look dorky. He hadn’t known that Alex’s grandmother had taught him how to knit, but he could only do squares and rectangles, so he’s made a multitude of throws and scarves that he’s gifted to friends and family against their will. He hadn’t known that he doodled little pictures in the corners of notes and textbooks when he got distracted. He hadn’t known all the little details that make Alex Alex, and those were the things Henry loves most about him, along with the fact that he’s kind and compassionate and intelligent and the most determined person Henry’s ever met. 

When Henry leans down to kiss Alex, it’s a quick, chaste peck, but it makes Henry’s body light up as much as any other kiss they’ve shared. He imagines making coffee for Alex every morning for the rest of his life, kissing him in a bed they share. It’s a nice dream, and it’s a dream that he is determined to make come true. 

———

The chilly halls of Buckingham Palace were a bit warmer with Alex’s hand in his. Henry’s heart feels as if it’s about to beat out of his chest, and he wonders if Alex can feel his rapid heartbeat in the place where their wrists are pressed against each other. 

Henry’s steps falter, coming to a stop just short of the corner before one of the state rooms where they are going to face judgement from Henry’s family in a matter of minutes. He draws in ragged breaths, feet rooted in place, eyes fixated on a random spot on the lush carpet. 

He snaps his head up at the feeling of a warm hand sliding up his jaw, and he goes willingly as Alex pulls Henry’s head down to his level, placing a lingering kiss on his forehead. His chest floods with warmth—intimacy had always been a fraught thing for Henry. His past hookups had rarely been soft or slow or caring; sometimes they hadn’t even kissed, and they certainly hadn’t thought to kiss his forehead or cheek. 

Alex pulls back and then kisses the tip of his nose, and then finally, his lips, lingering, but chaste. Henry releases a long breath when Alex pulls back, resting their foreheads against each other. “Breathe baby,” Alex whispers. “Just breathe.” 

Henry does, inhaling and exhaling until his breathing matches the rhythm of breaths that he feels against his lips. “I’m okay,” Henry says. 

“Are you sure?” Alex asks, his fingers running through the hair at the nape of Henry’s neck. “We don’t have to do this, y’know. We can always change our names, flee the country. I have some family in Mexico—”

He cuts himself off when Shaan pointedly clears his throat, and Henry smiles, glancing over to see Shaan standing with his hands clasped behind his back, politiely looking away, ever the probate professional. “I appreciate the offer love,” he says, turning back to Alex. “But we have to do this. I want to. Come on,” he kisses Alex again before pulling away, “we’re going to be late.” 

There’s a small group of people gathered around the door to the conference room when Henry leads Alex around the corner. This time, it’s Alex that skids to a halt, forcing Henry to stop as well. His eyes are wide and bewildered, and Henry follows his line of vision to a woman standing with her back to them. She turns, and Henry sees the face of a woman that he’s only seen on a screen with Alex’s upturned nose and square jaw and widow's peak hairline. 

“Henry,” Alex whispers, tightening his hold on his hand to the point of pain. “Am I hallucinating or is that my fucking mom?” 

“That is your mother,” Henry confirms. Ellen Claremont starts walking toward them, authority and surety in every stride, her approach revealing the faces of the two people she was speaking to—Bea and Henry’s mother. “And mine,” he says flatly, trying to keep the shock from his tone. Henry thinks back, trying to remember the last time he saw Catherine in the flesh—it had been months. It had been even longer since they’ve had a real, honest to god conversation. 

“Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz,” Ellen says firmly once she’s close enough to hear. Henry can feel Alex stiffen against his side until his mother pulls him into a tight hug. “I should beat your ass.” 

Alex lets out a nervous laugh, flicking his eyes over to Henry as he mother releases his from her hold. “What are you doing here mom?” 

“I’m here for you.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Alex says, pulling Henry closer by his hand, their sides pressed together. 

Ellen puts her palms up placatingly. “Alex, honey.” She takes a step forward, reaching up to put a hand on her son’s cheek. Henry hadn’t realized until now how short she was—barely taller that his own mother—as she has such an imposing figure. Alex melts into the touch, probably without even realizing. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, her hard eyes softening, looking up at Alex regretfully. It’s the kind of look that makes Henry feel that he’s encroaching on a private moment, but Alex still has a vice grip on his hand. “I’m here as your mom. I want to be here for you.”  

Alex nods, albeit reluctantly. “Thanks, mom.” He doesn’t say that it’s okay—Henry suspects that things won’t be okay between them for quite a while—but he can feel the tension bleed from his form, his muscles unclenching. 

“Nice to meet you Henry,” Ellen says turning to him with an extended hand. 

Henry takes it, ignoring Alex's eyeroll in his periphery. “Nice to meet you as well Ms. Claremont.” 

They walk over to the group waiting for them, and Henry looks at his own mother tentatively. “Mum,” he says shortly, not sure what he’s supposed to say. 

“Hello Henry,” she replies, reluctantly meeting his eye.

It’s been so long since Henry’s mother has talked to him, really talked to him. When they had, it was polite and short and there was a distant look in her eyes as if she wasn’t really there. It makes Henry equal parts thankful and wary to not find it when he looks at her now. “This is Alex,” Henry blurts out needlessly, since his mother is probably well aware who he is by now. “My boyfriend.” His heart skips at the label, one that he’s never been able to use with anyone else before, and Alex squeezes his fingers. 

“Hello Alex,” she says, extending her hand demurely, which Alex takes. “Beatrice has told me a lot about you.” Henry shoots a look at Bea, who raises an unrepentant brow at him, dark bags under her eyes. 

“Mum, what are you doing here?” 

Hurt flashes across her face, and Henry pushes down the stab of guilt he feels in his chest. He’s barely seen his mother since his father died. She checked out when they needed her more than ever. The voice in his head that tells him that he has every right to feel angry sounds suspiciously like his therapist’s. “I’m here to help,” she says as if it should be obvious. 

“Why?” Henry challenges. 

“Baby—” Alex starts, squeezing his arm. 

“Why now?” Henry clarifies. 

Catherine shakes her head, and Henry tries to ignore the wetness coating her eyes. “I’m your mum.” 

Henry scoffs. “You were our mum when Bea went to rehab. You were our mum when Gran sat me down and ordered me to hide my ‘deviant desires.’ You were our mum when she was yanking us all around like puppets—”

“Henry!” Bea yells, cutting him off. He hadn’t realized how loud he had become, his voice booming through the desolate hall. He seldom yelled, or even raised his voice, but it was always easier to get angry than sad. She laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Stop. Now’s not the time.” 

Henry takes a deep, calming breath. He goes to walk into the conference room, but stops to look at his mother. She wasn’t looking at him, but she does when he reaches out and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You don’t get to decide when to be a parent,” he says calmly, and her eyebrows scrunch up in remorse. “If you’re going to be here, you need to be here.” He waits for her to nod before nodding back and walking into the room. 

They settle into the long, ornately carved table, Henry sitting toward the middle and pulling Alex down beside him, grasping his hand in the space between their heavy wooden chairs. Philip arrives at exactly the time the meeting was set to begin, shooting a looking between Alex and himself, glaring at their joined hands. He starts to say something, but Bea tells him to shut up before he could get a few words out. He sits, and they wait. There’s no telling when his Gran will show up, so they wait in silence as Philip works his jaw, Bea plays a rhythm with the pads of her fingers on the table top, and Henry fidgets with his tie, focusing on Alex’s thumb running back and forth over his knuckles. 

His grandmother glides through the door, far more graceful than anyone her age has any right being. Queen Mary is all harsh lines and sharp corners with a sleek grey bob and a utilitarian dark skirt and blazer and harsh, piercing eyes that look far too much like his own for comfort. The air is cold and devoid of oxygen as she sits down, every sound deafening in the silent room, from the spoon clinking on the sides of her porcelain tea cup to Alex’s leg restlessly bouncing up and down to Bea’s fingers still tapping their never ending tune. 

She puts down her spoon on her napkin, finally acknowledging the other occupants of the room. “Who is this boy?” Mary asks, her eyes catching on Alex and staying there, a glare heated enough to burn a hole in his forehead. 

Alex shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and Henry tightens his hold on his hand. “This is Alex. My boyfriend.” 

“You must be joking,” Philip groans. 

“I thought you understood that this was a family matter Henry,” Mary says, ignoring Philip’s comment just as everyone else had. 

Her eyes on him are contemptuous, and it takes an effort not to curl in on himself and wither away. Henry straightens his spine and juts out his chin, meeting her eyes. “This is a meeting about me and my life,” Henry says. “Alex is a part of that.” 

His grandmother’s eyes narrow slightly. “Not anymore,” she says, her voice level as if this is both an order and indisputable fact. “I made it abundantly clear to you that if you were drawn in unnatural directions that measures could be taken to remedy this. You did not heed my warning and you’ve left me with no choice.” She takes a sip of tea, a move that Henry suspects is more out of pettiness than thirst. “We will find you a wife within the year.”

Both his mother and Bea start to protest, but Henry cuts through the noise with a simple and firm, “No.” 

Philip’s eyebrows tick up, and Henry’s almost pleased to have surprised him. “No?” he says skeptically. 

“No,” Henry repeats. “The entire world knows that I’m gay now.” Mary’s face hardens, her features stony. “Do you really think the people are so easily fooled? It will be rather transparent if I’m engaged to a woman in a few months.” 

“Social media accounts can be hacked—” his grandmother starts. 

“There are photos as well,” Philip interjects, glaring at him. Henry holds back a smirk—he’d taken careful steps to make his sexuality fairly undeniable. He posted on Twitter and promptly changed his password, reposted it on his Instagram, and contacted a few old friends and hookups who never signed NDAs and had them release any photos they had that weren’t too explicit. 

“Photographs can be doctored,” Mary says with an air of finality. 

“Mum,” Catherine implores, speaking for the first time since Gran sat down. “Don’t you think we should at least have a conversation about other options?” 

“There are no other options.” 

The back and forth argument is seemingly never ending and arduous, and Henry puts his face in his hands, breathing through his fingers, fixating on the warm, steadying palm that Alex places on his back. 

He catches bits and pieces—

“We could integrate this into our narrative!”

This doesn’t matter. 

“The people will never accept a prince of his proclivities.”

I don’t care. 

“Are you so determined to believe that nothing could change? That nothing should change?” 

What exactly am I fighting for here?

Henry came here ready to fight, and his heart swelled with gratitude that his family was here to fight with him, for him. But what was he fighting for? A position that he never wanted? A life with endless restrictions? Could Dickinson have ever imagined a life in which she could have the woman she loved as anything other than a sister in law? Wouldn’t Achilles have burned the world to the ground to live out his days with Patroclus by his side? What would Whitman have given to love Peter freely and out in the open? 

Everything. 

Queer people—past and present—would give everything to have the options he does.  

This is not everything. 

“Stop,” Henry says, cutting his mother off in the middle of a retort. This isn’t going anywhere, Henry realizes. His grandmother won’t budge, but now, neither would Henry—immovable object, meet unstoppable force. Every eye in the room turns toward him and he lifts his face out of his hands, sitting up straight. “Just stop. This is pointless.” Henry looks over at Alex to find him looking back, his eyes big and searching and beautiful as ever. 

Henry remembers the first time he saw Alex, his eyes drawn to a gorgeous, bright boy in a crowd full of people like a moth to a flame. He can never forget that moment, he can never forget how incredible he was, how he looked at Alex and thought I can’t let him anywhere near me. He thought that if anyone like Alex Claremont-Diaz loved him, it would set him on fire. 

Henry had always loved the story of Icarus—he read it, wrote papers on it, thought he understood the lesson. Not many people know this, but Icarus actually gave his son two warnings—do not fly too close to the sun lest the wax on his wings melt, and do not fly too close to the water, as the feathers would get wet in the sea. Life was about finding the middle ground. Henry was careful to stay away from the sun. He was cautious, he did what he was told, assuming that this would keep him safe. Henry failed to heed Icarus’ second warning—he would still crash, but he would do so miserable and alone. 

Henry no longer cares if he burns, if he falls, as long as he plunges into the waves with Alex by his side. 

“I’m abdicating,” Henry says, standing from his chair and straightening his jacket, trying to infuse as much surety into his voice as humanly possible. “I’ll start the official process as soon as possible.” 

The room erupts in protests, everyone with frantic, wide eyes. His mother’s voice rises above the rest. “Henry, don’t you think that’s a bit rash?” she asks, her voice calm and level despite the desperation on her face. “We can sort this out.” 

“I don’t want to sort it out,” Henry insists, releasing a heavy, weary sigh. “Mum, you’ve taught me the history of the monarchy and how unethical it is my whole life. You honestly want me to let all of that go just because you let me have a boyfriend? Do you really think so little of me?” No one says anything, but his mother shakes her head, and Bea is blinking rapidly, her eyes shining. “You’re not allowed to be upset that I’ve become the person you raised me to be.” 

“Henry,” she puts her hands up as if calming a rabid animal, rising slowly from her chair. “Things can change. You can help change them.” 

Henry is shaking his head before she can even get the sentence out. “Why?” he asks, exasperated. “What’s the point? What does the monarchy even do—shake hands, wave at the crowds of commoners, go to banquets? None of it matters Mum! It’s my life. I want it to matter.” 

“Henry, please—” Bea interjects. 

“Stop,” Henry says, putting up a silencing hand. “I’m done arguing. This isn’t up for discussion. I’ve made up my mind.” 

Henry walks out of the room, not listening to any other protests, bounding down the corridor with little care of the direction in which he’s going. He blinks and his steps stutter when he hears his name, and then turns around to see Alex running after him. “Henry—”

Alex lets out an aborted grunt when Henry wraps his arms around Alex and spins him around, laughing hysterically in his ear. “Okay,” Alex breathes out, putting his hands on Henry’s shoulders when he’s returned to the ground. “Okay, this is kind of terrifying. Are you alright, because this looks suspiciously like a mental breakdown?”

Henry is still laughing, though he’s not sure why. He just feels…light, like a weight he hadn’t realized he was holding was gone. Like he’s taking the first full breath of his entire life after the pressure was released from his chest. “I’m fantastic,” Henry says through the final vestiges of his laughter. 

Alex smiles, framing Henry’s face between his hands. “Please tell me you didn’t do that for me.” 

“I didn’t. Not really.” He leans his head against Alex’s, a genuine smile on his face that he can’t wipe away and doesn’t want to. “I did it for me. You just made me believe that I was someone worth fighting for.” 

“You are,” Alex says, his hands finding his way into Henry’s hair. 

“What do we do now?” Henry asks. 

Alex pulls him into a kiss, short, but deep and passionate. “Anything we want,” he says, pulling back and looking up at him, and smile on his face and love in his eyes. “Anything.” 

Henry pulls Alex into another kiss, this one long and lingering. He doesn’t want to stop and he never has to. 

Anything. 

Chapter Text

A Statement to the Citizens of Great Britain by HRH Prince Henry  

Published on 16 September 2020

One month ago, there was a post on my Twitter account in which I claimed to be a gay man. In the weeks since this post, photos and rumors have spread that have increased the speculation surrounding my sexual orientation, all of which have been met with silence from the royal family and the Queen. I, first and foremost, would like to confirm these rumors. 

I am gay. It is something that I had come to accept about myself years ago, but have not been permitted to discuss publicly. Instead, it was something that I kept locked inside, only allowing myself to be truly who I am around a few select and trusted individuals, all of whom I am eternally grateful for, watching with envy as others in my community love freely and out in the open. One month ago, despite the disapproval I have faced, I chose to throw caution to the wind and tell the truth about who I am. I will not apologize for my recklessness as I have not regretted it for a moment. I will not now, nor will I ever, apologize for who I am, nor should any queer person. 

In history, only four British monarchs have ever abdicated. They have done this for a variety of reasons, some political or moral or religious. I, however, am happy to be remembered in history as a member of the royal family who has abdicated for love—love for the people of my nation, love for the world as a whole, love for a man. 

There are countless people throughout the world who can not come out safely, who would never be able to leave their homophobic, transphobic, toxic environments behind and live their lives as freely, wholly themselves. My heart breaks for these people, and I recognize what a privilege it is to be able to do this. The ability to be who I am despite the disapproval of my family is a privilege that I have, and I have chosen to exercise it. 

There are certainly those who use their royal title for good. I think of my mother, who I am sure will one day make an excellent queen, who advocates for other cultures within our country and for reversing the negative effects of colonialism that we are guilty of. I think of my sister, who has stood strong against criticism amid her struggles with addiction, and who has used the resources she has to aid others in this same struggle. For me, this title has not provided me with opportunity, but with a prison. 

There are many causes and communities—LGBTQ+ people, immigrants and people of color, the mentally ill—that I have the desire to help, but was not able to because of my position and the crown’s policies. All of my life, I have ached to leave this world better than it was when I found it, to make a positive change in people’s lives. Now that I am free from a title and the responsibilities that come with it, I feel that I can finally do this, even if these changes come in small ways. 

In the words of author Oscar Wilde, “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” In my position as a prince, I was simply going through the motions—making appearances where I was told to, shaking the hands of people that I should, saying the words pre written by someone who was not me. In this role, I was not serving the people, nor my family, nor, most importantly, myself. 

I do not wish to simply exist. I want, more than anything, to live. I wish to speak my mind about the issues that I care about. I wish to have an effect on the world. I wish to love and have a life with and marry the man with whom I am in love. Now that I have shed the role that I could never fit myself into without hacking essential pieces of my person away, I am finally free to live the life I once thought was merely an impossible dream. 

With gratitude and hope for the future, 

Henry Fox 

———

Henry wakes up slowly to the sun shining in his eyes, and he lifts his hand to shield his face, drowsily blinking awake. He flops his arm across the bed, groaning when he finds the left side vacant and cool to the touch. 

He reluctantly throws the duvet aside, searching the floor for something to throw on, pulling on a pair of his joggers and an NYU jumper that could be either his or Alex’s. He yawns and runs his fingers through his messy hair as he rises from Alex’s—no, their—bed. 

It took a long time to think of this room as theirs instead of just Alex’s with Henry as a guest or interloper. Even after Henry hung his clothes in the closet and put his books on the shelves and bought David a dog bed to put in the corner, he still had to remind himself that this place was his. Alex reassured and reminded him for months that he was safe here, that this was his home too, and he is finally starting to believe that, though he still slips up sometimes. 

As he pads out of their bedroom and into the sun soaked living room, the hard wood floors chilling his bare feet, he wonders what it would be like if he and Alex had somewhere that was theirs alone. What it would be like to have a permanent home with him and the man he loves, somewhere that they could build a future and a family together. Maybe he’ll start looking after they both graduate. 

He finds Alex sitting on the kitchen counter despite the plethora of seating in the apartment, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, looking down at it through the wireframes perched on his nose. 

“Since when are you a morning person?” Henry grumbles, resting his hands atop Alex’s thighs, running his thumb over the seam of his boxers. 

Alex puts his coffee mug on the counter, reaching over to run his fingers through Henry’s hair in greeting without looking up from his phone. “Since law school fucked up my sleep schedule,” Alex complains.

Henry hums neutrally, studying Alex’s pinched brow as he reads his screen. “What are you looking at?” 

Alex wordlessly turns the phone so he can see the screen, and Henry reads the day’s headlines. 

Claremont Nominates Ketanji Brown Jackson to be Next Supreme Court Justice

Princess Catherine Insists that Ex-Prince Henry Will Always be Apart of the Family

Prominent Conservatives Back Allowing States to Limit Guns in Public

Former Prince Henry and Boyfriend Alex Claremont-Diaz Step Out for Dinner with Friends in New York City

Henry reads the headlines and nods. “What’s your opinion on the justice your mum appointed? I think it was a good choice.”

Alex rolls his eyes as he locks his phone, setting it down on the counter beside him. “That’s what you took away from all of that?”

Henry shrugs, taking a step further into Alex’s space, and he spreads his legs to accommodate him. “They’ll get bored of me.” 

“I don’t know,” Alex says skeptically, resting his arms on Henry’s shoulders, fingers running through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “You’re pretty interesting.” 

“You’re biased,” Henry replies, leaning in. “Eventually. They can only write so many iterations of stories like ‘Man Goes to Farmer’s Market’  before people get tired of them.”  Alex smirks, and Henry smiles back. “I fully intend to lead a very boring life.” 

Alex leans down, their noses brushing together. “Not if I have anything to say about it baby,” he whispers, and Henry can feel his breath brushing over his lips. 

When Alex closes the final millimeter of distance between them, pulling him into a deep kiss, he tastes like coffee and cinnamon, a now familiar combination that never fails to remind Henry of Alex. 

Kissing Alex has become something that is familiar and routine, a natural part of his day as much as sleeping, eating, and breathing, but it still manages to feel new and exciting each and every time. Even after more than a year together, every time Alex’s lips meet his, butterflies flutter in his stomach and each of his nerve endings spark and catch fire. 

This kiss is deep and passionate, but slow and languid, the kind of kiss that they share on lazy Sunday mornings, when they lay in bed and don’t even think of letting go of each other until the sun is shining high in the sky. Alex pulls him impossibly closer with his arms around his neck, and Henry follows pliantly, running his hands down Alex’s legs as they wrap around his waist, his entire mind, body, and soul surrounded and wrapped up in Alex. 

Henry is just starting to slip his fingers up the bottom hem of Alex’s underwear when they separate with a jolt, someone slapping him in the back of the head as they walk by. 

They both look up with matching perturbed expressions to glare at Nora, gliding past them to the coffee maker. She pours coffee into two mugs, handing one to June, who lifts herself up onto the counter opposite Alex, next to the stove. “No sex in shared spaces,” June explains. “Didn’t y’all read the roommate contract before you signed it?” 

“No,” Alex answers flatly, not releasing Henry from his hold, forcing him to turn his neck to look at the other occupants of the kitchen. Henry had read the contract, but that was one rule that they’ve broken several times already.  

Nora turns around and leans back against the counter between June’s legs, taking a nonchalant sip of her coffee. “Ignorantia juris non excusat.”

Alex rolls his eyes and flips Nora off, which only makes her grin. Henry steps back so that Alex can get off the counter, which he does, walking over to the refrigerator and pulling out a carton of eggs. 

Since Alex started law school and Henry started his master’s program, they’d perfected their morning routine. Alex would make breakfast for everyone, since he was the only one who could cook, though Henry was slowly learning, and Henry would make him his coffee, setting it next to the stove with a kiss on the cheek. They eat together at the table with David eagerly waiting at their feet, and then they all part to get dressed for their days at work or school. It’s a routine that Henry has come to cherish, and he can imagine it continuing for hundreds of mornings in the future, changing and readjusting as their lives together evolve. It’s a seemingly silly, simple thing to be excited for—a lifetime full of boring, domestic mornings with Alex. Henry can’t wait. 

Alex and Henry meet Cash outside and climb into the back seat of the black SUV. They hold hands through the short drive, with Alex grumbling how much faster and more convenient and economical it is to just take the subway. 

The NYU campus is beautiful in autumn. It’s nothing like Oxford’s campus, with its regal architecture and pristine landscaping. Instead, it's an incongruent yet fitting mix of Roman columns and sleek, modern buildings of concrete and glass. It’s lounges with purple furniture and students of all ages resting under the shade of trees with leaves turning warm colors. As Henry walks down the Pavement, Alex’s hand in his as they weave around groups of people talking and boys on skateboards, he breathes in the crisp, cool autumn air and thinks about how much he loves it. How he doesn’t have to look at the world from behind a barrier anymore. He can be a part of it. 

They reach the point in their walk where they have to part ways, Alex going to Contracts and Henry going to Queer Literature. They turn to each other and share a quick parting kiss, the kind of kiss that Henry remembers his parents having in front of the door, when they had to leave the house for their separate royal duties. Not a ‘goodbye’ kiss, but a ‘see you later’ kiss—the kind that Henry never imagined he’d be able to have with someone. 

“You’re going to be at the shelter later right?” Alex asks. 

“Of course love,” he answers, pushing a curl from Alex’s long hair away from his face, brushing his fingertips over his forehead needlessly. “I wouldn’t miss movie night.” 

“Good,” Alex replies. He pulls him into another kiss, and Henry returns it fully, not giving any thought to who might be watching them. It doesn’t matter. “I’ve gotta go.” He pulls back and takes a few steps away from him, saying, “Love you.” 

Alex doesn’t turn around and start walking toward his class in earnest until Henry says, “I love you too,” in return. 

Henry is the first one to class, as he always is. He takes his usual seat and opens his laptop, clicking on his most often revisited word document—his book. It’s an anthology of queer love stories throughout history that he’s been working on it peripherally since his undergrad, but since moving to New York with Alex, he’s started writing it in earnest. He hasn’t told Alex this yet, but he finished the first draft a week ago, and his professor offered to read it for him. 

He reads a few sentences here and there and, well, he thinks it’s pretty good. It’s a strange mix of history and fiction that he thinks works, though it needs editing and some rearranging and even more editing, but he’s proud of it. There’s just one thing missing—a love story that was in the back of his mind as he wrote every word, but never made its way onto the page. Maybe someday.  

He scrolls up to the first page and types out a short dedication. 

For my Alexander, 

“Someone, I tell you, will remember us, even in another time.” 

All my love, 

Henry