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Chapter Text

President Ellen Claremont and Senator Oscar Diaz

with Her Royal Highness The Princess of Wales

invite you to the marriage of their sons

Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz and 

His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Wales

“Lemme see.” Alex shoved himself into Henry’s field of vision, gazing at the cream-colored paper with shiny gold lettering. “Why didn’t they put the rest of your names? I memorized them and everything.”

"It’s not appropriate for this circumstance.” Henry pretended to be annoyed, but he was still basking in the glow of the samples Shaan had brought over. 

“Why not?” Alex persisted, wedging himself between Henry’s lap and the dining room table. 

“Do you actually care?” Henry turned to look at Alex, sighing as Alex adjusted himself in Henry’s lap. 

“Yes,” Alex replied, serious.

“Legally, I do have three middle names and three last names, but they aren’t listed with my titles, when its styled like this. Really, the middle names are a religious thing.”

“A religious thing?”

“Yes. Given to me when I was baptized. It comes from Catholicism, I blame you.” Henry shot Alex a sardonic look as Alex draped his arms around his soon-to-be-husband (maybe not that soon) (but pretty soon). 

“Oh, it’s like a confirmation name?” Alex returned Henry’s sass.

“Yes and no. It’s the result of a lot of overlapping systems. Religion, Monarchy, and Beurocratic regulation.”

“So this,” Alex snatched the invitation from Henry, “is your fancy name?”

“For now.”

“For now?” Alex leaned in, intrigued. 

“Do you remember me telling you to stop calling me Wales?” Henry sighed again, as if he was explaining all this for the millionth time (which of course, he was).

“I thought it was a joke. Like a sexy joke.” Alex shimmied his shoulders and bit his lip in a not-really-serious attempt at seduction. 

“No it’s…the title goes when I get married.” 

“Oh right right…this is the whole of Wales vs of Wales, right?” Alex nodded, removing himself from Henry’s lap and heading for the kitchen. 

“Yes. So glad you finally got that.” Henry sounded relived as he rose, not even aware his body was following Alex’s. 

“Right. Right I totally do. I’ve totally got that,” Alex’s voice was muffled as he rummaged in the fridge. 

“But you want me to explain it to you just one more time?” Henry crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I swear, I’ll like put it on flashcards and study it with the Bar prep,” Alex pleaded, carton of ice cream in his hand.  “I swear I swear I swear.” Alex pouted and made puppy dog eyes at Henry. 

"Its alright, love. I can keep explaining it to you.” Henry breathed in the image in front of him. In another timeline, Alex might have blushed. In this one, he smirked.

Properly settled on the couch, Henry patiently explained his titles and styles. “Alright. Since Gran didn’t have any sons, she made my mother Princess of Wales, which was actually groundbreaking because for hundreds of years only a male heir has been permitted to hold that title.” As Henry continued to go on, Alex marveled at the sexy, patient history lesson standing in front of him. Alex knew that his teenage self would have never expected to genuinely enjoy an actual British aristocrat explaining actual British aristocracy, and yet there he was. 

“Philip and I are princes by virtue of being heirs to the heir but usually that title only passes through the male line, so again we’re exceptions, likewise with Beatrice. So because Mum is The Princess of Wales, we’re Princes of Wales.”

“But isn’t Philip—”

“Duke of York, yes, that was the title bestowed on him upon his marriage. Making Martha Duchess of York.” Henry babbled on, throwing words like ‘ascension,’ and ‘Countess’ and ‘Princess Royal’ in with places Alex was pretty sure were made up. 

“—and so Beatrice will probably be named Princess Royal eventually, but that title doesn’t come with any income or lands so it’s more of an honorary thing. Honestly, we’re sort of starved for high-ranking royals, you know with all these women being born and then marrying commoners…” Alex smirked again, torn between the absurdity of the conversation and the beauty of Henry’s mind…and his words…and his mouth. Henry noticed Alex watching him more than hearing him and trailed off. 

“What?”

“Babe. You’re kinda starting to sound like—,”

“Like British aristocracy?” Henry was clearly amused, smiling slightly while liking his spoon. Alex's eyes narrowed as he snatched the ice cream from Henry. 

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“No,” Henry shook his head, unconvincingly. Alex crossed his arms over his chest and frowned, staring at Henry for a moment. Henry then continued his narration of the station and marriages of his various extended cousins, but Alex was beginning to suspect Henry was just making it up. 

“Sweetheart.” Alex had every intention of waiting until Henry ran out of things to say, stubbornly refusing to admit he had lost the plot. But…his desire to kiss Henry proved stronger than his desire to have the last word. “Stop with the cousins. You’re making my head hurt.” 

“I… can be done talking about titles.” Henry’s eyes darkened as he leaned closer to Alex, but the shift seemed to cause something else to click in Alex’s mind. 

“We can’t really though, can we? It’s on that list of marriage stuff.” And Alex was suddenly serious again, sexy playfulness drained from his mind.

“It is on that list.” Henry’s face grew notably more strained as he recalled the list of marriage ‘complications’ the Firm had delivered him, on paper remarkably similar to the mock-invitations. 

“This,” Alex caught Henry’s gaze and raised the spoon to his lips, “is why we have ice cream.” Alex caught Henry’s gaze and then lifted the spoon to his lips. 

Chapter Text

Alex and Henry were notified of the birth of Prince Philip and Princess Martha’s baby the same way the rest of the world was: on television. After news reached America that Martha had been admitted to the hospital, Henry and Alex opted to work at home, Henry on the couch on his laptop and Alex laying on his belly only half-reading law books. When a general commotion seemed to seize the crowds surrounding the Buckingham Palace gates, Alex’s eyes snapped to the screen. He jumped to his feet and glanced from the TV to Henry and back again. Every muscle in Henry’s body was tense as they watching the gilded footman place the placard—signed by Martha’s doctors—on the ornate easel. 

“Ahhhh!!!” Alex shrieked, literally jumping into the air as Henry grabbed him from behind, spinning him in a mess of hugs and kisses until they collapsed back onto the couch. Truly, Alex couldn’t have cared less about the stupid infant baby who would one day inherit an empire. He did, however, care deeply for the fact that the evacuation of Martha’s womb meant that he and Henry could finally begin planning the rest of their lives together. 

Alex’s hands moved fervently over Henry’s body, seizing the tabs of his shirt and pulling them from his pants. 

“Wait, wait, I have to go back to work.” Henry made motions to push Alex away but Alex’s hands on his belt gave him little incentive to resist. 

“Call in sick. We’re celebrating.” Alex murmured back, pressing Henry onto his back on the couch. Henry continued his minor protests and Alex continued his kissing, moving to Henry’s neck as his fingers worked on shirt buttons. As Alex slotted his body against Henry’s and rolled his hips, Henry whined. 

“Alexxxxxx….” Alex responded with a sharp bite to Henry’s ear, earning a shocked gasp. “That’s enough.” Henry finally retorted, rolling Alex onto the ground and pinning his wrists to the floor in one swift movement. Alex made to giggle, but the look in Henry’s eyes took his breath away. “It’s high time you learned some bloody manners.”

And so, Henry set about teaching Alex how to properly treat a prince, not even noticing the TV in the background playing and replaying coverage of his newborn niece.

“A Princess, huh?” Alex and Henry found themselves in a somewhat similar position two days later when the young Princess’s name was announced. 

“Yes. Princess Victoria Anne Mary Catherine.”

“God, that’s a lot of names.” Henry laughed. 

“It’s the same amount I have. It is a bit excessive though, isn’t it?” Alex twisted in bed to look at Henry. “We don’t have to give them three middle names.” Alex’s mouth twitched in a hopeful smile. He didn’t know exactly what to call it, but ever since they had decided to get married, Alex had been nearly consumed with thoughts of fatherhood. It wasn’t exactly ‘baby fever,’ but it was a sort of deep longing, both in his soul and in his body. He longed to see Henry running around with little children, to hold and bounce them. Their future children were enclosed in a glass orb of future nostalgia, unknown to anyone beside the two of them. 

“I don’t know, it’s sort of nice.” Alex’s eyes gleamed. 

“It is a paperwork nightmare.” Henry nodded. 

“I know,” Alex chuckled back, “My full name is like 30 letters long. It doesn’t fit on a Scantron.”

“Is that true?” Henry turned his body, arm still protectively circled across Alex’s bare chest. 

“Does yours?” Alex matched Henry’s surprised tone. Henry thought about it for a moment. 

“I used Henry Wales in school. And I’ve never filled out a Scantron.”

“Never?” Alex sat up fully, letting Henry’s arm fall to the bed. Without waiting or a reply, he changed the subject, suddenly serious: “I’ve been thinking about the last name thing.”

“You have?”

“Yes, I have. And I’ve been doing surrogacy research but that’s not the point.” Henry felt his heart skip a beat as the orb of future nostalgia came into sharper focus. Alex took a deep breath and then said: "I think our kids should be Claremont-Fox-Windsors.” 

“No Diaz?” Henry had not had many thoughts about their children's names besides that it was going to be complicated and messy to figure out. Alex raised one shoulder in a shrug. 

“Traditionally, hispanic last names take the first two in a set of hyphenated last names. It happens more than you would think. That’s supposed to be the patrilineal family names but my parents didn’t really do it right, so…what do you think?” Alex’s eyes met Henry’s as a grin spread across his face. 

“It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?” Alex’s face cracked even wider. Henry nodded and took Alex’s face in his hands, kissing him tenderly. 

“Three last names and three middle names?” Henry tipped his forehead to lean against Alex’s, whispering into the small space between them. Henry felt his heart squeeze again as the image focused in.“We should probably start a list, huh?”

“I have a list.” Alex whispered back, eliciting a soft moan from Henry. “Do you want to hear it?” Henry nodded, closing his eyes and feeling his eyelashes brush against Alex’s forehead. 

“So, for a girl…well the one I’ve been thinking constantly about is Rose. It could be Rose or Rosalia or Rosa but there’s just so many amazing Roses. And there’s that whole English Rose symbolism.” Henry slipped his face into the crook of Alex’s neck, making embarrassing small sounds of approval. “I know, pretty good right?” Alex continued, his arms circling to hold Henry against him. 

“So then there’s the more classical names, Margaret, Margarita, Elizabeth, Esther, Elena, Mary, Ana or Anne…oh and remember that article you sent me about Florence Nightingale’s diary? Yeah that’s like such a beautiful name and such a beautiful story. Queer icon, British icon, best of both worlds, honestly. I think it’d be super awesome to name a kid after Frida Kahlo but I think probably that’s a middle name, ya know? I’m not really into like trendy names? Or like reappropriating random nouns as names. I don’t want our kids to sound like perfumes.” Alex was quiet for a moment, rubbing Henry’s back as he took deep breaths, bleary-eyed and blissed-out. Alex had the fleeting thought that this was the same way Henry acted after a spectacular fuck.

“For a boy?” Henry took a shaking breath, turning his head to speak. 

“It’s trickier I think. Cuz obviously I want it to mean something but all important men have like the same five names. I do actually like John though—“

“Oh, no, no, no,” Henry sat up, wrapping his arms around Alex’s back and shaking his head. “John is forbidden.” 

“What? Why?” Alex’s brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Terrible King. Cursed name in the Family. You just…can’t.”

“Really? Wasn’t that literally 800 years ago? John? John Laurens, John Addams, John F. Kennedy. It’s like iconic.” 

“First of all, it was 900 years ago. Second of all, John Laurens? You want to name our son after your name sake’s lover?” Alex felt the strong urge to cry at the words ‘our son’ but conceded. 

“How do you feel about other American names?” Henry indicated for Alex to continue. “Okay. American. Benjamin. Franklin of course. And then Lincoln because Abraham is just not a name for a tiny baby. More modernly I love Harvey, Keith, Larry/ Laurence, and Bayard Rustin, but they suffer from the Frida problem, you know? So maybe those are middle names. George, that can go both ways, too. Oh and obviously we’ll give them Arthur as a middle name, but I’m not sure I’m sold on it as a first name.” Henry’s heart pinged in an almost indescribable way. Would being with Alex ever stop bringing him new feelings?

“I love the name Catherine. I just always have. And obviously I love my Mum just so much.” Despite himself, Henry couldn’t look Alex in the eyes. 

“She’s amazing.” Alex agreed. 

“And um…well if we’re talking British queer icons…William, Shakespeare obviously, and Oscar…Wilde. But also you know…” Alex’s eyes shone back at Henry’s. 

“Oh my god I love you.” Alex pulled Henry into a tight hug. “I can’t wait to have kids with you.” 

Chapter Text

“Thank you, Madam Mayor.” Henry re-buttoned his jacket and leaned in to shake the New York City Mayor’s hand.

“Of course.” She flashed him her brilliant smile and followed her aides out of the conference room. Before the door had even closed, Henry was turning towards Alex, his face screwed up in excitement.

“We did it!” Alex shriek-whispered, pulling Henry to him as they half-jumped half wiggled in excitement.

“We did it.” Henry giggled back.They’d been in talk for a partnership between the Foundation and NYCSD for months, but recently their collaboration had gone public, putting more pressure to close the deal. And in a somewhat unprecedented move, the Major had agreed to a diversion program for LGBTQ youth, run by social workers and non-profits, not police. And in the middle of it all, they’d announced their engagement. Alex still marveled at the joy he felt getting to wear his engagement ring in public. He suspected the gold-and-steel band had been the subject of much media attention, but Henry and Alex had both agree to un-plug the TV’s in their house and set ruthless parental restrictions of their phones. No tabloids, no paparazzi, no distractions.

“What are you doing today?” Alex bit his lip as he stared into Henry’s eyes, still standing in an embrace in the now-empty office conference room.

“I have an Ops meeting at 2 and then I’m going to go talk to the kids. There’s this one, Jared, I promised I’d check in with him after school today.”
One of the more unexpected aspects of their “temporary relocation”—as the Palace was officially calling it—to New York City was the mentorship roles they’d taken on for the residents of the Foundation Shelter. Alex had expected the job to be mostly fundraising and strategizing. And press conferences. And it was a lot of that. But the moments neither of them would trade for anything were when they got to actually help individual kids and see them grow. And live. And thrive.

“What about you?” Henry asked, still wrapped in Alex’s arms but obviously loosening his hold. Preparing to go.

“Umm…” Alex pulled out his phone to check his calendar.

“I thought you were going to use that paper planner so you don’t have to be on your phone as much.”

“Yeah but I keep leaving it places. Oh! I have an emancipation consultation at 2. I probably need to prep for that. And then I was gonna go home…study.” Alex sighed wistfully. He could think of at least seven things he’d rather be doing than studying for the Bar exam, but he was also pretty sure the embarrassment of failing it even once might kill him. Every time he thought about slacking off, he saw the TMZ headlines of his “EMBARASSING! LAWYER FAIL!” accompanied—as they always were—with pictures of him in The Cake. TMZ would take any excuse to republish that photo. The photo that started it all.

“Good luck.” Henry pecked Alex quickly on the lips. “I love you. You’re beautiful. You’re amazing and smart and I love you.” Alex squeezed Henry’s hand as his fingers slipped away.

“Oh, babe. Don’t forget. We’re going to see Mom and Leo this weekend.”

As per usual, Alex gave a small, restrained wave as their car passed the gates of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. There weren’t usually crowds, but there was rarely no one. Also as per usual, Henry and Alex walked hand-in-hand through the front doors and up the main staircase to The Residence. Leo greeted them and the trio made small talk until the sun began to set over the Mall. No one needed to say it, but they all knew Ellen probably wasn’t coming at this point. Seemingly unfazed, Leo served the lasagna he had made and set Ellen’s plate aside for later. He asked politely about the engagement and their deal with the mayor. And it was nice, in a sort of quiet, low-key way. Was Alex hallucinating or was there something sort of normal about this?
When Ellen did arrive, it was as she always did: in a flurry of moment, unzipping her skirt two inches, kicking off her shoes, and letting out a loud sigh as she ran her hands through her hair. By then Alex had migrated to the couch, so Ellen dropped a kiss on his cheek before receiving one from Leo, who went to fetch her plate.

“Sorry, sweetie. Something, uh, came up.”

“What?”

“You know.”

“Oh c’mon, tell me.”

“Sorry, classified.”

“Man…no one tells me anything anymore. I have a security clearance you know.”

“He doesn’t.” Ellen inclined her head towards Henry.

“It’s nice to see you too, Ellen.”

“Still Madam President for a few more months to you, your Highness.” Ellen replied, kissing Henry on the cheek and squeezing Alex’s shoulder.

“It’ll always be Madam President.” Henry inclined his head respectfully.

“Damn straight. I earned that title.” Ellen took Leo’s beer and cheers’ed with Henry. Leo made a move to open her another one, but she shook her head.

“I’m on call tonight.” She was of course, always on call, but some nights she was more likely to be called on than others. As Leo resumed his position in the arm-chair, Ellen plopped down between Alex and Henry.

“Well. Congratulations you two.” Her face softened as she shrugged off President duty and settled back into Mom-mode. “My future son-in-law, get over here!” She pulled Henry into a quick hug, which he tolerated remarkably well. Sandwiched between the couple, Alex and Henry caught Ellen up on their to-do’s. She was particularly impressed with their initiative with the Mayor’s office, which Alex had very purposely not asked or told her about. Still, there was something really special about basking in the genuine pride of his mother.

“Y’all set a date yet? And when are you meeting that adorable baby niece of yours, Henry?” She held her hand in front of her mouth as she finished her food and set the plate on the ground.

“Well—,” Henry started, but Alex cut him off.

“Mom, we’re gonna go to Sandringham for Christmas.”

“Oh.” Ellen licked the last of her lipstick off as Leo got up from his chair and started washing the dishes. “Hun, I can get that. Just leave ‘em.” Leo waved her off and continued washing. “So. You’ve had it with our gilded halls and pageantry and Christmas broadcasts and gonna try your luck across the pond?”

“Ma. We’re getting married.” Alex gave Henry a fleeting glance. “And I gotta go up there. Meet the baby. Kiss da ring or whateva.”

“Diaz. There’s no ring. Do we need to review the Royal Greeting PowerPoint again?”

“There’s a PowerPoint?” Henry interjected.

“This summer. We’re gonna get married in the summer. June, I think. June, right?” Alex glanced to Henry, who nodded in confirmation. Ellen was quiet for a moment.

“I guess my babies are all grown up, huh?” Alex blushed but let Ellen pull him in for a kiss on the head. “You’ll come in January, yes? For the Inauguration.”

“Yes, of course.” Henry answered for them both. “We wouldn’t miss it. For anything.” Ellen sighed, relenting as she took Henry’s hand, squeezing it affectionately.

“Ma?”

“Yes, sugar?”

“Will you walk me down the aisle?” Alex seemed to have surprised even himself, and no one spoke for a moment.

“You’re… walking down the aisle? Isn’t that sort of…traditional? I mean of course. I—it would be an honor.” Alex shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.

“I just…I want you to be there, you know? Not like give me away but…” Alex didn’t even know what else he wanted to say. He didn’t know exactly what their ceremony was going to look like, but his mom walking him down the aisle felt like the right thing.

“I don’t know that fashion-wise I can compete with a future queen, but I’ll cartwheel down the aisle if you want me to.” Ellen chuckled and looked to Henry, who was gazing towards the unlit fireplace. “Alright, it’s getting late you two.” Ellen checked her watch, “I’ve got some appearances to make in the afternoon but I should be all yours until lunchtime.” Ellen bid them goodnight and Alex and Henry made their way to Alex’s old bedroom, which remained largely unchanged.

“Do you remember the first time you were in here?” Alex asked as Henry carried out his nighttime routine: placing his rings on the bedside table, rubbing lotion into his hands and combing his hair.

“I couldn’t forget it if I tried.” Henry sighed and closed his eyes. “But,” Henry opened his eyes and looked around the room. “Alex. We’ve never made love in here.”

“What are you talking about? Of course we have.” Alex folded his hands in his lap as Henry sidled up next to him.

“No,” Henry leaned in, whispering, “we’ve done…other things. But we haven’t…made love.” Alex wanted to sigh and melt and explode all at the same time. The brush of Henry’s breath against his neck, the feeling of Henry’s weight on the bed, the anticipation of waiting for his lips…it just never got old.

“Alex. Alex.” Henry shook Alex’s arm, leaning over the edge of the bed to retrieve their clothes.

“What? What time is it?” Alex opened one eye, groaning.

“I don’t know. Alex put your pants on something’s going on.”

“What. What?” Alex sat up, his mind quickly waking. They could hear voices coming from the hallway, but the room and curtained windows were still dark. Henry crept to the door, Alex not far behind.

“Mom?” Alex recognized Ellen’s voice and pushed Henry aside, striding into the hallway. “Mom? What’s going on?”

“Goddamn it. Leo, can you bring me some pants? Ellen was calling to her husband, being accompanied by the hallway by an alarming amount of agents. “Alex, I can’t talk. Stay put.” She motioned to one of the agents who began moving towards Alex.

“Woah, woah, woah, Mom—what’s—,” But before he could even get to her, he was being shoved back into his bedroom by the secret service agent.

Chapter Text

He’d been manhandled by people in suits countless times (on average, it was usually more sexy than the current circumstances) but Alex was still incensed. 

“What the fuck is going on?” He demanded, stomping his foot like a petulant child. Henry licked his lips and then pressed them together. 

“We have a situation.” Alex huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“I can see that.” Alex crossed his arms. “And I can see that you’re not at liberty to say,” Alex muttered under his breath. After a brief staring contest, Alex relented and sat down, Henry next to him. He looked to Henry, remembering another time he’d been too frustrated to think of Henry’s emotions. Alex studied his face, but Henry seemed, if anything, bored. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, eyes unfocused and posture relaxed. 

“Can you at least tell me if it’s security or operational related?” The agent, who Alex didn’t recognize, looked like she might well be younger than him. She seemed to consider Alex’s request for a moment. 

“No.” Alex groaned. 

“Will you just, let me know if you get any updates?” The agent nodded and Alex returned to his silence. 

After what seemed like hours but was probably minutes at the most, the agent spoke again. 

“We’ve been cleared to take you downstairs.” 

“Amy! What is going on?” Alex was relieved to finally see a familiar face as he was dropped off at the Red Room (the world seemed to be full of ironies today). 

“Sit down.” Amy instructed, starling both Alex and Henry. They obeyed, and Alex couldn’t help but think of how much Amy reminded him of Zahra in this moment. 

“There’s been an attempt of the Prime Minister of Canada’s life.” 

“Justin Trudeau?” Henry covered his mouth with his hand. 

“That would be the one. He’s fine. Nobody’s even hurt. But it’s…tricky.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “I don’t do politics. And I’ve been told very little, other than to be on high alert and sit tight. But from how long the President’s been in the Situation Room, I think this is about to be a bonafide international incident.”

“Like…?” Alex’s mind began to swirl. 

“Like nothing. Don’t ask me. I don’t know. We don’t know of any threats to the President or the United States at this time, but we have to assume the worst.”

“And the worst is?” Henry couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming. Amy didn’t answer. 

“We’re doing a sweep, just to be safe. You two can go back to bed once that’s over with.” Rather scandalized, Alex stood up from his chair. 

“I’m not going back to bed. If you’re not going to let me down there then I’ll just wait here for her to come back up.” Amy looked like she might argue, but decided better of it. 

“No wondering the halls. It’s here or your bedroom. And you need to be escorted.” Alex was getting really sick of the whole being told what to do thing. After a few more lines of obstinate sass, Amy left them to be alone. 

“Sorry, H. We can go to bed if you want to.” Alex continued to sulk, not looking his fiancé in the face. 

“No. It’s fine. We can wait here. I don’t suppose anyone but the President will be allowed to tell us much of anything anyway. I don’t think I could sleep right now anyway.” Alex nodded and the two sat in silence for many, long minutes. Alex realized he’d left his phone upstairs and didn’t even know the time, but he wasn’t feeling like asking Amy or whoever was presumably outside the door waiting to either defend his life or escort him to his bedroom. 

“We haven’t talked about the ceremony,” Alex said eventually. “Like at all.”

"I know,” Henry’s voice was flat and Alex could see the circles under his eyes. 

“We have to get a wedding planner. Like a real one. Like a royal one. I don’t even know…I don’t even know what I don’t know.” Alex could have sworn he had more thoughts about the whole thing, but couldn’t seem to muster them up. 

"I think that’s a good idea,” Henry said solemnly. “I’m sure there’s a list we can pick from.”

“Babe?” Alex asked hesitantly. 

“Mm?”

“Are you okay?” Henry waited a moment before answering. 

“I like Trudeau a lot.” Alex nodded, unsure of what to say. 

“But he’s okay…that’s what they said. He’s okay.” Henry nodded slightly, his eyebrows knitting together. 

“I just…don’t understand. I can’t even guess at this. But it doesn’t seem like they’d be making this much of a fuss unless it was pretty serious.” Alex nodded. Unfortunately he could think of lots of things, but none of them seemed helpful to say. A few of them were likely to result in World War III—like, for real. They lapsed back into heavy silence as the sunrise began to peak in through gaps in the drawn curtains. 

Despite everyone preparing for it, neither Alex nor Henry’s security risk had been raised since their engagement announcement. But they’d each had to have briefings and extra training, mainly coming from the British side. The Secret Service had given them a memo on reporting concerning social media threats. Alex didn’t know how he felt about the fact that more of it was about Henry being rich and Alex being Mexican than it was about either of them being gay. When Ellen finally did come up from the Situation Room, it was to head to the Residence to get dressed. 

“I’m going to have to take a rain check on breakfast.” She explained as Alex followed at her heel. 

“Sure, sure, whatever. Mom, what happened?” Alex demanded.

“Somebody snuck into Justin Trudeau’s house with a gun and tried to kill him.” She was very frank as she ran a brush through her hair, pulling bobby pins from her dresser as she headed into the bathroom. Alex followed her, pulling Henry along with him, who was clearly not pleased to be following the President of the United States into her bathroom at the ass crack of dawn. 

“Somebody? Who?” Alex demanded, watching as his mother wiped her face and began slapping her makeup on at lightning speed. 

“An Indian national. He’s got connections to the government but they’re thin and of course India is denying any and all involvement and our sources do—,” She glanced at Henry and cut herself off. “I am not supposed to be telling you this.” She seemed to murmur ‘lord have mercy,’ but Alex couldn’t be sure. 

“No, I don’t know why. Yes, Trudeau is okay. Yes, the intruder is dead. No, there have been no related threats and yes, my diary is damn full for the day! Now if you don’t mind I’d like five minutes to use the restroom by myself before I have to get back down there.” Ellen screwed her mascara closed and rounded on Alex, who retreated. Alex made again to follow Ellen when she emerged and set off for the Oval Office, but Henry held him back and Leo gestured to the kitchen, where he was brewing coffee. 

“No how I thought this weekend would go.” He remarked as he yawned. 

“Me neither,” Alex grumbled. 

After a shower and two cups of coffee, Alex felt marginally better. And after a change of clothes, Henry looked marginally better, if still obviously sleep-deprived. Together, Alex, Henry, and Leo watched on TV as President Claremont gave a short speech followed by a long press briefing about the incident. It was a decent speech. Lots about how America stands with its allies and will not accept terrorism of any kind. Very little about the specific situation, but broad threats of ‘American strength’ and warnings to any such actors who think they can attack our allies. Allusions but not direct mentions of NATO. The press conference was predictable. 

Has the President spoken to Prime Minister Trudeau? Are any other targets believed to be at risk? Did anyone know of this before? Is India responsible? Is this an act of war? 

Ellen’s press secretary, relatively new to the job, did well. Making it clear Americans were safe and stating they had no indication of escalation at this time. Declining to comment on issues as speculative as war. Everybody wants peace yada yada yada. By lunchtime, Alex was positively restless. Henry managed to drag him out for a walk in the Kennedy Garden. Which is how they found themselves, once again under the linden tree. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with spending Christmas in Norfolk? With missing New Year’s?” Alex sighed, mulling it over. It seemed odd to give up his last holiday season in the White House, but there was an aching feeling of finality Alex just couldn’t shake. That he was done. That part of his story was over. But missing the Balls Out Bonanza? That was a much harder pill to swallow. 

“It’s not too late to cancel. We can stay here.” 

“Yes, it is too late to cancel and we both know it.” It would be a verifiable scene if Alex canceled Christmas with the Windsors now. “Besides, everyone thinks we should start passing the torch on Young America’s New Year’s Eve Gala. You know. As a show of bipartisanship. Cooperation. Whatever.” Alex didn’t need to say who the torch might be passed to. The Republican nominee, an all-things-considered-moderate Senator from Pennsylvania was the favorite to win the Presidential race. Though they weren’t admitting it publicly, the Democratic Party knew that after 16 straight years of Democratic Presidents, the wind was almost guaranteed to change. They were focusing their efforts on Congress, which Alex noted was probably the more fruitful investment in the long-run anyway. But Mr. Milk-Toast-with-a-Pro-life-streak-and-‘Family Values’ had a 21-year-old daughter, equally blonde and bland, who campaigned with him constantly, in a very transparent effort to capitalize off the White House Trio appeal. (He also had, of course, six more children ranging in ages from 19 to 5. Alex wasn’t at all sure where he planned on putting them if he did indeed move into the White House in January). 

“You’re…done?” Henry reached for Alex’s waist, his breath fogging slightly in the crisp fall air. 

“I’m…done.” Alex looked up to the tree just in time to realize where they were as Henry kissed him. Laughing, they both realized this was the very same tree Henry had kissed Alex under all those years ago. 

“This is probably our last kiss here,” Alex said wistfully, suddenly sentimental. 

“I don’t think so.” Henry shook his head, knowingly. 

“What, you gonna re-colonize us or something?” Alex cocked and eyebrow and Henry laughed and then they were kissing and kissing and time wasn’t moving. Until Henry’s spine stiffened. 

“We just got papped.” He whispered, still holding Alex close. 

“How do you know?” Alex said, looking around. 

“I could just feel it.” And then Alex spotted the camera, just the other side of the fence. Taken from public land. He groaned, thinking already of the headlines of them being callous to the crisis. 

“No, no, no,” Alex leaned his Head against Henry’s chest, “they’re going to think we’re celebrating.” 

“What? Our engagement?” Henry clasped Alex’s left hand in his and Alex’s heart skipped a beat. “The life of Justin Trudeau? I make sure to celebrate that regularly. He’s a jewel of the Realm, you know.” Grinning, Henry fit his mouth to Alex’s. 

Chapter Text

To make up for their lack of White House Trio Balls Out Bonanza, June, Nora, and Alex decided to throw a Halloween Party. The cause was a generic environmental charity—the kind not too political for Henry to officially endorse, nor too closely connected to him to look inappropriate. The theme: anything but clothes. 

Alex desperately wanted them to dress up as American revolutionaries—I can be Alexander Hamilton and you can be a colonizer! We’ll both honor our heritage! But had been soundly overruled by Nora’s protest that it was not, at all, on theme. 

Nora wore a dress made out of trash picked up from beaches: Alex had expected it to look like sewn together plastic water bottles, but it was in fact, fucking fabric. 

“You’re cheating! That is clothes!” Alex whined as they all got dressed in The White House Glam room. Henry was insisting on keeping his outfit a surprise and was getting ready at a hotel with Pez and Bea. Though the sanctioned name for the entire group was ‘Super Six,’ Alex preferred the one TMZ had been using of-late: White House Trio Plus Rich Brits. Alex enjoyed the little digs at the absurdity of Henry and Pez’s lives—and his own. They made him feel like he could actually understand the enormity of his own life. And they reminded him that none of this was normal. 

June was wearing a sort of dress-thing made out of rainbow paint swatches, with shoes that she insisted were genuinely made of cardboard, but managed to look runway chic. Alex was wearing a skirt and vest set make out of newspaper—everyone agreed paper pants were just simply a no-go. He worried slightly about what would happen once he started sweating, but also figured worst-case he’d retire early with Henry…suddenly with no clothes on!

When Pez, Henry, and Beatrice showed up in nothing but strategically placed caution-tape, Alex genuinely almost blacked out. He leaned so far over that Cash had to catch him, grinning wildly. 

“Baby.” Alex’s mouth and eyes were impossibly dry, but he managed to pull Henry close—not close enough—and whisper “we are gonna have the best fucking sex of our lives tonight.” Henry successfully restrained a blush, and gave a satisfied smirk. June, for her part, seemed to feel the same way: she was practically melting into Nora’s arms and sort of stammering while gesturing to Pez. He closed the distance and took her by the waist, sandwiching her in a kiss, Nora’s face at her shoulder, biting her lip. When Pez broke the kiss and looked at Nora that way, Alex decided he didn’t want to see anymore. He loved that they were in love and if he wanted to kiss his boyfriend openly why shouldn’t they? His fiancée, Alex reminded himself. 

The party was a roaring success. Reality TV stars, pop icons, drag queens, congressional staffers, the place was packed and the music was thumping and Alex was pretty sure his mother was going to have a headache in the morning, but he so did not care. As he always was, Alex was infatuated with Henry. He stared at every inch of exposed skin. His strong thighs almost glowing in the strobe lights, the dusting of strawberry-blond chest hair unmistakable against the bright yellow. The way his nipple peaked out when he raised his arm…Alex thought he might be making those embarrassing, involuntary moans, but he couldn’t even hear himself, so he didn’t actually care. 

“Darling,” Henry drawled, pulled Alex close, close against him to shout in his ear. Alex had definitely moaned, but it didn’t matter at all. Except that it did matter, because he could feel his hardness between them. He could feel Henry’s jockstrap shifting beneath the layers of smooth plastic, trapped between them. 

“I think we should go to bed.” 

“Yes, yes, uh, mmm, yeah.” Alex wasn’t even that drunk—in fact, he wasn’t drunk at all, because he was determined to remember this night in vivid detail for the rest of his life. He seemed to want that more and more these days. Less drunk, more proper brain functioning. Alex made to turn and pull Henry away, but Henry put a hand on his ass—nearly up his skirt—and held him close. 

“Darling.” Henry laughed he said it, the same sort of choked, desperate laugh he sometimes let out when he came, and Alex understood his meaning. Ooops. The front of Alex’s paper skirt was not hiding a damn thing. Probably, Alex had been leaking on and off all night, but he hadn’t noticed it until he noticed it. 

Strategically hugging, Alex and Henry shuffled their way to the doors of the ballroom, where they made out desperately against the bar until June came over, screeching. 

“Get a room!” She threw her cocktail napkin at Alex, arm slung around Pez’s neck. It was obscene: Alex was hitching his thigh around Henry, who was kissing his neck and crumping—and probably ripping— his outfit. And Pez was kissing the side of June’s neck and her eyes were fluttering closed. And as always, Nora was just behind. And then Bea yelled at them from the other end of the bar, where she was sucking on a lime. 

“Get out of here! I’ll keep them entertained.” She gestured to the party-goers and Alex yanked Henry out of the room, up the stairs, and threw him onto the bed. As it turned out, the caution tape was more secure than Alex had anticipated. It didn’t rip, it couldn’t be untied, it was wrapped and wrapped and wrapped with no fucking end in sight. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you. I’m gonna fucking die. I can’t believe this is happening to me.” Henry seemed extremely amused by Alex’s desperate pleas, but provided no assistance as Alex struggled in vain to free him. Alex was moments from fucking Henry in the caution tape or else passing out (there was clearly, genuinely, no blood at all left in his head) when Henry threw his head back in laughter and produced a pair of blunted scissors from his shaving kit. 

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Alex muttered over and over again as he unraveled Henry—from the outside and the inside. 

Knuckle-deep in his fiancée, Alex’s hands shook as he pulled out a condom, hitching up Henry’s knee further. Henry dragged his lip through his teeth and let his mouth fall open in a flithy ‘o.’ Alex grabbed Henry’s thigh, taking a moment to steady himself as his vision wavered. 

“Fuck, baby.” Henry moaned as his eyes rolled back in his head. Alex’s entire body was pounding, his breath ragged as he thrust over and over into Henry. When Alex came, an impossibly short time later, he did so with his entire weight pressing Henry into the mattress, soft strong pale thighs pressing into his waist, lips pressed to his earlobe. 

A fucking wonder, a fucking vision, Henry pushed Alex off of him with a surprising burst of strength, climbing atop him and grabbing onto the headboard with one hand, stroking himself with the other. Alex couldn’t believe the beauty at the sight of Henry shamelessly chasing his own pleasure. 

No fucking way. This is not real. This is a dream. This is the worst dream I’ve ever had. This is the best dream I’ve ever had. 

It was a kind of blissful torture. 

Alex couldn’t help but think of the White House Ghosts watching them. Reagan rolling in his grave, the Marquis de Lafayette applauding, Kennedy watching with a kind of stunned horror. And so, when Henry came with a shuddering gasp and his trademark laugh, Alex laughed too, catching some in his mouth as Henry rode out his orgasm, clutching the headboard for dear life. 

As Henry kissed his sweaty cheek and pulled the covers over them, Alex had the fleeting thought to worry if they had been loud. Yeah, he figured, they had been fucking loud. Oh. Fucking. Well. Let the whole world know he was fucking the Prince of England in his bedroom on the third floor of the White House. He did hope, sheepishly, that June had been too otherwise distracted to hear, but pushed the thought away easily as he curled around Henry, desperate to preserve the impossible closeness for even a moment longer. 

Not even a month later, Alex found himself back in his old bedroom once again—except he wasn’t in his own room, he was back in the West Bedroom. Because, once again, the ridiculous precedent he set demanded the East Bedroom for the Housing of the Turkeys. Buttercup and Bluebell, which Alex thinks are weird names for turkeys, but then again wasn't this whole thing pretty fucking weird? And so Alex Claremont-Diaz found himself sleeping on June’s floor. Or rather, he was supposed to be sleeping on June’s floor. 

Instead, he ended up sleeping in her bed with her. And neither of them cared, at all. Alex couldn't remember they last time they'd done this, but it felt good just to be close to his sister again. To know that she’s right there and neither of them can possibly be alone. It also feels, in a way, healing. As if they are reclaiming some of the childhood they gave up—that was given up for them—when they became public figures. 

Oscar was in the Lincoln Bedroom, and the verifiable whole clan would be there for the Turkey Pardoning. Turkey Pardoning. Ellen has been more lax about being photographed with her ex-husband now that there’s no campaign on the line. Now that, expectedly, the race has gone to the republican nominee, Mr.BlandyChristianConservative. The Democrats did however manage to maintain a slim majority in both the House and Senate. And Ellen is, undeniably, happy. She doesn’t make a secret around her family that she is excited to leave the White House. She’s tired, they can all see it; hell, the whole nation can see it. 

“I’m in the twilight of my career, Oscar, and it is sweet.” She laughed as Leo pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

Sometime during her second term, she stopped dyeing her hair, leading to column after column about presidential aging. She seemed to get a small kick out of it, everyone acting as if her hair had suddenly gone gray overnight, nearly all the so-called journalists unaware it had been a dye-job to start. She had more wrinkles and more sun spots and the lines around her mouth had deepened, but her eyes were the same, her jaw still strong and square. Her back rigidly straight and her legs toned and tanned. Her legs were—as they had always been—the topic of legend whenever they were photographed. (Mostly, of course, they weren’t. But when she wore the occasional knee-skimming dress or crossed her knees in a skirt, it made headlines. The frenzy almost rivals Michelle Obama's arms. Almost.)

Oscar, on the other hand, was wound unbelievably tight. About unpredicted upsets in primaries, about pending legislation for the new Congress, about committee assignments and caucuses. And, of course, about Alex’s wedding. Out of all of them, Oscar in fact seemed the most invested (Henry undoubtedly topped him, but Henry was away in London on business). It was touching, how he grilled Alex on the details of the ceremony and fretted about planning concerns. 

“Pa, do you just want me to just give you the number of the wedding planner?” 

“You know what, why don’t you give it to me just in case I need it.” Alex laughed, but obliged. 

“Oh yeah. Also, will you, like, walk me down the aisle? With Mom? Not as like a patriarchal ownership thing, just like as my parents. Supporting me in my marriage and stuff.” Oscar genuinely cried then, something so unexpected it took all of them by surprise. 

“Of course mijo, of course.” Alex glanced sideways at June, who was stifling a laugh. Their father was becoming…hysterical. Alex wondered if he would have been this way if Alex was marrying a woman, or if it were June’s wedding, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. His father was beside himself with joy for Alex, so full of hopes and worries that it spilled out into tears. After Oscar caught his breath, he excused himself. 

“Alex?” June finally asked when the father was out of earshot. 

“Yeah?”

“Have you um seen this?” Gingerly, June passed her phone to Alex. It was…an essay? An opinion piece? He didn’t recognize the website but it looked sleek and academic. The Great Fall of Alex Claremont-Diaz. Whatever. But as Alex kept reading, he could see it was much more than the hastily slapped together think pieces about how his queerness had ruined his political prospects. (It wasn’t his queerness of course, it was Henry. His epic, undeniable love for Henry that had changed his whole life.)

“What is this? Where was this even published?” 

“It's a literary magazine. The New York Book Review.”

“A literary magazine?”

“Yeah. And it’s like…making the rounds. I just thought you should know. You really don’t have to read it, I can summarize for you.”

“No, no. Lemme read it.” 

It was brutal. An evisceration of him and his character that was excessively personal, disguising itself as simultaneously caring and objective. A case study. A psycho-analysis. A deep-dive on the collapse of his parents’ marriage, Alex’s revelations about his family from the Waterloo Letters; a complex-but-not-wholly-inaccurate portrait of a biracial American trying desperately to perform heterosexuality. The author referenced Alex like a prop or fictional character, not a real person. It disturbed Alex in a way these types of articles usually didn’t. It painted Henry out to be this sort of villain who’d finally been the straw that broke Alex away from politics, but it also painted nearly everyone else in his life as villains: Ellen was a cold, calculating professional who only had children for her image, and who used and manipulated Alex and his relationship with Nora for all it was worth. And in all of this, Alex was some helpless victim. A damsel in distress waiting desperately to be saved. The parts that hit the nail on the head however, and the subsequent uncanny valley they threw the whole piece into made his heart race. 

“This is crazy.” Alex handed June’s phone back, shaking his head. 

“Yeah. It’s totally over the line. The author’s catching major heat for it but of course that's only circulating it more.”

“It’s weird for people to talk about me like that, right?”

“Yeah. It’s weird.” Okay, just checking. 

“Freedom of speech, I guess.” Alex shrugged. 

“Hey, be careful, okay?” Alex looked up at his sister but didn’t say anything. “This is an American lit critic with too much time on her hands and a weird fascination with you, but the British tabloids? They’re wild. They’re infamously mean and intrusive and ruthless and reckless.”

“Bug—"

“Don’t call me that.”

“June. I’m going to be fine. I’ve been in the British tabloids before and besides, I don’t think they’re going to be able to get much out of me while I'm inside The Queen’s Estate. That place is gonna be crawling with PPOs who could disappear someone into the Channel at 11 and still be on time to lunch.” June gave a half-nod and looked to the floor. She left a long pause before speaking again. 

“Alex? Why didn’t you…ask me to be your groomswoman?” Alex was taken aback. 

“Oh. Because I thought that was a given. You and Nora are going to be my groomswomen. Obviously. We’re going to call you attendants though, okay? And you’re going to have to come to England ahead of time and make nice with fucking Philip and—,”

June threw her arms around Alex’s neck and began crying—less hysterically than Oscar, but with the same absurd intensity. 

Chapter Text

Cash flew to London with Henry and Alex, but as soon as Alex is safely in the custody of the Met police, he got on a commercial flight back. Alex gave him a fist bump and fell asleep in the car almost as soon as they left the airport. 

“Love. We’re here.” Alex whined until Henry picked him up and carried him inside. Wrapped up in each other, Alex thinks there can’t possibly be anything more magical than this moment: his Prince Charming carrying him into a Palace and depositing him on the four-poster bed. Alex had every intention of making sweet, fairytale love to his fiancé, but by the time Henry brushed his teeth, Alex was Sleeping Beauty.

“Henry, Alex,” the next morning, Philip beckoned them over with uncharacteristic warmth. “Meet Victoria.”

“Tori, we’re calling her.” Martha looked up from the swaddled bundle in her arms. Henry quickly sat down on the opposite side of Martha and Alex hovered awkwardly by the arm of the sofa in the parlor adjacent to the dining room. 

“Awww, hello there. Hi, Tori, hi.” Henry cooed at the tiny baby, a different kind of warmth and softness overtaking him. Alex stared in awe at Victoria’s wide blue eyes and her milky skin. He felt momentarily embarrassed for his past feelings of disinterest in his soon-to-be niece. It’s easier to scoff at and place institutional frustration on a hypothetical baby rather than an actual infant in front of you. Martha and Philip exchanged the smallest of glances before Martha, seemingly reluctantly, handed her first born baby to her brother-in-law. Henry took her with gentle care, standing up slowly and beginning to narrate. 

“I’m your uncle Henry. I’m your uncle, sweet darling.” Alex felt weak in the knees, like his whole world was melting and shifting. Which, of course, it was. He’d never seen Henry hold a baby before. Or, maybe he had, but only in pictures. And not a baby Henry really knew, really cared for. Alex marveled at how filled with love Henry seemed to be for Tori, even though he had only met her moments ago. He recalled dimly, that Henry had said Philip hated children, but Alex literally could not comprehend hating this perfect infant in front of him. 

“And this is going to be your uncle Alex, yes, yes it is.” It took Alex a moment to realize Henry was talking about him. He wondered if Philip and Martha had a reaction to that statement but was quickly cut off by Henry trying to hand him the baby. 

“I, oh, I—I’ve never held a baby before.” Alex whispered, suddenly panicked. 

“It’s not so hard,” Henry whispered back. And then, in an even lower voice, “you should get some practice.” Alex swallowed, somewhat astounded he was still standing, as Henry  gestured to the sofa and started to arrange his arms to receive the baby. Alex was aware of his proximity to Martha—quite possibly the closest he’d ever been to her and certainly the closest since he’d famously ruined her wedding—but was unable to take his eyes off Henry. The beautiful warmth in his cheeks, the relaxed attention between his brows, the growing love in his eyes—it was enchanting. And then Victoria wiggled and made a small noise and Alex snapped his attention to her. But, to his surprise, she didn’t seem to be upset or crying. Just…wiggly. 

“Oh,” Martha let out a sort of giggle. “I think she’s erm—,”

“I’ll take her.” Philip offered quickly, reaching for his daughter and carrying her swiftly out of the room. To change her diaper, Alex realized far too late. Henry gave a slightly puzzled look to Martha. 

“Our nanny’s on holiday. We figured we’d have enough help, you know, for Christmas.” Alex had rarely heard Martha speak and he realized her voice was both higher and harsher than he’d expected. She didn’t speak in any of the variations of aristocratic speech the rest of Henry’s family members used. Alex suddenly had the thought that he had no idea where Martha was from. Come to think of it, he didn’t know much of anything about Martha besides who she was married to. Bad feminist, Alex, bad. 

Alex didn’t have time to inquire about Martha’s personhood because then they were being beckoned into the sun-washed breakfast room. Henry greeted his mother and sister with a hug, but everyone rose and bowed their heads when the Queen entered the dining room. Mercifully, Alex was seated as far away from her as possible. Queen Mary spoke sparingly during the meal, offering Martha and Philip glowing smiles. Alex gave Henry a desperate plea for death when they brought out blood pudding, but Beatrice gamely demonstrated a smear and hide-in-the-napkin technique for making the plate appear respectfully tasted. 

After breakfast, they all stayed seated for what was perhaps one of the strangest things Alex had ever witnessed: Princess Victoria was presented to Queen Mary. She’d been “debuted” to the public and met by the Queen at her baptism, but apparently this was Queen Mary’s idea of visiting with her great-grandchild.

A footman brought Tori, fatherly elaborate dressed for a baby, to Martha, who then displayed an impressive feat of curtseying while holding a baby in her arms. Queen Mary nodded and Martha approached, holding Tori to the side of Queen Mary’s chair. 

“Ah, yes, very nice. Hello. Victoria.” She looked down and gave a polite smile and for a moment Alex thought she might be about to try to shake Tori’s hand. 

“Let me see her at the window.” And then they repeated the whole process, this time with Queen Mary standing at the window. It was the most bizarre sort of performance and Alex kept having the urge to look around for where the audience was. 

“Good to see you. You can go now.” Alex wasn’t even sure if she meant the baby, Martha, or everyone. 

“Babe. I don’t know if I can do this for two weeks,” Alex paced the generous guest room in his royally-issued pajamas. 

“C’mon. Ish not ‘at bad.” Henry peaked out of the adjoined bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth. 

“You gotta get me some food. Like, I’m gonna need to eat granola bars before meals or get pizza or takeaway or something.” Alex heard the water running and the clink of Henry’s toothbrush being set down. 

“Anything, love. Just say the word. We do it all the time.”

“You do?” Alex threw his hands down dramatically as he stood in the middle of the room. 

“Yes. The kitchen will make you anything and bring it to your room before dinner. Nobody cares if you don’t actually eat the meal, you just have to sit at the table and act polite.” 

Alex pouted and cocked his head, staring at the bathroom doorway, raking his eyes over Henry in his stupid plaid pajama set. And without meaning to, Alex realized he was biting his lip. The corner of Henry’s mouth crimped in that way and something dangerous flashed in Alex’s eyes. 

“I suppose…I could be convinced to stay.”

“Oh, you could, could you? And what, exactly, would do the convincing?” 

“Well…you know I love fucking a prince in a Palace.” Alex’s fingers played at the collar of his shirt, pressing into his collarbone. 

“It’s not a Palace.” Henry muttered as he closed the distance between their lips, pulling Alex by the collar of his pajama top. Alex sighed and draped his arms around Henry’s neck. Henry walked them backwards towards the bed, his nimble fingers working on Alex’s buttons. Just as they reached the bed, Henry undid the final button and let the shirt slide off Alex’s shoulders. There was something about the way Henry undressed him like this that made Alex feel utterly beautiful. Like he was a deeply valuable thing to be cherished and explored. As they fell to the bed, he slipped his hands under Henry’s waistband. Henry crawled on top of Alex, pressing their hips together and moaning freely into the kiss. 

“How sound proof is this place?” Alex asked as Henry began kissing his neck. As the movements of their hips grinding together intensified, Alex felt his heart rate quicken. 

“Dunno…never checked.” Henry’s reckless abandon sent a spark of heat into the room. Alex was desperate to taste Henry but Henry was equally as ravenous. They scrabbled for several rounds of a sexy wrestling match at the end of which they were both naked. With Henry’s leg swung over Alex’s shoulder, his toes pushing at the headboard, Alex pressed gentle kisses to the inside of his thigh. Henry felt a shiver run down his spine as he kissed Alex’s abdomen sloppily. Alex licked his lips and murmured “love you” to Henry’s cock as he ran his tongue over it. Henry bit the inside of his cheek and then started mouthing at Alex’s hip, shifting for leverage as he stroked Alex slowly. Alex moaned around Henry’s cock and Henry squeezed harder, releasing Alex’s cock only to spit on his hand and adjust his grip. 

“Mmmmm…” Alex bent his body and flattened his hips, opening himself for Henry’s mouth. Henry pounced, moving to bracket Alex’s hips and taking him to the hilt in one go, pressing his goddamn royal nose into the patch of dark hair, inhaling every moment of pleasure. 

“Fuck.” Alex’s head fell back on the pillow as Henry’s long finger pinned him to the bed. Propping himself up on one elbow, Alex grabbed Henry’s ass and starting suckling his balls. Now, it was Henry’s turn to moan around Alex’s cock, hands splaying as Alex’s mouth made a small pop. Chest heaving, Henry bobbed up and down as Alex started eating him out, all blunt fingers and wet tongues and whispered caresses. 

They egged each other on with slurping noises and strands of spit and moans and choking cries of pleasure until Alex couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Get up here, Wales.” Alex yanked Henry up by the hair and pressed him into a filthy kiss, both of their faces wet with spit. Their tongues battled for a few minutes, each seeking the vestiges of that taste they were so desperate for. Henry pressed his body against Alex’s side, his hands never stopping for a moment. 

“H—How do you want me?” Alex ripped his mouth away from Henry’s, gasping desperately, his chest heaving. 

“Oh Alex…in every way and in every lifetime. Now, later, the shower, New York, Los Angeles, desperately, against a wall, in the street. In my mouth, in my bed, here, always, from behind and—,”

“Shut up,” Alex interrupted, propping himself up on his elbow. Henry looked momentarily taken aback, as if he hadn’t actually expected Alex to hear him, much less respond. Alex was working on a theory that Henry’s love words were mostly an externalization of internal monologue, not actually an attempt to communicate. “I said,” Alex leaned in close, hovering over Henry’s face as he brought his lips to brush Henry’s ear, “I want to fuck a prince.” Henry moaned and his eyes rolled back. Alex smiled to himself and shoved Henry’s face into the pillow, grabbing the lube and a condom and pushing Henry’s legs apart. 

And fuck a prince he did, coming with Henry pressed into the mattress, moaning quietly into the pillow as Alex pinned his hands to the bed. Alex gasped and gasped and kissed the side on Henry’s face and his ear and whatever skin he could reach. And to his credit, Alex was fully ready and willing to suck Henry off after, but he found, with a satisfied chuckle, that that was quite unnecessary. 

“Babe. That was so hot,” Henry kissed him hungrily as he scooted away from his own wet spot. 

“Fuck, we made such a mess.” Alex chuckled. 

“I have servants.” They both laughed and kissed and cuddled and blissed into sleep, sticky and filthy in the Queen of England’s sheets. 

Chapter Text

To Alex’s surprise, the remainder of his stay in Sandringham House passed rather painlessly. The dinner’s dragged on and on, but Alex manages with snacks and chats with Catherine and jokes with Bea. And when all else fails, Alex spent his quiet moments composing love letters to Henry, which usually devolve into filthy fantasies and plans for the moment they’re alone. 

One evening, a few days before Christmas, Queen Mary makes a point of asking Catherine all about the Royal Tour she undertook in her mother’s place. It’s a conversation as strange and performative as ever, but there’s a note of something else. Either Queen Mary is doing this in front of everyone just for appearances (quite likely) or because Catherine hasn’t been speaking to her in private (intriguing and also quite likely). Alex is considering asking Nora to run the numbers of that one when Queen Mary suddenly addresses Henry. 

“Henry, dear?”

“Yes, Gran?” Henry’s hand clenched around his knife, throat tight. 

“I was wondering if you might play as part of my Christmas broadcast.” It took Alex several minutes to catch up to her meaning: play piano on the Queen’s nationally-broadcast Christmas speech. Henry’s eyes flicked to Bea.

“Sure. Yes…what would you have in mind?”

“Oh, I’m sure we can find something suitable in your repertoire. Beatrice sang that lovely tribute, maybe the two of you can select something.” Alex narrowed his eyes, suspicious. But seemingly, it was an olive branch. Henry and Bea agreed and the room lapsed back into tinkling crystal and clipped compliments. 

Late that night, after the official family portraits have been taken, Alex leans on the doorframe, watching Henry practice in the Grand Receiving Room—which is made up for photos and broadcasts, but never used. Henry looked over as Alex sighed softly, his long fingers dancing on the ivory keys. 

“What?”

“Nothing. I just love you. You’re just amazing.” Alex slides onto the bench next to Henry and he closes the lid on the keyboard. 

“Did they show you the portraits?”

“No,not yet.”

“Here.” Henry reaches over to the Queen’s desk and picks up a gold frame.

“They framed it already? We took this like twelve hours ago!”

“Why do you think we took them? So she can have them in the background of her speech to the nation.”

“Literally as props in the background? That’s sort of a heavy-handed metaphor, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh.”

But the photo is beautiful: Queen Mary and Catherine center-stage on a settee, Tori balanced on Catherine’s knee. Philip stands slightly behind Martha, who is peering over the edge of the settee at her daughter, one hand—the one with her ginormous engagement ring—holding her hair back. Beatrice ended up with the short end of the stick, standing next to Philip in a beautiful green dress, her fingers touching her oldest brother’s arm gently. And Henry is perfect as ever, all warm smiles as he stands behind his mother, hand—with his own engagement ring—on her shoulder. And at Catherine’s insistence, Alex is standing there next to Henry, one hand in his pocket and gazing over a laughing Tori. 

“She is the center of the universe.” Alex remarked, setting the frame back down again. 

“She’s going to be Queen someday.” Alex groaned. 

“Great, another Queen Victoria. Cuz that went so well the first time.”

As introduced by Queen Victoria (the first), on Christmas Eve they gathered to open presents, all at the long, ornately-decorated dinner table, but without cameras or staff. The standard Sandringham guest advice (there is a pamphlet) holds true: unless you have something truly spectacular, give a book with an annotation or a gag gift. Alex gifted the Queen a photobook of American portraiture, which she thanked him politely for. The Queen presented the women in the room various pieces of priceless jewelry that Alex makes a mental note to run the provenance on later (the odds that none of them were stolen from a colonized nation? Zero). 

There’s a good range of joke gifts: emergency underwear for adults, sandals in the shape of fish, the world’s smallest violin, Shakespearean guide to insults, and a tumbler that says “for Fox sake!” With both an image of a fox and an image of Henry’s Dad on it which did genuinely make everyone laugh. 

There’s the more personal ones: a poem from Henry, a drawing one of the residents of the shelter asked Henry to give to Catherine, a jean-jacket embroidered with little bumble-bees, old records and old books, more than one truly ancient or expensively printed anthology of Shakespeare. And one that’s just in the middle: when Alex unwrapped the smallest package, he found it was a “Field Survival Guide to Shakespeare” from Philip. Surprisingly thoughtful, Alex thanked Philip genuinely before noticing that of the pile of gifts in front of Martha, nearly all were actually baby items for Tori. 

And when the fall into bed that night, everything’s just right. Alex loves the nights like that: when Henry is soft and gentle and adoring and Alex is perfect and beautiful and divine. It’s the kind of sex people write poetry about. The kind they put in movies. Perfectly soft in all the right places, punctuated by gasps and burning kisses. It’s the kind of thing that makes horny romantics invent terms like “the art of love-making.”

But what’s better than the movies, what’s better than the books, is when Alex is pressed flush against Henry with not an inch of space anywhere between them. As close as two humans can be, after birth. When it comes, Alex’s release is bliss, but it’s not white-hot blackout fire in his veins. It’s the sudden bubbling over of everything right and good and everything Henry. They’re quiet this time, all small shuddering sounds and shifting sheets and sliding skin. It’s not a surprise either that Henry comes pinned between Alex and the mattress, kissing Alex all the while, clutching every inch of him in a deranged Koala hug. When they separate, it’s so Alex can get press a kiss to the corner of Henry’s mouth and bring him a damp cloth. 

“Merry Christmas.” Alex gazes at Henry: buck naked, staring at the ceiling with sheets throw down to his ankles, come drying on his chest. Henry sighs contentedly and reaches a hand to comb though Alex’s hair. They gaze and gaze into each other’s eyes until the lines between dream and reality, between sleep and awake, between love and fairy-tale disappear completely. 

On Christmas morning, they all went to Church together and no one burst into flames and really, the service wasn’t even too long. But there were a truly shocking number of photographers. Alex had been clinging to Henry’s hand for dear life, but he flashed his big, bold, Charismatic Politician’s smile and been met with a flurry of flashes. Alex didn’t realize until later, until he’s looking through the press coverage, that their walk to church has been more significant than anyone told him. 

Predictably, though Henry was in a standard camel Burberry coat, his bright orange scarf is far too gay—some outlets use heavy-handed fruit metaphors, and some just say it. Alex in his hunter-green wool pea-coat is selfishly stealing attention and media-hungry, while the Yorks are the picture of perfection: all dressed in coordinating shades of blue and turquoise. 

When June finally called to exchange Merry Christmas between the two continents of Claremont-Diazes, Alex bemoaned the coverage and defended his innocence. 

“I swear, I didn’t even want to wear that stupid coat. Green is not my color.”

“Not, really, no.”

“It was in the pamphlet—did you know there’s a pamphlet? Shaan gave me three options before I left New York: olive trench, black wool with a hideous charters scarf, or this!” At the time, Alex had assumed it was because of the Queen’s strict dress codes and to appease the hordes of designers constantly giving the Palace free product. 

“Shaan, really? I was wondering who orchestrated that.”

“I just do what I’m told,” Shaan interjected from off-screen, presumably celebrating at the White House with Zahra. 

“Orchestrated what? What’re you talking about?”

“Alex. You can’t honestly not have noticed. Princess Catherine in that maroon coat dress? The Queen in purple? Bea in yellow. You guys were literally a rainbow.”

After the phone call, Alex took another look at the pictures and realized June was right. He scrolled and scrolled, seeing if other outlets had picked it up or if it was being spun into a narrative, but curiously, it wasn’t. There were a large proportion of how modern the family is, how nice it is to see baby Victoria, there were even a handful gushing about how in-love Henry and Alex looked and at least one devoted to “every angle of the Prince’s engagement ring we’ve ever seen.” Alex stared at one photo for a long, long time: Queen Mary, walking with a cane in one hand and her eldest daughter on the other. Though the papers largely covered it as a tender mother-daughter moment, Alex had the distinct sensation of watching a soldier escorting a political prisoner as a sign of life. 

Chapter Text

“Let’s paaaarty!!!” Bea exclaimed, spraying non-alcoholic bubbly across the crowd of whooping dancers. 

“Who knew sober bars could be this much fun?” Alex screamed into Henry’s ear, pulling him close. Henry answered him by way of a kiss—short and free and all-consuming. 

The three of them stumbled back to Kensington Palace well after four in the morning, clinging onto each other as if they were shitfaced, drug on adrenaline and serotonin. Bea pushed them away, her heels slung over her index finger. 

“Goodnight my two favorite horn-dogs!” Bea laughed and Alex did too, if for no other reason than she sounded stunningly like Nora. 

The weeks of January passed in variations of that: Alex and Henry attending functions and high-profile parties—a mix of sober-living, LGBT, and Society gatherings. But it’s fun, undeniably fun. Family Meetings on Crown matters with Philip? Distinctly less fun. 

“How’d it go?” Alex asked when Henry returned, scrolling aimlessly through British tabloids. 

“Oof.” Henry sighed deeply, running his hands through his hair and sitting down on a chair opposite Alex. 

“That bad, huh? Philip showed his face?”

“Gran sent an emissary.”

“For real? I thought it was about your Mum’s estate?”

“It was. And that whole business of how I fit into it once I’m married.”

“Oh.” Alex put his phone down and sat up. “So its time for that, huh?”

“Yes, dear, it's time for that.”

“Well? What’s the deal?”

Henry sighed and ran his hands through his hair again, mussing it. “There were a few different options presented. At the root, I take a title or I don’t. If I do, we’ll pretty much have to invent our own rules. Arguably the way the statues are written now, out marriage wouldn’t affect your status at all.” Alex perked up, almost comically, at the mention of statues, visions of himself sifting through the annals of British common law writing his own precedent began immediately. “If we followed traditional protocols, Gran bestows me a dukedom and then the status quo remains, with you untitled.” 

“But if you married a woman she would be a Duchess?”

“If I were a Duke. But I’m not and I don’t know that I want to be. It’s rather colonial, innit? The associated income is supposed to be a perk and Mum says its the Crown’s money anyway and I can just funnel it into the Foundation. And I don’t think I can stand the inequality. I can’t just let the House of Lords pretend you don’t exist. And if I took a title, maybe an Earldom, I dunno, we could have a chance to write out own rules, lead the way for equality. It would obviously be an uphill battle but…”

“But what?” Henry shook his head and Alex narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me, H?” 

Henry considered for a long moment before leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. “Alright. I’m going to tell you something I’ve been explicitly told not to. This is serious.”

“Okay.” Alex nodded, Henry took a deep breath. 

“There is a bill working its way through the House of Lords right now to amend life peerage rules to allow husbands and civil partners to use the titles wives are. And we’re encouraging it.”

“Okay…that’s great.”

“Alex, you sweet American. Admitting we have opinions let alone influence over any legislation or politician is, is—it puts the whole thing at risk.” 

“I mean not really. Your Gran meets with the Prime Minister every week and they 'serve at Her pleasure.’ Do people think they just sit there and talk about the weather? Obviously She has influence.”

“She advises him. They discuss the State of the Realm. She doesn’t…it’s not supposed to work that way. What I mean is, this cannot get out. Credible reports could quite literally tear our democracy apart.” 

“But you’re saying there’s a possibility if you had a title I would get one too.”

“Yes.” They let it hang in the air for a moment. 

“And if you don’t take a title?” Alex questioned earnestly and Henry gave a small smile. 

“We could try to follow the model for women. I retain the title I’ve used my whole life, you remain as you are. Our children remain in the succession but don’t use HRH. There’s a small issue of how I should be styled, since married women are styled HRH Princess, Mrs. Husband, but essentially we could just pretend I’m a Princess.”

“You are a Princess,” Alex smiled and Henry scoffed. 

“Darling, you’re the Princess in this relationship and everyone knows it.”

“Says Mr. Pillow Princess himself.”

“I am not a pillow princess.”

“No, you’re not, you’re a service bottom.”

“I…how did we get to talking about this?”

“I believe we were settling the issue of gay princes and what to do with their stupid American boyfriends and hypothetical children born into sin.”

“Ah yes. So…that?” Alex shrugged. 

“I don’t want a title. And the Foundation doesn’t need a dukedom for money. We’re a fucking fundraising machine.”

“And you’re fine with that? I don’t want you to feel slighted because of your gender.”

“That wouldn’t be very feminist, no. Are you good with are kids not being HRH?” Then it was Henry’s turn to shrug. 

“Yes. It hasn’t really done me any favors. I can’t help thinking it’s giving in too the bigots, though. See? His kids aren’t as good as the rest.”

“No one is going to think that.” 

“Promise?”

“I will personally have anyone who says that disappeared by the CIA.” Henry threw his head back and laughed. And just like that, the thing dozens of people had been anguishing over for months, solved by a simple conversation. 

No one is going to think that. Alex knew he was lying, partially. The truth: people are going to think that regardless. Alex was painfully aware of how critical the media would be of their future children, no matter how, when, where, or what they did. It gave him a sinking pit to think about, but that pit was lifted instantly by the greedy, longing desire to be a Dad, to see Henry blossom into fatherhood. As Alex lied in bed, squeezed himself in and out of cars, and wasted sleepless nights, he realized June had been right. The British press were ruthless. With Alex’s extended presence in London, they became rabid, clinging to any photo that even purports to be of the FSOTUS. And more than the constant photos, there are constant headlines, attacking, speculating, and eviscerating Alex. 

ALEX IS A BRAT—FSTOUS nearly kicked out of Palace over fit.

FASHION FAUX-PAUX: Alex wears naughty socks in public, breaks MAJOR Royal protocol.

TRYING TOO HARD! Bratty Ally poses for obvious publicity-stunt at Costa Coffee.

OBSESSED—why can’t Alex and Henry keep their hands off each other?

IS PRINCE ALEX HERE TO TAKE HENRY AWAY?

FIRST-PRICK! See what Palace insiders are saying about the engaged couple. 

F-SOB-OTUS INVADES BRITIAN! 

(Invades, really? Could they get closer to printing slurs?)

Yes, as it turns out. On more that one occasion, Alex catches Shaan on the phone having stern words with an editor or two about hate speech and gag orders. 

“You have to hire a publicist,” He finally told them, typing frantically on his phone. 

“I have a publicist,” they both replied. 

“No,” Shaan points at Henry, “your family has a publicist. And your mother has a publicist.”

“She has three,” Alex deadpanned. 

The headlines don’t let up. In fact, they seem to worsen the more time Alex spends in England. 

DIAZ DAYS—‘Princess’ Alex and his Palace of Madness 

Who wears the pants in Prince Henry’s relationship? 

Yawn, they might as well have printed ‘which one d’ya think takes it up the arse?’

WATERLOO LETTERS PT. 2? Prince Henry seen looking worried at Kensington Palace. 

FOOD’S NO GOOD HERE! Alex rejects London restaurants as he bemoans missing ‘Mexican food’ on instagram

ALEX-PLOSION! “If it had to be a bloke, did it have to be him?” —Prince Philip to brother Henry

It wasn’t lost on Alex that the tabloids were coming up with more creative ways to bring up his race, to remind people that he was a foreigner. The few times he glimpsed actual print editions, he could have sworn the photos of him had been edited to make his skin darker. But maybe he was just paranoid. Regardless, he can’t stop looking. Every google alert excites a sick kind of curiosity. He’s got to know what he’s up against, Alex tells himself. 

There’s the typical run of not-quite right fashion choices: pants too short, pants too tight, jacket too large, too casual, too formal, too fruity, tie too short, shoes scuffed. After photos of him crying at memorial for victims of a school shooting (the pictures were months old, and in the US they’d largely been met with praise and sympathy—“Alex Claremont-Diaz and the Grief of Our Generation”) send mags flying off the shelves, new venom gets injected into dissecting Alex’s past, rehashing old dirt and picking healed scabs:

Broken Home, Broken Engagement: what does Alex possibly know about love? 

IS ALEX STILL IN LOVE WITH EX? Rumors are swirling after recounts resurfaced of Alexander Claremont-Diaz’s tumultuous relationship with Nora Holleran—but is she on the guest list for the WEDDING? 

POWDER PRINCESS AND POWER BOTTOM?

That had been the one to finally make Alex turn off his google alerts. 

Finally, near the close of their London residency, Alex and Henry had agreed to meet with a ‘spin doctor,’ if for no other reason than to get some insight into the relentless bombardment they’d been subject to. She wasn’t nearly as scary or witchy as Alex expected. She also wasn’t anything like the publicists Alex had met before. 

Linda was a tall, shrewd middle-aged woman with red talons for fingernails, terrible teeth, and an abrasive accent. Her knowledge of the depths of “newsroom” politics and seeming access to every editor’s personal phone number sold them. As Linda laid out the plan to turn the tides—or at lease tamp down the torrent—Alex realized she reminded him of a politician. A majority whip meeting in back rooms with staffers of freshmen congresspeople, seeing nominees in chambers, playing 10 different games at once. 

Step One of Linda’s plan—or really, step 296, but the first step Alex and Henry need to action—was to make nice with the Yorks.

Chapter Text

“So how have things been at work?” Henry asked casually, exposed forearms picking up and then setting down his wine glass. 

Philip shrugged, cutting his food. “You know, same old same old. Though I must admit—“He half laughed and gestured with a fork full of food at Henry, “I’ve definitely had a bit of slack to pick up, what with you doing this whole dandy thing.” Philip laughed at his own joke. Martha’s eyes flitted to Henry. Henry’s jaw tightened as he swallowed. Alex exploded.

“Don’t talk to him like that!” Alex slammed his hand, his voice ringing like a bell.

“Alex…” Henry closed his eyes briefly. 

“No, no! I can’t take it anymore. You can’t keep doing this.” Henry looked at Alex, Alex looked at Philip, and Martha looked away. “No more slurs or name calling or digs or attacks on manhood—mine or his.” Alex expected Philip to say it was just a joke and to lighten up. But Philip had dropped the act. The last few years, Philip had been mostly pretending to place nice. He pretended he was okay with the engagement, pretended he’d gotten all enlightened. But it had never just been about that. Philip’s cruelty towards Henry wasn’t just because he was bigoted or misinformed or a victim of stoicism. Alex set his jaw and leaned back in his chair. 

“Get with the program or get out.” Alex’s voice was below a speaking volume, but it cut through the silence like a knife. 

“Get out?” Philip laughed boisterously and also leaned back in his chair, mirroring Alex's stance. “This is my house. This is my country.” Philip spread his arms in an abbreviated grand gesture. 

“Get with the program or get out of our life.” Alex growled.

“Alex!” Henry exclaimed, stunned. 

“No, I’m serious. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t…I just…I’m done.” Alex stood up quickly, his chair squeaking loudly. Martha winced. “Thanks for dinner…Your Highness.” Alex inclined his head in a bow, turned on his heel, and swept out of the room. 

Henry caught up to him halfway down the drive. 

“Alex!” He called. “What the fuck?” Alex raked his hands through his hair and rubbed his face, walking in a tight circle. 

“I—I’m sorry, H. I’m sorry. I’ll—I can—I can’t apologize to him right now, I really can’t. I just couldn’t stand it anymore.” 

“I know how you feel Alex, but he’s my brother—you can’t just…” but Henry trailed off. His desire to defend Philip was minimal at the very best of times. 

“Henry, I can’t have him around our kids. Not if he’s going to act like that—I won’t…I won’t have anyone in our children’s life whose going to denigrate our family. Who’s going to…insult you over and over and over again. Put you down just because he can. I can’t…” Alex trailed off, voice choking. Henry sighed and softened. He closed the distance between the two of them and wrapped his arms around Alex. 

“You’re right. You’re…I know.” Henry held Alex’s head, ran his fingers through his hair. He looked out over the York estate. Suddenly, Henry became very aware of the open landscape, the indefensibility of their position. “Let’s go.” Henry whispered to Alex. Two grumpy PPO’s were sitting in the car. They didn’t ask as Henry and Alex climbed in to the backseat. Only the subtle whooshing of the wind on the country roads spoke for a long moment. 

“I don’t want a feud between us. I don’t want us to be enemies. I don’t want to take another family member from you. I want Victoria to know her cousins.”Alex said to his hands. “But I also want your brother not to make me feel like I’m dying watching you in pain.”

“I’m not…”

“You’re a different person around him, H. Even after all these years…he still…he still…” Alex crumbled into tears. In the past 5 years, he’d made a lot of peace with Henry’s family trauma. The Firm, the closet, the duty, all of it. But to see the way Philip could shrink Henry back into the person he’d been made to pretend to be for over two decades broke Alex. Each and every time. He kept thinking it would get easier. They would get older. Philip would read a goddamn book. Henry would be so healed he would be impervious to his brother’s denigration. Or simply that Alex would get used to it. He’d be able to compartmentalize, the way Henry himself seemed to do. But Alex couldn’t do that. He felt selfish and small, weeping into his lap in the backseat of a car driving away from Henry’s only brother’s house. 

Back in Henry’s Kensington apartments, they paced in weary silence for serval minutes before Henry finally spoke, standing dead-still in the middle of the kitchen. 

“I love him. And sometimes I don’t really know why. But I do. He’s my brother. And I’m always hoping he’ll…be different in the future. I’m always hoping there’s better days ahead. And I learned that from you, Alex. Before us…I never believed in a future any different from the present. Not really, anyway. And if it were just for me, I think I might keep on doing it forever. Waiting for Philip to change. Hoping we’ll be older and wiser and happier. But I can’t ask you to keep waiting. And I won’t let our children spend their precious lives waiting, either.” Alex was overwhelmed with a feeling of regret. 

“I’m not asking you to go not contact, I just…” but wasn’t he? Wasn’t he asking Henry to give up any sort of relationship with his only brother? How could Henry have a relationship with Philip if Alex wasn’t willing to? If Alex wasn’t willing to let their children around Philip? “I don’t know. I’m sorry I caused a scene.”

“Are you?” Alex snapped up. He hadn’t been expecting that. 

“Yes. I am.” Henry scoffed and shook his head. 

“No, you’re not. And that’s fine. But don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—,”

“You are! You’re telling me you’re sorry and that you didn’t mean to but you always do. You always pick a fight with Philip. You always make a scene. You never talk to me first. Literally from Day One. From the day all of this started.” Alex took a step backward, stumbling. 

“I…from the day all of this started?” Alex’s voice broke as he said it, but Henry was too mad to hear. Alex was reeling, replaying the words over and over in his mind, trying to figure out how they had gotten here. Without thinking, he turned away from Henry and the next thing he knew he was running and crying. But he wasn’t crying. He was heaving. No tears were coming out and he felt hot and itchy and embarrassed and cliche.  His feet carried him into his and Henry’s bedroom, which was of course really Henry’s bedroom. Because this was Henry’s house. In Henry’s country. In Henry’s fucking Palace. Alex heaved on the floor until he was too tired to do anything else. He woke up in the morning under a blanket, carpet marks on his cheek, clothes wrinkled, and curled in a ball in Henry’s closet. Oh the fucking irony. 

After he’d showered and gotten himself together again, Alex realized the bed was still made. Nobody had slept in it. Gingerly, he reentered the living room, where he found a blanket and pillow stacked on the corner of the sofa. Henry had slept on the couch then. But curiously, the rest of the apartment was empty. Beatrice’s room was cracked open, but neither her, her brother, or David were anywhere to be found. 

Alex twiddled his thumbs, both literally and metaphorically, for hours. He flipped through TV channels and wondered the various rooms Henry and Bea had been bequeathed. Pretty much all of the time he’d spent in this apartment, he’d either been desperately tearing Henry’s clothes off or else insanely jetlagged. Often both. The place was bigger than he’d thought…he’d also forgotten about the entire two guest bedrooms off the room Beatrice sometimes used as an art studio. Why hadn’t Henry just slept in there? He thought about texting Henry to ask where he was or texting Nora to ask for advice or texting Beatrice to see if they had been kidnapped, but ultimately he felt sore and sulky, so he ended up raiding the kitchen for Jaffa Cakes and watching Call The Midwife reruns. 

“Hey.” Alex startled awake, not even realizing he’d fallen asleep again. 

“Huh? What time is it?” Alex rubbed his eyes and looked around, disoriented. 

“It’s just after noon, sweetheart.” As reality came crashing back over him in a wave, Alex was surprised to hear Henry’s voice so gentle. Wearily, he sat up, eying Henry as seriously as he could while brushing crumbs off his chest. 

“Hello.” Alex muttered, feeling that an interruption from a nap had only increased his sore and sulk levels. Henry waited until the silence got uncomfortable, but Alex didn’t budge. At last, Henry sighed. 

“I’m sorry for what I said last night.” Alex physically restrained himself from reciprocating the apology. He’d tried that once and it had gone very badly. “I wasn’t in a good place.” Henry continued. “But it really wasn’t fair of me to talk to you like that. And…” Henry took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. And what I said. The part…the part about waiting.” Alex took a breath then, relaxing his stare but still biting his tongue. 

“I don’t know why, because of course I hurt so badly when you hurt, but its hard for me to imagine you hurting for me. I just can’t really understand that part. It doesn’t make sense, but I just assume my problems are my problems and they’re about me.”

“They are about you.” A kinder Alex would have added something like ‘and its not fair of me to make them about me, either.’

“But we’re a family. Our problems are joint.” Henry gestured between their chests and Alex felt his resolve soften 10% more. 

“I’ve spent so much time on this Earth waiting. Waiting to tell you I loved you. Waiting to come out. Waiting for my father to die. Waiting for my grandmother to die. Waiting for the world to change. Waiting to announce our engagement. Waiting, waiting, waiting. And I’m ashamed of it, honestly. And I’m ashamed that after all these years and all this therapy I can’t stand up to my brother. And I’m embarrassed to even admit this to you, but Beatrice says I have to.” 10% more down…

“I love you and I’m sorry that I said hurtful things to you and that I didn’t listen to your apology last night. And I’m sorry I didn’t back you up with Philip.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for that. I didn’t expect you to—,”

“I know. But I’m sorry for it. Because I feel badly about it, even if you don’t.” Going, going…

“What did you mean when you said when all of this started?” Alex fought to urge to look away from Henry. Henry took a small breath in. 

“That day…when we fell into that cake. It changed my life. It set in motion a series of events with an absolutely unescapable gravitational pull. Falling in love with you has changed everything for me, Alex.” Gone. 

“Me too.” Alex whispered, before throwing his arms around Henry and squeeing him into a blistering hug. 

“So you still want to get married to me?” Henry laughed, his eyes soft. 

“Of course.” Alex said seriously, taking Henry’s face in his hands. “Hey. I’m serious. I can’t have you thinking I’m gonna get scared off by one little fight, okay? You’re the one who tried to dump me and I’m the one with divorced parents, okay?” Henry rolled his eyes and kissed Alex. After a few moments of gentle, make-up kisses, Henry pulled Alex’s body closer to his, pressing their knees against each other. 

“So, er,” Henry whispered against Alex’s mouth, his hands traveling. “Do you want to have makeup sex now or…,” Henry felt Alex smile against his mouth as Alex’s hands moved under his collar. 

“Thought you’d ever ask.”

Chapter Text

On a windy January day in Washington, D.C., Alex found himself waiting, for the third time in his life, for a Presidential Inauguration. Henry, as always, by his side as an uneasy silence fell over their section of the crowd. They watched diligently as the almost-FLOTUS escorted her army of children onto the balcony. She carried her youngest on her hip, eventually setting him down, where he clung to the hem of her coat as she arranged the rest of her perfect children in a perfect line. Their father—the man of the hour—came out at last, accompanied by his eldest daughter. Despite the fact the literally were, they didn’t feel like Alex’s replacements. They were far too distant, far too removed and poised to ever rival his own family. But there was another feeling in Alex’s body he couldn’t quite identify. The unknowing, more than the actual event, unsettled him.

He had known exactly how this day would go, knew exactly what would happen, and yet it still all felt bittersweet. Alex had been quietly reflecting on his own time in the White House when the soon-to-be (as in, in seconds) First Daughter stepped up to Chief Justice Roberts and held out a Bible. As her father placed his hand on it, Alex made direct eye contact with her. She stared at him, right at him, and for a lingering moment, Alex was frozen to the spot. He watched her neutrally-set face, green eyes framed by strands of blonde hair blowing in the wind, tip of her nose reddened by the chill. And then he blinked and the moment had passed. As Alex listened to the new President’s speech, his feeling from earlier suddenly became clear: indifference. He just didn’t (doesn’t) care about these people, about their perfection or lack thereof.

After the epic disaster of the Richards’ campaign, the GOP swung hard to the other direction (at least, by their own standards). Their candidate talked of hope and the American Dream and the economy and freedom and responsibility and 'rooting for the underdog.' He shrugged away from the staples of migrant panic and abortion-anarchist-antifa-activists (Alex suspected, of course, that his personal beliefs were not so much a departure, just his rhetoric). And his speech was sort of…epically fine. Not inflammatory, mildly inspirational in a general sort of way. The indifference waivered for a moment when Alex realized he sounded not unlike a young Obama. His platform wasn’t the same, but more than a decade and a half after the junior Senator from Illinois inspired a nation into healthcare as a right, it also wasn’t that far off. Alex indulged in a moment of pride, knowing that his family had dragged the Republican ticket (kicking and screaming) into the 21st century. His face must have betrayed something else, because Henry nudged him then and Alex fixed himself back into practiced neutrality. 

It had been agreed, as a show of symbolism and solidarity, Alex, June, Ellen, and Leo would take the Blackhawk to the airport then fly to Texas together. They smiled, mingled, waved, and set off as they’d come in: America’s First Family, through and through. Somehow though, Alex didn’t realize until he was pressed between his mother and the glass, the completeness of the departure. He spotted Amy against a column, her hands clasped in front of her, whispering to Henry in his blue suit, and inexplicably Alex began to cry. And once he started, he just couldn’t stop. By the time they made it to the plane, Alex was spilling his guts. He told his family everything. From meeting Tori and Henry having a seemingly genuine moment with his grandmother to Beatrice and Catherine and the endless meetings and memos about titles and heirs and precedence. The spin doctor. The Christmas clothes, the headlines, the functions. And the disastrous dinner with the Yorks. By the time Alex was finished telling, he was also finished crying. (Or at least, he was nearly finished. Alex sobbed for 20 more minutes in his mother’s arms after he stopped talking.) 

“Oh, baby.” Ellen held Alex fiercely and unquestioningly. Alex was sure he should be embarrassed, but he couldn’t seem to muster that emotion up. He felt June’s hand on his arm and sensed Leo’s presence, rotating his chair to block Alex from view of the security team. When June wiped his face with her sleeve, Alex looked up to find his mother softly crying, too. 

“I’m so sorry, sugar. I’m so sorry.” Alex heard everything she didn’t say then. That she hurt for Henry, too. That she couldn’t offer any advice because there isn’t any advice. More than likely, this has caused a permanent rift in Henry’s family. No. This confrontation didn’t cause the rift, Philip’s homophobia and general dick behavior caused the rift. But this may well have severed the thin strands for good. Alex wished, for the millionth time, that it wasn’t like this. That Henry’s family didn’t come with so much baggage. But, as Alex flew over the country of his birth, one he has visited nearly every corner of, in a private jet with government security and the first female President of the United States, he knew neither of them would be who they are without family baggage. 

In Austin, Alex and June finally went back to their own rooms. When he came downstairs to see Leo in his pajamas brewing coffee, Alex realized with a start that Leo had never lived here, not really. There must have been some overlap, but Alex couldn’t remember for the life of him when it would have been. Mostly, Leo had commuted with Ellen to and from D.C. while she’d been in the House. Was Alex remembering wrong or did he have his own house in Austin back then, too? As it turned out, life as the First Family does not translate so easily into blended-family-of-four-adults. Ellen and Leo like to go to bed early and Ellen sleeps late, threatening to call in favors at the state department if Alex and June don’t keep it down. June gets up early in the mornings to FaceTime Pez and Alex stays up late watching TV and texting Henry. But they managed, with Chinese takeout and family movie nights catching up on 8 years worth of missed movies. 

And of course, they unpacked. Inside the boxed up house, there was more unpacking than Alex could have even fathomed, with the new stuff piled onto the old stuff piled onto the older stuff with the memories all in between. Alex couldn't bring himself to really make an effort of his own room, though. Every time he looked around it and considered any sort of action--decluttering, unpacking, repacking, mailing--something stopped him. Nostalgia or a frightening gap where a memory should have been or a probing question for Henry or worries about the future. At the same time Alex felt so infinitely far away from the teenager who'd lived in this room, he also didn't feel nearly old enough to be moving out of his childhood home for good. He'd moved in and out of this house a lot, but all of those had felt like temporary moves. We’ll be here for a while, until things settle down. Alex realized, with a pang of sadness, that his future was unlikely to bring him back to Texas permanently. Palace spokespeople had been running around issuing and reissuing statement after statement about Henry’s “continuing temporary relocation to New York City to further his charity work,” since their engagement, and Alex had the sinking feeling it wouldn’t last. Would England demand its prince back? 

“You know if you’re old enough to be married you ought to be old enough to throw out your high school lacrosse trophies,” June piped in, as if she could read his mind. 

“You’re one to talk. You have boxes of news clippings of me.”

“Yes, and they’re labeled and catalogued, just waiting to go into the Presidential Library, thank you very much.”

“Are you trying to say I’m too young to get married?” Alex turned over on June’s bed and scrambled to a sitting position. The wheels of her desk chair scraped the floor as she rolled over to him. 

“No. But I do think there’s some stuff you need to sort out between now and then.”

“I already told you my career plan to be a civil rights attorney consulting at the Foundation. And we’ve already had the egg-donor talk, you were there, remember how—,”

“Alex. Before you marry Henry, before you go back to England again, I need you to get your head on straight.” Alex rolled his eyes, slumping back on his heels. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

“No. Alex, you don’t.” June grabbed his wrist. “You need to go to therapy or get some coping skills or some boundaries or something. The British press is going to say what they’re going to say. You have to find a way to survive it. Or it’s going to kill you.” Alex could see that June was dead serious. He could hear the genuine fear in her voice and looked into her eyes. She was as scared as Henry was for Bea’s life when he begged her to go back to rehab. Reality hit him then like a massive wave. For the past month, he’d been hounded to the point of near insanity. He didn’t even realize it, but he’d been losing sleep, acting acting pissy, and drinking more. And some part of him knew then that even if the press got better or got worse, if Linda works her magic or not, forever with Henry also meant forever with this. So, Alex agreed to go to therapy and not read about himself in the tabloids anymore. He agreed to let June curate collections of genuinely funny headlines and pay other people to worry about his image. 

“Okay, but can you tell me what they’re saying about the inauguration? Pleeeeaseee.” Alex begged and stuck out his bottom lip in a pout.

“Fine.” June flashed him an exasperated smile and pulled out a stack of magazines from a tote bag on the ground. 

DIRTY DOUBLE—Alex and Henry just can’t stop with the dirty-talk!

“Star Magazine claims to have lip-read you asking Henry to ‘warm you up’ followed by a wink. In-Touch reports the same incident but claims you said ‘see you later.’ Everyone saw the wink.”

“Typical. Is there any coverage of how good we looked?”

“Hmmm…no. But there is coverage of how good I looked.” June pointed out a photo of herself in the knee-length pink peacoat (very Jackie Kennedy) paired with matching earmuffs and stunningly—converse. They're a custom painted pair by a relatively-unknown artist who’s fame had subsequently sky-rocketed. Nora, in a statement of sustainability, wore the same ensemble she’d worn at the past two Inaugurations—blue coat and trouser set with pink flats—which no one had as-yet picked up that June had also been spotted wearing. 

“I complimented the First Lady! We had that whole sweet moment.”

“Oh, Alex,” June pulled another magazine, this one with a sticky note on the page she was looking for. She cleared her throat before reading: “Alex Claremont-Diaz flirts with FLOTUS at Inauguration.” 

“Are you kidding me. She’s old enough to be my mother. Genuinely. Henry’s standing right there.” June gave a satisfied grin and shrugged. 

“This is what you get. Sex symbology is not free.” Alex rolled his eyes. But June was right, of course. (Again). Alex had spent years cultivating his reputation as heart-throb American sex symbol—but that had been before Henry. After details of his real, actual, sex-life with the first man he’d ever fallen in love with were plastered across every screen and magazine on earth, Alex found he no longer desired to extend the same kind of public invitation into his private life. At least, not that part of it.  

“Do you think my public exhibitionism about my sexuality was a way of unconsciously processing my bisexuality?” The thought had come out of Alex’s mouth at the exact time it appeared in his brain, fully formed as though he’d spent days drafting it.

“What? I mean, yes. It’s also because you’re narcissistic and obsessed with yourself and it was politically advantageous to Mom.” 

“Huh.” Alex made a mental note to talk about that in therapy. Actually, he grabbed a sticky note and made a physical note. 

“Oh, Nora sent me an edit of Henry nudging you to fix your face. Like, a genuine fan cam. There’s music and everything. Dramatic zoom. Actually I think Pez sent it to me. Or Pez sent it to Nora, let me try to find it.”

“What is going on between you guys these days anyways?” June snorted and rolled her eyes. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would. Like, do I need to send a plus two with your wedding invite or what?”

“We’re your attendants and Pez is Henry’s best friend. I don’t think we need to worry about throwing off the guest count, dumbass.”

“For real though.” Alex gave June a look and she shot it right back at him. 

“What do you want to know? I love Pez. I love Nora. There’s not that much to say.”

“You love him…but you and Nora are…girlfriends?” 

“I guess. We’re partners.” Alex’s brain still struggled to wrap his head around Nora and June together. They never kissed in public and maintained the kind of affection and dedication they’d always had for one another. 

“She’s endgame,” Alex supplied. 

“Of course she is.” They both knew what it was to love Nora. “Do you want me to read the paragraph from my memoir on it?”

“You wrote about it?” June sighed, flipped the magazine closed and stacked it with the others. 

“I want Nora in my life forever. I love her and I’m in love with her and I don’t know how I would have a life without her. But you know she likes her solitude and Pez is…who he is. He loves me completely and he’s romantic and smart and wicked funny. But he doesn’t live with me and I don’t think he ever will. I don’t think he could live in one city for the rest of his life. I don’t think he could be with one person for the rest of his life. He’s amazing and I love who he is, but he’s him and I’m me. We don’t label and I love that.” Alex watched his sister’s face light up as she talked about her partners. When June finished speaking, she looked at Alex again. “And yes. We do all have sex.”

“Ew. I did not ask.”

“But you were thinking it.” June was right, but Alex didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to think about his sister’s sex life, but he couldn’t help thinking about Nora and Pez…

“And you put that in the memoir?”

“I kept things vague. We don’t justify ourselves to others and our relationship is private. There’s more in there about Nora because she’ obviously just been such a big part of my life. But I talk about love as expansive and far-reaching and as a multiplying force.”

“You sound like Henry.” June tossed her head back and laughed out loud then.

“He gave me advice on that chapter!”

“Really?” Alex had known June sent Henry a draft of her memoir, but he hadn’t know Henry had actually…consulted. (Respectfully, he’d declined to relive the details of their childhood. Henry had read him some passages and he’d gushed over them.) (No hard feelings from June, she wouldn’t want to read his diary, either.) As Alex fought the urge to interrogate June and Henry about everything they’d discussed and put in June’s memoir, he was reminded of his wise decision to leave that between June and the rest of the world. 

I’ve loved Nora my entire adult life. That love has grown and changed and shifted over time, but it is the most fundamental and fluid thing I’ve ever known. She is an underground river and I am a mountain, cut and shaped by her flow in, out, and through me. 

And then, sometime around the same time my brother was finding a love that changed everything, I learned that love can grow and multiply. I have loved Nora and I have been loved by her, but I have never felt possessive over her. She has never been mine and I have never been hers. Our love is a mutual participation, not a shared property. And so with Nora and Pez, I learned that love can be far-reaching and expansive and indivisible.  

Chapter Text

“I’ve been Speaker of the House. I know how to get my party in line.” Alex watched his mother begrudgingly return to the halls of Congress, pushing her way through reporters and stunned staffers, to once again save the Democratic Party from themselves. But suddenly, CNN’s coverage of the chaos in Congress was interrupted by red letters spelling out: BREAKING NEWS. 

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Henry! H!” Alex took a few steps before breaking into a full run into Henry’s office, TV remote in hand. “Henry! Oh my God, Henry!” Henry was standing by the time Alex burst through the door. 

“What? What?” Henry demanded, hearing the panic in Alex’s voice. Alex could hardly speak. “It’s…It’s…” the color drained from Henry’s face. He whirled into the living room, blood pounding in his ears. He blinked rapidly as he tried to take in the screen in front of him. 

PRINCESS BEATRICE SAVED FROM ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING. 2 DEAD IN LONDON.  

Saved. Saved. He tried to focus on that word, forcing himself to take it in. What?

“Why didn’t anyone call you? Why didn’t anyone tell us…” Alex heaved. 

“I don’t…know,” said Henry slowly, his mind swirling with implications. 

“I’m gonna go get—,” Alex started for the door to fetch the assortment of security officers. 

“No, don’t.” Henry knew there were only two reasons they hadn’t alerted him immediately—they’d been instructed not to. Or they didn’t know. Both were tactical decisions at the highest-level. He pulled out his phone and dialed his mother’s personal line. Predictably, it went to voicemail. 

“Hi Mum, its H. I love you, call me when you can.” He sent the same thing over text. He stared at the contact for Beatrice, unsure what to do. Alex came jogging over and led him to the sofa. 

“Babe. Babe. It’s gonna be okay.” Henry nodded hollowly. He didn’t need it to be okay, he needed to know what was going on. Alex flipped frantically from TV channel to TV channel, but no one seemed to know much other than it happened in broad daylight, Princess Beatrice was transported to hospital and is reported to be uninjured. Assailant identity unknown but in custody. After many agonizing minutes, Henry’s phone rang. He picked it up immediately. 

“Hello? Mum. Mum.” Alex leaned in to hear. 

“Beatrice is fine. She’s absolutely fine.” Thank God Catherine had the good sense to say the important part first. 

“Mum where are you? What’s going on?”

“I’m in a car, H. I’m…I’m on my way to the hospital to see Bea.” Catherine’s voice shook almost imperceptibly. 

“She’s in hospital?”

“Yes that’s where they brought her and its best for her to stay put just now. It’s best for all of us to stay put just now, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mum, yes.” 

“We don’t know much, alright? He had a gun.”

“A gun?” Alex was momentarily startled by Henry’s shock until he remembered that shootings didn’t normally happen in London, let alone to princesses. 

“Yes. That’s about all we know. Appeared to be alone but unconfirmed.” Alex made a small whimper and Henry shot him a glare. Alex swallowed his fear and remembered this was one of the worst days of Henry’s life and it was barely 10 am. 

“I can’t talk long, I—”

“I know, I understand.” 

“But I wanted you to hear it from me. She’s all right and I’ll try to get you more information as soon as I can.”

“Is James dead?”

“Yes.” There was a short moment of silence as Alex inferred James to be Beatrice’s PPO. 

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Can I talk to her? I mean, if I can. If she can.”

“I’m sure she’ll want to speak to you darling.” Henry looked like he’d been punched in the stomach but managed a strangled goodbye before the line clicked dead. For a few moments, both Alex and Henry thought Henry was going to puke. But then he stood up, cleared his throat and announced. “I have to go. Gotta get to the airport.”

“Didn’t she just say—,” Alex knew all too well what having a mother who also ran your country meant in terms of disobedience. 

“If it was a coordinated plot they would have either executed or aborted by now.” Henry grumbled, heading towards the bedroom. Alex flinched at the choice of words but padded behind. When they reached the bedroom they found a PPO on the floor by the window, seemingly inspecting the curtains. 

“Umm..what’s going on?” 

“I finished the perimeter check, so I’m securing all possible entries and exits.” She stood and straightened her suit. “Carry on, Sir.” She gave a curt nod towards Henry and exited the room, closing the door behind her. Henry was already methodically packing, a process so streamlined he was done within minutes. Alex wanted to tell him not to go. Alex wanted to beg him to sit down to stay safe to wait for more information. But he knew if it was his sister, he wouldn’t either. He would have to have been physically restrained if June had ever been in danger like this. 

“Babe, let me come with you.” Alex slid his suitcase out from under the bed and moved to shove things into it but Henry shook his head. 

“No. Just…Please, just stay here, all right? I’ll be back as soon as I can. Maybe even tomorrow. I just…I need to be there. And security’s going to be an absolute mess. Stay here where I know you’re safe.” Alex felt like his heart was being physically ripped out of his chest. He nodded and blinked back tears. How will I know you’re safe? He wanted to whisper but couldn't bring himself to.

Sure enough to Henry’s predication, the lock-out was cleared within 20 minutes. Henry made two calls—to Shaan and to someone else Alex didn’t quite make out—and then he was putting on his jacket and rolling his suitcase out the door. It was just above snow weather and raining lightly, weather that reminded Alex chillingly of London. 

“Henry,” Alex said plaintively, still standing inside with his slippers on. “I love you.” Alex leaned out into the rain to kiss Henry firmly and desperately. 

“I love you.” Henry whispered back.

“If you…let Bea know I wish I could be there, ok?” Alex hoped the look he gave Henry was good enough to say ‘put her on the phone, would ya?’ 

Alex waited for hours, pacing the apartment and fielding phone calls. His mom was first, despite her present fiasco. 

“Hun, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Henry’s gone to England. Don’t tell anyone. Beatrice is okay, I guess. I mean she can’t be okay but she’s not hurt.” 

“Henry’s not there?”

“No! He went to England!” Without me. 

“Give him my best honey, okay? I’m here if you want to talk.”

“Mom? Do you know anything? I know you can’t—and you’re not even—but you don’t think its related to—I mean two nut jobs with guns going after Commonwealth figureheads in the same few months? What even is that?”

“No. It’s not related, I can promise you. But it’s scary as shit. Tensions are high. Everywhere.”

“Mom, if you hear anything you have to tell me. I’m going nuts here, total comms lock-down.” 

“Alright,” Ellen replied after a moment. “But I’m only risking federal prison for spilling state secrets once for you, so you better not ask me again.” After a second she added: “Hang in there, honey. No news is good news.”

Sure, Mom. Whatever you say. 

“Mijo, how are you holding up?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I haven’t been able to talk to Bea. I can’t imagine how’s she doing.”

Oscar sighed. “You’re not fine.”

“I am fine! It was Henry’s sister who was shot at.”

“Come on, now.” Alex and his father had a brief argument in Spanish about whether or not Alex was fine before he relented. 

“I just feel so helpless. What the fuck am I supposed to do.” Oscar sighed again. 

“You’re not supposed to do anything.” Alex grunted in frustration. “Alex, I know the feeling.” While his parents had been divorced during the highest profile moments of their careers, Alex knew his father still worried intensely about his mother’s safety. And of course, Alex and June's safety, too. 

“How do you deal with it?”

“You remind yourself of reality. Don’t let yourself spin with possibilities. That’s not your job. Reality is your job. You can only plan for one future at a time, so why not plan for the best one?”

Alex packed and repacked his suitcase twice, checked the supplies in the safe room and found himself lying in bed staring at the ceiling when Henry finally called.

“Babe.” Alex was suddenly breathless, despite his prone position. 

“Hi.” 

“What’s up? What’s going on?”

“They won’t let me take her home.”

“What?”

“They’re not letting me take Bea home. And I haven’t even seen Mum or Philip. I think that’s on purpose. They’re keeping us apart.”

“What? Why?”

“They don’t want more than two of us in the same place at the same time.” As per usual, Alex’s mouth moved faster than his mind. 

“Okay, I’m coming.”

“What?”

“If they won’t let you take her home I’ll leave for the airport right now and I can take her home and then you can just come separately. Or I can come back for you. Either way I don’t mind. I’ll come get her.” Alex was already out of bed and throwing open his dresser when Henry cut him off. 

“Come get her? Alex what do you mean?”

“Well you said they won’t let you take her back to New York. So I’ll come get her.”

“New York? Alex, you want her to come stay with us?”

“Isn’t that…Isn’t that what you said?”

“No…I meant…she’s still in hospital. They want her to go to Windsor but I want to take her home. To our old place at Ken.”

“Oh.”

“You think she should come stay with us?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course. It’s secure and she can get away from the press and we can be there for her. She can’t…I mean I wouldn’t want her to be alone. I’d rather her be with us than Philip and Martha.”

“Oh…yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll…I’ll talk to her about it. Alright.” 

“I’ll see you in the morning, babe. By lunch-time, I swear.”

“Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

Sure enough to his promise, Alex called in some favors and managed to squeeze into a first-class seat on a British Airways flight to Heathrow. It was a strange feeling, going to the airport for the first time in nearly a decade without armed guards. Though everything went smoothly, Alex couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax, couldn't watch a movie or read a book or do anything except stare and worry on the red-eye...or in the car from the airport to Buckingham. He was escorted by some extremely serious looking police officers wearing some extremely silly rounded helmets into one of the high-ceilinged sitting rooms, dripping in thick curtains and gilded panelling. 

“Bea!” Alex flew to her, but stopped dead in his tracks when she turned towards him. There, on a single chair, was Princess Beatrice, wearing a neutral dress with a sheer overlay and full skirt, hair curling gently over her shoulder, face made-up and looking every bit the perfect princess and not at all like the recent victim of a horrific crime. 

“Alex.” Her face softened she she saw him and she stood up, allowing him to take her hands. 

“Bea. What are you doing. What are you wearing?” Alex implored. 

“I’m gonna give a presser soon.”

“You look like…a Princess.”

“And the risk of stating the obvious, I am a Princess.”

“But you shouldn’t be on-duty right now. You should be wearing sweat pants and petting your cat and listening to old records and stuffing your face with ice cream.” Beatrice managed a weak laugh then. 

“Where’s Henry? Where’s your mother? I’m not letting this happen.” Alex looked around but Bea pulled him in by the hands. 

“They’re not here. For the time being, it’s as much separation as possible.” Her face was soft and sad with a distinct undercurrent of fear as she said it. Alex felt his heart breaking into a million, tiny, sharp shards. 

“Bea…come to New York. Let me get you out of here,” Alex whispered. 

“H mentioned something about that. But I have to…Alex, I have to go to the funerals first.” Alex felt his stomach drop out from under him and he grabbed Beatrice in a fierce hug. 

“Oh God, Bea. I’m so glad you’re okay. I’m so glad you’re okay, I love you so much,” he said into her hair. For the first time, they both let themselves feel just an ounce of the fear and pain waiting for them on the other side of those walls, on the other side of those cameras, on the other side of those funerals.

Henry was permitted to accompany Beatrice and Alex to the airstrip, if only for the fact that they neither told nor asked anyone’s permission. Somehow though, Philip had heard. Henry took the call on speaker, him and Alex piled into one car, Beatrice and Mr. Wobbles in another. 

“Are you serious right now? You can’t do this Henry, you just can’t.” Despite the bumpy ride and the tinny sound, Philip’s rage was perfectly conveyed. 

“Philip, I’m not whisking her into the night of some foreign war zone. We’re going to my house. In the place where I live with my fiancé.”

“Really! You might as well be kidnapping her.”

“Don’t.”

“Honestly Haz, have you thought this through even for a moment? You’re taking Beatrice, in one of the most fragile moments of her entire life, to a foreign city known for its drug use.”

“Do you think they just hand out cocaine on the streets in Brooklyn? Honestly, Pip, give it a rest. I’m trying to look after her sobriety, I’m trying to surround her with people who love her.”

“I love her,” Philip roared. “She can stay here. She can stay here with me and Mazzy and Tori. With her family. That was the plan until you decided to pull this little stunt.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that the people she wants to be with are in New York? Did it ever occur to you that this was her decision?” Philip was quiet for a long time then.

“Please, just be careful, Haz. Okay? Keep your guard up.”

“You be careful too, alright? Hold Tori tight.”

“Always.”

And this was, Alex realized, probably the closest they would ever come to saying “I love you.” 

Bea didn’t sleep a wink on the airplane—private jet procured by Pez—and Alex wondered if she ever would again. They played cards and exchanged pictures of Mr. Wobbles and David, but as the night and flight dragged on, the cabin got quieter and quieter. Alex was almost about to ask if she wanted to talk about it when she finally spoke. 

“Did you know there’s a video?”

“Sorry?”

“I heard Philip talking about it, but I don’t think I was supposed to.” Alex stared intently at her, not sure if he should take her hand. 

“What did he say?”

“He just said, kill it, kill it. Do whatever you have to. Kill it.” Her voice was far away as she said it, gazing into the pitch-black of the mid-Atlantic night. “I can picture it though, so clearly, what the video must look like. I’m screaming, just screaming my bloody head off over James’s body. I didn’t believe he was dead, I just kept shaking and shaking him, but he was covered in blood. I remember seeing it run into the cobblestones, into the little grooves between them. And I looked up and he was pointing the gun right at me. He couldn’t have been more than a meter away. And then someone tackled him and they both went down sideways and I finally ran. I heard the gun go off again and I tripped. I thought it had hit me. There was so much blood. I was just screaming and running and bleeding and crawling and falling, I couldn’t get away from any of it. Screaming, bleeding, being covered in blood, and then I woke up in the hospital. New clothes. Did you know how hard it is to wash off dried blood? I didn’t…I didn’t know handguns were so loud.” She didn’t cry at all as she said it, and she actually seemed to come gradually more into the present, as if she needed to retell it to get out of it. 

“Is that the first time you’ve ever seen someone get shot?”

“Yeah.” Beatrice swallowed and Alex lowered his head, finally taking her hand. 

“I’m so sorry, Bea. That’s fucking awful.” With really nothing else to say, Alex just held her hand and listened, which seemed to be all she really wanted. 

“The idea of the video scares me the most, I think. Because I don’t actually know what it looks like, so I just imagine it over and over again. I picture it being played on TV and everyone else watching it, too. And I just can’t bear it. It’s funny, because I keep thinking I can’t bear for it to have happened at all, but obviously, I did. I’m here. I’m alive. But the idea of everyone seeing it, replaying it? I can’t imagine living through that. 

“I keep thinking how James saved my life. And the guy who tackled him, a photographer. I keep being told his name but I keep forgetting. Is that horrible of me? They all saved me and I don’t even know why. I don’t even know why that guy wanted to kill me so bad. He didn't want to kill me? He wanted to...take me somewhere. For money or for...terms of some sort. That's what people have been telling me. But I'd almost swear he just wanted me dead. But then why didn't he just shoot me? Why didn't he just shoot me? Does it hurt a lot to get shot? Or do you just black out and never wake back up. Why didn’t he shoot me. When I was sitting there, screaming bloody murder. Ha. Literally.”

As Bea talked, Alex realized this was the most personal gun violence had ever been for her. She’d never truly lived in fear of being shot by a maniac with a gun. It was strange, to see these two worlds colliding. Alex thought of a sign he’d read once at a rally—the same one the British press had berated him for crying at.

everyone I know knows someone who has died at school

Every American teenager has imagined what they would do, how they would fight, what their last text would be, should they be caught in the crosshairs of national failure and national crisis. And more than that, it’s not a paranoid fixation, its reality. And for Bea, it is now also reality. Gun violence had come crashing into her universe with a world-splitting, space-time shredding bang. 

When Bea had been tucked in to the guest bedroom on the first floor—the one closest to the saferoom—Alex climbed in next to her and took her hand again. 

“You’ll stay, yeah?”

“Yeah. And H’ll probably be here when you wake up.”

“Right. If I sleep at all.”

“Have you not?”

“Doesn’t feel like it. The nightmares are pretty bad. But they happen when I’m awake, too.”

And there in the near-complete darkness, in an antithetical cocoon of trauma and safety, Alex finally confessed. 

“Did I ever tell you that I had a pill problem in high school? Well, yeah. Sort of, I guess. I would steal my best friend’s Adderall. I ran myself into the ground, just to avoid my life. I’d stay up for days on end, then feel absolutely empty. So then I’d take some more, just to feel something. And then I started drinking to feel numb again. Before H, the drinking was pretty bad, too. I didn’t even realize it then, but I would just get black-out drunk all the time. And like, I’d be so fucking edgy by the end of the week, desperate to do it again. But I thought cuz I contained it, mostly, pretty much, to the weekends, and the pills to finals, that I was like, fine. I didn’t realize until law school that I didn’t know how to cope without that stuff. But the worst part is, or maybe it's the best part, that's what makes me feel so sick about it, is that..honestly, honestly, sometimes I want to go back to it. Because it was fun. And it worked well enough. And this way is so much harder.”

“Is this your way of saying I can tell you if I want coke?” In the dead-stillness, in the sliver of moonlight coming from the edge of the curtains, Alex caught a tear roll down Bea’s pale cheek. “Because I do. I want to be high and not feeling like this. I know its a horrible idea but I want it. So. Bad. It’ll be fine, I’ll just have a good night, get some sleep, and it’ll all be fine. A good night out is what I need.” She pressed her eyelids closed but no other tears fell down her porcelain cheek. “But I know it’s not true. I know it’s not true. It won’t just be one time, and it won’t just be one good night. But fucking God, Alex. I’m so close. I’m hanging on by my fingernails.” He could hear the fight in her voice, but he could also hear the raw pain. And for as evolved and strong as she was, Alex could also feel the fear and shame there. He thought of her words earlier, about not being able to imagine living through a public reshowing of her trauma. 

“It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna get through this.” We. Because it wasn’t a solo endeavor. They were family, and Alex was in it for the long haul. He realized, in this moment of drawn curtains and whispered confessions, that he would love Beatrice forever. She was as a part of him as Henry or June or his parents or Texas. There was something deeper there than a mutual love for Henry. They shared a true friendship built on respect and support and shared moments. Alex realized, all at once, that he no longer loved Beatrice because she was Henry’s sister. Alex loved Beatrice because she was his own sister. Family not by blood or birth but by life and love.

Chapter Text

The first few days passed in starts and fits. Disjointed moments, some smooth and healing, others screeching and halting. All bent and out of order, the scenes passed like this:

Alex: “Go see the kids, babe. They miss you and you miss them.”

Henry: “I’ve been worried about Jared. I just don’t want him to feel like another adult in his life is abandoning him. He’s so close to graduating.” 

Bea: “You physically being here or not for eight hours isn’t going to make or break my sobriety.” 

---

Alex, Beatrice, and Henry pile onto the couch and watch cheesy rom-coms. Beatrice and Henry nearly smother Alex with a pillow when he critiques the plot structure. 

---

Alex, standing at the stove, tosses a spoon into the sink. It makes a loud clang and when it lands, so does Beatrice, falling to a heap on the ground. She has tremors the rest of the day. 

---

The guest room, which had always sort of been June’s room, becomes Bea’s: she scrounges up a guitar and a record player and keeps the house alive with music for weeks.

---

Alex is right that Beatrice would love Jane the Virgin; the scenes of peril and death don’t even affect her. They laugh themselves into stitches and threaten to make video essays about the use of magical realism. 

---

A therapist makes housecalls. 

---

Henry pours the rest of their wine down the drain. Alex rounds up their medicine cabinet into a lockbox. Beatrice pretends she doesn’t notice. 

---

Alex: “Do you want to do something this weekend?”

Bea: “Like what?”

Alex: “We could go see a show. I think somebody who won Eurovision is playing Madison Square Garden this weekend.” 

Bea: “I don’t know if I can handle Manhattan.” 

Alex: “Fair enough.” 

---

Linda calls. She’s billing them overtime.

---

Philip mails Beatrice some of her things. She reads his letter with her door closed, holds it close, tucks it under her pillow. 

---

Alex doesn’t study at all. 

---

Beatrice falls asleep on the couch, tucked into her brother’s shoulder. He wakes to her hyperventilating, shakes her awake until she screams, begs for sedation. 

---

They all don ridiculous disguises and drive cross-town just to walk David or get lunch. The fresh air does them all good. 

For nearly a month, no one catches wind of Alex and Henry’s houseguest. 

The photos themselves weren’t worth anything. You couldn’t really tell it was Alex and you definitely couldn’t tell it was Beatrice. David’s presence was enough for the paps to catch a scent, though. 

Alex: “Hey, guys.”

TMZ: “Alex! Alex! Who was the mystery girl walking with you in the park yesterday? Alex, is there someone new in your life? Where’s the prince?”

Alex: “You know, I’m pretty sure you guys aren’t supposed to be here. Excuse me, that’s my car.” 

TMZ: “Alex! Alex! What do you have to say about the Powder Princess’s absence? Is she back in rehab?” 

Alex: “Shut the fuck up, you don’t know what you’re talking about. MOVE! That’s my fucking car!” 

FIRST SON OF BRAWLS! Bratty Alex has a fit at photographers

YOU WON’T BEA-LEIEVE FIRSTPRINCE’S LATEST HOUSEGUEST

Princess Beatrice doesn’t have any time for the British public or the HEROS who saved her life—but she has plenty of time for boozy brunch with Bro-in-law

BUG

Can you believe this??? 

 (Yes, I know I looked at the headlines but how could I not??? They LITERALLY put it right in my face)

Have you seen the video? Can’t watch, lived it once too many 

Yes, ive seen the video. U ok?

not rlly! I’m a gd lawyer, do they not think I will sue their asses off???

ummm, don’t you have to have passed the Bar to be a lawyer :P

they’re stalking me! Like actually!!!!

did you report it to cops?

yes. They have bigger problems 

does B know? 

uhhhhh 

???

She knows I got in a fight w tmz, not the headlines 

should I tell her? 

NO!! 

you might want to tell her cover’s blown tho

fuck it, we ball

Alex??? What does that mean? 

Alex??

if u cause another int’l incident Z is not saving ur butt 

HRH Prince Dickhead 

Linda wants to talk to us…both of us 

B home by 5. 

“Alex, I assume I don’t need to tell you yelling at TMZ was a bad idea?” Linda’s voice was less abrasive over the phone, but only a little. 

“Yeah, I know, I’m so—”

“Don’t apologize. It wastes time and doesn’t help. I’ll lay it out for you: you’re not keeping Beatrice’s presence under wraps any longer. Don’t lie to me I know she’s there, twitter knows she’s there, TMZ knows she’s there, the Daily Mail knows she's there. But I have a plan.”

“Let’s hear it.” 

“You’re a passionate man, we all know it.” Alex groaned audibly and Henry shushed him. “This was just an extension of your love and protection for your family. That’ll be easy as pie to sell if you get ahead of the Beatrice stuff. Go out with her, somewhere public. Show you’re supporting her in this difficult time.” 

“Go out with her?” Henry seemed skeptical. 

“Not like a date,” Linda sighed, “although that would probably work, too. A sporting event, a play. I wouldn’t recommend shopping, it’ll look like a bit. No red carpet, no official engagement. Somewhere with a VIP entrance so you don’t have to be seen entering. You just show up. Somewhere you’re sitting long enough to be seen but not somewhere photographers would be expected.”

“Okay. Yeah. I can do it, no problem.”

“We’ll have to talk to her, of course.” 

“Right, yes. Boys?” Linda had taken to calling them ‘boys’ which Alex sort of liked and Henry sort of hated. “If you’re going to do this, you need to do it. I’m sure you’ve been very careful but it's probably only a matter of days, a week tops, before someone fishes a clear enough picture out of some hipster’s camera roll or a credible enough account for it to be really out there. And if the news breaks before you do, there’s a lot less I can do to control the narrative.” 

“Great. Erm, thanks Linda,” Henry went to hang up the phone but Alex grabbed his wrist. 

“Linda? How are we doing? You know, over there.” 

“Ha. Don’t even have time to get into it. They’re mostly distracted, don’t worry about it. Alright boys, got to go. Ta-ta!” 

Only slightly hesitantly, Beatrice agreed to attend a punk-rock show at a local venue in Brooklyn. Their collective security had approved the outing with only about a dozen phone calls.

“Bea, are you sure about this? I don’t want you to feel like a PR prop.” 

“Haz, honestly. I’m a grown woman. I’m a grown Princess, I understand the need for positive press, positive spin. And besides, I’ve been fangirling over the bassist for months!” Indeed, Alex had only found the band because Bea had been gushing over her new favorite bassist leaving her old grunge group. Henry stepped up to his sister and put his hands on her shoulders. 

“You’re more important than any press, any image. Please, if you’re not ready, we can cancel.” Beatrice sighed and popped her hip, jutting her bright-red pleather pants out and main them squeak against her platform Doc Martens. She placed her hands on top of Henry’s. 

“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t usually do things I don’t want to do. I have earplugs and a safety plan and an Alex. Now, if you would please excuse me,” she removed Henry’s hands from her shoulders and nodded to Alex, “I don’t want to be late.” 

The concert turned out to be just what they both needed. Bud-dum-buh-dum-bah-dum Alex was entranced by the drummer, the way their long hair whipped around their face then stuck to their chest as the set went on, despite the snowy weather outside. Bea clocked the exact moment they were recognized, which was when she took off her leather jacket, revealing the black halter top over lace bodysuit. She’d known the blonde teenager was looking at her, but she assumed it was due to the fire-truck pants. But when the teenager looked back and forth between their phone and Bea and then nudged their friend and gasped, Bea knew she'd been clocked. She blushed as she looked to Alex. 

“I think we’ve done it now.” She wrinkled her nose and he took her hand. 

“We got this!” He screamed as the crest of the next song rose. 

Beatrice leaned over the railing when the Nirvana cover devolved into a guitar riff-off, the bassist on her knees making love to her instrument. She shrieked and leaned forward and Alex reached out to grab her. 

“This is amazing! Do you, do you see her?” Bea screamed into Alex’s ear. Alex threw his head back and laughed. They spent the rest of the night whooping and swooning, Alex resisting the urge to post it all on Instagram. When the set ended, in a chorus of shouts and ringing twangs, Alex and Bea were quickly escorted out through a back door and into their car. 

“That was good, yeah?” Alex asked Bea breathlessly, one arm thrown over the back of her seat, legs akimbo in the cramped backseat (no limo, just regular SUV, three bodyguards and a driver). 

“Electric!” When Alex looked into Bea’s face, she seemed more alive than he’d seen her in months, maybe years. She swore and pumped her fist in the air. Alex had been right that this would be good for her, which was why he had been planning it since before the call with the Linda.

“Paps! 6 o’clock!” One of the PPO’s called, and Alex seized his own jacket and threw it over both of them. They giggled under it until the car parked on the street behind the Brownstone. Alex and Henry had long-ago gotten the neighbor’s permission to sneak through through their property in order to make private entrances and exits. Alex clasped Bea’s hand and lead her through the crunching snow, around to the only window in the house that opened. They broke into a fit of giggles when they landed on the guest bathroom floor, and again when they watched chilled PPO’s obscure their footprints. 

“I take it you two had a good time then?” Henry opened the bathroom door while also impossibly balancing three mugs of hot chocolate. 

“The best!” Bea roared, kicking her feet into the air and scaring David, who had been brave enough to venture into view of the commotion. 

“How are things outside?” Alex asked, crawling to his feet and then helping Bea up. 

“They’re camped. They definitely heard about the concert. But the NYPD is out and apparently Taylor Swift is also here this weekend so they’re being pretty strict about the residents-only thing. 

“TAYLOR SWIFT LIVES HERE?!” Bea jumped in the air and landed with a clang, her heavy platforms striking the ground. 

“Allegedly,” Henry rolled his eyes, “she’s dating someone who lives here but I’ve never seen her here and I mildly think it’s all a hoax.”

“How dare you accuse mother of a publicist stunt!” Alex clutched his metaphorical pearls. 

“I would never! I am saying that her boyfriend doesn’t actually live here, not that he isn’t her boyfriend.” 

“Good. Because I would kick you out if you slandered my aspirational bestfriend.” Bea said, very seriously. Henry rolled his eyes and handed them their drinks, turning back to the living room. 

“You know, she’s genuinely a musical genius, H. And the impact on the movement for artists to own their own work? Almost indescribable how influential she is, truly. Not even to mention how she almost single-handedly changed Apple Musics’s…” Alex grabbed Henry’s free hand and spun him around for a kiss. Henry sighed into it, falling easily and gracefully onto the couch. Alex followed a second later, after taking a large sip of his hot chocolate and setting it on the coffee table. 

“Hi.” Henry whispered into the small space between them as Alex settled on his lap. They kissed for several minutes, careful not to press themselves too close together, avoiding sparking anything that couldn’t be put out. 

“Your hot cocoa is getting cold.” Bea said at last, now in her pajamas with a makeup wipe in her hand. Henry blushed and Alex climbed off his lap, taking his drink back up. Bea plopped herself down beside Henry and laid her head on his shoulder. 

“Can I spend the night in your room tonight? I had such a great time, I just don’t want to lose it if I try to sleep.” 

“Yeah, su—,” Alex started. 

“No, Bea. I love you but I haven’t banged my boyfriend in five weeks and if you keep cock blocking me, I’m going to be driven to drink.” Alex’s mouth dropped open. 

“He’s your fiancé, not your boyfriend you know.” Bea replied without missing a beat, sipping her hot cocoa. Henry’s mouth quirked up in a smile. 

The next thing Alex knew, Henry was dragging him up the stairs, hot chocolate forgotten on the floor below. 

“What are you—,” Alex didn’t even have time to finish his sentence before Henry was pushing him onto the bed, smothering him in kisses. 

“I need you like water. I need you like I need to breathe.” Henry crashed their mouths together, his fingers spreading along Alex’s jaw. “You are the sun and I will freeze without you. The sea of my soul is still and lifeless without you as my moon. I am empty and shivering and swirling without you…” The words flowed from Henry’s mouth in hushed tones and languid kisses as Alex pulled him down to the bed. Alex tipped his forehead forward and they shared a moment of ragged breaths. 

“I love you, too.” Alex knew he would never be able to match Henry’s propensity for purple prose and had long given up trying. He showed his love in other ways. 

“I—,” Henry began to speak again but Alex interrupted him. 

“Stop talking,” Alex murmured, sliding his tongue into Henry’s mouth. Henry pressed himself to Alex and moaned softly. Alex shifted their bodies and slotted his thigh between Henry’s legs. Henry wound his fingers tighter in Alex’s hair. Alex clawed at Henry’s clothes and Henry panted against his mouth. Henry shuddered at the sound of Alex’s belt being undone, grinning with anticipation and propping himself up on one arm, anxious to watch. Then, Alex wiggled out, flipping Henry as he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, looking up through his lashes, one hand shoved down his pants. Henry made a small, desperate sound and locked his elbows, desperate to watch every moment. He lasted maybe three minutes before Alex reached up, fingers brushing the dip at the front of Henry’s neck, pushing him backward and blowing him with the most obscene sort of sounds. When Alex started running his suddenly slick fingers across Henry’s nipples, he knew he was done for. 

“Alex, Alex, I’m gonna—” 

“I know.” Alex popped off for a moment to say, before he buried his nose in Henry’s shockingly blonde hair, caressing his happy trail with sticky fingers. 

Henry thought they would be done, when he hauled Alex up to kiss him senseless. But Alex hitched one of Henry’s legs up and slid a finger between his cheeks. Henry pulled Alex harder, grabbed him hard enough to leave bruises, clamoring for any sort of purchase on Alex’s bare skin. Alex went slow, so slow as he opened Henry up. Henry swore he felt like he was going to come again just from one finger, when Alex stopped. Started trailing kisses down Henry’s chest again. Alex kissed Henry’s soft, twitching cock gingerly and continued on his way, kissing every inch of Henry. 

Henry had assumed this would give him time to catch his breath, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. Every kiss felt like another mile he’d just run, his body limp and blazing at the same time. He lay there for many minutes, his left hand over his heart, his chest feeling the weight of his ring, his ring feeling the vibrations of his heart, his whole body feeling the gentle caresses. On the inside of his ankle, just under his kneecap. The fingertips on his right hand and finally his asshole. Henry had never known a kiss there could feel so sensual, so intimate, so loving. In a way, it felt nothing like having sex. It was a different kind of intimacy. 

“How do you do that?” Alex gave a rye-almost chuckle as he crawled back onto the bed, “How do you always make me feel new things.” 

“Just my innate curiosity, babe.” Alex scooted Henry up the bed and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Henry sighed as his whole body fluttered. Alex pulled back the covers and tucked them in, pulling Henry flush to his chest. Alex groaned as Henry pushed his ass into Alex’s cock. Alex slipped a second finger, and then a third into Henry, kissing his neck. As Henry’s moans began ratcheting up again, Alex’s kisses became more insistent. Henry reached his hand around, grabbing a fistful of hair as Alex wound his free hand around Henry’s waist. Alex nipped at the space just behind Henry’s earlobe, sucking in a silent request. Henry nodded in wordless agreement. Alex’s fingers left Henry only for a moment, tearing the condom open with his teeth, sliding in. And for the second time that night, Henry could do nothing but shudder and beg wordlessly, pulling at anything he could reach. Alex came with a muffled cry into Henry’s shoulder, Henry with a breathless laugh that was more moan than surprise. As their breathing normalized, Henry released his vice grip on Alex’s curls and Alex ran his sticky fingertips over the small bruise he’d left. 

“Whoopsie.” Alex said sarcastically. Henry rolled onto his back, looking up into Alex’s face, glowing with exertion. He broke into a grin. 

“It’s fine,” Henry said just to see Alex bite his lip, gazing down with the kind of love that could drive a person to madness or a nation to war. It was more than fine. Henry loved it and they both knew it. Henry reached up with his left hand, cupping Alex’s cheek. He pulled Alex down into a soft, lingering kiss. 

“One sec.” Alex swiped Henry’s nose with his own and hopped to the bathroom. Henry thought about sitting up, but decided he wanted to assume the exact same positions when Alex returned a moment later. He heard Alex walking back in and closed his eyes, imagining the bronzed, tousle-haired, all-american still-life he always saw Alex to be. Alex returned, pressing himself against Henry’s side, propped up on one arm. Henry opened his eyes and found warm, round, brown Diaz eyes staring back at him. He sighed and felt the weight of his ring above his heart again. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Alex reached down to touch Henry’s face, tracing a line from his cheekbone to his collarbone, then coming to rest on top of his hand. 

“You too.” Henry swallowed and sighed again. They stayed like that for a long time, looking and adoring and touching just to make sure it was all still real. Or just to revel in the luxury of it. 

“When we’re married,” Henry felt Alex squeeze his hand when he said it, “do you think we can stop…using condoms?” 

“Oh. Yeah.” He’d gotten so used to the feeling of fucking Henry, he hardly ever thought about it. Just like they used lube, they used condoms. But now that Alex was thinking about it, he was thinking about it. 

“I don’t think I’ve been tested since, geez, I guess it had to have been since before we were together. But it should be fine.” Alex reached for his phone, then realized it was hopelessly lost in the mess of clothes left in the wake of their hornyness. “I’ll just book a test to be sure, when was your last one?” Alex turned back to Henry, whose face had gone slack. 

“Babe?” Alex closed in with concern. 

“I—er…I’ve never had a—erm—an STI test.” Alex felt surprise flutter across his face, but recovered instantly. 

“Oh. No biggie, you’re probably good, we can just go together then.”

“Mhhmn.” Henry pulled the sheet up to his shoulders, suddenly shy. A devilish smile spread across Alex’s face as his eyes went unfocused for a moment. 

“That’ll be exciting.” Alex raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never had sex without a condom.” 

“Never?” Henry matched his raised brows with a look of surprise. Alex thought back, but he’d always been pretty excessively worried about unplanned pregnancies, so he wouldn’t have dreamed of unprotected sex with that on the table. And then there was Henry. And they used condoms and that was that. 

Alex shook his head. “Have you?” 

“A few times…” Henry blushed and pulled the sheet up further, sinking back into the pillows. 

“Really?” Alex leaned in, suddenly intrigued. 

“Yeah,” Henry gave him a sheepishly coy shrug-grin. “You know… you get caught up in the moment, overrun with passion.” 

Alex did not know. But he wanted to. 

Chapter Text

“Oh please, pleeeeease can we watch that one tomorrow?” Alex clasped his hands and feel to his knees in front of the television.

“No! I am not watching you thirst over my father, my dead father, again!” Bea giggled and Henry shot both of them a look. 

“Okay, well at least we can see what else is…” Alex fell completely silent, absolutely frozen as a commercial for the next cable movies channel showing played. Taken marathon. 

“Turn it off.” Henry’s voice was steely and cold. Alex thought, fleetingly, that he’d never sounded more like James Bond. 

“Just turn it off!” Bea shouted as Alex and Henry scrambled for the remote. Henry finally found it, between the cushions and clicked the tv off. For a second, no one moved. Henry’s breaths were fast and loud, like he’d been working out. Bea’s were deathly slow and sharp. She stood up, looked as if she was going to say something, didn’t, and walked out of the room. Alex and Henry gave it a minute before Alex went after her. 

She’s crouched by the window of her room, wedged in the corner hunched over a soft orange glow. 

“Are you…smoking a cigarette?”

“I would be doing it out the window but it doesn’t bloody open.”

“Where did you even get those?” 

“I brought them. From England.” Bea’s voice was tight and harsh in between drags. She tossed the half-empty pack at Alex, who looked it over. Sure enough, it was one of the revolting brown-green cartons with terrifying warnings and pictures on them. The box was banged up and bowing, the corners almost ripping. It seemed like Bea had been holding on to it for a long time. Alex set it on the ground and sat down next to Bea. She shivered. 

“I can do this. I can do this.” Bea began to shake, pressing her eyes closed as her fingernails dug into her knees. Her hand was shaking so bad Alex thought she might drop the cigarette on the pale-pink rug. Gently, he took it from her, snuffed it on the white windowsill, leaving an ugly ash-mark. 

“Hey. What can I do?” Alex went to put a hand on her shoulder but she shied away from it, seeming to wince just at the anticipation of contact. 

“Can you, um, just, take my hands? Squeeze. Hard.” Alex untangled Bea’s hands from around her knees, squeezing them hard. “I’m trying, I’m trying to…be here. I’m here. I’m in your house. It’s night. It’s dark outside. I’m in New York City.” Bea shook so hard her teeth chattered, her face wet with both tears and sweat. “I’m safe. I’m safe.”

“I’m here, Bea. You’re here, at my house in New York. I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe.” Bea nodded vigorously as Alex spoke, flinging tears across the room. 

“Drugs make me someone else. I like who I am. I like who I am now. I d-d-d-don’t want to be a different person. Can you just re-re-repeat it, it—it helps to hear it back. I am great the way I am. I don’t want to be a different person. I want to stay me.” 

“You’re amazing the way you are. I don’t want you to be a different person.” 

“It’s not worth it.” 

“It’s not worth it.” Alex repeated every sentence back to Bea, steady even as he felt his fingers going numb, clenched in Bea’s deathtrap grip.

“It won’t just be one time and I could die. I could die. I cannot break my little brother. Henry needs me. Mum needs me. Philip fucking needs me, even if he doesn’t know it. I cannot leave them, I cannot.” 

“You cannot leave us. We need you.” Alex wanted to cry then, but he didn’t. 

“I’m needed and I’m wanted.”

“You are so needed and so wanted.” Alex stared intently at Bea’s eyelids, as if blinking might make her disappear. “You are needed and you are so wanted,” Alex repeated it and finally Bea opened her eyes, staring right at Alex. Impossibly, she tightened her grip. 

“Cocaine causes heart attacks. Cocaine increases stroke risk. I am an addict. I am an addict. Please God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I c-c-cannot change. Th-the courage to change the things I c-can and the wisdom to know…to know the difference.” 

Alex and Bea recited the Serenity prayer to and with each other over and over again, passing the words back and forth and over and under until Bea’s breathing finally slowed. She let go of Alex’s hands and slumped against the wall. 

“Okay. Okay.” She took a slow, deep breath and wiped her eyes with three fingers. “Alex? I need you to find me a meeting.”

“Like now or?”

“No, just a regular one. Tomorrow would be good. I’m gonna,” she sniffed, wiping her nose and looking at the ceiling, “I’m gonna call my sponsor.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Do you want some privacy or…?”

“If you would. Thanks, Alex.”

"I love you.” Alex took her hands again, looking intently into her eyes and rubbing over her thumbs. 

“I love you too.”

“Seriously, though, Bea, you cannot smoke cigarettes in our house,” Alex said from the doorway. Bea nodded, the implication of a smile in her eyes. 

Alex found Henry pacing the living room and handed him the pack of cigarettes. 

“She’s been havin a fag?” 

“A what?”

“Please tell me you know that’s British slang for cigarette.” Henry pitched the bridge of his nose with one hand, crumpling the carton further in the other. As Alex explained the situation to Henry, he became aware that his own hands were terribly sweaty and starting to cramp. He wiped them on his pants, barley catching Henry in time to keep him from interrupting Bea’s call. 

“H, I think she’d like to talk to her sponsor alone.” 

“Yeah, right, right. Well I’ll just, I’ll just wait outside, you know, til she’s done.”

“Sure, babe, I’ll wait with you.”

After about twenty more minutes of pacing, Henry sat back down on the couch, but not before kicking one of the armchairs over. Alex was somewhat concerned, but the chair had more tipped than slammed, so he figured Henry couldn’t have kicked it that hard. He didn’t know exactly what Henry was feeling, but he could guess. He’d been refusing to talk about it, but Alex knew Henry couldn’t seem to untangle the guilt he felt over what happened to Bea, even though it hadn’t been his fault and he couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. 

After two cups of tea and some quality David snuggles, Henry seemed more relaxed, in his plaintive, Mr. Darcy brooding sort of way. 

“How are you doing?” It surprised Alex to hear Henry ask and surprised him more when Henry looked at him with such tender, genuine concern. “I really appreciate everything you’re doing for Bea but I know it’s been a lot. How are you managing?” Alex thought for a moment, considering the question with the same genuineness Henry had asked in with. 

“Actually, I’m doing okay.” When Alex said it, he really meant it. “I’ve been sort of surprised by how I’ve sort of just been able to handle it? It’s hard to explain but it makes me feel more stable to be here for her.” Alex considered that maybe in a strange way, some part of him had always been preparing for a moment like this, to finally have someone else who needed caring for. 

“I don’t know how you’re doing it. I’m barely holding it together.” Henry put his head in his hands and Alex rubbed his back. As he comforted Henry back to his tea, he considered what Henry had said. How am I doing this? Where is this coming from? Where is all this pain going? Why isn't it rotting inside of me?

“Did I ever tell you that there was a person who’s whole job was to be ready to photograph my Mom’s death?” Henry muttered a soft no. 

“Yeah. Every time she flew anywhere, there had to be a photographer when she took off and landed, with the express purpose of photographing a crash. Assassination, accident, Act of God, the US Government needs it preserved. We started calling him the DeathShot Guy. It wasn’t just one guy and I’m sure it wasn’t always a guy but I think it was easier to imagine him as a character on The Simpsons, than you know, a real person with a real job that he might actually do.” Realizing he’d never said any of this aloud, Alex pressed on. 

"I don’t even think I realized what that meant until after. Until now. Until I flew to Texas and realized there wasn’t one anymore, I guess. I couldn’t face it while it was going on. Because there’s just no way to deal with that, is there?” Alex hadn’t be sure why the story had come to him while brewing Earl Grey, but by the end of telling he seemed to understand, if just a bit. Those unfathomable things just have to find a place to live inside of you that’s quantum, there and not there all at the same time.

There wasn’t anything he could say to help Henry process what had happened to Beatrice, because there was no “processing” it. This type of thing was just too surreal to comprehend, even. And yet, here they were, living through it. But people lived through incomprehensible things all the time, didn’t they?

Seven days and seven NA meetings later, the Brownstone hosted a Super Six reunion. Even with the basement completely converted to a security floor, there wasn’t room for 6 of the highest profile young-adults in the world and their assorted security. (After Bea’s attack, Oscar had insisted June and Alex hire their own private security, as they were no longer under Secret Service protection. Pez had offered to pay and somehow had charmed Oscar into letting him.)

“I pulled some strings, fear not! Auntie Pezza has procured an appropriate guest lodging for our esteemed colleagues. My dear knights, find the details enclosed herein.” Pez presented manilla envelopes to the assembled staff with a ridiculous flourish. Henry rolled his eyes and June blushed. 

“Why does it look like you’re a spy master right now?” Alex asked. In response, Pez flicked the side of his nose and winked. Nora then whispered to Alex whose townhouse Pez had rented out. “What? Are you kidding me? Pez how did you even—,” but Pez covered Alex’s mouth with his hand before Alex could finish his sentence. 

“My dear, dear Alexander. You simply mustn’t reveal with such reckless abandon the identities of my…associates.” Pez raised one blue eyebrow and shot Nora a look as well. She stifled a giggle in June’s hair. 

They sat around eating pizza and drinking sparkling apple juice and zero-percents, laughing and throwing cushions across the assembled sleeping pit. Alex and Henry had dragged out an air mattress they’d bought last time they’d stuffed their house full; they’d stripped the couch of its cushions and managed to pull Bea’s mattress into the hallway. The regular furniture lay forgotten, pushed up against the walls and windows, somewhat resembling a barricade. In the soft glow of June’s mood lighting and the crooning calls of Nora’s playlist, Alex began to feel giddy, almost drunk of the feeling of togetherness. He laid with his head in Nora’s lap, his feet stretched out over Pez sitting in June’s lap. Bea was combing through Henry’s hair with such tenderness it almost made Alex want to look away. He lost track of the conversation and interjected whatever seemed right, letting whatever bubbled up come out. 

“I don’t ‘sink imma be ready to take the Bar by April.” Alex hiccuped, Nora spreading her fingers through Alex’s hair and lifting his head, taking the beer from his had. 

“Have you been studying?” June leaned over to give him a look worthy of their mother. 

“Well I was, but then I took some time off for the holidays.” Alex tried to lift himself up, but couldn’t seem to find any leverage against the soft blankets and sliding pillows. June sighed and grabbed his hands, hoisting him up. “And then I was studying again in Texas.” Alex hiccuped again. 

“You were?” June raised her eyes skeptically, still holding on to Alex’s hands. 

“Yes, I was!” Alex snatched his hands back, leaning defensively into Nora, who wrapped her hands around Alex’s waist. “And then you know…some other stuff…came up.” Alex closed his eyes, relaxing into brush of Nora’s soft curls on his neck. 

“People fail the Bar all the time, you can just retake it. The best practice is the test itself anyway.” Henry chimed in with a peaceful smile, still in the arms of his sister, who leaned against his head, playing with the ring on his pinkie finger. 

“Do you really think I could keep a failed test result from Fox News?” Alex felt more than heard Nora laugh. 

“Almost certainly not. Probability approaching zero.” Alex turned his neck to look at her, suddenly aware they were so close they could have kissed. Alex relaxed into the feeling, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He wondered if the feeling of Nora’s embrace would ever stop being this way. He hoped not. 

“I’m gonna delay.” 

“Until when?” June was sitting up fully now, face clear as she looked across Pez to her little brother. Alex shrugged. 

“After the wedding at least. But like, you know, maybe longer. I mean maybe what’s the point of even taking the Bar if we’re gonna move to England.” Henry choked on his drink. 

“WHAT?” Erupted a chorus 

“You’re moving back to England?!”

“No!”

“Maybe! We haven’t decided.”

“Probably not.” They all shouted at once, squabbling into a new configuration, all pulling at Alex and Henry for answers. Henry shot Alex a weary but amused look. 

“Queer youth in the UK are in crisis! There’s some incredible post-grad fellowships in international human rights law in London. You know with Brexit—,”

“Don’t say that word!” Henry groaned. 

"Well you two obviously need to talk about this some more.” Bea laughed easily and the sound warmed Alex from the inside out. 

"Yeah, we do.” Henry nodded, but Alex couldn’t seem to stop himself from speaking. 

“—I mean, we both agree that we want our kids to be close to family and New York isn’t really close to anybody. It might be worth looking at—,” Henry went bright-red and shook his head, begging Alex to stop talking. Pez clapped his hands excitedly. 

“Auntie Pezza will relocate anywhere for my little pale, chubby, niblings!” Pez sang, shimming in a little dance. They all laughed again and Alex took a quick inventory. 

“Our kids aren’t going to have any Moms but they’ll be full up on Aunties, huh?” Everyone stopped laughing and looked at Alex. Bea looked genuinely confused and Henry looked shocked. “Auntie Pezza, Auntie Nora…Auntie Bea. Tia June…” For a heart stopping moment, no one spoke and Alex’s entire body filled with dread. 

“You forgot about Philip,” Pez laughed boisterously, slapping his knee and doubling over. 

“Oh shit.” Alex felt a wave of relief before he relaxed back into the laughter. “I did forget Philip.” Henry laughed until he cried, clutching his stomach and wiping his eyes. June felt this was the perfect time to pull out the clippings she’d brought of Alex and Bea’s supposed affair. 

INSIDE ALEX'S AFFAIR
relationship expert weighs on affair rumors between Alex Claremont-Daiz and his soon-to-be sister-in law (or is she?)

ENGAGEMENT OFF: Is Prince Henry calling off his engagement because his partner is sleeping with his SISTER?!

INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS—what we can learn from Alex Claremont-Daiz's alleged affair with Princess Beatrice

“No bloody way!” Bea screeched, pulling the pile toward herself. Alex laughed and laughed until he stained one of the pictures of them at the concert, accompanied by a supposed eye-witness report of then kissing. He snapped a picture and texted it to Linda with a laughing-crying emoji. She sent back a kissy-face. 

Alex woke to a dark room, just barely brightened by the approaching sunrise. He couldn’t tell whose arms were around him or whose feet were touching his, but he didn’t much care. He stretched out, hoping to feel Henry’s hair beneath his fingers. When he didn’t, he pushed his shoulders and rolled onto his back, listening intently to the room. He was pretty sure he didn’t hear Henry’s breaths or heartbeats, but he was certain he didn’t hear David’s little snores. Alex slowly disentangled himself from June’s arms, pushed Nora’s toes out of the way and climbed out of the puppy pile. He smiled to himself when he looked down at his favorite people. Bea was curled with Mr. Wobbles in the crook of her legs, a pillow clutched like a teddy bear, NoraMs other foot in her hair. Nora was slayed across more area than Alex thought physically possible, her fingertips just grazing Pez’s pink silk eyemask. 

Alex took inventory, pondered, walked around, and finally found Henry upstairs in their bedroom, sitting on the bed petting David. 

“Hey, what are you doing up here?” Alex yawned, stretching his arms over his head. 

“Went to use the bathroom, he followed me and I didn’t want to make him walk all the way back downstairs.” It sounded true, but Alex sensed an undercurrent of sadness in Henry’s tone. 

“Hey. You okay?” Alex sat down on the other side of David, touching Henry’s arm. 

“What if it’s positive?” Despite not actually saying it, Alex knew what Henry was talking about. They’d determined the best way them to get screened was to order at-home tests under fake names, hoping to avoid certain disclosures to hackable public health agencies. 

"Then we’ll figure it out.” Alex had stopped trying to assure Henry it wasn’t going to be positive. He didn’t know that. And it wasn’t actually helpful. Alex knew that Henry wasn’t actually afraid of the disease, he was afraid of its mythos. Its stigma and barbed double use as a punishment for everything he was. 

“H, it’s not like it is in the movies. HIV is so treatable now. Like, you’re young, you’re not sick, you’ll just go to a doctor and get on the right medicines and be fine. You’ll be fine.”

“And you’ll still marry me?”

“Of course.” Alex pulled Henry into a hug, as best he could manage with David between them. Of course, of course, of course. 

“But how will we…?” Alex laughed. 

“Again, we’ll figure it out. We’ll keep using condoms. I’ll get on PreP. We’ll get creative. Blowjobs are very low risk for transmission you know.” Henry buried his face in Alex’s chest, relaxing desperately into the embrace.

Alex was somewhat perplexed by how heavily this seemed to weigh on Henry. He speculated it was probably about what everything was about: childhood trauma. Alex didn’t question for a moment that if he was HIV+, now or at any other time in his life, his parents would have supported him completely. If he wanted to go public, they would go public and raise awareness and fight. Like. Hell. If he wanted their private support, they would give it. They would go where he needed them and be who he needed them to be. They would defend his rights and his humanity until their dying breaths. Because that was their job. Not just as his parents but as activists.

But Henry? Alex didn’t know how Henry’s family would react to something like a positive HIV test and honestly, he hoped never to know. For all the AIDS charity work they did, Alex’s hopes for their compassion and support for Henry’s agency weren’t high. 

“So, if it is positive, just um, you know, on the off chance, so I can be prepared. How long do you think we can keep it private?” 

“Henry,” Alex took him by the shoulders and righted him, speaking seriously. “It’s your business. It’s your private medical information either way. You never have to tell anyone if you don’t want. Ever.”

“But isn’t that like cliche and feeding into the stigma? Gay prince secretly hides AIDS diagnosis out of shame.” Alex sighed. 

“How much of you do they deserve? You don’t owe them that. How much of your life is obligated to be in service to others? Can’t you just care about yourself? What are we allowed to save for ourselves.”

They were silent for a long while. Because they weren’t just talking about the test results anymore. They were talking about everything. Their relationship, their family, their wedding, their home. What were they allowed to keep for themselves? What did they owe, if anything, to the public?

Sometimes, Alex felt like he owed no one anything. They had taken enough of his privacy and enough of his relationships and seen enough. Sometimes he wanted to run away to an island and never speak to anyone but Henry ever again. But other times he just burned to plaster the details of his love everywhere, to cut himself open and spray his blood on the face of the world, so no one could claim they didn’t know. To share every detail of their lives in excruciating detail so he couldn’t be forgotten or whitewashed or misattributed. And so that kids would be able to look to him. To know what he went through and how he felt and what he did and how he survived and know they could do it too. 

How much do I owe them? What do I keep for myself? Wasn’t kind of Alex and Henry’s whole thing.

Alex was still thinking about it when he and Henry took Bea and Mr. Wobbles to meet Pez at the airstrip. He didn't want to share this moment, but Linda had said it would be unavoidable. So they’d agreed to give a quote to People and hope for no pictures. 

“Hello Mister Wobbles, how do you do?” Pez bent down to talk to an indignant cat, less happy to be on the windy upstate airstrip than he was to be in his carrier. Pez picked up the carrier and hoisted it up the stairs to his private jet. Bea left the faintest whisper of red lipstick on Alex and Henry’s cheeks, a thick binder of wedding plans under her arm. 

“Love you, boys!” Pez called, waving dramatically from the top of the stairs. 

Alex pressed his fingers to his lips, sending a kiss to the departing flight, knowing they wouldn’t be apart for long. 

Chapter Text

“That bitch!” Alex exclaimed, his shout filling the living room. 

“What?” Henry called through the open patio door.

“She’s fucking copying me!” Alex leapt to his feet but kept his nose shoved in his phone. 

“Who, is doing what?”

“That, that, girl, Ashleigh spelled wrong or something, she just came out as bisexual!”

“The daughter of—,”

“Yeah, that’s the fucking one. Oh my God!” Henry came inside and read the article June had sent Alex the minute it went live. 

In an interview about her redesigning the East Bedroom (total June ripoff, too), she had very casually mentioned she was bisexual. Of course, it was the only thing the news talked about that day. Fox News decried that her father had scammed them on his supposed family values, gossip tabloids immediately starting running spec pieces about her past lovers, and if they had ever fucked in the White House. There were thousands of posts about her online, more than a few about her coming out being fake and all for attention. And despite the fact that Alex wanted to agree—he really wanted reasons to hate her—he knew that no one would be stupid enough to do that, especially not the daughter of a Republican, and extra especially not after his fiasco. Which was why, rather begrudgingly, Alex found himself on the phone with a White House Staffer a few hours later. 

“—well if you could just tell her I called and pass along my number. Yeah, mmhmmn, have her call me at—” Not even 30 minutes later, Zahra’s name popped up on caller-ID. After a split-second, Alex realized it was Zahra’s old office number, not actually her. 

“Hello?” He was pretty sure he knew who it was, but just wanted to confirm. In a rather surreal moment, Alex found himself talking to someone who seemed an awful lot like a younger version of himself. She genuinely hadn’t meant to come out so publicly, but decided to roll with it. She’d been out to her family for a year and they were surprisingly cool. Alex gave her the advice not to antagonize the paparazzi, which made her laugh. 

“Seriously though. Now that you’ve come out, they’re going to take it as an open invitation to talk about your sexuality, your sex life, literally anything. Stop reading the news like today. Get what you need to know from briefings.” Alex didn’t think he had much advice to offer, but she seemed grateful. 

“And um, if you ever need anything. You can just give me a call,” Alex found himself saying. He cringed inwardly. He didn’t want to be friends with this girl. He didn’t even really want to be talking to her right now, but there was something in him that just couldn’t abandon her to the wolves. Given her circles, she might not even know any other queer people. And despite her politics, Alex had been where she was. As he’d always known, First Families were an insular group. I guess, he thought ruefully, we have to stick together. 

Which was how she ended up on the guest list for their wedding. 

“I am not inviting her father,” Alex told Henry over the phone. “Like, under no circumstances is he allowed to come. Honestly, I hope she declines. Don’t give her a plus-one.”

“We don’t have to invite her at all, you know.”

“It’s a gesture. Of. Good. Will.” He mustered through gritted teeth.  

“The wedding planner also wants to know if you are inviting Rafeal Luna or not.”

“Raf?” Alex heard his voice break and he blushed angrily. When he’d given his guest list to Shaan, Zahra had pointed out who he was missing and added them to the end, but left a question mark on Luna’s name. 

Things haven’t been the same between Alex and Luna since the emails. At first, when Alex found out about his triple-agent scheme, he assumed they could go back to their easy, playfully fierce banter and after-hours beers and for a few months they sort of did. But then inexplicably, Alex started feeling queazy whenever he was around Luna. There was this incoherent ache when he thought about calling. Alex knew of course, that being outed was probably the most traumatic thing to ever happen to him, and that Luna was wrapped up in all that, despite his role being imagined. But the damage had been done. Alex’s body associated the leaks and ensuing firestorm, with Luna. He didn’t want to. He loved Luna. He’d always loved Luna. He’d crushed hard on Luna, and that was part of it, too. He loved him and he had wanted him and Luna had betrayed-him-but-not-really and also saved his mother’s campaign and it was just all too confusing. It had been easier to mostly avoid Luna for the remainder of Ellen’s second term. Because the fact that Alex didn’t want to see Luna fucking hurt. Like another thing that had been taken from him. 

“Yeah. Put him on the list. Put him on the fucking list since I’m so full of new beginnings and goodwill.”

If they had been at home, Henry would have laughed at that. But they weren’t at home; Alex was at the office dealing with Foundation things, and Henry had gone ahead to England for wedding planning. Apparently, there was simply just so much to do he simply had to be there for it in person. Alex would be joining him next week. Then home for six weeks. The back to London for final preparations and then…married. And then forever. 

Alex was desperate to be married to Henry, desperate to love him forever and take cheesy photos and have stupid speeches and toasts. But with all this back and forth, he was beginning to feel like it was the early days of their love again. Intercontinental hookups and out-of-timezone texts. The occasional bout of phone-sex. He clung to his plane ticket like a lifeline. His promise of seeing Henry again. Of touching Henry again. He kept reminding himself they had forever, but his desperation always seem immediate. Which was why, of course, Henry let Alex basically maul him in the backseat of the limo on the way back from the airport. And why Alex let—begged—Henry to make love to him until he fell asleep, boneless and weapy. 

Alex woke the next morning to Henry’s perfect ass as he set Alex’s coffee on the bedside table. Alex narrowly avoided suffocating himself in Henry’s cheeks right then. 

“Alex?” Henry asked as Alex finally, begrudgingly, agreed to get dressed, if only for the enticement of more head at teatime. (Alex had no idea when teatime was, but he was selfishly hoping it was whenever Henry was drinking tea.)

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I was just looking at the itinerary for this week and there’s something on here listed as ‘ACD Confirmation’ at someplace called ‘Windsor Chapel.’ Do you know anything about that?”

“Oh yeah. That’s my confirmation, obviously. And baptism I guess. Re-baptism. My De-catholicizing.” Henry stared at him blankly. 

“We…talked about this. Did I not? … tell you?” Henry shook his head slowly. “Oh, well, yeah. I’m doing it.”

“Hang on, hang on.” Henry put up his hand. “You’re…converting?” Alex shrugged. 

“I guess. I mean yes, I am. I talked it over with your grandmother and everything.”

“You talked it over with my grandmother?” Henry choked on his tea. Alex rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah. I did. We’re all very concerned about the legitimacy of your heirs and the sanctity of the Anglican Church. I obviously don’t have any allegiance to the Pope so it’s kind of not a big deal.”

“Alex this is a big deal! You’re changing religions and you didn’t even tell me!” Alex sighed and rolled his eyes again. 

“Anglicanism is literally just Catholicism Light. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I thought we talked about it.”

“Alex. Alex, but this…do you even—do you even believe in God?” Alex shrugged again before Henry actually started twitching. 

“Baby. Baby.”

“No but I don’t—how can you if you don’t and are we…?”

“Sweetheart. Something you have to understand is that religion has like literally never been about God in my life. God is like…only tangentially related. It’s like…cultural. And this is me…committing to your culture.” Alex laughed at himself then. “Haha, that’s funny! Get it! Because you don’t have any culture!” Henry shook his head and tried to come back to himself. 

“Does this mean…you want to raise our kids with religion?”

“H, if you’ve learned anything about me isn’t it that I don’t think that far ahead.” Henry scoffed weakly. 

“Fair enough.” Henry left a long pause. “We should probably talk about that at some point thought.”

“What’s there to talk about? Your heirs are like literally constitutionally required to be Anglican.” Henry seemed to wince. 

“Can you…can you stop referring to our future children as ‘my heirs.’ It makes me feel like a…racehorse.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” Alex had thought the phrase was funny, but he hadn’t realized how it might sound to someone who’d grown up as the ‘spare.’ 

“I guess I didn’t really think that far ahead either.” Henry confessed weakly. 

“We’re gonna figure it out, babe. And like I just said, playing the ceremonial role of religion doesn’t mean our kids are gonna grow up to be bible thumping hillbillies.” Henry groaned. 

“Oh, God.”

“What?” Alex said, looking up comically. 

“My children are going to be American.” 

Just outside of London, Alex and Henry enjoyed a blissfully private ceremony on the grounds of Windsor Castle. Despite his best efforts, Henry felt a tear roll down his cheek as Oscar read from the family bible, once in Latin and once in Spanish. And just like that, it was his 15th birthday again. And he was kneeling in front of the Bishop and Arthur was smiling, his hand clasped in Catherine’s as they bowed their heads in prayer. Henry felt his heart stop as he saw his parents there again in the Chapel, together. Happy. In love. Young and alive. No, they weren’t young. It was the one thing Henry has always dreamed of: his parents, alive and old. With lines around their mouths and eyes from years of laughing and smiling together, sun spots on their chests from days spent in the sun, and skin slightly sagging around their wedding bands. 

Mum

20:46
Dad was with me today.

21:11
I know <3

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?!” Alex came out of the shower to find Henry bent over his open suitcase, rifling through it. 

“I was checking to make sure you didn’t bring any more socks with swear words on them!” 

“I told you that was an accident!”

“But I see that you forgot a black tie, again.” Henry sighed and turned around. Alex rolled his eyes. “Did you even bring a black suit?”

“Uh…no.”

“Alex!” Alex smirked and played with the tuck of the towel around his waist, sliding it lower. Henry’s eyes lingered on the towel for a moment before glancing back at Alex’s face, still unmoved. “You’re gonna jinx it one of these days.” Henry drawled, taking a step forward to Alex, who immediately dropped the towel. 

Alex hummed into a smile as Henry kissed him. Alex stepped out of the towel and slid his tongue into Henry’s mouth. Henry responded by winding one arm around Alex’s bare waist, the other spreading around the side of his face. 

“I love you.” Alex said in a sing-song voice.

“You’re a menace.” Alex felt Henry smile as he said it. 

“C’mere.” Alex took a step back, interlacing his fingers with Henry’s. “Let’s take a shower.” 

“You just took a shower.” Alex took another step back toward the shower and made his eyes into wide, begging puppy-dog eyes. Henry shook his head, a slight smirk playing on his mouth. Alex canted his head and batted his eyelashes, then titled the other way and began to pout. 

“Just get in the shower.” Alex huffed, giving Henry’s hand a tug. 

“Bossy.” Henry shook his head but complied. No sooner was the shower on and Henry freed of his trousers than Alex was on his knees on the tiled floor, blinking up at Henry through long, wet lashed. 

“Goddamn you.” Henry let one hand drift to Alex’s cheek, his head falling back against the glass of the shower. It was slow and sensual and they kissed languidly after, pressing and leaning and bumping into the tiles. 

“My turn.” Alex let out a strangled laugh as Henry threw him against the glass. Henry pinned Alex to the wall with one hand snaking up his chest, fingertips dipping into his sternum. Alex moaned and squirmed under Henry’s mouth until he came with a shudder and was suddenly wrapped, wrapped, wrapped entirely in Henry. They pushed and shoved and threw each other in and out of the quickly-cooling spray until their fingers wrinkled into prunes. 

“Baby.” Alex said after, hooking two of his fingers into Henry’s. “We didn’t even fuck!” Henry rolled his eyes, flushed from his bellybutton to the tips of his ears. 

“You and your endless fascination with barebacking, when will it end?” Alex tipped his head back, laughing as Henry raked his eyes down the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

“There’s only one way to find out!” Alex pulled Henry to him and Henry let Alex kiss him for a few minutes, a couple of damp towels the only thing between them. 

“We really shouldn’t be late.” Henry finally said, breaking the kiss. 

“C’mon, I’m sure Bea won’t mind.” Alex whined. Henery shook his head and grabbed another towel for his hair. 

“Waaaa! You’re no fun!” Alex cried, flopping dramatically backward on the bed. 

“We can make love all night tonight, darling.” 

“Promise?” Alex sat up and Henry walked to the edge of the bed, settling between Alex’s legs. Henry took Alex’s face in his hands, tucking a sopping curl out of the way and caressing his cheekbones. He stared for a moment, breathing in the beauty. 

“We have the rest of forever.” 

Alex and Henry gazed at each other all night and despite their futile attempts not to take the spotlight from Bea, everyone was basking in the glow of their love. Bea seemed to be, too. When she took the stage to make her speech, she was a radiant vision in a pink gauzy dress with bishop sleeves. Her hair was cut short and slicked back behind her ears. With her red lipstick and pearls, she gave the look of an Audrey Hepburn-inspired Princess. Which of course, she was. 

[transcription of HRH Princess Beatrice’s charity gala address. 5 April 2025. London]

Recovering addicts need support during moments of crisis, not prosecution. Addicts need our compassion. Addiction can destroy lives in a variety of ways. One of the greatest tragedies is that it doesn’t only impact addicts. Their families, communities, and workplaces are also impacted. For young children of addicts, it can be especially devastating. Whenever the state intervenes to preserve the welfare of a child, it is a crisis for the whole family. Research has shown that without proper support for the parent’s sobriety, all parties suffer.

All families in crisis deserve compassion and support to remain or become, whole, happy and healthy. Today the Beatrice Fund announces its partnership for Parents in Crisis, providing families and welfare agencies with evidence-based practices for reducing relapse and increasing successful reunification rates. 

I was lucky enough to have the profound support of my family when I was in crisis. Without it, I don’t know how I could have maintained my sobriety. Unfortunately, many recovering addicts, for one reason or another, are not so lucky. The goal of this partnership is to increase community-based support for recovering addicts. Community care comes in all forms. It can look like meal trains, transportation to doctors appointments, grocery delivery, job referrals, neighborhood picnics, placing children within the community when possible, notes of kindness, words of wisdom, and necessary truth-telling. And of course, a cuppa in the kitchen. 

Today, I speak to you as donors, and I thank you sincerely for supporting the Beatrice Fund, and I also speak to the British public. I implore you, find compassion in your hearts for those in crisis and those struggling with addiction. I understand how scary addiction can be and how hopeless the future may seem. Please believe me, we do recover. I challenge all those who have not been impacted by addiction to consider what community care can look like. Thank you and be kind. 

In order to make enough room in their schedule for both Bea’s gala and a showing of Henry V  in Central London, Alex and Henry had to tag-team their assortment of meetings. They’d already handled the flowers, the ceremony attire, and the menu for the reception, and the general nature of the ceremony (which had taken hours and they hadn’t even discussed vows). Begrudgingly, they had also sat though a meeting about the fucking cake. Thankfully, Philip had the good sense not to show. 

On Saturday, Henry took the protocol meetings, Alex took the publicity-related meetings (and reported the appropriate information to Linda), and Catherine took the meeting with Queen Mary. And as always, Shaan coordinated it all, though Henry insisted he didn’t need him in the actual meetings themselves. 

At 5pm sharp, Shaan picked them up in a black Mercedes, their tuxedos in garment bags in the trunk. They transferred to a limo in a nondescript parking garage a mile from the theater, the trio catching each other up on the day’s events in rapid-fire. 

“You have a driver picking up after. I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow. Goodnight, sir.” Shaan gave them a wave as they climbed in with the PPOs. 

“What’s going on?” Alex managed to pull his lips from Henry’s ear just as the flash of a camera went off and slight scuffle ensued—presumably security escorting the photographer out. Despite attempting to brush up on the play using the field guide he'd gotten for Christmas, Alex was barely following anything at all. There was a guy partying in a club, everybody did a few lines of coke and then the main actor physically threw up on stage, splattering purple chunks across the front of the stage. As Alex watched one of the ensemble members dutifully clean it up, he got the gist that someone had died and the whole stage changed. And then the party boy became King? Alex began to suspect that the party boy had to be the titular Henry V, but hadn’t remembered anything about a coke-addled puke fest. Maybe there were creative liberties going on. 

Alex registered that several scenes were taking place entirely in French, but was distracted by the pretty young actress in them, who walked with arm crutches. He wondered if that was part of the play or if the actress was disabled and scribbled a note on the back of his program. He stared at her picture until the the strobe lights started going off, momentarily startling Alex. 

A strange sort of war training montage started then, with the whole ensemble doing a sort of cross-fit inspired dance. The strobe lights effectively created the illusion that he was seeing stills of a much more complex scenario playing out. Perplexed but interested, Alex leaned forward before realizing his face was all screwed up. He quickly relaxed his expression, not wanting to risk a photo of himself looking “disgusted” or “displeased.” Briefly, he looked over to Henry, who was, as always, perfectly poised; his face appropriately neutral but with a relaxed tone of somberness. Perfectly appropriate for a play about war. 

No sooner than Alex had decided the play was about war than it all but vanished following intermission. The scenes in French with the pretty actress resumed, and even though Alex realized there were live translations projected at the bottom of the stage, he was completely mesmerized by the actors. He knew, dimly, that the guy playing Henry V was famous and gorgeous, but he couldn’t get himself to care. Alex also realized then that his Henry must understand perfectly what is being said on stage. For the rest of the performance, Alex alternated between watching Henry and watching the actress. Despite not taking in a single additional line of dialogue or plot, Alex felt warm and satisfied by the curtain call, after which he and Henry were escorted backstage to meet the actors. 

Once again, Henry was on. He greeted the lead actor warmly—and genuinely—and listened kindly as the actor explained what an inspiration Arthur Fox was to him and how grateful he was Henry came to see the show. Deservedly, he mostly ignored Alex. Which was probably good, because the actor seemed primed to have meaningful conversations about the work, and Alex was simply not able to muster up and profound or intelligent thoughts. Gee, how’d you do that thing where you threw up on stage? Instead, he caught a glimpse of the woman he’d been staring at for the past 2 hours. Their escort—a liaison from the theatre—noticed his interest and hurried to introduce the two of them. To his surprise, the actress spoke with a French accent. 

“Are you French?” Alex blurted out, before he could stop himself. He had the vague thought that although he did not even know this woman’s name, he was a little bit starstruck. Thankfully, the actress laughed. 

“French-American, yes.” 

“Your British accent is so good!” 

“Thank you.” She gave him a good-natured smile and Alex noticed she was still using her forearm crutches. 

“What’s your favorite Shakespeare play?” He asked somewhat breathlessly. He didn’t catch her response, but thankfully Henry appeared by his shoulder to save the conversation. They made the rounds, shaking hands and taking selfies—something Alex has instead Henry get more comfortable doing. And before long, they were whisked back into the limousine. 

“You didn’t tell me this play was in French!” Alex slapped Henry’s chest playfully, but Henry grabbed his hand and pinned it there, capturing Alex in surprisingly intimate kiss, fingers sliding easy into the curls at the nape of Alex’s neck. 

“Sorry.” Henry pulled back just a few inches, playful smile on his pink lips. Alex glanced around the backseat, but they were alone, respective guards secured in the front seat. 

“What was that for?”

“I just love you.”

“Hold on. Are you…?” Alex pressed his hand between Henry’s legs, earning a furtive squeak. 

“Hush. I’m not allowed to kiss my fiancé just because?” Alex raised an eyebrow but retracted his hand. “We should do this more often.” 

“Go see plays?”

“Yeah.” Henry’s words came out with a sort of giddy lilt. “We can take the kids.” 

For a heart-stopping moment, Alex thought he meant their future children. 

“Oh, the kids from the shelter.” Henry gave him a scolding look. They tried their best not to refer to the youth they served that way. 

“You know, cultural enrichment. Arts opportunities.”

“Maybe we can take them to see a play that’s a little more…hopeful.”

“Maybe. But maybe something like this is exactly what they need. A depiction of violence and tragedy that isn’t pretending to be something else.” Henry was serious and contemplative, but Alex was slightly overcome. He grabbed Henry’s lapels and pulled him in for another kiss. 

“I love you so much. I can’t wait to be married to you.” 

“I can’t wait to be your husband.” Henry gazed back at Alex, blue eyes as deep as the ocean. 

“I can’t wait to be a parent with you.” Alex’s face cracked into a grin and Henry hid his face in the crook of Alex’s neck, clinging to his jacket. 

By the end of their car ride, which took longer than either of them would have like, Alex was near-giddy. Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life? They both knew, somewhere deep down, that their conversation and thousands like it, were a way of trying on what it would feel like to be parents. A rehearsal, of sorts. Alex found that needy, deep longing setting in on him again.

Henry was shirtless, biting his lip on their bed as Alex undid his pants when his phone rang. Groaning, he fished it out of his pocket. 

“Goddamnit. I need to take this.” He said with a huge sigh, rolling over past a disappointed Alex and swinging his legs off the bed.

“Hi, Mum.” Henry gently closed the door behind him as he walked into the lounge. Alex huffed, frustrated in more ways that one, and rid himself with the rest of his clothes, settling against the pillows. He began trying on different poses and manners of seduction. He had settled with one leg bent and one arm thrown wide, head leaning to the side, extending his neck in that way he knew drove Henry wild, when Henry reentered the room. His face was slack, the phone held a few inches from his face. 

“Alex…” he swallowed stiffly, “you’re going to need to buy a black suit.” 

Chapter Text

“The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.”

Alex physically watched the proclamation from the window of Buckingham Palace, where he was being kept for the duration. Henry had gone to do…whatever Royals did on days like this, but Alex—being still technically not a member of the Royal Family—was left behind. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.” June’s face popped into the FaceTime call almost immediately. They hadn’t actually spoken since Queen Mary’s death, but they’d exchanged a few texts. 

“How are you?” June’s face was deep with worry. Alex pressed his lips together and shrugged. 

“Fine? I don’t know. It’s surreal.”

“Yeah.” June nodded emphatically. They made small talk about things, circling around the elephant in the room, getting closer and closer like a marble circling a tub drain. June had suspected that many of the press stories that had come out had been completely false, but Alex confirmed it. Henry hadn’t been by her side when she died. In fact, no one had been. 

“She just died, B. I don’t even know if it was a stroke or a heart attack or what. Natural causes. I mean it wouldn’t even be a question if she were just a regular old lady who walked her little dogs, lied down for a nap and then just never woke up.” 

“But she’s not just a regular old lady.” 

“No, she’s not.” Alex bit back the rest of what he wanted to say about the many things Queen Mary had been. 

After a beat: “How are you, really? How’s Henry?” 

“I don’t know…fineish.” Alex shrugged and sighed. “He’s doing that stiff upper lip thing. He’s on a lot of Xanax. I don’t think I’m supposed to be telling people that. Don’t—don’t repeat that or anything…FaceTime is encrypted, right?” Alex lower his face to his  phone and swiped into another screen, not even getting as far as the google homepage before his phone helpfully reminded him of his own strict parental controls on internet usage.

“Baby bro, if our communications get leaked, we have much bigger problems than how much prescription drugs your boyfriend is taking.”

“Right…” Alex swallowed, feeling sick and dizzy at even the thought of (another) breech of privacy. 

“We’re gonna have to postpone that.” Alex closed his eyes and pursed his lips, breathing out in a small controlled stream of air. 

“I know, I already called. They think I should still go ahead as scheduled with the uh…procedure.” 

“Right but the other thing…”

“Can happen at a later date quite easily.” 

“But it’s better to do it before they are frozen.”

“Alex, I’m 30, not 45. My eggs are going to be fine.”

“I know, I know. Didn’t we agree on two cycles if we were going to pre-freeze?” 

“Yes. And it’s cute you say we, by the way.” 

“I know, I know, it’s you it’s all you I owe everything in my life from this point forward to you

“Going forward?” June raised an eyebrow. 

  “Fine. I owe you everythung, I’d be nothing without you, I’d be no one, I’d have nothing. I need you I love you blah blah blah.” 

“Alex.” June rolled her eyes and her little brother. “If you do want me to wait though it’s fine I will.” Alex sighed and shook his head, causing another curl to flop onto his forehead. He shoved it out of the way with a small sound of exasperation. 

“I don’t even know. The studies are…varied and I don’t know how much any of it even matters and there’s so much that like depends on stuff we don’t even know yet like when we’re gonna have kids.” Alex had all but given up the euphemistic ruse. He did figure that if anyone was listening in, between all his connections, he could have them paid or killed off if he needed to. Or maybe they’d just go public with their fertility plans, like Henry sometimes dared Alex to do in his wildest moments of scheming to undermine the British press. 

“You know it’s okay if you just want to be there when it happens.” Alex flicked his eyes to his sister’s on the small screen. She stared back at him.

“Ugh, fine. How do you always know this stuff?” 

“Because I’m your sister, dufus.” A beat. “And I’m a fucking feminist who reads queer theory, do you think I don’t know how alienating it feels to not be involved in your child’s conception?” 

“I…” Alex couldn’t even pretend his sister hadn’t got it exactly right. “I just need to know what’s happening.” And once again, Alex had circled all the way around to the theme of his entire life. 

“Do you want me to read you the news?” June scrunched up her face and brought her shoulders up to her ears. 

“Do I?” Through a series of infuriatingly secure parental controls, screen restrictions, and Henry’s intense warnings against television news coverage, Alex had pretty effectively insulated himself from both the tabloids and legitimate news coverage of Queen Mary’s death.

“I can read you the funny ones?” Alex gave a meager attempt at a smile. 

“There are funny ones?” June nodded empathically.

“FSOTUS Alex calls off wedding, demands title!” 

“So untrue. Like opposite untrue,” Alex rolled his eyes.  

“Brothers mending feud—‘much love’ in Buckingham Palace.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know about that one either.” 

“Oh, this one’s good!" June was eagerly scrolling; it seemed she had been stockpiling and cataloging articles for this very purpose. “Princess Martha pregnant—AGAIN. Holding announcement until after mourning. Is that true?” He face whipped back to Alex’s, which made him realize he well and truly looked like shit. 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” That seemed pretty ridiculous, all things considered. The tabloids were clearly reaching. Alex was glad that for the time being they seemed not to be reaching for his family. 

“Queen refuses to see Alex in final moments.”

“Jesus Christ. There weren’t any final moments! And what would we have even said to each other?”

“Queen Catherine threatens to strip titles if Henry and Philip don’t make nice.” Alex barked out a clipped laugh.  

“Fat chance. She’d have no heirs.” 

“Alex pissed about stay in England for funeral of—OLD BAT.” 

“Oops.” 

“Did you say that?”

“No. I didn’t say that. But I did think it.” June gave him a smirk and for a moment, it felt good. Almost like old times. 

“EMBARRASSMENT of the FAMILY—Prince Henry and Alex with no clothes! Sources report that Buckingham Palace moved quickly to acquire black suits and ties for the couple, as they reportedly travelled to England without any—contrary to the Queen’s strict protocol.”

“Well that is true. Sort of. I didn’t bring a black suit, they had to get me one.”

"Alex! Really? She’s like ancient.” June gave a stern ‘I told you so’ expression. 

“But she’s also like immortal,” Alex protested, “she’s been ancient my whole life, who ever thought she would die?” He was partially right. Though technical plans had been in place for Queen Mary’s death for decades, she was the only monarch most living Britons had ever known. At least they didn’t have to change the National Anthem. 

“Oh, Daily Express claims to have lip read you saying something naughty to Henry.”

“Don’t they always?” 

As the conversation petered out, Alex realized he did feel a bit better. It was nice to have had a laugh with June, even if it was punctuated by groans. 

“Thanks, Bug. Love you.” 

“I love you. Call anytime.”

June clicked off the call and Alex huffed onto the couch. Truthfully, he didn’t even know what room he was in. He’d been shuffled from place to place and engagement to car to inside to room and over again. He was definitely inside Buckingham Palace, but other than that he had no clue. He felt like a little kid, waiting to be picked up at daycare. His parent, in this analogy, was Shaan, who had once again taken up the duty of shuttling and minding Alex in Henry’s absence. Feet propped up on what was probably a priceless relic, Alex was staring at the distantly paneled ceiling when he heard the door open. Sitting up, he was shocked to find none other than Zahra standing in front of him, hand on hip. 

“What’s up loser?”

“Zahra? What are you doing here?” Alex had the fleeting thought that his mother had sent Zahra to mind him, but realistically he didn’t think she could have gotten to London that quickly. Sighing, Zahra kicked his feet off the couch and sat down. 

“I was trying to spend some time with my husband,” She glared at him, “but obviously he’s suddenly become very busy.” 

“Oh.”

“So, looks like we’re stuck together.” 

“Again.” Zahra narrowed her eyes, then gave Alex a sound push that left him tumbling to the ground. 

“Hey!” Alex half-expected a secret service agent or a PPO or even a footman to come running in, but then he remembered he was no longer any of those people’s priority. Alex, rightly so, chose to stay on the ground. 

“You’re not going to go back to the States then?”

“No, Alex. I’m going to stay here and provide emotional support for my goddamn spouse, not that its any of your business.” 

“Sorry.” Alex mumbled. He wasn’t quite up to sparring with Zahra today (really, he wasn’t ever up to it, but he did like to give it his best shot). 

“Do you know what they’re doing?” Alex knew he could undo enough of his own internet restrictions to get to Wikipedia, but he also knew that would be a slippery slope.

“Do you?” 

“No.” Zahra considered Alex for half a second, then sighed and answered him.

“It’s honest-to-god called the Ascension Council. A bunch of Knights of the Garter and Lords Temporal and Spiritual and other assorted parties are meeting. Making plans for, you know, the Ascension.”

“Henry’s mom…”

“Becoming Queen Catherine the First, yes, obviously.” 

“Why is it taking so long? It’s not like there’s a question of succession or something.”

“I don’t know what’s taking them so long. But the Council has to make the plans for the Funeral and continuity of Government. The whole fucking Parliament has to shut down and wait for the goddamn Queen of England—literally—to tell them they can continue.” Zahra looked around. “I should probably be more careful…in here.” Her face had the look of someone who had just smelled something foul and was trying to determine its source. 

“I don’t think Catherine would care, but Philip would probably have you whipped for that.”

“Do you think that’s funny?” Alex genuinely couldn’t tell how serious either of them were. 

Some time later, a pair of footmen arrived to shuffle them into another room, this one with a table set for two—complete with polished silver cloaches. This new room had smaller windows that faced the ‘courtyard’ of the Palace, which was really just a parking lot and loading dock. It also had a TV. For a fleeting moment, Alex’s heart soared and he lunged for the remote. As if he were in a sprint, he flipped through channels rapidly, trying not to see news headlines or hear swooning bagpipes. But his heart began to plummet as he realized all the channels were playing nearly the same thing: coverage of Queen Mary’s (excessively long) life and death. Remote falling to his side with a dramatic whimper, Zahra let out a sharp bark of laughter. 

“Give me that.” She snatched the remote from his hand and turned off the television. “Nothing else is going to be on. And I will throw you out this window and impale myself on the fucking gates before I watch a canned fluff piece about a dead colonizer who the BBC is constitutionally obligated to like.”

Alex felt like he could scream. A part of him wanted to tempt Zahra and see what would happen if he jumped—or was pushed— out the window. It was only the second story, so he wouldn’t likely be badly hurt, but he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be accidentally killed by the ensuing security panic. He started making a list. 

One. Is Henry okay? Two, Three, Four. Is he having panic attacks and flashbacks to his father’s funeral? Has Philip spoken to him? Seven. Ten. Is Martha really pregnant? Is Bea on the verge of relapse? How. The fuck. Is Catherine doing. 

For as shitty as the list was, it also didn’t contain a single fact of reality, only questions. Un. Fucking. Helpful. He tried again. 

One, I love Henry. 

Two, I am worried about Henry. 

Three, funerals are triggering for his family. 

Four, I love Beatrice. 

Five, Beatrice might relapse.

Six. That cannot happen. 

My Favorite Princess

Hey. I don’t know if you’re looking at your phone and honestly I hope you’re not, but I wanted to let you know I love you. I am so proud of you and it’s okay if this is hard. 

Please don’t give up on your sobriety. It’s not worth it, I promise. You are so amazingly strong and you can get through this. I hope I can see you soon, so I can tell you all this in-person and give you a big hug. 

Not giving up. W fam. Tell me again in a couple days when dust settles. Luv u. CUsoon. 

With nothing else to do, Zahra permitted Alex to blabber on, talking about everything and nothing as she flipped though a glossy magazine with her equally glossy nails. Is that Better Homes & Gardens?

“Yes. What about it?” Zahra snapped, before Alex even realized he had spoken aloud. Alex shrugged. “Am I not allowed interests or vapid obsessions after I’ve been kicked off campaigns or is that just you?” Alex fought the urge to roll his eyes. Zahra hadn’t been kicked off any campaign, but Ellen had—almost literally—shoved her out the door in Texas, insisting she ‘take some time off.’ Unlike most former Presidents, Ellen was not retiring from politics, but her exact future was not exactly clear. Regardless, she would have Zahra by her side. There was simply no other way. Suddenly, Alex thought about a conversation he’d overheard between Shaan and Henry a few weeks before. 

“Are you moving back to London?”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe for a little bit.”

“Sir, I need you to give me an answer.”

A pause.

"I’ve been splitting my time between New York and DC the last four years. And I’ve been happy to do it. But I’d like to be able to give my wife some answers about my future.”

Since the Super Six reunion, they’d been going round and round about it. They had agreed the legalities of surrogacy would be better and more privately achieved in the States. Alex had been researching international law fellowships and judicial clerkships in New York and D.C. (and also Austin and SoCal, but he hadn’t quite gotten ready to tell Henry about those). But that had all been before. Before Queen Mary had died, before Henry had moved back up the line of succession, before Catherine had been crowned. Before their family had been thrown into yet another upheaval. 

“Zahra?”

“What.”

“I, uh. Thank you.” Zahra’s hands stilled and she looked at Alex, really looked at him. “If it wasn’t for,” Alex swallowed thickly, “if you hadn’t brokered that plan and made me pretend make nice with H, I might not—we might have…we wouldn’t be getting married.” The words were coming from somewhere so deep within Alex it made him feel strange; there was a kind of hopeful, twisting joy threatening to make him lose his lunch. Queer time was a marvelous thing: Alex was simultaneously a teenager falling in love for the first time and a mourner and a man telling a story of a great love. 

Zahra continued to look at him, possibly longer than she’d ever looked at him without speaking. 

“Thank you.” It was a clipped acknowledgment of Alex’s acknowledgment. She took a quick breath in. “If it weren’t for you and your stupid hatred-turned-infatuation and that Godforsaken cake, I might not be married either.” They sat together in that silence for a long time before Alex realized she hadn’t called him kid a single time. 

Chapter Text

On miserable day 5 of the miserable 10-day mourning period, Alex, Henry, Martha, and Philip went on a ‘walkabout.’ They received flowers and shook hands and thanked people for their condolences. It was surreal to Alex how hysterical people were being but this, at least, was something he knew how to do. He smiled somberly when appropriate, turned on his Politician’s Charm when necessary, and held Henry’s hand constantly. He was sure every minutia of their appearance would be scrutinized, but Alex chose to look at it as an anthropology project. The British, a famously stoic people, were joining together in an epic show of emotion, which was, almost by definition, cataclysmic. Some of them had probably been holding in these tears, these wails, these feelings, their entire lives. As Alex shook wet hands and looked upon stunned faces, he knew this would be the only time many of these people would ever be permitted to display this kind of passion. Maybe that was why they cared so much about soccer. 

In a way, Alex was grateful to provide these people a catharsis. He was also grateful to be an American. To have been made to talk about his feelings at home, and to have been permitted to cry. He didn’t understand these people's pain, not by a long shot, but he did understand that they were comforted by sharing it. And so Alex shared it with them. 

Neither couple spoke or interacted in any way. Some people gave Martha baby clothes, often soaked with tears. Fucking bizarre. 

On miserable day 9 of the miserable 10-day mourning period, The Queen’s children and grandchildren stood vigil around the coffin, which was lying in state in Westminster Hall. And it was because of this strange tradition that Alex found himself sitting on a bench with Martha in the bowels of Westminster Abbey, awaiting their partners’ return. 

“I’m sorry for ruining your wedding.” Martha seemed taken aback for a moment. Alex couldn’t believe what had seemed to have taken over him during these dreary days in England. He was confessional and forgiving and apologetic. He was tender and raw. 

“Thank you for saying that. For what it’s worth, you didn’t ruin it. It was admittedly a tabloid disaster but your little fake feud with Henry isn’t as relevant to my life a you might think.” Alex wasn’t quite sure what to make of that statement. 

“It wasn’t a fake feud,” Alex muttered under his breath. The feud was very genuine.

“I don’t think we’re going to have any more children.” Alex turned to look at Martha, but quickly turned back to face the stone wall. “I just thought you should know. Hear it from me since they aren’t…speaking.” They all knew Henry and Philip’s chilly demeanor had reached the tabloids by this point, in spite of, or perhaps because of, the walkabout.  

“As I’m sure you gathered, it wasn’t easy for us to have Tori.” Martha seemed to feel the need to keep talking. Alex wondered if she’d told this to anyone else. “And after the birth…well the doctors don’t think there’s a high chance of me bearing any more children,” Martha dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. 

“I’m…sorry.” Alex didn’t know what to say, but he could tell the whole ordeal was extremely upsetting to Martha. And he really was sorry. Even the thought of not being able to have the family he wanted with Henry brought a lump to his throat and made his eyes burn.

“So, yes,” Martha took a deep breath and straightened her spine. “Henry’s going to be the spare forever.” Alex’s mouth dropped open. Despite everything that had happened in the last few months—despite everything that had happened in the last few days, Alex felt his world once again tipped off its axis. What did that even mean? Henry’s going to be the spare forever. What was Alex supposed to do with that information? 

On the 10th miserable day, the State Funeral was held. 

“We are all here today because we are deeply saddened by the passing of Her Majesty The Queen. Of course, I wish we had more time with her on this Earth. But I am also profoundly grateful for her long life. She lived to see the advent of the millennium, to see her daughters marry and start families of their own. She lived to see her grandchildren into adulthood. She lived also, of course, through some of the darkest times in our country’s history.”

Alex knew Philip was referencing the Second World War, during which the late Queen had been a young child, but he thought fleetingly that she might also have considered his unwelcome entrance into her family one of the darkest times. 

“But through that all, she got to see the birth of the Commonwealth.”

Oh boy. Barf. Not the colonizer propaganda, please not the colonizer propaganda. Luckily for Alex, Philip didn’t linger. 

“And an explosion of advancement in human history. I know that she was constantly in awe of the world around her. But I, as many, was in awe of her. She seemed so impossibly steadfast, so committed, it was hard to think of her as anything less than an ideal. She was an incredible woman. She was a devoted mother, wife, sister, grandmother, and great-grandmother. She was an avid reader, a genius chess player, and a lifelong horsewoman. She loved travel, cricket, and nature documentaries. She was a stunning philanthropist, patron of charities across the Globe, forever striving for a better future. She was also a stalwart Sovereign. Her commitment to country never wavered, not for a moment. Britain is better for her legacy. Perhaps the only thing that ever rivaled her commitment to Country, was her commitment to God. I am comforted by the knowledge she is resting peacefully with our Heavenly Father, now. I know her religion comforted deeply in her final moments. I wish for all to feel that love of God, as she did.”

Philip went on for another minute and a half about God and religion, but Alex tuned him out. He was permitted to sit in the head pews with the Royal Family, but not with Henry. Henry, Beatrice, Catherine, and some other somber wizened old men sat one row in front of Alex, grim expressions bared. Martha didn’t attend—Alex didn’t know or care why. In his row, still in front of the cameras but not on ground-level, was Alex, an assortment of cousins, and someone in the family’s girlfriend. Alex knew that wasn’t a coincidence. It was supposed to be a statement: see, it’s not because he’s gay—we make everyone’s unmarried partner sit separately. Alex didn’t terribly mind sitting alone himself, but he longed to sit next to Henry, to comfort and protect him. To remind him that this wasn’t his father’s funeral and he wasn’t alone. He wouldn’t be abandoned to a pit of grief, like before. 

But of course, it wasn’t his father’s funeral; Henry’s shiny, soft blond hair was nestled between the black hats of his sister and mother. Henry and Bea had their hands clasped together, Catherine’s folded neatly in her lap. Alex wondered how she seemed so calm and resolved, no hint of tears anywhere near her face, just solemn sadness. But Alex remembered his mom saying she’s been preparing her whole life for the death of her mother. But she was never planning on a future without Arthur. That death had shaken her entire world. This one was opening it. Alex’s eyes drifted over the crowd, looking absently for his mother, who he knew was sitting with June…somewhere. Pez was there too, somewhere in that cavernous hall of black. As his eyes drifted back to the pulpit, Alex wondered if the same reason Catherine seemed so calm was how Philip had survived his father’s death: He’d been preparing his whole life for one of his parents to die. That’s his entire life purpose. 

Alex went momentarily slack-jawed as he thought of Philip as a child—like the family photo’s he’d seen of the young family of 5—being groomed for his mother’s death. How old had Philip been when he’d realized that was his ultimate fate? To take Catherine’s place upon her death. Before this exact moment, Alex had never been able to conceptualize Philip as a child. Somehow between the chasm of grinning boy playing between Arthur’s legs and RAF Lieutenant Windsor, a transformation had occurred. That Philip wasn’t this Philip. It couldn’t possibly be. Philip was a static thing, like a doll or a stock photo. He was an adult because he had always been an adult, perpetually mid-thirties. Surely he didn’t grow, didn’t change. 

“She was a caring grandmother to me, and it was one of the privileges of my lifetime to be able to introduce her to her first great-grandchild. I will never forget the love and affection she extended to my daughter, Victoria. In Victoria, in all of God’s children and all of her dear subjects, her legacy lives on. May her deep love, patriotism, and commandment to public service be an example for all. And May God rest her soul. Amen.” 

It was a good speech, but Alex could see the cracks in the narrative. Philip called his daughter Tori. Queen Mary hated to travel and never watched television. This was the first time Philip had ever spoken about God, publicly or privately. Alex had never seen her play chess or talk about cricket, but he supposed those might be true. Of all the things to fictionalize, those seemed trivial.

Alex wondered if everyone could see through Philip’s bullshit. 

Chapter Text

When it’s all over, when night has fallen on a London already shrouded in darkness, Alex finds Henry back in his old room. He wasn’t wearing his tie or jacket, but his shirt was still buttoned up to his throat and his freshly shined shoes gleamed against the stark white duvet. 

“Hey.” Alex sat down next to his fiancé. Henry kept his fingers interlaced on his stomach as Alex rubs his leg gently. “How are you doing? For real.” It took Henry a long time to pull himself out of his reverie. 

“I’m…managing.” Alex gave him a look, scooting up beside him. Henry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried again. “I want to go home. I can’t wait to stay in bed for days and not talk to anyone. I’m so tired. I miss my dog. I can’t believe how long I’ve been away from him.” Alex gazed intently at Henry, stroking his cheek and then kissing his forehead. “ 

“Yeah. Soon, babe, soon,” Alex whispered, leaning his head on Henry’s. 

“Thanks for um…walking with me,” Henry choked out, fighting not to clear his throat in his own bedroom. 

“Yeah, of course.” Alex couldn’t quite stop himself from scoffing. There’d been a huge uproar about whether or not Alex would walk behind Queen Mary’s coffin in her funeral procession: protocol dictated the male members of her household walk, but Catherine insisted she would also walk (and who, exactly, was going to tell her not to?). Alex had been ready to physically fight the courtiers who attempted to bar him. For the past week and a half, he’d been haunted by the pictures of Henry walking behind his father’s coffin, and the thought of making him do it again, alone, threw Alex into a blind rage. In the end, Alex had enlisted Zahra’s assistance, after which he was given carte-blanche to rearrange royal protocols in whatever way he chose. 

Alex pulled back and took a quick inventory of his fiancé. He couldn’t deny the days had worn on Henry: his face paler than usual, his skin sallow and his eyes…his eyes…well there was just no other way to describe it, he looked haunted. The lack of sleep hadn’t been helping: for days, he’d been bouncing between heavy sedation and fitful sleeps. Alex had to admit, it’s been hard to watch. But he couldn't imagine the alternative: Henry going through it without him. The thought alone made Alex want to sob. Henry blinked slowly, his vision going glassy again. 

“I don’t think I’m sad she’s dead,” Henry said, voice tight. “But I am sad.” Alex nodded, stroked Henry’s arm lightly. He bit his tongue, leaving space for Henry to say more, hoping he would. “I already miss Mum,” Henry whispered, so softly Alex barely heard.  “I know she’s just busy, I know she’s still my mum, I know,” Henry grimaced, squeezing his eyelids closed. “I know it’s not going to be like…and she promised it won’t and she won’t…” Alex heart seized in his chest, but his resolve and his hand on Henry’s arm stayed steady. 

“It just reminds me of,” Henry’s voice was barely audible, Alex relying mostly on lipreading. “I miss my Dad.” And there it finally was. A massive exhalation of everything Henry had been holding and avoiding all week. His face started to go slack again, his eyes unfocusing and his hands sliding down onto the bed. 

“Hey.” Alex slipped his hand into Henry’s dress shirt, pressing his palm to Henry’s breast. I know what’s in there. I know you. “Tell me.” And without even a second thought, Henry did. 

“I miss the way he loved my mother, like it was the steadiest and most unquestionable thing in the world. I miss the way her love for him made her stronger. I miss how he always wanted to know what I was reading and wanted me to be everything I wanted to be. I wish you could have met him. I know he would have just loved you. I wish he would have gotten to meet Tori. And I wish I wasn’t getting married without him.” Tears finally started to fall then, as Alex felt a pang of guilt go through him. 

“I wish I could have come out to him, I wish he would have known the truth about me. And I wish he would have taught me how to charm the cameras like you do. I just miss him.” Alex inhaled sharply then, bringing his hand to Henry’s cheek. 

“I wish I would have got to meet him, too. I’m sorry your Dad’s dead.” It should go without saying, but if Alex had learned anything in therapy, it was that it’s always better to say the obvious stuff first. And it’s all true. “And of course he knew the truth about you.” Alex wiped the tears from Henry’s face and pressed a simple kiss to his lips. 

Alex fell asleep with his face pressed to Henry’s bare chest, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. They’re both startled awake by a sudden eruption of Queen lyrics emanating from Henry’s phone. 

“What the hell?” Henry scrambled for the phone as Alex grumbled. 

“Bea, Bea? Are you okay?”

“What?! What? Speaker, speaker!” Alex pounded on Henry’s chest as Henry tried to swat him away. Alex only managed to catch a few odd words and Bea sniffling on the other end before Henry jumped out of bed, frantically searching for a pair of pants. 

“Hey, hey. It’s gonna be okay. I’m on my way. You’re alright, you’re alright. Stay put. You did the right thing. Hey, hey, I’m coming. Here, I’m gonna give you to Alex while I drive, ok? Stay on, don't hang up.” Henry shoved the phone to Alex. He pressed the phone to his ear, the other hand rummaging in this suitcase for a t-shirt. 

“Bea? Beatrice? It's Alex. What’s—” Alex stopped as Henry gave him an abortive shake of the head. 

“Oh. Hi. Alex. I’m um,” Bea said, in between thick sniffles, “I need you guys to come get me. I’m…I’m at a bar.” Her voice waivered and then broke as she said it and Alex almost trips on his way out the door, grabbing the doorframe as Henry shoves his keys into his pocket. 

Alex made absurd small talk just to keep Bea on the line as Henry floored it into South London, hurtling across London Bridge and past the severe architecture of the National Theater and Guildhall Acting School. Alex relayed directions from Bea to Henry until Henry swerved right and yanked the phone from Alex’s hand. 

“It’s me. Where are you? We’re in Elephant and Castle. Yeah. Yeah. Ok. Two minutes, yup, yup.” Henry said as he literally drifted into an alley, the breaks squeaking. Henry and Alex didn’t actually exchange any words, just nods and glances as they formulated their plan. Alex rolled the wad of cash from the glovebox into the waistband of his sweatpants and headed around the alley for the front door of the bar. 

It’s a dingy little place, by the grace of God only inhabited by a few souls. Between H's cash and his own charms, Alex easily persuaded the bartender and barback into  silence. The single patron, a lonely middle aged man, promised finally not to say anything so long as Alex agreed to sign an autograph for his daughter. 

“You saw me out and asked for it. No one else, got it?” The man nodded emphatically and Alex decided he didn’t need to threaten the force of the CIA afterall. Alex thanked everyone again for their discretion and then followed the path Henry had taken earlier through the kitchen. He stopped though, when he heard the sound of Henry’s tears coming from the alley. 

“I know you don’t think I need you anymore because I’d got Alex but you’re fucking wrong. I need you Beatrice. I need you. I don’t know how to go on without you. I’ve lost my father and I’ve lost my brother and I’m losing my my mother to the Crown. You cannot leave me.”

“I didn’t actually do it,” Beatrice offered meekly, laying in her bed with her brother sat beside her. “I ordered it but I didn’t drink it.” He face is tear-streaked and her hair is a wreck: it's probably the worst Alex had ever seen her. But she’s holding her silver sobriety chip in her hand, so it can’t be the worst she’s ever been. 

“I know, Bea, I know. You did the right thing. You did the right thing. I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of you.” Henry said, pressing a kiss to Beatrice’s hand, clenched tight in his. Alex drags over a jacquard chair, horrible and ugly and eventually Henry moves to it, never letting go of his sister’s hand even for a moment. In a sickening moment, Alex realizes the scene reminded him of how June watched over him the night after the emails leaked. But this time, there’s more of them. They’re all in it together. 

Henry stayed in the chair all night long and Alex kept watch over both of them, pulling the curtains closed when dawn cracked the horizon, supplying coffee and water and makeup wipes when the need arises. 

“It’s been 10 years.” 

“In July, I know.” And Alex knows too, he’s been thinking about it since he first saw the date on their wedding invitations. 

“I wish he was here. I miss Dad.”

“Me, too, Bea. Me, too.” And when her soft tears subside into sleep, eventually Henry’s do too, his sister’s hand still clutched tightly in his own. 

A week later, the day before Alex and Henry are due to fly back to New York, the three of them get carted in a blacked-out Mercedes to Buckingham Palace, where Queen Catherine is waiting for them, with Philip and an assortment of private secretaries and event planners. After all, the wedding planning must carry on. 

Beatrice looked better, in jeans and a loose sweater hanging around her thumbs and thighs. Catherine and Philip still wore black, a show of their extended official mourning period. Philip, thankfully, had clearly been instructed to shut the fuckup. He didn’t speak hardly at all, except for a few interjections about “protocol” which were summarily silenced by a single glance from the Queen. Everyone was in rare agreement about one important fact: the wedding should proceed, date unchanged. 

“Are you two still set on it being a private civil ceremony?”

“Ma’am,” Some ancient equerry began, but Catherine held up her hand and he didn’t continue. 

“Yes. I don’t want to be in a dog show. No offense.” Alex said, after which Bea shot him a small smile.

“Absolutely, done.” Catherine’s secretary scribbled before sliding her a folder. “There is, of course, a great public interest in celebrating your marriage. I propose a blessing at Westminster Abbey to follow.”

“A State Event?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“We’re open to extended delay. Out of respect for our dear Queen Mary and for responsible stewardship of public funds, what with both the State Funeral and Coronation this fiscal year.” Alex glanced to Henry and they shared a warm, satisfied look. 

“Okay.”

“Fantastic!” Catherine beamed and another advisor passed along another folder, this one red. “I’m behind you 100% on a private ceremony. No press, No photos, nobody else’s business. But,” Catherine’s face softened and she looked to her youngest son. And It’s a look Alex knows well. It’s the same way Ellen often looked at him, when she was balancing both her intense love for him and intense love for her country. “People need something to root for. The country is in mourning. The funeral may have passed but the sorrow has not. The death of Granny was one of the saddest moments in public life in a generation. We need a public joy to rival that. Will you share your happiness with them?” Catherine implored, her eyes offering and pleading at the same time.

“And the Monarchy needs to rehabilitate its image. No pun intended.” Bea added. There’s a rather tense silence and then Henry and Bea both let out a strangled, sort of insane giggle. Alex is too preoccupied to reminisce on the fact they have the same laugh. 

“What’s your idea?” Alex asked, his eyes trained on Catherine and the red folder under her fingertips. She cuts back to Alex and for a moment they are politician to politician. 

“BBC Special.”

“Interview?”

“Full profile at the Brownstone in New York.”

“Editorial control?”

“Ours in full.” A moment after Catherine says it, Henry and Alex break eye contact with her to look at each other. Henry’s mouth gave just the faintest impression of a smile as they shared a knowing look. 

“Agreed. On one condition.” 

Chapter Text

A(n) (Intimate) Profile in (Queer) Courage
Darcy Delano Carter, for Out Magazine

The vibe is surprisingly casual as I knock on the door of a three-story brownstone in the heart of Brooklyn. The surrounding neighborhood is obviously wealthy and ‘newly revitalized’ but not nearly as gentrified as some might expect. His Royal Highness Prince Henry opens the door for me, catching me ever so slightly off-guard. I’m not confident in my ability to pull off a curtsey on the front stoop, so I settle for a respectful handshake and hope I’ve made the right choice. 

Inside, Alex Claremont-Diaz is drinking coffee, cleaning up breakfast, and replying to emails on his phone—or perhaps watching TikToks. I don’t inquire. Prince Henry shows me around, highlighting the “back garden,” which is secure enough to provide reliable private time outdoors—a rarity in New York City, even for the most rich and famous. 

There are markers of domesticity everywhere. Alex and Henry both walk around the house barefoot, but I catch a glimpse of a slipper under the sofa, possibly dragged there by the Prince’s adorable beagle David, who is named after famed queer icon David Bowie, I’m told. Likewise, there are subtle markers of queerness everywhere. They show me three different mock-ups of their wedding invitations, back when they were trying to figure out how to lay out the names. A lot has changed since these invitations were printed. Henry no longer uses ‘of Wales’ after his given name and his mother is no longer The Princess of Wales. Alex’s mother retains the honorific of President despite the fact she is now a private citizen. 

“Traditionally, in formal wedding invitations, the Bride’s parents invite you to the wedding of their daughter to the Groom, son of, et cetera, but of course it would have to be different for us.” Henry explains. Balancing traditional formality with the inherent novelty of their marriage has been a constant theme during their wedding planning. 

Their bookshelves are dominated by queer authors—from memoirs to historical fiction to young adult romances. Henry and Alex are both avid readers, but Henry confesses he makes Alex keep all his law books in his office. They show me to Alex’s study, where has been completing law school coursework for the past three years, and now studies for the American Bar Association exam, though he has chosen to postpone the examination until after the wedding. 

Contrary to the usual office aesthetic, the room is covered in things. Books overflow into piles on the floor, which is itself cramped by several different seating options, from desk to couch to beanbag to a conspicuously clear “floor sitting” station near the window. The walls, too, are adorned in a manner reminiscent of Victorian maximalism. A photograph of Eleanor Roosevelt, 32nd First Lady of the United States, hangs near a portrait of Alexander Hamilton—a high-quality reproduction of one that hangs in the White House—which is accompanied by what appear to be hand written quotes from the Federalist Papers. In a smaller frame leaning against the wall, yet to be hung, is another replicate of an official portrait: President Ellen Claremont’s. Alex explains to me that he has no desire for exclusivity on art. 

“These paintings are beautiful. I love them. They remind me of why I do this. They remind me of the history of my country, the history I fight everyday to make. And I’m happy to share that. I don’t need to horde art all to myself because none of these pieces are about the physical canvas or film or paint. They’re representations of ideas. They’re externalizations of the abstract and the temporary. I hang them to remind me that people have felt the feelings I feel now. These are depictions of people in time, but the people themselves are who I want with me, not the pieces of paper.” He seems almost bashful as he says it, glancing at the portrait of his mother. 

The couple had plans to hang portraits of their parents in their dining room, but that has seemingly been postponed. Perhaps because they had trouble deciding what pictures to choose—wedding pictures of marriages that have since ended, or their mothers in two of the highest positions in the world, but without their fathers?

For now, a picture of teenage Alex holding the Bible as President Claremont is sworn in for her first term sits on the mantle, next to a photo of Henry and his siblings sitting on a beach in front of their parents. Henry looks about 10 years old and his parents, the late actor Arthur Fox and then-Princess of Wales Catherine, gaze at each other as the children look into the camera. 

“This was taken during a trip to Kenya. It was one of the only times the five of us traveled abroad together.” It was part of a Royal Tour promoting access to education and early HIV detection for children in the region. At the time, it was considered quite controversial that the family of five would travel during the summer holidays on official business. Henry tells me that he and his siblings made many friends on the trip and still remember it fondly. 

Over lunch, we speak candidly about the ground-breaking nature of their relationship.

“We didn’t know if it was going to work. We were both convinced for one reason or another, that it wasn’t,” Alex explains, “After we went public, even after I was officially a suitor, I didn’t know if they would let us—if we would ever be able to get married.” I catch his slip of the tongue, alluding to the ever-controlling Firm of the British Royal Family and their strict traditions. 

“No one in my family has ever lived as out before.” Henry offers, reflecting that there have, of course, been queer British royalty before, but they have historically been expected to fulfill heterosexual institutions and reserve their queerness for private. The White House has also witnessed its fair share of queer affairs. Eleanor Roosevelt—the first lady in Alex’s study—famously shared a passionate affair with AP reporter Lorena Hickok. Many former presidents are also rumored or thought to have have been queer: Abraham Lincoln lived with and shared a bed for many years with Joshua Speed; there is also James “Lifelong Bachelor” Buchanan, accompanied to the White House by his niece. And Alex’s namesake—Alexander Hamilton—may never have lived in the White House, but he certainly cared deeply and intimately for compatriot John Laurens—reportedly he never fully recovered after the latter’s wartime death. I am reminded in this moment of Alex’s earlier remarks about the portraits in his study. Though they have had to navigate a unique relationship with unique and novel challenges, they have trailblazers to look to. 

“I say it time and time again, but I didn’t think I could have a life like this until I met Alex. He gave me the courage to want it and the hope to believe in it.”

“It was hard to have everything happen so early on,” Henry explains, but I’m not sure if he’s talking about the media attention or the intensity of the relationship itself.“That’s sort of the life, innit? It’s so hard to get to know someone in private. Immediately everyone else has an opinion on who you love and why and if they’re the right person for you. It’s like there’s no time to make your own opinion.” Alex sits back and watches Henry talk, a serious and intent look on his face. “In some ways, I’m very grateful for the time we got to spend together in the beginning. Some of it we were even doing for media attention. But that gave us the benefit of getting to know each other actually, as people, as friends, before anyone else was stepping in and telling us how to feel about each other.”

“Did you spend a lot of time as friends? Before you were more than friends?” I’m aware this is the most personal they’ve ever gone on record about the early days of their relationship, but with the casual and honest tone of the conversation, I feel comfortable asking. 

“I think it was always more than friends.” Henry says simply. 

Throughout my day with the couple—the soon to be Claremont-Fox-Windsors I’m informed—I am surprised by how easily they let me in to their life. I presume to wait downstairs when Alex goes to get dressed for the photographer who will accompany this story, but to my surprise they beckon me upstairs to see their closet. Between the two of them, they have a quite impressive tie collection. Henry has sensibly organized his wardrobe by function: his most formal—and most boring—shirts hang on one end of the rail, with more daring formal shirts in the middle, and more casual options at the far end. Alex’s side appears to be far less organized. I ask if they share clothes and they share a laugh. 

“Not usually,” Henry starts, before Alex explains to me that several times he has forgotten to bring the proper attire on their frequent trips together—usually a Black suit, which he doesn’t like to wear because they are “too somber”—and they have been forced to share, but their preferences and size differentials make sharing clothes hard. They do, however, share shoes. I was asked by my editor not to make an additional joke here so you’ll have to use your imagination. I ask to see their wedding attire, and reluctantly, they agree. I can tell part of their reluctance is because they want to keep the details of their nuptials fairly private. This profile and a documentary special by the BBC are more press than was originally planned.

Mr. Claremont-Diaz and HRH Prince Henry, as they are properly known, are due to marry in a private ceremony at Windsor Castle next month. They leave for England in a week’s time with no return flight planned as of yet. 

“We’ve been working so much the past few years on the Foundation,” Henry speaks of the Henry Foundation, which he has used to support an expanding number of youth shelters and resources centers for unhoused LGBT+ youth (I do ask about the Foundation’s conspicuous aversion to the word queer, but I don’t receive an answer). 

“But of course, England is home for me. And I know there’s so much work to be done there.” 

Though some speculated that the pared-down event was meant to signify a distancing between Henry and the rest of the Royal Family, they both assure me it was their decision. 

“You know,” Henry says in a moment of frank candor, “it was really planned in a different time.” And he’s right; Henry’s family has been rocked by changes over the past year—from births to deaths to violence and joy alike. In February, a failed kidnapping attempt on Henry’s sister Princess Beatrice left two dead. And just six weeks ago, Henry’s grandmother Queen Mary III passed away and his mother, Queen Catherine ascended the throne. He is, as he was at birth, third in line for the throne, just after his infant niece, Princess Victoria of Wales. He is not merely the spare of an heir who now has an heir; he is the son of the Sovereign. Henry doesn’t speak much about either of these events, but shares that he loves his family dearly and knows his grandmother will be with him on his wedding day. In the twilight of her life, Henry and Queen Mary seemed to have mended their difficult relationship, strained for years by her alleged pressure to keep Henry from coming out publicly. Upon the announcement of their engagement, she gave her full support to the couple. 

Though circumstances have changed, Alex and Henry have chosen to move ahead with the queer wedding of the century they’ve been planning for over a year—they confess to me that the planning actually started months before their engagement announcement, which was pinned to the timing of the birth of Prince Philip and Princess Martha’s baby. Alex also offers that—“just to clear things up”—the decision to have a private ceremony has nothing to due with the fact they are gay and this is a gay wedding. Henry concludes simply: “We’ve just always wanted a more private affair.” Alex scoffs slightly and Henry gives him a look that is somewhere between scolding and playful. 

“It hasn’t always been very private, has it?” I can’t keep myself from saying. No one on Earth could forget the Waterloo Papers—a trove of private communications (some of them quite racy) between the couple that were released after a politically-motivated hack of the Claremont campaign emails. 

“Alex, I have to ask you, why did you use your official email address?” He sighs. 

“I didn’t really think about it until it was too late. At first—well I’m sure you’ve read them.” I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit that I have. “We really were just friends. And it was at least adjacent to official business. Charity appearances, foreign relations. And then…I was hopelessly in love and had so much else going on and well, I just never figured those things could be hacked. You’d think the President’s email servers would be secure, right? It didn’t cross my mind for a second, not until it happened, that it was possible.” The ordeal is clearly still painful for Henry: he doesn’t add anything and asks to change the subject when Alex is finished explaining. 

Predictably, the process of the two styling each other is painfully domestic. Henry adjusts the back of Alex’s shirt tuck before they both decide to go a less formal route. 

“Babe, which do you like better?” Alex holds up two jewel-toned sweaters and his fiancé motions to one of them. Henry chooses a pale cardigan and a coordinating tie, but Alex scrunches his face in disapproval and Henry sighs, taking it off. They don’t have stylist, though Henry remarks they should probably get one. Finally, they pick out matching socks, mirroring their choice to wear matching hand-woven lilac socks for their wedding 

“I’m a huge fan of a fun sock.” Henry then proceeds to give me a delightful lesson on formal menswear, standing and sitting repeatedly to demonstrate how his pant leg reveals his patterned socks. 

“It’s a way to express yourself while still following proper dress codes. And without taking attention away from anyone else. You know traditionally that’s what dress codes for men are all about—don’t stand out. Be dressed appropriately but blandly, so that your date—a woman—is the star of the show. It’s really to elevate women’s style.” We continue to discuss the unique opportunity of queer couples to challenge gender norms and exceptions and redefine heteronormative institutions and traditions. The conversation shifts to queer awakening and realization but stays casual as Alex and Henry pose around their living room, adjusting each other’s clothes and hair. 

“I actually didn’t know I was bisexual until I met Henry. I was bi, of course, but I just didn’t know it. Looking back there were so many signs, I was so interested in guys but it just wasn’t something I really thought could be real and so therefore it wasn’t. I made all kinds of excuses for the feelings I had. But then Henry came in and he was just…not willing to let me ignore that part of myself anymore. And I found that I didn’t really want to.” The photographer snaps a photo of Henry and Alex gazing into each other’s eyes, Alex’s hand squeezing Henry’s on his lap. It’s a beautiful moment. 

“Can I ask, you two tend to show a lot of PDA in comparison to other royal couples. Is that an intentional choice?”

Alex giggles and seems to blush. I don’t think he’s gotten used to being referred to as part of the Royal Family. Henry answers brightly. 

“I think there’s a special element of being queer that is joy as resistance. For us to hold hands in public, to kiss, to love each other openly, it’s not just a public display of affection. It’s a public display of queerness. It makes a statement and it demands space. We won’t be written into history books as roommates or close friends. We won’t stay in anyone’s closet."

I can’t help but think of the parallels of queer chosen family in this home, in their shared life together. As the photographer packs up, Alex speaks briefly on the absurd rumors of an affair between himself and Princess Beatrice after she spent several months with the couple and was seen on outings with Alex on more than one occasion. He says he heard about the rumors from a joke his friend Nora made. He means Nora Holleran, who occupies a very peculiar space—one might even call it queer— in their lives: the close friend of the couple, ex-girlfriend to Alex, granddaughter to Alex’s mother’s running mate, and attendant at their wedding has been romantically linked with both June Claremont-Diaz—Alex’s sister— and Percy Onojoko—Henry’s childhood friend.

But as easily as they welcomed me, a virtual stranger referred by June Claremont-Diaz for my contributions to profiling queer political candidates, they have easily welcomed others into their family. It is clear to me, as we tactfully avoid the issue, that whatever decisions Henry and Alex make in the future regarding children, they have already made a family. 

Chapter Text

“Hi, welcome in.” Alex managed to beat Shaan to the punch, opening the front door wide for the small camera crew. The tailored grey twill of Shaan’s jacket whipped around Alex’s navy sweater a second later, not even bothering to shoot him a look before shoving him aside. The particulars had all been ironed out in almost excruciating detail, with Alex and Henry each contributing a lawyer to the contract—and that was without counting Ellen or Alex. Nevertheless, Shaan did a checklist of NDA’s and personel as Linda watched from the corner, perched in a chair with narrowed eyes and a pen as sharp as a dagger poised over a pink notepad. For a moment, she reminded Alex of Rita Skeeter. But a sort of anti-hero version. Then again, Alex remembered, Rita Skeeter’s insane desire for dirty gossip had led to some actual canonical journalism. 

The director, a short British man of indeterminate age, was adamant that he didn’t want to even begin any sort of interviewing until after capturing “the essence of the home.” To Alex’s complete surprise, this mostly meant B-roll of Alex and Henry’s daily chores, not Architectural Digest-style reno porn. It couldn’t exactly said that they ever totally forgot the camera crew was there, but Henry—for his part—was markedly more relaxed than he usually was on camera. They’d already eaten, but Alex agreed to scarf down the left over eggs for a breakfast shot, shooting a shot of espresso before checking his match and realizing for real that he was late. 

“Oh shi—sorry, gotta go babe.” Alex pressed a quick kiss to Henry’s cheek as he dropped his plate and cup next to the sink and picked up his bag, hurrying off with only a single bodyguard and a driver into the waiting car. 

“Am I late? Shit, fuck. I’m sorry, we’ve got that stupid camera crew.” June sighed and Nora rolled her eyes as Alex burst in to the cream and pastel colored lounge. 

“Don’t worry about it.” June shrugged and Nora smirked.

“Don’t you think we know you by now? Zarah isn’t minding your ass, we obviously told you to be here 30 minutes before we needed you.” 

“What?” Alex grabbed for his phone to check the calendar invite, but Nora snatched it and tucked it into her own purse before he got the chance. 

“Relax.” She took both his hands in hers. 

“We’re here for fun.” June reminded him, her face appearing next to Nora’s. 

“We are not here for fun. We are here to pick out the bridal party outfits that are going to like actually genuinely be printed in history textbooks. Go in museums.” June huffed and narrowed her eyes. 

“Stop being dramatic. We’re not picking them out. We’re trying them on. Again. The wedding’s in—“ 

“Don’t say it—,” Alex’s throat tightened and he looked like he might actually faint. Nora pulled him into a hug and June piled on, wrapping her long arms around both of them. 

“Breathe, little bro, breathe.” 

They skipped the complimentary champagne the stylists never seemed to run out of, but once they were escorted to the basement alterations suite, with more privacy than the plush, bright, fitting rooms upstairs, Alex seemed to be able to level his breathing. And okay, maybe it helped that all the attention was on Nora and June. For a moment, when the seamstress and the stylist began arguing about the exact placement of June’s neckline, Alex regretted not inviting Pez to the whole ordeal. Weren’t your bridesmaids’ husbands supposed to come along, if they had them? And if Nora and June were Alex’s bridesmaids, surely Pez counted as their husband by now, didn’t he? Regardless, the argument seemed to be settled quickly, with the crisp blue satin settling just at the crests of June’s shoulders, highlighting her collarbone while still resting securely enough for everyone’s comfort. Nora reminded her to move her arms, making sure they didn’t get trapped down in the pinning of the not-quite-straps-not-quite-sleeves. June, however, didn’t seem to have heard Nora for a few seconds, evidenced by her round eyes and slack jaw. And really, Alex couldn’t even blame her. Nora looked stunning in the matching blue satin, hugging her hips and then flaring above the knee. 

“Your—your boobs!” Was all June seemed to be able to say. 

“Yeah?” Nora scrunched her nose and scratched her head absently. “We should probably have it raised a little, huh?” She looked the seamstress and motioned at her bust. 

“No…” June said softly, looking like an ice cream cone had just been taken from her. 

“Yes.” Nora and Alex agreed in unison. “It’s my wedding, June. I don’t want everybody staring at my ex-girlfriend’s tits!” Nora, at least, thought it was funny. If it weren’t for the woman with the pins near her armpits, she might have grabbed him or fallen over in laughter. June sighed but relented. 

“I didn’t know she was so horny for your boobs.” Alex whispered to Nora when June finally went behind another curtain to carefully remove her dress, now marked with the ultimate alterations. 

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know, Alejandro.” Nora winked, throwing a smirk over her shoulder as she followed June a moment later. 

Despite being back to work by lunchtime, Alex was glad he’d taken the morning off to be at June and Nora’s final fitting (well, it wasn’t exactly the final fitting, because, apparently, at a Royal Wedding, the final fitting is never because there is always a tailor and seamstress on hand for any last—minute touches—but it was close enough.) As it turned out, tailoring men’s wedding suits was a fair amount less exciting that tailoring women’s gowns. Henry only had a single fitting in fact, given his measurements and preferences already being on file at nearly a dozen of the world’s finest tailors. And maybe it would have been more exciting if Alex and Henry had planned on keeping their outfits a surprise from one another, but honestly, Alex couldn’t imagine navigating the world of proper men’s fashion with Henry. Besides, there was a definite sweetness in seeing their suits hung together in the closet, in knowing that the same hands and some of the very same threads had made their garments—literally. 

At the Foundation, the camera crew almost blends in. They could be any of the countless news crews that have come through over the past few years filming specials or spots or highlight reels about the Youth Shelter and Resource Center, various grants, initiatives, proposals, and programs housed within the reclaimed office building in Queens. But then of course, the camera crew follows them home. It made for a rather cramped car, with three security personnel, two Ameri-royals, one producer, one photojournalist, and an accompanying metric tonne of equipment. 

After dinner—Korean-Salvadoran fusion tacos that totally absolutely are just a casual take-out option and not at all a carefully focus-grouped and Linda-approved move—the director took it upon himself to frame up the interview shot, asking Alex to sit on the sofa to help him focus the camera and then subtly beginning the interview. 

“Tell us about family life.” He asked, folding out a pair of wire-framed glasses and referring briefly to a lined notepad. 

“Um,” Alex glanced nervously to the drawn curtains looking over the patio and spread his hands on his chinos. “I guess it’s pretty normal. Like, we do our own laundry.” Alex could hear Henry finishing unloading the dishwasher and knew he had only a few seconds left solo. “Well, I do my own laundry.” Alex leaned towards the director at the last second, swerving away from a wink to the camera. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Linda look at her own notes. 

“I heard that!” Henry called, coming into view with the perfect touch of damp hands and tousled hair. Alex gave himself only a moment to breath in the beautiful sight before he had the good sense to blush. But it wasn’t because he’d been caught red-handed, or even because he knew it would be good PR to look abashed, but because he was thinking about how Henry would make a point of vacuuming the whole downstairs tomorrow, as penance for wearing his shoes—and letting about a dozen guests wear their shoes inside. 

“I did have to teach him how to do laundry.” Alex delivered that one straight to camera as Henry sighed behind him, swooping around the corner and settling himself beside Alex in one smooth motion. 

“You not have to t—“ 

“I did actually.” 

“American washing machines have different settings.” 

“And he can’t cook, either.” 

“Excuse me!” By this point, a light flush was creeping onto Henry’s cheeks as well. Alex looked over and his next carefully planned retort—sure they do, babe—died on his lips.

[transcription from Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz: A New Royal Wedding (BBC 2025)]

BBC How has planning your wedding differed from past Royal Weddings?

ACD Um, babe? You’d probably know more than me.

HRH Aside from the obvious, Alex and I have always preferred a more private ceremony. It isn’t going to be a State Event, as weddings for the Sovereign or presumptive future Sovereign are. And compared to other weddings in my family, it’s sort of shockingly non-traditional. But of course compared to the average Briton, it’s probably still on the far end of traditional.

BBC It’s not going to be in a Church, though.

ACD No, it’s not. We decided with our families that it would serve our desires better to have it be a civil ceremony.

HRH: And typically, I have to say, there isn’t nearly as much speculation about vows and venue.

BBC And why do you think that is?

HRH [inaudible] Of course there’s a small minority for whom it’s bad-faith criticism because they just don’t agree with our right to be married. But I think for a lot of people it’s genuine curiosity.

ACD It’s been really wonderful to know how many people want to share in our joy. They’re excited. They want to know what it’s going to be like and see themselves as part of it. Which, I don’t know if I’m supposed to say this, you all are. Everyone who writes to us or comes to see us or cheered for us or has been inspired by us, you are part of this.

BBC What’s been the most surprising part of wedding planning?

HRH [laughs]

ACD For me, it had to have been when H asked me if I wanted to wear a tiara.

HRH Well—

ACD No, it was like adorable.

HRH You know, as a formality—

ACD I guess you know, one of the things that’s never happened before, is a Prince marrying a man. And so it was assumed I guess—

HRH As my soon-to-be-spouse, Alex would have been entitled to wear my Mum’s jewels, if he wanted to. So I…I asked.

ACD It was really cute.

BBC And are you?

ACD [laughs] Wearing a tiara? No.

BBC  [in voiceover] Buckingham Palace later released a statement detailing the attire for the couple. The press release included never-before-seen photos of the couple’s engagement rings.

ACD A few years ago, my father gifted me his mother’s engagement ring. It’s a solitaire set in gold and the inscription says …

HRH I’ll love you everyday for the rest of my life.

BBC  The resizing was reportedly difficult task, entrusted to one of the world’s finest jewelers, special care was taken to preserve the traditional Mexican engraving and the inscription around the inner band. Prince Henry, too, had to go to several jewelers to find the perfect ring to propose with.

HRH We proposed to each other. It was sort of tricky, getting everyone’s blessings and keeping it a surprise.

ACD It was great. I think everyone who gets married should do a double proposal. It’s just great.

BBC The band combines Scottish gold with American stainless steel—an unusual choice for jewelry, and a difficult one, says Crown Jeweler Mark Appleby. Buckingham Palace has not yet confirmed if the couple will exchange wedding bands during their ceremony, or if they will be made from the Welsh Gold Ingot held in trust by the Sovereign. In April, this, along with the rest of the Crown Trust and the duties and powers of the Sovereign, passed to Prince Henry’s mother, Queen Catherine, after the passing of Queen Mary III from natural causes.

HRH I don’t think—I know she wouldn’t mind me saying this… my Grandmother’s first priority was always to Her country. She was always the Sovereign first. I think we all understood that, but it certainly made for some restraints on the Granny relationship. I respect that about Her. Her sense of duty and commitment to the entire commonwealth above all else, it was admirable…But in the end, She always made decisions as Sovereign. As what She felt was best for the country and the Crown…But She is missed by people all over the world. She was a force of nature. And the world is different with Her gone.

BBC Alex, did you ever feel that way? When your mother was President?

ACD No, I didn’t. There were times when I knew she needed to be the President first, but I always knew those times were temporary. I never felt like she put politics ahead of me. And I guess in the end that’s the difference. Being the President is a job. You can’t do it forever. Being a Monarch is a birthright.

ACD Sorry, guys! Didn’t mean to make it so serious. [laughs]

HRH [laughs]

BBC But this is the crux of their marriage. At once beautifully playful and loving, but constantly holding the weight of their future and our past.

Linda was the first to leave, with a promise to have ‘the documents’ over to their ‘people’ as soon as he flight touched down in Heathrow, in 10 hours, give or take. Shaan waited until all the crew was packed and loaded into cars, but not a second longer. Zahra waited outside for him, leaning against the driver’s side of the car, looking suspiciously hungry. 

“Whew.” Alex sighed as Henry finally closed and locked the door. Henry closed the distance between them in one step and held Alex’s face in his hands. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi.” Alex let his eyes flutter closed and Henry tipped their foreheads together. They didn’t speak for a long while after that. No need, as they followed one another into and out of their nighttime routine. Henry took David on a walk and Alex folded the laundry. Henry took off his coat and lined up their shoes. Laid out some fruit for the next day. Brewed one cup of tea and poured one glass of wine. Brought both upstairs. Alex pulled him into a bath and someone all the liquid ended up on the floor eventually. 

“You’re not going to deck my brother at my wedding, are you?” 

“No. As much as I want to, he doesn’t deserve that much attention.” Alex whispered back in the semi-dark of their bedroom. “Why?” 

“When I was at work…they asked about Philip.” 

“Oh.” 

“They asked if we were close growing up…”

“What did you say?” 

“I didn’t have it in me to lie. I said it wasn’t a secret we’d had our difficulties. I said we love out sister more than anything and we’ve been prioritizing our own families in recent years. I said Dad’s death was hard on us both, but in different ways. I said we’ve never been close and I empathize with his position.”

“You said that?” 

“Is that terrible of me?” 

“You could have said a lot worse.” Henry was quiet for a long while then. 

“I could have said more in both directions.” His voice was careful and measured,  but Alex could sense Henry’s soul vibrating like it might shatter. “It’s public knowledge now that he’s homophobic and shared Gran’s views on things. I could have been more honest, said he’s been a right git to me my whole life and my future husband and I’ve had enough of it. I could have done the whole relatable-quotable thing about how homophobia destroys families and alienates queer people from support. And I could’ve refused to comment, said that was personal family matters.” 

That was of course, exactly what Alex had done. “Did they…what did they say?” 

“Well,” Henry sighed deeply, “they asked if we had reconciled. I said no.” Alex sucked in a small breath of hair that cut through the still air like a gasp, even though he wasn’t really surprised. 

“We…should probably tell Linda you said that.” As a rule, Linda never went to the Foundation. Her job was strictly personal press, not professional press. And honestly, none of them wanted to risk someone snapping a pic and making Linda herself the story. 

“We should probably tell Philip I said that.” Henry’s voice was finally getting thick, as if he was finally starting to show the weight of the secrets he didn’t even know he was still keeping. 

“You think?” Alex’s lips barely moved as he said it, but his hand found Henry’s effortlessly beneath the covers. “Why?”

“So that I don’t do to him what was done to me. Blindside him with personal information about our family that someone else decided to release publicly.” It was almost like they weren’t speaking at all anymore, like Henry’s words were being transmitted directly to Alex’s mind. 

“It’s not personal information like our emails. It’s true things he said and did to you.” Alex’s whisper was too faint to have made the crystal clear words he heard. And yet. 

“Personal information is true, too.” 

“I don’t want you to.” If he and Henry were communicating telepathically, there was no point trying to hide his feelings, anyway. "I’m just being honest. I’m trying really hard here. The amount of patience and forgiveness in your heart is enormous.”

“I don’t forgive him—"

“I’m letting him at our wedding. But I don’t want to talk to him ever again if I can help it. If he wants to change, if he wants to have things be different between you two, he’s going to have to take that step.” 

Several more things were communicated simply beyond words or description then, an affirmation of love and commitment and future and hope and a bending of queer time, both forward and backward and into a neat and endless circle. 

“I don’t want to tell people.” Alex knew Henry had said it aloud, because in their minds many more words had already been said. “I know you want to and we’ve been trying to decide what is better or best, but I just don’t want to.”

“People will know the babies didn’t come out of us.” 

“Sure. But why do we have to continually prove our family is good enough? Is real enough? Aren’t you the one who told me we deserve to keep things to ourselves?” Henry had abandoned the argument based on the em-babies’ future rights to self-determination and self-revelation. Which was probably for the best. In parenting, as in life, there are some decisions that just can’t be reasoned out. They have to be felt. 

“I just feel…like I would rather it come out on our terms. Then nobody can come in and question it and demand and prod and poke and make us feel like it’s some dirty secret.” Alex couldn’t help thinking how differently this conversation might have gone if they’d gotten a different sort of medical phone call a few weeks ago.

“But they can. And they will. No matter what we do.” 

“And we just have to make peace with that.” 

“And we just have to make peace with that.” 

Chapter Text

“Sweetheart?” Henry spoke the words before his mind was even conscious of the room around him. When his mind caught up to him, he bolted upright.

“I—I’m…” Alex was crying softly, knees pulled up to his chest. 

“Baby, baby. What’s wrong?” Henry scanned the room, momentarily squeezing his fiancé’s arm before flattening his palm to rub big circles on Alex’s tense back. 

“I—it’s nothing—I—I’m fine.” Alex hiccuped, swiping at his eyes. 

“Was it a bad dream?” Alex heaved and began to cry harder. 

“Oh, Henry…” Alex curled into Henry and grabbed onto his nightshirt. He sighed and wiped futile at his eyes. “No…it was…it wasn’t a bad dream.” Henry looked down into Alex’s eyes—wide and red-rimmed, with a profound sense of loss. 

“I dreamt…I dreamt,” Alex whispered, his face contorting through a lifetime of emotions, “we were at the hospital. Having a baby. We were having a baby.” Henry let out the smallest of gasps and felt his eyes begin to sting. “June…June was the doctor. She handed her to us. And she had the little baby in her arms. And then she said…’meet your Dads.’”

“We had a…we had a baby?” Henry’s could barely speak.

“A baby girl.” Alex nodded, beginning to cry again. 

“A daughter…” Henry whispered so quietly he couldn’t have been heard even an inch further. 

“H…it was the most beautiful thing…” exhausted, Alex collapsed against Henry again, burying his wet face in Henry’s shirt, “I wish you could have seen it.” 

“Me, too, darling. Me too.” I can’t wait.

“At the risk of stating the obvious, the Regency Act of 1937 clearly bars those absent from the United Kingdom from serving as Counsellors of State.” Alex took Philip’s meaning immediately and was restrained only by Bea’s hand on his knee. Queen Catherine pursed her lips. Henry leveled Philip with a piercing look. Determined and intense, but not filled with nearly the level of vitriol as Philip returned. 

“If you mean to imply that your brother would or should be excluded from either the list of Counsellors of State, I will also remind you that I have the power to ask Parliament to make changes to the list of eligible individuals. As I did when my Mother, the Queen, was in declining health.” The air went out of the room. Catherine looked at her eldest son, her gaze soft and yet her implication crystal clear. Philip met her gaze but did not reply.

“His Highness officially maintains a domicile in the United Kingdom.” One of the Queen’s aides supplied. 

“Even extended period of residing abroad do not automatically categorize one was absent.” Bea added, patting Alex’s knee silently and returning her hands to the table, clasped softly. 

“Absolutely right, my dear.” Catherine replied, smiling ever so slightly and then looking back to the meeting agenda. 

“Alex? You—,”

“We need to make sure our children retain their rights to Succession.” Alex blurted out, unable to contain it any longer. “I’ve been over all the language and relevant interpretations a dozen times. ‘Heirs male of the body' probably applies in this case, but it’s never been tested against children born to a legitimate marriage with non-biologic relation to both parents.” When Philip leaned forward as if to speak, a wave of rage bubbled up in Alex’s throat as he preempted a sarcastic comment about the legitimacy of their marriage never having been tested either. 

“I agree. It sets a dangerous precedent if your Heirs can be excluded. It spares us all the threat of litigation if we codify the Rules of Succession now.” As Philip said it, something flitted across Martha’s face, for just a moment. But a moment long enough for Alex to become thoroughly disturbed. 

“While I would of course argue that the Law as written has no grounds to exclude your children, I will ask Parliament to affirm that any children born to your marriage will be considered lawful and legitimate Heirs in all cases.” Satisfied, Catherine scanned the room and nodded once. “

They moved swiftly through the essential Wedding discussions, agreeing on the schedule for official portraits and ‘Family Appearances.’ Catherine even produced contracts details everyone’s obligations for the Wedding. Nice one, Katie, nice one. 

“Alex. Stay a minute, darling.” Catherine let everyone else leave, motioning for even her advisors to go. She stepped close right to Alex, taking his hands.

“You alright?” Her voice was softer than before, even teetering on weak. Alex wondered if the growing rift between her eldest and youngest children was finally taking it’s toll on her. 

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine. How are you?” 

“Oh, darling. I’m wonderful.” Despite her words, her voice wasn’t entirely convincing. Her face on the other hand spread into a warm, motherly smile, her eyes wrinkling deeper into her face. 

“I don’t think I quite need to say it, but I don’t intend to marry again. I’m in the phase of my life where I become…a grandmother,” Her voice and eyes lifted as she said the word, “and one part of this phase of my life is honesty and responsibility.” She laced her fingers into Alex’s and closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she squeezed his fingers. 

“I’ve apologized to my own children for…for failing them after their father’s death. But I also need to apologize to you. Because what Henry was subjected to—what I allowed him to be subjected to—didn’t just impact him. I’m so sorry, Alex.” 

“I…,” Alex just blinked and stuttered. Her frailty from a moment before was completely forgotten, as if she’d saved all her strength for this moment. 

“What can I do to make this right? And Darling, this sent a question for you to answer now and then to be discarded. I need you to know that I am so, so, deeply committed to your inclusion and equality in this family. You’re a treasure. Your love is a treasure.” 

“A Jewel of the Realm,” Alex murmured. 

“Hmmm?” 

“Nothing… Trudeau. Not important.” Alex shook the thought away. Well, he tried to.

“What is it? I can tell there’s something, dear.” 

“Kids. We’re gonna…I thought about it a lot and we talked about it a lot and I and—,” Alex pressed his eyes together and tried to think of the right way out of his maze of feelings on the issue. 

“I don’t want any sort of title, we’ve talked about that, right? But I…I want our kids to have them.” 

“HRH’s for my grandchildren? Done.” 

“And I want their privacy to be protected.” Alex could feel his heart beginning to race, as it often did when he thought of his future children in the real world. “The story of their conception…no other kid would have to answer questions about that. And I don’t want them to, either.” 

“Their stories will be their own. We will not tell their stories for them.” 

“Can we all agree to be honest?” Catherine’s face twitched and she tilted her head just slightly. 

“Philip’s story is his own as well.” And of course, she got his meaning. 

“But I don’t want to pretend I’m okay with him if I’m not. And I don’t want to have to sugarcoat his role in…you know.” Alex almost winced. “And I don’t want him to have power over Henry’s story.” 

“You mean when he’s King?” Catherine seemed to be pulled closer to Alex as she said it. He closed his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly. No one, least of all the two of them, really wanted to talk about the when (not if) of Philip becoming King. 

“Let me have a think on that one. But you have my word I won’t ask either of you to pretend to be reconciled when you’re not. And I don’t know whose idea that bloody walkabout was, but it shall not be repeated.” 

“Thank God.” 

@a.claremontdiaz
4 hours ago

Image description: An image of Pope Francis smiling and waving to crowds. Overlaid are the words “Pope Confirms Blessings for Same-Sex Unions.” From @impact

Text: Don’t even know what to say. For all the queer people who need this—I see you. May this bring you the peace and love you deserve. 

---

@a.claremontdiaz
3 hours ago

Image Description: A Latino man wearing a rainbow gay pride pin holds a sign at waist level reading ‘Jesus loved gays.’ In the background, Pope Francis waves from the Popemobile—a clear-topped car used to transport the Pope through the streets of Rome. Text: What This Really Means for Queen Catholics From @outmagazine

@a.claremontdiaz 
3 hours ago. 

Image Description: A selfie of Alex Claremont-Diaz, looking off camera. He wears a somber expression. 

Text: As a former Catholic, as someone who was raised Catholic, there was a part of me that was so happy to hear this news. My Dad and I cried about it, we were so happy.

Text: I’m so glad to see the Catholic Church move towards a world of equality and love for all. I’m glad that Queer Catholics won’t have to chose between being authentically themselves and having a valid place at services. 

Text: But I also can’t help but feel this is sort of an empty gesture. 

---

@a.claremontdiaz
2 hours ago

Image Description: A cluttered desk with a handwritten letter in the foreground, out of focus. 

Text: But literally on the same day this news was breaking, I was reading a letter from a trans teenager whose existence is now criminal in their state. 

Text: She can’t go to school anymore. Because it isn’t even legal for her teachers or administrators to respect her legal gender. 

Text: And there are thousands of trans kids across America in the exact same situation or even worse. 

Text: How am I supposed to feel joyful and grateful for the liberation of queer people when we’re watching day by day the systemic restriction and attempted elimination of trans youth? 

Chapter Text

“How do I look, baby?” Alex turned around to Henry, suddenly shy. 

“You look beautiful, darling.” Henry circled Alex’s waist and for just a moment everything else melted away. Alex sighed as he opened his eyes and his gaze fell on Henry’s open shaving case. 

“Do you have to go tonight?” Henry laughed lightly and rubbed Alex’s back. 

“It’s tradition. We talked about it.” 

“I know, I know. But I was sleep-deprived and hopelessly in love and like actually looking as tule swatches, I can’t be held responsible for what I said.” Henry pressed a kiss to Alex’s cheek and pulled back, smoothing Alex’s blue velvet lapels. 

“Why don’t we worry about that later, hmm?” The glint in Henry’s eyes made Alex’s breath hitch, his teeth catching on his lip. Henry smirked in response. 

“I’m so excited to marry you.” Henry whispered, his fingertips brushing easily over the grey necktie brocaded with light lilac secured around Alex’s neck. Alex let his eyes flutter closed as a small moan stifled itself in his throat. He managed to regain control of himself with just enough time to slap Henry’s ass on their way down the stairs to the dining room. 

The room erupted in a chorus of applause and cheers when they entered the sweeping double doors to the great dining room of St. James Palace. Alex wondered, as he glimpsed the footmen standing on both sides of the windows, if everyone else remembered this was the very same place Catherine’s accession council had met only a few months earlier. He wondered if they’d used some of these exact rooms, if any of these footmen had delivered food or parcels or notifications to those important men in those important days. He wondered also, if he would have time to think about the balcony the royal crier had stood on when he read the declaration come morning. 

Queen Catherine had proceeded them into the hall, giving a short welcome speech and then announcing the couple herself. Henry and Alex bowed their heads to her and took their place on her left. Alex’s parents sat opposite them, flanked by June and Nora. Pez sat on the other side of Henry, with Bea, Philip, and Martha further down. Catherine would, of course, be expected to rotate seats between courses. Even if this was Alex and Henry’s (pre)wedding reception, any dinner party in which the Queen attended was a Society Event. They’d managed to put off most of their stuffy and obligatory guests until the official Wedding Breakfast (which was scheduled for 6 pm the next day…because apparently the names of meals are just a big joke to the British). Tonight was the party for their nearest and dearest only; no politicians or world leaders—except those who are actual family—no celebrities—except those actually in groupchats with the newlyweds—and no homophobes. Except, of course, for Philip. (No, it really couldn’t be avoided.) (The hassle of not inviting your brother—or your brother-in-law—to your wedding reception is just not worth it.) (Even if he is a right git with a penchant for being hateful and grumpy.)

After the first course, Alex and Henry popped a few bottles of Champagne—much to the very noticeable disapproval of the footmen and Philip—who doubtless thought it was an activity unbecoming of a Prince. With equal fanfare, they opened a bottle of sparkling grape juice, Henry pouring Alex a glass and then passing it back to the footmen. Everyone sufficiently carbonated, June rose to her feet and smoothed her light-pink crepe evening gown. The room’s attention turned easily to her as she took one last look at her notes and handed them back to Nora, tucking a stray curl back behind her ear. 

“Hi, I’m June, the other Claremont-Diaz. I’ve known Alex since the day he was born. I didn’t know then that he would be a self-righteous, argumentative asshole who would need my guidance well into adulthood,” June smiled as she carefully crested the wave of laughter, “but I did know then that I loved him. I have loved Alex nearly my entire life. I have loved him through good times and bad, through sickness and in health, through poorness and prosperity.” She swallowed and gave an audible sniff, already clear blinking through tears as she finally directed her gaze towards her little brother. 

“Alex. I have spent a long time thinking about who you might marry or what I might say at your wedding. Needless to say, I’ve had to scrap all of that. Because, in a manner so characteristically you, you fell in love with your arch nemesis. But he was never really your arch nemesis was he?” She glanced to Henry and they shared a private blush. “No, Henry was always the boy you were in love with. There’s a part of me that thinks you’ve been in love with Henry since before you even met him. But of course you didn’t know that. And I didn’t know that….until we all knew that.

"I wasn’t surprised you fell in love with Henry. And to be honest, I wasn’t all that surprised he fell in love with you back. What has been more surprising however is how committed you have been to this partnership since the beginning. Part of your journey to realizing you loved Henry was realizing you loved Henry for serious, for real, and forever. It was a lot of pressure, falling in love with your arch nemesis, huh?

“Since you decided to love Henry openly, you have not looked back. I am so grateful to you for bringing Henry and his family into our family. I can’t imagine my life without them.” Her voice shook and her hand reached anxiously for her Champagne flute. “I am so excited you both are taking this step. Not just to spend the rest of your lives together, but to formally declare your love and commitment in front of the world. And to live your life on your own terms. To Alex and Henry and the love story they are still writing.” June raised her flute in the air and then threw her head back, not-so-subtly wiping a tear away as she sat down. 

When Pez’s turn came, a course later, he drew attention in a slightly different way. The room did not fall silent, but Pez knew precisely when enough ears had swiveled towards him. 

“Henry. Haz, my boy.” Pez’s bright white teeth sparkled in his effervescent, intoxicating smile. “Henry, when I met you, you were a young, thoughtful but rather lost young boy. Well, when I met you, you were an entitled stuck up brat, but weren’t we all? 

“When you fell in love with Alex, I knew something was different. I didn’t know quite what would happen. Your love is a supernova. I’d never seen anyone sucked into to it quite the way Alex seemed to be. But I’d also never seen someone come out the other side of the supernova. And I didn’t know how the world would come out the other side of Hurricane Alex colliding with Supernova Henry. When you fell in love with Alex, I knew things would be different. And they are different. Different, in a good way. 

“Alex and Henry are a very special couple. I don’t need to enumerate the ways, but I will. Your relationship is one that transcends national boundaries, politics, traditional institutions, race, culture, and even the deep scars of colonialism. You also both know, more than most, what a commitment like marriage means. You both know what it means to put someone—something—ahead of yourselves. You know what it means to devote your life, your efforts, and your life, to something outside of yourself. You know what it is to hold that commitment deep down at the core of who you are. And you know what it is to subjugate yourself for the good of your commitment. What I remind you on the occasion of your wedding is that this marriage is not like those other circumstances you have been a part of. Your love is deep at the center of you, right in the core of your soul. But this marriage is completely voluntary. You join together in this Holy union not because it has been thrust upon you or because someone else is making you or because it is expected of you, but because you want to. Because you choose to. 

“And I’m so glad you’ve chosen to. Because the truth is, your love is still changing the world. To watch your love has been one of the great privileges of my life. Alex, I forever in your debt for bringing the man that I know Henry to be into the light. And for convincing him that he deserves to be seen. I am forever in your debt.” Alex had by this point decided to let the tears fall freely. Henry, however, was now only barely choking back sobs, holding his napkin in a deathgrip by his eyes. 

“But you also owe me because he never would have agreed to go out with you if it weren’t for me.” June and Alex scoffed at exactly the same time, further igniting guffawing laughter. 

“Henry, I am so grateful that the future we live in is one where you and Alex are in love and married and yourselves unapologetically. Whether you wanted to or not, you are writing the love story of our generation, formed in the heat and cosmic gasses of the most powerful forces in the universe.” Pez put one hand across his chest, raising his glass in a toast that needed no further explanation. 

Alex and Henry refused to host their party in the Ballroom, so a makeshift dancefloor was set up in the reception hall, situated nicely between the main carport and the stairs to the residence. (The courtyard had been proposed, but all agreed it was too liable to paparazzi.) (And there would really be enough cameras tomorrow.) Alex actually clapped in glee when he glimpsed the shining jewels atop the heads of Catherine and Bea. 

“You wore them!” He screamed over the thudding euro-pop. Catherine touched her youngest son’s arm and gave him a small, private smile. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, smiling and blushing at his jubilant soon-to-be-husband. 

“How many glasses have you had?” Bea narrowed her eyes at her almost-brother-in-law, steadying him and leaning out of the way of a tiara grab. 

“I don’t know!” Alex screamed again, this time unnecessarily loud for the distance. “People just keep handing them to me!” Bea laughed but took the flute from Alex and passed it off to a footman. 

“You gotta watch this one, he’s a danger to himself and the Commonwealth.” Bea placed one of Alex’s hands on Henry’s shoulder and the other around her waist. “I love you.” She said to both of them. 

“Why does it feel like you’re about to leave?” Henry’s mother placed her hand over his and kissed his cheek. 

“I put this blasted thing on at the request of the Groom, but it is not quite dance-party appropriate, don’t you think? Besides, I have just one more thing.” 

A small table of gifts had been set up by the doors, but as everyone present knew Alex and Henry would be receiving an economically significant amount of gifts and donations in their name in the coming days, the scattering of personal gifts were being bestowed individually. Catherine gestured wordlessly and a footman handed her a cream envelope with the Crown Seal on one side and a handwritten “A & H” on the other. Beatrice disentangled herself and stood back as Henry gingerly slip his finger under the seal. Alex hung on him like a small child, but apparently one with enough sense not to interfere. 

Despite his inebriation, Alex’s mind read and processed the pages quicker than Henry. 

“Wait but we’re not—,” 

“Mum, this is…but we can’t…” Catherine straightened her spine, seemingly articulating even the points on the fluer-de-lis of the grand diamond tiara, and held up a hand. 

“It’s a gift. It’s not conditional. You do not have to live in it if you do not wish, but I want you to have a home here. And since it is yours, if you wish to use it for commercial or charitable purposes, you are free to do so.” 

Alex and Henry were silent for a few moments, looking at the glossy pictures of the overgrown Jacobean home, with its stunning circular towers and stone arches. Alex began to cry and threw his arms around the Queen in a move that clearly alarmed her nearby bodyguards. She settled them with a glance and steadied Alex back on his own two feet. Henry’s eyes drifted to the top of the page and he broke out in to laughter. 

“The York Cottage? Are you? Is this a joke?” Finally, Catherine herself laughed. Her lightly pink lipstick stretched across her teeth as her diamond earrings tinkling with the movement of her head. The tiara, thankfully, seemed to be pinned or otherwise sewn onto her head. 

“No, it isn’t a joke. I didn’t name it, dear.” Her sparkling eyes cut a sharp line from Alex to her son and she took his hands in hers again. “But make no mistake. It is mine, not the Crown’s, and I give it to you. Both of you.” Henry knew what she really meant. So did Alex. “So do me a favor and don’t get a divorce.” She winked at Alex and he cracked a shit-eating grin, before once again breaking into tears. Bea consoled him as Henry bid adieu to his mother. Bea managed to pawn a rather wet and rather drunk Alex onto Nora and June, who dragged him to the dance floor as a Kim Petras song came on. 

It couldn’t have been more than one or two songs later when Alex caught sight of yet another group of guests that made him scream and run towards them. Amy and Cash, of course, spotted Alex long before he spotted them. The caught him with one arms and bent knees. 

“Oh thank fuck you guys are here, are you here with A—I mean never mind I don’t even care. I was gonna cry if you guys didn’t come. Actually, I’m gonna cry that you guys are here. But if you weren’t here I would—I’m, I’m, I’m just so glad you’re here. I love you.” Alex threw his face into the shoulders of their suit jackets and Amy patted him gently on the back. Alex felt more than saw them exchanging conspiratorial glances over his head. He popped up and whipped his head from face to face. 

“We’re uh, not here on business. But we could be.” Alex watched them exchange more conspiratorial looks. 

“We’ve been poached.” Cash announced, a grin spreading over his face. 

“Poached? What? Poached?” 

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. And we were extended offers we just couldn’t refuse to resign our commissions and join the private sector.” 

“Private sect—you mean? Wait, somebody hired you to to be my bodyguards?” 

“You and that handsome husband and uh, any future expansions of the family are gonna need some security when you’re stateside, aren’t you?” 

Alex flung himself back into their arms and cried for the thousandth time that night. 

“Wait, hold up, who poached you?” They exchanged another conspiratorial glance. 

“Call it a wedding gift.” 

“We’re not at liberty to say.” 

“No, no, no. You can’t not tell me, no offense guys but legally I can’t except your services if I don’t know who’s funding them. What if the Russians are paying you to spy on me? What is TMZ is on the take? How do I even know you are who you say you are? What’s my Five Guys order. Wait, don’t answer that, too easy. Who was my, no, that won’t work either. Got it! Which record, and I do mean physical record, is my favorite of all time?” As Alex interrogated them, Amy made a subtle motion to someone behind him in the room. 

With a gentle touch to his lower back and a sweep of satin and floral scent, Pez appeared at Alex’s side. 

“I shoulda known you wouldn’t accept anonymity, shouldn’t I’ve?”

“You did this?” Alex’s voice cracked an octave and he felt his nose beginning to run. 

“I had help.” And then all three of Alex’s parents were around him and he was crying yet again and they were all hugging him. 

“Guys, I don’t even know what to say this is so, I mean I can’t even, I just—,” they laughed at his inarticulateness and surrounded him with the kind of sarcastic ribbing only people whose love for you goes so deep it’s unbreakable can make feel good. Alex wondered how he could keep this moment forever. He imagined sandwiching it between pages of his journal like pressed flowers or laying it behind glass and nailing to the wall of his study, always to ignite this gooey, bursting feeling of all consuming love in his chest. 

Despite the foreign dignitaries who sent in priceless tokens and prominent LGBT+ rights figures who lent personal support and rich people who donated to charities in their name, it was the best wedding gift Alex received. Well, maybe second best, if you counted his husband. 

“Oh God baby, I love you so much,” Alex slurred in between smushed kisses.

“I love you, too,” Henry sighed into a moan as Alex pulled him in by the lapels. After a short fit of passion ignited by the privacy of their bedroom, they lapsed into many long minutes of lazy kissing. Their lips connected and reconnected as their hands roamed easily over each other. Alex laid his hand on Henry’s shoulder, sighing. Henry smoothed the fabric of Alex’s dress shirt and let his hand drift into Alex’s hair. He bent down and kissed Alex’s neck, lightly with an astounding sense of ease. 

“Mmmmmm,” Alex moaned, leaning into Henry and bringing his hands around Henry’s back. They swayed for a moment, touching and grasping and kissing and murmuring until Alex finally pushed Henry towards the bed. Alex yanked the embroidered pocket square out of Henry’s suit pocket just because he could, throwing it across the room and pushing at the shoulders of Henry’s jacket. Alex pouted as Henry’s long fingers touched the buttons on his vest as Alex worked on his belt. 

“Too many clothes…” Alex muttered as he yanked Henry’s trousers open and started palming and kissing. Henry gasped, one hand supporting himself on the bed and the other just touching the second button on his shirt. Alex smiled and licked his lips, snaking his hands up Henry’s legs and dragging his underwear down with his teeth. Henry tiled his face towards the sky and pressed his fingers into his collarbone, his breath catching as Alex kissed his cock lightly, then licked the most gentle, teasing stripe known to man. Alex gave three more kisses—one wet and open mouthed, one quick and closed, and one with a delicious cut of teeth—before losing patience and taking Henry into his mouth in one. Henry cursed and gasped, burying his hand on Alex’s hair. 

Alex moaned and slurped, bobbing and sucking on the head of Henry’s cock at the feeling of Henry’s fingers on his scalp. It was only a moment before Henry began to whine impatiently. 

“Your hair’s too short.” He growled, pulled Alex’s head back and leaning over to kiss him savagely. Alex moaned and melted under Henry’s touch. 

“I’ll never cut it again.” He murmured, grabbing Henry’s thighs and surging upward. 

“There. Now.” Henry jerked his head toward the headboard and Alex scrambled to comply, shucking his trousers and boxers on the way. 

Alex was sure he had been thinking all night of praises, requests and exaltations to shower Henry with in bed, but when those blue eyes disappeared between his thighs, all but breathy moans and half-hearted attempts at his lover’s name fell away. 

“Does this feel good baby?” Henry said, slurping after several minutes and laying his head to the side, giving his jaw a rest and switching to pumping Alex’s cock with his hand. 

“Fuck, yes, ohmygod, you’re amazing baby, you’re, you’re, Henry—Henry,” Alex raked his hands through Henry’s blond hair, almost pink in the warm, low light. Alex’s eyes pooled into puddles of molten chocolate as he tipped Henry’s chin and pulled him up into a messy kiss. 

“C’mere.” Alex pulled Henry into his lap, leaning against the headboard. Henry breath came hot and fast against Alex’s cheek as he shifted his hips, straddling Alex’s hips with his knees. Their kiss was all teeth and need and hunger as their hips settled into a smooth, smoldering rhythm. 

“Bloody hell, I want you.” Henry finally said, his voice ragged and his pupils blown. 

“Fuck.” Was all Alex could muster in response. 

“There we go.” Henry muttered under his breath, a slight smirk as he reached behind himself, stroking Alex’s cock hard and fast. He bit his lip and let go to bring his hand around to his mouth to spit into his palm. Alex moaned and leaned forward, watching Henry with rapt interest. Henry grinned openly as he stroked Alex’s cock with his click hand. Alex’s eyes rolled back in his head as Henry shifted his weight, bringing his free hand to Alex’s mouth. Alex’s lips parted easily, first taking in one finger and then two. Henry watched his fingers disappear into Alex’s mouth with a rhythm that threaten to induce him into a trance. Alex began sucking harder, raking his teeth along Henry’s fingers as Henry squeezed his fist up and over Alex’s tip. Henry had to rip his fingers from Alex’s mouth, already panting from the sight. Henry surged forward and kissed Alex deeply as he moved his hand to his entrance. He gasped into Alex’s mouth as he began to finger himself with Alex’s spit. Alex’s hands dug into Henry’s ass, parting his cheeks and urging him on. Henry fucked himself with his fingers until he was almost shaking, then fisting Alex’s cock and guiding him in. 

“Ahhhh…” They breathed in each other’s moans, faces slick with sweat and maybe tears. Henry kissed Alex so hard he tasted iron as he flexed his hips up and down. Alex thrust his his upward and Henry tightened his hold on Alex’s shoulders and threw his head back, moaning so loud it was almost a scream. Henry raised up at the same time Alex shifted his hips and they both whined at the separation. Henry kissed Alex's forehead and shuffled onto his knees, reaching behind himself once again. 

“This isn’t usually a problem.” Henry murmured, mostly to himself as he pumped Alex’s softening cock, pressed his own hardness into Alex’s stomach. Alex leaned forward, slobbering more than kissing Henry’s neck and collarbone. 

“Baby…baby.” Alex’s hands moved up Henry’s hips, digging his thumbs in until Henry stilled. “I need—I just need—I want—let me watch you.” And Henry simply cannot be held responsible for the sounds that escape his mouth after that. 

Henry sits back and Alex does, too, running his hands up and down Henry’s hips and thighs. It still makes him self conscious sometimes, to be looked at so intensely, so intimately. To be seen. From every angle and in every way. In some ways, it’s almost worse that Alex knows him so well, because then Henry really has nothing to hide behind. Not clothes, not angles, not titles or personas. It’s all him. And Alex still wants him, desperately, completely. Henry’s mind doesn’t even register the moment he starts touching himself, but his body feels the synchronization of Alex’s hand on his hip, the encouraging nod and the transfixed stare. Henry bites his lip and blushes a deep scarlet, whimpering as he comes all over his own hand. 

When he looks back to Alex, he sees the wide, devilish kind of grin that could overthrow an empire, bring about the fall of democracy, and end the world as we know it in one fell swoop. Henry can’t even breath, isn’t even entirely sure he’s alive as he watches Alex’s hand on their stomachs, his fingers coated in pearly cum. Then they disappear, just as Henry’s had a moment earlier, into Alex’s mouth. Alex throws his head back and moans loudly, licking his fingers clean. 

When Alex’s fingers finally leave his mouth, Henry cradles his face, kissing him gently. The heat he finds there, the taste still mingling on their tongues, brings tears pricking to Henry’s eyes. Tears he decides to let fall, decides to let guide him into a deeper kiss, surging onto his knees and draping his arms around Alex’s neck. 

“I love you.” Henry whispered against Alex’s mouth, salty tears slicking together on his tongue. Alex moaned something incoherent in response. Henry kissed him back for another minute before Alex’s tore his mouth away, breathless. 

“I want you to be Mr. Claremont-Diaz.” 

“What?” Henry panted, eyes wild with lust and confusion and desire. 

“Like, take my name.” Alex swallowed thickly. “In your style or whatever. Look, I’m too drunk to both understand and pretend I don’t understand. His Royal Highness Prince Henry, Mr. Claremont-Diaz. Like you would do if you were my…wife.” Alex’s chest heaved and for once it wasn’t hyperbole to think Henry could hear his heart pounding.

“You want me to be your wife.” Henry blinked. 

“No! I want you to be my husband. I want you to be my Henry. I just…I just want a place next you, all the time.

"You have it, my love.” Henry pressed his forehead to Alex’s, fluttering his eyelashes against Alex’s slick skin. 

“And like to prove its not a morganatic marriage or something.” Alex’s voice was tired and honest, but lacked the sort of drunk haze it had just a few minute before. 

“A what, darling?” Henry stroked the whips of hair at the nape of Alex’s neck, trying to wind non-existent curls around his finger. 

"Don’t pretend you don’t know what morganatic means.” Alex cut a sardonic tilt. 

“And what will you go by? Alex Claremont-Diaz, Mr. Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor.” Henry shot back. 

“Well I think Alex Claremont-Diaz, Mr. Prince Henry sounds pretty nice.” Alex ducked his head into Henry’s neck. 

“Anything, my dear.” Henry whispered as pulled Alex’s body into his own. 

“Anything?” Alex began to weep again. Henry kissed any part of Alex he could reach, sliding off Alex’s lap and pulled Alex’s body alongside his own. 

“So you’ll stay here, then?” Alex murmured against Henry’s chest, pulled the duvet over their heads. 

“Yes, my love.” Henry kissed Alex’s head. 

“Baby….can we have a baby?” Henry smiled and stroked Alex’s back as he babbled, not entirely sure how serious to take him. “I your babies. And I want them to be HRH’s.” Henry could hear Alex speaking through tears, could feel them on his chest. “I just can’t stand the idea of them thinking they aren’t good enough, that they’re any less than because of…because of us. Because I’m not a girl and I didn’t give both to them. I know I said I didn’t care but I do. The thought of them ever questioning their status…it makes me sick, H. They’re just little babies. They don’t deserve this.” 

“They don’t even exist, sweetheart.” Henry interlaced their fingers and brought Alex’s knuckles to his lips. 

“I’m so drunk and emotional, babe. Like, I feel like I’m ovulating. I know that’s not how it works but I just feel so overcome and like my whole body is flooded with tears all the time and I want to have your babies so bad it hurts. I don’t want to wait. I want to have babies with you. Let’s have a baby.” 

Henry let his tears fall onto the pillow, planting a firm kiss on Alex’s hand. 

“Yes, yes, yes. Forever starts tomorrow.”

“Forever starts tomorrow.” 

Chapter Text

“Odds on—,” June clamped her mouth shut as Alex opened the door to his bedroom, beckoning her and Nora inside. 

“Odds on what?” He raised an eyebrow, reaching for one of the paper cups June was holding. 

“Nothing,” she said, too quickly. 

“What?” Alex felt his heart quicken and even through her oversized sunglasses, June must have seen his eyes widen. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” 

“Tell me right now or I swear to God—,”

“We got papped.” Nora huffed, folding her own sunglasses into her pocket and slumping onto the bed before wrinkling her nose and standing back up again. “And by the way, it’s rank in here.” 

“I was saying,” June sighed, slinging her bag onto the dresser and collapsing in the nearby arm chair, “what are the odds on those pics coming out before the ceremony itself?” 

“Oh, 100%.” Nora said, eyes closed. Alex looked back and forth between the two women and then laughed out loud. 

“Fuck, you guys are trashed.” 

“Oh shut up!” June reached behind her for a small throw pillow and threw it across the room at Alex. 

“Hey!” He exclaimed, ducking. “I’ve got coffee here!” He gestured towards the expensive cream carpet and his white robe. 

“Get in the shower, your hair looks like shit.” Nora put one hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes at Alex. “We’ll meet you in the glam room. Chug that.” Nora seemed to be marginally less hungover than June and collected her by the elbow and dragged her around the corner. Alex wondered how exactly she knew where the glam room was, but quickly remembered Nora probably knew twice as much as he did about the Palace, even now. 

June’s hair was being elaborately curled, twisted, and pinned when Alex finally returned from a long, hot shower, by which time the sun had risen. The thick velvet drapes had been pulled back, shield from the courtyard only by the gauzy sheer underlay. 

“Yeah, I know. Stay decent, huh?” Nora noticed Alex’s gaze and called to him from the reclined chair where she was currently receiving some sort of facial treatment. Alex laughed and rolled his eyes, shaking his damp hair. A young woman in a pressed khaki dress rushed over to him, rustling him into a chair and turning on a blowdryer. 

Alex didn’t recognize any of the glam team, but he was sure they’d been picked by the wedding planner and approved by the relevant parties, in this case June and Beatrice. He felt an urgent pang of sadness and something else when he thought of Beatrice and wondered what her morning was like. Of the many (many) traditional versus modern wedding traditions they’d discussed, getting ready separately had always remained the practical option. Alex was glad at least that he was spending the morning with June and Nora. 

“You’re falling down on your job!” Alex called to Nora when he heard the same Ella Fitzgerald song for the third time. She startled, seemingly haven fallen asleep under the gently ministrations of the makeup artist. She grunted and raised her phone in front of her face, briefly blasting "Wedding Chorale" from Les Mis before resuming her carefully curated Wedding Morning Playlist 💐👰‍♀️💍💅, now in Phase Two. Once Alex’s hair was styled and his face washed and moisturized, he put on his freshly pressed tuxedo pants, white with a black satin stripe down the side, and did up his shirt. He realized his hands were shaking slightly as he fumbled with his bow tie. 

“Hey.” June said softly, coming up behind him with a gentle hand on his back, making eye contact with him in the mirror. “I got it.” She whispered as her younger brother turned to her. 

“Isn’t it like bad luck or something not to tie your own tie on your wedding day?” Alex fidgeted tensely, his waist sash and and jacket still hanging to the side. 

“No more than not doing your own makeup.” June said serenely in her silk robe, two whispy pin curls still setting either side of her ears. After she finished, she pressed her hands to Alex’s chest, covering his heart with a manicured hand. She looked up into her little brother’s eyes. 

“You got this, Diaz.” It made Alex smile, as he closed his eyes and pressed his hand over his sister’s. 

“I’m not nervous.” He murmured back. 

“I know.” June smiled then, releasing her hand. “You love him so much it’s terrifying sometimes.” Alex wasn’t entirely sure if she meant it was terrifying for him or for her, but it didn’t much matter. 

Alex glanced around the room divider and saw Nora nearly battling the hairstylist as she struggled to relax her ‘no-one-tocuhes-my-hair-but-me’ rule so some of their wedding flowers could be pinned into her ringleted curls. When Alex looked back to June, she was holding out his sash for him. With a moment of hesitation, he took it and fastened it, then accepting her helping hands into his short white tux jacket. Alex had flatly refused to wear tails to his own wedding, no matter how scandalous it had seemed to be forced to downgrade the dress code as to avoid being underdressed down the aisle. 

Truthfully, Alex had always wanted to wear white, but he almost hadn’t. He’d briefly worked himself into a frenzy about it—as he had with the vows, and the venue, and the invitations—until Linda had sat him down and pointed a long red fingernail at his face. 

“I didn’t do all this work just so you two could be boring and make yourselves small and squeeze yourselves into the little box of the most palatable and heteronormative versions of yourselves. If you want to wear white, wear white goddamnit.”

And as he sleeves slid over his wrists and June turned his palm over to fasten his cufflinks, Alex was eternally grateful to her. Because nothing had ever felt as right as marrying Henry, nothing had ever so physically removed the sense of anxiety that normally radiated through Alex. He let that feeling carry him further twoards his soulmate, coincidentally leaving room for Nora to help June into her dress and vise-versa. 

With everyone else momentarily otherwise occupied, Alex finally had a few precious moments to himself. He reflected that it had been the mirror that had spooked him earlier. He looked…so different than he’d expected. Somehow he was both older and younger than he expected to look on his wedding day. He looked down at his hands, turning them over to see if they would still shake. He lifted his hand to his face and held it parallel to the floor, but it didn’t waiver. 

“Oh fuck!” Nora exclaimed to a small chorus of indigent British glances and a suppressed giggle from June. 

“What?” Alex whipped around. 

“The photos.” June rolled her eyes and extended the phone to Alex, who crossed the room in a handful of steps and took the phone from her. He laughed until his ribs hurt as he looked at the grainy set of pictures of June and Nora at the side door of St. James’s Palace. June was grimacing as she peered over a set of sunglasses, two huge Costa coffees clutched in either hand. Her hair was frizzy and even through the sunglasses you could see the remnants of eyeliner on her lashline. Nora seemed to be leaning slightly against the doorframe, her knuckles poised as if she was about to knock, her mouth set in a frown against her own aviators, her eyes clearly puffy in the side view. 

“It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” Alex gloated, holding the phone out of reach and doing a little dance around the room. 

“You’re done for the day!” Only through her mystical powers of big sisterness did June manage to confiscate both the Claremont-Diaz cell phones and tuck them safely inside her pearl clutch. 

No sooner had she snapped the clutch closed and the final touches been put on her hair than a footman arrived to inform them their parents had arrived. In the courtyard of St. James’s Palace, the public got their first look at Alexander Claremont-Diaz on his wedding day. Alex had been expecting crowds, but the sheer deafeningness of the cheers when they even glimpsed him made him laugh a little. 

“Weren’t expecting that, huh?” His mother said warmly, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek before passing him to Leo and then his father. 

“Ready to go?” Oscar asked, gesturing to the line of waiting cars. Alex gazed at the barricades barley holding back the sea of strange faces. With a deep breath in, he nodded. 

“Wait!” Nora called desperately. “You forgot something.” She was near jogging by the time she reached Alex and his father, the sprig of bluebells and myrtle in her fingers. Alex blushed but managed to avoid cursing. The sonic waves that crashed through the front gates echoed of confused glee as the public now received their first glimpse of Nora and June’s dresses—until now a closely guarded secret. But Alex couldn’t take his eyes off Nora as she pinned the florals to his lapel. He was reminded, almost as vividly as a scene from a movie cutting into another, of a conversation he’d had with his father during one of his existential fits of angst about lifelong love.

"Do you still love Mom?"

"Do you still love Nora?"

Of course. 

“I love you.” He blurted out. It seemed to take Nora momentarily by surprise, as she blinked up at him. The she nodded, one corner of her mouth coming up in a slight smile. 

“I’ll be your New Year’s kiss next year then, yeah?” Nora whispered as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. 

“What?” Alex whispered back, wrapping his arm around her waist to keep her close. 

“You…spent New Year’s in London this year. We didn’t…I didn’t see you.” Nora pulled back, fixing a piece of hair that had blown into her face during the embrace—yet another reminder to Alex that they were on the streets of London. Alex didn’t say anything else, but in once glance, more than a decade of history was recapped and rehashed and reiterated. Alex didn’t care if no one else understood his relationship with Nora, if their love made tabloids salivate or the aristocracy faint. He didn’t need to tell her he’d see her inside; she knew he couldn’t get married without her. 

Time seemed to slow down during the drive through the streets of London towards the Windsor Estate. It was one of those moments where you can feel new memories being created, where you can feel your brain slowing down your perception so your senses become superhuman, taking in more information than should even be possible. When they passed a sign that made him smile, Oscar finally spoke. 

“What’s that about?” 

“George Clooney’s coming to my wedding.” Alex grinned, waving at the lines of faces along the road. 

“Amal is coming to your wedding, he’s just her date.” Oscar laughed and waved to his own side. 

“She’s the coolest person I’ve ever met, Dad.” And he wasn’t lying. Alex didn’t get starstruck much anymore, but the first time he met Amal Clooney—and the second time, when she’d given him her card and vaguely mentioned ‘connecting’—he’d almost been speechless. Almost.

They spent the next few minutes just watching and waving, smiling to each side and trying to seem genuine. Alex couldn’t help but try to calculate the sheer number of people lining the streets. He’d been told at some point yesterday that more people were camping out—literally—than expected. There’d been some talk of moving the reception or even the wedding itself to accommodate less travel time for the wedding party, but somewhere between the secret service and the wedding planners last-minute location changes had been completely scrapped. It wasn’t exactly new, the hordes of people straining to get a look at him, it want even new that they really were looking for him, not his mother in the car in front of him and his father or his sister in the car behind with Nora. No, these people were undeniably here for Alex. They reminded him in many ways of the crowds at Ellen’s first Inauguration. The joy on their faces, the spectacle of excitement. Because just like that wasn’t just a Presidential Inauguration, this wasn’t just a Royal Wedding. Alex wondered if the weight of all those hopes and dreams had felt as crushing for his Mom as it sometimes did for him—and if the lift provided by the pride and joy ever truly balanced out. So Alex waived and waived and smiled and really looked at people’s faces and read their signs, even if he did try to avoid looking at the t-shirts with his face on them or the commemorative chocolates with his and Henry’s initials.

"What are you thinking about?" Alex asked his father as they swept down a set of streets on the banks of the Thames. Oscar grinned. 

"I'm thinking about the people who built this city. I'm thinking about the bodies in that crypt rolling in their graves as they watch millions of people cheering for two Mexican men at the Royal Event of the decade. I'm thinking about how we're their worst fucking nightmares. I'm thinking about how they don't have a damn say." 

"Yeah, me too." Alex burst out laughing, leaning further towards the glass of the car window. If there was one thing Alex loved, it was imagining scandalizing founding ancestors. 

As the drive went on (and on, and on), Alex kept smiling, kept waving, kept reading signs and trying his best to radiate gratitude, but something in his smile changed, something so subtle only someone who’d spent decades watching his face could have possibly picked up on. 

"What are you thinking about?" Oscar asked as they crested the final hill before the Windsor Grounds. A moment later, Oscar continued without a response. “Are you thinking about Henry’s Dad?” A bolt of surprise flicked across Alex’s face as they drove through the gates and received a brief reprieve from public perception. 

“How did you know that?” 

“Because I am, too.” Oscar pressed his knee into Alex’s, turning his body to look at his son fully. Alex grimaced and inhaled a shaky breath. 

“Bea told me once that you have to reprocess your grief every time something amazing happens to you, every time you have a life milestone, you go through it all again.” 

"And you feel guilty for being happy and wonder how much happier you would be if it had never happened.” Alex could hear in the clearing of Oscar’s throat that he meant it when he said Henry was a son to him. Alex thought of all the times his own parents had taken on the pain and grief of his future husband. And as gates of Windsor came into view and a ray of sun broke through the cloudy sky, Alex understood that today wasn’t the beginning of their lives together, it was the culmination of their love thus far. It had been said millions of times over, but Alex hadn’t felt, hadn’t really understood until just now, that today wasn’t making them married, wasn’t making them lifelong partners, wasn’t making them a family, it was declaring them married to the world.

“I wish he could have been here.” Alex looked down and touched the borrowed cufflinks—diamond encrusted mother of pearl triangles. 

“Me, too, mijo, me too.” Oscar set his hand on top of Alex’s and the light shifted on Alex’s wrist. He’d never noticed that the diamonds looked like V’s in certain light. Oh, oh. He thought. That must have been why Arthur picked them. 

By the time they arrived in front of the Jacobean castle, Alex and Oscar's car had withdrawn from the rest of the motorcade. As the swift wind managed to banish the grey clouds of London skies, Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz and his father exited the sleek black Mercedes. The crowds cheered and his heart swelled and skipped and his love pulled him up the stairs and under the carved stone pillars without a second thought, without a second look. 

June let out the smallest of gasps and covered her lips with the tips of her fingers as she reached for Nora’s hand. Alex broke into a grin before once again greeting his mother and step-father and then taking his mother’s hand as they were arranged to process in. June took an audible deep breath before releasing Nora’s hand and taking one of the twin bouquets, each carefully arranged with bluebells, forget-me-nots, carnations, baby's breath, and myrtle. In the language of flowers, they told a poem of motherly love through adversity, faithful commitment, and everlasting love, even in grief. Alex smiled as he heard Leo passing out smaller bouquets to the gaggle of young relative charged as flower bearers and pages for the ceremony. As he step-father assumed his position as child-wrangler, Alex set his hands on the inside of each of his parent’s arms. 

“Stop it.” June hissed through her teeth, clearly sensing that Ellen was fussing with the matching powder blue fascinator she seemed to have been battling all morning. Ellen clenched her teeth and set her square jaw, but did as she was told and straightened up, letting her free hand fall to her side. Try as he might, Alex couldn’t quite see Henry at the front of the long aisle. As the bright soprano music began to ring through the ancient walls, Alex kept his eyes trained on the back of Nora and June’s heads, thankful he had so much intricacies to look at. His body yearned to run, yearned to scream and jump into Henry arms. He was, however, thoroughly restrained by family on all four sides. 

And once again, time slowed down. Each footstep echoed, each breath caught on the foley microphone of Alex’s skull. He started counting people, counting rows, sure that there couldn’t be too many left before he saw Henry. He made out Philip in his bright red Irish Guard coat long before he made out the white figure next to him, but only a few rows before he made out the tall brunette in a red flutter-sleeved jumpsuit—Princess Beatrice. His alost-nearly-really-already sister-in-law. The Obamas were sat next to the Clooneys, which Alex was absolutely certain was the money shot for networks around the world. But then he could see the purple hat framing Zarah’s face and he knew he was close. 

“Breathe.” His father whispered without moving his lips, so quietly Alex wasn’t even sure his mother heard it. He did as he was told, though swallowing proved an epically difficult task. But he was glad he’d taken that extra breath, because he was wholly unable to as soon as he saw Henry. Was he imagining things or could he already see the sparkle in those blue eyes? And after that, he didn't see anyone else, didn't even notice anyone else until his hands are finally in Henry’s once again. 

“You’re so stunning.” Alex wasn't sure at all where his lungs found the air to squeeze out the words, because he hadn't breathed in serval minutes, but he managed to whisper them just as the celebrant began to speak about the joys and duties of marriage. Henry loosed one of Alex’s hands and turned upstage, prompting Alex with a nod of his head to follow. And even though he did, Alex spent the whole of the introduction—indeed the whole of the ceremony—sneaking glances and smiles and glinting gazes that out to be criminal at Henry. His Henry. His…husband. The word echoes and echoes and echoes through Alex’s mind until there’s nothing left but the thought of Henry and the word husband. 

“...They will each give their consent to the other and make solemn vows, and in token they will each give and receive a ring. Will you, Henry George Edward James, take this man to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him so long as your both shall live?” 

“I will.” Alex was glad he had done all his crying the night before, because he couldn’t imagine not being able to clearly see Henry’s face. 

“And will you, Alexander Gabriel, take this man to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him so long as you both shall live?” 

“I will.” It was like everything had narrowed down to a single point: the whole world, a movie screen the size of the universe, was a close up of Henry’s face. 

“And will you, the family and friends of Alex and Henry, having witnessed and verified their lawful union, support and uphold their marriage now and in the years to come?” 

Alex was aware, as they took the jacquard red and gold seats to the side of the altar, that a Bible passage was being read, that a deacon from DC was giving a speech quoting a George Washington speech that was almost definitely written by Alexander Hamilton, he he didn’t hear any of it. All he could hear were the affirming call of their congregation, the laughs and sighs and footsteps of his future with his husband colliding with his present, barreling into the past and driving itself into the hallowed halls, forever mixing with the sacred and royal history of the castle itself. And then it’s time again. Time to stand and clasp hands and read forever into the history books. 

Alex sees the image from afar, from above, from how he imagines the pictures will be printed, the coverslide on every Instagram carousel. He sees the Prince of Wales in his Red frock-coat with his sash and medals, begrudgingly holding the hand of his sister, Princess Beatrice gazing at the marrying couple: two men in White tuxedos, holding each other's hands and gazing only at one another. On the other side of the center of the picture, a man in a navy suit dabs at his eyes as the former President of the United States hands him a tissue—her other hand clasped in her husband's, donning a matching navy suit. Behind them, two beautiful young women stand holding bouquets in their national colors. They wear coordinating dresses, in matching Royal Blue.

“I, Henry George Edward James take you, Alexander Gabriel, to my wedded husband. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse: for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” Henry’s sky blue eyes seemed impossibly big, impossibly intense in their gaze into Alex’s. His voice was clear and strong, but still so soft that Alex knew the words weren’t a performance. And yet, Henry said his lines so smoothly, you’d think it’d have to be a film.

“I, Alexaner Gabriel, take you, Henry George Edward James, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse: for richer or for poor, in sickness and in health; to love,” his breath caught in his throat, “and to cherish, till death do us part.” 

The celebrant briefly stepped away to receive the rings from Bea, who took a single step in her stiletto heels that drowned out the private whisper between the soonly-weds. 

I love you.

You look so beautiful. So beautiful. 

I’m so lucky. 

I love you. 

“With this ring I thee wed; with my body I thee honour; and all my worldly goods with thee I share.” When Alex looked down at their clasped hands, looked down at the simple circe of welsh gold against his finger, he almost forgot to reciprocate the gesture, because he was lost looking at the glint on Henry’s wrist. He wasn't wearing the ones they picked out from the Royal Vault, the ones once given to King James by his favored Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. No, they weren't the ones to match Arthur’s, not at all. They're unmistakably the gunmetal grey of Alex’s custom X-wing cufflinks commissioned for his mother’s Inauguration. As poetic as anything henry had ever written him, it was a reminder that Henry was etched into Alex’s past just as much he was Alex’s future. It was like he was whispering I was there. I was always there, waiting for you to find me. You found me. 

“Alex.” It was as soft as a sigh, but it pulled Alex out of his dreamy reverie and back towards the ring the celebrant was now extending to him. As soon as the circle had touched the tip of Henry’s finger, Alex looked back up, not willing to not see Henry’s face for even a moment longer; he never needed to see anything else again. 

“With this ring, I thee wed; with my body I thee honor; and all my worldly goods with thee I share.” 

“In the presence of this congregation and under the law, Henry and Alex have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. They have declared their marriage by the joining of hands and by the giving and receiving of rings. I therefore proclaim that they are wed.” 

Alex felt the sting of his tear ducts opening, but instead of being followed by a blurriness in his eyes, it was followed by a tingling sensation in his whole body. 

They turned downstage, hands still clasped as the choir led a rather sloppy rendition of God Save the Queen (that’s what you get when you make Americans sing someone else’s nation anthem). Somehow, Alex managed to look away from his husband and take in the faces of all those assembled, all those beaming their support like lasers. But then his gaze settled on the only woman not even attempting a mumbled version of the song. She wore a maroon dress with a fitted bodice and cap sleeves, complete with a truly spectacular three-strand diamond necklace and matching earrings. Her grey bob laid perfectly smooth under her netted pillbox hat, her red lips spread wide over her white teeth, her eyes bright and watery. Even though they were signing a solemn hymn begging for her own salvation, it seemed even the Queen of England couldn’t resist giving her very widest smile. 

Alex remembers each and every face he sees on his walk back down the aisle, and then in the traditional carriage ride after. He knows Henry remembers the West Point graduates—the first two men to be married under the traditional sword arch—who salute as they pass. He knows his children will remember when the FDOTUS puts her hand over her heart and blinks back tears as the two husbands pass. He knows the eight-year-old being hoisted on her father’s shoulders and waving a trans flag in one hand and the union jack in the other will remember this forever. He knows, when they open the doors to the Buckingham Palace balcony, that the world will remember this day forever. 

Even though Alex has been to three Presidential Inaugurations and seen the Washington Mall packed with people before, even though he’s even seen this Mall packed with people in extravagant displays of emotion, there’s something so magical about standing there in their wedding attire, waiving at the world as husbands. Just because their wedding isn’t a State Even doesn’t mean the Pride Parade isn’t, right? Alex and Henry have maybe never felt more affirmed in their lives than when Queen Catherine breaks with every protocol never written to declare unconditional support for the rights of all Her citizens. The jets soar and the crowd roars and Henry radiates like the sun, and when he looks over to Alex with absolute honesty and they lean in to kiss, Alex can feel the words “Happily Ever After” being burned into his bones. 

Chapter Text

And despite it all, despite their lovely, private wedding and undeniable commitment, it means something that they’re in a Church. It means something that their marriage is being recognized as a Sacrament. It means something to both of them to receive Holy Communion as husbands. It means something to have what so many would have denied them. It means something to hear that their marriage enriches society and strengthens community. It means something to have the Archbishop of Canterbury bless their marriage and to know the world is watching.

And this time, Alex does cry, despite the cameras. Because Alex has never heard anything as true as when the Bishop says “where true love is found, God himself is found.” And surprisingly, the God part of it all means more to Alex than he expected. When he looks out into the faces of everyone who loves him, he doesn’t just see their celebration of his and Henry’s love; he sees affirmation of what he has always known, deep down—there is nothing more holy in this world than love. 

For Henry, it means something different this time when he hears “to love another person is to see the face of God,” as he gazes at his husband. It must mean something to everyone who hears it when the sermon closes with: 

God our Father, we thank you for our families; for the love that we share and for the joy of our marriage.

In the busyness of each day keep our eyes fixed on what is real and important in life and help us to be generous with our time and love and energy. Strengthened by our union help us to serve and comfort those who suffer.

We ask this in the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Amen.

And when Alex sneaks a blurry glance at Henry, he finally understands the phrase “so help me God.” He looks at his husband and sees every time that crooked mouth has muttered, whispered and screamed the Lord’s name. He hears every prayer he’s sent to a God he isn’t sure is there. And he thinks, ultimately, of how his soul has found salvation in Henry’s. 

And it means something when they return to that same church to baptize their daughter: Sylvia Rose Elizabeth Catherine. Dressed in the ancient cream lace and bathed in her parents’ love, Alex isn’t sure this moment will ever be eclipsed. 

Until, of course, Sylvia Rose is toddling into the church, clutching her Papa’s hand as her Daddy carries her baby sister: Florence Frida Margaret Catherine. 

And on the eve of the 20th anniversary of her grandfather’s passing, the Claremont-Fox-Windsors walk in to the church once again. This time, Sylvia walks confidently with her god parents as Daddy bends down to pick up not-so-little Flo, Papa gently cradling his only son. 

Alex looks to the cameras once again and smiles. Because he knows what they see: Henry, laughing with their youngest daughter, his face lined in the years of joy and love they’ve shared. June and Nora subtly settling a bet about if Rosie does or does not speak with a British accent as Pez talks to his oldest goddaughter, Rafael Luna on her other side—surprised but not objecting when Rosie takes his hand. 

And the two women who once would have been the centerfold, Ellen and Catherine, each with a full head of gray hair sending each other knowing smiles, Leo and Oscar close behind. And finally, just at the edge of the frame, in matching hats are Auntie Bea and Cousin Tori. 

It means more than Alex has words for, more than he could have ever wished for, and altogether perfect when the priest reads the name of his youngest child: Benjamin Oscar Arthur Jorge.