Chapter Text
The hardest thing about being in love with Henry, Alex thinks, is keeping it a secret.
Look, sure, Alex knows millions of people are in love with his husband, but they don’t know him like Alex does. They don’t understand him like Alex always has, ever since they were kids. They know who Henry Fox is—they know him as the five time Oscars winner, the most for any actor, like, ever. They know him, his plastic smile, his polite laugh. Alex gets the real deal. He gets to see Henry throw his head back when he laughs, how he rolls his eyes at Alex’s jokes even though he kisses him right after them like he can’t resist it, how the corner of his mouth ticks up slightly when he’s amused. Alex has traced that crease countless times. He knows it like the back of his hand, like the shape of it is engraved in his own damn skin.
The hardest thing is not being allowed at the same events because their managers think they won’t be able to keep their eyes off of each other. It’s not being able— not being allowed— to celebrate, or even acknowledge each other’s achievements publicly because Henry’s grandmother doesn’t want them being associated with each other, even though there are thousands of fanfictions about them online. It’s having to save edits of Henry acting to Alex’s songs from his burner account because he can’t risk slipping up. It’s having to take the long way home because nobody can catch wind of the fact that they live together. It’s not being able to post videos of David, their dog, online because people have been shipping him with Henry for years, and they’d figure it out in a fucking second. It’s not being able to tell people how his love for Henry keeps spilling out of him, keeps flowing, even though there’s nowhere for it to go, but it keeps pouring and pouring and pouring out of him until Henry’s fucking drowning in it, his eyes soft.
Even though being in love with Henry seems difficult, loving him is the easiest thing Alex has ever done. It’s as easy as breathing, like not even noticing he was falling until he was told to stop. He remembers it like it was yesterday—Henry’s grandmother, Mary, ruining things for them. That was as easy as breathing for her; love would never be easy for Mary, Alex knows.
Alex fell in love with Henry when he was thirteen. He hadn’t known what people in love were supposed to look like, he had his parents to thank for that. He didn’t completely understand what love was, not back then, but he had seen Henry’s dad, Arthur, smile at his mother, Catherine, one summer evening like she’d hung the damn stars in the sky, and suddenly, he knew that’s who Henry was for him. His person. He remembers looking at Henry, a toothy grin on his face. Remembers how Arthur had shot him a wink when he’d caught Alex’s eye. Remembers how Catherine had ruffled his hair, had dropped a kiss on his head. Remembers Henry blushing prettily. Remembers looking at Henry and thinking goddamn, I love him. Remembers not ever wanting to be away from Henry’s orbit, always wanting to circle around him.
He remembers the dark times, too. He remembers Arthur falling sick, and holding Henry close nights after nights as they listened to Arthur’s death-rattle breathing. He remembers the funeral, how Catherine might as well have died with Arthur because how quickly she’d faded away from their lives. He remembers how Henry’s brother, Philip, had suddenly turned cold, the nights they’d spent laughing a distant memory. He remembers Henry’s sister, Bea. He remembers searching for her night after night, tears in Henry’s eyes because they never knew if they’d find her dead or alive, stuffed to the brim with the drugs she was taking. He remembers the headlines, too. How they’d called her the Powder Princess, the daughter of a family of actors, nothing but a disappointment now.
Worst of all, Alex remembers Mary. How she’d sunk her claws into Henry when he was at his lowest, dragging him down with her. He remembers Henry, depressed, disappearing from his life, like he was nothing but a figment of Alex’s imagination. Remembers being freshly eighteen, scared of his damn mind because the love of his life had vanished without a trace. His best friend. His person. He remembers calling Bea and begging her to get clean so they could look for Henry. He remembers swallowing up his pride and calling Philip, the indents from his nails seared into his palms because of how tightly he was clenching his fists.
He doesn’t remember finding Henry.
He doesn’t remember how they’d found it, how long it had been, where they’d found him. All he remembers is clinging to Henry like his life had depended on it—it had, in a way. Remembers the relief. He remembers their tears, remembers tasting them on Henry’s lips for the first time in his goddamn life.
“Alex!” Henry had exclaimed, his eyes wide. “I’ve been waiting for you to find me.”
Alex had fallen to his knees right there, cupping Henry’s cheeks. Had frantically looked him over for any injuries because he didn’t trust Mary, not even for a damn second. Had held Henry’s face in his palms, had kissed his forehead.
“I’d always find you, sweetheart,” Alex had whispered, his lips brushing Henry’s skin. “I’d find you in every universe.”
Henry’s hands had come up to clutch at Alex’s wrists then, his hold tight enough to leave marks. Alex had welcomed it, had welcomed the physical reminder of him finding Henry. How he would find him in every fucking lifetime, no matter where anyone hid him.
“I tried to get in contact, I did,” Henry had whispered desperately, his eyes begging Alex to believe him. “She took away my phone, my bloody laptop, anything I could use to get in touch with anyone. I tried so hard, Alex.”
“Shh,” Alex had soothed him. “I believe you. I believe you.”
“I missed you so bloody much,” Henry had said, a tear escaping his eye.
Alex couldn’t resist the urge to press their foreheads together, uncaring about Henry’s siblings watching them. He’d brushed his thumbs over Henry’s cheeks softly, like he was something to be treasured, and had watched him, his own eyes teary.
“I missed you more, baby,” Alex had said, his voice soft.
Henry had made a wounded noise then, had surged forward to kiss Alex breathless.
Hadn’t stopped kissing him since then.
He remembers the salty tang of their tears, but he also remembers the relief, the love. Remembers finding hope in the press of Henry’s lips.
He remembers Philip’s acceptance of them as he’d snuck them out of one of Mary’s houses in Wales, telling them he’d deal with her in his own way. He remembers Bea mentioning how she’d come across Mary’s texts talking to the PR teams about how they could never let the word know that Alex and Henry knew each other.
Alex had barely stepped his toes in fame back then. He’d had a couple of singles out, and they’d blown up, and countless famous celebrities had tweeted about his talent. Henry had just began acting before his father had fallen sick, and there were countless articles about how Henry was born to be in front of the camera. Mary didn’t want the Mountchristen-Windsor name tainted with “Henry’s gayness,” or so Bea had told them.
So, that’s how it had started, the secret. They’d gotten together right around that time, and Philip had told them that Mary would leave Henry alone in exchange for him never associating with Alex, or any man, in public. Over a decade later, Alex still doesn’t want to risk anything. Sure, Henry has made history with his achievements, and Alex has broken most of the records in the music industry, but despite Henry’s reassurances, Alex doesn’t want them going public. He’s not going to put the love of his life in danger like that.
Mary is old and frail, one step from falling into the grave, and Alex’s promised himself that he would celebrate by posting a picture of him kissing the hell out of Henry the day it happens.
Look, he’s under a self-imposed clause of not acknowledging Henry, but the public isn’t. He doesn’t follow Henry, nor does Henry follow him, but that doesn’t stop people from making edits and tagging them in it. There’s countless edits of their interviews, of how they’re meant to be together, fan conspiracies on how they’re secretly dating. There’s Discord servers he’s joined where Alex fuels the theories while Henry laughs at him, his head in Alex’s lap. He’s written several Twitter threads where he tweets the ‘proof’ of #firstprince being a thing.
Firstprince—that’s their ship name and they adore it. Henry’s the first actor to win five Academy Awards, and Alex is the Prince of Rock, and they have the coolest fucking ship name, Alex will die on this hill.
He’s scrolled through the hashtag for more hours than he cares to admit, his screentime be damned. He’ll send Henry edits of them with the sappiest smile on his face and he feels himself fall in love harder with his husband of seven years when Henry sends him links to his favourite fics back.
Sometimes, Henry will sit on the couch across him, their legs tangled, and send him a link to a fic filled with smut, a smug grin on his face, that bastard. He’ll watch Alex blush, and ask him if he wants to try that out sometime, love? Alex always does.
So, yeah, being famous might not be the worst thing that has happened to them.
Alex would never go as far as saying it’s the best thing that’s happened to them, but it’s difficult when Henry tears up because of all the love they receive. Henry’s never come out, but his eyes go all soft when he sees himself being supported so loudly by people he’s never met. A part of him also feels it’s invasive, and he’s constantly conflicted, but Alex’s there to hold him through it. It also makes Henry feel free to join Alex in his shenanigans, tweeting about how #firstprince are dating without any fearing any of Mary’s wrath.
Henry smiles more often than not, tweeting about how #firstprince are definitely a thing because they logged the same movies on Letterboxd on the same day, and well, Alex retweets his husband’s damn tweets with a besotted laugh.
So, really, it's them and their burner accounts against their world until they’re actually allowed to interact on the main, after all.