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Henry who has been through the worst thing and now the next worst thing and is still alive.
You can take your legacy and your decorum and you can shove it up your fucking arse, Philip. I’m done.”
“For what it’s worth,” he says to Philip, “that is the bravest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”
“I’ve been gay as a maypole since the day I came out of Mum, Philip.”
It’s a mural of himself and Henry, facing each other, haloed by a bright yellow sun, depicted as Han and Leia. Henry in all white, starlight in his hair. Alex dressed as a scruffy smuggler, a blaster at his hip. A royal and a rebel, arms around each other. He snaps a photo on his phone, and fingers shaking, types out a tweet: Never tell me the odds.
“You are,” he says, “the absolute worst idea I’ve ever had.”
love is indomitable.
Every person who bears a legacy makes the choice of a partner with whom they will share it, whom the American people will hold beside them in hearts and memories and history books. America: He is my choice.
I have never hoped to be anything other than what I was to you then, and what I am to you now—the First Son, yours in actions and words.
It’s like everything he’s ever loved about Henry in a moment, in a laugh, in the way he shivers, in the confident roll of his spine, in happy, unfettered sex in the well-furnished eye of a storm.
He called Henry the North Star once. That wasn’t bright enough.
“Take anything you want and know you deserve to have it.”
He’s so mad he has such a specific type of dude and never even noticed it for so long.
“I majored in nouns.”
Anderson Cooper, you handsome bastard.
The crowd pushes him back into Henry’s chest, and after absolutely everything, all the emails and texts and months on the road and secret rendezvous and nights of wanting, the whole accidentally-falling-in-love-with-your-sworn-enemy-at-the-absolute-worst-possible-time thing, they made it.
Just a house where Alex grew up, where he saw Henry’s picture in a magazine and felt a flicker of something, a start.
