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With a feat of Herculean strength, he summons up two whole words: “Fuck you.”
Mutually satisfying sexual experiences do not a relationship make.
Even if he did want that, there are a million reasons why this will never, ever be possible.
He whips a thick leather strap off a hook on the wall, and Alex almost blacks out.
Henry gingerly puts his boot back on the floor. Alex wants to die. “Just, come here. Fuck.” “I’m quite confused.” “Me fucking too,”
“Oh, God,” Henry says. “Yeah,” Alex agrees, and he gets Henry’s boxers down. “Oh, God,” Henry repeats, this time with feeling.
Alex, First Son of Off-Brand England:
LMAO
Huge Raging Headache Prince Henry of Who Cares,
Im really living for this
The monarchy has decided we care about sustainable energy, apparently—or at least that we want to appear to. An utter romp.
Horrible Revolting Heir,
Alex, First Son of Making Me Spill My Tea in Said Early Morning Meeting:
texts Alex at weird hours of the night: You’re a mad, spiteful, unmitigated demon, and I’m going to kiss you until you forget how to talk. And Alex is kind of obsessed with it.
(But, like. It’s fine. It’s not a whole thing.)
He’ll withdraw for hours or days, and Alex comes to understand this as grief time, little bouts of depression, or times of “too much.”
“Okay,” Alex says. “For the record, I agree with you, but also, tell me more.”
People sanitize Freddie Mercury or Elton John or Bowie, who was shagging Jagger up and down Oakley Street in the seventies, I might add. It’s just not the truth.”
“And to remind you,” she goes on, “I will chop my own tit off before I let you pull some idiotic stunt to cause your mother, our first female president, to be the first president to lose reelection since H fucking W.
I will lock you in your room for the next year if I have to, and you can take your finals by fucking smoke signal. I will staple your dick to the inside of your leg if that keeps it in your fucking pants.”
“You know, this whole arrangement we have … you can tell me stuff.
“I’m not … historically great at talking about things,” Henry says.
“But you care. Because you want to protect her even though you’re the little brother.”
“Yeah,” Henry says, voice rough. “We all went round the bend a bit. Philip just had to be the man of the family, and I was an arsehole, and Mum didn’t leave her rooms. Bea just stopped seeing the point in anything.
I drove there and she was sitting on the back steps, high as a kite, and I sat down next to her and cried and told her she wasn’t allowed to kill herself because Dad was gone and I was gay and I didn’t know what the hell to do, and that was how I came out to her.
“Anyway, I don’t think I’ve ever said this many words out loud in a row in my entire life, so please feel free to put me out of my misery any time now.”
He tells Alex in a low voice how his parents met—Princess Catherine, dead set on being the first princess with a doctorate, mid-twenties and wading through Shakespeare. How she went to see Henry V at the RSC and Arthur was starring, how she pushed her way backstage and shook off her security to disappear into London with him and dance all night. How the Queen forbid it, but she married him anyway.
Somehow, this is the same person who had Alex so convinced he didn’t care about anything, who still has the rest of the world convinced he’s a mild, unfettered Prince Charming.
“I miss you,” Alex says before he can stop himself. He instantly regrets it, but Henry says, “I miss you too.”
“You really don’t see it? You never sleep, you’re always throwing yourself into something, you’re willing to let Mom use you for whatever she wants, the tabloids are always after you—”
She flings one arm out emphatically enough to upset an entire potted cactus on her dresser and says, “Because until now you weren’t fucking the Prince of England!”
“You have so much in you, it’s almost impossible to match it. But he’s your match, dumbass.”
You don’t have to be our parents. You can keep Henry, and figure the rest out.”
“Listen, it’s not my fault he’s a mysterious and retiring young royal and you’re the tempestuous ingénue that caught his eye, okay?”
“Is now a good time to point out Henry’s very hot, very rich best friend is basically in love with you?”
“Say good morning to your strumpet, Henry.” “Good morning, strumpet,” Henry says, glancing away from the road to wink at the camera.
It used to be all bottles of cognac and shared malaise and ‘When will they notice us’—” “Don’t tell him that!”
Zahra hands him a card that says, Good job doing what was expected of you, and nearly shoves him into the punch bowl when he tries to hug her.
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“Oh, I haven’t had vodka since uni,” Henry says. “It tends to make me, erm. Well—” “Flamboyant?” Pez offers. “Uninhibited? Randy?” “Fun?” Bea suggests.
she leans over to Nora and drunkenly yells, “Oh, no … he’s … so … hot…” “I know, babe,” Nora yells back.
He swaps a glance with Cash, who’s standing against one wall, gamely wearing a bright pink feather boa.
Alex finds Henry leaning against the sink, arms folded. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re a demon?”
“You—you know this is still not convincing me to sing, don’t you?” Henry chokes out as Alex mouths along his throat. “You really think it’s a good idea to present me with a challenge, sweetheart?”
and there’s not a single person in the bar in their seat, not when a Prince of England is knee-sliding across the stage,
Nora has produced a bottle of champagne and starts spraying Henry with it, and Alex loses his mind
Alex feels somewhere, under the fifty layers of booze, something crystal clear radiating off her, a shared knowledge of how rare and wonderful this version of Henry is.
<3
Nora and Henry jostling for a spot in his lap,
“Yes, Beatrice, we shall behave in a manner befitting the crown,” Henry says. His eyes are slightly crossed.
It’s the best Alex has slept in years.
Also, he might puke. It’s probably unrelated.
“So this is the gang now, huh?” And through it all, Alex realizes with a start: He has friends now.
O, fathers of my bloodline! O, ye kings of olde! Take this crown from me, bury me in my ancestral soil. If only you had known the mighty work of thine loins would be undone by a gay heir who likes it when American boys with chin dimples are mean to him.
