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On a chain around his neck, always hidden from view, he’s worn the key to that house since the day he left for DC.
Alex’s kind of love story is much more Shakespearean.
“As your mother, I can appreciate that maybe this isn’t your fault, but as the president, all I want is to have the CIA fake your death and ride the dead-kid sympathy into a second term.”
“Both sides need to come out of this looking good, and the only way to do that is to make it look like your little slap-fight at the wedding was some homoerotic frat bro mishap, okay? So, you can hate the heir to the throne all you want, write mean poems about him in your diary, but the minute you see a camera, you act like the sun shines out of his dick, and you make it convincing.”
Minimum two (2) social media posts per day highlighting England/visit thereof.
He knows them both down to their split ends and nasty habits, but there’s a strange girl bond between them he can’t, and knows he isn’t supposed to, translate.
And they’re not khakis, they’re chinos. Khakis are for white people.”
He can almost hear Henry roll his eyes, and he’s thankful for it, the familiar comfort of antagonism.
What does Jedi have? Fuckin’ Ewoks.” “Ewoks are iconic.” “Ewoks are stupid.”
“No booty calls,” Alex tells him, and Henry chokes on a laugh.
First class today was an elective he’s taking out of a combination of morbid fascination and academic curiosity: The Press and the Presidency. He’s currently jet-lagged to all hell from trying to keep the press from ruining the presidency, and the irony isn’t lost on him.
“Can I expect a joint Christmas present from you and the prince this year?”
“You’re thirty-nine.” “My liver is ninety-three.” “That’s not my fault.”
my radiant orchid.”
oh my
When he got his first girlfriend, she made a PowerPoint presentation.
you have a lot of moles, he texts, along with a snap of the spread. is that a result of the inbreeding?
SHUTKSJKDJKJSDKSJKDJSD
Is Alex Claremont-Diaz going to be a father? The attached message says, But we were ever so careful, dear,
Henry already has a crush on Alex here???
Shaan is on the phone with Portugal.
Alex hears more about the tedious details of operating a sailboat than he would ever care to know and sends back nothing but: cool.
Dickensian street urchin?
Patterns are considered a “statement.” Royals aren’t supposed to make statements with what we wear.
do it for the gram
Alex doesn’t know why Henry never responds to his selfies from bed.
He's horny, Your Honor.
He smiles and presses a button on the inside of the sleeve, and “O Christmas Tree” plays from a speaker near his armpit.
Legendary Balls-Out Bananas White House Trio New Year’s Eve Party.
Remember last year when Nora and I were both out of the country for a week, and you almost got a tattoo?”
Henry’s whole face grimaces in frustration, his eyes casting skyward like they’re searching for help from an uncaring universe. “Christ, you are as thick as it gets,” he says, and he grabs Alex’s face in both hands and kisses him.
Straight people, he thinks, probably don’t spend this much time convincing themselves they’re straight.
It’s full of books and plants she tends to with complex spreadsheets of watering schedules.
“Hey, so, uh,” Alex attempts as she takes a burrito break. “Remember when we dated?” Nora swallows a massive bite and grins. “Why yes, I do, Alejandro.” Alex forces a laugh. “So, knowing me as well as you do—” “In the biblical sense.” “Numbers on me being into dudes?”
“Stop,” he groans. “Prince Henry is a biscuit,” Nora says, “let him sop you up.”
He’s focused on the burst of adrenaline carrying his feet over the antique rug, Henry’s tie wrapped around his fist, the flash in Henry’s eyes. He reaches the nearest wall, shoves Henry against it, and crushes their mouths together.
He looks transformed in the lamplight, like a god of debauchery,
In an instant of sudden, vivid clarity, he can’t believe he ever thought he was straight.
He laughs into Henry’s mouth, instantly caught up in his own dramatic mental portrait of the two of them painted in oils, young icons of their nations, naked and shining wet in the lamplight.
“Listen, I don’t know why, but this whole thing”—he gestures at Henry’s entire physical presence—“is … really doing it for me, so, I just need to.” Without any further ceremony, he drops to his knees and starts undoing Henry’s belt, tugging at the fastenings of his pants.
“Oi,” Henry says. He’s grinning now. “That’s disrespect of the crown, that is. Insubordination. I’ve thrown men in the dungeons for less.” Alex turns, walking backward toward the car, hands in the air. “Hey, don’t threaten me with a good time.”
You shall have to find someone else to accost in a cloakroom.
Hate you. Will try to get out of Germany.
Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor.”
“I’ve had to fake some shit for my mom, but nobody’s ever outright told me to lie about who I am.”
“Because until now you weren’t fucking the Prince of England!”
Why do you always assume you can get away with things?”
“I was hoping you two would start talking dirty,” Pez says. “Please, do go on.”
It used to be all bottles of cognac and shared malaise and ‘When will they notice us’—” “Don’t tell him that!”
How many other kids do you think since—” “Don’t.” “—and how many more—”
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.
What the fuck
That is a clear quartz crystal for clarity and good vibes
me af
depressed lesbian poet who met a hot yoga instructor at a speakeasy who got her super into meditation and pottery, and now she’s starting a new life as a high-powered businesswoman selling her own line of hand-thrown fruit bowls
