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‘Archnemesis’ implies he’s actually a rival to me on any level and not, you know, a stuck-up product of inbreeding who probably jerks off to photos of himself.”
“Maybe the female population of Europe finally realized he’s as compelling as a wet ball of yarn,”
“It’s cute how you think everything is about you.” “It should be, honestly.” “That’s the spirit.”
His next thought is that his mother is going to murder him in cold blood.
“I really don’t think you can call tripping over a table a ‘violent’—” “Alexander,” Ellen says, her tone eerily calm. “Shut up.” He does.
“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.”
“Is it too late to take the faking-my-death option?”
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.”
“How am I supposed to do that? He has the personality of a cabbage.”
If somebody asks about him, I want to hear you gush like he’s your fucking prom date.”
Under HOBBIES, it lists polo and competitive yachting. Alex is going to set himself on fire.
“Shakespearean in that hopefully I’ll get stabbed to death,”
“Allergies: dust, Tide laundry detergent, and shutting the fuck up.”
This seems … excessive, like the kind of paperwork you get from some perverted millionaire who wants to hunt you for sport. He wonders what the most mind-numbingly wholesome public figure on earth could possibly have to hide. He hopes it’s not people-hunting.
“I’m going to throw up on you,” Alex says as soon as Henry is close enough to hear him. “Hello, Alex,” Henry says. Alex really resents the extra few inches of height Henry has on him right now. “You look … sober.” “Only for you, Your Royal Highness,” he says with an elaborate mock-bow.
“I’d rather be waterboarded,”
“Go fuck yourself.” “Hardly enough time,”
“Can you move over, Your Highness?” Alex whispers, shoving his shoulder against Henry’s. “I’d rather not be the little spoon.”
“Aw, you do care,” Alex says. “I’m learning all your hidden depths today, sweetheart.”
“Is that the time you threatened to push me into the Thames?” “No,” Alex says. “It was the time you were a condescending prick at the diving finals. You really don’t remember?”
“No booty calls,”
Alex laughs so hard he almost falls in a fountain.
“You wound me.” “You exhaust me.” “I enchant you.” “I’ll call security.” “Fair enough.”
“Lies,” Alex says. “Slander.”
“You’re thirty-nine.” “My liver is ninety-three.” “That’s not my fault.”
“Black Bear has requested extra banana peppers.”
“He’s just so frail; it’d only take one good push—”
“How many times do I have to tell y’all not to discuss your murder plots in front of a sitting president?” their mother interrupts. “Plausible deniability. Come on.”
you have a lot of moles, he texts, along with a snap of the spread. is that a result of the inbreeding? Henry’s retort comes two days later by way of a screenshot of a Daily Mail tweet that reads, Is Alex Claremont-Diaz going to be a father? The attached message says, But we were ever so careful, dear,
Henry hardly ever swears, but at least he doesn’t seem to mind Alex’s filthy fucking mouth.
In world’s most boring meeting with Philip. Don’t let the papers print lies about me after I’ve garroted myself with my tie.
You are the thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life.
Are you hiding a turkey habitat up your ass, son?
“Put them in my room, put them in my room, put them in my room—” That night, as Alex stares into the cold, pitiless eyes of a prehistoric beast of prey, he has a few regrets. THEY KNOW, he texts Henry. THEY KNOW I HAVE ROBBED THEM OF FIVE-STAR ACCOMMODATIONS TO SIT IN A CAGE IN MY ROOM, AND THE MINUTE I TURN MY BACK THEY ARE GOING TO FEAST ON MY FLESH.
Yes, famously the most sinister of all animal sounds, the gobble.
“I’m really going to have you offed,” Henry tells him. “You’ll never see it coming. Our assassins are trained in discretion. They will come in the night, and it will look like a humiliating accident.” “Autoerotic asphyxiation?” “Toilet heart attack.” “Jesus.” “You’ve been warned.” “I thought you’d kill me in a more personal way. Silk pillow over my face, slow and gentle suffocation. Just you and me. Sensual.”
“No, Mr. Wobbles, you bastard!”
you numpty.”
yo there’s a bond marathon on and did you know your dad was a total babe HRH Prince Dickhead I BEG YOU TO NOT
“Please do smack me if this is out of line, but you are the most exquisite woman I have ever seen in my life, and I would like to procure for you the most lavish drink in this establishment if you will let me.”
“Did you seriously never go to an awkward middle school dance and watch a bunch of teenagers dry hump to this song?” Henry is holding on to his champagne for dear life. “You absolutely must know I did not.” Alex flails one arm out and snatches Nora from a nearby huddle, where she’s been flirting with Spider-Man girl. “Nora! Nora! Henry has never watched a bunch of teenagers dry hump to this song!” “What?” “Please tell me nobody is going to dry hump me,” Henry says.
“Did that man just say ‘sweat drop down my balls’?”
Alex wants to push his royal face into a shrub.
don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Alex says. “You don’t?” “No.” “You really don’t?” “I really, really don’t.” 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.
he wants to throw himself down the presidential stairs.
He’s absolutely sure that guys who kissed a Prince of England and liked it don’t get elected to represent Texas.
Alex was generally pissed before, but now he’s very singularly pissed, his entire shitty mood funneled down to the point on the page where Henry’s lips touch somebody’s skin that’s not his.
“Er,” Henry says, adding to the list of vowel sounds he has to show for himself. It is, unfortunately, also sexy. After all these weeks, the bar is low.
How dare Henry come into Alex’s house looking like the goddamn James Bond offspring that he is, drink red wine with the prime minister, and act like he didn’t slip Alex the tongue and ghost him for a month.
“Stop thinking.” “Yes. Gladly.”
