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It’s been a perfect Sunday: a lazy morning of tea and coffee in bed, followed by other, somewhat more strenuous activities in bed. Waffles and mimosas delivered to Nora’s Morningside Heights apartment, with Pez swanning in fashionably late and June jealously Facetiming from Los Angeles, fuzzy-haired and blinking from the time difference. An afternoon stroll with David down to the farmer’s market, watching Alex spend an inordinate amount of time selecting the perfect bunch of rainbow carrots (“Don’t rush me, H. I’m making a salad so gay that Ron DeSantis’s shriveled balls will retract back into his body, and that requires a fucking precise color palette”). Between Alex’s hectic 2-L coursework and Henry’s regrettably frequent trips to London, it’s rare that they get to spend a whole day together like this. But Alex’s midyear exams are finished, it’s still a month before finals, and for once, Henry’s grandmother hasn’t managed to manifest some constitutional crisis that can only be solved by Henry’s participation in a game of lawn bowling.
Now Alex is chopping vegetables at the kitchen island while Henry sits across from him on a stool, laptop open to Bea rolling her eyes.
“Can you believe cousin Charles? I get having a rehearsal dinner the night before the ceremony, but why do we need a full week of them? Does he really think we don’t have anything better to do than eat canapés and listen to Uncle Albert drone on about deferred income annuities?”
Henry shrugs. “To be fair, I suspect that branch of cousins really doesn’t have anything better to be getting on with.”
Bea laughs, and Alex grins saucily at him over the edge of the screen. “Ooh baby, I love it when you’re mean.”
“Yeah, baby.” Bea teases. Henry blushes and briefly considers relocating to his office, but decides that a little humiliation is worth it to see his two favorite people getting on.
“It’s not mean if it’s true,” Henry points out.
“Oh come on.” Alex waves a hand dismissively. It’s the hand holding the rather large chef’s knife, and Henry wonders if he should be concerned. However, given the number of times he’s broken something or injured himself in this kitchen (many) compared to the number of times Alex has (none, at least that he’s aware of), he decides it’s probably best not to say anything. “How bad can your bland-ass cousins really be? They’d have to have a personality for that.”
Bea catches Henry’s eye, and the two of them share a conspiratorial look.
“None of them have actual jobs,” Bea begins, “but Margaret is on the board of the Royal Ballet—a position she was given solely because her parents are major donors—and from the way she goes on about it, you’d think she was performing open-heart surgery.”
“That tracks,” Alex shrugs. “I mean, an overinflated sense of self-importance is kind of y’alls whole thing.” He makes a little circle with the knife point to encompass Henry and computer-Bea.
“You wound me,” Henry replies drily. In truth, the insults are turning Henry on just a bit, and he wonders what his therapist would make of that fact.
“Rude, but accurate,” Bea nods. “I’ll allow it.”
“Unfortunately, it only gets worse from there,” Henry points out.
“Oh yeah, Margaret’s definitely the least terrible of that lot. Now, William—”
“He’s the one I’ve met, right?” Alex interrupts.
“Love, you’ve definitely met all five of the cousins on Aunt Vicky’s side,” Henry reminds him. “Multiple times.”
“Huh,” Alex says, pausing his chopping. “Why do I have absolutely no memory of this whatsoever?”
Bea grins. “Probably because of their bland-ass personalities and overinflated sense of self-importance.”
“Point,” Alex replies, abandoning his cutting board to open the refrigerator and grab a vine of heirloom tomatoes. They’re looking a little fuzzy around the edges. “When did you pick these up, Hen?”
Henry tries to think back. “Last Wednesday or Thursday? It was whichever day you had your study group for Property Law.”
“Wednesday,” he mumbles, distracted. “I’m just gonna…” He plucks one small but healthy-looking tomato from the vine and bins the rest. “So what’s so bad about cousin William, Bea?” he asks, raising his voice as he runs the lone survivor under the faucet.
“He’s the vice chair of the Anglo-Saxon Heritage Foundation.”
Alex pauses for a second. “Is that—”
“Exactly what it sounds like?” Bea finishes. “Yup. It’s a bunch of rich white guys reminiscing about the good ol’ days when their forefathers were free to exploit and oppress anyone who didn’t look or sound like them.”
Alex lets out a low whistle as Henry sinks lower on his stool. “I thought y’all weren’t allowed to join anything political?”
“We’re not, but William skates by because the group is technically classified as a cultural organization.”
Henry adds, “The racism isn’t quite explicit enough to warrant censure from the Crown, but there are more dog whistles than a sunny day in Prospect Park.”
Alex shoves a hand roughly through his spectacular curls, leaving a streak of tomato across his forehead that Henry wants to lick off. “Your family’s kind of fucked up,” he points out.
It’s an understatement that’s clearly intended for comedic effect, but that doesn’t make it any less accurate. Henry wishes he had something more to offer Alex than the spoils of a genocidal empire and a family tree full of bigots.
“Believe me when I say that this is a truth with which we are both intimately familiar,” Henry answers apologetically.
“Some of them make Philip seem downright progressive,” Bea agrees. “It’s terrifying, really.” Alex shudders theatrically, and Henry is struck with the urge to bundle Alex up and run away with him to America. Alas, his past self has more or less already accomplished this.
“George I’m sure you must remember,” Henry points out. “You spoke to him at the State Dinner for the Dutch ambassador. He’s the one who complimented you on how well your English was coming along.”
“Did he really?” Bea asks incredulously. “What a massive plonker. Truly, Alex, I’m sorry you were subjected to him.”
Alex smirks. “I think he’s the one who was sorry by the end of the night. I remember him now. He’s the fucker I decided to needle by putting on a thicker and thicker accent every time I spoke with him. I’ve never seen a rich, white guy look so uncomfortable.” Henry remembers. It was an evening of emotional whiplash, from shock that gave way to anger, which melted into a confusing combination of shame and blazing pride. Something about hearing Alex brazenly say “So sorry, no entiendo,” when George asked his favorite color, then whip around and start a conversation about the unintended repercussions of protectionist foreign policy with the Egyptian consul left Henry in awe.
“I wish I could have seen that,” Bea replied. “Almost would have made tripping over some floor-length monstrosity while trying not to commit familicide worth it.”
“Don’t worry, there’s still a whole big-ass wedding to get through,” Alex points out.
“Historically, we haven’t done well at avoiding a scene at weddings,” Henry chimes in.
Alex narrows his eyes. “For the last time, you pushed me.” Henry smiles fondly. If he did push Alex (he did not), then it was the smartest thing he ever did. “Anyway, who’s the last sibling of the groom and what’s wrong with them?”
Bea screws up her face in thought. Alex has abandoned his food prep and is leaning across the kitchen island. He pretends to be above it, but Henry knows that he’s secretly a huge gossip.
“Lottie’s still in Uni, so she hasn’t had much chance to become truly terrible. As far as I can tell, she spends every waking hour looking for a future husband, trying to impress her future husband, planning her future wedding, and debating what to name her future children. She once spent an entire evening explaining how she puts this snail mucus stuff on her face every night because her future husband won’t want her to look her age. Mind you, the girl is nineteen.”
“Annoying but definitely not the worst,” Alex evaluates. “Plus the snail mucus thing is real. It was in one of June’s magazines and Nora went on a whole deep dive about the different proteins.”
“I’d honestly rather take the wrinkles,” Bea says.
Henry chimes in, “She once asked me if Pez was still single. I cannot emphasize enough how deeply incompatible the two of them would be.”
Alex laughs, and Henry has to take a minute to catch his breath.
“Wedding ridiculousness aside, Charles usually isn’t too bad,” Bea muses.
Henry disagrees. “Didn’t Charles once try to hit on you?”
Bea groans and covers her face with her hands. “I think I had successfully repressed that memory, so thanks for that.”
Alex snatches up his knife, spins the laptop around, and points it at Bea accusingly. “I though y’all stopped marrying your cousins.”
“I feel like you think you’re being intimidating, but the worst you can do is mutilate Henry’s webcam.”
Alex pouts and lowers the knife as Bea continues.
“He was drunk off his face and didn’t recognize me. He retracted his request once I reminded him who I was.”
“As I recall, he actually fell off his stool in his haste to get away from you,” Henry says.
“I don’t think I’ve ever regretted sobriety as much as I did in that moment,” Bea chuckles. “Anyway, he’s managed to convince some other poor woman to marry him, so best of luck to her, I suppose.”
Alex has a gleam in his eye that Henry has learned to associate with the night going either extremely poorly or extremely well for him. “What do you think the chances are that I could show up to this wedding in a Stetson and chaps and convince your family that it counts as black tie because in my culture, it’s traditional ceremonial dress?”
“Charles or George, maybe, but the others aren’t quite that clueless,” Bea replies consideringly. Henry is glad that she’s keeping up the conversation, as his mind is stuck on the image of Alex in full cowboy getup and may require a hard reset. “Philip would definitely know you were full of shit, though I’d give anything to see him try to confront you on it.”
Alex sighs theatrically. “I guess I’ll stick with a suit, save the chaps for another time.” And true to his role as a demon sent from hell to torment Henry for his sins, Alex winks. Henry whimpers.
“Are you coming up for this whole pre-wedding nonsense?” Bea asks. “Please tell me I’ll have someone to talk to who won’t make me want to blow my brains out.”
“When is it, again?” Alex asks, looking slightly cluelessly at Henry.
Henry rolls his eyes fondly. “The wedding is May 13th, and I’ll be there starting on the 6th, but you’re just flying out for the ceremony as the other events rather conveniently overlap with finals.”
Alex pouts. “I fucking hate flying without you, baby.”
“You just hate flying commercial.”
“Cash likes to stretch his legs out! I’m only thinking of him.”
Henry hums. “I guess that makes sense. The limited legroom wouldn’t really bother you.”
“Thank you, I’m very cons–” Alex cuts himself off as Henry’s meaning hits him. “Oh, fuck you. Just because we don’t all have mile-high legs doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate the chance to stretch out. I’ll show you limited fucking legroom.”
“I look forward to it,” Henry replies blandly, just to egg Alex on.
“Alright, this has been lovely, but I’m going to leave you two to your weird foreplay ritual,” Bea chimes in. “Looking forward to seeing you both. Love you!”
“Love you, too,” Henry replies, spinning the laptop back around. He reminds Bea to say hello to their mother and send best wishes to Martha, who’s recovering from a nasty stomach flu, before hanging up.
Alex has resumed cooking and is currently chopping some sort of pepper that Henry desperately hopes leans more towards “bell” than “ghost”. “I can’t believe your family is dragging you back to England during finals week. I feel like Charles chose this date just to fuck with me.”
Henry smiles ridiculously. “Half an hour ago, you didn’t think Charles had ever met you.”
“It’s the principle,” Alex insists. “When we get married, we’ll have everything in one long weekend in August.”
There’s a moment of silence broken only by the crunching of Alex’s knife on the cutting board. Henry knows he should say something, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
Finally, Alex notices Henry’s silence and looks up. “I’m sorry, Hen, were you heart-set on a winter wedding? Seems unnecessarily cold and I kinda had this vision of us out in a garden for the reception at least, but I could get behind holly and Christmas lights.”
Henry shakes his head mutely. Alex swallows and lays down his knife gently.
“Do you not want to get married?” Alex asks in a small voice. “I know we’ve never talked about it, I just kind of assumed… But it’s okay if you don’t want to! I have listened to Nora’s rant on how the institution of marriage is inherently patriarchal and heteronormative, and I know we don’t need some piece of paper to validate our relationship. And your family stuff is complicated, I get that. This wasn’t me, like, trying to put pressure on you or whatever. It’s totally normal if you’re not ready to commit to spending the next seventy-five years of our lives together. That’s cool. Really, I’m so happy with how things are right now and we honestly never need to change a thing if you don’t want to, I was just spewing random thoughts, you know how I get, feel free to ignore—”
Henry hauls Alex forward halfway across the counter and kisses him. It’s not, strictly speaking, the most comfortable position for snogging, but Henry can’t think of any other way to express the well of joy and adoration bubbling up through his chest.
He pulls back after a minute, but can’t bear to stop touching Alex completely. Instead, he opens his hand where he’s fisted it into the front of Alex’s T-shirt and trails it slowly down his arm. Words. He should try words.
“Alex,” he says fervently, “You are the love of my life. I want every second of time that you’ll give me.”
Alex bites his lip. “There. That. Why are you putting it on me? It’s like you still think that one day I’m going to wake up and decide that I’m over it. Why not just say ‘I want to spend the rest of our lives together?’”
“I do want to spend the rest of our lives together,” Henry begins. “I just don’t want to pressure you into something you might regret.”
Alex blinks. “I literally just told you that I want to marry you. You’re the one who went all 504 error on me.”
Henry gently takes Alex’s hand and intertwines their fingers. “Of course I want to marry you. It just never occurred to me that you might want that.”
Alex looks close to tears. “Obviously I fucking want to. Baby. I feel like you think you love me more, but it’s not true. I’m like creepily obsessed with you. I don’t know how else to prove it to you.”
Henry wants to shake everyone who’s ever made Alex feel like he wasn’t good enough, his past self included. “This is coming out all wrong. I know how much you love me, I’m not doubting that. But you can love me and not want to marry me.”
Alex sets his jaw. “Well, I do. Henry, where is all of this coming from? Do you not think that we’re happy together?”
“Of course we are. I am so, so deliriously happy with you. I never want things to change. That’s why I hadn’t let myself think about us getting married.”
“You think it’s going to change things between us?”
“Alex, we just spent the last hour talking about how my extended family is objectively awful. I couldn’t ask you to join it.”
Alex’s face softens. He walks around the island and plants himself between Henry’s knees. He drops both hands to Henry’s thighs and rubs comfortingly.
“Baby,” he says simply.
“My grandmother is constantly clawing me back across the ocean and I feel terrible dragging you with me. You are so beautiful and vibrant and unrestrained, and I never want you to feel like you have to hide yourself around them. You deserve so much better than how my family treats you.”
“I mean, yeah, but you also deserve better than your family treats you,” Alex says, looking Henry dead in the eye. “I hate the thought of you facing them alone. We’re a team; we handle problems together. Even when those problems are fucking viscounts or whatever.”
There is nothing Henry could have done in a past life to deserve someone like Alex. But perhaps it’s not so much a question of dessert as of choice. Alex chose Henry, and Henry’s going to do his utmost to give Alex everything he wants.
“Together, I promise,” he repeats. “I love you.” And because he can’t resist, he drags Alex in for another kiss, grabbing a handful of his curls and eliciting a groan of pleasure in response.
Alex resurfaces for air with a mischievous expression. “You know, H, I’m not sure anything is going to give me greater pleasure than forcing all your homophobic cousins to smile and make nice while I put a fucking ring on it.”
Henry kisses Alex once more, then pulls back regretfully. “I can’t guarantee when that’ll be. I think my grandmother’s taken to selectively forgetting my existence most of the time, but she can hardly ignore a full-scale royal wedding.”
Alex shrugs. “I’m not in any hurry. And you’re delusional if you don’t think this relationship is going to outlive your grandmother.”
Henry’s heart fills. He would marry this man today, if he could.
“Just to be clear,” Alex starts, “This wasn’t, like, a proposal. This was just me, you know, taking an opinion poll before Election Day. When I propose, it’s going to be really fucking obvious. Like, skywriters-in-the-clouds, Pez-level unsubtlety.”
“I shall live in fear of the day.” Henry says, grinning, “if I don’t get to it first. But the answer’s going to be yes.”
It’s Alex’s turn to bury a hand in Henry’s hair and drag him in for a kiss.
He thinks that Alex could be the best thing to happen to the royal family in centuries. He’s certainly the best thing to ever happen to Henry.