Chapter Text
“Prince Henry! Alex! Max Leslie from Sky Sports, how are you?” The voice cuts across the thrum of noise on the track and Alex turns to see a short balding man holding a mic with a cameraman jogging up behind them. Henry turns as well, plastering on his press smile, Ray-Bans catching gold in the Vegas sun.
“Max, good to see you,” Henry says in a jovial tone, his hands gripping his water bottle tight. The day has been blazing hot in Vegas despite it being early November, and the incoming evening air is only mildly less scorching, so Shaan has been handing them water bottles all day.
“Are you enjoying the season so far?” Max asks. He tilts his microphone towards them, mainly Henry, with a smile.
“It’s been fantastic. We were in Bahrain for the start of the season, have managed to catch a few races since, and it’s been a thrill to see how it’s played out over the last few months,” Henry replies and Alex smiles in companionable agreement.
“Are you both supporting the same driver today?” Max asks them, and Alex grins, leaning forward.
“We’re trying to stay neutral. Let the best man win,” he says and Max gives him a smile. “Though we do have a private bet on it,” he adds and Henry’s eyebrows shoot up behind his sunglasses. Max gives a small laugh.
“Let me know how that pans out. Great catching up with you both. Prince Henry of England and Alex Claremont-Diaz there, son of American President Ellen Claremont. Big supporters of the sport, we usually see them a couple of times a year on the tracks. Let’s see who else…” Max and his cameraman elbow their way through the crowd towards an actor they’ve spotted in the distance, and Henry releases the breath he’d been holding.
“I hate it when they sneak up on us like that,” he murmurs and Alex grins.
“Lucky for you, I love it. Oh look, there’s Hamilton, let’s go say hi,” Alex points just as the tannoy overhead crackles.
“All guests, please leave the track. The race is about to begin. All guests, please leave the track. The race is about to begin,” a polite female voice tells them, and Henry shrugs when Alex pouts at him.
“You can say ‘hello’ to Lewis later. I don’t want to have to explain to the Secret Service why you’ve been flattened on the F1 track,” he says primly and Alex laughs as Amy ushers them off the track, Henry’s PPO corralling them as well.
“They’d never suspect you anyway. You love me too much,” he crows, ignoring the looks of the people around them as they filter back into the trackside seating. Henry gives him a smile that looks pinched in the corners and grips his water bottle tighter.
{♥}
By the end of the race, Alex’s ears are ringing. Not just from the deafening noise of the cars going past, though that is part of it, but also from the enormous quantity of alcohol he has consumed over the last few hours which has made his head swim. They’d been in a private box with their own personal butler, plus a fully stocked champagne and whiskey bar. Bea, Nora and June had been planning on coming but then they’d received invitations to some charitable gala which they opted to attend instead. So the bar is stocked for at least four drinkers, but there are only two of them – it’d be rude not to partake.
Alex doesn’t mind. He’s managed to see more of Henry in recent years, but he still feels like he never sees his best friend enough. They’d met at the Rio Olympics in 2016, hit it off (after a false start), and had been friends ever since. It was only after Alex’s 21st birthday that his Mom had permitted him to do more transatlantic travel, and since Henry had introduced him properly to Formula One, that had become their thing. They chase the competition across the globe as their separate schedules allow, watch the races and spend the evenings catching up in whatever hotel suite Henry’s team had managed to secure for them, usually the most luxurious one.
Having a prince for a best friend wasn’t a bad thing.
After the race, they have a golf cart to take them back to the Bellagio and Alex sits primly in his seat and does the royal wave going past the crowds of spectators, cackling with glee, held in the cart by Amy’s hand on the back of his shirt collar. Henry, drunk as well and flushed pink from the heat and booze, tries to smother his laughter behind a hand, his shoulders shaking violently.
At the Bellagio they are ushered to the elevator that takes them up to the two-bedroomed suite they’ll be cloistered in for the night, and Amy rolls her eyes as Alex trips through the elevator doors when they open with a chime. They are escorted across the corridor into the already opened suite, the door shutting and locking behind them firmly.
“I’m going to secure the balcony,” Amy tells Daniel, one of Henry’s PPOs, who nods and begins his interior sweep as Henry staggers to the small seating area.
“We should’ve stopped on that third bottle of Moët,” he slurs at Alex, who giggles and follows him, flopping down on one of the settees.
“Was that before or after the second bottle of Maker’s Mark?” he asks and Henry frowns at him, a little cross-eyed.
“I dunno?” he admits and Alex dissolves into laughter. Amy reappears from the balcony and eyes them, both of them draped over sofas and giggling helplessly.
“Do you need me to put you to bed or can you manage?” she asks and Alex waves her off.
“No, no,” he hiccups, “I can put myself to bed, Amy, I swear!” he assures her, and then he promptly rolls off the couch with a cut-off shriek. Amy rolls her eyes – he doesn’t necessarily see it but he feels it in his bones.
“Yes, you’ve convinced me,” she says in a sarcasm-laden voice. She goes to pick him off the floor but Alex flaps a hand at her, warding her off.
“I’m okay! I’ll get off the floor in a minute,” he says, tilting his head back to look over at Henry, who’s watching him, chest down on the other sofa, his face smushed into the seat cushions and Alex can’t help but giggle again.
“Right. Night boys,” Amy says, and Daniel murmurs the same as they troop out of the room to go stand guard at the door. Henry waves vaguely in their direction as Alex rolls himself onto his front and manages to get to his feet.
“There’s more whiskey in here, right?” he asks and Henry frowns at him, turning to sit up. He groans and grips the sofa cushion for a second. “What’d’you want more whiskey for?” he slurs as Alex picks his way over to the wet bar. Like their box at the F1, it has also been stocked, and he lifts a bottle of Jack Daniels in triumph, turning to show Henry and staggering sideways until he catches himself on the bar when the whole world lurches. He grins when the world settles and lifts the bottle up high again.
“Laissez les bon-temps rouler!” he proclaims and Henry frowns deeply at him as he breaks the seal on the bottle and unscrews the cap.
“They don’t say that in Vegas,” he replies very seriously and Alex laughs before taking a swig. The whiskey burns at his throat as he holds it out to Henry, who takes it and knocks back a mouthful too.
“Okay then – what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” Alex tells Henry sagely, grinning as Henry swallows the whiskey down.
{♥}
… Ugh.
Daylight has never been so torturous.
Alex blinks and his eyelids feel sticky. His mouth feels dry and every single bone in his body aches. With a groan, he tries to lift his head from the pillow, and fails.
He assesses his current state of being. He is seemingly still fully dressed in the same chinos and linen shirt combo he had been wearing yesterday. He has managed to take his shoes off, and one sock. He has a pounding headache settling in just behind his eyes, and his mouth feels like he went and licked the tarmac on the Vegas strip, but he seems to be otherwise uninjured.
He tries to remember what happened last night. It’s very rare he gets so drunk he loses time. They’d been sharing a bottle of Jack Daniels the last he could remember. Whatever happened will come back to him eventually…
“Henry?” he calls, his voice rasping like sandpaper. There is no reply.
He tries again to lift his head and manages to get himself sat up, though the world takes a horrible swoop to one side. He breathes in deeply through his nose so he doesn’t hurl. Once his head and stomach have settled, he tries to stand. He doesn’t immediately fall on his face but the world spins alarmingly again.
Whimpering, eyes bleary, Alex slowly takes himself into the sitting room.
The room is surprisingly intact for how he feels. The cushions from the sofas and armchairs are somewhat scattered, and there’s the empty bottle of Jack Daniels plus another empty bottle of Gordon’s gin, but other than that, there are no signs of destruction. The door to Henry’s bedroom is cracked open a little, and Alex staggers towards it.
“Hen,” he calls and there is an answering groan. Alex takes a second to steady himself on the wet bar and then continues trudging towards Henry. He finally reaches the bedroom door, and pushes it open.
Henry is also fully dressed, sans shoes, lying on his front on his bed. His blond hair is mussed, and he groans as Alex crawls onto the bed next to him.
“My head,” Henry whines in a murmur, wincing even at his own voice.
“Mine too,” Alex commiserates and Henry’s face scrunches up in pain.
“Why are you shouting?” he whispers and Alex sighs. They are shoulder to shoulder on the bed, and Alex throws an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the sun. Henry groans again and turns his face away. Alex figures if he can get another hour or two of sleep before his flight this afternoon, and if he can find his stash of painkillers, then he might be able to –
The hotel door opens with a bang so loud it makes Alex jump. He’s about to leap for the panic button on Henry’s bedside table (hopefully without throwing up) when Zahra comes marching into view. He frowns at her.
“Zahra?” he asks, and she whips her head around to look at him. Her jaw is clenched so tightly he can see a muscle twitching despite the distance between them, and she storms over to them, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, bag on her shoulder swinging wildly.
“What did you do?” she snarls as she gets close to the door. Henry hiccups and reaches for a pillow to put over his head. “Both of you! What did you do?” she asks, standing at the foot of the bed while Alex frowns at her.
“What do you mean? We got so drunk we’re now ridiculously hungover, what-?” Zahra pulls her phone out of her bag, taps the screen and then throws it at Alex, narrowly missing his head. He catches it and turns it to look at the screen.
It’s a video. The film is grainy, like it’s been zoomed in, and it keeps shaking as whoever is taking the video moves, but the sound is crystal clear.
“WE GOT MARRIED!” Alex can hear his own voice screech through the tinny speaker. His ears start to ring. He studies the video again, trying to make out what it’s showing him. Next to him, Henry has gone very still in the bed, and when Alex looks over, he is wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights.
The video isn’t clear but it’s undeniable. Henry and Alex toppling through some faux stained-glass doors, arms slung around each other. Alex in the video screeches ‘WE GOT MARRIED!’ again and plants a sloppy kiss on video-Henry’s cheek, sending them both staggering off camera. The video cuts and loops back to the start.
{♥}
Alex has never sobered up quicker.
They are hauled into the sitting room where Shaan has also appeared. He is also clenching his jaw so hard a muscle is twitching, and a vein in Zahra’s forehead is now starting to throb, not helped by Alex and Henry’s repeated insistence that they don’t know what happened the night before. Henry is a pale, trembling figure at the other end of the sofa to Alex, his arms wrapped around himself. Shaan sets a cup of earl grey tea in front of him, exchanging a concerned glance with Alex, and then he sits in the armchair next to Zahra’s.
“It’s gone viral,” Shaan says after a minute of silence. Henry’s head seems to drop lower. “The Daily Mail, The Sun and The New York Post have already picked it up and Buckingham Palace Press Office has been asked for comment by several of the broadsheets,” his voice is even but his hand trembles when he reaches for his own cup of tea. Alex remembers that this man is still a member of the armed forces in England, and had seen active combat. He probably took the Equerry job thinking it’d be an easy gig for a few years. Alex should really send him a fruit basket one day.
“And what is the Palace suggesting we say?” Henry asks, his voice catching. He presses his hands into his thighs and Alex can see the panic rising in the set of his shoulders. He leans over and bumps their shoulders together, but instead of leaning into it, Henry seems to flinch away instead. Zahra clears her throat.
“Currently, the White House and the Palace are discussing how to approach this,” Zahra says in an even, measured tone which Alex knows to mean she’s eyeing up his testicles for Christmas ornaments. “First, we have to establish that what happened is legal. We’ve identified the Chapel o’ Love you two knuckleheads snuck off to last night, helped by the fact that they have shared a super cute Instagram post,” Zahra says mockingly, and she slides her phone over towards them again.
ChapelOLove_LV has a new pinned post, which is a photo of a very rumpled Alex and a flushed Henry stood in front of Elvis (Alex ponders if he could run and jump off the balcony before Zahra could stop him), and the caption underneath says ‘Our own Royal Wedding!’ followed by the crown emoji, the church emoji, the ring emoji and then two of the same yellow-skinned groom. #wedding #married #congrats #hrhhenryuk #agcd #elvis.
Alex would rather be dead, and Zahra looks like she wishes for that too. She takes the phone back and puts it face down in front of her. “Currently the place is being gone over with a fine-toothed comb to find any paperwork relating to your – marriage,” the word looks like it causes Zahra physical pain to say. “That said, the officiant does remember you two from last night. He’s apparently a big fan of the Royal family,” she sneers at Henry, who shrinks back into his seat. Alex glares at her.
“Don’t take it out on him. Be pissed at me all you want Zahra, but ease up on Henry,” he snaps at her and she raises an eyebrow at him but holds a hand up in surrender.
“Fine. The administrator confirmed that she submitted all paperwork from yesterday to the county office at 9 this morning, so we’re–,”
“Screwed,” Alex supplies and she wags a finger at him in agreement. Henry abruptly stands up.
“I need some air,” he announces, and then he practically runs for the balcony, a PPO hot on his heels. Alex watches him go with a frown and then turns back to Shaan.
“Have any of his family reached out? Bea? His Mom?”
Shaan just shakes his head. “The likelihood is that the Palace is on a communications lockdown until a statement is agreed,” he explains. “Nothing in or out. Unfortunately that also includes personal calls,” he gets a pained look on his face, though it’s gone in the next blink.
“When will that be? The statement, I mean,” Alex asks and Zahra checks her phone.
“Well, I’ve got a call to jump on so probably some time after that. Go check that Henry hasn’t swan-dived off the balcony, would ya?” she suggests and Shaan gives her a stricken look. Alex just shakes his head, stands, and heads for the glass doors, Amy falling into step next to him.
“On a scale of 1 to 10, how screwed am I?” he asks her out of the corner of his mouth, and she flicks her gaze over his face before looking forward once more, her expression neutral.
“A 12,” she tells him in a deadpan and he sighs.
“Yeah, I figured as much,” he murmurs. He slides the balcony door open and steps out into the sunlight. Henry is braced against the balcony railing, his hands with a white-knuckle grip, his head dropped down. His PPO hangs out by the door, a silent watcher. With a look at Amy, Alex steps closer to Henry and the PPO falls back.
“Hey,” Alex says and Henry lifts his head.
“Hello,” Henry replies morosely, running a hand through his hair. Alex sidles him up to him, knocking the toe of his sneakers against Henry’s highly polished oxfords. Neither of them are properly dressed, both of them throwing on what they could to feel less exposed. Alex put on his running shoes. Henry put on his Princely armour.
“Seems dumb to ask if you’re okay,” he begins and Henry snorts derisively. “But I’m gonna – are you okay?”
“Clearly not,” Henry replies, his voice tight. Alex bobs his head, even though Henry isn’t looking at him.
“They’ll get it sorted. Between the Palace and the White House, it’ll be fine. We’ll say I was stupid drunk, just wanted to shock people and it’ll die down in a week,” even to his own ears, Alex sounds like he’s convincing himself as much as he’s trying to convince Henry, who still doesn’t look at him. They lapse into silence.
A few minutes later, there is a knock on the balcony door. Alex turns to see Shaan standing just inside, gesturing for them to come in. Alex clears his throat.
“I think they want us back in,” he says, and Henry drags his eyes off the middle distance. They go back inside, Alex hanging back to let Henry go first. Zahra has migrated to the dining table, and by the furious tapping of her nails against her phone, Alex isn’t reassured she has good news for them. They sit opposite while Shaan perches next to her.
“So,” –she begins, putting her phone face-down on the table in front of her. It begins buzzing immediately and she ignores it–“It has been determined that the marriage is, in fact, legal and binding, and the paperwork has already been sent to the county office,” Alex feels a thrill of horror zip up from the base of his spine. Next to him, Henry has gone rigid, his breathing short and sharp. “And, as Alex has announced the marriage so enthusiastically,” –she shoots him a venomous look– “It has been determined that to deny it would be the opposite of beneficial. An annulment would also be unseemly, and very Catholic, according to Buckingham Palace. It has been decided that we, and that is the collective we, will instead lean into the story,” she finishes and Alex blinks at her.
“We’re going to have to pretend to be married?” he asks. Shaan clears his throat.
“You are married, but in essence, yes. A statement will be put out that you’ve been in a highly private romantic relationship for several years. A few drinks, a rebellious nature and a ‘what happens in Vegas’ mentality has resulted in an unorthodox but ultimately inevitable wedding,” Shaan explains. Henry lets out a shaky breath.
“You’re going to try and frame this as some sort of Romeo and Juliet against-the-odds romance?” he asks in a small voice, and Shaan looks pained again. Zahra answers instead.
“Yep,” she says, popping the p, “We can make a forbidden romance work. It tugs on the heartstrings a little, gives you both a tragic edge, and makes the grandmas happy. In a year, a divorce petition will be quietly submitted citing irreconcilable differences and you can go your separate ways,”
Alex feels winded, like something just slammed into his sternum. He can’t pretend that he held dreams of what his wedding would be like, but his marriage? It was going to be something other than this. A nice democratic Texan girl, most likely. Definitely not a British prince. No, Henry would have been his best man instead. Right by his side, like he’s always been.
“There’s more,” Shaan says apologetically and Alex resists the urge to slam his head into the dining table. “A celebratory tour will be announced along with the release of the formal statement this afternoon. You will be visiting Commonwealth countries and other diplomatic allies. You’ll receive the itinerary tomorrow,”
“This is punishment, isn’t it?” Henry says bitterly. He’s so tense Alex is surprised that none of his bones have snapped from the strain. “We’re being punished for getting drunk and making a stupid mistake that neither of us can remember,”
“That’s not for me to say, sir,” Shaan replies, albeit gently. Zahra rolls her eyes and huffs at them, drawing their attention. She leans forward in her chair, her dark hair falling in a curtain around her face.
“Look kids – a stupid drunk mistake is TP’ing the hot footballer’s house to get his attention or scratching up the bumper on your Mom’s car because you thought joy-riding through your neighbourhood would be fun. This? This is a fuck up on a global scale. There is no get-out-easy clause here. You can’t mow lawns to get back into anyone’s good graces,” she pauses and stares them both down. Alex looks at his hands where they’ve been twisting in his lap since he sat down. Zahra sighs and pushes her chair back. “Get showered, and dressed in your nicest outfits. We’re out of here in an hour and we’re going to be running the gauntlet. Giddy-up, show ponies.”
{♥}
She’s not exaggerating. Paparazzi are pressed to the glass doors of the Bellagio, cameras already flashing before the elevator doors even open. Alex is dressed in chinos and a jacket, dark sunglasses over his eyes, and Henry is in a suit, his expression unreadable as the PPOs and Secret Service Agents bracket them, pushing through the shouting masses towards the car that's waiting for them. The noise is deafening, the camera flashes blinding, and Alex is winded by the time Amy shoves him into the car, Henry just ahead of him. The door shuts and the car takes off.
They don’t talk. Henry doesn’t even look at him, his eyes locked on the passing views as the car hurtles towards McCarran. Once they’re at the airport, they’re bundled into a private jet and the door is closed and they’re taxiing down the runway before Alex is even buckled in.
The flight time from McCarren to Andrews Base is nearly 5 hours, and Alex feels every minute of them.
He tries to find something to do besides doom-scrolling through Twitter. A few thousand people have taken screenshots of ChapelOLove_LV’s post and shared it far and wide. The comments range from ‘@chillwave_chirp I KNEW IT! I FUCKING KNEW IT! NEVER TELL ME THE ODDS!’ to ‘@8bitBentoBabe
wat a fukin waste of men’. There’s a few ‘Get you a man who looks at you like HRHH looks at ACD’, but those ones are a bit confusing because they’re all attached to old pictures of them through the years, and Henry isn’t looking at him any differently in any of them.
The majority of the comments seem supportive, with an even split between those who are surprised and those who are vindicated. A few comments are negative, but Alex scrolls past those. Once the memes start, he puts his phone down.
Henry, Shaan and their PPOs are at one end of the plane while Alex, Zahra, Amy and Cash are at the other. Zahra can’t even look at Alex without seemingly being overcome with the urge to murder him, Amy keeps sighing and Cash seems to be struggling to keep a straight face.
Alex wants to talk to June. Hell, he wants to talk to Nora. Show him the statistical likelihood that they will be fucked forever. Decently high, he imagines.
Next to him, Zahra is tapping away on her laptop. She keeps huffing and then aggressively pounding on the backspace key, sending him the odd glare when he so much as exhales a little loudly. He tries to make himself smaller, take up less space, because he can’t get the image of Henry, pale and trembling, on the corner of the settee out of his head.
He knows Henry is gay, of course. They’d been friends for about six months when his Mom had been invited by Queen Mary III to a State Dinner, and Alex had been included in the invite along with Leo and June. They’d been sitting opposite each other at the dinner, and Henry’s eyes had kept flickering to Tom Daley, sitting a few seats down from Alex. At the drinks reception after, they’d been chatting in a corner, catching up, when Tom had walked past with his then-fiancé. Henry’s eyes had tracked him across the room and Alex, clumsy in his earnestness and a few glasses of wine in (because he’d taken advantage of the younger drinking age in England), had blurted out,
“If I had to fancy an Olympian, he’d be in my top 3.”
Henry’s expression had been a picture of panic, and he’d stuttered, flustered, trying to deny it, but Alex had clapped him on the shoulder with a smile.
“Trust me, my dude, there are other things to hate you for. Your perfect hair for one,” he’d said, tugging on a lock of Henry’s hair as it fell over one of his eyes. Henry had blushed and smiled, and they’d never had to say anything more about it.
But knowing Henry was gay meant also keeping it a secret. The absolute panic in Henry’s eyes when Alex had figured him out had ensured that. Alex would never give up that secret, and yet here they are. Even if Henry hasn’t been truly outed per se, the rest of the world now believes he has been. They have been.
The ‘10 minutes ‘til landing’ announcement can’t come soon enough.
At Andrews Base, two cars are waiting for them. Alex is ushered into one and Henry into the other, and then the sirens begin and they are speeding back towards the White House. It had been decided it was easier to keep them in the same place than trying to explain why they’re staying in separate residences immediately after supposedly getting married in a love-fuelled moment of madness.
No press is allowed anywhere near the front entrance of the residence, but it doesn’t mean they don’t try. Alex is genuinely fearful one of them will get run over as the cars inch past the gates, cameras flashing in the car windows. Amy’s hand has drifted to the gun at her side, but it relaxes once they’re through and the gates are shutting behind them.
Henry is out of his car and inside before Alex’s door has even opened, and, resigned, Alex takes his holdall back to his bedroom. He opens the door with his eyes downcast, his mind doing somersaults, trying even now to find a way out of this fiasco, or better yet, to travel back in time and make sure it never happened in the first place.
He is so distracted by dreams of time-travel that it’s only when she clears her throat that he realises his Mom is perched on the side of his bed. He jumps, startling, flinging the holdall in his hands halfway across the room.
“Christ, Ma!” he exclaims, pressing a hand over his pounding heart. She just gives him a look, the kind of look that would have curdled his blood when he was 12-years-old and terrified of letting her down. A part of him still is.
“You’ve done some stupid shit in your time, Sugar, but this? This is beyond,” she tells him in a quiet, even voice that is a thousand times worse than if she had just shouted at him. She stands, straightening her jacket while his heart thumps wildly in his throat. “Meeting in conference room 2 in half an hour. Bring your husband,” and then she walks out the door.
Alex just lets himself sit where he stands, collapsing to the floor. His Mom has been mad at him before, obviously. She’s shouted at him plenty of times, grounded him even more. But he’s never felt her disappointment quite like this. It’s crushing.
After taking a few minutes to steady his breathing, he gets back to his feet and fetches his holdall from where it landed near the bookcase. He methodically empties it, puts a few things away and then leaves the room to go and find Henry.
He’s staying in the Queen’s Bedroom, a room awash in pink and rose print. Alex knocks and there’s a pause before Shaan opens the door a crack. He raises an eyebrow at Alex inquiringly.
“Uh, my Mom wants to see us. Conference room 2,” he says and Shaan glances to one side. He turns his gaze back to Alex after a moment.
“His Highness will be just a minute,” he says and then the door shuts. Alex leans against the wall and waits. His mind wanders back again to the labyrinth of untangling this mess. Can’t call it an April Fool’s joke if it’s November. Maybe if they could-?
He’s startled out of it by the door clicking open and Henry stepping out. His eyes are bloodshot and his nose is red but he just gives Alex a tight smile even as he avoids his gaze.
“Shall we?” he prompts and Alex pushes himself away from the wall leading the way to the conference rooms.
His Mom is waiting with Zahra and a man Alex only vaguely recognises – he’s tall with close cropped hair, wearing an impeccably tailored burgundy suit. Zahra and the man stand when they enter, purely for Henry, but his Mom remains seated. She gestures to the two empty seats on the opposite side of the table and they dutifully sit down. Alex feels like a schoolboy called in front of the Principal for being disruptive. His Mom clears her throat to get their attention.
“Your Highness, you’ve met Zahra, of course. And this is Valentine, from the Press Office. He’s currently working on the media release regarding this… situation,” His Mom’s voice goes icy and Alex winces. Henry dutifully shakes Valentine’s hand across the table, as does Alex. Once they’re settled back in their seats again, she continues. “First things first – are you two in a romantic relationship?” she asks.
“Mom! No!” Alex protests just as Henry replies flatly, “No, Ma’am,”
“So, what is this then? A cry for attention, a drunken mistake? Alex, honey, you know I’d support you in anything, but I am struggling to understand what the hell happened here?” Alex can tell his Mom is upset by the way her drawl thickens. Strugglin’.
“We were drunk, Ma. I don’t remember anything,” he tells her vehemently. Valentines taps something into the tablet in his hands. His Mom eyes them for a second longer, her blue eyes narrowed at them while Alex squirms and Henry looks morosely down at his hands in his lap. She looks away first, though by no means does that signify her backing down
“Well, getting married by an Elvis impersonator while blackout drunk isn’t an easy sell to constituents. So – Zahra.” she turns her gaze to her right-hand woman and Zahra slides two slim manila folders over to them.
“As discussed, we’re going with the story that you two have been in a committed and private relationship for a number of years. The wedding was a drunken, misguided attempt to formalise your relationship, despite you both having the full support of the White House and the Royal Family,” –from the way Henry shifts in his seat, Alex knows that they do not, in fact, have the full support of the Royal Family, pretend or otherwise– “Read those, they contain both statements and a brief summary of your supposed relationship.” Zahra waves her hands at the folders in front of them, and Alex eyes his like it might bite him. “Read it, memorise it, discuss it between yourselves so you can corroborate your story. There will be official portraits taken in the morning, followed by interviews with This Morning and Good Morning America, then you’re phoning in to talk to BBC Radio One, and NPR. Valentine?” Zahra prompts and Valentine looks up from his tablet and gives them both apologetic looks, a corner of his mouth quirking downwards in sympathy.
“The vibe is going to be contrite for hiding your relationship from the public for so long, but also happy and in love. Hold hands, just briefly, look at each other, finish each others sentences – honestly, nothing too dissimilar from how y’all have acted previously,” he says with a shrug, leaning back in his chair. “You’ll need to apologise in some way, but sell it as being so in love you couldn’t wait any longer,”
Alex’s mind is back on spin cycle, thoughts rushing around in a way that makes him feel sick, and he can see that Henry has a white-knuckle grip on the folder in front of him. Alex doesn’t know what to say in response, and the room lapses into silence.
“Well, that’s everything,” his Mom says, shifting in her chair. “I’ll see you both for dinner tonight,” she tells them, dismissing them both.
Fingertips numb, Alex picks up the folder and stands after a second, Henry copying him, and then they leave. Alex leads them, through muscle memory alone, back to the residence and up to the Queen's Bedroom. He stops outside the door and turns to Henry, opening his mouth to speak, but Henry raises a hand and cuts him off.
“Don’t. I’ll see you at dinner,” Henry sidesteps him and disappears into the room, the door closing and locking with finality behind him. Alex is left feeling bereft, hollowed out, and so he heads up to his bedroom with his eyes downcast.
The universe clearly hates him as June is waiting for him, perched on the edge of his bed. He groans at the sight of her.
“Not now Bug, not unless you have something to put me out of my misery,” he flops onto the bed next to her, facedown on the comforter, the folder crushed under his chest. She pats him on the back.
“I’m disappointed that you didn’t give me a chance to plan your wedding,” she tells him primly and he groans again. “See, I’d plan something elegant. White table clothes, navy and brass accents, Steve Aoki DJing the afterparty. An Elvis impersonator, Alex? So gauche,” she sniffs derisively, her voice a little tight at the corners as she tries not to laugh, and Alex wishes desperately that the comforter would silently suffocate him. She pokes at his side with one pointy nail and he tilts his head to look at her. “What the hell happened?” she asks, but not unkindly.
Alex turns on to his side, both to breathe and so she can hear him better. “I don’t know. We got drunk, stupid drunk. I remember nothing after getting back to the hotel. Then we woke up and we were hungover and then Zahra basically kicked the door in and nearly decapitated me with her phone,” he scrubs a hand over his face. “And I’ve been on the world's worst rollercoaster ride since.” June gives him a look that tells him she thinks he’s the biggest idiot in the world (affectionate). “Henry won’t talk to me,” he adds sulkily, and June bobs her head.
“Well, he’s probably embarrassed, and scared. Like, you have to pretend to be in a relationship and that’s going to be weird for everyone,” she says and Alex nods in agreement. He has never told June that Henry is gay. He meant it when he said he would keep it a secret.
“What can I do, though? I feel like anything I try is just going to make it worse,” he says with a sigh, and June shrugs one shoulder.
“Be his friend. Y’all have been friends since you were 18. Surely you know how to do that,” she suggests.
{♥}
Alex finds himself back outside the Queen’s Bedroom, a hand raised to knock. He’s tried to knock twice before, chickening out at the last second each time. He feels awkward all of a sudden, shy. He rubs his strangely sweaty palms against his chinos, lifts his hand and knocks before he can talk himself out of it.
The door clicks open and Shaan peers through the gap, an eyebrow raised at him.
“Can I speak to Henry, please?” Alex asks, his voice sounding small and pathetic even to his own ears. Shaan looks to one side, then nods and steps back to open the door wide enough to let Alex in. He slips through the doorway into the room where Henry has hidden himself away.
“I’ll be just outside,” Shaan tells Henry, who nods. There is a small seating area in front of the bed, where Henry has tucked himself into a corner of the couch. He looks exhausted, suit jacket shucked and shirt cuffs loose around his hands. His hair is mussed, like he’d had a fitful sleep, and his eyes are still red-rimmed and blood shot. Shaan slips out of the door and closes it behind him, leaving them alone.
Alex goes to sit in one of the armchairs opposite Henry, and pauses, frowning.
“I wish I could remember,” He starts and Henry doesn’t look at him. “What happened, I mean. Like, how did we even get out of the hotel room without anything noticing? And who at the Chapel looked at us, both of us blackout drunk, and decided it was a good idea to let us get married?” he finishes ruefully. “And now, we have this tour to–,”
“Please stop talking,” Henry says, more to his knees than to Alex. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and lets it go. “My mind is going a thousand miles an hour. I can’t think straight. I’m scared. I’m angry, God, I’m so angry. With myself, with you,” he shrugs one shoulder, ignoring Alex’s betrayed expression. “I just… want to go to sleep and realise this is just a terrible dream,” he finishes in a quiet undertone.
“Yeah, you and me both,” Alex says in agreement.
They lapse into silence for a minute. There is the distant bustle of movement beyond the door to this room, but that’s it. Henry has probably muted his phone, if not turned it off entirely, like Alex has. He’d already had a few messages through on his old Georgetown study Whatsapp groups, asking if the rumours were true. He didn’t know what to say.
“We should probably go for dinner,” Alex finally says, breaking the silence. Henry’s shoulders round inwards, as if he’s about to hurl, but then they push back again as he lifts his head and meets Alex’s gaze with a watery one of his own.
“Of course. Please go ahead without me, I’ll join you in a minute,” he replies, in a tone that seems startlingly polite in a way that Alex is not used to from him, not anymore.
“Sure. I’ll, uh, I’ll let my Mom know you’re coming.” Alex stands and lets himself out of the room. Shaan is waiting in the hallway, tapping away on his phone, and he looks up as Alex shuts the door behind him.
“I’m just going for dinner, Henry said he’d follow in a minute.” Alex tells him and Shaan inclines his head. He hesitates, like he wants to say something, and Alex raises an eyebrow at him. “What, Shaan?” he prompts.
“Don’t be angry at His Highness,” Shaan says and Alex gives him a bewildered look - he’s not angry at Henry, he’s probably more angry at himself if he really sat down and catalogued his emotions. “He had a phone call with Her Majesty the Queen after the meeting with your Mother. The conversation was… tense,” Shaan says charitably, because what he actually means is that Queen Mary was a raging bitch to her Grandson.
“I’m not angry with him, I promise,” Alex replies and Shaan inclines his head before slipping back into the room, shutting the door and leaving him alone in the hallway, with only his swirling thoughts for company.
{♥}
Dinner is… subdued. Henry joins them in the family dining room some 15 minutes after Alex left him in the Queen’s Bedroom, still looking downcast but doing his best to put on a show for Alex’s family. Leo is as kind as he always is, Alex’s Mom clenches her jaw so hard that Alex swears he can hear her teeth creak under the pressure, and June gives Henry a sympathetic smile and pats his hand when he takes his seat at the table between her and Alex.
Conversation is stilted. Leo mentions reviewing the menu for the upcoming Boy and Girl Scouts of America gala lunch, and manages to pry one or two word answers out of his wife before even he gives up and lets the room fall into silence.
Finally their plates are cleared and they can leave the table. Normally they’d spend some time together as a family in the evening, watching TV or a film, but Leo and his Mom leave as soon as the table is cleared, and Alex feels some sort of sick, churning guilt, that it’s because of him, that his Mom can’t stand to look at him.
June deposits herself on the sofa in the sitting room next door and fishes a remote out of the small wicker basket they keep them in. She turns on Netflix and turns to Henry.
“Have you watched The Mole yet?” she asks. He shakes his head and June resolutely turns back to the TV and sets the series to run. Alex sits on one side of her, and Henry takes the armchair, and they do not look at each other for 3 entire episodes.
Ludicrously, Alex thinks - I thought weddings were supposed to bring people together.
{♥}