Henry watches, nails bitten down to stubs from across the ocean as the election results slowly roll in. It has been, for the most part, a fairly uneventful campaign. Ellen is on track for a comfortable victory over Richards, but he’s still had a stream of messages complaining about unexpectedly tight races in various states from Alex. Bea hands him another Jaffa Cake and David nuzzles into his side.
‘H, are you sure about this?’
Henry nods, not taking his eyes off the laptop screen he’s set up on his bed. ‘If Ellen wins then we’re doing it. We’re going public. I know it’ll take time but…’ He trails off, and watches as another state turns blue on the map.
Bea looks at him. She’s up in the middle of the night, sitting and waiting for the results of an election, for a country an ocean away because his entire future depends on it. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to repay her for her kindness, her steady head and stable heart. Her brown hair is tied up and she’s dressed in an old fluffy dressing gown. She looks like she used to when they would bundle into the sitting room with dad on a Saturday evening and beg him to let them watch one of his films, even though they were far too young and would fall asleep in the first thirty minutes.
‘I can’t lie anymore, Bea. I can’t keep lying.’
Bea gives him a gentle smile and pulls him so that his head falls on her shoulder. ‘Let’s start with mum,’ she says.
At the same moment, Henry’s phone starts buzzing - it’s CNN announcing that Ellen has won Texas, and the Presidency.
Bea squeezes his hand.
****
They start with Catherine. It’s not exactly easy to get an appointment with her holed up at Sandringham, but eventually they find a day where she has to be in London and force their way into a full afternoon with her. Her secretary is not thrilled.
They sit in the sitting room at Kensington with tea and cake, and Catherine sits nervously on the edge of one of the large sofas. It looks like she’s going to sink into it, like it might swallow her whole. She looks worse than Henry feels, which he thinks is a considerable achievement given that his gut feels as though it’s about to exit his body via his mouth.
‘Mum,’ Henry says, after the staff have finished flurrying around them pouring them tea and Bea has dismissed them with a sharp shift of her eyes towards the door.
She smiles nervously. ‘What’s all this about then?’
Henry twists his hands in his lap, and wonders for a fleeting second if this is a terrible idea, before his fingers brush over his bare finger, where his signet ring used to sit. The ring that’s now on a chain around Alex’s neck.
‘We need to talk,’ Bea says. She’s hard-faced and pragmatic. She’s come in here ready to fight, ready to physically drag Mum back from the depths of her despair. Henry knows it’s not quite that easy.
Catherine gives her a slow, watery smile. ‘You can always talk to me my love, you know that.’
Bea cuts her off. ‘No. We don’t. And no, we can’t.’ She pauses and glances at Henry. ‘You’ve not been here.’
She opens her mouth to protest but Bea raises a hand to silence her. ‘No, let me speak. Please. I need to speak.’ Bea inhales. ‘You weren’t here when I was in rehab, and you haven’t been here for years. We all miss Dad, Mum but... we miss you too. We deserve one parent.’
Catherine looks suitably chastised, but says nothing. Bea stares back at her, waiting for her to say something.
‘Why now?’ she asks eventually.
Bea looks at Henry. He takes a deep breath.
‘I– I’ve met someone,’ he says.
Catherine’s head turns and a smile spreads over her face and Henry feels as though he’s not seen it in years. It takes him back to being tiny and hugging her around her knees.
‘Darling, that’s wonderful! Who is she?’
Henry’s eyes flutter closed at the question and he sighs, but strangely, he’s not scared. His mother has been gone for so long that she’s already lost to him. Anything he gets from her will be a bonus.
‘I’m gay, Mum,’ he says, and he’s said the words before, but never quite like this. Desperately begging to Bea; resigned to Shaan; to Alex satiated in bed; and to Philip in a wild outburst of rage. He doesn’t even remember telling Pez. He supposes he must have done it at some point, or maybe Pez just worked it out. But either way, he’s never said it like this, never so clear and sure and unashamed; a fact as simple as blue eyes and blonde hair. ‘It’s not a she. It’s... a he. I’m dating a man.’
Catherine blinks. Once, twice, and then again. Once, twice. Again. She says nothing and then, simply, ‘Oh.’ And then again, as if all the puzzle pieces have finally slotted into place. ‘Oh.’
She nods, a far away look in her eyes, as though the cogs are still turning in her brain. ‘And you’re telling me because you want to go public with it?’
‘He’s telling you because you’re his mother,’ Bea says sharply.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
Henry looks at Bea and then sighs. ‘Yes. We... I want to go public with it.’
She looks back at him. ‘Does anyone else know?’
Henry bites his lip and glances over at Bea. Her face is set in a hard line, staring down their mother. ‘Bea, Pez, Shaan, a few of the PPOs.’ He pauses. ‘Gran and Philip know... about me, but not... about him.'
Her head snaps up at that. ‘How do you know they know?’
Henry sighs. ‘Well, I might have accidentally told Philip a few weeks ago, when he was going on at me about the army again.’
‘Told Philip’, Henry thinks, is a generous descriptor for what actually happened, but he doesn’t see the point in going over the details now. ‘And Gran—’ Henry coughs. He shifts slightly on the sofa and sighs. ‘She… she summoned me to see her when I finished my A Levels and told me that there were ways of dealing with any deviant desires I might be beginning to harbour and that any potential wife of mine would be suitably compensated.’
Something shifts in his mother’s eyes. ‘She did what?’ There’s a hardness to her voice that Henry had almost forgotten until he hears it, and then there are flickers of memories of that tone coming from behind closed doors: arguing that Bea should be allowed to learn the guitar as well as the violin, defending Henry’s tendency to shy away from the cameras, trying to wrestle Philip back from the iron grip of the Crown.
‘You did your A Levels six years ago,’ she says finally, to herself more than to them.
A long silence stretches between the three of them. Henry finds his eyes fixed on the array of untouched cakes before them. An assortment of perfectly crafted little Victoria sponges filled with homemade jam and cream. He wonders how long someone spent making them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually. ‘I’m so, so sorry. You’re right I— I failed you. All of you. I thought that you would be better off, better protected without me.’
She turns to Henry. ‘Thank you,’ she says softly, ‘for telling me. And... I’m sorry, that you’ve been hiding this for so long.’ She turns to Bea. ‘You’re right. I’m going to be better.’
Henry chews on the inside of his mouth and the words are flying out before he can stop them. ‘I think you should see a doctor.’
Catherine looks at him, surprised, and starts to open her mouth.
‘I found it helpful... to talk to someone about things.’
She looks back at him, her blue eyes staring into his. He can see a million questions that she doesn’t have the words to vocalise yet, and then she nods slowly. ‘Okay.’
Bea exhales, reaches forward to take a cake and shoves it in her mouth. Catherine rolls her eyes and laughs. Henry thinks it might just be the best sound he’s heard in months.
‘There’s something else,’ Henry says, because he needs to get everything out. ‘It’s Alex… The person I’m dating. It’s Alex.’
‘Alex?’
‘Yes. The ah, the President’s son.’
She blinks. ‘The President of what?’
‘Of America.’
‘Right. I was hoping you might say the Rotary Club.’ She lets out a weak laugh. ‘That… well, that complicates matters somewhat, doesn’t it?’
‘Mum—’ Bea starts, putting down her cake, a low warning tone in her voice.
‘I’m not saying I won’t help. Of course I will, it’s just... it complicates things, darling. You know it does.’ She’s right, Henry knows that she’s right. Bea does too under her defensive armour. ‘His people know?’
Henry nods. ‘Yeah. For a while now.’
She nods carefully. ‘And you’re sure about him?’
Henry’s heart stutters for a brief second and he remembers Alex recalling an almost identical conversation with his own mother, back when he didn’t have an answer for this question. But Henry does. He nods. ‘A thousand percent.’
His mum leans back in her chair and looks between her two youngest children, and a slow grin spreads across her face. ‘Then let's get ready for a fight.’
***
Re: Dirty plans for your dirty mouth
Henry <[email protected]>
to A
22/11/21, 6.39PM
Alex,
The meeting with mum went well, I think. I didn’t blurt it out and I didn’t have to scrape her off the ceiling, so it was already a step up on telling Philip. Bea was a suitably hard-faced bad cop, which I don’t think was easy for her – we both miss Mum, she wants her back on our side just as much as I do, but I think it was the right call. Bea spoke and she listened, and then I told her. Mum was surprised, but she took the news well. She said she’s going to come and fight with us, so I suppose that’s exactly what I could have hoped for.
I suggested that she speak to someone, and told her that I’d found it helpful so I suppose we’ll have to have a discussion about that too, soon. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, it’s just. Well, you know. It’s a lot.
The plan now is to get a meeting with Gran and Pip, so thoughts and prayers, etc. I’m going to ask Shaan to liaise with Zahra so you can be here too. I want you here, if you can be. If there are decisions to be made then they affect you too. I’m sure it’ll end up being a lot of hysteria and Philip complaining about bloodlines and tradition, and looking like he’s just bitten into a lemon. I hate to put you through it but it would mean the world to have you by my side. I always feel better when I do.
Anyway, Pez is coming over to distract me from it all. Something about a bottle of Grey Goose and some awful films, so I won’t be surprised if I end up talking to you later. But I wanted to tell you this now, in the event that I’m barely coherent enough to talk later – always a strong possibility where vodka and Pez are concerned.
Yours,
Henry
P.S. John Keats to Fanny Brawne, 1819
My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you – I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again – my Life seems to stop there – I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving – I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you.
***
Shaan looks surprised when Henry tells him that he needs a meeting with the Queen, Philip, his mother and Beatrice, but he nods.
‘If you err, if you could liaise with Ms Bankston as well to find a time Alex can be here too that would be… that would be good.’
Shaan looks up at Henry quizzically, brow furrowed and mouth slightly ajar.
Henry gives him a tight, nervous smile. ‘I… I told Mum. About us. We ah, we want to go public with it. Properly.’
Henry thinks he’s probably shocked Shaan enough times over the years, but his words still send Shaan’s eyebrows half way to his hairline. He blinks, and then he says softly, ‘You told your mother? That’s what you wanted the afternoon for?’
There’s something in Shaan’s gaze that Henry is unsure about, but he thinks it might be... pride? He’s seen it in Alex’s eyes before but the expression is odd on someone else’s face. ‘Bea came with me. She… well, she gave her a bit of a Come-to-Jesus talk, I suppose.’ He pauses. ‘Could you— could you talk to her staff about arranging a doctor? Like you did for me?’
A small smile flickers across Shaan’s face. ‘Of course, Sir.’
Henry nods and returns the smile. There’s something strange spreading through his chest, a calmness, a determination that he usually associates with Alex rather than himself. He turns to leave and has one hand on the doorknob before Shaan speaks again, ‘Henry,’ he says. A rare use of his first name. ‘It’s going to work.’
For the first time in months, Henry thinks he might actually be right.
***
The meeting goes about as well as Henry could have expected. It’s a dark December afternoon when they all sit around a long table in one of the large drawing rooms of Buckingham Palace with another assortment of tea and cakes laid out before them. There are scones and sponges and perfectly piped macarons placed on a cake tier in the centre of the table. Why are there always cakes?
Alex is on one side of him, Bea on the other, his Mum hovers nearby glancing nervously at the door. Philip and Queen Mary enter the room, fresh from their own meeting. Shaan stands at the wall behind Henry, Zahra at his side.
‘I do not appreciate being summoned,’ his grandmother says with an unamused tone. Her eyes flicker to Alex, and then to Zahra and Shaan and her thin lips curl and shrink into her face, barely visible. ‘I especially do not appreciate not being told why. What is the meaning of this?’ Henry watches Philip’s own eyes travel between him and Alex, and sees the cogs turning in his mind.
‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ he says.
Henry inhales steadily. ‘Can we sit, please?’
‘Him? For God’s sake Henry, I thought you were smarter than this,’ Philip hisses, a red flush creeping up his neck.
The Queen looks between them and purses her lips. ‘Gran,’ Henry starts, ignoring Philip and clearing his throat slightly to shift the hoarse nervousness there. ‘I assume you remember Alex.’
She says nothing, but her eyes narrow in on the American flag pin on the lapel of his jacket.
She takes a seat, which Henry thinks is probably more to do with the fact that she’s eighty-something and can’t stand for long enough to show her disapproval, rather than it being a gesture that she’s willing to have this conversation, but he sits anyway when she does, and so does everyone else. ‘Alex and I are in a relationship. We have been for a while – almost a year now and well, we’d like to go public with it.’ Henry isn’t sure where the words come from, they just leave his mouth. He’s surprised by how steady his own voice sounds.
The Queen blinks. ‘Certainly not.’
Alex opens his mouth to say something, but Henry reaches under the table, grabs his hand and squeezes, and he closes it again. ‘Henry, I believe we had a conversation about this before,’ she says politely, as though she’s telling him it’s Thursday.
Henry inhales and sees his mother do the same. One of her hands twitches on the table where it’s clasped around a water glass, and Henry can see the same pinch at the corner of her mouth that Alex has described on his.
‘Either way,’ the Queen continues. ‘Your duty is to the crown. To provide heirs. We have an image to maintain,’ she says.
Henry swallows, summons all of the courage he has. He channels Alex’s own recklessness. He thinks back to a few months ago, a lifetime ago and the words: You’re brave, I could use some of that, and Sweetheart, you’re proof too.
‘I'm gay, and I love Alex.’
Philip scoffs. ‘Oh please, you’re twenty-three. You’re not seriously going to throw your life away over a boy you met in your twenties. You don’t know what you want. You say you love him, do you? Well that’s fine then,’ he hissed. ‘For God’s sake Henry, what are you expecting? That you’ll be allowed to marry him? Make him the fucking Duchess of Cambridge, First Son of the United States and—’
‘Oh do shut up, Pip. Mum was barely older than Henry when she met Dad,’ Bea says.
Henry watches as his mother’s shoulder’s slump just slightly, and his grandmother’s lips purse again.
‘Oh yes, and you think that was a smart idea, do you? A man who spent half our childhoods running around on film sets and never served his country—’
Henry feels the fury bubbling under his skin. ‘Just because your obsession with the crown and legacy never impressed him—’
‘That’s enough.’ A sharp voice cuts through the noise, clear and firm. All their heads snap to his mother who has risen out of her chair. ‘That’s enough,’ she repeats, staring down at Philip with a fierce fire in her eyes.
‘Mum,’ she says, turning to the Queen. ‘We have a chance here to show the world who we are, that we’re inclusive and tolerant. Henry will never be happy with a woman. These children are my legacy, and Arthur’s. And I know I’ve failed them but I won’t let you do this.’ Henry’s heart swells as his mother speaks, and Alex squeezes his hand. He thinks if he tried to open his mouth now, nothing would come out, just a whisper of air and a broken sob. ‘I won’t let you hurt them anymore.’
The Queen looks at her daughter and then back to the rest of the room. ‘Well, that was a lovely speech, Catherine, but unfortunately the point remains the same. Henry’s duty in this family is to provide heirs and uphold the image of the crown. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have another meeting,’ she says, rising from the chair.
Henry blinks, processing what has just happened. She’s halfway towards the door when the words fall from his lips. ‘Then I’ll abdicate.’
She pauses in the middle of the room and turns slowly. Philip’s head has snapped up to look at Henry from where he’s been gathering the pile of papers. He hears Alex murmur, ‘Baby,’ in shock. He hears Zahra cough angrily from behind him.
‘Excuse me?’ Henry’s grandmother says slowly.
‘If hiding myself is the price for being a part of this family, then I won’t. I’ll abdicate.’ He breathes in again, and stares back at her steadily. ‘I’ll abdicate and I’ll tell the entire world exactly why. And we’ll see how well your global standing and popularity fares afterwards.’
Her eyes narrow.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Henry,’ Philip says with an eye roll, but his eyes are wide and panicked.
Henry leans back in his chair, fully aware Alex is staring at him with wide, amazed eyes.
‘You know I’m right,’ Henry says simply. He’s rather enjoying the squirm on Philip’s face. ‘This country is changing. I think far more people would be on my side than yours.’
‘You know, Mother, I rather think that Henry’s right,’ Catherine says calmly. ‘I wonder if the public might think you’ve rather lost control of the wishes of the people, if forty-seven years is quite enough to ask you to serve.’ She pauses. ‘Perhaps it’s time for a change in leadership.’
Queen Mary looks at her daughter with a thin lipped expression and then to Henry. He sees her eyes narrow. ‘Well you’re not leaving me with much of a choice, are you?’
Catherine shrugs. ‘You have a choice. Maybe you’ll make the right one.’
***
There are many, many more meetings over many, many weeks. They break for Christmas and work stalls. Alex and Henry spend half the day on FaceTime while Alex moans about how much his parents are overcompensating, and Henry nods along and tells him his mother is doing the same. They both whine, but Henry knows neither of them would change a thing about it. They swap stories and Henry laughs at the gaudy jumper Alex picked out for the day. They lie on their beds, an ocean apart, with full stomachs and full hearts, and murmur softly to each other through their screens until they both fall asleep.
Henry flies out for the White House Trio’s gala a few days later, accompanied by Bea and Pez, where he and Alex spend the entire evening trying to keep their hands off each other and then kiss underneath the linden tree again. They curl up in Alex’s bed, where they kiss and hold each other until the sun is high in the sky and both of their eyes are wet, and Pez knocks on Alex’s door and tells them it’s time to leave.
There’s a week in January where they spend at least four meetings going around in circles over whether or not Henry will be made to enlist. Philip and the Queen are firmly in favour of the idea, obviously, and Henry spends weeks wracking his brain for an alternative. He finally stumbles upon it halfway to the bottom of a whiskey bottle one night with Pez. They’re in his rooms in Kensington. Pez is talking about the shelters, and the one they’ve just started work on in New York, when he stops talking mid-sentence and he and Henry both look up at each other with a gleeful grin and it’s so clear, so obvious, it’s as though every star in the sky has aligned to light the way.
He spends half the night with Bea and Pez feverishly working at his side as they put together a proposal that he start a foundation and take over the Okonjo Foundation youth shelters.
Alex FaceTimes in at some point and scoffs at the idea they’d ever thought to do this without him. ‘Baby, I’m the king of making binders for this sort of thing.’
Henry smiles softly at his tired face on the screen and the words Brooklyn shelter prickle at his brain until he finally falls asleep, with Bea at his side and Pez snoring in the chair next to him. He dreams of waking up next to Alex, his citrus shampoo and the feel of the ring and key around his neck pressing into Henry’s chest when he holds him tight.
***
They agree to the proposal eventually, in February. Alex flies to the UK for Valentine’s Day and they spend the weekend in Wales hiding from the world and barely leaving their bed. Alex lands at a tiny RAF base and then they drive down to Llwynywermod to a cottage stocked full of wine and cheese, where Alex pushes Henry against the door the second it’s closed. The weekend is spent with pastries and coffee in bed. Alex tells him that The Guardian makes for far less sexy reading than Le Monde and quickly discards Henry’s newspaper, depositing himself in its place in Henry’s arms. He falls apart at Henry’s mouth, at his fingertips, and again when Henry pushes into him for the first time, and Alex comes undone barely minutes later with a noise that’s so needy and raw Henry feels it travel right to his core and embed itself in his veins.
***
dreams and shit
to Henry
17/02/21, 11.16PM
H,
Have been home 2 hours and already miss you. Last week was just… the best. I can’t stop thinking about it. I swear the whole plane ride I just, couldn’t fucking sit down without thinking about it, or you. You’re just… so fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Seeing you this last week all wrapped up in those sweaters, flushed cheeks and messy hair, it makes me think that maybe one day we can have that for real. Just you and me in our own home.
Hey, there’s a thing. When I think about you, and the future, I think about you writing and me stealing your shampoo and dragging you out to the grocery store, but I also think about you in your sweatpants playing the piano and scribbling in your notebook on a rainy afternoon. I think about cooking for you – I want to make you so many things. Fuck that reminds me. I need to get my dad to send me my abuela’s recipe for tres leches. It’ll blow your mind, I swear. I think about that stupid ugly bed of yours and what we might have instead – our bed, our couch, the pictures on the walls. I think about building dumb furniture with you. I don’t want to put pressure on you, you know I’ll wait as long as it takes. But one day, you and me baby, we’ll have it all. I promise.
I keep thinking about what you said about doing more work with the shelters and trying to be in the US more. I’d love that. Whatever you can manage, you know I’d go anywhere for you.
Stay beautiful and strong and gorgeous. I love you I love you I love you.
A
xxxxxxx
P.S. Orson Welles to Rita Hayworth, 1943
The pleasures of human experience are emptied away without that companionship – now that I’ve known it; without it joy is just as unendurable as sorrow. You are my life – my very life. Never imagine your hope approximates what you are to me. Beautiful, precious little baby – hurry up the sun! Make the days shorter till we meet.
I love you, that’s all there is to it.
***
Alex flies to the UK in March again, under the guise of some conference, but they both know it’s really so he can kiss Henry senseless on his birthday, and so Henry can tie Alex’s wrists to the headboard to give him some sense of control back. Henry has spent weeks in meetings having every facet of his life dissected by PR teams, having his life plotted out for him. When Alex arrives, it’s barely half an hour later that he is straining at the ties around his wrists, swearing and begging Henry to do something, anything, to touch him, anywhere, please.
It’s another weekend of the two of them holed up in Kensington. They’re lying in bed, blissfully exhausted after an evening that started as dinner with Bea and Pez and ended, as most do now, with the two of them naked in tangled bedsheets.
Henry fiddles with the ring around Alex’s neck, fingers winding their way up the chain. ‘Hey so, I’ve been thinking,’ Alex says and Henry feels his heart twist at his words. He looks up at Alex.
‘Jesus, why are you looking at me like that, it’s nothing bad... I hope— I just… you know how I took the LSATs?’
Henry nods carefully.
‘So I uhh, I applied a few places and I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure but—’
‘Where?’
‘UCLA and uhh, Columbia and NYU. I, uh, I was trying to think of places you’ve talked about needing to go for stuff with the shelters and—’
‘And?’
‘I uh, I got waitlisted for Columbia but—’ Alex pauses and bites his lip. ‘I got into UCLA... and NYU.’
‘You got into NYU?’ Henry asks. He can hear the caution in his voice but he needs Alex to confirm, to make sure he’s understood before he can get his hopes up, before his brain starts running away with impossible fantastical notions.
‘Yeah,’ Alex says quietly, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip.
‘That’s near Brooklyn,’ Henry says dumbly.
‘Yeah, baby,’ Alex says, this time with a hint of a smile.
Henry blinks, and then a wide smile pushes its way onto his face and he tugs Alex into his arms and kisses him.
A laugh spills from Alex. ‘That’s more the reaction I was hoping for.’
Henry grins and kisses him again.
***
A few weeks later, Henry has found an excuse to be in New York for Alex’s own birthday, to visit the shelter. As far as the public are concerned, Henry is still dating June, while Nora and Alex have rekindled their teenage fling, apparently much to the pleasure of the internet who have declared them #couplegoals.
So they spend the evening of Alex’s birthday on a faux double date, with Henry and June on one side of the table and Alex and Nora on the other. The paparazzi take photos of them through the window while Alex grumbles through a fake smile that it’s all such heteronormative bullshit and Henry and June soothe him that it won’t be for much longer while Nora tops up his wine glass. They drink and drink until the owner finally gathers the courage to ask the White House Trio and the Prince to leave, an hour after closing.
The four of them battle through paparazzi outside their hotel and Alex scowls as he shoves his way through with Henry, June and Nora at his side. The photos go viral on Twitter and at the same time, Henry fucks Alex into the mattress of their oversized bed and makes sure he can’t think about anything but the way Henry’s body blocks out the rest of the world when it surrounds his and Henry’s fingers on his skin, his mouth exploring every inch of him.
The following day, Henry and Alex stand outside a brownstone in a residential street in Brooklyn wrapped up in hoodies and baseball caps. Alex looks confused as Henry clears his throat and pulls out a key and ascends the steps.
‘What’s going on? Whose house is this?’ Alex asks, trailing him, with a sideways glance around.
Henry pushes the key into the lock and it clicks open. It’s the first time he’s seen it in real life. He’s seen photos – Shaan had made contact with a realtor in New York and said he had a client who was looking for an apartment to rent. They’d filtered through a whole host of ones which were unsuitable – too small, too many possible entry ways and exits, "unsafe neighbourhoods", when the realtor sent it through ‘a just in case’, and Henry had fallen in love instantly with the big bay window where he could see a piano and the hardwood floors. He could see the two of them lounging on a sofa in the living room, Henry perched at the counter in the kitchen as Alex made dinner, a study for each of them and multiple bedrooms. A whole life crystallised into view and he just — bought it. He feels rather foolish about the whole thing now, standing in the entryway with Alex behind him and the door closed.
‘Well uhh, it’s mine. I suppose.... ours if you’d like it to be,’ he says quietly. ‘I bought it... which seems very reckless in hindsight and I’m sure I can sell it again if—’
He’s cut off by Alex’s lips on his. ‘You bought us a house?’
‘Yes, and I now realise that was a potentially very stupid thing to do. I know we’ve not discussed it at all and—’
‘Baby,’ Alex says with wonder in his voice. ‘Show me the house you bought us.’
***
Apparently, arranging the coming out as a Prince isn’t quite as easy as simply just releasing a statement and buggering off across the ocean to your new brownstone with your boyfriend. There are global events to consider, other announcements and events that shouldn’t be overshadowed – political conferences, the political news cycle, birthdays, anniversaries. They’re all set for April, when in March, Martha announces to the family that she’s pregnant and Henry spends a night drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. The White House leaks Nora and Alex’s ‘break up’ to People in April, citing that they realise they’re better off as friends, and the internet cries over the death of true love again.
It’s decided that Henry and June needn’t do the same – they’ve never officially acknowledged their ‘relationship’ and there’s nothing explicitly romantic about the photos of them together. The PR team decides it’s better to let it fade away, rather than draw more attention to the obvious diversion of the relationship between Henry and Alex when the time comes.
The White House have their own set of things to consider and Henry is at least grateful when they set a timeline of June – Alex will be doing his own coming out post on Instagram, no arguments from the Palace. It’ll tie in with Pride month and with the new anti-discrimination legislation Ellen is trying to push through the Senate, a nice PR boost. The idea of Henry doing the same is quickly and firmly dismissed, as is the idea of an article, or a statement or a speech. Henry is told countless times by the communications team that he must give an interview, not a speech – speeches are for politicians. It’s a refrain he’s certain has come straight from the lips of his grandmother. And, if it has to be in June, it definitely cannot be before the Trooping of the Colour because he cannot overshadow the Queen.
Finally, all the respective players agree that Henry will record an interview with a respectable BBC journalist, and that it will air at the end of the month. It’s not ideal, but it ties in well with the New York shelter nearing completion at least. Henry starts counting down the days.
****
A picture: Alex in a white T-shirt, grinning up at the sky with wild curly hair, holding a bisexual flag behind him with arms outstretched. The sun is high in the sky behind him, casting him in a soft glow.
A caption: biracial, bilingual, bisexual #proud
A comment: @juneclaremontdiaz love love love you little brother @agcd 💖💜💙
A comment: @noraholleran ONE OF US ONE OF US
A comment: @PrinceHenry Congratulations Alex – I’m very proud of you!
A comment: @pezokonjo HE DID THAT ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜
A comment: @hrhprincessbea So proud of you @agcd!!!!! 💕
A text from HRH Prince Dickhead 💩 to Alex 🤠 🇺🇸 💩 ❤️: I am so, so proud of you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
A headline: The B isn’t silent – Why Alex Claremont-Diaz’s coming out is so important
A headline: The lawless Claremont administration’s disregard of family values confirmed
A headline: A GLOBAL BICON: The emergence of Alex Claremont-Diaz
A tweet: ACD is BI???? THE GAYS WIN AGAIN
A tweet: candids of Prince Henry and his new girlfriend dropping in 3…2….1….
A tweet: this is literally not a surprise to anyone who has ever seen this guy. man is rich enough to get his pants tailored. did y’all think he was cuffing them just cause he’s short or?
****
Love for a bad day.
to Henry
06/06/21 7.46AM
H,
I know today is a bad day. I wish I could be there. I wish I could hold you and tell you how much I love you. I want to sit with you and listen to you talk about your dad, if you want. We could watch some of his movies, or not. Whatever you want. I know how much you miss him. I don’t know what you normally do today, but I hate the thought of you rattling around that big old house with Bea away.
I know you hate bad days and I hate that you have them, but I love you every day – bad or good and in between. I’m going to be here for all of them. I can’t wait to wake up next to you every morning, to have you in my arms every night. Soon, sweetheart, soon. I’ve never known anyone who feels as much or as deeply as you, baby. You have the most ridiculously big heart, I thank Catholic God every day that it’s mine now too.
You’re so fucking good, sweetheart. You deserve every day to be a good day, you make every single one of mine that way.
I’m going to call you. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to talk, just know I love you.
yrs forever,
a xxxx
P.S. Juliette Drouet to Victor Hugo, 1833
I love you because I love you, because it would be impossible for me not to love you. I love you without question, without calculation, without reason, good or bad, faithfully with all my heart and soul and every faculty. Believe it, for it is true.
***
Henry shuffles in his chair as someone passes a makeup brush over his face again, because God forbid anybody see his freckles, apparently.
The interviewer sits across from him nervously, turning his papers in his hand. ‘Your Royal Highness, I–’
It’s odd. He’s known the man for years. He’s done countless interviews with him, travelled with him on royal tours and trips. And now he’s sitting there in front of him like a nervous schoolboy, too scared to make eye contact and incapable of finishing a sentence. Henry hopes that’s not some sort of foreshadowing of the interview. He’s not Henry’s favourite but he was the press office’s choice. Middle-aged, white, balding. Someone who brings a level of ‘respectability’ to the whole thing. Henry is already exhausted.
The make-up artist hurries from the room. He’s asked for the room to be cleared. There’ll be enough of an audience watching it, he doesn’t need anyone else hovering now too. It’s just them and the interviewer and the camera operator. Alex is there, standing just off camera, for moral support. He looks casual and relaxed in a soft navy button down shirt rolled up to his elbows and chinos. The PR army have spent weeks arguing over what Henry himself should wear – it’s June, hot and muggy, so they’d eventually settled on a light blue shirt, open collar, and jeans. Casual, smart, respectable. The interviewer is eyeing Alex with interest and Henry sends up a prayer of thanks for iron-tight NDAs.
Henry’s hand hovers over his bare little finger as they make their final preparations, and then he looks up at Alex and he catches a glimpse of the chain around his neck. Alex gives him a smile, so soft and proud that it makes Henry remember exactly why he’s doing this.
There’s a countdown, and a buzzing in Henry’s ears. Alex nods at him. Then the interviewer is talking to him. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he says with a tight-lipped smile, repeating his words from earlier that he never finished. ‘You and I have spoken numerous times over the years, but I’ve come to Buckingham Palace today for what is probably going to be one of the biggest, most shocking interviews in the history of this country.’ Henry’s jaw clenches at his words. ‘We are here to discuss the launch of your new foundation, but as what we’re going to talk about today will probably come as a surprise to many of our viewers, I wonder if you’d like to start.’
Henry smiles back. It’s the forced press smile that Alex always tells him he hates. He can feel how superficial and empty the stretch of his skin feels. This setup wouldn’t have been Henry’s ideal outcome. In a dream world, he and Alex would have done this together, in the safety and comfort of their brownstone with a print journalist, where he could have thought about his answers more, carefully chosen his words and edited them, maybe. He’s always been more comfortable writing than speaking. But this is the chance he’s got, and it could be so much worse. It could have been taken out of their hands entirely, a photo leaked to the media or online, he could have been forced to deny it all completely, he could have been forced to abdicate. So maybe it’s not the ideal, but it’s more than he ever thought he’d have, so he’ll take it. One awkward interview for the rest of his life.
‘Well, to start with, call me Henry, please. And, yes, as I’m sure many people are aware, I’ve spent the last year working with my good friend Percy Okonjo on his charity foundation he runs. As well as HIV clinics, The Okonjo Foundation also runs a series of shelters for disenfranchised LGBT youth and I am going to be taking over the running of these as part of my new foundation, which I’m launching this week. I will be moving to Brooklyn for a while to be more hands-on with the launch of the New York shelter. I… I want people to understand how personal and important this project is for me. It is—’ His voice wavers, and he closes his eyes for a second and inhales slowly. He doesn’t need to look up to be able to feel Alex’s steadying gaze. ‘It is profoundly personal for me.’
He takes a deep breath and his eyes find Alex’s, standing just behind the camera. ‘I am gay,’ Henry says, and then he lets out a small huff of laughter. ‘I’m sorry, I… You have no idea how many times I have thought about saying those words publicly.’
Alex is grinning at him, his smile stretching wide across his face. Henry feels calmer.
‘I’m gay,’ he says again. ‘And I know that people will have questions about what this might mean for the line of succession and my future in it. All I can say is that we have had these discussions internally as a family, and my position remains unchanged and it will remain unchanged until the birth of my niece or nephew later this year. My brother’s children will sit above me in the line of succession, and any future children I may have will come after me, just as they always would have done. This… this has been something that I have wanted to speak about for a long time, and I’m very grateful to have the support of my family in doing so now.’
‘You say you’ve wanted to speak about it for a long time, can I ask when you first knew? You’ve been pictured in the past with girlfriends.’
‘Truthfully, I cannot remember a time I didn’t know. It has been a fact of my life since I first realised that all of my friends were interested in girls and I was not. The other thing that has been a fact of my life is my position, and the expectations that come with that – for me to have girlfriends, marry a woman.’
‘May I ask why this has come about now? Why you’ve decided to take this path, at this point?’
Henry swallows. ‘I, I am aware that this will probably surprise a lot of people, but hopefully it may also help someone out there, in some small way,’ he says. It’s true, but it’s not the truth. There is no way to tell the truth of this story without Alex. His fingers scratch at the back of his hand and his knee shakes. He wants more than anything for what he says to be the truth. If it’s going down in history, he wants for it to be the full story, in his own words. ‘And I met someone,’ he says.
Alex’s eyes bug wide, and he looks up to the ceiling, laughing open-mouthed in disbelief. The interviewer stares back, mouth gaping slightly. He glances down at the sheets of paper in his hands, as though approval to discuss this information might suddenly appear. ‘I fell in love,’ Henry says again, before he can stop him, before they can get a whole team of PR people in here and shut this all down. ‘I am tired of hiding who I am and who I love from the world.’
The interviewer stammers, but Henry looks up and catches Alex’s eyes. ‘You know what– Alex, love, come here.’
Alex looks at him for just a second, just to check he’s sure and Henry gives him the tiniest nod, and then he’s there next to him. Familiar gravity back in his orbit, perching on the arm of the seat next to him, in full view of the camera.
‘Hi,’ Alex says softly. Henry smiles up at him. He wonders if Alex will ever stop knocking the wind from him.
‘Hi,’ Henry says back, and he looks back at the interviewer. ‘This is Alex, he’s my boyfriend,’ he says, and Alex grins and kisses his cheek.
****
A headline: BBC BREAKING: HRH PRINCE HENRY - ‘I’m gay.’
A headline: A VERY SPECIAL RELATIONSHIP: Prince Henry comes out. Reveals romantic relationship with FIRST SON Alex Claremont-Diaz
A headline: What Prince Henry’s coming out means for international relations and the line of succession.
A tweet: HFJFKKDLSLLSS IM SOBBING
A tweet: HOLY FUXKNG AHIT
A tweet: i don’t know what alternate timeline i’ve wandered into but i’d like to live here forever now thanks
A tweet: all the times we should have totally known Prince Henry and ACD were boning, a thread (1/126 do not @ me there are A LOT)
A tweet: ‘This is Alex, he’s my boyfriend’ omggggggg i love them
A tweet: Alex and Henry smiling at each other like they're not on international television is the softest fucking thing i've ever seen i'm dead
A tweet: I FUCKINGG KNEW IT
A tweet: i told you fuckers. no straight man is that into Pride and Prejudice
A tweet: i’m sobbing I can’t believe they would do this to june and nora
A tweet: fuck it, is now a good time to tell you prince henry sucked me off in the bathroom of the college bar when i was 19 and it was a religious experience.
***
For old times sake.
Henry <[email protected]>
08/07/21 4.02PM
to A
Alex,
It feels odd to be writing you this when I’ll see you in a matter of hours, but it is, I suppose, the end of a chapter. Tomorrow, I move to New York, to open the shelter and to live with you. Openly, proudly and happily.
So I thought, one last email to say thank you for all that you have done for me, for your unwavering bravery and patience. I know I am not the easiest to love, but you always make me feel like I am. Like it’s as easy as breathing for you, love. I know not how, but I thank you. Every day I thank the stars you fell into a cake and dragged me down with you into a whirl of buttercream, and your sarcastic mouth and into sweet, blissful oblivion.
I cannot wait to see you, to start a new chapter full of love and happiness in our new home. For the mundane everyday things: cooking and cleaning and taking David for walks. I cannot wait to curl up next to you and listen to your truly awful opinions on Star Wars, and remember every day what joy feels like.
You told me once that I was the North Star, but I think that’s you. I think you’ve always been my guiding light, my bright star. Before I met you, I felt like I was alone in the woods, blindly wandering. Thank you for taking me by the hand and showing me the way.
Yours always,
Henry
P.S. Alex Claremont-Diaz to Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, 2020.
History, huh?
Bet we could make some.