Chapter Text
“f*ck.” Alex leans back as Henry lifts his head up and wipes his nose in a very ungraceful manor. Henry sniffs, and sniffs again, and then he rises to his feet and starts to fiddle with his fingers. “I have to pack.”
“What, right now?” Alex asks, as Henry starts to look for his suitcase.
“They’ll want me on the first flight back to England in the morning,” Henry says by way of an explanation, as he heaves his case onto the end of Alex’s bed and starts looking for his clothes.
Alex’s watches him for a few minutes. His eyes follow the way Henry methodically places his things into his suitcase; how he smooths out the creases in his shirts and pants as he puts them into his burgundy-coloured Burberry bag; how his eyes are puffy and his dark blonde lashes clumpy; how he sniffs every few seconds, because he’s yet to blow his nose.
Unsure of what to do with himself, he reaches for his phone and pulls up the article to read. It’s a typical TMZ webpage; a bold black title and an unflattering picture of he and Henry pressed close together in the darkness of the club. It reads:
First Son of the United States Alex Claremont-Diaz and his bonnie British beau Prince Henry decided to paint the town red, white and royal blue this weekend. TMZ obtained video footage of the political heartthrobs dancing the night away and packing on the PDA at a gay club in downtown Brooklyn.
Check out the video below, which clearly shows Alex sucking faces with the Prince, with their arms wrapped around each other.
There is a clip attached beneath the article. The quality of it is grainy, at best, due to the fact that the only source light in the club came from the UV bulbs overhead. It’s not difficult to miss he and Henry though. Anyone watching it will clearly be able to see the way Henry’s arms are wrapped around Alex’s neck, and how his fingers twist in Alex’s dark locks and pull. Anyone will be able to see Alex’s own hands, cupping the meat of Henry’s ass and squeezing it repeatedly. The camera zooms in, and it’s clear the exact moment their tongues come into play; the way they tilt their heads in opposite directions to deepen the kiss, how Henry eagerly licks into Alex’s mouth and how Alex gladly feeds him his tongue.
He is able to watch for all of a few seconds, before he has to close the web browser, smarting with violation and cheeks burning.
Rationally, it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter, to Alex at least, not really. This is different from before, when their private emails got leaked and they were papped snogging in the back of a car. His mom has already secured her second term; they’ve already been outed, and the world is aware that they are together. Alex has seen the videos people make of them (little clips cut and pasted together of he and Henry at public events superimposed with sexy music and slowed down at various points whilst the comment section thirst over them and debate back and forth about who tops and who bottoms – what an ego boost); most people are just keen to proclaim how handsome they think he and Henry are, and that’s ok with Alex, because it doesn’t mean anything.
This is different though; this is something intimate that has been taken from them and exposed for everyone to see. This isn’t like the emails, when Alex got hacked and their most private thoughts that were never intended to be read by anyone other than themselves were splashed across the internet for the world’s viewing pleasure. Critics and commentators will say it was their own fault for drunkenly kissing so comfortably in a public space, and there’s a horrible guilty part of Alex that agrees with them. A shameful part of him concurs with the inevitable disparagement that they will face that says that he and Henry should not have been doing such a thing; that they are both grown adults who have been in the public eye for a long time; who have already faced one sex scandal, and should have learned their lesson there and then that they needed to be more careful.
Another, bigger, part of him, however, feels justifiably angry. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to make out with his boyfriend in the middle of a club? People are under no pretences as to why people go clubbing; there’s something about the hot, sticky heat that ignites a passion within people. The darkness and the drink consumed gives people a confidence in their anonymity; a feeling of flexibility and freedom that they don’t always feel in the sobering day light. The bar in question promoted itself as an inclusive space for everybody; gay, straight, rich, poor, prince, pauper – even a First Son of the United States. Love is love, so they said, and anyone should be allowed to express that love as long as it was safe and consensual.
He and Henry like to kiss. So what? The kissing is often a prelude to sex. Who gives a sh*t? What did the world think they did after reading their emails? Sit around and knit sweaters for one another? Alex doesn’t kiss Henry for anyone other than the two of them. Because it feels good; both physically and romantically, as a way of re-establishing his feelings for Henry and how much he loves him.
It’s not even as if they were doing anything ridiculously raucous, anyway. Kissing and dancing with each other, that’s all. It shouldn’t be a big deal, and no one should care.
Henry cares, though.
Henry cares, and clearly so do his family, but for all the wrong f*cking reasons apparently, and anger bubbles away inside Alex at how unjust and unfair it all feels. Suddenly, he’s f*cking furious.
“Is this my phone charger or yours?”
Alex glares at his phone.
“Alex.”
Alex blinks. “Huh?”
“Is this my phone charger or yours?”
Alex frowns at it. “Yours.”
“Right, thank you.” Henry sets it next to his suitcase and then sighs heavily. He rests his hands against the edge of the case, and lets his head drop low to hang between his shoulders.
Alex folds his arms across his chest and bites his tongue. Everything in his body is telling him not to say anything, because clearly Henry is feeling vulnerable right now, and Alex isn’t in a good headspace. And yet;
“So that’s it, then?” he asks quietly. “You’re just going to go?”
Henry looks up at him. “What else would you have me do?”
“Not go?”
“It’s not that simple, Alex.” Henry shakes his head.
Alex snorts. “It absolutely is that simple.”
“You’re acting like I want to leave,” Henry says. Alex can hear the frustration bleeding into his voice. “I don’t want to go.”
“So-”
“God, Alex! You don’t get it, do you? It’s not about what I want!”
“How can you- Y’know what, forget it. I’m just saying,” Alex grumbles miserably.
Henry sighs again, mouth set in a grim line. “Look, I’m sorry, ok,” he says, and sits down heavily next to Alex. It reminds Alex of the time they were shoved into the janitors closet in the hospital together; the whole experience had left Alex feeling like a petty douche bag, and he’s not keen to repeat the feeling. He folds his arms and turns his body towards Henry to show that he’s listening. He totally doesn’t have to try to not stick his bottom lip out. “I don’t want to fight with you about this,” Henry continues. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but I have to go. The longer I try to fight them on this, the worse it will be.”
Alex slumps a little at this because he knows that Henry is right. Despite their lack of usefulness for anything besides being a major tourist attraction, the royal family are a powerhouse when it comes to influencing Henry. It’s something that Alex does not, never has and likely never will, understand; Henry’s loyalty to the crown. It’s like a drug addict searching for a fix (dramatic, he knows, but Alex is feeling emotional and broody); like Henry knows that going back to the Palace is bad for him, but he just can’t stop himself.
Suddenly, Alex is struck by an idea. “Let me come with you then,” he says. Immediately, Henry shakes his head.
“No. I couldn’t ask that off you.”
“You wouldn’t be asking, I want to do it.”
“They wouldn’t let you in the Palace.”
“They can’t stop me.”
“I think you’ll find they can.”
Alex wouldn’t put it past them. “Ok then,” he says, and reaches for his laptop.
“What are you doing?” Henry asks, as Alex starts typing away quickly at the keyboard.
“I’m asking them to book me a flight, what does it look like I’m doing?”
“Alex, I just said-”
“I won’t try to get involved,” Alex swears and Henry’s mouth clicks shut. He frowns, but he’s listening, at least. “I just wanna be there for you,” Alex explains. He sets his laptop aside, forgotten for the time being. “I know I can’t stop you from going. But last year, they took your phone and your laptop. They wouldn’t let me talk to you, and I know you’ve got Bea, and your mom, but I hate the thought of you being there on your own with them. What if they decide you can’t come back? At least if I’m in London, I can be close by, just encase.” He watches Henry chew on his bottom lip, and a cold feeling washes over him. “…Look, if you really don’t want me to come, I won’t,” he says softly. “I just want to do whatever it is that will make this easier for you.”
Henry shakes his head. “You dolt, of course I want you to come,” he says, and he reaches over to hold Alex’s hand and entwine their fingers together. “For what it’s worth, I don’t want to keep dragging you into all of my family’s drama,” he explains quietly.
“I don’t mind,” Alex assures him quickly, and Henry smiles softly.
“It’s so unfair, though,” he says, “You shouldn’t have to put up with any of this. You’re good, and sweet, and you don’t deserve any of this sh*t.”
“And you do?” Alex asks him. Henry’s resounding silence tells him everything he needs to know. “Baby. I want to come.”
Henry bites his lip. “I don’t know if you’d be able to stay in the Palace,” he admits, embarrassed. Alex shrugs.
“I’ll book a hotel for a couple of days. If anything, I can finally cross some tourist activities off my bucket list that I’ve had on there for a while.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Henry’s hand. “It’ll be ok, baby. Trust me.”
Henry sighs again, but Alex can feel the way that resignation bleeds out of his body. Henry leans over and puts his arm around Alex’s waist, hums when Alex wraps his own around Henry’s body. “Ok,” Henry says lowly, and Alex rubs his arm.
“Ok?” he asks, and Henry nods.
“Ok,” he confirms, closing his eyes when Alex kisses his forehead. “I love you, Alex,” he says, snuggling closer. “I’m just sorry that things like this keep happening.”
“It’s not your fault,” Alex says. They stay like that for a while, till Alex feels the tingling’s of pins and needles starting in his left foot, and Henry is so quiet Alex might almost have thought he was sleeping. He feels Henry stir against him, and strokes his hair. “I’m gonna make a coffee. You want anything?”
“A cup of tea would be lovely.” Henry’s voice is muffled where his mouth is pressed against Alex’s shirt. He manages to extract himself from Henry’s octopus grip for long enough to escape to the kitchen, where he fills the kettle (a Christmas present from Henry, who nearly had a heart attack when he found out Alex was heating his teas in the microwave) and waits for it to boil.
As the water is bubbling away and Alex is spooning coffee granules into his cup, he hears the door open behind him. He doesn’t have to look to know that it’s his mom.
“Hey,” he says, not looking up from where he’s methodically stirring his drink.
“Alex,” she greets him, and when he doesn’t say anything, she says, “…Anything you wanna tell me?”
“No?” Alex doesn’t want to look at her, but she’s blocking the fridge and god forbid he not add any milk to Henry’s tea. He turns sheepishly, fisting two mugs in either hand. Ellen raises an eyebrow at him, holding her phone with the TMZ article open on it. Leo had helped her fix the settings on her phone to set the font bigger to help her read the screen without squinting (she swears that Alex’s failing eyesight comes from his dad’s side of the family but she’s a goddamn liar), so it’s even clearer what she’s been looking at, and Alex flushes up to his ears.
“You sure about that?” she asks.
“Yes?” Ellen raises one elegant eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed, and Alex ducks his head in embarrassment. “We didn’t know,” he swears. “We were just having fun, ma, I swear.”
“Oh, Alex,” she sighs, but it’s not an angry sigh; it’s different – Alex recognises it as pity, and somehow that’s worse. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
“’s not your fault.”
“It’s not yours either, you know that right?”
“I guess…”
She watches him and sighs. “Put the drinks down, Alex; come here.”
Alex does as he’s told, and lets her fold him into a hug. She smells like perfume and laundry detergent, the kind that doesn’t make Alex’s nose itchy, and he feels little in a way he hasn’t since he was a kid, when he fell of his bike riding down the sidewalk at their house in Austin and scraped up his knee real bad. “Henry has to go back to England,” he says into her shoulder.
“And you’re going with him, I suppose.” It’s not a question. Alex looks sheepish when he pulls away and Ellen nods to herself. “Ok, well, we can put out a statement on our end; remind everyone that it was a violation of your privacy and that the two of you have as much right to show how you feel about one another as anyone else. I’ll get someone to contact the Palace; Zahra is in England right now, she and that fiancé of hers might be able to help us out.”
Alex suppresses a shudder. He loves Zahra, but she honestly scares him sometimes. She’s been in England for the last couple of months, and Alex is already anticipating the aural tongue lashing he is going to receive for winding up in the news making out with the Prince of England again.
“You doing ok?” Ellen asks him, smoothing back his curls, and Alex shrugs.
“I’ve been better.”
“To be expected,” she says, “And Henry, is he alright?”
That’s a more complicated question. Alex can’t meet her eye. “I don’t know, mom,” he admits, “He’s not great, if I’m being honest. Something’s going on with him, and I don’t know if I can fix it.”
“Baby,” she soothes, and tucks him under the chin. “It’s not your job to fix it. You can only help him so much. All you can do is be there to listen.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” Alex says. “I keep getting told to listen. It’s kind of hard to listen when he won’t talk to me.”
“Yes, that must be very frustrating,” Ellen says patiently. “But you forget that Henry’s had a very different upbringing to you. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the Royal Family, but I can imagine that they’re not exactly keen to get together as a group and discuss the highs and lows of their days over pizza.”
“You got that right,” Alex mutters. Ellen hums softly and touches his chin again.
“You’re a good boy, Alex. He’s very lucky to have you.” She rises and smooths out an invisible crease in her dressing gown. “You’ll say goodbye before you leave?”
Alex nods. “Sure, mom.”
“Try and get some rest, both of you.” She blows him a kiss, leaving Alex to collect the drinks and make his way back up to his bedroom. Henry opens the door for him when Alex kicks at the wood with his foot.
“Sorry,” Alex says, following him in, “’s talking to my mom.”
“Is she mad at me?” Henry asks, sitting down on the bed and murmuring a soft thank you when Alex hands him his drink. He takes a small sip and hums in satisfaction. Some of the colour returns to his cheeks and it makes Alex’s tummy do a funny flip.
“Of course she’s not,” he says, putting his mug down and leaning back on his hands besides Henry on the mattress. “She’s gonna get our people to contact the Palace; see if we can help in any way.”
“Good luck with that,” Henry snorts into his cup.
“What, you think they won’t talk to us?”
“I’d say they’re downright sick of you bloody Americans,” Henry says flatly; it’s taken Alex a while to get the hang of British sarcasm, but he’s well versed in it enough by now to know that Henry is joking. “They think everything was fine until you came along.”
“Me?”
“You’ve officially been labelled a disturber of the peace,” Henry says solemnly. “Kissing princes willy-nilly-”
“I think you’ll find, Your Majesty, that you kissed me first.”
“Destroying wedding cakes-”
“It still tasted good.”
“Storming castles…”
“Ok, ok.” Alex holds his hands up in surrender and then reaches over to thread his fingers through Henry’s hair at the base of his neck. Henry leans eagerly into the touch. “Can I kiss you?” Alex asks and Henry doesn’t answer; just leans in and presses his plump lips to Alex’s own.
“Mind my tea,” he murmurs when Alex shuffles a bit closer and the liquid near the rim of the cup trembles dangerously.
“Is it sweet enough for you?”
“Oh, it’s perfect,” Henry says. He sets the mug down besides Alex’s and clambers back onto the bed. Alex crawls closer and the two of them cuddle up together, drained and tired, but no longer sad. Henry wraps his arms around Alex and strokes his back. Alex can hear his heartbeat through his chest. The sound comforts him. “For the record, I’m really glad you’re coming,” Henry says quietly.
“Yeah?”
He feels when Henry nods. “Things haven’t been…easy for a while,” Henry admits. “But you…” He pauses, like he’s trying to find his words. Alex waits with bated breath. “You make me so happy,” Henry finally says.
Alex rubs his fingers over Henry’s knuckles. It’s not the answer he was hoping for, but it’s definitely something.
*
Ellen manages to pull herself away from her phone for long enough to bid them goodbye. She hugs Henry for a long time, as does June, and Leo leaves them both with a firm tight gripped hand shake (he’s never wanted to overstep as a stepdad).
The drive to the airport is uneventful, until they arrive there and are met by a large group of paparazzi. In the back of the car, Henry’s hand is clutched tight to Alex’s, and Alex gives it a squeeze.
“Breathe,” he reminds him. Henry nods, but he doesn’t look well.
He’s dressed down today; wearing Alex’s Georgetown University hoodie and a cap. He looks so far removed from the starchy Prince of England Alex had met all those months ago. “Let’s go, Sir,” Cash says. Alex nods. He slips on his sunglasses and gets out of the car first when Tom opens the door for them.
Immediately, bulbs flash in his face, and he winces against the bright lights as cameras click and blip all around them, strangers screaming his name and begging for a statement. He waits for Henry to get out of the car behind him, grabs his hand and then they’re sandwiched in by their team, packed tight around them as they usher them away.
He can feel the way Henry starts to tremble. His own hands feel clammy and hot.
The shaking doesn’t stop, for either of them, until they’re sat on the plane, the commotion of their arrival sealed safely outside the closed doors. Henry rests his head back against his seat with an audible thump, and Alex squeezes his hand in compassion.
They take off not soon after; a private plane means that the only thing that could stop their punctual departure is bad weather. Alex finds himself praying for an unexpected snow storm (Global Warming means that anything could happen) but they are blessed (see; cursed) with picturesque blue skies.
Henry rummages in his bag as the light comes on telling them to fasten their seatbelts. He produces a metal tin with a screw top. Alex watches as he takes out a small ruby coloured piece of candy and pops it in his mouth.
“Travel sweets,” Henry explains, mouth garbled around the hardened sugar settling on his tongue. “Sucking on them helps stop your ears from popping. You want one?”
Alex blinks, momentarily distracted by the way Henry’s throat bobs as he swallows and suckles at the sweetie. “Uh, no…” he says, eyes drawn to how the corners of Henry’s mouth rise with the hint of a knowing smirk.
“Your loss,” he says, settling back into his seat as the plane rumbles to life beneath them to start its steady incline into the sky. Alex’s ears do indeed pop, and he winces. Henry winds his fingers through his and squeezes his hand. It does little to help the feeling in his ears, but it’s a comfort to have him close all the same.
The flight to London is due to last approximately eight hours, and, once they have reached their desired altitude and the light has reappeared telling them they can remove their seatbelts, Alex sets about trying to find something to do for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t do well with sitting still – he never has. He’s about eighty-seven-percent certain that the security team used to draw straws to see who would have the unfortunate pleasure of having to sit beside him on long-haul flights.
He had thought Amy and Cash looked entirely too smug when they’d boarded the plane, comparing their tickets and giggling like children.
The jokes on them, clearly, because Henry is sat comfortably beside him, digging through his bag to find the latest book he is reading. Like a lot of Henry’s book, this one is tattered and old, the pages swollen and waterlogged and peppered with damp spots. As he opens it to the first page to start reading, Alex is hit by the smell of old paper, the breakdown of the compounds within the pages. Alex has noticed that Henry has a lot of books in a similar condition to the one he is currently perusing.
“What are you reading?” he asks, leaning over to try and get a better look at the book’s tattered cover.
“Tess of the D’Urbervilles’,” Henry says, “It’s exceptionally depressing, but it’s a very good book.”
“What’s it about?” Alex asks, as Henry hands him the book. He carefully rubs his thumb over the broken spine, as Henry launches into an explanation of the plot, not holding back any of the details about the increasingly miserable events that befall the story’s main character. By the time he’s finished, fifteen minutes have passed, and Alex can concur: the book does sound exceptionally depressing.
“It was my father’s,” Henry says conversationally, and Alex sucks in a breath too sharply. Suddenly, Henry’s reluctance to part with his old clothbound books makes so much more sense; Alex has always known him to be sentimental, but it’s Henry’s desire to keep his father close through his material possessions – he always carries a book with him; keeps one on his nightstand, in his bag; hell, even in the bathroom – that touches Alex the most. Again, he can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a parent (especially as such a cognitive age like Henry did at fourteen), but he thinks he understands the sentimentality of needing to keep a part of that person with you and close to you at all times.
Although it’s not the same thing, it’s why he gave Henry the key to his parent’s house in Austin, and why Henry gave him his signet ring; a way of carrying a piece of that person with you when they cannot be there physically themselves.
He gives Henry the book back. “Thanks for letting me look at it,” he mumbles, and Henry nods. The deeper implications behind it are left unspoken, but Alex knows that Henry understands what he means when he says thank you is thanks for letting me see this precious part of you.
They settle into their seats. Henry is reading and periodically working his way through a packet of Jaffa Cakes, occasionally passing ones to Alex without being asked. Alex puts his headphones on and tries to read one of his books for class. He has to stop five minutes in and find his reading glasses, which, of course, are right at the bottom of his bag (Henry’s face when Alex unloads the contents of his messenger bag and finds no less than four ‘lost’ chap sticks is priceless), and then it’s back to the grind, chewing on his pen and attempting to make notes. He ends up doodling in the corner of his notebook before he feels Henry’s hand on his knee, pulling him back.
“What’s up?” he asks, untucking his earphones to sit around his neck.
“Your lecturers weren’t mad that you’ll be missing class?” Henry asks him.
Alex had contacted the university that morning to explain that he wouldn’t be in his lectures for at least a week. Now, he shrugs. “They agreed to let me go,” he explains, “I told them that I had some personal stuff to take care off. Besides, I think it’s fair to assume that everyone on my course will have seen the video by now, and I didn’t exactly feel comfortable having to look my professor in the eye knowing that.”
Henry grimaces. “As long as you’re not going to get into trouble,” he says unsurely, and hands Alex a Jaffa Cake. He takes one for himself and starts to nibble away at the chocolate on the top.
Alex, because he is a heathen, simply takes a large bite out of the cake. “Trust me, baby, college is the one place where I am unafraid to play the FSOTUS card,” he says sombrely with his mouth full of crumbs. Alex is totally a man of the people until it comes to playing the American university system. Then it’s anyone’s game.
After a while, Henry sets his book down and folds his arms, sitting back in his chair and wriggling around until he’s comfortable. Alex absentmindedly puts his hand on his knee and Henry closes his eyes. Thirty minutes later, his head lolls and thumps gently onto Alex’s shoulder. Alex looks at him fondly and then puts his work away. He carefully lifts his arm and situates Henry in the crook of it.
Henry sleeps for the rest of the flight.
*
The plane touches down hours later on the Royal Family’s private air strip, and they are greeted, typically, by miserable grey weather. Drizzle patters down against the windows; a murky overhead is cast above them, and Alex wishes immediately that he’d packed more sweaters. He cracks his neck and shakes his hands to try and rid himself of the pins and needles that have been plaguing him since they passed over the White Cliffs of Dover.
Besides him, Henry stretches, big and achy, cheeks flushed and hair rumpled from sleeping against the uncomfortable pillar that is Alex’s collar bone. Without saying anything, Alex tucks his cap over Henry’s head to hide the way his hair duck feathers at the side. He looks unbearably sweet, sleep rumpled and dazed, and Alex is so glad that he came.
“Is it too late to turn around and run back to Brooklyn?” Henry asks. Alex brushes a finger under his chin and Henry takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Bloody hell, let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit, champ,” Alex says after him, as Henry follows Amy off of the plane, ducking his head so he doesn’t brain himself on its roof (Alex wishes he had that same problem).
He can see Shaan and Zahra, waiting by the car, huddling together under a large black umbrella. Zahra, even with her swollen stomach, gives him a pointed glare that would send lesser man cowering back home to their momma’s, and Alex is proud of himself that his heart only drops to his ass a little bit.
Henry seems entirely unaffected by her. He greets Shaan with a handshake. “Your Royal Highness,” Shaan clips.
“It’s good to see you, Shaan,” Henry says, all Dickensian and princely, “I merely wish it were under better circ*mstances.” He takes Zahra’s hand and squeezes it. “Zahra,” he says, “You’re glowing.”
“Your Royal Highness,” she says, the corner of her mouth tucked in a little smirk. Her eyes glitter when she lays them on Alex. “Alex,” she smiles, sharp shark teeth glittering in a grimace. Alex frowns.
“Zahra,” he says, “Have I ever told you how great I think you are?”
“You’re spoiling my maternity leave, you little sh*t,” she says frankly.
“The babies!” Alex jumps in brightly, “Oh my gosh, how far along are you?”
“Thirty-five weeks, and you almost sent me into early labour when I saw the TMZ article,” she says.
“You look radiant, pregnancy suits you,” Alex says, manic. Henry pats his shoulder gently. Then he turns grimly to Shaan and straightens his spine.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asks flatly.
Shaan has the decency to look apologetic. “Your Royal Highness is expected to reside in Kensington Palace tonight,” he says. His eyes flicker to Alex. “Without Mr Claremont-Diaz.” Henry’s fingers wind through Alex’s and he squeezes tightly. “We’ve booked Mr Claremont-Diaz a room in The Savoy.” Zahra raises an eyebrow. “We expect he will be quite comfortable there.”
Henry nods. Alex tries not to be annoyed by Shaan’s consistent tendency to talk about him like he’s not there. He turns to Henry. “It’ll be ok,” he promises, sounding more confident than he feels. Henry sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.
Alex looks around. Their little party is far away enough from anybody that he doubts anyone can see them, and so he kisses Henry; it’s quick but doesn’t lack intensity, like he’s trying feed Henry calm and security without using words.
“Alex,” Zahra says patiently, and Alex reluctantly draws away.
Shaan clears his throat. “There’s one more thing,” he says, not meeting Henry’s eyes. “Your phone.”
“No,” Alex says immediately.
“Alex,” Zahra says.
“It’s just a precaution,” Shaan says, grimacing. His jaw is tightly clenched. “Order’s from Her Majesty.”
“He’s not a child,” Alex says incredulously.
“Mr Claremont-Diaz,” Shaan says, sounding tired.
“Did you miss me, Shaan?”
“Like a hole in the head, Sir.”
“Alex, please,” Henry murmurs. He takes his phone from his pocket and hands it to Shaan. “When will I get it back?”
“As soon as I am able,” Shaan promises him.
“Henry,” Alex implores. His voice is a thin whine; a plead.
Henry turns back to him. “I’ll see you soon,” he says. He turns and walks to the car that is waiting for him. He climbs inside, pointedly not looking at Alex as he does so.
Alex stands helplessly beside Zahra when Shaan approaches her. “Keep me updated,” he hears her murmur to him, and Shaan nods and squeezes her hand. He too clambers into the car beside Henry. The engine splutters to life and Alex has to watch as it drives away, red rear lights sinking into the distance. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“This is insane,” he says. He looks over at Zahra, who’s mouth is pinched in a grim downwards line. “You know this is insane, right?”
“I don’t make the rules, kiddo,” she says. Alex looks at the empty road. Zahra sighs. She puts a hand on his shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. “Look, I know what this all seems really unfair,” she says, and Alex snorts, “But Shaan wants what’s best for Henry. We all do.”
“What’s best for Henry is to not be treated like a child,” Alex says bitterly. “And to not have his phone confiscated like he’s a teenager who’s been grounded.”
Zahra opens her mouth and then closes it again. Usually, she has an answer for everything. Today, though, she just looks tired. “It’s cold,” is what she comes out with instead. “Let’s get out of here. If you’re going to mope, you might as well do it in a luxury hotel.”
Alex wants to protest, but realistically he knows it is futile. What is he even going to do? Throw a temper tantrum and refuse to get in the car? Get stranded on the tarmac in the middle of bumf*ck nowhere England in the pouring rain. “Fine,” he mutters, but Zahra is already climbing into the car. She doesn’t look at him when he gets in beside her, is tapping on her phone; her long nails go tap tap tap against the keyboard.
Alex sulks for the entire drive into central London. Usually, he is excited to see the sights from the comfort of his car. A lover of travelling, England was never at the top of his priorities to visit, but even he could not deny that London had a certain charm about it. The few times he has visited Henry here, they’ve been to museums and art galleries (bleary eyed and mouths thick with sleep because they have to visit before regular opening hours to avoid the general public), but Alex’s favourite thing about London is the fact that it never seems to stop. To some (Henry) this might be overwhelming, but Alex’s busy brain appreciates that London never sleeps; that there are always lights, people, life. Despite only visiting a few times, he’s never felt lost here, and he gets a warm feeling in his belly when he gets all existential and thinks about it too hard.
The car they hired winds through the streets, periodically stopping in the evening London traffic. The black tinted windows stop nosy eyes from peeping in, but Alex is able to look out. He openly stares at a man on his bike, rucksack bulging from his back and helmet tightly secured as they wait for the red light to go green.
Abruptly, Zahra coughs. She reaches for her water bottle and takes a frantic sip, but it’s too late. Alex has looked out of the other window and seen it. “Buckingham Palace,” he says quietly.
“Ok, short stack,” Zahra says, thumping her chest to loosen the tightness there. She turns (with difficulty) and puts a hand on top of her baby bump. “You and me, we don’t do sentimental heart to hearts, so I’m gonna keep this short and sweet, and you better open up your ears and listen. Henry is going to be fine. We-” And then she does something terrifying; she reaches over and holds his hand and, ew, ok, this is getting weirder by the second, “-are not gonna let anything happen to him. So try not to worry too much, ok?”
“Ok, can you just. Can you let go of my hand, please?” Alex asks, and she immediately drops his palm like he’s got a seriously bad case of cooties. “Thank you,” Alex says, and tries not to be offended when he sees her wiping her hands on her skirt. “I know that you and Shaan are trying to help. I don’t always show it, but we…I appreciate everything that you do.”
“Yeah, well,” she sniffs, looking out the window. “It’s my job, kid.” On her lap, her phone buzzes, and she inspects the message. “They’ve arrived,” she says. Something hot and nervy ignites in Alex’s belly and he sucks hard on his tongue. f*cking royals.
It doesn’t take them long to reach the hotel after that. They pass Nelson’s Column (so many penis related jokes to be made) as the car trundles down the strand. It passes restaurants, theatres; places that Alex longs to go with Henry for an evening of escapism. He entertains a fantasy of dinner and a show as the car veers right and through a set of secluded gates; a normal date night, and returning to an apartment somewhere in Central London, perhaps Kensington or Shoreditch, in a place that they can call their own where they can cuddle on the couch with Netflix and David curled up beside them.
The car grinds to a halt and the engine rumbles into silence. “Sit tight, Al,” Amy says, like Alex is going to get out of the vehicle and do a runner. He knows the drill by now, and waits patiently for the all clear before he gets out of the car. There are two taps against the window, and then the door is opened and Alex clambers out of the car, pulling his jacket over his head in a piss-poor attempt to shield himself against the wet weather.
The transition from the street to his hotel room is quick, smooth and discreet; so unlike everything else in Alex’s life presently, and before he knows it, he’s exiting the lift and being ushered into his room for the foreseeable future.
It’s large and cream toned, wall paper gilded and coloured like flax, with a bed too big for just one person. The view from his window offers a picturesque scape of the Thames, with the London eye looming behind it. Alex longs to take a picture to send to Henry; he can picture his reaction – a fond rolling of the eyes at the banality of it all; my silly Yankee boyfriend, getting excited at something we Brits see every day.
He's digging his phone out of his pocket when he remembers that Henry’s mobile is currently tucked neatly away in Shaan’s man bag, and he stops trying to pry his own from his jeans in favour of flopping down onto the bed with a frustrated sigh.
“God, this is painful,” Zahra mutters.
“Are you still here?” Alex asks the ceiling.
“Just making sure you’ve got everything you need,” she replies bluntly. Alex waves a hand dismissively, and he can hear how she rolls her eyes. “I need a bath and a biscuit.”
“Check you out, little miss Britophile.”
“I’m not the one sticking my dick into the Prince of England,” Zahra snips and Alex splutters. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you, is that clear?”
“Whatever,” Alex grumbles.
“I’m serious, Alex. Your instructions are to stay in your room and watch Countdown until further notice. No social media, no googling yourself and no TikTok’s.”
“I’m not an idiot, Zahra, it’s not like I’m gonna do anything stupid.”
“Shockingly, I don’t believe you.” She waves a finger at him. “Hey, Alex.” He looks up at her. “I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
She closes the door with a definitive click and Alex glares at the ornately carved ceiling, sulking.
His overactive brain won’t let him lie still for long so he gets up to reluctantly explore the hotel room. It really is exquisite; comfortable furniture and a large bathroom and soft lighting and stunning views. He shouldn’t really complain. Alex has to take a second to humble himself and remind himself of how privileged he is to be able to stay in places like this, even if the circ*mstances are bullsh*t.
And, in Alex’s defence, he really does try.
He changes into his comfy clothes and does some more work at his desk and pointedly doesn’t google his own name. He switches on the TV and tries to concentrate on whatever is on, flicking mindlessly through the standard channels before he settles on a program about ghost hunting on BBC2. He paces the room, and then places a call to room service for dinner to be brought upstairs.
Whilst he waits, he whips out his notebook and writes up a list.
Reasons Things Are Going to be Alright:
- I’ve stormed one royal palace before. I could totally do it again if things turn ugly.
- Shaan and Zahra won’t let anything bad happen to him. Shaan loves him (almost as much as me).
- He’s got Bea.
- I’m here. And I love him no matter what.
Alex sets down his pen and checks the time. It’s late; approaching half past ten in the evening, and outside his window he can hear the rumbling of taxi cabs and big red buses. He feels restless and reckless and in the mood for something stupid.
Opening the door to his hotel room, he peeps out. The corridor is empty, apart from Cash, who is standing guard. Alex internally fist bumps. Cash has always been the most tolerant of his antics.
“Psst, Cash.” Cash flinches, like he’s being shaken out of a mediative state. He looks over at Alex and blinks.
“Sir?”
Alex beckons him over. “What would I have to give you to let you let me get out of here for a few hours?”
Cash actually laughs. “You’re joking right?” When Alex’s face doesn’t change, his own expression drops into a look of horror. “Oh god, you’re serious?”
“Come on,” Alex wheedles.
Cash looks around and then lowers his voice to a whisper. “Are you crazy?” he hisses, “Zahra will kill me if I let you out!”
“She doesn’t have to know!” Alex insists, also whispering hotly, “Come on, man, I’m going crazy in here!”
Cash shakes his head. “Uh-uh, kid, no can do.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Your momma already pays me. Very well. Well enough that I’m not gonna let you sneak outta of here!”
“I-” Alex begins, when they hear a ruckus coming from down the hallway. Amy’s raised voice rings out, and Cash swears under his breath.
“f*ck.” He turns and points a meaty finger at Alex. “I gotta go and check this out. Stay here.”
“You’re the boss,” Alex says meekly. He waits as Cash turns and hurries towards Amy’s voice, covering more ground with his long strides that would have people of ordinary height (like Alex – don’t believe that rumour that he’s short) jogging to keep up.
Cash is barely out of sight before Alex is snatching up his cap and hoodie and booking it out of the hotel room and down the opposite end of the corridor. Swerving, he tugs on his jacket, ducking into the elevator that has just opened to let out a bellboy who is pushing a dining cart. Alex wonders if it’s the order he places earlier, and then the doors are closing and the elevator is descending before he can second guess this absolutely terrible idea.
He steps out on the ground floor and keeps his head down as he exits the hotel, pulling his hood up over his head, cap tucked low over his eyes. He walks quickly, with his hands tucked deep in his pockets, until he’s submerged in the quick of a typical London evening, just another person amongst the crowd.
He takes a deep breath and his lungs tremble with relief. He feels like he can breathe again, though he doesn’t take long to savour it; Henry once told him that Londoner’s are always in a hurry, and they hate hold ups. He starts walking, with no real idea of where he is going. No one pays him any mind as he makes his way down towards Trafalgar Square, where he watches tourists take pictures leaning against the large lion statues that sit at its base. Up on the column, Horatio Nelson is illuminated against the darkening evening sky, stoic and stony, and Alex fights the urge to snap a picture.
He takes a walk, down past the theatres, past the Queen’s Horse Guards posted to Westminster Walk. There is a large crowd of tourists partaking on a ghost walk who are huddled outside the imposing black gates of Downing Street, following an overly enthusiastic tour guide dressed as a chimney sweep as they wave a fuchsia pink umbrella and crow about the ghost of a woman in grey who is seen haunting the road outside the Prime Minister’s residence. They take up the whole path, and Alex has to duck by them in order to pass.
“Excuse me,” he mumbles to a teenage girl, who turns briefly to move out of his way. He sees the flicker of familiarity pass over her features, and is quick to hurry by, lengthening his strides as she eagerly nudges her friend beside her.
Alex walks until he sees Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, till he reaches West Minster Bridge. Even late at night, it is still rather busy. A man is busking with his violin, playing a sombre rendition of All of Me while a half moon of people stand around him to watch. Alex stops only for a moment to chuck some loose change into his open violin case before he moves on.
The truth is that he has no idea where he is going. He’s on the Southbank – he knows that much, near Waterloo station and the London Eye. It’s lit up in rainbow lights; there’s a poetic irony in there somewhere, he thinks, as he pauses to look out over the Thames. The lights of the offices that line the opposite side of the river glitter as they reflect on the water. There’s something serene and beautiful about it, and Alex longs to share this moment with someone.
“Excuse me?” a voice says next to him.
Alex startles a little. There’s a woman standing next to him. She has a nice smile, and gives him an awkward little wave. When she speaks, it’s with an accent. For a terrifying second, Alex thinks she’s recognised him, until she says, “Would you mind taking a picture of me and my girlfriend?”
“Oh, sure,” Alex says, taking the phone that she holds out to him.
“Thanks,” she says, skipping over to another woman who is hovering nearby. Alex waits for them to wrap their arms around each other and grin at the camera, and snaps a few photos.
“I took a couple,” he says as he hands the phone back to the girl.
“Thank you,” she says again.
Alex can’t resist asking, “Are you guys from here?”
“We’re on vacation,” her girlfriend explains, “We’re from Italy.”
“Oh, cool,” Alex says, “I was just recently in Italy with my boyfriend.”
They talk for a few more minutes, the girls asking him about where he and his partner had visited and sharing some of the places they’d visited in London. “We’re going to see the gates of Buckingham Palace tomorrow,” the girl who’d initially approached him says, and Alex can’t hold back a snort.
“I wouldn’t get too excited,” he says, and the girl waves her hand.
“You know what, a few years ago, I’d have said the same thing. I had no time for the English Royal Family, but since Prince Henry came out as gay, I’ve started paying more attention.”
“Yeah?” Alex asks.
“It was a huge deal for queer people all over the world,” her girlfriend cuts in. “And the fact that he’s dating the first son of the United States…” She suddenly cuts off, and her eyebrows raise. “Sorry, where did you say you were from again?”
“Mexico,” Alex says quickly. “I should get going; I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in London.” He turns and starts to walk away, keeping his strides long and measured. He hears one of the girls say, “Didn’t he look like…”
No one else stops him again as he walks, but he remains vigilant to keep his head down and not maintain eye contact. He’s spooked himself; this was a terrible idea – he should never have left the hotel room. He doesn’t dare check his phone, for fear that he’ll see a barrage of text messages from Zahra detailing all of the ways she is going to kill him when he gets back.
He decides to walk back the way he came, tactfully dodging drunken Brits as the midnight hour approaches. It’s mercifully quieter now, but Alex doesn’t want to risk it. He sees the familiar sight of Nelson’s Column and then… pauses.
Walking left, instead of right, he follows the winding cobble stones up to St James’ Park. He knows here; has been here with Henry, and it’s blissfully dark. At this time of night, it’s only inhabitants are small groups of millennials sitting around, playing music on their tinny speakers and drinking cider because it’s cheaper than trying to drink in a London pub.
Alex basks in the quiet. Every so often, he passes a couple sitting on a park bench, talking in low voices, or a group of tipsy clubbers on the way to their next haunt. On the river, gaggles of geese bob sleepily, the surface of the water occasionally speckled with a dragonfly. The flowers are all in bloom, and even in the darkness, Alex can appreciate the subtle beauty in its simplicity.
He continues to walk, knowing where he will eventually emerge. It isn’t ten minutes later that he sees the familiar monument dedicated to Queen Victoria, the winged angel Victory reaching up tall towards the sky (Alex has been doing some reading on English history – sue him). Behind it, Buckingham Palace looms.
It’s lit up from below, accentuating it’s imposing columns and enormous windows. To some, it might inspire awe and wonder, but to Alex, it looks cold and lifeless. He stops by the huge gates, puts his hands on the bars. He doesn’t like to think about Henry in there with his family.
It wasn’t that long ago that he and Henry had stood on that balcony, gazing out at a sea of rainbow flags and support gathered on the Mall. It feels ridiculous that the rest of the world should so openly express it’s support for he and Henry, and yet, Henry’s family can’t seem to dig this bee out of their bonnet when Henry does anything remotely in line with what a normal man in his early twenties would do. Alex is sure, given enough time, he could create a long list of things that the two of them could do together that would actually warrant this stage four lockdown that Henry’s family have thrust him into (like killing someone, for instance).
Alex watches as the Queen’s Guard on duty does a little lap. Briefly, he entertains the idea of storming the palace in a one-man siege (for f*ck’s sake, they keep the spare key to Kensington Palace behind a pillar, it’s like they’re asking for a break in), but he quickly squashes that idea. Zahra would actually kill him for that, providing that he wasn’t shot by a trigger-happy beef eater wearing a hat shaped like a beaver first.
Accepting his fate, he trudges up to the Mall, where he digs his mobile out of his pocket and switches it on. He isn’t surprised by the saturation of messages that shoot up on his home screen; they range from I’m going to hang you up by your nut sack, you little sh*t, where the hell are you (Zahra) to I hear you broke out from under the ever-watching eye. Try not to get kidnapped (Nora). There’s a rather innocent one from Leo asking him where he left the card containing the Wi-Fi password, which Alex considers answering if only to delay the inevitable bollocking he will receive, when his phone starts ringing.
It's Zahra.
Alex sends a silent prayer up to a god that he doesn’t believe in, and then brings the photo tentatively to his ears.
“Hey, Zahra.”
“Alex.” He expected anger. What he hears instead is relief. “You ok?”
“I’m fine.” He shoves his hand into the pocket of his hoodie and looks back at Buckingham Palace. There are no lights within the building itself. If it wasn’t for the Union Jack flying overhead indicating that the Queen was in residence, Alex would think that no one was home at all.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at Buckingham Palace.”
“What?”
“Not inside,” he says quickly, “I’m at the Mall, near the front gates.”
“Got it,” she says, and Alex thinks he’s gotten away with it, until she says “I hope you’ve enjoyed your little evening stroll. When you get back, you are getting locked down tighter than the current PM’s attitude to increasing pay for teachers.”
“Thank you, for that incredibly relevant and relatable example.” Alex can already see the car they’d driven in earlier speeding down the Mall.
“I’m glad you’re in the mood for jokes, Alex, because I’ve got another one for you. What do you call a First Son of the United States who goes galivanting around London at stupid hours to moo over his boyfriend like a lonely house wife waiting for her husband to return from the war?”
“Zahra, I-” Alex waves down the car.
“Royally f*cked.” Ok, she’s defiantly mad. “Get in the car.”
“How did you know-”
“The car. Now.” The line clicks off. The door opens, and Amy pokes her head out. When she sees him, she actually laughs.
“You are so f*cked.”
“Missed me?” Alex says, as he clambers in behind her. Cash is sitting next to her, enormous arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your deal?” Alex asks him. Cash snorts and folds his arms tighter. His muscles swell and bulge under his suit. “Come on, Cash, are you mad at me?” When Cash doesn’t answer, Alex turns to Amy. “Is he mad at me?”
“Alex, trust me.” Amy picks up her knitting needles. “Cash is the least of your problems.”
“Zahra’s gonna kill me, isn’t she?” Alex says miserably.
“Not just Zahra,” Cash mutters. Alex looks at him, and he doesn’t like the beginnings of a satisfied smirk that tug at the corners of Cash’s lips. “She called your mom.”
“f*ck.”
They ride back to the hotel in silence, with only the click click click of Amy’s knitting needles to break the hush.
*
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Alex flushes, head bowed. Even on Skype, he can feel his mother’s wrath through the pixels. Every so often her image crackles, and Alex thinks that it’s her anger radiating across the wi-fi. “Clearly, I wasn’t,” he says stiffly.
“You can say that again, champ. Honestly,” she snaps, “Sneaking out in the middle of the night like some teenage delinquent. You scared Zahra half to death.”
“I didn’t-”
“She’s pregnant, Alexander!” Alex can count on one hand the number of times his mom had got mad enough at him to call him Alexander and not Alex. The first; when he was four and threw a temper tantrum because his grandma didn’t get him a toy he wanted for Christmas. He’d thrown the Action Man she’d brought for him on the floor and stamped on it so hard that it’s arms popped out.
The second; the one and only time Alex had smoked weed at Liam’s house. He’d been fifteen, and she’d caught him sneaking in through the back door of their house in Austin, reeking of pot with his eyes rimmed red.
And now, sitting in an overpriced hotel room in jolly old England, no doubt paid for with the tax payers money, whilst he sulks like an overgrown teenager. Not a good look, Claremont-Diaz.
“Do you have any what kind of stress you put on her? That you put on everybody? Casius was beside himself!”
“Mom-” She cuts him off, and Alex grinds his teeth.
“You had one job; to stay put. Why I thought you could be mature enough to follow such a simple instruction, I’ll never know.”
“Nothing happened!” Alex insists, “Look at me, I’m fine. Why are you so upset about this?”
“Because there is a protocol to these things, Alex. The same way that Henry has protocols about being a prince of England. And Princes of England can’t be seen playing tonsil tennis with their boyfriends in dark sweaty night clubs.”
This pulls Alex up short. “So you do think this is our fault,” he says miserably.
“No!” Ellen shouts, and then she takes a breath, the same way that Alex has to when he gets too wound up and annoyed. “No,” she says, sounding calmer but no less emotional. “I had my reservations when you said you were going over to London with Henry, but I kept them to myself, god damnit, because I felt sorry for the two of you. I still do. You and Henry should be allowed to express your love to one another without it becoming a media circus. No one is doubting that, but your case is not helped when you are breaking out of your hotel room to go waltzing around London by yourself!”
“But it’s not fair!” Alex insists.
“Life isn’t fair, Alex. I thought you knew that by now.” She shakes her head. She reaches for something off camera and Alex frowns as he watches her take a sip from a glass filled with ice and an amber liquid.
“Are you drinking?”
“It’s been a rough couple of days,” she snaps, “God knows, you should try it some time. Just sit in your hotel room and get drunk. At least then someone can keep an eye on you.”
“Look, I’m sorry, ok?” Alex says, but he can feel the fight has left him. “And I’ll apologise to Zahra, and Cash, and everyone else. I didn’t-… I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
“I know you didn’t, Alex.”
“I just. I just wanted-” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I just wanted to go for a walk. I didn’t want to scare anyone; I just wanted to go outside for a bit. I won’t do it again.”
His mother sighs. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” she says blandly, “But this isn’t new to you. You don’t do stuff like this, you know this.”
“Mom-”
“Do you need to come home?” she asks, and Alex nearly chokes on his own spit.
“No,” he croaks.
“Are you sure? Because I can get someone to book a-”
“No, mom,” he says.
“Ok,” Ellen says. “So here’s what we’re gonna do. You are gonna stay in your hotel room until further notice. You are going to stay away from social media, you are going to listen to Zahra and you are going to do as you’re told. Am I clear?”
“As a f*ckin’ crystal,” Alex mutters.
Ellen nods. “And you’re going to need to give Zahra your phone.”
“Ma.”
“I’m sorry, Alex, my decision is final.”
“Fine!” he snaps, throwing his hands up. “Fine, whatever.”
“I know you’re mad at me now-”
“I said fine, mom.”
She frowns at him. “Goodnight, Alex.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She disconnects the call and Alex slams his laptop shut. Getting to his feet, he stalks over to the door and wrenches it open. Zahra is sitting on the couch, as well as a few members of his security team. They are all trying to look inconspicuous, which means that they heard everything.
Zahra rises awkwardly to her feet. “Your mom said to-”
Alex drops his phone onto the coffee table. “I’m going to bed,” he announces, “Unless there’s anything else?”
Zahra’s brow pinches, but she shakes her head. Alex doesn’t look at anyone else as he goes back to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He knows he’s being petulant and bratty, but he’s pissed off. He’s cranky and jetlagged and so f*cking fed up he could cry, but crying isn’t cool and he thinks that if he starts, he won’t stop so he decides to take a shower instead. If a few stray tears escape when he’s washing himself; well, there’s no one else around to see it.
Without his phone to distract him, Alex turns on the TV and climbs into bed with The Hangover playing on Film 4, flicking the lights off as he burrows down under the covers. By the time he actually manages to get to sleep, the clock on the wall reads two-thirty AM.
He’s awoken, a couple of hours later, by someone gently shaking his shoulder. It’s still dark in the room; the curtains are closed, and there is a dark shape looming over him.
“Alex…” a familiar voice whispers, smoky with the quiet, as they prod his shoulder, “Alex…”
Alex wakes slowly, jogged from his sleep where he’d been drooling onto the pillow he was clutching to his chest. It takes a second to register what’s going on and then he jerks frantically, feet tangled in the bed sheets as he flails. “Jesus, f*ckin’ Christ!” he slurs, sitting up so fast he nearly brains the person standing over him. Freeing his arms from the blanket cocoon, he turns on the bedside lamp. “Baby?”
Henry grins at him sheepishly. He looks tired, wearing a grey hoodie and his sweatpants, but he is very much here in the room. “Hey,” he says.
“What’s happening, what did you- how?” Alex frantically knuckles the sleep out of his eyes, and then flaps blindly for the bedside light. It’s glow is offensively bright, and it takes him a second to adjust to the light. When he feels like he can open his eyes again without going blind, he squints at Henry.
Henry smiles back at him sheepishly. He’s decked out in sweatpants and a hoodie, a black beanie pulled over his head. He looks like a sh*t 8 Mile knock off. Alex gapes at him for a second, and then has to blink again, just to make sure he is seeing things correctly. “How the f*ck did you get here?”
