Chapter Text
I'm too in love to die
God couldn't take me now
Surely, the love I feel for him
Would save my life somehow
It would throw me a rope
Reach out a hand
Surely, the powers that be
Would understand
That I'm too in love to die.
- Julia Jacklin
♡
He’s only been at Kensington for a week and it already feels like his brain is leaking from his ears. His face aches from days of false smiles, and what was meant to be two weeks of meaningful engagement with British charities has proved anything but.
New York has been home for two years but incessant summons back to England means he spends around three months of the year at Kensington, or being chauffeured around the country to cut ribbons and gesticulate at various openings. At first, he railed against the frequency of his visits back but Mary said he had to be seen to be doing things and in a tragic moment of clarity, he realised she was right. When he wasn’t in Britain enough, the UK press were antagonistic and invasive. When he was seen to be doing his duty, pointless as it was, they became more sympathetic and protective of him. In the two years since he bought the brownstone, he has cultivated a precarious balance that allows him to maintain a presence in the UK part-time, which buys him peace and privacy in Brooklyn for the remainder.
Regardless, the visits are becoming more draining. It’s hard to believe he ever considered giving Alex up to stay here, trapped in the facade of duty and responsibility for the rest of his life. Because he loves Britain but he has seen too much of the world and lived too different a life now not to feel how impotent he is as Prince Henry. He used to find purpose in ribbon-cutting ceremonies and carefully scripted speeches. When people shook his hand and looked at him in wonder, or thanked him for his service, he was always touched and grateful. It was enough to think he had an impact. Now? It all lacks. As Prince Henry, he can send cheques to charities and shake the hands of the people in charge, and that’s the bulk of it. If he wants to champion a new cause, he has to sit through approximately 80 hours of meetings with a dozen different people to get approvals, and concessions always have to be made. It’s like swimming upstream, fighting against the current. At home in Brooklyn, at the shelter— he can be hands-on. He’s in the building. He’s handling the administration and tedious bureaucracy, but he’s also engaged in day-to-day activities, talking to the kids and interacting with the staff so he knows what works and what doesn’t. He’s had the privilege of watching kids come into the shelter terrified and alone and watched them find their voice again. That is more immediate and fulfilling work in a way nothing he’s done as Prince Henry has ever been. The difference between being a person and a figurehead sometimes feels absolute.
So far, this specific trip has constituted two ribbon cuttings, three appearances at various schools and one speech at a veterans center. Tomorrow, he’s drumming up support at a charity event in the Orangery. He’ll be in London for another week and Alex isn’t even here for comfort and sanity.
Alex made the NYU mock trial team and has put all his love and energy into it. His team is traveling to Tulane in a few days to compete against another school in front of a real judge and jury. Alex thinks he’s woefully under-prepared and needs to get in the zone, but he’s already the best NYU Law has got. Alex’s drive to make a difference in the world eclipses everything. His passion is infinite. The mock trial team has nothing to do with the law department or his degree, it’s essentially a separate thing, but Alex is managing both with alarming competency. He has the energy of ten men and Henry quietly worries about him burning out before he graduates.
Alex wanted to come to London for a few days so they wouldn’t be apart for so long, but Henry absolved him. Why should they both suffer? Henry misses him already though. He missed Alex the second he got on the plane. He checks the time on his phone. It’s 3 am, which means it’s 10 pm in New York. He could call, but what if tonight is the one night Alex actually went to sleep on time? What if he isn’t buried in case law and three thousand post-it notes, chewing his pen into oblivion?
He tries to distract himself. He shouldn’t be awake but his insomnia came swinging back the second he stepped foot in KP. Henry reasons it’s just part of the furniture now, always waiting for his return. There is something suffocating about this bedroom now. Impersonal, maybe. He was never allowed to decorate against convention. Compared to the brownstone, it feels like a hotel room, all tidiness and clean edges. It doesn’t feel lived in without Alex’s clutter all over the floor. And the bed. The emptiness of the bed—
He picks up his phone and opens his messages with Alex. The last was several hours ago. He scrolls back absentmindedly, stopping on every shared photo. Christ, he misses him. One week and he’s already clawing at the walls of his cell, desperate to get home. And desperate for what? Breakfast together? Bake-off on the couch? Reading together in bed? All of it. He’d give anything to be home. If he was, he’d probably be peeling Alex away from his desk and into the shower right now.
He starts typing a message— [If you’re still working, STOP. Go to sleep!!]
If he sends it and Alex is awake, he’ll know he isn’t sleeping either, and he’ll get a lecture right back. Henry backspaces. Then again, a lecture would mean he gets to talk to Alex, so does it matter? He starts typing again and his phone vibrates and lights up in his hand. Alex’s name appears on the screen, like he summoned him with his need.
Henry answers the phone, feeling a swell of relief. ‘You caught me,' he says.
‘I saw those little dots,’ Alex answers. Henry can hear the warmth in his voice and all the tension in his body starts to eke away. ‘What were you texting me? Love notes? Because you miss me and can't live without me?'
‘Something like that,’ Henry smiles. ‘I thought I should see if the future of American jurisprudence had passed out at his desk.’
‘Baby! I love it when you talk dirty to me. But sleep is a construct invented by people who aren't going to revolutionize constitutional law someday. I'm working on a higher plane of existence. Why are you awake?’
‘Pot, kettle,’ Henry retorts. Then, softer, ‘I couldn't sleep. I do miss you.’
‘Oh? I was reading our old messages for a totally unrelated reason. I don't miss you at all.'
‘You miss me.’
‘Maybe.'
A comfortable silence falls between them and Henry feels a faint tug of fatigue in the back of his head. An insomniac his entire life, he was shocked to find himself miraculously cured the first time he and Alex spent the night together, and every night since. Even separated by time zones, just hearing his voice makes all the difference.
‘Well,’ Henry says, not wasting the opportunity. ‘Since we're both awake and hopeless, tell me what you’re working on.’
Alex groans dramatically but his tone betrays his enthusiasm.
‘Where do I begin? Okay, so picture this: The Constitution, but make it sexy.’
Henry puts him on speaker and hugs his pillow while Alex launches into an enthusiastic explanation of things Henry can’t begin to understand. The American legal system is so different from his own, but he likes hearing Alex talk about it. Even if he tunes out the specifics, he soaks up the energy and passion behind it. He enjoys it on the whole as the vehicle Alex has chosen to change the world. ‘So we're diving into this wild intersection of Fourth Amendment rights and digital privacy. It's like, okay, the Founding Fathers couldn't have imagined smartphones, right?—‘ As Henry listens, the loneliness of KP fades away.
He’s almost asleep when he hears Alex wrapping up ten minutes later.
‘— So basically, we're arguing whether the Fourth Amendment applies to digital data. It's so amazing. You should see the mountains of case law we're going through.’
‘It sounds riveting,’ Henry smiles. ‘Much more exciting than the luncheon I attended today. Did you know there are seventeen different ways to politely refuse a lukewarm hors d'oeuvre?’
Alex laughs and Henry feels a painful wash of love take him over.
‘Seventeen? Baby, you’ve outdone yourself. How is the land of tea and crumpets?’
Henry’s smile fades a little.
‘It's been an absolute riot so far. I’m doing very important work on this trip. Smiling, nodding, making quips. I’m going a bit insane, love. I feel like a robot programmed to make polite conversation. Is this really all I can do? Is this my job for the rest of my life? Prince Henry: nodding dog?’
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When Alex speaks, his voice is a little softer and more serious.
‘Listen, that's my fiancé you're disrespecting, and you do more than you think. You're passionate and you make a difference. Don't let those stuffy events make you forget it. I know you don’t feel as hands-on over there, but you’re getting funds to people who need them, who wouldn’t get them otherwise. The pretentious small talk is a necessary evil. Getting the upper crust to open their wallets is a skill not everyone possesses. In a perfect world, it wouldn’t matter, but in this one it does. You’re like Robin Hood, babe. Taking from the rich and giving to the poor.’
Henry melts. It’s a familiar feeling, this mix of gratitude and awe that Alex sees him so clearly and can articulate the struggles he’s too afraid to voice. He knows that what Alex is saying is somewhat true, but the frustration sticks. He has tasted life outside the bubble of The Firm. He’s seen the impact of grassroots efforts and individuals working tirelessly for their communities. Duty and service take a lot of forms, he knows that intellectually. It doesn’t change the feeling of discontent, like he’s play-acting at being a prince, going through motions that don’t feel natural anymore.
‘I love you,’ Henry answers gratefully. ‘And— I know that. It’s just— being back here feels like slipping into an old suit that doesn’t fit anymore. It chafes.’
‘I get it,’ says Alex, sympathetically. ‘But there’s only one more week. Then, you’ll be back at the shelter, and back home arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes.’
‘Oh, it’s always your turn.’
‘Nice try, buddy. In this household, we believe in equality. Even for handsome princes I’m trying to sleep with.’
‘You know equality means you would also do the dishes sometimes?’ Henry asks. ‘You’re at least thirty washes behind.’
‘Babe, we live in a barter economy and several of those missed dishwashes have already been paid for with my body.’
‘You prostituted yourself in the kitchen, you mean.’
‘I prefer to call it a mutually beneficial exchange of goods and services. You did the dishes and I blew you. And that’s a great system!’
‘Why does it feel like you’re the winner either way?’
‘Because I am. This is what being a lawmaker is all about, baby! It’s called creative economics.’
‘I don’t like you being in law school, actually.’
Alex laughs and Henry melts into his mattress. They fall into a comfortable silence again, neither wanting to get off the phone or be the one to hang up. Henry crawls closer to sleep, listening to Alex’s steady breathing and the occasional flip of a textbook page. He can picture him at his desk, a worrisome tower of books threatening to brain him at any moment.
Finally, Alex breaks the spell.
‘I should get back to it. Duty calls. These case briefs are giving me bedroom eyes and I'm legally obligated to respond.’
‘Of course. Who am I to stand in the way of lady justice?’ Henry opines. ‘Go to bed before midnight, please. For me.’
‘Right back atcha. Try and get some sleep. Big day of schmoozing tomorrow.’
‘Unfortunately. Goodnight, love.’
‘I love you.’
Henry feels a lump in his throat when he hangs up and tries to shake himself out of it. It’s humiliating to miss someone so much. To need them like this. The silence in the room is suddenly deafening. He rolls onto his side and pulls his pillow into his chest. One more week. One more. He tries to block out the exhausting voice in the back of his head saying until the next one, and the one after that, and the one after that.