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WINDSOR INVESTITURE 2024: PRINCE HENRY ABSENT, A RIGHT ROYAL MIX-UP?

by Benjamin Teller, Royal Expert & Senior Editor of The Mirror

Queen Mary today held 2020’s investiture at Windsor Castle. Recipients included the likes of Game of Thrones star Emilia Clarke, Sir Ridley Scott and Vogue editor Anna Wintour.

However, crowds were shocked today when, upon waiting outside of Windsor Castle ahead of the day’s events, only two of the Royal siblings were found to be in attendance. 

It is expected practice each year for all three to attend alongside Queen Mary and their mother, Princess Catherine. What is most peculiar is that not only was Prince Henry absent, but was seemingly replaced with the Princess’ cousin, Lady Elizabeth. Elizabeth has not attended a Royal event since Queen Mary’s Golden Jubilee five years ago. See image below .

When pressed for comment about his brother’s absence, Prince Philip merely shook his head and informed that he is otherwise preoccupied. See video below .

We have been keeping close tabs on the rumours that the Prince and Cecilia Spencer, who recently walked for Vogue at Fashion Week last September, are getting friendly. This does come, of course, after they were seen attending Wimbledon together. 

It must be noted that the Crown refused to comment on the nature of their relationship when pressed after the sporting event.

Could the Prince of England’s Hearts be engaged with another, more pressing engagement? Or is there perhaps, as the attendance of Elizabeth and Philip’s comment suggest, more to his absence such as a new beau? Could young love be on the cards for Henry after all?

Henry was truly, implicitly fucked.

They hadn’t meant to sneak off. Truly. Shaan had knocked at six on the dot, as he had done for as long as Henry could remember, and informed Henry of their itinerary for the day.

Ribbon cutting at 9. Press walk among the public at 9:30. Investiture at 11, until 3. Press interviews with varying outlets about the day’s events, and a sheet with a preview of the questions they’d be asked.

Henry nodded, and thanked Shaan, and then. Shaan hadn’t left, and Henry’s stomach had dropped upon the next words Shaan said in a lower register.

“The Queen requests your presence at the palace once the Investiture is over,” Shaan had said, his knuckles white where his hands are clasped at his front. “I was informed that Tommy may be present.”

Tommy, Henry’s personal photographer. Or rather, the photographer responsible for catching Henry with women when they act a little too queer for the Queen’s liking.

She had, not that she would ever let Henry forget it, covered for them when they had told her that they were not a Princess nor a woman at all, actually.

She likes to hold that over Henry’s head when reprimanding them for existing within the vicinity of men. That she had fought for them to express one depravity in private but she could not allow another.

AKA, she was happy leading the country to believe Henry was a cis heterosexual man and not, in fact, the opposite on both accounts.

Gender is a concept they have little concern for, but that queerness is a comfort they hold integral to their being. Gran made it known to Henry that she hated both.

Henry had known it was a risk, going out with Pez for drinks a few nights ago. It wasn't the first time, nor the second nor the tenth. But it had been the first time Henry had been caught, or rather caught by the press, and the NDA had barely salvaged the situation.

A photo, grainy and inconclusive unless you knew what you were looking for; Henry against the wall sipping a cocktail from a man’s glass. The two of them had been talking about backgammon for Christ’s sake, it was hardly scandalous. 

Well. That had been Henry’s argument to Pip upon being informed by him that he had personally seen to the scrubbing of that image’s existence. Not that Henry believed that for a minute. 

Then, of course, Pip had gone with the usual tirade that Henry would expect from Gran’s mouthpiece. Henry was an embarrassment, nobody could know they were queer nor trans, they have a duty they’re breaking etc.

Their conversation had gone on for a while, and Henry had gone straight to bed after it. And now this morning, Gran wants a meeting. 

The panic had been so large and mighty that they had to leave.

Henry couldn’t do it. Couldn’t kiss another woman. Hold her hand and stroll along the gardens and use her for the Crown’s sake while feeling absolutely nothing. Scrub their body raw afterwards and still feel just as dirty. Become buried under it all. Such was a tale as old as time since Henry’s father passed and Mary found the perfect break in their chainmail. 

It had grown more common, every other day as opposed to every other week or, like when their father was still here, maybe once every blue moon instead. 

No more. They wouldn’t do it. 

So. Henry had eaten the usual scone with precisely one swipe of strawberry jam opposite Shaan as expected of them. Only when Shaan left with staff from Buckingham to confirm details had Henry then simply left. 

It was bizarre, how easy it had been once Shaan was not breathing down their neck. Not that it is a bad thing, per say. Shaan is possibly their closest confidant barring Bea. It's just that he’s simply employed to be, and Henry knows they couldn’t possibly entrust him with these plans without jeopardising his employment. 

Pez was also away in the States of all places, attending a fundraiser in DC to aid his charity’s startup overseas. In short, Henry was alone in it.

Back to now. Gloomy, wet morning. The crowded station. Standing at the barriers in South Kensington, a loose shirt buttoned up to one beneath the collar tucked into haruka slacks and a cap stolen from Bea’s room as their disguise. They hadn’t quite thought this through.

Thus, the current issue. The station is extremely busy so early in the morning, exactly an hour before Google informs the rush hour is supposed to take place and there are many, many people behind them, and they don’t know how to work this bloody barrier. 

Henry’s just about tapping their phone for likely the fiftieth time when the heckling begins, and stills. Their cheeks go red and their hands grow clammy and still, they cannot get the damned thing to work.

Again, Googling it quickly on their quick dip into a public toilet to check their phone had informed Henry that they merely need to tap their phone on the machine, and it will accept a payment then allow them through. 

It's not like they can ask, is it? What an absolutely foolish thing to do. Even if they aren’t bloody well recognised, they’ll be deemed a fool. They can’t even leave this crowd anyway, not at this point; too intermingled.

Henry’s hands shake when they pull back their phone to check it's status. One look confirms as such. Henry, briefly, wonders if it being on Do Not Disturb is hindering it, so turns it off, and presses it to the scanner again. They don’t understand.

“Let’s get moving along, people!” A man in an orange vest calls, looking directly at Henry with a deep-set frown, and there is a smattering of laughter from the crowd.

Honestly, they’re about to cry. What a terrible idea. Not only is Gran going to kill them for the image the other night, but also for disappearing and getting lost in a crowd at the first hurdle too. 

What a fool. What a disaster. What-

“What’s your passcode?”

Henry startles at the voice behind them. Deep and American, not like the Los Angeles accents with their elongated vowels nor the over pronunciation of those from Washington, but with a twang of something Southern. Texan, perhaps. 

“Pardon?”

There’s a touch to their elbow, and one look exposes long, spindling fingers and a forearm covered with bracelets. Henry gulps. 

“You have to punch in your passcode for it to accept the payment, sweetheart,” is said quietly, then. “Woah. You’re shaking.”

Henry considers it. And then considers how deep the voice is, and how much hair adorns his arm, and then considers death too. 

There’s a scoff behind them, and then the American is cursing.

“Go to another fucking barrier, asshole, there’s enough,” He says back, and then softly, pushes Henry’s arm out of the way to press his own phone to the scanner. “Here, sweetheart.”

It beeps, and then Henry’s being guided through. Their relief is so palpable that they spin around to thank and profess their undying love to this American saviour. Except, oh. Henry had not considered that said saviour was going to have a face sculpted personally by Pygmalion and miles of dark skin on display that is somehow glowing down here, begging to be worshipped. Henry knows not how to react appropriately.

He’s absolutely stunning, this man, and built in a way that tells Henry he cares a great deal about being, well, built . Not to mention the eyelashes, and the wondrous, brown eyes between incessant blinks that are watching Henry intently. It's like someone took every perfect feature that Henry dreams of in a man and threw them into a blender. 

Christ, even the shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows is doing it for them.

Henry swallows hard. 

“Oh,” is all that comes out after a moment too long, and the grin that takes over the man’s face takes Henry’s breath away.

He guides Henry by his elbow out of the main bustle. “You’re not really familiar with any of this, huh?”

“Decidedly not,” Henry shakes their head, “What gave it away?”

“That ring for one,” The man’s grin quirks, eyelashes sweeping his cheeks as he gestures to Henry’s hand, “Word of advice, though? You might wanna consider something better than the cap if you wanna go undetected.”

Henry stills. They may possibly be the most obtuse person in the world. They consider, now, how truly fucked they are. Any sense of freedom they’d had until today is gone. This, admittedly gorgeous, man has recognised Henry, and it is seconds from all going tits up before they’ve even left South Kensington.

Henry looks to the ground and wishes a gaping maw would uncover itself. “I-“

“Where are you looking to get to?”

Henry’s eyes snap up to the man’s face. “Sorry?” 

“You’ve clearly never used the tube in your life,” He points out. “Where in London were you wanting to go?”

“Er.” Henry hadn’t thought that far. Hadn’t even thought as far as the station, really. “I haven’t really thought about it. Anywhere away from here, really.”

The man’s smile quirks. “I can help with that.”

Henry blinks. “Why?”

He shrugs again. “You’re, like, clueless and I’m not about to let you get lost in your own city. It’d be like kicking a kitten out into the rain or something.”

Henry flushes, tonguing their lip. They try to ignore the man’s eyes dropping to their mouth. “Well, why should I trust you?”

“You probably shouldn’t. I am a stranger, and I know who you are,” The man says. He crosses his arms, and Henry gets an urge to touch his bicep. They ignore it. “I’ve got a date with Hyde Park and the Frameless experience nearby. Wanna come with?”

Henry should say no. Their entire being, the one composed of painstakingly built walls of logic and reason above their every want and desire, screams at them. Funnily enough, it's in Pip’s voice.

Well. It's about time Henry decides something on their own. 

Henry’s first tube ride is interesting.

It's both different from the films and not at all in the same breath. It's incredibly busy, but Henry finds that nobody cares for their surroundings. Not a single person looks their way.

It’s delightful.

They shuffle onto a crowded car, so crowded that Henry and the man stand together gripping the same pole, and the people around them both have no regard for their personal space at all. It’s different; refreshing to not be treated like some deity they certainly are not. 

The two of them cannot speak because it is so loud, and so bustling, but every time Henry turns to look at him, he is smiling right back at Henry.

There’s a moment before the stop at Hyde Park where a woman rushing to get off of the train pushes past Henry in her haste. They stumble, of course, and there is the man. Gentle words and an even gentler hand on Henry’s waist. A hand that spans half of their back when it trails away.

A hand that presses to the dip of Henry’s spine when they’re making their way off and into the belly of the crowd. A hand that Henry can feel is adorned with callouses where it’s pressed to their skin through cotton. They can’t be blamed for the goosebumps that rise.

A hand that Henry takes in theirs, telling themself it’s so they don’t get separated, and a hand that covers theirs entirely. A hand that only drops to take a cheap pair of sunglasses and press them on under Henry’s cap. 

(“I look ridiculous,” Henry says to the cracked mirror, chin tilted up as one would for a portrait.

“You blend in,” The man shakes his head, grinning freely, and holds out his hand again as one would to a Royal looking to board a carriage and not the lift to the street. “Sir Trailer Trash-a-lot, you shall go to the ball.”

Henry stutters out a befuddled laugh, and the man grins along.)

It feels rousing to do so in public with a man. His being terribly attractive and positively lovely is, of course, a bonus. 

Henry wonders exactly how those calluses on his palm came to be, how they’d feel elsewhere on their body, and why an American is here in May with nothing but the clothes on his back. 

So Henry asks.

Henry learns in the Rose Garden that the man’s name is Alex. Alexander, technically, but to call him that is like asking for treason to be committed. Alex’s words exactly.

He’s twenty-one, from Texas and here for the summer after graduating university before transferring for his first year of law school. 

Alex is tucking a daisy under the side of Henry’s cap when he tells of how his father graduated as cum laude from London School of Economics decades ago. How he wants to follow after him. 

Henry is, much to Alex’s delight, holding a buttercup under his chin when he too shares that they wish to go back to university too.

“Oh yeah, doing what?” Alex asks softly, chin titled. “Am I shining?”

Alex either knows very little about Henry, or is doing a fine job of pretending not to. They like it. 

“The flower is indeed shining,” They’re glad the glasses obscure their eyes when they say, “And a Masters in English Literature.”

“Ooh,” Alex whistles, and takes the flower from him to tuck it beside the daisy. “I thought y’all, like, went into the army the second you can walk?”

“You seem to know a fair bit about the monarchy for an American,” Henry points out, and Alex shrugs. 

“It's what is expected of me, I suppose,” Henry continues, bitterness on their tongue, “Among other things.”

“Yeah, I watch the news. So forgive me, Your Majesty,” Alex’s mouth quirks at the title, and Henry’s gaze drops to it, “but that’s total horseshit.”

“You’ll find no objection from me,” Henry tells him, holding out a hand as they walk along the rose bushes and to the statue at the fountain. “However, it is Your Royal Highness, and you’d be wise to commit that to memory.”

Alex tuts. “Absolutely not.”

“And you are the one to speak of treason,” Henry teases, “I can have you banished, Alexander.”

Spindling fingers slide up Henry’s palm and tangle with their own, and Henry dips their chin in a smile. There’s a warm breath on the shell of their ear, and Henry barely resists the urge to bare their throat.

“I’ll sue you and be the first person to win a case against the monarchy,” They feel Alex’s smile before he pulls away. “Try me.”

“Is it bad that I want to?” Henry asks aloud. “How exactly would you go about it?”

“I reckon a quick reminder of the centuries of pillaging and colonising that your family have never apologised for will do it,” Alex says. “If not, my boyish charm and good looks. Last resort, my ass.”

“Ah,” Henry nods, face warm. “Quite the compelling case then.”

“Precisely,” Alex smiles brightly. 

They can feel it; the urge to tell Alex more. How their family are aware they’re gay, but how they have been squashed into a box their entire life because God forbid Henry be gay and something other than the perfect, youngest daughter whose life she had meticulously planned out.

Gran would have Henry think their being gay alone is worse than, well, the aforementioned centuries of colonisation and all. She has damn near tried her hardest to convince them it's the most terrible thing that could have happened to the Crown. She spent their teen years assuring them that both their queerness was something they would grow out of and, when that did not work, took to shaming them into silence instead.

It's not ideal. It's sort of a nightmare they desperately want to wake up from, actually.

They haven’t bothered to tell a soul outside of Bea and Pez about the gender thing for that reason. Have the rest of their family and subsequently the world believe them a man. It's easier. Simpler for everyone else. For everyone but Henry. The less conflict the better, or that’s what they spent their entire life thinking.

Now, they’re spent. They’re tired of it all. 

They think that they want to tell Alex partly out of rebellion, sure, but also because Alex is the first person that they have met outside of Pez to express their dislike of the monarchy to their face. And he does it with such a beautiful smile.

Alex slides their hands together again, pulling Henry towards the statue of Achilles down the path, so they drop it.

This statue is one Henry has wanted to visit for much of their life. It is ironic, to live miles out from it, and never know exactly how those grooves of bronze look. The glory of this moment is not lost on them.

“I know he’s, like, the most famous demi-god slash warrior slash blonde to come from Ancient Greece and probably a little overrated, but God. Look at him.”

Henry shakes their head as they step up the hill, “He’s not overrated. He’s.. he’s incredible.”

Alex’s thumb presses on Henry’s knuckle. “You a fan?”

“I spent a lot of time debating with my History teacher at Eton about the true nature of his relationship with Patroclus, and how carelessly their story has been swept under the rug,” Henry gets out, and then collects themself. “I am quite a fan of his.”

“”Patroclus, whom I loved beyond all other companions, as well as my own life,” and they spent, like, the last two thousand years calling them best buds.” Alex says. “Or, as Hollywood would have you think, cousins."

Henry’s heart very briefly stops. And then it is pounding, climbing up their throat alongside childish glee at having a shared interest with someone.

“The Troy movie was a sham, and Mr. Perceval would hate you.”

Alex snorts. “Perceval? Oh my god, of course. Yeah, sure. I fucking bet.”

“He was a year or two off of retirement and very set in his beliefs,” Henry’s smile widens. “Philos translates to best bud, didn’t you know? To suggest otherwise is foolish and a misunderstanding of Homer’s intended narrative.”

Alex’s scoff is accompanied with an eye roll. “As if the way queer relationships in media are viewed now, especially in the West, doesn’t automatically overpower Homer’s narrative. Like, Mr fucking Perseval had this preconceived view of queer people because he’s probably old and white and straight and sees us as some alien species. No wonder he wouldn’t hear you out.”

Us. 

Likely a Freudian slip. It may not mean anything at all. It doesn’t stop Henry’s heart from beating so hard it may well escape their chest. They pull back their hand to instead grip their signet ring.

“He was very adamant that I was in the wrong, and I suppose Eton isn’t the most liberal of places anyway,” Henry adds, and the look on Alex’s face is so gentle that they force themself to rip their gaze away.

“I can imagine. All those pompous, conservative white assholes. No offence.”

“None taken. I was surrounded by infinite close-mindedness,” Henry pulls a face. “God forbid I ever bring up Achilles’ sexuality around any of my classmates barring Pez, my best friend. He has heard it and agreed with all.”

“Hell yeah,” Alex continues, drawing out the vowels, “So to Homer and to the Greeks, homosexuality was so much the norm that he probably didn’t think twice about explicitly stating it, right? They didn’t even have a word for it. Why would they? And three millennia on, we’ve gotta scream about it because they refuse to acknowledge our history. He was fucking gay.”

Henry nods along. “It was collectively agreed - barring Socrates, the fool - among the Greeks during the Classical Period that they were together. Bloody Shakespeare wrote it into his works! How one sees this and decides to argue against history utterly boggles my mind.”

“Holy shit,” Alex laughs, and Henry looks back to him.

“What?”

“You’re just not what I expected at all,” Alex tells him.

“Oh.” Henry flushes. “What exactly were you expecting?”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Honestly?”

“Honestly, yes.”

“Like.. An absolute dick with perfect hair and a stick lodged up his ass.”

“Ah.” Henry nods. “So you like my hair then?”

“It's, like, always falling perfectly on your forehead every time you’re on the news. You’re not even sweating right now and I’m sure, if you took that cap off, it’d still be perfect. You cannot be a real person."

“It is very much real.” Henry says, spinning the ring. “As am I.”

“I can see that,” Alex laughs, nudging their shoulders together. Curls brush Henry’s ear. “Okay. Could you tell me more?”

“Really?”

“Yeah!” Alex says, “Please talk my ear off about this guy, or his Greek counterparts.”

“Alright,” Henry feels a genuine smile take over his face. “So, I assume you are familiar with Prometheus?”

“Not really, but continue,” Alex’s smile is soft now, and Henry lets himself bask in the warmth of it. 

“Well, you mention that homosexuality was so commonplace among the Greeks that they didn’t have a word for it; one theory for queer people’s existence was that Prometheus created all living humans, molded them out of clay and bestowed them with fire.”

“Sick,” Alex says, “Sorry, continue.”

Henry smiles, “The story goes that he accidentally created people with the incorrect genitalia than initially intended while drunk. Hence the existence of queer and trans people. I think that people look at it too literally, though. I don’t think we are fully formed before creation, I interpret it as we are all, as living beings, currently still forming. Just as his hands would be forming us, does that make sense?”

“Makes perfect sense,” Alex fixes the flower, palm brushing Henry’s cheek. “Have you heard about Iphis and Ianthe?”

Henry feels their face split in a smile. 

With another quick glance up at Achilles’ statue, Henry takes note of the slant of his nose, his full lips, and mostly his head of unruly curls, as if they are flying in the midst of battle. Of the strong cut of his jaw. 

Henry realises Alex’s curls fall from his head much in the same manner, glasses pushed back among a wave of them. His nose follows the same journey, and his lips are just as well-defined. Henry wonders if pressed, if they would pout just so as Achilles’ do. 

It's unfair to compare art to the real, living beauty in front of Henry, in fact. Achilles has purposely been sculpted like such to display unimaginable, unthinkable beauty and yet, here Alex is in the flesh. 

They blink as Alex launches into a speech about gender exploration within Greek myth, and know they are done for already.

The discussion about the Greeks continues, and creates a bridge to Alex’s favourite Queer stories. He tells Henry of James Baldwin and Gil Cuadros. Of Walt Whitman whose work, he says, is essential reading to capture the Queer American experience. Henry makes a note in their phone that takes them a moment to swipe through, just as Alex does with Henry’s favourite authors. 

Now, Henry has never attended one of these immersive art experiences, so has no clue what to expect. Alex, however, is so excited for it that he’s practically bouncing on his feet when they arrive. It's so palpable and infectious that Henry finds themself grinning along too.

Immediately, the escalators take them through an array of disjointed mirrors that reflect the bright lights from below. It's dizzying, but Henry catches a glimpse of an early Cezanne work and all inhibitions fly out of the window. 

They’re pulling Alex towards it, and the art ripples as though their footsteps cause small tremors. Alex laughs in pure delight as Henry launches into a rant about romanticism versus post-impressionist works, and how he contributed to both, because they know now that Alex is truly listening. 

Only when they come across a gallery depicting various Kadinsky’s works does Alex surprise Henry and talk at great length about how he was so moved by Monet’s works that he up and changed careers, and how he worked alongside Josef Albers at one point. He tells Henry about Kadinsky’s belief in synesthesia, and the composers that ended up being so inspired by his art that it created new music too.

Much of their visit is made up of this. A back and forth, a tug of war between one’s knowledge and the other’s intrigue. Henry hangs on Alex’s every word, and Alex only grows silent when Henry speaks of their passion for what they see.

Henry has never experienced much like it at all. The thought of going on without it, without him, tomorrow feels damning.

Before they leave, there is also a gallery depicting statues about the world from varying cultures, and Henry stops in front of framed images of Apollo and Dionysus. Both feminine in features and subtly masculine in build, it's not hard to see why some hail them androgynous. Apollo is a Greek god they secretly favour for a reason, they suppose.

They take their time with the images, and wish they were standing before the real thing. For now, taking a photo on their phone will do.

It's a little bit later when they’re on their way out of the experience and they pass a sign for University of London that the topic of Alex attending another is naturally brought up again.

The sun beats down on them now, immersing Alex in gold. It's too much, so Henry looks ahead instead.

“Forgive me, but why are you here so early in the year if you plan to move in the autumn?”

“I’ve been in Europe since March. Greece first, then Albania, Italy and so on. I was meant to be in France but, y’know. I figured since I’m here in the fall, I’d come.”

Something in Henry piques. “Anywhere in particular in France?”

“Eh,” Alex says. “Start with the North; Nantes, Paris, Nice. See where I end up. I think it sounds kinda fun to travel before I sell my soul to law school. Why?”

“I visited a fair amount as a child,” Henry tells him, a smile tugging at their mouth. “I hope you have a lovely time. You didn’t properly answer my question though. What brings you here, to London? Truly?”

Alex shrugs, “I wanna actually get a feel for this place beyond the surface. No offence to you and your dusty, old palace. But I think there’s gotta be more to London than that and Big Ben and the fucking.. London Eye.”

Henry is surprised by the laugh that escapes him. “Do you know, I can’t say I’ve been to either of the latter places.”

Alex narrows his eyes down at Henry. “Really?”

“Mm.”

“Well, we’re fixing that.”

Henry falters. “Alex, you said you wanted to spend your time here and I agreed, but this is-“

“You left that palace this morning for a reason,” Alex butts in, his big, brown eyes glittering. Curiosity looks stunning on him. Beautiful. “Like, what the fuck do you mean you’ve never hit the tourist hot spot in your city? We’re going.”

Henry is finding themself smiling now, again, despite himself. “Alex…” 

“I wanna get a better feel for the city, and you’ve hardly done anything in it. Call it divine intervention, or fate, or simply chance but we’re going, sweetheart.”

Oh. Henry likes that. They like it a lot.

Maybe it's the pet name. Maybe it's Alex’s energy. Maybe it's that being outside with him and not surrounded by a dozen PPOs and therefore Gran’s eyes, but Henry asks:

“And then what?”

“And then we’ll figure it out when we’re done,” Alex tells Henry, like it's that simple. Christ, maybe it is.

Two rides on the London Eye, an I <3 London tote with the Union Jack as a heart - to fit in, Henry - and a tour of Big Ben. That’s how long it takes for Henry to admit they’ve become completely and utterly enamoured.

It happens like this.

The first ride is spent with Alex asking Henry to point out the different boroughs of the city, and the sights in each. Not that Henry has seen much personally, but they have read enough to feel that they have walked the streets of Shoreditch and swam in the Heath. 

The second ride is spent with Alex recounting tales of Eastern Europe this spring. The hills of Sorrento and plazas of Turin and the wine bars of Venice.

They’re onto discussing Bulgaria when they get to Big Ben. The idea of trekking up had Henry feeling unsure, but Alex’s roaring enthusiasm for the structure design - Gothic Revival, not Greek , Henry - had lit a fire and so they were climbing up. In no time, Henry had taken the chance to tell Alex of their love of Romanticism too, how the passion of creatives during the 1840’s onward had led to such a shift in society. Alex has confessed there wasn’t much of the movement in Texas, but that London was a blend of it and something new, and how much he liked that. 

Alex is perhaps the most surprising person Henry has ever met. And, as previously thought, they might be a little bit too enamoured with a man who had been a stranger to them hours before.

“Hey,” Alex says when they’re at the top of Elizabeth Tower. “What next?”

Henry turns, releasing their touch on the clock face. “What next?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, hands clasped at his front. “Where’d you wanna go? Where would you wanna go, y’know, if you could?”

Henry considers. Presses their hand to the face again. “I’m not sure where to start. How about you?”

Alex blows out a breath. “Well, I have all week.”

“I suppose we are at a terminus then.”

“I guess we are,” Alex nods, and looks about the thin space they stand in. Empty, and echoing. “Well, shit. Your Majesty, it has been an honour. See you around and all of that.”

Henry rolls their eyes to the ceiling when Alex moves off to the room beyond. Only when he’s gone do they chuckle to themself. Christ, what are they doing?

Henry does wait a moment. Calls out his name to no avail. Looks up at the clock as it chimes to signal 12PM. The investiture would be taking place now. They would know for sure now that Henry is gone.

They’re glad.

They take a deep breath as the chimes give way. As they do, they hear Alex’s voice filter through. They smile to themself, and follow after him through the archway.

They find Alex speaking to an older couple; the man in a peacock hat and the woman with silver hair pinned back in a gorgeous emerald clip Henry can tell is the real thing. He is handsome, and she is elegant, and both carry themselves in such a way that emanates a breeziness Henry has never felt.

They smile as Henry walks over, and Alex spins back with a wave.

“Hey, sweetheart,” He greets, lifting his arm, and Henry tries not to think about how good it feels to slide underneath it. How well they fit at Alex’s side, and how large the hard that settles at their waist is. “I was just telling these fine folk how lost we are for things to do at the tail end of our honeymoon. Isn’t that right?”

Henry’s cheeks grow pink. Still, they grin, and slide their arm around Alex’s waist too. The joy they feel is so sudden and so great that they could burst, even if it is fake.

“Correct,” They say, putting in effort to make their voice higher and, perhaps, not so obviously RP. “We are running out of tourist spots to venture, aren’t we, my beloved?”

Alex nips their side, and Henry grins wider. 

“Emeraude was just telling me that there’s a crazy Austen parody play on right now at, uh..”

“Arts Theatre,” Henry finishes before she can confirm, and their cheeks warm further as all eyes turn to them. “I believe I may have seen advertisements for it someplace.”

Funny way of saying they and Bea paid a ridiculous amount of money for a bootleg of the latest performance.

“They invite the audience to provide a prompt, and they create an Austen-esque play on the spot,” Emeraude tells them in a thick, French accent. 

“Forgive me,” Henry smiles, “Your accent, I can’t place it. Is it Parisian?”

“Ah,” She hums. “A little further; Rouen. You’ve heard of it?”

They have, thanks to their father. As is more often than not lately, they find joy filling them at the thought of him. That had been a glorious summer; he’d filmed there for some thriller set along the banks of the Seine, and it had only been Henry, their parents, Pip and Bea for a few weeks. Henry had only just turned eleven, and Pip was due to head to uni when they returned. 

They remark on that summer as possibly the happiest they’ve ever been, and the last time the five of them had truly been an actual family.

Mostly, they remember the evenings, usually spent in the sun on the hotel balcony, gorging on enough pastries to make the lot of them sick. Above all, they remember watching their parents dance along the Seine every other night when they went out for dinner at a brasserie nearby, and how, despite being full of love for them, it had hit them then and there that they would never have such a thing.

Henry clears their throat. 

“My father brought me to Northern France as a child so yes, absolutely. The Gardens and the art galleries were stunning.”

“You must find yourself back there, and make sure you visit Emji beside Vieux. It is simply glorious.” And then she smiles widely between them. “Make sure you bring your husband along, yes?”

Henry, if possible, reddens further. Alex ducks his head to Henry’s shoulder, his own shaking in silent laughter beside them.

“Sorry, dear. How would you feel about an impromptu play?”

Alex hums against Henry’s shoulder before standing straight again. “Do you know when the next show would be, Ma’am?”

Emeraude’s smile falters, and her cheeks redden. Henry understands her implicitly. Alex has had the same effect on them since first hearing his bloody voice. “I believe there is a showing at three.”

Alex lifts his wrist to check his watch. Henry doesn’t bother asking. They know the answer.

Instead, they ask, “What shall we do beforehand?”

“Whatever the fuck you want,” Alex tells Henry and, because Emeraude and her husband are still in the room or maybe just to mess with Henry further, noses at their temple and adds, “Baby.”

Something unknown and yet roots that are all too familiar rush through Henry, warm and lovely. They’re about ready to admit it to themself; they are simply infatuated with this stranger.

“I haven’t done Camden, nor Covent Garden,” They confess, “The markets look like such fun.”

“Then why the hell are we still standing here?” Alex questions. He regards the couple with a winning smile as he careens Henry to the stairs, and Emeraude’s red lips part again as she wishes them farewell. 

They spend the start of the afternoon traipsing Covent Garden because it's only a few tube stops away.

Surprisingly, the both of them are not really fans. It's much too crowded, and has only boutiques selling three-hundred pound, 50ML bottles of perfume and the like. They do dip into Jubilee market, and Henry convinces Alex to let them buy him the most unflattering sunglasses he can find; thin, rectangular frames with yellow rhinestones making up a flower on the sides.

Unfortunately, Alex pulls them off wonderfully.

Alex gets them a disgustingly expensive and yet tiny tub of gelato to share, cookie dough, and Henry thanks the heavens above that their glasses frames are so opaque that they don’t appear a creep watching Alex lick his spoon clean when they’re on their way to Leicester Square to catch the Northern line to Camden.

They stroll Floral Court, and then dip down Goodwin’s Court because Alex’s phone tells him it's a quicker route. It is not. Still, Henry marvels at the theatres that surround them and makes a mental note to tell Bea about a few plays they want to check out, and Alex writes down a few juice bars he wants to try. It is a win-win.

“Okay,” Alex says once they’ve left Watkins Books on Cecil Court with many of their book recommendations wrapped in a plastic bag inside the tote, “I don’t understand.”

“I feel I was perfectly concise,” Henry points out.

“Yeah, sorry, I think I just need to hear it again. You don’t like coffee?”

“Caffeine isn’t the deciding factor for me.” Henry says when Alex’s Maps app interrupts with a direction. “Rather, taste is.”

“Tea quite literally tastes like nothing."

Henry frowns. “And coffee is, what, tantalising your taste buds then?”

Alex bursts out laughing. “Definitely not. But I don’t drink it for the flavour, sweetheart.”

“Point taken and received,” Henry says. “I think we were meant to turn right.”

Alex groans, looking down at his phone, and back up at Henry. He spins on his heel, and heads through the alley they just passed. 

The tube journey is fine barring a screaming child and a barrage of American tourists that even Alex cringes at.

They take a slow traipse through the place from Camden Lock, and Alex looks about the market in open awe. Henry feels much the same way. It's stunning; the vibrant, seamless blend of culture and of taste. Every possible food type is available, and there is an abundance of it. The overpowering scent of it all - of ripe fruits, cinnamon and baked goods - is extremely prevalent. 

Alex helps himself to the tasters for a few stalls; mangos and sticky rice, miniature arepas and baklava. Henry’s face lights up and their stomach kicks up a fuss when they come across a falafel and crepe stand, so Alex convinces them to try the testers too. The falafel is not quite as good as the vendor across from KP, but Alex does open his mouth for Henry to press one past his lips without a word, so it gets five out of five on life-altering experience alone. 

If Henry is in a daze until Stables Yard, it's nobody’s business but their own. 

They come across a man hailing his tamales as the best in London at the end of the food stalls. Alex takes him in with narrowed eyes, having put the glasses on his vest collar. Unfortunately for Henry, it exposes the top of very, very defined pecs. Pecs smattered with hair. 

Alex begins to converse with the man in perfect Spanish, and Henry knows so little that all they can make out is something about ingredients, but they can read faces just well enough to get the jist. The vendor struggles to keep up with Alex as he goes off on a tangent, tongue curling around the words as his hands are thrown out enthusiastically. 

Henry thinks they deserve an award for how unaffected they make themself look. 

Anyways. 

Alex says something that leads to the man looking at Henry in surprise. Then he’s turning his back and shovelling what looks like biscuits into a takeout box. Alex laughs, arguing in jest, and the man shoos him away.

Alex smiles widely at him, and bids goodbye with a shake of his head. Before they leave, the man quite literally shoves the box at Henry. It is sweet-smelling. Alex tells them afterwards that they are polvorones.

“I played the honeymoon card,” Alex tells Henry excitedly as he takes one out and takes rather a large bite. He groans, and holds it out in front of Henry. Henry takes a bite, and tries very hard to ignore the zip between their thighs when Alex’s fingers brush their mouth. “Fucking good , right?”

“Very nice,” Henry confirms. They taste much like shortbread, perhaps nuttier, and softer. They lick powdered sugar from their mouth, and then considers the box. They do know very little Spanish, it's true, but they remember this from a previous party. “Hang on a moment, does this say-“

“Wedding cakes,” Alex confirms. “I told you; honeymoon. He was super happy for us. Even if I did tell him you know no Spanish.”

“You couldn’t possibly know that,” Henry tells him, and Alex laughs. “Why is that funny?”

“Alright,” Alex says, still chuckling. “What were we talking about then?”

Henry falters. Stares at the stall flogging faux leather jackets with Taylor Swift’s face painted on. Alex’s smile is easy and his face is free of any actual judgement, so Henry grins, “Something about a wedding.”

“Hm. Objectively true,” Alex, akin to a dog, tilts his head with a wide smile. “He wished us luck for the rest of our time together, and claimed that the day he met his wife in this place, he gave her polvorones because he was so enamoured.”

“Oh,” Henry’s heart warms, “That’s so lovely.”

“Yeah, he followed it up with trying to get me to buy from his cousin’s bakery across the canal so probably bullshit,” Alex says. He takes another, large bite and continues, “But he thought you seemed sweet, and insisted we take these to celebrate.”

“Hm,” Henry takes that in, and steals away another piece. “In any case, they are very nice. This is shaping up to be quite the fictitious honeymoon.”

“Hard agree. Ten out of ten for me,” Alex slides his arm over his shoulder, and then his eyes widen comically. “Oh, shit.”

Henry chews, and swallows. “What?”

“Play’s in twenty minutes,” Alex says. “Raincheck on the clothes vendors?”

Henry nods. “Raincheck indeed. Austen awaits, after all.”

“Well, let’s not keep her waiting,” Alex says, and steers them both back the way they came.

They make it with four minutes to spare until the doors close.

The play is perfect. They encounter the couple from hours before again. Emeraude calls out a greeting in French, and Henry gets to watch Alex’s eyes bug out of his head when Henry holds a conversation with her about markets in the city and the state of them compared to both the Latin Quarter in Paris and in Vieux. She tells them that their conversation with Henry and Alex had led them to want to see it again.

When they part, Emeraude’s husband, who they learn is named Fabio, tells them they’re to explore Westminster next. Henry doesn’t say a thing but farewell.

Alex is still dumbfounded that they are fluent when they’re seated, and begs them to read their shared playbill and every sign and every advert he can spot in French until the play begins.

It's equal parts hilarious and endearing. Henry feels perfectly at ease, sitting at the back with Alex whispering the context behind the references to an American romcom they’ve never seen in the shell of their ear.

Afterwards, Alex leads them to a churro place and they spend the walk talking about Austen. Well. Henry spends it talking about Austen, and Alex tells them about Jennifer Savran Kelly.

Henry knows exactly who that is. It turns out they’re both big fans of Endpapers, their novel tackling identity - as all great novels are. Henry feels very well-adjusted about Alex being a fan of a non-binary novelist, thank you very much.

There’s a large queue, so they choose to sit and talk in a booth at the back as they wait. It's all but closed off from the rest of the place, a barrier separating their booth and several empty ones from where every other diner sits. It gives Henry an opportunity to take off the cap and glasses.

They tucks the flowers inside their pocket instead.

They learn a little more of Alex, and Alex them. Alex is eyeing up a career in human rights and working in immigration specifically, and the final year course at LSoE is a perfect segway into it. He tells Henry how his parents are proud but that they’re too busy drowning in their own work to offer much more than a text or two, but that his sister June has called every day this month for an update.

Henry does learn that June is perhaps a bigger Austen fan than they are, and that leads them to the play, and to Henry’s potential, ongoing education. Alex watches them as they speak on why they think her works resonate so deeply even today with his chin in his hand and his head tilted.

In turn, Henry shares theirs and Bea’s love of music, how they’ve known their way around a piano since they were eight and Bea the harp. Alex is surprised to learn it was not royal protocol but rather their mother’s teaching. They offer to play for Alex, one day, and Alex’s beautiful face settles into something even softer.

Something in them recognises that Alex’s expression is the same that had graced his features at Achilles’ statue, and at the gallery. Something lovely and new bubbles up inside of them, simmering at the surface.

“I think I’d like that,” Alex tells them.

“As would I,” Henry tells him too. It's rather ridiculous, to feel such a pull to a man they didn’t know twelve hours ago and will not see again, but here they are. They blame Jane.

Henry’s two out of three churros dipped in Belgian chocolate down when Alex gestures at the food. “What’s the point of ordering a cinnamon topping if you’re just gonna dunk it in that?”

Henry gapes. They pointedly stare at Alex’s plate. Three churros pre-dipped in white chocolate.

“Comment oses-tu.”

“Fuck you,” Alex’s lashes flutter, and Henry delights in the vision that is his freckled cheeks turning red. “So. You like them then?"

Henry thumbs cinnamon from the corner of their mouth and licks it off, and enjoys the zip of electricity up their spine at how unapologetically Alex’s eyes zero in on it. “Very much so.”

Alex reclines. “I found this place on Monday. I knew I had to come back, I was just waiting on the reason.”

“Thank you for bringing me along,” Henry feels themself smiling, and hopes Alex knows they don’t just mean the place. “It's lovely here.”

“I’m really glad you’ve joined me,” Alex smiles right back, “It's the only churro place around here that bothers with the fuck loads of cinnamon that such a delicacy requires and therefore the only one worth bothering with, so. The day’s all downhill from here.”

Henry looks up. “I think it's going rather well so far.”

Alex’s final churro piece pauses halfway to his mouth. It's a gorgeous mouth, all things considered. Full lips Henry’s learning are not often pressed together and a tongue that ventures to touch them as much as his teeth bite into them. Henry’s very much a fan of all of the above. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Henry nods, something funny fluttering in their chest. “I have half a mind to not go back.”

It's a joke. It doesn’t make it any less true a statement. They haven’t felt this loose in a long, long time. This much themself.

Alex chews, swallows, and fidgets so that he’s leaning forward to dip a churro in Henry’s chocolate dip. Henry smiles to themself and down at the floor, and allows it.

“Is there, like, a rough time you were gonna head back? How long before they’re ringing the bells and shutting down the city?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, truth be told. I just couldn’t handle it this morning. Erm,” They stop themself. “Sorry. Sorry, I just..”

Alex’s hand reaches over and covers Henry’s. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I want to,” Henry says, frustrated. “I’m so tired of the pretense of it all. Being with you.. You’re possibly the most carefree person I have ever met.”

Alex huffs a quiet laugh, “I’m the least carefree person I know, trust me.”

“Perhaps. But to me, in comparison to what I’m used to, you are. You have let me feel what it's like to be truly myself with another, and how nice it can be.” 

“Oh,” Alex says, his smile flickering. “Sweetheart.”

“I suppose I’m foolish - you are technically still a stranger. You could spill my darkest secrets. Get the Daily Mail on the phone and sell stories on my insomnia, and my love of Austen, and the Greeks. It’d go for a lot.”

Alex blanches. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“It's not really.. It's happened before,” They confess. 

“Yeah, well, you know I’m a slut for Gothic Revival so, y’know. I don’t share that shit with anyone else.”

Henry reflects on his kidding. The conversations they’d had about Alex’s family, how his parents’ workaholism has trickled down to him. Just how passionately he had spoken about the Greeks, and Homer, and the modern interpretation of them. Then again, Henry is coming to understand that Alex is exactly that; strictly passionate. It's lovely.

“Weirdly, I think I really do trust you.” Henry confesses. 

“Baby, nobody would believe that I had your fingers in my mouth in Camden Market no matter who I theoretically told,” Alex says, and Henry has to force a breath in and out. “I think we’re good.”

“Christ, that falafel was good, wasn’t it?”

“Super good,” Alex confirms. Then, there’s a buzz from the table, and his phone lights up. Whoever it is has spammed him with a paragraph of emojis, and his response takes a second, whatever it is. He looks up, and smiles. “Sorry, June. She’s manifesting good things on this trip for me, apparently. It's definitely not needed.”

“Right,” Henry flushes, “Well.”

Alex types out a quick reply. “Sorry. It's kinda hard to ignore her or, like, any of my family.”

“I can understand that. I’m sure they’re blowing up my phone,” Henry says, and Alex winces. “Well. I’m supposed to have met with my grandmother by now actually so I’m sure her people have spammed me beyond belief.”

“What for?”

Alex doesn’t press, his fingers tracing the veins on the back of Henry’s hand. They find the quick pulsing at their wrist, and Alex looks up. He is looking at Henry with an expression that is so openly gentle, and considerate, that Henry thinks that’s what does it.

At least, partly. Suddenly, it is easy to open up and to say the words to someone. Who better than a stranger?

A stranger, they are finding, they do not want to remain one.

“I was in Soho with a friend a few nights ago, and got pictured with a man. My gran, in her latest effort to scrub me of all traces of queerness, wishes to set me up on a first of no doubt many staged dates with a woman of aristocratic ties I have never met. That is what today’s meeting was to be about.”

Alex digests that slowly. Henry watches a kaleidoscope of expressions dance on that beautiful face, watches anger twist his features and bewilderment stretch them.

Alex presses closer and, before Henry is left wondering, pulls their hands to his lap. Alex holds both of them with great care, thumbing over the knuckles. He pulls one hand up to press his mouth where his thumb was, and then the other.

Henry blinks away a sudden, betraying sting in their eyes. 

“Your gran can go the fuck to hell,” Alex says, “You’re exactly who you should be, Henry. Don’t let them take that from you.”

Henry scoffs, and Alex tugs at their hand slightly, causing them to look up. Alex is staring. The intensity behind them shocks them slightly. 

“You say I’m the most carefree person you’ve met. It's only been hours, and I know you’re the bravest son of a bitch I’ll ever have the luxury of spending time with.”

Henry blinks. “Alex.”

“It's true.”

Henry shakes their head. Takes one hand and grips one of Alex’s in both of theirs. 

“I want to spend the rest of my time with you before I go back,” They say quietly, and with certainty. “As long as you’ll have my company. However you’ll have it. I want that terribly. Is.. if that is too much or too forward then I apologise-”

“I really, really fucking want that too,” Alex admits. “I know I asked you this earlier, but seriously: what do you want to do? Anything you wish you could do without a dozen guards up your ass?”

“I feel that we’ve hit most of the tourist spots,” Henry says, “Is there, perhaps, anything you want to see?”

“Well,” Alex toys with their hand. “It's stupid.”

“It's certainly not,” Henry tells him immediately. “Tell me, love.”

Alex sucks in a breath, and when Henry looks up, he appears almost shy. “I kind of have always wanted to stroll the Thames. I know, it's cliche, and it's childish. I know the Thames isn’t like, the nicest -”

“None of that,” Henry smiles gently at him. “It's only a short walk, isn’t it? We’ll go once we’re finished. Find somewhere to get dinner along it. Not that I don’t appreciate these glorious, cinnamon-topped concoctions, but I think you and I deserve some proper nutrition, do we not?”

“The shit you say, it's so fucking cute,” Alex says, and then slams his mouth shut, like maybe he hadn’t intended to say it. Still, Henry is painfully endeared, and smiles wider.

“Well,” Henry says, cheeks aflame. “The Thames?”

“Yep,” Alex clears his throat. “Now? Great idea.”

Henry laughs freely, calling over the server, and continues to thumb Alex’s hand.

London is well on its way to the evening, and the sun is no longer quite so high in the sky. Instead, the sky is painted an array of orange and pink hues. 

The city is beautiful in softer lighting, as is Alex. It's not a shock, really. He’d look beautiful in comparison to anything, Henry thinks. 

He walks beside Henry as they pass Somerset House and make their way down to the river. That is when it hits Henry. 

They’ve had everything they could possibly want out of the day. Well, almost everything. Alex deserves something truly special as thanks, and Henry has a rather large disposable income.

“Alexander,” They say, “I have a proposition for you.”

Alex’s eyes widen, and his tongue pokes out. “Let’s fucking hear it.”

Henry bites their cheek. “Well, you have very generously accompanied me to a number of spots I’ve wanted to hit today. I thought you rather deserve to be paid in my gratitude.”

“Okay,” Alex laughs, “What the hell are you about to suggest? Is this the part of the night where a silk blindfold is slid over my head and you carry me away to the Dungeons? Should I be worried?”

Henry rolls their eyes, shoving at his shoulders. “Dinner on the Thames? It's not exactly a stroll, but I know this boat stops in Chelsea Harbour on a Wednesday.”

Alex narrows his eyes, “When did you have the time to find all that out?”

Henry flushes. “I suppose I hadn’t actually needed the toilet when I disappeared into that Pret. I didn’t want to appear like I wasn’t enjoying your company; which I very much was. I wanted you to have something too.”

“Sweetheart, today with you is more than I could have wished for,” Alex says like it's the obvious answer to a rhetorical question Henry can’t fathom. “But I’m not about to say no no to you wining and dining me.”

“That is not-” Henry blinks furiously, cheeks burning. “This isn’t me propositioning you. It's me thanking you.”

“I know,” Alex’s voice turns serious. “I mean, I don’t know. But I believe you. Plus, I was totally kidding.”

“You bellend,” Henry breathes out. “You’d know if I were propositioning you.”

Henry watches Alex’s mouth drop open, and spins around to begin the quick descent to the small dock where the boat resides. All the while, ignoring Alex jogging after them. Well. They think they do a good job pretending to.

They feel it, that weird orbit that’s been ongoing since South Kensington at eight this morning. Alex catches them from the back with arms snaking around their waist, and Henry’s very dignified squeak in response has the server recoiling.

“My apologies,” They say, hands coming up and wrapping around the devastatingly delicate hands on their stomach. “Er, table for two?”

They can hear Alex’s grin when he adds on, breathless, his hands climbing, “Honeymoon. You know?”

The server nods and leads them to a table. They even get a bottle of champagne out of it that they suspects is just repackaged Prosecco. It remind Henry of Pez, and they deign to spill every single detail of this day to him.

Or, whenever Gran lets them out of their apartments. They assume it will be a while. Perhaps Pez will have to wait, and their journal will get to hear every thought about Alex and the supernova that he is instead.

“This is insane,” Alex says to the water below.

Henry is inclined to agree. One, quick browse on their website to pre-book - ill-advised, they know - only offered a look at a few photos. They were all in the middle of the day too which, while lovely, doesn’t hold a candle to this.

Dusk in the city really does not compare to anything else. The fairy lights along the frame of the boat are a gorgeous, elegant touch, and they are reflected among the slight waves below as they begin to move. Alex differs between watching it and watching Henry, smiling around the rim of his glass.

Henry soon opts for removing the hat, deciding it's dark enough that nobody’s going to spot the blond hair and put it together. Speaking of.

They make quite the couple on the deck, he bemuses. Henry in their Raybans and button-up with Alex in his own among a sea of suits and cocktail dresses. They tell Alex as much, who just throws his head back and laughs.

By the time their food arrives, they’re onto discussing the merits of The Resistance in the Star Wars sequel trilogy. Likely not the most appropriate topic when violins are being played nearby with the lights having been dimmed to nothing but the fairy lights, but very much fun.

They have agreed unanimously that the sequels are a combination of a waste of potential and capitalistic greed when there’s a gasp nearby. Henry freezes, fearing the worst, but eases when Alex reaches over to tap their wrist.

“No fucking way!” He says, and Henry dares to look to the source - the dance floor.

Henry laughs in disbelief, and sticks a hand up to wave at Emeraude and Fabio. She has a glass in hand that she takes a long drink from without pausing her dancing, and Henry decides she may be the most suave person alive. Or, maybe just very, very French.

Her husband grins and waves back, and Alex raises his glass.

“What the fuck are the chances?” Alex proclaims delightfully, “This has gotta be fate, or something.”

Henry nods, choosing to tuck into the pasta before them.

“Perhaps instead, two very well-timed tours of the city,” They suggest, taking a bite. God, it's gorgeous .

“Nah,” Alex looks up at them, a look on his face that Henry can’t digest. “This was meant to happen.”

Henry’s not so sure about that. But it does feel incredibly right, like every puzzle piece slots together well. They smile at Alex, and take another, long sip from their flute. They watch Alex settle in his chair, and take in their surroundings properly. Alex sinks into the scene like one would a thousand-thread Egyptian cotton duvet; his fingers tap along to the song Henry vaguely recognises, and he begins to toy with the tagliatelle in front of him.

Heny turns to watch Emeraude and Fabio again, prodding at their pasta too. It's both bitter and decadent and exactly what Henry expected from the price tag, but it's surprisingly unfulfilling. They find they’re not, in fact, hungry for the plate in front of them but something else entirely.

Emeraude twirls Fabio, dips him with a dimpled grin that he kisses when he rises. 

“Hey,” They hear. They lift their head to a glint in Alex’s eyes. “Wanna dance?”

“I don’t want to draw attention,” Henry says, and yet.

Alex stares witheringly. Gestures impatiently to the rest of the deck. Half of it is engaged in staring at the London Eye in awe, and the rest are in various states of dance. This is a generous term. There is a man doing the worm. At least three couples are actively gyrating on one another.

“They don’t care,” Alex points out. “Put on the glasses, the cap, do up that pretty shirt. I don’t care. Dance with me.”

Henry runs a hand down their face, and then makes Alex wait as they lean down for the tote. They slide on the glasses, and undo a further button on the shirt, open to the collarbone. Alex is not shy about staring, and Henry isn’t shy about preening with his attention.

Henry stands first. Holds out a hand.

“Well?”

Alex takes their hand and stands with such a force that they collide with an oof as the band starts up the next song. The guitar strings plucked seem familiar, but it doesn’t say much when Bea plays every song that seemingly exists to them when they’re alone.

“Chiquitita? Fuck me.” Alex gasps, his grin wide and open as he walks over to Emeraude and Fabio, hand enveloping Henry’s.

The pair of them gasp, and smack kisses on both their cheek and Alex’s. Henry’s barely drank a thing, but feels like they’ve reached a limit. 

Instead of such a thing, they break into giggles when Alex begins to sing along in their ear, and let him tug them into his arms. They make an absolute sham of it, dancing out of time and shaking their heads so much that Henry’s hair is sticking to their forehead halfway through. 

Emeraude whispers something to Alex, who then lifts his arm so they can form a three-person-troupe. 

“Oh,” Henry says, lifting both their hands so the two of them can dance together. “Please. Go ahead. Take him.”

Emeraude calls them a fool in thick French, and pulls them close and Fabio into the fold too. 

Alex’s singing grows louder and Fabio joins him, the two of them loud enough that the band’s singer begins to laugh through the chorus. Henry’s forehead falls to Alex’s gleaming shoulder. Alex’s curls are impossibly unruly, and tickle Henry’s face. Alex fails to notice, too busy shifting their bodies in a manner one would expect at a child’s birthday party and not a private deck surrounded by cocktail dresses and wool serge. Emeraude and Fabio twirl to Alex’s other side, and Henry pretends not to notice the way she smiles at them.

So that is how they spend much of the boat journey. The four of them and yet, really, only the two of them. It's how it feels to Henry. Even when it seems every other group and pairing and a few straggling individuals join them in bobbing along to what has become something of an ABBA tribute. At some point, Alex gets the champagne bottle, and Henry gets to delight in watching him pull from it. They get to watch Alex watch them too; their lips spread around the neck of it, swallowing down the fiz of apple on their tongue and wishing they were chasing it off of Alex’s with their own. 

Henry’s giddy with it when they’re through with most of the greatest hits, and actually swaying with Alex to the latter half. Henry’s glee bubbles up inside of them like the Prosecco that sits on their table with their half-eaten pasta, ready to burst. 

The two of them are passing the last mouthfuls of it when the boat draws to a stop, Alex’s arm loose around their waist now. 

“Turns out, I love London,” Alex tells them over the endnotes, nose brushing Henry’s temple.

“Me too,” Henry says. Means it. They think the company is the reason that the city has felt so vibrant today.

It's truly dark when they depart at the harbour without the aid of the fairy lights and candles and glittering cocktail dresses. Henry thinks to themself it's like walking the plank, balancing on the thin walkway.

“Woah,” Alex draws out the vowels, hand poking at Henry’s shirt when they’re on the ground again. Henry looks down to see it's unbuttoned to the sternum, exposing the tight, white crop beneath. They hadn’t even noticed.

“Oh,” They say uselessly. 

“We match now,” Alex points out, despite his own shirt being dumped in the tote somewhere between Andante, Andante and Fernando. Henry smiles up at him. 

“That we do,” Henry says, and it's on the tip of their tongue; the explanation for the crop that is so damn tight-fitting, and not actually a simple crop top at all.

Unfortunately, it's broken when Emeraude departs behind them with a resounding clack of her heels on cobblestone. She embraces them both before they leave, her and Fabio deciding to stay on for the trip back.

“Wonderful boys,” She tells them, cupping both of their chins, and Henry shoves down their wince at the word. She doesn’t know. How could she possibly? “Enjoy yourselves for the duration of your time, won’t you?”

“We’ll try our best,” Henry tells her, smiling freely. Alex wiggles out of it when Fabio poses a question about Camden.

“Ah,” She meets Henry’s eye with her own impossible wide, and they realise the glasses must have slipped. They panic, brief but all-encompassing, and she shakes her head. “I thought so, on the boat.”

Henry stills, stammering. “You can’t..”

She shakes her head. “I will not. What will I say; I saw a handsome, young individual with another on the streets of London? No. Ne vous inquiétez pas.”

Perhaps foolishly of all, they trust her. “Thank you.”

She smiles softly at them and says, quietly, “I met your father when I was a girl your age, do you know?”

Henry stills. It's almost amusing how quickly their eyes begin to sting. Their voice betrays them, small and wavering. “You did?”

“King Lear’s final matinee,” She tells them. “He was glorious. He was in a rush, however, to get home. But he was a joy, a true fan of the work.”

They know. They know that that was when they were a young child. They remember attending rehearsals.

“Yes,” They say incredulously, a half-laugh escaping. “You cannot-”

She lifts her hands. “No, no. I have seen nothing. He has truly no idea, do not worry.”

Henry nods, sneaking a look to Fabio and Alex. Alex’s grin falters when he meets Henry’s eyes, and Henry shakes their head. Still, he begins to make his way over.

“As I say, enjoy your time with him,” Emeraude tells Henry,  “Won’t you?”

I am, They want to scream. I am trying .

Then they think of their father, and the story that their mother had told a thousand times over. A story they used to fawn over, and Bea and Pip rolled their eyes at. How determined she had been to pursue him the first time she had met him, and how she’d ditched her security to dance with him.

How, after that night, they’d never parted.

Oh, Christ. Henry’s been going about it wrong. Assuming today would be only those fleeting hours, and that they cannot have anything more when they return to the palace. Resigning themself to more dates with women and hiding. To not speaking to Alex again. Why should that be the case?

Henry is tired of being boxed in. Of not going after what they want.

“I will,” They tell her honestly. “I will, Emeraude, thank you.”

“Good,” Her smile spreads when Alex bounds over, his hand slipping into Henry’s. “Have a good night, mes chéris.”

They see the two of them off until the boat departs, some music from further up the harbour playing distantly.

“What was that about?”

Henry’s mouth opens and closes. They find their eyes are stinging and their chest is pounding, but they do not mind it.

Instead of answering, Henry tugs Alex by the hand to find the source of the music. Alex, blessedly, goes along with it.

It doesn’t take long at all.

A busker, a sole guitar and a microphone stand. He is crooning the lyrics to a song he recognises well. Annie’s Song, John Denver.

Alex clearly recognises it too if the gasp in Henry’s ear means anything. 

Henry doesn’t know if it's that, or Emeraude or the memory of their parents or today as a whole, that has them stepping close and wrapping their arms around Alex’s shoulders. 

Alex pulls Henry close, of course he does, and finally. Finally, Henry gets to feel those strong hands on the small of their back, arms bracketing them in. Alex holds them, and Henry rests their cheek on Alex’s shoulder. 

Henry doesn’t know when, or how, but suddenly they’re swaying.

One of Alex’s hands slides down their back, and to their waist. It's devastating, how right it feels. The other takes Henry’s hand. Henry begins to pull back, confused, but Alex tugs their hand to his hair.

Oh. Oh .

Henry hesitantly slides their fingers through curls, finding them devastatingly soft, and Alex lays his cheek atop Henry’s head with a sigh. 

It's not so much a dance as it is them stepping in time to the music and nothing like the unreserved time on the boat, but it's perfect . Here, in the harbour with the waves lapping and the stars shining, they feel free. Freer than they have ever felt, enclosed in the arms of the man who made it all happen.

They would not have felt brave enough to do anything they have done today without him. They wouldn’t have even made it past the first hurdle. Alex has brought something out in Henry that they didn’t know still existed. Something buried deep, unearthed again.

They never want to part with it.

“I have dreamt of this,” Henry confesses, throat closing, “For a long time.”

“Being swept off your feet by an American dreamboat?”

Henry huffs, burrowing in impossibly closer. “Not exactly.”

“Sorry, continue, I have this thing where I have to poke fun and ignore my emotions,” Alex says. He thumbs at Henry’s waist. “You can tell me, baby.”

“You..” Henry cuts themself off, that word having a profound effect on them. Damn you, Alex. “To dance with a man in public. To even just, merely, exist beside one, really. He was always faceless. Never quite as bewitching as you, however. And now I have had it twice in the same night.”

Alex swallows and asks, gently, “Is it everything you wanted it to be?”

Henry lifts their head. Pulls back enough to smile at him, both their hands at his nape, and great emotion tugs at them. “So much more.”

Alex’s face is so impossibly open, “ Henry .”

It's phrased like a question. Henry nods, eyes darting over Alex’s face.

“Christ,” Henry swallows. “I really don’t want to part with you. Isn’t that bonkers?”

The visible relief that washes over Alex’s features makes their stomach twist. “Me either. Um. I don’t wanna, uh, leave you either, is what I mean.”

“I know, love,” Henry smiles, laughs, eyes wet. “I can’t.. I mean. Where are you staying?”

“Fuck,” Alex says, a huff of laughter escaping him too. Henry thumbs his cheeks. “Um, South Kensington. By the station, believe it or not.”

“Alright,” Henry nods, never so sure of anything as what they say next. “I want to be with you. However you’ll have me, Alex, I want it.”

“God, fuck , you’re not allowed to casually say that to me in public,” Alex swallows, letting his head fall to Henry’s shoulder. “For the record, this is the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me, as is, like, this whole day. And you’re, like, amazing, so please don’t think that all I want is to hook up with you.”

“Alex,” Henry cuts him off. “I know that.”

“I do want that,” Alex clarifies, “But-“

“I know, darling,” Henry tells him again, bemused, their want for him burning hot under their skin. “I’ve been thinking about it since Hyde Park, to be honest.”

“Why would you tell me that,” Alex whines, “Okay, to the tube, immediately, before I fucking die.”

Henry laughs, wet and loud and ridiculous, and takes his hand once again.

It's raining when they depart from the station. Of course it is.

They weave through alleys and under storefronts on their way to Alex’s hotel among a drizzle. Alex is sure of where it is, the first and the second time that they go looking. 

Henry’s phone is purposely turned off and Alex’s is dead, so they’re forced to ask for directions. The bewilderment at Henry’s attire only serves to amuse Alex to the point he struggles to ask for directions, but they make it.

Almost.

The heavens open up when they spot the V&A. Alex namedrops The Pelham, and Henry has a whole range of questions that die on their tongue when they hear a familiar voice. 

Utterly impossible, and yet here he is.

“Why’d you stop?” Alex asks, breathless. 

Henry grabs him, and tugs him further back into the alley. Alex, God bless him, doesn’t question it. Interestingly, his eyes widen minutely and his mouth drops open.

“My.. my bloody equerry,” Henry says, laughing incredulously. They can’t stop looking at that blasted mouth wet with rainwater and imagining it between their legs. Damning sight to be at the forefront of their mind currently. “Christ, of course. You’re staying around the corner from the palace. Of course this was going to happen.”

When Alex speaks, it's rough. “What the fuck is an equerry?”

Henry knows that Shaan frequents the Ampersand sometimes, they know this because Shaan has promised them a drink there upon the eve of his retirement, so of course Shaan would check for them there. 

“I suppose what you would consider both a PA and a member of the Secret Service in one.”

Alex’s mouth opens and closes in a journey that Henry should not be so entranced by. “What?”

“Essentially, he attends to my needs and ensures I am not, well,” Henry throws up a hand, “Dead or missing.”

“Yeesh,” Alex says. “He’ll be okay, right? Surely y’all pay that man a shitload of money. He’ll be fine.”

“Truth be told, it's not his fault. I purposely misled him.” Henry confesses, and then tries for humour. “My gran will be too busy trying to lock me up in a tower for the rest of my days to take note of him.”

Alex smirks. “Sounds like somebody in need of a hot, agile man to climb up and save you."

“Agile?” Henry bites his cheek, stomach flipping. 

Christ almighty.

“Mm. Come here,” Alex says in a lower register that is doing things to Henry’s body they should not be allowing to sway them so easily. 

They follow that invisible rope, the one that’s tied their being to Alex’s all day, and lets Alex pull them close by the waist. They can feel how his hands span the small of Henry’s back entirely. Henry’s own find rough, clay terrace either side of Alex’s head.

“I have an idea,” Alex proposes, a glint to his eye and a quirk to his mouth. Henry nods. “This equerry, well, he won’t be able to tell it's you if you’re otherwise occupied, will he?”

Henry realises they’re hidden pretty far back, and Shaan most likely will not see either of them. Besides, it is absolutely hammering it down, and no sane man would be caught out in it.

Still. 

Henry’s chest thumps, and a smile tugs on their mouth. “Occupied doing what?”

“I’m not sure,” Alex blinks, lashes impossibly longer and thicker in the rain. The head tilt feigning innocence does things to them. “Let me think; what activity could you and I partake in so your face is hidden from view?”

“I’m pretty sure we’re pretty well obscured,” Henry points out. “Shaan has probably already headed inside now.”

Alex licks his lips. Henry lurches into his space. “It's better to be safe than sorry.”

“This is the most convoluted way I’ve ever been asked to kiss someone,” Henry tells him brightly. “I hope you are aware.”

Alex shrugs, those impossibly long hands stroking up Henry’s waist. “I’m just being really thorough. I’d hate to be caught having abducted the prince, especially after mocking the monarchy in-“

With a roll of their eyes, Henry cuts him off with a kiss Alex automatically opens up for. 

It's glorious. 

It's slow despite the setting. Henry had been thinking of nothing but Alex’s mouth on them since Camden or maybe even before, their bodies intertwined, but hadn’t envisioned this. Alex holds Henry like they’re something to cherish, and kisses them like he’s starved. Henry gets the sentiment entirely.

It's when they change the angle of their head that the cap pokes Alex in the forehead. He pulls away with a smack of lips, cackling. It’s wet through and in the way, so Henry takes it and the glasses off and dumps them in the tote. 

“There you are,” Alex pants, smile blinding, and Henry can do nothing but kiss him again. And again. And some more.

It feels much like an inevitability, like the certainty of the sun beating down on you after a rich Summer day. The desire Henry feels currently has been building all day, has been crescending since South Kensington at eight in the morning, and feels all-encompassing. 

They continue until there’s another crack of thunder. Henry pulls back then, smiling and breathless. Alex presses his grin to Henry’s jaw, and that’s when Henry decides.

“You asked if I have any wishes of places to visit today,” Henry says, hands stroking up Alex’s arms. “I have somewhere I’d like you to see.”

Alex’s smile widens against their skin, a nip of teeth, and Henry huffs a laugh. “Not like that, you scoundrel.”

“Go on?”

“It's just a short walk from here,” Henry tells him. “If you’d like?”

So. Alex presses a quick kiss to their skin, and lets Henry lead him to the V&A. It's on the same street as Alex’s hotel regardless, so it's not like it's much of a trek.

In the rain, it does feel like it.

Henry knows that Gavin’s shift begins early on Wednesdays, and they explain to Alex that he usually has his break hour first. Gloriously, that means they sneak right in after Henry unearths the key from a loose paneling.

They leave the tote, the soaked through cap and the glasses in the Dome area. 

They weave through each section with the soft, night lighting that Henry is used to. Shadows dance over each carved face that has become more known to them than the members of their own household, and Henry smiles because now, they’re not alone with only the art for company. 

They traipse through the Jacobean wing, and Henry takes Alex through the journey of James and Charles and George Villiers too. They talk of Villiers and James’ relationship, and the unique embrace of queerness his reign brought.

Alex is quiet save for the occasional comment about the eyes of each statue when they get to the cast courts, how it feels like they follow him, and it's almost bizarre to Henry that he is.

“My parents used to bring me, Bea and Philip every other week as children,” Henry offers in the silence, their arm weaved in the crook of Alex’s as they take in the bust of David before them. “I think perhaps it was to instill the importance of art and history in us. God knows the rest of my family don’t share the notion.”

“And now?” Alex asks softly, watching them. 

“Sorry?”

“Why do you come here now?”

Henry drags their eyes from David . “I suppose it's stuck as a safe place for me. I still can’t quite believe it's real. The sheer multitude of knowledge in this room alone, the weight of all who lived before us still being tangible and real before our eyes.. It's still just absolutely mind-boggling. And it's all so beautiful .”

They're surprised by the sure kiss Alex presses to their temple. They’re more surprised by the subtle pink covering his cheeks. 

He asks the same words he had at Achilles’ statue earlier, his voice impossibly gentler than this morning. “Tell me more?”

It's then that they understand why Alex has been so quiet. He’s taking it all in, the history and Henry too. He wants to hear Henry talk his ear off about it all. He is truly interested.

Henry kisses him there, before David’s overarching figure and the all-knowing eyes of The Duke of Nemours. They’re reminded of the dozens of other Henry’s before today who have come here to stare up at him. Henry’s drowning in grief and guilt and despair. 

They pour every bit of themself into the kiss, every version of them, and Alex melts into it. 

They kiss, slow like they have all the time in the world and not Gavin’s lunch break, until it reaches a natural conclusion. Alex pulls them further into the Court, and demands Henry “drop the lore” on Donatello’s David. 

“It's interesting that you’ve unknowingly brought me to one of the gayest artworks in the place,” Henry muses, “Donatello modelled the heads of many of his sculptures off of Roman busts, and he actually based on Antinous, Emperor Hadrian's gay lover. Or that’s what historians believe.”

Alex blanches. “Oh, you’re telling me historians agreed that something is gay?”

“Ah,” Henry says, watching Alex grin wide, “Well, they are art historians.”

“Shit, you got me.” Alex nudges them, gesturing toward the other court. “How many rooms do you think we can get through before we’ve got to leave?”

“Certainly one more at least,” Henry decides, and pulls him toward the hall and to the Sculptures. 

They do get through that long, expansive hall with a few breaks to neck against every surface, and up the stairs too. 

They’re somewhere on the second floor looking at modern art when Henry realises they’ve only got a good ten minutes left, and so they break into a run. 

Henry leads and Alex follows, and they scarcely get through the entrance and to a side street when Gavin returns to his post. Henry watches him take in the slightly exposed key with a deep-set frown, and Alex giggles to their right.

“Thank you for that,” Alex says earnestly as they’re making their way to his hotel, chest heaving with exertion. Henry’s answering laugh is breathless, born of relief and pure, unadulterated joy. Something that, if they were truly honest, they’ve not felt in a good while.

“Thank you for letting me show you,” Henry tells him, “I’ve never shared the museum with anyone. Not like that.”

Alex presses his next thank you to the corner of Henry’s mouth down the alley that they hid in before. Henry feels his thanks in the hands that delicately frame their face and the fingers that stroke their cheekbones. Henry leans up into it, and gives it just as good.

Sinking into it, into Alex’s mouth and his hands and his spread legs, it feels like something setting into place.

There is a window opposite, adorned with potted plants that have begun climbing up the brick. Vines poke out with clematis flowers dotted between thick leaves. They are turned upwards toward the rain despite dripping with it, and Henry knows this because Alex has turned them around and pressed them against the wall instead.

It's electric. God, it truly is. 

Henry closes their eyes to the flowers and the hotel room window cracked open and the tantalising glow beyond it too.

They don’t care if people see, or hear. People deserve to hear the sounds Alex is making, actually. They think the wet slide of their mouths, the heady moans pressed against Henry’s skin, well, they should be bottled up. Maybe just for Henry.

Alex ruts lazily against their leg and Henry slides against his thigh, grinning against his mouth. Nips at the flesh, like it's ripe fruit begging to be taken, and Alex’s whine tells them that the description might not be far from the truth.

They move until there’s an unmistakable clap of thunder that shakes the ground they stand on. 

“Hotel,” Alex slurs. “Shower, central heating. Me under you or on you or both, whatever you like. Thoughts?”

“Your best idea yet,” Henry concurs with one, last kiss, and lets him lead them across the road.

Henry’s aware of what a sight they must look.

The populace inside is exactly what he had envisioned; tailcoats and velvet gowns and beady eyes above martini glasses. They are, in comparison, quite evidently dripping rainwater on the marble floor.

Another time, perhaps Henry would care. They would cower from the attention and, when that failed, stick on their press smile and hope for the best. Instead, they’re hiding their laughter in Alex’s shoulder as he attempts to obscure Henry’s face from view, shirt and shorts clinging to their body.

“Mr. Claremont-Diaz,” The man at the desk greets, smiling widely. “Your key you asked us to keep a hold of.”

“Forgetful,” Alex whispers to Henry, “I suck at keeping a hold on things.”

Henry blinks at that. Claremont-Diaz, they’ve heard that recently. Why?

“Thanks, man,” Alex grins, clasping the key and the man’s hand in a firm handshake. Henry zeroes in on the cut of his wrist where it meets his palm, dainty where the rest of him is so large, and so much, and everything Henry wants. Alex’s hand presses between Henry’s shoulder blades. Those spindling fingers. “C’mon.”

Henry lets Alex cart them to the lifts, and the pair of them get in alongside an older man in a hotel uniform. They stand on either side of him, sharing glances over his head with increasingly bemused expressions.

Claremont-Diaz, though, they think. Why have they heard that surname before? Recently, too.

It irritates them, burrows under their skin. 

Pez would know.

Then, of course, this is when it hits Henry. The reason Pez is gone, the reason he’s in bloody DC in the States. Henry was due to attend the fundraiser with him but Gran hadn’t allowed it. She had seen it as the Crown promoting deviancy, or whatever flavour homophobic-slash-transphobic noun of the week was her favourite.

A week ago, Pez had drunkenly shared that Senator Claremont would be there.

“Not Senator Claremont’s son,” It sounds ridiculous when Henry voices it, but even then, it makes sense . Christ, her ex-husband had attended London Economics and became a senator in California. Henry knew that. Henry knew that. 

“Uh,” Alex’s eyes travel the lift. “So.”

The man chooses that moment to get off, and Henry’s glad for it. They catch a glance at Alex, who watches Henry back with wide eyes.

“Bloody hell,” Henry laughs, squeezing the bridge of their nose. “Why on God’s green Earth are you here right now?”

“I told you, travelling before law school, and to - wait, you’re not mad? Why are you not mad?”

“Why would I be?” Henry queries. “Do you want me to be cross with you?”

“No!” Alex proclaims, hands twitching. “Uh, I just. I don’t want you to think, like, I lied to you. I didn’t. It just never came up, and when I felt like it could, I didn’t want to take away from you to whine about my mom and dad.”

“In all honesty, I don’t much care,” Henry tells him honestly, shuffling along the back of the lift towards him. “It doesn’t change a thing for me. Does it for you, now that I know?”

Alex’s head turns, resting on the wall. He’s not shy about giving Henry a onceover, “Not in the slightest.”

“Alright then,” Henry swallows, grateful they checked the lift had no cameras when they entered, and moves so that their mouth hovers over Alex’s. “Good.”

“Thank God,” Alex groans, and Henry tugs him down with a grin against his mouth.

Henry doesn’t know how long they move together in the lift, really. It's inadvisable. Dangerous, probably. Well, the whole thing is. Even more so now that Henry knows Alex’s truth too. It wouldn’t be good for either of them if they were caught, Henry moreso. But, God, when it feels this tantalising, they don’t care . 

And it's life-shatteringly good to realise this. 

They don’t care about what Gran has to say, nor Philip, nor any soul in that palace. They don’t care for the opinion of anyone else, not anymore. They’ve been fed up with it for a while, and Alex has quite literally forced out any qualms they had left. 

It simply doesn’t matter. And Alex feels too good under them to even consider caring.

“Alex,” They say, the man in question pawing at their shirt buttons. They giggle against the corner of his lips. “Love.”

“Mm, yep,” Alex slurs, mouth moving against Henry’s jaw when he realises Henry isn’t going to kiss him again. Henry forgets, briefly, what they’re to say. Then there’s a jolt and, ah. “We should get off.”

“Totally agree. Smartest thing you’ve ever said,” There’s Alex’s tongue on their skin, and Henry shudders through a laugh, hands tightening in his hair. 

“Your room, darling,” Henry’s lips catch his temple, his hair. “Which floor?”

“Oh shit,” Alex blinks. “Sorry, yeah. Sorry. My room’s, uh, fourth floor.”

“Brilliant,” Henry fidgets out of Alex’s hold to press the button, and thus Alex begins kissing his way along Henry’s nape instead. 

“Christ,” They shiver through a laugh, leaning their head to the side to give him better access. Alex’s hands wander, large and fearless, down Henry’s front. It's all rather glorious, and something they haven’t felt in a while. The NDAs and such have grown as tedious as the rest of it all. Henry is growing increasingly aware of how little they care about keeping secrets.

They separate as the lift dings, and wait side-by-side through the corridor to Alex’s room. It's exciting when their shoulders brush, when Alex’s hand brushes Henry’s wait and he grins to himself.

It's exciting when Henry leans back against the wall, watching Alex fumble with the card and the slot. He’s nervous, shoving the wrong end in. His tongue pokes out in frustration, and Henry throbs between their legs.

“I sure hope that this isn’t an indication of your skills beyond that door, Alex.”

Alex scoffs. Then, he looks up. “It's cute that you think I need to fight my case, sweetheart.”

“And yet,” Henry says, “Here we are. You are unable to find the slot.”

Alex’s eyes glint. He bites his lip. “I like to take my time. Really earn it, you know? Makes it just as worth it for me outside of the end result.”

Fuck.

Henry attempts to look as if they have no reaction to that, but Alex’s growing smirk tells them they did the opposite. Henry shifts against the wall, back arching and head leaning back. From such an angle, it's like they’re looking down at Alex. If Alex wants to play that game then, well. Henry will too.

Just for good measure, Henry steps forward and takes the keycard from willing fingers. Wordlessly, they slide between Alex and the door. They press it in perfectly on the first try, and open the door.

Heart pounding, they walk into a suite. Before they can even ponder that, there is the telltale click of a lock and. Suddenly they are spinning, and their back is to the door. They hear something about teases, and Henry welcomes the teeth that find their throat.

“Just to be clear,” Alex tells them, his length pressed to Henry’s hip, inches from where Henry needs him most, “I’m insanely fucking gone on you.”

Oh. Henry hadn’t been expecting that. They bring their hands to Alex’s shoulders and slide into the curls at his nape again.

“I’m rather fond of you too,” Henry confesses brightly, “Do you know what I am more fond of?”

Alex pulls back from Henry’s neck, lips red and swollen, eyes dark. Henry envisions that mouth covered in them, between their thighs, and gets the urge to shove their hand in their shorts. Reckons it’ll be rendered an utterly useless barrier already. 

“Yeah?”

His face is so open, and so willing to give what Henry wishes, that they know deep within that they can trust Alex with this. With all of it. 

“Being fucked on a bed with an egregious thread count.”

“Fuck,” Alex groans, pressing an open kiss to their jaw. “Of course. Come. Well-”

Henry barks a laugh, pushing him backwards gently. Alex goes willingly, a dazed look on his face. “You are awful.”

“Yep,” Alex agrees, and Henry watches him walk backwards to the bed. 

Then, they watch Alex tug his vest over his head, and all thoughts leave their head entirely. Simply put, Alex is gorgeous. Much like Achilles and much like Apollo and Dionysus too, he is Godly . Miles of brown skin glows with the rain that has soaked through cotton, and Henry shakes their head.

“What?”

“You are so beautiful.” Alex bites his cheek, and Henry continues. “I have thought that so many times today, it's rather embarrassing.”

Alex huffs. “Please get over here.”

Henry doesn’t have to be told twice. They march over, settling in Alex’s lap and letting him pull them into an open, desperate kiss and, oh.

They get a better feel for him now they’re not rutting like desperate teens in an alley. Alex is thick. A little bigger than average. His hips circle ever so slightly like he knows exactly how to use it.

It's only then, when Henry presses down on him that Alex, in succession, makes a noise, pauses and pulls away. 

“Uh,” He says, and Henry’s stomach twists because they know exactly what he’s going to say. And they knew it was inevitable, but hadn’t been looking forward to the conversation. Perhaps this is why they put it off until now. They sit back on Alex’s thighs.

Most of the men they’ve slept with haven’t cared. Yanked down their underwear and speared into them until he came and collapsed beside them. Sometimes they’ll eat Henry out if they ask, but. There is always this conversation. And it's rather a mood killer for a fair few.

“I’m not cis,” Henry tells Alex, meeting his eyes. “I know that you referred to being bisexual and you are clearly trans-positive as are your parents, so I assumed it would be okay. I should have told you before we came to your room, and I can only apologise, so if you-”

“Can I eat you out?”

Henry’s mouth drops open, cheeks flaring. “I- sorry?”

“Sorry. I mean, I’m totally fucking down with this, you have no idea,” Alex tells them, swallowing hard. “Are you - wait, yeah, you’re trans and a guy, then? Would you be down with me doing that? Whatever you want.”

“Not really a man either,” Henry cringes at themself, “I’m not a fan of any kind of gender, I suppose. I would, erm, be partial to the former request, though.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Alex says earnestly, beginning to press kiss after kiss to Henry’s cheek. “Bravest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

Henry pulls him back by his hair, a gentle tug, and Alex smiles against their mouth.

“Any particular terms you’re down with?”

Henry gives pause. Nobody has ever asked this. It takes them a second of playing with Alex’s curls, blunt nails scratching at his scalp, watching his lashes flutter.

“I suppose I’m fine with anything in regards to the act. Gendered terms, no. Pet names, absolutely.”

“Gonna pretend I haven’t noticed you basically melt when I call you baby,” Alex grins, kissing them again, like he can’t help himself. Henry loses themself in it for a moment, and groans when Alex’s cock brushes them again. 

Alex’s grin only quirks wider, and Henry’s thighs shake. They get the succinct idea that they’re about to be ruined for anyone else. What a glorious feeling.

“I really appreciate you trusting me with this,” Alex tells them gently, then, “I’m gonna make you come on my tongue now.”

Then Alex, sort of. Well.

He lifts Henry up and sets them down on the edge of the bed, impossibly gentle, and gets to his knees with what can only be described as overwhelming enthusiasm.

He unbuttons Henry’s trousers for them, just as gently, and Henry lifts up for them to be tugged down to their ankles.

Alex groans, shifting forward the second that they are, like he can’t help it. Then there’s his hands on Henry’s thighs, long and spindling and Henry’s twitching . Henry looks down to see where Alex is zeroed in; a dark patch on the front of their underwear.

“Fuck, baby,” Alex all but whimpers. “All this because of me?”

Henry, for lack of better words, throbs. Still, they choke out, “What do you think?”

Alex’s mouth finds their thigh and works it's way up, torturously slow. Henry feels his voice vibrate on their skin and directly to their core. “Can I touch you?” 

Henry nods, disbelieving that this God is on his knees for them. “Please..”

“So polite,” Alex smirks up at them from between their legs, hand trailing the length of skin his mouth just mapped.

His hand stops several inches away, and then. Then there are only two fingers lightly tracing Henry’s inner thigh. They shiver, the touch so featherlight that it's almost phantom. Like Henry is imagining this all.

Then those fingers hover over Henry’s scarcely covered clit, and Henry bites down hard on their lip. Alex’s fingers travel further to their true destination. The heel of his hand presses firmly to it as his fingers graze over their cunt ever so slightly.

Alex circles them once and groans aloud at the obscene noise that it makes. Henry flushes hard, extremely aware that only a thin layer of cotton separates Alex from being inside of them and just how utterly soaked they already are because of this, and.

“Alex,” They gasp out because they can’t keep it in, “Alex, please.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, in awe. His mouth traces the path of his fingers up Henry’s thigh as his hand circles, lips and teeth and tongue, taking his time.

“Lift up for me,” Alex proposes, and then Henry scrambles to do so, and then.

Alex tugs their underwear down, and parts their thighs more. 

“Oh my god,” He adds, dazed, and the lick of his lips is it. Henry tangles a hand in his curls and tugs him forward. It results, incredibly, in Alex whining high and gorgeous. 

“Stop teasing,” Henry warns, hand tightening. 

“Sorry, you’re distractingly gorgeous,” Alex grins, and then his tongue is exactly where Henry needs him most.

Alex, as Henry is fast learning, is all too eager to please.

His tongue licks a stripe up their cunt, and their shared groan when his mouth settles on Henry’s clit leads to vibrations Henry cannot fucking handle. Their body writhes with it, and Alex’s hands tighten on their thighs, his fingers digging in and keeping Henry in place.

Christ.

Henry watches him all but devour their cunt, subservient to his wicked tongue, transfixed. He continues with these little moans, like he derives pleasure from it, and Henry can do nothing but hold on and cry his name so many times it delves into prayer song.

“Baby,” Alex’s head lifts, mouth slick and shining with spit and Henry’s wetness. He looks so downright sinful that Henry misses half of what he says, only catching something about fingers.

“Yes,” They choke out, “Inside me.”

“Fuck,” Alex says, voice raw and eyes dark. “You’re unreal.”

“And you’re stalling,” Henry teases, watching Alex’s face twitch, like it's a challenge.

Two of Alex’s fingers are then there, tracing around Henry’s cunt.

“So wet,” Alex muses, stroking a circle around their entrance. A tip dips inside, and Henry bucks up with a moan. “Holy fuck, baby. Fuck. You want me inside you?”

Henry nods, lip sucked between their teeth.

“Gonna need it verbalised, sweetheart,” Alex tuts, except his fingers don’t halt and Henry is throbbing and.

“I want your fingers in me. I want to come on them,” They choke out.

“You will,” Alex states, and Henry shivers. “Do you want to move up the bed? Get comfy for me?”

Henry nods, and scrambles back against the pile of pillows. 

They lift up their shirt too, and the crop. Alex groans, halting them with his dry hand, and presses a beautiful to their mouth. 

Then, he’s placing a pillow below Henry’s back, and he’s crawling up Henry’s legs, and he’s licking a stripe up their cunt like he can’t help it.

“Y’taste so good. Tell me if it gets too much,” He grins, and promptly wraps his mouth around Henry’s clit as his fingers finally slide home.

They’re so impossibly long and as rough as Henry imagined. They’re relentless and precise, and Henry briefly feels a flash of envy that anyone else ever got to experience this for him to be as practised as he is. Then his fingers curl inside so suddenly a guttural moan is punched out of Henry so loud that they slap a hand over their mouth.

“No,” Alex rips his mouth away, dripping with Henry. “Don’t you dare stay quiet.”

Henry whimpers, throbbing, and Alex dives back in.

They’re confused about their positions here, dancing back and forth over the line so delicately that it does nothing but drive Henry closer to the edge. 

Alex pulls out at the same time he halts the kitten licks to their clit, and slams back in as he sucks hard. Henry chokes on a silent scream, hand squeezing tight and tugging at Alex’s hair. They push him closer, impossibly, wanting more.

Alex’s responding whine feels incredible combined with a third finger joining the two inside of them. The sound of them together is obscene, the little moans as they move together. Alex’s tongue presses down with vigor, like he can’t get enough of the taste after all.

They don’t realise they’re moving until Alex’s hand presses down again on their thigh. Then, he lifts it with the one hand, and Henry’s stomach tightens. Oh, they’re close.

“Fully down with you fucking my face,” Alex slurs, “Just so you know.”

“Is that a request?” Henry asks, breathless, playing with damp curls. 

“Yeah,” Alex says, and then switches up. His fingers press down on Henry’s bundle of nerves that jump with it, and he slurps at Henry’s cunt before his tongue pokes inside.

And, well, Henry is only human. They do exactly as he asked. 

They tug Alex close as they grind against the divine, wet heat of his mouth. There’s the slightest stubble that adds just enough friction that has Henry all but panting.

“Close, Alex,” They get out, heels digging in the sheets to feel him more. 

The heel of Alex’s hand replaces his fingers, an unending and unforgiving pressure as he fucks deep inside them.

“Alex,” They repeat, hips lifting to chase the waves they can feel beginning to rise, “Alex, Alex.”

Alex’s groan vibrates through their entire fucking core, it feels, and it's exactly what they need. Their thighs squeeze tight, and they distantly recognise that coming has never felt like this before, before they feel themself do something they never thought possible.

“Oh my god, oh-”

Alex is whimpering against them as they ride through it, thrusting shamelessly against his open, willing mouth.

They watch as he swallows, lapping at them as he does, and they fall back against the sheets with a cry.

Alex continues until they stop, and presses a kiss to their hip. 

Then, he’s climbing up Henry’s body, hands stroking their waist. 

“Holy fuck,” He half-laughs, eyes as wild as his hair and entirely as dark. “Have you ever done that before?”

“Squirt on someone’s face?” They laugh, “No.”

“You’re so fucking hot,” Alex whines, wet mouth finding their throat. His clothed cock brushes against Henry’s core, and they can’t help the thrust up to meet it. “Hen-”

“Fuck me,” They say, licking their lips. “Alex.”

Alex lifts his head. “What?”

“Fuck me,” Henry repeats, hand finding his cheek. “Please. I need you to.”

“You’re sure?”

“One-hundred percent,” They smile, loose and happy, “I think you deserve it, don’t you, darling?”

Alex’s lashes flutter, and his cheeks flush beautifully. 

“You do,” They tell him, and it's so refreshingly wonderful to be with someone like this, like Alex, who only asks if it's what Henry wants.

That, and his obvious praise kink.

“I need to feel you inside me,” Henry says, thumbing his cheekbone where freckles and flush both paint his gorgeous, brown skin. “Do you have anything?”

Alex’s eyes close in a quiet laugh. Henry smiles too, raising an eyebrow.

“My friend, Nora, gave them as a parting gift. I haven’t been with anybody in a while. It was a joke.”

“Ah, well, I haven’t either,” Henry reassures him, “Thank goodness for crude friends, hm?”

“Yeah, thank god,” Alex says, leaning over them to the bedside table. 

He sits back with an unopened box in his lap. He pulls out a strip of XLs and tears one off with shaky hands. Henry’s mouth drops open.

Alex notices them looking and grins. “Again, Nora thinks she’s hilarious. In this case, also right. Thank god.”

“Thank god indeed,” Henry agrees, and shamelessly parts their legs. Alex swallows, and drops the thing

A laugh bubbles out of Henry, and they shake their head with it, in complete disbelief. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Alex pouts, laughing too, “You can’t just do that and expect me to be, like, suave and well-adjusted about it.”

Henry rolls their eyes in jest. They lie back properly, and consider why exactly the housekeeper deemed about seven pillows a requirement. “I suppose I will lie here and wait aimlessly. Shall I check if this room has Netflix, maybe?”

“Shut up,” Alex cackles, ripping the packet open. “Jesus, okay. Let’s get this thing back on the road.”

“Oh my god,” Henry throws their arm over their eyes, grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you want me in you so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Henry looks up, a retort dying on their tongue at the sight of Alex rolling the condom on. He notices, of course he does, and smiles softly up at Henry. The juxtaposition is, just. Too much. 

“You’re really sure about this?”

“Yes,” Henry reassures. “Fuck me, please.”

“Well,” Alex grins, lowering himself over Henry, “Since you asked so sweetly.”

Henry reaches down to help guide him inside, and the second he is, they groan in unison. Sybaritism takes the front seat with such a sudden force; they can feel Alex everywhere.

Alex presses open, sweet kisses to their jaw as his hips snap forward.

Henry clamours to touch him, finding purchase in the sure planes of his shoulders and the hard muscle there. Alex’s grunts fill their ear, and Henry grips tighter as he pulls out.

“Take it,” Henry requests, “I want you to be rough.”

“You-” Alex’s hips stutter, and Henry shoves their hips back on Alex’s cock.

“I mean it,” They tell him, “I need it, love. You can be good and do that for me, can’t you?”

Alex whimpers, and everything they have ever suspected about him shines. Alex’s jaw is slack with his mouth open, and Henry surges to lick inside it.

They can taste themself and Alex both, and it's so divine combined with the sudden pistoning of his hips that their grip on his shoulders is resorted to blunt nails in muscle.

Henry thrusts down as Alex pistons inside, their kiss reduced to wet, messy kisses along each other’s faces as they pant together.

They move as one body as it grows more frenetic. Henry’s body is a livewire, they can feel everything. It's both too much and not enough as they chase that second orgasm they can feel is approaching. 

Alex is unrelenting, and then he’s gripping Henry’s thigh, lifting it up over his shoulder. The new angle is delicious, and the sound of him slamming inside is obscenely loud. It's also incredibly hot.

Alex hits that spot inside them easily, of course he does, and their eyes roll back with it. Alex grins against their cheek, and then his hand is sliding down Henry’s body, tantalisingly and torturously slow.

“Alex,” is punched out of them, and they’re shocked by how hoarse they sound. Alex’s hips stutter forward, so it seems the sentiment is shared. “Alex, I swear to Christ-”

“You’re gonna squirt on me again,” Alex instructs as his hand presses to Henry’s clit once more, and white-hot need surges through Henry. 

“Hhng,” is all Henry manages, and Alex’s throat bobs. His mouth finds Henry’s once more, and Henry’s hands go for Alex’s hair once again. 

It's hard to recognise a rhythm, their movements so frantic. 

Henry welcomes the orgasm rapidly approaching, rutting down on Alex with abandon. Alex gives it just as good, his hand circling and his cock curling exactly how they need it. He feels so deep and he’s all over Henry, covering them with wide shoulders and thighs either side of Henry’s and a cock so perfectly large that it fills them.

“I’m ruined for anybody else,” Alex grunts, “You realise that?”

“Yeah?” Henry asks, tugging his head back to look him in the eye despite how quickly they’re moving, “You haven’t even come yet, darling.”

“I know,” He says poignantly, eyes searching Henry’s. “How am I gonna fuck anybody else knowing I had this?”

Henry whines, lifting up to meet the heel of his hand. “I was telling the truth when I said nobody’s ever made me squirt before.”

Alex’s lips quirk, “They didn’t know how to treat you right, baby.”

“You do,” Henry nods, delirious, “So good to me.”

Alex shudders, fucking inside them so hard that the bed shifts. Henry shakes, gut squirming. 

“I’m gonna try something,” Alex drawls. 

It's as Henry is left wondering that they feel it. Alex’s finger teasing the point where they’re joined together. Henry gasps, squirming and overstimulated. But they can’t deny it. They need it.

“Yes,” They gasp, “Yes, yes, Alex. Yes-”

Then Alex’s finger is pressing inside them alongside his cock, calloused and impossibly big, and Henry’s brain whites out. 

They arch up as it hits, clenching and spilling around Alex. The force of it has Alex pulling out, and they gasp.

“No,” Something primal is ripped out of them, grasping at Alex’s body as they continue to come, “Come inside me.”

Alex is cursing, thrusting inside and back bowing like a drawstring. His groans as he comes have Henry clenching around him, their eyes rolling back as they ride it out. The squelch of them is abhorrent, and the hottest sound Henry will ever hear.

They remember to place it somewhere in their mind, and never forget it. 

Henry lays there catching their breath as Alex stills, tremors still coursing through them. 

They pant for a moment, chests heaving together. It's rather lovely, actually, to still be joined as they come down from the high. 

Alex flops down on them, mouth moving languid and slow against their clammy skin. 

“Holy fuck. What the fuck,” Alex says, laughs against Henry’s throat. “You’re incredible.”

Henry smiles, languid and slow, too fucked out to care about shame. “You’re one to talk.”

“Eh,” Alex smacks a kiss to their skin, and then lifts up with a groan. 

He slides out of Henry, and the slick noise makes Henry’s mouth drop open. They feel their own come slide down their thigh, and watch Alex’s eyes zero in on it.

“Oh my god,” He says, and Henry bites their cheek.

“I don’t think I can go again,” Henry informs him, laughing. “You broke me.”

“Nah, those guys before me just didn’t know what they were dealing with,” Alex says, “You’re art, baby. You deserve to be treated like it.”

Despite themself, they throb. They ignore it, and smile instead.

“Stay here,” Alex says, tying up the condom and standing. He wanders over to the bathroom bin, unrestraint with Henry’s wetness all over him. 

Henry must doze off because when they open their eyes again, it's to Alex’s hand sliding up their arm and palm.

“Do you feel up to a shower?” He asks softly, “I brought a cloth just in case.”

Christ, this man might actually be genetically engineered to be Henry’s dream come true. They take his hand, and let Alex lead them to the bathroom.

They wash together, slow and sleep-addled. Alex washes them with his body wash, something rich and sweet, and there’s nothing sexual about the way he does. He takes his time, impossibly gentle, and his eyes slip shut when Henry reciprocates. 

They wrap themselves up in bathrobes that Alex apparently laid out, complimentary of the hotel. They have many, many questions still, and probably more pressing issues. But these are for tomorrow.

For now, they curl up at Alex’s side as he fumbles his way through the television channels to find Bake Off at Henry’s request. For now, Alex’s hand is in their hair and he’s talking about some American equivalent that doesn’t sound like much of a difference at all. 

For now, they’re warm, and content, and they feel wanted. It's more than they’ve had for a long while, and it's enough to let them slip into unconsciousness. 

They must have left the television on. That’s Henry’s first thought when they wake.

Alex is awake with his face pressed to Henry’s shoulder. He’s also robeless, and yawns his way through a good morning when Henry presses a kiss to his curls.

The morning broadcast is on, something about the correct way to make tea. They frown.

“They haven’t said a thing about you,” Alex says, voice hoarse with sleep. They’re temporarily distracted by how horrible attractive it is, and then the words sink in.

“Nothing at all?”

“Not a thing except your brother saying you couldn’t make it to the Investiture.”

“Hm,” Henry says, “Odd.”

“Yep,” Alex agrees. “I thought they’d be ringing the bells and shutting the gates by now.”

“This is London, not King’s Landing, darling.” Henry tuts, mouth finding his temple. “Although, easy mistake to make. There are people sat on thrones that should’ve long-since been abolished in both cities.”

“Team Dany all the way,” Alex mutters, and Henry nods. “Wait, what?”

“Just because I was born into it, it doesn’t mean I agree with or want to be part of it,” They scoff. “I wish I could just say fuck it all and do what you have.”

“It's not really the same thing,” Alex points out. “Nobody knows who the fuck I am. They know my mom and dad, sure, but they don’t know me. The entire world knows you.”

“I’ll dye my hair,” Henry proposes. “Get an American accent.”

“Don’t you dare,” Alex laughs, lifting his face with a pout Henry kisses. 

“I thought you weren’t a fan of Britain?”

“I can’t find your accent hot and disapprove of its origins?” 

Henry snorts unattractively. “Thanks for that.”

Alex makes a noise. He presses closer. “What are you going to do?”

“Go back, I suppose,” They huff. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“You do,” Alex says gently. “You chose to leave yesterday. You chose to come with me, and then to come back here.”

Henry ponders that. He is, objectively, correct. Nobody had detected them barring Emeraude in their home city.

“Well, I cannot just up and leave.”

“True,” Alex pulls a face. “Y’all don’t get PTO in the palace?”

Henry wiggles so that they’re laid beside Alex, finally looking him in the face properly. “I could ask for time out.”

“Mm,” Alex agrees. “You could.”

“Emeraude told me to visit her local town in France,” Henry muses, “And you’re visiting in a matter of days.”

Alex grows still. “Yeah, I am.”

“It's just a fun coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Delusional people would call something like that fate.”

Henry presses their smile into the pillow. They say, muffled, “They would.”

Alex grins to himself and turns over to switch off the television. Henry lies there watching him exist, this larger than life beauty, and knows that they’ve been forever changed by it. 

“I want you to have my number,” Alex confesses. “If anything, I think it’d be fucking cool to stay in contact with you. Like, as a friend or-”

“Absolutely.” Henry agrees, perhaps too quickly, and their cheeks warm. “I can’t not speak to you again. Not when you’re that good in bed.”

Alex guffaws, pushing at their shoulder. Henry goes with it, smiling, and tugs him down into a kiss.

The staff don’t react to their reappearance except, perhaps, mild confusion. 

Bea asks if they’re feeling well, and it's so bewildering that they just nod and head further to their rooms. Shaan is there, and locks the door after he shuts it.

“I have made the palace aware that you are recovering from a nasty bout of food poisoning,” Shaan says as a greeting, his voice softer at the edges than normal. “I’d advise that it isn’t wise to go wandering when you are unwell.”

Henry feels such a rush of appreciation for him that their eyes sting.

“You knew?”

“You’re not a very fast runner,” Shaan informs. “I tracked your phone all day, sir. Nobody suspected.”

“Thank you,” They say, staring at him in disbelief. “Er, I can’t thank you enough.”

Shaan nods. “I trust you did all you needed to accomplish?”

Henry pauses for a moment. They toy with their signet, and consider the best way to answer such a loaded question. Their phone pings, and a sneak of Alexander appears. Then, they choose to ask another question instead.

“Is it possible for me to sort out a few days’ leave? Perhaps more?”

Shaan’s mouth twitches minutely. It's so small that Henry’s unsure if they tricked themself with it.

Shaan stands out in his suit.

This is Henry’s first thought when they touch down on a private airstrip outside of Arles. 

It's thirty degrees and the sun beats down on them relentlessly as they depart the plane. Henry’s in another button-down and glasses, this time for the climate and not to hide. 

Shaan, in his woolen suit, is not. He informed Henry on the short flight that a holiday abroad doesn’t dignify dressing unprofessionally. Henry suspects he’ll be changing his mind by tomorrow.

Henry’s second thought is that the jeep Alex has hired is hideous. It's green and in dire need of a new lick of paint. Several. 

Their third thought, when they spot him, is that he should be sculpted in bronze and commemorated forever. That kind of beauty is astounding. 

Alex jogs over in a tee and shorts, wrapping them up tight in a hug Henry buries themself in. 

“I wasn’t sure,” He laughs brightly, “I mean, I know you texted and we called and we planned, but I thought that witch would’ve stopped it, somehow.”

“No,” Henry smiles widely, and says quietly against his ear, “Get us inside the jeep so I can kiss you senseless, please.”

Alex salutes, and then waves to Shaan who heads off to his own car behind the jeep. 

“Come, Your Majesty,” He says, taking Henry’s hand. “I’ve only got an hour more with this thing before Marie puts a curse on me or something.”

“Marie?” Henry asks as they clamber in. The seats are just as worn as the exterior, but the collage of images of a collie dog warms their heart to it. They catch a glimpse of the London tote in the back, and their mountain of books inside. 

“Farmhand at the place I’m staying,” Alex waves a hand, inspiring a dozen new questions. “Long story.”

“Tell me it all,” Henry says happily, and leans over the dash to take his face in their hands. “After Shaan knocks on the door to ask us to get a move on.”

“He’s really hot, by the way,” Alex tells them, and Henry kisses him purely to shut him up. No other reason at all.