Archive of Our Own ^beta

Alex is studying for his final, final exam when his phone rings. He picks it up without checking, suspecting it’s June calling for her daily did you eat lunch? call.

“Yes,” he sighs into the phone, flipping the page in his textbook and grabbing the yellow highlighter. “June, I ate lunch. I took a ten minute study break, I’m being responsible, just like I promised.”

There’s an intake of breath on the other end of the line, a pause that goes on a moment too long. Alex frowns, pulling the phone away from his ear to look at it—his own breath catching in his chest when he sees Henry where June’s name and photo should be. He swallows and brings the phone back to his ear; listens to the steady sound of Henry breathing into the receiver.

He hasn’t heard from him in almost a year.

Hesitant, he says, “Henry?”

There’s a sniffle. “Alex.”

Alex’s shoulders go taut with tension; he may not have heard from him in a year and had only seen him in tabloids and the occasional interview or ribbon cutting on a shitty stream that Alex had no business being on, but he hasn’t forgotten Henry’s tells. He hasn’t forgotten the edge to his voice on his dark days; the way it clings to the very molecules of air surrounding him, as if it wishes to seep into every ounce of air he dares breathe in.

Alex swallows, sets his highlighter down. “Henry,” he says carefully, “what’s going on?”

Another sniffle—is he crying?

Is it because of the wedding?

“I’m sorry,” Henry whispers. “For calling, I just—“

“Don’t apologize,” Alex interrupts, sitting up straighter. He looks around his room—for what, he’s not sure, it’s not as if he’ll turn around and find Henry sitting on his bed. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a wounded noise on the other side of the line. “You’re the great love of my life,” Henry says, his voice cracked and ragged and wet. “I hope you know that. It was only you.”

Alex takes in a big, deep breath. “Henry. . .”

“There’s not going to be a wedding,” Henry continues, his voice trembling. Alex stands up, running a hand through his hair. “I won’t marry anyone who isn’t you.”

Hope. Alex should feel hope hearing that, but the way Henry’s talking . . .

“So you’ve called off the wedding?”

He knows he hasn’t. It’d be all over the news. Even so, he needs a confirmation.

There’s a long pause; a stuttered inhale that sounds as if it’s shielding a sob. “No,” Henry murmurs.

Alex clenches his jaw. “Henry, what’s going on?”

“I needed you to know,” Henry whispers. He sniffles again, the sound of a hand wiping at a wet nose follows it. “I couldn’t—I needed you to know. You were my greatest source of happiness. My only source of happiness, if I’m being completely honest.”

Something heavy settles in Alex’s stomach.

“I’ll come to you,” He says, moving towards his bedroom door and pulling it open. “I’ll come to you and we can talk.” He hesitates, adds, “I’ve missed you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Henry says. He groans as if he’s getting up and it’s a struggle, and Alex hurries down the hall. His heart thuds angrily in his chest—he doesn’t know what’s happening but something’s wrong. Something’s so entirely wrong and the icy cool feeling of terror is slipping into his veins with ferocious ease. “You’ll move on,” Henry says eventually. “Find someone kind and beautiful and deserving of all you’ve to offer.”

Alex slams through the double doors at the end of the hall and starts towards Zahras office, bare feet pounding against the ancient wood floors. “Why would I need to move on if you’re not getting married?” He asks. “I meant it last year when I said we could figure things out on our own. We—you’re it for me, baby. There’s no one else for me.”

Henry hums softly. “I missed that.”

“What?”

“You calling me baby.” There’s a tenderness there, something soft and shattering and it cracks Alex’s heart open. “Thank you.”

Alex comes to a stop in the middle of the hallway; he’s barefoot, in his pajamas, glasses hanging haphazardly from the tip of his nose. People are bustling past him as if there’s nothing amiss, as he sees with startling clarity what’s happening.

“What did you do?” He asks, hollowed out. “Henry, baby, what did you do? Where are you?”

Henry ignores him; Alex hears him swallow. “I love you. I needed you to know that. Whatever else you believe, I need you to know that I love you.”

“I do,” Alex says, looking around at the people walking by. Nobody pays him any mind, as if this is normal behavior from him. He brings his free hand up and clutches at his shirt above his heart, fingers fisting into the fabric. “Sweetheart, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

Henry hums again. “You deserve so much more than I was able to offer.” He pauses, the sound of his lips smacking as if his mouth is exceptionally dry. “In another life, maybe. You and me, we could . . . That would be so wonderful. If we found one another again.”

Alex’s breaths come quicker, he starts back towards Zahras office, panic building. “Henry, where are you?”

He doesn’t say anything for a few beats; a cruel juxtaposition to the frantic sound of Alex’s feet padding against the White House floors as he crosses from one side of the mansion to the other. The silence on Henry’s side of the line to the blundering noise on Alex’s are two worlds colliding in Alex’s head.

When Henry finally speaks, his voice is softer, words slightly slurred. “Do you think he’s waiting for me?”

“Who, baby?”

Another pause.

So soft, so quiet that Alex can barely even hear it, Henry replies, “My dad.” There’s a soft sigh. “I’ll tell him about you.”

Alex freezes. “What?” He asks; the world around him slowly slips away; narrows in on his pulse in his ears; is it drowning out the sound of Henry’s breath, or has Henry stopped breathing? “Henry?”

There’s no response.

He pulls the phone away from his ear; the call’s still connected. Brings it back to his ear. “Henry? Henry?” His breath hitches, heart clamoring against his chest, and in between one breath and the next he’s running down the halls, a mad dash for Zahra. He hopes, prays, may even pleads with the universe, that she’s in her office. She should be, he thinks. Why wouldn’t she be? She must be.

“Henry,” he tries again, breath coming in anxious pants as he darts around one corner and around the next. “Baby, I don’t know what you did but I need you to hang on. I need you to hang on. I’m coming.”

He’s come to Zahras office, shoving the door open without bothering to knock.

She looks up at him, wide eyed. “Kid—“ she says, rising to her feet, “what the fu—“

“I need you to call Shaan,” he pants, chest heaving, his fist clenched so tight around the phone it very nearly hurts.

“What—“

“Zahra,” he says, as firm as he can muster with the fear clawing at the back of his throat. “We don’t—he doesn’t have time for this. Please. Call Shaan. Now.”

She stares at him for a beat longer, a concerned furrow in her brow, before blindly reaching for her phone and picking it up. She looks away long enough to select his contact, putting it on speaker as it rings, before turning her gaze back on him. “What’s going on?” It’s her crisis management voice—a level tone, all business.

Alex’s chin trembles, squeezing the phone impossibly tighter. There’s still no sound coming from the other side of the line. “I think Henry’s done something to himself,” he says, stepping further into the room. “I—“ a lump lodges itself in the back of his throat.

The ringing on Zahras phone cuts short, Shaan’s unmistakable crisp voice answering, “My love, this is unexpected,” he sounds pleased. “Aren’t you working?”

“Where’s Henry?” She asks him.

There’s a pause; the sound of fabric rustling. “I’d assume in his rooms. Why?”

“You need to go check on him,” Alex says, voice trembling. “Please—I—you need to hurry.”

“Alex?”

“Shaan, please.”

Another pause. “What’s going on?”

“He called me—all,” Alex swallows. “Maudlin. Talking about how I’m the only one he’s ever loved and will ever love and how the wedding’s not happening and—and he,” his eyes sting, vision going blurry, “He asked if his dad’s waiting for him. Please. Please. I think he’s done something, and I’m an ocean away but you’re right there. Please just check on him. I need to know that he’s—“ he breaks off, his voice cracking.

Zahra moves around the desk.

“I’m going now,” Shaan says, a tinge of concern lining the words. He sounds as if he’s moving; Alex doesn’t miss the sound of a door creaking open, either. “I’ll call you back once I’ve an update.”

Zahra nods. “We’ll be here.”

“Please don’t—don’t forget,” Alex chokes out, vision going black around the edges. “I—“

Zahra rushes forward, catching him right as his knees buckle. She carries them to the floor; strong, but not quite strong enough to keep them both upright. Her nails dig into Alex’s shoulders, almost grounding him.

“I won’t. As soon as I have an update, you’ll have one as well,” Shaan promises before hanging up.

“Alex,” Zahra murmurs, “you need to breathe.”

Isn’t he?

His brow furrows; slowly, sense comes roaring back to him; the aching sting of air trapped in his lungs. He forces it out, a desperate grab for air on the inhale. Zahra rubs his back. “There we go,” she says, reaching up with her free hand. “Give me the phone—“

“No!” He jerks away from her; doesn’t get far, she’s still holding his shoulders. “It’s—he hasn’t—hung up—“

She blinks at him, before nodding, slow. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Put it on speaker.”

“Why?”

“Alex, just do as I tell you.” She raises her eyebrows at him, then holds a hand out for the phone. He stares at the hand for a beat, before silently nodding and lowering his hand to place the phone in hers. Watches as she quickly turns the speakerphone on and sets the phone on the floor in front of them.

Together, they stare at it. He’s not sure what they’re expecting—for Henry to pop up and yell SIKE like this is some sick joke? For—for someone to pick up the phone and say, “His Royal Highness has had a bit too much to drink, he’s gone to bed.” Anything. Anything but the silence.

It drags on, though. Nothing more than static crackling through the speaker for several minutes.

Every aching moment that drags by, Alex counts down an invisible timer. Thirty seconds, thirty more. Every tick of the clock is one second further they get from Henry being okay. Is one moment separated from the beating heart in his chest and the crackling silence on the phone.

And just when he thinks it’s all too much—there’s a noise. It’s muffled—distant; as if coming from afar.

“Hen,” Bea’s voice calls, singsong and playful. She’s a fire song in the distance, but Alex sits up straighter. “Dearest, I know dinner was a drag, but did you really have to leave me all on my lonesome?” There’s a creak of what Alex assumes is a door, and suddenly her voice is much clearer. “Philip was on his worst behavior. I need my favorite sibling to remind me that our family isn’t all terrible.”

Alex reaches for the phone. “Bea,” he says into it, his voice high and desperate as Zahra lets him disentangle himself from her, dragging his knees across the carpet and cupping the phone in his palms. “Bea, is he there?”

“Hen?” Bea says; either ignoring him entirely, or too far from the phone to hear Alex calling for her. “Honestly, you don’t seriously think you can trick me into believing you’re asleep?” Her voice travels closer. “You forget, I’m well aware of your insomnia.”

Something shuffles; as if the phone’s being jostled against a sheet of fabric.

“Seriously, Hen,” She says.

Beside him, Zahra goes very, very still.

“Come now, stop playing games.” The shuffling noise crackles through the phone again. “Henry? Henry,” She extends it out, sings the e softly. “Stop playing games, I’m serious.” There’s another shuffling nose; more frantic, seemingly desperate, as if the phone’s diving from left to right almost violently. “What—” The sound of footsteps rushing across a hardwood floor. “Why do you have mums medication?” A moment of silence. “Why . . .” The sound of plastic clattering to the floor. “Henry, wake up.”

An almost wounded sound.

“Henry,” All sense of playfulness has disappeared entirely; mounting panic as she raises her voice. “Wake up, now.”

She gives it a beat.

“Hen?” The shuffling starts again; a harsh crash as Alex assumes the phone falls to the floor. “Henry—oh my god—” Her voice is pitched low; achingly wet as desperation clings to every syllable. The careful cool with which he’s always known Bea to speak with evaporates entirely; in its place is something that matches the clawing feeling in Alex’s chest.

Henry—

“Henry,” She cries, the sound strained, as if she’s trying to move him or herself. “Henry!”

“Please,” Alex breathes.

Beside him, Zahra’s grabbed her phone; brought it to her ear. She says something into it; rushed and dangerous, but Alex can’t hear any of it; too lost in the sounds coming from his own phone.

Bea’s crying—it’s a mixture of her pleading for Henry to wake up, and daunting, world shattering sobs that Alex can feel through the phone. Every shattered sound stabs at him; sinks into his heart and twists, and twists, and twists, until—

“Bea,” It’s Shaan, he sounds far away, as if he’s just entered the room but not Henry’s sleeping chamber. “Christ—” He says, voice much closer; he sounds almost distracted. “I’m calling for help. I’m calling for help.” The sound of his shoes echo off the flooring, bouncing around the room and clashing with the sounds of Bea’s sobs as he moves closer. “Yes, we need a medical detail to Prince Henry’s quarters. Now. Christ, he’s—oh, god, I think he’s killed himself. Hurry.”

Something wet drips onto the screen of Alex’s phone; the darkened screen lights up when it makes contact, and he’s reminded where he is: sitting on the floor of Zahra’s office, three thousand miles away from the man he loves who has—has—

“There’s still a pulse, thank Christ,” Shaan says, his voice a low whisper; relief sinking deep into the words. “Bea—go into the hall. Wait for the medic.”

A wet laugh; indignant and awful, “I’m not leaving him.”

“Do you wish to watch me make him retch? No? Go into the hall.”

She whimpers. “Shaan,” Her voice cracks, his name stretching as if into two separate words.

“I know,” He says. Alex listens to Bea leave; her footsteps fading away with the sound of her cries. Shaan waits until she’s gone entirely, then he clears his throat. “What have you done?” He asks, his voice soft and shattered; as if this hurts him in ways Alex can’t begin to imagine but can deeply sympathize with. “I’m going to lift you now, Your—Henry. I don’t know if you can hear me at all, but I’m not going to let you die.” He groans; Alex assumes he’s lifting him as he said he would. “You’re not dying,” his voice is strained, as if he’s lifting something heavy.

A sob unfurls from the back of Alex’s throat; he hunches over the phone, one hand coming up to drag through his hair. Fingers get stuck in a tangle, but he yanks it through, uncaring of the pain that follows; almost grateful for it, even, to feel something other than sweeping emptiness rolling through his body. Something other than the ice shifting through his veins. The fear clouding his vision.

“Alex,” Zahra says, carefully placing a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t listen to this.”

He shakes his head, “I need to know,” he whispers, the words catching on the ridges of his throat, sticking and then tripping out.

She squeezes his shoulder. “Not like this.”

He opens his mouth to reply; the words fading entirely as a retching noise fills the room. He drops the phone, falling backwards and away from it; tears flood his vision, a trembling hand comes up to cup his mouth.

The door to the office opens; Alex looks up. She’s blurry, but she’s unmistakable. His mother rushes into the room, drops to her knees beside him. “Alex,” she says, reaching up and cupping his cheeks. Her thumbs wipe at the tears sitting there, worry furrowing her brow as her eyes dart back and forth between his.

There’s another retching noise.

She tears her gaze away from him. “Hang it up,” She says firmly.

Alex shakes his head, “No—”

“It’s for the best, sugar,” She says, turning her attention back on him. “You don’t need to hear this.”

He turns to watch as Zahra picks up the phone; his mom still has his cheeks cupped in her hand, one of his cheeks bunches up from where he’s pushing against her hand to watch as Zahra lifts the phone.

“Please,” he whispers.

Zahra glances at him, then back down to the phone.

She presses her thumb to the screen; silencing the call. Silencing the timer and the retching and the last dredges of hope that had settled at the pit of Alex’s stomach. Empty silence reigns over the office; all but the hitching of his breath. Several frantic in-out-in-out’s as he realizes—

His jaw falls open, a tear trips over his lashes and wedges itself between his moms hand and the skin of his cheek, his eyes flicker up to her.

“I didn’t say it back,” He chokes out.

“Say what, sugar?”

His heart feels emptied out; pried open and scoured for all that was good, until all that remains is the shattered carcass of what once was. “I didn’t tell him I love him back,” His voice sounds hollow to his own ears.

A bit like he’s speaking but he’s not really there.

Her lips purse, gaze darting over to Zahra. “The jet?”

“They need thirty minutes.”

She shakes her head, a miniscule movement of displeasure leading left to right. “Make it fifteen.”

“Understood.” Zahra stands, grabs her phone, and leaves the office. Leaves Alex with his mother and his grief and everything that that means.

“Listen to me,” she says, dragging his attention back to her. He hadn’t realized it strayed until he tears his gaze away from the door in order to meet her steady gaze. “We’re going to London. You’re going to be there when he wakes up.”

A whimper boils in the back of Alex’s throat. “When?” He asks, feeling so small, smaller even than when he first returned from London, his heart shattered, Henry having crushed it beneath his thumb and his fear.

Her jaw sets, the way it does when she’s determined. “When,” she says. “That wretched queen isn’t going to stop you, either. I’ll use whatever favors I’ve got tucked up my damned sleeve that I need to, okay?” She nods at him, eyes wide and serious and glistening with unshed tears—as if his hurt is hers; as if she’s sharing his pain so that he won’t have to bear the brunt of it on his own. She holds him, thumb swiping a tear away. “The rest of the world be damned.”

He nods.

“Say it.”

He forces down a breath, holds it, and then says, “The rest of the world be damned.” The words come out significantly less steady than they’d come from her mouth, but the sentiment gives him an ounce of strength. Enough to let her pull him to his feet; to stand before her. Wavering, but solid.

Enough strength to go to Henry.

What happens when he gets there—that’s to be determined.

Not on his ability to pull himself together, but on what he finds when they get there.

He repeats the word in his head, a silent mantra when, when, when.

When Henry wakes up.

Not if.

Never if.

He can’t go there, because if he does he won’t make it down the halls of this mansion, down to the car. Won’t make it onto the jet and eventually to Henry’s side. He needs strength. He finds it in when.

When Henry wakes up.

When Alex is at his side.

When he tells him he loves him.

When.

When.

He stumbles, but his mother’s there to catch him.

She takes his hand, pulls it against her chest, and they make their way through the White House together.

On the jet, he sits by the window. Stares out into the empty sky; tries not to let Henry’s last words sit with him, but they echo like a cursed whisper.

The great love of my life.

Across from him, his mom sits on the phone. It’s hard to miss what she’s saying, voice rising, rising, rising as whoever she’s on the phone with gives her the wrong answer over and over and over, until, eventually, she throws the phone across the plane, fingers clenching into fists in front of her.

She takes a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut as Alex looks her over. Slowly, she exhales, meets his gaze.

“It’s all under control,” she says, standing. He watches her cross the plane, pick up the phone, and return to her seat.

The great love of my life, Henry’s voice whispers low in Alex’s ear.

“They’re not going to let me in, are they?” He asks, voice pitched low. He hardly has the energy to ask the question; tears dried to his cheeks, chest heavy with the remnants of the panic attack that comes and goes.

She squares her shoulders. “They won’t have a choice.”

He nods once, turning his attention back to the window.

The great love of my life. The words drift between the clouds, dragging Alex’s focus with them.

He wonders where they’d be today if he’d refused to leave that night in Kensington Palace, when Henry told him to go. Wonders if he’d be sitting on this plane, sooner, or later. Wonders if this was always Henry’s destiny; devoured by his grandmother and her expectations until all he had left was the strength to say goodbye.

That’s what the call had been, hadn’t it?

A goodbye?

A tremor wracks up Alex’s spine, chin dimpling as he tries to hold the tears back.

He hadn’t said it back.

Henry had called him the great love of his life, and Alex hadn’t said it back. Henry’s final moments weren’t of Alex confirming what they meant to each other; it’d been his own panic catching through the receiver. Henry’s final moments.

Henry’s final moments.

The great love of my life.

There’s no one else, he wants to tell the whispers. There’s no one else and there never will be. Alex slipped his heart into Henry’s pocket at the lake house. Henry may not have realized it, may have pushed him away and ended things as resolutely as he could have, but Alex never took it back. Never wanted to. His heart belongs to Henry.

The great love of my life.

Alex hunches over, pressing his elbows into his knees and his hands into his hair.

Me too, he thinks, the great love of my life.

Alex keeps his phone pressed between his thigh and the seat, always in arms reach. Just in case.

It never rings.

Never so much as buzzes.

Whatever’s happening, nobody has him on their mind.

He doesn’t know if that’s good news or the preamble to the worst news of his entire fucking life.

Alex doesn’t even realize the plane has landed until his mom kneels in front of him, places her hands on his knees, and says, “Kiddo, I’m not gonna ask you to be strong here,” She squeezes his knee as he tears his gaze away from the window to meet hers. “We’re going straight to King Edward the seventh’s hospital.”

“Hospital?” He asks. “Does that mean—”

She flinches, shaking her head as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Sugar, I wish I knew the answer to that question,” she murmurs, reaching up to cup his cheek. “It was hell just getting this. Nobody’s willing to admit Henry even left the residence.”

All the air seeps out of Alex’s aching lungs, and he nods. “Oh.”

She watches him; pushes a curl behind his ear. “Hope is all we have,” she says. “Hold onto it.”

“Hope,” he echoes numbly.

Her eyes flicker back and forth between his, her thumb swiping over his cheek. “Hope,” she repeats, firm.

They take one car rather than a motorcade; his mom explains why but he doesn’t listen, watching as the London streets breeze by. It’s not a long drive, but it’s long enough; his stomach is tied up in knots, worry and fear and grief all bundled up tight together. Impossible to separate or differentiate between. Just one massive ball of illease. Nausea sweeps over him, but he swallows it down, buries it beneath everything else.

Closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep. Henry’s words on replay.

“Sugar, we’re here.”

Her voice jars him from thought. He frowns, blinking up at her, and she nods to the hospital entrance.

He’s not sure what he expected. Some part of him imagined it swarming with press, strangers who don’t know Henry but think they do; that think they’re owed every moment of his life. Parasites feeding on the little things that give him peace until there’s nothing left. But there’s nobody crowding the entrance; only Amy holding the door open, a look on her face that he knows he’ll find reflected on his own.

He turns, pushes out of the car. Stops beside the door and glances at her; feels himself crumble beneath her gaze.

She shakes her head, even as her own eyes glisten—he knows she’s not sad for Henry. Though she’d been there for much of their relationship, she doesn’t know him. Her tears aren’t for Henry. She straightens out her shoulders, chin trembling.

As it turns out, there are just some things she can’t protect him from.

He takes a shuddering breath and nods at her.

His mom comes up beside him. “Are you ready?”

He contemplates his answer.

Is he ready?

Either his world has dimmed to such a degree that not even the sun could bring forth the light again, or . . . or by some miracle Henry’s somewhere in the hospital, breathing, his heart beating.

Ready?

He’s never been more terrified in his fucking life.

Still, he nods at her. Lets her take his hand and lead him inside.

A nurse leads them into a private waiting room, closes the door behind herself, and disappears into some forbidden part of the hospital. Alex sits with his mom, Amy, and Cash, but he’s never felt more alone.

More afraid.

He thinks about coming home from camp and finding his dad gone, all his belongings packed up and gone with him. He thinks about sitting on the couch, making himself as small as possible, as his mom explained what happened. Thinks about what it feels like to be left behind.

He pulls his knees up into the chair with him, presses them into his chest.

He feels like that little boy again.

The world imploding all around him; him at the center of it, watching everything he thought was good and true and right fall apart until all that’s left is everything else.

Until all that’s left is Alex.

They leave them there.

Nobody comes to update them.

Nobody comes to check on them.

It’s just them and the sound of the whirring air conditioner, the too bright lights, and the aching need to know what’s happening.

One hour turns to two, to three, to four.

Eventually, Alex’s mom gets up, her phone clutched tight in a white knuckled grip as she slams through a pair of double doors, Cash hot on her heels.

And then it’s just Alex and Amy.

Alex and Amy and the sinking realization that Henry’s probably dead.

The doors behind Alex open. He doesn’t look up, head buried in his knees, assumes it's his mom finally coming back to tell him there’s still no update, which is as much of an update as it isn’t.

A throat clears. Alex jerks his head up, frowning and twisting around to find not his mother but Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor standing in front of the doors. “They told me you were here.”

Alex stands up, fists clenching at his sides. “If you think—“

“Relax, Alexander,” Philip says, soft and entirely unlike himself. He sounds exhausted, as if the worlds plucked his strength from his bones and left it to rally with the wind. “I’m not here to tell you you won’t be permitted entrance.” He tips his head to the side. “Well, I am, but not in the way I presume you’re thinking.”

He moves across the room and falls into the chair across from Alex, running a hand through his hair, the other motioning for Alex to sit. He looks ragged; eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, hair a mess. Sickly pale. The very antithesis to a put together royal.

Alex stands up straighter. “Why—“

Philip leans back in the chair, crossing his arms in his lap. He fidgets with the ring on his pinky, face scrunching up as if forcing down a wave of emotion. “If not for you,” He says, “I fear we’d be planning a funeral now.”

If—a funeral—

Alex’s lungs snatch a breath from the sterile air so rapidly, he doesn’t even realize he’s done it until it stutters, catching on the exhale. Tears well in his eyes for the first time in hours, and he barely manages to ask, “So, he’s—”

“Alive,” Philip nods, looking to the ceiling. “Yes.”

A broken sound unfurls from the back of Alex’s throat as he falls back into his chair; he tries to bury it beneath his palm, bringing it to his mouth and clasping it tight over his lips, but it comes out muffled and jagged and Philip watches him with a steady gaze, as disconnected from it all as he’s ever been.

He didn’t know that they’d get to him in time. Shaan had been so blase when he called; so reluctant to believe Alex’s insistence. And then the radio silence on the flight, and then having to use his mothers connections to even get into the waiting room of the hospital—Alex didn’t know what he’d come to. He didn’t know if that quiet I love you before Henry hung up was the last he’d ever hear from him; didn’t know if he’d ever find himself looking in those eyes that hid the depths of a thousand oceans of grief but that shined with all the hope for a better world. He didn’t know.

But Henry’s alive.

Philip looks down. “He was distant at dinner,” he says, voice thick. “I chalked it up to the stress of the wedding.” His brows furrow, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to flick at the corner of his eye. “I had no bloody idea that he was intending to . . .” He trails off, shaking his head. He’s silent for a long moment, biting down on his lower lip before he looks back up at Alex, rolling his lips. “Before our father died, he tasked me with looking after Henry,” he says. “‘Protect him, Pip,’ he said.” He scoffs, eyes flicking to the ceiling as they flood with tears. “He could’ve bloody died. I sat across the table from him, saw the trepidation, and if I had just gone after him like I wanted to and checked on him . . .”

A tear slips over his cheek. He doesn’t bother reaching up to swipe it away, as if the whole of a royal image has lost all meaning.

“Protect him, eh?” He leans back in the chair, levels Alex with that watery gaze. “You were three thousands miles away, a year estranged, and you did a better job protecting him than I ever have.”

Alex looks down. “I’m not going to tell you you did your best,” he says, voice hoarse. “If that’s what you want to hear, you and your grandmother buried him.” His throat goes tight around the words, and he looks back up. “Whether you like it or not, he’s gay and you were happy to force him into a marriage with a woman—”

Philip raises a hand. “You only have Henry’s best interests in mind,” he says. “I thought I was protecting him, having him bury that part of himself. I was convinced the world wasn’t safe for him if he gave into it—but, as it turns out, sitting at your brother's bedside after he’s tried to kill himself, gives you plenty of time to do some soul searching.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, Alex,” he shakes his head, shrugging weakly. “That I was wrong. It doesn’t bloody mean anything, obviously. Knowing that I’ve done wrong by him doesn’t erase the fact that I am a large part of what led us here tonight, but it does mean that I will not be a warden to him any longer. It means, that I am here, talking with you, against my grandmothers orders, because I know that you will do what’s best for Henry. That you will fight for him in a way none of us, not even Bea, will, because you love him.”

Alex nods. “I do.”

Philip gives him a long stare, before nodding once, crossing one leg over the other. “Grandmother intends to send him away. To a rehab facility. Far away where nobody will even know anything’s gone amiss. The car is set to arrive promptly at ten.”

Alex sits up. “What?” He glances down at his watch; it’s half past eight now. “That—”

“Henry obviously needs help,” Philip continues, ignoring him. “But if she deems it what he needs, I hardly think it’s a place where he can recover in peace. I’ve made other arrangements. She’s unaware, of course.”

Some pieces of the Philip he knows come flitting together, fracturing together and fragmenting with the shattered man in his place. “He’ll recover in peace,” he says. “You’ll be on the visitors list. After seventy two hours, of course.”

Alex heaves in a big breath. “Can I see him before then?”

Philip sighs. “No,” he says, softly. He gives Alex a look, something understanding, but pitying.

“But I—”

“Not because I want to keep you apart.” Philip sighs again, leaning forward and carefully pulling something from his pocket. He stares down at it for a moment, frowning, before reaching out and holding it out to Alex.

It’s a white envelope, folded in half.

“Take it.”

“What is it?”

Philip hesitates, and Alex tears his gaze away from the envelope up to his face. “He’s been awake for a few hours now. Only lucid for a handful. When he heard you were being kept out here like a dog,” he waves the envelope, “He wrote you a letter.”

“Why?”

“I’ve not read it.”

“Is it—” Alex breaks off, grimacing, and steeling himself for the question on his tongue, “Is he telling me to leave again?”

Philip stretches out, taking Alex’s hand in his own. He folds his hand over Alex’s, holds it there for a long moment. “However the future plays out,” he murmurs. “You and Henry will have me at your side. In public, in private. Against grandmother and god himself, whatever it may be. We are a united front.” He squeezes Alex’s hand before pulling away and standing. He straightens out his shirt as if by habit, his shoulders straight. “Your mother has found residence for your stay. And in seventy five hours, should you still wish to, you will be permitted to reunite with Henry.”

“Why wouldn’t I—”

“Make no misunderstanding, Mr. Claremont-Diaz. Choosing Henry is choosing war with my grandmother. She will fight you until her death. If that is not a fight you think you can stand, my brother will understand. You can be content in knowing that he will no longer be fighting this alone, whatever you decide. There will be no marriage. No more lies. Only what lies in the best interest of my brother.”

Alex stands, too. He clenches his jaw, raises his chin in the same way he’s seen Henry do a thousand times. “I’ll see you in seventy five hours,” he says.

Philip looks him over, the corner of his mouth twitching just so, before he nods. “Seventy five hours,” he echoes, before turning on his heel and striding from the waiting room.

His mom can’t stay. As much as she wants to be mom, she’s also the President of the United States, and there’s an emergency calling her away. He tells her it’s fine, that he’s okay, Henry’s alive, and it’s enough to keep Alex from falling apart for now. She holds his face, tells him she’s proud of him, that he’s strong, and that she’s a phone call away, and then she leaves.

Amy’s in the connecting suite when Alex finally closes the door to his room. He doesn’t flip the switch on the lights, there’s enough light shining through the windows from the grey skies above. Just enough for Alex to find his way around the room, to flip the topsheet over the bed, crawl into it, and pull his knees up to his chest.

He’s clutching the envelope in one hand, his phone in the other.

He wants to read it, but there’s a voice at the back of his head that tells him it’s another goodbye. He can’t take another goodbye today. He stares at it for a long moment, memorizes the creases, where it looks like it’d been folded the opposite direction, before refolded in its current configuration. Traces his thumb along that crease. Then, carefully, sets it down on the pillow beside him and turns his attention on his phone.

Nora and June have both texted.

He dismisses the notifications—he’ll get back to them later, when the grief has excised itself from his body entirely. Maybe after a shower, when he can wash off the tears and sweat and lingering feelings of loss. When the idea of facing their sympathy isn’t as overwhelming as facing the feelings buried within him.

He calls Zahra.

If she’s surprised he’s calling, she doesn’t show it, answering on the second ring. “Kid,” she says. Her voice is softer than normal, but somehow firm.

“Have you talked to Shaan?” He asks without preamble. Zahra’s never liked bullshit, so he’s not going to bullshit her. He’s called for one reason, and they both know it.

“Yes.”

He nods, pushing back against the pillow and resting his chin on his knees. “Tell me what happened.”

“Alex.”

“I need to know,” He murmurs.

“What you need is to get some sleep,” She counters.

“I can’t sleep.”

She sighs. “Wasn’t hearing it bad enough?”

He looks around the room without lifting his head. “If I can . . . put the pieces together, I might stop hearing it. His voice fading away. Bea’s cries. The—the retching. I just need to put the pieces together, Z. Please.”

“Alright,” she says. “But if it’s too much, you have to say something.”

“I will.”

He won’t.

They both know he won’t.

There’s a long silence.

And then, “We called Shaan shortly after he’d been dismissed for dinner.”

Sleeping pills.

Nearly an entire bottle. Paired with a stolen bottle of whiskey.

When Alex hangs up, he crawls out of bed and into the bathroom. Hunches over the toilet, and throws up the remnants of the lunch he’d eaten before Henry called. There’s not much, just acid and water. He heaves a couple more times, but nothing comes up.

Curls up beside the toilet just in case.

Eventually he finds his way back into the bed, lays on his side, staring at the envelope on the pillow.

It’s the last thing he sees before he finally manages to let himself fall asleep.

There’s a tray of food on his nightstand when he wakes up. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last ate, can’t even begin to try and count down the hours, to quantify what’s happened to an amount of time in his life. It feels too monumental, somehow. But even still, he turns away from the food, reaching up to rub at his eyes. There are salty tear tracks running down the sides of his face, he scratches at them for a moment before dismissing them entirely, sitting up and looking over his shoulder at the envelope on the pillow.

“Stop being a coward,” he mutters to himself, forcing himself to reach out and snatch it up off the pillow.

He chews on his lower lip as he unfolds it. It’s not sealed shut, simply creased closed, as if there was no doubt that the messenger could be trusted. He runs his thumbnails along the crease.

He can do this.

He didn’t write it before. He wrote it after.

Even if it’s a goodbye, it’s not a goodbye.

He can do this.

He sets it on the pillow and turns back to the food.

This is easier.

He finally calls June back.

They don’t say much. She offers to hop on a plane to be here for him, he tells her it’s okay. She can’t drop everything for him anymore. He’s an adult, and he can handle this.

“You know you don’t have to, though, right?” She asks. “Say the word and I’ll be there.”

“I know, bug. I love you.”

He thinks of Henry saying I love you.

“I love you, too,” June says.

Thinks about how he hadn’t said it back.

It’s not too late, he tells himself.

But his eyes stray to that envelope on the pillow.

What if it is?

He and June say their goodbyes, and he’s once again left in the dark of his room, contemplating all the times he didn’t fight for Henry when he should have.

Nora calls.

Percy calls.

His dad calls.

His phone dies before anyone else can call. He doesn’t ask Amy if she has a charger, though he’s sure she does. He doesn’t need it right now.

He sits in bed, fiddling with the outer shell of the envelope.

He makes up a million scenarios about what it could say.

A million heartbreaks.

Because that’s what it has to be.

What else could it be?

He stares at it.

What else could it be?

Alex sits at the window when the sun sets, looking to the sky. There’s a smattering of stars, nothing like at the lake house. But he thinks he sees Orion’s belt, the vaguest memory of Henry pointing it out to him while they lay beneath the stars. Doesn’t know for sure if that’s what he’s seeing or if it’s just what he wants to see. He mindlessly flips the envelope over in his hand.

Eventually, he tears his gaze from the sky and drops it to the envelope.

His hands tremble as he unfolds it, the paper flickering as he flips the crease sealing it. Takes a deep breath as he extracts the paper from within and discards the envelope to his side.

He takes a shaky breath and unfolds the paper.

Has to take a moment to compose himself at the sight of Henry’s elegant handwriting.

Tears spring to his eyes and he holds the letter away from himself so he doesn’t ruin it.

He’s been crying so much; keeps expecting to run out of tears.

But there’s always more.

He waits until his eyes go dry before returning his attention to the letter.

Alex,

I don’t even know where to begin. What I did to you was reprehensible. What I subjected you to. I was drunk, and I could feel something happening, and all I could think was that I couldn’t go without hearing your voice one final time. It was selfish. Unforgivably so.

Philip says you’re out there somewhere in this hospital. That you haven’t even been told whether or not I’m alive.

I am alive, Alex.

Because of you.

Not just today, lying in this hospital bed. You didn’t just save me today.

Every time you took my hand in yours. Every time we kissed. Every time you whispered nonsense in my ear, or sparked an argument over Star Wars. Every breath we shared. Every second I spent with you extended my life. Gave it breadth and meaning and the strength to endure everything else.

I truly believe last night would have come a lot sooner had we not found our way to one other.

Is it selfish to say I hope you’ll come when I’m allowed visitors? Perhaps. But I do. I hope to see you there. I hope to apologize face to face.

But not only that, I hope to see you, Alex. For an apology, yes, but simply because I miss you. I’ve missed you every aching moment since I asked you to leave. Even before you walked out of the room and my life; I missed you while you stood before me declaring your love and I accepted that I couldn’t give you what you wanted.

I’ve missed you since that day at the lake house, when I realized that by some awful miracle you loved me back.

I know its not fair of me to say all this now, especially after what I’ve put you through. I’m sorry for that, too.

I’m filled up with sorries. I fear I’ll never be able to right the ways I’ve wronged you, and I understand if you wish to never see me again now that you know I’m all right.

But I do hope I’ll see you. Not as the first son, standing opposite one another at a function neither of us can avoid. But as Alex; not mine, not anymore, obviously. I don’t know what precisely I’m trying to say, only that selfishly I want you back in my life. If I’m going to live this life I refuse to live it in fear. I refuse to abandon those who have never abandoned me in order to retain favor of the one who abandoned me heart, and soul, long before I ever deserved to be.

Should you wish to never see me again, I’ll understand.

But I hope you’ll understand that even if you don’t show up at the hospital, once I’m better, once I’m stronger and can fight the demons, internal and external, familial and not, I’m going to try and find my way back to you.

I saw my future without you in it, and I shattered beneath the weight of the ensuing emptiness.

Yrs,

Henry

He reads it once.

Twice.

Three times.

Sits back against the bay window, eyes on the sky, drifting through the stars.

Then, he reads it again.

Amy sits on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t expect you to talk to me about it,” she says. “But I don’t think I can sit out there and leave you to stew in this alone anymore.”

He bites his lip. “Did you bring your laptop?”

She only hesitates for a moment before she nods. “I’ve got all the Star Wars movies downloaded, too.”

Sniffing, and feeling a bit like the world might be too big for him, he asks, “Can we watch Return of the Jedi?”

If she knows it’s Henry’s favorite, she doesn’t show it. Instead she nods, pats him on the knee, and leaves to retrieve the laptop. He stares at the place she’d been sitting, watches the mattress rise. Henry loves it because one walks away from it feeling hope.

Alex could use a little of that right now.

He smiles tightly at Amy as she returns, scooting over on the bed so she can climb atop the covers, the laptop settling on both of their knees.

They’re a couple minutes in when he turns to look at her; her gaze remains locked on the screen, but that doesn’t stop him from whispering, “Thank you.”

The corner of her mouth rises. “Any time,” she murmurs. “Now be quiet, I don’t want to miss anything.”

For the first time, he feels the faintest edge of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He nods and turns his attention back to the monitor.

Eventually the sun rises.

Alex stands at the window overlooking London. There’s a car waiting for him downstairs, an expected hour long drive until he sees Henry again. He looks down, at the note folded in his hands. It’s wrinkled and worn, some of the ink smudged from rogue teardrops that disregarded orders to stay away from the paper.

Somewhere out there, he imagines Henry standing at a window similar to this, waiting for the doors to open. He looks back up, eyes focusing in on his reflection in the glass. He looks ragged, about as worn as the paper he’s flipping over in his hands. Hadn’t bothered brushing down his curls, left them untamed and wild atop his head. Drops his gaze back down to the letter. Henry doesn’t think he’ll show.

Henry thinks he’ll leave him to fend for himself.

Henry, as always, is wrong.

He takes a steadying breath, carefully shoves the letter into his back pocket and turns away from the window.

Amy knocks on the doorframe, pokes her head through the door. “Ready?”

He huffs. “No.” Pauses. “Yes. A little bit of everything in between.”

She nods. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t feel up to it.”

He strolls across the room, shaking his head. “I have to,” he says as he passes her. “I need to see him.”

Not just because he misses him.

But because there’s a part of him, something dark and jagged and aching, that still doesn’t quite believe he’s actually alive. That won’t believe it until he’s standing before him—sees those eyes, the soft tilt of his lips. Hears the sound of his voice.

Amy rolls her lips in. “Alright,” she says, eventually. “Then, I guess it’s time to go.”

They arrive before the start of visiting hours. Alex is lead down a long hallway, to a bright room. There’s a comfortable looking couch against one wall, several bookshelves full of books on the opposite, a few tables and chairs in between.

The nurse stands at the door, watching him as he carefully makes his way to the center of the room, examining it with careful precision. Searching for any sign of red flags, something that tells him Henry isn’t safe here. He comes up empty as he slowly turns on his heel, hands wringing in front of him as he finally faces her.

She smiles softly. “Visiting hours start soon,” she says. “You can make yourself comfortable until then.”

He opens his mouth to say thank you, but finds the words stuck at the back of his throat. She nods at him, not unkindly, and then leaves, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

And then it’s just him and this big open space, the sound of an imaginary clock ticking away in his head, moments counting down until he finally sees Henry again. Until he finally receives clear, irrefutable proof that Henry’s alive.

The great love of my life.

He exhales slowly, moves to the couch at the back of the room and sits down, drawing his hands over his thighs.

And he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

He’s picking at a loose thread of his jeans when the door opens. He jumps to his feet, gushing forward three steps as the nurse enters; hesitating, a moment of fear crashing through his heart as she looks at him. This is it, this is where they tell him it’s all been a lie. Henry’s not here, Henry’s not coming through those doors, Henry’s—

Alex’s breath hitches as another figure emerges from behind her.

Here.

Henry’s here.

He smiles softly at the nurse, something polite and lingering, his head dipping as he steps into the room. The door closes behind him, and Alex watches the rise and fall of his chest. Irrefutable proof.

He takes a hesitant step forward; pausing only when Henry finally looks up from beneath his lashes, his bangs almost long enough to obscure his vision. His breath catches in his throat, alongside something else; a lump of fear, everything he wants to say, every emotion he’s kept bottled up since he locked himself away in that hotel room.

Henry tugs at the sleeve of his white shirt; it looks cozy, soft. Comfortable. “You’re here,” he breathes, the chasm of distance between them almost enough to dull the edge of it, to mute the awe lining the words.

Alex’s lower lip trembles, and he nods, reaching up to wipe at his eyes before any tears dare to attempt escape. “So are you,” he says.

They stare at each other for so long that the ticking in Alex’s head goes entirely silent, content that it’s met resolution.

And then, in between one breath and the next, he’s unsure who moves first, if they’ve both moved, or if Alex has simply closed that chasm, but his arms wrap tight around firm, warm skin. Strong arms winding around him, a matching strength and desperation in their grip. Fingers dig into his back, just as surely as his own find purchase in Henry’s. He buries his face in Henry’s neck, takes in a desperate gasp of air, as Henry buries his face in Alex’s hair, warm breath sinking into Alex’s scalp.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Henry says, squeezing him tighter.

Alex shakes his head as best he can in this position. “Of course I came,” he says, his voice muffled against Henry’s skin. A tremor shatters its way down his spine, and Henry clutches at him ever tighter, somehow finding more space to close. “Of course I came,” Alex repeats.

He’s content to stay here, in Henry’s arms, his heart pounding firm and sure against Alex’s. Content to never leave this spot, this moment, this feeling of free falling hope. He squeezes his eyes shut, he could, they could. They could shed it all and just live in this moment and pretend the rest of it doesn’t exist.

But pretending doesn’t work.

Eventually their legs will tire, their eyelids will droop. Arms will fall from around one another and the comfort they found in one another’s touch will shift to malease; prisoners to their own contentment.

Alex forces himself to let go first. To unwind his arms, hands slipping down Henry’s back, squeezing his waist in silent communication. Wills himself not to cry as Henry follows his lead, as Henry goes to pull away entirely—

Alex shakes his head, stepping back into his space, one hand sliding up Henry’s back, over his shoulder, along the delicate skin of his throat, to his cheek. Henry freezes, his eyes, still so blue, so beautiful and full of cautionary light, flicker back and forth between Alex’s.

“Alex,” he says, more an exhale than a statement of name. Almost as if calling Alex’s name is as base to him as breathing.

He’s thinner, cheekbones more pronounced. Heavy bags lay beneath his eyes, and Alex can feel his hipbone where his hand is pressed against him. Alex wants to scold him for not taking care of himself, but he’s too relieved to have him here. There’ll be time for that in the future. Time to ensure Henry eats and sleeps and takes all the space he needs.

For now, he strokes his thumb over one of those cheekbones, the tips of his fingers pressing into his hairline. “I—“ he breaks off, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the space between them. It’s barely a handful of inches, but it feels as gaping as the ocean that had been between them when Henry called. He presses forward, closes that distance until their chests touch on every inhale, parting only to exhale.

Henry dips his chin, his temple touching Alex’s as one of his hands fiddles with them of Alex’s shirt. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “You have to know how sorry I am—“

It should hurt; that there are enough things to be sorry for that Alex is entirely unsure which Henry’s apologizing for.

It’s hard to remember that it’s supposed to hurt, though, when four days ago, Henry had been a ghost of his past, set to marry someone entirely wrong for him; when three days ago, Alex’s heart had bottomed out to the lowest it’s ever been, threatening to stop beating within his chest. When Henry’s here, and breathing and gracefully, beautifully, drastically alive.

He presses his cheek into Henry’s. “Don’t do that,” he says, voice hoarse, cracked raw with emotion.

Henry’s shoulders tremble, something wet smears on Alex’s cheek, transferring from Henry’s. He drags his hands over Alex’s hips, digs his fingers into the muscle, as if he needs a reminder that this is real as desperately as Alex does.

“I know this is real,” He says, voice low. “But I’m not entirely convinced it is.”

“It is,” Alex says, dragging his hand into Henry’s hair, winding through the silky soft locks. “I’m here. You’re alive. This is real.”

Henry swallows. “You sound about as convinced as I do.”

Alex pulls back to look at him. “You’re alive,” he says as much for Henry as himself. He brings one hand to the center of Henry’s chest, presses into the skin until he can feel the dull thud of a heartbeat through the muscle and bone. His gaze falls down to that hand, as if he can see through it to Henry’s heart; can see without a shred of doubt that Henry’s heart never stopped beating.

One of Henry’s hands comes up, settles overtop his. “I’m alive,” he echoes, the final syllable stretching out before them. An anchor to shore, something to ground them in this reality, severing them from the thousands of possibilities that existed before Henry walked through the door.

Alex looks up at him, then, meets his steady gaze.

“Is it bad that I don’t know what to say?” Alex asks. “I’ve done nothing but think about this moment since Philip told me you were alive, and now that we’re here, I’m just so relieved you’re alive that I can’t remember anything else.”

The corner of Henry’s mouth pinches as he nods. “There are so many apologies I owe you—“

Alex shakes his head. “No.”

“Alex,” Henry sighs. “I—“

“Not now,” he says, swallowing. “I can’t hear you tell me you’re sorry for calling me because if you hadn’t you probably wouldn’t be standing here and the very idea of that—“ he shakes his head. “Nobody would have called me if that happened. I’d have found out from the news, or secondhand from some public official spreading information around the White House. And listening to you—fade away is nothing in comparison. Not if it means you’re still here.”

Henry’s eye flick back and forth rapidly. “I shouldn’t have done it,” he says. “I shouldn’t have put that burden on you.”

“When will you understand?” Alex asks, carefully unraveling himself from Henry and taking a step back. “Caring for you isn’t a burden. Loving you isn’t—“

“Alex,” Henry says, sounding somewhere between desperate and a little mad, “I called you because I was dying. I lost consciousness while I was on the phone with you.”

“And if you hadn’t you’d be dead!” He tosses his hands out at his sides. “I don’t want you to regret reaching out to me when you need someone.”

“I was delirious,” Henry takes a deep breath. “But I still remember the sound of your voice when you realized. I never should have done that to you.”

“Done that to me?” Alex takes another step back, wrapping his arms around himself.

Henry looks to the ceiling, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “You had to listen to me d—“

“No, I didn’t,” Alex interrupts, voice hoarse and echoing as it rises above Henry’s. “Because you’re standing here. You didn’t—you didn’t—“ the word gets stuck in his throat.

“Die,” Henry supplies.

Alex swallows. “Right.”

Henry takes a hesitant step towards him. “You didn’t know that,” he murmurs. “You’re allowed to be angry with me.”

“I know that,” Alex snaps. “And I am. I’m fucking furious. Part of me wants to slap you across the face, not because you reached out to me in a moment of desperation, but that it had to come to that before you reached out to me.” Henry pauses, and Alex barrels on, rushing back into his space and pressing an index finger into his sternum. “You could have called me anytime and I would have picked up the phone. I’d have jumped on a plane no matter the time of day to be there for you. All you had to do was call.”

Henry looks down at the finger pressed against his chest, nods. “I was scared,” he admits.

“Of what?”

“I hurt you,” Henry whispers, wrenching his head up to meet Alex’s gaze again. “I told you to leave. I couldn’t just—call you. I lost that right.”

Alex shakes his head. “I love you,” he hisses. “I was waiting for you to call. I hoped you’d call. For fucks sake, Henry, I prayed for it. You didn’t lose a god damned thing. Not then, not now.”

Henry’s mouth falls open, his brow furrowing. “Alex—“

“I love you,” he repeats, taking a step back and letting his hand fall to his side. “I didn’t tell you when you called.”

Henry watches him for a long moment.

Long enough that Alex adds, “That was my first thought when Zahra finally hung up the phone. That you’d died not knowing that I loved you. That you—that you’d died thinking you were unloved. Because you aren’t, Henry.” His voice cracks. “You are so loved, that there are nights I find myself unable to breathe because I love you so much. Like the rest of the world is pressing me down, and my love is the only thing keeping me from being crushed by it.”

Henry’s voice is a low drum when he replies, filled with disbelief and something else bordering on what Alex chooses to believe is hope. “. . . Even after all this time?”

Alex huffs. “Always,” he says. “As if I could ever fucking stop.”

Henry’s jaw clenches, a hand coming up to wipe over his mouth and chin. “There’s going to be a press release this afternoon,” he says through his hand before finally letting it fall. His Adams Apple bobs as he swallows. “Announcing my abdication.”

“Oh.”

“Grandmother doesn’t know,” He adds, smiling wryly. “Just Pip and Bea, and now you, I suppose.”

“What does that mean?”

“No more expectations. No more hiding. No more any of it.” He takes a careful step towards Alex. “It’ll take several months to iron out the details, which is ideal, as I shouldn’t be making any major life changes while getting treatment.”

“Abdication isn’t a major life change?”

He huffs a breath through his nose, nodding. “Yes, well. Some changes are necessary.” He closes the rest of the distance between them, carefully reaching out and tentatively taking Alex’s hand in between his own. He hesitates, before saying, almost reluctantly, “I can’t start a relationship right now.” His gaze drops down to their hands.

Alex follows his gaze, flipping his hand over, fingers lacing through Henry’s. He swallows, glancing back up at him. “I could still be your friend through this,” he says, a worry budding in his gut. “Let me be your friend through this.”

The corners of Henry’s mouth pinch. “Alex.”

“Don’t push me away,” he pulls their hands against his chest, holds them there. “Don’t lock me out and leave me to wonder. Not again.”

“Six months,” Henry breathes. “I just need six months.”

Something jagged catches on Alex’s heart. “Henry.”

He pulls one hand away and reaches up, cupping Alex’s cheek. “I don’t expect you to wait for me—“

“Of course you don’t,” Alex hisses, rejection and grief toiling in his chest as he moves to pull away. Henry holds him firm.

He’s cursed to be that little boy sitting on the couch in his parents living room; forced to listen as the people he loves tell him they’re leaving him.

“But if you’re willing,” Henry continues, holding him close. “Pips located a brownstone in Brooklyn. For me. Bea’s scouting out counselors. Give me six months, and I will come home to you.” He ducks his head, forces Alex to meet his gaze. “I know I have no right to ask you to wait for me, but I—“

“Do you want me to wait for you?” Alex asks.

“What?”

Alex ducks out of the grasp of the hand on his cheek, pulls his hand from Henry’s. His visions blurry, nose stinging. “Do you want me to wait for you?” He asks. “You’ll have a whole new life, you’ll be free to be who you want, to love who you want.”

Henry rocks back a step. “You’re who I want,” he says, the words feel large in comparison to how small Alex feels. “Of course I want you to wait for me, but all that I’ve put you through, how could I ask—“ His voice cracks.

For the first time today, the hope swelling in Alex’s gut feels wretched. “Ask.”

“Alex.”

A traitorous tear dips over his cheek. “I can’t be the only one fighting for this,” he says. “All you have to do is ask. Ask me to wait for you, and I will. I’ll fucking mark a date on the calendar and count down to it. I’ll hold it in my chest like a prayer. But you have to ask, Henry. Just once, I need you to fucking choose this.”

Henry’s chest rises with the weight of a heavy breath.

But he doesn’t ask.

Alex falls back a step; two tears fall in quick succession as he lets out the breath caught in his lungs. “Oh,” he says on the exhale.

He nods to himself, lets the silence between them settle. He closes his eyes, forces himself to take a deep breath, even as his chin buckles and his heart stutters in his chest. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he finally says, the silence yawning out between them like a physical manifestation of the three thousand miles that usually separates them. “I’m glad you’re finally doing what’s best for you.” The words come out wobbly and wet. He reaches up to cover his mouth, starts to move around him, desperate for an escape, desperate to keep his heartache inside, because Henry’s hurting, too, he’s the one who nearly died, he doesn’t need the extra weight of Alex’s petty hurt.

He steps to the side, takes two steps past him, heading for the door, when a hand wraps around his wrist. “Alex.” His voice is low, a quiet timbre that Alex can feel in his bones.

He clenches his jaw, looks over his shoulder; finds a steady gaze on him, that precious blue swimming behind a layer of tears.

This is it.

This is where Henry tells him no.

He tugs at his hand, attempts to break free of his grasp.

And then,

“Wait for me.”

Alex almost doesn’t hear it, it's so softly spoken.

But then, Henry says it again, tugging Alex towards him. “Wait for me.”

Wait for me.

Alex is nodding before he even realizes it, he lets Henry pull him back into himself, pressing their foreheads together, firm and certain.

Henry says it again. “Wait for me.” It’s a plea pressed into Alex’s cheek. “I want you to wait for me.”

Alex nods, pressing firmer into him, as if it’ll bring them closer together. He squeezes his eyes shut against a wave of emotion as it rolls over him. “You’re the love of my life,” he says. “Of fucking course I’ll wait for you. As long as you need.”

“Six months,” Henry promises.

“As long as you need,” Alex repeats.

Henry squeezes Alex’s wrist. “Six,” he says, tipping his chin in order to graze his lips against the swell of Alex’s cheek. He trails to the side, his breath ghosting over the shell of Alex’s ear. “Months. Not a second longer.”

Alex breathes him in, lets the words settle into his skin.

“Six months,” he murmurs.

Bea’s waiting for him when he leaves. She stands at the end of the hallway, eyes soft and sad, and when he gets close enough, she holds her arms out for him; an open invite to hug. He walks right into her arms, lets her cling to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She pulls back and looks at him, tears brim along her lashline. “Come,” she says, giving him the smallest smile. “You and I are getting lunch.”

“I’m not really—”

“I won’t hear a word of argument,” She says, turning and tucking his arm in the bend of her elbow. “Life is dreary, but the sun’s on her way. We mustn’t drown in the dark.” She tilts her head at him. “Chin up, Alex. Everything’s changing for the better.”

“You seem so sure.”

She tugs him along. “My brother is alive. My grandmother may yet die of a heart attack in a few short hours. And I’ve got my future brother in law in hand. What am I meant to be unsure about?”

He pauses; she goes a step forward but when he doesn’t follow, she turns to look at him, frowning. “What?”

“Future brother in law?”

She rolls her eyes, wet lashes clumping together. “Please,” she says, gently tugging on his arm. He lets her pull him towards the door. “There are so very many things I’m uncertain about, but that,” she clicks her tongue. “That is the one thing I am entirely sure of.”

His eyes sting with a fresh onslaught of tears. “Bea . . .”

“I’m thinking indian,” she hums, ignoring him entirely. “Or would you prefer something else?”

He takes a deep breath.

“Indian works.”

“Brilliant.” She unwinds their arms so she can bring hers around his shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. “Indian it is.”

The flight home is quiet but for the news alerts hitting his phone every few minutes. Dissections and discussions; debates and arguments. Everyone’s got something to say about Henry’s abdication.

Everyone but the palace.

The queen’s silence doesn’t go unnoticed, either.

The first text comes three days after Alex’s life returns to supposed normalcy. Back to classes and studying and lunch with Nora and dinner with mom and Leo.

London feels a bit like a dream; distant and unreal, foggy in the light of day.

He’s half convinced it was a dream; some maladaptive nightmare he imagined up.

But there’s an alert on his phone when finally picks it up after drowning in case studies. There are three text alerts, he scrolls past the group chat, rolling his eyes at the string of emoji June sent, past the check in from Nora, and freezes when he rolls the notification up and sees Henry’s name below it.

He’d like to pretend his fingers don’t tremble when he clicks into it, but the movement is unmistakable.

I’ve been released. On my way back to KP. I’d say wish me luck, but I doubt any will be afforded to me considering circumstances.

The text has been sitting unresponded to for three hours. Alex takes to typing a reply as fast as his thumbs will allow.

Fuck, im so sorry i was studying

How did it go?

Prob a stupid question, sorry

Are you okay?

He doesn’t expect a reply, but his phone buzzes in his hand before he can even set it back down.

No need to apologize.

Peculiarly, I’ve not been remanded into custody.

Grandmother apparently doesn’t wish to see me.

Which is perfectly fine by me.

How are you?

The texting becomes a thing.

It reminds him of before—before the New Years that changed everything. Before he knew the feeling of Henry’s hair beneath his fingertips, the press of his body against his. The warmth of his kiss on a cold winters night. Reminds him of laying in his bed at two in the morning, texting back and forth with a former stranger, an almost enemy turned confidante.

Reminds him of falling in love.

Only, this time, he’s not oblivious to the feelings swirling in his chest.

This time he’s vibrantly aware of them.

They don’t talk about it; the timer sitting over them, the labyrinth of feelings they’re growing in their hearts, the only true exit found in one anothers opposing chest. Alex respects Henry’s recovery; rides the line he’s been given. Never a distraction. Never a roadblock. He’s hardly more than a line of text sent back and forth, a conversation that never leads anywhere except forward.

The day Henry comes out, he calls right before the press release.

Alex hesitates when he sees it; his mind flashing to the last phone call they shared. Almost hears the quiet devastation all over again as his finger hovers over the answer button. Henry’s doing well, though. Twice weekly therapy appointments have gone down to weekly appointments; his medication appears to be doing its job at keeping his mood from slipping.

Alex answers the call and brings it to his ear.

“Hey,” He says quietly.

Henry’s breath hitches. “Christ,” he curses, seemingly catching the tremor in Alex’s voice. “I should’ve texted first. Alex, I’m—”

“It’s okay,” Alex replies, letting out a long breath. “What’s going on?”

Henry hesitates for a moment, before accepting the answer for what it is—something he’s been learning in therapy. One of the many lessons he’s broken down for Alex through text; how his therapist breaks down the importance of accepting things as they are. He’s taken to it terribly, but he’s trying. And that’s what matters. “The press release,” he says. “The whole world is going to know that I am gay in just a few minutes.”

Alex sits up. “How are you feeling?”

“I thought I’d be scared,” He admits, quietly; Alex can almost hear the curve of a smile on his lips. “But mostly? I’m relieved.”

“Yeah?”

“One less lie. One more step to New York.” He pauses, and Alex’s brain fills in an addition to the sentence; one more step to us, he thinks. “Bea and Pip offered to be here with me but I . . . wanted your company, actually.”

Alex swallows. “Mine?”

“It didn’t feel right doing this with anyone else.”

He smiles; something for himself, a secret kept in the privacy of his room. “I can pull up twitter. Really make this interesting.”

“I beg you to not.”

Alex laughs. “Alright, your majesty.” He hums. “Won’t be able to call you that for much longer, will I?”

“You shouldn’t be calling me that in the first place,” Henry chides. “You know very well that it’s—”

“Yeah, but Your Royal Highness doesn’t make you blush all pretty like.” He pauses. “Sorry, was that—”

There’s a lightness to Henry’s voice when he replies, “You’ll just have to come up with something new, I suppose.”

Alex’s heart hasn’t got the memo that they’ve still got four months to go; it flutters in his chest. “I’ll workshop it,” he can’t help the grin that settles over his lips, either.

“You do that. Oh. It’s starting.”

“First day of the rest of your life,” Alex says.

There’s a breathless little laugh. “It’s only the beginning,” Henry replies.

Bea facetimes Alex.

That becomes a thing, too.

Henry, Philip, Martha, and Bea sitting at the dinner table, Alex dialed in on a facetime call.

He jokes about the sorry state of their dinner; they update him on Henry’s abdication and other familial things. As if he’s a part of the family.

Philip’s still incredibly stuffy, but he smiles at Alex—it’s not dissimilar to Henry’s, or their fathers. There’s a weird openness in him now that he’s not under their grandmothers thumb. Alex wouldn’t say he likes him—he’s still of the firm belief only a truly crazy person eats plain toast—but there’s a newfound appreciation for him. Especially when Bea and Henry recount him standing up to the queen in Henry’s stead.

He doesn’t miss the way it makes Henry beam, either; having Philip at his side, rather than as an opposing force.

Alex is three thousand miles away, yet, somehow, he’s never felt closer to him.

Technically, the White House is his home; but more and more, home’s feeling less like a place.

More like a smile; a laugh; like blue eyes lit up with happiness for the first time in a long time.

“You pressed play too early!”

Henry scoffs. “You pressed it too late.”

“I said after three.”

“In what world does after three make sense?” Henry chides, grinning at Alex from his bed halfway across the world. “On three is the accepted way to do this. Everyone knows that.”

“Oh, does everyone know that?” He puts on a haughty british accent, warmth traveling up his spine as Henry wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Heathen,” Henry says.

“Takes one to know one,” Alex says, sticking his tongue out. He drags the curser on his computer back to the beginning. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

“Sixth times the charm,” Henry sings.

Alex glares at the camera. “It’s not my fault you keep—”

“Oi!”

They glare at each other; but it breaks after a few seconds, matching grins cracking through it with ease.

“I can’t stand you.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Do you want to have this Star Wars marathon or don’t you?”

Henry’s smile softens; he brings some popcorn to his mouth, popping it past his lips. Alex resolutely does not watch the way his fingers glide along the curve of his bottom lip as he pulls them away. He turns from the camera, grabbing his own popcorn.

Two more months.

Then he can ogle Henry as much as he wants.

If that’s still what Henry wants, at least.

“On three,” He says, raising his eyebrows at Henry. “If we can’t get it this time, it’s on you.”

Henry rolls his eyes, motioning for him to count down. “On three,” he agrees.

Alex’s room is dark; he’s been on facetime with Henry for so long that the sun has set and the moon as risen to her highest peak, and he doesn’t have it in himself to move. They’re lying in their own beds, heads pressed to pillows, staring into the cameras on their phones.

Alex clears his throat. “Hey,” he says. “So. New Years.” He says it as casually as he can; drops it as if just another line of conversation to ease into.

Henry burrows further into his pillow. “What about it?”

“I hear the hot son of the President of the United States is throwing a massive rager on the White House lawn.”

“Hmm,” Henry hums. “The president has a hot son?”

Alex rolls his eyes, “Dick.”

“Are you trying to ask me something, Alex?”

“Would England's favorite gay prince heartthrob like an invite?”

It’s a month before their clock runs out. He tries for lighthearted, but it comes out tentative and shy.

Henry watches him for a beat, before shuffling in bed, burrowing his head even further into the pillow. “He would,” he says, smiling softly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Cool.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “It’ll be good to see you.”

Alex smiles, unabashedly; he’s doing a terrible job these days of keeping the feelings at bay. Knows he wears them on his sleeve, but Henry hasn’t reprimanded him, has even gone so far as to encourage them with soft smiles and lingering gazes. So, he doesn’t hide it in the dark of his room, where the only one watching is the only one who matters.

“You too,” he replies.

He sends four invites—one for each of the Fox siblings, and one for Percy. Philip turns down the invite, unsurprisingly, but Bea and Percy accompany Henry to the party. They arrive late—fashionably so, according to Percy—all dressed to the nines. Henry’s in a soft navy suit, a white tie tucked around his neck. Alex uses it to drag him onto the dance floor, holds it hostage until Henry rolls his eyes and finally, finally gets lost in the rhythm of the crowd.

There they remain for much of the night—surrounded by strangers, and their closest friends. June and Nora drag Bea and Percy into a little circle, just the four of them, a protective barrier separating Alex and Henry from the rest of the room.

Somewhere between Get Low—which Alex has dubbed their song to Henry’s chagrin—and Sk8er Boy, Alex’s hands find Henry’s hip. Between one bridge and the next, a devastatingly slow Taylor Swift song that Alex couldn’t name if he tried, too lost in the reflection of the lights in Henry’s eyes to pay the music any mind, and Nora dragging him into the YMCA dance—something shifts in Henry’s gaze.

Something softens.

When Nora releases Alex’s arms, Henry drags them back to his hips, pulling Alex in close and placing his own arms over Alex’s shoulders, his wrists overlapping behind his head.

“Hi,” Alex says, rolling his lower lip.

“Hi,” Henry echoes, grinning; full cheese, his gums on full display.

Alex swears his heart skips a beat.

Henry leans in, presses close to Alex’s ear so he can hear him clearly over the music. “I have a request.”

Alex leans back, raising his eyebrows at him. “Anything!”

Henry pulls him back in. “At midnight,” he says, a breath of hesitation stalling him. “Kiss me.”

Alex’s breath catches at the back of his throat, he rears back to look at him; to gauge the situation. He’s had two shots, hours ago, when they first arrived. His eyes are bright and clear and uninhibited, and he’s looking at Alex like he means it.

“Don’t we have another month?” Alex asks.

“I’ve never had a real New Years Kiss,” Henry says, shrugging. “And you’re . . . you’re the only one I find myself wanting to kiss.”

“Our first kiss was on New Years.”

“Not like this.”

And Alex gets it.

But.

“Will it . . . ruin things?”

Henry’s smile softens. “Do you mean will I spend even more time thinking about your lips on mine than I already do? Certainly.” He shrugs again. “But that’s nothing new.”

“It’s not?”

One of Henry’s hands comes back, settles on the side of Alex’s neck. “Nothing’s changed for me,” He says, lips grazing over the shell of Alex’s ear; voice low and certain. “All I think about is our future.” He pauses, his other hand finding its way into Alex’s hair. “I love you more every day.”

“Me too,” Alex says, his hands digging into Henry’s hips. “Fuck, me too.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

Alex laughs, wonders if this is what mania feels like before deciding he doesn’t care. “Yes,” He says, “Fucking obviously.”

When the countdown starts, Percy and Nora appear beside them, Percy offering up his services.

Henry waves him off, “I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.”

Percy looks between them, a slow smirk building, before he grabs Nora’s hand, spins her in a circle and says, “Come, darling, the boys aren’t in need of our services tonight, the sly dogs.” He grins at them, though, the kind of pride that comes with knowing what they’ve been through and seeing them come through the other side.

They’re laughing when the countdown ends; when confetti rains down on the party goers, fireworks exploding in the distance. Laughing when their lips meet beneath it all—a new beginning, a new start.

Something precious.

Something theirs, even as they let the rest of the world in to catch a peek.

Six months ends in the foyer of a Brownstone.

There’s a little white prescription bag in Henry’s hand when he closes the door behind him, setting it down on the table beside the doors. Alex watches him remove his scarf, kick off his shoes. Waits for him to turn around.

They’d kissed on the dancefloor in a room full of people a little over a month ago, and they’ve talked about it. The kiss, the time ticking by, the things they’d do when it finally counted down to zero.

Nothing could have prepared Alex for what actually happens.

They’d gone to lunch—a date out in public at a fancy little bistro down the street that came at Percy’s recommendation. Alex accompanied Henry to the drug store to pick up his medication. Tomorrow, they’ll go to pick up David and welcome him to his new home.

Henry finally turns to face him.

“I love you,” He says.

Alex smiles; it’s basically a pavlovian response at this point. “I love you more,” he says.

Henry purses his lips, pretends to think about it as he slowly closes the distance between them, his hands coming out to grab Alex’s hips. “I think that’s up for debate,” he says, leaning in to press his lips to the corner of Alex’s mouth.

Alex’s hands fist in the front of Henry’s shirt, pulling him in impossibly closer. “I think that’s up for debate,” he mocks in a breathy British accident. “I think you should kiss me, now.”

“Is that all you want?” Henry asks, “A kiss?”

Alex shakes his head slowly, lips curving up as he presses forward and steals a chaste kiss. “No,” he says, breaking away just enough to whisper against those soft lips.

“What else?”

“Whatever you’ll give me.”

Henry swallows, nodding as he pushes Alex back, back, back until he’s pressed up against the front door. “Everything,” he says. “You can have everything.”

They meet in a heated kiss; something akin to that first time in Alex’s bedroom when they discovered one another’s bodies for the first time—but also like Paris, when everything truly started changing—and like LA, when there was no going back—and Austin, alight with the hope for a future they never thought possible, but that is now finally, finally, truly and wholly in their grasp.