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“You’re here! Henry, I’ve been looking for you fucking everywhere.”
Henry whirls around so fast he almost trips on his own feet. Alex doesn’t think there’s a single day of the year the prince could look anything but unfairly attractive, but even he has to admit Henry doesn’t look his best right now. He’s pale, face drawn and tired, hair mussed like he’s been wringing his hands in it for the past who-knows-how-many hours.
“Alex? What- What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
“Well, I was supposed to be on a plane to New York right now, but then as I was buying coffee at Charles de Gaulle, I stumbled upon a newspaper with a picture of Prince Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor and a big black headline claiming he’d be interviewed on British TV this afternoon”, says Alex all in one breath, still annoyed at the memory. “And then I thought, ‘no way, that can’t be, Prince Henry is supposed to be on a flight to, like, my house right now’. We have dinner reservations, and surely he would have let me know if-”
He looks up at Henry from the bag he was rummaging into, and whatever he sees on his lover’s face, eyes wide and red-rimmed, violet bags and furrowed brow, cuts him in his tirade.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Got carried away. What happened?”
He crosses the room towards Henry, catching his hands, kissing the tips of his fingers and leading them to the plush-looking couch. They sit facing each other, legs tangled up.
“This whole trip has been, for lack of a better word, hell; my grandmother coming up with the most pointless meetings and organising luncheons and tea parties and dinners where I just coincidentally had to sit between, although lovely company, juvenile single female aristocrats, and then simply had to show them the grounds, and I haven’t had a minute to myself,” he says all in one breath.
Alex squeezes Henry’s hand and doesn’t let go. He knows how much the prince, although perfectly charming in every circumstance, is an introvert and values his personal space. He can only imagine how this week must have been if even Henry’s willing to call it hell.
“And I was supposed to be going home this morning,” continues Henry, bitterness filtering through his elegant vowels, “but they informed me as I passed the door that Philip had to use one of the jets, and for some reason, they couldn’t locate a crew for the other one, and, ‘Oh Henry, the goddaughter of the son of the cousin of my oldest friend’s sister Martha is a journalist, and how sad but also very convenient that your trip home has been postponed’, since now I can, for the good of the nation obviously, give her en entrevue this afternoon. Couldn’t say no, the announcement has already gone to print.”
There’s no right answer to this, Alex thinks, apart from the obvious anger and resentment he has on behalf of Henry.
“Well, the US has plenty of planes. Now that I’m here - I wasn’t gonna go home by myself if you weren’t there, by the way - we can probably extradite you from this cursed country.”
Henry huffs and gives him a small smile. It’s not much, but it is already heartwarming to Alex.
“I think if you try that, they won’t ever allow you to enter this cursed country again, as you say. You shall be blacklisted for corruption of the youth, or something of the sort.”
Alex shrugs: he doesn’t think he’d lose any sleep over being forbidden to enter the United Kingdom, but it probably wouldn't be a smart move if he wants to pursue a career in international politics at some point. Also, he’s not entirely sure he has the power to call a plane here.
“I hope you’re not too mad I didn’t warn you sooner. I was going to give you a call, it was my first thought, but for a minute I couldn’t find my phone and I worried it was with the rest of my bags - they left for the airport, for some reason - and then by the time I found it too much time had passed and I worried you’d be disappointed and I got a little- Overwhelmed. I’m sorry.”
He’s smiling that tense, polite smile of his, looking everywhere but at Alex, who says slowly, enunciating each word:
“I’m not mad, H. I’m not mad, I love you, and I’m sorry you panicked. Because I know you by now, and I can tell that by overwhelmed, you mean you had a panic attack, right?”
Henry nods silently, jaw tight, and Alex can’t resist getting closer and sliding his hands into Henry’s hair, tucking a strand between his ear and stroking his cheek softly. He goes easily, coming to slot their lips together, tension slowly oozing out of his body as he loses himself in the heat of Alex’s mouth, in the gentle scratch of fingers against his scalp, in the cologne he’s come to associate with the feeling of safe and love and simply pure Alex. The kiss is slow and unhurried, all shared breaths and basking in each other presence. Their wandering hands aren’t grasping as much as caressing, revelling in the solidity of the other, so Henry is a bit taken aback when Alex pulls back just slightly and announces, matter-of-factly:
“You need to take off your sweater.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your sweater. Off.”
Alex is frowning, now, and Henry’s brain is still addled by their kiss and he’s struggling to process what is happening.
“I’m not sure I’m in the right state of mind for that at the moment,” he says, and somehow it sounds like a question.
Henry looks so lost and Alex cradles his head between his hands and catches his eye with his own brown, warm gaze before saying, softly and slowly, like he’s talking to someone he loves very much, but that someone is four and a half years old, or a gay, British prince in moderate distress:
“Babe. Baby. I don’t think there’s any situation where I wouldn’t want to fuck you, but even I can recognise now is maybe not the best time. I meant, take off your sweater because this monstrosity is doing nothing for your looks and it’s also rough like a scratching post,” he says with a disgusted air. “No wonder you were feeling raw,” he adds.
Henry stares at him for a second, dumbfounded, and wondering if he was some sort of a saint in a past life for deserving such a caring lover, but Alex urges him with a “Come on!” and takes off his own top, a grey sweatshirt, worn with use, the inside a soft fleece material. He presses it to Henry's hands and says:
“Come on, put it on. Also, there’s a surprise for you in the pocket.”
Henry has to blink away his tears and Alex waits patiently, smiling like he knows exactly what’s going on through his mind, how much he loves Alex and how overwhelming it is to feel that Alex loves him with the same devastating passion.
He finally takes off his own jumper, folds it (pointlessly, as Alex discards it by throwing it across the room and making a show of wiping his hands on his pants afterwards), and he puts on Alex’s sweatshirt, closing his eyes for a second to enjoy the feeling of quietness on his skin. It still carries Alex’s warmth and scent, and it is so much softer than the wool jumper he was just wearing. He hadn’t realised, he thinks, how uncomfortable he was before, and like every time with Alex, this feeling of being seen, being perceived, doesn’t feel like an ordeal but like a blessing.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, catching one of Alex’s hands. “I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. Look in the pocket.”
Now that he pays attention to it, he does notice the strange bulge in the front pocket, and the plasticky sound that crinkles at every shift of his body. Henry sneaks his hand in the fabric and closes it on a ridged object of an indescriptible consistency, and pulls it out with a curious air. He doesn’t laugh when he recognises what it is, but it’s a close call: Alex can definitely tell he’s looking lighter.
“Jaffa cakes,” Henry says with a smile. “Thank you, love.”
“Had a feeling you might be having a bad time.”
“I was. I feel much better now that you are with me, though.”
He approaches Alex again, kissing him on the cheek first, on the corner of his mouth then frankly on his lips. It’s a little awkward, because Alex is smiling so hard his mouth is a little distorted, but it is so familiar and comfortable and so everything Henry needs.
When they separate to catch their breath, they don’t pull apart: Alex tightens his arms against Henry, and Henry settles his head on Alex’s shoulder with a sigh of contentment. Alex kisses his hair.
“Be very honest with me. Do you want me to push the old crow down the stairs?” he asks after a short moment of silence. “Would that make you happy?”
Henry barks out a laugh and blinks in surprise at the sound coming out of his mouth.
“Thank you for the offer,” he answers, mock-politely. “I don’t believe it will be necessary, though, love. Your presence is all I need to be happy.”