Chapter Text
Henry has never liked his title. It is, on the best of days, inconvenient, and on the worst, the utter bane of his existence. Today, it’s one of the latter.
“Morning, Hen,” Bea says as she walks into the lounge where Henry is sitting and trying to work on some writing. “Did you hear that Philip’s asked for Gran’s permission to propose to Martha? Seems rather quick, if you ask me. I suppose it means he’s sure about her, so that’s good at least.”
Henry glances up and gives his sister a soft smile before looking back down to his work. She’s wearing a soft green maxi dress, which seems oddly preppy for his 90s grunge style obsessed sister.
“No, I hadn’t,” he murmurs, trying to catch his thoughts up to where the conversation is. “Good for him. I’m sure he’ll manage to have the beigest wedding ever documented.” If their older brother Philip had any more of a stick up his arse, he’d probably have problems sitting down.
Bea snorts and rolls her eyes fondly. “Truly. Boring does seem to be a talent of his. It’s a shame they don’t offer that course in A levels.”
“Oh, but don’t forget, it only counts as high marks if you had to work really hard to get it,” Henry reminds her, sarcasm bleeding into his tone. Their Gran had forced all three of them to take courses they struggled with because it would ‘look better’ that they’d done well in harder ones, and yet, somehow, that wasn’t even the most annoying thing she’d insisted of her grandchildren in the last few years.
“Right,” Bea agrees, nodding. “Perhaps we should try to find him a course on being—I don’t know—not an arse? It would be difficult for him, so Gran might approve.”
They both laugh as Bea walks back towards her room, and Henry’s glad that he has his sister at least, through all of this—even if she’s the only real family he’s got left. He may technically have his brother and mum, but Philip’s too busy being what he thinks their gran wants him to be to realise that it’s turned him into a massive prick, and their mum hasn’t been the same since their dad died.
Henry misses them. He misses the brother who used to play Nerf fights with him, the mum who used to rub Henry’s back to help him fall back asleep after a nightmare. Parts of all of them had died with Arthur Fox, but Henry hadn’t realised until too late that those parts were what were supposed to hold them together. Without it, their relationships had dissolved into a state of disarray, beyond what Henry thinks has much hope for repair.
Bea’s the only one who has managed to find part of herself again, and now she and Henry are closer than they’ve probably ever been. It helps that they share an apartment at Kensington Palace, but it’s more than that. Bea could be living anywhere in the world now, but she’s wordlessly chosen to stay here with him. Henry thinks she probably knows just how bad his depression gets these days, and it’s her way of making sure he’s not alone all the time.
For a little while after their dad had died, Henry had holed up in his room for every waking moment that he wasn’t absolutely required to be somewhere else. He barely replied to his best (and only real) friend Pez’s, texts, and he’d become so isolated that life started feeling so bleak as if there wasn’t a point to it all anymore.
Henry’s doing a lot better now—really, he is—mostly thanks to his newly-minted Zoloft prescription, but things are still… not great. Everything feels like it’s lost its sparkle. What had he been looking forward to, again? His life doesn’t feel fun or happy anymore. He’s just bored, all the time.
He hardly ever leaves the palace for anything he wants to go to, and as grateful as he is to have it, it feels as much like a prison as it does his home. A gilded birdcage. He never asked for any of this, and it feels a lot like sometimes, the universe is punishing him for having it anyway. He’d give it all back if he could, if it wasn’t his duty.
So, he’ll suck it up because people are counting on him, and somehow it seems even worse to let everyone who needs him down than it does to keep accepting this fancy life he doesn’t deserve. Even if he feels like a fraud, it’s real to them.
Melancholy thoughts cast aside, Henry spends the rest of his day making small talk with the royal staff about his brother’s engagement to the perfectly acceptable and mundane bride-to-be. The crown will love it—the staff already does, if the incessant chattering Henry endures all day is any inclination. He has no doubts his Gran will say yes to Philip’s question—Martha is agreeable and plain and everything the Queen could ever want. Martha’s safe. She isn’t going to get anything done when she’s queen; she’s ornate. A decoration. She herself is just another part of what makes this gilded cage so alluring from the outside.
Henry doesn’t know how that doesn’t bother her. He would never want to be king, but at least it seems better than whatever purgatory fourth in line for the throne is. He has all of the responsibilities of upholding royal appearances, but rarely does he get to do anything actually good. He’d change things if he could.
Philip, dull and stuck up as he is these days, is exceedingly efficient. It’s less than two weeks later when the news of their engagement is announced to the press, and two weeks after that, Henry finds himself standing next to some blonde girl in the same suit he always wears at their engagement party.
His gran has been nagging him incessantly about being seen with more girls on his arm, so he’d caved and agreed to bring a date to this party. The girl—Ashlee—looks like she could be Henry’s sister, but she’s nice enough, and Henry doesn’t mind having her around all that much.
As the party drones on, Henry can’t help but feel a little bored. It seems completely unnecessary. Why throw a party to announce another party? It makes no sense. Ashlee is fairly quiet, and aside from exchanging pleasantries, Henry doesn’t feel compelled to speak beyond that with her. Philip and Martha both make speeches, and then some of Martha’s friends follow with praises about how they ‘always knew she was a princess at heart’.
When Philip’s best-man-to-be, Caleb, steps up to the microphone, Henry’s chest feels a little tight and excuses himself to the lavatory. Just being in the same room as Caleb conjures up snapshot memories of dark corridors and hushed whispers, and Henry knows that as irritated as his family may be at his inability to keep cool, they’d be far more cross with him if he started having a panic attack in the middle of a bloody party. He thinks he manages to keep his expression neutral, but he doesn’t miss the disapproving look his brother sends his way when he gets up.
Whatever. Philip might react differently had he known that Caleb (who is one of those Ben in Heartstopper types that make their own internalised homophobia everyone else’s problem) was the first person Henry ever did anything with and then pretended like he didn’t even know Henry’s name afterwards. Nevermind the fact that he’d been 17 and Caleb was 24. So, Henry just can’t bear to be around him anymore than strictly necessary.
He’s standing in the hall outside the toilets, arm perched up on the wall as he tries to collect himself. His breathing is erratic, and he’s trying to remember the 5-step panic attack thing his therapist taught him, but it’s really bloody difficult to remember stuff like that when your heart is racing and everything feels distant and far away and a lot like he’s about to actually, literally die.
Then, out of nowhere, he smells a familiar cologne, and suddenly, Pez is there, grounding and safe.
“Figured you could use a little company,” Pez says easily, and if Henry didn’t know him as well as he does, he’d think it was just a happy coincidence... His best friend’s concern is expertly concealed in the crinkling corners of his eyes, in the way Henry hadn’t learned until he’d known Pez for years, and something appreciative tugs at his chest.
Pez is the only person Henry has ever told about Caleb besides his therapist—because as close as he may be with Bea, telling your sister about when you were technically-but-it-doesn’t-really-feel-like-it sexually assaulted feels like a one way ticket to uncomfortable conversation town. He’d been scared that Pez might treat him differently afterwards, but he’d taken it in stride the way he always does, and Henry’s overwhelmingly grateful in this moment that Pez does know because it means he’s not alone.
“Thanks,” Henry says, trying and failing to put the shattered remnants of his press face back together. “I just—” he exhales in a sharp huff, half hating himself for not being able to get it together, “I hate having to be polite and pretend like nothing’s happened. I hate having to hide how I feel just because my ‘shameful’ choices ‘put me’ in that situation. Because clearly the pristine image we’ve to upkeep is more important than my wellbeing.”
His words come out quickly, with another huff at the end, and Pez puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Henry really should be more careful about what he says and where, because anybody could’ve overheard that, but it’s too late now to take it back.
“I know, I know,” Pez says, and the placating expression he’s wearing somehow manages to avoid looking too much like pity. He sighs. “He’s a prick and we hate him. Just think about it this way: Philip’s the one with a best mate he can’t trust and he doesn’t actually know. Whereas you have got me! Which I know you wouldn’t trade for anything.”
Henry coughs out a laugh. “You’re such a narcissist,” Henry tells him fondly. “Who gave you such a big head? Was it me? Have I made a grave error in judgement in choosing you as my best friend?” He smiles as he says it though; for as much as he talks, Pez was the one who picked Henry, really. Even though he doesn’t have any other real friends, Pez is enough that it makes up for it. Henry doesn’t need anyone else.
In true Pez-like fashion, he ignores the question. “D’you wanna get out of here? I happen to know a very good falafel stand nearby.”
It’s the both of their favourite’s, and he does want to go, but Ashlee is still expecting him to come back to the party. It takes about three seconds of deliberation before he decides: fuck it. He’s been the perfect prince for enough time today, and maybe the bell for dismissal hasn’t rung yet, but he deserves to break the rules and leave school early for once.
He excuses himself with Ashlee, who appears very befuddled, before he leaves and finds Pez waiting where they’d just been talking in the hall. They sneak out together, their tried and true PPO-free path out of Buckingham Palace, discovered for the first time over one summer in secondary school when Pez desperately needed Henry to meet the girl he was fancying when she didn’t want to come to the palace. They hadn’t used it except when strictly necessary, guarding the secret like a dying flame and preserving it only for the most important of occasions on the off chance it was found out and became unusable. Despite this, Henry still knows it like the back of his hand and could probably navigate it with his eyes closed and blindfolded.
The London air is brisk, a cold shock to his system, and Henry feels alive for the first time in ages as he and Pez find the marked tree —W + H carved into the rough bark with a pocketknife Arthur had given Henry when he was seven—and then dig their well-worn disguises out of the nearest shrub. Holding up two grimey baseball caps and a ziplock bag with clothing and makeup in it like a treasure chest he’s found in the sand, Pez grins mischievously.
Pez helps Henry draw a beard on in the crescent moon’s unhelpfully dim lighting, a skill he’s become exceedingly efficient at over the years. When they walk past the boundary of the property, to the average person, neither of them are recognizable.
They duck through the familiar streets of the city with their hats and oversized clothing on, giddy. It’s like the rest of the evening never even happened. Henry only exists in the here and now. As they walk down the road, nobody knows who they are. It’s one of the few times Henry gets to be the same as everyone else: a normal person. They have code spy names they don whenever they ditch their security, almost like other people have personas for their fake IDs: William for Henry, after Mr. Darcy, and Heath for Pez, like the candybar.
They haven’t done this in a long while, and it’s exhilarating. Nobody bats an eye, and Henry lingers half a step behind Pez and keeps his head ducked down, looking at his phone as Pez orders them falafel. Something about the espionage aspect makes their food taste even better than when it’s acquired the normal way, but perhaps it’s just the James Bond offspring in Henry’s blood that makes it feel like that. Henry and Pez wander around the area for a while until both of their noses are numb, talking about everything except for the wedding or Caleb, and by the time they make it back to the palace, Henry’s fingers may be cold, but his heart is warm.
Henry’s day-to-day life isn’t very interesting in itself (or maybe he’s just depressed, it’s probably a little bit of both), so as unexciting as it is, Philip’s wedding ends up being one of the only semi-interesting things to talk about. At least it’s marginally better than tax data summaries.
Time passes in its usual monotonous blur, and before Henry knows it, it’s the day of the ceremony. He doesn’t realise until the day of the bloody ceremony that the boy he’s had an unyielding and embarrassingly huge crush on for years—Alex Claremont-Diaz, the son of the President of the United States—is going to be there, and he only even finds out before Alex’s presence smacks him right in the face because Bea mentions his sister as they’re having breakfast.
“Have you ever spoken to June Claremont-Diaz?” she asks, looking up from the Rolling Stone magazine she’s been flipping through with a raised eyebrow.
“Erm,” Henry finishes chewing and swallowing his toast, “I’ve met her, but I don’t believe we’ve talked past basic pleasantries. Why?”
Bea flips the page around to show Henry. “She wrote this article about Evanescence that was pretty cool. I’m pretty sure her and her brother are coming today, so I was just wondering because I haven’t.” Henry’s expression must be amusing because his sister laughs at him. “You look like I’ve just told you I killed David.”
Henry glares at her. “Piss off. I just. I wasn’t aware Alex was coming.”
Bea waggles her eyebrows. “Nickname basis we’re on, are we?”
“Oh my God, he has literally never gone by Alexander,” Henry groans, “so please do shut up.”
“Wouldn’t you have to have looked him up to know that?”
“Beatrice.”
She pretends to zip her lips up and goes back to reading her magazine, and Henry sits there and ponders how he’s supposed to go about the day with this new and unfortunate information. Alex has always had some predisposition towards pushing Henry’s buttons, like he wants to figure out the most efficient way to get Henry to snap. At almost every single event they’ve ever attended together, Alex has acted like some sort of child trying to get a rise out of him.
Henry, as the youngest child, does not have much experience with people behaving this way. However, he thinks he’s handled these instances with Alex in stride, his polite and calm composure never faltering. It only seems to irritate Alex more that Henry doesn’t allow him to make his home under Henry’s skin, though, and he’s become increasingly erratic as time has gone on. One of the last times he saw him, Alex had threatened to push him into the River Thames.
It makes Henry want to rip his hair out because as annoying as it is, Alex is devastatingly gorgeous, and apparently, Henry has a thing for models with dimples insulting him. Send help. (He’s very clearly in need of it.)
Thankfully, Henry is whisked away for wedding prep before he has much time to allow his thoughts to snowball, and he’s almost forgotten about Alex by the time he’s with the rest of his family.
The wedding decor is just about as white, gauzy, and boring as Henry would’ve expected it to be. He, Philip, and Bea all have to greet approximately 400 of the guests before the ceremony’s even started, which is quite frankly the last thing Henry would rather be doing, but when he realises that Alex isn’t one of them, it makes things slightly more bearable.
By the time they’re done, Henry’s ankles are starting to ache, and he’d rather like to retire back to his bedroom—but it’s only eleven in the morning. He wishes he could say that he gets a reprieve from his royal duties now, but there are a million and one things to do, today of all days.
About an hour later, Martha’s finally arrived. Henry is already seated inside, next to his sister and mum, but he knows the timeline for today upside down and backwards. He can tell by the time that Martha’s just finished being driven through the Long Walk, waving to all her adoring fans, and is meeting up with her bridesmaids, pageboys, and father on the West Steps, preparing to enter the chapel.
The wedding goes off without a hitch, and the Dean of Windsor performs the ceremony. It’s all very extravagantly and aggressively vanilla, but made much more tolerable by the little jokes Bea leans over to whisper in his ear from time to time. As he watches his new sister-in-law seal the marriage with a kiss, Henry’s struck by just how little he knows about this person who is now a part of his family. By the time Philip met her, their family had already been on not the best of terms, so Henry hasn’t spent much time around Martha.
Thankfully, they’re spared from participating in the procession, and soon he’s at the reception. Bea is at his side for the walk over and a good bit of the beginning of the party, but then Henry sees Alex, and less than two minutes later he’s been abandoned for a platter of fancy crepes because apparently, his sister hates him, and he’s about as subtle as a neon sign.
He wishes Pez was here, but he’d had an event today in Australia, and Philip’s an arse who probably doesn’t want him here anyways. Henry’s eyes skate around the room before landing on a group of guests he’s yet to greet, so he decides to make his way over there just for something to do now that his sister’s left him to his own devices.
“Henry!” Henry’s grandmother’s friend Charlotte exclaims, waving him over with a gloved hand. “I was wondering when I’d have the pleasure.”
Henry dips his head in greeting and offers a soft smile. Charlotte is his gran’s age and comes from a similar background, which, in his experience, makes her a bit of a stuck-up toff. “Good afternoon, Lady Charlotte, Sir George.”
Charlotte’s husband, George, is even more of a snob than his wife. They’ve known Henry since he was in diapers, though, and this fact has only made them all the more worse of a thorn in Henry’s side. He’s not bitter about it at all, though, if anyone was wondering.
“The ceremony was just lovely, don’t you think?” Charlotte comments, pushing a grey strand of hair behind her ear.
Henry nods in affirmation. “Truly. Pip and Martha have certainly thrown together a fabulous celebration.”
“Well, it bodes well for their future that the wedding has been such a success,” Charlotte says. “I’m confident their marriage will be just as much so. Oh, George, darling, don’t you hope they’ll try for children soon?”
Henry just barely manages to keep himself from making a face. “Yes, I imagine they will,” George says, his eyes darting back and forth from one of the male waiter’s arses. Subtle. (Henry chooses not to think about how old the old twat is, because that just makes things worse.)
Charlotte makes a disapproving noise in the back of her throat, and Henry thinks she must’ve noticed her husband’s perverted indiscretions, but when he follows her eyeline, she’s looking at the table where the White House Trio is sitting. How she doesn’t realise there are more important things for her to be worrying about, namely, her husband, Henry isn’t sure.
“Ugh, those poor foreigners,” she says, her tone dripping with disgust on the last word as if it’s an insult. “I suppose nobody wants to dance with any of them. I can’t pretend I’m surprised. They do tend to come across rather crass.”
Henry grits his teeth in anger. They’re not the only people sitting down, and even if they were, Charlotte’s acting as if it’s not their choice; like they’re unwanted. It rubs him the wrong way. She’s said things along those lines about Pez before, and Henry knows the batty old shrew wouldn’t dare say anything like that if the people she’s talking about now were all white.
He almost says something to her, but decides better of it when he thinks of the tongue lashing his gran will give him when it gets back to her. (Despite her age, Charlotte has proven herself to be quite the toddler tattletale when she’s unhappy). It’s not worth the fight, especially not when he isn’t going to change anyone’s mind.
Instead, he excuses himself and taps the nearest royal attendant on the shoulder. “Would you please ask Miss Claremont-Diaz if she’d like to dance with me?” Nevermind the fact that he’d rather dance with Alex, even if the sarcastic arse seems to hate Henry’s guts for no reason. Alex is unbearably attractive. Sue him. At least he’ll get to be closer to him for a moment.
The attendant nods and is immediately at June’s side, and after a moment of conversation he’s waving Henry over. He tries to will away the heat on his cheeks at the prospect of being so close to Alex, and it seems like it works, mostly. June is beautiful—she looks like something out of a magazine, except she’s real and vibrant rather than photoshopped perfection that’s too good to be true.
He can’t keep his eyes from locking with Alex’s first, though, and all the effort he’d made into willing away the flush on his cheeks feels like it’d been for nothing the moment his eyes meet Alex’s chocolatey brown ones. He swallows thickly and nods at him in awkward greeting, and then, with Herculean strength, turns his head away from Alex to speak to his sister.
“Hello, June,” he says, holding his hand out, “do you know how to waltz?”
June bites her lip and looks like she’s having a hard time meeting Henry’s eyes. “I’m…” she says, trailing off like she’s trying to remember how to think, “Sure I could pick it up.” She sounds uncertain, though, and Henry’s smile grows at her unexpected shyness. He hasn’t had many interactions with this half of the Claremont-Diaz siblings, and especially after this morning’s chat with Bea, considering June’s article was about a rock band, he’d been expecting a little more… spitfire. Plus, given the interactions Henry’s had with Alex, his sister’s reservedness comes unexpectedly. Or, perhaps her trepidation is just because Henry is a prince, and she’s normally more like her brother.
She takes Henry’s outheld hand tentatively, and he helps her up and onto the dance floor. Her smile is polite and soft. “It’s lovely to finally meet you for more than a quick introduction,” Henry says as they fall into the familiar steps of the dance. “My apologies that it’s taken this long.”
June blushes and smiles. “It’s okay,” she says, stumbling on a turn. Thankfully, waltzing is almost entirely in the leading, and Henry can do this dance in his sleep. “I would guess you’re probably a pretty busy person.”
“That I am indeed,” Henry agrees. “Unfortunately. You would not believe how much I’ve had to do today even though it’s my brother’s wedding. The traditions can be quite the headache.” He pauses, and then leans closer to her conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Between you and me, I’d quite frankly rather be almost anywhere else right now.”
June laughs, and her eyes sparkle. She seems a little less reserved now like she’s decided Henry isn’t going to bite. “Yes,” she teases, “God forbid they ask you which million-dollar painting goes where.”
Henry grins at her and nods his head with comically large eyes. “Precisely. You get it. The burden of being filthy rich royalty.” They both laugh, and just as Henry’s about to ask June about her article, Bea’s figure catches his eye from across the room. She’s holding a champagne flute.
His brain short-circuits, and he probably manages to continue polite small talk, since he’s had so much practice at it, but all he can think about is his sister’s fingers wrapped around that glass. As much as he’s confident Bea wouldn’t risk her years of sobriety for a glass of champagne at her brother’s wedding of all places, he can’t stop the internal spiralling of his thoughts. He looks back at her as often as he can without being rude and never sees her raise it to her mouth, but his heart is racing nonetheless.
June’s caramel highlights catch in the soft lighting as they dance, and after the longest three minutes of his life, the song is over. He escorts June back to her table politely and pointedly avoids looking towards her brother. If only Alex was capable of being half as pleasant as his sister, they might actually make it through tonight without some sort of incident.
As soon as June is seated again, Henry beelines over to where Bea is standing and speaking with some of their family's childhood mates. He doesn’t even think his brain has any thoughts, at least nothing besides bad.
“Bea?” he asks, doing his absolute best to prevent any of his anxiety from bleeding into his voice and placing a guiding hand on her elbow. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
Bea nods, smiling, and turns towards him, walking a few paces away from the group she’d been chatting with. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion when she sees the panicked look in his eyes, one that only she and Pez know him well enough to recognize, before going slack with realisation when she sees his eyes darting back to the drink in her hand. “Oh,” she says, “no, no, it’s not mine. Don’t worry. I’m holding it for Alexandra while she uses the loo.”
Henry breathes a sigh of relief, and his lungs feel like they can fill up all the way again for the first time since he’d seen her holding it. “Oh,” he says, nodding his head and feeling faintly dizzy. “Right. That—that makes sense.”
Bea gives him a patented older sister look, a little stern but fond nonetheless, and reaches forward to grab Henry’s hand and squeeze. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore, you know. I’m okay. Promise.”
He knows this, rationally, that Bea hasn’t touched anything since she’d asked Henry to take her back to rehab the night he came out to her, but she’s his older sister and he’s fiercely protective of her whether he needs to do so or not. “I know,” he sighs apologetically. “I’m sorry.”
Bea smiles at him and taps his wrist with her thumb. “It’s okay, love. I know it’s because you care about me.”
He does care; so much so that after Bea goes back to their friends, he excuses himself to the powder room for a moment to pull himself back together. When he comes back, he finds the champagne tower and swipes a glass for himself, leaning against the wall. He’s happy to avoid the attention—and he thinks dancing with June has probably fulfilled whatever social obligations are expected of him tonight.
Philip and Martha are dancing together in the centre of the ballroom, and even though Henry’s never been particularly close to either of them, he has to admit that Martha does look lovely. She looks every bit the bride who will one day become queen, elegant and beautiful. Philip hasn’t been the best of brothers since their Dad passed away, but he looks happy today, looking down at his new wife with something reverent in his eyes. At least one of the Fox Mountchristen-Windsor boys will get to marry someone they love.
He’s just thinking about that when Alex approaches him, holding what appears to be more than his first glass of wine. “When you have one of these,” Alex says, “you should do two champagne fountains instead of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain.”
Henry is really not in the mood for Alex’s snark, and he cannot comprehend why Alex is so hell-bent on seeking him out to push his buttons at every event they’re required to attend together. It’s like he knows about Henry’s borderline embarrassing crush on him and just wants to torment him.
“Alex,” Henry greets, “I wondered if I’d have the pleasure.”
Alex smiles sarcastically. “Looks like it’s your lucky day.”
“Truly,” Henry says, “a momentous occasion.” He smiles at Alex, but it is pointedly not sarcastic—because Alex acts like a pest sometimes, and Henry will not allow his manners to escape him simply because it feels like a gnat is flying around his head.
“Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re above all this?” Alex asks, and at that, Henry can’t help feeling confused.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” His voice sounds a little flat, even to his own ears.
“I mean,” Alex says, “you’re out here, getting the photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate the attention, which you clearly don’t, since you’re dancing with my sister, of all people.”
Henry raises his eyebrows a little, almost wanting to laugh at how inexplicably incorrect Alex’s presumptions are. If only he knew just how much Henry hates the constant eyes on him, maybe he’d understand.
“You act like you’re too important to be anywhere, ever,” Alex drones on. “Doesn’t that get exhausting?”
Henry pauses for a moment, pursing his lips while he tries to collect his thoughts. Alex is being an arse, which isn’t new, but Henry can’t figure out why there’s a warm and tingly feeling shooting through his chest. It’s unexpected and takes him off guard. He tries to ground his thoughts so he doesn’t appear as dazed as he feels. “I’m… a bit more complicated than that.”
Alex laughs dryly, and then Henry’s eyes flit back to the nearly empty glass of wine in his hands and things click. “Oh,” he says, “you’re drunk.”
Alex does not appear all too perturbed by Henry’s statement because he then, in fact, goes on to rest his elbow on Henry’s shoulder as if they’re mates. The levels of sarcasm radiating out of this man are so intense that Henry thinks they really ought to send him off to a lab somewhere to study it. He hadn’t realised it was possible to exude something so strongly.
“I’m just saying,” Alex goes on elusively, “you could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.”
Henry laughs, perhaps a little bitterly. As if he would ever find ballroom dancing with a bunch of random women he doesn’t know for the fifth time that month fun.
“I believe you should consider switching to water, Alex,” he says, trying not to grit his teeth as Alex’s elbow digs into his shoulder.
“Should I?” Alex asks, pouting his lip a little like he’s fake sad and tilting his head to the side. “Am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”
Henry’s cheeks burn and he stiffens his back so Alex’s too-short arm falls off. Who does Alex think he is, coming to Henry’s brother’s wedding and antagonising him? He probably should’ve nipped this behaviour in the bud when it’d first started years ago, not allowed it to snowball, but he supposes he’d given Alex a little too much of a pass because he was so attractive.
“Do you know what,” Henry says a little sharply, “I think you are.”
Alex’s mouth falls open, and it almost seems a little like he doesn’t realise it’s done so until a few moments later. His eyes dart to the arm that’s fallen from Henry’s shoulder, and he looks incredulous.
“Only a thought,” Henry says, his voice back to its normal, proper, intonation. “Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been exhaustively civil every time we’ve spoken?”
Alex’s expression is taken aback like he can’t believe Henry has finally addressed the elephant that’s been in the room for the last three years. “Yet here you are,” he continues, “seeking me out again. Simply an observation.”
Alex’s cheeks have gone the faintest, barely there shade of pink, but Henry feels smug in knowing that he’s finally the one to get under Alex’s skin. “What? I’m not—” Alex stammers, “You’re the—”
Henry interrupts him, perhaps with more enjoyment than he should. “Have a lovely evening, Alex.”
He turns to walk away, and it takes almost everything in him to resist the urge to turn around and look at Alex’s face, which he can imagine is shocked and irresistibly attractive the way it always is. Christ, he’s so unbearably hot, Henry hates him. He also hates the fact that Alex had actually managed to irritate him, if not for the reasons he should be irritated.
Henry makes it less than one step away before Alex’s hand is on his shoulder and yanking him back. Henry turns back towards the most infuriatingly irritating person he’s ever met, and the frustration that he’s been trying to quell overtakes him as he pushes Alex’s hand off of him. He only barely manages to resist opening his mouth and saying something he’d regret in the heat of the movement.
To Henry’s horror, the momentum of pushing Alex’s too-drunk and unstable frame off of him results in Alex tripping over his own feet and stumbling back into the table behind him, which happens to be housing the wedding cake. He grasps wildly for Henry’s arm to try to catch himself, but it just pulls Henry off balance and into him. Henry’s champagne spills at the motion, all over the both of them and oh, God, this is already an incident, even if Henry manages to catch his balance. They both fall into the table, trying and failing to regain their balance as Henry’s heart stops in his chest and the cake tips over precariously.
He only has a millisecond to think Please, God, no, before the momentum of the disturbance pulls the cake over the edge, and they fall the rest of the way to the floor, seconds before the cake follows them down. At some point, the glass Henry had been holding breaks and somehow cuts him across the cheek, but he only faintly notices the sting over the adrenaline and shock coursing through his body. There’s cake everywhere.
Alex has landed halfway underneath him, their body parts twisted all around each other in some sort of horrific human pretzel. Henry’s wrist is still stuck in Alex’s viselike grip, and they’re both covered in frosting and probably glass, too. Henry doesn’t think Alex says anything, but it’s hard to hear over the roaring in his ears. He doesn’t mean to speak, but words come out anyway.
“Oh my fucking Christ.”