Chapter Text
Noel: Today is quite a big day for Bake Off.
Matt: Did you ever think we’d have actual royalty in the tent, Noel?
Noel: Well, maybe a lesser royal. An earl, perhaps. Ooh, or a viscount!
Matt: Now I’m kind of disappointed we didn’t get a viscount.
Noel: You do know there’s an actual prince in there, right?
Matt: Bah, a prince. Everyone’s got a prince these days. Wake me up when we get something really unusual. Someone related to the American president.
Noel: Well, we’ve got one of them too, as it turns out.
Matt: Oh, all right then.
Noel & Matt: Welcome to the Celebrity Bake Off!
The Night Before (8 Hours Earlier)
It’s the Bowie playing over his bluetooth speakers that muffles the sound of the approaching footsteps.
To be fair, Henry had assumed he’d be alone here, or as alone as one could be when one was a prince. He had a few PPOs with him, but otherwise he had expected to have the bulk of Welford Park to himself, whether he needed it or not (he didn’t). As far as he knows, all the other contestants are staying at a local, reasonably posh bed and breakfast, but the Palace had deemed it not secure enough, so Henry is here. The Georgian manor had been sumptuously renovated inside to serve as a venue for parties and such, although usually the house itself wasn’t available for staying in. But, well, there’s the aforementioned prince thing. Henry is just glad he was given access to the kitchens for last minute practise.
All of which goes to say that Henry is lost in his own little world as he carefully pipes out macaron shells onto the marked silicon baking mat. He’s bent over the counter, not even facing the door, humming along to the music and swinging his hips a bit since there’s no one here to see.
Shouldn’t be anyone here to see.
“Are you actually practising?” says a low, smooth, and distressingly familiar voice from behind him.
Henry, mortifyingly, startles so hard that he squeezes a huge glob of macaron batter all over the mat. He stares forlornly at the wreckage for a moment, then tips his head back and sighs heavily before he finally turns around to face the intruder.
Alex Claremont-Diaz stands in the doorway, leaning up against the frame, looking just as gorgeous as the day they met. More, even. It appears as though he might have just gotten out of bed, perhaps fighting jet lag; his curls are tousled in that way that makes Henry’s fingers itch to sink into them, and he’s wearing an old Georgetown t-shirt over plaid pyjama pants slung low enough on his hips to invite very dangerous thoughts. Henry forces his eyes back up to Alex’s face, but his expression is just as inscrutable as when Henry first glimpsed it. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Alex looks almost intrigued. It’s not a look Henry is used to seeing on him.
Four years on from Alex threatening to push him in the Thames, the animosity between them has waned a bit. Or at least, Alex seemed to decide ignoring him was easier than antagonising him all the time. Perhaps they’d both matured some. It helped that Henry was mostly away at school and thus participating in fewer official functions where they might interact, but even when they did, these days their exchanges were typically cool. A far cry from what lived in Henry’s deepest desires, but it’s better this way.
Henry had known, of course, that he would be competing. The Palace had been given full approval of the other proposed contestants: some pop star, whom Henry was entirely unfamiliar with but would have to pretend he knows her music if asked; Tom Daley, whom Henry would not admit to having had a bit of a crush on when he was younger; and Alex. Beautiful, irascible (around Henry), charming (around everyone else) Alex. Normally one wouldn’t expect someone prominent in American politics to participate in Bake Off, of all things, but Alex had been specially invited to participate after his series of viral tweets about the previous year’s Mexican Week.
It’s no mystery why the producers wanted to put them in the tent together, and for some reason, Henry didn’t protest. Perhaps he hoped that their newfound maturity might prevail and they could finally move beyond the tabloids speculating about how much they hated each other.
“What are you doing here?” Henry blurts, like an absolute pillock, and Alex’s expression shutters.
Oh, hell. Perhaps not, then.
“I mean,” he starts again, halfway to babbling already, Christ, why is he like this around this man? “I thought everyone else was staying elsewhere.”
“Need the whole place to yourself, Your Highness?” Alex drawls in response, using his title with as much insolence as possible.
Henry quickly shakes his head. “Of course not. That’s just what I was told.”
“Apparently our similar security needs meant that it made sense to put both of us up here,” Alex explains, his expression flat and guarded, the old hostility slightly tempered.
“Right. I suppose that makes sense.”
Neither of them speak for a long moment as they stare at each other, seemingly transfixed. In the background, Bowie is singing about serious moonlight.
Alex cocks an eyebrow at him and finally prompts, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh,” Henry says, trying to remember what it had been. He follows the line of Alex’s gaze down to the piping bag in his hand—right, practise. “Um. Yes. I am. Practising. Haven’t you?”
“I’m not really worried,” Alex shrugs. “The celebrity challenges are never that difficult. And some of us weren’t waited on hand and foot our whole lives.”
“That doesn’t mean you bake,” Henry retorts dryly. He has to stop himself from trying to fold his arms over his chest because he’s still holding the aforementioned piping bag. “Why is it a surprise that I should be practising, anyway?”
Alex snorts softly. “Why bother? Aren’t they, like, required to let you win?”
And there it is. Henry thought he was prepared to hear this over and over again—from the hosts, from his fellow competitors, and certainly from Alex—but it still grates harshly on him all the same. It’s always the same bloody nonsense, whether it’s said as a joke or a more pointed barb. Henry hates a lot of things about being a prince, but this ranks very high on the list.
“No,” he grits out, attempting to keep his voice calm and level. Is it sad he practised what he would say to this? It probably is. “I’m competing same as everyone else. There is, in fact, a clause stipulating such in the agreement that the producers and judges signed. I know you don’t think very highly of me, but if you knew me at all you’d know that that very last thing I’d want to do is use my title to sway the competition.”
He’s expecting more of an argument. Maybe some insults. He’s not expecting Alex to put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“Ok, ok, jeez,” Alex says, his surprise showing on his face. “You’re pretty worked up about this.”
“Do you know how tiresome it is for everyone to assume that none of your accomplishments are actually yours?” Henry sighs, all of the fight draining out of him in the face of Alex’s acquiescence. He sets the piping bag down and leans forward on the counter, staring down at the granite surface as he speaks. “That everything you’ve earned has been merely because of who you are, and not what you’ve done? And what’s worse, to not know if it might actually be true, because those around you are too afraid to score you poorly, or because your competitors let you win?”
“I’ve got an idea, yeah,” Alex says softly. Of course he does. Henry risks a glance up and finds Alex staring downward, picking at his fingernail. “So is that why you’re competing?”
“Not exactly. I, uh. Well, I actually love watching Bake Off, and furthermore, Stand Up to Cancer is an important charity to me.”
Alex blinks, understanding dawning on his face. “Oh. Right.”
“Important enough for me to make a proper fool of myself on national television,” Henry adds, hoping to lighten the mood a bit and push the conversation away from dead fathers. He’ll have more than enough reminders of that this weekend.
It works, because Alex huffs a laugh, a small but genuine smile gently curving his lips, which may very well be the first time that’s ever happened in Henry’s presence. Turns out, a smile like that directed even roughly in Henry’s direction is possibly too much for his heart to take, so Henry returns his attention to his macarons instead. He shifts to the other side of the tray, then begins scraping up the excess macaron batter and returning it to the bag, focusing on his work and not how he can feel Alex’s eyes on him as he begins piping the perfect circles again.
“Dunno, kinda looks like you know what you’re doing. Are those macarons?” Alex asks incredulously after a little while, and a moment later Henry sees him start slowly approaching out of the corner of his eye. He stops quite close to where Henry is working, leaning one hip up against the counter. “Do you really think they’re gonna give a bunch of celebrities macarons for the Technical?”
“No, not really,” Henry answers, trying desperately to ignore the tiny sliver of skin now peeking out between the bottom of Alex’s shirt and his waistband. It’s a losing battle. Fortunately Henry is now done piping the shells and has an excuse to put some desperately needed space between them. He straightens, taps the pan on the counter a few times, and sets it aside to dry out. “But by making these, I’m practising meringue, ganache, and the jam.”
“Huh,” Alex says, still just watching, intensely, as Henry retrieves a container of black currants from the fridge. “I didn’t know princes could bake.”
“I’d wager not many of them can,” Henry replies as he works, letting one corner of his mouth tug upward. He has to admit that it’s easier to talk to Alex when he has an excuse to keep himself busy. This is definitely the longest conversation they’ve ever had. “It’s a recent hobby. Picked it up as a stress reliever.” He pauses as he stirs the pectin into his jam, then huffs a soft laugh. “You should have seen the look on my equerry’s face when I asked for a full set of baking equipment for my flat in Oxford.”
“Right, grad school,” Alex says, which surprises Henry. He may know all about how Alex is in law school—because he still reads every interview with Alex that gets published—but the last thing he would have expected is Alex keeping up with his life. He supposes that perhaps it’s merely cultural osmosis. “You’re doing a Master’s now?”
“PhD,” Henry corrects automatically.
“Oh, PhD, sorry.”
Henry very nearly winces, but when he looks up again, the smirk he finds tilting Alex’s lips is teasing. Almost playful. It’s actually terrible, because if Henry was already attracted to mean-smirky Alex (and he was, Lord help him), playful-smirky Alex is a thousand times worse. It’s enough to make his mouth go dry, and he has to direct his own gaze back down to the pot on the hob to keep from flushing, though he’s not sure he succeeds on that count.
“So are you any good?” Alex prompts.
“Sorry?” Henry says, furrowing his brow in confusion. “At my PhD?”
Alex rolls his eyes. “At baking.”
“Oh, well. You can be the judge, I suppose,” Henry says, gesturing vaguely toward the pie sitting on the counter. He’d made it earlier, but hadn’t yet checked to see if it came out properly.
“Really? You want me to cut into this?” Alex asks dubiously.
“Be my guest. Unless you’re not interested, that is.”
Alex scoffs. “Dude, I will literally never turn down pie. What kind is it?”
“Apple and blackberry,” Henry tells him.
Alex chuckles as he plucks a knife out of the block, twirls it rather frighteningly in his fingers, then pulls the pie across the counter toward him. “Really? They’re letting you make apple pie? Kind of American, don’t you think?”
“I assure you, we eat apple pie in Britain,” Henry says dryly, though he can’t quite help the smile that’s tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He tries to keep himself busy, to pretend he’s not watching as Alex slices through the crust into the pie, but that turns out to be nearly impossible. Especially when Alex makes a quiet, difficult-to-interpret sound as he finagles the first slice out, a frankly adorable look of concentration on his face. Eventually Henry gives up entirely and steps closer, only to be slightly dismayed by the amount of liquid pooling in the bottom of the tin.
“Blast,” he mutters. “It’s not usually this loose.” Could be these apples, could be the oven, could be he didn’t let them sit long enough.
Alex tips the tin slightly, apparently inspecting his work. “You cooked the apples before putting them in?”
“No,” Henry says with a frown. The recipe only called for macerating them in sugar, which did get some of the liquid out, but clearly not enough. “Should I have?”
“It’ll help. Not too much, you don’t want them to get mushy, but enough to pull out the excess juice.” Apparently not put off by the looseness of the filling, Alex picks up his plate and scoops up an obscenely large portion of the pie with a fork before shoving it in his mouth. “The real secret is to reduce the juice left in the pan until it’s thick, like a syrup, then pour it in before you bake,” he continues, in bits and pieces, in between chewing. It should be off-putting; Henry, of course, finds it endearing.
“And how do you know you’re not just trying to sabotage the competition?” Henry asks teasingly. He finds himself moving closer, as if drawn toward Alex like a magnet.
“That would require me to be intimidated by the competition,” Alex shoots back, grinning as he takes another huge bite of pie. But then he completely undermines that statement when he continues, “This is fucking good, though. Is there some kinda herb in here?”
“Bit of tarragon,” Henry answers. “Is it too much?”
Alex shakes his head. “No way. ‘M gonna eat this whole thing if you’re not careful.”
“Better than eating it all by myself. I love baking but it hasn’t exactly been good for my waistline,” Henry comments wryly.
Alex just snorts at that and gives him a deeply sceptical look that Henry can’t quite interpret. He has actually gained a bit of weight; not a lot, but enough for the tabloids to have noticed when the paparazzi caught him in a bathing suit on holiday last summer. It’s hardly the worst thing they’ve printed about him, though, so he’s not too fussed over it.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Alex mutters, shaking his head, but he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. “Yeah, clearly you’re letting yourself go,” he drawls sardonically, a teasing tilt to his mouth. Then he shoves another piece of pie into his mouth, as if trying to muffle his words when he mumbles, “As if you’ve done anything but get hotter over the past few years.”
Henry’s struck speechless, entirely unsure of what to make of such a declaration. Surely he can’t mean— surely not. Even if Alex no longer exactly despises him, he’s certainly never made any indication that he’s ever looked twice at Henry. And Henry would know, because he’s spent far too much time watching Alex, his eyes always inexorably drawn to the other man whenever they’re in the same room.
Fortunately, Alex seems too invested in staring at his pie to notice Henry gawping at him. Henry shakes himself out of his stupor, turning to busy himself with putting his macaron shells in the oven and retrieving the chocolate for his ganache. If he just focuses on his baking and not the frighteningly suggestive sounds that are coming out of Alex’s mouth, maybe, maybe he might survive the evening.
Then Alex sticks his long fingers into his mouth to suck sticky pie filling off of them, and Henry thinks, a little hysterically: perhaps not.
“Please tell me you’re not planning on leaving the top like this,” Alex says eventually, drawing Henry’s attention back from where he’s been valiantly trying to ignore him, and dear lord it seems that he does intend to consume a decent portion of this pie because he’s already slicing another piece.
Henry frowns. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s boring as fuck,” Alex tells him, gesturing dismissively at the decimated pie. “Just a plain crust with vents? At least go for a lattice, man. Something with some pizazz.”
“Pizazz,” Henry echoes flatly.
“A difficult concept for you, I know,” Alex returns with a smirk and an exceedingly dangerous spark in his eye. “Most boring man in existence.”
“Hey!” Henry protests, affronted even though—somehow—it’s clear that Alex is only teasing him. He has no idea how they got here.
“The Bowie was a surprise, though,” Alex continues as if Henry hadn’t spoken, gesturing at the speaker with his fork. “That’s decidedly not boring.” He pauses and narrows his eyes. “What other hidden depths are lurking under those bland suits?”
It’s better if you don’t know, Henry doesn’t say as he quietly clears his throat. If he chops the chocolate with a little more force than necessary against the tension winding through his shoulders, that’s no one’s business but his. “It’s royal protocol,” he offers eventually.
“What is?”
“The bland suits, as you put it,” Henry answers, biting back a sigh. “I don’t have a lot of say in it.”
Alex frowns, his brow creasing thoughtfully. “They’re not gonna make you wear a suit tomorrow, are they?”
“Thankfully, no,” Henry says. That doesn’t mean his wardrobe hasn’t been officially selected and approved by the royal stylists to be, yes, what often feels like as boring as possible. Pez has been trying to convince him to sneak in some colour for weeks now. “Can’t promise you it will be interesting, though.”
“Guess you’ll have to make up for it with your bakes, then,” Alex reasons, a small grin playing on his lips as he takes another bite.
“I suppose so,” Henry allows with a cautious smile of his own.
They lapse into silence, then, with Bowie still singing in the background and the soft sounds of Henry’s chopping breaking up the quiet. It’s late, and Henry knows he should probably try to sleep but also knows he’s unlikely to get much tonight between his usual insomnia and nerves over the competition tomorrow. At least Alex has the excuse of the time difference keeping him up.
As Henry works, Alex finishes his second slice of pie and this time doesn’t go for another, instead flicking through something on his phone as he sits perched on one of the stools in the kitchen. Henry’s not sure why he’s still lingering, nor is he exactly sure what to do with it either. It feels like they’ve landed on some kind of odd, unexpected truce that he doesn’t want to jeopardise, so he keeps silent and focuses on his work. Finally, Alex stands up and stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a wide swath of his lower abdomen, including a fine trail of dark hair disappearing under his waistband that absolutely does not make Henry almost swallow his own tongue.
“I’m gonna try to get some more sleep. That time call for filming tomorrow is fucking early,” Alex announces as he rubs a hand over his face. “Thanks for the pie.”
“Any time,” Henry tells him. “If you wake up hungry in the middle of the night, you’re welcome to more.”
“Might take you up on that. I’m always starving after travelling.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Henry says, without really intending to, before Alex can turn to go.
Alex cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “Sure.”
“Why are you helping me?” Henry says, then bites his bottom lip at how it comes out in a rush. “I mean, with the pie. I am your competition this weekend.”
“Well, it is just for charity,” Alex replies, though the accompanying shrug falls far short of nonchalant. Henry doesn’t believe for a second that he doesn’t care about winning. Sure enough, one corner of his mouth tugs upward again. “Plus, you know, I’ve seen the celebrity bake offs. It would be nice if this one was actually a competition. That way it’ll be even more satisfying when I beat you.”
The way his smirk widens to a mischievous grin makes Henry’s stomach swoop, and abruptly his bakes are the least of the things making him nervous about this weekend.