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When the initial report comes in over the radio, Henry’s two hours out from the end of his shift, having just finished his inspection of his favorite Sikorsky S-76. He catches pieces of it – American tourist – snow squall – Cairngorms – as he stashes the manual and secures the medical supplies.
The next report is more urgent. This time the words hiking and trapped are prominent among the rest.
“Fox,” his commanding officer calls.
Henry climbs out of the helicopter and salutes. “Sir.”
Wing Commander Schlosser is a burly man in his mid-40s and a lifer in the RAF. He nods and makes a vague gesture at Henry. “Stand easy, Flight Lieutenant. We’ve a hiker trapped on one of the Cairngorms. Finished with your checks?”
“Yes, sir,” Henry confirms.
“Good. Strap in; you’ll take the controls until we get there.”
They’re in the air twenty minutes before the next report comes in, this time over their headsets. “Patient is located on the eastern side of Sgòr Gaoith. He reports a sudden snow squall came up, and he lost his footing and took a fall. He’s conscious and reports no major injuries, but he’s stuck on a ledge and can’t make it back to the trail. Patient is wearing a red jacket and a black knit cap and states his name is – ” there’s a burst of static over the radio.
“Please repeat the patient’s name,” Henry says into the headset mic as Schlosser programs the mountain’s location into the GPS.
There’s a bit more static, and then the dispatcher states, “Alexander Claremont-Diaz.”
Henry’s stomach drops to his knees. “Oh, fuck me,” he exclaims.
“Problem, Fox?” his commander asks.
Steeling himself, Henry adjusts the helicopter’s trajectory toward Sgòr Gaoith using the GPS readout. He takes a deep breath, then releases it, his fingers tightening just slightly on the controls. “That’s not just any hiker,” he says once they’re on course. “It’s the American president’s son.”
Wing Commander Schlosser is silent for a moment and then, echoing Henry’s previous sentiment, groans, “Oh, fuck me.”
—
Alex is fucking cold, and the weather forecast had outright lied to him. Fall break in Scotland had seemed like a great idea, and for the most part, it has been. He’d done his share of exploration of both cities and the untamed countryside and had added Scotland to his shortlist of countries to visit again after he’d finished graduate school.
But this morning he’d made what was, in hindsight, the incredibly dumb decision to dodge his Secret Service detail and go for a solo winter hike in the Cairngorm mountains, figuring he could easily summit a mountain and get back to his car before nightfall. He’d made it to the peak of Sgòr Gaoith, and had begun his descent to his car – and then it had snowed so suddenly and so blindingly that he’d lost the trail and fallen onto a ledge, where he is now trapped. Like a moron.
A moron who is, somewhat shockingly, still alive and – aside from some bruising – basically unharmed, despite having fallen off a damn cliff.
After it’d become incredibly clear that he wasn’t going to get back up to the trail on his own, he’d pulled out his emergency radio and sheepishly explained his situation. The person on the other end had immediately called for search and rescue to come pick him up – and now, as he stands on a ledge waiting for the most expensive taxi ride he’s ever had, he only hopes there won’t be any photographers around when they land. His mom is going to read him the riot act as it already stands.
A strong gust of wind whips past him, and he presses himself against the cold cliff face, trying to get away from the chilly blast of air. It seeps through the supposedly subzero shell of his jacket, and he shivers. His toes are numb in his boots, his fingers are stiff, and he’s pretty sure ice crystals are forming on his eyelashes.
Now that the snow has stopped, though, the view is fucking spectacular. The Cairngorms stretch for miles around him, and Loch Eanaich sparkles in the early evening light. It’s too bad he’d stumbled off the east side of the mountain instead of the west, because if the pink hues that have started to fill the sky are any indication, he’s sure he’s missing a hell of a sunset – the kind of sunset that would’ve made it almost okay to freeze to death on the side of a Scottish mountain.
Alex is shivering so hard that at first when he hears a faint rhythmic sound, he assumes it’s the sound of his teeth chattering. But the sound gets louder, and then louder still, echoing off the stone behind him until it’s a steady, pulsing roar in his ears. He grits his teeth, refusing to loosen his grip on the cliff face, much to the detriment of his hearing, as a red and yellow helicopter swoops into view in front of him.
He watches as it disappears behind the mountain, and then the sound of the rotors is suddenly much louder, seemingly right overhead, and a moment later, a line drops down next to him on the ledge. Alex turns as much as he dares and sees a pair of boots, and then a pair of legs in heavy, insulated pants, and finally the figure of a whole person rappelling down the cliff face toward him. It’s a man, about his height, his face mostly obscured by his helmet and visor.
His rescuer is shouting something, or at least Alex assumes he is by the way his mouth is moving, but the sound of the helicopter rotors and his own cold-induced delirium makes it impossible to understand what it is he’s saying. He moves so he’s standing directly in front of Alex, holding out what appears to be some sort of sling. He gestures at Alex’s body, then says something again. Snow whips around them, stirred up by the rotors.
“I can’t understand you,” Alex yells back, “but please do whatever you need to get me off this cliff.”
The man nods, and then begins to strap Alex into the sling, which cinches up between his legs – Alex is too cold to even attempt a comment – and under his arms. He connects Alex securely to the line and to himself, then straps Alex into a helmet and hoists him up. Alex’s legs are wrapped around his rescuer’s thighs, and then the man carefully pries Alex’s fingers out of the meager handholds he’d found on the cliff’s surface. He taps his helmet, shouts something into his mic, and the line pulls taut.
As they begin to ascend, Alex takes in the hard line of the man’s mouth and the breadth of his shoulders before the shivering takes hold again. The man maneuvers them with his legs, his feet pressed firmly against the cliffside, keeping Alex well away from the unforgiving, frigid stone.
As they reach the top, the man helps him stand again, makes sure he’s several feet from the cliff’s edge, and then unclips him and ushers him toward the helicopter. He helps Alex inside, urges him down on a gurney, and then shouts something to the pilot as he shuts the door.
Alex shivers so violently that the gurney shakes, and the man opens an equipment bag, pulling out various items. He says something again, and Alex shrugs helplessly and shakes his head. The man pulls out a thermometer and measures Alex’s temperature, then his pulse, and his mouth moves in what looks like a swear, if the accompanying body language is anything to go by. Then the man reaches for the fastenings on Alex’s parka.
“Nonono,” Alex protests as the zipper lowers. “Cold – ”
His rescuer places something warm and heavy on his chest, then two more on the sides of his neck. He seems to hesitate for a moment before tugging at the waistband of Alex’s snow pants and placing a third warm object on his groin. Then he tugs off his gloves and covers Alex with a blanket, before strapping him onto the gurney and himself into a seat nearby. He turns to the pilot again, shouts something else, and the helicopter lifts off.
From the gurney, Alex watches his rescuer reach for his helmet, then pause. The man’s mouth tightens and he sits up straighter, then flips up his visor, and – oh.
As Alex gapes at the face of the last person in the United Kingdom whom he’d wanted to see on this trip, he wonders, somewhat hysterically, if it’s too late to ask them to put him back on the ledge.
—
“We need to take him to Edinburgh, sir,” Henry says through his headset, refusing to meet Alex’s flabbergasted gaze. “He’s hypothermic and likely needs a frostbite assessment. I’ve got warm compresses on him now, but a smaller city may not have the space or the security in its A&E wards that he’ll need until his Secret Service detail arrives.”
“Aberdeen is closer,” Wing Commander Schlosser argues.
“Then we’ll invoice the Americans for the extra time and resources. It’ll be worth the headache, sir,” Henry insists.
“It’s on your head if command launches a waste investigation,” Schlosser warns.
“They can discharge me if they need to,” Henry replies adamantly, “but sir, this is important.”
Schlosser is silent for a moment, assessing. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll radio ahead, and let them know we’re coming with a VIP patient. Should be thirty minutes out.” The helicopter tilts as they turn toward the south, then rights itself, and Henry feels the minute shift forward as they accelerate toward Edinburgh.
“I need to text one of my contacts who can get in touch with the American embassy,” Henry adds. “They’ll get word to the Secret Service and arrange transport.”
“Not much mobile signal out here, Fox,” Schlosser says, “but you’re free to try.” He gets on the radio, relaying the change in plans to the appropriate parties.
Henry risks a glance at Alex, who’s still staring at him. His cheeks and nose are red and chapped from the wind, but his eyes seem clearer now – the warm compresses are helping. Thank god.
He pulls out his mobile and composes a message to Shaan. Need your help, urgently. Just rescued the FSOTUS from the side of Sgòr Gaoith in the Cairngorms. Headed to Edinburgh, ETA 30 minutes. The US embassy will need to be notified, as well as the White House. Secret Service was not on site. It’s a few minutes before his mobile registers a signal, but he sends the text as soon as he can, then pockets the phone again.
“Checking on the patient,” he says to Schlosser over the headset. Henry unstraps his seat harness and moves to Alex’s side.
As Henry runs through another assessment, Alex watches him with a combination of caution and curiosity in his eyes. Alex’s temperature has come up a bit, his respiration is normal, and his heart rate is returning to normal as well. Henry checks the positions of the warm compresses; the one on Alex’s chest has shifted somewhat, but slides easily back into place, and the one on his groin remains where he’d left it.
The smaller compresses on either side of Alex’s neck, however, have fallen away from his skin. Henry presses them back into place, and when he lets go, they fall away again. He presses them into place a second time, but they immediately shift again when he moves his hands back. Henry sighs, settles onto the edge of the gurney, and holds the warm compresses up against Alex’s neck.
This time, he doesn’t move away.
—
Of all the ways he’s considered that Prince Henry’s hands might someday wind up around his throat, strangulation has always been at the top of Alex’s list. They’ve been adversaries since Melbourne, and the Cake Incident at the royal wedding had only solidified that. And while the White House and Downing Street had initially suggested a scheme to make people believe that they’ve actually been friends this whole time, Alex had laughed it off so hysterically that they’d quickly dismissed the plan, and eventually things had gone back to normal.
Well. Mostly.
So lying here under a heavy blanket, with warm compresses on his crotch, his chest, and his neck, and Henry’s hands holding the compresses on his neck in place, Alex isn’t completely sure he’s not hallucinating. The prince’s thumbs rest lightly in the hollow of Alex’s throat, and his face is half-turned away, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes.
As the helicopter continues onwards and his shivering subsides, Alex finds himself watching Henry, who seems adamant about looking everywhere but at him. It rankles him a little, and if he weren’t strapped down so firmly to the gurney, he might grab the chin strap beneath his stupid, perfect face and —
And, what? Make him look? Force his eye contact? Make him acknowledge Alex instead of just finding him wanting and dismissing him, like he always has?
Alex has no idea where these thoughts are coming from, but once they start, he can’t seem to stop them — until he feels the tip of a thumb stroke lightly at the hollow of his throat, and his mind goes silent for a moment. Then it happens again, with another whisper-soft brush of skin against skin, and again.
Prince Henry’s face reveals nothing. He’s still turned partly away, his expression still distant, and it dawns suddenly on Alex that the prince might not even realize what he’s doing.
Anything Alex might say would be drowned out by the sound of the helicopter’s rotors. So instead, as the gentle strokes of thumb against throat continue, building into what could only be classified as a caress, Alex slowly and carefully begins to work his right arm free of the gurney straps holding him in place.
Alex’s hand slips free of his glove as he twists his forearm to get his wrist past the restraint under the blanket, and he wiggles his fingers, then rubs his hand on his chest. Full sensation in that hand, at least, so maybe he’s avoided frostbite in his extremities. Probably too soon to tell, though.
The prince’s thumb is rubbing soft circles along the hollow of his throat now, and Alex finds himself shivering for a different, but not altogether startling reason. His hand creeps upward beneath the blanket, finding the seam, and he licks his cold-chapped lips. Then he carefully wraps his hand around Henry’s wrist, his palm curving over the delicate protrusion of the end of Henry’s ulna, and the pad of his thumb pressing against the impossibly soft, tender skin just beneath the heel of the prince’s hand.
Prince Henry’s wide-eyed gaze flies to his.
—
Oh, fuck.
Henry’s thumb freezes on Alex’s throat as horror suffuses his being. He makes an aborted move to lift his hands away, remembering the warm compresses at the last moment, and his fingers twitch against the compresses. His gaze is still locked on Alex’s, and now that he’s looking, he can’t bring himself to look away.
Oh, fuck.
Alex lowers his chin just slightly. His nose and cheeks are red with windburn, and he’s bundled under warm compresses, an emergency blanket, and his own outdoor gear, his hair concealed by a helmet. He should look ridiculous. He should look alarming, or at least pitiable – but Henry’s never seen Alex look more breathtakingly, beautifully alive.
Henry swallows convulsively, and he blinks a few times in rapid succession. He’s sure that Alex can feel the drumming of his pulse in his wrist.
When Alex’s thumb makes a careful pass over his skin, Henry twists his hand out of his grasp and averts his eyes, reaching for the thermometer to occupy himself.
“Landing in five minutes, Fox,” Schlosser announces over the headset.
Henry fumbles the thermometer, dropping it on Alex’s chest. Flustered, he picks it up again, and then takes another quick temperature measurement. The result is better than the first by far, and a marked improvement over the second.
He can feel Alex’s eyes on him as he stows the thermometer and returns to his seat. Henry focuses on his breathing, willing it to stabilize, and does not meet Alex’s gaze again.
When they land on the roof of the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, Henry lets Schlosser know that he’ll find his own way back to the base, grabs an empty gear bag, and accompanies the gurney out of the helicopter. He waits until Schlosser’s lifted off again and the helicopter is clear of the helipad before carefully removing Alex’s helmet, then his own. He places both helmets in the gear bag and sets it at the foot of the gurney, then runs a hand through his hair, following the medical team as they approach the hospital doors.
Once inside and waiting on the lift, a few of the medical team members turn to Henry and startle, as if they’ve only just realized who he is. He gets this reaction fairly frequently whilst working, and it never becomes less awkward. “Your Royal Highness,” one of the medical staff murmurs, offering a little bow.
“Please, there’s no need for all that,” Henry says, waving it away. He turns to a nurse who’s holding a clipboard and pen. “Patient is Alexander Claremont-Diaz, twenty-five years of age, American. He took a fall in the Cairngorms and is suffering from exposure, but reports no major injuries. Treated for hypothermia en route; pulse and respiration are normal, and temperature as of five minutes ago is 35. He’ll need a frostbite assessment.”
The lift arrives and as the team shuffles inside, Henry leans over to the nurse with the clipboard and says, more quietly, “I will need to speak with the administrator on a matter of some urgency. The patient will require security until his team arrives in Edinburgh.”
The nurse nods. “Noted.” They file in behind the gurney and as the lift brings them to the ground floor, Henry keeps his gaze on the wall opposite him.
As they enter the A&E department, Henry lags behind and pulls his mobile from his pocket.
There are three messages from Shaan. I will see to it, sir, says the first. The second, slightly longer, reads, The American embassy has been alerted, and contacts at the White House have been notified. The Secret Service will be transported by plane from Inverness to Edinburgh. The third is simply, Please confirm the name of the hospital.
Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, Henry shoots back. He pockets his mobile again and heads for the nurses’ station to fill out the necessary paperwork about the transport.
It should, perhaps, be mildly concerning how much of Alex’s demographic information he’s able to complete on his own. He’s only hung up on a few of the details, and he carries the clipboard with him toward the patient berths, finding the curtained-off area where the medical team is still completing Alex’s initial evaluations.
“Your Royal Highness,” someone says from behind Henry, and he turns to see a woman with gray-brown hair and shrewd blue eyes assessing him. “Laura Monro. A member of the nursing staff said you needed to speak with me about a security matter.”
Henry nods, adjusting his grip on the clipboard. “Ah, yes. Is there somewhere we could speak without an audience?”
“There’s an empty triage room nearby,” the administrator says, and beckons for him to follow.
Once inside, Henry closes the door most of the way, and then says in a low voice, “The patient we brought in will require security.” He takes a breath, and when she nods for him to continue, he adds, “He’s the son of the American president.”
Ms. Monro’s eyes widen, but she stays silent.
“His Secret Service detail is on their way, but they’ll be a bit as they’re flying in from Inverness.”
“What on earth was the American president’s son doing alone on a mountain?” Ms. Monro asks, astonished.
“Being a bloody idiot, if you ask me,” Henry mutters, then freezes. “That is, er…” He laughs, awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “He and I have met. Several times.”
Ms. Monro’s eyes widen further, and she coughs unsubtly, clearly remembering the headlines from the last time Henry and Alex had met. “Right. Well, I’ll arrange that security for him. Anything else we should know?”
—
The medical staff have given Alex a mild painkiller for his bruises and cream for his windburn, and after the frostbite assessment, they’ve determined he’ll thankfully retain all his body parts. They’ve admitted him overnight to ensure his temperature returns to normal, and now he finds himself perking up each time someone walks past his room, only to droop into the hospital bed again when it turns out to be someone other than Henry. He doesn’t have any frame of reference for this response, and now that he’s warm and in a bed rather than strapped down to a gurney, he’s getting too sleepy to analyze it.
A soft cough at the doorway draws his attention, and Alex looks up. “Oh,” he says. “Um, hi.”
Henry steps into the room in an olive drab jumpsuit, with no sign of his winter gear. He’s holding a clipboard and looks unaccountably awkward.
“Come in,” Alex prompts him, and he watches as Henry steps further into the room.
“I’ve nearly finished your paperwork,” Henry says softly, scanning the room with his eyes for a moment. He appears to find what he’s looking for in the form of a chair, which he pulls closer to Alex’s bedside before taking a seat. “Just a few items left.” He hands the clipboard and a pen to Alex and – huh.
“You knew all of this about me?” Alex asks. His tone, he finds, is tinged with surprise, rather than accusation.
Henry shrugs and averts his eyes. “Well. Yes.”
There’s a strange sensation in Alex’s chest, and he absently rubs his knuckles against his sternum. “Huh.” He quickly jots down his allergy and medication information, his phone number, and fills in a couple more fields that Henry had left blank, then lets the clipboard drop to his lap.
“Now that you’re out of the woods, I do have a question,” Henry says. He’s looking at his hands as he says this.
Alex takes in the picture Henry makes, his body folded into a hospital chair, his hair tousled, his RAF jumpsuit hugging his shoulders, and the way he picks at his nails. “What sort of question?”
“What in the hell were you thinking,” Henry begins, “hiking in the Cairngorms by yourself?” He meets Alex’s eyes then, and Alex’s breath hitches at the fury in his eyes. “You could have died, and I – ”
Swallowing hard, Alex asks, “You what?”
“I – ” Henry’s throat works, and he heaves a sigh, rubbing his forehead. The fury in his gaze is replaced by… resignation? “It seems, Alex, that I am diametrically opposed to the notion of you falling off some mountain and ceasing to exist.”
“Oh,” Alex says, feeling bewildered and a lot like something is right there, and he just has to – oh. “Oh,” he says again, recognition dawning.
Henry hums in response. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you, except…” He shrugs, helplessly. “You nearly died today. If the ledge hadn’t been there, or we’d been thirty minutes later and the sun had set, you could’ve…”
“Died,” Alex whispers. And, shit. Shit. He looks at his hands, where they’re bracketing the clipboard on his lap. They’re trembling, and his chest feels tight. He could’ve died, and his entire family is on a different continent, and he’d fucked over his security team, and the only person on this continent who seems to care, ironically, is the guy who’s supposed to hate him, but as it turns out he doesn’t – and someone is making a ragged, keening sound nearby, and –
“-lex,” someone’s saying, “Alex, it’s alright, focus on my voice – ”
Alex withdraws, his breath coming in great, gulping sobs. He digs his nails into his palms, turning away from whatever is touching his arm.
“Alex, come on – ”
He curls in more on himself, and there’s a muffled curse from somewhere behind him. Then the hospital bed dips, and Alex feels cool cotton against his back, followed by the radiating warmth of the person who’s wearing it. Their arm bands around his chest, and one of their legs drape over his, pulling him in snugly, holding him while he weeps.
“It’s alright,” they say again – not they, Henry, whose breath is warm against his ear, who’s holding him tightly, whose solid presence behind him is comforting and grounding. “It’s alright, Alex. You’re safe. I’ve got you. It’s going to be alright.”
—
Henry continues to hold Alex until he quiets, his wretched cries giving way to little hiccupping breaths and sniffles. “I’m sorry,” Henry says to the back of Alex’s head. “I shouldn’t have – ”
“Yes you should’ve,” Alex mutters. He wipes his eyes. “Of course you should’ve.”
Henry frowns. “I overwhelmed you, and – ”
“Falling off a fucking mountain overwhelmed me,” Alex interjects. “I’m pretty sure the same panic attack would’ve happened if you’d asked me to pick between orange and green Jell-o from the hospital cafeteria.”
Henry lets out a helpless laugh and slowly pulls away from Alex, shifting back into the chair. When Alex turns onto his back and extends a hand toward him, Henry tentatively reaches back until their fingertips are touching.
“You have feelings for me,” Alex states quietly. His face is still puffy from crying, his windburn even redder from the blood that’s rushed to his face while he sobbed.
Henry nods. “Yes.”
Alex straightens his index finger, then drops it back down so the pad of his finger is resting on the back of Henry’s pinky. “You want to… date me?” He sounds less sure this time.
Henry clears his throat. “I’m not…” He pauses. “I’m not… out. But…”
“You do,” Alex confirms, and then he chuckles. “I thought you were straight. Fuck, I thought I was straight.”
“You’re not?” Henry asks, scarcely daring to hope.
Alex shrugs and slides his hand a bit closer to Henry, his fingers blanketing Henry’s. “Evidently not. But – ”
“But what?” Henry asks.
“I can’t date you – ”
Henry’s heart plummets. “I – oh.” He moves to pull away, but Alex moves faster, twining their fingers together, and Henry lifts startled eyes to Alex’s.
“God, let me finish,” Alex grouses. “I can’t… date you right after you saved my fucking life and have you think it’s out of gratitude. And also, my entire face feels like it’s got road rash from the goddamn mountain wind.” He looks down at the blanket covering his lap. “And I have some things I need to wrap my head around, really important things, including the fact that you don’t hate me.”
“I’ve never hated you,” Henry protests quickly. “Though… given our shared history, I can understand why you might’ve thought I did.”
Alex picks at the blanket with his free hand and his mouth twists a little, and Henry feels an echoing twist in his belly. “You were so dismissive the day we met,” Alex says, quietly. “It was my first public event after the election, and my first time attending one on my own, representing my parents and my country, and you practically ran away at the sight of me.”
Henry sighs. “Not for the reason you probably think,” he says. “I… when we met, I wasn’t in a good place, mentally. We’d only just lost my dad, and that tipped off a series of major family crises, only some of which became public knowledge. And the whole time my private life was in turmoil, I was tasked with presenting an image of… stability, and strength to the public. I was exhausted and overwhelmed, and I treated you very poorly as a result.” He looks to their joined hands when Alex tightens his grip, then back to Alex’s face. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”
“Damn right, I didn’t,” Alex agrees. “But I accept your apology. And, uh. I’m sorry for the… cake thing. And for threatening to drown you in the Thames. And…” Henry raises an eyebrow when he pauses, and then Alex adds, “And for all those times I’ve called you a dick behind your back.”
Holding back a laugh, Henry replies, “I’m sorry about the cake incident as well.”
“It was good cake, though,” Alex offers, a little smile on his chapped lips. “Too bad none of the other guests got to taste it.”
“It took three showers before I couldn’t smell buttercream anymore,” Henry snickers.
“I had to have my phone professionally cleaned to get all the crumbs out of the charge port,” Alex laughs. Then he hisses and presses his free hand to his cheek. “Ow – okay, so laughing hurts right now, duly noted.” His eyes, Henry notes, are still smiling.
“So, you and me. Dating. I’m… intrigued,” Alex says, “but I need some time to work things out.” He adjusts his grip on Henry’s hand so he can rub his thumb along Henry’s knuckles, and Henry feels warmth bloom in his chest. “Also,” Alex continues, “when I date someone I kiss the hell out of them whenever I get the opportunity, and I’m pretty sure I’d reflexively punch you if I kissed you right now because my face feels like raw meat.”
“What an appealing image,” Henry drawls, but at the prospect of future kisses he feels his expression go soft.
“Get used to it,” Alex replies. “You may be a prince of England, but I am the king of colorful similes, and if you’re gonna date me you’re gonna hear a lot of them.”
“So, we’ll put a pin in this,” Henry offers, and Alex nods. “Until – ”
“Until Christmas?” Alex asks.
“Until Christmas.”
—
Alex goes home to DC with a dressing-draped face and the cell phone number of a prince. It’s a fair tradeoff, in his opinion.
The rapport that he and Henry had developed in the hospital until the Secret Service’s arrival in Edinburgh continues over texts that increase in frequency until somehow, incredibly, Henry’s the first person he connects with in the morning, and the last person he says goodnight to.
It’s been three weeks since Henry plucked him off the side of a mountain in Scotland, and Alex can’t wait to see him again. There’s a warm, safe feeling that comes over him when he thinks about Henry, and about the sure, steady way Henry had taken care of him on the mountain, in the helicopter, and at the hospital. It makes one of his decisions incredibly easy. Dating. They’re going to date. He and Henry.
Good news, Alex types as he flops onto his sofa in the Residence following his last final of the semester. After careful deliberation, my mom has decided not to put me under house arrest for the remainder of my natural life.
That’s a relief, Henry replies. Has she threatened to duct tape you to a chair instead?
Alex laughs, imagining the wry smile that must’ve accompanied Henry’s message. Bungee cords, actually, he responds.
How’s your face? Henry asks. I may or may not have a vested interest in this.
I’m pleased to announce that my skin no longer looks like someone inflated it with a bike pump and attacked it with a belt sander. Alex sends an accompanying selfie to demonstrate the lack of swelling. The bridge of his nose and his cheekbones are still just slightly pink, but the tenderness has decreased to basically nothing, and overall he’s feeling much less like ass.
You look wonderful, Henry replies, and Alex feels his cheeks pinkening further. Henry begins the next message, but then there’s a long pause before – I came out to my family.
Oh, shit. That’s incredible! Are you okay? Are they okay? Do I need to stage a rescue op? Do I need to beat up your brother? He’s got a very punchable face, and I’d be more than happy to do the honors. I’m really proud of you, Henry. That’s huge, especially for someone in your position. The words appear in rapid-fire on Alex’s screen, and he jabs the send button with his thumb, before asking, again, Are you okay?
Henry types for a long time, and Alex watches the indicator flash on his screen and chews at his left thumbnail. He’s contemplating how many air miles it’d take to get to London on short notice just before the holidays when the response comes through. Thank you. I’m okay, and they’re… adjusting. No rescue operations are needed at this time. Please don’t punch my brother; it’d ruin my plans and he was surprisingly okay with this. Coming out was a big step, but it was necessary, to me. But I’m alright, I promise.
Alex receives a video next. The thumbnail shows Henry sitting on a sofa in an oatmeal-colored sweater and slacks, with a beagle snuggled against his leg.
The palace is releasing a statement, Henry says, on New Year’s Day. Please don’t feel pressured by it – it’s something that I have to do for myself. I wanted you to see it first.
Sitting up straight, Alex turns on his TV, then opens the video and streams it to the bigger screen.
—
The video is a minute and thirty seconds long. It fades in from black, and Henry offers a tentative smile. “As I reflect on the clean slate that the turning of the year offers each of us, I am filled with a deep sense of appreciation for the nation that’s helped to raise me. Since the day of my birth, I’ve been your prince, and the whole of my adult life has been lived in service to you all.
The camera pans slowly toward Henry as he continues. “Each new year, I make my resolutions. Today, I’d like to share those resolutions with you.
“I resolve to exercise more – ” Here, he grins subtly. “To treat others with compassion, and to follow the example of generosity shared by those who give to their communities and people in need.
“I also resolve,” Henry says, “to do these things while living my truth. Last year brought with it events that inspired periods of deep self-reflection on who I am and how I present myself to you. Here is what I know, and what I now share with you: I am a prince of the United Kingdom. I am a pilot in His Majesty’s Air Force. And I am gay.
“I resolve to remain dedicated to serving our country to the best of my ability, and to live each day authentically and with gratitude to you all.
Henry smiles again, this time with more surety. “Thank you. Happy New Year. And God save the King.”
—
Henry’s mobile buzzes insistently. He picks it up and glances at the screen and nearly drops the phone; it’s Alex, calling him. They haven’t spoken on the phone at all in the weeks since the mountain.
He stares at the screen for a long moment, then realizes the call will go to voicemail if he waits too long, and answers hesitantly. “Hello?”
“You are fucking amazing,” Alex enthuses without preamble. “That video? Incredible. You’re so goddamn brave, Henry, and I want to date the shit out of you.”
Henry’s face heats as warmth blossoms in his chest. “I – ”
“I want to come see you,” Alex continues. “Or you to come see me. I want to be in the same room as you, Henry. I don’t care which of us does the traveling as long as it means I can grab you and hold you and kiss you and touch you until neither of us can breathe. Which, in hindsight, makes me extremely bi.” He exhales a laugh. “Okay, that’s it. That’s what I needed to say.”
“I – Alex – yes,” Henry replies. He doesn’t bother to tamp down the eagerness in his tone. “Yes, I want all of that, too. I’m on leave through early January, and – ”
“I just finished finals,” Alex blurts. “And I have air miles. Just tell me when.”
“Tomorrow?” Henry asks, feeling rather desperate and a little stupid with anticipation. “Christ, I’ll charter a private flight if you can’t get commercial seats for yourself and your Secret Service agents this late, just – please come. I’m needed at Sandringham on Christmas Day, but I’m yours until Christmas Eve.”
“Mine until Christmas Eve?” Alex asks, and Henry can hear the slow smile on his face. “I’m holding you to that. Give me ten minutes to try to find a flight. I’ll text you.”
“Alright,” Henry replies.
“Okay,” Alex says.
Neither of them disconnects the line.
“You’ll have to hang up if you’re going to search for a flight,” Henry prompts him.
“... I don’t want to,” Alex admits. “Not just yet.”
Henry laughs softly. “I don’t either. But I want you here more than I don’t want to end the call.”
“Fuck it,” Alex mutters. “I’m putting you on speakerphone. You can hear my rambling stream of consciousness about the price of air travel while I’m searching.”
“I look forward to it,” Henry says, and as Alex starts chattering about amenities and ticket costs on various airlines, that warm sensation in Henry’s chest spreads further, filling the crevices and hollows within him with a lightness that it takes him a moment to realize is absolute, unbridled joy.
He takes that feeling, and he holds it close – as close as he’ll hold Alex, tomorrow.
—
Alex breaks the news to his parents the next morning before he leaves. Congress isn’t in session this time of year, which gives him the rare opportunity to kill two birds with one stone at the breakfast table.
When he enters the dining room, Ellen is reading the newspaper, and Oscar is nursing what’s likely his second or third cup of coffee. Alex drops into a chair opposite them at the table, picks up a clementine, takes a deep breath, and says, “Good morning. I’m bisexual.”
His mom carefully folds her paper, and his dad sets down his coffee cup. Then his dad pulls out his wallet and hands his mom $100.
“What – ” Alex begins, watching the money exchange hands. “You – ”
“Couldn’t have waited until after New Year’s, could you mijo,” Oscar complains, but the corners of his mouth are twitching with the hint of a smile.
Alex gapes at them both. “You were betting on me?” he asks. Then, mildly outraged, he accuses, “Wait, you knew?”
“Sweetheart,” Ellen says, “we raised you. Of course we knew.” She pockets her winnings somewhat smugly.
“And you couldn’t have said something?” Alex grouses. He digs his thumbnail into the clementine peel a little more aggressively than is probably warranted. “I’m twenty-five years old, for god’s sake.”
“Some things you just have to work out for yourself,” Oscar replies. He takes another sip of his coffee, and then places the mug back on the table. “We didn’t want to mess up something that’s this important.”
“We both love you, baby,” Ellen adds. “Regardless of who you date.”
Alex very carefully picks the last of the pith away from the fruit, allowing his parents’ statements to resonate for a moment before he continues. “Speaking of dating…” He glances at his mom, then his dad, then down at his little pile of clementine segments.
“What is it?” Ellen asks, her expression soft and open. Oscar gives him an encouraging nod.
“I’m flying to London today,” Alex admits, and then more tentatively, adds, “to see Henry.”
Oscar reaches for his wallet again.
“Oh, come on,” Alex complains. He pops a clementine segment into his mouth and chews, eyeing his parents suspiciously as he does so, wondering what other pieces of his identity they’ve worked out before him.
“You’ve worked him into every conversation since the rescue, darlin’, and even before then you were…” Ellen pauses, searching for the word.
“Fixated,” Oscar suggests, as he passes Ellen a second $100 bill.
“Good one, hon,” Ellen remarks, and Oscar smiles. “You’ve been fixated on Henry at least since that conference a few years ago.”
“Any other earth-shattering revelations I should know about myself?” Alex asks, grumpily, “since you both seem to have all the spoilers?”
“That’s it, I think,” Ellen replies.
“If we think of something… well, we probably won’t let you know until you realize it yourself,” Oscar adds.
Alex drops his forehead to the dining table and groans.
—
Henry changes his clothes twice before Alex’s arrival. His first outfit is far too formal – he’s welcoming Alex to his home, and surely a jacket and tie aren’t warranted. He overcorrects with the second, however, with his worn Oxford sweatshirt and jeans and bare feet. After he puts on the third ensemble, he declares himself ridiculous and bans himself from reopening his wardrobe until tomorrow.
He smooths down the front of his deep blue jumper, then rubs his hands against the pleats of his soft gray trousers, checks the time, and watches the front door, twisting his signet ring on his pinky.
Oh god. He hopes his hair looks alright.
Henry reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile, flips on the camera, and fusses with his fringe. Then the door latch clicks and then the door begins to swing open, and Henry shoves the phone back into his pocket and takes a deep breath.
The air rushes from his lungs when Alex walks through the door, his face as alight with anticipation as Henry’s entire being is. “Hi,” Alex says, pressing the door shut behind himself.
“Hello,” Henry murmurs. He takes a tentative step forward, then another, and then, when Alex opens his arms, Henry crosses the remaining distance between them in three long strides.
They collide so solidly into their embrace that it knocks the wind out of Henry, and his hands clutch at the soft knit fabric that stretches across Alex’s shoulders. He’s real. He’s here. He’s warm. He’s healthy. Henry curls into him like he’s trying to burrow inside and make himself a home within Alex’s chest.
Alex’s hands are broad and warm on Henry’s back, traveling up and down his spine in a reassuring caress.
“How was your flight?” Henry asks against Alex’s shoulder.
“Too long,” Alex answers into Henry’s hair.
Henry’s left hand trails up to the back of Alex’s neck, then further still, sifting through the short hair on the back of Alex’s head. Alex shivers against him – not from the cold, because Henry is determined that Alex will never be cold again as long as he can help it – and one of Alex’s hands drops from his back.
He hears something from behind Alex, and then Alex moves backward a half-step and meets Henry’s eyes. After ensuring he’s got Henry’s attention, Alex glances up.
At his hand.
His hand, which is above their heads, holding a mildly squashed sprig of mistletoe.
Henry makes a soft sound and lunges, capturing Alex’s lips in a sweet, heated kiss, there in the grand foyer of his Kensington Palace apartment. It’s the kind of first kiss that’s straight out of the storybooks. He pours everything he has into the kiss – his yearning, his desire, his frustration – years and years of longing for the man now secure in his embrace. His hands once again come to rest on Alex’s shoulder blades, tugging him closer, opening for Alex when he presses to deepen the kiss.
Alex tastes like sweet mint and heat and the culmination of a dream. Henry’s going to kiss him until his lips are so sore that he can’t stand it anymore, and then he’s going to kiss him once more for good measure.
—
Being in Henry’s arms again feels like homecoming for Alex. It shouldn’t – it’s almost certainly too fast – but that doesn’t make it any less true. Henry’s solid and warm in his embrace, holding Alex just as fiercely as Alex holds him. When Henry’s fingers slide into his hair, Alex feels something within him click into place and he shivers.
He reaches back then, into his back pocket, and draws out the piece of dyed mistletoe and plastic berries bound with red ribbon that he’d snagged on impulse on his way here. He raises it, hoping Henry won’t think it’s cheesy, hoping he’ll embrace it in the spirit of the season.
Then, though it nearly pains him to do so, Alex shuffles back just enough that he can look Henry in the eyes. He casts his gaze upward, and when Henry follows it, he makes a soft noise and grabs Alex for a kiss.
Kissing Henry is a fucking revelation. Alex tosses the mistletoe behind himself and wraps his arms around Henry’s back, leaning into the caress of Henry’s soft, soft mouth. He urges Henry to part his lips with delicate flicks of his tongue, licking into his mouth when he complies, echoing Henry’s little sighs and hums.
Alex tugs Henry even closer, wanting no space between them, and swallows down Henry’s surprised moan when their hard cocks press together through their clothes. They haven’t even made it out of the entryway, and Alex can’t stop a giggle from bubbling up in his chest. He breaks the kiss just long enough to say, “You should give me the tour before we traumatize your staff,” then kisses across to the sharp jut of Henry’s jaw, nipping lightly at the joint and reveling in the way Henry trembles in his embrace.
Henry takes his hand, and when their fingers slot together, he pulls back and gently extricates himself from Alex’s hold so he can lead the way.
Alex kisses Henry against the wall next to a portrait of some long-dead ancestor. He presses Henry into the baluster at the base of the stairway to lick and bite at his throat. He bears Henry down on the carpeted stairs and drinks in the taste of his lips while his hands run down his sides, finding new favorite places to grip him at his ribs and his waist and his hips. And somehow, miraculously, he keeps from stripping Henry of his clothes while they’re in the hall, forcing himself to be content with the way Henry’s sweater bunches over his torso and his pants cling to his thighs.
When Henry feels blindly for a door handle and it swings wide to reveal a cozy sitting room and a bedroom beyond, Alex walks him backward through the door, kicks it shut behind him, and then takes Henry by the shoulders and pushes him back to arm’s length so he can look at him, really look, for maybe the first time ever.
Henry’s fucking beautiful, and Alex can’t look away. He reaches out with his right hand, drawing two fingers along the collar of Henry’s sweater, then presses his palm against Henry’s chest, which rises and falls with each shuddering breath. Henry gazes openly at Alex in return, and he takes a half-step closer so he can touch Alex as well, finding the spots at Alex’s wrists and his collar where his sweater ends and his skin begins.
Alex’s hands drop down to Henry’s hips, curling under the hem of his sweater. “Is this okay?” he asks in a reverent whisper.
Henry nods and says, “Yes,” and Alex slowly, slowly eases the garment up and off him. When Henry lowers his arms again, he reaches for Alex’s sweater, which joins Henry’s on the floor a moment later. Alex’s hand falls to Henry’s sternum again, fingertips pressing in just slightly to learn the texture of Henry’s warm skin and his soft chest hair.
When Henry’s fingertips caress Alex’s collarbone, Alex steps in close again, pulling him into another embrace, bare chest to bare chest. His heart thrums behind his ribs, and as he presses forward again, seeking Henry’s lips, Henry moans into the kiss and tugs Alex backward, through the sitting room and toward the bed.
—
The edge of the mattress nudges against the back of Henry’s knees and he toes off his shoes, kicking them aside, then lowers himself slowly to a seated position, kissing his way down Alex’s chest as he goes. He peers up at Alex’s face as he trails his tongue down from Alex’s navel to the waistband of his trousers, then quickly unbuckles Alex’s belt, dropping little kisses just above his fly.
Alex’s eyes are dark as he gazes down at Henry, his chest heaving in the dim light from Henry’s bedside lamps. When Henry undoes the button and zipper and parts his fly, exhaling a heated breath over the ridge of his cock through his pants, Alex reaches for Henry, cupping his cheek in one broad palm, his thumb caressing Henry’s cheekbone.
“How far do you want to take this tonight?” Henry asks as he carefully hooks his fingers in the waistband of Alex’s boxers.
“You’re asking me questions when your mouth is literally inches away from my dick,” Alex mutters, laughing, “which is just unfair. But – I’ve never had belated life-affirming sex before. Maybe let’s just see where it goes?”
Henry tugs down Alex’s boxers enough to reveal the tip of his cock. “Alright,” he says, and he drops a soft kiss on the glans, then another as his hands follow the planes of Alex’s hips down and around to tuck his waistband beneath his ass. His tongue dips into the groove at the top of the crown, and then Henry ducks his head and takes the glans into his mouth, lightly sucking, testing the girth as his hands cup Alex’s ass and tug him in toward his face.
Alex’s cock is a hot, heavy weight on Henry’s tongue. Alex’s hand is warm on his face, and his voice is a low, constant murmur of praise and affirmations as Henry draws him deeper still, working him over with his lips and tongue until Alex is trembling with the effort not to come down his throat. Henry backs off, swirling his tongue over the head and jerking Alex’s shaft with a sure, steady hand.
“Ah – wait,” Alex gasps, “Wait, Henry – ”
Henry pulls off, his lips releasing Alex with a soft pop. “What is it?” he asks.
“Fuck – I… I don’t want to come yet,” Alex mutters, running a hand through his wild curls. “I haven’t even seen – ”
Oh. “You want to see me?” Henry asks, and at Alex’s desperate nod, Henry smiles up at him and gives him a gentle nudge with his hands so he’s got room to stand. “Get your kit off and get on the bed,” he urges.
Alex makes quick work of his boots, socks, and trousers, and Henry casts an admiring gaze over his body as Alex crawls onto the bed and settles on his side, facing him and lightly palming his cock. Henry strips off the remainder of his clothes as well, and Alex’s gaze seems to want to land everywhere at once, ping-ponging between Henry’s thighs and chest, hips and cock. When Henry moves to get on the bed, Alex holds up a hand, and then makes a little circular gesture.
Henry huffs out a laugh and does a slow turn for him, then climbs onto the bed before Alex can gesture again, crawling into his arms and entwining their limbs, finding Alex’s mouth with his own and kissing him breathless. He slings a thigh over Alex’s hip, pressing close, groaning against his mouth as their bare cocks align. Alex rolls to his back and tugs Henry up and over him, and his palms skitter down Henry’s back, one hand settling on his hip, the other on his ass, both kneading rhythmically, and Henry rocks down against Alex’s cock, the friction just shy of too much.
Alex makes a sound that’s bordering on ravenous that rumbles through his chest beneath Henry, so Henry rocks down against him again, trying to draw out more hungry noises. But it’s Henry who moans then, loud and open-mouthed when Alex’s hand grips at his ass cheek in response.
“Alex,” Henry gasps. “Do you want to – ”
“Hmm?” Alex asks, his lips hot against Henry’s jaw. “What?” He rolls up against Henry in a breathtaking grind.
“I want you to – ” Fingers clutching at Alex’s shoulders, Henry struggles for some semblance of self-control.
—
“Fuck me,” Henry gasps against Alex’s cheek.
Alex’s fingers clutch at Henry’s ass cheek reflexively, and he groans low in his throat, tugging their hips down flush together. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I just – ” He forces his eyes open and reaches up to cup Henry’s jaw. “Help me make it good for you?”
“Of course, love,” Henry murmurs. “I need to – ” He extricates himself somewhat from their embrace and reaches up and past Alex. “Just need a few things from the nightstand.” Henry opens the drawer one-handed and rummages around for a couple of seconds, then places a small bottle and a strip of condoms on top before shutting the drawer again. “Do you want to help me get ready, or would you rather I take care of it?”
“Are you asking if I want to finger you?” Alex asks, and his dick twitches heavily as he considers it. “Because I’m not going to lie, if I finger you first I might not last very long.”
“Next time, then,” Henry replies easily. He sits up in Alex’s lap, then, picks up the bottle, and dispenses a little of the lube on his index and middle finger. “Kiss me, though?” he requests, and Alex surges upward, propping himself up on one arm and cupping the back of Henry’s head with the other so he can lick into Henry’s mouth.
Alex thinks, quite suddenly, about mountains and helicopters and gurneys and steady hands holding heat compresses, and the miracle that it’d been Henry who’d saved him, Henry who’d held him as he’d broken down in a hospital bed in Edinburgh, Henry who’s brave, and strong, and soft, and beautiful, whose incredible thighs are spread over his own, whose supple lips yield so easily to his kisses. And he considers that falling off that Scottish cliff was worth it, maybe, if the landing is here in this moment with this man in this bed.
He makes a sound that’s halfway between broken and benediction and kisses Henry again, and again, pouring feelings he can’t describe out against Henry’s lips.
Then Henry rolls a condom down over Alex’s cock, rises up on his knees, and sinks slowly down onto him, and Alex warbles out a throaty cry as he’s surrounded by soft, clutching heat. His legs shift beneath Henry until his soles are on the mattress, and as Henry rises and falls in the cradle of Alex’s hips, Alex plants his heels and arches up to meet him.
Henry is loud when he rides Alex’s cock, Alex notes through the haze of his arousal, and louder still when Alex clutches his hips and fucks up into him. Henry’s soft mouth is open on a near-constant moan, his hands scrabbling at Alex’s sides and trying to find purchase as Alex snaps his hips up, burying himself deep within the heat of Henry’s ass.
Alex doesn’t know how he ever missed how vital Henry is to him, but as Henry’s thighs begin to tremble astride his, and Henry’s head drops down toward Alex’s, seeking another kiss, Alex makes himself a promise. It’s his last coherent thought before he loses himself entirely in the clutch of Henry’s body and the heat of his arms – that this, right now, is more than merely life-affirming, and he’ll spend as much time as he needs to figure out just how vast this thing between them is.
Then he grips Henry’s hips again in earnest, digging his feet into the bed and fucking up into him, gritting his teeth as he chases first Henry’s climax, then his own before collapsing back into the mattress with a low groan.
Alex’s chest, he notes as Henry rises up and off him and then collapses off to the side, is spattered with Henry’s cum, and he draws an index finger through one of the splotches, feeling the slick texture, then lifts his hand to his mouth and curiously tastes.
Henry makes a sound low in his throat, his gaze locked on Alex’s mouth.
—
Alex is a wonder. A menace. He’s the answer to a fervent, frequent, admittedly horny prayer. Henry doesn’t know how he’ll ever get enough of him this week. A lifetime, Henry thinks, might not be enough.
He rolls shakily to his feet, and without overthinking it, he grips the condom at its base and eases it off Alex’s slowly flagging cock. The action is wholly intimate, and Henry’s rewarded with a soft, astonished look that he tucks away deep in his memory as he ties the condom off and heads to the bathroom to dispose of it in the wastebasket.
Henry retrieves a clean washcloth and runs the water in the faucet until it’s warm, preparing to clean himself up. Strong arms snake about his waist from behind, then, and lips he already finds so dear press against the back of his neck. He looks up, taking in their reflections in the mirror, Alex’s dark curls next to his sleeker, blond locks, Alex’s honey-brown skin against his pale complexion, Alex’s big, broad hands beneath his narrower ones.
He meets Alex’s gaze in the mirror, then turns in the circle of his arms so they’re standing chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, bodies aligned and mouths seeking one another. The hot water from the faucet slowly steams up the mirror behind them as he makes good on his wish – they kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss until their lips are so tender that all they can do is sip sweetly at one another’s mouths, and before Henry pulls back to cup Alex’s face between his palms and gaze at him, bold and beautiful and warm and smiling, he kisses him once more for good measure.
The sprig of mistletoe lies, forgotten, on the floor of the grand foyer. In the late night hours, standing naked in Henry’s bathroom in front of a steamed-up mirror, Henry and Alex kiss as though they’re still beneath those artificially dyed leaves and plastic berries and the curl of red ribbon.
Just before dawn, Henry creeps downstairs in his dressing gown to retrieve the mistletoe before the household staff can dispose of it, and brings it back to his bedroom to tuck into his nightstand drawer, then curls back into the warmth of Alex’s embrace, feeling whole, and warm, and lucky, and alive.