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Only a few heirlooms were passed down to Henry following the death of his father.
He sold the old sailboat to Pez. Kept the annotated scripts and plays – character notes in Dad’s slanted hand in the margins. Donated the wardrobe and props Dad nicked from the Bond films to museums.
The broken wristwatch, he wears.
It fits perfectly. Unusual because Henry had always thought his father was quite strong in the arms. Burly.
(Pez thinks Arthur adjusted the strap when he was sick so he could still wear it to treatments, but Henry hadn’t wanted to hear another word of that theory and shut him up with a Jaffa cake.)
The old watch has a gold rim, maroon face, chocolate brown strap, a gold buckle with three small gems set in an uneven line on the prong. ODC engraved on the back.
Not really in his preferred color palette, but the leather still smells of his dad’s cologne. During long, arduous meetings about land holdings and portfolios, he’ll prop his cheek on the palm of his hand and breathe in slowly, seeking comfort from someone that knew there is more to life than the crown.
Seven golden hands. The standard three for the hour, minute, second. One for the date, one for the month, one for the day of the week, and one for the phase of the moon for fun.
A self-winding perpetual calendar of unknown origin.
(Pez has been looking for the watchmaker with no success. Henry thinks if Pez can’t find an obscure artisan, no one can.)
A gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, designed to tell time through at least the next century.
The problem is it runs backwards.
All those dials for date, month, moon phase run opposite to the constant march of time.
It had taken him months to notice through his dense, timeless fog of grief. All he cared about was that it smelled like Dad, and it was something that was solely his.
Later, he finds a gouge on the rim at two o’clock – likely from when he threw it against the wall following their family meeting with the executor of the will. He still wonders if that’s when it broke.
(Pez thinks it’s malfunctioning too severely to have broken from one measly menty b. Henry thinks that’s just his luck.)
According to the watch, it is the year 0002 A.D., counting down to the modern dawn of time or something. Henry doesn’t know what he’ll do to commemorate the hard reset of his unconventional coping mechanism.
Perhaps he'll make a cake.
(Pez says only if his baking skills have improved by then. Henry promises he’ll work on it.)
Terrible news.
Philip is getting married. (That's not the terrible part.)
The problem is – and they’ve quadruple checked the math because it’s never been Henry’s strong suit – the wedding reception falls squarely during Henry’s watch reset countdown spectacular.
He and Pez have talked plenty about the countdown now, over sickeningly sweet cocktails and cups of tea in Pez’s penthouse. They were going to go somewhere new and isolated and beautiful, with takeoff at the zero second mark if possible. The pair of them and Bea.
To remember. To forget.
If he’s lucky, the countdown will kick off a new chapter of his life.
(Bea's favorite new bit is theorizing it's a countdown to increasingly ridiculous catastrophes: nuclear war, a meteor striking the earth, the toppling of the monarchy and Gran's beheading at the gates of Buckingham Palace. Whatever helps her cope, he supposes.)
It’s already been two long years of fighting demons for him and Bea, and his therapist thinks it’s good that he looks to the future, even if he hasn’t fully explained what it is he’s celebrating in case it gets him institutionalized for delusions.
When he allows himself to dream big, he imagines running away from it all. Renouncing his title, getting a flat in Paris so he can visit Bea whenever he wants but isn’t within the crosshairs of the British tabloids. Writing, eating pastries and cheese, living for himself.
And when he dreams smaller, he thinks of publishing a short story or something. Even a small act of rebellion would make his father proud.
Just a daft fantasy to cling to when the bad days come.
But first: Philip’s wedding.
At least there will be cake.
When he dreams big, he imagines kissing a man at the wedding. Right on the dance floor. Making eye contact with Gran and then showing her an unmistakable rude hand gesture.
(Maybe getting married himself.)
The first time Henry learned of Alex Claremont-Diaz's existence was while skimming a packet prepared by Shaan introducing him to the newest round of young diplomats. Must have been before the presidential election, but Henry can't be blamed for his shit memory during that time.
Now, with a goblet of port in his system and a Pez egging him on, he scrolls through Alex's Instagram account.
He's fairly certain Alex hates him for some reason or another. Who can blame him with the image the crown's press office has built around his name?
Still, it stings that Alex seems to be avoiding him without having met him yet. Three cancellations from the White House delegation is too many to be a coincidence.
With his phone in hand and a pleasant buzz making the world less heavy, he scrolls through a pretty boy's photos and smiles.
Henry's heart dreams the impossible.
The morning of the wedding, he’s as invigorated as he is miserable.
The stylist had nearly ripped his head off when he insisted on wearing the old watch because damn the optics, that watch doesn’t match the color scheme and today is not the day to make any sort of contradictory statement, your highness. Henry threatened to go stark naked wearing the watch rather than fully dressed without, and that had shut Basil right up.
He's been obsessively watching the hands tick off the final hours, minutes, seconds.
For one very sad moment, Henry wonders if the watch should have gone to Philip instead. A countdown to one’s wedding is rather auspicious and a sign from the universe if he’s ever seen it. Dad had told countless stories of coincidence and fate bringing him to the right place at the right time, and Henry had clung to hope that the watch was his turn to carry on that legacy. It’s far better than the legacy he carries on his mother’s side.
Bea knocks twice on the doorframe. “Are you dressed?”
“You heard that?”
“I think the whole country heard that.” She grins and holds out her hand for his wrist. Plants a light kiss on the watch face. She lets go and stares up at him proudly; he’s sure she’ll tell him what she was thinking after the party, when there is no longer the pressure to perform happiness for the masses.
“Hm… what if it’s a bomb?”
Henry snorts and takes her hand. “It’s been a while since you made those jokes.”
The corner of her mouth tucks into a hint of a grimace. “Stressful day. Can't be bothered to pretend otherwise with you.”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “Martha's good for him, at least. I hope she reminds him to be happy today.”
Bea nods. “She will, and we can try to remind each other.”
“Agreed.”
They share a glance when they hear heels approaching – that will be their transport team now.
“You would tell me if it's a bomb, right?” she teases one last time before they're swept into the chaos.
He dances with June Claremont-Diaz after Bea stomps on his foot. Anything to keep him from staring at his watch for the entirety of the reception.
Forty-seven minutes left.
June is nice enough. He can tell she’s had extensive media training and that she knows this moment will be talked about. He’ll make sure to dance with other young women so she’s not singled out in the day’s coverage.
She is the first. Then, the French prime minister's daughter. One of Philip’s diplomat friends from Germany. Another from Singapore. The American Vice President's granddaughter.
He hopes the more he dances, the more casual his invitation seems to the public. It's just good manners.
An usher taps him on the shoulder, mid-waltz with Nora Holleran. When he glances at his table, Bea has her eyes fixed on him.
Nineteen minutes left.
Nora glances at the watch when he pulls away. Something about her puts him on edge. Like not a single lie or excuse could ever get past her.
“Never thought you'd have one of those,” Nora says cryptically.
“Er… pardon?”
Her sharp eyes seem annoyed, but then she takes a step back – scans his face again then looks just as confused as he is. “You really don't know?”
“About what?” Self conscious, he wraps his right hand around his wrist to hide the watch. “What do you know?”
She nods slowly then smiles like a cat that got the cream. “It's not really for me to say.”
Henry's mouth drops slightly. Is this really the closest he's ever come to an answer about his heirloom and she decides to play coy?
“Thanks for the dance, your highness,” she chirps then goes back to her seat, leaving Henry on the dance floor, staring at her mouth agape like an utter tit.
He retreats to the seat beside Bea.
Eighteen minutes.
“What was that?” she asks after a delicate sip of water.
He hides his wrist in his lap. In a low voice, he says, “She knows about the bomb but didn't say anything useful.”
“Really?” They both look up to find the White House trio staring at the pair of them from across the ballroom. “What did she say?”
“She said she never thought I'd have one of them and that it wasn't really for her to say.”
Bea purses her lips. “Fascinating… What if it was made by a Nazi?”
He chokes on a sip of wine and hisses, “Don't say that. Make jokes about bombs and bioterror all you want but that's – Christ, I had never considered the person that made it could be… You don't think…?”
"Miss Holleran's more likely to know than either of us." She shrugs with a cheerful grin. “Calm down, Henry. If it were true, you'd have been canceled years ago. You wear that thing everywhere.”
He moans and hides his face in his hands. Bea unhelpfully drapes her napkin in front of him to shield the watch from view.
Still eighteen minutes left.
Henry had planned to remain in his seat through the end of the countdown, but an attendant had asked him to greet the director of MacMillan Cancer Support and that's not exactly an invitation he can turn down. (Seven minutes.) He shakes her hand, anxious and sweaty, and nods along as she thanks him for their family's contributions.
He's met her before but had forgotten she's quite the effusive speaker. Lovely and warm and talkative.
Bea saves him, taps him on the shoulder to tell him their fake cousins are looking for him by the cake.
(Annie and Connie Lingus. Not to be confused with their other fake cousins Eileen and Ben Dover. Yes, Pez named them all.)
Sixteen seconds.
Henry hides behind the buttercream monstrosity.
His eyes prickle unexpectedly, chest tight with a dozen emotions he can't easily parse.
Henry unsurprisingly thinks of his dad. What he would say. Whether he knows how much it took for Henry and Bea to survive up to this moment. Is he proud? Ashamed?
A sharp inhale; he hadn't realized he wasn't breathing.
Time doesn't slow down. Keeps up its constant, unforgiving march. And in no time at all it's:
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
“Got somewhere to be?”
Henry gasps, sobs, croaks. Whatever noise came out of his mouth is utterly humiliating.
He turns to find who spoke.
Ah. Of course.
Alex Claremont-Diaz.
It feels like fate, really. Right as the watch froze in time at zero forever. Maybe Alex is the start of the new chapter.
“No, sorry. It's – ah… it's silly. I’ve got nowhere to be but here.”
Alex nods slowly, unimpressed.
(Henry is now certain Alex does not like him. And here Pez thought it was only Henry's anxiety.)
Alex asks, “Why do you have my watch?”
“Pardon?”
“My watch.” He points like Henry is being obtuse. Because he is.
“My watch?”
“My watch,” Alex repeats sharply. “It's engraved on the back, yeah?”
Henry's heart sinks. No, no, no.
There aren't many things that belong to him in this world, and this was his.
Alex must not have noticed or cared that this is devastating news. He continues, “O.D.C. Orión Díaz del Castillo. The last watch my grandfather made before he passed.”
His father had only told him to look for Orion about a thousand times growing up. A glance at the prong confirms that the jewels are set in the crooked line of Orion's belt. He's quite annoyed with himself that he missed it. A mystery solved just before he has to give up this little bit of magic.
The only silver lining Henry can think of is that, at the very least, the watch wasn't made by a Nazi.
Yay.
Alex's hand reaches out; he flinches back toward the cake.
“Seriously? C'mon, dude, I thought y'all were done stealing precious art from brown people.”
Would Alex have sympathy if he was honest? Completely honest? Down to the mad theories about the countdown?
In a panic, he explains, “I didn't know who made it. It's one of the few things my dad left me in his will, and I… I can understand it's not mine, but I –”
Alex drags his hand over his face. “Oh my god. You're not going to give it back.”
Stupidly, he says, “It's broken anyway.”
“You broke it?”
Alex takes a step forward. Henry takes another step back, knocking his arse against the cake's display table with enough force he can feel one of the display table’s legs give out.
Alex's hands go for his lapels to pull him back but Alex loses his footing and it's already too late and now it will look like they've been fighting and he thought the sound of a crowd gasping sounded fake and overdone on television, but it really does sound exactly like that when a crowd gasps in unison.
Then, the weight of it is on him. Heavy, buttery, sugary, crumbly everywhere.
The ballroom is deathly silent, and all Henry can think to say is, “Oh my fucking Christ.”
Alex hadn't wanted to meet with him in the aftermath. It took quite a bit of strong-arming from Shaan.
They're in a storage closet because it's the closest room their teams could secure at a moment's notice. One flickering lightbulb hangs above them.
“I'm sorry,” Henry starts.
Alex is swirling buttercream out of the shell of his ear with a handkerchief. “No, you're fucking not.”
"Was the watch the reason you were avoiding me?"
Alex says nothing; his face says everything.
Henry fidgets with the clasp of the watch and sighs. He's going to have to give it up for the sake of peace, but Alex needs to understand why he is so attached. “It still smells like my dad.”
That makes him freeze; Henry is grateful Alex is willing to listen.
“He wore it everywhere. Said he bought it when he was shooting a documentary abroad, but he never said where or when. Now, I wear it everywhere.” He pauses to wipe some cake off his eyebrow. “It's a small part of him that I can carry with me.”
He looks at the face. All the clock hands are stuck firmly at twelve. The rest have miraculously settled on the correct date and day of the week. He suspects if he checks the moon phase, the watch will be correct about that as well.
One last burst of improbable magic for Henry to project his delusions onto.
“It's been broken for years,” he says, as he takes it off to show Alex. “Running out of time ever since I got it.”
Alex gently takes the watch with an air of understanding and disappointment. He confirms, “It stopped today?”
“It's what I was looking at behind the cake. It stopped exactly when you spoke.”
Alex stares at him for an uncomfortably long time. He's absurdly beautiful so it’s not exactly a tragedy for Henry to stare back.
The watch is set back in his palm. “It stopped when we met?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” He backs away; his hand is abruptly on the door handle. “Keep it. We'll talk.”
“What?”
“It's yours. I gotta… yup.”
The door handle pops right off and rattles on the floor.
Alex huffs a small laugh then grumbles, “Yeah, that fuckin’ tracks.”
Henry watches him from the corner furthest from the door. Alex moves so much, even in a confined space.
Alex makes a twisted face at the broken handle, sighs, and says, “The watch is a thing.”
“Yes,” Henry replies slowly. “It is a thing.”
Alex shoots him a dirty look. “Stop being funny – it's not helping. It's a magical thing. Ancestral witchy shit like reading bones or whatever.”
Henry raises an eyebrow.
“Ugh, my sister could explain it like a thousand times better.” He runs a hand through his ruined buttercream-coated curls and grimaces. “It was broken, yeah? Like doing a countdown?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
His nostrils flare. “It knows when it will get back to its rightful owner.”
Huh. A bit anticlimactic.
It makes Henry feel stupid for making such a big fuss out of it.
“Yeah,” Alex confirms, a touch too loudly. “My abuelo made watches for all of his grandkids, but he passed away before I was born and my abuela practically tore up his shop looking for it and never found it. And he imbibed all of his pieces with magic for protection or whatever and he, yeah. Had a weird way of getting the watches back to their, uh, rightful owner.”
Maybe Henry is too much of a skeptic to understand how a countdown to being found is at all helpful, but magic is being talked about as if it were as natural and undeniable as water being wet. And he supposes magic is not exactly known for its logic.
“Can you fix it?” Henry asks. “Wind it and get it to work properly?”
Alex shrugs. “I can't, but my uncle was his apprentice and could take a crack at it.”
He sticks out his chin decisively. “I'll wear it for our impending photo ops this week, and then it's yours. If the press notices, we spin it into a feel-good tale about your grandfather selling my father the watch years ago and that I gave it back to my good friend, Alex Claremont-Diaz. Problem solved.”
“But you said it smells like your dad and stuff.”
Henry shrugs. “I have other things of his. I can't keep it now that I know how significant it is to you.”
Alex stares at him. He looks both constipated and fond. It’s charming.
Abruptly, he says, “Nah, it would look weird if you gave it to me. You've been photographed wearing it about a million times.”
Henry replies, “It's far more of a Diaz family heirloom than it is Fox. Really, take it.”
He's realizing Alex is harder to read than he initially thought – not because he guards his emotions, but because he has so many of them all at once. Alex is now inexplicably annoyed.
The watch face is slightly sticky with buttercream when he hands it over to Alex.
“Okay, I lied,” Alex blurts. He fidgets with the watch face, loosely turning it over in his palm. “I never met my abuelo, but everyone always talked about how he had all the answers. How he was basically all-knowing. Could have been wisdom. Could have been magic.”
Henry has a dozen burning questions, but whatever Alex has to say seems more important.
“But, um… This watch has an answer that I never expected.” He turns it over three more times. “It’s not meant for me. You are.”
“What?” he asks stupidly.
“My current theory is that it's a platonic thing.” Alex stares straight ahead at the opposite wall. "Uniquely compatible souls – two guys in similar positions that are basically destined to understand each other. Like Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.”
Christ, of all the examples to pick from…
Alex continues, “It has to be, because neither of us are into guys. Right?”
There's a desperation to Alex's denial that makes him ache with sympathy. Here is a man that either doesn't know or doesn't want to know. Henry hopes it's the former.
He's hesitated long enough with his answer that Alex shrinks into himself and says, “Well, fuck.”
“What on earth are you getting at?”
There’s something desperate in the way Alex moves his hands. “You could sense it, right? That the watch was counting down to something important. Like something massive was waiting for you with open arms, wanting you to jump.”
Henry shrugs unconvincingly. “It was just a laugh. We were using the countdown as an excuse to go to an island before Philip scheduled his wedding.”
“Whatever, you know it’s true. My abuelo knew he couldn’t stick around long enough to make a watch for me, so he found another way to give me the gift of a soulmate.”
“Er, right…”
Alex grumbls, “As difficult as it is with our circumstances, you and I are meant to be.”
The delivery could certainly use some work.
Henry says, “Moments ago, you were implying I was straight.”
“I know, I know… Fuck, it would be way easier for us if we were.” His dark eyes flicker down to Henry’s lips. Twice. Three times. “But there’s no doubt that I’m the person you take that leap of faith with.”
Henry moves to take Alex’s hand instead, to stall him from doing something reckless and unreasonable.
"I don't think –"
There’s no explaining the instant warmth that floods his body – as if he were sipping hot chocolate by the fire after a long day in the cold. Safe and comforted.
He flinches back; the warmth vanishes.
“Fuck, that feels nicer than I thought,” Alex mumbles. “What’d you feel?”
“Like I was sitting in front of a fireplace. You?”
“Hot bath with the bubbles up to my chin.”
Henry nods slowly to himself.
This is impossible. It can’t be real. He’s swaying forward. He stops nodding because he’s lost his balance and Alex grips his arm for good measure so he doesn’t fall flat on his face. He glances at Alex. Takes his hand again.
This is impossible.
The fire crackles inside his head, chocolate and spice on his tongue. Cinnamon and something earthy he can’t place.
They let go.
“Bath smells like you,” Alex mumbles. “S’nice.”
Henry looks at Alex (and his lips). Alex looks at Henry (and his lips).
This is impossible.
Their aforementioned lips meet in a kiss they both know will change everything.
An explosion of sensation envelops him.
Golden confetti raining down and the hard thump of bass in his chest and the swoop of a plane taking off and the first plunge into perfect shimmering water in the summertime. A light buzz under his skin and thick dark curls in his fist and the mischievous cut of Alex’s eager lips. Buttercream and champagne and Alex’s sure hand gliding over his ribcage.
Complete and utter sensory overload.
He rips away with a gasp; Alex’s eyes are as wild and hungry as he feels.
“Christ, what was that?"
“We’re so fucked. So incredibly fucked, oh my god."
Henry shuffles back and grips a fistful of his own hair. A laugh bubbles out of him, shifting into something most would call hysterical. Alex tentatively reaches over to loosen Henry’s fist – he can taste the perfect cup of tea in his mouth the moment their fingers touch. An ache lingers on his scalp so it was probably the right call.
“We’ll figure it out, Henry," he says softly.
Henry knows the stakes are high. Maybe it’s the soul bond linking them in a new mysterious way or maybe it’s the look on Alex’s face, but he instantly realizes the stakes have, in fact, doubled, tripled, ballooned exponentially.
They are so fucked.
A small, hopeful part of him accepts that the trouble just might be worth it if it means having something that feels that good. If the universe made him a gay prince, then at least it's compensating for it by giving him a soulmate that practically sets his senses on fire. And, crucially, that soulmate is Alex Claremont-Diaz.
Oh, he's talking again.
“First, we gotta deal with this whole cake PR nightmare, but we can figure it out. Make a plan.”
Henry can’t stop staring at Alex’s lips. That may become a problem.
“My eyes are up here, asshole.”
What a charmer. He’s already half in love.
Without meaning to, Henry whispers, “So fucking beautiful.”
Alex freezes and blinks his ridiculous eyelashes. Clears his throat. Bites back a smile.
“Okay, fine. Kiss me again. Only because that was actually mind-blowing,” Alex folds. “But we’re making a plan when we’re done.”
Bea is waiting for him at the edge of his bed, petting poor David who has been stuck with their staff through the wedding madness. All this and he still has to calm his anxious dog at the end of the day. (Not that he's complaining. He can’t wait to cuddle with clingy David.)
She and David perk up when he walks in. Henry’s just found a big crumb on the inside of his right nostril, so he’s certain he’s pulling a dreadful face.
“How are you feeling?”
He takes stock of himself. Still smeared in overpriced cake, a whirlwind of PR crisis management in his immediate future, the sting of a blooming hickey on his collar bone from his soulmate.
He's had worse days.
“It would have been far less trouble if it were a bomb.”