Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Possibly the most frustrating thing about this entire situation, Alex thinks as he paces past bustling interns and framed photos of celebrities with fake smiles on the walls, is that Henry didn’t even want to do this.

Over the past few years, he and Henry have done their best to quietly remove themselves from the public eye. It’s been no small feat with Alex’s mother as the President and Henry battling the press whirlwind around his decision to abdicate, but they’ve managed. They’ve created a calmer life in Park Slope, one generally devoid of prying eyes and anxiety, with only the occasional ridiculous and invasive story about them gracing the front page of the magazines June used to toss at him every week.

But if these interviewers on this godforsaken morning show don’t stop asking Henry stupid fucking questions, Alex might make national news again.

Only a couple of appearances, Henry’s publicist had promised. Just to get the word out about the book. Alex and Henry were both well aware the moment Henry started writing that he wouldn’t need press - he’s been a walking press magnet for his entire life. But Henry had given in, if only to get a chance or two to tell the world what his book means to him, how much of his soul he’s put into it, in his own words.

The problem is that the hosts are barely letting him get a word in. During his interview. It’s sometime past 6 AM and Alex is watching the live broadcast on one of the TVs backstage, Cash hovering somewhere behind him. The show had saved Henry’s segment for last, leaving him to stew in his nervousness far too long for Alex’s liking. And now Alex is watching the sad excuse for an interview play out, angrily tapping the toe of his sneaker against the floor while idiot #1 and idiot #2 ask Henry about Philip.

“Philip, of all people,” Alex turns on his heel, swinging his arms wildly. “Of all the fucking things they could ask him about, they choose Philip? The most objectively boring man on the face of the earth? They’re supposed to be talking about his book, I swear to -”

“They want gossip,” Cash supplies grimly, looking just as irritated as Alex feels. “They might have invited Henry here to talk about his writing, but you know how this industry works.”

He turns his attention back to the screen, and Alex follows his gaze. Henry is smiling politely, nothing but warmth radiating from him and his gray sweater and the collared dress shirt beneath it. Alex knows better than anyone, though, the difference between Henry’s press smile, his press voice, and his real one, and the Henry he’s watching on TV right now is nothing like the one who’d practiced talking about his book with Alex in bed last night.

“Can someone turn up the -” Alex looks around - no one’s paying attention to him. He finds the remote on a coffee table in the middle of the room, buried under a stack of the same type of magazines that will probably have Philip and Martha’s picture perfect family plastered all over them tomorrow morning. He cranks the volume up higher as he walks back to his spot in front of the TV, his eyes never leaving Henry.

All this talk about Philip, and neither of the hosts have acknowledged the fact that Henry isn’t even part of the royal bullshit anymore. Like he has nothing better to do than call Philip every day to find out the exact details of Martha’s third pregnancy. Henry and Philip might be on slightly better terms now than they used to be, and sure, the kids are cute, but they’re not what Henry came here to talk about.

“I’m not exactly involved in royal life all that much these days,” Henry interrupts one of the hosts’ giggling about Martha’s baby shower. He sits up straighter in his seat, and Alex mutters a “get their asses, baby” under his breath. “In case you missed the big news.”

“That’s right,” host #2 says, as if they didn’t already know Henry has built an entire life that has nothing to do with his family. “Let’s talk about you and that book of yours.”

“Fucking finally,” Cash says. Alex crosses his arms, watching as the muscles in Henry’s face relax a bit, pixels on the screen finally showing an inkling of the Henry he gets to breathe in and love each and every day.

“What has it been like going from a prince to an author? You used to play polo, correct? Some of our viewers, and some of your fans, have noticed that you aren’t as in-shape as you used to -”

“Nope,” Alex half-shouts, drawing the attention of three people chatting at the refreshment table a few feet away. “Absolutely the fuck not.” He expects a firm hand on his shoulder as he storms towards the double doors leading out to the set, but the fact that it doesn't come tells him that Cash is just as pissed as he is.

Through the rage storming in his head, he counts himself lucky to have an agent at his back who’s perfectly willing to let him cause another national incident.

Alex pushes the doors open, speed walking straight past the cameras and stopping behind Henry’s chair. The hosts laugh nervously, giving him a polite “hello?” and he resists the urge to strangle them on live TV. Henry says his name, and there’s a combination of confusion and relief in his voice - the same kind of relief Alex would hear when he’d help Henry get out of never-ending meetings. Something sweet and subtle that had buried itself behind Alex’s ribs before he’d even realized he was falling in love.

He reaches for Henry’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and Henry covers Alex’s hand with his own. The guy behind the camera is staring at Alex, horrified, but Alex squints past him, past the blinding spotlights, and sees an audience full of approval. “Hey, so,” Alex starts, and his next words come as easily as the ones he’d used when he told the world that Henry was his choice - a choice he’d make over and over and over again. “These questions are bullshit and my fiancé and I are leaving. Hen?” He looks down for Henry’s confirmation, but he knows he doesn’t need to.

Henry stands, brushing his hands over his thighs and taking a deep breath that Alex sees in his back and shoulders. “I second that.”

Henry answers the hosts’ blank stares with a curt nod and reaches for Alex. With his free hand, Alex snatches Henry’s book off the hosts’ desk and waves it above his head. “Pick this masterpiece up at your favorite local bookstore soon!” he yells as he pulls Henry offstage and towards the doors he’d just barreled through, a ridiculously-timed laugh bubbling out of him. “And if any of you lovely people in the audience have real questions about it, tweet them to me @theagcd and Henry will answer them this weekend.”

There’s an enthusiastic roar from the crowd. It fills Alex with a lightness that loosens some of the tight anger in his chest - knowing that people care deeply about Henry and what he has to say, that they want to hear his words and his stories and get to know some of the moving pieces of his beautiful brain. It’s only the tip of the iceberg of all the good that Henry deserves.

Right now, Alex focuses on what he can give Henry - freedom from this stupid fucking interview. They tear down the hall, past Cash and the satisfied look on his face, past shocked staff members and interns who break into a round of claps as the two of them turn a corner into an empty hallway. Alex picks the first door he sees, a closet - thankfully, and tugs Henry inside.

“This feels astonishingly familiar,” Henry cocks an eyebrow at Alex as he pulls the door shut and flicks on the light. He leans back against the wall, Henry framed by two mop handles on the other side of the tiny space.

“Was that, like, insane of me?” Alex asks as he catches his breath. “Like, more insane than usual?”

Henry laughs, and it’s so purely Henry. It tells Alex without a doubt that he did exactly what Henry was praying he would do. “Oh, it absolutely was. You, Alex Claremont-Diaz, are every PR agent’s worst nightmare.”

“I take that role very seriously,” Alex winks, stepping forward to take Henry’s face in his hands. “Those questions fucking sucked. I’m so sorry.”

Henry shrugs. “I guess there are more important things in this world than the inner workings of my mind. Such as Philip’s royal offspring.”

“Baby -”

“Alex,” Henry cuts him off. “I’m teasing. I could not give less of a shit what two American morning show hosts think of my book. I’m proud of it. You’re proud of me. That’s all I need.”

“Besides,” he continues, running his hands up and down Alex’s sides. “I think your little stunt is going to get this book a lot more publicity than an average, everyday interview would have.”

Alex can’t stop the ridiculous grin that blooms on his face, and he doesn’t want to. “I’m always two steps ahead, sweetheart,” he says, pushing Henry back against the wall and kissing him, breathing him in until he’s dizzy with it.

Henry’s blush in the dim, hazy glow of the fizzled out lightbulb above them is almost too endearing for Alex to handle. He pushes himself up against Henry again, his thigh finding a place between Henry’s legs, and Henry gasps softly against Alex’s lips.

“I can’t even lie to you right now,” Alex mutters, a million thoughts spinning through his head about Henry’s side profile and Henry’s gentle words and the countless nights Henry had stayed up tapping away at his laptop, bathed in the soft light of his desk lamp and the distant sounds of late night traffic beyond their windows, “I really want to fuck you in this broom closet.”

Henry’s answering laugh borders on hysterical, with an aching need behind it that he doesn’t even try to hide. It makes Alex feel even more drunkenly in love - the logistics, the spontaneity of it all - the fact that 15 minutes ago, Alex was watching Henry on TV, and now he has Henry in his arms and under his hands, warm and whole and alive.

“I -” Henry clears his throat. “I would very much like that. But perhaps we could continue this at home? This is feeling a bit like the Wimbledon storage room, except we don’t have nearly as much space to work with.”

Alex gives Henry a fake gasp, doing his best to look offended. “Do you really think I can’t make do with -”

“Shut up, Alex,” Henry says fondly as he wraps his arms around Alex’s waist, pulling Alex flush against him, “and take me home.”

Chapter Text

Cash drops them off in front of the brownstone two hours later - after some obligatory apologies to studio executives that Alex bullshits his way through, all while making sure to emphasize the fact that the questions Henry was asked were not what he signed up for. Alex keeps a hand on Henry’s thigh the entire ride from Manhattan back to Brooklyn, rubbing his thumb back and forth very, very pointedly.

Have fun, Cash mouths out the front window as Alex and Henry stumble out of the backseat, and Alex very lovingly flips him off.

And then they’re inside, kicking off their shoes in the doorway, Henry stopping to greet David as Alex tosses their coats on the hooks above the credenza. When Henry turns back to him, Alex flicks his eyes to the staircase and Henry nods, leaning forward to press a steady kiss to Alex’s lips before stepping back. He turns towards the stairs, and Alex finds words leaving his mouth before he decides exactly what they’re going to be.

“Hey, Hen?” He waits until Henry walks back to him and takes his hands before he continues. “I don’t want you to think… to think that I thought you couldn’t handle those bullshit questions. You are so fucking strong and so capable, and I didn’t -”

“Alex, love,” Henry interrupts, his eyes brimming with gratitude. “I know that. I promise.”

“It just made me sick,” Alex breathes out in a rush, “the way they talked to you. The personal shit they brought up. That’s not what you were there for.”

“It’s not,” Henry nods. “I think I’m still learning what it’s like to be able to stand up for myself. You taught me that. You showed me that I deserve a voice. And I can never thank you enough for that.”

“Plus,” Henry cocks his head to one side, stepping back towards the stairs, “you storming in like that, all that fury and intensity on my behalf? That really did something to me.”

Alex shoves at his shoulder, laughing again. They stumble up the stairs to their bedroom, and the city narrows to the wood beneath their feet, the pull of Henry’s sweater over his head as Alex kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Henry’s hands fumble at Alex’s belt, at the zipper of his jeans, and it feels new and familiar at the same time, snapshots of illicit meetings behind locked doors, quiet and intense, morphing into what he and Henry are now - a couple with a home, a life together, a promise of the future, and the better half of the world at their backs.

Alex kisses Henry again as they stagger backwards towards the window, until his bare back hits the wall and he’s able to pull the curtains closed. Wisps of Brooklyn sunlight find their way past the edges of the fabric, leaving bright streaks on the floor. Henry steps through them and it brings Alex back to their first time at the lake, to the crown of fireflies in his hair.

“Where do you want me, love?” Henry mumbles against Alex’s ear, and Alex feels dizzy with it. The very first word that comes to his mind, that’s been coming to his mind since the moment Henry first kissed him, is everywhere.

“Bed,” Alex manages, stepping away from the window. “Unless you want to put on a show for the neighbors.”

“I think we’ve made enough headlines for one day,” Henry smirks, kicking off his slacks and underwear as he falls into their unmade bed and pulls Alex down with him. It’s skin against skin, Alex’s knee back between Henry’s legs, Henry already half-hard against his thigh. There’s something so whole about this version of Henry - his cheeks are fuller, he looks healthier and happier than he ever has, and Alex will never get tired of getting lost in him.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Alex breathes into the side of Henry’s neck. “And now you’re an author too? There’s only so much I can handle, sweetheart.”

Henry’s breath catches, and Alex grins. He trails his fingers up and down Henry’s sides, little sparks at every point of contact, and watches Henry lose himself in Alex’s touch. He loves to read Henry in these moments - to figure out what Henry needs, what he wants, and at what pace he wants it.

“You’re a menace,” Henry groans, and the fact that he’s already this undone tells Alex everything he needs to know.

They make out for what could be a minute or an hour, Henry’s fingernails digging into Alex’s back, his ass, anywhere he can reach. They don’t stop until Henry rocks his hips up into Alex’s stomach, his breath hot against Alex’s neck. “Alex,” he whines, and Alex feels it deep in his gut. “Please.”

“Anything you want, baby,” Alex pushes himself up, missing the feeling of Henry’s skin against his the moment he breaks the contact. He cradles Henry’s face in one hand, sweeping his thumb over Henry’s jaw. “Talk to me.”

The confirmation Alex is looking for serves two purposes. One, he loves to draw it all out like this sometimes - to watch as the want builds and builds on Henry’s face and in his voice with each passing second, and he knows that Henry loves it too. He is, in fact, a self-proclaimed little shit, and can’t resist teasing Henry a bit; making him work for it.

And two? Alex needs the words - needs Henry to say them again, so Alex knows he’s giving Henry exactly what he wants. He trusts Henry more than anyone in the world, and giving Henry that same level of trust back, that same comfort, is more important to him than anything.

He trails a lazy finger down the inside of Henry’s thigh, his knuckle brushing pointedly down the side of Henry’s cock. Henry seems to forget the entirety of the English language. He pushes his face deeper into Alex’s palm, breathing hard and fast against it. “You fucking bastard.”

Alex flashes Henry a dazzling grin and leans back down to press sloppy kisses to the side of his neck. Henry’s pulse pounds under his lips. “I want you to fuck me,” Henry manages, desperate and hoarse against Alex’s ear. It doesn’t matter how many times Alex hears the words - they send a million shockwaves through him every single time. “Now.”

Alex hums against Henry’s neck and reaches blindly for the lube on the nightstand. His other hand finds Henry’s, and he laces their fingers together as he pushes it into the mattress. It’s the little, tiny details sometimes - Henry’s fingertips pressed against Alex’s knuckles, Henry’s flushed cheeks and stuttering heartbeat; all of this, the two of them tangled in their sheets, on their bed, in their home.

And Alex? Alex is still very much so in love he could die.

He says as much as he gently coaxes Henry’s knees up towards his chest and circles his hole with one finger, teasing, and watches every nerve ending he hits play out on Henry’s face. And then he’s pushing one finger inside Henry, and then two, and the noise Henry makes nearly brings Alex straight to the brink. “You’re incredible,” he says, voice wavering just slightly as he kisses Henry’s knee. “Fucking incredible, baby.”

Henry’s back arches off the mattress and Alex readjusts, twisting his wrist and driving his fingers in further. It’s slow, but Henry wants more - he bucks his hips and chokes on a gasp as Alex hooks his fingers up in response to Henry’s desperation. “So pushy,” he teases as he massages the muscles tightening around the base of his fingers.

Henry just shakes his head and jams his heel into Alex’s shoulder. Alex grins and, without warning, brushes his fingertips over Henry’s prostate, and that really does it. The noise Henry makes is something between a grunt and a sob, needy and intimate and solely for Alex. Something he knows the world can never take from them, never put on display.

So Alex does it again - pressing this time, instead of stroking. He watches Henry’s face the entire time, falls in love with every bob of his throat and flutter of his eyelashes.

He continues opening Henry up like it’s the easiest thing in the world, eventually nudging him onto his side, and then his knees, leaning forward to ghost kisses over the back of his neck and whisper into his hair.

“Ready?” he asks, and Henry’s answer is immediate.

“Always.”

Alex slides in slowly, carefully, a complete juxtaposition to what happens a second later - when Henry pushes back against him, driving him deeper with a punched out noise that Alex doesn’t think he’ll ever stop replaying. Alex tosses his head back like the lovestruck cliché he is as he grabs at Henry’s hips, trembling fingers over warm skin, and loses himself in the steady rhythm of it all.

The pressure of Henry around him, the litany of curses sounding more like prayers that Henry gasps against the pillows, his hand fisted in the sheets they picked out together. Each knob of Henry’s spine, every soft groan, every mumbled “God, Alex.” He pulses in and out in line with his hammering heartbeat, guided by muscle memory and the sensation of Henry urging him deeper, those fucking polo-player thighs every bit as powerful as they were the first time he and Henry fucked.

“You feel so - fuck,” Alex hisses as Henry clenches around his cock, effectively shutting him up. He can see Henry’s smirk without actually seeing Henry’s face, and he takes it as a challenge. He pulls back a bit, just for a second or two, before thrusting his hips forward, pushing back into Henry until his hips are flush with Henry’s ass and Henry’s knees are seconds from giving out. Every point of contact with Henry feels like a spark - one that Alex chases with each breath, each pulse.

Alex holds onto it all, love and adoration filling every inch of him until it spills out with an intensity that whites out his vision. He collapses forward onto Henry’s back, angling himself so that he can stay inside Henry and wrap a hand around Henry’s cock at the same time. “You’re perfect,” he mumbles into Henry’s sweaty head of hair as he gets Henry closer and closer. He slides his thumb up over Henry’s tip and Henry comes with a gasping, shaky noise that Alex catalogs in his heart, along with every other detail of Henry in this singular, perfect moment.

They fall back against the pillows, Henry trembling so hard Alex swears the headboard is shaking with it. Alex pulls Henry against his chest, strokes gentle lines over the shell of his ear and mumbles H and love and sweetheart into his hair, over and over and over again. They come back down together slowly, curled up in each other's arms, intensity morphing into an overwhelmingly calming and familiar gentleness. Henry passes Alex a water bottle at some point, and Alex reaches for the remote on the nightstand behind him and turns the TV on, volume almost all the way down, and it’s like the rest of New York, the rest of the world, stops existing for a little while. It couldn’t be more perfect.

“I love you,” Henry breathes into Alex’s curls some time after their heartbeats have recalibrated. “And I am not opposed to you making another scene on the news if this is what it leads to.”

Alex laughs as Henry pulls him impossibly closer. “We have an entire lifetime of opportunities ahead of us,” he replies. “I’m sure I’ll find a way.”

Henry hums, his breath warm against Alex’s skin. Alex doesn’t know what time it is, or how many Twitter notifications he’ll have when he turns on his phone. He doesn’t know what the headlines will be tomorrow, but he’s kissing Henry’s eyelids, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth, and he couldn’t possibly care less.