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Henry stares at his family. Stares and stares and stares as their words settle in his mind and travel down to his heart, then further down over his ribs and over the soft ridge of his stomach to settle on that mark sitting on his hip.

It doesn't quite make sense, what they’re saying, because his mark has been public knowledge for at least twelve years now, having been leaked by a scumbag journalist, spying on him while he relaxed on a private beach with Pez when he was only twenty. 

He’s all but resigned himself to the belief that his soulmate had decided he didn’t want him. And that’s fair, because he’s a bloody prince and not everyone is willing to subject themselves to that level of scrutiny. It’s fine. Acceptable. Henry’s accepted it and moved on.

Only.

His mum and Bea are looking at him, pity and roiling grief glimmering in their eyes, and that’d be enough on its own. But Pip’s sitting there between them, a grimace chock full of a mirrored grief and heartache and anger on his face. 

Because it’s awful. 

If it’s true, it’s awful. 

He’d thought terrible things of his grandmother, of the queen, practically his entire life. She ruled over the family with an iron fist, especially since his father died and could no longer protect them —especially when his mum disappeared into her grief and refused to protect them. Henry was her pet—a puppet she controlled at a whim, and every aspect of his life fell under her command. What he wore, where he went, who he saw.

Who he saw. 

Christ. 

His gaze falls to the evidence laid out between him and his family. The voided check stubs, the contract, the USB that supposedly holds the final nail in her proverbial coffin—one he wishes he could jab through the expensive wood that lined the coffin they’d buried her in only a week ago. The faded image of a mark that matches his on darker skin—the inside of a forearm, it looks like. He reaches out and gently caresses the edge of that image, his index finger slipping off the corner and falling from the table as he looks back up at his family. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but words fail him entirely.

Because what does one say in this situation?

What does one say when they learn their own flesh and blood had done what his grandmother has apparently done? 

“Do you,” Bea starts, her voice careful and soft, as if worried she might scare him off, “want to know who he is?”

“Of course he wants to know who he is,” Philip whispers, his voice hoarse with anger. “He’s his soulmate.” 

Catherine sits up straighter, her gaze locked on Henry; he can feel it, probing and careful and full of purpose. The most attention he’s garnered from her since his father died. Philip might have married his soulmate, but she’s the only one in the room who knows the toll of losing a soulmate. What values of relief and grief Henry’s currently weighing. 

He can’t look at her. 

Philip and Bea turn their attention on each other—ragged rage meant for the one person who’s beyond their reach turned on one another instead. Bickering. Over Henry’s grief. Henry’s loss. Their grandmother's cruelty. What choice is right. 

As if there’s a right choice. 

The story is as simple as it is horrendous, the pieces connected with the help of Mary’s former right hand man, Tommy, who had finalized much of the work that allowed this to happen. 

Six weeks after Henry’s mark was released to the world at large, becoming the biggest headline in Western media, a boy showed up at Buckingham Palace. A year younger than Henry, but determined and brave and bearing a mark that, despite ample testing and doubt, eventually, could not be refuted. He demanded to see Henry. 

Demanded to see his soulmate. 

Tommy called him a spitfire. Said he refused to let the queen run him over. It didn’t matter, though; the queen had enough ill intent and the resources to make anything she said fact, and the boy, despite his efforts and strength and determination, fell victim to her lies.

Of which there were many:

1.Henry had no desire to meet his soulmate. 

He’d grown up beneath the watchful eye of a pair of soulmates. Had witnessed the beauty that blossomed beneath the weight of that love. Had spent his entire life wondering, hoping, some nights even praying that he’d find his own one day. That his mark bore a twin and that the person possessing that mark would love him as dearly as his father loved his mother. 

2. Henry would never love his soulmate because he’s a man. 

The only rebuttal that comes to that particular lie is grief. Grief so deep and wrenching that he fears his heart might burst out of his chest and crumble to the floor beneath him; a pile of ash and despair. 

3. In fact, the queen had said, Henry wished for the boy to sign a contract that he’ll never seek him out. Never. 

But that was not the extent of his grandmother's cruelty, because there came one more request, one more demand, one more lie, that she uttered claiming the words had fallen from his own lips:

4. The mark needed to be burned off. 

Because, in Tommy’s own words, they needed to ensure the man could never use it against them; against her. Could never wave it to the press and demand he be noticed. 

In exchange for all this Mary offered him ten million pounds.

To which he refused.

She came back with an offer of twenty million pounds.

Again, he refused.

Thirty. Refused.

Forty. Refused.

Fifty. Refused.

On and on it went until the queen in all her mighty power and disdain, offered him a hundred million pounds. 

The boy had been determined. He’d been strong. But he was no diplomat; no royal; no one of sufficient income. A hundred million pounds was life changing for him, and judging by his actions after receiving that money, for many, many others. He took the money. He signed the contract.

And.

He burned away the mark. Under the queen’s watchful eye, on camera for some awful reason, He burned away the mark and their bond and the truth of what they were and he walked away from Buckingham Palace alone, a check tucked away in his pocket.  

And, in his room at Kensington Palace, less than ten minutes away, Henry sat in bed staring at a mark, unaware that it no longer had a match. 

Unaware that he no longer had a match. 

And unaware he remained for twelve years until Queen Mary finally died and the truth revealed itself like a match lighting the night. 

He doesn’t know how he knows before they tell him the name, but he does. He sees his face clear as day in his head, a hope and a prayer whispered in the depths of his mind in the moment before Bea whispers the name. It fills the room with the final dredges of truth and unlocks a part of Henry that had long since been sealed away. 

Alexander Claremont-Diaz.

Famed philanthropist. 

Pez speaks highly of him. He’s endlessly charming in every interview Henry’s seen of him; radiating with intelligence and kindness and radiating the kind of good that most people of his acquired wealth often lack. 

And he’s Henry’s soulmate. 

Henry stands up, nods at his family, and then turns for his ensuite. He’s carefully poised the whole way there, until he drops to his knees and promptly throws up his lunch. 

Catherine enters the bathroom a few minutes later, carefully sitting on the side of his tub. He keeps his gaze locked on the floor between them, listening to the water whirring from him flushing the toilet. It’s the only noise in the room; the rushing water and Henry’s rushing mind echoing its turbulence. 

His soulmate thinks he didn’t want him; the fear and heartache that Henry’s kept tucked close to himself as his own truth was Alex’s irrefutable reality. 

His soulmate is scarred with the knowledge that he wasn’t wanted. 

Alex Claremont-Diaz, with his bright smile and kind heart and every lovely thing ever said about him, bears a mark of complete and utter betrayal beneath the sleeves of those button ups he wears. He wears the heartbreak well; if Henry didn’t know what Mary had done to him, he wouldn’t be able to tell he’d been rejected by his soulmate at all.

Which is how he’s gone twelve years, watching his face and name rise in public recognition without the slightest clue that he was his.  

The heart he’d desperately been reaching for, for as long as he can remember, hadn’t decided he wasn’t worth it. The other half of his soul saw him for who he is; saw his face and his pain and his title and had tried to claim him anyways. 

Alex wanted him once upon a time.

And now.

Now, Henry’s but a scar on his forearm, the wretched memory of Mary’s deception and nothing more. 

“What do you want to do, love?” his mum asks. “I’ll burn it all and you two can start over—”

He shakes his head and she goes quiet. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment; she lets him think, lets him sit in the choice he has to make, because there’s no way forward without making a choice. Either he tries to make things right with Alex, or he . . . lets his grandmother win. Which is as awful to think as to feel, but Alex—

Alex has moved on. He has a life now, one he’s built for himself that’s good, and true to who he is. He doesn’t need Henry. And after all the lies Mary planted in his head, Henry doubts Alex would even want him, either. 

“How does he start over?” He asks, hoarse, finally lifting his gaze to look up at her. His hair falls over his face and he doesn’t bother to swipe it away. “She burned off his mark.” 

“You don’t need the mark.” She says, soft, leaning in. “You’re soulmates, the mark is just—” 

“You don’t think that does something?” He pushes away from the toilet and backs up against the vanity cabinets, pulling his knees up to his chest and scratching his fingers through his hair. “The mark is what connects us, you don’t think destroying it destroys the bond?” 

“The mark is a symbol, love, it’s not the bond.” 

He shakes his head, pressing his elbows into his knees. “Even if that were true, she told him I wanted nothing to do with him.” 

“He’ll understand.” 

“How do you know?” 

She purses her lips, and then quietly stands up and moves to kneel in front of him. She grabs his knees and ducks her head to meet his gaze, saying, with all the precaution and knowledge of a mother and woman who has loved and lost, “He wouldn’t be your soulmate if he didn’t.” 

“What bloody rubbish,” Henry bites, shaking his head and pressing himself further into the cabinets; the corner digs into his hip so unpleasantly that it almost hurts positively. “You can’t pretend that it doesn’t break your soul to lose your other half. Look at you.” 

She flinches, and sits back. “I understand you’re in a state of shock, but—”

“No,” he says, bitingly, “You left me to her. You left this to her,” he says, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “If you’d been around, if you’d loved us the way you loved him, this wouldn’t be happening. If you’d cared about us at all she’d never have had the chance to do this to me. To him.” 

Because, ultimately, it’s not about what this does to Henry.

Henry’s spent his life under his grandmother's thumb and at the whim of her wickedness.

Alex—Alex had been all but a child when he came to London. He’d been in search of happiness, and in return he left blistered and battered and alone. 

“You’re right,” His mum murmurs. “I’m sorry it took something so entirely horrendous for me to wake up, but I am awake, and I’m here however you need me.” She pauses. “Even if it’s simply to burn the contracts and destroy all of it.”

Henry’s mark has always been there. 

Every other person he’s met fortunate enough to have a mark of their own can recite with vivid clarity the moment their marks appeared—on birthdays, anniversaries, during a near death experience. There’s no shortage of stories. But when attention veered back to him, the quiet contemplation of curiosity sitting in the eyes of people who knew more about themselves than Henry ever figured he’d discover about himself, all he could offer was a polite smile.

Because his mark has been with him for as long as he can recall. There’s no moment in his life where he looked down and discovered it—as if it’s always been a part of him, even beyond memory.

When he was six and he got a bloody nose and his dad stripped him of his shirt, Henry can recall looking down at that mark, and finding comfort in its familiarity. When he was ten and Mary started forcing him into her lessons, he’d dig an anxious fist into his hip as if the act of touching it would bring him to ease. As a teenager, discovering who he was and sitting on the floor in front of his mirror and caressing the lines of his mark, knowing, intrinsically, that there’d be a man at the other end.

When he was twenty and his mark reflected off of every computer and tv screen in the country and beyond, even then. Seeing it there—as if a calling card for his soulmate—had been the most horrifying relief. 

I’m here, it said. Come find me.  

All his life, it’s been there, every moment big or small, he’s been able to turn to it and find comfort in it.

Only now, now that his family has left him to his own devices, a USB drive sitting on his desk and a manilla envelope full of photographs and contracts and awful reminders of how his grandmother took, took, took and continues to take even now, from the grave—only now does the mark feel more burden than gift. 

It was one thing to look at it and think maybe.  

It’s another to look at it and know that the mark that matches it has been destroyed. That the man who bears it came for him and has given up on what it means. No longer is his mark the safe haven of comfort he’s used to slinking into; now it reads as the brand of his grandmother’s cruelty. 

He traces along the delicate edge, sniffling as a tear slips along the bridge of his nose and catches on the tip of it before swinging down and seeping into the fabric of his pants, a small dark splotch to match the others that fell before it. 

Nobody’s guaranteed a soulmate. Nobody’s guaranteed a match. 

The mark promises the potential, but so very many people go their lives without finding theirs.  There’d always been more chance of missing them than finding them. But, here Henry is, with a name and a face, and nothing to be done about it. Because it’s too late. It’s too late, and the mark that matches his no longer exists, and the man that bore it believes he rejected him. 

He presses the pad of his thumb to the center of the mark, holding it there and taking in a deep breath as he tosses his head back and turns his face to the ceiling, eyes falling shut. The pressure is familiar; kind. He lets it level him; allows the familiarity to breed comfort, allows himself to fall back into that fantasy for a moment of finding the person he’s meant to love and loving them. 

The heavy rise and fall of his chest slows, eventually, and he dips his chin down to look back down, slowly releasing the pressure so he can pull his thumb away and look upon the mark. 

It’s no different today than it was when he had a nosebleed at six; no different than stripping to shower at ten and looking in the mirror, so alone and afraid but for the promise of maybe, someday. No different than sitting in this same spot as a teenager, quiet reckoning in his eyes in the reflection as he whispered the reality of what he was in the quiet of his room, and carefully traced the delicate swirls of the soulmark. 

No different than the day the entire world took it as theirs.

It is as it was this morning, even, when he woke up and brushed his hand along his hip, patting it as if to remind himself maybe not today, but some day. 

And yet, it’s no longer the mark it was then. 

His mark may have not been burned away beneath the watchful eye of his grandmother, but the hope it represented burst into flame several hours ago, and he doesn’t think it’ll ever stop burning. 

His hands are shaking when he inserts the thumb drive into his computer. There’s a voice at the back of his head begging him not to watch the video, to let it lie. But he can’t. Because the pain his soulmate went through is his fault; the pain he suffered at Mary’s hand is Henry’s fault as much as it is hers, and who is he to save himself the pain of witnessing what was done to him? Who is he to allow himself to remain oblivious? 

Alex is his soulmate. 

Alex is his soulmate and he went through something unspeakable, and Henry can’t pretend he doesn’t know—can’t know and not know it in its entirety. Ignorance may be bliss, but the ignorant are bloody fools. 

He opens the file folder.

There’s a single video file in it. 

Maybe the ignorant know better, though.

Because he could close the laptop and go on without seeing this. He could. 

But he won’t. 

Because he has to know. 

It’s true, he knows it is.

But there’s some part of him convinced that not even Mary was this cruel. That, though she had specific plans and ideals for each of her children and grandchildren, she’d never go out of her way to harm someone to stick to the status quo. That, deep down, somewhere deep in the depths of her soul, she had some goodness in her. That she loved Henry, even if he never added up to the person she expected him to be.

That she’d never do anything to intentionally harm him or anyone he loves.

Only, there’s a trembling nineteen year old Alexander Claremont-Diaz sitting in a sterile hospital room, glaring at Mary with all the defiant rage he has in him, his arm held out in front of them as a doctor fiddles with some equipment on the other side of the room. 

None of them speak.

Nobody offers him encouragement.

Nobody tells him he’s incredibly brave, and so, so strong, and that he’s better than any of them deserve to have ever witnessed. Mary looks on, cool and disconnected, like he’s a prop to be demolished rather than a person to be burned . The doctor is equal parts disinterested as he is focused, the cauterizing machine smaller and less medieval than Henry expected.

Alex doesn’t scream when fire meets skin. He lurches forward, but the doctor holds him firm. His jaw tenses, and a tear trips over his lashes and crashes over his cheekbone, his lashes fluttering after it, as if he’s surprised by its appearance. 

His eyes remain locked on Mary. 

He doesn’t once break eye contact with her. Doesn’t once look away; not when he grimaces or shudders or groans. Not when tears roll faster and more frequent. Not when the doctor turns off the machine and pulls away, gazing down at the burnt remnants of Alex’s mark.

Not when Mary steps forward and looks down her nose at the mark, clicking her tongue before saying, “You appear to have missed a spot.” 

Alex sits up straighter. Let’s the doctor burn away the rest of the mark. 

And when all is said and done, as the doctor wraps the bandage around the burn, Alex asks her, “Will he be satisfied?” 

She blinks at him. “That’s none of your business,” before she picks up an envelope off the counter top and holds it out for him. “Your payment.” 

“My payment.” Alex’s voice is cold; detached. 

“As agreed.” 

“And he’s seriously not going to show up?” 

“Why would he?” 

“He’s my soulmate.” 

She tilts her head, gaze flicking down to the gauze wrapped around his arm and then back up. “No,” she says. “I don’t believe he is.” His mouth parts, and then she smiles tightly before turning and leaving the room without another word. The video goes on for several more seconds, as the doctor departs, and Alex sits alone in the room, his gaze locked on his arm.

He reaches out and gently caresses the skin around the bandage, shoulders shaking. 

And then the video ends, and Henry’s faced with his reflection in the monitor. Horror pinches his mouth, and grief furrows his brow, and he’s stricken with the knowledge that there’s not a thing on this earth that can fix what she did. 

Alexander Claremont-Diaz. 31 years old. Single. Famed philanthropist. Lawyer. Bright eyes, brighter smile; the kind of smile that one could imagine waking up next to every day for the rest of one’s life. 

Henry’s known of him on the sidelines the last few years, as he’s traveled all around the world to help fund various charities and causes. Where there’s someone in need, there’s Alex Claremont-Diaz, his pocket book, and that generous smile. Pez has met with him several times in relation to the Okonjo Foundation; has been the recipient of a handful of donations for shelters in various countries. 

Alex and Pez have spoken. Many times.

Pez has only ever had good things to say about Alex, which shouldn’t mean much, as Pez seldom has a harsh word to say about anyone—Mary notwithstanding. But he’s impassioned about Alex in a way he isn’t about other donors, as if he knows there’s something special about this one—even if it’s not that he’s Henry’s soulmate. 

Which is to say, Henry shouldn’t be surprised when Pez’s only response to all the horror, after several moments of shocked silence, is to take Henry’s hands in his own and say, “Well, you’ve got to talk to him.”

“Are you mad?”

Pez squeezes his hands, pulls them into his own lap. “There’s a gala next weekend—“

“I am not speaking to him.”

A frown, deep and fragile and knowing. “I know that wretched hag has painted an image in your head of your perceived value, and forgive me for taking this moment to be entirely sincere, but you are too incredible of a person, too full of love, to let this lie. To let it die.” Pez scoots in, their knees bumping together, and pulls Henry’s hands up to his heart. “At the very least, he deserves the truth, and you? Christ, Henry, you deserve to be free from her.”

“I am free,” Henry protests weakly. “She’s dead, as you’ll recall.”

“She won’t be truly dead until you relinquish her power over you.” 

“Pez—“

“At least consider it? I’ve a plus one on the invite, and, honestly, it’d be such a drag to go alone.” 

Henry swallows, nodding. “I’ll consider it.”

“Good man,” Pez says, grinning, though it’s tight at the corners as if he’s trying desperately to reclaim their normal routine but struggling to do so considering the circumstances. “Now, I think you’re due for a walk and a smoothie. Some fresh air and fruit will soothe the soul if not the heart.” He takes a big breath and then stands, holding Henry’s hands in the air between them. 

Henry sniffs, squeezing Pez’s hands. “I’m not sure I’m up for either, I’m afraid.”

Pez’s smile wobbles. “Hazza. . .”

Henry offers an unsteady smile of his own, pulling one hand away to flick at the corner of his eye before an errant tear can escape. “I’m still processing. I suppose I just need some time.” 

Pez nods. “Of course,” he murmurs, plopping back into his seat and holding Henry’s hand carefully, as if he’s something deeply precious to him. “Do me a favor though?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t take so much time that you lose yourself in it, yeah?” 

But how does one do that, exactly? 

He nods, nonetheless. “I’ll do my best.” 

The stages of grief find him with relative ease. 

He wakes up three days after learning the truth with a raging headache and an anger so resplendent that there’s not a person it doesn’t touch. From the cook to Shaan to Pip to his mum. He snaps and scolds and argues every little thing, until he finds himself storming out of the palace, pricked by some throw away comment from Pip. 

He goes for a walk. Eventually finds himself standing outside the Victoria and Albert Museum, watching mindlessly as people enter and exit and wishing so desperately that it weren’t open so he could wander through its halls the way he and his father used to. Find some peace in it.

But does he deserve peace?

Technically he hasn’t done anything wrong. Technically he was in the dark about the whole bloody thing. Technically .

 But that’s not what Alex thinks. 

Alex thinks Henry rejected him.

Alex thinks Henry rejected them.

And Henry had been so caught up in himself that he’d missed it happening entirely. Hadn’t suspected her for a moment for what she was doing—hadn’t once wondered if his soulmate might have wandered onto their doorstep and been turned away instead of brought within. 

How had he been so blind? 

Even if the museum could bring him some comfort on this day, at this time, he doesn’t deserve it. He deserves to sit in his grief and his anger and let it consume him; eat at him until he’s no more. Until the final vestiges of Mary’s cruelty finally crackle and turn to ash. 

But Alex lives with those vestiges, too. Alex lives with the memory of her telling him he’s no longer Henry’s soulmate; lives with her having his mark burned away and who knows how many cruel words she’d thrown at him in Henry’s name. 

Henry doesn’t deserve to shy away from that.

He’s got to face it. 

Because, while he can live in that grief, Alex doesn’t deserve to. Alex shouldn’t spend the rest of life wondering why he wasn’t enough, wondering why Henry didn’t want him. It’s not fair to him. It’s simply not. 

He’s got to face him. 

Christ, he’s got to face him. 

Pez doesn’t cheer when Henry tells him he’ll accompany him to the gala. He does, however, give him a knowing nod, and promise to be there for him every step of the way. 

He doesn’t tell his family, not even Bea. 

Somehow, it feels wrong. As if they’re equal parts responsible for what happened, even though they were leagues separated from it. But Henry’s having a hard time drawing a line between his grandmother and his mother and his brother and his sister. In his mind, they’re all connected. Maybe it’s because they all got together and discussed it before bringing it to him. Maybe it’s because they were the united front against him when they told him.

Because, once again, it’s Henry on the outside while everyone else is standing collected with nothing of their own to lose. 

The gala comes faster than he’s ready. The days melt away before him, as if; trapped and mesmerized by the passage of time. Lost to the grief and the heartache and everything that keeps him in the palace. Trapped by Bea’s kind attempts to keep him present. Trapped by Pip’s transparent attempts to make him forget. By his mother’s sudden frequent appearances and the love he’d been denied for the last several years being forced on him. 

By time. 

The time he lost to his grandmother. The time Alex lost. The time slipping by, bringing him closer and closer to a confrontation he’s not sure he’s ready for. The time since before father passed, when the world felt right and real and safe and the time since; the world cold and empty and unforgiving. 

He wonders if Alex will be as unforgiving as time. If he’ll see Henry and bid him farewell without the chance to talk. 

His tuxedo is crisp, perfectly tailored. If he doesn’t look at his own face in the mirror, he could almost be convinced he’s still the same man he was before they told him what was taken from him. But he meets his own gaze; bags beneath his eyes, and hair disheveled and unwilling to cooperate with the usual styling, a terse, sad purse of his lips. 

He’s no longer that man.

That man is left in the reflection of his computer screen, caught in the final moments of revelation. He’s lost to his grief. 

It speaks to the situation that Pez doesn’t once tell him he’s being overdramatic. 

Not when he’s frowning at his reflection, his hand pressed to his hip. Not when he turns to him and tries to give a reassuring smile and it falls as quickly as it forms, worry creasing his brow and pinching the corner of his mouth. Not in the car when his foot taps fast and frantic against the floor. Not as they walk to the entrance and Henry hesitates at the bottom step, fear striking down his spine and stilling him.

No, Pez stands at his side, and quietly asks, “Have you changed your mind?” His tone doesn’t display any pity or condescension—he’s as wonderful as he always is, voice seeped in understanding, and ready to take them back to the car the second Henry suggests as much.

He wants to say yes. Turn around and run with his tail tucked between his legs and never have to face the reality of what happened to Alex because of him. 

He looks at Pez long and hard, and then, carefully, shakes his head and takes the first step, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. He’s trembling, his spine aches with every tremor, and he’s not sure he’s strong enough for this, but he can’t walk away. He can’t move on until he confronts this, confronts Alex and what happened to him, and faces the consequences. Whatever they may be. 

His first glimpse of Alex Claremont-Diaz in person is of him darting around the edge of the room, laughter on his lips as he charms a donor. Henry’s on the opposite side of the lavish hall, tucked away in a corner, observing but not interacting—which, thankfully is so par for the course nobody second guesses it. 

Alex’s laugh floats about the music, a beautiful melodic thing, loud and full of life and Henry wants to let it lure him away from the wall, drift across the room and fall into it. But Alex is trying to get money for the charity he’s championing and now’s not the time. It’s bad enough he’s practically crashed the gala, he can’t jeopardize Alex’s ability to fundraise.

So, he waits.

He’s got a glass of champagne in his hand that he nurses through the night; mostly hanging onto it for the sake of having something in his hands. People approach him here and there, remarking on his appearance, and asking if he’d like to make a donation. He gives them tight smiles and polite conversation before finally excusing himself and making his way across the dance floor. He takes a big breath, tries to force down the nerves, and just as he’s about to beeline it for Pez, who’s in conversation with a politician who’s offered his assistance on many occasions, a body darts in front of him, nearly crashing into him.

Steady hands come out to clutch his arms, a gentle grasp. A warm, familiar, voice saying, “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

Henry closes his eyes; has just a few seconds to collect himself before Alex realizes who he is. He swallows down his fear, and carefully lifts his head to meet Alex’s gaze, lifting his chin in a final act of defiance of his own fear, and watches in real time as that smooth confidence on Alex’s face, the easy going smile and bright eyes, shutters completely. 

Alex takes a step back, releasing Henry’s arm as if the very act of touching him is a criminal act in and of itself. 

“Your Royal Highness,” he says, his voice cracking on the second syllable. He clears his throat, fiddles with the cuff link on one of his sleeves.

“Hello,” Henry says, flinching internally. 

Alex blinks at him, clears his throat again. “Are you here to make a donation?” 

A crossroads. That’s what he’s being presented with. The choice to go on pretending what happened didn’t—make a donation and move on and be just as bad as his grandmother. Or. Or, he can tell the truth. 

He lowers his voice. “I think we both know that I am not.” 

Alex’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he nods once, his lashes fluttering. “I see.” 

“Can we—”

Before he’s finished, Alex turns on his heel and makes his way through the crowd of decadently dressed guests. Henry watches after him for a beat, before squaring his shoulders and following after him. This is his chance; it’s now or it’s never, which means it’s now. Alex ducks through a pair of doors at the back of the main ballroom, and Henry quietly slips through the doors as well. 

Alex has stopped just a few feet away, his hands in his hair, back facing Henry. 

They stand there for a few moments; Henry trying to find the right words, Alex—staring off into the space in front of him as if there aren’t any. 

“I,” Henry starts, his voice catching, “am so sorry.”

It’s not enough, not even the beginning of being enough, and it shows when Alex sucks in a breath as if the very existence of the words causes him physical pain. Henry takes a step closer to him, hesitating to move in closer, as he adds, quieter, “I didn’t know.” 

Alex doesn’t reply, so he continues, “I only just learned what she did to you.” 

Alex shakes his head, mostly to himself. 

“When she died, my mother was tasked with clearing out her office. She found the—the contract. And everything else.” His voice cracks. “I had no idea. I am so fucking sorry. There are not enough apologies in the world to diminish what she put you through, and I don’t expect your forgiveness, I just—” 

“Stop,” Alex whispers, shaking his head. “Please, just. Stop.” 

Henry’s mouth closes with so much force his teeth clack together with an angry clicking noise. 

Alex finally turns around. He doesn’t say anything for a few long moments, but takes in a big breath that raises his shoulders and then, quietly, he asks, “Are you okay?” 

Henry blinks. 

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” 

“Me?” Alex nods. “How I feel is hardly—”  

“You don’t think I knew?” Alex asks, hands falling to his sides. “I’ve known for a long time now that the queen lied.” 

“How—I don’t . . .” Henry trails off, lashes fluttering as he tries to make sense of what Alex is saying. What does he bloody mean he knew? 

“Obviously not then,” Alex says, reaching up and running a hand lazily through his hair. “But a while later . . . when you were spotted and you still had your mark. I pieced it together. Nobody who despises the mark and what it means as deeply as she claimed you did would keep their mark. Would display it like he’s proud of it, like you did.” He looks down. 

“Why didn’t you ever—” 

“I signed a contract,” Alex murmurs, wincing. “She made it very clear what would happen if I broke it.” He rolls his lower lip inward, taking a hesitant step in and looking back up. “It’s not—I know how it sounds, saying I was afraid of losing the money, but—” 

“You use it to help people,” Henry says, softly, feeling both present and far away all at once. “Losing it would kill your ability to help. It’s not hard to understand.” 

Alex blinks, his long lashes fluttering in surprise. “You don’t feel as if I sold out our bond?” 

Henry’s brow furrows. “My grandmother told you I didn’t want you, or this bond, and then made you physically burn away your mark. Anything that I feel is secondary to that.” 

“But that’s not your fault.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

“How could it possibly be?” 

“If I weren’t your soulmate none of this would have happened to you.” 

Alex scoffs. “And if I’d been stronger I would’ve held out longer and come and saved you from the bitch.” He winces. “Sorry, I know she was your grandma, but—” 

“Bitch suffices.” 

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Alex’s mouth and he nods, “That’s good, because I don’t think anything nicer would’ve come out if I corrected myself.” The smile dies a quick death, though, and he takes in a shaky breath. “You never answered my question.” 

“Which question?” 

“Are you okay?” 

“Are you?” 

Alex smiles sadly. “I’ve had twelve years to make peace with what happened. How long have you known?” 

“I found out last week.” 

He flinches. “Fuck.” 

“Quite.” 

“How are you coping?” 

“There is . . .” He trails off, making a face as he thinks of the right words. “A lot of anger. Grief, too.”

Alex nods. “I can only imagine. I can’t—I’ve wondered what it was like for you. Knowing the whole world saw your mark and thinking your soulmate either didn’t want you or didn’t think it was worth it.” He takes another hesitant step in. “But I did. I know it doesn’t mean anything now, but I—I wanted you. Every awful thing they did to prove my mark was real was worth it because you were at the other end of it all.” 

“Until I wasn’t.”

He shrugs, tilting his head. “I mean,” he says, softly. “You’re here, now.” 

Henry sniffs, his gaze falling to Alex’s arm. “I’ve thought a lot about what you must have felt,” he murmurs, brows furrowing. “And it doesn’t mean anything now, because I’m sure you’ve moved on and past it, but I wanted you. I dreamt of finding you every day.”

Alex watches him for a beat, pauses as a door down the hall opens and closes, a giggling couple sneaking off to enjoy the festivities elsewhere, and then says, “Do you wanna get out of here?”

“This is your party.”

He smiles. “I’ve got a team out there gathering donations. They’re incredible at what they do and they don’t need me.” There’s a quiet epiphany beneath the words, an echo of sentiment at the back of Henry’s head that reads it as but you do. “There’s this gazebo out back, I’ve been thinking about it ever since we scoped this place out. We could snag a bottle of champagne and sneak out there? Talk?” 

Henry’s rendered speechless for a moment—in part from the image of sitting beneath a cloudless sky with his soulmate, and in part because he can’t fathom Alex actually wanting to sit beneath a cloudless sky with his soulmate. He manages to gather the wits to ask, “You want to talk with me?” 

Alex nods and holds a hand out. “I don’t think there’s been a day in my life where I didn’t want to talk with you, Henry.” 

It’s the moment Henry’s name leaves his lips. There’s a sort of magnetic magic to it, the sound, the feel, the very vibrations of his name drifting through the air to meet Henry’s ear. The way he says it, soft and full of breath and meaning. Henry slips his hand into Alex’s without an ounce of hesitation, the first and only choice he’s ever truly made for himself in practically his entire life, and allows himself to be led.

Led to the kitchen, where the catering team smiles happily at the sight of Alex and joyfully gives him a freshly opened bottle of champagne. Led out through the back, through the large, ornate patio doors that open up to a dreamy garden that even Buckingham can’t compare to. And then they’re walking through the gardens, soft lights twinkling in the distance, the only thing leading them to the gazebo in the dark. 

They’re out in the countryside, so there are more stars than he’d usually see. 

He looks up at those stars, seeks out Orion, his breath catching as it blinks down, bright and beautiful and beaming as if a sign from his father that he’s finally following the right path. Finally where he’s supposed to be—hand in hand with the person made for him. Just as his father was until his final days. 

They step up into the gazebo—also an ornate masterpiece of  craftsmanship. Almost as if it were plucked from a fairytale, placed here waiting for the perfect story. And here Alex and Henry are—soulmates, torn apart by circumstance, reunited by choice. Even if not reunited in the way one would reunite in a fairytale, with a kiss and a Happily Ever After, still reunited. Two souls finding that which makes them whole. 

Alex lets go of Henrys hand and moves to the opposite side of the gazebo, leaning against the side of it and looking at Henry like he wants to understand him. Henry tentatively takes a seat by the entry and waits. 

Alex brings the bottle to his lips and takes a swig, before bringing it to his side and licking his lips. He looks Henry over, before asking, quietly, contemplatively, “Can I see it?” 

Henry nods once, “If you’d like,” he says, before standing. He hesitates, then holds his hand out for the bottle, offering a grateful smile when Alex hands it over. Takes a long swig and then sets it on the bench he vacated and then moves to untuck his shirt from his slacks. 

“Where is it?” Alex asks, eyes tracking his every movement. 

Henry pauses his ministrations, glancing up at Alex from beneath his lashes, before silently reaching out and holding his hand out for Alex’s. Alex places his in Henry’s palm without hesitation, and Henry quietly gudes it to his hip; presses Alex’s palm flat against the area his shirt and pants that are hiding his mark. “Here,” he whispers. 

Alex’s fingers press in, and Henry hears him audibly swallow as his thumb sweeps over the fabric. “Oh.” 

They stand there for a moment, Alex’s hand on Henry’s hip, Henry’s hand on Alex’s. And then, Alex takes a step back, his fingers tightening on his hip and then loosening before his hand slips out from beneath Henry’s and falls back to his own side. Henry takes a breath and then lifts his shirt, shifting the top of his pants down so that the mark is visible. 

They're quiet again as Alex looks on, until he reaches out tentatively and caresses the outer loop with a look of awe on his face. The moment feels electric, goosebumps rising beneath his touch and stretching out along Henry’s spine. 

“I, um,” Alex clears his throat. “Almost forgot what it looked like.” 

Henry looks up from the mark to take in the expression on his face. And then, just as careful and soft as Alex had asked, he echoes the question, “Can I see?” 

Alex pauses, glancing up at him, before quietly nodding and stepping back. His finger brushes along the delicate skin along Henry’s mark before sliding away entirely as he pulls off his tux jacket and sets it aside on the parapet. Henry watches, unmoving, as he unbuttons the sleeve on his right arm and slowly rolls it up. He hesitates halfway there, glancing at Henry, before taking a deep breath and exposing the scarred skin beneath. 

Henry drops his own shirt and steps in closer. It’s dark beneath the gazebo, but he can still see the mark on his forearm, the burned skin, healed and paler than the skin around it. 

He reaches out, stopping just shy of touching it.

“It’s okay,” Alex breathes. 

Henry looks up at him shortly, before his gaze falls back down to the scar. He reaches out and gently brushes his knuckle along the far ridges of it. There’s not a hint of the mark beneath, no evidence it’d ever even been a soulmark. He aches at the sight of it, his heart clenching in his chest and stomach turning. This was theirs. Their signal flame to call them home, and now—

Turns burn his vision, and a hand comes out, cupping his hip and steadying him with a pressure right above his own mark. 

“Don’t cry,” Alex says. 

“What she did to you—” 

“Is in the past.” Henry looks up at him, taking in his strong gaze, and sniffing. “It’s been twelve years. I’m okay. I don’t even feel it anymore.” 

Henry swallows, eyes falling back to the scar. “Do you miss it?” 

Alex’s breath catches. “Every day,” he admits after a beat. He licks his lips, then adds, “Do you know, even before your mark got revealed, I was convinced you were my soulmate?” 

Henry huffs a breath through his nose. “No, you weren’t.” 

“I absolutely was,” Alex says, dropping his arm and leaning back against the parapet next to his jacket. He smiles vaguely, as if catching himself in a memory. “My sister would always buy these teenie bopper magazines with posters of celebrities in them, and there was this one edition, when you were, like, thirteen. You had this bat tossed over your shoulder, and I just—I couldn’t look away. When June caught me with it, she teased me mercilessly and I remember telling her, in this stupid snotty voice that every kid has, that she’s going to feel real dumb when it turns out that Prince Henry is my soulmate.” 

“Had a crush, did we?” 

“ Had is a bit subjective,” Alex retorts, smiling. 

Henry ducks his head, cheeks burning. “I thought it might be you, too,” he admits eventually, once the silence has stretched out between them; a bridge between the past and present. “Before they told me, I saw your face. And I had this deep, knowing feeling that your name was going to be the name that changed everything, and then it was, and as wrong as everything else felt, that—” He nods to himself, “That felt right.” 

Alex nods, too. “The day I saw your mark on my phone . . . I felt so sorry that you’d been exposed so damningly, but I was so grateful. I just sat there for hours staring at it with my arm pulled up next to it. I dropped everything to come to London. All I knew was I had to find you, I had to be there for you. I had to fight for this, because we didn’t know each other, and we come from two insanely different worlds, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t be right. I was so fucking sure we’d be it.” 

“And then my grandmother took it all away from us.” 

“Is that how you see it?” Alex asks, carefully. “That there’s no future for us because she took our past?” 

“She didn’t just take our past,” Henry says, hoarse. “She took your mark.” 

“I thought that for a while, too. Grieved it, even.” He pushes away from the wall and crosses his arms; Henry’s eyes follow the roll of his forearm until the scar is tucked up against his chest. “But, you still have your mark. We know we’re each other's match. We—we’re free to do whatever we please. If that’s letting go of this and what we’ve spent our lives thinking it means, then that’s our choice, not hers. But.” He pauses, and Henry looks up at him. 

“But?” 

“But that’s not our only choice.” 

“It’s not?” 

“We could choose to get to know each other.”

Henry’s heart slams up against his ribs. 

“We could tell your grandma to get fucked in every way that matters.” 

“If she’s not already rotting away in hell, the very proposition is likely to send her there posthaste.” 

Alex laughs. “Oh, she’s definitely already roasting.” 

Henry steps to the side and leans against one of the main pillars holding up the Gazebo, crossing his own arms over his untucked shirt. “One can only hope.” 

Alex looks at him curiously. “I’m not suggesting we’ll be some great love story, especially considering we don’t even know each other, I’m just saying . . .” 

Awestruck, Henry finishes the sentence for him, “You’d like to try.” 

He nods. “I’d like to try.” 

Henry licks his lips, and turns his gaze to the ceiling. “I’m a bit crass,” he says, eventually. “My mate, Pez, you know him, he’s on record calling me a persnickety little shit on multiple occasions. I’ve got no privacy, ever. I’m sure my PPO’s are scrounging around in the gardens at this very moment watching to make sure you don’t try and kill me while you’ve got the chance.” He looks at Alex meaningfully. “And my grandmother tortured and deceived you.” 

Alex tilts his head to the side in a so-so motion. “There was numbing cream,” he says. “I barely felt a thing.” 

“Still. It’s unforgivable.” 

“It is,” Alex agrees, pushing away from the wall and moving to stand in front of him. “But that wasn’t you, and it’s not on you, either. You found out what she did, and you still came here, seeking me out to apologize as if I’d ever blame you for her actions. You could be a persnickety little shit but I’ve always been one to like a fight or two.” He smiles, dips his chin, adding, “Besides, I’m no walk in the park, either. I’m constantly on the run, fighting for one cause or another. My sister says I have a fire under my ass for no good reason. I have a truly epic case of insomnia, and I could just about convince any would-be kidnapper to let me go just because I’m physically incapable of shutting the fuck up.” 

Henry sniffs. “Sometimes I mourn a little too hard.” 

Alex steps in closer. “I think too hard.” 

“I’ve a temper.” 

“I have an attitude.” 

“I’m not good at getting to know people.” 

“I have like, two friends. And one of them is my sister.” He takes another step in. “We can play this game all night.” 

“It’s not a game,” Henry says. “I need you to understand what you’re proposing. What you’d be getting yourself into.” 

“I’ve known from the first test on my mark,” Alex replies. “I knew it’d be a fight, that we wouldn’t just be able to be like most soulmates.” 

“Alex—” He breaks off, unsure of what he was even going to say. 

“My mark is gone,” Alex says, nodding, “but what it means is still here. I still look at you and know you’re the one. I still — I still have hope for that mark, for that kid in the magazine; for the man standing on the beach, his mark on display for the world to see.” He reaches out and gently uncrosses Henry’s arms, weaving his fingers through Henry’s. “We were written in the stars.” 

“We live in a world where most days the stars aren’t even visible,” Henry retorts.

Alex tilts his head, leaning back to look out past the gazebo roof. “Right now we could count the constellations,” He says. “Somewhere between Orion and Cassiopeia is you and me.” He takes a deep breath, adding, “Have you ever looked at the sky and believed the stars weren’t there?” he raises his eyebrows. “No, because you know they’re there, even if you can’t see them.” 

“You’re supposed to hate me.” 

“Do you want me to hate you?” 

“No,” Henry says mournfully. “But I came here expecting you to hate me.” 

Alex smiles sadly. “I did, for a while. I hated you and your grandmother and the whole stupid island. I hated my scar and what it represented, and I hated the mark and how much I missed it. There was a period where all I did was hate and grieve and wish things were different.” He squeezes Henry’s hand. “But then I saw you. Not the lies your grandmother told me about you—I saw you. Your mark, your hand pressed to it as if it were something deeply precious to you, and I realized I hated all the wrong things. Mourned all the wrong things.” 

Something cracks in Henry’s chest. 

“I truly thought this would go differently.”

Alex’s smile softens. “Can I take you to dinner? We can get to know each other. We can—I’m not saying you have to fall in love with me, though I’m like, seriously irresistible. I’m just saying we could be friends. It could be a starting point or it could be everything we become, either way—let me take you to dinner.”

Henry looks him over. There’s no sign of distress or uncertainty. Alex wants this. Everything Henry had been convinced was lost forever is standing before him, an open book of opportunity. 

“Okay,” he finds himself breathing. “Okay.” 

 Alex’s grin brightens. “Yeah?”

“Yes. There’s no guarantee this works, but I’d like to try. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Then I’d better live up to expectations.”

“I think you’ve already exceeded them.”

He shrugs, all blasè. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, sweetheart.”

They finish the bottle of champagne, and Alex tells Henry about himself, and Henry tells Alex about himself.

They sit talking for so long that somebody comes along to tell them the galas been over for a few hours and they have to clear out the mansion. 

Two weeks later, they find themselves in Kensington Palace. Alex asks to see the queens former office, and Henry only hesitates for a second before taking him there. Henry leans on the edge of the desk and watches Alex explore the room: the large bookshelves full of books nobody ever reads, the ornate tea set on the table. The windows overlooking it all.

And then Alex turns to him, steps up to him where he’s standing against the desk. He reaches past Henry, leaning into his space, and carefully taps his finger against the wood. 

“I signed a contract here,” he says, softly, his gaze trapped on the desk for the moment. “Promising that I’d never seek you out. Look at you, speak to you. Touch you.” His eyes slowly lift, dragging along Henry’s body until they meet his. 

“The contracts been destroyed,” Henry manages, his breath caught in the back of his throat. “You can do whatever you like with me.”

“What if I said I want our first kiss to be here?” Alex asks, never breaking eye contact, even as that hand on the desk lifts and settles over Henry’s mark. “Erase all of that in the press of our lips. Right here, on the desk that kept me from you?”

Henry forces himself to exhale, his gaze dropping to Alex’s lips.

Two weeks is no time at all to know a person. Especially when faced with twelve years of lost time. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling known , from feeling seen. Because Alex is everything he dreamt he’d be, and then some. He’s got a fight in him, a temper that matches the leagues of Henry’s, that gives him the opposition he needs, but with a sweeping support in its wake. 

He thinks, even without the marks, if he’d met Alex, two weeks would be enough time. Two weeks are the doors to a lifetime, and he’s thrown them open without hesitation because this is right. They are right. 

He drags his gaze back up to Alex’s. Brings his hand up to his hip and holds it there, fingers fisting in the fabric of his Henley. “Please do,” he says. 

Alex nods, leaning in. “No more grief. No more resentment or longing. Just you and me and the future laid out in front of us.”

Henry dips his chin, taking in Alex’s breath as his own. “Wherever that leads.”

The corners of Alex’s mouth curl up. “ Wherever,” he agrees. “That leads.

When they finally meet in the middle, a gentle but long awaited press of their lips, Henry thinks that wherever might just be home.