Henry’s hands move, brushing up to Alex’s shoulders, the dip of his throat, the underside of his jaw, and when Alex finally looks up, Henry’s eyes are soft and steady. “You still are. Because you still bloody care so much.” He leans down and presses a kiss into Alex’s hair. “And you are good. Most things are awful most of the time, but you’re good.”

Alex takes a breath. There’s this way Henry has of listening to the erratic stream of consciousness that pours out of Alex’s mouth and answering with the clearest, crystallized truth that Alex has been trying to arrive at all along. If Alex’s head is a storm, Henry is the place lightning hits ground. He wants it to be true.

He lets Henry push him backward on the bed and kiss him until his mind is blissfully blank, lets Henry undress him carefully. He pushes into Henry and feels the tight cords of his shoulders start to release, like how Henry describes unfurling a sail.

Henry kisses his mouth over and over again and says quietly, “You are good.”

* * *

The pounding on his door comes much too early for Alex to handle loud noises. There’s a sharpness to it he recognizes instantly as Zahra before she even speaks, and he wonders why the hell she didn’t just call before he reaches for his phone and finds it dead. Shit. That would explain the missed alarm.

“Alex Claremont-Diaz, it is almost seven,” Zahra shouts through the door. “You have a strategy meeting in fifteen minutes and I have a key, so I don’t care how naked you are, if you don’t answer this door in the next thirty seconds, I’m coming in.”

He is, he realizes as he rubs his eyes, extremely naked. A cursory examination of the body pressed up against his back: Henry, very comprehensively naked as well.

“Oh fuck me,” Alex swears, sitting up so fast he gets tangled in the sheet and flails sideways out of bed.

“Blurgh,” Henry groans.

“Fucking shit,” says Alex, whose vocabulary is apparently now only expletives. He yanks himself free and scrambles for his chinos. “Goddammit ass fucker.”

“What,” Henry says flatly to the ceiling.

“I can hear you in there, Alex, I swear to God—”

There’s another sound from the door, like Zahra has kicked it, and Henry flies out of bed too. He is truly a picture, wearing an expression of bewildered panic and absolutely nothing else. He eyes the curtains furtively, as if considering hiding in them.

“Jesus tits,” Alex continues as he fumbles to pull his pants up. He snatches a shirt and boxers at random from the floor, shoves them at Henry’s chest, and points him toward the closet. “Get in there.”

“Quite,” he observes.

“Yes, we can unpack the ironic symbolism later. Go,” Alex says, and Henry does, and when the door swings open, Zahra is standing there with her thermos and a look on her face that says she did not get a master’s degree to babysit a fully grown adult who happens to be related to the president.

“Uh, morning,” he says.

Zahra’s eyes do a quick sweep of the room—the sheets on the floor, the two pillows that have been slept on, the two phones on the nightstand.

“Who is she?” she demands, marching over to the bathroom and yanking open the door like she’s going to find some Hollywood starlet in the bathtub. “You let her bring a phone in here?”

“Nobody, Jesus,” Alex says, but his voice cracks in the middle. Zahra arches an eyebrow. “What? I got kinda drunk last night, that’s all. It’s chill.”

“Yes, it is so very, very chill that you’re going to be hungover for today,” Zahra says, rounding on him.

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s fine.”

As if on cue, there’s a series of bumps from the other side of the closet door, and Henry, halfway into Alex’s boxers, comes literally tumbling out of the closet.

It is, Alex thinks half-hysterically, a very solid visual pun.

“Er,” Henry says from the floor. He finishes pulling Alex’s boxers up his hips. Blinks. “Hello.”

The silence stretches.

“I—” Zahra begins. “Do I even want you to explain to me what the fuck is happening here? Literally how is he even here, like, physically or geographically, and why—no, nope. Don’t answer that. Don’t tell me anything.” She unscrews the top of her thermos and takes a pull of coffee. “Oh my God, did I do this? I never thought … when I set it up … oh my God.”

Henry has pulled himself off the floor and put on a shirt, and his ears are bright red. “I think, perhaps, if it helps. It was. Er. Rather inevitable. At least for me. So you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Alex looks at him, trying to think of something to add, when Zahra jabs a manicured finger into his shoulder.

“Well, I hope it was fun, because if anyone ever finds out about this, we’re all fucked,” Zahra says. She points at Henry. “You too. Can I assume I don’t have to make you sign an NDA?”

“I’ve already signed one for him,” Alex offers up, while Henry’s ears turn from red to an alarming shade of purple. Six hours ago, he was sinking drowsily into Henry’s chest, and now he’s standing here half-naked, talking about the paperwork. He fucking hates paperwork. “I think that covers it.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Zahra says. “I’m so glad you thought this through. Great. How long has this been happening?”

“Since, um. New Year’s,” Alex says.

“New Year’s?” Zahra repeats, eyes wide. “This has been going on for seven months? That’s why you—Oh my God, I thought you were getting into international relations or something.”

“I mean, technically—”

“If you finish that sentence, I’m gonna spend tonight in jail.”

Alex winces. “Please don’t tell Mom.”

“Seriously?” she hisses. “You’re literally putting your dick in the leader of a foreign state, who is a man, at the biggest political event before the election, in a hotel full of reporters, in a city full of cameras, in a race close enough to fucking hinge on some bullshit like this, like a manifestation of my fucking stress dreams, and you’re asking me not to tell the president about it?”

“Um. Yeah? I haven’t, um, come out to her. Yet.”

Zahra blinks, presses her lips together, and makes a noise like she’s being strangled. “Listen,” she says. “We don’t have time to deal with this, and your mother has enough to manage without having to process her son’s fucking quarter-life NATO sexual crisis, so—I won’t tell her. But once the convention is over, you have to.”

“Okay,” Alex says on an exhale.

“Would it make any difference at all if I told you not to see him again?”

Alex looks over at Henry, looking rumpled and nauseated and terrified at the corner of the bed. “No.”

“God fucking dammit,” she says, rubbing the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Every time I see you, it takes another year off my life. I’m going downstairs, and you better be dressed and there in five minutes so we can try to save this goddamn campaign. And you”—she rounds on Henry—“you need to get back to fucking England now, and if anyone sees you leave, I will personally end you. Ask me if I’m afraid of the crown.”

“Duly noted,” he says in a faint voice.

Zahra fixes him with a final glare, turns on her heel, and stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

NINE

“Okay,” he says.

His mother sits across the table, hands folded, looking at him expectantly. His palms are starting to sweat. The room is small, one of the lesser conference rooms in the West Wing. He knows he could have asked her to lunch or something, but, well, he kind of panicked.

He guesses he should just do it.

“I’ve been, um,” he starts. “I’ve been figuring some stuff out about myself, lately. And … I wanted to let you know, because you’re my mom, and I want you to be a part of my life, and I don’t want to hide things from you. And also it’s, um, relevant to the campaign, from an image perspective.”

“Okay,” Ellen says, her voice neutral.

“Okay,” he repeats. “All right. Um. So, I’ve realized I’m not straight. I’m actually bisexual.”

Her expression clears, and she laughs, unclasping her hands. “Oh, that’s it, sugar? God, I was worried it was gonna be something worse!” She reaches across the table, covering his hand with hers. “That’s great, baby. I’m so glad you told me.”

Alex smiles back, the anxious bubble in his chest shrinking slightly, but there’s one more bomb to drop. “Um. There’s something else. I kind of … met somebody.”

She tilts her head. “You did? Well, I’m happy for you, I hope you had them do all the paperwork—”

“It’s, uh,” he interrupts her. “It’s Henry.”

A beat. She frowns, her brow knitting together. “Henry…?”

“Yeah, Henry.”

“Henry, as in … the prince?”

“Yes.”

“Of England?”

“Yes.”

“So, not another Henry?”

“No, Mom. Prince Henry. Of Wales.”

“I thought you hated him?” she says. “Or … now you’re friends with him?”

“Both true at different points. But uh, now we’re, like, a thing. Have been. A thing. For, like, seven-ish months? I guess?”

“I … see.”