Red, White & Royal Blue(46)
Everyone there is going to be boring anyway. What are you doing?
Alex
First Son of Hating Fund-raisers
Re: Paris?
* * *
Henry <[email protected]>????????????????3/4/20 2:32 AM
to A
Alex, First Son of Shirking Responsibilities:
A royal stick is formally known as a “scepter.”
I’ve been sent to a summit in Germany to act as if I know anything about wind power. Primarily, I’ll be getting lectured by old men in lederhosen and posing for photos with windmills. The monarchy has decided we care about sustainable energy, apparently—or at least that we want to appear to. An utter romp.
Re: fund-raiser guests, I thought you said I was boring?
Regards,
Harangued Royal Highness
Re: Paris?
* * *
A <[email protected]>????????????????3/4/20 2:34 AM
to Henry
Horrible Revolting Heir,
It’s recently come to my attention you’re not quite as boring as I thought. Sometimes. Namely when you’re doing the thing with your tongue.
Alex
First Son of Questionable Late Night Emails
Re: Paris?
* * *
Henry <[email protected]>????????????????3/4/20 2:37 AM
to A
Alex, First Son of Inappropriately Timed Emails When I’m in Early Morning Meetings:
Are you trying to get fresh with me?
Regards,
Handsome Royal Heretic
Re: Paris?
* * *
A <[email protected]>????????????????3/4/20 2:41 AM
to Henry
His Royal Horniness,
If I were trying to get fresh with you, you would know it.
For example: I’ve been thinking about your mouth on me all week, and I was hoping I’d see you in Paris so I could put it to use.
I was also thinking you might know how to pick French cheeses. Not my area of expertise.
Alex
First Son of Cheese Shopping and Blowjobs
Re: Paris?
* * *
Henry <[email protected]>????????????????3/4/20 2:43 AM
to A
Alex, First Son of Making Me Spill My Tea in Said Early Morning Meeting:
Hate you. Will try to get out of Germany.
x
SEVEN
Henry does get out of Germany, and he meets Alex near a herd of crêpe-eating tourists by Place du Tertre, wearing a sharp blue blazer and a wicked smile. They stumble back to his hotel after two bottles of wine, and Henry sinks to his knees on the white marble and looks up at Alex with big, blue, bottomless eyes, and Alex doesn’t know a word in any language to describe it.
He’s so drunk, and Henry’s mouth is so soft, and it’s all so fucking French that he forgets to send Henry back to his own hotel. He forgets they don’t spend the night. So, they do.
He discovers Henry sleeps curled up on his side, his spine poking out in little sharp points that are actually soft if you reach out and touch them, very carefully so as not to wake him because he’s actually sleeping for once. In the morning, room service brings up crusty baguettes and sticky tarts filled with fat apricots and a copy of Le Monde that Alex makes Henry translate out loud.
He vaguely remembers telling himself they weren’t going to do things like this. It’s all a little hazy right now.
When Henry’s gone, Alex finds the stationery by the bed: Fromagerie Nicole Barthélémy. Leaving your clandestine hookup directions to a Parisian cheese shop. Alex has to admit: Henry really has a solid handle on his personal brand.
Later, Zahra texts him a screencap of a BuzzFeed article about his “best bromance ever” with Henry. It’s a mix of photos: the state dinner, a couple of shots of them grinning outside the stables in Greenwich, one picked up from a French girl’s Twitter of Alex leaning back in his chair at a tiny cafe table while Henry finishes off the bottle of red between them.
Beneath it, Zahra has begrudgingly written: Good work, you little shit.
He guesses this is how they’re going to do this—the world is going to keep thinking they’re best friends, and they’re going to keep playing the part.
He knows, objectively, he should pace himself. It’s only physical. But Perfect Stoic Prince Charming laughs when he comes, and texts Alex at weird hours of the night: You’re a mad, spiteful, unmitigated demon, and I’m going to kiss you until you forget how to talk. And Alex is kind of obsessed with it.
Alex decides not to think too hard. Normally they’d only cross paths a few times a year; it takes creative schedule wrangling and a little sweet-talking of their respective teams to see each other as often as their bodies demand. At least they’ve got a ruse of international public relations.
Their birthdays, it turns out, are less than three weeks apart, which means, for most of March, Henry is twenty-three and Alex is twenty-one. (“I knew he was a goddamn Pisces,” June says). Alex happens to have a voter registration drive at NYU at the end of March, and when he texts Henry about it, he gets a brisk response fifteen minutes later: Have rescheduled visit to New York for nonprofit business to this weekend. Will be in the city ready to carry out birthday floggings &c.