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Henry knows that he’s the one who said “casual” that very first night after the state dinner, that he’s the one who told Alex that he couldn’t afford for him to fall in love with him. He knows. Of course, he does.
The truth is, however, that all those words he’d uttered had been more of a reminder to himself than it was to set a boundary for Alex, even if Alex sometimes treated the word as if it did not exist in his dictionary.
“Casual” is the only thing that’s afforded to him with even a smidgen of safety. He who is a prince, who is not in the closet, but rather, trapped inside a gilded cage mistakenly called a palace. However lavishly decorated – and it is definitely ostentatiously decorated – a cage is a cage, and a prison a prison.
It’s probably (definitely) a mistake to then, merely weeks later, tell Alex that they should make love.
There are most certainly other ways in which he could have said it, especially if he intended to keep up the charade that this was nothing but a casual fling. But they’re in Paris, the city of love, and Henry is feeling terribly, terribly maudlin after having delicious French food, indulging in fine champagne, and most of all, spending an entire day in Alex’s delightful company. He is only human, after all.
Alex’s first, immediate reaction is surprise, a stiffening of his shoulders that Henry can feel and the tiniest bit of uncertainty colouring his tone. Henry feels the slightest bit of doubt starting to creep it. Perhaps it was the wrong choice of words after all. But before he can get too much into his head with worry, Alex smiles and falls into gentle teasing, needling his word choice but in a way that only makes fond exasperation well up in Henry.
Henry can only think of one way to shut Alex up, and he takes it, leaning into Alex to kiss him quiet.
It does startle him when Alex breaks the kiss rather abruptly, and definitely far too soon for Henry’s liking. But as Alex speaks, for once obviously hesitant and not at all his usual assured self, Henry feels his already too-soft heart melt at this version of Alex that he’s seeing for the very first time.
Alex leans into him, ducking his head into his shoulders in embarrassment and it sends a burst of fondness through Henry. He likes this side of Alex, likes it more than is probably considered decent that he actually gets to see this facet of Alex. It’s a side which he suspects that not many people do. To be admitted into the small circle of people whom Alex trusts this much… well, it does things to Henry’s heart that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
(Danger, a part of his mind whispers. But it’s drowned out by the swell of buoying emotion he feels at seeing Alex being vulnerable.
It’s not love, he tells himself. It can’t be.)
He lets himself focus on Alex, on what Alex had just told him and their implications. That he, Henry Fox (because it is himself here and not His Royal Highness Prince Henry of England), is going to be Alexander Claremont-Diaz’s first. He’s suspected, but confirmation is still… well… it’s quite a bit to take in. He lets himself relish in the rush of emotion and arousal that that thought brings for a moment before packing it away enough to rub comforting circles into Alex’s back. Above all, he’s glad that Alex trusts him with that piece of information, and he’ll do anything to make sure Alex’s precious trust isn’t misplaced.
“Trust me,” he says, quiet but confident, “you’re in good hands.”
He isn’t lying, but Alex doesn’t need to know just how much thought Henry had put into planning tonight. Including setting out the lube and condoms on the nightstand by the bed while Alex was looking out of their window, taking in the Parisian night.
Perhaps it’s the day they’ve both had, meandering through the streets of Paris and into a lush garden, how it sometimes felt as if it was just the two of them in the world, but everything feels different tonight. Alex still teases as he helps to undress Henry, but it’s slow, unhurried, a stark contrast to all of their previous clandestine encounters. Henry returns the favour when he’s completely bared to Alex, and there is something humbling yet empowering all the same to be undressing Alex in this manner.
It's far more difficult for Henry to bare his soul to someone else, even if – or perhaps especially more so – that person is Alex. But in the here and now, in the nude and on his knees as he works Alex’s trousers down his legs with Alex’s dark, affectionate gaze looking down at him, Henry realises that his walls are lowering without any conscious input from his mind and knows in his heart that this is an inevitability.
When they’re both standing before each other, naked at last, Henry finds his eyes roaming over Alex’s bared skin, burnished a beautiful copper limned with gold under the dim, yellow glow of the lamps.
Alex is beautiful, stunning, exquisite. But for all he’s been told that he has a way with words, for all that he dreams of being a writer in another life, Henry doesn’t think he will ever find a singular adjective to encompass all that is Alex in his eyes.
It’s not a conscious decision to reach out to touch, to slowly trail his fingers up Alex’s arm, watching goosebumps develop in their wake. But once he’s touching Alex, it becomes purposeful. They hadn’t acknowledged it explicitly, but tonight, Alex is following Henry’s lead, and Henry is determined he won’t lead Alex astray. His palm comes to a rest over Alex’s chest, right above his heart, and it warms Henry to know that Alex isn’t as calm as he appears to be. He meets Alex’s eyes briefly, dropping his gaze away again as his fingers find the key resting right in the middle of Alex’s chest.
He flicks his gaze up to Alex again, a little uncertain if he’s allowed. It’s the key to Alex’s childhood home after all, a symbol of Alex’s heart, and no matter how quickly they’ve become closer than Henry’s ever been towards anyone, he isn’t sure if they’re quite there yet. But Alex smiles at him and in a move so smooth Henry’s surprised himself, Alex has taken Henry’s hand that’s holding the key, lifting it up to press a kiss over his knuckles. It is a herculean effort not to swoon.
He starts walking backwards, using their still-linked hands to tug Alex along, making their way to the bed. Henry lets himself fall back onto the bed first and Alex follows quickly, a wide but infinitely soft smile curling his lips as he carefully lands close to Henry’s side but not completely on top of him. Henry expects the kiss that follows, but he doesn’t quite expect how it causes warmth to unfurl lazily from deep inside of him, spreading outwards slow and sticky-sweet, seemingly directed by wherever Alex’s hands wander across the canvas of his skin. Heat and arousal build swiftly between them, but it seems that the both of them are of the same mind in this, to indulge in this tender intimacy for far longer than they ever have before.
Finally, Henry breaks the kiss, but he lets himself rest his forehead against Alex’s. For a moment, they just breathe together and a part of Henry – a greater part than he’d like to admit – wishes they could stay crystallised in this moment forever.
“Would you like to watch me prepare myself, or would you like me to guide you through it?” he asks quietly, not wanting to break the atmosphere around them.
Alex swallows, and this close, he can see the way Alex’s pupils dilate even further, can see Alex’s gorgeous eyelashes flutter as he briefly closes his eyes. “Um… both? Like, I could… watch you first…?”
Henry can’t help the surely besotted smile that’s on his face, but Alex is adorable right now. “Of course, darling. Would you mind getting the supplies?”
Alex does not mind. In fact, Alex is eager to please on this, and Henry can’t even find the urge to tease him over his eagerness. He is, after all, equally eager.
Alex watches him with utmost focus, as if there’s nothing else deserving of his concentration than Henry at this very moment. It’s heady, and Henry’s never felt more desired, more lo- cared for than right here in this darkened Parisian hotel room. He tells Alex what to do, demonstrating as he goes, and though it isn’t as if he’s never prepared himself in front of past casual flings, somehow, with Alex, it’s different.
It’s always different with Alex.
It all seems to feel more intense, and there’s only so much that Henry can attribute to it being a while since the last time he’s done this. It’s the way Alex is watching him slowly slide a slick finger into himself, the way Alex is visibly drinking it all in, drinking Henry in, with a heat in his eyes that makes Henry’s heart stutter. He lets out a breathless sigh and Alex’s gaze snaps up to his face and oh, the tenderness of Alex’s expression is almost too much. He might just crumble to pieces, float away like ashes in the wind, if Alex keeps looking at him like this.
“Would you… ahh… like to help?”
“Yeah, yeah… I do… Just…”
“I’ll walk you through, love.”
The term of endearment falls from his lips like it’s natural, like it belongs there just for Alex. Before he can berate himself for this slip, perhaps an even more grievous error than “making love”, Alex leans down, lips covering his own in a deep but infinitely tender kiss that leaves Henry momentarily dazed.
Alex’s smile after he breaks the kiss is warm and lovely, and Henry is still half in a daze as he directs him to squeeze a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. He’s more present when Alex slides lower down the bed to nestle himself between Henry’s spread thighs, peppering butterfly kisses down Henry’s stomach to his pelvis as he does so.
It’s once again a very unique sensation to feel Alex’s long finger slide in beside his own. It’s not just the additional stretch that has him letting out a gasping exhalation, but more of the utter intimacy of a part of Alex being inside of him and the way Alex’s finger brushes over his own deliberately but oh so gently on the way in.
For all that Alex had teased him about using the words “make love” to describe the act of sex, it feels very much like this is what Alex is doing too. It’s definitely a mistake for it to continue this way, but Henry is in too deep to stop now, doesn’t think he can even deny Alex if this is how Alex wants it to be as well.
Alex’s touch feels reverent even as he does as he’s told, following every single one of Henry’s quiet instructions to the letter until Henry feels like he’s melting into a puddle at the tender care he can feel through the press of Alex’s questing fingers. Henry has never really wanted to linger like this, always aware that he’s on a strict time limit, but like this, with Alex, it feels like time is a nebulous concept, that it doesn’t quite seem to apply to them in the here and now.
But he had a plan, and he plans to follow it through.
When he deems himself prepared enough to take Alex – enough that it won’t hurt but will still let him feel a bit of a delicious stretch when Alex finally does enter him – he slips his finger out and Alex takes that as his cue, letting both his fingers slide out as well. It leaves Henry feeling momentarily bereft, but he puts it aside.
The next part isn’t at all dissimilar to what Alex knows and Henry watches avidly as Alex rolls a condom over his cock with a sure hand before coming to brace himself above Henry. It’s Henry who slicks Alex up with more lube, not trying to be teasing but delighting in the way Alex shudders above him at the touch of his hand all the same. Then, the vulnerability that Henry’s seen earlier in Alex surfaces again as they shift their bodies enough so that Alex can get better access.
“Just go slow,” he murmurs, looking deep into Alex’s eyes, doing his best to project reassurance. “I’ll guide you.”
“…okay.”
Alex is ever so careful as he positions himself, reading Henry’s body language so well, it’s almost as if he’s been doing it his whole life. But he still waits for Henry’s cue, looking down at him through half-lidded eyes, and perhaps it’s just the way his long lashes frame his eyes, but Henry thinks it makes Alex look a little shy but always so, so beautiful. Henry loops a careful arm around Alex’s shoulder, drawing him just a little closer before he trails his hand down the strong, delicious line of Alex’s back. He keeps his eyes on Alex even as he starts to apply a little pressure, guiding Alex to press into him, slowly just as he’d said.
It's more overwhelming than it has any right to be. He’s done this before, not recently, but he has, and so there’s no reason for it to affect him so much, as if it’s the first time he’s experiencing it.
Except. It’s Alex.
Henry feels his breath catch in his throat, feels every inch of Alex as he carefully slides in, the heat of Alex, the stretch as he opens up to take Alex, and most of all, the pure pleasure of having Alex in such an intimate way, letting Alex into such a secret, hidden part of him in ways that feels far more than just the physical. When Alex finally, finally bottoms out, Henry lets out a long breath, feeling and hearing Alex do the same as if they’re entirely in sync with each other. When his eyes flick up to look at Alex, his breath catches yet again at the look of wonder on Alex’s face, at the tender emotion swimming in Alex’s eyes – an emotion Henry hesitates to name.
For once, Alex is completely out of words, his usual gregarious self nowhere to be found. But it feels like there isn’t a need for words between them right now, as intimately connected as they are, pressed as closely to each other as they can possibly be. He knows what Alex is asking with his eyes. Henry nods, the slightest downward tilt of his head, and Alex moves, hips rolling back and then giving a tentative forward thrust.
Alex keeps the pace slow, languid, as if they truly have all the time in the world. Henry has imagined that it would feel good to finally experience this with Alex, and it is. It is so very good. But it’s not what Henry’s ever imagined in the dark of his room in Kensington Palace whenever he’s allowed himself to fantasise about Alex over the years. He’s only ever imagined it hot, hard, and fast, much like all their past engagements have been. This is making love, and it’s Henry’s own fault that he’s set the mood of the night this way, but it feels very much like all of his remaining defences are slipping away, slowly but surely eroded with each of Alex’s careful, gentle movements.
He thinks, vaguely, that he should perhaps be panicking because this, this complete baring of his too-soft heart wasn’t in the plan, but he isn’t. The way Alex is looking at him is arresting and it’s keeping him in the present, keeping him engaged in the movement of their entwined bodies more than the sheer physicality of the act.
“I can’t believe how wrong I was about you,” Alex says, a little sheepish but there is affection and awe ringing out clear in his low voice.
It hits Henry deeper than he expected. His defences have completely fallen, thoroughly, unquestionably conquered by the sincerity and tenderness in Alex’s face, his lovemaking, and his words.
“Most people are.”
And it’s true. The face he presents to the world at large is that of the perfect Prince Henry of England, but that Henry isn’t really who he is. It is the image, the fantasy that the world wants to see. A façade that the world thinks is what is befitting of someone who bears the title of “prince”. But for all that Alex has also had his misconceptions of him, Henry has been truer to the man behind the royal mask with Alex than he’s ever been with anyone outside of his closest kin – which truly only means Bea. The passive aggressive, mock-polite exchanges between him and Alex prior to them getting to know each other over the past short months revealed a side of him to Alex that he never should have after having had years of royal protocol and decorum drilled into him. But Alex just knows how to draw it out of him so easily, so deftly. It used to vex him, but no longer.
Now, lying beneath Alex with their bodies intertwined, he’s glad that Alex sees him. It, strangely, doesn’t feel even the tiniest bit intimidating. Somehow, in Alex’s arms, Henry feels safe. It could be because they’re both men who understand the position that they’re in, that this has to be kept away from the eyes of the public, but that doesn’t fully explain it. It feels so right to be here with Alex, and that is a dangerous, dangerous thing to feel. But for once, Henry chooses not to examine it, chooses to live in the bubble of time that they have with each other now and not worry about the rest.
They lean into each other, heads tilting close together, as if they can’t bear to be any further apart. Henry feels Alex’s breath fan over his cheeks, then he’s tilting his head back, seeking for a kiss and is met immediately with Alex’s lips as if this is an intimate dance that they’ve both long memorised.
His thoughts turn wonderfully hazy soon after as Alex moves with more confidence even while keeping the same measured pace. He feels completely under Alex’s spell, body going loose and relaxed beneath Alex. Henry doesn’t know when his arms fall away from Alex as he rides the gentle waves of pleasure and saccharine warmth that their coupling brings him. Then, when Alex brushes up against his prostate, it sends a bolt of lightning shooting through him, lighting him up from inside out. Henry’s hands clench into fists where they’re lying atop the bedspread and a soft, breathy moan falls from his lips.
Alex pauses for a split second and then his next thrust finds its mark once more. Henry gasps, then trembles faintly as Alex’s hand traces along his outstretched arm until his palm is sliding up towards Henry’s own, a subtle request for permission, and Henry opens for him in more ways than one. Alex’s hand is a little larger than Henry’s, not usually very noticeable, but in this moment, it feels so much more significant when their fingers interlace, when Alex holds him so tightly, pressed palm-to-palm, their pulses beating against each other as one.
The heat that Alex has stoked in him is a veritable bonfire now, but it’ll never be as bright as the presence of Alex himself, Alex who has always seemed larger-than-life, so vivacious, and a beautiful burst of fresh air in Henry’s staid, stolid, grey life. Alex seems to be glowing, both from within and with his body limned in the low golden light. He looks every inch a sun god of ancient times and Henry has never felt so blessed to have this man look back at him, to have this man finally see him and still decide to choose him.
(Even if it’s just momentarily. Even if it can only ever be momentarily, because that is all Henry Fox can ever give.)
Alex’s pace speeds up as they both edge closer to the precipice. Henry reaches up blindly, desperately, digging fingers deep into Alex’s shoulder before gentling his grip. There is a desire to mark Alex as his, to lay bruises into his skin, but also an equally great desire not to hurt Alex. Alex’s hands roam freely over Henry’s body, gentle even as they grope and touch with impunity. The air around them is privy to the soft moans and gasps that escape their lips whenever they break apart just enough to draw in oxygen. Henry never wants to leave this warm cocoon they’re in.
He tangles his fingers into Alex’s hair even as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Alex makes a desperate little noise, pressed deep into Henry’s lips, and his body stutters a little on an inward thrust. Then it’s Henry’s turn to shiver as Alex slides his big, warm palm over the back of his hand, encouraging him wordlessly to tug more. So Henry does, breathing in Alex’s answering moan of pleasure and letting it permeate his entire being, relishing in the shiver that runs down Alex’s spine.
Henry almost doesn’t notice when Alex’s hand falls away from his. Alex’s breaths are getting more ragged now, a telltale sign that he is close, and Henry isn’t far behind himself. They’re pressed forehead to forehead and Alex’s eyes have fluttered shut, allowing Henry the privilege of admiring the lush sweep of his dark eyelashes. They are absolutely mesmerising.
“I… mmn… I’m close…”
“So am… ahh… I,” Henry breathes out. “Let go, love…”
Alex’s eyes open and he can see a spark of stubbornness in them. It’s all the warning he gets before Alex’s hand is wrapped around him firmly, stroking. Henry tenses up as heat flares, sharp and bright. He’s right at the very edge, hanging on by a thread.
“You too, baby.”
And Henry falls.