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HENRY
Henry is fairly certain he’s bleeding, which actually falls pretty low on his list of concerns in the present moment. The present moment being him, in his awful, gaudy suit, covered in his brother’s £62,000 wedding cake, shards of broken glass, and the champagne which had previously filled said glass.
He’s being led down a hallway by Shaan and an array of PPOs, and only the presence of the former is enough to convince him that the latter aren’t about to lock him away in a dungeon (God knows his grandmother owns enough of them). Eventually, he’s guided into a dressing room and bathroom, Shaan wordlessly directing him to sit on the counter.
“I know you probably want to get out of that mess, but you have to be checked over by medical personnel, and someone has to fetch you new clothes,” Shaan informs him, somehow still maintaining his impassive impression.
Henry only notices the concern in his eyes because by this point, Shaan sees him more than any of his family members do, therefore allowing them to know each other rather thoroughly. With Bea and Pez, that’s only a result of their busy schedules of course. Henry can’t even fathom what his schedule’s going to look like after today.
Either he’ll be locked away like Bea long after she’d exited rehab, or he’ll have to go on some apology tour of Commonwealth countries like his cousin after he’d been caught cheating on his girlfriend at a massive beach party. Henry sighs, crossing his legs, more cake falling on the bathroom tile.
He’s interrupted from catastrophizing further by a stout, unfamiliar man in a suit entering the room. He must’ve been let in by the PPOs, but Henry’s still a bit on edge.
“May I help you?” he asks.
The portly man smiles brightly, like he’s delighted to be treating a twenty-two year old prince who just made a fool of himself at his brother’s wedding. He pauses to bow before answering Henry’s question “Your Royal Highness, the Royal Doctor on call was called away for a family emergency, so it’s just me. I’m Dr. Cayo.”
“You can just call me Henry, it’s nice to meet you Dr. Cayo.”
Dr. Cayo, still smiling, cheerily tells him, “I’m just going to clean up the cut on your cheek and check you over to make sure everything’s in order. Sound alright to you, Henry?”
Henry nods his consent to proceed, allowing the man to inspect and clean the cut on his face, determining that a simple bandaid will suffice. He moves on to inspect the rest of the body, but fortunately the “horrendous farce of a suit” (in Pez’s words) had at least provided him some cushion. Like a modern suit of armor for a modern prince , Henry muses to himself. He’s just relieved that he should finally be able to take a shower soon.
The doctor steps away to return the medical supplies to his bag, and as Henry poises to stand, Dr. Cayo glances back at him. “Before I leave, I’m going to give you a precautionary tonic to ward off any soreness that you might feel later.”
“Alright,” Henry acquiesces, leaning back on the marble countertop.
A moment later, Dr. Cayo is handing him a small vial filled with a not-quite translucent deep brown liquid, like dark tea or watered-down coffee maybe. The tonic tastes a bit like the latter, with cinnamon and a weird aftertaste that makes his throat burn a bit. He’s certainly tasted worse medicine before, though.
The doctor leaves him with a kind wave and one last smile, Shaan exchanging places with the man.
“What’s the word?” Henry asks tiredly, knowing that the fallout from this situation is just beginning.
“Tonight, you shower and immediately return to Kensington. Her Majesty will speak to you in the morning.”
Henry snorts. “That’s kind of her.”
“She’s claiming she doesn’t want to ruin her evening further.”
“So she’s letting me stew, then.”
“Probably, sir.”
ALEX
Alex is drunk. Alex is drunk, but he’s incredibly aware of the fact that he is screwed. Not just ran out of cinnamon for his coffee screwed, but ran out of coffee and it turns out there’s a coffee shortage and the stores are all out and the eBay auction for the last bag of beans on earth just sold for ten million bucks screwed.
Because if his mother doesn’t get to him Zahra will, and that’s all assuming that he makes it out of England alive. They’ve done far worse to people that looked like him for far less. He figures his arguments about saving everyone from bland, overpriced wedding cake likely won’t matter in this case.
He glances around the room Cash has led him into, an empty men’s bathroom a floor away from the reception that he’d just left with a, well, not a bang, but certainly a crash.
The space must’ve been updated recently, though they clearly tried to keep the style consistent with other parts of the palace; meaning that the wallpaper is tacky and the cake will be difficult to clean out of the carpeting. He does feel bad for the cleaning staff.
Alex leans back against the counter he’s perched on, wondering where June and Nora are right now. He’d expected them to follow, Nora giving him shit and June flashing looks at him full of both exasperation and disappointment. He can certainly look forward to that, he (hopefully) has a lengthy flight back to D.C. ahead of him, with plenty of time for him to get an earful from everyone.
His phone is probably blowing up with notifications, but it must’ve slipped out of his pocket back in the losing battle against the wedding cake because it’s nowhere in sight. For once in his life, Alex figures that it might be a blessing in disguise, though his fingers twitch with the morbid curiosity to know Twitter’s reaction.
Starting to sober up, he rearranges himself on the counter, lying across the flat area between the sinks and propping his feet against the wall, starting to craft a series of tweets in his head defending himself, starting with: who gets married on a friday the 13th????? it’s like you're asking to have something go wrong at your wedding.
Seriously though, Philip and Martha were tempting fate with that choice, and it isn’t Alex’s fault that fate chose him as the delivery mechanism for the karma due to the heirs to the British Empire.
While wondering if one of them might’ve recently broken a mirror or opened an umbrella inside, the door finally opens again, causing Alex to swiftly right his position.
Instead of Nora or June, who must be getting interrogated from MI6 about whether this was some premeditated plot to disrupt the monarchy, it’s a guy in a suit who vaguely resembles a beardless garden gnome.
“Hello,” Alex greets him.
The man’s smile stretches across his face so widely Alex is surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. “Hi, lovely to meet you. I’m Dr. Cayo, I’ve been sent in by the Palace to check you over,” he replies, offering his hand out to shake Alex’s.
Alex takes it, noting the incredible smoothness of the doctor’s hand. In another situation, he’d ask him for lotion recommendations. As it is, he has other concerns. “You’re not gonna poison me, right?”
Dr. Cayo chuckled. “No, certainly not. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not generally on the Royal Medical Staff, just stepping in because of an emergency.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The man, with the attitude of Santa Claus trapped in the body of Maurice from Beauty and the Beast , quickly surveys Alex’s body for any cuts, scrapes, bumps, or bruises.
“It appears you fared better than your friend,” the doctor notes, turning back to the small medical bag he’d entered with.
“Henry’s not my friend.”
“Oh?” he asks, glancing up at Alex, squinting slightly as he stares into his eyes. Alex wonders if he’s locked himself into some kind of staring contest, but he doesn’t add anything else. He might not be on the Palace Staff, but the doctor’s in Buckingham for a reason.
Dr. Cayo eventually glances back to his bag. “Well in any case, you’re fine. Though, you might be hungover in the morning. I have something that helps clear the mind, a tonic of sorts. Would you like to try it?”
Alex pauses for a moment. Because, like, this would be the perfect opportunity to take him out. But realistically, that’s just as likely to happen back at the White House, and he’d rather not deal with it while nursing a headache from bad champagne.
“Sure, thanks.”
Dr. Cayo pulls out a small vial that’s giving him AP Chemistry flashbacks with the bright blue liquid inside. As he carefully hands it to Alex, he gets a whiff of clean linens, which is kind of odd, but he downs it anyway because poison probably wouldn’t smell that nice. It’s kind of grassy, like a health drink, but when he’s finished, he’s left with a chocolatey-orange taste in his mouth.
“Not bad,” he comments, handing the vial back.
Dr. Cayo smiles. “Indeed.”
A knock on the door punctuates his sentence, followed by Cash leaning his head in. “Time to go. We’re heading back tonight.”
“We’re supposed to fly back in the morning,” Alex states, though it’s more of a question. The doctor slips out as Cash fully steps into the room.
“Those are the orders — from Zahra by the way. She said to tell you two words if you complained.”
“What are they?”
“Damage control.”
HENRY
The first sign that something’s off is the absence of David’s warm body burrowed into his side as he first wakes up. The second is opening his eyes to a decidedly not-gold bed frame, which might’ve been a relief if he wasn’t confident he’d finally drifted off late into the night (or early morning) in his Kensington Palace bedroom.
Though he’d been tempted, he hadn’t anything else to drink when he’d finally arrived back at Kensington Palace, finally having escaped Philip’s shouting when his own equerry had pulled him away for the send-off before their honeymoon. Without alcohol as the reason for ending up in what is presumably a stranger’s bed, Henry’s at a bit of a loss.
Given that he’s not bound, gagged, or injured in any way that he’s aware of in his groggy state, he can assume he hasn’t been kidnapped.
He ultimately decides that he’s not going to learn anything from lying in bed and starts his perusal of the room by looking at the bedside table — after all, that can generally tell you a rather great deal about a person. There’s someone else’s iPhone charging, a pair of glasses, a stylish lamp, and stack of books that appear to be related to political theory.
As Henry reaches out from the covers to look at the phone, he pauses. Because his hand, and the arm connected to it, is definitely not Henry’s natural skin color. It’s not even near his coloring after his grandmother has forced him to get a spray tan.
Heart racing, he tumbles out of the thick covers and moves toward a door that’s slightly cracked, hoping that it’s a bathroom, and considers himself lucky for about .2 seconds when he spots a large mirror over a long countertop.
That feeling immediately changes when Henry looks into the mirror and sees someone that he — well, he recognizes but…is not him. More accurately, he’s looking straight into the eyes of Alex Claremont-Díaz.
Henry feels a bit like he’s in a movie as he waves his hand in the mirror and touches (his?) cheek to try to understand what the hell is going on. A headache is starting to build; he’s not sure if it’s from this bizarre dream or from the fact that his vision seems to be slightly blurry as he studies this face so closely in the mirror that his breath is fogging up the glass.
Maybe if he just gets back in bed, he’ll wake up from this hyper-realistic nightmare and reenter the other nightmare that is his life.
He hurries back to the bed, but pauses by the glasses — Ray Bans by the looks of them. He didn’t know Alex wore glasses. Perhaps that explains the blurred vision. Without overthinking it, he places them on his face, noticing how the detailing on the lamp shade suddenly becomes clearer. Alex must be farsighted then.
Sitting down on the bed once more, Henry collects himself for another moment, taking in the books, records, and pile of unfolded clothes on the couch. And then he does what any protagonist in a Disney Channel Original Movie does: He pinches himself on the leg, like that will answer all of life’s greatest questions.
While neither the resolution to world hunger nor the truth about the JonBenét Ramsey case reveal themselves to him, he still seems to be trapped in Alex’s body. Although he’s not quite sure how to proceed from here, he’s become fairly adept at keeping up a facade. Until he figures out what bizarre Real People Fanfic — a realm Pez delights in reading — he’s been teleported into, he supposes he’ll just have to “Chin up and keep going,” as his father would say.
This is put to the test sooner rather than later: June knocks on his door a few minutes later before peeking her head through the door. Apparently, both of their older sisters have few boundaries when it comes to their little brothers. “Zahra and Mom want you in the Oval Office.”
Henry leaves the Oval Office meeting unphased by the historic space — he’s experienced enough of those for a lifetime — and thoroughly overwhelmed by Zahra Bankston and Ellen Claremont. While certainly brandishing a different brand of female leader than his grandmother, each of them was terrifying and intimidating in her own right.
The President had definitely been a bit suspicious that he hadn’t put up more of a fight about who was at fault and having to go on the subsequent trip to England for damage control. Ms. Bankston even asked him if he was feeling well, given his lack of arguments.
Henry realizes he has a bit of work to do as far as embodying Alex goes; his encyclopedic knowledge of his life according to every interview Alex has ever given is not quite enough by itself.
While Henry isn’t exactly looking forward to having to act as Alex in front of the broader public, he figures that perhaps there’s been a switcheroo and Alex has ended up in his body.
Which, if the damage Alex did at the reception is any indication, is pretty much the most terrifying concept Henry can imagine (second only to the possibility that there’s simply another Henry out there in the world, which inexplicably feels infinitely weirder). If Alex-as-Henry protests the “friendship” as much as the two American women had anticipated, Henry can only hope he doesn’t make the same fuss to the Queen’s face. Or maybe, he secretly does.
If Alex makes it through the end of the week without getting himself shipped off to the military or worse, engaged to a woman for the PR, perhaps they’ll find some answer for this bizarre situation when they’re once again in the same room.
ALEX
The weird little doctor’s tonic must’ve worked, because when Alex wakes up to the bright un the next morning, he doesn’t feel hungover at all.
Though he immediately doubts this presumption when he finds himself lying in a (notably hideous) unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room.
If he hadn’t explored every room in the White House thoroughly, he’d bet his money on somehow sleepwalking into one of the historically preserved bedrooms that millions of tourists filter through every day. While that would’ve sent him into a different kind of panic, he’s pretty confident he would’ve remembered the gold monstrosity that he’s currently lying in.
Maybe his mom had the CIA kidnap him as part of some sort of way to freak him out about the power she wields and to never test her again? He’s not restrained or anything, he figures peeking out the windows of the opulent room might give him a clue to where he is.
Before he makes it there, he almost faints at the sight of his pajamas.
If Alex sleeps with clothes on (and that’s a big if), it’s usually a t-shirt and boxers, sweatpants if he needs to bundle up. He definitely doesn’t own a matching navy blue and mint green-striped pajama set. And though it’s something out of his middle school fantasies, he’s pretty confident his legs never grew to be quite as long as they seem to be right now.
Also, unless he’s turned into a zombie or suddenly became deathly ill, he’s pretty sure the skin he’s now spotted on his bare feet and hands hasn’t been this pale since he was straight out of his mother’s womb.
Alex would like to say he’s pretty good in a crisis, which is why he doesn’t start screaming or pass out. Instead, some part of his brain autopilots himself over to a mirror he’s spotted hanging over an ornate dresser on the other side of the room.
Being greeted by Henry’s face in the mirror results in the greatest jumpscare of Alex’s life, including the time he opened his abuelo’s shed and a scorpion crawled over his foot.
He sees Henry’s lips form the words ‘what the fuck’ in the mirror, which is really fucking weird, because he could swear that’s what he just said.
So he’s entered some weird-ass, stress-induced fever dream where he’s in Henry’s body. It’s probably, like, the latent guilt Alex feels for the repercussions this will have on his mom’s approval rating even though the whole thing is objectively stupid and people will forget about it in a week.
He supposes he’ll just have to follow the classic phrase printed on the overpriced, cheesy tourist paraphernalia in this cursed country, and “Keep Calm and Carry On” until he wakes up.
He starts to doubt his hypothesis when, after passing his portrait of way too many colonizers, he eventually discovers what must be Henry’s kitchen. And there’s no coffee. He’s had a lot of weird dreams in his life, but he has no idea why his subconscious would create a world where the only caffeinated beverage available is Earl Grey tea.
No caffeine at all is a worse fate than drinking hot leaf water, so Alex proceeds to figure out the electric kettle and finds tea bags as opposed to tea leaves (Jesus, this guy is pretentious) hidden at the back of the cupboard.
Alex’s mind finally stops whirring in a just keep going, just keep going, don’t start thinking, don’t start thinking pattern when he burns himself with boiling tea water by tripping over a very cute dog.
“Motherfucker,” he curses, and not just because his hand hurts and he very nearly injured an animal, but because he’s starting to come to the conclusion that he’s actually trapped in Henry’s body.
Alex doesn’t really have time to panic further because in that moment, a very suave, chiseled Indian man dressed in a suit enters the room.
“Good morning, Your Royal Highness,” the man starts. Which, like…gross. “So you heard the news, then?”
“ Er ,” and what the hell, did this body just automatically take on the RP accent , “The news about…?”
The man sighs, and Alex can’t stop himself from appreciating the sharply groomed lines of his facial hair as he watches him purse his lips. “You’ll be spending the next weekend doing damage control with Alexander Claremont-Díaz. Fortunately, we managed to get him to come here, so you won’t have to travel.”
“I— he’s coming here?”
“You’re to act as if you’re good friends, that all of this is a misunderstanding. I believe Her Majesty called it ‘boys being boys, roughhousing gone out of control.’”
Alex snorts. For one, he detests that phrase, and two, there’s no way Henry has ever engaged in “roughhousing” a day in his posh, princely life.
The man shoots him what is probably a knowing gaze, even though he has no idea what’s actually going on inside Alex-in-Henry’s-meatsuit’s mind right now. But maybe this would’ve been a rare occasion where Henry would’ve actually been thinking something similar.
“Regardless, she’s requesting tea with you this afternoon to make sure you understand each other as far as expectations for the weekend go.”
“That sounds awful,” Alex blurts out before he can stop himself.
Somehow, the guy doesn’t react at all, not even an eye twitch, and in that moment, Alex decides to never play poker with him. He just stands there, and Alex realizes he must be waiting for dismissal, which makes Alex feel like he’s covered in Nickelodeon slime and is generally just gross-feeling.
“You can, er , go,” Alex directs him, though it comes out like more of a question. Apparently it was effective enough, though, because the guy exits, and the phrase “hate to see you go, love to watch you leave” pops into his mind when he gets a view of his ass strutting out of the room in that suit.
Alone once more, Alex realizes that he should’ve tried asking that guy for coffee, though that might’ve set off some red flags. Now that “Alex” — and fuck, if that’s not confusing — is coming, maybe he can pass it off as a request for his guest.
Alex has seen enough Disney movies to make the logical conclusion: Henry’s probably stuck in his body right now, failing to properly appreciate his detailed reading schedule for his classes and the cinnamon in his coffee order when Nora inevitably delivers it to him in a late night study spiral.
And that, of course, introduces another problem. Alex swears to Catholic God, if this body can’t handle spice, he won’t be held responsible for his actions. He’ll do whatever fairytale, rom-com bullshit he has to in order to get reunited with his tongue, well-trained after decades of Díaz cooking.
HENRY
Thank God for Alex’s burly Secret Service Agent coming to find and letting him know that the car was ready to take him to Georgetown for his afternoon class, because it had completely skipped Henry’s mind that he was still enrolled in classes. He knew that Alex studied Government at Georgetown, he’d spoken about it in a couple of interviews, but knowing that Alex was in his last year of uni conceptually is different from the reality of a full course schedule and commuting from the White House to campus every day.
For once, it seems like Henry got the better deal of the two of them: at least at Oxford he had the opportunity to enjoy the beautiful campus grounds, go to uni parties, live far, far away from his responsibilities.
Before finding a seat in the classroom, wanting other students to settle in first so as not to create any kind of chaos by being a seat stealer, Henry stops to say hello to a few of the other students lingering at the front of the classroom. He figures as effervescent as Alex is, it wouldn’t be too strange for him to chat with his classmates before class.
Except when he says hello, he’s greeted by shocked stares, and at least one person’s mouth goes slack in surprise. After a second, the students recover, suddenly overcompensating by attempting to bring him into the conversation. Fortunately, Henry is saved when the professor walks in sometime between, “Do you want to join us at The Tombs this weekend?” and, “We have a study group that meets in the library on Wednesday nights.”
As the professor drones on about democracy in Ancient Rome, Henry reflects on the previous interaction and considers, for the first time, that perhaps Alex’s public persona is as much a facade as Henry’s.
Henry is depressed by the list of facts the Crown sent to the White House for Alex to learn. He knew what he was allowed to say and not say, that his Official™ favorite book is Great Expectations and his hobbies essentially boil down to smoking cigars at the Old Boys Club. But to see it all listed on a sheet of paper, as if this is all that Henry boils down to, is enough to make him want to rip it into tiny pieces.
“If you glare at it hard enough, maybe it’ll burst into flames,” a voice observes from the doorway. Henry glances up, startled, to find Nora Holleran entering the room, wearing a snarky smirk and eyebrows that seem to be teasing him without uttering a single word.
June follows closely behind her, bottle of wine in hand. “So, what’s with the decision to finally commit to the glasses? I mean, Buzzfeed tweeted ‘ACD rocks the hot nerd look in new glasses,’ so they’re definitely a hit. I’m just curious what made you get over your sudden aversion to wearing them.”
Henry is grateful that his blush isn’t quite as obvious on Alex’s cheeks; he can’t very well admit that he saw his own reflection and his brain went offline for several minutes. When it finally rebooted, he decided to engineer every opportunity to see Alex’s face in these glasses. Generally, he was avoiding taking other liberties with Alex’s body; it felt kind of wrong without Alex’s consent — touch was unavoidable as far as cleanliness went in the shower, but fortunately, he was well practiced in keeping his eyes on the wall in locker rooms. Henry figured that the small indulgence of looking at Alex’s face couldn’t do much harm.
So, he simply responds to June with a shrug, hoping that the two people who know Alex best don’t immediately see through him. “It’s nice to be able to see things.”
“Now he admits it,” Nora jokes wryly and apparently decides to move on because then she asks, “What’s that in your hand?”
Henry sets the paper down on the coffee table, Nora immediately snatching it up. “A fact sheet about Henry.”
“To learn before your trip?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Want me to quiz you?” Nora asks. “We can make it a drinking game.”
“No thanks,” Henry answers, thinking that his expertise on the matter wouldn’t be easy to pass off. “I think I’ve got it handled. What were you up to?”
“I just got back from a fun interview with Food Network , hence the wine,” June responds. “It was a gift from the chef who I did a cooking challenge with.”
As they chat about the dishes June created earlier in the day and weave through various conversations from there, Henry observes June leaning in more and more comfortably against Nora and Nora playing with June’s hair absentmindedly as she reflects on the best food trucks in DC. He wonders if this is new or something that’s been happening for a while. He figures it must be the former — Ellen Claremont doesn’t seem like someone who would make her kid go on fake dates to cover up a sapphic romance.
He wants to ask them all sorts of questions; Henry loves talking with other queer people. But presumably, Alex, who they currently perceive him to be, already knows the answers he’d like to ask. That, or as a straight man, he wouldn’t ask them anyway.
June interrupts Henry’s swirling thoughts, dancing around his head like Drag Queens on a float at a pride parade. “Hey, Papi was asking about you today. He says you never texted him back about lunch plans with him and Raf?”
Probably because Henry was kind of intimidated by the bright eyes and chin dimple Alex had inherited from Oscar Díaz. And also, he couldn’t wrap his head around the whole concept of sitting down at a table and acting like someone else, someone not named Arthur Fox, was his father.
“Right. I’ll message him back.”
The Secret Service Agent that generally seems to be assigned to Alex, who Henry has now learned goes by Cash, leads him into a small colorful building painted in the colors of the Mexican flag, with “Mi Casita” spelled out over the door, in a part of the city where more signs are in Spanish than English.
Henry’s immediately overwhelmed by the large menu on the wall, featuring photos of various dishes with detailed descriptions in Spanish and significantly briefer descriptions in English. The very first words of greeting from Oscar Díaz at least save him on this front. “Siéntate mijo, we already ordered your regular.”
Given that he’s gesturing to the empty seat between him and Rafael Luna, Henry figures that must be a suggestion to sit down at the small table.
“No hug for your old man?” Oscar teases, and Henry manages to pass off clearly breaking their normal traditions by making a comment about not playing favorites, which elicits laughs from both men.
They catch up about the Royal Wedding, and at least Henry’s disdain for the whole event, not even including “Cakegate,” as the media have dubbed it, seems to have matched Alex’s mood regarding the ceremony.
Oscar jokes about King George rolling over in his grave, and Henry’s shocked that the older man’s teasing grin doesn’t have the same effect on him as his son’s — he should be blushing at the very least. But his heart isn’t beating any faster, and he doesn’t feel the blood rushing to his face, so maybe…no, there’s no way Henry’s suddenly become immune to attractive men.
But maybe, like suddenly needing to wear glasses and oddly craving coffee late at night, he’s inherited all of this body’s physical needs and reactions. Henry knows he’s attracted to the Díaz men — his mind has remained fully intact throughout this whole ordeal — but clearly Alex doesn’t have any physical reactions to his father. Thank God.
They switch tracks to talking about his upcoming weekend in London.
Oscar asks what they’ve planned for them, and Henry mentions a certain amount of PR photos and an interview, maybe some kind of charity visit. Privately, he hopes it’s to the children’s cancer ward since he was already scheduled to visit this weekend.
However Raf seizes on to the first part of the expectations. “Are you sure you’re prepared to be next to him? He’s quite the looker, huh?”
Henry didn’t really expect the compliment, even if Raf’s unaware of who he’s actually speaking to, and he’s not quite sure how to respond.
“Sure, I suppose he’s conventionally attractive.” It comes out like more of a question.
“You have way more opinions on his face than that. I vividly remember you making a Prince Henry voodoo doll last summer.”
And Henry’s pretty much lost for words. “What?”
“Or was it a dartboard with his face on it? A photo of his face was involved, and you definitely stared at it for at least an hour.”
Fortunately, Oscar saves him from having to form any kind of response to that. “You know what they say, handsome sons are a result of handsome fathers,” he jokes, and the teasing continues down that road.
Eventually, a teenage girl brings a large tray of food over, blushing the whole time as she passes out plates. Henry is mildly concerned that he’s going to ruin everything by finally confessing his true identity — and get himself committed to a mental institution in the process — when he catches sight of the peppers on the dish placed in front of him.
Henry sends up a prayer, as if this whole situation isn’t further proof that there’s no higher power looking out for Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, hoping that his previous theories prove correct and Alex’s taste buds will protect him. Then, he takes a bite.
He can’t prevent that groan that comes out of him, the other two men chuckling at him. “Hits every time, eh?
Still chewing, all Henry can do is vigorously nod.
A few minutes later, he’s distracted by Rafael, or “Raf,” as he seems to be known more colloquially, when he stops to roll up his dress shirt sleeves after a couple of bites. More specifically, he’s distracted by the way his heart starts beating a little more quickly. And when Raf leans down to take a bite of his torta seconds later, bracing his elbows against the table and accentuating the effect of his wide collar, Henry notes the heat rising to his face. This is what he’d expected from his earlier interactions with Oscar.
Yet here he is, half hard from watching Rafael Luna eat a sandwich, wiping mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and sucking it clean.
Which is all…fine, of course. Henry’s not a stranger to inconvenient boners around inconvenient people. It’s just that Henry’s seen speeches and watched videos of the handsome, lauded, openly gay senator in the past (particularly after Alex mentioned working for him in a New York Magazine article), and he doesn’t remember ever feeling particularly attracted to Raf.
Which kind of leaves one possibility.
Certainly an interesting one.
Henry files that information away to examine and dwell on in detail at a later date, for now focusing on willing his dick to calm down, lest the others notice.
ALEX
In the middle of Alex drinking his second cup of Earl Grey since meeting with the Queen, and reluctantly enjoying it, Princess Beatrice, who Alex knows generally goes by Bea because he’s perused enough tabloids with June, walks into the kitchen.
“I was wondering if you were still alive after Gran was through with you,” she teases, and Alex instantly likes her more than Henry. Which, like, the bar is low. But she seems cool.
“Barely,” Alex snorts. “She sucks.”
Bea laughs at that, maybe a bit surprised at the bluntness, but she doesn’t seem overly shocked. Maybe Henry being annoyed with his grandmother isn’t so out of character after all. Honestly, Alex could care less. He didn’t have the time or energy to pretend to like rich white people who thought they were anointed by God to rule the world. Or a relatively small island in the Atlantic.
“What did she have to say?” she asks, moving around the table to pour a cup of tea for herself.
“A bunch of stuff about not bringing further shame upon the family, etcetera,” Alex replies, waving his hands as he speaks. “A lot to debrief in therapy,” he adds, which he’d learned from the Hot Assistant Guy that Henry attended Thursday mornings.
“I understand that deeply,” Bea replies. “Today at my AA meeting—”
And damn Alex’s utter lack of self-control because he blurts out, “You were at AA?”
Fortunately, Bea doesn’t seem overly alarmed or confused that her brother has forgotten what is clearly a major life detail of hers. “I thought I told you I’d switched to Mondays?”
Wow. Bailed the fuck out by schedule changes. “Right, I forgot.”
Bea looks at him for another second, and Alex feels Perceived™. She must not be psychic, though, because she continues on to tell him about her meeting and getting her chip for four years clean.
And later, lying in bed, Alex does the math. Four years since Bea has touched alcohol and cocaine, apparently, and four years since Arthur Fox died of pancreatic cancer.
Alex is going out of his mind with boredom, obsessing over the fact sheet that Zahra sent over and feeling grateful that the real Henry will never get to see it, and roaming the halls of Kensington Palace like a caged animal when the eerie quiet is interrupted by a PPO.
“Your Royal Highness, Mr. Okonjo is here for you. Shall we send him to the tea room?”
Alex has no fucking clue who this person could be — probably one of Henry’s snooty, uptight “old chums.” Either way, it still sounds more entertaining than his current status of slowly dying of boredom.
He confirms the plans with the guard and decides he should find out this guy’s first name before he meets him along with some basic facts, quickly clicking over to the profile of “Percy Okonjo” from a tweet in Henry’s thread tagging the Okonjo Foundation.
Not to be dramatic, but Alex almost drops his phone.
The guy, who has “it’s actually Pez, like the sweets” in his bio, is rocking bright yellow hair and a shiny aqua suit adorned in sequins in the profile picture. Recent tweets range from commentary on Drag Race UK to HIV research funded by his family’s foundation in LA.
He’s distracted from his internet stalking when the subject of his search enters the room. “Hello Hazza. I would like the record to reflect that despite claims that I get you into trouble, you are quite capable all by yourself.”
Alex is too taken aback by this guy being friends with Henry to be witty. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Your sister, who’s been much better about responding to my texts than you—” and oops , Alex thinks, he’s completely forgotten about Henry’s phone, and Pez is still going “—has informed me that you’re going to have a visitor this weekend,” he finishes, waggling his eyebrows gleefully.
Still unsure of the vibes of this whole relationship, Alex just responds, “You heard correctly.”
“What’s Shaan got you scheduled for?”
“Shaan?”
Pez raises an eyebrow. “Shaan? Your equerry? Devilishly handsome, incredible ass, tragically straight?”
Right, Shaan. That must be the name of the serious guy in the suit. Alex holds up a pair of papers to Pez. “Here’s the schedule, along with a fact sheet about m–Alex.” Damn, that was close.
“M’Alex, you’ll have to make sure you don’t accidentally let that slip out in front of him,” Pez chuckles, and damn , Alex is lucky Pez interpreted it that way, even if it’s kinda weird.
Pez glances down at the sheets of paper, and Alex notices that he quickly hones in on the fact sheet. “ Ugh , don’t read that part.”
“These are facts about darling Alexander?”
“Yes and—”
Pez cuts him off. “Don’t you already know everything on this piece of paper already? I mean I think I do, and that’s just from listening to you wax poetic about Mr. Claremont-Díaz all day.”
Alex’s brain just…starts going into shutdown mode. “What?”
“You really are out of it today, but I’m cutting you a break because you’re probably in a feral state over finding out that you’re going to be spending the weekend with the love of your life.”
What. The. Fuck. What the fuck? What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck ?
Some part of his reptile brain must kick in while Alex is in the middle of doing his best impression of the shocked Pikachu face, because words start to pour out of his mouth. “Uh, yes, you’re right. I actually think I need to lie down. It’s all been pretty exhausting. So thanks, you know, for coming by, but I just — I need to—”
And Pez gives him an incredibly sincere, knowing look, which Alex isn’t sure what he’s done to earn, but it only further confirms that Pez is not, in fact, an insane man, and is, in fact, someone who knows Henry quite well.
Alex makes a list.
One, Henry apparently knows all about Alex’s interests and accomplishments.
Two, Henry apparently waxes poetic about Alex.
Three, this means that Henry has a positive view of Alex, contrary to popular (Alex’s) belief.
Four, Henry apparently has talked about these feelings with Pez.
Five, this has led Pez to believe that Alex is the love of Henry’s life.
Six, Pez did not sound like he meant this in a platonic way.
Seven, Alex is a man.
Eight, Henry is also a man.
Nine, one could infer, given the previous information, that Henry is gay. Or at least queer. Interested in men. Specifically Alex.
After that, Alex can’t stop thinking about Henry. And who he’s attracted to. And what that means. Which of course also leads him to wondering about Henry and his experiences, and what that must entail as a prince. And also, like, the elephant in the room.
The elephant in the room being Henry’s dick.
Alex has done his best to be courteous so far, okay? He figures locker room etiquette extends to this situation when reasonable.
But Alex does not feel like he is in a reasonable state of mind anymore.
The thing is, even if he hasn’t been a total creep about it, it’s kind of impossible not to interact with it at all. So Alex has noticed a few things.
Or, one thing: The thing being that Henry has a huge dick, okay? The guy is well-endowed.
So now that Alex has a more specific frame of reference, Alex can’t help but picture Henry using said dick in specific situations. His own face might pop into the X-Rated movies playing out in his head, which is like, really fucking weird. And mostly because of what Pez had said. Probably.
But now, as a result of his runaway imagination, Alex is hyper fixating on what Henry’s dick looks like. And it’s really hard to quell that curiosity when he has direct access.
Eventually, and to Alex’s great shame, he gives in. He just has to know, okay? It’ll just be a brief glimpse, he assures himself.
Alex is not kidding when he says that he took one glance at Henry’s dick and it changed his life. He really did intend on it being a brief glimpse.
It’s just that, like, he’s kind of insanely fascinated by it? Like, Alex hasn’t seen a lot of dicks up close and personal besides his own. The last time was probably Liam and… Well, that’s something to think about, isn’t it?
Henry’s dick is pretty. Which feels kind of weird to say, but it’s true. In fact, Alex is kind of obsessed with it, and he kind of wants to get it in his mouth, not just because it would probably feel good for him while he inhabits Henry’s body.
Unfortunately, the laws of physics still exist. So he’ll just have to wait for everything to go back to normal. And, for like, him to have a real conversation with Henry. And for Henry consenting to have his dick sucked by Alex.
Which, based on Pez’s previous statements, isn’t out of the realm of possibility.
HENRY
Alex must’ve cancelled on polo practice because instead of meeting at the stables, where Henry knew he was scheduled to be on a Friday afternoon, he was being driven straight to Kensington Palace.
When Henry spots Shaan, he’s tempted to give him a hug, but given that he’s never even done that while inhabiting his own body, he figures now isn’t the time to start.
After patiently being guided through the guest quarters, Henry is led back to the room that he and Bea generally dine in. Apparently, they’re going to share a meal together.
There aren’t words to describe how bizarre it is to watch the body you’ve inhabited for over two decades of your life operate completely independently with someone else clearly at the helm given the rapid tapping of presumably Alex-in-Henry’s-body’s foot against the carpet.
Before either of them can say anything, a staff member with a camera appears by Shaan’s side, asking for photos of them greeting one another. Henry moves over to pose with the other boy who, as he’s putting his arm around Henry’s shoulder, whispers, “So you’re Henry, right?”
“Yes,” Henry whispers through his press smile. “Alex?”
“The one and only,” he replies, before adding, “which feels less accurate now.”
Henry has to admit that’s a bit funny, and though he might not tell him as much, he thinks Alex catches it in the way his shoulders relax a bit. They make it through photos and then, apparently, someone has decided that they’re mature enough to be left alone to eat together.
Henry wouldn’t have necessarily agreed with that a week ago, but he’s not complaining now. He has a lot of questions.
Unsurprisingly, Alex goes first. “How was your week in the home of the free, land of the brave?”
“Generally lovely,” Henry answers honestly. “I didn’t necessarily love being in uni again, but your friends and family are great.”
Alex demands more details after that: First, to find out what he missed in his classes, and second, to apparently make sure Henry didn’t do anything insane around his family members. He seems shocked when Henry told him about enjoying his regular at Mi Casita, but when Henry asks him about his own tastes changing for the week, Alex reluctantly replies,“I’ve drunk more tea in the past week than in the entire rest of my life put together. So yeah, point made I guess.”
Then it’s Henry’s turn to inquire about Alex’s week, and while pleasant experiences with Bea and awful ones with his Gran are par for the course, Henry is a bit curious about the blush that rises on his cheeks when Pez’s visit comes up.
“Did he say something?” Henry eventually asks, a bit suspiciously, when Alex won’t go into detail about their time together.
Alex pauses for a moment, seeming to mull something over. “Based on my interactions with Bea and Pez, you don’t seem like the awful, completely stuck-up prince I thought you were. So why were you such a dick to me?”
“When?” Henry asks, confused because he admittedly hasn’t always been kind to him, but Alex usually initiated the poking.
“In Rio. At the Olympics?”
That was years ago, and Henry barely remembers anything from that time besides long brown curls, a bright smile, and a yellow ipê amarelo in a boy’s pocket; everything else was still shrouded by grief. “I don’t remember much from that time, I’m sorry,” Henry admits.
He listens as Alex recounts their first meeting and the hurtful words he overheard from Henry, while in the present moment, Henry watches the lingering rejection on his own face. Yet when he apologizes, sharing what his head was like at the time, Alex accepts the apology, immediately seeming to understand.
So quickly that Henry is curious. “You’re accepting that fairly easily.”
“Yeah.”
“I guess I’m just wondering…why? I was fairly rude to you, after all.”
Alex pauses for a moment, picking at his nails. “I was talking with Bea one afternoon, and she mentioned her AA meeting and getting her four-year chip.”
Christ. Henry had completely forgotten that was coming up. He doesn’t have time to panic about missing it, because Alex is speaking again. “I realized what happened four years ago. So, I mean, it makes sense now, even if I didn’t really get that at the time.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“Okay, but speaking of me understanding things, something I don’t understand is why you named your dog David? What’s that about?”
They’re interrupted by a palace staff member bringing out dinner plates, but Henry thinks that maybe there is a future for their friendship after all.
The next day, Alex doesn’t seem phased when Shaan passes him Zoloft to swallow on their way to their interview. When Henry asks him about it as they’re getting ready in the dressing room, Alex just shrugs, not seeming to make any judgments about Henry’s antidepressant prescription. “I figured that even if I don’t usually take Zoloft, the withdrawal would still probably be hell on the body.”
The interview goes smoothly, both of them able to contribute stories about the other’s life given the firsthand experience of the last week. Though, Henry’s sure there’s bound to be thinkpieces in the works analyzing the talkativeness of the Prince of Wales and the fist bump he offered to the First Son. He’s sure his Gran will shudder when she sees; the image leaves him vaguely delighted.
Henry sends Alex a smile of gratitude when they pull up to the Royal Marsden NHS Foundation Trust, and when Alex reaches over and squeezes his shoulder in return, he thinks Alex knows exactly what he was trying to silently convey.
ALEX
Alex has got to admit it’s pretty fucking funny when Cash shoves the two of them in the closet. The irony of it all has him cracking up and Henry looking at him like he’s off his rocker.
This is further confirmed when Henry asks, “Are you mad?”
“I’m sorry,” Alex wheezes, “it’s just too funny.” And then Alex decides to take a gamble, he’s never been great at being subtle, he has no idea how to broach this subject with Henry, and he’s hardly come out to himself . “We got stuffed in a literal closet.”
Henry’s eyebrow furrows slightly. “What are you implying?”
So he’s gonna have to be more direct, apparently. “Well, I think I’m not straight. Still figuring it out, but probably, like, bisexual or something. And, well, not to expose Pez but—”
“Fucking Pez,” Henry responds, banging the back of his head against the wall in frustration, eyes squeezed shut. “Christ.”
“Hey, he didn’t know,” Alex says in Pez’s defense, which feels a bit backwards given he’s Henry’s best friend, but whatever. “He just made some comments, and I made some inferences. No big deal.”
“I did technically sign an NDA with your signature on it saying that you wouldn’t reveal precisely this kind of information,” Henry sighs.
And Alex is kind of offended, okay? Like, he’s not gonna out Henry. Also, his own coming out moment hasn’t exactly been acknowledged yet, and he’s kind of going out of his mind.
“Damn, and I was gonna run straight to the Daily Mail ,” Alex replies sarcastically. “Too bad for me you have full reign of outing me if you want. No NDA here.”
Henry glances over at him, and his face completely shifts. “Shit, Alex, I’m sorry. Thank you for telling me. I was just rather thrown off.”
“I get it,” Alex accepts, then grins. “Can’t believe I heard you curse.”
“You said you’re still figuring it out?”
Alex shrugs. “Some…things from this week made me reevaluate some stuff.”
Henry nodded, seeming to understand. “Well, there’s no rush to figure it all out. And I guess, for the record, I’m gay. Very, very gay.”
Alex smiles, relieved that Henry trusts him enough to actually tell him himself. “Thanks. It would probably be more overwhelming, but I’ve mostly been focused on the whole stuck in your body thing.”
Henry laughs at that, and even though it’s from his body, somehow Alex can see Henry in it. And even more, wants to see Henry’s real laugh in his real body. He thinks it might be fun to draw more of those laughs out of him.
“Listen,” Alex starts, and Henry looks at Alex intently, giving Alex the courage to continue on. “I put my number in your phone. So we can try to figure out if there’s a way to solve this whole situation, or if it just goes back we can stay in touch or whatever.”
Henry smiles back. “I’d like that,” he replies as Cash opens the closet door.
HENRY
Henry wakes up and is immediately aware that he’s no longer on an airplane, but rather in a familiar, and as Alex described it, “ludicrous,” bed. He rolls over to check the time on his phone, and his sleeping schedule is definitely messed up more than usual because it’s almost dinner time.
After their first ever positive discussion over dinner, he’d wondered if they’d wake up back in their own bodies the next morning. That’s what seemed to happen in the movies anyway — resolution of the conflict restoring order. Maybe whatever power caused their body swap wanted to make sure their friendship stuck first.
ALEX
Alex grins down at his new phone contact, titled “HRH Prince Dickhead 💩” despite the knowledge that Henry sucks significantly less than he’d thought a week ago.
Yeah, Alex has a good feeling about this new start with Henry.