Chapter Text
Alex my love,
I don’t know what the ever-loving hell a “4LOKO” is. Or rather, I didn’t and am now responding after googling it. That is a death wish, darling. You don’t need more alcohol OR caffeine in your already delicate system. How your liver is still intact - I will never know.
In response of the “Horny Goat” tired comments: I’m offended you would stoop so low as to defame my makeup artist. Jenny does the best she can with the sunken mess that is my face. Yes, I haven’t been sleeping well. More so than usual.
It’s okay. I’m okay. You needn’t worry. I don’t email you in the pits of night because it is practically a non-issue for me.
If you ever find yourself trapped in quicksand, there is one surefire way to keep yourself from sinking for a prolonged period of time. You stop flailing, take a deep breath, and freeze. You must keep your entire body afloat and still. One wrong move and you’re caught under the muck. So you have to sit there like a stone and hope and pray someone finds you. But even if someone finds you, they have a high likelihood of falling into the sand too, and then you’re both trapped. It’s better to take the risk and be still alone than flail or risk someone else falling in.
You are a busy man, Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz. It seems absurd for me to bother you when you have much better things to do. An election to cinch, or so I hear.
Nothing good would come from my whining about being stuck doing press and shaking hands at hospitals. No one gives a fuck, love. I don’t even give a fuck. I’m sure that’s the issue. But nonetheless, my insomnia is listless and without a cure. You have bigger things to worry about. You have no room in that wired brain of yours for a prince high in a gilded cage.
I’m doing okay, really. I just have bouts. It happens from time to time. They ebb and flow for any given reason. Unfortunately, I’m not privy to the specifics of this round. Please don’t worry about me. I’m okay. And if/when I am not, I will tell you.
You have Texas to secure. All I have to do is smile at the cameras. And unlike you, I’m not sure they’ve ever seen me really awake. So it’s bollocks to them whether my eyes are slightly darker. They couldn’t care less about the difference. It’s not anything juicy enough for them to start a rumour. There’s no fodder. So it’s okay.
And by the way, I looked at the picture you were referring to in the magazine, “The Thorn”, which is an incredibly displeasing name. I want you to know that it has now occurred to me that my makeup was not in fact done by Jenny that morning. It was done by a spare artist, as Jenny was with her sister at the hospital (don’t worry it was a planned leave for a birth). So, that may explain the more noticeable eyes. The assistant is probably unaware of Jenny’s tendency to mix shades for my perfect concealer.
Maybe one day I should come out with a line of them, to make my perfect match. Call them: Perfect Prince Concealer.
I can appeal to the drag kings.
xxx,
Henry.
P.S.
I am running the risk of embarrassing myself, but I’d feel dishonest if I did not add the reason that I do not choose to email you during my midnight awakenings. The reason is I’d be itching for your reply, and I’d be too excited to sleep. You awaken me, Alex. And I know our lively discussions can wait until the morning. I would wait forever to speak to you. There’s nothing that I looked forward to more.
Wow, I’m sending this before I regret it. Darling please never speak of this portion. Or else I will send MI6 after you. I will invoke the fear of Mary. Do not try me, Alex. But please email me back once you see this. Or text. Or call. Anything.
I am but a small man at your command.