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Henry Fox is not a fan of birthdays in general. He’s especially not a fan of his own. The large, bustling festivities thrown by the royal family have never attracted his interest, and at each party he can be found in the corner either on his phone, or sitting in another room with his dog. He’s doing both, avoiding another one of Pez’s continuous attempts to drag him into the middle of the ballroom for an off-key, butchered serenade of “Happy Birthday”, when his phone buzzes. A text message crosses his screen with an area code that strikes a chord of small familiarity in him, but doesn’t fully register upon first read.
Unknown Number - 8:42pm
Happy birthday, I hope you’re doing well.
His eyebrows furrow as he rereads the message over and over again, wracking his brain for who could possibly be texting him. It’s far from the first time that he’s received wrong number texts, but this one was clearly intentional. His thumbs scatter across the keyboard, trying to come up with some sort of reply that didn’t sound rude for not knowing, or possibly forgetting, who this was. Unable to find one, he chooses to bite the bullet, texting back a six word response.
Thank you, but who is this?
He hopes whoever is sitting on the other end won’t be terribly offended. He can’t imagine he would be, but then again, to take time out of your day to text someone that you’re thinking of them only for them to have no idea who you are might rub him the wrong way on a bad day. David shuffles in his lap, and he has no more time to ponder on the mysterious stranger’s feelings before his phone gently vibrates against his leg, signaling a response. He taps on the small message icon, the red “1” above the app disappearing in a split second, yet not faster than the way his blood chills at the contents of the text.
Unknown Number - 8:46pm
It's Alex.
It’s short, straight to the point, anything but sweet, and also anything but what Henry knew of Alex to be. Three typing dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared all while Henry stared at his phone, wide eyes slowly blinking as if to wash what must be a hallucination away.
Unknown Number - 8:47pm
Claremont-Diaz.
A laugh leaves Henry’s lips at the ridiculousness of the second message, disbelief wrapped around it like a boa constrictor. As if he needed the last name to know who the name “Alex” belonged to. This explained the familiar area code. Henry had spent more minutes than he could count staring at that exact same three digits, punching it into his phone’s keypad every time he wanted to hear the voice attached to the other end.
But he had never deleted Alex’s number. His hands pulled up the old contact, the photo of them in the little circle emotionally cutting him deep. The numbers didn’t match. He must have gotten a new one. He most definitely does not allow himself to dwell on why Alex would bother putting his number into a new phone. His hands shake as he holds the lit rectangle, the text messages, Alex’s text messages, glowering at him from it. His brain feels like it’s firing off blanks as he tries to make sense of the situation he’s found himself in.
Suddenly, being horrifically serenaded by hundreds of people doesn’t sound too bad.
After typing, deleting, typing, and deleting again, Henry finally pushes the bright blue arrow, sending the response back into the void. It’s weak, holding both no emotion and too much at the same time.
You didn’t need to add your last name.
Before Alex has the chance to reply, Henry saves the contact to his phone, swiftly deleting the old one, and slides the device into his pocket. He stands, a whispered apology leaving his lips as David looks up at him with betrayal in his eyes, and walks back into the ballroom.
Two royal invitations had appeared in the White House mail every year, just before March 12th. Every year, one was returned with kind wishes and a gentle apology from the President for being unable to attend the birthday festivities, and the other one never returned at all.
Each year, the small pile of envelopes slit open by the sharp blade of a tiny letter opener grew, the golden font on the top of the pile reading “To: Alex Claremont-Diaz”.
—
“I’m sorry, I’m quite drunk, I must not have heard you correctly. I thought you just said Alex texted you.”
Henry paces back and forth in front of the couch, the party having long ended, his hands aggressively raised in the air as he speaks.
“No, Bea, that’s exactly what I said. Alex texted me to tell me happy birthday.”
“Alex texted you? As in cake-pushing, son-of-the-American-President Alex?”
Both Henry and Bea turn at the sound of the voice, seeing Pez’s figure fill the doorway, his face a mirrored expression of the shock showing on Bea’s. Henry nods, collapsing into a seat as he puts his face into his hands.
“Yes. Do tell, Pez, what other Alex would I be losing my mind over?”
He shrugs, sitting down on the opposite couch, sipping from some alcoholic concoction Henry doesn’t even want to know the details of.
“I don’t know, dear, you did get around back in boarding. Could be some long-lost love I’ve never heard of.”
If Henry were any less of an absolute wreck in the current moment, he would have thrown something at Pez just for that comment. If it had been anyone else who had decided to disturb his utterly boring, but quite peaceful alone time, he would have been fine by now. But no, it had to be Alex Claremont-Diaz, the one and only man who’d ever had such an ability to flip Henry’s world on its axis without even trying.
It’s good to know that part of him, at least, has stayed the same.
Bea is the one who jumps in, cutting off any more immature comments Pez is gearing up from his arsenal.
“Well, did you respond?”
“Of course I responded! Some random number texts me to say happy birthday, I have to find out who it is. Could’ve been a security risk, or something.”
“Or something.”
Bea throws a pillow across the room at the unhelpful lump on the couch that is Pez.
“What did you say?”
Henry sighs.
“I said thank you, but who is this? And then he responded with his first name, and a minute later with his last, as if I wouldn’t know. As if I haven’t spent years waiting to see that name pop up on my phone again. Three years, Bea.”
She raised an eyebrow, a questioning look crossing her face as she noticed Henry was seemingly done speaking.
“And after that?”
“And after that, I responded with the fact that it was unnecessary of him to add his last name, then I turned my phone off and found you.”
“You have to see what he said, Hen.”
Henry sighs, standing back up and following the hallway down to his room, calling out a short goodnight.
“I don’t know if I can get my hopes up, Bea.”
“You should text him again. Maybe you can get something else up, too!”
Henry is pretty sure Bea actually does hit Pez this time.
—
Alex Claremont-Diaz - 11:28pm
Sorry. I didn’t know if it was needed.
No need to apologize.
I couldn’t ever forget who you are.
—
There was a knock at Henry’s bedroom door, and he sighed at the disturbance, but nonetheless, walked over and opened it.
“Your Royal Highness, The First Son is asking to see you.”
Henry gaped, unable to keep the shock from covering his face.
“He’s here?”
“Yes. Do you wish for him to be turned away?”
“No!”
The words left his lips before he could stop them, or stop to think about how strong the feeling was of wanting Alex to stay. He coughed, recovering, before speaking again.
“No, that’s alright. I’ll see him, just give me a few moments, please.”
Henry places his hands on the railing, and as he looks down, his eyes meet brown ones he hasn’t looked into in eons. They’ve never failed to take his breath away, and even now, after everything, he still finds himself captured in them for a minute. He stiffens slightly, attempting to solidify the mask covering himself as he speaks.
“What are you doing here?”
Alex’s hands shift in his pockets, and Henry is hit with a flash of remembering how he used to hold them instead. The shifting is a telltale sign of Alex’s nervousness combined with his inability to sit still, and he used to reach for Henry. Now Alex reaches for the drawstrings of his own hoodie instead.
“I was invited, wasn’t I?”
A smirk teases the edge of Alex’s lips, something Henry recognizes in a younger version of the man standing in front of him. Three years clearly hasn’t changed his attitude.
It’s almost comforting to see, because it prompts the question of what else about Alex’s emotions have stayed the same?
“You were. For the past three years. I didn’t think you’d even looked at the invitations.”
Alex let out a quiet scoff, as if Henry was the ridiculous one here.
“Of course I looked at them. I kept them, too. But I didn’t think you’d want me to show up at the actual party.”
He doesn’t know when he descends down the stairs, but the next thing he knows is he’s standing in front of Alex again, and all of the conversations, arguments, and apologies he’s said in the mirror, practicing for this moment, have disappeared from his head. All he can see is Alex looking at him like he hung the moon, the way he looked at him just three years ago.
“I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you to show.”
Alex shook his head.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you. God knows you’d have had the right to turn me away, tonight, even. I’m sorry, Henry.”
Henry shakes his head, unwilling to even hear it, but Alex still tries.
Persistent as he ever was.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be as strong as you needed me to be. I wanted to, but– I’m so sorry for everything.”
“Christ, you’re still as thick as it gets. Alex, I forgave you years ago.”
He closes the short gap between them, his hands finding their familiar place on the sides of Alex’s face, pulling him in. Alex tastes like the cinnamon coffee Henry knows he drank on the flight over, and something that reminds him of right and home.
The rest of the evening is a blur, but when he wakes the morning after his birthday with his limbs entangled in Alex’s, he can’t be bothered to care about the logistics of how they got there.
—
Henry shakes off the memory as he pats David on the head, smiling down at the message that has just pinged on his phone.
Alex <3 - 8:42pm
Happy birthday, baby.