The room is silent.

Four walls, pristinely plastered in cream and teal and indigo, the paper slightly textured- velvety- so that it feels like Henry has stuck his head up a peacock's ass and made his home there.

The room is silent, except for the steady ticking of the watch on his wrist- at odds with the erratic pounding of his heart.

10:48.

12 minutes to go.

12 minutes of endless, torturous waiting.

Henry bites back a groan of frustration, tugging at his hair with a frantic energy, as Taylor Swift loops endlessly in his headphones and the wall in his mind begins to buckle and strain with the weight of a thousand suppressed images.

A bottom lip caught between pearly teeth; hair crowned with sweat; thighs pinning down thighs; skin, smooth and flawless and unbroken.

11 minutes.

Grabbing a bottle from the bedside table, Henry hastily tips out a handful of yellow pills, selects one from the heap, tips the rest back in and swallows it dry. The anxiety swirling in his gut eases just a little immediately- mostly from the routine of it all; the glass glinting up at him, daring him to cave, to acknowledge his weakness and seek help; and Henry, caving every single time.

Fishing around in a drawer, he grabs a breath mint and sucks on it thoughtfully, then slips out of his jacket and unravels his tie, tossing them both casually on the bed. He won't be needing those tonight.

Balanced on the shelf beside the pill bottle is a crystal glass of red wine, and Henry seizes it, takes a deep swig until it's drained, then sets it heavily back down again, leaving the alcohol lingering on his lips.

He's not sure if Alex will be into it, but it looks like he's about to find out.

One last check of the watch- 10:52- before he discards it along with his jacket.

Even without half of his clothes, the air in here feels too stuffy, too stifling, and beads of sweat trickle down the back of his neck as he carefully rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, making sure the top button is undone, so that it hangs open slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that- he thinks with a private smile- is designed exactly to drive Alex crazy.

Not that it seems to be an issue- judging from the faint, tender patches of skin around Henry's mouth and jawline, where he can feel lip shaped bruises forming already.

Swallowing down an embarrassing groan, he pushes back the ensuing thoughts one last time, unlocks the bedroom door and lets himself be drawn down the shadow-filled corridor, following the thread tugging him forwards- from where Alex's hooks have dug in under his ribs, and caught.

It takes him a full minute of aimlessly wandering in circles for Henry to realise that he is utterly, irreversibly lost.

They're going to renovate this place one day and find my rotten corpse collapsed in some forgotten gallery, he thinks bitterly.

He's regretting not bringing the watch, now- because what if he's late, and what if Alex changes his mind, and what if what if what if?

Reaching into his trouser pocket, he withdraws a spare pill and tips it from his clenched fist into his mouth, hardening it into a thin line as it slides off his tongue and disappears.

Slumping down against some wall, Henry tilts his head upwards, watching darkness trace constellations across the ceiling, and wonders at the poetic irony of it all.

It sounds like something sprung straight out of a Jane Austen novel- the naive, enraptured young prince against the charming, American pretty-boy.

Separated by a few walls.

Cursed to die alone and eternally horny.

"I hope you're not going to jerk off against my leg."

"Er-"

Henry jumps abruptly upright, backing away clumsily until his back finds plaster.

"Sorry? I- er- thought you were a wall."

"Not the first time it's happened." Henry makes the hasty decision not to ask. He splays a palm flat over his chest, counting his breaths as panic subsides back into plain mortification.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" He asks, once he's scrounged up enough brain cells to formulate the single sentence.

"Amy. Secret Service Agent. It's a pleasure to meet you, your Highness."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Secret." Henry imagines the agent tapping her temples knowingly. "I assume you're looking for Alex?"

"Again- how did you-" Henry stutters out, surprised and incredibly unnerved.

"Secret," She repeats, then: "Take the next right. It's the second door on the left."

"Thank you." Henry hovers awkwardly for a moment, then pulls himself together and hurries off in the direction Amy had indicated.

Footsteps pad to a halt outside the second door on the left.

A fist inches closer towards the wood- where someone's rough hands have scrawled the words Alex is a bastard in black sharpie, and someone else has crossed out bastard and replaced it with incredibly hot.

Then it falters.

It falls.

Back to Henry's side.

He feels so naked, so vulnerable out here. Like the moment he opens that door, he'll be stripped down to skin and bones and brains- without limousine windows or rehearsed speeches or staged charity events or 'perfect prince' masks to hide behind.

When he opens that door, he'll be nothing but himself.

Prince Henry.

Just him.

Henry.

And it terrifies him even more than Phillip's anger or his mother's blank stares or his Gran's disapproving glares.

The only thing that terrifies him more than this is the thought of losing it.

Losing this. Losing Alex. Losing the only thing keeping his human- the only thing keeping him alive.

The fist begins to rise again.

It knocks.

He knocks.

Once.

Twice.

The door swings open.

Henry's face splits into a shy smile.

"Sorry I'm early," He manages, mustering up a shade of his usual, composed charm.

"Find your way here okay?" Alex bites down on his lip, seemingly unaware at the strangled growl it stirs in Henry.

"There was a very helpful Secret Service agent. I think her name was Amy?" He struggles not to sound overly eager to begin; a cool facade sliding into place easily as blinking.

"Get in here."

Alex is beaming at him, and it's almost too much to take.

Cracks begin to thread their way through his relaxed demeanour.

Then he winds his fingers behind Alex's elbow, and their toes nudge forwards until they're touching- his bare feet against polished dress shoes- and it all crumbles.

"Fuck it."

The phrase whispers out between his lips, soft as a passing breeze, and Alex doesn't hear it- thank God.

He doesn't hear the sigh of relief as Henry gives up and gives in and gives himself over to Alex as completely as it's possible to.

Their lips find each other in the shadows, and they settle into place with an agonising certainty that this is where they are supposed to be. This is where Henry is supposed to be, what he's supposed to do, what he was born for.

Distantly, he registers shuffling Alex backwards into his bedroom- brain short circuiting at the word bed- and pulling the door shut behind them until the latch clicks shut.

And then they're kissing again, and it's not rushed by regrets and terror and time.

Now, Henry takes his time. His fingers tangle in the curling hairs at the nape of Alex's neck, twining the locks around his fingers like he can bind them together, and no one can ever break them apart.

A second hand comes up of its own accord, to trace the lines of cheekbones sculpted from flawless, perfect glass. But there's nothing fragile about the way Alex's moans collide against his own; exploding inside his mouth and echoing around, reverberating all the way down inside Henry- heating him from the inside out until he swallows the sound down.

Henry lets himself become drunk on the crucifying, soft linger of mouth on mouth, skin on skin, as Alex tugs him nearer; arms wrapping around his waist, fitting their two bodies flush so that only the smallest sliver of space separates them. Sparks skitter up the place where their thighs lock together, and Henry bites down once, hard, in retaliation, before breaking off and away.

Their noses hover inches away from each other, and his voice is slightly breathless when he numbly hears the words tiptoeing out of his own throat.

"How do you want to do this?"

"Get on the coach."

Alex doesn't hesitate.

He never does. It's one of the things Henry loves most about him.

Love.

The word plays on loop inside his skull, drumming on the cage of bone and tugging on his tongue, desperate to be let loose.

I love you I love you I love you, his body screams as he's pinned down against the fabric.

I love you whispers every hitch and stutter of his breath.

I love you more than I ever thought possible, as words fly back and forth in a blur of sentences and questions and answers and bits and pieces of floating punctuation. It all soars over his head, Henry's focus lost on anything except the eyes gazing right back into his; the hand braced on the against the back of the sofa, the other grazing circles along his neck, the hollow dip at the base of it- then down further.

To the loose shirt button.

Further.

A palm splays across his ribs, rising and falling along with Henry's quickening breaths.

Even further; down and down and down until-

A sharp hiss issues from between gritted teeth, and Alex's fingers still hastily. His eyes, still locked on Henry, seek consent, and when he just nods dumbly, tongue too numb to formulate even a single syllable, the hand continues its restless motion.

"I'm gay," Henry finds himself saying in reply to something, too caught up in the sweat and passion and fervour and aching want- no, need- scorching his bones to ash, to realise what he's saying until the words are out of his mouth and hanging there.

Suspended in the single breath of space between them.

It feels so good to say it. To finally admit to the world what he- and his family - have kept secret for years.

Suddenly, he wants to yell it from the rooftops. To wave a banner at a parade. To streak rainbow paint on his cheeks and go out in public and not have to worry about the aftermath.

He wants the whole world to know it: I am gay. I am Henry and I am gay and I love Alexander Claremont-Diaz.

He barely has time to dwell on the wistful thought, though, because then Alex's lips are on his neck, just behind his ear, and his lungs abruptly give up on breathing because who needs oxygen when you have the First Son of the US?

They abandon the attempt at talking.

Henry lets himself be guided by his body, his hands finding their marks on Alex's body, his mouth finding purchase on his lips, his chest, his throat, his thighs.

Fuck it, he finds himself thinking again, as Alex grinds down into his lap with enthusiasm, and Henry drags his face towards his own, skin colliding with bruising force, teeth clicking against teeth.

Alex is so achingly, painfully and beautifully alive; his hair crowned by a halo of lamp light, his lips raw and pink and his lazy American smirk even broader than ever.

It's driving him insane.

And Henry, by comparison, is all confidence- now that he's found his stride.

He finds that he knows exactly where to touch, where to kiss, where to bite down to tease the moans out of Alex.

He knows Alex's body better than his own, somehow. And he loves every single bit of it.

He isn't anxious anymore.

He isn't embarrassed.

He's just insanely, deliriously happy.

And lost.

So lost.

Lost in the rhythm of it all; the beating pulse of their naked, writhing forms.

Lost in his own feelings, the flood of emotion.

Lost in the sex, too, of course.

But it's more than that.

He's lost in Alex.

Completely and utterly lost.

And hopelessly in love.

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