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Paris was magic. Paris was a terrible mistake.
Henry was accustomed to holding two contradictory thoughts in his mind. Growing up royal and gay and intellectual and sensitive in the unblinking public eye made this necessary. It became an especially important skill over the past year, when he no longer had uni to occupy him and was starting to seriously face his future, whatever that was going to be. Being able to understand that something could have two opposite meanings—his mother loved him but couldn’t help him; he was not ashamed of who he was yet still needed to conceal it—was what kept him sane.
Like he was completely and utterly in love with Alex but could never tell him.
Alex had forgotten to ask him to leave last night. Henry woke up in Alex’s hotel room at the Peninsula as the dawn began peeking through the cream brocade curtains. It was the particular Parisian light that Henry had always loved, both romantic and melancholy, transforming everything into a dreamy, dappled Monet painting. Alex was still deeply asleep, looking like some kind of Impressionist painting of a dusky shepherd napping on a haystack.
Christ, he was beautiful. His dark hair wasn’t as long and curly as it was when they were teenagers, but it was disheveled enough (thanks to Henry’s fondness for burying his hands in there in the throes of passion) to remind Henry of the first time he saw Alex at the Olympics and his heart had dropped. Back then he had the self-preservation to stay far away.
He loved Alex. He could never see Alex again.
That was the one contradiction that Henry couldn’t reconcile.
Alex was beginning to stir. Henry braced himself for a look of alarm as Alex realized Henry was still there. Instead, Alex gave him a bleary but incandescent smile, and flopped an arm over Henry’s waist.
“Mmmm, don’t you look pretty in the morning light,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep. “Paris looks good on you. Makes you look all golden instead of your usual English pastiness.”
Henry kissed the top of Alex’s head. “Paris looks good on you, too. Softens some of those dreadful American rough edges.”
“Hey, how about you use that pretty French accent that Monsieur Le Farge or whoever drilled into you at Eton and order us some coffee from room service?”
“Very well, but I’d better mix up a few of my indefinite articles to convince them that I’m the cowboy son of the American President rather than the most brilliant member of the royal family.”
“Yeah, yeah. At least my Spanish is a million times better than yours.”
“No estés tan seguro,” said Henry, ruffling Alex’s hair as he reached for the phone. Don’t be so sure.
“Shit,” groaned Alex, “You really can’t stop being insufferable even in the most romantic city in the world, can you?”
“Romantic, hmmm. I hadn’t noticed,” said Henry, and he dialed room service to order coffee and patisseries in flawless French.
He was aware of the impression he was making on Alex. Alex had certain things that, as he said it, pushed his buttons, and Henry was beginning to sense a pattern. Henry coolly leading his polo team to victory with the grace that comes from a thousand hours of practice made Alex’s eyes grow bright and his face flush. Henry quoting stanzas from Keats as easily as Taylor Swift lyrics caused Alex to unconsciously lick his full lips quite enticingly. And, well, Henry had noticed last night what happened in the restaurant when he had ordered for them and conversed briefly with the waiter. Alex’s eyes had grown dark and dangerous, and his foot had briefly scraped against Henry’s under the table.
“God damn it, how do you keep being so good at things, and why does it drive me so crazy?” Alex had groaned from across the table.
Henry started to make a barb about how it wasn’t hard to be competent next to him, but the look on Alex’s face stopped him.
“You’re gorgeous,” Alex had whispered roughly, and then looked away in surprise at what had come out of his mouth.
It was madness. They had barely eaten their food and drunk more wine than they should have, and laughed, and given each other smoldering looks that terrified him now to remember but had made him feel like a Greek god last night.
And now this morning, Alex was watching him on the phone as Henry was drawing out the breakfast order much longer than necessary. Alex lay on his side, elbow bent, and head propped up on his hand. His hair was comically tousled, but his eyes were dark and intense.
“Come here,” he whispered after Henry hung up the phone, and pulled him back into the very soft, very French bed.
“I was too embarrassed to order the coffee the way you drink it, with almond milk and cinnamon and birthday candles and such.” Henry was teasing but his voice was soft. He let himself be slipped into place alongside Alex, their bodies remembering how to fit together as Alex kissed him hard.
Alex flung his leg over Henry’s hip and stroked his jaw with his free hand. “How long do you think we have, baby?” he whispered.
And now it was Henry’s turn to melt. He felt his limbs suddenly go limp and pliable, his jaw slacken, a strange groan emerge from the back of his throat. Oh, dear lord, what was happening to him? He had never felt this total delicious surrender before.
Alex’s arms tightened around him, testing the leadenness of Henry’s body. “Are you okay?” he murmured, but then he understood. He gently ran his fingers through Henry’s hair and kissed the side of his neck. “Baby,” he said again, slowly and purposefully, and when Henry gasped, he kissed him deeply and carefully.
Henry was caught somewhere between total surrender and shame. No one had ever called him ‘baby’ before. It wasn’t very British, especially not between uni students trying to have a clandestine hook up with Shaan standing outside the door. Damn it, Henry had been so lonely for so long, and he hadn’t even realized it until he and Alex had become friends. He had Bea and Pez, but he hadn’t had this...this tenderness. And he had never thought he would.
Before he could stop it, a small sound, definitely not a sob, escaped Henry’s chest.
Alex carefully rolled them over so he was on top, his fingers still in Henry’s hair. “I’ve got you, baby,” he said, and got back to work thoroughly kissing Henry until, for the first time in his life, his mind went completely blank.
Henry felt like he was floating on a cloud of ether, on the edge of consciousness. He was World War I poet Wilfred Owen, about to go into surgery from which he might never recover, and Alex was his desperate lover saying goodbye. He was Achilles with his Patroclus, buoying each other’s spirits the morning before battle. Or even more improbably, he was a young prince, secretly in love with an American president’s son, and he was being kissed into oblivion in a Parisian hotel, in 2020. Or was it 1820.
Even though they knew the knock on the door was coming, it still startled them both. Alex threw on one of the thick robes crested with the hotel logo while Henry waited in the bathroom for the breakfast to be set up.
Henry saw himself in the mirror. He barely recognized himself. He was flushed and tousled and stubbled, but it was something else. It wasn’t even the dazzle of happiness.
He looked...content. He looked sated. He looked like someone who had been starving and had been allowed a leisurely, delicious feast.
He looked like somebody loved him. And this would not do. It was dangerous enough to be with Alex. He couldn’t allow himself to fully surrender like that again, and to think that Alex actually loved him back.
Henry splashed cold water on his face and tried to scrub away some of the stardust in his eyes. When he walked out of the bathroom, Alex was sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows and swathed in the robe, his hair still trying valiantly to curl. He was sipping coffee from a fine white porcelain cup and staring at a copy of le Monde. He had opened the window, and the curtains were blowing in the breeze. Their breakfast cart had a spray of white flowers in a crystal vase and a basket of plump apricot tarts. It was so beautifully, ridiculously romantic that Henry had to take several breaths to keep himself from taking a running start and joyfully belly flopping on the bed next to Alex.
Alex looked up from the newspaper and gave him a wide smile, showing off those sparkling American teeth that were no doubt the product of years of orthodontia. “Hey, there you are. Does this article say something mean about my mom? I can read the ‘la présidente américaine’ part.”
Henry poured himself a cup of coffee and gracefully slid next to Alex on the bed. He could do this. He could take what Alex had to give and let things run their course without losing himself. He just had to stay in control.
“Let’s see,” said Henry. “It seems to be a general overview of the upcoming election, and who her opponent might be. I don’t understand how you can speak Spanish and not be able to even get the gist of this article.”
“Honestly?” said Alex, “I speak Spanish better than I read it. The curse of growing up bilingual.” He paused and then asked shyly, “Would you read it to me?”
Henry knew what Alex was asking. He was relieved at the prospect of being the one in charge again.
“How American of you, relying on free foreign labor to manage your shortcomings,” said Henry drily, trying to hard a smile. He began reading out loud as Alex nestled into his side, resting his head on Henry’s chest. “La présidente américaine Ellen Claremont est confrontée à une réélection difficile en novembre.”
“Mmmm,” sighed Alex. “I like how Claremont sounds with a French accent. What does my name sound like?”
Henry rolled his eyes at him. “Narcissistic much?” he said, but then he whispered dramatically, “Monsieur Alexandre Claremont-Diaz, premier fils des états-unis.”
Now it was Alex’s turn to go limp with pleasure. “One more time?” he whimpered.
“First could you get something out of my jacket for me? The inside pocket.” Henry tried to sound authoritative. Alex looked at him questioningly but rolled out of bed to search for Henry’s jacket among the pile of clothes on the chair.
He rummaged through the pockets and pulled out Henry’s leather polo gloves. The same ones that Alex wouldn’t let him remove during their ferocious tryst in the Greenwich tack room.
Alex gave a strangled laugh. “You are one devious motherfucker, your highness.” He tossed the gloves on the bed and dove after them.
“Excellent, as long as we have that straight,” said Henry coolly.
He was in over his head. He could keep this under control.
Again, the dueling narratives. But Henry realized he no longer had a choice. He would never say no to Alex. The best thing, the only thing he could do was to hold onto some semblance of control, to never let himself be as completely lost as he had been while Alex whispered “baby” in his ear and kissed him like they were the last two people on earth.
He could love Alex, but Alex must never know, and must never love him back. The first time he ever saw Alex in Brazil he had told himself that if someone like that ever loved him, it would set him on fire. He wasn’t on fire yet, but he could feel the flames growing around him, tantalizing and warm and beautiful now, but dangerous as hell.
But when Alex was in the shower, Henry slipped the copy of le Monde into his jacket.
Paris was the best morning of his life. Paris would ruin everything. Both were true. Henry would just have to deal with that.