Chapter Text
Alex glares across the room at the figure standing out from the crowd in a sparkly jumpsuit and heels for days. Eyes narrowed, he tilts his head and tries to figure out how fucking tall she must be.
Girls and their fucking heels. Alex hates it.
“What’re you looking at?” June asks, sidling up next to him after dancing with some royalty or whatever. Alex wasn’t paying attention. “Oh, right.” June follows his gaze and a grin tugs at her lips. “You know, instead of staring, some people prefer being asked to dance.”
Alex tears his eyes away from the blonde. “Excuse me?”
“You should ask her to dance.” She nudges Alex, and Alex pretends there isn’t a flush rushing up to his face. He opens his mouth to mention every single fucking reason dancing with the blonde is a bad idea—she looks about a foot taller than Alex, objectively uncomfortable for some fucking reason, and Alex is against royalty on, like, principle— but then June nudges him again with widened eyes. “Come on. You know you want to, and I’m sure she’d appreciate it. None of the other fuckers are asking her because of how tall she is.”
For a moment, Alex glares at her. Then, he downs his champagne, shoves it in June’s face and tries to smooth his jacket. “You fucking owe me, June,” he says and ignores the brilliant smile that appears on her face.
“Don’t act so fucking upset about it.”
Alex hates it all the more that she’s right.
i.
The fabric of the jumpsuit is itchy over Henry’s skin.
It’s Bea’s design, down to the wide-legged pants and the conservative top that allows Henry to wear a binder underneath without Mary being any the wiser, but one thing they haven’t considered is the fabric. Once her designs went out to the tailor, Mary intervened with her own fabric, turning Henry into a mirrorball, glittering whenever the light hits him at a different angle. Henry wishes he could cover himself completely so he doesn’t have to see the sparkles.
In the corner, half-hidden from view, at least he can pretend others don’t notice him.
He meant for the wedding to go well. The jumpsuit, the binder, the flats were supposed to make him comfortable so he could support his brother, so he could mingle with the guests without feeling like he wants to rip his skin off. He didn’t consider Mary intervening until he saw the glittery black fabric and matching heels on his bed, and a tearful Bea hugging him with apologies on her lips. For her sake, he tried to smile and pretend it was okay. Like every goddamn day of his stupid life, he pretended he’d be fine being a girl just for a few hours.
With the walls collapsing over him, he wishes desperately he could step out for a moment of respite without Mary descending on him for the “ungrateful princess that she is”.
Henry closes his eyes and digs his nails over his ribs until breathing doesn’t feel too difficult. When he opens his eyes the lights are dimmed, couples are dancing around their duke and duchess, and him in the corner, back pressed against a wall, alone just like he was meant to be. It’s not like he can stomach dancing even with another man if all they’ll do is overcompensate for being shorter than him.
Footsteps approach his corner. Henry doesn’t pay them any mind at first—it must be a server or something—but then they slow down, and then there’s a shadow over the sequins of his dress. The black fabric of a jacket dangling from brown fingers enter his vision; Henry has to blink his eyes up to find a man with a cheeky grin and deliciously brown curls watching him through long lashes. “Your highness,” he drawls out in an American accent that turns Henry’s mouth dry and kicks his smile up a notch. “Here I thought it was too warm but maybe I was wearing one too many layers. I’m sure your brother would be infinitely upset if we let his sister shiver to death at his own wedding.”
Henry’s stomach shrivels slightly— brother, he thinks desperately, I’m his brother, though this man has no way of knowing that—but most of all he finds himself staring at bottomless brown eyes with parted lips. He doesn’t even have to think to know exactly who the face belongs to. He’d followed Alexander Claremont-Diaz through the tabloids enough to recognize him anywhere.
Though, vaguely, he thinks none of those pictures did justice to the dip of his chin dimple or the curl of his hair behind his ears, and if Henry stares for just a second he thinks he’s justified.
He forces his eyes back to the jacket. “I’m not—” he tries but the word gets stuck in his throat. Cold doesn’t begin to describe the churn of his stomach but the jacket feels like a lifeline anyway, something to give at least a piece of himself back to him. His fingers ache to grab it. “I couldn’t take it from you,” he says instead and Alexander lets out a snort that sounds so informal Henry wants to bottle it up.
“I’m gonna be carrying it on my arm otherwise. You’d be doing me a favor.” Henry has a feeling it isn’t the entire truth, but Alexander is looking at him with a flicker of hope in his eyes and he can’t deny himself this smallest pleasure. With shaky fingers he takes the jacket and lets Alexander wrap it around his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves that stand a few inches above his wrists. Henry feels his shoulders relax just a tad when the sequins disappear under the smooth black fabric. “I’m Alex, by the way,” he says casually, smoothing the lapels of the jacket and offering Henry what he can only describe as a sunshine smile. “ Not Mr. Claremont-Diaz. I’m not old enough to be a mister yet.”
Despite himself, Henry’s lips curl up to mirror Alex’s. He hugs himself over the jacket, savoring the feel of the fabric underneath his fingertips. “Noted.”
“Good.” Alex’s hands dip to Henry’s, holding him loosely around the palms but Henry feels his heart flutter with butterflies anyway. “Wanna dance with me?” he asks so suddenly Henry has to blink. “If you’re not too cold for it. Thought we might wanna get those heels dirty, your highness.” Alex nudges the tip of his foot and looks up at him with the kind of hope Henry isn’t used to. He remembers just weeks ago, at another royal event, some rich playboy asking for his hand with a sneer on his lips and a grumble about his height. He remembers the suits stretched on taut shoulders and boys standing on their tiptoes as if simply being shorter than a princess— prince, prince, prince , he repeats desperately—makes them unworthy. Yet there’s no trace of indignancy or pride in Alex’s eyes, no trace of anything but two hands holding him and a jacket wrapped around him like a promise. He finds himself nodding before he can even properly think about it, and then there’s Alex again, pulling him in his arms this time, leading him to the dance floor like they belong there. Henry stumbles over his heels—still, to this day, he's unused to them—yet follows Alex anyway. He thinks, vaguely, that he’d follow Alex anywhere at that moment if he only asked.
“So stiff,” Alex jokes once he gets his arms around Henry’s waist. Henry stiffens further as if on cue and earns a laugh from Alex. “Relax, your highness. It’s just a dance. I promise I won’t step on your toes.”
“My toes—” Henry chokes out, and then clamps his mouth shut. Right. Just for a few seconds, he forgot he's meant to play the meek princess in heels and sparkly dresses with the press of Alex’s fingers to his side. He stumbles into another step, the heel snagging against a dip on the dance floor and lets out a quiet yelp. “It isn’t exactly my toes I’m worried about.” He stares at his feet just so he isn’t the one stepping on Alex’s shoes, but then a finger tugs his chin up.
“Just look at me, then.”
“Alex, I won’t—”
“Sweetheart.” The pet name slips from Alex’s tongue. It must’ve surprised him too because his shoulders tighten for a second but there’s Henry, staring at him like he put the goddamn sun in the sky. A smile flickers on his face. “Just follow my lead, okay? I’m not gonna let you fall.” He takes Henry’s hand in his and leads him further onto the dance floor, and Henry believes him because simply, he wants to. He squeezes Alex’s hand.
“I think you might be overestimating your abilities.”
“Bullshit.” Henry’s heel snags on the floor again and Alex just laughs as he steadies him. That sound, Henry thinks, he could listen to it on repeat without getting tired of it. “See?” he whispers, holding Henry’s chest close to his, “I got you.”
Minutes later, when they take a tumble and fall over the wedding cake, Henry thinks just for a moment, I told you so. Then, his eyes meet Alex’s, covered in cake head to toe and he doesn’t have it in him to be mad. With white frosting covering the sequins of his dress and Alex’s jacket snug around his shoulders he finds himself laughing, a buoyant sound he didn’t even think he had left in him after Mary forced him into the dress.
No matter what the tabloids spun this moment as, Henry knew he’d cherish this memory, this one good moment to come out of Philip’s horrifying wedding.
(“Stop fucking grinning,” June says, poking Alex in the ribs. Alex rips his eyes away from his phone and glares at his sister. “You know Zahra’s gonna lose her mind when she sees the news, right?”
Alex’s grin widens. He looks down at his phone, the tabloid photo bright against his screen. The princess with frosting smeared over her face and laughing like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Alex doesn’t even care that he forgot to take his jacket back. “Worth it.”)