Someday Soon I’ll See You (But Now You’re Out Of Sight) - MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays - Red White & Royal Blue (2024)

Chapter Text

Henry’s phone woke him up half past two in the morning.

Well, no, that’s not quite right. His ringer had been off for years, ever since he moved away from the palace and decided he didn’t want any more of their sh*t. His phone would be incapable of waking him up. But, like always, he was already awake, and saw the screen flashing with an unknown caller ID.

He could just let the call go to voicemail. It wouldn’t be the first time, certainly.

But then—wait. Wait, that wasn’t an American number. Someone from England was calling him, someone he didn’t already have in his phone. Good lord, had the queen finally kicked it?

Slowly, Henry answered the call.

”Hello?” He asked, his voice scratchy and low.

The other person sounded nervous through the phone, his voice reedy and high. “Um, hi. Hi, hello. Is this, uh, Prince Henry?”

Oh, God, did a fan get his number somehow? He guessed statute of limitations for pity privacy was finally up.

”Yes,” he relented. “What do you need?”

”Uh, I’m calling from Oxford University, I know you’ve been corresponding with my professor, and she’s sorry she couldn’t call you herself but they’re meeting about this right now, oh, I hope I didn’t wake you up, isn’t it the middle of the night in the states? Christ, I’ve just woken up a prince, I’m so—“

“Mate,” Henry interrupted. “Just—hang on.”He sat up in bed and clicked on the lamp on his nightstand. His room illuminated suddenly, the familiar picture—clean and simple furniture, books piled upon shelves, windows taking up the majority of the walls. The stretch of bed to Henry’s right covered in pillows and laundry and other random sh*t to keep it from being as unbearably empty as it wanted to be.

Henry said, “Alright. Now explain to me what you need.”

”Okay. Um, alright.” A shuffling of papers on the other line. “So, you’ve been talking with Dr. Moran about introducing a class on queer literature and the history behind it in the Oxford curriculum. Two days ago, they decided to approve it for the fall semester. Which is, uh, in three weeks. So they’re having a hard time finding a professor for the class.”

”Okay,” Henry said slowly. “That’s good news, but why do you need me?”

“Uh, because...” The no-named reedy voice took a breath. “Because Dr. Moran wants you to come and teach it.”

Henry pulled the phone back from his ear and stared at it, like that would do anything to make the words make sense. None of the e-mails or letters with Dr. Moran had even implied him taking the position, as far as he could remember. And surely there were other, more qualified professors lined up. So what, the pray tell f*ck, was she asking him for?

He turned his attention back to the phone. “I’m sorry, but what?”

”Uh, I don’t really know, sir, your highness, your grace? I don’t know your title—“

”Just call me Henry,” he dismissed. He’d always hated those f*cking titles. “Now, what on God’s earth are you talking about?”

”I—I think I’ve been as clear as I can,” the caller stammered. “Dr. Moran believes you’ll be the best fit for the position, she’s sent you an e-mail with all the details, and—and she wants you to call her as soon as you have made your decision.”

Henry took in a breath. Held it for a second. Let it out as a sigh.

“What is your name?” He asked.

”Uh. Vincent.”

Henry nodded, although Vincent couldn’t see. “Right. Vincent. I need you to tell Dr. Moran that I’m sorry, but that I can’t just run off to England and become a professor. Tell her to search for someone else, and that I wish my luck.”

Vincent was silent for a tense moment. Quietly, he said, “Dr. Moran said you’d say that.”

”Of course she did,” Henry muttered. Someone stubborn enough to get a queer history course into Oxford would have a million different ways to try to get him to teach it.

”And she said that when you said that, I need to tell her so she could e-mail you later about it. So, uh, expect an e-mail when she gets out of the meeting. And I’m sorry to have woken you.”

Henry balled his hand into a fist to keep it from coming up and ripping out his hair at the root. “Is that all you need?”

”Yes, sir—Henry.” Vincent said. He seemed to fumble around the name.

”Right. Bye, then.”

He hung up before Vincent could say anything else.

His phone fell onto the comforter with a softflump. He pressed his face into his hands, making a noise somewhere between a breath and a groan. He could turn off the lamp and try to go back to sleep, but...

Yeah, that wouldn’t work. Never had before.

But he couldn’t bear to lie awake in this dusty, ancient room anymore. So he slid out of bed, careful not to wake Kelly, the terrier asleep on the bed. He walked to the kitchen, a cup of Earl Grey already on his mind.

He made himself a cup absently, without turning on the lights. He’d lived here long enough that the dull glow of the street lamps outside was all he needed to guide his hands, then his body as he sat down at the kitchen table, cupping his mug against his face. He let out a shaky breath and stared into the darkness.

Oxford. Why would they want him at Oxford?

Well, he was a prince, that was probably damn good press. He imagined his face plastered onto every pamphlet that went out, bold letters claiming his name for the university. A member of the Royal Family, not just an alumni, but a goddamned professor. That, and the fact that he had been the one so damn insistent on getting the course there at all. Maybe they assumed he hadwantedthe position from the beginning.

But on his part, why would he go? He didn’t have a job, here, unless writing endless poetry that he never published counted. And he had only made a couple of friends, who he never saw much anyways. And it did get bloody hot here in the summers, hotter than any in England.

Okay. Stop. These all sounded like solid reasons to accept the position.

But he looked up, scanning the shadows and dim outlines of the room, and a reason to stay blotted out all else.

He couldn’t leave this damn house.

He hadn’t changed much about it in the eight years since. A new stove when the old one broke, different books on the coffee table, one less desk in the office because Bea said he had to do one thing to at leasttryand stop seeing him everywhere. But otherwise, it was all the same—green curtains still hung, the ones that Henry would fling wide open to wake Alex up in the mornings, watch his face scrunch and his hair shake as he retreated into the bedclothes. The sitting room remained, the couch and two chairs facing the quaint little fireplace. The bedroom hadn’t changed a bit. Alex’s CD collection was still stored under the bed, where it had been ever since they moved in. Sometimes, he would walk in on Alex on the ground, half of his body under the bed, clawing through the dust for some old Blondie track.

Not anymore.

So Henry couldn’t accept.

Because accepting would mean leaving, would mean losing this little sanctuary where he could live inside his memories. It would mean watching someone gut his home and cast a new coat of paint over it, erase all of the history in the cracked floorboards and wide windows. And that would be too much for Henry. He was so close to empty, but to lose this last scrap of Alex would scoop out whatever remained of him, and Henry would collapse in on himself, an empty shell, crumbling and weathering and dry.

Though he supposed he could be called that already, and most people would agree.

Alex had told him, once, that he loved every version of Henry, even the one that spent days withdrawn, angry and dark and stuck in the shadows of his mind. Maybe that was the only version that was left.

Henry rinsed out his mug and went back to bed, staring at the wall until the sun rose.

——

The next days passed as they always did—reading, writing, drinking more tea than any man should be able to, legally or biologically. Keeping up with the shelter records, though he’d long since hired managers to keep everything running. It was more of a principal, than anything—the shelter gave him something to do, even if he didn’t have to do it.

He answered a call from his mother, texted Bea back days after she had messaged him.

In the first weeks, people kept up with him. He couldn’t hold up his end of relationships anymore more, and it seemed like the accepted that. Pez called daily, just to check in, his coworkers at the shelter visited, and even his old friends from uni reached out.

But as the months, the years passed, people started to give up. Henry supposed it was only fair—no one could be expected to stay close to him when there was barely any ofhimleft. He had nothing to offer, and people grew tired of playing friends with a husk. After a year or two, most people expected him to be Henry again. How could he tell them that Henry had died that night, too? How could he tell them that a year, two years, wasn’t near enough time to close this gaping hole in him? How could he look his friends in the eyes, the ones who had known the carefully constructed Henry he presented to the world, and tell them that he wasn’t up to the pretense anymore, and spirit simply wasn’t in him?

He couldn’t. And they couldn’t be expected to know. So Henry let himself remain, shriveled and gray, a shadow of what he used to be.

Almost a week after the call, Henry had his therapy appointment. He liked his therapist, the one he transferred to when he moved to New York. Named Mara, she was funny, casual, like they were real friends and he wasn’t paying her to talk to him. The times he had whispered confessions that he was a danger to himself, that some days it was all too sharp, that many times he’d looked to the knife block on the counter and thoughtit would be so easy, she had been able to help him without admitting him. She was exactly who you’d expect from a middle aged New Yorker—strong, street smart, and compassionate under a hard layer of concrete.

The first part of the session was the usual nothings he spouted—I got more tea from the store, the diner doubled wine prices, Kelly peed on the sheets again. But she knew there was something more. She always knew.

So, he relented. He sat forwards in her ridiculously comfortable chair, his hands clasped on his knees, and said, “I was offered a position at Oxford. As a professor.”

Some people would have smiled and congratulated him. She was a therapist, so she asked, “And?”

Henry took in a breath. “I’m not going to take it. I’m sure they’ll find someone far more qualified.”

Mara’s mouth pinched. “They reached out to you. That means they want you.” Henry shrugged. She continued, “You know that. So tell me the real reason you don’t want to take it.”

“I’d have to leave,” Henry muttered after a long moment. “And I’d have to...”

”You’d have to sell the house,” Mara finished.

Henry let out a dry, bitter chuckle. “Can’t very well move to England without moving house. I could always keep it, just lock it up, but I’d barely ever be there. No matter what, I’d be leaving my home.”

And yes, Mara was never the enabling, coddling type, but he was expecting something a bit more understanding than, “Well, what if it’s time?”

Henry looked up, met her dark eyes. They were entirely sincere. “What?”

”I said—“

”No, I heard what you said. I mean, what the hell are you on about?”

Once, Henry might have apologized for snapping. Not anymore. Mara knew that, at least, and wasn’t fazed. She’d seen him far, far worse than this.

Her tone even, she continued. “Listen, there is no timeline for grief. I know that, and so do you. We’ve talked about it before, and it bears no repeating, but at the same time...Henry, I think this is a change for you to start living again.” Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Mara went on. “I know you’re not just bed-bound anymore, and that you’re doing so much better. Honestly, you could go on like this for the rest of your life, managing the shelter and going to the grocery store. So, so many people who lose their spouse don’t ever move past that. But I think that there’s something in you that wants more than this, and I think the house is the last thing holding you back.”

Henry didn’t say a thing. He bit the inside of his cheek, found comfort in the familiar metallic taste of blood.

Mara leaned forwards. “You don’t have to, alright? You don’t have to go. You can stay here, watch over the shelter and shoot the sh*t with me twice a month. But it makes me sad to think of you floating around that house like a ghost, making your home in memories. You have a chance to actuallylive, Henry, and do something you love. Isn’t this something Alex wished for you?”

Henry would have protested, because he hated those words, but this was something different. So many times, people told Henry thatAlex wouldn’t have wanted this as if it would mean anything. None of them knew Alex, they didn’t know a damn thing about what he would have wanted. But this is different. Mara was drawing on words Alex had really said to him, things published and real andtrue. Words straight from Alex’s own heart.

Still, he couldn’t agree. To give this up, to givehimup, that last piece...it might just kill him.

With a sigh, Henry said, “I’ll think about it.”

Mara didn’t seem entirely satisfied, but she leaned back and let the conversation fizzle out. When Henry left ten minutes early, she didn’t say a word about it.

Jumping off cliffs is kind of my thing, Alex had said once.

Is this cliff too high, Alex? Will this fall be the one that breaks me?

——

That night, Henry sat at the lone desk in their—his—office. The e-mail that Dr. Moran had sent was right there in front of him—salary, scheduling, curriculum, the works. The second one was beneath it, which was a two-line message that called him a bastard twice and a genius three times.

His right hand was on the keyboard. His left was on a wooden box, shut. He ran a thumb over the latch, then carefully, like it was glass, opened it.

Inside were notes. Scribbles, more than anything, written on any scrap of paper around—sticky notes, receipts, torn bits of napkins. Every one held Alex’s handwriting.

It was something Alex had started to do once they’d moved in together, hiding the notes. Henry would open the cabinet for a mug and one would fall out, or he’d spot a doodle taped beneath his mouse. Every week or so, he used to find one, tucked away in some spot he frequented.

Usually, it was something dumb—

I’ll take David to the vet if you do the dishes,one said in Alex’s messy scrawl.

If you still think you’re a Slytherin I’ll steal your Jane Austen,read another.

More than a few said something along the lines ofThe minute you find this, f*ck me.

—but sometimes, sometimes, sometimes,

Alex would write him something beautiful.

Tiny love letters, single snippets of thought, threads cut from the most gorgeous tapestry ever woven. Something simple asyou’re beautiful or poetic asthe current was never strong enough to keep me from you. Love on paper.

Henry hadn’t kept them when Alex was alive. He should have. He should have cherished each one, hoarded them, pressed them so close to his chest that he absorbed the ink and no one else could ever read those words. But he’d just smiled at them then tossed them in the bin, as if he would get a million more.

After Alex was gone, Henry would still find them, the ones left over.

(He found the first one two weeks after coming home: Ice cream date this Sunday?It took Bea and Catherine an hour to get him off the floor.)

He kept each one since then, though he was sure he’d found the last one three years ago. He had about fifteen, now, laid carefully in this little wooden box.

He fished through the papers until he found what he was looking for—a scrap of looseleaf, and on it, in blue ink, the words,You’ve been giving yourself away, more. I’m proud of you.

With the e-mail spread before him, alongside the Oxford homepage and his retailer’s website, Henry couldn’t help but think that maybe there was nothing left of him to give.

Nothing but this.

Henry bit back the clawing in his chest. Slowly, he typed out a response to Dr. Moran. She didn’t need to look for any other professors.

When he hit send, he thought he might collapse in on himself. But, no. No, there was still one more thing to do.

With shaking hands, Henry listed the brownstone for sale.

——

He didn’t stop crying until Kelly nudged her snout under his hand, asking him to feed her. He let out a wet laugh—no matter what happened, he would always be bound to the schedule of a ten pound animal.

”Alright, girl. Let’s get you some dinner.”

He latched the box, stood on shaky legs, and left the office.

He shut the door on his way out.

——

Mara said he was repressing his memory of that night. She said that he needed to stop, because repressing only worked for so long, and then when the memory returned, he wouldn’t be able to control it.

Henry brushed her off and assured her that he was working on it. A lie.

Trouble was, she was right. He knew she wasright.

He knew, because as he dozed on the couch, Kelly curled at his side, the memory returned in full f*cking force.

It played on the back of his eyelids, so vivid and real he felt like he was there again. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but live out the night that killed him.

——

It was nothing, really. Nothing at all.

They had been coming back from some stupid charity gala. Henry couldn’t even remember what the charity was for. It wasn’t necessary—Henry could have just donated the money directly from his ridiculously full bank account, and they would have stayed home on the couch in their pajamas, and Alex would have kissed his jaw before turning on the television, and the car would be parked on the street, and none of this would have happened.

But they went, and it did.

They were both vaguely tipsy, driven by a relatively new PPO. God, Henry couldn’t remember his name, not after all these years. Alex was in the front seat, leaving Henry alone in the left-rear. Henry had whined and told Alex to sit next to him, but Alex had claimed Henry’s PPO’s had no taste for music and he needed to be up front to DJ.

He should have fought harder. He should have made Alex sit next to him, buckled him in twice.

But he didn’t.

“It’s—listen, I am not drunk,” Alex was saying, his words just the tiniest bit slurred. “I’m always like this, you know that.”

“I know,” Henry replied, “that you’re a loudmouth arse, and the champagne certainly hasn’t helped.”

“Same sh*t, different day.”

Henry laughed. He laughed at his husband, not knowing it would be the last time.

Alex turned around in his seat to look Henry in the face—

If you had just stayed sitting then maybe, maybe, maybe—

And he opened his mouth, his smile wide and crinkling, his eyes shut in preparation for a laugh or maybe a sneeze. He started to say something, and then—

Everything exploded.

No, not quite. The pavement was intact. The buildings were perfectly fine, not even a scratch on the walls. The streetlights glowed as bright as ever, reflecting off of the wet concrete, the puddles.

Those lights harshly illuminated the scene in front of Henry. It took him only a second to process it all, the horrific picture before him, but it felt like an eternity.

The car, back upright after what felt like a million flips into the void. Airbags, useless f*cking airbags dangling helplessly out of the shattered windows. Shattered, Henry knew because a gigantic piece of glass was sticking out of his f*cking throat, and it hurt to breathe but he did it anyways, although what he saw next made him wish he could stop forever.

The nameless PPO, slumped over himself, his head turned at a sickeningly unnatural angle. A passing headlight glinted off of his glassy brown eyes, staring at the steering wheel, unseeing.

And next to him, in the front seat, twisted so that he was crumpled against the car door, because the roof had caved in and it was crushing the front of him, his legs, his torso, half of his chest—

“Alex?” Henry forced, barely more than a whisper. The shard of glass seared with his voice.

Alex didn’t respond. Henry could hear him breathing, a wet, rattling sound, just like his father. A death rattle, he remembered it was called. A death rattle.

With shaking, broken fingers, he took off his seatbelt. His chest hurt more than he ever thought it could, but he didn’t f*cking care. He ignored the stabbing pain in his leg, his right arm, as he crawled over the center console, little pieces of glass sticking into his skin. He squeezed into the tiny gap between the seats, twisted, twisted. He could see Alex head on, now, they were facing one another.

His face was bleeding from everywhere. His mouth, his nose, a gash on his forehead. The roof covered most of his lower half, but it was okay, people could survive without legs, he would be okay, it would be okay—

But, no. No, because the airbag hadn’t deployed fast enough, and Alex’s skull had collided with the shattering window. Henry couldn’t see the back of his head entirely, but he could see the crimson streaming down the car door, he could see flecks of bone in Alex’s hair, white against brown. And that was enough.

“Alex,” Henry said again, louder, against the piece of glass stuck in his throat.

Alex took in a sharp breath, and his eyes found their ways to Henry’s, so full of fear, of agony. For just a second, they lit up in recognition. He blinked at Henry once, twice, his chest stuttering, mouth twitching.

Then, his eyes rolled back into his head, and Alex’s entire body fell limp.

Henry may have screamed. He wasn’t sure. Or maybe he just whispered Alex’s name over and over, ghosting feather-light fingertips over his body, his beautiful, god-like, mangled body. Maybe he did both. Maybe he did neither. It was so long ago.

Sound rushed onto the scene, and lights, so many lights. Lights shined directly into his eyes, over Alex, over the PPO who Henry hadn’t even stopped to consider. Lights blasted over him as someone or a group of someone’s or God himself removed the crushed roof and half of one side from the car, exposing Henry to the open air. He didn’t look up. He never looked away from Alex.

Then there were hands on him, so many hands, pulling him away, and he didn’t fight back, he couldn’t, his eyes were locked on his husband. He was helpless to do anything but see.

But—but wait, they were dragging him away, half-carrying him towards what was probably an ambulance, a stretcher, a team of people trying to ensure he didn’t die. They were dragging him towards that, and away from Alex.

“Alex,” he croaked. Nobody stopped, nobody heard him. Again, louder, he called, “Alex!”

People were whispering to him, but he couldn’t hear them. He was shouting, now, or at least he thought he was. A million cries of “Alex!” against the glass sticking out of him, the blood pouring down his neck and soaking his stupid f*cking suit.

He fought against the hands, but he was so weak, and there were so many, but he wasn’t about to lose another goddamn fight. Not now.

Maybe it was because his skin was slick with blood, or maybe he was possessed with an animalistic desperation, but Alex’s name ripped itself out of his throat in a broken roar, and somehow he wrenched his body out of the arms holding him.

He tried to run. He really, really did. He would have done anything to hold Alex one more time.

He made it halfway back to the car before his legs gave out, his mind so overloaded with pain that his vision went white. When reality came back into view, he was lying on something, a stretcher, his arms pinned down as he was lifted and loaded into the back of an ambulance. He wanted to scream, fight, do anything, but he couldn’t move a muscle. He was stone.

Paramedics started working fiercely on him, on the glass in his throat, the gash lacerating his ribs. He craned his head to get one last glimpse of the world before everything overloaded him and he fell into temporary oblivion.

He saw the car on the other side of the street, crushed beyond recognition, glossy black paint against the dark blue skyline. And he saw four people carefully lift something out of it, something limp and barely recognizable as human.

Alex.

When they brought out the body bag, Henry’s world slammed into black.

——

They told him, later, that it had been a shipping truck that had crashed into them. They lost thousands of dollars worth of merchandise.

And Henry lost everything.

——

When he woke up, he expected there to be a moment of disbelief. Denial. He thought maybe he’d sit straight up in bed and demand to see his husband, because there was no way Alex could die, no way in hell.

But when he opened his eyes, registered the tubes in his hands and up his nose, the knowledge had already settled heavy in his bones.

The doctors told him his injuries, ran him down on treatment, stared at him with pitying eyes. These people had seen his husband's body after death, maybe even thought that Henry would join him there. But they did their jobs, and whether or not Henry wanted to be, he was alive.

Alone.

They handed some papers to his mother and held their tongues on their condolences. Then Henry was left with his family, looking between each other, trying to figure out how to break news to him that he already knew.

Henry let out a breath, wincing as it pulled at his ribs. His family turned to look at him, their faces pale, their hands shaking.

Slowly, he raised his left hand to his chest. With his right hand, he peeled off the medical tape that was sealing his wedding ring to his hand. Then, gently, he twisted it off of his finger and pressed it to his lips.

A new dose of drugs hit his veins, probably called for when a nurse heard the commotion. In a different world, he might have fought the waves of unconsciousness rolling over him, but he welcomed the darkness with open arms. Floating in the waters of sleep meant he didn’t have to carry this weight in his chest.

When he woke up, someone had been kind enough to put it back on. It never left again.

——

Henry didn’t have a hand in planning the funeral. They wouldn't let him see any plans or notes, but the couple of times he caught glimpses on Zahra's laptop of lists about guests and flowers and f*cking morgue costs, he thought he might be sick. Instead, he spent the days up to it alternating between staring blankly at the ceiling, crying until he was sure there was no water left in him, and desperately trying to convince the nurses to let him attend.

(He didn’t want to, not really. It would tear him apart. But at the same time, he had to say goodbye. His soul was pulverizing itself with the contradiction, two halves of a man ripping the other to shreds.)

After a few hours, he managed to pull himself together enough to take stock of who all was there—his mother, of course, as well as Bea and Philip. Martha was at home taking care of the children, but she sent her love. Shaan was apparently rushing between buildings, trying to sort out press releases and discharge papers. Pez had rented a hotel room nearby, and June and Nora visited a few times. His grandmother had sent a card.

He knew it was because they didn’t want him to feel alone.

But he was more alone than he ever had been.

——

They refused to discharge him until an hour before the funeral. The fact that they discharged him at all was probably largely attributed to Shaan and his ability to make oddly specific threats.

He didn’t have time to go home and change, so Shaan brought a brand-new suit to the hospital room. The pressed fabric was another punch to the gaping wound in Henry’s heart.

He let Shaan help him dress, comb his hair on the jet, guide him carefully to his assigned seat. God, the casket was already there. Who had handled it? Who had held his husband’s cold body in their arms and placed him into a bed of wooden planks? Were they gentle? Did they even know the soul of the man they sent off?

The words were beautiful, he remembered, even though he didn’t remember what they actually were within a week.

Then someone was nudging his arm, and his breath caught in his throat. Oh. It was his turn to say goodbye.

Every step shot pain through his ankle, the one that was broken or torn or whatever the f*ck. It was nothing compared to the agony swirling around the empty cavity where his heart used to be.

He touched the wood, imagined Alex sleeping within. He pictured the way his mouth would slip slightly open, the flutter of his eyelids between dreams, the brown curls of hair flopping over his forehead. He wondered, briefly, if he opened the casket, how much of that he would still find there.

He didn’t know how to choose careful, poignant words to send off his husband with. He could feel eyes on him, cameras, too. And his leg was shaking, and his lungs ached, and he was running out time.

Gently, he leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to the polished wood. Dreamed of the lips that it should have been.

Through the pained clench of his jaw, he whispered, “Rest easy, love.”

His fingers clenched on the wooden lid. He never wanted to leave, he had to get out of there, he couldn’t say goodbye to Alex, he needed to grab onto the wood and never let go, he had to run far away, and it was all tearing him apart. Bea must have seen that, because she hurried over and grabbed his elbow, steering him back to his chair. He could feel himself crying, and somehow the feeling was both far away and all-consuming.

He collapsed into his chair, and the contradictions tore at his skin, and the service went on.

——

There were people who tried to talk to him. After all, he was next of kin. It was supposed to be his job to greet guests and accept condolences. But somehow, he found himself in the back of a plush car, squeezed between his mother and Bea. They were holding his hands. He wasn’t sure if he was holding them back.

Time passed, as it always did. He was shuffled between car and car and plane and car again. Someone else handled his luggage. Probably Shaan. Maybe someone else. Henry couldn’t recognize any of the faces around him.

Finally, just after dusk, the car pulled up onto a half-familiar New York street. Henry raised his head, wrenched his gaze away from the floor of the car.

Out of the window, he could just see it—the brick walls, the concrete stoop, the green curtains draped over the wide windows. It was the brownstone. It was home.

Bea opened the door for him and helped him out with a hand on his arm. He swayed in the street, almost fell.

Catherine went first, unlocked the door. Henry walked slowly to it, each step grating and pained. The wooden door was staring him in the face, an image of all he’d lost. A latch on something he didn’t want to open.

Catherine went inside and started flicking on lights, letting the dogs out of their kennel. There was still a bit of clutter, since they hadn’t cleaned before leaving that night. Henry’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of a dirty pan in the sink, the one Alex had made biscuits on the morning of the gala.

He couldn’t do this.

”Yes, you can,” Bea said, and he realized he’d muttered it underneath his breath. He didn’t have it in him to be embarrassed.

”No,” he said, stepping back from the door. “No, no, I can’t.”

”It’s just a step,” Bea said, her hand on his arm the only thing holding him in place. She was pressing him forwards, ever so slightly. “Come on, just a step.”

His breathing was coming out loud, now, scraping past his vocal cords and making every exhale a half-moan. He shook his head, swallowed, did everything but walk into that house full of ghosts.

How was Henry supposed to walk through that door? He couldn’t go into the house, because then he would have to face the shadows of a man, the emptiness, the side of the bed that would be cold when Henry touched it. He would be faced with everything he couldn’t bring his mind to fully comprehend. Even now, when he knew it wasn’t true, it felt like every buzz of his phone was a text from Alex, like every opening door would yield his shining face.

This would be the last rung as he descended full-out into the depths of darkness. And he just couldn’t do it.

Tears were falling down his face, hot and stinging the stitches on his throat. Bea was urging him forwards, and Catherine was there, too, coaxing him from the inside. Why didn’t they understand? Why didn’t they see how impossible it would be to cross this threshold?

But Bea pushed him too hard, and he stumbled forwards, and his good foot caught him on instinct. Straight over the hardwood.

That step propelled him forwards, and he walked through the door like a phantom, like he was floating. His eyes took in the kitchen, the living room, those damn green curtains that he didn’t evenlike, Alex was the one that picked them out, and Henry had let him because they didn’t clash too poorly with the furniture and because he loved his husband, he loved him, and now he was gone. This empty shell of a home was proof.

He drifted through the foyer, the kitchen, past the dog bed where Alex would lay with David and scratch his ears. He made it to the couch and all but collapsed onto it, joints stiff, skin crawling. He curled up in a tight ball, gathering what was left of him around his kicked in ribs and recalcitrant heart, not caring as it pulled at his injuries. The pain was so far away, he didn’t think he’d feel something ever again.

His family was kneeling at his side, and maybe Philip was there, too. Henry couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t be sure of anything.

His hands to his face, Henry fell into something like sleep, or maybe just a static inbetween.

——

Henry woke up the next day, hollow and drained. Someone had taken off his jacket and tie, carried him to bed. He took in a breath, reached out on instinct to his right.

And found only thin air.

Not even the empty sheets that should have been there, shouldn’t have been there, were there anyways. When he opened his eyes, he realized they had put him on the wrong side of the bed. Alex’s side.

Nausea rushed over him so hard he gagged. He threw the sheets off and flung to his feet, even as stabbing pain shot through his injuries. For a gut-wrenching moment, he thought he would be sick.

The door opened, and Philip appeared, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, less pressed and pampered than Henry had seen him in years. His eyes widened when he caught sight of Henry awake.

”Oh,” he said stupidly. He shuffled in place. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

Henry tried to say something, but he couldn’t coax his voice into working, so he kept his lips firmly pressed together against the torrent of heavy sickness swirling around his chest.

Philip wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll go fetch Bea,” he muttered.

He did, and Bea helped Henry change clothes, made him a full English while he sat at the kitchen table, staring down at the wooden grain. There was still crushed pepper stuck in the deepest grooves from dinner two weeks ago.

He didn’t eat. Eventually, Bea took his plate away anyways. She took him to the living room, where Catherine and Philip were sitting with two cups of coffee warming their hands.

Around dinner, he looked up to the door, half-expecting Alex to walk in from a long day of working at court with his jacket slung over one elbow and papers falling from his briefcase.

The door remained stubbornly shut, and Henry went back to bed. On his own side.

——

He didn’t remember much after that first day home. He remembered hushed conversations outside his bedroom door, food brought to him three times a day, Kelly and David sniffing around the brownstone for the missing soul.

Bea sat with him, often, Catherine by her side. Henry wondered if this is how his mother had felt when Arthur died, this endless crushing that pinned him to the bed like the gravity of a thousand earths, and asked himself how he could have ever blamed her for shutting down. He would do the same in a heartbeat. If he could, he would close his eyes right now and never open them again.

More surprising was Philip. He was the one taking care of errands, fetching groceries and calling into the shelter to keep it running smoothly while Henry disintegrated into the bedclothes. But when he wasn’t taking care of business, he would settle into the bedroom and be with Henry. He didn’t try to talk, like Bea and Catherine, or watch him with sad eyes. He was silent, most of the time, and that was good. Good as it could be.

Philip left first, two weeks after he arrived. On his way out, he looked to Henry with something earnest in his eyes and said, “You should have had longer. And I’m sorry for the time that I took from you.”

Henry was too stunned to respond. Philip didn’t wait for an answer, just squeezed Henry’s bruised shoulder and walked out the door, stepping into a cab just as the door shut and cut off the noise of Manhattan.

——

His memories from the first year—they were all screwed up, scrambled around. Maybe Catherine went home the day after Philip, or maybe it took her a whole month. But she left, attending to duties Mary simply couldn’t keep up with anymore, and Henry was left alone with Bea.

Bless her soul, she did her best keeping Henry alive. Did a damn good job of it, too. For a princess, she was exceptional at running everyday errands and taking care of a fully grown man. She cooked, cleaned, threw glass bottles at the photographers outside the house. She was always there when Henry woke up with the feeling of dark curls still fresh on his hands, when he found himself sunk to the ground sobbing because he dropped a towel.

She went with him to the doctor’s office after a month or two, where he would be getting his casts off and his last check-up. He registered dimly that this was the first time he’d been outdoors in ages.

The sun was too bright in his eyes, the honking horns and shouting pedestrians far too loud. Still, he went, sitting in a waiting room even as the sharp stench of disenfectant stabbed at his senses.

Bea said some things, the doctor said some things, he was handed a pamphlet for a grief counseling center, and then, somehow, he was on the train home, his casts off and the stitches removed from his throat. He ran a hand absently over the raised, ridged flesh there. He hoped it would scar permanently.

A camera went off as he left the subway, and Bea wanted to go find the owner and punch them, but Henry held her to him with a shake of his head. He was about to emerge into the city again, and he needed his sister to hold onto as his senses were battered and bruised. She seemed to understand, and together, they went home.

——

His face was plastered across the Daily Mail within the hour. He really did look awful—bags under his eyes so dark he looked bruised, a thick line of white slicing through the skin of his throat and jaw, a vacant, hallowed look in his eyes. The comments just looked like jumbled of letters, so he didn’t protest when Bea took his phone away and blocked the website.

——

She hugged him no less than a million times, ensuring him she was only a call away. And then Henry was alone, standing in the kitchen like a fool, not sure what to do next.

David waddled over to him, Kelly tight on his heels. He blinked.

”Oh.” His voice was raw, ragged. “Dinner time?”

David panted at the words. Kelly wagged her dumb little tail.

Henry grabbed the kibble. Dropped it. Picked it back up.

”Alright, then. Let’s eat.”

——

It was odd, how the days passed after that. His head was foggy, hard to see through, and something in his chest was hollow and heavy. Often, he would just stare at the wall for hours at a time, thinking of nothing at all.

And he was tired. All the time, he was exhausted. He never fully slept anymore, just dozed and laid still, his mind turned off, more gone than not.

Shaan would check in on him at regular intervals, handle anything he was too out of it to do himself, but he never stuck around for long. He had a wife. A home. Places to be that weren’t with a hollowed-out prince.

And he didn’t count the days, or the weeks, or the months. He barely ever left the house, only for groceries. Tolerated visits for as long as he could before politely insinuating that he needed them to leave before he ripped his own skin off. Ignored calls, because talking took so much energy that he didn’t have in him. Dozed, dreamed, remembered.

——

No, it didn’t. He’d been counting down the days.

Pez flew in, claiming he just wanted a visit. They both knew that wasn’t the case. Still, Henry was grateful when an electric-blue head of hair let himself in and punched him in the arm.

They sat together, Pez talking, Henry listening, like the time before he knew Alex. Like the times when he was locked away, desperate to keep all of himself under wraps and in a tiny box.

There was nothing left to lock up, anymore.

Except for the night after. He was stifled in that bedroom, the weight of Alex, Alex, Alex pressing down on him until he thought he might break. He had to get out of there.

Their wedding.

Before it even registered, Henry had put the DVD in and pressed play.

The footage started with newscasters introducing the event, the venue, the precise numbers of flowers ordered for centerpieces. It was all too much, in Henry’s opinion, but it was a Royal Wedding, after all.

God, he looked so young. Happy. Radiant. A different person entirely.

Then, the doors at the end of the hall opened, and Alex came in.

He was so, so beautiful.

They used the traditional vows, both of them, and traded the true words of their hearts in secret later that night. Some things, they wanted to keep to themselves.

Even still, they both cried, and when the Henry on the television kissed his new husband, the sad, withered Henry on the couch felt it on his own lips.

The footage rolled through the signing of the papers, Alex’s new title as a Duke cemented in ink, the procession leaving and the quartet playing through co*cktail hour. Henry saw, from an outsider’s view, his entrance to the dance hall, him sitting down with Alex for their meal. Alex whispered something in his ear, and Television Henry smiled and kissed him and God, wasn’t that just a punch to the f*cking gut?

The cameras cut out as they moved to the floor for a first dance. Henry let out a half-laugh, half-sob (he hadn’t even realized he was crying). The one part he wanted to relive more than anything was the one only his mangled-up, locked-up memory could offer.

Henry still remembered it, though—the sounds of violins sparkling through the air, Alex’s hand on his waist, swaying together, holy as the morning in the museum. Smiles, smiles, smiles, warmth flowing through his chest like pure magic.

Alex had leaned in, whispered in his ear, “Not much like our real first dance, huh?”

Henry laughed. “What, with the sweat dropping down that man’s balls?”

”I mean, I can still arrange for that,” he chided, then tilted his head up and kissed the spot below Henry’s ear. Henry had been flying, like he would never come down to Earth again.

Pez found him just before dawn, leaning forwards towards the on-screen memory. He pressed Henry back into the couch, took out the DVD, held it like glass and placed it back in its case.

As the sun rose, Henry found his voice.

”We should have had more time,” he said, shaky and quiet. A confession. A truth.

Pez sighed.

”I know.”

——

Pez left.

Weeks passed.

Henry fed the dogs.

——

As the months went by, Henry fell into the comfort of loneliness. The weight of his burden was a familiarity, pinning him down, painful, merciful. Other people, conversations, light—it pricked at his senses, now, every word another jab until he was nothing but a mangled wound of a man.

He ignored calls. Blocked texts. Answered grocery store small talk with a shrug or a head shake.

Some people were worried about him. Some people gave up. Some people wanted to help him, but they had lives to live, people to love, and they didn’t have time to keep conversation with someone without a voice.

His mother was concerned. She thought his isolation was hurting him. She was probably right.

Which is why when she firmly recommended a widower support group, he made himself go.

He walked into the building, the ratty carpet rough beneath his shoes and the flickering fluorescent lights like hammers to his skull. He used to withstand millions of camera shutters and screaming crowds on the daily. He wondered how he ever did it.

He took a tentative step in, then another. The present group members were mostly there, arranged around a rectangular table in the center of the room. They all turned to look at him, and Henry though,oh, sh*t.

First, because they were alllookingat him, which was perhaps one of his least favorite things in the world. But more than that, because he couldn’t place a single one of them as anywhere near his age. Most of the crowd (though crowd was a generous word for the dozen or so people) was probably in their seventies or eighties. Even the youngest, a brown-skinned woman with a black braid trailing down her back that was streaked with gray, couldn’t have been under fifty.

And there was Henry, not quite even thirty-one yet.

Alone.

But he was already there, and everyone was watching him, and it would be so much more embarrassing to turn around and walk out. So he slowly approached the table, taking a seat between a woman who smelled of mothballs and a man with shaking-liver spotted hands.

The woman pretended like she wasn’t staring, which was rather nice of her. Honestly, he was quite something to stare at—a prince, for one thing, and one with a gigantic scar tearing through his throat. Plus, you know. A young man with a dead husband.

The young-ish woman with the braid at the end of the table cleared her throat and smiled warmly. Her eyes flitted over him, paused for a moment like it was supposed to mean something.

”Alright,” she said, her voice stupidly kind, and oh, good, the only person anywhere close to his age wasn’t even a real widow, she was the leader. “We’ve got a couple new members, a couple ones missing, too. In and out, I guess.” She laughed, and it was earnest, good, but it resonated poorly in Henry’s hollow chest.

”Now I’m not gonna fill this with bullsh*t, you guys know that’s not me. I’m just gonna jump into it. You guys can tell me about how you’re feeling, or just what your lawn guy said to you last week. Everything is welcome. Anyone want to go first?”

God, it was like a mediocre movie. She was trying so hard to be real and tastefully offbeat, it just came off as stereotypical.

Maybe that was mean of him. Maybe he didn’t give a sh*t.

A plump old woman started sharing how her husband’s birthday was coming up and she didn’t know what she would do. The man beside her said that for his wife’s birthday every year, he makes her a cake and blows out the candles at her grave. Good lord, this was depressing.

People shared one by one, these old people who got half a century with the loves of their lives. A man whose wife had a heart attack next to him in bed, a woman who was at the store and regretted letting her husband die alone.

A few things occurred to Henry as the more and more people spoke and his inevitable time approached.

One: None of these people were gay.

Two: None of these people were going to spend the next sixty years entirely alone.

Three: All of these people probably recognized him and already knew as much of his story as the press could get their claws on.

So. That’s bloody fantastic.

Finally, all eyes on the room were on him. The woman with the braid said no one had to speak of they didn’t want to, but everyone had, and how weird would it look for this young whippersnapper to show up, not say a word, and never come back?

Because he was absolutely never coming back.

So, he took a breath and folded his hands in his lap.

”Hello,” he said, his voice flat. “I’m Henry. And, er, I expect a good bit of you all know what happened to me.”

Nobody said a word, but a lot of ashamed eyes looked away from Henry. His stomach sank, and he wished more than anything that he could reach out his hand grasp Alex’s beneath the table, siphon some of his unwavering bravery. Because Henry was not brave, and now he had no one to be brave for him.

He continued, “So, yeah. Yes, I was told to try this out, and here I am. Though I don’t quite think I fit the demographic.”

Something almost like a joke. The woman with the braid smiled sadly, like he was an extra painful case. His mind went to the scar on his neck, and he supposed that it was because he was.

Thankfully, she seemed to pick up on his wavering resolve and moved on, discussing some bullsh*t about coping strategies and how to help your children through losing a parent. Henry almost laughed—children. They had never got around to that. They’d discussed adoption, donors, because Alex had wanted a child, he really, really had. But Henry was too scared, and he made Alex wait. He said, I’m not ready, let’s wait a few years, I need to be stable first, I can’t, I can’t, I want to but I can’t.

And Alex, because he was the most caring man on the planet, smiled and agreed. Said they had all the time in the world.

He couldn’t have known how wrong he was.

The meeting wrapped up, and the room was filled with the sound of popping joints as the elderly rose slowly from their chairs. Henry stood around like an awkward fool, not quite sure where he was going or what to do.

The woman with a braid made a beeline towards him, and he considered bolting. But she wasn’t so threatening, with her bulky cardigan and warm, practiced smile that saidI am not happy, but I am open to you.

She reached out to touch his elbow. He moved back. She dropped her hand.

”Henry,” she said. “You seemed like you were really uncomfortable back there. Any reason why?”

She knew why. She knew.

Her eyebrows tilted up in that stupid pitying expression everyone always had. Henry’s nerves burned, yearning for the cool darkness of his bedroom. “Just because they haven’t lived your life doesn’t mean they can’t support you. We’ve had young widowers before, and an old lesbian woman left us just a few months ago.”

Widower.The word drove a knife through him. Another title to add onto his long, depressing list.

Henry didn’t say anything. Because he was so damn tired, and every sound grated on his ears, and the group members were staring at him and whispering. Maybe Catherine was right. Maybe, for any ordinary person, this would be a good outlet. But Henry would always be an outsider, somethingother, like he had been all his life.

No, not all his life. For seven beautiful, shining years, he belonged.

He nodded and walked out the door.

——

A note here, a note there.

Kelly needs her heartworm meds.

One of my clients reminds me of you.

The work you do is important.

Ashes left over from a long-burned man.

——

Every morning, Henry blinked up at the ceiling and thought to himself,I just have to get through today.

And every day, he would eat a meager breakfast, feed his dogs, answer e-mails. Get through the day.

Then he would sleep in a cold bed and imagine warm shoulders covering his.

Then he would get up again.

And get through again.

——

Catherine insisted on flying him out for holidays. He didn’t love it, but he did it anyways, because she was paying and organizing and the hopeful look in her eyes when he said yes was too fragile to shatter. She, too, was cracked porcelain, always on the verge of collapse.

And so he would drink eggnog with his mother, and Bea would bring her husband to visit, and Philip would gather around with his twin daughters and Martha in tow. It hurt, a real physical pain, seeing his siblings so happy. Each one had a partner by their side, and Henry sat alone in a chair made for one.

——

One of the things he missed most was the food. Alex would never admit it, but he loved to cook, and he was damn good at it. It was one of the only things Henry could use to pull him away from his work spells.

He would lean over Alex, tense and hunched in front of his laptop, and say that if Alex didn’t make dinner, Henry would simply go hungry, and that wouldn’t do. And Alex would roll his eyes and call Henry stupid, then get up and make the most fantastic meal Henry had ever had.

Now, he sustained on takeout and anything he could eat without cooking. The idea of making food, doing anything, pressed on him like a pile of boulders. He ate handfuls of chips, plain bread rolls, grapes from the bag. Anything he could bear.

But God, every day he missed Texas barbecue and authentic fajitas. He’d even settle for one of Alex’s five minute grilled cheese sandwiches.

All food tasted bland and gravelly, now. Everything felt that way, too.

——

Bea had her baby.

Henry flew in the second she went into labor, nerves shaking, hands twitching. Walking into the hospital felt familiar, too familiar, and for a second Henry was filled with the memory of glass in his throat and a dead man beneath his fingertips. But this was supposed to be a happy day, a good day, and he wouldn’t let the dark cloud that permanently followed him rain on everyone else.

He thought he would have to carry it above him with his own strength, but as he tiptoed into the hospital room and saw his sister, sweaty and flushed and smiling brighter than she’d ever been, the impossibly heavy cloud became just a little bit lighter. Bea looked up, and her eyes sparkled.

”Want to come meet him?” She whispered.

Henry blinked, then nodded. He took a step into the room, then another. Catherine was there, asleep in a chair, and Bea’s husband and was in the lobby trying to sort out any sort of medical billing issue, since their technical residence was a palace but they’d made home in a modest flat.

Bea held out the little bundle, and Henry took it gently, gently, as if it were made from the same thin glass as him. The baby had Bea’s round nose, same as Catherine’s, as Mary’s, a royal baby for sure. Babies had all looked the same to Henry, but this one was different. Maybe because he knew it. A tiny, fat fist came up to swipe at the fabric around his face.

”Gabriel,” Bea said, “this is your Uncle Henry.”

Bea shrugged, gave him a sad smile. “I thought about naming him after Dad, but the whole calling-my-baby-my-father felt too weird. I thought, this would be the next best tribute.”

Henry tried to say something, but his throat was choked with tears, the same ones that blurred his vision, smudged the infant in his arms. He gave Gabriel back to Bea, swallowed down the lump in his throat.

Bea stared lovingly at her baby and brushed a wisp of hair off of his forehead. At Henry’s lack of response, she looked up, and her face fell.

”Oh, Christ, was that too much? Henry, I’m sorry, I should have asked—“

”No,” Henry cut her off. He sniffed. ”Thank you,” he said weakly, trying not to cry, trying so hard and failing as a single tear slipped down his cheek before he could wipe it away.

Bea smiled softly.

”Of course.”

——

David was old.

It was no surprise when he couldn’t jump onto the bed anymore, when he stopped eating, when the vet said it was time to end his suffering. It made sense, really.

That didn’t mean Henry wasn’t a simpering, quivering mess as he signed the papers. He’d thought that losing Alex, losing his father, would prepare him for this. That he had experienced such great pain, something like the expected death of a dog would barely affect him. He should have known he was wrong.

He scratched David’s ears as the vet brought out the needle. David let out a half-hearted whimper when he was stuck, but Henry kept petting him until his tail wagged again, thumping against the table. Alex should have been there for this, holding Henry’s hand as David went still, handling paperwork so that Henry could cry without worry, taking home the ashes and choosing where to place them while Henry just held onto him.

But Henry was alone, and he had to do all of that himself. He pulled out the princely resolve, the iron spine and stiff upper lip, and did what he needed to do.

And when he placed David’s urn next to the picture of Alex that they had used at the memorial, he finally hit the floor.

——

Kelly kept him company, after that. Because other than quick calls from Bea, Pez, Catherine, and sometimes Philip, no one else would. It had been too long. Henry still wasn’t a person, even after all these years, just a collection of memories and darkness. And who could be friends with that?

——

Henry visited England more often.

He would stay with Pez, with Catherine, with Bea. Whoever would have him, really. They were always so kind, adjusting to him, never making it too much. He didn’t know how to thank them, because no way he could think of would every be adequate to express the gratitude inside of him.

One night, he was reading an old history book in Bea’s sitting room when she appeared in front of him, her hair curled, her heels high. She looked as put together as before she had her child, who although she loved, she claimed had transformed her ‘from ex-co*ked princess to middle aged gas station worker.’

Henry’s eyebrows flew to his hairline. “Need me to babysit for date night?” He asked.

Bea shook her head. “Edward’s staying home with Gabriel. I’m having a night out on the town.” She twirled around in her dress, and Henry felt himself start to smile.

He turned a page. “Have fun, then. Don’t get too many girlfriends.”

Bea ripped the book out of his hands. “And you’re coming with me.”

Henry paled. “Bea, I don’t know if this—“

”It’s a grand idea, you gigantic lump. I’m not going to any clubs or crazy places, just dinner then a few little bars I know about. You’re coming, go put on something halfway decent.”

There was no room to argue, so Henry rolled his eyes and complied.

She laughed, told him stories, talked about how big Gabriel was getting and how quickly he grew out of the clothes she bought for him. Henry smiled and drank his wine and stayed mostly silent, because he didn’t have a home, a husband, a child. He had nothing to give her.

They finished their meal and left. They darted in and out of a few kitschy shops, looking and never buying despite their millions of dollars that they had never needed, and then Henry was sitting at a bar, drinking whiskey and tasting sips of Bea’s sugary mock-tail.

”It’s really too much,” he said, his face scrunching up as he returned to his drink.

Bea took another sip. “Just admit that you’re old and can’t handle sweet things anymore.”

”That’s not sweet, it’s abominable.”

Bea rolled her eyes and stood. “Whatever. I need to piss. Watch my drink.”

Henry nodded, pulling her drink close to him. She left, patting his shoulder as she went by.

She had just disappeared around the corner when a man slid into the barstool on Henry’s right. He was giving Henry a loose-lipped smile, his brown hair tousled, thin lines creasing his forehead.

Henry huffed and looked back into his drink. “She’s taken,” he said, “so don’t bother.”

The man didn’t falter. “I know.” His voice was low and sultry.

Oh.

Henry squirmed. “I’m not interested,” he muttered.

The man shrugged. “You don’t have to be. We can just talk, if you like.”

Henry took a sip of his whiskey to avoid answering.

“I’m Clark. You’re...”

”You know who I am.”

Clark laughed. “Yeah, but I figured it’d be polite to let you introduce yourself.”

Henry sighed. He straightened and turned his body to face Clark, leaning with his left elbow on the bar. Clark’s eyes flitted briefly to his scar, then back up. “I’m Henry.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Got a last name, Henry?”

”Too many. Take your pick.”

Clark laughed, and something sparked inside of Henry. His family usually just looked at him sadly when he made his mean, dark jokes. But this man had never known him before, back when he was happy and light, and so didn’t mourn who he used to be. It felt good to make someone laugh again.

Clark leaned in, and Christ, that jawline was sharp. “You’re funny, Henry. I like my men funny.”

”Yeah?” Henry shot back. “I like my men with an extra shot or two.”

”In that case...”

Clark waved over the barman and pointed at Henry’s glass. It was quickly refilled.

”Quick, aren’t we?” Henry asked, taking another sip. The man just shrugged, a playful smile resting on his lips.

Behind him, Bea re-emerged from the crowd. She caught Henry’s eye and took in the scene. Her face broke out in a smile. She nodded, then slipped away.

Well. That was good a reason as ever.

Clark asked, “Wanna get out of here?”

And for the first time in years, Henry felt a shadow of himself move in the empty cavity of his chest.

”Sure.”

They walked out together, Henry stumbling just a bit. Apparently, he couldn’t hold his liquor like he used to.

They walked, and Henry didn’t even ask where they were going. He let Clark talk and guide him through the streets of London, past people rushing about and dancing and staring at the disheveled prince and the man on his arm. Or rather, the man who was holding up the prince.

Henry found himself walking through a lobby, ascending the stairs of a dingy flat. He giggled as Clark fumbled open his apartment door, the grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him inside. Henry laughed, a drunk, airy sound.

Clark pulled him in by the waist and kissed him, his lips soft, his hands warm. Henry sighed a bit, and he was kissing Clark, too, and it felt so damn good to be held again.

Clark moved to remove Henry’s jacket, but it got stuck on his elbow and they both laughed. It felt good to laugh, too. Feeling good was such a foreign emotion these days.

They fell onto the couch, lips locked, moving together. Clark smelled good, like bread and smoke. Henry smiled.

But the smell changed. The scent of London smoke, heavy and laced with tobacco, became the barbecue smoke of Texas. The thick hair beneath his hands turned into black curls, and Henry couldn’t help but let out a breathy, “Alex,” when soft lips found his neck.

The hands on him stopped, then pulled away. Henry opened his eyes and saw, instead of the inside of the brownstone, the books and green curtains, a modern London flat. The man in front of him wasn’t happy and quick to joke. He was sliding back, his face falling.

Henry shrunk into himself, pulling his jacket back over his shoulders like an armor. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Clark dragged a hand down his face. “No, it’s—you still have the ring on. I should have known. It’s my fault.”

Henry looked down at the gold band around his finger, glinting in the moonlight.

He took a shaky breath, feeling far too small for this open room. “I should...”

”Yeah,” Clark said. “Go.”

Henry stood, swaying on his feet. With one last apology, he left into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

The streets of London were cold, and Henry’s jacket was too thin to warm him. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to force his body back into sobriety. The swirling in his head wasn’t fun, anymore, it was disorienting. He wanted to go to sleep.

He didn’t know where the bar was, didn’t know wherehewas, so he wandered hopelessly, passing groups of drunk uni kids and tourists just coming in off of planes. The clouds blocked the stars, and Henry just wanted to cry.

He must have been walking for an hour when two small hands grabbed his arms and whirled him around. He was met with Bea’s face, slightly fuzzy and contorted in anger. “Henry!” She exclaimed. “Where have youbeen? I called you a bloody million times, and you didn’t pick up! I thought maybe you’d gone home with that man, but you didn’t check in and nobody had seen you and I thought you were kidnapped or dead or worse! Christ, what the hell were you thinking?”

Henry’s lip trembled. “‘M sorry,” he said, feeling like a scorned child in the skin of a grown-ass man.

Bea searched his face and seemed put it all together. She fell back on her heels.

”Didn't go well, then?”

Henry shook his head.

”Right, then. Let’s get you home.”

Feeling incredibly pathetic, Henry let himself be lead by Bea into the backseat of a car, then up her front porch and through the door. He changed, washed his face, drank he cup of water Bea forced into his hands, and crawled between the sheets. He heard Bea and Edward whispering back and forth in the hallway, and knew they were probably talking about him.

He took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, dreaming of the hands that should have held him that night.

——

He left the next morning.

——

He started working, again. Not much, never going out to the shelter, because the noise and eyes and expectations were too much, and he couldn’t handle more than an hour without finding a bathroom stall or hidden closet to break down in.

But he answered e-mails, helped with scheduling, did what he could. It gave him something, helping these kids from afar. Not a purpose, but something.

One day, Oxford University’s Dr. Moran contacted him about a class she was hoping to teach, and Henry found himself compelled to reply. Back and forth, back forth.

The box of notes on his desk kept him going.

——

And so, Henry sat at his desk in the gray morning light, staring at the empty e-mail draft in front of him. All of his belongings had been packed into boxes and shipped ahead of him. Only the furniture he was selling and a single bag of essentials remained, next to Kelly’s crate. The dog herself was somewhere else in the house, he could hear her nails skittering excitedly across the floor.

Henry carded a hand through his hair. He didn’t know what to say. These words weren’t going anywhere, just a message to the void. Even if he did press send, the e-mail address had long since been deactivated.

But he couldn’t leave with nothing. He was going to stop by the grave one more time before he left, but he didn’t know what words would pour out of him there, what he would forget to say. In writing, he could get it all down, every groove of his mind in letter and ink. And so he had to.

With twitching fingers, he started typing.

——

Dear Alex,

It’s been so long since we’ve written like this. Well, since I’ve written like this to you. Years.

It’s been years.

I think you’d be proud of me, you know. I’m not moving on, not like they keep saying I should. But I’m moving. Figuratively, literally, however you choose to interpret it. I’ve taken a position at Oxford. I’m going to be teaching and studying queer literature, just like you always said I would. If only you could see me now—an aging man with no one but a dog and an extremely niche job that he doesn’t even really need.

But I suppose some part of me does need it. Mara was right—Mara’s that therapist you would always make fun of, remember?—I can’t fumble around this snowglobe house forever. I’m letting go. I’m holding onto you, still, but I’m letting go of this.

I don’t want to. Every single part of me is screaming and clawing at the floor of this house as I pull myself out of the door. The fragments of my soul that are left over are lost to the shadows. Maybe, by lighting this fire in my chest, I can draw them out even as I burn.

I miss burning.

You made me burn, you know. I used to spark every time you touched me. They say that that kind of flame goes away with time, and it did, it settled a bit when we married, but I never lost it. I would think, ‘this man is going to burn me to nothing but ash.’ But at the same time as you were my flame, you made me fireproof. I was able to burn without using my own heart as kindling, because you fed me. You fed me, Alex, and I have spent eight years starving, a tiny pile of dying coals with nothing to go off of but fading memories.

I forget your voice, sometimes, and your smile. I find myself having to rewatch our wedding, because otherwise I can’t remember how your lips feel on mine. I would give the world to feel those again.

I’m leaving today. I’ll land in Oxford in twelve hours, move into my new house in sixteen. The neighbors share a wall with me. Maybe I’ll make some friends.

Eight years ago, I shattered. More than shattered. The pieces of me were stamped on, ground into dust, washed away in a flood of acid until they were nothing more than atoms dispersed in the toxic atmosphere. But I think, slowly, I’m starting to reform. I will never be whole again, not really (I don’t think I want to be.) But maybe one day, a year from now or ten or twenty or on my deathbed, I will look in the mirror and see something resembling the Waterloo Vase, with half-dry glue holding together twisted shards, holes in every side. But a vase all the same. Maybe, I will be real again.

Kelly is biting at my feet, now, and the driver is getting impatient. Shaan should really be the one driving me, if we’re following royal protocol, but I’m not about to start doing that now. So instead, he is home with his wife and daughter, and I am starting anew.

I have to go. I don’t want to. I’m scared to.

I’m so scared, Alex.

But I was scared when I saw you in Rio. I was scared when I kissed you in the garden, and when I made love to you in a hotel room, and when I danced with you in a museum and decided to jump anyways. I will always be scared. You taught me how to carry my fear, and keep going.

So. I’m going to leave. Become a professor. Maybe get one of those tweed coats with the elbow patches, the ones you thought were oh-so-attractive.

There’s so much more I want to say to you. I have to force my hands to stop typing.

I love you, Alexander. Even now. I don’t think I’ll ever truly stop.

I love you and I love you and I love you and I love you, and that is the truth of it. That is everything I am cut down to its core.

I miss you. I miss the house. I hope to see you again someday.

Yours, with all the love a broken heart can pour through its cracks,

Henry.

P.S.

Alexander Claremont-Diaz to Henry Fox Mountchristen Windsor, 2020—

“I miss you I miss you I miss you I love you.”

——

Henry stood in his empty living room, Kelly in her crate in his right hand, his essentials box balanced in his left. He needed to leave, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was forgetting something.

The walls were bare, only a few pieces of empty furniture left behind. With a half-hearted sigh that echoed in his hollow body, Henry put down what he was holding and started to look.

He opened the cabinets, checked beneath the television mount. Only dust and shadow remained. Still, he kept looking.

There was nothing beneath the counters, nothing hidden under the rug.

Henry pulled out the China cabinet that they had never used, hoping maybe something would be beneath it. Movement caught his eye—something slipped from where it had been pinned beneath the cabinet and the wall, hit the floor.

Henry leaned down and took it. His breathing stopped, his heart skipped a beat—it was a tiny slip of paper, yellowed with age, coated in a thick layer of dust.

Afraid to believe, he turned over the paper, read the smudged ink and scrawled words.

I’m part of you, and you’re part of me. Goddamn forever.

A laugh bubbled up from Henry’s lips, mixing with the tears spilling over his eyes that had started gathering the moment he packed away his first shirt.

Of course. Ofcoursehe had missed one. Alex was always surprising him, always changing the game. This was the most Alex thing he could possibly imagine.

He pressed the note to his lips, cried over it, not even caring as his tears warped the paper. As long as the words remained, nothing else mattered. He cried and laughed and breathed and remembered, eight years of being alone and seven years of gorgeous light intertwining in his heart to become something other, something real. Coming together. Becoming one.

With gentle hands, Henry folded the paper and placed it in the box with the others. He latched it, checked it twice.

He picked up Kelly’s crate and walked to the door.

”What do you say we go see England, huh, girl? Your homeland?”

Kelly barked. Henry smiled into the sun.

”Right, then. Let’s go.”

He took one last look before he crossed over that threshold.

Then, he locked the door, but kept the key, hung from a chain around his neck, swiping over his skin, drumming against his heart. An inch of metal to summarize an infinite man.

Goddamn forever.