There weren't many moments in his life in which Edward felt uncertain.
His station as a prince essentially forbade it. Though he knew being born into a royal family came with enormous power and privilege, if Edward had his way, he would reincarnate into a dog, or perhaps a horse. People liked dogs and horses–very little was expected from them. It almost made up for the lack of opposable thumbs.
All told, feeling uncertain about things was a luxury Edward couldn't afford. His position as Duke of Sussex was largely ceremonial in the modern world, but there were still people counting on him to play his part.
Blowing the First Son of the United States in the East Bedroom of the White House wasn't exactly part of the plan.
Renée Dwyer's hard-fought battle for the Presidency made headlines around the world. On the face of it, her effort looked like a long shot. But that had been the bedrock of her entire political career: a divorced woman balancing law school at night and care of her only son during the day. Two House terms, six years in the Senate, and a new husband later, the Dwyer-Black ticket had rocketed to victory.
The First Family came to England a few months after the inauguration. Rosalie had been insufferable in the weeks leading up to the visit. He was fond of his sister-in-law, but mere days after marrying Emmett, she took it upon herself to mother Edward.
He didn't want a mother. Edward already had the best mother, and he lost her years ago. No one had a hope of filling her shoes.
It was likely jealousy that allowed the animosity between Edward and the First Son to take root.
The First Son, Beau Swan, was charming in that obnoxious, all-American way. He smiled a lot, thanked the servers every time a plate was placed in front of him, and listened intently to everything Princess Vera said.
Edward loved his niece–who couldn't love that little thing–but he didn't have it in him to discuss cartoons through seven courses. Even saints didn't have that kind of patience.
Somehow, Beau Swan did. It was irritating.
His entire existence was irritating.
Everyone split up into small groups after dinner. The children were put to bed, glasses of brandy were poured, and staff from the administration and the royal household started to mingle.
Reporters and photographers roamed the room, trying to capture so-called history. Secret Service agents and palace security guards lined the walls, ever watchful.
Edward retreated to an armchair by the window. No one ever really cared what he was doing. The births of Vera and Lilian were the biggest stories to come out of the royal family in the past several years. Before that, it had been the royal wedding of their parents, the Prince and Princess of Wales.
The second son, the Duke of Sussex, was only mentioned after his nights out in London. But for all of his tabloid appearances, Edward liked flying under the radar, particularly at big parties like this one.
His plans for a quiet drink alone were dashed by the approach of the First Son, Beau Swan.
The bloke had no understanding of propriety. Before Edward knew what was happening, Beau had thrust one hand out to take his, shaking it in a firm, tight grip.
"Hey. You're Edward, right? I don't think we had a chance to meet yet."
"One usually starts with Your Royal Highness, first," Edward said curtly. "Then 'sir' from that point on."
Beau Swan had reddened in response. "I'm sorry . . . sir. The titles take some getting used to. 'First Son' is tiresome enough."
An awkward silence fell. Across the room, President Swan was deep in conversation with the king. Carlisle was nodding along as she spoke.
Emmett and Rosalie were cozied up by the fire, whispering amongst themselves.
"What do you think they're talking about?"
"The Prince and Princess of Wales? How soon they can sneak away, I'm sure."
"No, sir. I meant our . . . parents."
Edward shrugged. "World domination, most likely."
"I don't think that would land terribly well in the press. This just in: bringing back colonization! The US and the UK lead the charge back to the Dark Ages!"
A part of him wanted to laugh at Beau's joke. The sour, more vocal part of him was faster to respond.
"That's the norm for America, is it not? Being the world's policeman, telling everyone else what to do?"
Something that looked like anger flashed across his face, but to Edward's disappointment, Beau merely shrugged.
"A lot of countries thank us for it."
"Not all of them."
"You're right. Those ones still recovering from the damage your empire inflicted."
"Is that so? What about the native people in your empire? What about that damage?"
Beau grimaced. "We're working on it. Vice President Black is from the Quileute Tribe. But we still have a long way to go."
"'We're working on it?" Edward asked. "Are you influencing policy all the way from New Haven?"
That made him smile. "You seem to know a lot about me."
Much to his own annoyance, Edward did know a lot about him. It was hard not to: top of his class at Yale University, captain of the mock trial team, and a regular volunteer in the city's soup kitchens. The American media ate that shite up.
It was all so aggravating. According to everyone on the planet, Beau Swan could do no wrong.
"Know thy enemy."
"We're enemies now?" Beau smiled again. "I'll be sure to tell my mother."
Edward's eyes flickered to the president again. She was speaking with the First Gentleman now, who brought her hand to his lips for a kiss.
The king had drifted to sit by the fire alone. Emmett and Rosalie were gone, just as Edward predicted.
"Does he ever think about getting remarried?"
Edward downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. A Yank he just met was asking about the inner workings of the king's love life. As if Carlisle would ever confide in him.
That door closed a long time ago.
"Dunno," he said at last. "We don't talk about it."
"Never?"
Edward glanced at the man in the next chair. A pair of chocolate brown eyes stared back.
It wasn't party conversation. Beau really wanted to know.
Edward didn't know why, but he answered this stranger with total honesty.
"Never."
"I wish my mom wouldn't talk about her love life with me. I don't like to get in the middle of their lovers' quarrels, you know?"
It was preposterous. The Yank was actually comparing the two situations. Being put in the middle of an argument was one thing. Losing a parent in a public, tragic accident was quite another.
Resentment began to bubble up under his skin.
"At least she's still around to talk to you."
Beau set his glass on the table to his left. "Of course. I didn't mean–"
"I think I've had enough international relations one night," Edward said as he rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse me."
Edward could feel those brown eyes on his back as he made his escape.
He didn't see Beau Swan again until that summer.
The Dwyers, as thanks for the productive visit earlier in the year, invited the royal family to spend a week at Camp David.
His time at Oxford had concluded by then, so Edward didn't have a good reason to refuse. He rarely passed up the chance to travel out of the country. And though he would never admit it aloud, Edward was curious to see Beau Swan again.
The two had greeted one another politely enough on the first day. Their paths crossed again the following day, when someone from the administration suggested the First Son and the Duke of Sussex make use of the driving range.
"It's good PR," she had said.
Edward was used to it. Many of the royal family photographs came from staged opportunities like this one.
He could tell Beau was uncomfortable with the procedure, but Edward couldn't imagine why. Families of politicians–especially the president's family–were photographed all the time. Beau had already been featured in half a dozen magazines since the election.
"Just let them take the picture. Then we can get started."
Beau gave the photographers that toothy, all-American smile. Satisfied, the group drifted away, searching for more exciting subjects around the retreat.
"I figured you would be used to this attention by now."
"Not really," Beau muttered. "We're less than a year into it."
"I suppose so."
Edward reached for the sand wedge and lined himself up. Beau leaned on his own club to watch. Both of their heads turned to follow where the ball landed.
"Listen, Edward, I want to apologize to you."
He still wasn't using the proper address, but Edward didn't much feel like correcting him. "What for?"
"At the party, the last time we met," Beau explained. "I was trying to relate, but I realize now that the two things aren't at all the same. I'm sorry if I upset you."
Edward moved on to the gap wedge. "It's all right."
"Really? I didn't cause some sort of international incident?"
Edward swung the club while considering his response. Beau was so earnest that it was difficult for Edward to remain irritated.
"We were all feeling a bit sensitive that night. My mother's birthday was the day before your visit."
"I see."
Beau didn't apologize again, and Edward was grateful. The American remained silent until Edward was finished with his pitching wedge.
"Hey, do you mind if we go shoot hoops or something? Golf just about puts me to sleep."
"Is this one of those 'when in Rome' type of situations?"
"Well, yes it is, Your Royal Highness."
"As you wish," Edward chuckled.
It was a very enjoyable week. Edward and Beau never used the driving range again, but they did play a lot of basketball, which quickly became the talk of Camp David. Before long, players from both the administration and the royal household were suiting up for games.
Jasper Whitlock, the intimidating Secret Service agent assigned to protect Beau, turned out to be the secret weapon for the American team. The Brits were hopelessly outmatched against him. It came out later that Beau had known all along about his bodyguard's collegiate basketball career, even before the games grew bigger than one-on-one.
"You are a bloody cheat," Edward told him over their last dinner of the week. "Sneaking Whitlock into the game like that. What happened to sportsmanship?"
"Sportsmanship? Since when does the US care about that? We fight to win, my friend."
A photographer walked up to their table and asked for a picture. Edward noticed Beau was getting better at this part of the job and told him so.
"I'm trying," Beau admitted. "The press usually calms down a bit when I'm back at school. I'm looking forward to that."
"This is your final year at uni, right? What's next?"
"I'm thinking about taking a gap year to figure that out. It's been crazy dealing with all of this attention."
Edward smiled sympathetically. "It gets easier, I promise."
"I hope so. Do you . . . " Beau stopped talking to take a drink of the pint in front of him.
"Do I what?"
"Do you have trouble . . . dating?"
That was an understatement.
There had never been an openly gay member of the immediate royal family. Edward's family knew, but that was all. There were flings and one night stands at university of course, but those were preceded by the very unromantic nondisclosure agreements.
Edward was often photographed in London with female friends of his cousin, Princess Alice, but nothing ever happened with them.
There was an unsaid but very real understanding that Edward would keep his sexuality private. The country had dealt with enough scandal: his parents filing for divorce, Carlisle's infidelity leaking to the press, and Emmett's struggles with substance abuse following the death of their mother.
"It can be challenging for men like . . . us."
"The unwillingly famous?"
Edward smiled. "Exactly."
Edward was knee deep in research when a new email hit his inbox.
Beau S bswan
to Edward
FW: FROM AMERICA, WITH LOVE: Edward and Beau Flaunt Friendship
NEW BROMANCE ALERT? Pics of FSOTUS and Prince Edward
PHOTOS: Edward's Week at Camp David
Edward,
Please excuse the lack of your proper title in my greeting. I thought email was sufficiently informal to address you as a friend. In my head, we're the best of friends, because you're basically the only person in the world who understands what it's like to be in the spotlight.
I'm back at school now. The photographers are still nosing around, but Jasper scares them, so they stay away most of the time.
Not sure what you're planning to do this fall, but the Harvard-Yale game is coming up in a few months. The press says we have a bromance (see attached articles), so I'm treating this as such.
If you accept this invitation, you will be required to call it football (not "American football") and complete the appropriate pregame rituals.
Let me know if you're interested, okay?
Talk soon,
Beau
A warm feeling spread through Edward's chest as he read. Beau's affable nature was a powerful thing, even through an email.
Smiling, Edward pressed his fingers to the keys and began to type a reply.
Edward esussex
to Beau S
RE: FROM AMERICA, WITH LOVE
Beau,
Please excuse the lack of your proper title in my greeting. I thought FSOTUS sounded like a variant of an incurable disease.
Don't worry about the photographers, they'll get bored eventually. Here's a tip for the future, free of charge: buy 5 pairs of the same clothes. All of their pictures will be worthless because you'll be wearing the same outfit day in and day out.
I was planning to colonize the US again, but found philanthropy is a better use of my time.
I am interested in watching this savage event you call football. Understood that I will need to comply with the local customs and rituals. I'm sure I have a trusty tour guide in you.
Send the details as soon as you have them.
Best,
Edward
Their email correspondence soon became a daily occurrence. Edward often found himself glancing at the clock while waiting for the next message. It was of no use, of course; he was in a completely different timezone than Beau.
He would have to be patient.
Finally, after what felt like eons, the week of the big game arrived. Edward was accompanied by his hulking bodyguard, Felix, and Garrett, his equerry.
The flight across the Atlantic was smooth. Felix was snoring in his seat behind Edward. The prince was reading the latest edition of The New Haven Register when the sound of a text broke his concentration.
Garrett glanced down at his phone. "The Prince of Wales would like to remind you . . . well, it's just a bunch of expletives."
Edward laughed and held out his hand. Garrett passed him the phone, watching as the prince composed a reply and pressed the send button.
"Very good, sir. That ought to do it."
"No, he won't stop there. Better mute him or you'll be up all night."
Emmett was feeling put out that he wasn't invited to come along. Edward had tried to work around his brother's packed schedule, but in the end, it was futile. Rosalie would never allow him to abandon her and the girls at their charity commitments this weekend, anyway.
Edward was secretly happy to be going alone. He didn't want to share Beau Swan with anyone.
"Your Royal Highness!"
The familiar crow of his American friend somehow carried over the noise of the stadium. Edward was surprised–and delighted–when Beau pulled him into a hug.
"Good to see you, Beau."
"Likewise," Beau grinned. "And you're in blue. Excellent."
"You told me I would face the firing squad if I didn't."
"Too right," Beau said, taking him by the arm. "Come with me."
Felix and Garrett filed into step behind them. Beau led him to a small corner of the student section. Secret Service agents stood close by, monitoring vantage points around the First Son.
Jasper Whitlock nodded at the prince from behind a mirrored pair of sunglasses.
"Guys, allow me to introduce His Royal Highness, Prince Edward, Duke of Sussex."
Edward smiled in greeting. He felt like he knew Beau's mates already from the emails, but he shook hands with each one as they were introduced to him: Mike Newton, a past roommate majoring in environmental engineering; Angela Weber, who was studying classics; Eric Yorkie, film studies; and Jessica Stanley, art history.
"Great to meet Your Royal, uh . . . " Mike looked to Beau for help, who laughed.
"'Edward' is fine," the prince assured him. "I prefer it, actually."
"Mike, you're a lucky man. He made me call him sir for the first few months after we met."
"Someone has to teach you Yanks some manners."
"Yeah, yeah. Who's got the flask?"
The girl named Angela hiccuped, then covered her mouth. "Here you go."
"Pass it to Sir HRH over there."
Edward took a bigger swig than he expected to and gasped. "What the hell is that?"
"Kentucky Straight."
"You'll be the death of me," Edward told Beau, who laughed again.
The prince took another swig for good measure. When he passed the flask to Eric, someone tapped him on the shoulder.
It was Whitlock, that intimidating Secret Service agent. His eyes were still hidden behind the sunglasses, but there was a folded piece of paper in his hand.
"Pardon me, Your Royal Highness, but I've been told to get your signature on this document."
The equerry appeared at once with his hand outstretched. "Has this gone through the proper channels?"
At Whitlock's nod, Garrett allowed the paper to return to Edward.
"Ah, right, the NDA," Beau murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. "Not sure if I'll get used to those, either."
Edward wrote his initials and signed in the spots requested. "Standard protocol for the unwillingly famous. I'm sure Garrett will have one ready for you before halftime. He doesn't like to look unprepared."
"Want to make it interesting?"
"Loser buys the first round?"
"You're on."
The First Son and the Duke of Sussex, flanked by their security details and friends, continued the party at the local bars after the game.
Yale won, but Beau lost the bet. The First Son dutifully opened a tab, as promised. But once he learned Garrett had come to America armed, his jaw dropped.
"Now who's the bloody cheat?"
Edward was the picture of innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You knew he had that form ready to go!"
"I don't know what the staff is doing at all hours of the day. This isn't Downton Abbey, Beau."
Edward couldn't keep his eyes off Beau that night. Everyone seemed to gravitate around him, like satellites in the solar system. He held court as expected, but seemed embarrassed by his newfound status.
The First Son had a good pack of mates at Yale. When it was clear he was getting tired of talking to groupies and hangers-on, the group closed ranks around him, looking just as fierce as the agents assigned to Beau's security detail.
Edward envied his friend's sunny disposition. While unused to this constant attention, there was an end date to it, unless President Swan won a second term.
Edward was a royal. There was no escaping that heritage unless he abdicated his claim, and even then, the spotlight would follow.
The group ended the day at Beau's apartment. The security details whittled themselves down to Jasper and Felix, who stood guard outside the door. The next shift would not arrive until later on.
Angela and Jessica left together, yawning. Eric said his goodbyes a few minutes later. Mike was the last to go, and in poor shape; he was staring down the barrel of a bad hangover tomorrow.
Edward and Beau were finally alone.
The two sat on the floor of his living room and talked. The prince plied him with questions. He didn't want the night to end.
Edward hadn't been in the country long enough to adjust to the time difference, so he felt like he was floating in a liminal state. Not all the way here and not all the way there.
That was his story, anyway. Much of his altered state had to do with the person sitting beside him.
"So, how's the dating going, any luck there?"
"Nope," Beau chuckled. "It's too tough with my schedule, anyway. My mom's chief of staff has me flying all over the country on the weekends."
"Appearances?"
"Yeah, appearances, ribbon cuttings, stuff like that. I'm glad to help, but it's a lot of work."
Edward took a drink to hide his smile. He was pleased by this information. Hearing about Beau's love life after such a great day together would depress him for weeks.
"What about you?"
"I have people . . . who interest me."
Beau's hand closed around the bottle cap he had been toying with. "Yeah? Who?"
Edward stared at him, but Beau wasn't meeting his eyes. The prince sighed.
"Christ, you are as thick as it gets."
Then Edward took hold of Beau's collar, pulling him forward into a kiss.
He couldn't tell if Beau was too surprised or disgusted to respond. When he pulled away, Beau's eyes had fluttered closed.
A flash of alarm went through Edward. He barely read the paperwork given to him at the game, but lines from the Palace-approved NDA hovered in his mind. It expressly forbade admission of "confidential information" by the signer.
"Any information regarding or involving HRH Prince Edward's personal or private life not previously released by official Royal documents, speeches, or approved biographers, including any personal or private relationship the Guest may have with HRH Prince Edward . . . "
Had he started an international incident? Misread the signs? Allowed his crush on Beau Swan to trample all over their new friendship?
Edward started to rise, but the Yank dropped a hand to his sleeve, keeping him in place.
"Go tell Felix that you're crashing here tonight."
Edward was almost too stunned to speak. When he found the words, his voice shook.
"As you wish."
Once he was on English soil again, Edward threw himself into his philanthropic efforts. He was more than happy to help his fellow man, but there was one man in particular that consumed all of his thoughts.
Beau Swan.
His mind produced the images of that night with perfect recall: Beau and Edward tumbling onto the couch, pulling at hems and collars and waistbands. The kisses between them becoming sloppy. Needy. Beau pulling him by the arm into the darkened bedroom. The sound he made when Edward wrapped a hand around his cock.
Edward was getting hard just thinking about it. Seeing the confident Beau Swan like that–spread out on the bed, at his mercy, moaning–thrilled him.
Edward looked at the time. It was one o'clock in London, which meant it was the early evening of the previous day on the West Coast. He knew Beau was staying with his father for the holiday weekend, now that the Thanksgiving festivities at the White House were over.
He was probably busy with family obligations. Edward dialed the number anyway, ignoring his obvious desperation.
"Yello?"
"Translate that for me, would you?"
"Jacob Black always answers the phone that way," Beau laughed. "Guess he's rubbing off on me."
The only person the prince wanted to rub off Beau Swan was himself. Edward took a deep breath.
"So . . . how are you?"
"I'm great. How are you?"
"Also great."
"Great," Beau repeated. "I've been thinking about you."
"I've been thinking about you, too."
"Yeah?"
Edward pushed one hand into his waistband. "It's hard not to think about you."
There were footsteps on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of a door closing. When Beau spoke again, his voice had taken on a husky tone.
"Are you hard now?"
"Oh, yes."
"Great," Beau said again. "Here's what I would do if I was there."
They continued like that well into the month of December. It took some coordination to get the scheduling right, but the two talked nearly every day, unless Beau had a prior engagement. It was heaven.
Edward was better than he'd been in months, maybe years. Sure, it wasn't the most conventional of arrangements, but he wasn't taking anything for granted.
The Christmas season had always felt hollow without his mother, but this year, Edward was determined to make the best of it with his family.
Rosalie was eager to help. The two planned festive events around the Palace, made bedside visits at hospitals, and announced the roll out of Edward's philanthropic projects: investments in grief counseling and mental health services, substance abuse recovery centers, and foreign aid.
Even the king noticed the change in his attitude. He joined his sons, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren when his schedule allowed, and seemed to smile more than he ever had.
The prince understood now that the king was lonely, too. Edward realized he was not the only one who had isolated himself since the death of the queen.
There were things he'd done that Edward could not forget about. But he would try to forgive, because his mother would have wanted it that way.
Rosalie made Christmas Night even better when she announced there would soon be another little princess in the Palace.
Edward waited for his brother's outrageous display of public affection with his wife to be over before pulling Rosalie into a hug. She held him tightly in return.
"Are you happy, Rose?"
"I am," she whispered. "Are you?"
He nodded. "Very much."
"I'm glad."
Edward was lounging in his bedroom when a text from a certain someone arrived.
Happy Christmas, you.
Edward sent a quick reply, closing it with a heart emoji.
Merry Christmas, FSOTUS.
The little bubble that indicated a pending response was there for a long time. Edward stared at the phone, wondering if the other shoe was about to drop.
All sorts of studies had been published about the anxiety that instant communication produced in people. Edward never believed any of them until this moment.
But Edward needn't have worried; the message was a good one, a very good one.
POTUS is letting me have people at the Residence for a New Year's Eve party. Come.
I always do. As you wish. ;)
And so, in the wee hours of the new year, Edward was on his knees in the East Bedroom of the White House, blowing Beau Swan.
His forefathers would have been horrified. Probably less at the gay part than the prince-on-his-knees part. On his knees in front of an American, for Christ's sake. He may never live this down.
Uncertainty took over for a moment. Edward didn't worry about his prowess–Beau's enjoyment was obvious–but he did wonder what would happen next.
People in power banging other people in power was something older than the Crown itself. But what were they going to do now, go public? Give the king a heart attack? Unite the fundamentalists against President Swan's reelection campaign?
Beau was sleepy. "Are you okay?"
It was almost four o'clock in the morning. Edward was still wide awake, lost in thought.
"Just . . . worrying, I guess."
"These walls are pretty thick. I don't think we were overheard."
"No, it's not that. I'm just wondering what happens to us now."
Beau put one hand to Edward's hair, his fingers moving lazily through the strands.
"We go steady."
"Translate that for me."
"We say the Special Relationship between our two lands has taken on a whole new meaning."
"I'm serious, Beau." Edward propped himself up on one elbow. "What if we do that, and it all goes to hell? What if your mum loses the next election because of it?"
"That will never happen."
"What if it does? What if it breaks us up?"
"That will never happen."
"How can you be so sure?" Edward demanded.
"Call it American arrogance. We could make history, you know. The First Son and a royal prince. It has a nice ring to it."
This American had an annoyingly optimistic view of things. The worst Edward ever met, if he was really thinking about it. The prince longed for that level of self-confidence.
Beau rolled over on top of him. Edward smiled in spite of himself, enjoying the view.
"I don't know the future, but I do know I'm crazy about you. I'm willing to fight for us, whatever it takes."
Edward considered these words for a moment. Then he smiled again.
"History, huh? That international relations degree of yours is really coming in handy."
Edward pulled Beau to him for a kiss, never imagining he could be this happy.
A/N: Hello dear readers! I am back to writing Beau and Edward! This is my love letter to Red, White, & Royal Blue.
RWRB was one source of inspiration for The Blue Hour series. The third installment (my AU of Eclipse) will be posted next week.
Thanks for reading!