We're arriving at Heathrow soon, sir. We need you in landing position."

Alex blinks at the intelligence report before him, realizing he hasn't absorbed a word of it in the last ten minutes because of this damn pain in his stomach, then up at his Assistant to the President. "Thank you, Pablo. I'll need this later. Classified."

"Of course, Alex." Pablo efficiently takes the paper from him and prepares to lock it away in his special briefcase. Alex'll be reunited with it at the palace. It's going to be a long night.

It's been a series of long nights since- well, since high school, probably. That's what happens when you go from AP courses to Georgetown undergrad to Harvard Business school to the youngest congressperson ever elected to the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, to the Democratic nominee in the 2040 election and officially the youngest president ever elected, beating out JFK by a cool twelve months.

If he stops and thinks about the fact that he hasn't had a break in … decades … he's not sure he'll be able to continue on, and it's necessary that he does. He has everything he has ever wanted, he's hit every part of his twenty year plan to a T, with some minor hiccups - expected and unexpected - along the way.

He hesitates after Pablo has made his way back to the main seating area of Air Force One and dips into his personal stash of antacids, palming a few and crunching their chalky mintiness between his teeth as he heads to the front of the plane and buckles himself into his designated seat. Members of his staff buzz around him, discussing every piece of the upcoming summit as well as the fact that the Crown is letting them take over a wing of Kensington Palace for the stay. He tries to block out their chatter, their buzzing in his head, by focusing on the view outside, but all he can see is clouds.

By the time they land, Alex's nails are biting into his palm - the smallest indication of anxiety he'll allow himself. He's well trained after this long in the public eye. He knows exactly how hard to press to relieve his brain without bleeding and ruining his ability to shake hands for the rest of the day.

As soon as they're cleared, Alex is standing and Pablo is immediately at his elbow with a big black umbrella.

"Ah, yes, it's raining in London, it must be a day ending in Y," Alex jokes, immediately annoyed at the pleasant smiles his staff give him. He misses Nora, misses the jab she would've immediately given his shoulder even as she rolled her eyes. She's back in DC, think-tanking her way to fame and fortune, and their paths cross often enough, but not as often as during the Ellen Claremont administrations.

It's so strange, Alex thinks, to be in a position where a whole lot of people - an entire country, or at least the 52% that voted for him - would care if he died, and yet he doesn't feel like he has a single friend that would really care.

"I look okay?"

Pablo gives him the once over, then a brief thumbs up before tucking a curl behind his ear. "I'll text Eugene and see if he's available for a visit when you're back at the residence. The curls are getting a bit unkempt."

Alex acknowledges it with a nod, already looking forward to the full shave he gets whenever the barber comes to maintain his perfect presidential hair. It's the only time in the day he's allowed to just sit there and not talk.

He does the standard presidential wave from the door of the plane, descends with his umbrella covering both himself and his press secretary Angela, and makes his way swiftly to the motorcade under a hail of spitting rain and shouts for his attention from the press.

Several hours later finds him sitting at what the Crown probably considers an intimate dinner of about twenty or so of the leaders of the upcoming summit on LGBTQIA rights throughout the world.

The fact that he's seated across from Prince Henry, his old 'nemesis' turned grudging acquaintance, doesn't fail to tickle his irony. He and Henry have been thrown together in the same sentence for most of his public life - since even before Henry had been forcibly outed in his mid-20s by an asshole breaking an NDA and Alex had come out himself after his first term as a congressperson representing Austin. The first modern, out gay prince and the first modern, out bi president tend to be thrown together for a lot of things. Hence, the grudging acquaintance. He doesn't really have the time or energy to keep up his side of whatever rivalry Henry wants to imagine between them.

"Mr. President," Henry had murmured when they'd found their seats earlier.

Alex had given him a polite nod and a, "Your Royal Highness," back.

Despite the tepid exchange, there's something - there has always been something - that draws Alex toward Henry. When he was a pre-teen with June's magazines, it was Henry's soft, golden hair. At their first meeting when Alex had just been the First Son, it had been Henry's body filling out the lines of a crisp suit well. And when he'd been outed, it had been the firm set of Henry's jaw as he defended himself from calls for abdication.

Alex respects that jaw, that stubbornness. The fact that he has long wanted to pepper kisses up it is neither here nor there, but the thought always throws him ajar because he rarely thinks that sort of thing about anyone.

After he'd come out as bisexual in his late twenties, he'd been both intrigued and mortified to realize that hadn't been his 'final' label. It had come out of a conversation with someone at a summit like this, about asexuality and the ace spectrum, and he'd read the definition of demisexual and just- just realized, that's him. But he'd felt shame - still feels shame - because he knows his political opponents will throw around words like "phase" and "wishy-washy" if he were to announce something like that. He's the first out bi president, except he's not. And if he secretly yearns for the gray-purple-white of the demi flag, no one has to know.

He mostly pushes food around his plate and makes polite small talk with Henry and their surrounding dignitaries. His stomach still hurts like hell for reasons Alex doesn't want to actually stop and contemplate. When the time comes for coffee and tea, though, he pounds his first cup like it's manna from heaven and immediately signals for a refill.

"Old habits die hard, I see," Henry teases over his own cup of tea.

Somehow, Alex realizes with a start, he and the prince are now on their own here, an intimate corner of the room somewhat sheltered from the other guests. Maybe it's that Henry commands his attention so much that he hadn't even noticed the others move away, but he doesn't want to admit that to himself.

"2040, and they haven't yet figured out how to IV drip this into my blood yet, so yeah." He gives his charming smile; the one everyone tells him is charming, anyway, because flirting with - being nice to - Henry brightens his day just a little.

"Your family is well?"

Alex gives a polite nod back, even though it's not small talk he wants to have with Henry. It seems like that's all he does with anyone anymore. All he has time for. "June's latest book is on the bestseller list, and Mom's pretty firm on the college-lecture, commencement speaker, book tour circuit. Dad hasn't slowed down yet. Coming up on his 15th reelection as a rep, if the term limits amendment doesn't pass."

"I am equally familiar with family members who refuse to slow down. My grandmother was cutting ribbons and knighting folks until the very end, and my mother is even more diligent, though focused on issues that I'm sure has Gran spinning in her gilded coffin."

Alex's smile is more genuine this time. "I really do enjoy every time Her Majesty suggests something progressive and the Tories lose their shit, I have to say."

Henry makes himself busy with his cup, then looks up at Alex through his lashes. "Me, too," he says as he offers a secret smile that feels like it's for Alex to understand only.

Despite the sweet moment, acid rolls in his stomach, gnawing there and causing a flare of pain that he can't quite hide from Henry, who perks up from his more casual stance in the chair. "Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine. Just stress. I have antacids back in my room. Which, by the way, thanks for the choice digs."

Henry waves that away, a frown still gracing his lips. "Are you sure? I could ask my equerry to bring you something."

"I'm fine," he reassures.

"Well, I suppose you know where I live, if you need anything." Now Henry's lips tip up again, and make Alex's hurting stomach flutter.

"Watch out, I'll remember that offer for later."

"Oh, dear, the devastatingly handsome POTUS knocking on my door at midnight? What a threat." If Alex isn't mistaken, Henry flutters his lashes at him before laughing and walking away to chat with some of the others.

Did he just flirt with me?

Alex is left gaping after the prince, his stomach churning and mind spiraling over an entirely new set of possibilities.

It's those possibilities that have Alex pacing in front of the door to Henry's suite at Kensington later that night. At least, he's been told by the secret service member accompanying him - Charles, because Cash and Amy had moved onto management and training positions in the administrations between his and his mom's - that it's Henry's suite, although he wouldn't put it past Chuck to play a joke on him to get him back for keeping him up at all hours of the night.

The bodyguard has stationed himself discreetly at the end of the hallway, his back turned to Alex's pacing.

His mind is a spiral of thoughts, his hands clenching and unclenching as he paces and makes a list and attempts to run the numbers like Nora would.

Henry definitely flirted with him.

Alex loves flirting with Henry.

The thought of doing something…more…with Henry doesn't immediately make his stomach turn.

He would like to get to know Henry better.

Henry definitely flirted with him.

He's getting way too old for this fluttering heart and stomach shit.

The only way he can get to know Henry better is to knock on the fucking door.

Knock, knock.

Adrenaline spikes through his system when he realizes that he'd actually just tapped his knuckles against the Prince's door.

He immediately starts pacing again. "Oh shit, oh shitohshitohshitohshitoh-"

"Alex?"

Alex spins around, and oh- oh fuck, Henry looks devastating, a red brocade robe clinging to his broad shoulders and tying at his waist and showing off his disgusting(ly handsome) shoulder-waist ratio even at 43 fucking years old. Even worse, it's clear he's not wearing anything underneath the robe, at least, anything Alex can see.

"Oh, fuck, sorry. Uh. Sorry. You were in bed. Fuck." Alex spins around, ready to fucking run out of the palace if he needs to. He can swim across the Atlantic, right?

Suddenly warm fingers are sliding between his, holding his hand and pulling him back. Surprised, Alex looks down at their linked hands, then up at Henry's smiling-yet-concerned face. "Uh." He swallows against the acid in his throat.

"Hello, Alex. Did you need something from me?"

Everything. He shakes his head. "No, I just…was working and couldn't sleep and…and you…fuck," he lets a breath out, trying to calm his heart from his panic.

"Are you okay?" Henry's fingers squeeze his.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Alex lies.

"When I can't sleep, I raid the kitchen for cornettos."

Alex's stomach lets out an embarrassing gurgle, which Henry snickers at, so Alex pulls him forward and pokes him in the ribs. "Hey, leave me and my poor stomach alone."

"How about I feed it, instead?"

"Who are you, and what have you done with Prince Henry?"

Henry chuckles again, and it makes Alex's heart ache as they start to walk - still hand-in-hand, amazingly - away from Henry's suite.

"I'm still me. I suppose this is just the Henry you get with massive, massive amounts of therapy and a recent realization that I'm rapidly approaching living longer than my father did and while that doesn't scare me, anymore, there are some things I'd wished I'd done by now." Henry flashes him a sly smile. "Too real?"

Alex squeezes his hand in reassurance. "Just fucking real enough."

"How you got elected with your mouth, I'll never know," Henry replies with a smirk.

"Hey, it worked for LBJ."

"Wasn't his predecessor assassinated?" Henry steers them into a well-appointed kitchen and crosses to a fridge.

"And then he got reelected. I'm just saying, I'm doing my fellow Texan right." Alex snatches the ice cream treat that Henry tosses him out of the air and rips the top off. "'Sides, I'll have you know, I'm very good with my mouth." He takes a monster bite out of the ice cream, and immediately regrets his life choices, going into a brain freeze.

"You are such an idiot," Henry says, but Alex would be lying if he said he couldn't note the fondness in his voice.

The brain freeze fades, but what doesn't is the sudden churning of his stomach as the ice cream hits it. "Do you have-"

Alex notes the alarm on Henry's face a second before he's leaning over the kitchen sink, emptying the contents - really just the ice cream and a bunch of acid - of his stomach.

"My god, Alex-"

Alex shudders, coughing more into the sink as he feels a warm hand on his back. The simple comfort - or the heaves of his stomach - bring tears to his eyes.

"Is that-? Fuck, Alex-"

"What?" Alex finally manages, sucking in a much-needed breath. "I don't feel good," he murmurs as he looks down at the white-yellow-brown mixture below.

"I think that's blood, love," Henry whispers, looking pale himself as he thumbs moisture away from the side of Alex's mouth. It comes away a brown-red that makes Alex's stomach flip upside down completely.

"I think I need to sit down," Alex manages, before fainting right into Henry's arms.

"Fucking Christ," Henry manages as he catches an unconscious Alex and prevents him from braining himself on the counter on the way down. He maneuvers Alex into his arms, then gets help the quickest way possible - walking out of the kitchen to find the secret service agent that had been trailing Alex even within the security of the palace.

He would have laughed at the absurdity of the look on the agent's face: here he is, a fucking prince, with the Leader of the Free World draped in his fucking arms- but for the gravity of the situation. He clears his throat. "We need medical help for the President, but if you let me contact my equerry, we can do this in a way that won't alert the press, if that's what you desire."

From there, it's a flurry of activity organized by both Shaan and Pablo, Alex's assistant. Henry is hovering in the background of his own sitting room now, feeling useless, when Alex regains consciousness on the appropriately-named fainting couch. His eyes dart around, seeking something, then they land on Henry and he seems to relax and Christ, twenty-year-old Henry is dying.

"The Prince said you threw up before you collapsed, Mr. President, sir. Can you tell me how you feel now?"

"Stomach still hurts like a bitch."

"Scale of one to ten?"

Henry can actually see the calculation that crosses Alex's face as he figures out the answer that at least sounds truthful, but will get him left alone. He's not sure if anyone else clocks it, but he has made a habit of studying Alex's face for years, after all. "Uh, five?"

The royal attendant hums. "He needs to be checked out at the hospital. I suspect an ulcer, but he'll need verification." It's only slightly awkward that the attendant gives this report to Henry as status quo dictates.

"Make it happen, please, Pablo," Alex mutters to his assistant, closing his eyes and leaning back against the couch.

There's more bustling as Shaan and Pablo rally with the PPOs and Secret Service to get the process started, and Henry finds himself 'alone,' with Alex, or at least, with no one paying attention to them anymore.

Henry sits on the edge of the couch, resisting linking their fingers the way he'd done earlier in the hallway. It feels less sacred now, amongst all these people, and though he senses Alex feels interest in him, he has no idea what Alex's personal PDA boundaries are. Instead, he offers Alex a small smile. "Can I get you anything?"

Alex grimaces, his eyes still closed. "Some water, maybe? Gum? My mouth tastes awful."

"I could help you to the bathroom, and we could brush your teeth?"

Alex peeks open one eye and looks at Henry. "Is this what dating in your forties is supposed to be like? We just immediately get into the bathroom stuff?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Henry snorts. "Something like that. Do you think you can stand?"

"Yeah, just-"

Between the two of them, Alex stands, leaning heavily against Henry to do so, and Henry tries not to revel in exactly how good it feels.

The thing is, Henry's had a crush, off and on, on Alex since he'd become aware of him. Since he'd seen him across the room in Rio and realized that anything that shone that brightly could never be his.

Of course, that had been over twenty years ago, and a lot has changed for Henry in that time. The grief for his father hasn't lessened, but it gets triggered less often. The depression hasn't been cured, but it's well-controlled now. He lives his life out, if still discreetly, because he is a Prince of England, after all. He's had public relationships - exactly two of them, one with a fellow polo player and another with an actor, each one lasting a few months before inevitably falling apart due to their lifestyles. He'd had other, more discreet affairs of course, but those are held behind NDAs because the last thing he needs is Piers Morgan accusing him of being a slut.

Not that NDAs always protect you, as Henry well knows. Stefan might have been sued by the Crown for everything he was worth, but he'd taken Henry's reputation and privacy along with him.

And all throughout this, there had been Alex. Alex, who'd given a fiery speech when he'd still identified - in public anyway - as an ally condemning both Stefan's actions and the way the press had torn Henry apart. Bea had shown him a video of the speech when she'd finally managed to unbury Henry from his cocoon, and Henry had been floored, and that crush had reignited once again.

He'd followed Alex's career trajectory - his meteoric rise - closely. He'd come so close to reaching out when Alex had come out himself, but that had been when he'd been dating Peter, so he'd resisted. He'd retweeted the speech and told himself it was enough.

Now, Alex's body leans into his, and it's only too easy to imagine how well they would fit together in other ways. Alex's curls would tuck just under his chin if they hugged. Henry's arms would circle Alex's waist if they kissed.

By the time they get to the bathroom, Henry doesn't need the mirror to tell him that he's blushing.

"Are you okay if I leave you here?" he asks as a distraction, making sure Alex is gripping the counter.

"Yeah-yep. Sure," Alex replies on a blown out breath.

Henry lets out a silent sigh and turns to the cabinet to get a new toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste. When he turns around, Henry notices that Alex is white-knuckling the marble, his face a grimace. He slides in beside Alex, setting the supplies on the counter and running his thumb over those knuckles. "Alex, promise me something."

He waits until Alex meets his eyes in the mirror. "Yeah?"

"When you get to the hospital, will you please be truthful with them? They can't heal you properly if they don't know how much you're actually hurting."

He holds Alex's gaze until Alex nods, just a little bit. "Yeah, I can do that, I guess."

"You don't have to put on a brave front."

This time Alex snorts, then winces when that apparently causes pain. "Says the Prince of England's Hearts."

"No one calls me that anymore."

"Oh?"

"Nope."

"Shame." Alex somehow manages a half-smirk, like he's flirting with Henry.

The moment is broken when Alex brushes his teeth and yet- and yet, it's still intimate, standing next to Alex as he does, making sure he doesn't faint again. It feels unnaturally natural, seeing themselves together in the mirror like this.

It feels correct.

Even when Alex catches him watching after he's done rinsing his mouth.

Even when Alex turns around so he's leaning against the counter, and Henry's arms are now bracketing his body.

Even when Alex leans in, so Henry leans in, too.

Even when Alex angles his head to brush his soft lips over Henry's cheek.

"I'm not subjecting you to more than that right after throwing up," he jokes, his eyelashes fluttering as he meets Henry's eyes and looks for approval there.

"It's fine," Henry replies, and he's telling the perfect truth. He brings up a hand and cups Alex's cheek, rubbing over the stubble there. "I'm worried about you, Mr. President."

He regrets it instantly when Alex's eyes shutter over. "I'm fine."

"You know it's okay to not be fine, right?"

Alex leans back against the counter, no longer meeting Henry's eyes, but his silence is telling enough.

"Do me a favor?" Henry asks again, his heart lifting when Alex gives a little laugh.

"What this time?"

"If I ask how you are, tell me the truth."

Alex can't seem to help his smile. "You didn't ask, your highness. You just said, 'I'm worried about you,'" he repeats in an obnoxious accent.

"Noted." Henry doesn't bother to repress his laugh. "How are you?"

"I guess I should have been expecting that. Like I said before, my stomach still hurts like a bitch."

"I meant more like, a general 'how are you?'"

"I'm-" When Henry raises his brow, Alex bites down on his lip, attempting to hide a smile. "I'm…surviving?"

"Well, that's a start."

"Sirs?" A voice calls from the sitting area.

"That would be Chuck's particular form of panic, I believe." Turning toward the door, Alex calls, "We're coming."

Before Alex can head out the door, though, Henry captures his hand again to get his attention. "Good luck at the hospital, okay, Alex?"

Like before, Alex looks down at their joined hands, then back up to Henry's eyes. He pulls that bottom lip in again, chewing on it in a way that makes Henry want to kiss him. "Come with me?"

Which is definitely not what Henry had been expecting, so he's surprised into silence for a moment.

"You don't have to, it's okay. It's just that…I have my staff here, but like…they're not…I mean."

"You pay them to be there for you. Believe me, I get it. And yes, I'll come with you. Thank you for asking."

The little look of hope and excitement Alex gives him, even through his obvious misery and pain, makes Henry sigh internally in love. "Thanks."

"Come on, Mr. President, let's see what the finest doctors England has to offer have to say."