Suni

Gran and Grandfather had been thrilled at Arthur’s remission. For them, the declaration meant there was no need to ‘shirk their duties’ any longer than Catherine and their youngest children already have.

“Dear Phillip has been doing more than his fair share,” the queen had praised her eldest grandson, before she glared at the rest of them. “He has put this family well above his personal desires. With Beatrice still resolving her little problem in Roehampton, it is high time that Henry officially ends his gap year to pull his weight.”

As though said gap year had been a holiday in Ibiza, rather than watching his father’s excruciating journey through chemotherapy–

“Henry,” mum hedges, for perhaps the millionth time. “I know that you agreed, but…”

Henry tenses, her anxiety mirroring his own. “I’m fine, mum.”

“If you are having second thoughts, I’ll see about shortening the trip-“

“Cath, please,” dad gives an exaggerated sigh. “We’ll placate the big, bad bitch-“

“Arthur,” mum warns, but there’s no bite to it.

The bags beneath dad’s eyes are hidden; he is hardly a stranger to makeup, after all. His lovely mop of hair is long gone, peach fuzz only just beginning to form, the skin of his scalp sensitive and in need of regular tending. Mum has already tucked a soft knit cap over his bald head, worried about the morning chill. Frailty still haunts him. Haunts them all, really. Dad still has yet to regain his pre-cancer weight, never mind physique, stamina, or agility. He leans heavily on his cane, even now.

“Might I remind you that this was your compromise, dearest?”

Mum would remain in the UK for Beatrice’s sake, so that their middle child could finish rehab without being dragged out for the summer Garden Party; so that Phillip could spend some time with his girlfriend as a reward for his good behavior; so that Henry could represent the head of state at the Summer Olympics in Brazil. That Henry had nearly had an anxiety attack at the thought of being away from his father had been a separate beast.

“I realize that, love.” Mum smooths out an imaginary wrinkle on Henry’s collar– it must be imaginary, for she has gone over his suit endlessly while their belongings were being loaded into the security cars. “You needn’t wear all this on the flight out, Hen, you look like you’ve been starched to death. There’s still time, if you’d like to toss the whole thing for something more comfortable.”

“Granny insisted,” Henry hesitates to share, gaze dipping down to the plush rug of Kensington’s foyer. “An NMA photographer will be there.”

There’s an audible silence, tense with a restrained irritation from both of his parents. He had kept that particular conversation, along with another, close to his chest for a reason. Catherine, Princess of Wales, chooses her battles carefully. Henry would hate to be an instigator for any of them.

He is grateful not to be on the receiving end of his parents’ ire.

“Christ, it’s still dark out,” dad mutters.

“Mummy will have had it lit up perfectly for them,” mum’s tone is icy at best.

"It's fine," Henry states, unconvincingly.

He has never done an international trip on his own. Still will not, really, coward as he is in wanting his father in his sights after months of seeing him wasting away. A near death experience for Arthur, yet Henry is the one in need of coddling. Insomnia, intermittent with nightmares of a black suit, a closed casket, and a headstone stone with ARTHUR JAMES FOX engraved.

Queen Mary and King James had been beyond condescending on the matter.

“You are loved by the people, Henry,” Gran had declared. “That love must be repaid. That is your duty.”

Panic attacks and separation anxiety and depression and social anxiety are hardly par for the course in the Royal Family’s glossary. A therapist, medication, and coping mechanisms later, yet just the thought of being separated for too long, of what might happen in Henry’s absence, had sent him spiraling. Mum needs dad here, just as much if not more. She and Henry both had taken to eating, breathing, and sleeping in the chairs at dad’s bedside while he was in treatment; but Henry is the one who between the lot of them found it hardest to spend more than a few moments in a separate room without immediately fearing the worst could be happening, without him there to stave it off by some miracle of his presence alone.

It still isn’t clear if the king and queen would prefer if he’d found a coping habit like Beatrice’s, one that required the utmost discretion to, in their words, cure.

“We’ll get along just fine,” dad states. “Won’t we, lad?”

“Yes,” Henry agrees. "It's fine."

“And you’ll have him actually meet real people, Arthur?” Mum poses it as a question, but it’s clearly a command. “Not just the decrepit diplomats that mummy’s got in mind.” 

“If he can keep his nose out of his books long enough…”

Henry balks, opening his lips to protest.

“You’ve saved on clothing in favor of that special edition of Persuasion,” dad teases. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I didn’t only bring Austen,” he defends halfheartedly.

“Don’t read the whole trip through,” mum frowns. “There’s so much to do apart from the Games. You know, your dad and I remember Rio fondly.”

“So much so, I’d vastly prefer it were Carnival we were attending.”

“And here I thought you’d’ve got that all well out of your system,” mum arches a brow.

Dad winks and they exchange an unspoken memory in their smiles. He wonders if it’s too late to call the whole thing off and join Beatrice in her ‘seclusion,’ when Shaan appears, tablet in hand. 

“Sirs, ma’am,” he greets. “Everything is ready.”

Dad draws Henry closer to his side, while mum wraps her arms around them both. Henry cringes, as each presses a kiss to one of his flushed cheeks.

“Be good, boys,” mum pats Henry’s cheek before pecking a kiss to dad’s lips. “Call me when you get in.”

Henry manages a smile. “See you on the twenty-second.”

“Give Bea our love,” dad says, tugging Henry towards the door.

Dad’s cane in his free hand means they stagger less, that he leans less upon Henry in spite of his initial umbrage at mum’s purchasing any form of mobility aid. The arm he keeps around his son’s shoulder is a safe, grounding thing.

Henry’s exhaustion seeps in the moment they are seated, the drive to the car nearly lulling him to close his eyes. He jolts to attention, however, when they arrive at the tarmac. 

The royal press flashes their cameras at the airport, reporting on the young prince’s first time taking the lead in an international appearance. Dad smiles, giving a reassuring squeeze to Henry’s shoulder to tide him over. Henry mimics his father’s press face, waving and giving a flash of teeth for good measure.

Henry might be nineteen years old, but the notion of this step into public life without his father at his side is unthinkable.

~*~

The flight is long. Long enough that dad nodded off some time ago. Long enough that Henry’s own exhaustion is seeping through, to the point he has reread the same sentence on repeat.

“At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously.”

He scrubs a hand over his eyes.

“At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously.”

His tie and jacket lie abandoned to the tray in front of them. 

“At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously.”

Dad’s cup of tea has long gone cold, his Sudoku pressed with one hand on his rising and falling chest. His reading glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose, shifting with each snore.

Henry forces himself to look back at the page.

“At nineteen, you know, one does not think very-”

“Henry?” 

A hand on his shoulder causes Henry to jerk upright. He blinks blearily, though the cabin has gone dim except the one light illuminating his seat. His equerry is standing above him, the chime of a phone alarm cutting through the otherwise quiet space.

“My apologies,” Shaan hardly sounds apologetic. A cup of water and a bottle of pills have appeared alongside the rest of the mess before them. “Your medication, sir.”

“Thank you,” Henry clears his throat, shifting and wincing after having been slouched for so long in his, albeit comfortable, seat. “Dad’s-”

“I have an alarm for that as well, sir,” Shaan reassures, “for about an hour from now. The stewardess will bring a full English simultaneously.”

Henry nods. “Very good.” 

He takes his pill, swallowing it and draining the water in one long sip. He hands his bottle of pills back to the man.

“If I may…” Shaan begins deliberately, “your highness may wish to get some rest, before his own meal.”

Henry meets Shaan’s brown eyes and pinched brow.

“The itinerary the Palace arranged is exhaustive.”

Now he chooses to sound apologetic. Yet… concerned. 

That will pass, Henry supposes.

“I am aware,” he drops his eyes to his book. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Shaan hesitates.

“Was there something more?” Henry asks, a dismissive tone accrued over decades of lunch with gran and grandfather.

“No, sir,” Shaan give a small bow.

Fabric shifts. Henry’s attention snaps to check on his father.

“Dad?”

“I didn’t think I raised another entitled arse,” Dad sighs, though his eyes remain shut. “Take it under advisement, eh?”

Henry fiddles with his ring, then, studying the gilded edges of the book still laying in his lap.

“It’s over eleven hours, we’ll have been stuck in this flying metal tube.”

“I’m not tired.”

“And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

Henry rolls his eyes, but a backhand taps his chest. 

“Close your eyes, and try.”

Henry is about to protest, when dad firstly flicks the reading light off, then hits the recline button on Henry’s seat. Dad’s eyes are level with his soon enough, reflective in the half-light as Henry begrudgingly surrenders to the lying position.

“You’ll do splendidly,” dad encourages. “Shake some hands, pose for some pictures. Maybe kiss some babies.”

“Do people bring babies to the Olympics?” Henry asks, amused. 

“There’s nothing to dread, Henry. It’s nothing you haven’t done. It’s nothing you can’t do.”

Henry wipes his hands on his trousers, the clamminess betraying his anxiety. The medication does help to take the edge off, but not always enough.

“Remember when you were first sent off to school?”

“Yes?”

“Pip did swimmingly, as always. Your grandfather James was pleased as punch. ‘Son he never had,’ and all that. Then, Bea begged to go to boarding school. Chomping at the bit, that one– couldn’t get away from KP fast enough.”

Beatrice had always been the most independent of them.

“But your mum and I, we knew it’d be hardest on you.”

Henry swallows thickly.

“Your head of house– Maury, Milley?”

“Mallory.”

“Mallory, right,” dad lets out a light laugh. “He rang me, that first month, more often than he was meant to. Never told your mum– don’t let that slip, by the by.”

“I didn’t know that.” 

Henry remembers crying a lot, at night. Being withdrawn. Spending much of his free time reading. Master Mallory encouraged him, at music or sports or games with the other boys. Definitely had not allowed him phone calls. Henry had only asked the once, resigning himself to accepting the rule of waiting the month out for parent visitations.

He was no Nicholas Nickleby, but the radio silence had been painful. He had never really been around boys his own age, apart from family, and certainly had never been apart from his family to that extent.

Dad hums, inhaling deeply.

Sinking his head back into the cushion, Henry looks up at the ceiling. Icons on the cabin ceiling shine faintly, tones of greens and reds and off-yellows.

“You were so scared,” dad continues, “and I thought I’d never forgive myself, if the other boys were being cruel.”

“They weren’t,” Henry manages. He feels a burning in his eyes, but blinks it away. “They were— fine. It was fine.”

It was the first time he’d found another boy pretty, although he wouldn’t understand that for another five years. 

(Robbie. House Prefect.)

“Then, a few days went by, at the end of the month,” dad pauses. “Then a week. So, I rang him, asked what was happening. Mallory said, so proud, ‘Your boy takes a while to warm up. But when he does, he shines’. You’d started playing cricket. All the boys wanted to be on your team.”

Henry feels himself flush. He still remembers the other boys, cheering him on, slapping him on the back.

It was like having mates for the first time.

And Robbie, with his floppy black hair and dimples, had grinned at him–

“And then, at Christmas holiday, you told me all about a new student.” 

Henry’s new friend was his first real mate.

“Percy,” Henry says softly.

“Mm, Percy,” dad grins. “Percy this, Percy that. You’d bring dear Percy to ours, or go to his, over the holidays. Then as you get older, casually mention Percy is seeing this or that girl. And then Percy saw boys, as well.”

“And you adored him.”

“The long and short of it…,” dad pauses, resting his hand over Henry’s. “I wish we could’ve given you more time than what you’ve gotten. More time to... adjust. But you’re stronger and braver than you know, Henry. You’ll warm up, and you’ll find there are other Percy’s out there, if you’re willing to find them.”

Henry glaces sideways at his dad, now silhouetted and breathing deeply. That threat of tears returns. He doesn’t want to worry his father with the sight of it, so he closes his own eyes, turning his head away.

~*~

The weeks pass in a blur. Handshakes and, good to meet you, sir,’ and, at some point, an Olympian from the Commonwealth tries to kiss his cheek, only to be immediately reprimanded by security. Henry laughs it off, poses for a picture with the woman. He poses for so many pictures, in fact, that he is seeing flashing lights in his sleep. 

When he sleeps, that is. A welcoming luncheon with the UK Ambassador to Brazil, the Opening Ceremony, a celebratory dinner for diplomats at the UK Embassy, medal ceremony after medal ceremony. Some bronze or silver or the occasional gold; some wherein the UK doesn’t medal at all and they go back to the hotel, with dad joking about having taken enough gold and silver from the world over the centuries.

The suite they have is sprawling, yet Shaan must have pulled some strings, because the full-sized beds are in the same room. 

Dad tries to slip them out of the hotel once or twice, to go to some local shops, but the security is too tight. As willing as Shaan might be to try and sneak some Tortuguita Brigadeiro in, he’s not so willing to aid and abet the third in line to the British throne and his father in sneaking out. 

Their hotel becomes a place to crash at the end of each press-filled day, each morning filled with makeup and styling sessions that make Henry want to scream. Dad is good-humoured about it all, but it’s clear by the end of the first week that this is draining him. He doesn’t voice any complaints, but Shaan manages to get them Saturday and Sunday evening after the women’s Springboard finals to themselves. Once they’ve been fed, dad falls asleep at half-past eight, not waking until Shaan enters the suite to prep them at six in the morning.

By the time the next weekend rolls around, dad seems to get his second wind.

At least enough to quip little jokes about each of the ‘decrepit diplomats’ mum had warned about as they gathered in the viewing booths.

“That one got his balls bitten by a goat four years ago,” dad whispers conspiratorially in Henry’s ear as the old man in question moves away.

“He did not.”

“He certainly did. They tried reconstructive surgery, with a bull's-”

“Dad.”

“What? Look how he walks.”

Henry chokes back a laugh as dad grins. 

“Perhaps he’s an avid horseback rider,” Henry tries. 

“Bollocks.”

“Bollocks-less.”

Dad cackles at that. He continues to talk, a story about the South African ambassador and a can-opener, but a commotion elsewhere draws Henry’s eye. Laughter and loud voices, and a press following that put the Royal Rota to shame.

At the center of it all, a young man. He’s dressed well, but compared to the stiffs in suits, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. A jawline chiseled like an ancient sculpture, an exuberance and joy radiating from him, and–

“Henry?”

He swallows, watching the other young man, finding it difficult to peel his eyes away.

“Cat got your tongue?”

He finally looks at his dad, who is also watching the newcomer. 

“I see,” dad says, putting an arm around Henry’s shoulder. “Ellen Claremont’s son, from America. Why don’t you go introduce yourself?”

Henry dares another glance, and dad’s hand pats his shoulder, reassuringly. 

“He’s a year younger than you. With all these old bastards around, he might need a friend. One who doesn’t see a geriatrician on a regular basis.” 

Despite the assurance, his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. 

“His name is Alexander.”

He’s trouble, the better part of Henry wants to say.

“He looks like everything Gran hates,” he says instead.

Informal, reckless, decidedly unapproved–

“She doesn’t need to know,” dad assures him. Cane in one hand, he nudges Henry forward with the other. “Go on.”

Brown eyes catch their movements as they draw near, and Henry stops, dead in his path.

“Hey,” the young man says, sticking out his hand with an opened expression on his face. “I’m Alex Claremont-Diaz, my mom’s running for President.”

“Hello.” Henry swallows, wiping his hands on his pants before drawing one step closer. He takes the offered hand. “I’m Henry.”