#space--potat0

Leaving aside the royalty of it all, Henry’s got the worst case of insomnia of anyone he knows, and a few people he’s only ever heard of. He’s become begrudgingly fond of the liminal time between evening and early morning. He’d rather be sleeping of course, but if he is going to lie awake counting non-existent cracks in the ceiling, he may as well lean into it and get something done. He’s finished whole books, gotten his inbox to zero, done enough research to consider fighting Gram for a PhD, gone down porn rabbit holes that even Pez would blush at, and a whole host of other tasks both fantastic and mundane. 

But tonight, like a thousand nights before, Henry can’t sleep. And tonight, the siren song of overfilled bookshelves calls to him. He sorts through the titles methodically, discarding those he knows he won’t read again, occasionally pausing to read the inscriptions of those he was gifted. In between weeding out a handful of narrative non-fiction and deciding that yes, he does actually need all eight copies of Pride and Prejudice, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. It heralds the other reason he’s been up past normal bedtimes more often than not the past few months.

Alex: one day they’ll serve actual food at one of these things instead of just like

Alex: trays of gross looking ‘bites’ Alex: actually maybe you’d like this stuff Alex: nice and bland like other british food Alex: related:  Alex: i am BORED

Perhaps the best thing about him and Alex becoming friends—if that’s what they are—is that there’s someone else who gets it. Gets the tedium and the banality of public events, of constantly having to hobnob with people who only care about furthering their own agenda, of having to bow to society’s expectations. Henry used to drift through his own life, accepting a life full of fine and then Alex had knocked him into a cake and out of his fog. The transparent cage Henry had resigned himself to living in is no longer fine, no longer acceptable. He yearns to break the locks, to pull apart the bars, to step out of his routines and live. And it’s all thanks to Alex.

Alex, whose brash confidence and easy smiles have awoken Henry—have shone a light on his life and shown him how dusty it is. Alex, who texts like he talks, who can spit out the most absurd insults then turn around and reveal a part of his soul in the next line. Alex, who couldn’t possibly know how obsessed with the idea of him Henry has been since they met. Alex, who would be shocked at how much the reality of his person surpasses Henry’s daydreams with ease.

Henry, when he does sleep, dreams of Alex. His unconscious mind presents scenarios that have never happened—and never will—but in such a way that they feel like memories. He has to be careful when talking with Alex not to reference these things they never did, not to fall into wishful thinking whenever Alex sends him another shirtless photo as casually as he talks about the weather. Henry keeps those locked deep inside himself, and when he can’t hold anymore, he imagines pressing them into tree leaves, reciting them to the Waterloo Vase—there are too many desires to fit into any room, real or imagined.

Always, Henry is aware of the cage, of the heavy cape of his grandmother’s expectations, of how he can see out, but no one will ever find the key to let him leave. No matter how many times he dreams of him and Alex—holding hands in a cafe, kissing over a plate of pasta, curled up on a soft couch, tumbling half-dressed into bed—the Crown demands a stiff upper lip, a certain image, propriety. The Crown demands—

Well. The Crown demands. Full stop.

It’ll take and leech and drain and steal and order without compunction or consideration for anything but the perfect royal facade. Uncaring who or what it tramples in its unceasing stride. It would leave Henry flat, if he was foolish enough to leave his heart in its path. The Crown may know he’s gay, but they don’t have any idea just who his heart belongs to.

Not that Alex has any idea either.

It’s not quite the consolation Henry would like it to be. How he’s going to manage at Alex’s New Year’s party, he doesn’t know.

For tonight, he has his books to go through. He has a cup of chamomile to try and trick his brain into letting him rest. And he has Alex texting him live updates about his night, a bedtime story anyone would be jealous of.