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The photo Alex posted of Henry in his ridiculous little bathing shorts, all Prada sunglasses and boyish freckles atop a bright pink pool mattress, became his most liked Instagram upload in the span of ten short minutes.
From there on out it was a game—to one-up the other and break that record.
Henry wasn't big on social media; that had always been Alex’s forte, utterly and completely. But he was clever. He did his research. He skimmed dozens of accounts to learn what made people tick, what attracted the public’s attention. The obvious solution wasn't a solution at all—he couldn't take the easy way out and post a gaudy, half-naked thirst trap. One, because he was quite sure he was legally prohibited from doing anything of the sort and two, his grandmother would kill him with her bare, aged hands. Not that he would’ve done it, if he could—the idea of making bedroom eyes at his own partially clothed reflection and documenting it for the entire universe to see was so far out of his comfort zone it made his stomach churn.
It all boiled down to the simple fact that privacy was a luxury he’d been robbed of his entire life. He’d never wanted the spotlight and he suspected it had something to do with the fact that the version of him the Crown wanted to portray wasn’t even him. But now, with Alex, with everything else that was out in the open, he was finally done hiding. It was almost therapeutic—taking apart the spotless veneer carefully constructed by the royal press teams and their delicate goddamn sensibilities.
He took it slow. He adjusted little by little, made his Instagram a more personal space—something that was him and no one else. A picture of his dog here, of Bea’s asshole cat there, an artsy shot of the evening sky as he flew over the Atlantic, then one of Alex smiling his perfect all-American smile as they sat across from each other in a rustic New York cafe.
None of them garnered quite the same fan reaction as Alex’s posts; Henry was yet to reach that same level of online celebrity. Still, there were other side effects. When they stopped by the same place for coffee not two days later, it was packed with people—the kind who took selfies with the logo and uploaded them with henryandalexwerehere hashtags. It wasn't an uncommon phenomenon. Wherever they went, social media stalkers and poorly disguised paparazzi followed. Henry honestly couldn't fathom why anyone cared where he went and what he drank, or what brand of toilet paper was used at Kensington Palace. (He’d read a viral think piece on it. It was a baffling topic to research.)
They swerved sharply out of view and around the corner before they were recognized and promptly accosted. Alex broke into a laugh as he dragged Henry further down another empty street, stumbling over his feet. The air was freezing, their breaths coming in white puffs, and Alex stopped abruptly and pulled Henry into a kiss by the collar of his coat, kissed him so fervently—insistent and familiar and overwhelming—that Henry felt himself going red.
And a week later, Alex obliterated him again by posting a photo of himself backstage with some boyband Henry couldn't name to save his life. It didn't beat the shot of sexy Henry and his booty shorts (Nora’s words, not his) but, predictably, amassed more likes than anything of Henry’s. It was a game he could not win. Alex was the world’s golden boy, the loud-mouthed, outgoing social media sweetheart.
Not that Henry minded coming in second. After all, he had the real thing all to himself. The press, the paparazzi, the enthusiasts running blogs and fan accounts, they didn't get to see Alex first thing in the morning with his curls flattened down one side of his head. They didn't know that he poured his milk before his cereal like some sort of neanderthal. Or that he always kissed Henry after he came, soft and breathless, senselessly in love, and Henry held him close and grinned unabashedly against his lips.
So, Henry played on.
The balance shifted one cold evening when he snapped a photo of Alex in the snow, somewhere deep in the bowels of Central Park. White flurries stuck to Alex’s coat and to the silly hat he’d pulled low over his forehead. He was all reddened cheeks, wide smile, mitten-clad hands, and Henry’s heart beat out a drum solo so furious he almost dropped his camera. The end result was magical—absolutely, blissfuly, absurdly romantic. It almost, almost broke the record.
“From a professional standpoint,” Alex told him very seriously later that night, as they lay draped over each other on the couch beneath a scratchy wool blanket, “you’re winning by a landslide. Your pictures have artistic value. Mine cater to the masses.”
Henry shushed him.
“You are an artist,” he went on solemnly, as if he were giving a speech. “I am a people pleaser.”
Henry kissed him to shut him up.
They were forced to spend the holidays apart for familial reasons of the being the figureheads of a country kind. Henry posted something blandly cheerful and conservative as per instruction from a higher power, and Alex a dumb selfie of himself and June in bright, bejeweled Santa hats. They talked on the phone later—Henry flat on his back in bed in London, Alex slouched in an armchair by the window in DC—for hours and hours, neither wanting to be the first to hang up.
A handful of days later had them drunk out of their minds in impeccably tailored, show-stopping suits at the trio’s annual New Year’s Eve shitshow. The countdown was chaotic and deafening and confetti rained like glittery snow from up above. Amidst the raucous cheering and popping of bottles Henry hauled Alex against him and kissed him like it was the end of the world. After, they scurried out the door and into the garden in a sentimental whirlwind, kissed again beneath the stars, needy and handsy and so fucking happy.
Neither won the Instagram game that night. Unexpectedly, Nora came out on top.
She uploaded a polaroid shot of the midnight explosion of streamers and champagne, of everyone hollering and toasting and making out. Conveniently, in the very corner of said photo were Henry and Alex, wrapped around each other like lovesick, tentacled little monsters, somehow sensual and intimate and blatantly, stupidly drunk all at once. The likes rocketed into the millions, beating Booty Shorts Henry and every photo Alex had ever posted.
She later celebrated by buying them all a hundred dollars’ worth of Burger King and, to commemorate, posted a victorious selfie of herself in the cheap paper crown to her story.
The New Year’s picture got plastered all over the media, too, in trashy tabloids and glossy magazines, picked apart by reporters and overeager teenagers on the Internet. Henry didn't mind—it wasn't nearly the worst picture of them to surface. (Or leak? He wasn't sure which word applied where anymore; his and Alex’s relationship had been through hell and back.) Rather, it was a particularly good one. They looked happy and carefree and inconceivably enamored with one another. Alex printed off a copy and tacked it to the board above his desk. It was one of many now, of them two and their motley crew.
In the weeks that followed they took time off to live life without the constant flash of cameras. Henry focused on his work and Alex on university, both putting in a tremendous effort to leave their mark on the world. They went on dinner dates and splurged on overpriced coffee with friends, stumbled around town like the stupid twenty-something year olds they were, then came together in the dark, hard kisses and roaming hands. There were no words to describe the earth-shattering joy of waking up together every single morning, an uncanny dream come to life. And when Henry later returned to England for an entire month, there came the unbearable ache of waking up alone.
Henry considered, as he stared up at the gilded ceiling of his palace bedroom, that being separated from the other half of one's soul was a particular sort of suffering. Alex was hours away, a cruel ocean apart. But Henry had known from the start, and Alex had too, that the future they’d chosen was never going to be easy. They’d been ready for a challenge. They were willing to fight for it with everything they had, especially now that it was real. They texted incessantly, like rebellious teenagers clacking away at their phones beneath their classroom desks, during meetings and commutes and lectures. Henry called Alex at odd hours in the night and he always picked up. His voice, groggy and hoarse, made Henry want to cry. His absence was haunting, like a phantom limb.
For a while, the Instagram race ceased to matter. Until one day (as Henry later learned) Alex woke late for an 8 a.m. class and swiped at his notifications as he brushed his teeth frantically in the kitchen, only to discover that Henry had posted a selfie of himself and Pez with the lead from the latest Star Wars film at an event in London—Pez in a floral three piece suit, Henry in immaculate black. The fan response was unreal.
“Daisy Ridley?” Alex demanded, hours later, grinning at Henry over FaceTime. He looked well-rested for once, the faint reflection of his bedside lamp glistening in his dark eyes. “You used Daisy Ridley for likes?”
Henry, with David in his lap, clucked his tongue disapprovingly. Winning felt good, he decided.
“Now, love, don’t be jealous. She and Pez unsurprisingly knew each other and spent half the night chatting, and I simply joined them for a picture.”
“You’re a conniving evil genius, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
In the early spring, Henry returned to the States with the intention of staying put for as long as possible, all pertinent royal matters wrapped up and attended to. Alex was thrilled. He made that very, very clear the night he picked Henry up from the airstrip.
On the last day of April they visited the botanical garden upstate, where everything was in full bloom and Alex sneezed and sneezed until Henry pleasantly reminded him to take his allergy meds. He did, and thanked Henry profusely for being his knight in shining armor, his own personal Remembrall. They wandered down winding cobblestoned pathways away from prying eyes, stopped every now and again to ogle at strange plants or make out in a picturesque setting.
Henry did his best to comply as Alex positioned him on a bench in the rose garden to snap a picture. “You look like—fuck, like a Greek statue. I don’t know. Like a decadent Victorian demigod,” Alex told him, by way of explanation. Moments later, Henry watched fondly as Alex perched on the same bench, legs folded at odd angles, and fiddled with his phone. Alex picked out a filter and typed up a suspiciously long caption that he wouldn't let Henry see until he was finished. Once he uploaded it, he pocketed his phone, jumped to his feet and took Henry by the hand to drag him towards the seasonal exhibitions.
They went for lunch, after. Henry poked at his fries and held every other one out for Alex, who was too distracted skimming through his unread DMs to eat. Alex’s burger grew cold on his tray as he ignored it in favor of squinting at his screen. Henry was no longer ashamed that he found this endearing. Alex could sit and breathe and blink and Henry would find it goddamn endearing.
Still. “You’ve got to eat something.”
“Internet clout is all the sustenance I need,” Alex informed him gravely.
Henry jabbed a fry at him and Alex snapped it up from between his fingers.
The photo from the garden blew up, of course, and a tidal wave of comments continued to flood in—thousands of heart eyes, fire emojis, and a great many responses to the sappy caption Alex had added. Earlier, when Henry had first read it on their way out of the park, his heart had done a thing, skipped a beat, doubled and tripled. On the outside, he’d rolled his eyes and pulled Alex into a bruising kiss. When they pulled apart, the way Alex looked at him had been so open and tender and lovesick that Henry thought he might black out. Instead, he’d smirked, just the way Alex liked it, and deadpanned, “You keep saying things like that online and people might start to think we’re dating.”
Alex passed his first year at NYU beautifully and Henry took it upon himself to think up the perfect reward. Of course, it started with a great many satisfying nights spent together beneath the sheets, Alex’s gasping into the crook of Henry’s neck, his nails drawing red lines down Henry’s back. Even now, years later, Henry had trouble believing this was real, that he could have Alex like this—spread out, wanting, thighs trembling around Henry’s waist. It was the manifestation of his every wish and dream and prayer, and he wanted to go back in time and tell his younger self that it would be okay, that he would one day be himself and he would be okay.
A few weeks later came the real prize, organized in secret by Henry and June and Pez and Nora, everyone coming together to celebrate as extravagantly as possible. It was a ridiculous, all-inclusive trip to Greece, a week of blissful, carefree debauchery, baby blue water and searing heat, everything sun-kissed and golden and perfect.
The likes soared on Henry’s picture of Alex, his curls wayward and tousled, every inch of him positively glowing as he grinned from across the table at a quaint boardwalk restaurant. The next evening, Alex snapped one of Henry staring off into the sunset with his toes dipped in the pool, unfocused, lost in a quiet haze. The sky reflected in the water, painting it red and pink and orange, dripping and smearing together like watercolors. (Afterwards, Pez snuck up behind him and tossed him in. It made the directors cut, i.e., a sensational Boomerang in Pez’s story.) And on it went, snapshots on the beach and in their room, sunburnt smiles over breakfast and late-night videos of blaring music and neon lights, each upload reaching new peaks of popularity.
But again, it wasn't either of them that took the gold. It was June’s photo of a stolen moment—Alex and Henry in their pale summer linen, posing on the shore and squinting against the sun. Alex was pressing a kiss to Henry’s cheek, his face obscured by Henry’s windswept hair. June uploaded it with the succinct caption of my boys and proudly watched their dismayed faces as it blew past every single other photo from the trip.
It was a relatively straightforward conclusion to come to, that pictures of them together always beat out those of them alone. Everyone wanted an inside look into their relationship, like nosy neighbors peeking over one’s hedge. Henry didn't know how to feel about that. He was beyond thrilled at what he had and how immeasurably lucky he was to have it, yet at the same time felt it wasn't right to make a habit of sharing everything, every precious second, with anyone else. “Everyone’s a voyeur,” Alex summarized. He was accustomed to it. Henry less so.
The back-and-forth Instagram thing was sidelined, but not forgotten. After all, the image of a public figure had to be maintained.
Photos went up constantly—the bland, everyday kind, at the very least. Henry posted press shots from events and appearances, updates on his foundations, a bit of photography here and there, a little bit of David wagging his tongue at the camera or slobbering all over Henry’s face. Alex was a tad more chaotic, posting glitzy selfies from parties with Nora, stories upon stories of his mounds of assignments, political rants, ridiculous memes, or messy, uncropped screenshots of articles he found interesting.
But pictures of Henry and Alex—the meaningful, staring at each other from across the room in slow motion kind—went up sparingly. Henry had brought his initial concerns to Alex and Alex had concurred, that while it was thrilling to be able to share everything with the world now, they would never let it distract them from just being, existing together in their cozy, homey, cluttered brownstone. Nothing compared to their late-night dinners and oodles of absurdly expensive liquor, to 3 a.m. blowjobs and their routine coffee and tea in the mornings, or huddling together under the covers to muffle the sound of their neighbor's too-loud music at ungodly hours. Nothing could replace the slow kisses, undressed and ardent and unfathomable, and the quick, hasty ones as Alex sped off to class or Henry stepped out for a meeting.
The way the media worked, scandals mattered for days and not years. Alex and Henry’s five minutes of fame were long since over, yet their online following continued to grow. The most successful photos—and this made Henry’s head spin—amassed millions of likes. He was used to avoiding the limelight, never went out of his way to attract attention. And it baffled him, every time he posted a shot of his Alex, that so many strangers loved it, loved Alex, as much as he did.
The public loved to see their dates and weekend getaways, the photos that went up of them dancing at some English aristocrat’s wedding, or those of their hands intertwined over the table at a gimmicky Route 66 themed diner. They somehow, inexplicably, couldn't get enough. And sometimes, when Henry woke to a sleepy, grumpy Alex smushed against him, he couldn't either.
The game become obsolete, eventually, and not because they grew bored or fell apart. It was quite the opposite. Henry failed to catch the exact moment it happened, really, when they became so inseparable, comfortable and impossibly familiar, tucked neatly into each other’s lives. The lines blurred between Online Alex and Online Henry. There was no longer any need to post sappy captions and blurry photos of fond embraces at airports or galas or anywhere else. It became universally known, a statement of fact, that they were a package deal. They were one. They were HenryandAlex.
No matter what they uploaded, the likes went up and up and up. They got the same string of comments and quote tweets and responses. To an outsider, it might have seemed monotonous, dull maybe, but it never felt that way to Henry. Their online selves were a fraction, teeny tiny and insignificant, of the real them. When he looked at Alex, his heart still ridiculously, foolishly beat too fast. That giddy warmth was impossible to extinguish and as long as it continued to burn he would share glimpses of it with the world, if only to let people like him, like him and Alex, know that they were not alone.
Two and a half years after Alex stood up in a crowded press room and told his truth, Henry got to tell his.
It was a cool summer night when Henry flew in to LaGuardia. He was in a mood. He’d had a meeting with his grandmother earlier in the day. Or the previous day. Time zones were a nuisance. Jet lag was a bitch and he was exhausted. He rattled his keys in the lock and found Alex waiting for him in the entranceway. He looked jumpy and jittery, like he hadn't slept the entire time Henry had been in London and had had an ocean of coffee to make up for it. Henry dropped his bags, kicked his wheely suitcase into the corner, and sagged against Alex, who caught him with a muffled grunt.
Alex had prepared an elaborate dinner for the occasion and they ate in comfortable silence, polished off a bottle of red, Alex twitching every now and then like he had something to hide. Henry had half a mind to ask about it but Alex beat him to the chase, like he couldn't contain it any longer, and slipped off his chair and down on one knee, and Henry’s lungs stopped working when Alex said those four damn words, asked that particular question that Henry had only dreamed of hearing, and wetly, shakily, he said, “Yes—of course it’s a yes.”
“Oh, good, ‘cause I was worried I got it all wrong, and—”
“Do shut up.”
His hands trembled when he dragged Alex up for a kiss, cradled his face like nothing mattered more than keeping him close. Alex wrapped himself around Henry and Henry pressed a kiss to his neck, buried himself in Alex’s shoulder, so madly, insanely overwhelmed, like his heart might burst. His face was wet and he thought that Alex’s might be too, and Alex kissed him again through the tears, grinning into it, because it was forever, it was really forever.
“You do it,” Alex told him the next morning.
He was slumped back against the cushions in their bed, sticky and sweaty and utterly wrecked from their round two. Henry, his head pillowed on Alex’s chest, closed his eyes and focused on the soft back and forth of Alex’s fingers through his hair. It was an absent, soothing gesture, a tiny, familiar comfort.
Abruptly, Alex tensed and Henry craned his head up to find him frowning. Alex’s eyes—those big, dark, bottomless eyes of his—met Henry’s, and the frown deepened.
“Remember the speech June wrote?” he asked. “And then all that stuff I said in Austin before the reelection? I had these big-ass moments to get everything off my chest, like, on my terms and you—you got what? That one interview? Wasn’t that scripted? Like it was damage control and not, you know, you putting your soul out there for everyone to see.”
It was true that Henry hadn't gotten to spill his guts. The aftermath of their scandal had been different for him than for Alex. He’d gotten a prewritten, Queen-approved statement to read off to the press, because royals didn't make waves, they smoothed them out. At the time, he hadn't cared—not really. He’d been allowed to tell the truth and that had been more than enough. He got his crazy, romcom ending and life went on.
“You should do it,” Alex said again, more forcefully this time. “You never really got to tell your side of the story.”
They’d taken a picture of their hands, fingers intertwined, the gold band around Henry’s finger gleaming in the lazy sunlight. Now came the question of which one of them would post it and break the news to the world.
“Or, you know, if you want to stick it to Philip and—well, your grandmother especially.”
Henry felt his lips quirking into a crooked smile. Not the immaculate one he reserved for magazine covers and public appearances, but the one Alex brought out in him—imperfect, genuine, indescribably happy.
The decision was made silently, without words.
An hour later, Henry curled up on the downstairs sofa with a steaming mug of tea and tapped away at his phone until he was pleased with what he’d written. He took one last look at the photo—the exhilaration bubbling like molten lava in his chest—and one last look at Alex, who watched him from the other end of the sofa with such vulnerable openness Henry thought he would shatter under the weight of it. He proofread the caption for typos, held his breath, and hit post.
It broke every record to become the most liked upload in Instagram history.
They took another picture that afternoon, tangled in a kiss, Henry’s hand with its shiny new bauble flat against Alex’s cheek. This one, they kept. This one was for them.