Chapter Text
Disclaimer: I don’t own Red, White, and Royal Blue or any of the characters in this story.
LAWS OF ATTRACTION
Chapter One: Complaint
The first time Henry sees him, Henry knows he’s going to ruin him.
What Henry doesn’t know is that he’s going to change his life.
Henry loves New York in the fall.
Like in one his favorite rom-coms “You’ve Got Mail,” he’d like nothing more than to receive a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils.
It’s small comforts like this that keep Henry going – this and university.
It had been a small miracle that Henry’s family even allowed him to attend NYU; his grandmother had been pushing hard for Dartmouth and Yale – ANYTHING in the Ivy League, really.
You could have at LEAST picked Columbia, Henry, she had droned at him over a family dinner one evening. It’s on the upper west side.
And what’s wrong with NYU, gran, Henry asked sharply.
He knew what she thought of Greenwich Village and lower Manhattan. But he wanted to hear her say it.
Well, I’m sure it’s a…fine institution, she allowed, waving her hand in the air dismissively. It’s nothing against the university. It’s the area, really. Greenwich Village has a rather…disreputable image, is all.
Henry rested his chin on his hand, narrowing his eyes. Disreputable why?
Oh, come now. With its hipsters, bohemians, and…homosexuals, she asked, drawing out ‘homosexuals’ in her obnoxiously snooty voice. You must know this, Henry.
Did he mention? His grandmother’s a flaming bigot.
A flaming bigot who, sadly, has threatened to disown her grandchildren if they act out of line with her morals and principals.
But why should it matter what sexual preferences Henry has? It wouldn’t matter under normal circumstances.
Did I mention one other small detail?
Henry’s grandmother is Mary Mountchristen…as in one of the members of the famous Mountchristen family. A family with so much old money and so much power, they give the Astors a run for their…money.
Let’s have a quick history lesson, shall we?
In 1785, Edgar and Eliza Mountchristen emigrated to New York from England and started their life anew in the new world.
Well, new for the United States. It’s strange to think that at 250 years old, the country is still younger than most others.
Edgar and Eliza were a humble solicitor and a homemaker in their own right. But their son, Alastair, wanted something more for himself.
As it turned out, Alistair was quite gifted at fixing things. So at the young age of eight, Alastair began charging a small fee to neighbors and friends for his handyman services. That made him a fair amount of money. But things really began to skyrocket when, at the age of twelve, he overheard someone talking about real estate.
This was something he could excel in. He was great at talking to people and making deals, and great at making a home look nice with all his handyman work.
Alastair bought his first property when he was fifteen, a small cottage that he fixed up and sold to an old woman.
She paid him handsomely for it.
Once word got out that there was a budding realtor and fixer upper in the neighborhood, Alastair was extremely in demand. Things were going so well that he opened an office…then another one…then another.
At the age of twenty-five, Alastair Mountchristen had more money than he knew what to do with. And so, several years later, he established Mountchristen College in Connecticut, a higher education institution focused on pumping out the next generation’s leaders and entrepreneurs.
None better than Alastair, of course.
Years later, Mary Mountchristen came to the United States with her family to try HER luck, and hopefully find the same prosperity as old Alastair. She was mostly successful, save for her daughter, Catherine, marrying some Hollywood actor that Mary didn’t approve of. But when Arthur Fox passed away, she made a plan to make sure Catherine’s children would keep the Mountchristen legacy alive.
This is partially why Henry was eventually allowed to attend NYU. There was a caveat.
There was ALWAYS a caveat.
Henry was given permission to *gasp* NOT go to an Ivy League school…only if he majored in business administration with the promise of going into the family business.
Was this what Henry actually wanted to do? Hell no. But…little victories…
…like New York City in the fall.
And the perfect to-go cup of earl grey tea in his hand while he rides the N train from 57th Street in midtown to the 8th Street-NYU station.
Yes, he’s a twenty-one-year-old with a midtown apartment. Don’t judge.
Admittedly, this is one part of having a shit ton of money that Henry doesn’t mind. He loves midtown, and loves its proximity to Central Park. He can go for runs, enjoy the relative quiet, and pretend he’s just a regular person. And of course, it’s an easy subway ride down to campus.
As the train comes to a stop, Henry takes a deep inhale and wills himself to get it together. This is the first day of classes and the last year in his undergraduate program, and he doesn’t want to fuck it up. He checks his leather messenger bag to make sure all is in place, takes a sip of tea, and strides purposefully off the train and up the stairs.
This general schedule has become routine to Henry, so he has no qualms about keeping his earbuds in as he emerges from the subway and readies himself to cross the street.
Henry doesn’t want to stop listening to Duke Ellington just yet.
Unfortunately, this decision will cause something that casts a pall over Henry’s day.
As Henry takes a step into the street – blissfully unaware of his surroundings thanks to the mellow orchestra in his ears – the sudden roar of an engine gets his attention. He turns and looks to his left, eyes widening in horror as he sees a motorcycle bearing down on him quickly. Henry staggers backward and lands on his butt, his tea falling into the road with a splash as the motorcycle and its driver whip past.
Everything happens very quickly, so Henry’s not able to get the best look at the driver. All he can tell is that the man is dressed all in black: black t-shirt and black jeans. And he has a perfect head of dark, wavy hair…which Henry can see because he’s not wearing a helmet.
Clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed.
“Thanks a lot, arsehole,” Henry shouts into thin air, still on the ground. He’s fully aware of the fact that much of this was likely his own fault for not paying attention. But he’d never admit that out loud.
With a grumble, Henry gets to his feet, careful not to put his hand in a nearby puddle that is decidedly NOT his spilled tea.
His poor tea.
There’s no time to get another one before his business law class, sadly; Henry always tries to not be late if he can help it. AND he’s also heard that this professor is a stickler for punctuality.
The few gulps of tea he had on the train would have to sustain him.
Thankfully, it’s not that much farther to the lecture hall. Between that and Henry’s brisk walking, he arrives in plenty of time.
He heaves a sigh of relief when he sees that there’s still ample seating to choose from. Picking a spot in the lecture hall was always key and – according to Henry, at least – involved a bit of strategy. Henry never wanted to sit in the back; his eyes would get strained and he didn’t want to come off as a slacker. He also never wanted to sit directly in the front just in case he wasn’t feeling particularly extroverted.
For the record, Henry has NEVER felt particularly extroverted.
Henry always chooses an aisle seat. Easy access to the exit and clear air on one side. There was a slightly more clinical reason for this, too.
It’s a wonder – with the societal/family pressures in his life – that Henry’s a functioning adult. However, he does get the occasional panic attack and is mildly claustrophobic.
Having very little say about the direction of one’s life will do that to you.
He settles himself in a seat about three rows from the front, setting his laptop and a pad of paper in front of him. No matter the advancements in technology, Henry always writes a portion of his notes; it helps him remember things a lot better.
Just as he powers up his laptop, Henry hears a shrill laugh from the corridor outside, followed by an equally shrill speaking voice.
“Alex, you’re so funny!”
Henry can’t hear what this Alex person replies with, but he can hear the rumblings of a low voice.
“Ugh, fine! Text me when class is done – I want to see you again.”
Alex must say something cute to her because the hyena laugh starts up again
Henry wrinkles his nose. It’s too early for this bullshit.
Seconds later, a tall man walks confidently into the room, scanning the empty seats before striding over to where Henry sits.
“This seat taken,” he asks, gesturing to the seat on the other side of Henry.
Henry looks up and opens his mouth, preparing to respond, but he stops short.
He might not have gotten a good look at motorcycle man’s face, but he knows that outfit and that hair.
Henry wants to be furious. He IS furious. But the face on this guy is like a fucking Greek sculpture; with his dark eyes, long lashes, angular face and nose, and full lips…it’s disarming, really.
“Um, hello?”
Henry catches himself. The expression on his face must have been ridiculous.
He quickly morphs his face into something resembling disinterest. It’s quite easy; he’s still salty about the tea.
"Sorry. Yeah,” Henry replies shortly.
“Is that ‘sorry, yeah’ a yes or no?”
Fuck.
Henry looks back down at his laptop, pretending to preoccupied with something on the screen.
“No. It's a no. The seat's open,” he mumbles.
The man smiles, seemingly unbothered by Henry’s terseness, and squeezes behind him to take the seat. He pulls a well-loved notebook out of his bag and removes the cap of a pen with his teeth, spitting the cap onto the table.
Henry’s face remains motionless except for his eyes, which move sideways when the pen cap rolls towards him.
What brand of uncouth heathen…?
“Yeesh, sorry about that,” the man says, reaching out and grabbing the cap before it gets too close to Henry. Once he puts it onto the end of his pen, he holds out a hand, beautiful eyes crinkling in a smile.
“I’m Alex.”
Henry allows him a brief smile, limply extending his hand to shake.
“I know. Henry.”
“How do you know? You a psychic or something,” Alex asks curiously but kindly.
Sadly for Alex, Henry is not feeling very kind, himself.
“No. I just have ears. Or at least, I did before your girlfriend assailed them with her laugh.”
Alex lets out a wounded noise and puts his hand on his heart.
“Rude! And bold of you to assume she’s my girlfriend.”
Henry raises one of his eyebrows. “Isn’t she?”
“Nah. She wants to be, though. But so does most of the female population, so I can’t really blame her.”
Alex says this with such a straight face that Henry has to tell himself not to laugh. Was this guy for real?
Unfortunately, Henry must not be as subtle as he thinks; Alex fixes him with an inquisitive stare.
“You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I get that it’s like butt fuck o’clock in the morning, but I was just trying to be nice. It wouldn’t kill you to do the same.”
Butt fuck o’clock. There’s a visual Henry did and did not need.
He finally gives up the ghost and turns to face Alex fully. Fuck, he really is stunning.
“Well, you’d know all about trying to kill people, wouldn’t you?”
Alex’s nostrils flare angrily. “What the mother fuck are you accusing me of?”
“You REALLY don’t recognize me?
“Should I? You a prince or something, your majesty?”
“If I WAS – which I’m not – you’d address me as your royal highness, actually.”
“Oh! Thank you for the etiquette lesson.”
“You’re in DESPERATE need of one.”
Henry takes a brief break from their spat and notices almost everyone in the lecture hall is looking at them. He mutters a few choice words under his breath and scoots his chair closer to Alex, trying not to fall under the spell of his cologne.
Santal 33. He has good taste.
“Listen,” Henry begins on an impassioned whisper, “This morning, you almost hit me with your motorbike. It scared the shit out of me, and I dropped my tea in the road. I’m very tired, very in need of caffeine, and very angry.”
Concern crosses Alex’s face. “Fuuuuuck,” he drawls. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Rationally, Henry realizes that Alex has apologized and he should probably move on.
Irrationally, the devil on his shoulder says, he should dig a little deeper.
“No, Alex, I’m not okay. I wanted to finish my tea.”
“Oh my god, you’re such a fucking cliché. A Brit upset about their tea. Would it make you feel better if I bought you a tea? A whole $2? Would that make it all tickety-boo for you, YOUR MAJESTY,” Alex spits out in a terrible imitation of Henry.
But Henry doesn’t get to respond. At that moment, the professor walks into class, causing a hush to fall upon the room.
“Welcome to Concepts of Business Law,” she says as she plops her bag down onto the desk chair and writes the date, class name, and her name on the white board. “I’m Dr. Stewart. If this is NOT where you’re supposed to be, I suggest you figure out where that is.”
She turns around once finished and surveys the room, a sly smile on her face.
“So…first order of business, if you haven’t gotten to know the person sitting next to you, we’re going to fix that this semester. Say hello to your partner for our class project.”
Of all the shit luck.
Alex and Henry face each other slowly, sour expressions on both their faces.
This was going to be a long semester.