The Drum Beats Out of Time

by OrchidScript, sparklepocalypse

Summary:

There’s a man in Henry’s bedroom. That, itself, isn’t noteworthy. He’s become rather proficient at smuggling men in and out of his room at Kensington Palace and his first-year flat at Oxford.

It’s not even especially noteworthy that the man is quite arresting. For better or worse, Henry’s title and reputation tend to help him pull gorgeous men with somewhat astonishing frequency. This man is, of course, particularly gorgeous. He’s tall, with olive skin, dark hair, and a bone structure that would send the old masters into a frenzy of pigments, linseed oil, and canvas.

But, perhaps, the most noteworthy thing is that the man in Henry’s bedroom is quickly and awkwardly wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. That he seems just as surprised to see Henry as Henry is to see him.

Or, the handwavey, time-travelly, astral-projectiony, canon-smooshy AU nobody asked for, but we're giving it to you anyway.

Notes:

Hello all, and welcome to the first-and-likely-not-last RWRB writing collab between OrchidScript and sparklepocalypse, which we've affectionately dubbed SparkleScript Do Emotional Damage! This story came together in something like a fever dream after Tsu posted this really lovely art of movie!Alex hugging a younger Henry and Alex. We riffed about it for several hours on Discord, and at the end, we had compiled enough dialogue and notes that it really just made sense to turn it into a fic.

A few scenes in, we realized that we'd accidentally created the most perfect songfic to ever exist -- with each scene aligned so perfectly to the lyrics of Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" -- in order -- that it felt like magic. Sorcery. Some kind of spooky, amazing kismet, honestly. We recommend listening to your favorite version of the song while reading, especially once you get to the scene in Part 1 with the header lyric, "sometimes, you picture me." (The Boyce Avenue acoustic cover is sort of perfect for that scene -- you'll understand why when you get there.)

The prologue of this story is from Alex's POV, but the remainder is from Henry's POV, combining a decade's worth of elements and events from the book and movie canons. It's a deep-dive into the core of Henry as a character that we've both had such a blast crafting -- and we've got a ton of notes left over for related stories that we hope to bring to the fandom in the future. We hope you love reading this work as much as we loved writing it. 💗💜

Props and Acknowledgements (click to expand/collapse)

A huge, effusive, frankly embarrassing thank you to Tsu, without whose art piece we never would've had the Discord riff that spawned this fic! Thanks, also, to Mel and Ash for their encouragement and willingness to mainline this story when it was very nearly done (in addition to being drip-fed snippets via Discord DMs from Mags) to make sure we didn't accidentally any words. (😉)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Prologue

lying in my bed,
i hear the clock tick
(and think of you)

Alex has been dumped before. He’s even been ghosted; you can hardly date in the twenty-first century without someone going radio-silent on you at least once. Fuck, he’s even been ghosted by Henry, before, but he’d hoped…

Well, it might not matter what he’d hoped, if he’s being honest. Still, his streak of unshakeable optimism seems to be shouting its fucking head off beneath a mountain of doubt and hurt and the worst, most gutting, most soul-obliterating heartbreak he’s ever experienced. It’s right there next to a love that he’d never expected to feel, and that he knows for certain he’ll carry with him until his dying day.

He just wishes he could be as certain about whether or not he’ll be forced to carry that love silently.

It’s raining in London when his plane touches down. Henry would probably appreciate an opportunity to experience a melodramatic crying in the rain scene. Cinematic. Romantic. Alex, however, just tugs at the collar of his jacket while he waits for his driver, and tries to stay outside the splash zone of cars passing by.

He hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella when he’d left D.C., or even to wear anything that’s remotely water-resistant. Given the week that he’s had, he’s pretty sure the fashion police will forgive his lack of forethought — and if they don’t, they can go fuck themselves. Broken heart, here. A little grace, please.

At least, Alex tries to reassure himself, he’s actually doing things, and not just rotting in bed like he really wants to be. He’s going places. He’s prostrating himself on the altar of idiocy, most likely, but it’s still a thing, and he’s fucking doing it.

Because the alternative is, well.

He’d tried. He’d tried, and he’d hated it. Labor Day had fucking sucked, and the flight home hadn’t been any better. His face had hurt from crying, his chest had ached like someone had carved out the core of him and tossed it on the roadside, and he never wants to feel that way again for as long as he lives. But the way he’d felt right before this really fucking shitty emotional dumpster dive had taken hold? That’s something he wants to feel fucking always.

Amy says something, but Alex isn’t really paying attention. He’s staring out the window of their SUV, watching the rain-streaked blurs of tail lights pass through his window, trying not to fidget too much (and failing), trying to figure out what to say. He’s pretty sure Henry won’t respond well to screaming, as much as he can’t help feeling like it’d be really, really fucking satisfying to call Henry out on his bullshit. But since that probably won’t lead to a favorable conclusion, maybe he’ll try just… talking.

Which leads him back to his initial problem: what the fuck do you say to the guy who’d rather flee the country under the cloak of darkness than listen to you tell him you love him?

God, what is Alex even doing here?

Go to London, Nora had said.
Get your man, Nora had said.

Which, fine. But fucking — how?

There’s not a lot of traffic in the rich motherfuckers part of London. Alex has no real frame of reference for whether that’s normal on a Tuesday, but he’d guess that it’s similar to every other upscale neighborhood he’s traveled to, in that they don’t let just anyone pass through the security gate. Have to protect the residents from acknowledging that there are people out there with less than seven figures in their bank accounts, after all. Have to let them hide from the world. From their problems. Run scared to their mansions of brick and limestone, and lock out everyone and everything else.

He just… Alex wishes he could figure out what makes Henry so prone to running. He wishes he could understand, because maybe then… He shakes himself out of his reverie. He can’t change Henry. He wouldn’t even if he could. All he can do is ask Henry why, and try to play by his rules until — hopefully — Henry’s willing to play by their rules instead of just his own.

When their SUV is waved through by the — really, very, heavily — armed guards at the station house, Alex feels a momentary burst of surprise, quickly followed by relief. The tiny, optimistic part of him reasons that at least they haven’t banned him outright from the property yet, so maybe there’s room to hope. Maybe it’s enough of a reason not to go in, metaphorical guns blazing.

The driver stops in front of the same Kensington Palace gate that Alex had pulled up to months ago to begin the whirlwind post-cakesplosion press tour that had so radically altered the course of his life. It looks as though the gate is locked tight, but a guard is posted next to a nearby, smaller gate that’s standing ajar. Amy gets out of the car first to chat with the guard for a minute, which gives Alex a moment to grab his backpack and try to pretend he’s not holding back tears like the lost, pathetic asshole he is right now. Then the guard says something over a radio, the crackling cutting through the damp night, and waves them through.

On foot, Alex approaches the side gate, the soles of his shoes crunching evenly along the gravel path. He pushes the gate further open with the flat of his left palm, takes a steadying breath, and passes through into the Kensington Palace grounds.

Alex’s next step is unsteady, as though he’s stepped right through the gravel, and he drops his backpack in his haste to regain his center of gravity. He feels a rush of warm, dry air; hears the clink of crystal against crystal and the whisper of silk over skin. His vision goes hazy for a second, and he wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands to clear them.

Then blinks.
Blinks again.
Blinks again just to be sure he’s actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Because a half-second ago, Alex had been trudging along the path outside Kensington Palace, trying to work up the balls to confront the man he loves and beg him for crumbs of affection. But the muted green walls, crackling fire, and heavy wood furniture surrounding him now indicate that either Alex is hallucinating, or something fucking impossible has happened.

Both options are suddenly, terribly possible.

“Er,” says a heart-wrenchingly familiar voice. “Hello.”

Alex whirls around, and oh. Oh, what the fuck.