is there a cut scene from one of your fics you'd want to write out and post some day?
Honestly, I often have different versions of most things I've post alhfbgadfg. mainly Closer, Dousing the Flame, and Oceans (between you and me)
For I've got to break free, I've got a continuation I'll share with you (because while I'd like to add on to it, I don't know that I have it in me to do it justice the way I'd want to for the time being):
A buzzing on the tableside brings Henry out of a Cornetto-laced, cooking show haze.
Kensington has been blanketed in silence for several hours. Mum and dad had, understandably, retired to their own apartments for time to themselves. With Phillip at Buckingham with Gran and Grandfather, and Beatrice in rehab until the beginning of next month, Henry found himself keeping his recurrent insomnia company, placating it with his own devices. Shaan has been given a well-earned holiday, though regardless eating biscuits at three in the morning and watching The Great British Baking Show with his royal charge would decidedly beyond his duties.
Upon landing, one of the first things Henry had been informed of, via messenger from Buckingham, is that tomorrow morning Gran would like to meet with him. To ‘review the success of your recent excursion’ as well as ‘your enrollment for Michaelmas term at Oxford.’ Which– the enrollment being stated in such oblique terms is hardly comforting. It isn’t that he dislikes the notion, only… the need to pursue it solely to appease Her.
The exhaustion to come is already pressing down upon him now, yet sleep remains elusive.
He isn’t alone, exactly. Mr. Wobbles and David had, at least, decided Henry to be acceptable company for the evening. They are nestled in their own little corner of the bed. Frankly, if Henry had the mind, he might be envious.
The buzzing sounds again.
He pauses the show, debating whether to check his phones. One is for ‘official’ purposes, complete with the (monitored) social media applications and emailing accounts; another for what the Palace deems ‘personal’ contact– texting, phone calls, and FaceTime.
His family is accounted for, of course. Beatrice’s phone restrictions decidedly make her an unrealistic messenger, in spite of his best wishes. Pez had discussed, and this is a direct quote, “a meditative, open-air evening on a cliffside in Nepal”– which, while granted term dates at LSE do not resume until September, overall seems a bit mad, even for Pez.
Unless Nepali authorities have Pez in custody, Henry can’t think of anyone who would be messaging him at this hour.
He realizes it isn’t his personal mobile currently calling for his attention, but the official one.
Henry bites the bullet, as it were, cringing as he sees the notification is from Instagram. He nearly places the phone back in place, knowing the staff will sort it out when he notices the user name.
therealacd started following you. [Follow back?]
Alex Claremont-Diaz | TX born, DC bound | #forwardtogether #claremontforpotus2016.
Henry instantly clicks the blue button to follow Alex in return. And then—
therealacd tagged you in a photo: Review [Approve/Decline?].
Spotting the selfie, Henry finds a silly smile on his face, rather like the one he wears in the photograph.
Alex has certainly mastered the art of the selfie, smoothly holding the phone and angling it so that they both look their best; so that no strangers or random diplomats, nor even dad have snuck their way in. It is just a simple picture, just the two of them, but decided affection for the other young man is more than a lingering remnant.
Alex on one side, chattering on and on about so many separate trains of thought at once, and dad on the other, clearly as indulgent as he has been with Pez many times over. It had nearly felt like what Henrh imagines attending a sporting event as a normal person should: banter, laughter, and sheer enjoyment. It had been easy, almost, to ignore the cameras.
Henry Likes the photo. He tries to tell himself that it is of no matter whatsoever that their selfie has been posted separately from Alex’s extensive Rio Olympics photoset. Perhaps the photo simply didn’t make the cut, or was an afterthought.
(Never mind Henry’s foolish little crush leaping at the indication that their post is special to anyone besides himself. He concedes being Alex’s acquaintance, but only for lack of better company in a sea of stuffy old men and women.)
The staff has already posted a generic photostream on Henry’s behalf. Shaan had briefly shown it to Henry after the fact of posting. It consisted of poses with each of the UK’s medalists, along with some of those who had not medaled but are, according to public relations, ‘currently polling well with public opinion.’
Nonetheless Henry writes back:
henryUK commented: Thank you @ therealacd for the company. As ever, I am in awe of the sheer talent of each and every Olympian.
Years ago, Gran had put an embargo on private social media use for the family. Getting mobile phones with a social media application had been unthinkable. Phillip’s fault, really, along with his uni mates and a scandalous ‘Tarts and Vicars’ party, though Gran came up with a thousand excuses to say otherwise. Only in more recent years have Henry and Beatrice been given more freedom. Their own accounts, for one thing, albeit monitored by Shaan and accessible by the head of Palace PR. Truthfully, some of it is horrid. Henry can’t be entirely angry at a filtering system keeping out messages from strangers with curiosities ranging from the prince’s ‘head’ to, equally disturbing, his toes.
(Bless Shaan for handling God knows what else with more dignity than any lesser person could possibly muster.)
Henry approves the tag, before the phone vibrates yet again.
therealacd has sent you a Direct Message: hey man! good to meet you.
Henry hesitates. He tries to think up a response. One that will make Alex know he had enjoyed meeting him as well, without revealing the depth to which he was currently obsessing over the notion of possibly seeing this boy again. He shouldn’t get his hopes up, but should Ellen Claremont win the American election in November, the chances are quite high.
therealacd: is it cool if I get your number?
A strange sort of panic sets in. Firstly, because this account is monitored by PR, and while Shaan could be trusted to defer to Henry, other staff who see such a message would delete it on sight.
Dabbling in political friendship is outright unconstitutional, for a member of the house of Windsor. Though Alex himself is not a politician.
therealacd: promise I wont like leak it lol.
He tries to think his way around the whole thing, but the increasing panic at the knowledge that Alex is quite possibly watching the screen in real-time, expecting a reply–
henryUK: The palace is particular about our mobile contacts. They prefer to have oversight through official channels for security purposes. therealacd: yeah ofc. totally.
The understanding acceptance only presses more salt in the wound. Henry quickly types out his email in concession; in hopes that he hasn’t completely ruined– well, what is there to ruin?
Friendship, he reminds himself. We are mates enough that he wants to have my number on hand. That is all.
henryUK: However my personal email is hwales @ kensingtonemail.com.
Within minutes, another notification pops up on the official phone. Henry should perhaps feel more ashamed than he does at the giddy realisation that it is Alex having emailed him.
He sinks back, opening the only new item in his inbox which interests him.
From agcd98@ optonline.net; To: hwales@ kensingtonemail.com; Subject: email is so last year. Dear ‘Not Your Majesty’, very ‘when will my husband return from war’ here. (Any chance you become king just to throw this one rule out the window?) From, That Guy Who Wouldn’t Shut Up At Rio. PS: Here are some pics that didn’t make the cut.
Attached are some decidedly less flattering images, from Henry’s face blurred with laughter, to dad popping rabbit ears behind Henry’s head, to Alex mid-sneeze as Henry looks on in bewilderment. Henry’s cheeks flush as he flicks through the digital files, a fond smile finding its way to his lips. A mobile number is rather non-discreetly tucked into Alex’s own automated signature at the bottom; it draws Henry’s eye for a bit too long.
He does enter the new contact on his personal devise, against his better judgment, but types back an email instead.
From hwales@ kensingtonemail.com; To: agcd98@ optonline.net; Subject: RE: Email is so last year. Dear Alex, Future Son of the Leader of the Self-Aggrandized ‘Free’ World &cetera, It is a bit like drafting a desperate letter in a Victorian epistolary. Shall I have a fainting couch at the ready as well as smelling salts? I should caution you that your words are bordering upon treason to speak of such an unthinkable act. Anne Boleyn spoke of the King’s death, for instance, and we all know how that ended. Fortunately a modern-day thought-crime is not presently punishable by death. Some ‘human rights’ treatise or other, thus you may at least keep your head. I will, however, be utterly shocked if MI6 does not contact you posthaste. Best of luck with the ensuing interrogation, Henry. PS: As for the photographs, I am thankful for your posting just the one that you did. Dad will be thrilled that you did not post the one which looks almost directly up his nostrils.
He hits send, and grins at the near-instantaneous response.
He can do this, he decides.
Friendship. He can do friendship.
How hard can it be?
