Red, White & Royal Blue (25 page)

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3 Geniuses and Alex

June 23, 2020, 12:34 PM

juniper

BUG

Not my name, not anyone’s name, stop

leading member of korean pop band bts kim nam-june

BUG

I’m blocking your number

HRH Prince Dickhead

Alex, please don’t tell me Pez has indoctrinated you with K-pop.

well you let nora get you into drag race so

irl chaos demon

[latrice royale eat it.gif]

BUG

What did you want Alex????

where’s my speech for milwaukee? i know you took it

HRH Prince Dickhead

Must you have this conversation in the group chat?

BUG

Part of it needed to be rewritten!!! I put it back with edits in the outside pocket of your messenger bag

davis is gonna kill you if you keep doing this

BUG

Davis saw how well my tweaks to the talking points went over on Seth Meyers last week so he knows better

why is there a rock in here too

BUG

That is a clear quartz crystal for clarity and good vibes do not @ me. We need all the help we can get right now

stop putting SPELLS on my STUFF

irl chaos demon

BURN THE WITCH

irl chaos demon

hey what do we think of this #look for the college voter thing tomorrow

irl chaos demon

[Attached Image]

irl chaos demon

i’m going for, like, depressed lesbian poet who met a hot yoga instructor at a speakeasy who got her super into meditation and pottery, and now she’s starting a new life as a high-powered businesswoman selling her own line of hand-thrown fruit bowls

 …

HRH Prince Dickhead

Bitch, you took me there.

alskdjfadslfjad

NORA YOU BROKE HIM

irl chaos demon

lmaoooooo

The invitation comes certified airmail straight from Buckingham Palace. Gilded edges, spindly calligraphy:
THE CHAIRMAN AND COMMITTEE OF MANAGEMENT OF THE CHAMPIONSHIPS REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF ALEXANDER CLAREMONT-DIAZ IN THE ROYAL BOX ON THE
6
TH OF JULY,
2020.

Alex takes a picture and texts it to Henry.

1. tf is this? aren’t there poor people in your country?

2. i’ve already been in the royal box

Henry sends back,
You are a delinquent and a plague,
and then,
Please come?

And here Alex is, spending his one day off from the campaign at Wimbledon, only to get his body next to Henry’s again.

“So, as I’ve warned you,” Henry says as they approach the doors to the Royal Box, “Philip will be here. And assorted other nobility with whom you may have to make conversation. People named Basil.”

“I think I’ve proven that I can handle royals.”

Henry looks doubtful. “You’re brave. I could use some of that.”

The sun is, for once, bright over London when they step outside, flooding the stands around them, which have already mostly filled with spectators. He notices David Beckham in a well-tailored suit—once again, how had he convinced himself he was straight?—before David Beckham turns away and Alex sees it was Bea he was talking to, her face bright when she spots them.

“Oi, Alex! Henry!” she chirps over the murmur of the Box. She’s a vision in a lime-green, drop-waist silk dress, a pair of huge, round Gucci sunglasses embellished with gold honeybees perched on her nose.

“You look gorgeous,” Alex says, accepting a kiss on his cheek.

“Why
thank
you, darling,” Bea says. She takes one of their arms in each of hers and whisks them off down the steps. “Your sister helped me pick the dress, actually. It’s McQueen. She’s a genius, did you know?”

“I’ve been made aware.”

“Here we are,” Bea says when they’ve reached the front row. “These are ours.”

Henry looks at the lush green cushions of the seats topped with thick and shiny
WIMBLEDON 2020
programs, right at the front edge of the box.

“Front and center?” he says with a note of nervousness. “Really?”

“Yes, Henry, in case you have forgotten, you are a royal and this is the Royal Box.” She waves down to the photographers below, who are already snapping photos of them, before leaning into them and whispering, “Don’t worry, I don’t think they can detect the thick air of horn-town betwixt you two from the lawn.”

“Ha-ha, Bea,” Henry monotones, ears pink, and despite his apprehension, he takes his seat between Alex and Bea. He keeps his elbows carefully tucked into his sides and out of Alex’s space.

It’s halfway through the day when Philip and Martha arrive, Philip looking as generically handsome as ever. Alex wonders how such rich genetics conspired to make Bea and Henry both so interesting to look at, all mischievous smiles and
swooping cheekbones, but punted so hard on Philip. He looks like a stock photo.

“Morning,” Philip says as he takes his reserved seat to the side of Bea. His eyes track over Alex twice, and Alex can sense skepticism as to why Alex was even allowed. Maybe it’s weird Alex is here. He doesn’t care. Martha’s looking at him weird too, but maybe she’s simply holding a grudge about her wedding cake.

“Afternoon, Pip,” Bea says politely. “Martha.”

Beside him, Henry’s spine stiffens.

“Henry,” Philip says. Henry’s hand is tense on the program in his lap. “Good to see you, mate. Been a bit busy, have you? Gap year and all that?”

There’s an implication under his tone.
Where exactly have you been? What exactly have you been doing?
A muscle flexes in Henry’s jaw.

“Yes,” Henry says. “Loads of work with Percy. It’s been mad.”

“Right, the Okonjo Foundation, isn’t it?” he says. “Shame he couldn’t make it today. Suppose we’ll have to make do with our American friend, then?”

At that, he tips a dry smile at Alex.

“Yep,” Alex says, too loud. He grins broadly.

“Though, I do suppose Percy would look a bit out of place in the Box, wouldn’t he?”

“Philip,”
Bea says.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Bea,” Philip says dismissively. “I only mean he’s a peculiar sort, isn’t he? Those frocks he wears? A bit much for Wimbledon.”

Henry’s face is calm and genial, but one of his knees has shifted over to dig into Alex’s. “They’re called dashikis, Philip, and he wore one
once.
”

“Right,” Philip says. “You know I don’t judge. I just think, you know, remember when we were younger and you’d spend time with my mates from uni? Or Lady Agatha’s son, the one that’s always quail hunting? You could consider more mates of … similar standing.”

Henry’s mouth is a thin line, but he says nothing.

“We can’t all be best mates with the Count of Monpezat like you, Philip,” Bea mutters.

“In any event,” Philip presses on, ignoring her, “you’re unlikely to find a wife unless you’re running in the right circles, aren’t you?” He chuckles a little and returns to watching the match.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Henry says. He drops his program in his seat and vanishes.

Ten minutes later, Alex finds him in the clubhouse by a gigantic vase of lurid fuschia flowers. His eyes are intent on Alex the moment he sees him, his lip chewed the same furious red as the embroidered Union Jack on his pocket square.

“Hello, Alex,” he says placidly.

Alex takes his tone. “Hi.”