Red white and royal blue, Henry's POV

Henrys perfect life

Henry sat watching the clock. He was sat in a board room like he was every Monday morning at 7:00 am to listening to Philip drone pointlessly for an hour about the week' s events. Sometimes Henry felt as if these meetings were just for Philip to complain at him for an hour. Right now he was complaining at length about how improper it was for royalty to be seen talking public transport. Henry mused to himself that it really was a skill to be able to talk for hours on end and say nothing of any importance.
Apart from the mandatory meetings that Henry was forced to attend, he tried to stay as for away from Philip as possible. He had very strong and traditional views about how the monarchy was supposed to be run and as Philip's younger brother and spare, Henry took the majority of the rants.

Henry rarely found joy in the monotonous duties of being a royal. If it were not for his protective, funny sister Bea and his chaotic best friend Pez, Henry thinks that he would have made it all stop a while ago, by whatever means necessary.
It was not just the endless list of events, meetings, expectations and rules that weighed Henry down wherever he went, it was also the all consuming feeling that he was living a lie every day, showing the world his perfect venire when underneath his porcelain mask he was crumbing and screaming, wanting nothing more than to escape it all and be himself and follow his heart wherever it took him.
He had this day dream that he would slip into when it all felt too much. He was would be living in a small house in the countryside, sitting in a beach chair watching his dog, David, play with a small girl, darting around a fresh garden bursting with colour. Occasionally he would let him self imagine that his hand was hanging lazily in another man's hand. And then he would imagine himself looking up and seeing Alexander Clairmont-Diaz looking back at him, eyes soft and trusting etched with mischief. Then he would sit up and kiss Alex slow and soft and no one would care because Henry wasn't a Prince, in his fantasy he was just an author. And being in love with a man wouldn't ruin peoples' lives and reputations.
Henry had first met Alex at the Rio Olympics 2016 and he had known then that he would live with a constant yearning for that lush thick hair and flawless whiskey skin. For those hellish hours he had had to sit there pretending to be enraptured in the sport in front of him and not the gorgeous god like boy across the room.  And every day since when he was overwhelmed or needed comforting he would envision Alex's strong shoulders and how it would feel to bury his face it. He would pretend he could feel Alex's nimble fingers catching in his hair and holding him close. When he snapped out of it, he would be left with a pit in his stomach that felt like part of him had been left in that dream and could never be returned.

After Philip's meeting was over (as completely useless and boring as all the others) Henry trudged upstairs feeling crippled after having to endure Philip for a full hour. When he finally reached his bedroom door he pushed it open and sighed at the familiarly bland room, decorative bed frame and stupidly impractical and expensive ornate desk. The most personal things in his room were a small picture of him, his sister and Pez, arms slung across each other and smiling stupidly at the camera, a cutting of Alex looking unbelievable in a magazine's front page and of course his journals which he kept in a locked drawer in his desk. He slumped down and began to finger the extensive pile of NDAs, time tables, agendas, talking points and charity events that Shaan (his personal assistant) had dumped on him.
His desk was kept in pristine condition a tall file of papers in one corner with a pot of pens pushed up against the wall. A couple magazines, a picture of him an Bea at a beach in Cornwall and the diaries in the draw to his left. Those diaries contained everything, from his most regrettable mistakes to his sister's addictions to his most secret fantasies about Alex.
There where a hundred reasons Henry can't have Alex:
Alex is the first born son of the United States
Henry is spare to the throne
Henry isn't allowed to be gay
Them being together would cause an international scandal
Alex wanted a career in politics meaning being gay would hurt his chances of success
And, the most painful reason, Alex hates Henry.

Henry begins to look over the agenda for the coming week, tomorrow he has an appearance at one of Philip's speeches, Wednesday, he has to do an interview with morning news about his feelings on Philip and Martha's wedding and a meeting about the weddings timetable, Thursday a touch up on his suit for the event and going to help out in one of Pez's charities. The monotonous list of things trail on like this for a while, most of them pointless publicity for Philip's wedding. Henry flips to the guest list for the wedding, he skims down the list, 150 odd people, some government officials, a couple of Philip's 'friends', anyone distantly related to royalty, a few international relations, Henry's eyes stare stupidly at the name on the fifth column 3rd name down. Alexander Gabrial Clairemont-Diaz. Of course he is coming, it's blindingly obvious, why wouldn't he. Henry groans inwardly at the thought of having to restrain his eyes for the whole evening that he was already dreading. But a small part of him soars at getting to experience Alex again with is Texan drawl, easy smiles and god damn beautiful face.
He hears a joyful rat tat tat at his door and shouts over to it. Bea pokes her head round the door, eyes probing around, seeming satisfied she sways in.
"Whatcha doin'?" she says, there is obviously another point to her being here than just checking in on him.
"The wedding" he grumbles back at her.
"Oh" she rolls her eyes exaggeratedly "well I have something some what more exiting. How would you, you amazing incredible brother of mine, like to accompany me to look at flower arrangements with Martha!"
Henry rests his head in his hands, glaring at her, "how much of a question is that?"
"Umm let's say not at all, come on,"
Henry groans pointedly and shoves himself of his seat, "fine, most things beat this,"

It's not that he doesn't like Martha, or even that he resents Philip for being happy. It's that this marriage seems about as romantic as a business transaction. Henry hates that someday that will be him, forced up there with a woman he doesn't love. He's always wanted that forbidden, us against the world, Shakespearean love. The kind you would burn the world for, the kind you would do anything for.