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blossom-hwa · 14 days

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a very fine line, indeed [4] | c.bg

pairing: Beomgyu x fem!reader genre: fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, regency era!au, nobility!au warnings: cursing, period typical misogyny word count: 8.7k notes: — updates every M/W/F at 8pm EST until the series finishes — inspiration taken from an amalgamation of different bridgerton stories - let me know what easter eggs you find! — story takes place in the same universe as my duke!yeonjun and earl!taehyun fics - check out the link to the series below for some more easter eggs :) In a society where it only takes a year for a young woman in search of a husband to be considered out of season, it is no wonder that by your third year out, you are desperate to marry. Known as one of the beauties of the ton, such a task should not be difficult for you—but with an absent father, no dowry, and a reputation centered around your inability to keep your mouth shut around one certain Beomgyu Choi, your prospects are more limited than you’d like. While you cannot recover your family or your wealth, however, the one thing you can try to control is your reputation. So when the third season rolls around, you resolve to keep your distance from Beomgyu Choi, your childhood enemy, and the man you hate most in the world. Enter Beomgyu Choi, second son of the Kensington Viscountcy, one of the most eligible bachelors in the ton. His older brother, cousin, and good friend have all recently married, leaving the mamas to salivate at his doorstep for the chance of marrying one of their daughters to him. When Beomgyu walks in on a particularly traumatizing moment between you and one of the most unsavory men in the ton and learns of your desperation to marry, despite your history of enmity, he proposes you a devious deal—to pretend to court you. It seems like a winning situation for both of you—more gentlemen will take notice of you, enhancing your prospects, and he will have the ton’s mamas off his back—and so, despite your misgivings, you agree. With you hell bent on marriage and Beomgyu completely indifferent to the concept, even independent of your hatred for each other, it seems unlikely that any sort of true affection will bloom. But as you begrudgingly put aside your differences to spend more and more time in one another’s company, and as you grow to know each other beyond your ill-conceived preconceptions from childhood, you begin to realize that perhaps you two have more in common than you had once thought. And as your faked acquaintanceship becomes more truth than fiction, a friendship beginning to bloom most unexpectedly— Perhaps you no longer need to convince the ton of the veracity of your courtship, because anyone with eyes can see that it is true. Part 3 >> Part 4 >> Part 5

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When you wake up the morning after the ball, you look so drained and exhausted that even your stepmother seems to balk a moment before she starts asking questions about what happened the night before—who you danced with, who spoke to you, how long you kept Lord Cho’s attentions for, and why you disappeared just a few hours in.

You give her the most noncommittal responses you can, and fortunately she seems to buy your excuse that you got cut by the glass from your fall and decided to leave early. She is particularly interested in the fact that Mr. Choi sent you home in his carriage.

You’ve been trying to sort through that, yourself.

It isn’t that you believe Mr. Choi harbors any real affection for you, which your stepmother seems to be praying for. It’s other things. The carriage. The handkerchief. His insistence on staying to help despite how rudely you acted towards him.

The fact that you told him about your situation at home, when that has been your most closely guarded secret for years.

Why did you tell him?

Try as you might, even hours later as you’re on your hands and knees, scrubbing at the hallway floor, you can’t quite understand. Even though it was clear he wanted to know what was going on, he didn’t pressure you in any way. He even stated directly that he would not ask unless you wanted to tell, and you certainly didn’t want to then.

Or did you?

You pause in your scrubbing. Lift up your hand, see the thin cotton strip wrapped around the palm where the bleeding was worst, take in the other small cracks that have appeared on your skin as the weather grows colder and you continue with your chores. These are not the hands of a noblewoman. There wouldn’t be any shame in that if it weren’t for the matter of your birth to a father with something of a title.

But Mr. Choi didn’t shame you. Not for one moment. He didn’t even show you the pity you had feared seeing in other’s eyes if they discovered your secret.

No. He simply treated you as a person. An injured person, but nothing more or less than that. Even after hearing your story.

Maybe that’s why you told him. Because despite your fear, you were desperate for someone to know both sides of you—half noble, half servant—and you knew, somehow, that Mr. Choi would not shame nor judge you for it. He has already seen the worst pieces of yourself. Even before he learned of this, he perhaps knew more about you than anyone else in the ton, simply because you never had to hide your ugly parts around him.

The thought almost makes you laugh. Mr. Choi of all people, knowing you better than even your best of friends. But though it seems ludicrous…you think it might be true.

You don’t really know what to do about that.

So instead of thinking about it further, you push the thought to the back of your mind, where all your other uncomfortable little revelations about Mr. Choi have been living for the best part of the last few weeks. When he called and Delia was there, and he spoke to her kindly and with warmth. The garden party, where you realized you were likely more yourself around him than almost anyone else in the ton. These discombobulated thoughts try to peek into the rest of your brain every once in a while, but you are quite good at compartmentalizing so they stay in their little locked boxes where they belong. Mostly.

Until certain events occur that shatter those boxes entirely.

It has been two days since the ball, and while your hands haven’t fully healed, you did manage to get the blood and lemonade stains out of your gloves. This comes in handy for calling hour, where you seem to be the most popular you’ve ever been—two gentlemen arrive in just the first thirty minutes, one after another, each bearing small gifts. The flowers are quite nice and you have Soyoung arrange them about the drawing room. With the sky so gray outside, they brighten the space a little.

Truth be told, you aren’t expecting anyone else to come. It’s a rather dreary day with rain pouring intermittently and inconveniently, and you imagine most people would like to stay inside on a day like this. But just as the conversation with your second caller is drawing to a close, Brighton comes in with another calling card in hand. “Mr. Choi has come to call, Miss L/N.”

You blink. You hadn’t expected him—he usually comes on Thursdays if he is able to call that week, and it is only Tuesday. “Please send him in,” you say, glancing apologetically at your current suitor. He takes the news with grace, and you bid him a polite goodbye.

Shortly after he leaves, you hear footsteps in the hall. Mr. Choi appears in the doorway just as you stand, curtsying slightly. “Mr. Choi,” you greet. “I did not expect to see you today.”

“I cannot stay for long,” he admits, “but I had something I wanted to give you.” He extends you a long, slim box tied with a lovely blue ribbon. “Apologies for not sending flowers, but I thought you might appreciate this gift better.”

It seems he means for you to open the gift in his presence, so you untie the ribbon and take the lid off, all the while wondering what this could be. The box itself is rather light but very elegant, a pretty pale pink, almost white, that looks beautiful against the blue ribbon. White tissue paper covers whatever is inside and you carefully peel back the crinkly layers to reveal two pairs of gloves.

Your breath hitches. One pair looks to be made of silk, the other of a serviceable but very soft cotton. The cotton pair seems devoid of decoration, but the silk pair has some delicate stitching done in pale gold around the top areas. Both are a lovely cream color that would look well with any gown. One touch is all it takes for you to suspect that these are very well made, and must have been very expensive.

Your eye catches on a small monogram on the outside of the box—MGD written in a delicate script. You have to swallow a gasp. Everyone in the ton knows the monogram of Madame Genevieve Delacroix, only the most sought-after modiste in the town. Time and time again you have envied the dresses in her windows, the girls who come in and out of her shop laughing and chatting. You never dreamed of owning anything from her store.

Gloves, given to you by Mr. Choi, who knows your secret. Who saw your hands and did not shame you for them, but called you strong instead. Gloves given to you in place of flowers, because he knew that you needed them, and knew what they would mean to you.

“Mr. Choi.” To your utter embarrassment, you realize you are near tears. “Mr. Choi, these—” You swallow hard around the lump in your throat. “I can’t accept them. They are too fine.”

“Yes, you can.” He looks at you softly, steadily, and for a moment you hate him—hate him so viscerally that it almost takes your breath away. How dare he be so kind, so sweet, when you’re supposed to loathe him—how dare he scramble your feelings even further, how dare he make you feel like an ass for hating him when he deserves it—

Only you aren’t so sure he deserves it anymore. In the face of this gift, your childhood grudge suddenly seems so puny and insignificant. These gloves, a symbol of your secret, and his honor in keeping it—a symbol of what he saw, and his reassurance that you mean nothing less for it—you don’t know what to do with them. To keep them means to acknowledge you have been wrong about Mr. Choi all these years. To reject them means to cause harm to a man you know doesn’t deserve it.

Mr. Choi steps forward, presses the box more firmly into your arms. In your weak state you can’t resist. “Beneath the paper, there is a small pot of salve for your hands,” he murmurs, quiet enough that no one should hear but you. “Please use it. It will help.”

Now you’re really in danger of crying, but you force the tears back and nod slightly to show that you heard. You have never been more grateful that your stepmother is out making her own calls, leaving only Brighton to chaperone the two of you. You would never want her to witness you in this state, weak before a man you used to call your mortal enemy.

God, you hate him. You hate him so much for not letting you hate him in peace.

You look down at the gloves again. Never in all your life did you think you could ever own anything like these. “You are too kind,” you mumble, and if Mr. Choi hears the tremble in your voice, he says nothing of it.

“Well, I chose them with you in mind,” he says, smiling softly. Then that smile turns a little mischievous. “We can both agree that I have brilliant taste, hm?”

Your first instinct is to roll your eyes. Instead, though, a burst of laughter startles out of your chest, surprising you. “I might not say brilliant,” you retort, eyes wet, “but you certainly choose your gloves well.” Your smile isn’t even forced. Far from it. In fact, in this moment, you almost feel like you jest with a good friend.

Good God, what has your world come to?

Brighton chooses that moment to clear his throat. You and Mr. Choi both nearly jump. “Another caller, my lady,” he says, looking slightly apologetic. “Lord Cho.”

For all the fun you had speaking with Lord Cho at the last ball, and for all your scrambled feelings in this moment about Mr. Choi, you can’t help but feel a little put out that this moment must end so soon. Mr. Choi deserves more thanks than you can give and you need more time to process all of your thoughts—you aren’t sure you can easily shove them back into their neat little boxes anymore. You look at Mr. Choi, who seems somewhat resigned. “I must go now too, unfortunately,” he says, and there seems to be true regret in his voice when he tells you this. “I have some appointments in town, even in this weather, but I shall see you soon, Miss L/N.”

“And I, you,” you say, curtsying to his short bow. “I wish you well. And…” You swallow, the lump returning to your throat. “Thank you,” you manage to whisper. “Thank you so much.”

His eyes soften. “Of course, Miss L/N,” he replies. “Always.”

. . . . .

Beomgyu has known Lord Cho for all of maybe an hour, but he has already concluded that he does not like him.

Which is infuriating, because there is nothing wrong with him. Not outwardly, at least. Almost everyone at the party seems to have been charmed by his good looks and bright personality, and he has quite lit up the entire room with his presence. Together with Wooyoung Jung, he seems to have captivated the entire party.

Except for Beomgyu.

Beomgyu doesn’t wish to think ill of people before he has gotten to know them. But something about Lord Cho really rubs him the wrong way, and try as he might, he can’t pinpoint exactly what it is. This might just drive him insane even before the dinner party starts.

“Well, you look like you just bit into a sour orange.” Lady Choi steps up to him with a smile, handing him a glass. He takes it gratefully. “Is something wrong with tonight?”

“No, nothing at all,” he reassures quickly. This is her party, after all, and besides inviting Lord Cho, she has done an admirable job of it. “The party is wonderful,” he adds. “You’ve rather outdone yourself, sister.”

She laughs, raising her glass in a slight toast. “I thank you for that. But you do not look yourself tonight.” She raises an eyebrow. “You can’t lie to me, Beomgyu. Is something wrong?”

If it were anyone else Beomgyu would lie and brush it off. But this is his sister in law, who he’s known for over ten years. She may have been his brother’s best childhood friend, but she was always like a sister to him. She knows him, and she won’t shame or judge him for being vaguely suspicious of Lord Cho. “Nothing is really wrong,” he says quietly. “I just feel uneasy around Lord Cho, for some reason. I am honestly not quite sure why.”

Lady Choi glances at the lord, who seems to be having a good time speaking with you, actually. He realizes that he’s grinding his teeth and forces himself to stop. “He does seem oddly perfect,” she admits. “And it is a bit strange that he would come so far from the continent simply to join the London season.”

“There’s nothing outwardly wrong with him,” Beomgyu mumbles. “I just…don’t know.”

Lady Choi looks at him sidelong. “Are you sure it isn’t just that he’s speaking with the lady you are actively courting?”

Beomgyu nearly spits out his drink. “What?” he sputters. “I—we—” We’re not even courting is what he would have said, but he catches himself just in time. “No, I’m fairly certain that’s not it,” he manages to stutter out in the end, much to Lady Choi’s amusement.

Against his will, he remembers you dancing with Lord Cho at that last ball, and your bright, genuine smile when you spoke to him afterwards. He remembers running into Lord Cho in the hallway of your home as he was leaving after calling on you, and the easy grin the lord flashed at him before entering your drawing room. He remembers the ugly feeling rearing in his chest then that felt strangely like jealousy, but…

What a load of bull. Beomgyu sighs. Perhaps some sort of strange envy is clouding his judgment somewhat, but this isn’t just plain dislike. Beomgyu would like to think that he can separate his own stupid emotions from genuine uneasiness well enough. “I’m serious,” he snaps when Lady Choi won’t stop smiling. “I know what you’re thinking, and that isn’t it.”

To her credit, she does stop smiling so widely, though Beomgyu can tell she isn’t fully convinced. “I don’t mean to offend, Beomgyu,” she says quietly, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I will keep an eye on the lord as well. But I also encourage you to look at your own feelings a little more deeply.” She raises an eyebrow, smiling wryly. “You might just discover something new there.”

Needless to say, this does not put Beomgyu in the best of moods. It takes an effort for him to paste a neutral expression on his face as everyone files into the dining room for the meal, made even harder by his sister in law’s placement of those around the table. Normally Beomgyu would be sat next to Lady Choi as the second in line to the viscountcy, but today’s party is officially to celebrate Yeonjun and his wife for their new baby, so Yeonjun sits next to Beomgyu’s sister in law, while the duchess sits next to Soobin. And apparently his sister in law had some very interesting ideas about where to place him at the table, because he finds himself sat next to you, with Lord Cho on your other side.

You sit down next to him, and Beomgyu realizes it’s the first time he’s seen you up close the whole evening. In the few hours before dinner, different groups kept engaging you in conversation to the point that Beomgyu didn’t even realize you had arrived until he saw you across the room. He looks down almost reflexively and sees that you are wearing one of the pairs of gloves he gave you as a gift. A little bit of his foul mood dissipates at the sight.

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure of his gift. Not because he has no sense of fashion or style—he thinks he chose quite well—but because he wasn’t certain if it would be too forward of him to give you something so fine. If you were truly courting, it would be more acceptable, but you both know well that this courtship doesn’t actually mean anything. But the cotton pair of gloves had been so simple and nice, a wonderful complement to your beauty, and then his eye had caught on the silk pair and he hadn’t thought much after that until he stood outside of the modiste carrying the box of gloves, wondering how you would receive his gift. Maybe you would refuse it entirely.

But you did accept them, and to his surprise, you almost seemed near tears as you did. He said nothing, of course—you probably wouldn’t have appreciated it if he did, as you are a prideful sort of creature—but he hadn’t expected you to be quite so grateful for the gift. Nonetheless, he was very pleased that you accepted the gloves, and it brings him quite a sense of pride to see you wearing them tonight.

“Miss L/N,” he says, catching your attention before Lord Cho can. “I hope you have been having a good time tonight.”

“I have been.” Your smile doesn’t seem to be as bright as it once was, but there’s a softness to it that somehow touches Beomgyu to the core. “Your sister in law organized this wonderfully—I am very glad to have been invited.” You fiddle with your fingers a little, looking a bit awkward. For some reason, he finds the act rather endearing. “I must thank you for these yet again,” you mumble, clearly indicating the gloves. “For the gloves, and for…everything else.”

Beomgyu’s smile doesn’t feel quite as forced as it was before. “You are very welcome,” he says quietly. “I hope the salve has been doing you some good.”

“It has been working wonders.” You glance around, then look at him with a slight, strange smile. “My hands haven’t been so soft in years.”

If your stepmother were here, Beomgyu would have been able to stop himself from glaring daggers at her. Fortunately for her and unfortunately for him, she isn’t, so he makes do with taking some small comfort from your words that he was able to help. “I am glad to hear that.”

Dinner is fine. The food puts Beomgyu in a slightly better mood, and though Lord Cho is near, he’s on your other side, not Beomgyu’s, so he doesn’t need to look at Lord Cho more than he has to. Lady Mary Kim is on his other side, but though Beomgyu wouldn’t really count her as the best company, she spends most of the meal speaking to Mr. Winslow on her left, which leaves Beomgyu able to enjoy his food in peace while monopolizing your attention as he wishes.

You indulge him more than you usually do. When you started this pretend courtship, for all your incredible acting skills in public, there was still an undercurrent of distrust and hostility whenever you two spoke. Granted, he had already noticed some small decline in the number of subtly rolled eyes and sighs of annoyance that accompanied your conversations, and maybe there were some moments where Beomgyu felt like he was speaking to a friend more than a forced acquaintance, but he notices it clearly this time. You listen to him. You laugh with him. You treat him with a measure of true politeness that doesn’t seem like it is just for show. When you do roll your eyes and snipe back at his teasing, it doesn’t seem nearly as hostile as before.

It's different, but even though the change throws him off slightly, he welcomes it. He had often found arguing with you over everything quite fun, but this sort of banter sans hostility is even better. More entertaining.

Especially when he can see Lord Cho on your other side casting glances at you every so often, probably wondering when your conversation with him will end.

“You’re showing me quite a bit of kindness, Miss L/N,” he says when the dessert has been served. “You’ve only rolled your eyes twice at me this evening. Could it be that you are finally warming up to me?”

You scoff, but Beomgyu detects a hint of a smile on your lips as you dip into your pudding. “Counting now, are we?” you deflect easily, raising an eyebrow.

“I think your record might be two hundred and sixty five,” Beomgyu replies seriously. “Two is quite low in comparison.”

“I hadn’t realized you could count that high,” you retort.

“How you wound me, Miss L/N.” He pouts, and you snicker.

“For the record, it couldn’t have been two hundred and sixty five, because I would have tired of your voice by ninety six at most,” you say superciliously, vaguely pointing at him with your spoon. “As for warming up to you, don’t get too excited.” One side of your mouth curls in a smirk that Beomgyu, curse him, finds attractive. More attractive than your placid society smiles, anyway. “Just because I have decided you aren’t the scum of the earth doesn’t mean I appreciate your presence in more than small doses.”

It pleases him more than it should, to hear that you no longer think him the equivalent of the dirt at the bottom of your shoe. Or the cake that ruined your shoes at your fifth birthday celebration.

When did he grow to care about your opinion so much?

“We have met at least once a week for the past month and a half,” Beomgyu points out, rather than dwell on his last thought. “Is that what you consider a small dose?”

You shrug easily. “It is still less than what it could be.”

“So you could stand to see me more?”

For a moment, Beomgyu thinks he’s caught you. Pride bursts in his chest at your blank expression, a clear indication that’s he’s won. He takes his last mouthful of pudding in triumph.

“Are you trying to imply, Mr. Choi, that you would like to see me more?”

He nearly spits everything out of his mouth.

You smile serenely at him, wiping your mouth primly with your napkin. All around him, the ladies are rising from the table to head somewhere else—likely the sitting room, where they will talk amongst themselves separately while the men continue their conversations elsewhere. Beomgyu tries to recover himself but a chunk of pudding will not go down his damn throat, so he’s forced to watch as you stand, a serenely pleased expression on your face. “I await your answer in due time, Mr. Choi,” you say just before you step away.

Of course it’s then that he manages to swallow all of the pudding. Right when you have actually left. Though perhaps the timing is just as well, because as much as it pains him to admit, he had nothing to retort.

It also pains him to admit he found that extremely attractive.

No matter. The men in the room are also beginning to stand, to make their way into the next room. Beomgyu follows the crowd, pleasantly surprised to find himself in much higher spirits than before.

At least until a hand appears in front of him with a drink, and it turns out that the hand belongs to Lord Cho.

Beomgyu’s smile freezes on his face but he takes the glass. “Thank you,” he says as neutrally as he can. “Lord Cho, is it?”

“Correct. Mr. Choi?” Lord Cho raises an eyebrow.

“Indeed.” Beomgyu briefly entertains the thought that the drink might be poisoned, but there is really no reason for him to suspect Lord Cho of such a thing so he just takes a sip. Normal whiskey. It’s unfortunately quite good.

“I wanted to speak to you at the last ball, but you seemed busy all night after Miss L/N left.” Beomgyu bristles at the mention of your name but Lord Cho continues, apparently oblivious, which just makes him more annoyed. “Wooyoung says you are a particular friend of his and I had hoped to be introduced.”

Unfortunately, Beomgyu does count Wooyoung as one of his good friends, so what Wooyoung apparently said is entirely possible. Plausible, even. “He is closer to my cousin than I,” Beomgyu says slowly, “but we have been friends for quite a long time.”

“I see.” Lord Cho takes a sip of his own drink slowly. “He mentioned you and Miss L/N were courting.”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes slightly but otherwise does not respond, even though it seems like Lord Cho expects one.

“She’s a delightful young lady,” Lord Cho finally says. “One only wonders how she has gone three seasons without anyone asking for her hand already.”

Actually, two people proposed, but she turned them both down.

“She is delightful,” Beomgyu replies, and to his surprise, he’s barely lying.

Lord Cho continues as though he hadn’t heard. “Might I ask why you have only decided to court her now, after two entire seasons?”

Beomgyu laughs, perhaps a bit unkindly, but Lord Cho is really rubbing him the wrong way and he doesn’t much care if he offends the foreign lord a little bit. “Have you read Whistledown, Lord Cho? If not, you should ask Wooyoung if he has any old copies. I will save you some of the perusal, though.” He sips his drink. “Miss L/N and I have not been on very good terms since we were children. It was only at the end of the last season that we decided our childhood grudges were far too immature to continue, so we decided to put them past us.” He pauses. “Over the past few months I have been reminded time and time again that she is an honorable woman, kind, delightful, and intelligent. I am ashamed I did not see it sooner, but I believe that realizing later is at least better than realizing never.”

There is a brief silence. Enough silence that Beomgyu is able to realize that nothing he said in the last two sentences was even remotely untrue. Kind—your interactions with the duchess’s baby. Delightful—the conversation you just shared during dessert. Intelligent—your clever retorts every time you two speak, even when the discussion is amiable.

Honorable—your clear devotion to the children of your family, despite being forced to serve as a maid in your own household, all the while presenting a pleasing façade to the rest of the ton.

Lord Cho nods slowly, bringing Beomgyu back to earth. “I have come from the continent to find someone, you know,” he says quietly.

Beomgyu does not reply.

“I have known Miss L/N only a fraction of the time you have, I suppose, but I, too, wish to have her.” His smile widens, though it now seems to hold a cold sort of menace rather than his previous flirty charm. “She is beautiful. I should be lucky to have her at my side.”

“As should I,” Beomgyu says steadily. “As should anyone.”

“Touché.” Lord Cho laughs a little. “I suppose I wanted to meet the man who would be my prime competitor for her attentions. You have quite exceeded my expectations, Mr. Choi.” He raises his glass in toast almost mockingly. “May the best man win.”

“I might correct you on that,” Beomgyu says, deliberately not raising his own glass. “There will be no winners or losers.” He leans forward slightly, letting his own voice grow cold. “Because Miss L/N is not an object to be won.”

The ghost of a smirk flickers across Lord Cho’s face. “I stand corrected,” he says. “Have a good night, Mr. Choi.”

Beomgyu doesn’t even bother to smile. “And you, Lord Cho.”

. . . . .

It is hardly the afternoon and already you want to go back to bed.

Between Henry throwing a tantrum, Delia wanting attention, and several callers showing up while you were in the middle of beating the dust out of the window curtains, you honestly think you might collapse before the day is out. You have never felt so frazzled in your life, not even when Mr. Winslow showed up to call in the middle of drying the linens. You owe it all to Brighton and Soyoung for stalling and getting you ready in an appropriate amount of time to meet the first caller. You hadn’t been expecting anyone, and the only event you were prepared for was your promenade with Mr. Choi later in the afternoon, which had been decided on a few weeks ago.

Ready, however, does not necessarily mean the best that you could ever be. Which is unfortunate because as two o’clock comes around, Brighton announces Lord Cho.

You do not feel mentally or physically equipped to handle Lord Cho.

He is just so—nice. So charming and put together, if a little overly flirty. He always has this sweet smile on his face that makes your heart beat a little more easily in your chest, and since you met, you have never once had trouble conversing with him. In fact, you like conversing with him. He seems genuinely interested in you and not just your face, and while you certainly can’t tell him everything about yourself, you feel considerably more comfortable opening up to him than with most of the other suitors who have come to court you.

All of which is to say you are more than a little concerned about your appearance when he enters the room. As you curtsy, you swear you can feel dust under your dress tickling uncomfortably at your skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice, just gives you the customary bow and flashes his handsome smile. “Miss L/N,” he greets, and you force yourself to ignore the possibly imaginary, possibly real dust prickling the back of your neck. “It is lovely to see you today.”

“And you.” You take the flowers he hands you, trying hard to tamp down your smile. You’d told him once that you loved tulips and both times he’s called on you, those are the blooms that he brought. Soyoung arranges them in a vase on a nearby table as the two of you sit. You start talking about Lady Choi’s recent dinner party, which you both agree was quite a success. You can hardly believe it was only your friend’s second time hosting such an event—she handled it so well.

“Only her second time?” Lord Cho’s eyebrows rise far into his head, looking duly impressed. “I’m surprised she had the attendance that she did, then. Were the Duke of Hastings and his wife not in attendance?”

“They are cousins by marriage,” you say. “Lady Choi’s husband is the duke’s cousin.”

“Ah, I see.” He smiles. “Forgive me. I am still trying to learn who is who in this ton—there are so many of you.”

“It only seems that way if you are new,” you laugh. “Once you have been around for some months, I am sure you will know anything and everything about anyone.”

“I’m sure I will, but only with the help of that gossip column.” He thinks for a moment, apparently oblivious to your growing sense of dread. “Whistledown?”

“Right. Yes. Whistledown.” You look down at your hands and try not to curse the heavens. “She is…”

“Quite an interesting writer,” Lord Cho finishes, saving you from having to come up with something untruthful. “She is uncommonly witty.”

He’s right, unfortunately. “I do agree with that,” you admit. “Though I must confess I am not her greatest supporter.”

He looks at you, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. You look back at him warily. “I can understand that,” he says, “given what she has written of you in the past.”

You actually bury your face in your hands. “You read so far back?” you groan.

Lord Cho’s laugh echoes about the room and you crack a smile. It seems impossible not to be joyful when he is around. “Wooyoung thought it would entertain me,” he says. “Though be rest assured that I do not hold any of her words against you. I rather think it actually adds to your charm.” Heat crawls up your cheeks, but he isn’t finished. “In fact, I must admit I am somewhat bewildered that Mr. Choi has decided to court you this season. I assume the two of you have made up, but given the severity of your…discussions, that Whistledown reported…”

Mr. Choi. The name seems to splash cold water over your head.

Your smile freezes slightly. You hadn’t thought much about Mr. Choi today beyond reminders of your promenade this afternoon, at least not since Lord Cho came in and swept all of your attentions away. And while you haven’t perceived him in such a negative light recently—your recent interactions haven’t given you much excuse to do so—for some reason, the mention of his name makes you feel a little uneasy. You’re not quite sure why but you don’t have time to probe it, as Lord Cho is now looking at you expectantly, like he wants you to say something.

In society’s eyes, Mr. Choi is one of your most committed suitors. Whistledown has commented on it. Many people have asked you about it. And while it may have been unbelievable at first, many seem to have come to accept it as not so surprising anymore. You can’t deny it all right in front of Lord Cho, but you also don’t want to put him off by making it sound like Mr. Choi is considering proposing marriage, or something.

You blink. Mr. Choi and marriage. That is something you haven’t really thought of at all. Probably because it will never happen. The mere idea has no business flustering you this much because you don’t care about Mr. Choi in that manner and again, it will never happen.

You look down to compose yourself and the first thing that hits your eyes are your gloves. The gloves Mr. Choi chose for you and brought to you on a day he hadn’t even originally intended to visit. For some stupid reason you imagine those gloves on someone’s hands as they hold a bouquet of flowers in front of an altar and there it is again. Marriage and Mr. Choi.

God and heavens above, this is not the damn time. You swallow hard. Mr. Choi would never propose to you but Lord Cho doesn’t know that and he is still waiting for an answer.

“We decided to put our past behind us,” you get out. “Once we had our previous…misunderstandings cleared, I discovered he was a much better man than I had allowed myself to believe, so I did not refuse his attentions when he began to court me.” There. That sounded natural enough. You hope.

He looks at you closely. “He quite monopolized your attentions during dinner last week.”

You really don’t like this line of questioning. “He is a suitor,” you say primly. “I have made no decisions, and I do not believe I will for some time.”

Lord Cho is still smiling, but something seems to have changed in the air. You shift in your seat, glancing uncomfortably around the room. You have the sudden thought that the bright tulips standing on the table nearby look more like a threat than a gift.

Taking a breath, you realize you’re fiddling with your gloves. You force yourself to stop and instead hold yourself as still as you can, the silk crumpling softly against your hands.

“Well,” he finally says, “then I will just have to take that time to convince you of my suit.” His smile brightens and a little of the tension disappears. You almost sag with relief when he changes the topic to the upcoming events of the season, and which ones you plan to attend.

Still, though, you feel oddly exhausted and off-kilter when Lord Cho leaves about half an hour later. You sag into the couch for a moment after he’s gone. “Soyoung,” you say, glancing at her in a corner of the room. “Was it just me, or was there something strange about Lord Cho today?”

She pauses. “I wasn’t going to say it, Miss L/N, but…” Her eyes shift, and that tells you everything. “It did feel rather strange, somewhere towards the middle.”

So it wasn’t just you. You swallow. But there isn’t enough time to dwell on it, because you have meet Mr. Choi soon. “Brighton, please ready the carriage,” you say with a sigh. “I must head to see Mr. Choi soon.”

. . .

By the time you make it to the park, you’ve just about reasoned away the afternoon’s strange encounter with Lord Cho. Anyone might be uncomfortable if they were trying to court someone who was being seriously pursued by another. Perhaps Lord Cho only wanted to see your side of the story, and gauge how interested you were in Mr. Choi. Which is understandable. No one would want to court someone obviously besotted with another.

You aren’t besotted with Mr. Choi, though. So you only hope that Lord Cho doesn’t get the wrong idea, and stops pursuing you because of a courtship that isn’t even real. By far he is the best real suitor that you have so far and you cannot ruin this opportunity. You need to be married, and soon.

“You don’t look too well,” is the first thing out of Mr. Choi’s mouth when you meet him at the park.

You roll your eyes. “Good afternoon to you too, Mr. Choi,” you snip. “Have we grown so close already that we may dispense with the pleasantries?”

“I don’t know if we are close, but we certainly didn’t deal in pleasantries in the past.” He raises an eyebrow, smirking. It doesn’t infuriate you nearly as much as it once did, though. In fact, you feel some relief in this interaction—your world has been dragged in so many different directions over the past few weeks that this return to normalcy, however vexing, honestly makes you feel a little better. “What is it today? Too many suitors?” He offers his arm and you take it. “How many did you have at last count, actually? Five? Six?”

“Hardly.” You snort. “Three at most. Or four, if I count Lord Cho.”

Mr. Choi stops suddenly. “Lord Cho?”

If it weren’t for your grip on his arm, you would have fallen forward. “Yes, Lord Cho,” you say testily after regaining your balance. “Why? Is there something wrong with him?”

“No, there is nothing wrong with him,” Mr. Choi responds after a beat, but that moment of silence has already told you everything you need to know. The brief levity you felt before vanishes and you feel your previous headache returning.

“Don’t lie to me,” you say lowly. “You don’t like him, do you? Why?” If he doesn’t, it would explain quite a bit why Lord Cho was so insistent on questioning you about him, too.

“I don’t not like him,” Mr. Choi shoots back.

The air turns tense. It reminds you of the hostility that always brewed between you two in the years past. The hand that isn’t clutching Mr. Choi’s arm balls into a fist, and you have to force yourself to release it. You hadn’t realized how stifling the air could get when you argued. When exactly did that hostility even disappear?

You used to thrive on arguing with Mr. Choi. Now, though, you feel like you’re choking. “I only ask,” you get out, “because he seemed somewhat intent on questioning me about you when he called today.”

“He called on you? Today?”

The sharpness of Mr. Choi’s tone takes you aback. “People are liable to call on me as they please,” you say, anger building in your chest. “You have done the same. Why are you so surprised?”

“I’m not surprised,” he snaps. “I’m just—”

Glaring at him, a truly ridiculous notion pops to the forefront of your mind. You hardly have the time to process it before your mind is already entertaining it.

What if he’s jealous?

Ridiculous. Absolutely damn ridiculous. You want to bash your brains out for even thinking it, the thought is so embarrassing. There is no way Mr. Choi is jealous. This entire courtship is a sham. You may have been on better terms this season than before, but that doesn’t change the fact that Mr. Choi would never consider marrying you. It would be laughable even to entertain the notion.

But would you consider marrying him?

The thought almost makes you laugh. No. Never. Except…

Earlier, when Lord Cho called, you looked down at your gloves and imagined someone’s fingers clothed in white, holding a bouquet of flowers at an altar. But they weren’t just someone’s fingers, you realize. They were quite obviously yours.

Just like earlier, you almost groan. This is not the damn time. You might think about marriage and Mr. Choi together as a product of circumstance but you don’t actually want to marry him. To spend the rest of your life bound to him by law would send you to an early grave. It doesn’t matter that you get along better. Even now you are still hardly friends, more acquaintances than anything else. He would never propose.

Though, the traitorous part of your brain wonders, if he proposed, would you accept?

You almost scream out loud. Good God, if you had known that faking a courtship with Mr. Choi would force so many inane threads of thought into your brain, maybe you wouldn’t have agreed to it in the first place. This is not something you will think about. Not now. And hopefully not ever.

You swallow, trying to summon your anger from before. At least you had been able to talk, then, instead of focusing on such ridiculous ideas. A tiny ember flares and you look up at Mr. Choi. “You just what?” you ask, voice low, rough.

For a long moment, you glare at each other. The air turns stifling again. You truly hadn’t realized how much tension filled the air before until it disappeared. Against your will you wish you could go back to ten minutes ago, when everything felt…well, normal.

Funny how normal used to be you arguing with Mr. Choi until the entire ton could hear you and the argument was printed nearly word for word in Whistledown’s gossip column. Now it’s something completely different.

It almost makes you want to laugh.

Mr. Choi turns away so that you can’t see his face. You resist the urge to pull him so that he faces you once more. After several long seconds, he turns back, and his expression suddenly looks far wearier than before, almost like he’s been plagued with thoughts as inane as yours.

“I do not like Lord Cho,” he says slowly. “I did not want to tell you, because I do not know why. I don’t like to dislike people without reason,” he continues after a pause. “You may laugh at me for this, but I am typically a good judge of character. From when we first spoke, I found I did not like him very well. At all.”

You mull Mr. Choi’s words around your head. But why? is the first question you want to ask. But he already told you that he doesn’t know, so you settle on the next best question. “Was there anything he did that…made you uneasy?”

He looks at you sharply. You almost wince. Maybe you made it a little too obvious that you had a moment’s unease around the foreign lord, too. He doesn’t push it though, just shakes his head. “Not specifically,” he admits. “He spent some time interrogating me about my intentions toward you, which I did not appreciate, but…”

You sigh with relief. So that’s all it is. “He did that with me too,” you say. “Not exactly, but he seemed to want to know more about whatever relationship we had. I suppose it is understandable, as he is a suitor, and he does not know that our courtship isn’t real.”

“He is a serious suitor, then,” Mr. Choi says. His expression doesn’t change.

“I believe so,” you reply.

“Do you want him to be?”

You blink, suddenly as off-kilter as before. Of course you want Lord Cho to be serious. You need to marry. You need to get out of here. Mr. Choi knows this—knows it better than anyone in the ton, perhaps. Why would he even ask that?

“Of course I do,” you say. “I need to be married, and he is perhaps the best suitor I have met thus far.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes, I do.” Annoyance prickles through your voice. “He is charming, and he is kind. I have seen little reason to dislike him.”

Mr. Choi narrows his eyes. “But he made you uneasy earlier.”

You blink. “How did you—”

“It was written all over your face,” he says.

This conversation is turning your head in circles and you don’t like it at all. “He may have made me uncomfortable with the intensity of his questions,” you say slowly, “but as I said, is that not simply the mark of a suitor trying to ascertain his competition?” The old anger is coming back and you can’t stop it fast enough. “But then, how would you know? You aren’t even actually courting me.”

Mr. Choi looks around sharply. Too late, you realize you are still in public where others could hear you. Your anger cools into a lump of rock behind your chest, but you can’t dislodge it enough to apologize.

“You’re right,” Mr. Choi says abruptly. “I don’t know anything, because I am not courting you and have never seriously courted anyone else in my life.” He looks at you and you have the sudden feeling he is about to say something that will turn the course of this afternoon yet again. “But if he is so serious a suitor, and if my dislike of him will only hinder your possible courtship, perhaps it would be better if we saw each other less.”

Each of his words hits you like a stone. You can almost feel the impact against your chest, thudding one by one against the growing bruise. Perhaps it would be better if we saw each other less. “You mean we should no longer see each other at all,” you say dully.

“Not in quite so many words,” he replies. He won’t look at you. “It would arouse far too much suspicion if we stopped seeing one another so suddenly. But we can slowly begin to end things, and then it will not surprise so many people if I am no longer pursuing you.”

You’re not sure why you feel so hollow at his words. This courtship was contrived from the start. It was always meant to end sooner or later, when both of your goals had been achieved. And based on what you’ve seen, they have been—Mr. Choi no longer suffers a thousand mamas running at him to introduce their daughters, and you now have several serious suitors who have a good chance of seeking your hand. You no longer need each other as much as before. This ending was to be expected from the beginning.

You hear yourself say, “I suppose you are right.” Your words sound muffled, like you’re listening from underwater. “We are halfway through the season, anyway.”

A long silence falls. You can’t seem to find any words to fill it, so you just let it sit until Mr. Choi clears his throat. “I will continue to call on you for three more weeks,” he says, still looking away. “We will still attend the events we had planned to attend together during that time, but after that, I see no more reason to inform one another of what we plan to go to.”

“Fine.” It’s all you can get out. “That’s fine.”

You’re back at the front of the park, having made one full revolution around. Usually you’d stay for longer, but you need to get out of here. “I am feeling somewhat lightheaded,” you say, and it’s only half a lie. “I apologize for cutting our promenade short, but I think I will head home now.”

“Of course.” Mr. Choi bows to your curtsy, and kisses your hand. To your vicious pleasure, he looks about as well as you feel. “I will see you in a few days’ time, then. The Rosenburys’ performance.”

“I look forward to it.” You turn around towards your carriage, letting the footman take your hand, but then Mr. Choi calls your name again. You look back. “What is it?”

He steps toward you, closing the distance. “You may have no reason to heed me,” he says, looking more serious than he’s ever been, “but please, Miss L/N. Be careful of Lord Cho.”

You nearly roll your eyes. “You yourself said you had no idea why you dislike him so.”

“I did,” he says, undeterred. “But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that he made you uneasy.” He leans closer, his voice dropping. “Your feelings matter more than anything in a courtship. If a man makes you uncomfortable, then there is a reason, and you should look for it, and listen to it.”

His words thud against the bruises already present on your chest, dull aches of pain rippling across your heart. “Feelings are a luxury for me,” you say lowly, “and you know it.”

“I do.” Mr. Choi doesn’t flinch. “But for all our past relationship, Miss L/N, I have no desire to see you miserable for the rest of your life.”

You swallow hard. The intensity of his gaze is too much so you look down, and immediately you see the gloves still on your hands. The ones he gave to you. The gifts with so much meaning. Remembering this, the anger suddenly drains from your body, leaving you nothing much but a tired husk of a person. “How do you know he will make me miserable?” you ask, exhaustion dripping from your tone.

“I don’t,” he says. “I only meant that if you see any signs that he might, you should take care before it is too late.”

You laugh a little. It’s not a sound that brings anyone any joy. “You really dislike him, don’t you.”

“Maybe I do, but I do not ask you to share that dislike. I only ask you to be careful.” He looks at you steadily. “He is not your only option.”

He is not your only option. Somehow, those words feel like they hold far more meaning than either of you would like.

Too exhausted to search for deeper meanings, you look down at your shoes, remembering the childhood argument that spawned your vicious relationship. Then you look at the gloves that he gave you last week with so much care. Beneath the fabric your hands feel soothed and soft, far from the cracked rawness that you had grown so used to. All because of him. All because of Mr. Choi.

“Why do you care?” you ask.

The question seems to take him aback. He recovers quickly, but you catch him cast a glance down at your gloves as though asking himself the same thing. “Because, Miss L/N,” he finally says, “for all that I once said about you, I know now that you are a good person.” He looks at you, and his stare does not waver. “And I have no wish to see you hurt.”

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :)

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talesfromthesnogbox · 1 month

Text

The Red Room

Summary: Alex finally gets Henry alone to talk in the Red Room. Henry's POV of Red, White & Royal Blue, Chapter Six, pages 129-134.

Rating: M

Word Count: 1,843

AO3 Link

Part 1 | Part 3

Emily Taylor [5:36 P.M.]

Good luck tonight Henry. Sending my love, you’ve got this

Henry smiled at his phone and sent Emily back a heart emoji as he left his room in the residence of the White House. He was invited to stay as a guest for the evening’s gala, and he’d luckily (maybe unluckily) not yet run into Alex.

He entered the ballroom and immediately, Alex was the first person to catch his eye. His breath stuttered as their eyes met, and he briefly considered making a run for it, but he had to stay. As Alex approaches, his heart rate jumps, he can feel the blood rushing to his face, but he’d promised he’d stay, he promised himself he’d talk to Alex.

“All right, photos.” Henry winces at Zahra’s curt introduction.

“Oh.” He forgot, he’d have to pose with Alex, who was mad at him, who looked absolutely delectable in his crisp black suit.

“Hey.” Henry could tell Alex’s smile was put on, and not well. It was the same smile and the same stiff handshake from their first weekend at Kensington Palace. “Cool to see you’re not dead or anything.”

Ouch. “Er.” He definitely deserved that.

“We need to talk.”

Henry was about to agree, when he was whisked away to mingle with the Prime Minister.

Dinner was uneventful, the conversations dull, the food was just fine, the ballroom just a degree too warm to be totally comfortable. But Henry could feel Alex’s eyes boring into him from across the room, which added a whole other level of interest to the night. His ears were heated, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the temperature of the ballroom (it wasn’t), or Alex watching him (it was). He tries not to get jealous when Alex turns to whisper something in Nora’s ear, but then she was heading his way and dear lord, he had not had enough wine for this conversation.

“Henry! So nice to see you again. You left in such a rush after New Years.”

“Ah, yes, sorry. Nice to see you too. I’m afraid I was feeling the alcohol a bit too much that night and decided to retire early. I hear Pez stayed for a pleasant evening though?”

She smiled. “Yeah he did. Hey, you like French pastries, right? The White House just hired this new pastry chef,” Nora grabbed Henry by the elbow and walked towards a table next to an exit. “Try these profiteroles, they’re to die for.”

Henry was about to protest when Alex appeared beside him suddenly. “Hi.”

He knew he was gaping like a fish out of water, but this wasn’t what he quite had in mind for their conversation. He pictured something a little… quieter? More private? He was possibly about to bare his soul to the man he’d been crushing on for years, he wasn’t about to do it in front of the British Parliament and American Congress attendees.

“Sorry to interrupt. Important, um. International. Relations. Stuff.” And suddenly, it was Alex grabbing him by the elbow.

This was not how he pictured this talk going. “Do you mind?”

“Shut your face.”

Henry grumbles as he’s led by Alex to a room not far from the main ballroom. His security detail he’d come to know as Amy stood outside the door keeping watch, and his stomach sank. It was now or never, this talk was happening, and it wasn’t off to a good start.

“You’re not going to kill him, are you?” Amy asked Alex, giving Henry a pitying look.

“Probably not.” Alex was pissed.

There hadn’t been many moments where Henry was fearful for his life, but today was one of them. Well, okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but he felt two seconds away from throwing up at any given point, and that didn’t feel much better. Seeing how upset Alex was as he lead Henry through the doors into a red room really did make him feel like a complete dick; he was definitely losing a friend tonight, and despite having only really been friends a few months, he considered Alex a good friend. This month apart was really taken a toll on him, and he wishes he’d just been brave enough to extend the olive branch anytime before now.

“What on God’s earth are you doing?” He demands as soon as Alex lets him go.

“Shut up, shut all the way up, oh my God.”

Henry doesn’t even have time to close his mouth before Alex pushes him into the nearest wall and kisses him.

Shock keeps Henry from moving at all, and for a moment, Alex starts to pull back. But after allowing his brain to reboot, Henry has a moment of realization. He kissed me. HE kissed ME. This was it, best case scenario, he almost felt like pinching himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but even if he was, he better make it the best damn kiss he’d ever had. Henry moved his hands up Alex’s chest, tangling his fingers in his hair as he tried to pour everything he wanted to say to him into the kiss. If their first kiss felt life-altering, this kiss was shifting the entire universe on its axis. It felt good, it felt right, and maybe Emily had a point about Alex also wanting Henry. But no matter what they both wanted… they weren’t just Alex and Henry. They were FSOTUS and HRH Prince Henry Fox Mountchristen-Windsor.

“Wait.” He broke off reluctantly, and looked up at Alex. Alex looked like he was doing exactly what they were just doing, his hair undone, lips red, eyes wild, and Henry was sure he was in the same state. “Should we—” he didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

“What?”

Fuck. “I mean, er, should we, I dunno, slow down?” He winced. They just kissed, it wasn’t like he was bare-arsed in the middle of the White House. “Go for dinner first, or—” But really, he’d never done any kind of dating outside of his approved suitresses. He’d never really had an adult relationship to be frank, everything at Eton and Oxford was just sex, and although he knew what he wanted from this arrangement with Alex, he was almost entirely sure he wouldn’t be able to get it.

“We just had dinner.”

Double fuck. “Right. I meant— I just thought—“

“Stop thinking.”

Alex was right. Henry was way overthinking this. Yeah, ideally he wanted to wine and dine Alex, share their hopes and dreams, tease him about his incorrect Star Wars opinions, then kiss him slowly. But he was still a young man in his early twenties who’d been pent up for far too long, and Alex looked like a wet dream. If he couldn’t have it all, well he could still have something. “Yes. Gladly.”

This time when Alex pushed Henry up against the furniture, he went willingly, propping his bum on a table he knows shouldn’t be sat on. Regardless, he leans back, his head hitting the corner of a picture frame (shit, was that Alexander Hamilton?), and opens his legs for Alex to slot his hips between them. This kiss is still frantic, but so much deeper than the other two he’d shared with Alex; their hands were everywhere, tongues, teeth, it was delicious. Alex pulls away only to drop his lips to Henry’s neck, and a choked groan leaves his throat. His hips cant up into Alex’s, and he’s satisfied to feel Alex’s arousal is as prominent as His own. Alex’s hand cups under his thigh, and Henry is helping him hitch it up around his waist, the heat of Alex’s palm only egging him on further to slot their lips together again in a fervent kiss.

Of all the ways Henry imagined this conversation going, this was not even on his list of possibilities. Alex was straight. He’d kissed Nora on New Years, he had a dating history that only included women, and yet he’d pulled Henry from a gala specifically to pin him to the wall and have his wicked way with him. Alex had more depth than Henry initially thought he did, or maybe he was doing it to fuck with him…

Henry had time to grind himself against Alex once more before Amy poked her head through the door and yelled “Time’s up!”

“Fuck.” Alex swore, pulling away.

“I’m going to die.” Henry was breathless.

“I’m going to kill you.” Luckily, Alex sounded just as winded.

“Yes, you are.” He gave Alex a once-over, focusing on the finer details from their romp. His buttons had become undone, and his shirt mussed, his eyes glazed over and lips swollen, something that made Henry swell with pride. His hair was a hopeless disaster, and as he scanned back down Alex’s body, he could see the prominent bulge in his pants. He gulped audibly… it didn’t look small. Maybe he wasn’t trying to fuck with Henry, but rather just… fuck him.

“People are going to be coming in here soon.” Henry watched Alex flit around the room, trying to fix it back up. Henry met his eyes as he turned around, and suddenly, he was the subject of Alex’s focus. His own shirt was half unbuttoned, and completely untucked, his hair tangled beyond belief, getting it back into his own signature coif would be nearly impossible. “Fuck, you look—fuck.”

Alex sounded ruined. It did absolutely nothing to help Henry’s own situation.

God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen, God save the Queen. He hummed.

“What are you doing?”

Henry looked at him incredulously. “Christ, I’m trying to make it”, he waves his hands in front of his pelvis, “go away.” He watches Alex take a deep breath, and it looks like he’s using every ounce of self-control to not look down at the bulge in Henry’s pants that was not going away!

“Okay, so, yeah. So here’s what we’re gonna do. You are gonna go be, like, five hundred feet away from me for the rest of the night, or else I am going to do something that I will deeply regret in front of a lot of very important people.”

Sensible plan. “All right…” Henry tried to step back, but Alex only pulled him closer.

“And then… I’m not done yet”

“Of course you’re not.”

Henry’s breath hitches as Alex draws him in closer by the waist. He was so close once again, just a hair’s breath away, close enough to plant another life-altering kiss on his lips. “And then you are going to come to the East Bedroom on the second floor at eleven o’clock tonight, and I am going to do some very bad things to you, and if you fucking ghost me again, I’m going to get you put on a fucking no-fly list. Got it?”

Send her victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us, God save the Queen!

“Perfectly.”

He was fucked.

#firstprince #rwrb #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #henry x alex #firstprince fic #red white and royal blue #rwrb fic #my writing

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