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“Hello?”
It’s Henry’s voice, sweet and posh and shaky and confused, and relief knocks the wind out of him.
“Sweetheart.”
He hears Henry’s exhale over the line. “Hi, love. Are you okay?”
He laughs wetly, amazed. “Fuck, are you kidding me? I’m fine, I’m fine, areyouokay?”
“I’m… managing.”
Alex winces. “How bad is it?”
“Philip broke a vase that belonged to Anne Boleyn, Gran ordered a communications lockdown, and Mum hasn’t spoken to anyone,” Henry tells him. “But, er, other than that. All things considered. It’s, er.”
“I know,” Alex says. “I’ll be there soon.”
There’s another pause, Henry’s breath shaky over the receiver. “I’m not sorry,” he says. “That people know.”
Alex feels his heart climb up into his throat.
“Henry,” he attempts, “I…”
“Maybe—”
“I talked to my mom—”
“I know the timing isn’t ideal—”
“Would you—”
“I want—”
“Hang on,” Alex says. “Are we. Um. Are we both asking the same thing?”
“That depends. Were you going to ask me if I want to tell the truth?”
“Yeah,” Alex says, and he thinks his knuckles must be white around the phone. “Yeah, I was.”
“Then, yes.”
A breath, barely. “You want that?”
Henry takes a moment to respond, but his voice is level. “I don’t know if I would have chosen it yet, but it’s out there now, and… I won’t lie. Not about this. Not about you.”
Alex’s eyelashes are wet.
“I fucking love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Just hold on until I get there; we’re gonna figure this out.”
“I will.”
“I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.”
Henry exhales a wet, broken laugh. “Please, do hurry.”
