Meet Bobby, the nerd, from my author friend's latest novel, The Nerd & the Star.

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@rwrb4life
Meet Bobby, the nerd, from my author friend's latest novel, The Nerd & the Star.
The "Listen & Learn" Tour
The "Listen & Learn" Tour was Alex and Henry’s response to the whirlwind of their first year—a way to step out of the high-security bubbles of London and D.C. and actually hear from the people their foundation was built to serve.
It wasn't a traditional royal tour or a campaign trail; it was more like a traveling town hall, filled with coffee shops, community centers, and the occasional unplanned karaoke session.
Stop 1: Austin, Texas
The Venue: A small community youth center in a neighborhood Alex used to haunt as a teenager.
The Vibe: High energy, smells like cedar and taco trucks.
The Moment: Alex spent three hours debating a group of twenty-year-old law students on the nuances of constitutional protections for queer youth.
The Henry Factor: Henry, meanwhile, was found in the back corner of the library, helping a twelve-year-old boy find "the right kind of poetry for when your brain feels like a tangled ball of yarn."
The Quote: "I’m not here to tell you how to vote," Alex told the crowd. "I’m here to figure out how we build a world where you don't have to fight just to exist."
Stop 4: Manchester, UK
The Venue: An old warehouse converted into a safe space for LGBTQ+ artists and activists.
The Vibe: Industrial, covered in murals, and surprisingly cold.
The Moment: They participated in a "Living Library" event where they sat and listened to elders in the community tell stories of the underground queer scene in the 70s and 80s.
The Alex Factor: Alex, usually the loudest person in the room, didn't say a word for two hours. He just took notes on a yellow legal pad, his face a mask of profound focus.
The Quote: "We’re often told that our history is a tragedy," Henry said during the closing circle. "But listening to you, I realize it’s actually a series of incredible, defiant victories."
The "After-Hours" Logs
The tour wasn't just formal meetings. Between stops, they stayed in mid-range hotels (to the Secret Service's immense frustration) and ate far too much regional fast food.
The Travel Journal (Found on Alex’s Laptop):
2:00 AM - Des Moines, Iowa: > Henry is currently asleep with a half-eaten doughnut on his chest. We spoke to a trans girl today who said our wedding was the first time she saw a future where she could be both happy and 'official.' My heart feels like it’s three sizes too big for my ribs. Note to self: look into rural healthcare grants for queer clinics.
The Impact
By the end of the tour, the "Listen & Learn" initiative had collected over 10,000 personal stories, which Henry later bound into a series of volumes for the Foundation’s archives. It grounded them. It reminded them that while the History, Huh? of it all was grand and global, the real work happened one conversation at a time.
PRIDE!
"Nora, I will destroy you," Alex shouted, but it was impossible to sound threatening over the din of the crowd and while covered in rainbow confetti.
Henry was currently on his back, laughing so hard that Alex could feel the vibration through his own spine. They were at the center of the first D.C. Pride Parade to pass through the White House Gates, an event that had taken three months of executive orders and intense negotiations with the Secret Service to approve.
"Alex, look up!" Henry’s voice, a bright, clear sound, called out from above him.
Alex looked up, and a stream of blue and purple confetti landed right in his open mouth. He sputtered, and Henry only laughed louder, the hand that was draped over Alex's shoulder squeezing tight. Henry was holding the standard FirstPrince Flag—the Lone Star and a Union Jack stitched together—and was currently waving it with an enthusiasm that would have made his grandmother, the Queen, faint on the spot.
"It’s not just a celebration, Hen," Alex said, turning his head so he could see his husband’s face. "It’s a victory lap."
The "Wall of Sound" Strategy
Two blocks earlier, a small, grim faction of protesters had tried to break through the security perimeter. They hadn't lasted long. June, Nora, and Pez—collectively known as the "Tactical Unit for High-Impact Joy"—had anticipated them.
They had deployed the Angel Brigade: twenty drag queens in ten-foot-tall rainbow feather wings, flanked by the White House Bluegrass Band. The resulting wall of gospel choir, synchronized dance, and deafening disco music had physically pushed the protesters back, all while Alex and Henry waved triumphantly from a custom-built, open-top vehicle.
"I cannot believe," Henry shouted over the bass, "that Pez actually managed to procure an LED screen that projects real-time donations to The Claremont-Fox Homes. We have literally paid for the entire New York shelter’s library in the last twenty minutes of their hate."
The Moment in Time
They were nearing the official viewing stand, where President Ellen Claremont was waiting, ready to deliver the First Proclamation of National Pride.
Alex slowed their pace, the crowd surging around them. He could feel the eyes of the world, the cameras of the press, but right now, it was just the two of them. Henry’s chin was resting on his head, the sweat from their long morning sticking them together.
"Hen?" Alex called out, his voice soft against the roar.
"Yes, Your Worshipfulness?" Henry replied, looking down, his messy blonde hair framing his face.
"I love you. I’m proud of us. And I’m really, really proud of the fact that we got my mother to agree to let the official White House Chef bake a fifty-tier 'Red, White, and Velvet' cake that says 'History, Huh?' on the top."
Henry pulled Alex’s face up, ignoring the thousand cameras, and kissed him, a deep, triumphant kiss that tasted like confetti and freedom.
As they turned to face the main stage, the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards—who had been flown in specially—struck up with a soaring bagpipe rendition of “Born This Way,” and the city of Washington, D.C., officially belonged to them.
The rest of the shrine at the office.
Celebrating RWRB-TPC Announcement Day here at work!
Red White & Royal Blue: Private Correspondence coming Dec 2026
A brand new novella told through notes, letters that continues Alex and Henry's story. The editor tells me not to let the word novella fool you, but didn't elaborate further.
It should be tomorrow, and this was the big news I thought I'd get to share a few weeks ago. You are going to be so so happy!!
Super happy and excited right now. Can't quite say why just yet but you are going to be too!
Revenge of the Prince: Part III
The Ultimate Victory
The real estate transaction was handled with the surgical precision of a black-ops mission. Using a series of nested LLCs—cleverly titled "Subtle Shade Holdings" and "L.O.L. Enterprises"—Nora and Pez managed to acquire the dilapidated commercial lot directly adjacent to the Westboro headquarters before the church even realized who was signing the deed.
The morning of the groundbreaking was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
The Neighborhood Welcome
A massive construction crane rolled onto the lot, dwarfing the church’s modest office building. As the sun rose, a crew began unfurling a three-story-tall vinyl banner that could be seen from the interstate. It featured a high-definition photo of Alex and Henry, looking radiant and holding hands, set against a backdrop of shimmering rainbows.
But it was the text in bold, gold-leaf lettering that caused the church's front doors to fly open in a panic:
COMING SOON:
THE WESTBORO LGBTQ+ CENTER FOR YOUTH IN NEED
“Where the only thing we protest is a bad outfit.”
The Press Conference
Alex stood at a podium positioned exactly six inches from the property line, practically leaning into the church’s neatly manicured hedges. He was wearing his "Veto" tie and a grin that was pure, unfiltered mischief. Henry stood beside him, looking every inch the Prince, holding a golden shovel.
"We realized," Alex told the sea of cameras, "that the good people next door have spent decades shouting about how much they care about the 'souls' of our community. So, we decided to make it easy for them to show that love in person!"
Henry stepped up to the microphone, his British accent cutting through the humid Kansas air like a cool breeze. "Every time our neighbors feel the urge to step outside and share their... unique perspectives, they will be greeted by the sight of our residents being housed, fed, and loved. We’ve even installed a 'Kindness Kiosk' on the sidewalk. For every decibel of shouting recorded by our noise monitors, a fresh batch of cookies is automatically baked for the youth inside."
The "Good Neighbor" Policy
The "Westboro Center" wasn't just a shelter; it was a 24/7 celebration.
The Architecture: The side of the building facing the church was composed entirely of "Prism Glass," which caught the sunlight and projected giant, moving rainbows directly onto the church’s windows all afternoon.
The Landscaping: Pez had flown in a team to plant "Freedom Roses" and "Equality Lilies" that bloomed in a literal rainbow gradient along the fence line.
The Soundscape: The outdoor meditation garden featured a fountain that played a low-frequency, looping instrumental of “Y.M.C.A.”—just loud enough to be pleasant for the residents, but just repetitive enough to drive the neighbors to the brink of madness.
The Reaction: The "Final" Note
Three days after the center opened its doors to its first twenty residents, a white flag—literally, a white kitchen towel—was seen waving from the church’s second-story window.
A letter was slipped under the center’s front door. It wasn't on official letterhead. It was a frantic, handwritten note on a napkin:
We give up. The rainbows are giving the Deacon a migraine. We are relocating our headquarters to a rural farm three counties away. Please do not follow us.
The Victory Lap
Alex and Henry sat on the roof of the new center that evening, watching the movers pack the last of the church’s filing cabinets into a van.
"They're actually leaving, Alex," Henry said, leaning his head on his husband's shoulder. "We won the territory."
"We didn't just win it, Hen," Alex said, clinking his sparkling water against Henry’s. "We reclaimed it. From now on, when people hear the name 'Westboro,' they aren't going to think of signs and shouting. They're going to think of the kids downstairs who finally have a bed and a library."
Henry smiled, looking at the glowing sign above the door. THE WESTBORO LGBTQ+ CENTER.
"History, huh?"
"The best kind," Alex replied. "The kind you build with a golden shovel and a whole lot of spite."
Went to the movies yesterday to see Project Hail Mary. I was lucky enough to see Nick in back-to-back trailers for The Sheep Detectives and He-Man!
Revenge of the Prince: Part II
The package was sent via Royal Mail Special Delivery, and because Pez was nothing if not a stickler for dramatic irony, he had insisted it be hand-delivered by a courier wearing a velvet tuxedo.
Inside the Westboro Baptist Church headquarters, the atmosphere was already grim. They were still reeling from the "Glitter-Gate" PR disaster in Brooklyn, which had resulted in their official Twitter account being flooded with fancams of Henry and Alex set to Chappell Roan.
Then, the crate arrived.
The Plaque
It was a heavy, solid brass plaque, the kind usually reserved for the opening of a wing at the Louvre or a wing of a hospital. At the top, in elegant, deeply etched script, it read:
THE OKONJO-FOX HOUSE FOR LGBTQ+ YOUTH In Grateful Recognition of the Westboro Baptist Church
Below the text was a high-resolution, color-etched photo of the "Angel Brigade"—the twenty drag queens in their 15-foot LED wings—flanking Alex and Henry. Alex was mid-wink, holding a slice of pepperoni pizza, and Henry was regally tipping an imaginary hat.
The inscription at the bottom was the final blow:
"Your presence on June 12th acted as the single greatest fundraising engine in the history of our foundation. Every shout of yours provided a bed; every sign of yours provided a meal. We have dedicated the Main Laundry Facility in your honor. May it be a place where things are finally made clean."
The Group Chat: "Operation Clean Sheets"
Back in New York, the "Super Six" were watching the delivery confirmation tick over on Pez’s gold-plated iPad.
Pez: DELIVERY CONFIRMED. The courier reports that the man who signed for it looked as though he had swallowed a particularly sour lemon. SUCCESS!
Nora: I’ve just intercepted their internal comms. They’re currently debating whether to melt the brass down. Jokes on them, it’s reinforced with a titanium core. That thing is forever.
Alex: Pez, you’re a literal madman. The laundry room? My mom actually choked on her coffee when I told her. She said, 'Alexander, that is remarkably petty. Send me a photo.'
Henry: I feel slightly guilty. Only slightly. Mostly, I’m wondering if we should send them a 'Friend of the Foundation' newsletter every month. With photos of the kids using the new computers they bought us.
June: Do it. Kill them with kindness and high-resolution printing.
The Legacy of the "Angel" Protest
The "Laundry Room Plaque" became the stuff of internet legend. It wasn't just a win; it was a total strategic surrender. For the rest of the year, every time a fringe group even thought about protesting a FirstPrince event, they were met with a warning from their own legal teams:
"Do not go. They will turn your hate into a tax-deductible donation and a viral meme. You will literally pay for their wedding cake."
Alex and Henry had successfully turned the world's loudest voices of exclusion into the silent sponsors of inclusion.
One Last Note
A week later, a small, plain envelope arrived at the Brooklyn brownstone. It was a single sheet of paper from the Westboro headquarters. It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a scripture. It was just a typed sentence:
Please stop sending us the newsletter.
Alex pinned it to the fridge, right next to a photo of Henry laughing in the rain.
"Victory?" Henry asked, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Alex’s waist.
"The ultimate victory, baby," Alex said, leaning back into him. "They've officially unsubscribed from the narrative."
Alex's Birthday Wish
It seems like only yesterday we were in this exact spot, with Henry wishing for a connection to his past. Now, the roles have reversed, and it's time to celebrate Alex's birthday.
The brownstone was quieter than usual, a peaceful hush settling over the kitchen where Alex had just finished frosting his cake. It was a labor of love, a messy masterpiece in red, white, and blue, a nod to both his Texas roots and his new life as a permanent resident of Brooklyn.
He had insisted on doing it himself, a small act of defiance against the professional caterers Pez had tried to send over.
Henry walked in, looking relaxed and happy, a rare sight in the weeks following the global wedding announcement. He was carrying David the beagle, who was now officially a dual-citizen and still preferred his cardboard box to the blue velvet bed.
"Happy birthday, darling," Henry said softly, leaning his head against Alex’s shoulder. He set David down, and the dog immediately did his three perfect circles and settled in to watch the festivities.
"Thanks, baby," Alex replied, a slow, warm grin breaking through his exhaustion. He picked up a single, striped candle and pushed it into the center of the cake.
Henry picked up the matches, his wedding band flashing in the soft twilight of the kitchen. "Alright, Alex. The universe is apparently listening to our kitchen wishes. Make a wish. A real one."
Alex looked at the flickering candle, then at Henry, and finally at David, who was currently attempting to sniff the edge of the cake. Throughout the entire turbulent, beautiful process of falling in love and making it permanent, Alex had been fighting for space, for recognition, for a place in the world that felt real. He wanted, more than anything, to make sure this peace, this absolute feeling of belonging, was real.
"I wish..." Alex started, his voice a thick thread of sound. "I wish that when I open my eyes, I know for a fact that this—us, David, this house—is truly permanent. No backtracking, no treaties, no public votes. Just real."
He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a long, deliberate breath, extinguishing the candle and plunging the kitchen into momentary darkness.
When Alex opened his eyes, nothing in the kitchen had changed. David was still watching the now-silent candle. The cake was still messy.
But when he looked up at Henry, he saw it. The same light was back in Henry's eyes, a mirrored reflection of the certainty Alex felt settling deep in his chest.
"History, huh?" Henry whispered, leaning down to finally claim his birthday kiss.
Alex pulled him closer, his hand settling over the place where David was now thumping his tail against Henry's leg.
Alex didn't wait for a plate. He grabbed a fork from the drawer, hovering it over the corner of the cake where the blue and white icing met in a particularly thick, sugary wave.
"You realize," Henry said, leaning against the counter with a look of pure, unadulterated fondness, "that if the press saw the future First Son-Consort eating directly from the serving platter, they’d have a collective aneurysm."
"Good thing we’re in Brooklyn," Alex retorted, finally digging in and taking a massive, undignified bite. He closed his eyes, a low groan of approval escaping him. "God, Hen. It’s actually good. Like, surprisingly good for something that looks like a Fourth of July firework exploded in a kitchen."
Henry laughed, picking up a second fork. "I’ll take that as a compliment."
He carved out a small, precise square and held it out. David, who had been sitting with the patience of a saint (or a very hungry beagle), immediately perked up. The dog’s tail began to drum against the floor—thump-thump-thump—as he looked between the cake and Henry’s hand.
"A birthday tax," Henry declared, letting the piece of crust with a tiny dollop of red icing slide toward David.
The beagle didn't hesitate. One quick gulp and the tax was collected. David licked his chops, looking remarkably satisfied with the constitutional arrangement of the household, before settling his chin back down on Alex’s foot.
They stood there for a while in the quiet of the kitchen, passing the forks back and forth and dismantling the messy, red-white-and-blue masterpiece bit by bit. The weight of the upcoming wedding, the endless foundation meetings, and the looming public expectations felt like a different world entirely. Here, in the dim light with the taste of sugar and the warmth of a snoring dog, everything was simple.
"You got icing on your nose," Henry murmured, reaching out with his thumb to wipe away a smear of blue.
Alex didn't move away. He leaned into the touch, his eyes softening. "Permanent, right?"
"Absolutely," Henry promised, his voice a steady anchor. "History, huh?"
Alex grinned, his heart finally at rest. "The best kind, baby."
The Contenders: The Battle for the White House Lawn
Three legendary Texas pitmasters stood behind their smokers, eyes narrowed, tongs in hand.
"Big Tex" Miller - Central Texas - Traditional Post oak only. Salt and pepper crust. No sauce allowed.
Mama Rosa - South Texas - Barbacoa Mesquite-smoked with a honey-habanero glaze.
The Maverick -Modern Austin - Fusion - Bourbon-barrel aged wood, espresso rub, and pickled peach sides.
Round 1: The Brisket Test
Alex didn't even wait for the fork. He picked up a slice of Big Tex’s brisket with his fingers, checking the "bend."
"Look at that smoke ring," Alex whispered, his voice vibrating with religious fervor. "Henry, look. That’s the color of a sunrise in Austin. That’s art."
Henry picked up his slice with a fork and knife, earning a low chuckle from Big Tex. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and his eyes widened.
"It’s... it’s remarkably complex," Henry said, dabbing his mouth with a silk handkerchief. "I expected a singular note of salt, but there’s an earthiness. It’s like a very aggressive Highland peat, but with more... cow."
"More cow," Alex repeated, grinning. "Write that down, producers. 'The Prince likes the cow.'"
Round 2: The "Maverick" Controversy
When they reached The Maverick’s table, Alex’s Texas purist alarms started going off. The espresso rub was a bold choice—maybe too bold for a state dinner.
"You’re putting fruit on the tray?" Alex asked, eyeing the pickled peaches. "My mother is a woman of the people, Maverick. She wants fat and smoke, not a charcuterie board."
"Actually, Alex," Henry intervened, taking a second bite of the bourbon-soaked rib. "The acidity of the peach cuts through the richness of the espresso rub beautifully. It’s quite... sophisticated. It might prevent the British delegation from slipping into a total food coma before the toast."
"Traitor," Alex muttered, though he was already reaching for a second rib.
The Decision: A Choice of Legends
The final tasting belonged to Mama Rosa. Her honey-habanero glaze was a slow-burn masterpiece that had Alex sweating and Henry reaching for a gallon of iced tea.
"It’s a declaration of war," Alex gasped, his face flushed. "It’s bold, it’s spicy, it’s exactly what the White House needs to shake things up."
"It is certainly... memorable," Henry panted, his ears turning a bright shade of pink. "Though I fear my grandfather might actually combust if he takes a bite of this. We’d have a literal constitutional crisis on our hands."
The Winner Is...
After twenty minutes of heated "deliberation" (mostly Alex arguing about the purity of salt-and-pepper vs. Henry arguing for the "culinary evolution" of the Maverick), they turned to the cameras.
"We’ve made our choice," Alex announced, standing tall. "For the Labor Day Celebration, we wanted someone who represents the heart of Texas, but with a bit of that 'new world' flair we’re trying to build."
"The winner," Henry added, giving a polite nod to the pitmasters, "is The Maverick. Your espresso rub convinced the Crown, and your bourbon glaze convinced the First Son."
The set erupted in cheers. The Maverick hoisted a trophy shaped like a golden steer, and Alex immediately pulled Henry into a hug, whispering, "You only picked him because of the bourbon, didn't you?"
"It helped, darling," Henry whispered back, wiping a smudge of BBQ sauce off Alex’s cheek. "It significantly helped."
The neon lights of New Orleans felt a lifetime away as the mist rolled off the hills of County Cork. It was St. Patrick’s Day, but instead of a parade balcony, Alex and Henry found themselves standing in the shadow of the massive, lichen-covered ruins of Blarney Castle.
"I’m just saying, Henry, it’s a tactical advantage," Alex argued, his dark curls damp from the Irish drizzle. He looked every bit the restless American in his green windbreaker, his Hispanic features sharp with determination. At twenty-one, he was already eyeing a future in law and politics, and he took every "legendary edge" seriously.
Henry, matching Alex’s height and stride perfectly in a heavy wool coat, tilted his head. His blond hair was windswept, giving him the look of a tired but fond romantic. "Alex, you already possess the 'gift of gab' in abundance. In fact, some might say you have a surplus. A surplus that keeps me awake at 3:00 AM discussing the electoral college."
"That was one time! And this is different," Alex insisted as they began the steep climb up the spiral stone staircase. "This is magic gab. I have two wedding speeches to give—the Royal one and the Texas one. I need to be articulate. I need to be legendary. I need to kiss that rock."
The Climb
The interior of the castle was narrow and cool, smelling of ancient earth and damp limestone. Unlike the loud, public spectacle of Mardi Gras, this felt private. There were no cameras here, just the heavy thud of their boots on stone and the occasional hushed whisper of other tourists.
"You realize," Henry said, his voice echoing off the walls, "that to kiss the stone, you have to be held by your ankles over a sheer drop? It’s profoundly undignified."
Alex grinned, glancing back at him. "Since when have we ever cared about being dignified, sweetheart? We got crowned with pipe cleaners in front of half of Louisiana."
Henry conceded with a soft laugh. "Point taken."
The Stone
When they reached the battlements, the wind whipped across the top of the castle, offering a dizzying view of the emerald gardens below. The Stone was set into the machicolations of the castle wall.
Alex didn't hesitate. He lay on his back, gripping the iron rails as the attendant prepared to lower him.
"If you drop him," Henry said to the attendant, his tone polite but with that unmistakable 'Prince' edge that made the man sit up a little straighter, "there will be a very significant international incident."
Alex leaned back, eyes wide as he looked at the world upside down. He reached out, pressed his lips to the cold, legendary stone, and felt a ridiculous surge of triumph. When he was pulled back up, he was breathless and grinning, his face flushed.
"I feel it," Alex gasped, adjusting his shirt. "The eloquence. It’s flowing. Henry, I’m basically Shakespeare now."
"God help us all," Henry murmured, though he reached out and wiped a smudge of dust from Alex’s cheek with a thumb.
The Gardens
Instead of heading to a crowded pub, they spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the Poison Garden and the rock closes. It was quiet, the only sound the rustle of the wind through the yew trees.
"You didn't do it," Alex noted, leaning against a mossy rock as they watched the sunset turn the sky a bruised purple. "You didn't kiss the stone."
Henry stood beside him, their shoulders brushing. At twenty-one, they were no longer the boys who had hidden in the Red Room. They stood on equal ground, literally and figuratively.
"I didn't need to," Henry said softly, looking at Alex. "I’ve already found the only voice I care to listen to. And besides..." He leaned in, his blond hair brushing against Alex’s forehead. "I’d much rather kiss the person who kissed the stone than the stone itself."
Alex laughed, pulling Henry in by the lapels of his coat. "That was actually pretty smooth, Wales. Maybe that 'gift of gab' is contagious."
They kissed right there in the quiet Irish mist—no beads, no music, no crowds. Just a promise made on ancient ground that their voices, now joined, would never be silenced again.
Henry's Birthday Wish
The brownstone was quiet, the usual frantic energy of Brooklyn muffled by the heavy curtains and the thick, familiar warmth of the kitchen. Alex stood by the island, his sleeves pushed up, looking at the cake he had spent the better part of the afternoon attempting to assemble. It wasn't perfect—the frosting was a bit thick in places—but it was honest.
When Henry walked in, Alex gestured toward the center of the table, where a small candle flickered, their light reflecting off the gold band on Alex’s hand.
"Make a wish, Hen," Alex said softly, his voice grounding and steady. "Close your eyes and blow them out."
Henry stepped closer, the glow of the flames catching the blue of his eyes. He did as he was told, squeezing his eyes shut, but the wish that formed in his mind wasn't for the future—it was a quiet, aching plea to the past.
He wished, with a sudden and sharp intensity, for just one more day with Arthur Fox. He imagined a single afternoon where the weight of the crown didn't exist, where he could walk into a room and introduce Alex not as a diplomatic necessity, but as the man who had taught him how to breathe again. He wanted to see his father’s reaction to Alex’s sharp wit and his tireless heart, to hear his father say he was proud to see Henry finally, truly happy.
The air in the kitchen didn’t just grow still; it shifted, the atoms vibrating with a sudden, strange density. The smell of Alex’s slightly burnt chocolate cake was replaced by something sharper—the salt-tangle of the English coast and the faint, woody scent of the cologne Henry’s father had worn for twenty years.
Henry opened his eyes.
The Brooklyn brownstone was gone. In its place was the sun-drenched library of the house in Oxfordshire, the golden hour light spilling across rows of well-loved books. And there, standing by the window with a script in his hand and a familiar, patient smile, was Arthur Fox.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Pip," Arthur said, his voice as rich and warm as Henry remembered.
Henry couldn’t breathe. He felt the solid weight of Alex’s hand still in his, and he looked down to find Alex standing there with him, looking around the room with wide, bewildered eyes.
"Dad," Henry choked out, the word feeling like a miracle.
"And who is this?" Arthur asked, stepping forward with that easy, effortless grace. He looked at Alex—not with the cold appraisal of the Palace, but with a keen, fatherly curiosity.
Henry took a shaky breath and pulled Alex forward. "Dad, this is Alex. Alex Claremont-Diaz. He’s... he’s the person I told you about. The one who makes the world quiet enough for me to hear myself."
Alex, usually never at a loss for words, looked at Arthur with a rare, quiet reverence. "It’s an honor, sir. Truly."
Arthur studied them for a long moment, his eyes moving from Henry’s face to the way Alex was subconsciously stepping closer to Henry, a silent shield. A slow, genuine smile broke across Arthur’s face. He reached out, placing one hand on Henry’s shoulder and the other on Alex’s arm.
"I can see it," Arthur whispered. "The light in you, Henry. It’s back. You’ve found someone who doesn't mind the weight of the crown because he's too busy looking at the man beneath it."
He looked at Alex. "Thank you for taking care of my son."
"He takes care of me too, sir," Alex said, his voice thick with emotion.
For an hour that felt like an eternity and a heartbeat all at once, they talked. No politics, no protocols—just three men in a library, sharing stories and laughter that felt like a bridge over a canyon of grief.
Then, the light began to fade, the edges of the room blurring into the familiar shadows of the Brooklyn kitchen.
"I have to go, Pip," Arthur said, his image softening like a memory. "But I’m not far. I’m in every blueprint you build and every happy moment you choose."
Henry reached out, catching the last warmth of his father’s hand before the room settled back into the present. The candles on the cake were out, the smoke curling lazily into the air.
Alex was still there, his grip on Henry’s hand tight and real. "Did that... did we just...?"
Henry leaned into Alex, a single, happy tear falling onto his cheek. "History, Alex."
Alex kissed his temple, holding him fast. "The best kind, Hen. The absolute best kind."
Henry sat in the sudden stillness of the kitchen, his heart hammering against his ribs as the phantom scent of salt air and old books slowly evaporated. Alex hadn't let go of his hand; his grip was firm, a tether to the present moment.
"Henry," Alex whispered, his voice trembling with the same awe that was vibrating through Henry’s chest. "Did we just... was that real?"
Henry didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the mahogany surface of the kitchen island. There, resting right next to the lopsided chocolate cake, was something that hadn't been there a moment ago.
It was a small, worn leather bookmark, embossed with the crest of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Henry reached out with a shaking hand and picked it up. It was warm to the touch, and when he held it to his nose, it carried the unmistakable, lingering scent of his father’s library.
"He left it," Henry breathed, a fresh wave of tears blurring his vision as he traced the familiar indentations in the leather. "He was really here, Alex. He saw us."
Alex let out a long, shaky breath and pulled Henry into a fierce hug, burying his face in Henry's neck. "He saw you happy, Hen. That’s all he wanted."
After a few minutes of just holding each other in the quiet blue of the evening, Alex pulled back and wiped a thumb across Henry’s cheek. He picked up the silver cake server, his movements deliberate and grounding.
"Okay," Alex said, his voice returning to its familiar, slightly bossy tone that always made Henry feel safe. "The wish came true. The universe did its thing. Now, we are eating this cake. I didn't wrestle with that frosting for three hours for it to go to waste."
Henry let out a wet, genuine laugh and sat down on one of the high stools. He watched as Alex cut two generous, messy slices and slid them onto plates.
They ate in a peaceful, profound silence, the chocolate rich and sweet—a perfect contrast to the sharp, ethereal ache of the miracle they’d just shared. David the beagle trotted over, his tail thumping against Alex’s leg, and Alex absentmindedly dropped a small piece of crust for him.
Henry looked from the bookmark to the man sitting across from him, and then to the dog at their feet. The blueprint of his life had changed so many times, but for the first time, every line made sense.
"History, huh?" Henry said, raising his fork in a quiet toast.
Alex leaned across the table and kissed him, the taste of chocolate and starlight lingering between them.
"The best kind, baby," Alex replied. "The absolute best kind."
Never wise to mess with Henry!
or Revenge of the Prince
The news arrived via a frantic, high-priority text from Nora: “Red Alert. The Westboro ghouls have put our launch on their ‘God Hates’ schedule. They’re bussing in the neon signs for the shelter opening.”
Alex and Henry were in the Brooklyn brownstone, surrounded by floor plans for the first "Okonjo-Fox House." The atmosphere shifted instantly from architectural dreams to tactical warfare.
"They’re protesting a shelter for homeless kids?" Alex’s voice was dangerously low, that specific Claremont-Diaz spark of righteous fury igniting in his eyes. "In New York City?"
Henry leaned back, tapping a pen against his chin. Usually, the Royal protocol was 'ignore and endure.' But Henry wasn't just a Royal anymore; he was a husband, a New Yorker, and a man with a very large inheritance and a very wicked sense of humor.
"Alex," Henry said, a slow, posh smirk spreading across his face. "Do you remember what Pez said about 'merchandising' and 'spectacle'?"
"Yeah..." Alex’s eyes widened. "Hen, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"I think," Henry said, standing up to grab his laptop, "that it’s time we gave them a welcoming committee they’ll never forget. If they want a circus, we shall provide the Greatest Show on Earth."
The Strategy: "Operation Rainbow Wall"
They didn't call the police to move the protesters; they called Pez, Nora, and the Cast of RuPaul’s Drag Race.
When the morning of the ribbon-cutting arrived, the Westboro group set up their usual perimeter across the street, unfolding their hateful, neon-yellow signs. They began their chants, prepared for the usual grim-faced counter-protesters.
They were not prepared for the Wall of Sound.
1. The Acoustic Shield
As soon as the first hateful chant began, a massive stage-grade sound system—hidden behind a row of flower planters—erupted with Lady Gaga’s "Born This Way" at a decibel level that literally vibrated the protesters' teeth.
2. The "Angel" Brigade
Twenty drag queens, led by a legendary New York queen in a ten-foot-wide gown made of iridescent silk, marched out. They didn't shout back. Instead, they opened massive, 15-foot "Angel Wings" made of white feathers and rainbow LEDs, forming a physical, shimmering barrier that completely blocked the protesters from the view of the shelter’s entrance.
3. The "In Their Name" Donation Drive
Nora had set up a live-tracking digital billboard directly above the protesters' heads.
"FOR EVERY MINUTE YOU STAY, WE RAISE $10,000 FOR THE SHELTER!"
Every time a protester shouted into a megaphone, the "Donation Counter" ticked up. Fans online were "pledging per hateful sign." By 10:00 AM, the protesters had inadvertently raised $450,000 for the very kids they were there to harass.
The Coup de Grâce: The Royal Arrival
Just as the protesters were starting to look rattled by the sheer volume of glitter and disco music, the motorcade arrived.
Alex and Henry stepped out, but they weren't in suits. They were wearing custom denim jackets with "HISTORY, HUH?" embroidered in rainbow thread on the back.
Alex walked straight toward the barricade, a stack of high-end, artisanal pizzas in his hands. He didn't look at the signs. He looked at the hungriest-looking protester and offered a slice.
"Must be exhausting being this angry in 90-degree heat," Alex said with a devastatingly charming grin. "Eat up. We’re donating a thousand more pizzas to the shelter in your church’s name. There’s a tax receipt coming to your headquarters."
Henry stood beside him, looking every bit the regal Prince, but with a new, sharp edge. He pulled out a megaphone of his own.
"I’d like to thank the Westboro Baptist Church!" Henry’s voice boomed, amplified by the stage speakers. "Because of your attendance today, our social media engagement has peaked. You have officially funded the entire North Wing of this facility. We’ve decided to name the communal laundry room after your leader. Because, frankly, a lot of dirty laundry comes out of that organization."
The Aftermath
The protesters lasted exactly forty-two minutes.
Between the deafening disco, the drag queens blowing glitter-cannons every time someone tried to speak, and the giant digital scoreboard showing exactly how much money they were making for "the cause," the group folded their signs and retreated to their bus in record time.
Nora’s Final Data Report:
Total Funds Raised: $1.2 Million.
Social Media Sentiment: 99.2% "The Greatest Own in Political History."
Future Protest Probability: 0.04% (They are literally terrified of being turned into a viral fundraiser again).
The Celebration
Back inside the shelter, Henry and Alex stood in the quiet of the new library.
"I think you broke them, Hen," Alex said, leaning his head on Henry’s shoulder. "I saw one of them tapping their foot to Dancing Queen before they left."
"It’s the espresso rub of activism, darling," Henry said, pulling Alex into a kiss. "A little bit of spice, a little bit of heat, and a lot of heart. They can’t fight joy, Alex. They don't have the vocabulary for it."
Alex looked out the window at the empty sidewalk where the hate had been just an hour before. In its place, someone had drawn a massive rainbow heart in chalk.
"To the laundry room," Alex toasted with a paper cup of cider.
"To the laundry room," Henry laughed.