I Don’t Want To Set The World On Fire
“ I don't want to set the world on fire
I just want to start
A flame in your heart”
-- “I Don’t Want To Set The World On Fire” by the Ink Spots
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Alex
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He could die.
Alex is so stressed out, that he could die.
He feels his chest grow tight as sweat pools along the nape of his neck. “ I can do this ”, he mutters while pacing around the room. He’s stubbornly willing the hours to hurry up and pass so he can be downstairs in the main ballroom, at the Prime Minister’s Dinner.
Being the first son of the President of the United States, Alex is used to entertaining important, famous-adjacent people. But it’s different tonight, and he can no longer fool himself into pretending it isn’t. It was also different a month ago.
A month ago, he was preparing for the New Year’s Eve party that he, his sister June, and his best friend, Nora hosted annually. A month ago, his only expectations for the night were to turn on that casual charm, work his charisma, and kiss a girl or two at midnight. Hell, he wouldn’t say no to three.
He didn’t expect June to invite Prince Henry to the party. “You should have invited him yourself” , she remarked when he raised the question to her. And maybe he should have but he also didn’t expect to grow to enjoy Prince Henry’s company. But then again, he was finding that the prince was constantly subverting his expectations.
This was, after all, the Prince Henry who he had been harboring a rivalry with for several years. It was the Prince Henry who he found himself tangled up with on the floor of Buckingham Palace, covered in a way-too-expensive wedding cake. It was the Prince Henry who quickly became a person who could pull a smile from his face every time his phone pinged with a notification. The Prince Henry that became just “Henry”, and sometimes “H.”
The Prince Henry who spun his world completely off its axis when he kissed him on New Year’s Eve. The Prince Henry who pulled away from the kiss and ran away; leaving him with a head full of questions and a heart full of something like a growing flame.
So today, finally presented with the opportunity to see Henry since their kiss, he finds himself pacing his room, doing and undoing his tie. He keeps making lists, trying to keep the billowing panic at bay:
One. Henry will be here tonight. There’s no avoiding it.
Two. He just needs to talk to Henry, everything will be better once he talks to Henry.
As it turns out, kissing your enemy-turned-friend-turned-crush under a sky full of fireworks can lead to a very real, full-on bisexual crisis. It’s a crisis that begins to slot into place after a long, brooding conversation in Nora’s office, combing through his feelings, trying to make sense of the last few months of getting to know the boy behind the royal facade.
It’s a crisis that begins to slot into place after a very awkward - but revealing and necessary call to his childhood best friend, Liam. And he wishes it hadn’t taken him quite so long to figure his shit out, because he realizes that maybe he wasn’t just messing around in a super-horny-lax-bro type of way. He realizes there’s a reason that he and Liam don’t keep up like they used to, and it’s not just because they no longer live in the same state.
Three. He is going to make things right with Liam; not today, but someday.
Because the thing is, if he’s learned anything in the last few weeks of navigating his bisexual crisis, it’s that yeah - he’s probably not straight. But more than that, he feels beyond the anxiety and frustration in his chest, a sense of resolve about his feelings for Henry.
Four. He liked it when Henry kissed him.
Five. He kind of likes Henry.
He paces around his room, the sound of the TV broadcasting seemingly benign news updates in the background:
“... we’re currently tracking what seems to be a series of unexplainable weather events… high winds from the East over the Atlantic are reported with unusually dry conditions, …unexpected this time of year…lightning storms reported all over Asia …”
He closes his eyes and can feel the ghost of Henry’s fingers combing through his curls. He can feel his soft, lush lips brushing against his. He reminisces on the way he didn’t try to resist it but instead opened up and kissed him back. He’s surprised by how vivid the memory is; how warm it makes him feel. It’s a feeling he wants so desperately to chase.
And he would - only, it’s been a month since he last saw or even spoke to Henry. Since their kiss, he’d sent countless text messages and left a string of rambling voicemails. He’s been met with silence. And he’s pretty sure it’s slowly killing him.
He can bring himself to inch towards a blind hope that Henry hasn’t been ghosting him out of disgust or regret, but more than likely, out of fear. He thinks about the pictures he saw in those magazines shortly after New Year's Eve. The pictures in the tabloids of Henry kissing some nondescript woman. He feels his stomach drop at the thought. Not just because it’s someone else he’s kissing (and shouldn’t that alone say something?), but because he suspects that this is the type of damage control Henry’s been subjected to his whole life.
He holds onto that blind hope; the one that aligns with the Henry he’s come to know over the last few months. But the hope does little to settle his nerves. The clock ticks away, syncing to the pounding in his chest; inching closer to the imminent arrival of the boy he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about. And he realizes that he’s been thinking about him constantly, despite himself.
He thinks back to all the things that led to this. The homoerotic fight at the royal wedding. The “long-distance-text-flirting”, as Nora had put it. The Turkey Calamity. The way Henry listened – really listened. The J14 magazine he’d steal away from June in their childhood home in Austin. Shit. Henry’s been the subject of his attention for a long, long, time. Why did it take him so long to realize it?
He makes a final attempt at his tie and smooths out his suit jacket, looking himself over in the mirror as he tries not to spiral too far out of control.
He takes a deep breath, and recites a version of the list he’s been repeating to himself for the last few days:
- Henry kissed me on New Year's Eve.
I kissed Henry back.
I’m pretty sure I’m not straight – but maybe I’ll kiss Henry again, just to be sure - for science.
I kind of like Henry.
I’m going to talk to Henry.
I’ve got to talk to Henry.
As he lists things off, the noise around his bedroom floods in with the steady stream of ongoing news coverage:
“....insiders reporting an increased level of security for tonight's Prime MInister’s dinner at the White House... we’re learning that the National Guard has been deployed in major cities across the country… it’s unclear what is prompting this… insiders report strange signals coming from NASA, but no report about what the signals mean…“
He stares at the door handle, taking a final breath before stepping out of the safety of his room. Somehow he makes his way down the steps and onto the ground level where he’s promptly corralled into a queue. He hears Zahra, his mom’s Chief of Staff, barking orders at the press. When she eyes Alex among the line of guests readying to make an entrance, she impatiently hisses out orders: “ Alex, get your ass over here and stop chewing on your lip! ” He rolls his eyes, she’s still pissed that he’s been less than cooperative in their weekly meetings over the last several weeks.
And then.
Everything slips into slow motion when he sees Henry. He sees the way Henry glides into the room with that same regal effortlessness, but Alex has learned to read beyond the surface. He can tell that he’s straining to maintain a calm composure; his smile is tighter than normal like he’s trying to bite back the tension.
But damn.
He looks beautiful.
And for a moment, all the anxiety and worries that have been collecting in his chest drain out. He’s not sure if he’s breathing. Huh . He thinks to himself, so this is what it feels like to have your breath taken away.
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Henry.
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Henry doesn’t have to see Alex to catch the moment he’s finally back in the same room as him. He can feel his eyes on him, and if it weren't for his stubborn sense of self-preservation, he knows he’d look up to meet his gaze. He’d look up and see those deep brown, whisky eyes. He’d look up to see the way those eyes curl into the most beautiful crescents as he rattles off the details of a story – usually about something absurd from the day (“ She stabbed his knee caps – with her knitting needle, Henry! I mean the poor guy was streaking through the White House lawn – which, bold move, but so freaking nuts! ”)
Sometimes he’s rattling off a summary of a movie he’s been obsessing over (“ Paul Mescal plays a DAD, Henry. He plays a really sad but super hot dad. Let’s add that to our watchlist. Do you like popcorn? Of course you do, you’re not alien - are you? Tell me right now, Henry… ”)
Sometimes he’s rattling off about something he and June have been bickering about: (“ June keeps saying I’ve got a fire under my ass for no goddamn reason, but if I’m not gonna put my foot down on pizza toppings, then where is the line? It’s a crime - like I might have to go to law school just to put her behind bars for this .”)
Whatever Alex rattles off about, Henry listens with rapt attention, trying not to look too fond (he fails miserably.) He has grown to love the endless stream Alex lets him savor; he’d found he was properly obsessed. He was convinced that even if he scanned every corner of Alex’s brain, he’d never have enough of all the beautiful, chaotic thoughts that effortlessly spilled out.
It’s why he knows he should’ve blocked Alex’s number after he left him standing in the snow on New Year’s Eve. Instead, he sees every text message that comes in. He sees the steam of thoughts and the notifications when he’s left another voice message. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to listen to any of them, though. He doesn't think he could survive the decadence of Alex’s voice in his ear.
Going from that constant contact back to radio silence was practically a death sentence. He had at one time grown used to the silence, no doubt.
Since he first met Alex in Rio all those years ago, he had grown accustomed to seeing Alex in small passings of time, usually no conversation to be held between them. Just Henry doing everything possible not to look in his direction. To maintain a physical distance. Any time words were exchanged, they were heated, quick, and curt. It made him a bit sick back then, as he could never quite pinpoint the root of their animosity. But it was something he could more easily manage - something that made the magnetic attraction bearable.
But when their fates collided at the Royal Wedding of his brother, Philip, he found that hardly a day went by without some form of contact with Alex. It started with a snarky text message here or there, which led to full-on word vomits, which led to pictures of their surroundings- then eventually, selfies. Henry nearly dropped his phone down the staircase when he received that first picture of Alex, glasses on, hair a mess, shirtless, in his bed. Christ .
When Alex began calling him at god-awful hours of the night, there was never a chance that Henry could let the call go unanswered. There wasn’t a universe that existed where he wouldn’t lie awake, just in case Alex decided he wanted to talk. He fantasized that he’d always be there for Alex, in whatever way he’d have him.
So on New Year's Eve, when he felt that inexplicable pull of gravity, he foolishly let himself believe for a moment that Alex might want him just as much. The evening passed with stolen glances, and Henry firmly lost count of how many times he felt his face go hot in what was probably an embarrassing blush. He’d just say he was tipsy, though. Heaven knows he had more vodka shots than was proper for such a public occasion. But he couldn’t ignore the way that time seemed to stand still when it was just the two of them - looking for and finding each other on the busy dance floor. Just like Pride & Prejudice , he thought to himself.
Every time he turned around, Alex somehow reappeared, doing something wickedly chaotic, and often obscene to get a reaction out of him. It made Henry laugh and for a moment he thought, maybe Alex will kiss me . He didn’t expect the jealousy and devastation he’d felt when that did not happen. When Alex grabbed Nora instead and crashed his lips against hers. He felt foolish. He felt sick. He needed air.
He needed touch. He was so drunk and bloody lonely, – not just that night, but every night, in every way. He felt the loneliness of the hope that’d rise and fall every time he had an exchange with Alex. He isn’t mine.
Alex didn’t want him. Not in that way. And it gutted him.
Except Alex came and found him in the gardens, and Henry felt his resolve crumble. He knew he couldn’t have this, and he knew he should pull away—it’s something he’d have to do eventually, anyway.
Once their damage control tour was over. Or once Alex found something - or someone else - to properly distract him. Or maybe once Henry had to enlist. Or god forbid, once Henry was forced to court a proper woman. If it was all hurdling towards an inescapable end, then he decided he’d take this one thing for himself. Just once.
So he kissed Alex.
He let his hands slip through his curls.
He felt his heartbeat quicken.
He lost himself in it until Alex kissed him back.
It snapped him back into reality.
This can never work.
“Fuck I’m sorry”, Henry mumbled under his breath.
And then, he ran away.
But that was a month ago. A month of silence and painful longing. It’s why he can so clearly sense Alex in the room - it’s unmistakable. He’d recognize that heat radiating in his direction, against his skin on any surface of the earth. It’s the heat his body was missing, the touch he needed, the voice on the other line against his ear, the eyes crinkling in laughter.
He forces himself to move forward in the press line, he stills himself the way he always has.
He never meant to let Alex set his world on fire, he just wanted to share a flame in his heart.
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Alex
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“Hey, good to see you’re not dead”, Alex spits out with a muffled heat. He doesn’t mean to sound so bothered, but he is goddamnit. How can Henry just stroll in looking so unaffected? Like he didn’t just upend his entire world. “Err”, Henry answers pathetically. But they’re hurried forward into various press shots, and it’s all so chaotic and busy that Alex loses Henry in the shuffle.
Eventually, he makes his way into the dining room and finds his way to his seat. His leg bounces nervously under the table. June eyes him with confusion, but he doesn’t meet her gaze. At some point, June excuses herself to use the restroom, whispering into Alex’s ear as she passes by, “Get it together, you look like a crackhead going through withdrawal.” Alex scoffs and lets his eyes meet Nora’s across the table. “I need your help”, he mouths to her. Nora’s eyebrows dart up with mischief as she takes a sip of red wine.
As Nora steals herself away to distract Henry, Alex finds Amy, one of the secret service agents, and enlists her help as well. Cool. This is going great.
He repeats that same list in his head:
- Henry kissed me.
- I kissed him back.
- I want to kiss him back, again.
Alex looks at the clock. He makes eye contact with Nora, who has successfully pulled Henry away. This is his shot. Alex approaches and grabs Henry by the wrist. “Sorry—I've got some international relations stuff to discuss,” Alex says hurriedly.
“Do you mind?” Henry says, clearly taken aback, but not fighting the pull of Alex’s strength. “Shut up, stop talking”, Alex bites out.
Once they’re in the room, away from the crowd, onlookers, and the noise, they stare at each other in a moment that feels eternal. Alex searches Henry’s eyes. He looks utterly lost, almost pained. Alex can hardly stand it, and he steps forward towards his destiny.
And then it happens.
It’s funny - how time slows down against the backdrop of something monumental. One moment, Alex can feel himself moving towards Henry with purpose. He can almost step outside of his own body and watch it happen—an all-encompassing kiss.
Except, that’s not what happens.
He has a split-minute vision of what it would be like if it did. Immediate, full of heat. He can see himself pushing Henry up against the wall, legs wrapped around him, their mouths crashing into each other.
But that is not what happens.
Instead, there’s what can only be described as a supersonic boom —an explosion crashes all around them with deafening intensity. Multiple, smaller explosions follow it in the distance. Henry and Alex fall immediately onto the ground, and Alex feels Henry’s weight on him. He thinks about how familiar this all is. For a second, he is reminded that it was only a few months ago that they found themselves in a similar dogpile in a storage closet at the children’s hospital. It’s where they moved past their misunderstanding. Alex has a feeling, a ridiculous thought, that maybe in another timeline - this moment could be just as significant.
But it’s not.
This time, he feels the ground beneath them shake, tremors rippling repeatedly like cascading waves. He feels himself screaming. But he can’t hear anything.
The lights flicker overhead.
Lightning breaks all around them.
And everything goes black.