Chapter Text
One
Philip always loved flying as a child. He loved when they would go on a royal tour and he would get to fly with his parents, or when his father would be filming something abroad and they would all go and visit if it was during the school holidays. He didn’t know at the time that his parents had defied his grandmother’s rule that direct descendants shouldn’t fly together; that they would rather keep the family together over the monarchy – if they all went down, they would go down together. He loved how his father would take him to the local airfield and sit and listen to him talk about planes, and how, when he was fourteen, he got to fly one for himself for the first time and found a sense of freedom and release in soaring in the sky above the clouds. It was the only time he’s ever felt that weightless, that unencumbered. He’s never found anything like it since. He doesn’t get to do it very often now.
His shoes clack against the floor as he walks. It’s late afternoon, the end of a long day of meetings about land holdings and finances, and now he has to sit through another one about Henry and his damned indecision and wavering on what he wants to do with his life. As though that’s a thing they get to think about, as though anyone has ever thought to ask Philip what he might want to do. Philip has never been asked what he wants in his bloody life. But this is it, that’s the life they have. He doesn’t see why Henry should be any different; why Henry thinks his own whims and fancies should take priority over the needs of a country and the duties of their birthright.
It’s absurd, really, that his brother thinks he can upend centuries of historical tradition because he doesn’t want to join the military. It’s how it is, how it always has been; it’s what they do. Upholding tradition and setting an example is the whole bloody point of them.
His parents always indulged Henry too much. Both of his siblings, really. Both Henry and Beatrice had turned out to be too easily ruled by their emotions, too easily led into indulgent fantasies about wants and desires, encouraged to do things they liked and were good at, rather than developing practical skills for the life they have to lead. What bloody use is it that Henry can play a concerto or tie a perfect reef knot when he has no idea about the spiralling cost of the renovations to Highgrove, or the fact that he’s going to have to start taking on more duties soon because their bloody aunt can’t keep her opinions to herself whenever someone puts a television camera in her face. He’d like to lay the blame at the feet of his father for it, really. It would be easy to foist it all onto a dead man who can’t fight back, but he knows that in reality his mother is just as much to blame. She’s just like them: emotional.
Philip isn’t though. He’s the outlier in a family full of people who are so damned determined to change everything, to be the first to do something, like there’s anything actually wrong with how things are in the first place. One can’t complain about being a Prince, he thinks, not when other people have real problems. Despite what Henry thinks, being a Prince is not actually a problem.
He enters the room with a sigh. His own equerry, Alistair Walton, a tall silver-haired man with round glasses and a sharp nose, rises to his feet as he enters.
‘Sir,’ he says.
‘Evening, Walton.’
‘Srivastava is on his way with His Royal Highness Prince Henry, Sir.’
Philip nods, sinking down into the chair. ‘I think you can leave us for this one. I’ll want to head back to Anmer tonight. Can you arrange the car, and let Martha know I’ll be back late?’
He nods sharply. ‘Of course, Sir,’ he says, and as he opens the door to leave, Henry is standing on the other side, hand halfway to the door to knock, looking like a startled lemur.
They stand there for a while at an impasse – Alistair on one side of the doorway, Henry and Srivastava on the other.
‘Your Highness,’ Alistair says at last, stepping to the side so that Henry can enter the room. Srivastava moves with him. He pauses, and Philip’s eyes sweep over Srivastava, in immaculately pressed Tom Ford, standing at Henry’s side like some sort of guard dog.
He’s never understood the two of them and the strange little team they make. A man in his forties so fiercely protective of someone half his age. It shouldn’t surprise him though. Henry is surrounded by people who coddle him. He always has been. Shaan, Beatrice, his parents. They’ve made him soft. There’s no place for soft in their world though. Their father was the worst for it; always so insistent on encouraging Henry in his artistic pursuits, letting him spend his days reading and playing the piano, encouraging him to do a bloody literature degree as though that’s of any use to anyone. Shaan had been his father’s equerry’s assistant. Then, after Arthur died and his equerry decided to retire, Shaan had been reassigned to Henry, and has barely left his side since. He can’t work out their relationship to one another. It’s not that of a boss and an employee, like with him and Alistair. There’s something more personal, almost fond, in the bond between them. It’s inappropriate, really. Entirely unprofessional.
Eventually, after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, they take their seats, Henry and Srivastava on one side of the table and Philip on the other. Srivastava pulls out a file and sets it on the table.
‘Right,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Your Highness, you requested this meeting to discuss Prince Henry’s future plans,’ he says to Philip.
Philip sighs. ‘Yes, specifically, when you’re going to enlist, Henry,’ he says with a low sigh, leaning across the table and staring at his brother. ‘You’ve had quite long enough of this gap year nonsense.’
Henry stiffens in his seat and then clears his throat quietly and says, ‘I’d rather not follow the traditional path.’
There’s something different to the edge of his voice. It’s quiet but resolved, rehearsed almost, but Philip presses on. He’s heard all of this before, the fact that Henry doesn’t want to join the military, as if Philip gives a flying fuck about what Henry wants. He’s twenty-three. He’s got no idea what he wants. When Philip was twenty-three, he thought he was going to marry his university girlfriend. Then, he’d been shown that it was an entirely unsuitable match and he’d dealt with it. He hadn’t gotten what he wanted, but he’d moved on because that’s the life they have. ‘There’s only so long you can spend on a gap year doing nothing of consequence before people start to talk about what exactly our bloody purpose is, Henry. We have to give some impression that we’re actually giving back to people, for Christ’s sake; being useful.’
Henry lets out a huff like a petulant toddler and sticks out his chin. He looks like their mother when he does that. ‘Well, I hardly think I’d be useful to anyone in the military.’
‘Oh for God’s sake Henry, it’s not that difficult!’ he exclaims. ‘You are a member of the Royal Family, and you need to bloody well act like it. Why are you so goddamned intent on disrespecting the traditions of men in this family?’
Henry opens his mouth and Philip can practically hear the eye-roll in his voice despite the fact that his face doesn’t make the movement. The words fall from his lips easily, there’s not even a beat before he says it: ‘Because I’m not like the rest of the men of this family, beginning with the fact that I am very deeply gay, Philip.’
Shaan’s pen slides from his fingers. There’s a high pitched ringing noise in the space between Philip’s ears where he’s fairly certain his brain usually lives. Philip watches Henry’s eyes widen as he realises that he’s spoken aloud. Shaan’s eyes flicker to him, then Henry’s flicker to Shaan. Henry’s mouth falls open, then shut again. A muscle twitches in Philip’s jaw.
‘I— I—’ Henry’s blue eyes are wide and startled, just like when they were small and they would watch one of their father’s films. Henry would curl into Arthur’s side at the loud noises, watching him running from danger at every turn, and Philip would reassure him that it wasn’t real. He can’t do that now. Henry opening his damned mouth has made this entire thing very real.
The thing is, this isn’t news. He already bloody knew that, of course he did. He remembers being Henry’s age now, being hauled into his grandmother’s study just days after their father died, and told that he was the man of the family now. He remembers her shrewd gaze across the table when she’d said that he would need to keep an eye on Beatrice and ‘her little problem’, and Henry and ‘his… proclivities’.
He hadn’t understood then what she had meant. It was only months later that he’d begun to understand.
Henry hadn’t exactly been subtle during his years at Oxford. He’d been reckless. It – the men threatening to talk – had always gone away quietly with enough threats about the power and influence of the Crown and a nice job lined up at Goldman Sachs thanks to one of Philip’s mates from uni. Henry had never known. But there were times when things had been so close to falling apart completely, times when Henry had been so bloody stupid that it was like he almost wanted to get caught.
But he’d never expected Henry – always so meek and subservient in his presence – to blurt it out, to admit to it so freely.
It’s not as though Philip has a problem with people who are gay. He has plenty of friends who are, it’s just that Henry can't be. It’s a lifestyle that’s wholly incompatible with their entire fucking purpose.
The muscle in his jaw is still twitching.
It’s absurd. Henry has a duty. They don’t get to pander to things like love and things that they want. Life isn’t one of their father’s films.
Philip rises from his chair and begins to pace, and words fall out of his mouth. He doesn’t even know what they are, or if they make any sense. There’s something about respecting their role in history and duty, about appearances and legacy.
He doesn’t understand what Henry thinks is going to happen here.
‘I’m—’ Henry starts to say.
‘Henry, be quiet,’ Philip says, cutting him off. Maybe, if Henry doesn’t say it again they can just forget all about this. They can just go back to how things have always been and Philip won’t have to be the bad guy yet again.
‘I’m gay, Philip,’ Henry says, his voice low and resolute, despite the way it wavers. ‘I’m fed up with hiding.’
‘What do you want, Henry? A medal? Congratulations. For God’s sake, what do you think is going to happen now? That you’ll be able to skip off into some bloody rainbow sunset with a man ? Marry him at Westminster Abbey when the church you’re in line to be head of won’t even allow it, hmm? Have children who aren’t in line for the fucking throne? Christ, Henry if you think this makes the slightest bit of difference to anything then you’re even more bloody naïve than I thought you were.’
There’s something hot coursing through his veins, a restless itching under his skin. How can Henry possibly be so naïve? It’s not that he doesn’t want his brother to be happy. Philip may not understand his brother a lot of the time, but he’s not a monster. Of course he wants him to be happy. Philip is perfectly aware of the fact that Henry has his dalliances with men, that there is probably a stack of NDAs that Srivastava has locked away somewhere. He just doesn’t understand why that can’t be enough, why he always has to want more. If Henry thinks he’s going to come out of this meeting with permission to have a boyfriend of all things, then he’s daydreaming. Henry knows what this life is. They all do.
‘I have to go,’ Philip says abruptly. He can’t stay there any longer. He can’t be in a room that feels like it’s shrinking, with the walls closing in on him. He can’t be there with Henry looking at him with wide, terrified eyes and Srivastava’s disappointed face staring back at him as though he’s the bad guy here, when all he’s ever done is try to protect his siblings from themselves.
First Beatrice and now Henry. He’d thought Henry at least was smart enough to realise there are just some things they can’t do. Some things they can’t be.
The drive home to Anmer is silent. He barely even notices who is driving, but whoever it is thankfully doesn’t try to engage him in a conversation. His thoughts are swimming, a constant freeze frame of Henry’s startled face and the words ‘deeply gay’ on repeat.
By the time the tires are crunching over the gravel of the driveway, Philip is exhausted. He slams the car door behind him and heads inside, straight for the drawing room and the drinks cabinet.
Martha finds him in there, pouring three fingers’ worth of whiskey into a tumbler. ‘Oh, it is you,’ she says. ‘I thought you weren’t going to be back until late. I’ve not asked for anything for supper for you.’ Her blonde hair is pulled into a bun, soft tendrils falling around her face. ‘Everything alright?’
Philip takes a large gulp of whiskey. ‘Henry is gay.’
Martha blinks. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Well that’s hardly news, is it?’
Philip looks at her. ‘He told me he’s gay. Sat in the middle of a bloody meeting about when he’s going to get off his arse and do something with his life, and he just… blurted it out.’
‘Oh.’
‘And suddenly I’m the bad guy here because I didn’t fall at his feet and roll out a bloody rainbow carpet for him.’ Martha is silent. ‘It doesn’t change anything. It’s not… it’s just not possible.’
Martha nods. ‘Is he seeing someone?’
‘Christ if I know. He better be being bloody careful about it if he is— oh, don’t look at me like that.’
‘What?’
‘Like you’re… I don't know, disappointed in me or something.’
‘I’m not looking at you like anything, but well, it’s not that much of a surprise, is it? Perhaps there’s a reason he said it now. Maybe he’s seeing someone. I doubt he’s having a tremendously fun time of things if he is.’
Philip laughs darkly. ‘I think Henry has more than enough fun, from what I’ve heard.’
Martha stares at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘I’m just saying that even if Henry is seeing someone, he’s doing it under a mountain of paperwork and knowing he can never actually have anything real,’ she says softly. ‘It’s hardly the easiest beginning for a relationship.’
Philip sighs. ‘That’s the life we have, he knows that. If he wants to pursue this—’
He looks up at her, sees the slight hint of disappointment in her eyes. He can’t understand her sometimes. Philip knows she’s pragmatic. She married him after all; neither of them are naïve enough to think it was true love or any of that tosh.
Martha is ambitious and from a respectable family. Why would she need a job as an auction buyer at Sotheby's when she could be the Queen? There’s no better match than a Prince. They’d been dating for two years when his grandmother had looked at him across the table and asked him when he was going to get on with things. He hadn’t thought about it until then. He liked Martha and they enjoyed each other’s company. She was respectable and appropriate – a fitting future Queen – why wouldn’t they get married? She knew it wasn’t a fairytale romance too; it was, as these things always are, a pragmatic decision. He does love her now though, and he knows she feels the same. It was hardly love at first sight, but Philip thinks it doesn’t need to be. Love isn’t something that just happens to you, it’s something you work at. He’s worked at it, he doesn’t see why Henry couldn’t find someone he could reach some sort of mutually agreeable solution with.
Then, though, there are times where Martha is softer. Where she looks at Philip like she’s disappointed that he doesn’t react in the way she wants or expects him to, as though she wants him to be softer as well. He can’t do that though. Nothing good comes from being soft. It gets you into situations like their mother’s, barely able to leave her bed because their father is gone; like Beatrice’s, spending months of her life coked off her face. Like Henry’s.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he says again, with a heavy sigh. He gets enough of that look from Beatrice, from Henry. He doesn’t need it from her as well. ‘He’s soft. He’s weak – he lets his feelings and his fancies control him. He needs to grow a thicker skin.’
Martha stares back at him and shakes her head. She lets out a heavy sigh.
‘Having feelings, having things you want, that doesn’t make you weak, Philip.’ She blinks, and he watches something he can’t even begin to decipher flicker over her features before they harden again. ‘It makes you human.’