Chapter Text
Connor hates visiting the palace. It’s a recent development, honestly, but it doesn’t mean that his stomach sours any less as his driver turns onto the narrow approach, framed on either side by the high, pale walls of the entrance courtyard. Gravel crunches loudly beneath the wheels.
As a young child, Connor had always looked upon the palace’s decorated ceilings and endless expanses of corridors with wide-eyed interest. It was his house, and yet there were places where he was forbidden to go, lush chambers and state rooms that stayed locked up all year round. In books, he would read about children finding hiding places under the stairs, or secreting sticky jars of jam out of the pantry and up to their rooms in the dead of night.
He wondered what it would be like to hide himself away under the Grand Staircase, or to steal midnight snacks from their warren of kitchens and storerooms, occupied around the clock by one of their twelve staff.
Connor spoke of it to his older brother, Niles, just once. He was ten, perhaps, or eleven, teetering on that fine line between childish acceptance of their situation and the adult understanding that there was no possible way to escape it. “It doesn’t seem normal,” Connor had said, tentative with the anticipation of Niles’ disapproval. “The way we live.”
Niles was a teenager, elegant and composed even then. He had regarded Connor over the top of the daily newspaper - a future king must keep abreast of all global events. “We’re not normal, Connor. Remember that.”
Now an adult, a year past his thirtieth birthday, Connor only visits the palace when it is absolutely necessary. He’d escaped its clutches in his eighteenth year, fleeing to the arms of a university that would equip him with two degrees and numerous life skills he would never be called upon to use in his role as crowned prince. It was a choice on Connor’s behalf - one taken scandalously without his mother’s approval - just rebellious enough to make him look modern, but not so outlandish that it would sully his public image in any kind of irreparable way. Ever the balance, ever the tightrope walk.
Today, Niles has called him to the palace to ask for a favour. Connor imagines the kind of favours that would be traded between a normal pair of brothers - help with painting a house front, maybe, minding the children for an afternoon. Not state visits and day-long liaisons with the media.
All the same, duty calls. Isn’t that what they say?
As king, Niles has been a true divisor of public opinion. After their father’s death - sudden and deeply upsetting - there were those who questioned whether someone as young and inexperienced as him would be able to lead a country, navigating the fineries of such a historic institution as the monarchy. Ten years into his reign, there’s a mainstay of conservative society who continue to bandy about these same questions, even though Niles has proven himself, time and time over, as a more than competent successor.
Their mother still lives in the palace. Amanda Stern - maiden name unimportant, an unnecessary baggage discarded the second she married into a royal house - is their father’s second wife, after he became a young widower with two children. They have always called her Mother, and she is the only maternal figure that Connor can remember. She’s away on state business at the moment, their family’s face at one of the Japanese ambassador’s famous biannual balls. Thank goodness. Connor loves her dearly, but rather like a soldier might love the broad, decorated blade of his longsword. Preparing for a conversation with her is like preparing for battle.
He exits the car and is led through the familiar, loathsome corridors to the East Wing. It’s the same jigsaw puzzle of rooms where he and Niles used to play and sleep as children, but it is much changed with Connor’s absence and Niles’ ascension to the throne. His brother collects, rather like some regal magpie, and the walls are lined with sculptures and inventions and other pieces of art from all over the world.
Connor is greeted by a new canvas which stretches almost floor to ceiling: three wide blocks of yellow in differing shades, a stripe of bright blue resting between them like the sea glowing on the horizon. It makes Connor feel uneasy, as if something is approaching him, growing beneath the cracks in the paint. He swallows the feeling down and raps sharply on the white door to the right of the canvas.
His brother’s voice sounds from inside, clear and sharp. “Enter.”
Always a professional, even when there’s really no need to be.
“Niles, you know it’s me,” Connor says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “You can drop the act.”
His brother is standing before three tall mirrors, critically surveying his own reflection from every angle as their tailor circles him, holding up different swathes of fabric. Niles has taken to wearing his hair in a shorter style these days, and the clipped look makes him appear older, more severe. He doesn’t look so much like Connor anymore. He looks like their father.
“You can leave us now, Chloe, thank you. Use those measurements for the grey satin and we’ll meet again next week.” Niles waves one of his hands and the tailor bows her head, retreating past Connor and through the open door behind him.
Niles smooths his hands on his trousers, giving himself a final look in the mirror. Connor knows he’s about to be berated before they’ve said more than ten words to each other.
“There is no act, Connor, you have to understand that.” Niles ushers him over to a small table by the window, where a tea set has been laid out. Steam curls from the spout of the teapot and into the air. “It’s who I am. It’s who you are.”
Connor doesn’t want to engage in this right now, all this talk of monarchy and duty and identity - it goes round and round in circles and they never come to any sensible or friendly conclusion. He’s tired, and the promise of Niles’ imminent proposition hangs heavy and conspicuous above their heads.
“I’m not sure I like your new painting,” he comments, as a means of diversion.
Niles isn’t stupid, and Connor’s sudden change of subject earns him a subtlely quirked eyebrow.
“It’s a Rothko.”
Connor shrugs, pouring some tea into each of their cups. “Why did you invite me here, Niles? I know it wasn’t to critique your artwork.”
Niles pauses as he adds milk to Connor’s mug, leaving his own untouched. The black tea shines a deep, honeyed amber in a wide beam of sunlight. It’s a familiar ritual, but it doesn’t serve to assuage any of Connor’s anxieties.
“I’d like you to go to the United States and meet with the president.”
Neither brother has ever been one to sugarcoat their words where the other is involved, but still, Connor is unsure whether he’s understood correctly. His brow furrows.
“Me?”
“You.”
“Why?” That’s the real uncertainty, after all, why Niles would send him on such an important and undoubtedly high profile detail, rather than go himself. “Why aren’t you going?”
Niles takes a sip of his tea, although it’s too hot to drink just yet. He’s buying time.
“The President visited London last month. He engaged in numerous talks with our Prime Minister.”
“I read the papers, Niles,” Connor says. “Just the same as you.”
Niles continues without missing a beat. “There are rumours abound that the President harbours some… anti-monarchist sensibilities, shall we say. That he sees us as a threat to Western democracy.”
Connor bristles at the suggestion. Yes, he has more than his fair share of internal conflict where his family institution is involved, but he doesn’t see it as the place of some outspoken Texan to publicly air his views on the subject. “It’s not his place to harbour such feelings.”
“Well, quite. But he does it all the same. And well within earshot of the Prime Minister, I don’t doubt.”
“Are you worried?” Connor asks the question, even though he doesn’t think it’s one to which Niles will give him an honest answer.
“Not particularly.” Niles shrugs, raising his cup to his lips once more. “But he’s popular, Connor; his polls are stronger than any president’s we’ve seen in a long time. He turned his home state a resounding blue for the first time in sixty years. Everyone will want to be on his good side.”
“Including us?”
Niles nods. “Especially us.” His cup rattles onto its saucer.
“And why aren’t you going?” Connor asks, for the second time.
“It’s no secret that you’re more popular with the public - the modern rebel prince. You’ll make a better impression than the ice king.” He’s harkening back to old newspaper headlines, printed over and over in the first few years of his reign. “A state visit will be organised, if you agree.”
Connor nods slowly. His understanding is beginning to fall into place.
“Do I have any choice?”
“You know you do,” Niles replies, and his tone clarifies that Connor, in fact, has absolutely no say in the matter whatsoever. He doesn’t know whether to be angry with his brother or not. Indifference and an aching, weary apathy settles itself between his shoulder blades.
“Fine.” Connor runs one finger absently over the rim of his teacup. In the flowerbeds below them, a gardener is clipping the deadheads off their mother’s prize roses. “I’ll do it.”
“Take some charm to the White House,” Niles says, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re in cold in the sunlight. “Show President Anderson that we aren’t as bad as he thinks us to be.”
“I’ll do my best, Niles.”
Connor sleeps poorly for the next week, plagued by thoughts of being his family’s bright and shining representative in the face of a thundery republic.
The meeting is scheduled for the second week in July, post-independence celebrations, in the hopes that American spirits would be suitably high. It’s somewhat unusual for a member of the royal family to travel without company - be it a royal consort or other chaperone - but Connor has never marketed himself as a particularly usual member of the monarchy. He takes only a small security corps with him on the flight over the wild face of the Atlantic.
They touch down on the tarmac just after midday, a humid afternoon. According to their pilot it’s the hottest of the year so far. The DC skyline shimmers like a mirage, pulled white and sharp from the depths of the Potomac.
Connor has visited the city several times before, but always in the shadow of his brother or his mother, and never to shake hands with a president who holds such forthright opinions on the monarchy. He’s being trusted to do well. The thought makes him proud and anxious in absolutely equal measure.
He hasn’t been invited to any kind of official audience with the President. Instead there is to be a state dinner held in the White House - a cascade of chairmen and governors and mayors, hands to be shaken and names to be remembered. A baptism by fire.
Connor has done his research on the President, of course. He might resent the weight of his position sometimes, but he knows as well as anyone that going into a meeting like this without preparing properly is rather like striding armourless into battle. Foolhardy, conceited, and liable to get you killed.
So he studies up. Reads all the articles he can find on Henry “Hank” Anderson, born fifty-four years ago in Houston, Texas. Raised by army stock, and an active Lieutenant in the forces until injury forced him into politics. Divorced a decade ago, and never remarried. One son, a scruffy, curly-haired preteen whose patronage would likely be disputed were it not for his striking resemblance to the President himself.
His first year in office has been strong, no doubt. One of the articles that Connor had read explained how a country in turmoil was united beneath the wide spread of his hand. Outspoken on his liberal views: blue enough. Red-blooded, headstrong and American: red enough. A fine balance to strike, Connor thinks. Perhaps they might have something in common.
Connor is intrigued. He’d scrolled through numerous image galleries, watched a few speeches, one delivered right on the sunny green lawn outside the facade of the White House. Dependable, solid, with a clear, level gaze, Connor can’t help but think that America’s trust in this man has been well-placed.
They finally meet a day after Connor’s arrival, and it is in a capacity so staid and official that the moment glistens around the edges like a well-cut diamond. Lines of people in their finery, all ready to be introduced to one another, all ready to sit in the White House’s premiere dining room and talk business. All prepared to drink copious glasses of champagne and pretend that it's not affecting them in the slightest.
The advisor introducing him keeps it simple, sparing everyone Connor’s slew of inherited, ridiculous names. He’s grateful for that.
“Prince Connor. President Hank Anderson.”
President Hank Anderson.
A hand, held out for Connor to shake. The broad, expert palm that served to unite a country. He’s taller than Connor expected, and rather than the black tie tuxedo that Connor knows is typical of these sorts of events, he’s wearing a navy suit. A man of the people, then. The material has a deep lustre in the golden light of the room, narrow, shining bands that reflect back in the blue of his eyes.
He’s more handsome than Connor had expected, too - clear eyes beneath a strong brow, his silver hair and beard trimmed close and sharp. The thought flashes through his mind before he has a chance to stop it.
The President takes Connor’s hand. “Your Majesty.”
Connor bristles.
“My brother is the king,” he replies, low and curt. “You can refer to me as Your Highness.”
There’s a pause. Tension crackles between them, an electric wire singing in the wind. Conversations around them begin to falter, the other dignitaries noticing the sudden silence and lack of innocuous small talk flourishing between the pair of them.
Connor expects the President to apologise, to bow his head modestly and correct his indiscretion. But he doesn’t. He laughs. Laughs. Bright and uproarious, as if Connor has told him the funniest joke that he’s heard in a long time.
“I can’t get used to all these royal titles,” he comments, directing the words out to the wider room as much as towards Connor. “Knew I’d do something wrong.” There a smattering of laughter, a few indulgent smiles from the officials gathered around them. Connor feels as if he’s been pushed onto the back foot.
“It’s quite alright.” Connor’s brow knits tightly, and he does his best to smooth his expression out into something pleasant and inoffensive. Regardless of his own feelings towards his title, he can’t help but be surprised by the President’s blasé attitude.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”
“Likewise, Mr President,” Connor replies. He’s still reserving judgement about whether that statement is true or not.
The President moves onto the next group of people, leaving Connor to politely discuss the merits of transatlantic travel with a guest from France. He finds himself half-watching the President as he moves around the room: being introduced and reintroduced, making conversation, laughing freely and loudly. He’s unlike any leader that Connor has ever met - he’s brash and a little wild, yes, but Connor wonders if that’s not why the people like him so much.
As the guest of honour and the host, Connor and President Anderson are seated next to each other at dinner. The fact of this makes something wheel nervously in Connor’s stomach, tight coils of rope passing over and under one another. In his life, he’s rubbed shoulders with countless dignitaries, made small talk with bureaucrats and representatives from all around the world. He knows what makes a conversation tense and what makes it agreeable - he’s had that drummed into him from day one, his mother’s finger pressing in at the base of his neck.
Generally, other members of his circle follow these rules alongside him. It makes things neat and bland and pleasant, exactly as they’re supposed to be. President Anderson makes him uneasy. Connor feels like he might not adhere as strictly to the unspoken code, flowing like a layline beneath the feet of every person in the room.
The tables are dressed extravagantly, shiny white china resting atop decorative plates with wide, gold-patterned rims. They’re beautiful in a way that Connor is not used to, flat and simple, rather different to the ornate and intricate tableware that they keep in the palace dining rooms.
“This is lovely china, Mr President,” Connor comments. A compliment, inoffensive and sweet. Sure to keep the pair of them on a happy, level footing.
President Anderson tilts his head to one side, regarding Connor with that earnest, level gaze. He has broad, high cheekbones, and the way he watches Connor makes him feel like he’s being examined beneath a very strong interrogation lamp.
“You gotta call me Hank, really,” he says.
“Hank?” Connor had read the name enough times in print, but it feels strange and unwieldy in his mouth. No one has ever asked him to discard their title in favour of a more casual moniker. It’s a strange request. “I think that’s a little unorthodox.”
The President (Hank? Hank.) leans in towards him. Closely seated as they are at the long table, his knee jostles against Connor’s own. Connor considers pulling away, reaching out and drawing that professional distance taut between them again.
He considers it. He doesn’t do it.
“You really want me to call you Your Highness all evening?” Hank mutters, his words low and confidential. He’s so close that Connor can see the darts of silver in his tie, flickering like an expensive shoal of fish.
“Tradition dictates that you should.”
Hank laughs, a short, rough sound of surprise.
“Uh huh, tradition. And what about you, Your Highness? What do you dictate?”
Connor feels that interrogation lamp flicker even brighter. What does he think? He tries to remember the last time someone asked him expressly for his opinion on a matter, especially someone who looked so much like they genuinely cared what he had to say in response.
In all honesty, he’s never really cared for the formal maze of titles that people are required to navigate upon meeting his family. As long as they are courteous to one another, what does it matter, at the end of the day? He’s said this to Niles once or twice before, but every time he’s been unceremoniously shot down for his efforts.
So what about now? Is it best to just leave it, gloss over the comment and resume his appraisal of the china? Or should he really speak his mind? He thinks about the positive impression that he’s supposed to be making; he thinks about what his mother and brother would tell him to do.
“I think in this scenario,” he says, placing his words carefully, as if he’s laying them along a balance that is liable to tip, “you should refer to me as Your Highness.”
“Of course.” Hank nods, his voice softened, as if Connor has disappointed him in some way. “Your Highness.”
A quiet moment passes between them. Hank turns to talk to the woman seated on his right, blonde and wide-eyed, with a whole crown of stars nestled into her hair.
As the first dish is laid out before them - dark spirals of vegetables and tuna fish sliced thinner than a fingernail - Hank looks back towards Connor.
“I am sorry about that back there,” he says, jerking his head towards the entrance where they had first been introduced. “All the mix up with the titles; I hope I didn’t embarrass you, it’s just-” He punctuates his words with a loose shrug. “Not many monarchies left these days.”
“It’s quite alright,” Connor replies.
“That’s what you said before,” Hank says, and he smiles, showing the little gap between his two front teeth.
“Is it?”
“It is.”
The rest of the dinner passes in a blur - glasses of champagne and plate after delicately decorated plate, conversation from all angles about all manner of different things. By the end of the evening, even though they are seated beside one another, Hank and Connor have barely traded another word. Connor feels the other man’s presence at his shoulder like a dark-edged shadow, powerful and heavy.
For his few days stateside, Connor is staying in the President’s guest house. The words ‘guest house’ conjure images of pretty seaside cottages, drafty windows and low ceilings. The President’s guest house ticks absolutely none of these boxes. It’s a white fronted building on a broad plaza across the road from the executive residence, sleek and modern, with high, dark gates. The rooms are filled with art, priceless relics standing in every spare space. Presidents from across the years stare down at Connor from the walls, sleek oils and tiny, experimental sketches in thick glass frames. He falls asleep that night in slippery Egyptian cotton, rose coloured. He thinks of his brother, of his rooms filled with sculptures and great unnerving canvases. He thinks of his mother, and whether he has conducted himself properly this evening, whether he has behaved in a way that she would approve of.
And he thinks of the President. Hank, he’d said. That low voice, and how he’d dressed for dinner in a sleek business suit, not a tuxedo. How that hadn’t even mattered, really. He’d held the room steady nonetheless.
The next morning, Connor awakes to the breakfast he requested the previous day and a notice that the President is going to join him in the guest house at his earliest convenience.
“Do you know what the meeting will be about?” Connor asks the aide who brings him the message. The thought of a private audience with Hank Anderson sets him instantly on edge, but he knows that his voice comes off clear, self-assured, haughty. He’s hidden his nerves enough times to know when he’s been successful in doing so.
The man bows his head, addressing the patch of carpet between his highly polished shoes. “I’m afraid not, Your Highness.”
“Fine.”
“Only...” The aide’s gaze flickers up, and Connor can see that he is more of a boy than a man, surely five years Connor’s junior. His eyes are a watery green. “Mr President often likes to meet his guests of honour privately. After the state dinners. Likes to get to know them better, I think.” And then, as an afterthought, “Your Highness.”
He’s probably spoken out of turn, but Connor is grateful for it.
“Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Uh, Jerry. Sir - Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Jerry,” he replies. He makes a mental note to put in a good word for the boy, shaking like a leaf in the presence of royalty. “I’ll meet the President at noon.”
So the meeting is set. Hank has specified the front drawing room of the guest house, a light and airy space with white walls and high ceilings that remind Connor of home. The furniture suite is upholstered in a way that he’s sure his mother would like very much: white florals and deep coral. What that says about the taste of the previous guardian of the house, he’s not sure.
The President arrives absolutely on time - perhaps not such an unfaltering man of the people in that aspect - and with an entire entourage in tow. Connor knows exactly what it’s like to need a band of people alongside you to help you cross the street. Something like sympathy flurries in his stomach as he watches them through the wide bay window, approaching the house.
Hank is wearing a grey suit today, over a white shirt paired with a sleek blue tie. His party colour. He commands this space in a different way than the night before - there’s less of that bold, high-shine extravagance, less of that loud laugh. He exudes a quiet, expert calm.
Connor stands when Hank enters the drawing room and is greeted with a firm handshake. Hank’s fingers wrap almost entirely around Connor’s own.
Hank addresses the group of aides and advisors standing in the hallway behind him: “You can leave us now, thank you.” There’s a quick, quiet flurry of nods and Yes, Mr Presidents, and the white door closes on them.
They’re alone. Traffic passes by on the street outside, and Connor can hear voices and footsteps elsewhere in the house, but inside the room is a quiet, light bubble: as if they are the only two people left in the world.
“Shall we sit?” Connor asks, and Hank nods.
Connor expects him to take the seat opposite, separating the two of them with the glass coffee table, keeping a professional distance. Instead he sits in the armchair next to Connor’s own, his body turned in Connor’s direction as if they are old friends meeting for a chat in a downtown coffee shop.
Connor is sure he should be affronted by the familiarity. What he actually feels is reassured, comforted and, despite his best judgement, intrigued. Some part of him wants to get to know the Hank Anderson that lies beneath the title President.
“Hope my humble guest house met your needs, Your Highness,” Hank says, grinning. They both know that it’s far from humble.
Connor pauses, a polite remark ready on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it down.
“I think in this situation,” Connor starts, his voice calm and deliberate, “it would be appropriate for you to call me Connor.”
Hank’s smile softens, the edge of his mouth turning an upward curve.
“Well then, Connor it is.”
On his tongue, Connor’s name sounds exotic and unfamiliar - long drawn out vowels, a lazy, liquid drawl at the edges. He’s not sure if he approves of how it sounds. He knows he’d like to hear it again.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long.
“So, Connor.” Hank pauses, letting Connor’s name hang in the air longer than is necessary. “Why are you here?” His tone is a touch brusque, but beneath that rests some genuine curiosity - as if he truly can’t fathom why Connor might want to offer the proverbial olive branch and visit him.
“I’m sorry?”
“Why are you here?” Hank repeats. “I know I haven’t been very…” He waves a hand loosely, looking for the right word. “Complimentary about the monarchy.”
Connor shakes his head, feeling his shoulders stiffen. That was Niles’ whole reasoning behind the visit, after all, to keep their institution safe in the eyes of those who might be turned against them. As much as he often despises his position, his love and sympathy for his brother outweighs all of that.
“No, Mr President, you haven’t. I’m here to show you that we’re not all... what was it you said?” Connor recalls the interviews he read on the plane ride over here, whilst he was doing his utmost to armour himself against Hank’s offenses. “We’re not all born with silver spoons stuck in our... and I think the quotation stops there, doesn’t it?”
Hank laughs - tips his head right back and laughs! - at the memory of his previous indelicacies. It’s as if he’s not ashamed of them, as if he doesn’t worry about the consequences that might befall him if he speaks his mind. Connor can’t help but find the whole thing admirable.
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“Well, go on then, prove me wrong,” Hank crosses his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. “Tell me about yourself.”
Connor falters a moment before deciding on the usual spiel: details of his various peerages, weekend pursuits, country homes. Clearly, Hank’s not convinced, because he watches Connor with a hard, narrowed expression. A small spark of panic flares in his chest. He can’t be the right person to convince the president of the true humanity of the monarchy; he’s going to send all of them to hell in a fiery coup d’etat.
Perhaps he’s being a touch dramatic. He stops speaking.
“What about your brother?” Hank asks, after a moment. “What’s he like?”
Connor wonders on the correctness of asking someone what the king of a country is “like”. He doesn’t really know what to say. How can he sum up the wild, glacial expanses of his brother’s personality in just a few words?
He has to settle in the end. “He’s an excellent king.”
Hank makes a derisive sound, and when he speaks, most of the joviality has seeped from his voice. “Lonely job though, right?”
That same panic crackles within Connor like a livewire. “It can be,” he says, carefully treading around the information that is not his own to share. He thinks of his brother: professional, duty-bound, and he suspects, as Hank has rightly predicted, lonely. “He’s very good at what he does.”
“And what about you? No princess?” Hank asks. “No one keeping you company in that golden palace?”
“I don’t live in the palace,” Connor says shortly. “And no, there’s no princess.”
Hank cocks an eyebrow, silently asking him to elaborate. Connor takes a breath, and with it - for what is there to lose - throws all his caution out on the wind.
“I’m gay.”
The words hover between them, wheel and turn in the bright air. Hank looks, in a very professional and politically appropriate way, like Connor has just punched him in the chest.
“It’s not exactly a secret,” Connor continues. He didn’t expect Hank to look quite so shocked.
“I didn’t know that,” Hank says. His voice is suddenly soft, as if Connor’s confession has taken a file to all the harder edges. In contrast, the expression on his face is tight, some controlled emotion rolling beneath the surface.
“It made national news a decade ago,” Connor explains, “just after Niles’ coronation. Mother worked hard to control the way it was released to the public, lest it draw the attention away from Niles. Honestly, I think he was glad to have some of the pressure taken off him for a while.”
Hank blinks once, twice, slowly. “A decade ago?”
“Give or take.”
It feels as though many, many more years have passed. Yet in the same vein, it seems as though only yesterday he was waking up to all the rumours about him plastered on the front page of the Times. Rumours that were absolutely true, of course, but the public didn’t know that yet. His mother had orchestrated the whole thing after that - steely and efficient - a press conference, a scripted confession, contracts signed left and right about what was and wasn’t allowed to be reported. It was a steady stream of information fed to the public, no crashing of an international scandal, the reputation of the monarchy handled like the most delicate crystal. Gentle hands, slow movements, and the public opinion of them remained intact.
Connor has never made any secret of his sexuality, and in recent years it has garnered him more popularity with the younger generation, those who view his family less favourably. Perhaps that was the angle he should have taken with Hank from the beginning: popular, modern, more human than the ice sculpture persona his brother portrays.
“My son was born then,” Hank says. He’s turned himself away from Connor again, his hands resting on his thighs. “Cole. He’ll be ten in September.”
Of course. Connor remembers something that he read alongside the pictures of Hank holding the hand of a child with the same slightly wonky, gap-toothed smile as him. “Congressman speaks out about child cured by life-saving new medicine; breakthrough for premature births.” No wonder he hadn’t been focusing on the carefully buried news from a monarchy an ocean away.
“Cole doesn’t live with you in the White House, does he?” Connor asks.
Hank shakes his head. “No. He lives with his mom in Houston. She thought it was better for him to grow up there.” Hank’s voice is flat at the mention of his ex-wife. “I guess I agree - Capitol’s no place for a kid.”
“So you live alone?” Connor knows what it’s like, and the thought of Hank all alone in the executive suite of the White House makes his chest tight.
“Just me and the dog.”
Connor’s mother has her corgis, fat little lapdogs that tumble at her feet and demand to be picked up when they deem their walks too long. Connor wonders what kind of dog Hank has. Something big and rangy, if pets are supposed to look like their owners.
“I like dogs. Are you really from Texas?” The thought has been in his mind since they first spoke the previous evening.
“Jeez.” Hank’s hand rubs a restless line on his thigh as he speaks. “I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions.”
“I think you’ve had your fair share.”
Hank laughs at that, not so raucous and free as before, but a chuckle in the back of his throat. He seems satisfied now that Connor has removed some of his mask of duty, shown interest, shown humanity. “Fair enough,” he says. “Houston, Texas - born and bred.”
“It doesn’t sound like it,” Connor replies. Clearly, over the years, Hank has worked to push out some of that Texas drawl. Now his accent is DC-ready, polished and professional, fit for speeches in capitals all over the world.
“Wait until you meet some of the Texan delegates.” Hank grins. “I’ll slip right back into it.”
It’s a promise of more visits. That has to be a good thing.
“I look forward to it,” Connor says.
The rest of their meeting passes in a similarly amicable way - no deep conversation about the fractured relationship between their two countries, between the differences in their two establishments, but simple small talk. Connor tells him about where he lives in London, Hank tells him about one of the dramas organising the food for the previous night’s dinner. Knowing Hank better now, Connor thinks that this is the line he should have taken in the first place.
And he’s a good man, Connor can see that much. He’s not brash and blustery as Connor had originally thought; he’s down to earth, intelligent, kind.
Connor wonders what Hank thinks of him.
The door of the guest house closes behind the president an hour and a half later, and Connor is left to his own devices for the rest of the day before his flight home the next morning. He finds himself thinking it a shame that his brother hadn’t organised a longer visit. He finds himself eager to return.