Barnaby looked at his parents. His father, who had never once in his life said anything directly when an indirect reference could do. His mother, who could artfully convey her unfailing support through her opinion on an Australian. Both of them sitting at the table they’d eaten at every night for thirty years, telling him, in the only language they had, that communicated things through mentions of other people’s sons, and other people’s partners and acts of Parliament passed by dead kings, that they knew, and that they found it all acceptable, as long as he brought Lex into the fold carefully.
He put down his knife and fork. He pressed his napkin to his mouth, held it there for a moment, and set it beside his plate.
“I’ll ring Tarquin,” Barnaby said. “To congratulate him on the baby.”
His father nodded once. His mother smiled and reached for the salad bowl. “More potatoes, darling?”
“Yes,” Barnaby said. “Please,” and they went on with their night.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“It’s aubergine.”
Barnaby was holding his King’s Trust polo shirt up to the light in Lex’s kitchen, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, his arm extended as he squinted at the fabric. The logo sat on a background of royal blue that skewed fractionally towards purple, and Barnaby had clocked it from across the room before Lex had even finished his coffee.
“It’s blue, Barns.”
“It’s aubergine adjacent. Someone in procurement has made a catastrophic error with the Pantone reference, and nobody at the Palace had the moral courage to flag it.”
“Put the shirt on.”
Barnaby put the shirt on. It sat loose across his shoulders and caught at his waist where the cotton bunched above his belt, because King’s Trust polo shirts were not cut for men who were five-eleven and built like a riding crop. Lex’s fit properly, since Lex’s body was the shape that branded sportswear was designedfor, and the cotton stretched across his chest and biceps until the logo looked painted on.
They’d driven separately to the school, which was a farce. Barnaby had spent the night at Lex’s flat in Canary Wharf, where they’d ordered Thai food, watched two episodes of a Netflix dating show that Barnaby pretended not to enjoy, and then Barnaby had climbed into his lap on the sofa and ground against him until they’d both come in their joggers like teenagers.
The school was in Newham, a low-rise comprehensive with pebbledash walls and a car park that doubled as a basketball court. The gym was on the ground floor, a converted assembly hall with climbing bars bolted to one wall and motivational posters featuring athletes whose sponsorship deals had expired three years ago.
Lex had been here twice before. He’d run sessions with the Year Sevens and Eights, basic fitness circuits, some pad work with the older kids, a talk about discipline and goals that he’d written on the back of a receipt in the car park because his agent had told him to “just speak from the heart”. But Lex didn’t trust his heart not to say something that would get clipped out of context and posted on Twitter.
Today was high-stakes. The BBC cameras were here, two of them, discreet but present, with a producer named Sasha who’d already told Lex three times that they wanted “natural interactions” and then immediately repositioned him so the lighting favoured him better. Today there were thirty kids in the gym, aged eleven to fourteen, in PE kits and trainers that ranged from box-fresh Nikes to whatever had been cheapest at Sports Direct.
James had arrived first. He brought with him two protection officers, a private secretary, and an equerry. He swept in, wearing his King’s Trust polo and a pair of navy chinos and shook the headteacher’s hand warmly. The headteacher,a woman called Mrs Hausa, went pink and called him “Your Majesty” twice in the same sentence.
Just a few months ago he’d have stood in front of the king and wondered whether he was meant to bow, nod, or simply try very hard not to swear. Now he knew, because he’d been drilled on it by the most pedantic little aristocrat in London, that it wasYour Majestythe first time andsirevery time after, until you took your leave.
James had greeted Lex first. Given him the full treatment of a handshake, and intense eye-contact. Then Barnaby had walked in from the car park, and James had shaken his hand too, and then leaned in to murmur something that made the equerry step back three paces.
“So you’ve moved on to the cohabitation stage, Bash.”
It wasn’t a question. James’s mouth barely moved, his expression pleasant and neutral for anyone watching from across the corridor.
Barnaby’s spine went rigid. His chin came up, and two spots of colour appeared high on his cheekbones. “Why would you possibly think that?”
James pulled back. His hazel eyes were bright. “You smell like his soap. And there’s a musk underneath that’s distinctly Lex.” He adjusted the collar of Barnaby’s polo shirt with one finger. “Earthy. Warm. Testosterone-adjacent.”
“I am going to kill you,” Barnaby said, “and I will get away with it by revealing the emotional distress you’ve caused me over the years. My tale will be harrowing. American TV would pay me a fortune.”
“You’ve been threatening regicide since we were fifteen, Bash. I remain unalarmed.” James patted his shoulder and moved past him towards the gym, where thirty children were about to meet their King.
Barnaby turned to Lex. He made his eyes go soft, deliberately, the same way he did when he was about to ask Lex to suck his cock or to get up and turn off the lights because he didn’t want to leave the bed.
Lex smirked at how transparent he was. “I’m not going to kill the King for you, Barns.”
“Then what’s the use of you?” Barnaby huffed, and followed James down the corridor.
? ? ?
Lexran the session. This was his territory, the knowing settled into his body the way it did when he stepped into the ring. The gym was his corner. The kids were his audience. Barnaby and James were here as guests, and Lex felt the inversion every time James deferred to him on a question about the circuit layout or the warm-up sequence.
