It's quite funny, actually, when you think of the White House, it is likely that the first images that enter your mind are those of rigidity, formality, perfect paint-work along with meticulously made curtains, not a stitch out of line, flooring made of the most expensive wood money can buy. Clay thought this too for quite a while, even for the first weeks he spent residing in the world-renowned building it felt more like a museum than where he was going to live. It didn't quite feel like home until one Friday evening when he discovered on his late-night amble that the bottom-left corner of the second sheet of wallpaper from the window wasn't fully adhered to the chipped ivory paint it was meant to smother.
What was so notable about this, you may be asking. Well, I'll tell you, dear reader, it was not that the taut-pulled illusion of perfection had been shattered; he had figured that out on the day he moved in, distracting himself with the endlessly fascinating cracked trails in the titanium-white paint on the ceiling of his room whilst trying to assemble the best possible answer to an essay. Nor was it a metaphor, showing him some sort of Disney moral that even the strongest familial bonds become unstuck under the pressure that presidency can bring. In fact, it was nothing of the sort. It was what hid underneath that truly eased him into life as the First Son:
Just don't let them find out.
The bedrooms generally reserved for the First Family were the East and West on the second floor. First designed as one, quite frankly, enormous state bedroom for some important European, it can be assumed that whomever decided to split it into two separate rooms had the same view as most would; even for royalty, it was a little excessive. Clay had the East, Niki the West, and in what Clay viewed as some sort of twisted irony, it was the same configuration as their old house in Florida, the key to which lay permanently in the centre of his chest and, along with the chain from which it hung, was always hidden from view. It was personal, only for him to see, to feel, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Whenever he felt stressed, the cool metal would draw him out of his anxious state and back to reality, imprinting the sharp edges of the key to his chest as he held it there. It wasn't just some meaningless accessory, it was a good luck charm filled with sentiment, a reminder of the boy he once was.
Back in Florida, their rooms were smaller than the bathrooms in the White House, Clay's constantly filling up with increasing piles of schoolwork and lacrosse gear; Niki's walls always bearing magazine-cutouts of her current celebrity crush, hiding the hideous teal colour she'd insisted on when she was 7 and regretted every moment since. Their rooms in the White House, like them, were rather different. Clay's room was calculated and neat, every manilla folder and ring-binder having its own respective place, the previously-satin pink walls (Sasha Obama's choice) now sporting a muted mint green. There were always piles of textbooks, books he read for pleasure (which were often still academically focused), and notepads crammed with pages of meticulously detailed notes. Niki's room belonged to a Pinterest board with the level of interior decoration that one would aspire to have but know deep down that they would never reach. On her windowsill were empty bottles of her favourite soda, now used as vessels for the plants she cared so dearly for. Her guitars hung on the wall above her bed, and next to them were shelves filled with trinkets from her past.
They were aware that it was unusual that they, the president's children, still lived in the White House - normally once they reached 18 it was time to move out and, unsurprisingly, never back in, but Clay had started at Georgetown University around the same time that his mother was sworn in so it only made sense for him to take residency at the White House rather than wasting money on a flat down the road. Niki still had another year of high school, but after that, as a result of a multitude of coincidences, she ended up at Georgetown too.
So there he was, three years into being the First Son Of The United States (or FSOTUS for short. Writing the full title was too much of a hassle for him and the press both), and three years into calling the White House the closest thing to home, studying away. He had known full well that he was not going to be the youngest-ever person in congress without working long and hard for quite a while now, and he was drawn out of his pondering by the door swinging open. In came Niki, coffees in hand.
"Americano, splash of milk?"
"When have I ever got your order wrong?" She asked with amusement, rolling her eyes as she settled on the armchair tucked away in the corner of his room. "So, how was your day?" she asked as she scrolled through her phone idly, sipping at her coffee (a latte, one teaspoon of sugar).
"Not bad, I've been working on this essay for ages though, I just can't get the wording right." He sighed, turning his attention away from the laptop and rubbing his light-strained eyes as they thanked him for a break from the screen.
"What's it about?"
"Oh it's on the Buck vs Bell case - the laws permitting the sterilisation of the disabled, so awful, but very interesting." Clay was glad he enjoyed the law course he was studying; he knew how sick he would be of university if he didn't. He was itching to get into politics, but being the best in his cohort at school was his current aim. "I don't think my brain is going to let me run on caffeine much longer," he added, an afterthought that he would probably dismiss when his brain lost the capacity to think about more than one thing, as brains tend to do when you are severely sleep-deprived.
"That's probably a good thing, Clay. Studies are important but you need to take care of your body." Niki chided, and the words held truth. Work, whether it was essays, revision, or even helping his mother out with presidential stuff always took priority for him, and that often meant that sleep was sacrificed as a result.
"Okay, Mom! I'm literally older than you, don't tell me what to do."
"You don't act like it sometimes." She sighed, suppressing giggles. "Look, I was gonna be on the front page of the Daily Mail for, like, the 3rd time this week." She turned her phone towards him, zooming in on the photo of her with 'Mystery Man'. "I mean, I can't say I am surprised that they put the wedding on the front page."
"Wedding?" Clay asked halfheartedly, turning his focus back at his assignment.
"Yeah, the Wedding?" She frowned, jumping up and stumbling over to Clay's side. "Jeez, those essays have really fried your brain."
"What do you mean? Am I meant to know whose wedding it is? I haven't had the chance to go on Twitter today."
"The Royal Wedding, you idiot, the Royal wedding? You know, the one that has been in every single newspaper since last year? Don't tell me you've forgotten about it." Niki raised her eyebrows as she spoke, handing Clay her phone; The screen displayed a photo of the nondescript blond British heir with his equally nondescript brunette fiancée, both smiling blandly along with the headline 'PRINCE PHILLIP SAYS I DO!' in big bold letters.
"It's this weekend?" He groaned, rolling his head back, cringing slightly at the loud pops that sounded as a consequence of being hunched over all day.
"Clay, we leave tomorrow. How could you forget?"
"I don't know, talking to a bunch of stuck-up Europeans and pretending to be happy for little Mr. Prince Charming's brother doesn't exactly fall high on my priority list."
"Well, either way, you better be ready. You know Mom will have your head if you screw this one up."
"I know, I know." Clay sighed dramatically.
"I still haven't decided on my dress...this one, or that one?" Niki asked, taking her phone back to show the two photos. The first was a figure-hugging, blush pink dress, boasting intricate lacy floral patterns and falling just below the knee; the second, a flowy lilac dress, cinched in at the waist with a ribbon belt.
"The pink lace one. This is England we're talking about. Now go talk to Floris or something, I've got to finish this essay." He turned away from her, watching in the corner of his eye as she turned her back and headed towards the door.
"Whatever, just be ready to leave at 9!" She shouted behind her as she shut the door.
Clay didn't think that the thrill of private aviation would ever wear off on him, and honestly, it was what he was most excited about. Despite having travelled quite frequently in the past three years where it had been a viable option, it was still surreal that, after never having been on a plane, let alone left the country before, he was now cruising three-thousand-and-something feet in the air, lounging on a cream-leather chair whilst he snacked on salted almonds. He let his mind wander as he stared out of the window, eyes fixed on the vast expanse of Atlantic sea below them, glistening in the strong midday sun, each wave catching the light like it was winking at him. He tried his best to think of something exciting that could happen in the next twenty four hours, a Shakespearian romance, some Dicken's-like English adventure perhaps, but every scenario was brought back to what would most likely be the case - sitting in a church for a few hours and then being paraded around to talk to ancient Lords and Dukes.
Clay drew his attention back to the plane; Floris Holleran, grandson of Vice-President Mike Holleran, part of the so-called White House Trio and most importantly, Clay's best (and arguably only) friend sat opposite him, pouring over some article on his laptop, Niki resting her head on his shoulder. They were an unlikely trio, but a trio nonetheless, and the closest thing the USA had to royalty. With Clay's charms and genius, Floris's computer-like brain, and, in all honesty, Niki's grasp on normalcy, they were a good fit.
In the row behind the pair was Amy, military veteran and Secret Service agent, flicking through a dog-eared novel, and Dave, ex-Navy SEAL, Secret Service agent, rumoured to have committed quite a few murders. His pastel pink hair may have made him seem soft to a poor innocent soul who didn't know him, but he made sure that anyone who dared would be able to joke about it once, and, along with the monotone voice and practically unrivaled skills, it was all part of his image. He had a bulletproof-titanium sewing kit open as he darned a button back onto his jacket, using a needle Clay was sure he had seen stabbed into someone's kneecap.
The flight went unsurprisingly smoothly, touching down on the other side of the Atlantic a good 7 hours after takeoff. The energy in London was simply electric, roads were crammed with street parties of jovial citizens waving mini-union jacks and eating generous slices of Victoria sponge cake off of paper plates. Street sellers had dropped their usual attire and donned trinkets plastered with the smiling faces of Prince Phillip and his fiancee, Kristin, and before Clay even had a moment to consider how weird the whole situation was, he was seated in a cathedral as the ceremony started.