Chapter Text
like how hope spreads
“‘I need to tell you something,’ Henry says, breathless, when Alex pulls back. ‘I bought a brownstone. In Brooklyn.’
Alex’s mouth falls open. ‘You didn’t!’
‘I did.’
And for a fraction of a second, a whole crystallized life flashes into view, a next term and no elections left to win, a schedule packed with classes and Henry smiling from the pillow next to him in the gray light of a Brooklyn morning. It drops right into the well of his chest and spreads, like how hope spreads. It’s a good thing everyone else is already crying.”
—Casey McQuiston, Red, White, & Royal Blue
one | can i go (where you go)
“H, I’m gonna fall-”
“No, you’re not, I’ve got you.”
“I’m gonna eat shit and ruin my favorite shirt and it’s gonna be your fault-”
“Oh, quit being dramatic for two seconds and walk, Alexander.”
Alex huffs out the loudest sigh he can manage, but he’s grinning ear to ear. It’s always fun to tease Henry. Alex actually considers himself a bit of a professional when it comes to being a pain in his boyfriend’s ass.
But, now. Especially now. His shoes are catching on every damn step, and he can’t see a thing with Henry’s palms over his eyes, guiding him slowly up the stairs.
One foot after the other. To their new apartment.
God, he still can’t believe this is real.
The moving box in his arms, clinking full of silverware; the brownstone, which he knows is waiting just a few more steps ahead; Henry’s chest, steadying him from behind.
Alex is gonna explode if he’s not allowed to look in the next three seconds.
“Please, babe, just let me peek,” he tries.
“Hush,” comes Henry’s chiding response, warm laughter thrumming against Alex’s back. He almost melts right there on the steps. “It’s a surprise, love.”
“Surprises are for birthdays, and in-laws, and- I don’t know, the birth of Jesus Christ. This is just cruel.”
“Oh, yes, what a terrible boyfriend I am. You may as well just ship me off now, before you get attached.”
“Too late for that, Wales,” Alex mumbles. Henry hums pleasantly, kisses the back of his head.
He’s pulled to a stop once it feels like they’ve reached the top landing, buzzing with so much excitement he could blow a goddamn fuse. A few more agonizing seconds pass where Henry’s adjusting so that only one hand is covering Alex’s eyes, reaching the other around to unlock the door.
At least, he thinks Henry’s unlocking the door. He could be building a Lego set, or having a one-armed sword fight, or grabbing plans to steal the Declaration of Independence.
Alex wouldn’t know. He can’t fucking see.
“Henry.”
“Alright, alright!” He nudges Alex forward, just a few inches farther.
Then his hand drops.
“Welcome home, love,” Henry whispers fondly, pecking Alex’s cheek from behind.
And. It’s not often that Alex is rendered speechless. But this-
This is enough to shut him up.
It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Dusty windows and bare oakwood floors, a kitchen tucked into the back wall. Stairs traveling up and out of sight. Bedrooms.
But Henry’s arms are around him, and it feels like it’s a spring afternoon in Brooklyn.
It feels-
Like Alex is moving in with his boyfriend, and they’ve got a home together now, and he’s starting to live for himself, not anybody else. It’s his heart spilling with the sun onto every surface, lighting the whole place up, making it sing, and-
Alex thinly avoids slamming the moving box onto the ground, but it doesn’t matter either way, because he’s taking Henry’s face in his hands and kissing him.
A surprised little noise escapes from the back of his throat, but he returns Alex’s enthusiasm happily. Quick hands at the back of his neck, a grin blooming against his lips.
“I assume you like it, then?” Henry’s smile is brighter than any ray of fucking sunshine in the house. It makes Alex wonder, for a hysterical second, if he brought his shades with him on the drive up.
“Baby,” he says, and revels in the way Henry’s expression goes soft under his palms, “I can’t even- I love it. Like, an obscene amount.”
“Truly?”
Alex can’t help but jump on him again, kissing Henry so intensely that he senses a shudder going up the man’s bones. He smiles.
“Yes, truly, you fuckin’ nerd,” he whispers, happier than he’s ever been. “Now. Fulfill your princely duty and carry me over the threshold like you’re supposed to. C’mon, let’s go.”
And Alex is expecting the laugh that tumbles from Henry’s lips - the slight way he tips his head back, so that it comes out full and strong and beautiful.
What he is not expecting is to actually be picked up.
“You motherfucker, you-” he yells, scrabbling for purchase around Henry’s neck, “Put me down! Right- now, goddamnit! I will- rain, fucking- hellfire upon you, you- oh my God.”
And Henry just laughs again, the asshole, keeping a firm grip around Alex’s knees, his back, nudging the box out of the entryway like it’s nothing-
Alex aims a kick at Henry’s backside once, twice. Fails. “What the- How in fuck’s name are you even doing this?”
“I play polo, remember?” he quips innocently.
“Like that’s a valid fucking excuse!”
Despite his best efforts, Alex is dragged, kicking and screaming, through the entryway. Henry doesn’t relent until he actually bites him, hard enough at the side of his neck that it leaves a mark.
It’s funny, at first. Maybe a little ridiculous. Then it starts to bruise, and Alex runs back outside to dig for their first aid kit because he feels awful, and he hopes it didn’t hurt too bad.
Because he loves his boyfriend.
He loves him so, so much.
In hindsight, they probably should’ve ordered their furniture ahead of time.
But having places to sit and eat was not high on their list of moving priorities. Making sure the flight was comfortable for David, first. Second, finding a good day in Cash’s schedule to accompany Alex on the trip. Third, figuring out which area of the apartment was best for aggressively making out.
After that, it all got kind of... fuzzy.
So Henry parses through the Ikea catalogue while Alex makes a run to the store, already having sniffed out the best places for Mexican staple foods and the off-brand Girl Scout cookies that kind-of-but-not-really taste like Jaffa Cakes.
The city is even louder than he thought it would be - big and sprawling but still so insanely compact. Alex loves disappearing in it, getting swallowed up by the chattering of people on phones and the collective droning of car engines.
He helps a nice lady cross the street, steps in a gutter. Buys some avocados and shit.
It’s fucking exhilarating.
When he gets home (home, this is home, now), Henry is there, setting up empty boxes on the living room floor so that it resembles a coffee table. He spots Alex and sits back on his knees, pushing tousled hair out of his eyes.
His grin is sheepish. “Sorry, love. The furniture won’t come for two more weeks. I hope you don’t mind using, er- a homemade packing-peanut mattress tonight.”
Alex drops the grocery bags, finds the path to Henry’s arms. A smile curls its way up from deep in his stomach, warming him up as much as Henry’s breath in his hair or the hands running up Alex’s chest.
“Is it weird that I still prefer this to sleeping with the turkeys?”
They dim the lights and make chicken fajitas for dinner, even though Alex does most of the making and Henry does most of the dinnering. After a hasty rummage through the clutter, Henry grins, triumphant with a slightly-used bottle of wine.
They sip it and feed each other bites of Spanish rice over their best attempt at a cardboard dining table, cackling when Alex rests an elbow on it and knocks the entire setting over.
Alex asks what Henry’s thinking about for dessert. Henry takes him by the hand and spins him in slow circles around the kitchen island.
There’s this, and there’s Etta James singing the blues over a phone speaker, and Alex is doing really, really good.
Henry wakes up to the reflection of rain clouds on fluffy white sheets, and for a second, he doesn’t have a clue where he is. Then he turns.
And it’s like taking the first breath after so many years of drowning.
Alex is gentle when he sleeps. Of course, he tosses incessantly, and curses in the middle of dreams, and he’s got this nasty habit of cocooning himself in the blankets and leaving Henry to freeze, but-
But Henry thinks he’s gentle.
He deliberately ignores thinking about how late Alex must’ve stayed up last night, tapping away at his first essay of the year. There’s nothing you need to prove to your professors, Henry had assured him. They’ll still like you just fine if you come to bed before dawn.
Well, he muses, grazing his fingertips beneath Alex’s lashes and feeling the thin bruises there. Perhaps they’ll pity him enough to throw in a few extra credit points.
Alex shifts restlessly, turning onto his side and into Henry’s arms.
It makes him smile. He was waiting for it.
Their noses just barely touch like this. They must look a bit odd, with Alex fast asleep and Henry lying there, staring at him, transfixed.
Funny. He can’t bring himself to care anymore.
Henry stared when they met for the first time, and again when they toppled over a wedding cake, and again when they debased a portrait of Alexander Hamilton. It all seemed to work out just fine for him.
So he runs his fingers over Alex’s cheekbone, counts a dozen freckles. Lowers his lips to the skin there, rich and sun-warmed. There’s a worried crease in his brow, nearly imperceptible; he can’t help but smooth it over with the pad of his thumb.
Alex stirs fitfully for a moment. Then his eyes are fluttering open, bleary, confused.
Henry curses. “Sorry, love,” he breathes. “Don’t mind me. Go back to sleep.”
He swears he hears Alex say Henry in that drowsy way of his, and it shoots a prickling sensation up the back of his neck. He adjusts so they fit closer, tucking Alex’s head into his chest.
Another muffled sound comes up from his mouth, and Henry leans back this time, straining to catch the words. “What, darling?”
“Hungry,” Alex reiterates, a slow mumble into Henry’s shoulder.
“Oh. My mistake. And here I was thinking you were enjoying the fond embrace of your lover.”
“Gross,” comes the murmur back. Alex burrows his head deeper, a mop of brown curls. “Want bacon.”
Henry sighs, helpless against this man who’s resting lips against his collarbone and tangling warm legs between his own.
His love wants breakfast. It’s a wish he’ll happily grant.
One kiss to Alex’s forehead, then he’s carefully pulling himself out of bed.
“Nononono, wait, come back,” Alex whines, grabbing blindly for the hem of Henry’s pajama pants. He’s yanked back into the sheets with a thump.
Twisting to face him again, Henry teases. “But Alex, dear, I thought you wanted bacon?”
His boyfriend, the personification of a clingy baby koala, throws his arms around Henry’s neck. Brackets strong calves around his thighs.
Another tired mumble: “S’cold without you.”
And that gives Henry another reason, one more atop all the million others, to stay.
They like to huddle up on the couch sometimes, fitting a blanket over their heads so they have a mini-fort to talk in. Alex’s favorite thing is laying down next to Henry like this, watching his blue eyes flash excitedly while he babbles on about his day.
Alex might give one good thing and one bad thing in return, because he’s exhausted nowadays, too bogged down with marathon lectures and back-to-back exams to feel very much. But Henry always knows how to coax the words out of him, and the week will spill out of Alex’s mouth, too, like a dam opening to its current.
They trade whispers back and forth, sacred confessions beneath a cotton roof. Dumb things and stupid things and sometimes nothing at all. Henry mentions, offhandedly, that he’d like a few houseplants for the bay window.
So there Alex is, up at 2 AM, scrolling through listings of local plant nurseries when he should be working on his case briefs. He has a few succulents waiting for Henry when he gets home from the shelter the next day, along with something else tall and leafy, and a chamomile plant that he can dry up for tea.
The look on his face is enough. The way he sweeps Alex into his arms and kisses him is enough.
They name their plants, in order: Elton, Freddie, Jimi, Paul, and Whitney Houston.
“Baby?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Would you still love me if I turned into a worm?”
“A worm?”
“Yes.”
“...I would love the memory of you.”
“But not me in worm form?”
“I- No, love, not you in worm form.”
“...”
“Alex, don’t cry-“
“But why not?”
Honestly, Henry was surprised it didn’t happen sooner.
He’d been so fucking happy the past few months. The life he has now - it’s one he could only fantasize about in the dark confines of his old bedroom. And it wasn’t just him being away from Gran’s glares of disapproval, or the endless lectures from Philip on decorum (though that certainly didn’t hurt matters).
No, it was so much more than that.
(Wandering through the park on quiet spring days, his hand in Alex’s as they stole bites of each others’ ice cream.)
(Seeing the kids’ faces light up across the shelter bunk beds when Henry would cuddle up with them, crack open a book, and start to read.)
(Waking up with kisses on the back of his neck, light as flower petals, and a sleepy “I love you” planted somewhere in between.)
But it seems that not even Henry’s wildest dreams coming true can get his head to work right.
He’d been dreading this since the day he and Alex moved into the brownstone. His darker moods, as they like to refer to it. The times where he wakes up empty and despairing, weight pressing in from all sides until it reduces him to rubble, to nothing.
He’s fine. His family is fine. It’s not as if anything has changed.
But Henry always winds up here, a shell of ashes beneath unwashed covers. Sometimes, he aches so much for Dad that it’s all he can do to curl up and try not to disappear completely. Other times, life outside his body is just too much for his senses, and the barest brush of David’s nose to his palm is enough to make Henry cry, feeling all too much and nothing at all.
Things are better now. But Henry doesn’t think he’ll ever stop grieving.
He dozes sporadically, ignoring the grumbling of his stomach in favor of just lying here, pretending. The neighbors break a glass, somewhere in the upper floors; Henry can only squeeze a pillow to the side of his head and sob.
Alex won’t be coming home until late that night, but Henry can’t bring himself to call. The phone is far and Alex is busy and David is whimpering at the foot of the bed because he’s a terrible pet owner and can’t get up to feed him.
He sleeps. Breathes. Tunes out the notifications buzzing from the side table.
The sun’s nearly set when Henry wakes up again, but this time, Alex has seemingly materialized beside the bed.
Henry gives it a second just to ensure that he isn’t dreaming, and the image holds true. Alex is here, stroking his hair, smiling ruefully at him in the blue dusk. “Hi, baby.”
“Alex,” he goes, and Christ, his voice is hoarse enough to raise the dead. “What’re you doing home?”
What he’s done to earn a kiss at the crown of his head, Henry doesn’t know, but he won’t say a word about it. Alex’s grin fades minutely.
“You didn’t answer my calls. I got worried.”
“So you left class?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Henry flickers his eyes to the side; notices the plate of toast on the nightstand, a glass of water. His medication.
“Alex, you’ll fall behind on your work.”
“I’ll make it up. The professors love me, remember? I think I could snag one of them for a sugar daddy, if I play my cards right.”
Henry can’t bring himself to reflect Alex’s smile, and it hurts, because he wants to. Distantly, somewhere in the far reaches of his brain. He knows he wants to.
Alex worries his lip, gives a little sigh.
“How long have you been like this, sweetheart?” he asks, passing Henry the water to drink.
He straightens up a bit in the sheets, gives the glass a long pull. “Only an hour or so.”
“Henry.” Damn him.
He lowers his gaze, chewing what’s soon to be an ulcer into the corner of his mouth. “...Since this morning.”
“Fuck.”
“Love, no. It’s not your fault.”
“I know- I know. Just…” A deep breath. Alex squeezes his palm. “Tell me next time, okay? Please.”
Henry manages a nod, but he ends up sniffling, because the day has been long and Alex is upset and he’s really at the end of his rope with it all.
He’s there. He’s always there, pulling Henry into his embrace, shushing him like one would a child. Lips are pressed to his temple, his jaw, shouldering some of the weight that’s got Henry pinned to the earth. It’s the safest he’s ever felt.
“I love you. I love you, Henry. It’s gonna be okay.”
He shudders out a sob, but it doesn’t crack him open like it used to. Gradually, piece by piece, Henry can feel the mangled bits of his heart coming back together. Every time Alex touches him, tells him he’s allowed to be whole again.
He listens to Alex’s whispers and believes.
“Henry?”
“Hi, love. You alright?”
“Um. Well, no, actually.”
“What? What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
“...”
“Alex?”
“I got lost. In Home Depot.”
“Oh. Well, can’t you just look up directions on your phone?”
“No, Hen, I mean- I got lost. In Home Depot.”
“...You’re joking.”
“No.”
“Oh God, alright, just- stay where you are, okay, love? I’m coming to get you.”
“...”
“...”
“Stop laughing at me!”
“I’m not- I’m not laughing-“
“This is serious, Henry! I could starve to death! Or worse! Someone could try and- fucking, build a house on me-“
“Build a- oh my god.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And you’ve gone missing in a hardware store.”
“Fuck you!”
On lazy Saturday mornings, Henry likes to lounge around the living room reading. He’s fond of sprawling out on the floor, limbs all askew, or hanging off the edge of the couch like a drowsy bat as he thumbs through the pages.
Alex will check out books for him from NYU’s library when he’s not holed up in there himself. He tries to bring home the kinds Henry likes, which all tend to be ancient or gay or both, but it’s mostly whatever catches his eye.
That means lots of bright aspiring authors, long-winded rants about late-stage capitalism, and things like “So she lives for like, three hundred years right? And all the while, she’s pick-pocketing rich bastards and traveling the world like some kind of morally ambiguous Keira Knightley- Yeah, I know it sounds bad, but everyone’s really fucking hot in it so you have to read it, Henry, you’ve gotta-”
But most of the time, Henry’s working through his own books. There’s a quaint corner store a couple blocks away that’s stocked with mountains of early-edition Brontë’s and - he nearly let out an embarrassing squeal at the sight - an entire pile dedicated to queer authors from the 1900s.
These, he’ll read to Alex. In the late hours of the dawn, lips moving of their own accord; lines of Dorian Gray or Mrs. Dalloway, spilling out over the sound of Alex brewing their drinks in the kitchen.
It’s a part of himself, floating off into the world. Henry used to be so afraid of this very thing - this feeling, each time he said what he really meant, or looked Gran in the eye, or wore a damn tie that didn’t match the shade of his Oxfords. It choked him, robbed him of breath and sight until he succumbed to it, dead weight beneath the waves.
But then Alex came along and jumped right in after him.
So Henry’s not so terrified anymore. He doesn’t worry that Alex will think him daft, or bothersome, for spending an hour reciting poems on the settee.
Instead, Henry finds little ways to grab his attention, away from the frying of eggs in the pan or the incessant reorganizing of dishes in the cupboard. His absolute favorite to read aloud is Leaves of Grass, because it’s particularly rhythmic; he knows that deep down, Alex is a bloody romantic.
He’ll use the most calming voice he can muster, imagining himself narrating a movie or a summer day by the ocean. And after a few seconds, Alex will slow down in the corner of his eye, and watch, and Henry will be glad that he can help settle the noisy contents of his mind. If only for a moment.
It never takes more than a few minutes for Alex to curl into Henry’s side, finding a space on the floor or the bay window or wherever it is that Henry has chosen to make his nest. His eyes will droop shut, thick lashes against honey-brown skin. Then, if he’s lucky: Alex’s breaths might even out on top of Henry’s chest, soft and kittenish, like there’s not a care to be had in the world.
There isn’t, Henry thinks, as he brushes his lips against Alex’s curls. There isn’t a single thing that matters when I’m with you.
A year slips by, like water coursing through a stream.
Alex is still amazed by him. The way he bares his heart now, everything there is to it, but Alex can still find more the next day, the next hour.
Henry is a bottomless well of love, impossibilities, and stupid fun facts about the Italian Renaissance, and Alex drinks him up completely.
Loving him is so easy, sometimes.
It’s not anything Alex thinks about that often, just like he doesn’t have to remind himself to breathe, or tell his eyelids to blink while he’s watching Law & Order. There are certain things that just happen when it comes to Henry, little habits and love notes encoded into his DNA that Alex didn’t even realize was becoming a part of him until now.
He knows where the knots in Henry’s shoulders form after a long day around too many people; how relieved he is after passing out over legal documents and waking up to a clean desk in the morning; how his smiles turn sweeter when they’re lit up by the kitchen lamps overhead. Henry has so many different shades to him, and Alex is a fucking Picasso, knowing each and every color so intimately that he could recreate them all with his eyes closed.
So maybe Alex is overdoing it with the extra internship this year, and maybe Henry hasn’t been as chipper on his way out the door in the mornings, but they’re gonna be fine, because it’s easy. It’s easy, it’s easy, sometimes.
Sometimes it’s hard.
Alex is late.
It’s the week before midterms, and also the day of their anniversary, and Henry said to be home by seven and it’s a quarter to ten and Alex is fucking late.
He jams his MetroCard into the reader too hard, and it clatters to the floor. There’s no time to figure out how many diseases he’s contracting as he scrabbles to pick it up, because his hands are shaking, and he’s dropping it again like a fucking idiot and Henry is going to be so, so mad at him.
That’s it. That’s the thing. Alex drops his head into his hands, unable to stop his leg from bouncing rapid-fire against the subway pole.
God, he couldn’t get it together for one goddamn day? He’s such a fucking pain when finals roll around, because he’s never home, and when he is, he’s sleeping, leaving Henry all alone to do the housework, and walk the dog and, and-
Alex squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t have a panic attack on the subway. People are trying to work.
It takes him two tries to jam the key inside the lock, but then their apartment door is swinging wide open, and his breath stops.
Henry is in a suit. Alex’s favorite. Sitting right on the edge of their couch, not looking at him.
Behind him, on the dining room table: a dozen candles, melted to stubs. Plates and glasses of champagne, set just next to each other, and dishes on the table smelling of garlic mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, the barbecue chicken recipe that Alex had taught him a couple months ago.
He cooked. Henry cooked for them. And Alex missed it.
“Baby, I’m-”
“Don’t.”
Henry’s pushing off the cushions stiffly, not bothering to meet Alex’s eye as he shoulders past and storms up the stairs. He hears their bedroom door slam, and the sound rips into his chest, a cold blade twisting between his ribcage.
Broken and empty, Alex will follow him. He always does.
His knuckles rap half-heartedly at the locked door. He puts his ear to it, trying to find the slightest rustle of sheets, or maybe running water from the shower, but it’s all silent.
“Henry,” he pleads. “I’m so sorry. Can we talk about it?”
A whole minute of nothing.
“Please, baby, I just want-”
The door flies open in a rush, and Henry’s there facing him, heaving breaths in all his pissed-off glory.
“You don’t care what I want!” he spits out, hoarse with tears. “So I don’t owe you shit, Alex!”
His heart crumples inward, burning up.
“I’m sorry,” Alex sobs, suddenly unable to breathe. “I-I know you told me earlier, a-and I wrote it down and everything, Hen, but I- I just can’t remember-”
“You can’t remember? Seriously? All you bloody do is sit, and read your textbooks, and remember all day long in the library, but the one fucking time I ask you to do something, it’s suddenly too much-”
“Baby-”
“Don’t fucking call me that!” Henry spins on his heel, leaving Alex to shatter in the doorway while he paces the room. He yanks at his tie, marches back up to him and lowers his voice to a deadly whisper:
“I have supported you and your studies since the very start. That was a choice that I made, and I don’t mind tending to you, or any of your late-night caffeine fixes, but for the past few months, you’ve been giving me nothing. I don’t see you when I wake up in the morning, and I don’t hear from you when I’m taking lunch at the shelter, and I can’t ever get you to come to bloody bed before the sun comes up. So excuse me if I’m a bit pissed off that you can’t be bothered to remember about me.”
Normally, Alex would yell. He would bring up some shit that’s Henry’s done, because it takes more than one person to fuck up a relationship, but he doesn’t. Everything coming out of Henry’s mouth is true, and Alex can’t do much more than cry and hope he can be forgiven.
“I’m sorry, Hen,” he rasps, one last attempt before he breaks in half. “You’re right, you’re completely right, and you- you don’t deserve to put up with this. I just- I’m just trying to be- a good boyfriend-”
“Really? Because you’re doing a rather shit job at it.”
And Alex can see the moment Henry realizes what he’s said, because it’s instant and tragic. But he can’t think much further beyond that. He can’t think much of anything anymore.
Somehow, his legs get him downstairs to the spare bed, and he’s lying with his back to the doorway. That’s where he’s staying for the night. Maybe for the rest of the week.
Alex isn’t sure. He just knows that he doesn’t want to see Henry when he inevitably packs up his things and leaves.
An hour passes, maybe two. His gasping sobs have faded away, leaving only hot, quiet tears to spill over his face and onto the pillowcase.
He thought he could be enough, this time.
Fingers press against his shoulder blade.
“Alex?” Henry whispers, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “Darling, can you wake up?”
Alex tenses under his touch, but he gathers himself enough to answer. “M’up.”
And it’s like gravity pulling him to the earth, the way Henry immediately slots his body behind Alex. He’s been shivering all this time, he realizes, lonely in the cold sheets, and Henry’s skin is so warm he starts crying again.
“My love,” Henry murmurs, leaning over to kiss his cheek. Alex tucks his legs in farther, curling up on himself. “I am so, so sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it.”
“Then why did you say it?” he chokes. Henry’s arms tighten around him.
“I… I’ve just been so angry with you, lately. I’ve hardly seen you at all since you started class again, and we’ve had so many new kids at the shelter that... they’re not okay, Alex. And I don’t have anyone else to talk to about it.”
Alex sniffles, a fresh wave of pain rolling over him at the thought. “Then you should have told me that. Before- before you started to hate me-”
“No, no, Alex, don’t say that- I could never-”
“I know I’m not- I’m not a good boyfriend, but I-”
“No, stop- please, lovely, you are a wonderful boyfriend-”
“But I love you-”
“I love you, too-”
“I’m sorry. You deserve someone better.”
“There’s no one better for me than you.”
And Alex can’t fucking take it anymore, he flips over to face him, frantically grasping at Henry’s shirt as they sob and cover each other with snot and tears. The exhaustion has come to a head, now, and Alex doesn’t have the energy to hold himself together anymore.
He lets himself unravel. Henry will put him back together in the end.
He’s dragging his fingers over the outline of Henry’s collarbone when he remembers the phone call he had last week. Time spent in study hall that really should’ve been at home, with somebody who was missing him.
He clears his throat. “Nora was telling me that, um. That divorce rates are like, really fucking high nowadays. Are- are we gonna be-”
“No.”
Alex wipes at Henry’s eyes, thumb trembling a bit as he does. “They… They always say that, you know, but then-”
“Alex, I want you,” Henry tells him firmly, locking a hand around his face. “I want this. As messy as it is.”
Alex pulls back. Takes in the strained redness of Henry’s eyes, the shadows dancing over each lock of his hair, his face. His voice catches again. “I want you, too.”
That’s all it takes for them to both lean in; the two slots in a puzzle, slanting their foreheads together.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I was completely out of line. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry for neglecting you. And forgetting about our date. I wish we could’ve eaten dinner together.”
Henry smiles, gentle in the moonlight. He threads his fingers through Alex’s.
“If you do the dishes afterward, I can warm up the food.”
Slowly, Alex grins. It’s a fucking deal.
They eventually figure out that some things need to be said before they bubble over.
Alex sets an alarm for 5pm every night, so he can get home in time for a meal together. Henry puts a pink sticky note reminder on Alex’s laptop whenever they make plans, and he never, ever yells at him during finals week again.
Maybe it’s not supposed to work like this. But that’s okay.
They never cared much for rules.
“I would like to make a proposition.”
“All ears, babe.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“And me.”
“I really like where this is headed.”
“Dinner, first.”
“Okay. Good call. We’ll need our calories.”
“And then-”
“Yay-”
“We go look at paint samples.”
“Not yay.”
“The bathroom walls are already peeling, Alex.”
“So let them peel! It’s vintage!”
“It’s unseemly.”
“There’s no way in hell that I’m going to debate on twenty different shades of beige when I could be watching WandaVision.”
“It’ll be there when we get back.”
“Excuse you, Your Highness, but Elizabeth Olsen waits for no man.”
“Alex-”
“Nope.”
“But-”
“Never!”
“...Shame. I was going to have you fuck me in the the back of the car, afterwards.”
“Wait!”
Henry is at his most creative when he’s touching Alex.
It’s something Alex discovers during his third year of law school. Things finally settle down at the shelter, with Henry delegating the brunt of his secretarial work to the new employees, and it frees up time for him to start working on his novel.
Alex doesn’t notice it, initially. He’ll be on the couch, as usual, with a few stacks of notes splayed out across the cushions. Maybe he’s got some random Netflix show playing in the background.
Then Henry might come in from the office, still typing up some drafts on his computer, and lay his head in Alex’s lap. Or he’ll already be there, sitting next to him, and the keyboard clacking will pause as he reaches for Alex’s hand. He’ll stroke it, sometimes bring it up to his lips for a kiss, but never move his eyes from the screen.
And Alex really, really doesn’t think anything of it. Most of the time, when it happens, he’s too busy writing up clerkship applications and bullshitting law review papers to care.
Yes, Henry’s here. Yes, Henry’s doting on him.
(How the fuck do you change the page to 0.5” margins?)
But one night, Alex is cooking dinner - this one online teriyaki recipe that he’s been dying to try out - and some weird shit happens.
He’s got the beef sizzling on the stove, and Lizzo blasting from the house speakers - so he doesn’t even register Henry’s presence until he spins him by the waist and kisses him.
It’s a long one, deep enough to send shockwaves through his body, and the spatula slips right out of Alex’s fingers. He’s sure it makes a loud clatter on the tile somewhere, but there’s only so much his senses can do when Henry’s got his tongue halfway down his throat.
Alex isn’t about to question his current predicament, because he’s actually having a really great time right now, so he shuts his eyes. Threads his fingers through Henry’s hair and urges him closer, loving the taste of him.
There are hands coursing all over him now, past his chest, his stomach, his ass - if dignity was ever something on the table in this relationship, Alex would be feeling absolutely scandalized.
It only takes a few more seconds for Alex to snap, fumbling with his free hand to turn the burner off - because fuck the teriyaki, he’s having his boyfriend for dinner tonight-
When Henry breaks the kiss off.
“That’s it!” he yells, his hair still sticking up from where Alex was yanking at it. And then, all at once, Henry’s twisting away from his hold and hurrying out of sight.
For a solid minute, Alex just stands there with his arms still loosely raised, trying to compute what the hell just happened.
He was getting the absolute fuck kissed out of him. And now, he is not.
Why… is he not?
In a daze, he wanders his way down the hall, finding Henry scribbling at his desk. He’s got this concentrated frown on his face, chewing at his fingernails while he works. His hands look so soft now, such a stark contrast to the blatant debauchery they were committing earlier, that Alex has to slump against the doorframe for support.
Astoundingly, he finds his voice. “Hey, uh… babe?”
“Yeah, love?” Henry doesn’t even look up.
“Just a- random question here.” Alex crosses his arms, trying to play it cool. Trying, and failing. “Okay, yeah, I’m just gonna say it- why did you just edge me in the kitchen?”
Henry jerks his head up suddenly, a hint of worry playing on his features. “Did you not like it?”
“No, no,” Alex assuages, floundering, “That’s actually- that’s actually the problem, is that I really fucking liked it, and I’m just wondering- well, why it didn’t… continue.”
Henry sits back in his chair, running a quick hand through messy hair. Blows out a breath. “Sorry, darling, I should have said something- I was stuck on this paragraph, and I needed to clear my head a bit.”
Alex gestures vaguely. “So… you chose to do that by…”
“..Well, yeah. Is that okay with you?”
“Is it- Yes, Henry, it’s okay, but you need to hit another writer’s block within the next thirty seconds or I’m gonna come in my pants.”
At that, Henry’s cautious expression fades away, slipping into something sweet and devious. He gets up, leaving a slew of notebook paper and fountain pens on the desk, crosses the room.
“Oh, well, we can’t have that,” he murmurs, moving a hand to Alex’s jaw. “You hate doing the laundry.”
“You fucking know I do,” Alex whispers back, and he doesn’t wait another second before tilting his head up to meet Henry’s lips.
He pays a lot more attention to Henry’s working habits after that incident.
Alex has a running tally in the notes app on his phone, jotting down a brief description every time he finds himself thrust against a standing bookshelf, or getting Henry’s legs swung over his lap in the dining room. And on every bullet point, the beginning is always the same:
henry was outlining a chapter on the whiteboard - now i have seven hickies up my neck
we were working in the study and henry kept playing footsies with me. he’s such a weirdo why does he wear socks around the house
he was researching abt the history of gay nightclubs in america… i am getting a blowjob?? ???
so henry was in this creative fever for like the entire morning and would not stop talking about the parallels between one of his minor characters and the communist ideologies of fidel castro... and then i got fucked on the kitchen counter,, viva la revolución i guess!!
i was literally minding my own business and henry starts quoting his own work to me and kissing me all over my face like okay Mr. Shakespeare i didn’t know this was fucking storytime
so it turns out that henry can simultaneously type and give me a handjob. i don’t know if i should be concerned or just turned on
henry is so pretty :) i like to look at him :))
He doesn’t remember writing that last comment, but he’s not about to disagree.
The breaking point comes one humid night in the summertime, when Alex wakes up to warm lips trailing across his bare skin. Henry’s head is obscured beneath the sheets, but he’s not worried about who it is kissing him; Alex knows that flit of eyelashes against his stomach, the gentle fingers pressing into his hips.
No, he’s more concerned about why. Because the clock to his left says that it’s two in the goddamn morning.
“Baby,” he manages, a hoarse whisper into the dark. There’s a slight hum from below, a tangle of gold locks peeking out from the linens. Alex searches for a grip in Henry’s hair, holds onto it for dear life. “What’re you doing?”
“Shh, I’m working,” comes Henry’s distracted response. “You can sleep, darling.”
“No, actually, I fucking can’t-”
Alex hisses as Henry grazes teeth along his collarbone, everything going so deliciously foggy that it’s all he can do to not pass out. Fuck, Henry’s not even touching him, like that, he’s just kissing him. Everywhere, anywhere, light enough for Alex’s skin to be made of paper.
He fights valiantly to form a coherent thought, but then Henry gets to that sensitive patch, right at the dip of his throat, and-
“Henry-”
It’s an honest-to-God whine at this point, and the only response he gets is Henry’s mouth sucking harder at his skin, his fingers seeking out Alex’s in the sheets and intertwining them.
And Alex loves it, seriously. He could die happy right now, in this state, utterly blissed out at the edges of sleep. But his brain is catching on something, something Henry said earlier, and he somehow gathers the strength choke out the words:
“Hey, sweetheart. Hey,” he hears himself breathe, and the air escapes his lungs again when Henry’s head pops up to meet him.
Even after so much time together, Alex still can’t fathom how Henry is his. The sight of his eyes, dark blue in the heavy shadows; the subtle glow stealing in from the windows, painting his face in cool swaths of moonlight. On instinct, Alex’s fingers reach out to touch it.
“Yeah, lovie?” Henry asks brightly, leaning into his palm.
Alex wonders, for a moment, about what’s making Henry so happy. Affection blooms in his chest when he realizes that it’s because of him. He’s putting that smile on his lips.
Alex shakes his head briefly, trying to clear it. “What did you say, a minute ago- about ‘working?’”
It feels like a stupid question, because he’s all breathless and woozy, but Henry rewards it with a bigger grin. Leans down to kiss him again - slowly, languidly.
“I hit another wall in this chapter, so I needed to get some inspiration.”
His words fan out softly against Alex’s cheek, and he leaves butterfly kisses there, slinking back down the length of his body. Those lips again, tender at Alex’s jaw, plucking every thought from his mind.
“And- fuck, Hen- I’m your inspiration?” He can barely even tease, completely swept up in the sensations of it all, of how much he loves - loves - this man in front of him.
“You are,” Henry mutters, catching the shell of Alex’s ear between his teeth. “Every time.” A featherlight kiss, at the pulse of his neck. “My darling.” The soft spot beneath his shoulder. “My love.” On his chest, the line of his sternum. His voice lowers to a faint whisper. “Mon trésor. Mon coeur est à toi-”
“Shut the fuck up,” Alex breathes sharply, dragging Henry up by the hair and crushing their lips together. He’s smiling against his mouth, Alex knows, but he can’t bring himself to quip, or pout, he can’t, he can’t-
Later, when he’s the one watching Henry sleep, disheveled and tuckered out from the longest night they’ve had in a while - Alex thinks that this whole writing a novel thing is the best shit that’s ever happened to him.
“Okay, I’ve got my keys, my wallet, my backpack- shit, where’s my backpack?”
“Over here, love.”
“Oh, fuck. Thank you, baby. Okay. Okayokayokay, I’m ready. I’m gonna take the shit out of this final.”
“Damn right, you are.”
“Bye, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”
“You’re forgetting something!”
“Forgetting- oh! …Muah.”
“Alex, you know I cherish your kisses, but I meant your glasses. So you can, you know. Read the exam.”
“Oh. Oh. Oh my god, I almost fucked myself over there.”
“Yes, that seems to be a daily occurence.”
“Right, Hen. Your choices are: NBA Superstar Lebron James, my ex-wife, and… a piss kink.”
Henry lets out a snort, trying to hide his grin behind a fan of cards. It’s nearly turning him into a puddle of goo to see Bea and Mum cracking up over the phone, pajama-clad and all cuddled up in his ugly old bed. Hell, even Mr. Wobbles is making him emotional today, though the damn cat has taken to shoving his arse into the camera for Henry’s enjoyment.
“Well, it can’t be my ex-wife,” Henry muses. “That’s too bland.”
“But the card asked, What ended my last marriage?” his mum interjects, quizzical. “Doesn’t that make sense?”
There’s a shuffling on the other end of the FaceTime call, and then comes Bea’s patient whisper: “It’s not about what makes sense, Mum, it’s about what’s funny.”
“It is funny. I am straight.”
“Mum, you just gave your card away.”
“Wh- oh, bollocks.”
They both giggle across the phone, and Henry finds himself laughing too, more than he has in a long while. It’s been nearly a year since he’s seen his family in person, and over a month since they’ve sat down to have some quality time like this.
His smile fades, ever so slightly.
He misses his girls.
“Well,” Henry starts, shaking off the feeling. “As entertaining as the piss kink card is, I’ll have to go with Lebron James. I’m very curious as to how and why he would cause someone else’s divorce.”
“That was Mr. Wobbles’ card,” Bea sing-songs.
“It was not.”
“It was!”
“Oh, damn him, that bloody creature-”
“Hazza.”
“Sorry, Mum.”
There’s a sturdy knocking at the door on their end, the rhythm and force of it so familiar that it makes Henry cringe a little. Leave it to his brother to ruin everyone’s day.
His mum untangles herself from the covers, presumably to try and fend off whatever royal duty he’s got lined up for them now. They argue for a minute or so, tinny voices over his phone speaker; then Bea’s turning back to face him.
“Sorry, Hen,” she whispers, downcast. “Mum and I better log off before Philip has himself a fit.”
Henry feels himself deflate at that, a fist curling over his heart. It takes him by surprise - how much it aches to have them go, as if he’s never going to see them again.
“Pip really can’t spare another ten minutes?” he tries. “We hardly started our game.”
She must think he sounds pathetic, but it can’t be helped. He wants them to stay.
Philip gives a particularly loud, whiny scolding from the doorway, and the regret on Bea’s face is clear.
“I think he’ll detonate before those ten minutes are up, Hen. I’ll tell Shaan you said hello?”
“Please do. And check in on Martha for me, as well.”
His sister nods knowingly, shuffling their playing deck back into the box. Henry fiddles with his own cards a bit, gnaws at his lip.
“...You’ll call soon, right?” he asks quietly.
Bea’s gaze turns fond, and he knows that if she were here, he’d be suffocating in one of her fiercest hugs. The thought of it makes him feel a little better.
“Of course, darling. We miss you terribly.”
“I miss you, too.”
“Love you. Talk soon, alright?”
Henry nods. “Love you.”
The call disconnects with that depressing little hang-up tone, and then Henry is left sitting there, despondent and alone at the dining room table. He sighs.
Perhaps it’s been too long.
It only takes a minute for Alex to show up, strong arms sliding around his shoulders from behind. There’s a slow kiss to his neck - the steady press of lips that Henry’s felt a hundred, a thousand times over, and he doesn’t say anything. Just sinks back into Alex’s embrace, letting himself be held.
It makes him smile, however weak it may be. His boyfriend is always on time nowadays.
“Hey, baby,” Alex mumbles against the crook of his shoulder. He feels the words travel down his spine - a lazy, gentle balm over the hurting in his chest.
“Hi, love.”
His voice comes out tired, but he can’t bring himself to care. He knows there’s nothing to hide here, as he’s settled against Alex’s chest. There hasn’t been for a while.
Alex rests his chin on Henry’s shoulder, nudging him a little with his nose. He’s been wearing his glasses around the house more often; they tickle the side of Henry’s face. “How’re the girls doing?”
Something twists in Henry’s stomach again, but he figures it’s just him being overdramatic about everything. As per usual.
He swallows. “Good. Avoiding my brother as best they can.”
“Shit, aren’t we all?”
Alex is leaning his head back, now, the outline of brown curls just visible at the edge of Henry’s vision. He’s trying to catch his eye, maybe share a smile. Henry can’t quite meet him there.
His hand reaches up to cup Henry’s jaw, lightly, guiding it so they can face each other. A soothing thumb passes over his cheekbone.
“Sweetheart? You okay?”
And he still gets that feeling, there, even now. An uncertainty. A wall, battered and crumbling after four years of knowing each other, but standing nonetheless.
Maybe, if this were happening at the start of it all, Henry would say he’s fine. Brush off Alex’s hands, get up to go distract himself with the dishes or pour over one of his old comfort books.
But they’re older now. Closer. Henry can flick his gaze up to meet his boyfriend’s, and see the concern there, and it’s all too easy to let the tears well up.
Because it’s Alex. He trusts him to wipe them away, afterwards.
“I think I’m a bit homesick,” Henry whispers, hoarse through the lump in his throat.
Then, suddenly, his face is crumpling, and he just feels too far away from his body to do anything about it.
Alex’s expression turns grave, and he doesn’t waste a second before dragging a chair over, his hand never leaving Henry’s cheek as his breathing starts to stutter. The heartache is so intense, so overwhelming, that he doesn’t know what to do - he misses his mum and he misses his siblings and he misses the way he used to lie in the gardens in the springtime, he genuinely fucking misses grass-
And it’s only Alex that can calm him down, always, pulling his head steady against his heart. Rocking him slightly, back and forth. Telling him that it’s okay, breathe for me, baby, please, please don’t cry.
He loves him. He wishes he had the words.
“Shh. Oh, honey, shh.” Alex kisses the tears from his face delicately, as if each one were a thing spun from glass. He coaxes Henry’s head back up toward his own with practiced ease, encouraging, only pushing him the slightest amount. There’s no judgement, none of the oh, cut that out he used to get as a child - just love, and compassion, spilling over every fissure in Henry’s porcelain chest.
“Henry, sweetheart,” Alex coos, fingers slipping over the wet of his cheeks. Henry hiccups a sob. “Shh, look. Look at me.”
Hands shaking, he latches onto Alex’s shoulders. Tells his eyes to look up, up, blue on brown, the one thing he knows will always make him feel better.
“The bar exam’s in a month, okay?” Alex explains, carefully brushing the hair out of Henry’s face. “I can take some time off after that. What do you say we fly back to England for the summer?”
Henry peers up at him tentatively, not trusting the hope.
“Really?” he sniffles, wipes at his nose. “You don’t want to go to- to Texas, or Italy, or something-”
And Alex kisses the center of Henry’s forehead for an awfully long time, stealing the breath from his lungs. His hands are rough, maybe, but they cradle the back of his neck with a tenderness Henry has only known in dreams, before.
“I don’t care where we go, Hen,” he murmurs quietly. “Just wanna be with you.”
Henry somehow gets his eyes to crack open, though they’re all blurry and spent, and the sight of Alex’s face has him wondering all over again-
How many times can you fall in love with someone?
He can’t find an answer, only nods under the force of it. Clears his throat enough to whisper:
“I’d like that.”
Alex smiles, ever so faintly, his nose brushing against Henry’s own.
In this light, Henry can see him in technicolor focus - every glorious inch of unruly dark curls, that mischievous smile poking dimples into the sides of his chin. He always thought Alex was so, so handsome.
But his face is a tad different now. The angles of it are more defined, his jaw a bit rugged at the edges.
The fire in his eyes has simmered down, too, Henry can tell.
What was once blazing, impulsive - an inferno of reckless decisions - has turned into a low-flickering flame. Alex has learned, over the years, how much that heat can warm the people around him, and how easily it can burn a house down.
So when Henry looks at him, now, it’s like sitting by a hearth on a lonely winter’s night. It’s the woolly blanket enveloping his shoulders, the steam curls of tea rushing down his throat.
Henry is protected, and he is loved, and he is welcome to bask here in Alex’s arms until the slow trickle of days run out.
England is lush green in the summertime. It’s a special kind of feeling for Henry, to finally trace his fingers over the glass and see it spread out in windswept hills, miles below; in miniature herds of sheep wandering across the fields.
There’s Alex’s head snuggled on top of his shoulder, wide-eyed as he watches the country pass beneath them. His hands wrapped around Henry’s bicep, lips dropping a kiss to his neck every time it seems to cross his mind. Henry just feels complete, like this, so many parts of him finally being stitched back together at the seams.
If the joy was taking root in the plane ride to London, it blooms fully once Henry catches sight of Bea and his mum. They look as ecstatic to see him as Henry feels, and Alex shoves him forward with a laugh that says-
Go ahead, baby. You know I’ll be here when you get back.
So he runs up to meet them, because living in New York for three years has rid him of every last urge to follow royal etiquette, and they shriek excitedly as he gathers them all up in a hug that has been Too. Long. Overdue.
He can’t recall the last time he was this overwhelmed in such a wonderful way. The mild scent of Bea’s perfume, something like bergamot and jasmine flowers; rogue strands of his mum’s hair getting caught in his mouth; the chattering voices, all around him, of “Oh, sweetheart, we’ve missed you so much!” and stray I love you’s getting caught in the wind.
Surrounding him. Filling him up, better than any daydream or quiet imagination in the night.
When Alex joins in from behind, an anchor that fits snugly across the expanse of his back, keeps him tethered to the earth - Henry knows what it means to belong.
The next month and a half go by in a whirlwind of laughter, and a bit too much booze. Henry makes sure to write everything down at the end of each day, pressing it all firmly into the corners of his mind - a bright, colorful scrapbook to pull out when it rains.
The first few days are mostly spent holed up in Bea’s rooms, catching up on everything that weekly phone calls just couldn’t cover. Henry breaks into his old reserves of Korean face masks, and Bea tells him about the gigs she’s been playing at the local pubs. She never technically asks for permission from Gran - but it’s Shaan’s job to accompany her if she sneaks out, and she’s been sneaking out quite often.
“The money goes to local rehabilitation centers,” she explains slyly, face moisturized and mouth full of popcorn, “And if it means I get to snog a stranger or two in between sets, then it’s a win-win for everybody.”
He takes tea with his mum on Sunday mornings, the both of them giggling when Alex stacks four cucumber sandwiches on top of each other to make something “Remotely fuckin’ close to the contents of an actual meal.” She’s been painting, he learns. Whenever she’s bored, or blue, or completely fed up with the handful of reporters that keep finding her personal phone number - she’ll let everything out over a canvas.
All of this feeling, splayed out in flowers, and hummingbirds, and jade-colored forests. Henry traces his fingers over a dozen of them and wonders if he and his mum are so different after all.
He sets aside time for Philip and Martha, eventually - though it’s mostly to hear the toddling footsteps of his niece and nephew. Little Sophia, stumbling her way around the grounds in her ruffly dress socks; Charlie, who’s three and will duel the most esteemed of royal guests with any stick he can find in the vicinity.
It’s Alex who suggests they spend the day at Buckingham’s indoor swimming pool. Henry cringes at the sound of it - the ostentation - but quickly grows accustomed to the idea when he sees Philip and Martha’s surprised faces.
“Swimming pool?” Philip questions, cocking his head. “I didn’t know we had one of those.”
So there they are, kicking around with the kids in the shallow end while Martha lounges on one of the deck chairs. Philip tries his best to just sit still.
At first, Henry is so preoccupied with corralling Sophia within his arms (she may have bright yellow arm floats keeping her bobbing above the water, but he’s not about to put them to the test) that he doesn’t even notice it from across the pool.
But then he glances up, and-
There’s Alex. Chest bare, aside from the necklace that he never takes off, hair tangled and drenched. His laughter bounces off the chamber walls, filling the emptiness with something so heartfelt and alive, echoing as he tumbles around the water with Charlie. A couple of flips off the wall, some poor attempts at doing a handstand; splashing carelessly, and brushing the blond curls out of Charlie’s face every time he pops up to the surface.
“You okay there, buddy?” Alex asks after Charlie comes up coughing a bit. He soothes circles on his back, coaxing some of the water out.
Charlie nods his head fervently, eyes going puppyish in the reflecting light.
“M’alright. Mummy says I’m a big boy now.” He huffs his baby chest out as far as he can, cheeks puffed up adorably.
Alex gives a serious nod. “Oh yeah, kiddo. Big boys don’t drown in the swimming pool.”
Charlie doesn’t quite understand, of course, but his attention span is only a few seconds long. He switches gears, lets out a tiny gasp: “S’time for a piggyback ride?”
“It is absolutely time for a piggyback ride,” Alex says in return, and then he’s hoisting Charlie up onto his back, smiling, indulgent, at the sound of his excited giggles.
And at the sight of them wading through the water - of playing pirates searching for a secret island, and then a couple of dolphins swishing up and down through the waves - Henry senses something shift. Somewhere in the place where his heart ends and meets his soul is where this picture is placed, this vision of Alex roughhousing and cuddling and wise-cracking with his baby nephew.
Henry sees a man, and a husband, sometime soon. But he also sees a father.
Sophia babbles in his arms, wanting to splash more. Henry smiles and keeps it to himself.
The weeks go by, mornings intertwined in the bed sheets and evenings spent chattering over pizza in Bea’s rooms. He and Alex picnic in the gardens, like Henry had been missing, and he finally allows himself to breathe. To enjoy the taste of strawberries bursting in his mouth; glasses of champagne shared beneath the sunshine; the unhurried press of Alex’s lips against his own.
After months of trying to get the second shelter up and running in Queens, of having every manuscript sent back to him for revisions by the editor - Henry lets himself recharge.
And this is all he needs, truly. The last few weeks of summer aren’t even up yet when he can feel himself winding down, yearning for the faint sounds of Alex tinkering down in their kitchen, rather than the stiff march of staff through the corridors. Henry tells him as much, on the last night of August.
A whisper, traveling soft over the cool pillowcases:
Let’s get out of here, love.
Half-asleep, Alex cups his cheek and nods.
The morning of their departure, they stop by his dad’s grave. It’s foggy, this early in the day. Sometimes, he expects the weather to clear up when he visits, for the sun to peek through every now and then to help him remember.
But when the sky is dull, it stays that way. He’s learned to live with it, over the years.
The mist hangs heavy on Henry’s shoulders as he criss-crosses his legs on the ground, sweeps some dead flower petals off the stone. He never quite knows what to say when he gets here. It doesn’t matter if Bea is with him, or his mum, or even Alex, who’s holding tight onto his hand, now - there aren’t any words.
Only the sadness, bubbling back up to the surface, while he traces the lines of Arthur Fox on the ground. And the tears that follow, every now and again.
“Do you think he would’ve made me call him ‘sir?’”
Alex’s question, breaking through the grim silence. It startles a smile out of Henry - a glint of happiness at the bottom of the earth.
He thinks about it - really thinks about it, pictures his dad meeting his boyfriend, clapping Alex on the back. Spending ages chatting about representation in film and the filthy little secrets of Hollywood directors.
Being happy for them. Being proud.
He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.
When he’s ready, Henry answers, “No. Just Arthur, I think.”
Alex offers a smile, nods. And he drops it there, he does, but Henry-
He just-
“He would have teased us for staring at each other at the dinner table,” Henry adds, swallowing through the tightness in his throat. Alex listens closely, stays with him. One thousand percent.
“And he would have laughed at the way you take your tea. You don’t steep it for nearly long enough.”
“Hey!” Alex chuckles, cuffs his shoulder. Aims another shaft of light into the darkness. “I just don’t like it when it gets all dry and bitter-tasting. It isn’t a crime.”
“Maybe not in your country. But here we have actual standards.”
“Standards, as in eating beans out of a can for breakfast?”
“No, standards, as in not selling guns at the local Walmart.”
“Jesus Christ.”
That gets a chuckle out of them both, and it’s nice, for a bit. To be there. To joke around, as if nothing was really wrong. He thinks his dad would laugh, too.
Henry sighs, and he lets the weight of that carry him down, dropping his head onto Alex’s shoulder. His fingers thread into Henry’s hair, tentatively at first - and then with assurance, following their natural path.
“Hen?”
“...Mhm?”
“What else would your dad have done?”
Henry opens his mouth. Closes it. Lets himself imagine.
When he speaks again, the words come out faintly, because it hurts. It hurts to remember, it hurts to forget, it hurts to try and reconcile those things and keep going, after everything he’s lost.
But his dad would have helped them move into their apartment all those years ago, and he would have talked Henry down after all of their fights, and he would have called Alex son every chance he got.
So when Alex takes him into his arms, and gives a thousand apologies, Henry is hurting so damn much. But he’s also starting to feel better. All of it, all at once.
Like his dad is giving him permission, finally, to go on. To keep living, now that he’s found something worth living for.
They fly home that afternoon.
It’s nearly midnight when they wash up, at last, hitting their respective sides of the bed in a bone-tired daze. They don’t bother with pajamas - nothing was getting done after a seven-hour plane ride over the Atlantic - but stripping down into their boxers must count for something.
David hops onto the bed eagerly, settling near Henry’s feet to sleep. And there’s Alex, flicking off his lamplight, turning to face inward, naturally - toward them both. Henry shuffles closer, lays his head on Alex’s chest.
“Hi, baby.”
“Hi.”
“Did you have a good trip?”
Henry makes a noise of agreement, letting his eyes drift shut. The rise and fall of Alex’s chest is hypnotizing beneath him, drawing the world into stillness. He fiddles drowsily with the chain around Alex’s neck, feels the ring and the key resting there. Always connected, even when life tries to tug them apart.
“It was enough time, right?”
A kiss, pressed slowly to Alex’s collarbone.
“Yes, darling. It was wonderful.”
He can feel him exhale in relief at that, knuckles running up and down Henry’s spine. “That’s good. Okay, fuck- I’m glad. I’m gonna make sure we visit more often, okay? We should be getting you back home, like, at least once a year-”
“I’m already home, Alex.”
It comes out so easily, Henry doesn’t even question it. Because of course, this is his home, now. It’s where he laughs the most and does the work that he loves and smushes Alex’s cheek with kisses on his way out the door-
It’s right here, in bed with his family.
But Alex doesn’t answer for a long time. Doesn’t answer at all, actually, so Henry peers up and-
His eyes are so, so brown, and transfixed, right onto Henry’s own. It feels, somehow, as if he is seeing him for the first time.
“Marry me,” Alex breathes.
And Henry is grinning, already, halfway to a smile. Unable to help it, he teases: “What?”
“Marry me, Henry,” Alex tries again, almost urgently, personally wronged by every second that passes without a yes. “Please, please, Henry, will you-”
Henry cuts him off with his lips, relishing in the euphoria of it all, of the love that’s pulsing strong through his veins. The kind that keeps him standing, that makes him want to press his heart closer to Alex’s in the dark.
“Okay, love,” he whispers, pulling back just an inch.
“Yeah?”
Breathless, the both of them.
“Yes. Yes, Alex, yes.”
And they’re laughing, kissing through the tears, trying not to wake David as they stumble and fall into bliss.