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Henry isn't proud to admit he might be hiding in his bedroom of his own home at the age of twenty five, but at least he knows nobody present is going to fault him for retreating into himself.
After Thanksgiving at the White House, which was a subdued affair —or as subdued as it can get when the President hosts a dinner that includes not one, but two royal offsprings that have to bring their family’s photographer to appease the grumbling of an old hag who has entirely too much power for her own good—, the media had gone batty speculating the wild plans the Super Six must have after they’d seen them boarding Pez’s private plane.
Of course, the boring truth was more about how six barely functioning adults planned to decorate the house that was supposed to host both families on Christmas. They didn't want to hire anyone to decorate their own home, and June had come up with the plan, thinking that six brains would work better than two.
It has been one of the most joyous days in the recent years of Henry’s life, and yet here he is, gazing at the cloudy night of New York through the window, futilely hoping to find constellations among the pollution that plagues the air of the city, while sitting on the floor with his thighs tucked inside the embrace of his arms.
The thing is, Henry's brain acknowledged the overwhelming happiness he was feeling, and promptly shut down. Now he just sits here, looks up at the sky, and prays to whatever deity might be listening that the impending panic attack doesn't catch up to him.
He was having a good night, with Pez and Alex making a competition about the amount of tinsel or ornaments they could place on the tree, with Bea and June alternating between placing fairy lights everywhere in their home, and making a villa that occupies half of the enormous living room, while Nora controls the playlist and judges how symmetric is or isn't everything from the couch, where she guards the latkes one of her moms has been sending her for the last two weeks, and provides the spicy chocolate she helped June make.
Henry had been helping with the hanging of the lights, since neither June or Bea could reach the top of the windowsills sometimes, which made both of them incredibly aggravated; but he had lost himself on his own mind, triggered by a glance from the corner of his eye that had drown him in the memory of his family decorating the Fox’s house in Wales, and left him dazed and struck with grief as he washed ashore.
“Hey, you.” A shoulder pushes lightly against his, and he's brought back to the moment when he notices Bea sitting beside him.
Sometimes Henry forgets how beautiful his sister is, even with the same tiredness around her eyes that he sees reflected in the mirror whenever he spends too much time in London, that glow in her eyes that shine bright but not incandescently anymore, the deep hurt that binds them together. Even after all of that, she is absolutely the most incredible person Henry has ever had the pleasure of meeting, and he will ever be so thankful to Fate for putting her in his life.
He wants to tell her this, but instead, what comes out of his mouth is “Do you ever wonder if at some point we’re going to stop always expecting the worst?”
Bea and him have talked about this before. Ever since meeting Eric, the roguishly handsome but sweet guy she met at work, she has expressed these same feelings of anxiety before to him.
It hasn't come from him in a long time.
Bea sighs, “I honestly don't know. I should hope so. Otherwise, we’re not gonna get anywhere.”
“How so?”
“Well, if we keep getting stuck on the past, how are we going to live our futures?”
Henry takes a moment to take that in. Inhale. Exhale.
“I guess that makes sense.”
Bea looks affronted when she turns to hit him on the arm. “Of course it makes sense, you twat! I’m your big sister, I know absolutely everything!”
Henry narrows his eyes. “So you do know why Martha and Philip are acting all secretive and mysterious?”
Bea arches one of her eyebrows when she replies, “You don't ?”
“Of course I do ! I was just wondering if they already had a date for the birth to make arrangements .”
“What kind of arrangements?”
“Well, there is this ring I’ve had my eye on for so long, but I need to plan beforehand, because as much as I love to poke fun at Alex for being oblivious sometimes, he's become frighteningly attuned to any surprise I try to pull on him, and it's driving me insane.”
There is a moment of stunned silence, then Bea screeches and hits Henry’s arm repeatedly and with enough force to probably leave several bruises, and just as fast, it’s gone and Bea is taking deep breaths to calm herself.
“Took you long enough.” Bea grits between her teeth. “In any way, I don't know about Martha’s due date, and that will be a problem for us in the future.” She stands up and extends her hand at him. “For now, I offer you the chance to save me from any more Mariah Carey and play Step into Christmas or Thank god it's christmas, because I cannot handle this anymore.”
Henry hesitates for a moment, takes stock of himself and finds the remnants of the panic attack gone for now. He knows he will be able to retire if he feels like it's coming back, and the piano has always soothed his mind. So he takes Bea’s hand and stands up in front of her.
“You will need to get used to it, dear sister. I assume it won't be our first Christmas with the Americans.” He smirks sluggishly at her, and receives another hit in the arm for it.
Getting back to the people he most loves in the world, including his future husband and love of his life, and settling back in without anyone batting an eye or asking any questions, it's the greatest gift he has ever had.
Henry sits on the piano bench and glides through Sir Elton John's Step into Christmas as his best friend and sister sing loudly, June and Nora spin each other around the crowded living room, and Alex sits beside himself and uses the dirtiest tricks he knows to try and distract him: his eyelashes, pouty lips, warm and reassuring hands on Henry's thigh, his whispers of love declarations and entire existence in itself. Yet, he only gets a quick peck as reward for the effort, because Henry knows Alex and he knows how bothered he gets when Henry is able to multitask or shows his proficiency at the piano.
Henry’s mind catches on the hand on his thigh that squeezes periodically but doesn't move from its innocent place. It is Alex's silent way of letting him know that Henry can rely on him, that none of the battles Henry is fighting, he's doing it alone, and that if he is, he’ll always have a place to come home to. And after that, how can Henry fear the future, when he's so sure Alex is going to be there anyways?