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There’s something so beautiful about the mundane, the normal, the routine.
At one point in this life, Henry might’ve disagreed with this statement, finding that mundane meant grey, that normal meant putting on a mask that didn’t quite fit, and that routine meant waking up and falling asleep with a weight on your chest that suffocated you until the inevitable end.
Now, Henry understands it a bit better. He knows that the mundane when living the life you want to lead is one of bliss, that the normal is lovely when love is normal, and that routine is beautiful when part of your routine is loving Alex Claremont-Díaz.
So, when Henry wakes up in Alex’s arms on a mundane Thursday morning, he knows that this is the stuff of dreams, for there is no greater adventure than spending your days with someone you choose to love.
When Alex moves his body to rest on top of Henry’s in a feeble attempt to convince him to ditch work and stay in his arms, Henry knows that, despite the weight of a grown man on top of him laughing and kissing his jawline, he has never felt lighter. It is only after letting himself indulge in Alex’s lips with wandering hands that Alex finally relents, moving his body off of Henry’s with a longing look that only makes Henry want to pull him back into their cotton sheets.
As Alex leaves for his morning run, Henry prepares his tea and Alex’s coffee without so much as a glance—half asleep and half drunk with thoughts of Alex in the shower when he comes back. Perhaps he ought to join him, but they already spent any extra minutes they had in bed earlier.
Henry has to remind himself of this as Alex gets ready for school, watching as his boyfriend shrugs on a jacket that hugs his shoulders the way Henry would, all broad and solid. Alex just grins at him with that cheeky smile because somehow, he always knows what Henry is thinking, especially if they’re thoughts that veer into the unholy territory.
Alex kisses him again before he leaves, and leaves Henry reeling from the way he pulled him down by his collar and snaked his hand around his neck.
Henry’s boyfriend is all the good things in life and even when they leave the security of the home they’ve made together, he is at ease with the knowledge that they’ll always come back to meet in the middle.
Henry spends the whole day at the shelter managing their inventory, setting up therapy appointments for the lodgers, and making sure that everyone is happy. It’s a mostly uneventful work day, as long as he overlooks the fact that Riley—one of the younger kids that the shelter housed—is quite the master at hide-and-seek. So much so that when she fell asleep in their hiding spot, they gave everyone around them quite the fright when they were unable to find her. Although Henry was halfway to death’s grip from fear of Riley possibly leaving the shelter, the pre-teen had a calming presence that even Henry wasn’t immune to.
Despite the wild search the staff and other residents partook in, this situation wasn’t unique. There was never a tranquil day at the shelter, and Henry didn’t mind at all, after having so many quiet, monotone days in his life.
This is his new normal and he isn’t quite sure how he ever lived without it.
When Kurt, his bodyguard and driver, drops him off at home, he sets his things down before leaving once more to stop by the market to buy ingredients for chicken parmesan, a dish he’s never attempted before but would certainly like to try. Some people recognise him but give him a wide berth as he shops. However, they do sneak glances at him, whispering in hushed voices as they ask each other what the prince of England is doing at the corner farmer’s market.
He thought it was quite obvious that he was shopping for dinner.
When he enters the brownstone, David slips and slides towards Henry, sniffing the grocery bag, most definitely smelling the chicken.
“Alright, old boy, this isn’t for you. It’s for our dinner,” Henry chastises, and he swears that the beagle pouts, never mind that it isn’t physically possible for him to do so.
He takes a quick shower and changes into joggers and Alex’s NYU jumper. He starts up a playlist that he and Alex have created together—songs that they love and can sing in their sleep all in one place. It’s a back-and-forth between Alex and Henry; it goes back and forth between music that makes Alex’s ass shake in a way that drives Henry insane and songs that make Henry smile as he hums along.
David has laid down on the floor, watching Henry closely, prepared to accept any bit of food that Henry is willing to give despite Henry having just refilled his bowl. But after that one time David threw up on the living room carpet because of some food Alex slipped him… well, he wasn’t keen on giving David food outside of his normal kind any time soon.
Henry moves fluidly through the kitchen in a way that only someone who cooks often enough could, whisking and mixing. When the oil pops and sizzles in the pan, he remembers the grease burns that scattered his arm from when he first started cooking for Alex, burning his pristine forearms that had never met such a fearsome adversary as cooking oil.
Perhaps it was a bit strange for a prince to be cooking for the two of them, but after coming out to the world with his boyfriend who just happened to be the son of the President of the United States, Henry found that little things were strange to him at this point.
He had never cooked before moving to New York (not since The Great Sausage Explosion of 2009), but there was something so brilliant about cooking for the both of them. Alex had started out as the cook between them on the days when a homemade meal seemed better than takeout. But once he had started slipping more into legal jargon and less into the kitchen, Henry took it upon himself to make sure Alex was getting all that he needed. For as much as Alex finds himself distracted by everything around him, once he’s in the zone, he can’t be swayed, especially if he’s taken his Adderall to study. So, as Alex studied international law, Henry studied seasonings and decided that his ultimate goal in life was to learn how to make the perfect beef Wellington.
Alex is the perfect test subject, raised on Mexican spice and Texan heat. He’s an eager participant, although Henry knows it’s mostly because he wants to support his new hobby more than anything else. Sometimes, Alex cooks or they get takeout, but Henry has claimed Thursdays to be a day where he cooks for them, no matter what. He likes to try new things, talking with Kurt about new recipes and calling in Oscar for traditional Mexican ones that Alex grew up on.
Learning how to cook was a journey Henry wouldn’t have found himself on without the distance between him and the crown. Princes don’t usually cook, after all, but Henry has since then found that he isn’t quite the usual prince.
The sound of a flute resonates through the kitchen as he slides the chicken into the oven, setting the timer for fifteen minutes. It’s a song he doesn’t know, which likely means that it’s one of Alex’s. There’s a kind of old feeling to it, like it’s a bit aged and distant but even when he doesn’t know the meaning of the words the man is singing through the speakers, Henry can tell that it’s a Spanish love song, perhaps one that Alex learned from Oscar.
Henry’s frying onions in a pan before he almost jumps when he feels soft lips on his neck, peppering his skin with kisses, one after another. He relaxes into the kisses, hands resting themselves on his hips, rough fingertips rubbing his navy blue monogrammed apron.
“Alex,” Henry greets with a smile, turning his head to look back at the love of his life. “Welcome home. How was school?”
Alex nuzzles his face into Henry’s neck from behind, his arms wrapping themselves around his waist and Henry has never felt more at ease than right now, in Alex’s arms as he cooks to the soft crooning of a man he doesn’t know. Alex inhales deeply, and Henry’s hand—the one that’s not currently sautéing the onions—reaches behind to tangle his fingers into Alex’s chocolate shaving curls.
“It was alright,” Alex answers, removing himself from Henry’s neck. It’s silly but Henry can’t help but feel bare right where Alex used to be, his skin exposed to air and light and not Alex. “Busy. Is this Luis Miguel?”
“You tell me. It’s one of yours, isn’t it?” Henry’s eyes follow Alex as the other boy inches away from him, watching as Henry makes the sauce.
“It’s one of my dad’s favorites. Contigo en la distancia.” He pauses before translating, “With you in the distance.”
When Henry sets a timer on his phone for eight minutes, he finds Alex close to him again, like magnets that can’t be pulled apart when close enough. He needs to check on the chicken soon, in case it burns but—
"Dance with me?" Alex asks, holding out a large hand to Henry. His palm is up, ready to take Henry's in it.
That very palm is one that Henry is oh-so familiar with. It's the palm that finds itself on the dip of Henry's hip when they lean closer together, the palm that cups Henry's cheek when they kiss. It's the palm that places itself on his chest as it pushes him down until the breath is knocked out of him, half by the impact of his back on the bed and half by the feeling of Alex's lips that often find his own not a minute later. He's traced the ridges of that palm, the slopes of its dips and curves, and drawn on the lines that June swears reveal Alex's nature. It's the palm that holds Henry's own, the one he kisses as Alex spoons him, the one that holds Henry's heart.
It's just his hand, but there isn't any universe in which Henry wouldn't take it.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Henry takes Alex’s hand, and Alex pulls him close, hot breath against his ear as he sings the words of the song to him: “En parte de mi alma ya nada me consuela si no estás tu también.”
Henry doesn’t speak Spanish, but he doesn’t need to speak the language to feel the love that Alex pours into the words, like milk into tea, all at once until it takes over every crevice in his body.
They rock together, Henry abandoning all his ballroom lessons to just focus on the feeling of Alex’s body against his and the music leading them on. His hands slide across his neck while Alex’s palms find those dips on his hips, holding them as they sway.
As he sings softly, Alex’s lips make their way around Henry’s face, leaving hot traces even when they leave. “Mas allá de tus labios…” He kisses right under Henry’s jaw, where his face and neck meet. “El sol y las estrellas…” A kiss on his cheekbone. “Contigo en la distancia…” On the space between his eyes. “Amada mía, estoy.” His lips.
Henry is a believer in the fact that there is no greater indulgence than kissing Alex.
Kissing Alex is everything sweet and savoury, everything beautiful and delightful in life. It’s hot and heavy but still soft and loving. His kiss both grounds Henry to earth and sends him flying to the heavens. It was something that once only existed in his daydreams until it was made a reality. They were kisses he flew across the Atlantic for, kisses he gave up everything he knew for.
Alex pushes Henry’s body against the kitchen island, the countertop digging into the small of his back in a way that might’ve been painful if he were aware of anything except Alex, Alex, Alex. His love kisses fast and hard like he’s afraid Henry will disappear any second, like they’re back in a hotel room with an hour to spare before someone catches them. Henry kisses back soft and slow, reminding Alex that neither of them is leaving any time soon, that this is permanent and forever.
Sometimes Henry needs to remind himself of that fact too.
Alex is kissing down Henry’s neck when both alarms go off: the one on his phone for the sauce and the one on the oven for the chicken. Alex freezes, and Henry’s hand grips his hair tighter to keep him close, the other boy moaning in response. Well, now Henry really doesn’t want Alex to leave.
But then he’s reminded of the food once more, and when David starts to walk around the kitchen due to the noise of the alarms, Henry has to push Alex away from him. His boyfriend looks kiss-drunk—all swollen lips and mussed hair—and Henry knows that dinner will not last long tonight.
Henry runs off to the oven to take out the chicken and prepare the sauce, making two plates of chicken parm and when he turns around, Alex is holding two glasses of margaritas, smiling that half-smile of his that’s part-mischief, part-charm, and all handsome. His head tilts to the side as he raises an eyebrow, as if to ask what Henry thinks.
Henry just laughs and shakes his head, walking the plates over to the island and taking one of the glasses. Alex’s newly free hand reaches back to lean against the counter and Henry is privy to the way Alex’s eyes darken as they take in Henry’s body from a distance, drinking his margarita.
“You’re a plague on earth. A menace. Brought down from the heavens to bring about my absolute demise. My own personal demon.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about baby,” Alex chuckles as he sets down his glass and brings a plate closer. He cuts a piece of the chicken, inspecting it from all sides before throwing a glance at Henry, who is watching him intently and waiting for his feedback. Alex pops the chicken in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the beat of Bowie’s “Up the Hill Backwards,” which is currently reverberating through the kitchen.
“Well?” Henry asks, almost nervously. Even if he’s been cooking for a few months now and has only been improving with each meal, he can’t help but feel a bit apprehensive about what Alex thinks every time. Nobody’s opinion matters more to him than Alex’s.
“I think…” Alex’s hand grasps at Henry’s forearm, pulling him closer to him. “I think this is the best fuckin’ chicken parm I’ve had in my life. Although, I’ve only had it like… twice, so take that with a grain of salt.”
Henry rolls his eyes. “What high praise for little old me.”
Alex cuts a piece from Henry’s plate using his utensils and brings it to Henry’s lips, which part willingly on command. They always part willingly when it came to Alex, compliant and eager, delighted in the result.
Henry chews as he takes in the flavour, nodding in accomplishment. “Adequate.”
Alex laughs, rough around the edges and wonderfully beautiful. “Hen, that was pretty damn good. Give yourself some credit.” He eats another bite, chewing before adding, “Although maybe it’s a bit burnt.”
Henry scoffs, eating more of the meal he made. “If it is, it’s your fault what with how you didn’t seem to want to let go of me.” He rolls his eyes as he sips his margarita—salty, sour, and sweet coming together to rest on his taste buds and rush down his throat.
“Don’t act like you didn’t want to leave either. Your legs were practically gripping my thigh.” Alex’s hand rubs his thigh as if he were in pain but Henry knows he is far from it.
“No comment,” Henry comments, popping another piece of parm into his mouth.
“Tell me about work. How’s Pez?” Alex asks, and that sets Henry off into a spiel about his day; Alex listens intently, cutting in at times to comment, and cursing for Henry when he brings up someone who withdrew their donation last minute because the shelter’s values did “not align with those of the donor’s.”
“Fuck TERFs,” Alex states, throwing back the rest of his margarita.
“Quite,” Henry agrees, taking their empty dishes to place them in the sink to be washed later.
When Henry turns to face Alex again, he finds that his boyfriend has undone his buttons and folded his sleeves to his forearms, crossing his arms across his exposed chest.
Henry’s eyebrow raises at the pretty picture in front of him, staring at Alex suspiciously.
“What are you playing at, Alex?”
Alex just grins and hops onto the counter. “I dunno, I noticed you had just the right amount left for a shot in your cup, so well… Why not make it a fun one?”
Henry walks closer to Alex, the cool tips of his fingers meeting Alex’s hot skin and Henry is only slightly distracted by the feel of Alex’s hard stomach. Only slightly .
Alex noticeably shivers when Henry touches him, flinching back from the difference in temperature before inching closer. They lean close together, the tips of their noses touching, hot breath and calculated stares as brown eyes meet blue. But they don’t kiss, because if they kiss, then the perfectly caved dip on Alex’s chest goes to waste.
Henry’s fingers trace up Alex’s body before they meet that particular dip, his other hand bracketing Alex’s strong thigh.
“Lay down.”
Alex listens, laying back slowly and steadily until his back meets the cool marble. When Henry pours the drink into the cavern of Alex’s chest and sprinkles salt onto his stomach, he can’t help but admire how still Alex is—how even as his fingers twitch and his eyes follow Henry’s movements, his body is immovableAlex has always been a good listener—Henry tells him such, and he inhales sharply at the praise. Henry smiles.
“Are you going to drink up, or do I have to clean up my own messes becau—” Alex starts, running his mouth again as he’s ready to make another sarcastic quip, but he stops when Henry brings his head down to lick the salt from the ridges of Alex’s stomach—his tongue finding every slope and rise before arriving at the margarita.
Henry looks up from Alex under his eyelashes and is faintly reminded of how Alex looks when Henry’s on his knees for him. When he slurps the alcohol from Alex’s body, he keeps looking at Alex and only stops when Alex breaks their eye contact to throw his head back against the counter. Henry’s tongue is lapping Alex’s chest, trying to get every last bit.
He only stops when Alex places a hand on his forehead, lightly pushing Henry away from his body.
“Problem?” Henry questions, licking his lips and tasting salt.
“Several,” Alex agrees. “You’re not in our bed. I’m not in our bed. You’re not naked. I’m not naked. Etcetera. Etcetera.” He sits up, his necklace holding his key and Henry’s signet ring bouncing on chest, which is glistening with spit. Henry’s spit.
“Easily fixable,” Henry points out and has to remind himself not to swoon when Alex kisses him. His hands are on both sides of Alex as he sits on the counter, cupping Henry’s head closer to his. Henry’s hands run alongside Alex’s back, up and down soothingly before moving to rest at his waistband. Alex’s hands rest on top of his and he pulls away, looking directly at Henry.
“I once said ‘that’s not allowed before I see you naked’. So how’s this: I wash the dishes to thank you for the fucking delicious meal tonight and you get ready for bed. What d’you think?”
“Splendid. One of your best ideas. Not that there have been many but this is still quite up there if you ask me.”
Alex pushes Henry’s shoulder away, jumping down from the kitchen island as he laughs, “Asshole.”
“Well, yes!” Henry replies, before making his way up the stairs.
As he hears Alex wash the pots and plates, Henry washes up and then loses himself to self-inflicted bliss. When Alex is back, Henry relinquishes the command of his pleasure to him, listening to his words and doing his best to comply with them. And when he pushes Alex down onto the bed and straddles his hips to the melody of his moans, Henry can’t help but think that his boyfriend’s music was much more delightful to listen to than their shared playlist.
It builds up, slowly and then quickly for the both of them like the climb before the high drop of a rollercoaster, and when that drop arrives, there’s no better feeling than arriving there together.
Henry watches as Alex cleans them up, carefully as he whispers sweet nothings and as Henry whispers them back. Even if they’re the only ones in the brownstone and even after all the noise they made, it’s moments like this that feel extra private with words that they could only say to each other—words that they can only hear.
It’s I love you ’s in Spanish, French, and English, admissions of adoration and love in kisses and memories. It’s reciting words that they never thought they could say through email in the unique timbre of their voices—rough and low, lovely and loving.
When the only dances Henry had ever known were prim and proper waltzes in front of hundreds of scrutinizing eyes, dancing in the kitchen to a song in a language he didn’t know was something he had never known would be mundane to him.
When the only fun drinking he had was with Pez behind closed doors, body shots on the dip of his lover’s chest where his stomach met his chest is something he would have never thought to be normal.
When the only delighting he had of another’s body was with hushed whispers and quick glances across the room, coupled with thirty pages of an NDA and secrecy, having all of Alex at his reach—at the end of his fingertips was something he never expected to be routine for him.
And yet…
And yet, as Alex’s arms wrap around Henry once more, in an almost identical position to how they were when they woke up earlier that morning, Henry can’t help but think that there was something so beautiful about the mundane, the normal, the routine when he chose this life for himself.
Henry kisses Alex’s palm and laces their fingers together, their hands as they belong: connected.