Archive of Our Own

1. Shaan  

Henry is, to the surprise of absolutely no one, a perfectly competent financial professional. 

He doesn’t love his work. Quite frankly, he’s always found the concept of a passion for one’s own livelihood to be ridiculous. He was born a hopeless romantic— buried as the sentiment has been since he grew old enough to be teased for it by his schoolmates —and therefore knows the difference between what’s been feigned and the tender real thing. Love does not live in spreadsheets, surely. 

That fact notwithstanding, Henry must admit that his work suits him. Numbers have always come as naturally to him as words and compensate him at a tremendously better rate. He enjoys tidying up messes. Office politicking is less necessary for advancement in his department, which is likely the lion’s share of why he’s done so well. He’s terrible at networking. Pez often says that, as far as icebreakers are concerned, Henry is permafrost.

And, to be honest, he’s always dressed the part. Jumpers, cardigans, khakis, loafers. He’s worn the same tapered haircut since he was fifteen years old. If not for his perfect vision he’d be well-suited to spectacles. It’s likely only a matter of time before a pocket protector finds its way into his possession.  

There’s no point in fighting these things. They are as obvious and unyielding as the laws of physics. Every particle attracts every other particle in the universe with a force that is proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between their centers. Henry Fox is soft-spoken, keeps to a strict schedule and a stricter diet and is, by all accounts, a bit dull. 

His phone buzzes. He prefers not to check his personal messages during the workday. His professional life lives in his tidy office. He’s found that its best to keep it there and his private matters likewise sequestered. The only hint of anything domestic is his framed photo of David which he keeps tilted towards the back of his desk. It seems to him a bit too intimate to allow his occasional guest the beagle’s unbroken eye contact.  

Another buzz. Henry sighs. 

His computer dings, too. It reminds him of an impending meeting scheduled between himself and Shaan and Hunter, the head of sales. Henry’s stomach sinks. He likes Shaan. He’s a good boss and a better COO— and a fellow Brit, too, which always helps. Hunter is none of these things. Henry’s eyes stray to the ticking clock at the corner of his computer screen. Four minutes left.

Well. Fine. He can allow himself the occasional indulgence, if only to temper an hour spent with an American salesman. 

Alex CALL ME ;) 

uuuugh 

no show!!!  

Henry frowns. It’s rare for Alex’s clients to miss their appointments. They’re booked months in advance, he knows, and there’s quite the aggressive deposit system. He types back: Really? That’s unusual. I’m sorry to hear that. 

The ellipsis of Alex’s reply is immediate: wanna make it up to me? 

Henry scoffs. 

You and I both know that I don’t have nearly enough courage to sit in that chair of yours. 

Well. That was too easy. He regrets the phrasing immediately. From across the city, Alex shoots back: sweetheart we both know thats not where i want you to sit 

“Henry?” 

Henry clears his throat and looks up to spot Shaan stood at his open door, knuckles rapping twice against it. Hunter hovers at his side. This is why he doesn’t text at work. There’s nothing quite as jarring as leaping from images of Alex underne— Alex to his coworkers ready to sacrifice an hour of their afternoon to the drudgery of expense reporting. 

“Yes. Hello. Come in. Let’s get started,” Henry says, silencing his phone and setting it aside. Hunter strides forward and throws himself into the chair opposite Henry’s desk with a loud sigh. 

“Ready for the weekend, Fox?” he asks, for some dreadful reason. 

“Yes.” 

He is. Alex is generally his most busy during the weekends. This weekend, however, he’s made an exception. They’ve booked a little cabin in the Finger Lakes for an impromptu anniversary vacation. It’s not really that, of course. Their relationship is very barely six months old. Alex says this doesn’t matter. Henry is inclined to agree. It feels as though he’s known the man forever. If it wasn’t such an enormous feeling he’d be self conscious about it, but there’s something about Alex and his wellspring of confidence that has eased Henry into accepting the inevitable. He loves Alex. Alex loves him. This will not be the last of their milestones. It will, however, be an exceptional excuse for a few days away from the city and whatever it is that Alex means by his promise of slutty camping. 

He clears his throat. “And you?” 

“Yeah, sure. Going to hit a few balls with the boys, see where that takes us.” Hunter’s face lights up. Oh, no. “You play?” 

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Henry answers. 

“I bet you’d be a natural. Not much different from— what’s that you all do? Cricket?” 

Henry shares a quick glance with Shaan. The older man looks appropriately pained. It’s a shame that Hunter is so terribly good at his job. 

“That’s not really my sport, either,” Henry says. Not to mention that it has absolutely nothing to do with golf. Henry isn’t of the mind to explain this, of course, not that he’s in much of a mind to hold any other portion of this conversation, either. “Shall we?” 

“The green is the real boardroom, you know,” Hunter continues, undeterred even when Henry swings his monitor around to brandish an expertly color-coded spreadsheet at the duo. “You let me know when you have a change of heart. Happy to show you the ropes.” 

“Very generous. Now, if you’ll look to column L….” 

Much to Henry’s relief, they fall into stride without further delay. Hunter’s eyes glaze over before they’ve made it to the second agenda item. This allows for an efficient meeting. Henry’s nerves settle. He and Shaan clean up a few discrepancies and close out the hour in such a way that he’s feeling positively optimistic. 

“Oh,” Shaan says once they’ve all started to shuffle their things together in order to depart. “I’ve nearly forgotten. The Anderson account requested an advance on some of their billing. I’m sorry to ask this, but would you mind pulling it together for them this evening?” 

Henry frowns. In general he enjoys being helpful. When he was younger he took on the task to a fault. Nowadays, however, he’s in possession of a very talented therapist. “Oh. No. Under other circumstances I could maybe prioritize this, but I’m off in an hour for the weekend.”

This seems to surprise Shaan. Hunter looks downright shocked.  

“Ah,” says Shaan. 

“Oh yeah?” says Hunter. 

Bugger, Henry thinks. 

His gaze flickers to David’s photo. Enigmatic as ever, the dog offers no answers. He decides to imagine Alex in his place. What would he say? Something vulgar about where to put the billing, most likely. Henry decides against this approach. The exercise still emboldens him. He might be a private person, but that doesn’t mean that he’s a liar, particularly not when it could be misconstrued as shame. 

“My boyfriend and I arranged for a trip upstate,” he informs them matter-of-factly. “We’re going by car. I’d rather not arrive in the middle of the night.” 

Hunter’s mouth is open. He shuts it. “Huh.” 

Henry drums his fingers against the desktop. “Yes,” he replies, because he’s not quite certain what else there is to be said. 

“I didn’t know that you were gay,” Hunter continues. It carries no malice, which is a consolation prize to the greater conundrum of having to hold the conversation at all. Shaan looks as though he’s about to lose his stiff upper lip over it. “I thought you were just, y’know. British.” 

“Oh. Well. Correct on both accounts,” Henry manages. 

“Huh,” Hunter says again. “Learn something new every day. Alright.” He scratches his nails across his breast pocket. “Good stuff. We all set, then? You let me know when you want those golf lessons, Fox. I’ve always got a plus one at the Club. Real nice place. We’ve had a membership since the forties. They’ll treat you right. See you on Monday, Shaan.” 

Shaan nods at his name. They both watch Hunter saunter through the door. Henry fights the urge to clear his throat. 

“So,” he says instead. Shaan jumps slightly and turns to face him. 

“That was inappropriate,” he decides aloud. Henry shrugs. 

“Not terribly. I’m more concerned that he’s under the impression that I’d be interested in golf.” 

Shaan frowns. “I can speak to him about it.” 

“You’d better not,” Henry laughs. “I can look after myself.”

“Right.” He crosses his arms. Henry feels his stomach sink. Now what? 

“Yes?” 

“We can be honest with one another,” Shaan replies. It sounds too definitive to be a question. Henry nods. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“I don’t mind if you want to leave the office at a reasonable hour,” Shaan continues. “You do good work. I hope I haven’t given off a different impression.” 

“Not at all.” 

“Good.” That doesn’t seem terribly sincere. Shaan gives him a final weighted look before he finally unlatches his arms and heads for the door. “Have a good weekend, Henry.” 

“You too.” 

Henry flips over his phone once Shaan is gone. The screen lights up to show off the placid, preloaded green-and-blue lock screen. There’s a set of preview windows waiting for him. The first: 

Alex CALL ME ;) 

let’s go let’s go let’s go 

Henry smiles. It quickly fades. Shaan knows that he’s gay. He’s also quite obviously apprised of Henry’s nationality. That leaves only one variable unaccounted for with regards to Shaan’s awkward exit. He’d feel less confident about his conclusion if it wasn’t something he’s already run into— and with his own best mate, no less. 

“Christ,” he mutters. He thumbs into his text messages. 

I think that my boss believes that you’re a figment of my imagination, he taps out. It swoops into his conversation with Alex with a ping.

youve got a filthy imagination, Alex immediately responds. 

Henry snorts. 

I’m still at the office, you know. 

we can make that work 

Another ellipsis threatens Alex’s reply. Henry realizes nearly too late that it’s taking long enough to be a photo. 

“For God’s sake,” he mutters, standing abruptly, his phone shoved into his back pocket. He shuts off his monitor and begins to unhook his laptop from its docking station, all the while running a quick calculation regarding just how long it will take before he somehow gets himself fired. 

2. Pez  

Henry first makes Alex’s acquaintance at two in the morning outside of the restrooms of what he is belatedly realizing is an underground sex club. 

(It was not an underground sex club, Alex says. 

It was a club in a basement full of people having sex, Henry reminds him. 

Well, Alex says, if you’re gonna be pedantic.) 

Pez is at fault. This is generally how these things happen. Six hours earlier they finished their dinner, and Pez eyed their empty bottle of wine and asked if Henry was keen on a night cap. It was a Saturday— now, of course, it’s barely Sunday —so Henry had no good reason to decline the invitation. 

“Shit!” 

Someone nearly bowls him over. This one is Henry’s fault. He shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the hallway like that, but he’s distracted by his wet hands, which he didn’t dry in the loo, primarily because there were no towels, but also because someone was very audibly orgasming in the stall neighboring the sinks. 

“Sorry, man.” 

Henry turns, his hands still held awkwardly in front of himself at right angles like a plastic doll. Immediately he’s struck by a primal urge to run. The man is too good looking. As a pair, they are, Henry thinks, typecast to perfection: Henry the sad beige victim to whomever this dark-haired, dark-eyed person is, dressed in tight black trousers and so many tattoos that it doesn’t matter that he’s shirtless. He’s wearing a dangerous grin and spot of cocaine under his left nostril. 

A voice inside of Henry’s head offers: oh, Gran would hate him. 

A second simply whimpers. 

“Terribly sorry,” Henry mutters, to really drive home that particular nail in his coffin. It’s such a goddamned stereotype that he can’t in good conscience be disappointed by the sardonic twist of the man’s grin. Henry ducks his head and makes his retreat. 

“There you are,” Pez cries out. Henry drags his hands across the front of his own shirt and scowls at him. 

“I’m going home.” 

“Nonsense.” Pez shoves a shot glass at him. “You know what the doorknob said.” 

“What?” 

Pez winks. “Drink up.” 

Henry sighs. All of the fight in him seeps out with it. This is year fourteen of their friendship. Pez is unstoppable, and always has been, and always will be. Henry tosses back the shot and grimaces from the aftertaste. 

“This place is filthy,” he tells Pez. Pez nods. The glitter on his face sparkles under the flashing lights. 

“It is, isn’t it? Ah, look there.” 

Henry does. He regrets it. There are a handful of raised platforms scattered across the dance floor. People cling to all of them, bodies in various stages of undress, their exposed skin lit particolored by the lighting. Henry watches in dismay as a man in black smoothly climbs his way onto one. A woman wearing nothing above the waist except for a pair of heart-shaped pasties runs her hands over his tattoos. He tosses his head back and laughs. When he rights himself again she kisses his mouth. 

Oh, hell. 

“Would you like to go up on one of those with me?” 

Henry swallows down his strange mouthful of jealousy and stares at Pez. “You must be joking.” 

Pez grins. He is. 

“Go dance, at least. Everyone’s looking at you.” They are. It is an unfortunate aspect of his height. Pez says that his looks have something to do with it, too, but he sincerely doubts that, especially here. Every patron is attractive. Henry’s blond hair and blue eyes feel disappointingly generic. It’s not the first time in his life that he’s felt self conscious, but it’s certainly the most unique in terms of a backdrop. “They’ll show you a wonderful time.” 

“Pez, I—”

“Your bollocks are going to atrophy.” 

Henry chokes. “You’ve always had a way with words.” 

“Use them, please,” Pez continues tartly. Henry wishes that he was referring to words instead of testicles. “It’s painful to watch.” 

This, Henry knows, is another brick wall. He grits his jaw and hands Pez his empty glass. “Fine. But I’ve only got another hour left in me.”  

“Noted, darling. Let’s use it wisely.” 

Henry pushes his way into the crowd. As Pez promised, it greets him eagerly. He tries his best not to feel claustrophobic. And genuinely, it’s not like he’s a Capuchin. In university he’d been an absolute slag. But he’s older, now, and he’s never liked the feeling of sweating through his clothes, and he’s hoarse from shouting, and his ears are ringing like a gong. He’s had enough to drink to know for certain that he’ll be hungover in the morning. He’s not drunk enough to make any of that worthwhile. 

His eyes dart up from the floor. The dark-haired man is still on his platform. Now he’s dancing with another man, one arm strung around the stranger’s waist and cocked at the elbow so that his hand spreads across his stomach. His other arm is raised to push back his own curly hair from his brow. Even the thick patch under his arm is attractive, somehow. At first he’s staring up at the ceiling but then he drops his chin. Henry feels his eyes on him. 

Shit. Bollocks. 

A handsome fellow in a leather harness sidles into Henry’s space. Henry smiles valiantly at him. It feels more like a grimace. The music shifts into a louder, more pounding beat. Henry can feel it pulsing in his stomach. This used to be fun, he thinks to himself miserably, although he’s not entirely certain that it ever was. 

He glances back at the platform. Two women in matching bikinis dance there, one crouched low into her haunches, her lips nearly grazing against the other figure’s thighs. He frowns. 

“I’m over here.” 

Henry jumps. A hand closes around his forearm to steady him. A set of bold block-letters spell out L-O-V-E across the knuckles. Henry’s heart begins to beat in time with the music.

“Hi,” the man says. He’s cleaned up his nose, at least. His curly hair is a little wild. There’s sweat on his temples. Henry is close enough to him to feel his breath against his throat. It makes his mouth water. 

Christ. 

“Hello.” 

The man smirks. “You like to watch?” 

It’s too hot in there to blush and too dark to see it happen. A small mercy. Henry gathers his courage and replies, “No, not really.” 

“Coulda fooled me.” 

This is stupid. Henry can barely hear him over the music. “Let me buy you a drink,” he decides aloud. The man grins. 

“Sure. Alright.” He slips his hand down from Henry’s forearm to take hold of his wrist. “C’mon.” 

Henry lets himself be led. The man is better at navigating the crowd, even if Henry’s got a good four inches on him in height. There’s a massive Virgin Mary tattooed across his back in a style that Henry recognizes from his coursework on Latin American art history. He makes accidental eye contact. It feels positively blasphemous. 

They make it to the bar. The man flags down the bartender with two raised fingers and receives  a whole kit of things: a dish of limes, a salt shaker, two shot glasses that seem a bit indulgently large. Henry presses his hip against the bar in the way that the other man has and watches when he holds out his hand to him. 

Henry reaches for his wallet. The man snorts and rolls his eyes. 

“No, dumbass,” he says fondly. It’s just as forward as everything else has been. Henry schools his face into a look of cool indifference. He lets the man grab his hand. It feels like a chunk of flint has been struck in the middle of his chest when the man positions Henry’s thumb and forefinger into a circle and drags his tongue along the indentation stretched into the side of his hand. A warm, round stud glances across Henry’s skin when he does. Henry’s knees buckle. Thank God for the bar.

The man taps a sprinkle of salt over the wet patch on Henry’s hand. Then he bends forward and licks the stuff off, moving fluidly to reach for the tequila, which he shoots back, his Adam’s apple bobbing underneath the ink on his throat. Finally the man sucks a slice of lime between his teeth. He catches Henry’s gaze when he does it. Winks. 

“Christ,” Henry thinks again. This time it makes it out of his mouth. 

The man brandishes the salt shaker at him. “Your turn. Where do you want it?” 

Henry swallows thickly. “My name is Henry,” he blurts out. The man smiles until his eyes crinkle. 

“I’m Alex.” 

— - —

“Pez — Pez!” Henry shouts. “Pez!”

Pez finally hears him. He whips his head in Henry’s direction. A feather boa which hadn’t accompanied him to the club trails in his wake.  

“Hello there, my little dormouse! I thought I’d lost you.” 

“No. Well.” Henry’s pulse has been hammering in his ears for what feels like hours. He does his best to catch his breath. “Not yet, but I’m off, is what I’ve come to tell you.” 

Pez squints at him. “You’re hammered.” 

“Yes. No.” He glances over his shoulder. He can just make out the camouflage of one of Alex’s tattooed arms mixed into the crowd behind him. “Yes. Listen. I’ve met someone.” 

“Have you?” Pez is suddenly delighted. “Who?” 

Henry looks out into the dance floor again. He and Alex parted just moments prior, each with their own task of begging off from the friends with whom they’d arrived. Alex finds his up on one of those platforms. His body stretches tantalizingly as he reaches up towards them. One of them grabs his hand and shakes it while the other, a woman, wolf-whistles so loudly that Henry can hear it over the noise. 

“There,” he informs Pez, centering a slightly wobbly point in Alex’s direction. For some reason the light in Pez’s face dims. 

“Oh,” he replies. “I see.” 

Henry frowns. “Don’t be like that. This was your idea. You’re all right getting home?” 

“Of course, Choupette,” Pez drawls, sweet again, although there’s inexplicable pity in his expression. “You gave it a good go, you know. Points for effort. Bisous to David.” 

“Right.” It’s a very odd response. To be fair, Pez is a very odd man. “Goodnight, then.” 

In a different state of mind Henry likely would’ve challenged Pez’s naked disbelief more openly. As it was in that moment, however, his priorities were both pickled and planted elsewhere. He’s convinced of the notion a few minutes later when he feels Alex sling his arm around his waist. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he purrs. “Ready?” 

“Yes,” Henry says, this time with feeling. 

— - —

Pez is already laughing before Henry takes his seat. It’s a reasonable reaction but that doesn’t mean that he likes it. 

“Go on, then,” Henry rasps. His voice is barely a whisper. He grabs the glass of water already poured and waiting for him and takes a long gulp. It makes his stomach clench around far too much tequila. He swallows, somehow. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Pez leans across their shared table. His fingers are knitted in front of himself, nose perched on top. He looks spectacular in a crisply ironed seersucker shirt the same lime green as his hair. Henry is dressed in his trousers from the night before and an old black jumper with a band he’s never listened to written across the front. Not that Pez can see it, but he’s also not wearing socks. 

“Honestly, Haz, I’m not sure where to start.” 

“Let’s not, then,” Henry answers glumly. He stares down at the brunch menu spread in front of himself and manages through sheer will alone not to vomit when he reads the word mimosa.

“Don’t be drastic,” Pez simpers. “Truthfully, I’m a bit cross that you didn’t bring me along.” 

Henry’s stomach lurches into another geometric shape. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I knew that club was a gamble, you know, but it’s rude to continue on a crawl without your captain,” Pez says cryptically. Henry frowns. 

“What?” 

“You clearly had tremendous luck. Where did you go? That sad wine bar of yours? Don’t tell me it was a repeat offender. ” 

“I’m sorry, maybe you need to speak more slowly. What are you on about?” 

“After you begged off to go home on your lonesome,” Pez answers. He enunciates each syllable painstakingly, the bastard. Henry is too clever to roll his eyes when so hungover, but he makes a note to do so later once he’s either been revived or died. “I wouldn’t have said no to a change of scenery if that’s what you were after. I wanted Himbeergeist and they had none in stock, you know. Perish the thought.” 

“What?”

“Au de vie de framboise.” 

“Pez.”

Pez winks. “Percival.” 

“Never once.” Henry squints at him. “I told you when I left. You already know all of this. I even pointed him out to you.” 

This time it’s Pez’s turn to frown. “You most certainly did not.” 

“I most certainly did.” 

Pez taps a ringed finger against the tip of his own nose. “Oh.” 

“Oh?” 

Finally, Pez’s eyes narrow with a Cheshire smile. “Oh. Hazza. Splendid.” 

Henry feels his cheeks begin to broil. 

“You utter slut. I thought you were telling one of your old porky pies. You’re serious? You can’t be.” Henry isn’t certain how to answer any of that, so he doesn’t. Pez remains unflappable. “Really? But he’s hardly your type, is he?” 

I don’t have a type, Henry could contend, but it wouldn’t be terribly convincing. Pez has seen nearly all of them. They are, down to their pressed trousers and sensible sedans, relatively interchangeable men. 

“No,” he says instead. “At least that was my impression at the time.” 

“…And then?” 

“And then he was. Satisfied?” 

Pez laughs. “Absolutely not. Tell me everything.” 

“Well, I haven’t slept with him, if that’s what you’re after.” 

Pez makes a disbelieving noise. “What’s it you’ve done, then?” 

Everything but, Henry nearly says, but doesn’t, gratefully. His mind wanders. He’s back in Alex’s flat— small but surprisingly tidy and packed to the brim with jurassic houseplants —stripped to his pants and straddling Alex’s naked lap. 

Fuck, Alex gasps when they finally pull back for air. Jesus. You’re so hot. Fuck. No. Sorry. Stop. You’re drunk. 

‘M not, Henry replies. He shuts one eye so that there’s only one Alex looking back at him. It is, he realizes, not convincing. Alex laughs lowly. Henry is desperate to taste it. 

Wait, Alex says against his mouth a few minutes later. Seriously. I’m also, like, pretty fucked up. 

Oh, Henry says. His guilt catches up with him. He stiffens. Alex catches him by the arm before he crawls off. 

Hold on. That’s not what I meant. Stay. I’m good for it later. 

“Slept, mostly,” Henry answers. Pez cocks one of his brows. “Not like that. In a bed.” 

“Your bed?” 

“Well, no.” 

Pez whistles. “That explains the outfit.” 

“What?” 

“You look like a towheaded Robert Smith.”

Henry tugs on one of the drawstrings hanging from his collar. “All right, enough,” he mutters.

“You know, I’ve never known you to be the sort to spend the night, even if you do get it in,” Pez observes after a moment of silence. Henry pulls a little harder. The neck of his jumper cinches tight. “You like him,” he adds, which is honestly redundant. Henry chews on the inside of his cheek. “You do!”

“I do,” Henry agrees, finally succumbing to the urge to bend forward and rest his forehead against the menu card. Pez laughs. 

“What’s that for?”

Henry peeks up glumly at him, his cheek still pressed against hors d’oeuvres. “Pez, you thought I was lying about having even spoken to him. I know what it looks like. How is this supposed to work?”  

“I’m only recalibrating, Henry. Don’t misunderstand.” Henry doesn’t answer. He hears Pez take a sip of his drink. His stomach must be made out of lead. “Well. Let’s start small. Did you get his number?” 

Henry digs into his pocket in lieu of a reply. He thumbs through a few screens on his phone and then pushes it across the table in Pez’s direction. 

“Oh, Hazza,” Pez says, back to delighted again. Henry imagines the contact page that he’s pulled up for him: Alex CALL ME ;) displayed prominently on top, unaltered from how Alex keyed it in barely an hour prior. “Well done.” 

3. Philip & Martha 

It’s a terrible way to phrase it, but despite a lifelong love for the language arts Henry can find no better vocabulary: he’s never been so well fucked in his entire life. 

Alex is eager. Generous. Determined. He makes things fun and lighthearted when they benefit from it and remains achingly tender when a late hour makes everything more sincere. He’s well-endowed, but not dangerously so, and neatly matched against Henry’s own preference. Fit. Strong. Abiding. 

More than likely, however, it has less to do with his body and more to do with everything else. He’s a very sweet man. Like Henry, he has a doting elder sister whom he’s careful to keep apprised of most everything he does. His parents are divorced, Henry learns, but he has a good relationship with them, too, along with their own partners (or, in the case of his father, his lack-thereof). 

Alex also has a thick book of his grandmother’s recipes sitting in his kitchen. He calls her whenever he’s wrestling with a particularly challenging dish, slipping into perfect Spanish while she coos at him through the speaker. Henry can recognize the sound of a favorite grandchild even in a foreign language. He thinks it’s very upstanding of himself to not hold too much of a grudge for having never experienced it firsthand. 

Alex tells Henry that he has like, absolutely no chill and proves it when he introduces Henry to a good friend of his as his boyfriend approximately nine days following their meeting at the club. Alex’s friend— who is evidently also an ex-girlfriend —shoots Henry a commiserating look and tells him good luck. 

It is, he thinks. In fact it is better luck than he’s historically been of the mind to believe that he deserves.

“Mnnn.” Alex smacks his lips. The mattress bows slightly when he rolls closer. Henry keeps his eyes closed but presses his lips against whatever part of Alex’s warm body is closest to him. “Mornin’.” 

“Le’sleep a bit longer,” Henry says drowsily. Alex huffs, pleased, fingers brushing through Henry’s hair. 

“Yeah, sure. Just gotta get something to drink, babe.” 

The bed creaks. Henry hears Alex’s bare feet plod against the floor. They’re at Henry’s flat. Alex worked late the night before. By luck and happenstance, his studio is only a few blocks away from Henry’s building. It makes it easier for Henry to convince him to come over after sunset, although he has a feeling that Alex has never been the sort of man who needs convinced. 

He sleeps naked. Henry likes that, too. Everything about Alex feels like a little rebellion. His Gran would’ve consigned him to hard labor if he’d ever considered piercing an ear. Alex, by wonderful contrast, has a ring strung through the head of his cock. 

(Christ, Henry says, unable not to; that must have hurt. 

No fuckin’ shit, sweetheart.) 

Henry stretches. His body is delectably sore. It’s hard not to luxuriate. He hears the tap running in the kitchen and imagines Alex at work filling the kettle, pulling his little French press from the cabinet above the sink, snagging Henry’s canister of loose tea down when he does. He’d like to ask him to move in, he thinks. 

It’s awfully quick, but it feels a little wasteful to pay for two flats in New York City living the way they do; and besides, Henry owns his, and it’s larger— which Alex is too confident a man to feel any sort of way about —and it’s a seven minute walk to Alex’s studio. David likes him, too. He’s always been an excellent judge of character. 

Another fact about Alex is that he is utterly incapable of keeping quiet. As a very quiet person himself, Henry would’ve thought that this habit would’ve driven him mad, but it’s the opposite. The sounds that Alex makes in bed are, quite frankly, the most flattering thing he’s ever experienced in his life, but that’s just part of it. The other part is that he finds himself listening for Alex when he’s not around, missing his chatter and the songs he sings under his breath whenever he runs out of things to talk about. It’s like a lullaby for Henry’s anxiety. Alex, for his part, seems thrilled to have found someone with a limitless capacity to listen to him. 

He’s singing something now that Henry recognizes from one of his cooking playlists. While Henry might have the better ear for music, there’s something about Alex’s off-pitch crooning that makes it absolutely perfect. He’s starting to think it might have more to do with him than it does with Alex but, for God’s sake, they’ve been dating for four months and Henry, unlike his partner, is exceedingly chill. So. 

“El chico del apartamento cinco doce,” Alex sings, tapping out a beat with a spoon against what sounds like the kitchen counter, "el que hace a mi pobre corazón saltar, es a quien le hago cartas noche y día-aaagh!” 

“Aaaah! Fucking hell, who the hell are you?” 

Henry’s eyes shoot open. His heart is suddenly thundering in his throat. David wakes with a thrash and is already barreling through the open bedroom door, barking at the commotion outside. 

A woman’s voice: “Philip, don’t!” 

“You stay right there!” 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

Henry launches out of the bed. He knocks his knee against a bedpost. 

“Shit. Oh, bollocks. Fuck,” he hisses, reaching for the nearest pair of discarded underwear. 

“Jesus fuck, man, who the fuck are you?”

“Shit, Alex!” Henry thunders into the hallway. “Pip, for Christ’s sake—”

“Henry!” Martha yelps. “Quickly! Come here!” 

He sees her first. She’s trapped between a coatrack and the kitchen bar, her hands balled together in terror against her chest. He spots the little globe-shaped keychain that Bea once affixed to their shared spare key— fuck, it’s March the 12th, how in the hell did he lose track of time like this —loaned to them by Henry a few years prior to facilitate international arrivals when he wasn’t available to meet them at the airport.

Bloody brilliant idea, that one. 

Philip is stood in front of her, shoulders squared, brandishing a doorman umbrella like a broadsword. 

“Philip!” Henry shouts. His brother jolts. He looks at Alex, and then at Henry, and then at Alex again. 

Henry does, too. His attention is quickly drawn to the saucer that Alex is holding in front of his crotch. While evidence of his quick thinking it is not, unfortunately, sufficiently sized. 

A new shade of red builds across Philip’s face. “Henry,” he growls. “There is a man in your kitchen.” 

It would have once cowed him. Perhaps this is the culmination of years of careful personal growth. He’ll have to circle back on the idea at a later time. 

“For fuck’s sake,” is what Henry says now, shoulders sagging while he scrubs a hand across his face. 

David gives a final indignant yarf. Then he pads over to Henry’s side and licks his shin. Henry glances down at him. David wags his tail. Henry realizes, belatedly, that he’s put his pants on backwards. 

Happy birthday to him. 

— - —

“Why didn’t you tell me that it’s your birthday?” 

Henry frowns. He doesn’t like how that question sounds. Alex is the sort of person to wear his heart on his shirtsleeves and now it feels as though Henry has plucked it off and trod all over it. This is, of course, the absolute last thing he’d ever do willingly, but he isn’t quite certain how to prove it to him. 

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he promises, gathering the gumption to look at him while Alex shoves an arm through the open side of his black tank. “I’ve just never… They’ve never been terribly important to me. Birthdays.” 

Alex makes a disbelieving sound. He gestures at Henry’s closed bedroom door. Henry can hear the murmur of Philip and Martha’s hushed conversation outside. 

“Yes. I know.” Henry rubs at one eye. Christ. What an absolute disaster. “Look. Pip and I haven’t always had the best relationship, but we’re brothers, ultimately, and I think we’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s better to get along with one another than not. As he’s gotten older I think he’s realized that much of our mess was his doing and now he’s— for better or worse —attempting to make up for it.” 

“With what, a two-person surprise party?” 

“Not so much a surprise,” Henry replies guiltily. “I’d just forgotten, honestly.”

“You forgot.”

“Well. You know. I’ve been rather busy at work, and then I…” Henry pauses. Alex looks up from where he’s fixing his belt buckle and waves a hand at him to continue. Henry realizes a beat too late that he’s become singularly focused on how deftly Alex manages the clasp. His cheeks grow hot. 

This is ridiculous. It shouldn’t still be like this. He clears his throat. “I’ve been distracted.”

“Oh, yeah? By what?” 

“By you, you absolute menace.” 

Alex’s lips twitch. He strides closer, nudging a toe between Henry’s socked feet where he’s sat himself at his bedside. 

“Baby.” The hurt is gone. Henry enjoys the tease in Alex’s tone infinitely more, even if it is at his own expense. 

“Yes, I know.”

“You like me.” 

“I do.” 

“That’s so embarrassing for you.” 

Henry snorts. “Don’t be too proud. They’re still out there. Martha’s stronger than she looks.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Alex says with an impressed whistle. He smooths out a wrinkle on Henry’s collar. It’s so tender a move that Henry feels his eyes water. 

“I don’t just like you, you know,” Henry says. He peeks up through his lashes at him. Alex’s face falls a little. There’s a tiny wrinkle in between his brows. It almost looks like a wince, but Henry knows how to read him, now, which means it takes no courage at all to continue with, “I love you.”

Alex’s eyes shine. “Oh,” he breathes. 

“I’ve felt it for awhile, now,” Henry explains. He can’t stop himself. It feels wonderful to be so honest— or, maybe more specifically, to be around someone who allows him to live so honestly. “I know that it’s early to say something like that— or, well, fast, I suppose. I’m not expecting that you say anything back. It’s perfectly all right if you don’t.” 

“I’m still mad at you,” Alex responds. His soft smile betrays him. Henry’s smiling, too.

“What for?” 

“You don’t know me at all if you think I’m not gonna celebrate your damn birthday.” He crouches between Henry’s legs and reaches out to rest his thumb underneath Henry’s jaw. “Even if the King of England out there has to be involved.” 

Henry snorts. “Careful. You’ll win him over, talking like that.” 

“‘Course I will.” Alex tips forward and kisses him. “I win everybody over.” 

“Oh, is that right?” 

“Mhm.” 

“You’re just that lovable, are you?”

“Naw. Just to you.” Alex kisses him again. This time it goes a little deeper. Henry’s toes curl. “I love you too, you know. Don’t be smart with me. I know you do.” 

He does. What a wonder. 

— - —

“Y’all want any sugar?” 

Philip shifts. The couch creaks. Martha clears her throat. Her eyes have been set on Alex’s bare bicep ever since she and Philip took their seats. There’s a pin-up tattooed there: a man in chaps staring coquettishly over his shoulder, pistol raised to his pursed lips, a cowboy hat tilted at a rakish angle over his brow. Alex has the cowgirl to match on the other arm. They’re very well done. Martha seems to have some big feelings about them. 

“They do,” Henry answers for them dryly. He takes the sugar dish from Alex as the man sidles past him to take his seat beside him. Henry drops a cube into his own cup before pushing the dish across the coffee table towards his guests. “Go on.” 

Philip blinks. “Right.” He adds sugar to his tea with all of the pomp of a dowager. His spoon clinks against his teacup. “Bea’s just sent me a message. They’ve finally found her another flight. She won’t land until late this evening, unfortunately, but she promises to make up for it, even if it does muck everything up for tonight.” 

Henry shakes his head. “I’ve already told all of you that we don’t have to make a fuss. I’m not a child.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Philip tuts. “Us lot can treat you to a dinner once a year, surely. It isn’t as if it’s a hardship.” 

Henry smiles at him. He can see that his brother is trying his very best to be decent. Perhaps surprised by the gesture, Philip smiles back. It would all be rather lovely if it didn’t so quickly drop. Dread is already building in Henry’s chest when his brother’s pale eyes flick in Alex’s direction. 

“Have you warned her about all of this?” 

Henry does his best to not grind his teeth. “All of what, exactly?” Philip raises his eyebrows. Henry feels a grain of sugar crunch between his molars. “Pip, I’ve run out of closets. If you haven’t received the message yet, I’m afraid that I can’t help you.”

Philip turns a light salmon shade. Martha giggles, to Henry’s great stupefaction, although she catches herself quickly with a sip of her tea. 

“That isn’t—” Philip sputters. “You know that isn’t what I mean.” 

“You have to know that I don’t. I told you that I was seeing someone ages ago.” 

“I don’t know if a handful of months is ages, Hen. And let’s be honest with one another here: you’ve left out a few key details.” 

This would be dreadful under different circumstances. Alex, however, is not the sort of person to give a damn about presumptions. It’s obvious in how he’s settled himself at Henry’s side, his arm strung along the back of the couch behind them, thigh pressed flush against Henry’s own thanks to the confident spread of his legs. He’s altogether languid, as warm and syrupy as the tea that he’s made for himself.

“That right?” he answers on Henry’s behalf. “What details we talkin’ about?” 

Philip frowns. He keeps his sights on his brother. “Henry,” he says pointedly. “Don’t be obtuse. You’re an executive professional. You have an Oxford education, for Christ’s sake.” 

So that’s the angle. Henry regrets confiscating Philip’s umbrella. 

“An education in the Classics,” Henry reminds him. He was so furious about it at the time. 

“Not for my lack of trying,” Philip predictably replies. “However, what’s important, now as it was then, is one’s cohort. That’s just as fair a measure of your merit as your expertise, and, well… look. Alex. What is it that you do?” 

Alex smiles nicely at him. “I’m a tattooist.” It’s not the term he generally uses. Henry can tell he’s angling for something particularly proletariat. Philip recoils. 

“Right,” he sighs, like it’s some punchline. “That’s precisely what I mean.” 

Martha perks up. “You make tattoos?” 

“That’s right.” 

“Now, then, that explains it,” she says, as if she’s just come to a grand conclusion. “Have you done those?” She gestures at the pin-up. Henry wrestles with his own lopsided grin. 

“Well, sure,” Alex drawls. It’s slow and warm. Evidently even he isn’t immune to the surprise of her interruption. “Some of them.” He flips up his free arm to brandish the back of his left forearm. There’s a rose drawn there in grey and black that looks real enough to pluck. “Where I can reach.”  

“Oh!” Martha leans primly forward for a closer inspection. “That’s truly lovely. Yes, I suppose it would be a challenge to do it yourself, wouldn’t it?” Her placid smile turns impish. “You know,” she adds conspiratorially, “I have one myself.” 

Philip draws in a short, irritated breath. Henry loses control over a shocked giggle. “Is that right?” Alex manages for the rest of them. Martha nods. 

“My sister and I both,” she explains. “We had them made to match. A little bird, the most darling thing. A chaffinch. We had them all over the garden when we were girls. It reminds us of our Gran. Would you like to see?” 

“Martha!” 

“Oh, hush. I don’t imagine that he’s interested in that.” Martha turns from chiding her husband to fix her attention on Alex again. “Not that I mean to presume. But Henry has always been the monogamous sort and, you see, I’m married.” 

Alex smiles, wide and sunny. “Yep, all accounted for.” 

“Your heard him. It’s all accounted for,” Martha says to her husband. It leaves Philip so poor footed that he isn’t able to cobble together a response. He goggles at her while she lifts up the corner of her cardigan to show off a small tattoo of a blue-headed bird in flight next to her navel. 

“Wow, that’s great!” Alex responds with genuine charm, slipping his arm free from behind Henry to lean forward for a closer look. “Nice color. That’s a hard spot. I bet it smarted.” 

“It was wretched,” Martha agrees. “I regretted it as soon as we started. I swear I could feel it all the way to my toes.” 

“Hey, but you sat through it! I’ve had three-hundred pound bikers tap out for less than that.” 

Martha seems pleased by that. She straightens at the shoulders and preens before she smooths her cardigan straight again. “Yes, well, like Gran always said: no half measures. You can imagine I draw upon the maxim quite frequently.” She shoots Philip a pointed look. It is so stupendous that Henry briefly considers pinching himself. “Does that mean that you were a student of the arts?”

“Law, actually.” 

“Really? But that seems so terribly dry in comparison.” 

“It was, like you wouldn’t believe. Stuck through all seven years, but it only took me four months to realize that it’d kill me to keep at it for any longer than that.” 

Martha gasps. “That’s awfully brave of you.” 

“Oh, I dunno. I had a few good connections. Half of it’s good luck.” 

“And hard work, the rest of it, I wager,” she argues. 

“Well, sure,” Alex replies with the duck of his chin. “But you’re right,” he adds, tilting his head to the side so that the can catch Philip’s eye. “That’s what matters: the people you hang around with. Don’t I know it — I went to Yale. They’ve got dickheads in every direction. Pardon the French,” he adds with a glance back at Martha. 

“Une tête de nœud,” she informs him neatly. Alex laughs. 

“I like you,” he tells her. She turns a pleased pink. 

“Oh, good. I like you, too.” 

For once, Henry can’t help but agree. 

4. Rafael Luna 

“You’re a wizard, Harry.” 

Henry rolls his eyes. “It’s a Form 990, not a horcrux.” 

“You have to know that they’re all the same to me,” Pez simpers.  

A peal of laughter distracts them both. Henry looks over the railing of their hidden perch down into the main lobby of the shelter to watch as a pair of girls chase after one another. A woman in her early twenties wearing a colorful lanyard around her neck chides them to slow down. It’s an otherwise quiet afternoon. Henry has volunteered his time to look over the shelter’s tax filing. He’d planned on this particular day because he’d known that Pez would be busy leading a tour for a visiting politician. Regrettably, it appears as though the senator is independent both in his political leanings and his ability to navigate a community centre without a chaperone. 

Pez does not share the skillset. 

“Where’s Alex?” 

“He’s working.” Henry shuffles through a stapled stack of receipts. The shelter has a few part-time accountants who assist with the usual debits and credits, but their organizational practices leave something to be desired. He sighs and reaches for a highlighter. 

“Doing what?” 

“His occupation,” Henry answers without looking up. Pez scoffs. 

“What I mean is subject matter. Does he tell you that sort of thing?” 

“Yes.” 

Pez pauses. Henry swears that he can hear him gnashing his teeth. “Yes, and?” 

“And what?” He sets down the highlight and shoots Pez a hairy stare. “Do you want me to finish this or not?” 

“You’re terrible.” Pez melts into his chair. “Finally you’ve found yourself a better half and you tell me nothing about him. An artiste, Henry! Let me imagine, at least.” 

Henry considers him for a moment. Then he reaches for a staple remover. Pez looks as though he’s just been stabbed. Despite his better intentions, Henry grins. “I think it’s a portrait of a dog.” 

“What sort?” 

“I don’t know, Pez. What does it matter? Why don’t you ask him yourself?” 

“You should have him give you a tattoo of David.”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Why not? His work is very good.” 

Henry tips back his head and stares at the ceiling. “I’m not going to get a tattoo, Pez.” 

It’s a genuine answer. He can barely handle his annual flu shot. Alex doesn’t seem to be too terribly bothered by the notion. It’s not like he’s asked Henry to refresh his understanding of linear regressions. 

“And yet I imagine you’d work hard for the discount,” Pez offers. Henry shuts his eyes. 

“Don’t you have anything else to do?” 

“Yes, but it isn’t very fun.” 

“Neither am I.” 

Pez laughs. “No, you’re really not.” Henry hears his chair scrape. He sets his head straight and watches as Pez stands and begins to gravitate towards the far end of the hallway. “Although you should know that I’m hurt that you find this paperwork more appealing than your dearest and most devoted friend.” 

“You’ve asked me to do this.” 

“You’re very selective with your obedience,” Pez tuts. Henry rolls his eyes. “Fine. Je me rends. But you’ve given me Alexander’s number, you know.” It really was a shortsighted decision. Pez and Alex text each other nearly as frequently as Henry does with either of them. “Don’t think I won’t put it to good use. Prepare yourself for dinner. Portuguese,” he adds, as if it’s a threat. It feels like one, somehow. 

“Fine, all right,” he sighs. “I’ll need at least another hour. Alex should be finished around five.” 

“Splendid. Very well, then. I’m off to see a man about a dog.” 

Henry groans. Pez laughs. He rubs his eyes so that he doesn’t have to watch him go. For some reason he’s certain that his best mate will end the year with one of Alex’s splendid portraits of a particular beagle somewhere on his body. He can only hope that it’s well-covered. 

The next thirty minutes pass without much fanfare. Henry makes good headway on the shelter’s schedule of contributors. He’s just moved on to an index of their recent public events when he hears footsteps quickly summiting the nearby stairwell. 

A man in a sharp suit with a handsome pepper in his hair emerges onto the landing. He looks up from the floor to catch sight of Henry at his borrowed desk and frowns in a guilty, lopsided sort of way. 

“Can I help you?” Henry asks him, because it seems like the right sort of thing to do. 

“Sorry,” the man replies. “Got myself turned around.” 

Henry isn’t quite certain how. There’s not much of a second story in this part of the building. At one point it must have served as an access point for a fire escape, but the window has since been bricked over to accommodate a newer building which neighbors the shelter. Most of it is filing cabinets. As far as Henry is concerned, they make for excellent company. 

“It’s a bit of a maze,” Henry offers, although, again, it isn’t. “Can I help you find someone?” 

The man shakes his head. He eyes Pez’s abandoned chair. “You wouldn’t mind if I borrowed that, would you? I’ve been going solid since six a-m. I could use a hiding place. Promise to be quiet.” 

It’s not like this is Henry’s office. Clearly Pez would be a proponent of just about anyone shirking their work. He nods. “Of course.” 

The man’s smile softens into a more gracious shape. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” 

He takes a seat with a huff, unbuttoning his jacket on the way down. Henry eyes the little American flag pinned to his lapel. There’s another one positioned below it in enameled rainbow colors. 

“You’re Senator Luna?” 

The man looks up from the phone that he’s fished from his breast pocket. “Yep. Guilty as charged.” He looks Henry over a little more closely. “Sorry, I’m good with faces, but I don’t recognize you from this morning.” 

Henry shakes his head. “Oh, no. I’m not a member of staff. I just help out where I can. Pro bono.” He taps the end of the highlighter against a pile of paperwork. Senator Luna nods. 

“That’s decent of you.” 

“Pez Okonjo is a dear friend,” Henry says with a shrug. “It’s an amazing organization.” 

“It is,” the senator answers easily. For a politician he has a nice honesty to him. “I would’ve really benefitted from a place like this when I was a kid.” 

“Most of us would, I imagine, in one way or the other.” 

This seems an adequate answer. Satisfied, the senator nods and looks back down at his phone. Henry returns to his paperwork. They’re silent except for the occasional scrape of his highlighter. 

“Pfft,” the senator mutters. “Este jodío pendejo” 

“Hm?” 

Senator Luna shoots him a sheepish look. “Sorry.” 

“Not a bother.” 

He gives his highlighter another swipe. The senator huffs. He bounces his phone against his knee. Henry glances over at him. Raises a brow. 

“Is everything all right?” 

For someone who’s come running up a hidden stairwell, Senator Luna looks thrilled to answer the question. “My godson,” he explains, wagging the phone at Henry. “Haven’t seen him in years. He lives in the city. I’ve been trying to get him to dinner for two days, but the kid works himself to the bone.” 

“Oh,” Henry answers. He can commiserate. Sometimes he swears that Alex wouldn’t eat two meals a day if he didn’t bring most of his dinners to him. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“And he’s got this new boyfriend, which apparently means that I’ve got to make appointments with him six months in advance. I sat through little league for this fucker, you know?” 

Henry’s lips twitch. “I see.” 

The senator sighs, defeated. His shoulders nearly drop into his hips. “You’re young,” he says. It feels like an accusation. “Is that normal?” 

“Erm,” Henry attempts. “What, exactly?” 

“I don’t know.” The man drags a hand through his hair. “He’s known the guy for a few weeks and it’s like he’s already trying to figure out his ring size. Seems fast to me, even for him.” 

“Oh,” Henry says again.

“And apparently the guy’s some corporate type, which is just about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, this kid wrote eat the rich on his sixth grade backpack. Not what I thought he meant by the phrasing.” 

Surprised by the innuendo, Henry clears his throat. Senator Luna turns a little sheepish again. 

“Sorry. I’m running on fumes here. Pretend you didn’t hear any of that.” His phone vibrates in his hand. He looks down at it and snorts. “I swear. I’m going to have to bribe him.” He glances at Henry. “You live around here?” 

“Not too far.” 

“You know any good Mexican places?” 

He does. He has a list, in fact, painstakingly organized by price, authenticity, and general vibes. “A few,” he answers glibly. “Hold on. Let me look.” 

Henry digs his own phone out of his briefcase and begins to scroll through his old messages. He finds a screenshot from six days prior of Alex’s messy handwriting scribbled across an old lined page of notebook paper that’s clearly been amended a few times. 

“Here,” Henry offers, tipping the phone in the Senator’s direction. 

“Ah!” Senator Luna’s eyes widen victoriously. He fishes out a pair of reading glasses and takes the phone with an impressed whistle. “Didn’t realize that I was talking to an expert.” 

“My partner, actually. He’s very discerning.” 

“I can tell,” Senator Luna laughs. “Well. He’ll have his work cut out for him. The kid’s a purist. Never mind that he’s lived most of his life on the East Coast. What about this one?” 

He tilts the phone back at Henry. Henry nods. 

“Yes, it’s good. We’ve been there a few times. They have a very extensive tequila selection.” 

“Al-right! You’re a lifesaver.” The senator punches the name of the place into his own phone before handing Henry’s back into his possession. “Thanks. Seriously.” 

“Not at all. My partner will be thrilled to hear that someone has taken his recommendations seriously. He’s a fan of yours, I think. I’ve heard him mention your name before.” 

“That’s flattering to hear so far from home.” 

“I’m certain that Pez felt the same way to have you shine a light on a shelter in New York.” 

“Sometimes it feels like that’s all I can do. I’m happy to do it.” He narrows his eyes slightly. “About that corporate type bit, before…” he adds, eyes dipping to focus on Henry’s impressive highlighter collection. Henry laughs before he has the chance to apologize. 

“Oh, it’s quite all right. I’ve heard worst than that. My partner calls me Mr. Monopoly on a daily basis. I love the man, so it’s my own burden, really.” 

“No fuckin’ shit!” 

They both jump. 

“The geriatric wing is down the hall, vato,” Alex laughs, bounding over the last step to jog towards the pair. Senator Luna laughs too, shocked, standing from his chair to intercept him with the clasp of his hand. 

“What are you doing here?” the older man asks, sounding a little winded. 

Alex rolls his eyes. “Good to see you, too, asshole,” he says without any bite. 

Alex looks over at Henry. His smile brightens. It’s lovely. Then it turns a little more wolfish. This, Henry acknowledges with a building sense of dread, is less so. 

“Kinda on the young side for you, huh?” Alex adds, returning his focus on Senator Luna. “That’s not gonna poll well.” 

The senator fixes him with a long-suffering stare. “Don’t start that. Regular people don’t find it charming.” Luna turns to Henry. “He’s joking.” Back at Alex, “And you should thank him. He’s the reason you’ll have a half-decent dinner for once, if you play your cards right.” 

“Oh, is that right?” 

Alex looks at Henry so fondly that he feels his palms start to sweat.  

“Alex,” Henry warns him limply. Alex, unsurprisingly, ignores him. 

“You asking for loose change from charity workers, now?” Alex goads. 

“Go ahead. Get it out of your system.” The senator seems well seasoned to Alex’s barbs. He calmly buttons his jacket. “Is this your way of telling me that you’re free for the night?” 

“Sorta. You mind playing third wheel?” 

Senator Luna sighs. “Christ, kid. I’d rather not, if that’s an option.” 

“You’re doin’ pretty good at it so far.”

The senator cocks his head. “What?” 

With supreme satisfaction Alex responds, “That’s Henry.” 

“What?” Luna follows Alex’s pointing hand. It lands on Henry. Henry considers hiding under the desk. It is, regrettably, too late. “Oh,” Luna says. “Henry.” 

“Yes,” Henry says. 

“I see.” Now it’s the senator turn to look as though he wishes that he could toss himself under the furniture. 

Alex groans. “Oh, hell, Luna. What did you tell him?” 

“Nothing that I don’t already know,” Henry says. The nice part about that is that it’s true. “Come on, then. Shall we go?” 

5. Catherine  

It’s not yet noon and Henry feels as though he’s been awake for years. He could call it jet lag, but Alex would see right through it. As it is, it’s a wonder that he didn’t carry him to the car. 

“Baby, it’s gonna be fine.” 

His knee is bouncing. He catches it too late. Alex smooths a palm over his thigh before he has the chance to flatten his heel against the floorboard. 

“Yes, of course,” Henry mutters. He chews on the corner of his thumb and stares out into the grey wet blur of London skidding past them. The hand on his leg tightens with a comforting squeeze. 

“What are you worried about?” Henry doesn’t answer. Keeps on chewing. “Sweetheart, she’s five foot nothing in heels. I can take her.” 

That’s not what he was expecting. Henry chokes on his laughter. Alex is grinning at him when he finally turns around. 

“What?” 

“Just saying,” Alex says with a shrug. 

Henry looks frazzled. He’s certain of it, even though he’d barely had the gumption to stare at his own reflection while he’d dressed that morning. Alex looks as though he’s been drawn by a talented hand. He’s wearing smartly tailored trousers and a topcoat in thick black wool, the high neck of his jumper framing his face handsomely. The peeks of ink on his hands and his jawline accent his outfit like fine jewelry. Even given the circumstances, the look of it makes Henry’s mouth water.  

(You don’t have to do that, you know, Henry attempts that morning when he notices Alex's modest attire. Alex pulls his head through his jumper and cocks his brow at him. 

I’m gonna freeze my balls off, Fox.

That’s not what I—

Here I was thinkin’ you’d have a vested interest.

Oh, fine, enough.)

He would take Alex up on his offer for violence if they were en route to lunch with Mary Mountchristen. His grandmother doesn’t deserve a transatlantic flight, however, so Alex’s roughhousing will be wasted on their destination. Henry draws in a deep breath at the thought and runs his thumb along the worn gold band on his ring finger. He doesn’t miss the look of pride on Alex’s face when he does it. 

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed,” Henry admits to him quietly. “I love my mother. She has so much love in her. But we never know what she’ll remember. And I… I worry that she’ll struggle with this in particular. She still has trouble with Martha, you know, and she’s known her since she was a little girl. It’s all so unpredictable, and I…” 

He just wants them to be happy. He doesn’t say it. It’s a selfish thing. He’s never been so happy in his entire life. But Ellen Claremont nearly staged a hometown parade when she heard about their engagement, and a tiny part of Henry has been mourning ever since. For all of the issues that Henry has endured with his grandmother and his brother and nearly everyone else with a Mountchristen in their name, his parents always celebrated every part of him that made him him. But his father has been dead for years, and his mother isn’t really his mother, not anymore. 

Alex takes his hand. His touch is warm and grounding. 

“I’m not going to be disappointed,” Alex tells him, tilting his head slightly so that they’re looking at one another eye-to-eye. “I’ve already got everything I wanted. I wasn’t sure I ever would.” 

“Alex—”

“No, listen,” he says firmly. “We’re in this. You and me. I know it won’t always be easy. That’s not gonna change how I feel. I love you.” 

Henry’s eyes water. “I love you, too.” 

Alex smiles. He gives Henry’s hand a squeeze. “So that’s it,” he says. Somehow it convinces Henry, safe in its simplicity. 

“Right.” Henry draws in a shaky breath. He returns Alex’s sweet smile. That makes Alex’s turn into a grin. 

“And I mean, at least this time I’ve got my pants on.” 

Henry laughs and shakes his head. “Well,” he sighs, nudging Alex with his leg, “don’t get too confident. The day is young.” 

“Baby, don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

— - —

“Hello, hello,” Bea greets them at the door. She looks as gloomy as the weather. Henry’s heart sinks. 

“It’s that bad, then?” he asks her. It doesn’t feel like much of a question. She frowns. 

“She’s just frustrated,” she tells them in a hushed tone while they make their way into the heart of townhouse’s tall foyer. “She didn’t remember the engagement, of course. That’s put her on the defensive. Then she went on about how Gran was always pushing us to get married, and how could I of anyone want to play into some fantasy at your expense.” 

Henry winces. He’s quick to remember his grandmother’s failed incursions on his teenaged years, well-armed as she’d been with her stable of monied debutantes.  

“I’m sorry, Bea.” 

His sister steels her expression and drags him into a bone-crushing hug. “No,” she insists, “none of that. Not for a second. You haven’t traveled all this way just for us to pity one another.” She draws back and fiddles needlessly with his scarf. “Especially not with your man here to keep us company. You look as handsome as always, Alex.” 

“Come on, compared to you?” he says with a disarming wink. They’ve always got on famously with one another.  The sight of the both of them together is enough to fix Henry’s heart rate. “Thanks for having me.”

“Yes, well. Don’t thank me yet.” She takes their coats and leads them into the front sitting room with a sigh. “We can sit over here,” she says, nodding at a neatly arranged set of cabriole couches fitted in pastel brocade. They follow obediently. “I’ll put the kettle on.” She fixes a pointed look at Henry. Henry sighs and shares a glance with Alex, who graciously nods and takes a seat without waiting for Henry to join him. 

“Is she going to come down at all?” Henry asks Bea once they’re alone together in the kitchen. Bea presses her lips together. 

“I’ve told her that she’s got no other option,” she says bitterly. 

“Bea.” 

“No. This is ridiculous. I’ve reminded her for weeks, you know. Sometimes I think that she does this on purpose.” 

“That’s unfair.” 

It is. Bea seems to know it. She casts him a glum look. “Well, I’m not sorry. Her son is getting married. The least she can do is dress herself and drink some tea with his fiancé. Whom I adore, you know, because he’s very good to you.” Her hazel eyes glimmer. “I’m so happy for you, Henry. You deserve to celebrate it like any other normal person.” 

Henry laughs wetly and reaches out to drag her into a sideways hug. She goes willingly, tucking her head into the space under his arm. “No one has ever accused any of us of being normal,” he tells her with only a bit of a waver in his voice. She snorts. 

“Of all of us, you had the greatest aspirations.”  

“Maybe.” 

She parts from him reluctantly. The kitchen is well appointed, as are most things in their mother’s life. Bea reaches into one cabinet to draw down a shiny kettle to fill at the tap. Henry leans against the counter and watches her while she works, all the while doing his best not to let his mind wander. 

Without turning to face him, Bea says, “What’s going on in that head of yours, then?” 

He clears his throat. “Oh. Nothing. Everything.” He picks at the cuticle of his left thumb. It’s already raw from their drive over. “Alex is being awfully decent about all of this, as you can imagine.” 

She hums in the affirmative. The pilot light clicks on the stove. Henry’s thumb begins to bleed. He curses under his breath and sticks it into his mouth to stem the flow. 

“He’s an awfully decent fellow. How’d you manage that?” 

“Trickery and deceit, mostly,” Henry offers dryly. “Maybe he’s in it for the money.” 

Bea laughs and begins to line up a battalion of tea cups along the countertop. “Not so terrible an idea. Gran can’t spend all of it, try as she might. Vicious old badger.” 

Henry scoffs. He should say something else, he knows, but suddenly it feels impossible. Bea catches on. Her expression softens. She steps a pace closer. 

“What is it, Hen?” 

He blinks rapidly and looks away to the window set above the sink. It’s still raining. Of course it is. It’s always raining in this bloody place. 

“I…” He starts, and then stops, and then he gathers what’s left of his courage in a deep gulp. “What if Mum won’t come to the wedding?” 

“Oh, Henry.” A tear escapes her. He watches it miserably while it tracks down her cheek. “Then… Then I’ll be there, and Pip will be there, and Martha, and every Okonjo you’ve ever heard of—” Henry sniffles; Bea struggles with a lopsided grin “—and Alex’s wonderful family, and they’ll all shower you both with so much love that you’ll run out of places to put it.” 

Henry nods his head. He lets out the breath that he hadn’t realized he’s been holding. “Right. You’re right.” 

Bea strides forwards and takes his hands in her own. “You’re getting married, Henry: to a man whom you care for, and who clearly adores you. You’re getting married, and you’re going to carry on in that dreadful job of yours that you do so well, and you’re going to live a life that’s so splendid that you’ll forget about when it wasn’t. Because you’ve earned it. You deserve it. All right?” 

Henry laughs. It starts as a weepy sputter, but it finishes off strong. He dips his head. “All right.”

The kettle whistles. Bea releases him to pull it off the hob. Henry selects a serving tray from his mother’s collection and shoves the cups on top. He nods at her when they’re finally ready, each of them gritting their jaws like they’re off to a frontline. 

“—so lovely on you. Did you have to have it resized?” their mother’s reedy voice echoes from the front parlor. 

“Not much, but it was a little big.” 

“Yes, I’d imagine. Arthur had such great big paws. They were a little funny on him.” 

Alex looks up at their approach. He’s sat where Henry left him. In the interim Catherine has squeezed herself at his side. She has his left hand held delicately in front of herself, turning it to admire his silver wedding band with an appraising eye. 

God. Alex was so annoyed that Henry beat him at their proposal, all the way down to their inherited rings. It’s the best thing that Henry’s ever done in his entire life. He opens his mouth but finds it impossible to say anything at all. 

“Oh, my baby,” Catherine says on his behalf. She smiles at him, soft and lovely, eyes crinkling with a pleased joy. “Look at you.” 

So he does, and he sees, for the first time, everything that he’s been looking for. 

+1

Henry hates holiday parties. 

Shaan says that they’re important for morale. Henry can’t fathom why. They are expensive, and ostentatious, and unpleasantly loud. His shoes have been pinching him for hours. He’s smudged tomato sauce on one of his cuffs from the lukewarm canapés making the rounds. Their director of HR threatened him with karaoke. It seems as though she means to make good on it. While he’s done his best to position himself entirely behind a large potted ficus draped in fairy lights, Hunter has, somehow, spotted him, and is now making a beeline for him from across the room. 

“Fox!” the man greets with a shout. Henry flinches, but it’s hopeless: Hunter has already strung his arm around his shoulders and given him a shake. “How’s it going? Happy holidays!” 

“Happy holidays,” Henry replies. It’s as dry as ever. Hunter takes it in stride. 

“What a year, huh?” Hunter sips at his rocks glass. The ice cubes clatter from his generous swig. “Supposed to get six inches over the weekend.” Henry feels one of his eyebrows raise of its own accord. Oh. Right. Snow. “You ski?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” 

“Hey, you’d be a natural. Come along some time. I’ve got a chalet up near Lake Placid. You’ll love it.” 

“Very generous, Hunter.” 

Hunter grunts. He scans the room. “Where’s Alex?” 

“At a conference in Chicago,” Henry informs him with genuine regret. Alex is a master at navigating these dreadful things. He misses his husband for a great number of reasons, but attending the holiday party stag is certainly one of them. Hunter looks disappointed, too.

“Oh, yeah? Bad luck with the timing. Hope he doesn’t get snowed in. I’ve got an old buddy up there round those parts, though— knows every good watering hole worth mentioning. You let me know, I’ll give him a call, get them hooked up.” Hunter’s face falls. “Er. Not like that, you know.”  

“Thank you,” Henry answers grimly. “I’ll be sure to let you know.” 

“Good sport. Ah, they’re getting the karaoke set up again.” He gives Henry’s shoulder a tremendous pat. “I’ve got to get my name in before Nancy steals all the slots. Good to see you, Fox.” 

“Hunter,” Henry says with a nod. 

He exhales once Hunter has made his retreat and takes a long drink from his glass of wine. The blissful silence doesn’t last long. He frowns when his phone starts buzzing.

It’s not who he wants to hear from— although it makes him a little guilty to think it—but rather a message from Pez, which reads: Where’s Alex? 

Henry smirks. It’s a strange deja vu. He types: In Chicago until Sunday. 

Boo, Pez writes back, accompanied by every beleaguered emoji that the can find. 

Pez, you’ll just have to entertain yourself, Henry instructs him. He swears he can hear the man whine from across the city. 

Cruel and unusual, comes Pez’s last reply. 

Another notification springs across Henry’s screen before he has a chance to pocket his phone. This one is from Instagram, tied to an account that he never uses, but has created to monitor Alex ever since he started posting scandalous pictures of Henry by way of some truly besotted bragging. The message waiting from him is accompanied by a link to one of Alex’s posts featuring the man flashing the camera a cheeky grin and a black-gloved peace sign in front of a crowded hall. 

marthaelise23 writes: Where’s Alex gone? 

At a tattoo convention in Chicago, henryfcd informs her. 

What fun! 

Henry supposes it would be. He can’t say that he regrets missing out on the trip himself. There are a great many people in that photo. He really only wants to be in the presence of one. 

“Henry,” Shaan interrupts. “You should spend a little time with your subordinates, you know.” 

Henry slips his phone back into his pocket and levels an unimpressed look at Shaan. “Is that what you’re doing now?” 

“Yes.” Shaan sidles beside him. He nurses his drink. “I’m sorry that your husband was unable to attend,” he adds after some time. 

“He is much better at these sorts of things,” Henry agrees. His gaze wanders to where Shaan’s own wife is glowering at some unlucky fellow who’s just approached her with the karaoke microphone. He snorts. Maybe they all need Alex there. 

“Next year,” he compromises. Shaan nods. 

“Happy holidays.” He tips his glass against Henry’s. 

“Happy holidays, Shaan.” 

Henry’s phone begins to buzz again. Christ. Next he’ll have Bea somehow divining that he’s been left on his lonesome. It’s an unusual circumstance, surely, but this is ridiculous. She’s on another continent.  

“Pardon me,” he tells Shaan, who nods and steps a pace away to grant him privacy. At just that moment he’s proven wrong, too. He smiles at the sight of FaceTime Call Incoming: Alex CALL ME ;) 

“Hello, love,” Henry sighs, all of the weight falling from his shoulders. Alex beams. He looks a little tired, but he’s no less captivating since Henry first saw him. “There you are.”