Archive of Our Own

Once, amidst the exchange of late night emails, Henry had described his life and emotions as different rooms of a sprawling palace, each one segregated and purposeful. Alex has since adopted the analogy for his own life. 

He likes to think of his body as the brownstone. A brick-sturdy exterior with a handmade welcome mat and flowers lining the front steps, evidence of carefully lain roots and diligent upkeep. On the good days, every room is bathed in glowing sunlight, every shadow illuminated by the sweeping bay windows on the front wall. He likes to picture Henry peeling back the curtains in the morning, steaming coffee cups and jam-sticky fingers over the breakfast table. On the good days, Alex breathes deep and steady, and he exhales with a smile. 

On the bad days, it’s like a rainstorm. Alex drowns in the downpour and pictures the familiar rooms instead cloaked in darkness. He stumbles around blindly with a flashlight that’s running out of batteries, flickering harsh fractures of light over empty corners that take on the shape of each one of Alex’s biggest fears. In the darkness it can be difficult to see anything properly. The dim walls begin to look like they’re closing in and Alex trips and falls as he scrambles to get away from them, knocking his heavy limbs on boxes left unpacked in the middle of the corridors, scraping his knee and his palms on the hardwood as he finally hits the floor. 

The one thing that remains the same is Henry. He’s always there, in Alex’s home, in his heart, milling around in the backyard garden or making tea in the kitchen, reading a well-loved book or writing in the study. No matter what kind of day it is, Henry is there, his edges soft and glowing, the highlight of Alex’s good days or the singular savior on his bad ones. He’s a warmly scented candle lit on the bedside table, the cotton sheets peeled back on their bed. He’s Alex’s north star. 

And then, locked up tight somewhere in this metaphorical personification of Alex’s psyche, there’s a box. Not a physical one, but the kind that only exists in the peculiar topography of his mind. There’s only one key that unlocks it and it’s tucked gently inside of Henry’s breast pocket, right up next to his heart. 

The box is lined with a deep red velvet, Alex imagines, and the inside is soft to the touch. He envisions dragging a fingernail over the spot where the fabric meets the mahogany wood on the outside, the same shade as the floor in their bedroom. 

Inside this box is where Alex keeps the in-betweens. Moments where everything is just almost enough but where he can’t quite cross this imaginary threshold without some kind of help. Some kind of a push. 

It’s not good and not bad, it just is. There are no expectations, no rules inside this particular space, and inside of it Alex can rest quietly and wait for the world to catch up outside of its walls once again. 

There have only been a handful of times this box has been opened because Alex can’t open it by himself, and he’s never been very good at asking for the things he needs when he can’t do it on his own. It isn’t that he’s afraid to be vulnerable. He’d grown up in a home that cared a great deal about feelings and communication and he often verbalized the same thing to others. 

It isn’t the vulnerability of it, it’s the fear of messing up somehow. Of disappointing someone. 

The thing is, Alex wants to give. He knows his purpose is to help people, and he gets to do a lot of that working part time with his mother’s team while also studying law. It’s incredibly rewarding, seeing something he’s done make someone else’s life better, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world, even if he comes home far past exhausted more often than not. 

And this box, this space inside of himself, feels a lot like taking. Asking someone else to carry the burden for a while, to take care of him. He and Henry have such a steady balance of giving and taking, and when Alex asks for this it feels like the scale tips sideways, threatening to fall and clatter to the ground, taking them both down with it. 

So he keeps this box locked up and he doesn’t ask Henry for the key except when he absolutely has to, and then he spends the next days, sometimes weeks, feeling guilty for it until it happens again. Henry says he shouldn’t but Alex knows better. When he readily gives, he’s still in control of himself. He doesn’t owe anyone anything and he likes it better that way. 

When he takes, when he lets himself have, people remember it. They cling to it and then, when Alex is least expecting it and his guard is down, they throw it right back in his face or they show up to cash in a return. When he takes, he has to constantly look back over his shoulder to make sure he’s not missing any pieces of himself and remains unscathed in his perpetually blind spots. 

Alex can go for months giving. It comes easily, mostly, and he usually enjoys it. The only issue with that is that his body also remembers, and it keeps a meticulous, punishing score. He can feel the itch underneath his skin when it starts getting bad and he pushes himself anyway, sustaining a million little cuts, a million little cracks until eventually — 

He shatters. 

+

Alex slams the front door to the brownstone shut behind him with his boot, two fingers tugging restlessly at the tight collar of his work shirt. He’s glad for the warmer weather lately but it’s also fucking hot and he absolutely should not have opted for his regular long sleeves, the cuffs at his wrist feeling a little claustrophobic, the buttons at the sides making indentions in his skin. He jams the side of his hip into the back of the sofa in the living room right off the foyer, pulling angrily at the laces of his boots until they unravel. He slings his work bag down onto the leather cushion and braces his palms on the back of the couch, trying to manage a full breath in through his nose. 

Today fucking sucked. It’s the last year of his mother’s second term and, as usual, everything is chaos. There’s a new scandal about one of them every other day and a litany of vicious hashtags Alex couldn’t scrub from his brain if he tried. Even after years of being subjected to the harsh landscape of anonymous comments and gossipy internet articles, it still has a way of kicking him when he’s already down. 

He’s been trying to help with everything he can, staying late even when he has his own school work and other plans, gathering data and working on memos for the things he’s passionate about, but it isn’t quite enough like it was before. June’s agreed to tentatively help them with the speeches so she’s got a guaranteed place there, a purpose. But Alex’s wide-eyed enthusiasm had grown old soon after the second election and now everyone just looks at him like they’re wondering what the hell he’s doing there. 

It’s shitty. It’s really shitty and it’s been getting worse and worse lately, dozens of small dismissals and offhand comments building up. When his mother had kicked him out of a briefing but June and even Nora got to stay, Alex had walked out with tears in his eyes, feeling all sorts of useless and a whole lot of angry.  

It’s just— Alex had kind of won her the fucking election, had he not? It was his ideas and his speeches that had secured the winning Texas vote, not his mother and not June and not Nora or anyone else in that office. Obviously they’re a team and they all bring something to the table and being the president is more than just winning the campaign, but he feels like he hadn’t gotten any recognition for it from them — from the people whose opinions matter the most. 

To go from being the face of the campaign to an outsider stung more than he thought it would because he’d never considered something like that would happen. He’d bitten his tongue at first but it’s been getting worse these last couple of years and, even though he has his own life to look forward to now — law school and a career and Henry — it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still fucking hurt. They’d used him when he was needed, then discarded him when he wasn’t. 

“Alex?” Henry’s voice drifts over from the dining room and Alex moves toward it without thinking. He rounds the corner and finds Henry at the raised breakfast table, his laptop open in front of him, David resting by his feet. He smiles and lowers his screen when Alex approaches. “Hi, love. You’re home early.” 

Without stopping, Alex walks straight around the side of the table and kicks a chair away so he can fling his arms around his neck with a long sigh. Every bone in his body feels like dead weight. “Hi,” he mumbles. 

“Hello. You alright?” Slipping one of his arms from where it’d been resting on his keyboard, he brings it up and pulls Alex in closer, his other hand gravitating toward the center of Alex’s back where the worst knot is and rubbing slow circles. 

“Bad day,” Alex offers shortly. 

“Again?” Henry shifts to face him, his fingers moving to undo Alex’s tie. That would’ve been a good place to start earlier, Alex thinks to himself, before going right to trying to rip the entire damn shirt off himself. “I’m sorry, love. Would you like to talk about it?” 

Alex throws up a shoulder. “Not really.” 

With a hum, Henry unloops the tie and pulls it off easily, setting it on the table and undoing the first few buttons of Alex’s shirt. Finally it feels like it’s a little bit easier to breathe, and Alex fills his lungs with the scent of Earl Grey and Henry’s sweet cologne and lets his eyes fall shut. 

“Why don’t we order in tonight?” Henry hums, dragging a hand through his hair. 

It’s a nice idea, and Alex almost agrees to it blindly. Except, somewhere in the back of his mind he remembers promising Henry that he’d make dinner tonight. They’d gone to the grocery store the day before last and picked everything out and if Alex doesn’t use it today it might go bad. 

He shakes his head, gripping Henry’s wrist and tugging it back down between them. It feels like a monumental effort to peel his eyes back open and look into Henry’s concerned gaze. 

“No, I said I’d make dinner. We talked about those brisket quesadillas, remember?” 

“I remember.” Henry hesitates, running his thumb over the back of Alex’s hand. “But it’s alright if you don’t feel like it. I’ve still got the number to the Italian place in town. You wouldn’t have to do any of the work.” 

“Want to,” Alex insists. “It’ll be good.” 

Henry smiles, closing his laptop fully and standing from the chair. The extra two inches of height he’s got on Alex feel bigger somehow. Probably because Alex can’t find the energy to stand up straight. Taking his hand more firmly, Henry brings it to his lips and presses his mouth there, warmth radiating up Alex’s arm. “I know it will. Can I help you with it?” 

“Sure.” 

Bringing his free hand up to rub at his eye, Alex walks right into the corner of the kitchen island, wincing and letting Henry’s hands settle him on his hips. 

“Easy,” he says. “Do you need your glasses?” 

“No. M’okay. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Henry lets go of him once they’re in front of the stove, turning toward the cabinets but keeping an eye on Alex as he goes. “What do you need?” 

Pursing his lips, Alex stares at the marbled granite of the countertop and tries to think through the recipe he’d been so excited about only yesterday. “Mm. Tortillas. Skillet. Brisket. Shredded cheese. Red onion. Cilantro,” he lists slowly. “Oh, and whatever barbecue sauce you want. I picked out several the other day at the store.” 

One by one, the ingredients appear in front of him. He wills himself to focus. This is important. This is one of his all-time favorite dishes and he wants to make it for Henry, wants it to be good.  

Still, when he reaches for the tortillas it’s less than enthusiastic, his fingers fumbling with the lid of the tortillero. He clears his throat and shifts sideways so Henry won’t see it, even though Alex can feel him watching over his shoulder the entire time. 

“What can I do to help?” 

“Could you chop up the onions, please?” 

He steps around Alex with a gentle hand at his hip and grabs the onions, pulling the cutting board from the drawer and setting it next to where Alex is standing at the stove. His sleeves are rolled and have been pushed up his forearms, the thick veins that intersect near his wrist on full display when he flexes his fingers around the knife and holds the onion steady. 

Alex has taught him a lot about cooking since they moved in. It makes him feel good, knowing he’s done something helpful, that he’s made Henry’s life better in some small, mundane kind of way. Lips twitching, Alex heaves in a breath and turns back to the stove, sprinkling the shredded cheese over the tortillas when they begin to simmer with a familiar hand. 

He gets lost in the routine for a bit, trying to focus on getting each side of the tortillas perfectly browned before he flips them. Once Henry’s finished chopping up the onion he slides the chopping board toward him and Alex shows him where to sprinkle them, pressing them into the thick cheese with a spatula. 

“Looks amazing already,” Henry says, sliding his hand over the countertop until his fingers brush Alex’s. 

With a smile, Alex asks him if he can get the brisket ready behind them. His entire left side feels cold when Henry steps away, and Alex sways into the space where he just was, furrowing a brow at himself. 

He’d downed several energy drinks on top of the coffee Henry’d made for him early this morning and yet he feels fucking exhausted. He’s weirdly unbalanced — his body aching to go lie down for several hours while his brain is running circles around the room, moving faster than Alex can function to keep up with it. 

The tortillas are turning more brown than he’d like when he glances down at them. He panics, reaching for the handle of the skillet to move it off of the stovetop, his bare hand closing around the scalding iron. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, drawing his hand to his chest with a grimace. 

Something clatters behind him and Alex is pulled sideways, Henry’s fingers closing around his wrist to gingerly examine the burn. 

“Shit, Alex,” he breathes. He guides him a few steps over to the sink, using one hand to flick on the tap and check the temperature with the back of his knuckles. 

“I’m fine,” Alex rushes. “I’m fine. Just forgot the mitt. Sorry.” 

“Here,” Henry lowers his hand slowly underneath the stream, watching Alex’s face for a reaction. Warm water runs over the red, tender skin, but it feels ice cold and Alex sucks in a quick breath but lets Henry fuss over it until he deems it enough. 

When Henry turns to grab a dish towel Alex darts back to the stove, turning the burners off before the quesadillas can get any more burnt. He’d literally just injured himself, his palm still burning when he flexes it, but it’s the fact that he’d burnt their dinner that makes him feel like he might shed tears. God, he can’t do fucking anything right, can he? 

It’s nearly dark outside the window by the time they make it to the dinner table with their plates, Alex’s hand sufficiently bandaged and his pride more than a little bit bruised. Despite the chaos, Henry doesn’t yell and he doesn’t seem angry like everybody usually is with him, his touch steady and his smile soft as they take their seats. 

“I talked to Bea today,” Henry says, separating an unseasoned piece of the brisket to toss down to David and bringing his fingers to his lips to clean them off afterward. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Henry nods. “She’s going to come down for the fourth like we talked about. She’s really excited.” 

“Good. I want to see her again. I’ve missed her since last time.” 

Alex glances down at his own plate even as Henry’s halfway through his first quesadilla, frowning at the tortilla. It’s not folded just right, the way he’d have liked for it to be. But he can feel Henry’s eyes on him again, so he uses his good hand to pick one of them up and bring it to his mouth, chewing a bit off of the corner. 

It’s good, but not like his dad makes them. Alex had left off a lot of the seasoning and spices since he wasn’t sure which ones Henry would like, but it tastes a little bland. He reaches for the barbecue sauce and applies a little more, trying it again. 

“Sorry I burned them,” he tells Henry. 

“Darling, you’ve eaten my quiches,” Henry grins, pausing mid-bite. “This is nowhere near burnt. They taste amazing, Alex. Thank you for making them for me.” 

The bit of praise makes him feel a little better, enough to relax in his chair and listen to Henry’s story about his latest nonprofit work with Pez and where he wants them to take Bea when she’s visiting. It’s a pleasant distraction from the inside of his own head, and Henry’s voice is slow and warm and something Alex doesn’t have to strain to keep up with. 

He asks a few questions about what Pez is up to and tosses a bit of his own tortilla to David as well, leaning down to pet him between the ears. Then, because he can, he scoots his chair closer and tosses his legs up until his ankles are crossed in Henry’s lap, an easy hand falling to rest on Alex’s ankle as he talks. 

The world narrows just a bit. Not enough, but some. Things are beginning to go a little hazy around the edges again, and Alex clings to the last bits of clarity before it slips away, to Henry’s thumb stroking his skin, to the sound of the water glass hitting the edge of the plate, to the cicadas outside the back door. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened today?” Henry asks softly, taking another bite. 

With a weak sigh, Alex rolls his neck side to side to stretch the sore tendons, the pain reappearing as if flaring up at the mere mention of the situation. 

“The usual,” he says. “Spent months working on the new memo and no one wanted to hear what I had to say.” 

“The Austin one?” Henry clarifies. 

“Yeah. The one you read over for me the other day. I just— I feel like they’ve all drifted so far away from the things that we wanted when she first took office. It only seems fitting that we return to all of that for the last year, really push for the things we never got around to before we don’t have any power over any of it anymore,” he explains. “I feel like they’re missing out on a really big opportunity. And with Zahra out for her honeymoon, I feel like there’s no one in my corner to help me get my point across.” 

Henry’s face morphs into a frown, a concerned crease forming between his brows. “When does she get back?” he asks. “I know Shaan said they’d only be away for a couple of months and they left a little while ago now. You have some really great ideas in there, love, and you deserve to be able to share them.” 

Alex shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m trying not to bother her. I know how bad she deserves a break. They both do.” 

“Could you talk to your mother alone maybe? Somewhere other than the office?” 

“I’m not even sure if she’d talk to me right now.” Alex picks at a corner of his quesadilla, offering an explanation when Henry glances curiously at him. “She kicked me out of the briefing today. She let June and Nora and everyone else stay, but I had to leave.” 

“Oh, love,” Henry squeezes his ankle, and the muscle goes lax under his touch. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. You’ve done so much to help. I know they’re stressed about trying to tie up all the loose ends, but they shouldn’t be treating you like this all the time.” 

Alex shrugs again, jerkier this time. “S’fine.” 

“It’s not,” Henry amends. “But you’re too good to say anything about it.” 

The world shifts again, the haziness budging in a little further. Good? Alex hasn’t done anything good. If he had, he would be up there with them now, making plans and running numbers and doing something useful instead of packed up and sent home like a kid in timeout. 

It feels like the accumulation of the past six months of work is hitting him at once. Every sleepless night, every early morning, every ounce of time he’d spent working on projects that no one ever even bothered to take a second glance at. It’s all blurring together, settling over his shoulders like a weighted blanket and Alex is already so fucking tired. He feels like he wants to crawl out of his own skin and just float for a bit, curl up somewhere where he can manage to get a fucking breath in. 

He grapples for the last of his quesadilla but, like everything else in his life apparently, it doesn’t quite go as planned. He means to lift it to his mouth, to take a bite, to chew it up and swallow it and behave like a normal fucking human being but instead his hand clatters to the plate and it wobbles underneath the weight of his fingers, lopsided, his quesadilla sliding toward the table as Alex watches it go. 

Just before it reaches the wood, a hand appears to move it away, lifting Alex’s leaden wrist like a feather and moving further into his space. Henry, Alex reminds himself blearily. Henry is here.  

“Do you want my help, Alex?” 

Tongue thick in his mouth, Alex can only nod. He watches in stop-motion intervals as Henry lowers Alex’s legs back to the ground and slides forward in his own chair, ripping off bite-sized pieces of the food to hold up to Alex’s lips and he feels— God, he feels so fucking pathetic. He’d failed his family and he’d failed at making dinner and now he’d failed at something as simple as feeding himself. How is Henry still here, still willing to be around him when he gets like this? Alex would leave himself, if he could. 

He chews slowly so he won’t choke on it and further embarrass himself, swallowing the last of it as Henry swipes some crumbs off of his lower lip with his thumb. There’s a coolness at his mouth, Henry’s water glass, and Alex tilts his chin back and drinks from it until his body doesn’t feel so much like an inferno anymore. 

“How bad is it,” Henry murmurs. 

Fuck. This is the last thing Alex needed today. He’d been trying to fight it off for a while now but everything that’d happened today seemed to have kicked him over the edge, plunging him into the deep, dark abyss without his permission. Always without his permission. 

Henry can always tell. There’s no point in lying now. 

“Bad.” 

Setting the glass back down onto the table, Henry leans forward to press his lips to Alex’s cheek. It feels like a current zips through him and Alex chases after it when he pulls away, a choked noise tearing at the back of his throat. He blinks, trying his best to focus as Henry leans their foreheads together. 

“I want to take care of you tonight,” Henry tells him. “However you need. Will you give me that?” 

Give. Alex nods, shifting closer. 

“Need you to use your words for me, love.” 

“Yes,” he says. 

“Good. Thank you,” Henry kisses the center of his forehead, the tip of his nose, the corner of his lips. “Will you wait for me on the couch while I clean up in here?” 

“I’ll wait,” Alex repeats. 

“Thank you. Come on, love. You’ve got it?” Henry stands from his chair and helps Alex out of his own, steadying him when he sways forward. 

With both of his hands gripping Henry’s he makes it over to the sofa and mentally thanks their former selves for opting for an open floor plan so that he can keep an eye on Henry as he parts from him and begins cleaning up. 

Henry has dark days sometimes too, but those are different. On those days Henry’s sad, and sometimes there’s no way around it except through and Alex sits with him in it and loves him through it until it passes, until his happy-Henry is back once more. At first, Alex had believed that’s what he often experienced too. 

But this is different, he’d quickly realized. If Alex fights it, it gets so, so much worse. The longer he tries to pretend it isn’t there the more it festers and grows and gnaws at him, demanding to be acknowledged and satiated. Alex doesn’t necessarily feel sad, he just feels generally bad.  

When he gives into it, it’s entirely different. He feels lighter than he ever has, and happy, and recharged and fulfilled. But it’s so difficult, the giving in, because he doesn’t know why it happens. Why he needs it so much. And Alex, unfortunately, has always been someone that needs to know why.  

The first time it’d happened was shortly after the emails had leaked. Everything in his life felt like uncontrollable chaos, his trust shattered and world shaken, and Henry had been the one sure thing throughout the entire ordeal. It’d been too easy and a little scary to fall into it then, but Henry’d taken the reigns and gotten him through it, then had been insistent that they sit down and talk about it at length afterward. Alex understands a little better now, but if he’s truly honest, he’s not sure if he’ll ever fully grasp the true depth of this great big gray unknown. 

Most of the time he’s solid. He and Henry have been through a lot together and usually Alex is the one there to pick up the pieces when Henry falls apart, to hold him or take care of him however he needs and that’s a little incredible on its own, knowing that Henry trusts him enough to have him that way and be so vulnerable. It makes Alex feel fiercely protective and reassured, knowing that he’s needed like that. 

He wishes it were that easy for him to give himself away too. 

The faucet stops and the light in the kitchen flickers off, David’s collar jingling as he curls up on his dog bed for the night in front of the fireplace. Henry appears at his left, stroking a hand down the side of Alex’s face from over the back of the sofa. 

“What color are we right now?” 

Eyes falling shut, Alex tries to evaluate what he’s feeling. They’ve adopted the color system as a way to communicate on multiple levels — both sexually and in general. Earlier, he’d felt like there was a looming shade of angry maroon threatening to flood in and take him under, but now, after acknowledging it and securing Henry as an anchor, it’s a little more like the sunsets he used to sneak up to the roof to watch, a hazy amalgam of pinks and oranges. 

But not green. Alex swallows. 

“Yellow.” 

Henry nods carefully, withdrawing his fingers only to offer them to Alex to help him stand. “I have a few things I need to get done in the study before bed,” he murmurs, his palm warm and solid against Alex’s. “Would you like to accompany me?” 

“Please,” Alex whispers hoarsely. He lets himself be pulled up from the cushion, his socked feet following shortly behind Henry’s loafers until they reach the home office. 

Henry doesn’t turn on the big light because he knows it’s too harsh for times like these. Instead, he lets go of Alex’s hand briefly to pull the string on the lamps on either side of his desk, then returns to Alex’s side to lead him over to the arm chair. Once Alex is seated, knees drawn up onto the cushion, he situates the throw blanket over his lap and tilts Alex’s chin up to meet his eye.  

“Have you finished everything you’d like to get done for the day?” 

“Yes,” Alex nods. 

“Alright, love. Can you wait for me quietly then? I won’t be long.” 

Henry lets him get away without a verbal answer this time, brushing his knuckles over Alex’s cheek one last time before he crosses over to his desk and pulls out his chair, pulling a stack of papers out of the top drawer and uncapping a pen. 

The sun has set now outside of the window, and Alex turns and lays his cheek against the back of the chair to look out of it at the street below. Everything is beginning to bloom this time of year, a million little new beginnings right in front of him alongside the comforting interludes of the day-to-day. 

He drifts inside of his own head for a while, the noise of rustling papers lulling him deeper. It’s not enough, not yet, but Alex knows Henry has a plan for all of this. They’ve talked about it before, through Alex’s flushed cheeks and stuttering admissions. Those conversations feel like ages ago now. A different version of himself, almost, but he guesses that’s kind of the whole point. 

Typically the silence would be uncomfortable. His brain is always running faster than his mouth and usually that means Henry’s on the receiving end of those rushing thoughts and impromptu ideas, but there are a few moments, like tonight, when everything screeches to a halt. The slightest of noises, words, and sounds seem like too much to take in — the clicking of a pen, the press of a keyboard, the click of the air conditioning — and Henry always gives him the space to listen and keep up instead of feeling like he’s falling far, far behind, stuck in some alternate timeline which inhibits him from breaking back into the present. 

In the distance he can hear traffic rushing in the city, can see lights in the windows across the street flick on, off, and back on again, can hear the sound of his own pulse running away from him at a thousand miles an hour. He trembles slightly when he thinks about having to keep up with it all. About having to (try?) to return to work tomorrow, trying to do good, trying to have his voice heard, trying to push and push and push himself until he’s finally pushed too hard and he burns out completely. 

But he looks over at Henry, firm and unhurried and sure, and everything begins to shift back into perspective. It’s the one place Alex doesn’t have to try so hard. He just is and they just are and fuck everyone else. 

“Alex,” Henry calls softly, anchoring him back, “could you bring me your blanket and that file on the printer please?” 

Glancing over to the printer, Alex nods. He hadn’t even heard the document print, hadn’t even noticed Henry opening his computer again, but the paper’s warm when Alex slides it off of the tray. He holds it against the center of his chest, grips the blanket with his bandaged hand and walks it over to Henry, shivering when their fingers brush. 

“Here,” Alex whispers. 

“Wonderful, Alex. Thank you.” Henry sets the document on his desk and grabs him loosely around the wrist once more. “Come here for a moment.” 

He unwraps the blanket and carefully folds it into fours until it’s the size of a pillow, thick and plush. Alex thinks briefly about laying his head on it, then forces his eyes back up to Henry’s when he clears his throat. 

“Are you comfortable being on your knees for me for just a minute while I finish up?” 

“Yes,” Alex rushes. 

He’s dropping to the floor before Henry can even get the blanket under him properly, settling into the small space between Henry’s desk and his legs when he rolls the chair back. The dim lights are even softer from down here, the noise from outside more distant, and Alex closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Henry’s knee with a sigh. 

“Is that comfortable?” Henry asks. Alex nods once against him. “What’s your color, love?” 

“Um.” He tries to think back to the color wheel he’d halfheartedly Googled the last time they did this. “Chartreuse?”  

Sometimes, when it feels like gravity is pulling him too harshly to the ground, the floor feels better than anywhere else. The pressure pulses in the new position, ebbing and flowing throughout his limbs. It used to scare him. Still does, if he doesn’t let Henry take on some of the pressure, doesn’t help him carry it. 

Though Alex knows firsthand how difficult it is to type with only one hand, Henry doesn’t let his fingers drift further than the length of Alex’s back, stroking over his forehead, then behind his ears, dragging his fingernails over his scalp and then down to Alex’s shoulders until they finally drop some of the weight. 

His own fingers feel fuzzy, clutched into fists in his lap, and he flexes them experimentally, wrapping them around Henry’s leg above his shoes. The skin there is warm and soft, and Alex bites at his lip, making circles with the pad of his thumb on the bone of his ankle, thinking about the tendons and cartilage and blood rushing beneath. Some willowy part of his brain supplies, simply, mine.  

Henry has lived in palaces before. He’s spent many nights in the presence of royalty because he is royalty, has donned a crown and golden circlets and fine linens that Alex isn’t even sure he knows how to pronounce, each one tailored perfectly to him and not a stitch out of place. He’s had his fair share of disappointments just like Alex has, but in a vague kind of way, Henry could have anything he wanted. 

Alex is in constant awe that what he wants is him. Here, in their home, without exceptions or stipulations, without excluding Alex’s bad days or restless, sleepless nights. He’d do the same for Henry in a heartbeat, has on more than a few occasions, but it feels like more when it’s Alex that needs. Too much and yet somehow still not enough. But Henry always just smiles, just waits for him with open arms, just keeps on reassuring him even when Alex feels like he doesn’t deserve it. It makes situations like this just the slightest bit easier to swallow. 

The lid of Henry’s laptop shuts softly somewhere above his head, and he rouses slightly beneath the desk, his senses grappling for something to hold on to. 

“Alright, all done. Can you stand up for me? Easy,” Henry hums, hands underneath Alex’s elbows as he rolls the chair backward and helps him into a stand. Alex goes easily into his chest, and Henry sways them back and forth for a moment, pressing his lips to Alex’s temple. “Let’s get ready for bed, alright?” 

He flips the rest of the remaining lights off as they pass through the rooms with Alex tucked underneath his arm. At the snap of his fingers, Alex hears David’s collar tinkling as he moves to the bedroom with them, the rest of the house dark and quiet, the shifts of moonlight seeping in through the front windows. 

Alex clings to the image of them and to Henry as they pass through the pitch black of the hallway, and then finally the low light of the bedroom. It’s so difficult to find a balance when he’s in this headspace. The sounds are too loud or too quiet, the lights too bright or scarily dim. 

Their bed looks achingly inviting when Henry turns to shut the door behind them and leaves his side to shut the curtains on the far wall, and Alex immediately wishes he could climb into it and sleep for days. 

But he thrives on a routine and Henry knows this, so he returns a moment later after getting David settled in his favorite spot on the settee in the corner, taking Alex’s hand and leading him into the ensuite. 

Alex watches as he steps over to the tub and turns the handle, testing the temperature with the back of his hand until he’s satisfied with it and then twisting the plug so it’ll fill. Retrieving a plush towel from underneath the cabinet, he wipes his hand off and sets it on the edge of the tub, then joins Alex in front of the mirror. 

“Let’s get you out of this, yeah?” he posits lightly, the backs of his knuckles loosening up the collar of Alex’s shirt and undoing the buttons with a familiar ease. 

Alex recalls doing this the other way around just a few weeks ago, when Henry was having a particularly dark week and hadn’t showered in several days. Alex had undressed him and helped him into the shower, held him while he cried, stroked a hand down the back of his head and took off of work for a couple days to care for him when he couldn’t do it for himself. 

He holds desperately to the memory now, as Henry does much the same for him but in a slightly different - although Alex can’t explain how - kind of way. This is okay, he reminds himself, even though he doesn’t entirely believe it. The logic checks out, but the feeling — the feeling is harder to justify. 

There are always so many shoulds. Alex isn’t sure when or where he’d collected them all, but he keeps them filed away in the confines of his head, right where the migraine always seems to bloom at his temples and behind his eyelids, a new one always materializing faster than he can keep up with them. 

He should be helping more with his mother’s last term. He should be a better brother to June, a better friend to Nora, a better son to his mom and his dad and to Leo. He should be able to handle the chaos of the world he’d begged to be a part of, and he should be thanking them for the ensuing travails, even when they threaten to do him in entirely. He’s got his dream life, dream job, enrolled in his dream school, surrounded by a (usually) loving family and his Henry, the best thing that’s ever fucking happened to him, and he acts like this? Selfish, is what it is. 

He should be able to keep hold of himself. He should not need his boyfriend to take care of him like he isn’t also a fully capable adult who’s had to take care of himself alone up until the last year or so. He should he should he should. 

And yet, when he lifts a hand to help Henry in getting his pants off, it does nothing but twitch uselessly at his side. Alex feels the sting of frustrated tears glazing over his eyes, grinding his molars together until an ache forms there too. It’s what he deserves probably. 

Like some kind of magnet, Henry’s hands reappear at either side of his face, his thumb massaging the coils of tension until Alex’s jaw slackens again, his tongue lax in his mouth. Alex is fully naked, he realizes suddenly, and he shivers, letting Henry herd him over to the near-full tub as he switches off the water, sprinkles in a myriad of different salts and oils, and then helps Alex step over the side.  

“You’re not coming?” he rasps, unwilling to let go of Henry’s fingers as he sits down in the tub, Henry kneeling down with him on the opposite side on the memory foam rug. 

“I had a shower just before you got home,” he explains, reaching for the loofa behind Alex’s head and lathering it with body wash. The corners of his lips quirk upward. “But I know you love your baths, darling.” 

It is, inarguably, a hard and fast truth. They’re a bit of a guilty pleasure. Alex never takes them as much as he’d like to, only allows himself the reward when he feels like he’s really and truly earned it, but Henry caught on very early into their relationship and now it’s become a bit of a weekly event, sometimes more. 

And he pulls out all the stops, picking specific items from their shelf of essential oils and bath salts and bubbles, until the entire bathroom smells of roses and honey and Alex’s brain turns to much the same consistency. The borderline overly hot water feels like it’s soaking into his bones, forcing them to relax, the tight coil in his chest unraveling a little more. 

Henry drags the loofah up and over his skin, washing him thoroughly and scrubbing away any evidence of the stress of both the last twelve hours and the last several months. He takes special care on Alex’s chest where he knows the skin is more sensitive, lightening the pressure as he passes over the still pink lovebite lingering on his collarbone from the day before. He smiles softly again as he meets Alex’s eye and rinses away the soap with clean water, bending to press a kiss to Alex’s bandaged hand where it’s curled on the edge of the tub. 

Alex only falls harder when Henry washes his hair. His scalp has always been sensitive but Henry knows more intimately the spots that need the most attention. He leans back as Henry lathers up the shampoo and massages it in with firm strokes, cleaning his curls of the hairspray and pomade he’d used when he got ready that morning. 

He realizes his eyes had fallen shut and forces them open again, Henry only inches away. He’s leaning as far as he can over the side of the tub just so Alex can stay relaxed against the back of it, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a splash of water turning the fabric of his shirt a darker shade. When he catches Alex looking, he leans forward and bumps their noses together, his eyes twinkling, before he sits back on his legs again and eases Alex’s body further down so that they can rinse the shampoo out, careful to protect his eyes from the cascade of warm water. 

“Up you get, love,” he murmurs a few minutes later, stroking his fingers over Alex’s wrist. “You’re going to get all pruny.” 

“Would you still love me?” Alex asks. “Like that?”

It’s usually the kind of question Alex asks as a joke. He likes to replace the last part of the sentence with whatever off-the-wall, absurd thing he can think of, and he loves watching Henry pretend to very seriously consider it before ultimately, always, agreeing. 

Tonight though, Alex holds his breath as he waits for the answer. 

That quiet, private smile that Henry reserves just for him makes its way onto his lips as he pushes off the tub and stands, offering a hand out to Alex. With bandaged fingers, he does the best he can to accept the help, digging his toes into the non-slip mat so he won’t fall and letting Henry carry most of his weight. 

He swings one leg over the side and then the other, until the soles of his feet are met with the plush rug, nose-to-nose with Henry as he wraps Alex in a large fluffy towel and begins drying him off, mindful not to scrub too harshly. 

“I would love you in any universe, in any lifetime, in any and every way that I’m capable of.” 

It’s exactly what Alex needs to hear, and equally as devastating. His knees threaten to give out beneath him, fingers curled into Henry’s shoulder. Once he’s dry enough, Henry plants careful hands on either side of his hips and walks him backward toward the counter, the towel tied around his waist. Leaning him against the side of it while he rifles through all of their drawers by the sink, he sets out all of the items Alex typically uses in his nighttime routine. 

Henry’s skin is frustratingly flawless, always smooth and devoid of any blemishes aside from the darkness that sometimes appears underneath his lashline. He washes his face quickly each night, but Alex spends ample time in front of the mirror, poking and prodding, applying a familiar list of creams and oils that keep his stress breakouts to a minimum, or at the very least well hidden. 

Usually he does this part alone while Henry reads and waits for him to come to bed, but tonight, like the rest of the afternoon has been, is a different story. 

He lets Henry lather up a wash cloth and clean the day off of his face as well, carefully gliding it over his forehead and behind his ears, the underside of his neck and his curve of his nose, stuffy from the tears that have been threatening to fall for hours now. Dipping the cloth back under the faucet, Henry swipes it all away and then moves on to his serums and lotions, massaging his thumbs into the pressure points at his temple, jaw, and cheeks until they’re not quite as tight anymore. 

By the end of it he’s ready to collapse into their bed and sleep for days, but Henry only helps him down from the counter and tugs Alex’s back to his chest in front of the mirror, reaching around him to squeeze toothpaste onto his toothbrush and wet it, raising it up to Alex’s lips. 

The tears are quick to reappear at his waterline, feeling slick and oily as they drip down his clean, moisturized skin. Everything good that he has around him - both in this literal moment and in life in general - seems like it’s someone else’s doing, never his own. 

Even now, Henry’s slapped a bandaid on his mess. Sutured him up and mopped up what he could of the evidence; the warmth of Henry’s arms, the feeling of soft material around him, the expensive products sitting on his skin, the scent of minty toothpaste under his nose. 

It’s nice. But it’s not enough to fix Alex — still painfully himself underneath it all. 

The toothbrush prods gently at Alex’s lip and he’s helpless to stop the sob that hiccups from his own mouth, falling backward into Henry and burying his face in his neck, unable to look at the image of himself in the mirror. He’s so tired. He couldn’t hold the toothbrush right now if he tried and that knowledge, somehow, is even worse than everything else tonight has been. 

“Hen…” he murmurs, all garbled and desperate, his voice wobbling, clinging to Henry’s arm around his middle like a lifeline. 

“It’s alright, Alex,” Henry placates, soft and sure. How is he so sure? “You’re alright. I’ve got you.” 

He turns his jaw back forward with the help of Henry’s guiding fingers, drops open his mouth the slightest bit when Henry’s thumb traces over it, his voice a continuous loop of praise in Alex’s ear. He doesn’t deserve it, he knows, but he lets it settle over his shoulders like a balm as Henry brushes every inch of his mouth gently but thoroughly, feeling the world tilt as he leans forward over the sink to rinse a moment later at Henry’s instruction. Alex feels numb as he watches Henry unwrap the bandage on his hand and examine the skin underneath, now just a soft pink instead of an angry red. It seems to sting all the same. 

The bathroom lights turn out and Henry walks them back to the bedroom and helps him into a pair of soft pajama pants, his lips pressed to some part of Alex the entire way, and it just might be the only thing keeping Alex tethered to the ground at the moment; present, here, with Henry instead of drifting up and watching himself from afar. 

Don’t let go, Alex thinks. He’d say it, if his tongue didn’t feel quite so thick in his mouth. Don’t leave me. I’ll be better tomorrow.  

It’s a silly thought. He knows that’s what Henry would say. He might press a kiss to Alex’s lips, might give a little laugh at the sheer absurdity of the idea. 

But it doesn’t feel absurd right now. It feels like a very real, very terrifying possibility. 

Alex shivers, clinging to his hand harder as Henry reaches over to turn off the lights in the bedroom, leaving on the bedside lamp so Alex can still watch him trace his fingers over his skin just above the line of the sheets at their waists, enough that everything is a warm golden color instead of the empty grayness clinging to the inside of his brain. 

Tomorrow, Alex silently promises them both. Tomorrow I’ll be better.  

Maybe this time it’ll be true. 

+

It can’t be more than just a few hours later when he wakes up again, the blinds still shut and the lamp still on, Henry’s thumb rubbing circles into the back of his wrist where his arm remains tucked securely around him from behind. 

He must feel it when Alex stirs, humming softly as he presses a kiss to the curve of his shoulder. Alex blinks a few times, rubs at one of his eyes until his vision clears, glancing sideways at where Henry’s cheek is propped up on his arm and the pillows, looking down at Alex with a sleepy smile. 

“Time s’it?” Alex mumbles, moving to face him underneath the sheets. 

Henry’s hand stays put, his hand shifting from Alex’s abdomen to the middle of his back as he turns and sliding up and down his spine in time with his breaths. 

“Just after midnight,” Henry glances at his discarded watch on the nightstand. 

“You stayed up?” 

His wandering fingers don’t cease their movement, his eyes never leaving Alex’s. “Wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

Stretching his legs under the covers, Alex takes another mental check of himself. He doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore, though there’s still a bit of stubborn haziness around the edges, like he needs something to shake the rest of it off. He uncurls his hands from where he’d bundled them underneath his chin and reaches forward to press his cold fingertips to Henry’s sternum. Henry doesn’t flinch. Maybe what he needs is some one.  

It doesn’t always have to be sexual. Sometimes just the emotional comfort is enough. Henry’s sweet words are more than reassuring, but Alex can’t deny that there’s something so achingly fulfilling about having a visual — about stripping himself down both mentally and physically and being completely at the mercy of someone not controlled by Alex’s wild, frenetic thoughts and chaotic inner critic. When he can see the flush blooming on Henry’s chest, feel his fingers trembling where they sink into flesh, his mouth dropped open and his brows furrowed, his resplendent eyes trained on nothing but Alex — then, Alex knows he’s been good in a way that he can’t give to anyone else. 

Sacred, Henry had called it once. To Alex, it sounds a lot like safe.  

“What are you feeling like tonight, love,” Henry shifts forward, nosing at his jaw. “You can have anything you want.” 

“You,” Alex says instantly. He curls a hand around Henry’s hip, sure. “Want you.” 

“Of course. Can you tell me what you need?” 

“All of you. Anything. I want— wanna feel close to you,” he frowns, the nerves in the back of his throat making it tight. “Can you choose? Please?”  

“Okay, it’s alright,” Henry eases when he struggles to put it into words, pressing a kiss to his cheek and tangling their fingers together. “I’m all yours, Alex. Me and you, remember? I love you.” 

“Me and you,” Alex echoes easily. “Love you.” 

“And you’ll tell me if you need to stop or change anything?” 

“Always.”  

Henry drops a kiss to the tip of Alex’s nose. “Good. That’s wonderful, love. Thank you.”

The sheets are peeled down and the cool air of their bedroom meets his skin, bare from where Henry’d rid him of the towel from earlier. His body feels weightless and also too heavy to move, but Henry arranges him as if he’s no more than featherlight, as delicately as if he’s something worthy of being treated with care. 

Everyone always assumes that he’s invincible. Alex, star student and fearless up-and-coming lawyer. Alex, the charismatic and charming and faultless son of the American President. Alex, self-sufficient brother and best friend, always up for a challenge if it meant making the lives of others just a little easier. 

Henry’s the only one who’s never bought into the act. The only place he’s never had to pretend to be okay when he isn’t, and the only one who sticks around until he is once again.  

Henry reaches for the nightstand and retrieves their lube and a folded towel, evidently placed there while Alex was sleeping, and rises onto his knees. He places the bottle onto the sheets and eases an arm underneath Alex’s hips, laying the towel out across the mattress before settling him back down onto it comfortably, a lingering touch on his hip as he goes. It’s all the more thoughtful, because the physical tiredness Alex feels is bone-deep, and he knows he likely won’t be able to make it to another bath or shower after this with the way his legs already feel like they’d crumble underneath him. 

But it helps when Henry situates both of his feet flat to the mattress, his knees bent, every inch of him bared, each touch giving him purpose again. He reaches up and takes hold of Alex’s wrists, his torso caught between Alex’s thighs as he leans forward, and presses his lips to the fragile skin on the underside thoughtfully. 

“Do you want your wrists tied tonight?” 

Typically, it’d be an immediate yes. Right now, however, all Alex can think about is the shirt he’d worn to work today, the same one he feels like he wears every day, the cuffs of the sleeves just on the wrong side of too tight. 

He shakes his head. “Not tonight.” 

His answer doesn’t seem to surprise either of them. Henry doesn’t let go of his wrists until he’s used them to press Alex’s hands to his bare chest, his heartbeat steady underneath Alex’s palm. He presses in lightly, applying just a bit more pressure, feeling Henry’s skin yield to the gentle evocation. 

With a hand pressed into the pillow beside Alex’s head, Henry lets him continue his exploration as he presses his lips against Alex’s, soft and firm, languishing and unhurried. Alex loves everything about Henry, but kissing him might be right up there near the top of the list. 

It’s for this reason that he likely spends so much time indulging Alex, running his tongue lightly over the ridges at the top of Alex’s mouth, behind his teeth and against his own tongue, drawing in shuddering breaths in between the spit-slick slide of their mouths before delving back in for more until the static noise inside of his head dulls and eventually falls away. 

Alex’s hands roam over broad shoulders and the sharp planes of his back, somehow tender under his fingertips. It’s a wonder, a privilege, that the tension Henry’s carried around for so many years is becoming less common these days. The pain in the tendons here and the ache he sometimes gets in his hips, the weight of an entire country on his back that’s finally beginning to ease underneath Alex’s prodding fingers, lips, and the heating pad he leaves on for Henry at his desk, a sting soothed with time and love. 

“Switch with me,” Henry murmurs against his lips, tapping two fingers lightly against his hip. Alex hesitates, unsure of what his plans are, but Henry catches it before he can panic, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Just so I can get you ready for me. Then I’ll have you under me again. Promise.” 

He grabs onto Alex’s hand and tugs him slowly upward, helping him sit on his knees to the side. Henry leans back against the headboard and retrieves the lube before he urges Alex back into his lap with a hand on his waist, situating one of his legs on either side of his own. 

“Thank you,” Alex whispers, nosing along his cheek and drawing his hands up to hold the back of Henry’s head. 

“For what, love?” 

Everything, he wants to say. 

“Wanted to see you. Face to face.” 

The corners of Henry’s lips venture up, and he tugs Alex in close until their chests are pressed together, not an inch of space left between them. He reaches up and moves a few stray curls from his forehead. 

“I know.” 

Henry kisses him again, deeply and earnestly, running calloused hands over every inch of skin he’s able to reach— which is just about everywhere in this position. There are goosebumps in the wake of it, a shiver despite the warmth of Henry’s touch. 

Alex doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of Henry in general, any part of him. But he’s always been particularly partial to the way Henry’s shoulders are just a little broader than his own, able to cover him when he wants shelter, able to encompass when Alex wants to dissolve for a while. 

He slides both hands up and over the length of Henry’s arms until they’re looped up around his neck. Alex leans in and rests his cheek on his own elbow, pressing a kiss to the side of Henry’s neck at his disposal. 

Typically he can’t stand not being an active and enthusiastic partner, always eager to please. But they both know that the energy isn’t there tonight, Alex’s body loose and warm and still freshly washed, tense save for the points where it yields to Henry’s touch, like a key turning in a lock, a door opening. Like coming home. 

He drifts for an indefinite amount of time as Henry rubs at his shoulders and his hips and his thighs, as he uses a single hand to slick his fingers, as he tugs Alex close by the back of his neck and murmurs softly in his ear while he works in a first and then a second finger, purposeful and slow. 

Alex’s lashes flutter against Henry’s neck as he gasps and shifts, the digits inside of him beginning to serve more of a purpose than simply opening him up. It’s times like these that Alex is even more grateful that Henry knows every part of him so well, knows what he needs and knows exactly how to reach the spaces inside of him that send him plummeting back down to earth with the promise of a safe landing at the bottom. 

His movements are still slow despite how deliberately he curves his digits, Alex’s fingers folded into fists and his toes curled where they rest on either side of Henry’s thighs. The motion shifts from fleeting touches to a tidal wave, the tips of Henry’s trimmed fingers delicate and insistent as they rub over Alex’s prostate. He grinds forward, leaking steadily ow onto Henry’s lower stomach, before rocking back into his hand, unable to help himself. 

“You’re going to have to stay still for me, darling,” Henry reminds him, following his movements with a practiced ease. Alex mumbles into his neck, sucking his lower lip into his mouth when drool begins to pool at the side. “Words, Alex. Talk to me.” 

“Okay. Okay,” he says shakily, carefully unfolding his fingers and trying to relax. It does little to aid him as Henry only persists, a third digit joining the first two in his thorough pursuit of taking Alex apart from the inside with tight, hazy circles right where he’s most sensitive. There are tears pricking the corners of Alex’s eyes, the sensation so much but somehow exactly what he needs. “Hen, m’not— I think I need — ” he whines, grinding his prick forward again through the sticky trail of his own excitement on Henry’s skin. 

“You want me to take the edge off a bit?” 

“I think— yeah,” he nods frantically into Henry’s neck as sweat beads at his temple. “Please, H, please —” 

“Hush,” Henry placates. “You don’t need to beg for anything tonight, my love.” He holds the back of Alex’s head a bit more firmly, his thumb rubbing at the spot where his head had ached earlier. “Tell me what you need and it’s yours.” 

Alex slumps forward onto him completely, mouthing mindlessly at the swell of Henry’s pec as he burrows himself as close as he can get. His arms have fallen from around Henry’s neck to wrap around his middle now, an achor as Alex allows himself to fall into it, rocking steadily against him as he climbs toward relief. 

There isn’t an inch of space left between them but Henry doesn’t even attempt to rectify that fact, if anything tightening his grip on Alex as he shushes the noises Alex hadn’t even been aware he was making. Alex’s nipples, sensitive and hardened in the coolness of their bedroom, drag across Henry’s own with every drag of his hips. All of the spots where Alex usually loves that Henry’s soft and pliant have become something else for the night, the planes of his body firm and unwavering as if responding to what it seems to know Alex is searching desperately for. 

Henry had eased up for a moment as he’d worked in his ring finger among the others, but wastes no more time in returning precisely to his former trajectory, the press on his prostate now threefold instead of two, and it seems impossible to escape. It seems like exactly where Alex wants to be. 

He shudders and bucks, trembling from head to toe despite having not come yet. Henry’s name is on his lips, over and over and over again, a plea and a curse and a cry, but Henry stays steady throughout it all. The haziness returns, budging in around the corners of his vision, but this time it doesn’t seem as scary as it had earlier, even as he gasps and writhes. 

“Don’t run from it, Alex. It’s alright,” Henry murmurs against his cheek, petting at the back of his head.  “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. I have you.” 

Despite it all, it’s the use of his own nickname for Henry that feels like the deciding factor. With his last bit of willpower to stop it Alex makes the decision to go willingly, relief crashing over him in waves as Henry holds him still and makes him take it, lets him have it, relentless as he keeps his fingers grinding in quick circles. 

Alex comes, his mouth wide open and soundless as he shakes with it, the feeling unfolding from the base of his skull down to the soles of his feet, zipping through him and liquefying any last remains of his stubborn rigidity. 

“Color, Alex,” Henry’s voice cuts through the haze of blazing warmth, Alex’s stomach warm and slick as he swallows down a cry and tries to draw himself back. 

“G-green,” he manages barely. It’s foggy, but undeniably green. Then, his body making the decision before his brain can, “Don’t stop. Hen, please, don’t stop.”  

His own voice sounds wrecked in his ringing ears, his tears salty on his tongue. It’s these little things that keep him adrift as he floats somewhere in between, right on the cusp of a precipice that Alex knows he has to crash over before he can come back fully. There are a million thoughts in his head, none fully formed and all desperate, needy things, but the shame has been long since removed, pried out with Henry’s fingers, with his touch, with his words. Blissfully, finally, Alex feels weightless.  

The world tilts a bit and Alex clings forward as Henry rolls them gently sideways, Alex’s shoulder blades meeting the fluffy bath towel once again. He burrows back into it as Henry awards him sweet praise, and Alex catches glimpses of him moving around the bed when he deigns to let his eyes flutter open for the sole purpose of making sure he’s still there. 

It’s only been quite like this - quite this much - a few times before— after the leak when Henry’d found him curled into a ball in his closet, unwilling to talk to anyone but him, the only other person who understood. Another time just after he’d started law school and realized how deeply he’d overestimated his own bandwidth, tugging his hair by the roots, sobbing until his throat was raw, drowning and drowning until Henry’d offered a hand and pulled him back out. Once when Alex had come home to Henry’s suitcase on the bed and promptly found himself in the midst of the worst panic attack he’d ever had, assuming that what had actually been Henry simply cleaning the closet was him leaving while Alex was away. 

He’d been patient each time, always willing to do or be whatever it was that Alex needed. Willing to be himself — protected behind the closed doors of the residence and scattered hotel rooms and sprawling palace floors and, eventually, here in their home — which is all Alex had ever asked of him in the first place.  

He’s not quite sure what it is that had set it all off this time. It hadn’t been a single event, he’s sure. Not the usual sharpness of something unexpected or jarring, out of his control. This time it’d been a slow build, there for weeks or possibly even months, dwindling and then pushing back in tight, drawing him fuzzy around the edges. 

It’d been so hard to find a time and a space to carve out for himself to breathe in, to rest. But Henry’d been right there beside him, chiseling away at the opposition until it was small enough, simple enough that Alex could tuck it neatly back into that box, comfortable enough that Alex felt like he could hand over the key. 

He’d given Alex precisely what he needed and more. He’d given Alex back a choice.  

As soon as if they’d never left, Henry’s hands return to his overheated skin, cleaning his stomach off gently before there’s a pressure at the backs of Alex’s thighs, urging them up and open. He goes easily, the sole of one of his feet pressed against Henry’s firm shoulder as Henry’s fingers curl around his ankle. 

Alex’s mouth has figured out how to work again and he uses it to try to tell Henry he’s ready but everything comes out slurred around his hiccuped sobs. There’s a hand pressed to the center of Alex’s chest over his heart, another filling in the gaps between his fingers. Henry’s hair tickles his cheek as he leans down and kisses Alex quiet, smoothing his lips over the tracks his tears had left behind until Alex calms enough to take in a breath. 

“Don’t stop,” Alex tries again, his lower lip still trembling. 

He feels like he’s close to vibrating out of his own skin, caught between too much and still not quite enough. He tries to ground himself in the reminders, in Henry gripping at his thigh to push him open a bit further, trailing featherlight fingers down to press against him before the head of his cock follows closely behind. And Alex —

He just fucking needs.  

“Be still, Alex. I have you.” 

Each of his overstimulated senses clings to the reminder like a balm, like a lifeline, like a revelation all the same, and the world that’d gotten so vast and vague in the gaps between touches narrows once more to Henry anchoring him still. 

His broad hips settle into place between Alex’s bent thighs, the skin giving way to the divots in Henry’s waist as he pushes forward. Henry lifts one of his hands and encourages it to his lower back, letting Alex feel it from every angle as he shifts once more and finally, finally begins filling him. 

The shape of Henry inside of him is something he’s familiar with but that never grows tiresome, a space no one else has ever had and never could have in quite the same way. 

Curling his fingers into the fleshy side of Henry’s hip to pull him the rest of the way forward, Alex goes breathless before all at once he seems to remember how to draw in fresh air, the scent of their body wash and combined scent pillowing him in familiarity; in safety. 

There’s a few more moments of almosts before he can feel the planes of Henry’s lower stomach pressed right up against the backs of his own thighs, slotted perfectly into place. Something akin to a sob hiccups from his lips again, and Henry eases forward to curl around him, his elbows propped on either side of Alex’s head as their noses bump together. 

“Oh, love,” he sighs, swiping at Alex’s brow. “You’re so beautiful. Giving yourself to me like this. I’m so lucky.” Alex blinks, clenching around him, trying to pull him impossibly deeper. “Just feel it. Just rest for a moment, alright?” 

His blue eyes disappear into the heat of Alex’s shoulder, tracing the outline with his lips, one side and then the other. Letting his eyes fall shut, Alex tries to heed his advice, a sense of security returning at finally having what he’d been too afraid to ask for for so long. The constant vice grip of needing to have control is slipping away from him fast than he can try to keep hold of it, but he’s pleased to find that, in this moment, at least, he no longer wants to. 

His thighs finally fall open a bit more on their own, letting Henry’s hips nudge into him a little more firmly, right where Alex had been aching for him the most. It’s something he often revisits on his list of favorites re: Henry, this part, this bit of quiet, when it’s just them and Alex doesn’t have to think, can just let himself feel and let his body do the work, can revel in the way it yields to Henry each and every time. 

As if sensing his submission, Henry shifts on his knees, their noses still touching as he withdraws just a fraction before returning. It’s a loss Alex can stomach simply for the fact that he’s sure Henry won’t stop, will keep him anchored, keep coming back for as long as Alex needs. Maybe for as long as they both need. 

Bit by bit, Alex releases his staunch hold, allowing him room to set a steady rhythm between his legs. The panic has been soothed now, his body seemingly appeased with the proof Henry’s provided it, and the space it’d taken up in the front of his brain slowly begins to focus on pleasure instead. He gasps as Henry fucks into him deeply and thoroughly, just the way Alex likes, the firmness of his stomach an enticing drag over Alex’s prick, flushed and leaking onto his belly between them. 

“You’re taking me so well, darling,” Henry tells him, his breath warm on the side of Alex’s cheek as he tangles their fingers together. “Love being able to give you this in return for how you always give to me so freely. Thank you for letting me love you, Alex. My perfect boy.” 

The praise sends heat straight through Alex’s core, spreading out to each of his limbs and lighting a fire behind his rib cage, centered right at Henry’s lips against his cheekbone. 

“Love you,” Alex gasps as Henry burrows himself deeper still. “Thank you. Thank you.” 

For all of Alex’s waterfall of words, Henry’s are always so deliberate, so purposeful. Alex clings to them in times like these, knows that he means them soul-deep. Love. Give. Freely. Perfect. 

It makes it easy to feel like he embodies these things on the days he has his doubts, the same as when he reassures Henry that he isn’t a burden or boring or any of the other things he thinks when he gets down on himself. 

The only way out is through, and only since Henry has Alex known what it was like to have a hand to hold in the during, to have someone willing to wade into the darkness for the sole purpose of helping him find the light at the other side. 

Alex can see it now, within his reach. The lamp seems to shine a little brighter, sparkling in the glassiness of Henry’s clear blue eyes, even as Alex’s swim and overflow with tears. Though this time, they’re less fear and more relief. Henry presses his lips to them as he would any other part of Alex, and doesn’t flinch. 

“You’re so beautiful when you cry for me, sweetheart. You’re safe with me, Alex.” Beautiful. Safe. Sometimes it feels like he spends his life fighting to be those things, and with Henry he doesn’t even have to try. “That’s it, let it out. You’re alright, love. You’re safe.” 

He muffles another sob into the heat of Henry’s mouth, slick and uninhibited. He’s made it to the other side now, no longer in need but reveling in getting to have. He flexes his muscles and hooks a leg further up on Henry’s hip, feels Henry move to cradle it there. One hand simmers to life and finds its way to Henry’s hair, thick and soft between his fingers. 

His body’s been working toward release even as he’d drifted, evidence of how well Henry is acquainted with it. The angle of Henry’s hips is intentional, each shift sending his cock not only right up against Alex’s overstimulated prostate but his broad chest directly over Alex’s own prick before it the touch drags over his sensitive nipples, pressed as close as Alex can have him. 

He winds his arms up and around Henry’s shoulders and tugs until Henry’s elbows drop him down another few inches, his weight grounding them to the bed, keeping Alex still. Once he gets his other leg around Henry’s hip to lock his ankles over his back, Henry shifts and switches to a buoyant grind, his hips never leaving Alex’s as he cradles Alex’s head in his hands, their noses touching and the heat no longer just a current, but an imminent tide. 

“You can come whenever you want, Alex,” Henry presses into his mouth. “You’ve been so good for me, darling. Want to see you.” 

Alex doesn’t even realize it’s happening at first. There’s a pressure that blooms in his abdomen and rolls outward in a million different directions. He trembles with the intensity of it, his mouth dropped open and his eyes rolled backward, the last of the stubborn shame leaving him and replaced with a blank slate. A fresh start. 

“There you are. You’re so good, Alex. That’s it, give it to me. Good boy. My good boy.” 

Henry doesn’t stop, not even when Alex feels him come, feels the warmth at the base of his spine, working Alex through it just as thoroughly in the midst of his own release. His voice is wavering but a constant at the curve of Alex’s ear, his breath warm on every exhale. 

It lasts for a while, longer than Alex can ever remember from before. He’s heaving by the end of it, his tears drying on his cheeks, muscles taut where he’s got Henry held to his chest. He’s dizzy when he blinks up at the ceiling so he shuts his eyes instead as the aftershocks roll through them. 

When he opens them again an indefinite amount of time later, the world is no longer unsteady around him. All of his favorite things are fixed points once again; Henry. David snoring in his dog bed by the window. The framed photo of all three of them on the dresser. Alex is here in the moment, taking in a gasping breath as he resurfaces little by little. 

The exhaustion hits him at the same moment, his adrenaline crashing after being so unpredictable throughout the course of today. 

“Hen,” he tries to say, half-enunciated and mostly an instinctual roll of his tongue. Another thank you. 

Henry’s lips mold to his forehead as he gently rolls them sideways, a hand on Alex’s hip and thigh to guide him through it until his cheek is resting against Henry’s shoulder, Alex’s overheated back soothed by the cool air in their bedroom and Henry’s fingers dancing along his spine. 

“Shh, take your time,” he says, adjusting the blanket around them. “I have you. There’s no rush, love.” 

Alex rests. 

+

When Alex’s eyes flutter open next, he’s settled back into his skin. He can feel it, the way his thoughts are fully formed and chronological, as if coming back online after days of drifting in the ether. 

It makes him feel a little better than Henry’s got the lines of their linen imprinted into his cheek and half-lidded, sleep-soft eyes when Alex sneaks a glance, evidence that he’d rested at some point as well. But he’s still up before Alex, an arm tossed around his hips and one of Alex’s thighs thrown over both of his. He’s humming softly, the first shifts of morning light just beginning to appear at the split in the curtains on the far wall. 

It’s a song Alex is familiar with, one that they’ve shared with each other before. Alex breathes deeply and fills his lungs with new air, nosing at Henry’s pec and pressing his smile to the warm skin as he begins to hum along. 

“Good morning, love,” Henry rasps, raising Alex’s hand on his chest up to press his lips to the back of his knuckles. 

Alex stretches his legs and turns even further onto him, resting his chin on his hand near Henry’s collarbone to look at him properly. 

“Morning.” 

“Let me go grab us something to eat from downstairs and then we can talk, alright?” He grazes his lips over Alex’s brow and carefully begins disentangling himself. “Would’ve gotten it earlier, but you were out pretty hard.” 

“Yeah,” Alex sighs, stretching out with his hands high above his head, his toes pointed before he yawns and curls back onto his side as Henry pulls on his robe. “Thank you. Do you need any help?” 

“Just rest,” Henry smiles over his shoulder. 

He rounds the corner out of their bedroom, David giving his own stretch and shake, his bell tinkling as he hops off of his bed and follows Henry to the kitchen for a morning treat. Alex presses his face to the warmth of the spot he just vacated and breathes slowly around a smile, watching the light filter in and make patterns across the hardwood by the bed until he returns. 

He’s already dozing again by the time the bedroom door thuds softly against the stopper, a tray balanced on both of Henry’s hands as he pads back into the room and sets it softly on the sheets before sliding back into his spot beside him, letting David curl up at their feet. 

Henry makes him sit up against the headboard and hands him his coffee, swiping a bit of the whipped cream he’d put on top off to flick on Alex’s nose instead. It all goes to waste when Alex grabs both sides of his face—after making sure their mugs are secure—and kisses him, smearing it all over Henry’s cheek as well. 

Alex feels normal again as they talk about their plans for the upcoming week, and Henry helps him work through a bit more of the issue with his school and work until he feels like he has more of a game plan. They finish breakfast with their hands, the fruit sticky and sweet as they take turns cleaning it off of each other’s fingers. 

But when the food is gone, Henry sets the tray on the ground and shifts closer, both arms around Alex as he settles back into Henry’s chest. It’s a bit of a routine at this point, and Alex is grateful for the familiarity. He pulls Henry’s hand into his lap and traces over the curve of his knuckles. 

“I’m so proud of you, my love,” he presses into Alex’s shoulder. “I know that isn’t easy for you. Thank you for letting me help you.” 

“Thank you,” Alex amends, his voice quiet. “I’m sorry. I thought I would have more time before— before it got bad again. Didn’t mean to just spring it on you like that.” 

“You don’t need to apologize to me. You’re allowed to need things, Alex. I love you, and I want to take care of you, the same way you take care of me when I need it.” He squeezes his fingers, threading them together with his own. “I would never hold something like that against you. It’s a beautiful thing, and I wish we could do it more often so that we can make sure you don’t drop so hard when it does,” he says softly. “You’re so strong, but you don’t have to wait until you’re already at your limit to ask for help.” 

“But you don’t ever seem to need it like I do,” Alex sighs. “It’s so easy when it’s you. I love taking care of you. But when it’s me I feel so guilty. I’m afraid if I give into it I’ll start needing it more often and I can’t— I don’t want to be too needy.” 

It’s always been a fear of his, one that Henry has tried many times to soothe, but it runs deep, and still rears its ugly head sometimes when he’s stressed or already anxious about something else. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever experienced it as deeply as you do,” Henry admits after a moment, “but we also do this more frequently for me, so it never gets to a point where I physically or emotionally drop. Does that make sense?” Alex nods. “I think, if we made time for this kind of thing more often and more intentionally, maybe it wouldn’t feel so overwhelming or scary for you anymore.” 

“Maybe—” he swallows, “maybe that would be okay. If we did that. I’ve never needed something like this before. It’s not a part of me that I’m totally comfortable with yet,” Alex admits. “I feel like I’m taking advantage of you. Or that I’ll ask for too much.” 

Henry reaches up to turn his cheek and hold it in his palm, pressing his mouth to the curve of Alex’s lips.“I love every part of you. And you aren’t asking anything more than I love to give. We can take it really slow. There’s no timeline for any of this, love. I just want to make sure you’re okay. There’s not a single thing you could ask of me that would be too much if it made you happy.” His grip turns a little unsure, his eyes darting over to a different corner of the room, and Alex tilts his head. “I— I know this is your thing but I do… worry sometimes. Sometimes I wish I could ask for it for you but I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable if it’s not something you want.” 

The shift in his tone makes Alex pause, and he sits up a little more, turning so he can face Henry properly, the sheet falling down to pool around his waist. He still won’t meet Alex’s gaze, the tips of his ears flushed pink and the corner of his lips pulled down at the edges. 

“Henry,” he breathes, hands planted on his shoulders, “I— you’re everything. I don’t even know how to explain it, I—” Alex laughs a little wetly, shaking his head. “You make me so, so happy. And you— I don’t say it enough because I get embarrassed about it but— you take such good care of me. There’s no one else in the world I would trust with this.” 

It doesn’t feel like enough, not for the way Henry always takes the weight off of his shoulders so thoroughly and completely, but it seems to do the trick. Henry’s eyes soften and the lines in his forehead ease away at the swipe of Alex’s thumb, and he falls forward, their foreheads pressed together. 

“I love you,” Henry tells him, his hand on Alex’s hip. 

“Love you too,” Alex grins. 

They don’t leave the bed for hours. 

+

After the term ends, it gets a lot easier to breathe. The stress eases and Alex has more time to sink into himself rather than deflecting with every other avenue he can think of, and life is slow for once in a way that takes some getting used to at first, but he can tell the difference as much as Henry can. 

There’s time for all of the little things now; watering the plants out front, showing Henry more of his favorite recipes, keeping the bed made and the candle lit in the living room. Alex gets to know every corner that he’d taken for granted, and finds that the more he explores, the less the fear of the unknown seems to keep him in the dark. 

The box is still there, but he’s made some changes. It sits on the bookshelf in the study now, in between Alex’s law books and Henry’s classics, the little antique rose carving Henry’d gotten him perched on top of it. It’s as illuminated as everything else is when Alex pushes open the curtains, no longer a disruption but another piece of the whole. 

And the key itself is around Alex’s own neck this time, ready to be shared at his desire, which is slowly becoming more often now. 

Henry hums softly around the kitchen as he makes their lunch, David tapping happily around the tile to clean up any droppings. When Alex steps in from his his morning classes he’s more than happy about having the evenings off, hanging his bag and his jacket on the hook by the door as he follows the melody and the sweet scent drifting down the hall. 

The humming stops when Alex steps up behind him, slipping his hands around his apron and exhaling. He can feel Henry’s smile against his temple. 

“Good day, love?” 

Alex gives an answering one in return, the key pressed right up in between his heart and Henry’s shoulder blades. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Good.”