Work Text:
they said the end is coming
everyone’s up to something
I find myself a-running home to your sweet nothings
outside they’re push and shoving
you’re in the kitchen humming
all that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing
----
Henry hasn’t text Alex back all day.
He left for class so early this morning, had pressed a kiss to Henry’s temple from where he still lay in bed and slipped out just as the sun was coming up. Henry’s lips had twitched in his sleep, the smallest smile gracing his features, and Alex had wished he could stay home. It had been tempting, so tempting, to slip back out of his shoes and slot himself against Henry’s back, press his face against his shoulder blades and go back to sleep.
But he had a meeting with one of his classmates for a project and then two three-hour seminars nearly back-to-back, so he’d had to go.
Still, he texts Henry around 7:30am while sitting across a library table with his classmate, knowing that’s when he normally wakes up so that he can be at the youth shelter by 9:00am, at the latest. It’s simple, he thinks, just a morning, baby. you looked cute this morning btw, but you should probably wash the drool off your pillowcase😉.
Then he gets wrapped up with planning and researching and reading over a case study to prep for the mock trial he has to do with his classmate next week. When they’re done, he heads over to the student center to get a coffee before his first seminar, surprised when his phone shows no new messages from Henry.
And Alex thinks it’s strange, sure, but if Henry accidentally slept in or was in a rush to get to the shelter when he woke up, it’s feasible that he just hasn’t had the time to text him back yet. He texts him again, as he normally would throughout the day, swiping out a quick this mock trial next week might kill me, will you write me a good eulogy? you and your pretty words?
The first seminar drags on, and Alex nurses his coffee and tries to keep his eyes open and contribute to discussion, but his eyes keep darting to his phone, where it sits face up on the table, wondering why no new notifications have come in.
It’s not usually Henry who is bad at texting back. Typically, he’s the attentive one, responsive and quick about it. Alex is usually the one who often has to be texted multiple times before he responds, because it’s so easy for him to get distracted, so effortless for him to lose track of time and just forget to check his phone. Henry doesn’t usually care or complain much, to his credit, and it usually just means Alex will finally look at his messages and see several that have piled up. Sometimes, he has to scroll up to read them all, and as much as he feels guilty when he’s scatterbrained, he also likes having messages that take him a minute to read, like a small time capsule of Henry’s love and devotion preserved in electronic form.
But that’s him – inattentive and easily sidetracked. Henry doesn’t usually exhibit the same behavior.
Halfway through the first seminar, Alex unlocks his phone and sees that the messages haven’t even been read – no, they’re still just delivered. The professor gives them a ten-minute break, and he tries again, typing busy day? and then, because there’s something heavy sitting at the bottom of his chest, he follows up with, I love you.
He doesn’t comprehend anything that happens the second half of the seminar, too caught up in hitting the lock button on his phone and trying to see if maybe his phone just isn’t vibrating the way it’s supposed to, like maybe the phone is glitching and not notifying him when messages come through. At first, he checks it every five minutes, then every three, every two, until finally he’s just holding his phone unlocked in his hand and staring at his message history with Henry and trying to keep his heart from beating too quickly in his chest.
His palms are damp, but he grips his phone tightly and wills Henry to text him, or even to just read his messages, but by the time class is finally over, there’s still nothing. Something nags at the back of his brain, a puzzle he can’t solve because he feels like he doesn’t even know the instructions. He didn’t forget about something Henry had to do, did he? Is there some event or meeting that has occupied Henry’s time this morning that Alex somehow let slip his mind?
As he walks out of the campus building and toward his next class, he hits the call button on his phone and waits as it rings, and rings, and rings until finally, Henry’s voicemail message clicks on and Alex can feel the panic rising in his throat because this really isn’t like him. He always answers. Occasionally, he even gets a little annoyed if Alex calls him when he’s in the middle of something, says he always answers because he’s afraid he’ll miss some sort of emergency, and sighs when it’s just Alex telling him something random about his day, tells him, “Love, I promise I want to hear more. But can I call you back in a bit? I have to finish something up.”
Alex waits, holding his breath as he listens to Henry’s voicemail box message.
“Hey, baby.” His voice shakes, and he clears his throat. “Just checking in on you. Call me back, or text me, or something. I love you.”
He slips his phone back into his pocket and then immediately pulls it back out, not wanting to accidentally miss a message. It slips from his hands, though, and he’s thankful when it bounces harmlessly into the grass next to the sidewalk. His hands are shaking when he picks it back up.
“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers and taking a deep breath. He tries to call again, decides not to leave a second voicemail this time when it clicks through.
The inhale he tries to take feels insufficient, like it didn’t actually pull in any of the oxygen that his body needs.
It’s probably fine. He knows it’s probably fine. It has to be fine.
Yet, panic threatens to claw its way out of his throat, because when he tries to think of the last time Henry wasn’t answering his phone or responding to messages, he’s back in a White House hallway with his private thoughts being shown on national news media and Henry doesn’t answer when Zahra finally gives him back his phone, and the only other person in the world who understands what Alex is going through is halfway across an ocean and they’re both alone, isolated.
Or before that, there was the lake house, where Alex had sat on the porch in his pajamas in an early morning sun and let the phone ring so many times the sound was echoing in his ears, redialed and let it ring again, knowing that Henry was gone and he wasn’t coming back. And the week after, when every message went unanswered and every call went to voicemail and the love in Alex’s chest was shattered back on the lake shore in Texas, mixed in with the sand where Alex felt like he would never be able to get pick it all back up, much less piece it together again.
And then there are worse alternatives, accidents and stalkers and a million other things that could be wrong that are irreversible. But surely someone would have contacted him if something happened, right? Someone would have told him something. They wouldn’t leave him in the dark if Henry was hurt, or worse. Unless no one knows yet.
He closes his eyes for just a second, pushing those thoughts away. It’s probably fine. He’s just busy. It doesn’t happen, usually, but that doesn’t mean it can’t.
It’s probably fine.
The mantra repeats in his head over and over as time drags by, slow and painful. His brain isn’t really functioning properly, but he goes through the motions. He walks into his next class. He sits down at the big circular table and makes eye contact when his professor says something. He stares at his laptop screen and his messages, still unread, and pretends to listen when the girl next to him has been discussing her case summary for nearly five minutes. Her voice sounds far away, muffled and hard to hear. His phone is still in his hand, still unlocked, the battery percentage slowly going down as he stares and stares.
Have you heard from Henry today? finally gets sent to Pez an hour into the seminar, and he knows he’s probably coming across as rude and the professor is probably going to send him an email for being on his phone too much during class, but there’s a tightness in his chest and an uneasiness in his stomach that he knows won’t go away until he’s heard from Henry.
Pez’s response is quick. He didn’t come in today.
And the sensation that’s been simmering at the back of his brain jolts forward, and Alex’s stomach sinks with sudden realization.
Oh, no.
At all? Alex asks, swallowing past the lump in his throat.
No, babes. I haven’t heard anything from him. He just didn’t come in.
And then, another text immediately after: Wait. Have YOU not heard from him?
Alex changes conversations, flipping quickly to the PPO that was outside their Brownstone when he left that morning, who would have been with Henry if anything happened. Is Henry okay? Pez said he isn’t at the shelter?
Thankfully, the response is quick. He hasn’t left the apartment today.
And Alex is standing before he’s even finished reading the message, pressing a hand to his chest to try to keep his heart from falling out of his body as he grabs his bag and looks at the professor helplessly. “I’m sorry, it’s a family emergency. I have to go.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He’s already gone.
----
It’s been so long since this has happened, and Alex hates himself for not realizing what was going on sooner.
Usually, he can see it coming.
Most times, there are signs – that pinch in the corner of his mouth shows up, his eyes start looking a little distant when he thinks Alex isn’t looking, his touches are more timid – there are tiny happenstances that make it evident to Alex that Henry is going down.
And Alex is always there to catch him.
He wasn’t there this time. He didn’t see the impeding disaster, didn’t sense the darkness approaching beforehand. Now, as he tries to recall everything that’s happened the last few days, he can see it through the haze of his memory – the little pinch had been there at dinner last night as Henry had picked at his food, he’d turned away last night after he thought Alex was asleep, and Alex was too drowsy to pay it any attention.
The signs had been there. He just hadn’t noticed.
It makes guilt settle deep into his stomach, moisture stinging his eyes as he walks quickly across campus, a text already sent to Cash to pick him up. He missed it. He’d been so busy, so overwhelmed with school that he didn’t fucking see it.
Henry probably hasn’t even picked up his phone this morning, but Alex texts him anyway as he slides into the car waiting for him. Maybe he’ll glance at his screen as it comes through. It’s possible.
I’m on the way home, baby. Be there in 10.
And, just in case, he says, I love you.
His knee is bouncing as they drive, and people and trees and buildings pass by the window but he doesn’t see any of them. Eventually, he closes his eyes and waits until he feels the car start to slow down before he opens them again.
He gets out of the car quickly, through the door and up the stairs as he tries not to trip over his feet, and then he’s in the doorway of their bedroom and Henry is still there, in the same spot, curled into a ball on their bed.
Wide awake.
Alex’s heart breaks.
“Baby.”
He toes off his shoes quickly and throws his jacket on the floor and then he’s sliding himself in close to Henry in their bed, careful of David at his feet, and pulling Henry into his chest. He wills himself to stop trembling, because Henry is here and physically safe, at least, and he might not be okay now, but Alex knows he will be. He just has to stay with him through it.
“You have class.” Henry’s voice is small, cracked.
“Professor let us go early,” Alex lies. Henry probably knows it’s a lie, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just makes a noncommittal noise and doesn’t push Alex away.
Alex tucks Henry’s head underneath his chin, curls his own body into Henry and holds him and holds him and presses his lips to his hair over and over and prays that the love he feels, that threatens to crack open his chest, can be transferred to Henry through the places where their bodies touch.
“I love you,” Alex reminds him verbally, too, fingers tracing circles into Henry’s shoulder.
Henry hums, just a little, fingers tangling into the fabric of Alex’s shirt as he presses his forehead a little harder into Alex’s collarbone. Somehow, Alex constricts his arms tighter, pressing Henry all that much closer. There’s a pause, and then Henry sighs, and his exhale shakes his entire body, and Alex feels tears burning the corners of his eyes, but Henry does say, quietly, “I love you.”
“What do you need, baby?” Alex swallows, throat tight. “What can I do?”
He waits, feeling Henry’s hands fidget where they’re trapped between their chests. “Talk to me? About anything.”
Alex thinks for a moment, tries to think of a story Henry maybe hasn’t heard before. It’s not easy- they talk all the time and he thinks that Henry has probably heard everything.
“Did I ever tell you about the time my mom bought June her first guitar but accidentally put my name on the wrapping paper because she was sleep-deprived?” Henry’s head shakes back and forth, just once. “Well, it was Christmas, and I think I was eleven or so. And June was devastated.”
He tells the story slowly, adds as many details as he can as he recounts how upset June was for the moments that she thought Alex had gotten a present that she wanted. His mom had stepped in rather quickly, thankfully, and told June the truth. But then little and already stubborn eleven-year-old Alex had insisted that he was upset about having a present taken back from him and pitched a fit. He had opened it – it was his.
Alex’s blood rushes with relief when a puff of air escapes Henry’s nose, the smallest laugh at the expense of a dramatic and prepubescent Alex Claremont-Diaz.
“I was a little theatrical then,” he says, testing.
He swears he can feel Henry’s smile against his chest. “Then?”
And Alex beams, nuzzling his nose into Henry’s hair. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I still am.”
Time has passed, even though Alex doesn’t know how much, and Henry’s body is more relaxed against him. His legs have stretched out and their toes are brushing together at the foot of the bed, his grip on Alex’s shirt has loosened. He sighs again, but this time it feels softer.
“Thank you,” Henry whispers.
And he loves him so much, it feels like he could reach into his heart and pull the love out, present it to Henry and beg him to take however much of it he needs. It fills Alex up so completely, taking up every empty space in his body so fully that he can feel it in his veins, in his lungs, in every piece of him. He thinks that surely there is enough for Henry to cling to, prays that Henry can feel where it lives in his skin, bleeding into the space between their bodies.
“I’d do anything for you, baby,” Alex tells him, his words burning with sincerity. “I hate that this happens to you, and a lot of the time I just wish there was more I could do. Seeing you like this breaks my heart, you know? And then I know I can’t really do much to make it better, just… this, I guess. But I would. If there was anything I could do to help, to make it go away, I would do it in a heartbeat. I just…”
He trails off, pressing his cheek to the top of Henry’s head and squeezing his arms around him, just a little. Henry’s own arms have found their way around him, and he squeezes back, and Alex feels like he can breathe again.
“You do help.” Henry’s voice is quiet, scratchy and cracked, but it’s still a beautiful sound to Alex. “I’ve never really… had someone who cared enough to stay when… when I’m like this.”
Sometimes, when Henry has dark days, it’s almost impossible to get him to talk at all. It’s almost a relief to hear him speak – it makes Alex hope that he’ll pull out of this one a little quicker, maybe.
“I love you so much,” is what Alex says fervently into Henry’s forehead. He holds tighter, tucks Henry even further into the crook of his neck, like maybe if he presses him close enough, he can absorb his hurt and carry it for him, with him, protect him from this darkness that threatens to take away the brightest thing he’s ever known. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner you were feeling bad.”
“You’re here now.”
Alex swallows, closing his eyes. He wants to beg Henry to tell him, plead with him to let Alex know when the darkness is coming so that he doesn’t miss a moment of it, so that he’s there to be his anchor, his pillar, his light, whatever he needs. It hurts that he didn’t figure it out quickly enough, makes his lungs burn when he thinks about Henry in bed, alone for hours and fighting against his demons with only David to protect him.
Like he’s reading his mind, Henry murmurs, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“No, baby.” Alex says immediately, adamantly. Even with the pain he can feel radiating off of Henry threatening to crush him, too, he just kisses his temple. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”
Alex feels a gentle press of lips against his collarbone, a silent expression of gratitude. They lay there for a long time, awake and holding onto each other. Alex tells him another story and then tries to recite some of his favorite poems and forgets half of them, but Henry seems content to just… listen to Alex’s voice. Henry grows more pliant in his arms the longer he speaks, the tension leaving his muscles and his body relaxing even further into their mattress, into Alex’s embrace.
Eventually, Alex lures Henry out of bed and into a bath, where Alex sits behind him and washes his hair and then pulls him into the safety of his arms and just holds him as the water cools around them. When they get out, he pulls Jaffa Cakes from his hidden emergency stash, and they eat them curled together in fresh sheets, and Alex tells him about his mock trial and finds more stories from his childhood to share. He talks and talks and Henry nibbles on his snacks and listens and listens, and slowly, a little bit of light comes back into his eyes.
Not all of it. No, Alex knows that Henry’s light is blinding, big and beautiful and bright, almost too stunning to be contained. But the small twinkle that shows up halfway through a story about him getting drunk and peeing in a bush outside the White House is worth the embarrassing story.
Alex knows the rest will come back. He just has to love Henry through it, and it always comes back.
Two days later, he’s reading news articles on his phone over his morning cup of coffee when Henry comes in, fully dressed, and wraps his arms around Alex’s shoulders from behind him. Leaning down, he kisses Alex’s hair and nuzzles into his neck and tells him that he loves him, but that if he doesn’t learn to pick up his bloody socks off their bedroom floor, he’ll start leaving them in his coffee pot.
And Alex just smiles.