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What should’ve been a 45-minute donor update meeting has now run longer than two hours, and Alex is seriously considering defenestration. Whether it’ll be his laptop or himself is yet to be determined. The tension headache building behind his eyes suggests he should choose both.
God, he’s going to quit his job, move to Alaska, and become a fucking moose farmer or something. Literally, anything to end this meeting and escape the smug, entitled asshole sitting across the conference room, who’s apparently made it his life’s mission to challenge Alex at every turn.
It’s of little consequence that the contrarian douche is also Henry Fox, erstwhile actual fucking prince and current gay icon, novelist and philanthropist, and one of the Okonjo Foundation's biggest donors, except, well. This guy can’t possibly be Percy’s best friend of close to two decades, because he’s proving to be the exact opposite of everything Percy has said about him.
“Perhaps I’m confused,” Fox is saying, and Alex has been working alongside the corporate world long enough to hear the veiled insult in his phrasing, “but it sounds to me like the reason the building project is behind schedule is swirl regarding code enforcement paperwork. Isn’t that the sort of thing our legal counsel should fast-track?”
One would think the pompous dick would have the decency to look at Alex while he’s throwing him under the goddamn bus. Alex grits his teeth. “I have been chasing down my contacts at the NYC Department of Buildings for months,” he says, his tone carefully modulated so he doesn’t start yelling. “The timeline should never have been finalized without knowing when the new building project would be assigned a site safety inspector.”
“Why wasn’t this brought up during the planning process?” Fox turns to look at Alex, a small furrow between his perfectly manicured brows, and Alex sort of wants to punch him in the mouth.
The thing is, Alex had brought this up, numerous times. But the foundation’s board had insisted on the timeline that they’d established to construct the new shelter, and Percy had insisted that he couldn’t go over the board’s heads and make a unilateral decision to change the schedule. Even though Alex is well-learned in corporate nonprofit law, a small, mulish part of him still finds that statement ridiculous, because Percy’s goddamn name is on the foundation’s front door.
He realizes that Fox is still looking at him expectantly, awaiting his response, and Alex shoves away from the table angrily. “You know what? I can’t do this today.”
Fox has the gall to look confused as Alex slams his laptop shut with a force that will probably have him sending an apologetic ping to IT later, and when Alex storms from the room, shoving the computer into his bag, he pretends not to hear when Fox calls after him.
—
“Alright, people, look sharp,” the project foreman barks, clipboard tucked under one arm. “Donor tours start in five minutes. And for Christ’s sake, Ramirez, McManus, get that dumpster out of the middle of the room.”
Alex has swapped his suit for jeans and a flannel for the day, a pair of steel-toed shitkicker boots protecting his feet from any rogue debris. He’s committed to getting down to the construction site to volunteer his labor once a week, sometimes twice. Demolition is a good workout, and it’s gratifying to see the shape of the new Okonjo Foundation shelter emerging from the shell of the adjoining brownstones that had been acquired for this purpose.
He checks his watch, then adjusts his hard hat and goggles. His hands wrap around the handle of his favorite twelve-pound sledgehammer, and Alex swings a few more times at the half-wall he’s been demolishing this morning, relishing the burn in his muscles. He prefers using hand tools to power tools, and leaves the jackhammers to the professionals — there’s something incredibly satisfying about knocking down a wall using only a heavy sledge and his own strength. And, admittedly, it also helps him to moderate his temper.
At least, that’s what he believes until he hears the donors start to arrive, and Henry Fucking Fox walks onto the construction site dressed like a goddamn adjunct professor, his hair offensively perfect and his skin fucking glowing like he moisturizes three times a day, and is that a cashmere sweater? Asshole’s probably never done manual labor in his life, Alex decides with a derisive snort, hoping Fox snags his sleeve on something pointy during the tour.
He gives the wall one more hard swing of the sledgehammer, then carries the sledge to the tool rack and sets it in its designated slot. He’s very carefully not looking in the donors’ direction as he pulls off his anti-impact gloves to tuck them in the back pocket of his jeans, and he jumps a little when Percy approaches from behind him and slings an arm over his shoulder.
“Alex, my favorite attorney at law, how fares the day?” he exclaims, and Alex can’t help but grin in response. Percy had been like a breath of fresh air after the CEOs he had worked with early in his legal career.
“I’m only your favorite because I’m charging you less than your last three lawyers, and I’ve lasted twice as long,” Alex drawls.
“Well, not only,” Percy says cheerfully. “You’re also my favorite because someday you’re going to share your abuela’s tres leches cake recipe with me.”
Alex shakes his head, chuckling. “Taking that secret to my grave. I like being popular at the office potluck, and you’re not stealing my thunder, Okonjo.”
Percy clutches his pearls and laments, “I am wounded that you believe I’ve the time to bake things for midweek office events. I honestly don’t know how you manage it, but that tres leches is divine every time.” He loops an arm through Alex’s and guides him toward the group of donors now congregated in the center of the open space. “Love the outfit by the way; you really can’t take the country out of the boy, can you?” Those words would’ve felt like mockery from anyone else, but from Percy, Alex knows by now that they’re sincere.
“Thanks, boss,” Alex replies, and when Percy steps away from him to gesture broadly and openly at the group of donors, Alex surreptitiously wipes his hands on his jeans, preparing for the barrage of handshakes that’s sure to follow. He turns on his thousand-megawatt public figure smile.
“Friends, this is Alex Claremont-Diaz, the foundation’s legal counsel,” Percy states to the assembled group. “It’s thanks to his incredible efforts that the code office gave our shelter the stamp of approval three months ahead of our adjusted schedule. And no, Sheila, you may not poach him for your organization,” he concludes, directly addressing an older woman with broad, black-rimmed glasses and a calculating expression on her face. The other donors laugh, even Fox.
Alex holds back from rolling his eyes and allows Percy to shepherd him along the semicircle of donors beginning with Sheila. He offers a handshake and a warm greeting to all of them.
“And of course, you’ve already met my dear friend, Henry Fox, who’s personally funded the shelter’s art and music room, which will be located right here.” Percy makes another sweeping gesture, and Alex wishes, selfishly, that a sinkhole would open up and swallow the entire block.
Alex can feel the smile trying to morph into a grimace. “Great to see you again,” he says through his teeth, offering his hand maybe a little more aggressively than he has with the other donors.
Fox looks like he’s just swallowed a bee. “Alex.”
The handshake that follows is perfunctory, with just a single pump up and down before it’s over, and Alex is a little smug when Fox pulls back first.
—
The planned grand opening of a new LGBTQ youth shelter in Brooklyn inevitably draws media attention, and in the week before the opening, Percy’s somehow managed to line up musical acts and speakers, schedule caterers, and set up a goddamn red carpet out front. A simple ribbon cutting has become a black tie fundraiser, and Alex is still not quite sure how Percy’s pulled it all off.
Because all Okonjo Foundation shelters have strict privacy policies in place to protect the safety of their residents, the first kids won’t be moving in until after the party cleanup is complete. For now, any kids with urgent sheltering needs are being put up in a nearby hotel, and several of the older teens in the hotel have volunteered to help with the setup efforts.
The teen volunteers have also organized a project for the opening that, in Alex’s opinion, is going to open wallets left and right tonight. Fucking geniuses, all of them.
The interior of the youth shelter is warmly lit, and murals designed by local queer artists cover several of the walls in the common areas. There’s a library and study area, a communal kitchen for the older kids, a large living room with state-of-the-art home theater equipment and squashy, comfortable seating, and during the day, the sunlight that streams through the high windows on the second and third floor makes the polished wood floors glow.
Each of the bedrooms can house up to four kids at once without crowding them, and two large closets contain overflow cots. All told, there’s space for up to 50 permanent or semi-permanent residents, with additional capacity for emergency shelter and daytime programs as well. In a city of 8.5 million people, 50 beds feel like just a drop in the bucket, but to those 50 kids, the new Okonjo shelter will be everything.
Alex wanders the halls of the shelter before the event kicks off. He’s helped paint these walls, install this flooring, and move in this furniture. He’s given the place his time, his energy, his sweat, and, on one memorable but very unpleasant occasion, his blood.
He thinks he might never have been prouder to be part of something than he is of this shelter.
Checking his watch, Alex heads toward the art and music room where tonight’s grand opening event will kick off in 45 minutes. He adjusts his bowtie as he walks into the room, his gaze immediately landing on the dozen or so easels that stand along its walls. Each easel holds a canvas painted by one of the kids in the hotel, along with a handwritten message of thanks.
I was kicked out of my home when I was 14, the first message reads. I’ve been in and out of homeless shelters for 2 years. The last shelter I stayed in gave me the Okonjo Foundation’s information, and the day I called, the foundation had me set up in a hotel room within an hour. I’m graduating from high school this spring. When I was 14 I never would’ve believed I’d get that chance.
Jesus fuck, there’s not going to be a dry eye in the house tonight once the donors start reading these, Alex realizes. He hears footfalls in the hallway outside the art and music room and hastily wipes away a tear, then straightens his jacket out of habit. Alex glances over his shoulder to see who’s approaching, then turns back to the canvas, because of course. Of course it’d be fucking Fox who’s arrived to witness Alex crying over the saddest fucking letter he’s ever read.
Squaring his shoulders, Alex walks over to a canvas at the far end of the room, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the self-important interloper. The letter next to this canvas hurts just as much to read as the first one had, and Alex’s heart aches for the kid who’s written it.
Alex moves to the next canvas, then the next, and then he pulls out his phone and starts taking photos of the messages with the intention of sending them to every even slightly well-off person he knows, with a direct link to the foundation’s donation site. He’s composing a text to his mom with four of the photos attached when he sees a pair of glossy, patent leather oxfords enter his peripheral vision. He lowers his phone.
“This place is beautiful.” Fox gazes admiringly around the room, looking obnoxiously good in his fitted tux, and Alex holds back a scowl. “I’m so pleased that it’s finally opening.”
Finally. Alex flinches. He thinks about all-nighters in the legal library, arriving at the Department of Buildings first thing in the morning only to be kept waiting all day, realizing during a trip to urgent care that he shouldn’t be allowed to use power tools while exhausted from chasing down paperwork and contacts within the city, and the hours of work he’s put into this place. And despite all that, this is the best, most rewarding job he’s ever had. Alex isn’t willing to risk it to find out just how punchable Fox’s pretty fucking face is. Instead, he pivots on his heel and walks out of the room without responding.
He’s halfway down the hall before he hears the rapid approach of leather soles on hardwood, and then a hand grips his arm firmly and yanks him through the next open doorway into what appears to be an unused office. Fox shuts the door with a resounding thud and stands in front of it.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Alex demands, wrenching his arm away and glaring.
Fox gapes at him, affronted, as if he’s the wronged party here. “My problem?!” he hisses. “I have never behaved in any manner other than congenially toward you – ” Alex snorts scornfully, and Fox narrows his eyes, continuing. “ – and in return, you’ve offered me nothing short of contempt time after time. I don’t know what I’ve done to so grievously offend you, Alex, but it must have been something truly egregious for you to despise me so much.”
“You done?” Alex asks, and he’s just itching for a fight now. “God, it doesn’t even register for you, does it? The way you carry yourself, the way your comments land. What’s it like not to have even an ounce of self-awareness, Your Majesty?”
“That title is reserved for my mother,” Fox retorts, eyes blazing, “and you know very well that I stepped away from my own.” His glare sharpens as he looks at Alex consideringly. “Is that what all of this has been about? Christ, Alex, I could no more easily choose the family I was born into than any of the kids who’ll be living in this shelter could. I have given up my title, my status, and the protection of my family so I could live openly, and I’ve given up most of my goddamned income to support facilities like this one. How much more do I need to give before Alex Claremont-Diaz is satisfied that I’ve paid my dues?”
Fox’s words land like physical blows, and Alex feels something uncomfortable twist in his chest. “That’s not – ”
“Perhaps you’d like me to give up my livelihood entirely,” Fox snarls. “Or a limb? Would my eyesight suffice?”
“God dammit, would you stop fucking talking?” Alex yells, and somehow, miraculously, Fox does. They’re standing face to face, chests heaving, eyes blazing. It feels, Alex notes, a lot like the animal standoffs that are often featured in nature documentaries. Fox’s face is flushed with anger, his body fairly trembling with adrenaline.
Later, Alex can’t recall which one of them moves first, but in the span of a moment, they charge at one another. Then they’re kissing in a brutal clash of open mouths and clashing teeth, and Alex thinks he feels his lip split but doesn’t give a shit, pushing Fox flush against the door, shoving a thigh roughly between his.
Fox’s hands are in his hair, tugging hard enough that Alex’s scalp aches and it’s not enough. Alex claws at the front of the man’s jacket and shirt, getting the buttons unfastened and shoving the fabric aside. He yanks at Fox’s belt until it unbuckles, and demands, “Get your fucking pants off, Fox,” against his mouth.
“Henry,” Fox says into another gnashing kiss. His hands leave Alex’s hair and latch onto Alex’s shoulders, and then with a surge of strength, he shoves Alex around and reverses their positions.
“Mmguh?” Alex grunts when his back hits the door, but he gets with the program easily enough, scraping his teeth along Fox’s neck while Fox tugs away Alex’s bowtie and starts on his shirt.
“If we’re doing this, you’re going to call me Henry,” Fox – Henry demands, following up with another absolutely savage kiss.
When their mouths part again, Alex sneers, “Fine. Take off your pants, Henry.” As the sound of a zipper reaches Alex’s ears, he undoes his own belt and pants, letting them fall to the floor around his ankles. He shoves his boxers down to his knees and yanks Henry toward him, his left hand closing over Henry’s right hip, his right hand cupping Henry's cock through his briefs.
Henry lets out a shuddering moan at the contact. Alex shoves his hand past the waistband. Henry’s big and uncut, wet at the tip. Alex pushes the front of Henry’s briefs down far enough that his cock is exposed, then shoves his own hips forward, sliding their dicks together.
The hand on Henry’s hip slides back until it’s squeezing his ass, and Henry loves that, judging by the absolutely wrecked expression on his face. Alex bites at Henry’s earlobe. “Do you have anything?” he asks into the shell of Henry’s ear.
Henry gasps. “Yes, I – ah! – I always bring condoms and lube to events,” he snarks, and Alex bites his ear again.
“Don’t be a dick,” Alex growls. “This will have to do, then.” He shoves Henry back just far enough that he can see between them, then spits into his hand and brings it down to wrap around their cocks, jerking them together.
Henry’s head flies back and his mouth opens in a silent O. Alex feels the urge to bite at his exposed throat until he leaves marks up and down it. He leans in to maul Henry’s shoulder instead, breathing hard through his nose. The hot glide of Henry’s cock against his is incredible, the intensity of the friction slowly driving him insane.
“Just so you know – ” Henry cuts off, choking out a soft noise, and he brings his own hand down to wrap around Alex’s, helping him set a steady, firm pace. His breathing is ragged, and he noses at Alex’s cheek, then finds Alex’s mouth and kisses it, sucking at Alex’s lower lip.
Alex hisses at the sting when the split reopens.
“Just so you know,” Henry says again, “this doesn’t change anything between us.” Their hands move faster now, stroking in tandem, the pads of two of Henry’s fingers landing in the hollow of Alex’s wrist, his thumb wrapping over Alex’s.
“Shut the fuck up,” Alex mutters, because of course it doesn’t. He grabs at Henry’s ass again, tugging him even closer as he mouths biting kisses into Henry’s collarbone. He feels his balls start to draw up, and he slams his eyes shut, tensing his quads to try to stave off his climax just long enough to get Henry over the edge first.
Alex has just enough forethought to release Henry’s ass and cup his hand over the heads of both of their cocks before Henry comes with a soft sound of surprise, his whole body tensing. Henry’s dick is still twitching with aftershocks when Alex lets go as well, biting down on Henry’s shoulder to muffle his groan.
Henry sags forward, dropping his forehead to Alex’s shoulder as Alex leans his weight against the door. They remain there, pressed together, until their breathing evens out, not caressing or kissing, not acknowledging their dicks that are still nestled together within their grips.
Henry’s the first to pull away, sighing softly as he goes.
Alex’s pants are still around his ankles, and he looks around the office, spotting a tissue box sitting on top of a file cabinet in the corner. He shuffles over to the file cabinet carefully, grabbing a handful of tissues to clean himself up before offering the box to Henry. Henry takes it and turns away.
They dress silently but for the sound of zippers fastening and belts buckling. Alex pulls out his phone and uses the camera to adjust his tie and fix his hair. He sees Henry doing the same out of the corner of his eye.
There’s an abrasion beneath Alex’s jaw, he notes as he eyes himself critically in the camera. He hopes it’s not too obvious. He hears the door softly open, then shut, and he sits on the desk in the otherwise empty office, running a hand over his face.
—
And the thing is. The thing. Is.
The thing is – Alex keeps going back.
He sees Henry every once in a while at foundation events or meetings, and it always ends the same way.
Eventually, though, Alex notices that they’ve stopped using fighting as some sort of twisted foreplay.
Eventually, they start planning their hookups in advance.
Eventually, he’s seen Henry’s body in every imaginable position – on his knees, and on his back, and on top of him, and against so many walls.
Eventually, Alex wants to know Henry.
Eventually, he realizes he already has known him, all along.