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Henry swears he's never seen a more beautiful man in his life.
He's perched upon a seat, one leg bent at the knee, the other pointed straight out, showing off his muscular calves. His hands are poised ever so elegantly, the veins on his arms prominent. His chest and stomach is toned, soft outlines of muscles visible against his skin, a simple chain resting on his sternum. His head is turned to the side, an almost inquisitive look on his face, plump lips pursed together, eyelashes fanned out below his brow bone. He has a dimple on his chin and curls for days, falling against his forehead, tucked behind his ears. Henry's breath gets stolen away from him the more he looks at the man.
The problem is that this gorgeous, stunning, alluring man is a statue.
A statue Henry sculpted, at least, but still a statue. He's spent the past six months carving away in his free time, not letting himself take a good look at his full work until now. The project started as an attempt to get him out of a creative slump, just letting his mind go where it wanted to, and it apparently went in the direction of an incredibly gorgeous man. The last year of failed relationships obviously caught up to him in his work.
It's strange, even to himself, to be completely ruined by a statue, but here he is.
He's not sure how much time has passed, but he simply can't look away. There's something so captivating about the man sculpted before him. His wooden eyes, his olive curls, his cedar lips. His features draw Henry in, getting lost in the details he made without realizing it, but also literally — before Henry knows it, he's kneeling in front of the statue, hands on his knees, caressing the smooth knots of wood with his thumbs. Christ. What's happening to him?
He leans forward until his nose presses against the statue's nearby hand and presses a soft kiss to his cool knuckles, wondering how it would feel if his lips were met with skin instead of timber.
The statue stays in Henry's art studio, only a short walk away from his flat, giving him no excuse to not check on the statue every day. He touches up on it, carving away clunky pieces, smoothing out lines, brushing away the dust in the grooves. With each fix, the man's beauty only grows. Henry makes a home for him, rearranging his easel and workbench to make room for the statue. Sometimes he goes into the studio just to stare at him for hours on end. He doesn't know why this statue has such an effect on him.
When he actually goes to his studio to work, he catches himself sneaking glances at the statue, like he'll be chatasized for it if he's caught looking, but he's the only one in the room. Other times, he sets up his work right by him so he doesn't have to feel the shame of pulling away from his projects to admire his own work. On rare occasions, the days where he doesn't bring David with him, he finds himself talking aloud to the statue like he'll do with his dog.
The embarrassment doesn't sit with him for long, however. Each time before he leaves his studio, he kneels in front of the statue like he did the first time, admiring him from below, and kisses his knuckles. It's become a ritual at this point. Every artist has one. Henry will just keep this one an absolute secret.
He forgets that he's still the only one who knows about the statue when Pez asks if he can swing by to grab a larger canvas. It's not until the knock on his studio door sounds and he answers with a "Come in," that his gaze falls upon the statue and he realizes that Pez is surely going to ask why he has a life-size statue of a gorgeous man simply sitting in the corner of his workspace.
"Hazza, darling, you don't realize what a savior you're being letting me steal your supplies," Pez says before he even fully opens the door. "My client is an absolute rump, demanding for a piece only two centimeters wider, but dear lord does she pay —" He stops in his tracks, mouth open in mid-sentence, staring straight at the statue. His eyebrows are so high up on his forehead that they almost disappear into his baby blue-dyed hairline. He snaps his jaw shut. "What on earth is this creature?"
"Oh, er." Henry struggles to find the words. "I was in a... a slump, I suppose, and was just fiddling around. Then six months later came... this."
"This?" Pez repeats, laughing slightly around the word. "Don't sell yourself short, darling. You mean to say that you decided to piss about and created a life-sized sculpture?"
"Um." Henry twists the signet ring on his pinkie. "I suppose?"
"Christ," Pez laughs fully this time. "Move your work, I'm looking closer at this."
With Henry's help, they drag the statue back to the center of the room. Henry tries to ignore the way his heart flutters at the sight. The man in the center, catching everyone's attention, just as he deserves.
"Oh, Haz, he's absolutely wonderful," Pez gushes. He walks in a slow circle around the statue, giving a low whistle. "Some of your best work, surely. What do you suppose you'll do with him?"
"That's the thing," Henry says, rubbing the back of his neck and trying not to cringe at what he's about to say next. "I thought I might, er... keep him?"
Pez gapes at him. "You," he says slowly, "want to keep this masterpiece?"
Henry instantly feels a rush of heat rise to his face. "You don't think I should —"
"No, no, darling, not what I mean at all," Pez quickly corrects. He moves in front of Henry, grasping both of his shoulders and looking him straight in the eye. "I love that you want to keep him for yourself. You sell yourself short on every piece you create, taking up the first offer just to get rid of them. Am I wrong?" he asks, and Henry turns his head away to avoid admitting he's right. "So to see you actually love something you made... yes, Hazza. Yes, keep him."
"You don't think it's... odd?"
"Do you?"
"Perhaps."
"Don't, then. Take pride in him. Shower him in love. And if anyone asks, or gives you shit for it, just say you're waiting for someone to pick him up. Got it?"
"Yes, I — yes."
"Good." Pez presses a grinning kiss to his cheek. "Well, this was the loveliest surprise I could have walked in on, but I will be taking that canvass. I have an entire painting to recreate in forty-eight hours, all because she wants two centimeters more, the demented witch..."
Pez keeps grumbling to himself as he finds the right size he needs and leaves Henry, casting one more glance to the statue before he shuts the door. Henry stares as well. He quite likes where the statue stands like this, in the very middle of his space, the most prized possession Henry owns. It's quite in the way of his workspace, yes, but that just means Henry will have to move around him more, which means looking at him more and, well. Who is he to complain about that?
He grits his teeth and pushes his current project to the side. Looks like he's spending the rest of his afternoon rearranging his studio once again.
He spends the next month trying to place a name for the statue to no avail.
For a week, he referred to the man as Adonis, the epitome of male beauty, before deciding it was a bit on the nose. Every good artist deserves to keep their secrets. So Adonis was cast aside, but the "A" names stuck with Henry. First in the alphabet, first in everyone's minds. It's the least he can do for this man.
Aven comes from the Irish name meaning beautiful, but Henry can practically see the man's nose wrinkle in disgust when he calls him such a name. Too simple for such an exquisite man. Back to the drawing board.
He tries Ambrose next, as he knows the man will be immortal in his mind, but it can't quite stick. Aurelius comes when the sun shines through the studio window just so, casting a golden glow upon the man, but even David whines each time Henry says the name. Aeneas comes when all Henry wants to do is sing praises to the man, Augustin when Henry convinces himself that the man will be the most magnificent thing he'll ever lay his eyes upon, and Amor when he quite literally runs out of ideas.
Then one day, it simply comes to him: Alexander, the man's defender. Henry can picture what it would be like in another life — a valiant lover, someone who will always back up Henry's choices, someone who's not afraid to stand up to others for Henry's sake. Henry can live vicariously through a name like that.
"Alexander," he whispers to no one except for him and the statue, his fingers ghosting over the man's wooden curls, "Alex. My Alex. Defend me, love, and I will have your back in return."
Henry has a date. A second date, in fact. The first one was rather lovely, meeting Emile for tea and croissants at his favorite shop. He too has a love for Jane Austen novels and cooed over pictures of David that Henry showed off, walked Henry home like a gentleman, and pressed a soft kiss to the apple of Henry's cheek. The gesture had Henry's heart fluttering like he was seventeen again. With his pattern of stray hookups, bad first dates, and months of unintentional celibacy, he's not too surprised at his emotions.
When he meets Emile at a quaint pub in London for drinks later that week, he doesn't complain when the night ends with Emile's lips on his own, soft and timid, like Henry's something fragile and he doesn't want to break him. Henry presses closer, still aware that they're at the pub, but wanting more. Emile licks tentatively into Henry's mouth, and Henry groans quietly, sliding a hand into Emile's hair, but the feeling that greets him takes him aback so much that he has to pull away.
Emile blinks at him. "Sorry," he immediately says, "did I do something wrong? Is —"
"No, nothing like that," Henry manages. "I just — forgot we were still here, to be quite frank."
"Oh." Emile laughs at that. "Well, we could... go elsewhere. Soon?"
Henry manages a smile. Their drinks are nearly empty. "Buy me another first?"
Emile grins back and heads toward the bar. The moment Henry's out of his line of sight, Henry downs the rest of his drink, his mind racing at what just happened with Emile. He's not blind; he knows Emile has short, neat hair, but it still shocked him when he wasn't met with unruly curls to the point where he had to break away. He's still thinking about it, the unfamiliar, stiff strands on his fingertips, and he thinks about why he was expecting something else to meet his touch when the answer suddenly comes to mind.
His eyes close as he groans in realization. Alex. Alex, torturing his every waking moment without so much as saying a word to Henry.
He's stared at Alex so much in the past month that he's memorized every single feature of his, seeing him perfectly behind his eyelids. He can't help but wish Emile shared Alex's mop of curls, or that his lips were a bit more plump, or he had a small dimple in his chin. And it's crazy, so bloody crazy that he's thinking about being with a statue when he's on a second date with a beautiful man.
But Alex isn't just a statue. He's a piece of art, literally, yes, but also more than that. He's the embodiment of beauty, the most gorgeous man Henry's ever laid eyes on, and Henry's the only person who knows.
He's snapped out of his thoughts when Emile sets down another pint in front of him and smiles. "Cheers," he simply says, lifting his own glass toward Henry.
Henry smiles, clinking his drink against Emile's, and forces himself to push all thoughts of Alex out of his mind.
He's still fighting the battle when he follows Emile back to his flat and allows himself to be pushed against his bedroom door. Emile kisses and nips at his neck, palming at his trousers, and Henry nods, giving him the go-ahead. Emile undoes his button and slides his hand lower, bringing Henry to the brink with just his hand, kissing him the whole way. Henry lets his hands wander from his neck, his shoulders, his back, but he doesn't dig his hands into Emile's hair again. He wants to enjoy this without Alex interrupting his thoughts.
Emile gets Henry the rest of the way there with his mouth, and after Henry recovers from the orgasm, he does the same, happy to be on his knees, doing what he knows. He lets Emile pull at his hair and shudder through his release, and when Henry rises, he laughs breathlessly.
"You blew my fucking mind," he says, touching a hand to his forehead. "Would you want to, you know, stay the night?"
Something in Henry's stomach drops. "I wish I could," he lies, "but I didn't prepare to leave my dog overnight, so..."
"I get it," Emile says, doing his jeans up. "Another time?"
"Definitely." Another lie. But Henry won't ruin the afterglow like that.
He does stop at his flat and check on David like he said he would, but after letting him out and refilling his food, he goes back into the night and heads for his studio. He often goes at night when he needs to clear his head or when a project is giving him specific trouble, but tonight isn't one of those nights, and he knows it's not, no matter how much he tries to tell himself.
He's completely breathless when he steps inside his studio and sees Alex, sitting tall and proud in all his glory, as if waiting for Henry this whole time. The only light in the room comes from the moon shining through the lone window. It hits Alex perfectly, and Henry falls a little more in love with the wooden man in front of him.
He leans against the wall for a while, just staring, like he does so often. He's incredibly proud of himself for creating something so large and so wonderful, but he can't help but feel anger alongside his pride. Alex has ruined him. He's beautiful and stagnant and incomparable to anyone, anything else. He's simultaneously the best thing in Henry's life and the worst.
Henry pushes himself off the wall and moves toward Alex, falling to his knees for the second time that night, but for a different reason entirely. His hands rest on Alex's knees like they always do as Henry gazes into his eyes. Alex stares off in the distance in return, unblinking, unknowing of the love Henry holds for him.
"How I wish to hold you," Henry murmurs, "like you deserve to be held. How I wish to love you like you deserve to be loved. How I wish to kiss you —" Henry kisses the place on Alex's knuckles like he has so many times before. "— like you deserve to be kissed. All I want is to show you off, my love, and know you'd be mine."
Alex stares blankly ahead.
Henry sighs, bowing his head. "You'll never know how greatly you've ruined me," he confesses. "Every man is secondary compared to you. They could send me the most luscious of gifts, the richest of treats, and my heart would still belong to you. I would rather lie here and waste away in anguish than give my love away to anyone else."
He stays like that for a while, languishing in his affection, before pulling back and sitting on his heels with a sigh. He rubs his face with one hand, a small laugh escaping him. "Christ, I don't know what's more pathetic, speaking blindly to a statue or confessing this if you were a real person. Oh, Alex..." He groans into his hands. "But I can't stop. Not with you. Never."
If Alex was real, Henry imagines him soothing him with gentle caresses to his hair, strong hands massaging his temples delicately. He imagines Alex muttering praises under his breath, the timbre of his voice low and comforting, telling Henry that he has love for him that's just as strong. He imagines Alex tipping their heads together, noses sliding against each other as Alex kisses him sweetly. Henry wants it all. He yearns for it. He wants Alex, every part of him, and it kills him to know that having Alex is impossible.
So he lays his head on Alex's lap, tracing the lines of the wood at his hip, and whispers, "In another lifetime, love, you're completely and utterly mine. Just know in this one, I'm forever yours."
When Henry wakes the next morning, it's not in his bed, but slumped upon his own art, half lying down on the floor. He groans, not willing to crack his eyes open yet. Christ, his knees are killing him from kneeling all night long. His hand instinctively drifts to Alex's knee, a familiarity at this point, but where Alex's knee usually is has now been replaced with some sort of cloth, much like a tunic. Henry frowns, head still buried in his arm, and looks up.
What greets him just about gives him a heart attack.
The first thing he notices is the absence of Alex — what he thought was Alex's lap that he was resting his head on was actually the pillar he carved for Alex to sit on. Alex, on the other hand, is gone. The only thing that rests in his place is a tunic that looks startling close to the one Henry sculpted on Alex's body.
Henry scrambles to sit up on his knees, grabbing a fistful of the tunic. He's been robbed. That's the only reasonable explanation — someone snuck into his studio when he was sleeping, somehow removed Alex from his pillar without waking him, and took up, leaving a piece of cloth in memory. He snaps his head up further, desperate to see if the thief caused any other damage to his studio, but the sight in front of him has him scrambling back, yelping so hard he swears his heart nearly falls out of his ass.
There's a man. To make things worse, a naked man. His back faces Henry, staring out the window, hands on his hips, appearing not to have a care in the world. He turns at Henry's sound, and Henry has to be dreaming. He has to.
Because that's Alex — the square jaw, ragged curls, and long eyelashes Henry carved with his own two hands. Except he's not made out of wood anymore; he's very much alive.
"Who — who are you?" Henry stammers, holding a hand in front of his face to block the Alex look-alike's crotch. "How did you — where did you come —"
"I'm Alex," the look-alike says simply. "I just... I don't know. Was here."
"No," Henry says, a startled laugh bubbling from his chest. "No, no, no. You can't be. You're not — you're not real."
"Uh..." The look-alike looks down his own body. "I think I am?"
"No," Henry says again. "I created you. I quite literally carved you out of wood. You can't be standing here looking like — like —"
The look-alike blinks. "Like what?"
"Real!" Henry splutters. "This can't... fuck, I must be losing it..."
The look-alike turns around fully. Henry very pointedly stares at the ceiling. "This is all I know," he says. "You were asleep on my lap, and I needed to stretch my legs. Then you woke up."
"That's all you know?"
"Well, I know I'm Alex. That's... that's about it, though."
"Christ." Henry allows himself to flop completely onto his back, covering his eyes with his hand. "I know you're Alex. I gave you the name. I practically prayed for you to come to life. But I didn't... I never thought..."
"So it was — it was you?" the look-alike — Alex, he should probably call him — asks. "You made me like this?"
"I suppose," Henry murmurs.
He doesn't know how on earth his beloved statue managed to turn into a real, living, breathing person — because there's no doubt Alex is that. His skin looks like skin; his hair looks like hair. He's not made out of wood; instead, his skin is the same beautiful brown color, his hair a shade or two darker, matching with his eyes. He looks just as alive as Henry wished he would be — and, somehow, he is.
Fuck debating the how. Alex is alive.
Henry sits up.
"Stay here," he commands, still not completely looking at Alex in all his naked glory. "You need clothes, and I need, er. Supplies. And a clear mind. I'll be back soon."
"You promise?" Alex asks.
Something in Henry's heart softens. "Yes. I promise."
He's halfway back to his flat when he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's overreacting here.
Not even twelve hours ago, he was practically worshiping Alex on his knees, wishing that they could be together. Now, for some reason, his wish has been granted. Alex is here, and he's alive, and Henry wants him more than ever.
David whines at his feet when Henry walks inside. He bends down and diligently scratches behind David's ears. "Help me out here, boy," Henry says to him. "Is it absolutely mad to fall for your own piece of art? Because I fear I may be too late."
David barks unhelpfully.
Henry sighs. "Yes, you're right. Although," he says, standing back up, "I may just ignore your warning."
He grabs a clean pair of boxers, joggers, a faded t-shirt, socks, and an old pair of sneakers from his room before hauling himself right back to his studio. With each step, his heart pounds harder in his chest, like the thought of Alex getting closer is too much for it to handle. Even so, there's still a hint of hesitation alongside his eagerness. His statue has come to life. How is that possible? What does it mean? Why him?
His whole life, Henry has been a very sensible man. Perhaps now is the time for him to indulge in something less sensible.
Christ. He has a walking statue in his studio, and now he practically has Pez's coaxing tone in his mind.
Alex is still in the studio when Henry arrives, standing to the side, running a finger along one of the many canvases stacked against the wall. Henry clears his throat as he shuts the door. "Er — these are for you."
"Oh." Alex takes the clothes from Henry. "Thanks."
"You can put them on, I'll just — er —" He turns around and faces the wall, away from Alex's tempting body. If he knew statues had the tendency to come to life, he would have made this one less drop-dead gorgeous, because looking away from Alex is a damn near impossible feat. "So. I think I owe you an explanation for all of this."
He hears the shuffling sounds of Alex pulling the clothes on. "Okay."
Henry listens to the way his tongue curls over the vowels. He sounds so different from anyone else in London. Fleetingly, he remembers the wood he used for Alex was a leftover block from an American commissioner, who imported the wood himself from the states — something about authenticity. Henry thought it was a load of shit, to be frank. Now, though, the way Alex speaks send a little zip down his spine. He rather likes the drawl that accompanies Alex's words.
"I'm an artist," Henry explains. "My name's Henry. I was in, er... a bit of a creative slump, I mean, a while ago, so I started carving a sculpture in my own time — no deadlines, no regulations. Six months later, you appeared from the wood." Henry takes a breath. "I had no idea what I was making, really. It was only when I stepped back and admired you in full that I realized I was creating the most beautiful person in the world, and it only took one look at you to render me a hopeless fool. I've spent weeks speaking to you. Kissing your hand. Last night, I described a fantasy of a perfect world with you, not knowing you would come to life. But that's... that's what happened," he finishes lamely.
Alex is quiet behind him. When the silence stretches on, Henry dares a peek over his shoulder. Alex is dressed, looking smaller than he did before in Henry's too-big clothes. Henry didn't think about what Alex would look like standing on his feet when he was sculpting him, but he can't lie that he enjoys the bit of height he has on Alex.
"Do you regret it?" Alex asks as Henry turns fully around.
Henry blinks, taken aback. "Do I regret — what, you?"
Alex nods.
A laugh escapes Henry before he can stop it. "There's not a single part of me that regrets you."
Alex's fingers twitch at his side. He doesn't look away from Henry, but his hand travels closer all the same, until their fingers are brushing. Henry's breath hitches. The first point of contact he has with Alex's new body, and it's everything. His skin is rough, perhaps another side effect from the wood, but his touch is full of warmth. Alex tangles their hands together and brings them up between them, presenting the back of his hand. "You said you kissed my hand," he murmurs. "Show me."
All the breath escapes from Henry's lungs. "I —"
"Show me," Alex says again, a little more desperate. "Please."
Henry already knew he would do anything for Alex's statue form. Alex's human form is no different.
He bends his head and presses his lips to Alex's knuckles, warmth flooding his skin once again. Alex gasps at the contact. Henry lets the kiss linger, closing his eyes, letting Alex completely overwhelm his senses before he pulls back. He keeps their clasped hands close to his body.
Alex's eyes are darker than before, his mouth slightly agape. "I never want you stop doing that," he admits.
Henry smiles, stepping closer to Alex. "If I may," he says, cupping Alex's jaw with his free hand, "offer something better?"
Alex just nods, tilting his chin up.
Their lips meet, and nothing else in the entire world matters anymore.
Henry brings Alex outside some time later, his lips still tingling. He can't leave Alex cramped inside his stuffy studio forever, and since Alex is, well, living, Henry assumes he's adopted the other necessary traits that come with being human.
He takes Alex to his favorite food stand and orders them two falafel wraps and a bottle of water. Alex looks on with curious eyes as Henry counts out banknotes and as their food is prepared. He hasn't let go of Henry's hand since Henry initially kissed his knuckles and looks rather dismayed when he has to hold onto his food instead. He eyes it with narrow lids, and Henry realizes that Alex has never even eaten before.
He leads Alex to a small park across from the food stand and sits down on one of the benches. Slowly, he peels back the paper, stilling until Alex follow suit, then takes a bite.
Alex watches him chew and swallow, then cautiously goes in for his own bite. When he emerges, he has a smear of hummus across his nose. Henry grins and wipes it away with his thumb.
"Good?" he asks.
Alex nods eagerly, already going in for another bite.
They pass the bottle of water back and forth (after Alex watches Henry take the first sip, of course), then Henry clasps their hands together once their food is gone and pulls Alex to his feet. "Are you okay going somewhere with a bit more people around?"
Alex squeezes his hand. "Will you still be there?"
"Yes, Alex. Of course I will."
He takes Alex to the V&A, because nothing makes more sense than to bring his favorite piece of art to his favorite museum of art. He weaves Alex through Chinese art and French sculptures, a bronze John the Baptist in the nude and a seated Buddha carved in black stone. Alex stops in front of every single one, eyes wide, and Henry explains the history behind each piece.
"You seem to know where you're going," Alex says as Henry pulls him down another hall.
"I used to come here loads when I was younger," Henry explains. "The art is beautiful, of course, but it was always the history that grabbed my attention. You can be a good artist with skill, but you can only be a great artist with history behind you." He gestures to Tipu's Tiger, and Alex stops in his tracks at the sight of the massive sculpture. "This one, for instance. At a glance, one could think it was simply a soldier being attacked by a wild animal, but when you know England stole this piece from India, it takes on a completely different meaning."
"Wow," Alex breathes. "I guess I have a lot to learn, huh?"
"All in good time," Henry says, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "Let's keep going."
He leads Alex to his favorite room in the museum, taking him to each piece in turn. When he was younger, these pieces were — and still are — his own definition of beauty. The life-size Zephyr, poised so elegantly; the wondrous Narcissus, infatuated with himself, even in statue form; Pluto standing tall, Proserpina in his arms, a kidnapping in the midst; Jason with the golden fleece in tow, the very symbol of kingship. They stop in front of another statue, the very one that took Henry's breath away the first time he saw it, and the one that makes Alex do the same right now. Samson commands the room before him, marbled muscles and detailed curls, jawbone of an ass raised in his right hand. Giambologna's unofficial national gay landmark.
Now, he has a new definition of beauty, and it's standing right next to him. Alex's statue was beautiful enough to live with the rest of these pieces in the V&A, but Henry has him standing next to him, breathing and living.
"It's gorgeous," Alex breathes.
"It's been my inspiration from a very young age," Henry tells him. "All of these have. It seems only fitting," he says slowly, brushing his thumb over Alex's knuckles, "to take my new muse to my previous ones."
Alex's eyes tear away from the glorious Samson, landing on Henry. His eyes are shining with the new knowledge, the centuries of art that came before him, and Henry knows none of the pieces in the museum compare to him. With a quiet, breathless "Henry," Alex surges forward on his toes and captures Henry's lips in a deep kiss.
It's the first time Alex has said his name, and Henry positively swoons. He kisses Alex long and languid, his hand moving from Alex's own to splay across his cheek. Alex's skin is hot to the touch. Henry indulges himself in the kiss for longer than he should, but he's kissing the most beautiful man in the world in front of the greatest piece of art in the world, and he's a hopeless romantic at heart, so he's allowed, dammit.
"Alex," he gasps, breaking away from the kiss when he feels Alex's tongue licking against his bottom lip, not wanting to be hauled out of the V&A for public indecency. Alex doesn't seem to catch on. He moves his mouth to Henry's jaw instead, kissing him wetly, dropping a path of kisses to his neck. Henry laughs, half in bliss and half in anxiety, gently pushing Alex away. "Alex, my love, we can't here."
"Oh." Alex pulls away, looking disappointed. "But we did — earlier?"
"That was more private," Henry explains. "And trust me, there's nothing more I want than to kiss you stupid, but other people might not want to see that."
"Oh," Alex says again. He looks around at the room of tourists. "We could ask —"
"No, no, trust me please." Henry brushes his thumb across Alex's jaw. "I promise, darling, we'll find the time, but if you'd let me, I would love to take you around London more."
"One more kiss," Alex pleads, eyes shining. "A quick one."
Henry can't say no. He doubts he ever will.
David appears to have taken a liking to Alex a week after staying in Henry's flat. Henry's grateful for it. He brought David to his studio a few times while Alex was an unfinished block of wood in the corner, and he wonders if David recognizes Alex as such. Henry spent several days sitting on the kitchen floor with David in his lap and Alex across from him, passing Alex treats to coax David into coming closer. Now, after Henry and Alex return home from Henry's studio, David pounces on Alex first.
"My own dog," Henry sighs dramatically, hanging up his coat. "This one hurts, Davey."
"He still likes you," Alex says, giving David belly rubs. He flashes him a grin. "He just likes me more."
Henry just watches the two of them and tries not to spew out all his feelings right then and there.
It's been a week of being with Alex, taking him out, staying in, kissing and kissing and kissing, and painting. Alex turns out to be quite the model. Henry has become infatuated with capturing Alex in different poses with his watercolors, detailed patterns from his shoulders and up, more abstract pieces of his whole body, collages of Alex's features highlighted on the canvas. Alex still may be clueless about many things, but Christ does he know how to pose.
He doesn't mind Alex's lack of knowledge in the world. In fact, it's rather charming. He observes with rapt curiosity and jumps into everything headfirst, not scared in the slightest to mess up. The first time Henry took him out for pasta, he stared almost dumbfounded as Henry twirled spaghetti with his fork, then tried for the next five minutes to do it on his own. When Henry showed Alex how to do a proper load of laundry, Alex blinked in amazement as the washer spun, then promptly buried himself in a warm blanket as soon as it came out of the dryer, refusing to move. Henry couldn't resist snapping a picture of Alex like that on his phone, which made Alex pop his head out of the blanket, curls frizzy and array, asking what the shiny rectangle was for.
But what Henry loves most might be Alex's inexperience in, well. More private affairs.
Alex loves to kiss. Henry finds themselves doing in for hours, first when they wake up in the morning, again under the shower spray, once more pressed against the kitchen counter, and on days where he comes to the studio with Henry, too many more times to count then. Henry's not complaining in the slightest. He relishes in getting drunk off of Alex's tongue, high off of Alex's lips. If he could put the entire world on pause except for the two of them, he would do it in a heartbeat just to kiss Alex senseless for hours, days on end.
Henry is only human, however, and Alex, although much more recently, is as well. Henry realizes this one night in his bed, Alex on top of him, kissing him into oblivion. Both of Henry's hands are in Alex's hair, giving soft, short tugs to his curls, and Alex moans into his mouth each time, barely conscious of what he's doing. They're completely naked save for their boxers, but even that's not doing much to conceal how badly Henry wants him. The next time Alex sucks on his tongue, Henry's hips buck up, and Alex breaks away with a gasp.
"What..." he slurs, his eyes hazy with pleasure. He slides his hand down Henry's stomach, lower than it ever has been before. Henry turns his face into the pillow to suppress his moan. "What's this?"
"I'm just —" Henry gasps as Alex squeezes. "I just really like you," he manages, "and kissing you."
"I do, too," Alex says shakily, like he doesn't know what to make of Henry's response in autonomy. "Is this..."
"Yes, please, Christ, keep going."
Alex attaches his mouth back to Henry's neck, no doubt sucking a generous hickey into his skin, but Henry can't bring himself to care. He arches into Alex's touch, swearing at the ceiling. One hand stays in Alex's hair as the other drifts down his body, getting a hold of his hip and urging him to move as well. Hot pressure makes contact with Henry's thigh, and Alex moans so loudly against Henry's neck that he can feel his skin vibrate.
"Oh my God," Alex slurs. Henry urges him forward again, keeping the motion until Alex is doing it himself, rubbing against Henry. "Oh my God."
"It feels good, doesn't it, love?" Henry whispers against Alex's lips.
"Henry," Alex whines, eyes fluttering shut. "I can't — oh. Oh. Henry, it's so — I can't, I can't, it's too good —"
"It's supposed to be," Henry murmurs. He presses stray kisses everywhere he can reach, to Alex's cheeks, his chin, his forehead. "Keep going, darling. It'll feel even better."
So Alex keeps going, pleasuring himself against Henry's thigh, moans growing louder with each jerk of his hips. His kisses get messier, more tongue and teeth, and Henry is obsessed with it. Finally, when Alex's movements get sloppy, his body seizes up, practically writhing on top of Henry as he lets himself go. Henry works him through it, gently batting Alex's unmoving hand away from himself so he can get there too, can take care of them both.
"Oh my God," Alex says faintly some moments later, a pile of dead weight on top of Henry. "That was so..."
"I know, love," Henry smiles, still trying to catch his breath.
"Why didn't you show me that sooner?"
Henry can't help it. A loud laugh bursts from his chest, and he's only able to muffle it by hiding his face in Alex's hair. "Sorry," he says quickly, "I'm not laughing at you, I promise. Just caught me off guard."
Alex blinks up at him with his big, brown doe eyes. "Then what are you laughing at?"
Henry strokes his fingers through Alex's sweaty hair. "Just how bloody infatuated I am with you, love."
"I'm going to tell you something, and it's going to sound ridiculous."
"Well, isn't that the best type of gossip?" Pez remarks, dunking a biscuit in his cup of tea. "Do tell your Auntie Pezza."
Henry stirs his spoon in his own cup, not able to bring himself to look at Pez in the eye. "You've met Alex before," he starts, then pauses. "Well. You've seen him, I should say."
He hears more than sees Pez leaning across the table toward him, elbows on the counter and chin resting on his hands. "No, I most certainly have not met an Alex before," he says. "Haz, have you found yourself a new boy toy?"
Henry cringes, knowing what's to come. "You have, actually. Alex is the, erm. He's the statue I made."
He looks up just in time to see Pez's own eyes practically pop out of his head. "That grand thing? You gave him a name?" He lets out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. "He's a beaut, mate. A piece like him deserves a name."
"Right," Henry says. "Well. The thing is. He's not really a statue anymore."
"Don't tell me you broke him down for scraps."
"No, um. Quite the opposite, actually." Henry takes a deep breath and sits up. "He's alive."
"Henry, mate, I know he's bloody gorgeous, and he looks damn close to being able to breathe, but —"
"But he is," Henry cuts him off. "Breathing, I mean. Pez, I fell asleep in my studio some weeks ago, and when I woke up, he was walking around like either of us would."
Pez stares at him for a long while, biscuit raised just above his cup, waiting to be submerged. "I'm sorry, one more time?"
"Alex is alive," Henry says plainly. "I've no idea how, but he is. He's been with me for two weeks, and I know it's the oddest thing I've ever experienced, but I can assure you, he’s very much alive."
Pez blinks owlishly. "Where is he now? Are you just letting him roam free?"
"No, of course not," Henry scoffs. "He's with David."
Pez's brows shoot up to his skull. "You just left him alone?"
"Yes, he's perfectly capable —"
"He's a statue, my dear —"
"No, he's —" Henry groans in frustration. "Here." He fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up his videos. He took one just the other day with Alex, walking over to his studio, when Alex stopped in the middle of the pavement, mesmerized by a tree that was only budding two days ago now completely in bloom. He thrusts the phone in Pez's face, watching his expression soften as he watches the Alex on screen touch his fingertips to a petal and laugh aloud.
"Okay," Pez says long after the video ends. "Okay. Your boy toy is most definitely not a statue."
"Precisely," Henry says, "and I don't know how it happened, but I'm not, well. I'm not exactly complaining."
"Oh?" Pez's usual grin is back, spreading across his face as he leans closer to Henry. "Do tell."
Henry can already feel the heat rising to his face. "There's not much to tell. He's just… he's wonderful, Pez."
"Details, Haz," Pez says before shoving a biscuit into his mouth. "I know that look. Spill."
This time, Henry can't stop the grin that overtakes his face. "I'm so bloody captivated by him," he confesses. "He's gorgeous, yes, and he's quite literally everything I've looked for in a man, but he's so eager to learn everything, and you know how I am —"
"You always fall for the sexy nerds, yes," Pez finishes.
"Right. He's spent hours in front of my bookcase, reading everything from Austen's works to Gwen John biographies. He played with one of David's squeaky toys for nearly ten minutes because he couldn't figure out where the sound was coming from. The first thing I ever did with him was show him how to properly eat a bloody falafel wrap. And I'm so fucking gone on it all."
"Awe," Pez coos, resting his cheek on the palm of his hand, "Henry's in love."
Henry ignores him, even though what he says is probably true. Confessing his love to an inanimate carving of wood was one thing. Confessing his love to a very human Alex is on a different level. "He's clueless about so many things, but that's half the charm. I just... I can never stop thinking about him."
"Clueless, you say?" Pez asks, waggling his eyebrows. "In how many ways?"
"I know what you're getting at," Henry says, narrowing his eyes, "and I can't go into details when we're in public. But."
"But," Pez repeats, sending Henry a not-so-subtle wink.
Henry bites his lip to hide his smile. "He's quite... eager."
"Oh, wonderful."
It certainly is wonderful. Only this morning, Henry woke up to Alex curled around him like a koala, still asleep but moving his hips against Henry's thigh. When he finally rose, bleary-eyed yet desperate, he pushed Henry flat on his back, settled in between his legs, and put his gorgeous mouth to good use. His enthusiasm has ruined Henry completely.
"So I need every juicy detail, like, immediately," Pez says nonchalantly, as if they're talking about a work deadline instead of his best friend's sex life with a statue-turned-human. "I also need to meet your strumpet. Now, when you say he's clueless, have you at least introduced him to the wonderful joys of alcohol?"
"Christ, no," Henry laughs. "He's drunk on the world already. I don't need him pissed."
"Well," Pez says, flashing Henry a dazzling, mischievous smile, "that's where I come in, darling."
"So we just, like, drink?" Alex asks as they walk down the dark London streets, clasped hands swinging between them. He peers down at the new black button up that Henry bought for him just for tonight. "Why'd we get all fancy for that?"
"It's a bit more eccentric than just drinking," Henry tries to explain. "There's going to be more than just that as well. There's dancing, talking, lights... it should be a good time."
"Do you do this a lot?"
"Honestly? No," Henry laughs. "It's not quite my scene, but it's definitely Pez's. You'll love him, I'm sure."
Sure enough, Alex is already grinning like a madman five minutes into meeting Pez. He shows Alex around the place, his and Henry's favorite gay bar in London, pausing in front of a series of three square paintings, letting Alex take in the art in front of him. Heat rushes to Henry's face.
"These wonderful pieces," Pez says, gesturing to each of them in a line, "were created by the one and only." He throws a wink over his shoulder at Henry.
Alex snaps his head toward Henry, his mouth agape. "You made these?"
"The owner asked," Henry explains, slightly nervous. There's no need to be. It's not like this is the first time Alex has seen his other work, and it's certainly not the first time Alex has seen a, well.
Alex swallows. "They're really good. I mean... they're all good, but this one —" He points to the center painting, a close up of the lower half of two men, not a single detail missed. "— I really like this one."
Henry wraps his arm around Alex's waist, admiring his own paintings. The climax, literally, is in the center frame, with the one on its left featuring a pair of hungry mouths and a wet tongue and the one on its right detailing the release, stickiness decorating thick fingers. "I'm quite proud of them. I'm glad you like it."
The more he looks at the paintings, the more he sees a resemblance to Alex — plump lips and a dimple on the chin. A dark happy trail leading to the waistband. Calloused fingers. He made these years ago, way before Alex was even a thought in his mind, or so he thought. Perhaps he's been dreaming of Alex long before he started carving away at that wood.
"And this," Pez continues, leading them to the bar where three shots of clear liquid are slid his way. He passes them out to Henry and Alex before raising his own glass in the air. "Is where the fun begins."
It's vodka. Henry should have known.
Alex, unfortunately, takes a sniff before throwing the shot back. He wrinkles his nose. "Ugh. What is this?"
"Just to get things started," Pez explains, grinning. "It's bloody disgusting, but we'll get you something better after."
Alex sends a curious look over to Henry, who sighs and raises his own shot. "Trust him. He'll keep you in good hands."
Alex's alcohol tolerance is next to none, apparently, which makes sense, but it still has Henry hiding his smile behind his glass as Alex cackles over Pez's story about a weekend involving him, a drag queen, and thirteen rubber ducks. Pez keeps passing them both drinks, it's only then when Henry lets him be dragged onto the dance floor with Alex. Henry's never been much of a dancer, but he's drunk enough to sway his hips to the beat as he watched Pez teach Alex how to dance. Soon enough, Alex is moving his body like a natural, every inch of him oh-so-tempting to Henry.
Pez gets swept up by old friends he knows, leaving Alex and Henry alone, and it's like a magnetic force suddenly appears between them. Henry wastes no time gathering Alex in his arms, moving together to the beat of the music. The deep pink and blue lights reflect beautifully against Alex's sweaty skin, hypnotizing. The combination of that, the alcohol coursing through his system, and the press of Alex's body against his own has Henry quickly forgetting exactly where they are.
"Having fun?" he yells above the music.
Alex nods, head moving like a bobblehead. "Dancing is great," he says through a smile that has Henry weak at the knees. "So is drinking. So is Pez."
"I knew you'd like him." Henry presses himself even closer, not missing the way Alex's eyes flit down to his lips as he does so. "Christ, I'm glad I got you out here tonight."
"Me, too," Alex says, eyes dropping to Henry's lips again. This time, they don't move. "I'm really like dancing with you," he confesses. "And, uh." He clears his throat. "Feeling you."
Henry rolls his hips against Alex's. "I as well."
Alex begins to move in time with Henry now, his expression softened, like he's lost in thought. "Sometimes," he starts, "I feel like I can't ever get enough of you."
Henry can't hold back anymore. He gets a hand in Alex's curls and drags him into a kiss that's full of tongue and full of teeth, every centimeter of restraint he has suddenly vanished. Alex gasps into the kiss and instantly drops his mouth open to meet Henry's tongue with his own. Henry's obsessed with the way Alex just takes like he doesn't realize he needs it until he finally has it. He tugs on Alex's curls, feeling more than hearing the moan that tumbles from Alex's lips, the vibrations from it against his lips, the knowledge that he's the one reducing Alex to this so erotic that his hips buck forward to meet Alex's in a delicious grind.
"Wait, wait," Alex says as he breaks off. It's so sudden that Henry doesn't realize he's chasing Alex's lips until he feels hand against his shoulder, gently holding him back. "We can't, right? Not in front of other people?"
It takes Henry a while to catch on, but he suddenly remembers their desperate kiss shared in the V&A all those weeks ago, how he stopped Alex before surely scarring a few passersby. He almost laughs at Alex's innocence. "It's a bit different here," he tries to explain over the pounding bass. "We can go a bit farther than usual."
"Are you sure?" Alex asks, eyes wide. He's so beautiful that Henry wants to scream.
"Quite sure, love. Please kiss me again."
So Alex does, right there in the middle of the dance floor, his tongue sweet and his skin salty. Henry cups his jaw in his hands to hold him steady, trading slow, deep kisses, barely breaking apart to breathe, the lower halves of their bodies growing more impatient with each passing second. After Alex leaves several well-placed hickeys across his exposed collarbone and Henry indulges himself in a firm handful of Alex's wonderful ass, they weave through the crowd hand-in-hand to find Pez and inform them that they'll be heading out early. Pez only grins, the demon, kissing Henry and Alex both on the cheeks before bidding them goodnight ("A good, long night," Pez adds, cackling as Henry pushes Alex toward the exit).
A trail of clothes marks their path as they stumble up to Henry's bedroom. Alex takes Henry apart inch by painstaking inch, using his talented mouth to tip Henry over the edge before Henry can even blink. He hauls Alex back up to kiss him stupid, groaning at the taste of himself, and rolls them over without breaking their kiss. Henry ends up straddling Alex's lap, both hands cupping Alex's face as he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, and it doesn't take much longer for him to be painfully aware of the hard press of Alex against his ass.
"I'd like to try something new with you," Henry murmurs in between kisses, "if you'd be amenable to that."
"Yeah, yes, always," Alex slurs, dragging his hands down Henry's sweaty back.
Henry regrettably pulls away to rifle through his nightstand, so Alex takes the opportunity to mouth at his neck, tonguing over the purple marks he made less than an hour ago. When Henry sits back up, he has a small bottle perched in between his fingers.
Alex cocks his head quizzically to the side. "What's that?"
"It'll help with the slide," Henry explains, pressing his ass back against Alex, who gasps at the contact, "when you're inside of me. If you'd like."
Alex's pupils are so blown that Henry can barely see the brown irises surrounding them. "Yeah."
Feeling Alex like he's never felt him before is surreal. He guides Alex through the whole endeavor, first having him watch as he stretches himself, then gasping into the thick air as Alex's fingers join his own. He gets Alex ready as well, who moans at each press of contact against his skin, and kisses him breathless before sinking onto his lap, their bodies becoming one.
Alex throws his head back into the pillows and groans loudly, shamelessly. "Henry," he chokes out. There are tears in his eyes, shining in the low lights of the room, threatening to fall. "What is — oh, this feels s'good — Henry, what —"
"Move with me," Henry gasps, his own eyes closed shut in pleasure. "It's okay, Alex. Just move."
Alex does move, and it only takes a comically short amount of time before Alex is whining in pleasure as he completely lets go. Henry works his own hips harder, jerks his own hand faster, desperate to tip off the edge himself, but he's luckily drunk off of alcohol and drunk off of Alex tonight, so it doesn't take long at all before Henry's right there with Alex, collapsing on top of him once he's completely spent.
Alex blinks slowly, barely able to keep his eyes open. "I like something new," he mumbles.
Henry laughs into the crook of his neck, pressing a wet kiss there a moment later. "As do I, my love."
Henry should have known this day would come. Deep down, he did know, but he pushed it to the side, desperate not to think about it. Now, though, it's finally here, and he hates that he can't do anything about it. He hates that he didn't prepare Alex for this. It's definitely not helping his dark mood.
The bedsheets felt ten times heavier when he woke up, and the sun's rays just peeking through the window seems like a taunt. Alex is still asleep beside him, but he's been awake for hours already, the motivation to get out of bed and start his day completely vanished.
The worst thing about all this, Henry thinks, is that there's no good reason why he's like this. The months after his dad's passing, he would be hit by random bouts of grief, but as the years stretched on, those periods became much more minimal. The waves of grief would still hit him, sure, but the overwhelming tidal wave of sadness wouldn't knock him down unless it was the anniversary of his father's death or his birthday. Today isn't that anniversary. Today isn't his birthday. There is no bloody good reason why he should feel like this, yet he does, and he hates himself even more for it.
When Alex finally stirs, Henry shuts his eyes again, feigning sleep. He doesn't have the strength to explain to Alex how he feels right now. Perhaps he'll fake-sleep the whole day to avoid that particular conversation.
"Henry?" Alex mumbles quietly, his nose pressing to the back of his neck. After a minute of silence, he feels Alex press a kiss to his neck instead, then roll out of bed. Henry hears Alex pulling on clothes before he steps quietly toward the door and slips out, shutting it behind him with a soft click. Henry blinks his eyes open and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling because that's the only thing he can muster up the strength to do.
He must have dozed off at some point, because when he comes to again, it's to the sound of David whining at the bedroom door. Henry lets out a sigh. Every bone in his body is protesting at the need to get up, but at the same time, he's grateful for David's instinctive nature to pee. It's the only thing that's making him feel like he's doing something remotely productive.
With great effort, he hauls himself out of bed and throws on an old jumper before opening the door for David, whining even more loudly now. "Come on, boy," he says, his voice low, as if he hasn't used it for a while. "Let's get you sorted out."
Alex is perched on the loveseat, so immersed in a book that he thankfully doesn't notice Henry slip out. When he comes back in with David, however, he peeks over the top of the book, his lips splitting into a wide smile at the sight of Henry. Henry tries to smile back as Alex climbs out of the loveseat and bounds over to him.
"Hi," he says as Henry hangs up David's leash. "You slept late today."
"That I did," Henry says. He knows Alex is probably asking for an explanation that he doesn't have the energy to give. He tries to change the topic instead. "What were you reading?"
"Oh, this. It had your name on it, and it caught my eye, so..." Alex trails off, holding up the book, and Henry's heart drops all the way to his toes.
"That's my dad's," he says weakly.
"Cool!" Alex says brightly, not catching on. "It's kinda hard to read, but there's a bunch of notes on the side that help. I still don't understand the tennis balls, though; why was he so mad over them that he started a war? And why..."
Alex keeps talking, but Henry barely hears him. Because those are his father's notes he's talking about, written in his father's copy of Henry V, studying for his father's performance of the play. Alex has no idea. Henry's never told him about his dad, so there's no reason for Alex to know, but the acknowledgement still doesn't stop the confusing mix of anger and sadness that's filling Henry's brain.
"Alex," he says, not caring if he interrupts Alex or not, "I was, um. Hoping to read that, actually. If you were done."
Alex blinks. "Uh, sure. I just finished Act II, so I can stop." He hands the book over to Henry. "Hey, are... you okay?"
"I'm fine," Henry says back. Clipped. Instinctual. "I think I'll lie down and read."
"Okay," Alex says, taking a step with Henry in the direction of his room. "I can stay —"
"No, Alex," Henry says without meaning to, and Alex freezes. Henry closes his eyes, sighing. "I'm sorry. I just meant — I'd like to be alone for now. Please."
Alex stays quiet for longer than Henry has ever heard him. "Okay," he finally says. "I'll just, um. Hang out here, then."
He turns away before Henry can say anything else, and Henry feels more like shit than he did when he first woke up.
Still, he retires to his room like he said he would, although it feels empty without David by his side, and even more so without Alex. He collapses onto his bed with a groan. This is what he wanted, isn't it? He specifically asked Alex to leave him alone.
Henry V is still in his hands. Tentatively, he opens it up. His father's handwriting fills the margins, the swoopy scrawl that looks so much like Henry's own, jotting down notes, underlining stage directions, circling unfamiliar words. Henry's heart hurts with each word he reads, but no tears come. It's the worst kind of grief — the kind that makes him feel nothing at all.
He drops the book on his chest and peers over at Alex's side of the bed. It hasn't been "Alex's" side for very long, but Henry can't think of it as anything else. The pillow smells like his hair. The mattress is shaped like his body. Everything of Henry's has been touched in one way or another by Alex.
Fuck. He should apologize. He doesn't know if he can apologize.
He reads Henry V until the words stop making sense, doomscrolls on his phone for hours, and watches Bake Off until he falls asleep again. When he wakes, the sun is low in the sky, a golden light shining through his curtains. It's late. He hasn't been with Alex all day. Guilt twists painfully in his gut.
His flat is quiet in a way that's become unusual ever since Alex came into his life. Henry peeks into each room for a sign of Alex, but there's nothing. He tries to push down the bile that's rising in his throat. Had he been so horrible this morning that Alex decided to leave? Did Alex realize that there was a whole world out there available for him to see and figure that Henry didn't matter in the grand scheme of things? Did Henry destroy everything he loved in a matter of minutes?
The only sign of life in the flat is David snoozing on his dog bed. Henry blinks back stinging tears, eyes fixed on the spot where he found Alex this morning, and forces himself to move away.
He puts the kettle on, suddenly desperate for a soothing cup of late-night tea, and rummages through his fridge for leftovers, knowing he has to eat something. He finishes off the last bit of fried rice while he waits for the tea to steep and tries to think of anything but feeding Alex bites of this exact fried rice two days ago, when they were both happy and content.
Half an hour passes. Henry's tea is long gone. Another half hour passes. Henry drums his fingers on the countertop, resisting the urge to ring Pez and lament about fucking up the most perfect thing in his life.
Henry's on the floor next to David, scratching him behind the ears and wondering if it's worth wandering the London streets after dusk when he hears the doorknob rattle. His heart leaps in his throat and his head snaps in the direction of the door. The sound pauses, then picks up again, like there's someone behind that door that doesn't know how locks quite work. Henry only knows one person like that.
He scrambles to his feet and nearly slams face-first into the door before wrenching it open, and there's Alex, bright and beautiful as ever.
Alex jumps as the door suddenly swings open. "Hi," he says breathlessly. "I couldn't get this to open —"
Henry doesn't wait for him to finish. He flings himself at Alex, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and hugging him tighter than he's ever held someone before. Alex hesitates for only half a second before squeezing back.
"I thought you'd left," Henry says into Alex's neck.
"I did."
"No — I mean, left me. For good."
"What?" Alex asks, pulling back to stare at Henry. He looks like Henry just said the stupidest thing in the world. "Why would I leave for good?"
"Because — this morning — I was so awful to you, and I ignored you all day, and then when I came out you weren't here —"
"I went to the library," Alex explains. "Well, I was going to your studio first, but I found the library. There's so many books there; did you know that? I found all these books about how to help someone when they're sad, and it said to give space, so I did, and call a doctor, but I don't know how to do that, and make them feel loved, and I thought, well, maybe I could do that."
He moves to grab something resting outside the door, and when he presents it to Henry, all the breath escapes from his lungs.
It's a large canvas filled with watercolors, completely abstract, all different shades of blue. For a moment, Henry swears he's looking in a mirror. It's a painting of him, head tipped back, eyes closed, hair falling behind him, mouth agape. He's painted Alex so many times, but he never stopped to think that Alex could paint him, and so wonderfully on top of all that.
"You made me," Alex says simply, "so I made you."
Henry knows this wasn't Alex's intention, but he breaks all the same.
On his knees in front of the door, Alex comforts him, stroking a hand through his hair and rubbing his back as he cries. Tearfully, Henry apologizes over and over to Alex, explaining exactly what's been going through his mind today — his history of depression, the dark moods that never have a pattern, his father's death when he was eighteen years old. Alex stays quiet and nods along, listening like he always does when he's learning something new. Finally, when Henry's tears subside and he's able to laugh helplessly in between his words, Alex speaks.
"So you thought I would be gone? Like — like your dad was?"
"Um." Henry bites his lip. "In a way, I suppose? I was just so horrible to you that I thought you'd realize you had enough and —"
"Hey," Alex says, so quickly, so surely that Henry stops mid-sentence. "You weren't horrible. I'm sorry I didn't know any better; I wouldn't have pushed."
"Oh, love, it's not your fault," Henry breathes, cupping his jaw in his hands. "I wish I had told you sooner. You're... Christ. You're bloody everything to me, Alex."
Alex smiles. "Come to bed with me."
Alex seems genuinely okay with the events of the day, a much different reaction than Henry is used to from past partners, causing him to still be wary when he crawls into bed behind Alex. He presses his nose into Alex's hair and inhales deeply, closing his eyes. There's a tornado of thoughts in his mind — Alex has been alive for barely a month. Alex still knows so little. Henry loves him. Alex thinks he's prepared to be with all of Henry. Henry's not so sure.
"This isn't a one-time thing, you know," Henry says before he even realizes. "I could act the same way tomorrow. It could be like this for a week. I just don't know."
"That's okay," Alex murmurs, squeezing Henry's hand. "I'll be with you."
"But if you don't want to," Henry says, "you don't need to stay. You've just started to live. There's a whole world for you out there, and I'm quite content staying where I am now. So if you find that you want to see more, or you're simply tired of being with me… well. I'd understand if you'd want to. You know."
He trails off, not able to say the last few words. Alex is very still against him. Then, slowly, he turns around in Henry's arms, expression unreadable. "If I'd want to what?"
Henry sighs. "Please don't make me say it."
"No, Henry, because I didn't make you say anything." Alex's big, brown doe eyes are so captivating, practically hypnotizing Henry. "If I'd want to what?"
Henry pushes his face into the pillow. "If you don't want to stay with me."
"Henry," Alex says immediately, taking his face in both hands, "get this through that beautiful brain of yours. I'm not leaving. How many paintings do I have to make for you? How many times do I have to kiss you? You carved me from your heart and set me free, Henry. No one else in the entire stupid world could have done that. Why do you think I'd want to be with anyone else? Live anywhere else?"
Tears well up in Henry's eyes. "I love you so fucking much," he breathes. "I don't want you anywhere else. I need you, Alex, and I want you."
"Then why ask me?" Alex whispers, folding Henry in his arms. "Why even offer something you don't want me to take?"
"I don't know," Henry cries. "It's what I've always done, and it's always been what it turns out to be — Alex, darling, you're the only one who's ever told me no."
"Henry," Alex manages, sounding close to tears as well. "I'll tell you no even if it's your dying wish. You're stuck with me, okay? And you better like it, because I love you more than I can even express."
"You just may be the best thing that's ever happened to me," Henry confesses, lips ghosting against Alex's.
Alex smirks into the kiss. "Trust me," he breathes, "the feeling's mutual."