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Whenever Henry had permitted himself to think about a future in which he was happy – really, truly happy, with someone he could love and who loved him in return – it was more a set of feelings than a clear vision. Safety and security; warmth and comfort; being seen, for all that such a thing can be quantified as a feeling. Henry has always wanted it fiercely enough that it seemed that way, an ache settling into his bones as he’d pared himself back and folded away the parts of him that were incompatible with his upbringing.
He could never have imagined, in his wildest dreams, that he’d have all of this with Alex. It had been too far outside the realms of possibility to think that a star burning that brightly could ever be for him. He had once said that he’d thought it was safer to keep Alex far away from him, so he wouldn’t slip. It seems laughable now, to think that the fall wasn’t entirely inevitable.
Simply put, this life with Alex isn’t something he’d ever actively hoped for, because he’d never dared. And now, quite without warning, he has been handed everything he never knew he was allowed to want, and some days he feels so much about all of it, that he struggles to contain it.
Today, Alex is out of the house before Henry, and the kiss to his temple is routine. It becomes weighted down somehow, though – mired in place by his thoughts, not left to fester but to be preserved, like a creature in amber.
There is safety and security in the walls of their home and in the thick, luxurious comfort of their king size duvet; there is warmth and comfort there too, but Henry feels it more in the kitchen than under the covers, and in the cups of tea Alex now makes on autopilot to Henry’s exact specifications; and that kiss to his temple encompasses all that it is to be seen and known and understood – to be left sleeping without a goodbye is unthinkable. Alex knows how Henry feels about that. He always seems to know.
When Henry finally drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom, David follows him with his eyes mostly closed, as though being almost too tired to walk isn’t a good enough reason not to.
“Who’s the best dog, hm?” Henry asks, and David flops in the doorway, looking up at him with doleful, heavy-lidded eyes – which pretty much answers the question, rhetorical though it may have been. Henry only realises he’s smiling when he tries to brush his teeth and ends up with toothpaste foam on his pyjamas, but it’s fine – he can get some laundry done today. He has time.
He showers, turning the temperature up a little higher than normal and letting his skin go pink as the room fills with steam. He doesn’t do it every day, but the air outside their home is leaving gentle, barely-there frost on the grass, so he indulges himself. Alex likes to remind him it’s okay to have nice things, before adding that he himself is a nice thing, and then dragging Henry back to bed to prove it.
It’s not how every one of those conversations ends, but it’s certainly a pattern. Anyway, the thought is getting away from him – the point is, he is allowed to occasionally boil himself a bit for the sheer enjoyment of it, without feeling as though that enjoyment is somehow a moral failing. It’s a work in progress.
When Henry’s finished in the shower, he wraps an excessively fluffy towel around his waist and turns to the sink – at which point, he stops dead, his heart thudding almost audibly in his chest. Alex – for who else could it possibly be? – has written a message for him on the mirror, revealed by the steam still swirling in drifts and eddies around him as the damp heat spirals towards the extractor fan.
In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours. In all the world, there is no love for you like mine.
It’s Maya Angelou, Henry thinks— no. No, he’s sure it is; he was waxing lyrical about her work just a few days prior, and Alex had been leaning into his side, smiling indulgently, while they both ignored what was on the television. Alex does this – he remembers things. It’s why he’s an incredible lawyer, and an even better partner. It’s why Henry cannot imagine life without him on the other side of the bed, and why his throat feels tight because of a few bloody lines crudely sketched out on fogged-up glass.
He finds his phone back in the bedroom and it takes him three attempts to unlock it. He’s still damp and a little overwrought, and his hair is dripping onto his screen, but he manages to open up his text thread with Alex eventually. Their last messages were about soup, apparently, but Henry ignores them.
You will be the death of me, he types, and a moment later he receives a response that has his smile – ever-present today, apparently – stretching a little wider.
hope not – we have dinner plans. don’t think they let corpses in restaurants, even royal ones
Henry covers his face with his free hand. “Breathe,” he says out loud, and David makes a noise of agreement from where he’s pottered back over to his bed.
His phone buzzes again.
i love you
Henry takes a deep breath. Oh?
yeah – kind of well documented actually. i’ll tell you all about it later
He sits down on the edge of the bed and pushes the hair out of his eyes. I love you. Thank you.
for what??
For telling me.
any time, sweetheart