Chapter Text
The morning light spills gently across the room, dappling Henry’s skin in soft gold where he lies on his back, completely at ease, his face slack with sleep, one arm draped over his chest, the other resting beside him. His mouth is slightly parted, his hair a tousled mess on the pillow.
Alex watches him, barely breathing; a part of him feels afraid of disturbing something sacred.
There’s a stillness to him—a peace that makes Alex’s heart swell with something he can’t quite name.
Alex’s gaze trails lower, past the rise and fall of Henry’s chest, to his stomach. The covers have slipped down, revealing the gentle curve of it, the softness there that tells a quiet story of age and comfort—it’s that softness that draws Alex in, and he gently eases down the bed and leans forward, lips hovering just above Henry’s skin for a moment, almost in awe of the closeness, before pressing the first kiss.
Henry’s stomach feels warm against his mouth, softer than anything he’s ever touched. It feels pressing his lips to something private, something not meant for anyone else—and that thought makes his heart stutter.
The slight give of Henry’s flesh beneath his lips feels real in a way that makes Alex’s pulse quicken as he keeps kissing, trailing his mouth over the small ridges of skin that have softened over time, each press of his lips reverent, worshipping the years that made Henry into the man lying beside him. There’s no urgency here—just the quiet, intimate rhythm of skin against skin, the feel of Henry’s warmth, and the scent of him lingering in the sheets.
Henry shifts slightly in his sleep, a deep sigh escaping him as he rolls over onto his back completely—and Alex follows him smoothly, situating himself in between his legs, his hands gently kneading his hips as he inhales, trailing his mouth further down along his happy trail, smiling against his skin when he feels the soft cock start to twitch to life against his chin.
“Alex,” Henry mumbles—and Alex isn’t sure if he’s talking in his sleep or not—but then his name is followed by a tired and heavy—but tender hand slipping into his curls, and he looks up, meeting Henry’s eyes as he blinks them open.
“Henry,” Alex smiles against his hip—just to be a dick; Henry exhales in amusement, shaking his head. “You gave me permission to wake you up with a blowjob, it’s a little rude to wake up before I can even get to it,” he says, then, and Henry clicks his tongue.
“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer for me to go back to sleep?”
“Absolutely not,” Alex breathes, his voice low and playful as his lips descend further, brushing an open-mouthed kiss where Henry’s thigh meets his pelvis, feeling the coarse hairs scrape deliciously against his tongue; he loves the way Henry’s body responds, almost instinctively, the way the quiet morning stirs something deep between them. It's not just desire—it’s the intimacy, the quiet understanding that they fit, even in moments like this. And as Henry’s hand tightens in his hair, pulling slightly, Alex knows he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
Alex takes his time, letting his lips drag lazily along Henry's skin, feeling the heat radiate from beneath his touch; he likes it this way—slow, deliberate, teasing. The way Henry's body stirs under him, the quiet sighs he makes as Alex's mouth trails down his inner thigh, it all feels so intimate, so raw. There’s no rush, no expectation to hurry things along, and Alex loves that he can savor this—loves that Henry lets him.
The early light filtering through the curtains catches on the curves of Henry’s body, highlighting the softness of his stomach, the faint lines of age and experience that Alex has grown to admire; he presses his lips to Henry’s hip again, feeling the slight resistance of muscle beneath the surface. It grounds him, reminds him of the man beneath him—the man who’s seen so much more of the world, who carries those extra years in a way that only makes Alex want him more.
Henry is awake now, fully aware, though his eyes are still heavy with sleep, his body languid.
"You're such a menace," Henry mutters when Alex switches over to the other side of his body, deliberately allowing the warmth of his breath to wash over the head of his cock as he goes. His voice is still gravelly with sleep, hand still tangled in Alex's hair, tugging just enough to get his attention; Alex smiles against the soft, irresistible skin of his other thigh, not bothering to hide the moan that wells up in his throat when Henry spreads his legs for him, giving him all the space he needs to work.
“As much as I love your cock, I also happen to be fucking obsessed with the rest of your body, just gimme a minute,” Alex hums, gently nipping the inside of his thigh, pouring another moan into the skin when Henry’s grip on his hair grows tighter.
Remnants of sleep still gently melting off of his body, Henry watches, mesmerised by the view of Alex between his legs—his obnoxiously long eyelashes fluttering as his eyes fall closed; the way his beautiful, soft lips press up against the inside of Henry’s thigh—the pink hint of tongue in between them; the way he moans as if he’s the one currently being bathed in warm, intoxicating, soft attention. Henry tugs his hair just a little bit harder—feeling the corner of his mouth twitching when Alex’s mouth grows hungrier, the next moan teetering on the edge of a groan.
Henry should probably feel nauseous right about now—a mind-blowing orgasm and a few hours of sleep later, he should be coming to his senses about all of this—and he would love to—it’s just that Alex is so incredibly beautiful, and Henry doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look more at peace than he does right now—hell, he’s not sure he, himself, has ever felt more at peace, either. At least not in a long time.
“You know, most men your age would probably be coming to their senses right about now,” he finds himself saying, anyway—projection, perhaps. Or a last ditch effort at giving Alex the out he so clearly doesn’t want.
“Hm, most men my age are fucking idiots,” is all Alex hums, slipping his arms in beneath Henry’s thighs, hands soon back on the outside of them, holding him open as he trails his mouth further up his thighs—the kisses never growing faster, but certainly deeper—hungrier. Henry tugs his hair a little bit more, sucking a breath in through his teeth as his cock twitches one more time—and then again, curving up over his stomach now, a drop of precome glistening along the slit. “Stop thinking so hard,” Alex adds, then—eyes opening, looking up at Henry again, his mouth never slowing down—mouthing up around his balls, and the base of his cock by now. Henry swallows. “If we’re playing that game, baby, most men your age would enjoy the fact that they have a twenty-three year old in their bed, two seconds away from sucking their brain out through their cock.”
“Most men don’t have a conscience,” Henry swallows.
“Most men aren’t you,” Alex cuts back, nodding once, nuzzling his nose and parted lips against the base of his cock. “Including the ones my age,” he adds—briefly pulling away, only to turn his head and press a long, warm kiss to the inside of his thigh, his hand caressing the outside of it. “Fuck ‘em,” he says when he turns back. “All of ‘em. I just want you.”
“I just want you, too,” Henry admits with a nod—and Alex’s smile is completely infectious, spreading to his own lips before he’s able to stop it.
“I know,” is what he says—but Henry’s chance at a retort erased as Alex wraps his mouth around his cock—dark, warm gaze glued to his own as he swallows him down.
“Christ,” Henry bites through his teeth, knuckles growing white around his grip on the curls; his head is spinning, thoughts tangled in the heat of the moment, lost somewhere between pleasure and disbelief. The sensation of Alex’s mouth on him is almost too much, every slow pull a wave that drags him further under; he feels the weight of it settling low in his stomach, twisting tighter with every deliberate movement of Alex’s tongue—warm and slick, tracing the sensitive underside of his cock. It’s a slow burn, like molten honey spreading through his veins, sweet but unbearable in its intensity.
His chest rises and falls too quickly, breath coming in shallow gasps. There’s a tightening in his lungs, the tension of trying to hold back, to resist the overwhelming urge to give in entirely. He can feel every part of Alex—his strong hands gripping his thighs, holding him open as if to say, stay here, stay with me—his mouth working with a patience that is agonizing, as though he has all the time in the world to unravel him. The slickness of Alex’s tongue traces the underside of his cock, a teasing glide that makes every nerve sing, his body tense in response. The slow, deliberate suction tugs at him, a deep pull of sensation that roots itself low in his abdomen, where heat coils tighter and tighter.
Every inch of him is alive with it, throbbing and desperate, caught in the rhythm of Alex’s movements as he steadily bobs his head up and down, taking him down about a third—almost half—not rushing things—just pleasuring him, slowly—gently—eyes remaining glued to Henry’s, almost as if daring him to look away. He doesn’t; he can’t.
“I just want you, too,” Henry finds himself whispering again, the truth of it hitting him completely, and all at once, like a wave crashing over him—the weight of just how much he means it. The connection between them is palpable, a shared breath, a shared heartbeat.
Alex hums around him, lips tensing into as much of a smile as he can manage with Henry’s cock stretching his jaw; his eyelashes flutter, eyes growing even warmer as his hands knead the meat of his thighs in a way that Henry can only possibly describe as loving. That’s what this is—not yet, it’s too soon—but it’s what it will be, someday, if they keep going like this—and he’s not sure if that makes it better or worse. And when Alex swallows him down even deeper, aborting a slight gag three thirds of the way down, only to keep going until the tip of his nose brushes against the hair at the base of Henry’s cock—Henry decides he doesn’t care.
“Shit,” he exhales, giving him another tug of his hair, watching his eyes grow cloudy as he pulls back up, and sinks back down, building up a steady pace—saliva pouring out over his chin, glistening equally in the coarse hair of Alex’s stubble and Henry’s pubic hair.
Henry’s entire body reacts with the ramped up pace, his back arching off the bed as he feels the rush start to build, unstoppable now; his breath quickens, hands gripping Alex’s hair tighter, legs trembling slightly—Alex’s hands merely growing tighter, holding him steady.
Some of his memory is, admittedly, clouded—but before Henry, Alex doesn’t remember the last time he had sex and it felt as if he was doing it together with someone—even with enthusiastic consent, it usually feels like a trade. This is different—so much different; he’s taking Henry’s thick, beautiful cock down his throat, steadying his legs as they tremble gently—and Henry is tugging his hair, because he knows that Alex likes it—keeps eye contact, even when his eyelids grow heavy—because he knows that Alex wants it. They’re not two individual players, engaging in a mutually beneficial deal—they’re on the same team. Together. Which is somehow so much fucking hotter that Alex has no choice but to moan around him picking up the pace—the filthy, guttural sound of Henry’s cock hitting the back of his throat as good as music to his ears.
Alex pours out another groan, the sound guttural and thick, vibrating around Henry’s cock as he takes him in further, feeling the heat and weight of it press against his tongue. It’s messy now—wet and raw, spit slicking his lips, dripping from the corners of his mouth as he works him faster, harder. There’s nothing precise about it, nothing careful—just the urgent push and pull, the way Henry’s hips jerk upward, the tension in his thighs growing with each pass of Alex’s mouth. He grips Henry’s legs tighter, nails digging into the soft skin of his thighs, grounding himself in the feeling of Henry trembling under his touch.
“Alex,” Henry rasps. “So beautiful, love.”
The words are soft—but Alex knows that Henry gives them to him because he knows exactly what they’re going to do to him—and he’s right; of course he is. There’s something animalistic about it now—something desperate in the way Henry tugs harder at his hair, rougher than before, guiding him down, down, until Alex’s nose is pressed against the base of his cock, and all he can feel is Henry throbbing in his throat.
Henry isn’t responsible for keeping him there—but Alex stays anyway, lungs burning as he moans; the ache only fuels him; he swallows one gag, and then another one, looking up at Henry through his heavy eyelashes—before he finally pulls off with a gasp—but only for the split second it takes for him to grant himself another breath—then he’s back on him, moaning, the sound muffled and filthy as he takes him back down.
Alex’s own cock is hard, straining against his stomach, aching for attention, but right now, all he cares about is this—Henry’s fingers tightening in his hair, the strained, ragged noises escaping from his lips, the way his whole body is wound tight like a spring, ready to snap. Alex wants to push him over the edge, wants to feel Henry lose control, come undone right there in his mouth, because fuck, they’re in this together, riding the same wave of heat and want, and there’s no holding back now.
Perhaps it’s that thought, in the end, that has Alex pulling off—stealing one of his hands back, rapidly stroking Henry’s cock, keeping him up as he talks—breathless.
“Can I try something? Dirty talk? Tell me if you don’t vibe with it,” he pants. Henry nods, and Alex takes the head of his cock back into his mouth, sucking ones before letting him go with a plop, hand remaining rapid and enthusiastic, twisting up and down. “Bet you got some guys in your past that are fucking trash, right?” A line of confusion appears in Henry’s forehead, but Alex continues before he has a chance to question it. “How’d they feel, huh? If they could see us right now?”
“You want me to think about my horrific exes finding out I have a twenty-three year-old gagging on my cock?”
“Not how you’d feel if they found out,” Alex rasps with a grin, briefly pausing his hand at the base of his cock, sticking his tongue out to tap the head against it, drawing a loop before taking it back in, lips brushing the head as he speaks again. “How they’d feel.”
A surge of heat burns its way up the length of Henry’s spine. It’s not something he’s expecting—and it doesn’t make sense—how Alex knows him better than he does, himself. It’s far too early for that. And yet.
“And not just this,” Alex continues—pausing to let a mouthful of saliva drip out over the head of his cock; Henry sucks a breath in through his teeth. “I love thinking about my terrible exes finding out how much I love choking on your cock,” he says, mouthing at the base. “How beautiful you sound while I’m doing it.” Other side. “How much they pale in comparison.” He gently takes a ball into his mouth, tongue massaging the tender skin before he lets go. “How fucking happy it makes me.” Other one. “How happy you make me,” he says, lips back at the head now, breath hot as it washes over the slit. “And I love thinking about yours, too—how I’m gonna treat you better than they ever did. How much hotter I am than them. How much hotter you are than mine.”
“Bit petty, don’t you think?” Henry asks—not that there is any possible way to hide just how breathless the idea makes him. It’s the way Alex says it—low and teasing, but with a bite of sincerity beneath the bravado—that unravels him; the heat of Alex’s breath against his cock makes Henry’s thighs tense, his body betraying him before he can even respond. He wants to say something else, to laugh off Alex’s cocky, filthy admissions, but his heart is pounding, each beat a reminder of how much control Alex has in this moment—how easily he sees through the layers Henry keeps up around everyone else.
When Alex lets another slick drop of spit fall over the head of his cock, Henry bites back a groan, the sensation too sharp, too intimate; his eyes flutter shut as Alex’s tongue traces the line of his length again, slow and deliberate, mouth finding its way back to the base, planting messy, open-mouthed kisses as if staking his claim. It’s not just the physical act—the obscene heat of Alex’s mouth or the way his lips slide so perfectly over him—it’s the goddamn confidence of it. Alex knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what Henry needs.
“You like it.”
“You shouldn’t know me this well yet,” he manages—somehow.
“Hm, I think we’ve established we both love doing shit we shouldn’t be doing, baby,” Alex presses a grin to the side of his cock. “Kind of our thing,” he adds. “And you love it. You love knowing I’d ruin every one of your exes in a heartbeat—just to make sure they know who’s making you fall apart now.” The words are filthy, shameless, but there’s an undercurrent of something deeper—something that shoots straight through Henry, settling in his chest like a burning weight.
It should be a bad feeling—but then he thinks about Andy—the community college professor he for some reason stayed with for a full four years, just because he didn’t want to be alone; he thinks about just how many nights were spent right here, in this very bed, staring at his back because he insisted on turning away from Henry. How many mornings Henry spent waking up in an empty bed, how many story ideas he shared with his partner, only to have them dismissed, or destroyed by all of the holes deliberately poked into the premise. All of the nights he went to bed alone, pretending as if he didn’t know that Andy was probably in somebody else’s bed. All of the ‘I love you’s’ he gave, reciprocated with a monotone, obligatory; ‘I love you, too.’ All of the comments made about the slight pudge on his stomach—the same pudge he just woke up to Alex practically worshipping.
Then—although he would never, in a million years, ever actually do it—he toys with the mere idea of grabbing his phone, aiming the camera down at Alex and taking a picture of his current view—of sending it to Andy, or any other horrendous exes—knowing full well that they would find Alex to be the hottest man they have ever laid eyes on—because he is—and making sure they know that he’s Henry’s. That Henry is his.
Henry is mature enough to realize that these thoughts probably don’t align with his typical philosophy of being the bigger person—but christ, if his cock isn’t throbbing even heavier than it was a minute ago.
“Menace,” he manages, and Alex grins, taking him back down his throat—tongue massaging the underside of his cock, throat muscles squeezing him in a way that quite frankly, has Henry’s vision whitening out—and he simply can’t be blamed for the way the words pour out of his mouth without his own permission. “Pretend they’re here,” he says. “All of them. Yours. Mine. Everyone who’s ever been with either of us who didn’t deserve it, all watching you suck my cock.”
At that, Alex’s eyes practically roll to the back of his head, saliva pouring over Henry’s cock as he takes him even deeper—not a gag reflex in sight as he quickly grows even more enthusiastic—sloppier, louder—using Henry’s cock to fuck his own throat like it’s a punishment—although the thick, deep, continuous moans say differently.
“Sober,” Henry chances—and Alex grows louder, twisting his hand up and down his cock, following the pace of his mouth. Success. “Healthy. Happy. Beautiful.” Loved. Fuck. No. Not yet. “Cherished,” he says instead.
Alex is burning; he feels the words sink into his skin, hotter than Henry's grip on his hair, each one slipping through his ears like a brand. Sober. It hits deep, settling somewhere in his chest, sharp and bright. Taking Henry deeper, he swallows deliberately around him, letting the praise run through him like gasoline. Healthy. He moves faster, the slick slide of spit coating Henry's length, the heat of his own cheeks radiating with an intensity that feels almost feverish.
Each filthy sound he makes echoes in the air between them, louder with every exhale; he knows Henry's watching him—eyes locked, unwavering, like he's memorizing every detail. It's the idea that they're watching too—every ghost of their past mistakes, their self-destruction—here to witness something so inherently, undeniably alive and intimate.
Henry's hips stutter, an unintentional thrust that Alex takes in stride, his throat opening reflexively; he feels Henry's restraint breaking apart in real-time—the small shivers in his muscles, the harsh breaths caught between gritted teeth. It's like watching glass fracture, each tiny crack giving way to something profound and terrifying. Alex leans into it, lets his lips slide deeper until Henry's pressed up against the limits of what Alex can take, and then just a little further, reveling in the heady mix of pain and intimacy. The wet sounds fill the room, punctuated by Henry's whispered curses and praises, the creak of the bed beneath them. It's filthy, almost violent in its tenderness, and Alex wants to make it even messier—wants to drown in it completely.
Holding Henry's gaze—unflinching—he lets the intensity of it lock them into a rhythm that feels almost ritualistic; his fingers dig into Henry's thighs now, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin like a spring ready to snap. Every shift of weight, every tiny movement, feels charged with meaning. When Henry's thumb brushes his temple, it isn't guidance—it’s something more fragile, like Henry's trying to remind himself that Alex is real and here and his. Alex swallows around him, deep and unhurried, and he watches Henry's pupils blow wide, something raw and pleading in those storm-gray eyes. It's as if the act itself has become a language, an unspoken declaration that transcends the mess of words neither of them are ready to say out loud. The air is thick with the ghosts of their pasts, every past wound and regret bleeding into this moment, and Alex can't help but think that if this isn't redemption, it's at least a damn good facsimile.
Pulling off with a gasp—breathless as he is—Alex manages to flash Henry a bright smile as he keeps a hand curled around the base of his cock, playfully slapping it against his cheek—and then down onto his exposed tongue—toying with it, reveling in the mess. Henry grows the feeling.
“You’re gonna bloody kill me, Alex,” is all he can manage with a smile of his own, shaking his head in disbelief as he gives his curls another tug.
“Better not,” Alex winks, then then he sinks back down, back to bobbing his head—those deep, filthy, clucking sounds of the head hitting the back of his throat welling up in between them once again.
Henry tries to keep his breathing steady, but it's impossible with Alex working him over like this—reckless and unrestrained, like he's daring Henry to fall apart. The smile Alex flashed moments before still lingers in Henry's mind, bright and unapologetic, a sharp contrast to the obscene scene unfolding between them now—filthy, and yet it feels eerily close to worship—it's so fucking intimate that Henry's chest tightens with something he refuses to name; he’s never known what to do with devotion like this, not when it's aimed at him—undeserved and all-consuming.
And yet, Alex is relentless—encouraged by each and every shaky breath, every unfiltered groan that spills from Henry's lips. There's no space left for pretense or control; Alex has stripped that away with every teasing lick, every filthy noise that fills the bedroom.
When Henry's head tips back against the pillows, he doesn't even realize he's mouthing Alex's name—half plea, half prayer. It escapes him in broken fragments, interspersed with the sounds of Alex's mouth working him over, and he wonders fleetingly how they've ended up here, so utterly tangled in each other's madness.
There's nothing graceful about it, nothing romantic in the way Alex lets spit dribble down his chin or how Henry's hand tightens in his hair to keep him steady—and yet this moment feels like the most romantic thing Henry has ever experienced.
Henry grips Alex's curls tighter, almost grounding himself in the feel of it; he doesn't know what's coming next, only that he's not ready for this to end, not when Alex is looking up at him with that wicked gleam in his eye like he's the only thing in the world that matters. When he knows—knows—that his own eyes are meeting his with a matching gaze.
“Come on,” Alex pulls off to say, his smile never wavering—chin coated in saliva and precome, eyes bright—sunlight highlighting every warm tone in them, along with the strands of gold in his hair. “Come on, baby, come on my face.”
And god help him, Henry does.
Alex doesn’t think he has ever known a peace quite like this; dressed in a washed out hoodie and sweatpants, lounging back on Henry’s—their? He does live here but it’s too early to consider this all too closely—couch, head against the armrest, his legs spread just enough to fit Henry’s frame in between them, his back to his chest, nose pressed into the soft, blonde strands, inhaling the lavender-vanilla scent of his shampoo.
David is snoring under the coffee table; a movie is playing on the television—Alex is only paying half-attention, more focused on the way Henry’s caressing soft, soothing circles along his forearms.
Alex's fingertips absentmindedly trace patterns against Henry's ribs above his shirt, feeling the slight rise and fall of his breathing, the soft hum beneath skin and bone. The warmth of Henry's clothed back against his chest seeps through the thin fabric of his own hoodie, grounding him in a way he never thought possible. He presses a slow kiss into Henry's hair, his lips lingering there longer than necessary, taking in the softness of the strands and the familiarity of the scent. There's something sacred in the quiet intimacy of the moment—how the weight of Henry against him feels like an unspoken promise, one Alex didn't know just how much he craved until he had it.
The muted glow of the TV bathes the room in soft, shifting light, catching on the curve of Henry's jawline and illuminating the worn edges of their intertwined limbs. Alex shifts his gaze back, once again watching the scene unfold on the screen, vaguely aware of the plot but more focused on the texture of this moment—Henry's hand sliding up to rest against his, the small circles tracing over his wrist and down to his knuckles. David snores and shifts in his sleep, but even the dog's presence feels like part of this fragile, perfect ecosystem.
Outside the window, snow falls quietly, each flake catching the dim light from the streetlamp before settling into the already thick blanket covering the world beyond.
It's the kind of snowfall that seems to slow time, muting the city's usual hum into a serene hush. Alex's gaze shifts briefly to the window, watching the flakes gather along the sill, and the sight pulls something deep inside of him—a recognition of the fleeting beauty of the moment. Everything about it—the snow, the warmth of Henry's body against his, the soft snores from David—feels improbably right, like a memory he wants to press into his palms and hold.
He tightens his arms slightly around Henry, pressing his cheek against the crown of his head. Through the pane, he can just make out the blurred outlines of rooftops and cars, all softened under the white expanse. It reminds him of the rare, silent mornings back in Texas when the frost would cover the fields, moments so hushed and otherworldly that they seemed almost untouched by time. Here, though, with Henry's breath deep and steady beneath his fingertips, the scene holds a weight of its own—a warmth that radiates from inside and spills out into the winter night beyond.
“Alex…?” Henry gently breaks the silence—and Alex can practically hear the ellipsis. It should scare him—and it does, a little bit—though not enough to disturb the haze of peace enveloping him.
“Hm?” he sounds, dropping another soft kiss to the crown of his head.
“I have a question. And I need you to answer it honestly. Please?”
Alex gives him another hum—but Henry doesn’t speak for a moment; he dips his head slightly, as if he’s admiring the view of their hands gently toying with each other’s fingers. Alex gives him all the time in the world, and Henry accepts it—bringing their hands up to their lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Alex’s. Then he starts to shift, and Alex eases his arms up around him just enough to where he’s able to turn around.
Eyes focused on Henry’s beautiful face, Alex watches patiently as stays close, but tucks one of his legs up under himself, the other one dropping off the couch as he props an elbow up on the back of the couch, leaning his cheek in his own palm.
There’s yet another beat, then—Henry’s gaze falling down to Alex’s knee as he absentmindedly traces nonsense shapes over the soft cotton fabric. A part of Alex knows exactly what he’s about to ask, so he gives him all the time he needs to find the right words.
“I like you,” he finally says, his eyes finally meeting Alex’s—and perhaps most people would say that a man in his mid-fifties can’t be absolutely fucking adorable—but those people have never seen Henry Fox duck his head, with his cheeks taking on a slight flush.
“I like you, too,” Alex grins, catching his hand in his own, lacing their fingers together. It’s on his tongue to make a crack about how the past twenty-four hours should have been proof enough for that—but he knows that whatever Henry is about to say is serious, so he keeps it to himself.
“I know that, Alex—and that’s why…” he trails off for a beat, running his free hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to think that it’s not mutual, because it very much is—but…” Another breath, his eyes softening. “Love, I just need to know that if this…” he brings Alex’s hand with him as he gestures back and forth between them. “If it doesn’t… work out, I need to know that you—“
“—that I’m gonna be okay,” Alex interrupts softly—and he can see the tension melt off of Henry’s shoulders as he nods.
“I’m not clean for you, baby,” Alex says—and as much as he likes Henry—it’s the truth. Alex didn’t go to rehab for anyone but himself, he didn’t stay in rehab for anyone but himself, and he’s not staying clean for anyone but himself. “Look—I know you’re never not gonna worry about me, alright? No one—“ who loves me. “—who cares about me is ever not gonna worry about me. I get that—look at me,” he interrupts himself when Henry’s eyes start wandering again. “I like you. A lot. Like so much, Hen, and if this is over tomorrow, or a year from now, I’m gonna be absolutely fucking crushed—but I’m still gonna be clean.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Alex confirms. “And listen, I’m not blind to how fucking complicated this is for you, but… I also need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” Henry assures him without a single beat of hesitation.
“I need you to be with me because you want to be with me. I can handle anything, but I can’t handle people walking on eggshells.”
Henry takes a slow breath, exhaling through his nose, the air thick with the weight of Alex's words. There's a vulnerability hanging between them, delicate as the frost crystallizing on the window outside. The snow continues its quiet descent, gathering in soft layers that blur the sharp lines of the city, and in that fleeting cocoon of winter light, Henry studies Alex's face—every shadow, every hint of hesitation, every flicker of something he's trying to mask. The steadiness in Alex's voice doesn't falter, though, and that anchors Henry more than anything else. It's like Alex has found his own footing in this fragile territory, and Henry doesn't want to be the one to knock him off balance.
Henry's chest tightens with each word Alex speaks, a feeling like the chill of winter air seeping into his bones; he holds Alex's hand just a fraction tighter, fingers threaded together like something delicate, something he needs to hold onto with care. Alex's eyes are locked on him, unwavering, waiting, and Henry knows there's no room for empty reassurances here—only the bare honesty Alex is offering him, and the least Henry can do is meet it halfway.
The snow outside their window swirls silently, catching, flickering in the streetlights and turning the whole world soft and quiet. Henry's gaze flickers to the snowfall for a heartbeat, grounding himself, before returning to Alex's face, so open, so earnest. The snow has always held a kind of brutal honesty for Henry—its coldness, its relentless presence a reminder of the world's indifference; but right now, in this room, it only highlights the warmth between them, the quiet intensity of Alex's words filling up the space. Henry can feel the truth of it, how deeply Alex means every syllable, and it aches—beautifully, achingly real.
“You’re sure,” he murmurs, a little in awe, a little afraid; he wishes he could borrow some of Alex's certainty, could let it seep into the parts of him that still tremble with doubt and self-preservation—but as Alex holds his gaze, unflinching, Henry knows he has to trust in this—in them. "Alright," he says, voice soft but resolute. "I promise, Alex. I’m with you because I want to be with you,” he promises—as easy as breathing. “I just—“
“—you too,” Alex interrupts. Henry feels his own forehead develop a crease of confusion. “I’m with you cause I wanna be,” he elaborates, the look in his eye growing darker—playful as he inches his face closer to Henry’s, his fingers slipping out from in between his, instead landing on the outside of his thigh, right there it fades into his arse. “That’s what you’re worried about, too. That you’re a strong, stable support system and I happen to find you physically attractive? Circumstance?”
Henry has a vague recollection of a similar conversation taking place last night, but Alex had been panting into his ear at the time, so admittedly, he doesn’t remember too much of it.
“But the truth is, Sweetheart,” Alex says—and then Henry is being gently shoved, his hands automatically landing on Alex’s thighs as he straddles him—the flickering blue light of the television like a halo around him. “I wanted to be on top of you since the first second I saw you,” he says—dropping a warm, but quick kiss to his lips. Henry hums. “I would have wanted to be on top of you no matter where or how I met you.”
“Is that right?” is all Henry is able to manage at the moment, and Alex grants him a wicked grin, nodding once.
“Under you,” Alex shrugs, then, dropping another kiss. “Behind you.” Another one. “On my knees.” Another one. “As long as it’s you, I’m not picky.”
Henry barely registers the world beyond Alex—the muffled drone of the television, the blurry snowfall outside the window—all of it fades, dissolving into the background like smoke. Alex is here, solid and heated in his lap—and the way he kisses Henry isn't gentle. There's no slow build or tentative exploration; it's immediate and relentless, lips parting to drag Henry up into a deep, searing kiss that makes his head spin. The desperation is palpable—raw—like something clawing its way to the surface.
Henry responds instinctively, mouth opening beneath Alex's, tasting the salt of his breath and the lingering warmth of coffee from earlier; he doesn't remember when he started clutching at Alex's hips, holding him in place, but he feels the bruising pressure of his own fingers digging in—needing an anchor against the pull of whatever this is that's dragging him under.
Alex shifts slightly, rolling his hips just enough to keep Henry aware of the press of his weight, and it feels like a taunt, a challenge—daring Henry to hold back. Henry tries to keep his head above water, to keep some semblance of control, but it slips through his fingers when Alex catches his lower lip between his teeth and tugging lightly before releasing it. The groan that escapes Henry is involuntary—guttural—raw in his throat like an exposed nerve. It's answered by a sharp inhale from Alex, who smiles against his mouth—crooked, almost wicked—and then deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the line of Henry's teeth with devastating precision. Henry tastes the metallic edge of his own restraint breaking, and he doesn't know if it's the heat of Alex's mouth or the way he seems to consume Henry's every breath, but he feels undone—stripped bare in a way that's terrifyingly intimate.
The idea that he would ever, in a million years, have been able to resist Alex feels outright laughable.
It’s tender, and yet it’s nothing but—it's something feral, something that feels like staking a claim, and Henry can't stop himself from leaning into it, into the bruising force of Alex's grip on his jaw, the way he murmurs half-formed words against his lips. Henry chases the taste, pulls Alex closer, his mind an echo of half-conscious thoughts: mine, here, now. Each time Alex shifts, Henry feels the weight of him settling deeper, the warmth seeping into his skin, marking him, like something he won't ever be able to forget. And maybe that's the point—maybe this is how they both say what they're too afraid to articulate just yet—that they're both here, that they're not leaving, that something real is taking shape between them, and neither of them is willing to back away from it. That if they’re not careful—this may just be forever.
Staying in on New Year’s eve hadn’t exactly been a difficult decision to make—a big party isn’t much of Henry’s scene at his age—not that it ever, really was—and regardless of how great Alex is doing in his sobriety, it’s probably not a fantastic idea to tempt fate less than a year into it. Pez is going out, of course—as always—and had sounded particularly triumphant on the phone when Henry informed him that he and Alex would be staying in. (Henry had decidedly hung up before he had managed to get in any specific questions.)
Which leaves Henry here—in the kitchen, early on New Year's Eve, surrounded by the quiet comfort of simmering sounds and smells that have quickly become comforting and familiar. The last remnants of daylight are slowly giving way to the deep, thick blue of winter evening; the television is on, a hallmark movie just barely loud enough to cut through the simmering pan. It all feels like enough—more than enough, really. Alex leans against the counter beside him, elbow-deep in a bowl of flour, and Henry can't help the fond smile that creeps onto his face as he watches him knead the bolillo dough with a concentrated frown.
They're close enough that Alex's hip keeps brushing his every time he shifts, and Henry feels that small point of contact like an electric current running beneath his skin; he stirs the vegetables one last time before covering it, turning back to find Alex giving the dough one last knead with an exaggerated grin, clearly pleased with himself.
“Is that all that is needed for now?” Henry asks—earnestly, because while he’s certainly not incapable in the kitchen, his skills aren’t nearly what they should be at his age.
"For the dough, yeah," Alex teases, stepping closer, eyes bright with mischief. Henry rolls his eyes but doesn't step away, can't really bring himself to—especially not when Alex is looking at him like that, all warm and soft around the edges. Alex's hands find Henry's waist, flour and all, and before Henry can think of a witty retort, Alex is leaning in and kissing him, slow and sweet.
They trade kisses like secrets, each one a little longer than the last, until Henry forgets about the simmering pan and the carefully followed recipe. Alex's lips are warm and slightly chapped, his laugh quiet against Henry's mouth when he leans back just enough to murmur; "We're really nailing the domestic thing, huh?"
"You look good in an apron," Henry’s voice comes out softer than he means it to, more of a breath than anything else; he wonders, briefly, how he got here—to this moment where he's not just content, but happy—genuinely, wholly happy.
“You look good in everything,” Alex hums, apparently reading something in Henry's expression, and kisses him again before going back to put a clean towel over the dough.
Henry is two seconds away from plastering himself to his back and pressing a kiss to his neck—but then, however—Alex's phone rings, shattering the small bubble they've cocooned themselves in. Alex glances at the screen and mutters an apology before he's out of the kitchen, heading into the hallway with a quiet; "Hey, Dad."
Despite the television, the silence that fills the kitchen after he leaves feels heavy in a way Henry can't quite shake; he turns back to the stove, lowering the heat more out of habit than necessity, trying to refocus on the task at hand—trying to ward off the thoughts that are already spiraling, old worries surfacing as he pictures Oscar on the other end of the line—Alex's father, who's been his friend for years. Who had confided in him when Alex's addiction was at its worst, who had trusted Henry to be there when Alex needed stability. A father who sees him as a friend, a support system, a role model—and Henry can't help but feel that he's failed at least two of those roles by letting himself fall for Alex.
Gripping the counter, fingers pressing into the flour dusted on the surface, he grounds himself as the doubt creeps in; he knows what Alex would say if he could hear his thoughts—he can already picture the annoyed look on his face, the sharp retort about how Henry's overthinking everything again—the soft reassurance as his lips brush his own. But it doesn't change the fact that this is complicated, far more than any of Alex's late-night reassurances or cheeky grins can ease, as much as he wishes it differently. Henry's old enough to know that falling in love isn't a solution, and he's all too aware of the consequences if things were to end badly—if Oscar were to rightfully feel betrayed, if their relationship were to complicate Alex's recovery in any way, at any point down the line.
Henry shakes his head, trying to dispel the unease, but it lingers in the back of his mind like a shadow; the kitchen feels emptier now, colder somehow, and he stares out the fogged-up window at the falling snow, trying to let the quiet night soothe his nerves. He doesn't want to go back to second-guessing everything, doesn't want to retreat from something that feels so real, but it's hard not to when he knows the stakes.
The vegetables need another stir, so Henry busies himself with that, trying to ignore the hollow feeling gnawing at his chest as he listens to the muffled sound of Alex's voice down the hall, hoping that whatever doubts he's having don't find their way into his expression when Alex comes back.
“I’m happy things feel better, mijo,” his dad says from the other side of the line, and Alex nods to himself, desperately forcing himself to keep in the words he really wants to say—it’s funny, because if he was just seeing some random person, he’s not sure he would be struggling this much. It’s not as if he tells his dad everything—even post-rehab. But he wants to—he wants to tell him everything, wants to gush—and it’s only a testament to how much he feels for Henry.
Only—he can’t. Not without Henry’s permission—and quite frankly, not without a plan. It’s not that he’s going to be furious about it—try to keep them apart or anything, he’s got his flaws, but he’s generally level-headed—this, however, doesn’t mean that he’s going to be particularly happy. Objectively, of course, Alex can see why—as much as he wishes he didn’t.
Alex shifts against the wall, leaning into the cool plaster like it might steady him; his dad's voice remains steady—reassuring in that practiced, fatherly way—and Alex is a wonderful dancer, skirting around the details, offering broad strokes instead of specifics.
In the past, it was out of shame or fear of disappointing him; now, it's something entirely different; the longer the phone call continues, the more he wants to tell him just how happy he's been, how steady everything feels when he's with Henry, like he's found something he didn't even know he was searching for—but dropping all of this on his dad without warning would be like lighting a fuse he isn't ready to deal with just yet.
So—he breathes through the urge, reminding himself to take it slow; his dad doesn't need to know everything right now, and neither does the rest of the world—but even acknowledging that feels like denying a part of his life that's brought him more stability than he's ever had.
When the phone call starts to come to a close, Alex mutters a few more affirmations, tells his dad he'll call again soon, and ends it with a lingering hesitation, fingers still hovering over the screen even after the line goes dead.
Alex doesn't head back to the kitchen immediately. Instead, he stands there in the hallway, hand on the wall, staring at his phone. He knows Henry is undoubtedly orrying himself into knots in there, and the thought alone tightens something low in his gut. It isn't fair to let Henry feel like this is all on his shoulders when Alex knows exactly what he wants, but figuring out the right way to approach this, to let his dad know about the person he's been falling in love with—it feels like navigating a tightrope. There's too much history between them, too many complications, and he doesn't want to upend everything just because he can't keep his own feelings contained. Not without thinking this through.
Eventually, he pushes off the wall, makes his way back to the kitchen, where he finds Henry stirring the vegetables that are absolutely finished cooking; his shoulders are a little bit more tense than before, his eyes fixated on the food like it may reveal the answer to every question neither of them is asking.
Alex stops in the doorway, taking a second to breathe—then he walks over, reaching to turn the burner off before smoothly grabbing Henry by the hips, turning him around—not allowing him much more than a hum of confusion before he shifts his hands up to cradle his face in between his palms, pouring every single ounce of warmth, love, and reassurance into the kiss.
Despite spending the night at home, they had planned on having a real, proper, classic, clothed new years kiss—they really had; instead, however, midnight finds Alex on his back, stretched out on the shag rug in the living-room, a fistful of Henry’s cardigan in each hand—the only stitch of clothing either of them are wearing—watching in pure awe as Henry sinks down onto his cock.
Vaguely, he’s aware of the countdown coming from the television—the fireworks outside the window—but none of it compares to the ones in his veins—the astonishing work of art on top of him. Nothing else matters.
“Everything you… wanted?” Henry asks, breathlessly as he sits there, head still slightly tipped backwards, eyes closed as he rocks his hips gently, giving them both a beat to settle in—and thank god for that because if heaven is real, Alex is fairly sure Henry’s ass must be it—muscles hit, tight, and slick squeezing his throbbing cock.
“Oh, baby, you have no fucking idea,” he manages somehow. Henry huffs out a pleased laugh—but he doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t look at him—a testament to him struggling just as much as Alex is.
Alex's breath comes in short, shallow bursts, heart pounding wildly as he watches Henry finally start to move—slowly lifting himself. There’s something unguarded in the way Henry tips his head back, lips parted in a silent gasp, his chest rising and falling with every exhale, that knitted cashmere cardigan falling to the sides of his bare chest.
This is still so incredibly new—seeing him like this—so undone, so lost in the moment that he's almost unrecognizable from the careful, composed man he's come to know. It’s not just the physical act of this—of Henry riding him with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips—but the way Henry lets go, as if Alex is someone he can unravel with, someone he trusts not just with his body but with this bare, vulnerable part of himself. Alex's grip on Henry's cardigan tightens, knuckles going white as he pulls Henry down just a bit harder, desperate to keep him close, desperate to keep this moment from slipping away.
"Look at me," Alex murmurs, voice strained—if they come in two seconds, so be it. Henry's eyes flutter open, locking onto his; weight of that gaze, dark and dilated, feels like an anchor pulling him under—like if he's not careful, he'll drown in it. Happily so—there’s nowhere else he'd rather be.
The countdown on the TV reaches zero, and the room floods with the sound of cheers and brighter fireworks, muffled through the walls, the colors flooding the room, bathing them in golds, greens and purples—but it barely registers in Alex's mind—far too wrapped up in the sight of Henry—skin flushed and freckled, framed by the wild spill of his hair, each rise and fall of his chest—the gentle thud of his ass against Alex’s thighs, inaudible over the muted celebration around them.
"Happy New Year, love," Henry whispers, a soft, almost shy smile curling at the corners of his mouth as he leans forwards, supporting himself on his palms, one on either side of Alex’s head, his beautiful face hovering inches above his own. It's all so earnest—so impossibly tender that it nearly breaks something in Alex. He lets out a half-laugh, half-sob, pulling one hand free from Henry's cardigan to cradle the back of his neck, dragging him down into a kiss. The pace of Henry’s hips remains slow and thorough—but the kiss, it’s clumsy, breathless—Henry's teeth catching on his lower lip, the metallic taste of blood mingling with the salt of sweat on their tongues—perfect. A promise, unspoken but heavy between them, that whatever comes next, this moment—this feeling—is real. Alex's other hand moves to Henry's hip, cardigan soft against his knuckles as he digs his fingers into the soft flesh beneath it—as if to prove to himself that Henry is here, that this isn't some fever dream he'll wake from alone in the morning.
Henry drops himself down with a little bit more force on the next thrust, and Alex breaks the kiss to gasp, forehead resting against Henry's, eyes squeezing shut as he lets himself be swept up in the overwhelming rush of it all, hand curled in the soft strands of his hair—clinging. It's not just the physical sensation—although that part is certainly strong enough to send sparks dancing down his spine—but the intimacy of the moment, the realization that Henry is giving himself over completely, letting Alex see him like this. It makes something primal and protective flare up in Alex's chest, a deep, heady mix of love and lust and a fierce desire to keep Henry right here, exactly like this, forever; he doesn't know how to put it into words, so he doesn't even try. Instead, cranes his neck up, capturing Henry's mouth again in a kiss that's once again almost too desperate to be sweet, like he's trying to swallow every little sigh and gasp that escapes those parted lips.
The cardigan—Henry's last remaining bit of clothing, hangs loosely from his shoulders, the cream colored fabric brushing against Alex's chest with every movement. There's something inexplicably erotic about it—about Henry being almost entirely bare except for this one, cozy piece of clothing, a reminder of how the night started so innocently; how Henry can be so innocent. The dichotomy—it feels like some strange, private metaphor that only the two of them understand, and the sight of it sends another pulse of heat straight to Alex's cock as his fingers find their way back into the soft, worn fabric, bunching it in his fists as if holding onto it might keep him grounded, keep him from coming undone completely; he pulls Henry down by the collar, desperate to keep it on, desperate to take it off; the fabric stretches just enough to expose more of Henry's collarbones, more of that beautiful, freckled skin.
"Fuck, you look so good in this," he whispers, voice rough and reverent, as if the words are being dragged out of him.
Henry opens his eyes and smiles, the corners of his mouth quirking up like he knows exactly what he's doing to Alex, and that look—the lazy, pleased confidence as he drops one more kiss to his lips before he straightens back up, starting to ride him in earnest—pushes Alex closer to the edge; he can't stop touching him, can't stop trying to memorize every detail, the way Henry's hair falls in messy waves around his face, the little bead of sweat trailing down his throat, the soft moan he lets out when Alex digs his fingers just a little harder into his hips.
Henry rocks his hips with even more precision again, finding a rhythm that leaves them both panting—soft thudding echoing between them—and Alex feels like he's floating, untethered and weightless, lost in the sensation and the connection and the overwhelming emotion.
The fabric of the cardigan makes a noise, the seams stretching or tearing as Alex grabs it again, but Henry doesn’t stutter—so he can’t bring himself to care either, hungrily tugging at it, twisting it in his fists, using it as leverage to tug him down onto his cock.
“Christ,” Henry pants, eyes closed once again, the thudding of their bodies growing louder as he rides him—his beautiful, thick, heavy cock bobbing between his legs, precome leaking down onto Alex’s stomach. “Your bloody cock, Alex.”
“Yeah, my cock, baby—all for you,” Alex is quick to catch. “Look so fucking good on it—jerk yourself off for me.”
Henry obeys before the last word is even out of Alex’s mouth—and the sight of him in this state--head tipped back, throat exposed, eyes squeezed shut as he strokes himself—roots Alex to the spot in a way that nothing else ever has. His own breath hitches, caught somewhere in his chest as he watches Henry's fingers glide up his cock, each movement almost meticulous, deliberate, like he's savoring every moment. It's mesmerizing, a beautiful contradiction to the mess between them, and Alex can't look away. The cardigan, rumpled and loose, nearly falling off around Henry's shoulders, frames him like a picture Alex never imagined he'd be allowed to see. Something that belongs in a museum.
Alex feels the fabric stretch and pull beneath his fingers, hears the way it gives softly against his grip, and for some reason, it only makes everything hotter; his mouth goes dry as he tightens his hold, the wool twisting around his fists as he tugs Henry down again, more desperate this time. He wants to get lost in this—wants to be the reason Henry's control shatters, wants to see what Henry looks like completely undone. Again. It’s never going to be enough.
“Yeah like that—fuck, you’re so beautiful," Alex murmurs, barely aware of the words leaving his mouth, the praise slipping out without thought or filter. There's something electric in saying it, in feeling Henry react, his hips bucking as if the words themselves were a touch. “Ride that young cock, fucking ruin me for anyone else, baby.”
“I haven’t already?” Henry teases breathlessly, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement as he obeys anyway, riding him even harder—each thrust shoving a rough grunt out of their throat, the sounds in sync, only a fraction of a second behind the thud of their bodies.
“You know you have, baby,” Alex manages. “Know you have.”
The room is a symphony of noise and sensation-skin meeting skin in wet, heavy thuds, underscored by the ragged edge of their breathing and the low, constant creak of the floor beneath them. Alex's pulse pounds in his ears, almost drowning out everything else except the sound of Henry's low, breathy groans and the way he's quietly cursing under his breath; each time Henry slams down, Alex swears he can hear the fabric of the cardigan shift against his skin, the soft friction brushing over his knuckles, adding another layer of sensation that's both grounding and driving him closer to the edge. The air feels thick with sweat and the faint, lingering scent of lavender from Henry's shampoo, mixing with the sharper tang of sex and heat, and Alex can barely catch a full breath through it all. It's intoxicating.
Alex's hands are restless—one tangled in the loose wool of the cardigan, the other gripping the curve of Henry's hip, fingers flexing with every rise and fall. He's struck by how loud everything is—the slap of Henry's thighs against his, the deep, guttural moans Henry lets slip when Alex bucks up to meet him, the slick, obscene sounds of their bodies moving together.
It's almost overwhelming, but at the same time, it's the only thing Alex wants to focus on; he feels like he's balancing on a knife's edge, teetering on the brink of something that feels both feral and impossibly tender. There's a haze to everything, blurring the edges of the moment, but Henry's face remains clear, framed in the dim light with eyes half-lidded and mouth parted in pleasure. Alex watches him, completely enraptured by every shiver and hitch of breath, thinking if this isn't what it means to belong to someone—to belong with someone—then he's not sure he’ll ever know the meaning of the word.
It’s two weeks past New Years. The snow is still wreaking havoc outside of the brownstone’s windows.
Alex’s bicep is warm—comforting—brushing against his own.
Oscar’s hands are curled around a mug of coffee Henry knows won’t be consumed.
The kitchen is so incredibly quiet that a part of Henry is convinced he’s gone deaf; the seconds tick by, his blood rushing in his ears.
We’re together.
Those words hang in the air—so heavy Henry thinks he can feel them.
We’re together.
That’s what Alex had said—there had been more preceding it—explanations and build-up—but suddenly it feels as if all of that is not all that important. All that matters are those two words, and the way the energy in the kitchen had completely changed—Oscar’s shoulders raising and then dropping with a single deep breath, his eyes focused on the liquid in his mug.
A part of Henry is regretting this—but he knows it has to be done. They don’t want to be a secret, and keeping things from Oscar means keeping them from Nora and June, and Henry knows that to be killing Alex most of all.
“Oscar, I need you to keep in mind that—“ Oscar silences him with a hand gesture. Henry obeys.
Another beat passes.
Finally, he looks up—eyes meeting Alex’s. Henry follows his gaze—sees the tension in Alex’s jaw, the square of his shoulders. The way he’s ready to fight. Please don’t make him, Henry prays.
“Together, mijo?” Oscar asks—voice actually…soft. Henry swallows. Alex nods. Once. “Romantically—and…?”
“Yes,” Alex nods. “And I—dad, I know what it looks like, but I need you to know that Henry didn’t do anything, okay? It was all me, he held out for so long, but I…” he trails off, turning his head to meet Henry’s, a soft smile twitching across his lips as he takes his hand beneath the table. “…he feels the same, and I…” he looks back to Oscar. “I have never been happier in my life.”
The warmth of Alex's hand beneath the table remains a lifeline—an anchor holding Henry steady as he watches Oscar's expression shift, unreadable yet unnervingly intense. A knot coils tight in Henry's chest, dread curling its way up his spine, threatening to undo all his resolve. He knows Oscar—knows the depth of his trust, and what a betrayal it might feel like to see Henry in this light, someone who could take advantage of that trust and the vulnerability of the son he was meant to protect. It's a responsibility Henry took seriously—still does—and the weight of that responsibility feels especially heavy in the silence that follows Alex's confession.
Henry keeps his gaze on Oscar, trying to steady his breathing, waiting for any sign of what's to come. The seconds stretch on, and in the midst of the tension, he catches the scent of burnt coffee grounds, bitter and familiar, mingling with the clean, crisp cold seeping in through the gaps in the old window frames. Oscar's eyes flick between them, finally settling on their joined hands, and Henry feels his pulse drum louder in his ears. He can see it happening in real time—Oscar trying to reconcile what he's hearing with the image he's had of Henry for so many years. He's tempted to speak, to explain, to apologize for something he's not even sure he did wrong, but Alex's fingers tighten around his, and it's a wordless reminder to stay silent. Let him handle it. So he waits, praying silently that whatever words come next won't break the fragile thread holding the moment together.
“How long has this been going on?” Oscar finally asks—but when Alex opens his mouth he shakes his head, and directs his attention to Henry.
“Your son is undeniably attractive, but I assure you I had zero intention of acting on those feelings—even when they grew far beyond superficial attraction.”
“So why did you?” Oscar cuts back quickly—Henry swallows—frowns.
“I realized the feelings were reciprocated,” he starts. “I realized that my feelings weren’t born out of superficial physical attraction—that I would feel the way I do about Alex, regardless of age and circumstance. I realized that he feels the same way about me,” he says. “Believe me, I fought myself for a long time, Oscar, your son is…”
“…stubborn,” Oscar nods once—an unreadable expression on his face.
“We talk,” Alex cuts in, now. “A lot—dad, we talk about the age thing, we talk about my sobriety, and how I would handle it if we don’t work out, I’m not stupid, you know.”
This has Henry signing, slipping his hand out of Alex’s to run his fingers through his hair instead—Oscar simultaneously leaning across the table, eyes softening.
“No one thinks you’re stupid, mijo.”
The shift in Oscar's voice makes something in Henry's chest unclench, just slightly, but the tension lingers, heavy and unspoken. Alex's fingers twitch once, as if instinctively reaching for his hand again, and Henry grants it to him, looking down at the way their fingers fit together,, searching for the right words—some way to express what he's felt all this time—his protectiveness over Alex, his hesitation to cross that line, and the hope that bloomed despite every reason to keep it buried.
“Or that you’re a child,” Oscar adds, then—because they both know what is going through Alex’s mind. “But you are my son, and he’s…” the attention is back on Henry now. Alex squeezes his hand. Henry squeezes back. “I think we all know there’s nothing I can do to stop this from happening, but Henry… I asked my friend, trusted him with this responsibility—to be there for him, to guide him, not…” Oscar doesn’t have to finish that sentence—they both know what he’s picturing as he shakes his head, his gaze briefly shifting back down towards his coffee. Henry doesn’t say anything—doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t think there is anything to say.
“I love him,” Alex declares gently—confidenly.
Henry thinks he breaks his fucking neck.
“I love him,” Alex says, voice even steadier than he’s been anticipating as he looks his dad in the eyes; his peripheral vision catches Henry turning to look at him in surprise—Alex doesn’t acknowledge him. It’s the first time either of them have stated it, but he’s not scared. Not at all, in fact. All that matters is that there is not a single doubt in anyone’s mind how he feels. “I love him,” he repeats. “Not like I loved the lines, or the pills—I’m not… clinging, okay? It’s not an obsession or a temporary thing—it’s not like a fire that’s consuming me, it’s…” he trails off, slowly turning to meet Henry’s eyes, now—finding nothing but warm love meeting him. Henry squeezes his hand. Alex squeezes back. “It’s—you know that silence right after a white noise shuts off, when you didn’t even notice it was there in the first place, but then it’s gone, and it just feels like… peace?” Alex rambles, eyes back on his father now. “That’s what he is to me. I know he’s not what you wanted him to be for me in the way you wanted him to be—but… he is what you wanted him to be,” Alex exhales. “And more.”
Oscar isn’t happy about it—of course he’s not—Henry never have expected him to be—but he loves Alex enough to accept it—however reluctantly—and a few hours later, Alex is hugging him, Henry gives him a nod—their relationship shifted to something more tense, at least for now, and understandably so—and Oscar walks back out of the brownstone, Alex shutting the door, dropping his forehead against it, and exhaling what somehow looks like a decades worth of tension.
The silence envelopes them like a blanket, and Henry wraps a gentle arm around his waist, resting his lips against the nape of his neck as they breathe together.
They stay that way, wrapped in the silence, feeling the space between them shrink until there's nothing left but each other's breaths.
Henry's fingers rest against Alex's side, his thumb brushing small circles through the fabric of his shirt. There's a tenderness in the air, one that whispers of something sacred—a promise of all they're willing to carry, together; he can feel the rapid beat of Alex's pulse beneath his skin, steadying slowly, until they're breathing in unison. This closeness, this quietness after everything, feels more intimate than any words could be. It's a reminder of why they've chosen this, why they're willing to navigate the complications and the weight of every unspoken concern.
Finally, Alex turns, leaning his head back against the door, gaze falling upon Henry with an expression softened by relief and something more profound, something that makes Henry's breath catch. Alex reaches up, then, his hand resting against Henry's cheek, thumb grazing his jawline in a gesture that's both grounding and electrifying. Without a word, Henry leans into the touch, closing his eyes, feeling the comfort of being right here, right now, in this quiet space they've carved out of a complicated world.
“You love me,” Henry says, the corner of his mouth twitching—knowing that Alex’s smile matches his own before he even opens his eyes to take it in.
“Sorry to spring it on you,” Alex murmurs—but he doesn’t sound sorry at all; his fingers curl into Henry's shirt, tugging him just close enough that Henry can feel the heat of his breath, mere inches in between their grins.
“It’s not been that long, Alex,” Henry reminds him. as he traces a line along his cheekbone, his thumb brushing over skin he's still half-convinced he hasn't earned the right to touch—here they are, and every beat of silence deepens the certainty inside him. “Against my better judgement, though, I’m afraid I’ve loved you since the second I saw you,” he adds quietly, his voice barely a whisper but weighty, like a promise.
Henry leans in, letting their lips meet in a kiss that's soft and aching, a quiet pledge he can't put into words, hoping Alex can feel it in the way he lingers, in the way he presses just a little closer, as if he could memorize the shape of this moment.
When they part, Alex’s eyes shine with something bright and tender—his smile softening into an easy, almost careless confidence.
"Well, baby, we got time, ‘cause I don't plan on letting you go anytime soon," he murmurs, voice low and rough with affection, but laced with just enough edge that Henry can feel it down to his bones.
“Never,” he sighs—and it’s not a promise, exactly—rather, it's a certainty—one that feels as solid and undeniable as the ground beneath their feet.
What they have might not fit neatly into anyone else's idea of love—may even seem improbable to some, given the years and experiences between them—but what they share is solid, enduring, built from choices and chances that feel as if they'd been waiting to be taken.
It's real, and it’s steady, with a strength that has defied their own doubts and those unspoken fears that often surface in the quiet hours—and maybe, just maybe, if they're careful and a little bit brave, it could also be something truly lasting—a kind of forever that belongs to them, and them alone.