Work Text:
He watches, as if in slow motion, as the cake leans, teeters, shudders, and finally tips.
He knows exactly what is happening, but is very, very confused.
How the fuck is the happening, again?
Last he knew, it was another night in the Brownstone with Henry, falling asleep together (after a vigorous round of sex). Now, he appeared to be back at that infamous moment that sealed their fates: Cakegate. (He never dreamt this vividly, and he could feel the buttercream on his skin, exactly like that day.)
He looks over to Henry, to see him looking confused, and mutter "What the fucking Christ?"
...That wasn't what he said last time.
Alex figures the sooner they figure this out, the better (he could too learn from his mistakes, June!), and mutters, quietly enough so only Henry will hear him, moving his lips as little as possible to prevent any lipreading, "History, huh?"
Henry's head whips around to meet his gaze, and there are multitudes in those eyes. Confusion, anxiety, relief.
Alex feels the same, honestly. Glad that despite whatever fuckery may be happening, at least he's not alone.
Just as the camera flashes start, Alex sees Henry's fuck it look, and readjusts his balance as Henry's hand shoots out to grab his tie.
Their lips crash together, much as the cake just crashed over them, amid cameras flashing and the gasps of bigotted, inbred imperialists.
Eventually, they break away (no one interrupts them, for some reason? Either everyone was too shocked, or they didn't know how to deal with the optics without, at the very least, three (3) separate meetings, a focus group, and a spreadsheet), and Alex murmurs "Text?" against Henry's lips, and receives a slight nod in return.