Chapter Text
“Please,” June is saying over the phone. “Henry, please.”
Henry fishes the buttons through his coat and, very promptly says: “No.”
“Henry!” June more or less shouts and her voice rings tinnily from the speaker. It nearly blows Henry’s entire right eardrum off, the sheer volume that girl could unleash from her lungs was insane. He winces.
“June,” he says, as placatingly as he can. “I’m running late for a lecture.”
“Just pop in there before. It’ll only take a second. This is important.”
Henry makes a little noise in the back of his throat, before he can stop himself. It’s an incredulous, irritated, and disagreeable noise. Immediately, he hopes June didn’t pick it up. And of course, she does.
“Henry Fox,” June’s voice is a low and dangerous thing. “Are you saying that my little brother’s well-being and happiness are less important than a lecture?”
“Well, you said it, not me,” is a retort on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it back before his lips pry open.
“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” Henry says, finishing his last button. “I’m sure Alex is…fine. And he’s a fully functioning adult. Why do you need me to check in on him?”
“Because! He called me about a hundred times last night and when I called him back this morning, I was met with nothing but radio silence! Doesn’t that worry you?”
Henry, not for the first time, fights the urge to tell June that she may have a bit of a codependent relationship with her little brother. But…He’s not exactly in any position to be unraveling complicated sibling relationships, and besides, he’d rather not go there with June. And definitely not with Alex either.
“I don’t know,” Henry replies. He shuffles around for his keys in his coat pockets and finds nothing but a stick of gum and a ballpoint pen. He frowns. Shit, where did he put the damn thing…? “He could have just butt-dialed you.”
June’s sigh is brittle.
“You know him,” June says. “You know he wouldn’t.”
Henry frowns.
He doesn’t know Alexander Claremont-Diaz, not really.
Not like he knows June, who is bright, extremely witty, and just about the kindest person on the entire planet. She and Henry grew up together in Washington, D.C. when they were thirteen—both having just moved from completely different parts of the world (June, Texas, and Henry, England).
June's mother had been elected senator and D.C. had had one of the best and most private rehab centers in the world, with well-trained therapists and effective treatments. Henry's mother had intended that their family would only be in the States long enough for Bea to recover, but then the years had stretched out to almost half of Henry's life.
Henry had been miserable away from home, June had been hopeful for a new start; they had been the oddest of pairs, but somehow, they worked.
For the past eight years, June had been an unchanging presence in his life. Even when they had inevitably been separated by miles of distance for college, she had still called him, texted him, and even visited as often as she could. And for that, Henry’s endlessly grateful. She’s truly a wonderful best friend and he loves everything about her.
Well, almost everything.
“Have you tried one of his fraternity brothers?” He tries not to let mockery color his voice at the mention of Alex’s frat, but it’s hard to keep a civil tone. There were many perks to American university education, but the downsides were...downsides. He's half convinced that fraternities are, like, the living manifestations of evil.
June lets that acerbic tone slide, sighing. “I did and they didn’t answer. I’m getting really worried here. What if he’s dead in a ditch or in trouble, or God forbid, arrested again?”
Henry scoops up his keys from the kitchen table (he has no recollection of leaving them there) and jogs towards his door. “Didn’t they let him go before any charges were actually put on him?” he asks. “He wasn’t even put in a holding cell.”
June snorts. “Yeah,” she says, fondly exasperated, a tone she often takes on when talking about her little brother. “Alex swears up and down that he wasn’t the one to throw that shoe at the bigoted fuck and start the fight. Though he did say that he wished that he had been the one to do it.”
“Of course he did.”
Henry remembers that particular stint. He and June had been sixteen and Alex had been fifteen and just as determined to change the world as he was when he was twelve. Just as he was now, at twenty.
Henry had been studying with June in her living room when her phone had rung. She had taken the call and nearly dropped her cell in shock at whatever was said on the other end.
“Alex got arrested!” She had choked out when Henry had raised a questioning brow at her. He had just enough time to blink in shock before he was crammed into a car with June, her mother, and her mother’s irate assistant, cruising toward the police station.
They had arrived at the station where Alex was in the waiting room, hair disheveled, and a purpling bruise painting his sharp jaw. He had been arguing with someone, probably some cop, his hands gesturing emphatically. When he had seen his family, the fire in his eyes had dimmed, somewhat.
Then he had seen Henry, and those embers had become a goddamn wildfire.
“What is he doing here?” he had spat out, like Henry was a plague.
“Henry,” Senator Ellen Claremont had said to her son, “should be the very least of your concerns, pumpkin.”
Alex had looked away, the muscle in his jaw jumping, and had fallen silent. But when they had left the station later, the crisis well averted due to Ellen’s smooth words and Zahra’s barely concealed threats, he had brushed past Henry. Their shoulders had knocked together, the scent of apples and leather had filled Henry’s nose, and Alex had glared at him.
The weight of those dark eyes and that pure vitriol had pricked onto Henry’s skin like a thousand needles. Henry could do very little but shiver and glare helplessly right back.
“Henry,” June is saying, and he’s suddenly jerked back to the present. Her voice is more pleading this time, much softer. “You two go to the same college. You know where he lives. You’re the only one I can trust to tell me that he’s okay and not, like, cut up into a million pieces and disposed of in some dumpsite.”
Henry runs his fingers through his hair.
“Morbid,” he relents. “Fine. I’ll check on him.”
“Thank you, thank you,” June makes an obnoxious kissing noise through the phone and Henry promptly hangs up on her.
He checks his watch and tries not to curse. If he’s lucky, he’ll probably be able to catch the last five minutes of the lecture. That is, if Alex doesn’t kill him first.
When he knocks on Alex’s door, after braving through the tenth circle of hell that was a frat house’s entrance and common arena, he expects Alex to ignore it completely.
If he’s in a state where he’s ignoring his sister’s calls, of all people, then there’s a good chance that he won’t care to answer the door. Especially if Henry was on the other end knocking. After a few long seconds of silence, he turns to go, ready to text June and say that he tried his best and that her precious brother was probably indeed dead in a ditch somewhere.
“What the hell are you doing here?” A voice, deep and rough around the edges, asks.
Henry stills, and after a beat where it feels like his breath is finally returning into his lungs, he turns.
Alex Claremont-Diaz leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and his crumpled t-shirt straining against his chest. His curly hair, dark and wild, hangs in his eyes and there’s a derisive, downward curl to that mouth of his. Under the bright light of the hallway, the lines of Alex sharpen and harden, turning him into a marble statue—something equally cold and unreal.
Henry doesn’t really remember when he woke up and realized that Alex, his best friend’s irritating brother, was unfairly hot. But now that that realization is realized, Henry can’t stop thinking about it, because, fucking Christ, Alex really is gorgeous. The type of gorgeous that makes women stare and men look twice.
The type of gorgeous that almost scares Henry.
He clears his throat.
“June wanted me to check on you,” he says, flatly. “Nice to see that you’re alive.”
Alex looks at him, like Henry’s a speck of dirt on his pristine chinos. “Why would she send you to check up on me?” His tone is acidic.
“Because I’m her best friend and you’re her brother?”
“I always said she has bad taste.”
“Well,” Henry smiles. It feels as placid on his face as it probably looks. “I would say the same thing, but family doesn’t account for one’s taste, unfortunately.”
Alex’s eyes narrow and Henry tries not to feel a flash of petty victory. He gestures with his phone clutched in his hand.
“She’s worried because you haven’t been answering her after you called her ‘a million times’ last night,” Henry says. “I said you probably butt-dialed her.”
Alex frowns and fishes his own phone out of the pocket of his jeans. He tries the power button, but the screen stays dark.
“It’s dead,” he says, more to himself than Henry.
“You should call her back as soon as possible.”
Alex looks like he’s about to say something extremely childish like “You’re not the boss of me,” before he realizes how juvenile it might sound, and he clamps his lips shut. Another bout of victory rushes through Henry like a tidal wave. It feels good to make Alex, self-righteous and headstrong Alex, flounder like this.
“Thank you so much, Your Majesty,” Alex grouses. “I’ll get right on that, Your Royal Highness.”
Henry opens his mouth to snap back, but he catches the prominent dark circles under Alex’s eyes. The slump of those usually proud shoulders. The way that he seems to blink harder under the harsh light of the hallway.
He looks, uncharacteristically and almost impossibly, tired.
Henry swallows whatever barbed comment that had been bubbling up back down and opts for dry sarcasm instead.
“You look…good.”
“Yeah,” Alex says. “I feel like a million dollars.”
“Hm,” Henry says. “I would have said five cents, at most.”
Alex rolls his eyes.
There’s a rustle behind him, in his room, and a feminine voice calls out something that sounds like Alex’s name, followed by something that sounds like “Come back to bed.”
Henry blinks. Then, the realization sets in.
Oh.
“Are you hungover?” he asks, stilted.
Alex regards him with a heated look. “And if I was? Is that any of your business?” He sounds almost defensive, and that sends Henry’s hackles raising again, despite himself.
“You got drunk on a Thursday night?” Got drunk and brought someone home. He can’t keep the judgmental, cutting air out of his tone, and it sends Alex’s shoulders raising—raising his own armor higher.
“Again, not that it’s any of your business, Your Majesty, but yeah. My Friday class got canceled so I went out.”
“Alex?” The female voice calls out again, her voice raspy and sensual. A pretty blonde girl peers around Alex’s broad frame, her petite body leaning against his, like they were born to meld together. She’s wearing a shirt several sizes too big on her, and the fabric slips down the length of her shoulder—revealing a line of violet hickies tracing her skin.
Henry flushes hot, despite himself. He glances away from her and fixes his eyes on Alex’s face instead.
“Give me a sec,” Alex says back, though his eyes never seem to leave Henry’s face. He steps into the hallway and gently closes his bedroom door, leaving his one-night-stand? hookup? girlfriend? inside.
And then, it’s just him and Henry alone again.
Something sharp settles in the pit of Henry’s stomach for a beat or two.
“Well, you saw me. I’m alive. I’m well. Can you just tell June that?” Alex asks.
“I’m not your butler or equerry,” Henry replies. “Do it yourself.”
They watch each other, Alex’s stance agitated and practically itching for a fight, Henry’s face pinched and cheeks vermillion with annoyance. The tension is so thick, Henry can practically feel it seeping into his skin, through his pores.
Then, Alex’s mouth twists, almost wryly.
“Fine, whatever. You can go now,” he turns as if to leave, before he leans back, just enough to flash Henry a humorless smile. “Unless you want to stay, sweetheart.” It’s not an invitation so much as it’s a taunt. He knows how much Henry hates frat houses and how he hates that stupid pet name even more.
“No thank you,” Henry says as primly and calmly as he can, in the face of Alex Claremont-Diaz’s infuriating presence. “STD dens aren’t really my thing.”
Then, he pivots on his heel and storms out.
“Henry,” Pez pokes his head into Henry’s room a week after the whole fiasco.
Henry pulls the earbuds from his ear, shuts his book (Thoreau), and fixes his roommate and other best friend with a raised brow. Pez is dressed for a party which is saying something, given his already flamboyant day-to-day wear. Glittery purple eyeshadow, a cowboy jumpsuit, and leather boots with enough tassels to make a seat cushion jealous.
“Nice boots,” Henry says, and Pez beams.
“Thanks,” he gives a perfunctory twirl and Henry applauds the show. His best friend laughs brilliantly, eyes bright with joy and maybe a few shots of vodka. “I’m going to a party. You should come with!”
Henry eases back in his seat, flicking open Thoreau again. “Do you even know me?” He asks, mildly. He can’t remember the last time he went to a party. Maybe one during freshmen year? He’s sure he must have left not even ten minutes after arriving, instead opting to spend the night curled up in his room and rereading Pride and Prejudice.
“Yes,” Pez drawls and flops down on Henry’s bed with a thump. “I do know you. And I know that you’ll have fun at this party, despite being the antisocial nerd that you are. If you just gave it a chance.”
He peers up at Henry with big puppy dog eyes.
Henry fixes him with a suspicious look. “Is there gonna be some cute girl at this party?”
Pez has the decency to look guilty for half a second, before he clasps his hands together and turns up the puppy dog eyes to a million. “She’s not just ‘some cute girl’, she’s the love of my life. She’s a goddess.”
Henry smiles at his friend’s dramatics. “Is she now?” He asks, amused.
“Yes.” Pez puts a hand to his forehead and mock-swoons back. “She has set my heart aflame.”
“Cool it, Romeo,” Henry places his book back down. “So, you want me to wingman again, do you?”
“Nobody else does it quite as well as you, darling.”
“You flatter me,” Henry deadpans. Pez bats his eyelashes at him, innocent and dewy-eyed, like Bambi.
“C’mon, Henry,” he coos. “Free booze.”
“Tempting.”
“Cute boys?” Pez tries and Henry snorts.
He doesn’t date people on campus, he doesn’t really date period. He only knows messy bar bathroom hookups, belts unbuckling and clumsy hands, racing toward a peak and leaving without a sound when it was all over. Cute boys on campus are nice to look at, but in the end that’s all they really are: Some eye candy.
Pez harrumphs, then, pulls out the big gun.
“You owe me.”
Henry blinks. “For what?”
“When Phillip was visiting campus during alumni weekend and he saw us so you stole my bike and made a quick escape.” Pez frowns. “I was stuck talking to him about the stock market for two hours. And I wasn’t talking so much as being talked to. So. You owe me.”
“I didn’t know that the bike came with strings attached,” Henry complains. “If I had known I would have just run away on foot.”
“But you didn’t and you’re going.” Pez leaps up from his bed and strides towards Henry’s closet with the air of a general marching off to battle. “And you can’t go wearing something like that.”
Henry frowns down at his sweater vest, then back up at his best friend. “You’re awful.” He says.
“I know,” Pez singsongs, and pulls out a dark blue button-down and jeans. “This’ll do.”
“I’m not going,” Henry says, emphatically. “Fuck the bike, Pez, you can’t make me go—”
He finds himself standing in the kitchen of some stranger’s apartment, holding a red solo cup, and desperately fighting the urge to jump out the window. He only succeeds somewhat.
Henry slumps against the counter and puts the cup up to his lips. Distantly, he registers the sound of people chattering and laughing just outside—in the hallway, in the living room—and their joy is a bubble he can’t penetrate. Pez had disappeared, swept up in a wave of commotion, and Henry had found himself here.
Squirreled away, safe, and utterly alone.
He swallows the last of his drink and reaches for another one of the overflowing bottles sitting tantalizingly on the counter. He’s halfway through pouring himself a brilliant concoction of soju, peach juice, and vodka when someone else stumbles into the kitchen.
Alex Claremont-Diaz waltzes into the kitchen—like he owns the place—shouting something over his shoulder to one of his adoring fans, and grinning like he just swallowed the sun.
Henry nearly drops the bottle in his hand and casts his eyes heavenward.
“There can’t actually be a god,” he muses to himself, maybe a little too loudly, because Alex looks over at him. “What god would think this is funny?” That casual grin slides off Alex’s face and is instead replaced with something more intense. It’s a look that’s a little angry, a little confused, and a lot like a fire.
That’s what Alex is, Henry thinks to himself, chugging his cup. He’s like an awful, uncontrollable wildfire. Burning everything in his terrible wake.
“Henry,” Alex says. Henry hums into his cup in response.
Alex, somehow, thinks it's a cue to approach Henry.
Henry watches through half-lidded eyes as he comes closer, all long limbs and bronze skin. He’s wearing a leather jacket and white shirt combination, sunglasses hooked onto the collar, which is such an asshole move because, really, who wears sunglasses indoors at night, God, Alexander Claremont-Diaz was such a menace, and he looks—
“Alex,” Henry says, slowly, and takes another sip from his cup. “What brings you here?”
“That’s my line of questioning, don't you think? This doesn’t really seem like your scene, Your Majesty.”
“And what, pray tell, is my scene?”
“Poetry club?” Alex shrugs, uncaring. “A tea party with the other inbred bourgeoisie? Let me know when you get the gist.”
“Ha,” Henry shoots back, sourly.
Alex leans a hip against the counter and reaches for Henry’s cup. And perhaps, Henry is a little drunk because he lets the cup go with only a few minimal protests. Alex sniffs the contents and scrunches his nose with disdain.
“Jesus, what is this?”
“Alcohol,” Henry says, plainly, and outstretches his hand for his cup. Very smoothly, Alex moves away and takes a sip from the cup. Very rudely.
“It tastes like shit,” Alex says, a little too acerbically to be considered friendly ribbing. “Has anyone ever told you that the point of mixing drinks is for it to taste good?”
“I must have missed that in freshmen orientation,” Henry deadpans. “Give it back.”
He swipes for the cup and Alex leans to the side, in a motion only Division 1 lacrosse players like himself could probably pull off without spraining something, and downs the rest of Henry’s Frankenstein drink.
Henry watches the lines of his throat work and when Alex emerges, coughing, he can muster up no sympathy for the other’s plight.
“What the bleeding hell—that was my drink,” he mutters, faintly. “You complete arse,” Alex smirks at him, his mouth curving in a way that sends Henry’s pulse pounding. In irritation.
He reaches behind Henry, towards the counter, his elbow brushing against the small of Henry’s back. Then, he grabs two of the near-full Titos bottles and shoves one into Henry’s empty hands, with a flourish. He even tops it off with a little bow, like he actually performed a magic trick or something, and Henry fights the urge to snort at the audacity.
“You’re welcome, Your Majesty.”
“I’m not thanking you..you,” Henry licks his lips. “You knob.”
Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. “Knob?”
“Knob,” Henry says, gravely.
“Ah,” Alex says. A muscle in his jaw twitches and Henry wonders if he’s angry. He shrugs and uncaps his Titos bottle. Whatever. He shouldn’t have stolen Henry’s drink in the first place.
He takes a long swig and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The room is spinning in a way that’s pleasant and warm and all of a sudden, Henry feels like dancing. Or kissing someone. Or kissing someone while dancing.
“Do you remember,” Alex says, suddenly. “When I got drunk for the first time with you and June?”
Henry blinks away his thoughts and refocuses on Alex’s face. Christ, his eyelashes are so long, it’s almost obscene.
“Uh,” Henry shrugs. “Kind of. You threw up all over my new loafers.”
“I did you a service, Your Majesty. They were ugly.”
“They were Gucci.”
“Oh please,” Alex rolls his eyes. “Don’t bitch about it now. That was years ago.”
That was rich coming from a man who held petty grudges like it was a professional sport and he was aiming for Olympic gold. Henry swigs from his bottle, frowning. Alex always seemed to remember every little grievance Henry had caused, every embarrassing accident Henry had done, fucking everything. His memory was both enviable and the utter bane of Henry’s existence.
Alex takes a swig from his own bottle. It also looks much emptier than before, Christ, they’re both drinking a lot. Briefly, Henry wonders if they should stop. He loses his train of thought as he takes another contemplative sip from his bottle.
“June told me something interesting that night, when you were busy puking your own guts out.”
“I never did that,” Henry argues, weakly.
“She said,” Alex says, like he didn’t hear Henry speak. “That you were the best person she’s ever met. That you were nice, sweet, amazing, whatever. And then, she said that she really loves you.” He laughs, wryly. “I think she was mentally preparing for your wedding.”
“Oh,” Henry blinks. “I don’t think that’s—”
“You don’t think that’s right?” Alex drawls. “Sure. You’re funny, man. Tell me,” he taps his blunt fingernails on his bottle. Clink. Clink. Clink. “Do you at least feel bad? For stringing my sister, your best friend, along for…what, eight years?”
His voice is deceptively casual, friendly even, but the undercurrent of vitriol is hard not to miss. Even while drunk.
“It’s not that simple,” Henry snaps. His hands are shaking. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then enlighten me,” Alex says, his eyes bright. “Because from where I’m standing, Henry, you just seem like a massive dick.”
And suddenly, Henry’s just exhausted, mostly of Alex and his eyes of fire and his need to pick apart Henry like he’s a frog under a microscope; but also of himself and his placid ice. He squares his shoulders and lets out a breath. Alex watches him, both expectant and suspicious, the eternal thistle in the tender arse crack of Henry’s life.
“I didn’t break her heart,” Henry says, firmly. “You actually don’t know everything, Alex, despite what you and your dangerously enlarged head seem to think. I didn’t string her along, because I’m—”
“Alex!” A girl with a head full of dark curls skids into the kitchen. She teeters on her heels for a second and Alex immediately jumps to his feet, steadying her.
“Whoa, Nora,” he chides, placing a hand on her lower back. “Careful.” Henry’s mouth suddenly tastes bitter and he takes another swig, hoping to wash out the strange taste with the sting of alcohol.
“C’mon, we’re gonna play some games,” Nora says. She seems to suddenly notice Henry lingering awkwardly in the corner, then, and she nods her head. “Hey, you should join too…?”
“Henry,” Henry offers his name after a beat of silence. “Henry Fox.”
Nora blinks, then looks between him and Alex. Her eyes widen.
“Wait, are you—”
“My sister’s best friend,” Alex cuts in smoothly, though there’s a hint of something alarmed in his eyes. Henry’s stomach roils. He wonders what Alex told this pretty girl about Henry or when Henry would even come up in their conversations. He wonders why he even cares in the first place.
“Well,” Nora sneaks another inexplicable glance between the two of them, before clearing her throat. “Want to join us, Henry? I think we’re playing flip cup and Alex is actual shit at it, so our team needs all the help I can get.”
“Since when was he on our team?” Alex complains. “And I am not that bad.”
“Since now,” Nora replies. “And, yes you are, honey.”
Honey.
Henry knocks back one more swig before setting the bottle down and pushing himself off the counter. The room wobbles for a beat, then two, before setting itself right.
“Sure,” he says, without looking at Alex. “I would love to.”
They play flip cup which, much to Henry’s delight, Alex is abysmal at. For all his stereotypical frat-boyness, it’s oddly relieving to see him fail at something where all other frat bros seem to excel at. They play beer pong which Nora is an absolute beast at and Pez, who had joined their trio, can only barely keep up with. The night goes like this, and Henry, who’s only getting drunker by the minute, can admit that it’s kind of…fun.
He’s having so much fun that when Pez suggests that they join the ongoing game of seven minutes in heaven, he somehow goes along with it.
Stupid idea.
He watches Nora and Pez emerge from the closet together after seven minutes. Her hair is disheveled and his lipgloss is smudged; they’re both smiling like the cat that got the canary. The circle cheers for them, some wolf whistling and good-natured catcalls following them as they sit back down.
Alex simply slaps Nora a high five, which, makes some part of Henry inexplicably loosen.
“Nice one, mate,” Henry mouths to Pez who gives him a wink in response.
“Okay!” Some girl at the right of Alex shouts. “We’re spinning the bottle!”
The bottle spins and spins before landing on…Henry.
Fuck.
Henry coughs, as oos and aas arise around him. He can feel eyes prickling at his skin all of a sudden, and the sudden attention makes him want to crawl into a hole and promptly die. Instead, he manages a weak smile and focuses his gaze on the floor.
“Spinning!” The girl shouts again, and the circle chatters to one another—all eyes trained on the bottle.
It wasn’t that bad, Henry tells himself like a mantra. It probably wouldn’t be that bad. The rules didn’t force anyone to do anything they didn't want. He and the other poor soul could just sit in the closet together. In the dark. For seven minutes.
He swallows thickly.
When he manages to bring his gaze up, the bottle is slowing to a stop. It glides past Pez, past several blurry unfamiliar faces, past Nora, and stops on…
Alex blinks at the bottle, then looks up.
When their eyes meet, something complicated passes through his dark eyes. His eyelashes flutter against his skin, his Adam’s apple bobs, and Henry can’t tear his own eyes away from the sight before him.
“Alex!” the girl says. “Henry! Into the closet!”
The irony is not lost on Henry. He thinks he might burst out laughing or get sick all over the carpet—the odds are split 50/50 between the two. Alex looks like a man told to walk the gallows and for once, Henry feels eternally sympathetic to his pain.
Well, fuck.
The closet is cramped.
The closet is cramped, Henry’s leg is bent at an awkward angle, Alex’s hair is in Henry’s nose—the smell of apples and leather is too goddamn strong—and Henry wants to die.
“Can you move your foot, Your Majesty,” Alex hisses. He kicks Henry’s shin.
“Believe me,” he huffs. “I’m trying.”
“Move to the right,” Alex says and Henry does. “Ouch, that was my hand, man. I meant my right.”
Henry shuffles to Alex’s left, just to be difficult.
Their foreheads knock together and Henry nearly curses at the sudden jolt of pain coursing through his head. He turns at the same time that Alex steps forward, and suddenly—
Their entire bodies are pressed tight together—chest to chest, nose to nose—and Henry can’t fucking breathe. He needs out, he might actually pass out to the smell of apples and leather and Alex Claremont-Diaz. He squirms, trying to inch back.
“Henry,” Alex’s voice almost comes out as a warning.
Henry ignores it and keeps twisting, uncomfortably. Where, in God’s name, was the door handle…?
“Jesus Christ,” Alex swears. “Let me just—”
Henry nearly lets out a very undignified squeak at the feeling of two large palms, rough and warm, falling to his waist. Alex’s rough and warm palms are on Henry’s waist. He only barely manages to bite down the sound, but his mind reels—nearly spinning off its axis.
“Just what,” he grits out. “Do you think you’re doing?”
“Stop moving so much,” Alex bites back. He sounds pained.
“Did I hurt you or something?” Henry asks, not really in concern, just in…mild confusion. He had been careful not to shove at or step on any limbs, appendages, or whatever body parts were in his way. Apparently, he had not been careful enough.
“Uh,” they’re close enough that he can hear Alex swallowing. Christ, this was torture. “Yeah, kinda. Can you just—”
Henry shifts and his hands tighten.
Jesus Christ.
He can feel the pads of Alex's fingers digging into the skin under his button-down. Henry breathes out, shakily. He seriously might be sick.
“Seriously, Your Majesty,” Alex says. “Can you just stay still for five seconds?”
Henry, for reasons unknown even to him, blurts out: “Why do you call me that?”
Alex pauses.
“Call you what?”
“Your Majesty,” Henry says. The words feel funny in his mouth, almost fuzzy. “You’ve called me that stupid nickname since I was thirteen and you were twelve.” As long as they had known each other.
“Because,” Alex says, after a beat. “You’re like some fucking fairytale prince.” Coming out of anyone else’s mouth, that might have sounded like a compliment. But Alex has a talent for wielding his words like a weapon and Henry knows how to sniff out an insult from a mile away.
“How so?”
“You’re perfect,” Alex spits out. “You’re nice, smart, handsome, rich, and the worst part is that you barely even try. It’s like this just comes all easy to you. Just like a goddamn prince.”
Distantly, it occurs to Henry that Alex might be as drunk as he is right now. He’s never heard Alex spew off so venomously before, even after all their years of knowing each other. Distantly, he wonders if this conversation is something better saved for two sober people.
Presently, he just cocks his head.
“Is that why you hate me?” He asks.
“I hate you,” Alex responds, “because you’re a pompous dick.”
“Well,” Henry mutters. “At least he’s honest. And just so you know, I’m not your biggest fan either.”
It feels like a lie, even though it isn’t. Christ, Henry is really drunk right now.
He can’t see Alex’s face in the dark, but he already pictures the humorless grin bared on that symmetrical face of his. “Tell me something I don’t know, sweetheart.”
Henry flushes and glares up at the dark ceiling above them.
An uncomfortable silence lulls over them, and it feels like neither of them can breathe correctly in its suffocating heat. Henry bunches his fingers in the fabric of Alex’s shirt. He wants desperately to pull away, but he’s so dizzy, he’s pretty sure he might fall on his face if he does.
Plus, there is quite literally no room for either of them to untangle from each other.
“What were you going to say earlier?” Alex asks, eventually. “In the kitchen?”
Henry swallows the sudden lump in his throat.
“I forgot,” he blurts out. Whatever confidence he had had in the kitchen—whether it had been liquid courage or his backbone making its rare appearance—has long since fled him since he entered this cramped space with Alex Claremont-Diaz.
“I don’t believe you,” Alex says, stubbornly. He never knew when to quit.
“Well, believe it,” Henry snaps back. “Just know, I wasn’t leading on your sister, okay? She’s my best friend.”
Alex exhales and, much to Henry’s surprise, he lets it go.
“Fine,” he says, quietly. “Fine, I’ll drop it.”
“Thank you,” Henry exhales.
There’s another pregnant pause before Alex asks, again: “But…would you date her? Now?”
Jesus Christ.
Henry squeezes his eyes shut. “No,” he says. “I love her, but I can’t love her like that. Besides,” he smiles wryly. “It wouldn’t even matter, in the long run.”
“Why?”
“Because of my family,” Henry explains.
He imagines Alex wrinkling his nose in confusion. “Your family?”
“My mother’s, ah, technically a duchess,” Henry says. “My grandmother wants me to marry into fellow aristocracy. In fact, I think she’s had several matches for me prepared since I came out of the womb.”
“Fuck,” Alex says, with feeling.
“Exactly,” Henry echoes, hollowly. Alex’s fingers are subconsciously tracing comfortable patterns on his waist and Henry tries not to shiver at the feeling. How could a lacrosse player’s hands feel so gentle, so right on his skin? It didn’t make any sense.
“Do you,” Henry swallows. “Do you ever wonder what you would be like if you were a different person out in the world?”
“Um,” He can hear, rather than see, Alex shrug. His shirt moves up from underneath Henry’s palms. Henry can almost hear his shoulders shift, incrementally. “No?”
“Oh.”
Alex clears his throat. “Who would you be? If your family wasn’t aristocracy?” The question comes out quiet and almost fragile, like glass; if either of them breathes too hard, the moment might shatter entirely. Maybe that’s the reason why the breath is caught in Henry’s throat—fluttering uncertainly like a trapped butterfly.
“I would be a writer,” Henry muses.
“You are one,” Alex says and Henry shakes his head.
“I won’t be after I graduate,” he says. He’s double majoring in English and business, but only one of his majors plays a role in his future. And it’s not the major that involves picking apart prose, long nights spent analyzing and highlighting, and reading to his heart’s content.
Something in Henry’s chest aches.
“What else?” Alex prompts.
“I’d live in Paris,” Henry says. “And…I’d probably date more.”
“Like it’s so hard for you to get dates now. You’re handsome and smart. Not to mention rich.”
Henry’s pulse thrums in his ears. “The people I’m interested in aren’t the ones I’m…allowed to be interested in,” he mentally wills Alex to get it, to connect the missing dots.
“Oh. Oh,” Alex says. “Are you—”
“Yes.” Henry blurts out.
“—in love with June?” Alex asks, at the same time.
What.
“What,” Henry asks.
“I knew it!” Alex babbles, excitedly, and Henry can practically feel the smile spreading on the other’s face. “Ir’s because of your fucking expectations or whatever, right? You can’t date her because you’ll probably be forced into a political marriage because of your family?”
“Wait—” Henry starts, head spinning.
“I fucking knew it, man,” Alex continues, barreling forward at full speed. “I knew there was a reason you and her weren’t dating, after all these years. And why you’ve never had a girlfriend before. And yeah, I get that your situation is tough—”
“Alex—”
“—but I’m sure you can figure it out. You have two older siblings, right? Bea and Philip? Wouldn’t it be alright if you didn’t get into a marriage of convenience if—”
“Christ,” Henry says, exasperated. “You’re as thick as it gets.”
And he leans forward and kisses Alex.
Alex stays frozen still under his lips for a beat, then two. His stillness sobers Henry enough to begin to draw away, horrified apologies already formulating on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t get far enough though.
Because Alex is pulling him in close by the waist and kissing him back—harder.
Henry officially has no idea what’s going on, but Alex licks into his mouth, his clever tongue twisting in a way that sends Henry’s knees weak, and he stops thinking altogether.
His hands shift to rest on Alex’s face, his thumbs brushing over those sharp cheekbones and working jaw. Alex makes a tiny noise of approval and sucks on Henry’s tongue, like an utter tease. Henry almost whines into Alex’s mouth for that move alone and feels Alex grin sharply in response.
He’s never been kissed like this, so maddeningly passionately and gentle at the same time—the dichotomy enough to send his blood boiling in his veins. He wants to drown in Alex’s kisses, in his hands, his smile. He wants to stop completely and run away forever.
Then, there’s a thump from outside and the door is beginning to be pulled open. Henry shoves away, just in time, as the light begins streaming into the dark space. He’s blinded for half a second before he can register the living room and the circle peering at them curiously.
His lips are stinging.
“Henry—” Alex chokes out, and Henry bolts.