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There’s a crash from the hallway. It’s not a ‘something fragile shattering’-type crash; it’s a ‘something incredibly heavy being dropped from a great height’-type crash. Followed by vocables that Alex imagines would definitely be swearing if not for the door in the way.
He opens the door and sure enough, a stream of, “Shit, fuck, ow, Christ,” meets his ears, in a distinctly British accent. The heavy thing being dropped is a cardboard box labelled with BOOKS in neat capitals, and it’s been dropped from a great height because the British man is about eight foot three. That’s maybe an exaggeration. At least six feet tall anyway, though at the moment he’s a bit hunched, and hopping on one leg facing away from Alex. The box of books apparently landed on his foot. There are similar boxes piled against the opposite wall leading inside the open doorway of number nine. Apparently Alex is getting a new neighbour. One with now possibly-broken toes.
“Hey, man, y’ok?” Alex asks.
The man turns, surprisingly gracefully on his one good foot. To go along with the height, he’s got the looks of a Greek god. Blonde hair that looks artfully rather than accidentally tousled, eyes bluer than the goddamn sky, and cheekbones Alex could cut his fingers on. He’s got a mouth made for smiling, with soft-looking pink lips. Alex feels poleaxed.
“Fine,” the man says quickly, answering Alex's question. He flushes a really quite pretty shade of pink and turns away again, hefting the box of books again.
“You want some help?” Alex asks.
“No need!” is the slightly panicked response.
“I don’t mind, you look like you could use—”
“No, honestly—” The man turns back to glance over his shoulder and sees Alex reaching for the box labelled MUSIC . “Don’t touch that!” he says, so sharply that Alex jerks his hand away reflexively.
Alex takes a step back, hands raised. Wow, for a hot second there he thought maybe he wasn’t getting a crazy neighbour – but this is New York, after all, maybe he should have known better. “Just tryna lend a hand, dude.”
“I don’t—” The Brit stops and closes his mouth for a moment, the corner of it pinching. An expression forms on his fine features that is probably meant to be neutrally polite but actually comes off snooty. “I apologise. It’s just that vinyl can be fragile.”
“I got it, no worries,” Alex nods. And he does; he’s got music too and records can be delicate, as well as valuable. “Got any cushions need carrying?”
“No thank you,” is the curt response.
“Ok, well if you need a cup of sugar or something, I’m Alex.”
Alex waits till the guy’s got a hand free, then offers his to shake. It’s not ignored, per se, because those blue eyes definitely flick down to it, but then suddenly he’s picking up the box of records instead. Clipped and posh, he bites out, “Right-o, got it, thanks.” He disappears into his new apartment and slams the door behind him, regardless of the dozen or so boxes still out in the hallway.
“What a total fucking asshole,” Alex mutters.
As the next few days go on, Alex sees ‘The Brit’ (as he’s mentally calling him, sometimes The Asshole Brit if he’s feeling less than generous) in the hallway, usually in the mornings or at the end of a too-late workday, when apparently they’re both dragging themselves home well after dark. In every case, the blonde avoids all eye-contact - not that Alex is doing anything but glaring now – and all but runs into his apartment like Alex is carrying some kind of airborne contagious disease. Alex thinks maybe he’s a racist; it wouldn’t be the first time a white man has acted as though Alex is carrying something infectious. That theory is proven wrong a week after The Brit moves in, when he disconcertedly arrives home with an attractive black guy, the man’s arm around The Brit’s shoulders in a friendly manner, chatting like they’re freaking bosom buddies. So … not racist, or it’s looking a lot less likely anyway. Maybe he was just having a bad day when he moved in, moving’s stressful and he appeared to be doing it alone, so …
The consensus among Nora, June and his parents is that moving is stressful and one bad day could be excused. Alex still isn’t planning on putting himself out again, not until he’s in the elevator the next Monday morning and sees The Brit come out of his apartment looking hurried and harried. Alex hesitates on pressing the doors closed.
The Brit looks up and they make solid eye contact. God, his eyes are so blue, big and soft. His hand is fiddling with the knot of his tie – plain grey, boring – long fingers and big palms, shit Alex is a sucker for nice hands. His suit jacket fits him like a goddamn glove, highlighting broad shoulders and a narrow waist, Alex bets he’s a swimmer. He’d look mouth-watering in a Speedo and is it hot in this elevator? Alex’s stomach ceases its flip flops and goes cold and heavy as iron when The Brit pinches his mouth together into that same bland, snotty little expression from before. Quite deliberately, he pushes open the door leading to the stairwell instead.
“Pendejo,” Alex says, not really caring how loud it is.
The Brit is already on his way out of the lobby when Alex gets down there. Stupid fucking indecently long legs. He tries to push The Brit's shitty attitude out of his mind for the rest of the busy day. The new hire at a prestigious law firm, Alex isn't getting any of the easy tasks, and barely any of the interesting ones. Still, it lets his brain get bogged down in the details, only occasionally throwing up flashes of those hands, or the eyes, or the way the morning sunlight had glinted golden off The Brit's hair as he exited their building. Just, occasional, that's all. It's been way too long since he got laid, and The Brit, however awful he is, is one fucking stunning man. At the end of the day, Alex gets invited for drinks with co-workers – he goes along with people who call him either Claremont or Diaz and almost never the hyphenate, and has a relatively good time. When an attractive redhead starts flirting, he flirts back.
The sex isn't awe-inspiring, but at least no inconvenient thoughts of The Brit's stupid shoulder-to-waist ratio are popping up when he's fucking a woman. She stays the night, he makes her coffee like a gentleman, she refuses the offer of breakfast and they say goodbye at the door in the morning. The Brit is on his way out as they're doing that – nonverbally. From his clothes Alex would guess he's on his way to the gym. It's such a shame he has to pointedly clear his throat in order to get past them.
The redhead, Katie, pulls away from Alex with a giggle. “Oh my God, we're so in the way!”
Alex flashes The Brit a wide, easy smile. “Sorry, man, you know how it is.”
“No,” is the cold reply as he brushes past. “I'm afraid I don't.”
“Wow. What a fucking asshole,” Katie remarks.
Alex reconsiders asking her on an actual date.
She turns him down, but the next person doesn't. A tall, broad, blonde from LA who's good company and an even better kisser. He shares a name with one of June's exes but thankfully nothing else (although that's never seemed to be an issue for June). It isn't going anywhere – Alex has the impression both of them kind've wanna be in bed with someone else. But it scratches the itch. Evan leaves with a peck on the cheek and a cheerful smile later that evening. Alex's smile doesn't last beyond the few moments it takes to notice The Brit standing in the doorway of his apartment, open-mouthed.
Oh. Is that the problem? ‘Asshole’ is upgraded to ‘utter prick’.
Alex folds his arms across his bare chest. “You got somethin’ you wanna say?” he challenges.
Immediately, The Brit’s face flushes scarlet, but he doesn't, in fact, have anything to say. This time it's Alex who gets the satisfaction of slamming the door in his face. He leans against the door with his heart pounding, angry beyond belief. Just his luck to get stuck with a next door neighbour who's not only rude in a general sense, but also a colossal, homophobic – biphobic in Alex's case – dickhead.
From outside, he hears muffled but clear, as The Brit says, “Oh, fuck me.”
Alex manages to get through most of fall without seeing The Brit beyond when they ignore each other at the mailboxes or when they occasionally pass each other on the street. The Brit does seem to have friends – the black guy turns out to be named Pez – and even a girlfriend. There's a short, pretty brunette who comes out of his apartment every so often, so Alex assumes that's who she is. It bothers him. People like The Brit shouldn't have girlfriends, no matter how fucking (astonishingly, spectacularly) hot he is. Alex keeps trying not to be attracted to him.
“I don't understand it,” he complains to Nora over coffee. “He's an asshole, that's, like, my biggest turn-off."
“You said he's super-hot.”
“Even so.”
“Well …” She dredges a bit of whipped cream from the bottom of her frappuccino. Alex has long since given up pointing out that she's a freak about it, and the only correct way to do it is cream first. “How hot are we talking?”
“Like … Young Jude Law hot.”
Nora's eyebrows rise. “I think I see your problem.”
“You don't get it, Nora, this guy is a prick . I cannot just be thinking with my dick on this, I've gotta find something about him that's so overwhelmingly disgusting that I'll want to punch him.”
“Isn't that how you feel now?”
“Yes, but right now I want to punch him with my mouth.”
“I don't know what to tell you, babe. Ask him to blow you, see what happens.”
“Nora …”
“What? You've never had a hate fuck before?”
“This is not as helpful as you think it is.”
“If you wanted helpful advice you should have gone to June.” Which, fair. “Oh, I know! Ask if he voted Trump. That should successfully kill off any and all boners.”
Alex pushes the rest of his drink away, nauseous. Unfortunately, the protective nausea buckles completely under the pressure of running into The Brit fresh from a run, accompanied by an unfairly cute dog. The dog is either a beagle or an English foxhound, Alex can't be certain which, exactly. He's adorable, whatever his breed. Floppy ears that are flapping as he skitters down the hallway, and huge soulful brown eyes. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he comes to a stop, panting, in front of Alex.
“Oh, hey there.” Alex bends to let the dog sniff him before happily taking the invitation to pet him.
“David, you can't just run off— Oh.” Alex looks up to see The Brit enter the hallway from the stairwell. He’s been for a run, or something, because he’s wearing sports gear and is sweating. On a normal person that would be fine, on him it looks like he’s been standing at the bottom of a Tahitian waterfall and has come away glistening instead of gross. There’s colour high in his face, only emphasising those damn cheekbones. Sweat is beading along his neck and Alex watches a drop roll down The Brit’s neck and towards his collarbone. His whole jaw aches with the desire lick along that jaw and bite at where The Brit’s shoulder and neck meet—
“Alex. Hello.”
Alex blinks out of his stupor. He clears his throat. “Didn’t know you had a dog. Thought I would have heard him barking or something sometimes.”
“No, he’s very good,” The Brit says. “Aren’t you? Yes you are, you’re a very good boy.”
“Such a good boy you named him after your tax attorney?” At The Brit’s quizzical look, Alex goes on, “David? That’s the most boring name for a dog I’ve ever heard.” And maybe that’s a little rude to be saying to a virtual stranger, but God knows Alex isn’t the one who started this fight.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s named after Bowie, actually,” is the curt reply.
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Alex says, not wanting to admit that’s a far more interesting reason than he’d expected. “Just thinking I know more about your dog now than I know about you, and I only met him thirty seconds ago.”
“Oh. Um. I’m Henry.” It suits him, Alex thinks. There’s something … stately about it. Alex doesn't say ‘nice to meet you’, because it wasn't, and nor does he offer his hand. He learned his lesson. Henry breaks his gaze, possibly remembering the same thing. “Come on, boy. Let’s get you some dinner.” He bends and scoops David up with one arm, an easy motion which makes his bicep flex.
Alex doesn’t mean to watch him go, it's just that instead of wearing sweats like any decent person, The Brit— Henry is wearing goddamn lycra, and it's highlighting what might be the most perfect ass on God's green earth, as well as thighs Alex honestly would not mind being crushed by. Jesus fuck.
“Hey, Henry,” he calls. A half-second of unadulterated panic follows as he realises he's going to need more words. He blurts out the first thing in his head that isn't Wanna come get clean in my shower?
“Why not just call him Bowie?”
A small smirk curls up the corner of those inviting pink lips, the only pinch around the outside corners of Henry's eyes as he almost smiles. “A man should have a bit of mystery, don't you think?”
He goes inside, Alex does likewise and calls Nora. “He smiles,” Alex growls into the phone as she picks up. “He actually fucking smiles, Nora.”
“Still wanna fuck him then?”
“Through the goddamn mattress,” Alex sighs.
When winter officially arrives on November seventh, it’s with a bang. Actually, the bang is due to the building’s ancient heating system failing in spectacular fashion. It coincides nicely with a cold front moving down from Nova Scotia which means New Yorkers of all stripes are suddenly getting their winter coats and hats out earlier than anticipated. It’s not usually a problem. But then, their building usually has heat. There aren’t a huge number of apartments, so there are only twelve residents who need rehoming. And of those twelve, only two don’t have anyplace else to go. Technically, Alex does , but he won’t go anywhere till Monday, when it’s safe. Till then, he’s huddling in front of the tiny storage heater he’s got, wearing as many layers as possible and trying to tell himself that the snow is pretty, and he’s not so fucking freezing his balls are gonna drop off. Too bad not even a single part of him believes it.
Alex is on his fourth hot drink of the afternoon when he hears a frantic scrabbling at the door. It’s unmistakably an animal, and sounds way too big to be a rat. He only knows of one dog in this block, and he can’t think of a reason why David would be trying to get into his apartment. Unless this is some kind of Lassie situation. Alex opens his front door and finds it is indeed David, half-wearing the sweetest little tartan coat.
“Come here now, you little furry sod!” Henry careens out of his apartment, also wearing six layers. He stops short at seeing Alex standing there. “Oh you got him, thank you.”
“Prison break?”
“He hates wearing his coat. But it’s freezing and he needs to!” Henry adds to David, who whines and slinks behind Alex’s knees. Henry looks back up at Alex’s face. “I didn’t think anyone else would still be here.”
Alex shrugs. “I’ve got plans to go stay with my sister and her girlfriend, but it’s their anniversary this weekend. And I have a feeling that me being there wouldn’t deter them from any of their planned activities, if you catch my drift. Any of their planned, horizontal activities,” he adds when Henry continues to look blank.
“Oh! Yeah, I can see how that would be bloody awkward,” Henry laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.
“What about you?”
“Pez flies south for the winter, generally, and everyone else is the other side of the Atlantic.”
David decides suddenly that Alex’s apartment is marginally warmer than Henry’s, and with a yip, disappears inside.
“Oh, no— Christ, sorry Alex, I swear I usually have more control over him than this—” Henry apologises.
Inside, David is curled up adjacent to Alex’s storage heater. As they approach, he gives a deep sigh and visibly relaxes. When Henry moves as if to scoop him up again, David lets out a plaintive whine that Henry would have to have a heart of stone to ignore. Certainly Alex feels his heart quaver. “You should stay here,” he says suddenly. Fuck. How hard would he have to bite down to sever his own tongue?
Henry is staring at him, equally stunned. “Sorry?”
“I— Look, it’s fucking freezing out there, and in here, and in your place, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not suggesting we strip off or anything—” Forget biting through his tongue, what about inducing some kind of coma? There is no recovering from this. “—but easier to keep warm in the same room as another person, right?”
“I suppose …”
“Plus, David looks comfortable,” Alex barrels on, gesturing a bit desperately at the beagle in an effort not to look like an absolute lunatic.
Henry looks at his dog, a small, soft smile gracing his mouth. “He does seem to be. It’s— It’s kind of you to offer, Alex, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Hey, I’m not being selfless here. I also really don’t wanna become a human popsicle and you’d be helping to prevent that.”
“If you’re sure—”
“I am,” Alex says, unable to believe that it’s actually true—
“Then yes, please,” Henry agrees.
Henry pops back to his apartment to get some of his essentials, plus food for David, and Alex spends an incredibly frantic five minutes making his apartment look less like a shithole. There’s no time to do the dirty dishes, but there aren’t so many that they’re spilling out of the sink. It isn’t like he’s got hot water to clean with anyway. David watches all the frenetic activity with one brown eye cracked open, and doesn’t move an inch. Alex comes close to tripping over him at least twice as he bins his trash and dumps dirty laundry into the hamper. By the time Henry is back, things look a bit tidier and as if a human lives here, instead of a troglodyte.
Henry enters incredibly cautiously, as if he expects the invitation to have been some kind of clever plan constructed to kidnap his dog. Alex has to laugh that one of Henry’s ‘essential’ items is a tea-kettle. “God, you could not be any more British, could you?”
“I’m not sure how to take that.”
“You want one? Tea, I mean.”
“I can make—”
“Henry, my mother is in Texas, but if I let a guest make his own tea, she would know and she would kill me.”
“Well, I would hate to be the cause of your untimely death, so yes, please.” He holds out the kettle and a packet of Earl Grey tea.
Alex makes tea for Henry and a hot chocolate for himself, before turning back to the living area. Henry is stood in front of the couch looking terribly unsure of the etiquette. It would be pathetic if it wasn't kind of … endearing. “Jesus, man, you can sit down,” Alex laughs.
He hands Henry the tea, and he cups it between his hands, inhaling the fragrant steam greedily. David makes a satisfied rumble when it becomes clear his human is staying too, and goes right to sleep.
There's a very awkward silence. Alex feels disarmed by Henry's proximity, not to mention his own unexpected, eager, hospitality. This man is a horrible human being, Alex reminds himself. Rude and probably homophobic. Henry seems to feel the tension too, since he clears his throat fastidiously at least three times without a follow-up. Then he spots Alex's Empire print on the wall and brightens considerably.
“Are you a Star Wars fan?”
Ice broken, they're off. It's still like thirty degrees inside Alex's apartment, and they've got still got numb fingertips and red noses, but just the act of talking helps. And it is, despite Alex's best intentions, easy to talk to Henry. He's got some deplorable opinions on Star Wars but other than that they don't actually disagree on much – he definitely wouldn't have voted for Trump, for one. He’s in publishing, apparently, editing, and not unfamiliar with June’s name. There’s something in the way Henry describes reading other people’s poetry day after day though, around the edges of his words, that makes Alex think he’s got a notebook or two tucked away somewhere, full of his own verse.
“What brought you to NYC if your family is in the UK?” Alex asks.
Standard first date smalltalk, but it makes Henry’s mouth compress, that pinch coming back. His eyes shutter. “Just needed a change of scene.”
Alex shivers as the cold strikes in again, burrowing deeper into his three hoodies. He holds in the impatient sigh. Just when it looked like they were making progress.
“Sorry,” Henry says. He’s looking into the dregs of his tea, not at Alex. His voice is soft, almost cracking as he continues. “Family stuff. It’s not easy to talk about. London became … difficult, for a variety of reasons. I escaped to Oxford first but after I graduated … Well. Oxford wasn’t far enough away.”
“I get that. Sorry if I poked a sore spot.”
“No, that’s— You couldn’t have known. Sorry to bite your head off.”
He drains the last of his tea and decisively gets up to put the cup in the sink. From the couch, Alex can see him shivering. Alex himself isn’t so cold anymore, thanks to the seven layers and hot chocolate, but he can see Henry shivering. When the blonde comes back to the couch, Alex grabs a blanket and throws it over both their legs, making a show of rubbing his hands together as if he’s still freezing, just so that Henry doesn’t feel self-conscious. Henry smiles gratefully at him and Alex gets a little warmer.
“What about you?” Henry asks. “You don’t sound like a New Yorker.”
“What do I sound like?” Alex asks, narrowing his eyes a bit.
Henry tilts his head. “If I had to guess … south.”
“That’s it? That’s all you got, ‘south’?” Alex deadpans.
“Christ, I don’t know, um – Florida.”
“Get the fuck out of my house right now,” Alex says flatly. Henry stares at him with naked alarm in his wide blue eyes for a second or two, and that’s really all Alex can maintain before he has to crack a laugh. “Texas, man, born and raised. Florida, Jesus fuck.”
Henry laughs nervously back at him, and Alex begins to actually answer his question about how he’d gone from Austin to New York, trying to make it sound more impressive than ‘I followed my sister.’
As the day goes on, the sun goes down and it becomes even colder. The snow has stopped but the wind has picked up again, and is somehow finding minute gaps through Alex’s ancient glazing. The drapes can only mitigate a tiny bit of the draught, and he and Henry end up shifting instinctively a little closer to try and soak up the warmth. Possibly they’d both be warmer without a beagle blocking the storage heater, but neither of them have the heart to try and move David. Alex gets up to make dinner instead, which is reheated chicken that he pulls from the freezer but which isn’t exactly inspiring. He decides to make a quick mole to go with it. It takes a bit longer than anticipated to chop the ingredients, trying to manoeuvre a kitchen knife through two pairs of gloves, but he manages.
Henry watches him add different chilies with an air of deep trepidation. “I, er … don’t have a great tolerance for heat in food, I should warn you.”
“Yeah no kidding, you’re about as white as the snow out there,” Alex comments. “But you’re cold, right? This is gonna warm you right up, trust me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Henry mutters.
By the time Alex has added chopped dark chocolate and the chopped almonds, along with stock and cooked black beans to the previously softened shallots and garlic, it smells amazing if he does say so himself, and he pours a generous amount over both bowls of chicken and rice when it’s ready. He hands a bowl and a fork to Henry, who takes it with his mouth visibly watering.
“Thank you.” The mole maybe is quite spicy for a beginner, but Henry doesn’t seem to have any complaints. After the first bite he groans in satisfaction. “This is delicious.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“I mean it – this sauce is … silky and spicy and— It’s— very pleasant,” Henry finishes, his cheeks pinking as he catches Alex’s amused glance.
He carries on getting pinker and pinker though, and eventually starts stripping off some of the many layers he’s wearing. Alex takes pity on him and grabs him a glass of water – when he turns back, Henry has shed his coat and an oversized hoodie, leaving him in a pink sweater, the words London Pride printed in glittery rainbow lettering across the chest.
“Oh.”
Henry looks up at him. “Oh?”
“You— Well, I kind of assumed you were— straight? Actually had you pegged as pretty homophobic actually.”
After a moment of utterly bemused silence, Henry throws his head back and laughs. It’s a nice laugh, deep and rich and Alex kind’ve wants to splash about in the sound. “Christ no! Gay as a maypole, believe me,” Henry says, when his laughter has gentled to a chuckle.
Alex makes a mental note to look up what the fuck a ‘maypole’ is, but can’t join in with the laughter. “Hang on,” he protests. “You’ve got a girlfriend!”
Henry’s still laughing. “Have I? Well I must say that’s news to me.”
“The pretty brunette?”
“Oh God, that’s my sister.”
“Oh. But then … if you’re gay, and you’re not homophobic – then what, is it bi people you’ve got a problem with?”
All traces of laughter in Henry’s face die. “What? Of course I don’t.”
“But you— You were an asshole. If you don’t have a problem that I’m brown, and it isn’t the bi thing, then why the hell were you such a prick to me for so long?”
“Ah. Um …” Henry puts his bowl down and turns on the couch to face Alex fully. “You’re right. I was. I can only apologise for that. You certainly didn’t deserve it and I do regret it. Can I— Is there any chance we could just forget about it, please?” he asks.
Alex pauses. That doesn’t answer his question, as Henry must be well-aware. He’s torn, to be honest; people are rarely as hostile as Henry had seemed without a reason, however spurious. Without knowing what had prompted it, he’s not keen on forgetting the whole thing in case it rears its ugly head again. But … But this afternoon’s been fine. Fun, even. He doesn’t feel like Henry’s been disingenuous at all. And there is some serious beseeching going on in those baby blues.
“How about we start over?” he suggests. He holds out a hand. “Alex Claremont-Diaz. Pleased to meet you.”
Henry’s shoulders droop in relief. He shakes, a firm grip but not too hard. “Henry Fox. My pleasure.”
Henry’s hand is distractingly warm, and it takes Alex longer than it probably should to let go. Judging by the slight patina of colour across the top of his ears, Henry doesn’t mind.
They put Star Wars on after dinner, the first – “Best, Henry, it’s the best one!” – one being Empire, because Alex has agreed that they can end the evening with Jedi. If they must. On the couch, sharing a blanket, it starts to feel cosy. So much so that neither of them probably need the blanket after a while but– Well, Alex can only speak for himself, but he’s enjoying the proximity. Henry smells like clean linens and something green and grassy, a scent Alex gets snatches of when the other man moves. Alex’s eyes keep catching on Henry’s collar, on the hollow between his collarbones, his Adam’s apple. Everywhere that scent would be strongest, if he just buried his nose against Henry’s skin. Henry keeps almost catching him at it, their eyes meeting in repeated half-glances, and Alex is almost positive Henry’s looked at his mouth more than once. All in all, it’s a good job that Alex has watched Empire countless times, because right now he’s not taking much of the storyline in. If he admits he's warm now, Henry and his delectable scent might move further away.
They haven’t got more than halfway through the movie before they’re interrupted anyway. David gets up from his place in front of the heater and comes to plop his nose on Henry’s knee, and gives one long whine.
“Oh! God, sorry, boy you must be starving!”
Henry throws the blanket back and rushes to get David his dinner. The cold strikes in and Alex grabs the nearest sweater, burrowing into it. It’s warm and so soft. Henry, realising he’s brought food for David but not his foot bowl, runs back to his apartment to get it.
David sighs and casts a look at Alex that says quite clearly: You just can’t get the staff these days.
“Tell me about it. I mean, preferring Return of the Jedi? Hopeless,” Alex says, in the same exasperated vein.
“Um, ewoks, hello!” Henry calls, obviously hearing at least the last half of Alex’s sentence as he comes back in. “They’re iconi—” He stops short, David’s food bowl in hand, and stares at Alex. He bites the corner of his lower lip before saying in a slightly strangled voice, “You’re … You’re wearing my jumper.”
Alex looks down, flushing when he realises Henry’s correct. No wonder it felt soft, it’s pretty sure it’s fucking cashmere. “Oh, shit, sorry, I just grabbed the nearest one—”
“I don’t mind,” Henry says quickly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “It quite … suits you, actually.”
Henry busies himself with feeding David while Alex sits still on the couch and tries not to feel mortified. He really had just grabbed the nearest sweater, thinking only about how cold he was – of course now he’s feeling way too hot due to embarrassment but … he doesn’t take the sweater off. It’s stupidly soft, a really nice navy blue wool that on Henry had brought out his eyes even more brightly. It smells like Henry too, and if Alex lifts the fabric to his nose to inhale a bit more deeply while Henry’s back is turned? Well, that can stay between him and Santa María.
With David happily munching on kibble, Henry gravitates back to the couch, and Alex offers the blanket. He chooses not to examine the reasons for his heart beating a little faster as Henry’s warmth settles close beside him. “So I take it your sister isn’t local?” he asks, grasping at random for something to talk about.
“Bea? No, though she’s also fled England. She’s a musician, actually. Guitarist. She’s in … New Mexico at the moment? Or Arizona?”
“Oh, so in the south?” Alex smirks.
“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” Henry grimaces.
“Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.”
Henry flushes again at the pet name, and Alex gives up all pretence: it’s adorable. “I never said I didn’t know any of the southern states, I just happened to guess the wrong one.”
“Is it just you and her?” Alex asks, gently. He’s mindful of the way Henry’s expression closed off earlier, and his choice of words a moment ago, about Bea fleeing their home country.
“No, we have an older brother, Philip. He’s part of the reason we left home. I don’t think he quite expected to drive me across the ocean though, since he seems to be offering a bit of an olive branch now.”
“That’s good?”
“Hmm,” Henry responds neutrally. “There’s also my mum. Sort of.”
Alex doesn’t say anything, letting his silence be either invitation to continue or stop, whichever Henry prefers.
“My dad died a few years ago, and he rather turned out to have been the glue holding us all together.” A pause, long and then longer. Alex wishes Henry hadn't been an asshole; they'd be better friends by now and he'd be able to reach out the way he wants to. Henry collects himself, his throat working a few times before his tongue produces the words. “Bea and I don’t talk to Mum because Mum doesn’t really talk to anyone anymore. So that leaves Pip and— and Gran,” Henry says, and Alex may not know him as well as – he’ll admit it – he’d like to, but the bitter note in Henry’s voice is clear. “About a year after Dad passed, I came out.”
“And they didn’t take that well?”
“I may as well have told Mum I’d taken up crochet, for all the interest she had. Philip didn’t say anything completely nasty other than to point out it would be so much easier if I ‘chose a different lifestyle’—”
“For fuck’s sake,” Alex gripes, unable to help himself.
“But Gran …”
“Your grandmother not the sweet old lady sort, I take it?”
“No. More the ‘burn in hell, sodomite’, sort.”
“Jesus fuck!”
Henry smiles at Alex’s vehemence. “Quite.”
Alex reaches out to touch the back of Henry’s hand with his fingertips, softly as he dares. “I’m so sorry, Henry. That all sounds like it really sucks.”
They’re both looking at where their skin touches when Henry says, equally soft, “Not so bad really. There are worse places I could have ended up than here.”
Through a combination of necessity, Alex’s insistence overcoming Henry’s natural shyness (and something else that feels a bit too fragile to name), they end up sharing Alex’s bed that night. All of them do, in fact, David providing a kind of furry safety buffer between them. Or a life raft preventing them from diving headlong into waters they’re not quite ready to swim in just yet, Alex muses, his sleepy brain wandering off into nautical metaphors. He bets Henry would look good on the sundrenched deck of a boat, floating on the emerald Mediterranean …
Alex wakes up early, way too warm. This is because he’s being the big spoon, and there’s six-foot-something of British in his arms. Henry is equally warm, but he feels so good that Alex snuggles instinctively while the rest of his brain wakes up. Henry stirs a bit as Alex’s nose brushes the back of his neck. “Cold?”
“Mmm,” Alex responds, which isn’t technically a lie since he doesn’t use any actual words.
Henry hums and takes Alex’s hands in his own before falling back to sleep. Alex melts against him for another few minutes. This feels way too natural for it to be the first time they’re sleeping in the same bed. Not that a next time is guaranteed, though if things continue in this direction that would be welcome, as far as Alex is concerned. He can’t speak for Henry but he doesn’t think those quick glances and brief touches meant nothing … God, is this crazy? Twenty-four hours ago he couldn’t stand this guy, and now—now here he is enjoying fucking cuddles with him. He’d like to be enjoying an awful lot more with him and oh, now Alex has to get out of the bed or at least stop plastering himself against Henry with his interested cock starting to press against the top of Henry's thigh, stop thinking about his thighs stop thinking about his thighs—
Alex manages to get out of bed without waking Henry and goes to the bathroom. It's only as he's washing his hands that it occurs to him: he's not cold. In fact— He turns on the hot tap. There's a lot of creaking from unhappy cold metal, but after a couple of splutters, warm water starts flowing. Sweet.
Alex takes the best shower of his life and gets dressed in the bathroom, hesitating a little bit before picking up Henry's cashmere sweater again. It is still winter, after all, and this thing is absurdly soft. He can claim he was cold and it won't even be an excuse; the urge to get back into bed with Henry is powerful. Henry is still serenely asleep, David's head tucked under his chin. As Alex looks at them, smiling, the beagle's tail thumps twice on the comforter.
With abundant hot water, Alex does dishes and then gets a start on breakfast. He looks up what a typical English breakfast might be, out of interest, and very swiftly decides someone needs to show Henry what real baked beans are. While breakfast is cooking, he looks up maypoles and falls down a bit of a rabbit hole of increasingly psychedelic TikToks.
Lured by the smell of food, David is the first one out of the bedroom. Henry is a close second, looking sleep-rumpled and soft. He's also wearing Alex's hoodie. Alex is going to have to come back to the feelings that stirs up in him later, for now he's still fixated on maypoles. He shoves his phone at Henry and unleashes a flurry of questions, most of which are about clogs and ribbons.
“Tea,” Henry requests hoarsely. “Need … tea.”
Once he has tea, he does answer the questions. Apparently this is just a thing that English primary schools force children to do – or at least it was twenty years ago. “Those clogs were fucking murder let me tell you.”
“Oh my God. Tell me there are pictures of little Henry morris dancing,” Alex pleads.
“I hope not,” Henry laughs. “It's actually got a really interesting history – when people first started doing it all those centuries ago it was really subversive. Cromwell even tried to ban it during the Interregnum because it has pagan elements.”
“I understood about a third of what you just said,” Alex tells him.
“I know it's boring,” Henry begins.
“No, it's not that, I just don't know who the fuck Cromwell is. Although if it's the Interregnum I'm gonna say after y’all killed the king, right?”
Henry brightens again. “Right.”
Alex listens, inching his chair closer to Henry's the longer Henry talks. He isn't listening to the words so much as he is captivated by the tone and the obvious passion Henry has for his subject, all expansive hand gestures and factoids that just come pouring out. After history comes folk songs and medieval ballads and ancient poetry. Alex feels like the first prospectors must have; he doesn't even need to dig – there's gold in the riverbed, just sparkling at him. Henry's so deep into his subject he doesn't even register being warm enough to remove the hoodie. Alex definitely registers the flex of his arms and the sliver of midriff he sees at the motion.
“Sorry,” Henry says sheepishly as he emerges from the fabric. “I didn't mean to get carried away.”
“No, don't apologise. I like listening. I like hearing you talk,” Alex says.
They're close now, closer than either of them realised. Henry's eyes are locked on his, and Alex can feel his breath on his face. On his lips, specifically. Slowly, Alex looks deliberately down at Henry's mouth. It's parted, just slightly, waiting. Alex reaches out to lightly caress Henry's inner wrist and trusts that will be obvious enough.
“Is it …” Henry swallows, “rather warm in here?”
“Heating got fixed some time in the night,” Alex confirms, voice barely above a whisper. He leans in, heart pounding like it already knows this kiss is going to change his life. He barely feels the sensation of Henry’s lips before Henry’s jerking back.
“Did it? Excellent. Um.” He shoots to his full – considerable – height and starts backing away. “I should, er— Yeah. Thank you for— I’ll see you.”
With that, he’s bolted out of the door. Alex sits in his very confused wake, stunned. Did he get that whole thing totally wrong? He’d been sure he wasn’t the only one feeling the spark but maybe … Fuck. Is he an asshole? He’d invited Henry in under the guise of keeping warm and basically just jumped him, no wonder Henry bolted.
Before Alex’s spiral can progress further, there’s a knock on the door. Alex gets up to answer it, his stomach in knots. It’s Henry. He’s got Alex’s sweater in one hand, which he thrusts at Alex and then folds his arms across his chest. Fuck. Alex really misread this. “Forgot my dog,” Henry says.
“Oh, shit, um—”
David has already heard Henry’s voice, and comes trotting out. Like he knows where he’s supposed to be going, he goes over to Henry’s apartment and sits patiently at the front door. Henry follows suit, somehow moving down the hallway in the time it takes Alex to open his mouth.
“Wait, Henry, I—I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Just— read it wrong, I guess.”
Henry still doesn’t stop walking, only shaking his head. “You didn’t,” he says hurriedly. “See you later, Alex.”
The door shuts behind him, leaving Alex alone and very, very confused. He didn’t? He didn’t what ? Make Henry uncomfortable? Or read it wrong? But if that’s the case then what’s with Henry running away like that? It makes no sense .
“Ok,” Alex says aloud to himself once he’s back inside his own apartment. “Ok. List.”
- He’s attracted – very attracted – to Henry.
- He’s seventy-five percent sure Henry is attracted to him.
- He didn’t make Henry uncomfortable, OR he didn’t read it wrong. Either option is promising.
- Henry’s giving him very decidedly mixed signals.
“Fuck it.” Alex is from Texas. He knows how to grab the bull by the horns.
He grabs his keys and goes to Henry’s apartment, knocking on the door. When Henry opens it a few seconds later, Alex says, “I’m gonna need more words than that, sweetheart. Do you want me to kiss you or not? If not, say the word and it’ll never happen again.”
Henry laughs, softly and like he can’t believe this is happening. Alex can’t believe this is happening, to be fair. “Christ, I’ve wanted you to kiss me since about five seconds after I met you.”
Alex’s stomach starts unknotting. “Ok. Great. So why—”
“Love, I haven’t had a shower or brushed my teeth in nearly twenty four hours. I’d really like our first kiss to make an impression for the right reasons, not because of halitosis.”
“Wait, so when you said ‘see you later’, you meant …”
“I meant after I was clean and minty-fresh, yes.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause. Henry’s looking down at him with exasperated fondness, or at least Alex hopes it’s fondness. “D’you— D’you want me to go till you’ve done that?” Alex asks lamely.
“As it happens I had time to brush my teeth,” Henry smiles. “Though not to shower yet.” He reaches out and runs his fingertips down Alex’s neck, lingering at the base of his throat. Alex swallows hard at his touch. Seeing the motion, Henry’s smile widens. His hand brushes the collar of his own cashmere sweater. “You must be getting pretty warm in that. If you do come inside you should know it’s even warmer in here. You might start seriously sweating.”
“God, I hope so."
Henry curls his hand around the back of Alex's neck and tugs him inside. The door shuts behind him, the hand on his nape slides upwards, fingers splayed in his curls, and then they're kissing. And Jesus Christ, what a kiss. Henry kisses like it's his goddamn purpose in life, like he's already read the Alex manual cover to cover and is ready for the fucking exam. It starts soft, but not hesitant. Teasing. Making sure that when Henry lifts away slightly, Alex has no choice but to chase the feeling, pressing their lips together again.
After that the pressure is firmer, open-mouthed but with no tongue yet – when Alex takes the initiative and brushes his along Henry's top lip, Henry's answers with a brief flick, as good as a verbal patience, darling. Alex doesn't have any patience; he never has had any, and being kissed like this isn't likely to help. He slides his hands up Henry's back to those broad shoulders, plants them between his shoulder blades and along his spine, and presses closer. When Henry does finally lick into his mouth, Alex can't help the moan that escapes him. The hand of Henry's that isn't still in his hair slips under the hem of the sweater and grazes against the skin of Alex's waist – such a minute touch and it lights Alex up anyway.
It takes a while for the burning in his chest to register, but it occurs to him eventually it's been some time since his last breath. Of oxygen anyway; his blood is singing, swimming with Henry's scent and the feeling of Henry's body against his. They're both panting into each others’ mouths.
“Fuck.”
“Warmer now?” Henry asks, the cocky little shit.
“This is gonna absolutely fucking destroy me, isn't it?”
“I do hope not. Would run counter to the goal of doing it again.” Henry kisses the corner of his mouth. “And again.” The hinge of his jaw. “And again.”
“I can be extremely goal-orientated.” To prove it, Alex boldly slides his hand down Henry's front and presses lightly against where he's started to get hard.
Henry inhales sharply through his aquiline nose. “I believe that.”
“But …” Alex looks up and meets Henry's gaze, slowly bends till he's kneeling. “... I like getting a head start.” At Henry's feet now, he looks up, hands paused on the waistband of Henry's sweats. He raises his eyebrows in question.
“Right. Yes. Good.” Henry swallows. “Carry on.”
Alex doesn't waste time with more words. He pulls Henry's pants down and actually finds he's licking his lips. Henry's big , and half-hard already. His cock is a deepening, blushing pink, darker at the head, and swelling before Alex's eyes. He's not circumsised, which is a surprise, but it's only another little challenge and Alex loves those.
When Alex wraps his fingers around Henry's cock, stroking him to full hardness, he's a little unsure. Not about whether he wants to do this, just on the logistics. He can usually deepthroat a guy but right now he's not one hundred percent sure this is all going to fit in his mouth. He's looking forward to trying though. He pumps his hand up and down again, pulling Henry's foreskin back gently to reveal the head of his cock, moist and red. He licks it, gathering up the pearling precome before moving his tongue down to the base of Henry's shaft and licking upwards. He runs his tongue around the rim of his foreskin again before gliding the soft, veiny skin down again to suckle at the head while he jerks Henry off slowly.
Henry looks down at him with a groan. “Are you having fun down there?”
Alex pulls off. “Never been with an uncut man before, baby, let me explore.”
Whether it's the fact that he immediately goes back to sucking him off or the baby that does it, Henry melts – his hands sink into Alex's curls and he lets him go to town. The foreskin is really interesting to play with, actually. Henry seems more sensitive than most other guys Alex has done this with, especially when Alex runs the tip of his tongue over the soft, smooth skin. When he sucks with the same level of suction most men respond well to, Henry hisses in sensitivity. Alex gentles the movements of his tongue accordingly. That's really interesting. It's like nothing so much as it's like a clit, actually. Except he can't deepthroat a clit. Laving at Henry's balls for a moment, Alex takes a deep breath through his nose before taking the plunge. He slides his mouth over Henry's cock and pushes down, down, down, filling his mouth and throat with the weight, the musk of him.
Under his hand, Henry's knees tremble, and he swears vehemently.
Turns out Alex really fucking likes blowing uncut guys. Maybe just this uncut guy. He gives into the urge to go for it, pushing himself to take Henry to the root with every bob of his head, and when Henry still seems reluctant to understand precisely what Alex is after, Alex presses Henry's fingers firmly to his own head, and holds still, completely full of him. Alex wants it, he wants all of it, he wants — It's insane, some part of him knows, that he trusts Henry this much already. Henry gives a small thrust, tentative and seeking. Alex hums in encouragement, swallowing around Henry's cock. Henry swears again, a mixture of his wonderfully-accented English and what might be French. His hips start moving properly, and soon he's just fucking Alex's face. Alex fights down his gag reflex, loving every goddamn second of it. Watching through watering eyes as Henry relinquishes his control is the sexiest fucking thing he has ever seen. His own cock is hard as steel, tenting his pants. He has to get a hand round himself, needs the relief of a touch. Henry's close, he can tell by the hitched breathing and the fact that he's now tugging on Alex's hair rather than being such a fucking gentleman about it.
He looks up at Henry, who groans, “Fucking eyelashes,” and then he's coming. He's already right in the back of Alex's throat, so the taste is kind of lost, but Jesus fuck, he loves the sensation of white heat, the tang of bitter salt – the breathless laugh that leaves Henry as he climaxes might just be his new favourite thing in the world.
He takes everything Henry has and then pulls away gently, kissing his softening cock. Henry has his head thrown back, still laughing with mild incredulity. His fingers are stroking thorough Alex's curls gently now, carefully. When Alex runs his hands up Henry's thighs (definitely allowing himself to think about them now), Henry reaches down to pull him to his feet. His kiss is careful too, thankful, so cherishing that Alex part of wants to shy away. Henry wraps an arm around his waist, so warm and sure that Alex has to relax into him instead. He feels drunk and dizzy, the apartment spinning around them in slow circles, like physics has relinquished him. The only sure gravity is Henry.
When Alex needs his breath again, he rests their foreheads together to try and get his bearings. The room hasn't stopped its slow, lazy spinning. “Fuck, sweetheart. You been holding out on me.”
“Sorry. I couldn't … couldn't look at you,” Henry confesses in a whisper, his breath ghosting Alex's ear. “You were – you are – so beautiful. I panicked. Alex.”
There's that reverence again, the tide of feeling it stirs in Alex's chest too big and deep to contemplate. “Warm now?” he deflects.
“Not sure. Maybe some shared body heat?”
“Lead the fucking way, baby.”
Henry takes his hand and does just that, taking Alex into his bedroom, into his bed. “What do you want?” he asks, before attaching his mouth to Alex's neck.
Alex wants what Alex is getting; a really mean hickey he's gonna have to cover up with makeup or a scarf or something, and after that he wants— “To fuck you.”
Henry hums his approval of the idea and moves away from Alex – who protests, whining – to grab lube and condoms from a drawer in his nightstand. He drops both on the sheet and pulls his shirt off in one smooth movement. Alex swallows hard. “Jesus fuck, Henry, look at you. You're a fucking work of art, baby.”
Henry leans down, covering Alex's shoulders with his own while they kiss again, Henry apparently deciding to drive Alex completely insane while he does it as thoroughly and as unhurried as he possibly can. Which would be fine if Alex wasn't still hard and needy, still gasping and desperately arching up. Henry slides his leg up, his thigh between Alex's. Alex grinds down against the firm muscle, trying to chase friction, something, anything. Once he's licked all traces of himself from Alex's mouth, Henry pushes Alex's shirt off and mouths along the planes of his chest. Alex jerks and moans when Henry's lips land on his nipple, the bolt of sensation like electricity through his veins. He tries to open his mouth and explain he really doesn't need charging any further, but all that comes out is another incoherent noise when Henry closes his teeth around the sensitive bud.
“Henry— Henry, please—” He slides his fingers into Henry's thick blonde hair to tilt his face to Alex's. “Sweetheart, I'm about an inch away from coming in my pants, can we—”
“Get this show on the road?”
“Please.”
Henry decides to make it difficult for Alex to function in a completely different way – he leaves Alex to pull the rest of his clothes off while he starts opening himself up. The sight of one of those long, elegant fingers sliding in and out of Henry's hole is nothing short of mesmerising. Alex stops with his pants halfway down his shins because he's forgotten what he's supposed to be doing. Clearly, Henry likes putting on a show; he lies back on the pillows, his legs spread wide, those fucking thighs quivering with every pass of his fingers. His free hand is idly stroking at his cock, half-hard again already.
“Like what you see, love?” he asks, voice strained with arousal.
“Absolutely,” Alex breathes. He rips the rest of his clothes off and reaches for the lube. “Can I—?”
Henry bites his lip and nods. Alex slicks his hand up and slides his index finger in alongside Henry's own. Henry lets out a moan and leans up for a desperate, messy kiss. “Shit, you're so fucking tight, sweetheart.”
“Ready,” Henry says. “I'm ready, come on—”
“One more.”
“Want you to fuck me,” Henry all but whines.
“I will,” Alex promises. “Which is why you're gonna need one more.”
Henry shudders, both at the implication and the feel of Alex's middle finger pushing inside him. Alex focuses on stretching Henry, on the feel of his plump lower lip between his teeth. He totally does not think about how fucking tight and hot Henry feels around his hand, because if he does he's gonna lose it right here and now. Instead he feels for that one spot and curls his fingertips over it.
Henry cries out and arches his back. “Oh fuck —! Alex, get in me, get in me!”
Putting the condom on is the work of a few seconds; another smear of lube over his cock and then he's at Henry's entrance. Henry's body is soft and slick and welcoming as he slowly pushes inside. Henry hitches those magnificent thighs around Alex's waist to bring him closer, till their bodies are flush against each other. Beneath him, Henry's golden hair is spread over the white pillowcase like a damn halo; his face is flushed with colour, his eyes a sparkling ocean Alex can't wait to drown in. He feels like heaven too. Henry's heels press into Alex's lower back, and for a moment they're both still, breathing each other. Fucking someone isn't new to Alex, but this feels different somehow, being invited to share Henry's body like this. After a couple slow rolls of his hips, Alex takes both Henry's hands in one of his and pins them at the wrist, above his head. Then he pulls almost all the way out of Henry's hole and suddenly pushes into a much faster pace. Henry keens, meets his every thrust, each slam of his hips. Alex has one hand on his thigh, keeping it up around his hip with a grip that's probably too hard, but everything is driving Henry higher and fuck this is not going to take long. Alex can already feel orgasm tightening at the base of his spine, fire held in a clenched fist.
“I'm close,” he grits out.
Henry pulls one of his hands out of Alex's grip to wrap around his cock. Alex looks down to see Henry's cock head leaking, standing proud of his foreskin.
“So fucking sexy, baby, you look so—”
Henry keeps jerking himself off, uncontrolled little whimpers spilling from his mouth now; Alex grabs his ass and pulls him into a sharper angle, so the next slam of his hips drives his cock into Henry's prostate. Henry wails, and laughs, and he's coming. The feeling of his muscles clenching around Alex's cock is too much, and it pushes him over the edge. With a cry, he empties into the condom, into the blistering heat of Henry's body, into oblivion.
When Alex comes back to himself, he's nuzzling under Henry's jaw, at his pulse point. There's warm stickiness between their bodies and Henry looks exactly how Alex feels. Fucked out and supremely satisfied. He's the most singularly beautiful sight Alex has ever beheld, he thinks. He won't tell Henry that, not yet. In weeks and months to come, yes – and he knows that's where they're going already. He maybe can't see the destination yet but this is good. This thing they've got now has got legs, and Alex wants to run with it, with Henry, for the sheer thrill. For now, he kisses Henry, and lets it convey everything it needs to.
“That was incredible,” Henry murmurs.
Alex smirks at him. “Well, I've never had any complaints.”
“Arse,” Henry says, but his eyes are deeply soft again, and he willingly snuggles when Alex rolls onto his back and throws an arm open in invitation.
“It was amazing, baby. You're amazing.”
After a long while of gentle kisses and soft caresses, Henry looks over at the window and sighs. “We should shower.”
“No, we should stay in bed,” Alex argues.
“I need to take David for a walk.”
“He's quiet and fed, he's fine.”
“There's nothing in the fridge.”
“We'll order in.”
“Determined aren't you?”
“Just thinking of you.”
“Is that right.”
Alex throws the blankets over their heads and they share a long, lingering kiss. “Baby. It's cold outside.”