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The late summer sun streams through the front windows, throwing shadows across the floors and lighting the dust in the air like glitter. It's still, in the way summer afternoons can be–the fields are quiet, the forests dulled, softly waiting, watching the clouds roll slowly across a sky as wide as an ocean. It's comfortable, warm, soothing, how only the last days of summer are; Henry's favorite part of the heat season.
His feet are bare on the hardwood, warmed where they rest in the long strips of sunlight running the length of the kitchen. The oven makes soft noises, little hums and ticks as it rises to temperature.
Dinner is sitting prepared on the stove, waiting for four-hundred degrees, and Henry's at a cutting board beside the sink, working at his small pile of freshly-washed vegetables. The house is quiet, but never still; it's too full of memories to be still, but Henry doesn't mind the company of friendly ghosts and good thoughts, instead letting them pass in and out of him, snatches of the past, always with yellow sunlight and gentle comfort.
The motions of food preparation, of cooking, ground him further to this moment, these fleeting fingers of the summertime, and he pauses to let the warmth of the sun soak into his body up from the soles of his feet, to let the cumin and chile in his simmering sauce fill his nose.
He cuts lettuce, carrots, and tomatoes until the oven beeps and he stops to slide in the chicken. The door creaks when he closes it, and he sets the timer as he lets his gaze wander to the windows for a moment, to the sprawling fields that run out into the sky.
The sound of shifting wood catches his attention, and he turns to the living room in time to see Walt, fresh from a shower, situating himself at the upright piano that lives across the room. He can't see Walt's hands from here, but he watches his shoulders move, and there's a gentle smile on his face even before the first notes echo throughout the house.
Henry's always enjoyed Walt's playing – he enjoys the piano, and the way Walt plays it, and there's always been something special about the way it sounds here, in this house. It bounces between the rafters, soaks into the walls, fills the space with something that sounds like the kind of quiet, fond affection Henry feels when he looks at Walt.
Henry leans against the counter as Walt plays something slow and full, notes layered over each other but not in a rush. It's nostalgic, maybe a little sad, and it feels like it was plucked straight from Henry's own feelings here and now.
He has a sudden, strong urge to see Walt, be close to him, and he wipes his hands on the towel tucked into his pocket before he makes his way across the room, unrushed and unhurried. He steps match the tempo without thought, his body swaying just slightly, caught in Walt's rhythm like it always is.
He stops to the left of the piano, resting against the wall, catching Walt's eyes when he looks up.
"Sorry," Henry says softly, "I did not mean to startle you."
Walt looks back at his fingers, hovering over the keys. "'s okay," he murmurs. He picks up another melody, this one slower and a little lighter than the last, but no less full of a sweet nostalgia.
Henry watches him play, gaze lingering on the careful, fluid movements of Walt's fingers, then lingering on his face, his eyes hidden by his lashes, hair curling as it dries without a brushing. This is perhaps the Walt Henry loves most, when he's soft and unmade and full of a gentle focus, flushed and warm and so unbearably human. It's easy to forget the depth of emotions Walt carries with him, and Henry feels the trust he's earned every time Walt lets it show like this.
Walt slows, the notes changing to higher, softer sounds as he looks back up at Henry, reaching his left hand out and curling it around the side of Henry's thigh.
"Sit," Walt urges quietly with just a little pressure against Henry's leg. Henry only ever needs an invitation, and he shifts off the wall to sit at Walt's left.
Sharing this bench with Walt has always felt like something special, a door opened a little wider than usual. Henry watches Walt's hands as he resumes playing with both, blending into a new melody, something recent and fond Henry recognizes but has never heard Walt play.
It's easy, to sink into Walt's side, his familiar warmth as welcoming as always, and Walt continues to play as Henry's head settles on his shoulder, his hand smoothing over Walt's thigh. They've sat like this many times, and as he listens, Henry imagines them like this through the years, the way their hands and their faces have changed, the way their deep, steady affection has only grown stronger roots. So many things have happened in all these years, and still, it ends with Walt and Henry. It always will.
The beeping of a timer startles Henry back fully into the present, and Walt pulls his hands away from the keys and to his thighs.
"Dinner is almost done," Henry murmurs, rising slowly. Walt stops him from leaving with a hand at his waist, and Henry watches as Walt stands just as slow, sliding up the front of Henry's body.
Walt's hands end up on the sides of Henry's face, and when he kisses him, Walt tastes like afternoon sunshine and a familiar love, easing Henry's mouth open in the same gentle, practiced way he always does.
Henry hums, curling his hands around Walt's arms, right below the cuff of his sleeves. Walt's taller, just by enough that Henry has to press up into him; but Henry's always liked the angle, likes that he can lean into Walt's chest and tilt his head back until he's overwhelmed by Walt and nothing else.
It's easy to do that now, moving his palms from Walt's arms to his chest, sinking into the gentle pressure of Walt's kiss. Walt's hands leave his face, the key cover thudding closed a moment later, and then Walt's hands are back, big and roaming like always. He urges Henry back until he's bumping into the key cover, and Henry's hands tighten into loose fists in the front of Walt's shirt, kissing Walt back a little harder, pulling him down closer.
"Shouldn't you check the chicken?" Walt asks, a murmur between kisses, and Henry hums.
"Probably," he says, though he knows it likely needs another few minutes. He loosens his hands and spreads his fingers over Walt's chest. "But you kissed me first. Would you like me to stop?"
"God, no," Walt says, hands running up and down at Henry's sides. He pauses, though, and Henry holds back his smile. "But–I haven't had your food all week, and it's been so long since you've made enchilada chicken–"
Henry slides a hand from Walt's chest up to his neck, curling his fingers around the back of it and sliding his thumb along Walt's jaw. "I understand," Henry says, holding back his grin a moment longer, "you love my food more than you love me."
Walt's eyes widen, but Henry only lets the panic sit in his face for half a heartbeat before he's kissing Walt again, shorter and simpler but no less affectionate.
"Relax, dearest," Henry tells him, leaving one lingering kiss on his lips. "I will go finish dinner. Put on some music and get drinks, it should only be a few minutes."
Walt's hands slide away slowly from Henry's waist, and the heat of his palms lingers as Henry takes the chicken out of the oven. He listens to Walt moving around the living room as he pours the sauce into the dish and finishes the salad, and he laughs quietly to himself when the record Walt selected starts playing, Frank Sinatra's smooth voice echoing gently through the house. Walt's always been a hopeless romantic after all.
Henry turns as Walt comes into the kitchen, opening the fridge for drinks. "Is this a wine thing?" Walt asks, peering at Henry over the refrigerator door. Henry shrugs.
"If you would like it to be," he says. "Beer would be just as well."
Henry doesn't see what Walt grabs and takes to the table, and doesn't see him come back into the kitchen until he feels Walt beside him, sees the shadow of his body.
"Need help?" Walt asks, soft, watching Henry finish squeezing half a lime over the salad.
"Please," he says, giving Walt the salad and following behind him with the chicken.
Walt chose wine, a red that doesn't really match the dish but tastes good just the same. They eat in relative quiet, and Henry takes the time to appreciate this moment, all of these moments he's had strung together today.
Nights like this are always something special, when everything is calm and golden and they can slow down, separate from the world outside the cabin, beyond the plains of Walt's land.
He sits back in his chair, watching Walt finish the last of the chicken and listening to Sinatra croon about someone in love. He feels light, untethered in the best way, free in his simple enjoyment of today, now.
Walt catches him watching, raises an eyebrow and gives him a small smile. "What?"
Henry shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, taking a sip of wine. "I am just–happy."
He's not sure that encompasses truly everything he's feeling, but it fits best in its simplicity, so he lets it be.
Walt's smile grows into something bigger, fonder, more wonderful, one Henry only sees in the spaces like this, and Henry falls in love with him all over again.
"Good," Walt says. His foot finds Henry's under the table, and he rests their calves together, a simple point of warm, familiar contact. "Me too."