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“How are you this evening, my dear?” Henry asks, gently threading his long and elegant fingers through Alex’s dense, dark curls in the early summer night. The air is still warm, fields and bushes humming with the singsongs of cicadas.
“Very well,” Alexander replies, leaning into Henry’s loving touch. “Only I wish you would not call me my dear.”
“Why?” Henry asks, huffing a laugh.
“Cause that’s what my father always calls my mother when he’s crossed about something,” Alexander chuckles, his fingers brushing across the back of Henry’s hand.
“What endearments am I allowed then?” Henry asks with a smile, cupping Alexander’s face with his hand and brushing his thumb across the sun-kissed skin there.
“Well, let me think. Alexander for every day, Alex for Sundays, and my love divine but only on special occasions.”
“And what should I call you when I’m crossed? Mr Fox?”
“No. No, you may only call Mr Fox when you are completely and perfectly and incandescently happy,” Alexander replies and turns to face Henry.
His blue eyes look like the night sky in the dwindling night, the light of the lamps twinkling in his eyes like stars.
“And how are you this evening, Mr Fox?” Henry whispers.
Alexander’s heart jumps inside his chest and he can feel a crimson blush rise to his cheeks. His skin buzzes with heat under Henry’s touch.
“Mr Fox,” Henry whispers and kisses his forehead.
“Mr Fox,” Henry whispers and kisses his temple
“Mr Fox,” Henry whispers and, finally, kisses, his mouth.