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Alex comes home on a Tuesday night, mentally befucked by a day that felt like at least a decade and thoroughly ready to blaze through half a paper and collapse, when he realizes the whole first floor of the brownstone smells like pumpkin bread.
Logically, he assumes their house has been broken into by a bread-making burglar, and prepares to take a stand - until the rattle of metal on marble echoes from the kitchen, accompanied by a curse from a mouth that is all-too familiar.
Alex pulls his keys from the lock, slowly setting down his bag. “Henry?” He tests. “You okay?”
“I’m fine!” Henry calls back.
In the kitchen, he finds Henry at the island surrounded by a small assortment of bowls and ingredient tins. Over his t-shirt is a navy apron - Alex’s apron, the only one they own - with the phrase “No Bitchin’ In My Kitchen” scrawled across the chest in a comically polite font.
When Alex takes a seat across from him, Henry looks up from diligently mixing.
“Hey. How was class?” Henry asks, like the little bit of flour that somehow found its way to the side of his face isn’t rearranging Alex’s entire worldview, again.
Alex for one doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Since when do you know how to bake?”
That startles a breathy laugh out of Henry. A private crooked smile settles on his face. Something for Alex, and Alex only. “Since, well, nearly always, actually. I’ve just rarely had the opportunity in recent years.”
To some degree that makes sense, that Henry is good if not proficient at nearly everything. Still, Alex has to take a moment to recalibrate. Right here and right now Henry is so far from what Alex would have considered his usual element, but knows from the set of his shoulders to the uptip of his chin, Henry’s at peace. Light. Happy.
“I guess I’d just assumed, since, you know, living in a palace and all, you wouldn’t have a reason to do,” Alex pauses, gesturing to the bowls and the hot oven beyond Henry’s shoulder, “this sort of thing.”
Henry shrugs, pausing to carefully dump the floury contents of the bowl he was just stirring into another filled with a mixture with the same color and consistency as applesauce.
“I happen to enjoy ‘this sort of thing.’” He looks at Alex and grins, something bright behind his eyes. God, it fills Alex’s heart to see him like this, it’s an honor and a privilege.
“Mhmm.” Alex leans across the island to steal a kiss. Henry happily returns it, soft and chaste, one hand on his cheek - and Alex uses the moment to stick his finger into the bowl, swiping up a glob of the stuff. He sits back again, smiling as he licks his finger. Whatever it is, it tastes like lemon.
It takes Henry a moment to realize what happened, but soon enough he exclaims, playfully throwing a dish towel towards Alex’s head. “Hey!”
Alex only laughs, pleased with his mischief. “Listen, if you put batter near me I’m not just going to keep my hands to myself.”
As he settles back into his seat, Alex takes in his view. Henry is undisturbed and continues mixing, accepting Alex as part of his space.
“Is there any particular reason you suddenly decided to prove you can bake today, or is this all just for the hell of it?” Alex asks. He doesn’t think it’s an anniversary - nothing was marked on the calendar - but in his defense, they have several.
He expects a shrug and a one-liner, but instead, Henry sits back on his heels. Piece by piece like a splash in a puddle his smile grows softer, dimmer and deeper around the edges, cutting to the very core of him. He glances down almost in embarrassment before returning his focus to Alex, sure of himself once more. Sure that he’s safe.
Despite all they’ve been through, Alex has never once predicted when Henry will fall into this state, what will set him off. Nor has he been able to properly prepare himself for whatever will leave his boyfriend’s mouth next.
“Yesterday a package came to the house,” Henry begins.
He takes a step over to the countertop, gesturing. Lying flat near the sink is a dated spiral notebook. Even from a distance Alex can see the bent corner, the notes taped to the inside that stick out from the edges. Someone made this, and they intended for it to be used.
“It’s from my grandmother - not Mary, from my Nan, her name is Eliza. She started making these recipe books for all her grandchildren, years ago. After Dad, well.” Henry tips his head, encompassing all the things he cannot say. “She had to stop for a while. But she got started up on them again over the summer, and now here it is.” One hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. “She taught me to bake when I was little, as best I could. When I saw the book and the letter, I just… had to try something.”
He watches Alex for a moment, waiting for a reaction. That’s the other thing about Henry’s profound revealings of his past - they leave Alex speechless.
The timer goes off. Henry turns, throwing on oven mitts, and in the midst of his shuffle to retrieve the dish Alex finds his words.
“Sweetheart, that’s lovely,” Alex manages, and Henry’s smile returns. “What are you making?”
“Pumpkin bread and lemon slices, mostly because I vaguely remember how to prepare them.” Henry regains his composure, stepping back to examine the counter before him. Any seriousness evaporates when he cautiously pokes the top of the steaming pumpkin bread, before shrugging and turning back to his other bowls, picking up a spoon.
“You never have to justify providing baked goods,” Alex says, eyeing the bread. “I’m certainly not complaining.”
Henry laughs, and it’s the best sound Alex has heard all evening. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, beginning to mix once more, falling back into his set rhythm. “Can you hand me that lemon juice, please?”
They spend the rest of the night in the kitchen, picking at the pans as the desserts come together. Alex shouldn’t be shocked when what Henry makes is good, but it is, and it’s the most wonderful thing to come home to - the sight of Henry, happy and unafraid to show Alex a new piece of himself.
The food is nothing but an added bonus.