Work Text:
Election Day 2020
“I need to tell you something,” Henry says, breathless, when Alex pulls back. “I bought a brownstone. In Brooklyn.”
Alex’s mouth falls open. “You didn’t!”
“I did.”
A month ago he would have regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. But now, inflated by the cloud of family and friends and magic, Henry finds he doesn’t give a damn.
Alex’s face shifts through near-unrecognizable phases of what can only be love, and the fear inside Henry melts away. A new hope slots into place in his chest, because Alex wants this too. The cold days and the warm nights, the peace and the comfort of knowing they have a slice of the world that is theirs - he looks up at him with wide eyes and he wants it, all of it, with Henry. Somehow, they’re both crying even more.
“Okay, people,” says Zahra’s voice through the cloud of hope in his head. “Victory speech in fifteen. Places, let’s go!”
Six Months Later
In the time Henry has owned the brownstone, neither of them had been there for more than forty-eight hours in a row before now. They had bought some time to visit, of course, each of them stealing a few days here and there when their schedules allowed, both coming out for a weekend every now and then. There had been delays: massive security concerns, of course, and then Henry had to finish his apology tour. And then there was everything surrounding the Inauguration, and then Henry’s mother needed him for a project, and then the news of June and Nora broke, and then the Queen was just an outright bitch… suffice to say, if they thought their lives were going to become simpler after the election, they were horribly, inconceivably, wrong.
In their comings and goings over the past few months, they had gotten things into a livable shape. On their first joint visit, they picked out colors - navy cabinets and white marble countertops in the kitchen, deep cream walls in the main living spaces, cool slate gray in the bedrooms, faded mint in the office. Piece by piece as they stole away whatever time they could, they agreed on furniture. Alex ordered kitchenware, Henry calculated bookshelves. After a few nights of sleeping on a half-put-together sofa, they assembled and christened the bed. The curtains came in and they hung them, only dropping them once. Alex bought an apron, Henry picked a doormat.
But, as of two days ago, Alex’s mail was finally being redirected from the White House to a P.O. Box in Brooklyn. As of yesterday, Henry was doing the same.
So, as of today, the brownstone was their home.
And since this was their home, and for the first time in their lives no one else could tell them what to do with their space, the mission of the day was not to finish the office or find furniture for the guest bedroom. Today, they hung pictures.
The first floor of the house was very open - an entryway leading to the stairs, off of which stemmed the sitting room, then the dining room, then the kitchen, all the way to the back patio. The far side of the dining room, opposite the stairs, was a tall blank wall, perfect for picture frames.
The first few decisions were easy - an outtake from their official portrait, a selfie from the lakehouse, a photo from that club in LA featuring both of them tipsy and a little too close. Alex picked one of Henry: an undated and untraceable shot of him at a piano, lost in his own world. Henry returned the favor, selecting a picture from the night Alex was crowned prom king, one hand raised in the air as he hollers.
They went through old family pictures next. June, seven, giving toddler Alex a piggy-back ride, a very stressed Ellen and Oscar in the background. An equally-dated picture of Henry and his siblings and parents in a garden somewhere, the only image in his possession where he swore they were all honestly smiling and at ease.
But the best part? There was plenty of space on the wall for new memories.
Alex sighs, collapsing back onto his designated pillow. “We need more Command hooks.”
Henry leans back next to him, admiring their work so far. “Command hooks are the little ones with the double-sided tape?” Henry asks. There were so many names for home-improvement devices, try as he might he couldn’t quite keep them all straight. It was mildly embarrassing, but Alex doesn’t seem to mind.
Alex sighs, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. “Yeah. We can put it on a list for tomorrow.”
“I could go now,” Henry blurts. It’s not the best idea, sending the prince to the office supply store, but he wanted to explore the area. “The office supply store is just two blocks over, and there’s this book shop near there I’ve been hoping to visit.”
Alex seems hesitant. “Are you sure? It’s getting kinda late.”
“It’s seven,” Henry checks his watch, standing and shrugging. “I’ll have a PPO come with.”
A calculating little smile creeps across Alex’s face. He erases the distance between them, hooking two fingers in Henry’s belt loop and pulling him close. All thoughts of going out tonight quickly evaporate.
Alex kisses him once - just a peck. He comes back in, and Henry doesn’t let him go this time, parting his lips into the kiss and latching a hand to Alex’s hip.
Just as quickly as this began, Alex pulls back and it’s over. Henry pouts, trailing a hand up Alex’s side. “What was that for?”
“Can a man not kiss his boyfriend in their living room?” The effect isn’t lost - it’s their living room now.
He plays along anyway. “Not if he doesn’t intend to finish what he started.”
“Later, baby.” Alex slides out of his grip, leaving Henry equal parts flustered and amused. “Go to the store.”
Henry comes back to a quiet house. Normally Alex’s presence is very evident - the man has never been sneaky, always muttering to himself or listening to music - but the house is silent and all the downstairs lights are off.
“Alex?” he calls. No reply.
He moves further into the house, setting his crinkling bags down on the empty dining table. There, he finds a note, pen marks scribbled in Alex’s chunky handwriting:
Meet me on the roof. - A
Henry takes the note, running his thumb across the words and smiling. So this was how he wanted to play it. On some base instinct he tucks the note in his pocket - saving it for later, maybe for a memory book of their first days living together, maybe something more propositional, he’s not entirely sure yet - and takes the stairs.
Of all the features Henry had gotten excited about in the process of buying the brownstone, the deck on the roof had not initially been one of them. The city lights were too aggressive for it to be a worthwhile insomniatic stargazing space, and he wasn’t too keen on the idea of him and Alex relaxing somewhere they could potentially be seen. Call him paranoid, but living in the aftermath of having one’s heart bled out in the throes of an international sex scandal doesn’t come without baggage.
Upon actually seeing the house, his mind was completely changed. While the stars were still dim, the upper part of their staircase made a nice wall on one side of the rooftop, while their neighbor’s identical house did the same on the other. The front and back were closed in as well by the brick equivalent of privacy fences, leaving their roof completely secluded from everyone else.
For once in their lives, they could be alone outside without worry.
Upon reaching the roof, Henry opens the door gingerly, unsure what to expect. It wasn’t as if Alex had been leading him on earlier, but there had been implications of more to come. They’ve christened many of the rooms in their house, saying the name of God enough times in the phrases between gasps and bites and moans to make their home holy ground. The thought of doing the same here with the chill of an early summer night holding their bodies does erase most tame thoughts from Henry’s mind, dangerous as the idea may be.
The thoughts grow cold when Henry steps over the threshold to find himself on the edge of a classic red-checkered picnic blanket. Atop the blanket is what appears to be cheese spread on a very nice plate, two toasting flutes, and a bottle of champagne. Scattered in perfectly random increments around the perimeter of the blanket are thick candles, little false flames flickering to set the atmosphere.
Last but not least, in the middle of it all, is Alex. He stands, smiling at the dumbstruck look Henry’s sure is gracing his face.
“Hey,” Alex says, calm. He runs his hands over Henry’s waist, lacing his hands behind his back, pulling their bodies flush.
“Hi.” Henry recovers, not hesitating to let his hands wander to Alex’s chest. “You did all this just while I was gone?”
Alex hums. “I did.”
Henry pulls back only slightly, just enough to take another look over Alex’s shoulder again. The roof area isn’t set up yet and needs a good sweep, but goddamn if Alex’s place setting doesn’t look inviting, a relaxing sigh for the evening.
“Thank you,” Henry says. He kisses Alex once - chaste, brief, just enough to make his happiness known - before taking him by the hand. “Lead the way.”
It’s all but three steps to the blanket, but Alex does, grinning. There’s plenty of space yet they settle shoulder-to-shoulder, bumping elbows as they reach for the champagne. Alex takes the bottle, while Henry holds the glasses.
“I like to propose a toast,” Alex says, raising the bottle by the neck. The statement itself would be enough to appease a crowd on any other day. Now, though, Alex is softer. He’s real. This celebration is only for the two of them.
Henry plays along. “I think toasts are generally done with the glasses, love, not while opening the bottle.”
“And?” Alex rolls his eyes. “This toast is under our roof, so we make the rules.”
The thought of this being their roof makes Henry’s heart do acrobatics, again. At the rate this is going, his heart will be an award-winning Olympian by the end of the week. Nevertheless, point must be claimed.
“Actually we’re on our roof, last I checked.”
It takes a second for the joke to register before Alex’s laughter is echoing around them. Henry breaks right along with him, the faux-serious mood dissolved into the night. It’s been an emotional day at what Henry hopes is the tail end of a charged few months. They need this, laughter and foolishness in kind. They need tonight.
“I’m sorry.” Henry comes down, reaching for Alex’s free hand. There’s something between love and mischief reflecting back in Alex’s eyes. Henry feels it too - it’s like they’ve gotten away with something entirely improbable yet entirely right. “I’d like to hear your toast, if you don’t mind?”
“Yes.” Alex straightens up, resting the bottle on his chinos for the time being. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he repeats, before pausing, biting his lip. Henry squeezes his hand, prompting a quiet smile in return. “I’m not the writer between us,” Alex continues, more sure in his words. “Written words don’t come to me as naturally as they do you. But speaking? That’s something I can do.
“We’ve spent the past year and a half together in some way, dealing with complicated feelings and sexual reckonings and a long-distance relationship and everything that entails. We’ve spent about ten months now properly being boyfriends. And even though that time has been marked with a scandal, an election, and fighting the Queen at least three times, I wouldn’t go back and change anything. Because at the end of the day, it’s ours.”
Alex pauses and chuckles. “You’ve made a sap of me, Wales, how dare you.”
If he keeps making those soft eyes, Henry is going to cry.
“The point is, I love you, much more than I thought possible. And if the past two days are any indication, I get to look forward to criticizing your taste in furniture and wringing out the sponge after you forget to for a long, long time to come.” He tips his head, smirking. “And your nasty habits are somehow only going to make me love you more.”
There’s an opening here for Henry to defend his dishwashing habits, but he doesn’t take it. There’s an opening here for Henry to make a speech of his own, to talk about how Alex is the steadying presence he’s always needed but never knew how to ask for, how he wants nothing more than to spend every day for the rest of his life picking up Alex’s stray socks, how he can’t remember a time when he was happier than he has been the past few days alone with him - but there will be a time and a place for that later.
Right now he can only speak the tear-lined truth, the only thing he’s ever known. “I love you too,” Henry says, praying to the stars that Alex understands. “Infathemably so.”
Alex smiles, bright and blinding even in the dim candlelight. “This is a toast-” he raises the bottle, pointing the end away from them as he pops the top- “to beginnings. To us.”