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The house was the first thing he bought with the sales from his first novel.
It had been immediately overwhelming, the speculative fiction community abuzz with excitement over his fantasy tale about the burgeoning relationship between a bard and a paladin in a fantastical setting riddled with cosmic horror. There had been interviews and awards and the inevitable question of what are you writing now? and when is it coming out?
He had worked on the book during university as a means of therapy, thrashing out the details of his own sexuality and the horror of the world in a way he could control. He had several hundred pages tucked away in the cloud by the time he graduated and spent nearly a month in Parisian cafes going over it. In between translation work and nightclub gigs, he slowly pared away until he had something to work with. Then he took the chance of posting some of it online, the right person saw it, and that had been the beginning of a path he’d never expected to tread.
His house is on a residential street in Bromley, a nice enough area while still close enough to take the train into London proper when needed. The reception room and dining area are spacious and bright. The kitchen could be larger but it pushes him to try more local restaurants. Upstairs is his bedroom, bathroom, and office. On top of it all is a loft room he uses as a music studio with more storage in the eaves than he could ever use. He cherishes all eighty-two square meters because they are his. He didn’t need his parents’ help past university to have a decent place to live and he clings to that independence with both hands.
“Argh. Come on. Off the countertop, please.” He’s trying to make a cuppa when his Maine coon, Madeleine, hops up, fluffy tail swishing. Having not heard him apparently, Joey gets his hands around her middle and drops her gently onto the tile. Seeing she’s not wanted, Madeleine skitters off upstairs in a brown blur. Joey goes into the garden and scowls.
He wishes it were bigger; maybe then he would put more time and energy into it. It’s only an upside down uppercase L with a gravel walk and cluster of flowers and herbs along the perimeter. He’s considered getting a table and set of chairs to place at the end outside the kitchen window but his mind is too flighty to add it to his mental task list. Maybe he should replace the gravel with grass? He finishes his tea and goes back inside, any garden redesign pushed off the hob completely.
As he washes out the mug, Joey considers the email that came in the previous afternoon. He’s written three books since the first: two to round out the bard and paladin trilogy and a standalone that had been well-received by critics but mostly ignored by fans of his fantasy novels. The literary world makes very little sense to him.
He had been approached about doing audiobooks of the bard trilogy several weeks earlier. Joey saw no problem in that. If anything, greater accessibility was a good thing all around. The problem, however, came in the form of the narrator that was being put forward.
Joey simply doesn’t have celebrity crushes. He pays so little attention to such things it had been with awkward bewilderment when actors and other artists reached out to voice their love of his work. When the name Henry Cavill appeared in the email, he had fallen down an internet rabbit hole and damned any chance of a decent night’s sleep.
His office is bare but for a desk, chair, lamp, and laptop. It's a workspace and as such it had been stripped back to allow focus and productivity to flourish. After reading the email, he had closed his laptop and leaned over to look down into the garden which glittered with fairy lights. Joey shook his head. He could remember fairy lights but not a bistro tables with a couple of chairs?
Regardless, what could Superman want with his fantasy trilogy? There was a very obvious, very deep bond between the male bard and the male paladin and sexual politics played a major role in the overall plot and setting. He had no idea what the paragon of heterosexual perfection would find in his writing.
‘Well,’ he thinks, wiping his hands on a fresh dish towel, ‘what could it hurt?’
(He hadn’t spent an hour the night before listening to a podcast interview just to hear how Henry sounded and imagined that smooth baritone wrapping around the character and place names in his novel.)
A month later and there’s another email in the narrator thread: the contract has been signed and Henry has questions. “Mostly about pronunciation,” the liaison says. Joey blinks and thinks. He had never considered that the trilogy might require a pronunciation guide; he took the Ursula K. Le Guin approach on that front and let the reader determine how things sounded. After setting a date and time for Henry to visit - “He’s very eager to meet and is willing to come to you” - Joey pulls out his copy of Faithful Song - he’s still rolling his eyes over that awful, bland title - and begins to make a phonetic list of how he imagines names and places are pronounced. By two PM the following Thursday, Joey has nearly forty words neatly typed up and printed out.
He folds the paper into quarters and sets it on the tea tray, tucking a corner under the plate of cakes he brought at his favorite bakery solely for the meeting. The kettle whistles on the hob just as three sharp knocks sound on the dark blue front door. Madeleine scurries upstairs at the disturbance.
Wiping his hands on a towel despite them being dry and taking the tray to the dining table, Joey finally walks with purpose to the front door. His palms are suddenly sweating.
“Bollocks!” he hisses, rubbing his hands on the thighs of his jeans before opening the door.
Surely there is no more beautiful smile in the world than Henry Cavill’s. The sun hits just right and lights his dark curls as if heaven itself is opening up to reclaim him. His clear blue eyes are half shut from his wide, blinding smile. It dims the longer Joey remains silent.
“This is the right place, isn’t it?” He takes a step back and scans the brown facade of Joey’s building before pulling the book from under his arm. “You do look like the bloke in the author’s photograph.”
Joey blinks hard. “Um. Yeah. That’s indeed me.”
The smile returns and only then does Joey notice the large dog sitting obediently next to the front door. Henry lowers the book and follows Joey’s gaze.
“Oh. I probably should have asked before coming over.” The dog stands, stout forelegs stretching across the cobblestones. He huffs and shakes out his thick coat. “This is Kal,” Henry introduces and the massive dog leans briefly against his master’s leg before stepping forward. “Is it okay if he comes in? If not, we can reschedule.”
Joey’s hand comes out immediately. Kal sniffs and licks and looks up at him with small, sparkling eyes so dark they might contain their own universe.
“No, it’s fine. I’m just sorry there isn’t much room for him to stretch out.”
“Do you have a rug?” Joey blinks then nods. “Then he’ll be fine.” Henry leans down to scratch Kal’s back and Joey can see the veins and muscle flex and shift in his exposed forearm.
Joey shrugs out of nervousness and steps aside. “Well, come in. Welcome and all that. I think I need to reheat the kettle so if you’ll follow me.”
Henry pauses as Joey continues on, glad he hasn’t put the water in the teapot yet. When Joey returns a few minutes later, Henry is still in the living room.
“Must be rather humble compared to yours. South Kensington, yeah?”
Henry tilts his head slightly. “This place is wonderful, though. I can feel you when I look at everything.” Joey sees him swallow hard. “Sorry. I’m really nervous. Faithful Song is one of my favorite novels and I want nothing more than to do it justice.”
Joey reels mentally at hearing Henry actually say it. “Well, that is… something. How about we really get into it over a cuppa? I’d hate to have to boil the water a third time.”
Henry laughs and Joey develops a fist right under his sternum. “Isn’t the third time always the charm?”
Henry’s reaction to eating one of the cakes can only be described as bordering on orgasmic. Joey clenches his hands on his thighs under the table, eyes trying to burn a hole into the tea pot.
“God, these are good. I’ve been working on my Geralt body so this is a lavish indulgence.”
He doesn’t finish the first cake immediately. He sets it down on the saucer and wipes his mouth. Joey notices how everything he does seems to be calculated, carefully performed lest someone find fault in him.
“I wish I had something for your dog.” Said dog is stretched out on the rug, so still one could mistake him for being dead.
Henry waves him away. “Kal’s fine. I try not to give him too many treats. He’s like me in that he’ll take a mile if you give him an inch.”
At his name being called, Kal lifts his big head and looks at them with intense, beady eyes.
They lapse into conversation over him, Joey curious about Henry’s private life and Henry always glad to talk about his constant companion so long as it takes the attention away from him for a minute.
When there’s an uncomfortable lull in which Henry takes up his half-eaten cake again, Joey plucks the folded paper from off the tray.
“Here are the pronunciations. I think I got everything but let me know if there’s anything missing.”
Henry chews slowly, brow furrowed. He swallows and wipes his mouth again. “I was hoping we could go over them.” He draws a notebook and pen from an inside pocket of his jacket and when he opens it, Joey can see pages filled with a steady scrawl.
“Oh.” Joey scratches a hand through his hair, nails digging into his scalp. “Sure.”
Henry laughs out of nervousness, tucking a chewed biro into the notebook before closing it. “I really want to get this right. I mean, I want to get every role I do right but there’s something about this - maybe because it’s my first book narration? - that has really gotten under my skin and I want to scratch the itch properly.” He presses his lips together and stares wide-eyed at spot on the table. “That sounded… weird.”
Joey watches him shut down in the ensuing silence, the light in his blue eyes dimming. It’s a look Joey knows all too well whenever he looks in a mirror.
“Not weird,” Joey says. “You’ve read some of the things I’ve written. Now, those are weird. Like, capital w Weird.”
Henry has a beautiful laugh and the light returns to those mismatched eyes. “Very true.” And then he launches into a discussion of some of his favorite Weird bits.
The tea and cakes have long been consumed by the time Henry unfolds the paper and starts to ask his many questions.
Joey requests snippets of the recording. “Whatever you feel okay with sending along,” he assures the producer and he sits at his desk in the dark listening to each one as they arrive over the next few days.
There is an intimacy in Henry’s voice that was absent in person and it slips across the strange words like cool water over stones. He brings something out that is hidden or locked away within the written word. A frisson of pleasure sizzles along his spine when Henry trips up. There’s a huff of irritation followed by laughter at something the producer says outside Joey’s range of hearing.
“Yeah, well,” Henry says, “Let’s go again.” He recites the word three times, slow and with his entire mouth, before the snippet ends.
Joey closes his laptop and stares into the dark of his garden. He startles at the brush of something against his leg. Looking down, the shining layer of Mads’ eyes shifts. Scooping her up, he scratches the ruff of her neck.
“Think I’m losing my mind, milady.”
She had never come downstairs while Henry was over, which probably had to do with Kal snooping around when he wasn’t sprawled languidly on the rug. Now, however, she seems amiable to his company.
He takes a deep breath. The air of his office is stale but instead of setting Mads down to crack open the window, he takes them both downstairs.
The night is deliciously cool. There’s the scent of a far-off fire on the slight breeze and the sound of cars but occasionally it lapses into something nearing silence. Mads leaps from his arms and onto the gravel walk with a soft crunch. He watches her tail sibilate as she creeps along. ‘Silent hunter,’ he thinks although it’s been some time since he’s found the gift of a bloodied mouse on the back step.
Something flickers at the edge of his vision and he steps to the side, a knee jerk reaction. The shrub is disturbed by the fluttering of wings before falling still and silent. Leaning in, he can barely make out the wonky skull on the moth’s back. It's much larger than any moth he's seen before so he doesn't need to lean in too close to study it.
“Oh. I know what this is called.” He’s made a lifelong habit of filing away information that doesn’t matter. “Um. Death’s head moth. Something like that.”
He stares in wonder until it finally flutters off.
When he can’t sleep that night, he blinds himself with his phone screen. He’s curious as to the proper name of the moth in his garden.
“Acherontia Atropos,” he reads out slowly. Scrolling down, he sees a movie poster. “Ah, right. That… slasher, I guess is what you’d call it. Thriller?” He turns off the screen and his room is plunged into darkness. Mads shifts beside his head on the pillow and he falls asleep wondering about the mating patterns of a goddamn moth.
A week later, an email shows up in Joey’s inbox. This isn’t unusual, of course, but the name of the sender makes his heart slam in his chest.
Henry gushes. It’s the only way Joey can describe it. In thousands of words, he dissects Faithful Song as a diehard fan and Joey can’t help but think of the novel’s weak spots as Henry glorifies its strongest moments.
“I know I was being a ridiculous fanboy when we met but I would like to have a serious, honest discussion and see what you think of my reading.”
Joey leans back in his chair. He has yet to listen to the finished production. It’s nearly fifteen hours long and he’s not sure he can handle listening to Henry speak directly into his ears for so long.
“Would you like to have dinner?”
Joey rubs the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Please, let me know either way. It’s fine if you’d rather keep this professional.”
He signs it “all the best, Henry.” Of course he does. Joey can hear it curling so sweetly in his ears. He can imagine Henry’s crooked teeth on his lobe, his lips brushing the shell-like curve.
Joey opens the browser and searches for a bistro table and a set of matching chairs.
“What do you think?”
Mads jumps up onto the table. At least it isn’t uneven, set as it is in the gravel. He might have to look into putting in grass after all. He’d like to come out here barefooted, curl his toes into grass grown long from rain. Mads’ tail curls around her body and she burbles, her bright eyes following something behind Joey.
“I suppose it doesn’t look too bad.”
The dark chocolatey metal is offset by a bright blue mosaic on the tabletop. When Joey sets a hand on its surface to feel how smooth the design is, Mads bats at his fingers with a large paw.
“Madeleine,” he says softly. She meows. “I think I want to have dinner out here with Henry. I think that would be a lovely way to break it in.” Mads lifts her paw off his hand and begins to groom it, sharp teeth pulling at her claws. The corner of Joey’s lips lift. “I’ll take that to mean it’s a great idea, which it is.”
When he sits down at his desk that night, he apologizes for not replying sooner. “Let me know a day and a time that works for you. Mads and I would love to have you and Kal over again.”
His phone chimes as he’s getting ready for bed. “Does she actually exist?” the email reads. “I think this ‘Mads’ might be a character from whatever you’re working on.”
They spend an hour going back and forth until Henry asks for his number - “texting might be easier?” - and the anxiety that has always lapped against the shore of his life comes more quickly.
Before it can pull away completely, indicative of an incoming tsunami, Joey types in his number. Seconds later, he receives a text.
“Hello, famous poet.”
Henry comes over on a Thursday, loyal Kal at his heels. Mads watches warily from the stairs, tail flicking with maddening curiosity. Kal locks his dark eyes on her but makes no move when Henry calmly draws his attention away. He’s holding a bottle of very good wine, despite Joey telling him he didn’t need to bring anything.
“My mum would find out somehow and there would be hell to pay.”
When he leans in, Joey can smell his cologne and the detergent he uses on his clothes, whatever product he used to manage his curls and bring out their mahogany shine. He can’t help his eyes slipping shut, his mind wandering into this labyrinth to find the redolent minotaur. Curling a hand around the bottle, he steps aside to allow them entrance.
Henry breaths in deeply, his broad chest rising and falling before he makes a pleased sound. “It smells incredible in here.”
“I was never much of a cook before I moved here but it’s become one of my biggest hobbies, actually. I have to feed myself so I might as well do it properly, you know?”
Joey’s read enough about Henry to know that he knows.
“I enjoy cooking when I have the time but so much of it is meal prep of the same thing, just to get me through the long days on set.”
Joey imagines a massive kitchen, stuffed with top of the line appliances and cookbooks and tiny jars of every kind of spice. He imagines sitting at a table that can hold a dozen guests but it’s just the two of them. Henry pours the wine - same bottle, he was in France and liked it enough to send home a case - and their eyes meet and Joey knows that he’s wanted just as much as he wants Henry. ‘Fuck the food,’ he’d think.
“…and building muscle,” Henry continues and Joey nearly drops the bottle when he realizes Henry hadn’t stopped talking during his fantasy. “People don’t realize how hard it can be to keep this up.” He motions along his body and Joey can’t help but follow with his eyes. “But enough of that. I’d love to get whatever you’re cooking into my mouth.”
Joey does drop the bottle then. It thunks loudly at the very edge of a rug and lays across the toe of his shoe.
“Shit,” he hisses, scooping it up and checking for leaks. “Sorry about that.” He hugs the bottle against his chest and takes a deep breath. “Just nervous, I guess.”
Henry’s brow furrows and Joey knows what he’s thinking: ‘It’s because of me, isn’t it?’
“Come on, let’s open this,” he tries instead, biting his tongue against reassuring Henry. It’s too early in the evening to start babbling.
They have their first glass in the kitchen so Joey can keep an eye on the roast.
“It’s not Sunday,” Henry points out.
Joey scowls back at him before he pulls out the dutch oven and sets it on the counter to allow the meat to rest.
“I haven’t made one in ages and it just sounded good. I tried an unorthodox spice blend so let’s hope Albion or whatever doesn’t come down from the clouds and strike me dead.”
Henry’s laugh is as rich as the wine. He sets his empty glass on the counter, reaching close to Joey. Their arms brush and he trembles slightly.
“Should I set the table?” Henry asks as he straightens, his eyes looking around at the cabinets.
“Oh. It’s such a nice night I thought we’d eat out in the garden. Should be nice despite how small it is. Must be a postage stamp compared to yours.”
“I live in a mews. Isn’t much space for a garden, I’m afraid.”
Joey isn’t sure why this makes him sad but it does. Then he realizes that Henry must not be home enough to really notice that he doesn’t have a patch of greenery and quiet amidst the madness of Central London.
They argue over whoever takes the roast out. Henry wins because of “guest privileges” even if Joey points out that’s not a thing.
Joey waits for him to take his first bite, trying not to think about the thigh pressed against his under the inadequate table.
Henry’s eyelids flutter dramatically and his lips press into a tight line as he chews, the barest hint of juice glistening at the pink seam.
“Oh, that’s exquisite.” He cracks open an eye as he swallows. “Well, go on. You should get to enjoy the fruits of your labor, so to speak.”
Joey picks up his fork. “Yes, I’ve been laboring over this piece of meat all bloody day.” He takes a bite and sinks into bliss. “Okay, yeah, I really needed this.”
Wine-rich laughter again. Joey never wants to hear anything else. Maybe Henry reading every single word he's written.
There’s a soft whine and he looks down at Kal who sits uncomfortably on the gravel. ‘Definitely need to lay down grass.’ Joey leaps up without a word and pops inside for a blanket. Mads makes her great escape then, slipping between his legs and nearly tripping him in the process.
“Bleeding cat,” he hisses.
Blanket bundled against his chest, he goes back out and catches Henry saying, “So you are real. Huh.”
Mads is on the table, somehow keeping out of the dishes, and pressing her head into Henry’s hand. Her front legs lift off the blue mosaic. Kal is panting and whining at Henry’s feet but neither guest nor cat pay him much mind.
“Come on,” Joey prods softly and folds the blanket in half before lying it down next to the table. Once he’s situated again, Kal licks Joey’s hand. Joey rotates his hand and chances carding his fingers through Kal’s thick coat. It’s strange, each man lost in a moment with the other’s mammalian companion. Maybe it’s an image for a future book.
Mads jumps down when she has enough, swishing past the dog without giving him a second’s attention. Joey goes to let her back in, knowing she won’t want out until morning. He takes a deep breath and wipes his hands on the thighs of his slacks. Pausing by the bush where the moth alighted, he tries to calm his trembling heart.
“That was kind of you.” Henry nods to Kal’s impromptu bed.
“I’ve been thinking of putting grass in for a while now. I think Kal’s given me a second opinion on that front.”
“Do you spend a lot of time out here?” Henry’s mouth is hidden by his glass. Joey thinks briefly of his pink, plush lips shiny with juice from the roast.
“Not really? I mean, I only just bought this table and chair, which don’t make for a great dinner experience.”
“I know what you mean.” Henry finishes his glass in one go and sets it down, fine fingers caressing the stem. “It’s a bit small for two full-grown lads but I don’t mind the closeness. Actually,” he bites his lip and Joey feels the waves of his anxiety pulling away from shore in a sickening rush, “I don’t know if you’ve listened to the book yet-“
“I have,” Joey interrupts. “It was… perfect. Everything I imagined, really. It’s like you breathed life into this strange little world I created in my head as a way to cope with my life.”
“About that.”
“Oh?” Joey fills his glass slowly, watching the last drops dribble out like fresh blood.
“I cannot tell you what it means to me, being able to do the audiobook, especially as my first dip in the medium.” Henry clears his throat and shifts in his seat, which only pushes their legs together more. “I already told you that, didn't I? Well, I went years feeling lost about my… feelings. I… hmm. Your books, especially Faithful Song, were very illuminating for me.”
Joey knows Henry is talking about the very obvious but mostly skirted around romantic feelings the bard and paladin have for each other. He had explored it further in the sequels but even he feels they didn’t quite live up to the buildup in the first novel.
“I think I should have left it ambiguous between them.”
Henry’s fingertips on the back of his wrist are lightning and the thumb flirting along the back of his hand makes him gasp.
“Sometimes pining is good. Not every relationship in life needs to be fulfilled or we’d never have time for ourselves or the relationships that matter, that could be more.”
Joey hates how eloquent Henry can be. He’s the wordsmith; he should be coming up with things to make the blood rise in Henry’s cheeks, not the other way around.
He turns his arm over, the polished tiles of the tabletop rubbing against his skin. Henry keeps his fingers on him, tracing a vein to the flutter of his pulse at the wrist. He taps it, a steady rhythm with his index finger, as he leans forward.
It’s truly the best kiss of Joey’s life, first or otherwise. Henry’s lips are soft and his mouth tastes of wine and spices, of his own laughter. Joey’s hand twists into his curls to hold him in place and Henry makes a pleased sound low in his throat. The skin stretched across his nape is hot when Joey cups his palm against it and even when they part they’re sharing breath. Joey jumps when strong hands come around his thighs and hold him in place, squeezing and releasing until his breathing evens out.
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Henry whispers.
The fairy lights above them twinkle and Kal yawns, resting his great head on his stretched out legs. Mads grooms herself in the kitchen window, watching over this charming tableau.
The city stills around them for a moment, things flutter amidst the herbs and shrubs.
“You’d make a good paladin, you know.”
Henry purses his lips. “I could see you as a bard, if you were into music.”
“Actually…”