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“What is that you’re eating?”
Alex looks up from his phone like a deer caught in the headlights, teeth still biting down on his breakfast. His eyes dart to the stove and back to Henry while he chews slowly, methodically, buying time. Henry raises his stupidly arched eyebrow as if he were chastising a child; the look would be a lot more dignified and intimidating if he wasn’t wearing an oversized Queen tee half-tucked into tiny running shorts, but Alex would be a fool to discourage Henry’s casual dress. After fifteen seconds of scorching eye contact accompanied by the dated reggaeton playing from his phone, he casually responds, “Food.”
“Alex,” Henry grumbles.
Alex takes another bite to annoy him, crumbs cascading to the floor. “Yeah?”
“We’re really doing this?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex huffs through a mouthful.
Henry strides over to the pot on the stove and gestures to it with his hand before pointing to the bread toasting in a pan. “The hypocrisy is staggering.”
Alex pointedly looks away like David does when he refuses to acknowledge his crimes.
Henry splutters, “Beans on toast! You’re eating bloody beans on toast.”
“Nooo,” Alex crows, standing up taller. “I’m eating a mollete.”
Henry points as he hisses, “You’re eating beans. On toasted bread. For breakfast.”
Alex makes a sound like a buzzer; his shit-eating grin finally makes its inevitable appearance. “Wrong! It’s a mollete. Get it fucking right.”
“What difference does the name make when the ingredients – “
“Excuse me but whose people are the bean experts? Not the fucking English, babe. My people.”
Henry shakes his head, flabbergasted. “Years of abuse from you about baked beans – “
Alex loftily interrupts, “The bean council hereby discredits any culture that makes their fucking beans with ketchup – “
“As I recall, ketchup is the main ingredient in barbeque sauce," Henry retaliates. “Of the two of us, who has made himself sick from eating several servings of barbeque beans?”
He gasps, “Low blow, asshole.”
Alex’s eyes narrow while his mouth twitches into an impressed smirk. He chooses not to say anything and instead nudges Henry over with his hip, slides the toasted bolillo roll onto his plate and makes a show of stirring the simmering pot of refried beans before ladling a hefty amount onto the bread and spreading it. He sprinkles a handful of shredded cheese over top, letting it melt while he slices another bolillo for Henry.
“I made my pico too spicy for you so you get a whole new batch for your delicate sensibilities, white boy.”
While Alex grabs produce from the fridge, Henry cleans off their kitchen island so they can sit down together.
“I still can’t believe you, you know,” Henry huffs, sitting on a barstool out of the way.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep cryin’ about it. In like five minutes you’ll be crying from how superior this is to your English ‘cuisine’.” Alex chops vegetables dutifully, dropping kisses on Henry’s forehead any time he rounds the island.
True to his word, breakfast is ready in less than five minutes. Crumbs scatter on plates, beans and pico de gallo plop down from their carbohydrate vessel, and Alex smirks when Henry stifles a moan when he gets a well-proportioned bite in the middle.
Alex licks his fingers and says, “You do know I’m still gonna be an ass about beans on toast. Like this doesn’t change a thing. I’m culturally obligated.”
“Fine, but you’ll never hear the end of it when you eat barbeque beans.”
Alex glares and stabs a finger into Henry’s chest. “Don’t you dare say a word against Franklin. That’s grounds for divorce.”
“Never, dear. I’d never insult an institution, only you.”
Alex flails out of his barstool, pulls Henry into a headlock, and sucks his pinky into his mouth while Henry struggles. His head tries to duck away, but he can’t stop laughing for long enough to actually put up a fight.
“Alex, that’s vile!” he cries between disbelieving cackles. “I thought this was only a bit in eighties films!”
Alex’s grin is manic when he moves his pinky closer to Henry’s ear, wiggling it threateningly. “It’s very real, baby. Now choose: wet willy or a noogie for your crimes against American culture.”
“I did not insult Franklin, you lunatic!”
“It’s me,” Alex proclaims dramatically, “I’m the American culture.”
Henry hooks a leg around Alex’s ankle and carefully takes them both to the ground. Alex looks shocked and impressed for half a second before they continue wrestling on the kitchen floor, playing dirty and filling the room with laughter and cursing in equal measure.
David ends up being their saving grace when he pounces on Henry’s softening belly to play and abandons them when they separate for his safety to sniff for scraps. They catch their breath while they sit with their backs against the island – still poking, flicking, pinching each other and giggling.
Alex’s head lazily droops onto Henry’s shoulder, and while quietly tracing the veins on the back of Henry’s hand with a finger, he asks, “Is this how you imagined it growing up?”
“Hm?”
“Being in love. Being married. All that jazz.”
Henry smiles gently, turning over his hand to trace the rings that mean everything to him. “My imagination is rather lacking compared to reality.”
“Well shit, man. Keep talking like that and people will think you like me or somethin’.”
Henry grins and pulls Alex closer. “Maybe that’d finally set the tabloids straight.”
“Fat fuckin’ chance,” Alex snorts. “But like, I wouldn’t be opposed if you started making out with me whenever we get papped.”
“So self-sacrificing,” Henry murmurs as he closes the distance between them, pecking near Alex’s lips to tease him.
“Practically a martyr,” he breathes when Henry pulls off his shirt. “For the record, I like like you. It’s why I yank on your pigtails.”
“Charming.”
“I’m your problem now.”
Henry cuts through all his bullshit and sincerely replies, “I love you too.”