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“Are you filming me?”
Alex lifts his eyes from the gift in his hands, a scowl between his brows. Henry smiles behind his phone and looks above it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You fucking are.” Alex squeezes the half-ripped wrapping paper between his fingers, suddenly unwilling to unwrap the rest of the gift. “What is it?” he asks, trying to shake the box and see if he can hear anything. If it’s a fucking jumpscare, someone’s getting murdered. “You’re gonna put it on fucking Instagram and embarrass me, aren’t you? It’s gonna jump at my face and you’re gonna make fun of me.”
Henry rolls his eyes, but his smirk is still there and Alex does not like the look of it. “Just open the box, love,” he prompts, sitting down on the arm of the couch. Alex narrows his eyes. “I promise it’s not a jumpscare.”
“It’s a stuffed turkey, isn’t it?” Alex says this time. Henry shoots an unimpressed look at him.
“I’m not quite that uncreative.”
“Fucker.”
“Alex.” There’s a tinge of exasperation in his voice and for the sake of Christmas spirit Alex decides not to push it. He keeps glaring at Henry, but he does rip the rest of the paper off, letting it drop to the floor before he turns to the box. There isn’t even a goddamn logo on the surface.
Alex’s eye ticks. “I’ll have you know,” he says, peeling the tape off the box carefully, “if we were in the White House, Cash would’ve raised all hell at a box like this.”
“Serves you well, for sending me Ellen’s campaign buttons.” Alex stops just to glare at him for a second.
“Jesus fucking Christ, that was three years ago.” Henry arches a brow and Alex makes a face. “Whatever. It was fucking worth it. And you fucking know Shaan found it funny in hindsight…” Alex’s voice trails off when he pushes the box open. For fucking once, he has to give it to Henry, as much as he hates it. It’s not a jumpscare. It’s not a stuffed turkey, not even a gobble in sight. The box is filled with familiar star confetti in all colors of the rainbow, red and yellow and blue and black, and there are six pieces of paper placed carefully in the middle. Alex doesn’t even need to read the goddamn fine print to know what they are. To know what it means.
“You…” he chokes out, looking up to meet Henry’s eyes. There’s a brilliant smile on his face. “You said Ticketmaster kicked you out of the queue. You said you couldn’t…”
“Well.” Henry joins him on the floor, the phone still steady in his hands even though he only has eyes for Alex. “I may have lied just a little bit.”
Alex stares. “What?”
“Ticketmaster did kick me out, but I rejoined. I managed to get all six of us floor tickets.” Henry smiles, dropping the phone just a little bit so he can meet Alex’s eyes properly. “Merry Christmas, love.” There’s that smile again, the smile that brightens Alex’s entire world, and then there are the tickets, six goddamn tickets to Taylor Swift when Alex thought it was a lost cause—presidential influence doesn’t count for much when Alex felt fucking horrible for even thinking about it. Suddenly, his childhood heart beats at the rhythm of Tim McGraw against his ribs, the words echoing through the Texas home as Oscar danced with Ellen, as June threw a pillow at Alex’s face when he sang off-tune, as Ellen pulled Alex to his feet and into the dance, a moment of normalcy on a Christmas day among the rush of politics and the demands of their jobs. The one moment they got to be a family and all that mattered was each other, and it was Taylor Swift playing on the radio, singing the tune of their hearts, of a family brought together with one goddamn song that means everything to a bright-eyed boy who was just learning the ropes of the world.
Alex had pretended it was nothing. It didn’t matter that he bought every single Taylor Swift album when they came out or forced them upon Henry on every single road trip until she memorized all the songs with him. It didn’t matter that she was his safe space—her songs always there to catch him whenever he needed it, always there to wrap around him at his lowest moments and highest moments. It didn’t matter, he told Henry—he spent two fucking months pretending it didn’t matter until he started to believe it, until the ache of not having that golden ticket didn’t hurt anymore. And yet…
“You fucker,” Alex chokes out, squeezing the tickets between his hands. “I can’t fucking believe you let me believe—” A sob threatens to escape but Alex bites it back, focusing on his anger so he doesn’t have to turn into a crying mess on camera. “I fucking hate you.”
Henry smiles, reaching forward to wipe Alex’s eyes. “Sure, love.”
“I hate you.” Alex presses the tickets over his heart and reaches with his free hand so he can hold Henry’s t-shirt. He barely notices that the phone is gone. “You’re horrible.”
“I’m sure I am.”
“The absolute fucking worst.” He meets Henry’s eyes, and then pulls him down into a kiss, lips slotting together so goddamn perfectly in their familiarity it feels like a miracle. Another tune plays in the background, a familiar one that fills him with a kind of love he hasn’t felt with anyone else. A love, golden like daylight.
He's not even mad when he sees the video on Instagram the next day. It feels right.