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As the night wore on, Trent concluded the final chore of storing the dishes and wiping down the countertops. He exhaled with a mixture of fatigue and satisfaction as he cinched the silk robe around his body, readying himself to ascend the stairs and join his husband in their bedroom. Olivia was away, spending time with her friends and indulging in their customary spring-break slumber party for the night, while Henry had returned home for a brief visit before departing to Tennessee for university. The days were at their most brilliant when both children were present in the Crimm-Lasso household, but they always felt too abbreviated.
At the precise moment when Trent was poised to turn off all the lights, he was startled by the sight of Henry, who was stooped over the dining room table, with only the tenuous gleam of his laptop providing any illumination. Trent's eyes widened, under the impression that Henry had long since dozed off, unaware of his presence the entirety of the past hour.
"Henry, my darling," Trent exhaled, flicking the switch to activate the modest pendant light above the dining room table, "you're going to strain your eyes, in that manner. Turn on the light, please.”
"Sorry, mom," Henry muttered and Trent scoffs, his gaze still visibly fixated on the computer screen. Trent observed the emergence of bags beneath Henry's eyes, indicating that he had been engrossed in his work for an extended period. If Henry were fortunate, he could avoid the need for corrective eyewear, such as the glasses Trent was presently adjusting on the bridge of his nose.
Trent heaves a deep sigh, sauntering over to his designated seat next to Henry without any inquiry. He scrutinizes the empty document before shifting his gaze to Henry, who remains transfixed on the stark, white screen. "So, you've been sitting here...gazing at a blank page?" he inquired.
"It's..." Henry endeavors to articulate his thoughts, but eventually succumbs to a groan of weariness, slamming his head back against the rigid surface. Trent winces, running a finger through his son's tresses.
“It’s like that, huh?”
Henry swivels his head to peer up at Trent, his lips pursed and his eyes glazed with complete exasperation. Although Trent hadn't known Henry for a considerable amount of time in his life, he had come to realize how much they were alike; both were obstinate perfectionists, disinclined to settle for anything less than excellence. They were both loath to sleep off their vexation without resolving it. Trent yearned for Henry to adopt this same philosophy because he knew he wouldn't be able to rest until Henry had concluded his current pursuit for…whatever this might be.
"Talk to me, Henry. What's the matter?" Trent utters in a monotone voice, and Henry glances up and sighs.
"I'm twenty years old and struggling with a predicament because how in the hell am I supposed to approach this? A literary evaluation of the American Declaration of Independence and a comparison to other declarations? It's difficult to research any deeper into that. And, of course, Professor Cory-"
"Is that his name?" Trent chuckled.
"-never lets us to select our own topics, and if it were up to me, I would have chosen the western influence of scientific evolution, not whatever the hell this is.”
“When is it due?”
“Not until a few weeks after we get back,” Henry replies, “but I could really use your help while I’m here.”
Trent clicks his tongue, peering at Henry's ranting with annoyance. "Yes, it can be a daunting subject. But remember, the key is to concentrate on a specific aspect of the documents and scrutinize it in detail. What's your thesis?"
"I haven't quite started that yet, as you can see," Henry muttered, "I've been tryin’ to get some good resources I could locate in the school’s digital library. To be fair, there isn't much because no one has done this before."
"Well, that's where you need to commence," Trent starts, tapping his fingers against the table, "Let's contemplate about what you want to articulate when introducing the overall notion of the declaration. What's your contention? What's your viewpoint on why it's significant?"
"Why can't I be as smart as you?" Henry wailed, flinging himself onto Trent's shoulder, "you went to Oxford..."
"Indeed, and ironically, I didn't necessarily cover any of this side of our history," Trent quips, bringing a hand to caress the side of Henry's face. Henry chuckles faintly at Trent's remark, partially muffled against the silk fabric of his robe, "and Vanderbilt is tough, not necessarily the most accessible school to be admitted into."
"Right, right, this is a bit embarrassing," Henry says with some amusement, "asking my Brit dad for help with U.S. history."
Trent raises his eyebrows, "If it makes you feel any better, history has never been my forte. Too ambiguous, too many hypotheses. I would tell you what I enjoy, but as if it weren't evident."
English and writing were two interrelated subjects that Trent cherished. They had flourished with him unceasingly throughout his academic trajectory and beyond, as evidenced by his work at The Independent, and his book for Richmond, among others. These were subjects where no constraints held him back, where there were no right or wrong answers, and where boundaries could be transcended. He could mold and shape anything to suit his mind. However, he had observed that Henry was more meticulous and appreciated it when the answer was unambiguous and could be substantiated. After all, he recalled how endearing it was when Ted informed him that Henry was an ace for his middle school's mathematics team.
Henry was exceedingly intelligent, all the Lasso boys were, whether he acknowledged it or not, and Trent would persistently remind him of it. Vanderbilt had been his aspiration since he was eight years old, for reasons that Ted could not recollect, and he was overjoyed on the day of his acceptance.
“Now, Henry, let’s focus, babe.” Trent sighs, “it’s late and I know you’re miserably tired from working with your father earlier on.”
Henry groans in frustration, but heaves a sigh as he continues to discern some semblance in his thoughts. Trent had mentioned how the declaration itself was a butterfly effect that led to the French Revolution. Henry had managed to produce some paragraphs when Trent elucidated the vague similarities between the declaration and foreign peace treaties, as well as other declarations. The irony of it all was not lost on Trent, who was not American, but the revolution was such an abhorrent topic among several countries that he found it hard not to pick up on the information.
Henry continues to work independently, scrutinizing world leaders and the American "higher-ups" of the congress, and how their interactions and foreign affairs might have influenced the development of their own documents and writings. Henry suggests watching Hamilton, but Trent dismisses him with a laugh, reminding him to focus on the task at hand.
They are about seven paragraphs deep, when Trent feels himself drifting off to sleep as Henry continues typing away. Henry glances back to see Trent leaning into the palm of his hand, his eyes closing. Henry chuckles and looks back at the laptop, no longer empty, but filled with specks of black across each line, all thanks to Trent's peculiar knowledge of the American declaration. Henry is grateful that his father had introduced him to someone as sophisticated and resolute as Trent.
Henry nudges Trent, having closed his laptop and deciding to retire for the night, "Dad...can we go to bed?"
"Henry," Trent groans, his eyes heavy and bloodshot, "have you finished?"
Henry gives him a weary smile and leans on Trent's shoulder, "’m good for now, you got me far enough."
Trent yawns, and neither he nor Henry shift. Fortunately, the cushioned seats in the dining room prevented any immediate discomfort. Henry feels himself drifting off, his head brushing against the loose curls of his father's hair, and Trent finally comes to rest on top of Henry's resting head. Although he would have preferred to be in bed with Ted hours ago, Trent is not complaining about the alternative comfort of his son. His son, his darling boy.
"Yale," Trent murmurs, before losing consciousness.
"Mm?" Henry murmurs, emitting an incoherent questioning noise, his brows furrowing above his already closed eyes.
"I studied at Yale for a year. It was part of the study abroad program they had in Oxford, similar to the ones here," Trent elucidates, and Henry merely acknowledges it with a hum before they both slump in the dining room.
“Wow,” Henry exhales, “you know, amongst other things, I’m sure glad that dad got someone to confide in in things like these. Even though this certainly isn’t the first time you’ve had to help me with this kind of stuff…maybe the first time this late but,”
“You think so?” Trent says flatly.
“Not only are you a voice of reason and almost like a humanoid library, but also…a pretty good resting spot, and just pretty awesome. But I don’t need to tell you twice.”
“No, you don’t, my dear.”
Trent falls asleep with a slight smile on his lips.
Upon rousing from his sleep, Trent is initially struck by the excruciating pain that runs throughout his neck and body. The notion of the intimate sleeping arrangement was charming, but Trent must bear in mind that he is no longer youthful. Secondly, Henry continues to emit soft snores on Trent's shoulder, seemingly unperturbed by the discomfort of their position. Lastly, the aroma of brewing coffee and breakfast wafting from the kitchen sends hunger pangs throughout Trent's body.
Trent's eyes appear lighter, yet it requires a moment to adapt to the amplified morning light. Across the room, he observes Ted peering through the doorway that links the dining room and kitchen. Ted is grinning at Trent, evidently reveling in the sight.
Trent acknowledges him with a gentle smile. Ted silently approaches Trent and tenderly places a small kiss on his forehead in a "good morning, missed you" kiss.
“Good mornin’, sweetheart,” Ted chuckled, “I was wonderin’ why the bed felt so cold. Figured you had just gotten an early start to the day.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t sleep out of fear your son would tear hairs out over this essay he has going,” Trent groans, hissing in pain as he tries to stretch his neck.
Ted ran his thumb across Trent’s cheek, “You’re a superstar, honey. Bet there’s nothing you can’t do.”
“Trust me,” Trent exhales, “there’s plenty of things I can’t do.”
“Maybe,” Ted smiled, “but being the best dad isn’t one of them.”
Trent offers a tender smile towards his husband. It is not until moments later when Henry begins to stir, and peers up at Trent and Ted with bleary eyes. He reclines with a groan, extending his aching limbs after enduring hours of an uncomfortable position.
"This is kinda embarrassing," he remarks upon realizing that both his parents are gazing down upon him with affection.
Trent grins, brushing back Henry's curls and placing a soft kiss onto his temple, "It was adorable. But, for the sake of my age, please don’t do this again."
Henry chuckles heartily, and they proceed to join Ted in the kitchen.