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“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of his and mine are the same. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger
—Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
Alex wakes up suddenly. It’s halfway between midnight and the wee hours that creep toward grey golden dawns that bring the likes of Mr. Darcys and, “your hands are cold.”
Henry is fast asleep, face angled towards him; tawny hair’s a mess over his eyes. The softest of snores escapes lips half open despite all his protests that ‘princes doesn’t snore.’ Alex smiles.
Steadily, Henry’s chest moves up then down, up then down, up…….
Somewhere along the way Alex loses this train of thought. Strange that this moment belongs only to him. Strange but good.
No one else needs to see the way Henry smiles in his sleep, the way his eyebrows soften, the way that makes him look at least four years younger when it smooths out the faintest of wrinkles there, the way his face flushes just there at the rise of his cheeks, the way…God, the way that no matter how, when, or where they sleep, his left hand ends up outstretched towards Alex—always Alex.
Outside, crickets chirp insistently. Maybe they’re in conversation with the moon whose silver belly protrudes against the night sky. Stars twinkle in the backcountry, casting their light over pine trees.
Henry stirs in his sleep—scrunches his face up.
Alex holds his breath unsure of whether or not he needs to wake him.
This moment is all his.
He wants to be selfish with it. He needs to hold on a little longer to the image of this Henry: relaxed, edges smoothed, trusting, and in a shirt that belongs to Alex that he’ll keep stealing until he lets him call it his own.
A soft gasp escapes Henry’s lips and Alex can’t help it when his hand comes up to rest against his chest. Gently he rubs up and down.
It’s always been hard to tell when Henry’s dreaming or having a nightmare. Because while he has had his fair share of waking up screaming moments, the other man more tends to be quiet. Like he’s been told before his voice doesn’t matter.
Where Alex’s hand rests against his boyfriend’s chest it’s warm. Every so often his thumb glides up and down in this terribly soothing motion, just near Henry’s collarbone. Henry’s face isn’t scrunched up anymore.
After a while he shifts again, breathes out, the word, “Alex,” somewhere inbetween waking up and catching the other’s hand in his.
“Hi baby.” Alex brushes some of Henry’s hair out of his eyes when he says it.
“Alex.” Henry repeats. And he says it slowly like he’s feeling his way around the name. Like he’s not quite all there in the land of the fully conscious yet.
His voice is dry from lack of use. He’s blinking rapidly too. Adorably, like an owl. There’s definitely confusion there in his eyes and he says it again. Alex. This time his arms reach out for him, pulling. There are fingers brushing down Alex’s side. Their absence leaves a chill.
Something bony but soft sinks into the dip of Alex’s lumbar spine; he imagines an entanglement of pale, thin, pianist fingers interlocking, grasping at his waist—the jut of Henry’s thumb poking him when he moves to do this. Hands settle against his back and Henry’s arms touch Alex’s sides. His shoulders cover his, and he may not know what’s happening right now but Alex feels so loved. Without a word, Henry tucks his chin into his shoulder. Finally he says, “I dreamt of you.”
“Was it a good dream?” Alex whispers(his breath brushes against Henry's ear).
“Yes…”
For a moment there’s just the sounds of crickets chirping outside.
Henry’s word hangs in the air and it’s not difficult to know that there’s much that isn’t being said aloud. He slips down in Alex’s arms until his head lays against his chest. Alex brings one arm up around his shoulders and moves the other to card his hand through Henry’s hair.
They don’t say anything for such a long time. Henry’s breathing in too slowly and deeply for him to actually be asleep. There’s a growing wet spot on Alex’s shirt just beneath Henry’s head which turns away from him.
“Henry—”
Alex trails off, trying to find the right words. “What is it then? What’s wrong?”
Silence.
Instead of answering Henry loops his arms about Alex’s neck and buries his face in the crook that sometimes feels as if it were made special for one Henry Fox. He breathes in this shaky breath that tickles his collarbone.
“It’s silly.”
“Hey,” Alex loosens the other man’s hold and tilts his chin up so they can see each other, “you’re upset. That’s not silly.”
“But that’s it, I’m not upset.”
“No?”
“No,” Henry exhales, “I just—Well I love you so much it hurts sometimes.”
Oh.
Oh.
This must be what Henry feels when Alex calls him baby.
Faintly, he hopes his heart isn’t actually swelling in his chest. That would be bad right?
They love eachother.
Have said it often enough.
To be reminded of it like this in the middle of the night, with Henry in his arms and practically shaking from it, is different. It’s tender and unexpected. It’s got him bringing up a hand to cup Henry’s face to let him know that he could never think anything he felt was silly. “Whatever you feel matters to me. Always Henry,” Alex says gently.
“I know, I know.” Henry says and then adds seriously, “I know, thank you darling.”
“Come here baby,” Alex murmurs and shifts back toward the headboard, pulling Henry with him; they melt into each other.
“You don’t have to say anything but I’ve got the feeling there’s more to this. Am I right?”
Henry freezes and then nods against Alex’s chest. What he says next doesn’t surprise Alex.
“I don’t, I—”
Henry struggles to get the words out and Alex strokes his back soothingly.
“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t.” Henry says at last, voice cracking a little.
And instead of saying something unhelpful (because he’s learned), Alex says, “one of those dreams then?”
“Yeah.” Henry laughs and if it’s a little wet neither one of them are going to say a word.
“I’m sorry sweetheart.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault. Not anyone’s, really.”
“Stil—”
“Shhh, it’s alright love” says Henry and Alex rolls his eyes at his boyfriends attempt to soothe him
“Really Henry.” Alex admonishes.
Henry doesn’t answer. He’s tracing patterns on Alex’s chest. He looks up eventually though and catches the look of concern on Alex’s face and his face softens and he looks so much younger.
“I do.” He says.
“You do what?”
“Love you.” Henry finishes.
They kiss it’s soft. It’s perfect. It’s familiar and intimate. It's love