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Chapter Text

One of the first things Alex could remember his Ma teaching him was to never believe in coincidences. Coincidences , Ellen had said, are for romantics , and romantics didn’t make it far in her line of work, and if Alex intended to follow her (which he did) he wouldn’t make it either. But the funny thing about human nature is that no matter what doctors or science would have you believe, it can never be completely contained. Perhaps that’s why serial killers will always be inclined to kill, why liars are always inclined to lie, and why Alex could ever stop dreaming about fate. And so like the fool he was, the first time Alex had met Henry Fox, he couldn’t help but trust him. 

He’d woken up that Monday morning with a dead alarm clock and a cold shower, foregoing both breakfast and coffee and still arriving 15 minutes late to his 8 am lecture for Campaign Analysis. He’d trudged to the library after class exhausted and agitated, finding some sort of content knowing he could spend the next 5 hours studying before his next class. Professor Melville had recommended a book on Henry Kissinger, so Alex made his way to the K-L section. 

Kaczmarek, Keller, Kennedy, Kerr … 

There was a series of thumps, far off to his side and soft enough for him to ignore. 

Knight, Kirby, King, Kirk - BANG! A loud crash sounded in the next row and Alex nearly jumped out of his skin. Running over he found a young man groaning quietly in pain, surrounded by books and a metal stool toppled on its side. There was no need for him to think twice before reaching down and trying to pull the man up to his feet, only for his hand to be immediately batted away. 

“Wait,” the stranger grunted, eyes squeezed shut in discomfort. It was then that Alex noticed that he had one arm wrapped protectively around his abdomen, covering an almost imperceptible swell in his belly. 

Oh. Oh fuck. 

“Right back at you,” the stranger hissed at him, his strong British accent now much more noticeable. 

“Oh shit did I say that out loud?”

“Yep.” The stranger snapped at him, finally opening his eyes to reveal a bright, bleary blue. His blonde eyebrows furrowed together for a minute as he took in Alex’s appearance, Alex himself realizing he was still creepily hunched over the man. 

“Right, sorry,” he rushed out, feeling his face grow warm. He offered his hand out again, this time keeping a distance. The blonde-haired stranger eyed him for a moment, before reluctantly accepting. 

Henry Fox had been told his entire life to never expect more than what he could reasonably have; to never want or wish for more than the very bare minimum. So when he’d packed his bags and arrived at the nation’s capitol two weeks prior with a mission to complete and a baby in his belly, he hadn’t expected the very first recognizable person he’d meet to have been the First Son himself. Thinking it over now, it was stupid of him to not have considered that Alex also went to Georgetown and that Henry, given his profession, was going to run into him sooner or later. 

In another life, the first time Henry would see Alex would be in the middle of a crowded room, and looking at the curly-haired man would feel like sunlight dappled over his face after a long rain. But in this life, when Henry got his bearings together, opening his eyes only when he felt he would no longer immediately upend his breakfast and locking them with Alex’s, all he felt was fear. Henry liked being prepared, and more than anything he liked being in control. Not of other people, but of himself. He’d never enjoyed being caught off guard and knew better than to let his emotions show on his face. 

He accepted Alex’s hand anyway, knowing better than to turn down help he wouldn’t have to pay back. Alex was strong, and Henry knew the muscles rippling underneath his flesh were the result of years of lacrosse training, easily lifting Henry to his feet. The world spun as soon as he was back upright, and Henry slipped a hand over his mouth, taking deep breaths through his nose, his legs shaky. 

The blonde stranger started wobbling the moment he was upright, and Alex instinctively wrapped his arms around his waist and held him up while the man slapped a hand over his mouth. 

“Are you alright?” he asked worriedly, immediately berating himself. Jesus Christ, does he look alright to you? Said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Zahra. 

The stranger didn’t answer him, obviously, but stumbled out of his grasp and ran to the nearest bathroom. For both his, and Alex’s, and probably the janitor’s sake, the nearest bathroom wasn’t too far away, Alex dumbly tailing after the stranger, and likely would have followed him into the men’s room if he hadn’t heard the sound of retching. More than uncomfortable, he stood by the doorway, only stepping in when the retching stopped and a toilet flushed after a few minutes. 

Inside he found the blonde man sitting up with his head against the stall door farthest from the entrance. His eyes were closed once again, and Alex could see tears streaking down his pale, rosy cheeks. Silently he walked to the sink, ran a bunch of paper towels under the faucet, and walked over the stranger, cringing only slightly before getting on his knees. He nudged one jean-clad knee with the back of his hand, the blonde tiredly opening his red-rimmed eyes. 

“Here,” he said softly, handing the paper towels to him. He couldn’t make out the expression he was met with, blue eyes staring at him almost senselessly, pondering and a little confused before taking the paper towels from him and wiping his face, holding the soothingly cold, wet material against his cheek for a long moment. 

“Why are you here?” He asked quietly, voice hoarse from all the vomiting. 

“You looked like you could use some help,” Alex spoke honestly, taking his unopened water bottle out of his bag and handing it to the stranger, who accepted it without any hesitation this time, taking a long drink.

“Thank you,” he said softly, more composed now as he looked at Alex, once again taking in his appearance. There was something slightly unsettling in his gaze, something that made Alex want to fidget but felt like he couldn’t. 

“I’m Alex,” he blurted out. 

“I know.”

Right. Of course he did. Everyone in DC knew who Alex was.

“And… you are?”

“Henry.”

“Nice to meet you Henry.”

“Is it really? I nearly threw up all over you,” Henry replied dryly. 

“But you didn’t, and I appreciate that,” Alex said, some of his natural charisma returning to him, shooting Henry an impish grin. 

Henry didn’t return it, but his expression wasn’t entirely closed off, so Alex counted that as a win.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, watching the way Henry’s hand rubbed comforting circles on his belly with long, elegant fingers. 

“Like shit,” Henry said bluntly. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Right. The Kissinger book. Studying. He was supposed to be studying. 

“...Not really,” Alex said after a moment. “Do you need any help?”

“No.”

“I’d believe you sugar but you just tripped and fell and landed under a stack of books.”

“I’m fine ,” Henry insisted, getting to his feet. “Go back to whatever it was you were doing, I have to go clean up the mess I made.”

“I could help you-” Alex knew better than to finish that sentence after seeing the look Henry was giving him. He raised his hands in surrender. 

“Sheesh. Fine. Fine.”

Henry gave a little nod, satisfied with his answer, and left the bathroom. Alex, however, had no intention of going back to study. At least not right away, and he trailed after Henry, leaning against a bookshelf as Henry went to pick up the books he’d dropped. As the blonde reached down to pick up a copy of Ursula K. Le Guin, he looked back up and shot Alex an annoyed glare. Alex, ever the troublemaker, only smiled back at him. 

“Why are you still here?” Henry demanded. 

“This is a public space, Henry.”

Henry huffed in annoyance. “I meant why are you watching me?”

“There’s no law that says I can’t.”

“You realize that makes you sound like a stalker, yes?”

Alex looked at him in mock affront. “Are you this nice to all the people who help you?”

“Just the ones who overstay their welcome,” Henry shot back, voice equally patronizing. 

Alex shook his head, growing a bit more serious. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude or infantilizing, but you took a pretty loud fall just a few minutes ago when you really can’t afford to. It wouldn’t kill you to take a few more minutes and sit down, let somebody else deal with this.”

Henry snorted under his breath. “You sound like my mother.”

He made sure to look Alex directly in the eye. “I’m fine .”

“Uh huh,” Alex said disbelievingly. “And what about that little tadpole of yours? Is your baby safe after that little stunt?”

Henry, who’d been putting away the books he’d picked up, turned towards him sharply, a fierce glare set in place. Alex had to admit, if only to himself, that for a moment he felt afraid, and if he hadn't been leaning against the bookshelf he probably would’ve taken a step back. Alex understood, to agree, that he had no leg to stand on here. Certainly, he had no right to tell Henry what to do with his own body, or to provide his input on how Henry took care of his unborn child. He lowered his gaze, ashamed. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Henry asked, his tone almost cruel. Alex winced. 

“I’m sorry, I had no right to say that, to imply that you don’t know what you’re doing or that you’re putting your child in danger. I don’t know anything about babies, but even if I did, this is your child, not mine.”

“You’re right,” Henry began coldly. “On two counts. You don’t know anything, and this isn’t your child.”

Henry finished picking up the rest of the books and putting them away, the sound of Erik Larson hitting the back of the bookshelf effectively ending their conversation. Alex nodded, a reflexive action meant only for himself, and turned around, ready to leave. 

“They’re more resilient than you think.”

The words spilled out of Henry's mouth before he could overthink them. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to speak again, he should’ve been glad that Alex had finally gotten the hint and turned to leave. Should have, but a part of him, the part that didn’t like leaving things unfinished no matter how much it overcomplicated his life, felt wrong in letting Alex walk away. Maybe it was the urge to have one final word over the other man, maybe it was a call from another universe chiding him for being so sharp with the man who’d gone out of his way to make sure he was alright, maybe he was being cautious, making sure his first interaction with the First Son didn’t end on a sour note, or maybe he just didn’t like the upset expression on Alex’s face even if Alex had technically been the one to put it there. 

Whatever the cause, he’d stopped Alex in his tracks and watched as the other man turned back around to look at him with the roundest, darkest brown eyes he’d ever seen, like a cow’s. Not in the degrading animal sense, but like the animals the ancient Egyptians worshiped as gods. 

“The mothers or the babies?” Alex asked softly. 

That made Henry stop, if only for a moment, and made him think. 

“The babies,” he said finally. 

“They put up with more than you think,” he added, rubbing circles over his belly, still almost entirely flat. 

“They don’t go down that easily.”

Alex looked at him for a long moment and offered him a smile. Unlike the board grins from before, this smile was softer, hesitant, an olive branch. A thought so gentle in its conception that Henry couldn’t help the quiet twitch of his lips in return. 

“I’ll take your word for it, Henry.”

Chapter Text

There was once a time, some 15 or 16 years ago, when a younger Henry could never have fathomed waking up alone. He was the son of a nurse who’d absconded with a small-time actor and grown up in a tiny apartment in a Welsh fishing town, where there wasn’t much of anything except the sounds of sea shanties sung by a chorus of old voices who’d never made it anywhere in life. Unlike his brother, Philip, who’d been born cursing the world for the situation of his existence, and his sister, Beatrice, who’d resigned herself to a life half-lived at a startlingly young age, Henry had never been quite as proactive in trying to get out of Waterloo as quickly as he could. 

Their home had never felt as cramped to him as it should have, even when he’d gotten older– perhaps because it was so full of love. Henry remembered, through a fond sheen of truly misplaced nostalgia, the memory of his first bedroom. It was as small as the one he had now, but it had so much more life to it. 

In the scribbles on the wall showing Bea’s growing artistic talent before she’d gotten old enough to move into their grandmother Enid’s bedroom. In the scuff marks hidden under the carpet from Phillp’s rugby shoes, and in the window. There was only one in their bedroom, and the bed was pushed right up to the wall beside it, Henry, Phillip, and Bea had spent their whole childhoods taking turns on who would get to sleep on the side of the bed closest to that window. It was their only portal to the outside world, which in the immediate sense, wasn’t much to look at, but in the gradual sense, took them to the place where the sky kissed the ground and lifted them up onto Orion. 

There was no such place here in DC, where the horizon was shrouded in buildings shaped like half-buried limbs, hands and fists and elbows. And yet, just as he’d done with every place he’d lived in after Waterloo, the first thing Henry had done when he arrived had been to take the bedframe and push it against the window. 

Not that he saw much of neither sunrise nor sunset these days. His obstetrician had promised him that once the first trimester was over he would feel better, but here he was, paying his 3 am visit to the toilet at nearly 4 months pregnant. Of all the unpleasant sensations that pregnancy entailed, the morning sickness had to be worst, and the most misleading in its name. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he groaned, leaning against the cold porcelain of his sink. 

More often than not these days Henry found himself on the floor, which was humiliating enough without the stench of his own sick hanging off of him like poisonous fumes. It was the tears that followed after every round that stung the worst, dripping down his face like liquid mercury, cold and burning.

He pressed his hand down on the soft skin of his belly, wishing not for the first time that the child beneath it didn't exist. It wasn't fair, he knew, to either of them. 

“Would it kill you to settle down?” He begged, taking short, stuttering breaths, repeatedly thumping the back of his head against the wall. 

Once he’d had a moment to calm down, Henry pulled himself back up, brushing his teeth before padding on sock-clad feet back to his bedroom. The apartment he’d rented was small but functional, with red brick walls and cream-colored furniture. The cardboard boxes from where he’d barely unpacked lay like fox traps in the dark, and Henry slowly made his way back to bed but did not sleep. Instead, he pulled out his laptop. There was a new email from Pez. 

Re: Settling In

Thank you again for everything you did for the shelter. I’m grateful you’ve taken the time to advocate for us at the Stand Against Cancer Gala at the end of this month. 

All the best,

Percy Okonjo

Okonjo Industries

Henry wasn’t aware he was going to the SAC Gala to begin with, but Pez must’ve gotten his hands on a list of all the guests. He checked his spam folder. Sure enough, there was an encrypted GPG file containing a list of all the major invitees. 

Micheal F. Bennet

Laphonza Butler 

Sherrod Brown

Susan Collins

Tom Cotton

Kirsten Gillibrand

Lindsey Graham

Martin Heinrich

Mike Holleran

Cindy Hyde-Smith

Ron Johnson

Jeffery Richards 

Out of the entire list, Susan Collins and Jeffery Richards were both highlighted. Those were his targets. Of the two Collins would be more receptive to him, widely known as the closest thing to a liberal the Republican Party had, which would then give him the opening he needed to approach Jeffery Richards. He checked the date of the gala. February 27th. That gave him only two and a half weeks to find himself an invite. 

He looked over the list again. Pez had only included the congressional invitees, but the actual gala would have over 250 guests plus anyone they extended an invitation to. 

Mike Holleran.

Current Vice President of the United States. 72 years old, Jewish Democrat from Vermont, was senator from 1999 to 2017, has two sons, and is the grandfather of Nora Holleran. Rising technical genius, former MIT student, and best friend of Alex Claremont-Diaz. Alex, who he’s already met. 

It had been two days since the incident in the library. Since then Henry has only seen Alex once, from a distance as he exited a lecture hall for History 220. It would be beyond foolish to get too closely involved with the man. Alex was notorious for wanting to follow in his mother’s footsteps, and would likely be a part of her reelection campaign team. 

Nevertheless… he could possibly make this work. Alex was the First Son, this wouldn't be the first time someone approached him for favors, he wouldn't be too bothered by it. 

All Henry had to do, was make sure he didn’t get too close. 

The next time Alex bumped into Henry was two days later, again at the library. Henry was once again tucked away in the very back of the library, this time safely sitting down at a table surrounded by books. Alex watched from a distance, caught by the light glinting off of shining golden hair. 

He’d been looking for an Atlas, except for some reason all of them seemed to be missing from their usual displays on the second floor. The librarian at the front desk had no clue what he was doing and told Alex to check the back wall, which was the vaguest suggestion he could give, considering the back wall was a series of bookshelves that ran from one end of the room to the next crammed with all the oversized books the library had in stock. 

“You look lost.”

Alex nearly jumped, the tall bookshelves around him serving as an effective barrier that blocked most of the sound from the rest of the floor, as little of it as there was. Behind him, off to one side was a tiny work desk squeezed in between shelves, and sitting there was a familiar blonde. He was once again surrounded by books, this time arranged in a kind of organized chaos, neatly boxing him in like the frame of a Madonna painting. 

“Maybe I am,” he said casually, immediately leaning back for no other reason than to make himself look more confident. 

“Did Mummy forget to put on your leash this morning?” Henry hummed, taking in his appearance.

Alex blinked, taken aback for a moment, before grinning widely. “No actually, I broke out of it all by myself.”

“Good boy,” Henry teased. “Want a treat?”

Henry didn’t give him the chance to formulate a response, instead throwing something shiny at him. Alex caught it on instinct, opening his palm to reveal a mini Snickers. 

Alex’s mouth fell open, and he could feel blood rushing up to his face at an alarming speed. Jesus , he thought, he wasn’t like this last time was he?  

“Seriously?”

Henry’s mouth twitched the same way it had the last time they’d talked, like he wanted to smile but considered himself above it. 

“You bastard,” Alex laughed, opening up the Snickers bar and shoving the whole thing in his mouth. 

“The hell are you doing here anyway?” He asked, muffled slightly by the chocolate in his mouth. Henry’s nose wrinkled in disgust. Alex only smiled wider. 

“If you must know, I work here. Or at least I was until you came wandering in looking like the ghost of a middle-aged crust punk.”

Alex made a noise of offense. “Excuse you, I do not look middle-aged.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “ Why are you here? You didn’t actually get lost did you?”

“Y’know Henry, the thing about a library is that most people usually come in here looking for a book.”

“ Really? I had no idea .”

Alex smiled despite himself, shaking his head slightly. “I’m looking for an Atlas. You said you work here, right? Do you know where they are?”

“‘Do I know where they are?’” Henry muttered, rolling his eyes again. He got out of his chair and started walking. After a few steps, he looked back at Alex. 

“Well?”

Alex jogged to catch up to him.

Henry took the lesser-used staircase at the back of the building and took him up to the fourth floor, where all the transcripts and paper records were kept. Producing a pair of keys from seemingly nowhere he took Alex into a separate, somewhat dimly lit room full of books in glass cases, a number of them stacked on a table next to a bunch of cleaning supplies. 

“What’s this?” Alex asked.

“A torture chamber,” Henry replied flatly. 

Alex shot him a look. 

Henry sighed. “This is where we take all the books for a routine cleaning every few months. Most of the more commonly used Atlases are here. Which one are you looking for?”

Henry already knew which one Alex would ask for. 

The Atlas of Boston History, Edited by Nancy Seasholes, The University of Chicago Press 2019

“The Atlas of Boston History, the 2019 University of Chicago edition by Seasholes.”

Henry nodded, turning around to rummage through a few boxes, already knowing that the book would be on the bottom of the third box from the right.

“What do you need it for?” He asked casually.

A research proje ct for Professor McCartin’s 20th-century U.S. Labor, Social, and Political History class.

“A research project for my history class. I’ve got Professor McCartin. Do you know him?”

“I’ve heard of him,” Henry offered noncommittally, feeling he’d stalled enough, he pulled out the Atlas and placed the heavy book on the cleaning table. 

Alex, who’d been reading the titles of the books in the glass cases, walked over to peer over Henry’s shoulder in interest. 

“What are you doing?”

“My job,” Henry said lightly, “I can't exactly let you walk out of here with a book that’s two steps away from growing mold.”

Alex went quiet for a moment, and when Henry looked up his brow was furrowed in concern. 

“Should you be here?” he asked, “Like is this safe for you to do?”

Henry shook his head, feeling fonder than he should (he shouldn't feel fond over this man at all.) 

“It’s okay,” he promised nonetheless. “This is okay. Besides, there’s no one else on duty right now who has the clearance to come into this room. Those glass display cases aren't just for show.”

“Oh,” Alex said. “That’s… really nice of you.”

Henry scoffed. “I’m only doing it because I’d rather not get sued by the President because her darling boy caught a sinus infection.”

Alex chuckled over his shoulder, leaning down to watch him work. Henry could see out of the corner of his eye the veiny knuckles of one hand resting against the edge of the table. 

“Nah, my mom wouldn’t sue you. Zahra though, Zahra definitely would.”

“Who’s Zahra?”

Zahra Bankston, 34 years old, President Claremont’s former personal secretary of 7 years and current Deputy Chief of Staff.

“She’s my mom’s Chief of Staff.”

“She sounds like a dangerous woman,” said Henry, pouring denatured alcohol over a microfiber cloth. 

He could feel Alex shiver behind him. 

“She is,” Alex admitted, both fear and awe in his voice. “She’s awesome though.”

“She must be,” Henry offered casually, “given that she clearly scares the daylights out of you.”

“Hey!” Alex protested good-naturedly. “I’ll have you know that nothing scares me thank-” “BOO!” Henry interrupted loudly, stifling a chuckle when he felt Alex jump a little. 

Alex sputtered. “You asshole,” he complained. “It’s like you don’t want us to be friends.”

“Wouldn't that be a tragedy,” Henry said wryly. Internally though, he was a bit worried. Don't overdo it, Fox.

“How come I’ve never seen you around here? Georgetown isn’t that big of a campus.”

“I’m not much of a people person,” Henry hummed, gently rubbing the wet cloth over the creases of the book. “That and I moved here two weeks ago.”

“Really? Where did you come from? England?”

“New York,” Henry corrected, finally looking up to meet Alex’s eyes. 

“Whatcha studying?”

“English Lit.”

“Poetry? You seem like a poetry kinda guy.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult, Alexander?”

“Oh a compliment, definitely. I’d never dream of insulting you, Your Highness.”

“See now that’s an insult. No one hates the British Monarchy more than the Brits themselves.”

Alex laughed, moving to sit on the table. Henry would chide him for it, but the action reminded him too much of something Pez would do back when they used to dorm together. And he could admit, if only to himself, that Alex made good company. It was a wonder why the man didn’t have more people hanging off of him. 

His dad had once told Alex, “Jack of all trades, master of none, better than a master of one” as a way to convince him to consider career paths other than just doing whatever his Ma told him to. Alex hadn't quite taken that advice to heart, but he had applied it for other things: mainly, in making friends. 

Alex had known, even before Ellen had been sworn into office, that being her son meant he would never have as many real friends as he would like, so he’d prepared himself, when he’d started at Georgetown, to never get too close to other people. Sure, he’d be nice, he’d go out, go on dates, parties, baseball games, everywhere really, but he’d never spend too much time on one person. Partly so he wouldn’t be manipulated, partly because he’d never found someone he clicked with. He wasn’t sure if Henry would be an exception to the latter yet, but talking to him was still refreshing. 

It was fun, getting to banter with someone who didn’t hesitate to poke fun at him, and for all that he did, Henry had yet to genuinely insult him, he didn’t seriously mean anything he said. 

It wasn’t exhilarating, per se, and it’s not like Alex hadn't met people throughout his time in DC who were socially adept enough to treat him like a normal person, but it was a relatively uncommon occurrence. Rare enough that Alex wanted to hold on to his time with Henry with stubborn fingers and not let go. 

So when Henry finished cleaning up his book for him and went to lock up the book-cleaning room (something he hadn't known existed until now) he hesitated, lingering against the glass cases that housed books much more expensive than he’d realized. 

Henry stood by the doorway waiting for him, adjusting his dark green jacket. He raised an eyebrow.

Alex studied him, the same way Henry had studied Alex. Henry was tall, the same height as him, with honey-blonde hair that curled around his ears. Alex hadn't noticed it before, but Henry held himself in a way that demanded attention, posture perfect without being stiff. Graceful. 

“How often do you work here?” He asked. 

Henry smiled at him, and Alex thought he looked pleased, and that gave him hope.

Chapter Text

“Modern political discourse is less discourse and more a profound example of everyone’s lack of media literacy and one-dimensional thinking.” Alex insisted, poking his head in between the gap in the shelves.

Henry, who was (trying) to reorganize the 15th Century Philosophical Doctrine section, put down the worn copy of Wollstonecraft someone had left there. 

“Have you considered that most of the brainless discourse exists because of a lack of accountability?”

Alex furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Henry explained, “that the disconnect between people in understanding the consequences of real-world issues is a rhetorical choice made specifically to absolve people of guilt and responsibility, hammered home further by the fact that no one in this country is ever willing to admit to being wrong because any criticism on a political scale, no matter how correct or incorrect, is seen as an attack on freedom of speech. When in reality there is no consequence because privacy laws and statutes have made it so that an individual argument cannot be connected back to an actual person, only a faceless account on Discord or Reddit.”

“Reactionary political statements and the understanding of them as such can’t be boiled down to the practicing of a first amendment right, everyone’s allowed to speak-”

“Wrong,” Henry said bluntly. “Everyone’s allowed to have an opinion, and having opinions, naturally, should mean that everyone has to face the consequences of what they believe in, but that accountability has been erased because no one wants to admit that they’re wrong.”

Alex huffed in frustration. “Then how do you get people to change? How do you convince radicals of any given group that their understanding is flawed, and then how do you help them rebuild or at least reshape their arguments?”

Henry thought about it for a second, thumbing through the pages of Maria, Or The Wrongs Of Woman , before finally saying, “You reveal the history of the interest groups. Social-political discourse becomes less reliable when you reveal that the heyday statements, fierce antagonism, and refusal to comprehend certain ideas and statements are because the carriers of these ideals are almost exclusively 15-year-olds who are naturally myopic, reactionary, reductive, and angry due to the condition of being 15.”

Alex considered that for a moment. “And what happens when the sample group responsible for rallying and advocating for that kind of political illiteracy turns out to be a bunch of 28-year-olds with master’s degrees?”

“Then you’re fucked.”

Alex snorted without meaning to and promptly looked away embarrassed when Henry snickered at his reaction. 

“Taylor and Cauldron, huh?”

Henry blinked, genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

Alex’s eyes lit up, and he immediately began ranting about a science-fiction web series called Worm , which was what he’d been referencing. Henry kept one ear on Alex, humming occasionally when he became particularly animated about something, listening as the other man went on a long-winded rant about the political prowess of some kind of fictional superhero team and how their actions effectively convinced one of the characters to join a… gang? Mafia? Something of that sort. Henry didn’t need to know the specifics beyond the fact that Alex was enjoying himself. 

He smiled quietly, half hidden by the books. It had taken him four consecutive days of Alex and his Alex-isms to determine that the other man had undiagnosed ADHD, and would often trail off into completely different topics if given the opportunity. Henry wasn’t much of a talker and hadn't been for a while, so he didn't mind the chatter. It wasn’t like there was much he could say even if he wanted to. 

One thing Alex had learned, in the week or so that he’d known Henry, is that the other man rarely ever shared anything about himself. 

It was obvious, to Alex, that Henry didn't have any other friends. He worked at the library, did his postgrad work privately with the other professors in the English department, went home, and that was it. Henry didn’t seem to have any kind of social life at all, hadn’t mentioned any friends back home, and he seemed to prefer it that way. Which was vastly confusing, because he willingly spent time with Alex. 

He couldn't exactly complain. There was a slow, morphine-drip kind of satisfaction that came with spending time with Henry Fox. It was thrilling, a feeling of freedom and seeing the light to be able to match wits with someone on his level so easily, despite not always being in total agreement. 

Henry was witty, eloquent, and a die-hard lover of Jane Austen. But he was also pragmatic, shrewd, and analytical in a way that almost reminded Alex of his mother, something that he refused to unpack once he’d thought of it. 

And Henry was lonely.

It wasn't something immediately obvious. For Henry, loneliness showed like age, in the soft bags under his eyes, the chapped lips, and the guarded posture. Wisdom without being wizened. Speaking without saying a word. Henry’s greatest language was speaking with silence, something that Alex had never been good at, and hadn't appreciated until now because of him. 

If he was being honest with himself, Henry made Alex feel protective. Over what or whom he wasn’t sure yet, but there were moments when Alex would catch Henry when he thought he was alone, sitting with his back against the shelves, eyes closed and breathing in the scent of old books like if he tried hard enough he could drink them in like the Earl Grey tea he had every morning. And Alex would watch him, not quite seeing what he was seeing, and he wouldn’t say a word. Neither to Henry nor about Henry, feeling as though the moment he told someone else about the blonde-haired man Henry would no longer solely belong to him. Which was a stupid thought, because Henry wasn't his to begin with. 

“If you think any harder you might combust,” Henry said lazily, head resting on his elbows, eyes closed as he rolled a large marble back and forth with his forefinger, his hair a messy golden halo around his head. 

“You don’t know that,” Alex replied, long since used to the fact that Henry was scarily perceptive. 

“I do actually.”

“How?”

“I know everything.”

“Do you now?”

“Mhmm.”

“What am I thinking?”

“You’re not thinking about the essay you have due in six hours.”

“But what am I thinking?”

Henry lifted his head to give Alex a critical look. 

“You’re trying to figure out how to ask me something.”

“Why are you so tired?”

“Because I’m pregnant. Now what do you really want to ask me?”

Alex rubbed the back of his head, feeling strangely awkward in a manner only Henry seemed to bring out of him. 

“Do you want to go get drinks?”

At the look Henry shot him, Alex immediately clarified, “Not alcohol or anything like that. Just coffee, or in your case tea.”

“Ok.”

“I-ok?”

“Yes,” Henry said simply. “Okay.”

“That’s it? You’re not gonna argue?”

“Why would I argue Alex?”

He was right, why did Alex think he would argue? 

“I dunno, it’s just- I’ve only ever seen you in the library, thought maybe you were chained to it like the ghost of Christmas Past.”

Henry rolled his eyes, and Alex saw that the corners were redder than usual. He must not have been sleeping. 

“Very funny,” he said. “Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t actually live here Alexander.”

Alex wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call me that. You sound like my mom.”

They ended up going to Saxby’s, which was the most popular coffee spot on campus. As was usual for Alex, more than one person stopped and stared before regaining their wits and looking away. Alex watched Henry carefully out of the corner of his eye and realized this was the first time he’d seen Henry in broad daylight. The cold, glaringly bright lights of the library didn’t do him justice, because out under the evening sun, Henry was glowing … and deeply uncomfortable. 

You wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking at him, but Alex knew Henry, who always made eye contact with anyone he spoke to, was steadfastly staring at his phone. 

“Are you okay?” Alex asked cautiously.

“Yes.” Henry didn’t look up. 

Alex looked away.

“Are you?”

Henry’s voice was soft, so soft in fact that Alex barely heard him, oddly cautious without being apologetic.

Alex turned his gaze from the streetlight they were waiting on. Henry’s head was ducked low, making him look smaller, but his eyes peeked out shyly from under his fringe.

“Yeah,” Alex replied, feeling a rush of unbearable fondness. “I’m okay Hen.”

‘Hen.’

It’s been a while since anyone called him that. Henry didn’t entirely know whether he liked it or not, especially coming from Alex.

Saxby’s was as crowded as it always was, filled with the godawful stench of coffee and college students sweating away under the crushing weight of student debt. Henry willed back the nausea. 

“What’s your coffee order?”

“It’s alright, I’ll pay-” “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Alex must have seen the way Henry was turning green. He looked like he wanted to protest, but didn’t. 

“Black. Two sugars.”

Henry nodded his assent. 

“Do me a favor and find us a seat. Preferably as far away from the counter as possible.”

Once Alex had left, he took a deep breath in through his mouth and got in line. It was true that Henry hardly ever left the house, that wasn’t why he avoided the rest of the Georgetown campus like a plague. It had been precisely six days since he’d first met Alex, and that may not have been much time at all, but Henry was on a time crunch. It was a good thing that Alex had invited him out himself, or Henry would’ve had to do it himself and risk suspicion. 

Once he’d gotten their drinks, he chanced a look around the cafe. Sure enough, Alex was seated at a corner, the booths tall enough to offer some privacy. Interestingly, however, it looked like he wasn’t alone. There was a stocky young man about their age with brown hair standing by their table, and from what little Henry could see of his face, Alex wasn’t happy to see him. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

“Oh, I’m sure alright. Just go already.”

The other man sighed. “Fine. Fine. Who are you here with anyway?”

“Nobody,” Alex snapped. “Now leave.”

Henry waited until the other man was out of both sight and hearing range. 

“Excellent Odyssean reference,” he said slyly, watching with amusement as Alex’s head whipped around to find him. He’d never admit that the gleaming smile that met him made his stomach jump. It was nice to be wanted. 

“At least, that’s what I assume you were implying. I’d be hurt if you thought I was nobody.”

“Of course not,” Alex assured him, his soft brown eyes crinkling. “Odysseus all the way.”

“Sure,” Henry teased, taking a sip of his Earl Grey. “Might I ask who our impromptu visitor was?‘

Alex shook his head, his expression growing annoyed. “Just a WASP that doesn’t know when to quit.”

“Wasp?”

“White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.”

Henry laughed without meaning to. The laughter running away from him before he could control it. Alex looked both shocked and a little pleased at having managed to pull the sound out of him. 

Henry had barely gotten himself under control before saying, “I didn’t realize you had such a vendetta against my forefathers.”

“What can I say?” Alex chuckled. “White people destroyed the world, might as well put them in their place.”

“Is that what this is?” Henry asked, raising one eyebrow. “Do you intend to ‘put me in my place’?”

Alex flushed, “Well, no-”

“But you certainly don’t trust me.”

“I do! You’re nothing like WASPy Hunter.”

“Aren’t I? How do you know that?”

“Because you’re barely tolerable but I trust you,” Alex joked.

Henry made sure to keep his voice light. “You shouldn’t.” When Alex looked at him confused Henry added, “There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.”

Alex snickered. “What?”

“It’s one of Shakespeare’s insults,” Henry explained. “From Henry IV.”

“Is that the one your parents named you after?”

“Nope, the other one.”

“Wait, really?”

Henry realized his mistake as soon as he saw the surprised look on Alex’s face. Bloody hell . He should stop. Play it off as a joke. 

“...Henry V. My parents named me after Henry V.” Bloody, sodding, hell.

Henry could feel Alex’s eyes on him, but he refused to meet them, fidgeting with the paper collar around his cup of tea. 

“No wonder you’re such a nerd.” Alex offered, trying to make light of the situation. 

Henry didn’t reply.

“Why don’t um, why don’t we go back to the library?”

“Sure,” Henry muttered, standing up to throw his cup away. 

The sun had sunk much lower in the horizon by the time Alex and Henry left the cafe, and the late winter chill clung to Alex’s bones, making him pull his coat tighter around himself. 

He wasn’t quite sure what had happened back there. One moment he and Henry were joking with each other and the next Henry had completely closed himself off. He had an idea though, the change had happened the moment Henry had mentioned his parents, and Alex was no stranger to complicated family relationships. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to do now, given that Henry didn’t want to talk about it. 

They made it back to the library, but instead of going in, Henry turned and headed for the parking lot in the back. 

“A- Goodnight!” Alex called after him, feeling unmoored like he’d just been discarded. He kind of had.  

Henry ignored him like he had the entire walk back. Alex watched him go until he was out of sight, before turning to look at the glass entrance three feet ahead of him. His stuff was still in there, at the table they’d shared, where just a few hours ago Henry had been flicking marbles at him and smiling. Henry, whose laughter had momentarily sparked something wild and euphoric in him. Henry, confident, intimating, teasing, and always at arm's length. Alex had spent every single hour he could spare this past week trying to get to know him, being pushed and pulled in all different directions because Henry couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with him. 

Henry didn’t have to do anything, but Alex did deserve an apology. It was fine if Henry wanted to keep things to himself, but he didn’t get to ignore Alex.

That’s not what friends did. 

This isn’t what friends do , he thought to himself. 

Armed with misplaced guilt disguised as misplaced anger, he marched after Henry. He turned the corner into the parking lot, only to stop in his tracks. 

Henry was standing on top of the grey brick walls that encompassed half the lot, having climbed up the stepped landing. He was saying something to himself, the wind morphing his words half senseless until they sounded to Alex like music.

“ I still watch you when you're groovin'

As if through water from the bottom of a pool

You're movin' without movin'

And when you move, I'm moved ”

Maybe Alex was hearing things, or maybe reality was more beautiful than he could comprehend. Either way, he stepped closer, beckoned to Henry like the mortal he was to siren song. 

“ You are a call to motion

There, all of you a verb in perfect view ”

Alex knew this song, and he whispered the next lyrics under his breath:

“ Like Jonah on the ocean

When you move, I'm moved ”

Oh Henry , Alex thought wonderingly, what have you been hiding from? The frustration from just moments earlier vanished as gently as it arrived, and Alex could only feel in the ways he’d been warned against feeling. Henry, from where Alex stood, looked as small and carefree as a child, completely unlike the stiff and cautious parent-to-be that Alex knew him as and had unwittingly grown to care for in a very short period of time. The transformation still was as startling and beautiful as it was bittersweet. 

Henry half-sang, half-hummed the next few words, and Alex watched like the captivated audience he was. There was a voice in the back of his mind that urged him to leave, told him he was intruding on a very private moment, and was not owed Henry’s precious happiness nor his peace. And Alex, however much he didn’t want to, knew that voice was right. 

He would leave, he would- there was a pigeon sitting near Henry’s foot. 

There was a pigeon.

And- and Henry was spinning around and- 

“HENRY!”