Chapter Text
The first date Alex goes on after Henry is in October. He’s been retroactively celibate since February, which, even before Henry, where sex was a daily, sometimes multiple day occurrence, is almost unheard of for him. Henry was… these past few months have been horrible. My god, my god, he misses Henry. He thinks that this is an attempt from Nora to get Alex out of the slump he’s been in, so she set him up with some blond-blue-eyed-strong-jawed-model-influencer person she knows. His insomnia has only been backsliding since March, no broad shoulder to bury his neck on, no delicate dainty little hands to hold. He keeps replaying that conversation, that defining conversation again and again. He remembers laying next to Henry that night, designated to their sides of the bed like a wall forcing them apart, Henry’s back facing him, Alex reaching out and drawing little pictures on Henry’s back in the dark. He should’ve done something different, said something else, something better. But what could he say? He was terrified for Henry.
But that was months ago, and Henry’s gone now, doing… whatever he is, and right now, Alex is on a date at some 4 and half star Italian, and he’s panicking in the bathroom, because he just called Luke, Lucas, Luca - whatever his fucking name his - Henry, and it almost feels offensive to Henry, because despite their physical similarity they couldn’t be anymore different. Whatever his name is, unfortunately lives up to the vapid, brainless stereotypes, because this is probably the least intellectually stimulating conversation Alex has ever been in, and for someone who’s been in many a conversation with 90 year old state senators, is saying a lot. Alex hasn’t been asked a question in about an hour, all he can think about his Henry, what he’s doing tonight, what book he’s reading, if he’s even in the country right now, and this bathroom break is starting to look more like constipation than peeing and spraying some cologne. Fuck. How do you even get out of this situation? Are there even windows in this bathroom? Maybe a vent. God, is he really considering climbing through a vent? But he doesn’t want to leave this guy with the bill. He can imagine this on deuxmoi or something. How awful is that? And just a shitty thing to do. Fuck. He takes a deep breath and peeks his head out the bathroom, making bug eyed eye contact with a waiter, motioning for him to come here.
“Hey! Hey!” He whisper shouts, “I need you-“
“Is the toilet clogged? Because we don’t have a plunger. Sorry.”
“No the toilet isn’t clogged- why don’t you have a plunger?” Alex said, “No- nevermind, no” He stuttered. “You see that table with that blond guy?” Alex pointed, and the waiters head turned. “Let me pay the bill. Please. And do you have a back exit?”
The waiter sighed, weary. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I can do that.”
“Fuck, man… really?” The waiter looked unimpressed. “Umm… shit, how about a fifty?” Said alex, digging in his wallet. Bribing. Jesus.
“Fucking… fine… whatever. C’mon. We’ll go through the kitchen.”
The first time Alex saw Henry post-real-actual-breakup, he didn’t actually see Henry. The months following the breakup he tried to stay off his phone, but for a chronically online public figure, that meant cutting screen time from ten hours down to seven. Still, it felt like a detox. He was in trader-joes, or whole foods, or whatever grocery store, he can’t remember, waiting to check out, mindlessly reading the shit weightless gossip magazines when he sees it: An old paparazzi picture of them looking stone faced at the ground, coming out of a restaurant, with the bold bright yellow caption “ROYAL RELATIONSHIP TROUBLES? THE INSIDE SCOOP ON FORMER FIRST-SON AND PRINCE HENRY’S TEARFUL BREAKUP” with two pictures, one of Alex, one of Henry, in little bubbles. He’s not sure he’s seen this picture of Henry before, it looks new. He’s sitting on the front steps of the brownstone, talking on the phone, brows furrowed. Once he realises what he’s actually looking at, his blood runs cold and he feels jittery with adrenaline. As the cashier starts checking his items out, he grabs a copy of the tabloid and tosses it on the conveyer. When the cashier scans it, that damn thing, they make a little comment about how they hoped it wasn’t true, that they liked them together. Alex nearly forgets to checkout. He speed walks back home, no, no, to his house, in a flurry, looking straight ahead and AirPods silent. He thinks of that Taylor Swift song where she throws up on the street but he doesn’t feel nauseous because Henry isn't with anyone else - which he knows for certain because he’s been harassing Percy about it constantly for like the past two months (yes, he knows he’s a hypocrite, thank you very much) - but, maybe it’s because what happened is worse. A slow death. It wasn’t a passionate, fiery death, but a pathetic little candlelight burning out. They used to be a fucking house fire.
The second time Alex sees Henry its for real this time. It’s December 20th, and Alex is standing outside the brownstone, and it’s snowing lightly. Falling in fat little snowflakes that will melt away when the sun comes up tomorrow. Their friends have had dinner here the last few years, when apparently things with him and Henry were breaking down faster than he realised, but tradition is tradition. The wreath Henry has on the door is honestly… stunning. It’s big and red, with bulbs reflecting the streetlights back in bright little bursts. Dried oranges hang off the flora- and what is he doing? Standing outside his ex’s house for probably ten minutes by now like some… stalker or something because he’s too scared to knock. And he already came late because to be in a room with Henry alone again would be terrifying. He wouldn’t be terrified of Henry, just. Wouldn’t it be quiet? Alex has always known how to fill silences, but what do you even say here? What is left to be said? A lot. So much. And Alex still hasn’t even knocked yet. Fucks sake. He reaches out and raps on the door, once, twice, three times and a familiar voice, one that he could never, ever, ever forget shouts through door -
“One second!” Alex pulls his hand back from the door and down back into his coat pocket, moves his gaze down to his shoes, and waits for Henry to unlock the door. The door opens slightly Shit. Fuck. “Hey, Alex,” Henry says, and for a second, it feels like a homecoming. “I’m - um - come inside. Please.” Henry sputters. Before Alex get’s the chance to even take his shoes off, Henry says “I’m happy you’re here Alex. Really. I just- I know it’s really different but I know,” Henry takes a shaky little breath, and it reminds Alex that time back in Kensington, Henry’s resigned defeat. “I know we can be civil. For our friends. For us.” Alex can almost feel himself repulse at the idea of this, not civility, that’s fine… he didn’t expect anything else, but the pretending. Christ.
“Yeah. It’ll be good. It’ll be fun. We got this.” Alex says, finally kicking off his shoes. “We’re buddies.” He looks at Henry, who has a little smile on his face and glassy eyes, and Alex can’t tell if it’s the wine or not. “Hey, where’s everyone at?”
“Kitchen. Come on buddy.” Henry says, placing his hand on Alex’s upper back, leading the way like Alex doesn’t know exactly where it is.
The dinner goes as well as Alex planned. Which is not very good, actually. He finds out that Henry has been drinking for about an hour before anyone got there, and he can imagine him sipping on white wine languishing around waiting. It’s not a very hard picture to paint. He knows it well. Subsequently, Alex takes it upon himself to drink a bottle of wine by himself as fast as he can, and holds onto whatever sobriety he has left by his constant picking at assorted meats and cheeses from the catered grazing table. The past few years he used to spend hours making food for these little parties, music blasting, David scurrying beneath his feet, Henry periodically holding him, rubbing his shoulders, tasting whatever he’s making, and he’s hit with a painful wave of nostalgia. Whatever. It’s fine. He’d rather be nostalgic than food poisoned by whatever Henry would try to make. All their friends try to keep the two of them apart as best as possible, the two of them sat at opposite sides of the table, opposite ends, but fuck, it's difficult. There’s been an unspoken rule in their friend group to not leave the two of them alone, or even in the same vicinity at all. It’s difficult. And weird The bitch sessions Alex, Henry, and June used to have about whatever some famous person they somehow know are now ‘Henry said so-and-so cheated on what’s his face’ like some split custody gossip or something. It’s just so fucking stupid. They can talk to each other. They’re fine. Alex guesses they never really had a friends phase. He knows they got to know each other but it was always flirty but maybe now-
“Alex? Are you okay?” Henry says, cutting through whatever giggly back and forth Pez and Nora have going on. His cheeks are ruddy and pink and his eyes are half lidded. Alex knows it’s the alcohol. His little blond eyebrows are furrowed in concern and he looks unnaturally beautiful in the yellow light.
“I’m fine ba-Henry. Don’t worry. I’m just thinking.” Alex says, and before he can even register, Henry is standing out of his chair and walking round to Alex, who feels almost frozen to his chair. The conversation is still flowing around them, but he can feel their wide eyed, shocked glances, wondering what will come of this.
“Do you wanna go for a walk around the block? Clear your head?” Henry says, almost slurring, something Alex used to always find so alluring, and before Alex can really even think about it, the implications, what might happen, he’s pulling his coat on and slipping into his shoes and Henry’s doing the same. When Alex opens the door, his friend’s loud conversation has turned into whispers.
They walk for a few minutes in silence, and the street is quiet, for once. Only a few people walk past them, and they don’t seem particular interested. It’s too late and too cold.
“What about your security detail? Where’s the heads-up?” Alex asks, and Henry scoffs and gives him a look.
“I don’t care about that right now Alex. It’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”
“You know I can’t.” Alex says, and they both go quiet for a second.
“How have you been? These past months. How are you? Really?”
“To be honest… not great. I missed you Henry. I do. I know it’s over but… I miss you.”
“I miss you too. But I wasn’t in a good place then and I hurt you. And you can tell me it’s okay but I know it’s not. And honestly…” Henry swallows. “I’m in a worse place now, and I know breaking up was for the better. It’s not what we wanted. I know it’s not. And I’m sorry.” Henry chokes out, and when Alex looks at him he sees little glacier tear drop falling down his face.
“Baby…” Alex says, reaching to wipe Henry’s tears, and when he does, Henry grabs Alex’s hand. Holds it there and they look at each other. Eyes, lips, nose, every pore, every fucking… hair follicle. All of it. One beat. Two. Before the third, their lips meet each other and Alex is pressing Henry between the nearest lamp post and it feels like each and every single one of his nerve endings is on fire. Distantly, Alex is aware that it’s snowing. The fat snowflakes falling down earlier have turned into light little flurries, illuminated by the streetlights. Henry’s hands are in Alex’s hair, and this, this is right and good in every sense of its meaning. Suddenly, too soon, Henry pulls away, and he looks love struck, but his bottom lip is quivering and his hand moves from Alex’s hair to his face where his thumb is rubbing small, repetitive, little circles.
“Alex, no. I’m sorry. It won’t be good for us. Please. It won’t be. Let’s go back to the party. Please.” Henry says, and all Alex can do is say okay. It feels like the final nail in the coffin, somehow. The walk back is dead quiet, except for the wind as the snowstorm around them picks up speed.