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Henry wakes up to the sound of birds chirping, the morning sun shining directly into his eyes, and a terrible, terrible headache. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, all for the stupid sun to go away. Maybe he’s still a little drunk, because his sense of coordination seems to be a little off, considering it takes approximately two tries for him to properly shield his eyes.
The grass is damp from morning dew, but he barely registers the fact that he’s outside, let alone laying in the grass. His head is faintly pounding, and he tries to remember what happened last night, what he possibly could’ve done to end up here, but his brain only supplies small snippets of flashing neon lights, the distinctive taste of vodka mixed with soda, and then— Walter.
Walter, with his way too kind, greenish eyes, and soft features. His dimples and floppy brown hair, and how he had been laughing and whispering into Henry’s ear all night. If he concentrated he could still feel the warmth of Walter’s nose pressed into the little crevice between his ear and jaw, electrifying and exhilarating and— Whatever. He tries to not think too hard about it, and very pointedly ignores the pooling warmth it supplies in his abdomen.
When the sun doesn’t feel as looming and bright anymore, he lets his eyes flutter open, and as if summoned, Walter’s face suddenly appears above him. He’s looking down on him with a lopsided smile, and Henry physically has to force his eyes away from his mouth.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Walter laughs, shaking his head, before offering his hand to help him up.
Henry groans, embarrassment washing over him, but he accepts Walter's hand. It is a little clammy, and Walter seems to be equally as drunk as Henry, because when he pulls him off the ground he nearly loses his balance.
“I dunno, I kind of just woke up here” He says and his voice is hoarse and raggedy, and Walter cracks a smile. His hands are still loosely holding onto Henry’s arms.
“Figures. You were like, really, really drunk last night,” Walter teases, grinning widely. It feels a little contradictory, because he sways and they nearly topple over, but Henry doesn’t mention it. Walter’s grip tightens to keep them steady, but his hands are gentle. He feels warm again, and he has to look away, biting back a smile.
“Oh, really? I was really drunk last night?” Henry shoots back, voice laced with what he hopes Walter interprets as flirting. This time it’s Walter’s turn away, but he catches a flustered smile form on his face.
“Yes, you. I literally found you sleeping under a table, and when I woke you up, you were like, super mad at me!” Walter laughs, slurring ever so slightly on his words.
Henry laughs in embarrassment, and he feels his cheeks flush. “Nope, nope. I refuse— that didn’t happen!” He denies, even though he faintly remembers hitting his head on the underside of the table. And as if Walter just read his mind, he lifts his hand from Henry’s bicep to the backside of his head, fingers carding through the hair there. Henry barely holds back a shudder.
“So you didn’t hit your head on the table, then?” Walter says slyly, voice low, leaning a little closer. Then, he presses his palm to the little bump Henry has in his head, not enough for it to actually hurt, but enough for him to wince a little.
“Ouch, I— okay! Maybe I might’ve fallen asleep under the table. But to my defense, you clinging onto me the whole night made me tired,”
Walter’s mouth falls open in surprise, and he seems to be taken aback a little, but the his mouth morphs into something Henry can’t put his finger on— flirtatious maybe, if he dares to categorize it as that. Walter’s hand is still gently placed on the back of his head, and he might be hallucinating that he presses their heads even closer.
“Was it a bad thing?” He asks suddenly, tone aiming for— well, Henry isn’t sure, but he sounds weirdly sincere. Walter’s voice, the hand in his hair, the intense look on his face is a little too much, making Henry dizzy.
“I—what?” He says stupidly.
“Was it a bad thing, that I was, clinging onto you?” Walter repeats, refusing to break eye contact. His other hand, the one still on Henry’s arm, tightens a little. A prelude, to something.
And suddenly, it all dawns on Henry. The glances and lingering touches. The soft words spoken for only him to hear.
He wants to say something, something witty or charming, but he is at a loss for words. So instead, he does all he knows, and shakes his head.
This seems to be the confirmation Henry needs, because his face inches impossibly closer without their lips actually touching and Walter’s breaths is a ghost on Henry’s cheek.
With this realization comes a dreadful melancholy, he can’t believe he didn’t allow himself to have this before. But I can have this now, he manages think before Walter closes the distance between them, pressing their lips together.
Walter’s lips are soft and warm and a little chapped. Henry cups the side of his cheek with one hand, the other falling to his waist, pulling him closer. Walter smiles into the kiss, his motions gentle and sweet, and just a little hesitant. But he’s there, firm and real, and Henry is acutely aware that he’s kissing Walter, his best friend .
Somehow, this only spurs him on, and in an instant he has grabbed Walter’s collar, pulling him even closer.
This seems to open the flood gates up, erasing any second thoughts Walter once had, and he feels the tip of a tongue graze his bottom lip. Henry, who would follow Walter into the end of the world, opens his mouth with no hesitation.
His mouth is even softer and Henry finds himself addicted to the way he tastes; like summer and hope and warmth. Like Walter.
Maybe I have always had this, if I had just been braver or more willing to believe in the ‘what if’s’, he thinks, and suddenly, it feels very important that Walter knows this.
“You’ve always had me, Walter.” He mumbles dazedly into Walter’s mouth, and he feels a smile form against his own lips. Walter then leans back, just enough to properly face him. His cheeks are flushed in a delicate shade of pink and he’s smiling, eyes crinkling just the way Henry likes it.
“I know, weirdo. You’ve always had me too.”