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Alex wakes from a dream realistic enough that he's left confused as to why the other half of the bed is empty.
He doesn't have dreams like those much, but everything about it had felt real, despite the fact that months had passed in his dream while his phone informed him he'd only gotten a few hours of sleep. And despite waking up to a cold reality that makes it clear it was a dream, he's still surprised that his lock screen is a picture of him and June, rather than the ridiculous photo of Henry at karaoke when Pez had plied him with vodka.
The memory of Henry, so tipsy his face was flushed, pointing at him and crooning I wanna make a supersonic man out of you still makes him smile.
Wait, no. Rewind.
Reality. He's awake, he's not in the dream anymore. He and Henry hate each other. They haven't exchanged more than a dozen words that weren't hostile or said with rather significant frosty overtones ever since Alex walked into his Shakespeare course and had to deal with someone who always had to be fucking right about the Bard. And yes, he was fucking pretentious enough to refer to him that way.
He hates Henry.
And yet, when Alex gets up to make his coffee, he starts to reach for a kettle that's not there to start water for someone who doesn't even like him, let alone love him enough to live with him.
Really, Alex should have known it was a dream based on the simple concept of someone choosing to love him and live with him. He's well aware he's too much.
Anyway, he hates Henry.
And yet, when he gets dressed, he keeps expecting to find sweaters the slightest bit too large for him or slacks or socks that had to be tracked down and bought special because the seam on most pairs of socks was too uncomfortable for Henry to tolerate.
And yet, when he grabs his bag and his keys and his travel mug of coffee, he's expecting a still-sleepy love you, see you later and a reminder to meet for lunch at the cafe.
And yet, Alex can still feel the way Henry kissed his jaw when he last went to sleep in the dream, the phantom touch burning like a fresh brand.
And yet, when he opens the door to his Shakespeare class later and sees Henry scribbling away in a notebook, he wants to kiss the top of Henry's head and tease him. Writing anything about me? Just to see the way Henry turns pink and mumbles a no, I would never.
He hates Henry.
And yet, when he settles into his seat, the distance between them feels like miles instead of inches, and he wants to bridge the gap to hold Henry's hand.