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It’s a long and hard day—not temporally—it’s just one of those days where seconds feel like hours and every minute feels longer than it should, or it usually does. The day at work is tough and Alex’s brain is fried. He accidentally spilled coffee over his laptop while wracking his brain in frustration because his case is progressing at a glacial pace and he made very little progress and he had to check out early anyway.
On any other day it would be enough to categorise it as a shitty day and throw it down the dumps in the memory space, but today is not any other day. Nothing can put a damper on today.
Some minor inconveniences at work don’t do much to dampen the buzzing, giddy excitement under his skin. He thinks of the sleepy, adorable face he woke up to in the morning, squished and rumpled under the mellow, morning light. The small, fond smile on Henry’s face when Alex put the peach scones on the breakfast table. God, he can’t wait to get home and fling himself onto his husband and kiss the shit out of him, he can’t wait to do right what he couldn’t in the morning because he was in a hurry to leave, shower with his husband, christen every room with their wedding vows –interrupted by kissing, and lots of kissing, and making out—before they get ready for their dinner date at their favourite restaurant. He left early specifically so he could get off at five in the evening; they have plenty of time to do everything they want and more.
He’s bouncing on his feet as he rings the doorbell, a bouquet of red and pale roses in hand, face flushed as the petals inside the wrap like some blushing Victorian bride, which makes absolutely no sense; his husband is the one who befits the blushing Victorian description far more, in every sense of the word down to the faux scandalized expression when Alex murmurs something dirty in his ear in public, like they didn’t just fuck a few minutes before. But look, not everything is about the visuals. Alex is a giggling, lovestruck bride in the sense of inner feelings. Even if his complexion saves him from turning him into a beet when his cheeks burn hot as a furnace.
He rings the doorbell again. His phone flashes with a text from Leo, wishing him a happy anniversary. He types out a thanks and scrolls back to the message he’s been returning to with every greeting text: I love you, with a singular red heart emoji. He can almost hear Henry’s voice in his ear everytime he reads it. He feels like a lovesick teenager. Two years is not a long time to be married, but it’s almost been a decade with the love of his life. It feels like a lifetime. It feels like just yesterday.
He’s just starting to get worried when the door finally opens. Henry is standing there when the door opens, and Alex’s wide, bordering-on-lunatic smile falls from his face like a stack of jenga cards the moment his eyes meet Henry’s. Oh. He knows exactly what this looks means. Henry smiles tightly, eyeing the bouquet in Alex’s hands and moving aside to make way for Alex, and Alex can feel his heart plummet all the way to the bottom where it hits the floor and thuds with a sharp ache.
Henry’s eyes are puffy and red, and he looks dangerously sleep deprived, even though they slept the last night cuddling and Alex does not remember the half moons under Henry’s eyes in the morning, but the set of his jaw, the stilted, blank face, the tightness in his lips as he tries to lean forward to kiss Alex and it hits him like a truck, all coming back to him in one go, and Alex shakes his head and moves away, taking Henry’s fingers in his hands.
They have done this long enough to know what this means. It only takes one pleading look from Alex for Henry to understand as he gulps and waits for Alex to take his shoes off.
The thing is, they already know how this works, seven years of living together and all that. Henry knows he doesn’t need to hide and fake his emotional state for Alex, even if it’s to put on a brave face for their anniversary date. They’ve been through everything together. Henry knows that Alex can recognize the pinch at the corner of his mouth from a thousand miles away. So Henry doesn’t say anything, and Henry doesn’t try to argue that he’s okay, and that they can still go to the dinner date for their second marriage anniversary, and Henry doesn’t try to feign anymore smiles. His tall, hunched figure disappears into the hallway as Alex takes off his shoes with the bouquet in one hand.
Alex bites his lips, exhales a deep sigh. Follows Henry into the bedroom where he knows Henry is currently sitting, face towards the bay windows, staring vacantly into the windows. When he enters the bedroom door to find Henry in the exact position he’d known Henry would be in, it hardly feels prophetic, just the familiar motions of an episode he’s seen over and over again.
“Baby?” Alex whispers, softly, as if to not spook an animal, even though Henry is aware of his presence in the room. Henry’s mind often drifts away in these moods, but Henry just opened the door for him a few minutes ago. Alex knows he’s there, present and solid, even though he’s not sure if he can touch Henry right now.
Alex crouches next to where Henry is sitting on the edge. It’s awkward, because Alex does not have the height to pull this off like Henry does when he crouches next to Alex, but maybe if Henry is in the mood, Alex will get to rest his head against Henry’s knee and clutch his hand for a while.
Henry looks down at him, face painfully blank. “I’ve ruined our day, haven’t I?” he says hoarsely, voice rough and wry, self-deprecating in the classic Henry way Alex absolutely hates, which is big considering Alex didn’t think there could be any Henry-ism he could possibly less than love, let alone hate.
“I hate when you talk like this”, Alex says. “Jesus, baby, you know that’s not true”, Alex says, shaking his head vigorously, as if he can physically dispel the thoughts from Henry’s head if he denies them hard enough. “It’s not true at all. Don’t say that.” Henry does not say anything, staring at the vacant spot beyond the windows that occupies his entire field of vision.
But there’s a hand in Alex’s hair, long, lithe fingers slipping through his curls to rest on his head, and that’s how Alex knows this isn’t that bad. It’s not rock bottom, not even one of those days where Henry can’t even stand to be touched by anyone, not even David, though those days have become exceedingly rare in the past few years. It’s in fact, ‘rather manageable’, as Henry says, and Alex hearts feels lighter knowing he can be a space where Henry doesn’t feel compelled to push himself over and beyond.
He still feels like utter shit for not noticing the signs in the morning: the lethargy in Henry’s movements, the oversleeping as Alex dressed for work (which Alex took for the lingering exhaustion of the recent trip to England), the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as Alex set the breakfast, the fact that Henry didn’t pin him down when Alex woke him to kisses across his back………shit. Shit, shit, shit, Alex thinks, squeezing his eyes, rewinding his memories back to all the ways he failed to notice the red, glaring, obvious signs.
“Did you eat anything today?” Alex asks, looking into Henry’s puffy eyes. Henry nods, “The scones were good…but I, Al--”
“It’s okay”, Alex soothes, dragging his thumb over Henry’s wedding room. Their fingers are loosely entangled, touching the ghost of each other’s skin under the matching Linden tree bands.
Alex gets Henry a glass of water. “Bath?” Alex asks; he almost considers asking about decaf and food but then decides against it. One step at a time, he thinks.
Henry nods, exhaling a deep sigh and following Alex into the bathroom as Alex runs the bath. Henry wades into the tub and Alex moves out of the bathroom, drawing Henry’s towel and a pair of fresh sweatpants and a soft cotton t-shirt. Alex changes from his own work clothes and sets Henry’s on the bed to wear when he’s bathed and goes downstairs into the kitchen to make something light and filling. He puts the rooibos on kettle and pulls out the jaffa cakes, hoping to coax Henry into eating a proper meal with his comfort food.
In a few minutes he will know if he should take the food upstairs or wait if Henry will come and eat on the dinner table; it’s entirely upto Henry. The thing is, they know the rhythm by now. Alex has seen days where Henry couldn’t even get out of bed, spiraling in the bottomless pit of what he’s described to Alex as ‘nothing’, an insuperable ocean of separation from everything—when he cannot will himself to feel anything, and even the involuntary act of respiration feels laborious. He has also seen days when Henry just sits impassive and blank, staring away into the starless sky to look for Orion. Henry’s sadness is palpable at its lowest; he is good at this, being inscrutable and guarded, except the phantom of pain that haunts his eyes if you look close enough. Once Alex had seen it, seen Henry, the smile that lit up his soft blues and the ache that shone through when his face cracked, there was no going back. Alex has a catalogue for every tick, every line on Henry’s face.
It’s more than just the years of training in perfecting the hereditary stiff upper lip, Alex thinks. He remembers when they first talked about this, when Alex was still misguidedly trying his best to help Henry. It could be an all-consuming tidal wave of despair that reared its head every once a blue moon, a sadness that hurt physically in his chest, and Alex related to it—the physical sting of pain. But it could also be just nothing.
What are you feeling? Alex would ask Henry. Nothing Henry would reply, staring listlessly as David clambered for his pets and disappointedly settled at his feet. It took some time for Alex to wrap his head around the concept; he’s spent countless hours studying on the subject since, and he thinks he has a better idea of it now, but he knows he will never know what it’s actually like for Henry, and that’s okay. He loves Henry, and he hates it because it causes Henry pain, but he loves all of Henry, including this one thing about him he will never truly know.
When they first began living together Alex would try a way to cheer Henry up, something to make the episodes easier. He would ask Henry if he wants to talk about it, if he wants tea, or his jaffa cakes, or a soothing head massage, or if they could just cuddle on the bed, or if the bake off would possibly make him feel better; he would continue his incomplete list of things and tell Henry the newly discovered fact about him that Alex had fallen in love with. He would tell Henry he’s brave and amazing and how proud Alex is of him, how much he enjoys reading the drafts of the queer anthology Henry was then working on, the incredible impact he made in the lives of the kids in the shelter and how much Alex relished his quiches, inspite of the occasional eggshells in his mouth. Henry has told him many times it never bothered him, but Alex has learned over the years that it doesn’t help either.
He knows now, that doing something as simple as bathing and getting dressed with fresh clothes helps. It makes Henry feel better to be able to do something by himself, to retain some sense of control. Getting some food inside an empty stomach helps. Maybe talking too, but he knows that Henry will come to him and tell him everything once he’s ready.
Once the dinner is ready and Henry is not downstairs Alex gets the cue; he takes the tea and food upstairs, finding Henry sitting in the same position he was before in wet hair and changed clothes.
“H?” Alex calls out and Henry turns, eyeing the plate in Alex’s hands. They eat in silence until Henry asks about his day, nibbling on his jaffa cake. Alex relays the fun parts—the one that are fun to tell, even if not to experience, like spilling over his coffee and almost getting knocked over by a giant vase at the florist’s—which was absolutely not Alex’s fault--ṭhe vase was too big for the assistant; the poor kid was struggling under the weight and Alex helped him carry the thing, okay?
It’s exaggerated and theatrical and Henry knows that, but judging by the way his lips curl upwards, even if infinitesimally, it achieves its extended effect.
“I love them”, Henry says, eyeing the vase by the bedside.
“You beat me to it this time.”
“Did you like them?” Henry asks, “the flowers?”
Alex blinks. “I told you in the morning, baby, I love them.”
Henry nods quietly. “One thing I got right, I suppose.”
“You’re picking up fast”, Alex says, “eight years and you’ve finally started catching up”, he almost boops Henry’s nose, because he can practically see the incredulous expression behind which Henry currently lacks the energy to muster, but retracts his hand mid-air. If Henry feels anything about it, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he just takes Alex’s left hand and covers it with his own, running his thumb over the wedding hand. “Happy anniversary, love.”
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart”, Alex smiles, leaning forward for a hug. He takes the plates and the cup to the sink and stares at the yellow roses in the vase; he didn’t appreciate them properly in the morning, he thinks. Henry is already in the bed by the time Alex goes back to their bedroom, curled on his side under the comforter. Alex slips under the sheets in silence, whispering, “good night, sweetheart”; the sound of Henry’s light snores makes him feel at peace.
He will wait until Henry is ready to get back to him. Years ago Alex had slept like this, face turned to the curve of Henry’s spine, marveling at the defiant beat of his heart. Alex knows that Henry knows where to seek help—Alex just needs to wait and trust him. Henry is a fighter, a stubborn shithead and a sappy, sentimental bastard, loving and kind to a fault. Alex cannot fight Henry’s battles for him, but he can be there for him. To celebrate his victories, sit him with in his quiet moments, and give him space when he needs it. Alex wants to be there for everything, so he does.