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Sometimes, Alex thinks that Henry is his perfect inverse, that the unknowable force that pushes Alex out of his skin is the same force that causes Henry to burrow inside himself. They can tether each other in some curious, irreplaceable way: Alex can coax Henry out and Henry can usher Alex in.
Or, that’s how it’s supposed to work. When Alex isn’t holding his feelings hostage within, far away from where Henry’s ridiculously-blue eyes might stumble upon them.
* * *
It starts with something small, a little seed of resentment that shoots up three feet overnight and pervades Alex’s chest cavity as if it were always there.
Henry has a date that night. The first date that he’s been on in a while.
He’s skittering around their apartment, making slight adjustments to his outfit, running his hands through his golden hair. And then there’s Alex, practically chained to the couch as he falls into the rhythmic flow of essay writing, not yet thinking about the decidedly-less rhythmic flow of essay editing.
Normally, that would be it. This would be just another moment of them coexisting, sharing familiar space.
But, tonight, something’s different.
Something’s wrong.
Alex can’t focus. His eyes keep drifting from his laptop screen to follow Henry around. It’s all he can do to soothe this sudden, strange itch. This compulsion. Something about it ties Alex’s stomach in knots, sends his mind into a tailspin. Maybe he’s just nervous on Henry’s behalf. Maybe he just hopes that Henry meets someone as smart and witty and good as he is. Maybe it’s just that this essay is sending him into a spiral, the sort of tornado that might incidentally take hold of Henry’s date and make it into something unreasonably formidable.
He tries to keep his eyes trained on his laptop, on the cursor blinking in and out over a mostly blank document, but even that seems to fail. Each time Alex gets to typing, he ends up writing something that makes him think about Henry and distracts him again. It’s like Henry is spilling out onto the page, just because he’s the type of person to use words like adjudicate and moot in otherwise perfectly normal sentences.
A nearby floorboard creaks, breaking Alex out of his fragile state of focus. He looks over to see Henry, his hair tamed and him fully-dressed in a white cashmere sweater and cream-colored slacks, perched on the arm of the couch with his eyes hazily wandering over Alex.
Internally, Alex sometimes thinks of those blue eyes as birds, as butterflies, fluttering over the world in search of a place to safely rest.
“I suppose I’ll be heading out now,” Henry says, absentmindedly twisting his gold ring back and forth around his finger. “I’ll be sure to send you an update later.”
Alex nods. “Cool. Have fun.” He knows there’s something else he should be saying, but he can’t think of it right then. He can chastise himself for that when Henry leaves.
There’s a moment of pointed eyes and parted lips where Alex thinks Henry will ask him something, where he thinks that being asked might possibly allow himself to coax out whatever platitude he’s supposed to be offering. But Henry’s expression shifts back to normal and he doesn’t ask. He just stands up, and turns his head over his shoulder to look back at Alex.
“Have a good night, Alex.”
His accent curls around the vowels in a way that makes Alex want to drag Henry back to the couch to just share space with him, like they always do. Alex could pluck at computer keys while Henry turns pages. Together, they could be parentheses with two different methods of punctuating the silence.
But Alex doesn’t move. He only hears the jangle of keys, the click of Henry shutting the apartment door. One parenthesis turns into an ellipsis.
The next few hours are slow and labored. Alex finds himself barely able to muster a single coherent sentence for his paper, with every thought on an increasingly convoluted path back to Henry. He starts at an innocuous formatting question and ends up at Henry; he starts at cursing corporate law and somehow ends up at Henry.
And that itch, whatever it is, persists. Trying to parse it feels like grappling for something in the darkness, like extending an outstretched arm to grasp something just out of reach. It gets bad enough that Alex eventually entirely gives up on writing the paper and checks his phone instead, only to find that Henry is yet to text.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. For some reason, it matters a lot.
Alex is in a similar state—left wondering what Henry is doing, who he’s with, how he’s feeling, if he’s disappointed or nervous or overwhelmingly happy—until he hears the jiggle of their wobbly door knob. He feels disturbingly doggish in how he visibly perks up, how he throws his laptop open so he at least looks like he got a lot of work done.
Henry walks in, as quiet and measured as always. Alex, looking steadfastly at the bare-bones document, can hear only the softest sighs of weary floorboards under Henry’s feet. He types a few nonsensical words before shutting his laptop again.
“You’re home,” Alex says, somewhere between a statement and an inquiry. He leans back into the couch and tries to make his words casually observational, but they’re tinged with a multidimensional bitterness that Alex has never felt before, that he hopes Henry isn’t able to identify.
“Yes,” Henry responds, clipped with his unique brand of social fatigue that Alex knows well. Better than anyone. “I’m sorry that I forgot to text. I was a bit preoccupied.”
Alex opens his mouth to respond, but is stopped by that glint in Henry’s eyes. Somewhere in them, there’s that buried question surfacing briefly. A question that Alex is still looking for himself, which corresponds to an evasive answer brewing somewhere under his skin, coursing through his blood. He knows he could ask how the date went, or say that he hopes Henry had fun.
But, for some reason, it feels like that would burn him. So he doesn’t.
“Well,” he says, punctuating the word with a yawn, a hand over his mouth and a slow roll of his shoulders. “I’m exhausted, so I’m going to bed. Good night, H.”
And, for a long moment, Henry says nothing. The question stays in his eyes, those avian eyes that so often perch on Alex.
“Sleep well, Alex.”
Predictably, Alex sleeps even worse than usual. When he wakes, he shoves all of the leftover emotions into some compartment in his brain that he’ll probably never get around to unpacking. He lets his life fill and overflow, hoping that all of the inexplicable things spill out over the sides.
For a while, they do. Because it’s Alex and Henry, and nothing in the world could ever stop that.
* * *
But it happens again, the very next time Henry has a date, and Alex doesn’t know why he’s so surprised when it does.
As soon as he hears the words come out of Henry’s mouth, there’s a resurgence of that same strange ache that had sprouted within him on the night of the first date, now growing into something stronger and more agonizing.
Maybe—somewhere private in Alex’s mind—he had rationalized that night as an isolated instance of moodiness, but the feeling comes back in full force, mercilessly. The only benefit this time is that, at the very least, Alex knows to cordon himself off in his room. Away from Henry and the anxious energy that aggravates that dreadful itch.
Fortunately, with nothing urgent to work on, Alex can indulge in one distraction to keep his mind off of the other distraction (who is probably preening in front of the bathroom mirror right now) that he doesn’t want to name.
As Alex flops into bed, he pops his headphones on and scrolls to one of his playlists of Spanish songs. The vocals flood over him with a certain indescribable comfort, a nostalgia that keeps his two feet on the ground.
Sometimes June will say that he has a fire under his ass for no good reason, as if the worst that can happen is him getting burned, but Alex worries more about floating away. He has an underlying fear that he might cut the invisible strings that tether him, that stop him from becoming lost in the passage of time. Lost in his head.
The music helps, even as small snippets of half-thoughts sneak between the line breaks of lyrics, all orbiting around a common planet named Henry.
He wonders: What’s wrong with me?
He wonders: Why do I care so much?
He wonders: What the hell am I missing?
Alex just can’t figure it out. Seeking an answer to any of his questions feels like an endless pursuit, even as he resorts to making a list of things he does know:
- He knows Henry can handle himself.
- He knows Henry deserves someone who loves him wholeheartedly.
- And, most of all, he knows Henry.
He’s with Henry almost every minute of every day. He has Henry every movie night, every trip to the bookstore, every shared dinner. Why does he care about whoever has Henry now?
None of it makes any sense. Alex shouldn’t be stuck on Henry and that glint in his eyes, the way that Henry’s gaze sometimes flits uncertainly over him, as if it knows something that Alex doesn’t. He should be focused on Selena’s voice struggling to break through his thoughts, on “El Chico Del Apartamento 512” blasting into his ears, on her singing él, solo él and—
And.
Oh.
Oh.
And there’s an answer in those words, isn’t there? Él, solo él.
It’s not that he’s periodically moody or standoffish. It’s not that he’s worried about Henry finding someone good enough. It’s not any of those half-baked notions about being a concerned friend.
Alex is jealous. He wants Henry.
He wants Henry home. He wants to have Henry for himself. He wants Henry in a way he’s never wanted anyone before.
He wants Henry, and then what? What is he supposed to do now? He can’t say anything to his platonic roommate-slash-best-friend. Especially when that platonic roommate-slash-best-friend is going out on dates. Alex won’t risk Henry’s friendship (or, frankly, their convenient shared living arrangement) over this.
In the best case scenario, Henry wants him back. When Alex tells him the truth, the corners of his mouth will curl and his eyes will shine in that captivating, hopeful way they always do.
But, in the worst case scenario, Henry shutters. He won’t show it—at least, not intentionally—on his face, but he’ll say it. He’ll say, “I’m sorry, Alex, but I don’t feel the same.” And the worst part is that when he says he’s sorry, he’ll mean it. He’ll still say, “We can still be friends,” even if they really can’t.
The obvious alternative, then, is to say nothing at all. Alex has gone on long enough without acting on these dormant feelings. Surely, he can keep on going. He can stay the same and continue coinciding with Henry, continue breathing the same air and living a parallel life.
A little bit of unrequited love never killed anyone.
Though, even if it did kill him just a little, Alex would take it. He’d have to. If it was between Henry’s happiness and his own, he’d choose Henry’s every time. And, more selfishly, Alex is well aware that the heartbreak of suppressing his feelings could never match the heartbreak of losing Henry for good.
That was it. The decision was made for him.
As he drifts off to sleep much later that night, headphones still in, Alex knows that he won’t ever tell Henry. Not if he can help it.
* * *
Somehow, keeping his realization to himself is even more difficult than Alex expects it to be. His feelings seem to be threatening to burst out at any moment, and it takes more and more energy over time to hold them in.
Having a name for the feeling of being around Henry changes a lot. It brings a novelty to seeing Henry being the same person he’s always been, doing the same things he’s always done. Alex realizes, now, why he always had to tamp down a smile when he watched Henry drowsily sipping Earl Grey in the mornings, or silently mouthing the words of a novel, or curling up on the couch as Bake Off plays in the background. Finally knowing makes Alex all the more conscious of the way his heart beats, the way his breath catches.
The only thing that makes it all easier is to hide away and find a distraction. And, with law school, that’s not so hard to do. There’s always a book to read, a paper to write. But it feels wrong. Alex isn’t supposed to be the type of person to retreat inside himself. He’s supposed to hold on to idealism, to wear every little hope on his sleeve in the face of it all. He’s supposed to at least try for something more.
But, instead, he tries to be as normal as possible, still watching movies and going out and eating dinner and coexisting with Henry in the same way he always has.
Of course, Henry notices that there’s a difference anyway. He has to notice, though he doesn’t say a word.
By the time anything out of the ordinary happens, it’s weeks later. The credits of an arthouse flick are rolling when Henry clears his throat from where he’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, and Alex turns his head to look at him.
“I was talking to Pez today,” Henry says, over the hum of a song from the end credits, “and he was thinking that we might have a little get-together with everyone soon. I think it’s a good idea. It’s been quite a while since we’ve all met up, hasn’t it?”
Something about it is a bit strange. Pez usually never hesitates to spam the group chat (incessantly, and in all caps) when he wants to make an arrangement. He, like Alex, doesn’t tend to hold things in.
Regardless of his suspicions, Alex answers as his normal self.
“It has been a while, huh?” Alex muses, glancing at the scrolling, infinite white text. “But, yeah, I think that sounds nice.”
“I’ll let him know,” Henry says, typing something quick on his phone before looking back up at Alex.
Even in the dim lighting, Alex can see Henry’s eyes shining knowingly for just a moment in time before they return to normal. Then, Henry grabs the remote and presses a few buttons to put on another movie.
Alex doesn’t think any more of it.
* * *
Alex is sitting in a red vinyl booth, a few drinks in, with June on his left and escape on the right. Everyone else is there, too: Nora, Bea, Pez. And Henry.
Alex knew he couldn’t sit next to Henry, but sitting across from him didn’t seem to be any better. Every time their eyes would accidentally lock, Alex had to swallow down every single word that was clambering to be set free. He could feel Henry’s prying eyes on him from the moment they sat down, and he gradually sensed his sister noticing his silence, too.
While Alex was focusing on nursing a light beer after one too many judgmental looks from June, there was an enthusiastic conversation going on between Nora and Pez that he couldn’t get himself to follow. At least, not until he heard Henry’s name.
“Henry’s been raving about this place for ages,” Pez says, before mischievously waggling his eyebrows. “I’m sure he’s been spending a lot of time here as of late.”
Henry seems to tune in to the conversation at that exact moment, jerking his head to look at Pez. “I can assure you that’s not true.”
“Really?” Pez sends him a doubtful look, mirth dancing in his eyes. “This isn’t where you’re taking all of your boys?”
At that, Henry goes red and puts his head in his hands, only letting out a muffled, “Shut up, Pez.”
In rapid succession, Alex wonders about what Henry’s dates are like, where he chooses to sit, what he decides to order. The idea that Henry had been going here unleashes the parts of Alex’s mind that he had been trying so hard to keep restrained. All he can envision is Henry sitting here with someone who is not Alex, talking, smiling, laughing—
“How has dating been, Hazza? Have you found a strumpet to call your own?” Pez asks, unperturbed by Henry’s pinched expression.
“It’s been fine, Pez,” Henry replies, an urgent look on his face. “And, there are no strumpets.”
“Of course.” Pez seems to miss whatever Henry was trying to communicate to him, going on with his prodding. “You have to keep that spot open for our dear Alexander.” He nods toward Alex. “I can’t imagine how jealous he must be now that you’re finally on the market, though he could certainly get out there, too—”
And that’s when it becomes too much. Alex can feel eyes settling on him, and even Henry flinches. Somehow, in a way that he can’t even articulate, that makes it worse.
It all comes down on him at once: the too-bright light and the stifling air and the sweet smell wafting from the kitchen turning sour. Alex can feel his self-control snapping like something elastic. Words are rushing out before he can think about what they really mean.
“What if I like my life just the way it is?” Alex snaps, stepping out of the booth and making a beeline for the exit door. He ignores the calls of his name, lets every sound blur into nothingness.
Alex is hit with the cool New York air that reminds him that there is somewhere he needs to go. He can’t hang around outside of this place forever. He figures he’ll head to the subway and think about what to do from there, but another voice finds him before he can get far.
“Alex,” Henry calls out, the bell of the closing door ringing behind him. Alex looks back to see Henry standing right outside the door, wringing his hands. “Are you alright?”
Instinctively, Alex laughs. It’s bitter and strained, because of course he’s not alright, but he doesn’t feel like explaining it to Henry anyway. So he lies. “Yeah, I’m just fine. I’ll see you at home.”
He can only walk a few steps before he feels a hand on his shoulder, turning him around.
“I’m sorry, that was a stupid question.” Henry is looking him over, eyes glimmering even in the darkness, like he’s trying to find an invisible wound before Alex can point it out to him. “Pez is sorry, by the way. He would tell you himself, but I wanted to talk to you first.”
There it is. This is going to be it. Henry is going to finally ask the question that’s been lurking in every dark corner for weeks, and Alex is going to answer honestly because he doesn’t have it within him to hide anymore. Henry’s going to let him down easy and Alex will just have to accept that none of this was meant to last. This moment will be the last few ending paragraphs of the long, inescapable chapter titled “Alex and Henry.”
“Right,” Alex says, every other word he could be saying now dying on his tongue. “Go ahead.”
Henry clears his throat. “What’s wrong, Alex?” Before Alex can even open his mouth, Henry continues. “And don’t say that it’s nothing, because I know it’s not. Tell me what’s going on.”
It’s weird and wrong to hear those words coming out of Henry’s mouth. Not just because they’re in front of some diner-style restaurant in the darkness of a loud, uncaring city, but because it’s supposed to be the other way around. Henry is supposed to be distant and withdrawn and Alex is supposed to help him touch the sunlight, but that’s not what’s happening. Now, it’s Alex and Henry surrounded by artificial lights that Alex can feel shining right through him and his secrets.
Alex says nothing, feeling like everything he has to say is already written across his face.
“I’ve noticed how you’ve been whenever I’ve had a date,” Henry says, unable to meet Alex’s eyes. “I just don’t understand what’s wrong. You could date anyone you want. Certainly you know that.”
“Well, not the one person I want,” Alex mutters, exhaling a sardonic puff that whitens the air ahead and feeling the burn of tears rising to his lash line.
“What do you mean?” Henry asks, and it’s so earnest that Alex knows he has to suck it up and tell him the truth.
The artificial lights are still prodding at Alex and he can feel the alcohol churning in his gut, with all of the anxiety and heartbreak and the finality of this moment. Tears slip out without warning, only flowing faster and faster as the seconds pass.
“You,” Alex says. “I want you. How fucked up is that?”
He can see the exact moment where his words strike Henry. It’s the exact moment when Henry’s mouth drops open, his eyes grow wide, and he tries and fails to muster a response.
Alex can only bite his lip hard enough to keep his mouth closed, to prevent any other truths from tumbling out. For the second time, he tries to just turn and walk away, but he’s a bit tipsy and sad and still in love with Henry. And, for the second time, he doesn’t get far.
“Alex, look at me.”
When Alex looks back, he sees Henry’s open expression and he braces himself. He’s recited the impending words to himself so many times that he knows what to expect. Henry will apologize and sympathize and rationalize. And that will have to be enough.
“I love you.”
And it’s not what Alex was expecting. It’s worse, because it’s Henry. Of course Henry still loves him, even if it’s not in the way Alex wants.
“I know,” Alex says, in a pained reply that comes out as a mere trembling whisper. The tears blur his vision, and he’s internally thankful that he won’t be able to see Henry’s face clearly. He can leave tonight not knowing, never knowing. It’s better that way. “I’m sorry.”
“Christ, Alex.” Henry groans and, even through his tears, Alex can see him putting a hand to his temple. “Don’t apologize. I’m in love with you.”
Alex freezes. That’s the only way to describe the sudden halt of his overactive mind.
“No.”
“Yes, I am.”
Alex scrambles for something to say, grasps for the first question that makes itself known.
“Then why were you going on all of those dates?”
“To get over my best friend, who I previously believed was straight,” Henry replies, his eyes locked on Alex and glittering under the neon light. Something about the scene is soft, tender.
Alex realizes that the softness, the tenderness, might have been there underlying everything all along.
“Oh.” Alex sniffles. He doesn’t know what more to say. None of the lists had prepared him for this. “I thought Pez was your best friend.”
Henry sighs. “Of course that’s what you get from that, you menace.”
The two of them stay quiet for a bit, watching the passing cars and blinking city lights. Alex has never felt so bare in a place so full of life, where every second overflows with it. It gives him a merciful reprieve from his mind. Only a place like New York could ever make his feelings seem small in comparison.
“I told everyone I would take you home,” Henry says. He offers a shaky, outstretched hand to Alex. “Let’s go.”
Alex takes it.
They hold hands the entire way back to their apartment. And they’re still holding hands when they fall asleep, passed out in Alex’s bed: parentheses, curved around each other once more.
* * *
Alex wakes up feeling the combined weight of both Henry’s gaze and sunlight from the window running over him. This time, neither of these things make him feel unduly exposed. He just feels seen, by Henry and by the universe.
Without hesitation, he leans forward and kisses Henry. It’s exactly what he’d wanted, as gentle and caring as he’d hoped.
But it’s when he pulls back, when Henry’s eyes settle on him, that Alex knows they’re home.