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“Are you watching that guy like a weirdo creep again?” June asks, too close to his ear, and Alex jumps a fucking mile.
“I’m not being a weirdo creep,” he huffs, folding his arms over his chest as he steps away from the window overlooking the Kennedy Gardens.
June gives him a look. “But you are watching him.”
“I was just— I was walking by and I happened to notice him, and—”
“You should go talk to him,” June interrupts blithely, already sauntering away.
“What? No,” Alex scoffs.
“Why not? He’d probably be flattered he caught the attention of the First Son.”
“He’s working, June,” Alex says. “He doesn’t want to be bothered.”
June shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Alex doesn’t know exactly what about the gardener first caught his attention. Maybe it was the fact that he was younger than a lot of the other people who were employed to work on the landscaping at the White House—Alex’s age, or thereabouts. Maybe it was the way he was always still somehow so pale after working in the sun all day. Maybe it was the fact that he could have been a model, with his long legs and swooping cheekbones and full lips, and yet he was spending his days clipping bushes and digging up bulbs.
Actually, all of that’s a lie: Alex knows exactly when the gardener caught his attention.
It had been an abnormally warm early spring day, and he’d been pacing in front of a bank of windows as he tried to wrestle his ideas into something that might resemble a coherent essay for one of his classes. He wasn’t even looking out at the gardens, not really, but a flash of movement caught his eye and drew him over to the glass. A hose had failed somehow, leaving the man who’d been working with it looking like he was re-enacting Mr. Darcy emerging from the lake (what? June has those movies on all the time, it’s not like it’s his fault if he gets caught up in them sometimes). The gardener had plucked at his thin white shirt as it clung to his torso, revealing a truly breathtaking collection of muscles sculpted by regular manual labor, before he’d finally peeled the whole thing off, taking his dingy ball cap with it.
That was when Alex discovered that they were currently employing what might very well be the most gorgeous man on the planet.
That was also when Alex realized he might be something less than 100% straight. Ok, it had taken some more time after that, and more than a few instances of catching sight of the beautiful gardener again, before he started to understand what he was feeling. He still isn’t really sure if he’s actually bi or just lonely and horny, but that was definitely the start.
He’s well aware of how weird it would be to go hit on the man, for many, many reasons, so he just… appreciates from a distance. It’s fine. In a few months it will be winter again, and Alex probably won’t see him around anymore. He’ll get over his stupid little infatuation on someone he’s never even spoken to, and that will be that.
It’s one of those days, when there’s too much going on and he can’t get Cash to go with him on a run outside of the White House grounds, so Alex just ends up looping endlessly around in little circles on the path around the South Lawn, trying to get out some of the excess energy that’s thrumming in his veins. Eventually, he manages to tire himself out enough and ends up sprawled out on his back behind some bushes in the Children’s Garden, staring up as the clouds drift past. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, only that he still hasn’t quite come back to earth when he hears the sound of footsteps on the nearby path. Probably he should get up, but he can’t really bring himself to care who sees him like this.
That’s before the hot gardener comes around the corner. His light blue button-down shirt is hanging open, thrown loosely over a white tank top that’s smudged with dirt and sweat-darkened at the neckline, and Alex might have fallen over if he wasn’t already on the ground.
“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was out here,” the gardener says. The accent is a surprise. An extremely sexy surprise. Fuck. “Do you need a hand?”
Alex could use a hand with something, all right. In his own tank top and the running shorts that June says are an inch away from a misdemeanor, he’s really not wearing enough clothing for this. Or maybe he’s wearing too much. Closing his eyes, he forces himself to get a fucking grip before he starts to push up off the ground. The gardener’s proffered hand appears in his line of vision, so he takes it because it would be more awkward not to. It’s warm and dry and rough with callouses that Alex feels no particular way about, and he lets the gardener’s strong grip tug him upward, until he gets his feet under him again.
It’s only then that the gardener seems to clock him. His eyes go wide as they track over Alex’s body and linger on his face. “Oh. You’re…”
Their hands are still clasped together, and Alex tightens his hold around Henry’s. “Alex.”
“Henry,” the gardener says in return as his lips part in a smile, which is devastating, actually.
“Nice to meet you, Henry,” Alex says. He might let a little of the southern drawl slip out, honey smooth. Sue him.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Henry replies, his rounded vowels dipping low, and ok, he’s a smooth motherfucker too. Alex is officially fucked.
“You’re British.”
Henry laughs, cocking an eyebrow at him. “An astute observation.”
“No I just mean—” Alex cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I didn’t expect it, but I guess it fits.”
“Why?” Henry asks, tipping his head as a little furrow appears between his brows.
Alex bites his lip. “Because everything about you is unexpected, Henry.”
Alex should leave him alone. He should listen to what he told June and not bother a White House employee when he’s working.
The thing about Henry, though, is that he’s ridiculously easy to talk to, and he always seems so pleased to see Alex. It’s impossible to stay away whenever Alex spots him working in the gardens, which is frequently these days. It’s the middle of summer, which means Henry is mostly working in the mornings and evenings when the heat isn’t quite so bad, but occasionally Alex finds him doing something ridiculous like digging a hole to plant a bush in the middle of the day.
As he’s now wont to do, Alex makes his way out to the gardens with a large glass of lemonade. Henry’s entire face lights up when he sees Alex coming, which Alex is sure is less because of him and more the promise of ice cold refreshment. The poor guy is absolutely drenched in sweat, which Alex absolutely is not thinking about licking off his collarbones. As Alex walks up to him, Henry sinks the shovel into the loose dirt and pulls his ball cap off, the muscles of his arms rippling when he pushes a hand through blond hair darkened with sweat. Alex narrowly avoids swallowing his tongue as he hands the glass off, and when their fingers brush, Alex feels the contact tingling in his fingertips long after Henry’s pulled away.
And that’s before Henry tips his head back and takes a long drink of the lemonade, the muscles of his throat working as he swallows. Thank fuck it’s hot outside, because Alex is sweating like he’s the one who’s been working in the sun for hours.
Somehow, he manages to regain his faculties for conversation by the time Henry’s finished the lemonade, and they fall into their usual easy banter as Henry works. (Alex once offered to help out, feeling bad for standing around while Henry was sweating his ass off, and Henry had laughed and laughed and told him that he’d be fired if he let the First Son do his job for him.) They talk about everything and nothing—about movies and music, about the best food trucks that frequent the area around the mall, about what Alex has been up to during the summer, about the many projects always going on in the gardens.
“How’d you end up working here, anyway?” Alex asks from where he’s reclining in the shade, plucking bits of grass out of the lawn and tearing them apart.
“It’s a long story,” Henry grunts as he shovels. “I moved to the US for a fresh start. The gardening, I sort of fell into. I needed a job, and I always liked working with my hands. I’m certain that my friend sent me this listing as a joke because I—” His voice fails as his eyes cut over to Alex, then drop quickly to the ground again. He clears his throat. “Well. It’s not important. But I decided to apply anyway. I think Rodolfo thought I was having him on when I showed up at the interview, but he must have seen something in me.” Henry huffs a laugh. “Or maybe I was the only one who passed all the frankly mental background checks that were required to work at the White House. And now, here I am.”
“You’re my age,” Alex says, squinting at him. “You didn’t go to college?”
“I dropped out of Oxford,” Henry replies simply.
Alex can’t help it; his jaw drops open. “You dropped out of Oxford? What happened? Did you not like it?”
He knows he shouldn’t pry, but he can’t help it. He wants to know everything about Henry.
“I loved it,” Henry says, and there’s a smile on his face but an unmistakably melancholic note in his voice. “I wanted to be a writer. But I couldn’t stay. Not with the pressure from my grandmother and the way she was insistent on ruling my life.” He stops speaking for a long moment, but never pauses in his digging. “Sometimes I think about going back to school eventually. For now, I’m happy with this. I like it. There’s a beautiful simplicity to my life.”
“Wow,” Alex breathes. For once, he doesn’t really know what to say. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Henry. But for what it’s worth… I’m glad you ended up here.”
Henry leans on the shovel, smiling at him. “Me, too.”
Alex is trying to make any kind of sense of a bill that the Republicans are going to try to push through the Senate—don’t ask how he got the draft—when Nora lets herself into his room without so much as a knock.
“Wow, entitled much,” Alex huffs, barely glancing up from his work. At least she brought burritos.
“You invited me here, dumbass,” Nora retorts as she flings herself onto his couch. “Remember? Bisexual awakening movie night? Don’t tell me you forgot about Rick and Evie.”
Alex groans, wiping a hand over his face. “No way it’s fucking Sunday.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I might be.”
“All the more reason you need a break,” Nora tells him firmly. “Your classes don’t start for another week. Why are you working?”
“Because I’m gonna be a senior next year and I have to have something lined up for afterward,” he grumbles.
“I’m sure your mom will give you a job on the campaign,” she says as she finds the remote to his TV and starts navigating through streaming services.
“Maybe I want options. Don’t want everyone to think I’m just a useless nepo baby.”
Nora snorts. “Because I’m sure no one will think your connections got you a job in Rafael Luna’s office.”
“Fuck off,” he groans, turning away from her again. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Ok,” she agrees, too easily. “You got a secret admirer or something? Who sent you those?”
“What?”
“Those,” Nora repeats, gesturing to the small vase full of multicolored roses that’s sitting in front of her on his coffee table. Red, lavender, orange, blue, and even these neat yellow ones tipped with red around the edge of the petals.
“Oh,” Alex says dismissively. “No one sent them. Henry brought them by.”
“Who the fuck is Henry?”
“He’s a gardener who works here.”
“Hold on, the gardener? Your gardener?” she says, sounding too delighted by half. Alex may have talked about him before, once or twice.
Alex huffs and sets his pencil down, turning back to glare at her. “He’s not my gardener. He’s an employee of the White House.”
Nora grins smugly. “He’s the one you’ve got a crush on, though.”
“I don’t—” He breaks off with a frustrated grunt. “We’re not having this conversation, either.”
“And he brought you flowers,” she continues, ignoring him.
“It doesn’t mean anything. He has to prune the roses so that they keep producing more blooms, and he brought me some extras because I said I liked them one day while I was out in the garden. That’s all.”
That’s what Henry told him when he showed up with the first ones, his face flushed red from being out in the sun. Alex’s heart had done something very fucking complicated in his chest, but he’d accepted them in the spirit with which they were given: as a friendly gesture, and nothing more. The haphazard arrangement is all Alex—Henry brings by a different color almost every day, and Alex adds them in the vase, which is getting rather full.
“That’s all,” Nora scoffs with obvious deep skepticism.
“What?”
“Alex, when a boy gives you roses, it always means something,” she says solemnly. “Did you look up the colors?”
“Huh?” he replies, becoming increasingly lost.
Nora shakes her head at him, like he’s the crazy one. “Different colored roses mean different things. Maybe he’s sending you secret messages.”
Alex snorts dismissively. “Pretty sure they’re just whatever’s blooming in the garden.”
“If you say so,” she says, sounding extremely unconvinced. “Can we watch the movie now?”
“Please.”
By the time November rolls around, the gardens are looking pretty dire. Alex never really took notice of what was going on before this year—the plants were just there, in the background, and sometimes it was more colorful than others. Now, though, he notices. Notices the autumn flowers as they come into bloom and die back, notices the trees dropping their leaves, notices the bushes getting thin and scraggly. Henry’s still been around, working in jackets and hoodies as the temperature dips, but between the lessened need for garden care and Alex’s punishing course load, they haven’t seen each other as much. Alex pretends like he doesn’t know that’s why he gets unaccountably grumpy sometimes.
Today he’s on a mission, though, and after confirming that Henry was on the work schedule, Alex scours the grounds until he finds Henry by the tennis court, trimming some bushes. There’s a biting chill in the air, and Henry is bundled up, his nose and cheeks red from the cold. He seems surprised but pleased to see Alex, and Alex bites down on a too-large grin as he holds out the envelope he’d brought with him.
“What’s this?” Henry asks, pulling off his work gloves before he takes it and carefully breaks the seal.
Alex shifts nervously and jams his hands in his pants pockets so he doesn’t fidget. “It’s an invitation. To our big New Year’s party? You’ve probably heard about it.”
“I’m familiar, yes,” Henry says dryly, smirking a little as he glances up from the embossed paper. “But I was under the impression seats were thousands of dollars and reserved for the who’s who of America’s hot young glitterati.”
“First off, you’re young and hot, and it doesn’t matter if you’re not rich,” Alex says, pretending that he didn’t just call Henry hot to his face. Whatever. It’s an objective truth. “We waive the seat cost when there’s someone we really want to come that can't afford it.”
“And you really want me to come,” Henry surmises, still looking vaguely amused by the situation.
Fuck it. “Yes,” Alex answers firmly.
Henry looks back down at the invitation, trailing a finger over the engraving. “I can afford it,” he mutters.
“What?”
“I said, I can afford it,” Henry repeats as he meets Alex’s eyes again. “I know I don’t look it most days, but I have a rather large inheritance that I’m delighted to spend on good causes.”
Alex blinks. He knew Henry’s family back in England was wealthy, but he kind of assumed that after Henry dropped out and moved across an ocean to work as a gardener, he wasn’t in the same boat. “Oh,” he breathes. “Well, you can certainly donate if you want.”
“I do,” Henry confirms. He taps on the invitation with a finger. “It says here I get a plus one.”
Alex’s heart plummets to somewhere near the Earth’s core. Of course Henry has someone. He’s young and hot and amazing, and it’s frankly ridiculous to think he wouldn’t already have a significant other. Or maybe there’s someone he wants to impress—an invite to the year’s biggest party would do wonders. Alex is just the guy that pesters him while he’s working. He never had a shot.
“Yeah,” he manages, cursing the way the word croaks out of his throat. “Of course. It’s, ah, standard, I guess, so if you want to bring someone…”
Henry just smiles at him. “Wonderful.”
Alex stares up at the stars, watching as the cloud of his breath briefly obscures them, making them twinkle before it dissipates. It’s freezing out here, especially after being in the heat generated by the crush of bodies at the party, but for once, Alex appreciates that. He takes another breath, letting the cold air flowing into his lungs numb the ache in his chest.
The crunch of footsteps on the frosted lawn draws his attention, and he looks over to see Henry hovering nearby, still nothing short of stunning in his clean black tux.
He’d arrived with an ostentatiously dressed man he introduced as his best mate Pez, which was a fucking trip because of course Alex had heard of Percy Okonjo. Pez was charming and handsome and immediately the life of the party, but Alex couldn’t tear his eyes away from Henry. Saying he cleaned up well would be a trite cliche, but fuck if it wasn’t true; he looked more like a prince or a movie star than the boy with dirt ground into the creases of his hands that Alex knows. Alex had been buoyed for a while by the fact that Henry had not brought a date with him, but as midnight crept closer, his spirits had started sinking again.
The Kennedy Gardens had seemed like a safe place to retreat. He should have known better.
“I’m fairly certain the host isn’t supposed to hide from the party,” Henry teases gently, a tentative smile playing on his lips.
“I’m only one of three. June and Nora have it on lock,” Alex replies with a sigh. “Sorry for leaving you to the wolves though.”
“It’s fine,” Henry says, shaking his head as he walks a little closer. “Believe it or not, this isn’t my first time at this kind of soirée.”
Alex snorts at that. “Oh, a soirée. Aren’t you fancy?”
“Says the man in a velvet tuxedo.”
“Touché,” Alex returns. His smile falters a little as he stares back up at the stars. “I needed a break. Don’t get me wrong, I usually fucking thrive at these things, but sometimes being ‘on’ all the time starts to wear on you, you know?”
“Why do you think I’m a gardener?” Henry says wryly.
“Fair enough,” Alex says with a puff of laughter. “I just… needed a moment to myself, I guess.”
“I shouldn’t intrude, then,” Henry replies softly, already stepping backwards.
“No,” Alex blurts, probably too desperately, but he couldn’t care less about that if it means Henry won’t leave. “I mean, you don’t have to go. I don’t mind the company. When it’s you.”
Henry halts in his tracks, his eyes going wide. “Oh.”
Thankfully, he stops trying to leave and instead comes closer, until he’s right next to Alex, a few bare, aching inches separating their shoulders. For a moment they both just stand there staring up at the sky, until the champagne soaking Alex’s brain gets the better of him.
“If I’m being honest, I wasn’t so excited to count down to the New Year.”
Henry shifts a little to face him more directly. “No?”
Alex shrugs. “The winter’s one thing when you’ve got the holidays to look forward to, but after tonight, it’s nothing but cold and gray. Everything’s dead and brown, and it’ll be months until things are growing again, and you won’t be around…”
He trails off slightly too late to save himself. Whatever. He’s allowed to say he’s going to miss seeing a friend. He stares fixedly up at the sky, resolutely refusing to look at whatever Henry’s face is doing, but then Henry moves to stand in front of him, and he has little choice but to meet those gorgeous blue eyes. They’re crinkled slightly in amusement, but not unkindly.
Fond, he thinks distantly. Henry looks fond.
“Let me make sure I have this right,” Henry says carefully. “You’re out here pouting tonight because you think this is the last time you’re going to see me until spring?”
Alex huffs out a laugh and looks down, feeling his face heat. “I mean, I don’t know if I’d put it that way.”
“You’re wrong about some things, love,” Henry replies, inching closer. Moving slowly, he reaches out to slide a hand onto Alex’s waist, the mere pressure of it lighting a fire under Alex’s skin even as Alex trembles involuntarily under his touch. Then he looks out at the gardens. “They’re not dead. A bit dormant, perhaps, but still in need of care. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re not?” Alex asks breathlessly.
Henry shakes his head. “There’s plenty to do over the winter. Planning, cleaning, prepping the beds… Rodolfo has plenty to keep us busy. I’ll admit, I was intending on taking some time off, but you certainly won’t get rid of me that easily.”
Alex feels like he’s fucking flying, or would be if Henry’s steady presence wasn’t tethering him to the ground. He’s shifted even closer now, nearly pressing Alex back against the tree, and Alex lifts his arms to loop loosely over Henry’s shoulders as he lets a pleased grin curl onto his lips. “There aren’t any roses, though.”
“I’ll buy you roses, you absolute menace,” Henry huffs, but he’s smiling too broadly to sell being put out about it.
“I have another confession,” Alex breathes into the rapidly vanishing space between their lips. “I also ran away because I wanted to kiss you at midnight, but I couldn’t.”
Henry pauses, pulling back a little, though he thankfully doesn’t let go. “Ah. I understand if you can’t afford the questions—”
“No, that’s not it. I don’t care who knows. I mean, I should probably make a plan for officially coming out, but that’s not why,” Alex jumps in before he can get anything else out, because it’s important that Henry knows.
Alex isn’t ashamed and he doesn’t want to hide but, like so many things in his life, it’s not that simple. He takes a deep breath, forcing his jumbled thoughts into something that makes sense, which is no mean feat when he’s tipsy and his arms are full of a very handsome gardener who he’d much rather be kissing.
“It’s a lot, being in the public eye the way I am, and I couldn’t ask that of you,” Alex says as he stares fixedly at Henry’s tie. It’s got little yellow roses on it, and he can’t resist dropping a hand down to run a finger down the silk. “You like your quiet life.”
“I like it,” Henry murmurs. He lifts a hand to Alex’s chin, his fingers icy cold on Alex’s overheated skin, and nudges Alex’s face up so that their eyes meet. “I like you more.”
“Oh,” Alex breathes.
“Now, about that New Year’s kiss…”
Henry is biting his lip, looking hopeful and coy all at once as he stares down at Alex through pale lashes, and Alex… can’t believe this is his life, actually. He’s going to enjoy it while it lasts, though—just them, in the garden that brought them together, and a kiss that holds as much endless potential as the plants around them. Not fragile but resilient, perennial, ready to grow and bloom into something truly incredible.