Chapter Text
The wind bit at my cheeks as we trudged up the icy steps to Henry’s apartment. His silence hung between us, colder than the Vermont night. I’d attempted to ignite a conversation on our walk back from the twins’ place–comments about the snow piling on the streets, the frosted glass panels of the storefronts. Henry offered nothing more than a few curt responses, his breath fogging in sharp puffs through the frigid air. As we stepped through the threshold the wind clawed at my back; leaving the bitter chill behind.
The apartment held its breath, a silence so dense it felt alive. My cotton-clad feet shuffled against the hardwood floor, the faint sound barely piercing the quiet as I slipped off my shoes and settled into the worn couch. The air felt sharp, a chill running down my spine as my cheeks tingled from the cold that lingered outside. A vintage table lamp flickered from the corner of the room, catching my eye. The curved brass base catching the erratic light and throwing it back up into the bottle-green lampshade. The effect felt unnerving, a stutter in the otherwise perfect stillness. Henry locked the front door, fumbling with the chain. Perhaps his fingers were numb from braving Vermont’s winter perils. His demeanour suggested otherwise, though. He moved with almost mechanical precision, each motion deliberate and unfazed.
“You should consider changing that lightbulb, you know,” I say, aiming for nonchalance, though the tense feeling in my vocal cords caused me to miss by a hair. An attempt to break the awkward silence. Henry didn’t answer. He shrugged off his black overcoat roughly. Abruptly, he flicked on the overhead light, then crossed the room in long strides to turn off the lamp—without a single word. I glanced down at the floor, tracing over the grooves in the panels with my big toe. The old couch dipped next to me, worn leather squeaking. It was a gift from myself, one he had begrudgingly accepted. He hadn’t seemed particularly interested in owning a couch, and this one had barely fit in his car when we picked it up from the discount store. It didn’t harmonize with the rest of his apartment’s décor—cognac leather, worn with dark patches and creases—and was as uncomfortable as it looks. The cushions were somehow both lumpy and saggy at the same time, and a misshapen spring would dig into your butt if you sat too far close to the middle.
“You’re being strangely quiet,” I try again, lifting my gaze to meet his. When he looked at me, his face was unreadable and for a moment, his fingers twitched at his side. His face remained unreadable, albeit the subtle tightening of his jaw and the barely perceptible flare of his nostrils telling a far different tale. His eyebrows pinched together, a deep crease forming on his pale forehead for just a beat before smoothing out again. He pulled out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes, breaking eye contact.
“I’m struggling to understand why you insist on being so...” Henry trailed off, bringing a Lucky Strike up to his lips and lighting it. “Uncharacteristically friendly with my friends.” The word uncharacteristically landed with deliberate weight, tinged with mockery. He snapped the lighter shut, the sharp metallic click punctuating the air between us. Smoke curled lazily from the end of his cigarette, winding around him in languid, grey tendrils. He took a long drag of it, awaiting my response. I shouldn’t have felt anything other than irritation, but the unexpected bluntness of his words—the way they lingered in the air, the faint crack in his composure—stirred up something warm and sharp in the pit of my stomach.
“You sound uncharacteristically jealous, my dear.” I let the caustic remark slip, an attempt to keep a dispassionate attitude. The air between us felt charged, heavy almost. Henry scoffed, the sound barely audible, almost as though it escaped without his permission.
“Jealousy.” Henry murmured, as though savoring the taste of the word on his tongue. “Phthonos, corrodes the soul faster than any vice.” His tone was measured, almost detached, professional. His voice calm but deliberate, the words precise and landing like strikes of a chisel, sharp and irrevocable.
His gaze remained fixed on some distant point as if he were seeing something I couldn’t. As though the room had melted away and he was speaking to some ethereal assembly. Then, almost absentmindedly, he recited, “The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable, is that which rages in the place of dearest love.”
The words rolled off his tongue effortlessly, with the rhythm of a prayer, voice steeped with near-revenant cadence. He spoke them with such devout affection, not for me, but for the text, the substance, the immutable truth embedded in those ancient words. His devotion was a thing untouchable, vast and unyielding. It belonged to something far older, far greater, than either of us. It was a temple he worshipped in alone, and I stood on the threshold, unsure if I was meant to follow him in or remain outside, pounding on the door for his attention.
“Euripides.” I responded, the name leaving my lips almost instinctively, like a reflex summoned in his presence. His head turned sharply, and for a fleeting moment, his lips curved into something resembling a smile—though it was gone before I could be certain it had ever been there.
“Eros and thymos.” He continued, voice dipping lower, quieter, as though revealing a secret meant only for me. “They are twin flames. Often indistinguishable.”
His eyes moved over my face, lingering in a way that made me feel exposed, as though he was peeling back layers of my thoughts to uncover something hidden beneath. His expression challenged me, saying but you already knew that, didn’t you?
I watched as Henry took another drag of his cigarette, the smoke meandering up towards the ceiling, the leathery smell of burning tobacco filling my senses, catching in my sinuses–comforting, familiar, warm, and terrible all at once.
In these moments, Henry didn’t feel like a man so much as a monument—a living, breathing echo of some long-forgotten age. He was ancient Greece incarnated, an oracle speaking truths both seductive and unnerving. If he was a labyrinth of thought and conviction, I wasn’t sure I’d found my way out—or if I even wanted to.
“Like how Achilles’ rage was fueled by his love for Patroclus.” I reply, meeting his gaze. My voice was steadier than I felt. I knew Henry’s affinity for Homer, for the rawness of his heroes and the grand tragedy of their passions. The connection was deliberate, though whether it was meant to soothe or provoke, I couldn’t say. Experimentally, I reached out and plucked the cigarette from between his fingers, so small, almost burnt out. I took a deep drag of it, eyes dropping closed for a second as I let the earthy smoke into my mouth; a warm, pinching sensation filled my lungs and throat. I felt a haze flush my mind, already softened from the earlier second hand fumes.
“You know so much of what the Greeks thought of jealousy.” I began, watching Henry retrieve the cigarette from my grasp, snuffing it on an ashtray placed atop the coffee table. “And yet, you still let yourself succumb to it.” He settled back onto the couch silently, crossing his arms over his abdomen. He tilted his head back, the top of the couch slotting seamlessly against his nape, exposing the long line of his neck. I couldn’t help but notice the jut of his Adam’s apple, the unexpected smoothness of his skin.
“I am but a mere mortal.” His voice was weary, laced with something almost rueful. “And sometimes mortals want to punch a friend so hard they see stars, just for looking at someone dear to them the wrong way.” His blunt tone belied some sort of tenderness to it, oddly affectionate in a way so casual that could only work for Henry. The words lingered in the air, sending a quiet thrill through me. My heart swelled before I could even realise it, caught on the simple phrase: someone dear to them.
“I can hardly believe that Charles, per se, is giving me any looks like that.” A quiet laugh, airy and light, escaped my lips. The image of Henry stewing over something so inconsequential was amusing in its absurdity, yet somehow also still endearing.
“Perhaps not.” His gaze became distant again. “I may be overthinking.”
“And did the Greeks say anything about overthinking?” I teased, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as I shifted to face him. I tucked one leg beneath myself, leaning my side against the back of the couch, closing the space between us just enough to feel the gravity of the moment.
“I suppose akrasia, a weakness of will.” Henry reflected after a few moments, turning his head to glance at me. “Knowing what I should do, yet letting my thoughts paralyze me instead. I’d be less of a fool if I were simpler, more animal in my emotions. And yet I think…” His voice trailed off for a beat. “And I think, until even my anger turns hollow.” The room felt suspended in his admission, there was a vulnerability in his words–that rare glimpse of the man behind the monument. I ran a hand through my hair, collecting my thoughts.
“You speak of akrasia, yet to me it seems as though you’ve already surrendered yourself to it.” My tone comes off sharper than intended. Henry straightened his posture, clearly not expecting me to say this. “Hollow anger is still anger. What are you so afraid of?” His gaze snapped to meet mine, a flurry of something crossed his face–shame, perhaps vulnerability? It was gone too quickly for me to name it.
“You assume too much.” That calm veneer returned to his voice, clipped, unhappy with the direction I’m leading this conversation in.
“You pretend too much.” I riposte, the words tumbling from my lips before I can stop them. I hold his gaze, watching carefully to see any flicker of emotion in it. “You sit here, dissecting emotions like they’re something abstract, something ancient and untouchable, but they’re not. They’re yours, and you must take responsibility for them.” A silence fell between us, the space settled back into the state it was when we’d first entered his apartment. This thick, almost suffocating atmosphere, like a burning room slowly filling with black smoke. Henry watched me with an unwavering intensity that made my breath catch.
“You think this is easy for me?” He asks slowly, choosing his words carefully. “To want…what I want. To feel this way about you. And…to know that I can’t–” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching as though the words betrayed him.
His voice looped in my head like a broken record: You think this is easy for me? My frustration boiling, a deep heat clawing at my chest. What could possibly be so hard for him? Having me whenever he pleased? At that moment I realized how desperate I must have seemed. How pathetic he must’ve thought me to be. Waiting endlessly for scraps of affection—lingering looks, fleeting touches that I lapped up as if they meant anything. The secrecy. The way he made me feel like nothing and everything, all at once. The fire of my anger faded into something colder, sharper—a clarity I wasn’t sure I wanted. Henry’s fingers tapped against his knee, restless. I watched the movement, my own fingers twitching with the urge to still his hand. I met his eyes and felt my mind stutter, my resolve wavering, wondering if I should even press the issue, if it would change anything.
“What exactly can’t you do?” I ask, everything bubbling over. “Can’t let anyone know how you feel? Can’t be with me in a way that doesn’t leave me feeling like I’m some…well-kept secret?” Henry winced at my words. “Or maybe you just can’t admit that this is slowly beginning to not be enough for me?” The silence that followed was endless, dense, only interrupted by the distant ticking of a clock somewhere in his apartment. His expression didn’t give much away, but he seemed conflicted–the earlier twinkle from our discussion of ancient Greece fizzling away like a dying sparkler. Slowly, he uncrossed his arms and adjusted his tie, as though needing to occupy his hands–small gestures to fill the space.
“I don’t know how to be different.” He settled, his tone completely unguarded, almost foreign to me. He paused for a further few seconds, doubt flicking over his features before dissipating. “But I don’t want to lose you.” It’s the closest thing to an apology I had heard from Henry, and it struck something deep within me–a mix of frustration, longing and something dangerously close to hope. I wondered for the first time if this secrecy was wearing us both down, I wondered if I was becoming something he can possess, something that belonged to him. The thought stirred an unease I tried to cast aside, but it refused to be ignored. Henry’s face mirrored mine, the same apprehension buried under anticipation for what I had to say next. I looked away, pretending to inspect the dim corners of the room, the pile of books on the dining table, the strew of paper across his desk. I searched for something that made me feel refuge from the emotions Henry ignited in me–that feeling of being both wanted and owned.
“You’re quiet.” Henry sliced through the silence. His voice carried weight, concern–or possessiveness, it was difficult for me to distinguish between the two. I opened my mouth to speak but faltered, the weight of the words pressing against my ribs. Henry’s jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to the floor.
“I was just thinking,” I murmured, his eyes dragging back to meet mine.. “Maybe we’ve been sneaking around for too long.” For a heartbeat, Henry doesn’t respond. I could almost hear the cogs turning in his head, smell the friction from the metals rubbing together–rusted, stiff.
“Am I making you this unhappy?” He asked, voice uncharacteristically soft, uncertain–raw in a way that made my chest tight. His voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it before, tinged with something close to regret. He took a deep breath. “I can’t promise you perfection, but I can try to push these jealous thoughts aside. It was never my intention to make you this uncomfortable.” I swallowed, a lump in my throat forming. His words felt honest, but the tension didn’t budge–the sting of being hidden ever-present under my skin, like being a secret he can’t fully own.
“I don’t know if that’s enough.” I say with a sad laugh, watching Henry’s expression carefully. “But it’ll do for now.” It felt like delaying the inevitable, but I couldn’t help it, not when I’d realised the difference in the depths of our feelings. One day, I’ll have to come to terms with the fact that this is all likely one-sided, but for now, I chose to hold out hope.
As though on instinct, Henry shifted closer. He leaned in, pressing an icy hand to the back of my neck. It sent a chilling bolt up the length of my spine, his touch felt heavier than usual. Heavy with something I didn’t know how to define. And so, I let Henry lead me into his embrace, greedily delighting in the pomegranate seeds of his palms–drinking in the scent of tobacco that still lingered in the air, melting into his woody cologne. For a fleeting second, as my head lay against his chest, I wondered if it was worth it. If I could continue holding on to whatever this was. If I could keep pretending that watching him barely acknowledge me outside of the confines of his apartment didn’t break something inside me.
“I meant it.” He broke the silence after a few moments. I couldn't see his face, his heartbeat against his chest was all I could focus on, a steady and deep thump. “About not wanting to lose you.”
Henry spoke the words into my hair and I let them soak through into my skin, all the way down to the bone. I didn’t know what felt worse–the ache in my chest that his words ignited, or the fact I still couldn’t find a way to answer them.