Archive of Our Own ^beta

➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

Henry’s life is one of contentment. He’s a proud owner of a beagle, David, who is talkative, eager, and equipped with hazardous cuteness, disarming Henry in combat with treat-pleading puppy eyes. He has a best friend, Percy, the bedazzled rainbow of his life, his loyal and loving companion who’s walked with Henry through terror and grief, patched up his wounds inflicted by his family, and rarely fails to conjure a genuine smile on Henry’s countenance. His home is a quaint shop distributing potions and ointments, a business blessed with a decent-sized group of clients and sufficient popularity to prosper. He lives in a flat above, more his and him than the previous residence he occupied. It’s a cosy space reeking of him, packed with books and memories, its walls suffused with laughter, dust napping in his kitchen cupboards, David’s toys sprinkling the interior with unabashed vividness. His sister travels the world, seeking artefacts and adventures, but never straying too far from Henry’s heart and thoughts, never neglecting their schedules and affections.

Considering all that, there’s little he yearns for. He wouldn’t oppose a pinch of warmth in his bed, this exquisite type provided only by another body, but his assets prevent him from prolonged solitude.

Currently, he’s cursing, biting his lips, blinking back the tears from his smoke-assaulted eyes, and failing to keep his frizzy hair away from his sweat-stained face. The cauldron spits another wave of pink smoke. The substance inside, stirring and making an almost purring-like sound. Henry drops onto a chair nearby, rubbing his hand over his face, trying to wipe his exhaustion and its traces. As he closes his eyes, left to the company of soft shimmers of the potion, he relishes the blissful darkness.

It’s been a hell of a week—the sentence’s accuracy amplified by the alarming amount of time he’s around the fire, in a stuffy room, with his body overheated, skin raw and reddened, wet paths permanently residing on his face; so, conditions too reminiscent of the actual hell for Henry’s liking. And it’s only going to get worse.

It’s not an issue of skill, time organisation, or preparation. He’s good at all of that if his grades are a confirmation. It’s just the cursed season: Valentine's Day, poisonously pink accompanied by nostrils-irritating stench of love, and the looming threat of sharp-edged ubiquitous hearts.

Slowly, he drags himself out of his office, leaning against the wall while ascending the stairs. On worse days, he may need a cool cloth to clad his forehead, but today is not a worse day; it’s simply a demanding one. Besides, he has business to attend to, which does not afford him time to rest. By business, he means a catch-up session with his friends over alcohol, something he’s been desperately looking forward to. After making himself presentable, he departs for the night: usually, he stays over, well-acquainted with the couch.

He’s the last one to arrive, a smudge of fashionable lateness, but, in fairness and his defence, he’d warned them of the possibility of his delay. Percy beams the second Henry closes the door behind himself, his friend pulling him into the familiar bone-crushing hug. He reciprocates, nodding towards June and Nora in greeting, both of which look equally delighted by his presence.

“It’s a pleasure to see you,” he says.

June starts talking about the book from their monthly book club, and soon the guest room’s door opens. Alex spares Henry one look, quick and indifferent. He nods in greeting, not bothering to use words. Henry takes no offense. Today, they’re at truce. They agree not to interact with each other and mutually work toward maintaining the easy tranquility around the group. It works splendidly. 

“Are you finished with your super important work task that could not wait for tomorrow?” Nora asks, cleaning a wine glass.

“Yes. Thank you,” he answers, smiling with slight irony. Then, he registers Henry.

The wine bottle is opened, and Henry coerces his mates to play Bake Off since they probably won’t retain too much information anyway. To his surprise, Nora and Percy become engaged, perhaps too much, in the events, commenting on the efforts of the participants and cheering and giggling at whatever chaos unveils on the telly. They migrate, the Bake Off connoisseurs on the floor, Nora’s head on Percy’s arm and his hand around her shoulder, June occupies an entire armchair, half-sitting half-lying, and Alex and Henry keep to the couch.

Amid shared stories from work and gossip, Henry finds home.

Their laughter is drenched in flowing alcohol. Henry’s warm all over, not only because of the wine bubbling in his bloodstream, but because of the heart-warming preciousness of this moment. He wishes to carve it in his consciousness, preserve and protect it, and tuck it in where it will be appreciated. His eyelids start to grow heavy, and he reaches for one of the cushions, bringing it into his chest to cuddle.

He feels someone kick him gently.

“Leave me,” he murmurs.

“Don’t be a loser, or a losah, Hen,” Percy giggles.

“You’re not allowed to mock our accent.”

“I’m allowed to do as I please. You’re not allowed to fall asleep now. The night’s still young.”

“Stop tormenting me.”

“You like it. You wouldn’t have kept me for so long if you didn’t enjoy moi,” he flips his hair, an utterly performative gesture, considering he has a lavender buzz cut, his latest reckless decision after falling into the trap of Lorde’s Pure Heroine.

“If you insist.”

But, a magician or not, he’s still very much a mortal. A mortal with a mortal body, a needy construction of clay and fire as some claim. He’d taken an energy potion, but it seems defenceless against the coddling warmth of June and Nora’s apartment and the content sinking deep, impossibly deep, into his bones. All in all, the potion is artificial, as opposed to this happiness, his happiness, which not only is natural, but somehow belongs to him.

He drifts, in sleep and in spirits. He clings to words and weaves them into meaningful sentences. Eventually, the group decides it’s farewell time. They will see each other in the morning, but Henry still aches at the goodbyes, internally pleading for more. That’s an issue with happiness; it’s addicting. And where once he cherished amicable gazes, now he longs for embraces.

Yet, Alex lingers. He keeps his glass in his hand, its bottom resting on his jeans-clad thigh. He looks stunning, gently caressed by the moonlight as if the moon itself recognised Alex’s preciousness. It’s unfair that even celestial beings plot against Henry. He’s drunk, his reason diluted by wine, and his heart vulnerable.

The blanket of the night muffles any sounds. It’s just them, him and Alex, and the moon's inquisitive gaze peeking through the window. Alex’s never been a creature of silence; he thrives on noises, more frequently heard first than seen, and Henry, the product of cacophonic silences, has always been comforted by it. Henry’s fluent with silences, a craft he mastered from his Grandmother’s icy-cold eyes trying to sever him from his overactive heart. At home, silences shouted of his father’s absence, and with him gone the laughter and the happiness deserted, too, the colours drained into agonising blankness. 

“I’m going to ask you for a favour,” Alex announces. The alcohol stains his voice, but he still sounds relatively sober. “If you say yes, good. Stellar, actually. Really fucking stellar. If you say no, we’ll pretend this conversation never happened. Just the alcohol messing with our minds. How does it sound?”

Henry’s taken aback, too convinced that Alex must be addressing someone else in the room that he doesn’t reply.

“Henry?” Alex asks, shifting to face him.

Henry’s name in Alex’s lips sounds like a spell. Henry wonders if it’d be like the one his mum used as he read to him before bed, the one that, to his delight, turned the events from the book into illusions dancing around him. Or, on the contrary, it’d be his Grandmother’s soulless magic, power purified from empathy and emotions.

“Yes?” he recognises, he ought to reply, he ought to converse his Alex, with his mind half-consumed, half-spooked.

“I asked you something.”

“Indeed, you did.”

“Then, answer.” Alex rolls his eyes, growing impatient.

But there’s more, a flicker of something lingering around the impatience. Henry can’t verbalise it but notices.

Henry comprehends Alex’s words, remaining conscientious in his own choice. Curiosity prickles at the back of his head. “Alarming,” he assesses, “and somehow reasonable. That’s how it sounds. I’m intrigued.”

“I’m a man of dualities. Dual citizenship, for instance.”

The darkness disguises the curve of Henry’s lips. “So, will you reveal what you desire from me?”

Alex taps on his glass, his eyes fixed on it. There’s a second, just a second, the last one before the world remains the same. In hindsight, Henry’s grateful for that last moment of normalcy.

“A love potion.”

Words are swept from Henry’s lips. His mind blanks to the fainting echo of nails gently hitting glass.

“Excuse me...?”

“A love potion,” Alex replies, oblivious to Henry’s inner torment. “Brew me a love potion.”

A love potion.

Alex wants a love potion.

No, worse, Alex wants Henry to brew him a love potion.

Henry blinks slowly, clinging to the hope it all may be a dream. A second later, he’ll wake up on the couch, sour aftertaste in his mouth and sweet relief that it was all just his treacherous imagination. But he doesn’t wake up; instead, he persists.

“Why would you desire a love potion?” He asks incredulously, gaping at Alex, the claws of laughter petting the inside of his chest.

Alex, handsome, charming, genuinely kind-hearted, the person whose very existence tranquilised the deep-rooted anxieties that this world is inherently evil and doomed, disarmed everyone’s heart.

“The name’s quite self-explanatory.”

“Allow me to rephrase that: why would you need a love potion?”

Alex’s features contort in discomfort blended with anger. “If you hope to hear of my despair to be loved, you’re greatly mistaken,” he huffs.

“Correct me, should I be mistaken, but isn’t it the primary objective of people who seek a love potion?” He raises his brow.

“Forget it, Fox.” Alex’s hand falls to his side, bouncing off the couch, the other clutching the glass. “Here I was, stupidly hoping you won’t be an asshole.”

While it’s unfair, it’s also not incorrect.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole. I am—confused,” he settles for the word. “Confused articulates my feelings more accurately.”

“Gosh, why d’you talk like that?”

“Because I’m British?”

“Not the accent. The words.”

Henry shakes his head. “Languages consist of words. And clusters of words.”

“For someone who’s not trying to be an asshole, you’re really fucking acing it.”

Henry inhales deeply, attempting to salvage his sanity.

“It’s just—you’ve never appeared to me as someone requiring assistance in romantic matters.”

“You don’t know me,” Alex points out.

Again, he’s not incorrect. But he’s not fully correct, either. Henry knows a lot about Alex, and not simply because he, and his bloody magic, spent years obsessing over him, but because he listens and observes, he catalogues and remembers.

“I’ve been around you sufficiently to know people adore you.”

“Adoration isn’t love. Not the one I want. And while I’m fortunate to be liked, and I appreciate it, I’m after more.”

Henry nods, refraining from commenting.

“So, will you? Will you brew me a love potion?” Alex asks.

His honey-brown eyes glimmer, the golden accents enriched almost as if the honey could drip out of them. Henry would give half of his soul up to taste it, let this sweetness stain his tongue. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Hope dissipates from Alex’s face. It’s like watching an exquisite butterfly crushed. “You can’t or you won’t?”

“Can’t.”

“The rejection would’ve been enough,” he snorts. Coolness glides over his words. “You don’t need to bullshit me.”

“I’m not,” he objects, feeling anxiety poke through his chest, its blade sharp, precise and acute. “I simply can’t brew it.”

“Bullshit,” Alex repeats, stretching the syllables. “I know your opinion of me is rather unfavourable, but I do remember you were the valedictorian of your faculty. Spare me the nonsense.”

Alex remembers, is the first thought that blossoms on the soil previously occupied by the waves of shock.

“I do think highly of you.” It’s off-topic, but Henry cannot withhold his words at the accusation.

Alex almost chuckles, but ice glistens over the sound. “You’re just bullshitting me further.”

“It is not a matter of skill deficiency. Love potions, as we understand them, defy the laws against corporal and cognitive exploitation.”

Alex inclines his head, so Henry proceeds. “The law and the academia define love potions as magical means of forging artificial intense affective attachment. Magic, non-dark and non-punishable, cannot directly stimulate a person’s feelings.”

“So, love potion does not exist?”

“That’s not what I said. Brewing it is possible, yet illegal and immoral, and could contaminate a brewer’s magic. Besides, I would never cross this line unless it’d be to save someone whom I love, and secondly, you’d never cross this line.”

“You don’t know me,” he repeats, half-whispering, softness sinking into his words as the fight bleeds out of him.

“I know you’re not selfish, not sufficiently to pursue such a plan. And neither am I reckless.”

“You do not know me,” Alex insists, but the slight deflation of his shoulders kindles hope that Alex’s stone-cold composure may crack, providing vessels for his fury and fight to bleed out of him.

“It was during our third year at University,” Henry says. “You were napping under a tree when something started you, and you accidentally squashed a butterfly. I saw you cutting your skin and using your blood to mend the poor creature. That told me enough about you. Perhaps not to know all of you, but enough to know you in our current circumstances.”

Alex stares at him, the grinds of his consciousness working.

“You saw me?” His voice overflows with wonder.

Henry nods. You used to be all I see. Sometimes, you still are. I look at myself in the mirror and hope to see you there instead. “I used to visit the same place, either for herbs or for refuge.” Or to stare at you, all peaceful, surrounded by the grass and flowers, caressed by the sun. Nature's favourite and favoured creation.

“I never saw you there.”

Relentless blush creeps onto his face.

“I didn’t wish to disturb you. You loved that place, and had you known about my presence, you would’ve gone somewhere else.” He shrugs, almost nonchalantly. Somewhere far from me, he knows better than to let those words exist outside his mind.

“Oh. I see,” Alex says. “Then, let’s respect our agreement, and—”

“Wait,” he stops him. “I haven’t said I won’t help you.”

“You refused to brew me a potion.”

“Yes, I refused to brew you a love potion.” He can’t believe he’s saying this. Betraying himself. But he can’t bear the defeat in Alex’s eyes, can’t bear the knowledge he could remedy it. “But there are other means. Less invasive and more legal.”

“There are?”

“Yes. Should you desire, we could discuss them. Not tonight, though, but after we’ve rested.” Fool.

Light resurfaces on Alex’s countenance. “I’ll come  to your shop, then.”

“Feel encouraged. It’s open—”

“I do know the opening hours.”

Henry returns to being taken aback. “You do?”

“June has them written by her desk. I know she gets my anti-insomnia blend from you.” Henry wasn’t aware Alex knew it. “That’s how I know you’re good at your job.”

“I’m glad the herbs are effective.” Henry is more than glad, not only because he relishes helping his clients, but because he was more than dedicated to preparations of the blend.

Alex finishes the drink, the drops of red linger on his lips. “See you then.” And he leaves for the guest bedroom.

Henry rests his head on the pillow, contemplating what’s just happened.

➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

He shouldn’t do this.

He cannot do this. It’s self-destructive and self-sabotaging. Yet, the memory of sincerity and openness flashing through Alex’s eyes awakens something in Henry: selflessness. Although, considering his circumstances, his longing and Alex’s determination, can one even speak of selflessness, when regardless of the outcome, helping Alex benefits Henry?

Truth be told, indifferently to Henry’s efforts to ignore this knowledge, he and Alex were never meant to be. Their first meeting was disastrous. Alex’s existence rendered Henry speechless, his mind damaged beyond repair—it hasn’t recovered still—ringing in his ears, wobbliness in limbs from the sudden shift in gravity, and his heart on the verge of bursting. Now, all he remembers is the grimace on Alex’s face followed by a years-long grudge and dislike.

It’s not like he hasn’t tried to mend their dynamic. He has not been foolish to hope for a friendship, not after it was confirmed that Henry cannot function properly around Alex, but he did try to ease some of that harshness from Alex which spoilt his usual charming easiness. It didn’t work. Not at all. Alex succeeded in misinterpreting most of Henry’s attempts at civility, readjusting himself to be hostile as a default reaction to Henry’s presence. When Percy met June and Nora, Henry’s and Alex’s world collided, their pieces intertwined, and the two of them were forced onto a feeble truce for the sake of their friends. It’s been working, more or less, nothing that isn’t maintained by strategic omissions, artificial obliviousness, and poignant silences, but what matters is that it works, has worked for some time.

They, if there was even them, existed only in Henry’s mind, contaminated with dreams of romance and requited love.

“You’ve liked that guy forever. I don’t understand your insistence on catastrophising things,” David says, lying on his back on the soft carpet, his tail moving lazily. “Why did you even agree to aid him?”

“Because he approached me and asked,” Henry answers, throwing his hands.

“You could’ve asked him on a date in return. That’d also remedy his loneliness issues.”

“You forget he’s not too fond of me.”

“Sufficiently fond to have reached out to you.”

“It’s not fondness, it’s... appreciation of my abilities.”

“What a marvelous synonym for competency kink.”

Henry glares at the dog. “You’re one word away from having your treats privileges revoked.”

“You are one snarky remark away from being denied cooking aid. We’ll see whether your cooking skills stand the test of time.”

Their conversation is interrupted when the front door opens, and Alex steps in. Immediately, David stands up, trotting towards the newcomer. Henry hasn’t exactly expected him this soon, but again, patience has never been Alex’s virtue.

Despite yesterday's alcohol consumption and subsequent loss of sleep, Alex is as stunning as always, his curls unruly and soaking in the pale sun. Upon seeing David, he beams. Henry has to restrain himself from envying his own bloody dog.

“Hello, you precious little guy. Who may you be?”

Warmth spills over Henry’s chest. The image is reminiscent of their school days when, during his strolls through the forest, he frequently stumbled upon Alex, who climbed trees, pretended to engage in conversations with squirrels or helped relocate bird nests. Even the school’s cat, an old spiteful thing, yielded to Alex’s charm and at least tolerated him and, in particular, tolerated the treats he brought her.

“His name is David,” Henry informs him. “David, say hi to Alex. Please refrain from eating him.”

“David?” Alex echoes, affronted. “This should qualify as doggy mistreatment.” He turns to the animal. “You’re too cute to be a David,” he states, speaking as if to a little child.

“The skill it takes to offend all Davids in the world because it disagrees with your preferences. Truly, uniquely you.”

“Truly, uniquely you, naming your dog David. Why do you hate this precious face so much?” He asks, gently squeezing David’s muzzle.

David sticks out his tongue to lick Alex’s fingers. Traitor.

“He won’t deny me my treats. He’s a whole treat himself.” Passes through Henry’s mind, the voice unmistakenly David’s.

To Henry’s amusement, Alex shamelessly gazes around, unbothered he may be perceived as noisy. His eyes land on the display of sweets and bonbons. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he reaches for one, but Henry swats his hand away. “Don’t,” he warns, sternly but not impolitely.

“Damn, Fox, you’ve never heard of taste tests for customers?”

“Indeed, I have. But those,” he points at the sweets, “are not suitable for such offers.”

Curiosity twinkles in Alex’s eyes. That’s never too promising. “What do they do?”

“They’re not for you.” He warns. “Hopefully,” he adds coyly.

“What do they do?” Alex repeats the question, flashing Henry a charming smile. “Tell me.”

“They’re a part of my Valentine's products. They’re for bedroom use, to spice—”

“And, pray tell me, what does your British ass know about spices?” Alex interrupts him.

Henry glares at him. “As I was saying before your unkind interruption,” his voice thickens with annoyance, “they spice things up in the bedroom.”

“They’re kinky chocolates? Fox, you freak.”

Henry blushes. “Mostly, they enhance performance or experience.”

Alex beams. “I wasn’t familiar with your game.” Praise echoes faintly in his words.  He picks one up, inspecting the little chocolate. “Is it like Viagra?”

“Asking for a friend?” he smirks.

Alex throws him an unimpressed look. “I’m asking you to shut up.”

“That would inconvenience answering your question.”

“Asshole,” he declares. His attention drifts back to the treat. “What are these called?”

“They’re chocolates.”

Another unimpressed look. “Yes, I see. But what are they called?”

Henry shrugs. “I just call them chocolates. It’s more discreet.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “You’re such a bore. C’mon, do you know the potential these have? Imagine, Cocky Chocolate. Or Horny Honey? Nutted Nuts? ‘Excuse me, has the Caramel Clit been restocked yet?’, see?”

Henry quirks his brow, fighting a smile. “Any more of your creativity?”

“Hm, Climax Coconut?”

He succumbs to his amusement and chuckles. “You’re a cretin.” Fondness prevails over annoyance.

“I’m creative,” he corrects. “You can’t appreciate it. I won’t share more of my creativity for free. I’ll sue you for copyrights if you implement my ideas.”

“You’re irredeemable.”

Alex puts the chocolate back on the tray.

“So, enlighten me of those other non-love potion methods available for a rake like me?”

“A rake?”

“I know smart words, too.”

“I never doubted that,” Henry counters. “Before we proceed, would you like something to drink?”

“How polite. Do you have something other than leaf water?”

“It’s called tea. Tell me what you’d like, and I’ll make it.”

“You’ll... make it?”

Henry nods. “Transmutation.”

This time, it’s Alex who nods. “Could I have coffee, then?”

“Of course.” He pours water from the sink, and as he turns in Alex’s direction again, the liquid turns to coffee. “Here.”

“Can you do it with everything?”

“Not everything. Again, there are rules and laws.”

“Still, super cool.” He brings the cup to his lips. “Is there cinnamon in it?” He wonders.

Henry starts toying with a ring on his finger. “Yes. I believe this is how you take coffee. Should I be mistaken, I can alter it.”

“No, that is how I take my coffee. I didn’t know you knew.”

He shrugs. “I notice things.”

“Well, I am starting to notice that,” he smirks. “Now, stop avoiding answering my question.”

“I wasn’t avoiding it, I was hospitable. I, wrongly, assumed you’re familiar with the custom.”

“Hospitable? Wanna wine and dine me, Fox?” He smirks, leaning onto his arms.

He won’t survive this. Heat floods his cheeks. He does his best to maintain an illusion of composure, his walls threatening to quake underneath Alex’s gaze.

“I fear my attempt may resemble assassination more than wooing.”

“A great point. Plus, you’ve always been too skilled with herbs for my liking.” Or my own safety, Henry adds in his mind.

“You never complained when you purchased my anti-hangover tea. Back in the days, you’d never dare to refer to it as leaf water.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it was leaf water. One which deepened the issue of underage drinking,” Alex points out, “all while you were making bank despite being all rich and posh.”

It wasn't a bank, but over time, it sufficed to purchase him small independence.

“About yesterday,” he says, changing the topic. “I forgot to thank you. I should’ve thanked you for your courage to be vulnerable with me. I would’ve thanked you had I not been so startled by your request.”

Alex puts down his mug, looking confused. “Why would you thank me for outing myself as a loser? And what’s so courageous about it?”

“You’re not a loser, Alex,” he replies, too quickly and too earnestly. “Love isn’t always easy neither to find nor nurture.” He closes one of the books at the desk near the counter. “I appreciate you coming to me with something this personal. Alcohol or not, it wasn’t easy, which testifies to your courage. So, thank you.”

“Is that a part of your usual script?”

“No. People have this mentality that they burden me, especially when they come with personal or sensitive matters. So, when a stranger comes to me trusting me with them and their emotions, I do believe it earns them my gratitude.”

Alex tilts his head, a flash of something in his eyes. The longer Henry looks, the more he’s sure it’s softness, perhaps approval.

“You never talk too much about work,” he remarks. “Especially not around me.”

“You never displayed any interest in the topic. Nor in hearing my voice.” Alex snorts at the second comment. “In comparison to some arts of magic, mine is... dull,” he continues, “so I prefer not to discuss it.”

His decision to embrace a quiet life as a shop owner was met with raging disapproval on his Grandmother’s side. He almost considered making memories absorbing potion to prevent dread from licking his shins as he continues walking through life.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Your vocabulary could use improvements.”

“Nah. Bullshit is perfectly acceptable. And perfectly accurate. The things you did at school contradict what you’ve just said. And what you’ve said is bullshit.”

It never occurred to him that Alex may remember anything from their school days about Henry’s abilities. He’s never been deliberately secretive, but too young he discovered that bearing too much skill sometimes may not be beneficial. The sweetest fruits get picked up first. And Henry, the sweet boy he was, sweetest and softest, lived with the looming threat of being picked and crushed until his juices were gone for someone else to relish and he was abandoned to rot.

“That’s kind of you,” he says, a bit choked up.

“I’m not being kind. I’m being honest.”

“As I said,” he clears his throat again, “I cannot brew you a love potion. But we could work with alternatives. I’ve been considering the available remedies for your problem, and there’s something.” He picks his words carefully. The sweetest fruits—“What I cannot guarantee is love. I’ve already told you I won’t forge it, but I can help you look for places where it may blossom on its own.”

“Be more specific, please.”

“The potion I propose recognises compatibility. For some time, depending on the potion’s strength, you see colours radiating off people, like smoke or threads, easy on the eyes. The colours indicate your degree of compatibility with the person, but this is as far as it goes. The wooing is your responsibility.”

He’s really doing this, providing his long-term infatuation with the perfect means of finding someone to settle down with, perhaps for the rest of his life. But it’s high time Henry grew out of those emotions. There’s only so long sentiments shall feed off him before they turn into parasites.

Alex smiles. Whatever illusion of immunity against him Henry believed himself to have acquired is annihilated. But this is new, so new, because Alex’s happiness is directed at him, caused by him. The man’s eyes crinkle, his eyelashes flutter, and although he’s dimming his smile, his delight is almost palatable. Henry’s knees almost give up.

“A head start,” Alex says, in awe. “Fuck, Fox. That’s genius.”

Henry permits himself a tentative smile. Inside, the pride at the compliment bursts like fireworks.

The potion is effective, yet its preparation is tricky and demanding. The potion wishes to acquaint itself with the recipient for maximum potency. The magic demands to know about the person’s character, their dreams, their worries, what they seek, what love they desire, what they even consider love. The acquaintanceship can be mediated by the brewer, and Henry knows a lot about Alex, having known him for a long time. Considering the connection Henry’s magic has with his emotions, the final product is destined to work impeccably.

“Why aren’t you selling it?” his companion asks.

“It’s time-consuming and requires resources and magical labour, but that’s not your concern.”

That’s a half-truth, but that’s also not Alex’s concern.

“Our concern,” Alex corrects. “I know you’re the one doing the brewing, but we’re a team.”

A team.

They’ve never been one.

“That’s new for us. Being a team.”

“That’s your fault,” Alex counters. “I did offer to team with you at school, but you were never keen on it.”

Henry, to his demise, crimsons. Alex’s right. In Henry's defence, his magic was, still is, too risky to work in Alex’s presence. Had they ever worked in a team, Henry would’ve humiliated himself, his charms would’ve done something foolish like making the potion the colours of Alex’s eyes—it did happen, multiple times—or make it smell like something Alex enjoys or finds comforting—it did happen as well. His magic has always reacted to Alex as if the two of them were two magnets. It made Henry vulnerable and transparent, and he hates being both. His refusals to work with Alex only deepen Alex’s dislike, but it was either that or being possibly despised for his silly feelings.

“Are there any side effects?” Alex asks, blissfully changing the topic.

“No. I may give you a list of ingredients so you see whether you’re allergic to them. If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can take the potion here so I can ensure your safety. But the potion itself cannot hurt you.”

“What about its effectiveness? You mentioned something before.”

“It’s influenced by multiple factors. The magician’s skills. The quality of ingredients. I can guarantee you it will work. The question is, how long shall it remain active?”

“Can I ask you to estimate it?”

“I can make it work until your first date with someone. That sounds the most reasonable.”

“Can the potion be taken more than once?”

“Yes. However, I advise you to wait for the first dose to wear off. Otherwise, it can be confusing or overstimulating.”

“Sounds decent.”

“Any more questions? If you have them later, you know where to find me.”

“What about the payment?”

“You’re friend,” Henry says, but hesitance shimmers in his tone. “I won’t accept any payment from you.”

They’re not friends as such, but Alex’s been a constant presence in Henry’s life. He, and June and Nora, made Percy happy, and Henry is a fool for whom it suffices.

“Henry, you can’t expect me to—” he starts to argue, but Henry interrupts him.

“I can. My shop, my magic, my labour, and thus, my rules. I require no payment.”

“You’ve just told me that the ingredients are rare and the preparations are time-consuming.” Of course, he continues to argue.

Henry almost, almost, smiles because it’s such an Alex thing.

“I possess both. I won’t yield. Please, cease being stubborn.”

Alex’s eyes narrow, either in annoyance or suspicion. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Good thing I’m not pitying you.”

“Then, why do you insist on being nice to me?”

That’s a complex question. Henry moves his tongue over his teeth, forming a response.

“The objective of helping people, not my financial benefit. I believe appreciation can be shown in other ways than through money. And you’ve earned my help.”

Skepticism strays into Alex’s eyes. “The only thing I earned from you is your distaste for me.”

“That’s a misunderstanding.”

“Are you implying I’ve misunderstood the past couple of years of our lives?” He scoffs.

“Yes. Precisely,” he confirms. “Now, if you’re amenable, I’d like to start immediately. You’ve never been particularly patient.”

Alex watches him, still unsure, but simultaneously aware that prolonging it is nothing but a waste of time. “I’m very fucking amendable.”

Henry forces a smile onto his lips.

➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

The first day is dedicated to preparations. Henry’d gathered some of the ingredients before Alex’s arrival to accelerate the process, and because he’s a hopeful idiot, so after they settled on the solution, they descended into Henry’s working room.

Alex asked questions, many questions, concerning the potion itself and the content of Henry’s cupboards. Alex’s inquisitiveness proved comforting; having something to talk about eased Henry’s anxiety, swiftly filling in the space which otherwise would be dominated by silence.

He spends the next days languidly stirring the liquid, soothed by the rhythmic regular movements, by the gentle hisses of the mixture. When his insomnia worsens, only the sounds of cauldrons coax him to sleep.

His mind drifts to summer-caressed days, the glimpses of Alex’s curls bounced by the wind as he laughed, throwing his head back. To the fall and winter, with the sky and the sun disguised under the glaze of clouds, to Alex absent-mindedly brushing his hands over the window frame, causing the explosions of colours, the leaves bursting with vivid green, the flower buds peeking to marvel over this creature which has brought them back. Henry tentatively permits his consciousness to roam, to cling to smiles and kindness rarely directed at him.

And the potion listens.

“June asked me to deliver these. She’s taking full advantage of me spending more time with you,” Alex announces, entering the shop as the previous client departs.

Henry doesn’t allow his surprise at Alex’s visit to show.

“Thank you, Alex.” He takes the box, a sigh of relief almost fleeing from his mouth when he registers the lovely smell. He’s saved. Bless June. A smile spreads on his lips. He catches Alex looking at him. “These are my favourite,” he explains. “Have you explained to her the source of your sudden recognition of my companionship as impeccable?”

“Sometimes I wonder if your speech results from inhaling too many herbs,” Alex bites back. “I told her I decided to listen to her advice and try to see you in a better light.”

“Her advice?” Henry stops chewing.

“She claims my opinion of you is... misguided.”

That’s a diplomatic way of verbalising their position.

“Again, thank you for your effort. The potion is doing wonderfully. It’s far from being ready, but it looks promising.”

“Good to know. You can inform my sister I’ve fulfilled my quest.” Seeing the enthusiasm creasing Henry’s face at the sight of food, he adds with a tint of laughter, “You must enjoy June’s cooking.”

“I do. She’s talented. It’s always pleasant to have a homemade meal. Around this time, they’re a rarity for me.”

“You don’t have the time to cook?”

“Neither time nor skills,” he admits. “Not for the lack of trying.”

Alex frowns, gesturing around the shop. “You brew potions for a living.”

Henry can only nod, his mouth full of food. “Yes,” he swallows. “An astute observation. Through, of little relevance.”

“How on Earth can’t you cook when you’re basically cooking all day?”

“I’ll take it as praise of the quality of my work.”

Alex looks equally astonished by Henry’s deficiency of cooking skills as he is by his knowledge of informal language. “How do you know such slang?”

“Nora introduced me to TikTok,” he explains. “She even tried to coerce me into setting up an account.”

Alex bites back his smile.

“Besides,” Henry starts, “cooking and brewing potions are vastly different.” He points a finger at Alex, using the second hand to cover his mouth. “Potions are not meant to taste nice, not that I’m indifferent to this aspect. Cooking is more demanding.”

“You can literally brew a fatal potion.”

“Food, whether meals or ingredients, may also be fatal.”

“How do you survive?”

Henry points at the Tupperware. “June’s mercy. And when I’m forced to cook, David helps me.”

Alex looks as if he’s choking on air. His eyes widened in surprise. “Your dog?”

Henry nods again. “He’s a dragon, so he has an affliction to fire.”

David barks, confirming Henry’s words. Alex gapes at him.

“First of all, please, for fuck’s sake, do not tell me you’re using a dragon to make basic meals…”

“I shan’t, then. But, theoretically, if I were, I’ll have you know David has mastered making runny eggs...”

Alex breaks. He laughs and laughs, holding his stomach, and soon tears emerge at his waterline. “Fuck, you…” More laughter comes out of his mouth.

He brings a hand to muffle it, and Henry almost reaches for his wrist to prevent him from doing it. It’s such a stunning sound, energetic and so unbashful.

“You’re unbelievable.” Alex wipes his eyes, his cheeks are flushed, but the richness of the colours drowns in his darker complexion. “And you,” he turns to David, “you’re a dangerous blood-thirsty dragon? Because you look suspiciously similar to a beagle”

David wiggles his tail, barking once more, confirming.

“Blood-thirsty is too exaggerated. He’s a shapeshifter.  He is one of the bigger dragons, so he knows how to fight, but he’s not meant for a life in combat. So, instead, he’s here, living his best life as a beagle.”

“How did you get him?”

“We, my team and I, retrieved dragon eggs on an escapade for rare herbs. We found his mother deceased, so we decided to deliver the eggs somewhere where they’d be taken care of. This one,” he points at David, “hatched one night and crawled into my sleeping bag. We’ve been inseparable since.”

Alex watches David with marvel in his eyes. “He claimed you.”

“Yes.”

“Does he fly?”

“Yes, but David’s no fighter. He does, of course, know how to, but he’s more content as a beagle. And I indulge him.”

 Flying is a lovely pastime; plus, it facilitates obtaining herbs growing in remote locations.

“You can fly a dragon,” Alex says as if it has just finally settled. “Why the fuck haven’t I heard of it?”

Henry shrugs. “You never seemed interested in my occupation.”

“Because I assumed you’re like a magical Walter White. And here you are, having a dragon cook for you. A dragon that can fly, that you can fly. That’s at least thirty badass points. You should’ve mentioned it.”

Henry flushes. “I’m not too keen on attention.”

The corner of Alex’s mouth twitches. “I see.”

“I mean it.”

“I believe you. It’s just amusing.”

After his food is finished and the box is in the sink, Henry cleans his hands. “The potion is calling me.”

“May I see it?”

He considers. “Yes. But, a warning. For now, it’s nothing too spectacular.”

“I’m curious.”

“Come with me,” he gestures for Alex to follow.

“Should I wear any protection?”

Henry smirks. “Unless you plan to consume the special bedroom chocolates, it won’t be necessary.”

“You’re still refusing to give them interesting names?”

“The names are meant to be dull!” he explains again. “The whole point of the chocolates is to be discreet.”

In the room, a soft pink smoke comes out of the cauldron, illuminating the room. The inside is warm, slightly stuffy, and it reminds Henry of people’s descriptions of their grandparents’ houses.

“Wow,” Alex gasps. “The colour is pretty.”

“A bit on the nose, but it may alter with time. As I mentioned, currently, it’s not yet a potion. More like a soup, with little magical properties.”

“Still, it’s beautiful.” He turns to Henry. “You said it will recognise who is compatible with me. How will it know?

“It will know you.” When Alex frowns, Henry continues, despite the heat flooding his cheeks. “Some potions, like this one, require getting to know their recipients. Usually, I mediate the process. While brewing, my memories, feelings, or associations with the person, in this case you, are absorbed by the potion.”

This is why spending time with clients is the priority, followed by harvesting mutual trust. Sometimes, a simple conversation suffices. Other times, it takes many meetings, peeling off still raw wounds, tears soaking into his table, nails digging into skin, and yet persisting through this anguish to reach relief.

Alex stares at him in silence, his eyes searching for something in Henry, but he refuses to look at him, too terrified his countenance will betray him.

“And how will you know?”

“I’ve known you for years,” Henry reminds him. “I know what you’re about to say. But I’m pretty observant. I know some things about you from June and Nora. I’ve poured into the potion every conversation we’ve had since you asked.”

“But, shouldn’t I be here with you, contributing to the process?”

Henry shrugs. “Forgive me for assuming you may wish to avoid personally assisting me, considering you find my company disagreeable.”

“This potion is meant for me. Regardless of what I think of you, I’d like to do all I can to help make it effective.”

Henry can’t decide whether the premise of spending more time with Alex thrills him or terrifies him. “If you wish. We could schedule meetings. But I fear I’m an even poorer company with all my deadlines and pre-Valentine responsibilities.”

“How often should I come to do... what is that I do?”

“Talk to me. That’s it. My magic does the rest.”

“About anything in particular?”

“The best case scenario would be to speak about the topics of love and romance, but I will never ask you to open up to me or discuss matters you’re not comfortable with. The point is for magic to identify the purpose behind you seeking love, so it knows how to guide you.”

“I have a theoretical, emphasis on theoretical, question. If you didn’t like me, could you sabotage the potion?”

Coldness sinks into Henry’s body. Theoretical, he reminds himself.

“I’d never sabotage you. If your trust in me is spoilt...”

“I do trust you,” he interrupts Henry. “That’s just my curiosity talking. So, humour me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he answers levelly. “Furthermore, such sabotages tend to be hazardous.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the maker’s intentions contradict the potion’s purpose, the magic may object.”

He doesn’t want to think about his past, doesn’t want to remember the echoes of pain and darkness, so he wordlessly pleads for Alex to be satisfied with his explanation.

“Your face doesn’t encourage further inquiries.”

“It’s not a pleasant topic. I’d rather we did not continue.”

“How does it work, the whole absorption?” Alex wonders, changing the topic yet remaining within Henry’s favourite topic to discuss.

“It varies for magicians. My magic has always been sensitive to my emotions, so I simply think of the person. Sometimes, I replay memories, sometimes my personal opinions become involved.” For better or worse.

“Any interesting stories?”

“I’m not going to humiliate myself for your entertainment.”

“I hoped for a simple and civil chat and an exchange of possibly embarrassing stories for bonding purposes. You seem to have withheld a lot of information from me.”

“I never withheld information from you. It never seemed appropriate to approach you announcing my beagle is actually a dragon, which I can ride.”

Alex smirks. “You should’ve. I can’t promise, I would’ve liked you instantly, but I would’ve been forced to subtract some of your insufferability points.”

“That’s all it takes to get into your good graces? Have a dragon?”

Alex shrugs faux-nonchalantly, his smile turning coy. “What can I say, I’m low maintenance.”

➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

“Have you ever thought of brewing a love potion for yourself?” Alex asks from the couch, a lapful of a snoring beagle. He looks soft, his jumper is worn-out by love, the sides of his nose marked where his glasses were, and there’s a book by his side, something connected with law, but Henry hasn’t been paying attention. It’s one of the new things that have interlaced into their normal. Like Alex’s name appearing on Henry’s phone display; a new message, a meme, perhaps, all voluntary, raging from silly to heartfelt. Like Alex’s highlighters scattered around Henry’s coffee table. Like the fact that Alex knows David’s favourite brand of treats and sometimes dozes off with the dog, leaving Henry to tuck them both in underneath a blanket. Like the fact that he comes back not out of obligation but will. “And before you accuse me, I’m not prying whether you were desperate. It’s just that you are capable of it, probably, definitely , and I’ve been wondering. Have you ever been tempted?”

Henry wipes his clammy forehead with his free palm, his other hand gripping the spoon. His sleeves are up to his elbows, and his shirt is unbuttoned. Alex’s gaze lingers to his exposed skin, but both of them have courtesy—and respect for their truce—not to remark on it. “Tempted?” he considers. “Perhaps when I was younger. But that was before I had grasped the consequences.”

Alex resumes petting David.

“Would you ever try?”

Henry knows that he’s not obliged to discuss it. For all Alex’s curiosity, frequently too great for his own good and for other people’s patience, he’s respectful of boundaries. Alex feels safe. And, truth be told, Henry longs for someone to know, to listen. “I did.”

That sparks Alex’s interest. A spark that can ignite a fire. A fire that can burn the world. “You tried?” Alex echoes, surprised.

“Yes,” he hesitates. “In fact, I brewed it. Once.”

Silence, or rather as close to silence it can be with David’s snoring symphony, follows. For a second, Henry assumes their chat is concluded, but when he turns to reach for another ingredient, he notices Alex gaping at him, his jaw ajar, a mixture of astonishment and appraisal in his features. He’s speechless. Henry’s rendered him speechless. “You did?”

“I did,” he confirms.

“Damn, someone must have been persuasive.”

That’s an understatement. “It was for my Grandmother,” he swallows.

(For the better, Henry. All I do is for the better. So you are better. So you can be the best.)

(Around her, he barely felt good enough. The mythical the best turned into the destination of his demise.)

“You don’t seem pleased about it.”

Henry steps away from the small cauldron, unwilling to contaminate his creation with sorrows. “I wasn’t. She asked me to brew it.” The last two words are said so feeble they could be torn apart by the breeze. “For me.”

“For you?”

Henry nods. “To remedy my...preferences.”

Alex’s confusion convulses into fury.

“What?”

Henry curls into himself at the harshness of Alex’s tone.

“I know I don’t necessarily announce this part of me, but—”

“No, not about it. I know about you. I heard that fuckass metaphor about a tree, a maypole, whatever that means.” He waves his hand. “Your grandmother asked you to make a love potion for you because you’re gay?”

Asked is a euphemism. “She wanted me to fall in love with a respectable girl.”

Alex stares at him, the brown in his eyes hardened by something cold, their surface gleaming with rage and disbelief.

“But…um, you…” The words must have abandoned him.

Were it not for their circumstances, Henry would laugh.

“No. I’m still... that.” He cannot bring himself to say the word. Nowadays, his struggles with his identity are infrequent. Though, a part of him is to remain a spooked boy hiding in dark corners, terrified because monsters which ought to haunt and torment underneath beds, have somehow become real humans. “I told you, a brewer may sabotage their potion.”

His mind drifts to a terrorised teenager standing over the cauldron, the smoke digging into his skin, his cheeks wet from tears which fall onto the liquid. And he remembers the plea on his lips, the sense of hopelessness.

“You sabotaged it,” Alex says, already knowing the answer.

“Subconsciously.”

Alex’s hand forms a fist. “That nasty hag.”

“That she was. She’s dead now.”

“It doesn’t eradicate your pain.”

Henry shrugs. “I’m fine. More fine than I’d ever hoped to be. You’ve contributed to it, whether you liked it or not. Our friend group means a lot to me.”

“I know. For me, too.” He licks his lips. “Thank you for telling me.”

“We intend to get to know each other. And I’ve always been an overachiever.”

“We used to go neck to neck at school. I was relieved when we separated into different faculties.”

Henry chuckles. “I’ve always admired your determination. I’ve known you’re destined for greatness. Not necessarily heroic greatness, but I believe you’re capable of improving this world.”

Alex’s lips part. “You truly mean it.” It’s half a question, almost as if a thought escaped his mind.

“Of course, I do,” he chuckles.

“You say these things like you’ve been thinking them for some time.

“Well, I have been thinking them for some time.”

“I wish you’d told me some of those things before.”

“You should’ve asked, then.”

“Don’t undo all my friendliness for you.”

“You keep trying me.”

A small heart-shaped bubble escapes from the potion. It looks as if glitter was trapped inside it, a shaked snowball. Seconds later, it bursts, leaving the echo of Alex’s laughter to ring.

“Was that—”

“Yes, your laughter. I told you, it learns you and about you.”

“That’s amazing! And the bubble, is it a good sign?”

“Yes,” Henry confirms. “It develops as expected.” He pets the side of the cauldron affectionately.

“We’re a really fucking great team.”

“That we do. Look at that character development.”

“Characters. Plural.” He rolls his eyes. “Think of all the things we could’ve achieved if you hadn’t been an asshole to me at school. I’m still bitter about you rejecting me as your project partner.”

Henry bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry. I am. Not only because you’re calling me out on it.”

“Why did you decline my offer?”

“Because I knew we were good enough to win,” he settles for honesty.

Alex doesn’t conceal his confusion. “Not sure I’m following.”

Henry stares at the simmering potion.

“I wanted to disguise the full range of my potion skills from my Grandmother. I maintained a good grade average to deceive her into assuming I’m decent at everything without exceeding in anything. She shouldn’t have access to power.”

“You feared she may exploit your talent.”

Henry confirms. “I wish I could have agreed to work with you. It remained one of my greatest regrets. In retrospect, it all was in vain. Against my efforts, she learnt of my abilities. And I learnt there’s no hope for friendship between us, you and I.”

There’s warmth on Henry's shoulder. Instinctively, he flinches before recognising it’s Alex, Alex’s touch, a comforting gesture leaving his skin burning.

“That’s not true,” Alex whispers. “We’re here.”

“We are.”

 ➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

The potion is now a rich lollipop-pink shade.

As the world grows more corrupted by paper hearts, eye-tormenting reds and pinks, and nauseating sweetness, his hands are permanently sticky from the remains of chocolate, the sugar clinging to his skin, nose red and irritated from ubiquitous intense scents of herbs, and his eyes teary from smoke. He’s not opposed to Valentine's; he used to consider it one of his favourite holidays, but that was in the days when his heart was a little less hurt and his hope a little more alive. He doesn’t wish to confront his loneliness. Most of the year, he’s enduring it, but Valentine's always awakens an insatiable longing in him.

Lying on the couch in his working room, he goes through his mental lists of responsibilities, relieved to recognise it is progressively shortening. There’s movement by the door, but Henry remains still, recognising the rhythm of steps.

“Hi,” Alex greets.

“Hi.”

Since the night Alex stayed with him to alleviate his headache, Henry keeps it prepared to accommodate two people. Thanks to this cleverness, Alex can abandon his backpack and climb onto the couch next to Henry, lying on his side so they face each other.

“Be my guest,” Henry chuckles.

Alex smirks. “I’ll do my best to be comfortable.”

Heat radiates off his body, licking Henry, turning him into a moth yearning for nothing more but to come closer, closer, closer, until the moth is fire, and what a splendid faith it must be, to be consumed by the very thing a man, or a moth, loves.

For a moment, their breathing is the only sound in the room.

“I’ve been thinking recently,” Alex starts.

“I’m proud of you.”

Alex’s hand pinches Henry’s side. He groans, rolling to avoid further assaults. “I’m sorry. Please, continue.”

“Should I continue pinching you? You need not repeat twice—”

“Continue talking, you menace.”

“You started it, asshole.”

Henry rolls his eyes, resettling into the previous position. Before he resumes speaking, David enters the room, delighted to see Alex. The beagle joins them on the bed, plunging into the space between them. The dog is pleasantly warm, and Henry reaches for him only for Alex to have the same idea. Their hands meet on David’s belly, and Henry withdraws his immediately. To his utter horror, the sparks fly, not the metaphorical ones, but those that cause two brittle roses to bloom from the wall, hazardously close to Alex’s head. His heartbeat seems deafening.

Henry settles to rest his hand on David’s head.

“He’s always so warm,” Alex remarks. “Is it a dragon thing?”

Henry nods. “Dragons’ bodily temperature is naturally elevated. It does get troublesome at the vet.”

Alex laughs.

“I’ve been thinking about people’s perception of me. It had occupied me before I initiated our arrangement, but it’s one of those topics I delay thinking about until confronting it is unavoidable. “I’m desired, but none desires to commit to me. For a long time, too long, I’ve been content with it. It wasn’t precisely what I wanted, yet this is what I could receive. Recently, I started to hope for more, but the fear of rejection or heartbreak refuses to let go.”

Cautious, Henry puts his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing by aspiring for something you want. There’s still so much shame or stigma around seeking magical aid in emotional matters. That’s why this shop is so important to me, because I can contribute to lifting it. Provide people with someone to trust.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

“My shop?”

“You.”

Oh.

Henry swallows nervously. “Charmer,” he laughs softly.

“Said by a literal magician. You put a spell on me...” Henry genuinely regrets agreeing to Nora’s suggestion of watching Fifty Shades of Grey.

“You’re one, too.”

Alex rolls his eyes. Alex’s been thinking about Henry.

Were Percy here, he’d urge Henry to inquire about the nature of Alex’s Henry-centred thoughts, but his friend’s absent and Henry’s a craven.

“I still haven’t told June. Although it’s mine to share, this secrecy shames me. I don’t want to be perceived as that, you know, desperate. But that’s what I am, isn’t it? Desperate.”

Henry despises that word on Alex’s lips. Henry’s lips would be better there. “I never thought of you as that. I’ve seen despair, but not on you,” he chooses the gentlest of words. “It’s a natural reaction to reoccurring disappointment and hurt to seek more secure means. You’re considering, or have already done it, to burden yourself for all your missteps and misfortunes because you’ve reached a point where this appears as the only logical and reasonable solution. You’re fearing love, being loved, loving, all while simultaneously being unlovable. Which you’re not, Alex. Not at all. There’s so much love in you and around you, so much love for you.”

Alex’s speechless. Henry can’t recall the last time Alex lacked words, but now he does, his eyes wide and open, the gates to his soul, vulnerability visible for Henry, only for Henry.

Henry’s heart threatens to burst with regret and uncertainty. Has he gone too far? Has he said too much? Has he remarked on a matter not of his concern? The suspense is suffocating.

“I—is that what you think? About me, I mean?”

Henry nods.

“You’ve never told me.” He swallows the tears forming in his eyes.

“You’ve never asked.” There it is again. “I wasn’t certain you’d appreciate my input.”

“I would’ve,” he whispers. “What has caused your dislike of me, then?”

“I never disliked you.”

Alex raises his brows. “We both know it’s not true.”

“You know it, or rather you believe it. I never disliked you,” he repeats, accentuating the words.

“But when we met...”

“I was intimidated,” he confesses. “You’re remarkable. Out of the ordinary. So effervescent and energetic. And I was torn, overwhelmed with the urge to befriend you and running away because your light could burn me to ashes, and I would’ve thanked you.”

Alex blinks. “And later?”

“Later was too late.”

His companion comprehends the new information in silence.

“It’s not. It’s not too late.”

“I suspected, but I appreciate the confirmation.”

Fingers weave his hair, slightly hesitant but inquisitive.

“I’ve been curious about their texture,” he says casually. “They always seemed soft.”

He says it, a menace, a thorn in Henry’s side, expecting Henry to function after hearing those words. Henry’s breath catches in his throat, getting lost somewhere in his lungs. With every motion of Alex’s fingers in Henry’s hair, Henry is certain he’ll choke.

“Are they?” he wonders.

“They are.”

“Good.”

“Fucking amazing, I hate being wrong.”

Henry laughs. Alex follows.

“I’m glad I could prevent that.” Henry moves his head to give Alex more access.

“There’s always more I can learn, should you be willing to.”

Alex considers his words. “I tend to be too much. Like, too much too much.” The sorrow saturating his voice drenches Henry’s heart. “I’m too caring, too dedicated, I feel too much. I drive people away because my existence becomes unbearable. I want them near me, I want to gather as much information as I can to know how to keep convincing them to stay.”

“Those who love you won’t require convincing.”

“I’d rather be safe than sorry. Have some tricks up my sleeve.”

During their conversation, Henry’s hand, previously on Alex’s shoulder, began to roam. His fingertips encounter roughness, which turns out to be Alex’s facial hair. Alex closes his eyes, leaning closer. Henry, for once, takes initiative and permits himself to touch Alex. The fingernail on his thumb traces the shape of Alex’s eyebrows, causing the other man to open his mouth. Occasionally, Alex’s eyelashes—bloody eyelashes—tickle his fingertip.

“I’m accustomed to never being enough,” Henry says, a hint of irony in his voice. “The only time I exceeded in something, it was used against me, to harm me and irrevocably strip me of something quintessentially mine.”

“Is this why you haven't brewed yourself the same potion you’re brewing me?”

Henry inspects the shape of Alex’s jaw as he replies.

“Partially. Before that incident, I never realised how hazardous love can be and how it can be weaponised. Call me a fool, but I’ve always tended to be a hopelessly romantic soul, besotted with the idea of falling in love, the shenanigans of stars to unite two people, all that poetic nonsense. I longed for organic feelings. After my Grandma, suddenly, the idea of me being unlovable no longer seemed like a curse, but perhaps a protection. Besides, even if I attempted to make a love-centered potion for myself, I fear my magic would be too distressed for it to function.”

“I think it’s sweet. This dream suits you. It shouldn’t have been taken from you.”

“It shouldn’t,” Henry agrees. “It’s not entirely gone. But it’s lost its appeal.”

Alex shudders when Henry brushes his thumb across his forehead, between his brows, and down his nose.

“Do you think I should tell June?”

“As you said, it’s yours to tell. But if you think you may need her as an emotional support, then do tell her.”

“She’s always been protective of me,” Alex sighs. “I want her to see the best of me, and not, well, me.”

“Those things are not necessarily separate. Perhaps you is precisely the best part of you.”

“Now who’s being charming?”

“Not me. What I am is honest.”

Henry swears there’s a hint of blush on Alex’s cheeks. “I want to spare my sister the knowledge that despite all her sacrifices she made for my sake and my future’s, I’m incapable of finding someone to love me.”

“Many people love you. Your family and friends, David, especially David,” Alex laughs breathlessly, “let’s be frank, his opinion is of the greatest significance here. You still have the time.”

“It’s weird how you always know what to say.”

“The past couple of years contradict that statement. I never knew what to say around you. I barely remembered more than ten words.”

“But at least they were big words. All proper and fancy.”

Henry’s knee nudges into the meat of Alex’s thigh. “That’s not the proper way to treat clients. Careful, I may start a smear campaign against your shop. See, buddy,” he addresses David, “your Dad is so mean to me. But you’d never be mean to me, right?” David wiggles his tail.

“Stop stealing my dog.”

“I’m not stealing him. I’m irresistible.”

That you are, Henry thinks.

It’s later, after they’ve napped, and Alex is now in Henry’s kitchen, as comfortable and at ease as it gets.

“Have you told anyone that I’ve asked you for help?” Alex stirs the food on the pan.

Henry shakes his head. “Percy and Bea know that I’m making this potion, but I avoid discussing my orders in detail.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I’d never—”

“I know. I actually do know.” He puts the food on the plates. “Are you coming to June and Nora’s this week?”

Somewhere, too subtly for Henry to notice and fully protect himself from the impact of it, Alex overtook June’s mission to prevent Henry from death of starvation or malnutrition. It started with Alex being the one to deliver the goods to him, and eventually, as Alex became more relaxed in Henry’s spaces, he shamelessly claimed all the rights to Henry’s kitchen.

(“You’re not even using it!”

“David does,” he argues, “and you know he’s a decent cook.”

“You’re wasting a perfectly lovely space. Someone has to use it.”

“Yes. David does.”

“Dogs do not belong in the kitchen.”

“You’re being a bit discriminatory. Two weeks ago, we watched a film about a rat that became an acclaimed...” Henry never finishes; Alex reaches for a pressure sprayer and splashes water in Henry’s direction.)

“Yes. It’s the only thing keeping me sane. Well, that and you.”

“Not even an hour ago you claimed I was a plague.”

Henry points at him with his fork. “Well, look at you, what a multitasker you are.” He takes a bite. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Long after Alex departs, when Henry reluctantly drags himself out of bed for a glass of water, he notices the marks on the floor, the thors that must have dug into the wood. He recognises them, of course he does; they’re the same ones that sprung out of the school’s running track, the same ones that carved his library desk, and the very same ones that scratched the paint from the wall in his workshop.

➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

“My darling dearest, you’ve wounded me. You’re hiding something from me,” Percy announces dramatically, bringing a hand first to his chest, as if experiencing a spell, and then to his forehead. “What sins have I committed to be deprived of your confidence?”

“You’re distracting me,” Henry retorts. “And I dissuade you from that since I’m holding a knife.” To emphasize his point he lifts the blade.

David, the clingy thing he is, immediately approaches Percy, demanding to be lifted and cuddled. Percy submits without any protest, pressing kisses to the animal’s head.

“Another restock?”

“It was due.”

“Has the season always been this intense for you, lollipop?”

“The store’s getting bigger, so I’m not complaining about it too much. But I anticipate the break.”

“You deserve one,” Percy agrees. “Speaking of breaks, what’s that little secret you’re hiding from me?”

Henry gives him a look. “How is that relevant?”

“Well, you see, precious, I was hoping there might be someone to break your back.”

“How the hell did you conclude it?” He almost cuts his finger off.

“You’re happier.”

“You could at least put in more effort to make it sound more like a compliment and less like an accusation. No hate, just feedback.”

“No hate, you’re hiding something, someone even, from me.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” And it’s true, he’s not, he’s simply omitting certain elements, which nonetheless do not concern Percy.

“Someone, then.”

“It’s not that,” he objects. “We’re kind of friends. Not yet there, probably.”

“Friends?”

“There’s nothing. No back breaking.”

“What about your heart, then. Will it be broken?”

Not broken, shattered.

“I’m a big boy.”

“I never doubted that. Why haven’t you told me about it?”

“It’s complicated.”

A spark flares in Percy’s eyes.

“Is he your client?”

Henry nods. “That’s all I wish to disclose.”

“Oh, Henry, that’s marvellous, delicious, enchanting!”

“I fail to see how.”

Percy frowns. “Is he purchasing something season-appropriate?” Henry wipes his hands on his apron. He nods, unwilling to use words. “Is he…oh,” his eyes widen in damning realisation, “bloody bollocks. It’s the compatibility potion, guy?”

Henry bites his tongue, hoping to conceal his growing sorrows, but against Percy, his perceptiveness and years-long knowledge of him, all is to no avail.

“Leave it, please. There is, and there was, nothing between us. I liked him, that’s it.”

“You don’t look particularly indifferent. Also, you did seem happier.”

“Of course, getting attention from a handsome man will make me happier. Even if it’s temporary, and even if it’s not fully mine to claim.”

“You need to take better care of your heart.”

“I couldn’t have refused. He asked for help.”

“And did you?” Percy wonders.

“I told you, I couldn’t have rejected—”

“No, not that. Did you ask for help when this situation unfolded?”

Henry’s shoulders sag.

“It is my burden to carry. And I knew you, you and Bea, would try to dissuade me from it. I opened this place to help people. In whatever ways I can.”

“Even at the cost of your heart?”

He’s been sacrificing that all his life. One more time won’t change much.

“I’ve been paying that prize most of my life, Percy.” He comes closer to his best friend. His rock. His accomplice in life. “Thank you for looking out for me. Truly. And for being a great friend. Soon, it’ll be done.”

“And what then?”

“I move on.”

Something akin to disappointment and frustration unveils on Percy’s countenance, both emotions so misplaced amid his usual cheerfulness. “You need to seek your own happiness, not happiness at your own expense.”

“I know.”

“Then, you should listen to smarter people. That’s reasonable.”

“And you believe yourself qualified?”

“If I weren’t holding our son, I’d hit you.”

Henry laughs.

“Afterwards, come to be so we can brood and sulk together,” Percy offers.

“I’d love that.” Among all the potions and magic in the world, friendship and ice cream have the greatest heart-mending properties.

Henry finishes preparing the herbs, while Percy works on decorating the interior of Henry’s shop—“There’s no such a thing as too much glitter, poppy”—and for the first time in some time, and perhaps for the last one in a while, Henry’s heart is at peace. There will be an after, after the potion is finished, after Alex has taken it, after the inevitable comes, and after Henry survives the consequences.

➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

Henry buries his face in David’s fur, dampening the spot with his unshed tears as the world weighs on him more than he’s accustomed to. Guilt pierces through him, leaving an acute ache. The beagle whimpers sympathetically, and despite his usual resilience, Henry relishes the empathy. Idly, he pets David’s side, seeking comfort in his warmth.

He’s on his own: he apologised profusely to his friends for his absence from today’s meeting and vowed to come at the next opportunity. Somehow, all his paths lead to solitude.

He closes his eyes, wondering in the quiet of his place.

Today left him reunited with helplessness, a sensation he greatly despises. He hasn’t been helpless in years, hopeless, of course, hollowed, yes, permanently, yet never helpless. Helplessness is a relic of the past, something estranged since the damage his failed love potion caused to his Grandmother’s magic and ambitions.

David’s tail wiggles, hitting Henry gently on his nose. He groans, partially amused, though mostly annoyed. The body underneath his face moves, clearly intending to stand up. Displeased, Henry lifts himself up, muttering, Traitor, underneath his breath.

“Your friend is by the door,” David informs him.

“Percy?”

The dog scoffs. “No. Alex.”

Alex.

Alex’s here.

And Henry’s a mess. Somewhat in a hurry, still uncertain of his limbs and senses, he runs towards the door. Indeed, Alex’s there, waiting, worried.

“I know you excused yourself from today, but they—fuck it, we were worried. I was sent here to check on you.”

Henry leans over the wall, struggling to keep balance.

“I’m—” fine, is what he ought to say. Yet, neither is he fine nor wants to say it. “I’ll be fine.”

Alex gazes over him. “So, you’re not?”

“Not now.”

“May I come in?”

“Currently, I’m not the most pleasant company.” Do not leave, but do not see me, the me I’ve been desperately concealing, neither. “I drank some anti-anxiety brew, so it should knock me out soon.”

“My dissatisfaction with the quality of your company never really bothered you before,” he smirks. “If I’m intruding...”

“You’re not. You’re welcome.”

Henry lets him in. Alex follows. It resembles an agreement.

“Is the headache troubling you again?”

“I’d rather it were the headache,” he admits. “May I offer you anything to drink?”

“Caring for you is my job.” Henry’s heart soars in pleasant pain, like the moment when an ointment touches a wound, and it stings, only for the relief to come next.

“Caring for me can be performed while you’re sipping a beverage. I’m certain it doesn’t exceed your capabilities.”

“I can never get enough of that famed British hospitality.”

Henry sobers, anxious whether his conduct is too harsh. “I warned you I’m not the best companion.”

“I’m not complaining, sweetheart,” he assures him.

They settle in the workshop, which has become their refuge, their place. It contains Alex’s belongings, his jumper—“A hoodie, Hen. A hoodie.”—his stationery and textbooks, and some of his favourite Mexican snacks. The potion’s pink light, enhanced by Alex’s presence, dissipates the darkness.

Henry’s the first one to speak. “A client today asked me for something outside my abilities. I was too weak to aid them.”

Alex shakes his head. Tentatively, inspecting Henry’s reaction, he reaches for him. They always do it here, only for the potion, and occasionally David, to witness. Alex almost never touches him, not like that, outside this room. Even when they hang out at June and Nora’s, the furthest Alex has gone is to press his knee to Henry’s or playfully dig his finger into Henry’s flesh when no one was looking.

Henry leans his weight to the touch, and Alex’s there, ready and willing to support him.

“You’re many things, but I’ve never considered you weak.” The familiarity of the script urges Henry to believe they had a similar conversation, perhaps in a different configuration. “You can’t expect yourself to mend the entire world. No one, not even someone as good as you, can be expected to.”

He’s right. Henry knows it. Alex knows it. But some knowledge is best not known.

“What good does it all do, this shop and I, when I’m useless.”

“You did what you could.”

“I couldn’t do anything!” He cringes at the volume of his voice; his, yet a stranger’s. “Nothing besides telling them I’m useless. They came to me, trusted me and in me, and were rewarded with disappointment.” He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm.

Alex rubs circles in the juncture of Henry’s neck. “What was their request?”

“To cure the loss of magic.”

Alex inhales sharply. “They can’t possibly expect you to be capable of it. Even skilled healers—”

“I know, Alex,” he cuts off Alex's enraged rant. “But it doesn’t make me feel any less humiliated and useless.”

Another step closer.

“You have no reasons to be humiliated.”

Henry groans, suppressing another sob.

“Loss of magic is agonising. I wish I could’ve helped.”

Alex squeezes Henry’s shoulder, and in the act of unadulterated recklessness, Henry pulls Alex closer to tuck his face in Alex’s neck. Initially, after realising what he’s done, he tenses, apologies constricting his throat, making him nauseous. Before he detaches himself, Alex’s arms tighten around him.

“You did all you could. You listened and offered your help, all in good conscience. But this is beyond you. And you cannot blame yourself for it.” He weaves his fingers through Henry’s hair, the touch so comforting Henry’s knees almost buckle.

He digs his nails into the fabric of Alex’s shirt.

“It’s unfair they have to suffer.”

“It is.”

Henry sniffles. “Once, I lost my magic, too.”

Alex tenses, and after a second, his grip on Henry tightens more. “Sweetheart.”

“Following my dad’s diagnosis and during his illness, my magic started to act out. Some days I couldn’t use it, or, worse, I couldn’t feel it.” The last words are a whisper, as if saying these things out loud could cause this calamity to reoccur. “After his death, my magic disappeared for two months.”

Alex gasps. As the name suggests, magicians without magic can no longer claim the title. Sure, theoretical magicians exist, but for most, the loss of magic means not only the loss of their identity but also the inability to exist in a magic-suffused world. Forceful drainage of magic from a person’s body remains one of the most severe punishments, forbidden outside the walls of courthouse. Many do not even survive it, their bodies too feeble, their minds shattered, their grief all-consuming until their will to live is devoured.

“Henry, you—”

“I’m fine. No damage was done. At least, to my magic, as it functions as before.” He blanketed himself in darkness. He’s heard legends of curses, of shadow towers trapping magicians inside, a shelter and a prison, and he almost expected one to conjure around him. He was the torment and the tormented; incomplete, deprived of a part of his soul that could not be recovered. He’s never admitted it out loud, but he hoped this torment will be short and soon there’ll be no him. But he survived a day, then two, then one week, and stubbornly has kept surviving until today.

“How did you get it back?”

The moon plunges in Alex’s eyes. “One day, I remember how the sun shone, I dragged myself outside. The vivid brightness blinded me. Then, I heard someone...” he stops, considering and questioning, wondering whether to jump, whether anything awaits him at the bottom beside the embrace of death, “I heard someone laughing. It was such a magical sound, pun fully intended. And for that second, the world’s further existence regained its sense. I disagreed with life prevailing after my father was deprived of his, but, in that moment, I understood why. I received a reminder of all the good there is in the world for me to unveil.”

“Who was it?”

Henry purses his lips. The breeze threatens to push him over the precipice.

“You.”

Alex’s breath is barely audible. Shock sculptures his features. He’s staring at Henrt as if he is seeing him for the first time.

“You were sitting with June and Nora by that big three,” Henry continues because he can’t cease to be a fool, “sunlight raked through your curls, and your mouth was stained with berries. Someone said something, I cannot recall who and what, but you smiled, and my magic…” he stops, engulfed in emotions.

Alex understands.

“Returned.”

“It did.”

Alex nods. His eyes do not leave Henry.

“How did it feel?”

Like you do, sometimes, when I can afford to forget. “Safe. Like home.”

“You never told me,” and before Henry can answer, he adds, “I never asked, I know. I wish I had. I wish you had told me.”

His thumb slides down Henry’s face, brushing against his temple and down to his cheek where it lingers over Henry’s cheekbone.

“Have you always been like that?” Alex wonders.

“I think so,” he whispers. “Like what?”

Alex nods. “You,” he says like it’s an explanation, like it captures Henry’s essence. “I wish I’d known you all this time.”

“I wish that, too.”

“You’re here now. With me. That’s all that matters.”

“You’re here with me, too,” Henry echoes. “Will you stay?”

Tonight? With me? In my life? So many other questions lurk from this one.

“Of course.”

And he does.

➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

The issue with the inevitable is that it is, indeed, inevitable.

Today has been that: inevitable, a test of his skills and resilience. Henry won’t ever be ready, so it matters not. Today, like any other day, is suitable for not being ready. He stirs the potion leisurely, seeking comfort in the motions of gentle whirlpools on the surface. Prolonging it would be in vain, and a part of him sick of the constant unknown almost finds relief in the conclusion of this chapter.

He’s been pacing since morning, wide awake with the initial caresses of sunlight on the sky. Nervousness is interwoven into his normality, but his current fear is a novelty, a blend of hopes to disappoint sprinkled with petrifying worry he may do precisely that.

“Hi,” Alex greets him.

Shadows reside under his eyes, but Henry chooses to blame them on Alex’s eagerness and impressive velocity of his thoughts; it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for him to have sacrificed sleep at night. Henry did. Too haunted by his thoughts, by what-ifs, too busy retracing and replaying his every step in search of possible mistakes, eventually concluding that it all has been one big mistake.

“Hi.” A brittle smile dances on his lips. “You look well.”

“Should we just do it?”

“If that’s what you wish. There’s no deadline.”

Alex laughs, tension audible. “That’s reassuring. But I don’t want to wait anymore.”

They go to the basement, already prepared for everything.

“Hen,” Alex grabs Henry’s arm. “Afterwards, don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t. Promise,” he vows.

The bottle is small, its content a rich pink. Henry orders Alex to sit down on the couch, their couch, assuring him it’s nothing but a preciation. Before handing the potion to Alex, Henry hesitates, dizzy from the peculiar sensation of his world being on a pendulum. Their fingers touch on the cool surface of the glass, a moment of zip, magic rubbing against magic, glimmering on their skin, and it’s done; the bottle is in Alex’s hands.

He drinks it in one sip.

“How do you feel?” Henry asks immediately, his eyes never leaving Alex for any signs of discomfort or issues.

“I’m okay.”

“Any aches? Anything?”

“No. My eyes like I applied eye drops.”

“That’s normal,” Henry soothes.

“What now?”

“We’re waiting. Soon, you should start feeling the effects. Once they settle, I’ll walk you through how to interpret the colours.”

In the dimness of the room, Alex’s hand gravitates towards Henry’s. Although started by the touch, he permits his friend to interlace their fingers. His heart is beating wildly in his chest and it takes all his strength not to look not to cherish this effable blessing.

“What if there’s no one?” Alex whispers feebly, sounding choked up. His eyes are shut. “What if all I achieve is to confirm my unlovability?”

Henry cannot bear it. He places his free hand on the back of Alex’s head, sliding his fingers into his curls, and guides Alex into a slightly clumsy embrace.

“It won’t. There’s no universe where you’re unlovable.” There’s no universe where you’re not loved by me.

“I’m scared.”

“Taking the potion already testified to your courage. You’re so, so brave, darling.”

He feels Alex tense at the pet name before he sags against him, liberated from his tension. Consolingly, Henry massages Alex’s scalp. “The potion should’ve already started working,” he mutters, noticing Alex keeps his eyes closed.

Alex shakes his head.

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“You don’t have to be. We can wait here longer. As long as you need.”

Henry’s temple rests on top of Alex’s head.

“Thank you for everything. For your help and support.”

“Pleasure all mine.”

“If you’re like this with all your clients, I can see the appeal. You do know how to charm a man.”

“I’m not like this with everyone.” He’s kind and understanding, but not like this.

“Am I getting the premium treatment?”

“Of course you are. You kept me fed and entertained. Besides, I ought to coerce you into returning here.”

Alex laughs breathlessly, releasing a warm breath that tickles Henry.

“I don’t need coercing. Bothering you has become my favourite pastime.”

Henry groans. “I’ve created a monster.”

Alex laughs, nuzzling closer one last time before detaching himself. “I think I’m ready,” he announces.

Henry nods. This is it. He’s grateful for the opportunity to be there for Alex, yet he’d rather he was spared the heartache.

“Then, open your eyes. Love is in the air.”

Alex inhales deeply, bracing himself. Slowly, he opens his eyes, scanning the room.

“How do you feel?”

“Good,” he replies. “I can see a light coming out of you.”

Henry smiles. “Splendid. That means it’s working.” He squeezes Alex’s hand, another one of their last times, and releases it.

That means soon you’ll be someone else’s. And it all will be thanks to me. My fault.

“What does yellow mean?” Alex inquires.

Colours drain from Henry’s face.

“Yellow?” He echoes.

No.

No.

“Yes, yellow. Or maybe golden. Hard to tell.” It cannot be. Because then—no. None of that.

It’s worse. Infinitely worse.

Dread seeps into his bones. Ignoring the trembling of his hands, he reaches for one of the drawers where he stores the antidote. “Drink it,” he commands, disguising the rushing panic, forcing the open bottle into Alex’s hand. “Now.”

“Henry?” Alex’s confusion is laced with trepidation.

“Drink it.” He brings the bottle into Alex’s lips.

His magic, treasonous and treacherous thing, has done it again: sabotaged the potion. (No. No. No. No). It’s implausible for Henry to be golden because that’d indicate a type of compatibility commensurable to soulmates. Of course, soulmates as such do not exist, and even if they did, Henry and Alex would not qualify. Henry’s desires—his memories and hopes, his fondness and yearning, all of it—must have been absorbed by the potion. In consequence, Alex perceives him as gold, the highest degree of compatibility.  Nausea rises in Henry’s throat as he leans on the nearest wall.

It was, indeed, all a mistake. Henry should’ve known better, damn him, he did know better, yet pursued this plan nonetheless, against the reason, despite the inevitable consequences.

Henry was a fool.

He is a fool, always has been, and in particular, he’s always been a fool when it comes to Alex.

He’s overwhelmed with the urge to hide, but Alex grabs his forearm, pinning him to the place, to his humiliation.

“I’m so sorry,” Henry croaks, tears dwelling in his eyes.

Alex’s countenance glistens with concern. “Henry what—”

“Something’s wrong with the potion. It’s malfunctioning.” I ruined it. I ruined it. I ruined us. The air gets stuck in his lungs, and while it’s painful, it feels deserving.

“Henry, Henry, look at me.” Alex hovers over him, but Henry’s not present anymore; he’s engulfed by his thoughts, the deluge of self-loathing.

“I can’t, I’m—I’m so sorry. I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”

He shuts his eyes, hoping to trap his tears underneath his eyelids, but some of the moisture pours on his cheeks anyway. This exceeds disappointment. This feels like a betrayal, not only of himself but of Alex’s trust.

Alex, who came to Henry with hope in his eyes, conquering his fears and insecurities. Alex, vulnerable, stunning Alex, who opened up to Henry, entrusted him with his memories and aches from half-healed wounds. Alex, who made him laugh until his stomach aches. Alex, who exchanged with him conspiratory glances only to burst into more laughter. Alex, who stroked Henry’s hair, when only the night was around to witness their intimacy.

Henry hopes to throw up his own heart.

“Henry, the potion—” Alex commences, and Henry is ready, now he’s ready, ready to face his failure, for yelling, for disdain. “It’s gone black.”

“What?” he echoes, in shock.

Alex points to the bottle. Its walls, previously stained by the pink, are the shade of blackness so deep it absorbs the light.

“I did it,” Henry says as he realises. I ruined us. I shattered your trust. I exploited your vulnerability for what could’ve been my benefit. I did it. I did it. I did it.  “My panic changed its colour. It wouldn’t have hurt you. I swear. I wouldn’t… I’d never...”

“I know. I know, baby. I know,” Alex utters softly.

The pet name, drowned out by terror, dips into the sea of Henry’s consciousness.

Henry wipes the lingering tears. “It’s best if you leave. If we weren’t in my place, I’d be the one to depart.”

“Henry, no—”

“I failed you.”

His bones almost break at the weight of this admission. He’s overtaken by the urge to hit himself, bruise those treasonous memories or abuse his heart until it ceases its stubbornness in affections.

“No, you didn’t,” he almost sounds pleading. “Mistakes happen.”

It wasn’t a mistake, he wants to shout. Alex doesn't understand, he can’t understand, otherwise he’d comprehend the degree of Henry’s betrayal.

“I need to be alone,” Henry whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t be a stranger.”

I can’t be your friend either, he’s not sufficiently courageous to say it.

“I need space. And time.”

“Those I can give you.” I couldn’t give you what you wanted, echoes in Henry’s thoughts. Alex reluctantly moves towards the door.  “But I refuse to give you up.”

➳➳➳┄🪄જ⁀➴🩷┄➳➳➳

Days pass. The lovesick plague has dominated the world. Henry, entrapped in a state of chronic self-inflicted torment, spends his days indulging in equally sickening self-loathing. He hasn’t heard a word from Alex; another small grievance he suspects he might’ve lost the right to grieve. June came once, wearing a discomforted expression, yet made no remarks indicating her knowledge of Alex’s and Henry’s agreement. Percy, too perceptive for his own good, notices the tremendous shift in Henry’s demeanour, an extinguished fire coughing smoke, a flower past its prime yielding to withering. He’s there for Henry to hold and care for him, refraining from questions in a display of unconditional patience.

The closer Valentine’s comes, the weaker Henry grows—nothing comparable to his state following his father’s passing, nevertheless, inconvenient and indurable. In an almost mock-like fashion, his magic rebels against him, disappearing at a whim, incapacitating him to finish some of his projects. Currently, Henry’s magic greatly favours Alex, whom it believes Henry had wrong, possibly beyond redemption.

It’s one of those mild days. He’s sitting behind the counter, languidly leafing through his well-loved book, a comfort read, when the door opens with ferocity. He barely has the time to prepare before a force of a man barges inside.

“Gold indicates the highest compatibility,” Alex says, not bothering with greetings or pleasantries. He looks wild, hazardous, his eyes hollow, his countenance haunted. Henry puts down his book, nodding. “You told me the potion malfunctioned.” His hands tremble as he says it.

“It did,” Henry confirms.

“Did it?” Coldness doesn’t suit him, Henry notices, it’s like a frost has settled over a fire. It strips him of something, of the Alex ness Henry’s grown to love. “Or did you claim it to flee from the fact that...” he stops abruptly, his voice breaking. He swallows, but the doleful look stains his countenance. “That it’s me.” He chokes out every word as if it cuts through the flesh of his throat and threatens to drown him in his own blood.

“That it’s you?” Henry reiterates, incredulous, turning it into a question.

“Yes.”

He swallows, grabbing the counter for balance. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re gold. I saw the moment you comprehended it and were horrified. Gosh, your face…Your face when I asked about the meaning of your colour. Just the memory of it makes me nauseous,” he whispers, wailing quality to his voice. “I could’ve believed in your tale of the potion’s malfunctioning. I so desperately wanted to, but I couldn’t. I can’t. You’re too brilliant, too skilled.” He grimaces. “It’s been haunting me for days. I doubt I’ll ever forget it. And normally I’d never have told you all of that, I’ve humiliated myself in front of you enough for a lifetime, but you lied,” he accuses. “I could’ve born rejection, but not deception, Henry.”

“Alex,” Henry’s voice is so embrittled, it could be torn apart by a gasp. “No, darling, no, you’ve got it all wrong.”

He forces his body to move in Alex’s direction. He has to be indifferent to the voices yelling in his head, the instinct that urges him to withdraw before he confesses his betrayal. But then, is there anything of them to salvage? He dares not ask.

“I omitted something. And you’ll hate me for it.”

“I already fear you hate me.”

“No, never,” Henry shakes his head fervently. “I didn’t lie, the potion did malfunction. I’m responsible for it. My magic influenced the outcome, imposing the gold colour on me.”

“Why would it do that?”

Henry bites his lips. Tears rush to his eyes.

“You know the proximity of my magic to my emotions. My feelings, to be precise my feelings for you, altered the potion’s perception to render me compatible with you.”

Alex frowns.

“Your feelings for me?” he echoes, distrustful and disbelieving.

“In my aspiration to atone to you, I contacted a friend of mine. They agreed to make you another potion, and, of course, I’ll bear all the costs...”

“Henry,” the other man interrupts him. “What fucking feelings for me?”

And there it is.

“I like you,” he mumbles, bracing himself, “romantically. But, please bear in mind, I do not expect you to—”

“Since when?” Alex’s voice rises in pitch, almost screeching.

Henry shields himself by wrapping himself in his arms. “Since the beginning.”

“Bullshit,” Alex scoffs.

“It’s the truth.”

“You told me you were intimidated by me.”

“Yes. By you. Your beauty and kindness. I had no idea how to conduct myself around you. I yearned for your company, sometimes even friendship when I felt greedy, and this desire terrified me. Because, realistically, you were, you are, unattainable. I never acted on those silly feelings. Later, you grew to dislike me, and I no longer deluded myself into hopes.”

The words pour like poison from him. By the look on Alex’s face, listening to his admission might have a similar effect like biting into a succinct-looking fruit to find its flesh rotten.

Alex blinks, stupefied.

“That makes no sense. Why the fuck did you even agree to making this potion when you had feelings for me?” He throws his hands.

“We’ve discussed it, I did it because you asked.”

“That’s... that's horrible reasoning. Why would you contribute to me falling in love?”

“Because I want you to be happy!” Henry yells back, softening towards the end. “Even if I did refuse you, that’d only affirm your antipathy for me. I might have abandoned my hopes for an alliance with you, but I wasn’t going to deepen your dislike.”

Alex rubs his face, massaging his temples first before moving to squeeze the bridge of his nose. “You’re infuriating. Did you know that?”

“You’ve already informed me,” Henry retorts, fight absent from his tone.

“You don’t get to do that to me.”

Henry takes a step back. Shame is scorching in his veins. “I know. I never intended to.”

“You obliterated any ideas of you I’ve formed. You revealed yourself to be thoughtful, caring, and selfless, and before I knew it, before I could remedy or prevent it, I started to want to be in your company. You, without transactions.” Henry stares at him helplessly. “This shop, well, your workshop, became the first place I’d crave whenever I lacked a destination. I confided in you. I let you witness the less-favourable sides of me. You confused me beyond my own understanding.”

“Alex—”

“Not yet,” he stops him, “I’m not finished. I wanted to kiss you. The night I helped you through your headache. The night you told me about your magic disappearing. I should’ve kissed you. On both occasions. Eventually, I was uncertain whether to proceed with our plan, because I hoped for, wanted, you to be compatible with me. I considered not taking the potion and giving you the whole organic meeting you wanted.”

Alex can’t possibly mean it. That’d be too good to be true, too good to be Henry’s. But amid the tangle of despair and exhaustion, there’s earnestness to Alex. The one star that refuses to be drowned in darkness.

He wonders if it all leans to an end, a conclusion scribbled on a half-ripped page.

“Can I atone?” Henry asks.

“Atone?”

“For breaking your trust and causing you pain.”

Alex considers his words. “Why did you reject me? I’d like to know that.”

“I never did,” he protests.

“You basically forced the antidote down my throat.”

“The potion was malfunctioning, I couldn’t let you—”

“That’s your interpretation, your insistence that the malfunctioning is the only plausible scenario,” he sighs. “Have you ever taken the time to consider, the potion might’ve been right?”

“I haven’t,” he admits.

“What if it is right?”

Henry never wanted to dwell on that.

“You deserve more than this,” he whispers, “more than me.”

“First, that’s bullshit,” the corner of Henry’s lips quivers in amusement, “second, you’re not entitled to decide it.”

“Am I so wrong to wish more for you?”

“You’re wrong for failing to acknowledge you’re precisely what I want.”

“You barely liked me.”

“You barely gave me a chance to get to know you. For the rest, I’ll take the blame. Neither of us was too remarkably reasonable.”

Henry acquiesces. “My offer is still valid. You can have the potion made, should you wish to.”

“Your potion was enough.”

“But maybe you’ll like to have a second—” He never finishes when lips crush into his, the sway of supernovas, the faint cheer of the plotting starts rejoicing at their efforts.

With little decorum, Henry yanks Alex closer, tugging at his hair, blindly reaching for him, until their bodies are pressed tightly against each other. Their kiss is passionate, smudged with eagerness and relief. Alex’s hands roam underneath Henry’s shirt, skin against skin, flickers ablaze into fire. Alex pushes forward, causing Henry to stumble from the force and kiss-caused dizziness, and for a second Henry’s certain they are doomed. In a hurry, he opens his eyes, attempting to hold onto something—he’s already holding onto Alex—when a thick stalk shoots from the floor, sliding near Henry’s spine to stabilize him and prevent his fall. A flower the size of a standard pillow tucks itself under Henry’s head, keeping him standing straight.

Alex bursts into laughter, a gleeful melody, which ceases when he takes in their surroundings.

The shop’s floor has transformed into a meadow. Layers of flowers, some rich-brown others melted honey, all the shades of Alex, cover the wood. One rose rests on Alex's shoulder, as if staring at Henry, its petals almost forming a smirk. Henry looks down and realises they are covered in flowers, stalks wrapped around them, clinging to their bodies, a living flower crown. He tries to step back, stricken by the humiliation, only to find that a rose blooming from Alex’s wrist, a bracelet of stalk slithering from Alex’s arm to his wrist, which rests at the back of Henry’s neck, has interlaced with flowers stroking Henry’s shoulder. Unable to part, Henry’s at mercy of Alex’s gaze, locked on him, suffused with fondness.

“Possessive, aren’t you?” Alex smirks, leaning closer to tuck his face in the side of Henry’s face. “They’re gorgeous.”

“They’re like you.”

“That’s some nice flattery. I’ve never seen you do that.”

“You’ve never—

“—asked?” Alex interrupts him, cockily.

Henry shakes his head. “Kissed me. You’ve never kissed me.”

Alex beams. One of the flowers turns to him, seeking the glow.

“A foolish mistake.”

“Indeed, thankfully, one that can be remedied.”

➳➳➳┄💘┄➳➳➳

The next day, after they drag themselves out of Henry’s bedroom, the actual one, Alex, shirtless and entirely too pleased with himself about it, glances at the flowers. The plants seem comfortable where they remain on the floor, lingering from last night, still the exact shade of his eyes. He grins.