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1. Cards
Alex is ten, and last night, he spent three hours between dinner and bedtime making Valentine's Day cards for all the kids in his class — even Jamie Warren, who always calls him Alexander and makes fun of his lunches. Mom and Dad had offered to buy a pack of them at the grocery store, but Valentine’s Day is important, and Alex wants to do it right.
On the school bus, he sits in his usual seat, his right knee bouncing, picking at the cuff of his hoodie. It’s a forty-five-minute ride from home to school, and the whole ride, Alex thinks about those handmade valentines in the specially decorated box in his backpack. He’s practically vibrating with anticipation of how he’ll slip a lovingly glitter-glued valentine into the pouch on each student’s desk and how they’ll enjoy the lollipops and Hershey Hugs he’s affixed to the front.
And of the prettiest valentine of all, which he’d covered in honeybee stickers and glitter for Tatiana Flynn, with the words, Bee Mine painstakingly printed across the front in pink marker. Alex has sat behind Tatiana all year, admiring her pretty red hair and how she gets the answer right whenever the teacher calls on her. He’d been paired up with her for a science project in November, and it had been the most glorious week of his ten-year-old life.
In the classroom, Alex hurries from desk to desk, delivering each valentine — until he gets to Tatiana’s desk, and there’s no pouch and no Tatiana.
Alex frowns.
“Good morning, class,” Mr. Ortiz says by way of greeting. “I have some news — you might have noticed that there’s an empty desk this morning. Tatiana’s family moved to Florida over the weekend—”
The valentine creases in Alex’s grip. She hadn’t even said goodbye.
—
2. Flowers
The student council is selling carnations to raise funds for the annual spring carnival – $3 each, 4 for $10, or a dozen for $25. As sophomore vice president, Alex’s rotation at the carnation table outside the cafeteria happens the day before Valentine’s Day. He’s been paired up with Kailey Rivera, captain of the academic decathlon team and senior student council secretary.
Kailey is also unfairly pretty, and Alex, who usually has no problem talking, finds his voice cracking in a way that’s completely mortifying every time he says more than three words to her. So, out of a sense of self-preservation, Alex keeps the chatter to pleasantries only.
She probably thinks he’s a dick. Alex knows he’d think he was a dick if he were in her shoes.
Still, preconceived notions of dickness aside, they rake in a decent amount of funds, and Alex watches as each customer walks away holding their carnations — some clutching them nervously as they work up the balls to give them to their intended recipient, others gallantly handing them over to a friend or partner.
Alex had tucked some cash into his backpack the night after he’d learned he was paired up with Kailey. That cash is now in his jeans pocket, and a dozen of the best carnations are hidden in one of the buckets in the back, just waiting for his moment. His toes tap anxiously inside his shoes as he prays silently to whatever deity might be listening, that his voice doesn’t betray him again.
Eventually, the break between lunch period ends and the rush dies down. Alex turns in his seat to retrieve the carnations and makes a show of putting his money in the cash box. When he turns back, Kailey is smiling coyly at Olivia Barnes — who’s leaning up against the table, and tucking a short carnation stem behind Kailey’s ear.
“So I’ll pick you up at 5:30?” Olivia asks.
Kailey giggles in response. Giggles.
Alex buys the carnations anyway and several more as well. That afternoon, he brings that first dozen carnations to his abuela and hands out the extras to the other residents at the assisted living facility. According to Abuela, it’s all the neighbors talk about for weeks afterward.
—
3. Chocolates
Alex stops at a candy shop after lacrosse practice. He buys the almond pralines — his mom’s favorite — and a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans for himself. At the register, the shop has set up a display of festively wrapped boxes of assorted truffles, and Alex contemplates for only a moment before snagging one of the medium-sized boxes.
Twenty minutes later, he cuts the engine of his sedan and gets out, truffle box in hand.
Liam gets up from his seat on the porch steps, takes one look at the box, and snorts, “Oh, fuck off, dude. Get in here already.”
Between the two of them, all the truffles disappear over the next couple of hours of Call of Duty. Later, as they jerk each other off, Alex sways in close enough that he can smell the chocolate on Liam’s breath.
—
4. Candlelight
For legal reasons, it’s probably best not to discuss the incident involving the candelabra and the dormitory’s fire suppression system.
—
5. Dinner
At the beginning of the spring semester at Georgetown, Alex meets Naomi. They get into a heated debate in ethics class, during which Alex decides she might be the coolest person he’s ever met.
It takes him a week of spiraling to decide how to ask her out. There are their course schedules to consider, as well as the likelihood that she’s got work. Then there are Alex’s inevitable public appearances as the First Son and the logistics of going out to dinner with the Secret Service as third and fourth wheels, but… man, this woman is incredible and worth the logistical nightmare.
He flags her down between lecture halls and skids to a stop in front of her while she smiles quizzically but patiently at him.
“Hey,” he says. “I want to take you to dinner. What are you doing Saturday night?”
She holds him in suspense for a beat, considering. “Going on a Valentine’s Day date with you,” she finally says.
Fuck yes. “Okay, great,” Alex replies.
“Great,” she echoes. Then she holds out her phone. “Give me your number.”
She only uses it once. On Thursday afternoon, as Alex leaves campus, he stops to get coffee and is mobbed by the paparazzi. Amy nearly resorts to bludgeoning people with an airpot of decaf to extract him, and by Friday morning, Naomi has texted her regrets.
And seriously, fuck Valentine’s Day.
—
+1. Henry
All of Alex’s bills are paperless, and any junk mail goes straight into the recycling upon arrival, so Alex’s inflow of physical letters is usually pretty sparse. But three months after the election, Alex receives a piece of paper mail that has him rushing back to his room to open it.
It’s a cream-colored envelope, addressed in Henry’s now familiar script and postmarked with a Royal Mail seal at the top right corner. Alex doesn’t own a letter opener (which would likely scandalize more than a few of his boyfriend’s family members), so he carefully works his thumbnail under the flap of the envelope and painstakingly tears the envelope open by hand.
Then Alex pulls out an obviously handmade card, complete with glitter glue decorations covering the front. He opens it, warmth spreading in his chest as he reads the short message that Henry’s enclosed.
Dear Alex,
I’m given to understand that you Americans keep your Valentine’s Day messages brief. So, in the spirit of your tradition, I believe the 16th-century Italian poet Torquato Tasso said it best:
“Love is when he gives you a piece of your soul you never knew was missing.”
I love you. Thank you for keeping that bit of my soul safe for me for so long.
Love, Henry
Eyes welling, Alex pulls out his phone. It rings only once before Henry picks up.
Alex immediately blurts, “Fuck you, this is the most beautiful card I’ve ever gotten, and now I have to go to lunch with Ma and the ambassador to Türkiye like my boyfriend didn’t just emotionally devastate me with a dead guy’s words.”
“So you like it?” Henry asks, sounding pleased.
“I love it,” Alex sniffs indignantly. “And you. So much. If you were here, I’d probably suck your dick about it.”
Henry laughs, the sound curling around the warmth in Alex’s chest. “Tempting,” he murmurs. “Now put on that eye mask you like, and call me again after lunch.”
—
After lunch, Alex returns to the residence, opens his door, stares for a second, and then closes it, blinking. Maybe he’d stopped in front of the wrong room?
He glances up and down the hallway, and nope, same painting across from his door as always, same bust of James Madison at the end of the hall… this had definitely been his room an hour and a half ago. Now, well.
Alex opens the door again. Now, his room appears to have been transformed into a flower shop. How in the fuck…
For the second time today, Alex retrieves his iPhone from his pocket and calls Henry.
“Right on time,” Henry says casually like he hasn’t systematically bought out every florist on the eastern seaboard to pull this off.
“What did you do,” Alex laughs, pushing past an obscenely huge arrangement of roses and lilies. “My room is a goddamn jungle. I can’t even see the sofa—”
“Shame,” Henry drawls. “I’ve some good memories associated with that sofa.”
“There are so many flowers,” Alex says. “Jesus, baby, this is…”
It’s too much — Alex should insist that it’s too much. Instead, he leans in to inhale the heady fragrance of one of the absolutely gorgeous roses in the nearest bouquet. “Nobody’s… nobody’s ever bought me flowers before,” Alex admits, feeling more than a little overwhelmed.
“I’ll buy you more when these wilt,” Henry promises immediately. “You’ll never go without flowers again if I’ve any say in the matter.”
“Baby,” Alex breathes. He hadn’t known what it was like to have an indulgent partner before Henry. Hadn't known what a lot of things were like, in point of fact. They’re both quiet for a second, and the soft sounds of Henry’s breaths on the other end of the phone are a balm to Alex’s frayed, too-big emotions.
“Perhaps I’ll only buy one bouquet, next time,” Henry suggests lightly.
“I mean, it’d definitely make it easier to navigate around my room,” Alex snickers. “How the fuck did you even…?”
“Shaan knows a fellow whose cousin owns a floral wholesale company,” Henry says.
“Of course he does.”
—
Like he has every Valentine’s Day since high school, in the evening, Alex seeks out his mom with a box of almond pralines from her favorite chocolate shop in Austin. The door of the Yellow Oval is ajar when he arrives, and he pops his head in to see if she’s free. She gives him a tired smile and waves him inside.
Recently, Ellen has been embroiled in trade negotiations that make the trade deal with England that had helped secure her second term look like child’s play. Still, she seems happy to see him, so he approaches her and leans in to kiss her cheek, and then hands over the pralines.
“Happy Valentine’s, Ma,” Alex says. “I may have ordered extra in case you have to talk to Russia tomorrow.”
“This is why you’re my favorite son, sugar,” Ellen sighs. She unties the ribbon that’s holding the lid in place and peers inside, her smile widening.
“I’m your only son,” Alex replies, rolling his eyes.
“So you should be happy you’re not my least favorite,” Ellen counters.
Alex reaches subtly for a praline, and she smacks at his hand.
“These are mine,” she declares. “Get your own.”
He laughs and spins away, coming to an abrupt halt when he realizes one of Zahra’s junior interns has appeared in the doorway and is looking not at Ellen but at him.
“Delivery for you,” the intern announces, extending a velvety-looking, heart-shaped box from a high-end chocolatier in Alex’s direction.
After a quick jog back to the tropical rainforest that is his erstwhile bedroom, Alex waits for Henry to pick up the phone for a third time. And waits.
And waits.
Impatient, Alex lifts the lid off the box of chocolates, fingers hovering over the glossy confections for a moment before he snags a truffle at random and pops it into his mouth. The flavor of the finely tempered chocolate veritably explodes across Alex’s taste buds, and he groans aloud as Henry answers the phone.
“Hello again, love,” Henry says in response.
“Theef ah fuh-in dewishish,” Alex mumbles around his mouthful of truffle.
“Charming,” Henry laughs.
“Starting to feel like I should’ve done something for you besides the shower selfie this morning,” Alex says once he’s swallowed the chocolate.
“Allowing me to spoil you today is a gift in and of itself,” Henry replies like the smooth motherfucker he is. “And that shower selfie was inspirational.”
—
After sunset, Alex goes up to the solarium to stargaze, only to realize that the corridor leading to the glass-walled rooftop terrace is lined with dozens of tea lights (and carefully placed fire extinguishers), and he’s on the verge of backtracking when a familiar song begins to drift through the open doorway.
—
“Shut your entire fucking face,” Alex announces as he takes in the transformed solarium. The room is aglow with candlelight and flowers, and in the middle of everything, the best goddamn boyfriend on the entire planet is standing there next to a table bedecked with still more candles and an array of porcelain dishes. He’s dressed just as casually as Alex is, and holding a bottle of champagne that probably cost more than Alex’s first car.
Henry smiles indulgently, waiting for Alex’s thought process to catch up.
When it finally does, Alex strides across the room, plucks the champagne bottle out of Henry’s hand, sets it down on the nearby table, and then grabs Henry and kisses him so thoroughly that his lips are puffy when they part. “Hey, sweetheart. I am so fucking happy to see you, but how are you here?” Alex demands roughly.
“After what you told me when you called while you had influenza last month, how could I not be here?” Henry replies.
Alex wracks his brain, trying to recall what he might’ve uttered in his feverish, congested state, and comes up blank.
“You told me you were objectively awful at asking anyone to be your Valentine,” Henry supplies, his fingertips trailing up and down Alex’s back in a way that makes Alex slowly sag against him. “And you were quite sad about it, insisting that I am, and I quote, ‘the Valentinest Valentine ever.’ Then you recounted a handful of Valentine’s Day incidents that you view as abject failures, and… well, I naturally considered it a challenge and privilege to prove you wrong.”
“So you remixed the greatest hits of my bombed attempts at Valentine’s Day?” Alex snorts. He’s not mad about it; this is probably the sweetest thing anyone’s done for him. He tucks his chin against Henry’s shoulder and leans further into him.
“Yes and no,” Henry replies. “Thought you’d like the opportunity for a do-over on one bit of it.”
“There’s not a shower up here, so I can’t redo the selfie,” Alex says slowly.
Henry’s shoulders shake with mirth. “The question, love,” he prompts.
After the card, the flowers, the chocolates, the candles, and the flight across the fucking ocean to be here in the solarium when Alex had thought he’d be spending the night looking up at the stars and wishing for Henry’s presence, a decidedly more advanced question springs to mind.
Instead, Alex leans back just enough to make eye contact. “You proved me right, actually.”
“Hmm?” Henry asks. His expression is soft, and flickering candlelight reflects in his eyes.
“You are, unequivocally, the Valentinest Valentine ever,” Alex declares. He leans in and kisses Henry again, lingering and sweet. “Be mine?”
Henry nudges the tip of his nose against Alex’s and teases, “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Nah,” Alex states matter-of-factly. “I call dibs.”
“I’ll allow it,” Henry replies softly.