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It starts, as most minor tragedies do, with a smell.
Something off in the kitchen — not rancid, not dramatic, just... unsettled. Like a wet rag left too long in the sink. A hint of rot beneath the citrus of last night’s candle. Like something in the room was quietly decaying while no one was watching.
Henry notices it on a Sunday morning, when the sun is golden and kind and he should be reading on the couch with David snoozing nearby. But instead, he’s staring into a pile of unopened mail, dishes, and — inexplicably — a half-eaten piece of cake from three days ago, left out on a Post-it note like it was meant to be picked up and never was.
He’s not mad. He’s confused.
He moves through the kitchen slowly, in socks and one of Alex’s oversized college hoodies. The floor creaks beneath him. David huffs from under the dining table and goes back to sleep.
There are two glasses in the sink. A pan with pasta residue still crusted to the edge. The vet appointment card from last week — bright pink and impossible to miss — shoved under a stack of catalogues. The calendar on the fridge says “Take out bins!” in loopy, purple ink. They haven’t moved.
And Alex... Alex is sitting on the couch, scrolling, one knee bouncing so hard it's rattling the mug on the coffee table.
Henry steps into the living room with a kind of careful curiosity. He’s got that odd itch — like something's off, but he can't name it yet.
“Love,” he says gently, “did you forget the vet again?”
Alex blinks up, like Henry’s voice pulled him back from a hundred miles away.
“What? Shit. Yeah. Fuck. I had it in my phone, I swear. I just... the alarm went off while I was in a call and then—fuck, yeah, I forgot.”
Henry gives a soft little smile, like a peace offering.
“It’s alright. We’ll reschedule. Just... maybe write it down next time?”
Alex’s eyes flicker. “I did write it down.”
Henry glances toward the fridge. “The bins are still full too.”
A pause. Then, with a forced laugh, Alex says, “Wow, yeah, I’m really killing it this week. Domestic god, right here.”
“I only mention it,” Henry says, carefully, “because I know you said you wanted to try doing the calendar thing again. With the lists. And the checkboxes.”
“I know.” Alex’s tone is clipped. “I am trying.”
Henry raises his hands in mock surrender, still in the realm of banter. “No judgment here. But if we keep letting things pile up, we’re going to have to start bribing David to do the dishes.”
Alex forces a chuckle, but it catches in his throat.
“And I might just call Ellen,” Henry says with a grin, moving to grab his phone from the counter. “She might give you a proper presidential scolding. Or at least threaten you with chore camp.”
Alex freezes.
Literally freezes.
The kind of stillness that feels like all the air in the room just got vacuumed out.
Henry’s smiling when he glances back — expecting an eye roll or a “don’t you dare” — but Alex’s face has gone pale. His hands are clenched on the edge of the coffee table. Shoulders tight, breath held.
Henry doesn’t understand.
Not yet.
So he keeps going.
“Just a quick call,” he jokes, tapping his phone. “I’ll tell her her son is rebelling against the chore chart she bought him. Maybe she’ll fly in and bring that terrifying binder of hers.”
Ring.
Ring.
“Henry, stop.” Alex says.
And it’s not a tease. Not a laugh. It’s a plea.
Henry looks up, phone halfway to his ear. “Alex?”
Alex’s breathing is shallow. Sharp. Like he’s trying to stay very still so he doesn’t break.
Henry ends the call. The silence it leaves behind is deafening.
Alex swallows. “Please don’t call her.”
“I— I wasn’t actually going to—love, are you okay?”
Alex shakes his head — not a no, but a don’t ask again.
“Alex,” Henry says, slowly approaching, “you’re safe. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought we were just... joking.”
Alex lets out a sound — almost a laugh, but it’s cracked, bitter, watery. “Yeah, well. My brain doesn’t know how to tell the difference sometimes.”
Then he’s standing. Backing away. Pacing now.
“I had the reminders. I made a schedule. I was gonna do everything last night but then the interview ran long and then I got distracted looking up the new EPA policy and then Nora sent me that TikTok of the raccoon and then I sat down and I forgot. Again.”
Henry stays still. Letting Alex’s words fill the space.
“I can’t keep everything in my head. And I try. I try so hard. But it just gets so fucking loud in here—” He presses both hands to his temple like he’s trying to squeeze the noise out.
Henry moves closer. “Hey, hey—”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I didn’t feel like I was letting someone down? Since I didn’t feel like some kind of disappointment just waiting to happen? I don’t need you calling my mother to remind me I’m a failure.”
Henry’s heart shatters.
“Alex, I don’t think you’re a failure. I never have. I just— I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know.”
But Alex isn’t hearing him. His breathing is all off now — fast and shallow and spiraling into panic.
“I can’t— I can’t do this right now,” Alex says, and bolts.
He leaves the brownstone through the back door like the walls are collapsing behind him.
Henry stands there, stunned. Still holding the phone. Still not sure how it all went wrong.
David pads into the room and noses at Henry’s knee.
Henry sinks to the floor and lets the silence close in.
-
Three days pass.
Henry knows because the trash is still full.
He takes it out himself now, quietly. He does the dishes, folds the laundry, refills David’s water bowl before it gets halfway down.
Alex hasn’t said more than a few sentences strung together since that afternoon. Not angry, not even passive-aggressive — just... quiet. Distilled. Like he’s been diluted into a version of himself that’s easier to manage. Less much.
He still kisses Henry goodnight, every night. Still smiles at him across the table. But the smiles are thinner now. Shorter-lived. They fall off his face too fast.
Henry can tell something’s wrong by the absence of Alexness. No weird playlists blasting from the bathroom, no rants about gerrymandering or why kombucha is a scam, no chaotic outfit changes before bed.
Just... absence.
And it’s killing Henry.
He didn’t mean to break him.
On Wednesday, Henry wakes up to find Alex in the kitchen, fully dressed at 7:45 AM, already finishing a cup of coffee.
He’s writing something — a to-do list. Henry can see the all-caps scrawl from across the room.
SHOWER
MAIL IRS ENVELOPE
BUY MILK
CALL VET
ASK MOM DETAILS FOR CAMPAIGN (this one’s circleed three times)
His handwriting gets tighter as the list goes down the page, like he’s gripping the pen too hard. There are checkboxes next to each item, already pre-drawn.
Alex doesn’t notice Henry watching him.
He just sits there, staring at the paper like he’s bracing for impact.
Henry swallows and approaches.
“Morning,” he says, soft and low.
Alex startles. His shoulders jump. But he schools it quickly, turns around with that same too-bright smile.
“Hey,” he says. “Didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No,” Henry lies. “Just missed you in bed.”
“Had some emails to finish.”
There’s a beat.
Then Alex adds, “Thought I’d get a head start today. You know, before I forget.”
Henry’s stomach twists.
The list is still on the counter. It’s long. Painfully detailed. Even shave is on there. Even feed David. As if Alex doesn’t trust himself to remember the most basic parts of being alive.
And underneath it all — the desperate performance. The act of “I’m okay. I’m in control.”
Henry hates it.
Not Alex. Just... the fact that he’s doing this alone. That he feels he has to.
Henry moves closer. “You don’t have to do everything perfectly.”
Alex doesn’t look up. Just sips his coffee. “I do.”
“No, love—”
“I do, Henry,” Alex snaps, too fast, too sharp. Then quieter: “Because if I don’t, people get disappointed. They think I’m lazy. Or not trying. Or broken.”
“You’re not broken.”
Alex gives a short, hollow laugh. “That’s what people say when they think you are. Just in a cute way.”
Henry flinches.
Alex sees it, softens — like he regrets it already. But the damage isn’t just to Henry. It's to himself. He’s bleeding guilt and shame like ink from a cracked pen, staining everything he touches.
“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers. “I’m just... tired.”
Henry leans in, presses their foreheads together.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
Another silence.
Alex mumbles, “When you joked about calling my mom, my brain just... short-circuited. I know it wasn’t serious. I know that. But it still felt like you saw me failing. Like I got caught.”
Henry’s throat tightens. “I didn’t mean it like that. I swear, I didn’t think—”
“I know you didn’t.” Alex’s voice is thin. “But I did.”
And that’s what lingers.
That’s the root.
It’s not about the chores. Not about Ellen. It’s about how deeply Alex has wired his self-worth into the concept of being useful. Being exceptional. Being the perfect son, the golden boy, the one who always comes through.
Failure isn’t just frustrating. It’s dangerous. It’s a trigger. It pulls old ghosts from closets lined in Ivy League degrees and campaign posters.
Henry sees it now. All of it.
He just doesn’t know how to fix it.
Not yet.
That night, after Alex goes to bed — list half-checked, face peaceful but tired — Henry stands in the living room for a long time, just... thinking.
He looks at the calendar. At the undone boxes. The sticky notes Alex left on the mirror.
He thinks about how easily he’d dismissed the mess as forgetfulness.
How he missed the why.
How he made a joke at the worst possible moment.
He thinks of how Alex flinched at the word mother, like it was a loaded gun.
And slowly, quietly, he pulls out his phone.
He doesn’t call Ellen.
He texts June.
|Hey. Can I talk to you and Nora soon? I think I messed up. And I want to understand what I did.
-
The meeting starts like any other catch-up — coffee cups and harmless teasing. They sit outside a quiet café in Park Slope, tucked between a bookstore and a shop that sells outrageously overpriced handmade soap.
Henry sips at his oat flat white and watches June and Nora talk like they’ve done this a hundred times, because they have. There’s something unshakeable about them. A quiet power in their comfort with each other. Like whatever comes out today — no matter how messy — won’t scare them off.
He hopes the same can be said for him.
June catches the look on his face and reaches across the table, stilling his fingers around the coffee cup. “You look like you’re about to confess to murder.”
He tries a smile. “Feels like it.”
“Is this about Alex?” Nora asks, sipping her drink. “Because the vibes have been off. I texted him a meme yesterday and he didn’t even leave me on read. That man lives in my DMs.”
Henry nods. “It’s about him. It’s... well, I said something. A joke. About calling Ellen. He forgot a few things — the vet, the recycling, whatever — and I just, you know. Said I’d report him to his mother. And—”
“You did what?” June says, cutting him off, brows raised.
“I didn’t mean it. It was a joke. I thought he’d laugh.”
“He didn’t laugh,” Nora guesses.
“No. He froze. And then he got real quiet. Then he started... panicking. And since then, he’s been... I don’t know. Shrinking. Like he’s trying to disappear without moving.”
June’s shoulders deflate. “Oh, Henry.”
“I didn’t know it’d hurt him like that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she says gently. “But it did. A lot.”
The air shifts. Nora leans in, eyes soft.
“Henry,” she says, voice low, “Alex doesn’t forget things because he doesn’t care. He forgets because his brain’s overloaded all the time. And when people point that out — especially people he loves — it’s not just a correction. It’s confirmation. That he’s failing.”
Henry grips his cup tighter.
“I didn’t know he saw himself that way.”
June leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “You ever wonder why he overachieves the way he does? Why he never stops working, even when he’s exhausted? Why he can’t just chill?”
Henry nods.
“It’s not ambition,” June says. “It’s conditioning.”
That hits like a gut-punch.
“Alex grew up knowing he had to be perfect to be worthy of attention. Especially from our mom.”
Henry stays quiet.
“She’s not a villain,” June goes on. “But she is who she is — a force of nature. And she wasn’t exactly... present. Not unless there was a medal to hang or a headline to chase.”
“She only looked when he shined,” Nora says, nodding.
“Exactly,” June murmurs. “So he learned to shine. Even when it hurt. Even when it broke him.”
Henry looks down at the table, heart cracking. “And when he didn’t shine?”
“She got cold,” June says. “Not cruel. Just... sharp. Disappointed. She treated him like a policy that didn’t pass. A brand misstep.”
Henry swallows hard.
“He still does this thing,” June continues, “where he’ll try to guess what you want before you ask. He thinks love is conditional. He’ll never say it out loud, but I’ve watched him twist himself into knots to be whatever people need him to be. Even if it kills him.”
Nora nods. “That’s why when he messes up, it’s not just a mistake. It’s proof. That he’s not good enough. That the love might stop.”
Henry’s throat tightens, guilt pooling heavy in his chest.
“He’s been writing to-do lists,” he says quietly. “Colour-coded. Ridiculously long. Like he’s trying to prove something.”
“He’s trying to stay ahead of the failure,” June says. “Before anyone notices. Before anyone has to say, You forgot. You failed.”
“I said I’d call his mum,” Henry murmurs. “I said it in front of him. Like it was funny.”
June reaches over, touches his hand again.
“You didn’t know. But now you do. So... show him. Show him that he doesn’t need to earn your love with performance. That he’s safe. Even when he forgets the milk.”
Henry nods, tears stinging behind his eyes.
“I just want to hold him. Let him fall apart, if he needs to.”
“Then do it,” Nora says. “Stop trying to be perfect. Let him see that you can love messy, too.”
Henry takes a long breath.
He’s already halfway out of his seat.
-
The brownstone is too quiet.
David doesn’t bark when Henry walks in. Just lifts his head from the couch with that old-soul kind of dog sigh and flops back down.
The lights are dimmed. The air smells faintly of lemon Pledge and lavender — Alex cleaned. Again.
Henry drops his bag at the door and swallows the lump in his throat. It’s a ritual, now. Alex overcorrecting. Scrubbing the guilt out of the walls with a rag and silence.
And there he is — in the kitchen, back turned, hoodie too big and sleeves rolled to the elbows, wiping down a counter that’s already clean.
“Alex,” Henry says softly.
Alex jumps. Just a twitch, but Henry sees it.
He turns around too fast. Smiles too wide.
“Hey. You’re back early.”
“Didn’t want to be away from you any longer.”
Alex doesn’t answer. He shrugs. “I made chicken. It’s in the oven.”
Henry steps closer. “You didn’t need to cook.”
“I wanted to.”
Henry’s heart aches. Not at the words. But at the way they sound like penance.
He walks to him, slow. Like approaching a wounded animal.
Alex stills.
“I talked to June,” Henry says gently. “And Nora.”
Alex stiffens. His jaw twitches.
“Oh.”
“They told me things I didn’t know. About growing up. About pressure. About you always having to be... perfect.”
Alex doesn’t look at him.
“I’m not mad at you,” Henry adds quickly. “I just... I’m sorry. For not seeing it sooner.”
Alex presses a palm flat to the countertop. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“It is, Henry.”
His voice sharpens like glass underfoot.
“I’m not mad. You were right. I’ve been a mess lately. I forget things. I let things slip. And you— I mean, why shouldn’t you get frustrated? That’s fair.”
“No. It’s not.”
Alex laughs, hollow. “Don’t— Don’t start pitying me. I hate that.”
“I’m not pitying you,” Henry says. “I’m hurting with you.”
Alex finally looks at him. And God, it’s awful — his eyes are rimmed red, but dry. Like he’s run out of tears before he let himself cry them.
“You don’t have to make this a big deal. I’ll be better.”
Henry steps closer. “You don’t have to be.”
Alex pulls back, a twitch of muscle like instinct.
Henry stops. Freezes.
And in the smallest voice yet, Alex says, “Not like this. You don’t get to hold me like this. When I’m like this.”
Henry’s whole chest cracks open.
“Like what?” he breathes.
Alex shrugs, helpless. “When I’m... broken.”
“You’re not broken,” Henry whispers. “You’re bruised. And you’ve been living in survival mode for so long, you don’t even know what it feels like to rest.”
Silence.
“I don’t know how to let someone hold me when I’m failing,” Alex finally admits. “I never learned.”
Henry swallows hard. “Then let me be the one who teaches you.”
Alex closes his eyes. His whole body trembles. A breath in, a breath out — and then he crumples, like gravity’s too much.
And Henry catches him.
Not the way you catch someone falling — but the way you hold someone who needs to be caught.
Alex buries his face in Henry’s shoulder. Arms tight around his waist. Fingers gripping like lifelines.
And Henry just holds him there, strong and sure and silent. No fixing. No scolding. Just presence. Warmth. Proof.
“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers against his collarbone. “For being too much.”
“No,” Henry says, lips in his hair. “You’re everything. And you never have to earn your place here. You already have it.”
Alex breathes. Shudders. Breathes again.
And for the first time in days, he lets himself believe it.
-
Morning slinks into the brownstone on quiet feet, all soft shadows and sleepy gold light. The sun creeps across the floor like it’s afraid to wake anyone, but David’s already up, tail thumping a lazy rhythm against the hardwood.
Alex is curled up on the couch, hoodie swallowed around his hands, hair all chaotic curls and sleep crinkles. He must’ve drifted down there in the early hours, after Henry coaxed him into bed and he promptly panicked and fled halfway through the night.
Henry finds him like that, bundled and blinking at the ceiling, as though contemplating the state of the union.
Or, more likely, the state of his Google Calendar.
“Morning, trouble,” Henry murmurs, voice still soaked in sleep, padding in with bare feet and a mug that smells like mercy—strong coffee with far too much cinnamon.
Alex grunts. “Please tell me you didn’t reorganize my task board.”
“Only a little,” Henry says, sliding onto the couch next to him, their knees bumping. “I added ‘pet David’ and ‘be devastatingly attractive before noon.’ You’re already halfway through both.”
Alex sighs, flopping sideways dramatically into Henry’s lap. “I can’t believe I had a whole emotional collapse and you still manage to flirt with me.”
Henry brushes curls off his forehead, gentle. “It’s my love language. Right next to passive-aggressively vacuuming and alphabetizing the spice rack.”
“You’re a menace.”
“And you, darling, are a nightmare in a hoodie. Shall we balance each other out forever?”
Alex’s laugh is quiet, but real. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet you bear me,” Henry quips, kissing the top of his head. “Willingly, even.”
There’s a beat of silence. The soft kind, like a breath held in reverence.
Alex shifts, tucks his face into Henry’s stomach. “I’m sorry I shut you out.”
Henry runs his fingers through that thick mess of hair. “You were protecting yourself. I don’t blame you.”
Alex pulls back just enough to look up at him. “I... I thought if you saw how messy I really am, you’d regret it. Us. All of it.”
“Messy?” Henry says, snorting. “Have you seen my emails? I’ve had the same five unread messages since 2022. You, my darling, are magnificent even when you’re unraveling.”
Alex hums. “You’re getting alarmingly good at the whole emotional support prince thing.”
Henry grins. “I was trained by the best.”
They sit like that for a while—no rush, no demands. Just warmth and limbs tangled like they’ve always belonged this way.
Eventually, Alex sighs. “Okay. Help me today. Not because I’m broken, but because I suck at remembering vet appointments and if David eats another sock we’re gonna be in debt.”
“Gladly,” Henry says. “Should I be your personal assistant or your emotional support Brit?”
“You’re already both,” Alex replies. “Might as well make it official.”
“Can I get a badge?”
“No, but you can have a coffee and the eternal glory of living with someone who alphabetized the pantry.”
“I did that once and you’ve never let me forget it.”
“I still think it was a cry for help.”
They laugh.
And it’s not perfect, not wrapped in a bow. But it’s real. It’s messy. It’s healing.
It’s them.
-
The next day starts with Henry in Alex’s hoodie and David wearing a sock like a crown.
It’s barely 9 a.m., and already the brownstone smells like pancakes and impending mischief. Alex, barefoot and inexplicably holding a whisk like a sword, glares at the golden retriever monarch in the middle of the kitchen.
“I turned my back for two seconds.”
David thumps his tail against the tile, utterly unrepentant.
Henry leans in from the hallway, sipping his tea with that smirky, delighted little “I love chaos but from a distance” grin. “Do you reckon he’s making a statement? Anti-laundry protest, perhaps?”
“He’s gonna be anti-life if he keeps this up.”
Henry chuckles and pads over, stealing a kiss on Alex’s cheek. “You say that, but I caught you baby-talking him an hour ago.”
“I was interrogating him,” Alex deadpans. “He’s a repeat offender.”
“You called him sir stinky toes. I have receipts.”
Alex rolls his eyes but softens under the affection like a cat in the sun. “Shut up and help me sort the list.”
“Which list?”
“The list.”
Ah. That list.
The infamous, colour-coded, chaotic brain-dump Alex had plastered to the fridge with no fewer than seven magnets—including one that said EAT THE RICH, and another shaped like a corgi’s butt.
Henry follows him into the living room where a whiteboard, two planners, and a laptop are spread like a sacrificial offering to the god of Executive Dysfunction.
Alex exhales, hands on hips. “I know it looks like a war crime but I swear there’s a system.”
“I believe you,” Henry says, settling beside him, “but let’s make it a system that doesn’t devour your soul, hmm?”
He taps the whiteboard with the back of a pen. “Tell me what actually works for you, not what you think should work.”
Alex squints. “Okay, so... colour-coding helps. If I don’t see red, I’ll forget it exists. But having too much on one day makes my brain just... freeze.”
“Right. Fewer tasks per day, more spread out. What about timers?”
“Ugh. Yes. But not the stressful kind. I like soft timers. Like, lo-fi vibes. No angry beeping.”
“Soft timers it is.” Henry jots something down. “Also: dog-related chores should be a separate list. David is an entity. Not a task.”
David woofs in agreement from his sock throne.
They work for an hour like that. Henry asking. Alex answering. No judgement, no shame. Just small changes. A rhythm forming between them like breath and heartbeat.
Eventually, Alex leans back on the couch and watches Henry with a kind of wonder he’s too tired to hide.
“What?” Henry says, peeking over his notes.
“You’re really doing this,” Alex murmurs. “You’re learning me.”
Henry smiles, warm and steady. “I already love you, Alex. Learning you is just the natural consequence.”
Alex laughs, too full of feeling to sit still. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Henry says, dramatically flopping onto him, “you suffer me.”
“Regrettably.”
They lie tangled like that for a while, plans half-written, to-do lists gently humming in the background.
Eventually, Alex whispers, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For... not trying to fix me. Just helping me carry it.”
Henry kisses his jaw. “Always. You don’t have to be a machine, Alex. You get to be human. Flawed. Glorious. Forgetful. Loved.”
Alex melts. Again.
David farts dramatically and the moment dies instantly.
sae