Chapter Text
June was always supposed to be the author in the family. Alex is a good student and a good enough writer, he had even enjoyed the creative writing class he took his first semester to satisfy a gen ed requirement, but he was fast-tracking his way towards a political career and didn’t have a moment to lose to anything outside of his singular goal to run for office.
His mom losing her presidential bid had only made him more determined. Richards’ administration is a nightmare, and a tiny part of Alex feels responsible for every bullshit piece of legislation Richards signs into law. He knows he was just a kid, barely 18 when she lost, but he can’t help thinking maybe he could’ve done more, could’ve helped in some tangible way that would’ve made a difference.
And then one night after a long study session his sophomore year, over-caffeinated and sick of doom scrolling through his social media feeds, Alex picks up a murder mystery June lent him. He reads the entire thing in one sitting, dim morning sunlight creeping in through his bedroom curtains by the time he finally closes the book, too amped to sleep.
After that, he spends months binge-reading every mystery he can get his hands on. He likes to go to the used bookstore by his apartment and sift through the stacks, choosing what sounds interesting based on the first page. He walks home with arms full of paperbacks and soon has a designated corner in his apartment for the ever-growing pile.
When Alex reads, he can forget about everything else going on in his life. The hundred to-dos constantly humming in his brain go wonderfully, blissfully silent.
Thrillers are compulsive and best read in one sitting, which Alex loves. He discovers all his favorite tropes – he likes morally gray main characters who become heroes despite their better judgment, third-act twists he doesn’t see coming, and when at the end of it all, they get the bad guy. No matter how difficult and dark and impossible it seems, they always get their guy.
It was only with June’s prodding that he ever even considered writing something himself. They were all home in Austin for the holidays, June and Alex slipping out onto the porch with glasses of spiked eggnog after dinner, escaping their parent’s inevitable Christmas Eve Blowout.
“So, what have you been reading lately?” June asks casually.
She sips her eggnog and only smiles when Alex goes on a three-minute tangent of everything he’s read in the last week, hardly taking a breath. She leans back against the porch railing and Alex glances at her, pausing.
“Why are you making that face?” Alex says. “And why haven’t you told me to shut up yet?”
“I think you should write a book.”
Alex gapes at her. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” she says, eyes sparkling with laughter. “You literally just said, and I quote, ‘if I ever write a novel, I’ll make sure the main character doesn’t have the personality of a damp mop.’”
“Huh,” Alex says. “I guess.”
“Every time you get going about a book, you explain in excruciating detail all the things you’d remove or add or do differently. You’re thinking like a writer.”
Now that she’s pointed it out, Alex realizes she’s right. He’s always thinking about what he would change when he reads, plot holes he would fix, threads he’d tighten up. It’s just how he’s wired. He’s always looking for ways to make things better . He’s just never considered it in so many words before.
It’s only a few months later when Alex completes the first draft of his first novel. He wrote the vast majority in only a handful of weeks over summer break, but it takes him much longer to edit the mess to a place where he feels comfortable letting anyone else read it. He spends long days in the library studying for classes, then relocating to his apartment to work on the book until the small hours of the morning.
He’d written what he loved – a pulpy murder mystery starring a young half-Mexican detective trying to make a name for himself. It’s short and punchy, easy to read cover to cover in a single sitting, and is picked up by an indie publisher shortly after he acquires an agent.
It does okay at first, with a modest set of preorders and slow but steady sales. Alex, fresh out of undergrad and feeling doubt for the first time in his life about jumping straight into politics in the wake of Richards’ re-election, takes the LSAT on a whim. Then his book goes viral online, caught up in a new trend where readers are sharing their favorite diverse genre novels. Sales spike and then keep growing. People like Alex’s book; now that it’s gotten a little more attention, the five-star rankings on Goodreads are piling in, and his publisher orders a second printing. It feels like a sign, so Alex signs a contract for the sequel and uses the advance check to finance his move to New York for law school.
—
It’s Saturday morning, and June and Nora had shown up at his apartment door with only a ten-minute warning text from June – incoming, please be clothed.
They only live a couple blocks away from Alex’s tiny studio in the Lower East Side and have a habit of popping by unannounced. Alex puts up a fight about it, insisting they need to learn boundaries and that he’s busy, but he’s always happy to see them. He’d been worried when June and Nora first started dating that it might change their dynamic, but thankfully, they’re all as close as ever.
The trio perch around Alex’s dining table, bumping knees in the small space and sipping coffees Alex pours from an already half-empty pot.
“So,” Alex starts, “any reason y’all decided to interrupt my morning routine, or were you just feeling particularly annoying today?”
“We bought tickets to go to Henry Fox’s book signing at The Strand,” says Nora. “Want to come?”
Henry Fox’s debut Tomorrow All Will Be Over was outside Alex’s usual taste, a literary fiction novel that featured a wary protagonist coming to terms with his sexuality. June had gifted him a couple of novels starring queer characters when he came out to her a few months back – she said book-gifting was her love language – and Tomorrow had been at the top of the pile. He’d read it three times since then, although he certainly hasn’t told June or Nora that.
“We were lucky to get tickets,” June says. “He doesn’t do a lot of events.”
Alex pretends to mull it over. “What if I already have plans?”
“You don’t. And we already bought your ticket,” says Nora. “If it helps appease your workaholic tendencies, this is basically an opportunity to network with another young author.”
“I think that’s a bit of a stretch,” Alex says, but he agrees to go nonetheless.
Alex brings his dogearred copy of Tomorrow with him for Henry to sign, and resolutely ignores June’s smug look when she eyes the well-loved pages.
Despite having read his book multiple times, Alex knows very little about Henry Fox. His author biography on the back cover is extraordinarily dull, with just two sentences outlining his Oxford education and that he’s based in NYC. There’s not even a photo.
Alex does know that Henry is about Alex’s age and is this year’s golden child of literary critics. Critics who seem to hate Alex’s work, despite its commercial success, which is fine, really, but he can’t help but feel a stab of jealousy every time he sees another article or Instagram post about the “twenty-three-year-old redefining Queer Fiction” or whatever.
He’s interested in putting a face to the name, so when they arrive at The Strand, Alex bounces from foot to foot, trying to peer around the long line to get a peek.
Finally, as the line slowly treks forward, Alex finds an opening and spots Henry sitting at a low table near the back. Alex doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t shiny, golden hair and sky-high cheekbones. Henry’s eyes are bright blue even from a distance, and he’s focused intently on the young woman standing across from him whose book he’s signing.
“Um, guys,” Alex whispers to June and Nora. “Did you know he’s hot?”
June rolls her eyes, but Nora nods gamely. “I follow him on Instagram. A little tall, blonde, and handsome for my taste, but I can see the appeal.”
“This is so unfair,” Alex says, eyes still on Henry.
“What?” June asks.
“That Henry Fox is talented, successful, and also mind-numbingly good-looking?” says Nora.
Alex nods. “Exactly. Like my perfect nemesis. He’s coming for my brand.”
“You really need to work on your ego,” June says.
“What do we think the likelihood is that I could get his number?” Alex says. “For, like, networking purposes only.”
“Networking,” Nora scoffs. Then, after a pause, “Ratchet up that Diaz charm and mention your books, and I’ll put you at a solid 67%.”
“Sweet,” Alex says, pushing a stray curl off his forehead and rolling back his shoulders. “I can work with that.”
He’s been firmly on the other side of his much-delayed sexuality crisis for several months, but outside of a few drunken kisses, he hasn’t had any experience with men since coming out. That’s probably why he feels a flutter of nerves in his fingertips, like he needs to grab onto something to steady himself. He flexes his hands once, trying to shake the feeling.
At the very least, it seems likely Henry’s queer considering the content of his book, so that at least checks one box. Henry was checking a lot of his boxes. He likes competence and boys with sweet faces and wide shoulders, sue him.
As they near the front of the line, June and Nora step up first. Alex only half pays attention to their conversation. June launches into a 30-second monologue of what she loves about the book. Henry, on the other hand, appears to be listening intently, and Alex is caught up with the soft blush that’s rising on Henry’s cheeks and his posh accent when he politely thanks June. Finally, Alex comes to; June’s speech sounded rehearsed, and Alex realizes he has no idea what to lead with.
Henry finishes signing the girls’ books, says thank you again, and then June and Nora shuffle off to the side. Alex steps up to the table and flashes his brightest grin.
“Hey, it’s so great to meet you. I love your book.”
The fluttery feeling is back, and Alex quickly hands his book to Henry to try to shake it off.
Henry looks up at him, blue eyes widening imperceptibly. They make eye contact for only a heartbeat before Henry quickly looks at the book Alex has handed him.
“Er, right, thank you,” Henry flips open the inside cover. His voice has gone cool compared to the honeyed tone Alex had just heard him use with June and Nora, aristocratic vowels turned flat. Without looking up, he says, “Who should I address it to?”
Alex’s smile falters. He tries to think of something intelligent to say to prolong the encounter, but his mind has gone strangely vacant.
Nora and June must sense something is wrong, given Alex is literally never rendered incapable of speech. Nora leans over helpfully from where they’re still hovering at the edge of the table. “You can make it out to Alex Claremont-Diaz. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of him, but Alex is an author too.”
“That’s nice.” Henry glances back at Nora but seems committed to avoiding Alex’s gaze entirely.
He scribbles something in Alex’s book, firmly closes the cover, and slides it back across the table.
“Um,” says Alex.
“Next, please,” Henry says, looking meaningfully at the employee stationed next to him, who immediately starts trying to shuffle the trio away.
Alex, bristling with embarrassment and not a small amount of indignation, snatches up his book.
“ Thanks,” he says, injecting the word with as much scorn as he can muster, before grabbing June and Nora’s arms and bodily yanking them towards the exit.
“Alex,” June says. “Let go of me!”
“What was that about?” Alex says. “Why was he such a dick. ”
Alex glances back at Henry. There’s an unhappy crease furrowing between his brow that makes it obvious he heard Alex. Worse, for a single moment, Henry’s gaze flicks back to meet Alex’s. The look he gives Alex, solemn and tired, sears itself into Alex’s brain. He immediately feels guilty.
“Alex,” June says again, looking mortified.
“Alright, alright, let’s get out of here.”
—
It’s not until much later that evening that Alex dares to open up his well-worn copy of Tomorrow to see what Henry had inscribed there. Everything about their meeting had gone wrong – Henry’s cool greeting, Alex freezing up, Nora trying to help. Henry’s dismissal. Worst of all, the firm set of Henry’s jaw after he heard Alex call him a dick.
Alex wasn’t normally so inept at first impressions. He knows he has a hyperactive, intense streak that some people find tedious after a while, but he’s found that his particular charismatic charm typically makes him great at small talk. For some reason, Henry had thrown him off his game.
Looking back, he knows Henry could’ve been tired or stressed, drained from having to put on a show for every single person who came up to him. He didn’t owe Alex anything, and Alex had been an asshole.
He feels embarrassed about the whole thing. Huddled under his thick comforter with only the soft yellow glow of his reading light to see by, Alex slowly opens the book. Henry’s scrawl is a little messy and clearly rushed, but looping and delicate all the same.
For Alex –
The stars as our only witness.
Keep writing.
Henry Fox
Alex traces the soft curves of black pen with his fingertip, perplexed. Why did that sound so familiar?
Setting the book to the side, Alex pulls up his phone and types in the line. His debut novel, The Only Secret, is the first result. Suddenly, it dawns on him, and he throws off his covers to stalk over to the bookshelf in the corner of his apartment. He pulls out a copy of The Only Secret and flips through its starchy pages. Alex hasn’t read his book since it was published, so it took him a moment to recall the line.
He lands on the final page. There, at the bottom.
We stayed there for a long time. The cemetery was quiet, the mourners gone home, headstones cutting long shadows across the grass in the light of the full moon. Tomorrow might bring more grief, more funeral rites or upturned graves, but for one still moment, we stood and breathed in the after, the stars as our only witness.
Henry Fox had quoted the final words of Alex’s novel.
“What the hell,” Alex says.
Putting the book back and returning to his bed, Alex pulls up Instagram on his phone. He searches for Henry’s profile and spends an indeterminate amount of time scrolling through the photos. It doesn’t take long for him to reach the bottom. Henry only has about 50 posts, starting with his novel announcement.
Without thinking about it, Alex presses the follow button, throws his phone on the other side of his bed, and resolutely turns off the light.
What a weird fucking day.