Work Text:
12pm
“Henry comes back today doesn’t he?” June asks absently as she folds a blanket and throws it over the back of the couch. “What time are you going to pick him up from the airport?” When Alex doesn’t reply, she looks at him, “Hello?”
Guiltily, he looks up from his coffee. “I did something stupid,” he admits. The confessions been sitting on the tip of his tongue since he called Henry on Christmas to no response. And it’s sat there, desperate for release, every day that Alex’s phone has remained silent.
June rolls her eyes and grabs another blanket. “What’s new there?” She grins at him, but he doesn’t reply; doesn’t even bother jabbing back at her. She drops the blanket. “Oh,” she says. “This is a serious thing. What’d you do?”
He flinches. “You’re going to call me an idiot.”
She moves away from the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. “What did you do, Alex?”
He turns back to the table and puts his hands in his hair as he leans over the cup of coffee. “I made Henry a christmas card, and snuck it into his bag before he left for London.”
“Okay?”
“I may have used it as a vessel to confess my feelings for him.” He says it fast, almost too quickly to be understood, but June’s had a lifetime of translating Alex-speak, and he hears her quick intake of breath and pulls his hands from his hair to look over his shoulder at her.
She drops her arms to her sides and makes her way across the living room to him. “You confessed your undying love for your best friend . . . on a christmas card. That he was meant to read several thousand miles away from you?”
Slowly, he nods. “That is what I did, yeah.”
She blinks at him. “And . . . ?”
“He texted me good morning on Christmas day,” he turns back to the luke warm coffee. “When I woke up to call him, he didn’t answer. And he hasn’t answered since.”
“At all?”
He sucks his lips in and turns to shake his head at her. “Radio silence,” he says. “So, he definitely read it. He just—doesn’t reciprocate. Or, whatever.” He shakes his head again and turns back around, wrapping his hands around the cup and wiping his thumb across the rim of it. “All that to say, I guess, I’m not picking him up from the airport because I don’t even know what time he’s landing.”
June doesn’t say anything for a long minute, before she slides into the chair across from him. “Is that why you’ve been hanging here since last night?” she asks, tone almost disbelieving. “Because you’re trying to avoid him?”
Reluctantly, he nods. “I’m just not ready to face the rejection head on?” He offers. “Like . . . y’all had me convinced he felt the same way. And I thought I was making a romantic gesture, and that it might . . . lighten up Christmas Day for him. Make getting through it easier, or something. But,” He shrugs helplessly and leans back in the chair. “Clearly he doesn’t reciprocate those feelings. And that’s fine.”
“That doesn’t mean he gets to ghost you,” she says softly, reaching and wrapping a hand around his wrist gently. “I mean. Obviously, this wasn’t the brightest way to tell someone you’re in love with them, but he doesn’t get to just pretend you don’t exist because you love him and he supposedly doesn’t feel the same.” She makes a face. “Which—that’s unbelievable. The way he looks at you? I can’t—”
“June.”
She lifts her free hand in surrender. “You’re right. Sorry. What are you going to do?”
He bites his lower lip and looks down at his coffee. The idea of drinking it is nauseating, so he silently pushes it away from himself before crossing his arms over his chest. His best friend isn’t in love with him. That’s fine. Henry isn’t required to love him back. “I’m going to get through today, and then tomorrow I’m going to start fresh and pull a Henry and pretend none of this happened.”
“Do you really think that’s the best idea?”
“What do you want me to do? Confront him and potentially lose him?” He scoffs. “Not even accounting for the fact that we live together , he’s my best friend. I don’t want to lose him just because I made the mistake of catching feelings. Our friendship may be a walking cliche, but that’s one trope I’m not particularly interested in recreating.”
She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest as well. “All right,” she says eventually. “You get today. But then tomorrow?” she pushes her chair back and stands up, pointing at him. “Tomorrow you’re going to have to talk to him. New year, new Alex and Henry.”
“What about the day after tomorrow?” Alex tries.
A flash of sympathy settles over her face for a beat before she flushes it away and gives him her patented Don't Be Stupid, Stupid look. “The sooner y’all talk, the sooner it’ll be over.” She moves around the table, glancing at him. “Did you bring a change of clothes for the party tonight? Because you can’t go wearing that.”
He flinches. “Pez said it’s Black Tie. Do you really think I managed to fit a tuxedo in my backpack?” he makes a face at her. “Do you think I’d make that mistake?”
“You forgot to add again to that sentence.”
“I’m suffering from heartbreak, and you’re—”
“I’m your big sister, it’s my job.” She leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Now go get your tux.”
The idea of going back to the apartment not knowing if Henry’s going to be there is almost enough to make him queasy. He frowns. “Can’t you go get it for me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Nope.”
He’s tempted to argue, but it’s almost half past one.
What are the odds Henry’s even home?
1pm
The plan is to get in and get out. But as he pulls the garment bag off the back of his bedroom door, he hears the front door creak open. Quietly, he closes his bedroom door and takes several steps backwards to stare at it. If Henry’s paying attention, he’d have seen Alex’s keys in the bowl by the front door.
Footsteps follow the path of the hallway, the sound of a suitcase being dragged along behind them. A shadow passes in front of his door, the footsteps coming to a halt. Alex stops breathing entirely when there’s a soft knock on his door.
He doesn’t dare speak or breathe or move.
He’s not ready to face him. He’s just not.
After a few moments, the footsteps resume and the shadow disappears from beneath the door. Alex waits until he hears the click of Henry’s bedroom door closing before he quietly opens his, peeks down the hallway, and makes a mad dash for the front door. He carefully digs his keys out from beneath Henry’s, flinching when they clink against the ceramic.
As he’s pulling the door shut behind himself, he hears a quiet, “Alex?”
9pm
The thing about going to a party hosted by Pez . . . is the fact that it’s hosted by Pez. Pez who almost assuredly knows about Alex’s disastrous love confession. And if Alex didn’t know it with near certainly before he and June and Nora entered the party, the quirked eyebrow Pez shoots his way before he pulls himself away from the duo he’s talking to—well, that just about gives it away, doesn’t it?
“Well, if it isn’t the two most beautiful women in New York,” he drawls, grinning wolfishly at June and Nora. normally, Alex would make a quip, but tonight he’s grateful to be ignored. That is, until Pez turns that wolfish grin on him; it softens at the corners almost immediately. “And Alexander, looking dashing as always.”
He forces a smile of his own. “I could say the same for you,” He says. Pez is decked out in a beautiful lavender tuxedo that matches his hair with soft lace embellishments all over the jacket. It’s genuinely lovely, and if Alex weren’t so stressed about what exactly Henry’s told him, he’d probably have a thousand questions about the tux. Instead, he’s itching to get as far away as fast as he can. He looks across the room, and perks up, “Is it an open bar?” He asks, already inching his way around Nora.
“As if I’d make my friends pay for their drinks on New Years,” Pez scoffs.
Alex’s smile brightens. “Great!” He chirps. “I’m going to go get us all drinks.” And before anyone can tell him that’s a particularly bad idea—burying his heartache beneath tequila, that is—he’s darting across the technicolor dance floor to the bar.
If he orders himself two shots before real drinks, it’s definitely because it’s New Years and not because he’s desperately trying to not think about what tomorrow, and the New Year, are going to bring to his relationship with Henry. For now, he needs to hold onto the fact that technically he hasn’t lost him.
Except, he has.
Because he’s sent a dozen texts to no response.
He’s grown so accustomed to Henry’s biting commentary on Alex’s nonstop barrage of daily texts. The only person in his life to take the double and triple texting in stride rather than with an air of annoyance. Even June and Nora get sick of his stream of consciousness thoughts that he texts the group chat throughout the day. But not Henry. He always replies. Always takes part in the conversation in Alex’s nonstop head.
Or, he did.
The silence is fucking killing Alex. He digs his phone out of his pocket and opens the text thread with Henry.
He doesn’t expect a reply, but he also doesn’t expect the tag at the bottom of the screen to say read either. Ever since Christmas, his messages have sat on Delivered with no indication as to whether or not they’d been read.
Fuck.
He turns back to the bartender and asks for another shot of tequila. She looks like she’s about to turn him down, but rakes her gaze over him, curls her lips, and quietly pours him another shot. He tips his head back and embraces the burn of it down his throat, before gently setting the glass on the bartop and turning around to face the crowd of people starting to fill the dance floor.
For the first time, he takes in the state of the party. Much like Pez’s suit, it’s sophisticated and unique. It’s very clearly a New Year’s party, what with the streamers and Happy New Year banner hanging at the back of the rented out space, but it’s also got a classy vibe, despite the music blaring over the speaker system. Alex barely recognizes anybody, but manages to spot June and Nora as they make their way to a table in the corner of the room. He turns around and grabs the round of drinks and makes his way over to them.
He realizes his mistake when he comes up behind June, taking in her telling Nora, “Just be gentle on him tonight.”
He sighs as Nora’s gaze darts up to him, moving around June to set the drinks on the table. His head’s already spinning with the haze of tequila, and he’s marginally less irritated with the pity and sympathy than he would’ve been ten minutes ago.
“Drink up,” he says. “We’re dancing.”
11pm
Pez ke eps looking at him. Looking at him and then typing something into his phone. Alex doesn’t think he knows that he knows but he definitely knows and it’s kind of driving him to insanity. June cut him off twenty minutes ago—after Pez pulled her away and talked to her in the corner of the room while Alex danced in place watching them. He’d tried to sneak away to the bar, but the bartender took one look at him and politely said he’d been cut off.
Which.
Something’s going on.
He knows it. Okay? He’s not stupid, not by a long stretch despite what some people believe. Nora and June are dancing with him, but there’s something on their faces that says they’re prepared to stop at any moment, and Alex is going to actually lose his mind if he doesn’t get some answers. So, he turns to Nora, and gives her The Look—the look that says he knows something’s up and he wants to know. It’s a new look. For a second she’s not sure she reads it, but there’s a reason Nora’s one of his favorite people, because her lips purse, and she looks at June, and then back at Alex.
“In time!” She says loudly over the music.
“In time? Nora!”
She just shrugs her shoulders and turns to June, resting her forearms on June’s shoulders and moving in close as the song changes.
Alex looks to the ceiling with a shake of his head. He needs—fuck, he needs a drink. But he can’t have a drink, so he’ll settle for getting outside and getting some air. He motions to Nora and June that he’s going to head outside, but they just wave him off, and he turns around without another word or motion. He stalks his way across the dancefloor; hands reach out for him, pleasant people looking for dance partners, but he’s only got one dance partner in mind—but he’s a no show, for which Alex is both eternally grateful and deeply displeased by all at once.
He makes his way through the doors that lead out to the back balcony and takes in a deep, deep breath. If he were back in Texas, he’d be drowning in the deluge of assholes setting off fireworks hours before they’re due, but here, he’s met with blissful silence and a cool breeze. He leans against the balcony and takes in a deep breath. The shots from earlier have definitely worked their way out of his system by way of dancefloor sweating, so he’s relatively sober enough to take it all in.
He’s not sure how Pez found this place, but the drive out of the city to find it was well worth it. The balcony is offset over a beautiful garden, something that feels like it belongs in some fantastical period romantic drama. He half wants to run out into it and hope some beautiful man or woman—or if he’s being completely honest, Henry— comes out of nowhere to find him. He doesn’t move though, letting the cool breeze of a crisp New York winter flush over his skin. It’s arguably too cold to be standing out here, but it’s a harsh and welcome juxtaposition to the sweltering heat that is the dancefloor full of people in formal wear.
There’s a creak behind him as the doors open and close. He assumes it’s June, comes to check on him. He’s okay. A little sad, and perhaps slightly wistful, and maybe thinking of what tonight could have been had everyone been right about him and Henry. Wonders if they’d have kissed beneath the strobe lights inside as the clock struck twelve. If Henry’s hands would cart through his hair, his touch firm but delicate against his scalp. He exhales a breath and forces the thoughts away.
It doesn’t matter what he wanted to happen tonight. What matters is he’s standing out beneath the stars by himself, and Henry’s nowhere to be found.
“You didn’t need to check on me,” He tells June without turning to look at her. “I just needed some air.”
Her feet scrape against the ground as she moves towards him, the fabric of her dress rustling. When she comes to stand next to him and lean against the railing. He catches her with his peripheral, and he realizes the white tuxedo she’s wearing is so vastly different to the deep purple dress they’d arrived in, and he frowns, turning to look at her.
Oh.
Not June, then.
He turns away and looks back out over the gardens. Beside him, Henry shuffles awkwardly, the forearms of his white tux probably getting dirty from the rust on the railing as he leans all his weight on them. “Fashionably late?” Alex manages to ask after several minutes of discontent silence.
Henry huffs out a breath; Alex watches the ghost of it dissipate into the air in front of them. “If I’d known you were here, I would have come sooner.”
Alex can’t help the scoff; it comes unbidden and unwelcome but not incorrect. “Right,” he says, drawing the word out and looking down at his arms outstretched in front of him.
“I was waiting at the apartment,” Henry replies softly. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Alex pinches his lips together and nods slowly. “There’s this thing,” he says, “It’s called a cell phone? You can use it to text people.” He glances over at Henry. “Though, I can understand your confusion. You seem to have forgotten how to use it lately.”
Henry frowns. “I didn’t want to talk over the phone, ” he says; he sounds distinctly patient; particularly posh. Like he’s talking to a dangerous animal. Like Alex is in danger of turning on him.
Alex huffs out an unhappy laugh and turns his gaze back on the garden. “No,” he agrees. “That much was clear when you didn’t return my call on Christmas, or, you know. Any day after that.”
One of Henry’s hands comes up to scratch at his eyebrow. “What was I meant to say?”
Alex rolls his eyes. “How about Merry Christmas?” He offers. “How about how’s it going? How about answering any of the many, many texts I sent you?” He turns his attention back on Henry; takes in the state of him. Pez has clearly gotten his hands on him; his hair is perfectly soft and golden and stills somehow sitting perfectly atop his head. His eyes are shining beneath the moonlight as if they are the stars in the sky above them, and his lips—fuck. Alex turns back around. “You could have said literally anything and I would have been happy.”
Henry sucks in a breath, then expels it slowly. “You didn’t send that card for me to simply tell you Happy Christmas, Alex.”
So, that’s that. He got the card. He’d read it.
Before Alex can reply, Henry continues, turning his whole body to face him. “What was I meant to think? You sneak a card into my bag so that I’d read it when I’m an ocean away. As if you didn’t want to face me when you told me the truth. I—I’ve been sitting with that for a week. Wondering why. Why wouldn’t you want to face me when you tell me you’re in love with me?” He scoots closer. “Enlighten me, because I can’t wrap my mind around it.”
Alex’s jaw clenches. “It wasn’t about not being there when I told you.”
“Then what was it about?”
“It was a romantic gesture.”
Henry’s voice is flat when he replies, “A romantic gesture?” And even without looking at him, Alex knows his eyebrows are raised way up high. “Alex, we celebrated Christmas three days early alone in our apartment. You made dinner and we sat in the livingroom and exchanged gifts, then watched the Doctor Who specials. If you wanted to make a romantic gesture, that was the bloody time, not when I’m three thousand miles away and unable to bloody kiss you senseless.”
It takes a moment for the words to register; for Alex to fully understand what Henry’s said. He gets caught on Doctor Who specials, remembering the way it’d felt sitting there, their thighs pressed together, his head on Henry’s shoulder and Henry’s hand on his shoulder, before stumbling along the rest of his sentence and coming to a screeching halt at his final words.
He whips his head around to look at him. “What?”
That night, sitting in their apartment beneath the multicolor lights Alex had insisted on putting up, watching the reflection of their shine in Henry’s eyes and fighting every urge in his body to just close the distance between them—that night had been what prompted him to write the card. He’d gone the next morning to pick it up from the local pharmacy, and he’d come straight home, hiding himself away in his room for several hours. He’d gone through nearly an entire notebook practicing how to phrase it before finally putting the final version on the card.
“What do you mean what?” Henry asks.
“I don’t—what are you trying to say?”
Henry looks to the heavens for a beat, shaking his head, before ducking his chin and look at Alex. “Christ,” he mutters. “You’re as thick as it gets.” And then his hands are fisting in the lapels of Alex’s tux, and before Alex can even catch up with what’s happening, there’s a warmth against his lips; soft, giving. Alex’s breath hitches, and he’s leaning into him, his eyes fluttering shut as he falls into the sensation of kissing and being kissed by the only person he’s ever been in love with. His own hands come up to drag up the front of Henry’s tux, until they can cup the sides of his throat, his thumb trailing along the edges of his cutting jaw.
He leans into Henry, turning his body fully into him, and allows himself to be pulled ever closer, as one of Henry’s hands releases his jacket and slides up over his shoulder, and back into his hair.
When Henry finally pulls away and sucks in some of the cold, biting air, Alex presses their foreheads together, heaving in an icy breath of his own. “I thought you didn’t feel the same,” he says after his breathing’s settled. “I really thought I was in it alone.”
Henry’s hand falls from his hair to the back of his neck, gently squeezing. “That couldn’t be further from the truth,” he murmurs, the hand in the lapel of Alex’s tux fussing with the fabric. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I just truly couldn’t bear to have that conversation over the phone. It felt . . . too monumental to be so separated.”
“Oh.”
The hand on his jacket flattens, his palm settling over Alex’s heart as Henry swallows audibly. “I found it the night before Christmas,” he says softly after a beat. “I set it on my nightstand, and after texting you, opening it is the first thing I did on Christmas Day. I very nearly booked a flight home, but Bea came bounding into my room and pulled me out to be with the family. I could hardly think, I just kept seeing what you wrote in my head. All I could think was, Alex loves me. Alex wants to be with me. Alex wrote me a love letter.” He dips his chin and his nose brushes against Alex’s.
Alex brings one of his hands down to settle on Henry’s hip. He digs his thumb into the firm flesh there and takes in a big breath. “I was so sure it was mutual,” He murmurs. “Especially after that night. But then you didn’t call me back or answer my texts . . .”
“There was so much I wanted to say,” Henry breathes, the soft air expelling from his lungs warming Alex’s nose and cheeks. “It just felt wrong saying it over the phone. So I said nothing. Which, in retrospect, was, perhaps, idiotic of me.”
“I thought I ruined everything.”
Henry shakes his head, his forehead rolling against Alex’s, the hand on the back of Alex’s neck flexing and squeezing. “Alex,” he says, soft, expanding and filled with reckless emotion, as if it’s all been sitting there at the edge of his heart waiting to be released, “I’ve been in love with you from the moment you first called me an obtuse asshole.” He smiles, the curve of his cheek rising to meet Alex’s with the movement. “You loving me back is the most precious gift I’ve ever been given.”
Alex lets his eyes slip shut. Takes in those words; lets them slip over his skin and heart and soul like the feel of the early morning sun on his skin. Like the chilly breeze brushing over them, raising the hairs on his arm. Pure sensation. Fire and ice slipping through his veins in perfect harmony; as if settling the doubt and fear and trepidation and replacing it with complete and utter peace.
God, he loves him.
He takes in a shuddering breath, the hand remaining on Henry’s neck slipping down to settle gently over his collarbone, thumb dancing along the neck of his shirt. Goosebumps rise beneath his touch and he’s unsure whether it’s the featherlight dance of his thumb against his skin or the cold doing it, but he blinks and dips his chin until the crown of his head is pressing into the dip of the bridge of Henry’s nose.
They’ve been outside so long they should be shivering. The cold should be herding them back inside into the sweltering warmth of the party, but Henry’s body heat is mixing with Alex’s; a cocoon of protection from the elements. Even as their breath mingles in the air between them, little clouds of heat escaping them and disappearing just as quickly as they’d appeared.
Alex tips his chin and pressing a kiss to the mole on the corner of Henry’s mouth. Lingers there for a moment. The kiss is chaste; soft like snow. The hand on his heart comes up and cups his cheek, holds him there a moment longer.
“We should go back inside,” Henry murmurs against his lips.
Alex hums thoughtfully. “Should we?” he asks, squeezing his hip.
“It’ll be midnight soon.”
Alex pulls back to look him over. “Will it?”
Henry smiles softly at him, his thumb sweeping over Alex’s cheekbone, grazing against the edges of his lashes. “If you’re going for a romantic gesture,” he says. “Kissing me in a crowded room as the clock strikes midnight is a good place to start.”
Alex smiles at him. “Yeah?” He asks. “First of many kisses of the new year?”
Henry nods against him. “As many as you want.”
Alex nods. Takes a moment to memorize the feel of him against him, the press of his hand against the back of his neck, the warmth of his breath along his skin; even the goosebumps still rising beneath the ministrations of his thumb. And then, carefully, he takes a step back. Henry’s eyes are bright and shining when he focuses in on them, hair slightly mussed. He tilts his head, and lets of Henry’s hip and holds the hands out for Henry’s. Henry doesn’t move for a minute, but then his hand is falling from Alex’s cheek and his fingers are lacing through Alex’s hand, and then they’re making their way back inside, hand in hand.
Even as the cold seeps into their skin on the way in, Alex can still feel the phantom warmth of Henry’s hand on the back of his neck.
11:59pm
The crowd is screaming. Cheering. Counting down. Alex is surrounded by those he holds dearest and a room full of people he doesn’t know. Henry’s hands are in his, and they’re standing at the center of the dancefloor. Neither of them are shouting. Neither of them are counting. They’re watching one another. Waiting. On either side of them are June, Nora, and Pez, all cheerfully calling in the New Year.
Suddenly, there’s an explosion of confetti, and Alex allows himself to be pulled into Henry’s chest, allows himself to slip his hands free of Henry’s to find their way to the crevice of his waist. Allows himself to kiss and be kissed in the way he’s dreamt of for the last couple months. Allows the New Year to replace fantasy with reality.
When they pull apart, their chests are heaving, and their friends are still cheering, and the future is looming in on them with enormous presence but for once it’s with equal parts excitement and joy and hope.
Because this year they don’t have to pretend.
This year they get to be every version of themselves they’d imagined.
This year.
Alex grins at Henry, and Henry grins at Alex, their hands finding one another and lacing together at their sides.
This year is theirs.