Chapter Text
Staying at work late had become an unconscious part of Henry’s evenings.
Not because that’s where he wanted to be on a Friday night as a single, gay man in want of a live-in boyfriend. He did love his job, but not that much and an occupation couldn’t be the marrying type. It wasn’t because he was – as his nieces kept insisting – keeping all the exhibits from coming to life and running off into the night. Henry had walked into that one, letting them watch Night At the Museum when he was over babysitting one weekend. At this point, Henry was as exasperated by the subject as Phillip was smug about it. His smile every Sunday had the ring of be loyal to the nightmare of your choosing , and Henry had never been all that fond of Joseph Conrad.
The truth was far more boring than Lizzie and Charlotte were wishing. Henry didn’t like to disappoint them, but the truth was museums were very busy places. Whether one worked up front with the regular patrons, school groups, and special visitors, or in the back with the restorationists, archivists, and catalogers. Work was work. Days turned busy, sometimes viciously demanding. No matter what one’s role was or what their department handed down to them. It was the nature of the beast.
Especially when one was responsible for locating another country’s property, curating an exhibit about said property, and then organizing a gala for the exhibit, donors, and ambassadorial staff of the country the pieces would be returned to when the exhibit closed after five months.
Being hired by the Victoria & Albert had felt dreamlike. It wasn’t until Henry was filling out his employee paperwork and receiving his staff badge that the reality of it had settled on him. He was working in his favorite place in London, flaws and all. It felt like a culmination of every vindication he had ever wanted – that the things he loved weren’t acceptable, that his chosen degrees would lead to nowhere and fast; that the things that made him happy weren’t worth much because they didn’t come with a seven-figure paycheck.
He’d been hired by acquisitions, then poached by the curatorial staff once they realized he understood their archive’s cataloging system better than anyone else under the age of sixty. He assisted with exhibits and special features, wrote and edited the copy that went along with them. Someone had noticed his research-heavy graduate degrees and offered him a role reevaluating the pieces on display, reorienting their placards and descriptions.
Henry had accepted, remembering his mother whispering stories of conquest, thievery, and bloodshed in his ear as they wandered through the galleries together. He had accepted, thinking of his advising professors, who all wanted to see a fuller, richer, truer history of the world on offer to everyone.
He had accepted because Shaan Srivastava had given him a particular look on his first day and Henry was determined to do everything in his power to prove he was worthy of the man’s trust.
Shaan had trusted him with the exhibit, the gala, the careful communication between the Museum and the Greek culture minister.
If that was wasn’t a vote of confidence, Henry didn’t know what was. He also didn’t know how to reclaim his brain after months of poring over legal rulings and transcripts, newspaper articles, inventory packets, and hundreds upon thousands of pages of authentication documents, provenances, and whatever papertrail existed between the V&A and a recently disgraced art dealer.
The man had been caught out in court as being the end man in a bucket-brigade of smuggling, looting, and profiteering that stretched from his London offices all the way to the Mediterranean. A judge had ordered that the man’s whole collection of ill-gotten goods – busts and amphorae, kore heads, proto-Cycladic ephemera, a bronze casting of Alexander the Great – was boxed up and shipped back to the rightful owners. 700 Roman and Etruscan artifacts to Italy. 300 to Greece, representing Sparta, Minoan Crete, the Cyclades, and classical Athens.
The man had been a trusted figure for almost thirty years. The V&A had bought plenty from him, and they weren’t the only ones.
But, it seemed as though Henry was the only one trying to round up the objects so they could be returned.
Working late wasn’t unusual for him, but his current schedule was getting ridiculous. He hardly saw the outside of his office and the archives before winter sunset. He brought his work home with him and had fallen asleep on his sofa more times in the past two months than he had in all his life. His sister prodded at the grey sitting under his eyes and lectured him about sleep hygiene while their mum served Sunday dinner.
She was right, but Bea wasn’t the one staring down decisions for canapes, music, security briefs, and what color cocktail napkins would have to be. She wasn’t the one trying to source other objects to pad out an exhibit on the ancient Greek influence on sculpture to impress. She wasn’t trying to get through this one thing before allowing herself to be swept away by concerns from other countries about other artifacts and other dealers who were coming up as rotten, colonialist thieves left and right.
Henry was, and he was trying to do it all properly.
It deserved to be done properly.
Staying up late in his office was the only way to keep up. Staying up late was the only way to accommodate the amount of stuff he attended to and making international phone calls at reasonable hours for the recipients. He’d taken to moving his work into the deserted galleries, just for the change of scenery. One of the security guards – taking pity on him after he’d spooked himself with one of the not-so-silent alarms, had taken to giving him the passkey codes they used.
If Henry hadn’t been so grateful, he might have been more worried about the contents of their storerooms.
He’d taken up residence in Renaissance City that night. It was his favorite of the galleries, with its high open ceilings and cool colors. Through the hazy sky light, the full moon glistened, doing her damndest to send a little light down to him, sitting hunched over stacks of documents on a bench.
He’d been sitting there for over an hour. Gavin, the night guard, had already passed him four times – twice without saying hello, which Henry didn’t mind. He’d quit announcing himself after the second round too.
The words on the page were starting to blur, and Henry set them next to him. He pulled himself up, his back protesting his posture. He rolled his shoulders and neck, rubbed his eyes, and blinked hard as he tried to focus on a small patch of moonlight on the floor.
Bea had mentioned something about staring at a point far in front of him. Henry picked a recently arrived statue from Chatsworth House; on loan for the exhibition and one of the representations of Greek myth influencing the artists of the Enlightenment. It was a figure of a nude man and his dog, reclining in sleep, a piece of cloth draped conveniently over his bits to preserve his modesty to prying eyes.
Henry yawned and found himself jealous of the man. Of sleeping long and easily. Sleep had never come easily, and even less so in the past few weeks.
He rubbed his eyes, focused on the contours of the man’s lifted arm. He blinked, and the cool marble was warm brown.
Henry jumped, blinking hard again. Back to cool white marble.
Henry took a breath, certain his mind was playing tricks on him. He was over tired. He was well past tired. He needed to go home and rest, like Shaan had been telling him to do.
But he just couldn’t.
He inhaled deeply. He blinked purposefully once, twice, three times. He’d center himself, then go home. Set his alarm and try to rest.
Focusing back on the statue, he found large brown eyes staring back at him.
“ What?” Henry tilted so far forward he almost fell off the bench. He caught himself just in time, stumbling up to standing, and hoped Gavin or Dean was having a good laugh at him in the video monitors.
Back to sleeping, pale marble. A statue. A figured carved in stone. Not a real person because there couldn’t be anyone in there but Henry. No one was there but him and his exhaustion warped imagination.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look, Henry reasoned. Just in case. Just to see. Besides, he had requested this statue be loaned to them and hadn’t taken a proper look at it in the two days it had been in Renaissance City. It was a beautiful piece, representant of ancient myth colliding with Italian artistry and 18th century pastoral delights.
Henry took a breath, tilting his head to stare up at the glass ceiling, and then turned back to the statue.
A man stared back at him.
A man draped in nothing but a scrap of cloth, showing off a whole body’s worth of bronzed skin and scattered dark hair. Rich, dark curls fell over his brow and framed equally dark eyes, reflecting the thin midnight light around them. A tall, handsome man, rising from the long pedestal of the statue to stand in front of Henry. Looking at Henry as if he were a meal, spread out in front of him.
Henry did the only thing he could do as a single, deeply-gay Englishman in want of a boyfriend – preferably one who wanted to move in, promise forevers, and didn’t mind his quoting romantic poetry.
He shrieked and stumbled backwards over his own feet. He hit the ground with all the grace of a tree felled by a lumberjack, the barely-clothed man falling over with him.
“ Oh my god . Oh Christ, you–! ”
“Holy shit, what–.”
They struggled to pull away from one another. Henry trying to push away as the man seemed to only know how to reach for him. Eventually, he found himself on his back, arms pinned to the floor by strong hands and that beautiful face staring down at him.
“For fuck’s sake , will you stop struggling?” He said, exasperated. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then why’ve you got me pinned?” Henry hissed back, still wriggling. He wouldn’t be able to break the man’s grasp, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t get traction on the marble floors in his work shoes. “Who the hell are you?”
The man frowned. “Is that how you normally talk to someone?”
“No, but it is how I talk to someone lurking about my galleries in the middle of the night!” Henry shot back.
“Your galleries?” The man raised an eyebrow.
“Mine by transitive property,” Henry tried. “I’m here. I work here. These are my galleries tonight. Do you understand?”
One day, he knew, he’d tell Bea this and she’d marvel at how he didn’t manage to get himself killed. His fight or flight instinct had kicked in all sideways. Henry didn’t know what he was meant to say or do, but whatever it was, it might have worked. The man released him, placing his hands on either side of Henry’s shoulders.
“Who are you?” Henry asked, no less calm for his release.
“Who are you ?” The man echoed. “You’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes. Where did you even come from?”
“I work here!”
“Where’s here?”
“Here is the museum here. ” Henry frowned at him. “Where did you come from? The doors have been locked for hours.”
The man’s face flickered, confusion striking him clear across his features. It was a shimmer, barely there but Henry caught it. In a moment, he was convinced this was a hallucination. Born from the depths of his tired brain, filled to the brim with Greek gods and heroes and nymphs and naiads. Conjuring up a waking dream in front of his eyes as he likely sat, slack jawed, on the bench where he left his things.
Henry huffed a hysterical kind of laugh. “Please don’t tell me you came out of the damn statue?”
The man looked behind him, then back down at Henry. “I… I think so?”
“ How on earth–?”
“I don’t know! I was told I’d go to sleep and live forever, and now you’re here–.”
“You're immortal?”
“Yes?” the man didn’t look convinced himself.
Henry barked a laugh. “No you’re not.”
“Yes I am. I was promised I would be.”
“Promised?” Henry gaped. “Like a god then? A demi-god? Oh my god, you’re not talking to a literal Greek god, that cannot happen.”
“Well. No. Not quite.”
“Who are you then?” Henry said, a wonky smile pulling his face and head spinning. “If you’re a god, demi-god, immortal someone.”
The man’s face seemed to shutter. A flicker of something and the warmth of him seemed closed off. “Why do you want to know?”
Henry huffed a laugh. “You knocked me to the ground and felt me up. Usually I like to know a man’s name before I let him go that far.”
“No libations?”
“Oh no, there’s plenty of vodka.” Henry let out a sigh, relaxing into the marble floors as best he could. If this was the delusion his exhausted self was gifting him, he was going to enjoy it as best he could. No one so beautiful had talked to him in ages – if only because Henry hadn’t been out long enough to meet anyone in ages. He reached up to feel the breadth and strength of the man’s bicep, his smooth tan skin, and smiled. “I’m Henry. If that helps.”
“Henry,” the man repeated, low and sonorous. As if it were something lush and lovely rather than perfectly ordinary. “It suits you.”
“Thank you. I didn’t choose it,” Henry replied simply. He squeezed his hand around the man’s arm. “Please? I’m very well versed in the Greeks, Romans, and Etruscans. You won’t have to explain yourself.”
“No one asks.”
“Do this often, do you?”
“Ah… Well. No.”
“Well, then there’s a first time for everything.” Henry grinned. “Shall I guess?”
The man huffed and rolled his eyes. “You’ll never guess.”
“Perhaps I will. You never know. I’m quite clever.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Alright then.” Henry folded his hands over his stomach and looked the man over. Dark hair, dark eyes, the line of his jaw as strong as the line of his shoulders. “Philoctetes.”
The man reeled back, then squinted. “Excuse me?”
“That’s my first guess. I’ve read Malalas. So, are you–?”
“Fuck no.” The man scoffed. Henry couldn’t help snickering – an immortal using four letter words with such freedom caught him off guard. “Fine, I’ll play along. Try again.”
“Alright.” Henry quelled his laughter. “Adonis.”
That earned him an eyeroll. “You mortals and your nonsensical standards. No. I’m not that full of myself.”
“Amphiaraus.”
“Hell, you are well read.” The man cracked a fresh smile. “No, not him. Nice guy though, if you like talking about olives and bees.”
“I do like those things,” Henry replied. “Shall I keep guessing?”
“Might as well.” The man shrugged. “I have a feeling you’re just trying to show off.”
Henry laughed. “Oh I am. I never get to use this well of useless knowledge to pull. Usually they leave once they see my bookshelf, if they even stay the night.”
“I hope they know they’re missing out.”
“They don’t, and certainly don’t care.” “Gelos?”
“Laughter? I wish.”
“Hermes?”
“No, but I hope his ears are burning.”
“Eros?”
“Might as well have called me Cupid. Try again.”
“Narcissus?”
“Now you’re just being insulting.” The man scoffed again, rolled his dark eyes and shook his head. His curls bounced, catching the moonlight as if the beams themselves were drawn to them. “Stuck asleep in a big bunch of rock for a hundred years and this is the welcome I get. A giggling mortal asking if I’m that vain imbecile.” He shot Henry a prickly look. “No. Hell no. If you’re going to guess so badly, I might as well just put you to sleep and scamper off to–.”
“Endymion,” Henry said, breathless; the words appearing on his tongue as if by magic.
The man stared at him, lips parted and gaze suddenly curious. He had fallen silent, his body still; the whole thing feeling artificial to him.
Henry pushed himself on one hand, coming back even with the man’s face. He smiled and nodded to himself. “Yes. I think so. Endymion.”
“How do you reckon?” The man whispered. His tone told Henry everything that he wanted to know – that he had put his finger on the right name, the right shade, the make of the man who had tumbled out of that statue and onto the floor with a flickering smile.
Henry traced his fingers over the curve of his jaw, drawing invisible lines over his chin, cheekbone, nose and brow. “Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour. No, even as the trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon.”
The man let out a shivering exhale. “You are well read.”
“I am. You should see my bookshelf.” Henry traced his fingers down the line of his throat, the tendons of his neck, the scoop of his collarbones. “Shall I continue?”
“Please.”
“With pleasure. I love Keats.” Feeling bold, untethered in his delirium, Henry leaned forward. Until he could feel the heat of the man, could hear the thrum of his body and the shiver in him when Henry began whispering the lines of poetry again. “The passion poesy, glories infinite, haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls, and bound to us so fast that – whether there be shine or gloom o’ercast – they always must be with us, or we die.”
He – the god, the man, the blinking immortal – licked his lips and swallowed tightly. “Yes.”
Henry tilted his head. “I’m right?”
“You’re right.” He exhaled slowly, then lifted a hand to Henry’s face. “How in the hell are you right?”
“You said stuck asleep in a bunch of rock.” Henry pointed over his shoulder. “You came out of that statue didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That statue is on loan from Chatsworth House. It’s of Endymion, the handsome shepherd Selene loved and begged Zeus to put to sleep so he would never age.” Henry grinned. “I dare say it worked.”
“Not quite how that happened.”
“No?”
“Zeus didn’t have anything to do with it, and Selene was a bit jealous in the end.” The man leaned back and pulled his legs up to his chest. He propped his arms on his knees, leaning his cheek into his fist. For a moment, Henry could imagine him sitting in an Ionian pasture, watching a flock. “Where am I?”
Henry moved to sit cross-legged – the same way he did with Lizzie when she wanted to color but didn’t want to sit in her own chair. “You’re in London, England. In the Victoria and Albert Museum.”
He nodded. “I wish that meant something to me.”
“I didn’t suppose it would,” Henry answered gently. “It has been a rather long time.”
“How long?”
“Roughly four thousand years. It’s 2019, dear.”
“Damn.” Endymion’s expression shuttered again –yet another gate closing tight between them. He looked small, unsure, a bit lost there on the marble floor. He stared at his foot, rolling his ankle back and forth. “How am I not dust?”
Henry hummed lightly. “I’m not sure. Just how I’m not sure how I’m awake now, or even if I’m awake. Divine intervention, I suppose.”
“He’d like that.”
“Who would like that?”
“Hypnos,” came the quiet answer. “The one who put me to sleep.” A sadness overtook the man’s smile, and Henry’s heart ached to see it. “He said it would only be for a little while. That he’d come back for me.”
Henry leaned forward to rest a hand over the top of Endymion’s foot, drawing those soft dark eyes back to him. He really was handsome, Henry thought, but his spark of lust had long since fizzled out. Now, he was being tugged along by
“You’ve come a long way from Latmos, Endymion,” Henry began. He rose to his feet, then held out his hand. “How would you like to come home with me?”
The shepherd regarded his outstretched fingers with curiosity, a dash of hesitation. It took a long minute, but he rested his hand on Henry’s then went still. As he looked up, Henry swore he could see the moon – full and shining like a pearl in the night sky over London – reflected back at him. “I’d like to be called something else, I think.”
“A new name?”
He nodded. “Is that common?”
“Very,” Henry reassured. He guided the man up to standing, holding him steady at his side. Henry could feel his ribs press up into his palms as the man breathed. “People do it all the time. Pick something for themselves, that suits them. I know plenty.” He squeezed his hand. “Better yet, you never have to tell anyone you changed it. If you never say, they’ll never know.”
“I think I’d like that. Something new, for this century.” The teasingly glint was back for a moment.
“You can have free reign of my bookshelves when we get back.”
“I’m sure it’s a wealth of inspiration.”
“You’ll have to tell me.” Henry pushed away the tremor in his chest – his heart fluttering giddily under his ribs. He nodded towards the main hall. “Come on. I’ll need to put my papers back in my office before we go. And, well.” Henry bent to scoop up the files and book into his arms. “You’re dressed for the islands in June, not London in March.”
As he walked back towards his office, Endymion followed. The moonbeams seemed to shift on the floor with him, casting his tall shadow across the floors and up the walls, tangling it with Henry’s own. “You have a way to fix that?”
“Oddly enough, I do,” Henry replied with a wink. “If you don’t mind trackies and a uni tee shirt, you can wear my aspirational running clothes.”
“Aspirational?” The immortal smirked.
Henry couldn’t help wanting to see it hovering over him as the man pinned him down. “I’m usually good about it because it clears my head. Lately, it’s had to go by the wayside with my days being so busy.”
“And you still bring them with you?”
“Every day,” Henry answered, pushing open a door into the Staff Only sections of the museum. “If nothing else, I’m hopeful. There’s not much else I can be some days.”
The moon’s favorite didn’t answer just then. He kept close to Henry’s shoulder, a considerate expression on his face as he stepped into his office behind him. Delusion or not, Henry couldn’t help but see fondness in the depth of those eyes, the curve of those lips, the low lyric of that voice. Hallucination or not, Henry couldn’t help but feel a tiny flare of heat in his gut as the immortal, impossible man drew him into an embrace. Nor could he help the tiny, satisfied sigh as the man kissed the tender spot behind the curve of his jaw; as if he knew instinctively that it was Henry’s favorite.
As they slipped out of the museum and towards Henry’s flat in Hammersmith, he let himself be slowed down by the wonderment in his companion. The amazement, the astonishment so sharp it rendered the man totally quiet. If he was Endymion one final night then called himself something else in the morning, Henry would be just as speechless.
If he was there that night to hold and kiss, but vanished at cold dawn – surely a figment of Henry’s overworked, oversaturated brain – then at least he would have something fantastical to occupy his mind. His hand in the shower too, if he was completely honest.
Henry woke to the sun warm on his face and a rattling sound coming from his kitchen.
He blinked and stretched, yawned as he slipped from under the bedclothes to tug on socks and a sweatshirt. David wasn’t in the room with him, as he usually was, but the door was closed. He could hear the beagle’s nails clicking on the Victorian wooden floors, scampering about as if playing.
Henry shook his head, then stepped out into the hall. Maybe Bea had come over to attend to him, Henry slowly turning into a delinquent pet parent as his assignment wore on. She had a spare key and wouldn’t put it past her to assume her role as auntie.
It wasn’t Bea there in his living room.
No, it was a man.
A very handsome man.
Tan and tall where he sat on the floor, his broad shoulders and back filling out the cardigan Henry kept flopped over the back of his reading chair. His dark hair was ruffled, as if he’d half-slept on it before running his hands through the strands over and over. He was waving a small purple ball over his head, David sat in front of his crossed legs eagerly awaiting the toss.
On the side table, a dark mug of – from the smell of it – coffee steamed. In the kitchen, the kettle was set to boil on the hob, steaming away itself. He hardly remembered the night before, but clearly it went well for him.
“Aaaand– go!” The man let the ball go, laughing as David chased after it. He clapped as the dog snapped it up in front of the door, tail wagging merrily as he trotted back for another go.
“Erm,” Henry began, voice barely more than a sleep-riddled croak. “Good morning.”
The man looked up at him, a wide smile on his face as he gave David a good scratch behind the ears. “You’re awake.”
“I am.” Henry moved closer. “And you’re on my carpet. Playing with my dog.”
“I am.” The man grinned even wider, his whole face warming. Henry felt his cheeks flush in time with it, an obvious bright pink on his pale skin. “Your glass block had a timer to take him outside, so I did.”
“My…” Henry squinted, lowering himself onto the arm of his sofa. “Glass block?”
“Mhmm.” The man held up Henry’s phone, the screen lighting up with the movement. “You showed me last night before you fell asleep.” He handed it to Henry. “Guess y’all don’t need the gods to make magic for you anymore. You just do it yourself.”
“That’s one way of thinking about it.” Henry glanced down at his phone and nearly jumped out of his skin.
It was a Friday morning and he was late for work. Not the leaving later than he would have liked Late. No, the fully two hours past his alarm Late. The edging into a fireable offense Late.
Henry swore and jumped back up. He was two steps into rushing to his bedroom when he stopped, turned back. “I’m so sorry. I need to call my boss, I’ve overslept, and I–.”
“Shaan?” The man said, standing up himself. “Deep voice, dry humor, a little suffer no fools ?”
For the eighth time that morning, Henry felt his whole body pause. “Yes?”
“I already talked to him,” the stranger said, matter of fact. “The block lit up and I pressed the green button. He asked where you were and, when I told him you were sleeping, he said good and that you should take off until Tuesday.” He approached Henry, half swagger and half caution. “Was that alright? He sounded relieved, said something about it being about time you did.”
“Shite,” Henry breathed. He pushed a hand roughly over his scalp, squeezing his fingers tight around the roots. “So I’m not out on my arse, alright. That’s good.”
He nearly jumped when the man took his wrist in hand, guiding it down to hold it near his chest. For the first time that whole morning, he took the man in beyond the obvious. Warm and strong, smelling of coffee and something soft underneath – rosemary or cedar or pine, Henry couldn’t quite place it. His smile was easy and entreating, a hook in Henry’s ribs all on its own. And then Henry reached his eyes – deep, dark brown with the shine of silver just clinging to the edges of them. Something deep and old, ephemeral but impossibly solid under Henry’s palms.
Only then did Henry remember the night before. Only then did he remember shrieking in Renaissance City at the sight of him, then loopily daydreaming about his fingers while laying on the floor underneath him.
A god. A man. An immortal shepherd caught between the Moon and Sleep four millennia ago.
“Oh.” Henry blinked and took a shallow but fortifying breath. His fingers drifted over the front of the shirt the man wore, the letters spelling Oxford crackling where they stretched over his chest. “You're still here.”
Endymion took that hand too. “I am. I don’t know how, but I am.”
“I’m glad. Really glad, I–,” Henry broke off in a funny sort of laugh. “I need to call Shaan back, explain myself.”
“Alright. Do you want tea?”
“Tea?”
“I’ve got the water boiling. You said you drink tea in the mornings.”
“I do, I do, I–.”
“Hardly remember last night?” Endymion teased, a knowing glint on him.
Henry nodded and half shrugged. “Perhaps Shaan has reasons to be relieved, like you said.”
“Maybe he does.”
“So. Tea.”
“Tea.”
“Please, if you don’t mind.” Henry let himself be pulled in again, trapped in a sort of thrall and not wanting to extract himself from it. “I really need to call him back. I don’t want–.”
“I’ll fix your tea. Take a breath.” Those strong fingers slip up Henry’s jaw to bury in his hair, curl around the base of his skull. “I’ve picked a name.”
Henry hummed. “Have you?”
“I have. I went through your bookshelf.”
“Were you up all night?” Henry laughed.
The man merely smiled. “Well, when one’s been asleep for thousands of years, one night won’t hurt.”
“Don’t get in the habit, trust me.” Henry sighed. This weird contentment, he realized, was really a nice feeling. “What name then?”
He tipped his head forward; children sharing secrets on the playground. “Alexander.”
Henry felt his heart flutter again. “A rather fine name indeed.”