Chapter Text
Alex barely registers the rest of the class leaving. His nose is buried in his laptop, eyes skimming over every aching line of the email. Distantly, he hears someone call his name, barely registers it though, as the line, an echo of similar sentiment upon your lips, drags along the edges of his vision. He snags on the line, tears his gaze over, follows the line of the sentence leading into it.
“Mr. Claremont-Diaz.”
He jolts, ripping his attention from his laptop screen and meeting Professor Mcrully’s curious gaze. “Professor,” He says. His voice cracks on the final syllable, eyes falling back to his monitor momentarily to catch the end of a sentence; As if what I feel is as natural and true as the air we breathe .
Fuck.
“Class ended ten minutes ago,” Professor Mcrully says.
Alex forces himself to look at him, nodding as he slams his laptop shut and blindly reaches for his bag. “Right,” he says, fingers grazing the strap twice before he has to force himself to look down and grab it with intent. “Sorry. Just—my notes!” He laughs, aware of the hysterical lilt to it as he shoves his laptop in his bag. “Good stuff, prof. Entrancing, really.”
Professor Mcrully blinks at him. “Are you all right?”
And, holy hell, if that’s not a loaded fucking question.
Alex nods once more, forcing a grin that he hopes is at least ten degrees less mental than it looks. “I’ll get out of your hair. Have a good day!” And then he’s high tailing it out of the classroom, his thigh slamming into the corner of a chair in the row behind him. He hisses, but doesn’t let it stop him as he exits the auditorium and rounds the corner, slamming his back up against a wall and heaving a breath.
He stands there for several moments; let’s his heart settle in his chest and his breathing even out. Presses his head against the wall, eyes squeezing shut. He’s almost convinced it wasn’t real. Almost. But his mind isn’t capable of the kind of poetic symmetry he’d read in the email. He could be convinced it wasn’t meant for him, but it’d been addressed to him.
Fuck.
He needs to read it again.
It’s like a pressure in his chest, building, building, building, mounting up to something and if he doesn’t read it again he’s going to fucking blow. Blindly, he drags his phone out of his pocket, and finally looks down at it. He blinks and the phone unlocks, and his trembling fingers are opening his email, thumb hovering over the opened email at the top of his inbox. He bites down on his bottom lip, stares at the sender.
It’s definitely from Henry. He’d sent it from his university email, to Alex’s university email.
There’s just—there’s so many fucking questions. There’s a storm brewing in Alex’s head, emotions flurrying. He presses his thumb down, closes his eyes before the email opens. Takes a deep breath. Grounding. It catches on the exhale, and he blinks down at his phone.
He skims over the email, heart rate amping up with every word. There are lines here and there that stand out, peppered in prose that paints an image of almost desperate longing that seeps into Alex’s bones. It’s objectively beautiful. Of course it is, because Henry wrote it, and there’s not a damn thing Henry does that isn’t beautiful.
It’s just.
It’s a love letter. Through and though. Every word a declaration of adoration—of beautiful, aching yearning, and that doesn’t make any fucking sense, because Alex—
He stops. Rereads a passage. Reads it yet again.
Some days I’m almost certain you know. I look at you across the breakfast table, and there’s this look in your eye when your gaze meets mine; something drastically beautiful. Then the corner of your mouth tilts up and you say something ridiculous and I’m caught in the effortless flow of conversation and I’m no longer certain the look was ever there in the first place.
Because he can picture it, is the thing. Sitting across the kitchen table from him, eating cereal. Feeling himself being watched and looking up to meet that gaze head on; his own keening want yawning across the table before he can reign it in. Dropping a joke to cut the tension before Henry can sense it.
It’s just.
What does it mean?
What does ‘ Almost as certain in the volume of praises erased as I am in the depth of my love for you.’ mean?
He follows the email to the end, eyes catching on words here and there, dragging along: I keep thinking this will be the day, this will be the moment, this will be the smile that finally fills me up. But then there’s a laugh, or a sunbeam perfectly placed, as if caught by the tails of the universe, a spotlight on exorbitant beauty, and honey colored eyes are meeting mine beneath the weight of that beam — and my heart does not have to fight to find more space.
Alex brings his free hand up, runs it though his hair.
Henry loves him.
That’s what it fucking means. Henry loves him.
He says as much: All this to say, I love you. Every wonderful thing about you. The wayward recklessness of your curls, the bow of your lips; the elegant cut of your jaw, all bookmarked by your courage and strength and constant desire to do and be better.
Alex has never felt so cracked open in his life, standing in an empty hallway, staring down at an email in the middle of the day. Why would Henry send this? Not only that, why would he send it while Alex is in class? Why would he—why wouldn’t he talk to him? Come to him, say it all face to face?
Surely, he knows.
Surely he knows.
Right?
That Alex is so far gone on him that the very notion of Henry loving him back has sent him in a wild tailspin. How does Henry expect him to respond? In kind; an email declaring his deepest devotions? Crashing through their front door and pulling him into a kiss, the words I fucking love you, too the only thing more desperate than the press of their lips? He has to know. He wouldn’t send the email if he didn’t.
Their friendship is too precious. He doesn’t see either of them taking a risk without certainty. So, Alex must have given himself away. Somewhere between the need to touch—brushing his hand along Henry’s back as he passes by in the kitchen—and the need to give—brewing a cup of Earl Grey, despite being 15 minutes late for class, just so Henry’s day starts off on the right foot— somewhere, Henry connected the dots.
And he took the first step.
Okay.
Alex swallows, skims over the email again. Breath hitching as he settles on the closing lines.
One day, I’ll find the courage to stand beneath that sun beam with you. One day.
Today, I will love you like a shadow.
He’s leaving it to Alex. Letting him decide where they go from here.
And, okay.
Okay.
Alex can work with that.
Henry loves him. He can work with that.
He checks the time on the corner of the screen, 1:24pm. Henry’s lecture would have ended hours ago, and he didn't mention heading to the library, or study group. He—he should be home. He should be in his room across the hall from Alex’s. He should already be tucked into his pajamas as he does every Thursday when he gets out of class early and has decided he’s done for the day.
Nodding to himself, Alex takes one last, lingering look over the email, tucking You are good, Alex. You are more than good. You are the most incredible person I’ve ever met, and I am thankful every day to know you, to be welcomed into your life, to witness the way you view the world. I love you every day for it., into his heart and letting it settle there, deep as the yearning, deep as it’ll go, until it’s soaring through his veins, and lighting him up from within. Lets it give him courage, fortifying his resolve.
He’s been in love with Henry since that first sighting at a party with Pez at his side, a beer tucked uncomfortably in his hand. Eyes wild as they roamed the room. Can still remember the tragic way his heart had slammed up against his ribcage when their gazes met, the curious, cautious smile on Henry’s lips.
He’s loved him every moment since.
And Henry’s loved him right back.
Okay.
He locks his phone and shoves it in his pocket, tossing his bag over his shoulder.
Okay.
He’s doing this.
There’s a crack of thunder as Alex closes the front door behind himself, barely making it in before the torrential downpour starts. He glances out the window on the furthest side of the living room, watches the water stream down the pane of glass. Tries not to take the storm as an omen, as he tosses his keys in the bowl by the door and calls out Henry’s name.
The apartment rattles with the crash of thunder, dancing beneath the flash of the following bolt of lightning. But that’s the only response to his call.
He frowns. “Hen?” he tries again. “You here?”
He starts down the hallway, frowning at Henry’s open door. Peeks his head inside; his bag’s gone, as is his laptop. Taking a big breath, he pulls his phone from his pocket and opens his texts. Nothing indicating he’d gone anywhere.
Did he run?
Change his mind after hitting send?
Is he avoiding Alex?
No, he sent the email.
Alex texts him; where r u?
The reply comes in under a minute; At Pez’s. You can do dinner without me, I’ll be here a while.
Alex stares down at the text. It’s so blasé. As if he hadn’t sent Alex a life altering email less than an hour ago. Alex types out a reply, deletes it, types another, deletes that, too. He debates the merits of sitting on the couch and not moving until Henry comes home. The way anxious energy would bundle up in his stomach and climb and climb and climb until he’s a frenetic bomb capable of nothing more than the occasional nervous twitch.
No.
Henry started this.
He doesn’t get to leave Alex hanging, clawing his way up out of the depths of his emotions alone. No.
Alex grabs his keys.
Fuck waiting around. He’s had two years of waiting around, dancing around his feelings, hiding behind the fear of losing him. He’s done waiting. Done hiding. Done pretending this isn’t happening when it is; when there’s an email sitting opened in his phone proving to him that he’s not in this alone. Henry can be scared, but he can’t fucking hide.
Before he can really think any further than I have to talk to him now he’s standing outside in the rain, the door slammed shut behind him, his keys clutched tight in his hand, feet leading him in the direction of Pez’s apartment.
It’s pouring. Alex can barely see in front of him when he pounds his fist against Pez’s front door. Water clings to his eyelashes, drips down from his curls in rivulets. When he opens his mouth, he feels a bit like he’s being waterboarded, but it’s all worth it, because the door swings up and Pez is standing there, tilting his head at him.
“Alexander?” He says, “We weren’t expecting you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hi, Pez,” Alex greets, because he’s not an asshole, “Where’s Henry?” He adds, because while he is not an asshole, he is here with singular intent; focused only on—
“Alex?”
Alex’s breath catches as Henry appears behind Pez. He’s squinting against the rain, and Henry’s so blurry Alex can barely see him at all. But the hall light casts a halo around his golden head, and Alex’s heart swells up within his chest, because this is the first time he’s seeing him with the knowledge that he can look. That he can appraise Henry with all the anxious affection bubbling up in his gut, because Henry loves him. He reaches up, frantically wipes the water from his eyes; is granted a momentarily clear image of shining blue eyes, a confused frown.
He shuffles closer to the door.
“What are you—christ, Alex, you’re drenched.”
Pez looks between the two of them, tilting his head at Alex like he’s trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. He looks Alex over, head to toe. His eyes narrow, as if he’s come to a conclusion, before his lips curl in, hiding the upturn at the corner of them, as he turns from the doorway. “I’ll grab us some towels, yes?” He says, moving past Henry, patting him on the shoulder, and disappears down the hall before anyone can reply.
Henry steps up towards the door, and Alex steps up to the threshold, unsure if he can enter in his current state.
“What are you doing?” Henry asks.
Alex blinks away the water on his lashes. “I got your email,” he says, voice thick and catching at the back of his throat. “I got your email and I didn’t want to wait to talk to you.” He throws a hand out at his side, “Who does that? Who sends an email like that and then disappears? Obviously we were going to talk about it.”
Henry stares at him for a long moment. “What,” he starts, shaking his head, “Email?”
Alex blinks, not to clear his vision, but in confusion. “You’re not seriously going to pretend you didn’t send it.”
“Alex, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He steps into the threshold, “Christ, you’re going to catch cold, come inside.”
Alex doesn’t move, even as Henry reaches out and waves him in. “ Almost as certain in the volume of praises erased as I am in the depth of my love for you, ” he says, reciting the line from the email that’s been echoing in his head from the moment he took to the sidewalk to head here.
He almost expects Henry to feign ignorance—but he sees it, with the rain letting up, his vision’s clearing, and he sees the moment of recognition the second it hits him. His shoulders go tense and he rocks back on his heels, his eyes going wide as he meets Alex’s gaze. “What?” he asks, his voice cracking.
“I don’t have the whole thing memorized,” Alex replies, “But I have a couple more lines that are just,” He makes a face, waving a hand around erratically in front of him, “Bouncing around in here. Like— Some days, I’m almost certain you know—”
“Stop,” Henry interrupts, holding one hand out between them, and one to his temple. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Where—how—”
“You emailed it to me.”
His eyes snap open. “I most certainly did not.” In typical Henry fashion, as he goes on the defensive, his chin tilts just ever so upwards.
“I’ve got towels,” Pez suddenly sings. Henry whips around to look at him, and Alex’s eyes snap towards him, and Pez, slowly, lowers the towels from over his head, looking between the two of them. His gaze darts back and forth, lips pursing. “Oh, I’m interrupting. Understood. Carry on, lads.” And then he’s gone, the towels abandoned on the table by the entryway.
Alex stares after him until Henry turns back around; his movements are slow, aborted, like he’s not quite sure he wants to turn back around. “What do you mean you didn’t send it?” Alex asks when they’re finally facing one another again. “It literally came from your email.”
Distantly, there’s a crack of thunder.
Henry brings a hand to his mouth, fingers curling into a light fist, before he digs his phone out of his pocket, his eyes locked on Alex’s until he absolutely has to look down to unlock the phone. Alex’s heartbeat pounds heavily in his ears, louder than the sound of rain pittering pattering onto the pavement; louder than the thunder roaring in the distance. Louder. All consuming. His eyes are trapped, unable to look away as Henry looks through his phone. As Henry’s breath catches, his chest rising and freezing on an inhale, before his gaze darts up, glancing at Alex from beneath his lashes. “No,” he breathes, gaze falling back to the phone. “Christ, no.” The hand over his mouth flattens out to cover it entirely, before sliding down to envelope his jaw.
“Hen—” Alex starts, pulse pounding. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but there’s got to be a way to save it—
“That wasn’t meant for you,” Henry finally says, his voice muffled behind his hand. He finally meets Alex’s gaze again, shaking his head. “I—I must have clicked your name by mistake, it—”
“It’s addressed to me,” Alex says, insistently, stepping in. Water flings off him and crashes over the threshold onto Pez’s pristine floors.
“Alex,” Henry says, dropping his head and running his hand over his temple and into his hair. “I wrote that for a class.”
Alex freezes, mind shutting down entirely. Because that—that doesn’t make sense. “What?” He asks, shaking his head, his eyes squeezing shut. “No—”
“It was an assignment,” Henry insists, a flash of lightning lighting up his face for half a second. “I wasn’t—I certainly didn’t mean to—”
Alex blinks; looks at him. There’s another crack of thunder, but Alex briefly wonders if it might be the sound of his heart. He swallows, shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”
Henry looks off into the distance behind Alex, blinking as if he’s trying to gather his thoughts, his brow furrowing, lips pursed. Alex watches his Adam’s apple bob. “The assignment was to write a love letter,” he says, softly, finally meeting Alex’s gaze again. “I . . . exalted upon our lived experiences.” He swallows. “Sensationalized them.”
“Oh,” Alex breathes. “So you didn’t mean any of it.”
Hollow.
He feels hollow.
Cracked open and scraped clean.
Henry’s brows twitch together. “It was for an assignment.”
Alex almost nods—almost accepts that as it is. But there’s something about the way he says it; the momentary pause, an almost hesitance to answer. The quiet clamor of his voice, the way his hand falls to his side, forming a fist, thumb tucked into it. Alex frowns at him. Examines him. Looks at him with all the encyclopedic knowledge he has of him—analyzes him from head to toe. And something fresh opens up in his chest—something warm and wanting and hopeful. He narrows his eyes. “That wasn’t what I asked,” he says.
Henry’s lips form a small o shape, eyebrows pinching together as he blinks. “You,” he starts slowly, “Didn’t actually ask anything.”
“Alright,” Alex replies, forcing some courage into the words as he steps over the threshold. He’ll clean the floor once they’ve talked. It’s tile. It’ll survive the waterfall dripping off of him. “Did you mean any of it?” He asks, careful. He swallows down a lump in his throat and waits.
Henry’s eyes dart back and forth between his.
Finally, he asks, “Would it matter if I did?”
Alex almost laughs at the absurdity of the question. “I raced here,” he says, “on foot, in the pouring rain, because I had to talk to you after reading it about a thousand times. You tell me.”
Now, it appears Henry’s examining him. His eyes flicker down, over Alex’s dripping body. Taking in the state of him, before slowly climbing back up to meet Alex’s gaze; he holds there, eyebrows furrowing impossibly. He takes a breath, almost jolted from his chest, and shakes the fist at his side absently. “I’m not particularly keen on making guesses,” he says. “Perhaps you could tell me.”
“Henry—”
“Write what you know,” Henry interrupts, clenching his jaw. “That’s,” he pauses, swallowing, “The common advice, I believe.” He nods, then repeats, softer, “Write what you know.”
“And what do you know?”
Henry’s eyes go to the ceiling, his head shaking left to right as he pulls his lower lip into his mouth. “Because for you,” He says, pausing with a sniff. “I’ve learned, I will always, always have more space.”
Alex’s breath catches in his throat.
It’s from the email.
Henry closes his eyes, ducking his chin to his chest.
“You’re,” Alex says after a beat, once his heart has slowed enough for the dizziness of it all to fade away, “Everything.” Henry picks his head up, blinking owlishly at him. “Like, I wake up and the first thing I want to do is make sure your day starts with a fuckin’ smile. Who cares if I’ve had forty minutes of sleep, and haven’t had my coffee yet, I need to make sure your day starts right, because if I leave the house having made you smile, that’s all that matters. And I, um,” he swallows, blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes, his hand coming up to scratch at his eyebrow. “You're the first person I want to text. When literally anything happens. The last person I want to see at the end of the day, the only one I want to talk to when I’m drowning in coursework and am overstimulated by everything.” He breaks off, shuffling awkwardly in the puddle he’s made of the floor.
When Henry doesn’t reply, he continues. “In your email, you said that there’s always room for me, because you love me and you keep finding new reasons to love me and there’s never not enough space for how much you love, but it’s like. It’s the same for me?” He takes a shuddering breath, shrugging. “So, I guess, what I’m trying to say is, if that email was just an assignment, then I need you to tell me in plain words, because I am so fucking in love with you that it hurts.”
He drops his hand to his chest, holds it there. Can practically feel the frantic, frenetic tumbling of it beating in his chest, angry and wild and desperate for resolution; one way or the other. If Henry’s going to break his heart, so be it. But if he’s not—
If he’s not.
“I would have said it differently,” Henry murmurs, reaching up to wipe at his nose. “If I’d meant to send it to you. It wouldn’t—it would have been different.”
Alex blinks at him.
What does that even mean?
“But,” He pauses, exhaling slowly. “it was the truth. I am desperately, deeply, astonishingly in love with you.” He takes a hesitant step forward, pausing as if gauging Alex’s reaction before continuing until he’s standing in Alex’s puddle with him, his socks absorbing the water in what Alex assumes is a horrifying sensation overload. Henry’s hands come up, pausing in the air, before he carefully reaches out and grabs one of Alex’s damp palms.
Alex looks down at their hands, something akin to wonder dancing along his skin; an almost vibrating sensation.
“I don’t wish to cause you pain,” Henry says into the space between them, and Alex glances up from beneath his lashes. He’s so close their noses graze against one another. “Tell me how to make it stop hurting, and I will do whatever it takes.”
“Make . . . what stop hurting?” Alex asks, gaze tripping over Henry's face and falling to his lips. So often he’s caught himself staring at them, forced to look away lest he be caught. But he’s got free reign now; this close they look so soft; pillowy. Like they might just give beneath the weight of Alex’s.
The corner of that mouth ticks upwards. “You said you love me so much it hurts,” Henry murmurs, his lips dancing enticingly around the vowels. “How do I make it stop hurting?”
It takes a moment for the words to register; for Alex to actually hear what he’s saying. He tears his gaze away from Henry’s lips, lets himself meet his eyes again. “Love me back.”
Henry’s nodding, his free hand settling on Alex’s hip tentatively. “Done,” He says softly. “What else?”
“Date me?”
A small smile. “I can do that.”
“Take me to dinner,” he pauses, then adds, “Tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Somewhere nice,” Alex says, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Somewhere you’d take someone you love.”
Henry nods again, letting go of Alex’s hand, sliding his own hand up the soaking slope of the front of alex’s shirt and folding over the top of his shoulder. His thumb brushes over the damp skin of Alex’s collarbone. “That can be arranged. Anything else?”
Anything else?
Alex has a list a mile long. But first—
“Are you really going to make me ask you to kiss me?”
Henry tilts his head, lips pursing to the side as he squints his eyes and says, “Consent is key.”
“Fine,” Alex bites, bumping the tip of his nose against Henry’s. “Will you kiss me? I’ve been wondering what it’s like to kiss you since I first fucking saw you.”
“That’s a long time to wonder,” Henry murmurs, tipping his chin up, his breath warm against Alex’s lips. “What if I don’t live up to expectations?”
Alex huffs out a laugh. “You’ve never let me down before.”
“I’ve never kissed you before.”
“That was dumb of you,” Alex chides, smiling. “And me, actually. Fuck. We’re idiots.” He sways forward.
“Mm,” Henry hums, nodding, a barely there movement as his eyes flutter. “We are,” the curve of the r settles on Alex’s lips as Henry finally, finally closes the distance between them. Alex’s breath hitches, pushing their chests together, and Henry’s fingers dig into the flesh of Alex’s shoulders as he breathes in through his nose, his lips moving against Alex’s with careful precision.
God, they’re soft.
Alex presses in, pulls Henry even closer against him, feels himself disappear into the kiss, into sensation and sensory overload in the best possible way. A noise unfurls from the back of his throat, and Henry hums against him, pleased.
They separate just enough to take a breath. “We could have been doing that all along,” Henry bemoans.
Alex bumps his nose, and when he speaks, their lips graze, “Guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time.”
Henry’s hand tightens on his hip. “I have heard that practice makes perfect.”
Alex hums, leaning in to kiss him again.
Later, long after they’ve cleaned up the mess of Pez’s entryway, while Pez danced around them, elated and bubbly and shouting praises at them for finally getting their shit together, and they’ve piled into their apartment, desperate and aching and needy, Henry presses kisses into the indent of Alex’s collarbone.
He says something, soft and careful, and Alex ducks his chin to look down at him.
Henry presses his chin into Alex’s chest, smiling at him. The rain’s long stopped, clouds drifting out of view, leaving the sun shine in the soft golden hue of a post-downpour sunset. Henry reaches up, tucks one of Alex’s curls behind his ear. “I suppose,” he murmurs, “I've stepped into that sunbeam after all.”
He raises an eyebrow, runs a finger down the glint of sun shining through the crack of the blinds and highlighting the panes of Alex’s abdomen.
Alex nods, tracing his finger down Henry’s forearm. “Out of the shadow and into the light.”
Henry turns his smile into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to his pectoral. “I love you,” he says into the skin, glancing up at Alex from beneath his lashes.
Alex’s heart cracks open at the sight and sound of it all. He grins, bright and dazed, “I love you, too.”