Chapter Text
Alex has had the worst day. Every single facet of daily life has chewed him up and spit him out. His boss is an asshole, school is impossible, his family is teetering on collapse—only not really, they’re great, but they’re so great that it makes him feel awful for not being great currently—and he’s just managed to pour coffee all over the front of his favorite shirt. The favorite shirt that he put on in an attempt to offset the shittiness of his day.
It’s not working. He’s going to lose it. Historically, he’s a pacifist. A lover, not a fighter. But he’s ready to throw hands with a fucking wall.
His phone starts ringing as he’s wringing the coffee out of his shirt in the tiny coffee shop bathroom. He groans, sliding his finger over the answer button as he pulls his shirt up. “June,” he says, as politely and patiently as he can muster, “Now’s really not a great time.”
A distinctly male voice that does not belong to his sister, says, “Er.” He drops his chin and looks down at the counter, where a blond haired beauty is staring up at him from a facetime call. In the top corner, Alex can see what the man sees; himself, partially shirtless, standing over the phone, his abs dripping with coffee.
Alex has no idea who the fuck this man is.
“Um.”
“I think I have the wrong number?” The man says, distinctly British, as he frowns. His eyebrows furrow together, and Alex drops his sopping shirt to hide his stomach, and picks up the phone with coffee slick hands. He’s objectively gorgeous. Whoever gave him the wrong number is a damn fool.
Alex stares at him dumbly. “Depends,” he finally answers, when the man’s gaze darts away from the phone and back. “Who’re you looking for?”
The man swallows, and Alex takes the moment to look him over. Strong, chiseled cheekbones, a jawline to die for. Beautiful eyes that look a bit like the stars. “My mate must’ve given me the wrong number. He just got it.”
“I could be your mate,” Alex replies, pushing off the counter and leaning against the wall. His shirt’s already ruined. The nasty bathroom wall isn’t going to make it any worse. Besides, he’s curious now. He’s got his first bite of something not awful, maybe, and he’s not letting it go without at least a little investigation. “You don’t know.”
The man blinks at him, his lashes fluttering prettily.
And Alex thinks, yeah, I am so bisexual.
“I’ve known him most of my life,” the man says slowly. “I think I’d know.”
Alex hums thoughtfully. “But you don’t know his number. Interesting.”
“Not that I need to explain myself, but we’ve just moved here. New phones. New numbers.”
“Where’d you move from?”
The man makes a face, and Alex distinctly thinks about how much he wants to know his name. He’s the most interesting thing to happen to him in weeks. “You’re awfully curious for a misdial.”
Alex shrugs. “You saw me shirtless in a moment of vulnerability. Call it getting even.”
“A moment of vulnerability? One might assume you wouldn’t answer the phone in such a state.”
“Usually,” Alex answers, “I wouldn't. But I thought you were my sister, and I needed someone to cheer me up after a truly shitacular day.” He grins down at his handsome wrong number caller. “So, I guess that’s now your job. Cheer me up, stranger.”
“And how, exactly, am I meant to do that?”
Alex blinks down at him and shrugs, pulling the phone closer to himself. “You could start with telling me your name.”
The man gapes at him. “You’re mental.”
“You’re not hanging up.”
They stare resolutely at each other for a long moment, before a curious little smile flits across the mans full lips. “Henry,” he finally says. “And you are?”
“Alex,” Alex chirps, grinning triumphantly. He crosses his arms over his chest holding the phone out in front of him. “So other than misguided conversations with strangers you accidentally facetime, what are you into?”
Henry laughs, a beautiful little sound that skitters over Alex’s skin pleasantly.
“Are you trying to befriend me?”
“Maybe,” Alex shrugs. “You can never have too many friends.”
“I could be a serial killer.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Henry quirks a brow. “Did nobody teach you stranger danger?”
“Sounds like the same person who taught you.” Alex smiles down at him. “So, I’m actually in the nasty bathroom of a coffee shop, so I do have to hang up before someone thinks I’ve fallen in. But you should definitely call me again.”
“I should?”
Alex hums, nodding as he pushes off the wall and reaches onto the counter to grab his backpack. He shoves it on. “Absolutely. You’re fun, I can tell.” He winks, “I have a knack for knowing these things.”
Henry blushes, shaking his head. He hesitates before asking, “When should I call?”
Alex shrugs, reaching for the lock on the door. “Whenever. I’ll answer. I’ll save your number as something memorable.”
Not that Henry’s anything less than memorable all on his own.
Henry doesn’t look convinced, so Alex pauses before pulling the door open. “Seriously,” He says. “I need something exciting to look forward to. Call me again. I’ll answer.”
Alex waits diligently for a call. He sits in class and stares at his phone. He sits in the coffee shop and stares at his phone. He sits at dinner with Nora and June and stares at his phone. For a week, he stares at his phone. And stares, and stares, and stares. He’s honestly about to give up and delete the number, or god forbid, dial it, when, while he’s sitting in his least favorite class, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
He pulls it out, ready to silence the spam caller, when he sees that it’s a facetime call. And then he sees the name at the top of the screen.
Hot British Henry is calling him.
Quietly, he answers the phone.
“Hello—”
Alex shakes his head, holding his fingers to his lips. Henry stares at him in confusion, but remains silent as Alex quickly packs up his laptop and notebook, and quietly escorts himself out of the classroom. A few people give him weird looks, but he’s three weeks ahead on everything on the syllabus, so it’s not like he’s missing anything.
Once he’s in the hallway, he pulls the phone from his chest, and grins brightly at his new British friend.
“You,” he says, “Are a fucking lifesaver.”
Henry’s eyebrows go high. “And here I thought you’d be mad I rang.”
Alex looks at him as if he’s an idiot. “Are you joking?” he asks, laughing. “I’ve been wasting away for the past forty five minutes dying for a reason to get out of that class. Life. Saver.” Hot British Henry blushes, and Alex tries very hard to focus on the way the blush spreads all the way to his ears. He turns his attention to a small alcove in the hallway and makes his way towards it, dropping his backpack gently on the floor and leaning against the wall. “So, what’s up?”
“I had . . . some time to kill. And remembered you’d told me to ring again, so. Here I am.”
“Right,” Alex nods. “But what’s up?”
Henry blinks at him. “I’m not following.”
Alex rolls his eyes. “All I know about you is your name is Henry, you don’t know your best friend’s phone number, and you’re as bad about stranger danger as I am. That’s hardly enough information to form a new friendship on, so.” He waves a hand at the phone. “Tell me what’s up.”
“I know Pez’s number now,” Henry says a little sheepishly. He shuffles in the chair he’s sitting in, and then sets his phone down. Alex is now looking up at him, with his jawline that could cut diamonds. It’s not a bad perspective. In fact, he doesn’t mind if Henry never picks the phone back up. He could admire the view for a year.
Yeah. Definitely bisexual.
It’s a little game he plays with himself, ever since coming out two months ago. Check in with himself, because sometimes, being bisexual is a really fucking hard road to navigate. Is he bi? Is he faking it? Why would he be faking it? All questions a relatively straight person wouldn’t ask, but still a game his brain insists on playing on the daily.
Looking at Henry lands him a point squarely in the Definitely Bi column of his internal checklist, and all he can see is his face. Imagine if they met. He wonders what Henry’s hands look like; imagines they’re as delicate as his face. Like the hands of an old nobleman, never marred by time or circumstance. Veiny, he thinks. Definitely veiny.
“Good!” Alex says to him, “Now you won’t misdial another overworked law student having the worst day of their lives again.”
Henry smirks down at him, bring up his arms to cross overtop the table he’s leaning on. He leans in, “You seemed pretty excited about the misdial, if I recall.”
“But I’m the jealous type, you see,” Alex retorts, grinning into the camera. “I like to feel special.”
“Don’t we all,” Henry deadpans back.
“So. Tell me about your mysterious time to kill. What do you do? Are you a student? Full time employee of the corporate capitalist system?”
Henry chuckles, and it makes Alex feel a little larger than life. He peeks around the corner to make sure there’s nobody else in the hallway; not because he’s afraid of being overheard, but because this feels like something fragile, that might be broken if interrupted. “Neither, I’m afraid,” Henry answers, his gaze dropping down to the table he’s sitting at. “I’m a writer.”
“Oh,” Alex whistles low. “He’s interesting.” Henry blushes again, his gaze dancing back to the camera, where Alex is sure he can see him grinning wolfishly at him. “Anything I’ve read?”
“I should have said aspiring.”
“So you haven’t published anything?” Henry shakes his head. “What are you working on, then?”
Henry flushes, looking past the camera to something behind it. “I’m—it’s.” He makes a face, looking back down to the camera. “I rather like not talking about it, actually.”
Alex raises his eyebrows. “Fair enough,” he says, dipping his head to check around the corner again. He checks his watch as he rounds back around — at least twenty minutes before the class lets out, unless Professor Stick Up His Ass miraculously decides to dismiss early. “So,” He says, glancing back at the camera. “I’m a law student. I want to die, pretty regularly, but that’s because I’m weeks ahead on my course load and I don’t understand the meaning of take a break.”
“What I’m hearing,” Henry replies, sitting up straighter, “Is you want me to call more frequently to facilitate these breaks.”
Alex grins broadly at that. “Not what I said, but also not objecting.” He shrugs, “You could also text if you find yourself wanting to write something other than your mysterious project. I’ve got the fastest thumbs in the wild west, though, so don’t be surprised if I text back. A lot.”
“Yes,” Henry murmurs, smiling, “I do get the sense you like to talk.”
“Only a little.”
“I think we have different definitions of that, dear.”
Alex blinks, feels the flush work its way from his head to his toes at dear. But refuses to think too much on it. He clears his throat, can’t help the little smile that dances at the corners of his lips. So, a hot guy called him “dear” and it sent him completely off axis. It’d happen to anyone. Sue him. He’d win.
“That’s just because you don’t talk a lot. Hang with me, and I’ll get you all sorted.”
Henry tilts his head, nose wrinkling. “Suddenly regretting every life choice that led me here.”
“Too late, sweetheart,” Alex grins, a little bit of a dare in the smile, “You accidentally call me once, you might escape me. But you called me on purpose this time, so now, I hate to break it to you, but you’re stuck with me.”
“Like a parasite?”
“Oh, funny, he’s got jokes.”
Henry laughs, open and free and so very British.
Yeah, Alex thinks, this is going to be interesting.
The next call comes two days later, while Alex is in line at the coffee shop that started it all. He answers the call with a tired smile, turns it towards the menu, and tells Henry to tell him what to order.
Which, of course, goes to shit when Henry suggests he orders a fucking earl grey tea.
Alex promptly hangs up on him.
Later that day, Alex bites the bullet and calls Henry. Henry’s eyes are crinkling with a smile when he answers, his eyebrow quirking.
“Done being a grouch?” He asks, setting a pen down as he leans back in his chair.
“Never,” Alex supplies with a small smile. “I’m never trusting your judgment on anything. Ever again. Today I learned that my new friend has bad taste.”
“Or, maybe I’m just British?”
“And you’re stereotyping yourself. So sad. I really thought we had something, here.”
Henry blinks at him. “You’re a prat.”
Alex shrugs as he opens his apartment door and throws his backpack on the floor by it. “Maybe,” he says, walking through the living room, down the hallway, and opening the door to his bedroom. “But at least I have enough taste to give someone a real coffee order when they ask for it.”
He flops down onto his bed face first, holding the phone up over himself.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He speaks into his pillow, “Hoping my bed eats me before the rest of the world has a chance to spit me out.”
“Wanna try that again? Away from the pillow?”
Alex groans before lifting his head and looking at Henry with a pout. “Remind me why I decided to go to law school.”
Henry makes a face. “I wish I could,” he says. “But this is literally only the fourth time we’ve spoken. Ever.”
Alex pretends to think about that, before sighing and rolling over to sit up. He crosses his legs in front of him, and holds the phone out. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s get to know each other better so that when one of us has a rough day we can remind the other why they’re doing it.”
Henry blinks down at him. “Yeah, all right,” He says, setting his phone down. “Tell me why you want to be a lawyer.”
“You should’ve started with, Alex, what kind of lawyer do you want to be?”
Henry looks to the ceiling as if he’s trying to collect the patience to deal with him. “All right,” he contends, glancing back down at him. “Alex, what kind of lawyer do you want to be?”
Alex smiles softly at him. And then he tells him all about his dreams of being a human rights attorney. What it means to him to be able to help people in a way that actually matters. It devolves into him talking about how he’d considered politics like his mom, but how that never felt like a real, direct way in which he could create positive change in the world. He rambles on and on about all the ways his career can do good, how he can help, what it means to be able to help, and Henry listens.
He asks questions that send Alex on an information steamroll that he half expects Henry to hang up on him for, but instead, he sits there and diligently listens. Like he cares. Like, maybe, they are friends, and he actually wants to understand this part of Alex’s life.
And not even June and Nora let him go on this long about his career. It’s usually a couple sentences before the topic is dropped or they move on to their own pressing matters. Henry doesn’t try to move or sway the conversation one way or another. He listens, and he tries to learn, and they talk far into the evening about it.
And when Alex finally takes a deep breath, like he’s just unloaded a massive weight off his chest, Henry smiles at him. “You’re kind of wonderful,” he says.
And Alex feels his heart swell at that as he shakes his head. “No, we’re not going there,” he replies. “I just want people to be safe, cared for, happy. And I’ll do whatever I can to make at least one of those things true.”
Henry sets his chin on his hand and looks at him for a long moment. “I think,” he says after a beat or ten, Alex is too lost in staring at him to count, “I’m rather happy I accidentally called your number.”
Alex smiles. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Henry takes in a big breath and leans back, presumably to check the time, then flinches. “As much fun as I’m having, though, I do have to get back to writing. I have a goal to meet, after all.”
“What’s your goal?”
“To write 2,500 words a day.”
“How many do you need today?”
Henry wrinkles his nose. “2,500.”
Alex whistles. “Slacker,” he accuses with a grin.
Henry rolls his eyes. “Goodbye, Alex.”
“Have fun writing!” Alex says right as Henry hangs up.
It’s only as he’s curling up in bed that he realizes he never got to hear Henry’s story.
He texts Henry at 11:30pm because he’s bored and curious. He definitely doesn’t spend an eternity staring at the text debating the merits of sending it or not sending it. He especially doesn’t make a list of pros and cons for sending the message. He’s a grown adult capable of sending a text message without having to go over a pro and con list.
Except he isn’t.
The list has 12 marks on the pro side, and four on the con side. It’s a landslide decision.
Wanna play 20 questions?
He watches the typing bubble appear, disappear, reappear, and disappear. It goes on for quite some time before he finally gets a reply.
Sure.
He rolls his eyes, despite the smile curling at his lips.
Sound more excited, why dont you?
The phone starts ringing, and Alex stares down at it wide eyed. He hadn’t expected Henry to call him; he thought this conversation would solely stick to text. But, here he is, hot British Henry calling him as if it’s not nearly midnight. He swallows and picks up on the third ring, holding the phone out in front of himself. He flinches, as he realizes that he’s shirtless, and his hair is probably a mess from all the definite not stress of sending the text.
Henry blinks at him, as if he’s the one surprised they were switching to facetime. He clears his throat, and looks away from the camera, his gaze dancing to something far away as he swallows.
“Not much of a texter?” Alex asks, raising his eyebrows.
Henry gaze darts back to the camera, then away just as quickly. “I didn’t realize you were in bed, my apologies.”
Alex rolls his eyes and moves to sit up against his headboard. “Please,” he murmurs. “I’m a massive insomniac. I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon.”
Henry swallows again, before seeming to drag his eyes back to the camera. “Same,” he replies. “Hardly get to bed before three most nights.”
“Look at us. Twinsies.”
Henry’s brow furrows. “Twinsies,” he replies, deadpan. “You did not just say that.”
“I did,” Alex chirps, “And so did you.” He’s a little proud of himself when Henry’s lips form a thin, disappointed line. “Anyways. Twenty questions?”
“You’ll have to start.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
Henry chuckles, shaking his head. “Not very high stakes,” he murmurs.
“You have to work up to the high stakes questions, Henry. God.” He rolls his eyes, faking annoyance, before waving a hand at the camera. “Come on. Favorite color.”
And so it goes.
They toss questions back and forth, swallowed up in banter and quips. Eventually, Alex closes his eyes between one question and the next, and when he opens them, it’s considerably lighter outside and the facetime call is still connected, but Henry’s asleep on the other end, his face lying just in front of the camera. Peaceful.
Alex admires him for a moment, gives in to his desire to just look. Half of his face is smooshed up against the table, but it doesn’t offset the perfect symmetry of his face, the fullness of his lips. His eyelashes are fanned out delicately over his cheeks, highlighting his cheekbones. He stares, and stares, taking in the image of him sleeping so peacefully.
And then he says, “Goodnight, Henry,” and disconnects the call.
He sits up for some time after the call, going back over their conversation. Makes a place in his head and somewhere deeper that he’s not quite ready to admit to for all the new knowledge to sit. Henry’s favorite color — burgundy, because he’s so posh his favorite color has to be as well. The city he’s from—London, because, of fucking course he is. His favorite movie—In the Mood for Love, because he’s a hopeless romantic. Favorite month, favorite food, favorite everything. All the little things that make him him.
Next time, Alex wants to learn about the big things. The life altering things that give him the personality and heart that he has. He wants to learn it all, and then when he’s learned everything, he wants to help cultivate more, so that he never stops learning about him.
Henry’s rounding up a spiel on the great romantics, and Alex, who has never, not once, in his entire life, wondered about the great romantics or their affect on literature, is enraptured. It’s the passion, the joy he emanates when he’s talking about them; it captures Alex so wholly, so completely, that he can’t help but sit back and listen.
Henry’s beautiful in general, but when he’s going on about something he’s passionate about, there’s something so ineffably gorgeous about him. He’s in his plaid pajamas, his hair a mess, and he’s laughing at his own joke, his nose crinkled, eyes wrinkled, and he’s so goddamned beautiful that it makes Alex’s heart clench in his chest.
Alex thinks he might be a little in love.
They go on like this for several weeks. Calling at least once a day, talking for several hours if they can, for as long as they can if they can’t.
June and Nora pick up on it fairly quickly, but are surprisingly chill about him talking to a virtual stranger who accidentally called him. There’s only one comment from June, a simple, “If it’s a scam, I’ll shoot him.” it warms his heart a little, even as he rolls his eyes at her and steps out into the hallway to take Henry’s call.
Somewhere along the line, Alex changes Henry’s name in his phone from Hot British Henry to Hen. He asks Henry what he has him as in his phone, and Henry refuses to answer, so he figures it’s probably something like Mr. Misdial, or something equally ridiculous.
One week leads into two, two leads into four, and before either of them know what’s happened, they’ve been talking at least once a day for the past six weeks.
Alex brings it up one night.
“Isn’t it wild how six weeks ago we were total strangers, and now I can’t remember the last time I went a day without updating you on my day?”
Henry’s quiet for a long moment, before he asks, “Has it really been six weeks?”
He seems awestruck by the news, but he goes back to writing shortly after, and Alex dives back into his case study. The call stays connected, and they work in comfortable silence. As if the sound of one another breathing is all they needed to finally get the focus to do their work. At least, that’s how it is for Alex. Ever since their first call a week ago, where they’d accidentally fallen into this rhythm of work silence, it’s been hard fought to find a moment outside of the calls to focus.
He glances up from beneath his bangs, the curls of which are so overgrown and wild that he can’t even think of how to maintain them anymore, but hell if he has money for a haircut, so wild they remain. Henry’s writing diligently in his notebook, switching between it and his laptop, checking something, writing something, checking something.
Alex sets his pen down and watches him.
“I can feel you staring,” Henry murmurs, glancing up at him from beneath his lashes.
Alex smiles at him. “I’m just thinking about how much I want to know about your book.”
“Not yet.”
“I know,” Alex whines, flopping onto the desk, and rolling his cheek into his bicep. He peeks up from beneath his lashes, and Henry swallows and drops his pen to look at him. “I’m just so curious. I know you’re a great writer.”
“You haven’t read anything I’ve written,” Henry says, but there’s a touch of fondness in his voice.
Alex shrugs as best he can in this position. “You’re so well spoken. Eloquent.”
“That’s a big word for a small brain.”
“Hey!” He sits up and glares half heartedly at him. “I’m trying to pay you a compliment, you dick.”
Henry finally breaks, a little smile coasting across his lips as he leans back in his chair. “I appreciate the sentiment, Alex, really.”
“But?”
“But . . .” He looks to the ceiling, and Alex can practically see the cogs in his brain turning. Thinking. He’s thinking of what to say. His eyes dart down to meet Alex’s through the camera. “It’s hard. To accept a compliment on something you’ve never shown to anyone, is all.”
“Then show me!”
Henry scoffs. “And shatter the very fragile friendship we’ve made when you’re forced to lie about the quality of my writing? I certainly think not.”
“What if I promise total honesty?”
“Alex, I don’t even show Pez—”
“I’ll go into it with total respect for the property and for you. I just really,” He pauses, trying to find the right words. Henry watches him diligently. “I want to get to know that part of you. The way I’m getting to know every other part of you. I want to be a good friend to you, Henry.”
Something tightens the corners of Henry’s lips, and he glances down at the table, a small shake of his head. “You are a good friend to me, Alex.”
“I could be better.”
“You’re always trying to be better. You need to accept that you’re—”
“Don’t dive into my psyche, London boy, this is about you.”
Henry stares at him for a long moment, before biting down on his lower lip and looking back towards the ceiling. After a beat, he shakes his head, and looks back at Alex, pointing a serious finger at him. “If I do this—”
Alex sits up excitedly, “Yes!”
“If, Alex. If!”
“If you do this. . .” Alex prompts him to continue.
His eyes slide shut and he shakes his head again as if he already knows this is a bad idea. “If I do this, you have to be completely honest. You mustn't spare my feelings for the sake of our friendship. I really do want an honest, critical opinion of what I’ve got so far. I’ve . . . been staring at it for so long I can no longer be impartial in my judgment of it.”
Alex nods emphatically through the screen. “Understood. I’ll treat it like a case study. Fully serious.”
Henry inhales slowly, squinting his eyes. “Truly. If it’s terrible—”
“I’ll let you down gently.”
“I’m serious, Alex.”
“So am I. Send it!”
“And I cannot be staring at you while you read it, so we’ll talk again after you’re done.”
“Deal.”
Henry’s shoulder slacken, and he pulls his laptop closer to himself. “What’s your email?”
And that’s how Alex spends the next six hours on the most emotional journey of his fucking life. As soon as they end the call, he dives into the mostly complete manuscript. It is a romance novel—queer, which, maybe, probably, gives his heart a little sampling of hope—and it’s fucking stunning. Henry’s writing style is unique; as unique as he is, but eloquent. Poetic.
Alex wishes he could swim through the sentences, dance with the punctuation. Every emotional tick is written with precision.
It’s a fucking masterpiece, not even just for a romance novel. But as a piece of literature. Alex can feel all the blood, sweat, and tears that have been written into every word.
He doesn’t even wait to call Henry. Knows he’s probably asleep, because it’s half past six in the morning, but he doesn’t care. He slams his thumb on the facetime button, sits there, tapping his feet while he waits for him to answer. His breath catches in his throat when Henry does answer—half asleep, sleep crust in his eyes, an annoyed curl on his lips; the crease of his pillow indented in his cheek and forehead.
“Wuh? ‘Lex?”
Alex still has tears streaming down his cheeks.
“You’re a fucking genius,” He says a little breathlessly. “I want—I want to erase the last six hours so I can experience them all over again. I want to say I wish I’d never read your book because it ruined me for all other books, but then it’ll have meant that I didn’t read it, and the very thought of having never gotten to experience that. Fucking heartwrenching. You’re a fucking genius.”
Henry seems to still be waking up. He sits up finally, rubbing at his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“I read your book.”
His brows furrow. “Already?”
“I couldn’t stop. I got into it, and it’s like it read me. I’ve never read a book like it before, Henry. Holy shit. I don’t think I’ll ever read anything like it again. It’s a fucking masterpiece.”
Henry stares at him owlishly. “What?”
“Obviously, there are little things that need to be tweaked, because you’re still writing it, but. Holy shit, Henry. You’ve been holding out on me.”
“What?”
“I have notes, I don’t know how useful they’ll be, but I took them as I read—”
Henry blinks. “You have notes?”
Alex pauses, worried that maybe he went too far. “I mean, yes, but—”
And then Henry smiles, half asleep, fully beautiful. “You read my book and you have notes.”
“Yes?”
He sits up in his bed and turns on a lap. Reaches out of frame, and comes back with his laptop, he opens it up in his lap with one hand and looks at Alex expectantly. “Give me everything.”
“You sure you don’t want to wake up?”
“I’m awake.”
“Are you—”
“Alex, please.”
And who can simply turn down a please in that tone of voice?
Not Alex, that’s who.
Three weeks later, the call connects, and Alex is met with a dashing-looking Henry, his hair slicked back, with a soft red turtleneck climbing up his neck. “Alex,” Henry says, quietly, as if he’s somewhere he can’t really talk, his voice a soft hum against the dizzying New York soundscape outside Alex’s apartment. “I can’t talk now, I’m about to see a Broadway show.”
Alex pauses his admiration of the turtleneck, the way it caresses the very edges of Henry’s jaws, and stares at him blankly. “. . . Like in New York City?”
“Yes?” Henry responds with that wonderfully familiar furrow between his brow. “Where else would I see a Broadway show?”
“I mean there are—not the point.” Alex shakes his head, a flurry of hope dancing in his chest as he sits up straight on the bed and looks him over curiously. “Is this just a fun little trip to the city or do you like. Live. In the city?”
“I live here.”
Alex’s hope does a little jig in his chest, and he feels himself smile into the camera. “You do?”
“Yes, Alex.” Henry sounds a little exasperated with him, but that’s not unfamiliar territory.
“That’s wild,” Alex says, letting the word flow out as if it’s made up of vowels entirely.
“How so?”
His grin widens. “I do, too.”
Henry seems to pause at that, tilting the phone up so he can look at Alex clearly. From here, Alex can tell Henry’s sitting in the back of a taxi, the backdrop of the window highlighting the rainy weather with a blur of lights and honking. “In the city?”
“Yes!” Alex says before softly singing, “It’s a small world after all.”
“Truly,” Henry replies. He frowns, glancing up from the camera, and then back down. He looks apologetic, as he says, “I’d love to discuss this further but the taxi’s just arrived—“
Alex isn’t quite ready to let him go, yet. He’s been waiting to hear his voice, see his smile all fucking day. He’s going to hold onto him as long as he can. “What show are you seeing?”
“Hadestown?” It sounds like a question, as if he’s not entirely sure that’s the title. But a little thrill shoots down Alex’s spine, because what he knows about Henry, and what he knows about Hadestown means this is going to be a very interesting night. “According to Pez, it’s transformative and beautiful.”
And, ding. That’s all Alex needs to know. Because Henry is a lover of all things romance. The king of drowning in happy endings. “You’ve never seen it?” He asks, excitement tingling all the way down to his toes.
Henry looks at him as if he’s a bit slow as he leans forward to pay the taxi driver. He smiles at the driver, and then looks back down at the phone as he opens the door. “That would be why I’m seeing it tonight,” he says, groaning a little as he unfolds himself from the backseat and climbs out onto the damp sidewalk.
Alex waits until he’s got his umbrella out before he says, “But you know about the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, right?”
“Actually,” Henry replies, his lips in a tight line. “I don’t. And I thank you to not spoil it for me.”
“Big literature nerd that you are?” Alex asks, leaning closer to the phone as if he might be able to climb through it. “There’s no way you haven’t at least heard how it ends.”
“I know nothing of the story, I assure you.”
“Oh my god,” Alex stands up on his bed, a little giddy at the idea of happy ending loving Henry watching the tragedy unfold. He’s going to be horrified. “Henry—Henry you have to call me after the show.”
“What?” Henry asks, shaking his head. “Why?”
Alex ignores him entirely. “I’d tell you to record your reaction, but that’s frowned upon. I need to know your immediate reaction. Like, as soon as the applause ends and the lights come up, you better dial my ass.”
Henry pauses on the street and looks down at him. “Is it that good?”
“No spoilers,” Alex says, raising his free hand up in an act of surrender. He grins down at the camera as his feet dance on his bed in excitement. “Just call me. Promise.”
Henry looks past the phone, and grins widely at someone who isn’t Alex, which is equal parts unfair and startling beautiful. “Pez!” He exclaims, and Alex feels the slight bout of jealousy that had started to form ebb away, because Pez is just a friend. Not competition in a game that Alex isn’t playing because he still doesn’t even know Henry’s sexuality.
“Ah, who are we talking to?” Pez asks, his voice deep and soft. He peeks around the phone, and Alex catches a glimpse of bleached hair and dark skin. “Oh, hello.”
Alex waves at him. “Make him promise!”
Pez blinks at him owlishly, before turning to Henry. “You heard the man,” he says, acquiescing. “Make your promise so we can head in.”
“I’m not—”
“I’m not hanging up until you promise.”
“I could very well hang up on you.”
Alex nods. “But then, you’d have to deal with your phone buzzing the entire show, and for the rest of your life—”
“Christ, Alex, fine,” Henry hisses, ducking his head as if people are watching him. “I promise. Now I really must go.”
Alex blows a kiss at the camera as the call disconnects, and then falls back into his bed and stares up at the ceiling wide eyed and energized. He’d been planning to head to bed early tonight, but that’s gone bust. He sits up and looks across the room to the case he’d been studying earlier. His brain is practically bleeding thinking about diving back into it, but, fuck it. He’s got a couple hours to kill, and his future law career will thank him for his dedication.
Alex answers the phone on the first ring. He doesn’t even let it finish ringing through, before he’s sliding his finger across the screen and grinning expectantly at it. He’s facing the ground, listening, as the phone is thrust back and forth, to Henry and Pez bicker.
“You promised him—“
“Yes, well, that was before—“
“Hello?” Alex asks, feeling a bit dizzy from the tussle.
The phone flips around, and he’s faced with his new best friend. “Oh. Hello,” Pez says.
Alex grins at him. “You must be Pez.”
“And you must be darling Alex.”
Alex raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling me?”
From beside Pez, Alex hears a very defiant, “No!”
“We are now,” Pez answers, ignoring Henry entirely. “Thank you for not spoiling the show.”
Alex dances in his chair excitedly, “Did he cry?”
“Sobbed like a baby,” Pez says, reaching up to wipe at a fake tear at the corner of his eye. “It was beautiful.”
Henry peeks around the phone, and glares at Alex. It’s softened by his eyelashes, wet and clumped together, the red nose, and puffiness under his eyes. “You’re both demons,” He says. “How does anyone go to something like that for fun?” He pauses, his chin trembling. “I truly thought they’d make it.” His eyes go misty, and he pulls away. Pez turns the camera to follow him, a smirk settling on his lips before he disappears from view entirely.
“They spend the whole musical telling you how it’ll end, Henry.”
“Yes, well.” Henry makes a harumphing noise, and turns to look out the window, crossing his arms over his chest. “I much prefer a happy ending,” he mutters.
“There’s nothing wrong with a tragedy every now and again.”
Henry huffs, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “The world is already steeped in tragedy. One needn’t seek it out.”
Pez turns the camera back on himself. “He’s definitely going to watch the 2005 rendition of Pride and Prejudice tonight.”
Alex smiles, a little flutter in his heart. “There’s nothing wrong with being a romantic,” he murmurs. It’s one of the things he likes about Henry. How openly he loves romance. How much he loves it and buries himself in it. He wonders if that’s what Henry’s writing; if that’s why he won’t tell Alex anything about it, because he’s afraid Alex will judge him for it.
Wishes he could just tell him there’s nothing he could do he’d judge him for, because he may just be a person through a phone screen that he talks to a couple times a week, but somehow he means a lot to Alex at this point. Somehow, he’s become an integral part of Alex’s week, if not day, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, do anything to jeopardize that.
Which is also why he’s yet to find out if Henry’s into men at all.
He flops back onto the bed and holds the phone over himself.
Pez chuckles, seemingly to himself, before the phone’s thrust onto Henry. “Take it, Hazza,” He says, “I’ve got to make a call of my own.”
Alex watches Henry huff before taking the phone. It’s a moment before he adjusts it so Alex can see his face—he can’t help but coo at him softly. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “You’re so soft.”
“Oh, do shut up,” Henry hisses, glaring at him.
“I didn’t mean it in a mean way. I think it’s cute. I cried for, like, five hours after seeing Hadestown the first time.”
“The first time? You subjected yourself to that multiple times?”
Alex laughs, nodding, as he rolls over onto his side and holds the phone against his other pillow. “I made everyone I love go see it with me. I think I’ve seen it six times?”
“Six!”
Alex waggles his eyebrows. “Wanna make it seven?”
Henry stares at him for a long moment. “I’m hanging up on you.”
“Please, I’m the highlight of your day.”
Pez peeks over, “True!”
“Not true!” Henry exclaims, glaring at both of them. “I despise both of you. And am ending both friendships immediately. Forget my number, Alex. This experiment is over!”
His voice is steeped in drama, and Alex wants to roll around in it. “Oh no,” He says, “What do I have to do to earn your forgiveness?”
Henry glares at him. “Goodnight.”
Alex smiles back. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Henry huffs, and then Alex is left staring at the facetime app, and the image of himself smiling in the reflection of his phone.
It’s two in the morning and Alex can’t stop thinking about the fact that they live in the same city. How have they talked for so long and the city they live in hasn’t come up even once? They could be passing each other on the street and so involved in their own lives that they completely miss one another. Alex could pass him on his way to the coffee shop, while he’s on the phone with him, and have no idea he’d missed him.
He sends the text without thinking it through.
That’s a lie, he spends quite a long while thinking it through, but his thumb accidentally grazes the screen and the text goes through before he’s ready for it to. And Henry must be awake and must read it right away, because his phone won’t let him unsend it.
I want to meet you.
He stares at his phone.
The little texting bubble never shows up.
He falls asleep with the phone on one pillow, his head on the other.
He wakes up to a text sitting in his inbox.
Would that be a good idea?
He reads it silently in his head. Then out loud to make sure it says what he thinks it says. Outside of Nora and June, the past couple months, Henry’s become one of the most important people in his life. The person he goes to when he’s stuck, sick of school, sick of existing, tired of always having to be the best, or better. The person he goes to first when something amazing happens. The light in the attic of his life.
The idea that Henry doesn’t want to meet him?
He wants to be mad about it. Wants to be furious and to send angry texts and call him and demand to meet him, but it just makes him sad. It makes his heart twist in his chest. Makes him reevaluate this whole friendship. Wonder if he’s been looking at it all wrong. If he’s seeing something that isn’t really there. And, okay, maybe he’s also got a small crush that feels a bit rejected at the moment, but it’s not about that. It’s about all the highs and lows; the little moments that they’d built their friendship over.
He stares at that text. And he starts to mourn it all, little by little.
Eventually, when he’s sitting in his 11am class, staring blankly at the instructions for the essay he’s already written, he gets another text.
Alex?
He doesn’t reply to that one, either.
And, when Henry calls later that night for their usual study session, he doesn’t answer. He stares at it as it rings through. It starts ringing again as soon as it stops, and Alex takes in a deep breath, and turns his phone over, burying his face in his hands. The phone stops ringing, and Alex exhales, but then it starts ringing for a third time, and he picks up his head to stare down at it. He picks it up and flips it over, sees Henry’s face staring at him.
He sighs and shoots off a text.
Can’t talk right now.
Henry’s reply is immediate.
Can’t or won’t?
Which is really unfair, when Henry’s the one who threw a wrench in the whole goddamned thing. All Alex wanted was to meet the person who’s grown to be someone who means a lot to him, and to see, maybe, if there’s a spark of something more there. To see if what he’s feeling is just his own bisexuality leaking out and attaching to the most attractive man he knows, or if. Maybe. This is special.
But Henry doesn’t even want to meet.
So, that answers that, doesn’t it?
I’m studying for a midterm.
Your midterms are a month out, Alex. Call me.
We’ll talk later.
He watches the text bubble and appear and disappear. Imagines all the different ways Henry might be trying to let him down easy. He still doesn’t even know if Henry even likes men, despite his book. Hasn’t had the courage to ask. Hasnt had the courage to reveal his own sexuality, either. Everything they’d unveiled of themselves to each other, and they were still complete strangers.
This was stupid.
This whole entire thing. A lesson in play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
He decides it’s done, then. He debates blocking Henry’s number, his finger hovering over the red font for several minutes, but in the end he doesn’t have the strength to do it. So he puts his notification on do not disturb, and sets to studying for a midterm he has no business studying for yet.