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When Henry agreed to come with Alex to June and Nora’s for a party, he’d considered a million possibilities. Alex wandering off with someone and leaving Henry to fend for himself; June bringing out vodka jello shots (again) to try and get Henry to open up. Karaoke. A house full of strangers celebrating the New Year. Basically, the norm.
What he did not expect, however, was for June and Nora to decide that it was far too late, and Alex and Henry were far too drunk to go home when everyone else left at 3am.
Henry did not account for the singular guest room.
Nor did he account for June and Nora shoving them into the room and slamming the door behind them, a, “See you in the morning!” called through the door as they retreated to their own room.
He didn’t expect to stand, swaying before a full size bed, staring at Alex, dumbstruck and confused, because they live together, but they don’t bloody well sleep together and if they did, well, he certainly wouldn’t survive it. Except, Alex apparently feels otherwise, because he’d climbed into the bed, tossed the blanket over his lap, and pat the space next to him as if the very notion of sharing a bed with one another were akin to sitting on the couch.
(It’s not. It’s so, so not.)
And Henry can attest to that from where he’s dangling off the side of the bed, desperate to not touch Alex. Alex who’s facing away from him, tucked up against the wall. Alex, whose body heat is warming Henry’s back. Beautiful fucking Alex, who’s eyes had flicked over Henry’s body as he stripped his jacket off before climbing into bed. Henry’s best friend, Alex. Alex, who would be alarmed to know about the jack hammer in Henry’s chest. The thoughts racing through his mind.
The way his fingers twitch, desperate to touch.
“You’re thinking so loud I can hear it,” Alex says, voice gruff, and teetering off the edge of sober. “Go to sleep.”
Henry doesn’t respond, hopeful that if he remains quiet long enough, Alex will believe that he has gone to sleep.
“You’re a terrible faker,” Alex says eventually, stubbornly rolling over, his hip brushing against Henry’s lower back as he turns to face Henry. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Henry mumbles, turning his face into the pillow. He can feel the flush as it burns over his face and neck, knows that even in the dark of the room, if he rolls over to face Alex, he’ll see. And he can’t have that.
“Liar.”
Henry huffs. “Go to sleep.”
“Can’t,” Alex says, reaching out and poking Henry’s shoulder. “Come on. Talk to me.”
“Alex—”
“Talk to me, talk to me, talk to me—”
“Oh for—” Henry forces himself to roll over, stubbornly still avoiding contact as he does. The fit is even tighter facing each other, his arms tucked up tight against his chest, and Alex’s loose in front of him. “You are the single most aggravating human being I’ve ever known.”
Alex’s eyes gleam with pride. “You love it.”
I love you, Henry thinks with reckless abandon. He closes his eyes, shaking his head.
Alex sucks in a breath filled with worry as the silence barrels on, and then there’s a hand delicately pushing Henry’s hair out of his face; too drunk, still, to control his physiological responses, Henry’s breath catches, and he’s pulling his head out of that gentle grasp, shaking it. “Don’t.”
“Don’t?”
He blinks; finds wide brown eyes gazing softly at him, filled with confusion and worry, and Henry’s skin is fucking thrumming because he’s not even out of reach; he’s barely a breadth away and he could reach out; could take Alex in his hands and finally, finally, tell him everything he’s been feeling—
“Go to sleep,” he mutters, shaking his head again.
Alex’s hand falls to the bed between them. “No,” he says, stubbornly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“It’s a small bed,” he tries after a beat. “I’m uncomfortable.”
Alex raises an eyebrow. “That’s ‘cus you’re all stiff and hanging off the edge.” And then, to Henry’s utter horror, that hand reaches out and grabs Henry by the hip and tugs him closer, until they’re touching in nearly every possible place they could be. Elbows clanking, knees overlapped; the only gap remains at their center, the curve of their bodies carefully separating them where it might matter most. Alex smiles at him. “Better?”
Henry blinks, eyes fluttering against sensation.
Maybe it’s the alcohol.
Maybe it’s the weight of Alex’s eyes on him or the press of their bodies so close.
Maybe it’s the way Alex had pulled him close in June and Nora’s living room, surrounded by their favorite friends, and danced with him like they were the only two in the world, or the way his hands had trailed so delicately along Henry’s back as he pulled him closer—
Maybe. Maybe it’s pure fucking delusion, but it’s something at the back of Henry’s head, something that keeps him from doing what he’d usually do. Which is lie . Any other day, moment, place, level of bloody sobriety, he’d open his eyes and he’d pretend that he’s not in love with Alex and that being this close to him isn’t as close to a juxtaposition of heaven and hell as a person could possibly get.
But tonight, here, in this bed that isn’t theirs, he finds himself looking into whiskey colored eyes, concern and humor dancing in them, a slight sheen from the alcohol, and despite himself, saying, “No.”
Alexs brow furrows. “No?”
“You’re too close.”
He frowns. Looks down between them and then back up, carefully drawing his hands closer to himself. “I’m too . . . close.” The mirth has almost entirely disappeared in place of the concern, dancing wild and raging.
He nods, licks his dry lips, gaze dipping to Alex’s and back up. “I can’t breathe when you’re this close to me.”
Alex swallows. “We cuddle on the couch, like, every day. We’re closer, then.”
Henry shakes his head. “It’s different.”
“How?”
“We’re in bed together.”
Alex nods, a slow aborted movement that starts, stalls, and then starts again. “Right,” he says. “I don’t—“
A noise unfurls from the back of Henry’s throat, and he reaches out, grabbing the front of Alex’s shirt and fisting it in his palm. “How are you so bloody blind,” he says, before closing the distance and pressing his mouth to Alex’s in a frightened, desperate press. He squeezes his eyes shut; gives himself to the count of three.
Three seconds to pretend.
Three seconds until the world ends.
Until Alex realizes what he’s done and decides they’re done. Friendship over. Finished.
Three.
He breathes in through his nose, takes in the remnants of Alex’s aftershave, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. He presses harder, unable to stop himself. He’s done the unforgivable, taken what isn’t his to take. Might as well go all in before it’s all over.
Two.
Alex’s breath catches. Henry wastes an entire second thinking maybe .
One.
His eyebrows twitch together, heart pounding shamefully. He’s half a second from mourning this precious thing, this perfect friendship that really had been enough. Truly. He’s lived four years in the shadow of his pining; he’s buried it deep and he can live without more.
But what does that matter when it’s all over?
He starts to pull back, unwinding his fingers from Alex’s shirt, still so afraid to open his eyes and face the consequences of his actions.
Zero.
He pulls back until he teeters dangerously close to the edge of the bed; eyes still shut, the warmth of Alex’s lips fresh and lingering on his own. Lying here, tensed for the end feels right somehow. The worlds going to drop out from beneath him when Alex rejects him—he’ll be kind, so kind because that’s who he is, but things will change. Small things at first; Alex grabbing dinner before coming home.
Movie nights cuddled up on the couch will get postponed and then eventually cancelled.
No more breakfast together on Tuesdays when they have a shared day off. No more dancing in June and Nora’s livingroom like the rest of the world simply doesn’t exist, because that will be all that exists.
No more Alex and Henry. No more Henry and Alex.
Alex.
Henry.
No longer a sun and a moon; he who shines and he who reflects his glow.
Now they’ll be two stars, separated by light years and impossibilities. Different galaxies. Lost before they ever even see one another.
Henry here, always, in love with Alex.
Alex, everywhere but here, finding and falling for someone deserving. Always shining, beautiful and bright and wonderful. While Henry’s light dims and dims and dims until the only proof he’d ever been there at all is the shadow of the burning of this night.
He needs to open his eyes.
He needs to—
He needs to look one last time before it’s over.
“Henry,” Alex says, voice cracking.
The beginning of the end.
“Why did you do that?”
Lie , he thinks, lie and the world will spin on .
I’m still drunk , he thinks. I’m still drunk.
He practices it in his head a few times.
Drunk.
Drunk.
He’s drunk.
He swallows down a lump in his throat and opens his eyes, and Alex is staring at him, this shocked sense of betrayed wonder on his face. As if not in a million years could he have seen this coming. As if he never once imagined this for them.
He thinks: I’m still drunk.
But the words that his lips curve around are, “because I love you.”
He freezes, as surprised by their appearance as Alex—Alex who’s eyebrows go high, lips parting on a soft exhale.
Alex who’s going to break his heart, as he should.
Alex who will never, not in his beauty or grace or kindness or courage, ever love Henry back.
No, the sun will never love the moon.
Alex’s eyes flicker back and forth between his. “Are you still drunk?”
Yes.
He shakes his head, a quiet movement left to right. In truth, he hadn’t had anything to drink in a couple hours now. In truth, the buzz of the tequila had shifted to the comfort of closeness, and had disappeared entirely in the face of sharing a bed.
He could’ve gotten them home.
Why hadn’t he fought June and Nora harder?
Why hadn’t he lied when Alex asked? Not just now, but when the desire to touch buzzed so thoroughly through his limbs.
He’d brought the world to its knees and didn’t even so much as have the excuse of being inebriated to pin it on.
Alex swallows audibly.
“You love me.”
Henry closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Alex asks, quietly. “Because you kissed me? Or because you love me?” Henry’s jaw clenches, and when he doesn’t reply, Alex says, “Or both?”
“Alex—“
“Both?” His voice is soft; startlingly shattered. “You’re sorry you love me and you’re sorry you kissed me.” He moves to sit up, knees knocking against Henry’s as he pulls himself to sit on his haunches.
Henry can’t meet his eyes anymore. He looks down at the soft, forest green sheets that are nearly black in the darkness, nothing but a sliver of moonlight saving the green from disappearing entirely beneath the night.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, soft.
Alex hisses out a low breath, leaning down towards him, “Stop saying that.”
Henry chances a glance up at him, focusing on his chin rather than meeting his eyes. “Why?”
Alex groans, running a hand over his face. “As if I don’t fucking know I’m hard to love—I don’t need you to—“ he breaks off, his voice cracking, and then he’s shifting, climbing over Henry’s legs and hopping off the bed. He stands in the center of the room for a moment, and Henry turns to watch him, waiting.
“Why did you kiss me?” He asks, without turning around.
I’m drunk , sits at the back of his teeth.
He moves to sit up, but doesn’t reply.
Alex runs a hand through his hair.
“If you don’t want to love me,” he says after a moment, finally turning around with the resignation of a man ready to let the world finally fall apart around him. “Then why did you kiss me?”
Henry blinks owlishly. “I didn’t— say I don’t want to love you.”
Alex scoffs. “Didn’t you?”
Henry blinks again, legs slipping over the side of the bed and feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.
This—
This doesn’t feel like a rejection.
It feels like heartbreak in kind.
Hope slips into his veins like a constellation peaking through the clouds. Brief and violently bright and altogether too beautiful to believe.
“No,” He says. “I didn’t.” He swallows, closing his eyes and grabbing the edge of the bed on either side of him. “I said I’m sorry. ”
“Isn’t that the same damn—“
“Because I love you and you don’t love me. Because I kissed you, and you didn’t want me to. Because I took advantage of a situation like a machiavellian—“
“Who the fuck said I don’t love you?”
Henry’s eyes snap open; Alex is standing right in front of him, so much closer now; something wild and ragged in his eyes reflecting off the sliver of moonlight peeking through the blinds. He swallows, licks his lips. “Nobody needed to tell me,” he says.
Alex’s eyelashes flutter wildly. “Oh?” He asks. “So you’re a psychic now? You just happen to know exactly what I’m feeling?”
“I mean—don’t I?”
His mouth falls open, and he just stares for a long, long moment. So long that Henry starts to wonder if he’s frozen, but then he’s shifting forward, reaching out and grabbing Henry’s shirt. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says, words wet with emotion, and then he’s there, pressed up close to Henry; Henry’s head tilted up to meet him in another kiss.
It’s like the first kiss; only it’s Henry frozen in time.
It’s Alex’s lips pressing firm against his own; a demanding pressure that claims and pleads and screams all at once.
Henry gives himself three seconds to rewrite his reality.
Three.
Alex is kissing him.
Two.
Alex is kissing him.
One.
Alex is kissing him.
His hands come up, fisting in Alex’s shirt at his hips and pulling him impossibly closer. Alex comes easily, falls into his lap, legs slipping over him into a precarious straddle as his hands slip free from Henry’s shirt and slide up his chest until they’re cupping the sides of his throat, a gentle press of the pads of his thumb into Henry’s Adams Apple.
Henry finally manages to catch himself, forcing a breath in through his lungs as he moves his lips against Alex’s; careful precious drags of Alex’s lips against his own. Warm and wet and everything he never believed within his grasp.
Perhaps.
Perhaps the world really did end.
He pulls back to look up at him, sliding his hands up Alex’s back.
Alex stares down at him, cheeks flushed and eyes hooded. “Please don’t say you’re sorry for loving me,” he says, his voice hoarse. Rendered mute, all Henry can do is nod, Alex’s thumbs brushing delicately along the column of his throat, eyes searching as he looks Henry over. “And don’t ever tell me I don’t love you again.”
Awe seeps into Henry’s heart, slips up along the wild run of hope in his veins. “You love me?” He asks, softly.
Alex nods, once. “I, uh,” he swallows. “Thought you knew. Everyone else does.”
Henry doesn’t so much as blink, “they do?” He asks, gaze trailing back to Alex’s lips.
Alex nods again, his eyes dipping to Henry’s mouth. One of his thumbs brushes up against the underside of Henry’s chin. “They keep telling me to tell you,” he says. “But I was afraid.”
“Why?”
He smiles wryly, his gaze darting up to meet Henry’s. “I know I’m not easy to love. I’m a lot at the best of times and so much worse at the worst of times, and I couldn’t imagine you wanting to bog yourself down—“
Henry’s hands stall on his back. “What?”
Alex shakes his head, opens his mouth in what Henry assumes is another attempt at self deprecation, and Henry holds him tighter, winding his arms around his lower back, and looking up at him with all the seriousness one gives a sun hiding its shine.
“You’re perfect,” Henry says, softly. Every word is a carefully curated whisper; a secret in the dead of night for Alex’s ears only—because he’s the only one who needs to know. Who deserves to know. “Every little thing that makes you you. Your passion and desire to know and understand. Your strength and hope and the fire under your ass—it all makes you who you are and I honestly don’t think there’d be a world worthy of existing if you weren’t exactly as you are in it.”
Alex's chin dimples. “Why were you sorry for loving me, then?”
Henry smiles, something small and pained and shattered open. “Could the sun ever love the moon when it’s shine only goes one way?”
Alex tilts his head. “The sun’s just a star,” he says, one of his hands gliding over the side of Henry’s jaw and cupping his cheek. His eyes flicker back and forth between Henry’s, a small little smile dancing along the corners of his lips. “You’re so much brighter.”
Henry huffs, tries to turn his face away, but Alex holds him firm. “Nothing’s brighter than the sun.”
“Not true,” Alex argues, brushing his thumb over Henry’s cheekbone. “You’re a fuckin’ supernova.”
Henry flushes, leaning into his touch, a rebuttal on his tongue. “I—”
“Don’t argue with me.”
“Ah,” Henry clicks his tongue, blinking up at him. “But I’ve been told that’s my second best skill.”
Alex wrinkles his nose. “Self deprecation must be your first.”
“You’re certainly one to talk, Mr. I’m-Too-Much.”
Alex’s mouth falls open, though there’s no hurt in the set of his jaw or slope of his lashes. “Are you mocking my insecurities?”
“Only in that anyone who ever made you feel as if you’re too much did so because they didn’t understand. Didn’t try to. You couldn’t be too much if you tried.” Alex raises an eyebrow. “ . . . Don’t take it as a bloody challenge.”
Alex’s eyes track over him for a moment, the hand on his throat slipping a little and settling on his collarbone. “We would be good together,” he finally says, swallowing as if he’s nervous to say it at all. His eyes slip to where his hand is on Henry’s collarbone, eyebrows furrowing. “Not just friends who are stupidly in love with each other and scared to admit it. But . . . as.” He breaks off.
Henry leans into him, swaying into their shared space. “As?”
He seems to debate with himself for a moment, before glancing up at Henry from beneath his lashes, an almost shyness settled over his face. “I could be your boyfriend.”
“You could?”
“If you’d like.”
“If I’d like?”
He nods. “If you’d like.”
“And that’d make me your boyfriend?”
Alex huffs. “It sounds childish, I know, but—”
“It doesn't.”
He pauses. “It doesn’t?”
Henry shrugs a shoulder. “It sounds a bit like a dream.”
“A good dream?”
He nods, swallowing and squeezing Alex’s hips. “World shattering.”
“Steep odds.”
He nods again, very serious. “Lives on the line.”
Alex follows the movement. “Best not mess it up, then.”
“Agreed.” A smile twitches at the corner of his lips, a movement that’s entirely out of his control. “So.”
“So.”
“Boyfriends?”
Alex curls his lips inward, before nodding once and leaning in to press their lips together again. “Boyfriends,” he says, against Henry.
Henry grins, pulling Alex into himself and falling backwards onto the bed; a bottle of laughter bubbling up out of Alex’s chest and settling on Henry’s lips.
There’s no timer when they press in, next.
No seconds to count down—just something new, calculating every first.
One.
One.
One.
The world starts again.