They were lying in Alex’s hotel room, the bed a mess, both of them still catching their breath, Alex’s head pillowed on Henry’s chest, when Alex said, “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s go up the Eiffel Tower tomorrow. First thing.” He feels Henry’s laugh deep in his chest more than he hears it. “You think the Masterkey is hiding up there?” “No,” Alex said with a laugh of his own as he looked up to meet Henry’s eyes. “But I think it would be r—” he barely stopped himself from saying ‘romantic, “really nice, being up there above the city, alone.” “I’m sure others would be there first thing as well,” Henry said. “Not unless they bribed the guy who runs it to let them in a little early.” Henry rolled his eyes, but the look he gave Alex was fond. “All right.”

“Seriously? The reviews are what have you spinning out, here?” Alex asks. “It’s a fucking good thing that they’re good, Henry! It’s not some sort of curse to get noticed for doing good work in this town, Fox, trust me—I’ve been on the other end of that equation, and this is better.” “I’m not saying it’s not good,” Henry says, shaking his head. “Then what are you saying? Because I don’t get how we go from good reviews and IndieWire to your goddamned grandmother calling, and then to you wanting to break up with me,” Alex says, hating that his voice is breaking a little.  “It’s—it’s because there’s gonna be a spotlight on you now, one that is long-overdue and long-deserved, and I just. My grandmother simply reminded me of how harsh that scrutiny will be, and I just can’t see how us moving in together and becoming more serious works with that,” Henry says hoarsely, one hand going up to clutch his hair. "Christ, Alex, you’re not even out.” “But I’m not in!” Alex shoots back. “Fuck, Henry, we’re in Hollywood—d’you know how many people in the business are simply quietly out, not taking out full page ads in The fucking Advocate but just living their lives?” 

"I seem to have caught your attention from that very first time we saw each other, and I don't think I'm wrong in my assumption that you've been very deliberate in trying to catch mine." Alex grins devilishly. "I certainly wasn't going to the pool every day to work on my tan, sweetheart." "In that case then..." Henry doesn't get the entire thought out before Alex is up off the stool, around the bar, and backing Henry into the corner of the counter while crashing their lips together. 

1. The one where Bea grieves

“Are you… hungry?” Henry asks. “No.” “Alright. I’m going to fill my water glass. And maybe, if you want to, I can bring you back a sleeve of crackers.” Bea purses her lips. “Okay.” “Fine, then.” Henry walks away. He sounds like he wants to sound angry, but can’t bring himself to. “Your choice.” “Thanks,” she says, hand pressed to one of the squares etched into the door. “He’s…” Philip says, “trying? We were scared, for a moment.” She nods. “We didn’t know if something had happened to you, Bea. Don’t scare us like that.”

Alex does he ever talk to the boy? Bishop Does who ever talk to what boy? Alex in the book. your book. does theo ever talk to him?  The longest stretch of time passes between the texts. The bubble pops up, then disappears a dozen times. What Alex expects is a several-paragraph explanation. What he gets is: Bishop You haven’t read it? 

Everybody wants something. He's not sure how much he has left to give, to slice off of his heart and serve up. Ugly presentation. “This isn't healthy, Little Bit. You know it's not. You'll burn out if you keep this up.” His hand is flying and his knife is slicing and his brain is short-circuiting. He's thinking and feeling and wondering and it's a maelstrom of emotion pushing up against his skull and threatening to spill over; a tear escapes down his eye and he quickly wipes it away with his left hand. Damn onions at it again.  “You need to come home.” Alex's chest heaves with the effort to contain everything in his neat mental box. The storm rages on, the windows rattle, the ground shakes, the foundation trembles. His carefully constructed house of cards is about to come tumbling down in a fucking moment of weakness—that’s what he gets for showing his tender underbelly to anyone at all, even June. He should fucking know better; even the people who love him the most know how to poke and prod, know how to bring the house down with just a whisper of five words, a hushed plea said into a phone, hundreds of miles away, hoping and praying they'd get through the wind and rain and hit Alex square in the eye of the storm.   You need to come home.  You need to come— Home.  The knife stills. 

They fix their clothing, and attempt to tidy each other’s hair into their usual shape, but there’s nothing to be done about the way Henry’s lips are all red and swollen, his entire face flushed. “God, you just look…” Alex makes an ineffectual gesture in the general area of Henry’s wrecked person. “What?” Henry pats himself, searching for some form of damage he can fix. “Like… like, fuck, like you’ve just been ravaged—but also like you need more of it.” Alex tries not to dwell on how deliciously fuckable Henry looks. They’d never leave this room if he did.  Henry swallows hard and curls a hand around Alex’s forearm. “I’ll come to you later, after everyone has gone to bed. If I’m seen, I can just put my nose in the air and say this is my ancestral home and I have the right to roam whichever halls I like. Not so easy for you if you’re found in the family wing.” A faint laugh tries to bubble up inside Alex, but dies in the face of his overwhelming arousal. “The duchess would think I’d befouled your sister and obtain a marriage licence on the spot, I think.” And then, “I’m in the Red Room.”

“C’mon, Haz,” Phillip whispered. “You’re alright. It’s just a big manor house. You’re–.” Henry let out a pathetic, whimpering sound and tried to pull away. Either Phillip’s grip had strengthened in the last year or Henry wasn’t throwing all his own strength into it. Each movement was a feeble tug, enough to pull Phillip’s arms but nothing more. They seemed childish, distracted, almost purposeful. Their familiarity stung when Phillip placed it – a very small Henry, trying to pull away from their mother when she tried to bring him to bed before he wanted. “Henry, stop this,” Phillip whispered again. He yanked Henry closer, holding him firmly. “We’re not leaving until we hear them out. You need help, you can’t–.” “Mr. Fox?” A deep voice broke through to the both of them.  Henry’s head turned first, then Phillip followed his gaze to a tall, slim Indian man waiting a few meters down the corridor. He had the patient air of a well-versed teacher, shoulders squared inside his army uniform. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles dangled from his fingers and his boots were kept to a high shine. Phillip couldn’t have said whether or not the man chose his position, but he certainly didn’t seem comfortable in the wool, braid, and brass. The armband he wore across one bicep – a narrow band with a red medic’s cross – was the only thing that looked at home on him. Phillip cleared his throat. “Which one?” “Henry Fox,” the man answered. A faint smile appeared. “But I gather then that you’re Phillip?” “I am.” He released Henry’s wrists, shooting him an apologetic look. “You’ll have to forgive us. My brother is being rather–.” He turned towards the man, choosing his words. “Resistant. To treatment, at the moment.” He heard Henry huff over his shoulder, but chose not to look back at him. He could only imagine the glare slowly burning its way through the back of his coat. “He isn’t the only one, captain.” The man pushed his glasses up his nose and stepped closer. “I’m Dr. Shaan Srivastava. As resident psychologist, I’ll be responsible for the majority of your care, lieutenant.”

“I’m sorry you overheard me being an ass; can I make it up to you? How long are you in the city for?” Alex’s eyebrows shoot up and his brain seems to stutter. This was not what he’d been expecting in the least. An apology was more than enough; beating Henry would be even better. Something to make it up to him seemed absurd. “Uhh, I’m staying for a week but that’s … it’s not necessary. Honestly.” Alex holds up his hands to emphasize his point. “Once I beat you today, we’ll be even,” he chuckles with an impish grin. “Please. Let me treat you to dinner at Renard. Tomorrow night?” Technically he has reservations at a new teppanyaki place in Brooklyn, but he could cancel that. Was he insane to cancel that and prioritize Henry Fox? … No, he decides. It would be insane to miss this opportunity.

“Oh my fucking Christ,” Henry blurts loudly when he opens his eyes and finds himself standing in a hotel bathroom in nothing but a bloody towel. A moment later, there’s a tentative “…Alex?” on the other side of the door. “It’s me,” Henry sighs. “He couldn’t wear a bloody shield for this?” Bea makes a kind of odd sound he can’t parse, so with one hand firmly clamping the towel around his waist, he throws the door open and finds her… laughing at him with the back of her hand pressed against her mouth. “This isn’t funny,” he snaps. “No, you’re right, it’s a very serious situation,” Bea replies, attempting to compose her face, only for her lips to press together tightly as she valiantly tries not to crack up again. “Bea!” “I know, I know!” she protests. “I’m sorry, it’s just—” She waves a hand at his bare torso, then waggles her eyebrows at him. “For a lawyer, he’s got one hell of a body, Haz.” “Christ,” Henry swears, rolling his eyes at her.