“Good god,” Henry mutters, almost to himself. “Could you just… Could you just stop talking for a second?” Oh, if any of the people who have been in Alex’s life for more than six months could hear those sweet, sweet words pronounced by the sweet, sweet voice of Henry Fox. Alex lets himself imagine his relatives, his friends, his acquaintances earring that innocent inquiry. In the kitchen, June is sighing and shaking her head with an apologizing look on her face. In the bathroom where she’s putting make up on, Nora is cackling. Back in Texas, Ellen is sending her good lucks to Henry. Even in fucking California, Oscar is raising his whiskey glass in honor of the man who is still innocent enough to think that Alex has the actual ability to shut the fuck up.

• home is wherever i'm with you

8.5k, out tomorrow!

• "the Tufts fic"

as @england-would-fall likes to call it ahah

currently 17.5k, almost halfway done

• Love Letters

currently 15k

And Alex realizes he would quite like to, because, for a number of reasons, he feels that Henry and he have been growing closer and closer for the last several months. And as he is still Alex Gabriel Claremont-Diaz and will stay forever true to himself, he has been making a mental list of said reasons. So far, it goes: One. Neither of them has  dated anyone for a few months now. Maybe because time flies by and they’re both busy. But Alex also knows that if he spends every minute of his free time with Henry… then Henry does too. Two. Alex has been flirting more and more loudly, and though Henry has always answered with witty comments, he’s never met him blow for blow like he has lately Three. He’s here now, joining them on their improvised dancefloor at June’s side, mussy-haired, rosy-cheeked, looking carefree, and it feels right. Over the next couple days, this feeling extends, and Alex’s list grows. It’s Henry’s peaceful expression as he reads quietly in the hammock under the live oak, the faint warmth of the winter sun casting pools of light on his cardigan, making Alex want to paint him even if he’s never touched a brush in his life. It’s the way his body moves to free up some space for Alex when he crawls next to him, his arm opening naturally for Alex to rest his head in the crook of his neck. His soft hums as Alex makes his teenage years come alive through lazy strings of words, his eyelids feeling heavier by the minute. Before he knows it, he falls asleep to the slow rhythm of deft fingers scratching his scalp, past, present and future wrapping him in a blanket of bittersweet souvenirs and promised lightheartedness.