Hi I have a ficlet fest request 😊
6am
Paris
Henry
My AO3 handle is Nerdyfangirl76
Thank you ☺️
what's interesting to me is that Paris in the book is 5 paragraphs. that's it. and yet i'm obsessed with that moment of Alex and Henry eating baguettes and apricot tarts while Henry translates Le Monde. anyway! please enjoy this Henry POV of the moments before Alex wakes up that morning 💜🦗
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❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙
Henry’s warm; that’s the first thing he notices.
Kensington Palace is always cold, no matter the season — history and tradition seem to cling to the air like a chilly fog.
But Henry’s warm and there’s something about the quality of the silence that suggests early morning. A time he’s more than familiar with. He takes stock of himself: exhausted but content, the hint of hangover hovering at the base of his skull, jaw muscles sore and languid at the same time. And—
A steady, slow breath on the back of his neck, an arm curled around his waist holding him close against a firm chest.
Alex.
It all comes rushing back: meeting at the café, the flirting, the two bottles of wine, the careful, fleeting touches while exploring the city, the decidedly less careful touches with hands and mouths as they explored each other more fully. Henry’s never felt so connected, so in tune with another man — none of his previous myriad of furtive, NDA-covered experiences can come close to comparing. Despite Alex’s relative inexperience, the taste of wine in his mouth as he licked into Henry’s, Henry felt so bloody light last night he can hardly breathe — even hours later — from the tenderness.
And Henry can’t stand not looking at Alex a second longer. Carefully, so as not to wake him, Henry turns over; he moves slowly, loath to dislodge the warm weight of Alex’s arm.
Christ.
Henry would believe that sunbeams were created for this very moment, that they had been honing their craft for milenia just to perfect the vision in front of him:
Alex is glowing. Each messy curl is edged in gold, the sunshine practically beading where it clings to his hair. His dark skin — which is already distractingly caramel — appears burnished in the light, as if it has been painstakingly polished overnight, almost lit from within; a fire behind a half-drawn curtain, beckoning him home. Even the dust motes swirling in the air above him seem entranced by Alex; they swirl and drift lazily in the ray of light from the window, almost as if caught in Alex’s orbit, drawn inexorably toward him.
Henry can certainly relate.
But they don’t do this, stay the night. Or — they haven’t before. But last night the haze of wine and Alex’s fingers in his hair, gripping the back of his head made Henry dizzy, his body loose and positively melting from the contact.
So he didn’t bring up returning to his own hotel room. Didn’t back away from Alex’s embrace as they panted together in the dark space between their mouths, coming down from their highs. Didn’t try to slip free from the tangled sheets once he heard Alex’s breaths even out as he drew closer and closer to dreamland. Didn’t tense up or pull away as he felt Alex reach out and delicately, gently, reverently trace the ridge of his spine, just let Alex map each bump with a burgeoning sense of wonder. Henry had just let his own eyes drift shut, basking in the closeness. Let himself, for once—
Hope.
Alex is smiling; that’s the next thing he notices.
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