Archive of Our Own ^beta

June has three rules for the trio’s European summer.

One: Pack light. One suitcase each. If it can’t be styled three ways or it’s too bulky, it’s not coming to Europe. And that went for emotions too.

(This rule might have more to do with June’s break up with Evan, but Alex isn’t saying shit. He values his life).

Two: Follow the energy. So what if you have guided tours back to back, or a dinner reservation? If there’s the sound of music in Montmartre, you follow it; if the smell of street food ensares your senses in Vienna, follow your nose to the Wurstelstands (preferably the Wuestelstand Leo).

Three: Do something wild, at least once. Each of them get a free pass to do absolutely anything they want as long as it’s off the beaten path, and the other two have to come along, too.

Rule number three is how Alex finds himself at the Palace of Versailles one warm evening in June. Far above, in the inky blackness of the sky, the moon is full and round and flanked on all sides by small pinpricks of starlight. The palace itself glows too, almost ethereal, and full to the brim of guests spilling out of the back entrance and wandering through the garden. The hum of conversation and music - Vivaldi? Bach? - is smoothed by the whisper of the fountains as water sluices over marble.

Alex watches everything keenly from his spot lazing against a short stone wall. He feels as though he’s stepped through the fabric of time; one moment slightly hungover from too many spritzes and drenched in the smell of cologne, perfume and sweat, and the next a perfect 17th century gentleman on the steps of the Palace of Versailles, a feathered, raven-coloured mask secured over his face and a long burgundy coat cinched at his waist.

The lace at his throat itches - what had June called it, a cravat, or something? - and he suppresses the urge to rip it from his body. June had insisted upon it, and part of him is scared to defy his big sister’s wishes this early in the night. Whatever makes her happy, etcetera. Alex would do it. And remove it once she was too drunk to care or not around to see.

“Alejandro!” sings Nora’s voice from somewhere off to his right. He turns and watches his best friends ascend the last of the steps, the train of their dresses trailing behind them. June’s emerald gown glints with embroidered gold as they draw closer, whilst Nora’s lilac gown, edged in silver, reflects the lustrousness of the moon. They look beautiful.

“How many pictures did you force that poor photographer to take?” he drawls, shifting under the weight of his coat.

June waves her hand dismissively. “He loved every moment of it.” Her hazel eyes are particularly striking against the gold of her mask.

“Uh huh.”

“No less than one hundred,” Nora supplies cheerfully, attempting to lean gracefully against the same stone wall as Alex. She’s yet to adjust to the panniers under her skirt, apparently. Alex smirks as she grimaces and shoves herself back upright, hands on her hips. “For fucks sake.”

“Haha,” he says gleefully because at heart he’s a bit childish.

Nora responds by sticking her tongue out at him. “You look ridiculous.”

Before Alex can defend himself, June interjects. “Take that back!” she says, clearly miffed. “I’ll have you know this was the height of court fashion in the late 1680s!”

“Yeah, you hear that, Nora?” he jibes. “I’m a certified snack. All this,” he points to his entire self. “Edible. Scrumptious. They won’t be able to resist.”

“Good luck with that,” Nora says, pulling at the cravat and giving him a critical once-over. But her eyes glint through her silver mask, and Alex finds himself matching the sly cut of her mouth. He immediately knows she's up to something.

“No luck needed,” he says loftily. June really had dressed him to the nines, and as much as the lace bothers him, his legs look fantastic, and his shoulders look broader than normal in the close fit of the jacket. Snack.

“Calm down, cowboy,” Nora says, flicking his arm. “I’ll make you a bet, though. Both of you,” she amends, eyes flicking to June.

“Go on, then,” June invites, smoothing down her skirts. She looks fierce and determined under the glow emanating from the windows, her eyes sharp as they survey Nora.

“I bet,” Nora begins slowly, tapping her chin with her pointer finger. “Hm. I bet none of us can hook up with anyone in these costumes.”

“And if we do?” Alex asks immediately, a rush of adrenaline zipping through his bloodstream.

“You get an extra anything,” Nora says promptly, referring to June’s third rule. She smiles mischievously between the two of them, a hint of a dimple on her left cheek.

“Deal,” he fires back, his voice mingling with June’s.

Nora grins at them. “Prepare to lose.”

Alex isn’t particularly interested in hooking up with anyone, but he does like winning. So, he plants himself by the snacks and prepares to be as charming as possible.

His plan of being the best-looking snack at the snack table gets off to a good start. He flirts unabashedly with men and women alike as they reach past him for hors d'oeuvres, but their presence is fleeting, and he still feels kind of hungover, so he waves off their offers to join them in the gardens and nibbles on crackers to soothe his stomach. He’s quite happy to stay near the food for now; he has the whole night ahead of him.

Mostly, though, he wants to drift over to June and Nora and sway to the music with them, but there’s something going on there. For the first hour of the ball, they had stayed close (as close as June and Nora’s panniers allowed anyway), marvelling over the opulence of Versailles. But then Alex had said something innocuous, something about what counted as hooking up and the air had thickened with something he couldn’t describe. Something he wasn’t invited into, he thinks.

So he had left, guided by fairy lights (not historically accurate according to June) and the small oil lamps lining the paths and staircases (more likely, June had informed him). The palace had been a golden beacon, welcoming him into its depths as the girls had remained outside, their heads bent together.

It’s fine. He’s hungry. And when in Europe, why not have fun with people he’ll never see again? He can be whoever he wants to be … he can be as weird, as manic and as loud as he wants, without consequence. Here he can never be too much, especially when alcohol is in hand and the music is turned up high. He fits in with the exuberance of the crowd.

He’s distracted by these thoughts as he steps to the side for a man wearing a rather large and elaborate wig. He eyes it critically, overwhelmingly glad that June hadn’t insisted on them tonight.

What she had insisted on, though, was heels. For all of them. Alex stumbles in his as he moves to the side, his ankle twisting, and throws out an arm to stop himself from going down. His wrist hits the edge of a porcelain plate, the scrape sharp in his ears. He realises with horror that it’s the base of a very tall cupcake stand, full to the brim with buttercream-frosted cupcakes sprinkled with gold dust.

It wobbles.

Alex grabs for the table as his ankle turns in on itself, pain flaring up his leg.

And then a strong hand wraps around his bicep, steadying him. Another hand catches the top of the maypole stand and rights it.

Alex breathes out a sigh of relief as he straightens up, life no longer flashing before his eyes. He wishes he hadn’t expelled so much oxygen, though, as he turns to thank his saviour.

At once, he’s drowning in ocean blue.

Words die in his throat as he considers the handsomely dressed man before him. His eyes are a close match for the blue of his coat and breeches, his hair sandy and soft-looking and shining gold under the lights, just like the embroidery around his cuffs and down the part of his jacket. Alex gulps.

“Are you alright?” the man asks in English, and fuck he’s officially not the snackiest snack at the snack table now. His voice is soft and moneyed, washing smoothly over Alex like satin. He’s British. And beautiful. And Alex needs to find words because now the man is saying, “Pas d'anglais?”

“I speak English,” he corrects quickly. “I- shit. Thank you,” he amends. “My sister insisted upon historical accuracy. I told her putting me in heels was a bad idea, but she wouldn’t hear otherwise,” he gestures at his shoes, which seem to be gleaming up at him smugly. He realises immediately that he’s said too much, always over-eager to over-explain.

The top half of the man’s face is hidden behind a pearl-white mask, leaving his full lips free to spring upwards into a smile that makes Alex’s stomach flip. Christ, he’s so fucking bisexual. “You certainly committed to the dress code,” he says approvingly, casting an eye over Alex’s costume. “Though, perhaps the shoes are less of a problem than your inebriation?”

Alex is suddenly aware of the empty glass of whiskey by his elbow. He’s sure it must be on his breath, too. Fucking asshole. He steps neatly in front of it and lifts his chin, trying not to glower at him. “Wow. So much for chivalry. It really is dead.”

The man’s lips twitch. “I did just catch you, though,” he points out genially.

“Okay, fair,” Alex allows, softening slightly. His eyes rove over the other man’s face. His nose is straight, and his jaw sharp. He smells sweet, spicy, and like laundry detergent all at once. “That was pretty chivalrous. I think knights in shining armour were a few centuries earlier, though.”

“Full plates, perhaps,” the stranger allows. “Partial plates? It very much depends. It gradually faded in use throughout the 17th Century.” He pauses, and Alex is so enamoured by his clear intelligence that he almost misses the flair of pink under the stranger’s mask. “I should say, though, if I’d shown up in armour I’d not only be woefully off theme, but I very much doubt I would’ve been spry enough to be able to catch you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Alex says without thinking. “You strike me as …” he presses his tongue behind his teeth, suddenly overwarm in his layers of costume. The other man is quiet and still, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side, as though he’s truly, genuinely curious. It makes Alex’s tongue loose. It makes him want to say something much too forward and flirty.

“You strike me as the type to pull it off regardless,” he says, and adds a smile for good measure. He has a competence kink, so what? “So, are you always this prepared to lecture damsels in distress on the history of knights and armour, or am I just lucky?”

The man laughs softly. “Don’t worry, I reserve my lectures for only those gentlemen I save from buttercream disasters.”

Gentlemen. The pointed enunciation. Alex’s stomach flips again. “And how many have you saved?” he asks lightly.

”Tonight?” Alex raises his eyebrows at him. The man’s eyes sparkle. His lips are full and pink and so very soft-looking as they lift up. “Just the one.”

Emboldened by his forwardness, Alex squares his shoulders and says, “I’m Alex.”

“Henry,” the blond says, and at once Alex can’t imagine the man’s name being anything else. It suits his moneyed accent, broad shoulders, and impeccable posture; classic and elegant, yet not boring. He likes it; he wants to know the rest of it.

Alex doesn’t think he’s imagining the way the atmosphere between them thickens. Clothed in layers of lace and satin and hidden behind carefully curated masks, the exchange of names feels more daring than a brush of skin. Alex turns Henry’s name over in his palms and commits it to memory. He wonders what Henry is like with the glitz and glamour and 17th Century stockings stripped away from him.

“Well, Henry,” Alex says more bravely than he feels. “Would you mind helping me to a seat? I’ve been very gallant and brave, but I fear my ankle may be broken.”

Henry’s eyebrows jump up his forehead. “Broken?”

“Broken,” Alex says firmly. “You’ll simply have to accompany me and ensure I stay conscious and well. It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”

“Very well,” Henry says, clearly holding back a laugh. “Would you like to take my arm, then?”

“What, you aren’t going to carry me?” Alex teases. “Yeah, if that‘s okay.” His ankle really is throbbing in the leather heels. And thank fuck it is, for it distracts Alex enough to prevent him swooning into his saviour’s embrace as he wraps an arm around Alex’s middle.

“Steady now,” Henry murmurs, and the low warmth of his voice washes over Alex. He’s infuriatingly charming. And soothing. Alex fights down a blush as Henry’s hand presses against his stomach, and another whiff of his cologne reaches his nose.

Fucking Christ. Alex is half convinced Henry really is some 17th Century knight slash Prince Charming that has somehow slipped through a rip in the time-space continuum. He looks, sounds and acts the part. He tries to sneak a covert glance at the taller man, only to look away quickly as he meets blue eyes.

“I’m not decrepit,” Alex says half-heartedly. He’s not breathless - he’s really not. “Only mildly incapacitated.”

“Mildly,” Henry repeats, amused. “Sounds like something a tragic heroine might say right before a dramatic fainting spell.”

“Okay, ye of little faith.”

“Oh, I have faith in you. Just not your heels. Or coordination. Or-”

“Hey!” Alex complains, and Henry laughs. Alex watches the bob of his throat as he tips his head back, forgetting to laugh alongside him. “What if I promise to be courteous about it. Give you fair warning. Perhaps a monologue.”

“A monologue. Oh, you really are spoiling me.”

“I’ll make it super dramatic, just for you,” Alex tells him, finding himself grinning broadly.

“Something tells me dramatic is your default.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, sweetheart.”

“I promise I did not,” Henry assures him. His grip on Alex tightens ever so slightly as they edge around a rowdy crowd of people. “Now, are you sure you’re alright? I shouldn’t call for a physician?” his tone is teasing but his his brows are furrowed slightly as he assesses the way Alex is hobbling.

“It’s not very chivalrous to shirk your knightly duties, Henry.”

They’re slow-moving, mostly because Alex is limping and distracted. Henry matches his pace with easy grace, his gait short and unhurried. He doesn’t so much as wobble in his heels. Alex is not at all impressed. Some curious glances stick on them as the pass by and exit the hall, but Alex finds them easy to ignore.

“You misunderstand me,” Henry says earnestly, lifting his chin. “The health of my charge is of utmost importance to me. I only wish to ensure you’re thoroughly attended to and receive the best care.”

Alex dearly wishes he could thoroughly attend to Henry. Instead, he laughs and says, “Wow. That was a lot. Are you sure you’re from this century?”

Henry’s expression turns rueful. “Very. Although I sometimes feel somewhat out of step. Perhaps it’s the Jane Austen novels. Or my inclination towards…” he gestures around them to the gilded ballroom and centuries-old paintings.

“You are very Mr …” he pauses, tilting his head. “I was going to say Mr Darcy, but you’ve made quite a good first impression. I’m not sure that makes you very Mr Darcy at all.”

He brightens. “You’re an Austen fan?”

“No,” Alex says, dearly wishing he were. “My sister is, though. I’ve read Pride and Prejudice for school, and Persuasion for June. That’s my sister,” he clarifies.

Henry hums in acknowledgement as they reach an alcove, ducking into the small space. Alex eases down onto a narrow settee and winces as he props his leg out in front of him. His heart rate is gradually slowing, and he’s almost forgotten the scratch of the lace and the heaviness of the jacket. His pants are verging on too tight, but he’s willing to live with the discomfort because his ass looks amazing and he’s very determined for Henry to notice.

“Do you need to take them off?”

Alex starts. “Pardon?” he croaks, his mind skipping and jumping through hoops.

“Your shoes,” Henry says, nodding to them.

Oh. Right.

“That was the plan anyway,” he admits, “Once my sister got her photos and then became too drunk to notice whether I’d taken them off. It’s kind of a miracle I lasted this long anyway.” He hmphs as he toes at the heel of his bad foot, trying to kick off the shoe without bending over. “These are actually torture devices and I wish a very die to whoever invented them.”

“You can rest assured they are very much dead,” Henry offers. Then, quite suddenly, he’s on one knee and gently holding Alex’s foot between his palms. Alex’s breath hitches as Henry bows his head, blond locks catching the light. “The first heeled shoes were worn by Persians with the aim of keeping their feet locked in the stirrups. Modern high heels as we know them were also brought to us by the Persians much later.”

Alex tries to listen to Henry tell him about the history of heeled shoes, but he’s much too focused on the way long, nimble fingers slide off the offending heel and considers it with interest. He’s not sure whether he should feel like Cinder-fucking-ella or be worried Henry is harbouring a not so secret foot fetish. Maybe this whole chivalry thing was an act to get eye level with his feet. Or, perhaps, he really is just that much of a nerd.

Then Henry slides off Alex’s other shoe, gets to his feet and points to the bench beside Alex. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“You just took off my shoes, man. If you walked away, it’d make the whole thing weird.”

Behind the mask, Henry’s face turns pink. “You make a fair point, I suppose.”

“Sit down. And be honest with me. How the fuck are you walking around in heels without tripping and breaking your ankle? Tell me the secret.”

Henry shrugs. “Dancing lessons. Horseback riding. Polo.”

“Oh god,” Alex says. “You’re one of those super wealthy boarding school kids aren’t you? You probably grew up in a mansion and had a butler and etiquette lessons. This explains so much. You’re some sort of Disney Prince. And you speak French!” He remembers Henry’s perfect-sounding accent, the fluidity at which the language jumped off his tongue. “Fluently, am I right? I am right, aren’t I.”

Beside him, Henry’s blush darkens. “Well,” he starts, overenunciating the word and fidgeting with a gold ring on his pinky finger.

“It’s alright, we all have our flaws,” Alex says, nudging him with his shoulder. The padding in the shoulders of their costumes crunch together.

“You’re right. Attending boarding school and being multilingual and athletically-inclined is a smear upon my character. I’ll blot French from my memory at once. Polo too. Not sure I can do much about the boarding school, though.”

“On my account?” Alex teases, touching his heart. “Sweetheart, you’re so thoughtful.”

“And you are a menace.”

Alex simply shrugs. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt it,” Henry tells him, but his tone is light and his eyes sparkle. Alex wants to touch his smile so badly it hurts.

“Enough about me,” he presses quickly. “I want to know about you.”

Henry raises his eyebrows. “It’s been all about me.”

“Yeah, but like.” He gestures to Henry’s entire body. “We only have one whole night. I need the speedrun. You’re giving BBC miniseries with a dramatic soundtrack and I don’t have time to dig through the mysteries to discover the plot twist. Is there a portrait? A lady in your attic? A blood curse?”

Henry snorts at him. “You have quite the unruly imagination, don’t you?”

“Blame my upbringing. Too many soap operas. Too many CW shows with my sister. Not enough healthy examples of emotional expression and long periods being left alone.”

It comes out by accident, and Alex internally cringes. Henry doesn’t miss a beat, though his eyes soften. “No portrait or lady in the attic. You might say I have a blood curse, though. My maternal grandmother is the one that sent me to boarding school and insisted on French, horse riding and etiquette lessons. She’s quite … old-fashioned.”

“Is that the plot twist?”

Henry tilts his head to the side and assesses him, full lower lip caught between white teeth. “You did say we have the whole night.”

Something warm unfurls in Alex’s chest at the hint in his voice. “I did,” he allows.

“I suppose you’ll have to wai-” he smirks as Alex shifts, his mind and body impatient, his fingers playing in his lap. Alex glares at him.

“Hate you immediately.”

“Me? Your knight in shining armour?”

“I thought we had this discussion. No armour. Full plates didn’t survive into the 17th Century. Etcetera.”

“Very good recall, Alex. You’re a fast learner.”

And oh if that doesn’t send a zip of electricity down his spine and warm his belly. He digs his fingernails into his thighs and schools his expression into something that won’t give him away immediately.

“If you want to return to the ball and save some more uncoordinated gentleman, you can,” he blurts out. “I’m sure I can find my sister and our best friend around here somewhere.”

Henry considers him, brow creased ever so slightly. “How’s your ankle?” he asks instead of responding.

Alex blinks. “Well, it won’t need to be amputated,” he offers, looking down at it. He tests some of his weight on it, only the slightest twinge of pain flaring through his leg. “It’s fine. Probably need to give up the heels, though.”

“Well then,” Henry says, getting to his feet and standing before him. He looks ethereal in the stream of light filtering into their alcove, his blonde hair curling ever so slightly around his temples. He extends a hand, his wrist delicate and fingers long and nimble. “In that case, may I have a dance?”

For the third time that night, Alex’s stomach flips. He eyes Henry’s hand and then slides his gaze to Henry’s clear blue one. “If you insist.” He takes Henry’s hand and allows himself to be drawn upwards.

They stand face to face for a long moment, and Alex becomes acutely aware of the height difference between them and the softness of Henry’s hand in his palm. His eyes rest on the curve of Henry’s jaw, his full pink lips and the twin beauty marks by the corner of his mouth. He clears his throat and offers a smile, “Lead the way Your Majesty.”

“Of course, darling. Though,” he pauses, smiling lopsidedly. “I should say, it’s Your Royal Highness, unless you’re the sovereign.”

“Oh my god,” Alex rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning too. “You’re insufferable. Why did I agree to this?”

“Moral obligation? As thanks for my heroics?”

“What can I say, I’m chivalrous and gallant to a fault.”

“Oh, indeed,” Henry says solemnly as they step through pale white arches into the ballroom proper. Alex’s eyes follow the twirl of skirts and shuffling feet, glints of all the colours of the rainbow pulling his attention in different directions. His hand is still in Henry’s.

He looks sideways and finds Henry already looking at him. Alex blinks up at him slowly, heart in his throat. “Well?” he asks archly. Henry rolls his eyes but smiles.

They turn and face each other again, and after a moment of slight hesitation, Henry places one hand on Alex’s waist and raises their clasped hands. The signet ring on his pinky shines. Alex tries to feel normal about the way Henry’s broad hand feels over the curve of his waist.

As the clock strikes midnight, Alex places his hand on Henry’s shoulder and the two begin to dance.

One dance becomes two and then three. If anybody picks up on Alex’s shoe-less feet, he doesn’t notice, too busy swapping snarky comments with Henry and sipping bubbly champagne. Henry even procures them one of the gold dusted cupcakes Alex had almost sent spilling across the parquet floor, and shares it with Alex in another shadowy corner, giving whispered reviews of each costume that pass by, a true 17th Century courtier. Alex doesn’t spot June or Nora at all. Not that he tries very hard to look for them. He's having too much fun picking Henry's brain and giving him a blow by blow of his European adventures thus far.

When the lights gutter out and the orchestra withdraws, Alex retrieves his shoes from the alcove and tugs Henry outside. He’s overflowing with a keen sense of giddiness, his heart well and truly stuck in his throat as Henry’s shoes click on the stone exit way.

The gardens unfold before them, concrete carving pale paths into dark lawns. They pass the first fountain, a huge circle of gold and marble, a proud figure standing atop and staring imperiously into the distance as water arcs out of her and into the pool below. Henry catches Alex staring and opens his mouth before shutting it again.

Alex smothers his grin. As the night had unfolded, Henry had also spoiled him with more facts about the Palace of Versailles than one would get on a guided tour. It’s clear he’s not only well-educated on history and art and too many other subjects for Alex to think about right now, but that he’s passionate too. Alex is finding he likes the way the cadence of his voice quickens and the gleam in his eyes when he touches on something he finds particularly exciting.

“Tell me,” he invites.

Henry doesn’t waste a breath. “This is the Latona fountain,” he says. “There she is at the top. You may know her by her Greek incarnation, Leto.”

“Uhhh,” Alex says, feeling a little out of his depth. “I’m more of a 19th Century onwards world history sort of guy, honestly."

“Well, Leto gave birth to the Olympian twins, Apollo and Artemis,” Henry continues, head tilted back as he takes in the figure of Latona. “Artemis, or Diana in her Roman form, was the goddess of the moon whilst Apollo was the god of the sun. The French King, Louis XIV, was responsible not just for the creation of this,” he gestures to the fountain. “But, he was the driving force behind making the Palace of Versailles the centre of politics, power, culture and art. At least, it was until the beginning of the French Revolution.”

“Right,” Alex says slowly, digging through his memory for something half-intelligent to say. He had been telling the truth when he had said he’s a 19th century onwards world history guy. The French Revolution he has a stronger grasp of, at least. “And what importance did he place on this myth? There’s a reason it’s placed so centrally.”

Henry offers him a smile. “Correct. Louis XIV fashioned himself quite the image. He called himself the Sun King, and had himself portrayed as such. Hence, his identification with Apollo. He was … intent on cultivating the image as far as he could will it. The sun was the centre of the universe; as was Louis. He had absolute authority.”

“He sounds like a stand up guy. Who doesn’t love a little egoism and absolute monarchy?”

Henry’s chuckle makes Alex smile wider. Wordlessly, they push on, letting the inky blackness swallow them up. As they descend the stairs, their hands brush, tiny sparks of heat and affection running up his arms and coaxing colour to his cheeks.

They walk further, the sounds of the party fading into the background. Technically, they shouldn’t be out here, especially not this deep in the gardens. But, Alex has never had a problem with bending a few rules for the greater good. The greater good being seeing Henry’s cheeks dimple as he smiles and gestures excitedly at some new figure. Besides, something has clicked between them, and he desperately wants to explore the feelings swirling inside him, away from prying eyes.

“That way-” Henry points to their left. “Is Apollo's Fountain. Erm, that way is the Dauphin’s Grove. Oh, the Enceladus Grove is quite something. It depicts the fall of Giants and the subsequent rise of the Gods-”

More crinkled smile lines appear as he turns his face toward Alex. Alex's heart goes sprawling in his chest.

He really fucking needs to get a grip.

They pass more statues of bronze and marble, bodies twisted and frozen in time, pale against emerald hedges. Henry’s voice is soothing and melodic, and at some point during their journey toward the centre of the Girandole Grove, their fingers catch and Alex slides his palm into Henry’s. They don’t look at each other, and Henry doesn’t miss a beat, but his grip on Alex tightens and Alex turns to the left and grins, his heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest.

No water flows out of the fountain. The pool sits calm and flat in its enclosure, the fullness of the moon reflected in its surface. Alex casts his eyes around, squinting into the shadows to ensure they’re entirely alone.

“It’s beautiful out here,” Henry says quietly, breaking the silence before Alex can. His gaze is skyward and Alex follows it, admiring the sea of stars above. He feels transported by it, his fingers clenching as he contemplates the fact that just over 400 years ago, another man likely stood in this very spot, his cravat hopefully not as itchy, and looked at the same stars. He shivers at the thought.

“Are you cold?” Henry asks, slinking closer. Their arms press together, some of his heat immediately suffusing into Alex.

Alex isn’t cold. Not at all. In fact, he’s quite sure he’s sweating into his costume and ruining any chance of getting his deposit back. “Why? Are you offering to warm me up?” He teases instead, shuffling closer. He runs his thumb across Henry’s knuckles.

Henry turns to look at him, eyes heavy lidded. “Shall I speak plainly?” His eyes drop to Alex’s lips.

The air leaves Alex’s lungs, but his expression stays intact. “You,” he says in a low voice, “are such a goddamn Austen character.”

The air is cold and sweet, the smell of freshly clipped grass, loamy soil and blooming flowers filling Alex’s nostrils. Henry’s eyes are so very blue, and his lips so very full. Alex leans forward ever so slightly, smiling already. He’s going to kiss this charming stranger until he can’t feel his lips anymore if it’s the last thing he does.

Suddenly, there’s the crunch of gravel and a blinding light flashes through the opposite hedge. Alex jumps a foot in the air, his grip on Henry tightening as the sound of raised voices reach them.

“Oh, Christ,” Henry mutters beside him, tugging at Alex’s hand.

“What are they saying?”

“Tu n'es pas autorisé ici!”

“That we have to go,” Henry says quickly, his confidence waning as the torchlight streaks across the ground.

At that moment, two men that Alex guesses are security guards appear thirty feet to their right, their torch blinding him temporarily. They shout something more, and beside him Henry swears under his breath as Alex blinks stars from his eyes.

“Run?” Alex suggests as the two of them take short, stilted steps back into the shadows. He’s extraordinarily grateful he’s holding his heels in his free hand.

“Run,” Henry agrees, and in the next breath they’re sprinting down the next pathway, hand in hand.

“STOP!” shouts one of the men behind them, their French accent thick.

They run harder.

Alex and Henry kick up rocks as they take a sharp corner and run down the next side of the diamond shaped hedge. Heavy footfalls fall further behind, and Alex would be so goddamn impressed in Henry’s ability to run in heavy heeled shoes if he weren’t scared about getting caught and ending up an international criminal. He’s on the cusp of his legal career, dammit!

“Here,” Henry whisper-shouts, turning into another copse of trees. “We just need to-”

Far down the other end of the walkway, two more guards turn onto the path, a torch raised. Alex swears, and their men's heads snap toward them. Crap!

“This way!” Henry says urgently, his voice pitched high. They change directions abruptly and push themselves into a sprint, emerging abruptly into thoroughfare adjacent to the Great Lawn. Henry’s hand is warm and solid in his as they sprint toward the Palace, and Alex can’t help the laugh he feels bubble up in his throat.

“STOP THERE!”

The voices are distant as they swerve right and pass by the Bacchus Fountain and into the Queen’s Grove. Alex’s lungs work hard, his body far too hungover-turned-tipsy and constricted by the costume to work as efficiently as he is used to. Sweat drips down his back and his feet hurt from the roughness of the cobblestones. And yet, he finds himself giggling madly as they slow to a jog and, finally, a stop.

“That was-” Henry says breathlessly, his cheeks pink and mask slightly askew.

“Fun?” Alex suggests, grinning impishly.

“I-” Henry seems off kilter, his eyes impossibly big. There’s a moment strung between them, fraught with a kind of fervour that has Alex’s blood heating, before Henry is upon him and crushing their bodies together against the hedge.

“Henry,” Alex chokes out, fisting his blue-and-gold jacket and pulling him impossibly closer. Their noses brush but Alex’s eyes are stuck on Henry’s lips. His heart slams against his ribcage as his desire peaks, the need for Henry overwhelming. This time he isn’t going to be interrupted.

“Can I take off your mask?” Henry asks then, and Alex nods because he understands - he wants to kiss Henry as himself, without the shield of anonymity. He wants it to be real.

Henry’s deft fingers slip into his hair. Alex has to bite back a moan as Henry tugs an errant curl in his efforts, his knuckles turning white as he clenches his fists around the lapels of Henry’s jacket. “You did that on purpose,” he accuses.

“Did I?” Henry asks, smiling as he gently plucks the mask from Alex’s face. Alex blinks slowly up at Henry, watching his expression. His eyes are soft, expression almost - awestruck? He feels another uncharacteristic blush crest his cheeks as Henry touches the side of his face with the very tips of his fingers. “You’re beautiful.”

Alex doesn’t stop the smile that steals across his face. Part of him needs a moment to breathe. Part of him wishes he could transport himself and Henry to his hotel room across the city. He pushes both of those thoughts aside and chooses to lift his own hands instead, tugging at the knot keeping Henry’s mask in place. “Your turn, sweetheart.”

He’s almost done when more voices reach them. Instinctively, they both go quiet, hearts hammering, hoping that by some miracle it’s not the guards.

“Where is he?” asks a familiar voice. “I’m going to murder him with my bare hands.”

Alex claps a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. June’s voice is loud, as though she’s directly beside them, just on the other side of the hedge. “That’s my sister,” he breathes to Henry, who’s eyes widen and then crinkle in amusement.

“Maybe he’s busy,” Nora’s voice floats toward them next. Alex’s delight drains from him as she giggles, already knowing what she’s about to say next. “Odds on him hooking up with someone in some dark corner?”

“You think he went through with the bet?” June asks curiously.

“Have you met your brother? Competitive? Never backed down from anything in his life? About thiiiis tall?” they explode into giggles, the sounds becoming quieter as they stroll away into the distance.

Across from him, Henry is frozen, his skin so pale under the luminescence of the palace’s lights he looks like he too could be a statue in the garden. “Henry,” Alex says quickly, shame curdling inside him.

Henry’s smile fades, like clouds moving to obscure the brightness of the moon. His expression is replaced by something more distant, the shape of him no longer friendly and open. “A bet,” he says slowly, words crisp in his posh accent.

“It wasn’t like that,” Alex says immediately, stepping forward. Henry steps back immediately, his eyes leaving Alex’s, face turning into the embrace of a shadow.

“It was lovely to meet you, Alex,” he says into the air between them. Alex’s heart rate doubles as his stomach turns to lead.

“I was thinking maybe we could exchange numbers,” he blurts out, hope burning a quick, bright death in his chest as Henry cuts him with a sharp look.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Henry says smoothly, voice like satin. He still won’t look at Alex properly. “I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening.”

“Henry-” Alex tries again, grabbing his hand. Henry’s face shutters for a moment, crumpling in on itself. Then-

“Alex!” exclaims two familiar voices from behind them. June and Nora.

“Hen-” Henry pulls his hand free and turns on his heel, his strides quick and efficient as he disappears into the night. Alex hesitates, caught between chasing after Henry and acknowledging June and Nora. Then he feels the cold, rounded object in his hand.

He squints down at it, his eyesight failing him in the dark of the night. He holds it out into the trickle of light cast by the palace and realises it’s Henry’s signet ring, a small H carved on the face of it.

“Henry,” he says to himself, heart leaping. He has to run after him! He can convince him to listen to him, to realise that Alex wasn’t so arrogant and self-centred to have used Henry to win some stupid bet.

When he looks up, though, squinting through the dark, he can no longer see Henry’s silhouette. Where had he gone? Had he simply turned left back up to the palace, or had he re-entered the maze of paths, seeking solace elsewhere? Alex’s chest caves in on itself, panic clawing at him.

Then, a hand touches his back. “Alex,” June says sharply. “Where have you been? You weren’t answering your phone!”

“Were you just with someone?” Nora asks excitedly, “Was that a guy?” she stands on her toes and peers into the darkness.

Alex feels like his skin is pulled taut over his body, his costume too tight and warm for him. He wants to snap at them to go away; for ruining his chances of getting to know Henry a little better, for a little longer.

When he turns to them, they must see his dismay written clearly across his face. Nora’s grin falls away and June’s immediately morphs into protective. “What’s wrong?” she asks, touching his elbow, concern in every syllable.

“I just,” Alex glances over his shoulder. There’s nothing but hedges and gravel. “I screwed up,” he finishes lamely, turning back to June and Nora and their confused expressions.

In the distance, the first of the fireworks burst high and bright in the sky.

Part of Alex hopes he might bump into Henry on the winding Parisian streets or in one of the tiny cafes.

It’s a long shot, and he knows fate is too capricious to throw them together by chance again. And yet, he looks for Henry’s silhouette on each corner, the breadth of his shoulders and the shine of his golden hair committed to memory.

Two days after the masquerade ball, after they’ve returned their costumes to the store June had tracked down via a deep dive on reddit, Alex feeds Henry’s ring onto the chain around his throat. It sits over his collarbones, warmed by the heat of his body, the weight of it confusing him from time to time. Just as his mind diverts from the topic of Henry the caress of the ring across his skin catapults him back into their moments in the garden.

That his absence is like that of a phantom limb fills Alex with anxiety - why is he so caught on Henry? It’s illogical to be so dismayed and agitated over a man he had only spent a couple of hours with. But, Alex can’t shake loose the feeling that Henry is important. He had been unlike anyone Alex had ever met, and the ease at which they had settled into a rhythm had stupefied him.

“You should’ve given it to the lost and found at the palace,” June tells him as they pack their bags two nights later.

“I forgot about it at first,” Alex lies. “I shoved it in my pocket and only remembered when we had to take them back.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Alejandro,” Nora says fondly, patting his elbow. “Also, I have a few more guesses. Heath?”

Nora had been guessing what H stood for since Alex had shown it to them on the way back from the costume shop. “No.”

“Hayes.”

“You’re getting colder.”

“Are you even going to tell me if I do get it right?” she asks as she collects items strewn across the hotel floor.

“No fucking way,” Alex tells her and throws her scarf she’d let him borrow across the room at her. He’s not sure why he wants to keep Henry’s name close to his chest. The likelihood of seeing him ever again is almost zero. But the memory of their night together sits warm in his solar plexus. The curve of his smile and the fluidity of his body as he had spun Alex around the ballroom are burned into the back of his eyelids.

“Maybe it’s a last name,” June says, folding a long-sleeved shirt. “Wouldn’t that make more sense? Perhaps it’s a family heirloom.”

“Oooooh, true,” Nora agrees, twisting the scarf Alex had thrown her way. “Maybe his name is embarrassing and that’s why you’re not telling us, huh? It would kinda ruin the vibes if his name was something like, I dunno, Jeff.”

Alex ignores them entirely and zips his suitcase closed, the first one packed for the first time in his whole entire life. “I dibs first shower,” he says breezily and hightails it into the bathroom before they can pester him any more. He needs a moment, or several.

The next morning, the three of them fly back to London for the final days of their European summer. Alex tries not to feel like his heart is being ripped from his body and plays it as cool as possible as they board the plane for take-off. He doesn't exactly pull it off based on the worried looks June throws him.

They make the most of London and the remainder of their Europe trip while they can, though they’re sluggish and slow from three months of cavorting across the continent. They go to Covent Garden and Alex agrees to hold shopping bags while June and Nora take photos and videos together against several walls and lanes in Neal’s Yard. Something has changed between them since Paris, but he’s not quite sure what. It’s not the first time he’s taken a picture of Nora kissing June’s cheek, but it’s the first time June seems flustered about it.

Next is Trafalgar Square, a picture of Big Ben from a distance, and Alex excitedly peeking into Houses of Parliament. London is beautiful and historic and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t have fun, no matter how much a certain Brit is playing on his mind. He most certainly doesn’t think about the way Henry could probably give him his own personalised guided tour, or the way his face glows when he’s excited about some particular aspect of history. Instead, he pesters his equally nerdy sister for information, but she’s not nearly as engaging and he soon becomes distracted.

“Alex, your face is doing that thing again,” June tells him on their last day as they exit the grounds of Kensington Palace.

Alex hastily rearranges his expression. “Don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Is this the Versailles man again?” June presses, clearly amused. “You’ve been acting kinda weird ever since the ball, lil bit.”

“It was only a couple of hours,” Nora comments, walking backwards and eyeing him critically. “Did he cast some special love spell on you or something?”

“You wanna talk about love spells?” he shoots back, “Wanna tell me about your night at Versailles?”

Nora raises an eyebrow at him, but she doesn’t falter. “Touchy, touchy,” she says lightly.

Alex narrows his eyes at her but June grabs his elbow. “Shall we visit a museum? Take your pick, the Natural History Museum, the Science Museum or the Victoria & Albert Museum.”

“The one Nora wants to go to least,” Alex tells her immediately. Nora sticks her tongue out in retaliation.

It’s the night before they fly back to the States and Alex is sitting ramrod straight as he watches the Wimbledon Quarter-Finals at the pub closest to their hotel. His eyes follow the bounce of the ball from one side of the court to the other, the quiet conversations and clink of cutlery fading into the background as he sinks further into the rhythm of the game.

A sudden nudge has him almost upsetting his pint.

“Sorry,” June whispers to him as the crowd ooooohs. Alex twists back to find the Spanish player on match point and swears.

“Yeah?” he asks distractedly, turning back to his sister and Nora.

“We’re going to head back to the hotel room, alright?”

“Mhmm,” he says to her, watching the Italian throw the ball up to serve. Her words slowly filter through as he watches the players begin to dance, until quite suddenly they hit him. “What? Why?” he asks, turning back around, only to find the seat completely empty. Even their glasses are gone. Fuck.

Figuring he shouldn’t take up an entire table to himself, he toes the ground and slides off his chair. He’s warm anyway, even in his half unbuttoned mesh button up, and could do with another cold beer in his hand.

He collects one from the bar and shuffles into the middle, now standing room only. It’s two sets to one, and the Spaniard needs to win the next game to have a fighting chance. He’s so engrossed in the game, body swaying as he wills the ball this way and that and for the Spaniard to come out on top, that he almost trips over his feet and jostles a man squeezing through the crowd toward the bar.

“Sorry,” he mutters distractedly.

“It’s quite alright.”

Alex’s concentration snaps. That voice. He knows it. He whips his head around and searches for the body the voice belongs to. There he is, light blue button up, sleeves folded to his elbows and gold-spun hair neatly styled back from his face. The same perfect posture, the same way of standing with a hip popped ever so slightly. It’s-

“Henry,” he says out loud, his feet moving before he realises what he’s doing. He crosses the sticky pub floor in a few long strides, his brain buzzing. “Henry,” he says louder.

The man at the bar turns and Alex gets his first proper look at Henry.

Thick eyebrows lead to a strong, straight nose. There are light purple bags under his eyes, but otherwise his skin is smooth and ever so lightly freckled. There’s even a freckle by the corner of his eye that the mask had hidden from Alex’s view. His lips part in surprise as Alex draws close.

“Alex,” he says, turning completely away from the bar, shock splashed across his handsome face. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m … I’m flying home from here,” he says, caught off guard. He’d cobbled together the dot points of a speech in the seconds it had taken him to cross the room, and now Henry is going off script. “Henry, can we talk?” he rushes to ask.

Henry blinks, confusion giving way to assent as he nods. They shuffle towards the back of the pub, to a corner where a television isn’t in line of sight, and therefore an empty booth. Alex glances nervously across at Henry before sliding into the chair. His heart is pounding steadily in his chest, the low thrum of anxiety in his stomach now peaking as Henry turns big blue eyes on him.

There’s a moment of silence. They’re both unsure how to proceed. Alex rubs his thumb along the condensation on his glass and tries not to jostle the table with the jiggle of his leg. Henry looks tired, like he hasn’t slept well, and he wants to ask why; hopes, maybe, that he’s been as anguished as Alex has been.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he bursts out, unable to keep words contained inside him any longer. “What are the fucking chances. I mean. You’re from London so maybe not as slim as they might otherwise be, now that I think about it. But, I mean, we were just in Paris. Both of us. Who’s to say we’d both be in London at the same time too.” He jams his jaw shut to shut himself up.

“I-” Henry blinks at him slowly. “I’m sorry, I’m still processing. I also didn’t think…” he trails off and smiles ruefully. “I should say … I’m sorry I walked away so quickly, Alex.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Alex says firmly. “Well. I mean. I understand why you did. I would have too, I think. Or maybe I would’ve said something I’d have regretted. I don’t know. Actually, probably the second option. But I wouldn’t have meant it. It was just a stupid bet. I wish I could’ve explained. I had such a great fucking night with you, I wasn’t thinking about that at all.”

Henry lets out a breath. His eyes drift away from Alex’s and he looks across the room as he says, “That night … It meant something to me, Alex. And, in hindsight, I believed it meant something to you too. At that moment, I was just hur-.”

“It did,” Alex rushes to say, his butt almost coming off the seat in his eagerness to chime in. He flushes as he realises he’s leaning so far across the table he can smell Henry’s cologne. It’s soft and earthy, like he’d traipsed through a garden. He wants to sniff it again.

Henry’s lips twitch as Alex shoves himself against the back of the booth and sits up straight, attentive. “I’m not mad about a … dare, or a bet. I suppose what hurt was that I didn’t want to feel like … like I was being collected. Like I was just another man you hooked up with in a shadowy corner. A memory with no substance, when I thought our conversation had given way to something more substantial.”

A sudden flurry of guilt surges through him. “Henry,” he says, clenching his fingers into a fist in his lap. “You weren’t. At all. My best friend, Nora, made up that stupid bet. I think she mostly did it to make me leave them alone, or, I don’t know. To get me to loosen up. I don’t-” he makes a gesture with his free hand. “And you weren’t anything like that to me. The second you saved me from tripping in those fucking shoes the whole thing fell out of my head. The only thought on my mind was you. Fuck, the only thought in my head since that whole shitshow has been you and whether I’d ever see you again.”

He feels like he’s been stripped of several layers of skin, vulnerability settling uncomfortably over him. His leg jumps up and down, almost knocking the top of the table. Across from him, Henry’s lips part, his eyes on Alex again. Soft and blue, Alex immediately feels like flinging himself into their depths. But, neither of them speak. Even when cheers erupt behind them and the commentators begin to yell.

After a pregnant pause, Henry exhales slowly, his shoulders loosening. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says softly. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you for one moment since that night. The thought of never seeing you again-” he flushes, looking down at his hands in his lap. “The disappointment was almost too much to bear.”

Alex’s heart skips several beats, he’s too shocked to move an inch, to speak at all. Alex swears he tastes television static as his brain wraps itself around Henry’s words. “I-” he opens his mouth and closes it again, words dissolving on his tongue.

Henry glances up as the silence lags, and looks far too amused for his own good. “I think this is the longest I’ve ever heard you not speak.”

It breaks the spell. “Ha ha,” he says dryly, but it comes out wobbly. “Keep teasing me and you’ll never get your ring back.”

His face brightens. “My ring?”

“I kept it. I thought perhaps it was an heirloom. Important to you. I strung it on my necklace so I wouldn’t lose it.” He tugs at his chain and shows Henry the place it sits, right over the dip between his clavicles. “Here, help me unclasp it and I’ll give it back to you.”

He stands quickly, eager to please Henry. Henry stands too, his expression bordering on fondness as Alex smiles and twirls dramatically, lifting up his slightly too long curls from the nape of his neck. It’s been weeks since his last haircut, but he’s kind of into the longer hair now.

Henry’s touch comes, but it’s not where he expects it. Instead, large hands encircle his waist and guide him back around, touch light enough to shrug off. Alex doesn’t, though, spinning back to face him and stepping into his orbit without a second thought. He has to lift his head to look into Henry’s eyes, which shouldn’t be as hot as it is. He feels like he’s in a swoony movie.

“Are we finally going to get that kiss?” he asks bluntly, eyes on Henry’s lips.

“Third time's the charm,” Henry agrees, his palm sliding around to press on the small of Alex’s back.

“Fuck, you’re so—” Alex struggles for words as he wraps a hand in the front of Henry’s shirt and tugs him down to his level.

The first brush of their lips has something inside of Alex slotting into place. A puzzle piece he hadn’t noticed was missing finally returned, rendering him once again whole.

The second brush of their lips is like fireworks. Each press of their mouths sends sparks skittering through Alex, his nerve endings lighting up and all but exploding as Henry cups his jaw and deepens the kiss, his tongue in Alex’s mouth and his hand in Alex’s curls.

He feels himself melt into Henry, hands on his shoulders to keep himself upright, his teeth sinking into Henry’s bottom lip and sucking as Henry groans into his mouth. When they can’t breathe anymore they break apart, Alex’s blood hot inside of him, and a light, airy feeling in his chest. “Fuck, Hen.”

“You’re incredible,” Henry says, their noses brushing as Henry presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth. Alex decides he very much wants to devour him here and now, if only there weren’t so many people.

“Fucking hell, Henry,” he mutters again, beyond words, and surges up, kissing him again. And again. He’s suddenly aware the corner of the table is digging into his hip, and his own hand has snuck under the collar of Henry’s shirt to rest on warm skin. “How do you feel about spending one more night together?”

“Yes, please,” Henry tells him immediately. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “Am I being presumptuous if I ask whether you might want to,” he gestures towards the door.

“This bar doesn’t suit your tastes?” Alex teases him, grinning wider as Henry rolls his eyes. “You prefer something more upscale?”

“I thought I’d never see you again. Can you blame a man for wanting?” he sucks on his bottom lip and the flash of teeth sends a shiver down Alex’s spine.

“I’m going to do so many bad things to you,” he promises. He’s not ashamed of the yearning inside him; smiles when Henry huffs out a surprised laugh and turns pink. “So, are you going to show me where you live?”

Henry’s eyebrows draw together. “Oh. I’m staying with my sister. I suppose I assumed you have a hotel room.”

“Staying with your sister?” Alex asks, confused. “I thought you lived in London.”

“Not anymore. Actually, my flight home is tomorrow morning.”

“Home?”

“New York City,” Henry supplies. “I moved there to study my Mas-”

“Wait!” Alex interrupts. “You’re … You …” a grin splits his face, he feels like he could fucking float, his body tingling with anticipation and giddiness. “Me too!”

Henry freezes. Blinks rapidly. “You live in New York?” he pauses as Alex nods excitedly. “But, your accent! I figured you were from the South.”

“I moved to New York for law school!” Alex throws back immediately. He grabs Henry’s elbow to anchor himself. To prove this moment is real, and that he hadn’t dreamt it up. His shock is mirrored on Henry’s face, and Alex quite suddenly realises that for all the feelings swirling between them, they had forgotten to backtrack and cover the basics.

“Perhaps we should have exchanged some basics first,” Henry says, voicing Alex’s thoughts, amusement colouring every syllable.

Alex’s mind is already racing several steps ahead, though. New York City. Henry. A subway ride away. He could see him again without travelling halfway around the world. “Later,” he says fervently. Behind them, more shouts start up, filling the room with noise.

Henry’s eyebrows thread together. “Pardon?”

“Later,” Alex repeats. “Later, you’re going to give me your number. And when we’re both back in New York, I’m going to take you out. Treat you the way you deserve. Romance the fuck out of you. Be your knight in shining fucking armour. If you’ll let me.”

“If I let you,” Henry says, exasperated and fond. “Christ, yes, Alex. Please. I’d like that very much. I apologise if I haven't made that abundantly clear.”

“Good,” Alex tells him levelly. “Because right now, I really want to take you to the bathroom and do some of those bad things I talked about.”

Henry raises his eyebrows, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “So romantic,” he comments, taking a step backwards toward the bathrooms, tugging Alex’s hand lightly.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Alex promises with barely concealed lust. He feels close to exploding. “Move your ass- what’s your last name?”

It’s another gaping hole in their knowledge of each other. Neither of them care.

“Fox,” Henry tells him, eyes sparkling.

“Move your ass, Fox.”

“Your wish is my command Mr… ?”

“Claremont-Diaz,” Alex supplies.

Henry’s back hits the bathroom door and Alex crowds him against it, the electricity pulsing between them crackling as their chests touch. “Are you as much of a mouthful as your name?” Henry asks innocently.

Alex swears. Shoves the door open and follows him in. Bolts the door closed.

That night he jumps off the proverbial cliff with Henry, both of them hurtling headfirst into a beginning they’d almost fumbled.