I figure- this could stay in my notes forever or I could just like, put myself out of my misery and post it.
RWRB Post-Election Night Ficlet
Alex sheds the Gucci bomber and leans on the kitchen counter, takes what feels like his first breath in hours. He watches Henry loosen his tie and carefully lay his suit jacket over the back of a dining chair. Outside, the moon peeks out from behind the clouds, casting its glow over the yard. Alex takes another deep breath- in, out- and feels his shoulders drop incrementally from where they’ve been for the past year. The thrum of his body quiets, the noise from the party and the giddy ride through Austin slowly falling away.
“God, I’m fucking exhausted.”
Henry smiles and comes over, and Alex sways into him.
“I want to show you the house, but—come sit with me first?” He leads Henry out the screen door, pulls him down onto the porch swing.
There’s a faint smell of barbecue drifting on the air, the familiar night symphony of cicadas. Alex used to come out here when the house didn’t feel big enough for him and all his thoughts, when he got restless enough for June to start frowning in his direction. The days after he and Liam first hooked up. The time his mom sat them all down and announced her decision to run for president. And three years ago, when he lay under the large oak and dug his fingers into the dirt, a last grasp at home before moving to D.C.
Now, with Henry warm and solid against his side, those memories feel different. Like they’ve lost their power to make him feel inadequate, fumbling his way through life’s biggest moments.
Deep down, he’s always wondered if he could make it outside of Texas, thought that if he went too far or aimed too high his string to the city might break, him along with it. That who he was might disappear. Coming back tonight though, something clicks into place. He realizes that home was with him all along, not in the key, but nestled right underneath, beating and pulsing with every step, pointing him to true north.
Alex leans into Henry’s shoulder, links their hands together. Thinks of sunsets under the Brooklyn Bridge, of him and Henry, together against the world. It’s enough, he thinks, and lets the wind carry the rest away.
