The brownstone was quiet, the usual frantic energy of Brooklyn muffled by the heavy curtains and the thick, familiar warmth of the kitchen. Alex stood by the island, his sleeves pushed up, looking at the cake he had spent the better part of the afternoon attempting to assemble. It wasn't perfect—the frosting was a bit thick in places—but it was honest.
When Henry walked in, Alex gestured toward the center of the table, where a small candle flickered, their light reflecting off the gold band on Alex’s hand.
"Make a wish, Hen," Alex said softly, his voice grounding and steady. "Close your eyes and blow them out."
Henry stepped closer, the glow of the flames catching the blue of his eyes. He did as he was told, squeezing his eyes shut, but the wish that formed in his mind wasn't for the future—it was a quiet, aching plea to the past.
He wished, with a sudden and sharp intensity, for just one more day with Arthur Fox. He imagined a single afternoon where the weight of the crown didn't exist, where he could walk into a room and introduce Alex not as a diplomatic necessity, but as the man who had taught him how to breathe again. He wanted to see his father’s reaction to Alex’s sharp wit and his tireless heart, to hear his father say he was proud to see Henry finally, truly happy.
The air in the kitchen didn’t just grow still; it shifted, the atoms vibrating with a sudden, strange density. The smell of Alex’s slightly burnt chocolate cake was replaced by something sharper—the salt-tangle of the English coast and the faint, woody scent of the cologne Henry’s father had worn for twenty years.
The Brooklyn brownstone was gone. In its place was the sun-drenched library of the house in Oxfordshire, the golden hour light spilling across rows of well-loved books. And there, standing by the window with a script in his hand and a familiar, patient smile, was Arthur Fox.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Pip," Arthur said, his voice as rich and warm as Henry remembered.
Henry couldn’t breathe. He felt the solid weight of Alex’s hand still in his, and he looked down to find Alex standing there with him, looking around the room with wide, bewildered eyes.
"Dad," Henry choked out, the word feeling like a miracle.
"And who is this?" Arthur asked, stepping forward with that easy, effortless grace. He looked at Alex—not with the cold appraisal of the Palace, but with a keen, fatherly curiosity.
Henry took a shaky breath and pulled Alex forward. "Dad, this is Alex. Alex Claremont-Diaz. He’s... he’s the person I told you about. The one who makes the world quiet enough for me to hear myself."
Alex, usually never at a loss for words, looked at Arthur with a rare, quiet reverence. "It’s an honor, sir. Truly."
Arthur studied them for a long moment, his eyes moving from Henry’s face to the way Alex was subconsciously stepping closer to Henry, a silent shield. A slow, genuine smile broke across Arthur’s face. He reached out, placing one hand on Henry’s shoulder and the other on Alex’s arm.
"I can see it," Arthur whispered. "The light in you, Henry. It’s back. You’ve found someone who doesn't mind the weight of the crown because he's too busy looking at the man beneath it."
He looked at Alex. "Thank you for taking care of my son."
"He takes care of me too, sir," Alex said, his voice thick with emotion.
For an hour that felt like an eternity and a heartbeat all at once, they talked. No politics, no protocols—just three men in a library, sharing stories and laughter that felt like a bridge over a canyon of grief.
Then, the light began to fade, the edges of the room blurring into the familiar shadows of the Brooklyn kitchen.
"I have to go, Pip," Arthur said, his image softening like a memory. "But I’m not far. I’m in every blueprint you build and every happy moment you choose."
Henry reached out, catching the last warmth of his father’s hand before the room settled back into the present. The candles on the cake were out, the smoke curling lazily into the air.
Alex was still there, his grip on Henry’s hand tight and real. "Did that... did we just...?"
Henry leaned into Alex, a single, happy tear falling onto his cheek. "History, Alex."
Alex kissed his temple, holding him fast. "The best kind, Hen. The absolute best kind."
Henry sat in the sudden stillness of the kitchen, his heart hammering against his ribs as the phantom scent of salt air and old books slowly evaporated. Alex hadn't let go of his hand; his grip was firm, a tether to the present moment.
"Henry," Alex whispered, his voice trembling with the same awe that was vibrating through Henry’s chest. "Did we just... was that real?"
Henry didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the mahogany surface of the kitchen island. There, resting right next to the lopsided chocolate cake, was something that hadn't been there a moment ago.
It was a small, worn leather bookmark, embossed with the crest of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Henry reached out with a shaking hand and picked it up. It was warm to the touch, and when he held it to his nose, it carried the unmistakable, lingering scent of his father’s library.
"He left it," Henry breathed, a fresh wave of tears blurring his vision as he traced the familiar indentations in the leather. "He was really here, Alex. He saw us."
Alex let out a long, shaky breath and pulled Henry into a fierce hug, burying his face in Henry's neck. "He saw you happy, Hen. That’s all he wanted."
After a few minutes of just holding each other in the quiet blue of the evening, Alex pulled back and wiped a thumb across Henry’s cheek. He picked up the silver cake server, his movements deliberate and grounding.
"Okay," Alex said, his voice returning to its familiar, slightly bossy tone that always made Henry feel safe. "The wish came true. The universe did its thing. Now, we are eating this cake. I didn't wrestle with that frosting for three hours for it to go to waste."
Henry let out a wet, genuine laugh and sat down on one of the high stools. He watched as Alex cut two generous, messy slices and slid them onto plates.
They ate in a peaceful, profound silence, the chocolate rich and sweet—a perfect contrast to the sharp, ethereal ache of the miracle they’d just shared. David the beagle trotted over, his tail thumping against Alex’s leg, and Alex absentmindedly dropped a small piece of crust for him.
Henry looked from the bookmark to the man sitting across from him, and then to the dog at their feet. The blueprint of his life had changed so many times, but for the first time, every line made sense.
"History, huh?" Henry said, raising his fork in a quiet toast.
Alex leaned across the table and kissed him, the taste of chocolate and starlight lingering between them.
"The best kind, baby," Alex replied. "The absolute best kind."
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