Abroad

Nine

There was a certain freedom in not giving a single fuck anymore. Maybe Alex was kidding himself for thinking of this as freedom, this newfound ability to stumble and bumble his way unapologetically through life, but it was certainly better than allowing himself to dwell on how shitty it felt without Henry in his life. Alex was torn between regretting kissing Henry and being happy that he did. If he hadn't kissed Henry that fateful night, they could still be friends, but then Alex would have this terrible ache and want in his chest––the kind that would have consumed him until he closed the distance between them. So, no. Alex couldn't regret that kiss because, without it, the ghost of Henry's lips on his own wouldn't come to him in dreams. The memory of Henry's touch––his maddening, hungry touch––became his only solace. It follows him through his day and climbed into his mind at night to bring him a peaceful sleep.

Despite his internal objections, Alex obeyed Henry's wishes. For the most part, anyway. He didn't talk or sit next to Henry. The only thing he allowed himself to do was to look at him––mostly at the back of his head–-because, well, how could he refrain? Plus, it certainly couldn't have mattered if he stole a glance every now and then again because Henry seemed none the wiser about it. 

He did, however, try to maintain his friendship with Pez which, as he could have predicted, promptly exploded when he called him for the first time after that night. 

"I'm sorry, darling," Pez had sighed when Alex had called him up to see if he wanted to hang out. "I love you but I am, first and foremost, Henry's best friend. And, well, kissing him while he has a boyfriend was simply the worst idea you've ever had."

"If...if he ever asks about me, can you tell him that I'm not sorry? Oh, and that I'm, like, ninety-nine percent sure that I'm in love with him?"

That had been quite the realization––that he was in love with Henry. He supposed, upon reflection, that it was pretty obvious. Their friendship had been forged in fire. Alex had fallen into it quickly with his entire being and, even if he hadn't known it, he had been falling in love with Henry the whole time. When he tried to think about a moment to pinpoint as the one where he, somewhere deep inn his mid, realized he was in love with Henry, his mind wandered back to the day they went ice skating. 

Finals came and went without much of a hassle. Now completely devoid of a social life again, Alex poured all of his energy into studying for them. After finals, it was time for Alex to pack up his things and return to Georgetown. His family was in Austin, but he wanted some time to unpack and move back into his small, one-bedroom apartment before going home for the holiday festivities. He half expected Henry to come knock on his door on his final day, or maybe to pop up at the airport. A text, at the very least. But nothing. Just the silence and his now barren room and the pit in his stomach that had made a home after Henry told him to leave. He tried to ignore that pit by immersing himself with studying for finals, but there was nothing left to distract him, anymore. Henry was, truly, out of his life for good. Whatever had happened between them would stay here in London, in the walls of Henry's apartment, in the classroom, or on the ice skating rink. It would stay in London with Henry while Alex made the nearly four-thousand mile trek home. 

When he arrived back in D.C., he unpacked all of his crap and tried to remember where he had it all put away before London. He wandered around the city, going to all of the places he had promised to show Henry one day. The future they had talked about...it was a future that didn't exist anymore. Maybe, in another universe, they worked out and were happy together. Maybe Alex had gotten his shit together sooner and kissed Henry that day at the rink, or maybe Henry had kissed him, first. But, no matter what might have been happening in those other times, places, or universes, in this one, the one Alex was fated to, Henry was nothing but a memory that he had beaten into a pulp.