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T-Minus 7 Minutes.
Tequila and Henry don’t quite blend.
Vodka and Henry blend a little too well, sitting on his right shoulder like a mischievous devil, pushing him to make the stupidest decisions. So somewhere around the fourth round, he knows—he knows with the way Pez, the bane of Henry’s mere existence, his best mate and the catalyst of the chaos, drums his fingers against the granite slab of the free bar counter of the wedding, knows that he is going to make the worst mistake of his life.
Honestly it all starts when Henry says, “Most love stories are about people who fall in love with each other. But what about the rest of us? What about our stories, those of us who fall in love alone? We are the victims of the one sided affair—”
Pez drops his head in the crook of his elbow and says, “Babes, you weren't in love with Matt. He was a convenience crush.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“That is absolutely a bloody thing. He was there flapping his hands around, making those silly little jokes—which by the way, could possibly have him slapped with an HR notice and then bringing you your tea—not Earl Grey but Darjeeling because he likes Darjeeling. No regards—absolutely no regards for your choices and feelings and you are saying you were in love with that fool?” Pez wraps up his mesmerising, gut-wrenching, and sharp-tongued monologue with a grand, deliberate swig from his glass, punctuating his words with a dramatic finish.
So dramatic. So correct.
Henry slumps forward, his shoulders drooping in defeat, a hint of despondency colouring his features as he mumbles, “Perhaps I’m destined to face my end alone, surrounded by cats—”
“You despise cats—”
“Alright then, with David nearby—”
“He’ll eat you.”
Henry's face contorts in a mixture of disbelief and revulsion. “What?”
Pez shrugs casually, his expression nonchalant. “What? Haven’t you read the stories where—”
“You know what, I don’t want to hear,” Henry interjects firmly, cutting him off with a decisive gesture. He finishes off his drink. A text comes through.
Matt
H, sweetcheeks, can you come to the office right now? I’m kinda stuck with a thing and I desperately need your help .
Pez's question comes just as Henry lets out a profound sigh, “What’s the matter, sweetcheeks ?”
Henry throws a scorching glare to his friend. “I’m not going. He can bloody well piss off.”
“Ah, that’s the spirit,” Pez crows, “Now go and tell him exactly that.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now. And afterwards we’ll find you some dashingly handsome young lad to send you off your merry way.”
Henry
I can’t.
I’m getting hammered with Pez at a wedding.
Henry slips his phone into his pocket and declares, “Done.”
And that sort of starts it all. And that’s how Henry finds himself kissing the third guy of the evening, completely sloshed and extremely horny. The man immediately runs his hand down Henry’s back to squeeze his asscheeks and—yeah, no. Not happening. He breaks off the kiss, tries to catch his breath and says, “I don’t think it’s going to work.”
And bolts.
Henry is back at the counter with Pez, his gaze fixed mournfully on his drink. Only when Pez nudges him does he shift his attention, following his friend's line of sight and— oh.
God-fucking-damnit, Henry thinks, I really need to kiss him right now.
T-Minus 7 Seconds.
His lips are so pretty, Alex muses.
That’s literally the first thing Alex thinks. But he is straight.
Now the man’s talking. With those pretty lips. His thoughts that have been like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces, the picture incomplete and frustratingly elusive, suddenly fall into place.
Fuck, Alex thinks, what the fuck.
The man’s lips are pink and plump, and Alex stares. He can’t pull his eyes away, for whatever goddamn reason. The man speaks—his pretty lips shaping each word with a delicate precision and Alex manages to catch the end of his sentence.
Alex blue-screens.
“...to kiss you.”
Alex leans in, smushing their lips together, without any ceremony; hesitantly dragging his bottom lip against the man’s pretty ones. He tastes the burst of citrus sunshine on his lips, the tangy bliss of the margarita the man has been sipping.
It’s like sipping summer from his lips.
And—well, shit.
The man pulls away, yet not really away, only just enough for Alex to swallow the lump in his throat and attempt to catch his breath. And possibly speedrun through a bi-awakening, but the man doesn’t quite have to know that.
The man also doesn’t know how Alex kind of wants to kiss him again. He does—kisses the man softly this time; then kisses him again. And it is absolutely maddening how Alex wants to kiss him again. It is addicting. The craving sears his skin, setting his blood ablaze with an unquenchable fire.
It’s irresistible.
He doesn’t really want to let go.
But he does.
Alex tapers off the last kiss with a gentle nibble. He steals a moment to study him—his gaze tracing down the length of the man's bared throat. The man swallows.
“You have very pretty lips,” Alex blurts out—not quite his finest moments but that’s essentially the best he can do right now.
The man’s mouth falls into a silent “oh” while a flush of roseate grace blossoms across his cheeks. “Oh, I—”
“I don’t think I’m straight.” He needs to stop now. Alex can hear the warning messages popping up in his head: ‘Caution: social skills compromised. Abort mission.’
The man gapes. Alex doesn't blame him. They are at a wedding. This is perhaps the last setting where a chance encounter with a stranger can catapult someone into a sexuality crisis.
Yet, here they are.
“Oh, I thought you—”
Oh, he’s British.
“It’s a recent development,” Alex interrupts, “Very new. In fact, it’s so new that it is essential to procure additional evidence to substantiate this theory meeting the requisite standard of proof necessary to establish its validity within the legal framework and discourse."
The man blinks. And as quick as it comes upon him, whatever realisation that is, it fades. The man touches the side of Alex’s face before he splays out his palm against his cheek.
Alex admits, “I'm in law school.”
“I realised.”
Alex stares. Eyes wide. He gazes intently at the man before him who just smiles, pauses and then grasps Alex’s undone—pink—bow tie, yanking him forward and kissing him soundly. And it’s a little messy because the kiss lands against the corner of Alex’s mouth. Nevertheless, it’s beautiful. Alex reaches up, his hand cupping the man’s cheeks. Their lips move, slotting into place like perfect puzzle pieces.
It’s a kiss with an exquisite blend of sweetness and urgency.
It’s a kiss that rewrites Alex’s brain chemistry, causing a seismic shift in the very foundation of his existence. Any semblance of reasoning or statistical analysis crumbles into irrelevance now. Any thoughts of percentages or hypothetical scenarios are promptly shoved aside by a simple, undeniable truth: he is, in fact, very bisexual.
Alex chuckles quietly against the man’s lips. The man hums in response, deepening the kiss as his hands travel up Alex’s back, finally finding home in his curls.
A delicious tug makes Alex sink further into the man like this is the only place he wants to be for the rest of his life, because it is. And it may be stupid, Alex thinks, he doesn’t even know the man’s name. But an unknown feeling has settled within the bones deep inside the very core of his being, and now he wants to know how the first light of the day looks upon his ivory skin, how he takes his coffee, the name of the song in his playlist that he always skips and all other mundane things that makes his life worth living.
Then the man is pulling away with a deep sense of urgency. Alex almost whines at the loss, almost. The man begins, “I have a room up here.”
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering if you—”
“Yeah.” Alex swallows hard and reaches for the man’s hand, startling him. He leans in to kiss the man. Again. One hand curves around the back of the man’s neck to draw him closer.
“You—” the man’s lips part gently.
“Mhm.” He mumbles against the man’s lips. Alex drinks in the sight of red, swollen lips and tousled hair and the crimson hue tinting the cheeks. Pretty lips, Alex reiterates. The man studies Alex for a moment—Alex realises he stands a few inches shorter than the man. Alex tips his head forward—he notices the flecks of black in the blue of the man’s eyes. “Lead the way, stranger.”
“Henry.”
“What?”
“My name’s Henry.”
“Oh. I was kinda calling you ‘pretty lips’ in my head all this time,” Alex smirks, a corner of his lip lifting up and Henry blushes furiously. “I’m Alex.”
“Alex,” Henry repeats. Alex doesn’t intend to be stunned into silence—he hardly ever finds himself at a loss of words, but right now he is quite impossibly entranced by the way Henry's tongue curls around the syllables of “Ah-lex”, the way his pretty lips briefly part to offer a quick but bright smile, the way his brows furrow to resemble a frown because Alex hasn't spoken in a while—and oh shit, Alex hasn't spoken in a fucking while. Henry asks, “Alex?”
“Sorry. Yeah, come on. I really want to kiss you, again,” Alex admits.
Henry laughs, “Well, I’m not quite opposed to the idea, love. Evidence, right?”
“You won’t let that go, will you?”
“Never.”
T-Plus 7 Hours
Alex's fingertips glide along the ridges of Henry's arched spine as he leans into him. He gazes at the sight of Henry beneath him, hands tucked under his knees, pulling them to his chest.
Alex pushes past the ring of muscles, and a wave of ecstasy draws a moan from Henry's lips.
If Alex thought that kissing Henry was addicting, this —this feeling—the feeling of sinking into the warmth of Henry’s body, pulling all the way out to the tip before slamming into him again, being buried deep inside Henry, kissing away the rivulets of tears that descend down Henry’s face when Alex changes his angle and thrusts in. Deep. Hard. Fast.
Yeah .
Yeah, this feeling is pure crack. And Alex is so fucking high on it.
“Alex—” Henry mewls and Alex is panting up a storm. The dawn’s first light filters through the drawn curtains.
Henry shudders apart for the second time at 5:45 am. And let Alex use him.
Alex fucks him through his orgasm, fucks him earnestly, fucks him until he is breathless, boneless, brainless. Alex is so fucking close—he spreads Henry’s thighs further apart and thrusts in deep and hard in an impossible pace. Henry sobs from the oversensitivity, from the feeling of getting fucked so relentlessly. He spears Henry in halves and fills him to the brim.
Alex fucks him so good.
And Henry just. takes. it.
Alex watches Henry as he cries, tears streaming down his face and mumbling nonsense, unashamed as Alex’s cock splits him into two. He appears so cock-struck and cock-drunk. It overwhelms Alex. He teeters dangerously on the precipice.
“Baby,” Alex doesn’t know what he wants to say. Alex’s name slips past Henry’s lips like a wanton moan.
Alex groans as his hips stutter—a falter in his merciless pace. Then he’s coming with Henry’s name spilling from his lips like a sacred incantation, each syllable a fervent invocation and Henry’s done for. He comes undone for the third time—untouched and unabashed and sudden. Alex curls his fingers around the base of his leaking cock and works him through his orgasm. Henry cries and falls apart, melting further back into the mattress. He exhales loudly, eyes slipping shut.
Alex doesn’t immediately pull out. His mind goes blissfully silent. He relishes in the feeling of his cock going soft inside Henry, gazes at the flushed, upturned face of the man beneath him, noting the way his lips are swollen and glistening, and how beads of sweat trace paths down his temples.
In the soft morning light, he learns the true beauty of this man, radiant and raw.
Alex pecks his lips softly. Henry cracks one eye open. He says, “Stay.”
“Are you sure?” Alex asks, his voice a fragile thread in the vast tapestry of silence, desperately hoping the answer is ‘yes’.
This singular, syllabic utterance is a key, small yet monumental, poised to unlock the fortress around his heart. It holds the weight of mountains, a tempest contained in a whisper, the feeling threatening to drown Alex and he is willing to let it drown him, to pull him under. The word hovers in the air, a fragile butterfly, capable of dismantling the barriers around Alex's heart with the gentle flutter of its wings.
It is everything Alex wants.
“I haven’t been more certain about any other thing in my life,” Henry says, low and warm and the words wrap around Alex like a weighted blanket, like a warm scarf on a winter’s night. Alex watches as the man turns to face him with a smile lighting up his whole face. He asks, “You haven’t done this before, have you?”
“I—”
Henry interrupts, “I haven’t done this either—stay until the morning, that is. But something about you, Alex—I don’t want this to end. I have never…” Alex runs a soothing hand down Henry’s bare arm. “I want you to stay, love. And also what did you say—additional evidence to substantiate this theory and something along the lines of legal framework and discourse and—”
“Shut up.” Alex groans.
“Make me,” Henry snarks.
Alex shuts him up with a kiss. It’s hardly an inconvenience. Kissing Henry’s pretty lips after all is a delight, rather than a burden. It's almost life-changing, mind-altering, a profound privilege, a moment of transcendent beauty that lingers in the soul like a haunting melody.
“Stay, love.” Henry mumbles against Alex’s lips.
Alex obliges.
And he stays.
Alex stays until the end of the day—learns that Henry doesn’t drink coffee; he drinks tea, specifically Earl Grey.
He stays until the end of the month—learns that Henry always skips Taylor Swift’s “Soon You’ll Get Better” even if it is in his playlist because it reminds him of his Dad a little too much.
He stays until the end of the year—learns about the things that make Henry’s dark days a bit darker and learns about the things that clear up Henry’s black skies.
He stays until the end of five years—learns how the gold band looks against Henry’s ivory skin.
He stays until the end of the decade—learns about the dedication in Henry's book: “To AGCD, the kiss that changed my life. To our kids, thank you for being ours.”
He stays until the end—learns how even sixty years together can feel like just a fleeting moment.
He stays—learns how it feels to love Henry; how it feels to be loved by Henry.