[Original Fiction/Prompt Chain] - Henry
Title Henry
Rating PG
Prompt This, this, and this.
Disclaimer I own everything in this piece.
Note Honestly, I think this is just me attempting to justify that first piece being so short, but too long for a drabble. Prompt chain it is, then.
001.
His flat was nice enough, Henry supposed as he tugged on his jacket. He stared out through the window for a moment, watching the rain drench the pavement below without really seeing. His flat was a testament as his true abilities as an estate agent. It wasn't a representation of the shitholes he convinced people to buy just so he could make that commission, but an absolute stunner of a flat, full of the latest range of appliances, with all the things people preferred their homes to come with, beyond the usual roof and walls that he usually managed to make sound like brilliant bonuses.
In theory, his flat was perfect. If your idea of perfect was impersonal, lonely and just a little bit cold. He'd brought the flat three weeks before Jack broke up with him. He'd wanted it to be their flat, there was the requisite spare bedroom for Jack's mother which Henry was using for storage, and it was close to Jack's work.
That, obviously, hadn't really worked out.
002.
In actuality, it had all happened so suddenly, he'd never been able to wrap his head around it. One moment, they were perfectly domestic. On Saturdays, they babysat Henry's niece, Beth. They took her to the park, and to get ice cream, and then they gave her back to her parents swearing they'd never, ever have children. On Sunday mornings, they made breakfast together in their underwear, and did the crosswords together, because Jack could never manage to complete them by himself. During the week, they met up on their lunch break with some guys from Jack's office and some girls from Henry's office and they had sandwiches and coffee and had a nice little gossip about their bosses and the office slag. As they all trailed off home, Henry and Jack would hang back, their hands brushing but not quite touching, making promises for dinner later. Henry always cooked it, because he didn't feel like having rice every single night, because somehow that was the only thing Jack knew how to cook.
On Fridays, they went out for beer with the lads from rugby, and a few of Henry's old friends from secondary school. They would discuss cricket, with the rugby lads scoffing and calling it a posh sport, saying that it showed that Henry and his friends had gone to private schools their whole lives. In return, they'd point out just which of the lads sailed competitively for Cambridge, and that shut them up, more often than not.
It was perfect, in that bread crumbs in bed and stains on the sheets sort of way, and then all of a sudden, it reached breaking point, and the relationship collapsed and broke down.
Suddenly, Saturday's turned into watching the telly and trying to explain to Beth why they kept arguing. On Sunday mornings, they avoided each other and the crosswords remained unfinished. During the week, lunch breaks were stilted, and more often than not they stayed at work and ate at their desks with their friends watching from afar with confused expressions.
Friday's stopped existing, really. Jack went off somewhere with the lads from Rugby and came home stinking of WKD. Henry went to wine bars with his old friends from secondary school, and tried to resist the incredibly pathetic urge to sob into his cashew nuts and ask for help.
And then Jack broke up with him, on a perfectly average Wednesday, over the first civil cup of tea they'd had in weeks. And all Henry could say in return was 'Okay, I understand', even though he really, really didn't.
003.
It took Henry an appallingly long time to get over it, really. He spent weeks, months, moping around his flat, refusing to go out on Fridays and refusing lunch offers with the girls from work. He spent days, weeks, months analyzing everything he did, every single action like that would give him some understand of what the fuck what wrong, what he did wrong and trying to figure out just how the fuck he couldn't fix it. He tried to justify things he said that he maybe shouldn't have said, considering the what if's and the but's of every single tiny moment of their lives. At one point, he thought sobbing into cashew nuts and pouring his heart out to upper class sods who wouldn't quite know what to do with it beyond patting him on the back and inviting him round to their place for tea every weekend so they could keep an eye on him.
But then it finally occurred to him. He had to move on. He was Henry Orwell, and he'd gone to Eton, and Eton boys that may or may not have been related to George Orwell, he'd never really bothered to check, did not fall to pieces over rugby players named Jack.
That's what he was going to keep telling himself, especially when that damn 'Jack Smith' appeared on his appointment list, like Jack had no idea he still worked at the same estate agents.
Rating PG
Prompt This, this, and this.
Disclaimer I own everything in this piece.
Note Honestly, I think this is just me attempting to justify that first piece being so short, but too long for a drabble. Prompt chain it is, then.
001.
His flat was nice enough, Henry supposed as he tugged on his jacket. He stared out through the window for a moment, watching the rain drench the pavement below without really seeing. His flat was a testament as his true abilities as an estate agent. It wasn't a representation of the shitholes he convinced people to buy just so he could make that commission, but an absolute stunner of a flat, full of the latest range of appliances, with all the things people preferred their homes to come with, beyond the usual roof and walls that he usually managed to make sound like brilliant bonuses.
In theory, his flat was perfect. If your idea of perfect was impersonal, lonely and just a little bit cold. He'd brought the flat three weeks before Jack broke up with him. He'd wanted it to be their flat, there was the requisite spare bedroom for Jack's mother which Henry was using for storage, and it was close to Jack's work.
That, obviously, hadn't really worked out.
002.
In actuality, it had all happened so suddenly, he'd never been able to wrap his head around it. One moment, they were perfectly domestic. On Saturdays, they babysat Henry's niece, Beth. They took her to the park, and to get ice cream, and then they gave her back to her parents swearing they'd never, ever have children. On Sunday mornings, they made breakfast together in their underwear, and did the crosswords together, because Jack could never manage to complete them by himself. During the week, they met up on their lunch break with some guys from Jack's office and some girls from Henry's office and they had sandwiches and coffee and had a nice little gossip about their bosses and the office slag. As they all trailed off home, Henry and Jack would hang back, their hands brushing but not quite touching, making promises for dinner later. Henry always cooked it, because he didn't feel like having rice every single night, because somehow that was the only thing Jack knew how to cook.
On Fridays, they went out for beer with the lads from rugby, and a few of Henry's old friends from secondary school. They would discuss cricket, with the rugby lads scoffing and calling it a posh sport, saying that it showed that Henry and his friends had gone to private schools their whole lives. In return, they'd point out just which of the lads sailed competitively for Cambridge, and that shut them up, more often than not.
It was perfect, in that bread crumbs in bed and stains on the sheets sort of way, and then all of a sudden, it reached breaking point, and the relationship collapsed and broke down.
Suddenly, Saturday's turned into watching the telly and trying to explain to Beth why they kept arguing. On Sunday mornings, they avoided each other and the crosswords remained unfinished. During the week, lunch breaks were stilted, and more often than not they stayed at work and ate at their desks with their friends watching from afar with confused expressions.
Friday's stopped existing, really. Jack went off somewhere with the lads from Rugby and came home stinking of WKD. Henry went to wine bars with his old friends from secondary school, and tried to resist the incredibly pathetic urge to sob into his cashew nuts and ask for help.
And then Jack broke up with him, on a perfectly average Wednesday, over the first civil cup of tea they'd had in weeks. And all Henry could say in return was 'Okay, I understand', even though he really, really didn't.
003.
It took Henry an appallingly long time to get over it, really. He spent weeks, months, moping around his flat, refusing to go out on Fridays and refusing lunch offers with the girls from work. He spent days, weeks, months analyzing everything he did, every single action like that would give him some understand of what the fuck what wrong, what he did wrong and trying to figure out just how the fuck he couldn't fix it. He tried to justify things he said that he maybe shouldn't have said, considering the what if's and the but's of every single tiny moment of their lives. At one point, he thought sobbing into cashew nuts and pouring his heart out to upper class sods who wouldn't quite know what to do with it beyond patting him on the back and inviting him round to their place for tea every weekend so they could keep an eye on him.
But then it finally occurred to him. He had to move on. He was Henry Orwell, and he'd gone to Eton, and Eton boys that may or may not have been related to George Orwell, he'd never really bothered to check, did not fall to pieces over rugby players named Jack.
That's what he was going to keep telling himself, especially when that damn 'Jack Smith' appeared on his appointment list, like Jack had no idea he still worked at the same estate agents.