Fic; Long Distance, 3/?
Title Long Distance 3/?, following Running Uphill
Rating pg-13? nc-17 overall.
Summary Hank and Alex move past curious and into the strange new territory of 'committed.'
Disclaimer Will never own, boo. Characters belong to their belongers.
part one
part two
“ -- And now let’s hear from our local weather team. Joe, what’s it look like today?” the high-pitched, perky newscaster in the living room says to someone who exists offscreen. Hank grimaces at the sound of her voice. The back of his shirt is damp from sweating into the couch overnight; somehow he and Alex had rearranged themselves and now the other is towards the outer edge of the cushions, his back fitting nicely against Hank’s chest. He finds his glasses and puts them on, the television swimming into focus. To his right, sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch, is Scott, crunching loudly on his cereal and staring at his younger brother and at Hank. A commercial comes on for a cleaning product.
“Um,” Hank says, lifting himself into a seated position, startled into wakefulness.
“Don’t tell me this is not what it looks like.” His voice is a stark contrast to the newscaster’s. Scott chews mechanically, swallowing before continuing and gesturing with his spoon between the two on the couch. Alex rouses, grumpily, and Hank lays a protective hand on his side. “So what’s going on? Morning, Alex.”
“Hmph,” Alex says, still not really awake.
Hank opens his mouth and closes it again when he can’t find the words. “We’re more than friends,” Hank says uncertainly, almost like it’s a question, or maybe he’s testing, and he involuntarily tenses for the expected backlash.
Only --
Scott laughs. He laughs and Hank feels his cheeks reddening from anger and embarrassment, except he’s not sure which is the stronger feeling. Alex rises then, blinking confusedly, and they both move to sit next to each other on the warm cushions. He crosses his arms and glares and his brother, who sobers at the treatment. “Sorry,” Scott says, glib. “It’s just - I knew that already.”
Which causes Hank’s mouth to fall open again in surprise. “What do you mean? You never said --”
“I didn’t want to impose. I figured you guys didn’t want to talk about it.” He spoons some more cereal into his mouth. The news comes back on and Scott turns away from the boys to watch it.
“If you’re headed to work downtown,” the newscaster says with a smile, “You’ll want to leave an extra thirty minutes for your commute. Let’s find out why with our traffic team. Trevor?” Trevor says something about highways and an accident that resulted in no casualties but Hank isn’t really paying attention. Alex has started chewing on his thumbnail.
“Hey.” Alex’s voice surprises them; Scott turns back to the boys on the couch, eyes wide. “So, are you okay with this? With me and Hank?”
And Scott turns off the television. Hank wishes he hadn’t - the sudden silence rings around them. He can hear his heart beating in his ears. Scott says, “Of course I’m okay with it. This is the part where I threaten to castrate Hank if he hurts you, right? So consider this my threat. Also, I owe Logan twenty bucks - he bet me you would tell a grown-up this week.”
A grown-up? Hank mouths to Alex, who’s stopped chewing on his thumbnail and is grinning now, the defensiveness in his hunched shoulders seeping away. He shrugs and Scott clears his throat, bringing their attention back to him. “But seriously, Hank,” he says, making a stabbing motion with the spoon. “I’m watching you.”
“Don’t be a dick,” Alex grouses, fond.
“I’m your guardian; it’s my job.” A few moments pass in which Scott finishes his cereal. When the bowl is empty, he asks, “So, do I have to talk to you about sex?”
“Yeah, I have to go,” Hank says with an air of finality, standing, aware that he is blushing furiously. A glance at Alex tells him he’s not alone in that, as the flush creeps over his ears. “I’m meeting Raven and Sean for brunch. You want to come?”
Alex shifts forward until he’s perched on the edge of the couch, and when he looks up at Hank he can tell that sleep has still not really left him. It may be why he asks Hank: “Like, as your boyfriend?”
Alex stares at Hank expectantly, unblinking. Hank could answer this in a few ways, but the way he chooses is long overdue. “Yeah,” he says. “As my boyfriend.”
Alex ducks his head to hide the grin stretching over his lips. Hank does nothing to hide his own. “I have an appointment with Jean today, but maybe next time,” Alex manages. “You, uh, need to shower first?”
“You still seeing her?” Hank asks instead of answering that question.
“She just wants to check-in.”
Scott snickers, gathering up his bowl and their plates from last night. “Ignore me, please.”
Hank leaves after splashing some water on his face and having an awkward mug of coffee in the kitchen with Scott hovering in their periphery. It is a relief, though, for Scott to know, even for Logan to know, and despite the embarrassment, it’s a good feeling that follows him on his drive home.
“So he was just staring at you guys when you woke up?” Raven presses, her fork and a bite of her omelet halfway to her mouth. “That’s not creepy.” They are sitting under an awning outside that covers half of the cobbled sidewalk on a street that is known for its small, overpriced restaurants. Sean has his sunglasses on, even though they are in the shade, and starts building a tower out of his cubed homefries. Raven adjusts the straps of her pretty blue dress so that when she leans over for another bite, Sean gets an eyeful of cleavage.
“How long do you think he was sitting there for?” Sean asks them, knocking over his tower.
“Probably not too long,” Hank says, shrugging. He would really rather not think about it, but of course, Raven says:
“What if he was there, like, all night? Just staring. Thinking about all the ways that he could hurt you if you hurt his baby brother. You think he owns a gun?”
“Jesus, Raven.” Hank hadn’t thought of that. Hank couldn’t imagine Scott owning a firearm or anything, but he could probably do the same amount of damage with a monkey wrench, or something.
“What?” Raven cocks her head to the side, the picture of innocence.
“This is why you’re studying acting,” Sean supplies for them, smirking.
“Theater,” she corrects with a roll of her eyes. “Whatever. How’s your mom? Dad? How was Abu Dhabi?”
Hank very carefully considers his answer. There’s a lot that he could say on those three subjects. A lot that he’d just rather not say, too. “I guess it was nice,” he admits. “I mean I spent most of my free time going to the markets or Skyping with Alex, so. And Dad was Dad. He’s always kind of stayed out of my business as long as I’m getting things done.”
Raven and Sean share a glance - the sharp worry in Raven’s eyes is quick. “You mean you didn’t tell him, then, about you and Alex?”
“I guess I didn’t feel like I needed to.”
“Do you think he’d be mad?” Sean asks, a surprisingly pointed question, before shoveling a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“No,” is Hank’s immediate response. He takes an overly large bite of his pancakes and uses the time it takes to chew and swallow to order his thoughts. “I don’t think he’d care, either way. He’s disinterested.”
“He’s your dad,” Raven argues, like that should be reason enough, but of course Raven would think so. Her parents are in Europe but still seem to have a sixth sense about things like when she is about to throw an unsupervised party or fail a test. Though this may be helped by Charles. Hank’s parents aren’t like that. Also, Hank doesn’t have a Charles.
“Can we not?” He pushes the plate away from him and sits back, defensive. “I get that my family needs to sort some stuff out, okay? But I’ve only been back since yesterday.”
Sean and Raven share another glance, but this time it’s Sean who says: “Yeah, okay. Let’s talk about how lonely I’m going to be in Boston next month,” grin curled around his teeth.
He’s answering an expected email from his dad about his flight and the weather in New York when he hears a knock at his door. Sighing, Hank takes out his earbuds and loops the cord around his neck. “Yes?”
His mother pokes her head in with a frown, her dark hair drawn back into a ponytail. “What are you doing?”
Hank raises an eyebrow. “Email.”
“I didn’t hear you come in last night,” she says, entering his bedroom but neglecting to shut the door. Easy escape, Hank thinks.
“That’s because I didn’t come in last night,” Hank explains slowly. His mother crosses her arms and sighs. Hank closes the laptop and places his earbuds on top of the machine before standing and walking over to his duffel, which is still mostly packed, by his bed. He starts to take out the buttoned shirts and socks that he had thrown into the bag but never wore while he was overseas - his father had been perfectly fine with him working poolside - to put them in piles on top of his sheets.
“You didn’t come back last night,” she repeats, disbelief in her voice. “And you didn’t even call to tell me. Or text? I mean, what kind of mother am I? We haven’t seen each other for two months and you don’t even want to spend one night under the same roof, Hank.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” he says flatly, now walking to his closet to take out the hangers he’d need for the buttoned shirts.
“Well, I mind,” his mother states emphatically. “You’re my son, Hank. I mind. But I feel like I have no idea who are you, sometimes,” she admits, voice losing its strength. “I can’t remember the last time we really spent time together.” It’s a confession that catches Hank off-guard. He can’t remember, either.
He wants to stay cross with her, really, but the hurt in her features seems genuine. “I just had a long trip, okay?” he offers as an olive-branch, hanging up one shirt before turning to face her. “I was already grumpy and then you tell me we’re putting the house up? I got mad.”
“We never talk, anymore,” she says, walking over to the bed and sinking heavily into the mattress. He fights the urge to wave his arms and say this is us talking! because that won’t help the situation. “And I’m sorry that upset you.”
“It’s...okay.” Even though it’s really not. The house was something they should have talked about together.
“So,” his mother starts, latching on to this rare positive conversation with her son, “What’s new? And don’t tell me there’s nothing. Something must have happened in Abu Dhabi.”
“Well...” Hank trails off, thinking about brunch and how Raven and Sean were obviously worried about him. He takes a breath like he’s about to dive into the dark waters of the deep-end. “You know Alex?”
“Of course I know Alex,” she says perkily, reminding Hank of the newscaster this morning. “What about him?”
“We’re dating,” Hank says, matter-of-fact, faster than ripping off a bandaid. “It’s not exactly new, but you should know, I guess.”
“What?”
Hank is reasonably certain that ‘we’re dating’ is pretty self-explanatory, but for his mother’s sake, he explains again, “We’re in a relationship?”
He watches the surprise spread across his mother’s face, first in her eyes, then in the way her jaw slowly falls open. The surprise registers, then the disbelief. “Is this a joke?”
“Why would I joke about this?”
“I don’t know - well. When did you know you were, um, gay?” His mother looks uncertain, unable to look him in the eye. Typical. Hank crosses the room and sits on the mattress next to her, the springs creaking with their combined weight.
“I think I’m bi.” He says this pointedly, challenge in his voice. And as he says these words, he realizes that there is truth to them; he never really gave it much thought before, and he had relationships with girls in the past - even was pretty sure that he liked girls, still; he liked the pretty bow of their lips and their softness where guys had none. But a lot of his relationships had been out of convenience more than mutual interest. This one with Alex, though - he would say that there’s a lot of mutual interest.
“So that means you still find girls attractive, right?” Of course his mother would try to rationalize it in this way. She looks worried. This is the first time in a long while that Hank has seen his mother worried over him, and it’s over his sexuality. She probably thinks he’s confused, going through a rough patch.
“It means I don’t know, right now,” Hank bristles. “I think that’s what it means. But also right now it means I want to be with Alex.”
“But isn’t that, you know, difficult?” She lays a hand on Hank’s wrist, but her fingers are cold and thin.
Hank bites out, “It isn’t usually difficult. But you’re making it so.”
“What do you mean?” She squeezes his wrist in an effort to be motherly, but the action feels foreign and forced. Hank detaches himself from her grip.
“Are you okay with this? That’s all I need to know.”
The hinges in his mattress creak again when his mother stands, her back to him. “I think - it’s sudden. I thought you liked Raven, ever since you two were young,” she says, turning again to look her son in the eyes finally. “But now you’re telling me you never did? And what about when you got that graffiti on your car? You told me it was a prank. You told me it was no big deal.”
“It was a prank.”
Hank remembers that week in flashes. He remembers getting called to Principal Frost’s office for her to tell him that custodial staff were working on removing the offensive paint on his car and that she could recommend talking to Dr. MacTaggart, if he so wished. He didn’t so wish, so she didn’t pursue the issue. Administration investigated but could not find the student responsible, their list of suspects contained to a group of students known for making trouble and being general nuisances to the entire community, but none of these students folded or pointed fingers, and the school couldn’t implicate all of them without sufficient evidence, or something. Frost told him this with that flat, reserved voice, but there was a hint of anger in her steely blue eyes.
The local media stopped by the school to get statements from the staff and willing students. “It’s just typical adolescent behavior,” Hank had told the reporter who wanted a statement from him. “I’m not going to raise a huge fuss over the issue - even though it was an act of vandalism - because whoever did it would probably love the attention. It does, however, raise the issue of tolerance in this community, but I think Principal Frost and the rest of the staff are doing a good job addressing it.” That was his quote. That was what they had printed. Other students called it a “shameful act” or “just plain stupid” and insisted that most of the student body didn’t care either way about those things, you know? Frost had told him she appreciated his no-nonsense attitude, and that her office was available in case he or his friends needed respite. Alex had spent a lot of time in Moira’s office, instead, a mixed up ball of guilt and shame and maybe we shouldn’t. But Hank had taken care of that line of thinking and they had kept the bulk of their developing relationship in the safety of Hank’s house or on Alex’s roof when no one else could see.
“But it was,” his mother begins, bringing Hank out of his thoughts. “I mean, you are a -- You couldn’t have told me then?” She wanted to say fag, Hank can tell. His mother had asked him about the car when he came home from school that day, but he had shrugged it off and she had not asked again. She had believed him when he told her it was a stupid joke by a stupid person and that only a few students were giving him a hard time about it. Also, she had other things on her mind, then, as usual.
He stands, towering over her when he tells her, “You were busy cleaning out Dad’s office. And by the time you were done with that everyone had moved on, anyway.”
His mother is silent before him, unwavering, her face and shoulders tense.
“Hank, does your father know about this?” she asks.
“No.” Her shoulders straighten a little bit, but Hank cuts whatever thought she’s having short. “Oh, no. This is not something that you get to lord over him. I’ll tell him, eventually, when he’s not with that woman.” Hank pulls up short, the slip about Tanya unexpected. It shouldn’t really surprise him; he’s used to using information this way.
Eyes narrowing, his mother demands, “What woman?”
“What?”
“What woman, Hank?” Two angry spots of red flare up on her cheeks, more emotion than what he’s used to seeing on her, but he’s tired of this fight, already.
“No one. It’s nothing. It’s not my business,” he appeases, the fragile truce between them they had established just moments before threatening to snap.
Then his mother says, “You’re trying to hurt me. First you’re gay; now, this,” and that’s enough. Maybe the barb about Dad with another woman was uncalled for, but it’s just so her to think that Hank would suddenly unleash his sexuality to make things inconvenient for her. He thinks back to graduation, after his speech, how she had said, “Oh, Hank, that was great. You were so poised up there. But did you really have to talk about how much you and your friends wanted to leave? I could feel Mrs. Cassidy giving me the Evil Eye the whole time.” Like he could help that Sean wanted to study music and not engineering, like his parents had hoped. Like he was someone who had rounded up the students and ordered a mass exodus from North Hills. She could never just be happy that he had been Valedictorian and had executed a fairly awesome speech, if he were one to judge.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says evenly, still trying to reach for that tepid peace. “It’s not like I can control how I feel about it. Or control what Dad does. How could you even think that? Why don’t you just ask Dad about her yourself?”
“I don’t want to ask him about anything,” she says, nostrils flaring, stubborn.
Hank feels his patience wearing thin with her. She’s like sandpaper on his skin, rough and irritating and useless. “Then get over it!” he shouts, voice like a gunshot.
He feels the sting in his left cheek before he realizes that the hand his mother has raised is the one that she used to slap him. They are both stunned - she’s never laid a hand on Hank before. His mother is as pale as the clouds outside. His cheek burns. “I’m --” she stammers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Hank lays a hand on his cheek, can feel the angry heat coming from it. “I think I’m going out, again.”
Her eyes well up as she crosses her arms, shrinking into herself. She looks guilty. “Okay.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he mumbles.
She nods. “Okay.”
He leaves her standing in his room, mind curiously blank, heart hammering in his chest.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Alex is good at listening. Good at letting the information that Hank gives him pour over him without interruption. Hank had driven around town a few times, wasting gas and watching the sun set and the sky turn a dark, translucent blue, before pulling up at the curb and shutting off the engine. Maybe he should have called Raven, he had thought, but then Scott had come out onto their porch with a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand and raised an eyebrow at him. Even at the distance, though, Hank could tell it was mostly fond. “He’s smoking on the roof,” Scott had told him in a loud voice as Hank approached the front door. “Do me a favor and tell him that shit is unhealthy.”
Above them, partially obscured by the branches and plush leaves, Alex had said, “I can hear you just fine,” with the tone of someone who had had this conversation before, and then Hank had seen the wink of a cigarette butt being thrown off the roof.
“Also, littering,” Scott had pointed out.
The kitchen had smelled like Chinese take-out as Hank made his way to join Alex on the roof. Now, they sit, arms brushing against each other, and Alex lights another cigarette pinched between his teeth, the smile at his lips falling when he sees Hank’s face. “Jesus, what happened?” Concern crosses his features; he lifts a hand to Hank’s cheek but stops short from touching him.
Hank tells him everything, from his mother picking him up at the airport, to the house being put on the market, to Raven and Sean’s less-than-veiled attempts to get him to talk to his parents, to him trying that out and talking to his mother and look where that got him? Somewhere in between his mother and father’s relationship stood Hank, but they couldn’t really see him - that’s what he felt like. “She thought I was telling her about us to hurt her,” he says, aware that he’s said this already. “And she slapped me.”
Alex considers him for a long minute, the cigarette between his lips nearly spent. There’s a rare chill in the night air so they are both still in jeans, Alex in a dark tee and Hank in a light polo. After an eternity, Alex brushes a feather light finger over Hank’s cheek, and Hank imagines that he can still feel the heat and sting. It’s probably not even red anymore. “Does it hurt?” Alex asks around his cigarette.
“No,” Hank says truthfully, leaning into the touch. Alex turns his hand to cup his cheek and Hank wishes he could spend most nights like this, breathing in Alex’s smoke and looking at the stars from his roof. Only a few weeks left, now. His palm is rough but warm, soothing. “It was more shocking than painful.”
With his other hand, Alex pinches the cigarette between his fingers and stubs it out in the gutter, where Hank can see a whole pile of dead cigarettes. Then he draws their faces together to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says against Hank’s lips, warm and murmuring and perfect, the taste of smoke and ash lingering.
“It’s okay,” Hank mutters back, indulging in the way it feels to just brush his lips against Alex’s. “I don’t want to talk about it, anymore.”
He takes his hand and pulls the blond back through the window, onto the bed where Hank winds up laying on his back with Alex’s head pillowed on his chest. “Are we going to sleep?” Alex asks, sitting up after another moment. “Because I really have to brush my teeth.”
Hank protests, pulling him back to his chest with broad hands. Alex lets him. “No; I want to know what you’ve been up to.”
“Okay.”
“How are things with Moira?”
There is a moment’s pause that Hank imagines Alex takes to organize and think about what he’s willing to share. “The same. She keeps trying to do this DBT stuff with me.”
“Which is?” Hank asks immediately, confronted with something that he’s never heard of before.
“Dialectical Behavioral Therapy.”
“Which is?”
Alex gives a breathy laugh. “Mindfulness shit. Like, being aware of the molecules in your body and stuff. I told her Sean is aware of all the molecules in his body but only when he’s high. She laughed.” He trails off. “It’s cool, though. It’s kind of hippie but I like it.”
“What’s it supposed to do?” Hank asks, because he can’t stop his mind from wondering, and he chooses to understand new ideas only when he believes they have a purpose.
“It calms me down.”
“Think it’ll work on me?”
“You want to try?”
“Yeah.” Hank remembers back to when Raven had a brief but fulfilling obsession with Yoga and he had gone to sessions at some pretentious Yoga spot with her for a few weeks because she promised him free smoothies after each. He has this.
“Okay. You ready?” Alex asks, still teetering on the edge of uncertainty, or maybe just unsure about how to actually conduct DBT. Hank guesses you probably had to be trained for it.
“Shoot.”
“This is dumb,” Alex prefaces. But then he sighs and the words tumble out of him: “Close your eyes. Breathe in.” He shifts and prods until Hank is lying on his side and Alex is curled around him, Hank’s hips tucked into his. “When you breathe out, I want you to clear all the thoughts out of your head.”
Hank breathes out. When he does, Alex snakes a hand around to his chest and presses, Hank exhaling as Alex exhales into the space between Hank’s shoulders.
A smile tugs at Hank’s lips. “Did Moira help you like this, too?”
He feels Alex’s own returning smile against his neck. “Shh,” he admonishes. “Breathe out with me. Now focus on my voice. Breathe in, and imagine the air filling your lungs and then circulating into each of your fingers. How do they feel, when you focus on them?” Hank imagines his fingers tingling, can see how the blood and oxygen would circulate in his veins and capillaries, but Alex is making it difficult to just focus. The hand on his chest moves lower, until Alex’s fingers are tickling his abs. “Breathe out,” and Alex presses again, but this time manages to guide Hank onto his back again so that he can straddle him, the fabric of his jeans pulled tight over his thighs. Alex leans over him and then they are kissing, slow and luxurious.
“Is this part of the therapy?” Hank jokes when they part briefly.
“It’s part of my therapy,” he growls, biting gently on Hank’s lower lip.
“Moira wants you to regularly make out with me?”
“Moira thinks you ground me and get me out of my head,” Alex answers quickly, exasperated and eager. He starts nibbling on Hank’s ear when Hank’s mouth is uncooperative. Hank makes a noise of contentment, gasping when Alex does something particularly new and amazing with his tongue.
“So that’s a good thing.”
Alex sits up and back, a steady weight on Hank’s ribs. His mouth is pink and wet, inviting, but his brows are furrowed. “You know what she said the other day?” he starts, succumbing to Hank’s pervasive interest in the matter. “She said, ‘It seems like when you’re with him, the world is a less threatening place for you.’”
“Is it?” Hank settles his hands around Alex’s hips. Alex says, “Maybe,” with a sly grin before leaning over again and placing open-mouthed kisses along Hank’s jawline. He hums when Hank squeezes his hips, unable to keep still.
“When I’m with you,” Hank says like it’s a confession, “it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist -- I don’t need to think about the rest of the world.”
And Alex freezes. Just - freezes on his forearms over Hank and maybe even stops breathing, for a little bit.
Alarmed, Hank starts to rub his back slowly, trying to coax movement or something else out of him. “What’s wrong?”
When he moves again, it’s to climb off of Hank. Without the weight and warmth, Hank feels suddenly chilled. “Don’t say that.” Alex fits himself against the headboard, runs his fingers through Hank’s hair.
“Why not?” Hank frowns. “It’s true. I’ve thought about it a lot, Alex. When we’re together I don’t think about those douches in school, or about my mom and dad, or about Columbia. It’s just you and me.”
He sighs, returning Hank’s frown. “That’s some dangerous thinking, McCoy.”
“It’s the truth,” Hank repeats, feeling the frustration build in his gut and sitting up himself, so that they’re side-by-side against the headboard, pillow in Hank’s lap.
“It’s a lousy thing to think and you know it.” Alex doesn’t look angry when he says this; he looks resigned, like he’s used to Hank saying bullshit excuses to justify his actions and feelings, which he shouldn’t be - couldn’t be - but it reminds Hank of his mother, and it strikes a volatile chord.
“And you’re so enlightened?” he snaps.
“No, of course not,” Alex says, resignation replaced with confusion. “But --”
“You shouldn’t judge,” Hank interrupts, unable to stop himself. “I mean, you’re still required to see Moira once a week to talk about your feelings and shit.” He doesn’t say because a part of you is broken but the words are there, in the air between them, might always be there between them.
He can’t take it back. It’s different than when something similar happened before, so many months ago, when everything was fresh and exciting and uniquely vulnerable, because he has no excuses this time; he knows exactly what to say to hurt. Alex’s entire face shutters closed and it’s like someone has slammed the door in Hank’s face. It’s a minute shift, but he angles his shoulders away from him and looks out the window when he reasons, “Hank, you fought with your mom today so you’re upset --”
“I’m not upset,” Hank says loudly because Alex isn’t listening to him anymore, probably can’t really hear him past the wall he’s put up again.
“You have a lot of things to be upset about.”
Alex is still looking out the window. The chord snaps and Hank yells, because he’s tired and frustrated and it’s like no one even sees that past his perfect exterior: “Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel!”
Silence.
When he yelled at his mom, she slapped him.
Alex starts to shake. They are tremors that start small and work their way to his fingers, until the shivers are trapped in his chest, too, so that his breaths become short and a little wild. “You need to leave,” he tells Hank, fighting to keep his voice smooth.
Stunned at his own behavior, Hank reaches out to him, only to have Alex flinch at his outstretched hand. Hank pulls back, apologetic and frantic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” he says, aware now of the volume of his voice. “I’m sorry.”
“No - don’t,” Alex manages between the trembling, no longer fighting the way it makes him stumble around his words. “It’s just a reaction - to the yelling. I know it is, I just can’t -- I need to be alone.”
“I’m sorry,” Hank pleads again, and he is, he really is. This whole day has been one monumental fuck-up for him and he’s just now realizing it and there were so many times that he could have done something to prevent this from happening, but he didn’t. He shifts forward, needing to reassure, but this time Alex’s whole body jumps at the movement.
“Can you sleep on the couch?” Alex asks in a small voice, barely his own, eyes downcast in what Hank recognizes as shame. A knot forms in Hank’s chest as he reminds himself that he’s the cause of that awful feeling.
“Okay.” Hank relents. “I’ll go.” He moves slowly off the bed, wary of their positions. Alex has drawn up his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around them, his fingers white in their grips at his elbows in an effort to keep them still. “I’ll just be downstairs, okay?” he confirms, voice soft. Alex barely nods, his whole body wound up tight with something - Hank isn’t sure.
“Thank you,” Alex says, and it wrenches at the knot in his chest, because nothing about this situation warrants thanks.
Hank isn’t sure how long he stays awake staring at the ceiling of the living room, after that, but he wakes up sore from the lumpy cushions and anxious from what happened last night, the guilt eating away at the knot until it just feels like a raw, open wound. It’s true that he had been upset because of his mother, and maybe the divorce and the house and her reaction to his revelation - and he had let the feeling fester, ignored, until it exploded out of him. And it had hurt Alex.
He thinks of how his fingers trembled and feels his stomach roil; he’s so disgusted with himself. He had done some reading about PTSD, and replaying the scene now, it’s obvious that Hank’s yelling had triggered some memory of trauma. He trudges up the stairs like a man walking towards his execution, dreading the destination but unable to avoid it. He wants to fix this. Can he fix this?
What he finds in Alex’s bedroom causes him to take an involuntary step back.
He certainly did not expect to see the older Summers brother appear to be sitting vigil in the chair normally at Alex’s desk now beside the younger brother’s bed, Alex curled impossibly tight under a sheet, despite the already hot morning, his hand wrapped limply around Scott’s wrist, which is beside him on the bed. Hank can imagine how tightly he gripped it before finally succumbing to sleep. Scott snaps awake when the door creaks open but stays frozen, and Alex doesn’t stir. They lock eyes - beneath the sunglasses Scott’s eyes are actually blue, like his brother’s - and Hank wishes they hadn’t because Scott shakes his head slowly, his mouth a grim line. Carefully, he withdraws his wrist from Alex’s limp fingers and, once free, pads over to the door, forcing Hank back outside the limits of the room and shutting the door quietly behind him.
“I’m very angry with you right now,” he explains with deadly seriousness. Hank gulps, nodding.
“I’m sorry about -- ”
“Let me be very clear,” Scott says forcefully. Hank shuts his mouth. “That talk we had not twenty-four hours ago? This is a huge strike against you. I should really throw you out.”
“I know - I just wanted to see if -- ”
“I’m not finished.” Scott narrows his eyes at him. “I heard him pacing in the middle of the night. It took hours to get him to sleep. I assume you know something of our past. Of his past. You do not yell in this house, at him, ever. I give Logan shit about this, too. Am I clear? Do you understand?”
Hank nods again, silent. Scott sighs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Okay. I’m getting in a good hour before work. You deal with the aftermath.”
“Thank you,” Hank says, finding his voice, steeling himself for a rebuke, but all Scott does is sigh again.
“Just don’t make it a habit, McCoy,” he advises before walking down the hall to his own room.
//
part four
Rating pg-13? nc-17 overall.
Summary Hank and Alex move past curious and into the strange new territory of 'committed.'
Disclaimer Will never own, boo. Characters belong to their belongers.
part one
part two
“ -- And now let’s hear from our local weather team. Joe, what’s it look like today?” the high-pitched, perky newscaster in the living room says to someone who exists offscreen. Hank grimaces at the sound of her voice. The back of his shirt is damp from sweating into the couch overnight; somehow he and Alex had rearranged themselves and now the other is towards the outer edge of the cushions, his back fitting nicely against Hank’s chest. He finds his glasses and puts them on, the television swimming into focus. To his right, sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch, is Scott, crunching loudly on his cereal and staring at his younger brother and at Hank. A commercial comes on for a cleaning product.
“Um,” Hank says, lifting himself into a seated position, startled into wakefulness.
“Don’t tell me this is not what it looks like.” His voice is a stark contrast to the newscaster’s. Scott chews mechanically, swallowing before continuing and gesturing with his spoon between the two on the couch. Alex rouses, grumpily, and Hank lays a protective hand on his side. “So what’s going on? Morning, Alex.”
“Hmph,” Alex says, still not really awake.
Hank opens his mouth and closes it again when he can’t find the words. “We’re more than friends,” Hank says uncertainly, almost like it’s a question, or maybe he’s testing, and he involuntarily tenses for the expected backlash.
Only --
Scott laughs. He laughs and Hank feels his cheeks reddening from anger and embarrassment, except he’s not sure which is the stronger feeling. Alex rises then, blinking confusedly, and they both move to sit next to each other on the warm cushions. He crosses his arms and glares and his brother, who sobers at the treatment. “Sorry,” Scott says, glib. “It’s just - I knew that already.”
Which causes Hank’s mouth to fall open again in surprise. “What do you mean? You never said --”
“I didn’t want to impose. I figured you guys didn’t want to talk about it.” He spoons some more cereal into his mouth. The news comes back on and Scott turns away from the boys to watch it.
“If you’re headed to work downtown,” the newscaster says with a smile, “You’ll want to leave an extra thirty minutes for your commute. Let’s find out why with our traffic team. Trevor?” Trevor says something about highways and an accident that resulted in no casualties but Hank isn’t really paying attention. Alex has started chewing on his thumbnail.
“Hey.” Alex’s voice surprises them; Scott turns back to the boys on the couch, eyes wide. “So, are you okay with this? With me and Hank?”
And Scott turns off the television. Hank wishes he hadn’t - the sudden silence rings around them. He can hear his heart beating in his ears. Scott says, “Of course I’m okay with it. This is the part where I threaten to castrate Hank if he hurts you, right? So consider this my threat. Also, I owe Logan twenty bucks - he bet me you would tell a grown-up this week.”
A grown-up? Hank mouths to Alex, who’s stopped chewing on his thumbnail and is grinning now, the defensiveness in his hunched shoulders seeping away. He shrugs and Scott clears his throat, bringing their attention back to him. “But seriously, Hank,” he says, making a stabbing motion with the spoon. “I’m watching you.”
“Don’t be a dick,” Alex grouses, fond.
“I’m your guardian; it’s my job.” A few moments pass in which Scott finishes his cereal. When the bowl is empty, he asks, “So, do I have to talk to you about sex?”
“Yeah, I have to go,” Hank says with an air of finality, standing, aware that he is blushing furiously. A glance at Alex tells him he’s not alone in that, as the flush creeps over his ears. “I’m meeting Raven and Sean for brunch. You want to come?”
Alex shifts forward until he’s perched on the edge of the couch, and when he looks up at Hank he can tell that sleep has still not really left him. It may be why he asks Hank: “Like, as your boyfriend?”
Alex stares at Hank expectantly, unblinking. Hank could answer this in a few ways, but the way he chooses is long overdue. “Yeah,” he says. “As my boyfriend.”
Alex ducks his head to hide the grin stretching over his lips. Hank does nothing to hide his own. “I have an appointment with Jean today, but maybe next time,” Alex manages. “You, uh, need to shower first?”
“You still seeing her?” Hank asks instead of answering that question.
“She just wants to check-in.”
Scott snickers, gathering up his bowl and their plates from last night. “Ignore me, please.”
Hank leaves after splashing some water on his face and having an awkward mug of coffee in the kitchen with Scott hovering in their periphery. It is a relief, though, for Scott to know, even for Logan to know, and despite the embarrassment, it’s a good feeling that follows him on his drive home.
“So he was just staring at you guys when you woke up?” Raven presses, her fork and a bite of her omelet halfway to her mouth. “That’s not creepy.” They are sitting under an awning outside that covers half of the cobbled sidewalk on a street that is known for its small, overpriced restaurants. Sean has his sunglasses on, even though they are in the shade, and starts building a tower out of his cubed homefries. Raven adjusts the straps of her pretty blue dress so that when she leans over for another bite, Sean gets an eyeful of cleavage.
“How long do you think he was sitting there for?” Sean asks them, knocking over his tower.
“Probably not too long,” Hank says, shrugging. He would really rather not think about it, but of course, Raven says:
“What if he was there, like, all night? Just staring. Thinking about all the ways that he could hurt you if you hurt his baby brother. You think he owns a gun?”
“Jesus, Raven.” Hank hadn’t thought of that. Hank couldn’t imagine Scott owning a firearm or anything, but he could probably do the same amount of damage with a monkey wrench, or something.
“What?” Raven cocks her head to the side, the picture of innocence.
“This is why you’re studying acting,” Sean supplies for them, smirking.
“Theater,” she corrects with a roll of her eyes. “Whatever. How’s your mom? Dad? How was Abu Dhabi?”
Hank very carefully considers his answer. There’s a lot that he could say on those three subjects. A lot that he’d just rather not say, too. “I guess it was nice,” he admits. “I mean I spent most of my free time going to the markets or Skyping with Alex, so. And Dad was Dad. He’s always kind of stayed out of my business as long as I’m getting things done.”
Raven and Sean share a glance - the sharp worry in Raven’s eyes is quick. “You mean you didn’t tell him, then, about you and Alex?”
“I guess I didn’t feel like I needed to.”
“Do you think he’d be mad?” Sean asks, a surprisingly pointed question, before shoveling a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“No,” is Hank’s immediate response. He takes an overly large bite of his pancakes and uses the time it takes to chew and swallow to order his thoughts. “I don’t think he’d care, either way. He’s disinterested.”
“He’s your dad,” Raven argues, like that should be reason enough, but of course Raven would think so. Her parents are in Europe but still seem to have a sixth sense about things like when she is about to throw an unsupervised party or fail a test. Though this may be helped by Charles. Hank’s parents aren’t like that. Also, Hank doesn’t have a Charles.
“Can we not?” He pushes the plate away from him and sits back, defensive. “I get that my family needs to sort some stuff out, okay? But I’ve only been back since yesterday.”
Sean and Raven share another glance, but this time it’s Sean who says: “Yeah, okay. Let’s talk about how lonely I’m going to be in Boston next month,” grin curled around his teeth.
He’s answering an expected email from his dad about his flight and the weather in New York when he hears a knock at his door. Sighing, Hank takes out his earbuds and loops the cord around his neck. “Yes?”
His mother pokes her head in with a frown, her dark hair drawn back into a ponytail. “What are you doing?”
Hank raises an eyebrow. “Email.”
“I didn’t hear you come in last night,” she says, entering his bedroom but neglecting to shut the door. Easy escape, Hank thinks.
“That’s because I didn’t come in last night,” Hank explains slowly. His mother crosses her arms and sighs. Hank closes the laptop and places his earbuds on top of the machine before standing and walking over to his duffel, which is still mostly packed, by his bed. He starts to take out the buttoned shirts and socks that he had thrown into the bag but never wore while he was overseas - his father had been perfectly fine with him working poolside - to put them in piles on top of his sheets.
“You didn’t come back last night,” she repeats, disbelief in her voice. “And you didn’t even call to tell me. Or text? I mean, what kind of mother am I? We haven’t seen each other for two months and you don’t even want to spend one night under the same roof, Hank.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” he says flatly, now walking to his closet to take out the hangers he’d need for the buttoned shirts.
“Well, I mind,” his mother states emphatically. “You’re my son, Hank. I mind. But I feel like I have no idea who are you, sometimes,” she admits, voice losing its strength. “I can’t remember the last time we really spent time together.” It’s a confession that catches Hank off-guard. He can’t remember, either.
He wants to stay cross with her, really, but the hurt in her features seems genuine. “I just had a long trip, okay?” he offers as an olive-branch, hanging up one shirt before turning to face her. “I was already grumpy and then you tell me we’re putting the house up? I got mad.”
“We never talk, anymore,” she says, walking over to the bed and sinking heavily into the mattress. He fights the urge to wave his arms and say this is us talking! because that won’t help the situation. “And I’m sorry that upset you.”
“It’s...okay.” Even though it’s really not. The house was something they should have talked about together.
“So,” his mother starts, latching on to this rare positive conversation with her son, “What’s new? And don’t tell me there’s nothing. Something must have happened in Abu Dhabi.”
“Well...” Hank trails off, thinking about brunch and how Raven and Sean were obviously worried about him. He takes a breath like he’s about to dive into the dark waters of the deep-end. “You know Alex?”
“Of course I know Alex,” she says perkily, reminding Hank of the newscaster this morning. “What about him?”
“We’re dating,” Hank says, matter-of-fact, faster than ripping off a bandaid. “It’s not exactly new, but you should know, I guess.”
“What?”
Hank is reasonably certain that ‘we’re dating’ is pretty self-explanatory, but for his mother’s sake, he explains again, “We’re in a relationship?”
He watches the surprise spread across his mother’s face, first in her eyes, then in the way her jaw slowly falls open. The surprise registers, then the disbelief. “Is this a joke?”
“Why would I joke about this?”
“I don’t know - well. When did you know you were, um, gay?” His mother looks uncertain, unable to look him in the eye. Typical. Hank crosses the room and sits on the mattress next to her, the springs creaking with their combined weight.
“I think I’m bi.” He says this pointedly, challenge in his voice. And as he says these words, he realizes that there is truth to them; he never really gave it much thought before, and he had relationships with girls in the past - even was pretty sure that he liked girls, still; he liked the pretty bow of their lips and their softness where guys had none. But a lot of his relationships had been out of convenience more than mutual interest. This one with Alex, though - he would say that there’s a lot of mutual interest.
“So that means you still find girls attractive, right?” Of course his mother would try to rationalize it in this way. She looks worried. This is the first time in a long while that Hank has seen his mother worried over him, and it’s over his sexuality. She probably thinks he’s confused, going through a rough patch.
“It means I don’t know, right now,” Hank bristles. “I think that’s what it means. But also right now it means I want to be with Alex.”
“But isn’t that, you know, difficult?” She lays a hand on Hank’s wrist, but her fingers are cold and thin.
Hank bites out, “It isn’t usually difficult. But you’re making it so.”
“What do you mean?” She squeezes his wrist in an effort to be motherly, but the action feels foreign and forced. Hank detaches himself from her grip.
“Are you okay with this? That’s all I need to know.”
The hinges in his mattress creak again when his mother stands, her back to him. “I think - it’s sudden. I thought you liked Raven, ever since you two were young,” she says, turning again to look her son in the eyes finally. “But now you’re telling me you never did? And what about when you got that graffiti on your car? You told me it was a prank. You told me it was no big deal.”
“It was a prank.”
Hank remembers that week in flashes. He remembers getting called to Principal Frost’s office for her to tell him that custodial staff were working on removing the offensive paint on his car and that she could recommend talking to Dr. MacTaggart, if he so wished. He didn’t so wish, so she didn’t pursue the issue. Administration investigated but could not find the student responsible, their list of suspects contained to a group of students known for making trouble and being general nuisances to the entire community, but none of these students folded or pointed fingers, and the school couldn’t implicate all of them without sufficient evidence, or something. Frost told him this with that flat, reserved voice, but there was a hint of anger in her steely blue eyes.
The local media stopped by the school to get statements from the staff and willing students. “It’s just typical adolescent behavior,” Hank had told the reporter who wanted a statement from him. “I’m not going to raise a huge fuss over the issue - even though it was an act of vandalism - because whoever did it would probably love the attention. It does, however, raise the issue of tolerance in this community, but I think Principal Frost and the rest of the staff are doing a good job addressing it.” That was his quote. That was what they had printed. Other students called it a “shameful act” or “just plain stupid” and insisted that most of the student body didn’t care either way about those things, you know? Frost had told him she appreciated his no-nonsense attitude, and that her office was available in case he or his friends needed respite. Alex had spent a lot of time in Moira’s office, instead, a mixed up ball of guilt and shame and maybe we shouldn’t. But Hank had taken care of that line of thinking and they had kept the bulk of their developing relationship in the safety of Hank’s house or on Alex’s roof when no one else could see.
“But it was,” his mother begins, bringing Hank out of his thoughts. “I mean, you are a -- You couldn’t have told me then?” She wanted to say fag, Hank can tell. His mother had asked him about the car when he came home from school that day, but he had shrugged it off and she had not asked again. She had believed him when he told her it was a stupid joke by a stupid person and that only a few students were giving him a hard time about it. Also, she had other things on her mind, then, as usual.
He stands, towering over her when he tells her, “You were busy cleaning out Dad’s office. And by the time you were done with that everyone had moved on, anyway.”
His mother is silent before him, unwavering, her face and shoulders tense.
“Hank, does your father know about this?” she asks.
“No.” Her shoulders straighten a little bit, but Hank cuts whatever thought she’s having short. “Oh, no. This is not something that you get to lord over him. I’ll tell him, eventually, when he’s not with that woman.” Hank pulls up short, the slip about Tanya unexpected. It shouldn’t really surprise him; he’s used to using information this way.
Eyes narrowing, his mother demands, “What woman?”
“What?”
“What woman, Hank?” Two angry spots of red flare up on her cheeks, more emotion than what he’s used to seeing on her, but he’s tired of this fight, already.
“No one. It’s nothing. It’s not my business,” he appeases, the fragile truce between them they had established just moments before threatening to snap.
Then his mother says, “You’re trying to hurt me. First you’re gay; now, this,” and that’s enough. Maybe the barb about Dad with another woman was uncalled for, but it’s just so her to think that Hank would suddenly unleash his sexuality to make things inconvenient for her. He thinks back to graduation, after his speech, how she had said, “Oh, Hank, that was great. You were so poised up there. But did you really have to talk about how much you and your friends wanted to leave? I could feel Mrs. Cassidy giving me the Evil Eye the whole time.” Like he could help that Sean wanted to study music and not engineering, like his parents had hoped. Like he was someone who had rounded up the students and ordered a mass exodus from North Hills. She could never just be happy that he had been Valedictorian and had executed a fairly awesome speech, if he were one to judge.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says evenly, still trying to reach for that tepid peace. “It’s not like I can control how I feel about it. Or control what Dad does. How could you even think that? Why don’t you just ask Dad about her yourself?”
“I don’t want to ask him about anything,” she says, nostrils flaring, stubborn.
Hank feels his patience wearing thin with her. She’s like sandpaper on his skin, rough and irritating and useless. “Then get over it!” he shouts, voice like a gunshot.
He feels the sting in his left cheek before he realizes that the hand his mother has raised is the one that she used to slap him. They are both stunned - she’s never laid a hand on Hank before. His mother is as pale as the clouds outside. His cheek burns. “I’m --” she stammers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Hank lays a hand on his cheek, can feel the angry heat coming from it. “I think I’m going out, again.”
Her eyes well up as she crosses her arms, shrinking into herself. She looks guilty. “Okay.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he mumbles.
She nods. “Okay.”
He leaves her standing in his room, mind curiously blank, heart hammering in his chest.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Alex is good at listening. Good at letting the information that Hank gives him pour over him without interruption. Hank had driven around town a few times, wasting gas and watching the sun set and the sky turn a dark, translucent blue, before pulling up at the curb and shutting off the engine. Maybe he should have called Raven, he had thought, but then Scott had come out onto their porch with a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand and raised an eyebrow at him. Even at the distance, though, Hank could tell it was mostly fond. “He’s smoking on the roof,” Scott had told him in a loud voice as Hank approached the front door. “Do me a favor and tell him that shit is unhealthy.”
Above them, partially obscured by the branches and plush leaves, Alex had said, “I can hear you just fine,” with the tone of someone who had had this conversation before, and then Hank had seen the wink of a cigarette butt being thrown off the roof.
“Also, littering,” Scott had pointed out.
The kitchen had smelled like Chinese take-out as Hank made his way to join Alex on the roof. Now, they sit, arms brushing against each other, and Alex lights another cigarette pinched between his teeth, the smile at his lips falling when he sees Hank’s face. “Jesus, what happened?” Concern crosses his features; he lifts a hand to Hank’s cheek but stops short from touching him.
Hank tells him everything, from his mother picking him up at the airport, to the house being put on the market, to Raven and Sean’s less-than-veiled attempts to get him to talk to his parents, to him trying that out and talking to his mother and look where that got him? Somewhere in between his mother and father’s relationship stood Hank, but they couldn’t really see him - that’s what he felt like. “She thought I was telling her about us to hurt her,” he says, aware that he’s said this already. “And she slapped me.”
Alex considers him for a long minute, the cigarette between his lips nearly spent. There’s a rare chill in the night air so they are both still in jeans, Alex in a dark tee and Hank in a light polo. After an eternity, Alex brushes a feather light finger over Hank’s cheek, and Hank imagines that he can still feel the heat and sting. It’s probably not even red anymore. “Does it hurt?” Alex asks around his cigarette.
“No,” Hank says truthfully, leaning into the touch. Alex turns his hand to cup his cheek and Hank wishes he could spend most nights like this, breathing in Alex’s smoke and looking at the stars from his roof. Only a few weeks left, now. His palm is rough but warm, soothing. “It was more shocking than painful.”
With his other hand, Alex pinches the cigarette between his fingers and stubs it out in the gutter, where Hank can see a whole pile of dead cigarettes. Then he draws their faces together to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says against Hank’s lips, warm and murmuring and perfect, the taste of smoke and ash lingering.
“It’s okay,” Hank mutters back, indulging in the way it feels to just brush his lips against Alex’s. “I don’t want to talk about it, anymore.”
He takes his hand and pulls the blond back through the window, onto the bed where Hank winds up laying on his back with Alex’s head pillowed on his chest. “Are we going to sleep?” Alex asks, sitting up after another moment. “Because I really have to brush my teeth.”
Hank protests, pulling him back to his chest with broad hands. Alex lets him. “No; I want to know what you’ve been up to.”
“Okay.”
“How are things with Moira?”
There is a moment’s pause that Hank imagines Alex takes to organize and think about what he’s willing to share. “The same. She keeps trying to do this DBT stuff with me.”
“Which is?” Hank asks immediately, confronted with something that he’s never heard of before.
“Dialectical Behavioral Therapy.”
“Which is?”
Alex gives a breathy laugh. “Mindfulness shit. Like, being aware of the molecules in your body and stuff. I told her Sean is aware of all the molecules in his body but only when he’s high. She laughed.” He trails off. “It’s cool, though. It’s kind of hippie but I like it.”
“What’s it supposed to do?” Hank asks, because he can’t stop his mind from wondering, and he chooses to understand new ideas only when he believes they have a purpose.
“It calms me down.”
“Think it’ll work on me?”
“You want to try?”
“Yeah.” Hank remembers back to when Raven had a brief but fulfilling obsession with Yoga and he had gone to sessions at some pretentious Yoga spot with her for a few weeks because she promised him free smoothies after each. He has this.
“Okay. You ready?” Alex asks, still teetering on the edge of uncertainty, or maybe just unsure about how to actually conduct DBT. Hank guesses you probably had to be trained for it.
“Shoot.”
“This is dumb,” Alex prefaces. But then he sighs and the words tumble out of him: “Close your eyes. Breathe in.” He shifts and prods until Hank is lying on his side and Alex is curled around him, Hank’s hips tucked into his. “When you breathe out, I want you to clear all the thoughts out of your head.”
Hank breathes out. When he does, Alex snakes a hand around to his chest and presses, Hank exhaling as Alex exhales into the space between Hank’s shoulders.
A smile tugs at Hank’s lips. “Did Moira help you like this, too?”
He feels Alex’s own returning smile against his neck. “Shh,” he admonishes. “Breathe out with me. Now focus on my voice. Breathe in, and imagine the air filling your lungs and then circulating into each of your fingers. How do they feel, when you focus on them?” Hank imagines his fingers tingling, can see how the blood and oxygen would circulate in his veins and capillaries, but Alex is making it difficult to just focus. The hand on his chest moves lower, until Alex’s fingers are tickling his abs. “Breathe out,” and Alex presses again, but this time manages to guide Hank onto his back again so that he can straddle him, the fabric of his jeans pulled tight over his thighs. Alex leans over him and then they are kissing, slow and luxurious.
“Is this part of the therapy?” Hank jokes when they part briefly.
“It’s part of my therapy,” he growls, biting gently on Hank’s lower lip.
“Moira wants you to regularly make out with me?”
“Moira thinks you ground me and get me out of my head,” Alex answers quickly, exasperated and eager. He starts nibbling on Hank’s ear when Hank’s mouth is uncooperative. Hank makes a noise of contentment, gasping when Alex does something particularly new and amazing with his tongue.
“So that’s a good thing.”
Alex sits up and back, a steady weight on Hank’s ribs. His mouth is pink and wet, inviting, but his brows are furrowed. “You know what she said the other day?” he starts, succumbing to Hank’s pervasive interest in the matter. “She said, ‘It seems like when you’re with him, the world is a less threatening place for you.’”
“Is it?” Hank settles his hands around Alex’s hips. Alex says, “Maybe,” with a sly grin before leaning over again and placing open-mouthed kisses along Hank’s jawline. He hums when Hank squeezes his hips, unable to keep still.
“When I’m with you,” Hank says like it’s a confession, “it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist -- I don’t need to think about the rest of the world.”
And Alex freezes. Just - freezes on his forearms over Hank and maybe even stops breathing, for a little bit.
Alarmed, Hank starts to rub his back slowly, trying to coax movement or something else out of him. “What’s wrong?”
When he moves again, it’s to climb off of Hank. Without the weight and warmth, Hank feels suddenly chilled. “Don’t say that.” Alex fits himself against the headboard, runs his fingers through Hank’s hair.
“Why not?” Hank frowns. “It’s true. I’ve thought about it a lot, Alex. When we’re together I don’t think about those douches in school, or about my mom and dad, or about Columbia. It’s just you and me.”
He sighs, returning Hank’s frown. “That’s some dangerous thinking, McCoy.”
“It’s the truth,” Hank repeats, feeling the frustration build in his gut and sitting up himself, so that they’re side-by-side against the headboard, pillow in Hank’s lap.
“It’s a lousy thing to think and you know it.” Alex doesn’t look angry when he says this; he looks resigned, like he’s used to Hank saying bullshit excuses to justify his actions and feelings, which he shouldn’t be - couldn’t be - but it reminds Hank of his mother, and it strikes a volatile chord.
“And you’re so enlightened?” he snaps.
“No, of course not,” Alex says, resignation replaced with confusion. “But --”
“You shouldn’t judge,” Hank interrupts, unable to stop himself. “I mean, you’re still required to see Moira once a week to talk about your feelings and shit.” He doesn’t say because a part of you is broken but the words are there, in the air between them, might always be there between them.
He can’t take it back. It’s different than when something similar happened before, so many months ago, when everything was fresh and exciting and uniquely vulnerable, because he has no excuses this time; he knows exactly what to say to hurt. Alex’s entire face shutters closed and it’s like someone has slammed the door in Hank’s face. It’s a minute shift, but he angles his shoulders away from him and looks out the window when he reasons, “Hank, you fought with your mom today so you’re upset --”
“I’m not upset,” Hank says loudly because Alex isn’t listening to him anymore, probably can’t really hear him past the wall he’s put up again.
“You have a lot of things to be upset about.”
Alex is still looking out the window. The chord snaps and Hank yells, because he’s tired and frustrated and it’s like no one even sees that past his perfect exterior: “Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel!”
Silence.
When he yelled at his mom, she slapped him.
Alex starts to shake. They are tremors that start small and work their way to his fingers, until the shivers are trapped in his chest, too, so that his breaths become short and a little wild. “You need to leave,” he tells Hank, fighting to keep his voice smooth.
Stunned at his own behavior, Hank reaches out to him, only to have Alex flinch at his outstretched hand. Hank pulls back, apologetic and frantic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” he says, aware now of the volume of his voice. “I’m sorry.”
“No - don’t,” Alex manages between the trembling, no longer fighting the way it makes him stumble around his words. “It’s just a reaction - to the yelling. I know it is, I just can’t -- I need to be alone.”
“I’m sorry,” Hank pleads again, and he is, he really is. This whole day has been one monumental fuck-up for him and he’s just now realizing it and there were so many times that he could have done something to prevent this from happening, but he didn’t. He shifts forward, needing to reassure, but this time Alex’s whole body jumps at the movement.
“Can you sleep on the couch?” Alex asks in a small voice, barely his own, eyes downcast in what Hank recognizes as shame. A knot forms in Hank’s chest as he reminds himself that he’s the cause of that awful feeling.
“Okay.” Hank relents. “I’ll go.” He moves slowly off the bed, wary of their positions. Alex has drawn up his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around them, his fingers white in their grips at his elbows in an effort to keep them still. “I’ll just be downstairs, okay?” he confirms, voice soft. Alex barely nods, his whole body wound up tight with something - Hank isn’t sure.
“Thank you,” Alex says, and it wrenches at the knot in his chest, because nothing about this situation warrants thanks.
Hank isn’t sure how long he stays awake staring at the ceiling of the living room, after that, but he wakes up sore from the lumpy cushions and anxious from what happened last night, the guilt eating away at the knot until it just feels like a raw, open wound. It’s true that he had been upset because of his mother, and maybe the divorce and the house and her reaction to his revelation - and he had let the feeling fester, ignored, until it exploded out of him. And it had hurt Alex.
He thinks of how his fingers trembled and feels his stomach roil; he’s so disgusted with himself. He had done some reading about PTSD, and replaying the scene now, it’s obvious that Hank’s yelling had triggered some memory of trauma. He trudges up the stairs like a man walking towards his execution, dreading the destination but unable to avoid it. He wants to fix this. Can he fix this?
What he finds in Alex’s bedroom causes him to take an involuntary step back.
He certainly did not expect to see the older Summers brother appear to be sitting vigil in the chair normally at Alex’s desk now beside the younger brother’s bed, Alex curled impossibly tight under a sheet, despite the already hot morning, his hand wrapped limply around Scott’s wrist, which is beside him on the bed. Hank can imagine how tightly he gripped it before finally succumbing to sleep. Scott snaps awake when the door creaks open but stays frozen, and Alex doesn’t stir. They lock eyes - beneath the sunglasses Scott’s eyes are actually blue, like his brother’s - and Hank wishes they hadn’t because Scott shakes his head slowly, his mouth a grim line. Carefully, he withdraws his wrist from Alex’s limp fingers and, once free, pads over to the door, forcing Hank back outside the limits of the room and shutting the door quietly behind him.
“I’m very angry with you right now,” he explains with deadly seriousness. Hank gulps, nodding.
“I’m sorry about -- ”
“Let me be very clear,” Scott says forcefully. Hank shuts his mouth. “That talk we had not twenty-four hours ago? This is a huge strike against you. I should really throw you out.”
“I know - I just wanted to see if -- ”
“I’m not finished.” Scott narrows his eyes at him. “I heard him pacing in the middle of the night. It took hours to get him to sleep. I assume you know something of our past. Of his past. You do not yell in this house, at him, ever. I give Logan shit about this, too. Am I clear? Do you understand?”
Hank nods again, silent. Scott sighs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Okay. I’m getting in a good hour before work. You deal with the aftermath.”
“Thank you,” Hank says, finding his voice, steeling himself for a rebuke, but all Scott does is sigh again.
“Just don’t make it a habit, McCoy,” he advises before walking down the hall to his own room.
//
part four