[Henry reaches out, resting a hand at the side of Alec's face for just a moment before it slides downwards, his fingertips resting gently beneath his chin.
[ It's the "and then some" that he's honestly hoping for. Henry's hand is warm against the side of his face, his touch surprisingly gently when it shifts. But maybe little things like this keep happening. Maybe he doesn't mind it so much, from Henry.
Alec leans in to meet him, his own hand slipping up to curl around the back of Henry's neck. ]
[There’s always been a flare of hunger in every kiss he’s given Alec, a sort of assertiveness that comes part and parcel with Henry’s actual personality, not just the one he keeps forward-facing towards the world. And it’s no different this time, either; that sharp eagerness exists here and now, as he catches his lips against Alec’s.
But there’s something else, too. The way it lingers, just a half-second before he pulls away, reticent to break their connection — it’s more than just hungry and impatient, like that first day they slept together. It’s almost fond, almost even… gentle. Blame the Christmas present, maybe.
He looks at him with bright, mismatched eyes once he does pull away, the moment dissipating.]
[ Alec has become quite well-acquainted with the whirlwind of force that is Henry's personality, the fire that simmers beneath that polite façade. It often comes out when it's just the two of them behind closed doors, and it comes out now in the hungry way Henry claims his lips.
And then there's something else. A moment, fleeting as a heartbeat, where this thing between them softens, and Alec very nearly leans back in to try and pursue it. He doesn't. It's over as quickly as it came, and things are back to how they should be.
[His smile is serene, though his look is sharp with that telltale impatience. At least the track record thus far proves that he’s hardly twisting Alec’s arm.
To bed, then.
…Their time spent together on this night is much like their previous trysts; heated and eager and just aggressive enough to leave marks afresh on each other’s body. But something different happens this time: instead of someone taking their leave—neither seemed keen on indulging themselves in the post-coital languidness for too long before now—he finds that Alec has… fallen asleep. In his bed.
For a while, Henry just watches him, and commits once more the lines of his profile to his memory. It’s strangely serene, seeing him like this, and the rarity of it compels him to make use of his newest holiday gift.
Whether or not Alec eventually awakens to the sound of a pencil scratching gently across paper is yet to be seen. But regardless, Henry sits up in his bed, turned at an angle to see him, crossed-legged beneath where the sheets bunch just below his waist. He's drawing in his sketchbook.]
[ If asked, Alec might blame any number of things for the reason he slips so easily into slumber in Henry's bed. The fact that the portal has left him with a sense of ease, the fact that he's been waking up at odd hours to work on his portal network when no one is around, the damn game and all the Christmas cheer has worn him the fuck out.
And maybe some of that is true. It certainly contributes. But whatever else it is that leads Alec to uncharacteristically linger, to let him unwind and fall asleep, will have to remain a mystery for now because he doesn't seem to be stirring just yet. Even the sound of pencil on paper or the feeling of Henry's eyes on him don't seem to rouse him. Stranger still, because Alec is a light sleeper by habit.
Henry is one of the very, very few to catch him being utterly vulnerable. ]
[It does feel as though he’s become privy to something very few others have seen; like a little, unknowingly shared secret between himself and Alec. Though it’ll be immortalized in his sketchbook at this rate, the way his more gestural lines begin to firm up to resemble Alec’s features, how he looks like this — vulnerable and peaceable.
He’s quiet for a while, continuing to draw, eyes flicking up and back down to the sketchbook time and again. Eventually, though, he hazards a slow lean forward to better look at the angle of his brow, a closer examination with slow-roving eyes.
The mattress shifts a little accordingly, bed frame squeaking gently.]
[ That does it. Alec so rarely shares a sleeping space with another person that the slight movement of the mattress rouses him at last. He twitches, eyes fluttering open. He looks a bit confused at first, frowning up at Henry as he comes into focus. ]
[For a moment, Henry wonders if he will get up, get dressed, and leave. No, he doubts Alec meant to fall asleep at all, and he half-expects him to fix that error sooner rather than later. It’s a disappointing thought.
But instead, he stays for now, and Henry doesn’t even try to banish the thread of satisfaction that winds itself through him. He’s crossed-legged, beneath the sheets, and balances the bottom of his sketchbook on a knee, leaning in to rest his hand and chin atop it not unlike a kid would do. One of his new pencils hangs loosely from between two fingers.]
[ His gaze flicks over to watch Henry. The way he sits, the sketchbook on one knee, the strikingly familiar pencil between his fingers. He knew Henry would use the pencils, of course, but there's something weird about seeing it, and so soon.
Eventually, his eyes travel up to Henry's own, low stormy light locking with mismatched colors. ]
[ "I get to look at you more." HENRY PLEASE. Even with the addendum, Alec isn't entirely sure what to do with that tidbit of information. Henry's been.... watching him sleep? He's been drawing him while he's sleeping?
Every one of the many alarm bells in Alec's head should be going off. He let himself be vulnerable with another person. Vulnerability isn't something that Alec Brennan does. And yet, with Henry that's almost always been the case, hasn't it? Telling him things he doesn't dare tell other people, showing him memories he doesn't dare let other people see. Every crack and blemish and jagged edge, Henry's seen them all.
[Boy, you sure are. But Henry’s not any better off. And maybe it’s only fair they see each other’s vulnerabilities, their ugly edges, the things beneath the exterior. It’s a continuing trend.
Anyway. He sits up straighter and turns the sketchbook around. And there, worked in delicate care and attention to detail, despite the fact that it’s only pencil on paper, is a portrait of Alec as he sleeps. The expression’s serene, perhaps accentuated by a softer style of shading. Possible, now that he has nicer pencils to work with.]
Couldn’t put all the finishing touches on it since you just had to wake up.
[ Alec hauls himself up to a sit for a better look. Without really thinking, he reaches out to take the sketchbook from Henry, though he certainly isn't offering to hand it over. It's a strange thing to see. Like, that's clearly his face, but it's not how his face is supposed to look. Serene and unguarded, rendered with such care.
It makes something in his chest twist in a way he can't decide is good or bad. His eyes lift from the page back to Henry. Weird, that he suddenly thinks of his own Shadow, the boy standing in the rain, the past stained so deeply into his skin that neither the water nor magic could move it. What was it his Shadow said? That's all you had to do. Let someone in. God dammit. ]
[He won’t protest as Alec takes the sketchbook to get a better look at his drawing. His gaze never leaves his face, as if even now, he’s always, always committing every expression to memory. He wonders if he likes it, too — it must be strange, seeing oneself in such a vulnerable state. Like looking at someone else entirely. That’s how Henry would feel, at least.
He takes the sketchbook back when Alec’s done, finally turning his gaze downward to assess his own work.]
You think so? I’m so out of practice. I don’t think it really does you justice the way I want it to.
[But would anything?]
Like it doesn't exactly capture... [He trails off, trying to find the words.]
[His lips twitch, and he throws him a skeptical look.]
I don’t think anything could capture that.
[He shakes his head and lays his sketchbook flat in his lap. Softly-]
No. I mean how— [so many words he could use here, so many ways to say how impossible it is for Henry to capture exactly how he feels, how Alec has become the crux, the absolute heart of everything] —pivotal you’ve been recently. To my situation… Giving me another path to tread, when I never even considered it before.
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I guess you've got me there.
[Oh well.]
You owe me something from the game, by the way. Do you remember?
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I do? I think you're going to have to jog my memory.
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I think I'm owed exactly one instance of physical touch.
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Just one?
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[Henry reaches out, resting a hand at the side of Alec's face for just a moment before it slides downwards, his fingertips resting gently beneath his chin.
He leans in forward for a kiss.]
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Alec leans in to meet him, his own hand slipping up to curl around the back of Henry's neck. ]
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But there’s something else, too. The way it lingers, just a half-second before he pulls away, reticent to break their connection — it’s more than just hungry and impatient, like that first day they slept together. It’s almost fond, almost even… gentle. Blame the Christmas present, maybe.
He looks at him with bright, mismatched eyes once he does pull away, the moment dissipating.]
Bed?
[To be fair, he can still be impatient.]
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And then there's something else. A moment, fleeting as a heartbeat, where this thing between them softens, and Alec very nearly leans back in to try and pursue it. He doesn't. It's over as quickly as it came, and things are back to how they should be.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Typical Henry. ]
Bed.
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To bed, then.
…Their time spent together on this night is much like their previous trysts; heated and eager and just aggressive enough to leave marks afresh on each other’s body. But something different happens this time: instead of someone taking their leave—neither seemed keen on indulging themselves in the post-coital languidness for too long before now—he finds that Alec has… fallen asleep. In his bed.
For a while, Henry just watches him, and commits once more the lines of his profile to his memory. It’s strangely serene, seeing him like this, and the rarity of it compels him to make use of his newest holiday gift.
Whether or not Alec eventually awakens to the sound of a pencil scratching gently across paper is yet to be seen. But regardless, Henry sits up in his bed, turned at an angle to see him, crossed-legged beneath where the sheets bunch just below his waist. He's drawing in his sketchbook.]
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And maybe some of that is true. It certainly contributes. But whatever else it is that leads Alec to uncharacteristically linger, to let him unwind and fall asleep, will have to remain a mystery for now because he doesn't seem to be stirring just yet. Even the sound of pencil on paper or the feeling of Henry's eyes on him don't seem to rouse him. Stranger still, because Alec is a light sleeper by habit.
Henry is one of the very, very few to catch him being utterly vulnerable. ]
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He’s quiet for a while, continuing to draw, eyes flicking up and back down to the sketchbook time and again. Eventually, though, he hazards a slow lean forward to better look at the angle of his brow, a closer examination with slow-roving eyes.
The mattress shifts a little accordingly, bed frame squeaking gently.]
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Shit... [ Groggy. ] Did I fall asleep?
[ What the fuck, self? ]
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I didn't mean to wake you.
[He's never seen Alec groggy, either. That, too, is interesting, and his eyes sweep over him as he takes in the sight. Burns it into his memory.]
You must have been tired.
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[ He should get up. Get dressed. Move.
He doesn't want to. So he rolls onto his back, trying to scrub the sleep out of his eyes with one hand. ]
What can I say? Been a long few days.
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But instead, he stays for now, and Henry doesn’t even try to banish the thread of satisfaction that winds itself through him. He’s crossed-legged, beneath the sheets, and balances the bottom of his sketchbook on a knee, leaning in to rest his hand and chin atop it not unlike a kid would do. One of his new pencils hangs loosely from between two fingers.]
It has, hasn’t it?
[So, so much has happened.]
But I don’t mind it. If you want to sleep here.
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Eventually, his eyes travel up to Henry's own, low stormy light locking with mismatched colors. ]
That an invitation?
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His pencil taps against his sketchbook idly. He considers his reply.]
Only if you’re comfortable with it.
[He smiles faintly.]
I won’t deny that it’s something of a selfish invitation, though.
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How so?
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[Is that too much? Well. He latches on an addendum to make it less so (citation needed).]
You’re in my sketchbook now. Don’t worry, I won't show anyone — but do you want to see?
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Every one of the many alarm bells in Alec's head should be going off. He let himself be vulnerable with another person. Vulnerability isn't something that Alec Brennan does. And yet, with Henry that's almost always been the case, hasn't it? Telling him things he doesn't dare tell other people, showing him memories he doesn't dare let other people see. Every crack and blemish and jagged edge, Henry's seen them all.
Ohhh, he's in so deep. ]
... Yeah sure.
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Anyway. He sits up straighter and turns the sketchbook around. And there, worked in delicate care and attention to detail, despite the fact that it’s only pencil on paper, is a portrait of Alec as he sleeps. The expression’s serene, perhaps accentuated by a softer style of shading. Possible, now that he has nicer pencils to work with.]
Couldn’t put all the finishing touches on it since you just had to wake up.
[He kids.]
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It makes something in his chest twist in a way he can't decide is good or bad. His eyes lift from the page back to Henry. Weird, that he suddenly thinks of his own Shadow, the boy standing in the rain, the past stained so deeply into his skin that neither the water nor magic could move it. What was it his Shadow said? That's all you had to do. Let someone in. God dammit. ]
Yeah, well, whose fault is that?
[ He offers the sketchbook back. ]
That's pretty impressive.
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He takes the sketchbook back when Alec’s done, finally turning his gaze downward to assess his own work.]
You think so? I’m so out of practice. I don’t think it really does you justice the way I want it to.
[But would anything?]
Like it doesn't exactly capture... [He trails off, trying to find the words.]
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[ When it doubt, default to sarcasm. ]
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I don’t think anything could capture that.
[He shakes his head and lays his sketchbook flat in his lap. Softly-]
No. I mean how— [so many words he could use here, so many ways to say how impossible it is for Henry to capture exactly how he feels, how Alec has become the crux, the absolute heart of everything] —pivotal you’ve been recently. To my situation… Giving me another path to tread, when I never even considered it before.
And to me. The paper's just not enough.
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