Checking in on Happy [Henry]

When compared to where they were two years ago, when they were living in the house in Lakeview with three other men and the basement was full of supernatural creatures they couldn’t explain to the guys, it was like their lives was some sort of explosive waiting to ignite and go off. There were crises every month, and then every week, until they’d had to move and Henry’s body had whittled away until he was thin enough to poke Tristan in ways that he didn’t find pleasurable.

They’re on their own now, nestled in Eagles territory but virtually left alone in recent months. There have been no emergency phone calls since Nessa went into labor last January, there have been no pack meetings that have required their presence, and Henry has been taking his medication, eating enough calories to maintain the weight his 6’3″ of height demands, exercising regularly and has not touched a cigarette in over a year.

Things are looking pretty good.

==========

When Henry got home from work this evening he had stripped out of his uniform, neatly hanging it in the closet to go to the dry cleaner tomorrow, and climbed into his workout clothes. Rather than putting on his running shoes, though, he puts on his basketball sneakers, pulls his battered basketball out of the closet, and stuffs it underneath his sleeveless t-shirt. Finding Tristan, he leans against the doorframe and drums his air-filled “belly” with meatless fingers.

“I’m going to go wing the ball around and pretend I know what I’m doing,” Henry says. ‘Pretend.’ Tristan has seen Henry on the court before, when he was finally recruited for the firefighters versus policemen games last year. Compared to the short, slow, aging players he was pitted against, Tristan’s tall and lanky husband had been something of a star player. It was embarrassing. “Care to join me?”

When Henry waddles up with a basketball under his shirt, Tristan is sprawled out on the couch, with the laptop in his lap, ironically watching a waddling Henry Sim prepare to give birth. To green alien baby twins. Because it amuses him greatly – still. Sure, he’s branched out to do more on that laptop then play Sims, but he still returns to the giggle fest often enough.

He peers over at Henry and arches a brow, deep brown eyes doing a lazy once over of his husband. He can’t help the smirk at the ‘pretend’ as he has watched Henry play before, while hanging out with the other “Wives” and whistling and catcalling just like the rest of them. When it comes to pretending – it’s actually Tristan who cannot find the hoop with the ball. But he gives a good try, at least.

He shuts the laptop, and sits up, dragging his fingers through tangled curls, and nodding. “You just wanna kick my ass in one on one again…” It’s said with that lazy grin though, as he stands up and stretches. He’s still partially in his work uniform, the comfy pants hanging low on his hips. Catering has been good for Tristan, AND for Henry. All the “sample” dishes are likely to blame for them both maintaining a decent fighting weight for the past few months. If not for all the running around – they might even be getting a little beer belly too. But no, they are active and fit…

[…just in case. one never knows who will find them. just in case…]

He grins at moves toward Henry to capture his lips in a brief kiss. “I’ll just grab my shorts.”

He stands leaning against the wall as he watches Tristan stand and stretch, green eyes making a lazy trip up and down a form that he could have drawn with his eyes temporarily blinded. Although Tristan had been the skinny one when they both met, both of them have had their fair share of weight instability, and even several months after hitting the crescendo of their quiet lives together it’s still amazing to him that they’ve made it this far.

It’s still amazing to him that he can roll over in the mornings and watch Tristan sleep, or sit at the kitchen table eating his oatmeal and know that Tristan is going to come shuffling out right behind him, yawning or singing or just making a beeline to touch the paper-reading Coggie.

When wordlessly Tristan acquiesces to Henry’s kindly-worded request, he is smiling that broad smile that few of the Nation other than Tristan have ever seen. It sublimates into a moan when Tristan grabs his lips, and he finds Tristan’s brown eyes as mentions his shorts.

“I’ll meet you up there,” Henry says, goosing the younger man with his ring-bearing dominant hand and dropping the basketball into the other. His chicken legs carry him quickly down the hall before Tristan can retaliate.

==========

The roof of the building is a decent-enough place to hang out. It’s clean, and sunbathers can get coverage from anywhere on the concrete, and there’s a pair of basketball nets set up on either side of the roof. The top floor of the building is a laundry room, and so no one pays too much attention to the fact that since the two tall, thin homosexual men moved in there’s been a lot more ball-bouncing up on the roof.

When Tristan catches up, Henry is dribbling the ball around, free throwing baskets that make him wince. Anyone else would be satisfied to even have a ball go into the net, but Henry’s form is sloppy and his aim is off despite the fact the ball makes it through. Today’s shift had not been too bad, but the week itself had been tiring.

He yawns into the back of the arm that had been nastily broken once and left with a surgical scar as a reminder, then shakes his head as if to clear the haze. The fresh air will wake him up soon enough.

The t-shirt hangs loose on his form, which is by design, as the last thing they need is for their neighbors to see the scars that still stand out in sharp contrast to the rest of his skin. While Henry could trace every inch of his form, including these scars, they remember well what happens when others see them, how folks react to the fact that Tristan had, at some point, almost been ripped completely in two.

Not that Henry is without his own set of scars, though his are much more easily and honestly explained. He’d broken his arm on the job, the rehabilitation period causing Decker to tell Tristan the now infamous line that still makes them laugh when they think about it “He’s a faggot, not a paper doll!!” Which from Decker was the highest form of respect and relationship advice. They’ve been beaten up – it should be acceptable that Henry’s form is a little sloppy, and the aim not perfect.

Of course, Henry is a perfectionist. Tristan catches up, and jogs over to join Henry, swatting his ass as he moves past to play rebound boy for his husband. He takes a deep breath of the fresh air, and looks around the roof and across to the rest of the street with a content grin. It’s a good day for ball bouncing.

“So,” is what he says, and how he breaks the companionable silence, broken by the bounce of the ball. “how was your day, dear?”

How was his day.
Swoosh.

“Y’know,” Henry says, seeming to actively consider this, “it wasn’t bad! Mostly little old ladies and abdominal pains.”

Standing in the waning metropolitan daylight, the scars on Henry’s arms and neck are all starkly visible. He does not have many scars in general, but the ones he has all seem to be places where people can see: the scar to install and then six months ago remove a wire from his arm; the hideous burn scar on his upper forearm and elbow from the accident that occurred right before Henry began studying to become a paramedic; the scar above that where his arm was ripped off as a teenager. The scar on his temple from where that beast had attacked them right before Mama Grace’s stroke. Nobody ever asks, and when they do, he has an answer readily available.

“You getting a lot of big Mother’s Day orders?” Henry asks.

They’ve learned to hide, or tell the right stories for their scars, especially after the one that saw them moving out on their own. Not that either one of them has EVER regretted that fact – and if the last barbque was any indication, there’s no hard feelings between them and the rest of the guys. Still a lot of unanswered and ignore questions – but no hard feelings.

When asked about the Mother’s day rush, he groans. “It’s worse than last year! It’s like they have discovered we know what we’re doing or something. We’ve hired extras, and I’ll be working two luncheons and a dinner on my own, while the Boss takes on two other dinners and a breakfast. It’s madness.”

It’s a showoff move, but Henry does it because that’s what he felt like doing, and if there’s something they’ve had to teach Henry it’s been that he does not have to hold so tightly to himself all the time.

Especially when he’s home with Tristan.

The ball swishes through the net and back into his hands, and Henry, panting quietly with the short stroll, bounces Tristan the ball and takes up his place beside the net.

“It’ll be fifteen years on Sunday,” Henry remarks, his hands on his slim hips as he watches Tristan. A pause, and then he elaborates: “Mom and Nora and Bev, I mean. May tenth hasn’t fallen on Mother’s Day in a few years.”

He’s not as graceful with the ball as Henry is, which is surprising considering he might be considered graceful in many other areas. He just never was much of a sports guy, always preferring his music instead. The violin, while it still remains on the shelf, has actually come down more often than before in the wake of Mama’s Grace’s stroke. A few months ago he had begun to play again, and it is not usual for Henry to have the sole seat in a concert for one after they’ve both come home from a long day at work.

Henry says it’s been 15 years, and at first he doesn’t get it, until Henry explains. He knew it was coming up soon, but dates and Tristan? Well, he forgets sometimes. Try asking him when his own birthday is. He’ll have to check his ID, or ask Henry. But it’s been 15 years, since his family was destroyed, and Tristan attempts a passable jump shot. Which misses.

“Wow. 15?” He stops moving and studies his husband for a long moment. Mother’s day is going to be hard for both of them despite the brave face they both put on it, the years that have passed for Henry, the months that have passed for Tristan. “Will you have to work? Paulo don’t mind if you want to come hang with me all day…” He’ll be burying himself in work to make other mother’s happy – and still, always, is more concerned for Henry than himself.

With the question, the echoing of how long it had been, Henry simply nods, reaching up to scratch the back of the neck. As for whether he has to work, Henry shakes his head and says, “Nah. The nice thing about that new wave of paramedics that were hired last year is that I don’t have to do on-call or work weekends anymore because I have senority.”

He reaches up to run his fingers through his perpetually shaggy hair, then pulls his lower leg behind his thigh to stretch his quadriceps.

“Makes me feel kind of old.”

“Well, you certainly weren’t feeling old last night…” a lopsided grin, that’s positively wicked and boyishly fun at the same time finds a home on kissable lips. “Anyway, we can place bets on how many times your cheeks get pinched if you hang out with me at work.”

He doesn’t push, but Henry knows he’s welcome, and that Tris won’t mind the additional support of his presence either. “Making that chicken dish you liked so much last for the dinner too…”

“You know, these chipmunk cheeks could make me some bank if I’m up against someone who thinks no one over the age of twelve gets his cheeks pinched,” Henry remarks, and then decides to stop skirting the issue and answer the unspoken question that Tristan has posed twice.

He knows that it can be overwhelming at those catered events, that there are times that he gets flustered because he hasn’t had the education or the life experiences that some of the other chefs or the servers have had; or because what education and experience he has had, he can’t share with people. Henry just sitting there and talking to people–he will deny this, but Henry is one of those paradoxical individuals, the reserved man who blushes easily who can, despite this, make friends just by walking up to someone–seems to alleviate a considerable amount of stress for Tristan, and all he has to do is show up.

“Tell me where and what time,” Henry says, “and I’ll be there.”

Or wishes he was.
Which is often times the same thing, but also, thankfully, few and far between.

“Good.” He nods, and sends the ball toward the hoop again. “Jerry was asking about you earlier. If he asks to pinch your cheeks, I can practically guarantee that they won’t be on your face.”

Sunday will be difficult, and stressful, and made infinitely better with Henry there. The loss of Mama Grace still weighs heavy on the kinsman’s shoulders, on his heart, as he knows Henry’s loss does as well, even after 15 years. But they’ll manage, each in their own way, yet tied together as well.

“Paulo said we could take the leftovers from the three events, whatever the folks don’t want, and send it to the Firehouse too.”

His strides are lazy and confident because he has practiced, not because he has a pompous bone in his body, and he switches the ball between his hands before coming to stand before Tristan. Holding the ball in both hands against his flat stomach, he leans forward to press his mouth to Tristan’s, kissing him quiet and soft at first before deepening the connection between them.

Something about enterpeneurial altruism gets to him, apparently.

He could watch it forever, and never get tired of the reply. A soft moan catches in his throat as the kiss deepens, and long, strong fingers lift to slide around the back of his husband’s neck, tangling into perpetually shaggy hair as he submits to his husband’s whim. It’s another thing he could do, forever. Kiss Henry. That would make him most happy.

To Tristan, both as the son of Mama Grace, and simpy by virtue of his birth, the collecting and passing around of leftovers, taking over the feed and caring of the Station is as simple as breathing, as important as getting up in the morning, as natural as.. well.. the way Henry’s lips feel against his own. There could be no better payment, no better reward.

It was nice, not having to worry if they would be relaxing after their individual difficult days and have the intercom buzz with one of the pack bothering them for something, or that they would be making love and Henry’s emergency telephone would go off with someone in labor or someone shot up or someone clawed half to death. It’s been quiet, and that’s why Henry was able to come up here without his cell phone.

He left his cell phone downstairs.

Tristan can feel the last of the tension of his husband’s day leaving Henry’s body as they kiss, and he relaxes in a way that no amount of stretching could have allowed him, and his breathing starts to escalate. Pulling back, Henry’s eyes search Tristan’s, and he laughs that self-conscious laugh he may never break himself of.

“It’s been two years and I’m still crazy about you,” he explains, his voice lowered now that they are in each other’s space.

It’s nice.

Even when Tristan still shows up at the packhouse, it’s to do Decker’s laundry out of habit, and little else. Randi took over most of Tristan’s pack house duties, but she refused to touch Decker’s boxers. Can’t say as they blame her, and Tristan has stopped in once a week to make a laundromat run without fail. Even then, it’s quiet. The pack knows he still exists and is happy, and he’s not being called on 24-7 at the most inopportune moments.

The last of the days tension leaves Henry, and that laugh that he’ll never break himself off brings a soft grin to Tristan’s face as his fingers smooth Henry’s hair at the nap of his neck, blunt nails trailing lazily over his skin. “That’s convenient, as I’ve decided you ain’t ever gonna get rid of me. I’m rather crazy about you, too.”