ninzied

his hands are in my hair, his

in which henry’s hand in his hair just does things to him, okay?

He’s not the big spoon all the time.

When they’re pressed for space (the limo in Berlin, for example), he somehow ends up with his head tucked into Henry’s shoulder—blissed out, fuckstruck, arm draped over Henry’s torso, Henry’s fingers in his hair.

Or when Alex falls asleep in other places Henry would call inopportune (listen—the Met Gala ran late and it’s a long train ride back to their brownstone), it’s always to Henry’s body wrapped warmly around his, the soothing feel of Henry’s fingers lightly dragging through his curls, against his scalp down to his nape, and…mmm…Alex can’t help but nod right off.

All right, so, maybe he’s starting to see a pattern form here.

Henry has a thing for his hair. Alex knows it. Alex likes it. (More than likes it—can be very vocal about it in fact—and it’s not not partly because of the way Henry flushes pretty pink when they’re dancing in front of a statue of Venus and Alex makes how much he enjoys it known directly into Henry’s ear.)

Alex is also learning that under the right circumstances, he likes it to the point where his brain short-circuits by shutting off altogether—which, whether it happens while they’re at June and Nora’s or on the couch in their own home, so entirely not his own doing.

Alex can’t help if his boyfriend’s obsessed with touching his hair.

Anyway, case in point: tonight they’re sprawled out on said couch, Alex with a textbook, Henry with David curled up on his other side, the two of them engrossed in their third episode of Bake Off. Alex is so content that he feels warm with it, even halfway to drowsy, even though he still has another chapter or four to get through before bed.

It’s a valiant effort, staying awake, considering Henry’s wound his hand through Alex’s hair yet again, his elbow resting on Alex’s shoulder, and he smells like home when Alex buries his face into his chest, just breathing him in, breathing in this, and—wait. Wait a minute.

Alex leans back, though not far enough to pull Henry’s hand away from his hair. Not that, never that. “How dare you try to lull me to sleep with your hand in my hair right in the middle of biscuit week?” he demands, suitably indignant for someone who’s just yawned so loudly that even David looked reproachful.

Henry levels him with a bemused expression. “Darling,” he says, like Alex is being a little bit slow. “You’re the one who put my hand there.”

“What?”

“You put my hand there,” Henry repeats. The corner of his mouth twitches up in the slightest hint of a smirk, which Alex resolves to do something about momentarily. “You literally reached over about five minutes ago, wormed your way beneath my arm and then bodily forced my hand in your hair.” Almost a full-blown smirk now, and yep, Alex is definitely going to kiss it right off his face in a second. “Wouldn’t be the first time, either, in case you happened to wonder.”

Lies, Alex thinks.

“Lies,” Alex tells him. “That is not a thing.” At Henry’s look, which is altogether too smug for his liking (another lie, thinks Alex again, he actually likes it a hell of a lot), he leans back in, pressing his nose against Henry’s jawline. “But I do like it when you talk dirty to me.”

Henry’s breath gives the tiniest hitch, fingers tightening almost reflexively in Alex’s hair. It sends a full-body shudder down his spine, driving all rational thought from his mind as he presses even closer, and, well—even if it is a thing that he does (it isn’t (oh, it so, so is)), Alex can hardly be held accountable when this is the state it leaves him in, can he?

also on ao3 because why not.