Alex arrives home from his speaking engagement in Boston to a rather quiet house.

It's not the first time the old brownstone that Henry and he had moved into had been quiet obviously, but this is a different kind of quiet. It's not the calm, peaceful kind of call to relax or come in to hang out or sleep. No, it's a restless quiet, the only light being a faint one coming from upstairs as he takes off his coat and leaves his bags at the door, calling out. "Baby?"

He doesn't get a response, which kinda makes him squirm slightly internally, but nevertheless, cautiously heads upstairs towards what he's identified as lamp light coming from their bedroom door. Pushing it ajar, his eyes only land on a still freshly made king sized bed, shadows swimming around the room as he calls out again. "Hen?"

"Oh. Hello darling. Home so soon?"

Henry's voice makes Alex's previously freezing insides melt and he turns to find a dark corner of the room not touched by the golden glow the bedside lamp is giving, a silhouette in black sitting in a chair within what he can make out. "Hen, what's with the theatrics?" His voice teases, grinning and shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. "You been reading Lord Byron again without me here?"

"Perhaps a little." Henry's voice takes on a husky tone, which dries Alex's mouth out in seconds as he stands there, rooted to the wood floor. "You know how you said that you were going to do some bad things to me once? A long time ago?"

Oh fuck. Oh shit. Alex can almost feel the stitches in his suit pants start to rip as his pelvis and what's attached practically makes it's own gravity field. "Yeah, I…kinda remember that."

"Well, I decided I should get the jump on you. Or more to the point, be allowed to jump on you, in the right attire of course."

Suddenly, Alex can't breathe, he can't speak, he can't even move as Henry, beautiful unpredictable Henry steps out of the shadows finally, dressed to his finest in his polo uniform Alex swears he left over in the UK, sans mallet and helmet of course, considering they don't exactly do polo in the States.

The long boots make him look like the 6 foot 2 everyone said he was before Alex came along and proved them wrong, white pants with not even a spot on them still hug his ass in a way that makes Alex's entire adult set of teeth click together, wishing they were on the skin, while his Kensington House red and blueish-black (listen, he's not got enough brain power for this) shirt practically clings to his arms screaming 'look at me, look at your forthcoming demise' while Alex is physically struggling to meet Henry's actual, darkly simmering eyes as he walks over to him. Putting a forceful hand under his chin, Alex's knees almost give out as Henry tilts his face up to look at him directly. "Hello."

"Oh…my…god." Alex wheezes, pretty sure the sudden feeling of adrenaline surging through his brain is concerning given he's had a ton of energy drinks and caffeine this last week just to stay awake to finish his work, but he doesn't care as Henry /can't/ look that good. "Hi."

Henry smiles, though it's more of a smirk to the other right now, before his face turns ashen and serious again, the Englishman adopting a tone of authority. "Kensington House has been invited to a private polo match."

"Oh." Alex can't bring himself to say more, feeling like if he breaks this spell, he'll wake up to Henry, sure, but it'll be in daylight in bedsheets that smell like Covent Garden with a splitting headache and unsatisfied morning wood. "I see."

"Yes, quite. I find myself, however, with a lack of a good horse." Henry's face tips down and Alex can see the glint in his eyes from the light that equally casts shadows on his face, making him look older and more sinister than usual. "I don't suppose you know of anyone who could provide me a service? It's a very important match you know."

Alex inhales a beat passes, one, two, three, before he lunges forward and starts desperately making out with his boyfriend as the other pushes him down, his ass hitting the mattress and sending a hard, shooting pain up his spine (which he suspects won't be the only time he thinks that tonight) as Henry's hands deftly remove his jacket and shirt. His hands also reach out to pull at clothes, but he's suddenly pushed back as soon as his fingers hinge themselves under Henry's pristine attire, his pants pulled down to his ankles along with his underwear in one swift movement as his penis springs to life, curling slightly against the black mound of his public hair as Henry stares.

He's got a look on his face that Alex knows off by heart. That expression is the one that Henry gives when he's pretending to think, like someone inspecting something to buy in a window when they know they're already going to buy it or someone looking at antiques at an auction that they most likely won't bid on, but end up doing so anyway.

Alex is being analysed and he can feel every bit of it.

He doesn't speak, as words will spoil the moment and he's holding his breath as Henry reaches for his belt buckle and unclips it along with his zipper, bunching the white starched fabric (Alex still doesn't understand how it like, never wrinkles, like /ever/) around his knees before he's mounting the side with a foot like one would do when mounting a horse, both Alex and him gasping as he swings his other leg over and Alex'scock disappears into his body, Henry's chest going a hundred miles an hour before he looks down, hands bracing Alex's shoulders. "Allez."

Alex may not exactly have studied French, but he knows when he's told to do something, so he interprets whatever that word is in English as "Move." and boy does he. Clamping down Henry's arms with his own in an instant, Alex starts moving his hips and the sounds coming out of Henry are good enough to keep him hard alone, his back arching and the lower half of his body barely meeting the bed anymore as Henry rides him into forgetting about Boston and the cold and the rain and the boredom of not seeing his boyfriend for a week and- oh god, he thinks he might be seeing stars.

Henry's body practically bobs on top of his like that day he blew him in the equipment shed on his friend's property, head thrown back in ecstasy as Alex's brain cycles through the memory of Henry's strong and stocky inner thighs being so close to his mouth and the Latino's nose buried in equally light colored hair smelling of sweat and grass and leather, lighting a fire in his belly that he hopes Henry can feel, burning him from under his toned abs.

Pretty soon, he can hear Henry starting to brokenly whimper his name, which Alex knows from prior experience means that he's close and it's followed up a second later by the walls of his body getting tight around him. It's a feeling he'll never get sick of, seeing and feeling Henry build up to his final release and then watching as he comes undone.

All it takes is some more work from Alex in which he lets go of his arms and roughly grabs onto his hips like he did at New Year's those 2 years ago which have passed by since and gripping his thighs together to produce entire bucks like a wild stallion that have Henry shouting expletives that sound all too pretty and edible to someone who hungry to see his boyfriend a mess.

Just like the breaths before that started all this, it's a count and there's one thrust, two, three and then Henry's crying out along with him as they both spill over, cum hitting his chin thanks to some accidentally perfect aim (because of course his English born boyfriend would have perfect aim even accidentally) while he own carves its own path through Henry's still shaking body as the latter collapses on top of his chest, overstimulated, red and exhausted.

Curling an arm around his lower back like a makeshift brace, Alex gently turns them with hopefully less fiction than it felt like to lie in bed together, their hip bones still kissing like they are and the feeling of kneecaps grinding against the American's tailbone as Henry's body stubbornly refuses to let go of its prize despite the other not intending to go anywhere.

There are no complaints here, however, as they barely notice.

When they finally do get around to letting go, truly this time, Henry stares up at him from his pillow, blonde hair like a fluffed halo and red swollen lips in a sly smile as Alex silkenly asks from where he's propped on his arm under his own tired body. "Did we win?"

"Yes, dear." Henry's groggy voice comes into being. "The only problem is we got disqualified at the last minute for bad sportsmanship."

"Oh no, whatever will we do?" Alex sing-songingly mocked before he lazily kisses Henry's jaw, making the other's eyes flutter. "Guess we'll have to behave next time."

"Never." Henry remarks solely before both are chuckling, resting nose to nose as the window outside misted from rain, content to just be, right here, right now.

For the foreseeable future anyway.