Alex Claremont-Diaz deserves some fucking peace and quiet and rest, and this lake house is moving him one step closer to outrunning law-related burnout of epic proportions. Or at least, that’s what he hopes; he’s not quite sure yet what this house will hold for him. Year after year of relentless caseloads and emotionally draining yet fulfilling clients will do that to a person—fills them up, but at a steep personal cost. And Alex’s wellbeing is here to fucking collect. Luna was pretty clear about the whole thing: “A three month sabbatical, kid. No arguments. Better not see your ass darkening Luna & Associates’ fuckin’ doors until April.” So. Lake it is. Peace and quiet. No stress. His lease was up anyway, so he crashed at June’s and diligently searched for housing near but not in Chicago. He’s going for serene, here. Goodbye, high rises and pavement. Hello, waterfront views and enlightenment. 

Henry Fox-Mountchristen is bloody terrified of moving into this place, with its memories and sadness and joy attached, and this lake house is forcing him one step closer to confronting a final piece of the grief puzzle he’s been avoiding for years.   Or at least, that’s what he’s afraid of; he’s not quite sure yet what this house will hold for him.  The past was full of laughter echoing in the halls, late night sketching at the threadbare dinner table, secrets and fears whispered into the nooks and crannies. The present, however, is full of running. From his fears, from his demons, from laughter and sketching and secrets.  But Henry’s tired. Year after year of agonizing pain and subsequent expensive therapy will do that to a person—drains them, builds them up, then drains them again. Rinse and repeat, hope eternally on the horizon, fears loitering on his doorstep. And those aforementioned demons have finally caught up and are knocking rather insistently. 

Zahra gets Shaan's attention and smiles. A real, hand on his heart, honest to god smile.

“These terrors are my kids,” she says and gestures to them.

June smiles sweetly, Alex scoffs at the insult, and Nora smirks and unsubtly checks Shaan out.

Shaan shakes their hands. “Thank you for coming. She speaks fondly of you three. It's a pleasure to finally meet.”

Zahra clears her throat. “No compliments, Srivastava. Alex's ego is already fucking massive.”

Nora laughs too loudly at that one. “Half of her job is keeping Alex in check, Shaan, otherwise he'd wreck Ellen's approval rating in a week.”

“Um, excuse you. Rachel Maddow has retweeted me twice.”

“June was on a panel with her. What's your fucking point?”

“See, this is why I sat you in the back,” Zahra deadpans.

Alex calls her bluff. “No, you didn't. The threats on my life are how you show affection. You fucking love us. Shaan just said so.”

“At most, I said she was ‘fond’,” Shaan interjects.

Pez returned and said we were shooting. I went from right to left as Alex hammed up his speech to the camera, holding weird jars full of things that I think were meant to be organs but were very clearly painted Pokemon figurines. Later, in the same scene, I went from left to right to switch on a hologram (which Pez says he’ll fix in post) that would show the hero at the gates. After we were done, three takes later (Alex making bolder and bolder choices til he was chewing the scenery so hard he’s probably going to get indigestion), Pez said we should set up for the next scene. I wasn’t in it, so I started groping at the back of my own head to get the mask off. “Woah, woah - I’ve got it,” Alex said, and I felt his deft fingers first slide the surgical cap off, and then gently untangle and undo the double knots. By the time I was free, my face was on fire. “You okay, Henry?” Alex asked as I turned to thank him. He looked a little concerned, and guided me to a seat, practically bumping June off hers in his eagerness to sit me down. “Nora, can you get Henry some water?”

“Indeed,” Henry says softly, and when he looks at Alex, a shock of something electric goes up his spine. “I think, perhaps, I have been guilty of misjudging the country in the past.”

Alex can barely breathe. “Perhaps the country is simply a little more welcoming on this occasion, Mr Fox?” he suggests, and hopes he doesn’t sound like his lungs are struggling or anything. That would be deeply embarrassing.

“Perhaps,” Henry says with a gracious intensity, like a very sharp knife with an ornate handle that is, incidentally, pointing directly at Alex’s heart. He thinks, a little vaguely, that Henry could do him a great deal of damage, and he’s not sure why that doesn’t scare him; he thinks maybe it makes him feel something much more damning instead.

Oscar clears his throat and Alex realises with a jolt that he’d been leaning into Henry’s space like a sunflower towards a gap in the clouds. He straightens up as inconspicuously as possible, and hopes against hope that his father doesn’t ever say anything about this as long as they both live.

“Some people look at horses like Jasper and think they’re hard to handle, that they won’t listen,” Henry says. “But they’re the ones who aren’t listening. Those horses, they’re not acting out for no reason, and they’ll tell you if you bother paying attention.” He runs a hand down Jasper’s flank. “I just listened to what he was saying.” Alex doesn’t respond immediately, and when Henry looks over he finds Alex staring up at him with a hard to read look on his face, the brush in his hand all but forgotten.“How are you even real?” Henry frowns. “What?” “Nothing,” Alex says with a soft huff as he shakes his head. He lifts the brush and smooths it over Jasper’s withers. “You’re right, by the way. The people I bought him from told me he would never be a rodeo horse. Too energetic, too unfocused. Too anxious. But that’s what they said about me, too.” He delivers this statement without inflection, almost as an aside, and Henry would very much like to know more—who they were, and how they could be so wrong—but Alex forges on without leaving even the smallest pause. “Most people don’t understand him. I’ll admit, I was curious how you would do.” Fine. If they’re going to pretend they’re still talking about Jasper, Henry can play that game. “So it was a test,” he says, letting one corner of his mouth tug upward. Alex grins back at him. “More or less.” “Did I pass?” “Top scores on horsemanship and communication. Points deducted for your stiff-ass seat and torturing me with these ridiculous breeches all day,” Alex says. He hooks a finger in one of Henry’s belt loops and gives a little tug, pulling them somehow closer together. He’s staring at Henry’s mouth when he murmurs, “But yeah, you passed.”