Chapter Text
His ring light is about to fall over again.
Alex glares at it like it personally insulted him. It's propped up on top of his ConLaw textbook and an upside down mug, next to the half-empty bag of stale Lays that he ate for dinner
He squints into the front facing camera, adjusting the brightness and wincing at the dark circles under his eyes. He shrugs it off, they'll still thirst over him, even if he hasn't left his apartment in two days and definitely looks it.
Outside the window, NYC is moody and humid and full of people pretending they're not melting into the sidewalk. Inside, he's slightly cooler, in his so-called home office (read: a curtained off section of his living room) staring at the button that will make him go LIVE.
This whole TikTok thing wasn't the plan.
Alex just started his third year of law school, in the top quarter of his class, go team. But at some point during the horrors of 1L, he opened TikTok. At first he was annoying Nora and June with 47 shared memes a night. Then, he started posting videos, rambling on about the state of America, or complaining about law school. He had like, 91 followers before the big video.
For reasons still unclear to him, Alex thought it would be fun to read Clarence Thomas' autobiography, so he could publicly dunk on it. Apparently, BookTok found it. They liked the way he broke things down. How he sarcastically discussed real-world issues and swore like a sailor while quoting the constitution.
That's how it all started.
Then he came out. Casually. In an unrelated video reviewing Michelle Obama's memoir. It was almost like it never happened, he was summarizing, cracking jokes, saying he's bi, and telling them to go vote. He didn't think much of it.
But his audience exploded practically overnight. And his inbox was flooded. Everybody wanted him to review Queer Lit. Biographies, non-fiction, and most of all, romance. And Alex is nothing if not a man of the people.
Now, he has 200,000 followers and a running series called "LGBTQ+ Books Almost As Hot As Me." He gets some free shit, a few brand deals, more than enough to justify the time spent editing. It’s not quite covering his expenses, with tuition as high as it is, but his debt isn’t growing anymore.
He didn't read romance before. Now, he reads everything. Sword-fighting sapphics. Star Wars FanFiction. Erotic novellas about a space pirate and a morally grey warlock, which he swears was just for research. (And it was pretty hot. He gave it 3 stars and 4.5 chili pepper emojis.)
Somehow, he’s carved out this weird little corner of the internet where people actually listen to him. They buy the book if he loves it, scream in the comments with him, and yell “EXACTLYYY” in all caps when he really gets going on a topic. He's made good relationships with authors, helped some indies sell out, he’s doing something. It feels good.
So yeah. He's a tired, bisexual law student who accidentally became a queer BookTok micro-celebrity.
Which is how he ended up here. In front of his crooked ring light, about to go live.
And ruin everything.
The screen goes live with a familiar chime, and within a minute, the viewer count ticks up to seventy-three.
Alex sits cross-legged in his chair, worn t-shirt exposing just the right amount of collar bone, curls freshly fluffed. He looks tired in the camera, but the artificial lighting helps, and so do the glasses. He puts on that charming, crooked smirk as the comments roll in.
@bisexualqween
HE’S HERE HELLOOOOO
@readtherainbow
your honor he’s in his cozy era
@user324563
NOT THE GLASSES YOU’RE KILLING ME
@sweetchiliheat
what are we reading tonight professor sexy
Alex smirks. "You are all freaks. But thank you for your service. New York is trying to kill me with this heat so I need all the additional will to live I can get."
He adjusts the ring light again, it teeters like it’s trying to escape.
“I just finished filming a video!” Alex holds up a copy of a posthumous memoir of Teddy Roosevelt, rolling his eyes. “This is a dry fuckin’ book. And that’s coming from a guy who reads law textbooks for fun.”
Alex smiles into the camera as he watches the viewer count grow, and some gifts come onto the screen. He blows cheeky kisses and thanks his gifters.
“Anyway, that should be up tomorrow. But let’s talk about something that’s way gayer and hotter. I’m reading a hockey romance right now, which, you guys know, sports doesn’t always do it for me. But this one's just right.”
@nohetero
oh so it’s hot bisexual hours let’s GOOOOO
@nancydrew
why is your voice kinda hoarse it sounds hot but r u okay
@bisexualqween
NEW YORK MELTING MY MAN ALIVE LET HIM REST
“Mkay so, I’m not done so no spoilers! But aren’t these two hot?”
Comments flood in, more keysmashes and emojis and thirst, typical behaviour. But then the first landmine comes in.
@angelbooks
HAVE YOU RED HENRY FOX’S BOOK YET???
Alex blinks. Then exhales sharply through his nose, trying to find his zen. More echo that comment.
@nohetero
If you don’t review Seasons of Him i’ll perish
@feralforfiction
Not to be dramatic but it altered my brain chemistry
@heartsonfire
Take Pride and Prejudice. Make it gay. And with even more yearning. You gotta check it out!
@bisexualqween
alex pls you are our compass we only trust you to rate this shit
Alex grabs his iced coffee with both hands and sips it like it’s a coping mechanism. More comments roll in. He’s gonna have to address this clearly, and he is not in the mood.
“I know, I have seen the book, y’all,” Alex starts. “It’s on my For You page every day, and in my inbox, and that QueerLit discord chat someone added me to without asking. I see you, by the way.”
@slowburnsurvivor
He’s about to start violence
@toebeans
GO OFF KING PLS
He breathes out, then smiles. It’s not a kind smile, more shark-like.
“Honestly, I don’t even need to read it. I already know what it is. Two emotionally constipated white men who refuse to talk to each other for three hundred pages, one of them brooding by a lake, the other probably writing letters and burning them in a fire like it’s foreplay.”
And the chat starts to riot.
@queermiserables
HOW DARE YOU
@slowburnsurvivor
They’re sensitive tortured gays alex RESPECT THEM
Alex shrugs, unapologetic. He’s a little bit done with the discourse and the heat and exhaustion are just enough to make him speak on it.
“I’m just tired, okay? I’m tired of white dudes slapping ‘diverse’ narratives onto classic literature and acting like they did something. We’ve seen this same tired story in every medium, derivative nonsense. And like, fine, you’ll never hear me complain about diversity.”
“But queer people deserve our own stories. Original stories. Not straight stories with the names swapped out. Because the second it’s queer it becomes a different story, fundamentally. You can’t just jam that into a regency corset and call it revolutionary.”
@darkacademic
ALEX LOG OFF
@legalgroupie
ur gonna get flamed in a listicle for this
@gaysagainstgatekeeping
i already see the stan edits with clown music
“It’s probably beautiful writing, I believe you guys. But even when I read fantasy or sci-fi, I only rate books that feel real. Nothing about Austen is true to the queer experience.”
Alex leans back in his chair, feeling light for getting that off his chest, sipping the last watery bit of his iced coffee.
“Just saying.”
Alex wraps up the live with fifteen minutes on whatever else he’s reading (nonfiction on queer resistance in 1970s New York), and answering questions about politics and his life.
When the screen goes black, he shuts off the ring light and immediately slumps in his chair like he’s just done something exhausting. He stares at the floor for twenty seconds before opening his Employment Law textbook.
Fifteen minutes later, the pinging starts. Not the usual handful, it’s a swarm of them. They roll across the top of his phone screen like ticker tape. He blindly clicks on one and it takes him straight to the video posted on TikTok eleven minutes ago. The 45 second clip of his rant, with the caption:
Alex Claremont-Diaz dragging Henry Fox’s book without reading it… and he’s kinda spilling?
Original Sound - @legalgroupie
The views are in the hundreds already, climbing way too fast. He opens the comments and instantly regrets it. There’s probably an equal amount of people defending him than are dragging him.
@fictionfemme
not Alex calling queer literature inauthentic while reading straight-coded hockey romances about ripped blondes named hayden
@bisexualqween
“You can’t just jam that into a regency corset and call it revolutionary” IT’S ACD FROM THE TOP ROPE!!
@notlikeotherqueers
Henry Fox is a GAY AUTHOR who wrote for QUEER PEOPLE and Alex didn’t even read the book before talking shit. This is why we can’t have nice things.
@acdlovesme
he’s spitting, there’s hundreds of austen adaptations, pack it up already
@hfoxdaily
Henry needs to respond to this expeditiously.
Oh god. He didn’t realize that would get out beyond his followers. He’s never really had this moment before, but he figures it was only a matter of time given his aversion to ever shutting up.
The traction doesn’t slow down. He forces himself to study and only look every ten minutes. By the third check, someone’s made an aesthetic capcut edit, captioned “the downfall of booktok’s bisexual golden boy.” It’s set to Lana Del Rey.
He’s fine, he stands by what he said. No lies detected, polygraph his ass.
And then one notification cuts through the noise in his head like a hot knife.
@henryfox sent you a message
Alex freezes, staring at his phone like it might bite.
He stares, and without meaning to, whispers, “Oh fuck.”
Alex stares at the message in his instagram inbox like it’s a live grenade.
The little message preview doesn’t give much away, but it starts with ‘Hello Alex, I saw a clip of your…” So, it’s definitely related to the incident.
He’s too afraid to open it. Because once that little box says “Read.” Henry Fox will know he’s seen it. He’ll know Alex is sitting here in his apartment, one message away from a full spiral, already imagining himself being dragged into a literary duel at dawn.
And in his exhaustion-hazy mind, he’s realizing that maybe, maybe, he went a little too hard.
He hasn’t even read the damn book, and hadn’t really considered the author. In his content, he’s always honest, never shies away from a negative review, but he’s usually nicer. Less “slash and burn”, and more "constructive critique”. Watching it back, he doesn’t think he was wrong, just, harsh.
The blue unread notification sits in his inbox, radiating judgement. He doesn’t even want to click it. Of course, he does.
@henryfox
Hello Alex,
I saw a clip of your commentary earlier. Thank you for the spirited feedback, it’s always interesting to see how different people interpret media.
I understand you are entitled to your opinion, of course, but I did want to clarify a few points.
Seasons of Him isn’t a retelling of Pride and Prejudice, though I understand the marketing leads to that assumption. It uses the same emotional architecture, but it stands on its own, with unique themes and characters. If using inspiration from well-known narrative arcs renders a book “derivative,” then every novel would be guilty of the same.
I imagine as someone who also discusses books publicly, you understand how nuance can sometimes get lost in translation.
Wishing you well,
Henry Fox
Alex stares at his phone, and an unprompted, incredulous laugh bubbles out of his chest. It borders on feral-sounding.
“Oh my god,” he mutters to himself. “What is this? A fucking press release?”
He reads it again and again. Every time it just gets worse.
“Thanks for the spirited feedback”
Could this guy get any more condescending? Henry’s acting like Alex just gave notes at a middle school production of Annie.
“Though I understand the marketing leads to that assumption”
Do you understand, Henry? Do you? Cause it’s right there, on the fucking cover of the book! “Inspired by Pride and Prejudice.” Alex checked.
“Nuance can sometimes get lost in translation”
And now Alex doesn’t understand nuance. Nuance is his job. He just told Alex that he doesn’t know how to do the one thing he built a platform on. In a DM that’s basically a professionally-worded slap to the face.
He clicks to navigate to Henry’s instagram profile, and zooms into the pinned photo. A black and white author portrait that’s definitely designed to make this prim blonde guy look mysterious and tortured instead of privileged as fuck.
Unfortunately, it’s working.
He’s too attractive. Cheekbones that look chiseled out, jawline as sharp as Alex’s best arguments. Even his hair, it looks so soft in the midst of all the mood-lighting.
Alex consoles himself with the fact that it’s probably photoshop. People don’t look like that in real life.
Alex fumes. He gets up to pace his apartment for a few minutes like a caged lion, limbs jittering with the need to do something. And then he sits down to reply, because there is no universe where he lets this bland, polished, princely white boy get the last word.
@alexcd
since we’re doing professional clarification now, if you can’t handle criticism you probably picked the wrong profession. i didn’t tag you or review bomb you, i said one thing on live. people are allowed opinions, even if they don’t match the ones of your rabid little fan club
He hits send before his rational brain has a chance to weigh in..
And that small feeling of regret he had earlier? Gone. Vanished. Fucking vaporized.
Ping.
@HenryFox
Alex,
Of course, I don’t expect universal praise.
My only hope is that readers, and reviewers, approach books with the same thoughtfulness they’d want extended to their own work.
Take care,
Henry Fox
Alex reads it three times. Until he can actually feel that the blood vessels in his eyes are about to burst open.
“The same thoughtfulness they’d want extended to their own work.”
Oh, he knows that move. The content creator guilt card. That unspoken, weaponized “you should know better.” Patronizing with the undertone of ‘you’ll get it someday, kid’ It’s ridiculous. Henry thinks he’s just some cute TikTok influencer. Alex is over here making memes while he sits in some mahogany study writing The Great Gay Novel™.
He doesn’t even think this time, just types.
@Alexcd
i approach my criticism with honesty, it’s fitting you can’t seem to understand that. if your book can’t stand up to one stupid tiktok rant, maybe the problem isn’t my opinion. maybe it’s your ego
He hits send so hard like he’s trying to crack the glass, letting the satisfaction fill his body.
Two minutes later, another response comes in.
@HenryFox
I understand.
I won’t reach out again.
Thank you,
Henry Fox
And that's it. Clean, almost surgical. Just, ‘I understand.”
Like Alex is a child throwing a tantrum in aisle seven. Like this entire exchange has been beneath him from the beginning, it’s not even worth his time to engage.
He’s not gonna do anything about it, but god, the schadenfreude fantasy is writing itself in his brain. Henry’s book kicked off that LGBT bestseller list. Maybe some controversy comes out, and someone finds out it was ghostwritten, or plagiarized, or AI.
His book isn’t better than the things Alex reads. He’s not better than Alex.
He just thinks he is.
Alex isn’t proud of it, but an hour later he’s back on Henry’s page, scrolling through his instagram grid.
It has the kind of curation that just screams ‘pretentious,’ and that’s coming from Alex, a card-carrying influencer. It’s all moody, with half the grid in black and white. The rest look like they were shot on location for some indie film that would be in Adrien Brody’s Letterboxd four favourites. There’s a few reels. Alex taps one.
Henry’s sitting on the floor, folded up effortlessly, talking about Seasons of Him in a voice that is, God help him, annoyingly British. He has this posh accent that curls up in Alex’s ears like warm honey and makes him shiver traitorously. The kind of voice that could convince you to do anything. He hates how much he likes it.
That’s part of it, isn’t it? Alex’s followers like him because he’s hot. Not only because of it, but he's not oblivious to the thirst. It makes sense that they’d want him to read the book by another hot guy. The internet wants to set up the two prize ponies at the county fair. But that doesn't mean the book is good. That doesn’t mean Alex is wrong.
The next video on Henry’s grid auto-plays while Alex is drafting increasingly unhinged counter-arguments in his head. When he scrolls to the comments, they’re filled with people thirsting over the man or sobbing about the book.
Alex looks back at the video and Henry’s goddamn smile. Alex wants to slap him in that stupid, beautiful mouth. He wants to rip that stupid cardigan off his smug little body and set it on fire.
He doesn’t mean it like that.
It’s kind of fun, in a sick way, being in an internet feud. Having people pick him over the gorgeous, blonde, literary angel does something to his ego he’s not entirely sure is healthy. Every time someone duets the now infamous rant clip, it sends a shot of dopamine straight to his head.
He likes being right.
But he hates that Henry Fox stays utterly, infuriatingly silent.
No statements, no videos, not even a throwaway instagram story. He posts a couple things on his grid, moody book photos, jawline porn, expensive looking sweaters, but nothing that even remotely acknowledges Alex’s existence.
So Alex escalates. He posts more TikToks with increasingly obvious captions. He’s not even entirely sure why, he just wants this guy to crack. The longer Henry doesn’t respond, the more Alex feels like he’s yelling at a very attractive brick wall. And then he feels stupid for caring, so doubles down instead of calling it quits.
Alex needs to win.
Fans on twitter make a poll. ‘Who’s bookshelf would you rather have? Alex or Henry?” Henry’s winning. 62% to 38%.
Alex retweets it with, “if ya’ll don’t like gay alien sex say it with your CHEST!”
Henry doesn’t acknowledge it.
Over the next week, Alex keeps the feud alive like it’s his job. Casual mentions on live. “Unrelated” TikToks about emotionally stunted gay protagonists. Reposting stories of others with captions like “my beloved army.”
It’s not much, but it’s honest work.
It’s the beginning of 3L, and for the first time in… ever, he’s not drowning. He has a job lined up for post-bar. His classes have less coursework. He’s finished with all his major existential crises.
So, naturally, he sinks all his spare energy, spite, ego, and unfiltered bisexual rage, into this Henry feud.
He’s fine.
The email comes on a Monday morning,
Nora forwards it to him. With the subject line: Fw: ur a thought leader now?
She manages his contact email, mostly because she started getting anxious about Alex’s inbox unread count hitting four digits. She plays hardball with brands, and sometimes emails unsolicited to get free things that she wants. She got him the sickest Fire Island trip once, in exchange for three (3) instagram stories. She takes a cut of whatever she books for him and treats it like a second job. It works.
Alex opens the email. It’s an invite for a virtual panel discussion called, ‘Queer Lit: New Narratives, New Voices.” It’s part of a larger book conference, apparently. The panel’s set to feature authors, editors, publishers, social media personalities, “varied perspectives on the evolving landscape of queer storytelling.”
It sounds official, and interesting. And strokes his ego in the best way that they chose him for it. So he responds, thanking them for the opportunity, confirming he’d be delighted to attend, already picturing himself dropping some insightful one liners to make literary twitter swoon. It’ll be fun, and some new contacts couldn’t hurt. He’s looking forward to it.
Until a week later, when the full panel is announced. The conference put together a graphic on social media, featuring the panelists’ names and headshots, all in neat little squares like queer-lit Pokemon cards.
Alex’s picture is second from the left. He’s titled as “Queer Literature TikTok Influencer.” He has doubts about how much of what he reviews could reasonably be called literature, but he's flattered regardless.
Then he sees the centre square.
Henry Fox.
Author, Seasons of Him.
What the fuck.
He immediately goes back to the email. Scrolls around. There’s no mention of Henry in the original invite, which, rude. They should think about sending a warning. A simple, hey, we’ve booked the man you’ve been digitally screaming at in front of hundreds of thousands of people!
Alex throws his phone down, flopping back on to his couch. Of course it’s Henry. The universe fucking hates him. The cardiganed crown prince of BookTok will now graduate from haunting him via social media to haunting him via virtual panel?
And Alex will have to sit there. Being live streamed, trying his absolute best to maintain his cool professionalism so these authors don’t think he’s a loser. Other authors. He couldn’t care less about his opinion.
Over the few weeks before the panel, Alex prepares. Really, he’s not freaking out. He is, in fact, very chill about all this. He tells everyone this frequently.
He reads all the panelists' books, except Seasons of Him. He’s not gonna read it. It’s the principle at this point.
He does continue to stalk Henry’s instagram like it’s his job. He re-watches that one video obsessively. The one where he’s sitting on the floor with a beagle by his leg. It’s annoyingly posed. But when he lifts his arm up to grab a book off the table, his shirt slides up just a little and reveals a sliver of pristine, alabaster skin.
And that’s almost as attractive as it is infuriating.
In the panel's zoom waiting room, he starts to get restless. He’s just staring at his own reflection, regretting not putting on some sort of fun background, something chaotic, the supreme court on fire, maybe. Instead, it’s just his orange curtains in the back, which make him look like he’s recording from inside a creamsicle. He’s reaching up to adjust his hair when the screen blinks, starting to load.
And then he’s in the room. The host is waving, and one second later, Henry Fox pops up. Wearing a navy button down and currently mid-tea sip, exposing the lithe column of his neck to the camera, and Alex has to remind himself he’s not here to be flustered by bone structure and blue eyes.
He puts the cup down, and Alex swears he sees a flicker in his expression. A bit of a flinch. It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone else, but Alex sees it and feels a sick sense of pride about it, finally seeing that mask slip, if only a little.
The host welcomes everyone, and starts her spiel, and Alex only half listens, preferring to watch that square on the far left that contains Henry’s face. His skin looks like it would be so soft. And he’s smiling, looking relaxed, entirely in his element. It puts Alex off-kilter.
Then the first question comes.
“What do you think is missing, or is misrepresented, in the current wave of queer literature?”
Alex sits up straighter, ready to knock this one out of the park. But the host throws this one to Henry first. Of course.
Henry doesn’t miss a beat, his voice is calm and laced with knowledge and passion. “I think queer stories have persistent pressure to justify themselves. Like they have to teach something. They have to say something about history or trauma or survival.
Straight romance doesn’t carry that burden. Nobody asks what The Notebook is saying about the heteronormative condition. It just gets to exist.”
Alex blinks. What the fuck. That’s like his whole bit. The thing he’s been screaming about into his ring light for a year. Admittedly, Henry just articulated it far better than he could, and he’s been trying for a while. He said it so softly, thoughtfully. Like a gentle truth contrasting Alex’s wild war cry. It knocks the air out of Alex. He barely notices when the panelist asks for his opinion.
“Uh—yeah. I, uh, actually agree,” he stammers. “I think when stories get too focused on being important, they forget to be human.”
The panel moves on, but Alex doesn’t. He’s still bracing for impact, because apparently all it takes is one measured answer in that lilting British voice to send him absolutely careening off course.
They’re back to Henry now, and the noise in Alex’s head quiets again. Even his irrational, subconscious brain wants to listen.
“I think we need more complex characters,” Henry says. “More queer characters who screw it all up, without making it a tragedy. We sometimes get stuck in the ‘positive representation’ trap, but sometimes the best version of representation is characters who muck everything up, because who hasn’t done that?”
And now Alex thinks that Henry might live inside his brain. He clenches his jaw hard, and looks down at the notes he wrote last night: Imperfect characters.
FUCK.
They jump to writing questions, and Alex fades in the background for a few minutes. He doesn’t mind. He’d rather watch Henry. He can feel his synapses physically rewiring themselves as he listens to him talk, it’s like he’s reaching into Alex’s brain and flipping switches he never got permission to touch.
He says, “I started writing because I was always trying to explain myself to myself. Make sense of who I am. I think I still am.” And, “My work is quiet because that was my experience. For some of us, we learned to want quietly, to survive quietly. Queerness exists everywhere, even beyond the loud and proud.”
And Alex feels his brain chemistry shift. Because who the fuck gave him the right to say that? In a public forum? It’s almost indecent.
And then the host pivots. “Henry, there’s been a lot of discourse online lately about making classic structures queer, what’s your take on that?”
Alex sits up straighter. Finally, he’s being forced to speak on it. Let’s go.
Henry clears his throat. “I think that queer writers use old structures not to replicate, but to rewrite the rules. We’re inserting ourselves into narratives where we were never allowed to survive, and we’re saying, ‘actually, yes we can. We know that being queer changes the story. But we don’t need to erase it all. It’s not imitation. It’s reclamation.”
Alex sits completely still, feeling the last three weeks of arguing online vanish in a cloud of dust. Because that's not actually that different from what Alex has been saying. Except he said it better. More precise, more thoughtful, like he really meant it.
Alex suddenly feels very small in his chair. A few well placed words have destroyed all the discourse. Checkmate. He is… not okay.
The rest of the panel flies by, Alex answers the questions directed to him with admirable steadiness, and ends with a polite wave and a forced smile. The moment Alex closes the Zoom window, he drops his head so dramatically on his desk that he’s sure the neighbours heard it. He allows himself to wallow for a full minute.
He doesn’t even want to open TikTok. He knows that some of his followers are surely posting screenshots now. Of his face, nodding, smiling. At him.
He gets up and tries to keep himself busy. Cleans a bit. Opens the fridge and hopes it will present him with the answers to the universe, or at least a White Claw of despair. Something.
By 9:43 p.m., Alex can’t take it anymore. He really tries. But that book is in his head now, taking up space. He needs to know now. If Henry could come up with all that on the fly, what could he write?
So, he caves. He throws on a hoodie, then a jacket, and, for reasons he will never admit to, sunglasses. At night. Like he’s trying to avoid paparazzi as a niche BookTok influencer. He doesn’t go to the cute indie queer bookstore. He’s not sure he can ever show his face there again. Instead, he goes to Barnes & Noble like a coward. Slips through the doors all stealthy, heads straight for the LGBT fiction display.
The book is there. Face out, waiting for him. Alex grabs it quickly. Then, he finds two other books that look interesting for his TikTok, putting Henry’s book between them like a literary shame sandwich.
At the register, the cashier doesn’t blink at his appearance. Thank god. He nearly jogs home, clutching the bag like it’s got something illegal in it. He throws it down on the table, staring.
Then, he gives in. Sits down on the couch, and opens the first page.