#ALSO THESE ASSHOLES FOLLOW THE TRADITIONAL SCHEMA OF BLOND GUY STUCK IN A ROLE HE DOESN'T WANT / BLACK HAIR GUY BEING AN ICON

[rapha-reads]

Gods, I only have 5 days before my thesis is due and I still need to entirely write the last chapter and the conclusion and proofread the second half of chapter 2, I have so little time, but I'm here re-reading RWRB already and saving all the quotes that tear my heart open and split wide up the atoms of my souls, and trying not to drown in my emotions.

Like this:

But he thinks about Henry, and, oh. He thinks about Henry, and something twists in his chest, like a stretch he’s been avoiding for too long. He thinks about Henry’s voice low in his ear over the phone at three in the morning, and suddenly he has a name for what ignites in the pit of his stomach. Henry’s hands on him, his thumbs braced against his temples back in the garden, Henry’s hands other places, Henry’s mouth, what he might do with it if Alex let him. Henry’s broad shoulders and long legs and narrow waist, the place his jaw meets his neck and the place his neck meets his shoulder and the tendon that stretches the length between them, and the way it looks when Henry turns his head to shoot him a challenging glare, and his impossibly blue eyes—

Or this:

He watches Henry lather up and shave, put pomade in his hair, put on his Burberry for the day, and he catches himself wishing he could watch it every day. He likes taking Henry apart, but there’s something incredibly intimate about sitting on the bed they wrecked the night before, the only one who watches him create Prince Henry of Wales for the day. Through his throbbing hangover, he’s got a suspicion all these feelings are why he held off on fucking Henry for so long.

This, and the entire chapter at the lake house, that makes me want to cry so much:

They chase each other around the pier, race down to the lake’s shallow bottom and shoot back up in the moonlight, all elbows and knees. Alex finally manages to catch Henry around the waist, and he pins him, slides his wet mouth over the thudding pulse of Henry’s throat. He wants to stay tangled up in Henry’s legs forever. He wants to match the new freckles across Henry’s nose to the stars above them and make him name the constellations.

This, and why does my heart hurt so much:

He thought he was reckless before, but he understands now—holding love off was the only thing keeping him from losing himself in this completely, and he’s gone, stupid, lovesick, a fucking disaster. No work to distract him. The tripwire of “Things Only People in Love Say and Do” set off.

And fucking this, and it kills me that when it boils down to the heart of it, what they both want more than anything is just fluffy, simple, ordinary domesticity and intimacy:

It drives me nuts sometimes that you don’t get to have more say in your life. When I picture you happy, I see with your own apartment somewhere outside of the palace and a desk where you can write anthologies of queer history. And I’m there, using up your shampoo and making you come to the grocery store with me and waking up in the same damn time zone with you every morning.

... Huh. Wait. Hold that thought. I'm having ideas for my thesis.