#thread: henry4

[officialdiegorodriguez]

Every day, Diego was forced to remind himself that Henry was his boyfriend, and that Dante was simply helping the two of them out. The Brit was nothing short of committed to his newfound role as Henry’s faux boyfriend, despite the fact that he was gaining nothing from the lie, and the logical side of the musician’s brain told him he should be grateful. In fact, Dante was nothing but charming to Diego too, always offering a warm smile and a friendly clap on the shoulder, going above and beyond to ensure that the media steered their attention well away from his personal life. The truth of the matter was that Dante Lee was a Godsend, giving Diego exactly what he’d asked for and allowing him the privacy to come to terms with his sexuality in his own time and at his own pace. 

And yet, Diego was jealous. 

Despite Henry’s reassurances and his own insistence that he’d play nice and not let it get to him, it had, in fact, gotten to him. Just last night an article had dropped about some bullshit Gala Night that Diego knew next-to-nothing about, something Formula 1 related that Henry insisted he’d told him about, though pretty much anything sports related went straight over Diego’s head. The article waxed lyrical about it being the first big event that Dante and Henry would be attending together as a couple, the two of them having gone public with their relationship solely on social media, not yet having ventured out in Black Tie. 

Diego knew it was all bullshit, a facade to protect his own peace, but he’d stupidly let his attention wander to the comments. He’d spent the better half of his night, and the early hours of the morning, doom-scrolling pretty much every form of social media he could get his hands on, reading comments about just how cute the two of them were together, and even stumbling across countless tweets about himself. People speculating over his sexuality, some even going so far as to say he had homophobic energy and that Henry and Poppy should have him ousted from the band.  

Even with Henry looking cute as a button and sound asleep beside him, Diego couldn’t ignore the anxiety that roiled in his stomach even long after he’d set his phone aside. 

In the end, he’d barely slept and by the time he’d heard Henry stirring beside him, he was exhausted. He’d feigned the act of rousing from his slumber, blinking in succession as he tried to imitate Henry’s own sleepy mannerisms, and had plastered on a smile when his boyfriend asked if they were still on for lunch with Ciara before his night out with Dante. 

While it certainly seemed to suit Henry and Dante that their international tour stops were coinciding perfectly with Dante’s schedule, Diego dreaded the idea of having to keep himself busy around some random Hungarian city that he barely knew while Henry was off playing house with a British guy much hotter than his actual boyfriend, and Poppy was spending the evening hanging out with fucking Noah of all people. 

Lunch had gone reasonably well, with Ciara mostly directing her attention towards Henry, ensuring that the night went off without a hitch and that nobody got wind of their deception. Henry, ever attentive, had checked in multiple times with Diego throughout their meal; A careful squeeze of his hand beneath the table here, a whispered ‘is everything okay, cherie?’ there. His tender nickname, that sweet yet subtle utterance of all that he felt, meant only for Diego's ears. It was usually enough to quiet the noise in Diego's head, to draw him back to Earth and fill him with a calm like nothing he'd ever felt before.  

Today, unfortunately, appeared to be the exception. His head seemed to pound – his lack of sleep no doubt catching up with him – and his chest ached as the two of them finally exited their brunch spot and started making their way back to their hotel. They walked in silence, Diego's head spinning at a rapid rate, his thoughts too loud to justify intermittent small talk. 

He was so caught up in his own head that, at first, he'd hardly registered the stranger that stepped into his path, camera in hand as he appeared to yell directly in both his and Henry's face. Diego blinked stupidly, mind racing, as he tried to clear the fog that was clouding his brain. Demands and obscenities were being thrown his way, the flash of a bulb going off at a rapid rate, causing Diego to startle and stumble sideways into Henry, his hand closing around the other man's wrist in an attempt to steady himself. 

Journalists – if you could even justify referring to them as such – appeared on every side of them, thick Hungarian accents mingled with tell-tale sounds of those from across the pond, no doubt having followed them with each tour stop. 

"Henry, how does it feel to have the eyes of not only the music industry on you, but a sea of Formula One fans too?" 

"Henry, what will you be wearing tonight?" 

"Diego, how does the band feel about Dante Lee?" 

Each cry for their attention, each vapid question seemed to fill the air, Diego's ears ringing as his hand slipped around Henry's waist, dropping to the small of his back as he tried to navigate the two of them through the crowd of vultures. 

That's when it came. 

"Diego, doesn't it bother you to have to share a stage with a f–?" 

White noise. That's all Diego recalled. His head reared back in surprise, that vile word filling the space; Diseased and rotting, crawling along Diego's skin and making his stomach churn with revulsion. 

"Hen, forgive me," was all he said as he momentarily turned to face his boyfriend, his voice soft and low before he pulled away from the other man. 

Then, without so much as a second thought, he twisted his body back to the target of all of his rage. His arm lifted as he swung, his fist colliding heavily with the other man's jaw. Gasps filled the air, cameras flashed, and before anybody could stop him, Diego surged forward yet again, tugging at the lapel of the photographer's jacket as his camera toppled to the ground, shattering at their feet. 

[officialdiegorodriguez]

Housed by the walls of their hotel as they were, the two men were still lacking in total privacy, the not-so-subtle stares of guests littered around the lobby as they took in the scene before them. Two relatively well-known bandmates stumbling through the entryway, corralled past the reception desk by a handful of a security, the taller of the two cradling a bloody hand. It wasn’t a pretty sight – one that would certainly be making headline news sooner rather than later. Out of the corner of his eye, Diego could see iPhones being lifted, held to the chests of their owners as they tried their luck at a sneaky photo or video. 

Despite his frustration and the sheer absurdity of it all, he found himself zeroing in on Henry and nothing else, the soft tones of his pretty accent grounding him. The pain in his hand was harsh, the sting of it even sharper as he felt his boyfriend’s hands close carefully over his skin, but he found he didn’t mind. He wanted to tuck himself away with Henry, feel the touch of his hand against him, to feel comforted and cared for by the boy he was so maddeningly in love with. His gaze was solely focused on Henry now, vision swimming carefully back into focus as he watched him survey the damage. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered, his words barely a breath on his lips, loud enough so that only Henry could hear. “It’ll heal.” 

His own attempts at reassuring Henry seemed to fall on deaf ears, words spoken through fits of rage casting a cloud over their conversation as he looked back at the pianist, frustration and concern etched across his features. Henry no longer seemed preoccupied with the state of his hand, but instead on scolding him. 

“Crazy? Jeez, Hen,” Diego mumbled, feeling defensive suddenly.  

He felt flushed, embarrassment flooding him at the realisation that even his boyfriend wasn’t on his side. His stomach seemed to turn as he found himself pulling his hand free from Henry’s gasp, hissing as blood spilled down his fingers, dripping onto the clean marble below. His vision swam as Henry’s words hit him, the acknowledgement that only was Henry not grateful that somebody had stepped in, but that instead he perceived Diego as violent, as somebody that others might need protecting from. 

“I didn’t– It wasn’t like that, I just...” he found himself stuttering, searching aimlessly for a defense, for some way to explain away what had just happened. 

He blinked rapidly, tears stinging at the edges of his eyes, nerves rattling through his bones. He'd been on camera – he knew that much, there’d been more than just one paparazzi in the area – and no doubt the image of him hitting that asshole would already be circling social media now. He could feel the distant buzz of his phone in his back pocket, but he only had time for Henry. He needed to explain, needed his boyfriend to see sense, to come around to his side. 

“He called you a – it's a hate crime, Hen. Don’t you get it? That’s assault too, you know that? It was self-defense, I– I’m not aggressive, I’m...” 

Diego swallowed back any further attempt at fighting his own corner. What was the point? He’d been subjected to slurs and hate speech his entire life, and no doubt Henry had been too since he’d come out, so why should now have been any different? Why had he felt so compelled to lash out the way he had? He felt sick, nausea rolling through his stomach, bile building in the back of his throat as he fought the urge to throw up. 

He could handle the press; he was sure of that. If the Shattered Diamonds wanted him out, if Ciara thought he was too much of a liability, then so be it. He’d cross that bridge when he got there, but having Henry look at him like this, wide eyed and horrified, was more than he could stomach. His own boyfriend was probably terrified, disgusted that he could be reduced to something so juvenile and cruel, all because of a word that, though not directed at Diego, had hurt far more than the gush of blood spilling from his knuckles. 

“I'm not... I can’t do this,” Diego muttered, shaking his head.

He stumbled as he took a small step backwards, the heel of his shoe pressing against the puddle of blood that had gathered. The shrill squeak of rubber against marble seemed to echo through the lobby as he lifted his head, catching Henry’s gaze another time, eyes pleading.

“I’m not a bad person.” 

The quiet of the hotel lobby should have felt like a sanctuary to Henry, shielding him and Diego from the chaos of camera flashes and yelling that tried to filter its way in from outside. However, he became acutely aware of several eyes on the pair of them, halting him in his path and helping him realise that he couldn't just pull his boyfriend into his arms like he wanted to. Too many people were watching them and he doubted he could trust any of them to keep what they were witnessing to themselves.

But he needed to check on Diego in some way and so he cast a worried glance at the other man who was now, it seemed, asking Henry if he was alright.

“What?” Henry asked, bluntly. He blinked, staring at Diego. “What do you mean am I okay?”

As far as Henry was concerned, he had no reason not to be okay. He wasn’t the one who had just been involved in an altercation with a photographer. Diego was the one who needed to be checked on. He knew that Poppy would probably have something to say to him if she were here, telling him that he needn’t be such a martyr and that it was alright for people to see if he was feeling okay too. But he couldn’t wrap his head around Diego’s concern being directed at him right now.

Diego had been the one who had reacted to the slur. Although, now that Henry thought back to the whole ugly affair, he remembered the exact question the photographer had asked. Diego had been the one to react, but the word had been used to describe Henry.

An awful, sickening feeling settled in his stomach. Not because he was overly bothered about being the subject of that particular flavour of foul language - he’d been in the boys’ locker room at high school before - but because he knew that, to some extent, he was to blame for Diego throwing the punch.

Diego had done it to defend Henry.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He allowed Diego to fist a hand in his pristine white t-shirt, the blood from his knuckles staining it in a way that he already knew several turns in a washing machine wouldn’t be able to get out. The prancing horse emblem was untouched but Henry found himself wishing that it would be smeared with Ferrari-red blood. It was a wish that was aborted halfway through when he was reminded that it was Diego’s blood currently spilling onto the shirt.

“Cherie, your hand,” he muttered, reaching up to gently cradle it in both of his own hands. At that moment, he didn’t care who was watching. If Poppy got hurt, or Chess, he would do the exact same thing, tenderly holding Diego’s injured hand with a fragility that contradicted the unhappy set of his jaw. A bandmate could tend to the injury of his other bandmate, surely.

He looked up when Diego insisted that Henry should press charges or, even more astonishing, that he should have let Diego go ahead and properly fight the guy.

“D, are you crazy?” he hissed, dropping his voice low.

His eyes flicked between Diego’s as he waited for the penny to drop, as he watched for the realisation to dawn on his boyfriend’s face. For him to realise how serious this was.

“Diego, you just assaulted someone,” he said.

[officialdiegorodriguez]

As foolish and romantic a notion as it was, Diego would know Henry’s touch anywhere. Even in the throes of his rage, a bloody fist clenched around the fabric of some low-life's grubby jacket, he could sense his boyfriend’s every step with a familiarity he’d only ever felt once before; With Poppy. 

The moment Henry’s arm slipped around his waist, Diego felt himself stiffen. His chest ached with a sudden sense of longing, the overwhelming desire to just melt against his touch and hide himself in the sanctuary of his boyfriend’s arms. There was another war waging in Diego’s mind, though, as the reality of their situation hit him. He knew that all eyes – and whatever cameras remained undamaged – were on them, a series of strangers ogling the couple, no doubt overanalysing every minor touch, each uttered proclamation of the unofficial love the two so obviously held for one another. 

Despite the anxiety that washed over him, Diego didn’t have the strength to pull away from Henry. To push him away would mean hurting him, seeing the shining look of disappointment that would flash behind his pretty blue eyes. Henry always claimed that he wasn’t disappointed in Diego, only worried, but he knew better than that. He knew how much it must pain him to go through everything he’d experienced with Stefan all over again. Deflating, he let himself be dragged through the doors of their hotel, clumsily stumbling as the world around him blurred, red-hot pain searing through his bloodied hand. 

The moments that passed after they arrived seemed impossible to comprehend. Diego was absently aware of security crowding the two of them, rogue hands finding whatever part of his and Henry’s bodies they could reach as they ushered them through to the lobby. Frantic yells sounded outside, muffled through brick and mortar – the voices closer to him were hushed, whispered concerns echoing around him, falling on deaf ears. If he had enough sense about him, he’d have spotted the doorman slipping his phone from his jacket pocket, sneaking a photo of Diego. Or perhaps his eyes would have strayed to the two girls on reception – both had been sweet upon their initial arrival, exhibiting a professionalism that seemed to have long since evaporated as the two gossiped behind their hands, making no pretense of the fact that they were staring directly at the scene unfolding before them. 

The only thing that managed to pull Diego back down to planet Earth was the melodic sound of Henry’s voice – an accent he’d once teased the boy for, calling it Geographically Ambiguous as he’d slipped his hands into the other man’s hair, mere days after their first kiss, the feeling bright and exciting. Something fresh and delightful that he hadn’t quite had the sense to be afraid of it. His ears were ringing now as blood dripped down his fingertips, spilling onto the floor beneath his feet, his eyes glazing over until they finally found Henry’s, vision finally slotting into place. 

There he stood, safe and unscathed. Or, he supposed, as secure as you could be after just having words so laden in violence and hatred thrown at you. Diego’s veins seemed to sing – he couldn’t quite work out if it was the pain of his injury, or the unbridled anger that still seemed burrowed in his chest. 

“Are you alright?” he asked Henry, promptly ignoring the other man’s questions of concern. 

He exhaled sharply as Henry’s hands found his shoulders, an innocuous gesture that Diego wanted nothing more than to lean into without fear of it being misinterpreted. He lifted his bloody hand, allowing it to hang awkwardly in the space between them, unsure where it might be safe to touch him, to hold him. Eventually, he settled for clutching at the other man’s shirt, his grip feeble as he winced through the pain, blood staining the white of Henry’s borrowed shirt. Another PR move from Ciara, no doubt, a simple nod to Dante with the Ferrari logo stitched into the corner of the t-shirt. Diego found himself not minding at all whether he ruined it. 

“That bastard,” he hissed, his voice catching around the lump in his throat. He took a step closer to Henry, vision swimming yet again as he tried to catch his bearings, his grip on the pianist the only thing grounding him. “You should’ve pressed charges. It’s hate speech, Hen.” 

It hadn’t occurred to him in that moment that he could soon find himself in the middle of an investigation, his spontaneous and misguided act of ‘heroism’ soon to be plastered across every gossip rag in the US. 

“Hell, what you should’ve done his let me kick his ass,” Diego scoffed. 

Henry had thought that things were going pretty well, although he knew that wasn’t up for him to decide. When it came to his relationship with Diego, he had allowed the other man to move the goal posts on what was and wasn’t okay. Henry wasn’t the one who needed time to come to terms with his sexuality, but he never wanted Diego to feel like waiting for him to wrap his head around their circumstances was, in any way, a burden. Whilst Diego took the time to get to know himself all over again, Henry was happy to just be a steady presence by his side.

He’d been that when he woke up in the other man’s bed that morning, knowing that he’d have to go to his own hotel room shortly and mess the sheets up a little so the housekeeping staff wouldn’t talk. At lunch with Ciara, he’d sat at the table with Diego, fighting the urge to reach across their salads and bread to link his fingers with the other man. Instead, he’d settled for swapping knowing smiles with him and sending him a cheeky wink when Ciara wasn’t looking. Had they not been pressed for time, he knew that they would have both been in danger of slipping off to the bathroom to make use of the single cubicle.

Sadly (for them and not Ciara, who would have dragged them both out of the restaurant by their ears if she knew what Henry was thinking), they didn’t have time for depravity. Instead, Henry had to head back to the hotel to get ready for the gala that he was attending with Dante.

As much as he was grateful to the other man for stepping in when he and Diego needed him, Henry couldn’t help but wish that if he had to partake in a fake relationship, then it should be with someone who had a lot less public duties to attend to. In between shows and photoshoots and recording sessions, Henry now had to factor in making appearances at Formula 1 races and dressing up for events where he could only blankly stare at someone when the term ‘DRS’ was mentioned, no matter how many times Annie had tried to explain that one to him before. He knew he couldn’t be picky about who covered for him and his boyfriend, and he would be the first to insist that Dante Lee was a godsend for what he was doing for them, but lately he felt like he barely saw Diego these days, and when he did he usually had to scarper quickly away to go meet Dante.

Even right now, walking side by side down the street with Diego as they made their way back to their hotel, he felt like they were on borrowed time. He wanted to slow his pace just to spend a little more time in his boyfriend’s company before he had to dart off and dress himself in a suit and pretend he was heavily invested in the success of Scuderia Ferrari. 

It wasn’t even like they could do anything. He couldn’t hold Diego’s hand or kiss him on the cheek as they strolled, but Henry was content with that even if Diego struggled to believe him. He just liked being with the other man. Being near Diego without even touching him was still enough to make warmth unfurl in Henry’s chest like he’d swallowed sunlight.

It was a warmth that vanished as quickly as it appeared though when the flash of a camera bulb made spots appear in his vision. He automatically lifted an arm to shield his eyes, knowing from experience that more were due to follow. Sure enough, he and Diego were soon surrounded by cameras, paparazzi swarming them. He felt Diego’s shoulder collide with his own, his boyfriend’s hand going to Henry’s wrist. He crossed his own free hand over his body to grip onto Diego’s bicep as they tried their best to push through the crowd of photographers that had descended on them.

Thankfully, Henry knew that the hotel was just a few yards ahead. He could see the familiar sign amidst the camera flashes and waving arms. They just had to push on a little further, a feat that was both annoying but easy enough for them to do when they were so used to this.

Then one particular word cut through the air and he felt Diego stiffen by his side. Dread settled in Henry’s gut as the slur landed on his ears. He screwed his face up in displeasure, knowing that the comment had been aimed at him but only worrying about the effect that it would have on Diego. Every day, he grew prouder of his boyfriend for taking another step towards accepting himself. It was comfortable to do in the safety of their hotel room or on his bunk of the tour bus when Diego allowed himself to be sandwiched in between Henry and Poppy and their Nintendo Switch consoles. But then he would have to step back out onto the street and be reminded that there would always be people who didn’t want Diego to accept who he really was, and that they would always do whatever they could to remind him that, no matter how many people loved him, there would always be a select few whose aim in life was to spew hateful vitriol his way.

“D, it’s okay, just ignore it. We’re nearly - what?” Henry’s face creased in confusion when Diego turned to him, a quiet plea for Henry to forgive him falling away from his mouth. 

In hindsight, he should have known what Diego was about to do. He should have had enough time to stop him and, perhaps, that would have helped spare them both the impending heartbreak about to unfold. Instead, Henry only stood dumbly, bright circles popping into his vision every time he blinked. And then he heard rather than saw Diego punch the man squarely on the jaw.

The chaos that followed was a blur to him, but he remembered frantic French curses spilling from his lips as he lunged forward to grab Diego before he could cause any more damage. He slid his arms around the other man, one around his waist and then the other around the front of Diego’s shoulders. It was only a struggle due to Diego’s height, but eventually he managed to pull his boyfriend flush against his chest with ease, mostly thanks to his training sessions with Dante which felt like something he shouldn’t ever verbally express. 

“Cherie, no,” he begged in Diego’s ear as he pulled him further along the sidewalk, the two of them nearly tripping over as Henry tugged them awkwardly up the steps to the hotel.

Security was already waiting for them and one particularly burly man shoved them both through the revolving door, the two of them spilling into the lobby as the rest of the security guards kept the mob outside at bay, not letting them pass through the glass doors.

Breathing heavily, Henry stepped away from Diego for long enough to turn the other man around. His boyfriend’s eyes were wild and Henry knew they were still in enough of a public place that he couldn’t reach up and frame the other man’s face between his hands like he wanted to. Instead, he settled for resting them on Diego’s shoulders and staring imploringly up at him.

“D, are you okay? You shouldn’t have… Putain.” His eyes shuttered close for a minute as he collected himself before opening up again to look down at Diego’s split knuckles. “Are you alright?”